@beausimp — I tried to go a bit of a more unique pass with this since I’ve done a lot of confessionals recently! I hope this is still cute 🥺💜
(Also small little treat for Lida x Philippe shippers because why not!!!)
It’s been just over a month since you were first called in to the Rust Syndicate to discuss Urbain’s debt. Meeting Corbeau was a lot… at least, at first. Your initial feelings of fear and disdain toward him quickly dissipated—only to be replaced with ones of yearning that, frankly, concerned Lida and the rest of Team MZ.
The way your face lights up when you see his name light up your Rotom phone, even when it’s just him calling to requesting a coffee, makes the room you’re in collectively sigh.
“You… are aware that the Rust Syndicate’s forgiven Urbain’s debt, right?” Lida reminds you; she tilts her head quizzically as you read your latest text from Corbeau.
You look up to her, your cheeks slightly flushed, “Y-yeah, I know but there’s not much else going on right now and it can’t hurt to get in the syndicate’s ‘good’ books... right?”
Lida smirks, raising an eyebrow, “… riight.”
“H-hah, well! This request seems a little more leisurely than the rest—he’s invited me to the syndicate for a mixer?” Your body visibly vibrates as you clutch your phone in your hand.
“So… a date? He’s… clearly asking you... on a date." Lida teases.
“... he actually requested you come along, too, Lida. Something about Philippe requesting your presence?” You flash an equally teasing smirk back to her.
Lida’s face immediately turns red.
You respond to Corbeau’s text, completely disregarding Lida’s “date” comment:
“Lida is in. Looking forward to it, see you tonight.”
Time passes quickly as you debate what to wear; as you debate what this invite even means. At around 8PM, you and Lida leave Hotel Z—hoping to hail a taxi. Instead, a long, black limousine pulls up. A Rust Syndicate grunt steps out, opening the door for you, gesturing toward the pair of you to get inside.
Slightly hesitant, you comply. The lavish limo has a bottle of expensive, Galarian champagne delicately placed in an ice bucket which… you can only assume is for you two. Hopefully, it’ll quell your combined nerves.
A short drive and a bottle of champagne later, the limo pulls up to the syndicate’s gates. You’re greeted by both Corbeau and Philippe looking even more polished than usual.
Standing beside Philippe at the entrance, Corbeau adjusts the cuffs of his immaculate purple dress shirt, shifting restlessly beneath his tailored black coat.
The moment the limo doors open, his sharp golden eyes lock onto yours—his lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk when he sees the flush on your face.
“You're punctual,” he remarks smoothly, stepping closer while Philippe moves past him to greet Lida with a low chuckle.
“Though, I suppose you’ve got me to thank for that.” A pause, his gaze flickering between you and Lida before settling back on you with amusement.
“You seem… nervous.” Corbeau points out almost mockingly, much to your dismay.
Behind him, Philippe clears his throat dramatically, clapping a broad hand on Lida’s shoulder—far too familiarly. “Ah, Lida, you look radiant. Is that flush from the champagne, or are you just happy to see me?”
Corbeau sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before extending an arm toward you—an unspoken invitation to walk with him. “Well? Everyone's gathered inside... unless you'd prefer to linger here and watch my dear friend here embarrass himself further?" There's a rare lightness in his tone, something almost playful beneath the usual controlled cadence.
Your heart skips a beat as Corbeau extends his arm towards you. Your cheeks grow even warmer—if possible—and you hesitate only for a split second before slipping your hand delicately into the crook of his elbow.
You shoot Lida a quick glance, silently pleading for backup, but she’s already preoccupied with Philippe’s antics, flustered beyond words.
“Oh, uh—” You clear your throat, trying to sound composed despite the Butterfree wreaking havoc in your stomach, “...lead the way.” You give his arm a gentle squeeze, reassuring yourself that this is real.
Inside, the atmosphere is surprisingly lively—soft jazz plays somewhere deeper in the building, mingling with murmured conversations and clinking glassware.
