A good chunk of the homies in the group chat got hit by Snowmageddon 2: Electric Boogaloo which triggered another round of snow day talk which at some point turned into “Corbeau vs Philippe snowball fight”
They had been married for a little under two weeks before the ceremony put on by the Grunts. The actual wedding—the speaking of vows, exchanging of rings, and signing of papers—had been a private affair, between the two of them and the first available county clerk. Now, refreshed from a much-needed vacation and wearing matching gold-and-white suits, they’re ready to party with their chosen family.
The party is set up in the Syndicate’s largest conference room, tables stacked with food and gifts and the center cleared and marked off as a dancefloor. Next to the dancefloor is the small stage where speeches are usually made, and where they had stood together earlier, showing off their rings and giving thanks. Now, it’s occupied by a live band led by one of their members.
Between dances, they mingle, hugging and shaking hands with their people and their people’s people. The gifts are one of a kind—handmade blankets, custom kitchenware, photo albums with a few pages filled and plenty blank, towels with their name lovingly embroidered, little clay sculptures of their Pokemon, and more.
Everyone has to pretend not to look and listen in when Philippe tastes each of the dishes. It’s not only a matter of making something that the Bosses will enjoy, but pride in one’s culinary abilities, as well. Philippe is known around the region for his tastebuds, after all. Luckily, everything is wonderful, and he’s happy to tell them so.
The last dish to try is a croquembouche nearly as tall as Philippe himself, stacked high with Pokeball-sized pastries, some of which are decorated in the likenesses of their teams and signature balls. They both just stare for a moment, taken aback by both the size and artistry, before Corbeau shakes himself out of the trance.
“Well,” he says, reaching up to pluck a pastry from somewhere around the middle, “let’s dig in.” He offers it to Philippe, who takes a bite and closes his eyes, humming as he chews. There are few sights more worthy (in Corbeau’s biased opinion) than Philippe enjoying food. And now he (gratefully, selfishly) gets to see it all the time (so like 10% more than he already did.)
“It’s great, Beau,” Philippe says when his mouth is empty. “Your turn.” He casually takes the half-pastry from Corbeau before offering it to him. Corbeau smirks and takes it, making sure to lick Philippe’s fingers in the process. Philippe blushes brightly, and Corbeau squeezes his hand.
“Delicious."
Someone is approaching with a camera. Corbeau leans his shoulder into Philippe and squints at him happily.
"Smile, Sunshine."
Neither of them are looking at the camera when it goes off.
Bunch of Rustshipping prompts from these generators. They're mostly fluff, with some whump, silliness, a little supernatural, and Corbeau being a menace. I might use some for drabble practices or something so I can remember how to write, but y'all are welcome to use them if you're so inclined.
Philippe snaps to attention, looking at his boss—his best friend, his business partner, his boyfriend, the person he loves and trusts most—to see if he misheard, or if perhaps Corbeau is joking. He does have an odd, teasing sense of humor—but he wouldn’t make a joke of that, and his sharp eyes hold only earnest curiosity and a touch of nervousness no one else would be able to detect.
“Yes,” Philippe replies, no room for doubt. Corbeau’s eyes crinkle, and then he laughs the bright laugh no one else gets to hear.
“Good! Stand by for a proper proposal,” Corbeau hums, looking pleased with himself.
“That wasn’t it?” Philippe asks. Corbeau feigns offense, hand on his chest.
“Do you really think I would give you anything but the best? I just had to make sure you were really on board. Public humiliation from a botched proposal is so gauche.” His eyes soften and his voice goes a little quiet. “I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t want to. There’s nothing wrong with what we have, with us just as we are.”
Philippe takes Corbeau’s hand in his, all steadiness and warmth.
“I would love to marry you, Corbeau. I’d be alright with nothing changing, too, but I want to be your husband. I want to call you my husband. I want our paperwork and anniversary cards and headstones to have the same name. I want to wear matching rings and let everyone know what they mean.”
He wants a lot more wonderful wedding-slash-marriage things, too, but they’re rapidly leaving his mind in the wake of Corbeau’s beautiful, lovesick smile. Then Corbeau looks mortified.
“Arceus, what are we going to do about our names?”
Philippe laughs soft before kissing his hand.
“We’ll figure that, and everything else, out together. Ideally before your proper proposal sends the whole Syndicate into a flurry.”
Corbeau relaxes, and resumes contentedly leaning on Philippe.
