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Flash of clarity
The mouth breathing against his lips paused between a sigh and a gasp. If advance payment existed for regret, Phoenix should probably have received more than his due by now. And yet, instead of pushing them away, he let the rough hands slip under his T-shirt, guided the fingers to press against his nipples and draw a low moan out of him. In front of him, the young stranger dressed in a red waistcoat, face flushed from lust and alcohol, and ridiculous hairdo falling apart, only flashed a lopsided grin at him.
“Haha, ha,” was all that the young man said, which, frankly, made him look stupid, or would have, if Phoenix wasn’t already impossibly hard and whimpering.
He didn’t really know how they’d come to this anyway. Lies. He did know. It was the party at Kristoph’s office. That nomikai celebrating his big win in a difficult case. For some reason, Kristoph had thought it a good idea to invite him despite it being an office party, “to thank you for the good advice you gave me before the trial, my good friend…” – so he had said, and smiled, and Phoenix had not refused. Why had he not?
Or perhaps, that wasn’t the question. The question was rather why it had affected Phoenix at all, after all these years, to see all those lawyers celebrating a win. Why it mattered to him, to see the glimmer in those junior attorneys’ eyes, the hopes, the admiration as they watched Kristoph toast the entire office. Why it had made him drink.
The first time he noticed the greenhorn attorney that night (literally horned, too, with those ridiculous strands of hair holding straight above his forehead) was half-way through the party, under the office building. March weather heralded only meagre promises of spring this year, and as Phoenix went out for air, the greenhorn attorney standing there at the entrance noticed him shivering, and handed him a pair of gloves. That was the first time Phoenix really looked at him.
He was smoking.
Perhaps, the contrast struck him too suddenly – between the undeniably young, faultless eyes staring at him, and the lit cigarette hanging between his lips. Perhaps, the dissonance between the goofy overbite and the young man’s unnerving silence, as well as the kindness in those hands that held the gloves casually, like it wasn’t a huge deal...perhaps it was a combination of all those things, but Phoenix found himself shuddering anew and excused himself too quickly.
He’d noticed him staring at him again after that, furtively, a few times throughout the party, even as it moved to an izakaya, even as the drinking intensified and the ties came undone. But it wasn’t until midnight that Phoenix finally succumbed to the temptation of sitting next to him, reveling briefly in the surprise flashing through those warm eyes – eyes already hazy from tipsiness that never looked away from his face, and left him wanting, yearning for more attention, even as he felt ashamed for it. He didn’t remember what they talked about, only remembered the way the young man’s eyes drifted towards his lips, the way their bodies leaned closer as the glasses got refilled.
And it wasn’t until two or three in the morning when they finally stumbled away from the gathering, drunkenly clawing at each other as the young man fiercely shoved him into an empty street and kissed his neck.
He hadn’t done this in a while. For the longest of times, Phoenix had gotten by without a single sexual encounter at all. But then, the bills had started to grow overwhelming, and he didn’t exactly have the luxury to say no to offers. He gained more freedom in choosing those kinds of clients at least, after the poker gig picked up at the Borscht. But this, today, was different from all of that.
He was not making this greenhorn attorney pay.
“Fuuuuucck…you smell amaaazing,” the young man slurred against his neck, humping lazily against his thigh as they tripped their way through the narrow door of an apartment.
He was not quite sure what he was doing with the greenhorn attorney, to be honest.
The unknown flat didn’t have much space at all, didn’t have a living room to speak off, only a small kitchen past the entrance and a few rooms. Phoenix hadn’t protested at all when the rookie brought them here, and even now, he didn’t feel the need to inspect closely. Minds a haze, they tottered towards one of the rooms, that the young man opened for him without hesitation, his mouth never leaving Phoenix’s neck, and collapsed in it.
Phoenix groaned on the floor, grasping at his companion’s neck to bring him close, but was faced instead with a mumbled objection of “h-hold on…not here…” before he felt surprisingly strong hands grabbing him and hoisting him off the floor. He let out a squeak.
“W-wait…”
And then his back hit a mattress, and the young man was straddling him again.
“Better,” he muttered, still grinning with a wicked look in his eyes. “Comfy?”
