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At the end of a long day, ever since he'd left home, came to Lumiose and started with the underground fighting ring, Philippe had a penchant for smoking. It used to be a throughout the day thing as a rebellious teenager (before he became a rebellious young man), when he would sneer at his parents when his mother looked away (acting like every small thing he did that displeased her was a personal attack) and his father hissed through a clenched jaw to put it out. Since joining with Corbeau, it had become a less desirable vice (albeit, an unfortunately still necessary one) given he could not smoke within the confines of the office as it was unprofessional, and getting Corbeau to come with him just for that was out of the question.
He also couldn't spark up if they were out walking together - who would take the Boss seriously if his right hand man was more concerned with the cigarette in his hand than the man he was meant to be protecting. This left him with precious few options other than his balcony when he got home, so when it reaches the end of the day, and Corbeau asks if he minds waiting a moment while he finishes up payroll, Philippe nods gladly, then takes himself up to the Syndicate's rooftop bamboo garden to sink down onto a bench and enjoy a smoke while safe in the knowledge the boss was downstairs in his office, no visitors able to gain entry.
Many took a man of Philippe's size and particularities to be a cigar smoker - the reality was that the same terrible, shitty, cheap cigarettes he'd been smoking for nigh on twenty years were exactly what he still kept to, even now. He even had grunts pick them up for him, lest Corbeau spot his purchase at the little corner store they both tended to purchase food from on the way home. He knows Corbeau had thought he'd stopped completely - he was assiduous enough in ensuring he smoked outside, in the air so that any lingering traces would be easily explained by spending time among others that did smoke, and that he never smoked in his presence - and seeing him might prove a disappointment.
And he really, really doesn't want to be a disappointment. Not to Corbeau.
The pack he pulls from his pocket is towards the end of its lifespan - only 3 slightly bent (from resting so firmly against his breast in his inner pocket all day) remain. He pulls one out and puts the end in his mouth, and hunts out the lighter in his pocket. This had been a gift from Corbeau in the early days, a small thank you that Philippe knows he bought out of the meager salary he had taken in those days, the rest focused on going back into their investments.
He flicks it open, and lights the cigarette, before carefully closing it and taking a long, slow drag, exhaling the smoke slowly as he looks out across the city skyline, finally allowing himself a moment to unwind. Things had changed a lot since Corbeau had made that gift of a lighter to him. The Syndicate had been built into something incredibly successful, and now both of them took real salaries. He taps off the ash into the small tray built into the wall for the grunts who liked to smoke.
He wouldn't change anything of what they'd built together. Plenty he'd change about before it, though. Before he'd let Corbeau take his reins and told him direct me, command me, use me, Philippe had been a deeply angry and aggressive man. He'd made his living with his fists, through either intimidation or protection depending on who was paying, and those fists had very nearly put paid to his and Corbeau's connection before it ever began.
It haunted him, sometimes. When he helped the Boss with something that needed two hands, or when he agreed to help Corbeau with medication or helped him apply Raikou balm when he'd scrunched himself into a back ache and it made it just so, so apparent how small and lightly built he really was even now. It haunted him and he'd think about how he'd been smaller and thinner when Philippe was after him. He'd been half starved for most of his teenage years, and Philippe had wanted to hurt him. It made him feel sick.
Anger was another habit that Philippe had struggled to really shake. Still there coursed a torrent of it within him, cold fury that was saved for those who had wronged Corbeau, though he knew that had not always been the case. Back then it was fire, and he exploded at Corbeau's mildest little prods and pokes.
He was reasonably sure that if he had gotten hold of Corbeau back then and taken a few swings that he might have killed him. He knew he could kill with just his bare hands. What if he'd chosen to wear knuckles? What if-
"Nasty habit, you know."
Philippe startles, spilling ash, which prompts a string of curses. Corbeau laughs, and slips out of the door more fully to help Philippe dust ashes from his sleeve.
"Sorry, Boss. Know you expected me to give up."
"Did I?" Corbeau looks amused,his fingers still splayed in the act of brushing away ash. "I don't recall ever saying that. You putting words in my mouth, Philippe?"
Philippe makes a small face, feeling slightly chastised. He hadn't actually told Philippe to stop, and he hadn't made it a clear expectation that he wanted him to. He'd assumed that Corbeau disapproved, given his insistence that he not smoke at all during work hours.
"I - I thought you were against it, Boss."
Corbeau smiles, then reaches out for the cigarette still perched between Philippe's lips. He examines it, then chuckles.
"You're definitely paid enough to afford better smokes. You trying to make me look cheap?"
"No, Boss! I-"
Corbeau raises the cigarette to his lips, and takes his own slow drag, never breaking eye contact. Philippe feels his breath hitch in his throat. He holds it a moment, then exhales,smoke wreathing him and his glasses, his yellow eyes still fixing him in place before he shifts, reaching up to return the cigarette to between Philippe's lips, fingertips brushing them.
"I don't mind you smoking, Philippe. If you need one, just come up here. Just do me one favor."
He wants to question how he's meant to think about doing his Boss a favor when he's still thinking about the fact his lips are touching where Corbeau's just were, and that indirect contact is making him consider things he usually manages to corral to greedy nights to himself in his too-small bed in his apartment. Eventually, he catches himself, blinking away his surprise.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Get better smokes. They still won't be good for you but it might be nice to join you for one that doesn't taste this shit."
His face softens into a smile.
"Yes, Boss."
"Now. Let's head home. I'm sure you can grab better ones at the corner market on the way."
Philippe smiles, and stubs his cigarette out, shoving the extinguished butt into the disposal unit. Then holds the door open for Corbeau, the younger man chattering at him as they head down in the elevator and out of the building for the night.