when pigs fly

—

summary: in which edgeworth thinks he might've undergone an overnight lobotomy, and develops an affinity for hiding in small places. it doesn't bode well for him. —larry/edgeworth

—

note: for the sake of the fic, pretend that the bottom of edgeworth's desk in his office is blocked off.

—

9:56 P.M.

—

"Dude!"

"Larry, shut up."

"But you totally just kissed me! Defiled my pure lips!"

"I thought we've already established I'm clearly not in the right state of mind right now."

"B-but… you kissed me! Isn't that kind of like…taking advantage of someone? Particularly, me?!"

"I'm trying to think here. Now if you would please just—"

"Edg—"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Again! You just did it again!"

—

THREE DAYS EARLIER

12:02 P.M.

—

It starts how these things usually do: Larry gets involved.

(Somewhere, the familiar saying crawls forward from the crevices of his memory, time and time again, tainting his mind with—"If something smells…")

Miles Edgeworth is spending his lunch hour in his office, as always, looking over files and paperwork for a big trial taking place the next week. He almost never gets assigned cases in which the trial is postponed days after the crime had taken place, instead of immediately afterwards, so this is a pleasure for him. Miles takes his time reading the victim file, eyes sweeping over words and pictures, and it feels… peaceful.

That is, until his door is wildly thrown open, door knob castrating the wall behind it. Miles winces. This could only mean—

"Edgey, my man! Do me a solid, okay? It'll be real quick, I promise!"

"What's the occasion this time, Larry?" Miles asks, not bothering to look up from the manila folder in his hand. Then, he frowns, and peers over the top of the paper with narrowed eyes. "You didn't steal another child's candy bar, did you?"

"Come on—that was ONE time. And I went to Nick for help for that, remember?" Larry gives Miles a pointed look, pouting indignantly. He shakes his head, waving his hands frantically. "Anyway, I need your help."

"I'm assuming you're just going to come out and tell me without my own prompting."

"Sure—whatever. Model for me, will ya, Edgey?"

Larry produces his paintbrush from who know's where, and begins to make strokes in the air to prove his point.

Miles takes a deep breath, and begins to count down from three—two—one. He exhales. It's routine at this point, and frankly, he doesn't know why he ever bothers.

"I'm giving you twenty seconds to think of a good reason as to why I should agree to your foolish sentiment before I kick you out of my office. Starting," Miles looks at his wrist, eyeing the almost-transparent seconds hand on his watch, which passes by the '12,' "now."

Suddenly, it's like a lightning round on a family game show.

"I need the practice!"

"Bother someone else."

"But you're my best friend."

"Nice try, but no."

"If you don't I will… stop bugging you for a week?"

"What happened last time?"

"What if I tell everyone in this building about the Origami Incident of '01?"

Miles' jaw clenches, and his teacup is only brought halfway to his mouth when he momentarily freezes. He clears his throat, takes another glance at his watch, and sets down his cup back onto its small plate, attempting to seem unfazed by the current change of events.

"Nineteen seconds. Consider yourself lucky, Larry. And," His eyes dart around shiftily. "I am perfectly capable of folding origami now."

"Sweet!" Larry beams, and before he could stop himself, "You know, that's what you said in elementary school, too! Ah, man, I feel bad for those suckers who tried to comfort you. They ended up going to the hospital after your pointy cranes poked them in the eyes." He shudders at the memory, and Miles is about three seconds away from killing someone.

Then, noticing the look on Miles' face, Larry nervously begins to inch back into the open door, pointing outwards, "I… I'll just go grab my things. You're the best, Edgey!" He makes sure to holler, and then he is gone.

Miles reaches for his teacup again, grip on the handle turning his knuckles white, and he reads the same sentence five times in a row.

He gulps down the rest of his tea. (It burns, but it's not like he will admit it.)

—

12:14 P.M.

—

By the time Miles manages to calm himself down, Larry is back again.

"Whooooa! Where did that basketball hoop even come from?" Larry begins rambling, wide-eyed, and dragging his paint easel into the room. "I almost tripped over it, and everything! Don't you guys know what safety hazards are? What happened to being all about the law?"

