Chapter Text
The ropes dug into his wrists. The tears froze to his face. The child had never been so cold in his life. But for all that, all little Simon Gustavia could think of was his father, out there waiting for him. He would be furious.
“I’m sorry.” Horace was crying, too. Far more so, in fact, because no matter what he did, someone would be angry with him. “I’m so sorry. It’s warmer in the car.”
This moment might have catalyzed a storm of destruction: the death of Gregory Edgeworth, the disgrace of Misty Fey, the eventual downfalls of Manfred von Karma, Blaise Debeste, and so many more — all thanks to two little boys on a sad Christmas Eve. It might have... but it didn't. Not this time around.
Before Horace could force his friend into the car, a stiff, freezing wind blasted into them, blowing the door shut. When he let go of Simon to yank it open again, the other boy shoved him to the ground and bolted.
“Wait!” Horace picked himself up and took chase. “I’m sorry!”
“Shut up! Leave me alone!”
Simon had a head start, but it didn’t last long. Horace was larger and faster, and he eventually overtook the other boy, tackling him into the snow.
“Why are you so mean?” Simon sobbed.
“It’s not me, it’s my dad,” Horace protested, even as he expertly shifted to pin the smaller boy down. “You don’t understand! You don’t know how scary he is!”
“You’re both mean! I hate you!” He squirmed in Horace’s grasp, clawing at the snow beneath him. “Let me go!”
“Promise you won’t run away!”
“I wooon’t,” Simon whined, and Horace crawled off of him. Of course, he hadn’t meant it, but as they untangled themselves from their shivering lump, the boys found that the whole world had gone white. Even their footprints had disappeared.
Simon gave up quickly, curling into a ball and cried miserably. Horace tried to hug him, desperate to calm him down. It only took three times before Simon stopped hitting him.
That was when they heard the bell. Somewhere amidst the flurry of white, something black was moving towards them. Horace put himself between it and his friend. “Stay away!” he cried.
“My, my. What are you doing out here?”
The man was ancient, terrifying, and accompanied by a dog that more greatly resembled a demon, but the boys were too cold to run. After a confused and tearful interrogation, it was determined that they needed to make it to Ken Master’s house, and the old man called them a cab.
“I’m sorry,” said Horace, legs swinging as they sat in the backseat.
Simon said nothing.
Gregory had barely had time to hang up his hat before his son ran up to greet him with an enthusiastic, “Merry Christmas!”
Oh. So it was Christmas. No wonder Ray had asked to leave the office early.
Gregory cleared his throat in embarrassment and ruffled Miles’s hair. “Merry Christmas, son.” His mind raced. How could he have forgotten? What kind of father forgot about Christmas Eve? And more importantly, where was he going to buy a gift at this late hour?
“I made you a present,” said Miles, beaming with pride as he held up a small box.
This was bad. Miles was being even more precious than usual, and he didn’t have anything to give him. “We should wait until Christmas morning,” he said. “That way, you can open the gifts that Santa brings you at the same time.“ There — that should at least buy him a little time.
"Larry says there isn’t a Santa. I’ve been working on his defense case…” And here Miles frowned, looking thoughtful. “But the more I look, the more the evidence seems to support his argument.”
Honestly, that Larry was such a bad influence. “A defense attorney believes in his client,” he said. “Santa’s going to bring you something great tonight. That’ll be all the evidence you need. Go put that present under the tree.”
Miles seemed to accept this, so that was one crisis averted. Gregory moved to the kitchen to check what he had on hand. He’d been planning to make hot dogs, but that definitely wasn’t a proper thing to eat on Christmas. He was going to have to take Miles out, but where? There had to be somewhere still open…
“Dad?” Miles called from the doorway.
“Yes, son?”
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
Gregory suddenly felt as though he were talking to a prosecutor. “Er— well, I…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Miles smiled. “I don’t need a present. I’m just happy you’re here.”
What a good, darling child—
“But if you really want to give me something, you could let me look at some of your case files,” he continued.
Gregory sighed. If he couldn’t think of something fast, he really was going to have to let the boy read through murder cases—
“Eureka!” He closed the pantry and turned to his son. “Put your coat on. We’re going out for dim sum.”
Of course, it was all so simple — the shops in Zheng Fa Town would definitely still be open on Christmas. He could treat his boy to a nice meal; maybe Ray, too, if he wasn’t busy. And surely there’d be a toy store open where Miles could pick out something nice and, with any luck, completely unrelated to murder cases…
It was about a week later when the boys met again on the playground; Simon sitting idly on a swing, having been there since dawn, and Horace with a fresh circle of purple blooming over his eye. He plopped down on the adjacent swing. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
“My dad is still mad I didn’t stop you from going to the contest,” Horace finally said.
“My dad is still mad I was late,” replied Simon flatly.
“I don’t get it. I thought they were friends.”
“I thought we were friends.”
Once again both boys were silent. Simon shoved his feet against the ground, but didn’t bother to add any more momentum to his swing, and after a few weak swings he returned to simply hanging.
“I wish you had stopped me,” he blurted.
“Huh?”
“Dad’s medicine is working really well. He can already taste things almost as good as normal.” He ducked his head, fat tears falling to the ground.
Horace’s eyes widened. “Don’t cry!”
“He doesn’t need me anymore. Is he going to send me back to my mother?” Simon couldn’t remember his mother, but he certainly remembered all the things his father had said about her.
“He needs you!” Horace cried, waving his arms frantically. “He’s your dad!”
Simon only cried harder as he shook his head. “He doesn’t. He can cook on his own now.”
“I need you,” said Horace. “You’re my only friend. All the other kids think I’m weird because my dad makes me play chess.”
“You are weird,” said Simon, but it calmed him some, and he rubbed his eyes as he peered up at Horace. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes! Please don’t be mad at me. We’re friends, right? Best friends!”
Simon paused, then nodded. “Yeah, okay—” He’d barely finished speaking when Horace caught him up in a big, teary hug, nearly knocking him out of the swing.
They would stay in the park for most of the day, Horace too frightened to return home and Simon knowing he wouldn’t be noticed even if he did. That night, both boys would be informed that they were no longer allowed to play together.
But it was funny. The things their dads said didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.