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It was Maya Fey’s gods-given right to annoy her loved ones. The fates had decided this whim for her when they baked ‘little sister’ into her genetic code, and when those same fates chose to strike it from the record in their paltry attempts to take her sister away, Maya simply laughed in their face and doubled down. Death, historically, was not something that stopped her people from the things they were meant to do, to be. Even if death had stopped her and Mia from carrying on as they always did, Maya was quite good at adopting herself into the lives of anyone she fancied. Unless her charm faded (impossible), she would always have someone to drive a little crazy.
Being an annoying little sister was a set of moving parts. Begging, pleading, and acting like you were going to die when you didn’t get your way were a few parts of it. Saying the first thing that came to mind without filters, that was another. Following first impulses, being a little touchy-feely, these were all quintessential necessities in the art of endearing bratdom. Maya’s favourite of all, though, was the far more specific art of the nickname.
It wasn’t just enough to shorten a name. Anyone with half a brain could do that. You had to try and dig deep for one that was unique, but it also had to feel good to say. Maya felt very strongly about the mouthfeel—of all things, but of nicknames, too. When Mia had told her that she had an apprentice named Phoenix whose friends called him Nick, Maya remembers the errant thought that came immediately thereafter—I gotta figure out a way to be that guy’s friend immediately. Back then, for the nickname—now, for a multitude of other reasons, a list so long it’d take Maya the end of her natural life to finish.
Local legend Larry Freakin’ Butz had really knocked it outta the park with that one. Maya wants to study him like a bug, she thinks. Put him in a little petri dish and shake him around until he dispenses to her his priceless wisdom.
Maya liked to think herself pretty good at snuffing out the most appropriately grating nicknames. In fact, she thought she had more or less perfected the art… but there was one thing she had failed to consider, one possibility that she simply did not have the life experience to fathom.
That, one day, if the fates so bestowed it upon her, Maya Fey would be allowed the pleasure… of entering a romantic relationship.
When this day had finally come to pass, Maya had felt nigh overwhelmed at the vastness, the sheer breadth of possibilities that had opened up to her. For she was no longer tied down by the simple scope of nicknames—no. Now, she had pet names at her disposal as well, a fact which proved to be ten times as lethal as any that came before it.
And—best of all!—the girl she was dating had absolutely no tolerance for silliness of any kind. Franziska’s exasperation only fanned the flames higher, sending Maya soaring to heights of obnoxiousness she had never known before. Maybe it was a little bit early to say so, but she kinda thinks she might be falling in love.
One such occasion has Maya sitting backwards on her apartment couch—long, thick legs bent atop the backrest, her hair spilled ink pooling on the floor. Her phone is pressed to her ear as she’s draped there, and she’s doing everything in her power not to fall asleep. She’s not even tired, but the combination of every nook of her body being bent exactly the way she wants it and the beautiful, curving accent in her ears… well, it’s lulling her, suffice it to say. Awakening some sort of prehistoric impulses to fall asleep while her fellow neanderthals tell stories around the crackling fire.
“I do apologize for not having the whole day available, Miss Fey.” There Franziska goes again, back into nervous formalities when they’ve been dating for weeks. “While I’m loath to make excuses, I’ll admit I was not expecting to have to plan for… romantic obligations.”
“Keep tellin’ ya it’s fine,” Maya hums into the phone. “I mean, it’s cool that I can even get just the evening with you. I wasn’t expecting a valentines’ date right off the bat, baberoni.”
There’s a pause. Oh, how Maya loves those pauses.
Franziska’s voice is dry and a bit raspy when it comes, “Do not call me that.”
“That one’s not a hit either, huh, Fran-Fran?”
“Maya Fey.”
“Franny-pants?” She hopes her shit-eating grin comes through in her tone. “Franzilla?”
“Your tenacity is admirable,” Franziska clears her throat, “but wasted on something as foolish as this.”
“Aw, c’mon, I think you’d secretly love to call me some sugary German petnames. What’re you packing? I know they’re in there.”
“To call your terms of address pet names would be wholly inaccurate,” says Franziska, “they’re mutations, if anything.”
“Hmm… you’re right.” Maya flips herself back upright. “Can’t rely so much on just fucking with your name, now can I, snookums?”
Franziska makes a half-choked noise at that one. “Maya Fey!”
Maya snorts out a laugh, unable to help herself. “You agreed to date this, babygirl.”
Perhaps it’s the fact that it was preceded with several far worse names, but Franziska doesn’t choose to groan or comment on that one.
“I was unaware of the extent of your endearments when I did so, I’ll have you know.”
“You pleading lack of notice on me?”