Phoenix really couldn’t wrap his mind around this guy.
His thoughts were slowly giving way to burning desire, the more he let those lips nip at his neck and those hands roam push his shirt upwards, even as they massaged his ribs. He wanted to moan, but the last bits of his self-esteem held it in, turning it into a hitching sigh.
Pitiful, what he’d become.
“F-fuck,” he gasped, his shirt shoved all the way up to his collarbones, kisses raining on his chest, hips grinding against him, and – fuck, why was this kid this good at it anyway? “Y-you do this often or what?”
“Hmm…?” the guy hummed, tongue still playing around Phoenix’s nipple, before he glanced up. “Do what?”
Good question. Phoenix tried to form some thoughts again.
“S…sleep with strangers,” he managed, while his companion continued to suck on him like a starving leech. Was that what the youth did nowadays?
For some reason, this seemed to snap some sort of awareness into the guy, who looked up at him with something akin to awkwardness in his flushed, sweaty face. Oh, so he did know embarrassment. His grip loosened momentarily around Phoenix’s ribs, before tightening again with a vengeance, nails digging in Phoenix’s skin and making him arch.
“I don’t really do that anymore,” he replied. Phoenix reeled.
Anymore?
“T-then, what’s t-this, ah,” he tried to laugh, before moaning again, “you seem awfully…” experienced. Good. “Comfortable…doing this with someone you don’t even know the n-name of…”
The young man slithered up to his neck once again, leaving a trail of kisses, one hand holding Phoenix’s head in place through a fistful of hair. Phoenix wished he would pull and tried his best not to beg for it.
“I did ask you, but you wouldn’t tell me, asshole…”
Phoenix supposed he might have, but he didn’t remember. It’s not like he actually wanted him to know his name, either. He felt shameful enough as it was. Well, at least, considering what he'd said, he supposed taking a much younger guy's virginity wouldn't be something that he had to feel guilty of, at the very least.
Suddenly, he felt the beanie being pulled off his head and mumbled in protest, but his companion held it in his hand for a while, staring down at him with searing intensity. Breaths shallow, Phoenix let him scrutinize him, at his mercy, not knowing what to say or do.
“You really do look like him…” the young man murmured out of the blue, and it sounded so melancholic for some reason, that Phoenix momentarily sobered up.
“Like who…?” he dared to ask, equally quiet, and regretted it instantly when the other man replied, tossing the beanie away:
“Phoenix Wright.”
Phoenix felt a ball in his stomach. The truth shot through him like a spear. But for some reason, the hands touching his cheek now were gentle…too gentle, almost adoring, almost cruel in their worship. He craved more. He wanted this and more.
He wanted everything.
“You…” he started, “uh…”
“Apollo.”
“Huh?”
“You forgot my name, didn’t you?” the other guy said, chest still heaving. “It’s Apollo.”
Phoenix remained silent.
“Or you can call me Justice.”
Now, that was just ridiculous.
“That a real name?” Phoenix mumbled, “it’s worse than Phoenix Wright.”
“You’re so rude,” th- Apollo grunted.
Phoenix wanted to ask him what he thought of Phoenix Wright, wanted him to say his name again, even to curse it, but the words wouldn’t come out, and he was scared of the answer anyway. Before long, Apollo was pulling at Phoenix’s shirt again, slipping the jacket off his shoulders dexterously before yanking at his shirt. “Take your clothes off.”
Phoenix obeyed. He sat up and took the shirt off himself, before accepting Apollo’s help to get his trousers out of the way. At last, the young man slipped his hands around the rim of his boxers and pulled them off as well, leaving Phoenix completely exposed, hard and flushed, and dizzy, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head. Want was making him feel light-headed, the mixed signals that Apollo sent him compromising all of his capacity for thought.
He wanted Apollo to humiliate him – somehow felt that the attorney could be capable of it, despite his stupidly youthful face and ridiculous name. He wanted Apollo to caress his face again – to make him feel loved – even the illusion of it, just the tenderness of a ghostly touch on his skin, something that could make him feel alive and present in his own body.
