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There was something touching his hand.
It was nice.
The first fact was unexpected; the second, even more so. He was familiar with the feeling of fading slowly back into consciousness, the distant aches and pains that threatened to become less distant in the near future. He knew enough by now to let himself settle in slowly (keep still, a very old—or, more accurately, very young—voice in his mind whispered, you don't know what's broken, you don't know who's there). So he kept his face, his breathing, even his heartbeat steady as he floated toward consciousness.
His instinct was right. There were voices nearby.
“Fuck, Philippe, if we hadn't… if we hadn't…”
(It was an effort not to move. The pain in that voice pulled at him, and something in him ordered him to move, to fix it—but he still didn't know—)
“We did.” Oh. He knew that voice. “We did, Paxton. He's gonna be fine. We got there in time.”
Well, if Philippe was here, then it was alright.
Corbeau took a deeper breath. Took stock. The ache was still faint, but he could feel the shape of it, and he tried not to move further. The fingers that were wrapped around Corbeau’s tightened.
“...Corbeau?” The first voice whispered. Corbeau dragged his eyes open, and then the only thing he could say was:
“Y’re beautiful.”
The young man with the dark eyes laughed—beautiful, Corbeau thought again—and scrubbed weakly at the tears running down his face with his free hand. His other remained locked around Corbeau’s.
A deeper chuckle drew his eyes over the young man's shoulder.
“Ph'lippe,” Corbeau slurred. He frowned. Tried again. “Philippe.” Hah! Take that. What was he—oh. “He's beautiful,” Corbeau insisted. (It was vital that Philippe knew this.)
Philippe chuckled again. “Yeah, boss,” he said, and put a hand on the beautiful man's shoulder. Something about that seemed… strange, but Corbeau couldn't put his finger on it. The young man was talking.
“You look like shit, yourself.” Corbeau frowned again—tried to look down at himself—couldn't see shit under all the bandages. “It’s okay, though. You clean up nice.”
Well. If he said so.
Corbeau tried to lift his free hand to the young man's face. The ache became less distant.
“Ph'lippe,” he wheezed. Shit. How could he be a good boss if he couldn’t even speak clearly to his subordinates? “Status,” he said, forcing the consonants through a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
“You got jumped,” Philippe said shortly. “Fuckers had knives and steel-toeds. Some cuts, bruised ribs, took a couple knocks to the head.” (The young man gripped his hand tighter.) “But don't worry.” Philippe's dark grin was a comfort. “We knocked ‘em back.”
“Good,” Corbeau said, proud as he always was of his most loyal employee.
…Wait. “We?”
“Well, yeah,” the beautiful young man said. “You think I'm gonna let him have all the fun?” His smile was wobbly and tear-stained, which was horrible, obviously, but also good, because otherwise it probably would have blinded Corbeau.
Who was he?
The man—and Philippe—went still. Ah, shit, had he said that out loud? He'd have to pay better attention.
“I'm… I'm Paxton,” the young man said. “Your partner.”
His what.
Corbeau’s blank stare must have conveyed his astonishment. The beautiful man—Paxton—looked almost frantically up at Philippe.
Philippe stepped closer to him and swept his thumb in a soothing arc over his collarbone. Corbeau frowned. Inappropriate, Philippe. Be more professional.
“The doctors said he might be a little out of it,” Philippe said softly. “The meds'll make him fuzzy, and he might not remember some things from the fight.”
“But…” Paxton said weakly. “Me?”
“He'll remember,” Philippe soothed. “Boss always remembers what's important.”
…Oh.
That explained it.
He knew what that word meant. They’d reminded each other of it enough times over the years. The Rust Syndicate was most important, always, the goal of keeping the city safe by any means necessary forever at the top of his mind. That was the vow he and Philippe had made to each other.
So this must have been a business matter. A debt. (He ignored the ache in his chest at the realization. For a moment, he had thought… but no. Impossible.)
“Philippe,” he said, refusing to look at the beautiful man's—Paxton’s—face. “What do we have on him?”
Philippe blinked at him, for once caught off-guard. “What?”
“His debt, Philippe, keep up,” Corbeau snapped (or as well as he could when his tongue still wasn't fully cooperating).
“He doesn't have any—”
Corbeau cut him off with a derisive noise and turned to Paxton, who was watching him with wide eyes. (They really were beautiful—but Corbeau didn't have the right to think so. He never thought he'd be monstrous enough to call in a debt like this, but you never knew, did you?)
“Whatever it is,” he said, “it's forgiven. You're free to go.”
