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Two young men weave through crowded night streets, red-faced and off-balance. The brunet's arm is slung over his blond friend's shoulders, and it's obvious from his crumpling posture that he's the far more intoxicated of the two.
"I—it can't be… t—true… Must be… must be f—fake," he mumbles, and the blond catches him as he almost topples to the side, holding him more securely.
"C'mon, Nick, it's just round the corner now," urges the other.
"Dollie… my D—Dollie…"
"Duuude, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you need to quit this chick. I mean, I'm still kinda broken up that my Mel-mel left me, but she didn't want me dead, man."
Showing no sign of having heard anything, Nick only continues mumbling, "My… dear… Dollie…" over and over.
"Aww, man…" Larry Butz runs a hand through his hair as he lets them into their apartment building. "She got you good."
Clearly, his best friend needed an intervention yesterday.
☆☆☆☆☆
Phoenix Wright spins the pen in his hand idly, staring up at the ceiling from where he's lying on his back in his double bed. He still couldn't believe what happened at the trial — the Dollie he'd seen there was nothing like the Dollie he'd known. Had she truly meant to poison him? But there was proof. They'd gotten the necklace out of him at the hospital after the trial, and it was just as Miss Fey said — there were traces of poison inside, the same type they found in his bottle of Coldkiller X.
He thought— He'd believed she loved him, too.
The sound of the doorbell has him wiping his eyes and rolling out of bed. Larry probably has his headphones on and wouldn't hear it. Peering out the peephole, he finds the most gorgeous man he's ever seen in person staring intently at a small piece of paper in slender fingers with manicured nails. Phoenix opens the door to the scent of fine cologne and a full view of the other's perfect figure in what must be a bespoke set of wine red dress shirt and black slacks.
"Good evening. Is this the residence of Mr. Phoenix Wright?"
The crisply pronounced words in that smooth baritone reminds Phoenix that he'd forgotten to speak, and he has to swallow to moisten his dry mouth and throat. "Uh, yes? Yes. Um, I—I'm Phoenix Wright. W—what can I do for you?"
"Ah, wonderful." The man smiles, slipping the piece of paper into his pocket. "A Mr. Larry Butz hired me to escort you for the night, Mr. Wright, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance," he continues with an elegant bow, but Phoenix's brain has ground to an abrupt halt.
(WH—WHAAAAT?! Larry, I'm gonna—) "Ah… S—sorry." He forces an awkward smile. "Could you uh… wait a couple of minutes?"
"Certainly, Mr. Wright. Whatever you need."
Carefully and gently closing the door with great effort, he whirls around to burst into Larry's room. "Larry, what the heck is the meaning of this?!"
"Wha—wha?" His best friend pulls off the headphones. "Huh? What, man? Meaning of what?"
"Th—there's a man outside, claiming you hired him to 'escort' me for the night!" he wails with finger quotes.
"Oh!" Larry beams. "Isn't he exactly your type?"
"Yes! No, wait! That's—"
"C'mon, Nick, I've seen your porn collection! You can't lie to me!"
"Wh— That's not the point! Why did you—" Phoenix flails helplessly and settles for pointing at the door, distraught.
Larry stands and claps him on the shoulders. "Dude, you've been moping in your room like your life is over for… what, a week now? Go out and have some fun, man; forget all about that chick."
"What?! Larry! I can't j—"
"Sure you can. Don'tcha know, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else?" The blond gives him a wink and a thumbs up as he stares, gobsmacked.
"T—th—that's— That's not how it works!" (A—and maybe that's why you keep getting dumped!)
"Huh? You've tried?"
Phoenix slumps. "W—well, n—no, but—!"
"Aww, c'mon, man… Don't be like that! Listen." Larry slings an arm around his shoulders. "I spent all the dough I'd saved up for Melanie's next date on this —too bad she left, huh— so are you going to trample all over my gift and my feelings, Nick? Are you?! Huuuh?! How do you call yourself a friend, Nick?! How?!" It's Larry's turn to wail, stomping his foot dramatically. "I just wanted to cheer you up! 'Cause you're always the one dealing with my breakup woes, man!"
"Oo—oof!" (Well, I guess there's no sense in arguing with Larry now, if he's already paid…) "Okay! Fine! All right! I'll go!"
Larry claps his hands and goes right back to beaming.
(I— I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. Augh…)
"Awesome! There's a hotel around the block, nothing fancy but nothing sleazy either. Well, go, shoo, don't keep the hunk waiting! I hear he's super popular. Tonight's the only full night slot he's got open for the month!" He waggles his eyebrows, then gets back to the dating sites on his computer. "Tell me how it goes!"
