Archive of Our Own ^beta

The crumpled ball of paper smacks into the wall, brushes the edge of the trashcan, and ultimately falls lamely to the floor with dozens of its comrades. Phoenix slumps further in his seat. He was trying to clean when he came across a stack of requests for defense that he never looked at, all dated between Chief Prosecutor Skye’s trial and the first case he took following that, which he only took because the defendant was Maya.

He knows he was more than a little down in the dumps around then. It even showed in Charley’s dismal leaves. Still, he can’t help but wonder if all of those people managed to find good attorneys and get out of hot water mostly unscathed. Thinking about it dries up his throat.

Phoenix’s next throw is way off. Not the worst of the day, but definitely below average. The rational, professional thing to do would’ve been to take the stack of papers and drop it into the recycling with all of his other scraps, then continue with organizing. Instead he’s just proving why his career options were artist, actor, and lawyer instead of basketball player.

There’s a bonk on the window behind him. It’s probably just the same dumb bumblebee that’s been slamming its round body into the glass for the past week. He wants to shame it for still ramming into the window when it’s already concussed, but he knows he’s done far stupider. And walked into a glass door before.

It’s been an hour since he crumbled the first paper in frustration and got possessed by this urge to whittle down the pile in the most time consuming way possible. That’s the excuse he keeps making; he is technically clearing his desk like he intended to. It’s just going to take ten years instead of a single productive afternoon.

The door opens without a knock. That would be Maya. Phoenix throws another paper towards the basket. It actually makes it inside. That’s the second time today. Great, now he feels accomplished for being a lazy degenerate. He’s never getting out of this chair.

“Nice throw,” says the reigning champion of goofing off on the job. She kicks her sandals off and approaches him with a really long shopping bag. “Guess what I got.”

Phoenix takes in the bag, held up by a hanger and dragging on the floor. There’s a lot of volume at the bottom. “A body.”

“Nick!” Maya pouts and grabs the bottom of the bag. It’s tied into a knot, tight enough not to unravel by gravity alone but loose enough that she could easily undo it. Instead she tears through the plastic with her fingernails. “Why would I put a body on a hanger?”

“To confuse people. You wouldn’t believe how easily people are fooled by misdirection like that.”

“Well, this is much better than some smelly corpse.” Maya pulls off the bag. “What do you think?”

Phoenix definitely hasn’t seen any corpses like that before. It’s a gown made of lavender tulle, straight out of a high end strip of boutiques. Places like that are best experienced in passing, through window displays on bike rides where he can’t wince at the price tags. Mia would occasionally go to places like that. She never made Phoenix feel weird about staying away, even when he went to pick out a suit for his court debut.

“What the heck do you need that for?” Phoenix asks.

Maya grins. “When I make Franziska take me to the Policeman’s Ball, of course.”

He’s heard mention of that before, though not with any of the excitement visible in every muscle of Maya’s face. When Phoenix heard talk of this ball, it came with the heavy sigh of a burdensome procedure. A low grumble that threatened to erupt into an explosive tirade about wasting time.

It sounds like a total drag to Phoenix. Every policeman and prosecutor in the district parading around in formalwear instead of doing anything actually important. Waltzing around the site of a million sweet sixteens and calling it prestigious.

“I thought she was going with Edgeworth,” Phoenix says.

Maya’s face drops. “You’re kidding. I got beat out for the plus one spot by her brother?”

Phoenix shrugs. “You should’ve asked her if the spot was open before you blew your bank account on a dress.”

“It was your bank account.”

“What?!” Phoenix turns his chair to face her, but ends up catching a glimpse of the old computer screen. He started cleaning because budgeting in Excel was starting to drive him nuts. Apparently because he was about to rethink his plan for the whole month. “Maya. Go return it. I’m not going bankrupt for a dance you aren’t going to.”

“I can’t. It was clearance.”

Clearance. The place where things go to get marked down until a normal person can justify buying them. Or gather dust. Phoenix feels a little less like the heavens are striking him down for not cleaning his desk. “How bad is the damage?”

Maya glances away from him. “It was half off.”

“Half off of what.”

“Four hundred dollars.”

Phoenix didn’t even spend two hundred on the suit he wears for his every day professional job. “I’m not getting roped into footing any restaurant bills for the rest of the month,” he lies.

“That’s…fair.” Maya drapes her dress over the couch and perches herself on the arm. She kicks at one of the crumbled papers that completely missed the mark.

If Phoenix knows Maya— which he would like to think he does pretty well by now— he knows she’s probably kicking herself for not thinking ahead. She’ll never say as much; if he asks if she’s alright she’ll put on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and joke that he should be the one upset. It’s his bank account after all.

He should be the one upset. Phoenix has never been good at staying mad at people cares about, even if they spend his money without asking. Or let him spend a year in mourning when they’ve been alive and kicking the whole time. Or try to kill him because he got too attached to a gift that was actually incriminating evidence.

“They throw this thing every year right? I’m sure you’ll have another chance to go,” Phoenix says. “If Edgeworth didn’t have to go I think he’d surrender to you in an instant.”

Maya perks up a little. “He has to go?”

“It would look bad if he didn’t. Little do they know he’d be doing actual work for the prosecutor’s office instead of dancing.”

“Anyone who’s met him could guess that right away.” Maya twirls the end of her obi around her finger. Then she stops. The fabric falls from her fingertips. “If Edgeworth found someone else, then Franziska would be mine for the taking, right?”

Phoenix has learned to fear that mischievous glint in her eye more than any murderer he’s cross-examined. “I guess.” He gets up from his seat and starts putting his crumpled papers into the waste bin. Refusing to acknowledge her scheming face isn’t a foolproof strategy for stopping her plots, but it’s better than taking her bait. “Good luck finding someone Edgeworth wants to dance with.”

“I’m looking at someone Edgeworth wants to dance with.”

He turns around. That’s no mere mischief; that is the confident smugness of someone who has been playing Phoenix like a spiky blue fiddle from the downbeat.

“No. No. I am not doing that,” Phoenix says. An esteemed ball, however artificial, has to be one of the top places in the world that Phoenix does not belong. Him and his jazz squares would not be welcome in a room full of important people following a set of socially acceptable steps. “You aren’t going to catch me dead at some splashy ball full of prosecutors who want my stuffed head hung up over the fireplace.”

“But it'd be with Edgeworth!” Maya insists. “You like Edgeworth! You're old chums!”

“And the only person who’ll want to be there even less than me is him. It would be miserable for both of us.”

She crosses her arms “You don’t want to leave him to be boring and mopey all alone, do you?”

Phoenix is all for Edgeworth getting out of the office and stretching his legs for something other than an investigation. If he wasn’t some little nuisance to everyone else in that office, he would be petitioning the higher ups to have a mandated amount of recreation time designed to make Edgeworth get some vitamin D.

Who knows. Maybe having company to complain with will make the evening more tolerable for the both of them. If there is one thing Phoenix and Edgeworth share an exceptional talent for, it is pointing out things to object to.

“I’ll think about it,” Phoenix says. Maya takes that as her cue to celebrate.

***

The weekly lunches are one of Phoenix’s favorite parts about his everyday life. He came up with the idea when a few too many case discussions led to the realization that Edgeworth tends to work through lunchtime and has little else to say when asked about his week.

Phoenix likes seeing him at least once a week. Nodding along as he denounces the doomed co-worker who has been parking over the line in the spot next to his. Watching the dark circles under his eyes fluctuate in severity depending on the week’s trials. Catching glimpses of a long buried smile or a quiet laugh. Getting that tangible confirmation that he hasn’t fled into the night again, and has no intentions to for the foreseeable future.

All things considered, their friendship has rebuilt itself quite well following that fiasco. The foundations of it weathered the storm with some damages, but nothing irreparable, which Edgeworth seems equally eager to patch up.

That was the first real conversation they had once Maya was safe and sound. Phoenix’s worst fears were confirmed by the source. He didn’t fear the dark clouds though. They brought the rain that would finally wipe their sullied slate clean. With a promise not to scare Phoenix like that again, the two of them could begin anew.

Now they’re getting to know each other. Not the wide-eyed elementary schoolers they remember, but the people those children have grown into. Some things are the same. Phoenix still swears by the five second rule while Edgeworth helpfully informs him that one of the shoes to step on that floor might have been covered in dog poop. Edgeworth still only makes direct eye contact when he's glaring. The glare is still more endearing than intimidating now that Phoenix knows him better.

Phoenix hopes he’s a little more mature than he was when they were nine years old. Or when he was in college. Edgeworth popped out of the womb with an encyclopedia and finished tax forms, but he’s gained a devastatingly sharp wit in the past nearly-two decades. When Phoenix is on the receiving end he dreads it, but when he’s not there is something exciting about witnessing Edgeworth’s wrath. Nothing is safe. There is no poorly placed road sign or pedestrian with bad fashion that can escape his scrutiny.

“Who let that man go out like that?” Edgeworth asks, squinting through the cafe window.

Phoenix always tries to grab a window seat for this very reason. He's always liked people watching. In college he would come to places like this to sketch. Now it's to see what pictures he and Edgeworth can paint with barbed words.

The target of Edgeworth’s ire is hard to miss. Phoenix winces. “Yikes. What decade is that jacket from?”

“Not the correct one,” says the man who stepped out of the Victorian era. There’s an easy opportunity here for Phoenix to tease him, but that would invite Edgeworth to find something about Phoenix’s outfit to mock in turn. Clothes with noticeable logos have been the subject of a rant before, and Phoenix’s rugby shirt is far from innocent on that front. “Look how the sunlight is reflecting off of that gaudy material with every movement.”

The offending article is a metallic blue bomber jacket that seems determined to blind everyone on the block. “Really? At one in the afternoon? Save it for the club.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Edgeworth skewers lettuce and a piece of chicken with his fork. “Larry actually asked me to go to a bar with him last weekend.”

“You’re kidding. Did you do it?”

Edgeworth glowers out the window. “Only after he started clinging to my leg and wailing like a toddler. I would do anything to get him to stop making such a scene at that point.”

Phoenix laughs. “That sounds like him. Did you pull out the sequined disco cravat for clubbing?”

“As if.” The next piece of chicken in his salad gets stabbed with extra force. “I did not have fun and he declared that I should never go with him anywhere again.”

