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Miles Edgeworth appreciated the simple things in life. A cup of tea after a long day, a good story, the heartbreaking key change in Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On…really, he considered himself to be an easy-to-please man.
What he didn’t appreciate, at the moment, was his coworker’s seeming fascination with his love life—or blatant lack thereof.
“What do you mean ‘you don’t date’? I didn’t peg you for one to sleep around, Herr Edgeworth,” the cocky nineteen-year-old college student asked through the library’s shelves. Never in Miles’ life had he been more tempted to push the stack of books Klavier was working on to the floor. The boy had moved over with his brother from Germany a few years ago, and had begun working in the university’s library, annoyingly enough whenever Miles was on the job, as well. At first, Miles had been able to identify with his story; a young college-aged man from Germany wanting to study law sounded alarmingly close to his own life. Now, however…
“I don’t understand what’s so difficult to understand,” Miles sighed and pushed his cart further past the book shelves. “I simply have no care, or need, to involve myself with a relationship right now. I am quite focused on the law, I will have you know.”
“The law? I’ve heard that she’s quite the lady to woo,” Klavier laughed. Miles, in a great feat of self-restraint, took in a deep breath and counted to ten, and turned back to his shelf. He had every intention of ignoring his colleague for the rest of the day. He was a law student at Harvard, and the thought of balancing all of his classes on top of a relationship was absurd. Besides, he didn’t really…crush easily. Sure, it happened once in a blue moon, but it wasn’t necessarily something that was common in his life.
And when he did develop a crush…it usually lasted for far too long, with little to no reciprocation. He was about to snap back when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a ridiculously-blue sweatshirt meander to the study table and collapse into one of the chairs. He had both earbuds in, but Miles could hear the distant sounds of broadway music spilling over. On top of the sleepy face, porcupine-looking hair stuck out in long brown spikes. Miles recognized him immediately, and pushed his heard back out of his throat and into his chest. He might have been a law major, but it didn’t mean that he avoided the theatre department at all costs.
The man sitting at the table was Phoenix Wright, and he was one of the best actors Miles had seen in his twenty-two years of life on the earth. He had attended the university’s version of Rent his freshman year, and had been absolutely taken away with Wright’s portrayal of Roger Davis.
Needless to say, Miles was in attendance at every production that the department put on after that.
From ‘One Song: Glory’ to the most recent fall musical (it was The Music Man and Wright had made quite the con man), Miles had watched that man trounce up and down countless sets, sing numbers with some ecstatic woman, and tap dance his life away in Newsies. Of course Miles had seen him around campus before, but whenever it happened, it was always the same.
Palms sweating, heart racing, absolute foolishness. Sure, there were some times when he would think that Wright was looking back at him, but he always dismissed it as wishful thinking.
“Or maybe, should I say, the law is quite the man to woo,” Klavier purred as he passed by. Startled out of his thoughts, Miles sputtered as he tried to recover the books that flew from his hands. The blonde laughed as he made his way back behind the front desk. “Are you coming?”
“Coming to what?” The gray-haired man asked. After a few weeks of working with the man, Miles had learned to never promise anything without first getting all the details. He surely didn’t want a repeat of the homecoming weekend party that Klavier had thrown, in which he was rudely awakened at three in the morning to go to some godforsaken party he ‘had agreed to’ in passing. He shook his head and went back to his books.
“My New Year’s Party, duh,” the blonde grinned. “It’s going to be fun, Herr Grumpy-pants.”
“I don’t party, Gavin,” Miles sighed.
“You don’t date, you don’t party, you don’t have sex…” Miles’ face turned beet red at that, “tell me, Herr Fuchsia, what do you do in your spare time?”
“My work, unlike some,” the older of the two snapped. Though one-third of that isn’t entirely…false, he added after the fact. His eyes darted back up to the student sitting at the same study table, now nose-deep in an art history book.