Phoenix sighs as he goes to quickly change into something more presentable — his best pair of jeans and a simple blue sweater. He doesn't have anything that wouldn't look underdressed beside that gorgeous "escort" outside anyway. Winding a navy and white argyle scarf around his neck, he joins the man in the hallway.
"I'm sorry for the long wait."
"Not at all." Now that he's looking at the other, he realizes that the other's hair is grey, not black, and his sharp eyes are the same color… and looking expectantly at him.
"Uh… What do we do now?" (H—he's so handsome…)
"Well, whatever you like, Mr. Wright. I'm all yours tonight."
(Ugh… No… This isn't…) Phoenix sighs, slumping. "I—I had no— This wasn't my idea. I don't know what to do. I've never done anything like this. It's like a date or a hookup, only not, and kinda like getting a haircut, all at the same time."
"A—a haircut, Mr. Wright?" the man echoes, hastily schooling indignation into —the more polite— confusion.
"Uh, you know…" Phoenix scratches the back of his head with a sheepish laugh. "The part where you'll do me any way I want…?" (W—wow, that awkward silence. Good job, Phoenix. You really are hopeless. No wonder Dollie—) "S—sorry. What do I call you?" He really doesn't want to go down that train of thought right now.
"Miles Edgeworth." He offers Phoenix a business card out of his shirt pocket.
It has his name and number printed in elegant black type on pearlescent card stock under a more embellished heading — "Your Perfect Night Agency," Phoenix reads aloud. The word "Agency" is on a second line, centered under "Perfect" and both in gold leaf, giving the impression that Your Night is distinctly extraneous to this Perfect Agency with its address on the back.
"Well, it's as it says, Mr. Wright." Miles inclines his head at the card. "And surely your perfect night does not entail standing outside the door of your apartment till morning dawns, so perhaps you'd like to go somewhere?"
"U—um…" He hurriedly shoves his hands, and the card, into his pockets. "Larry says there's a decent hotel just around the block, but I don't know what he defines as decent, so maybe we can have a look and decide again there?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Wright." Gracefully, he steps aside, picks up a classy metal briefcase Phoenix hadn't noticed earlier and extends his arm to indicate, "After you."
"P—please, call me Phoenix." The formality feels awkward, and it's only adding to the surrealism of the situation.
"Of course, as you wish."
When they exit into the night, the streets are quiet. It's a weekday, and this neighborhood is a fair distance from the primary nightlife district in the area. As they walk in silence with Phoenix leading the way, a chill wind blows, and he's glad he decided to wear the sweater tonight.
Next to him, though, Miles shivers, and Phoenix stops to remove his scarf, wondering why Miles hadn't thought to wear anything warmer.
"I don't know how much this will help," he says, winding it around the other's neck, "but even if we turned back, I don't have a jacket that will fit you."
Miles is only a little taller, but his shoulders are broader, and… He looks really good with a scarf around his neck, like he was meant to accessorize there. Looking up at the man again under the light of the nearby street lamp, Phoenix is certain now that Miles is completely out of his league. With his sharp features, flawless fair skin, soft kissable lips and fit physique, it's no wonder he's in such high demand — he's a living, breathing media ideal. He even talks and dresses like he's used to a much higher class of clientele.
(Well, considering how much Larry usually spends on his dates…) Larry always dates models, and every dime he earns from his various jobs that doesn't go into absolute necessities, like rent and food, goes into lavish dates with these models in a —thus far futile— effort to keep them.
Those beautiful grey eyes are wide with shock though, and suddenly, Phoenix wonders if he's done something presumptuous or inappropriate.
"I— I'm sorry. Was I not supposed to do that?"
Miles starts, but quickly recovers. "N—no! Not at all! I mean—" Calm now, he smiles and covers one of Phoenix's hands that are still holding the ends of the scarf with his own. "Your… concern is… touching. Thank you, M—Phoenix."
(D—does that mean that his clients don't normally care if he's cold?) But it doesn't seem appropriate to ask, so "It's not much further now," he says, leading Miles by the hand holding his own. "I hope Larry's definition of decent isn't completely warped, so we can go inside where it's warm."
As it turns out, the hotel is, in fact, perfectly decent. A simple, working class affair, but clean, comfortable and functional with crisp white sheets and birch wood furniture. Miles' usual clients prefer swankier establishments, of course —he's rarely gone below four stars— but he can't fault the place, especially at the price he paid for the night.
