Phoenix stared at his reflection, inexplicably anxious.

His eyes combed over every intricate detail, meticulously dissecting every aspect of his appearance. He had never been overly attentive to his looks, always trusting that he was attractive enough in his own right and would likely make things worse if he went muddling with the mundane details, but now…? He reached up and twiddled with a spike, having chosen to leave his usual style softer for the evening, wondering if he should stiffen his hair for what was probably the 40th time that hour. The thick black locks crowned his head and fell slightly in back, and while he enjoyed the change in routine, he wondered if his date for the evening would appreciate it in turn.

Date. I have a date. Edgeworth is taking me on a date?

He fished his phone out of his pocket and re-opened the text message, reading it again, ensuring that he wasn't losing his mind. The words were still there, timestamped for just after four in the morning the previous Saturday. It was real. This was happening. He stared back at his reflection, convinced that he was going to throw up before he made it out the door. It had been nigh impossible to simply make it through the week without having a nervous breakdown. Maya must have asked him a thousand and one times what was bugging him but he couldn't quite find it within himself to give her the real truth about his plans with the celebrity prosecutor. He couldn't remember what excuse he'd made up for why he was on constant pins and needles, but he was positive she hadn't bought it.

What a difference six days could make.

He was dressed simply, having been amused and yet lightly embarrassed by the implication that he had looked homeless the last he'd seen his friend. I guess most people would look homeless when compared to Edgeworth… The attorney smoothed his hands against his outfit, lamenting the fact that his palms were sweating. He'd chosen a thick, white t-shirt and a simple black collared button-down over top of it that he let hang loose over a pair of dark jeans. He'd been grateful to Maya for managing to iron out the wrinkles in the hems, even if she'd had to use her hair straightener. Even now, he scanned obsessively, looking for any snag or hair or loose button that might stand out over the evening. Satisfied that he was as good as he was going to get, he spritzed on some cologne and shut out the bedroom light.

It was nearing seven o'clock, he was certain, and as the minutes ticked by, his anxiety increased tenfold. In the far recesses of his mind he knew he was being ridiculous; after all, this was a man he had technically known since childhood, had defended in not one, but two homicide trials, and had already kissed. Although he hadn't seen his rival since their strange encounter over the weekend, they had texted each other throughout the week. Their exchanges had been fleeting and typically spanned over several hours, but the words they'd exchanged had been lighthearted and teasing for the most part. He had been immensely grateful for the continued contact and cherished it as reassurance that he hadn't simply imagined the entire experience, even if he was now mildly annoyed that his heart leapt into his throat every time he felt his phone go off. A simple outing should be a no-brainer, and yet, he was more nervous than he'd been for his first trial. He paced, fretting over what they might get up to. Where were they even going?

He paused.

Were they going anywhere? He supposed the text he'd received didn't exactly specify what to be ready for, just to be ready and not to look homeless. Shaking his head, he sighed at himself and patted his pants, reassured by the feel of his typical phone-keys-wallet ensemble. At least he'd remembered the essentials, right? What else could he need? Staring bleakly around his apartment and cracking his knuckles, he glanced at the clock on the wall and was dismayed to note that it was only 6:52. What on earth was he to do with eight whole minutes?

His fingers twitched and he looked longingly at the old piano crammed into the corner of the tiny living room, wondering if it would be worth it to take his mind off of things until Edgeworth got there. Memories of his college roommates' faces when he'd insisted they help him somehow maneuver the instrument into the apartment flooded forth and brought a grin to his face; looking back, it had been asinine to even consider hauling the massive piece of furniture up the steps and inside, but they'd managed somehow. It had been an old thrift store find years ago, dusty and forgotten amongst the ocean of furniture people had donated. There were scuffs mottled amongst the failing finish and he was almost certain that there were some serious internal issues based on the way a few of the keys sounded, but he loved it as deeply as if it were an old friend.

He approached it and sat gently on the rickety bench, wincing at the squeak, vowing to finally fix the damned thing one of these days. His hands found their way over the stained ivory as they had thousands of times before and he pressed them gently, eliciting a soft chord, feeling instantly better. The chord developed into a simple progression and his muscle memory took over, producing one of his old favorites that he used to resort to when studying had become too tedious. The music soothed him immensely and he continued to grin as his voice caught up, smooth and easy over the way the piano played. He crooned the words to no one in particular, enjoying the way he felt when he sang along to the melody.

Happy memories bubbled forth through the song and he played on, encouraged by the recollection of playing in the common area of his school's student center. He knew that he had a great deal of artistic ability, having indulged his illustrative talents for most of his life, but people had generally been surprised to find that he was quite talented musically, as well. He had enjoyed playing for the small crowds that had gathered to hear him, occasionally singing to the girls in a transparent attempt to garner their affections. It was a reliable and efficient way to dissolve the constant stress that plagued him especially now, and as he finished the first song, the second came easily to him. He sang brightly and happily, content.

