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It was only because Wright had asked him. Really, it was.
After the second trial of Kristoph Gavin for murder, it was only natural that Prosecutor Klavier Gavin would want to take a vacation, and, so, Edgeworth found himself spending his valuable time babysitting the brilliant boy who had replaced him for a week in the German countryside.
No, his age was not the problem. Nor his legal skill. It wasn't even his mind — the boy could match wits with him far better than Wright ever could (which is exactly what he was going to write in the next e-mail to Wright on the boy's "progress").
No, the problem was…the boy's incredibly insatiable sex drive. And the need he seemed to have to flaunt it at every opportunity.
Monday, he met the boy climbing off the plane, rolling peanuts back and forth from tongue to lips and back into that obnoxiously perfect mouth, picking them from each tin package one by one and…sucking every bit of salt off them. Just making use of the pitiful service on these cheap American planes, he chuckled. And then he smiled and crunched them between his teeth. The lesser men among them winced.
Tuesday, it was cough drops — he claimed his voice was exhausted from a new song he was composing, but that didn't explain the suspiciously red eyes he was wearing as he stared out blankly into the forest at the edge of the Von Karma estate.
Wednesday, expensive German chocolate from his more spirited fans was dangling between his long, calloused fingers, and his tongue darted out, rubbing against the sweet until he reached the soft white — white! who in Germany made coconut-filled candies? — in between answering questions and flashing those perfectly white teeth. Really, did he need to invite these, these stalkers into the living room while Edgeworth was tending to business? When they left, he could at least thank Heaven he wouldn't have to over-pay the maids to attend to certain, ahem, extra cleaning duties in Herr Gavin's bedroom.
Thursday, it was the pick of his guitar as he filled the grand hall with the strangely soothing echoes of chords, experimental keys, tiny melodies that led into nothing…yet. Edgeworth was starting to assume that this boy needed to constantly have some sort of oral stimulus. Perhaps he had not sucked his thumb enough as a child. What kind of musician holds his spare picks in his teeth? Unless it was some sort of peculiarity to rock stars-cum-prosecutors he was unaware of in his more elegant and restrained pastimes (but even then, the Steel Samurai would certainly not hold his spare katana between his lips, now would… *gulp* Edgeworth quickly ended that train of thought.)
On Friday, he took the boy into the city, thankful that it was crowded enough to afford him some privacy. Beneath the dark sunglasses, he couldn't see what the boy was thinking, but, for once, his lips were, finally, neither wrapped around nor sucking at anything. They walked, and, suddenly, one moment, Edgeworth realized he was alone. He backtracked, hurriedly trying to find the boy — why, he didn't know — only to find his worry bloom into annoyance. Fingers, this time! The tip of a well-manicured nail, pressing against his lips as he stared into…a perfumery, perhaps? Long, delicate glass bottles of all shapes and sizes — all phallic, Edgeworth thought, escaping the urge to roll his eyes — and those nails the boy was barely starting to bite at with the tiniest flash of white teeth against the delicate flesh of his fingers. He blinked when the boy walked in and carefully selected a bottle of expensive nail polish. His own nails were clean. Why…? But the boy said nothing to him, just smiled and urged them to move along.
On Saturday, the music again. But now the boy was sitting over a heavy pad of papers, occasionally throwing one away in disgust, and constantly — constantly — tipping the cap of his pen (an expensive, finely made pen that had the smoothest grip Edgeworth had ever touched) against his mouth, biting it, worrying it between his lips…
He gave up. Friendship with Wright or not, this was ridiculous.
"Must you continue to abuse my pen?" he snapped.
The regret hit him the moment he saw those blue eyes look up at him, startled, and heard the pen clatter to the floor.
"Es tut mir leid," the boy said. Edgeworth had never listened to that voice before. It was low, and rough. Undeniably masculine. "I am sorry, Herr Edgeworth."
"No, I…I apologize, Herr Gavin. It is just…can you not go a day without something in that mouth of yours?"
"Ach, this is only because you are always looking, ja?"
He stared at the boy…that damned mouth, hanging open, slowly morphing into a familiar smirk. All this time looking, and he'd had never really seen. Those clear, blue eyes looked better when they hadn't been weeping, and those hands that were beautiful and rough from use, the long curl of blond hair…a true beauty, if he could only tear his eyes away from that mouth.
He found he didn't want to.
On Sunday…Edgeworth realized just how delightful it was to have something in his own mouth.