Chapter Text
It takes a strong man to do the kind thing.
Mr Corbeau extends the cigarette from behind his shoulder. Philippe leans down, crooks his short neck as much as it will allow to take an obedient drag.
At the same time, the needle goes in. A prick, the feeling of something like poison sliding into the gluteus muscle. The feeling of something like heaven.
‘Thanks, boss,’ he says. These are words forged into the steel of set phrases, galvanised by all the emotion his fists fail to express.
Mr Corbeau inclines his head minutely. He shuts his eyes and inhales from the same cigarette, sliding his left hand down the front of his suit to smooth out any wrinkles.
Reverent, Philippe takes a knee on the bathroom floor and runs his hands down the boss’ slacks. He tucks all his desire into his breast pocket, focused only on making Mr Corbeau’s exterior represent the perfection inside.
When he stands, Mr Corbeau’s eyes alight on him like he is a passing Trubbish. Philippe’s heart leaps.
‘Let’s go call in a few favours, shall we?’
‘Yes, boss. Let’s.’
It takes the strongest man to wield kindness like the blade it really is.
The boss brushes his hand across the bench, brows furrowed at the clear slime that comes away dripping between his fingers.
In the sunset, a body of day arching in the last throes of pleasure, Philippe does not race to coddle him. Rather like offering a lighter, he passes Mr Corbeau an Antidote.
‘A Goomy,’ the boss identifies, spraying his fingers and wiping the residue away with his lavender handkerchief. ‘The police were called out for this?’
‘You know how they get,’ Philippe replies. ‘It’s a miracle they even took the Goomy away.’
‘Do you suppose they arrested it?’
‘Must’ve.’
‘Hah.’
Mr Corbeau’s laugh blooms white in the winter air. He brings his Gyarados out, who quickly sprays the bench down with a well-controlled Hydro Pump. His Scolipede guides them to the other affected benches, and here they are, doing Grunt work.
It’s the boss’ pleasure to get his hands dirty. Philippe is just here to make sure no one sees him doing it.
Raising his head, Mr Corbeau listens to each Battle Zone activate. The night falls altogether like a heavy curtain.
‘Think we’re missed?’
We always miss you. Always.
‘The guys know you’ve got important work to do.’
Nothing curls Mr Corbeau’s lip like an appearance by Ms Jacinthe. She has struggled for nothing in this city, not for foot soldiers or the countless surgeries that turn her a little more girlish every time.
When Lysandre handed him money for his double mastectomy, the boss turned right around and poured it into real estate for the unhoused. That’s the kind of man he is.
After Ms Jacinthe roundly trounces him in her next tournament, Mr Corbeau folds his hands. He sees the remaining matches through to the end, though his eyes flick to the elevator door, as if expecting Lysandre to make another surprise appearance.
Lebanne joins them outside for their smoke break. Mr Corbeau lights her cigarette, ceding the bench so she can spread out in an unladylike-manner.
‘Can’t stand her,’ Lebanne grouses. Her gaze surfs over them both, then stops on Philippe. ‘Are you guys still fucking?’
‘Mind your language ‘round the boss,’ Philippe warns her.
Mr Corbeau waves a pacifying hand.
‘Only if you’re still in flagrante with her.’
‘’Course we are. Only difference between us is, you don’t hate your subordinate’s guts.’
‘I can’t imagine hating Philippe.’
That’s the kind of man he is.
Devotion is the language of the saint with the crown of helios. The saint with the crown of thorns. Any saint, every saint, each little girl who has known she will grow up to be a mighty king.
Each morning he rises to iron the boss’ suits; to work out in the Syndicate’s gym, lifting weights to transform into power; to set out the boss’ clothes; to spar with the Grunts in a weekly rotation, keeping them on their toes; to take a shoehorn and stretch the boss’ shoes, to kiss his hand and summon him awake.
‘Two meetings in the morning, one after lunch,’ Philippe lines out, reciting the schedule from the clipboard in his hands. ‘Gotta put the screws to a friend of ours trying to price out the guys we put up in those Jaune apartments.’
Over his cup of coffee, Mr Corbeau’s mouth twitches, only perceptible if you breathe every breath for his sake. He says, ‘Move them to Hotel Z.’
‘Sure, boss. But Urbain won’t be happy.’
‘Then tell them when they’re Taunie,’ he answers dismissively.
‘You got it.’
Mr Corbeau sighs and Philippe thinks, I have loved you for three thousand years of longing.
In his office, Taunie fingers the tasteful gold of priceless artefacts, the boss’ personal collection of miscellany from ancestral Hisui. Philippe watches her with hackles indefinitely raised, never able to relax around this kid. That’s what makes Mr Corbeau so much better than him: he hasn’t shown a whiff of anger yet.
He’d certainly be in the right to do so. It’d make Philippe’s heart swallow itself inside out and run razor wire down all his nerve endings. That side of the boss is just– perfect.
‘I need a loan,’ Taunie says, turning back to them.
‘You sure, kid? You couldn’t repay the last one,’ Philippe answers.
‘Well, not me. Hotel Z,’ she replies breezily.
Philippe glances at Mr Corbeau, whose expression hasn’t changed.
‘We have business now, and… and we can definitely pay it back in time.’
She’s full of hot air. It takes the boss an eternity to answer; Taunie copes poorly with being made to wait.
At last, the boss says this: ‘You don’t need a loan to become friends with us.’
Taunie baulks, surprised at being caught out.
Philippe grins.
Mr Corbeau extends his hand. ‘You’re a poor bluffer.’
Taunie shakes hesitantly.
How lovely he is.