In truth, he'd been surprised to receive the address for this appointment —he's never met a client outside the upper class neighborhoods before— and, from the other's age and the school shirt he'd been wearing when he answered the door earlier, Phoenix Wright is most likely a student at Ivy University; ergo broke. Larry Butz is clearly his flatmate, most likely another student, albeit somewhat less broke if he's hiring Miles for his friend here.
His friend who is nervously pottering about with the kettle and the provided sachets of instant coffee and thoughtfully asking Miles if he'd like anything to drink.
Miles removes his shoes and socks, then sets his briefcase full of sex toys down on the provided luggage shelf. "Why don't you go get comfortable?" he suggests, joining Phoenix at the mini bar. "Let me take care of this." He takes the kettle from unresisting hands. "I would be flabbergasted were I not far more experienced at teabagging than you." His well-practiced flirty glance goes unnoticed as the other merely nods and turns away — the innuendo is either lost on him or poorly received, and Miles has his money on oblivious.
Considering Phoenix's reaction to the night thus far, Miles cannot fathom why his friend thought hiring a rent boy for him was a good idea.
Of the available teabag selection, plain green tea seems like the safest choice, so… he freezes at the sound of the shower running. Is the man stalling to feel less awkward, or does he feel obligated to clean up for Miles?
It's oddly charming, either way. Like the scarf still wound around his neck that smells of cheap fabric softener, or the offer to make him tea. He can even let the earlier tasteless comparison to a haircut slide.
While waiting for the water to boil, he undresses — folds the scarf and places it neatly by Phoenix's pile of clothes on the desk, takes the condoms and lubricant out of his briefcase and slips them under the pillow on the far side of the bed, and folds his own clothes in a neat stack atop the briefcase. He doubts he'll be using anything else in it tonight.
He's just finished making Phoenix's coffee and his own green tea when the other steps out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, and—
Phoenix is hardly unattractive. He certainly doesn't look like he'd need to pay for sex. He catches Miles staring, realizes Miles is wearing nothing but a black silk thong and blushes, averting blue eyes, and Miles feels a twinge of genuine arousal. After all these years, Miles can get it up for virtually anybody —he's a professional, after all— but he's also learned to appreciate the clients for whom desire comes easily, if not quite naturally, and he doesn't think he'll have any problems wanting to please Phoenix.
Assuming Phoenix wants to be pleased at all. The man won't even look at him more than is strictly necessary.
"Am I not to your liking, Phoenix?" he asks directly as he approaches with the steaming coffee. "Seeing as I was selected for you by someone else, it would be perfectly understandable if I were not your type."
"What? No! No, you're gorgeous! I— I think— Under different circumstances, maybe— Maybe I'd be falling over myself to ask you out! But…"
"But…?" he presses, holding out the cup and saucer.
"But this is weird. And awkward. And… isn't it… I don't know, kinda illegal?" Phoenix takes the coffee, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"You mean prostitution?"
Miles fetches his tea before sitting beside Phoenix — as long as physical attraction isn't the problem, Miles is confident Phoenix can be persuaded. After all, his boss and mentor, Mr. Manfred von Karma, wouldn't accept anything less than perfection, and he will have much to answer for if he doesn't make a repeat customer out of Phoenix Wright tonight.
The other nods into his coffee cup.
"It is," Miles agrees, sipping his tea. "However, the legal definition of prostitution is the sale of the act of coitus. Ergo, unless you possess a vagina under that towel, nothing we do tonight would be deemed by the law to be prostitution."
"O—oh." Phoenix downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp.
Miles takes the cup from unresisting fingers. "Do you have any other concerns? I assure you that I am perfectly clean, and nothing you might find pleasurable would be outrageous to me. All but the most exceptional requests are covered in the fee your friend paid, so please relax and let me take care of you till nine in the morning." If anything, Phoenix only looks more discomfited as Miles goes to set the cups aside, so he decides to try the tack that worked earlier again. "Phoenix." He takes Phoenix's hands and leans in, trying for a look of hurt and insecurity when blue eyes snap to his own. "Are you truly so resistant to my charms, or am I not trying hard enough?" He withdraws and turns away before Phoenix can call his bluff to grip his elbow with a protective arm around himself. "If I am losing my touch… no, I don't know what else I could do."
"M—Miles…" From the conflicted sound of Phoenix's voice, it appears that this approach is effective.
"You say you find me attractive," he continues, eyes trained on the dark green carpet — now to drive the nail into the coffin, "yet you avoid even looking at me. I can only think—"
"No, no!" Phoenix takes him by the elbows. "You're beautiful! It's the truth!"
"Then show me." He moves quickly, so his hands are on bare hips and his lips a mere hair's breadth away from Phoenix's.