He leaves the room again, only to retrieve a multitude of paint bottles, some of which were open and beginning to trickle out onto its sides. "You, uh, also might want to invest in a wet paint sign for outside your room." Larry hastily adds, sticking his thumb into the opening of his palette and reaching for the red paint bottle, "Just a suggestion."

He squeezes a generous amount onto the wooden board.

"Let's just get this over with." Miles says through gritted teeth. He allows himself to lean back into his chair, fingers absently drumming against his desk. "What is it you want me to do?"

"Huh?" Larry asks, setting down his palette on Miles' chessboard. Miles sighs when he notices all his red pawns knock over and roll onto the floor. Larry shrugs off his orange coat, rummaging through his bag on the couch, and pulls out an oversized pink sweater.

"You want me to model for you, correct?" Miles tries again, and Larry makes a small noise of agreement as he pulls on his sweater. His head gets caught in the collar for a couple of seconds, and Miles tears his eyes away from his form one he realizes his gaze lingered for far longer than necessary. He continues, slowly, as if he is talking to a mere child, "Is there anything specific you want me to do?"

"Oh, that!" Larry scratches the back of his head, closing an eye shut in thought. He smiles sheepishly after a while. "Not really."

"How much of this have you actually planned out?" Miles asks warily.

"Well, honestly, I wasn't expecting you to agree, so, not much." He shrugs, and then a light bulb goes off over his head. "Hey! You could do a handstand! It'd really help me work on my anatomy."

Miles purses his lips, not moving an inch. "I'll just sit here."

"Whatever floats your boring boat." Larry says instead of trying to get Miles to agree to his suggestion. This automatically makes him suspicious, and Miles narrows his eyes as he watches him intently.

Larry positions himself behind his easel, having grabbed his palette back from the chessboard and stepping over the chess pieces on the floor, lining the shot with his thumb. Miles shifts in his seat a little, putting himself into a comfortable position suitable enough to stay in the same place for a while without it becoming a strain.

"Mind not glaring too much?" Larry requests, and he pokes his head out from behind the canvas, blindly waving his inky paintbrush over in Miles' direction. Miles hopes he doesn't find paint on his floorboards later on. "You're kinda ruining the mood I was going for."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Larry."

"It's Laurice Deauxnim!" Larry pouts, gesturing to his ensemble and even attempting to tip his beret. Miles does his best not to roll his eyes, but decides that arguing would just prolong the time it takes for Larry to paint his portrait and makes a-decidedly, tough-effort to not look at the back of the easel pointedly.

Miles watches as Larry scans over his body, a concentrated look on his face as he picks up his paintbrush with his left hand and dabs it onto one of the colors on his palette.

He's surprisingly quiet the rest of the time, with the occasional 'mhmm's' and vague nodding that Miles believes he only does to make it seem like he has a clue as to what he's doing. Larry sticks his tongue out as he works, and Miles has to admit, for how terrible his drawings are usually, he works hard on them. And that he probably isn't half bad at it.

It's not a completely new side of Larry, or a 360 degree personality change, but it's unfamiliar enough to make Miles rethink his opinion of Larry. He had only spent so much time with him in elementary school, and had broken off all ties with him and Phoenix after the incident with his father, that he never really gotten to know Larry so well.

Miles supposes, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards—but only for a brief moment, because he would rather save the occasions in which he smiles for something that actually deserves it,—that Larry isn't such an irritating friend after all.

When he's quiet, at least.

—

TWO DAYS EARLIER

1:43 A.M.

—

Miles gasps heavily, shooting up in his bed with a start, and causing his covers to drop abruptly into his lap.

He inhales, then exhales deeply, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, tracing the outlines of his bedroom lamp as he attempts to calm himself.

A simple nightmare. That was all it was.

Except… it wasn't your usual run-of-the-mill 'I Think I Shot My Father in an Elevator' type nightmare—he hasn't had those in years after the whole case was settled. It was more of… a really unsuspecting nightmare that had just decided to creep up on him; one Miles never thought he might actually have.

He glowers inwardly.

Now Larry was even going to the effort of bothering him in his dreams.