“Herr Wright is going to be there,” his cursed coworker snarked from behind him, and Miles’ hands froze. He cursed his eyes as they shot back up to Wright. “Apollo is good friends with him and gave him an invite. I think there’s a rumor that he’s going to be an honorary member of the Gavinners for a few songs, too.”
Oh, Gavin’s infernal band. Miles had to stop a moment and count to ten once more. He weighed the options in his head. On the one hand, it was a Klavier Gavin party, and that meant that there was going to be loud music, too much beer, and too many women. On the other hand, Phoenix Wright was going to be there, and since whenever the word ‘rumor’ came out of Klavier’s mouth, it meant ‘truth’, Phoenix Wright was going to be singing a few songs there.
“The party is on New Year’s Eve, and the gig officially starts at nine, or at least that’s what I’m telling people,” Gavin offered before he stood and went to go help a student in need of checking out a book.
Miles cursed himself.
Miles considered himself to be a rational man. He only crossed the street when the designated signs were showing. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had never jaywalked in his life. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. What wasn’t rational, was the fact that Klavier Gavin, in the days before his New Year’s party, had refused to give him a guideline for dress code. As it were, Miles was currently standing in front of his mirror in a pair of black slacks and a white button-up shirt, debating on whether or not to button up a black vest over the shirt. He cursed under his breath one last time and buttoned up the two buttons. If nothing else, I will look decent, Miles gave himself one final nod in the mirror. He tried telling himself over and over that he simply wanted to look decent, and that this had nothing to do with the fact that Phoenix Wright would be in attendance.
Better luck next time, the cynical part of his brain laughed and he sighed. He turned and placed his glasses on his nose before he pushed his way out into the street. For a college town on New Year’s Eve, everything was pretty quiet, for which Miles was grateful. Most of the underclassmen had already gone home for the holiday, leaving only those who lived there, and the townspeople. He made the walk over to Gavin’s house (to which he had been a few times prior) in quiet, listening to the faint sounds of the occasional party in the distance. He steeled himself as he drew nearer to the address engrained in the back of his mind.
If you could see me now, Franziska… Miles sighed. He took another deep breath and raised his hand to knock at the door. Right before he was going to rap his knuckles on the old wood, it was swung open and a group of people pushed by him. After taking a moment to recover from the abrupt physical contact, Miles made his way inside. Already there was someone picking away at a bass, there were swarms of inebriated people yelling at their friends (who were an alarming two feet away from each other), and he was entirely uncomfortable. He had planned it so that he would arrive at the party with at least two minutes before nine o’clock so that he could spend as little time in swarms of college students, but he should have known better than to rely on the punctuality of musicians.
That being said, it was nearly nine-thirty before the bassist was accompanied by a few others, and Klavier Gavin was mumbling ‘Good evening, lovelies’ into the microphone.
Finally, Miles thought to himself and positioned himself in the corner of their living room, on the opposite side of the stage. He placed his hands at the small of his back and settled himself in his small little nook for what he assumed would have been a small concert.
Miles learned many things on New Year’s, but he mostly learned to never, ever trust musicians and their promises.
For the next hour, Klavier and his band sang original songs, covers, and did whatever they felt like at the moment. Miles was starting to wonder what sort of punishment would be fitting to the man singing center stage. At some point, someone had pressed a red plastic cup of beer, or wine, or something into his hands, but he simply set it down on the end table next to him. There was a horde of college students swaying right in front of the stage, and people smoking marijuana right next to him.
It was a close tie between abduction and a bullet to the shoulder.
