Rustshipping Wedding Weekend 2026

Prompts:

Day 1 (Friday, June 26, 2026):

Proposal

Day 2 (Saturday, June 27, 2026):

Wedding

Day 3 (Sunday, June 28, 2026):

Honeymoon

Information and Rules:

We accept both SFW and NSFW submissions for any type of prompt or fanwork mediums.

All submissions must be centered around Rustshipping (Corbeau x Philippe from Pokémon Legends: Z-A).

When posting, please indicate the day you’re participating in, what prompt(s) you chose, and any relevant content warnings.

Fanfic writers can upload their submissions to our Archive of Our Own (AO3) collection: “Rustshipping Wedding Weekend 2026”!

All works must be original and made by you. We will not tolerate plagiarism or theft of another person’s work and the use of generative AI is forbidden.

Prompts:

Day 1 (Friday, June 26, 2026):

Proposal

Day 2 (Saturday, June 27, 2026):

Wedding

Day 3 (Sunday, June 28, 2026):

Honeymoon

Information and Rules:

We accept both SFW and NSFW submissions for any type of prompt or fanwork mediums.

All submissions must be centered around Rustshipping (Corbeau x Philippe from Pokémon Legends: Z-A).

When posting, please indicate the day you’re participating in, what prompt(s) you chose, and any relevant content warnings.

Fanfic writers can upload their submissions to our Archive of Our Own (AO3) collection: “Rustshipping Wedding Week 2026”!

All works must be original and made by you. We will not tolerate plagiarism or theft of another person’s work and the use of generative AI is forbidden.

Prompts:

Day 1 (Friday, June 26, 2026):

Proposal

Day 2 (Saturday, June 27, 2026):

Wedding

Day 3 (Sunday, June 28, 2026):

Honeymoon

Information and Rules:

We accept both SFW and NSFW submissions for any type of prompt or fanwork mediums.

All submissions must be centered around Rustshipping (Corbeau x Philippe from Pokémon Legends: Z-A).

When posting, please indicate the day you’re participating in, what prompt(s) you chose, and any relevant content warnings.

Fanfic writers can upload their submissions to our Archive of Our Own (AO3) collection: “Rustshipping Wedding Week 2026”!

All works must be original and made by you. We will not tolerate plagiarism or theft of another person’s work and the use of generative AI is forbidden.

Prompts:

Day 1 (Friday, June 26, 2026):

Proposal

Day 2 (Saturday, June 27, 2026):

Wedding

Day 3 (Sunday, June 28, 2026):

Honeymoon

Information and Rules:

We accept both SFW and NSFW submissions for any type of prompt or fanwork mediums.

All submissions must be centered around Rustshipping (Corbeau x Philippe from Pokémon Legends: Z-A).

When posting, please indicate the day you’re participating in, what prompt(s) you chose, and any relevant content warnings.

Fanfic writers can upload their submissions to our Archive of Our Own (AO3) collection: “Rustshipping Wedding Week 2026”!

All works must be original and made by you. We will not tolerate plagiarism or theft of another person’s work and the use of generative AI is forbidden.

They tear down the hall, breaths heavy, hearts pounding, and burst through the hidden door into the alley where Philippe had left his motorcycle, saddlebags already packed with everything they would need for the week. They delay leaping on so Corbeau can slide a hand onto Philippe’s shoulder, a silent request for him to bend down and kiss him soft and eager. It only lasts a moment, because they’re both breathless and laughing, giddy with excitement and amusement at their own antics.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Corbeau whispers, stepping back so Philippe can straddle the bike and then offer him a hand up. He tucks his glasses into his shirt pocket and shoves his helmet on, blinking hard. (He still gets disoriented having something so tight around his head.) Philippe, in his own spiked black helmet, glances over his shoulder and offers a questioning thumbs up. Corbeau wraps his arms around Philippe’s middle, returning the thumbs up against his stomach. Philippe nods, grips the handlebars, rolls his shoulders—

And they’re off, speeding through the streets, the locations they know so well a blur of colors around them. They’re at the gate within minutes and zooming into the countryside in less than thirty. Their first stop is a little cottage on the outskirts of Camphrier Town, rented for far above the regular price as a show of generosity from the Rust Syndicate--and a request for confidentiality. All the places they’ll be staying for the next week are under a similar agreement. Even though, away from their home turf, the leaders aren’t recognizable on sight, and the Syndicate’s reputation has never been better, caution and privacy are never a bad thing, especially since it’s the first vacation-adjacent trip either of them have taken in maybe ever, and they’re trying to honeymoon in peace, damn it. They’d spent twenty minutes at the courthouse the week before, getting all the papers squared away, and promised the Grunts that they’d have a party with everyone when they got back from “eloping.”