Miles soon finds it in him to lie back down, pulling his duvet back over his body, and he shuts eyes forcibly. Sleep is of the essence.

There is no time to deal with this now. Whatever that was… would just have to wait until morning, he decides, stubborn, waiting for darkness to lull him back in.

—

7:23 A.M.

—

It's almost like it's opposite day the following morning.

Miles feels tired, snappy, and overall, unlike himself. He wakes up on the wrong side of his bed, his socks are mismatched by a slight shade of grey, he pulls on the same cravat he wore yesterday, and he almost forgets to feed Pess.

Miles usually isn't so forgetful, but then again, he doesn't usually roll around in bed all night because he physically cannot stop himself from—dreaming—about Larry. Larry Butz. Childhood best friend, Larry Butz.

What misdeed has he done to ever deserve this?

He growls into his bowl of cereal, too distraught to make himself eggs and toast, or even a fresh cup of tea that always seems to calm him down early in the morning. Stealing a glance at his wristwatch, Miles takes one more spoonful of his breakfast, and no, he does not slurp the remaining milk left in his bowl. That would be uncouth.

Miles walks around his large kitchen island to reach the sink, and he proceeds to wash his dish and give it a once-over with a small towel to dry it. He would not let his lack of sleep affect his workday, Miles is sure of that. He is going to go along with the tasks he has at hand, and he is going to make a dent in his piling work-load.

This mantra repeats in his head even when he swerves his sports car into the wrong lane, just for a couple of seconds, of course.

—

8:01 A.M.

—

Miles is walking up the stairs to get to his office, hand trailing the railings as he counts his steps. Only one hundred and seven more to go.

Then, there's a flash of orange next to him. Miles' head whips around so fast, he thinks his neck might snap off.

But there's no one there.

He checks around again, even poking his head to look down the center of the spiral, but there's nothing Larry-like in the building whatsoever.

That's when the paranoia begins.

Miles enters his office, and sees someone sitting in his seat, playing with the office supplies on his desk. The figure looks up from their little make-shift game of table-football and beams, and the curdling in Miles' stomach must be because he didn't look at the expiry date of his milk this morning. (He definitely did not buy the carton of milk just two days ago. It had to be so.)

He ends up frowning. No one could have gotten inside without a key, and he already had Detective Gumshoe destroy his copy from when he was office-sitting. "Larry? What are you—?"

Miles blinks. And then he blinks again.

There's no one in his chair.

The frown etches into his features deeper, and he shakes his head to get the thought away. Rounding around his desk to sit on his chair, Miles places his briefcase onto the surface and clicks it open, taking out the files he had brought home with him at a slow pace.

What… was that?

He realizes there is only one way to handle this, so he counts down from three and focuses on the deep recesses of his mind. Miles has to approach this logically.

Miles' arms are crossed against his chest, and his index finger drums rhythmically against his bicep.

It all began last afternoon, that, Miles is sure of. But what exactly had been different? He runs the events of yesterday through his mind, making sure to note all the odd occurrences that had happened.

His morning routine went on as planned and he arrived at work just before eight a.m. Then, he began to review the case files and started to jot down notes for his pre-trial meeting, along with information regarding the witnesses and suspect. That was when…

Larry.

Larry had interrupted.

The problem began with Larry.

He had come into his office in the middle of his lunch, and convinced Miles to model for one of his silly portraits. The thoughts had stemmed from there, when he had decided upon a new side of his friend, and his dreams begun the night of and involved Larry and himself in… compromising situations.

The pieces of logic thread together themselves in his mind, combining into one final conclusion.

Miles' eyes shoot open.

No.

It couldn't possibly—

His logic could not be sound and correct all the time. Miles would be pretentious to think that, and he knows he has his own fair share of failures. Wright had shown him up in court more times than he would like to admit, and that was due to his own faulty line of thinking.

Humans make mistakes, and those mistakes usually lead them towards their own truth. Whatever—this—is, it's just faulty reasoning and a hasty hypothesis.

"Nothing more." Miles says aloud with striking finality. He fingers a manila folder, opens it, and begins to re-read it through with newfound ease. Everyone has their off days; what he is experiencing is merely just a normal set of affairs.