“Geez. What did you do?”

“I stood in the corner alone with a glass of wine to keep myself sane. Almost every woman Larry tried to flirt with asked if I was single. He, being an idiot, told them yes.”

For a moment, Phoenix lives in a terrible world where the closet isn’t made of shattered glass. Where the shards haven’t been remade into a stained glass window in blatantly rainbow shades. The moment lasts for maybe two full thoughts before the next several assure him that Edgeworth just doesn’t want attention from anyone Larry might ogle at. “So he banned you for showing him up without trying.”

“Yes, and good riddance, really.” Edgeworth glances down at his neatly filed nails. “It baffles me how someone could look at me and not get the memo. You would have to be intoxicated.” He looks up at Phoenix. His eyelashes are longer than Phoenix would’ve expected. Whatever gene made him go gray in elementary school is probably responsible for the more discrete color. Edgeworth’s voice is low. “I think I make myself quite clear, no?”

Phoenix swallows around a lump in his throat. His voice still comes out a little strained. “Crystal.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich before his quavering voice can spout anything stupid or honest.

While Phoenix is enjoying his grilled chicken, Edgeworth checks his phone. Even his phone case is the same color as his suit. Something on the screen makes Edgeworth’s expression go sour. “What’s up?” Phoenix asks.

“I forgot about that blasted gala this weekend,” Edgeworth grumbles.

“Oh yeah. According to Maya it’s the place to be.” Phoenix pauses. He clutches the magatama in his pocket, not to catch any lies necessarily, but in hopes that something about its strange properties will give him a hint here. “She said she was thinking of stealing your plus one.”

Edgeworth sighs. “Then I suppose I will spend the night lurking and praying that no one attempts to flirt with me. It would be somewhat less stressful than dancing with Franziska.”

As far as Phoenix knew, Edgeworth’s negative associations with this thing all originated from disdain, not any stress. “Not a fan of dancing?”

“God no.” Edgeworth gives a sardonic smile. “Franziska always complains about me. She says I lack any semblance of grace. Like a flightless bird.”

That drags up parallel memories, one of little Edgeworth spurning the unit on square dancing that was an upcoming part of their gym class curriculum (He ended up moving before it happened. Phoenix spent the whole time wishing for a different partner), the other a series of elegant bows punctuating equally eloquent arguments.

“I think that’s a little extreme.”

“That would be Franziska for you. I wish Maya the best of luck with pleasing her.”

They chat some more about unrelated things (Gumshoe and Maggey are solidly dating now. They’ll probably attend the ball together. Phoenix is equally happy to hear that news and that Edgeworth is keeping up with the personal lives of the people around him), finish up their lunches, and part ways.

He surrendered his one guaranteed source of company so easily. Far easier than Phoenix would have if he was in the same position.

Alone in a crowded room. That will be the feeling that marks two consecutive weekends of Edgeworth’s life. Whether or not it stings him the same way it has Phoenix, it doesn’t exactly inspire one to be a social butterfly.

***

This idiot thinks a flat screen that big is only two hundred dollars. It has to be around a thousand. Phoenix groans as this chump submits his answer and prepares himself for another let down.

Sure enough, the price is nine hundred fifty. The contestant gawks and insists that his own flat screen cost around two hundred, but the host just shakes his head and says sorry without an ounce of sympathy in his smile. Not all flat screens are created equal.

Phoenix gets up to refill his water while the host moves on. Now he just wants to know where this guy found a nice TV for that cheap. His current one is a dinky little thing that’s probably been dropped down a flight of stairs before coming into his possession.

With the day’s work over, he’s changed into some lounge shorts and a graphic tee that says “holy guac amole”. Yes, the space is intentional. Whoever designed the shirt couldn’t fit it all on one line without making the font way smaller. Where’s the fun in a bad t-shirt if no one can read it?

Maya hates them. She says he looks like a teen from the mid 2000s. Phoenix has crazy news for her about when he was a teenager.

He can’t think about that too much. It makes him feel like a relic. His back is going to start creaking like an old door hinge if he lingers on it for too long.

Phoenix takes back his spot on the couch with more water and a bowl of dry cheerios. Maya hates his snack choices too. She’s just kind of a little hater sometimes. Her and her blue takis that taste exactly the same as the normal takis but they’re blue. Disgusting.

In retrospect, Phoenix might also be a little hater. He just surrounds himself with people who are a little more open about it (Prime example: Edgeworth) and it makes him seem nicer in comparison. This is confirmed when another person makes a bad guess on TV and his first thought is what an idiot they must be.

The Steel Samurai blares over the announcement, spooking Phoenix enough for him to spill some cheerios on the floor. He curses under his breath and picks it up. “Hello?”

“Nick, you have to come to the prosecutor’s office right now.”

Phoenix rubs his eyes and slowly meanders to grab the TV remote. “Huh?”

“I hurt both of my ankles and I’ll never walk again!”

“What?!” Phoenix quickens his pace and steps on several cheerios with his bare feet. It’s gross, but not gross enough for him to pause. “What happened?!”

“I’ll explain when you get there. Please hurry!” Maya hangs up on him.

Maya’s a magnet for danger. Even more than Phoenix in some regards. His sneakers are still tied where he left them by the door. He grabs a pair of socks, slides them on, and carries his bike out the door.

The sun is still out. Phoenix hadn’t noticed; all the shades were closed because the glare on the TV was bothering him this morning. He just didn’t bother to reopen them when he clocked out for the day.

It would be smart to go back for sunglasses. Phoenix does not do that.

He starts pedaling down the street. There are probably a million dumb ways to sprain an ankle, but what he has a little more trouble wrapping his head around is how Maya injured both at the same time. Particularly at the prosecutor’s office. Are they setting booby traps in there now? Should Phoenix be expecting a boulder to chase him if he steps on the wrong floor tile?

Already he can feel sweat starting to pool at his back and under his arms. He’s going to need to change when he gets home. Crap, how is he getting home if Maya hurt both of her ankles? Could she still ride on his bike? Does he have clean sheets to put on the couch for her?

Should he be taking her to a doctor first? Who is paying for that? Do spirit mediums have insurance?

Phoenix nearly flips his bike pedaling over a bottle someone left on the sidewalk. As if the hospital was just itching for a broken nose to fix on top of Maya’s fragile ankles. Those surgeons must be getting bored without enough clumsy people to bankrupt and mummify.

The worn fabric under his arms has officially gone from damp to outright wet. His shorts seem to be following a similar trajectory, particularly where they meet the seat of his bike.

It almost feels like high school gym class again, except the bike he was on back then was stationary and some sadist thought it was okay to make them do cardio when the air conditioning needed repairs. Larry skipped that day. Phoenix almost joined him, but the thought of facing consequences made his eyes start leaking worse than the toilet in the men’s room.

His breath comes out in heavy gasps when he finally arrives at the prosecutor’s office. Phoenix makes this trip all the time, but never anywhere near that fast. He usually brings a bottle of water with him and uses traffic as an excuse to take a refreshing sip. Hastily attaching his bike to the nearest rack and trying to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead, Phoenix makes his most undignified entry to the building of his enemies to date.

To his relief, he doesn’t have to wander around calling Maya’s name and getting dirty looks for making so much noise. Maya is actually right there when he enters the lobby.

Maya is right there walking towards the elevator without the slightest limp.

Phoenix could strangle her right now. “I thought you- ”

“Thanks for coming, Nick! You look like a mess! But I’m actually completely better now,” Maya cuts in with a million watt smile. She bumps the up arrow on the elevator with her hip. It opens right away. She shoves him in with no remorse.

“What are you-”

“Maybe the ride up will cool you off.” Her cheerful demeanor drops. She reaches in to press the button for the twelfth floor.

Phoenix understands that wicked sneer immediately. “I hate you.”

“Have a nice trip!” Maya throws a bouquet of flowers at him and the doors slide shut.

Her mockingly enthusiastic wave fades from view as the elevator starts to rise. Phoenix sees himself in the glass windows, with the bouquet of flowers he can’t name and the corny sleep shirt and the loose pieces of hair hanging in front of his eyes.

It would be so easy to push another button. To get off early, avoid making a fool of himself in front of someone whose opinion matters to him, and tell Maya that playing Cupid is not appreciated.

He can hear her reaction. She’d pout and demand to know what she’s expected to do. As his best friend, meddling is her sworn duty. If Phoenix just put on his big boy pants and did the matchmaking himself, then Maya wouldn’t need to intervene. But until then…

The floors fly by. Phoenix reaches the tenth floor and his hands still stay clasped around the bouquet. It smells nice. The mystery flowers are a nice coral color. Hopefully they don’t have too much pollen. Not that bringing an allergen as a gift could make this visit any more embarrassing than it already is at this point.

On the twelfth floor the doors open. Someone is outside waiting for the elevator. It’s not Edgeworth. It would never be Edgeworth, and Phoenix lets himself be comforted by the certainty of that fact. The dirty look the other person gives Phoenix as he walks out is just water off of a duck’s back.

Knocking on this door hasn’t felt this intimidating since the very first time he did it. He was on a mission to bring this person back into his life and heal some of the pain that was so plainly laid out for the gallery to see. If he said the wrong thing, it was back to square one. Having spent fifteen years trying to get past square one, the idea of restarting kind of made Phoenix want to crawl into a hole and never emerge.

His palms are sweaty. Phoenix knocks. The voice responding through the dark wood is loud but disinterested. “Who is it?”

“It’s Phoenix.”

“Oh.” Edgeworth clears his throat. When he speaks again, it is with far more clarity. “You may come in, Wright.”

Phoenix hides the bouquet behind his back as he turns the doorknob, feeling very much like Maya has trapped him in some miserable chick flick. Even Edgeworth looks like a caricature of himself, his head buried in a case file and his free hand nursing a cup of tea.

It definitely looks like Edgeworth is ignoring him, but this is far from Phoenix’s first rodeo nowadays. When Phoenix tries to derail Edgeworth’s train of thought before it’s pulled into the right station, it just makes the prosecutor irritated and distractible. If he just waits a few minutes until Edgeworth has finished with whatever brilliant idea has consumed him, the case files will be placed aside and he will have Edgeworth’s undivided attention for however long he wants it.