“As if I’d sully my name with contract litigation.” Franziska spits the words like they are venom. “Regardless, I move to strike… ugh… ‘babygirl’ from the record.”
“Motion super denied,” Maya says, “I sentence you to dinner in the park with me.”
“I’d call into question the legitimacy of this hypothetical court,” Franziska replies, “if I weren’t so biased toward favouring that result.”
“Good enough for me. I’ll meet you there at six?”
A pause, then, as if Franziska is awaiting another foolish nickname to fall from her lips. Maya spares her just this once, of course—knowing when to reel it back in is also a crucial part of the artistry of it.
“I should like that very much, Miss Fey.”
On the tail end of the work day, Franziska finds she has just enough time to go feel sorry for herself in a public restroom.
Normally, these moments of weakness are reserved for her private office, but she’d honestly felt fine just moments earlier, when she was puttering around up there. It’s only when she stumbles into the single-stalled room and makes the mistake of sitting down that everything seems to wash over all at once—right on schedule, all the cold medicine she’d taken at lunch is wearing off.
Franziska tries—valiantly, of course—to not look too closely at her reflection as she’s standing in front of the sink mirror and choking down a handful of more pills and supplements. Her makeup’s doing its job, for the most part—no one has made any comments yet about any of the ways she feels awful, which means it thankfully isn’t showing. The façade remains astoundingly perfect—muted coughs held in behind her teeth, the natural wince that comes with swallowing caught before it escapes, the burn of a fought-off sneeze doing little more than watering her eyes a bit. She can feel that burn tugging twice as ticklishly as before, though, a harbinger for far less fortunate luck if she doesn’t get the jump on it now.
As much as she hates to admit it to herself, Franziska has no idea what a proper valentines’ date looks like. The holiday itself had been seemingly run through a game of telephone—from the pagans, to the Romans, through the English… and then Americans went and did what they do best, turning it into some hellscape of consumerism that somehow hinged entirely on spending as much money as was physically possible. When they’d sauntered over to her parts in the 1940s there was an honest attempt to bring these foolish traditions over with everything else, to which Franziska’s ilk had more or less responded with a noncommittal shrug and a sure, whatever.
Needless to say, there were far more important things going on in Franziska’s life than the less than .1% chance she would some day have an American Girlfriend™ to woo. Of course she’d had little to no experience in this field! Sweets were obviously a big part of it, chocolates and cookies and the like, flowers were a must, there was something about pigs? All of this useless knowledge swirled in a vague cloud in the back of her head, suspended in a thick, sticky lava lampesque structure full of extra strength cough syrup. Ugh.
Whatever the traditions, she was positively certain that showing up miserably ill was not one of them. That there was no romanticism to be had in coughing her way through every sweet nothing, in sniffling incessantly through their evening picnic. She’d even lowered herself to the pathetic ordeal of asking Miles to cover her trials today, so as not to wear out her voice—every virus she caught insisted upon taking up residence in her throat, annoyingly conspicuous despite her best efforts to hide it. Either experience was humiliating, but today Franziska wisely chose the lesser of two evils. Miles, at least, had seen her at her most pitiful. Maya was another story.
To be loved by Maya Fey was something that Franziska knew she did not deserve. Nevertheless, the fates—for whatever reason—had allowed her the pleasure. And so she was going to be Maya’s girlfriend, and be better than any and all who came before and—heaven forbid—after her.
It’s a testament to the joy of it, how that single hypothetical word sticks in her throat. She elects to unpack it later, when she’s not lugging around a head full of swampwater and fog.
Eventually, Franziska makes it out of that condemned restroom and back into the real world, admittedly lagging ever-so-intentionally in the hopes that her next dose of Coldkiller will kick in before she arrives. Punctuality was a trait she held in the highest regard, of course, but there was the rare occasion where her efficiency in getting to all her obligations on time became a double-edged sword.
Predictably, she arrives before Maya, just soon enough to find the perfect patch of shade. It’s a miracle the spot hasn’t been snatched up already, or perhaps the shifting shadows are to blame—as the sun begins to set, it spills over the once-dark hideaways, pulling them into the light. There’s also far fewer people out here than Franziska anticipated, a quiet murmur of socialization amongst the regular dog-walkers and lake-goers.
Franziska struggles not to give into the dizzy feeling that comes over her as she shakes out the throw blanket. Something about the gesture shifts the congestion in her head, making the world tilt a little on its axis. And then the sun hits her face, crawling out from behind a cloud and behind her itchy eyes, and she—cannot—will not—!
