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teamflareTitle: arouse and see you're mine
Fandom: Pokémon Legends Z-A, Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Corbeau/Lysandre, Corbeau & Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: "You smell like you've got money," the boy says, "and I know why old guys who've got money come here. Not to strike up conversations."
Notes: Written for thepkmnkinkmeme, for the prompt "Corbeau sex worker AU. It’s how he met Lysandre." It's actually more of a past sex work backstory fic, but oh well. Lysandre does not get involved Like That in the actual underage sex work part, for the record. Title is from Placebo's The Bitter End.
AO3 Link: Here.
The boy is barely the height of a clefable and looks to weigh half as much. He's clean, but the clothes he's wearing are all but falling off of him: an oversized jacket over a shirt that looks like it's never been washed, a pair of loose pants that he's outgrown a long time ago, showing off his bony calves. He stares at Lysandre like he's sizing him up, his eyes narrowed into thin little slits.
Lysandre meets his eyes with what he hopes is a neutral enough expression on his face. He knows better than to make his pity obvious. This isn't what these people need from him.
He clears his throat once it's become clear the boy won't speak first. "Good evening," he says. There's no one else in the alley. The only light is the dim glow of a lamppost on the nearest street. "Are you alright?"
The boy scoffs. He throws his shoulders back, as if he's too nonchalant to even shrug.
"You got cash?" he asks. He adds, before Lysandre can say something else, "I don't do small talk."
In other circumstances, his bluntness could have been somewhat endearing. Right then, the only thing Lysandre can feel is a sort of unbearable sadness that sinks deep into his bones. He tries to smile, nevertheless.
"That's fine. If you would simply answer a few questions..."
The boy puffs his cheeks and then pushes the air out noisily. He readjusts his stance, perhaps in an attempt to seem more intimidating. The fact that his head barely reaches Lysandre’s chest doesn't seem to factor into his attitude.
"I told you, I don't do small talk." He shakes his head. "You pay, we do whatever it is you want, that's it. No talking, no funny business. These are my terms. Take it or leave it."
Lysandre's unaffected demeanor wavers. There's no point in pretending further; they both know what's written between the lines. Still, he straightens himself, presses his lips together.
"Do you truly believe this is what I'm here for?"
He can tell the boy's patience is reaching its limits. He sneaks glances at the other side of the alley, taps his foot lightly against the cobblestone floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"You smell like you've got money," he says, "and I know why old guys who've got money come here. Not to strike up conversations."
"I suppose I can't argue with that," is what comes out of Lysandre's mouth. It's condescending; he doesn't mean it that way, but it is. The boy glares at him. "I can give you money," Lysandre says, to stop him from running off. "Only to talk."
"I already told you," the boy snarls, and he's about to take off, Lysandre can see it in the way he's holding himself, "I don't do–"
Against his better judgment, Lysandre grabs him by the arm, tightening his grip when the boy's response is to thrash in an attempt to free himself. His scrunched-up face is that of a pokémon ready to claw and fight its way out of a trap.
"Let me go! Pervert!"
The insult is what causes Lysandre to lower his guard, surprise and shame springing upon him at once. The boy snatches up the opportunity immediately, sinking his teeth into Lysandre's sleeve and biting down. He lets go reflexively – it doesn't even hurt – and watches, frozen in place, as the boy hurries off to disappear around the corner.
He doesn't approach him right away the second time. He stays put and observes. The boy wasn't lying, though Lysandre already knew: men come into the alley wearing nicely cut suits and expensive watches they try to hide under their sleeves. They hand him cash that he counts dutifully before leading them away, deeper into the darkness, where Lysandre has no desire to follow.
It goes on for a while. Lysandre counts at least five men, one of whom is not as old and not as well-dressed, but still much older than the boy must be. Disgust curls in his stomach. When a sixth man shows, in well-ironed slacks, a gleaming band on his ring finger, it's all he can do to resist the urge to send out his pyroar and command him to spew fire until there's nothing left.
Knowing that Lumiose houses such depravity in the abstract is one thing; seeing it in action is another. At the end of the day, the boy crouches in the alley and counts his money again, holds the coins up to his face to read the numbers written on them under his breath. Lysandre steps out of his hiding spot at last.