So Phoenix finds the air vent in the ceiling and stands under it while he waits. With the state he’s in, Phoenix is kind of glad Edgeworth isn’t paying attention to him just yet. It gives him a few moments to think about his plan too. He rarely gets that much planning time for his actual job.

Phoenix could ask Edgeworth out right now. In a chick flick, the love interest finds it endearing that the protagonist got rained on and stepped in dog poop on their way to the first date. It’s something about loving the effort someone put in for you, even if that effort makes them look like a drowned rat.

This isn’t a chick flick. First of all, there isn’t a chick in sight. And they certainly aren’t wide eyed high schoolers itching to go make out in the back of a car borrowed from their parents. Edgeworth wouldn’t have even had parents left to borrow from if they were.

The only teenage behavior going on here is that if Phoenix pops the question and gets rejected, he is going to spend the rest of the night downing four tubs of ice cream and sobbing while watching Titanic. And maybe repeat that every other night for the rest of the week.

Edgeworth closes his manilla folder, takes a sip of tea, and lets out a sigh. Phoenix stands at attention with the bouquet clasped behind his back.

“Wright, what brings y-” Edgeworth narrows his eyes. “What on earth are you wearing? Holy guaca-?”

“That doesn’t matter! I’ve got something important to ask you.” Phoenix skitters towards the desk and holds out the bouquet. “Ta-da!”

Edgeworth’s cheeks are starting to match the pink hues of the sunset outside the window. They don’t match the rigidness of his shoulders. It takes a little too long for it to strike Phoenix that he failed to specify what the occasion for the flowers is.

He tries to clarify, but Edgeworth speaks before he can. “W-Wright, I am very flattered,” he says, “but I do not think doing things so…casually would work out very well for either of us.”

That sounds like Edgeworth didn’t take it as a confession of love. Which must mean he’s talking about the ball, but that doesn’t make perfect sense either, does it? Phoenix tries prodding a bit. “I mean, it can’t be anything too formal, right? You didn’t think it was anything special when we last talked about it.”

Edgeworth glares at him. “I guarantee I have never spoken to you about anything of this nature.”

“But you did. At lunch.”

“No, I did not.”

Now Phoenix is just confused. “I think there’s some miscommunication going on here.”

“Clearly. Wright, I…” Edgeworth averts his eyes. “I do not ‘hook up’ with people.”

“Woah, WHAT?!” Phoenix searches for anything attached to the bouquet that would even imply that that’s what he meant. He finds nothing. “Where the hell did you get that from?”

Edgeworth looks at him like he is the stupidest little clown in the whole circus. “You gave me a bouquet of coral roses.”

Phoenix almost drops the roses. That’s what they’re called. “What’s wrong with the flowers?!”

“Do you know how many unwanted advances I received from that harpy security guard that were just filled with those things?” Edgeworth asks.

Great. Now he’s on the same level as Oldbag. Phoenix hasn’t gotten rejected, but that might be enough to make him cry into a tub of cotton candy ice cream anyway. “I don’t know what they are; Maya just handed me a bouquet and sent me up here!”

Edgeworth puts his hand to his chin. “Maya told you to come see me with a bouquet of flowers that symbolize passion and desire…” he murmurs. Phoenix can already see Edgeworth’s brain working faster than he’s ready for. Maya’s motivations leave a trail with all the evidence pointing to Phoenix’s bleeding heart.

He could say it was probably a weird prank, but no amount of embarrassment is going to make Phoenix shoot himself in the foot like that. Edgeworth is right, he doesn’t want something casual. He will not brush this off as a joke.

“What I meant to do was ask if you wanted company for that ball this weekend,” Phoenix says. “Since Maya is stealing your plus one and all.”

That makes those gears stop turning. Edgeworth frowns and probably loses all respect for him. “You’re interested in attending?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix replies. He watches in real time as all of the judgment leaves Edgeworth’s body. “But I could make sure you don’t die from boredom. The boredom endemic is not to be taken lightly, you know.”

Edgeworth gives a smirk that Phoenix has come to adore as of late. “The boredom endemic,” he repeats, that smirk almost looking like a little smile. “The way you speak is fascinating.”

Phoenix grins. “Same goes for you. What do you say?”

“Hm.” Edgeworth considers. “You would certainly make the evening more lively. Maybe even tolerable.”

“Or we could mope together,” Phoenix suggests.

“Indeed.”

The sun is low enough in the sky that the main source of light in the room is now Edgeworth’s desk lamp. It gives off a soft orange light, but not enough to negate the shadows cast over the scene. Edgeworth has nice bone structure. Phoenix likes the shape of his nose. This is definitely an insane thing to think about someone he isn’t dating. If either of those thoughts ever slips out, he’ll blame art school for poisoning the way he looks at faces.

Edgeworth downs the rest of his tea. “Alright. You may join me. Hopefully your dreadful luck will cause a disaster to occur that cancels the entire event anyway.”

“Gee, thanks.” As unflattering as being Edgeworth’s bad luck charm is, this is a small victory. Phoenix has asked him to do something that isn’t a date but could be.

It’s a start. Phoenix is still going to shake Maya and eat ice cream straight from the carton later, but it’s a start.

***

Maya barely looks up from her phone when he enters. “Nick, is it weird if I send Franziska a tie that matches my dress?”

Phoenix drops his briefcase on the visitor desk. He woke up on his couch with a stomach ache from hell and now he never wants to eat another scoop of pink and blue for the rest of his life. “How do you know he said yes?”

“I see the way he looks at you.” Maya puts her phone down. “And your ass. He doesn’t hold the door for you to be a gentleman, Nick."

"Maya!" Phoenix's hands cover his ass on instinct. “He is not.”

“He so is!” Maya shifts on the couch so that there’s space for him to join her. “Come on. I just gave you great intel. You have to tell me how it went.”

Phoenix hesitates for a moment before sitting next to her. Maya leans in, just teetering on the edge of breaching his personal space. “He said yes,” Phoenix says, “but he’s not any happier about going. He hates these things”

“He hates fun,” Maya corrects.

That’s almost true, but it’s wrong enough that Phoenix finds himself disagreeing. Edgeworth doesn’t like going out drinking or dancing with his sister or wearing metallic clothes, but there’s a chess board in his office and the shelf behind his desk has a section of sudoku books.

“He doesn’t hate fun, he hates lies,” Phoenix says. When Larry drags him out for drinks, he takes a swig and pretends he wouldn’t much rather be at home. Edgeworth has always been too honest for that. His bluntness scared off a lot of their classmates, but Phoenix felt better about saying he didn’t like certain recess games once Edgeworth taught him not to be such a people pleaser.

Phoenix sighs. “The whole thing is just a distraction. They’re spending tax dollars on a venue and a buffet instead of anything that’s actually important. Edgeworth doesn’t work for recognition or some kind of award. He works because it matters to him. And he thinks that anyone who doesn’t agree should not be in a career where their selfishness can ruin an innocent person’s life.”

Only when Phoenix finishes that does he realize how remarkable it is that he can say that with such certainty. This is the same man who spent the beginning of his career with whispers of forgery and back-alley deals following his every move. Even wide-eyed, overly-trusting law student Phoenix went to take the bar with the expectation that his childhood friend had become a heartless monster in his pursuit of victory.

The truth, as is always the case, turned out to be far more complicated than that, but rumors came from somewhere. Edgeworth was as remorseless as they said, but it all came from a deep pain lodged in his chest. Once the bullet was removed, the guilt started pouring out until it nearly drowned him.

A monster doesn’t hate himself for the wrong he has done.

“I’m proud of him,” Phoenix says softly. “He’s grown a lot. I knew he could do it, but it’s nice seeing that I wasn’t just naive or crazy for thinking that.”

Maya hums. “I guess having morals and being a buzzkill is better than being a corrupt party animal.”

Phoenix snorts. “I don’t think there’s any version of Edgeworth who’s a party animal.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Maya pauses. “You know something, Nick?”

“Hm?”

“The face you make when you talk about him and his sexy morals is disgusting.”

And here Phoenix was thinking she was going to say something sincere. “Am I not allowed to be happy for my friend?”

“Your friend,” Maya mocks. “I don’t see you talking about me like that and I’m your friend.”

“That’s because you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Hey!” Maya takes a pillow and smacks Phoenix with it. He holds up his arms as a shield. “I’ve grown as a human being!”

Phoenix peaks between his arms to make sure she’s smiling along and he’s not just being rude for no reason. “I don’t know, Maya,” Phoenix says, “you still look pretty short to me.”

Maya stands up on the couch cushions with the pillow in hand, smug and triumphant. “I’ll have you know I’ve mastered a really important skill over these past through years.”

“Have you now? It sure isn’t cleaning the toilets.”

She chuckles and winds up her next pillow strike. “Getting bitches.”

The pillow collides with Phoenix’s face. His shriek is muffled, but it still sends Maya into a fit of laughter. Phoenix wrings the pillow from her hands and flings it out of her reach. “What bitches?”

“Fran’s not just taking me to the dance. We’re going on a date,” Maya brags. “We’re going to a nice restaurant beforehand, then when we get bored of the ball we’re going back to her place to have some fun.”

If Maya’s smug grin is any indicator, Phoenix knows exactly what going back to Franziska’s place entails. “Ew. You could’ve stopped at telling me it was a date.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Maya jumps down from the couch. “You never answered my question when you walked in.”

“I don’t remember you asking me anything,” Phoenix admits.

Maya rolls her eyes. “I asked you if it would be weird to send Franziska a tie that matches my dress.”

The lavender of the dress would go nicely with the teal shades that Franziska usually wears. That color combination evokes images of beautiful mermaids with their tails shimmering in the sunlight. He can see Maya as a mermaid with her long hair and sparkly gown. Franziska reminds him more of a shark.

“Matching would be nice, but I think she’d probably rather wear some frilly thing than a normal tie,” Phoenix replies.

“Good point. I’ll see if she has anything purple.” Maya takes out her phone, but is quick to pause her furious typing. “Nick. What are you wearing to the ball?”

Crap.

As per usual, he didn’t think this through at all. If he ever had the budget to buy a different, fancier suit, Maya spent all of it already. The suit he has already raises enough eyebrows in court with its loud color and wonky proportions. Not to mention that Edgeworth has already seen it just about every time they meet up.

