[Pokémon X&Y] Trébuchet
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teamflareTitle: Trébuchet
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In chess, a theoretical position of mutual zugzwang (compulsion to move) in which either player would lose if it were their turn to move.
Notes: Written for the prompt "pyrrhic victories." This story is told backwards, which means you get to enjoy it ending badly right away. Exciting!
AO3 Link: Here.
The machine smells faintly metallic, reminiscent of a coin held over a flame. Its rumbling brings to mind the rhythmic thumping of a beating heart. Lysandre's own settles in that same tempo easily as the rush of adrenaline dies down. It's an odd comfort, disturbingly human. A cure for the melancholy that's seizing him upon witnessing his grand design.
The only heartbeat in this cavern is his own. The beast he'd captured to fulfill his plans has long since let itself be entombed. All of his recruits have evacuated.
Only he and the machine remain. A man and his tool, victorious at last.
He tries to smile, but something about it feels poorly rehearsed, more reflexive than voluntary. It isn't as if there is anybody to smile for.
To smile at. That's what he was thinking of.
Lysandre shakes his head and turns around to march toward his beautiful world.
His holo-caster rings.
How could he have forgotten to deactivate it? Foolish. He'd been so caught up in what he'd been planning, he didn't even think people would try to contact him directly. He picks it up, looks down without thinking, and catches the name of the caller before he rejects it.
The professor was calling him.
It was to be expected, surely. He of all people would want answers about what exactly Lysandre is doing. He of all people would have the ability to call Lysandre back in the first place.
The device was built to be sturdy, of course, but it's easy for the designer to know where the flaws are. It only takes one sharp hit with the heel of his shoe and a single twist of his ankle to ensure nobody can reach him ever again.
"You're getting busier and busier, these days," Augustine remarks, between two long sips of perfectly tailored coffee. "I've been missing our talks."
Lysandre turns to look at him. His expression is closed-off, almost solemn, his eyes underlined by dark circles that betray long nights with little sleep. Yet, even in that sorry state, Augustine Sycamore is beautiful. He carries within him that effortless beauty which can only be achieved by those who are at least somewhat unaware of their potential.
Once, a long time ago, Lysandre had allowed himself to fantasize about that very potential. He'd constructed a world where the professor and he could work together to bring forth the change he was dreaming of.
Then he'd let something shift between them, unsettling the balance. The professor had become Augustine, and Lysandre had become lost.
It's only through careful discipline that he's regained some modicum of that control.
"I'm working on something very special," Lysandre says. The corners of his mouth twitch. "I'm afraid I can't speak of it much for now."
Augustine's smile is oddly stilted, though he disguises it behind the rim of his cup.
"Well then," Augustine says. "I'm looking forward to it."
Summer is Lysandre's least favorite season. The heat, the crowds, the unending glare of the sun; he despises all of it, has despised it even as a child.
It's hard to remember the reasons for his contempt as he gets to witness Augustine Sycamore with his shirt fully opened and his forehead glistening with sweat. When he stands too close, Lysandre can smell him, and instead of finding it revolting, it's all he can do not to lean over to try to get a taste.
"Your face's all red," Augustine points out, murmuring the words close to his ears. Lysandre bristles like a wet meowth.
"I fear the weather might be my undoing," Lysandre says. As expected, the dramatics cause a toothy grin to bloom on Augustine's face.
"It wouldn't be so bad if you'd shed some layers," he teases. He pauses, and his bottom lip sinks in a little as he thinks. "Maybe I ought to give you some lessons on wearing appropriate clothing for the season."
Lysandre's body ignites with a fever that owes very little to the rays of the sun. Despite his efforts to keep himself in check, something in his demeanor makes Augustine’s smile sharpen, his eyes narrow.
"If you're free tonight," Lysandre says.
He doesn't need to say anything else. Augustine tilts his head in a half-nod. His teeth catch the light, making them almost glimmer, and Lysandre wonders if this is how it feels to find yourself suddenly entangled in a victreebel's death trap.
Lysandre always thought romantic feelings were something one chooses to fall prey to. He'd seen his parents in love, and he's seen people seek out partners to try and fill some void in their lives. He's never understood that need.
Perhaps that's why it takes him so long to realize that the tight grip of longing that seizes him whenever he catches Augustine smiling at him isn't caused by the casual thrill of easy camaraderie.
