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The invitation makes no sense. "Larry," Phoenix says, over the phone. "You didn't even put your address."
"Aw, come on Nick. Everyone I invited knows where I live."
"I don't."
"What?! I thought we were friends."
"Yeah, sure," Phoenix replies. "But that doesn't mean I magically know where you live."
"Okay, but...the invitation looks nice, right?"
Phoenix has to admit that it is, in fact, a nice work of art. On one side, there's a winter landscape, one that bears no relation to how LA looks or has looked at any point in time. On the other there's a pattern of various ugly holiday sweaters and the text: Larry's Rockin' Holiday Party. 12/20. Starts at 7. Wear your ugliest sweater in block letters. Underneath it, the words See u there, Nick!! are scrawled in messy handwriting. It's thoughtful, and surprisingly not aesthetically terrible - it's just not a good party invitation.
"Yeah," Phoenix says. "It's nice."
"Thanks man," Larry says, without a trace of sarcasm. "I knew you'd like it. So, you're coming, right?"
"Sure." Not like he has any other plans.
"Great. Gotta go pick up some snacks, but hey - I'll see you there!"
"I still need your -" Phoenix gets out, before he realizes he's talking to a dial tone. He sighs, and flips his phone shut with a barely satisfying clack.
Well, if there's one person who knows where Larry lives, it's someone Phoenix doesn't mind having to go ask. Kind of the opposite of 'doesn't mind', actually.
"Where are you going, Mr. Wright?" Athena asks, as Phoenix gets up from his desk and shrugs on his suit coat.
"None-ya," Phoenix answers automatically, and then winces. "Uh - I'm going to go talk to Edgeworth. About a - legal thing. Don't burn down the office while I'm gone."
"Don't worry Boss," Athena says, a little too brightly. "I'll make sure everything keeps running smoothly. Have fun!"
"Thanks," Phoenix mutters. He thinks Widget shrieks something as he closes the door behind him. Phoenix really, really doesn't want to know.
-
Miles Edgeworth is in his office drinking his fancy tea on his fancy couch with a fancy expression of deep contemplation when Phoenix arrives. He should really not find any of those things endearing, but he's long past trying to rationalize his feelings when it comes to Miles Edgeworth, so it's not like he's exactly surprised. Just kind of - resigned. And a little heartsick. And a little self-pitying. Well, Phoenix thinks, it is a Tuesday.
"Wright," Miles says, the crease between his brows lessening by a fraction. "Hello. I did not expect you."
"Me neither," Phoenix quips, and settles on the couch across from him. "What's up?"
"I am taking a brief break from reviewing the weekly report of the Prosecutorial Integrity Unit."
"Anything new?"
"No," Miles says, and removes his glasses, setting them down on the side table with a sigh. "As usual, the unit has added several more cases in need of review to their ever-growing list. The number of cases they have been able to complete is, as usual, dwarfed by the number of cases which they will not be able to start working on for months, or possibly years."
"Better than not having a unit at all. Which we didn't, until you founded one."
Miles' frown deepens. "True."
"So," Phoenix says, more in an effort to distract Miles from what he's worried about than to justify his coming to Miles' office unannounced in the middle of the workday. "Did you get Larry's invitation?"
"Invitation?" Miles thinks for a moment. "Ah - yes, I did."
"Are you going?"
Miles stiffly sets his teacup on its saucer. "I had not planned on it, no. Will you be attending?"
"Yeah," Phoenix says. "Except for the small detail of maybe not, you know, being able to because he didn't put his address on the invitation."
Miles huffs. "Of course not. Though the invitation itself was, surprisingly, quite artistic."
"That's Larry for you, I guess. All style, no substance."
Miles does that thing he does where he laughs and tries to cover it up by pretending he's just clearing his throat. Phoenix catches himself grinning. Well, maybe Miles just needed to cough. And maybe Phoenix thought his attempt at wit was hilarious and isn’t just grinning like a fool because he managed to make Miles laugh.
Too bad neither of them are fooling anyone except themselves. Probably.
"I cannot agree with you on his possession of style," Miles says. "But yes, I believe that is a - typically astute observation."
"Thanks," Phoenix says. "Hey, can I put that as a testimonial quote on the billboards Athena keeps mentioning wanting to buy?"