"I had no idea you had talents outside of outrageous conjecture, Wright."

Phoenix damned near jumped out of his skin, cussing under his breath when his knee hit the worn wood of the upright piano. An incredulous glance toward the door provided him with the image of Miles Edgeworth leaning casually against the doorframe, staring him down in amusement. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as his knee throbbed mightily and he cringed, wondering how long the other man had been eavesdropping on his serenade. His mouth moved awkwardly, but he didn't quite trust himself to produce words that weren't profane just yet.

"You left the door unlocked." As if to punctuate his explanation, the prosecutor reached up and lazily manipulated the door handle a few times, demonstrating its lack of security. Phoenix glared at it poisonously, feeling flustered from having been caught off guard. Edgeworth stood motionless for a moment more before clicking his tongue in displeasure. "May I come in, or do you need a moment to ensure that you aren't crippled as well as mute?"

The defense attorney clutched uselessly at his bruised joint and waved his friend in with the other hand. "Sure, come on in. Sorry about that, I guess I lost track of time."

Edgeworth shut the door behind him and flipped the deadbolt. "I'm early." An uncertain silence settled over the two of them, neither confident on how to proceed. As Phoenix moved to rise from his seat, however, Miles held up a hand. "Keep going. That is, if you don't mind."

The brunette raised an eyebrow. "You want me to keep playing? Aren't we…you know, going somewhere?"

The prosecutor shrugged and averted his eyes. "You're…surprisingly good. I was enjoying it."

"I…well, sure, if you want. Have a seat," the defense attorney gestured toward the worn sectional that dominated most of the living area, "do you know how to play?"

There was a snort. As Edgeworth slipped off his shoes and made his way over to the couch, Phoenix admired him over his shoulder. The prosecutor had dressed down for the event, though still appeared more formal than your average citizen. Clad in simple black slacks and a burgundy collared shirt, the man easily managed to look out of place amongst Phoenix's assortment of hand-me-downs. The color was stark against the man's alabaster skin and brought out the fawn-colored lowlights that glittered through the prosecutor's hair. Phoenix chuckled to himself for a moment, wondering if Edgeworth just naturally came into being so fashionable, or if he, too, had tried on seven different outfits to troubleshoot before settling for that one.

As the prosecutor perched awkwardly upon the shabby upholstery, he shook his head. "I was never particularly gifted in the arts. We were permitted to listen to music occasionally over dinner, but von Karma was strict about practicing anything other than law in his household. He felt it was a waste of time."

To his surprise, the defense attorney barked out a laugh. "Miles Edgeworth not good at something?" He spread his fingers out over the keys and hit a powerful minor chord, dramatically emphasizing the man's quiet admission. "Tragic." He received a thunderous look for his taunt and giggled, unable to resist following up with a few more sorrowful notes. "It's definitely something that takes practice. What would you like to hear?"

The prosecutor sat, silent, staring blankly at the piano. "I…don't know."

Phoenix rubbed at his chin for a moment and considered his options. The butterflies returned in full force and he tried in vain to quash them, feeling an immense amount of pressure to impress his rival. Fortunately, this was something he knew he was good at, and so he ran through his mental repertoire, wondering if he knew anything that the other man would even recognize. Knowing Edgeworth, he was vastly more likely to recognize something classical, but where was the fun in that? It wasn't often that he managed to get the upper hand over his rival and he might as well take advantage of it… When he reached out to replace his hands on the keys, he said a silent prayer that his music would come off a lot more eloquently than he did.

Taking a deep breath, he began to play anew, gently this time. It was a lilting, sad tune he had written the winter of his senior year of undergraduate, shortly before he had learned that he'd just squeaked his way into law school. He had been homesick at the time and was feeling uneasy over his career change, ever pursuant of the prosecutor that was now sitting silently behind him. The memories turned somewhat uncomfortable, as it was impossible for him to remember that time period without also recalling how he had stood as a defendant, himself, charged with the murder of Dahlia's ex-boyfriend. And Mia… The pain of her loss was only just now starting to dull, years after that terrible accident…

As the song built and he crooned through the lyrics, he wondered if Edgeworth was enjoying it. He hadn't thought about the song in quite some time and now that he was listening to himself sing it, he couldn't help but cringe slightly. Was he always this emotional? It was no wonder he was seen as such a pushover when he was with—

He cut the thought off immediately, nearly skipping over a few notes. She would never be back and there was no reason to conjure her memory forth. He had never been down on himself for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but memories of that girl haunted him even now and he shuddered, trying desperately not to allow the flash of red hair and beautiful, wide eyes to creep into his thoughts.

