Written for duskysunset: a fantastic person, an amazing writer, and a wonderful friend.

It was all very…red. Sycamore dug into his pocket for the invitation and handed it to the bouncer, unable to take his eyes away. The color seeped into everything – the walls, the floors, the furniture, even the countertop of the bar. He'd liken it to blood, but the place just oozed class. Women and men in their finest (which for Lumiose City was very fine) mingled, holding drinks and taking small, polite bites out of the pastries offered. Sycamore himself felt a little inadequate; the guests all seemed to have stepped out of Boutique Couture's yearly fashion show while he was just wearing a suit jacket instead of his usual lab coat. He didn't let it bother him, however, and stepped into the crowd, making polite conversation with the lovely ladies and gentlemen. When he turned to respond to a comment on his research, he spotted a large volume of red hair at the bar counter. He excused himself and walked over, waving a hand.

"The man of the hour!" Sycamore greeted, sliding into the bar stool beside Lysandre. "How does it feel to be the owner of your very own café?" He smiled wide and clapped his friend on the shoulder before ordering a drink from the bartender.

"Quite satisfying." Lysandre took a sip of his own drink, cradling it in his gloved fingers. "Though I didn't think so many people would celebrate with me."

Sycamore looked around and took in the many guests. It was getting crowded. He gulped down some of his beer and slung an arm around Lysandre's shoulders. "Well, you're getting popular! It's not surprising; you've been on the cover of Lumiose Fashion more than most models will in their entire lives. And your passion just draws people in!" He locked his jaw before he went on too far. Another sentence and he'd be spinning prose on the texture of Lysandre's hair.

"I suppose," Lysandre mumbled into his glass. He set it down neatly on the coaster provided, staring into space. Odd, Sycamore thought, that he hadn't shaken his arm off yet.

As if in reply, Lysandre pushed himself up from his seat, dislodging Sycamore's hand from his shoulders. He stood there for a second before speaking again. "I find that true beauty is best found in the moon and stars. They're constant, eternal, you might say. Even when we're gone, the constellations will still be there." His brow furrowed, and his gaze snapped down to meet Sycamore's own. "That is…would you like to come outside with me?"

Sycamore took a second to recover from the spontaneity of the mini-speech. He smiled. "Such fiery passion you have! I'd be delighted – it would be absolutely wonderful." He abandoned his drink on the counter and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. It wasn't like him to get nervous, but he was going to be alone with Lysandre. The two words were enough to make his heart stop right there, but he bravely (and somewhat weakly) followed Lysandre out the door.

They took the fire escape to the roof, the metal stairs similar in color to Lysandre Café. Its namesake sat on the edge of the building, feet dangling above the taxis racing below. The lights reflected off his shoes and his eyes, and it took a moment before Sycamore took a seat beside him, all too aware of how close they were.

"See? They glitter beautifully despite their struggles. And though it's only three-quarters full, the moon is radiant as well," Lysandre commented, looking up at the sky. Sycamore followed suit, taking in the stars that, though some were shrouded in the pollution of the city, still shone bright. Lysandre continued talking, pointing out constellations and praising their beauty. He told each myth as if he was there himself. Sycamore let the words wash over him, but abandoned his star gazing in favor of Lysandre. His eyes were lit up, both reflecting the city lights and betraying his passion for the stories he told. He hardly even blinked; the sky clearly enraptured him. Even his face, while still severe – he wouldn't be Lysandre otherwise – seemed softer, somehow. Less troubled.

Sycamore stared at Lysandre instead of the stars and found the sight much more beautiful.

He hesitantly leaned in closer, barely noticing the sudden silence. "Lysandre…" He trailed off.

"Yes?"

The reply seemed strangled, but Sycamore didn't let it deter him. He would say his part; Lysandre could reject him afterwards. "The stars are wonderful, but you're," he paused to think of the right word, "more." And so he waited. It took a minute, a silent minute with the noises of the city growling softly in some realm beneath their own, far, far away.

"I think the same." Lysandre leaned in so that their shoulders were touching. Sycamore froze and melted at the same time, his mind in some romance limbo where the sky was a giant blanket and the ground was made of cotton balls. He broke out of the trance as Lysandre cupped his face, his fingers brushing against the stubble on his chin. Sycamore felt the other man's lips brush against his own, and he broke into a goofy smile that stretched at his red cheeks. Lysandre pulled away and raised a questioning eyebrow. Sycamore nodded so quickly he could feel the brains rattling in his skull and slammed their faces together, quite literally.

"Sorry about that," he groaned, rubbing his nose. That would bruise in the morning. Lysandre breathed a laugh and winced.

"It's alright," he muttered, massaging his jaw. They sat in an awkward silence, unsure of what to do. At least, Sycamore was. If he tried again, they would either suffer grievous injuries or feel really, really good, and as he thought about the matter more – and Lysandre's lips, especially Lysandre's lips – the dilemma dissolved into a choice that was hardly there at all. When Lysandre lowered his hand, he brought their faces closer and closed the gap. It was stronger this time, more confident and far less painful. Sycamore felt fireworks light up inside him, the bangs accompanying the pounding of his heart. The sparks settled on his skin, goose bumps rising in their place as Lysandre finally pulled away. They sat there in silence, heads and shoulders pressed together, and it was almost as good as the kiss itself.

The furious red on Lysandre's face hadn't faded away, and Sycamore could feel it still on his own cheeks. They would probably, he mused, fit right in at the café. The thought grounded him back in reality and he sighed, nuzzling his face into the crook of Lysandre's neck. "Before we go back…I know a good café on South Boulevard," he offered, pulling away. "I know you have one of your own now, but it's always nice to try something new."

A rare smile crossed Lysandre's lips. "Yes. Yes it is."

Sycamore knew it was the most beautiful sight he would ever see.