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“Are you ready yet, Corbeau?” Philippe called out, his voice resonating all the way from the foyer. A click and a rattly squeak followed, which meant that his boyfriend had opened and closed the Scolipede-shaped shelf nailed above their shoe rack; an action that was often paired with the sound of his motorbike’s keys clinking together. “Our reservation will be canceled in 10 minutes!”
“I’m coming!” Corbeau shouted back. He felt horrible for delaying Philippe, considering his partner had booked a reservation at this fancy restaurant several months in advance. Where did the time go? He swore it was still 6 PM when he was deep in the Rust Syndicate’s quarterly report. “I just need to pick a tie; can you take out my black dress shoes for me in the meanwhile?”
“Got it!” Philippe replied. Soon, silence bathed their apartment once Corbeau’s shoes were plucked from its rack.
In his side of their shared wardrobe, Corbeau unlocked one of the built-in drawers and was greeted by a myriad of his tie collection over the decade. Sure, they looked like an obsession when compared to what Philippe had accumulated, but where Corbeau hoarded ties in abundance, a similar compartment was allocated to preserve his partner’s stash of leather belts, both new and vintage.
Aside from the one paired with his work outfit, Corbeau often defaulted to his preference: purple ties that lacked huge patterns and allowed its fabric quality to shine forth. Unfortunately, Philippe had chosen a bold move by adorning a lilac one for their date night, and while the sight of his lover proudly claiming his color sent his heart into an endless summersault, that left Corbeau with no other option but to match his intention by donning a tie in his favorite color—silver, naturally. His eyes soon landed on the price: the one with Skarmory wings embroidered onto the fabric in a continuous, seamless pattern.
The selected accessory laid all the way in the back, folded neatly and laid untouched, compared to the rest of its companions that were often swapped into his outfit rotation. Corbeau had bought that silver tie purely on a whim; one of the easiest ways to rile Philippe up was to wrap his present in either silver or gold, and a tie served as the perfect bow for it. Jacinthe’s swanky, black-tie party had no fair shot at competing against that allure, and Corbeau remembered them escaping into the night through Hotel Richissme’s emergency exit, though that freedom was short-lived when Philippe happily took charge of binding his hands together with the offending fabric, once they had arrived home.
It was all the more reason why Corbeau’s breath was knocked out of his lungs when he lifted the silver tie from its designated slot.
Beneath the remaining evidence of their past lovemaking was a red, velvet box; brilliantly tucked away in plain sight, protected from both dust and curious eyes that may stumble upon it. The size was an ill fit to house either a necklace or a bracelet, and that only meant one thing: its purpose was to preserve rings.
The thing was: Corbeau never wore rings.
Every Rust Syndicate personnel soldered their Keystones onto their metal pins precisely because fashioning these precious gems into plain, bland rings reminded Corbeau of his painful history.
Philippe, on the other hand, has enough in his hoard to be inherited by the entirety of his extended family. His signet rings were always packaged in individual leather boxes by his jeweler, which his boyfriend would transfer into his personalized organizer later on. The one Corbeau currently cradled, on the other hand, was more reminiscent of…
“It can’t be,” Corbeau murmured, unable to quell the tell-tale blooming of hope that warmed his chest.
Every ounce of logic left in his mind begged Corbeau to do the right thing: bury this secret back in its grave, pretend that he has zero knowledge of its existence. The fact that Philippe deliberately picked such an obscure spot to camouflage this ring box was reason enough to believe that it was stashed away as a surprise, waiting in silence until its name was finally called to step up on the stage.
Whether it was a gift prepared for Corbeau or not should matter little to guide his next action, his conscience reminded him.
But what would a harmless, small peek could possibly affect in the long run? Corbeau’s treacherous heart whispered to him, and that was all it took for him to crack this enthralling mystery apart.
No treasure awaited inside, but the view of its interior alone was enough to set free the weights that pinned Corbeau’s racing heart down. He felt as unstoppable as the rapid, colorful fireworks that burst inside of him, for only a single interpretation in the entire world fit to solve this enigma: the two slits cut in the foamy cushion were carved for a pair of rings, and knowing that Philippe was incredibly attuned to his tastes…
They must be for engagement rings.