"No. I hope you are not seriously considering -"
Phoenix groans. "God, no. No way. It's bad enough seeing my awkward grin every time I walk into the office, thanks to her and Trucy's insistence on framing that terrible picture of me with the orca. I don't want to have to deal with seeing it on the 101, too."
"I don't think it is a bad picture," Miles says, and then his mouth snaps shut so quickly it makes an audible noise. "Mm - that is - regardless of the actual proceedings of the trial, it is - worthwhile, to have some documentation of your first case after regaining your badge."
"Uh-huh," Phoenix says. His brain is still stuck on the first thing, before the wince-inducing teeth clack. "You don't think it's a bad picture?"
"Well," Miles says, after a long pause. "The shot is, perhaps, not well-framed. But no. It is not a bad picture of you, by any means."
Phoenix blinks. Miles clears his throat, not to cover a laugh this time. His cheeks are tinged pink.
"Oh," Phoenix says. "Well - thanks. But I still don't, uh. Want to see a billboard with my face on it."
"Yes, that is certainly reasonable," Miles says, a little too quickly.
Phoenix shifts in his seat. Miles stares at his bookcase like he's reorganizing it in his head. Maybe he is. It's probably more likely than what Phoenix's imagination is coming up with as a possible internal monologue for him.
"Well," Phoenix says, cutting off his wild fantasy where Miles is thinking something like: oh dear, I have just revealed that I might find Wright attractive, whatever should I do, I don't even know his ring size- "Uh. So. Anyway. Do you have Larry's address?"
Miles glances back at him. "...Yes, I believe it should be in my records somewhere. It will take me a moment to find."
"Take your time," Phoenix says, because 'My ring size is nine' would probably be thousands of miles afar of left field. "I'll be here."
Miles looks at him for a moment before retrieving his glasses and rising from the couch to go look through his records at his desk. Phoenix slumps forward as soon as he turns his back, tugging at his collar. Why, why did he think this would be a good idea?
Oh right. He hadn't thought. He'd just, you know, half-heartedly tried to get Larry's address from him and then immediately hopped on his bike to go talk to Miles when that had failed. Because Phoenix is, when it comes to Miles Edgeworth, kind of an idiot.
Miles takes out a notepad from his desk drawer and begins to write something down. “Find it?” Phoenix asks.
“Mm.” Miles finishes writing and caps his pen, tearing the piece of paper off the notepad. He crosses back over to where Phoenix is sitting on the couch, and holds it out. “Here.”
Phoenix takes it. Or tries to. Miles doesn’t let go of it for a long moment. “Uh, Edgeworth?”
Miles starts, releasing it. “Ah. Sorry. I was...thinking.”
“Right,” Phoenix says. Miles pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hey, um - “
“Yes?”
“I know the holidays can be - difficult,” Phoenix says, carefully. “But - I’m sure there are a lot of people who would love to see you there. If you’re up to it.”
Miles stares at him. “I mean,” Phoenix adds hurriedly. “I know Larry would be ecstatic.”
“Yes,” Miles says, after a very long pause. “I suppose he - would be.”
“Yeah.” Phoenix stands up. “So, um. Maybe you could - think about it? If you want.”
Miles is quiet for a long moment. “...I will consider it.”
“Okay,” Phoenix says. He grins. “Well - great. And, you know, even if you don’t end up coming, I can still send you a picture of my sweater, if you want. It’s going to be super ugly.”
“Will it."
“Yup. But hey, maybe you’ll find out in person."
Miles' mouth curves up at one corner. "...Perhaps," he says, and Phoenix makes his excuses and leaves before he can do something even stupider than what he's already done, like try to kiss that expression off of Miles' face, or try to bury his head in the sad-looking flower boxes outside so he doesn't have to face the fact that he's head over heels totally whipped for his best friend and colleague. Or both.
-
Larry's house is covered in enough lights to give Phoenix anxiety dreams about electric bills for weeks. He doesn't even get the chance to knock before Larry is pulling the door open with a wide grin and a sweater that has a light-up menorah and the words 'Too Lit to Quit' emblazoned on it in eye-watering neon yellow. "Nick!" He shouts. "Thanks for coming, man."
"Sure," Phoenix replies, eyes glued to the sweater. It hurts to look at for too long, but he kind of can't look away.