Augustine, unsurprisingly, proves to be wiser than he is on that terrain as well. It's him who, after a drawn-out dinner and a few glasses of wine, grabs him by his cravat to crash their mouths together.
His lips taste sweet. The sensation of Lysandre's cravat tightening around his neck puts everything in sharp focus, like he's been woken up from some unending slumber, like he's alive at last.
For as long as Augustine keeps kissing him, the world feels kinder, better, less likely to be brought into chaos by the madness of weak-willed men.
Once they've parted, Lysandre contemplates the weakness of his own will. It would be so simple, to lean forward once more, to take Augustine's face in his hands, to allow himself that relief.
It would be so simple. He does it without even thinking.
Augustine Sycamore is as brilliant as Lysandre had expected, if not more. His only failures – messiness, clumsiness, overfamiliarity – only serve to highlight his qualities. His kindness. His ingenuity. His steadfast belief in his fellow men.
He comes to the café so often that he's picked one of the nicest tables for himself. Lysandre finds him there in good spirits, as usual, sipping his cup of black coffee slowly, savoring it.
"Professor," Lysandre says. He waits for the professor to look up at him before inquiring, "Do you play chess?"
The professor furrows his brow as if such a question could warrant a deep reflection. His expression only relaxes when he's ready to answer it.
"When I was younger, I'd play fairly often," he says. His smile carries a nostalgia that makes Lysandre wonder. "I doubt I'd be very good at it now."
Lysandre pulls out the chair on the opposite side of the table to sit on it at last.
"Then that means there is something for me to teach you." He curls his lips into a smile that he knows will capture the professor's attention. "If you'll allow me."
"How gentlemanly of you," the professor says, leaning back into his chair, "to want to train me into being a worthy opponent when you could enjoy an easy victory."
His tone is on the right edge of sarcastic. Lysandre leans in to watch him take another sip of coffee. The collar of his shirt shows off his clavicles even at this angle.
"Of course." Lysandre blinks, momentarily distracted. "I'm confident you could be a fierce adversary. You know what they say, Professor: triumph without peril..."
"Brings no glory."
The professor's gaze is going right through him, and Lysandre's breath catches in his chest, like it's being constricted, squeezed hard enough to hurt.
"Well then," the professor says. "I'm looking forward to it."
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In chess, a theoretical position of mutual zugzwang (compulsion to move) in which either player would lose if it were their turn to move.
Notes: Written for the prompt "pyrrhic victories." This story is told backwards, which means you get to enjoy it ending badly right away. Exciting!
AO3 Link: Here.
The machine smells faintly metallic, reminiscent of a coin held over a flame. Its rumbling brings to mind the rhythmic thumping of a beating heart. Lysandre's own settles in that same tempo easily as the rush of adrenaline dies down. It's an odd comfort, disturbingly human. A cure for the melancholy that's seizing him upon witnessing his grand design.
The only heartbeat in this cavern is his own. The beast he'd captured to fulfill his plans has long since let itself be entombed. All of his recruits have evacuated.
Only he and the machine remain. A man and his tool, victorious at last.
He tries to smile, but something about it feels poorly rehearsed, more reflexive than voluntary. It isn't as if there is anybody to smile for.
To smile at. That's what he was thinking of.
Lysandre shakes his head and turns around to march toward his beautiful world.
His holo-caster rings.
How could he have forgotten to deactivate it? Foolish. He'd been so caught up in what he'd been planning, he didn't even think people would try to contact him directly. He picks it up, looks down without thinking, and catches the name of the caller before he rejects it.
The professor was calling him.
It was to be expected, surely. He of all people would want answers about what exactly Lysandre is doing. He of all people would have the ability to call Lysandre back in the first place.
The device was built to be sturdy, of course, but it's easy for the designer to know where the flaws are. It only takes one sharp hit with the heel of his shoe and a single twist of his ankle to ensure nobody can reach him ever again.
"You're getting busier and busier, these days," Augustine remarks, between two long sips of perfectly tailored coffee. "I've been missing our talks."
Lysandre turns to look at him. His expression is closed-off, almost solemn, his eyes underlined by dark circles that betray long nights with little sleep. Yet, even in that sorry state, Augustine Sycamore is beautiful. He carries within him that effortless beauty which can only be achieved by those who are at least somewhat unaware of their potential.
Once, a long time ago, Lysandre had allowed himself to fantasize about that very potential. He'd constructed a world where the professor and he could work together to bring forth the change he was dreaming of.
