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For all the caffeine-addled time he spends thinking about the surreal, Phoenix is firmly convinced that prosecutor-in-training Miles Edgeworth is a prince. The devilishly handsome ones you see in Shakespearean tragedies—minus the tragedy and gaudy tights—with his signature melancholic life outlook and proclivity for all things lawful and justified. He’s exactly the type of person to turn heads at one wag of his finger, a prodigy amongst aspiring lawyers attending the renowned Ivy U. Coincidentally, he also happens to be the type of person Phoenix finds himself inexplicably drawn to. With how often they cross paths despite frequenting two different parts of campus, he could argue that the pages in his sketchbook all but fill themselves.
Sure, he’s one of von Karma’s disciples, many of whom are notorious for their unyielding perfectionism, crueler-than-necessary modus operandi, and striking ability to villainize anyone not within their immediate circle, but Miles is a good disciple. The kind that looks good and means well. An authentic lawyer that strikes fear into the hearts of every criminal he so glimpses upon. Phoenix argues as much when some Drama Club members tell him about the newest campus buzz: that Miles is as close as von Karma has ever gotten to producing a carbon copy of himself, because frankly, Phoenix doesn’t believe it. How could he, when he’d caught Miles sneaking away from von Karma’s lackeys to feed a stray dog that one time at the park three months ago, or when he’d been strolling (strolling, not following!) in the same direction as Miles on his way to class and seen him wistfully stare into the sky like a bonafide shoujo protagonist? Miles is different from von Karmas’ minions—he knows it. He’s got an adept nose for this kind of thing. It’s what makes him such a great judge of character!
He wishes he could prove that Miles was different to everyone who told him otherwise. They’re quick to chalk his defense up to his giant, juicy crush on the guy, but Phoenix swears that isn’t all there is to it. Unfortunately, his buddies have been a little too fond of law-inspired TV shows lately, and Phoenix is sure he won’t be able to convince them that his gut is right until he can build a strong enough case for it.
“Evidence is everything,” they parrot as they toss around possible drama production ideas during club one day. And if that means Phoenix is left to daydream about Miles an obsessive amount by himself, if the pages in his sketchbook are increasingly populated by stills of Miles’ princely face and his merciful, tender eyes, well, that’s nobody else’s business but his own.
He may have been the one to insist on proving Miles’ innocence, but he hadn’t expected to make good on that promise so soon. Phoenix blinks at the script draft in his hands. It’s thick enough to rival a semester’s worth of textbook material.
“Lady Justice Wears Red and Blue – An Ivy University Drama Club Original”
In a matter of weeks, the club will be co-producing a comedy drama about two lawyers’ pursuit of justice, the challenges they face while pursuing justice, and the aftermath of said pursuit. The plot itself is relatively simple, with the main characters developing a passionate rivalry as they face off against one another in court. Naturally, the process involves thorough research into the ins and outs of trial law. Not so naturally, the president of the Drama Club happens to be dating the vice president of the school’s Mock Trial organization, hence the “co-production”.
It doesn’t take long for Mock Trial to file into the theater doors after the production announcement. They’re a small group, given how selective auditions are, but each member leaves an imposing impression on the Drama Club. Phoenix scans their faces as they file in; they’re an orderly bunch, serious in nature. The outfits they don are intricately fashioned. Flashy to the casual onlooker, gold rimmed cufflinks, double windsor knots, and all. When his gaze lands on a royal blue waistcoat concealed by a burgundy suit, a shock of swoopy, gray hair and those familiar, pensive eyes, he nearly melts into a puddle of his own making.
He’d observed Miles enough in passing to stamp his most striking features into the back of his eyelids. But seeing him this close, the curve of his nose sharpened, the fine dip in his lips bowed, was another experience altogether. He’s statuesque where he stands, broad shoulders, porcelain skin. Phoenix has always known Miles to be attractive, but the heat blossoming on his cheeks tells him what he feels isn’t just appreciation for the well sculpted.
Forget what he said about the guy being a prince. Miles Edgeworth was, undeniably, some kind of modern-day Greek god.
“It’s him,” he hears one of the newbies whisper. “Demon…”
And, well, that couldn’t be right. How blind do you have to be to mistake a deity for a devil? Before he can voice his protests aloud, Miles Edgeworth is staring down he who let a fraction of his moniker slip, his whisper obviously having been less of a whisper and more of a declaration. The poor kid squirms under his gaze. Huh.
Phoenix can’t get a read on Miles’ feelings about the nickname, even as he spectates their silent interaction. Instead he shakes his head at the greenhorn to ease the tension, tapping him over the crown of his head to spur him back to life. “How about you help Prez hand out refreshments?”
He couldn’t look happier to be taking the hint if he tried. Zooming off with his tail between his legs, Phoenix is left to deal with the consequences of his lack of volume control. By the time he turns to ask Miles if he’s alright, however, the man has already turned away.
Long as he does to waste the rest of the afternoon boring holes into the side of Miles’ head, work to be done is work to be finished. Small bottles of water are distributed to the collective as they gather around the stage and plop down on it.
“We have 56 members total. They decide which productions to try out for, and auditions are held accordingly.”
As Prez addresses the crowd, Phoenix hands her another bottle of water, anticipating she’ll need it sooner rather than later. She’s got her speaking voice on, the one she only uses when she’s trying to sell something, though the subject of her efforts are lost on him.
“Are most of the members drama majors?” Mock Trial’s President asks. Prez scratches the back of her neck sheepishly.
“Not quite. We do garner a lot of interest from Fine Arts students, but our membership mostly consists of Art majors, believe it or not.”
A wave of murmurs rise from Mock Trial’s ranks. “What are so many of them doing in a theater club?”
