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.]

[He's visibly flustered; there's no denying that. But it's a testament to Edgeworth's composure that somehow, amid it all — even as a hint of a flush creeps into his cheeks and his eyes soften beyond his usual stern glare into something milder — he still, still, gathers up enough of his wits to answer thickly: ]

You got one correct. S-Shame about the other two.

[Miles Edgeworth is not one to lose battles of wits.]

[This guy is fucking with him in equal measure. It's frustrating and impressive at the same time-this sort of tenacity is something he appreciates in a person. That steely resolve and inability to accept defeat and watching his stony, stoic demeanor melt just so slightly under his touch is its own reward. Enough to placate him for this single moment.

But that noose gets tighter around his heart in a way that's impossible to figure out. This is the point where he usually gets bored. When the chase starts to wind down and he ends up with a cute partner in his arm for a short, predicatable date.

He's not bored though. Not in the slightest and when this stranger stumbles over a single word, he finds that fire reigniting in his gut all over again.]

What a shame that's what you think.

[And it's a shame his hand wanders like it does-gliding up his chest until his fingers are pressing under his chin and-

He tilts that head towards him until they're close-until he can hear every breath, until he can see that tinge of pink, until he can look in those eyes and keep that contact.]

You should learn more about me before you decide on an answer so swiftly.

[It's a touch too much, a touch too fast — enough so that a note of reluctance jars itself free from the otherwise comfortable fog of approval clouding his thoughts, and one hand comes up to catch the finger tipping his chin, preventing it from wandering any further. It's not an outright negation, just an attempt at slowing the advance down a little, letting him find his footing again.]

I think it because it's true.

[They are, in fact, now holding hands. Or at least, one hand is being held in another. He hasn't moved away. The tension is still sparking between them. It's just —

Only on his own terms, he thinks vaguely, before turning his attention back to the depths of Caesar Zeppeli's eyes.]

Bastian is correct. Andrew and Charles are — wrong.

[He holds his exhale a little too long, before his lungs start to burn and he has to remind himself to draw in another breath.]

And if you try to steal a kiss you haven't earned, that only makes you the knave of this fairy tale, and not the knight.

[That hand is too warm to send the shiver it does down his spine-as if the reciprocation is something he craved and not something he was trying win.

That shaky breath is hot against his lips too-it would be far too easy to steal a kiss and he's sure that would stop the stomach flipping sensation that hits his gut whenever the man makes eye contact with him.

That, too, is extremely new and this guy is to blame for all of it.]

To not be a knight in your eyes would be a problem indeed, no matter how inviting those lips are. I wouldn't dream of stealing anything from right under your nose.

[But he does get close-purposefully petulant about all these ridiculous rules and-

Tilts his head back a bit. A little distance here-absence makes the heart grow fonder.]

But go on and tell me-why do you think you're right? How did you solve my puzzle so fast?

[Because he sure as shit doesn't know what any of those shapes meant.]

The knight is noble. He always tells the truth — as one might say in the vernacular, a "square".

[Lips parted slightly, eyes half-lidded, he gives his answer without hesitation — because unlike Caesar, he isn't bluffing, and has no reason to.]

The knave is a liar — he'll play multiple sides as he sees fit. But like a circle, the spy has only one side, fundamentally — his own.

[He shrugs slightly, eyes flickering back and forth across Caesar's face.]

So, you solved: Andrew, the knave. Bastian, the spy. Charles, the knight. One right and two wrong.

[He laughs under his breath.

It's a sort of light, breezy kind of exhale that sounds genuine-content and almost amused that this man found answers in his bullshit. Actual logical answers in what he hoped would be an easy lie to cheat into his good graces.

This guy is unexpectedly clever and refusing to concede is now a badge of honor instead of an predictable outcome. The guy caught him not so red-handed and instead of being filled with rage-

Being outwitted makes his chest fill with a sense of pride. Of respect.

He should be suspicious of that feeling and maybe he will once this man's eyes settle anywhere else but on his face. For now though-]

You're something else. [With one hand still gripped, he uses his free one to press against the man's face, brushing a thumb against the corner of his lips.] For your supposed victory, why don't I give you a reward of my own? It's no kiss, I can assure you. That's your prize to give.

Stop trying to impress me.

[Caesar didn't say he could name his prize, but that's what unfolds anyway — a request that comes surprisingly neither stubborn nor bossy, but with a note of vulnerability he can't (or doesn't) quite try to conceal.

The touch of Caesar's thumb at the corner of his mouth feels like a leaden weight; he can't distract his attention away from it, can't ignore it, can't focus on anything but it. Yet still, he stands his ground, however soft his demeanor might be turning.]

Play all the games you want, and I'll beat you at every turn. But it's pointless if you aren't going to be honest at the end of it.

