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It'd taken surprisingly little time for them to get used to relaxing together.
To Corbeau, it somewhat made sense. Philippe had gotten tired of the consequences of losing (and losing, and losing, and losing some more; money and respect and the will to keep going). Corbeau had never wanted to fight in the first place. He'd only found it fun because he'd made it into a game, and games were a thing he would always strive to win.
Truces weren't bad, though.
Once the reason for their strife had disappeared, so did the reason for their animosity.
It helped that Skarmory and Whirlipede got along like bread and butter once given the chance. And that Philippe—huge, terrifying Philippe—was disturbingly serious about handing over the reins of his gang along with all the responsibilities that came with it, to Corbeau. Someone he'd tasked his whole gang with hunting and dragging to their leader's feet not all that long ago.
Why Philippe was so ready to give up power like this, Corbeau refused to understand. He was a perfectly good leader in his own right. Corbeau would know; he'd been working underneath the man for a little over a month now.
(Okay, only sort of. Their arrangement was more a temporary contract of financial advisory and business relations in exchange for protection. Nothing long term. Truces only existed because they could be broken, and Corbeau would milk this mutually beneficial relationship for as long as he could.)
While they weren't bent on hurting each other, Corbeau was learning a lot more about his rival-turned-something than he ever thought he'd care to.
For one thing, Philippe's gruff demeanor softened measurably when he wasn't given any reasons to be actively pissed off. This observation had been accurately and scientifically logged by the biggest source of actively pissing Philippe off. Corbeau saw the difference firsthand.
Another thing—whenever Philippe was happy (yes, that actually happened sometimes) he felt like a whole different person. He wasn't an easy smiler, exactly, but a bunch of lines on his face would smooth away, making him look significantly younger, and his chest would swell and his shoulders dropped and his ring-clad hands would look less like weapons.
That was their default. Big heavy rings on big, heavy hands. Silver, varied, surprisingly stylish for what was essentially a thug. Corbeau had seen them slicked with blood more than once—all from a safe distance before. He'd never really put much thought into Philippe's signature choice in jewelry, but he was kinda bored on this ratty couch in Philippe's apartment (protection, remember?), and it felt only natural to ask about the shiniest things his eyes could see.
"So did you buy those all at the same place, or what?"
Or what was the short version.
His shred of curiosity spawned more detail than he'd bargained for, and gave him another observation to log: Philippe was way, way more sentimental of a man than Corbeau expected.
There was a whole history on those hands, who knew?
Gift from his old man's man.
"He always treated me like his real kid. Was more of a father to me than my real dad was. Still send him cards sometimes."
Taken off a dead friend he was too late to save.
"Closed his eyes myself," Philippe murmured. "All that's left of him, I keep on me."
Won off a bet from some foreigner in a bar. Not hardly worth what Philippe had to wager.
"Still not sure how I walked out alive. One called bluff and it'd have been over."
It was rare Philippe volunteered so much information about himself like this. He was more of a show-don't-tell kind of person, letting his physical body communicate exactly what he was about. Which made it really, really easy for Philippe to shut up whenever he wanted.
It was so much easier to just listen to him talk about himself. Not that Corbeau was that curious—it was just... strategically wise, to know as much as he could about a man who might become his enemy again in the future. That was all.
(Corbeau had tried prying, indirectly. Took his chances pestering some of Philippe's other underlings about their boss's past. Only to get told to shut the fuck up and quit trying to dig shit up about the boss. He'll get tired of you one day anyway.
They really knew how to hold a grudge on top of their tired complaints about special treatment. Favoritism. Lack of respect for the hierarchy. Jealous, was all he smelled. Just a bunch of sore losers still fuming about failing to catch and kick his ass once he started running circles around them in their own territory. It must tear them up inside, that now that they had him—they couldn't fucking touch him.
Philippe had made it clear he would cave in the faces of anybody who laid a single finger on their latest financial asset. One well-placed strike, and that heavy metal fist would make even the sturdiest face go crunch.)
"This one here's my second-oldest," Philippe said, tapping on its textured surface. Unlike the others, this one had traces of gold in its design. "First place prize. Earned her back when the best shot I had at making money was drawing blood for it. Could've made more if I sold her, but... you don't let something like this go so easily."
Corbeau hummed like he understood, and leaned closer for a better look as Philippe traced a slow, squarish oval around its face. It stood out in terms of flashiness, with curves of gold and an elegance the others lacked. A little silver stage edged with pinprick diamonds, the dais for a two-toned crest he didn't recognize.
