Work Text:
Philippe didn't think that question would hurt him so much.
It shouldn't have. He'd known for a long time that Corbeau had had… issues, to put it lightly, with accepting his stalwart service, even more so when they finally became a couple in the romantic sense in addition to the professional sense. Maybe it's because it's the morning of a rare day off, with the two of them eating simple jambon-beurres on a little cafe's balcony; the sun's shining as brightly as it can be, the breeze gentle, the Fletchlings melodic. A picturesque brunch date in the heart of Lumiose City. It's as romantic as it gets.
"When did your loyalty stop being so conditional?"
Had it ever been? Philippe feels his veins turn to ice, feels his heart weigh his body down like lead. Ten years, now, of Corbeau being his boss. Ten years of the Rust Syndicate being greater, grander, than the shambling street gang it used to be.
"Philippe?"
Corbeau looks as unflappable as ever. His honeyed eyes are just a little wider, his head a little tilted in inquiry. Both he and Philippe know the other as well— better, even— than themselves.
Get it together, Philippe chastises himself, forcing his body to move, to look his lover in the eye. You're not so weak as to be taken down by words alone. Get up. Get up.
He still can't get his mouth to move. He still can't answer.
"When did your loyalty stop being so conditional?"
Get up.
Philippe puts his sandwich down and wipes a nonexistent crumb from the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin. Just the way Corbeau had taught him, just the way Lysandre had taught Corbeau. Proper, professional, polite, just the way Corbeau's right-hand man should be, should always be.
Bony fingers on his sleeved forearm, now.
"I'm sorry," Corbeau tells him, his voice lacking the cloying sweetness of a false apology. "I hurt you, didn't I?"
Oh. He's gone and made his boss apologize to him.
Get up.
"No," Philippe lies. Corbeau can tell. "No. I should be the one apologizing. You asked a question, and you deserve an answer, sir."
"I was just asking out of curiosity, that was all." Except for the fact that their shared history made that question much, much weightier than Corbeau's casual tone indicated, and the both of them knew it. "We're not at work, Philippe. You don't need to answer right away, or at all. We're just partners right now. That's all."
Corbeau takes a conservative bite of his own sandwich. Philippe's own has turned to concrete in his hands.
"Never was," Philippe manages, finally.
"Hm?"
"It never was conditional. My loyalty, I mean."
"Stop bullshitting me," Corbeau pleads. "Please. You know that's not true."
"I don't know what I can do or say to prove it to you, sir—" Philippe stops himself. Just partners, Corbeau had said. Just partners. He corrects himself. "Beau. When I asked you to be my boss, it was because I knew that it could only be you. No one else could fill your space. No one. I'd follow you wherever you walked, because my loyalty is to you, not your intelligence or your strength. You. Everything that you are, were, and will be. It could only ever be you."
Corbeau lets out a small scoff that he tries to cover up as a derisive laugh.
"You can't have just handed over the power you had just like that," he responds, delicately. "No one does. Surely there had to have been a point where you could've seen me, I don't know, shooting up in a dark alley and you didn't think I was worthy of leading—"
"Have you?"
"What?"
"Ever shot up in an alley?"
"No. Always stayed away from that shit. Too many guys I knew as a kid that got addicted, overdosed, and died with no one to save 'em from their sickness. And Venipede deserved better than a drugged-up partner, anyway."
"Then you're talking about a hypothetical that never even happened." Philippe's found his voice again. It took a while, but hearing the man he loved most speak about himself in the way that he did dislodged something in his chest, and now the contents of his heart are spilling out for the both of them to see. "Corbeau. There's nothing that stopped me from simply never asking you to lead my gang. There's nothing that could stop me from following you, protecting you. Loving you."
Corbeau blinks.
When he moves again, an eternity later, it's to stuff his face with the rest of his sandwich. It'd be unprofessional to speak with food still in his mouth, after all.
"I'm sorry that you even had to ask," Philippe follows, quietly, his eyes lowering.
Corbeau swallows, and chases the last of his sandwich with the coffee that's long gone cold.
"No, I should be the one apologizing." His hands stay curled around his now-empty mug. "I went and just dropped that on you without thinking. You know I'd be nothing without you, Philippe, I— thank you. For your partnership. And for staying with me, even though I've been so difficult to deal with."
Wide, warm hands bring themselves over the bony, pale fingers clasped around Corbeau's mug. When their eyes meet again, Philippe is sitting up straight, his chest puffed out just a little in pride; his large figure almost blots out the sunlight behind him, casting a shadow over his slim boss.
"It's worth the work." Philippe smiles. He feels warm again, with Corbeau before him like this, eyes finally meeting his, finally seeing him. "You're worth the work. And I know you won't, Beau, but if you ever stumble, I'll be there to catch you and set you upright again, every time."
Corbeau's face flushes a deep red. When he looks away from Philippe this time, it's in embarrassment. He tries to pull his hands away, to stick them in his pockets and make himself small, but Philippe's hands stay firm around his.
His only option is to stay right where he is.