Deciding to change his strategy for fear of luring himself into a depression, he finished the song without a repeat of the final chorus and opted instead for an old etude that, in all honesty, had actually reminded him distinctly of the prosecutor behind him when he had first learned it. The notes were tricky and complicated to piece together and the effort of getting them correct forced him to concentrate, successfully diverting his train of thought. Although it had no lyrics, he hoped Edgeworth would like it.

Behind him, the prosecutor relaxed slightly into the couch cushions, interest piqued by the unexpected concert. He had been anxious, sure, but it had been easy enough to shake the feeling until he'd knocked on the attorney's door. Traffic had been terrible and had allowed him to focus his nervous energy on arriving on time without causing an accident. He had considered making reservations somewhere, but didn't want to intimidate the other man, assuming that he was quite unused to fine dining. When he had arrived and heard the music through the door, he had been expecting to discover that Phoenix was still getting ready and had it on as background noise, prompting him to crack the door so he could call out to him.

But this…?

He could just see over the other man's forearms where his hands danced along the war-torn ivory keys and his voice carried over the tune amiably, entrancing Edgeworth with its baritone. Phoenix's back and shoulders flexed slightly with the effort of bringing the music forth from the piano and the prosecutor's eyes darted across his body, desperate to take in every detail he could while the attorney was distracted. When the first song ended and Phoenix started into another, it was only then that he realized he was so focused on absorbing the experience that he never heard a single word that the man sang.

Forcing himself to break his tunnel vision and instead attempt to simply enjoy the moment, he propped an ankle upon his knee and glanced around, curious. Before that fateful party, he had never seen Phoenix's office, much less his apartment, and he was interested to see what sort of insight he could gain while his date for the evening was thoroughly distracted. It was apparent that there was at least a relatively frequent attempt to keep the place clean, but everything about the living quarters was simply…worn out. The carpet was 10 years past changing, the furniture didn't match, the coffee table had rings stained into it… He shook his head. It was no wonder the man showed up to court in a poorly fitted suit; it was a miracle he could afford a suit at all.

His eyes scanned upward to the walls where pictures of various sizes peppered the shabby wallpaper. They primarily showcased the attorney with his former clients after clinching the acquittal, all smiles and cheers and fists in the air. He suppressed a smile. There were photos of Maya and Pearl, of Kurain, and even one of Gumshoe being whipped by Franziska von Karma. He lamented briefly that he would likely never experience that kind of camaraderie with his own team, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it presented itself. He had never been particularly good at that sort of thing even when it was warranted, he mused, and he was genuinely happy to leave it to someone like Phoenix Wright, instead.

His eyes traveled further along to the adjacent wall where four prominent pieces of art were displayed on their own in beautiful frames above the television. He cocked his head at them, wondering how such out-of-place pieces made their way into an otherwise unimpressive living space. Each was distinctly different from the next: The first was a portrait of a beautiful woman sat gazing out of a window at a garden, done in what appeared to be oil paint. The one next to it was a massive charcoal sketch of a male lion mid-roar, its mane matted with streaks of inky blood. Further along the wall was an abstract piece ablaze with color and hard-angled shapes, and beside that, an acrylic painting of—he squinted at it—a shipwreck? Each was beautifully done in its own right, but try as he might, he failed to see how each related to each other. How odd.

An awkward silence met his ears and he turned back to see his childhood friend looking sheepishly back at him.

"Sorry, I guess I can sort of get carried away. Am I boring you?"

Feeling slightly ashamed for getting caught daydreaming, Edgeworth shook his head and tried to smile, figuring it would diffuse the situation a bit more easily. "No, Wright, I dare say I even found it quite enjoyable. You're obviously well-practiced."

Phoenix let forth a burst of bashful laughter and blushed deeply, rubbing the back of his head. "Ah, well, it's an old hobby. I'm glad you liked it." The attorney noticed that Edgeworth's gaze had shifted back to the pieces above the television and he followed the stare. "Ah, you noticed those, did you?"

The prosecutor made a small noise at the back of his throat, almost as if he were considering whether to critique the art or to simply compliment it and move on. "These pieces," he murmured before getting up and approaching them, "they're exquisitely done, but they make no sense in this setting."

Phoenix flinched slightly in anticipation as he watched his old friend walk across the room so that he could get a closer look at the artwork. He knew it had been too good to be true to have Edgeworth walk into his apartment and just be satisfied with being swept off his feet with a few songs. "They make no sense? What do you mean?"

