larry & nick. starts when they're nine. slight AU; very mild spoilers for 1-4, 3-1, GS4. phoenix wright/gyakuten saiban belong to capcom; pokémon belongs to nintendo. title and inspiration from röyksopp's "40 years back/come."
This story is dedicated to a couch -- a very specific couch. It is a couch I first saw in 2004 when I originally found her deviantART gallery. It is red, kinda burgundy, and over the years many, many characters have watched TV and talked and snuggled and slept together (both ways) on this couch.
Long live Zarla's red couch. May even more people interact upon it.
forty years back.
( 2001 )
It's two weeks into July, and Larry kicks off his shoes and rubs sockless feet against furniture-fabric. Lying back and looking up, he lets his eyes slide lazily closed and sighs happily. He's so glad class is over for a while. Another month of freedom awaits him; at this age, it seems an eternity.
Phoenix takes this opportunity to flop over the top of the couch, dangling upside-down, humidity-dampened spiky hair tickling Larry's stomach where the t-shirt rode up. He flinches a little (he's ticklish) and opens his eyes.
"What're you doing?"
"Nothin'."
"Me too."
Phoenix slides further down -- the blood rushing to his head is making him dizzy -- and sneezes. With his back against Larry's stomach, he turns to look at his friend.
"Whaddaya think happened to Miles?"
"Who?"
"Miles." Phoenix looks at him quizzically. "The guy we played with last year?"
"Oh, yeah." Larry squints in thought. "I dunno. Didn't he move?"
Phoenix nods. "I think so. It sucks."
"Yeah, we coulda hung out with him, since it's summer and all."
"Yeah..." Phoenix returns his gaze to the ceiling. "Maybe we'll see him again sometime."
Larry thinks of his favorite remote-controlled plane and kind of hopes they don't.
------
( 2002 )
It's after school in the spring, and the cards lay spread unevenly on the red couch. Phoenix fidgets a little, and causes small, colorful stones to slide towards the gap between the cushions.
"Hey! Watch it!"
"What'd I do?"
Larry gives him a stare, narrowing his eyes skeptically. "You're trying to cheat, aren't ya? You're just mad my Chansey has so many hit points! You want to move the damage counters off!"
Phoenix blinks at him for a while, then frowns. "I let you re-flip all those coin tosses before..."
Sticking his tongue out, Larry shakes his head. "They landed weird. I had to-- hey!!" He pulls the cards he's holding closer to his chest. "Don't look at my hand!"
"I wasn't--"
Larry shouts "Double edge!" and swipes up another card from an array of six.
------
( 2002 )
It's midwinter during break, and they stomp down the stairs into Phoenix's basement and track slush all over. They shed their snow pants quickly, eager to be free of the bulky outerwear, and barely notice the ice that's melting off the cloth and dripping onto the carpet.
Larry dives for the couch, squirming against the upholstery to regain some warmth as quickly as possible. It's a while before Phoenix joins him, trying his best to balance two cups of hot chocolate and prevent the marshmallows from flowing out.
Outside it's still snowing; they can see the powdery flakes landing lightly on the ground through a high window in the subterranean room. They sit, fingers and toes thawing, noses sniffling from the exposure to cold, and sip the cocoa contentedly.
They watch.
------
( 2003 )
It's summer vacation, and they've been hiding down there all day. The couch cushions are propped up carefully, balanced and stacked together (along with other objects) just the right way. Proud of their engineering prowess, the boys sit huddled beneath the makeshift, masking-taped roof of their fort -- a sheet they stole from Phoenix's bed when his mother wasn't looking -- and try to ignore the crumbs and coins digging into their bare feet.
Overhead light filters in from above, the almost inaudible whine of fluorescent lightbulbs the only noise interrupting the quiet. It's cool down there, the basement shaded from the miserably hot weather, and they're happy to sit still in their building and eat pantry-stolen potato chips.
Moving too much could cause the walls to collapse.
Larry wipes greasy fingertips on Phoenix's shirt sleeve.
