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His knees hit stone as unforgiving as him on a random Tuesday, and instead of the anger he should feel, all that’s left in him is anxiety and relief churning together in an ugly maelstrom under his skin.
He looks up at Corbeau, saying nothing. Waiting.
Judgement, is that what he’s waiting for? Laughter and mockery? Criticism and brutality?
It’s what the other could have expected, had this gone any other way. Little shit had caused them so many problems it makes his head spin with rage to think of even as he’s giving up. It’s been years of this bullshit. Always two steps behind, and he’s done. He can’t lose anymore, literally or metaphorically. There are already talks of an overthrow, and he can only quash that kind of rebellion with fists so many times before fear is overridden by necessity. His days are numbered.
Maybe that’s why it twists like a knife in the gut when the kid–barely out of his teens, god fucking dammit–sighs quietly like he’s the one who's been run ragged and offers him a cigarette before lighting one for himself.
Philippe notes that he doesn’t ask him to get up, though.
He takes what’s offered and nothing else, just this side of surprised when Corbeau also extends the flame to him, rather than tossing him the lighter.
They both inhale the poison gratefully, and isn’t that funny? He’d think a little deeper on it, but he’s too busy waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He’ll swear, years later, that Corbeau waited until the exact moment his knees started to ache to speak. To distract him from everything else, because everything else is unimportant. Nothing else matters quite so much. Not to Philippe.
“Did you get tired, or did you see reason?”
Philippe blinks, brow heavy as he frowns.
What a loaded fucking question. He opens his mouth.
“And don’t lie to me. I don’t like liars, and I want to like you. It would be a waste not to.”
Closes his mouth. It’s…the straightforwardness of it is so unlike anything he’s dealt with in the underbelly of the world, where words can be as deadly as any blade or set of knuckles. He’s eloquent with his fists, not his wordplay, but even he can string a more veiled sentence together than that.
Many months will pass before he realizes Corbeau reserves his frankness for a very select few, and that he, of all people, was first.
“Tired,” he answers shortly, and braces himself. Rather than anger or dismissal, however, something eases Corbeau’s brow, just a little.
“I see.”
—
He doesn’t bother with knocking when it’s this late in the night. Makes his way through the door and to Corbeau’s side as the other’s fingers fly over a keyboard. Takes a moment to look the boss over, noting how much energy is still left in the straightness of his back and the lack of typos that would warrant a hand on the other’s shoulder. A sign that he should wind the day down. Sometimes, Corbeau fights it, and others he doesn’t. There’s no real rhyme or reason to it, and Philippe likes it that way. His boss’s moods are ephemeral, and he can’t get enough of that ever-changing landscape.
Tonight, though, there’s no need to interrupt, so he lets his vision blur just a little, trying to keep the headache that’s been brewing at bay. Usually it’s his boss that suffers from migraines, but he’d taken a cheap knock to the head the week prior, and he’s a little slower to heal these days than he used to be. Not that the other guy will know it. Still in the hospital, probably will be for a few months, and lucky to be there rather than the morgue a few floors below.
He’s about to shift his weight to the other foot and ease the stiffness when the typing slows and Corbeau suddenly seems to realize he’s there. He leans back in his chair, turning it to look Philippe over, and his jaw twitches slightly, finding something out of place.
Philippe smiles softly around the eyes. Nothing gets past his boss.
“You’re tired,” Corbeau accuses, tsking in disapproval and closing his laptop without looking at it. “You should have said something.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, sir.” As if he would pass up the chance to see how readily he’s accepted into Corbeau’s space, to the point of fading into the background, with no trust withheld.
His heart swells at the muttered insults his dismissal earns him as Corbeau stands to fuss over Philippe’s already pristine suit and brooch before turning to gather his things.
—
“I see. Then, I have an offer for you. A trade, if you will.”
“A trade. You have nothing I want, kid, no offense.”
A bright laugh, and maybe that’s when it started. Or when he’d become aware of it beginning to stir in his chest. He’d stared, feeling strange, like he might want to inspire that sound again, even at his own expense.