She doesn’t hear Maya approach as she’s losing this battle against her airways. Franziska simply lets the blanket lay crooked on the grassy floor as she’s half-stifling a trio of girlish sneezes into her wrist. For how waterlogged she’s feeling, they’re strangely unburdened-sounding things, a fact she is grateful for once she hears Maya’s voice.
“Hi to you too.” Even with her eyes scrunched shut, Franziska can hear the lopsided grin in her voice, see those cute little dimples that accent it. “Gesundheit.”
“Miss Fey,” says Franziska, trying her damnedest to sniffle delicately, lightly, so as not to rouse suspicion. “Excuse me.”
“How dusty is that old thing?” Maya points down at the blanket, kicking off her sandals regardless. “Where’d you find it? Some decrepit old room in your ancient German castle?”
“It’s hardly a castle.” Franziska crosses her arms, having mostly gotten a handle on herself, though the dull buzz in her sinuses lingers still. “And no. I stole it from Miles Edgeworth’s car, and he stole it from our childhood home.”
“Nice.” Maya throws out a finger gun at her, practically falls into a sit, and pats the spot next to her with a flat palm, just as forward as ever. “Park it, Franberry Sauce.”
“In due time,” says Franziska, waving a hand and going back to her belongings leaning against the tree. Almost as soon as she bends over she can feel her nose threatening to run, and she takes advantage of the moment to bother it with the pulse of her wrist, command that it obey.
At last she manages to present to Maya the bouquet—a meager thing, really, hardly befitting for a lady of Maya’s class. This time, as she crosses her legs, bows, and brandishes the handful of pastel-pink flowers, she’s careful to keep her chin high so as not to sniffle her way through the gesture.
“Woah,” says Maya, looking at the surplus of petals and leaves with her glittering night-sky eyes. “You went all out, huh?”
She takes the bouquet from Franziska’s hand with a delicate touch previously unseen. Maya only handled that which was most precious to her with this... tender way about her, and Franziska feels her chest warmed as she looks upon it now. The feeling of it creeps up onto her cheeks, and she can only hope the gratuitous amount of foundation she’s wearing to hide her budding head cold accounts for this shade of red, too.
“I believe roses are customary, but a touch overdone.” Franziska uselessly clears her throat. “Orchids, though—they’re flowers of passion and resilience. They can bloom for years out in the wild, if circumstances allow, so it stands to reason they’re befitting for someone with tenacity of your caliber, Maya Fey.”
“Babe,” Maya says, marveling down at the things—sturdy, hard stems and baby-soft petals that stick out in every direction. “That’s so…”
“Truthfully, I think you would have appreciated an edible arrangement more,” Franziska carries on, rifling through her supplies again, “but such a thing is surprisingly hard to find on short notice like this, so I hope you can forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” Maya’s head snaps up, away from the gift laying in her arms. “Franzy, no one’s ever given me flowers before…!”
Now holding a massive, glossy, miraculously un-crinkled tote, Franziska turns around and makes her way to finally sit down, quirking a concerned eyebrow as she regards the statement. “Never? How impolite. And with all the trouble you’ve seen, too…”
“I don’t exactly think I run with the kinda crowd who have the cash money to be sending me a bouquet every time there’s an attempt on my life.” She says it with an air far too lighthearted for what it is, how incredibly Maya of her.
“Phoenix Wright seemed fine to procure the funds to bring me flowers,” Franziska says with a huff as she sits. “Long before we even so much as tolerated one another, as well.”
“Think Nick just did that because he clocked you as someone who’d appreciate it.” Maya inches one hand off the flowers and atop Franziska’s own, tracing her thumb across its side. “Not that I don’t! You’ve just got an air about you that says send me flowers.”
“Oh, how I loathe to celebrate that man’s correct assessments.”
An exaggerated roll of her eyes follows, and Maya can’t help giggling. The quiet laughter fades out alongside the chatter of people around them—splashing in the lake, cars on the far-off highway, crunching footsteps on the gravel-lined paths. It’s calming, in a sense, but Maya only has her head leaning on Franziska’s shoulder for a moment before something catches her attention.
“You cold, Franny-cakes?”
Franziska’s jolted out of her half love-dizzy, half medication-dizzy haze. “Hm?”
“You’re shivering, there,” Maya says, smile looking a little concerned as she tilts her head. “Where’s your coat?”
“The foolish little telephone application said it was nine degrees out,” she says with brow knit, “why would I require a coat?”
“Dunno the conversion, but that sounds pretty damn cold.”
“It’s not.” Franziska sticks her nose high in the air, and Maya knows that if both her arms were free she’d be crossing them in that cute, indignant way she always did. “Barely even a chill where I hail from.”
“Well, that barely even a chill has you shaking like a leaf.”