For one pregnant moment, there's nothing but the sound of their quick, shallow breaths hanging between them, and Miles worries the other will see through this and change his mind. But then Phoenix closes the rest of the distance between them and—
It's chaste, tender.
He has to chase it as Phoenix pulls back, reach a hand up to support the back of the other's neck while silently asking to be let in, before Phoenix parts his lips, closing his eyes.
Miles seizes his chance, sliding his tongue sensually along the inside of Phoenix's bottom lip before twining it with Phoenix's as he continues to brush their lips together. One of Phoenix's hands rises to cup his cheek as the other tilts his head back and starts to respond, tongue sliding along Miles' to tease at his lips. He invites Phoenix in, wrapping his arm around Phoenix to lower him to the bed. The other's arms fly to Miles' shoulders, clinging to him as they continue kissing, and it isn't until he tugs fabric out of the way to rock his hips into Phoenix's that the other gasps, blue eyes flying open.
Before Phoenix can protest, he does it again, caressing the other's lower lip with his thumb and watching the pupils dilate with lust in those pretty blue eyes as he feels Phoenix respond. Shifting a bit, he keeps rolling his hips, only now the pressure is on his ass and perineum, and sighs with genuine pleasure.
This seems to do it for Phoenix because Miles is guided into another kiss, and the other's hands card through his hair, stroke down his neck and trace the ridges of his spine. Then they're sliding over his skin to the front, and Miles doesn't hide the jerk of his hips when they sweep over his nipples.
"Don't these hurt?" Phoenix asks between kisses, tracing his gunmetal black nipple rings, featherlight, with his fingertips.
That's probably what many people think, even though they find it sexy. Perhaps that's why most of his clients never think to touch him there — he's usually the one lavishing attention on the breasts and nipples of his female clients. But they're the second most erogenous part of his body, and the piercings keep them erect and sensitive, so he's always careful what undershirts he wears to hide and protect them. Even this gentle touch seems to go straight down.
"No. The opposite, actually."
"Oh… They're pretty." To his surprise, Phoenix rolls them over and begins to pepper his neck with kisses as his fingers play with the rings. "Good?"
"Hngh, y—yes," Miles gasps, tilting his head back to offer better access, hips jerking as the rings are slid around and thumbs skim the sensitive tips. The other's lips trail down his chest to take one hand's place on a nipple, and Miles cries out as a warm tongue swirls wetly around one while two fingers tease the other nub whilst gently tugging its ring. Phoenix's free hand finds his to lace their fingers, and his hand tightens on Phoenix's as his toes curl. "Ah… Phoenix…" He hasn't been so close so quickly since his first time, and he's the one that should be pleasuring his client. "Tell me," he asks breathlessly, "what do you like?"
The head of spiky black hair lifts. "Seeing you like this." Phoenix smiles wryly, blue eyes sad. "It's the only thing I know for sure you're not faking." One hand drops to caress the evidence —he's rock hard and dripping— and Miles bites back a whimper.
There's something foolishly heartbreaking about looking for something real in a night of paid pleasure, but Miles doesn't call Phoenix a fool. From a business perspective, in love is exactly where he wants every client to be. And he knows dozens of rehearsed lines for this, but somehow, the words won't come. That may be for the best, though. It's his job to be anything his clients want him to be, but he's certain now that Phoenix doesn't want any illusions.
So instead, he says, "Phoenix, I met you for the first time barely an hour ago. Even if this wasn't a job, I don't know enough to love you. However, that doesn't mean I cannot enjoy what we have tonight. I have regular clients, and while it isn't love, our relationship is no less real than any other, merely different. Do you understand, Phoenix?" He traces the other's cheekbone with his fingertips. "We both know what this is, but that doesn't make it a lie."
The other nods and resumes playing with Miles' nipples, switching the places of his mouth and fingers, and Miles can't withhold his keen of pleasure as Phoenix sucks on them.
"Phoenix, I'm almost— ahh!"
A pause in his ministrations. "Yeah, I want to see."
"Ngh… Wh—what about you?"
Phoenix grins, teasing. "Surely a great professional like yourself can go more than once a night…?"
"Hah, ngh… Ch—challenge accepted." Miles lets go, but it's not enough — Phoenix is being too gentle. "Harder," he gasps, writhing. "B—bite a li—haAHH!!"
This is only his second nipple orgasm —the first was by accident, when he made a client out of his piercer by discovering that he could— but it's the same full-body flood of rapture that feels like seeing proverbial stars.
When Miles opens his eyes, Phoenix is staring at him, transfixed. "W—wow… Th—that was… really hot… No wonder you're so popular."
