jurisprudence | IC Inbox

[Chapstick seemed like an innocent choice. The little creatures were pushy with their samples and once he took a few, they backed off. Why they were fixated on people when they could market towards the bizarre beasts now accompanying them is beyond him. He doesn't know what a unicorn uses and he doesn't care enough to ask just yet.

The point is-

It's unfortunate timing that makes him try the balm as some rando passes by and there's an immediate shift that overwhelms every logical part of of his one functioning braincell. All the pieces that don't give two shits about this stranger passing through the area vanish and all that's left is-

Well, him, a pocket full of useless samples and a man walking with a confident air-the sight of which tightens a string around his chest. There's something about him in particular-a reason Caesar can't place by looking at the curve of his clothes along his spine.]

Ciao, bello. Where are you going?

[The thing is just —

It's not that he didn't know, fundamentally, that accepting any sort of free sample from this weird magical bazaar was a terrible idea. It's not that he didn't know full well that some ridiculous thing might come of it. It's not that he's naive, or stupid, or shortsighted. The thing is, it's just —

He just fucking can't stand the feeling of chapped lips, okay.

So yes, he'd taken the chapstick, and yes, he'd put it on, but that's fine and it doesn't matter because nothing happened and it's fine and he just has regular smooth non-chapped lips and.

And.

A voice makes him stop, and look, and keep looking.]

I'm not sure how that's any of your business.

[Under normal circumstances, that sentence would've been crisp and no-nonsense, dismissive and final. As it is, it leaves his mouth with a lilt that's almost playful, deliberately hard-to-get — inviting further inquiry.

It's...strange. He's repressed, yes, but that's not inherently synonymous with "inexperienced". It's not as though he doesn't — know things. It's not as though he's incapable of appreciating that the man approaching him is built and taller than he is and really rather handsome, all things considered.]

Why do you want to know?

[This song and dance is new outside of the grandiose walls in the training grounds on Air Supplena. This tit for tat, this curiosity hidden behind a disinterested tone-he remembers playing a similar game with JoJo. It was always a battle-everything was.

His words are bait at the end of a string and Caesar bites that hook in an instant. Fearless and ready for the challenge.]

You look to be a man of class-I was hoping you wouldn't mind some company on your way, so we could talk.

[It's better and worse when he gets closer-that gleam in the man's eye lights a fire deep in his gut and the memory of every flirty maneuver he used on unsuspecting tourists flashes through his mind in an instant. As if there's a past ploy he's already pulled that would work on this medieval stranger now.

Caesar wants to know more about him-needs to. But this is no easy mark, by the look of it. It's going to take more than small trinkets and his usual flowery words to get anywhere. He treads carefully, accent thick and forced to the surface.]

My name's Caesar Zeppeli-who might you be?

Really. And you frequently approach strangers simply because of how they look?

[An Italian accent, he notes. There's something about that particular accent that nags at him, a vague recollection of something he can't immediately place. Why is Italy, in particular, worthy of note? He can't recall, but it doesn't altogether matter. Thinking about it would only draw attention away from his ability to examine Caesar Zeppeli's features, and it would be such a shame not to give those his undivided attention.]

Perhaps I won't tell you. What will you do then?

[Is he. IS HE PLAYING HARD-TO-GET. What the fuck, this chapstick.]

You would deny me such a simple request? How cruel. That makes my heart ache, you know.

[There's a challenge in pulling out the man's name and his own tone holds a mock disappointment at the response. There's a mutual interest here, if the way his new companion eyes him is anything to go by.

He takes the opportunity to close the arm's length of distance between them to stand by his side-get a closer look at the curve of his neck, those strands of gray hair that match those equally dark eyes. They're close in height, but Caesar towers over him by a few inches when they're side by side.

And what he does next is risky-his hand raises to brush away strands of gray from the man's face. It's a gentle gesture and it's impossible to predict what this stranger's reaction is going to be, but he's ready for it. ]

But if you prefer to remain a mysterious stranger, I'll gladly accept that outcome, if it means I get to look in your eyes a bit longer.

[In a world where he was not currently under the influence of some sort of bizarre attraction-compelling chapstick, Miles Edgeworth may have done a few things in response to someone reaching to touch his hair, including:

o) recoiling backward
o) slapping said hand away
o) glaring death
o) delivering a scathing verbal evisceration

But this isn't that world, and there isn't a single bit of ambiguity to the way he allows it to happen, never breaking eye contact, his silence all the implicit permission needed.]

Your heart is easily wounded, if it's harmed by something as harmless as that.

[Caesar Zeppeli is taller than he is, but he's no stranger to asserting superiority even when he's the shorter person in the pair, so his body language shifts slightly — still inviting, in its way, but without surrendering an inch.]

Perhaps I should walk you to the hospital, and you can have it looked at.

[There's a soft, airy laugh that escapes his lips at the retort. This man is quick following up with a bite that matches all that bark.