Glancing around the lavishly decorated interior, you take in the soft glow of chandeliers overhead, the hum of sophisticated chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter. It’s worlds apart from the tense, shadow-laden meetings you initially associated with the Rust Syndicate.
"...this is nice," you whisper, mostly to yourself, before catching Corbeau’s eye again. “Much cozier than I expected.” Then, realizing how that might sound, you backtrack hastily, “…n-not that I thought the syndicate was, y'know, NOT… cozy! Just—” You groan internally, biting your lip. “Never…mind. How’s the evening been so far?” Small talk. Safe territory.
Corbeau looks to you with an uncharacteristic, teasing grin. “Fine. Though I feel things will be more interesting now that you’re here.”
He leads you to the open bar, sitting down on a barstool, he pats the seat next to him before gesturing to the wall of available spirits. Before you have a chance to decide, he orders shots of hot sake for the two of you. Kanpai.
The bartender nods, placing the drinks in front of Corbeau. With a practiced ease, he slides one of the steaming ceramic cups toward you, fingers lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before withdrawing.
“Tell me," he murmurs, swirling his sake idly, “…did you think I'd invite you to some grim backroom negotiation disguised as a 'mixer'?" A he lets out a half-amused scoff, "...or perhaps you assumed we'd spend the evening discussing debt collection strategies?"
His eyes gleam behind his glasses—sharp, but softened at the edges by something dangerously close to warmth. “Relax. Tonight is..." A pause, as if weighing his words, "...an indulgence."
From across the room, Philippe's booming laugh cuts through the music, followed by Lida's exasperated (yet unmistakably charmed) protest. Corbeau rolls his eyes, nudging your shot closer to you with a single fingertip. “Drink. Unless you plan on letting my poor associate suffer alone out there."
You let out a nervous giggle, wrapping your hands around the ochoko—savoring its heat against your palms. Corbeau’s teasing tone makes your pulse flutter, but there’s something comforting in the way he watches you—like he knows exactly how flustered you are and finds it amusing rather than irritating.
"…I mean," you admit sheepishly, from behind your raised cup, "… you do have a certain… reputation. Grim backrooms wouldn't be entirely out of the ordinary."
You hold the heavy cup out to Corbeau. He raises his, clinking it against yours before you both shoot the sake back with a unanimous “Kanpai!”
The hot liquid nearly causes you to choke. Luckily, a particularly loud bout of laughter erupts from where Philippe has Lida trapped in what looks like an overly enthusiastic retelling of some grand scheme—hiding your fumble. Poor Lida looks equal parts mortified and enthralled. You shake your head fondly before turning your attention fully back to Corbeau.
"So," you lean in slightly, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “…what kind of ‘indulgence’ are we talking about here? Because if it involves more of this excellent sake, I’m already sold." You swiftly place the cup down on the counter.
Corbeau raises an eyebrow before barking an order to the bartender, “Avery—four more. Keep them coming.”
Your eyes widen when you realize the kind of challenge that lies ahead tonight. A challenge of your own creation. Corbeau, a seasoned business… “professional” with the tolerance of a Tauros and… you. Just… you.
After several rounds of sake shots, your head is spinning. Your cheeks are flushed crimson and honestly, Corbeau doesn’t look any better. Perhaps your initial assumptions of his tolerance were based off nothing but stereotypes, after all.
Interrupting your train of thought, a sharp breath escapes Corbeau.
“I—HIC—excuse me, ma chérie. I... need a cigarette.” Corbeau stands, wobbling ever so slightly but regaining his composure before he begins to head toward the elevator doors.
Before he can take another step, however, he pauses—glancing back at you with a slight sway in his stance, his usually impeccable poise loosened by the alcohol. He blinks slowly, as if reconsidering, before offering you his hand instead.
"...Join me?" His voice is lower now, roughened by the sake—less calculated, more genuine. Almost hesitant.
You take his hand and follow him up to the top level of the Syndicate—the rooftop bamboo gardens.