And he's not sure why that makes his cheeks blaze. He's done far lewder, more embarrassing things for clients that would make most decent people blush without any sense of shame, and yet, he can't take this compliment from Phoenix.
"You're not like any other client."
The other chuckles wryly. "I bet you say that to every client."
Miles shakes his head. "Not all want to hear such words."
"So, to all the ones that do then."
Rolling them onto their sides, he cups Phoenix's cheek with his free hand and presses a soft kiss to Phoenix's mouth, squeezing the hand in his own. "Be that as it may, it is true that none of my other clients are particularly invested in my pleasure for its own sake. Already I am wishing to see you again… to be yours every night." And sure, he says the last to every client, but it has never rung so true before.
Phoenix laughs, self-deprecating. "You know I can't afford your rates, Miles. I'm a college student. I'll be in debt for the rest of my life as it is."
He strokes surprisingly soft hair, twining their legs. "You don't have to book the whole night." He shifts, so he's atop Phoenix again, and is rewarded with a sharp hitch of breath when he presses his groin into the other's. "The hourly rate is cheapest on weekday mornings." Against his better judgement, he adds, "And I'd throw in extras, only for you."
"Ah, Miles…" Phoenix sounds breathless as Miles kisses and mouths at his neck — he must have tried things that he himself finds enjoyable, Miles reasons. "I think, if you ever wanted a career change, you'd make it big in sales."
"See?" Miles pins both of Phoenix's hands down on either side of his head, keeping their fingers intertwined, as he nuzzles the sparse covering of black hair on the other's chest — the man smells like citrus-y soap, no doubt the hotel's shower gel. "Most of my clients would have said modelling, either nude, underwear or swimwear." He licks a nipple teasingly, but it doesn't have quite the desired effect, so he grinds his hips into Phoenix's again.
"Ahh, y—yes… That would work too. You're… so beautiful." It's nothing Miles hasn't heard hundreds of times, but Phoenix says it with this… awestruck sincerity. Like he can't believe he could ever have someone like Miles at his side.
Miles nips his way back up the other's neck to murmur, "You're quite attractive yourself, you know. In another life, you wouldn't have to pay me." And he knows perfectly well he shouldn't have said that, but it's not like he expects Phoenix to afford another booking anytime soon, let alone bargain. It has its desired effect, too —Phoenix's hips buck up into his own— and "I want you inside me," he whispers, looking up into guileless blue eyes. "Please."
The other's mouth falls open, and he looks, at once, incredibly turned on and nervous enough to sweat bullets. "I—I'm—" Phoenix's gaze drops to the bed. "This is only my second time with a man. I— I don't know—"
"Tsk tsk." Miles takes the risk, waves a finger in his face. "Aren't you lucky one of us is an expert?" He gives Phoenix his sultriest gaze. "Will you watch and learn?"
Blue eyes widen. "I— Y—yes."
He lets go of one hand to reach under the other pillow for a condom and the bottle of lubricant. "Think you can manage to put one of these on?" (Please don't say no.)
"H—hold it!" Phoenix snatches the condom packet out of his hands. "Don't make it sound like I'm completely clueless!"
Miles smirks, pecking him on the lips. "You told me not to fake it, did you not?"
Phoenix breaks into a real smile. "So… your clients don't like it when you're condescending, I take it?"
"My clients," Miles coats his fingers in lubricant, "like it when I present the illusion they desire for the night. Some will request it outright when they make the appointment, and some I have to deduce." He turns, knees still straddling Phoenix's hips. "But I've never had a man that didn't like it when I did this." He bends forward to expose himself fully, then presses a slick finger in to stretch himself.
He doesn't bite back the moan that rises in his throat — everyone likes to feel desirable, so they're always pleased by how affected he is when they take him. In truth, it's easy to pretend they're anyone else —he'd enjoy this with a toy just the same— but it's nice not having to pretend, nice to be with someone who wants him instead of some crafted persona for a change, who doesn't feel like a client.
Phoenix seems frozen beneath him, so he adds a second finger, whining the other's name and letting himself tremble as he strokes his prostate. The hand gently caressing his hip takes him by surprise, but his cry of pleasure when a thumb traces his entrance is completely genuine. He whimpers when the touch withdraws, but then Phoenix is sitting up and pulling him close, a finger slides in alongside his own, and the stretch and pressure has him arching into the other with a gasp for the kiss he expects. He doesn't try for technique this time, just puts all the desire he feels into it, and Phoenix… Phoenix embraces him like he's something precious, kisses back with such tenderness, and Miles wonders what this would be like if they loved each other — a dangerous thought, he knows.