Correction: they must be for their engagement rings.
Each time Philippe teased him about how his piano fingers were model-worthy to advertise Masterpiece’s ring lineup, Corbeau readily joked back that the first ring he would wear in his life was a wedding band, and that he would only accept one if given by his right-hand man-turned-lover.
To know that they would get married one day and grow old together was one thing, but to embrace that dream in its physical proof was another.
When Corbeau blinked his eyes, the surface of the firm pad was stained by a single teardrop. His soft giggles spilled out of its containment, too.
Of course Philippe would propose to him now. It made the most sense, timing-wise.
The back-to-back disasters that had threatened to destroy Lumiose City were a morbid reminder of their fleeting lives, switching a flip inside of Philippe that had practically transformed him into an overprotective Ursaring over Corbeau’s well-being. Aside from the uncharacteristic show of clingyness, he has also been exceedingly sappy; they spent most of their nights in each other’s arms now, simply listening to their steady heartbeats while Philippe murmured about how grateful he was to close another chapter of his day with Corbeau.
A wedding was the kind of celebration that they—along with the city of Lumiose—needed to properly cherish their present and future.
Maybe, just maybe, Philippe would go down on one knee tonight.
The possibility overwhelmed Corbeau with a love so powerful, he almost forgot that Philippe was waiting for him until his partner’s heavy footsteps snapped him out of his reverie. “Hey, are you okay in there, Corbeau?”
Swiftly, Corbeau concealed the ring box precisely as he had found it. He ended up snatching a random, purple tie closest to his hands before slamming the wardrobe shut.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” Corbeau confirmed, stopping one last time to evaluate his appearance in the mirror—rosy cheeks, the tiniest hint of redness tainting the corner of his eyes, and a smile so bright it has the power to illuminate Lumiose’s electricity grid—before he met Philippe in the middle. Clients may find his expression hard to discern, but Philippe has always read him like an open book, and that was precisely why Corbeau needed the split-second reprieve to channel some of his bubbly excitement out by kissing his partner’s cheek. “Sorry that I’m late. We can go now.”
Philippe, bless him, only grasped Corbeau’s glee as another thing entirely.
“It’s almost like you did it on purpose. It’s the best excuse to get me to punch the gas and break the speed limit on my bike, right?” Philippe ribbed, and Corbeau laughed along with his boyfriend as they headed to the basement parking hand-in-hand. He was confident that the pep in his step would soon morph into a leap to reach for the stars if Philippe let his grip go for one second.
Hope, Corbeau has grown to learn, was a double-edged sword.
It could bolster him forward like no other energy, as Corbeau enjoyed their dinner and patiently waited for Philippe—the mushy romantic behind his titanium-tough looks, like a secret menu among the many facets that his lover only served to him—to signal for their waitress to clean up their table, making space for him to propose in the restaurant’s quaint ambience.
It could also stab him when he least expected it, for Corbeau fell asleep that night with his back against Philippe, his ring finger painfully bare and lacking a glimmer of gold or silver that was capable of reflecting the moonlight’s sparkling shine.
Unearthing that ring box from its hiding spot felt a lot like when a fantasy-book character was cursed for trampling on an ancient artifact, for Corbeau never imagined walking away from that wardrobe would result in him plummeting into an excruciating loop.
Every time Philippe invited him to try a newly-opened restaurant that was a hit among couples, Corbeau came home all hollowed out when their date nights ended with his lover calmly picking up their bills. The lovely bouquets that Philippe often purchased on a whim sat in their living room like a painful reminder of the lost opportunities, instead of being the centerpiece to paint a fresh vividness in their apartment. A romantic gesture as simple as Philippe draping his suit jacket over Corbeau has the man helplessly weak in the knees, for his insides now burned with a longing that cannot be filled by a mere kiss.
An endless cycle of having his hopes raised and broken, silently endured all because Corbeau trusted that Philippe wanted this marriage for them, too.
Corbeau failed to account that for all the waiting he was willing to do, fate was ready to write any plot twist without his say-so.