What has he gotten himself into? This is like prom except his date hates prom as an institution and so does he. And he’s a grown adult so he can’t ask his parents to go shopping to pick out a generic black tux for him. Phoenix grabs another pillow, face plants into it, and groans.

A hand gently touches his shoulder. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, rookie?”

Phoenix looks up from the pillow to see Mia smiling down at him. Maya got sick enough of his boy troubles that she phoned a friend (or a sister) from the dead. If he wasn’t so tired he would laugh at the absurdity of it. “Lawyer prom, Chief.”

“Hm. That does sound pretty bad,” Mia says thoughtfully. She sits down exactly where Maya was before, her hand not leaving his shoulder. “Be more specific with me. Is it the theme? Your date? The people there? Maybe a notoriously bad DJ?”

“The theme is generically formal, my date is Edgeworth, most of the people there probably don’t like me for one reason or another, and I haven’t heard a thing about the music,” Phoenix answers automatically.

“Edgeworth’s your date.” Mia smiles and pats him on the back. He doesn’t get to feel that too often these days. “Good on you, Phoenix.”

“Don’t be too happy for me, it’s not actually a date or anything,” Phoenix mutters. “I’m just there to keep him from dying of boredom.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Mia says, but she probably remembers Phoenix’s penchant for embarrassing himself and thinks better of pushing that point. “How does Edgeworth dress up?” A slight giggle enters the cadence of her voice. “Is he bringing the suit with all the gold back out?”

Phoenix can’t even pretend not to know what she means. It would be a betrayal to himself to deny staring at photos from Edgeworth’s courtroom debut. The gaudy details on that suit etched their way into the pages of Phoenix’s sketchbook far too many times for him to even try.

“That thing he keeps hung up on the wall?” Phoenix asks in hopes of incriminating himself a little less. As if Mia would know what Edgeworth’s office looks like. “I don’t think he cares enough to bother getting it out of the frame.”

“That’s good.” Mia takes his pillow away. She gazes out the window for a moment. “Did you go to prom in high school?”

“I did. I’m guessing that wasn’t much of a thing for you and Maya.”

“And all the prosecutors I dated were doing different jobs when we were together,” Mia finishes. She props her chin up on her hand. “Tell me about your high school prom.”

That was almost a decade ago now. Phoenix almost asks what his senior year of high school has to do with whatever funk the ball has him in, but he’s in no place to complain about asking for seemingly unrelated testimony. Especially not when the person asking is the woman who taught him how to turn around his thinking like that.

“It was fine I guess,” Phoenix says. “I went with Larry and I rented a black tux. My date was a nice enough girl, but she didn’t like me like that or anything. We were just together for the photos.” He pauses. “No one was really interested in me until Iris.”

“And you were head over heels for her.”

Phoenix winces. “Yeah. That was pretty bad.”

He asked that girl in high school to go dance with him and her response had him thrilled. Phoenix showed up to pre-prom with a corsage he picked out himself and an arsenal of dance moves from any genre a DJ in 2011 could possibly play.

They were smiling together in all of the photos. Then they got to the gym. She spent most of the night hanging out at a table with her friends. The only person who noticed his dance moves was Larry, who also got ditched by his date.

“I wanted to take Miles instead,” Phoenix admits. “I sent him a letter months before I asked that girl. I have no idea if he ever saw it.”

Phoenix hasn’t asked about any of the letters. He isn’t sure he’s going to like the answer he gets if he does. The best case scenario is that they never made it to their intended recipient. Except that also means that they never made it past Manfred von Karma, who then made it his personal mission to make sure Miles never knew that someone was reaching out to him.

All of the scenarios are awful in their own special ways. Either Phoenix’s letters got destroyed or they just went ignored for some reason or another. Poor little Phoenix, writing more than he ever has for an essay under the impression that people who took in newly orphaned boys were always nice and acted in their best interests. Telling a boy he hasn’t seen in years about his everyday life without the slightest clue that he might just be reminding Miles of a normal he will never experience again.

Even as early as the fourth grade, Phoenix was excited about all the fun things that came with growing up. Going to dances and graduating together. Miles just smiled and said he would tolerate those formalities if it was with Phoenix.

Mia doesn’t say anything. She leaves the floor open for him to keep talking. He could probably talk her ear off for hours, but if he was dead, he wouldn’t want to get summoned from the great beyond to play therapist. Mia gave him enough impromptu therapy when “Dahlia” broke up with him.

“I guess this is my only chance to experience something we would’ve done as teenagers with him,” Phoenix realizes. “That’s the only reason I care at all about this stupid thing.” He looks up from his hands to meet Mia’s eyes. “Thanks, Chief. I think I just needed someone around to listen while I sorted out my thoughts. No offense to Maya.”

“She’s more of a talker than a listener,” Mia agrees fondly.

“Oh, crap.” Phoenix puts his hand to his forehead. “Now I really care! And I still don’t have anything to wear that won’t make me look stupid!”

Mia’s eyes flick to the gown hung up behind him and she gives the slightest shake of her head. He doesn’t have to say anything and she already knows exactly what happened. It’s probably happened to her a few times too. “You could ask Maya what happened to my old suits, but I don’t think they’d really be your thing.”

She’s obviously messing with him. Her and Maya have that same mischievous glint in their eyes. He entertains the notion anyway, just for fun.

Phoenix’s immediate thought is that the suits wouldn’t fit him in a million years. The low cut probably isn’t a good look for him either. However, looking between him and Mia, it isn’t completely impossible. Her shoulders are decently broad and she’s pretty tall, but not tall enough that her skirts would cover his ass. Edgeworth might not look him in the eye ever again if he showed up like that.

“Maybe not,” Phoenix says sheepishly. “Any other ideas?”

Mia ponders for a bit. “Are there any friends who have something you could borrow?”

“Nothing that looks nice enough.”

“I don’t know about that, Phoenix.” Mia reaches over to adjust his tie. She tied it the first time. Phoenix never learned how. He just loosens it and tightens it again each time he puts it back on. “Do you remember what I said when you first bought this suit?”

He does. It was the first time he felt like someone could actually see him as a lawyer. “Remind me.”

“It doesn’t matter where the suit comes from,” she says, rubbing a thumb over his badge, “it matters what it tells people. Your suit is bold, loud, and it leaves an impression. It shakes things up. Your clients will look at you and see someone with strong convictions and out of the box thinking.”

“Not someone whose pants are too short for his legs,” Phoenix finishes with a smile.

“Exactly. Same goes for this ball. It doesn’t matter if it comes from a tailor or a thrift store, it’s about what you want to tell Edgeworth with it.”

There’s so much he wants to tell Edgeworth. The letters only contain a small piece of that. Summarizing any of that with a hastily cobbled together outfit is a tall order, but it also gives him a lot of options.

“I think I’ve got some calls to make.”

Mia smiles. “Tell Maya to take pictures for me.”

“I will.”

***

Phoenix’s phone lights up with a text from Edgeworth. He’s on his way and Phoenix knows that he drives like a maniac when he doesn’t have a passenger. At most, Phoenix probably has five minutes.

Larry’s impressive resume of odd jobs ended up coming in clutch. The black slacks are from a bowling alley. Phoenix had to use a lint roller on them and it ended up caked in all sorts of strange colors of fuzz. The alley itself wouldn’t even be all that linty. Larry must have just fallen over every single time he was standing on the tacky patterned carpets.

The vest is from a really strange hotel. It’s a nice navy blue, which Phoenix was actually pretty excited about until he got a closer look. The fabric they used is sparkly and Phoenix is already starting to find flecks of glitter on his hands. Mia was nice enough to remove the embroidered hotel logo with a seam ripper for him.

Unfortunately, Larry did not have a blazer that would fit Phoenix. The blazers were either bright orange, tight in the shoulders, or both. So Phoenix had to get a little more creative.

Being creative meant going to jail.

Not as an inmate or a suspect, or even a defense attorney meeting his client. Just as a visitor.

He’s not sure how to talk to Diego Armando, much less ask to borrow the man’s clothes. Phoenix’s first visit ended with him being told to supply proof that Mia gave him the idea, so he came back a few hours later with an envelope containing a letter and her signature. The letter got a smile. Phoenix left with instructions on where to find the clothes and a cryptic warning not to “whip out a flashlight when a candle will do.” Whatever the fuck that means.

Phoenix gives himself a once over, jail blazer, sparkly vest and all. Wearing a different suit says that he put in effort. Wearing blue says that he’s still true to his regular old self. And the glitter hopefully screams from the rooftops that he likes men.

There are two more finishing touches; a pocket square from Mia and the badge pinned on his lapel. At the very least, the story of how he got his outfit will probably get a chuckle out of grouchy old Edgeworth.

Someone knocks on the door. Phoenix checks his hair one more time before running to get the door.

On first glance, Edgeworth looks almost exactly the same as he does in court. That’s far from an insult, but it takes Phoenix by surprise. Despite what he told Mia, he was kind of expecting the gold trimmed lapels.

“You sure do look like Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Esquire,” Phoenix says.

“Because I am ready to go back to my office the first chance I get,” Edgeworth replies. He adjusts his sleeves and Phoenix can see the pattern of his waistcoat change when the light hits it. The material appears to be some sort of black jacquard. Edgeworth’s blazer is a bit longer too. So he did put in effort, just little enough to broadcast loud and clear that he doesn’t give a single shit. “I’m surprised you didn’t just wear your normal suit.”

“I wasn't going to let Maya of all people out-class me.”

“I’m afraid you have still failed in that regard. She is wearing a gown. You look like you’re about to serve me a very elaborate margarita.”

At least it’s an elaborate margarita. That must mean he looks like he knows what he’s doing and he’s going to make Edgeworth’s night a little less dull.

The car ride to the venue is fascinating. No single individual acts in a way that stands out, but there is a clear shift in how every driver on these city streets is moving. People are launching yellow lights with gusto and switching lanes with the minimum amount of space available.

Edgeworth is no exception when it comes to yellow lights, but every time someone merges in front of him Phoenix hears a string of ominous sounding German. Phoenix doesn’t know a lick of German, so his best guess is that Edgeworth (despite vehemently denying the existence of the supernatural even when the proof is staring him in the face) is casting ancient German curses on the people around him.