This trip is just for them, no guests allowed.

After settling in the homey cabin, they stretch and let their teams out to play in the back yard, which is small but roomy enough, housing numerous beautiful plants and a sparkling pond that Arbok and Gyarados waste no time splashing into. It barely fits the two of them, Arbok mostly laying on top of Gyarados, but they seem perfectly content, relaxing in the cool water while Scizor, Barbaracle, and Roserade bask in the sunshine on the shore. Steelix and Aggron rest in the shade of a tall, old tree, while Skarmoy and Scolipede curl up near the house, never wanting to be far from their trainers. Finally, Klefki and Garbodor are investigating some of the flower bushes, Klefki gathering pollen to play with while Garbodor delicately strips dead leaves and petals to snack on, not disturbing the healthy ones.

Corbeau and Philippe watch them for a bit before announcing that they’re going into town.

“You’re in charge, Lady, Vendetta,” Corbeau says with a playful smile. “Don’t burn the house down.” After giving head pats to their aces, they take the short walk into Camphrier proper to do all the touristy things: check out the castle, the little market, the cute restaurant with locally grown ingredients, the berry fields where said ingredients are grown. The growers welcome them enthusiastically, explain the planting process and types of berries, and send them home with huge jugs of fresh berry juice to share with their teams.

By bedtime, everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, and are eager to return to their Pokeballs. Corbeau and Philippe curl up together in the big, plush bed, which takes up half of the cabin.

“It’s so quiet,” Corbeau muses, “No sirens, all-night parties, ZA Royale…”

“It is,” Philippe agrees. “It’s kinda nice. But I think we’d miss the noise if we stayed gone too long.”

Corbeau hums, “Yeah, probably,” before snuggling into Philippe’s chest to sleep.

~~~

The next day sees them riding West to a little beach house huddled between Cyllage and Ambrette. Neither of them are typically beachgoers, but they could hardly skip it on their region-wide tour, least of all when the weather is perfect: warm but not hot, with a pleasant breeze and plenty of sunshine. They set their teams loose, and then Philippe spends a long time (too long, in Corbeau’s opinion) making sure that Corbeau is completely coated in sunscreen. He doesn’t complain, but he does make a face until Philippe finally laughs and stops.

“All done,” he promises.

Corbeau huffs as he takes the bottle from Philippe and circles around to return the favor.

“You always go overboard. Most of my skin won’t even be exposed.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but you can’t be too careful. Might lose that shirt in the wind or the waves.”

“I’d be so disappointed. It’s my favorite stolen shirt.”

Corbeau’s favorite stolen shirt—stolen from his husband, of course—is whatever stolen shirt he’s wearing at the time. Today, it’s an old band tee, the logo faded and the collar beginning to fray. It hangs to his mid-thigh, so he knots it at his hip, showing off his new purple swim trunks and his slim, pale legs.

Philippe goes shirtless with matching black swim trunks, and Corbeau is glad that they have the beach to themselves (and Corbeau has Philippe to himself.) He’s pale, too, but Corbeau is practically translucent by comparison. The sunscreen really is a necessity. Sunburns would put a hell of a damper on their joyful journey.

They wade into the water, laughing when Gyarados and Barbaracle chase each other past them, splashing them with cool salt water. Corbeau stumbles a bit and reflexively reaches for Philippe, who catches him and pulls him close without hesitation. He grins down at him, haloed by the sun. Corbeau is transfixed.

“Hi, Beau.”

“Hi.”

He leans up for a kiss, and Philippe is happy to oblige, leaning down to meet him—only to stagger when a wave crashes into his back. He sputters, laughs, and picks up Corbeau, quickly retreating to shallower water. He sets him on his feet and fixes his hair, which had been thoroughly messed up by the waves. When he’s presentable, he rests his hands on Corbeau’s cheeks. Corbeau leans into him, eyes shut, and sighs. He would happily just stand in the surf with Philippe’s hands on him.

“Wanna look for shells?”

“Sure.” Corbeau grabs Philippe’s hand and leads him down the beach, poking at anything that interrupts the smoothness of the wet sand. They find a few broken shells and some glittery sea glass, then nearly trip over some tiny newborn Krabby, skittering in a line after an adult from one burrow to another.

“They’re so small,” Philippe whispers, eyes watery. Corbeau squeezes his hand and leans against him.

“You and babies,” he murmurs, utterly smitten. Philippe smiles, raises their hands to kiss Corbeau’s knuckles.

“You know me. I’m weak to cute things.”

“Oh, I know.”

On their way back to the house, they find a Shellder that does not appreciate being found; it sprays water at them before hastily reburying itself. They apologize, grinning at each other, and pick up the pace, calling out to their Pokémon when they see them gathered on the shore, some of them napping, others playing in the sand.

Aggron lifts her head at their approach, dislodging some of the sand that had been piled on top of her by the others. Philippe looks over them all and shakes his head.

“We’re all gonna need to get sprayed down.”

Aggron and Steelix don’t particularly like the idea, but they have sand and sea water in their joints, so they reluctantly agree. Once all the Pokémon are washed by the hose on the side of the house, Corbeau and Philippe crowd into the outdoor shower.

“This would be easier if we went separately,” Philippe observes, trying not to smile.

“Probably,” Corbeau agrees, reaching up to help Philippe rinse off without getting water in his eyes.

The group dries off in the setting sun while Philippe fires up the grill. The fridge had been kindly stocked with fresh ingredients, including some of their Pokémon’s favorites, so he’s free to stretch his culinary muscles. Corbeau sits at the bar, watching him eagerly. He hadn’t realized quite how tiring swimming and walking around in the heat could be, and he’s worked up an appetite. Philippe’s cooking is always amazing (plus, he looks very handsome with his apron on and that soft frown of concentration in place.)

They eat dinner at the bar, enjoying their food alongside the last of the berry juice over ice. Reluctant to get sandy again, their Pokémon play in the grass and trees that line the path back to the road. Soon, they head into the house to sleep, the evening breeze making the thin curtains dance. Pleasantly tired and full of good food, they doze off quickly, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