It was likely one-of-a-kind. Something you couldn't obtain with money. Just blood sweat and tears and proving that you deserved to stand at the top of the pile over all the bodies you'd climbed to get there.
"It's nice," he decided. Flashy stuff like that probably wouldn't suit him like they suited Philippe. Come to think of it, the guy probably wouldn't look too bad tucked into a nice suit sometime... Like hell would he ever step into one willingly, though.
"Ain't it?" Philippe thumbed over its surface with the same fondness he'd stroke his Skarmory with. "They didn't even have to resize it. Slipped right on like it was waiting for me."
...Nostalgia made Philippe look a lot younger, too.
Philippe tapped at the edge of the ring on his pinky next. It had a gnarlier design, with a subtle pyramidal point that would feel nasty if it bit someone's bones.
"This one ain't sentimental like the others. I got it for the cool mark it'd leave in someone else's face." Great minds? "There's still a guy walking around Lumiose with the scar I put there. I made sure it was permanent."
Kind of a miracle he didn't score any scars from this monster. Too quick, too slippery. Too smart to even let Philippe get close enough to close any snares around his neck. It sure wasn't by choice that this behemoth of a man failed to leave a single permanent scratch on him. He could have died so easily if he'd given Philippe the chance.
Right now, they were sitting so close that Corbeau wouldn't be able to escape unscathed if the older man suddenly decided to break their truce while his guard was down. Paranoia was Corbeau's third best friend—first being Whirlipede, second being his gut—and his gut told him he was fine. Philippe had, so far, proven his word about no hard feelings moving forward. Corbeau wouldn't be permitted to hang around here so often otherwise. In Philippe's own space, where nobody else was allowed.
(Corbeau had gotten tired, too. Of always running away. It was so much easier to just let Philippe get close, and stay close, trusting that the benefits he provided the older man were too valuable to squander by a quick and petty revenge.)
"Did he deserve it?" he asked, with no preference on which answer might be better.
"You know he did. Peddling nasty shit around our turf. Laced." Philippe muttered a curse at the memory. "Took us longer than I'd like to finally catch him... You should remember exactly when that was. I know you were in the area."
Fuck, he did remember. The cops were fucking useless in the Bleu District back then, leaving it up to local gangs to solve whatever problems manifested around them. It was the whole reason Philippe had stepped up in the first place, after making a name for himself below Lumiose City. Somebody had to pick a definition of peace and enforce it. Philippe volunteered, and the rest was history, some of it still in the making. If Corbeau had his way, this gang would become a force nobody dared to fuck with.
"I've never actually seen you teach someone a lesson." He folded a knee up and hugged around his leg, resting his cheek on his knee to get a better look at Philippe's face. "Given that I was so good at keeping away from Teacher. Bring me with you next time someone needs one."
"I doubt you really wanna see that. It ain't pretty."
"What makes you think I'd rather it be pretty? I know how you and your guys work. Had plenty of reason to keep far away for my own sake."
Those hands were deadly even without the weight and bite of metal. Big enough to completely smother Corbeau's face (in theory), fingers thick as knife hilts. Strong enough to squish people to pulp if they wanted. Scariest of all, in Corbeau's opinion, was the level of control he'd witnessed in this brief while working with Philippe. This guy only ever broke things exactly as much as he wanted them broken.
If someone was set to be punished, they'd carry the lesson for the rest of their lives.
Philippe licked his lips, fiddling with his jewelry in the way he did when something bigger was on his mind. The ring he tugged on most was the one from his step-father. Only parent Philippe had left. His dad had outlived one spouse, but not the other.
It was rare Philippe didn't speak his mind the moment he'd made it. Wasn't any skin off Corbeau's back if he kept his mouth shut or not.
"...You're adjusting well enough, right? Nobody giving you trouble?"
Corbeau raised a brow. "No. They're too scared of you. Or respect you too much, whatever difference that makes."
Philippe grimaced slightly.
"I'm sorry some of my guys still aren't happy. I've told them they can't argue the results you've brought, but..."
"They don't need to be happy. They just need to do their jobs." Corbeau slumped backwards, crossing his arms snugly and letting his head tip back to the top of the couch. "It's not like I have to work with them directly when all I'm doing is giving you advice. I'm perfectly fine leaving it that way."