Going pliant in Phoenix's arms feels so natural, and Miles doesn't know what to make of the amazement in those blue eyes. But smearing lubricant on Phoenix's cock gets him a grunt of pleasure, so he only whispers, "I'm ready if you are."
Seeing the earlier uncertainty return, Miles tucks a lock of black hair behind the other's ear as he languidly shifts to face Phoenix on his knees. Leaning down for another kiss, he lowers his hips, guiding Phoenix inside, and smiles when they moan as one.
"Surely," he murmurs over the man's lips as he rubs circles into Phoenix's scalp, "even you can take it from here?"
"H—hey!"
But the pout of protest melts into a chuckle, and Phoenix flips them over to cradle him in his arms. Miles reflexively wraps his limbs around the other, Phoenix starts moving without preamble, and the pleasure has always been real, but face to face with Phoenix like this, it feels… strangely intimate. For the first time, when Miles' eyes flutter shut, it's not an act, and the sweet languor of the kiss they share is a sharp contrast to the urgent snap of their hips.
Miles gasps at the familiar tension coiling up — it's too soon. Maybe, he thinks, he should try to hold back, but then Phoenix lets out a desperate groan when Miles pulls him deeper, and that melts the last of his control — he doesn't think he can.
"Ahh! I— Miles, I'm—"
He screams.
Von Karma would tell him he should be ashamed, coming like a virgin at the sound of his name on some stranger's lips, and Phoenix isn't even a talented or experienced lover — objectively, at least. But boy is he glad that Phoenix wasn't his first — he'd have been ruined forever.
Phoenix shudders, arms tightening around him, and once he's blinked his vision back to clarity, he thinks to stroke Phoenix's hair and back through the aftershocks.
At least he thinks they're aftershocks until Phoenix starts sobbing.
"Phoenix? Phoenix, what's wrong?" (Wrong question,) he thinks as soon as he hears himself. (Too personal. It's,) "Did I do something wrong?"
But Phoenix only shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Miles. I'm sorry." He sits up, slipping out and pulling away with his head down to hide his face.
"What for?" Miles sits up as well.
"I— I just—" He wipes his eyes with his arm. "It feels like I used you."
As ridiculous as that sounds, it leaves a bitter aftertaste. "That's what they'd call it when you're not paying, I suppose."
Phoenix muffles an anguished cry with his hands, and it only makes Miles feel worse.
"But that's the worst part, isn't it? How does the money make it better?"
A chill creeps in, and Miles asks, "What's the difference? Everyone trades one thing for another. Feelings, sex, money, promises… it's a question of what you'll accept for what you expect to receive. Don't make it sound like—"
"No! No, I'm not saying it's wrong, or you shouldn't do it, or anything. I— I mean, for me, personally… I—" He wipes his eyes again. "I thought— I wanted this to be something special. Something shared only by people who really love each other. Even with Dollie, I waited… till it felt like we were both truly ready, but…"
Phoenix wrings his hands, then just grabs the other pillow to weep into it, and suddenly, it dawns on Miles in a flurry of horror, disbelief and guilt exactly what's going on. Phoenix Wright has obviously just broken up with his girlfriend, this Dollie. That's why Larry Butz decided to hire Miles, thinking it would cheer his flatmate up and help Phoenix move on. Larry Butz is clearly an idiot.
"I don't know. Maybe it's silly. Is it different when you love someone? Do you have anyone like that?"
"Hmph. I expect, if I had anyone like that, they wouldn't appreciate my choice of career. And I'm sorry, too. I… manipulated you into this," he admits softly. "We could have just talked if that's what you wanted, but I…"
"You were doing your job." Phoenix shakes his head, voice thick and wet with tears. "It's all right."
"No, it's not," Miles counters firmly. "It was selfish and thoughtless of me, not to mention entirely counterproductive. What I have done would hardly make a repeat customer out of you."
That gets some cross between a chuckle and a sob out of Phoenix. "As if I could afford to hire you myself, Miles. I told you, I'm pretty broke."
"You'd be amazed how many people who 'couldn't afford it' ended up becoming regulars. It just takes an adjustment of priorities. Saving, borrowing, repurposing… they figure it out."
Phoenix turns to face him, blue eyes still damp. "Well, you're worth saving up for."
"No." He wipes the tear streaks off Phoenix's cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "I'm not. Focus on graduating, Phoenix."
"I thought you wanted me to become a regular." Phoenix smiles, wry and shaky.
"I do, but I can wait a few years for you to get a steady stream of income."
Another gurgled chuckle. "Kinda like getting married, isn't it?" Phoenix's face falls again, and he buries the fresh flow of silent tears in the pillow.
