#rustshippingweek

Corbeau had been counting, carefully noting each place that eyes had lingered throughout the day. Desire, curiosity, fear—no matter what the looks meant, if they were aimed at Philippe—his Philippe—then Corbeau took note. Then, when they’re alone after another long day of cleaning up the city, he undresses his lover—his partner in both business and life—piece by wonderful piece.

Philippe had removed his own jacket, so Corbeau maneuvers the matching vest off his broad frame, eyes roaming where the dress shirt sits tight around muscle and fat. He presses a single, soft kiss over Philippe’s heart, dozens of unspoken promises on his lips. Then he holds Philippe’s hands—big and strong and capable of so much harm, but now only raised in care and protection—kisses the warm, calloused palm before carefully removing each silver ring and returning to kiss the knuckles.

Philippe inhales sharply, tensing under Corbeau’s touch for only a moment before relaxing. His cheeks and ears are pink. He fumbles for a moment before finding words.

“Did…someone really stare at my hands, Boss?”

“You’d be surprised,” Corbeau responds casually. “Some people are big hand fans. I know I’m a big fan of yours.” And he licks the junction of Philippe’s left ring finger before pulling back to find his next target.

He gets Philippe’s shirt undone, kissing each revealed bit of flesh as the buttons pop open, smirking at the way Philippe’s heartrate and breathing quicken. He looks up at him with those sharp, mischievous eyes as he pushes the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Lay back for me.”

Philippe quickly does as he’s told, shaking his shirt off before laying flat and watching Corbeau watch him. Corbeau leans down, hands planted on either side of him, eyes hungrily roving his naked torso. After some consideration, he starts kissing a wandering path from his collar bone, over the softness of his stomach, to the thick patch of hair trailing beneath his waistline. He squeezes Philippe’s thighs, looks up at him for consent—a swallow and a wide-eyed nod—and undoes his pants. A team effort of wiggling gets them shucked, and Corbeau enjoys the view before resuming his eager kisses.

Philippe is dizzy. Corbeau hasn’t even touched him sexually, but he can’t help getting wound up whenever Corbeau is fully focused on him. He’s panting, muscles jumping under Corbeau’s hands and lips, and he starts to speak but is cut off by a yelp when Corbeau nips his hip.

“C-Corbeau!” he gasps, unhurt but startled.

Corbeau laughs and soothes the little mark with more kisses.

“Sorry. I just…wanna devour you, y’know? And there were a lot of eyes on you today. Seein’ them want you, fear of you, admire you…I love it. You deserve to be seen. My big, strong, handsome, brilliant Philippe…The whole world should see how amazing you are. But I’m the only one who gets to touch and keep you.”

He kisses and then bites a spot on Philippe’s thigh. Philippe’s hand flies to his mouth, trying to contain the noises falling from him. Corbeau laughs, mouth still pressed to Philippe’s hot skin, pupils huge. His voice comes out wet, muffled, growly.

“Mmf…They like your thighs, y’know. Not that I blame ‘em. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I’m so lucky you’re mine…”

He leaves more messy kisses and nips down the inside of Philippe’s thigh, none of them as rough as that big mark, already bruising beneath the ink. Philippe can take it—enjoys it—but Corbeau wants to be gentle tonight. They haven’t done this in a while—take time to worship each other, too exhausted at the end of the day to do anything but sleep—and Corbeau wants to be thorough, remind Philippe of how beautiful he is, how much Corbeau loves and adores him.

“I’m yours,” Philippe agrees easily, reaching out to pet Corbeau’s cheek. Corbeau leans into it, eyes slitted happily. “And you’re mine. Right?”

The sun peeks through the curtains, and Corbeau turns to hide his face, only to realize that, instead of a pillow, he’s laying on a broad, hairy chest. Warm and soft, deep, steady breaths. He props his chin on that chest and blinks up at Philippe, smiling at his sleeping face. He looks so relaxed—younger, even—with his eyes shut, lips slightly parted, heavy brow unfurrowed. It’s not the first time he’s woken up in bed with Philippe, far from it, but it is the first time he’s woken up in bed with Philippe after they had mind-blowing sex the night before.

