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For better or worse, Steel-type Pokémon has gained the notorious reputation of attracting powerful trainers, no matter what the definition of strength for each of them was.
It was true for Philippe, when he ran out of volunteers that were willing to endure his rigorous regimen, forcing him to turn to sturdy Pokémon as his new sparring partners in the boxing ring; trading his Scyther into an agile, but lethal Scizor that could match his pace and evolving his Lairon into a tanky Aggron that could absorb the shock of his punches were one of his many, drastic means to claim dominance. Just as he found the perfect companion to practice with in his Pokémon team, everything else that he dreamed of— the best opponents Lumiose has to offer, more money to support his limited life, and respect among the community —finally lined up for him, allowing him to make history in this secret, forbidden society as their very best fighter.
What these ambitious people like Philippe often forgot, however, was the meticulous care that Steel-type Pokémon needed to be able to thrive and become forces to be reckoned; all the seemingly obvious signs found in their wild habitat, slipping from each trainers' bright minds once they secured their hands on the embodiment of nature's unyielding defenses.
One of them just so happened to be their diet, and how when they were left unsupervised, Steel-type Pokémon would gladly gnaw on any metal within their reach.
There was a reason why the Electrical Substation introduced a group of Onix and Excadrill into the ecosystem to guard the delicate machinery built at the very center of it; all that meticulous planning, just to prevent an Aron from accidentally triggering a city-wide outage from chewing on the wrong cable.
Out of all the ways that the universe could remind him of his shortcomings as a Steel-type specialist, however, they just had to do Philippe dirty in the worst possible scenario.
"Oh, give me a break," Philippe groaned, blasting past the changing room's double doors the second he caught a familiar, heart-stopping retching echoing along the dimly-lit hallways. As expected, his Skarmory was there, as it had somehow escaped from the confines of its Pokéball yet again. His oldest friend now looked less like the regal bird that bravely patrolled his neighborhood at night and more like a panicked child swinging several knives in their too-little hands, its pointy-sharp, distended wings scratching and denting the metal lockers each time gagging pushed it off balance. So, with his hands still protected by the thin strip of wrapping sheet, Philippe dove forward, wrangling Skarmory in a headlock and performing the appropriate imitation of a Heimlich maneuver, barely noticing the way those edged feathers dug dangerously against his exposed biceps as he yelled, "Spit it out, Skamory! Whatever you ate, spit it out now!"
Finally, after several, violent thrusting of his arms in an upwards motion against its thin neck, Skarmory expelled the mystery item that was lodged in its windpipe in a slobbery mess of saliva, the ball of crumpled steel flying to the air and reflecting the fluorescents in its arch, reminding Philippe very much of coin flips done by a referee, before each bout.
Philippe has seen too many of those, however, to know that no coin was ever that plump in diameter.
The puzzle pieces clicked in place when Philippe's backpack slipped free from his designated, half-opened locker, to signal the end of this ordeal. It was produced by a cheap brand that he has held onto longer than its guaranteed lifespan, so he was not exactly surprised that one half of its body was now a tattered mess of fabric, and with nothing to maintain the foundation of its compartments, most of its essentials were now spilled all over the tiled floor.
Essentials that were as crucial as his carabiner, the thick steel now bent apart as easily as a fraud magician would cast their illusion onto a spoon, missing all of his metal keys and keychains that found its home there except for the plastic, standard fob connected to his motorbike’s lock.
Dread has never twisted Philippe's gut so swiftly, in the entirety of his short, rambunctious life.
"Skamory, don't tell me—" Philippe lost his voice the second that Skarmory chirped out a sad, guilt-ridden plea, going so much as to pluck the ball of drool-coated, warped steel with its beak and carefully setting it down near its trainer's shoes, like that pitiful gesture would uncurl and smoothen those ruined keys back to its former glory. "You tried to eat all of my keys? Really, Skarmory?"
The way that the oversized, greedy bird was now nudging its polished crown against his thighs to beg for forgiveness, shooting Philippe with the closest imitation of a kicked Yamper that it could muster, told him as much.
It was just his luck, to end up in such a chaos.
Here Philippe was, stranded halfway across Lumiose and designated to be the last one to lock up the fighting ring at midnight, and not only was he barred from riding his bike on the long commute back home, but he was also denied entry to the comfort of his own apartment— all because the set of keys important to his day-to-day life became a chewing toy for his Skarmory.
Distantly, Philippe supposed he had it coming, for trapping a bunch of Steel-type Pokémon that shared his hard-headed stubbornness in their Pokéballs for an extended period of time, especially without any snacks to nibble at and toys for enrichment, was a recipe for disaster that any idiot would avoid like the plague.