“Don’t I? I think I might. Respite from all this, if nothing else?”
Respite? For him? Laughable, and yet…
Corbeau looked at him evenly, like he could make it so. Like he would, and was only waiting for a chance to prove himself.
See reason…huh.
“I’m listening.”
—
The moonlight bends and curves to the other’s body, casting highlights and shadows where Philippe wants his fingers to be. The jealousy is all-consuming, and he doesn’t fight it.
He pauses Corbeau’s movements with a touch to the hand. Stands behind him, putting his other hand on the desk, pressing his body in just enough to make his boss’s breath catch. The line of his back is a comfort. Better than any drug or medicine to cure the ills of the day.
He kisses the exposed parts of his neck. The slope of his covered shoulder. His small stature means nothing when it comes to the immense respect the city and its inhabitants carry for him, but Philippe sure likes how easy it is to envelop like this. To put his own back against the world. If there’s one thing all his strength and reputation is good for, it’s keeping his boss safe.
He waits for instruction, verbal or otherwise, content with the feeling of soft hair against his face and watching the studded jewelry in his beard raise little red lines on delicate skin.
“We have a bed for this, you know.”
Philippe laughs low in his chest. “Nah. Too tired to make it all the way to the other room.”
Corbeau snickers, shaking his head, but he leans back into Philippe, reaching a hand up to stroke the side of Philippe’s face, craning his neck to throw a sardonic look his way.
“But not too tired for this. Got it.”
“Mhm,” he agrees, pressing his face in closer, lost in the warmth. It’s intoxicating, being this close. The vibrant buzz of nicotine and the lazy stupor of good alcohol all at once. He’ll never once apologize for being a desperate fucking addict where Corbeau is concerned. Not when it took them so long to get here. “Never too tired for you.”
Corbeau turns in his arms, climbing up onto the desk to let Philippe crowd in closer. Hooks his legs and digs sharp dress shoe heels into the meat of his thighs like an incentive is needed to keep him there. Occupies his mouth with Philippe’s, letting the truth of those words swirl in the quiet space.
—
“Give your gang to me. Let me show you reason. In return, you will stand as my second. All of the benefits of what I can do–what I will do. None of the exhaustion. You won’t have to hold onto control, because it will be mine, and what’s mine will also be yours.”
—
Sweat drips from his temples, and his limbs shake from how many times he’s pressed in deep, but Corbeau’s commands and sounds of reward are all the encouragement he needs to grip the edge of the desk and keep going. Corbeau’s mouth at the skin over his heart, to his neck, teeth biting at his shoulder…it keeps him strong. The weariness he experiences these days is physical. Everything else, everything that dogged his hours–waking and sleeping–before has vanished. He’s never been more at peace.
You should tell him that. Tell him he’s not alone in this. That he never has been.
He shakes the thought away, driving in harder, craving and coveting the broken syllables of his name that Corbeau gives him so easily. He could do that, couldn’t he? Just…say things like Corbeau does? It’s safe to do that. The boss had promised to always hear him out. To take the million things that brought tension to his shoulders and make it dissipate, just as Philippe does for him.
Seeing reason was finding out that Corbeau always kept his promises. Didn’t make them unless he could fulfill them. Philippe had always thought only proof through actions could ever be enough for him, but one word from Corbeau is enough to put his mind at ease when he knows that Corbeau always follows through.
—
“Did you know that I was only a few days from giving up, when you came to me?”
The shock must have been written all over his face, because Corbeau rolled his eyes.
“Don’t look so surprised. You had me watching my back for years. You weren’t the only one who was tired.”
His heart had dropped to his stomach. All that time he’d wasted, when they could have been working together like this so much sooner, if only…
“And are you still tired now?”
Something in him he hadn’t even known was knotted up and bound unwound when Corbeau smiled at him, genuinely and without pretense. All that honesty, just for him.
“Of course not. Not like that. You watch my back for me now. I don’t have nearly as much to worry about when you’re there.”