------
( 2004 )
It's a year later, in early fall, and neither wants to start junior high. Middle school was bad enough, and all they've heard is that classes get tougher, homework gets harder, and lunchfood gets grosser.
They sit together, watching a movie they've seen countless times on the new downstairs television. On the disused VCR, green numbers flash three hours behind what they should. Phoenix stares at them blankly, no longer paying attention.
It's late.
Larry's long since stopped watching, dozing lightly with his head against Phoenix's shoulder. Shifting to readjust his cheekbone on his friend's arm, he mumbles quietly.
"...could make one, wouldn't do that..."
Phoenix subtracts in his head, yawns, and reluctantly thinks about school. After pressing a few buttons on his watch, he decides that he can fall asleep easily with soft breath against his neck.
------
( 2005 )
It's the middle of the night in the middle of summer, and they've been talking for quite a while.
Phoenix is on the floor, having surrendered the couch to his guest, sprawled atop a neatly-arranged pile of pillows and blankets. Larry leans over, staring down at Phoenix through the darkness with half-lidded eyes, listening to him talk.
In a moment of bravery and honesty enabled only by drowsy discussions during sleepovers, he asks.
"Nick?"
"Mm?"
"Have you ever kissed anyone?"
He shakes his head, though it's nearly invisible in the dark. "No. Not yet, anyway."
"Oh." There's a pause, and he admits it, too. "Me neither. I mean, I've tried, but girls are stubborn."
A quiet laugh. "Yeah... they can be."
Larry looks up at the ceiling and studies the shadowed pipes and air vents he can barely pick out in the darkness. It's very still and very quiet for a very long time. Phoenix starts wondering if he's drifted off when he speaks again.
"Have you ever just wanted to try it for a minute?"
He hesitates, then nods, then realizes that it's an imperceptible gesture. "Yeah. I have."
Larry rolls off the couch and onto the floor, scooting closer to Phoenix and hovering over him. Hands shaking until he braces himself against the floor, he stares at the other boy, both wide-eyed in the dark and stunned by the stifling silence. They're nervous, scared, but don't say anything.
Unsure, Larry lowers his head, tilting it sideways too much. It's wet, and weird, and not at all what they thought it'd be like. It's too...
"Boring," Larry complains, the word sending a puff of air against Phoenix's lips. He moves back to the couch.
Embarrassed, with hearts pounding, they don't say anything else.
------
( 2006 )
A year passes, and they lock the door on their way down to the basement. Phoenix's parents are at work; the house is all theirs, but they can't help but worry a little. Larry kneels in front of the entertainment stand and pushes an unlabelled VHS into the dusty VCR.
It clicks and whirrs into place just as he turns the television on, the bright glow filling the otherwise lightless room. Phoenix curls himself into the corner of the couch, burrowing back against the cushions, eyes darting between the screen and the staircase.
Larry mutes the TV and sits, too, watching with rapt attention. It's in the middle already, and two women and a man are on a bed, and they know what's happening but hadn't actually seen it until now.
Five minutes pass. Larry gets up without saying a word and hurries to the bathroom.
When Phoenix hears the door click, he grabs the remote, hits the power button, and presses his face into the back of the sofa. Nobody's around to hear him.
He cries.
------
( 2007 )
It's December and the console is a Christmas present. Cars look better than ever as they race and crash and flames burn across the new screen in high-definition. The system's taken the place of the VCR. Phoenix isn't sure what happened to it.
Larry reaches over the side of the couch and hands him a messily-wrapped gift. There's tape everywhere, sticking folded, shiny paper to itself in crumpled clumps.
"This is for you, man. Open it!"
Phoenix does, first attempting to loosen the tape, then giving in and ripping it all open. The metallic paint glints in the ceiling light, reflects the multicolored glow of the bulbs strung across the downstairs tree.
Larry leans over and points towards it, pulls more paper off. "It makes sound, you gotta press the button."
Phoenix reaches for a smaller, dark green remote and clicks it, temporarily silencing the friendly, holiday MIDIs playing in the tree's lights. Smiling, he presses the button.
Fiery golden wings move up, then down, then up again with slow, mechanical movements. The bird has brown eyes, and when its beak opens--
"Se-ven thir-ty! Se-ven thir-ty!"