~~~

They leave early the next morning on the longest leg of the trip, a straight-ish shot to Coumarine. (They had agreed from the start to skip Geosenge.) The coastal flora surrounding them begins to blend with more mountainous terrain, some forest-dwelling Pokémon peeking at them from the trees. Lumiose is beautiful, and it’s their beloved home, but every change of scenery reminds them of what they miss by staying put in their domain. The city’s caged and carefully coiffed trees and shrubs can’t compare to the wilder plants and animals that live between settlements, nor to the ancient giant at the heart of Coumarine that houses its gym.

They timed it right—today is one of the days that the gym is closed to challengers and open to tourists, when small groups of out-of-towners like themselves are guided around the less hazardous parts of the huge tree. While Corbeau’s interests align more with toxic creatures and plants, the rare specimens that grow on and live in the branches are intriguing in their own right. He points out the ones he recognizes to Philippe, and makes note of the few he doesn’t for later research. A few Jumpluff float by on a strong breeze while Weepinbell and Wormadam snooze in the sunlight. Corbeau and Philippe pause near the top of the tree for a photo together, arms around each other’s backs, smiles more relaxed than they’ve been in a long time.

When they get back to ground level, they head to the bayside shops for lunch and souvenirs, loading bags with incense and local snacks. They let their Pokémon out for a short break in the sea air before getting back on the road to their final destination of the day, a small rental just inside Laverre City. Despite it being early Summer, Laverre’s foliage seems to be eternally Autumn-colored, and the cool breeze that had followed them all the way from Camphrier is beginning to be cold.

They let their teams loose to explore the area, warning them not to go far. Even for Poison and Steel types, a mischievous Fairy could still cause trouble—though they are pretty sure that the local Fairies aren’t quite as mischievous as they could be, and get along with the other residents.

Corbeau and Philippe spend the evening enjoying the scenery, checking out the outside of the gym tree, and browsing the boutique. Living in Lumiose and with personal tailors on call, they hardly need to buy new clothes—but they find a few charming, locally-made accessories, anyway. They finish with dinner at the café, bringing home dishes for their Pokémon, who are eager to try new foods. As they settle into the house, stripping off their outer layers, Philippe opens one of the suitcases.

“Gonna pull out the cold-weather things,” he says, laying out their jackets and heavier clothes. As he straightens up, Corbeau hugs him from behind, face buried in his broad back. He smiles and covers Corbeau’s hands with his own. “Cold already?” Corbeau squeezes him and sighs.

“Nah, just like holdin’ you.” Philippe laughs warm.

“Good thing you get to hold me for the rest of our lives, then!”

He feels Corbeau grin against him before slipping around to his front, smiling up at him.

“I love you, Philippe.”

“I love you, too, Beau. Thank you for marrying me.” Corbeau barks a laugh and lightly smacks Philippe’s chest.

