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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.

I've not been called Miles in a long time.

[How long has it been, now? Years. Von Karma never used his name if he could help it — and he understands why, now, all too well. Franziska uses his full name, by comparison. To everyone else, he's Prosecutor Edgeworth, the Demon Prosecutor — cold, aloof, and impenetrable.

When was the last time he was just...Miles?]

Ah. We'll...have to stop. I don't have much, and it'll be easier to — you'll be sure to have what you need, that way.

[Why isn't he protesting that this man just invited himself over to his house? Oh, well, it's not like he's all that attached to it. If something goes awry, he'll just move.]

It's only pasta and some vegetables-do you not have that much, Miles?

[Those are staples and even he's been able to accrue those in his limited time here.

But it's not the worst pitstop-there's a bottle of wine he's been eyeing and this seems like a decent enough occasion for the purchase.

He presses that chapstick to his lips again-for all his qualms about this place, those faeries sure know how to make a balm. He'll give them that much. It's sure working wonders on his dry lips.]

Let's go before they close. It won't take long to get what I need.

I'm not one to take chances. It'd be unfortunate if you discovered too late you didn't have something you needed — so it's simpler just to do it properly from the start.

[Which comes with the added benefit of, y'know, letting him dodge the question about the current state of his food stores. He eats fine. Between takeout and snacking, he's doing fine.]

I'll pay, of course. Just...get whatever is appropriate.

There's no need. It's my treat-I asked you on this date and I'll see my part through.

[The shopping adventure takes less time than Caesar would normally spend in the market for one reason.

He wants privacy. He can say with great certainty he's never ended up at the grocery store after flirting his way into a date. It's less awkward than he expected, but still odd enough that he wants to rush through it.

The pasta isn't ideal. The wine is subpar. The spices and vegetables seem fine though and that's at least something he can work with.

And when they arrive, he waits by the man's door for a couple seconds after it clicks shut-testing the waters, to see if he really wants this meal or if he was waiting for the same peace and quiet to own up to a need that's less. This.

Well, one, two, three seconds passes and-

Dinner it is. He makes himself oddly comfortable in that kitchen, pulling open the disgustingly bare cabinets and shelves and is that instant noodles??? Caesar is offended by the sight of it. More offended that someone who makes his chest flutter like this has such a sad excuse for a pantry. ]

Did some fool rob you while we were gone?

[He points to one of the cabinets-terrible. Awful.]

This can't be all you have.

[For a second, all is quiet in the sad excuse of a meal preparation station that is the Edgeworth kitchen, before suddenly, the unprecedented happens.

Edgeworth laughs.

It's not loud and boisterous, nor is it prolonged or uncontrollable. But it is a real laugh, perfectly genuine, and rich with a flash of honest humor that he hasn't let show in what feels like ages.]

You do a magnificent impression of my sister.

[What sort of foolish fool is foolish enough to have such a foolishly empty kitchen?!, he can just imagine Franziska thundering. So no, not quite the same; the accent is wrong and there's more disbelief and less irritation, but the spirit of it is there nevertheless.]

I mostly eat out, or...well. I don't cook for myself much.

[That's a polite way of saying he's a ramen-eating gremlin, isn't it.]

I grew up with servants. It would've been unheard-of to let me in the kitchen; food was simply delivered when it was ready.

[It's another unexpected reward for, what would usually, be some kind of a start to an argument no matter how right he is to call out these bare shelves.

That breezy, carefree sort of laugh dampens the irritation in his gut. It makes him pull out the vegetables and start heating up the oven, instead of prodding it further and-

Instead of thinking about this feeling further-the one that makes that explanation sufficient and causes him to be curious more than anything.]

Your sister is a wise woman then.

[And he's a rich kid-not like JoJo though. He lacks the bratty demeanor that would usually make him lose his temper at every spoiled thing he said.]

You'll have to learn to make your own meals, you know-you can watch if you want. This one is so simple my siblings and I could do it before we were school aged.

[And he waves his knife bearing hand to usher the guy to him-it's not like he'll be around to cook him every meal, but this is something he'll remember. He always has extra during his own meal.]

Tell me more about your sister.

[Because he doesn't particularly care about whether he comes from old money or not.]

Better still, why don't you take me on as your assistant? I'm sure I'm not so incompetent that I can't perform a task I'm set to.

[So he says, as he takes the invitation to come over and goes one step further, sidling up next to Caesar on the pretense of watching, but really just standing a little too close in his personal space to really be called innocent.

It's a small kitchen. It's probably nothing. OR IS IT.]

Just show me how.

[He says, soft, and just a little breathy.]

We're not blood-related. Her father took me in as his ward when she was two and I was nine. She's never really known a life without me, so I suppose it's to be expected that we treat each other that way.

What happened to your family?

[This is what he appreciates-the hands on training versus simply accepting the free meal and going back to his sad pantry life. At least he's acknowledging, to some degree, he can't continue to live that way.

And he can't deny the way his chest flutters yet again when the man moves close-too close. The words 'Show me how' makes Caesar wish he was providing a different kind of instruction in a different part of the apartment.

The onion is only half diced-a task he pushes towards the man beside him to finish, as he pulls apart the bag of pasta. Tragic. Camelot can't make pasta, is what he's learning in this moment. He'll have to salvage it through any other means necessary.

And he not so subtly moves until the sides of their feet are touching. He can play this particular game.]