Arceus above, he still has a long way to go before becoming anywhere close to Champion Peony's level of dedication for his Steel-type team.
"It's okay, Skamory. You were just hungry, huh? I'm the one that's supposed to be sorry, here," Philippe murmured, petting Skamory in the soft, gentle way that never failed to calm it down, after it enacted similar mishaps such as this one. The fact that history had repeated itself said more about Philippe's failure as a trainer, than Skarmory's unrestrained instincts. Now, he was faced with a clingy ace whose needs were still unfulfilled, three remaining Pokémon whose stomach were also rumbling, limited money plus trusted people to fall back on, and no place to seek shelter for the night, which meant... "You'll get your food soon. I'll think up a solution, I promise. Just be patient for a little more, yeah?"
In reality, Philippe only got one option left.
There was only one person who could be Philippe's savior for the night, and as he returned Skarmory back to its Pokéball, the weight of that realization squeezed his chest in a painful ache, for this was an entirely-different adrenaline than letting the stakes of losing against a monstrous challenger dictate his comeback strategy.
He was about to willingly cross a sacred, precarious line set between two people by asking for more than he used to, tonight, and Philippe would be lying if he claimed that did not fill his steps with the tiniest bit of apprehension.
No one could blame Corbeau, really, when his first instinct upon hearing a knock on his door at 1 AM was to grab his flip knife.
Receiving more than several death threats has forced Corbeau to keep his apartment's address a tightly-kept secret, leaving many leases broken too early and security deposits lost to property damage. No socializing with his next-door neighbors, going incognito as he slipped in and out of the ratty complex, choosing different commute paths and time with a random pattern, and making sure that no one ever tailed him too closely for comfort— all that arduous effort executed, just so the angered citizens of Lumiose could stop projecting their misplaced rage onto him. Corbeau was smart enough to expect that several feathers would be ruffled, when gossip was leaked on how Lysandre's so-called 'charity case' planned to revolutionize his growing gang of outlaws into a proper organization— it sounded very much like the revival of Team Flare to the general public, when Kalos was still actively grieving from such a traumatic loss.
He just never considered his life to eventually be counted into the calculated risks, and now Corbeau was stuck, put to the test yet again by a potential assailant who was at least polite enough to knock before kicking his flimsy door open.
Except his peephole did not reveal a masked man out for meaningless vengeance, ready to declare war through the thin wood if Corbeau took too long to swing it open, but...
"Philippe?" Corbeau gasped, slamming his flip knife above his shoe cabinet, scrambling to undo the layers of deadbolts that his right-hand man had painstakingly installed himself. Of course it would be Philippe, who else could it be? He was the only person in the entirety of Lumiose who was aware that this nondescript, shoebox of an apartment now served as a personal hideout for the Rust Syndicate boss; picked out and arranged entirely by Philippe, miraculously fitting both the bare minimum of Corbeau's requirements and strained price range. The apartment hunting, move-in process of his few, scarce belongings, and the contract signing process were all wrapped up by his right-hand man— between the two of them, Philippe was the one widely-known among real estate agents for his efforts in helping to rehome both their grunts and struggling civilians in better housings, and this way, no one would suspect that Corbeau himself was slated to dwell in one of these safe houses. Still, this was their first time meeting here, when they should not be seen together anywhere near this district, so Corbeau took a moment to scan Philippe's entire body, fearing the worst when his tight, black t-shirt was the best fabric at disguising seeping blood. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"What? No, I'm—" Finally, horror dawned in Philippe's silver irises, once he grasped the reason why Corbeau dared to stick his neck out of the door without so much as a hood to cover tufts of his purple hair; the safety of his trusted partner mattered more than jeopardizing his temporary address. Under the awful hallway lighting, Corbeau caught the faintest hint of blush dusting Philippe's cheek, as he meekly apologized and tried again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you like that— there's no emergency or whatsoever, I promise. I'm just locked out of my own apartment for tonight because Skamory ate my keys, and I don't have a place to crash for the night."
Never in his turbulent youth did Corbeau remember a memory where his jaw had dropped so low to the floor like what had occurred tonight, only to pick it back up just to suppress the giggles bubbling in his throat.
Thankfully, Corbeau has the foresight to pull Philippe in and slam the door shut, before he melted against that broad chest in a mess of laughter and relief. Like this, bathed in the warm glow of the entryway, he has no qualms about lightening the mood with a joke, when his partner-slash-boyfriend was blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears, looking physically fine except for the usual soreness that marred his knuckles from daily practice. "What? Is this how you've gathered the courage to have sex with me— by using your oldest Pokémon as an excuse?"