He was just about to leave when Klavier approached the microphone again over the cacophony of drunk young adults. “Some of you might have heard that the Gavinners were going to pick up another member for the night, and a lot of you might have heard that it was just a rumor, ja?” There was a few hoots and hollers from the crowd, and Klavier brushed his hand through his hair. Had Miles drank whatever was in the cup that had been handed to him, he would have sworn that the blonde looked him directly in the eye before continuing. “Well, you’ll be glad to know that it isn’t a rumor, and we do have the illustrious Phoenix Wright here to sing us all the way to midnight—,”
As he spoke, a suit coat and t-shirt-clad Phoenix Wright made his way through the crowd and hopped up onto the milk carton stage, waving around the room with a goofy grin on his face. As much as Miles tried to keep his heart out of his throat, he found himself with a fresh new wave of mild panic. His hands started buzzing and before he knew what he was doing, he was picking up the red cup again and tipping it back, the sickly sweet wine its way down his throat. In that moment Miles was just grateful that no one had tried to give him beer. He might have puked on the spot and not have been able to continue watching.
What is wrong with me? He chided himself, shaking his head to try and loosen up some of the knots in his brain. He turned his attention back to the stage, where the brunette was taking one of Klavier’s microphones off of its stand and wrapping some of the cord around his hand. Miles watched as the blue eyes scanned the dark room in front of him. For a moment, the man would have been convinced that they were looking for him, because as soon as his grey eyes locked with the blue ones, a slow grin spread across his face. Miles’ jaw almost went slack, but he quickly recovered and raised his cup back to his lips. He was very glad that someone had gave him a Moscato instead of a dry red; it meant that he could ingest more without having to deal with the acidic aftertaste.
“Hey, guys,” Wright laughed into the microphone, rubbing the back of his neck. Miles recognized the gesture; he did it whenever he was called on for curtain call when he was in the lead role. “Looks like I’ll be singing a couple songs, so…why don’t we get this show on the road?” He turned to Klavier, who was now simply holding his guitar and nodding. The blonde turned and nodded to the drummer, who in turn clicked his sticks together. The blonde turned back to the audience and peered through the low lights, almost like he was specifically looking for Edgeworth. Luckily for the guitarist, the man he was looking for was right where he’d left him, albeit at least now he was drinking the wine that he’d sent him through Apollo. His eyes widened when the first chords for Rhiannon came from Klavier’s hands, and immediately the cup was back up to his lips. The musician had to admit, when he’d asked Phoenix to sing a couple songs with the Gavinners for New Year’s, he hadn’t really expected him to accept so readily. What he really hadn’t expected, however, was when Phoenix had asked about his coworker’s musical tastes, and requested to do a few from that.
Luckily, Phoenix was a quick learner, and he had learned a few Stevie Nicks songs like the back of his hand.
“But what would be the perfect song?” Phoenix had asked.
“He listens to a disturbing amount of ‘Landslide’, ‘Edge of Seventeen’, and ‘Rhiannon’,” Klavier had shrugged, and just like that, three of Phoenix’s eleven-song set was solidified. Klavier’s light blue eyes scanned the room for Edgeworth when Phoenix started singing. He wasn’t sure if the blush forming across his coworker’s cheeks was from the alcohol or from the man who was currently jamming with the band. Either way, if it was enough for Klavier to see it from across the room in dim light, he could come to one conclusion:
Miles Edgeworth had it bad.
Interestingly enough, the man himself was coming to the same conclusion. He had tried so hard to keep it under wraps that Stevie Nicks was his favorite artist (mostly because she wasn’t really a beacon of ‘properness’, as Franziska was always telling him), but now as Wright rambled off the words to ‘Rhiannon’ like it was second nature, shimmying on the stage with Klavier and his bassist, the pounding in Miles’ chest had only intensified. He knew he should have left as soon as he recognized the chords, but he found himself seemingly stapled to the ground where he stood. It’s just one song, Edgeworth, Miles thought to himself. It means nothing. Stevie Nicks is a popular artist, this means nothing.
He really wished he believed it, especially when ‘Edge of Seveteen’’s first notes were strummed.