As if reminded by the memory to be achy, his legs and back throb, and he groans quietly. Worth it. So completely worth it. A little soreness in exchange for that connection, that act that neither of them crave unless the person is very special—and there is no one more special to them than each other.

It took them so long to get here. More than a decade of knowing each other, watching each other’s backs after watching their own, finally joining hands in the goal of bettering their city, together. How long after the alliance did it take them to truly trust each other? To care for each other? Not very long at all, surely. How long until their lives became so entwined that they couldn’t imagine a single day without the other?

He rests his cheek on Philippe’s chest and sighs happily, lulled by the warmth and softness and slow, strong beat of his beloved’s heart. He could stay like that forever. Would, were it not for their many lovingly-shouldered responsibilities—and the sudden growl of his stomach.

As if summoned by the announcement of his boss’ hunger, Philippe stirs, breathing deep and blinking several times before smiling sleepily and hugging him tighter.

“Mornin’, Beau.”

His already deep voice, rough with sleep and vibrating through Corbeau’s whole body, makes Corbeau shiver and smile.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Philippe slides one big, warm hand up his back and neck to pet through his hair. He readily leans into the gentle touches.

“Have you been awake long?”

“No, just a little while. Just…enjoyin’ the glow.”

“Glow?” Philippe sits up against the headboard, pulling Corbeau with him. Corbeau grunts quietly, and Philippe stills, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” Corbeau pats his arm fondly.

“Better than alright, Big Guy. Just a little sore after last night’s vigorous performance…” He grins, eyebrows raised, thrilled when Philippe blushes.

“Oh. Well…I’m glad you’re…good. Though I don’t like that you’re sore. Maybe a bath and a massage are in order.” Corbeau’s stomach growls again, and Philippe smiles brighter than the sun. “After breakfast, of course.”

“You’re too good to me,” Corbeau murmurs, sitting up to rest his forehead against Philippe’s. Philippe cups his cheek and brushes their noses together.

“Not possible, Beau.”

They share a few soft kisses, then Philippe scoops Corbeau up and carefully sits him on the edge of the bed so he can stand and stretch. Corbeau can’t help but stare, hunger and pain temporarily forgotten in the wake of Philippe’s gorgeous back, and the ass that fills even the loosest of sweatpants. He bites his lip, thoughts running a little wild. Maybe…maybe unearthing the box of things that sounded more fun online would be a good idea. If he asks Philippe, they could go through it together, find their own fun, actually get his money’s worth for top-of-the-line toys he’d barely used…

“—eat?”

“Hm?” Corbeau straightens up, blinking. Philippe shakes his head fondly.

“I asked what you wanna eat, Boss.”

You.

“Sorry, uh. Something simple. I’m looking forward to that massage...”

Philippe grins.

“Great. I picked up some new massage oils recently, so it’ll be a real treat. You can check ‘em out while I put breakfast together.”

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.

Months of preparation culminate in the finest feast the Rust Syndicate has ever put on. Every year, they close up shop for a couple of days to celebrate the turning point that led to them becoming the superpower they are today. Officially, it’s the Syndicate’s anniversary. Unofficially, it’s the bosses’. Not the anniversary of their romantic relationship, of course, but of their business relationship; the anniversary of the day they finally put their differences behind them and joined hands for the good of Lumiose. At the time, the Rust Gang was still as ragtag as they came—a cobbled-together crew of less than twenty punks with no concrete goals beyond “help the people” but the strength and stubbornness of groups twice their size. They just needed direction. They were good as they were, as much a family as some of them ever had, but Corbeau joining up was like the final piece in a puzzle that had been running the streets incomplete for a long time.

Within a year of Corbeau leading, the newly-christened Rust Syndicate was more effective than ever. Their passion and fearsome skills, now aimed by someone who understood the business aspect of their business, led to Lumiose’s other gangs—ones less disposed toward humanitarian work and more toward violence and greed—either being wiped out or scattering, with strays occasionally asking to join. They were always welcome, on a trial basis, and if they proved trustworthy and able, they stayed. Within a few years, their ranks swelled to be forty-strong, plus friends and family who occasionally help out as favors or gig work.

