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It started, as most things did between them, with a conversation above two cups of coffee.
Augustine Sycamore wore a thoughtful expression on his face. This was not unusual: he was a man often prone to letting his mind drift away even when he was in the middle of conversing with someone else. His eyelids were heavy, the white of his eyes a stark contrast against the dark circles under them. That, also, was unsurprising, though still worrying. The professor's relationship with sleep hygiene was notoriously poor.
What brought Lysandre to say something was the melancholy. The slight frown. Sycamore stared into space and sighed, his finger rubbing against the rim of his cup.
"Is something on your mind?"
Sycamore blinked.
"Huh." He tilted his face toward Lysandre, somehow surprised to find him there. "Oh, it's nothing."
"I can't help but notice that you seem exhausted, to say the least," Lysandre went on. "Perhaps coffee is ill-advised."
The suggestion, coming from him, managed to drag a smile out of the professor. He looked down at his still half-full cup.
"You know..." he started, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid.
Lysandre waited for him to go on. He watched him scratch at his hairline, apparently struggling to find the words to express whatever was plaguing him.
"It's just," he mumbled, his hand covering most of his face. He took a deep breath and then deflated immediately. "Forget it. You'll make fun of me."
Raising his eyebrows, Lysandre could only scoff at that. "Would I?"
Sycamore pursed his lips, flipping his hair back with his hand, but said nothing more.
"Well, if you change your mind, the offer stays open," Lysandre added before taking a sip.
"I had a date the other day," Sycamore let out, quick and rough, as if afraid that if he didn't the words would never come out.
Lysandre frowned. "Did it go poorly?"
Dating wasn't a subject they usually broached, even in their more intimate meetings, such as now when they were sitting together in Lysandre's café long after his last customers and employees had left. Perhaps this was why Sycamore seemed so flustered, his hand now holding on to the side of his face.
"I forgot about it," he admitted, his eyes finally rising to look at Lysandre.
Grasping his cup more firmly than necessary, Lysandre took another sip to conceal his smile. Sycamore rolled his eyes.
"See, I told you," he grumbled.
"My apologies," Lysandre said once he'd regained his composure. "You forgot... to go?"
"I was working late and then it was the next day and it just– slipped my mind, you know?" Sycamore paused before shaking his head. "What am I saying, of course you don't know."
"You're overworking yourself," Lysandre said, electing to ignore the insinuation entirely. "Your assistant told me that you fell asleep in the lab yesterday."
Sycamore's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Was it Dexio? Didn't think he'd be the type to snitch, especially to you."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He told me he finds you 'intimidating', which, I can't exactly blame him, but..."
In an attempt to prevent himself from giving a retort he might regret, Lysandre drank what was left in his cup in one go.
"You're changing the subject," he said once he was done, the bottom of his cup hitting its plate with a clink. Sycamore sniffled loudly. "If your assistant is willing to come to me, he must be especially worried."
"I'll just– I'll take some rest this week."
There was still coffee in Sycamore's cup, but he pushed it to the side, almost sheepishly.
"Now, about my other issue..."
"Ah, right. The date." Lysandre couldn't understand why the professor needed his advice in particular, but he allowed himself a minute to ponder the question. "Perhaps you could set an alarm?"
"Like, on my computer or something? I guess. It's not a bad idea."
"Do you... have another date planned?" Lysandre lifted one eyebrow.
His quizzical expression must have been amusing, because soon enough Sycamore was smiling again, the tension in his eyes relaxing slightly.
"Apart from this one, you mean?" he joked. When Lysandre didn't react, his cheeks heated up faintly, tinted pink just enough to be noticeable, leaving the other man even more perplexed, but he promptly went on, "Huh, yeah. I'm meeting up with a girl I met at the nearby pokémon center... I think it was on Tuesday?"
"Ah," Lysandre said. His lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. "Well, I suppose no matter what happens your reputation will always precede you."
It was a positive statement, surely, yet Sycamore looked put off suddenly, pushing himself and his chair away from the table they were sitting at.
"I suppose I can't complain," he said. He didn't sound happy about it, though a trace of his previous smile remained on his lips.
Lysandre wondered whether it was the exhaustion that had gotten his friend into a mood so sour that he would allow himself to be this vulnerable. He was not one to hide his vulnerabilities as thoroughly as Lysandre himself did, of course, but he was usually better at camouflaging them under his cheerful moods or his passionate rants about his research.
Now he sat away from the table, his hands tapping against its edge, staring at the floor with that melancholic expression. Lysandre cleared his throat.
"Are you worried about your love life?" he asked before he could settle on a better phrasing.
Sycamore's eyes pierced through him when he looked up. "What? No."
Still, he didn't elaborate.
"I apologize if this is too forward. I'm used to these discussions being a little more, shall we say, light-hearted."
"Sorry," Sycamore said, his gaze falling to the floor once more. "I guess I'm really that tired. It's– you know."
"I don't."
With a sigh, Sycamore brought his hands to his lap before crossing his arms. He shook his head again.
"Of course you don't. I've never seen you date anyone."
A precarious territory to be sure, but Lysandre could try to navigate it.
"I'm afraid the only free time I have is dedicated to our meetings."
Sycamore scoffed. He let himself slump against his chair. "Now you're making me feel bad."
"That wasn't my intention. I don't have any interest in dating." His tone betrayed his disdain for the very possibility. "It's time I could spend working."
"Oh, right!" Suddenly Sycamore straightened himself up as if all of the fatigue had evaporated from his body at once. "I meant to ask. How's your project going?"
With that, all of the odd tension they'd built up was gone, replaced with the regular friendly rapport they usually entertained during those meetings. Lysandre proudly exposed in many technical details how the advancement of his latest creation was going, even taking the time to answer any and all questions Sycamore had, until they were both sitting away from the table, their chairs pulled near each other, exchanging enthusiastic remarks about their respective work, their previous topic of conversation entirely forgotten.
"Next time I visit, I'll show it to you," Lysandre said after they'd spent the better part of an hour talking. "It's still a prototype, but I do think you'll find it quite interesting."
"I'm sure of it." Sycamore smiled. He'd seemingly fed off of their shared excitement and looked much less tired, though his eyes still sported dark circles. He took a glance at his watch and made a face. "Shit."
Charitably, Lysandre decided to pretend that he hadn't heard.
"It's past the time I'd planned to go back to the lab," Sycamore went on. "Sorry–"
"I'll accompany you back home."
Lysandre stood up, taking hold of his jacket hanging from the back of his chair. Sycamore watched him put it on, his brow furrowed. He licked his lips.
"Right," he said. "You won't let me go back to the lab."
"You said you'll rest," Lysandre said with a smile.
Putting his hands up in the air in defeat, Sycamore stood as well. His legs seemed barely able to carry him, wobbling slightly under him after spending so much time in a sitting position. He tried his best to play it off as he swiftly marched toward the coat rack to grab his own jacket.
When they both reached the street outside the door, his foot caught on the pavement. Lysandre held him by the shoulder to prevent him from falling over. The look on his face betrayed a kind of almost paternalistic worry.
Sycamore shook him off with more vigor than probably was necessary.
"You don't have to take care of me, you know," he said, and immediately felt kind of pathetic.
"I apologize for overstepping," Lysandre said, but when he looked away Sycamore could see a smile form on his lips.
*
The next time they saw each other, once Lysandre was done demonstrating all the fancy additions he'd made to what he'd taken to calling the holo-caster, Sycamore sat on the edge of his desk and said, "I forgot to set the alarm."
The lab was empty at this time: now that the professor had let himself be convinced that he needed to work a little less, his assistants and scientists left at noon on Mondays and Wednesdays. Lysandre had thought it better to visit when they could be alone, so he wouldn't have to worry about scaring anyone off. Sycamore seemed to be about the only person in this city who could stand the intensity of his gaze, or of his presence in general.
"You..." Lysandre said slowly, but then the memory came back to him. "Right! Your date. Did you not go, then?"
Sycamore grimaced. He looked healthier, though not by much. At least his skin was less pale and the circles under his eyes had faded somewhat.
"No," he admitted. He picked up the prototype device from where they'd left it on his desk and fiddled with it. "Maybe I'd need one of these to remember."
Lysandre chuckled, a low sound that made Sycamore look up. "You could set an alarm to remember to set an alarm."
"I'd probably forget to set the first alarm," Sycamore retorted cheerfully. He pressed a button and watched the blank hologram come out.
The device was an impressive feat of technology. Telecommunication devices were evolving faster and faster these days, the pokétch having been rendered obsolete by the c-gear not so long ago. It was a thriving market to be sure, which explained why Lysandre was so interested in it, even when he'd affirm that his goal was only to further humanity's ability to communicate with one another. Sycamore ran a finger through the hologram, observing the way the projection faded away as he made contact with it.
In his periphery, he could see Lysandre take a step toward him, lost in thought.
"Your watch," he said. Sycamore tilted his head.
"That old thing?" With his hand holding the holo-caster he pressed the button again to turn off the hologram, and then pulled up his left arm in Lysandre's direction. "My mother bought it for me when I officially became a pokémon professor. I think it's delayed by a couple of minutes at this point."
He chuckled, but Lysandre's expression remained serious.
"Would you let me have it?"
"Why? I didn't know you fancied yourself a watchmaker as well."
"With a few modifications, perhaps it could provide a solution to your problem," Lysandre said. He held his hands out tentatively, unwilling to touch anything he wasn't allowed to.
Sycamore narrowed his eyes. "Well, I haven't taken it off in a while, but if you want..."
The words died on his lips as his friend moved to take hold of his arm and carefully unclasp the watch. His fingers only pressed against the flesh enough to keep it in place, but Sycamore found himself staying very still, the rhythm of his breathing slowing down as he stared at Lysandre's gloved hand encircling his arm. He barely registered the feeling of the straps being undone, entirely focused on the physical contact, and the warmth, and the fabric brushing against his skin and hair. Then as soon as it had begun it was over, and Lysandre let go of him, the watch safely in his grip.
Sycamore blinked. "Well. Please take good care of it."
"I will." Lysandre's smile betrayed no turmoil as he considered the watch in the glow of the fluorescent lights. "When's your next date?"
"No such thing planned, for now, I'm afraid," Sycamore said. His tone was jovial enough, but Lysandre could hear the sarcasm hidden within. "Although I suppose I could get a hold of the girl from the pokémon center and grovel."
"I'm sure she'll forgive you," Lysandre said. He slid the watch into the inner pocket of his jacket. "I'll make sure to bring this back to you in time."
"You're taking this whole thing to heart, huh." The professor turned his attention back to the device, feeling the sharp edges of the plastic as he closed his hand around it.
"You asked for my help," Lysandre replied with a disarming amount of sincerity in his voice.
"I appreciate it," Sycamore said cautiously, rubbing the spot where the holo-caster's shape rounded. It wasn't exactly smooth yet, his fingers catching against the jagged bits, leftovers from joining two pieces of plastic together. "But I didn't expect you to be so invested in my love life."
He didn't look to see Lysandre's reaction, his eyes focused instead on his thumbnail scraping against the edges. The plastic was too tough to relent, only damaging the tip of his nail. He gave up, pressing the button that showed off the hologram mechanism once more.
Lysandre stayed silent for a lot longer than either of them expected.
"Satisfaction begets productivity," he finally said. When Sycamore looked up at him with a decidedly unimpressed expression on his face, he added, "It seemed to weigh on you the last time we spoke. I'd hate for you to lose even more sleep."
"How sweet," Sycamore said, his gaze falling on the hologram once more. His tone betrayed an annoyance that Lysandre couldn't begin to guess the source of. "I'll be sure to keep you posted."
"If you don't want me to meddle further..." Lysandre began, sliding his hand back inside his jacket, but Sycamore laughed.
"No, it's fine, sorry. It just seems... out of character."
Letting his hand fall back to his side, Lysandre cleared his throat. "Well, I apologize if I ever gave off the impression that I don't care about your well-being."
This time, when Sycamore looked up, the look on his face was wavering between amusement and distress.
"Lysandre..." he said in a tone that the other man couldn't decipher. "You know that's not what I meant. Last time, you said you didn't care about dating."