Surprisingly, the boy doesn't react much. His eyes don't leave the coins. He frowns a little, and that's it.
"It's you," he says. "The pervert."
"How can you tell?" Lysandre asks. If the boy knows he's been here all day, it will only reinforce his poor impression.
The boy shakes his head. "Your footsteps." He still doesn't look at him, but he goes on, "If you're here for my services, you're too late. I'm closing shop for the day."
"That's not why I'm here," Lysandre says, pointlessly. "How are you so calm? Are you not afraid?"
"Of what?" Finally, the boy looks up. He squints at him. "If you wanted to hurt me, you'd have done it already."
He says it with the certainty of one with extensive past experience. Lysandre's heart aches. He mimics the boy's crouching position, so they can be at the same level, or closer to it. The boy's still staring at him.
Lysandre smiles. At least he looks more relaxed than he did the first time. "What's your name?"
"That's confidential." The boy sounds a little smug as he says it. Lysandre wonders if information is the only thing he still has control over in his life. "You'll have to pay for it."
The coins are out of Lysandre's wallet before he's even done speaking. The boy's eyes widen at the sight. He holds out his hand and waits to be holding them in his palm before he replies.
"Corbeau."
It doesn't sound like a lie.
"How old are you?"
More coins. Corbeau counts them under his breath.
"Eighteen."
Lysandre frowns.
"Is that what you tell them?"
Corbeau smiles, though it's more like a sneer, less joyful and more reflexive.
"No." He rolls his eyes, a little. From up close, Lysandre is struck by the bright yellow tint of his pupils. "S'what I tell those who dig their noses into my business."
He's stubborn, but two can play at this game. That he's willing to answer Lysandre's questions is already more than he expected.
"Do you have a place to live?"
Corbeau struggles to keep all of his coins in one hand. His conviction seems to waver; it is a lot of money. Still, he remains impervious to Lysandre's attempt to get him to relax, let alone open up.
"Yes," Corbeau says. He doesn't elaborate. Another few coins fall into his hand. "I'm not telling you where. It's nearby, and it's a secret. I've got my venipede guarding it."
So the boy has pokémons, at least. Venipedes can be ferocious, despite their small sizes, or so Lysandre has been told. They're Poison-types, too, good for taking down even tougher opponents.
He'd rather not push his luck. He goes to straighten, but Corbeau's free hand falls on his arm to grip his sleeve.
Corbeau stares up at him, narrowing his eyes once again. He blinks.
"I'll be here tomorrow, too," he says. Hope makes him look even younger, no matter how hard he's fighting to keep his face neutral. "What's your name?"
"Lysandre."
He nods, and drops his hand.
It only takes a few days for Lysandre to really begin to feel like a pervert. He doesn't keep watch every time, mostly out of fear of what he might see, but he hangs around, makes a mental note of the men that show up. Some of them are regulars, the ones that seem the most well-off. Most are one-offs.
All of them are scum, as far as Lysandre is concerned.
"Aren't you gonna tell the cops?" Corbeau asks, one evening.
He's just finished eating the food Lysandre has brought him, sharing bites with his venipede. The pokémon is even smaller than Lysandre expected, yet it keeps glaring at him, its antennas vibrating in obvious annoyance.
Though it's dripping with sarcasm, Lysandre ponders the suggestion.
"Would they do something?"
Corbeau laughs.
"Nah. They'd just drag me to another home, and maybe to some new pretend family where I'd get beaten up again, and then I'd run away, and we'd be back to square one."
That's about what Lysandre expected. He hums. Corbeau's venipede climbs up his shoulder to rest on top of his chest like it's shielding him from potential harm.
In the silence that follows, another question leaves Corbeau's mouth.
"Why are you helping me?"
He's right to wonder: it's not as if he's the only kid in those streets who makes money this way. He's also not the only kid Lysandre has been helping, but there's definitely something else there.
"There is a youth shelter near Rouge Plaza," Lysandre says. "If you tell them my name, they'll let you stay for as long as you like."
Corbeau squints at him. Lysandre makes a mental note to schedule him an appointment with an eye specialist. It can be done through the shelter. It's better if they part ways once Corbeau's safe.