“Thank you for marryin’ me, Sunshine. I know you’re crazy about me, but you know better than most people how much of a problem I can be.” He gently runs his fingers through Philippe’s beard, carefully avoiding the sharp dermals. His eyes are so soft, Philippe almost feels bad for teasing him.

“What, and you’re not crazy about me?”

Corbeau rolls his eyes and squishes Philippe’s face.

“You know damn well that you’re solely responsible for how crazy I am.”

Philippe reaches down and scoops Corbeau up, drawing a gasp from him.

“You were already crazy when we met, Little Bird…”

They fall into bed, hands and mouths wandering familiar paths like it’s the first time.

~~~

In the morning, they set out for Anistar by way of Dendemille. The temperature seems to drop by the minute, and Corbeau clings to Philippe even tighter, increasingly grateful that his helmet blocks most of the wind. The hard road begins to angle up, and before long, they’re surrounded by the rich green terrace fields of Dendemille Town, dotted with both farmland and charming old houses.

They stop at the Pokémon Center to stretch and warm up, enjoying hot coffee offered at the Mart counter. One of the other patrons mentions that there’s a Showcase going on soon, so they double-check the time and exchange a glance.

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Philippe remarks, “and how often are we gonna catch one of these?”

So they kill time until the performance by looking at the large windmill in the center of town and the lovingly-tended fields and homes. Philippe holds Corbeau’s hand and looks at him sidelong.

“Would you want to have a cute old house like that? When we retire?”

“If we retire,” Corbeau corrects, and then smiles. “Yeah, maybe. Or like the one at Camphrier. Cute and cozy and cheesy, lots of plants and sunshine.” He squeezes Philippe’s hand, and Philippe tips his head back with a contented sigh, eyes shut.

“Yeah. Don’t have to wait to retire for all of that, though. We can have plants and be cheesy now.”

“You’re cheesy enough for both of us,” Corbeau murmurs, resting his head against Philippe’s shoulder.

The Pokémon Showcase turns out to be interesting, if unusual. Neither Corbeau nor Philippe had ever seen one before, though they understand the basics. Similar to a Pokémon Contest or Musical, but with Trainers performing alongside their teams in a series of challenges—not only battles and appearance-related tests, but also baking, trivia, dancing, and most uniquely, Rhyhorn herding.

“What is it with Kalosians and running Rhyhorns around?” Corbeau mutters, brow furrowed. Philippe laughs quietly and shrugs.

They enjoy following along with the quiz and Poke Puff baking, Philippe making mental notes of recipes and ingredients he wants to try. By the time the winner is announced, it’s past time for lunch, so they find a somewhat remote area for a makeshift picnic with their teams, who don’t seem at all bothered by the cold.

“Don’t mess with the crops,” Corbeau reminds their excited Pokémon, though they know better and are for the most part very well-behaved. Gyarados and Skarmory race through the fluffy clouds while Klefki is most interested in the Mart sandwiches the humans are sharing. Once everyone is fed and has had time to stretch out and relax, they get back on the road.

They reach Anistar City in time to see the sundial event, parking the motorcycle nearby to watch the huge golden rings spin, and the light through the crystal casting glittering snowflakes over the city. It’s not only beautiful, but a mechanical marvel that Corbeau didn’t think was particularly fantastic viewed through a Rotom phone, but at a distance of thirty feet takes his breath away. He holds onto Philippe’s arm, lost in a moment of gratitude for his husband and the years of struggle they’d gone through to get to this point.

“It matches your glasses chain,” Philippe observes quietly, “almost.” He’s squinting, the magnificent crystalline magenta reflecting in his pale eyes.

Corbeau blinks up at him, smitten for the millionth time.

“Yeah.”

They get a photo with all their Pokémon in front of the sundial, then hurry out of the cold into the café, which is famous not only for local delicacies, but also for showing off rare and even legendary Pokémon. Unfortunately, they don’t see anything they haven’t seen before, but a particularly strong and healthy Nidoking does pique Corbeau’s interest.

“You know,” he says, fork paused in mid-air, “I’ve thought about it before, but maybe I should look into getting a Nido or two. What do you think?” He smiles at Philippe’s curious expression.

“…For your team, or HQ?”

“Oh, that’s an idea. Originally, I was thinking of my team, but having a few of them running around HQ could be great. Maybe the whole line, beautiful and intimidating to anyone who might cause trouble…”

“And our own guys.”

“Okay. Maybe just one or two, then.”

On the way to their rental, they make a quick stop at the boutique—more unnecessary accessories!—and then head to bed, Corbeau immediately burrowing beneath the covers to cling to Philippe.

“Is it just going to keep getting colder?” he complains.

“Yeah,” Philippe replies, rubbing one big, warm hand up and down his husband’s back. “At least until we head back toward home.”

“I suppose I can handle one more day,” Corbeau sighs, wiggling up the bed enough to kiss Philippe before bundling as tight as he can to sleep.

