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Corbeau slept well into the daytime. He felt the light from the window on him and turned into the couch cushions, dozing off again easily with how comfy he felt. He never slept this good even that time he was holed up in an old, abandoned hotel with dusty, expensive linen. He had an ear in the air at all times, and he kept Venipede in his arms most nights to help keep watch. One of them stayed alert at all times.
Presently, he still held his equally sleepy Venipede in his arms yet neither of them stayed alert. He dipped in and out of consciousness, mostly asleep, until he heard the other person in the little apartment walking around. He moved, glanced briefly at Philippe, his street rival who wanted him pulverized into dust, and rolled over to go back to sleep.
Philippe let him crash on his couch, proposing a temporary truce because he knew Corbeau lacked a place otherwise. According to the deal, the truce ended once they were both outside the door. In here, they were not enemies. What a wild concept! He thought Philippe to be an unfeeling thug until he sought him out and dragged him inside for the night. Even now, the peaceful sleep continued. Sluggish thoughts melded into nothing.
As quiet as he tried to be, he could hear Philippe going to the kitchen and making something. He could smell and hear the second he dropped bacon into a pan. Delicious smell, alluring to the senses. Since he didn’t usually eat in the morning anyway, he fell back asleep when he got used to the sounds.
The next thing that slightly woke him up was when the guy sat on the opposite couch and took out a newspaper. Again, he tried to be mostly quiet, but he muttered about some things and chuckled about other things. Venipede felt fully awake at this point and wriggled in his arms, so he released him and curled up around himself. Still sleepy. Not ready to get up yet.
He woke up completely when Philippe gently shook him awake. “Hey, kid, I need to get going. You slept through the morning, it’s noon now. You can keep sleeping if you want. I’m not gonna tell anyone you’re here, just wanted to let you know I’m leaving.”
Corbeau squinted at him. His rival’s stormy, grey eyes looked more like wisps of clouds with no hint of irritability.
“Venipede ate this morning, he’s not gonna get into anything. Make yourself at home, but remember: it ends at the door.”
So technically if he just stayed in here forever he was safe? It was a silly concept, almost blasphemous, to help your enemy like this.
Philippe didn’t wait for his answer before leaving.
The apartment felt so quiet without him. Corbeau got up and looked around. On the way to Philippe’s place he was so tired and so cold that once Philippe pushed him into the couch, he stayed there until literally right now. How a person set up their space said a lot about them. Corbeau laughed at a few knickknacks and useless things decorating the apartment, but his brain went silent in the kitchen.
Philippe left a plate of food and heat-up instructions on the counter. This hit him as significant because out there, food was a fight. He had to scavenge for it. Someone giving you food was akin to an allyship, something Philippe tried to instill in him as not his goal at all. But maybe it was. Maybe he actually did want some kind of alliance but didn’t want to impose if Corbeau wouldn’t accept.
Food was a loaded topic. Just because he smelled food, didn’t mean he was going to eat—one of the cruelest parts of living like this in the city. He almost didn’t want to accept it. If he did, it meant Philippe could hold food over his head, try to manipulate him.
His internal battle fizzled when Venipede crawled up to him and made a reassuring noise. His partner wanted him to eat and knew he might not.
“You don’t get it. This could be bad. Remember when we found food, but it was poisoned?”
Venipede growled defiantly at him.
A plate of eggs, bacon, and potatoes stared at him. An innocent slice of bread just sat there, untouched.
He gave in and started heating it up, eating the bread while he waited. Let Philippe manipulate him if it meant he got to eat a guaranteed meal every once in a while. If Philippe got too sinister with the manipulation, he slept in the other room and was completely available for exacting revenge on.
The first bite hit his soul the way only warm food could—it was so good. He ate way too fast, and afterwards almost fell asleep on the couch again. Philippe could cook. And he was a decent guy. Invaluable in the world of assets and scarcity. If this was him reaching a hand out for an extended allyship or a truce, Corbeau needed to take it.
He left through the window on the off chance Philippe was in the hallway, and for the rest of the day, didn’t end up finding anything else to eat. He returned to Philippe’s apartment at the end of the day, knocking on the door and debating just picking the lock and going in.
Philippe opened the door, looked him over, and moved out of the way to let him in.
And every night after that, Corbeau ended up there for a decent night’s sleep and a home cooked meal.