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Corbeau was no stranger to getting stopped on the street come springtime.
The trees and tulips smiled in all colors, providing life to the city after the long grey sterility of winter, and so stirred the hearts of the Lumiosian people. The air itself ran more amorous—a heady floral sweetness laced on every warm breeze and tousle of hair and clothes down the boulevards.
It got into people's brains through their lungs and made them act like fools. Combee chasing pollen, everywhere.
For some: severe, sinus-clogging allergies.
For others: the unfathomable compulsion to approach a man a marathon out of their league bearing gifts—never just words, always some kind of offering—that teetered precariously on either side of the scales labeled 'appreciated' versus 'uncomfortable.'
For example. A hand-written letter could be either. He'd pocket and read them on occasional whim before they inevitably vanished down his Garbodor's gullet. Often, their contents were respectful (appreciated), penned with genuinely sweet sentiments that brightened his day. Even more often, though, they'd be downright salacious, expressing in panting detail how they wanted him to... what'd that one from last year say?
—stuff your dirty socks into my mouth and spank me for being a bad girl, something something footstool, something something torture basement.
He didn't even have one of those. Not for lack of trying to budget for it and convincing Philippe it would be funny.
He did wonder if the filthier contents made the paper taste any better to a pokémon who delighted in trash.
Chocolates were appreciated, though he never ate any. Obviously. He wouldn't swallow fan-gifted bonbons unless he wanted to wake up with neither pants nor memory of the previous night. Straight into the trash can the moment he set foot in the Syndicate lobby.
A waste of perfectly good candy. He couldn't even pass them to grunts to enjoy in case they really were tampered with.
Flower bouquets? Uncomfortable. Beautiful, sure, but what the hell was he going to do with a bunch of roses while he was out and about on business? If the cemetery wasn't too far out of the way, they'd end up on a lonely gravestone. Or he'd find the nearest old man with bad eyesight on a park bench or something and pass the flowers to someone who'd better appreciate them, or have somebody more fitting to gift them to. Someone who owned any vases shorter than two meters tall, for one thing.
The only gifts he felt bad about secretly getting rid of were the rare stuffed toys. Donateable, at least, given they were soft all the way through. One had a locket sewn inside, with a lock of human hair.
Corbeau had no interest in trying to understand what drove people to act like this. He just accepted that it happened sometimes. Fathomless feelings, universal, allegedly, with a few people here and there just... not getting the memo. Or crumpling and tossing the memo entirely. Or in Corbeau's case, never having it offered to take notes from in the first place.
(He was certain he grew up missing an important piece or two. Maybe if he'd had that thing called 'a loving family' and got to see it between his parents, he'd better understand. Or maybe he was always meant to be built like this. Nothing to be done about it. Could parents tell when their kid was missing something? Is that what bothered them so much about him?)
At any rate. It was gorgeous outside, and Corbeau knew to keep an eye out. Yes, he could stay cooped up in his office until the petals all fell and people came to their senses, but fuck that. He'd never run away from any inconvenience.
Scattered petals dusted the windshields of every parked car and swirled around the curbs, the footsteps of pedestrians. Around two pairs of swift striding legs, with cordovan shoes and places to be.
Presently, Corbeau wasn't terribly worried about getting approached.
Nobody dared when his shadow loomed larger than he did. It went without saying that he only had to deal with unwanted feelings when he was alone, or flanked by a grunt or two at best. With Philippe, though? He could actually relax.
Philippe's mere presence—not that there was anything mere about this man—was the best safety bubble he could ask for. Such incredible range on this guy, keeping so many different things off his boss's back. Rain, wind, knives. Would-be annoying flies. He could stroll in peace and enjoy the same pollen-laced air as everybody else.
Years of experience had taught him that there was no safer place to be than by Philippe's side. Random confessions weren't dangerous so long as he handled them right, but it was still nice to have his personal Aegislash surround him in a watchful bubble when they were out and about together.
Arceus, if there was one person who understood him, that he could choose to keep for the rest of his life, it'd be this one. Philippe was constructed more similarly to everyone else—not missing that piece that'd make him difficult to love past the surface people fell for—but unlike everyone else, he had other priorities and the conviction to stick to them. Namely, supporting his boss through anything.
Being with Philippe was easy. If (now this was a dangerous thought) he could be so entitled as to choose a someone-for-life in spite of everything...
Tsk. Daydreaming again. Useless.
What mattered was that it was a beautiful day out, and he insisted on enjoying this walk back to headquarters before he locked himself in the cells of a spreadsheet for the next several hours.
But of course—because he really had the best luck when it came to worst case scenarios—right when Corbeau fully let his guard down was when his sense of security was proven wrong.
A stranger suddenly exited the least casual lean Corbeau had ever seen, and wobbled straight towards him with something hidden behind his back.
...How brave.
"Careful, boss," said Philippe without missing a beat, already squeezing a fist.