“What—no,” Paxton said. “Corbeau—”
“I won’t hold you to this,” Corbeau insisted. “No contract you signed would hold up.”
“I didn't sign a contract, idiot,” Paxton hissed. (Oh, he was beautiful when he was angry, too—stop it—) “I love you!”
What.
Paxton kept going over Corbeau’s stammering. He swept his free hand back toward Philippe, still keeping his grip on Corbeau’s with the other.
“He does, too! We're your partners.”
No.
No, that couldn't—he wouldn't—he had promised himself that Philippe would be free. Philippe had already given him everything. He would not take this from him by force.
“Philippe.” His subordinate nodded.
“It's true, boss,” he said. He was frowning. “We are. Do you really not—”
“Get out.”
Both of the other men stilled. Corbeau could feel his breathing pick up, see the darkness creeping in around the edges of his vision. He fought it desperately.
“Get out,” he said again. “Don't…” Dammit, focus— “Don't come back until you're… thinking clearly.”
Two voices rose against him. He tried weakly to pull his hand from Paxton’s.
“Go,” he said again, hating how quiet his voice was. “I won't… I wouldn't…”
He didn't hear what they said in response.
—
Corbeau kept still as his brain began to come back online. He tried to catalog his surroundings—smooth sheets, chill air, antiseptic smell, the gentle beeping of machines. The medical floor of the Rust Syndicate, then. What had…
“Are you awake?”
Corbeau wrenched his eyes open to see Paxton sitting at his bedside.
He looked pissed.
Corbeau wracked his brain to figure out what could make his partner glare at him like that, but he came up empty. His mind was… foggy.
“Paxton?” he croaked. “What…” He looked a little closer at his partner and finally noticed the bruise on his jaw, the bandaged cut on his cheekbone. “What happened?” he demanded.
“What do you remember?”
Philippe's voice. Corbeau looked past Paxton, toward the door of the private room, to his lover. He frowned, tried to put a hand to his brow, and winced when the movement pulled at too many injuries to catalog. (Paxton’s frown softened.)
“Not… much,” he said. “Are you alright? Who did this?”
“Some lowlifes trying to terrorize a kid,” Philippe said darkly. “You stepped in, of course, and then… we did.”
Corbeau froze. For him? Because he couldn't handle his own fight? (A fight that that he couldn't fucking remember—)
“Report,” he barked.
“Minor cuts and bruises,” Philippe said immediately. “Nothing serious. You got the worst of it. A few slices, bruised ribs. Doc said you took some blows to the head, which might be why you can't remember.”
“Good,” Corbeau breathed.
“Good?” Paxton echoed, his voice low and dangerous.
Not—not good that they had been hurt, however minor. Good that he had gotten the worst, good that they got off lighter. Theirs was a dangerous world, but it was his responsibility—as the boss of the Syndicate, but more importantly, as their partner—to shoulder as much of that danger as he could. He tried to explain, but his tongue wouldn't cooperate and the words were like marbles in his mouth. Why couldn't he think?
“I can't do this,” Paxton snapped. “Don't fucking—I can't.” He surged to his feet and started to pace the room.
Corbeau watched him pace and felt his heart break.
He knew this would happen. He knew it. Paxton wasn’t built for his world. Was too bright for it. The danger, the darkness… Corbeau had known from the beginning that those things would drive Paxton away. That he would. (Paxton had already given enough for this city. It was entirely unfair to expect him to give more, especially for Corbeau, who should have been the one to keep him safe.)
He swallowed. Forced his throat to work.
“You can… you can go,” he said. Paxton stopped in his tracks. “You don't have to… do this.”
Paxton trembled. Corbeau held his breath. Then his partner turned on his heel and stormed from the room.
Well.
That was that, he supposed.
“Boss.”
The quiet voice made him jump. How had he forgotten Philippe was there? His mind must have been foggier than he thought.
“Philippe,” he whispered. “Go with him. He'll stay with you. I'm sorry. You don't have to…” (Philippe had only told Corbeau he loved him once Paxton had arrived. Corbeau could figure out what that meant no matter how rattled his brain might be.) “You can stay with him. I promise I won't…”
“Boss,” Philippe said again as he stepped slowly closer. He took Corbeau’s hand and held it gently. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't see.”
Corbeau nodded and forced his heartbreak back down his throat. It was true, then. Philippe wanted Paxton, and Corbeau had just come along with him. Corbeau could understand.
(This wasn't right, his mind whispered. Philippe’s loyalty was the bedrock of the universe. Corbeau would never doubt him. But he couldn't think.)
