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“No.”
“Mi-iles—”
“No,” says Miles, and very resolutely goes back to his legal brief, highlighting a random line of text in a dramatic swipe of blue. (He has started using blue highlighters ever since two months ago, when he received his very first kiss. He refuses to admit to himself why this change may have occurred.)
“But you love me!”
“I do. I have made that abundantly clear. I am not going to let you teach me the Macarena.”
“Oh, come on,” says Phoenix. “You won the case! That’s something worth thoroughly celebrating—”
“You lost the case,” says Miles disbelievingly. “How are you possibly in such a good mood right now?”
“Because you won,” sings out a sunny Phoenix, skipping over to drape himself over Miles’s lap (and Miles’s legal brief) like a happy puppy. “Because you asked for me specifically. Because you didn’t trust any other defense attorney to handle a case like this one—”
“—you’re the best in the business, you know this,” says Miles irritably, leaning into Phoenix, who is twining his arms around Miles’s neck and pressing warm, soft kisses to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do, ask for someone else? I shall not settle for two-bit defense attorneys focused only on getting their client off—”
“Wish you’d focus a little more on getting me off.”
“Phoenix!” Miles is horrified to find that a laugh has bubbled up, spilling out and over as he turns his face to meet Phoenix’s in a tender kiss. Phoenix is laughing too, shifting his weight to straddle Miles’s lap and push the papers haphazardly out of the way. Terribly, Miles cannot bring himself to care. “Phoenix, really,” he manages between kisses, “what on earth is with you today?”
Phoenix laughs again, breaking their kisses to press a kiss to Miles’s forehead. “Can’t a guy just be happy to be with his guy?”
“I am not your guy. That is horrible terminology."
“Sorry, love muffin. Can’t a guy just be happy to be with his special someone?”
“You’re dodging the question.” Absurdly, Miles is still smiling, fierce and bright. He can’t seem to bring himself to stop. “I’ll admit that you’re usually fairly ridiculous on a daily basis—”
“I resent that remark.” Phoenix considers. “Actually, I might resemble that remark.”
“—but,” says Miles, “your levels of ridiculousness are reaching new heights today. Don’t you dare dispute it,” he adds as Phoenix opens his mouth.
Phoenix grins a little. “Wasn’t about to.” He leans forward, rubbing his nose against Miles’s, and kisses him again—soft and sweet in a way that makes Miles forget absolutely everything that they were talking about. Then he says, “It just—struck me, today, in court, that I was more than ready to lose to you because I knew the verdict doesn’t matter to either of us anymore. And I wouldn’t have been able to trust you like that, years ago—to look at you and know for certain that you’d be just as ready and willing to lose your case if the defendant was truly innocent.”
Something about that stings, even though Miles knows Phoenix doesn’t mean it to. He draws in a sharp, pained breath.
“You know I don’t mean it like that,” says Phoenix very gently, letting his hands move from Miles’s shoulders to his cheeks. “I just mean—there was a time when you were convinced that all defense attorneys were working to get the guilty off the hook, and there was a time when I was convinced that all prosecutors cared only about maintaining a perfect guilty record. And now…” He trails off, smiling softly. “I get to look across the courtroom and there’s this guy I trust with my life. With my everything. Do you have any idea how wonderful that is?”
“…ah,” says Miles, who still has no idea how to respond when Phoenix says such stunningly romantic things. It’s hard for him to believe that he’s worthy of such adoration—but Miles is working, diligently, on building back his self-confidence, and it’s made easier when met with such brightly loving eyes. Because it’s the only thing Miles can say that matches Phoenix in intensity—and because it’s the one thing Miles has said to Phoenix that he still isn’t quite able to say to anyone else—Miles places his hands over Phoenix’s on his face and says, quietly, “I love you.”
Even two months later, this is enough to knock Phoenix speechless. “I-I—”
“And you’re right,” Miles adds, another mischievous smile stealing across his face. “This is a time for celebration, is it not?”
Phoenix seems entirely unable to respond.
“Phoenix,” says Miles. “Do you or do you or not wish to dance the Macarena with me?”
