Corbeau x Grisham | Unhinged shit | Grisham poisons him | Minors DNI
Corbeau’s uneven breathing sounded almost discreet, clearly trying to keep it down as much as possible. He sputtered and coughed, the sound muffled by his hand as Grisham’s discreet footsteps made his presence clear enough.
And oh, what a sight he was. Thrown across the dirty floor, eyes hazy and needy in a way he clearly tried to fight back, his shirt torn open haphazardly at the sudden wave of heat and his tie half tugged off. Corbeau’s cheeks were flushed, a splotchy blush spreading over his chest as the old aphrodisiac muddied his mind until lust and desperation were one and the same — until there was nothing left but it.
“Gri- Grisham-” Corbeau thinned his eyes, choking on what clearly was meant to be a threatening tone until it sounded almost pleading. “You. You did this- ah- you did this to me.”
“You should count yourself lucky I’m willing to do such favours.” Grisham hummed a quiet little laugh, the perfect picture of elegance and grace. Perfectly beautiful, just as he’d been raised to be. “Truly, you thought you built such a safe little fortress, it was practically begging someone to come show you how you’re still just as vulnerable as you were before it all. If not for me, then someone else. At least, I am kind.”
Corbeau almost growled, rage and lust mixing in his mind, body trying to fight the poison as much as it could. He reached for Grisham with an arched hand like he wanted to strangle him, like he could do anything but feebly raise his arm towards Grisham’s feet.
He tsked in vague disapproval before kneeling down and pinching Corbeau’s chin between his fingers. “You always had the potential to be so beautiful. It always puzzled me how you insisted on doing otherwise, we could have used you well in our ranks. I would have accepted you under me in more ways than one, you know.”
Corbeau’s brows knit together, leaning into the touch almost imperceptibly, his own need betraying his will to fight back. Still, his eyes sparkled with defiance, with a momentary burst of strength to show he was still that same little punk who slipped out of Lysandre’s grasp to gather influence in the underworld of Kalos.
He pursed his lips and spat in Grisham’s face.
For one second, they were both silent. Then Grisham let go of his chin and let Corbeau fall to the floor, trembling and weak, far too much to do anything but try to catch his breath.
“Foolish, feisty thing.” Grisham chastised, something vaguely threatening beneath his tone, a knife hidden under velvet. He fished a fire red handkerchief out of the hidden inside of his pocket, the team flare insignia embroidered into it stating his true loyalties louder than any words could. “Do that one more time and I’ll have you lick it off.”
A gift for @godserene - Happy Birthday! May you always have a song to find joy in, and may you always find a moment to be kind to yourself 💕
Inspired by your fic of team flare era Corbeau and Grisham, this time as a waltz.
Written to: Waltz Katzen Blut (The Cat Returns)
The chamber orchestra’s song drifted through the open doors behind Corbeau as he stood alone on the moonlit balcony, a smuggled cigarette lit in his hand, the smoke curling into the clear night. How Lysandre managed to swing renting out a historical site for a gala had amazed Corbeau at first, but as the gala dragged on, he found himself slowly becoming uncomfortable with the ordeal. The suits, the perfect smiles, the metaphoric masks. It was all so tailored and ingenuine. Stiff in a way that was starting to feel suffocating.
Corbeau knew it wasn’t just the formalities that were causing him to feel that way, but he squashed that feeling down. Lysandre had taken him in, taken him off the streets, and offered to finance the business venture Corbeau had recently told him about. To doubt the man who had brought Corbeau into the light felt wrong.
He took a drag of his cigarette, the taste far from the cheap acridness of his very first cigarette. If he wasn’t allowed to drink yet, Lysandre could at least allow him to smoke, and better to smoke something of a higher quality than whatever Corbeau could get off the street. It was an imperfect habit, and Corbeau knew he’d eventually have to quit it if he was to stay around for much longer. But it was his imperfect habit.
“You know I hate when you don’t say anything.” Corbeau sighed, turning. Behind him in the shadow of the glass doors had been Grisham. He stood tall and perfect in his white and red suit, a stark contrast to the black and purple suit Corbeau wore. There was a beat, and then Grisham stepped onto the balcony, hands folded politely behind his back, head held high.
“Don’t let Lysandre see you smoking, he wont be happy.”
“Doesn’t matter, he’ll smell it on me later.” Corbeau flicked the ashes off to the side, looking back out over the carefully curated garden, “And I doubt I’ll see him until tomorrow anyways.”
“Mm.” Grisham made a small noise, still clearly checking to see if they were alone. They were, Corbeau knew when he had complete privacy. Corbeau leaned against the balcony, taking another drag.