~~~

They put on their warmest clothes before getting on the road the next morning, sneakers traded for boots, jackets for coats, a brilliant purple scarf tucked into Corbeau’s shirt and helmet for fear of his neck being frozen when they reach Snowbelle. They’re halfway to the city when the first snow flurries start to fly past, sticking to their clothes and helmets before melting off due to the ambient heat from the roaring bike. As they approach, the snow-covered roofs and trees coming into view around the mountain hills, they’re stricken by the impression that Snowbelle City looks like a holiday painting or postcard.

They let their teams out to explore the snowy landscape (Roserade elects to stay in his ball; Corbeau can hardly blame him.) Philippe and Corbeau make their way to the center of the city, examining the shops and statues lit by icicle lights, distinguishable from the real thing only by the softly-colored glow. Philippe is bending down to read the plaque on a statue when something cold and wet smacks into his shoulder. He straightens up and turns around to see Corbeau smirking and preparing a second snowball.

“You really wanna do this, Beau?” he asks, smiling in spite of himself.

Corbeau responds by launching the next snowball, which Philippe dodges on his way to scoop up a large handful of snow, packing it quickly.

“Shit,” Corbeau laughs, leaping to the side before Philippe can nail him.

They play for about ten minutes, laughing like children while getting their clothes and hair soaked, pausing whenever someone else walks by and smiles or rolls their eyes at the two grown men having an intense snowball fight. Finally, panting and shivering, they hurry to the Pokémon Center to warm up. Their teams meet them there, also ready to get out of the cold, and they get lunch for everyone, plus hot cocoa for themselves. The Mart clerk tells them that it’s their most popular non-Pokémon item, and that they change the special flavors each month. Corbeau sticks with the original, but Philippe happily tries the chili-chocolate.

“That’s good,” he sighs. “Never had anything but sweet or minty cocoa.”

“Aren’t spicy cupcakes a thing?”

“Yeah. Spicy and sweet is a good combo. Surprisingly complementary. That gives me some ideas…”

Corbeau smiles fondly as Philippe whips out his pocket recipe book and scribbles in it.

Once their clothes are dry, they recall their teams and head out into the snow again, arm in arm.

“Anything else you wanna see?” Philippe asks.

“Nah. Let’s get outta here. Those Bugs are callin’ my name.”

Philippe grins and leads Corbeau back to the motorcycle. They point themselves in the direction of home and warmer weather, speeding out of the mountains and into the lowlands, the snow and scrub giving way to bushes and brightly colored flowers.

It is abruptly too hot for coats, so they stop before long to stretch their legs and shove the heavy outerwear into the bags. Corbeau crouches to examine some deep red flowers, scrunching his nose and making Philippe smile.

“Allergies?” he asks. Corbeau rolls his eyes.

“That’s how I can tell we’re getting closer to home. I hate the cold, but at least there’s less pollen.”

By the time he stands up, Philippe has fished out his allergy medicine, and passes it over along with his water bottle. Corbeau smiles, amused and in love.

“Thank you.”

Their final rental is a sturdy stone cottage on the outskirts of Santalune Forest, with some of said forest growing up the walls and over the roof, giving it the look of ruins where one might find ancient carvings and sleeping Legendaries. Except instead of a cave entrance or some kind of puzzle to gain entry, the cottage has a state-of-the-art security system with a door code that is changed between guests. Philippe and Corbeau get settled, put their bags away, and then set out to explore the forest before nightfall. Philippe makes sure they’re both sprayed down with repellant that won’t harm the environment (or Corbeau’s sensitive skin) but will keep the microscopic biting Pokémon that no one has figured out how to catch yet from eating them alive.

As soon as they enter the forest, they’re blanketed with stillness and quiet, outside sound and wind blocked by the wall of trees. They move slowly, careful not to disturb any nests as they wander, examining plants and traces of native Pokémon. Santalune is known for its Bug types, but the forest is also home to monkeys, birds, and a small number of Pikachu. None of them are especially rare, but Corbeau is quietly hoping for something unique.

