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It's late, he knows, the preternatural twilight that has swallowed their daylight hours having long since given way to proper darkness. It's also bitterly cold—it's always cold on this side of the end of the world, it seems—and Corbeau sits nestled against Philippe as they huddle beside the fire for warmth. The fire helps, of course, as does Philippe, but the bitter wind that cuts through the clearing at night still rattles his bones, regardless. He draws his blanket more tightly around his shoulders, idly thumbing through the book on his lap, a bland mystery with forgettable characters and predictable plot.
Still, it's something to keep his mind engaged, so he picks away at it on principle more than anything else.
But Corbeau finds that his mind is too loud to focus and sets the book aside, trying his damn best to be grateful for what they have…a difficult proposition when he so strongly remembers what they've lost.
Philippe is safe, as is he. Their bellies are full, and Philippe, bless him, can make a good meal out of nearly anything. Their pokémon are safe, fed, and healthy. They even have a place to sleep, thanks to the bus they found; presumably inspired by a social media trend that had exploded in popularity in Unova recently, its interior had been stripped of its original fixtures and remade into a cozy little home. It's no replacement for their shared apartment in Lumiose, of course, but it offers a warm bed and a roof to keep out the rain, which feels like an incredible luxury after sleeping outside again for so long.
There is also no shortage of food. Even without direct sunlight, plants grow abundantly here—so abundant, in fact, that every few days they have to direct their pokémon to cut away new growth as the forest closes in upon their camp. Corbeau suspects it is Xerneas' influence at work, cast unfettered over the land with Lysandre's use of the ultimate weapon…but he supposes he'll never know for sure. Truth be told, he finds it a bit spooky the way the forest creeps back in every other day, but the crops they've planted are growing almost faster than they can eat them, and that's a blessing if he's ever seen one.
This may not be the future either one of them hoped for, but sometimes, on nights like tonight, things are…well, they're not good, but in this moment, they're okay. And in this new reality, that's all they can really ask for, isn't it?
But he still has to live with the memories. Of the lives he couldn't save in his failed attempt to stop Lysandre—billions of people, if Team Flare's calculations were to be believed. Of the city he loved, inexplicably burned off the map in a way that the others just…weren't. Of the Rust Syndicate, presumably burned away with the city to the last man.
Of the future that he and Philippe had worked so hard to build, stolen away in a single night by the actions of a madman.
Why did they live, he wonders, when almost no one else did? Why didn't the weapon vaporize them? Lysandre had made it clear they weren't among his chosen few, so why weren't they—
"Boss?"
Philippe places a gentle hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump. He blinks owlishly, discovering by the dryness of his eyes that he'd been staring into the fire without blinking.
"You alright?"
"Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just…well, you know." He gestures vaguely, well aware he doesn't need to elaborate.
"Yeah," Philippe rumbles in his deep, soothing baritone. "It's getting pretty late. Why don't we call it a night?"
"I'm not tired, yet," he replies quietly, "but you don't have to wait for me. You go on ahead."
He can tell immediately by the subtle tightening of the grip on his shoulder that Philippe doesn't like that idea one bit.
He can't blame him, really. Hypervigilance has settled back in for both of them like a well-worn glove, but this time, instead of police raids or rival gangs, the threat comes from wild pokémon driven to frenzy in the wake of Lysandre's cataclysm. Whether they have been driven mad by the weapon's release of energy or by the scope of humanity's betrayal is anyone's guess, but they are breathtakingly dangerous…and best avoided. If one of them wandered into camp and caught them off guard, the consequences could be fatal.
"I'll stay up with you."
"You don't have to suffer for my insomnia, Philippe."
"It's fine," Philippe insists, folding up the pocket knife he was using on the little woodcarving project currently sitting in his lap—a skarmory, Corbeau thinks, by the emerging shape of it. "I won't be able to sleep while you're out here by yourself, anyway."
"Sorry," Corbeau murmurs, softly. "It's just…the dreams. You know."
