Ace Attorney, its characters and settings, are property of Capcom, and are being used here without permission. This fic is rated PG for a lil touchie but nothing all that sexual.

Irrefrangible

Oneshot

Phoenix awoke to the sound of the rain.

Usually he was not fond of stormy weather, but in the early hours before morning the patter of droplets against his balcony was oddly soothing. It left a chill in the room that made him all the more eager to wriggle up against the warm body beside him.

A warm body that took Phoenix longer to identify than it should have. It wasn't until he breathed in the smell of the man's hair that Phoenix fully recollected the events of the evening past: with Trucy away at a sleepover, he hadn't felt comfortable leaving the apartment, but that didn't stop him from inviting some company over. Why his offer had been accepted, considering the cramped, slovenly nature of his apartment and poor selection of refreshments, he had no idea. Kristoph Gavin was often impossible to predict or interpret.

Phoenix turned his nose into the soft blond locks spread out over his pillow. Kristoph was still and quiet with sleep, leaving him a fleeting opportunity to enjoy the most basic of his sort-of-lover's alluring traits. He slid careful fingertips over Kristoph's sloped shoulder, traced the gentle rise of his collar bone, followed the pulse of a vein up the side of his throat… He knew he wouldn't be able to get away with simple touches like this at any other time.

Because they weren't really lovers. They shared no affection that wasn't rehearsed, no conversation that wasn't carefully scripted and thick with deceit. Even their lovemaking that evening, as passionate as it had seemed, was an act separated from reason and sincerity. Their interest in each other was limited to power and physicality, but the explorations Phoenix was indulging in now belonged to neither.

He only wanted to touch; just for a moment, without calculation or passion. Slow, uncomplicated contact. He didn't really know why. In fact, the act itself hinged on having no prior inclination or motivation. It merely was, and that itself was its purpose.

Phoenix's hand moved lower, trailing along the stern curve of Kristoph's bicep, the tender flesh on the inside of his forearm. His muscles were tense and his elbow a slender, dry-skinned knob of bone. Phoenix turned his cheek against Kristoph's shoulder as his caress wandered lower still, down to the delicate tendons at Kristoph's perfect wrist, and at last the subtle rise of scar tissue Phoenix knew now by touch but had never clearly seen.

Kristoph's hand jerked away from his. It was a stern, deliberate act that was not accompanied by the usual intake of breath that would indicate a man waking suddenly out of slumber. Phoenix felt a sudden, probably unwarranted thrill of embarrassment at the thought that Kristoph had been awake the entire time, and had been merely indulging him.

They were both still for a moment, and at last Phoenix pushed himself up on his elbow to try and catch a glimpse of Kristoph's face. The man had his head turned away, eyes half-lidded and distant. He appeared to be watching the glass sliding door that led to the balcony, and the rain falling loudly against it. His expression--the half of it that Phoenix could see--was uniquely melancholy, almost sentimental in a way that Phoenix had never seen Kristoph's features display before.

Phoenix sighed quietly. If only he could slide into Kristoph's mind, and see whatever memory the cloud-weary city had awakened in him, he might find some truth there. There were times when Kristoph looked at him that he was convinced he could sense the history in him, just beneath his surface. He had spent years now trying to uncover it, but as thin as the boundary between them was, it was still present, ever immovable.

Phoenix pressed a gentle kiss of good morning to Kristoph's cheek. It was a gesture of surrender in many ways: he was giving up his search for now, bringing them back to the false affection that was their usual playing field. As he expected, by the time Kristoph turned his head to face him most of the truthful emotion had left his tired eyes. He was even smiling faintly in the dim light of the room.

Maybe if Phoenix had asked him what he was thinking about, he might have given something away. If he had pressed harder a clue might have slipped free. But when Kristoph lifted his hand, cupping and caressing Phoenix's cheek with long, tender fingers, Phoenix lost all inclination towards questioning him. He turned his face into the touch, even closing his eyes as Kristoph's thumb passed gently over his bottom lip. Smiling, he teased it with a nibble. His reply came in the form of an amused hum, and then Kristoph began to slowly pull him down, joining their lips in a proper morning kiss.

The chill of the rain was quickly swept away. Whatever differences they displayed in mind and motive, they had no effect on the raw compatibility of their bodies. Kristoph's warm and tender mouth was as deceptive in its kisses as it was in conversation, but Phoenix had no reason to seek the truth behind these sensual lies. Foolishly, he responded to each with his full enthusiasm, delighting in the playful dance of tongues.

There was no reason he couldn't enjoy this. Kristoph had taught him, over many nights of recreation, the merits of separating sense from sensuality. He had discovered how easily the bitterness could be expelled from his heart if it only beat quickly enough. There was guilt to be had afterwards, every time. However, their every encounter was marred with exhaustion and resentment; it was only fitting that he exact his compensation in advance.

So many justifications, all covering a simple truth: Phoenix loved this body. He loved it for its strength, and its elegance, and even occasionally for its violence. The subtle movements of Kristoph's lips made his stomach quiver, and the too-tight grip at the base of his skull made his pulse race.

But this time, Kristoph's full attention wasn't on their charade. He sank away from Phoenix's lips sooner than was usual for him, settling back into the lumpy mattress with a quiet sigh as if still exhausted. His hand, however, remained against Phoenix's cheek, moving in half-hearted thoughtfulness against his whiskers.

Phoenix watched him, and felt that he understood: Kristoph was hiding from him. He must have been vulnerable indeed to guard himself so blatantly. Though it was awkward given their positions--as Kristoph was counting on--Phoenix shifted against his elbow, and touched his fingertips to the scar on the back of Kristoph's palm that was Kristoph was trying unsuccessfully to distract him from.

Kristoph did not flinch, but the muscles along his arm tensed, making the tendons along the back of his hand stand out even more so. At last he gave a sigh of resignation and relaxed once more. His eyes, already so dull, wandered again to the watery balcony.

It was an opportunity that might not ever be repeated for Phoenix: he knew, with certainty, that whatever the cause of Kristoph's strange mood, if he asked just the right question now he would get a truthful answer. Despite all the tricks he had employed before now, a cold rain in the early morning could in fact prove more effective than all of them combined at exposing his cunning lover. All he had to do was ask. One question, and it might all be over at last.

Phoenix closed his eyes, feeling out the shape of Kristoph's scar against his palm. When he spoke, his voice was still rough with morning. "You don't have to hide this," he murmured. "I'm not going to ask you about it, if you don't want me to." His second surrender, borne from selfishness and pity, and they hadn't even had breakfast yet. "It has nothing to do with me."

Kristoph's gaze crawled back to him, and was this time much more focused than a moment ago. He drew his hand deliberately away from Phoenix's so that he could twist his wrist and see the carved scar for himself. His fingers twitched, like an involuntary movement brought on by some memory.

"This," Kristoph replied in a cold whisper, "helped make me. It has everything to do with you."

Phoenix's chest tightened as he watched the hand fall to Kristoph's stomach. There were dozens of ways in which he could have responded, with curiosity, or sympathy, or even distrust. But in the end he merely leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Kristoph's forehead. "You still look tired," he said. "Get some more sleep. I'll make us some breakfast when you're up."

He rolled off the bed with a yawn, and stretched on his way to the dresser. As he slipped into a pair of fresh boxers Kristoph's voice finally floated back to him over the rain.

"Thank you."

Phoenix glanced back, but watched Kristoph's weary profile for only a moment. There was no point in dwelling on a chance that had passed. "Don't worry about it," he said quietly. For once he wasn't sure what to make of the unease in his stomach as he crept out of the room and shut the door softly behind him.