'Financial Advisor' was the best title Corbeau could be labeled with. 'Emergency Fund' was another; he held the most cash out of everybody. Thanks to Philippe's cooperation and the manpower supplied by his gang, Corbeau's business ventures had really taken off, and a lot of the money generated went straight into the Syndicate's purpose of keeping the streets free of trouble and the lives of its citizens as stable as possible.
Turned out that despite all their strife from before, they shared the exact same dream. Just with different ideas on how to get there. Now that they were working together, unified, things were really taking off for Philippe's little organization.
Those meatheads didn't have to be happy so long as they got results. And Corbeau's ideas always got results. They just had to come out of Philippe's mouth before they were listened to.
"You'd tell me if anyone was bothering you," Philippe phrased as less than a question.
Corbeau only shrugged. "If I have to, sure."
He simulated in his head sometimes, who Philippe might believe should an 'altercation' take place behind his back. Someone who'd loyally been following orders for years? Or the man who was the reason the whole gang had nearly fallen apart in the first place, before a truce glued it all back together? Sometimes, he imagined things going his way. Other times, old loyalty won out. The only foolproof strategy he'd come up with, should anybody choose to lay a hand on him, was to piss them off so bad the shiny swollen evidence would speak for itself.
Even if he was the one who started it. Only hypothetically, of course.
...Arceus, he did not like the way Philippe was staring at him all of a sudden. It wasn't like they were anything more than business partners. He was an asset to protect if nothing else.
"So are those all the rings you own?" he asked with a casual nod, eager to change the subject.
"...Nah. Just my favorites. I've got a few more, but it's too many to wear at once without looking like a jackass."
Corbeau only stared.
"Alright, like more of a jackass," Philippe conceded, something almost like humor tugging the corner of his mouth up. "It's part of my look at this point. People expect it."
A contemplative spark lit those keen grey eyes, and Corbeau found himself leaning away on instinct. Philippe reached for the base of his left ring finger. Twist. Tug. Something came off, obscured in a meaty palm.
"I know you said you're fine, but I don't think I believe you yet. This'll make me feel better. Here."
"What are you doing." Philippe wouldn't. They were all important to him, save for one. It better be that unimportant scar-making one—and Corbeau would still refuse it. The fuck was he supposed to do with jewelry?
"What's it look like? Take it already."
"I already got a good look at them all!"
"I'm not telling you to look, I'm telling you to take it. You've earned it."
"What's the—"
"No fucking catch, I promise. For someone so quick, you're slow to understand when someone's doing something nice."
Philippe caught his wrist and held it fast through the threadbare cushion his hoodie sleeve provided. Funnily enough, trying to yank free was the furthest thing from Corbeau's mind.
"Stubborn brat," Philippe muttered. "Open your hand."
"You're not that old to be calling me a brat," he fired off, entirely distracted by how easily Philippe's grip overlapped around his wrist. Philippe could shatter it if he wanted, but it didn't hurt at all.
Philippe scoffed under his breath. "Please. If I was really irresponsible, I easily could've had a kid your age by now. Grown or not, you'll always be a brat to me."
Damn it—this guy said the most off the wall shit sometimes. Corbeau's face heated like it was shoved under a lamp, and he pettily kept his fist closed tight. Since he was such a fucking brat and all.
A broad, blunt thumb crammed its way in and pried him open with zero fucking effort, until Philippe could pin something hard and round into his much smaller palm.
Arceus, why was this guy so strong? This position would be terrifying if he hadn't spent enough time around this man to know what his snores sounded like and that he forgot to polish the subtle kiss marks off his Skarmory's head sometimes.
"There."
Corbeau snatched his arm back only because Philippe let him. He pushed his bangs from his forehead and settled with a huff, cracking his friction-rubbed fingers open and getting a look at what he was forcibly given.
Corbeau's stomach dropped.
Silver and gold and tiny little diamonds.
Philippe had given him the prize ring. The 'you don't let something like this go so easily' ring. Philippe wanted him to have this? Why? What for? What did he even do to deserve something this important?
"...It's the wrong one," he flatly said. It had to be.
"You know it's not."
Corbeau's throat went dry. Dense and large and perfect, the metal was warm enough to feel alive. It really sparkled up close...
"What am I supposed to do with it?" He kept his palm flat like it might leap out and run back to its real owner.
