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teamflareTitle: This Precious Time That We Have
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: Lysandre smiles at him, just barely, a twitch of the lips that he’s never seen him give to anyone else.
Notes: For the prompt "stolen moments." Title is from the English version of KISEKI.
AO3 Link: Here.
The soft thump of a book hitting the table takes Augustine out of his reverie. When he turns to look at the source of the noise, Lysandre smiles at him, just barely, a twitch of the lips that he’s never seen him give to anyone else.
“This is what you were looking for, I believe,” he says, but before Augustine can reach out to take the book, he goes on, “You look exhausted. I think we’re owed a break, aren’t we? I brought pastries from the café.”
They eat together at one of the nearby tables, once Lysandre has cleared it of all the clutter. The pastries are delicious – they always are – but his serene expression as he watches Augustine enjoy them is more nourishing than any meal.
It’s raining so hard that the windows of the lab might as well be opaque. Augustine hovers behind his desk, scratching at the stubble on his chin.
“I guess I could sleep in the infirmary,” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.
Somebody’s taken the last umbrella that was left behind in the hall at some point, and he’s not about to stand in a subway train while completely drenched in rainwater. There’s always work to do, anyway; he might as well not sleep.
He feels Lysandre’s presence right behind him before he even has a chance to speak.
“Aren’t you leaving?” he asks. When Augustine turns around, he’s wearing the thick coat he’s come in with that morning, making his silhouette even more imposing.
“There’s no umbrella left,” Augustine admits, sheepish. “It’s fine, though–”
Lysandre unfolds his own umbrella, previously hidden from view. It’s black with red accents; it would be funny were his expression not so solemn and, oddly, concerned.
“You don’t have to–”
“Please,” he says, “allow me.”
There’s not enough room for the two of them to stand under the umbrella – Augustine isn’t even sure Lysandre alone would have enough room, with how broad his shoulders are – and so, on the way to the station, his hair gets a little wet. It darkens, glistening under the streetlights, like a fire crackling in the wind, and Augustine feels warm despite the fresh, rain-soaked air.
“Stay,” Augustine whines into the pillow. Lysandre stirs under his grasp, already halfway to sitting up, but he doesn’t move further. “The bed will get cold.”
“I have to get up,” Lysandre says. He tries to sound aggravated, maybe, though Augustine can tell he’s smiling. “We both have to get up.”
Augustine opens one eye to glare at the clock on the bedside table. “Not this early. I think you can afford to skip exercising just for today.”
Lysandre hums, noncommittal, as he allows himself to be dragged back under the covers. His back is warm against Augustine’s chest, firm and steady, immovable. He fits in a way nobody has before, disregarding the fact that he’s twice as wide as Augustine is.
“Although,” Augustine murmurs, brushing his lips on the back of his neck. Lysandre shivers, bows his head further down to expose more of his nape. “There’s some exercising we could do.”
He sucks on a spot that he knows will make him sigh, and Lysandre says, “Professor, we’ll be late,” which isn’t “No.”
This year, the autumn weather is lukewarm and humid in the worst ways. It makes Augustine’s hair frizzle at the tips even more than usual. He’s pinching it between his fingers, distracted from his work, when Lysandre walks past the partition in the middle of the office, holding a cardboard box.
“Professor,” he calls out.
Augustine frowns at him.
“There you are,” he says. “Haven’t seen you all week. I was starting to think you’d left the city.”
The practiced smile on Lysandre’s face falters. He looks down at the box he’s holding, and then back up at Augustine. “I was hoping to make amends. I’ve been busy with my personal work, as you’re aware.”
“Of course I’m aware.” Augustine sighs. “I miss you. Come here.”
He sits on the chair facing the desk, clears out some of the mess of files and notes, and puts down the box so he can open it. Inside lies the most gorgeous apple pie Augustine has ever seen: golden brown, shining even under the dull sunlight coming in through the window. Just that sight is enough to make him salivate.
“Your favorite,” Lysandre says, and there’s something about the way he says it that’ll give Augustine pause, later, once he’s no longer distracted by delicious baked goods. “I made it just for you.”
It’s all Augustine can do not to kiss him on the spot. “Oh, Lysandre. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to.” His lips try to stretch into a more sincere smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As an apology.”
“You’ve more than made up for your absence with this,” Augustine jokes. “Come on, let’s try it.”
The pie is perfect; it’s the exact recipe that Lysandre knows he likes the most, the one that reminds him of the lazy afternoons of his childhood, lying down in the dirt and the mud with the bug pokémons before coming home for an afternoon snack prepared by his mother. Lysandre watches him eat it, the situation familiar, and yet Augustine can’t shake the edge of something else, a tension in the way Lysandre holds himself, that spoils the taste.
He doesn’t explain what, exactly, he’s been up to. Augustine doesn’t ask.