“Are you not having fun, pretty boy? You had your pick of dance partners back in there.” He said pretty boy softly, kinder than any insult that had been sent Grisham’s way, and Corbeau could see the subtle shift in Grisham’s stance at it.
“They’re not you.” Grisham said it without thinking, his posture stiffened when he realized what he had said, “I mean- They didn’t- they weren’t. They- Don’t look at me the way you do.”
“The way I do?”
“You see me. Not what I should be.”
“What you should be or what you are? You’re Lysandre’s chosen scion, you’re the light in the dark. Perfection made human.” Corbeau waxed poetic, an insulting lilt to voice as he mocked the compliments that had been thrown Grisham’s way before, “And I’m his shadow. A project.”
“You know you’re more than that.”
“Mm, maybe.” Corbeau settled into silence for a moment, ignoring the way that Grisham’s ears were absolutely burning, “So, why not dance with any of them? It can’t just be that you don’t like the way they look at you.”
“Maybe I wanted to dance with you.”
It was Corbeau’s turn to blush. He turned his face away, knowing he had walked right into that one.
“First I kiss you, now you want to dance with me?” His retort lacked any bite, earning an unseen and rare sly smile from Grisham, “What will the others say when they see Lysandre’s chosen dancing with an outsider?”
“They’ll say nothing if they know what’s good for them.”
Corbeau cracked a smile at the promise, grinding out his cigarette.
“What the hell, why not?” He stood upright, “Let’s do this right.”
Corbeau gave Grisham a perfect bow, right hand resting over his heart, left hand extended outwards. In the distance, the orchestra was beginning a new piece, introduced in sighs by an accordion.
“May I have this dance?”
Grisham hesitated for a moment, his ungloved hand ghosting over Corbeau’s outstretched hand. He exhaled a shaky breath, sliding his hand into Corbeau’s with a quiet certainty.
“You may.”
Corbeau stood upright, taking a step towards Grisham and resting his free hand on Grisham’s shoulder, exactly where it belonged. He squared his shoulders, steeling his will. He’d never danced before, at least not outside the lessons he’d been taking leading up to the event. But Corbeau knew Grisham could dance, that he’d been taking lessons for years, that his movements would be naturally elegant and masterful.
But there Grisham was. Letting Corbeau lead him around in a simple box step. The gala inside was far from both of their minds, only the orchestra’s waltz surrounded them.
“I am loosened up.” Corbeau huffed, “You’re just... Taller than I’m used to.”
“Mm, sure.” Grisham hummed, pausing the waltz to switch his and Corbeau’s hands around so he was in the lead, “May I?”
“You already have-” Grisham moved before Corbeau could finish his sentence, guiding him into a proper waltz and supporting him fully. Grisham leaned in, whispering which foot Corbeau should move.
Corbeau’s eyes were on Grisham’s face. On his eyes, for once not hidden behind thick sunglasses. On his lips, wordlessly expectant and looking just as soft as the first time Corbeau had kissed him. To Corbeau, the orchestra was now a distant haze. To him, all that mattered was the young man before him.
Grisham might have been leading their slow waltz, but Corbeau was the one to draw them to a pause. The one to stand on his tip toes. To cradle Grisham’s face in his hands. To close the distance between their lips. To kiss him again. Not at all desperate to claim ownership, but self assured, almost loving. And Grisham melted into Corbeau’s kiss, into the taste of expensive cigarettes that lingered on his lips, into the warmth, into the comfort of it.
He pulled away, settling flat on his feet and grinned at the off guard expression he’d left with. His own cheeks burned, and if he wasn’t holding Grisham right now his hands would be shaking as much as his knees were.
It was more than a kiss between friends, but neither of them wanted to say it out loud. Instead, it would remain their closely guarded secret, unspoken and thought of often alongside the hope that one day they’d have the chance to figure out whatever was going on between them.
-Bonus Scene-
Corbeau blinked, he’d been staring out the window with his drink in hand for too long. The waltz had ended and the turn table had come to a stop, the arm lifted as if inviting Corbeau to lower it at the start again, if only to relive a kinder time.
He forgot he had that waltz in his record collection. He took a drink, the alcohol burned his throat. He wondered if Grisham remembered it, if he still thought of Corbeau the way Corbeau thought of him.
Setting his drink aside, Corbeau moved to lower the needle at the start of the record. The waltz followed him out the balcony door to the railing he now leaned against. Tie undone, sleeves rolled up, a different brand of cigarettes that didn’t taste the same.