This will all blow over soon.

—

3:18 P.M.

—

Contrary to popular belief—popular belief referring to himself—it doesn't blow over. In fact, Miles thinks it might've gotten worse.

Whatever 'worse' means.

"Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Yes, Kay?"

"Are… you alright?" Kay seems to struggle with her wording, looking down on him.

"I'm fine." He answers tersely.

"You sure? Because it seems…" Kay trails off, words laced with concern and uncertainty.

"I am perfectly alright." Miles insists.

Kay doesn't quite seem to get the message. "Did you prosecute some mafia member, and now they've sent their guys after you? Don't worry, Mr. Edgeworth." She gets this mischievous grin plastered over her face, and Kay begins to adjust her fur gloves for emphasis before swinging her arm forwards, fist clenched. "I can handle them!"

Miles is about to scoff, "And you watch a television program about a man who takes up music because he cannot properly perform the skills it takes to be a ninja" but there are footsteps and a door opening, and he—calmly—scrambles further beneath his desk and shuts his mouth.

Larry's head pops through the doorway, his smile widening when he sees who is standing by Miles' desk, "Kay, baby!" He greets cheerfully as he begins to lug a canvas with him into the office.

"Oh, hey Larry!" Kay says back, beaming. Momentarily forgetting about the man beneath the desk, she lets herself fall into Miles' chair, her arms leaning against the arm rests with ease. This is something Miles wouldn't allow her to do, but given the circumstances, she had to take advantage of anything she could. "What's up?"

"Have you seen Edgey around?" Larry asks, eyes searching the room for his friend. He's gathering up the canvas up in his arms, and Kay can barely see his face from where she's sitting anymore.

"Mr. Edgeworth? Oh! He's—ouch!" She yelps, sending a glare down at her boots. Then, Kay's gaze returns back to the oblivious Larry, feigning cluelessness. "He's kind of busy at the moment."

It's five and a half failed pick up lines and a faked phone call later that Larry leaves the office in a slump, and Miles crawls out from under his desk and goes about brushing imaginary dirt off of his shoulders and knees. Kay takes that moment to jump up from her seat and place her hands on her hips, staring him down.

"What?" He asks calmly, feigning ignorance.

"I'm your assistant, not your lackey." Kay points out sourly, but it's quickly replaced with curiosity and giddiness when she presses, "So? What was that all about?"

"Nothing." A pause. "And what gave you the idea that you were are my assistant?"

Kay giggles. "Come on, Mr. Edgeworth. You should know by now that everyone needs a cute, spunky assistant. Gummy just doesn't fit that bill."

—

6:37 P.M.

—

"Uh, sir?"

"Yes, what is it, detective? And for your sake, please make it quick."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Why does everyone keep on asking me that? I'm fine."

"Uh, I dunno." Gumshoe scratches the back of his head sheepishly. He peers into the cupboard Miles managed to shove himself into. "It might have something to do with—"

"Yo! Gummy!"

"Hold onto that thought, detective." Miles says as evenly as someone crouched into a cupboard can be, attempting to shut himself in from inside. "As far as you know, there is no one in this cupboard. Okay?" comes his muffled instructions.

"Er—okay."

Larry pops up from behind Gumshoe, breathing heavily. He claps his hand against the detective's shoulder, the other grasping a painted canvas, "Whoa, I was calling you for like three minutes."

"That was you? Oh, uh—I probably just didn't hear. Sorry about that, pal." Detective Gumshoe leans against the metal cupboard, making sure it stays closed. His eyes dart from the water cooler, to the Chief sitting at his computer, and finally onto Larry. "So, Harry! What brings you here?"

"It's Larry." Larry corrects, oblivious to Gumshoe's shifting gaze. "And I'm here 'cause I'm looking for Edgey. Have you seen him?"

"Uh," Gumshoe squeaks, trying his best not to glance back at the cupboard. "Not today, I haven't. He's not hiding anywhere, or anything, pal. I can assure you."