They mostly see larva and pupa Pokémon watching them from trees and under brush, but the occasional Vivillon flutters by, its brilliant wings shining in the sun peeking through the canopy. Just when they’re about to turn back, a familiar chittering meets their ears, and suddenly, they’re surrounded by Venipede, clicking and blinking at them.

Corbeau grins wide while Philippe wraps an arm around his back, ever protective; they likely mean no harm, but even baby Bugs can be dangerous.

“I didn’t know Venipede lived her,” he remarks quietly.

“Neither did I.” Corbeau considers for a moment before tossing Vendetta’s Pokeball a ways away so she doesn’t land on any of the Venipede. She looks around and is immediately ecstatic, lowering her head to let the Venipede touch her face and horns with their antenna. It’s not as though Lumiose doesn’t have any Venipede—she and Corbeau met there, after all—but it isn’t common to run into them on their regular business.

While his enormous Scolipede plays with a small army of Venipede, Corbeau pulls Philippe down to sit with him. It’s comfortable, quiet except for the soft Pokémon sounds. At some point, a brave Weedle crawls into Corbeau’s lap, and he grins before petting it.

“Bugs like you almost as much as Poison types,” Philippe murmurs.

“I like them, too,” Corbeau replies, resting his head on Philippe’s shoulder.

“I wonder where we’d be now if you decided to specialize in Bug types instead?” Corbeau snorts.

“The same place, I imagine. Just with a different logo. And probably a different name. Bugs don’t really have anything to do with corrosion, do they?”

“I guess you’re right. We’d still be us. Acting like a married couple for a decade before getting’ hitched.”

Corbeau’s sharp laugh startles the Weedle, and it glares before wiggling back into the bush it came from.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “except with Bugs.”

“Except with Bugs.”

