Archive of Our Own ^beta

—

“Your car,” Wright says. “Can you fit a tree on top of it?”

Miles stares at him. They are in his office on a warm, mid-December afternoon, and sunlight is catching on dust motes as it streams through the windows behind him, and Wright has, apparently, gone insane.

Wright squints. "Edgeworth?"

Miles shakes his head. "Why on earth – Wright, tell me this doesn't have anything to do with a current case."

"It doesn't." Wright frowns. "Why would I need it for a case?"

"You have introduced much stranger things into evidence before."

"Okay, but – no, it's not for a case. It's for – it's a Christmas tree. For Christmas."

"Ah." This, at least, makes sense. Miles clears his throat. "I have never tested the capabilities of my vehicle in such a fashion."

"Right. Well, if you don't want to, you can just – it's fine." Wright turns to go, looking almost relieved. "Really. I just thought I'd ask."

"Wright –"

Wright stops a few short steps from the door, and turns. Miles clears his throat "I am sure my car would be more than capable of transporting a Christmas tree. If needed."

Wright nods, looking not a little to the left of Miles' head. "Okay."

"So."

"So…" Wright runs a hand through his hair. "Look. I wouldn't ask if – if it wasn't important."

This is both the most comprehensible thing Wright has said since entering Miles' office, and it is also an important point. Wright doesn't ask him for favors as a rule, and when he does, they are almost always more important than either of them is willing to acknowledge.

How quickly Miles makes up his mind has everything to do with this, and nothing at all to do with the way Wright's eyes are downcast, shoulders slumped forwards like he's already anticipating defeat. "Fine. I will assist you in this endeavor."

Wright looks up. "Oh. Uh – really?"

"I would not make such an offer lightly."

"Yeah yeah, I just –" for the first time since he had entered Miles' office, Wright flashes him a tentative smile. "Okay. Would tonight be okay?"

"It would."

"Great. Thanks, Edgeworth."

"You are welcome," Miles replies, and tries to ignore the way his stomach twists when Wright's smile brightens.

—

Feelings are not Miles Edgeworth's field of expertise.

This, certainly, is obvious to anyone even briefly acquainted with him. As Miles Edgeworth is certainly not blind to his own faults, it is also obvious to him.

He has, of course, gained more experience, and therefore more knowledge as to the subject over the years. Situations which would have rendered a twenty-four-year-old Miles Edgeworth helpless are only marginally difficult to navigate a decade later. Miles credits the effort he has dedicated to the subject, a cavalcade of different therapists scattered across Europe, and the general passage of time for this growth.

During one of Miles' few stints as a lecturer, a fellow law professor had commented on the inherent irony of the majority of her students coming into class having spent four years learning to question established systems, only for her to lecture them on how it was best to think within the established systems the law required – if they wished to win their cases, that is. Some of the less pliable students had pushed back against her teachings, but they had all fallen in line by the end of the course. A desire to win was as much a requirement for law school as entrance exams, and if winning meant conformation to a certain way of thinking, that was just another necessary sacrifice to be made in the name of victory. You can't win, the professor had said, if you're trying to blow up the system that tells you who lost.

Miles squints down at the papers on his desk and scowls, pushing back his chair.

Foolish, as Franziska would say, though even her hints have gotten more and more pointed in the past year or so. Miles is an institutionalist. There is no need to tear the basic framework of a system down, if it can be suitably reformed from the inside. There is no need to bring up an incident Wright has never shown any sign of remembering; there is absolutely no need to burden Wright with such heavy things as feelings when what they have is working perfectly well, and would be jeopardized by such a disclosure.

Wright, who has transformed many times over the years Miles has known him and yet somehow not changed at all. Wright, who can give as well as he can take, who has wounded Miles countless times over the years and who has been wounded no doubt just as many times in turn; Wright, who, despite this, doesn't turn away, doesn't look at Miles any differently now than he had when they were both too young to know just how young they were at the time.

Wright, who had left his office with another small smile, promising to be back sometime after five-thirty and laughing when Miles grimaces, making a joke about pulling him away from all that paperwork so Miles doesn't end up being blind at age fifty from squinting at all the fine print. Wright, who –

The clock is ticking. It is eight minutes past four o'clock. Miles pulls the curtains shut, and tries to focus on getting the rest of the day's work done before he has to face the inevitable.

—

Wright, true to his word, is back by five-thirty, bearing printed-out Google maps directions. Miles looks at them just long enough to input the address into Waze before handing them back. "...Wright."

"Yeah?"

"This is the address of a shopping center."

