Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The reveal ends up coming during a play session.

It's the culmination of a series of events that have been building steadily over the past few months and Philippe has long ago come to the conclusion that it feels like his partners must know something, though it's hard to know exactly what.

Paxton's been edging him for what feels like hours now, taking every measure to reduce him to his most basal self. It hasn't quite come to the point of tears yet, but that's only because Philippe isn't someone who cries easily.

"You've been so good for me," Paxton says, voice husky as he works over Philippe's cock with one hand while fondling his balls with the other. "It's about time to let you come, huh?"

"Please," Philippe exhales, and if it wasn't for Paxton insisting on him responding to every statement with at least a one-word answer, he doesn't think that he'd be able to form words at all.

The position they’re in is a well-known one, with Philippe reclined against the back cushion they keep in the corner of the room when it’s not in use, and Paxton straddling his thighs. It helps Philippe sink down into that submissive mindset that’s become so comforting to him. Paxton’s so devoted to his pleasure, to ensuring that Philippe is the focus of the scene.

"You're doing so well," Paxton croons, and his hands are working faster, up and down, yet he's keeping it so characteristically gentle. It's always gentle with Paxton. "My wonderful starlight, my flower, come for me, my good girl."

Too many things happen at once.

Firstly, the words register and the sheer overwhelm from hearing them, as well as all of the endorphins flooding his brain from the orgasm make tears prickle at his eyes. Only a second later they start running down his cheeks and into his beard.

Secondly, he comes harder than he has ever in his life, being taken by the force of it and carried along. He grasps onto the bed sheets and gasps desperately for breath between the tears and the aftershocks carrying through his nervous system.

Thirdly, Paxton slows down in the same way he always does, so as to not shock him. What isn't usual is Paxton flopping down on top of him and holding onto him tightly, even if it means that he's laying in the wet spot. Normally Paxton lets him breathe through the orgasm, rubbing over his chest and stomach while Philippe floats around in a cloud of endorphins.

But this isn’t the usual.

"I'm sorry," Paxton says quietly, and he's holding onto Philippe so tightly that it feels like Philippe might explode if Paxton increases the pressure any more. "I shouldn't have dropped that on you without discussing it first. I'm such a terrible dom."

It’s hard to think between the overwhelm, the euphoria and the fact that he’s crying. He hasn’t cried in a long time, not since his last major injury, and even that had been more at his own helplessness rather than from the pain of getting his shoulder sliced clean open. Despite his brain seemingly not working, he manages to come to a conclusion.

He— because it's never made sense to him since the discovery to call himself by a different name and a different set of pronouns when it's just him to recognise them —has been hiding this from them for a few months, hasn't he?

But maybe 'hiding' isn't the right word. Because it's been less about concealing what might be his ideal identity and more about getting to know it over the course of a few months, to taste it in a way that doesn't feel so overwhelming.

This might be the first time he's cried in front of Paxton, so really it's now wonder that he's spooked his boyfriend. His boyfriend that is such a bleeding heart that he chose to save a city he happened to visit for three moths after graduating, who fell into a friend group so tightly knit it's hard to tell where one of them starts and the other one ends, who fell in love with not only Corbeau, but also him as well. His presence is a blessing, and though Philippe has never once believed in a religion, he would worship daily if it meant keeping Paxton close to him, to them.

This closeness is good, too. Maybe this is all that is needed, to keep Paxton by his side.

Naturally, Corbeau is missing.

"You've never cried during sex before," Paxton says some time later. The come between them is starting to get tacky and Philippe desperately wishes for a shower or a bath to get the sensation away from him. "Was it really that bad?"

"Not — not at all," Philippe finally gets out, only stumbling over the first word. His words still don't feel like they've fully made their way back to him, but the tears are starting to dry up and Paxton needs him. That seems to be enough to override the block in his brain. "That wasn't it."

"I dropped something entirely new on you!" Paxton says, words pitching closer to a wail. He’s shaking. "As your dom I should have discussed it first. We were playing and I was supposed to take care of you, not upset you so much I jarred you out of the scene. You're crying!"

"You did nothing wrong," Philippe tries again, wrapping Paxton up in his arms. "It's okay."

But he can sense that Paxton is dropping a little. "It's okay," he repeats over and over. "You did nothing wrong, dearest. I liked it."

"You … liked it?" Paxton asks and while Philippe can't look at Paxton's face, it's clear that behind the dom drop there are cogs working, trying to piece together evidence in the hope of coming to some conclusion. There is a trail of crumbs to follow it, and it's clear that Paxton is seeing where it's leading.

"So the lingerie—" Paxton starts.

"Wasn't connected at first," Philippe says, and his voice, despite being quiet, feels like it's echoing off the walls. "It really wasn't."

"So it's not a sex thing?"

"It's a me thing," Philippe clarifies. "So in a way, yes, but in many others, no."

"We should talk," Paxton decides, and the shaking seems to be more from the chill now than the upset, "when Corbeau gets home from work. This is about you, and you shouldn't have to keep something like that hidden."