Thankfully for his vision, Larry turns around to shout an answer to a question from inside. "In the silverware drawer!" He turns back. "Come on, Nick. The party's already started."
Phoenix somehow doesn't doubt it. He follows Larry inside, through the entranceway and into the living room, where there are people in similarly ugly sweaters, talking and drinking and - no Miles. Phoenix tries not to feel too disappointed. It's harder than it should be. "Trucy couldn't make it?" Larry asks.
"She had rehearsal," Phoenix replies. "But she sends her love."
Larry grins, and ladles some mulled wine from a crockpot into a mug, handing it to him. "Aw. Tell her thanks, will you? I gotta go take the spinach and artichoke puffs out from the oven before they burn like the first batch, but I'll totally talk to you later, man!"
"Great," Phoenix says, and takes a sip of the mulled wine as Larry disappears into the crowd. It tastes like someone dumped fifty cinnamon sticks and a whole box of sugar into some Franzia.
He sets the mug down with a grimace, and scans the crowd for any familiar faces that aren't Miles Edgeworth. He spots Ema in a corner by the hanging paper snowflakes, wearing a tinsel-covered cardigan and looking as dispirited as Phoenix feels. She perks up a little when she sees him, and waves. Well, Phoenix thinks, if Miles isn't going to be here, he might as well try to make some fun for him to have missed out on.
-
It's an hour or so later, and Phoenix has been pulled into a conversation about the challenges of accurately depicting blood spatter in art as a particularly annoying cover of Jingle Bell Rock blasts over the speakers when he hears the doorbell ring.
"I'll get it," Phoenix says, grateful for the chance to escape. Neither Ema nor Larry's artist friend even glance over at him, which suits Phoenix just fine. In the hallway he sighs, starts thinking of how to excuse himself to Larry in a way that won't sound like he's leaving just to mope around his apartment, and opens the door.
Miles is standing on the doorstep, wearing a thick turtleneck sweater in a color that reminds Phoenix of day-old oatmeal, and dark dress slacks. "...Wright. Good evening."
"Hey," Phoenix says, a surprised grin spreading over his face. "...You made it."
"Indeed." Miles steps inside. "I was delayed by a meeting running overtime."
"Good news?"
Miles hums noncommittally. "I see the gathering is well underway."
"Yeah," Phoenix says, still smiling. "Although actually I was kind of thinking of leaving just now."
Miles frowns. "You were?"
"Well," Phoenix says. "Now I'm not."
Miles adjusts his glasses with a small smile. "I see."
Phoenix swallows. "Come on," he says, before he can say anything else.
He starts to lead Miles into the living room. Then he stops just on the edge of the crowd, and turns around. It's just hit him: "Really? This is your ugliest sweater?"
"It is an unflattering color." Miles says.
Okay, Phoenix does have to give him that. As if Miles couldn't wear puke green and still set Phoenix's heart aflutter like a Victorian maiden with the vapors, or something.
"And it is - bulky," Miles adds.
"Uh-huh," Phoenix says. "Mine lights up. And there's a yeti on it that's saying 'Yeti To Party'."
"Yes," Miles says dryly. "I did, in fact, notice that."
“Kinda hard not to.”
“Mm.” Miles looks around the room. “I see there are many more egregious examples of the theme.”
“But mine’s the ugliest, right?”
Miles glances back at him. “...I do not believe so, no.”
“Aw, come on,” Phoenix says, shoulders slumping forward. “I tried to find a really outrageous one.”
“It is certainly - ostentatious. But it is not, ah - unflattering.”
Phoenix stares at him. Miles doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “Blue was always your color,” he murmurs to the giant paper snowman haphazardly taped on the wall.
Phoenix’s brain shorts out the same way Larry’s electrical box is probably going to in the next few hours from the combined power drain of all the string lights.
“...Uhh,” he says eloquently. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Miles answers, still not meeting his gaze. “Well. I should go - give this to Larry."
He holds up what is probably a really expensive bottle of wine he had apparently brought as a host gift. "Yeah," Phoenix says, because he doesn't have the heart to tell him Larry will probably just dump it into the crockpot. "Okay. Talk to you later?"