"My friend told me you're known 'round here," Corbeau says plainly. "That you're some kind of hero, or something." He pauses to sniff loudly. "I'll check it out. No promises."
His venipede squeaks. He gives it a pat on the back and speaks to it in murmurs that Lysandre can't quite catch.
"Poison bit a guy's ankle, once." Corbeau's voice is resigned as he speaks, his usual bravado gone. When Lysandre looks down at him, he's just a little kid, barely a teenager, sitting with his knees up, his arms wrapped around his partner pokémon. "'Cause I hadn't remembered to lock his crate, and he heard me screaming and he wanted to help. Guy kicked him so hard I thought he'd died." Tears pool in Corbeau's eyes, yet his voice remains steady. Lysandre stops breathing, cold anger gripping his heart. "But I couldn't stop 'cause then he'd kick me. So we kept going, and I kept looking at Poison and thinking, what if he's dead and it's my fault. What if I killed him."
Poison's antennas twitch. He's closed his eyes and seems to have gotten comfortable. His beak nuzzles Corbeau's cheek gently.
Corbeau sighs. "Y'know. Guys are nice to me sometimes because they think it'll make things easier. Like I'm a pokémon they're teaching tricks. Giving me treats and all. But you've just given me money without asking for anything." He snorts, the resulting sound wet with tears and snot. "I'd do it, you know. If you asked."
It feels more like a confession than simply an admission of guilt. Lysandre steels himself; now is not the time to let his emotions get the better of him. The boy is in distress. He doesn't know what he's saying. This is all he's ever known. To him, this is a gift, even if to Lysandre it only serves to highlight how helpless he is to fix the state the world has left him in.
Still, he bends down, to run his fingers through Corbeau's hair. Corbeau flinches – and then relaxes into the touch.
"You do not owe me anything," Lysandre says.
Corbeau looks at him like he's the sun rising in the morning, like he's Arceus himself descending from its domain to rescue him at last. It shouldn't make him feel so powerful, and he shouldn't allow himself to enjoy it; he does, anyway.
Of course, Lysandre has many kinds of power. He has money, he has influence. He knows people. It's easy to take pictures, to make them circulate, to spread rumors. Some vices are open secrets, but that doesn't mean they'll stand up to a higher level of scrutiny. It costs him nothing to send out some of his employees to scout, to stalk. If there are some arrests, some confrontations, they're small victories, drops in an ocean of depravity.
Victories nonetheless.
None of it can be traced back to him, needless to say, and with Corbeau safe at the shelter, there's nothing for him to worry about. When Lysandre learns that one man was nearly beaten to death, he thinks about little Poison and pretends to be concerned about pointless violence.
Some vices are more palatable than others.
That night, many years later, Corbeau's a little taller than a noctowl, though still just as thin. No longer having to survive off of scraps on the streets has made him grow into a man as stubborn as Lysandre was at that age – or perhaps it is the other way around, and the streets have made him this way. Lysandre cannot pretend to know.
They've been running into each other less and less since Corbeau has started to thrive in his business endeavors. Lysandre is busier, too. There are other reasons, but they're beside the point.
It's one of those reunion parties, where they catch up on the progress of all the people, young and old, that Team Flare has led toward a better life. Corbeau is fully in his element, talking, laughing, drinking champagne. Seeing him in his fancy clothes, the light catching the edges of his expensive glasses, it's hard to imagine he once was the dirty child forced into reprehensible acts that Lysandre all but dragged out of the gutter. It is unbecoming to have favorites, but Lysandre still allows himself to be proud.
Corbeau notices him staring. He smiles at Lysandre, elbows the broad-shouldered man standing next to him – Philippe, Lysandre remembers – and they both wave. Then Corbeau swallows down his glass of champagne and hands it to Philippe so he can make his way toward Lysandre.
"Good evening," he says cheerfully. The alcohol warms up his cheeks and narrows his yellow eyes. "It's been a while."
"So it has," Lysandre replies. He hasn't drunk anything; he doesn't enjoy the taste of champagne much. "I've heard you've been doing well for yourself."
"For sure!" Corbeau laughs. His shoulder bumps against Lysandre's arm, and the contact seems to sober him all at once, the flush on his cheek darkening. Lysandre looks away. Corbeau's tone turns more serious when he adds, "It's all thanks to your help. I'll always be indebted to you."