It was a novel thing, their gradual development from street rivals to business partners and, finally, romantic lovers. Deep inside, in a place where Corbeau could only admit to himself, the comfort that Philippe's presence oozed was dangerously-addicting thing. This world seemed hell-bent on ruining his happiness, and it was no exaggeration to say that he was terrified of growing attached to his new lover, only for fate to steal yet another important figure in his life again.
Not like Corbeau would openly profess such embarrassment, same as how he would keep the secret of Lysandre's regular visits in his nightmares down to his grave; a spectre only found amongst the masses of upset citizens looking for an easy mark to release their suffering onto anyone associated in the slightest with the ex-Flare boss, standing idle as he watched Corbeau suffer the brunt of their kicks and punches with the same, apathetic gaze that he had memorized from losing hours of sleep, just to watch his mentor's final message on loss.
That did not stop Corbeau from clinging onto Philippe's shirt anyway, when the man jerked back from his vulgar joke.
"Can we please stop with the teasing? It's been such a long night for me," Philippe groaned, and though he did not push Corbeau away in his annoyance, his right palm did disappear from the corner of his eyes, fishing a balled-up tissue that protected the proof of his truth from the back pocket of his jeans. "Look— you think I'd lie about having all of my important keys crumpled up like this?"
Philippe never would— that was the one quality in his lover that Corbeau trusted; the man speaking to him tonight was the same, hot-headed guy who had declared his hatred for him at first sight, just like how he was also the one who had dropped to his knees many moons later, begging him to run the Rust Syndicate and realize their joint vision of a better city, together.
The state of those poor, thick keys indeed corroborated his boyfriend's story, for Philippe was still human at the end of the day, and being able to knock his Scizor down with a punch meant nothing when compared to how those pieces of metal were irreversibly-warped beyond saving.
Not to mention the smell of Pokémon saliva that wafted from it, yuck.
"Fine, fine. I believe you," I always do, Corbeau nearly said, biting down on the confession before they could be breathed into existence. Plus, after peeling those walls of protective defensiveness down, Philippe has been nothing but a great company— there was a reason why their growing number of grunts preferred to go out bar-hopping with him, rather than their reigning leader. He would never be cruel enough to turn his boyfriend away; Philippe's presence was the closest thing he could ever taste to being basked in the glow of a burning star, and Corbeau was drawn to him like a Venomoth to a street lamp at night, when his life was shrouded in a void-like darkness that surrounded space, before fate allowed their trajectories to cross path. So, with great reluctance, he finally pulled away, walking back to where the tower of paperwork that was precariously balanced around his dining table awaited him. "Knock yourself out, then. I trust you still remember where the bedroom is?"
A beat, then, "You're not coming with me?"
Corbeau did not freeze in place; rather, it was Philippe who had stopped him from drifting away with a tug on his wrist, grounding him with a simple, but no less commanding gesture.
For all of the training in public speaking that Lysandre had enrolled him into, they sure ended up being a waste of resources, for Corbeau failed to grasp all the right words to express that stress has practically thwarted his desire to sleep without dragging Philippe down more than he already did, with the constant dodging and hiding they had to endure to protect his safety from the city's misguided fury.
The next best thing, then, was to weave a white lie in.
It tasted far more bitter on his tongue when compared to Scolipede's venom, as Corbeau deflected with, "The bed barely fits you. We can take shifts, and I'll sleep the moment you wake up first thing in the morning. Should be enough time for me to get 5 hours of it before we're set to meet that investor in the afternoon."
Lies, all of them.
Corbeau was barely hanging on, with a near-lethal intake of coffee and energy drinks keeping his limp body upright and focused enough to work through his business deadlines. Funny how sleep was an old solace throughout his childhood— a safe pocket to hide in and forget about the endless hunger that seemed hell-bent on eating his own stomach —that has now turned against him like the very same city he grew to love.
Unfortunately for Corbeau, Philippe was a perceptive bastard whenever he felt like it.
A useful skill to bring a particularly-haughty foe down a peg or two, and also one to sniff out a poorly-executed deception, when the glare of his desk lamp beaming from the dining table only accentuated Corbeau's bloodshot eyes and eyebags.
"You haven't been sleeping," Philippe said— not a piercing doubt or a scathing judgement, merely a worried observation whispered into the quiet night. It was his boyfriend that closed the gap between them, but there was not a hint of disappointment flickering in those silver irises, same as how the tension was not broken by a question as devastating and rightful as 'Why didn't you tell me?' slipping from those lips. What Corbeau got, instead, were hands that had only ever wielded brutality for most of its life, cupping his face with a tenderness that was laughably unfitting for both the history of scars that littered its skin and his own, reckless selfishness, tied down with a softly-murmured, "You're having nightmares, is that why?"