"I don't, but you do."
"Maybe it'd do you some good to give it a try," Sycamore said, and he laughed again. He turned off the device and, standing up from the desk, held it out for Lysandre to take. "I could give you some pointers."
He winked at that, visibly pleased with himself for reasons that escaped Lysandre once again.
"I don't think that'll be necessary," he said sternly, taking the device back.
Sycamore shrugged, though he didn't seem surprised.
"Your loss."
*
The girl from the pokémon center had big brown eyes and long blond hair, and her name was Mimi.
She didn't seem upset when Sycamore approached her again, finding her on her way to bring her injured slurpuff for the nurse to look after. She nodded when he explained that he'd been busy at the lab – not exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth either – and smiled sweetly when he made a joke about trying to come up with a fresh pick-up line to ask her out a second time. Maybe Lysandre had been right; he did feel better just from seeing her again and soaking in her warm reactions and her obvious enjoyment of his company. Plus, she had really nice legs.
They walked together toward the lab, and before she left, Mimi took out a little diary with a pen attached from her purse and wrote down a time and date for their future rendez-vous.
"So you remember this time," she explained, teasing. He laughed alongside her.
He was still holding the torn-out page in his hand when he entered the hall, only to be greeted with Lysandre's broad silhouette, standing next to the elevator with a cardboard box in his hands.
"There you are," he said. He considered him for a moment, looking him up from head to toe, and added with a knowing smile, "You seem in high spirits."
"You were right about the girl," Sycamore said, walking up to him to examine the box. "She agreed to another date."
The box was plain and unlabelled but as soon as he got close enough he could smell the unmistakable sugary scent of freshly baked pastries. His stomach growled.
"Wonderful. I brought treats for the pokémons." Lysandre paused to lift the lid and show off a collection of neatly arranged poképuffs. "As an apology for the delay with the watch," he went on, much more solemnly than was necessary.
Sycamore beamed at him. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" He buried the page in the pocket of his lab coat and eagerly took the box from Lysandre's grasp.
The elevator brought them to the garden, illuminated by the lukewarm afternoon sun of early summer. As soon as they began stepping through the grass, Sycamore slid one of his hands under the lid of the pastry box. He picked one of the chunkier poképuffs and proceeded to take a bite.
"Professor, these are not..."
"It's just sugar and cream," Sycamore said in-between mouthfuls. He looked so pleased, the top of his cheekbones slightly pink, that Lysandre's admonishments suddenly seemed irrelevant. "I'll share it with Juliette."
As if on cue, the garchomp's heavy footsteps reverberated from behind the bushes, her impressive figure towering over a few stray sentrets and zigzagoons attracted by the smell. She took a deep breath, her nostrils widening, and hurried in Sycamore's direction. He patted her on the snout, producing another loud intake of air, and presented the remaining half of the poképuff to her, palm flat.
She gave it a cautious lick and then, in one swift motion, gobbled the whole thing up. She swallowed it immediately, not bothering to chew even a little bit. Her tail banged loudly against the ground, a candid expression of her happiness.
"Say 'thank you' to Lysandre for the treat," Sycamore said, pointing his finger at his friend.
The garchomp ran her tongue on her lips and then, with the abruptness Lysandre was used to, poked at his shoulder with the top of her head. He rubbed his fingers between her nostrils.
"You're quite welcome," he said. Juliette let out a small roar at the back of her throat.
She let him rub a little longer before she caught sight of some pokémons running around that suddenly interested her, and waddled away with an endearing sort of urgency. They watched her disappear back into the bushes, Sycamore still firmly holding the box even as more pokémons began to gather at his feet.
Standing right next to him, Lysandre stared at him intensely.
"You have," he started. Before Sycamore could react, he reached out to run his finger against his cheek, almost brushing the corner of his lips. When he pulled back, there was cream on the tip.
Despite his best efforts, Sycamore couldn't help but gape at him. "What was that for?"
Unfazed, Lysandre brought his finger to his mouth so he could taste the cream. "Mhm. Not bad," he said as if there was truly nothing amiss about what he'd just done.
Sycamore closed his mouth. He opened it again but then thought better of it, focusing his attention instead on all the little – and less little – pokémons swarming around them. He knelt down and opened the box to begin distributing the treats. When he was done, handing the last one to a pair of rattatas that stood very close to one another, he found Lysandre leaning against a tree, his face hidden in the shade.
"What's up with you?" Sycamore asked. He could barely distinguish the white of Lysandre's eyes as they moved in his direction. "I didn't take you to be the motherly type."
Now that he'd gotten closer he could see the beginning of a smile slowly bloom on Lysandre's face. "I wouldn't dare try to mother a man who's older than me."
"Is that so," Sycamore said, unconvinced. He stuck the empty box under his arm. "You're all over me these days."
He thought he'd seen Lysandre frown, just barely, but when he blinked the other man's face was as relaxed as it always had been.
"You're surprisingly easy to take care of," he said. Now it was Sycamore's turn to frown. "Which begs the question..."
Sycamore rolled his eyes. "Why am I single? Is that it? You're really starting to sound like my mother."
"It is a fascinating mystery," Lysandre said. He blinked slowly, like a persian attempting to pacify an opponent.
"Oh, I get it." Sycamore slumped against the tree Lysandre was still leaning on, squashing the box under his arm in the process. "I'm your new pet project to relax in-between all of the stressful holo-caster proceedings."
Though he tried to damper its smugness, Lysandre couldn't hide his smile. "Something like that, I suppose."
They stayed silent for a moment, surrounded by the sounds of the garden and its inhabitants. Sycamore held his face down, observing Lysandre's expression. He'd turned his head away, perhaps to look at the pokémons that were still gathered at the spot where the box had been, scratching and poking at the ground in search of scraps and crumbs. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, though that was always the case. What wasn't usually the case was him being so casual about intimacy.
Maybe intimacy wasn't the right word. They weren't intimate and never had been. It wasn't for lack of trying, at first, when they'd met soon after the opening of Lysandre's café. There was nothing behind it; Sycamore was just the kind of person who was always available for new experiences – and what an experience Lysandre promised to be.
He'd given up quickly enough. Being naturally prone to charming and flirting didn't make one oblivious to unreciprocated advances. Lysandre liked him – in a way that he didn't seem to like many people – but he didn't like him. There was no point in pursuing someone who wasn't interested.
Instead, they'd become friends, and colleagues as well when Lysandre had asked to participate in his research regarding mega-evolution. Friends they'd remained until now, sharing meals and conversations about their respective fields of expertise. Some days Sycamore even entertained the childish idea that they were best friends.
Best friends could look out for each other this way, he supposed, averting his eyes when Lysandre glanced at him, curious. In his youth, he'd definitely helped his friends along in their romantic escapades. He'd even done things much worse than what Lysandre had been doing.
He shook his head. All of this could be blamed on his exhaustion – even now that he was going for a healthier schedule, he still slept poorly. Leaving his work behind had always been difficult but now he was beginning to feel his age, the strain on his body impossible to ignore. Surely it also affected his mind.
"Let's walk for a bit," he said. Lysandre nodded.
They passed through the trees, carefully stepping over a group of eevees napping in the shade. The warmth of the sun on the back of his neck helped Sycamore feel more at ease.
"Does your mother worry about you?" Lysandre asked once they'd emerged from the foliage near the pond.
Sycamore grimaced. Of course they'd return to their previous conversation.
"Can you blame her? Her oldest child and he's still nowhere near getting married. At least my sisters have given her plenty of grandchildren."
"You're an uncle, then." There was amusement in Lysandre's voice, though not of the mocking kind.
"I'm a very fun uncle," Sycamore boasted.
Lysandre's laugh was as warm as the sun. "I don't doubt it."
They were interrupted by the arrival of a rapidash, the sight of their red hot flames blinding in the daylight, accompanied by two very young ponytas, whose fiery manes, in contrast, were barely noticeable. They all snorted loudly as they walked by, pointedly avoiding getting anywhere near the water. Once they'd passed, Sycamore knelt next to the pond, settling the flattened empty box at his feet. A magikarp emerged from the water, attracted by the sugary smell. Looming behind the professor, Lysandre watched the pokémon close and open their mouth over and over.
"You're not going to ask why I'm not married?"
Lysandre switched his weight from one leg to the other. The magikarp spurted out some water and then, defeated, went back down from where they'd emerged.
"That would be indelicate," Lysandre said. "I imagine it's none of my business."
Throwing his head back, Sycamore barked out a disbelieving laugh. "Why I'm unmarried is none of your business, but my love life is? That makes no sense."
"I assumed you simply preferred dating, which is why I didn't ask."
"Couldn't you just say that?" Sycamore ran his hand through his hair, tucking some stray strands behind his ear. "Well, you're right. I do enjoy dating."
Lysandre crouched down next to him. He was so close suddenly, his shoulders merely centimeters away from Sycamore's.
"Why?"
"Oh, so that's your business, huh?" Sycamore teased, grinning. "Did you change your mind about me coaching you?"
"On dating? No." Lysandre shifted his weight again, more carefully this time. "I'm curious."
Chewing on his bottom lip, Sycamore stared at Lysandre's reflection in the water, and the way the rays of the sun highlighted the orange tones of his hair and his beard.
"I guess I never really could see myself as a married man," he said, the words coming more easily than he'd expected. "When I was younger, I thought maybe I'd find someone eventually... who'd awaken that feeling in me. But obviously, that never happened."
"Do you regret it?"
The magikarp emerged again, the ripples on the surface temporarily diffusing the thoughtful expression on Lysandre's face. Sycamore turned to look at him.
"Not really. Sometimes..." He looked away again. The magikarp had brought a friend with them, a feebas with huge round eyes who opened their mouth wide upon making eye contact with him. He smiled, exhaling through his nose. "When I'm talking to Professor Birch, he'll mention something about his wife and daughter and I'll think, that sounds nice. But when I really think about it, it just sounds stressful."
"Stressful?"
This time, he turned to give Lysandre a look that made it clear he could tell what he was doing. Lysandre merely looked back, the perfect picture of nonchalance. Sycamore fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Well, as you've so masterfully determined, I'm awful at taking care of myself. It only makes sense that I'd be even worse at taking care of someone else."
"That's not necessarily true," Lysandre said. "You're good with people. That girl agreed to see you again even though you forgot about your date with her."
"No, see, that's different. Dating is different. It's like..."
He tried to think of an appropriate comparison. The feebas had gotten close enough to the edge that the tip of their snout was settled against the dry dirt. Their eyes were fixed on the remains of the pastry box.
"It's like the difference between going out to a restaurant and cooking a homemade meal," Sycamore declared confidently.
Lysandre scoffed. "Interesting."
Sycamore thought for sure that he would have more to say to that, but instead he dropped the subject completely, stretching himself back up to ask about the latest developments in his research. They walked back to the lab, leaving the water pokémons behind even as the feebas glared at them from the shore. Lysandre listened attentively to the list of pokémons they had determined with certainty possessed the potential for mega-evolution and all the technicalities that came with, interrupting only to ask pointed questions about things Sycamore was more than happy to expand on.
He was drafting a graph on his computer to show off how some of the data they'd gathered related to the results they'd settled on when Lysandre looked up at the clock and pressed his palm flat against the desk.
"My apologies, I have a reception tonight," he said, moving to stand up from the chair one of the assistants had dragged in for him. "I can't stay any longer, I'm afraid."
"It's fine," Sycamore said. He stood as well, peering at the clock with some confusion. Time seemed to flow faster when he spent it explaining things he was passionate about to someone else, especially someone as willing to listen as Lysandre was.
When they reached the elevator, Lysandre stopped to stare at him, his head tilted back, his eyes unreadable behind his long eyelashes. Before Sycamore could ask what he wanted, he bent down just enough so that his mouth could reach the other man's ear.
"That piece of paper in your pocket," he whispered, and he was so close Sycamore thought he could feel his beard brush against the sensitive skin of his ear. "Try not to forget about it."
He pulled back, something like a chuckle at the back of his throat, and pressed the button to call the elevator. Sycamore mumbled something he himself couldn't understand.
