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The evenings felt different while his knight was away. Philippe, a man as devoted as a knight to a prince, had business overseas as the Rust Syndicate representative. He did the overseas trip since Corbeau couldn’t this time. Sickness kept him grounded, but as soon as he got better, the emptiness took over every room.
And more than that, he missed his man. Philippe and Corbeau had an arrangement. They failed to label it anything else right now, with so much going on, why stop and label love? Yeah, he grew fond of Philippe with his steady presence being ever reliable in the stickiest of situations. Philippe, in turn, expressed more than devotion to him when Corbeau brought it up. When he let Philippe into his space, he didn’t regret it.
During a break in his workday, Corbeau sat on the couches, giving Philippe’s invisible presence some space to exist.
“Long day.”
It was. He met with many clients today, all difficult. His nicer clientele he’d meet with tomorrow.
“Not tired though. I’m never too tired to work.”
Lies, but understandably so. His image relied on him working hard and not letting anyone see him weak.
Corbeau pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “Could use a real break. One where you turn off my brain for a while.”
Philippe would’ve agreed to that. He would’ve helped take off his shoes. Corbeau removed his shoes and imagined large, attentive hands removing them with a careful movement, undoing the sock garters, and pulling it all off to expose his foot.
He’d kiss the top of his foot in admiration. The guy was all about compliments lately after Corbeau had a fit about his appearance recently. What would he say?
You’re beautiful. Deadly. Cunning. And yet only I have permission to touch you.
Sounded a bit off but close enough. Philippe would take them both off and let him put his legs up on his larger legs. Would his hand push up his pant leg and stroke his hairy skin there? Well, that or, sometimes Philippe could sense— the man had Corbeau’s body language memorized— he could sense if his feet hurt. And he would take one, and rotate the ankle. Point the foot and flex it back a couple times. Use his knuckles to work out any stiffness on the bottom of his foot. Knuckles formerly used for violence now meticulously worked the soreness out of each foot. And how good that felt after wearing those shoes all day! Corbeau loved those shoes, but they hurt, sitting or standing.
Sometimes Philippe would inspect each heel. Maybe later he’d exfoliate the roughness and repair it with a cream. Since he had no supplies, Philippe would move onto his ankle, and he loved when Philippe rubbed the back right behind the bone. Two fingers massaged the tension there, and it melted Corbeau every time.
When he finished both feet, Philippe would probably say something to him. His voice changed after he’d touched him so much. It lowered, and his voice sounded like that soft sound that heels made on carpeted floors. A deep and powerful thud. He always requested to kiss him. Always. Corbeau never turned him down, needing it, but never ready to ask.
For his own pleasure, he removed his shirt. If Philippe moved to lay over him, maybe copying him and removing his own shirt as well, he’d want more contact. As much as they could get in a short session. And Philippe would stare at his eyes a moment, something Corbeau assumed was deciding to remove his glasses, or maybe he liked looking at his eyes while Corbeau looked back at him with so much want in his eyes.
Corbeau leaned back and closed his eyes to properly imagine Philippe leaning down to kiss him. The cologne Philippe wore on his neck would fill his senses, his mouth would consume him, and Corbeau would be left defenseless against this man he completely surrendered to. Philippe would indulge him by letting his weight push him down; Corbeau loved any attempt to steady him. Sometimes these feelings made him flighty, wanting to run purely out of instinct, but with that pressure on him, he felt already captured and unable to get away. The perfect position to be in.
His fine Philippe would kiss him forever if he could, and he stayed just as passionate the entire time. Corbeau once peeked to see his expression, and he always looked blissed out— once they accidentally met eyes when Philippe apparently also peeked at him, and that eye contact felt so intimate in a way he couldn’t explain. This was how he knew. Philippe loved him even without telling him. Philippe would free a hand and interlace their fingers despite the difference in their hand sizes. His hand would hold his so gently compared to the rest of his body pinning him in place.
Philippe’s internal clock would tell them when to end it. He’d do it slowly so that he didn’t shock Corbeau. His favorite habit tended to be murmuring sweet little nothings while Corbeau caught his breath. He said the cheesiest things, but it was endearing that Philippe could spew such romantic words despite them not being official. That felt better than Philippe’s little compliments. He was worthy of romantic love. At least according to Philippe.
God, it felt like he was here, but when Corbeau sat up in the middle of his reverie, he saw no one. He muttered profanities under his breath.
When Philippe did come back, he needed to make sure he showed him every shred of gratitude he could. Corbeau was well known for expressing gratitude generously. So, why wouldn’t he show that to his most valued and beloved friend? The most important member of his family, the Rust Syndicate family, deserved to know that he truly held everything together, and that all of this only existed because of him.