"You do not owe me anything."
It's true, of course. Still, he can tell even without meeting Corbeau's eyes that he doesn't believe it. Perhaps he never will.
The background noise of conversations around them drowns out Lysandre's own thoughts. He nearly startles when Corbeau touches him again, wraps his palm around the crook of his arm to use it as leverage and hoist himself up so he can speak closer to Lysandre's ear.
"The offer is still on, you know," he murmurs. Lysandre bristles. In response, Corbeau chuckles and adds, "I'm not twelve anymore."
"Twelve!" Lysandre repeats in disbelief. He fights off the urge to break away, for fear of making a scene. "You were not twelve when we met."
Corbeau shrugs. His gaze, even hidden behind the lenses of his glasses, pierces through Lysandre.
"Maybe not," he admits. "They sure loved believing it, though."
This isn't something Lysandre wants to talk about.
"I wish you wouldn't be so flippant about this," is what he says. It doesn't come out the way he meant it to.
Corbeau's hand moves off his arm at last. He's smiling, a little smug, but Lysandre can tell from the way he's avoiding meeting his gaze that he's hurt by the rejection.
"I don't think that's up for you to decide." Despite it all, his smile widens. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Anyway. You know where to find me if you ever change your mind."
Lysandre wants to say that he doesn't. Instead, he stays silent. He lets Corbeau leave, go back to Philippe, whose eyes have been on them this whole time. He pretends not to notice them talking among themselves.
He pretends not to notice them at all for the rest of the evening. It is only as they're leaving that Corbeau tries, one last time, to catch his eye from across the venue. He holds his gaze for a moment, unmoving, and then he's gone, taken away by Philippe and the others who are exiting alongside them.
It's the last time Lysandre sees him, before everything else happens. It will never haunt him, later, the cruelty of that last exchange, the desperation. Corbeau alone will be left behind to wrestle with it – him, and a man who refuses to bear his name, and who has no recollection of rescuing a boy from the dirt and grime that make up the worst of what Lumiose has to offer.
Fandom: Pokémon Legends Z-A, Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Corbeau/Lysandre, Corbeau & Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: "You smell like you've got money," the boy says, "and I know why old guys who've got money come here. Not to strike up conversations."
Notes: Written for the
pkmnkinkmeme, for the prompt "Corbeau sex worker AU. It’s how he met Lysandre." It's actually more of a past sex work backstory fic, but oh well. Lysandre does not get involved Like That in the actual underage sex work part, for the record. Title is from Placebo's The Bitter End.AO3 Link: Here.
The boy is barely the height of a clefable and looks to weigh half as much. He's clean, but the clothes he's wearing are all but falling off of him: an oversized jacket over a shirt that looks like it's never been washed, a pair of loose pants that he's outgrown a long time ago, showing off his bony calves. He stares at Lysandre like he's sizing him up, his eyes narrowed into thin little slits.
Lysandre meets his eyes with what he hopes is a neutral enough expression on his face. He knows better than to make his pity obvious. This isn't what these people need from him.
He clears his throat once it's become clear the boy won't speak first. "Good evening," he says. There's no one else in the alley. The only light is the dim glow of a lamppost on the nearest street. "Are you alright?"
The boy scoffs. He throws his shoulders back, as if he's too nonchalant to even shrug.
"You got cash?" he asks. He adds, before Lysandre can say something else, "I don't do small talk."
In other circumstances, his bluntness could have been somewhat endearing. Right then, the only thing Lysandre can feel is a sort of unbearable sadness that sinks deep into his bones. He tries to smile, nevertheless.
"That's fine. If you would simply answer a few questions..."
The boy puffs his cheeks and then pushes the air out noisily. He readjusts his stance, perhaps in an attempt to seem more intimidating. The fact that his head barely reaches Lysandre’s chest doesn't seem to factor into his attitude.
"I told you, I don't do small talk." He shakes his head. "You pay, we do whatever it is you want, that's it. No talking, no funny business. These are my terms. Take it or leave it."
Lysandre's unaffected demeanor wavers. There's no point in pretending further; they both know what's written between the lines. Still, he straightens himself, presses his lips together.