“Hobby, skill improvement, what does it matter? Everyone’s welcome so long as they’re willing to give performance art a shot.” With that, Prez digs into her pocket and, from her clothes, produces a neatly folded piece of paper. Phoenix’s eyes widen in recognition once she smooths it out. “Plus, it helps to have people with different areas of expertise working behind the scenes. Take this, for example.” She pokes at Phoenix with her elbow, then repeats the same action with the Drama Club member to her right. “We made it for our rendition of The Steel Samurai: Warrior of Neo-Olde Tokyo. These two were the lead designers.” Holding the poster up, she pans it around for everyone in her vicinity to witness. Then, she slides the poster to the other side of the incongruently formed circle of people, still bodies away from Miles but certainly closer than before. The crowd oohs with amazement; Phoenix feels a blush coming on.
As the poster is passed around to each member, Prez begins her pitch. “If we spend too much of our budget on things we can handle, production quality is going to plummet. What’s the point of hiring professionals when we’ve already got ‘em?”
To emphasize her point, Prez breaks down each component in the poster: the strategic placement of the play’s title, how much information is interspersed throughout the graphic. Prez even delves into the finer details like the artwork’s composition, how long it took to render, and how much time went into its creation. The end of her explanation sees more enthusiasm for the Drama Club’s creative capabilities than Phoenix expected. Maybe she’d been aiming for this reaction the whole time.
“Leave advertising, set design, and costumes to us,” she grins. “We’re practically experts.”
What was once a wave of uncertainty tides in a favorable direction. “You weren’t kidding, babe—this is beautiful. Think we can commission some of your club to make our wedding invitations?” Mock Trial’s VP winks. Phoenix doesn’t have the heart to tell her that a career in art isn’t what he’s aiming for.
Later, while Phoenix is helping Prez pick empty water bottles from the auditorium floors, a burgundy-clad student thrusts a piece of paper into his arms. “Oh, um,” Phoenix tells him, “you can hand it to Prez. It’s kind of embarrassing keeping this for myself.”
Miles’ lips part for a moment, irises glued to the picture of the Steel Samurai brandishing his Samurai Spear in the drawing. He looks like he’s going to say something—Phoenix can taste the words forming on the man’s tongue—but then he snaps his mouth shut, taking two hefty steps backwards. He doesn’t tell Phoenix he’ll return the poster to its proper owner when he pivots away, nor does he compliment him for his aesthetic sense, though Phoenix knows from his red-tipped ears that he probably thought something along the lines of it. He must have. Phoenix only wishes Miles would say it to him in that voice he likes so much.
Despite tamping down his expectations as best he can, Phoenix figures that if he were ever going to prove to the world that Miles Edgeworth wasn’t anything like von Karma, now would be an opportune time to do so. Fate didn’t give you many chances to be in the same room as your biggest crush and impromptu clientele; wasting it by hovering around him like a bad smell was distasteful. Phoenix resolves to bridge the distance between them as soon as physically possible.
The only problem is that he doesn’t know how to go about it. He tries, really he does, to start a conversation with Miles, but he quickly learns that the future lawyer isn’t well vested in the art of small talk.
And by not well vested, he means he’s absolute garbage at it.
For the last few days, every Mock Trial member has been checking over their assigned portion of the draft script, serving as quality assurance and procedural accuracy checks when needed, revising the text as they see fit. It isn’t the most entertaining job, Phoenix imagines, but he can hardly vouch for the group’s commitment. They’ve gathered in one corner of the auditorium to do anything but revisions, tapping away at their phone screens and chatting around with anyone willing to entertain them.
All of them except for one.
By the front of the stage, Miles Edgeworth sits in solitary, wordlessly annotating his copy of the screenplay. A slight change in position has strands of his bangs falling over his eyes like a makeshift canopy; Phoenix’s heart skips. Alone and undisturbed, brows scrunched in concentration, Miles looks like a sculpture. Like heaven. He's just so goddamn-
“Pretty!” a Mock Trial member shrieks, shoving her phone into her friend’s face. The sound is all it takes to snap Phoenix out of his reverie, right back into the real world. He slaps his cheeks together in an attempt to ground himself in the moment. Then, grabbing two water bottles from the table, steels his courage and marches in Miles’ direction.
Okay, he thinks as he draws closer. He can do this. Hit him with a “How’s it going?” Maybe a “how are you doing so far?” Keep it casual, you know? That should be fine. Take a deep breath, Phoenix. You’ve got this.
“How’s it doing?” he says, saddling up next to him.
The aspiring prosecutor keeps his eyes to the printed text, though he does place a finger over the line he’s currently checking. “What.”
Oh god, his voice is even hotter up close. A flood of heat rushes from Phoenix’s head to his torso, coiling around his core in an unexpected surge of primal need. “Uh..I…I meant the…” he sputters. Composure shattered, he gestures towards the script with his water bottle and nearly hits Miles’ perfectly chiseled nose.
“Ghhnk! Watch where you swing that!” he hisses. Their eyes meet, fresh fury raging in Miles’, and the organ that had been playing hopscotch in his ribcage comes to a staggering halt in his chest.
“Um…ah…it’s just…” he mumbles because O Holy Mother was it difficult to spit out anything coherent with Miles right in front of him, “the script…”
If the prosecutor-to-be didn't look annoyed before his stunt, he definitely does now. “Would you please cease your mindless blathering?” he says through gritted teeth. When his mouth snaps shut, Miles gathers enough oxygen in his lungs to continue. “What exactly did you need from me?”
Phoenix never knew how attractive it was for people to talk like they’d just escaped from a Victorian Age coffin until this very moment. Looks like dedicating his life to dramatics truly was the right career choice.