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: Lysandre smiles at him, just barely, a twitch of the lips that he’s never seen him give to anyone else.
Notes: For the prompt "stolen moments." Title is from the English version of KISEKI.
AO3 Link: Here.
The soft thump of a book hitting the table takes Augustine out of his reverie. When he turns to look at the source of the noise, Lysandre smiles at him, just barely, a twitch of the lips that he’s never seen him give to anyone else.
“This is what you were looking for, I believe,” he says, but before Augustine can reach out to take the book, he goes on, “You look exhausted. I think we’re owed a break, aren’t we? I brought pastries from the café.”
They eat together at one of the nearby tables, once Lysandre has cleared it of all the clutter. The pastries are delicious – they always are – but his serene expression as he watches Augustine enjoy them is more nourishing than any meal.
It’s raining so hard that the windows of the lab might as well be opaque. Augustine hovers behind his desk, scratching at the stubble on his chin.
“I guess I could sleep in the infirmary,” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else.
Somebody’s taken the last umbrella that was left behind in the hall at some point, and he’s not about to stand in a subway train while completely drenched in rainwater. There’s always work to do, anyway; he might as well not sleep.
He feels Lysandre’s presence right behind him before he even has a chance to speak.
“Aren’t you leaving?” he asks. When Augustine turns around, he’s wearing the thick coat he’s come in with that morning, making his silhouette even more imposing.
“There’s no umbrella left,” Augustine admits, sheepish. “It’s fine, though–”
Lysandre unfolds his own umbrella, previously hidden from view. It’s black with red accents; it would be funny were his expression not so solemn and, oddly, concerned.
“You don’t have to–”
“Please,” he says, “allow me.”
There’s not enough room for the two of them to stand under the umbrella – Augustine isn’t even sure Lysandre alone would have enough room, with how broad his shoulders are – and so, on the way to the station, his hair gets a little wet. It darkens, glistening under the streetlights, like a fire crackling in the wind, and Augustine feels warm despite the fresh, rain-soaked air.
“Stay,” Augustine whines into the pillow. Lysandre stirs under his grasp, already halfway to sitting up, but he doesn’t move further. “The bed will get cold.”
“I have to get up,” Lysandre says. He tries to sound aggravated, maybe, though Augustine can tell he’s smiling. “We both have to get up.”
Augustine opens one eye to glare at the clock on the bedside table. “Not this early. I think you can afford to skip exercising just for today.”
Lysandre hums, noncommittal, as he allows himself to be dragged back under the covers. His back is warm against Augustine’s chest, firm and steady, immovable. He fits in a way nobody has before, disregarding the fact that he’s twice as wide as Augustine is.
“Although,” Augustine murmurs, brushing his lips on the back of his neck. Lysandre shivers, bows his head further down to expose more of his nape. “There’s some exercising we could do.”
He sucks on a spot that he knows will make him sigh, and Lysandre says, “Professor, we’ll be late,” which isn’t “No.”
This year, the autumn weather is lukewarm and humid in the worst ways. It makes Augustine’s hair frizzle at the tips even more than usual. He’s pinching it between his fingers, distracted from his work, when Lysandre walks past the partition in the middle of the office, holding a cardboard box.
“Professor,” he calls out.
Augustine frowns at him.
“There you are,” he says. “Haven’t seen you all week. I was starting to think you’d left the city.”
The practiced smile on Lysandre’s face falters. He looks down at the box he’s holding, and then back up at Augustine. “I was hoping to make amends. I’ve been busy with my personal work, as you’re aware.”
“Of course I’m aware.” Augustine sighs. “I miss you. Come here.”
He sits on the chair facing the desk, clears out some of the mess of files and notes, and puts down the box so he can open it. Inside lies the most gorgeous apple pie Augustine has ever seen: golden brown, shining even under the dull sunlight coming in through the window. Just that sight is enough to make him salivate.
“Your favorite,” Lysandre says, and there’s something about the way he says it that’ll give Augustine pause, later, once he’s no longer distracted by delicious baked goods. “I made it just for you.”
It’s all Augustine can do not to kiss him on the spot. “Oh, Lysandre. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to.” His lips try to stretch into a more sincere smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As an apology.”
“You’ve more than made up for your absence with this,” Augustine jokes. “Come on, let’s try it.”
The pie is perfect; it’s the exact recipe that Lysandre knows he likes the most, the one that reminds him of the lazy afternoons of his childhood, lying down in the dirt and the mud with the bug pokémons before coming home for an afternoon snack prepared by his mother. Lysandre watches him eat it, the situation familiar, and yet Augustine can’t shake the edge of something else, a tension in the way Lysandre holds himself, that spoils the taste.
He doesn’t explain what, exactly, he’s been up to. Augustine doesn’t ask.