"Do you truly believe this is what I'm here for?"
He can tell the boy's patience is reaching its limits. He sneaks glances at the other side of the alley, taps his foot lightly against the cobblestone floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"You smell like you've got money," he says, "and I know why old guys who've got money come here. Not to strike up conversations."
"I suppose I can't argue with that," is what comes out of Lysandre's mouth. It's condescending; he doesn't mean it that way, but it is. The boy glares at him. "I can give you money," Lysandre says, to stop him from running off. "Only to talk."
"I already told you," the boy snarls, and he's about to take off, Lysandre can see it in the way he's holding himself, "I don't do–"
Against his better judgment, Lysandre grabs him by the arm, tightening his grip when the boy's response is to thrash in an attempt to free himself. His scrunched-up face is that of a pokémon ready to claw and fight its way out of a trap.
"Let me go! Pervert!"
The insult is what causes Lysandre to lower his guard, surprise and shame springing upon him at once. The boy snatches up the opportunity immediately, sinking his teeth into Lysandre's sleeve and biting down. He lets go reflexively – it doesn't even hurt – and watches, frozen in place, as the boy hurries off to disappear around the corner.
He doesn't approach him right away the second time. He stays put and observes. The boy wasn't lying, though Lysandre already knew: men come into the alley wearing nicely cut suits and expensive watches they try to hide under their sleeves. They hand him cash that he counts dutifully before leading them away, deeper into the darkness, where Lysandre has no desire to follow.
It goes on for a while. Lysandre counts at least five men, one of whom is not as old and not as well-dressed, but still much older than the boy must be. Disgust curls in his stomach. When a sixth man shows, in well-ironed slacks, a gleaming band on his ring finger, it's all he can do to resist the urge to send out his pyroar and command him to spew fire until there's nothing left.
Knowing that Lumiose houses such depravity in the abstract is one thing; seeing it in action is another. At the end of the day, the boy crouches in the alley and counts his money again, holds the coins up to his face to read the numbers written on them under his breath. Lysandre steps out of his hiding spot at last.
Surprisingly, the boy doesn't react much. His eyes don't leave the coins. He frowns a little, and that's it.
"It's you," he says. "The pervert."
"How can you tell?" Lysandre asks. If the boy knows he's been here all day, it will only reinforce his poor impression.
The boy shakes his head. "Your footsteps." He still doesn't look at him, but he goes on, "If you're here for my services, you're too late. I'm closing shop for the day."
"That's not why I'm here," Lysandre says, pointlessly. "How are you so calm? Are you not afraid?"
"Of what?" Finally, the boy looks up. He squints at him. "If you wanted to hurt me, you'd have done it already."
He says it with the certainty of one with extensive past experience. Lysandre's heart aches. He mimics the boy's crouching position, so they can be at the same level, or closer to it. The boy's still staring at him.
Lysandre smiles. At least he looks more relaxed than he did the first time. "What's your name?"
"That's confidential." The boy sounds a little smug as he says it. Lysandre wonders if information is the only thing he still has control over in his life. "You'll have to pay for it."
The coins are out of Lysandre's wallet before he's even done speaking. The boy's eyes widen at the sight. He holds out his hand and waits to be holding them in his palm before he replies.
"Corbeau."
It doesn't sound like a lie.
"How old are you?"
More coins. Corbeau counts them under his breath.
"Eighteen."
Lysandre frowns.
"Is that what you tell them?"
Corbeau smiles, though it's more like a sneer, less joyful and more reflexive.
"No." He rolls his eyes, a little. From up close, Lysandre is struck by the bright yellow tint of his pupils. "S'what I tell those who dig their noses into my business."
He's stubborn, but two can play at this game. That he's willing to answer Lysandre's questions is already more than he expected.
"Do you have a place to live?"
Corbeau struggles to keep all of his coins in one hand. His conviction seems to waver; it is a lot of money. Still, he remains impervious to Lysandre's attempt to get him to relax, let alone open up.
"Yes," Corbeau says. He doesn't elaborate. Another few coins fall into his hand. "I'm not telling you where. It's nearby, and it's a secret. I've got my venipede guarding it."