Rather than mess things up further, Phoenix opts to signal at the script once more, careful to avoid an assault charge with his next movement. Now that he’s got a good view of the paper, though, it dawns on him that the spaces are filled to the brim with annotations, boxes, and miscellaneous text marks. A fountain pen sits on the retractable desk at Miles’ side. This time, the man seems to comprehend what he’s trying to say.
“As a student of von Karma, I make it my utmost priority to see my tasks completed briskly, efficiently, and perfectly,” Miles sniffs, flipping to the next page.
Phoenix blinks. “Oh. It’s just a draft though. It still has to go through edits.”
His face twists in displeasure. “‘Just a draft?’ Is this how you approach any assignment that you’re given?”
“Huh? N-No! It’s just…your teammates aren’t making much progress, and-”
“What did you expect? Laypeople could never dream to understand the ways of a von Karma.” Miles harrumphs at the mere suggestion, and all Phoenix can do is stare back in awe.“Now then,” he glowers, “I’ve a very important revision to complete by the end of today’s meeting.” He keeps his gaze aimed directly at Phoenix, who’s so lost in the way Miles’ lips move as he enunciates each word (is that a hint of an English accent on him, or is he just that posh?) that he doesn’t realize how long he’s been gawking until the whites of Miles’ eyes are tinged red from resisting a blink.
Phoenix balls a clumsy apology and a goodbye into one, scurrying off to find himself his own script copy. He swears he hears Miles whisper something about winning as he leaves, but casts the thought aside. It must have been his imagination.
In his rush to reformulate his conversation strategy, he forgets to leave Miles’ water with him.
Similar attempts end in much the same failures. Phoenix makes crack after crack at capturing Miles’ attention, only to be met by an erected, impenetrable wall of Miles’ design. Call it blind faith, or maybe his stubborn delusion, but for every rejection he endures, Phoenix never stops believing in Miles, almost as if he’s meant to.
Almost as if he knows he’s better.
“It…sure is hot today,” Phoenix coughs, tugging on the fabric of his scarf. His coffee has long been tossed to preserve what little cool remains in his body. A quick glance at the others proves he isn’t the only one feeling it; Mock Trial members’ fancy suits are shrugged off, sleeves are bunched up, and quickly dwindling supplies of water are mourned in the auditorium crockpot of heat. Phoenix mindlessly taps at his phone screen, waiting for a response that may never come.
Amidst the group of people who have stripped off their miscellaneous articles of clothing, Miles remains inviolable. He’s doing a wonderful job of keeping to himself as everyone throws up the white flag around him, though less can be said of the work he’s doing. Phoenix presses his lips together to prevent a chuckle from passing through them. If anyone else had told him the genius prosecutor of Ivy U had terrible fine motor skills, he might’ve gone so far as to call them crazy. Now, Phoenix can’t imagine Miles being any other way.
As if he’d suddenly gained the power to read minds, Miles’ eyes flit from the standee he’s painting to Phoenix’s phone, which Phoenix realizes happens to be on the weather app, courtesy of his fidgeting. The temperature reads 7.3°C. He clicks it off with a squeak.
Though the evidence of the external temperature is irrefutable, Phoenix determines he isn’t wrong about the temperature inside the theater bordering on unreasonably warm. Not long after their exchange comes to an abrupt end (had it ever really started?), Prez storms in to announce that something’s gone amiss with the heater. Seeing that their timeline is too packed for everyone to have an early out, nobody—out of pride or otherwise—pipes up to suggest the organizations reconvene once the problem has resolved. The result is a mass exodus of club members from the stage to the side table, where they fight over the remaining water bottles with increasing fervor. Phoenix is slow to obtain one for himself, much less for the man who not once leaves his place by the standee, and their fate is ultimately sealed.
At some point, the Mock Trial President graces the auditorium with promises of popsicles, by favor of their club advisor. It’s obviously enough for the crowd to erupt into cheers, and then a second stampede is underway. Phoenix’s club members promise to reserve him one and dash off before Phoenix can ask them to hold another. Nobody does the same for Miles.
Phoenix later learns that his friends managed to save him a popsicle by slapping a sticky note with a high quality penis drawing on it and shoving it into the back of the community fridge. The image was apparently so unappetizing that nobody wanted to touch it. It gets a good laugh out of everyone involved, Phoenix included. Still, he rolls his eyes and pretends the idea doesn’t make him want to explode with laughter; he’s got someone to impress, after all.
As everyone’s energy continues draining on account of the auditorium’s unwavering warmth, Phoenix begins to notice cracks in Miles’ demeanor. His movements have slowed to a stutter. He scratches at his collar ever so often. Pulls at his waistcoat, though to what effect, he can’t yet guess. At last, Phoenix can no longer tolerate his fidgeting. He steps forward.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Take mine. I’m”—he unwraps his scarf from his neck—”good with the heat.”
Miles doesn’t look up. “That won’t be necessary.”
How he can say that with whole sections of his hair pasted to his forehead and a single bead of sweat trickling down his cheek escapes him. Not wanting to cross any more boundaries, though, Phoenix chooses to flash him a resigned smile and give the man his space. At the last second, he pivots once more. “In the freezer, there should be one with a sticky note and a drawing on it.” He pauses. “It’ll go to waste.”
He considers Miles’ lack of response another loss, a dime a dozen. Or…he would’ve, if not for the lone, red wrapper and accompanying sticky note he’d seen perched atop the mound of trash at day’s end.
Phoenix dreams of red suits, bells, and phallic shaped objects the very same night. It’s the best dream he’s had in weeks.