“How are you liking their tartare de bœuf?” Philippe wondered, setting his spoon down to give Corbeau his undivided attention. Back when they were reluctant friends, inquiring his opinion on a food’s taste had been one of Philippe’s tactics to gauge Corbeau as a person, and their decade-long relationship never stopped him from asking the same question whenever they shared a meal.
Analyzing numbers was his forte, but Corbeau was always willing to try anything—even being a sad excuse of a food critic that would get his face slapped by Siebold’s apron—for Philippe.
“You have to ask? Of course I like your version the best,” Corbeau shot back. He got an eyeroll from Philippe for his trouble, though his partner's fond smile betrayed that motion. “The chef's twist on this dish is amazing, sure, but I can't exactly taste any of the huitres promoted in this course. It only added a bonus point to the presentation by serving it on the cleaned shells, but that's about it.”
He must have described the right thing, judging by the smile that Philippe tried and failed to bite down. “And what exactly makes my rendition so different from this chef's style?”
“It's obvious: yours is made with love,” came Corbeau’s simple reasoning, timed perfectly to make Philippe choke on his next sip of wine. The comment was worth the terrified looks that passing waitresses leveled at them, for under the restaurant’s mood lighting, Philippe’s blush was even more exquisite to Corbeau’s hefty appetite. “I'll get it through your thick skull one day, Philippe: the Rust Syndicate can financially afford to establish a restaurant for you, and we won't have to bribe our way to be granted a 5-Starmie status when your talent speaks for itself. You'd run Siebold out of Restaurant Le Wow years ago, had you decided to use Lysandre's money to study at Le Sylveon Bleu.”
“I also have to remind you that the Starmie Guide only goes up to 3-stars, Corbeau,” Philippe sighed, not an ounce of his exasperation staying for long. Fine dining allowed the space for his partner to reach for his hand, and Corbeau did not need to hear that breathless chuckle to know that Philippe’s thoughts had jumped lightyears ahead of them. “Is that what our future will look like? Former gang members that protected Lumiose with their lives, retired as joint restaurant owners that'll feed generations to come?”
And happily married to each other, Corbeau's words went unsaid, gulped down along with his wavering breath. Philippe's right hand began to caress Corbeau’s left one, and those huge, weathered digits soon targeted where a wedding band would sit nicely around his slim ring finger. His thumb traced the circumference, dragging the faintest mark while using the edge of his nail, rendering Corbeau’s weary heart to desperately wish, this is where he'll finally propose.
“Any life is worth living for me if it's shared with you,” Corbeau hinted, gripping Philippe’s hand in return. Watching with bated breath as those silver irises sparkled like a star, praying in silence for a certain thought to pass by his lover’s mind like a comet. The heavens practically orchestrated this moment for them: the live music began to serenade the restaurant with a romantic jazz song, no waitresses were currently fluttering around their table, and other guests seemed so far away when they were absorbed in each other’s gravity. Philippe could pop the question now, and Corbeau would be the happiest man alive. “I mean that with my—”
Bang!
His speech was rudely interrupted by a loud crash coming from outside of the restaurant. Corbeau’s short fuse had no chance to blow when a customer sitting near the floor-to-ceiling window shouted, “Is that a robbery?!”
Instantly, the magic was gone the second that Philippe and Corbeau embodied their duties, as the Rust Syndicate bosses jumped from their seats and pushed their way past the civilians that also scurried toward the windows.
Several stories below, a Pangoro and its trainer stepped away from the broken shards of glass that was now scattered over the cobblestone like ash. That person wore a ski mask to conceal his identity, as did the getaway driver that joined beside him, while their black van lacked its license plate and was big enough to jam the entire jewelry shop’s catalog in its trunk.
A wave of Pangoro’s huge fists sent the shop’s employees running in fear, while nearby pedestrians were smart enough to flee the crime scene.
In a world where their duties to protect Lumiose had to come first, Corbeau could not afford to falter, even when his gnawing disappointment eroded most of his control like corrosive poison against steel.
Maybe it was his wishful thinking, but for a split-second, Philippe looked like he was ready to stop Earth’s rotation after catching a glimpse of wrongness in Corbeau’s usual frown.