As much as he'd love to let Philippe erase the problem from existence...
"No need," Corbeau dismissed, already throwing up a smile, hoping that his glance conveyed his desire to get this over with as neatly as possible. "I'll take care of this."
Things wrapped up more cleanly when he just took the damn gift and listened for thirty seconds rather than release the guillotine on the spot. He was here to tidy up, prevent messes, not cause them. And, he had a reputation to uphold: scary, but appreciative of others. It'd feel good to blow these people off in the moment, but better in the long run that he not harvest grudges or break hearts that might come in handy later.
Smile and nod, and it'd be over soon enough.
He swept past Philippe's confusion and spared this poor stranger's knees further risk of public collapse.
"Hello there," Corbeau said, with no intention whatsoever to recall a single thing about him later. He rather reminded Corbeau of a handsome sidewalk weed that somebody'd slapped a bow tie on. His jacket was brand new and didn't suit him. "Is there something you need from me? A generous loan, perhaps? Or are you here on behalf of someone else's debt?"
"M-Monsieur Corbeau!" The man gulped, skinny throat bobbing like a fish had bitten a hook somewhere in his belly. "No, no, I won't take too much of your time. I just wanted to... I had to... well...!"
Corbeau's placid smile didn't budge. At his side, Philippe looked bewildered, glancing between them as the stranger fumbled his words like bowling balls he was trying to juggle.
Corbeau tilted his head politely. A few more seconds of expectant waiting, and...
"Here!" he squeaked.
Philippe twitched again as the man thrust something forth.
Oh? A box of chocolates. Ribbon-wrapped, gourmet. From a very nice store. Too bad they'd be disposed of the moment no stray Rotoms could catch him in the act.
(Those pokémon tended to adopt behaviors best suited to their users, and Lumiose was full of gossipers. Any whiff of drama would have a camera whipping out, sometimes before their human even noticed what was happening. Corbeau's own Rotom had become quite keen at knowing when to start recording from inside his pocket without fuss. Smart little thing.)
Philippe's reaction to the cutesy chocolates caught his attention. Broad shoulders stiffened a sharp cut above their vigilant usual. Large fists tightened near large hips, silver gaze sharpening to draw blood with the slightest nick. Like he was ready to fucking a kill a man right here on this scenic petal-strewn street.
Arceus, that felt good to watch.
"I just wanted to... to express my appreciation for you, sir. I left a card inside with my—with everything. You, uh, don't have to read it, but it'd s-send me over the moon if you gave my feelings any amount of thought." The man's face flushed almost as red as the box.
"Thank you," Corbeau said, smiling his best you're cute, but mind the distance between us, please smile. "They look lovely."
He reached for the box with enough interest pumped into his arm to seem sincere, and was distracted once again by Philippe's sudden tension—as if born from a certainty that the box was stuffed with broken needles instead of bonbons. Good to know they shared the same caution about these things.
The stranger looked about ready to collapse once Corbeau accepted his heart-shaped offering.
"T-Thank you! I'm sorry, I... just had to let you know or it would have destroyed me. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer." This spiel again. "My friends told me I was crazy to try and wait for you on the street, sir, but I knew I had to do it in person. I s-saw online that you do take gifts, and..."
Corbeau tuned most of it out.
"—for weeks. That letter has my whole soul. I'm sorry for catching you on your way back home, but—"
What'd be for lunch after this? A dirty martini sounded great right now. More olives than toothpick.
"—easily the most breathtakingly beautiful person I've ever... E-Ever..."
The sun was suddenly cut off from warming Corbeau's back.
Philippe said not a word. He didn't have to. All color drained from the stranger's face when he glanced over Corbeau's head, leaving him white as a sheet. He hit the emergency brakes on his rambling, words piling up in the junction of his throat.
"I ju— I remembered— I should— Please enjoy your day, Monsieur Corbeau!" he squeaked.
The stranger skittered away, almost crashing into a curbside mailbox in his quest to dodge a Furfrou strutting on its leash.
How incredibly refreshing. For once, entertaining the usual was almost worth it. But damn—if this was the start of a new pattern, and he wasn't safe even with Philippe by his side...
Corbeau startled slightly when a solid hand placed upon his shoulder from behind. He instinctively turned his head the other way, where Philippe was already bending down to speak where only he could hear.
"I'll escort you back to the office, sir. Stay close to me."
A poorly hidden glower hung from that low, bony brow, aimed down the road where the man had made himself scarce. Right. Nobody would dare approach a face like that.
A tightness eased from Corbeau's chest, and he nodded, starting a swift pace and leaving it up to Philippe to stick as close as he wanted.
"Hold this for me?"
Philippe took the box of chocolates into personal custody.
"Did you recognize that man, boss?" rumbled his right-hand, projecting an aura of raw hostility that had all pedestrians scattering.