The vein in his forehead felt like it was going to burst, and Wright hadn’t looked back at him since that first glance. The wine in his cup had been drained, and Miles cursed under his breath. It’s not like he could have moved, anyway. Not with the way Wright was disregarding any of the stage dancing he’d ever learned for more…contemporary moves. Even when ‘Edge of Seventeen’ was over, he continued right into newer covers. Just like he did when he was on stage, Wright seemed to lose himself in his performance, his mellow voice rocking through the house. HIs eyes were shut for most of the set, but he rarely ever stopped moving, and if he did, it was to rock with someone else on the stage. Miles’ eyes never left him; hypnotized by the singer, he didn’t even notice that a short brunette and replaced his empty cup with another filled with flowery wine. In the back of his mind, he registered that it was Klavier’s friend Apollo, but the thought didn’t quite make it to the forefront of his mind. He watched as the man finally came to a halt, replacing the microphone in its stand and checking the clock.
“All right, we’re thirty minutes away from 2016, I hope everyone’s still awake,” Phoenix grinned into the mic when he was returned with a few whoops. “This is the last song I’ll be singing up here, thanks again Klavier for inviting me up here, this has been a blast,” he gestured to the guitarist, who tipped his head in a silent acknowledgement of the gratitude. “I literally just learned this song last week, but I’m kind of in love with it, so I’ve got one final hat tip to my newfound queen, Stevie Nicks.” He nodded to Klavier, who had traded his electric noisemaker for an acoustic one, and started plucking at the strings.
This is not happening, Miles thought. Phoenix’s hands took hold of the microphone stand, his eyes sliding shut. Klavier, I will have your head for this.
Stevie Nicks’ ‘Landslide’ had held a special place in Miles’ heart for a very long time, specifically since he was eleven. It had been two years since he’d been adopted into a German family, and moved to Europe, and he was desperately missing something—anything—American. He’d been put up in von Karma’s eldest daughter’s old room in the expansive house of his adoptive family, and had found an old record of Fleetwood Mac’s, conveniently called Fleetwood Mac. Being as young as he was, Miles didn’t know much about the band, or record players for that matter, but he sat down with the ancient-looking device and figured out how to use it. In a strange world where he had to speak a difficult language, the American band reminded him of home. He had recognized with the fourth track the moment he heard it, and all but begged his adoptive father to buy him more. von Karma had, at first, called it foolishness, but Miles’ younger sister, Franziska, had bought him a few new records for Christmas when he was fourteen, and they had nestled themselves in his room after the family dinner. In his mind’s eye, he could see that night all over again:
He was underneath his favorite blanket, reading one of his new law books as Franziska held the battered Fleetwood Mac album in both hands, giving him a skeptical look over the vinyl.
“Little brother,” she admonished him in German. If von Karma heard them speaking English, there would be hell to pay, so they mostly stuck to Franziska’s native language. “Why is only one side of this completely ruined?” She was referring to the beat-up needle scratches from when he was learning what a record player was, and the usual wear and tear of listening to the same side every day for three years.
“What do you mean, one side?” He asked from where he sat, looking up to see her holding a completely new-looking side of the record.
“A record has two sides,” she explained, looking much like she was going to start laughing at him. “Are you so dense you didn’t look at the other side?” Miles opened his mouth as if to answer her, but shut it quickly and turned his head away from her. She softened at that, and set the B side of the record face up on her big sister’s old record player. “My sister used to listen to this side more, anyway, and I think you’d like it, too.” As soon as the needle was placed on the spinning vinyl, she stood and placed her hand on the crown of Miles’ head. “I expect this side to be just as worn down as the other, little brother. Not even a rock album gets to be imperfect in the von Karma household.”
The memory brought a smile to the edges of Miles’ lips, and made a small promise to himself to call the younger woman sometime after the party. At the moment, however, he returned his gaze back to Phoenix, who was making no effort to hide the fact that he was glad that Miles had looked back at him. By now, the last verse was the only thing left in the song, and Miles didn’t know what spurred him on, whether it be the sappy memories of Franziska, or the wine, but he could feel his lips mouthing along with the words.