When Phoenix walks out of the car, he is alarmed and astonished by how perfect Edgeworth’s parking is. Especially because he whipped into the space like a lunatic and Phoenix thought he was going to perish. Learning how to drive in the von Karma household must have been strange.

There is someone stationed at the front door to make sure only invited guests get in. The pair before them gives a name, but all Edgeworth has to do is stare at the guard and they are allowed in without a problem. Phoenix is on the receiving end of a weird look, so he just keeps close to Edgeworth to make it clear that they’re attending together.

Edgeworth holds the door open for him. Phoenix smiles sheepishly and walks through, but then he remembers something.

He looks over his shoulder. Edgeworth’s gaze rests well below eye level. He startles when he notices that Phoenix isn’t moving, a light flush creeping onto his cheeks. “Is something the matter?” Edgeworth asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Phoenix says. “I just thought I heard a noise. Sounded like an annoying little girl.”

Beyond the second set of doors (which Edgeworth still holds open for him) Phoenix finds a massive room bathed in soft golden light. The floor is mostly open, with any equipment or tables pushed to the furthest edges. Up against the wall, right in the center, is the DJ’s setup and the arc of colored spotlights above it. The spotlights rotate slowly, casting pinks and blues on the dancing attendees.

With classical music playing from the speakers and the relaxed tempo of the lighting changes, it feels a bit more refined than the average prom. The chocolate fountain on the concessions table next to the DJ is definitely not something any smart person would put within reach of high school boys. No one is doing the sprinkler or the cupid shuffle, but Phoenix has been around enough theater to recognize when someone is mangling the simple waltz that seems to be a crowd favorite.

Edgeworth sighs heavily. “I should have said I had a non-refundable flight to Germany,” he grumbles.

Phoenix opens his mouth to offer some meaningless platitudes but Edgeworth is already making a beeline for the wall opposite the DJ where standing tables have been set up. The party planners had the budget for fancy lights but not for chairs. Really classy.

The noise isn’t much better than it was near the entrance, but the crowd is far thinner. Edgeworth glowers at the table, which someone of Maya’s height might be able to prop themselves up with, but is definitely too short to be comfortable for anyone hovering around six feet. Phoenix is tempted to ask if Edgeworth has calculated a precise number of minutes he needs to stay before it becomes socially acceptable to leave. He doesn’t because he knows he will get an answer.

“I’m gonna check out the snack table,” Phoenix says. He needs to sort out his priorities away from the striking portrait of Edgeworth’s displeasure. And he hasn’t had anything for dinner except for about three spoonfuls of leftover mac and cheese. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

Edgeworth shrugs half-heartedly. “I am indifferent.”

Very helpful. Phoenix makes sure Edgeworth gets a good view of his pout before he makes his way across the dance floor. Sometimes he thinks Edgeworth intentionally makes it his mission to be hard to cheer up. God forbid there be any likes hidden in the endless sprawls of things he loathes.

The joke is on him. Phoenix’s memories of their childhood are preserved in amber to a degree that Edgeworth would probably find psychotic if he knew. He traded his fair share of lovingly packed lunches way back when.

He looks for Maya as he walks. She isn’t here yet. She and Franziska are probably still enjoying their nice romantic dinner while Phoenix forages for platefuls of tiny appetizers. Franziska with something nice and Maya with the most decadent burger money can buy.

Gumshoe and Maggey are here. He’s wearing his usual dress shirt and tie with black dress pants. Phoenix is pretty sure he’s spotted Maggey’s simple orange dress at Target before. Neither of them is even attempting a proper waltz, they’re just swaying around together and tripping on each other’s feet.

It looks fun.

Phoenix could do that. Phoenix could turn back right now without any snacks and hold out his hand until Edgeworth takes it. One dance. Just one dance to satisfy his curiosity and put to bed a pipe dream that he scrawled in a letter eight years ago.

He glances back at the standing tables. Edgeworth looks gorgeous. Edgeworth also looks completely miserable. At the bombastic sound of the song’s finale, Edgeworth grimaces and starts massaging his temples.

The concessions table is a weird mix of family cookout classics and fancy desserts the size of his badge. Phoenix plucks a few pigs in a blanket, a handful of celery sticks, some cubes of cheese, and two tiny square cakes that he doesn’t know the name of. He’s here to make the time move faster, not to make up for time lost.

Phoenix arrives back at the standing table with a few conversation starters on a silver platter. Talking with Edgeworth comes as easily as anything once they get the ball rolling, but pushing that ball through an impenetrable lacy magenta fortress takes a little planning. Nothing has proven more consistently effective for smashing brick walls than igniting a mutual hatred. Phoenix just needs to be careful not to declare his burning distaste for something that Edgeworth actually likes.

Then again, arguing is certainly a way to have a conversation. A way that they are both intimately familiar with.

“The weird slow disco spotlights are kind of killing the mood here,” Phoenix says as he sets down his little snack assortment. The tiny cake cubes are deliberately closer to Edgeworth in hopes that he will think he can sneakily grab one unnoticed. “It makes everything feel kind of cheap.”

“Especially given the woeful lack of seating present,” Edgeworth agrees.

“The DJ has a chair I think. Maybe next year you should volunteer.”

Edgeworth’s brow furrows. Surely he is experiencing the same divine vision that Phoenix is, where Edgeworth pairs his suit with massive pink headphones and layers some gold chains over his cravat. “I do not think there is a single aspect of my being that would lend itself to doing such a thing.”

“You could control the volume.”

The crease in Edgeworth’s brow remains, but his deep frown softens into something more contemplative. Phoenix is torn between stopping him before he embarrasses himself and being quiet to see how far this train of thought will travel.

It ends up getting stopped in its tracks by a visitor. That’s probably a mercy. “Sir! You actually came!”

Edgeworth’s frown settles back into place as he turns his attention to Detective Gumshoe. This cold welcome does not deter Gumshoe’s enthusiasm in the slightest. “Only out of obligation, yes.”

“Well, sure,” Gumshoe says sheepishly, “but you weren’t obligated to bring a date.” He looks between the two of them and his smile grows. “Got any…you know, plans?”

What a loaded question. Phoenix shakes his head. “No, nothing interesting. I'm just here as a distraction.”

“Ha!” Gumshoe claps him on the shoulder. Phoenix almost chokes on celery. “Yeah, you sure are, pal.”

“Detective,” Edgeworth warns.

Gumshoe purses his lips shut. “Well. You pals have fun!” He scampers off to intercept Maggey at the refreshments table.

As soon as he’s gone, Edgeworth sighs. Phoenix expects him to follow that up with a comment, but he just forlornly plucks a tiny dessert from the plate. That’s the second deep sigh of the night.

Larry complained about Phoenix moping a bunch at prom. He said that all those gloomy looks weren’t gonna make girls wanna talk to him.

That has to be bullshit. Edgeworth rarely smiles but the courtroom stenographer has had to transcribe far too much swooning for a court of law. And that does not count any swooning from Phoenix. He would like to think he kept most of that in his head.

The sound of the crowd cheering draws Phoenix from his thoughts. He and Edgeworth both turn to see what’s happening.

A recognizable silhouette emerges from a door across the room. When it closes, Phoenix can see that it clearly says “do not enter” on it. The perpetrator bares its dead-eyed face to the world. Phoenix recoils on instinct.

Glancing at Edgeworth, Phoenix can already tell what he’s thinking. That this mascot costume of the Blue Badger in a sparkling tuxedo is the most flagrant misuse of company time and tax dollars that he has ever witnessed.

Then the badger starts convulsing.

“I can’t be in this room,” Phoenix says.

“There’s a balcony over there,” Edgeworth agrees.

Phoenix swipes the plate of snacks and follows Edgeworth’s power walk to their escape route.

The balcony looks like it should overlook a beautiful field or a lake. In reality, the view is no better than the one from Phoenix’s apartment window. Edgeworth’s office looks like a sightseeing spot in comparison. They aren’t peering into any windows, but the venue isn’t far away enough from Metropolitan areas to offer much more than a menu of restaurants to escape to afterwards.

Still, more romantic than watching the Blue Badger— who is probably Mike Meekins— tear it up on the dance floor.

Edgeworth leads him over to the furthest corner of the balcony, out of view of the entrance. The railing is high enough that Phoenix doesn’t think he’s going to plummet to his death if he leans on it.

Moonlight paints Edgeworth in cool shades, complimenting the undertones in his face beautifully. His hair looks like starlight. If Phoenix finds just the right angle, the stars seem to encircle his head like a halo.

Phoenix breaks the ice. “Have you ever been to a dance you liked?”

He’s gotta know if this is even a hill worth dying on. If it isn’t, then he’ll just hope he manages to get a ring on Edgeworth’s finger and that Edgeworth is enough of a stickler for procedure that he gives in to dancing at their wedding.

“Franziska and I took lessons before events,” Edgeworth says. A wry smile forms on his lips. “The teachers had to sign NDAs so they wouldn’t disclose that we were clients. That way it would seem like we were naturally skilled. Franziska had some talent for it, but I spent every dance muttering the steps under my breath.”

“And that drove her nuts,” Phoenix concludes.

“Completely nuts. No matter how quiet I thought I was or how little I moved my mouth, she always complained. Only away from prying eyes, of course.” Edgeworth leans back on the wall and gazes out at some of the shops in the distance. His eyes soften. “Places like that offered camouflage when we were still small. There were so many people that Prosecutor von Karma couldn’t constantly have his eyes on us. Franziska and I would sneak towards the concessions and take some extra treats we weren’t supposed to have.”

Phoenix laughs. “That sounds more like something me and Maya would do.”

“As grown adults. Franziska and I were probably five and twelve.”

“Before you got too tall to hide.”

Edgeworth pauses. He looks away. “Something like that.”

A few frogs and birds punctuate an otherwise quiet night. The music from the speakers can still be heard through the glass, though only really when all else falls silent.

“I haven’t been to a lot of dances, but I kinda like them,” Phoenix admits.

“I didn’t know you had any interest.”

“Yeah, well. I was excited about prom in high school. Didn’t end up dancing much, but I wanted to.” Phoenix catches himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. It’s not important, just some silly high school stuff.”

Edgeworth turns his head. “Something being silly does not undermine its importance to you,” he says.