He did not want to talk about this any more than he had to. Ideally, he'd be able to leave those particular little distractions behind the moment the gift left his hands. To grant them any further space in his brain was a disservice to himself. Far more pleasant to ditch it all and return to Philippe, where none of this absurdity could reach him.
That hadn't stopped this one, though.
He might stay inside the rest of the day after all.
"Never seen him before in my life, unfortunately. It's just that time of year again," he rattled off, distancing himself from his own words. "There's always at least a few who manage to catch me while I'm out and about. Something in the air, I guess."
The droopy tip of Corbeau's coat smacked a street light as he whirled a corner, and began crossing the road just before the pedestrian light flicked white. Any driver who dared to blow a yellow and hit him would find themselves bankrupt in an instant. He loved his lawyers. They matched his reputation.
Philippe was silent while they crossed the street, and wasn't much louder when he spoke again. "First I'm hearing about this, sir."
"I never told you." He hopped onto the opposite curb with an artificial spring in his step. Only a few more blocks to go before home sweet home. Closed doors, just him and Philippe until the next poor sap argued their case for a loan. "They're insignificant, and sporadic enough to not warrant taking any measures. I trash the gifts once nobody's looking and move right along with my day."
"How the hell could I not have noticed," Philippe muttered, scolding himself for some reason. "I apologize for my negligence, boss."
Couldn't they just let this go?
"Don't be sorry. You did great." He replayed the image of blood vacating the man's face at near medically concerning speed. "Maybe a little overboard when he only wanted to give me some candy, but I'll let it slide this time."
"He was hardly just—" Philippe caught himself from debating. Wouldn't be a good look for either of them. "He was behaving inappropriately towards you. I don't think I crossed any line."
"And I'm telling you to ease up if there is a next time," he flippantly said. There probably would be, if Philippe's presence was no longer enough to deter them. "It works out in my favor to let them get it out of their system without much friction. Many more benefits in the long term that way." One benefit being that they were far less likely to become obsessive stalkers that Philippe would definitely notice. "Trust me, it's easier."
"Are you used to this, boss?" Philippe asked, with a tinge of horrified sympathy Corbeau could really do without right now.
He wasn't used to it, was the thing. He probably wouldn't ever get used to it. He just knew how to handle it in the least messy way possible.
For conversational (and avoidant) purposes...
"Sure am. It's really not a big deal, Philippe."
The big arm swinging so close to his they were almost brushing with every step tensed up—someone distracted by their phone was veering too close for comfort. Philippe cleared his throat with the same friction as a grinding axe. The woman nearly dropped her purse in her instinctive reaction to get out of their way. That closest arm relaxed again. Corbeau wondered what Philippe wanted to do with it.
"You can say it's not a big deal, boss, but I insist on remaining by your side while this... 'season' lasts," he described with a growl. "And I'll handle the disposal of any gifts from now on. You shouldn't have to touch any of... this." Cardboard creaked unseen. Philippe must be gripping that box like it owed them ten million.
So much for his dear companion being an escape from these headaches. Philippe was practically breathing down his neck with every step.
Corbeau fixed his glasses, unable to appreciate the pretty flowers spilling from planters and trees and compact garden beds, and thought back to the redundancy of confessions he'd entertained over the years.
Interruptions to his day, harmless as they were, were still interruptions. Demands for his time and attention. Asking him to consider other people's feelings, to give them a chance when he'd never given anyone a single chance before. He had no reason whatsoever to give two crumbling dried-up shits over what these strangers harbored in their fully functioning hearts. If they actually cared, they'd leave him alone. Not beg him with scared, sappy eyes and make the whole interaction about how it felt so good to get their confession off of their chest and onto Corbeau's, where it was now his problem to deal with.
Good thing he was kind of an asshole—if rejecting others brought him any real guilt, he'd have been rendered useless ages ago. It was quite the nifty sanity-retention technique to have no problem dumping heartfelt gifts in the trash with no reply. It let him carry on living the life he actually wanted to live, next to the one person he'd rather keep ignorant, because Philippe was exactly the kind kind of person to treat this like an actionable issue.
Fuck. If everyone in the city could take a page out of Philippe's book, Lumiose would become a lot more beautiful.
"Sweet of you to offer," he said, half to himself. "But you've got far more important work to handle that I'd rather use you for instead." He heaved a sigh and all memory of his latest interruption straight off the proverbial cliff. "I do appreciate that about you, though. Really."
"...Sir?"
"You actually practice what you preach when it comes to caring about me," he explained, nudging his elbow into Philippe's stomach while they were practically glued hip to hip. "There's no way you'd try the same stupid shit as everyone else if you ever fell for me too. You'd know better."
Philippe went quiet for a little too long.
A lot of a little too long.
Corbeau kept sharp, wary in a whole new way now.
"I do, boss," Philippe finally said.