Larry narrows his eyes suspiciously, letting out a low, "Aaaalrighty." With a raise of his eyebrows, he rounds the cubicles and heads towards the exit. Not without stopping by a pretty officer's desk, of course, but once he spots the plastic bag of evidence—more importantly, a bloodied knife—in her hands as she makes for the evidence room, Larry beelines straight for the double doors.

Once the burly detective sees the automatic doors shut, he cautiously knocks against the cabinet with his index finger.

"The coast is clear!" Gumshoe whispers, much too loudly to be inconspicuous. After a moment, the door to the small cabinet swings open.

"I suppose," Miles begins wryly, easing out of the cupboard, "I could bring up this good deed of yours at the next Prosecutorial meeting."

"A bonus…?" Gumshoe perks up considerably.

Miles gives him a look. "Don't get your hopes up."

"So—about that—"

"It's not something I especially want to speak about." Miles snaps.

"I can drive you to the hospital if you want?" Gumshoe offers, tilting his head and scrutinizing Miles. "You don't look too good, sir."

As much as Miles desperately wants to agree—he needs to be checked for excessive brain damage—work is a priority and no one person will be able to drag him away from his duties.

"There's no need. Come along, detective."

—

ONE DAY EARLIER

7:09 P.M.

—

The first question you'll be asking is: what is Miles Edgeworth doing on a roof? Well, you've reached the end of your luck, because Miles is also asking himself the very same question.

What on earth possessed him to hide up here?

"Edgey! Is that you?"

Right. There was the reason for all of his problems developing the past few days, standing by his ratty, run-down car on the sidewalk and looking wide-eyed up at his house.

"Why are you on your roof?"

Miles doesn't panic in these situations. He also doesn't rush towards the chimney opening, squeezing his body through the tunnel and into a pool of ash and embers. He's not brushing soot off of his very, very expensive coat, he's not clambering to close the blinds of all of his windows, and he definitely is not double-locking all entrances into his house.

(Miles finds it strangely ironic how once, Larry had stupidly climbed into a chimney to surprise a girl, and he is, in this hypothetical situation that does not happen at all, climbing into a chimney to get away from him.)

If that is what happens, which isn't the case, he especially doesn't think to himself that once this all passes over—his severe case of temporary insanity—which the Miles of that situation is sure will happen soon, he should write himself a note to remind him to send Larry the bill for his dry cleaning.

—

PRESENT DAY—26 MINUTES EARLIER

9:30 P.M.

—

No, Miles Edgeworth is not having an existential crisis in a supply closet, of all places. He is not. That would be especially out of character for him.

Which is why he's come to the conclusion that he's not Miles Edgeworth.

Accepting the recurring circumstances as it is would mean giving into his sick fantasies, Miles reasons, which leads to losing. Even though he is long past the point of his life where winning was the only thing that mattered to him, he still doesn't like to lose. You know what they say: when life glares at you, glare back.

And that was exactly what Miles is doing. Simply contemplating life's choices and pushing them further back into his mind. Nothing out of the ordinary; he would be able to leave this closet in a couple of minutes once all of his thoughts clear up and he is back to normal.

"What are you doing here?"

Miles freezes at The Voice—the one that's been plaguing him since the idiotic modeling incident, and he has to convince himself it's just his own imagination.

A hand brushes his shoulder. Miles' head snaps up at the contact, and he bumps it against a shelf. "Whoa! You alright, man?"

"How did you find this supply closet?"

"The note on your desk…?" Larry answers, confused at the sudden question. "You know…? The one that said 'Franziska—I will be settling some things in the supply closet at the end of the fifth floor. Come and get me when you are finished with work so I may drive you home.'" He recites in his absolutely stuffy Miles-voice-impression that Miles swears sounds nothing like he actually does.

Curses.

"Now I know how you found me. However, that doesn't explain why you've been trying to follow me these past f—"

"Oh? That!" Larry interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, "See, I was gonna show you the finished portrait! But whenever I tried to come find you, you kept being super busy or running away that I sort of… forgot why I needed to talk to you in the first place."

"Charming." Miles drolls before seizing Larry's shoulders in his hands, attempting to whirl him around and out the door. Larry, however, takes Miles' hands and removes them from his body, instead grabbing onto his wrists at his sides.

