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Philippe watched the muscles in Corbeau’s jaw clench and mentally revised his estimate.
Sooner than later, he sent. Paxton replied with a salute emoji.
Corbeau was a persistent man. But he wasn’t a patient one. His mind worked impossibly quickly sometimes, reading a room, evaluating a situation, plotting the best path forward. Unfortunately, the world didn’t always mold itself to his will. People were imperfect; plans took time; and sometimes things just went to shit. There wasn’t a reason for it. It just was. Corbeau knew that.
None of that made it any less frustrating.
Corbeau’s temper was legendary. Some of his more severe frowns sent grunts scurrying away under suddenly-urgent business at the sight. Like many things, this was a weapon his lover often wielded well, but sometimes there was no target ready to hand (or no single target at all). On those days, Corbeau tried to keep his temper under wraps, loath to inflict it on anyone undeserving. (The fact that he didn’t include himself in that category didn’t escape Philippe’s notice.)
Well. It was Philippe’s job—and his honor—to be and provide whatever Corbeau needed. And he had a plan for all eventualities, including this one.
There were no more meetings or tasks scheduled for the next hour, so when the office door slid open, Corbeau looked up sharply, venomous tongue no doubt at the ready. When he saw that it was Paxton, however, he snapped his mouth shut on whatever caustic remark he’d been about to unleash.
Paxton strode into the room, completely unafraid. Philippe took a moment to admire his lover, the way he squared his shoulders and met Corbeau’s gaze unflinchingly. There were few people in the city who could see Corbeau in a rage and meet him head-on. Fewer still who Corbeau allowed to do so.
“What,” Corbeau ground out.
“Battle me.”
“Not today, Paxton.”
“Yes, today,” Paxton insisted. “You’re having a shit day, and there’s nothing we can do about it. But I can help you let off some steam.”
Corbeau’s hands clenched into fists on his desk. (Even that was an improvement—until recently, he would have hidden that sign of anger in his lap.)
“I don’t—I’m not—” he broke off with a frustrated growl. “I won’t be a good opponent.”
“Bullshit,” Paxton said immediately. “There’s no one who battles me like you. And,” he added with a dark, confident grin, “there’s no one who battles you like me.”
“Boss,” Philippe said. Corbeau looked to him. “I’ll officiate.” I’ll keep watch, he didn’t need to say. He would watch over them even in their fury and make sure that neither of them went too far. When they were caught up in the heat of battle, he would be their restraint. It would be the highest honor.
They waited. Neither of them would force Corbeau to do something he truly didn’t want to do. If he said no and meant it, they would find another way to help, or they would just stay by his side through whatever the day brought. But if he let them…
He sighed. “Fine.”
Paxton’s grin widened, closer to a baring of teeth than a smile. He took up his place at one side of the battle court behind Corbeau’s desk and stood bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet. Philippe waited as Corbeau closed his laptop, took a breath, and marched to the other side of the court as if he were attending a trial and he didn’t know if he was the victim or executioner. His mouth was set in a grim line, and the stare he leveled at his lover was flat and cold. Paxton didn’t flinch.
Philippe stood firm under the Rust Syndicate emblem on the back wall and raised his arms.
“Three on three,” he said. “No substitutions. I’ll call each round.”
Corbeau dug in his heels. Paxton winked.
Philippe dropped his arms.
“Go.”
Feraligatr and Gyrados burst onto the field, and the battle was on.
The fight was vicious, as they had all known it would be. Corbeau’s attacks were quick and merciless. But Paxton and his Pokémon were unyielding, and they met Corbeau’s rage with their peculiar (and, for his lovers, incredibly enticing) brand of joyous confidence. Paxton hadn’t been bluffing—their battles were unlike any Philippe had seen. They were each fierce Trainers who strategized and adjusted on the fly, refusing to be put in a corner and taking even the smallest opening their opponent left. The fact that they had battled each other so often—both in Pokémon matches and the more… euphemistic sense—added an extra layer of breathlessness to their fight. They knew each other, knew their Pokémon and which strategies they favored, and they used all of that knowledge to their advantage.
The first round was a brutal matchup. Feraligatr and Gyrados were both fierce physical attackers, and neither had a type advantage. Their snarls and growls filled the arena as they picked up on their Trainers’ ferocity. Eventually, Gyrados’s rage won out, Feraligatr fell, and Corbeau’s razor-thin smile matched Arbok’s as he called his next Pokémon to the field.
Paxton met him with Gallade, and the second round of their battle was a leaping, dodging affair, both Pokémon equally matched in the speed and precision of their strikes. They danced around each other, spinning and feinting, though Philippe noticed that Paxton was careful not to bait Corbeau and add to his frustration. He kept the battle in close quarters, trusting Gallade’s reflexes to keep him safe in the melee. This time, Gallade did have the type advantage, and Paxton made full use of it. He knew, as Philippe did, that Corbeau would have been insulted if he gave anything less than his best, and their partner would probably call off the match in indignation rather than be patronized.