Apollo gave him neither. He guided Phoenix into lying down on the mattress once again, and took off his tie. Phoenix tried to help undo his collar, but was pushed away. Confused and woozy, he watched as Apollo took both his wrists and started to bind them together above his head. Only once he was done did he give Phoenix a grin.
“All good?”
“Uh…uhuh,” Phoenix managed on his back, throat dry.
“You look good like that,” Apollo slurred again, and for a moment, Phoenix almost believed it.
There was short pause, in which the attorney used his fingers to trace down Phoenix’s naked chest. Phoenix, for his part, chose to focus on his breathing, keeping his eyes on that huge, golden bracelet around the young man’s wrist, which he’d already noticed while they were drinking earlier on. At last, Apollo, his face still ruddy, spoke up again, drawing his attention away from the hypnotizing design with too many eyes:
“I’ve always wanted to do that…”
The way he trailed off made Phoenix wonder if there was a continuation to that sentence, somehow. “To Phoenix Wright?” he almost added, but he knew this would be a ridiculous and presumptuous thing to say.
And yet, Apollo continued to look at him with such hunger and admiration in his eyes, that Phoenix almost wanted to disappear.
“You really look good.”
It was making him hot. Naked, tied-up, he twitched at the praise, and the move did not escape Apollo’s attention, who without looking away from Phoenix, reached towards his cock and wrapped his hand around it, the pressure shooting pleasure through Phoenix’s body.
He arched his back, and again when Apollo started to pump him, slowly, drawing a pitiful, long moan out of him. Apollo rubbed, thumb on his tip, his eyes never leaving Phoenix’s face, his gaze too intense to be entirely sane…Phoenix wanted to look away but found himself mesmerized in return. Unable to cover his face with his hands, he whimpered and watched Apollo chuckle under his breath, felt Apollo’s hand around him, too hot and too tight. He wanted to hide and had nowhere to run, a pathetic lizard affixed to a rock under the searing sun, forced to feel and to receive.
It didn’t take him long to come undone in Apollo’s palm.
A flash of white behind his eyes, and then, release with a broken gasp and shudder, held together only by Apollo’s death grip. He caught his breaths with difficulty, watching Apollo’s chest heave at the same time as his, the younger man’s eyes still huge and filled with desire.
Without giving him time to recover, Apollo turned him on his stomach. As he struggled to gather his thoughts, lying there, he heard a bottle cap somewhere, before feeling Apollo’s weight on him again, maneuvering him until his position was right.
He shivered at every touch.
“A…Apo…hmn,” was all he could manage.
“You can tell me to stop if you want.”
Never. Phoenix took a deep breath and grunted low into the mattress. Never, never. With his hands tied, he couldn’t press Apollo to go faster – could only prop himself up in a way to make Apollo’s job easier for him. Apollo’s palms took their sweet time, squeezing and caressing him, before leaving him completely, with only rustling noises for company. The wait felt endless.
Phoenix inhaled deeply, trying to loosen up for when the pressure would come, but it never did. Confused, he wanted to look back, told himself against it, and almost raised his voice to protest when Apollo’s grip on his waist took him by surprise, and he was rammed into.
The yelp tearing out of him was beyond him. He moaned, gasped, but Apollo only drew back and thrust in harder, nestling himself all the way to his hilt. Phoenix choked. But Apollo's rhythm picked up, fast, erratic, his grasp always keeping Phoenix pinned under him – Phoenix, twitching, his mind running blank at the pressure in him. He wanted to whine as Apollo's hips continued to buck into him. He wanted to hold on, to climb back to the surface, if only to savor the moment and to be conscious of his own state and of what he has come to.
It tore him apart. The sensations. The knowledge, buried deep in his skin that he was using Apollo as much as he wanted Apollo to use him. Apollo’s eyes that seemed to see through him, Apollo’ strength that jostled him, Apollo’s kindness that allowed him to bask in this farce of a one-night-stand where he could even pretend to be desired for who he really was. Tears were building up at the back of his eyes and he could do nothing to fight against them. After all, he’d handed all the reins to Apollo, already. Wasn’t this what he wanted?
Was really he just… pathetic to this extent?
