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Corbeau has never been terribly fond of spending nights alone. When he was a child, being alone meant vulnerability— yes, it reduced the risk of being stabbed in his sleep, but wasn't it natural for a child to long for the softness and warmth of someone else?
So most nights, he'd sleep curled up around Venipede. His partner's soft tummy made him a surprisingly good imitation of a plush toy; his absence would make Corbeau uneasy enough that he would sleep fitfully, if at all. And as much as Corbeau would like to pretend that he's grown up from that quivering little thing trying to make himself small so he'd be able to hide behind the alley's colony of Trubbish, the truth is that he never really did become able to sleep on his own— not even after years of renovations and living space upgrades and beds so comfortable that normal people would be able to fall asleep in minutes without an issue.
It's a good thing that Philippe is ever ready to attend to his boss's every need.
Corbeau dials his number out of pure muscle memory the moment he falls into his bed. It used to be the case that he'd toss and turn for a while first, debating with himself whether or not he should bother Philippe at this hour, but the two of them have been working with and loving each other for so long by now that Philippe's had the time (and patience) to cut down Corbeau's every last doubt. And besides, with Corbeau all the way in Kanto on business and Philippe remaining in Kalos to keep the Syndicate running, the time difference is significant enough that Philippe would almost certainly be awake and available anyway— not that he'd ever be unavailable when it came to Corbeau.
He counts the rings. One. Two. Then his phone starts showing a timer, and Philippe's voice, a little crunchy from the noise suppression that his Rotom has built in, comes through.
"Beau," sighs Philippe. "Good… good evening, I think? What time is it over there, anyway?"
"Two in the morn— look, I have a legitimate reason this time! I'm jetlagged, okay?" Corbeau defends himself hastily, though the both of them know he's not all that serious about trying to justify his godawful sleep schedule to Philippe of all people, who has been in the trenches with him just as much. "Haven't been able to call you all day. I was fuckin' tied up in meeting after meeting; some of these Rocket fellows are alright but god do they love the sound of their own voice. Anyway. How've you been, baby? Grunts not give you too much trouble today, I hope?"
"They were fine," Philippe responds. Corbeau hears the clunk of his Skarmory feather knife against the premium mahogany cutting board that he'd gotten for him as a birthday present some years ago. "Kind of a slow day, actually. We just had to drop a few lost Pokemon back with their trainers, split up a few fights between opponents in the Royale, y'know. The usual. What about you, love? I hope you at least got some of that Kantonian sencha that you always get in between your meetings."
"You know I had to. Got like five boxes of the stuff. You would tremble before my mastery of the suitcase interior."
"I'm sure I would, dear."
"What're you cooking, anyway?" Corbeau rolls over to the other side of the bed, and lets his Rotom take control of his phone so it can hover over the side of his bed. "Turn on your camera, lemme see. Need to make sure my man's eating good while I'm gone, you know?"
"Please, like I haven't been the reason why you haven't keeled over from malnutrition in the past decade," Philippe scoffs. Quickly after that, his camera flickers on, and Corbeau gets a good view of his kitchen, the canvas upon which those burly hands work his ingredients into pieces of art.
It's six-thirty in the evening in Lumiose, and Philippe has always been a sucker for cooking by the window, where the orange sunset streams through the glass and casts warm shadows upon his counters. Ever prepared, Corbeau can see a few bowls of pre-prepared marinades and dry herbs, along with some garlic confit that Philippe no doubt had just finished up, judging by how the sunlight causes the oil on top to glisten beautifully.
Shit, Corbeau really wishes his dinner wasn't a single rice ball and a beer.
Philippe says something, but his Rotom's noise suppression gets its wires crossed and the only thing Corbeau can hear over the phone is the sound of his knife finely chopping a bunch of chives. His right-hand man has always been so precise and deliberate in everything he does, and his cooking is no exception; Corbeau is fairly dextrous himself, but he couldn't imagine wielding the kind of control that Philippe has to be able to chop his vegetables so finely. He remembers, idly, that Philippe used to be a line cook in some high-end Kalosian restaurant, and he'd made it a competition to see who could chop their chives the most evenly.
"Sorry, just realized you couldn't actually hear me that whole time." Philippe's finger comes near the camera as he taps a few times to adjust his settings. "If you missed it, I was saying that I'd been wanting to try this steak and confit recipe for a while. One of the chefs from Restaurant Le Wow slipped me the good shit under the table. This seasoning blend has been a trade secret for about as long as Le Wow has existed, but I guess he was just real fuckin' mad at his boss that day, so here I am. It's supposed to be peppery but not spicy, with some kind of salt that's been infused with red wine beforehand, and— get this— a thin layer of hot sauce as a binder for the meat. Hot sauce! Can you believe that, Beau?"
Corbeau's struggling to keep his eyes open, but it's not for lack of interest. He'd told Philippe once, long ago, that on nights when his own thoughts were too loud, only other noise could drown them out. Philippe is a rather soft-spoken man, and one that isn't much for words to begin with; he always takes the time to choose what he's about to say before he says it, and that oftentimes results in short, clipped, but polite and palatable sentences. Rarely would he talk this much at once, but he always would if it was late enough and he knew his lover needed to listen to something other than himself. So well attuned to Corbeau's needs was Philippe, that he would pull out encyclopedic knowledge of any given topic that fascinated him enough on a dime and deliver a veritable podcast with an audience of one, all on a dime the moment he sensed one of Corbeau's anxious tics.
"Keep telling me about this recipe," Corbeau yawns, rapidly losing the fight against sleep. "I'm listening. I'm listening, Ph'lippe, I'm here…"
"Well, good thing you are, because the history of this specific dish as Le Wow's signature is actually quite fascinating. You see…"
Only a few minutes later, Philippe hears soft snoring through his phone speaker, and lets out an affectionate huff, pressing the last of the salt into the crevices of his porterhouse.
"G'night, Beau," he finishes, his throat a little tired from talking continuously for so long. "When you fly back, I'll tell you all over again. That'll fix your jetlag right up. I'm sure of it."