Rebuffs aside, Miles really wasn’t that bad. He didn’t fancy Phoenix for a conversation partner, sure, but he was never overly rude about it. Like he’d previously predicted, Miles was a laser focused hard worker. His dedication to the play made his already attractive condition that much more alluring, butterflies flitting in his stomach when Miles so much as glanced in his direction, only to move past him and to the nearest wall.
(And thank goodness for that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Miles saw him crush his dispensable coffee cup into a ball every day, aim for the nearest trash can, and miss as if he’d shot with his eyes crossed over.)
All in all, Phoenix is happy to celebrate the tiny wins that come from their interactions. He certainly doesn’t think of them negatively otherwise, not until months later when he’s helping the club make backgrounds for the play.
“How long are you gonna keep this up?” The same newbie who'd let the "demon" comment slip asks him. In their palms are a collection of paint coated metal buckets waiting on a top up. “You’re one of the nicest people here and you can’t get him to talk.”
His friend sighs in agreement. “Seriously. Isn’t it better to give up? We appreciate the effort, but he’s making you look like an idiot. On purpose, too!”
“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Phoenix argues, “he isn’t like that.”
“What is there to misunderstand? Clearly he thinks he’s too good to be hanging out with any of us. Look at him! He barely talks to his own team!” Struck by his own outburst, the newbie almost drops his coated bucket. “Does he even know your name?”
The question stings more than he expected it to. In all their exchanges, he can’t remember a single time Miles has properly addressed him. Still, Phoenix mounts his defense. “You’ve got it all wrong. They’re the ones who keep avoiding him. He’s trying his best to make the production run smoothly. Do you see how late he’s been staying to help with set design?”
“If he’s trying to make anything presentable, it isn’t for our sake. von Karma trains all his lap dogs like that.” The newbie adjusts his grip on the bucket handle. “The only reason he joined Mock Trial in the first place was because von Karma wanted it. He’d probably roll over and beg if that old fart asked him to.”
Frankly, Phoenix can’t understand where any of the vitriol aimed at him is stemming from. Miles respected his mentor—that was easy to see from the tinkling bells and the copy-paste suit—but he wasn’t his puppet, and he definitely wasn’t pouring in hours of work just to have his efforts disparaged by some silly rumors. So, eyes narrowed, Phoenix drops the empty buckets of paint onto the stage’s wooden planks. A dull thud rings through the space. “Take that back,” he scowls, nostrils flaring. He takes a dangerous step forward, vision red at the corners. “Don’t talk about Miles like that. You don’t know a thing about him!” His friend drops her own buckets, moving to intercept Phoenix’s fast approaching shove-
“Phoenix!” Prez calls out. “Could you help me move this backstage?”
With Prez’s call, the bulk of his anger dissipates into the charged air. Phoenix gives his fellow club member once last disparaging glance before popping his head through the curtain to respond, as cooly as possible, “Sure, Prez. Where’s it a…”
In a cruel twist of fate, Phoenix doesn’t come face to face with Prez. Instead, he glimpses upon a flash of burgundy fabric, jingly bells, and a gorgeous head of ashy gray hair. The blur quickly retreats to the stage’s right wing.
“The stage mics are over here. Make sure to turn the speaker off when you move them—they pick up the smallest sounds…” Prez’s voice picks up once more, this time from his left. At his despondency, her instructions taper off. “...Phoenix?”
He stares after Miles’ shadow, chest aching with regret. Surely he hadn’t heard what these people were saying about him…
…Right?
The events of days past leave a bitter aftertaste in Phoenix’s mouth. Like a coarsely ground cup of coffee, the unpleasantness lingers, clouding his exchanges with Miles, making an already evasive prodigious law student all the more stony. Phoenix wonders if Miles had taken to heart what his friend and that asshole greenhorn said about him. Worse yet, he wonders if Miles thought Phoenix participated in the slander. The backstage curtains are especially thick; it’d be easy, from Miles’ presumed position, not to recognize who was speaking when they were doing it.
Phoenix voices his concerns to his longtime friend and roommate over his third, titillating cup of coffee. They’re in his favorite café near the student union. In 7 minutes, Miles will pass by on his way to Evidence Law.
“Ya gotta broaden your imagination man!” Larry tells him with a solid whack to his shoulder.
Phoenix swirls the liquid in his cup. “What do you mean?”
“If you wanna prove this Milesedgey guy’s not that bad, you need to get super close to him, right?”
“It’s Edgeworth,” he mumbles, swirling even faster. “Miles Edgeworth.”
“Edgey-bedgey! Do you want it or not Nick?!”
Phoenix’s eyes dart around the cafe. By some miracle, it seems nobody had heard them. “Well yeah, of course….”
“Then what’re you waitin’ for?” Larry grins. “Just date him!”
The world tilts off its axis. “W-What?!” he screams, hand jerking in shock. Some of his drink splashes from the sip hole onto his exposed skin; with a yelp, Phoenix snatches his hand from the table. “I can’t do that! I mean, how-”
Larry’s fists come up like he’s ready to sock Phoenix in the face. “You quittin’ on me already?! Is this how I raised you, Nick?! HUH NICK?! HUH?!”
“You didn’t raise me!” Phoenix cries. “This is crazy talk, Larry! He doesn’t even know my name!”
“So teach him it,” he says, “wow him so hard he’ll never forget!”
He can already feel the other cafe goers’ disapproving stares. “That’s not how it works…”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WON’T WORK?! You don’t trust me?! After all I’ve done for you?! Aww just kill me man! Strike me dead! My own best friend don’t believe a word I’m sayin’!”