Apollo came with one last thrust in him and a sharp grunt, the move making Phoenix hurtle forward and hit his nose against the mattress. But that pain was fine, he thought, as Apollo collapsed against him and made both of them crash together into a clumsy pile. That too, was something he wanted to receive.
He lied there for a while, catching his breaths, the waves slowly ebbing down as the fogs of pleasure dissipated, replaced by the perfidious claws of loneliness and the reality of his own weakness.
And then, just before they could find their way to his throat, something unexpected happened. Apollo pulled himself up, still groggy and slow, and kissed him on the shoulder.
It was a gentle kiss. Perhaps, too gentle.
He turned around, and the young man’s lips ghosted over his, before leaving a bleary peck against the corner of his mouth, affectionate. Satisfied.
Warm.
With that simple move, Phoenix’s world came crashing down around him.
***
He doesn’t remember exactly when Apollo removed the binds around his wrists or when they’d both fallen asleep, but he woke up in the morning on the same mattress, with nothing but a thin cover over him, and Apollo’s limbs tangled in his.
For the first time in years, he didn’t feel cold.
Perhaps, that fact denoted less of a miracle than what it felt like. It didn’t take him very long to realize that Apollo was the reason for the comfortable warmth still spreading through him: the boy was a living furnace. He didn’t take off his suit during or after sex either, and now, snored against Phoenix’s neck with his shirt crumpled, rolling in his sweat and the filth of yesterday night. Madness. The ignorance and recklessness of youth. Apollo’s future woes with the dry cleaning would be none of Phoenix’s problems.
Phoenix sat up and looked down at his wrists, and then at Apollo’s tie discarded in a corner of the bed. It’d left marks on his skin that he would have a hard time hiding from Trucy. But well…to believe that he could have had this without some sort of consequence would have been foolish. It was funny enough for Apollo to have wanted to do that to him anyway. He hadn’t expected that strike of…possessiveness? Horny obsessiveness? Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been genuine desire for Phoenix...but it had been so easy to bathe in that belief, just for a little while.
He supposed he would have to think twice before dropping by Kristoph’s office from now on, though. Or perhaps, with the alcohol, Apollo would forget everything.
With much difficulty, he disentangled himself from the attorney without waking him, and put his clothes on before heading out.
The apartment remained completely silent as he gingerly took a few steps in the corridor. He wondered for a moment if Apollo lived alone, before the different sizes of shoes and coats at the entrance caught his attention. Apollo was rather small, after all, despite his strength. The bigger clothes must have belonged to a flatmate… But still, if there was a flatmate to speak of, that person must have left the house earlier than him.
Not that Phoenix wanted to linger either. He took his own coat, and made a beeline for his shoes, only to be distracted by a white board hanging in the entrance, which he had not noticed yesterday.
The board was divided into two columns, with what appeared to be an exchange of short messages from the two housemates, one labeled “C” and the other “A” – “A” like “Apollo”, probably. They were short messages too, the kind that one would leave on a post-it to give a heads-up to their roommate or family if they couldn’t meet as often due to different schedules.
Phoenix read.
C: Malware in laptop. Bringing it to fix at work :P
A: Stop watching so much porn.
C: Guilty as charged. Like Phoenix Wright :’( (Laptop still at work).
A: Phoenix Wright was FRAMED. Asshole.
The most recent addition, under the “C” column, possibly left this very morning, simply read: “I know. Just teasing :) Laptop fixed in kitchen.”
Phoenix lingered before the white board for a while, unsure of the strange sensation down his stomach now bubbling upwards. He traced the letters of the word "framed" on the white board with his finger, being careful not to erase them.
Framed.
Somehow, a memory resurfaced at the word - not of that fateful day in court so many years ago, not of Zak Gramarye's smile as he vanished from court, not of Kristoph's strange gaze under the Borscht's dim and discombobulating lights, the one that always made Phoenix wonder if he pitied him sometimes. No. Instead, it was the memory of brown eyes and a cigarette under cloudy night skies, a transparent and direct gaze, and kind hands holding out gloves to him.
He jumped at the sound of his own ringtone in his pocket and immediately muffled the sound with one hand, in vain.
"Shit."
Before the Steel Samurai theme song could wake Apollo, he slipped out of the flat and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could.