Corbeau stopped on a dime. Ever the watchful subordinate, Philippe halted at the exact same time he did, any risk of collision or leaving him behind reduced to zero through sheer joy of obedience. Exactly why Philippe found so much joy in obedience, Corbeau had never bothered to interrogate before now.
"Run that by me again."
"I mean I would, boss. I would know better. Apologies for my poor initial wording."
Anybody else would be sufficiently deterred by the fortress of Philippe's professionalism, but Corbeau could spot a crack in that wall from miles away in the dead of night through the pouring rain. Given, crucially, that he knew to look for one at all.
He never had reason to search for this before. Philippe was the one man in Lumiose who understood why Corbeau had never taken a lover, and, as Corbeau was happy to reiterate, should know better.
Assuming he wasn't completely overthinking this—his mind was prone to twisting straightforward paths into lab-concocted mazes once a bad enough mood took it over—it almost sounded like he'd caught Philippe red-handed. At... what.
Actually being in love with him too?
Fucking tragic is what it sounded like if he was right. Because—why him? What kind of a happy ending could Philippe possibly hope for with him? Philippe knew exactly where he stood regarding romantic capacity (nonexistent for him), and what Corbeau felt capable of entertaining.
...Oh.
Shit.
No wonder Philippe hadn't said anything.
That not-so-forgotten voice weaseled its way to the front of his brain, echoed by the common thread from plenty of past confessions:
It would destroy me if I didn't let you know.
Unspoken love, apparently, became some kind of gnawing parasite if left to fester too long. It made them irrational, made them suffer, and like a Parasect driven to seek moisture and darkness, drove them to find relief in the only way possible: cornering the cause and letting it seep out their mouth at last.
Corbeau couldn't care less about strangers' agonies over wanting what they couldn't have—but this was Philippe.
His Philippe.
Who'd sooner tank a self-destruct with just his face than let a single thread on Corbeau's person get singed.
Without a word, Corbeau diverted them into the nearest alley. No people, as evidenced by the Espurr hanging around in the back, who winked out of sight the moment his enormous shadow followed him deeper in. He could map the backstreets of this district blindfolded—if he wanted privacy, they could get privacy.
"Is something the matter... sir?"
Philippe wouldn't ask like that unless he knew exactly what this was about.
Corbeau spun around and stuck his hands into his coat pockets, head tilted back to assess his subordinate. Philippe didn't betray much, large body blocking the way back out.
At the very least, Philippe met his gaze dead on. That was one of many things Corbeau adored about the older man—that he never shied away from looking him straight in the eye, no matter the topic or feelings at hand.
For them, a locked gaze made a mutual promise: no lies.
"Is there something important you'd like to tell me, Philippe?"
"No sir. I'd never keep anything important from you."
That was the tricky thing about language.
Corbeau closed the gap with a single slow step. Philippe didn't back up; merely cranked the angle of his neck to maintain inscrutable eye contact.
"If it's coming from you, it's automatically important. I want to hear everything that's on your mind."
"...Everything, boss?" Low. Guarded.
Corbeau would never go back on his word for this man.
"Everything."
A muscle in that big jaw worked itself. "Why did you hide that people have been approaching you while you're alone?"
A warm-up, then. Fine. Corbeau leaned closer, bending over the arc of Philippe's stomach with his hands still stuck in his pockets, not touching him at all save for the drape of his tie.
Pupil to pupil. No lies.
"Because I didn't want that bullshit following me home where you are. You not knowing makes it easier to leave it all behind me. If I told you, you'd get up in arms about it, and then I'd have no more escape from it."
"I could have helped you, boss." Rigid voice, rigid jaw.
"Already were just by being yourself. But, thanks to one asshole who couldn't keep away even with you watching over me, the Meowstic's outta the bag and I have no further intention of keeping you out of that loop anymore. Happy?"
Philippe looked happy enough.
"Now. Your turn. I'll ask again: is there something important you'd like to tell me? Anything at all you've been dying to get off your chest? I could help you, too, you know. I want to."
Philippe's mouth remained shut as tight as a Bewear trap. The rest of his face though, was wide, wide open. It took no time at all to clock this quiet stubbornness for what it really was:
Nerves.
Dread.
Corbeau had a disturbingly strong inkling as to why, but his stomach still turned seeing Philippe this nervous about anything pertaining to him. They were thick as thieves—closer than Corbeau had thought himself capable of attaining with another human being. They'd been through plenty together already; this couldn't be that bad in the face of their bond.
He was there for Philippe when his remaining grandmother had passed—had insisted on attending the funeral in Paldea alongside him, despite every protest that he didn't have to bother. He'd had Philippe's fingers down his throat before, helping him vomit up poisoned hors d'oeuvres in a handicap stall at the hotel. There were tears shed they'd only let each other see. Goofing around, in the same private boat. Being human, just for each other. Just last month Corbeau had gotten fucking wasted on drugstore liquor in a rare fit of self-hatred, and Philippe's lap had held him safe and secure until morning, golden pocket square dabbing his mess away so patiently that his chest still clenched when he thought about it too hard.