How could Corbeau ever dream of evading, of plucking one of his many deceits and use it as his last line of defense, when Philippe was keeping his gaze steady with the careful guidance of his hold, imploring with the furrow set of his eyebrows— not for an explanation on why he was kept out of this secret, but to trust and let him in, this time around?
Trust was a precarious thing to hold in his hands, Corbeau learned.
"It's not exactly been easy with the stress wearing me down," Corbeau finally croaked out, the words cracking around the edges like that ever-growing sinkhole now found in Geosenge, the final resting place for the Ultimate Weapon and his mentor’s missing corpse. It was incredibly foolish, Corbeau now recognized, for deliberately choosing to shoulder this burden alone; Philippe has proved himself again and again that he was more than just a mass of brute force, as he was also someone just as adept on caring for the people that meant the world to his big heart. Corbeau was already added into that equation to complete Philippe’s life, the second that his then-street rival offered a meaningful truce to end their useless Rattata-Meowth chase to reach a bigger height. Still, Philippe deserved the entire truth from Corbeau's point of view, even if it was something that sounded as devastating as, "It's way more productive to stay awake and work on our syndicate than toss and turn helplessly on the bed, you know? At least I'm spending my free hours to spark good progress on that front, even if I don't remember the last time I had a good quality of sleep."
Really, after surviving through poverty and grief together, Corbeau should have seen this reaction from a mile away.
Philippe did not let the hitch in his breath root him in place, for his boyfriend had all but thrown Corbeau's smaller body over his shoulders the moment he snapped out of it, paying no mind to the embarrassing squawk that he failed to suppress at the very last second, nor did he heed the protesting smack that his boss thumped against that brick wall of a back. "Philippe, what are you— put me down this instant!"
It was infuriatingly annoying and hot to Corbeau, witnessing just how swiftly Philippe moved to click the desk lamp and surrounding lights off, all while being mindful of not knocking his rucksack-of-a-boyfriend against the low ceiling and any sharp corners with each turn of his steps.
The next thing he knew, Corbeau was laid down on his back with a delicate consideration that his cold, distrustful heart did not deserve, feeling every inch of his stiff muscle relax against the single-sized bed. Philippe hovered above him, caging him down with both hands positioned beside his head, and Corbeau knew now that resisting it was like fighting a losing battle, when not once did he ever feel suffocated by his boyfriend. In fact, his heart has never felt more alive when Philippe knocked on its closed doors with, "Just for tonight— try sleeping with me, okay? If it still doesn't help, we'll find a solution together first thing in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I've always admired your dedication for our positions, but I don't want it to come at the expense of your rest. You deserve a good night's sleep just as much as you deserve to realize the peaceful city you dream of, and I'll always be there to make sure that you get both, even if it seems like an impossible dream now."
'I love you' was still out of the question— too soon to be spoken after they progressed to this stage, too inappropriate to indulge in with the half-healing wounds they were tending on from Lysandre's loss and the city's animosity.
But Corbeau saw what Philippe said as the devotion that it was, and he would rather cut what was already a long night short with a passionate kiss, rather than letting the stinging tears in his eyes drive him into an unsightly breakdown. It was easy to make a promise with himself to try and open his heart next time, when Philippe met him in the middle with just as much fervor, lavishing Corbeau's lips and squeezing his waist with the intensity of a man who was scared of losing everything; like Corbeau mattered to Philippe more than words could ever hope to express.
"Okay," Corbeau accepted, panting his answer amidst their frantic gasping, solidifying his decision by cupping Philippe's own face, giving his right cheek an appreciative swipe with his thumb. He has half a mind to kick Philippe's legs apart afterward, crawling from beneath that fortress to take his usual spot where the bed was pressed flush against the wall. He was glad, at least, that some of his wrecked pride could be saved when he managed to hold his tears in. "Don't blame me if I kick you out of the bed or steal the blanket, though. You're the one who offered this."
Yeah, this was a man that he could entrust his heart with, Corbeau decided, when Philippe only chuckled and wordlessly swept him into his comforting embrace, doing so much as to diligently pry his glasses and setting them on the wobbly nightstand, before tucking the duvet only over his boyfriend's body. No unnecessary touches that pushed past his boundaries, or demands for a different kind of intimacy that came with sharing a bed as a couple; just strong arms that circled around his waist with the sole purpose to protect.
With a kiss to his nape, the last thing that Corbeau heard was the softest murmur of, "Good night, Corbeau," imbued into his skin.
