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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.”
“Happy anniversary.”