"Don't make me get the pliers out, Philippe, because I will," he said more gently. "I'm serious. You can tell me anything."
Nothing. They both had such thick skulls when it suited them. Corbeau's heel started to bounce where he stood, and he searched and searched those pale grey irises for any kind of clue on what was needed to entice Philippe to come clean.
Think. If there was a barrier, he just had to remove it. The barrier was Philippe's reluctance, but why?
He doesn't want to be like the others.
...Philippe was the only one who truly understood him, mind body and soul.
This compassionate idiot would never risk upsetting him when he could stuff his feelings into a safe instead, no matter how bad they clawed up the interior. Getting pried open like this must feel like getting asked to sign his last will and testament as penned by his own worst enemy.
The considerate thing to do would be to back off.
Unfortunately, this was the first and possibly only time Corbeau actually wanted to learn the full extent of what someone felt for him. When it came to Philippe, he became ravenous for knowledge, and understanding furthered one step at a time.
This felt like a pretty fucking important thing for him to understand.
Corbeau eased his weight back onto his heels.
He folded the arms of his glasses, and let them rest against his chest, suspended by the retainer that only very rarely fulfilled its functional purpose.
Bare of all barriers, he met Philippe's stubborn gaze again. At this distance, his friend's towering form was just about the only thing he could clearly see at all. The rest of the world became an impenetrable blur of vague coloration. It was only because he didn't give a fuck about the rest of that world that he didn't feel any need to squint.
It went against all his programming to defang himself, expose himself, this willingly. There were simply some things he was willing to do for Philippe regardless of how they made his skin prickle.
(It was scary how little he hesitated.)
"Philippe. Remember that there's practically nothing you could do to fall out of my esteem at this point. You're the only one I trust in this damn city, and the only one I can really call my friend." Heart-shaped cardboard creaked behind Philippe's back. "Whatever you have to say, it won't disappoint me, and I won't blow you off. I just..."
Corbeau lost hold of his words for a moment, and hoped it only played in his favor. Just what. Just, what? He just...
"I wanna see how it might feel coming from you," is what he said.
Not at all what he meant to say, but he knew it couldn't be a lie when he'd bared himself so completely.
Two-way street.
Philippe's composure was slipping.
Corbeau licked his lips, and pulled that trigger.
"Just tell me the truth. Are you in love with me too?"
Some brief, agonized war played out behind those rugged features. Flickers of guilt and resolve, skewered around reluctance. Finally, finally he opened his mouth—
"I might be, boss."
Heartbreakingly meek for someone so strong.
Corbeau's heart leapt in some indiscernible direction, and a cool prickle washed through his body. Not... awful. Not bad. He didn't hate it. The ambiguity, he didn't like, but he didn't hate what might lie underneath it.
Philippe's shoulders mantled inwards. He must be anticipating rejection, Corbeau belatedly realized, and cursed himself for not thinking of something so obvious.
He had no interest whatsoever in hurting Philippe so carelessly—did Philippe not anticipate that too? Philippe of all people deserved his consideration, and whatever genuine gentleness he was capable of. Not the fake nod-along shit he gave everybody else just to get them to go away, or the venom he only spat when they couldn't take a fucking hint. Philippe, he wanted to keep, not crush.
He'd keep this man forever if he could. He had to. If he ever lost him, there'd be nobody else in Lumiose, the world, who could ever fill the hole left behind.
"Might be?" He leaned curiously higher, where Philippe's mouth had formed a thin, fragile line. "You're not sure?"
"I..." Philippe's face deepened a few shades—colored by shame, not the exhilaration of confessing Corbeau was so used to seeing on others. "You know I care about you deeply, boss. Would do anything for you."
"We're already on the same page there." He nudged the front of Philippe's thigh with the back of his hand. "Can you tell me a little more about why you're calling it love?"
"I'm not sure if I should explain." Philippe swallowed thickly. "You might not like what I have to say very much, boss."
Corbeau dared a playful smile. Like it could possibly be any worse than what he'd read in some of those perfume-drenched letters. "Try me."
"I want to have you," Philippe stated, curt as any of his hellos.
"Have me?" Corbeau blinked. Was that it? That was almost... dull.
Philippe nodded, and stretched his neck away from where his collar appeared to be growing quite damp.
"Every year that passes, where I get to enjoy the privilege of standing by your side, I get more and more certain that I never want to be anywhere else but with you."
He took it back. There was nothing dull at all about this.
"Anything I could possibly offer you, give you, already belongs to you, boss, whether you know you can ask for it yet or not." Philippe cracked his neck the other direction, his undercurrent of rage putting a prickle up Corbeau's spine again. "Those others trying to approach you... I want to laugh thinking they could possibly offer you more than I can. They wouldn't do half the shit I would do for your sake. In a heartbeat, boss."