Only when Lysandre was gone and the elevator making its descent did Sycamore tentatively brush his ear with the tip of his fingers. He ignored the questioning look of a nearby scientist and thought that perhaps he was owed a full week of rest.
*
Watches were intricate pieces of machinery. They were far from Lysandre's field of expertise, yet he'd always been fascinated with how they perfectly encapsulated the duality of practicality and appearances. Their primary and most obvious function was to give the wearer an idea of the time – when they were not encumbered with additional features – but they were also often part of one's displays of social standing. A very nice watch, worn high on the wrist where everyone else could see it, was as good an indication of your wealth as any. Nobody would stop to look at your expensive shoes, but most people would notice the gleam of your watch's golden dial as they shook your hand.
Of course, he himself was above these sorts of considerations. He hadn't worn a watch in years, let alone one with a golden dial. His father would have called it tacky; the truth was that Lysandre simply found the weight and grip uncomfortable. There were other ways to tell the time, just as there were other ways to beget respect or high standing.
Sycamore's watch did not appear to have ever held much monetary value – but Sycamore did not appear to place much value on money. For him, its worth came from the memory of a mother's pride in her only son. Lysandre smiled to himself at the thought.
Once he'd finished the last few adjustments he had in mind for this particular tinkering session, he stretched his back and put the watch back down on his desk. He was confident that he was nearly done; depending on how available he could make himself, he'd probably be able to deliver the finished product to the professor before the end of the week.
His back firmly pressed against his office chair, Lysandre let his eyes wander up, toward the ceiling. He felt strangely antsy, his mind constantly preoccupied with thoughts of his friend's predicament.
Constant tardiness was a nasty quality to be sure, not to mention not even showing up. He tried to conjure to his memory a time when the professor had been late to one of their meetings and found that he couldn't. That realization perplexed him further. They'd spent a lot of time together; barring his family, Lysandre thought perhaps Sycamore had been the one human being he'd spent the most of his free time with. That thought didn't unnerve him. In fact, he prided himself on being close to such a brilliant man. Sycamore was less cautious than him when it came to friendship, but Lysandre thought that theirs was a friendship of a special kind. There were things he shared with him, doubts and considerations regarding the world and its inhabitants, that he didn't even share with someone like Malva with whom he had a much longer history.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Perhaps this was something he could discuss with Malva instead, now that he thought about it. She was more versed in romance than he was, though that wasn't much of a feat. He hadn't lied about his lack of interest in dating: it was, fundamentally, something that would only take up time he could use for something else. When he was younger, he'd sometimes indulged himself with flings, never anything more than a few weeks spent in the steady company of someone else before they had to part. Even sex he found himself bored with quickly, the physical relief not worth the mental energy he'd have to give to a partner he wouldn't even remember the name of a week later.
It wasn't something he could discuss with Sycamore, of course; even though he knew himself to be uninterested in these matters, there was power in availability, and he could tell that men and women both coveted him as much as they often feared him, observing his face in the dim light of a reception room, appraising the shapes of his body on the screen of a television. He didn't think the professor saw him in that way, or at least not anymore, but there was in the admittance of his dissatisfaction with physical relationships a kind of vulnerability that went above friendship, to a place he didn't think they'd ever be headed.
Lysandre closed his eyes. It occurred to him that he'd been daydreaming about the possibility of discussing his lack of love life with Sycamore for several minutes. Perhaps he found a weird sense of satisfaction in experiencing these things by proxy, and that was why he was so taken with helping his friend.
He'd called him "motherly" a few days prior, disconcerted by his behavior. Truthfully, Lysandre couldn't explain why he'd acted this way, or why he didn't seem to be able to stop himself. He liked taking care of Sycamore, a novel feeling that should have filled him with dread but instead brought him a sense of peace. He was stressed, all of his time spent working and planning and meeting investors, standing very tall in crowded rooms surrounded by people hanging on his every word. He was good at it, but that didn't mean it wasn't taking a toll on him. In indulging the part of him that wanted to – he struggled to find a word to describe it that didn't sound inappropriate – fuss over Sycamore's well-being, whether that involved his romantic endeavors or not, he could let himself relax a little. He opened his eyes, frowning. Surely that wasn't right.
The wheels of his chair scraped against the linoleum floor when he pushed back against the desk. It would scratch, probably. He didn't really care. He needed coffee, the strong blends he kept in the downstairs kitchen. Once inside his elevator, he shook his head to clear his mind, blinded by the white fluorescent light. When the doors opened on his mostly empty establishment, populated at this hour only by employees cleaning up before closing time, he realized that he'd kept his hair tied back into a ponytail.
Then he noticed Sycamore sitting at the counter, staring at him as if he'd never seen him before. Lysandre's frown deepened. Did he clean up that badly in casual attire? He walked up to him, dismissing the thought and attempting to soften his features.
"Professor," he said kindly, "I wasn't expecting you tonight. If you're here for the watch..."
"No." Sycamore shook his head. He was wearing a light jacket on top of his shirt, which was more buttoned-up than usual. "I wanted to see you."
"You did." Lysandre couldn't completely mask the surprise in his voice. "Well, I hope you didn't have to wait long. You could have asked one of my employees to let me know you were here."
"They said you were busy." Sycamore looked him up with some curiosity. His eyes settled on Lysandre's uncovered arm; he'd rolled up his sleeves at some point and forgotten about it. "Were you working?"
"On the watch, yes." He paused, caught up in observing the expression on his friend's face. "I was about to make myself some coffee if you'd like to join me," he added, his words finally taking Sycamore's focus away from the muscular lines of his arms.
"Why not," the professor sighed. His eyes glazed over, landing somewhere in the ballpark of the edge of the counter. Lysandre suddenly realized that he seemed twice as tired as he'd seen him recently, which was saying a lot.
He dismissed the last few employees who were still sweeping the floor and who, he suspected, were purposely working as slowly as possible in order to catch a glimpse of his conversation with Sycamore. There was no malice in it – they were young and prone to gossip – but he glared at them nonetheless, the stern look on his face enough to dissuade any attempts to argue. Only when the bell at the door chimed to signal their departure did he start preparing the two cups of coffee before sitting down next to his friend.
Sycamore merely stared at his reflection on the polished countertop. His expression once again betrayed that melancholy Lysandre had first seen weeks ago when they'd had their first conversation about the dates. The professor flinched ever-so-slightly when presented with his steaming cup as if woken up from an unpleasant dream.
"Bad day?" Lysandre asked in an attempt to break the ice.
"I had another date," Sycamore said with a small smile. He held his cup with both hands but didn't lift it yet.
"With the girl from the pokémon center?"
"Oh, no. That's next week. I think." He closed his eyes briefly and took in the scent of freshly brewed coffee. "It was– a girl I ran into this morning. She was very eager to spend time with me, so I thought, why not, right?"
He laughed but there was no humor in it. Lysandre took a careful sip, even though he knew he'd burn his tongue.
"I had to cut it short because I forgot I had something else planned." His fingers were so tightly wound around the cup that Lysandre could see his knuckles turning white. "You know, I'm starting to think I might be losing it. I told Dexio and Sina I won't be at the lab all of next week. I'll miss Juliette but I don't think I can trust myself to show up and not work."
"Your dedication is always commendable, but you can't let it get in the way of your health," Lysandre said gently.
"Yeah," Sycamore mumbled. He lifted the cup to his mouth but didn't drink. "I think seeing the look on that girl's face made me realize... She seemed really worried about me. And disappointed," he added, somewhat bitterly.
"Well, I'm sure anyone would be disappointed to have to interrupt a date in your company." Lysandre smiled from behind his cup and took another sip.
His face half-obscured behind a strand of hair, Sycamore shot him a look that he thought he'd done nothing to deserve. He was trying to cheer him up and seemed to be failing miserably.
"Do you really think that?"
Lysandre swallowed some more coffee before answering. "Of course. You are, after all, a brilliant man whose accomplishments..."
"I don't think she cares about my accomplishments," Sycamore cut him off. There was an edge to his voice that Lysandre didn't particularly like. "I think she cares about my face, and maybe the way my ass looks in my pants."
"Well," Lysandre said. He cleared his throat, inexplicably unsettled. Still, he smiled. "The point still stands."
"No way, I look like shit." Lysandre winced, but Sycamore ignored him. "I'm hoping taking a week off will help, at least."
With that, he drank all of his coffee in one quick swallow. Lysandre watched his throat bob up and down and then looked away, down at his own cup.
"I like your hair like this," Sycamore said after a short silence. Lysandre took another sip of coffee. "You look very... huh, regal."
"You flatter me," Lysandre said. He put his cup back down, looking up to meet his friend's eyes.
"I mean it," he went on. He seemed past his frustration and now he smiled contentedly, his face slightly flushed from the warmth of all the coffee he'd swallowed at once. "I envy you. It seems natural for you, being so well-put-together. You should be the one going on dates every week."
Lysandre cleared his throat once again. "I don't know if I'd enjoy that very much."
"Of course not," Sycamore chuckled. "But, you know... maybe this is something you can help me with."
Cautiously, Lysandre leaned in, as if they were about to discuss trade secrets and were wary of being overheard by spies of some kind. "Oh?"
"Like my hair," Sycamore said, grabbing a chunk of it in his fist to demonstrate. "It looks like shit."
"It... could be taken care of more adequately, that's true," Lysandre said, wrinkling his nose at the profanity.
He watched Sycamore tug at his hair with a pout and wondered how they'd ended up in this odd situation, where his friend was responding to his "advances" – his attempts to care for him – as if they were two pokémons stuck in an unusual mating dance where instead of mating, the end goal was for one of them to be on equal footing with the other. Yet, even as he pondered whether or not Sycamore finally bending down to let himself be cared for was a good thing or not, he found himself elated at the idea. If he could help him, if he could see him be happier... If he could no longer lose focus on his work because something, anything from the sight of someone eating a pastry messily or one of his employees showing up in an unironed outfit, reminded him of the sad expression on his friend's face as he discussed his poor romantic performances...
Yes, Lysandre thought somewhat triumphantly, if he could successfully score Sycamore a date, or perhaps even a relationship, he would finally free himself from these preoccupations. Once he'd no longer have to worry about his friend, his mind would feel clearer. That was the obvious solution.
"You said you were free all of next week, is that right?" he asked. Sycamore let go of the strand of hair he'd been rubbing for the better part of a minute.
"Yeah. Well, I do have that date... I forgot when it was," he admitted sheepishly, "but I can let you know soon."
"Very well," Lysandre said. He smiled.
When Sycamore smiled back, Lysandre couldn't help but notice that he wouldn't meet his eyes.
*
This was an absolute disaster.
Once he'd gone home after thanking Lysandre warmly for agreeing to help, Sycamore was left on his own to face what, exactly, he'd agreed to. His date hadn't even gone that bad. The girl – Tiphaine, he remembered through the haze of his panic – had been fine with letting him go early, and had smiled and told him she'd see him soon. He wasn't hard to find, for Arceus' sake, his lab was one of the main attractions of the city!
Yet somehow he'd been so devastated that he'd felt the need to crawl to Lysandre. He was weak, admittedly, especially to people who were always there to lift him up, but he must have known that going to Lysandre was a bad idea. He was drunk off the attention he'd been getting from him – so much that, at some point, he'd started to wonder if maybe he wasn't purposely sabotaging his health and his dating prospects so Lysandre would fret further. That seemed like something he'd do, damn it all.
And now he'd convinced him to give him a makeover or whatever else they'd come up with. He threw his jacket down the hall and buried his face in his hands. There was no way this was going to end well. Lysandre would, he didn't know which scenario was worse, take him by the shoulder and lean in to check out his new haircut or something, and Sycamore would kiss him. Or he'd adjust the collar of some stupidly expensive shirt he insisted on buying for him, and Sycamore would kiss him. Or he'd hold him back by the waist to keep him from being hit by a car, like they were in a movie Diantha would hate to be seen in, and Sycamore would kiss him.
He was starting to feel light-headed from thinking about kissing Lysandre so much.