Philippe lifted his hand to kiss it. Corbeau's head ached.
“Corbeau,” Philippe said. “I am not leaving you. We will talk about this. I’ll go get Paxton, and I will bring him back. I swear to you.”
Philippe's word was ironclad. Corbeau knew this. He held tight to it, even as Philippe gently set his hand down and strode from the room.
Corbeau stared at the ceiling until the darkness took him again.
—
…Arceus, he ached. He distantly wondered who he'd pissed off this time.
He recognized the smell of the medical floor of the Rust Syndicate, and in the next heartbeat, he heard the voices of the two people who held his heart murmuring to each other. At least they were alright.
He opened his eyes. Philippe and Paxton were tucked into one of the comfortable leather chairs that the Rust Syndicate kept in its private medical rooms. Paxton was curled up under Philippe's arm.
Paxton was… glaring at him?
“Do you remember this time?” he demanded.
“...What?” Remember what? His mind was… jumbled, the memories of the last however-long fuzzy and incoherent.
“You got jumped,” Philippe said. His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent to it that Corbeau couldn't parse. “Some assholes cornered a kid. You stepped in, but there were too many of them. The kid came to find us, and we found you and sent them packing.” The worn patience in his voice told Corbeau that this wasn't the first time Philippe had delivered this report—a suspicion that was confirmed when Philippe told him about his injuries and their lighter scrapes and bruises before he could ask. “And don't say ‘good,’” Philippe added wearily. “I don't think Paxton could handle it again.”
Corbeau frowned. He hadn't been about to say anything, thank you, but he had thought it. It was good that they had gotten off lightly. If one of them had to be hurt, he'd rather it be him. But Paxton glared at him like he heard the thought anyway.
“...Alright,” Corbeau said. “What about the kid?”
“Also fine. Though we might have a new applicant for the Syndicate in a couple years.” Corbeau nodded. They would see. When the kid was older, of course.
Paxton spoke up.
“You left out the part where he tried to break up with us for our own good.” His eyes narrowed. “Twice.”
Corbeau blinked. He had… what?
“You do not get to make decisions for me,” Paxton snarled, “especially when those decisions hurt you. That will never be my choice. And fuck you for even considering it.”
Corbeau looked to Philippe and found no quarter, no softness in his gaze. He swallowed.
“...Noted.”
—
The doctor came by after a few more minutes of stony silence. After a check of Corbeau’s injuries and a cognitive test, she dismissed him to recover in their flat and forbade him from any work or strenuous activity until he was fully recovered. Philippe nodded and accepted the assignment with the weary resignation of someone who knew exactly how difficult it was to keep Corbeau from his work.
Paxton wouldn't look at him.
That held true over the next few days. At night, he clutched Corbeau close, as if he were daring the universe to take him from his arms. Philippe stretched out on Corbeau's other side and draped one arm over them both. But during the day, Paxton took himself off on his own business.
After three days, Corbeau had had enough.
“Alright,” he said. “What are you not telling me.”
Philippe looked up from reviewing the day’s reports. (They had compromised—Corbeau could be in the room while Philippe worked to keep the Syndicate running as long as he didn’t strain himself or try to actually take on any tasks.)
“It’s not about not telling you,” he said. “I promised you we’d talk about it.” (He had? When? Talk about what?) “Just waiting on you to ask.”
“Well. I’m asking.”
Philippe sighed, got up from the desk, and carried the laptop over to the couch where he’d deposited Corbeau that morning. Corbeau watched as Philippe navigated through the Syndicate’s intranet to the security feeds and brought up an image of a medical room where Corbeau could see himself lying small and still in the bed. Philippe sucked in a slow breath as he gathered his words.
“When you first woke up,” he said finally, “you were out of it. We expected that—you were hopped up on pain meds and had taken a few blows to the head besides. But we didn’t expect… whatever the fuck this was.”
He played the recording.
Corbeau blushed furiously as his voice came through the laptop’s speakers, blearily proclaiming Paxton’s beauty. (Well. He wasn’t wrong. He just usually didn’t declare it so… artlessly.) He listened as Philippe described the events of the fight and Corbeau’s injuries for the first, but apparently not the last, time. He frowned. None of this seemed worthy of Paxton’s anger.
Then…
Oh.
So that’s what he meant.
Corbeau had to contain his wince as his half-conscious voice tried to release Paxton from an imagined debt. Tried to send him on his way. Tried to send Philippe away. Then he passed out, leaving the recorded images of Philippe and Paxton to stare at each other in horror.
