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Why is it, Kristoph wonders as he watches Phoenix Wright walk over to the kitchen, that a kiss tastes better knowing that it’s not meant for him?
Wright’s hair is mussed from where Kristoph’s fingers lingered only moments ago. In his wrinkled t-shirt and faded boxer shorts, he’s completely out of place against the pristine marble of Kristoph’s kitchen. Kristoph has always been particular about the decorations he chooses for his home. His space, after all, is a reflection of himself, and his reflection must always be pristine.
Why is it then that he allows this clutter, this mess, this… complication to enter his life? Why is it that Phoenix Wright is disturbing the order of his coffee mugs, and is helping himself to a crookedly snapped piece of imported dark chocolate from his fridge? Why is it that Kristoph enjoys the visual discrepancy?
“I can’t stay too long,” Phoenix says as he returns back to the couch, setting his socked feet up on the coffee table and taking a sip of his drink. “Trucy has a half-day at school.”
“Mm,” Kristoph agrees. “Alright.”
It’s probably for the best. Wright is best in small doses. Kristoph has long ago had the frustrating realization that Wright brings out the worst in him, brings about an air of carelessness that he can’t afford to have. A few hours, a quick fuck, the facade of companionship, he can manage that. It’s safer to avoid the inevitable hours of tender conversation that Wright is certain to create if he stays.
Still, he feels a pang of absence at the statement. Somehow, he has grown fond of the rambling words aimed towards a man over five thousand miles away. He enjoys the dull pain in Wright’s eyes, the tone of longing and regret underlining his voice, the lilt of bitter nostalgia, the possibility of what could have been. He enjoys knowing that he is here because Wright has nowhere else to turn.
His complacency is in part because he knows that Wright is putting next to no effort into this carefully planned dance. He knows from nights spent with partners in the past that most people seem to care too much for his liking. They comment on how beautiful his hair looks when they first rise, they praise his eyes, they let their fingers linger on his jaw. It’s pathetic, really. He looks into their eyes and sees an animal, begging for affection. When he indulges, it’s only to put it out of its misery.
It’s different with Wright. When Wright is moaning under him, he knows that he is limiting the sounds he makes only because it won’t be Kristoph’s name leaving his lips. When Wright speaks to him it’s only because he has nobody else to speak to. When Wright kisses him, he knows that Wright is picturing another man.
It’s not the circumstance that Kristoph enjoys. It’s the knowledge that Wright is a flower shedding petals at every opportunity and that Kristoph is preserved in resin, untouchable. The one-way vulnerability makes Kristoph’s chest swell with desire. He feels like a hawk, waiting for the right moment to dive for the kill. When Wright bares his neck to him in bed, Kristoph pictures grasping his jugular between his fangs and yanking.
“Technically, it’s career day and she’s meant to have a parent come in and speak about their work,” Wright admits. “But she doesn’t have much to show for that, huh?” He looks at Kristoph with a smile, an admittance that he’s joking, but there’s an unspoken wound there, barely crusted over, raw. How Kristoph longs to dig his nails under that scab and peel it up. Alas, it’s not time.
“Career days are useless anyhow,” he says, tenderly enough for it to be taken as a hollow reassurance. Wright hums weakly in agreement, sipping at the coffee.
I don’t know how it happened. Wright had said the night after the disbarment, sitting on the sofa in Kristoph’s office, head in his hands. Kristoph had placed his hand on Wright’s thigh, high enough for an implication. I’m sure you didn’t mean to, Kristoph had said, his tone the same as one would use to reassure a child that they certainly must have thought they saw a monster under the bed.
Kristoph pictures Wright discovering why he had been given forged evidence. Kristoph pictures the betrayal in his eyes, pictures the wild desperation of an animal in a shrinking cage, pictures the sudden semblance of hope before Kristoph drives a knife up his side. But of course, that’s just daydreaming. He won’t ever be finding out, Kristoph has made sure of that.
How ridiculous he must look on the outside, he thinks, smiling at Wright like some lovesick schoolgirl. Wright must imagine that he’s admiring the stubble growing along his jaw, the beautiful contrast of his tan skin against the gold locket around his neck. With a start, Kristoph realizes that he has been staring, and in horror, he realizes that there is a strange fondness he has come to associate with Wright. His smile drops.
“Is everything alright, Kristoph?” Wright asks. For a moment, Kristoph sees smugness flicker in his eyes, so quick to disappear that he’s sure he must have imagined it. Kristoph smiles again.
“Of course,” he says. “What could be wrong?”
Wright grins. He finishes the last swig of his coffee and stands up, carrying his dishes over to Kristoph’s sink.
“Oh, don’t worry about the dishes. You’re a guest.” Kristoph enunciates the last part, clarifying the role Wright plays in his life, just to ensure that he hasn’t made the mistake of letting this unnecessary fondness weaken him.
“I’ve been here often enough to not be a guest anymore, Kristoph.” Wright says. His expression is completely neutral as he washes the mug. “Our relationship has surpassed guest privileges.” He sets the mug in the dish rack and turns to grin at Kristoph. “Isn’t that right, friend? ”
His tone is challenging, daring Kristoph to deny the lack of neutrality he holds around him anymore.
“I suppose can’t argue with you there,” Kristoph admits after a few seconds of deliberation, his words carefully selected. “You’d better head out soon, Phoenix. Save Trucy the embarrassment of career day.” He revels in the twitch of Wright’s expression.
“Right. I’ll see you Friday, then. At the Borscht.” Wright’s voice is softer now, his expression meeker.
Kristoph nods, holds out an arm to gesture for Wright to come over. He complies, and Kristoph tugs him down for a parting kiss. He runs his thumb across the stubble, and when they pull apart, Kristoph thinks that perhaps on Friday, he can comment on the unprofessionalism of it.