"I know," says Philippe, placing a tender kiss to his temple. "I don't mind. What should we do, then?"
Corbeau weighs his options, of which there are few.
"Would you like to stargaze with me?"
"I would love to," Philippe smiles, seemingly charmed by the idea. "Just make sure to pinch me if I start dozing; I don't want us to fall asleep outside."
"Deal."
By stroke of luck, the bus they'd appropriated came equipped with a rooftop deck, accessible by a ladder built against the outside of the cab. Corbeau had scoffed at it initially, having disdainfully turned up his nose at the van life fad as it exploded across the internet in recent years.
Now, though, he has to admit that the deck is nice to have. It feels safer, at the very least, than lying in the grass in the dark, given the current state of the world.
Corbeau climbs the ladder first, then turns around to catch the pair of blankets Philippe tosses up to him. He unrolls the thicker one, a cushioned picnic blanket with a yellow gingham pattern, and spreads it out onto the deck as Philippe climbs up after him, then they lie down together and snuggle close, tucking the second blanket over themselves to ward off the chill. Finally settled and comfortable, if still a little cold, they gaze up at the sky together, marveling at the expanse of stars overhead.
It really is breathtaking, Corbeau thinks, like an ocean…or a massive cosmic river. He wishes he could see the whole thing, from one horizon to the other, but the way the view is framed by the tree canopy isn't so bad, either. It looks like a window, this way, or a portal, something he could reach out and touch, maybe even dive into if he was feeling brave.
He closes his eyes and imagines jumping into it, falling through space and time to another world…a kinder timeline, maybe, where none of this had happened to them. It's a dizzying thought…one he could get lost in, if he isn't careful.
"Gods," he whispers, "this view gets me every time."
"Yeah?" rumbles Philippe.
"Yeah. I'd never seen so many stars in my life before all of this. Lumiose is…" he pauses abruptly, his voice wavering slightly as he catches his mistake, "…was beautiful at night, but with all the light pollution, I had no idea what I was missing."
"Neither did I," Philippe replies, softly. "I'd seen pictures, of course, but they don't prepare you for the real thing."
"Mm."
Silence settles between them, but Corbeau's mind is still unbearably loud. His heart weighs heavy with the memories of what was, and with the gravity of the might-have-beens that were stolen away from them by the avarice of Team Flare.
"Do you remember the night before everything went to hell?" he asks, hesitantly. His voice is pensive, a little shaky, and he can tell by the shift in Philippe's posture that it hasn't escaped his notice.
"Vaguely," Philippe replies, rolling onto his side to face him. "Those last few days are a blur for me now. Feels like a lifetime ago. Why?"
"We talked about getting married."
"Oh," Philippe says, softly, and Corbeau can hear the blush creeping into his voice even in the dark. "Of course I remember that part."
"I think about it all the time, you know? I thought…" his voice catches in his throat and he pauses to collect himself, waiting for it to pass. "I thought we had time. I thought we could focus on what we set out to do, really put our noses to the grindstone for a couple more years, then revisit the subject when things were…better. When we had something to show for our efforts."
"Yeah."
"I wish we'd done it while we still had the chance," he admits with tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, his voice barely audible.
Gods, he cries all the damn time nowadays, and he hates it.
"Me too," Philippe whispers, tenderly stroking his fingers through Corbeau's hair. "We could still do it, you know. Get married."
Stunned, Corbeau swallows down a lump in his throat. He can feel the nervous energy thrumming within Philippe without looking at him, and knows without a doubt that he's serious.
"Pfft," he snorts, quickly swiping his eyes on his sleeve, "there an intact courthouse around here that I missed?"
"No," Philippe admits, "but…do we need one? If it's just the two of us, we can make our own rules, can't we?"
Corbeau is silent for a while as he considers this.
"How would that even work? We just say we're married, and that's it? Doesn't seem to have much weight to it."
"I don't know. We could think it over, come up with something that feels right," Philippe rumbles softly. He falls quiet for moment, and Corbeau can feel his heart racing against his cheek. "If you wanted to go through with it, that is."