That night, sleep found Corbeau before he even noticed its arrival, and not once did those ghosts haunt him all the way to his deepest subconscious, when Philippe was there to shield him from their vengeance.
Any other day, Philippe would jump out of his bed the second his subconscious caught the tell-tale noise of rustling metal around his vicinity.
There was a warm, flesh weight leaning into his arms, however, and last night's memories came rushing in before Philippe's instincts could urge him to get up and salvage whatever household equipment that his Pokémon team were devouring, for keeping Corbeau asleep was far more crucial than the loss of several spoons and forks that could be repurchased.
Philippe tried not to linger too long on the guilt of missing all the signs of damage written all over his lover’s exhausted body, when this was the first time that Corbeau looked this serene since the day they met; frown lines completely gone, reverting him back to the baby-faced adult that made his grunts doubt his flight time, when the outside cover of the book held no wear and tear from weathering a long life. It almost looked like he was smiling in his sleep, even, as the crinkle around the corners of his eyes was unmistakable to the naked eye, before it disappeared alongside his boyfriend's adorable face, once it nuzzled its way back to his chest.
Perhaps there was a silver lining in letting his ace Pokémon gobble his keys like a Lumiose Galette, after all.
As if they came to the same conclusion, Skarmory tiptoed into the tiny bedroom as cautiously as his clanging feathers allowed, not at all apologetic about taking Corbeau's bedside alarm and swallowing it whole, eyeing Philippe as it chewed on the entire gadget with a cheeky stare that conveniently boasted, See? I've been doing you a good favor, this whole time!
Of course this was where karma would bite his oversized steel-bird in its behind, as the crunching noises from metal components being gobbled up echoed as harshly as the blare that the former-alarm was capable of announcing.
This time, Philippe allowed himself to extract one arm from Corbeau's waist, just to flick his fingers as a scolding against Skarmory's half-opened beak.
A racket like that was surely to wake anyone up, and predictably, Corbeau's raspy voice managed to convey the threat of a whole world of pain, when he grumbled, "Why in Yveltal's life is there a construction in my bedroom?"
Skamory, the bastard, spat the contorted alarm next to their bed, before running off and terrorizing the whole complex with its cheerful cries.
Sighing, Philippe returned his focus to their cuddle pile, tracing his hand along Corbeau's hair, digging his nails into his scalp to make him melt back into the hug, just the way his boyfriend enjoyed. "Go back to sleep, Corbeau. We only overslept by an hour."
Well, that was at least what the alarm showed before its untimely departure.
Pressed this close, every tension and relaxation of their muscles were plainly perceptible, but despite his shoulder blades slumping once again, Corbeau's next words drove the last remnants of sleep away from his sticky eyes. "I don't think I can. Not when you've ruined me for anyone else, Philippe."
Frowning, Philippe shifted in the too-small bed, being mindful not to fall off the frame, in his effort to prevent Corbeau from burying his face further into his shirt. He has an inkling on why that was, when his boyfriend looked exceptionally well-rested, this morning— less streaks of red staining his sclera, a noticeable lightening of his dark eyebags, and most importantly: a starker lucidity glowing from his face, compared to the past few, restless weeks, made all the more prominent by the golden sunlight that highlighted the healthy blush in his cheeks.
"Oh, how am I supposed to go back to sleeping alone when I finally got the best sleep of my life with you? Let alone working late all by myself, when jumping into bed with you is way more delightful?" Corbeau whined, and Philippe had no shame in letting his joy run free, as he barely held his snort back and earned himself a playful jab to his arm, as a result. "Quit being such a doting boyfriend, will you? I'm never going to be able to endure another sleepless night without you, after this. You've ruined me, Philippe, do you even grasp the gravity of that sentence?"
"All that I'm hearing is that you love me, Corbeau," Philippe teased, and baring his heart open so casually was worth it, for the flush that overtook Corbeau's cheeks made him believe that he could take on anything this wretched world would throw at them, if he has his boss-and-boyfriend by his side. It came to no surprise, then, when the offer slipped out as well, as easy as breathing. "Move in with me, then. Bigger apartment size, extra protection from me when I can act as your bodyguard at home to shoo away any tresspasser, including those in your nightmares."
Philippe would wait an eternity, until Corbeau was ready to reply with those same, three words. But for now, witnessing the way that his boyfriend was rapidly blinking back his pooling tears, and being at the receiving end of a compromise that said, "Only if you catch a Klefki to hold onto your keys and invest in an auto-feeder, just so my beauty sleep won't get interrupted by that bottomless pit of a stomach that your Skamory have," in a damp, wavering voice?
Strength, fame, money, or even respect— Philippe has no need for that, when everything a man ever needed was now nestled within his embrace.