Chapter Text
Corbeau had called him pal. Were they? Grisham only just beat Corbeau in a battle, Careful now. You'll burn yourself out. never replied to any of his messages, I told you. and yet the first thing Corbeau said to him was Grish, pal. Only Griselle was allowed to call him that. She knew it too, unable to do anything but stare at Corbeau as he called out about the salt. She didn't even try speaking back to him. Maybe she knew, this was something I had to do. Did Corbeau only say that to remind us he's in power?
He didn't know what to think. He wasn't like his sister. Where she talks and knows everyone, has some very dedicated fans in their customers - He's avoided all of that.
Grisham knows that Griselle sees his failure. Yet she keeps pushing him to make friends. Tarragon wasn't so bad, even if a round of teaching him to bake leaves Gris with a headache. A small price to pay.
It's been a few days now, the distortion above hotel Z looks fierce. He's glad it isn't his problem anymore. At least he would be glad, if the small man and towering bodyguard weren't heading over to the truck. Griselle's gone, she finally took Grishams' advice for once and found her own place to live. The trucks too small for two people anyway.
"Grisham. Never thought I'd be in the place to ask this but we need another ingredient. Hand it over, or we won't be so kind as our first meeting." Corbeau spoke, slow, deliberate, calculated. His foot betrayed his feelings as Grisham watched it tap away, sound echoing through his ears.
His eyes scanned over Philippe, ever strong, expression locked in with practiced control of someone who strives to support. It was clear as day he'd do anything for Corbeau. With a tilt of the head, Grisham signalled for them to take a seat at the closest table. Releasing Pyroar, Grisham leaves the safety of the truck and joins the Syndicate, opting to stay standing after the guests sit down. This was his turf, he needs to hide the weakness.
It doesn't go unnoticed, the grip Philippe puts on Corbeau's shoulder briefly, before they move in synchronisation. He watches as they next to each other, but leaving enough space to not crowd the bench. Philippe is the Pyroar.
Corbeau lets his gaze drift from Grisham, the Pyroar to inside the truck and back again. A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "This is a mistake." His foot stills, arms crossing in favour, letting thin fingers tap a beat, only familiar to him, into his arm. Both Philippe and Grisham follow the movement, only one turns away.
Hand and eyes turn to Pyroar, giving the lioness attention. Grisham closes his eyes as he lets the warm mane flow through his fingers. Grounding. Safe.
Corbeau turned back to Philippe, a silent conversation between them. He saw how deeply what was supposed to be encouraging settled inside and began to poison Grishams' mind. He needed to tread lightly.
"If there was another option, I'd take it." He all but whispers. In the quiet of the night, he knows Grisham heard it too.
A small nod, what felt like failure becoming a small victory. Grisham sits, recalling Pyroar back into her ball. They required his attention as much as he needed theirs.
Philippe, pleased at how calmly Grisham sat down to eye level, quietly stands. Stepping away to view the nightlife in the grass nearby - how the flowers sway and the Flabébé play between the leaves. Grisham watched close as Philippe turned his back.
It was only the two of them now.
"I heard a lot about you, back then. I never thought you'd go down this path." Corbeau acts like he doesn't see the rapid blink from the brown eyes opposite, or the rise of a chest taking air hostage. "But look now. This little café business is enough to rival the Sushi High Rollers." Knowing the past is still very raw to the man opposite, Corbeau gazes at the man of steel, watching how gently he plays with the fairies smaller than his fingers. They were in the open, but Corbeau knew people have drowned in his gaze.
"Why say- Stop-"
A voice quiet, shakey, broken.
A hand reaches back to his pocket, finding comfort in the metal holding the lioness back. Before he does something regrettable, two large hands press gently into his shoulders.
When- when did he get over here?
It wasn't his pyroar.
His thoughts get numb anyway.
"What do you want from me?"
Phillipe's hands stay rooted, only shifting when Grisham's body tells him to. His eyes remain locked on Corbeau; watching a man break never gets easy. Yet Philippe is the reason Corbeau is the boss - he wouldn't change that. Another silent word. His hands fall down. A step back. He takes a seat next to the one who needs him most. Seems he left too soon.
"You know, Phillipe here is a taste tester. Held in high regard for the High Rollers. He even created the signature blend of spices for our own business." Corbeau's hands relax, gesturing to Phillipe as he nods along. They both make sure to move slow. Easy to follow and predict. "He'd love to taste any creations you have locked away."
Right- Cook. He could do that- Whats the catch I'm missing? The city's most loved, most hated person has requested food. His food. He should do it. At least the air in the truck won't suffocate him.
It's late, could they wait for tomorrow? With a stretch and a fake yawn, he hopes it gets the message across. Grisham's actions are met with a grin. They could wait. "Come by the syndicate office tomorrow. No offence of course, but we have a little more breathing room in our kitchen."