You're concocting the games to play-what choice do I have but to play? You won't even give me a name for all my trials.

[And that thumb starts a slow glide across his bottom lip, hoping to incite some kind of reaction from a man that has yet to completely give in. One that's twisting all his words, his actions, his minor tricks back his way and-

That finger rests on the center and Caesar presses his own lips against the nail. They aren't touching-there's no dishonesty here. His eyes remain steady-fixated on the dark gray in front of him.

Having someone who wants to beat him at every turn-that's exciting. Seemingly impossible. But the man's silver tongue is more dangerous than he expected and he finds himself willing to play through these ploys to hear another word fall from it. ]

My intent is clear, so why don't you tell me what you want from this?

Your intent is to seduce me.

[That much is obvious, from the kiss that isn't a kiss and the way they have yet to break eye contact. Good sense would say to run from this, to pull himself together and cut through the simmering tension in order to clear the air. But Caesar Zeppeli put his hands on him, made his breath catch and his heart race, and he's not ready to be done, not yet, not just yet.

It's a good thing he put on that chapstick. His lips would've been rough and scaly beneath the touch of his thumb, but now instead, they're perfectly smooth.]

I'm telling you how. I don't give up my time for sweet-talkers and charlatans.

[And — maybe that will put Caesar Zeppeli off. Maybe he'll get disgusted and turn away. That would be his luck, wouldn't it. Added proof that he really is destined to be a loner, aloof and withdrawn from the things that other people seem to manage all too easily.

But he won't compromise himself. Not for that. Not for anything. It's either take him as he is, or not at all. And that's why, when he speaks, there's a tremor in his tone.]

Act like I matter. That's what I want.

[That abrupt candor succeeds in doing one thing-throw him off completely.

That 'Act like I matter'-as if the man before him has used those eyes to pierce his soul to learn his ploys long before they ever met in this dingy town center.

He doesn't say a word-not right away. His fingers bound in one hand and his other pressed against his face. Connected and disconnected at the same time. This has gone in a far different direction than he intended and-

It doesn't upset him.

And he could leave-for any other mark, he might. There's fun in a chase, but the beautiful women he pulls into dark alleyways for late night rendezvous and treats to extravagant lunches during the day are on the same page, no matter how much they talk about the future. Dates, visits-all of it are things he agrees to, things they would get excited about it, he would see flashes of those beautiful smiles and leave. He never second guessed that path.

Not one time did he reflect on his actions, those pointless words, all the meaningless sweet nothings that would fall easily from his lips and now-

He swallows. Recalculates, realigns and his features lack the fabricated tenderness that came with all those loving words only seconds ago.

But he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, he wants to find out more.

He wants to look into those eyes and understand what's going on. It's baffling. It's never been like this.

Well, it was like this once. Twice. But that's in an emotional suitcase he threw into the metaphorical ocean after a fight. It doesn't matter, but recognizes it as the same.]

Then let me see what kind of person you are.

[That thumb drops and Caesar doesn't move from that position. A breath away. A kiss away.]

Over dinner, right now.

My name is Miles Edgeworth.

[And for a second, saying that, he feels like he's years younger again, back before all of this started, back before an immaculate record and accusations of falsifying evidence and all the terrible, terrible revelations that had led him to realize the necessity of killing his old self and beginning to forge a new one. For a second it's like starting over with a truly clean slate, with no lingering doubts and horrors in his past to cling to and color the present moment.

A veritable stranger wants him. The sensible, calculated Miles Edgeworth would've already refused a dozen times over.

Unthinkingly, he runs his tongue over his smooth lower lip, tasting the lingering flavor of the chapstick he'd applied earlier. Still soft. It'd worked fast — and worked wonders.]

You've finally done something to earn it.

[He murmurs, and lifts his chin, and closes the gap between them.]

[Hearing that name sends an blazing prickle across his skin, down his spine, through his chest and-

The kiss sharpens the intensity of that feeling-as if he had been waiting all night for this miniscule win. It shouldn't matter at all-he's kissed other people. He's been wrapped up in arms and limbs to go alongside passionate acts where kissing was the least intimate.

And somehow none of it compares to the soft taste of a hard fought victory from a man who didn't give an inch until now. He won this and he won the date, despite the shitty puzzle standing in his way.

And he wants to push it-to tangle his fingers through his hair and deepen it and pull him into a spot that would allow for privacy, but-

He made a promise and so be it. Dinner first-he's a man of his word.

But all the promises in the world can't stop him being a little petulant-from gently pulling at Edgeworth's bottom lip with his teeth when he separates from the kiss.]

Miles it is. I hope you'll let me earn more favors as the night goes on.

[A not so subtle hint and-]

There are no restaurants here worth eating at. I'll make a meal in your home with what you have instead-it will be worth your while.

IC Inbox | isleofavalon

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