"A shower first," Philippe says, letting go of Paxton so that he's able to get up. "We're both gross. Disgusting, even."

As they trudge across the apartment, in various states of dress (Paxton's always been so devoted to his pleasure that often he ends up still partially dressed), Philippe considers the situation he's now in. He could have kept it to himself for longer, if only to not upset the peaceful state of their relationship, but now that it's partially out in the open, he feels lighter.

He's not concerned that they'll fall out of love with him when he comes out; Corbeau's always been clear that he fell in love with both him and Paxton because of their personality rather than gender identity, and Paxton is much the same way. Besides, they have been more than receptive to the alternate dress he sometimes prefers, and this is just an extension of that.

Though … that might be an overly simple way of looking at it; he doesn't think he would mind continuing to dress as Philippe even as he becomes Denise— because that's the name he's picked out for himself —but getting to develop a new dress style would simply be better.

The ability to wear something else at work, something equally as intimidating, and equally as kind of impractical, sounds like a liberation, that for the longest time, he didn't know he needed.

For a moment he imagines himself in a dress, just below knee length, with a wide skirt to allow for him running. Padded Mary Janes shoes, frilly socks. Looking more innocent than he really is. Made more intimidating through strategic application of makeup and jewellery. Rings that double as a weapon in the case he has to fight.

Then, at one of the many events they’re forced to attend, a black, sparkly evening dress, gloves, high heels, the full package. Being spun around on the dance floor by Corbeau, Paxton watching them from the sidelines looking deadly dressed up in an innocent package. The three of them making an absolutely lethal team in the face of the Lumiose elite.

He can’t pretend it doesn’t make him feel giddy.

"Can I wash your hair?" Paxton asks as they wait for the water to heat up. "I need to feel like — like I've done something for you. Since it ended so quickly."

"Of course, dearest," Philippe says, and like he always does, he looks away as Paxton wrangles out of his binder. It's not that Paxton feels uncomfortable being looked at, but it's always been weird to Paxton for people to watch him while he struggles out of the garment. Philippe understands.

He steps into the shower, and the heat of the water immediately soothes away parts of his worries. Warm showers have always acted as a form of stress relief for him, and since they moved into this apartment, him and Corbeau— in a time before Paxton had come to light up their lives —, close to ten years ago now, he also has the tub to relax in after a long day either in the office or out on the streets of Lumiose.

Only a second later Paxton's behind him, hugging him from behind, face pressed in-between his shoulder blades. "I love you," Paxton says, so quietly it can barely be heard between the roar of the water and his face being halfway pressed into Philippe's skin. "I always will. I hope you know this."

"I know, dearest," Philippe says, entirely honest, and the warmth in his chest expands to fill his entire body. "I know."

And after this, once Corbeau is home from work, they’ll talk, sat in the way they always sit and.

And Denise will be allowed to be free.

Chapter Text

Corbeau ends up coming home from work only just after they both manage to get out of the shower (Philippe could have stayed longer, but the water was starting to run closer to lukewarm than the boiling hot he prefers) and him and Paxton end up exchanging a few quiet words in the kitchen while Philippe grabs the piano bench that Paxton usually sits on for talks like this.

"We're ordering takeout after this," Corbeau says, walking into the sitting room, menu from Philippe's favourite Unovan takeout place in hand. "I don't think any of us will be up for cooking after this."

There's a quiet voice at the back of Philippe's mind that wants him to call the talk off, that it was just a spur of the moment temporary affliction that had him reveal the entire thing to Paxton. Hormones and endorphins in the driver's seat of his body, telling absolute nonsense. Maybe it is just a sex thing.

But Philippe wills the thought away. He's made his bed now, has been picking out the bedsheets for months now, and he's damn well going to lay in it. He didn't pick the dark-patterned duvet cover for nothing.

"I wanted to make that stew you like," Paxton says, almost apologetic, coming over to him. "But Corbeau talked me out of it."

"The stew takes hours to make," Corbeau says, sitting down on the sofa. "We'll all be needing food after this. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"Sure," Paxton agrees easily. "All the ingredients are in the fridge. I was planning on making it on the weekend, but tomorrow's fine, too."

"You're too sweet," Philippe says, and he can't resist the urge to bend down and place a kiss on Paxton's nose. They typically avoid affection during talks like this, but the talk hasn't started yet, and Paxton is just too cute.

He can feel the flush spreading over the bridge of Paxton's nose, the skin turning hot under his lips. Cute.

"It'll be okay," Paxton whispers to him, still loud enough for Corbeau to hear them. "It's not scary."

It is, a little. But Philippe knows that he's safe in the embrace of his partners. It helps that they've been through this song and dance before, with Paxton's talk about his specific preferences.

He leaves Paxton by the piano bench and walks over to his assigned seat during talks, the trusty armchair that he's had for as long as he's been an adult. It had been his first purchase after escaping the clutches of his mother's home, shortly after his father had passed away, and since then it's been with him in every apartment he's lived in. Even the first one, the one that had barely had space for a bed and a table, never mind a whole large armchair, had seen it sitting almost on top of the bed to fit.