The smile that came to Wright’s face could have brightened even the darkest of rooms, and stupidly, Miles returned it. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, but as soon as the crowd started cheering, the cadence was broken. Remembering where he was, and what was happening, Miles held the cup closer to himself and pushed himself away from the wall. He made his way through the swarm of bodies, trying to make his way through the unfamiliar house to the front door and back to his own apartment. In his stupor, however, he found himself pushing open the door into a chilled December air, definitely not where the street should be. He paused to curse at himself, and took another sip. He was almost out of wine, and he probably shouldn’t have it on the way back to his home, but he couldn’t bring himself to particularly care at the moment. He had just started to walk when the back door slammed once again. Miles whirled on his heel to see who it was, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Standing on the first step out into Klavier’s back yard was Phoenix Wright himself, still holding onto the door knob. They stared at each other for a long pause. Miles took in the entirety of his outfit; an obscure band logo on the front of his t-shirt partially covered by his tweed coat. He looked absurdly hipster, Miles concluded in the back of his mind, but opted to focus more on the man’s face. It was unguarded, he realized, for the first time he had ever seen it. There was no mask guarding any feeling that he might be experiencing, no brilliantly-fake smile, no witty-memorized line to disguise the fact that Phoenix Wright was absolutely surprised to see Miles Edgeworth staring back at him. In the back of his mind, Miles wondered what sort of sight Wright was seeing. He imagined that he looked less like the vision that Wright always was, and more like a tipsy, emotional mess.
“Miles Edgeworth?” The man spoke first, in a rush like he was racing against the clock. Miles flinched, as if his own name coming from the man’s lips was a slap to the face. Immediately, Wright softened and stepped forward, letting the back door slam shut behind him. “Please don’t leave yet, I want to talk to you.”
“About what?” Miles retorted, standing up straight again. His head was still reeling that Phoenix knew his name at all.
“You-you…” the brunette stopped for a moment, casting his eyes down at the ground. “I know your face.”
“We go to a small school, Wright, what do you expect?” Miles asked. Yes, Edgeworth, take the defensive like you always do, he berated himself.
“Well-“ he sighed and finally brought his eyes back up to meet the grey ones scrutinizing him. “I see you all the time, at the theater department’s performances….”
“I enjoy theatre,” Miles snapped. Blue eyes shot up to him again, and Miles could swear that Phoenix was giving him one of the saddest looks he’d ever seen. He took in a deep breath, and a small voice inside of him berated him: be nice.
“I just want to talk to you, you looked really into the set,” Phoenix finally blurted out. “I wanted to know if I’m imagining things or not, but Klavier said you liked Stevie Nicks so I wanted to sing some of her songs for you-” Miles’ heart was pounding in his chest, and he blinked blankly at the man, who must have seen the panic behind Miles’ eyes and stopped. They stared at each other for a moment. Miles felt more exposed than he had in front of anyone in a long time. Somehow, Phoenix Wright had infiltrated the most personal part of his life, nestled himself there, closest to his heart, and as much as Miles wanted to imagine that he would be able to go home and listen to his favorite artist again, he would not be able to get his mind off of the man standing in front of him.
“Why?” Miles demanded suddenly, feeling far too vulnerable for his liking. “Why her? Out of all of the artists in the world, Phoenix Wright, why are you so set on her all of a sudden?”
“How do you know it’s all of a sudden? I could have liked her for forever,” Phoenix argued.
“Objection,” Miles cursed his mind. He’d been reading case files for far too long last night. “You said yourself, up on that godforsaken stage, that you had just gotten in to her, as far as I remember, right after I had agreed to Gavin that I would be here.”
“Well-I-“
“And furthermore,” Miles cut him off, “I am positive that you were staring at me for all of ‘Landslide’. What gives you the right to be so interested suddenly? I have never spoken with you in person up until now.” Phoenix opened and shut his mouth a few times, looking much like a fish out of water. Scoffing, Miles turned on his heel as if to leave.