“Somebody call the police now!” Corbeau ordered, turning his back away before Philippe had the chance to address it. With only the Dusk Balls strapped on his belt, Corbeau ran past the stunned waitresses, giving Philippe the time to slam a fat stack of cash on their table before he joined his boss. To the security guard posted on the restaurant’s entrance, Corbeau instructed, “Don’t let anyone leave this place until the police deemed it safe, and take care of our bags!”
Eventually, another set of footsteps caught up beside Corbeau, no less adept at weaving around the emergency staircase in record speed.
“I'll take the bigger guy and his Pangoro!” Philippe strategized, and in his right arm was the Heavy Ball where Skarmory waited in. It was the correct action; Skarmory could finish that Pangoro in a heartbeat with the advantage of its wings. The only problem now was the way that Philippe appraised Corbeau—for someone whose drive to wrestle never died outside of the fighting ring, this was the first time Corbeau ever saw Philippe hesitate before jumping into the fray. Alas, his lover must have realized that time was running out, for he settled with this compromise: “Promise me that you'll call if things get dicey?”
Swallowing around the lump in his throat grew increasingly difficult when Philippe latched onto Corbeau’s arm in his desperation, matching the pace of their sprint just to milk this last drop of peace in their night.
“You too,” Corbeau feebly croaked out, every cell in his body screaming when he forcefully pulled away from Philippe’s hold. Philippe has to be safe—he was the only human that Corbeau was willing to both live and die for. He almost wished he had not uttered anything when his next words landed like a bad omen. “We still haven’t gotten dessert, so try not to get too much blood on your suit, yeah?”
The cold air of the night that greeted them was unforgiving against the misty sheen clouding Corbeau’s eyes.
“I love you,” Philippe said, a proclamation and a promise embodied in the same breath.
Say that again with a ring next time, Corbeau’s heart pleaded. His vision was consumed by blurry snapshots of their future, longing dissolving the barrier between what was real and imaginary, breaking the dam that guarded his tears because the Philippe that he saw there—mohawk fully grey, laughter lines leaving their natural tattoos around the crinkle of his eyes, silver irises still gleaming with the same radiance as Skarmory’s polished body—was a version so distant from the Philippe flanked him tonight.
Arceus above, how Corbeau yearned to soothe that flicker of agony that dimmed Philippe’s shine. His partner was wise enough to put the clues together, by now; it was so easy for Corbeau to give the missing piece for Philippe to crack the dilemma clouding his golden eyes.
Ugh, why were there so many obstacles just to get married with the love of his life?
The sentence that Corbeau has countlessly chanted like a prayer now spilled from his lips like a farewell. Perhaps if he was lucky, Philippe might even miss the tears that managed to trickle down his cheeks as he began to diverge his path. "I love you, too."
Without looking back, Corbeau followed the getaway driver into the jewelry shop, ignoring the aborted call of his name.
The finely-shattered glass announced his arrival with each crunch of debris beneath Corbeau’s dress shoes.
Luck may turn a blind eye on Corbeau’s goal to be proposed to, but at least it was kind enough to bless him with this: because of the store’s small size and minimalistic design, the altercation would be a direct one. No dirty tricks to be wary of, less potential for his night to be soured more than it already was.
“What an idiot,” Corbeau said to the burglar, in lieu of a greeting. So far, there appeared to be no Pokémon that was released prior to his entrance, unless the masked thief recruited a shape-shifter like Zoroark or an invisible henchman like Kecleon. For someone committing grand larceny, the man also looked completely relaxed as he leaned against the elongated display case. One of his hands casually swung a black bag that crinkled with each sway, and they must contain a smidge of tonight’s haul with the rings that he had swiped from the counter. “You think you can trample on my district and wreck my date night without getting your spirit crushed harder than a guaranteed prison time?”
The bastard has the gall to laugh.
“Oh, trust me, we know that the Rust Syndicate will save the day far before Team MZ or the police force could bust us,” The burglar jutted his chin to the fight that happened behind them, and Corbeau made the foolish mistake of checking. Philippe’s boxing style was visibly struggling to keep up with the other thief’s rapid-fire wing chun, while the Pangoro proved to be tankier than average for Skarmory to swiftly defeat. Corbeau’s heart plunged to the marbled floor. “Bleu District has a low crime rate precisely because you folks control what kind of corruption is allowed to happen here, which is to say that only your loan shark business has the luxury to spread its roots.”