"You are going to do me a favor and keep that on your body at all times," Philippe said, way too pleased with himself. "If anybody—and I mean anybody—gives you trouble in our district, you show 'em that ring. Should make anyone with half a brain leave you alone. Even the men of mine working with less." Philippe did that smile he did when trying to form some kind of in-joke. "Can't say it'll protect you from total idiots, but if you can outsmart me, you should be just fine."
Corbeau snapped his mouth closed before he looked too much like a total idiot, and glanced back down only when Philippe made it clear he had nothing else to add to that.
Ring of a champion.
Unmistakably Philippe's.
Corbeau swallowed, and his fingers slowly twitched closed around the heavy thing. Loose cage. Didn't have the guts to really grasp it yet.
"You're for real?" He was beyond caring that he sounded a little like a kid again.
"Already gave it to you." Philippe leaned back on the couch, thick legs falling casually open.
A different angle then. He had to find the loophole.
"When will I have to give it back?"
"If you kick the bucket, I'll take it back." Philippe's chin ticked up towards him. "Until then, I want you to take care of it. Consider it yours. Little gift from me to you since you've helped me out so much."
Heart thumping in sudden overdrive, Corbeau rolled the heavy thing around, and every passing second made his sudden stewardship of it feel more real. Didn't people only give rings to those they really liked? People who were special to them. This was an important one, too, with a lot of history and old memories attached. Philippe wouldn't hand it off to just anybody.
Maybe he was a little special. To Philippe, at least. First time for everything...
Against his skin, it felt like it'd stay warm forever.
Corbeau only spoke when he had his throat under full control. "Might not get it back for a while, then. Dying's not on my to-do list."
"It better never be. All that shit I said before about being the only one allowed to bring you down still holds, even if you're not on my shitlist anymore," Philippe mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "That should help keep you alive when I'm not around to watch you."
His gaze flickered back to Philippe, who'd chosen to stare the opposite way, towards a window. Was he... embarrassed? Fuck, that made two of them. What was even happening.
"It's too big to wear," he pointed out, slipping his thumb into the hole with space to spare. Big and solid. Just like the man who'd actually earned it.
"Grow into it, then. Pipsqueak."
"Hilarious," he flatly said, taking in how much gap there was between skin and opposite metal. "I just don't want to lose it, you'd kill me yourself."
A gusty sigh. "Guess you're taking a chain too, then, since you're so keen on staying in one piece," Philippe said, rubbing at his jaw where he needed a shave. "I've got a few. I'll pick one and help you put it on later."
The help would be completely unnecessary, but Corbeau found himself unwilling to argue against the offer. Like he wanted the help just as much as Philippe apparently wanted to give it.
He kind of did want to see those thick fingers finagle a necklace clasp. He pictured Philippe's presence behind him, bending way down to better see his work. Knuckles tickling Corbeau's nape while he fastened the chain, maybe fumbling once or twice before finally hooking it right. Maybe he'd even mutter some stupid quiet comment, like "There we go." Or "Much better." Or even "That looks pretty good on you."
That... honestly wouldn't be terrible.
He wouldn't question why Philippe seemed willing to gift from his personal jewelry stash rather than make Corbeau buy his own chain.
"Good enough," he played off, stubbornly ignoring the subtle acceleration of his heart. "You might regret giving me something so important, though."
"Tch. If I haven't regretted you, I won't regret giving you something that matters to me, either."
Thump.
"O-Oh yeah? Well what if I started throwing your weight around like it was mine using this?" He slipped the heavy thing onto his middle finger and admired it for show, squeezing his fingers together to keep it in place. "Flash this in people's faces and watch them tremble. I could get away with all sorts of shit using your name."
"Now why the hell would I complain about you abusing my authority?" Philippe retorted with a smirk. "Wouldn't even need a ring for that much. All it'd take is you accepting my offer, boss."
Corbeau snapped his gaze to some crack in the plaster and clicked his tongue. This shit again. He'd never planned on saying yes to Philippe's crackpot scheme of putting him in charge of the gang.
"I told you not to call me that."
"Where other people could hear me," Philippe finished, correcting what Corbeau had conveniently omitted. He cursed the man's excellent memory. "Right now, it's just you and me. You could order me to stop, and you know I would listen to you, boss."
Corbeau clenched his teeth and remained deliberately calm. Philippe was never this devious back when his temper took the reins on all his decisions. Let the man relax a little and now he gets clever? Such bullshit.