They finish their packed meals, warmed on the stone oven in the stone house, which surprisingly has room for all their Pokémon at once. So, everyone stays out of their balls for the night, curled up all around the room, roosting on couches or on top of each other, Vendetta on the floor with her head resting on the bed, Lady on the chair nearest the bed, head tucked under her wing but facing the door, protective even in her sleep.

~~~

Home is a relatively short ride away, so they stop in Santalune City proper for breakfast for everyone. They eat outside, at little tables near the Roselia fountain, which Corbeau points out to Roserade, who mimics the pose. They get a photo which amuses their teams greatly, find a few more souvenirs, and then get back on the road. It’s been a very fun week, but they’re ready to be home, sleeping in their own bed and running their Syndicate.

They can see the ruins of Prism Tower from the road, and their hearts hurt bittersweet. The Tower, the city, the people had suffered so much in a short amount of time, but they’d survived, come out stronger, and the bones of the city’s symbol still stand, reclaimed by the very re-wilding project that had contributed to both suffering and joy.

They don’t have to be back until tomorrow, so instead of heading to the penthouse at HQ, they go to the apartment that they keep for when they need to separate themselves from their life’s work for a few hours. They drop their bags, let their teams out, and then Corbeau flops facedown onto the bed. Philippe chuckles and ruffles his hair on his way to unpacking. Corbeau dozes until the bed dips under Philippe’s weight, and he looks up to see his husband smiling softly and holding a tray.

“Tea, Boss.”

Corbeau sits up and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you. Maybe after tea we can have a bath?”

Philippe grins.

“Way ahead of you. Already popped open a new oil and soap.”

“Oh, Philippe,” Corbeau sighs, squeezing his hand. “What would I do without you?” Philippe kisses his head.

"Hey there, Champ."

With ice pack held against one eye, Philippe turns his head then his upper body to get a proper view of whoever's calling to him.

In the nighttime shadow of an alleyway stands the Rust Syndicate leader. Arsène Karasuba Corbeau, say the newly-printed fancy business cards he'd just picked up, a little luxury to celebrate five years with the group—but just Corbeau, thanks. Monsieur if you're on the other side of his desk. Or, if you work for him...

"Boss—?" says Philippe, squinting with his good eye.

He doesn't quite seem able to zero in on an exact location until the man flicks on a lighter, bringing the flame to the cigarette held in his mouth. "Fine handiwork in there," says a grinning Corbeau, each syllable coupled to an exhaled puff of smoke.

"You were watching...? I didn't see you."

"Of course not."

For he hadn't been in the venue proper, only peeking into the warehouse through unguarded windows to spectate the fights inside. Not between pokémon, no, but between people. One-on-one hand-to-hand combat. Seedy, savage, most certainly unsanctioned: an ill-advised place to enter for a small fry like himself, especially without some kind of retinue. But he'd had his suspicions about where Philippe has been disappearing to in the evenings lately, and he wanted them confirmed beyond all doubt.

Obviously, though, he elects not to mention any of that. He's got to keep up his air of shadowy mystique, hasn't he? At least a little bit even for the second-in-command he has come to know over the past few years.

So instead he simply asks, "Where you headed?"

"Oh, just home."

"Home? Not to celebrate with your mates?"

That last word gets an ironic chuckle out of Philippe. "They're, uh, not really my mates, you know. I'm not too keen on drinking with that kind of crowd."

Corbeau says, "How 'bout with me then?" and steps out of the alley, to Philippe's curious regard.

"You?"

"Why not? Have some drinks on the boss's dime."

A moment of consideration... then a faint smile as Philippe agrees, "All right, why not," and they start on their way.

It's not the rarest of occasions that the two of them go out for drinks. Given how the actual getting drunk is a rather expensive aim for these particular men, though, the alcohol itself ends up being more of a pretense for them to just... hang out, really. Talk about business or culture or pokémon; sip some new tipples together; enjoy a bit of live music; even play a round of billiards if there's an open table.

But mostly it's about the talking. Once upon a time Philippe was but a young brute, whose sole ambition was to prove his strength. Yet even back then, when Corbeau met him, bested him and was convinced to recruit him, it was plain to see there was more to the mobster than met the eye. Raw ore waiting to be refined, or whatever. Under Corbeau's wing he soaked up knowledge like a roselia with the spring sunlight, growing more worldly and well-spoken by the day. And now, self-effacing though the fellow may be, Corbeau finds that no other can keep pace with himself quite like Philippe. Philippe, surely the sharpest motherfucker in that warehouse of sweaty brawlers—he'd bet good money on the truth of that.

So one can perhaps understand that Corbeau wouldn't want to wait until the bar to broach this subject.

"Listen, Philippe," he starts, head briefly turned to blow smoke away from his companion, "if you're truly committed to your Rust Syndicate career, and the work that we do, then..." A pause, then a sigh. "I'm gonna have to ask you to give up street fighting."

Philippe looks sharply down at the other man (walking on the side of his uncovered eye). Confused, maybe even defensive, reads Corbeau from this reaction—yet he keeps his composure otherwise. "May I ask why, s'il vous plaît?"

"Yeah, well, you know ordinarily I couldn't care less what you do off the clock. But that sorta shit ain't—..." Just in time Corbeau reconsiders his next words; though Philippe is thick-skinned to the point of being ironclad, a more tactful approach seems suited to this big an ask. "You're tough, I know, you can take all those hits and dish 'em out twice as hard, and when you're young it feels like water off a duck's back."

"Young?" interjects Philippe with a touch of amusement.

"Sure, twenty-six, are you kiddin'? That's still young." It might be strange to be giving advice like this as someone six years his junior, but so what. Philippe has been deferring to his wisdom for half a decade, why stop now? "But look, all that head trauma—" he points decisively at the man's injured eye— "is gonna add up. You keep this up for long enough and it really will. And one day, however far in the future it is, it'll start to impact your ability to fulfill your duties."

Corbeau stops in his tracks to fix Philippe with a solemn stare.

"And then I'll have to let you go."