Finish cutting that up and then the tomatoes.

...I suppose some would call it a tragedy.

[He says, quietly, but doesn't elaborate further. As it turns out, there's no amount of enchanted chapstick that can compel Edgeworth to delve into those particular details so relatively quickly.

Fortunately, he's got vegetables to distract him, and so he takes the cutting board and knife from Caesar, seeming to collect himself and get his bearings on the task before methodically beginning to dice the rest of the onion. His movements are slow; it's apparent that he's not practiced at this, so there's no muscle memory to rely on, but he's at least managing a fair level of precision at it, and avoiding mangling the vegetable as he slices it.]

She's a prodigy. Her name is Franziska, and like you, she tends to always think she knows what's best for me.

Edited 2020-11-27 05:53 (UTC)

[He's not going to prod at this supposed tragedy further. Sore subjects aren't off-limits by any means-he pokes at them with all the intent of riling up assholes who think there's a untouchable line he can't cross over. But when it involves family, an orphan, well-

It's not as easy to touch.

He glides a hand across Edgeworth's back when he turns his focus to the now boiling water behind them.]

Sisters usually do, no matter what age they are, and they're typically right you know. You should heed her advice.

[And even when they weren't, he didn't say shit, because her eyes would light up with every smug 'I told you so' that came out of her mouth.]

Tomorrow we'll go out and fill your pantry.

[He, personally, cannot let this offense rest.]

...Tomorrow...?

[That's the first, however offhand, suggestion from either of them that this encounter — whatever it is and however it's defined — might have longer-lasting ramifications than just a casual one-night affair. Now, all of a sudden, there's a tomorrow involved, and since it wouldn't make much sense to have a full pantry without the know-how to do something with it, it's possible that Caesar Zeppeli is suggesting...

...is suggesting...

Edgeworth licks his lips, tasting the chapstick as he focuses his attention back on dicing the tomatoes beneath his knife.]

...What about your siblings. You have more than one — older, or younger?

Tomorrow.

[He repeats it, lacking the unsure tone of his companion has-lets that tomorrow rest on the man's lips for him to think about. It's more of an invitation to continue whatever this is because Caesar can't deny that, so far, it's been pleasant. The way his heart pound, pound, pounds when he gets too close is nice. The way he talks about his family-his sister-is better.

He's not a bad guy and Caesar can understand now why his eyes settled on him in that street center.]

Four-two girls and two boys. All younger, but they don't act it.

[He starts rummaging through the cabinets to find some kind of useable saucepan to mash up those tomatoes he's cutting. The hell, Miles. This is the saddest kitchen.]

All of them would be in their teens now and I can only imagine what that did to their already big egos.

[There's a fondness in his voice-it's not the insult it sounds like. He is, in fact, proud of that Zeppeli confidence.]

They were good kids. Smart and strong just like every other Zeppeli.

And humble like them too, I expect.

[Smart and strong like every other Zeppeli, huh. Yeah, he sees that ego, all right. As a matter of fact, it's kind of funny, really.]

Pasta, tomatoes, and diced vegetables...

[He considers a minute, then ventures a little curiously.]

Is this a puttanesca?

[If the shoe fits, Miles. He didn't say it-this guy did. All the Zeppelis eat slices of humble pie on the daily.

But whatever comment he was going to say dies pretty fast at the weirdly accurate answer to the 'what's for dinner' game. Most people would assume spaghetti and they wouldn't be entirely wrong to do so.]

I'm impressed you know that. It's close to it, but not quite.

[Not the same because nothing will be when not made with wholly Italian ingredients in Italy itself.

And he rests an arm against his shoulder, eyeing the progress on the vegetables-pretty good.]

Seems like I should give you a reward for your knowledge.

Not knowing how to prepare it myself isn't the same thing as not being able to identify it. My palate is fine, I simply don't...

[He waves at the cutting board and pans, a little vaguely.]

...do this. With any regularity.

[But he gravitates a little into the hand on his shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to another in a way that doesn't disrupt his cutting, but brings him a little closer still. The chapstick is still clinging, he muses idly; he can feel it every time he purses his lips in quiet concentration.]

[Look, if he wasn't so enamored with this guy, he would make a comment about that fine palate when there's a small package of instant noodles in his cabinet. God knows what else he eats that simply isn't in the kitchen right now. Press (x) to doubt that comment.]

You seem like a quick study, Miles. In time these meals will come easily to you.

[He presses his lips against the man's cheek, if he doesn't move away-soft, chaste and quick.

Then he's back to the stove-olive oil heating against whatever pan this guy has. ]

Put the tomatoes and vegetables in here when you're done.

[He sucks a short, sharp breath — just a little startled at the abrupt familiarity — but to his credit his knife doesn't falter and he doesn't go rigid, just tenses and releases for a second in his surprise.

Kisses...are warm. The rational part of himself chides him immediately for the patently stupid observation, because of course there's warmth in human contact, living beings produce heat, it's plain science — but it isn't strictly scientific, the way that even fleeting contact shivers down his spine, reminding him ceaselessly that he isn't made of stone.]

And what things come easily to you, I wonder?

[He focuses on his chopping a minute, before collecting a small pile of diced vegetables and balancing them on the flat of his knife to deposit them into the pan.]

You seemed to think I'd be rather easy. I'd like to hope I wasn't.

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