Miles nods, and turns, vanishing through the crowd in the direction of the kitchen. Phoenix stares after him for just a little too long before he shakes his head, and goes to find the snack table.
-
It's nearly half an hour before he sees Miles again, despite Phoenix's probably super-obvious scanning the room for him every few minutes or so. He's frowning. Phoenix ends the conversation he'd been having with another one of Larry's art friends, muttering a phrase that barely qualifies as an excuse and walking over to where Miles is standing. "Hi."
"Hello," Miles says.
"So is it, uh. Later?"
"Mm." Miles checks his watch, and tugs the sleeve of the sweater down over it. "I should go."
"Already?"
"I did not plan to stay for long," Miles replies. "I am - not accustomed to holiday parties. Especially ones of such a...raucous nature."
"Me neither," Phoenix confesses. "Want to go into the hallway?"
He has to raise his voice and half-shout the last part of the question to be heard over the sound of a group erupting into laughter. Miles nods gratefully, and they weave through the crowd until they emerge in the back of the hallway, lit by the soft violet glow of the twinkle lights. It's empty, the bathroom being on the other side of the house, and the front door being at the far end.
Miles stops by the door labelled Larry's Bedroom. "Think he had to put up the sign to remember which door is his?" Phoenix asks.
"I assume it is a warning to guests not to intrude."
"Right," Phoenix says. "Yeah, that makes more sense. Um, so - how are you?"
Miles brushes his bangs away from his forehead. They're slightly mussed from his trek through the crowded room. "I am not fond of parties."
"Yeah," Phoenix says. "Me neither."
There's a short pause. "Is Trucy with you?"
"Nah," Phoenix says. "She has a big holiday show coming up, so she's at rehearsal for that."
"When is it?"
"The twenty-third, why?"
"I would, of course, like to attend," Miles replies. "Are there tickets left?"
"Not that I know of." Phoenix scratches the back of his neck. It's definitely because this sweater is itchy, and not just a way to force himself to stop staring into Miles' eyes, which are reflecting the lights around them. "But I have two VIP passes, if you want one."
"Usually I would prefer to pay for a ticket," Miles says. "But it seems as if she is doing well enough without my support."
Phoenix grins proudly. "Yeah. It's been sold out for a week. She's talking about trying to book bigger stages soon. She had enough ticket demand to add a second, later show to this one, but the venue had already booked that slot for some podcast or something."
"That is quite impressive."
"Isn't it?" Phoenix says. "Wish I could take some credit, but really she did it all on her own."
Miles looks at him. "She did, of course, have your support. I would not underestimate the impact of that."
Phoenix's cheeks feel hot. He ducks his head. "Well, yeah, but - you know. I've just been doing what anyone would do. Cheering her on from the sidelines, and all that."
"No," Miles murmurs. "Not anyone."
Phoenix glances up to see Miles watching him, steady. He raises his head and meets Miles' gaze fully, heart thudding a little too loud in his chest. "Well," he says. "Most people, then."
Miles, finally, glances away. "...Perhaps," he says quietly. "However, I doubt most people would be capable of being as good of a - father, as you have been to Trucy, even to their biological children."
Oh, Phoenix thinks. That - that's playing dirty. That is so, so not fair. If it wasn't for the fact that he knows Miles probably isn't aware of just how not fair his statement had been, Phoenix might even be a little mad about it.
As it is, Phoenix is just focused on blinking away the sudden blurriness in his vision. After a moment he laughs, shakily. "Wow. Okay. Uh - thanks."
"Mm." Miles tugs at the collar of his sweater. "...In any case. As it is sold out, I will accept your earlier offer."
It takes Phoenix a second to remember what that offer had even been. "Oh. Okay. Great. It's a date."
Miles glances at him. Phoenix freezes. Before he has time to untie his tongue and stammer something about poor choice of words, Miles nods. "...Good. I am looking forward to it."
"Good," Phoenix repeats. "Wait, uh - I mean -"
"Phoenix," Miles says, and folds his arms. The big sweater makes the action look less 'Serious Prosecutor Having Serious Thoughts' and more 'Top Ten Cozy Winter Activities for When the Weather Gets Chilly' stock photo. Phoenix needs to stop letting Athena rope him into reading Buzzfeed articles during working hours.
"Yeah?" Phoenix asks.