Philippe advanced through the footage. Before Corbeau could think of a single thing to say, Philippe played the next recording.
Paxton was visibly upset. Corbeau remembered who he was this time, at least. But he had to close his eyes as he listened to himself, still slurring his words, tell Paxton again that he was free to go—and this time, try to convince Philippe to, what, leave him for Paxton? Now that he was in his right mind, he heard the agony buried in Philippe’s voice as he promised that he wasn’t leaving Corbeau, only going to retrieve their partner.
The footage ended.
Philippe’s hands were clenched into fists on his knees.
“Philippe,” he said. “I—” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Philippe’s loyalty to him was as unquestionable as the dawn. Moreso, even—there had been times when it was genuinely doubtful whether Lumiose would survive another night, but even and especially through those times, Philippe had never wavered. Corbeau’s doubt was a slap in the face to that devotion.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. The words were inadequate. Philippe still wasn’t looking at him. He stood, turned to face his beloved, took that strong jaw in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pouring his whole (cracked, damaged) heart into the words.
Philippe’s eyes finally met his. The agony in them stole the breath from Corbeau’s lungs.
“I love you,” Philippe said. Corbeau nodded wordlessly. “I have loved you for years. What did I do to make you doubt me?”
“Nothing,” Corbeau said immediately. “You could never. You are my foundation, Philippe. I am nothing without you.”
Philippe frowned. “You are everything.” His gaze searched Corbeau’s. “Is that why—no. Corbeau. Loving you makes me better. I wouldn’t stop even if you ordered me to.”
Corbeau opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to think of anything to say besides It might be better for you if you did.
“I don’t… want to trap you,” he said finally. “We’ve been in this together for so long. I don’t want you to feel like you—have to. Be with me.” Goddammit, where was his charm when he needed it—
“Have you ever,” Philippe growled, “made me do something I don’t want to do?”
Well. No.
“Exactly,” his lover, his partner, half his heart rumbled. Then he reached up, snagged Corbeau by the back of his neck, and dragged him in for a kiss that made his knees go weak. Philippe kept going until Corbeau really did collapse, only moving his hands to his waist and dragging him into his lap. “I am yours,” he said low and fierce into Corbeau’s gasping mouth, “and you are mine. It is not up to you to send me away.” His voice was subsonic and dangerous. “I’d like to see you try.”
He spent the next few minutes proving that devotion quite… thoroughly.
—
He found Paxton in the training room. It was open to all members of the Syndicate, and Paxton used it at least as much as they did. He usually had no shortage of opponents, most grunts excited to test themselves against him. But today, everyone else seemed to be (wisely) steering clear.
Corbeau came to a stop just inside the door. Paxton’s Absol looked curiously at him but didn’t leave her Trainer’s side.
“I'm still pissed at you,” Paxton said. He didn't turn around.
Corbeau nodded and ignored the pounding of his heart.
“Alright,” he said. “Tell me.”
“You had no right,” Paxton exploded. He was pacing now. Still refused to look at Corbeau. “Where the fuck do you get off telling me to leave you? Telling me that I don’t have to be with you? I know that. I choose to be here, Corbeau. You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”
“Philippe said the same thing.”
At that, Paxton whirled to face him and pointed an accusing finger.
“And that,” he hissed. “How could you do that to him? As if he would ever leave you. That man lives for you, you asshole, how dare you—”
His eyes were a little too wide, his breathing a little too ragged. Corbeau noticed his gaze flicking from one wall to the next to the next as his chest heaved. His heart ached.
“Come on,” he said, turning for the door. Paxton hesitated, but then Corbeau heard Absol give a gentle croon, and Paxton’s footsteps followed.
He led his partner through the hallways of the Syndicate, into the elevator, and out onto the roof. He stepped to the side as Paxton burst from the narrow space and drank in the open air of the garden.
Corbeau watched him as he worked to calm himself. When his partner’s hands had stopped shaking, he spoke.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “Either of you.” He walked forward to stand by Paxton’s side, and they stared out over the city together. “The things I've done for Lumiose… I don’t regret them. I’d do them again. But our reputation is earned, Paxton. Don’t underestimate what we’ve done.”
Paxton—laughed?
“Oh, get off your spooky high horse.” Corbeau blinked. “I know you’ve done some fucked up shit. And I know Philippe has, too—in your defense and for his own reasons. I used to think of the power you two wielded, and I wanted you so badly it scared me.” He finally, finally turned to face Corbeau, and the heat in his gaze took his breath away as surely as Philippe’s kiss had. “The only difference is that I’m not scared anymore.”