"I do," he whispers. "Gods, yes, of course I do, it just…it wasn't supposed to be like this."
"I know."
"W-we were supposed to have a real ceremony and then take a nice honeymoon somewhere," he sniffles. He is crying openly now, and Philippe holds him against his chest, gingerly stroking his hair. "Take a vacation for once in our lives—a real one, not a work trip—and actually relax. You know, sit on the beach in Alola, drinking cocktails with those silly umbrellas. Try new things, not because it's practical, but just because we want to. J-just because it's fun.
A-and then we were supposed to grow old together and die the kind of soft, mundane deaths that normal people do. The kind of death you don't get to have when you grow up on the street, or…or end up like this."
"Yeah," Philippe whispers, his voice thick. He's crying too, now, Corbeau can tell, even with his face buried in his shirt.
They hold each other close, riding out this fresh wave of grief for their stolen future until their muffled sobs and quiet sniffles gradually give way to slow, even breathing once more.
"…I don't have a ring for you," Corbeau whispers, his voice still hoarse from crying.
"Neither do I," rumbles Philippe. "We'll think of something."
Corbeau nods wordlessly and gazes into his eyes, a cool silver glittering under the stars, and feels his chest tighten with love and longing.
Gods, a thousand lifetimes together wouldn't be enough.
He traces Philippe's collarbone, fingertips alighting upon the hint of tattoo peeking from the collar of his shirt, and—
"Philippe," he whispers, "do you still have the tattoo ink you found?"
"I do. Not sure why I felt compelled to keep it, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it. Why do you ask?"
"I have an idea."
"Are you sure about this?" Philippe asks, hesitantly.
"I am, but this is something we both need to agree to. If you're not comfortable, we don't do it."
"Don't get me wrong, I like the idea," Philippe says as he studies the sketches Corbeau has laid out on the table of their dining nook. "I like it a lot, actually. I'm just not sure my skills are up to the task."
"That's alright."
"You say that, but I've never given a stick-and-poke tattoo in my life. Your wedding band could come out like a child's drawing."
"It doesn't have to be perfect, Philippe. If it comes from you, that will be enough."
"I…" Philippe blushes beneath the watery lamplight. "If you're sure, then I'm willing to give it my best shot."
"I am."
"Then I'll do it," he takes a deep breath. "But…maybe you should go first. Let me learn by watching you."
"I've never done this before either, I'll have you know," Corbeau chuckles ruefully, eyeing him over the top of his glasses. "But fine."
He gets right to work, carefully drawing on the stencil before setting himself to the meticulous task of applying the ink, one little stab at a time. Philippe, ever stoic, remains perfectly still, watching Corbeau's deft hands with fascination.
"Boss?"
"Hmm?" Corbeau asks without looking up.
"What new things would you have wanted to try on our honeymoon?"
"Oh." Corbeau looks up at last, tattoo needle hovering in place above his lover's ring finger. "Well, assuming we were going to be in Alola, then…" he thinks about it for a moment, then turns his face away, embarrassed. "…Surfing. Maybe."
"Surfing? You?"
"I said maybe," he scowls, blushing from the collar of his shirt to the roots of his hair. "Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing, I'm just…surprised, that's all. You have said, verbatim, that you think surfing is for reckless idiots who don't have enough natural danger in their lives."
"I do think that," Corbeau sniffs, "but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just bitter that I never had the kind of childhood where I had the chance to even want it."
"Yeah," says Philippe, contemplatively.
"I probably would have never worked up the nerve to try it on our honeymoon, and if I did, I probably would have smashed my face on the board and felt entirely vindicated in my disdain," he admits. "But I guess I'll never know, now, and…I feel robbed of the choice to try."
"I would have tried surfing with you," Philippe says, gently. Corbeau looks up at him again, and their eyes meet across the table…and he feels that twist of affection in his chest all over again.
"I…" he stammers, then turns his face away again, his cheeks burning hot. "Heh. What a sight we would make, eh?"