There was no way this could end well. Lysandre was just... like that. He wouldn't see it that way. He probably really thought he was just doing his sad, dateless friend a favor. Sycamore tried to remember when, exactly, this had started. It hadn't been the watch – the skin of his arm tingled at the memory. That day, when he'd first talked about his issues with dating... Lysandre had walked him home so he wouldn't go back to the lab. That had to have been the catalyst. It had felt so very nice to be escorted like this, like he was young again and cared for by other men who liked his soft features and his long, flowing hair. He thought he'd moved past that, but apparently not. Apparently within the hardened husk of his scholarly persona – he was definitely light-headed now, because this was ridiculous – resided the soft heart of a maiden.
Well. He did like being doted on. Even before this catastrophe of a situation, whenever Lysandre took the initiative to look after him in some way, he'd felt delighted. It was a bit... condescending, sometimes, too, which was why he hadn't pushed for it too much. Even if Lysandre meant nothing by it, constantly paying for their meals had started to feel insulting after a while.
Apparently, the switch in his brain had been flipped once again, and now he wanted nothing more than for Lysandre to take the reins. He dragged his feet to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
He stared into his own eyes in the mirror and willed himself to think about anything but the way Lysandre looked with his hair pulled back and his sleeves rolled up. It had been so long since he'd entertained these thoughts, surely he could push them back once more. Surely he could stop himself from imagining his friend – his friend and colleague with whom he had only platonic and professional relations – working on his watch with skillful hands, hands that had held his arm so carefully before to–
Arceus, he really needed to get laid, now. If he could finally end a date in someone's bed, perhaps these thoughts would finally cease.
*
He slept terribly, tossing and turning until his alarm rang, so when he finally arrived at the café the next day, it made sense that Lysandre's expression immediately clouded with concern.
"No coffee for you," he said sternly without so much as a greeting. Sycamore grimaced.
"Good morning to you too," he mumbled.
His mood brightened as soon as Lysandre put down a plate of pastries in front of his seat at the counter. He got to work on engulfing as many croissants as he could, drowning his sorrow in the rich buttery taste.
"This is great," he said after swallowing a particularly hefty bite.
Bent down over the countertop, his elbows resting on top of it, Lysandre watched him eat with mild interest. "I'll give your compliments to the baker."
"Give me the address first," Sycamore protested. He sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ugh. I think I sprained something last night."
Before he could say anything else, Lysandre was behind him, hands hovering over his shoulders.
"Let me see," he said.
"It's fine," Sycamore said, desperate to ignore the way his heartbeat picked up. "You don't have to–"
"Let me."
Slowly, Sycamore brought his hand to his lap, granting access to his nape and shoulders. Lysandre took hold of him, his grip so firm and hot, his hands impossibly wide. Sycamore squeezed his eyes shut tight.
"You're so tense," Lysandre muttered under his breath. His fingers dug hard into the stiff muscles, sending shivers down Sycamore's spine. "Did you sleep badly?"
There was absolutely no way Sycamore was opening his mouth for fear of what would come out. He attempted a nod, Lysandre instantly using the tilt of his head to push his knuckles against the sensitive skin of his nape, right where he needed it the most. He gritted his teeth to stifle a groan.
Lysandre's hands mercilessly kneaded through all of the knots he could find, from the back of his neck to the middle of his shoulder blades, grabbing his shoulders roughly, pulling him apart. His eyes were still closed, but it seemed to Sycamore – though it could have been the fact that he was getting delirious from all the sensations – almost as if Lysandre was deliberately targeting the spots that elicited the strongest reactions. He sighed and stirred and let himself be manhandled, his breathing growing erratic, the tension in his muscles relaxing under the sharp touch even as his mind was sent into overdrive.
"St– Okay, stop," he let out after Lysandre's thumbs dug into a sensitive spot on his back so forcefully that his whole body jumped up. "Lysandre," he – mortifyingly – moaned, his eyes half-opened.
The hands let go of him immediately. All of his skin was on fire, including his face. If he looked down at his chest he was sure to find it bright red – but there was no way he was looking down. He licked his dry lips and breathed in and out slowly.
"Okay," he said, again, because Lysandre was standing behind him without saying a single word. "That was– You're good at this, huh."
"I apologize." He had never heard Lysandre speak this way before, his voice strained into a low rumble that made his spine tingle as if he could still feel his hands there. "I seem to have... gotten carried away."
"No, it's– It's fine." It wasn't fine at all. "It felt really good," Sycamore added before he could stop himself.
It was a good thing, he mused, that the café wasn't open on that day. He wasn't sure he could regain his composure in time for Lysandre's employees to show up. Lysandre still wasn't moving, so Sycamore stood up, awkward, holding on to the countertop for support when his legs wobbled under him.
"Bathroom," he hissed through gritted teeth, and stumbled toward the door. Lysandre said nothing, making no move to stop him.
His chest was red, and his neck as well, and his face, and even his ears. His heart was beating so loud still, the only sound he could hear now that he was alone with the sinks and mirrors. He spread his palms on the shimmery surface and put all of his weight into it, trying to convince his body to calm down.
When that proved ineffective, he turned on the faucet and proceeded to splash enough water on his face to drown a man. He thought about – math. Calculating Juliette's potential maximum power. All of the paperwork he hadn't been able to fill out now that he was so tired all the time. Anything at all that wasn't the burning residual feeling of Lysandre's hands on him.
It took way too long for him to recompose himself, or so it felt. Only once he was absolutely sure that the pressure on his groin had reduced to a manageable level, the front of his shirt completely soaked, did he carefully push the door open to take a peek. Lysandre was sitting with his back to the counter, legs crossed, absentmindedly reading a newspaper he must have left in the kitchen at some point. He was, as always, impeccable; nothing in his demeanor betrayed what had just happened between them. Sycamore let the bathroom door click shut behind him.
"Hey."
Lysandre looked up at him and smiled. His nonchalant behavior filled Sycamore with a mixture of relief and annoyance. Still, he smiled back.
"You, huh..." he started, then tried again, "I feel much better. Thank you."
"I'm glad," Lysandre said, meeting his eyes as if nothing unusual had happened. His gaze traveled down to the wet stain on Sycamore's shirt. For a second, he seemed about to speak, but then he pressed his lips together and looked away, toward the exit.
"What's the plan today?" Sycamore asked, determined to follow his friend's example and pretend everything was as it always was.
"Your hair," Lysandre said, pressing the newspaper flat against the counter as he stood. "I've booked you an appointment at Coiffure Clips. I know someone there who'll take good care of you."
Again with the whole taking charge of his life – though Sycamore supposed he had agreed to this. The confidence with which Lysandre was dutifully fulfilling this mission should have annoyed him further, but instead, he found himself burning up again. He nodded before his thoughts could get carried away.
*
They were sitting together shoulder to shoulder in the back of an overpriced taxi when Sycamore allowed himself to ponder his current predicament. He'd always been attracted to Lysandre's self-assurance; finding qualities he lacked attractive in others was a given. He liked listening to Lysandre talk himself up, liked the way he walked with his head held up high even though he already towered over everyone else, and above all he liked that someone who thought so highly of himself also thought highly of him, who oftentimes fell prey to self-doubt. This situation was different, though. While he enjoyed the commanding demeanor Lysandre took on as he appointed himself in charge of his life, it was something else that excited him. He tilted his head a bit, observing his friend sitting so very straight in the car, his hands firmly holding on to his knees as if afraid of letting them wander.
Lysandre was putting himself at his disposal, Sycamore realized when they left the taxi, which Lysandre paid in full. Everything he was doing was done in pursuit of his happiness and satisfaction and nothing else. Sycamore felt his throat tighten and a knot form in his stomach. This was too much. He was too old for this.
He was still deep in thoughts, remembering their conversation about his status as an eternal bachelor in the garden, when the hairdresser waved her hand in front of his face. He didn't even recall walking in.
"Hello!" she said cheerfully, in the tone of someone who'd already repeated herself.
"Ah, sorry," Sycamore mumbled. He looked around briefly; Lysandre was standing next to the chairs of the waiting area, too large to sit in them comfortably, watching him with barely contained concern. "I'm very tired, as you can probably tell."
She laughed. He liked that sound a lot, clear and just the right amount of high-pitched. "It's alright. I just wanted to know what you were looking for."
"Well..." Despite himself, he turned toward Lysandre, questioning. He had no idea what would fit him.
"I trust you'll find a style that would suit him," Lysandre said. He took a step toward Sycamore, then immediately backed off, clenching his fist. The hairdresser shot him a confused look.
"Okaaay," she said, dragging the word out slowly. She gestured for Sycamore to follow her to one of the chairs. "Let's have a look."
She hummed and hawed, stroking his hair with her hands and then carefully combing through the messy strands. He looked different with his hair combed back, and he wasn't sure he liked it very much. Reflected in the mirror, he could see Lysandre standing behind her, staring intently.
"You don't take care of your hair, do you?" he heard the hairdresser ask near his right ear. He watched her pout in the mirror.
"I'm really busy these days. What's your name?" He smiled at her reflection.
Rolling her eyes just a little, she chuckled. "I'm Mélissa. Do you cut your own hair?"
"So you could tell, huh," he let out. His pitiful expression got another chuckle out of her.
In the end, Mélissa opted to clean up most of the damaged hair, but not before giving him a good scrub with some expensive shampoo Lysandre didn't even ask the price of, and whatever else you were supposed to put on there – conditioner, maybe? Sycamore barely listened. The feeling of his hair being gently washed brought him back to the memory of Lysandre's hands on him, so he closed his eyes tightly and thought about something else.
Mélissa asked him various questions as she took care of him, mostly about his work with pokémons. He let himself relax and appreciate her company – and her expertise – smiling and laughing alongside her. At some point, he caught Lysandre glaring at her, his somber expression reflected at an angle in the mirror, but before he could say something Lysandre was already looking away. He remained on the side, waiting near the chairs like a bodyguard.
By the time they were done, it was already past noon, and Sycamore was starving. His hair was only slightly shorter, but it definitely felt softer and smoother when he ran his fingers through it. He liked how he looked in the mirror, though he did wish he'd have shaved more carefully in the morning.
Lysandre appeared to agree, because as soon as they were back in the busy streets of Lumiose, he turned to look at him and say, "You should groom yourself better."
"Is that it? No compliment? You're the one who paid for this haircut so you'd better be satisfied with it." Sycamore rubbed at the stubble on his chin roughly. "I was in a rush this morning."
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Lysandre's gaze following his hand's movements. "You look good," he said flatly. "We could buy you a new razor."
"I think you've spent enough money on my appearance for today," Sycamore retorted, though not unkindly.
He twirled his hair strand around two of his fingers and then let it go, pleased. Lysandre was still watching him with such intensity it was becoming uncomfortable.
"If you want to touch me–" The words came out before Sycamore could really think about it. He closed his mouth.
The expression on Lysandre's face was unreadable, but there was an edge to it that left Sycamore with a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wasn't sure was fear or arousal.
"I mean– Look. You don't have to..." He licked his lips. They were standing on the side of the sidewalk, and nobody was paying attention to them, yet Sycamore felt as if all eyes were on him. He took a deep breath. "I don't mind. Whatever this is. I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Lysandre blinked and looked away. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed almost confused.
"Professor," he said. He frowned, visibly struggling to find the right words – a rare sight. "Please do let me know if I'm overstepping."
Sycamore couldn't hold back a snort at that. "Okay. Let's go eat lunch. I'll pay."
With that, he grabbed Lysandre by the arm to lead him to the nearest restaurant. The other man let him, his compliance emboldening Sycamore enough to hold him a little tighter. He only let go once they'd settled on a place. Sitting at the charming little table their waiter had brought them to – and taking way more space than the table itself – Lysandre still seemed dumbfounded, as if he'd just realized something very important.
"Don't order anything too expensive," Sycamore said, hidden behind the menu. "Wait, they do have options for you, right?"
Lysandre sighed. "You really won't let me pay," he said – a statement, not a question.
"Okay, listen." Sycamore pulled his menu down just enough to allow him to see his friend's tense expression. "I'm really... I'm grateful for your help. So please take this as me paying you back." Lysandre opened his mouth to speak, but Sycamore rolled his eyes. "Don't say something like 'I don't expect to be paid back,' this isn't a negotiation. Now pick a dish."