Oh, that asshole was begging for a beating.
Anger coiled in Corbeau’s stomach like an Arbok who was ready to defend its invaded nest. He could care less about the flip knife that the thief took out, what awaited inside his Pokéball, or his big talk; Corbeau was determined to make the asshole pay for everything and more. “But I'm not scared of you, Monsieur Corbeau. Me and Talonflame did our homework beforehand, after all.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll let you know that it takes more than having a weapon and a type advantage to take me down,” Corbeau growled, releasing his Scolipede the same time as the burglar did for his Talonflame.
When he threw his left palm out to call Scolipede’s first move, the sight of his fourth finger—miserably bare, yet another bitter reminder of what it lacked—threw Corbeau’s adrenaline-sharp focus off-kilter.
Philippe’s shout was guaranteed to be heard all the way to the Northern Boulevard, where the gates that opened the path to Lavarre City were erected upon. “Boss!”
Right on cue, the paramedics neatly tucked Corbeau’s bandages before they excused themselves, allowing Philippe to take the space they had preoccupied on the clean side of the cobblestone.
His boyfriend wasted no time to drape his suit over Corbeau’s jacketless body, paying no mind to the tattered mess of what was once an expensive suit jacket now sitting on the wooden bench, folded into a sad lump beside his lap. Instead, Philippe lowered himself to the ground, contradicting all that rushing when he gathered Corbeau’s left hand with the utmost care, taking his time to assess the length of skin that the gauze covered before his gaze traveled upward. A million questions waged war in the silvery-sea of his irises, but only one was left standing. “You’re hurt?”
Decades of living and meeting people from all walks of life, yet the only one capable of convincing Corbeau to value his life was Philippe. Stealing the alcohol from his drunken grasp when he had too many, carrying him to the couch whenever he overslept on his work desk, and now this: handling his left hand like it was a pottery no other artist could remake.
The tightness that smarting in Corbeau’s chest hurt more than the slash running across his hand.
“It’s just a gash, Philippe. I’m not injured anywhere else, so there’s no need to panic,” Corbeau rasped out, and it was the truth: it was a miracle that he got out of that fight with just a cut. The struggle to wrench the flip knife away while actively dodging stray Pokémon moves was a nightmare to do when distracted, and there was no sweet satisfaction that rewarded Corbeau after he knocked the thief out. “We defeated the bad guys. That’s all that matters to me.”
Corbeau knew that he had said the wrong thing when Philippe’s frown deepened.
“Is that so? Then why do you look so dejected?” His partner probed, tilting his head to chase Corbeau’s gaze when they strayed away from him. Philippe’s next words felt a lot like having those huge hands cup his jaw, coaxing him to return to the conversation with the gentle swipe of a thumb on his cheek. “You’ve been acting off ever since our dinner got interrupted, so I know that you’re not telling me something here, Corbeau. What’s wrong?”
This was it.
Months of having his head dunked underwater for what felt like an eternity before he was pulled up to gasp a few gulps of air, the endless cycle of torture that Corbeau put himself in because of a secret he had accidentally uncovered—the key to his salvation was found in the comfort of Philippe’s embrace, if he allowed those arms to wrap around his body.
“Do you know what would make me feel better now?” Corbeau tested the waters, watching as Philippe’s hands stroked his left one with reverence, the pads of his calloused fingers fiddling with the bare skin of his ring finger and staying there, just like what he did at the restaurant. Philippe did not even seem to register the gesture; his gaze was pinned on Corbeau, pouring his undivided attention for him.
Almost like there was something that Philippe longed for, deep inside his psyche.
“Name it, Boss,” Philippe urged, certain that he could fly to the sky without Skarmory’s help and pluck the moon if that was what Corbeau desired. His unbending resolve implored for the opportunity to prove itself when Philippe kissed Corbeau’s left hand; the moon and the sun locked by each other’s gravitational pull, while Philippe’s lips pledged its vow to the base of his ring finger. “I'll do anything for you.”