Phoenix flushes in embarrassment. “That’s not what I’m-”
“Then what’s the problem Nick?! You’re killing me man! Just kill me off already!!!” Undeterred by the growing number of glares directed at him, Larry lifts his sleeves up, swinging them around. “If you and Edgey go out, you’ll get to hang out with him. Then you could show everyone how cool he is”—Larry looks off to the side, piecing together his perfectly construed plan—”ya know, ‘cuz you’re always with him.”
Phoenix takes a contemplative sip of his coffee and thinks he must have finally gone insane. The longer he listens to Larry, the more this outrageous plan of his is starting to make sense. “...You really think it would work?”
“‘Course I do! Edgey’s the typa guy to not get it unless you tell him straight to his face!”
He sighs, what little confidence he had in Larry already fading. “How would you know? You didn’t even know who he was until a couple minutes ago.”
“It’s Lover’s Intuition, baby. Look at me and Mina—we’re the healthiest couple you’ve ever seen!”
Phoenix’s mouth thins into a line. He was sure his girlfriend’s name was Mandy…but it’s true that Larry’s pretty good at this sort of thing. He heaves another sigh. Looks like he’s all out of joe.
“Trust me Nick. I’ll even train you personally myself. By the time we’re done, Edgey-boy’ll be crawling at your feet!”
“R-Really?” Phoenix croaks. From the pit of his stomach, halcyon hope swirls to life.
“When have I ever failed you? Stick with good ol’ Larry and you’ll be a pro in no time!”
And so, Phoenix successfully enlists Larry’s help in wooing Miles Edgeworth. He formulates a two-pronged plan to clear Miles of his bad reputation:
- Seduce him
- Prove to everyone that he’s pretty neat after seducing him
At conception, the plan seemed foolproof. He should have known things would end in disaster. After all, when something smells…
He never does end up seeing Miles pass by on his way to class.
It takes him two weeks of preparation—half physical, half mental—to feel adequately prepared for what he’s about to do. Larry trains him mercilessly, to the point where both his lungs and his eyes burn from overuse, and only then does he give Phoenix two thumbs up in Larry-certified approval.
Then, at long last, the day of reckoning comes. The auditorium is especially staggering as Phoenix looks up at it. It casts fear into his heart that he hasn’t felt since he was accused of being a lunch money thief in 4th grade. Nobody had been there for him back then. Luckily, someone was supporting him now.
Right on cue, Larry reaches over from behind him, massaging his shoulders to prepare him for the ring.
“I don’t know about this…” Phoenix mutters. “Are the cards really necessary?”
“Backups, Nicky-boy! Confidence is sexy!” Larry says. “Now one more time. Who fell from heaven?"
He wants to die. "Miles did..."
"Show me some spirit, Nicky! Who fell from heaven?!"
"Miles did!" he shouts.
“Edgey’s got another thing coming!” he beams, tilting his head. “But remember, if you wanna have him over when I’m not home, you gotta put a sock on the door. You hear me?!”
Phoenix’s face scrunches in confusion. Clarity hits white hot just moments later. “T-That’s not what I’m doing any of this for!”
Larry makes a loose fist with one hand. “SOCK,” he says, engulfing his fist with his other palm. “ON.” He takes his sock hand back, fingers splayed, and presses them together. “THE.” He winks, then, pushing sock hand into the hole formed by the other. “DOOR.”
Phoenix smacks him away with renewed vigor, cheeks hot with flame. “Shut up, Larry! I’m going!”
With his heart thudding in his chest, Phoenix enters the auditorium. The door thuds closed.
There are a sizable number of people present when he walks in. Despite how early he’d arrived, it seems like work for the production never comes to a complete end. Some members are perched on top of step ladders, fiddling with the speakers as he waddles past the auditorium seats. He doesn’t envy them at all.
Among the others already in the room is, of course, one Miles Edgeworth. He’s helping Prez move more mics to their storage spots backstage when Phoenix gets his first good look at him. The curtains are drawn to reveal the mountains of equipment lying around. It’s messy and unsightly, and as he shuffles forward, he can’t help but feel like he and the mess had way more in common than he thought. The blood pumping through his body gives him a rhythm to match each one of his steps. Swallowing thickly, he takes a deep breath and decides to face the music.
Once he’s within earshot of their conversation, he tries his hardest to focus on that as opposed to the sloshing in his stomach. It’s the only way he manages to keep it together. On the bright side, their discussion is awfully mundane, the same song and dance he’d heard about the stage mics, the surround sound speakers, and something about switches. When Prez instructs a few of the Drama Club members to let the curtains down again, Phoenix knows he’s hit his theoretical jackpot. He waits patiently for the curtains to fall. Then, taking a deep breath, he approaches Miles from the wing.
Miles, having heard his incessant shuffling, turns to face him. The lone light above the backstage illuminates their faces—his confusion, Phoenix’s apprehension. A spotlight for Phoenix’s opening act. He crosses the floor towards Miles; shadows from the mics dance across their features.
"Hey...so...uh..." Phoenix coughs out, voice scratchy from his most recent line repetitions. It's a small mistake, not unsalvageable. All he has to do is stick to the script. Stick to the script. Stick...
His eyes flick down to his note cards. He swears he’d printed them in his best penmanship, atop one of the library's extra premium desks, but everything is spinning and he feels faintly like he's going to throw up. "Did you uh," he starts, letters swirling in his eyes. "Did...you fall out of heaven...?"
Genius prosecutor-in-training Miles Edgeworth regards him with a blank stare. Phoenix thinks now would be an opportune time for him to locate the nearest possible bridge and promptly jump off of it.