"Very well," Lysandre relented. There was something on his face that Sycamore would almost have dared to call a blush. It made his heart race, frighteningly so, so he hid behind the menu again and focused on finding something to eat.
When they left the restaurant an hour later, Lysandre held him by the shoulder on the way out. They talked about work and nothing else, not even the fact that by the time they reached Sycamore's place, Lysandre's hand was still lingering close to his neck, only releasing him as they said their goodbyes.
"I'm sorry we had to cut this short," Lysandre said, not quite meeting his eyes, the hand he'd been hanging on Sycamore's shoulder clenched into a fist.
"I had a very good time, and I need to rest anyway." Sycamore smiled at his friend's focused expression. He seemed determined to keep himself in check. "Let me know whenever you're available."
Lysandre nodded. He lingered for a few seconds, as if gathering his thoughts, and then nodded again.
"Well then. Have a good day."
Sycamore watched him walk away until he'd rounded the corner, resisting the urge to call him back. He rubbed at the shortened hair on the back of his neck and sighed, defeated. All of a sudden, the thought of going on a date with someone else had lost its appeal. Once inside, he threw his jacket down the hall and resolved to take a cold shower so he could think about something other than the simmering desire in his gut.
*
These days, Malva was hard to get a hold of; always busy between her news reporting work and her Elite Four obligations. Lysandre himself was hardly available, of course, which did nothing to help. This was why he cherished the rare moments he could spend with her, even if she always took his requests to see her with some condescension. He'd grown used to it, their familial bond more of an old habit than an actual attachment. Still, if there was one person he knew he could go to for honest advice – who wasn't Sycamore – it was her.
And so that was why he'd invited her to join him in his apartment after they'd shared lunch in his café. She was now sitting on his couch, or rather sprawled on it, watching him cautiously behind her red-tinted glasses. She was smiling, apparently already aware that she'd caught him in a difficult situation, even though he'd barely broached the subject. Lysandre stood in front of the window overlooking the street, his pyroar lying on the carpet at his feet.
"What's up? You barely ate anything, and you look like you're going through a major crisis," he heard her say behind him, her smile audible in her voice. "Running into trouble with manufacturing your new invention?"
"Nothing like that," Lysandre retorted. "It's... personal business."
Malva let out a slow whistle. He held back a sigh, so as not to let her know that she was indeed aggravating him.
"Wow, I didn't even know you had any personal business going on. Must be pretty bad for you to need to consult me about it."
"It's Professor Sycamore," Lysandre said, just so he could be done with it.
She laughed, unabashed, like they were teens again and he was telling her about his latest crush – not that they'd ever discussed these things together when they were that age.
"Alright," she said once she'd calmed down. He turned to frown in her direction. "Lay it on me, I'm dying to know."
He did, carefully, exposing the situation with as many details as he could afford. He told her about Sycamore's dating troubles, and then about the watch, and the garden. He didn't, shamefully, tell her about – he didn't even want to let the words form in his mind, let alone the pictures. By the time he was done, Malva was grinning from ear to ear.
"It's not like that," Lysandre said, studying her expression. He didn't even know what "that" meant. The words had come out without him meaning to say them, quick to rebuke whatever it was she was thinking.
"Isn't it? So then, what?" Her smile grew even wider, showing some teeth. "You want to fuck him?"
Lysandre inhaled so sharply the air came through his mouth with a hiss, his nostrils flaring. He clenched his fist, fighting the urge to slam it against the windowsill. His pyroar looked up at him, sensing the tension.
"Don't ever say that again," he snarled.
Malva shot him a look of pure delight from above her glasses.
"It's alright, you know. Plenty of people want to fuck him."
This time, Lysandre's fist rose but did not come down. Instead, he rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.
"Don't," he repeated, closing his eyes.
"So lively," Malva said with a short laugh. "Haven't seen you like that in a while."
"He's my friend," Lysandre enunciated pointedly. "It's nothing like that. He... concerns me. As a friend," he added before she could say anything else.
She held her hands up in defeat, yet she still wore that same smug grin on her face.
"Well, if you want your friend to get dates, you probably shouldn't be all over him. It's going to give his suitors the wrong impression." She watched his frown deepen as he opened his eyes. "Unless you want them to think–"
"You cannot imagine how much I regret bringing this up with you," Lysandre interrupted her. Orléans stood up and began to rub his back gently against his trainer's legs. With the beginning of a smile, Lysandre bent down to run his hand through the soft fur. At least there was someone in this room who was on his side.
"Oh, I think I can," Malva snarked, but this time there was some fondness to it. "But maybe you asked me because you knew I wouldn't be afraid to tell you what's really going on. Hm?"
Focused on the feeling of his pyroar's fur in-between his fingers, Lysandre took the time to think about his answer. It was unlike himself to be so emotional. Dramatic, yes, when it came to his convictions and ideals – he was self-aware enough to realize that. Emotional, and about such intimate matters? Never. Yet, when he thought about Sycamore's expression after he'd wiped the cream off his cheek... When he thought about – his movements halted, prompting Orléans to tilt his head questioningly – Sycamore squirming under his hands as he held him by the shoulders... He felt – something.
Something he hadn't let himself feel for a long time.
And that feeling – that aching, longing feeling, this heat, the kind of yearning he only reserved for concepts and aspirations – brought him in equal parts grief and pleasure. Assisting Sycamore felt good; it had always felt good, even back when he was studying under him at the lab. Yet he could tell now that this went beyond assisting, no matter how begrudgingly. He sighed under his breath, petting his pyroar a little harder. The purrs he received in return soothed him.
"Isn't that just friendship? Striving to make someone else happy," Lysandre mumbled, more to convince himself than anything else. He knelt so he could wrap his hands around Orléans better, mindful of the burning mane. "I don't understand it."
"It's because you need more friends," Malva said, stretching her back conspicuously.
"I have friends in Snowbelle," Lysandre retorted. If he sounded bitter, it was of course accidental.
"Do you take off their watches, micromanage their agendas, and pay for their meals?"
Her tone was biting, but when he looked up her expression was closer to pity than annoyance. Not that it was much better.
"No," he said.
She clasped her hands together like they were rehearsing one of her shows. "Great! Good talk."
"What do you expect me to do?" Lysandre hated how he sounded. He respected Malva, even liked her, but he hated the thought of being below her. He figured he deserved it, what with deciding to go to her for advice.
"I don't think you're asking the right person," Malva said. He didn't like the gentler tone of her voice. If he had to choose, he'd have her go back to berating him. "But, you know, if what you told me is right, it sounds like you're both on the same page, so..." She moved one of her shoulders up in a half-shrug. "Go for it, maybe?"
Judging by the look on her face, his own expression must have efficiently conveyed how he felt about that particular course of action. He straightened himself back up on his feet, letting go of his pyroar. Orléans sat on his hind legs and began to lick his front paw.
"I'll think about it," Lysandre said, as if he hadn't spent weeks already thinking about it, as if it wasn't the only thing he'd been thinking about whenever his mind wasn't occupied with work or with his worries about the weight of all he'd been trying to accomplish.
Malva gave him a look from above her glasses, unconvinced, but he could tell she was allowing him to drop the subject. She liked to be given the chance to take him down a peg; she also knew the joke could only go on so long without becoming tiresome. She wasn't the most patient person.
"With that out of the way," she started, lifting her right leg extravagantly to let it lay across the other one, "how's our business going?"
The pyroar, satisfied with the cleanliness of his paw, put it back down so he could stretch his back fully against the carpet, his yawn close to a roar. Lysandre smiled, soothed by his companion and the change of topic.
"If we can launch next month, I have enough investors lined up to give us a head start," he said, his demeanor much more collected now that there was no more talk of feelings and relationships. "Then we'll see."
"You managed to dig up your father's old notes?"
Lysandre turned back toward the window. The streets were busy at this hour, customers looking to stop by his café, students walking home from their last days of school, stray pokémons running around in an attempt to perhaps catch the eye of trainers looking for new partners. The sight of them brought his thoughts back to Sycamore briefly, wondering what he was up to at this instant. Resting, hopefully.
"My father was a very meticulous man. His research on the uses of a pokémon's raw power was fascinating to read. A shame he let his grief bring him down." If Malva could hear the dryness in his voice, she made no remark; she knew the things he held against his father well enough. "Yes, I believe I found most of his writings. Have you ever been to Geosenge?"
"Not recently," Malva said. She'd given up on lounging on the couch. He heard her heels tap against the polished floor before the sound was muffled by the carpet. "Why?"
Tilting his face to look at her now that she was standing next to him, Lysandre smiled.
"I'm taking you on a vacation."
*
The watch arrived on the day of Sycamore's date with Mimi, carefully wrapped and secured in a box alongside a short note explaining that Lysandre was so very sorry to be unable to deliver it himself. At the back of his mind, Sycamore couldn't help but wonder if this was all excuses so they wouldn't have to see each other too soon. It seemed like the sort of things Lysandre would do – avoid him until he was ready to face their current situation.
Still, the sight of the box at least served as a reminder that his date was on that day. He opened it up, curious about what exactly Lysandre had done. There was another note with the watch itself, concise as well but written much more hastily. It spoke of the holo-caster, and how his watch was now a new sort of prototype for it. Sycamore held up the device in his hand so he could examine it better. It didn't look that much different; the dial was new and looked much nicer, but it didn't seem like whatever Lysandre had added to it had increased the bulk of it that much. He imagined his friend working on it conscientiously, perhaps wearing glasses or goggles to look at the very small parts. It made his heart ache strangely; not with heat like it had before, but with fondness at the thought that someone would create something so intricate specifically for him.
He put it on and followed the instructions Lysandre had written down for him. When he activated the hologram mechanism, a pre-recorded message played, displaying Lysandre's silhouette.
"Professor, I'd like to reiterate my apologies," Lysandre's voice said. Sycamore brought his arm closer to his face so he could look at him better. "Unfortunately, I have some business to attend to outside the capital. I hope you'll enjoy your new watch either way and that it can assist you as we'd previously discussed. Please do let me know if you've run into issues next time we meet." The silhouette paused, wearing the same thoughtful expression Lysandre usually wore whenever he was weighing his next words. "I... hope to find you in good health then. Take care."
The message ended, leaving Sycamore staring into space – or rather, staring at his arm right in front of his face. Take care? That was all he had to say? And yet, when he thought about the barely contained tension in Lysandre's voice as he said it...
He shook his head. He had a date to get ready for, now that he could configure the time on his new and improved watch in order not to miss it.
It rang as he was putting his clothes on, after taking much too long in the shower. He hurried out without bothering with a jacket – the weather was becoming warmer and warmer anyway – and called out for a taxi to take him to Café Soleil. It had been Mimi's suggestion. Not that he would have taken her to Lysandre's café even if she'd suggested it. As soon as the thought hit him, he frowned. Why wouldn't he take his date there? It wasn't as if he and Lysandre were involved.
He really needed to stop thinking about Lysandre so much when he was about to meet up with someone else.
Mimi's eyes lit up as soon as he got out of the car. He liked the dimples that showed on her cheeks when she smiled at him. She was really pretty, and really into him, as evidenced by the way she immediately touched his arm, her face pleasantly flushed, so he decided to make the most of it. If anything, he at least owed it to her.
They sat in the corner, the café buzzing with activity around them, filled with other couples on dates and teenagers hanging out on their off day. Someone had taken out a female meowstic who was now sitting on the edge of their table and observing the other customers through half-lidded eyes. Sycamore couldn't help but sneak glances at her as he ordered coffee with milk and cream. Mimi ordered hot chocolate, apologizing nervously for her distaste of coffee.
"There's nothing wrong with hot chocolate," Sycamore said with a kind smile, detaching his gaze from the psychic pokémon to look at her.
"It's a bit childish," Mimi explained, her cheeks still a little pink. "I know you're friends with..." She trailed on as if hesitating to say his name.
"Oh, I'm not like that." Sycamore laughed, which did seem to make her relax a little. "It's good to be a little childish from time to time."
He winked at her at that, making her blush redder.