Philippe looked wounded for a split second. He lifted a heavy hand only to curl it back by his side. Corbeau flicked away the unexpected temptation to grab and guide it to wherever it'd wanted to go. His waist, his neck, his cheek. He wouldn't mind, so long as the hand reaching for him was Philippe's.
"The way you trust me fucking kills me sometimes," Philippe said like he had a knife between his ribs, as if reading Corbeau's mind. "I can't ruin that by ignoring everything I've learned about you since you started trusting me. I want to own you so badly it drives me insane, but it's my job to get used to living with it. You mean the world to me, boss, no matter what our relationship looks like. I can want you and want you, but I can't... do that to you."
...How the fuck could Philippe said he only 'might be' in love? He just made all those other cheap confessions sound like paltry, childish horseshit. Half-hearted sand castles hardly worth a glance before the impenetrable walls of a thousand-year fortress ready to surround him at a moment's notice.
(And it would be safe there, wouldn't it?)
This... sounded a lot like real love. Or whatever concept of it Corbeau always secretly hoped was most real. It seemed pretty clear cut to him, but again, how was he supposed to determine that for sure? He was never given that memo explaining what love was supposed to be or feel or look like.
Maybe there were no rules after all—which threw his whole world around a sharp, jarring corner.
"Say it straight for me," he said without any of the tremble he could have, pressing his hand firmly over Philippe's chest. Too many layers, body too sturdy, to easily feel a heart hammering away. He just wanted to—had to touch him. His Philippe. "I want to hear it from you."
Philippe wavered only for a moment. Nerves steeled just as fast, because the trust between them went both ways. Philippe's throat pulled thickly and he straightened himself, and for a brief, blinding flash Corbeau was struck by the illusion that the box of chocolates still clutched in that fist were bought by Philippe just for him.
"I love you, Corbeau. Have for years. I'd have taken it to my grave for your sake, sir, but now you know."
For once, hearing the words felt right. No dread. No clawed reminder of what he was missing.
"And if I can be selfish with you just this once," Philippe said with mounting determination, "I'd like your permission to continue."
That threw him for a second complete and marvelous loop. "My permission?"
Philippe's nod was short and sharp. "Most important thing I can think of."
"I didn't think you needed something like that," Corbeau said, exhilarated, after his brain and his jaw were done momentarily hanging. He pressed harder at Philippe's chest, gesturing through flesh at the metaphor. "Thought most people were at the mercy of this fucking thing. Heart wants what it wants and you've got no choice but to follow it."
"What I do with myself is always under my control." As if to demonstrate, Philippe chose—chose—to grasp his baffled hand, pinning it firmly to his breast.
"Those other motherfuckers don't get it," Philippe rumbled, giving Corbeau's hand a squeeze. He could feel the vibration of every word. "Lying in wait to practically ambush you like that... if they call that loving you, they're pathetic."
"They're not so bad," Corbeau rattled off, still reeling at the concept sinking in of having a say in the matter at all. Of course he had a say in general—these days, he had the privilege of saying no to anyone he wanted—but over how someone felt? What the fuck did Philippe mean by that? "I can handle a little interruption here and there."
"You shouldn't have to handle it, boss." Philippe squeezed his hand tighter, and Corbeau nearly gained an understanding what 'weak at the knees' was supposed to mean. "If they cared about you the way I do, they'd know that more than anything, you hate having to repeat yourself. All they're doing is making you say and do the same shit over and fucking over again, aren't they? You nod along because you say it's easier, but I can read you like my favorite book, boss."
Just as Corbeau had every right to interpret any silence of Philippe's as an answer of its own, so did Philippe, towards him.
Philippe's intensity simmered low, made more compact. His voice followed suit, trading edge for wool that Corbeau wanted immediately and badly to lean into.
"I saw your face, boss. When you smiled at him. You hated it. And I refuse to be like them." Philippe's rough, calloused thumb stroked over his knuckles. "If you don't like anything about what I feel for you... I might not be able to shut them off, but I can ensure you never have to think about them again. You can leave my heart behind and I won't let it chase you or even try to wait for you. I swear to Arceus, Corbeau, only what you want to happen will happen. Just... being by your side is enough for me. If something hurts, I can hurt, but I can get over it. Hurting's always worth it when I do it for you."
Fuck.
Fuck. Corbeau's heart raced like he was in freefall, rattling away untethered while his head spun and sank deeper into itself.
He was still hung up on permission. Those strangers never asked for it. They rolled up and demanded their own little stage with him in captive front-row seat and all of Lumiose as their peanut gallery; the only sane move he could make in public was to smile and clap until they were satisfied enough to go away quietly and never bother him again. They called it love, but it sure didn't seem like it to Corbeau.
But a love like Philippe's...
Half in a daze, Corbeau pulled open all the drawers he had on what Philippe's love might look like. Couldn't be too different from what he received now. Consideration, thoughtfulness. A determination to put him first that blew him away every time it was demonstrated.