"Because um"—his throat closes in on him then, harsh and unforgiving. There’s a quiet voice that sounds oddly like Larry telling him to get it together, think of the socks and the doorknob and the signals and-
Flustered, his grip on his cues slacken; they slip through his fingers like water, pooling over his shoes and onto the floor. "Shit," he says to himself. "Fuck, oh god, fuck-"
"I'm-I'm so sorry," he wheezes, bending down to grab the scattered cards, “you’re…you’re just so pretty-I…I’m sorry-” It is precisely at this moment that his knees decide to lock together. A loud crack from deep, deep within his bones rings out as he drops to the ground. All the while, the boy he's been hopelessly pining over stares down at him, the absence in both expression and reply making his blood run cold.
Smooth, Wright, real smooth.
As quickly as he can manage, Phoenix gathers the cards into his arms. It's over. He's ruined everything. All the time he spent practicing with Larry, planning their theoretical first date, envisioning them getting married on the coast with the beachy waves washing over their toes, gone into a puff of smoke, all because he couldn’t make it past the first goddamn line.
"I'll um..I'll be going now," he manages to choke out, straightening himself as his bones snap, crackle, and pop one last time. Not a noise leaves Miles’ mouth as Phoenix flees the scene, bumping into one of the stage mics, the feedback sharp in his ears, amassing several confused and—he must be imagining it, pitying?—stares as he makes his mad dash out of the theater.
On his way out of the building, Larry catches him by the arm. "So? How'd it go, Nicky-boy? Where’s Mr. Demon Prosecutor?" he winks, giving Phoenix his best waggly brows. Phoenix physically droops at the question; his shoulders join his heart in a pile by his feet.
"I fucked up," he laments. He was going to need a shit ton of emergency ice cream tonight.
So maybe his plans of a languorous, loving future with Miles Edgeworth had fallen to pieces in a manner not unlike his cue cards. He could deal with that; an aspiring actor ought to face some real life drama to add flavor to their performances. He’s embarrassed, but he’ll survive.
What Phoenix cannot survive is everyone knowing that it happened.
When he walks into the auditorium the next day, he expects everyone to smile at him the same as usual. He’s got his comfort blend in hand, extra pumps of hazelnut to make up for the sweetness he’d never experience in his life, but he’s still got the club, his dreams, and some of his dignity tucked between his fingers. He’s fine. Everything is fine.
When he’s instead greeted by a wave of laughs and snickers, Phoenix thinks things may actually not be so fine after all.
Maybe Larry stuck a “kick me” sign to his back when he’d woken up this morning. It’s the type of revenge he’d expected for getting Larry invested in his love life only for him to flub up at the starting line. He pats around his sweater for the offending article and finds nothing of the sort.
His next instinct is to ask his friends what he'd missed. They exchange sympathetic glances at one another as soon as he broaches the topic. A firm ruffling of his hair and a consoling pat on his back later, Phoenix is starting to get a little nervous.
The anxiety culminates as more people file into the auditorium. He sees the new Drama Club member, that jerk who’d talked badly about Miles, and shoots him a definitive glare to remind him they weren’t on good terms. That, however, ends up being his biggest mistake. The man approaches him, an unhidden bundle of animosity resting on his shoulders.
“Don't look so grumpy. What’s got you so wound up?” he sing-songs. “Fall out of heaven this morning, or what?”
Phoenix goes rigid. How did he…
“Hey,” Prez hisses, “I won’t have any of that here! Which one of you forgot to…” The rest of her words fall on deaf ears. That specific phrasing. That specific line…
It couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t.
His eyes find Miles’, swimming amongst the others in the auditorium seats…
…and Miles, prodigious, princely, quiet, evasive but lovely Miles, proceeds to avert his gaze.
How cruel.
This must have been what everyone meant by “crueler-than-necessary modus operandi”. Maybe it’d count as villainizing people not in their immediate circle, if he stretched the definition.
Even still, he’d already witnessed Phoenix’s colossal fuck up firsthand. Did he have to go and tell everyone about it too?
Phoenix does himself a favor and really does shove the asshole to the floor this time. It’s only temporarily gratifying; it doesn’t do much to relieve the mortification coursing through him, the pit in his stomach expanding until it swallows him whole. He tries, fatally, to catch Miles’ gaze again. Someone’s whispering into his ear, he can’t hear what they’re saying, but a sneer curls up his princely lips, and the evidence presented is evidence enough.
Turns out Miles Edgeworth really is just like every other von Karma doll.
Phoenix spends the larger half of the week avoiding any place he thinks Edgeworth will pop up. With how often he’d managed to spot him around campus before, it was relatively easy for him to slip into obscurity when push came to shove. Unfortunately, this also means he can’t stop by his favorite shop to get his frequent doses of coffee anymore, so on top of being unable to live down his failed seduction attempt, he’s also high strung from the caffeine withdrawal short circuiting what remains of his functioning system.
On Friday, he finally caves in to his impulses, the thrum of an oncoming migraine too disastrous for him to resist, and slips into a café in the Fine Arts cluster of campus. The sign outside the establishment tells him he’d most likely enjoy their signature tea. He isn’t up to it right now, though, and the cashier tells him they’ve been out of their special since yesterday anyway because of course they are, so Phoenix settles for some random thing on the menu that is neither signature nor special. His choice ends up suiting him well enough. It’s a fine blend, if not expensive, the nutty aroma wafting through the air as he tips the joe into his mouth.
He hasn’t been to the Drama Club since the incident. Prez is the one who’d reached out to tell him to take some time off. He was lucky he hadn’t been suspended from club activities, she’d told him. Secretly, he thinks Prez knew the greenhorn deserved it.
Also, asking him to take some time away was just a nicer way to say he was suspended, wasn’t it?