They talked about all kinds of things: Sycamore's work at the lab, Mimi's ambitions of becoming a pokémon nurse, their mutual appreciation for the city and for pokémons. When the waiter brought them pastries to enjoy with their drinks, the meowstic left her spot on the table and marched toward them to beg for food. She was quickly called back by her owner, a teenage boy wearing thick glasses who apologized profusely for the disturbance, and then, upon noticing who he was talking to, launched into an enthusiastic tirade about the professor and how much he admired all that he'd done for the region. He only seemed to notice what he was interrupting when Mimi smiled at him from behind her mug of hot chocolate and asked how old he was. They laughed about it afterward, endeared by the fervor of youth.
The sun was still up when they left. Sycamore peeked at his watch; it was late afternoon. He had nowhere to be, so he was considering asking Mimi if she was up for a dinner date when he noticed she was staring.
"I like your watch," she said. She was standing very close to him, brushing some blond strands of hair away from her face with shaky fingers.
He glanced at her, and then back at the watch, and then back at her. He'd managed to almost forget about Lysandre for a few hours, somehow, but now his thoughts were drifting toward him again as he tried to come up with a reply.
"Thanks," he said slowly. Mimi looked unsure for a second, so he grinned. "My friend fixed it up for me."
"Wow, really? That's amazing." She really did seem amazed, though whether it was at his friend or at him for having that sort of friends in the first place, he couldn't say. "Can I see it?"
Her tone was innocent enough, but Sycamore could see the sudden determination in her eyes. He walked a little closer to her, holding up his wrist. She brought her hands around his, her grip firm. Her palms were a little sweaty. Though they were hiding under the shade of the café's awning, they still suffered from the hot weather. Sycamore was dreading the next few weeks, when the heat would begin to rise to uncomfortable levels and he'd have to face Lysandre again. He looked down at his watch, wishing he could rid himself of these thoughts. When he looked back up, Mimi's face was very close and very red.
Well. This was what they were here for, wasn't it?
He pressed his lips against hers, softly at first and then, when she responded in kind, with more firmness. She made a quiet sound against his mouth that he found very enjoyable. He held her by the waist as she threw her hands around his neck.
She looked so beautifully taken with him when they broke away from each other, starry-eyed and eager for more. She snapped out of it, looking down with some shyness.
"Sorry, I don't... I don't usually do this on the first date," she said in a hushed whisper. Sycamore chuckled.
"You didn't do anything, I'm the one who kissed you."
That got a smile out of her. He laced their fingers together and held up her hand to his mouth so he could kiss it gently. She let out a giggle.
"Are you free, or do you have somewhere you need to be?" Sycamore asked. She blinked when their eyes met, her cheeks charmingly warm.
"Oh," Mimi said, avoiding his gaze. "I, huh... I'd have to call my roommate."
"Do you want to?" He squeezed her hand just a little.
She nodded, light strands of hair hitting the side of her face. "Yeah," she said breathily. "I'd like that a lot."
They walked through the streets hand in hand, still holding each other as Mimi quickly let her friend know that she wouldn't be joining her for dinner. There was something so soothing in the simplicity of wanting someone and being wanted in return, without ambiguity, without complications – and yet, when he went to kiss Mimi again once they'd reached the hall of his apartment and closed the door behind them, Sycamore couldn't help but think about Lysandre. He shut it out, focusing on the present, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. She smelled warm, like the sun that was now slowly making its way down outside the windows. He breathed it in and closed his eyes.
*
In the morning, he left the bed as quietly as he could, watching her stir in the absence of his body behind her. He lit up a cigarette in the kitchen, peering out of the window at the pidgeys pecking at the cracks in the lumiosian pavement. Most of the fatigue that had plagued him had left his body, from the week of rest or from the night they'd spent together. He gathered up the dishes they'd abandoned – he was grateful that he'd had some food in the fridge for once – and stacked them all up in the sink. He'd deal with that later.
Just like he would deal with Lysandre later, he thought despite himself, blowing off smoke near the open window. He ran his hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp. If only it were so simple, with Lysandre. Talking him up on a date, bringing him home for dinner. Slipping in bed with him in the dark...
This was cruel to his guest, probably, though she'd assured him that she was fine with the casual hook-up before they'd gotten down to business. She wouldn't be as fine with him fantasizing about someone else in his kitchen while she slept in his bed, or so he figured. Truthfully, he had no idea.
Lysandre definitely wouldn't be fine with being longed for in the aftermath of fucking someone else. The idea made Sycamore laugh silently. He fidgeted with his watch, hitting the button that played the pre-recorded message again and again until all the hologram could say was "Professor" before being cut off by the message rewinding to the beginning.
By the time Mimi got up, scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes, he'd started making something that could tentatively pass for breakfast. She smiled timidly at him, the straps of her tank top sliding off her shoulders in her haste to get ready. Sycamore smiled back, gesturing to the plates on the table.
"Slept well?" he asked as she sat down.
"Yeah." She rolled up one of the poor excuses for crepes he'd managed to cook up and took a bite. "Thank you." She chewed slowly, as if gathering her thoughts, and then added, looking up at him bashfully, "This was really nice. I wouldn't be against doing this again... if you'd like."
He didn't think the crepes were that good, to be honest, but he fought the urge to joke about that. Instead, he nodded. "Sure. I might be busy for a little while, what with my week off work... but I'm sure we can come up with something."
They chatted as they ate, and the crepes were definitely not very good – though, to their credit, they mostly tasted like nothing rather than tasting unpleasant. He kissed her before she left, just because he could, and because he wanted to feel her against him one last time. She grinned at him on the way out, beaming.
Once he'd finished dutifully entering the time and day of their next date on his watch, he sat back down to light up another cigarette. He hit the button again, watching the expression on Lysandre's hologram as he spoke, and wondered what exactly he was going to do the next time they saw each other.
*
It was just Lysandre's luck that the summer heatwave hit Lumiose right as he'd left Geosenge and gone back home, leaving Malva to travel all the way up Victory Road, at her request. The streets were thick with heat, the few passersby forced to go out in this weather wearing as little clothes as possible all the while ingesting as much water as they could. Lysandre despised the warmer season, hated having to peel off the layers of clothing he usually wore. It was either that or succumbing to heatstroke.
He'd begrudgingly settled on wearing a light shirt, unwilling to roll up the sleeves because whenever he did he remembered Sycamore's expression when he'd seen his bare arms. He'd thought about Sycamore a lot on his trip, during the day when he was conversing with the locals or visiting the sites with Malva, and during the night when he was staring at the ceiling of their hotel room and trying to fall asleep without being haunted by the memory of their last encounter.
It had haunted him. It haunted him still, as he made his way toward the lab and tried to collect himself. The professor's week of rest had ended at this point, and Lysandre hoped to find him rejuvenated – or at least looking less like a man who hadn't taken a break in years. Which wasn't that far off from the truth, when he thought about it.
The secretary informed him that Sycamore was in the garden. She didn't look him in the eyes, as usual, but he'd stopped paying attention to these things a long time ago. He rode the elevator down alongside one of the assistants, who ignored him completely.
As soon as he stepped outside, he felt the crushing weight of the sun overtake him. Sweat was rolling down his back, and he regretted his unwillingness to tie his hair back as he usually did in these conditions. He groaned, wiping off his brow with his gloved hand.
Sycamore was standing near the pond, holding up a rambunctious squirtle for one of his assistants to examine. The pokémon kept spitting out water at the poor woman, whose clothes were drenched. Lysandre watched them until Sycamore – who, he noticed suddenly, wasn't wearing his lab coat – finally released the struggling creature, who promptly ran off into the bushes. Then he turned around, probably alerted by his colleague, and waved at Lysandre with gratuitous exuberance.
His shirt was unbuttoned almost all the way down, giving ample view of his damp chest and the hair covering it. Lysandre straightened himself and quickly made his way toward the other man, disregarding the pounding in his ears.
"Lysandre! It's so good to see you," Sycamore greeted him with a grin. His assistant had slinked away at some point when Lysandre wasn't looking at her. "I see you've resigned yourself to dressing appropriately for the weather."
"I suppose I could say the same to you," Lysandre said with a stilted smile. If his turmoil was evident, the professor pretended not to notice it. "You look much better. I'm glad."
Sycamore stretched his arms above his head, revealing even more of his bare chest. Lysandre kept his eyes firmly focused on his face.
"It's all thanks to you," the professor said lazily. He brought up his left hand to show off his watch. "And this! It's working wonderfully, thank you so much."
"I take it your date has gone well, then." Lysandre looked down at the watch, the sunrays catching on the crystal. For some unfathomable reason, he felt almost bitter all of a sudden, when he'd been looking forward to seeing his friend again – in spite of the recent developments of their relationship.
Letting his arm fall back to his side, Sycamore hummed. "You were right to push me toward her. We had a very lovely evening," he looked up at Lysandre, trying to meet his eyes, "and night."
They stared at each other for far longer than necessary. Reluctantly, Lysandre looked away first, ignoring the beginning of a smirk on Sycamore's lips. His face felt hot; he decided to put it on account of the sun.
"I guess congratulations are in order," he articulated slowly.
He could see Sycamore lift one of his eyebrows out of the corner of his eyes, though he was looking at the trees behind him. A sentret was climbing up one of the taller ones slowly, a stack of berries in their arms, their claws digging into the bark.
"I thought you'd be happy for me, you know, what with the whole helping me with my dates thing," Sycamore said.
"Oh, I'm delighted." Lysandre turned to look at him once again, managing what he hoped could pass for a pleasant smile. "It seems to have done wonders for your mood, too."
"You don't look that delighted," Sycamore insisted. He'd walked closer to him at some point, maybe while he was looking away. Lysandre made sure to keep his eyes fixed on his friend's face and nowhere else. When he didn't react, Sycamore exhaled through his nose, seemingly stuck between amusement and exasperation. "Well. How was your trip?"
Lysandre felt himself relax ever-so-slightly. They began walking side by side through the garden, searching for some reprieve from the beating sun. The air was fresher near the pond, but not enough, and it was humid as well, gorged on steam from the still water.
"Geosenge is a very interesting city. The standing stones are a sight to behold for sure."
"You should have taken me with you," Sycamore complained jokingly. "I haven't been there in so long. Back when I was a student, my mentor was very intrigued by our megaliths..."
"Professor Rowan, right," Lysandre said. He was definitely more at ease now, even as he sneaked a glance toward his friend's nape, covered in a thin layer of sweat.
They'd soon reached a shady grove, finding shelter beneath the tall branches. The rare sun rays that could pass through illuminated a few spots in the grass here and there, like stars in reverse. Sycamore pressed his back against one of the trees and rubbed at his neck with a yawn.
"Yeah," he said afterward, not even bothering to cover his mouth. "Ugh, this weather is going to be the death of me."
He fanned himself with his hand and then, to Lysandre's astonishment, unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, scratching at his chest hair with his other hand. His skin was red, like it had been when– Lysandre frowned and averted his eyes, staring at the ground, willing himself to stay exactly where he was.
"Are you jealous?"
Sycamore's tone was thoroughly neutral, yet Lysandre felt like he'd been hit in the chest. He looked at him, even though he didn't want to, meeting the resolute gleam of his eyes.
"What?" He hated the subtle hesitation in his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Pressing a damp – and perhaps shaky, though Lysandre couldn't be sure – hand to his forehead, Sycamore laughed. "I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry," he let out in a chuckle. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"Professor–"
"Oh, don't call me that," Sycamore groaned. He hid his face in his hands. "I thought this would help, but I just can't– I can't do this."
Even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, even though he knew it was a bad idea, Lysandre marched toward him, his legs moving on their own. When Sycamore looked up at him, still half-hidden behind his hands, his eyes were dark, his pupils huge in the dim light.
"I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to know that whichever way you answer is fine," he paused to take a breath and then went on, "but I need you to answer."
The tension in Sycamore's voice was setting Lysandre's skin on fire, making him almost dizzy with it. Perhaps he was getting heatstroke after all.
"Alright," he said, hoarse from all of his restraint. He licked his lips, tasting the sweat there.
Sycamore's hands slid away from his face. There were faint marks on his chest that Lysandre could see now that they were so close and he was looking more carefully. He thought about the night he must have spent with that woman and felt his heart rate speed up from the sudden rush of adrenaline.