—
“Ugh, get off me, you’re getting heavy and we’re sticking together,” Corbeau complains without heat, breath slow to return. Philippe grins, tightening his arms until Corbeau squawks indignantly and smacks his arm. Clearly, the serenity of satisfaction has run its course. “Can’t feel my fucking legs. Off. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” he teases, lifting up, startled laughter escaping when Corbeau grumbles and locks his fingers around the back of Philippe’s neck to pull himself up with him. “Now, boss, here I thought you wanted me off.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t want to go with you.”
“Haven’t had enough of me, eh?”
“Never.” Immediate. Almost fierce. Philippe swallows hard, emotion stinging in his throat. He doesn’t have to ask if Corbeau means it.
“Okay,” he says, because it’s one word in place of the three that want to crawl their way up from his chest, and it’s just…
He could, he could.
I love you.
You’re my reason.
I trust you.
He picks Corbeau up, and the hum of approval is almost enough to soothe him.
“Ah, now you have the energy to make it to the bed. While also carrying me after we’ve both come twice.”
“Is there a question in there?”
“Did I inflect as such?”
Corbeau’s lips are turned up at the corners, eyes closed with his head leaning against Philippe’s chest, and those words bang and howl in their cages. Action, for him. His actions speak for him, don’t they? Don’t they tell everything of his devotion? His gratitude? His lo–
“Stay,” Corbeau says, when he’s clean and naked under the sheets, and it’s not a command, but Philippe is no less helpless to comply.
“You did well, Philippe. You always do. I’m grateful you’re around.”
“I’m glad you’re here, you know. I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, Philippe.”
“Philippe, you’re the only person I can trust with this.”
“I love you. So much more than you know. I don’t expect you to feel the same for us to keep doing this, but if someday you see reason…”
He undresses, watching Corbeau take him in. Thinks about all the time he wasted before. All the exhaustion that could have been eased for them both if only he’d said something sooner. Gave in and let Corbeau have what was always his, even before he knew he was meant to be here.
—
“Fine. Since you seem so sure of yourself, I’ll bite. You can have the gang, Arceus fucking knows I barely have it anyways.”
“You misunderstand.” And now, he’s aloof, even in his honesty. Playing his hand closer to his chest, just when Philippe had thought he might have seen all the cards. “It’s you I want. Your fealty. Your submission. Not whatever half-assed part of yourself you’re thinking I can have until you find something more convenient.”
Something in him rails against the notion (and a quieter part flutters, putting a hand to glass panes between steel beams). He’s never submitted to anyone or anything, even when he loses. He says as much, and Corbeau shrugs.
“How’s that been working out for you?”
—
He climbs in next to him, and it’s not as if they haven’t done this before. They’ve shared a bed before, many times, and even still…
His eyelids are so heavy, already trying to close with the softness of the mattress and the arms seeking him out, but he opens his mouth, because if he doesn’t say something now–
Corbeau gently presses the pad of his thumb to Philippe’s lips, replacing it with his lips. With action over words in a way that should surprise Philippe, but somehow doesn’t.
“Tell me in the morning, when you won’t fall asleep before I can say it back. Don’t worry, I won’t let you get away without it.”
Tomorrow, then, after he’s rested. He can trust that.
—
It hasn’t. Hasn’t worked at all. And for what? He has nothing. He’s so fucking tired.
Corbeau haltingly moves forward, holding a hand out. Only…when Philippe takes it, he doesn’t patronizingly force Philippe to his feet in some show of benevolence.
He uses Philippe’s leverage as an aid to sit next to him on the stone, staring into middle distance while he smokes, giving Philippe a moment to think it over. Shivers when a breeze tumbles across the pavement.
He unconsciously leans in to lend more warmth against the chill of the morning, and Corbeau doesn’t hesitate to accept.
Maybe it really is that easy.
—
He falls asleep between one breath and the next, but not before he manages to fit them together, a hand on his face easing him into dreams. Philippe smiles in his sleep, bringing Corbeau in closer, settling again.
—
“Okay.” Nods in determination and possibly just a little bit of hope. “Okay, I’m in.”