If he had any sense, he'd pull that hand back from his companion's head, but-

He's looking at him and there's something that flutters in his chest, a sensation that something's pressing tight against his throat and-

He's not used to this.

So he doesn't pull that hand back, instead taking that lack of a reaction as an opportunity to run his fingers through those dark gray strands, trail them down the side of his neck and-

Finally drop it to rest against his side.]

A hospital won't help you know. We're in a fantasy world-much like a fairy tale. Don't you think a kiss would be a proper cure for this era?

[Years ago, when he was younger and still in law school, he remembers getting himself into a moment like this. The sky was dark and the air smelled of beer and baked pretzels, and he should've been home two hours ago but every glance at his watch had been met with a touch to his arm and the temptation to let things play out just a little longer.

Those were the old days. He was less experienced then, less world-hardened, less cast in the mold that the years that followed had made him into. It's been a while since he let himself wind up in a situation like that again, and yet — here he is.

So it's not altogether unfamiliar. He knew better then, just like he knows better now; the only difference is that back then, he was reckless enough to ignore good sense and see what came of a night's rebellion, instead.

Right now, he should know better, but the prospect of rebellion is...oddly tempting.]

Let's say it is. As it happens, I know a little something about fairy tales, too.

[He shifts his bag to his other hand, then raises a finger on his newly freed one, tempting and tantalizing even in the way he implies a halt.]

Namely, that no kiss is ever given without being earned through an appropriate challenge.

[Despite every quip coming out of his mouth, he's not walking away. He's not saying no and that barrier in the form of a finger is wall with a weakness. There's a way to break it and Caesar will find it.]

Do you? Then tell me-what would your challenge be?

...A test of wits, I think. Show me your mettle.

[Which, perhaps, betrays a little too much of Edgeworth, himself — it's not just looks that he's inclined to find compelling, but the unrelenting sexiness of good solid logic.]

There are three men: Andrew, Bastian, and Charles. One is a knight, one is a knave, and the last is a spy. The knight always tells the truth; the knave always lies, and the spy can do either, as he pleases.

Andrew says, "Charles is a knave."
Bastian says, "Andrew is a knight."
Charles says, "I am a spy."

Tell me what each of them are, and you'll get your kiss.

[It's an actual riddle and Caesar waits patiently for the punchline to drop-for the man to claim he's playing some kind of bizarre prank on him and the actual test is something less-

This.

To his credit, he does try to work through the problem. Spends a couple minutes mentally deciphering the clue and wondering why he couldn't just lift some heavy boxes to impress him. That worked on a number on tourists around Venice.

But he's proving time and time again in their short conversation that he's no ordinary mark.]

Let me repeat it. I want to make sure I heard you correctly.

[And his fingers reach over to grip the front of his shirt, giving the lightest of tugs to pull him a little closer. If the man doesn't resist, he'll take the next step-pushing the line of what he's allowed to do before he's supposed proved his mettle through all this wordplay.

So he'll use his own. If the stranger doesn't pull away-if he's a little bit curious about what's going to happen next-he'll find Caesar's lips brushing against the shell of his ear and hear a quiet-] Ready? Listen close.

[He ought to hate it, he knows, somewhere deep down beneath the pleasant haze that the love spell has momentarily cast over his thoughts. He ought to lash out at the liberties this stranger is taking, and back away, and reassert his impenetrable boundaries once and for all —

Except that clever fingers catch him by the lapels, and urge him closer, and it's been so long since he's been touched that indulgence, however foolhardy, is starting to melt the icy walls he's usually able to maintain.

At least he manages not to gasp like a blushing schoolgirl. He maintains some dignity, thank god, and waits, silent but anticipatory.]

I'm listening.

[He's rapt, is what he is, with his breathing slow and catching in his throat.]

What answer have you come up with?

[The goal is a kiss and-

Caesar doesn't plan on cheating by pressing his lips against all that exposed skin just a breath away. They have an agreement, however ridiculous it is in his eyes, and though he glides his lips against his earlobe, over his jaw and down his neck-

He never lets them rest. He simply repeats the riddle back, confirming what he heard the first time with every stop on this path across his skin. It's not answer. He wants to make sure the smug bastard is wholly aware of the trial he's putting Caesar through.

And then he drops the hand clutching his shirt-presses his palm flat against his abdomen and uses his finger to draw invisible shapes over the fabric. One by one he lists the names-]

Andrew is-

[A triangle.]

Bastian is-

[A circle]

Charles is-

[A square.]

Figure my answer out yourself. You're a fan of puzzles, aren't you? Take some time to solve that during dinner and let me know then if I'm worthy of your kiss.

[And you know what those shapes mean? Jack fucking shit. His only goal here is to screw with him a little and earn more than a peck on the cheek for it. When in doubt, cheat your way out after all.]

IC Inbox | isleofavalon

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