"You never know, Boss. We could have been naturals at it, gotten so good we'd have to move to Alola and go pro."
A genuine, full-throated laugh bubbles up from Corbeau's chest, forcing him to set the needle aside as he doubles over the table. Philippe beams, pleased with himself.
"Ah, shit, can you imagine?" he giggles, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Professional surfing. Us."
"What else?" Philippe prompts him, once Corbeau has settled down enough to resume the task at hand.
"Snorkeling, I suppose," he admits. "That sort of thing. Hiking, maybe."
"You hate hiking, Boss."
"I do. But all the best scenery is at the end of a miserable hike, so…you know."
"Fair enough."
"What about you?" Corbeau asks, carefully dabbing excess ink off of Philippe's finger. "What would you have wanted to try?"
"Hrrm," Philippe rumbles, furrowing his brow as he contemplates this. "Sailing, I think. And scuba diving, most of all."
"Scuba diving?" Corbeau repeats incredulously. "…Huh. Really?"
"Really. I've always wanted to try it. Diving sounds so peaceful, you know?"
"I really don't," Corbeau shudders, "but…I'd try that with you, too."
Philippe levels him with the kind of loving, appreciative smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and Corbeau feels his face flush all over again.
"Anywhere else you would have wanted to go?" Philippe asks. "We weren't really limited to Alola, after all."
"Oh, well…" Corbeau mumbles, frowning in concentration as he works, "somewhere with desert, I think. I've never been to a desert before, and I've always wanted to. You?"
"I'd have liked to visit Sinnoh. Always hoped a business trip there would come up one day, but it never did."
"Yeah," Corbeau sighs, wistfully. "Listen…if we ever get a magical do-over, hold me to it that I've promised to do these things with you. Don't let me wimp out."
"You got it, Boss. I'll book our trip right away, if that happens, and we'll have all the surfing, snorkeling, and diving in our lives that we could ever ask for."
"Deal."
He carefully injects the ink into the last stretch of Philippe's stencil, then dabs away the excess and sets the needle aside as they admire his handiwork. It's not perfect, of course, a professional would have done a much tidier job, but he's pleased with the outcome nonetheless. Better still, Philippe looks delighted as he holds it up to the light.
"Boss, this is wonderful," he says, his voice wavering a little. "I love it."
"I'm glad," Corbeau says, leaning across the table to kiss his cheek. "Ready to give mine a shot?"
The campfire has long since put itself out by the time they've finished their wedding bands, though Corbeau directs his Gyrados to drown the fire pit as a precaution, regardless. He doesn't even want to know what time it is, at this point, but time has little meaning now, so he supposes it doesn't matter if they sleep late tomorrow.
They climb back up to the roofside deck and sit down together under the stars, entwining their fingers so that their wedding bands touch. Corbeau can feel his heart in his throat, and by the tension in Philippe's body, he knows he feels the same.
"Well," Philippe says, shyly, "I know the traditional vow is devotion in sickness or health, but…"
"…But that doesn't quite cover our circumstances, does it?" Corbeau finishes for him.
"No."
Corbeau gazes up at the stars again as they wheel slowly overhead, contemplating their devotion to each other and the nature of the universe.
"Philippe," he begins, softly, "I love you. You're my best friend, my rock, and I wouldn't even be the person I am without you. You are home to me, and…" he takes a deep breath, "no matter where we go, no matter what may happen, I want you by my side for the rest of my life."
"Beau," Philippe whispers, swallowing thickly. "I love you too…and I feel the same. You're my guiding star, and the love of my life. I'm a better man for knowing you, and…you're my home, too, wherever we go. I wish we'd done this a long time ago, but I'm so glad we're doing it now."
"Me too," Corbeau sniffles, swiping his eyes with his sleeve again.
"Husbands?" Philippe asks.
"Husbands," Corbeau agrees, "until the stars go out." They seal it with a kiss, tender and slow.
"I like that," Philippe smiles, kissing him again. "Until the stars go out."