"The parking lot of a shopping center." Wright buckles his seatbelt at Miles' pointed look as they pull out of the parking garage and onto the street. "I mean, it's LA. There aren't exactly any real Christmas tree farms. And Athena told me this was one of the most popular ones. Or something. I started tuneing her out after she started talking about TikTok."

"Hmph."

"I mean, I'm not that old –"

"You still use a cell phone without internet access."

"That's a choice. If I wanted a smartphone I would get one. But – I just don't get it."

"I am certain you could learn."

"No, I mean TikTok. Athena's tried to show me a few videos, and some of them were pretty interesting, but then she let me go through the app on her phone, and it was mostly people dancing to –"

They pull up to a red light. Miles has the foolish urge to do something incredibly, unforgivably stupid, such as cover Wright's hand with his own. It is because Wright's speech is annoying, and such an unexpected action would stop it. Yes, Miles thinks, it has nothing to do with the fact that Wright only babbles on like this when he is backed into a corner, and that somehow Miles doubts a mentee's obsession with a certain app is what's responsible for the backing.

The light turns green, and Wright proceeds to prove Miles' hypothesis. "Trucy has a lot of followers. On TikTok."

"I see."

"She's gotten a lot of opportunities from it. Even a couple legitimate ones, from industry people. She doesn't want to lose the independence of the WAA, and she doesn't want to do a major tour until after she graduates, but…"

Wright falls silent. When Miles glances over at him again, he's staring out the window. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should get a smartphone."

"Perhaps," Miles says, because anything else would say too much entirely.

They pull up to a parking lot, situated between an Office Depot and a Target. Miles doesn't even see the Christmas tree – pop-up store, he supposes – until Wright points it out, as it's partially hidden from the road by a taco truck

Once Miles actually pulls into the parking lot, he wonders how he could have missed it. The sign itself is ridiculously huge, the words Holiday Wonderland Tree Farm painted in red-and-white striped letters. Text beneath promises 'Hot Cocoa, Cider, and Holiday Cheer'. The first two are the most believable offers, although, as they exit the car into eighty-degree heat, Miles cannot say they sound any more appealing than the third.

"Hungry?" Wright asks.

"No."

"So…you don't want to get some of 'Santa's favorite carnitas tacos' from that truck?"

The glare Miles gives him, he thinks, speaks for itself. Wright grins and follows him through the candy-cane striped gates.

The lot itself is less impressive than the sign suggests, consisting mainly of wooden racks full of Christmas trees, cheap decorations, and a few people milling around them. Why anyone would take longer than five minutes to decide on something which will be thrown away in a few weeks, Miles has no idea. To him, the trees, aside from minor differentiations in height, look mostly the same.

Wright stops at the first rack next to the entrance, frowning. "...Is it just me, or are they all pretty much the same?"

"Mm."

"What about that one?"

Wright points at a rack a little further away, and Miles follows his gaze. The tree Wright points at is quite a bit taller than the others, and its rich, dark green needles are so numerous that the trees on either side of it look frail and withered in comparison.

The people standing next to it seem to hold a similarly high opinion, as they wave at a plaid-shirted attendant, and, before Miles can even express his approval of Wright's choice, it becomes clear that the tree is now spoken for.

Wright grimaces. "Too late, I guess."

Miles glances at him and then back at the couple waiting for the attendant to bring them their change. One leans into the other, head against her partner's arm as she looks up at the tree. Even from far away, it's impossible to miss the tenderness in the taller woman's eyes as she glances down at her partner.

Miles looks away, and straight into the eyes of a jovial cartoon elf. Wright, who had been at his side, only a moment before, is gone, leaving Miles standing alone on the asphalt, sandwiched between said cartoon elf standee and a sign listing the lot's social media handles, an arrow at the bottom helpfully directing customers towards the 'photoshoot area'.

A quick scan of his surroundings reveals both more absurdities and Wright's location. He is, for some reason Miles does not care to contemplate, making his way to the far corner of the lot. Miles scowls, and attempts to catch up to him. "Wright, what –"

“I want this one," Wright says. He's staring fixedly at one particular tree, at the very end of the rack. "This is it."

Miles looks at it. “This is…Wright. You can not be serious.”

“Too tall?”

"That is the least of its problems."

"Well…" Wright scuffs at the ground with one dress shoe. “Maybe looks aren’t the most important part of a good tree.”

Miles pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to cling to sanity. “A Christmas tree is, by definition, a decorative object.”

“So? It’s also something I’m going to have in my apartment for a week. I want to like it for more than its looks.”