What was Corbeau waiting for, then?
“A ring. That'd make me very happy,” Corbeau whispered, his ribs quaking under the pressure of that old, familiar hope bubbling forth from the darkest recess of his chest when he saw the realization dawn in Philippe’s face. Every single disappointment that left cracks in his heart gradually stitched itself back when he slowly clarified, “A engagement ring from you, to be exact.”
Finally, it was Philippe’s turn to have his breath stolen. “Corbeau—”
“I'm going to kill those burglars if you've already planned to propose to me tonight but decided not to because of how they wrecked our date,” Corbeau sighed, the fight leaving out of his body when what he dreamed of all this time now sat right in front of him. “I know that you've already bought the rings, Philippe. Second drawer in our wardrobe, hidden under that silver tie I rarely use nowadays. The ring box is empty, so I assume you must bring them everywhere you go.”
If this was any other moment, Corbeau would laugh at the obvious rollercoaster of emotion that Philippe was strapped on against his will, powerless as he breezed through the five stages of grief and ending at the ‘acceptance’ phase with all of his blood pumped to his cheeks. Still, the poor man faced the music, swallowed his saliva, and stammered, “S-Since when did you know?”
“Precisely 3 months ago,” The gasp that was punched out of Philippe’s mouth revealed enough: he must have stumbled upon the box not long after the matching rings were purchased in secret. Corbeau’s next words were wet around the edges, and so was the corner of his eyes. “So, if you do the math: that's 90 days of me endlessly wondering if you'll finally pop the question each time you spoiled me with lovely bouquets, candle-lit dinners in our home, fancy date nights in high-end restaurants, or any other romantic feat that you have up your sleeve—which is something that you do as frequently as breathing, for your information."
Being with Philippe has ruined Corbeau for life.
His guards crumbled pathetically fast the second that his isolating burden was lifted from his shoulders. Every let-down he had to bear and the weak smiles he had to crack to pretend that nothing was wrong—all the ways that Corbeau wanted to cry over the constant ‘rejections’, now wholly entrusted in Philippe’s grasp.
This time, Philippe was there to wipe his tears.
“A-And you never said a thing about it?” Philippe’s jaw dropped to the floor when Corbeau's tears fell further with his frantic nods. Somehow, Philippe’s thoughtfulness to pluck his glasses away only made Corbeau weep harder. “Even though you knew ages ago?”
“Because I wanted you to do it on your terms! But you've also driven me crazy from all that waiting when I want nothing more than to say yes to growing old with you!” Corbeau whined, holding onto Philippe’s left hand as he nudged his face into the solid warmth of his palm. The next time he opened his eyes, Corbeau’s vision swam, but one blink revealed Philippe’s flushed face and how, in the mix of horror and guilt that swirled within, his affection twinkled like the north star did for lost travelers; a silent reassurance that he was not going to be abandoned in his grief. “Arceus, how much longer are you going to leave my heart hanging, Philippe? How many more times left do I have to guess wrong until I get it right?”
Everything happened so quickly after that.
“I'm so sorry,” Philippe murmured, wrapping his arms around Corbeau’s waist and the back of his knees, breaking no sweat as he hoisted both of them up. Now, Philippe sat on the bench, Corbeau positioned sideways on his lap, his tears-stricken face concealed from the curious gazes of both the police force and paramedics that still loitered near the crime scene. It was a relief for Corbeau to finally melt into the forehead kiss that Philippe peppered on his temple. “I promise I didn't mean to hurt you, Corbeau. I should've been smarter about how I go about this.”
“I know that,” Corbeau whimpered, looping his arms around Philippe’s neck and gladly burying his damp face into the safety of his shoulder. “Having my hopes raised repeatedly only to brutally crash down each time was just draining, especially when I'm certain about who that ring is meant for. It doesn’t help that you have all those amazing chances to propose—the private rooftop garden you took us to watch the fireworks was beautiful enough in my eyes, you know? And I’d still be happy if you had done it after you waltzed with me in our kitchen!"
There was gentle pressure at the back of his head, its presence growing firmer as Philippe raked his fingers through Corbeau’s purple locks, taking care to scrape his nails against his scalp just the way he liked it.