Phoenix blinks. “Huh. That’s not something I’d expect you to say.”

“I’ll have you know that my emotional intelligence has been improving at unprecedented rates as of late.”

“Has it now?” Phoenix challenges

“Undoubtedly.” Edgeworth’s little smirk starts looking more like a smile. “Tell me more.”

“I don’t know. There’s not much else to say. Dances are just sort of… romantic. Like something out of a book or a cheesy movie.” Phoenix frowns at the stone tile beneath his feet. “Not that there’s anyone who’s ever seen me that way. Besides the girl who tried to kill me, but I don’t think that really counts.”

As soon as he says it, Phoenix berates himself for not keeping that one in his head. He can’t put that on Edgeworth right now. They’re at a glorified work party, Edgeworth very clearly shut down all of Detective Gumshoe’s theories about their relationship, and it would be unbelievably selfish to make things weird when Phoenix is the only person Edgeworth talks to regularly outside of work.

He stares at Edgeworth— not too much though, he doesn’t want to weird him out more— to find a sign that he’s just taking it as Phoenix having a pity party instead of Phoenix trying to ruin their carefully rebuilt friendship. Edgeworth is probably one of the least expressive people Phoenix knows, but he has a thousand incredibly specific micro-expressions that all look nearly identical.

And then Edgeworth looks Phoenix in the eyes. Without glaring at him. That never happens.

“Wright,” he says. Only Edgeworth doesn’t say it so much as he breathes it, which in turn makes Phoenix’s breath catch in his throat.

“H-hey,” Phoenix replies.

The only thing scarier than Edgeworth making eye contact with him is Edgeworth slowly walking towards him while maintaining that eye contact. No cranky eyebrow crease, no scowl.

“Is. Is this what I think it is?” Phoenix asks.

“I don’t know, Wright.” Edgeworth stops mere inches from him and asks, “What do you think this is?”

Is it hot out here? Or is this borrowed blazer just made for cooler climates? “Um. I-”

“Wait.” Edgeworth almost presses his finger to Phoenix’s lips. His self-control is really being tested here. “Don’t look now, but your sister is kissing my sister.”

“WHAAAT?!” Phoenix turns around to see, not even wincing when Edgeworth groans at his disobedience and stupidity. It looks like he failed the test. Sure enough, there’s Maya’s gown, and there’s a very angry Franziska von Karma reaching for her whip.

Well, shit.

“PHOENIX WRIGHT!” Franziska screeches as she charges across the balcony.

Maya follows behind with a cheerful wave like nothing’s wrong. She looks like a princess. He should ask for a picture to show Mia. “Hey, Nick!”

“Hiya,” Phoenix shakily responds. That might be the last word he ever gets to say. Maybe he should’ve just leaned in and smooched Edgeworth while he still could.

No, he doesn’t really mean that last part. He wants some sort of legally binding contract (written or verbal) declaring consent before he makes a conflict of interest for the courtroom.

Edgeworth stands in front of him to protect him. That’s definitely not something Phoenix has dreamed about. “Franziska. Stand down. It is not Wright’s fault that you were putting the public in public displays of affection.”

“Is it his fault that you’re not funny?” Franziska taunts.

Maya puts a hand on the small of her back. “I dunno, Fran. I thought it was kind of funny.”

“And whose foolish office do you work in?”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

“Hey!” Phoenix protests. “I’ll have you know I tolerate no funny business in my office. Any joke book that makes it past the door gets incinerated.”

Edgeworth plows through their tangent with relentless force. “If you’re going to attack anyone, it should be me, Franziska. I’m the one who told Wright you two were there.”

Franziska tugs on the coiled leather. “Fine by me, Miles Edgeworth.”

“Wait!” Phoenix jumps out from behind Edgeworth. “You told me to be quiet and I didn’t listen. She should attack me.”

“No, I should have anticipated you being disruptive.”

“No, I should have heeded the very obvious shushing finger.”

“I should have accounted for your tendency to fling yourself into danger without a second thought.”

“I should’ve remembered that your sister is constantly armed and hates my guts.”

“You weren’t the reason I left, she has no reason to hate you.”

“I mean I did arrest her dad.”

“Because he killed a man!”

The crack of a whip smacking the pavement slices through their argument. “Mein Gott. I will just whip both of you fools if you don’t stop your foolishly foolish prattling over foolish details!”

Phoenix backtracks through the last few statements. They might not have been well suited for a balcony at a work party. Whoops. “If we can’t decide whose fault it is, then maybe you should just go enjoy the party?” Phoenix suggests.

“Or choose me,” Edgeworth says. Phoenix goes to protest, but he sees the shushing finger and heeds it this time. If anyone is practiced at dealing with Franziska’s wrath, it would be Edgeworth.

Franziska glares at him. Not her usual fiery rage, just steely silence. “You play dirty, Miles Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth replies, “Learned from the best.”

“The best at being annoying, maybe.” Franziska puts the whip away. “I have better things to do. Like being the best date. And the best ballroom dancer. Which you will never be.”

“Oh, believe me. I know.”

Maya, who had backed up a good ten steps during the little kerfuffle, hooks her arm around Franziska’s elbow and trots back into the main room. She’s wearing sneakers under her ballgown.

“You look great,” Phoenix stage whispers.

“I like your sparkles!” Maya whispers back with a smile.

Phoenix almost has hope that he and Edgeworth can resume whatever was going on earlier, but Maya’s exit gets traded for the Blue Badger walking onto the balcony. It decapitates itself, revealing a just-as-haunted-looking Mike Meekins.

“Perhaps we should go back as well,” Edgeworth says.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

The standing table they were at earlier has been taken, so they have to find a new one. The only open one is significantly closer to the speakers.

No one is paying attention to them, but Edgeworth already looks miserable again. So now is not the time. He’s got enough on his plate fighting off a migraine.

At least Maya gets a fairy tale ending. She and Franziska look like a sapphic renaissance painting or a magical girl manga. All that dance training pays off for Franziska, who takes the lead with poise and ease. Maya, on the other hand, just looks like she’s taking really small steps with no rhyme or reason.

“Franziska complains about you, but whatever Maya is doing is okay?” Phoenix asks.

It takes Edgeworth a moment to find where Phoenix is looking. “That’s because Maya is a nice girl and I’m her older brother. We are held to different standards.”

“Clearly.”

Franziska spins Maya around and dips her. She’s wearing frighteningly tall heels but she still moves with grace. Maya grins from ear to ear, revealing one of her ratty sneakers when she sticks her leg out. They’re an odd pair, but they kind of work together.

Perhaps that is what emboldens Phoenix. “Wanna dance?”

Edgeworth stares. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re the only one here,” Phoenix confirms. Edgeworth does not appreciate him being a smart ass. “I mean, if Maya and Gumshoe can get out there and dance, I don’t see why we couldn’t.”

The current choice of music is a lilting waltz. Some of the couples have just taken to swaying each other vaguely in time. Franziska’s crisp steps are an oddity among amateurs. No one will pay attention to two guys sharing a very platonic approximation of a waltz.

“I…I don’t know, Wright.” Edgeworth surveys the crowd of guests with apprehension. “I told you already, I’m hardly an excusable dancer.”

If Phoenix was smart, he would take that as a no. He’s never been known to quit while he’s ahead instead of pressing on. “I promise I won’t grade you on your step touches,” Phoenix says. “Mine are probably worse.” He steps away from the table and reaches out his hand.

Phoenix’s heart is pounding when Edgeworth lifts his hand, but then he hesitates. In that moment of pause, Phoenix sees years of pressure weighing him down. Miles cried over folding a bad paper crane when he still had the father he idolized to tell him it was okay. Then he was fighting to be good enough in every aspect of his life, not even to be accepted, but to avoid being rebuked.

It’s okay, Phoenix wants to say. Not as a platitude but an assertion. They’re not going to be very good dancers and that’s okay.

Phoenix shoves past his own fear, past that nagging voice telling him to accept rejection. If he puts himself out there to be judged, silly and trivial as his fears may be, then maybe he’ll show Edgeworth how to do that too.

“Can I have this dance?”

The piercing screech of microphone feedback makes Phoenix wince. Edgeworth covers his ears. When the sound fades, it is replaced with the lazy voice of the DJ. “Sorry about that. There’s a tradition here that got phased out ten years ago, but tonight we’re bringing it back. For the next half hour, we’re bringing you a groovy blast from the past. Welcome to the revival of the 80s Boogie Breakdown.”

The what? “The what?”

Before Phoenix knows it, there’s a throbbing pulse blasting over his thoughts. All of those colored lights start spinning, colors flashing faster than he can name them. Detective Gumshoe is breakdancing. Phoenix doesn’t know the song but he knows there are voices singing along. A lot of them are very loud and very bad.

He can’t help but smile as he looks around. This is more like prom.

“Well. Offer still stands.” Phoenix turns back to face Edgeworth, a question on the tip of his tongue. That’s exactly where his query dies though.

Edgeworth’s been fighting off a headache of some sort for most of the night. That much has been obvious. If the eyes squeezed shut and the fingers pressing just under his temples are any indicator, Edgeworth didn’t win the fight.

“Edgeworth?”

Even in the darkest reds, his face looks washed out in the frantic lights. Phoenix has half a mind to kick out the pair taking up the furthest table, if only so he can blame Edgeworth’s paleness on the harsh overheads. Edgeworth doesn’t acknowledge, he just keeps taking slow, deliberate breaths.

Oh god. Whipping out a flashlight when a candle will do. Armando was right.

Phoenix tries again. He was too vague, that’s on him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we can leave if that would help.”

“If I could leave, I would have never shown up in the first place,” Edgeworth snaps. He opens his eyes for a brief moment, only to immediately close them again.

So it’s a problem with what he’s seeing. Phoenix follows Edgeworth’s line of sight and finds too many things for him to pinpoint one cause. The Blue Badger’s sparkly suit is reflective. A disco ball is being slowly lowered from a compartment in the ceiling. The strobe light atop the DJ’s lighting rig makes Phoenix feel a little woozy if he looks at it for too long.

Maybe that’s the answer. It’s not one light or one guest or the oppressive bass in the speakers, it’s the combination of all of those things intermingling faster than the human eye can comprehend.

Phoenix sets his jaw. “Stay here. I’m getting water.”