Corbeau may have whipped them into shape, but Philippe kept them together. He led from the front, led with his heart, and people followed him with theirs. Back when they were still a small gang of misfits, he held them together as a family, and the same is true over a decade later (though Corbeau has gotten much better at it, too.) Even though the Syndicate is, on paper, a business, run quick and clean and effective, and consisting of more than twice as many employees than they started with, they remain a family. Philippe and Corbeau know every one of them by name--their families, fears, favorite meals—and they all trust their bosses implicitly. So the Syndicate runs like a well-oiled machine, staffed by dozens of people who would do anything for their city and the people who live there.

But tonight, they rest, piled into the main “conference room” that more often houses parties. Between the bosses, grunts, and families, there are nearly 100 people crowded around long tables piled high with sumptuous food made by Philippe and a small team of volunteer assistants. They pulled out all the stops, as they do every year, having taken over the main kitchen in preparation for the last week. Everything from local favorites to foreign delicacies, lovingly prepared by the Syndicate’s own hands. Warm, crunchy bread, glazed and roasted vegetables, stew and beans and rice, tarts and quiches and galettes, souffles and madeleines and hand-crushed berry jams alongside ice buckets containing sparkling water, favorite sodas and fruit juices, and canned beers and wine bottles out of reach of youngsters.

The bosses are mingling, as they always do, making sure to meet and greet everyone who wants their attention. After all, they don’t get everyone together like this very often. Philippe is pleased to see Corbeau snacking between conversations. He never really stopped worrying about Corbeau’s eating habits, even after the young boss started eating square meals without complaint. He even asks for seconds and suggests places to eat, rather than just going along with whatever is available. He enjoys meals now. But Philippe stays vigilant, just in case.

The night draws on, and once everyone has had the opportunity to eat and relax, Corbeau steps onto the little podium at the back of the room and clears his throat. It doesn’t take long for the crowd to notice him, and gradually they all face him and fall silent. He smiles his little genuine smile for his crew, his family.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. I don’t know about you, but this is my favorite of our personal holidays.” A few people clap or whoop, and his smile widens. “You’ve earned it. I’ll be retiring early, but you lot can stay as long as you like.  We all work hard to make our city even better, so make sure to enjoy the fruits of our labor! Go out and experience our beautiful city for yourselves, and rest up tomorrow. I expect you all to be at your posts on Monday.”

The crowd claps and cheers, throwing arms around shoulders, laughing and raising toasts as Corbeau grabs a tray of hors d’oeuvres and beelines for the elevator. He leans on the back wall with a sigh, and when he opens his eyes, Philippe has materialized at his side, wine in hand, smile on his face.

“How can you move so quietly?” Corbeau asks, not for the first time. He smiles when Philippe puts his arm around him.

“One of life’s mysteries, Boss.”

“Uh-huh. I know I always tell the kids I’m gonna go to bed and then don’t, but I really am worn out this time.”

Philippe nods quietly. “So am I. No after party this time.”

“I didn’t say that,” Corbeau purrs. “We can have a little one. Just nothing rowdy…”

The elevator arrives, and the bosses step out into the penthouse. They set their snacks on the coffee table, then change into pajamas before sprawling on the couch, Corbeau curled into Philippe’s chest, eyelids heavy.

“Hey,” Philippe says softly. “Are you fallin’ asleep already?”

“No, I’m awake,” Corbeau insists. He sits up and shoves an hors d’oeuvre into his mouth, crunching loudly as Philippe laughs.

“We had a good year, huh?”

Corbeau squints at him before nodding.

“I’m proud of the grunts. And proud of you, Beau. You’ve come a long way from that runt who used to run circles around me.”

Corbeau swallows, wipes his mouth, and kisses Philippe’s cheek.

“You’ve come a long way, too, y’know. From that oaf I used to run circles around.”

They finish eating in relative silence, then have one last toast—the glasses filled with only enough wine for a sip—before kissing and heading to bed. Philippe makes sure Corbeau is comfortable before settling in behind him, pulling him close and nuzzling into his hair. Corbeau holds into Philippe’s arm and melts into him with a sigh.

“Joyeux anniversaire, Beau.”