Years, Philippe had said? Years in love, and Corbeau had never noticed—and it'd be years and years more no matter how hard Philippe tried to keep those feelings far away from him for his sake.
Corbeau thought about that funeral. The small sound Philippe had made when Corbeau stealthily took his hand to comfort him, as the ground swallowed the casket. The loosening of that big tight fist so Philippe could grasp him back, tight enough that it almost hurt, but not quite. Was Philippe in love with him then?
He thought about the fingers jammed down his throat to help him vomit. His body held onto food with a ferocity that made it impossible to purge things willingly, no matter how upset his stomach or how likely it was that the poison would kill him if he let it stay. Philippe hadn't batted an eye when asked for help. Had kneeled with him on the pristine tile, rubbing his back with one hand and coaxing his gag reflex with the other, not minding at all the choking and the spit and the eventual mess that splattered over his fingers. Act of love? Loyalty? Did it matter? What was the difference, anyway?
He thought about the drunken, staggering state Philippe found him in just last month. The patient lap, the solidity. The half-cuddle as he was cradled and told he wasn't a broken person, no questions asked as to why he'd allowed himself to become such a wreck in the first place.
"If you need to fall apart sometimes, you can do it around me, boss. I'll get you put back together, no problem."
To the grave, he'd said.
Corbeau wanted them to be buried together. Had never voiced it, because it felt too much to inflict on someone who was technically his subordinate. But it sounded like forever was already in the cards—if Philippe had his way, Corbeau would become his, and if Corbeau had his way—
What a beautiful likewise.
Mine. Mine, mine, he wants to be mine, he was already mine, was always prepared to be mine forever.
There was really only one answer to give.
Chest scraped hollow and breezy, head unmoored, Corbeau slipped his hand free from what was never a cage in the first place. He unfolded his glasses and perched them back on his nose, and took his time fixing the drape of the loop over his shoulders while his vocal cords combed themselves straight. He didn't want to sound like those other fools who could barely keep themselves together.
Philippe's expression set like rough concrete, readying himself for the worst.
"I'd rather you yell at me than smile at me, boss. If it helps."
Nail in the goddamn coffin.
"It does," he said, doing neither. Arceus ream him inside out, why was he so excited? "But out of curiosity..." Not a sudden, all-consuming desperation, no, "what if I allowed you to love me?"
Philippe's mouth fell open in pure shock. He rallied fast and rigid, assembling into the proud, full professional he made today. "Absolutely nothing will change, sir. I'll continue to serve and support you to the best of my ability."
No cigar for that response. Corbeau shook his head, and found invisible pieces of dust to pick from Philippe's suit, and was studied by his golden reflection in a segment of that metal-linked tie. Not a single fingerprint marred its surface. Philippe treated everything he owned like it was the last to be found on Earth.
"If I allowed you to love me," he tried to rephrase. "With the intent of letting a few things change. What then?"
Philippe's confidence tarnished, and that meekness from before reared its head. "I thought you didn't..."
"I don't." The tiny metal mirror made the fragment of his face the same color as his unchanged eyes. "And I probably never will. But I see no reason to hold you back, Philippe, when you're the only one who seems to understand that."
"You mean I can...?" Flickers of ideas, a thousand what-ifs, danced along those hesitant lips unspoken.
Corbeau nodded to all of them.
"If anything bothers me, I'll tell you exactly what to stop. And it goes without saying that this is a closed-door arrangement. Only when we're in private, understand?"
"Yes sir," breathed Philippe. His tiny square reflection gained a different view as Philippe's large chest swelled. "I understand perfectly."
"Good." He didn't sound half as stern as he intended. "Permission granted, then." He cuffed Philippe on the shoulder, cracking a cheeky grin he couldn't suppress any longer. "Don't waste it."
"Never, sir!" said Philippe, his professionalism a thin, flaky thing over the growing elation Corbeau could sense. He'd let Philippe inevitably fail to stifle it; this man was always a pleasure to witness when allowed the full extent of his pride, and this occasion of all occasions merited Philippe feeling good about life. Himself. Their relationship, even.
How much would things change after this? Realistically, not a lot. Philippe cared about him too much to squander this opportunity, and was likely—make that definitely, it was dancing all over the silver stage of those big round eyes—thinking of methods to express his feelings that Corbeau would only enjoy.
Holding hands? They'd done that before. He couldn't think of any little gestures Philippe wasn't already prone to doing that would only reveal themselves now.
Part of the fun was getting to find out what this meant for them. If there was anybody Corbeau trusted to make something this unconventional work without it being a burden or sacrifice, it was Philippe.
"And while you're at it," Corbeau said—fuck, there it was, that obvious happiness all over Philippe's face that made his own heart feel like a sudden balloon— "I'll give you permission to keep people from approaching me. If they look like they're only gonna bother me, you do whatever you wanna do."
