FIC - Blackout

[dalicious]

pokemon xy
sycamore + lysandre
1100 words


Smoke rises in a thin trail from the end of one of Lysandre's long black cigarettes as they sit outside Café Soleil; he's got it pinned between two fingers of his right hand, and he isn't paying much attention to it as it smolders into ash.

"I thought you quit," Sycamore says, tipping his head a bit to stare pointedly at the cigarette in question.

"So did I," Lysandre replies, finally seeming to realize that he's been sitting there in silence for quite some time. He takes a drag, hard and brief, before tapping some of the ash off the end; it's more to give himself something to do and they both know it, and he holds the smoke in his lungs a few seconds before exhaling. "But it seems the power outages have other ideas."

"Ahhh...behind schedule, then?"

Lysandre doesn't respond to that with words; it's more a quiet "Nn" than anything.

Sycamore just smiles, though; he reaches out, clapping a hand sharply to Lysandre's shoulder and pretending not to notice the way Lysandre tenses up at the contact - he never used to, after all. With any luck it's just a phase, something caused by the tension in his labs and the darkness in the streets. "Aren't you lucky," he says, a teasing note slanting his words ever-so-slightly, "that you have me to distract you? I can just imagine the state of your lungs if you didn't!"

Lysandre takes the hint and dampens his cigarette against the tray in the center of the table. "They're cloves," he says, as though that makes it any better.

"As though that makes it any better?" Sycamore replies, arching an eyebrow; Lysandre just sighs in response, though it isn't the sort that implies he's genuinely annoyed.

Exasperated, but there's a fondness to it.

"Where would I be without you, indeed," he says, his words more of a murmur than anything as he leans back in his chair; Sycamore leans forward in response, propping his chin in his hand as he leans up against the table. Moving closer as Lysandre moves away; closing the distance his friend is establishing.

He's been doing a lot of that nowadays; for the time being, he just smiles, the expression easy, as he rakes the fingertips of his free hand through the front of his hair.

"Well," he says, as though he really has to think about the answer. "You would probably still be at work, slaving away over something that's already more than perfect, for one."

Lysandre glances away at that, his line of vision high. Trying to keep himself from rolling his eyes and just barely succeeding, from the look of it. "It's hardly - "

"Ah," Sycamore says, the interruption light; that teasing tone is stronger now. "For another thing, you'd be smoking enough to put most of the chimneys in Lumiose to shame in response to this blackout - it's inconvenient, mon ami, but it's not the end of the world."

"Of course."

"And thirdly...hmmm." He glances over pointedly toward a table just beyond Lysandre's left shoulder. "You certainly wouldn't be receiving furtive glances from the pretty blonde mademoiselle two tables back."

"I...!" Lysandre moves immediately, straightening up a bit where he's sitting; Sycamore laughs, the sound gentle, as he reaches out to lay a hand firmly on Lysandre's shoulder again, and his voice is a stage whisper when he speaks.

"No, don't - don't turn around, mon ami, you're going to make it plain that you know!"

"Well, why wouldn't I?" Lysandre replies, his tone implying that he's about three seconds from getting huffy about it and puffing up like some sort of offended Furfrou.

It takes all of Sycamore's restraint to not laugh again. "You really haven't played this game very much, have you?"

Lysandre settles back in his chair after a moment. "You're fortunate I tolerate you."

"Weren't you just saying you don't know where you'd be without me?"

Any attempts at sulking on Lysandre's part are a bit undermined by the fact that he's trying not to smile - the signs are slight, but they're there, and Sycamore is more than aware of them. Lysandre's expressions are often strange, nuanced things, not unlike Lysandre himself; it had taken Sycamore a long time to even begin to read them, to understand that a lot of things Lysandre felt and experienced were implied and not directly stated, and the things that were directly stated were often not what his friend really meant at all.

It's an interesting game, if a tiring one at times; just the same, that subtle shift in expression is met by a smile of Sycamore's own, open and genuine. "You need to relax, Lysandre; your work will still be there in an hour or so - and unfortunately, at this rate, so will the lack of power..."

As if on cue, however, there's an audible surging from the direction of Prism Tower - generally a sign that Clemont is doing...ah, something again, Arceus only knows what.

Lysandre's gaze flicks over sharply, as though the sound had managed to startle him; Sycamore can't exactly blame him, given the suddenness of it. Far less explainable, however, is the sudden tightening in Lysandre's features; there's something odd that flashes behind the bright blue of his eyes, and though it's gone so quickly that Sycamore can almost convince himself that he imagined it, he can't quite shake what he's seen.

Lysandre is angry. It's muted, like the rest of his expressions. Strange. Nuanced. Subtle, but there. And Sycamore has no idea why.

And so he just smiles again, a light sigh leaving him as he does so. "Well! It seems I may have spoken too soon, mon ami; I imagine that any pretty girls in the area, blonde or not, will have to wait until your first love has been tended to?"

Thankfully, it seems to work - Lysandre's back to giving him that mildly exasperated look, the one with the fondness in it; any attention he'd been giving the direction of the Tower seems to have been abandoned for now. "Oh, don't..."

Sycamore leans forward over the table again, his voice light, mock-conspiratorial. "Be honest with me! Is this the reason you aren't seeking out any companionship - your work won't allow it?"

Lysandre tips his head at that, his gaze meeting Sycamore's own; he holds eye contact for a long moment, just long enough for Sycamore to wonder if he sees the question for what it is. The sharp blue of his eyes burns.

But then he smirks, and he glances away, and Sycamore knows he's not going to answer. Not really, not in any way Sycamore can pursue; he doesn't know what to do with the three words Lysandre gives him.

"It might be."