He waited for the other man to speak, flinching when he grabbed him by the arm, his grip tight, as if he was afraid Lysandre would run away. At the back of his mind, he thought that maybe that fear wasn't completely unfounded. Sycamore bit his lip, searching for the right way to phrase whatever he wanted to ask, the simple gesture oddly mesmerizing. Their gazes met, and Sycamore raised half a smile at him, even though his eyes were filled with unease – and something else, scorching at the surface, that Lysandre found himself yearning for.
"Do you want me?"
The spot where Sycamore was clutching his arm was beginning to go numb, or maybe it was his entire body that was going numb, from the heat outside and the heat inside. Lysandre opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out.
"It's okay if you– Like I said. I don't pretend to understand you," Sycamore looked away, his smile fading as he furrowed his brow, "but I can't... I thought I'd be able to, you know, move past it, because I already– I already did once. But I can't when you're acting like this, and it's– good. It's good, but it's also driving me nuts. I couldn't focus today because I kept thinking about you and now you're here looking like this and I..."
Sycamore's hand released him as he let his voice trail off, and Lysandre immediately let his own hand lay against the side of the other man's neck, feeling his quickened pulse with the tips of his fingers. Feverishly, he thought back to when he'd likened their conversations on the subject of dating to a mating dance, and found that they paled in comparison to what they were doing now, standing so close to each other in the near darkness of the grove. The look on his face must have betrayed the chaos in his mind because Sycamore's eyes were fearful as they stared into him once again.
"Yes," Lysandre hissed through gritted teeth before Sycamore could pick up his rambling from where he'd left off. "Yes."
The effect on the other man's expression was immediate; relief flooded his face, quickly replaced by unabashed arousal. He gripped the back of Lysandre's neck with both of his hands, pulling him down so their lips could finally meet.
Letting go of whatever restraint he had left, Lysandre felt the thrill of his desire overtake him as Sycamore squirmed underneath him, moaning into his mouth and sucking on his tongue like he was starving for it. He rested his palms against his bare chest, thrusting against the tree until they were tightly squeezed together. Sycamore was rubbing his neck with an urgency that only further increased the intensity of Lysandre's touches: caressing his chest slowly, stroking the hot flesh with his fingertips, biting at his bottom lip, pressing their bodies together even as they couldn't get any closer. He barely registered when Sycamore pushed back suddenly, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale.
"Wait," he said, and Lysandre could feel his heart beat fast against his hand as he tried to kiss him again. "We can't," he went on, half-heartedly, meeting him halfway even as he spoke against it.
"No, you're right," Lysandre breathed out, dragging his teeth against the side of his neck, feeling his whole body shudder under him, "we can't."
"We– Come on." Sycamore let go of his neck, sliding his hands down until they rested against his lower back. He threw his head back with a sigh, exposing his throat for Lysandre to kiss. "We're outside," he moaned without making a move to stop him.
Lysandre froze, the words finally breaching the haze of his mind. They were in the garden, he remembered slowly. His whole body was covered in sweat and his pants felt very tight.
"Fuck," he heard Sycamore pant near his ear. "You– Can you, huh... back up a little?"
His hands were still on his back, holding him more gently now. Lysandre took half a step back, putting some distance between their bodies so that Sycamore was no longer trapped between him and the trunk of the tree they were leaning against. His lips were red and wet and his eyes unfocused. It made the heat in Lysandre's gut stir.
"Let me just hold you," Sycamore asked, almost timidly. "I think we both need a moment to calm down."
Lysandre wasn't sure he could calm down as long as Sycamore's hands were on him, but he nodded, taking hold of his waist as lightly as he could. Sycamore hummed, pushing his forehead forward, letting it rest against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Lysandre said. He felt more than he heard Sycamore chuckle against him. "For tormenting you."
"Oh, you tormented me alright," Sycamore whined.
"I can assure you it wasn't on purpose."
Sycamore laughed again, nuzzling his neck. "So you just give massages to everyone you know?"
"No," Lysandre admitted. He rubbed his thumbs against the firm skin of Sycamore's stomach absentmindedly. "I suppose I'll have to take full responsibility for that one."
"You were really into it." Sycamore sighed and, mirroring his gentle gestures, began tracing slow, relaxing circles on his lower back.
The words slipped out before Lysandre could stop them. "I like seeing you feel good."
He felt Sycamore shift against him, trying to look at the expression on his face.
"Hm," Lysandre said. "I didn't mean to say that."
"You didn't have to say it, I'd noticed," Sycamore teased. He could hear the sly smile in his voice. "Always looking for an excuse to touch me."
"It's one of those things where once you start, you find that you can't stop."
"You make it sound like it's a bad thing."
Lysandre exhaled through his nose, running his thumbs lower, the soft touches making Sycamore squirm. "It was distracting. Are you ticklish?"
"You're getting me in the mood again."
It was meant to be an admonition, but he could hear Sycamore's breathing had picked up, ruining any attempt at scolding. Lysandre let go of him, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his pants.
"Those are tight, huh," Sycamore said. His hands were still massaging Lysandre's lower back. He closed his eyes, to remove the temptation. "I think–"
He was interrupted by a sudden rustle to their left. Lysandre immediately stepped away from him, even though anyone would have figured out what was happening between them in a matter of seconds no matter how far away they were from each other. Mercifully, the silhouette that emerged from the trees wasn't that of a human: it was Juliette, perhaps sent out by a worried assistant to figure out where her owner had disappeared to.
The garchomp considered them both with some curiosity. Sycamore, visibly embarrassed to be seen in this state even by a pokémon, was hastily buttoning his shirt back up. Lysandre held up his arms to... he wasn't exactly sure. His mind was still a bit foggy, his thought process sluggish. The gesture only served to intrigue Juliette, who marched toward him and took a whiff of his hair. Lysandre let her, if only because she was doing it very politely.
Once he'd finished smoothing his shirt back to an acceptable state, Sycamore laughed at her confused expression. "It's okay," he said sweetly, walking up to her so he could run his knuckles against the side of her neck. "Good girl. We, huh... we were about to walk back. Sorry for worrying you."
She roared just a bit, at the back of her throat, as if to chastise them, and then walked off in a huff, back through the thick of the trees. Sycamore rubbed the back of his neck and sighed deeply.
"Let's just go back to the lab."
They walked back under the sun, bright and high in the sky still. Lysandre had no idea how long they'd stayed hidden, how long they'd spent pawing at each other like horny teenagers. He thought he ought to feel a bit more shameful about that, but when he remembered the feeling of Sycamore underneath him, the noises he'd made, the only thing he felt was that dizzying desire, threatening to take over his mind once more. Thus he elected not to dwell on it too much – at least, not while they were in the lab with other people around.
"We need to talk about this," Sycamore said once they were alone in the elevator. Him being the reasonable one was throwing Lysandre off, though he figured that he was also the one more experienced in these matters. "At my place," he added as Lysandre opened his mouth to speak.
"Ah," Lysandre said.
*
Sycamore's place, it turned out, was a lot smaller than he expected. Everything else was about how he figured: messy, covered in books and files regarding his research, the kitchen smelling very strongly of cheap food and cigarettes. Lysandre fought off the impulse to ask permission to deep clean it. Perhaps another time.
They'd gone after the professor had pretexted an emergency of some kind – Lysandre hadn't listened. He was out of his depth. He didn't regret kissing Sycamore, even in the heat of the moment, but this was different. They'd never been to each other's apartments; there had been a few occasions when, after they'd eaten lunch together at his café, Lysandre had contemplated leading Sycamore to the elevator and letting him see where he lived. He'd never acted on it, unsure why the idea unnerved him so much at the time. Now that he was standing awkwardly in his friend's kitchen, the reason seemed evident: this was on a level of intimacy he hadn't taken the time to prepare himself for.
Not that kissing and groping your friend in his laboratory garden wasn't intimate – but it had been spontaneous. He wouldn't have called it a decision, more of an urge. Not a mistake, exactly. A misstep.
Sycamore busied himself with his coffee machine, his nervosity leaving Lysandre feeling a little better. Caffeine would clear up their minds, he thought.
"Sorry about the mess," Sycamore said, even though he'd already apologized as soon as Lysandre had taken one step inside his home. "I would say it's because I wasn't expecting anyone but I don't really tidy up even when I have guests."
Lysandre chuckled. "I don't mind."
They could deal with that later. If anything, the familiarity of it helped keep away some of the panic that threatened to seize Lysandre's heart. Sycamore's lab was disorderly as well; usually, it was Lysandre who would point out when it got too bad, prompting them to clean it up. Sycamore strived when surrounded by piles of books – the only things he seemed able to keep in order were the files on his computer – so it made sense for his place to be this way. Anything else would have unnerved Lysandre further.
He took the steaming cup Sycamore was handing him, the brief brush of their fingers sending his senses into a frenzy. He sipped it slowly to collect himself. Cheap black coffee wasn't usually his beverage of choice, but coffee was coffee. It soothed him like nothing else.
"So," Sycamore said after he'd drunk some out of his own cup. He was leaning against the fridge, sweat running down his neck. The room was stuffy; Lysandre thought that the professor probably only opened the window to smoke. "You and me. You'd say we're..."
"Friends," Lysandre replied instantly. Somehow, Sycamore looked surprised by his confidence, blinking at him.
"Right," he said before clearing his throat. "And now you're in my kitchen after we jumped each other in the garden. I need more coffee."
Lysandre watched him swallow the rest of his cup in one gulp. "I meant what I said," he started, cautious, "about seeing you feel good."
"I know," Sycamore said to the coffee machine as he made himself another cup. "It's just not– I thought you weren't interested."
"Well, it seems we were both wrong about that." Lysandre sipped the rest of his coffee thoughtfully, focusing on the strong taste until he felt more like himself. "I didn't think I'd lose control of myself this way. How unbefitting."
"It was very hot," Sycamore said. His second cup was already half-empty when Lysandre turned to look at him. "I wouldn't mind going further. As in, not just... this one time."
"Don't you already have a date?" Lysandre's tone was guarded. He walked up to the other man so he could put his empty cup in the sink.
Sycamore took a deep breath, then let it out in a sharp laugh. "So you were jealous." He seemed pleased by that, in a way that made Lysandre's heart swell despite himself. "It's just a casual thing. I can break it off if you'd rather I give you my full attention." Sycamore was back to teasing now, almost smug. He turned toward the sink and dropped his cup next to the other one.
Impulsively, Lysandre pressed the palm of his hand against Sycamore's lower back, feeling the dampness of his shirt there.
"Alright," he said. Sycamore shot him an unimpressed look, though he could read his desire plainly on his face.
"You're right that I've known you with more self-control." Sycamore bit his lip when Lysandre slowly lifted the fabric with his thumb to touch the skin underneath. "You really want me that bad?"
Lysandre breathed in through his nose, allowing himself to feel the full extent of his arousal. "Of course."
"Good, because, you know, I need you to take care of something for me." He let his cheek lay against Lysandre's shoulder, tracing the lines of his clavicles with his fingers. "You see, I have this friend..."
"Mhm." Lysandre smiled, gripping the other man's hips with both hands, making him gasp.
"He's been all over me but he won't take responsibility," Sycamore whispered in his ear. His hair tickled Lysandre's face, distracting him.
"One has to wonder how someone could resist you," he said softly. So softly that Sycamore's sly expression wavered into something neither of them was exactly ready for. Before he could say anything else, Lysandre kissed him.
It was different from the urgent, smoldering kiss they'd shared in the garden. They kissed slowly, carefully, their lips brushing together lightly – tenderly, Lysandre thought, and he dug his fingers into the other man's hips a little harder. Sycamore made a sound in response that drove them both further into a frenzy, roughly grabbing the front of Lysandre's shirt to bring their bodies even closer.
When they broke away from each other, Lysandre raised his hand to trace Sycamore's jaw with his fingers, feeling the stubble there. "You really need to groom yourself better," he muttered.
"Maybe I need someone to help me with that, too," Sycamore said. He shifted his head so Lysandre's thumb brushed his bottom lip. "The bedroom is at the end of the hallway," he added, loosening his grip on Lysandre's shirt to flatten his palm against his broad chest instead, staring into his eyes intently.