"So, what's your damage?" Larry presses, an eyebrow raised. He jokes, "Did a murder take place in this closet or somethin'?"

Then, realizing that his words could very much be true, Larry jumps into a corner, dragging Miles with him. His eyes dart at the floor, searching for any indication of blood or white tape.

Miles releases himself from Larry's grip harshly, rubbing at his wrists. "No! Nothing happened in this closet!" He snaps, exasperated, and glares daggers into Larry's eyes.

"Alright, sheesh." Larry says, waving his hands in an attempt to get Miles to back off. When he fails to do so, he starts to warily inquire, his interest peaking and friendly concern coming to light, "Then, what's the big dealio? You said you needed to settle 'some things.'"

Miles clears his throat into his fist. "I just… needed a place to think. That's all." He grits his teeth together, and continues, "Now if you please—"

"In a closet?"

"Must you question my actions?"

"It's kind of strange, really." Larry starts to pace around Miles in the little closet space that allows him to, stroking at his goatee. "You've been acting all weird lately."

"Have I?"

Suddenly the shelf of cleaning supplies and housing for rusty buckets seems very interesting, and Miles wonders when this supply closet was last used. The fifth floor was mostly vacant, after all.

"Uh-huh. The Miles Edgeworth I know wouldn't have an existential crisis in a supply closet. He would face the problem, uh—face first!" Larry snaps, pleased with his argument. "Yeah."

Fixing a steely gaze at Larry, Miles says, as steady as he can manage, "I'll tell you."

—

9:49 P.M.

—

"Wait so, let me get this straight. All this time you've been runnin' around and jumping through chimneys and avoiding me because you… you think you've gone nutty in the head?"

"It's a theory." Miles allows himself to nod, before shifting his attention back to the worn bucket. "But, yes. That is the gist of the situation at hand, here."

"I don't get it, though." Larry strokes his goatee, eyes narrowing in thought.

"What isn't there to get?" He asks exasperatedly. "I'm crazy, I'm hiding in a supply closet, and now you're here."

"Not that." Larry dismisses, scrunching his nose in a way that Miles finds not cute at all. That would be preposterous, and Miles had at least thought he had enough dignity left not to be wiled into these sort of temptations. "What's making you all… not… you?"

"Larry…"

He ignores him, continuing, "I mean, even if you managed to surgically change something in your brain overnight, there'd have to be a reason, y'know?"

"It's… complicated." Miles finishes lamely.

"And here I thought we were best friends!" Larry huffs, crossing his arms, offended at the thought that Miles is trying to hide something from him.

"That's the problem." Miles begrudgingly affirms, hanging his head.

"Huh? Whazzat supposed to mean?"

Miles doesn't say a word.

Then, almost like something had clicked and gone off in Larry's head, he snaps his fingers victoriously. With a knowing grin, he says, "So, I'm the one making you go all wacko? That's so cool!"

Miles' teeth grit together, and he closes his eyes. Threetwoone. Miles breathes out, "It is not 'cool'! Nothing about this is 'cool'!"

Larry's beam is the type of his expressions that people would often find to be contagious, but at that moment, Miles is having none of it. He slings his arm over Miles' shoulder, pulling him closer to him. "It kind of is. I mean, I knew I was irresistible, but really? Now I've even got the Great Edge-ini falling at my beck and call."

With an afterthought, Larry thinks aloud, "Huh… it's kind of like that hyperbole, you know? When cows fly… even though one jumped over the moon, once, right? I think I read something on the internet about that…"

"I'm assuming you're talking about 'when pigs fly'?" Miles asks, removing Larry's arm from his shoulder by the sleeve. He brushes at the spot with conviction.

Larry gasps. "Yeah, that one! Aren't I right, though? This is definitely like that."

"'When pigs fly' is used when something happens that indicates an impossibility—pigs cannot fly." Miles recites with precision, leaning against the only wall that wasn't littered with the handles of brooms and mops or cluttered shelves. He crosses his arms, letting his index finger tap away. "In this situation, yes, I believe you would be correct, Larry. The circumstances surrounding my… feelings… are impossible. Which is exactly why this should not be happening."