The concessions table is much closer to this table than their preferred spot. Phoenix dodges through clumps of middle aged men attempting retro dance moves and breaking their backs. He would try pulling some of them off himself to give Edgeworth something to chuckle at, but that would require Edgeworth opening his eyes.

He might’ve lied about the water. Yes, he is still getting some water, but his real goal is to get rid of those damned strobe lights. The DJ is just sitting on his phone, so clearly he isn’t busy.

Phoenix swipes two cups of water: one for Edgeworth and one to sip while he barters with the DJ. He narrowly misses spilling them all over himself when one of the guests tries to do the Charleston. At least make Phoenix look like a klutz with dance moves from the right decade, asshole.

Just when he thinks he's safe, because of course nothing he does can ever go according to plan, someone spins their dance partner right into him and he collides with a table.

A table that the chocolate fountain was on.

He watches in slow motion as the glass fountain falls back, spilling chocolate everywhere, and crashes right into the electrical panel for the entire venue.

Well. The strobe lights are gone. And so are all the normal lights.

Chaos breaks loose. Phoenix grabs a new cup of water and covers it with his hand as he blindly dodges through panicked guests. Glass crunches under his loafers. He keeps hearing it after he should be a good ways away from the broken fountain, so he’s guessing that chocolate is gluing it to the soles.

Phoenix finds Edgeworth right where he left him. There’s just enough light from the windows and the glowing red exit signs that Phoenix can see his face. He turns to face the sound of Phoenix’s footsteps. “Wright.”

“Hi. I got you water.”

Edgeworth takes it. “Did you do this?”

“Yes and no. Wanna get out of here?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Phoenix takes Edgeworth by the arm and guides him to the exit. He’s not sure why he does it, it just seems right. The fabric of his sleeve feels really nice.

They could’ve stopped doing that once they got outside. But Edgeworth never shakes him off or complains that Phoenix is squeezing too hard, so they stay like that until they reach the parking garage.

Edgeworth gives him an odd look when he lets go. Phoenix has no idea what to do with that information.

The next logical course of action would be for Edgeworth to take out his keys and drive Phoenix back to his apartment. Admittedly, Phoenix is a little proud of himself for not being upset by that. Yeah, he would’ve liked a dance, and he seemed pretty damn close to getting one, but he’d rather save that for a time when Edgeworth is relaxed and smiling.

Edgeworth slowly sips the water. Phoenix waits for him to unearth the keys from his pockets, but he doesn’t. Feeling awkward, Phoenix puts his hands in his own pockets, only to find loose coffee beans and a card with a phone number on it. There’s a lipstick kiss on the card too. Both seem familiar.

Wait a minute. That’s Mia’s lipstick. And Mia’s number. The one he lost when that Wellington jerk conked him on the head and wiped his phone. He thought he lost it forever. Phoenix doesn’t know whether to be delighted or disgusted. That’s like having evidence of a sister or a parent’s torrid love life.

“Phoenix,” Edgeworth says. His first name. Uttered with he might presumptuously call tenderness. Phoenix quickly shoves the card and beans back into his pocket, all too eager to discover what would make Edgeworth shed that stubborn layer of professionalism. Edgeworth looks down at his shoes. “I don’t know what exactly you did, but…thank you.”

Oh. “Uh, you’re welcome,” Phoenix replies. He wants to ask what happened, and he thinks he might already know if memory serves, but he really doesn’t want to push his luck when Edgeworth is calling him Phoenix like that. “For the record, I didn’t shut the power off on purpose. I was just going to ask the guy to tone it down. Maybe splash him with water if he gave me a hard time.”

“But you tripped on a plastic cup and accidentally cut the power for a whole building.”

“No, some lousy dancer pushed me into a table,” Phoenix corrects. “The falling chocolate fountain is what hit the electrical panel.”

Edgeworth hums. “That’s just like you. Stumbling headfirst into catastrophe and coming out on top.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted?”

“Up to you.” Edgeworth slowly crushes the plastic cup in his hand. “…I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had to stay in there for the whole half hour,” he confesses, barely above a whisper.

Phoenix shoves away any thoughts he has about how easily the plastic crumpled in Edgeworth’s grasp. He can be horrendously whipped later when Edgeworth isn’t making rare emotional admittances in his presence. “I’d do it on purpose if I had to.”

Edgeworth looks up at him. “Is that so.”

The alternative series of events is already unfolding in Phoenix’s mind. Trial after trial of having to cobble together reality from broken testimonies has trained him for that. He walks a little faster and the dancer doesn’t hit him. The DJ calls him a lame buzzkill for requesting what Phoenix is pretty sure would be a change for accessibility purposes. Phoenix tries to reason with him, but things go South. He splashes the asshole with one cup and the electrical panel with the other on his way back to Edgeworth. No one sees him do it because generation X is too busy reliving the glory days before they had to pay taxes.

“Yes.”

To his surprise and delight, Edgeworth believes him. Rather, he smiles and it doesn’t look forced, so Phoenix is counting that as a win. He’s been winning a little too much tonight. It’s almost too good to be true. He’s kind of waiting for the moment when everything goes horribly wrong, because somehow even the shattered glass on the floor was a victory.

“For future reference,” Edgeworth begins, “since you have made it abundantly clear that you have no intention to leave me alone…” He hesitates again. “Certain excessive stimuli cause me to have an adverse physical reaction. Depending on the severity of the stimuli, it can be noticeable immediately and/or get gradually worse with prolonged exposure.”

Something clicks. “You get overstimulated.”

“Yes. Precisely.” Edgeworth almost looks relieved.

“I knew.”

The way his brow furrows is decidedly not a sign of relief. “What do you mean you knew?”

Phoenix is going to have to put himself on blast, isn’t he. In more ways than one. “I mean, stuff like that kinda happens to me sometimes, but stuff like that has bothered you ever since we were kids. Do you remember Larry’s birthday party?”

“I remember feeling completely humiliated, yes,” Edgeworth replies testily. “Why do you remember that?”

“I don’t know.” He knows. He’s known for his whole life. “We were worried about you. Larry thought the rat animatronic scared you so he tried to climb on it and beat it to death. I was terrified of the rat so I just cheered him on until the staff had to pry him off. That’s pretty hard to forget.”

Larry had his birthday party at one of those interactive play centers with a terrifying robot rat mascot. Beyond the double doors was a hell of busy patterned carpets, clashing music from various arcade machines, tangled tube slides, and screaming children.

Miles barely made it ten feet through the threshold before he ran off in tears. His dad handed off Larry’s present and took him home.

“I had no idea he actually tried to fight that thing,” Edgeworth admits, “I am…glad the two of you came up with a less embarrassing explanation for my absence.”

He shouldn’t have to feel like he needs an alibi. “For future reference, since I have made it abundantly clear that I have no intention to leave you alone, if you ever need an excuse I can make something up,” Phoenix offers.

Edgeworth considers. “You do have a talent for making up nonsense.”

“Hey. It’s not nonsense if it turns out to be true.”

“Perhaps.” Edgeworth gazes towards the stretches of sky visible between ugly asphalt pillars. “You made me an offer earlier tonight.”

He did? “I did?”

“To dance.”

Phoenix’s insides melt into mush. “Yeah,” he says with a nervous laugh, “I guess I did.”

Edgeworth takes out his phone. The face he makes when he’s concentrating is cute. There’s that little crease between his eyebrows and he almost looks like he’s pouting. Such involuntary quirks pitted up against his very intentionally upkept appearance make for an interesting dichotomy.

The theme of contrast is something Phoenix finds really interesting about Edgeworth. It speaks to the art student in him. His angular jaw and cheekbones against his love of lace and frills. How everything about him looks so delicate but he’s six feet tall with the shoulders of a linebacker. A terrifying glare that some would call demonic verses the small, gentle smile that he’s been wearing more and more lately. He’s never folded a chair but he’s been threatened at gunpoint without flinching. Phoenix could study him until he ran out of pencils to sharpen.

Edgeworth places his phone on top of his car. Music starts playing. It’s not something Phoenix knows, but that isn’t saying much. He’s clueless when it comes to music.

That doesn’t stop him from recognizing the intention though. The unmistakably 80s production with that one synth drum he doesn’t know a proper term for, the relaxed groove and the wistful melody soaring over the introductory chords.

“I accept,” Edgeworth says. In the harsh lights of this dingy parking garage, there’s no mistaking the red in his cheeks for anything else. He holds out his hand. “If you are still interested, I will dance with you.”

Phoenix takes a deep breath. He murmurs, “I’m gonna die.”

“We’ll all die eventually, Wright. Are you still interested or not?” Edgeworth snaps. In his irritation Phoenix finds its source: anxiety. He’s nervous. Like Phoenix was sealing up a letter that Edgeworth probably never saw where he made the same offer he did tonight.

“I’ve been interested since senior prom.”

Phoenix takes his hand. He has no idea what he’s doing. Edgeworth mutters steps (in German, which is a little scary) until he seemingly notices that this pop song doesn’t have the right rhythm for a waltz.

Seeing him start to panic, Phoenix takes the lead with a simple sway. Just a little step touch as the lyrics start. It doesn’t take long for them to fall into rhythm.

“Is there somewhere specific I should be putting my hands,” Edgeworth mumbles. It’s true, holding both hands and not touching each other is a bit of an awkward dance position, but Phoenix figured he should avoid pressuring Edgeworth into anything he didn’t want to do.

“You could put one on my waist or my shoulder if you want,” Phoenix says. “I’ll do whichever you don’t.”

“Oh. So it’s no different from a waltz,” Edgeworth concludes. He picks the shoulder, which makes sense since he’s taller. Phoenix very carefully puts his hand on Edgeworth’s waist in return.

His waist is pretty narrow in comparison with his shoulders. The tailoring on his suit jackets shows this off nicely. On the rare occasion that he is without a jacket, his waistcoat almost draws the eye to it, like it’s telling Phoenix exactly where he should hold Edgeworth when he stops being a chicken.

Dancing like this feels more natural, even though the parking garage has to be one of the least romantic locations for a dance. What it lacks in ambiance it makes up for in spontaneity; there is no pressure to dance in a parking garage. Dancing in a parking garage is a conscientious choice.

Edgeworth made that choice. Even after all the barely-concealed nerves and insistence that he couldn’t dance.