(Were they that far along? Did things snap under marriage pressure?) "What happened?" (What kind of—)
"She…" Phoenix sniffles. "…tried to kill me."
(Right. A psychopath. Of course.)
But that's neither here nor there, so Miles slips out to the bathroom to clean up and bring a clean washcloth he'd run under warm water back to the bed. Phoenix obligingly sits up at Miles' nudging and lets Miles wipe, first his face, then his torso, and remove the used condom to tie it up. Miles wipes after it too, and Phoenix colors faintly at that, but only silently moves for Miles to pull the soiled bedspread off. Returning to the bathroom to discard the condom and leave the washcloth by the sink, Miles steps out to find that Phoenix has crawled under the covers.
Hesitating, Miles goes to get a glass of water, then remembers that Phoenix hasn't sent him away and brings a glass for Phoenix too. The other sits up to accept it and drains it in one gulp before flopping back down gracelessly, and Miles sets the glass down on the nightstand before sliding in beside him.
"Thank you," Phoenix mumbles, shifting closer.
"What for?" Miles asks again.
"For…" Phoenix makes some vague gesture with his hand.
"Very articulate, Phoenix."
In spite of the mood, the other snorts. "For being sweet? Making me laugh?"
"I'm doing my job," he corrects. "If it's just the sex, there are hundreds of others people could get it from."
To his surprise, Phoenix shakes his head. "You were doing your job before being a condescending jerk. This… That last time you kissed me… I was amazed. You really dropped the act, and you still wanted me."
(Heh… Impressive.) Phoenix is surprisingly perceptive.
"That, or you're an even better actor than Dollie." Phoenix shrugs. "What do I know? I truly believed she really loved me." He chokes up on the last bit. "Right up until she tried to frame me for murder on the witness stand."
The sharp flare of anger seizes Miles by surprise, and he hadn't known before this that it was possible to hate a person he knew so little about so intensely. This Dollie didn't just break Phoenix's heart — she'd planted a seed of doubt that would make him question every future partner and left a scar that would harden him to every chance at happiness to come.
"It wasn't an act." He pulls Phoenix into a tight embrace. "I wanted you just as you wanted the real me. This is real. And she doesn't deserve to ruin all your future relationships," he adds fiercely, pressing his lips to the other man's temple.
"How do you know," Phoenix sobs into his neck, "that it wasn't me? That it wasn't something I did wrong?"
"Phoenix, you cared about me ten minutes after we met, and if tonight is how you are with a stranger, then I can only imagine," (and envy,) "how you must have been with her." He pets spiky black hair, rubs the other's back soothingly. "No, I don't believe, for even a moment, that the problem lay with you."
Instead of stopping, though, Phoenix only starts bawling in earnest all over again. "Isn't it pathetic," he lets out a broken laugh, "that this is the most I've ever connected with someone, so much so I'm actually thinking of saving up to see you again?"
"No," Miles murmurs, massaging his scalp. "But you're a fool to desire what can never truly belong to you. Still…" His voice drops to a whisper. "In this, we can be fools together."
But Phoenix has already cried himself to sleep, so Miles only pulls the covers more snugly around them, switches off the lights, wraps his arms around Phoenix and closes his eyes.
☆☆☆☆☆
Phoenix checks the address on the business card in his hand again, then looks up once more at the premises in front of him. The sign, both outside above the glass doors and behind the marble and brushed steel reception counter inside, reads "YPN Agency" in big gold letters illuminated in white light from behind. The foyer, with its marble floors, white walls, simple circular ceiling lights and small waiting area lined with black leather seats, looks more like the entrance to some corporate head office than an escort agency… which, he reasons, is probably the objective.
There's a fierce-looking senior gentleman in an elaborate dark blue suit looking through a folder beside the receptionist, a bespectacled brunette in a simple white button-down and black pencil skirt. From the way she's fidgeting in her office chair and glancing surreptitiously back at him, he's probably in charge here. When Phoenix walks in, she looks relieved, but the nervous tension in the air doesn't help his own nerves any.
"Gooood afternoon, sir!" She greets cheerfully, jumping to her feet. "Welcome to YPN Agency! How may I h—be of assistance to you today?"
"Uh… G—good afternoon…" He catches the look of disdain in the older man's eyes, and even though Phoenix has changed into his newest pair of jeans, least worn sneakers and best button-down, this is clearly bespoke suit and designer shoes territory. He decides to focus on the friendlier receptionist. "I— I'm looking for Miles Edgeworth…?"
