I never should have let him drag me here. He would have taken no for an answer; he always does, outside of the courtroom.

...Then again, I don't exactly have evidence to back that claim up.

Damn.

I have never liked the Gala, simply a place for those who pretend to be civil and charming to be crass gossip-hounds behind their gloved hands and fancy dress. The same is true of every gathering, convention...any large meeting of us, and we immediately become children again, clustered in nattering groups on the playground, pulling each other's hair and stealing the best ball.

But Wright, apparently, has never been, and he asked me to accompany him. The fates only know what they might do to him if he went alone, so I agreed.

To be fair, I thought this was a good year for Wright to make his debut at the Gala. With the scandal which lost him his badge now behind us, the Juror System under review, and him reinstated behind the bar, it seems fitting for him to make an appearance...and I suppose a show of good faith, coming with the Chief Prosecutor. The dark days of the law are now behind us, or will be shortly, and this is a good message to send to the professionals of this town.

...So why am I nervous?

I stood for a solid half an hour in front of the mirror in my washroom, staring at myself. It's not the clothes; I've gotten more accustomed to keeping the more formal suit I've been known for strictly for special occasions. While this is, I suppose, "special"...I wasn't willing to wear it again. Nothing else is different. Pess wandered around following me, likely wondering if her master was losing his mind.

I can't answer her. I know not, truly.

But now here we are, at the Gala, standing and doing absolutely nothing except be pillars of the community...and quite possibly, the room. Wright made such a fuss about wanting to come, and now he won't do anything, save for stand next to me and shift his weight from time to time. The man is maddening. He leaves his apartment only to go to his office, and half the time I don't think he's ever left the office in the first place. Yet if I call, or visit the Agency, he is more than willing to be taken away from whatever he wasn't accomplishing. I like to think I force a bit of culture into his spiky head, having him see great works of art, the occasional theatre or musical performance, even just a fine glass of wine at my apartment. An evening of quiet intellectual conversation, after a day of working with the children he fills his office with.

I shudder to think of what happens if and when the Fey girls return. Justice and Wright will be hopelessly outnumbered, and I do not think either of them have the fortitude to withstand that maelstrom.

I look out over the crowd. It's a lovely building they've chosen, something which I think doubles as a museum during the day. There is no designated dance floor, though the floor around the base of the grand staircase is serving that purpose. There is a table with drinks and light refreshments nestled in a corner of an adjoining room, and a piano player hidden to the side of the stairs, tapping out soft notes and never looking up from his keys.

It makes me wonder. Wright once worked as a piano player, for the...club whose name I have eliminated from my mind, apparently. Does he ever miss that? He claims to have not had much skill with the instrument, but then again, he claims he is not much of a lawyer most days. That, I have evidence to disprove him on.

I see his lips quirk in a smile, clearly to some thought of his.

This is foolish. My distaste for the event aside, we are both here. Why are we just standing around?

"Wright, a question."

His head raises sharply, as if I've startled him. "Yeah?"

"Do you even know how to dance?" It's occurred to me that it would be well within the logic of my childhood friend to show up to an event such as this and not be able to perform the main event.

However, it seems to not be the case. In a humorous show of offense, Wright huffs at me, crossing his arms. The motion makes me realize how different he looks outside of his classic blue suit. The black suits him, and even more so the green tie.

Though honestly anything but the pink would suit him well.

"Don't say it like that, Edgeworth. Of course I know how to dance. I mean, I haven't exactly had much practice lately so I'm a little rusty, but I learned."

How long ago? I wonder, but instead of speaking it, I simply indicate the floor in front of us, a gesture taking in the dancing pairs. "I'm sure there's a partner out there willing to risk their toes for you."

I see the tops of his cheeks burn pink as he blusters. "Well what about you? All that training, you have to know how to dance, but you haven't been out there all night. You go dance then."