Miles glances, entirely coincidentally of course, at the large ax propped up against the lumberjack-themed Instagram photo-op wall.

“Didn’t you ever watch A Charlie Brown Christmas?” Wright asks. “The whole point of that was that looks aren’t everything. Tree-wise.”

Miles frowns. “If I recall correctly, the moral had something to do with friendship.”

“Uh…” Wright shrugs. “Sure. But the point is that Charlie Brown got the only real tree left in the Christmas tree lot. Everyone else thought it was shitty, but really it just needed some – y’know.”

The word love hangs uncomfortably in the air. Miles clears his throat. “Regardless. Wright, this is certainly not the only real tree left in the lot."

“I know. I can’t explain it, but I’ve made my choice." Wright says, conviction clear in everything from his posture to his tone. "I want this one.”

Miles looks at him, and then, again, at the tree. It is tall, which, as far as Miles can tell, is its only redeeming factor. Unlike many of the other trees around them, the branches are sparsely placed, and some even appear broken, jutting out from a gnarled trunk for a few inches before right-angling towards the ground. The others protrude so far that any semblance of a conical shape is lost entirely. “Again, I must point out the multiple egregious flaws.”

Wright reaches towards the tree, catching one sparse branch in his fingers. The scent of crushed pine needles mingles with exhaust and the aromas emanating from the taco truck at the other end of the parking lot. “I just think it’s worth saving. Even though it’s not perfect. Or anywhere close to it.”

“Saving,” Miles echoes. “Wright. It’s not — this is a tree.”

Wright looks off into the distance. “You know, Edgeworth…”

“Yes?”

“I think,” Wright says thoughtfully, “that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Miles emits a strangled noise of protest as Wright laughs at him and starts walking towards the attendant, leaving Miles with only what remains of his dignity for company.

Wright, of course, purchases the tree. He then tries to persuade Miles to help him load it onto the roof of Miles' car, and succeeds. Only, as Miles tells him, because he is growing increasingly worried that Wright will lose hold of it and send it crashing through Miles' windshield. Or worse, fail to tie it down properly and cause a truly humiliating accident once they get onto the freeway.

"It's fine, Edgeworth," Wright says after the fifth test of the twine's integrity produces the same results as the first four. "Don't you have insurance?"

"That is not the point."

"And messing with the rope isn't going to make the tree any more secure. C'mon. It's fine."

"Wright –"

"Edgeworth."

Miles stares at him. Wright stares back for a tense second before he breaks, laughing as Miles' scowl deepens. "Wright –"

"C'mon," Wright says, adopting a more serious expression which is ruined by the way the corners of his mouth keep twitching upwards. "I'll lean out the window and hold on to it the whole way, if you're that worried."

Miles scoffs, and opens the driver's side door.

Wright, to Miles' equal relief and annoyance, is proven right. Aside from a stressful acceleration experience on the onramp and the everyday menace of LA traffic, their trip back to Wright's apartment goes smoothly. "Are you sure you are able to –"

"I'm fine, Edgeworth," Wright says, through a thicket of pine needles. The tree, though sparsely branched, is at least as tall as Wright is, and what branches it does have are long and angled awkwardly. The end effect is that Wright appears engulfed by it from the moment he lowers it down from the roof of Miles' car. "It's not that heavy. Just unstable."

"Mm."

"Really." Wright turns his head and winces. "Ow. I think it might hate me though."

"Allow me to –"

"I'm not letting you get your clothes all messed up."

"Wright," Miles says icily. "May I remind you of the cost of the waistcoat you are currently wearing."

This, finally, gives Wright pause. "Uh…"

"Yes?"

"You're right, but – I can't let go of it. It'll tip over."

Miles makes an impatient noise. "I will hold it."

"Yeah. Okay," Wright mumbles, and gingerly adjusts his grip until Miles finds a spot on the trunk barren enough to hold onto. Wright lets go, stepping back and starting to undo his waistcoat buttons. "Thanks. See? Not that heavy. You just have to concentrate on keeping it balanced to stop it from falling over."

"Hmph." If inanimate objects could possess ill will – which they of course can not – Miles would think this Christmas tree was punishing him for his detailed list of its faults earlier in the afternoon. There is no other reason why the branches would be arranged to allow Miles an unobstructed view of Wright taking off his waistcoat and loosening his tie, rolling both up and stowing them away in the scuffed leather briefcase he always carries before proceeding to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt up to the forearms.

Wright squares his shoulders "Okay. I can take it from here. Unless – should I take my shirt off too?"

