Phoenix is grateful he was invited to the wedding. Really. Even with his internal debate over what suit he should wear and his general nervousness about showing up when he knows no one at all except the groom, it turns out to be well worth the stress for the charm of watching Larry all but shout his vows and the romance of the bride's scowl of irritation melting into affectionate laughter in the space between two inhales. Phoenix is sure that in a few days, once his recollection of the reception has faded, he'll be exclusively thrilled to have received an invitation.
Unfortunately, right now he has to actually make it through said reception.
Dinner was bad enough. The appetizers moved with excruciating slowness, progressing around the room with such syrupy speed Phoenix had more than enough time to consider the faces of everyone in a room - a not-insignificant task, given their number - and confirm that no, he doesn't know anyone enough to recall their name, much less strike up a conversation. His assigned table is even worse; the faces are those of strangers, a pair of couples and a duo of girls he rather suspects are intended as romantic interests for himself and the last attendee, a man impeccably dressed and looking approximately as miserable as Phoenix feels. Luckily for Phoenix, and he suspects for his compatriot in pain, the girls are far more interested in gossiping with each other than with either of them.
Phoenix tried to strike up conversation when he sat down, asked for the other's name with as much friendly charm as he could muster. But the answer he got was quiet, nearly a mumble, and between the faintly European accent to the words and the steady almost-judgment in the other's eyes, like he's just waiting for Phoenix to embarrass himself, Phoenix determined silence to be the best route and lapsed into strained self-consciousness punctuated with nervous sips of wine and occasional bites of the food brought around by helpful waiters.
He suspects it to be the fault of the wine, that by the time the music has surged into the upbeat rhythm that indicates the possibility of dancing for those more inclined to it than Phoenix is he is feeling calmer, relaxed enough to tap his fingers against the table in time with the beat if not so comfortable that he's willing to attempt full-body movement. His tablemates evaporate, the couples removing themselves to the dance floor as one unit, and the girls shortly thereafter, neither of them making the least attempt to engage either Phoenix or the remaining man into any kind of partnership.
He's grateful for that, even if it leaves him alone with the less-than-sociable man. At least they are in the same position, mutually aware of the awkwardness of the situation; it's better than being the odd one out, Phoenix is sure. Besides, the other man really is well-dressed, aesthetically pleasing beyond just the smooth silver of his hair and the elegant lines of his features. He'd be attractive, Phoenix thinks distantly, if his mouth ever relaxed out of the frown that must be all but permanent.
It's at this point that he realizes he's staring, and further than he hasn't been called out on such. A blink, a moment's consideration, and he realizes the other is watching him too, though his gaze is directed to the idle motion of Phoenix's fingers against the tablecloth rather than to his face. His features are smoothing, a little, his jaw unclenching and eyes softening into unconscious interest; it makes him look far less stern, something a lot closer to shyness emerging in his features.
Phoenix is staring again. This wouldn't be a problem, exactly, except that he's distracted now, too, his attention to the music flickering away, and when his fingers still the other man glances up at his face before he can think to look away and pretend he wasn't.
They stare at each other for a long moment, long enough for Phoenix to flinch for an insult and long enough for it to not come. They're just watching each other, like each of them is locked in place by the color of the other's eyes, and Phoenix has the momentary insane sense that neither of them will be able to look away if one of them doesn't speak.
He clears his throat, tries on a smile. "Not much of a dancer?"
A silver eyebrow jumps up, forming itself into a steep curve, and even that is elegant, hinting at derision without enough force to allow for resistance. "Were you hoping for an invitation?"
"What?" Phoenix says, his brain stalling slow on the tilt of the other's head. "Ha!" The amusement is sharp, startled tense around his self-consciousness; he lifts his hand, scratches needlessly at the back of his neck. "No. Definitely not. Sorry." He clears his throat, glances out at the swarm of the crowd on the dancefloor. "Just trying to make conversation, since neither of us seem to want to be out there."
There's a beat, enough time for Phoenix to sigh and drop his hand back to the table. Then a cough, faint and a little forced, and when he glances back over the other man is staring at his wineglass, reaching to work his fingers at the narrow glass stem.
"Apologies," he says, the vowels working themselves around that accent again, something a little British and a little German and mostly vague elegance. "I didn't intend to mock you." When he looks back at Phoenix his brows are drawn together in what looks like pain and might possibly be apology. "My sister tells me I need to work on my…" He makes a face, grimaces at the wine remaining in his glass. "People skills."
"Sister?" Phoenix echoes, as it seems like the safest word to repeat of the ones offered.
The man jerks his chin towards the dance floor, the clear space around Larry and his new bride. They're dancing slow, the shape of something reminiscent of a waltz, and the music is all wrong for it but Phoenix thinks he's never seen Larry look so graceful.
"Franziska," the other man says. "I don't know how she made up her mind this buffoon was the man of her dreams but she proved immoveable as always once her intentions were fixed."
"Larry?" Phoenix says, as if there's anyone else he could possibly be speaking of.
There's a flash of movement, eyes cutting to land at his expression; then: "Your acquaintance?"
Phoenix smiles, pleasure coming easy at the memory. "Childhood friends."
Another grimace, this one looking decidedly pained, and the other man's gaze is back on his wine. "Ah." He lifts the glass this time, brings it halfway to his lips as he sighs. "And now I've insulted your friend."
Phoenix barks a laugh, perhaps louder than is reasonable from the way the other man startles and turns to stare at him, but the music is loud and there's no one to be discomfited except his current conversational partner. "Oh, come on," he says, quirking an eyebrow himself and offering a smirk. "I've known Larry my whole life. Calling him a buffoon is being kind, I know."
That gets him a laugh, the other man's expression falling open in a way that suggests he wasn't expecting or braced for the amusement. He lifts his free hand to cover his mouth, like it's something he's ashamed of, but Phoenix sees anyway, the bright flash of an open-mouthed smile that catches softness into the steely distance of the other's eyes. Phoenix is grinning too, now, delighted at his victory over the other's composure, and when he leans in he does it with only a faint prickle of nervousness at coming so far into someone else's personal space. The other's shoulders stiffen, his hand dropping along with his smile, but he looks only edgy rather than actively irritated, and Phoenix puts on his best apologetic expression to match the mock-whisper of his voice.
"Besides," he says. "You calling my friend names at his own wedding should about make up for the fact that I need to ask your name again."
There's another smile, softer this time, barely breaking out into a curve of lips in the tense stress of the other's face. He looks down at his glass again, spins the stem idly to swirl the dark liquid up against the crystal sides, clears his throat like he's about to make a speech instead of give his name.
"Miles Edgeworth," is finally what he says, careful and clear enough Phoenix can parse the syllables even around the strange cliff edges of his almost-accent.
"Miles Edgeworth," he repeats back, just to make sure he has it. The other man glances at him sideways, mouth flatlined back into uncertainty, and Phoenix offers his best smile, the wide goofy one that has never yet failed to win a response from someone, along with his hand. "I'm Phoenix Wright. Nice to meet you properly."
Dark eyes skim his face, stop off at his smile, dip down to his hand. Phoenix can almost see the hesitation in Miles's thoughts, the discomfort in the surroundings that turns his expression into an unapproachable shadow. But then he clears his throat, reaches out to carefully set his wineglass on the table so he can free his hand. When his fingers slot in against Phoenix's, his eyes come up to meet the other's, his mouth tries on the shape of a smile.
"Nice to meet you," he says, deliberate with every sound. "Phoenix Wright."