“Why is this such a big deal?” Phoenix snapped back. “I wanted to get your attention, I want to talk to you, I want to be your friend, is that so surprising?” Miles stopped in his tracks. “I go to the library all the time, but every time I go to the circulation desk you’re not there. I would approach you in your classes, except you’re always running around to your next class, and I’m a theater student, I’m never going to be in a class with you, so I was getting desperate.” He paused to take in a deep, calming breath, and Miles looked over his shoulder. “I asked Klavier which songs would get your attention, and he told me those three Stevie Nicks songs, and I went along with it because I’m fascinated by you, and I can’t help it if I think you’re really, really cute.” Miles watched him for a moment before he crossed his arms over his chest. Perhaps Phoenix Wright wasn’t completely sober, either.
“Very well. You have my attention. What about me do you want to know?” Miles watched as Wright sputtered. Miraculously, he managed to wait until Phoenix was ready to talk.
“Why Stevie Nicks, specifically? I mean, it could just be Fleetwood Mac, but why her?” Phoenix must have felt it, the change from ‘casual conversation’ to ‘deep talk’ mode. Miles curled in on himself slightly, his arms uncrossing and dropping slack by his sides.
“Why is it so important?” Miles asked, quietly.
“Well, no offense, but you don’t look quite like someone who would be into her stuff…”
“She reminds me of my father,” Miles snapped at that, softening when Phoenix flinched back. “He…he was killed in a car accident when I was nine years old.”
“Edgeworth-,”
Miles held up his hand. “No, you wanted to know. He was always a big fan of her, and Rhiannon was my bedtime song. When I was adopted by a family in Germany…I found one of their old records, and it was the only piece of him I had left.”
Phoenix was quiet, letting the heaviness of what had just come from the man’s mouth settle in the air. He suddenly felt like he had crossed over, or stepped on, the line of some huge nerve.
“Edgeworth, I…” he swallowed heavily. “I didn’t know, really, I just wanted to see you smile, I guess…and I probably sound really creepy now, but ever since I saw you at Rent I’ve wanted to talk to you, and I’m a little drunk right now, and you probably have someone else in your life, so I’m just going to stop now—“
“Wright,” Miles cut him off. “Do you have a point?”
“Do you want to go out with me?” Phoenix blurted out, and everything else in Miles’ head blanked. He was barely aware of the cacophonous counting down from inside the house.
“What?”
“You know, like a date. I know that Klavier says you don’t date, but I figure if I don’t ask, I’ll never know, and it’s totally okay if you say no.” the brunette shrugged. “I promise I won’t sing anything if you do want to, and if you don’t, you don’t have to see me again.” Miles, despite himself, found himself nodding, effectively cutting off Phoenix’s rambling. “Yes? Yes what?”
“One date,” Miles said, telling the voice inside of him rejoicing to hush. The same smile that had stretched across Phoenix’s face when Miles had sang along with Landslide returned, and he moved forward.
“I have one more question,” his voice was softer this time, and Miles nodded, prompting him on. “Can I kiss you?”
In response, Miles leaned forward as the people inside yelled ‘Happy New Year’s!’, and pressed his lips against those that he’d wanted to kiss for so long. Phoenix’s hands stuttered before they landed on his cheeks, and when they did, Miles, for the first time in years, finally relaxed into the touch. Much to Phoenix’s dismay, the kiss didn’t last long, and Miles was pulling away, this time his eyes focused on the ground.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if you sang some more,” Miles admitted. “I apologize for earlier.”
“It’s fine, it’s important to you,” Phoenix shook his head, and Miles opened his mouth as if to argue the point further, or kiss Wright again, but was cut off by a furious-sounding hiccup. Miles’ hand shot to his mouth, and his cheeks flushed redder. The brunette’s eyes widened before he burst out laughing, and Miles would have sputtered out some sort of defense, if not for his senses coming to a halt. Damn you, Gavin, he thought, yet he couldn’t help but smile against Phoenix’s lips for the second of many kisses.
Happy New Year, indeed.