"But it is!" Larry argues, his hands balled in fists and moving about randomly. "You were supposed to say I was wrong because you're defying logic right now. Doesn't this all mean you like me, right?"

He's blunt and straight to the point, and once again, Miles finds himself struggling with his words. Usually, an intelligent comeback—with supportive evidence, of course,—would be spewing out of his mouth at Larry's accusations. But whatever he does, he cannot think of anything to say back. Even excuses weren't helping him anymore. Miles is on his own.

"So," Larry drawls, taking advantage of Miles' wordlessness and leaning in uncomfortably close, hand perched against the small wall space by Miles' head, "do you always jump into chimneys over every guy you like, or is that just me? Because if it is, I'm flattered."

"Out." Miles seethes, jabbing a finger at Larry's chest and pushing him away. "Get out of the closet. Now."

Larry grins, waggling his eyebrows. "I think you're the one that needs to step out first."

"I'm insane. I've clearly gone insane." Miles tries to distance himself from Larry, but it's hard enough in a cramped supply closet. He rubs his temples. "I don't even know why, in my obviously off-track mind, I ever thought I could like you."

"Ouch." He presses a palm to his heart with mock-wounded gasp, and he hangs his head, "That really hurts my self-esteem, Edgey."

"Good." Miles says icily, a bit relieved at the fact that Larry seemed to overlook the fact he admitted he might even liked the fool. If there was anything Larry was good at, it was overlooking the facts.

"Does this make you flustered? All hot and bothered now, huh?"

"No. Of course not." He denies indignantly.

"You probably want to kiss me right now." Larry grins triumphantly, his head unconsciously dipping downwards, even closer than before. His breath brushes uncomfortably against the inside of Miles' neck, and the prosecutor backs further into the wall with a sharp intake of breath. He closes his eyes.

Then, the most inconceivable event that Miles could ever bring himself to imagine happens. They are slipping into uncharted territory now, and strangely enough, Miles is navigating.

Miles grabs him by the neck and kisses him sound on the mouth. They don't actually move their lips or anything, though, because both of them are shell-shocked at the fact that they are actually kissing, and it's just brief and awkward lip-to-lip contact, and Miles pulls away as soon as he regains the ability to move.

"Dude!"

And here they are, back at the beginning-of the end. Something like that.

—

9:59 P.M.

—

"When I said, 'you probably want to kiss me right now,' I didn't mean you should actually KISS me!"

"That wasn't a kiss." Miles denies—he's been doing a lot of denying already, so another one to the pile shouldn't matter. "It was… retaliation."

Maybe Miles should take a lesson in "Personal Space 101" because he has no idea how he and Larry ended up closer than they'd been the whole night, chest-to-chest and against the wall (again). Although, there was the fact that the supply closet Miles had chosen to wallow in wasn't very large, he still sticks by the notion they shouldn't be closed off into one of the corners when there are many other corners to be isolated away into—preferably one per person.

Note to self: hide in a bigger closet. Not that he believes there would be another time he needs to hide in a closet; his problem is only temporary, after all.

Larry's mouth opens and closes and opens again, and Miles should probably stop staring at it when he has all these non-Hallmark Approved urges coursing through his body. Finally, Larry strangles out, just as confused as he is, "I don't even think that makes any sense!"

"I couldn't come up with anything to retort back to you, so I kissed you, alright!" is what Miles is about to say when the familiar thud of high-heels against lined carpet makes him fumble in his words. Larry's eyes only open wider. In retrospect, perhaps that is a good thing.

The door to the supply closet is thrown open, and the hallway light shines onto them. They easily break apart.

"Miles Edgeworth!" A crack. "Larry Butz!" Another crack.

"Yeeeowch!"

"Franziska!" Miles almost sighs in relief, thankful for the intrusion. A third party will stop him from making any further mistakes due to impulse.

She turns her attention to Miles, brandishing her whip in her hand. Franziska huffs, "Miles Edgeworth, you are my ride tonight, in case you have forgotten."