Philippe loves the thing.

It's molded to his weight and body after years of use, and sinking into it feels almost like coming home. Neither Corbeau nor Paxton sit in it, knowing that it's his chair, but once or twice he's seen Paxton's Absol Lucia circling it, examining it, sniffing it.

For a moment it's quiet.

"Paxton told me briefly what happened earlier," Corbeau says, hands folded in his lap. Any outsider would think that he's relaxed, but Philippe knows better. Corbeau is at full attention, picking up on everything happening in the room. If any of their pokémon were out, he'd be watching them, too, making sure that nothing bad happens to them. "But I'd like to hear it from you, too, Philippe."

He's not entirely sure how's to go about this.

A moment later, the words seem to come to him.

"It's not that I'm unhappy as a man, exactly," he starts, something fluttering in his chest. It feels like nerves, like a dozen Vivillon have taken residence in his chest, scraping up against his chest walls. "It's just that…"

The words seem to fail him again, and uncharacteristically, he makes a gesture that he's seen Paxton make often before. A wave of the hand meant to convey his uncertainty. Philippe's never been one for gestures, but maybe today's the day. Why not pick up another habit when he's already changing everything about himself?

"It's just that…?" Paxton says, clearly intent on helping him along.

"I think I'd be happier," Philippe continues. There's another pause as he contemplates his words. "I think I'd be happier if I got to live as a woman."

Being a woman doesn't mean that he has to be like his mother. His mother is dead, has been dead for eight years and counting now. He doesn't miss her.

"I see," Corbeau says, and his expression doesn't reveal anything.

Most outsiders would have taken that statement as a rejection (which just goes to show that people don't know Corbeau at all), but Philippe knows better. This is a Corbeau that's contemplating something.

He looks down at his hands, but it's not shame that's the motivator. It's a neutral view, something that allows him, along with his partners, to process the confession that's just passed through his lips.

It's quiet for another moment.

"So you're a woman?" Corbeau asks, almost matter-of-fact. It's the tone he uses when he's learning new information, cataloguing it so he can best use it to his advantage. Philippe's heart jumps "Okay."

"Do you have a name picked out?" Paxton asks, and he's wriggling on the piano bench again, as usual finding new and interesting ways of sitting. "Not that you have to change your name!"

Philippe looks up from his hands, lighter than he, no— she —has felt in years. "Denise. From your nickname, Denny. Like philodendron, the flower."

Paxton, who clearly can't restrain himself anyone, goes bouncing from the piano bench over to him, pulling Philippe— no, Denise, she can change the way she refers to herself now —up from the chair (with some help from her, Paxton's strong, but he's not that strong) and dragging the two of them over to the sofa.

"Corbeau!" he says, almost giddy. "Let me introduce you to our girlfriend, Denise. Isn't she gorgeous?"

The Vivillons in her chest seem to evolve into something bigger and brighter, flapping against her heart and sending it into beating double time, the blood being pumped around her body, spreading the joy of being acknowledged into the very tips of her fingers and toes.

"She is," Corbeau agrees, grabbing onto Denise's other hand and gently, so gently, pulling her down onto the sofa. Paxton goes on the other side, and together they end up sandwiching her, holding onto her like she's something precious. She supposes she is.

"I don't want too much to change," she says, and she feels a little choked up. "I'm still me."

"You are." Corbeau's hand comes up to pet over her face. "But it's a large change. You're entitled to feel a little different than you did before."

"But nothing big has to change," Paxton reassures her. "If you're not ready to come out, you can still exist as yourself here in the apartment. This is a safe space."

She contemplates this for a minute. They've been very clear all the way from the beginning that tolerance is a core tenet of the Rust Syndicate, and so she doesn't think there will be an issue if she chooses to change her public persona to more accurately reflect her identity. The rest of the city might feel differently, but frankly, she doesn't think she cares.

"Maybe slowly," she decides. "It'll take time for the changes I want to be visible enough to warrant changing anything formally."

"You're still equally as much of a woman even if you don't change anything about your appearance, Denise," Corbeau says, and the name sounds so good coming from him. "You could keep dressing as Philippe at work for the rest of your days, and it wouldn't make you any less of one."

"It's the same with medical transition," Paxton says, and Paxton should know what he's talking about, having taken testosterone for the past four or so years. "You don't have to do it. But if you choose to, we're behind you."

Medical transition is something she's thought about only briefly, in the late hours of the night, with Paxton out fighting in the Royale and Corbeau sleeping. Something she's pondered while lighting cigarette after cigarette, wondering what it would mean to also inject hormones into her like Paxton does weekly. The idea that she could get heart or star-shaped bandaids to cover the injection site.

The thought makes her giddy.

"Maybe," she says, Vivillons in her chest beating so hard it almost feels like they're going to escape. She's in her ideal spot, her partners hugging her on both sides, and her secret out in the open. Nothing else has to change. "For now, I'm content like this."