"What—?" Philippe stammers out, now very much shaken up. "Boss, come on, you—" Another false start. A breathy disbelieving chuckle. Corbeau waits for him to gather himself. "I'm the champ, you saw it for yourself. I'm not gonna let that happen to me."

"You good enough to not get hit in the head? Ever? Is anyone?" counters Corbeau, gesturing with the cigarette. "It's brutal in that ring, you know that even better than me. You got barely enough of a set of rules so nobody dies, hopefully, but everything else is fair fuckin' game. ...Although, you could be, like, playing Unovan football and I'd still be telling you the same thing."

Philippe only looks back in silence, his tenuous smile long faded. Unable or unwilling to respond.

Leaving Corbeau to go on, "Of course, the choice is ultimately yours. Should you continue down this path I'll be sure to see you off with the most generous severance package I can afford when the time comes. But..." He sticks the cig back in his mouth and sighs through his nose, unsure how exactly to say this so it doesn't come across as too personal... It still feels strange enough that Philippe generally insists on being referred to by a given name, even if he does have reason for it. Corbeau settles on, "I would really prefer not to lose such a valuable employee," not liking the distance but wanting to play it safe.

Stranger yet, he doesn't say, that it's a choice that must even be made at all. In truth he'd figured out almost immediately after taking the boss's seat (or having it all but foisted onto him, rather) that Philippe was sneaking off pretty regularly to moonlight in some sort of fight club. But as Rust started to hit its stride he seemed to hear the call of the ring less and less, until Corbeau was sure he'd stopped altogether.

So what pulled him back in?

Couldn't be coercion, or else the whole of the Rust Syndicate would be coming over to have a chat, Corbeau would guarantee it. So if it's of Philippe's own accord, then... well, maybe a better question is what got him started to begin with.

He must have had his reasons, all those years ago. If Corbeau has to guess, pride chief among them. Pride in his then-newfound strength, his reshaped body: strike while the iron is hot. For on the streets there was hardship, to be sure, but severed from his family he found freedom as well, the freedom to choose his own fate. And when he'd gotten his hands on a supply of testosterone it must not have taken long for him to burst forth from his body like an imago breaking free of its cocoon.

Yes, the freedom, the becoming after having to endure for so long... Corbeau has felt it just as much as him, how utterly intoxicating of a feeling it is. Which makes it all the more crucial that he knows when to hold himself back.

And he knows. He'll listen. Though it may be a matter of pride, when it comes to Philippe pride is not the be-all and end-all. He has set aside his wounded pride before. It is the whole damn reason the two of them are here together now.

Corbeau's hunch is on the money: Philippe's rugged face softens, and he gives in, "Okay, Boss. I can do that."

"Good—"

The word is barely out of Corbeau's mouth when he cuts him off, "If you give up smoking too."

Corbeau jerks his head to Philippe. The thin trail of smoke in front of his face follows. "...What?" it is his turn to ask, eyebrows lifted in naked incredulity.

Which only emboldens Philippe to turn the tables further. "Oh, I know you're tough too; you can handle all that poison no problem when you're young. But it'll add up over the years, you know," he says, a confident grin on full display when his ice-pack hand drops to his side. Under the streetlamp his black eye, a mark of both endurance and erosion, almost seems to glow on his fair skin. Shiner, indeed. "I'm prepared to remain at your disposal for as long as I can; imagine what we could accomplish in not only the coming years but decades working as one. So what a shame it would be if you had to step down at sixty, fifty, forty, for your ailing health—maybe terminally so. And then where would we be? The Syndicate, and Lumiose—and me?"

Silence from Corbeau now. Staring down the other man as though he were a wild arbok, tension thick in the moments before one of them lunges. The fuckin' nerve to take Corbeau's arguments and use them against him...!

...But, once the initial flare of his indignation subsides... of course he must respect it. After all, that sort of thing is exactly why Philippe is as high up in the chain of command as he is.

And it is logical; Corbeau can acknowledge this as well. As solid as steel plates. Nothing need be said about the long-term consequences of smoking that hasn't been documented to hell and back; the sooner he pushes through the withdrawal, the better chance he stands of dodging those bullets. Really, even in the short term it might be more trouble than it's worth. Not just because of the cost, or the filth of it, but also...

He has to face the facts: he looks young, and he will look young for a good while yet. Between his short stature, fresh complexion and dogged commitment to remaining clean-shaven, he is all but destined to get carded nonstop into his thirties. To, perhaps for even longer, attract strange looks and pointed remarks from passersby who spot him smoking, doubly so when he's out of business wear—and Arc forbid any cops take notice of him. Waste of his goddamn time.

And even besides all that... something about... Philippe asking this of him...

...The vague, unidentifiable nature of it doesn't sit right with Corbeau. Yet—just—something about it.

Not until years later will Corbeau be able to look back and recognize it as a glimmer of hope. That Philippe doesn't see him as a god or a force of nature—implacable, inexorable, indefatigable—but as a person. A person who can be challenged and loved and made better for it like any other.

Perhaps this is even what has the most weight in the end. Though he cannot name it in the moment, he finds himself steered away from making his counteroffer—to merely switch from smoking to vaping—and towards agreeing outright to Philippe's terms.

"Fine."

As his first step he extinguishes his cigarette on the grimy concrete of a nearby building, holding onto the stub to toss into an appropriate receptacle. His free and unsullied right hand is extended to shake.

"It's a deal, yeah?"

"Deal, Boss!!" is Philippe's overjoyed answer, beaming as he claps his hand to Corbeau's. "You and I, we're in it for the long game!"

For all that he presents himself as courteous and composed, in exceptional swells of emotion Philippe's heart could surface on his sleeve just like any mark's. A liability that he really ought to do something about.

But in a moment like this? That he is so over the moon at the prospect of twining their futures and working together for decades to come?

Well, of course Corbeau is gonna return the smile, just as broad and earnest.