“Will you forgive me after I explain?” Philippe began, and Corbeau had to pry himself from the steady thump of his lover’s heartbeat to witness this mystery’s conclusion. Never in a million years could he guess that the reason for his months-long distress would be found in the inner pocket of Philippe’s suit jacket, or that they would take the shape of his trusty Rotom Phone. The website that it pulled up swam in his teary-eyed vision, but Rotom’s proactiveness to enlarge the font practically spelled out its content: it was Jumpluff Airline’s page, listing off recently-procured tickets for two people.
Corbeau’s guilt lurched violently, but Philippe was ready to squash it down with a kiss to his cheek. “Back when we tried to piece together your exact birthplace, you told me that you wanted to go to Johto once you were older. I know that you’ve long moved on from questioning your origin, but I thought that Johto would still be a stunning region for us to seek a much-needed vacation in, and now that Lumiose is safe again, I also plan to propose to you there.”
He could see the bigger picture, now: Philippe did not propose to Corbeau and kept the rings a secret because he was unprepared—his boyfriend was just biding time until the momentum he had prepared came.
A momentum that should have been wonderfully unraveled oceans away from the Kalos region, a Cheri on top to conclude the summer-time firework festival that Olivine City’s port was famous for or the picturesque temple that reigned over Ecruteak City’s serene atmosphere.
They rarely took breaks, let alone an actual vacation to some faraway place, so it must have taken all of Philippe’s willpower to organize such a feat behind Corbeau’s back, just so that they could enjoy their trip without having to worry that the Rust Syndicate would crumble the second the boss’ chair was vacant.
No matter the sorrow that he had to stomach during that arduous wait, how could Corbeau ever be mad at Philippe for wanting to give the very best for his partner?
It was only right for Corbeau to tug his boyfriend by his rumpled shirt and kiss him stupid, smiling into it not just because of the overwhelming joy exploding from each firework that rocked his ribcage, but also because Philippe was grinning against his lips.
Who knew that crying tears of joy could feel so cathartic? Corbeau noted.
Philippe truly was the only one in their lifetime capable of making him feel like the luckiest man to ever grace the Earth, and Corbeau voiced his awe to both his soulmate and the deities cheering them on from the heavens. “What did I do in my past life to be loved so earnestly by such a sappy fool like you, huh?”
“No, I'm the lucky one here. To be loved by someone whose heart is as big as yours is the biggest blessing I’m grateful for in my life,” Philippe readily shot back, and knowing how his lover could wax poetry longer than the boxing rounds he could last with Scizor, Corbeau should have seen this one coming. “Should I do the speech here, or do you want me to save it for when we get back to our apartment? I have the lines memorized already.”
“I don't think you'd want these bystanders to hear Lumiose's infamous underground fighter bust out a tear-jerking speech. Plus, I'm not interested in crying more than I already did here,” Corbeau giggled, giving Philippe an appreciative peck for the sweet offer. He was abruptly reminded of the trigger to this whole breakdown when Philippe’s fingers did it again, the ghost of his touch absentmindedly skimming across Corbeau’s ring finger. “Can I see the ring, at least?”
“Of course!” Philippe perked up, and once again, Corbeau became as stiff as a doll while his boyfriend scooped him in his arms to deposit him back to his original position. “May I do the honors?”
The second that Corbeau nodded, Philippe took a step back and went down on one knee, his right hand vanishing behind his back not to fish for a ring box, but to pluck one of the Heavy Balls strapped behind his belt. Klefki emerged from it in a blinding light, and Corbeau was once again blown by Philippe’s impressive arrangement, for his partner’s sassiest Pokémon gleefully slid the matching rings from the protection of its flexible, steel limbs onto Philippe’s open palm, and it dutifully returned to its Heavy Ball after giving Corbeau a quick smooch on the cheek. This was much more mindblowing than watching Denis’ silly, drunken attempt at recreating magic tricks during the Rust Syndicate’s annual party. “So that's where you've kept it all this time. No wonder I never caught a glimpse of it.”