He and Absol stared Corbeau down, and Corbeau was reminded of just how dangerous this man could be in his own right. This was the Trainer who was chosen by Zygarde—who could have claimed the title of hero and had the adoration of an entire city but chose instead to ally himself with Corbeau, with full knowledge of who Corbeau was and what he did (and did not) stand for.
“Don’t underestimate you?” Paxton asked. “Don’t underestimate me. I know who you are. You can’t hide from me.”
Corbeau searched his gaze. He had never doubted Paxton’s strength—or his determination. And he knew better than anyone what that darkness, that ruthlessness, felt like when it lurked just below the surface.
“Come on,” Paxton said. “I want to show you something.”
—
They nestled together, the three of them, on the couch in the front room of their flat. Paxton and Philippe settled themselves on either side of Corbeau—the best honor guard a man could ask for—and twined their fingers together in his lap. And for the second time that day, Philippe brought up a security feed.
This one showed one of the many back alleys of Lumiose. A young boy and his brightly colored Riolu. A group of grown men crowding around them. Corbeau felt his jaw clench, his blood burning at the injustice.
The footage was soundless, but Corbeau watched the men stop their advance as another figure appeared over the boy’s shoulder and his past self stepped into the frame. He remembered this, he realized, but vaguely. The pounding of his heart had slightly overridden his reason, but he knew he would have made that choice regardless. If he stood aside when a child was in need, he would be the kind of monster he worked to eradicate from his city.
The boy and his Pokémon scrambled away at Corbeau’s gesture. The men advanced.
Corbeau had held his own reasonably well, he reflected. He couldn’t hold a candle to Philippe’s skill at hand to hand fighting, but then, no one could. He lasted about as long as he could expect before he was knocked to the ground for the final time and the men crowded around him the way they had the young boy. There were a few seconds of kicking and punching that Corbeau was glad he didn’t remember. (He felt Paxton and Philippe tighten their grip on each other. He laid his hand on top of theirs in his lap.)
Then his lovers burst onto the scene.
Corbeau sucked in a breath. They were glorious. Philippe was a battering ram, scattering Corbeau’s attackers instantly, and Paxton was a blur of motion and bared teeth at his side. Paxton didn’t have the same training or experience as Philippe—they would have to fix that, Corbeau thought absently—but what he lacked in skill, he made up for in enthusiasm. His movements were quick, sure, and ruthless, and he knocked the men into Philippe’s range and sprinted after any who tried to escape their partner. He attacked without remorse.
They didn’t even use their Pokémon.
The glint of knives made Corbeau tighten his grip on his lovers’ hands, but on the recording, they fought on without fear, until the assailants were piled in a crumpled heap on the ground. Then Paxton threw himself to his knees next to Corbeau. He reached out, then jerked his head up to Philippe, who gathered Corbeau into his arms like he was the most precious thing he’d ever held and sprinted away, Paxton hot on his heels.
The footage ended. Corbeau sat frozen for a moment, trying to process what he had seen, before Paxton’s voice broke the silence.
“That,” he said, “is what we will do for you.”
“And more,” Philippe said.
“So stop trying to fucking leave us,” Paxton finished. Then, in a childish mutter that made Corbeau hide a smile: “You asshole.”
—
The night found them once again gathered in their bed, wrapped around each other. Paxton lay on his back, holding fiercely to Corbeau above him, and Philippe hovered over them both, covering them with his body. They moved in rhythm, keeping Corbeau between them. They needed this, he knew—Paxton needed to feel him close, to know that he was alright, and Philippe needed to know that they were both here, safe, under him.
And Corbeau? He got to feel the singular sensation of being held between them, of being owned, being kept, by two of the most powerful people in the whole city, and certainly two of the most ruthless. There was no greater loyalty than what existed in this bed. These men would do anything for him, he knew. And while he couldn’t deny the whisper of fear he felt on their behalf, he also knew that they would reprimand him for it (with love, always with love).
So he channeled that feeling into devotion of his own, letting words of admiration and love and fealty spill from his lips. If he dipped into the commanding voice of the Syndicate boss to drive his point home, that was his business. (And if he took a dark pleasure in the way that particular register never failed to wring a shiver from both his lovers, well, who could blame him?)
Their matching growls rumbled through him in answer, and Corbeau thought back to the memory of that recording, of his lovers jumping to his defense without hesitation, using every ounce of their strength and skill on his behalf. He focused on that image, branded it into the core of himself alongside the sensation of them moving in tandem around him.
The only order they would never follow would be the one to leave him behind.
He could offer them nothing less.