"I do not believe that should be necessary," Miles says, after an impressively short period of hesitation.

"I already have some sap on my collar though." Wright frowns down at it. "Think it'll stain?"

Miles is quickly losing faith in his conviction that inanimate objects are incapable of ill will. "I do not know."

"Better safe than sorry, I guess," Wright says, and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt so quickly he's already three down by the time a branch slaps him across the face. "OW – what the –"

"Apologies." Miles hurriedly rights the tree, which had begun to lean alarmingly towards Wright. "I was – my mind was – I was trying to recall if sap is difficult to get out of fabric."

"Is it?"

"I could not remember."

Wright brushes a few pine needles off his shirt. "Guess I'll just have to find out."

—

The machinery of the legal system halts for no one. As such, the holiday season is not markedly different from any other time of year in the Prosecutor's office. This one is, in fact, quite busy. Miles does not have time to devote thought to Wright or his scraggly, irregularly-shaped Christmas tree.

He does anyway. And if one subject of thought eclipses the other – no one but Miles needs to know. It is a good thing, Miles thinks after awakening from a dream in which he had been running through a maze of pine needles, pursued by a smartphone bearing elf, that no one possesses the ability to read minds. It is an even greater thing that Wright does not. Turning a corner in the dream Miles had seen him, standing in a sudden flurry of snow, and smiling.

The holiday season is busy for the Prosecutor's office, so busy that work consumes most of his waking hours. For this, also, Miles is grateful.

—

It is late one evening, after Miles' work for the day is done and before he feels truly certain that it is, when Wright texts him.

Wright: What are you doing tomorrow?

Miles frowns. The next day is a Saturday, although there has not been much difference between the weekend and the weekdays of late, as far as workload. Various errands, along with some research. Is there something you need assistance with?

Wright: No.

It takes a few minutes for Wright to elaborate. Miles very purposefully puts his phone down and does not allow himself to go near it until he hears the sound of a text notification from across the room.

He has only just finished reading Trucy wants to thank you when the text disappears, replaced by an incoming call notification. Miles sighs, and puts his phone to his ear. "Wright."

"Mr. Edgeworth?"

Miles blinks. "Miss Wright."

"You got it!" Trucy's voice is cheery, as usual.

"A pleasure, as always."

Trucy hums. "I haven't seen you in a while. Have you been busy?"

"Yes."

"More then usual?"

"Mm."

"Gotcha." Trucy pauses. "Well, I was just calling because I wanted to thank you for helping Daddy with the tree."

"There is no need to –"

"In person. With cookies."

"Ah." Miles hesitates. "I see."

"You're not busy all Saturday, are you?"

A conversation comes to mind, one he had had with Wright back during one of the first times Wright had ever come to Europe, a much younger Trucy in tow. I don't know what it is or how, but – she can tell when someone is lying to her. She just has some sort of sixth sense about it.

"No," Miles says, suppressing a sigh. "I have some various errands to take care of. However, I should be available by the evening."

"Great! So you can come over? How about around five o' clock?"

"That would be acceptable."

"Awesome." Trucy laughs. "Don't worry, we won't make you stay too long. I just want you to see the tree."

"I assume it looks better than it did when Wright first purchased it."

"Oh yeah. We did the full Charlie Brown Christmas magic on it. Well – me and Pearls did. Daddy tried to help, but he kept putting ornaments of the same color next to each other, so I reassigned him to moral support."

"That sounds reasonable," Miles replies. "Wright has never been known for his, ah…interior decorating skills."

Trucy giggles. "He is pretty good at making hot chocolate from a package though, so it all evens out."

"Mm."

"So – I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," Miles says, ignoring the mix of apprehension and anticipation currently churning his stomach. "Tomorrow."

—

Tomorrow finds Miles walking up to Wright's apartment door and stopping a few feet away. From that distance, he can see that it's cracked open slightly, and spilling out into the hallway, along with the smell of something sweet being baked, is the sound of voices. Including one that is almost certainly not that of Wright, or Trucy. In fact, if Miles is not mistaken, it sounds like –

"One second!" Athena calls out, throwing open the front door. "I – oh! Uh, hi Mr. Edgeworth!"

Miles stares at her. Not because her presence is altogether unexpected, but because she appears to be coated in a fine layer of white powder. "...Miss Cykes. Good evening."

Athena glances down at herself and winces. "Uh, there was an…incident. With the powdered sugar."

"I see."

"Mr. Edgeworth!" Trucy's head pops around the doorframe, a smudge of white on her cheek. "You're here!"