"Mm." Miles uncrosses his arms, and then immediately crosses them again. "It is - nothing."
There is an awkward pause, during which Phoenix looks everywhere but at Miles. Including up at the ceiling, where he immediately notices a large bunch of plants hanging slightly to the right of his head.
"Hey," Phoenix says, relieved to have a change of subject. He points up. "Mistletoe."
Miles looks up at it. "Indeed."
He’s smiling, although someone who didn’t know Miles probably wouldn’t be able to tell. Of course his smiles aren't obvious, Phoenix thinks. But then, that's Miles Edgeworth for you. It's always in the details. The creases at the corner of his eyes. The slight flush to his cheeks, the way his mouth quirks up higher on one side than the other. The way his eyebrows curve down, like he's trying to counter his own expression, trying to inject some steel to the softness. Phoenix has half a mind to shout 'Objection!' at that particular contradiction. He thinks that might be the mulled wine talking.
Right. The mulled wine. All one sip of it.
Okay, maybe he is a little drunk on something, but - it's not wine. And if he's being honest with himself, Phoenix knows exactly what's making his face feel hot and his heart beat a little faster and a grin glue itself seemingly permanently to his face. And it's definitely not wine.
He kind of wishes it were wine. That way he'd have an excuse for the next sentence that comes out of his mouth. "Guess we better, you know - respect tradition."
Miles' eyebrows fly upwards. "...I did not know you were such a - traditionalist."
"You know me," Phoenix says. "Just - super traditional. Really."
So smooth. So, soooo smooth. Phoenix would like to go smash his head into the nearest wall now, thanks.
Miles (not exactly the most graceful with social conversations himself, thank God) colors slightly, and clears his throat. "Well," he says. "It would not do to - disrespect. Tradition."
"Nope," Phoenix replies. "Sure, uh. Sure wouldn't."
There's a pause, during which Phoenix lives and dies a thousand different ways. Most of them involve being sentenced to death for murdering whoever hung this stupid mistletoe.
Then Miles steps closer, and puts a hand on Phoenix's arm; then he's looking down, and his mouth is set in a determined line that somehow still manages to be a little bit bemused at the corners, and then Phoenix is leaning in to kiss him. Miles' lips are warm, and his hand is still on Phoenix's arm, and he smells faintly like some sort of ridiculously fancy cologne, like spices, and a little bit of something surprisingly citrusy. Bergamot, or orange, or - something.
Phoenix's brain kind of takes a vacation at that point, because it quickly becomes less of a tentative brushing of lips and more of an actual kiss - a real kiss. No one can reasonably expect Phoenix to identify top notes in cologne that probably costs more than all his wardrobe combined when he's kissing Miles Edgeworth for real, and Miles Edgeworth is, improbably, actually kissing him back, and all thoughts except: Miles, and fucking finally, Jesus Christ, and I can't believe this is happening at Larry's holiday party while I'm wearing the world's ugliest sweater are wiped clean from Phoenix's mind. And then even those are gone; and then it's only Miles. It's only Miles for what feels like a long time.
In reality it can't be more than half a minute before they break apart. Phoenix thinks that if he grins any wider his face might split open.
"Hi," he says.
Miles huffs. "Hello."
They just sort of look at each other for a moment. The song ends. What had been the soft crooning of Ella Fitzgerald becomes the nasally voice of a man slurring lyrics that seem to have something to do with being drunk, and loving his baby. And Christmas. Phoenix thinks. It's been a while since he's heard this one.
“I hate this song,” Miles says. Somehow he doesn't look like he does. He looks a little dazed, and a little five other things, but hate isn't one of them.
“You hate all Christmas music,” Phoenix tells him.
"You don't know that."
"Yeah I do," Phoenix says, just as the song ramps up to the Irish jig bit. On impulse, he grabs Miles' hand. "C'mon. Let's dance."
Miles goes as scarlet as the paper-chain decorations behind him. "I am not dancing."
"You have to," Phoenix says, a little giddy. "It's tradition."
"That trick only works once," Miles says. He doesn't let go of Phoenix's hand.
"Who said it's a trick?" Phoenix asks. "And hang on - really?"
Miles looks away. He's flushed up to his ears and probably down his neck underneath the turtleneck. "Mm."