“That was a joke,” says Phoenix weakly.
Miles quirks a smile. “You know I know it already,” he says.
A soft blush rises in Phoenix’s cheeks, and Miles realizes that this is one of those rare occasions where he knows exactly what his partner is thinking. “I—didn’t know if you still remembered it,” he said. “I mean, the last time I taught it to you, we were nine and you barely remembered it anyway—”
This is going to be the most mortifying moment of Miles’s life. “Tell anyone this and I will both deny it and end our relationship,” he says, his fingers tangling with Phoenix’s, “but I spent three months practicing the Macarena in fourth grade in an attempt to eventually impress you.”
Phoenix’s eyes widen, and a laughing grin dances across his face. Miles knows Phoenix well enough, however, to know that this laughter is born of love rather than mockery. “Miles!” he says delightedly. “Really?”
Blushing fiercely, Miles says, “I-I had planned to ask you to the Valentine dance in February. But.” He drops the sentence there.
Phoenix laughs, warm and overjoyed. “You can bet I’d have said yes,” he whispers, and draws Miles in for another long kiss, this one more purposeful than playful. As their kisses deepen, it soon becomes extremely difficult for both of them to eventually pull back and remember that they are both still technically in the Prosecutors’ Office, even if Miles’s door is locked.
“Miles—”
“Mm,” says Miles, who isn’t thinking very far beyond the constant blissful litany of Wright, Wright, Wright—
“Miles,” says Phoenix, shifting away and breaking the kiss. “Are we going to Macarena or what?”
Miles finds himself smiling. “Better late than never, I think,” he says, and waits for Phoenix to stand up before getting up himself. Still somewhat kiss-dizzy, he covertly steadies himself with a hand on his desk, watching Phoenix find the music on his phone. “Do you remember how to do the Macarena?”
Phoenix gets a battle-worn look on his face and says, “You work with a Fey, you do the Macarena.”
Miles really does not want to know what that means. He also is beginning to belatedly realize that he only remembers half of the Macarena, and that three months of practice was still not quite enough to make his movements look anything other than stiff. “Ah—” he begins, already searching his brain for a suitable excuse.
But then Phoenix moves towards him and kisses him—a quick, affirming brush of lips just like the kiss they’d shared before going into the courtroom that morning. When he pulls back, he’s still smiling, soft and reassuring, like he knows what Miles is thinking and thinks it’s just a bit ridiculous. “I know who I’m dating, honey,” he says. “You do put the machine in dance machine.”
Somehow, that startles another laugh out of Miles.
“Follow my lead, okay?” says Phoenix, and Miles does, watching warily as the chorus kicks in.
Dale a tu cuerpo alegría Macarena
“Is there—are you supposed to be adding that much pop to your hips? That looks painful.”
“Don’t make me laugh, I’m trying to make it look sexy!”
“Comfort is sexy, Phoenix. A dislocated hip is concerning and warrants a hospital visit.”
Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegría cosa buena
“A dislocated—okay, you’re not even popping your hips at all!”
“I’m moving my arms just like you are, I think that’s more than enough—”
“Dancing is in the hips, babe, come on—”
Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena
Phoenix tugs on the lapels of Miles’s jacket, laughing when their foreheads bump together. They’re swaying to the music more than anything now, playful and rhythmic in a way that doesn’t at all follow the dance moves Miles practiced when he was nine. “This doesn’t at all follow—” Miles begins.
“Improvisation is key,” says Phoenix.
“You said you wanted to teach me the Macarena and now all we’re doing is swaying!” Miles persists. “There’s a pattern to this dance, a rhythm—”
“Okay, so you teach me.”
“You know I’m not going to do that!”
Phoenix is laughing again. Miles is laughing too. Somehow, Phoenix’s arms end up around Miles’s neck again, pulling him in close as the music continues. Miles feels as though classical music might better suit this leisurely sway—something sweet and slow, something that might play at one of the many von Karma galas—but the upbeat dance music reminds him of those sunshiny fourth grade days, of Phoenix’s hugely infectious smile as he watched Miles dance all those years ago.
Nothing is better than this.