So the boy has pokémons, at least. Venipedes can be ferocious, despite their small sizes, or so Lysandre has been told. They're Poison-types, too, good for taking down even tougher opponents.
He'd rather not push his luck. He goes to straighten, but Corbeau's free hand falls on his arm to grip his sleeve.
Corbeau stares up at him, narrowing his eyes once again. He blinks.
"I'll be here tomorrow, too," he says. Hope makes him look even younger, no matter how hard he's fighting to keep his face neutral. "What's your name?"
"Lysandre."
He nods, and drops his hand.
It only takes a few days for Lysandre to really begin to feel like a pervert. He doesn't keep watch every time, mostly out of fear of what he might see, but he hangs around, makes a mental note of the men that show up. Some of them are regulars, the ones that seem the most well-off. Most are one-offs.
All of them are scum, as far as Lysandre is concerned.
"Aren't you gonna tell the cops?" Corbeau asks, one evening.
He's just finished eating the food Lysandre has brought him, sharing bites with his venipede. The pokémon is even smaller than Lysandre expected, yet it keeps glaring at him, its antennas vibrating in obvious annoyance.
Though it's dripping with sarcasm, Lysandre ponders the suggestion.
"Would they do something?"
Corbeau laughs.
"Nah. They'd just drag me to another home, and maybe to some new pretend family where I'd get beaten up again, and then I'd run away, and we'd be back to square one."
That's about what Lysandre expected. He hums. Corbeau's venipede climbs up his shoulder to rest on top of his chest like it's shielding him from potential harm.
In the silence that follows, another question leaves Corbeau's mouth.
"Why are you helping me?"
He's right to wonder: it's not as if he's the only kid in those streets who makes money this way. He's also not the only kid Lysandre has been helping, but there's definitely something else there.
"There is a youth shelter near Rouge Plaza," Lysandre says. "If you tell them my name, they'll let you stay for as long as you like."
Corbeau squints at him. Lysandre makes a mental note to schedule him an appointment with an eye specialist. It can be done through the shelter. It's better if they part ways once Corbeau's safe.
"My friend told me you're known 'round here," Corbeau says plainly. "That you're some kind of hero, or something." He pauses to sniff loudly. "I'll check it out. No promises."
His venipede squeaks. He gives it a pat on the back and speaks to it in murmurs that Lysandre can't quite catch.
"Poison bit a guy's ankle, once." Corbeau's voice is resigned as he speaks, his usual bravado gone. When Lysandre looks down at him, he's just a little kid, barely a teenager, sitting with his knees up, his arms wrapped around his partner pokémon. "'Cause I hadn't remembered to lock his crate, and he heard me screaming and he wanted to help. Guy kicked him so hard I thought he'd died." Tears pool in Corbeau's eyes, yet his voice remains steady. Lysandre stops breathing, cold anger gripping his heart. "But I couldn't stop 'cause then he'd kick me. So we kept going, and I kept looking at Poison and thinking, what if he's dead and it's my fault. What if I killed him."
Poison's antennas twitch. He's closed his eyes and seems to have gotten comfortable. His beak nuzzles Corbeau's cheek gently.
Corbeau sighs. "Y'know. Guys are nice to me sometimes because they think it'll make things easier. Like I'm a pokémon they're teaching tricks. Giving me treats and all. But you've just given me money without asking for anything." He snorts, the resulting sound wet with tears and snot. "I'd do it, you know. If you asked."
It feels more like a confession than simply an admission of guilt. Lysandre steels himself; now is not the time to let his emotions get the better of him. The boy is in distress. He doesn't know what he's saying. This is all he's ever known. To him, this is a gift, even if to Lysandre it only serves to highlight how helpless he is to fix the state the world has left him in.
Still, he bends down, to run his fingers through Corbeau's hair. Corbeau flinches – and then relaxes into the touch.
"You do not owe me anything," Lysandre says.
Corbeau looks at him like he's the sun rising in the morning, like he's Arceus himself descending from its domain to rescue him at last. It shouldn't make him feel so powerful, and he shouldn't allow himself to enjoy it; he does, anyway.