"So," Phoenix says, and instead of pulling him out of the hallway and into the main room of the party like he had been planning, pulls him closer. "If I wanted to kiss you again, I'm going to have to get some more mistletoe, is what you're saying."
Miles looks at him. Phoenix had forgotten that his eyes can do that, can focus with that sort of searching intensity that makes witnesses and defendants and attorneys alike quake in their boots.
Phoenix doesn't quake in his boots. Nor does he look away. Partially because he thinks he knows what Miles is searching for, and he knows Miles will find it. Partially because he's just happy Miles is looking at him, hasn't let go of his hand.
The couple in the song finish yelling at each other about - whatever they're yelling at each other about. Phoenix has never cared less about anything in his life. Because: "No," Miles says. "I do not believe that would be necessary."
Phoenix laughs. It sounds a tad unhinged, even to his own ears. "Great. Okay. Scratch the mistletoe plan, then. Wow - that's going to save me a lot of money. I was kind of worried -"
"Phoenix," Miles, mercifully, interrupts his rambling. "Stop talking."
"Maybe," Phoenix says, grinning like a maniac. "You should make me."
Okay, he's probably pushing his luck with that one. Somehow it doesn't really feel like it, even when he lets go of Miles' hand so he can wrap his arms around Miles' waist, even when Miles stiffens for an instant before relaxing into the embrace. “If you actually want me to stop talking," Phoenix adds. "Cause if not, I can, you know - keep going."
Miles glares at him. The effect is kind of ruined by how close he is. And the fact that his hands have moved up to Phoenix's upper arms without any sort of sign that he intends to follow through on whatever threat his glare is supposed to be making. "Really, Wright?"
"Yeah," Phoenix says, a little softer than he means to. "Really."
This probably doesn't make sense. Who, Phoenix thinks, as Miles glances down and leans in to kiss him again, gives a shit about making sense.
They don't make sense. This whole scenario doesn't make sense - years apart, and years of a weird hero-worship savior-complex therapy-requiring crush that refused to go away, even when all the qualifiers were stripped away, even when it was just Phoenix and Miles, broken down, at their worst, at their most human. Even when Phoenix had been forced to admit that, once you'd thought someone was dead for a year, and been unbelievably angry at them, and been at rock bottom without their hand there to reach for, and still had feelings for that person, that you probably couldn't call it a crush anymore.
And in the end, the melodramatic emotional roller coaster ride that is the past decade or so of their lives is coming to a screeching halt because of… mistletoe. And Phoenix, being stupid and impulsive. And a poor choice of words. And Miles, going along with it. Going along with him.
Well, it’s not like Phoenix really minds such an unexpectedly mundane ending to years of wondering what if. They could probably both use, he thinks, a little more mundanity. Especially if that mundanity means Miles kissing him, and then pulling back to (holy shit) take off his glasses and tuck them in his back pocket, and then leaning in to kiss him again. Especially when what if turns to what now, and when what now is answered by Miles murmuring "We should get back, before our absence is - noted," and making no attempt whatsoever to pull away.
"I thought you were leaving."
Miles huffs. "I have...reconsidered."
"Oh," Phoenix says. "Then - yeah. We should."
Neither of them move. "I don't want to, though," Phoenix admits. "So - you know. There’s that.”
“Mm.” Miles' hand lifts to push strands of hair Phoenix had given up trying to gel into place years ago back from his forehead. "Well that is certainly something to take into - consideration."
"Anything else we should, uh, consider?"
Miles thinks for a moment. "...Whether Larry would forgive us for leaving without thanking him for the invitation and saying goodbye."
"Larry," Phoenix says. "Has had five mugs of that disgusting mulled wine. I think even if we said goodbye he'd probably forget by tomorrow morning."
"Hmph." Miles gives up on his attempt to fix Phoenix's hair. That's more than fine with Phoenix, because it means Miles' hand comes down to curl around the back of his neck instead. "Then I believe that it is - settled."
"Okay," Phoenix whispers, and even Miles leaning in to kiss him again can't budge the smile from his face.
Yeah, this doesn't make sense. But hey, Phoenix thinks, still grinning as Miles gently disengages and reaches for his hand to tug him down the hallway, towards the front door - who ever said love has to?
-