"Right. That must've slipped my mind." He rubs at the areas on his arm that Franziska had whipped, but it was almost second nature by now he barely noticed the sting. Or maybe that was because of what had happened earlier. Miles clears his throat. "Should we go now, Franziska?"

She turns around, walking back down the hallway, her destination already set without even answering his question. Miles is about to follow her, but he remembers a certain someone else still left behind in the closet. He takes a deep breath, and peers back into the open supply closet.

"I'll be leaving first, Larry." Miles struggles to keep his face straight, and the last thing he sees is Larry giving him a half-hearted wave, and an even more muddled expression painted on his face.

The rest of the walk to the underground parking lot is Miles trying to get that image out of his head.

"So you and Larry Butz?" Franziska smirks when they arrive at parking lot A, opening the door to the passenger seat and sliding in. She rests her whip on her lap, and pulls her seatbelt on in one swift move. "I had figured you to be the type to go for a more practical—" She doesn't say it, but the expression on her face reads: 'more refine and uptight, much like you, dearest little brother,' "—choice, but it seems to me, you both make the perfect fit. A fool for a fool."

He doesn't register her comment. (That's not true, because he does, and he shoots her a glare in response. But Franziska is immune to everything Miles Edgeworth, stemming from their childhood together, and the effects of his cold stare does nothing to her. So, it's almost as if he doesn't acknowledge her either.)

Miles replays the night's events back in his head as he starts the ignition, checking the rear-view mirrors twice.

By kissing him, Miles has made a point. There were no feelings for Larry. The only thing left to do, now, is wait for these unwanted emotions to settle down and leave.

He relaxes into the driver's seat, ignores Franziska's quips, and backs out of his parking space.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

11:48 A.M.

—

"Edgey!"

"I'm busy," is Miles' prompt reply, and there are sounds of paper rustling to make a point.

"Aren't we going to get lunch together? You know," Miles doesn't have to look up to see the wide grin on Larry's face, "our daily date."

"We're not dating." The denial slides off his tongue with ease. He's perfected this speech by now.

"Of course we aren't." Larry slides over to his desk, grabbing the pen from Miles' hand and waving it above his head teasingly. "Not like we didn't go out to lunch three times this week."

Miles snaps, not bothering with retrieving his pen back from Larry, and instead reaching for another from his pencil holder. "That's just friends getting lunch together."

"Then what about the kissy-kissy parts?" To emphasize, Larry begins to make completely unnecessary kissing noises, and Miles looks up in disgust. He waggles his eyebrows at the glare directly towards him.

"That's… nothing." Miles lies, trying to convince himself.

"Uh-huh." Larry unceremoniously drops the pen he is holding back into Miles' pencil holder, watching as it circles around the sides before settling by another ball-point pen. "So… are we going or not?"

He shuts his organizer close, the sound reverberating against his wooden desk. It's a quick, swift motion, and it's paired with a monotonous, "I'll go get my things."

"Sweet!" Larry cheers, even making to fist-pump the air. He leans over his desk in an attempt to kiss Miles on the cheek, to which he is blocked with a quick hand and pushed off to the side. "Right, your whole 'no PDA' thing in the office. I gotcha, babe."

"Do not refer to me using that word. Ever."

"Alright… sweet pie."

"Larry…" He warns.

"Sugar muffin."

"Must they all have to be related to food? And if you say just one more—"

"Grumpy bumface?"

"I'm leaving without you."

"Aw, come on Edgey… you know you love me."

The mistake Miles had made was—thinking that it was a mistake to begin with.

This was his truth.

(It didn't mean he had to be any less reluctant to go along with it.)

Note: Thank you to my friend Kristeen for proof-reading this for me and taking the time to exchange Larry and Edgeworth headcanons with me at midnight. You're a real pal. This started off as practice for writing Edgeworth and a little joke for if Edgeworth ever started developing f-f-feelings for Larry. And also because I think we're forgetting someone else Edgeworth used to be childhood best friends with. As always, these turn out to become monsters. It's also my first time writing Edgeworth, so that means I'm REALLY nervous about posting it. Please review, and thank you for reading!