Of course, Lysandre has many kinds of power. He has money, he has influence. He knows people. It's easy to take pictures, to make them circulate, to spread rumors. Some vices are open secrets, but that doesn't mean they'll stand up to a higher level of scrutiny. It costs him nothing to send out some of his employees to scout, to stalk. If there are some arrests, some confrontations, they're small victories, drops in an ocean of depravity.
Victories nonetheless.
None of it can be traced back to him, needless to say, and with Corbeau safe at the shelter, there's nothing for him to worry about. When Lysandre learns that one man was nearly beaten to death, he thinks about little Poison and pretends to be concerned about pointless violence.
Some vices are more palatable than others.
That night, many years later, Corbeau's a little taller than a noctowl, though still just as thin. No longer having to survive off of scraps on the streets has made him grow into a man as stubborn as Lysandre was at that age – or perhaps it is the other way around, and the streets have made him this way. Lysandre cannot pretend to know.
They've been running into each other less and less since Corbeau has started to thrive in his business endeavors. Lysandre is busier, too. There are other reasons, but they're beside the point.
It's one of those reunion parties, where they catch up on the progress of all the people, young and old, that Team Flare has led toward a better life. Corbeau is fully in his element, talking, laughing, drinking champagne. Seeing him in his fancy clothes, the light catching the edges of his expensive glasses, it's hard to imagine he once was the dirty child forced into reprehensible acts that Lysandre all but dragged out of the gutter. It is unbecoming to have favorites, but Lysandre still allows himself to be proud.
Corbeau notices him staring. He smiles at Lysandre, elbows the broad-shouldered man standing next to him – Philippe, Lysandre remembers – and they both wave. Then Corbeau swallows down his glass of champagne and hands it to Philippe so he can make his way toward Lysandre.
"Good evening," he says cheerfully. The alcohol warms up his cheeks and narrows his yellow eyes. "It's been a while."
"So it has," Lysandre replies. He hasn't drunk anything; he doesn't enjoy the taste of champagne much. "I've heard you've been doing well for yourself."
"For sure!" Corbeau laughs. His shoulder bumps against Lysandre's arm, and the contact seems to sober him all at once, the flush on his cheek darkening. Lysandre looks away. Corbeau's tone turns more serious when he adds, "It's all thanks to your help. I'll always be indebted to you."
"You do not owe me anything."
It's true, of course. Still, he can tell even without meeting Corbeau's eyes that he doesn't believe it. Perhaps he never will.
The background noise of conversations around them drowns out Lysandre's own thoughts. He nearly startles when Corbeau touches him again, wraps his palm around the crook of his arm to use it as leverage and hoist himself up so he can speak closer to Lysandre's ear.
"The offer is still on, you know," he murmurs. Lysandre bristles. In response, Corbeau chuckles and adds, "I'm not twelve anymore."
"Twelve!" Lysandre repeats in disbelief. He fights off the urge to break away, for fear of making a scene. "You were not twelve when we met."
Corbeau shrugs. His gaze, even hidden behind the lenses of his glasses, pierces through Lysandre.
"Maybe not," he admits. "They sure loved believing it, though."
This isn't something Lysandre wants to talk about.
"I wish you wouldn't be so flippant about this," is what he says. It doesn't come out the way he meant it to.
Corbeau's hand moves off his arm at last. He's smiling, a little smug, but Lysandre can tell from the way he's avoiding meeting his gaze that he's hurt by the rejection.
"I don't think that's up for you to decide." Despite it all, his smile widens. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Anyway. You know where to find me if you ever change your mind."
Lysandre wants to say that he doesn't. Instead, he stays silent. He lets Corbeau leave, go back to Philippe, whose eyes have been on them this whole time. He pretends not to notice them talking among themselves.
He pretends not to notice them at all for the rest of the evening. It is only as they're leaving that Corbeau tries, one last time, to catch his eye from across the venue. He holds his gaze for a moment, unmoving, and then he's gone, taken away by Philippe and the others who are exiting alongside them.
It's the last time Lysandre sees him, before everything else happens. It will never haunt him, later, the cruelty of that last exchange, the desperation. Corbeau alone will be left behind to wrestle with it – him, and a man who refuses to bear his name, and who has no recollection of rescuing a boy from the dirt and grime that make up the worst of what Lumiose has to offer.