"Indeed."

"Why are you standing outside?"

Athena goes redder than the nose on her reindeer-antlered headband. "Sorry! Um, here – please come in."

She stands aside, and Miles does as he is bid, removing his shoes in the entranceway and noting tracks of what he assumes must be even more powdered sugar on the ground.

Even this, however, does not prepare him for the state of Wright's kitchen. There is powdered sugar everywhere – coating the cabinets, the counters, and even sticking in grease-splatter-like patterns to the wall above the stove. "It's like a bomb went off, right?"

Miles glances over to see Wright, wearing a navy ¾ zip pullover and apparantly having escaped said powdered-sugar bomb relatively unscathed. "That's twenty pounds of powdered sugar, if you were wondering. For – what did you call them, Truce?"

"Snowball cookies." Trucy looks almost gleeful. "A lot of them. And chocolate crinkle cookies, and royal icing for the gingerbread people, and…"

"I'm so sorry, Boss," Athena whimpers.

Wright laughs. "It was an accident. And you two are going to clean it up, right?"

Athena nods, regaining her vigor with startling speed. "Right. And then we're going to buy more powdered sugar. Only this time, we're not going to drop it."

"Or try to show off our strength by lifting four five-pound sacks one-handed."

Athena deflates, though not as drastically as before. "Right."

"A lot worse has happened to this kitchen," Trucy reassures her. "Right Daddy?"

Wright scratches the back of his neck. "Uh…yeah. Probably."

"And we saved most of the cookies, too. So don't worry, Mr. Edgeworth!"

Miles starts at the sudden address. "Ah – yes."

Trucy giggles. "You didn't think you'd escape without trying one, did you?"

"I would never dream of it," Miles tells her. He means it – Trucy's cookies are routinely excellent, if sometimes unconventionally flavored. She is also frighteningly good at convincing people to try them, when she chooses to be.

"You better not've. Here." Trucy flits to the dining room table and returns with a tupperware container. "I expect a full review of each kind when we get back from the store."

"I will try my best," Miles says, and before he can so much as register what is happening, Trucy has removed her powdered-sugar-covered cardigan, donned a light blue coat, and is following Athena out the door, with an over-the-shoulder promise to, as Wright asks, get some eggs while they're there.

The door slams. Miles looks down at the tupperware container. "Well," Wright says. "Want to see the tree?"

The tree has, along with the wrapped presents nestled beneath it, seemingly taken over half of Wright's already-miniscule living room. "Impressive, right?"

"Indeed."

Wright sits down on the couch. Miles, after a moment, does the same. "Athena said we gave it a 'major glow-up'. Whatever that means."

"Mm." Miles might not be sure, but he is inclined to agree. Winding around the tree, filling in the gaps where bare trunk is visible and even propping up a few of the broken branches, are tinsel garlands, colored gold and red. They glitter against the strands of lights, casting dappled shadows on the wall and reflecting onto the ornaments, of which there are a surprising amount. Some are more conventional, red and green and gold glass orbs of varying sizes, and some are – very much not.

Wright catches his eye, and grimaces. "Before you ask, that ornament is from Larry. He sent it to me…I don't know how long ago. Back when he was trying to break into the miniature sculpture market, or something like that. Trucy made me feel bad about trying to throw it away instead of hanging it up, so…there it is."

The ornament in question could hardly be called miniature. It is, in fact, weighing down the branch it hangs off of so heavily Miles wonders how it has not broken it already. It also looks – "Is that…"

"A naked woman with lasers coming out of her fingers? Yeah, that's what I thought too. Larry said it was an angel."

"I was not aware that artistic representations of angels conventionally possessed such, ah, prominent assets."

Wright laughs. "Me neither. I mean, it's Larry, so…"

"Mm. I can hardly claim to be surprised."

"Yeah. It's still kind of nice though." Miles raises his eyebrows. "I just mean – he doesn't have the best taste –"

"That is putting it kindly."

"Fine, sure, but –" Wright exhales. "I never told you, but a few days after the Gramarye trial, he showed up. At my apartment. At first I thought it was because he wanted to support me, or tell me he couldn't believe what had happened, and I was all set to ignore him like I ignored everyone else. But then the first thing he said when I opened the door was 'she broke up with me, Nick'."

Miles stares at him. "That is…"

"That's Larry." Wright laughs, shoulders shaking as Miles covers his face with one hand, stifling the sound of his own amusement. "It was funny at the time, too. Especially because he didn't notice Trucy was there until she made his phone disappear right as he was about to send his ex an apology text."