In his newly acquired spare time, Phoenix has been extra determined to occupy the empty spaces in his sketchbook. It’s on the table, out and open now, his hand gliding across the surface as he scribbles something that is decidedly not Miles from his spot by the window. He considers it his personal outlet, drawing, and attempts to mimic the landscape outside with line by line accuracy, avoiding the familiar face etched onto the same paper. In the process of doing so, he fails to notice a broad-shouldered shadow hovering over him.
Just when he thinks he’s got the arch of the tree’s branches down to the wire, someone sidesteps into his peripheral. “Ah…err..”
Phoenix jerks from his chair so fast that he knocks his cup over; the fine ceramic tips, brown liquid spills from its lip, target acquired: his sketchbook, and then a quick hand is swiping the exposed pages away, saving months’ worth of sneaky drawings and forbidden fantasies from meeting their doom. Phoenix’s heart drops to his feet and rises up like the Holy Mother in all but two seconds. Then, Miles Edgeworth is right in front of him, attention enraptured by the scratchy drawings that document every detail of his existence.
“These are…” he comments dryly. Phoenix attempts to snatch the article away, but Edgeworth moves faster. He signals for a nearby employee, taking care not to crease the pad as he gestures towards the table. “May we have some assistance?”
“Of course, sir.”
The clean up is quick, easy, and quiet. Once the employee has retreated, Edgeworth, first checking the table by patting at the dried surface with the back of his hand, spreads the sketchbook back onto it. Again, Phoenix tries to retrieve it. This time, Edgeworth blocks him with his arm. His eyes are scrutinizing the same page he’d seen earlier, expression blank as he traces the line of each curve, from the outlined tree to the careful shape of his bangs. Phoenix swallows down the lump building in his throat. Of all the positions to find him in, why this one?
As if his life hadn't already taken a turn for the worst, Edgeworth chooses this moment to flip the page. A new set of drawings, this time, sketches of Edgeworth’s features—his neck, his hands, his clothes, and Phoenix’s not so safe for the public creative visions about what lay underneath—appear before him. It’s too much. Hadn’t anyone ever told this jerk not to snoop through an artist’s work?!
“W-What’s your problem, Edgeworth?” he shouts, taking advantage of Edgeworth’s temporary paralysis to wrest back his precious possession. This guy is the worst. A demon. The devil incarnate. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“I-” Edgeworth’s got a foreign look on his face. Under the cafe’s fluorescent lights, Phoenix almost mistakes it for hurt. “My apologies. I did not mean to offend.”
“Like I’d believe that! If you think a half-baked sorry is going to make me bend to your knees, you’ve got another thing coming!”
Edgeworth’s looking at him so strangely. It’s the type of gaze powerful enough to freeze you in place, though there’s no malice behind it. “That wasn’t my intention.”
Too bad for him. Phoenix doesn’t wanna hear it. “I’m never doing that again, no matter how badly you wanna make me relive it. You didn’t fall out of heaven”—Phoenix tilts his head down, shoulders low—”you…you…you got kicked out of it!”
There it is again. Where Phoenix would expect Edgeworth to take the routinely comment in stride, his expression shifts as if the words pierce right through him. Phoenix doesn’t want to be around to see him like that, so he pushes his way towards the exit, ready to make another flashy escape.
A hand slamming down on the table stops him in his tracks. "Hold it."
Slowly, fearfully, Phoenix turns his head.
"The line," Edgeworth continues, hand still splayed out on the table, "is 'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?'"
This guy can’t be real.
”Huh…?”
"At which point, it would be left to the person who initiated the interaction to devise a response.” Edgeworth grits his teeth. “If you insist on divulging your interest in this way, the least you could do is remain faithful to your script. Is committing words to memory not integral for your desired line of work?”
He’s gotta die, no two ways about it. Poison him, tase him—hell, run him over with a car, for God's sake—he can't stay here for a second longer. "U-Um..."
”You even had a handicap. The future for our finest actors has never looked so dim!”
Phoenix takes a breath. "What…”
“As if that weren’t enough, what kind of suitor up and leaves before receiving an answer? It’s unprecedented, and utterly foolish!”
Phoenix hears everything he’s saying, the words undeniably register in his ear, only for them to leak out from his other one a moment later. “S-Sorry, but-”
Edgeworth flinches back. “And now you’re apologizing? What for? Your amateurish propositioning skills? Or”—his face falls for a fraction of a second—“is this some kind of ruse? Are you perhaps acquainted with-”
“No!” he denies, moving to face him. “This isn’t a prank! Just…what are you…” He cradles his head in his hands, trying desperately to sift through Edgeworth’s word vomit. ‘What are you talking about?” he mutters through the cracks in his fingers. “And…And how do you know what I want to study?”
Edgeworth, decidedly, chokes on air. In the next moment, he’s slamming his hand back down on the table. “H-How could I not?”
“The Drama Club," he says, more to himself than anything. Of course he’d guess that. It’s the logical decision to make. Except…
"You know,” Phoenix mumbles, “a lot of our regulars are in the Art department.” A pause. “Prez said as much when our clubs first started collaborating.”
Edgeworth huffs. “Forgive me for believing a theatrical organization’s active member is not, in fact, affiliated with Drama.”
“S’not what I meant,” he replies. “They told you I was an Art major. Remember the Steel Samurai poster? Your Vice President even asked if my buddy and I could design her and Prez’s wedding invites.”
"That’s-"
Phoenix’s grip on his sketchbook tightens. “Supposing you didn’t think I was an Art major, you still saw this, didn’t you?” He holds it up. “Who would think I was planning on going into theater based on that?”
“Are you arguing that you’re incapable of having hobbies?”
His brows scrunch together. “Of course not, but…look where we are. This café is right in the middle of the Art Department. Drama has their own.”
“Nghk!”