"Do whatever you want," he said casually. "I don't care what you call me when it's just the two of us. It'd be a waste of time to argue about it."
Philippe's chuckle resonated lower than usual—that, or Corbeau's ears or brain were just broken.
"That's what I like to hear."
There was an emptiness at the end of that sentence that bothered him.
"...What, nothing that time?" Corbeau warily asked.
"Would you rather I said it?" Philippe's brow rose. He suddenly looked younger again, and Corbeau's brain (definitely broken) supplied him with the useless thought that the man at his side was incredibly handsome when he had reason to be in a good mood.
"I think you left it out on purpose just to see if it would bother me," Corbeau spat, smothering any and all opinions about the appearance of the man who did used to want to kill him bare-handed. Who could still kill him bare-handed any time he wanted to.
Who'd just now given him a ring and a reminder of the loyalty that could be waiting for him.
All he had to do was say yes.
Philippe slung an arm over the battered back of the couch, falling casually behind where Corbeau's head was.
"I'm not the type for mind games. You're imagining things, sir."
Sir. Another title he didn't ask for. Better than 'boss,' at least. Maybe if the rest of Philippe's insipid little gang started treating him with this much respect, he'd think about accepting a little more responsibility. Or maybe Philippe could scare them straight?
(Or maybe Philippe would be willing to let go of anybody who disrespected him, no matter how loyal.)
Fuck. He had to stop giving this so much thought—he wasn't going to take over jack shit and that was that. No matter how nice it was to have a consistent roof over his head, and to no longer need to watch his back so often. And to have someone this serious about keeping him safe. Who truly listened, and took him seriously, and called him smart and clever and apologized to Whirlipede for everything, gave him something as important as a ring symbolizing his power and success just to protect him from as much as possible—
Enough! No plans. He had no plans.
He sighed sharply, hating how it felt more performative than usual.
"Whatever it is, I'm not playing along. Just don't ask for your ring back even if I never say yes, got it?"
"Anything you want, boss. Including me, the moment you want me." Corbeau had to have imagined that just now. There was no way Philippe just winked at him. "I'll wait as long as I need to until you realize you deserve this more than I do. Either way, I'm all yours, whether you want me or not. I'll wait as long as I need to, for you."
Corbeau's face went supernova, and he resisted the immediate urge to shake the ill-fitting ring off his finger and pelt it right into Philippe's big forehead.
"The next one you give me better be twenty-four karats and sparkling before you say shit like that to me again," he hissed.
He'd refuse to admit it, but Philippe's stifled laugh filled his body with a warmth he'd only felt from watching sunrises, from his dirty little hidey-holes that he visited less and less these days, when this asshole's home was always open to him.
"You got it, boss. Twenty-four karats."
"Fucking better be."
He sank deeper on the couch and clenched the ring closer to his chest. For all his bluster, he didn't actually hate Philippe's candor. Not many people believed in him like this—and he knew that because nobody had told him like Philippe constantly did. Growing up, he had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of trust, but here Philippe was, handing his over so freely.
Corbeau gnawed the inside of his lip and rolled the ring around his hand. The crest, the tiny gems, the top-heavy design. It might be his now, but he'd still think of it as Philippe's. Felt more important that way.
"Just... thanks, I guess," he mumbled, pressing his thumb into the smooth edge of his gift. For wanting to make sure I'm safe. "Goes without saying, but I'll take good care of it."
Philippe's mouth quirked more kindly, and when he lifted his hefty arm from the back of the couch, fist loosely closed, Corbeau didn't flinch away. He only rocked in place as a friendly fist pressed into his shoulder, the bumps and corners of jewelry reaching his skin through his hoodie. Like always, the contact was warm.
"Wouldn't have given it to you otherwise. And hey." Philippe nodded his chin up. "You really can keep it even if you never take my seat. Just don't cut and run entirely, alright? I've gotten kinda used to having you around. Like I said, I'll wait as long as I gotta for you to come around."
There was that watching-the-sunrise glow again, the cause of which was localized entirely within the boundaries of Philippe's rugged, mean face.
"You can wait fucking forever, then," he muttered, curling into a snugger ball on the couch with the ring clasped securely in his fist.
"Forever it is, boss." Philippe wasn't an easy smiler, but there one was, casting such a personable light over his face that anyone who saw it would think they were longtime friends. "So long as you keep sticking with me, I'll win either way."