As you step out, the crisp night air bites at your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bar. Corbeau leans against the railing pulling a sleek silver case from his inner coat pocket. With practiced motions, he taps out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his wrist. The ember glows radiantly in the moonlight as he takes a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the chilled breeze.
For once, he seems... quiet. Unburdened. No contracts to scrutinize, no negotiations to maneuver—just the weight of the evening settling between you.
"You handled yourself well in there," he muses suddenly, glancing sidelong at you, “…better than I anticipated, given your delicate constitution.” A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but lacking its usual bite.
“You smoke?” He extends his lit cigarette to you.
“N-no, thank you, I just wanted to keep you company while you indulge… which doesn’t seem to be very often,” you playfully retort as you struggle slightly to maintain your balance.
There’s a comfortable silence for a few moments as you look up to the night sky and drunkenly begin counting the stars above you.
“I’ve—HIC—I’ve got a confession,” you slur out, not even beginning to consider the words that may leave your mouth. “Every morning, when I wake up and look at my phone… I do it hoping you’ve texted me a new job… just so I have an excuse to come see you here.” You quickly cover your mouth after processing what you've just said out loud.
Corbeau's cigarette halts halfway to his lips, frozen mid-motion. For a heartbeat—maybe two—there’s only the distant hum of the party inside and the sharp intake of breath through his nostrils.
Then, quietly, he exhales smoke like a sigh. "Mon Dieu," he quirks an eyebrow, shaking his head with a rueful chuckle. “And here I thought I was the manipulative one."
Another short pause. He flicks ash over the railing, watching it scatter into the darkness below before turning to face you fully. His golden eyes are unreadable behind his fogged glasses, but the tension in his jaw betrays something raw beneath the veneer of control.
"Do you have any idea," he starts, voice dangerously smooth, “how reckless it is to say that to a man like me?" Another drag, slower this time, as if buying himself a moment to choose his next words carefully.
But then—whether it’s the alcohol or the way you’re staring at him with those wide, unfiltered eyes—something shifts. He looks to the bamboo stalks swaying in the breeze, and then back to you before he makes his own confession.
His grip tightens imperceptibly around the railing, knuckles whitening for just a second before he forces himself to relax. The cigarette dangles precariously between his fingers, forgotten for the moment.
“...do you remember the first time you walked into my office?” He asks abruptly, voice quieter now, stripped of its usual calculated edge. “That ridiculous bravado of yours—acting like you weren’t terrified out of your mind. I could smell the adrenaline on you.” A dry laugh escapes him, more breath than sound.
He crushes the cigarette against the railing, extinguishing it with unnecessary force before meeting your gaze squarely.
“I knew then.” His thumb brushes absentmindedly over his brooch—a nervous habit, maybe. “...Knew I’d have to be careful with you.”
The implication hangs heavy between you: Careful not to exploit you. Careful not to ruin you. Careful not to—
Somewhere inside, Philippe roars with laughter, startling you both back to reality. Corbeau scowls, adjusting his glasses with a sharp jerk of his wrist.
“Arceus above. Listen to me—sentimental drivel.” He reaches into his coat for another cigarette, but hesitates, fingers hovering over the case.
Instead of another smoke, he lets his hand fall back to his side with a frustrated exhale. His expression hardens momentarily—that familiar mask of control sliding back into place—before softening again as he studies your face.
"... we should head back," he mutters, though he takes no actions to leave your side. “Before Philippe embarrasses himself further—or worse, drags your poor teammate into whatever nonsense he's concocting now."
Despite his words, he remains rooted in place, the tension in his shoulders betraying the war between duty and desire. After a weighted silence, he finally relents with a barely audible sigh.
"Mais... tomorrow," he starts, voice deliberately casual, “…my schedule happens to be clear. If you find yourself with nothing better to do..." He looks away from you, but the ghost of a smirk grazes his lips. “…consider it another... job request, if that makes your decision easier."
Translation: Let me take you on a real date. Let’s stop pretending this ever had anything to do with "business".