“It's been right under your nose,” Philippe replied, his voice dropping to a whisper, and the world around them adjusted as it fell into a hush. Corbeau held his breath too, pulled to the edge of his seat by the wish that he has been begging for: Philippe grinning up to him like his existence alone has given meaning to his life, offering the promise to spend the rest of their lives together through the two rings pinched between his thumb and pointing finger. It was a miracle Philippe did not choke on his next words when Corbeau could see the misty sheen clinging to his eyes. “So, Corbeau: will you marry me and make me the happiest man alive?”
“Yes,” Corbeau gasped out, cupping Philippe’s jaw as he guided him for their second kiss, confident that they could defy gravity and float up to the starry night with just how fast their hearts were racing underneath their muscled chests. He could care less at the embarrassing amount of sobs that slipped past his lips today, for the next thing Philippe did as he pulled away from the kiss was to slip Corbeau’s ring into his finger—fitting snug at the base of it, silver in color like the moon and holding a home for a small diamond, because of course his fiancé remembered that he adored a hint of sparkle in his jewelry. “I'm happily yours, Philippe. Forever and always.”
Philippe took his time to dry the tears that stained Corbeau’s pale cheeks once again, foreheads pressed against each other and waiting in a mess of deliriously-joyful giggles until the tremor in Corbeau’s hands subsided enough for him to do the same gesture in return.
Corbeau would rewind this scene for decades to come, for saving Lumiose from catastrophe or the pride he has over the Rust Syndicate’s success could never compare to the high of having the chance to slip Philippe’s ring in return. They decorated his weathered finger like a fashion statement, with the added bonus of proclaiming to the world that those huge hands that were capable of love and violence belonged to Corbeau, and only him. Philippe’s ring was a gold one, and it may be an orthodox choice to go with different colors for their engagement rings, but Corbeau mentally preened from having the shade of his irises wrapped around that special finger. While he marveled at the ring’s natural gleam under the street lamps, Corbeau distantly wondered, “When did you say you booked the Johto trip for?”
Philippe blinked, head tilted to one side. “In 2 weeks time, why?”
“Huh,” Corbeau murmured, a tempting idea forming in his mind. It would be such a shame to let this auspicious occasion go by jumping straight into their plane when they could make the most out of their recent engagement. He knew a good chunk of people that would be willing to celebrate their love story, after all. “Maybe we should delegate that trip as our honeymoon, instead of just a regular vacation.”
The frown that pulled Philippe’s face was a cute treat to witness, and Corbeau wished he could stop time to give him a quick peck. “So... what I'm understanding is that you don't want to throw a wedding reception? You want to just jump straight into our honeymoon?”
“I never said that," Corbeau teased, and watching Philippe’s jaw drop to the floor was a high that he would ride all the way to that special date. “We can just hold our wedding day before the honeymoon starts.”
Just two weeks to prepare for a reception with 100 grunts and Philippe’s absurd amount of extended family in attendance sounded like a horror story to any sane wedding organizers, but Corbeau was positive it would be a piece of cake for the Rust Syndicate.
“You're crazy,” Philippe pointed out, but there was no denying in his fiancé’s eyes that has the same kind of excitement that now burned inside of him.
It was not an impossible feat to conquer, and Philippe recognized that too.
“No take backs, Philippe. You're stuck with me until death do us apart," Corbeau joked, as if Philippe would ever begin to think of separating from someone he has devoted his every heartbeat to. “Besides, we've seen our grunts unite in a single night during Ange's attack, 2 weeks should be plenty of time for them to help us prepare our wedding. Judging by their gossip, they've been dying to know when we'll finally tie the knot anyway, so I'm sure they'd be more than willing to lend us a hand in exchange for a few secrets to settle their betting pool.”
Philippe shook his head and chuckled, exasperated and in love all over again. He kissed Corbeau’s ring and let his lips linger around the warmed metal as he revealed, “We are so going to give our grunts a heart attack when we drop the news on them."
“Mhm. And our wedding will be the hottest one ever recorded in Lumiose's history,” Corbeau replied, giddy for what their future has to hold. “I'm excited for this, aren’t you?”
Philippe smiled back, and peace finally returned to Corbeau’s world. “Yeah, me too.”