"There's no rhyme or reason to why these four pictures would be next to each other. They're completely different eras, different styles… How could I not notice them, Wright? They stick out like a sore thumb. It's like somebody bought the leftovers from the museum auction and threw them up on a wall." Phoenix watched as Edgeworth peered closely at each piece, eyeing them with the same calculation as he did when he was evaluating evidence. Bashfulness bubbled fiercely within the defense lawyer as he watched the prosecutor move silently between them.

"Those are, um," the attorney twirled on the bench so that he could sit facing his friend, instead, resigned to watching the cultured man critique the artwork, "those are the pieces that didn't sell from my Art final. Y'know, back in college. I had enough credits to finish out the major while I doubled in law, so I figured why not… At the end of the semester, once everything had been graded, we had a gallery where people could see what we worked on and buy stuff if they wanted to. Those were the only ones of mine people didn't buy. I guess I see your point, though. They don't really make sense next to each other if you don't know the story…" He trailed off lamely, realizing he was rambling to cover up his sheepishness.

There was a pregnant pause before Edgeworth turned, incredulous. "You did these!?"

It was easier, Phoenix decided, to feign offense than to accept praise. "Why do you always say it with a tone of surprise when I do something good?"

The prosecutor turned back to the framed artwork, folding his arms. "I…had no idea."

Phoenix stood and smoothed at his hair, unable to stop himself from fussing even now that the man he had been waiting on was standing in his apartment. Edgeworth had yet to reveal his plans for the evening and it was gnawing at him. He knew where he might take someone on a date, but the prosecutor was comically out of his league, and thus, he couldn't really imagine taking the other man to an arcade or a gyro joint. Even though he vowed to be grateful for wherever the night took them, he silently prayed that it wasn't somewhere with cloth napkins and menus in another language. "Do you, ah, have a plan? You know, for this evening, I mean. Obviously." Real smooth, Phoenix.

A deep chuckle emanated from the prosecutor as he turned at long last, unfolding his arms and casually hooking his thumbs onto his pockets. "Not particularly," he murmured, his tone kept deceptively confident to conceal the raging emotions inside, "though I would imagine dinner is in order. Do you have a preference?"

Phoenix smirked playfully, unable to resist the temptation to try and get a rise out of the other man. "Oh, you know, I have a coupon for two large pizzas and a twelve pack that expires tomorrow… I figured we could use that and watch a B movie before we both fall asleep on the couch?"

Edgeworth stared, confused.

"It was a j—"

"Is that…what you normally do in this situation?" The prosecutor could tell that the defense attorney was then feeling him out, seemingly under the impression that this was some sort of trick or joke. He shrugged uncomfortably, both at the implication that he would tease the other man about his preferences, and at the casualness of the suggestion in the first place. "I was expecting somewhere more formal, but if you'd like to order in, I don't mind. It's just…not something I'm familiar with."

It was Phoenix's turn to stare back at the prosecutor. "W-what? You've never had a pizza delivered? Or some Chinese food?"

"von Karma never would have permitted such…plebian food in the household. We had a chef in the house who cooked our meals. I don't have the time or the inclination to cook for myself, either, so I have my own meals prepared." Unable to stop himself, he clutched self-consciously at his elbow and looked away, choosing instead to stare back at the artwork on the wall. He had suspected that by inviting Phoenix Wright into his life, he would begin to see a greater deal of exposure to what most would call normal things, but it didn't make the pill any easier to swallow when he had to admit that they had always been wealthy enough to avoid cooking their own food.

"You mean you never learned how to cook, so you pay someone to do it for you." Phoenix giggled, unphased. "Well, I mean, why not, then?"

"Why not what?"

"Why don't we order a pizza and watch a movie? You know, like us plebian people do. Maya took Pearl back home for the weekend, so we have the place to ourselves. I usually try to eat a lot healthier than that, but this is a special occasion, right?" The attorney shrugged. "Next time you can show me one of your favorite restaurants. Fair trade. I'll even wear a tie if I have to."

The prosecutor considered the offer. On the one hand, the concept of cheap delivery food and a movie played on an old flatscreen was so terribly average that he was still reeling over the suggestion in the first place. It never in a hundred years would have occurred to him that such a lack of formality would be appropriate for a first date, especially with someone to whom he owed so much. On the other hand, he had promised Phoenix that he would be patient. He had also repeatedly lectured himself on his own impulsiveness, vowing to make an earnest attempt to stay within the other man's comfort zone for as long as possible, and this was a golden opportunity to do so. Still, he mused as he took in his surroundings, compromises could be made… "Alright, Wright, I suppose I'll concede to this culinary exposure, but on one condition."

"Oh—what? Really? What's that?"

"We eat on actual plates."