“And now that we’re talking about location…what are you doing here, anyway? Law is on the other side of campus.” There’s no mistaking it; the panic in Edgeworth’s eyes is clear as day to anyone who’d so much as offer him a single glance. “I mean, how’d you know to find me here? You don’t even know whether I like coffee or not.”
“Y-You always had a cup on hand.”
“You’re right,” he chirps. “Doesn’t that mean you watched me enough to notice though?”
“Grnnnk!”
“You never answered my question earlier, either. What are you doing here? And…and why did you…”
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a loose puzzle piece clicks into place. “Wait a minute,” Phoenix whispers. Edgeworth looks on in horror. “You know I like coffee. Love coffee. You’d seen a cup in my hands enough times to understand I live off it, which means you must have also seen the logo on my cup…yet for some reason, you came here anyway.” He pauses. “You claim not to know I was an Art major, but you tried to hand me the poster I made the day you saw it. You knew I was the one who made it and assumed I was the owner. Otherwise, you would’ve given it to Prez.”
Edgeworth makes a noise somewhere between pain and embarrassment.
“Assuming you didn’t know I was an Art major, you think you’d find me in the Drama department’s café, but…”
Another pause. “Hey, Edgeworth.” Phoenix tilts his head at him. “Were you…looking for me?” At the noise of surprise from Edgeworth’s gnashed teeth, Phoenix straightens. “But why? You don’t want anything to do with me.”
The crease that appears between his brows is mildly satisfying, if not for the underlying uncertainty in his next words. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You told everyone about the thing,” Phoenix explains, “to humiliate me.”
“Ah. That was”—Edgeworth’s cheeks flare with heat, all of a sudden, as if the sheer memory of Phoenix’s failure brings him physical pain—”err..the microphone.” He frees the table from his palm to wave it haphazardly in the air. “It was never turned off. Which, by virtue, would explain how every spectator in the auditorium came to learn about it.” A sharp intake of breath. “Supposedly.”
It all comes flooding back to him then. The noise muffling curtains, the feedback he’d heard as he was running off.
“You laughed at me though. After that jerk who called you a demon said the stuff about the pickup line.”
“Laugh at you?” Edgeworth scoffs. “I was attempting to compose myself after you acquainted that charlatan with the stage floor.”
Huh. That lined up with what he remembered too. How could he forget such a critical detail?
“As you may have already gleaned from our previous conversations, I’m not good at small talk. Still,” Edgeworth says, his right arm coming up to grip his left, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t think so little of me.” He grips his sleeve tighter. “Though your…err..expression of interest left much to be desired, I wouldn’t dream of publicly humiliating you. Not after such an earnest effort.”
Phoenix blinks. “M-Meaning? There’s a reason they never make me write screenplays, you know.”
"That is to say..." he clears his throat, face coloring even darker, "I did not mind it. Not from you, anyway."
Oh, he thinks, dazedly. “Oh.”
He had been correct.
“Oh, indeed.”
Miles Edgeworth was exactly who he thought he’d be.
The silence stretches between them. Phoenix’s lips part in hopeful anticipation. "So you'd be okay with me trying again?"
“T-That won’t be necessary.” Phoenix wilts a little. Ah, well. “But if you absolutely must,” he quickly tacks on, “I’d prefer if you took…a more conventional approach.”
"Conventional?" he echoes. That doesn't sound nearly as bad rejection. Far from it, actually. "Like something more straightforward?"
The law student doesn't bother gracing him with a response, not that he minds. The light from Phoenix's next smile is blinding enough to make up for it.
"Alright then. How's this for straightforward? I think you're real neat, Edgeworth. Your voice is nice, your suit is cool, and you’re really really pretty.”
Edgeworth—no, Miles’—face turns so red it assumes the color of his suit jacket. "Enough! That's quite enough, Phoenix Wright!"
His heart skips. "So you do know my name. Guess you really are interested in me, huh?"
“It is only a professional courtesy!”
“So what about Prez's?"
Miles Edgeworth balks.
"The set designers? Your teammates?"
Nothing.
"Is learning my name more important than learning the Drama Club board's?"
"I..."
Phoenix flushes. "What about this? Is staking it out at this cafe on the off chance you’ll see me also just professional courtesy?” He’d meant it as a joke, obviously, but when the man before him chokes again, Phoenix’s gut flips in response. No way…
“Th-That’s absurd!” he starts. “ I’ll have you know I frequent this establishment because I happen to like their selection of beverages.” He inhales like he’s prepping himself to tell the boldest lie he’s ever conjured. “Why, I was enjoying a cup long before you barreled your way inside.”
Phoenix’s eyes sparkle. Bright enough to reflect off Miles’ pupils, dark as night. “Were you now? Say, what do you recommend? I never got the chance to finish mine.”
At that, the man turns his nose up triumphantly, shoulders suspiciously relaxing in the face of Phoenix’s interrogation. “You’d do well to listen, Wright. The finest item on their menu is their special blend of Earl Grey tea, which happens to be the drink I indulged in prior to your arrival.”
Ah.
Got him.
“Is that right?” he smirks, trying and failing to school his expression into one of neutrality.
Eyes narrowed, Miles Edgeworth mumbles a quiet, “What is it?” as gray irises flick over Phoenix’s cheeks.
“You’re not bad at bluffing, I’ll give you that,” he says, pointing in Miles’ direction. “but you’re wrong, Edgeworth! They don’t have Earl Grey right now. In fact, they haven’t had any since yesterday evening!”
Realization dawns on the princely man’s face then, alongside a new wave of scarlet heat. "Ngoooooooohhhhhh!"
And if the employees end up booting them from the café, inadvertently kickstarting the first of their many, many dates to come, well, that's nobody’s business but theirs.