Miles shakes his head. "He thanked her later," Wright says, laughter dancing along every word. "He also never questioned why she was in my apartment. Sometimes I wonder if he still doesn't know."

"I would not be surprised."

"Yeah." The amusement fades from Wright's face, leaving something less easy behind. "Maybe it was just Larry being Larry, but...it was refreshingly normal. Probably the only normal thing I had at the time. So I'm glad something he made is on here, even if it is…"

"Vaguely pornographic?"

"Yeah." Wright laughs again. "That. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for – the nipples."

Miles coughs, which does nothing to obscure the flush rising to his cheeks. "Mm. Well."

"Hey, it is the Butz. What did you expect?"

Miles wrinkles his nose. "I suppose we are lucky it does not have even more detail than it already does."

"Yeah, really counting my blessings." Wright sits back, looking again at the tree. "Speaking of, the weird one with writing on it – that one's from Trucy's friend, Jinxie. She says it's some kind of good luck charm, but…"

"And the one directly to the right of it?" Miles asks, nodding towards a blown glass ornament crudely painted to resemble, as far as Miles can tell, a folded dress shirt and tie with the word "BOSS" painted in large capital letters beneath it.

Wright shakes his head. "That's from Athena – she got it for me at CVS, apparently. Not sure why."

"Hm."

Wright is silent for a moment before he points again, this time at a small ornament near the very top, intricate wooden curlicues framing a photo of Trucy and Wright. They're smiling out at the camera, pressed close together to fit in frame. "That one, there. I bought it in Prague. At that touristy Christmas market I dragged you into. It was a souvenir for Trucy, remember?

Miles does. He remembers the markets full of people, the lights strung up above the streets – Miles had barely noticed them until Wright had arrived, cynical and stubble-cheeked and underdressed for the cold, refusing to admit his discomfort even after Miles had dragged him into the nearest clothing store and torn a coat off the rack, shoving it at the clerk with a brusque "thank you" before Wright could so much as protest.

It was in that coat's pocket that Wright had put the ornament, which, as he had commented to Miles at the time, was all Trucy had asked for. 'She wants something to put on the fridge.'

'This is a Christmas ornament, Wright.'

'Yeah, but it has a magnet on the back. See? Multifunctional.' Wright had grinned, and paid the man in the stall the required korunas, and slipped the magnet-slash-ornament in his new coat pocket.

Now, it is years later, and the ornament is hanging on what still remains a decidedly odd-looking Christmas tree, and Miles has a home that he does not intend to leave in six months, one that isn't 6,000 miles away from Wright's apartment, and he cannot quite bring himself to speak.

"I'm going to miss her," Wright says, so quietly Miles has to strain to hear it. "I'm proud of her, and it'll be good for her to graduate and get out into the world, but – I'm really going to miss her. It's like a hole in my chest opens up every time I think about it."

He laughs, the sound tinged bitter. "Sorry, that was –"

"Wright."

"Sorry," Wright says again. "That's – that's the whole reason why I wanted a tree, this year. We've never had a real one before. They're expensive, and they make a huge mess, and Trucy never asked for one, so I never bothered, but – I thought it would be nice. This year."

"I see," Miles manages.

"Sorry. I know it's a lot. " Wright shrugs. "But I'll be fine. You don't have to worry too much about me."

Miles splutters. "When did I –"

"Didn't have to. You're way too easy to read." Wright's smiling again, but there's no bitterness to it, nothing false – only a tinge of sadness that Miles can't help but notice as soon as their eyes meet. "I'd beat you in poker without even trying."

"That goes without saying."

"Yeah yeah. You don't know how to play."

"Hmph." Miles folds his arms across his chest. "I do not."

"You could learn. Not that it would help."

"Then I do not see the point."

"Just letting you know you have options. You can either lose to me because you don't play, or lose to me even though you do. Your choice."

"Perhaps I choose neither."

Wright laughs, soft and low. "Of course you do."

His leg is brushing against Miles'. Miles waits for him to move it. Wright doesn't. Miles searches, desperately, for a desire to want Wright to, and cannot find it.

Wright scratches the back of his neck. "So, uh. I wanted to say…sorry. About the tree."

Miles frowns. "It was a small inconvenience. There is no need to apologize."

"What? Oh. No, I mean…" Wright trails off, looking somehow more uncomfortable than he had only a moment before. "I didn't – I was kind of freaking out when I asked you."

"That much was obvious," Miles says dryly.

"Yeah, well." Wright ducks his head. "Yeah. I was. And I wasn't thinking about how you might feel, about – any of it."