Gallade’s speed and Psychic attacks won the round; finally, Absol and Scolipede took the stage. By this point, Paxton was sweating and panting, his knees bent and his stance curled forward, his bright smile the image of battle-joy. Corbeau was solid, rooted, laser-focused in sharp contrast to his earlier directionless frustration. There was a breathless moment of stillness and electric eye contact between the Trainers before both reached for their Key Stones in a single synchronized motion.
Philippe would never tire of watching his lovers at the height of their power. They were breathtaking. The light of Mega Evolution whipped around them, sending their hair and clothing swirling in the flurry of their power, and they commanded their Pokémon with absolute trust and confidence. It was a fair match—even though Scolipede had the advantage on paper, Absol was Paxton’s strongest partner, and the power of her Mega Evolution was a sight to behold. (Philippe knew that Paxton also had perfect trust in her control and intuition: even if Corbeau hadn’t been slowly regaining his control, she would not let herself or her opponent be hurt beyond healing. He felt a rush of love and admiration for his partner's skill and obvious care.) Corbeau’s teeth were bared in a snarl as he held his hand out to Scolipede. The force of his rage, finally and fully released, sent the gravel of the battle court flying. Paxton and Absol stood ready to meet it.
This round stretched the longest, the Pokémon clashing and disengaging over and over. Their cries echoed around the room alongside their Trainers’ commands, and though Philippe kept a careful eye on the fight, he found himself getting swept up in the tide of battle as well. Perhaps the next day he would ask one of his partners for a match. Or, better, maybe they could have an unofficial three-part match, a particular style of fight where the teams and opponents changed moment to moment. Those fights, like everything else about his partners, lit him up like nothing else. He found himself grinning at the thought.
But that was later; now, in this fight, he could sense that the match was nearing its end. Trainers and Pokémon alike were flushed and short of breath. With a final shout from both sides of the field, Absol and Scolipede crashed together, held their attacks for one, two, three heartbeats, then fell as one to the floor.
“Draw,” Philippe proclaimed.
Paxton walked, panting, to the center of the field and knelt next to Absol, running his hand over her fur and murmuring praise and thanks. After a moment, Corbeau did the same, scratching gently at the juncture between Scolipede’s armored plates and thanking him for the battle. Both Trainers called their partners back to their Pokéballs and stood facing each other.
Paxton gave Corbeau one last challenging grin and raised a brow.
Corbeau growled, grabbed fistfuls of Paxton’s jacket, and yanked him forward into a kiss.
Philippe let out a breath of relief. Paxton yielded to the kiss and let Corbeau take what he needed. (He looked like he was happy just to be along for the ride.) As Philippe approached, Corbeau broke off the kiss and pressed his face into Paxton’s neck. He withdrew almost immediately and pulled harshly at his glasses; Philippe took them from him gently and carefully lifted the magenta chain from around Corbeau’s neck. Freed, his lover buried his face once more in Paxton’s shoulder, and both hands returned to clutch at his jacket.
He was trembling.
Paxton held him tight, of course. Philippe wound one arm around Paxton’s waist, squeezing his gratitude, and put his other hand on Corbeau’s back, just between his shoulder blades: a firm, hopefully comforting pressure, but nothing that would make his lover feel trapped or weighed down. They would stay that way for as long as Corbeau needed.
Later, they would take him to the rooftop. They’d release their Pokémon to relax and recover from the battle, and they’d watch Corbeau pace and listen to the mile-long list of problems and frustrations that he was trying to work through at once. When he had talked himself out (and, most likely, figured out solutions to many of the issues as he spoke), they would sit quietly with him, their arms around his shoulder or his waist and their fingers twined with his or running through his hair.
Philippe would tell his boss that he had already rescheduled the rest of the day’s tasks, and he and Paxton would take their lover out into the city so that Corbeau could see the life and beauty that persisted despite all catastrophes, past or future. They’d walk the parks, maybe take him to a café for the sweet drink and pastries he favored. They’d talk about anything except the frustrations that had gotten so deep under Corbeau’s skin.
And when night fell, they would lead him back to their bed and twine themselves around him. Let him feel their presence, their love, the stability of the three of them together. He would drop off to sleep with his head on Philippe’s chest, one arm draped as far over his lover’s belly as he could reach. Philippe would draw Paxton close and kiss him gently in gratitude for gentling Corbeau through his rage. Then they would rise and meet the next day together, as they always would.
But for now, they simply stood together, guarding Corbeau’s trembling form as his rage slowly, slowly drained out of him, and basking in the honor of his trust and the certainty of the love they shared for each other.