Maya twists to the side to messily shuffle through her own massive tote bag, and Franziska once again tries to will the blush burning hot across her cheeks away. It only deepens when she feels the warmth now lain across her shoulders, though—the softness of a second throw blanket tickling her neck, deep blue and flattened from years and years of use.
Then, with the same heartsoft movements that Maya wore while handling the flowers, she rearranges—pulls it in a little closer, something akin to tucking Franziska in. Errant fingers brush across where Franziska’s scarf slips out of itself, every ginger touch feeling like fire against her neck. Perhaps she was a bit cold, she thinks as the contrast slams into her. Yes, that has to be it.
“There,” says Maya, grinning brightly at her handiwork, “I, uh, didn’t know who was on blanket duty so I brought my own too. Good thing I did, huh?”
Obviously, Franziska cannot say for certain, but she’s pretty sure every inch of skin she has is flushed a deep, dark red. “Quite. Thank you, Miss Fey.”
True to form, her chills do abate—how could they not, with everwarm Maya beside her? That was one of Franziska’s favourite things about the girl—though she hailed from the snowcapped mountains, Maya’s touch always radiated a healthy amount of heat, as though she’d swallowed a little glowing piece of the California sun. It was there in the warmth that fell off of her whenever she’d press herself into Franziska, it was there in the dark freckles that decorated her brown, sunkissed, beautiful skin.
For the next long while, Franziska waffles—floating in and out of various forms of fogginess while her and Maya talk about their weeks and steal nibbles off the mediocre excuse of a charcuterie board Franziska’s brought. Its overdesigned, looping serif font tells of only the finest things, but of course the assortment itself fails to deliver anything other than the grocery store standard. Typical of anything pre-made, really—she really ought to have arranged her own from scratch—but even when there’s no cooking involved, Franziska doesn’t trust herself to do much of anything with food.
The wine, of course, is far nicer, and a generous three fourths of the bottle is consumed by a very giggly, very mischievous Maya with a comment on her tongue about her prosecutor girlfriend engaging in underaged public drunkenness with her. And while this wretched state in this foolish country has done away with the jury system entirely, the urge to over-explain jury nullification is still there on Franziska’s own.
Something about the sunset breaks her iron will. Perhaps it is the oncoming night sky, lulling her into a sense of security. Maybe it’s the way it paints the world around them gilded, overbright and saturated across every treetop, spilling liquid gold across the rippling lake. She falters, though—the swallowed coughs become a bit more aggressive in their mission to escape, that telltale croak in her voice lets itself in. Maya’s said nothing about either, nor has she said anything about the way Franziska’s been periodically knuckling at her itchy nose, or that suspicious squint in her eyes and hitch in her breath. Maya has said nothing because it’s completely under control, Franziska has done a masterful job of making every minuscule twinge of a symptom look like the fault of the stubborn chill in the February air, the exhaustion of working multiple cases in a week. Her slight wilt is atypical for her, yes, but Maya doesn’t have to know that—always just impressed that she works how she does.
The sunset, though. Its light is twice as bright as the horizon cuts it in half, pulling on Franziska’s twitching, narrowing eyes. She realizes far too late that it’s a mistake to take another sip of wine—statistics and factoids rattling in her head about exactly which alcohols contain higher histamine levels as her next wavering breath in turns unambiguous and premonitory. The two of them are tangled up in one another—her hand stilted and awkward on Maya’s pudgy waist, Maya’s own fingers rubbing sweet little circles on Franziska’s bony hip. With Maya in one hand and her wine in the other, she realizes very quickly how poorly this is about to go.
“Franzy-pie?” Maya says to the way she tenses, interrupting herself mid-story. “You good?”
“I—” Franziska’s voice crawls high as her eyes go misty, “Y-Yes, excuse me, I—”
Holding back this long was, evidently, not the move.
By some miracle, Franziska manages to bury the resulting fit of sneezing into her scarf. Her chin hits her chest and lurches forward, making her best attempt to smother the sharp, forceful things. Their delicate, cutesy shape from earlier is weighed down by blooming illness, now, unmistakably present. Franziska sets down her glass and fumbles for her handkerchief in her breast pocket the second she gets in an even breath, and to her surprise Maya’s still just holding onto her, love written in her every touch. The hand on her waist holds her steady throughout, punctuated with a long, doting kiss on Franziska’s cheek—once she’s fixed herself up, of course.
“Gesundheit again, baberoni,” says Maya once more, curling her hand up to tuck a disheveled lock of hair back behind Franziska’s ear. “Maybe we oughta turn in for the night, you sound like you’re coming down with something.”