Miles stares at him. "The Christmas part," Wright clarifies. "I know you don't – celebrate. For obvious reasons."

Miles straightens one shirt cuff, letting the silence swell before he speaks. "I admit the day itself can sometimes be…difficult."

Wright doesn't say anything, but somehow, Miles knows, if he looks over he'll see Wright watching him. Not judgmental, not trepidatious or uneasy, just watching. They're both too battle-weary to flinch at old scars any more, even the deepest ones. "I have never been fond of the holiday, or indeed of any holiday. However, while I may see no need to celebrate this one in particular, it is not – the holiday itself holds no sentiment for me, negative or otherwise."

"So I didn't drag you into a living nightmare by making you help me buy a Christmas tree, then."

Miles huffs. "No. In fact, I must admit that it was a somewhat amusing diversion."

"Huh," Wright says, and then again: "Huh. Okay. Well, good."

"Mm."

A pause, more comfortable than Miles expects it to be. "Might not want to tell Truce that. Unless you want to be forced into coming to the party tomorrow."

Miles raises his eyebrows. "...Indeed. Thank you for the tip."

"Sure. It can be my repayment, for your help."

"Which, as I have already stated, is not some sort of debt which must be –"

"Edgeworth," Wright says, laughing. "Come on. Just let me have this."

Miles glares at him. Wright catches his eye and grins even wider. His eyes crinkle more at the corners than they used to when he smiles, Miles realizes. They’re getting older. They have been, for a long time.

"It turned out nice though, right?" Wright asks. "The tree."

“...You did an admirable job, given the material you had to work with, yes.”

Wright snorts. “Sure. But you have to admit it looks nice either way.”

“Mm.”

“We made it nice. Me and Truce." Wright glances at him, and quickly away. "We made the best with what we had."

There's something in Miles' chest like broken-off branches, stabbing into his ribcage, and Wright is looking up at the wooden ornament again – Wright, who had gotten inexcusably drunk that same night in Prague, just a few days before Christmas, stumbling behind him up the steep cobblestones back to Miles' apartment, hand warm when Miles had grabbed it out of impatience and intolerance for cold, lips warm when Wright had kissed him, there underneath a streetlight in the falling snow and Miles had been as frozen as the icicles hanging off the Gothic facades across the street and Wright had never mentioned it again, not once, had walked into the kitchen that morning bleary-eyed and obviously hungover and unchanged from the morning before.

Miles could not say the same for himself. He does not know when it had started, but that does not matter. From then on, he had known, whether he attempted to deny it or not.

“It’s not perfect," Wright says. "But it's ours.”

Miles' breath is caught in his throat. Wright, finally, looks at him. "So…thanks. For helping with the tree."

"Of course."

"I'm glad you're here," Wright says. Like it's easy. Like it's the easiest thing in the world to sit here, on an old worn-out couch Miles knows for a fact Wright has slept on too many times to count, in a living room overtaken by the world's scraggliest tree and glowing with Christmas lights, and say that. God help me, Miles thinks, and then Wright smiles, eyes so full of warmth it's almost unbearable, and the only thing Miles can do is lean in to kiss him.

He doesn't miss the sudden breath Wright takes, just before their lips actually meet. Nor does Miles fail to notice the way Wright freezes, mouth caught half open and his body still as stone until it isn't, and when it isn't time itself seems to restart again, albeit at half-speed. Miles' hand is on Wright's upper arm – he has no memory of placing it there, no knowledge of whether it's correct or not and then he feels Wright relax into his grip, feels the warmth through Wright's shirt leaching into his own skin – and Wright's palm is on Miles' chest, thumb brushing uncertainly just beneath Miles' collarbone as Wright kisses him. Cautious, like he doesn't quite know if this is real yet, and he still hasn't seemed to figure it out by the time Miles regains just enough of the common sense that had abandoned him entirely in the past minute or so to pull back before making an even bigger fool of himself.

Wright’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. Heat collects, lightning-quick, in Miles' cheeks. "If that was not – that was inappropriate. I apologize."

"No," Wright says, so quickly he seems just as taken aback as Miles is at the word. "I mean – no. It wasn't – inappropriate."

Balcony. Wright’s apartment has a ridiculously small balcony to the left of the kitchen. If Miles could just descend the building's facade using the identical one beneath it as a foothold and so on and so forth, he could – "Edgeworth."

"You – " Miles gestures, though at what or to what end he has no idea. "In Prague. I suppose you do not recall."