Lysandre pressed a steady hand against Sycamore's back and then, making the other man gasp in delight, lifted him up so he could carry him. He was surprised to find the weight in his arms a lot less heavy than he'd expected; the professor was absolutely neglecting himself. Something had to be done about that, once they'd gotten the rest out of the way. Sycamore laughed against him, throwing his arms around his shoulders, his eagerness filling Lysandre's heart with a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather, or even with his lust.
"So strong for me," Sycamore said, his tone teasing but his voice strained with want. He covered Lysandre's neck with quick, hot kisses as he carried him toward the bedroom.
Lysandre stopped at the foot of the bed, hesitating. The sheets had been hastily thrown over it, the pillows stacked to one side. He could picture Sycamore's sleeping form in his mind, pushing everything away that would make his body feel any warmer. He smiled, struck once again by the intensity of the fondness he held for the man.
"You've changed the sheets, I hope."
Sycamore scoffed. "I'm single, not feral. Territorial, are you?"
He yelped in surprise when Lysandre unceremoniously dropped him on the bed, and then he laughed, throwing his head back against the sheets.
"You know," he said, watching Lysandre crawl on top of him, the mattress dipping under his weight, "I seem to remember we were coming here to talk. Originally."
"We'll talk later," Lysandre retorted. His eyes scoured the other man's body, committing the image of Augustine Sycamore sprawled under him on his bed, open and willing and covered in sweat, to his memory forever. "Right now, there's something you need my help with, if I recall correctly."
"Oh, yeah," Sycamore dragged the words out in a shiver, smiling lazily, his eyes half-closed. "Treating this like it's a job, huh, really taking this seriously. I suppose I shouldn't expect anything else from you, of course, always so methodical with everything you–"
His voice cut off as soon as Lysandre grabbed his belt.
"Shut up," Lysandre groaned, his fingers fumbling with the buckle.
Mercifully, he did.
*
There was something very hot against Sycamore's backside, so hot it had forced him awake. The heatwave had been killing what little concentration he had left these last few days, and it was only going to get worse until it got better. He mumbled something to himself and rolled over.
The sight of a broad, muscled back triggered an onslaught of memories, all of them very pleasant. He closed his eyes and savored the echoes of Lysandre's fingers on his body, above him, under him, around him. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that this man would have been so willing to please him, so attuned to his needs. He'd had a lot of very good experiences in bed, but this was something else. Compatibility, maybe. It made him wonder – what could they do together if they allowed themselves to?
He'd expected Lysandre to find an excuse to go home afterward, even as the night grew closer and closer. Yet, when they'd finally been thoroughly spent, he'd lain down next to him and resigned himself to sleep. More than the sex – as good as it had been – this was what made Sycamore ponder. Hope even, if he were honest with himself.
For now, he was content to watch Lysandre's back and the way his slow and steady breathing made it rise and fall in rhythm. He wanted to touch him, trace the lines of his shoulder blades with the tip of his finger, but he didn't want him to wake up. Once Lysandre would wake up, the spell would break, one way or another.
Sobered up by that thought, Sycamore carefully stepped out of the bed. He picked up his pants off the floor and granted himself one last long stare at Lysandre sleeping in his bed before he turned his back on him and started getting dressed.
He was mentally talking himself out of his urge to smoke, opening and closing the fridge in his kitchen as if expecting that something he wouldn't feel terrible about serving to his guest for breakfast – especially considering their only dinner had been the other's body – would magically appear in there, when he heard Lysandre speak behind him.
"Good morning," he said. Still thick with sleep, his voice was even lower than usual, sending heated signals to Sycamore's brain that he tried his best to ignore. "What time is it?"
Sycamore looked down at his watch, letting the fridge door snap shut. "It's half-past nine. Why, do you have somewhere you need to be?"
In two large steps, Lysandre walked up to him and wrapped his hand around his wrist, right under the watch, making Sycamore's breath hitch. Even the night they'd spent together still hadn't gotten him used to being touched by his friend so casually.
"Not really," Lysandre said, brushing his thumb against the underside of Sycamore's arm. "The watch looks good on you. I'm glad."
"You've really outdone yourself. I'll have to repay you in kind."
"I think you've done enough to repay me." There was definitely smugness in Lysandre's tone. Sycamore placed his own hand on the one holding his wrist.
"Very funny. I had something in mind, actually," he said. He slowly ran the tip of his fingers against Lysandre's. "How big are your fingers, you think?"
Lysandre pursed his lips, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners. "I think you'd know the answer to that question better than me."
Feeling his face flush, Sycamore laughed, leaning against the other man's body as he did his best to recompose himself. Lysandre was smiling now, in a way that he'd very rarely seen him smile before, and it was exhilarating.
"Okay, alright, I see how it is," Sycamore let out, pushing his grinning face against Lysandre's shoulder. "But seriously, bring your gyarados to the lab tomorrow. And your ring size," he added with a playful glare.
"Very well," Lysandre conceded. He hesitated for a few seconds before letting go of Sycamore's wrist so he could let his hand lay against his hip. "Now, about our talk..."
Sycamore sighed, feeling the crumpled fabric of Lysandre's shirt warm up with his breath. He pulled away, retreating toward the window, and Lysandre let him. "Right. I have to admit, I didn't expect you to stay the night."
"I couldn't leave you." It seemed to be taking a lot out of Lysandre to admit this; he was staring at the table, his hands balled into fists. "I wouldn't mind if we kept... seeing each other. I think it would benefit us both."
"Oh yeah, you said I was distracting, was it?" Sycamore leaned back against the windowsill, looking at Lysandre with sultry eyes. "Glad to know I wasn't the only one, at least. Guess we'll have to coordinate so we can get it out of our system regularly."
"I should be able to free up some time out of my busy schedule," Lysandre replied evenly, meeting his gaze with matching intensity.
Even through the banter, Sycamore could feel a peculiar sort of tension between them. They were purposely dancing around the matter of the exact nature of the relationship they were agreeing to. Lysandre could acknowledge that he felt drawn to him, could admit that he wanted to care for him and stay by his side, but Sycamore knew better than to expect any talk of – he averted his eyes as the word came to mind – romance. He himself wasn't sure whether he was willing to look at their agreement from that angle. There was too much to lose, and if he had to be honest, though he wasn't proud of it, he was fine with sex and company. Perhaps, after a few months, once the intensity had worn off, they could revisit this arrangement.
For now, it was like Lysandre had said: beneficial to them both.
"Great," he said, looking into his friend's eyes again with a satisfied smile. He scanned the kitchen and deflated slightly. "I don't have anything to offer for a celebratory breakfast, I'm afraid."
Humming, Lysandre ran a hand through his hair, combing the unusually messy orange strands back. This was a sight that Sycamore would remember for a long time. "Can I use your shower?"
"Sure," Sycamore said, trying not to think too much about the prospect of Lysandre being in his shower. "The bathroom is to the right of the bedroom."
Lysandre nodded. "Once I'm done, we can go to that bakery you wanted to know about. I'll pay for the... celebratory pastries."
Before he could try to dampen his enthusiasm, Sycamore's face brightened. "Oh, I'd love that."
He lit up a cigarette once Lysandre had disappeared into the bathroom, smoking it quickly while he stared out of the window. The air was just a little bit less warm, a welcome reprieve, especially after they'd spent the night making each other sweat even more. He blew off clouds of smoke in a chuckle and allowed himself one last peaceful moment to reminisce about the intoxicating feeling of Lysandre's body against his.
*
Mimi's happy smile faltered noticeably when Sycamore sat next to her at the counter of the bar they'd agreed to meet up at. He must have looked particularly nervous.
"Let me guess," she said with no bitterness in her voice somehow, "you found someone else and they won't let you fool around anymore."
Sycamore gaped at her, taken aback. "That obvious, huh," he mumbled.
She let out a charming little giggle, her face a little pink. "Well, I'm confident we had a very good time together, so obviously you'd only make that face if you'd met someone."
"We did." Sycamore smiled at her, relaxed by her light-hearted attitude. "You got me, though. I found someone... very territorial."
"Your friend," Mimi said instantly, her eyes sparkling. "The one who made you the watch."
Sycamore scoffed, feeling his cheeks flush from – what, embarrassment? surprise? "Okay," he huffed, "you've been spying on me?"
Mimi beckoned to the barman who'd been polishing glasses to the side, waiting for their signal. Sycamore frowned but dutifully ordered the first drink he could think of. At least the calm demeanor of the barman served to quiet his nerves a bit.
"Your watch," Mimi said while they waited for their drinks. Her smile was just a touch mischievous. "It's already an intimate gift, but the fact that your friend worked on it for you... That and..." She fiddled with a stray strand of hair that had fallen on the side of her face, suddenly shy, before continuing, "The way you said it. Your face lit up, even though we were flirting. I was a bit jealous."
Sycamore rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows with the tip of his middle finger. "Really," he mumbled. He glanced at the watch, the crystal reflecting the overhead lights of the bar.
"It's one of those things," she went on, almost dreamily, taking hold of the glass the barman was handing her. "Thank you. Everyone can see that you're wearing a watch, and if they ask you'll tell them about your friend... I just thought of that when you said 'territorial.' But maybe I'm overanalyzing." She laughed a little, sheepish.
"No, I think you're onto something," Sycamore said, taking a sip of the cocktail he'd ordered.
He thought about the way Lysandre had taken his wrist to look at the watch, satisfied with the way it suited him. He thought about the expression on Lysandre's face when he'd slipped the ring on his finger, just to see if it fit. Would Lysandre tell people that his ring came from him? Surely he wouldn't even need to; people knew they were acquainted, so, naturally, upon seeing him wear a ring set with a key-stone, they would guess who had provided it. The idea that they were – consciously or not – advertising their tie to each other so ostensibly made his head spin. He gulped down what was left of his cocktail so he could blame it on the alcohol.
When he put his glass back down, Mimi was eyeing him suspiciously. "So," she said.
"So," Sycamore repeated. He felt pleasingly warm, the taste lingering in his mouth. He gestured to the barman for another cocktail.
"I'm happy you got yourself a date."
She did seem happy, which was odd considering what they were originally meeting up for. The words she'd used, however, made Sycamore cough a little.
"Oh, it's not– hmm. We're not dating," he clarified, feeling ridiculous suddenly. He regretted not just leaving after giving her the news.
He looked at the barman, pretending to be very interested in the making of his cocktail, so he wouldn't have to see her frown.
"You're not dating?"
"He doesn't– Look. I like you a lot but I don't know if we should be discussing my relationships." He glanced at her once his glass was back in his hand. She flushed, recognizing that she was out of line. Sycamore couldn't help but feel a little bit guilty for throwing that card down, but it was the best way to get her to back off.
"I get it," she said, looking down at her drink. "Here's to whatever you and your friend have, then."
She held up her glass in his direction with a tentative smile. With less certainty than he would have liked, he did the same, clinking his cocktail against hers lightly. She took a sip, looking thoughtful. Sycamore felt his face heat up when he belatedly realized that he'd inadvertently revealed the gender of his friend.
If she'd made any kind of connection to friends that she knew he had, she didn't say. They ended their meeting agreeably, Sycamore using the buzz from the alcohol to fuel him in his attempt to appear as casual as possible. She didn't suggest they meet again, instead pressing a timid palm to the crook of his arm and talking about how she hoped they'd see each other at the pokémon center sometime soon.
Alone on the lumiosian sidewalk and barely tipsy, Sycamore was struck by how badly he wanted to see Lysandre. It was a bad idea; he knew the other man was busy, caught up in the last meetings needed for his invention to be finalized for actual manufacturing. He also knew himself enough to know they shouldn't see each other when he was even the tiniest bit drunk.
Still, he thought back to Mimi's words, tracing the sharp lines of his watch absentmindedly. In the end, they'd traded one kind of tension for another. If they'd been able to confess their physical attraction, surely there was hope for another kind of confession – once they'd both figured out how they felt. He took a deep breath, inhaling the hot summer air, and began walking toward the lab.
There was no point in dwelling on negative feelings. As long as he was beside Lysandre, he knew he could be confident about the future. He held up his watch to his lips and smiled.