"Do you have an appointment?" The man cuts in sharply before she can reply — no such chance.
"Well, no, but—"
"Then I'm afraid I can't allow—"
"N—not today, I mean!" Phoenix interjects hurriedly. "I—it's just… H—he left something behind when he left this morning, and um… I wanted to r—request something… for our next engagement!"
"Oh." The sudden change in demeanor leaves Phoenix a bit shell-shocked. "A returning customer." There's still an underlying edge of skepticism, but the disdain has been carefully filed away like the folder the man sets down. "Well, why didn't you say so?"
(Because I only had every opportunity to get a word in edgewise?!)
"In that case…"
With a polite smile that seems somehow more frightening than his earlier serious face, he indicates that Phoenix should follow him as he steps around the wall behind the counter, and Phoenix hears the receptionist sigh in relief as he passes. Hidden from view behind that corporate foyer is a carpeted corridor that could easily have come out of a luxury hotel. Complete with numbered wooden doors on either side, it ends in a grand staircase lit by a chandelier.
"What did you say your name was again?"
"I didn't… It's Phoenix Wright."
"I see. Well then, Mr. Wright," the man opens door number three and indicates that he should enter, "please have a seat in here while I summon him."
The man doesn't wait for his "thank you" before shutting the door on this small cross between a lounge and a meeting room. A fancy ceiling lamp casts a warm glow over the burgundy upholstered walls and deep carpet, and the plush brown leather L-shaped sofa he sinks into fills up most of the space. There's a small contraption on the expensive-looking wooden coffee table that seems to be a conjoined microphone and speaker — he assumes it's some kind of internal communications system.
Just then, the door opens again, and Miles enters in a similarly elaborate suit, only in wine red instead of dark blue.
(I'm guessing that's the dress code around here… pompous ruffles.)
"You have five minutes," comes the older man's stern voice from outside, and Miles' cordial "Yes, sir" as he closes the door betrays nothing, although grey eyes light up when he sees Phoenix. He steps closer, and Phoenix stands to throw his arms around Miles in a tight hug, but is guided into a tender kiss instead, and (I can't believe— This… This can't be a lie… can it…?)
"That was fast," Miles murmurs when they part.
Phoenix takes a half step back to fumble in his pocket. "You dropped this." He holds out the Signal Blue keychain he found on the bed beside him this morning. "It's a limited edition bonus item they gave out with the first print of the complete DVD box set, so I figured it was... kinda important."
Miles averts his eyes as he takes it, grips his left elbow as he sits down. "No, I left it on purpose… knowing you would come to return it even if you didn't know what it was."
Cracking a grin, Phoenix sits as well. "Heh, you're pretty good at reading people."
Relieved, Miles relaxes and smirks. "It comes with the territory. Still, I'm pleased to hear that anyone recognizes Signal Samurai anymore."
"Are you kidding?" Phoenix scoffs. "That was my childhood. Look, I have one too." He pulls out another keychain, identical but crimson instead of cobalt — Signal Red. "And you know, I almost kept it. You see, I saved up for months to buy that box set, hoping I'd get Signal Blue. I was pretty crushed when I opened the box and saw Red instead. But I didn't know anyone who got one they didn't want, and I couldn't afford to buy another set, so…" He shrugs, sheepish.
Miles can hardly believe his ears. "Why don't we swap then?"
"What?" Phoenix gasps. "R—really?"
"Yes." He chuckles, leaning closer. "It's funny. Signal Red is my favorite, and I was rather disappointed when I opened the box to find that it was Blue."
Phoenix snorts. "I guess Larry's the only one who got the one he wanted, the lucky bastard." They exchange keychains, but don't let go. "It's… kinda romantic, isn't it?" He searches grey eyes hopefully, running his thumb over Miles' knuckles, and the affection he finds there is —he hopes— unmistakably genuine. "So… I was hoping we could… you know, start properly, and uh… get coffee sometime," he forges ahead. "Or tea. You said you were good with tea."
Miles laughs. "That's not— No matter. I suppose the naïvete is part of your charm. And I'd love to," but he looks down guiltily, laughter dying as he bites his lip. "Really. I would. But…" He looks back up, catches blue eyes and glances pointedly up in the direction of von Karma's office. "You know I can't." He squeezes Phoenix's hand, silently begging him to understand.
"Oh."
And he can't take that crestfallen look on Phoenix's face, but he can only open his mouth to apologize. "Ph—"
"How much?"
Miles stops, blinks.
Swallowing thickly, Phoenix clarifies, "Those weekday morning slots you were telling me about. How much?"
And Miles feels his facial muscles protest as he breaks into a happy smile.