“No!” Franziska snaps, a hiss through her teeth that sounds juvenile the second it hits the air. She softens, then, “I-I mean, no. I’m fine, Maya Fey. Red wines always set me off like this, it’s merely a foolish histamine response.”
“Hm, yeah, alright,” her tone is suspicious, “don’t think it can explain your shivering from before, though. Or how overworked your voice sounds.”
“You said it yourself,” Franziska sniffles sharply, desperate to hold back another spate of sneezes threatening to break free, “it’s chilly out! And perhaps I truly did not exercise proper judgment in dressing for the weather…”
“Fran,” Maya says—no-nonsense, now, “I know you’ve been sick all day. Save us both the headache and just admit to it, ‘kay?”
“Wh—But—” sputters Franziska with a nervous death-grip on her handkerchief, “how?”
“Well, you just told me, so that helps.”
Blasted—!
“But mostly you haven’t reacted to any of my stupid pet names!” Maya throws her free hand up in the air, flabbergasted. “I straightup called you Franhatten, New York ten minutes ago and you didn’t even raise an eyebrow at me!”
For some reason, it’s this that makes Franziska’s blood run cold. She’d been so careful to smother every other tell that the typical human eye would catch, she forgot to account for… well.
“You know I call you silly names ‘cause I think it’s cute when you get all flustered and pretend to hate it, right?”
The new, uncharted experience of being loved and known.
At that moment Franziska feels a bit like all the watery sensations dampening the inside of her skull are threatening to burst free of their dam. She manages, with what wavering will she has left, to keep herself from crying—but the sensation of keeping it all inside burns behind her eyes, forcing her back into sniffling like her very life depends on it.
“I’m… sorry to have kept this from you,” says Franziska, drawing herself close to Maya once more, the two of them side-by-side. “But you’re such a loving partner, Maya Fey, I knew you’d implore me to stay home and recover, and I…”
“Aw, Franzy.” Maya cups her clammy cheek, pulling Franziska’s face closer to hers. “You wanted to spend time with me that much?”
“Of course!” Franziska replies. “You occupy my thoughts morning, noon, and night. It’s more than a touch maddening, Maya. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”
Maya’s own eyes gain a watery sheen, then, and Franziska wonders if she’s been too forward. Her head’s stuffed full of wet cotton, too packed and inhospitable for proper thought to pass through. The words fall out of her with little filter to stop them, like the universe has let her borrow Maya’s own courage in life and in love. For some reason, what the young medium says next is not at all what Franziska’s expecting.
“You called me Maya.”
Franziska blinks dumbly, foggy brainspace lagging. “I… that is still your name, yes?”
“No, I mean you dropped the Fey.” Her smile wobbles adoringly. “You’ve never just called me Maya before.”
“Oh,” says Franziska, staring at the grassy floor. “I suppose not.”
Soon as they’re there, Maya blinks the tears in her eyes away—they dissipate as her face scrunches with joy, and she wraps both of her arms around Franziska, giggling rapturously.
“Guess that’s your version of a silly petname.”
Blushing, Franziska ducks back into the cover of her scarf. “I-It’s nothing of the sort!”
“There’s that argumentative spirit of yours! Knew it was still in there somewhere.” Maya presses a kiss to her cheek. “You know, we don’t have to stop the date just ‘cause you’re not feeling well. Let’s just go back to your place, yeah?”
“Always inviting yourself over,” Franziska says, drawing her scarf closer to her neck.
“And yet you never say no.”
“Something tells me I haven’t the fortitude of will for that.”
Again, then, her breath seesaws once, twice—but still, Maya holds her steady as she’s dipping back into her handkerchief to sneeze thrice more. As was previously mentioned, Franziska is fairly certain this is not how a valentines date is supposed to go… and yet Maya is gleeful as ever, leaning into her rather than away.
“Gesundheit, Fransicko.”
“Stop—” she blows her nose, scowling the entire way, “saying that.”
“Aww, why?” Maya teases. “Your mothertongue sound stupid on my lips?”
“It’s terribly cliché,” says Franziska, “and everyone thinks they are being clever when they direct it towards me.”
“Of course that’s the part of my statement you gripe about.” Maya presses another kiss into the side of her. “Freakin’ weirdo.”
“The whole sentence was dreadful,” Franziska clears her throat, “but at least part of it was original.”
“Ha!” Maya laughs a loud laugh in her ear, heart tinged with worry when Franziska’s reaction is to wince. Softer, then, “Alright, alright. Let’s get you home, Ms. von Narsty.”
Sighing with her whole chest, Franziska draws the blanket closer around her, trying not to smile as she finally, finally sinks into Maya like a hill of snowmelt in the springtime sun.
“Don’t press your luck, Maya.”