Then he'd let something shift between them, unsettling the balance. The professor had become Augustine, and Lysandre had become lost.
It's only through careful discipline that he's regained some modicum of that control.
"I'm working on something very special," Lysandre says. The corners of his mouth twitch. "I'm afraid I can't speak of it much for now."
Augustine's smile is oddly stilted, though he disguises it behind the rim of his cup.
"Well then," Augustine says. "I'm looking forward to it."
Summer is Lysandre's least favorite season. The heat, the crowds, the unending glare of the sun; he despises all of it, has despised it even as a child.
It's hard to remember the reasons for his contempt as he gets to witness Augustine Sycamore with his shirt fully opened and his forehead glistening with sweat. When he stands too close, Lysandre can smell him, and instead of finding it revolting, it's all he can do not to lean over to try to get a taste.
"Your face's all red," Augustine points out, murmuring the words close to his ears. Lysandre bristles like a wet meowth.
"I fear the weather might be my undoing," Lysandre says. As expected, the dramatics cause a toothy grin to bloom on Augustine's face.
"It wouldn't be so bad if you'd shed some layers," he teases. He pauses, and his bottom lip sinks in a little as he thinks. "Maybe I ought to give you some lessons on wearing appropriate clothing for the season."
Lysandre's body ignites with a fever that owes very little to the rays of the sun. Despite his efforts to keep himself in check, something in his demeanor makes Augustine’s smile sharpen, his eyes narrow.
"If you're free tonight," Lysandre says.
He doesn't need to say anything else. Augustine tilts his head in a half-nod. His teeth catch the light, making them almost glimmer, and Lysandre wonders if this is how it feels to find yourself suddenly entangled in a victreebel's death trap.
Lysandre always thought romantic feelings were something one chooses to fall prey to. He'd seen his parents in love, and he's seen people seek out partners to try and fill some void in their lives. He's never understood that need.
Perhaps that's why it takes him so long to realize that the tight grip of longing that seizes him whenever he catches Augustine smiling at him isn't caused by the casual thrill of easy camaraderie.
Augustine, unsurprisingly, proves to be wiser than he is on that terrain as well. It's him who, after a drawn-out dinner and a few glasses of wine, grabs him by his cravat to crash their mouths together.
His lips taste sweet. The sensation of Lysandre's cravat tightening around his neck puts everything in sharp focus, like he's been woken up from some unending slumber, like he's alive at last.
For as long as Augustine keeps kissing him, the world feels kinder, better, less likely to be brought into chaos by the madness of weak-willed men.
Once they've parted, Lysandre contemplates the weakness of his own will. It would be so simple, to lean forward once more, to take Augustine's face in his hands, to allow himself that relief.
It would be so simple. He does it without even thinking.
Augustine Sycamore is as brilliant as Lysandre had expected, if not more. His only failures – messiness, clumsiness, overfamiliarity – only serve to highlight his qualities. His kindness. His ingenuity. His steadfast belief in his fellow men.
He comes to the café so often that he's picked one of the nicest tables for himself. Lysandre finds him there in good spirits, as usual, sipping his cup of black coffee slowly, savoring it.
"Professor," Lysandre says. He waits for the professor to look up at him before inquiring, "Do you play chess?"
The professor furrows his brow as if such a question could warrant a deep reflection. His expression only relaxes when he's ready to answer it.
"When I was younger, I'd play fairly often," he says. His smile carries a nostalgia that makes Lysandre wonder. "I doubt I'd be very good at it now."
Lysandre pulls out the chair on the opposite side of the table to sit on it at last.
"Then that means there is something for me to teach you." He curls his lips into a smile that he knows will capture the professor's attention. "If you'll allow me."
"How gentlemanly of you," the professor says, leaning back into his chair, "to want to train me into being a worthy opponent when you could enjoy an easy victory."
His tone is on the right edge of sarcastic. Lysandre leans in to watch him take another sip of coffee. The collar of his shirt shows off his clavicles even at this angle.
"Of course." Lysandre blinks, momentarily distracted. "I'm confident you could be a fierce adversary. You know what they say, Professor: triumph without peril..."
"Brings no glory."
The professor's gaze is going right through him, and Lysandre's breath catches in his chest, like it's being constricted, squeezed hard enough to hurt.
"Well then," the professor says. "I'm looking forward to it."