He’s perfectly okay at dancing. Sure, it’s a little stiff and awkward, and yes, he keeps looking down at his feet, but Phoenix kind of loves that. The dreadful Demon Prosecutor is just a human doing his best like everyone else.

It’s like Edgeworth can sense Phoenix thinking about it. “I know I’m tense. It’s not intentional.”

“That’s okay,” Phoenix says. Funnily enough, Edgeworth actually loosens up a little after that.

Somewhere in the chorus, they go from leaving room for Jesus to almost flush against each other. Once again, Phoenix is not going to be the one to close that increasingly small gap unless he has a signed permission slip telling him he can. The fleeting, insane thought crosses his mind that he should’ve asked Maya to channel Gregory Edgeworth so he could ask for his blessing.

Is this a date now? They’re dancing to a slow song where the singer croons about being crazy for someone, about never having wanted anyone like this before now, this newfound passion encompassing her every action.

Phoenix initiates a slow rotation through the next refrain and he feels Edgeworth’s abdomen press up against his. They haven’t even shared a hug since they were kids. The most has been a handshake or a hand on the shoulder. Not for a lack of wanting to— Phoenix would consider himself to be pretty physically affectionate with most friends and family— but because all the evidence points to Edgeworth not liking that. When people start throwing their arms around each other, Edgeworth starts clutching his arm, effectively closing himself off to anyone who might’ve thought about roping him in.

Yet the song repeatedly mentions conveying love through a touch and a kiss. Edgeworth picked the song. If Phoenix knows Edgeworth, which he would like to think he does by now, then he knows that Edgeworth would sooner run away than admit to wanting anything like that. Is he trying to tell him something?

It would be a huge gamble. If Edgeworth is intentionally subliminally messaging Phoenix into taking that risk, then he’s even more brilliant than Phoenix thought. Phoenix wouldn’t put it past him either; he’s sprung plenty of traps in court.

The music fades out slowly until all that remains is the rush of cars on the street below. Edgeworth doesn’t let go or back up. He does avoid looking at Phoenix though; his eyes dart to just about everything in the garage except for Phoenix’s face.

That’s when it dawns upon Phoenix that Edgeworth might be just as scared as he is of destroying their friendship.

“Miles.”

Edgeworth jolts at the sound of his own name. “W-Wright.”

Here goes nothing. What awaits him is either a lifetime of bliss or four cartons of cotton candy ice cream. “Can I kiss you?”

Edgeworth’s eyes widen. “…Yes,” he says, soft like it’s a secret even to himself. His face flushes red. “Um. I should warn you. I don’t know how to do…anything like that.”

“Like kissing?” Phoenix asks.

He bristles. “Yes, Wright, I am twenty six years old, I have never kissed anyone, and that’s really embarrassing. I’m aware.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Phoenix says. He’s a little surprised, but Edgeworth is as stubbornly reclusive as he is annoyingly pretty, so it makes sense that he wouldn’t have a very colorful love life. “I haven’t dated anyone since college. And she wanted me dead.”

That reassurance just makes Edgeworth confused. His nose scrunches up. “Whatever. Keep your expectations low.”

Phoenix frowns. “Miles, if you don’t want to kiss yet, we don’t have to.”

“No!” His outburst echoes in the deserted lot. Even Edgeworth looks stunned by the shout that tore out of his throat. “I want to,” he whispers. “Phoenix. I-I do.”

The song wasn’t in the right time signature for a waltz. Edgeworth started freezing up. If he is going to do something in the real world, he has to practice until it’s good enough for anyone else to see.

When Manfred von Karma instilled that philosophy in poor Miles— whose withdrawal from his primary source of validation was already getting worse by the minute— he damned Miles to spend the rest of his adult life paralyzed by doubt in the face of new experiences. And of course there were going to be new experiences because he never got to be a normal teenager. Phoenix has seen this in action countless times by now.

But Edgeworth, despite how much he looks ready to bolt, has doubled down and kept his grip on Phoenix’s shoulder. In some twisted way, this is the most flattered Phoenix has ever been in his life. Edgeworth is fighting against his very nature (nurture would probably be more accurate here, but whatever) because of how much he likes Phoenix.

Phoenix cups Edgeworth’s cheek. Miles closes his eyes and leans into his hand. As they stay like that, Phoenix can feel Miles’s breathing calm down. He was just trying to do a romantic gesture, not completely subdue the man.

“I’m not gonna give you a bad grade in kissing,” Phoenix says, newly terrified of the power his touch seems to have. There’s another layer to what’s happening here. Yes, Edgeworth is trying to silence his own neuroses with nothing but sheer willpower, but the motivation is starting to become clearer.

A coach in an acting class he took once said that people touch themselves where they want to be touched. One of his classmates cracked a joke about what that said about their hours logged jerking off in the bathroom. Phoenix gave the guy a dirty look for revealing that in public, but didn’t think much else of the lesson once it was over.

When people start throwing their arms around each other, Edgeworth starts clutching his arm, effectively begging to be included but too petrified to ask. There’s nothing wrong with not having a first kiss, but there is definitely something wrong with that.

“Could you at least give me a rubric?” Miles asks weakly. It’s a valiant attempt at a joke, but honesty stops it from being very funny.

“My only requirement is participation,” Phoenix replies. As if he knows what should be on that rubric. He’s dated one girl and had one awkwardly platonic prom. For once, Larry would be more qualified to answer that.

Edgeworth opens his eyes just enough to stare into Phoenix’s skull. “Then you would be a terrible teacher.”

“It’s a good thing I’m a lawyer then.”

Miles smiles fondly. “It truly is.”

His eyes are fully open now. Phoenix leans in closer. Hopefully Miles can’t hear his heart racing. Once he’s sure he’s not going to miss the mark, he closes his eyes and bridges the gap between them.

It takes Miles a moment to start kissing him back. Phoenix doesn’t intend on mentioning that he noticed until they are a few years into a happy marriage with a house, a pet, and maybe a kid or two. Once Miles comes back online, he melts into Phoenix with ease.

Their first kiss isn’t particularly long. It’s about as long as Phoenix can stand to watch actors kiss on TV before it starts to feel uncomfortable and voyeuristic. He’s fine with that; they have all the time in the world now that this first one has finally happened.

“You learn fast,” Phoenix breathes. Take that, Maya. He’s kissed two people. That’s one more than she has. Who gets bitches now, huh?

Maybe he shouldn’t compare his love life with that of a nineteen year old. Partially because he didn’t get that first killer girlfriend until he was twenty. That year of difference would mean everything to her.

“That’s good to hear.” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Miles’s eyes look brighter than Phoenix has ever seen them before. “…We could do that again, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He’s free. The threat of another, worse ice cream coma tinged with salty tears is now eradicated from Phoenix’s life. Maya has one less reason to call him a crusty old loser. He can be a crusty old winner.

“Oh! Yeah! Sure!” Phoenix exclaims. Good job playing it cool there, sport. He feels insane. He must be insane for waiting for this for seventeen years. That’s more than half of his life so far. The passage of time is real and everyone will die someday, Phoenix just has to pray that his death will be heroic or peaceful instead of comically absurd. His prospects aren’t looking too good so far.

Phoenix smooches lifelong childhood crush and vampiric dream boat Miles Edgeworth for a second time, daring this time to deepen the kiss and pull him in closer by the waist. Miles makes a surprised sound when Phoenix does the latter, almost making him break off, but Miles chases after him with new vigor.

They start the drive home after that. The heat has yet to leave Phoenix’s cheeks. A quick glance at Miles shows that he’s faring even worse. It’s probably because he’s so pale; his face getting any color is a far bigger contrast than it is on Phoenix.

At the first traffic light, Miles turns on some quiet music. It’s not the same song they danced to, but it’s similar in tone. This is when Phoenix learns that the tips of Miles’s ears get a little pink when he blushes.

Miles is even prettier now. Phoenix keeps catching Miles glancing at him with this wonder in his eyes. It softens the weariness that he usually carries with him. He looks a little younger like that.

If Phoenix had taken Miles to senior prom, it might have gone similarly to tonight. Miles would only be going out of obligation (his dad wanting pictures, of course), he would drive because Phoenix wouldn’t have a license, and their night would get interrupted by a disaster of Phoenix’s own making that ended in sappy bliss.

The car stops in front of Phoenix’s apartment. He’s tempted to ask Miles to stay the night, but just because Miles is happy doesn’t mean he isn’t also exhausted. Between the first kiss and the dreaded 80’s Boogie Breakdown assaulting his senses, Miles has had enough excitement for one night.

“So,” Phoenix begins while Miles shifts his car into park, “was bringing me a good idea?”

Miles looks at him incredulously. “You’re seriously asking that?”

Phoenix holds up his hands in surrender. “Just checking! Or stalling the inevitable. Take your pick.”

“Hmph.” Miles turns off the car. “I’ll walk you to the door.” He pauses. “Or the elevator if you aren’t on the first floor. I’m not making you take the stairs.”

The apartment is on the third floor; not high enough to be a particularly nice view but not low enough to be convenient. If he was on the second he might take the stairs, but he’s not so keen on scaling two flights when it’s already past his usual bedtime.

Phoenix doesn’t call for the elevator just yet. “You wanna go out to dinner sometime this week? In addition to our usual lunch.”

“I suppose those will be under a different pretense now,” Miles ponders. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“We can sort out the details when our brains aren’t as scrambled.” Phoenix presses the up button. “One more kiss for good measure?”

“In the public lobby?”

“It’s no less deserted than the parking lot at this time of night,” Phoenix argues.

Miles looks behind him. Satisfied, he leans in for a brief but sweet kiss. “Now go to bed,” he commands. “I don’t want to hear that you cut power to your own office by accident because you didn’t get enough sleep.”

“Alright, I will.” The doors slide open. Phoenix puts his foot in between them to hold the elevator open. “But only if you do too. The whole eight hours.”

Aha. Gotcha. Miles scoffs. “Whatever.” He turns away. “I’ll be in contact.”

“You better be.” Phoenix steps into the elevator and lets the doors slide shut.

This time as he rides up, it is with the knowledge that he absolutely made a fool of himself in front of someone whose opinion matters to him. Yet if anything, his antics changed that opinion for the better.