"I do," Wright says slowly. "I think. You mean, the night it started snowing."

Miles splutters. "You – I thought you were –"

"Drunk? I was, but not…" Wright's hand rises to the back of his neck. His face, Miles realizes, is just as flushed as Miles' must be, though there's no hint of embarrassment or shame in his voice when he speaks. "Not that drunk. That wasn't – I wouldn't forget that."

"I thought you had." Miles' mouth is suddenly dry. "You acted as if –"

"I was waiting for you to bring it up, but –" Wright sits back, hands flexing and clenching into fists on the tops of his thighs. "You never did. So I thought it wasn't –"

"I assumed you didn't –"

"Well, I did." Wright cuts him off. "Sure, I was drunk. But not that – I remembered. And I wanted to do it, so – sue me."

Miles scoffs. "I will do no such thing."

"Okay." Wright stares down at his lap. "Then…good."

"Mm."

"You're not drunk. I mean, right now. Right?"

"No," Miles confirms. "I am not."

"And you kissed me."

"Yes. Obviously, that is…what occurred. Just now."

"Okay," Wright says, and though Miles cannot quite bring himself to glance over he thinks he can hear a smile in Wright's voice, though it is too soon to tell. "Okay. Uh – just so you know, there isn't any mistletoe above us right now."

Miles stares incredulously at him. "I'm telling you because Trucy hung some up." Wright points. "Above the bathroom. Super romantic."

Miles' lips twitch, in spite of himself. "Indeed."

"I don't know about you," Wright continues, looking just slightly past Miles. "But if I'm going to have a kiss under the mistletoe, I'd want to have it when I was just trying to get to the bathroom because I had to pee. Or to brush my teeth. I told her it was the worst possible location, but –"

Miles clears his throat. Wright blanches. "Uh. Yeah. She insisted."

"Mm." Wright is looking at his mouth. "Well."

"Uh-huh." Wright says. "You kissed me."

Miles looks at him. Wright stares back. It's an unsettlingly piercing look, the sort Wright utilizes often in court and almost never with Miles. Miles glares back at him on instinct, but he does not look away on purpose. Whatever Wright wants to know, he will find, and if it is not what he wants to find, it is, at the very least, honest. Miles has never been able to keep a secret from him for long. And then scrutiny breaks into warmth like ice in the spring, welcome and sudden, and Wright, looking a little like he’s questioning his own sanity as he does, leans in.

Miles, somehow, feels even less prepared than he had been the first time – though it is, perhaps, quite difficult to adequately prepare for something like this. There is no way Miles could have known how it would feel when Wright kisses him again, slow and so cautious Miles would be almost offended were it not for the way he can feel Wright shaking slightly when Miles puts a hand on his arm to steady himself – how it would feel when Wright breaks away with a shaky laugh only to kiss Miles again as soon as he’s taken a breath in, how it would feel when Wright’s curls a hand around the back of his neck and runs the tip of his tongue along the seam of Miles’ lips. How something like this, something Miles has tried and tried to disallow himself from thinking about and always eventually failed, something he relegated to the same category of impossible scenarios like “the moon being made out of cheese” and “Los Angeles traffic being anything less than headache-inducing” belong to – how it can feel so easy. Like this is just another step down a foregone path, one they had chosen for themselves long ago without even knowing it.

Miles isn’t sure how much time has passed by the time they break apart. It doesn’t really matter – in the dark room, with the lights of the tree and the orange street light shining through the gap in the curtains, they’re mired in perpetual twilight, and Wright is warm against him and when he sits back Miles doesn’t want to run. Not anymore.

“Your glasses,” Wright murmurs. Behind him the lights are formless, radiant halos peeking out through undefined dark. "They're smudged."

Miles blinks, and reaches up automatically to remove them, setting them delicately on the coffee table. "So." Wright says as soon as Miles leans back. "I guess –"

"As usual."

"Dick." The word is terrifyingly fond. "I'm trying to – "

"Wright. I know."

Wright looks at him. "You know."

Miles nods. The certainty settles like stone into his mind and sits there, a foregone conclusion, no room for doubt.

Not that Miles has any. He's always been stubborn once he makes up his mind, and he had made up his mind about this long ago.

That he had not recognized it sooner is proof of his foolishness. That he has recognized it now feels something like a miracle.

"Yes," Miles says. "I have made my choice."

"Okay." The lights are caught in Wright's eyes like so many stars. "Okay. I guess that means we're all set, then."

"Hardly," Miles says. Wright laughs and doesn't stop laughing, even against Miles' mouth.

—