Phoenix grins widely, uncontrollably, and rushes to set the creature-clock down before pulling Larry into a tight hug.
"Thank you. It's wonderful."
Larry beams. "Glad you like it, dude. I had to record the syllables myself, and you might have to let me borrow it back for a while so I can get the alarm to work, but I think it turned out good and..."
Phoenix lets him talk and doesn't let him go. He likes hearing his voice, and he likes being near him, and he wishes so much that they'd hung mistletoe so he'd have an excuse to fight back the wave of nervousness surging through the pit of his stomach and just work up the courage to do it already.
Larry pulls back, and they return to racing as if nothing happened.
He missed his chance.
------
( 2010 )
Three years later, Larry's in the middle of an anecdote about some girl named Mandy Orz, and they're both laughing and smiling and Phoenix can't stop himself from looking for too long and laughing just a bit too much, a bit too frequently, and Larry smiles radiantly at him, at him alone, and Phoenix just fucking kisses him.
It's sloppy with inexperience, and Phoenix tries to ignore the twinge of jealousy that hits him when he remembers that only one of them is an amateur, that previous practice was done only with gi--
Larry kisses him back, stubble scritching against Phoenix's jaw when he tilts his head. It's slow because Phoenix wants to memorize it, to immortalize it, because later he won't believe it was real. He threads his fingers through Larry's short hair, petting him, holding him, needing him, and he's quickly on his back, his friend's weight settling between his legs, enveloped by warmth turning into heat. They're touching and moving, shirts off but pants on, hands groping at denim, rubbing through cotton, and stroking along skin until they finish.
Collapsed on each other, sweat absorbing into upholstery and discarded clothing, they breathe heavily for a long while. Quiet stretches out until the comfortable closeness becomes uneasy with awkward, censored silence.
Phoenix blurts it out, nearly choking on the words, three words he's wanted to say, thought and thought about saying for so long but hasn't until now.
Larry can't meet his eyes.
------
( 2012 )
Two more years, and he's dating Dahlia.
------
( 20XX )
He wanted to be an art student, and became a lawyer.
He didn't know what he wanted to be, and became nothing.
Then Larry became an art student.
------
( 2041 )
It's been forty years since they met.
It's been sixteen years since he's seen him, at a fast-food restaurant for an hour.
It's been nine years since the last call, made from a payphone on a somewhere street.
He finds him near the fenced entrance to the theme park as he's on his way to work. Phoenix is huddled into a tattered hoodie, knit hat drawn down to cover his eyes as he naps in the weak, early morning light filtering through the smog. There's loose, dusty gravel everywhere, and it must be getting into his clothing, if not his eyes and nose. He's sitting on something too covered in filth to be identifiable.
He nearly didn't recognize him.
"Nick?"
The man lifts his head, pushes his hat slightly out of the way, and blinks against the hazy grey glare of polluted sunlight.
"Do I know you?"
This was to be expected, he supposes. His hair's cut differently -- not to mention losing its color. He's usually clean-shaven, as per the park's employee requirements. The jacket is new. He's wearing socks.
He's not who he used to be.
Larry adjusts his satchel on his shoulder, hears the clacking of pencils and markers in the bottom of the bag. Drawing portraits of the patrons at Neo Olde Tokyo Worlde earns him a fair bit of cash...
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls sixty dollars from his wallet. Crouching down, he opens Phoenix's grimy hand and presses the money into it, closes his fingers around it, closes his own hand around his old friend's.
After an eternity of a minute, he stands again, and shakes his head.
"No. No, I don't think you do."
Larry hurries away, quickly dragging his coat sleeve across his face as he approaches his kiosk.
Maybe he'll see him again sometime.
He kind of hopes he doesn't.
------------------
Here's a marker, here's my naked skin, our Exhibit A. Put a small x where I lost my way.
All our accidents went purposeful and fell, stripped of providence or any way to tell that our intentions were intangible and sweet.
Sick with simple math and shy discoveries, piled up against our impending defeat.
-- the weakerthans, "benediction"