"Bark at them, sir?"
Corbeau actually laughed, a brief little thing that carried the rest of his stresses away. "If that's what it takes to defend your territory."
That must have been some kind of magic word. Philippe's arm twitched, and this time Corbeau beat its restraint to the punch by snatching that thick wrist and giving it a tug. Philippe easily crushed him in every way physically, but this huge man stumbled closer like he'd die if he didn't let Corbeau yank him around.
Corbeau stood on his toes and put their faces as close together as he could, locking to Philippe's flustered grey gaze and enjoying that nobody could possibly spot him like this, blocked behind this strong, yielding body that'd gladly raze this city to the ground before allowing a single unwanted finger to touch him. Provided, of course, he was given permission.
Corbeau was getting a little carried away here, but who gave a fuck when Philippe brimmed with anticipation like this. Licked lips, darting gaze, flushed and giddy and warm and beautiful for all of it.
"I mean it, Philippe," he dangled like a piece of string, a precious gem, "we'll hash the details later of how this'll work, but from this moment forward I want no doubts that you are mine for as long as you're with me. I expect your full commitment to me and only me, understand?"
"Was never a question, sir." Philippe sounded thrilled. "Was already planning on treating you right for as long as you let me hound your heels."
The feeling was mutual.
Corbeau snatched that perfectly polished tie and pulled with no resistance until they were nearly forehead to forehead. Arceus, if he had any doubts before they'd be blown away now; this was the face of a man completely head over heels prepared to submit to anything. Corbeau's lips twitched into something self-satisfied.
"You hopeless fucking romantic," he complimented with the same pace as he would an insult, and grinned when Philippe only turned redder. "You actually make it look good and not pathetic."
There were no rules to this shit, he judiciously decided. If Philippe could be happy loving someone like him, why stop him? There was plenty Corbeau could reciprocate regardless of the fine print details. Loyalty, respect, enough devotion to power the whole city. Acceptance for the parts Philippe was ashamed of, in his person or in his past. Time and attention and maybe even a little affection, too. He'd always wondered what it'd be like to be carried by someone who cared about him.
He was a lot less curious about what kissing was like, but given the way Philippe's gaze had fallen to his lips and how tulip-red that rugged face had gotten, it might be worth becoming open to finding out.
Corbeau's first choice for forever, putty in his hands...
Yeah. He could definitely used to this.
With that, Corbeau released his best friend's arm and his tie (fingerprints all over it), and gracefully stepped around Philippe's stunned body back towards the street.
He passed a shuddering exhale and gasp, the kind born from rollercoaster adrenaline. One, two... before he could take three steps, Philippe appeared resolutely at his heels. Still gripping that poor box of chocolates. The ribbon had slipped, and the lid bore a visible dent.
"Toss that for me once we get back, will you?" Corbeau suggested over his shoulder with a grin. "If I'm going to have chocolate, I'd rather they be from someone I trust not to spike them." He fixed his glasses and rolled a shoulder into a pop. "I could use something sweet after all that."
Philippe's Rotom blinked into existence in his peripherals. "I'll have something nice delivered to the office, sir."
"You'd better. If you're good for the rest of the walk back, I might even let you feed some to me."
The silence behind him was a contemplative one. "Define good, sir."
Corbeau deliberated over his response for only a second or two. The answer clarified itself right as he emerged onto the busy sidewalk with all its rioting colors and scent of new growth on the breeze, the pedestrians rightfully giving a wide berth to him and his intimidating companion as a school of fish would dodge a pair of cruising Sharpedo.
"Don't worry about meeting any metrics, Philippe. You've always been plenty good to me." He beckoned near his hip for Philippe to walk at his side rather than behind him.
"And that does mean exactly what you hope it means," Corbeau said with a smile that he didn't mind everyone else seeing, so long as Philippe saw it too. "Though I hope you don't mind me getting some work done while my hands are chocolate-free."
Arceus—Philippe was broadcasting to the whole city that he was basking in fantastic news. Look at that face. Measure that stride.
So much for an intimidating presence.
He'd let Philippe get away with it just for today. People would see the chocolates gripped behind that huge back and assume that he had received a wonderful gift from an admirer who adored him to pieces.
Not an altogether incorrect assumption. Corbeau wasn't entirely heartless; most of what he had to work with suited him just fine, and he refused to feel like he was lacking something when he trusted in Philippe's contentment with what he did have—and in Philippe's desire to own and care for all of it.
He was going to have an excellent time reveling in the knowledge that he could have his own for-forever, and he had no plans whatsoever to ever let Philippe leave his side.
Nothing had outwardly changed about the remaining walk home, but to Corbeau's fresh eyes, the flowers had never looked so beautiful, nor the breeze so wonderfully sweet.
It made all the difference knowing nobody else could hope to reach him anymore, when he fully belonged to Philippe.