"True, I can dance. I, on the other hand, wasn't the one who specifically wanted to come to this event." I turn my head to look at him straight on. "You don't have that excuse."

What I don't want to admit was why I haven't been out to dance. I'm not ready to admit it to myself, let alone to Wright. It has been quite some time since I had surrendered myself to the dance with anyone...

Wright looks down to his shoes, the blush on his cheeks brightening, and in that one moment I am caught off-guard. The friendship between Wright and I has always bordered on awkward, given my emotional guardedness and his natural idiocy, and as such I have never been able to get a clear read on his emotions. He has always been always exuberant to see me—perhaps not to the extent that Larry was, but few were—but never demonstrative. He enjoys our evenings, as far as I can tell, but has never said a word about them. The rumors had circulated a few months ago that there was something more intimate going on between us, and he denied them vehemently, but would never meet my eyes if either of us mentioned them.

Was it possible that...?

Of course. Wright never would have said a thing to me. Chill, impenetrable, stoic Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth? Romantic in any way? Certainly not. Even if he'd wanted...

The pianist starts a new song, and I have to make a decision. Is this a passing thought, or is it something more? Am I going to lie to myself for another decade, or am I finally going to make this evident? I swore years before that I was going to make myself into my own person, and not the shadow of my adopted family. It was now or never.

I shift myself to stand in front of him and offer him my hand, being sure to place it in his line of vision. His head slowly lifts, and he meets my eyes. "Edgeworth?"

I fight to keep my voice even. "Come on, Wright. You wanted to dance, so dance. It won't kill you."

"B-but..."

"Wright." I can't have him waffle. I can't stand here like a fool, hand in front of him, waiting like a schoolgirl. I can feel my shoulders tense...and as luck would have it, Wright knows me well enough to see the discomfort and responded. He stands up straight and moves toward me, and I lead him to a corner partially obscured by the staircase. It is still, technically, on the dance floor but also lends us a bit of pseudo-privacy. I am willing to take a more liberal definition of the word "public" for this display.

My hands are shaking. What am I doing? What am I thinking? Am I insane?

"Miles, you don't..." Wright doesn't finish the sentence, but I can hear the rest in the hesitation. You don't have to do this.

I don't speak. If I speak, I could not trust the words that came out of my mouth. I turn, taking Wright's hand in mine, and place the other on the small of his back. After a second's hesitation, he sets his free hand on my shoulder, and we take the first steps.

I have to force myself to breathe. I can hear my hear pounding in my ears. Finally, I close my eyes, trying to focus on the dance and nothing more. A simple waltz. I can do this in my sleep. Step, step, step, pause. One, two, three, pause. Wright is better at this than he claimed. Step, step, step, pause. One, two, three, breathe. Is the room too warm, or is it just his proximity? He'd put on cologne. I hadn't noticed that before. One, two, three; is anyone watching us?

What were we?

Wright is stiff in my arms. Apparently, I'm not the only nervous one. I swallow and force the words to come out of my mouth, and laud them when they sounded natural. "Wright, you're exceptionally hard to lead when you're this tense."

"Sorry, Edgeworth." Something in my gut twinges at the formality. I am holding this man in my arms and still—! But I can still feel him relax by shades, and then shift slightly—

—To place his head on my shoulder.

A flicker shoots through my chest; a more romantic man might say his heart skipped a beat. I can just barely feel the brush of his hair against my chin, still in its impeccable gravity-defiant slick. The fabric of my shirt just below his mouth warms and cools with his breath. My breath is caught in my throat...but my hand is no longer shaking.

I have been lying to myself for a very long time about this man.

But I am done lying.

We dance, as fluid as one, and as the song comes to a close, I feel his hand tighten just a fraction on mine—so small a movement that I am not sure he knows he's done it.

"Thank you, Miles," I hear his soft tenor say, and my chest is lighter for the sound of it.

It only takes me the briefest of moments to reply, in a voice meant only for him.

"You're welcome, Phoenix."