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I don't want to feel better; I want to know better.
I should have known that God is not in the meal
but in the sharing of the meal. I should have told you
that holiness resides in needing each other,
in acts of survival made generous.
~ Julian K. Jarboe
The first time Agent Lang strolled into his office was a bit of a shock.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is used to having a visitor at this time, of course. Detective Gumshoe tends to be his lunch delivery man, showing up at noon sharp during days when Edgeworth is in his office with a bag of whatever food he has happened to pick up from a nearby restaurant. Edgeworth, not one to encourage his subordinates of loitering in the prosecutor’s office, insisted at first for the detective to let him take care of his own meals, but Gumshoe insisted, and so started their routine.
It’s not a bother, this routine. Edgeworth would even go as far as to say that it is… pleasant. He quite likes routines. Gumshoe popping in, dropping a meal at his desk, initiating a bit of small talk, and popping out approximately seven minutes later, is a welcome disturbance in the quiet hum of his office. He shows his gratitude for these short bursts of company by paying for two sets of every meal he eats, certain to make sure the detective is compensated for his time with lunch of his own.
Today, however, Edgeworth has the suspicion that the routine has been broken. A look at the clock gives away the reason: 12:08 pm. His food is eight minutes late. He first wonders if the detective has a standing appointment that he has failed to inform the prosecutor which has resulted in this lateness. Then, a slight panic, perhaps Detective Gumshoe has been hurt in an investigation? He is reaching out for his telephone to contact the detective’s office when he hears three solid knocks on his door.
“Come in,” he says, putting the receiver down. Should he acknowledge the now ten-minute shift in his routine? He considers, and decides against it. This is not a break in the case or an updated autopsy report. It’s just lunch.
The door swings open ferociously, and a tall, light-haired man struts in. It must be the initial shock of seeing a person he didn’t expect at his door, but Edgeworth takes a while to put a name on the face. Not that he won’t be able to recognize this man anywhere. If anyone is born to stand out, it’s him.
“Agent Lang,” Edgeworth says, remaining seated for a second before remembering to stand up and extend a handshake. Lang takes it, of course. Edgeworth has learned in their time working together that the man is polite, no matter how abrasive he is.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Edgeworth asks.
“Tsk… No need to be sarcastic, Mr. Prosecutor.” Lang replies in a way that makes Edgeworth think the agent really does think he’s being sarcastic. If Miles is slightly offended by this assumption that seeing Agent Lang would not be a pleasure for him at this point in time, he does well not showing it.
Edgeworth waits for Lang to acknowledge the question again, which Lang doesn’t, opting to walk and look around the office. Edgeworth knows that his office can appear uptight and stuffy to others; he’s got the fancy coat hanging up in the frame, an expensive porcelain tea set, and crystal chess pieces to blame for that. He likes these things, though, and refuses to remove them from his workspace. Still, he braces himself for a cutting remark from the, now that he thinks about it, quite tense man currently eyeing the sofa. He averts his eyes from it though, turning around to face all the files taking up space in Edgeworth’s file cabinet. The logic pieces connect, and Miles receives his first conclusion from this visit.
“You’re here for a case,” Edgeworth says, as he walks towards Lang and stands beside him, eyeing the same files as the agent.
“Is that where your logic has taken you, Mr. Prosecutor? In that case, your logic is wrong.” Lang responds. “Can’t I just visit you, pretty boy?”
Lang’s signature wolfish smirk is back, and a bubble of logic pops up in Edgeworth’s head.
Huh.
Lang doesn’t seem to be elaborating any time soon, so Edgeworth starts another conversation to clear out the air in the room.
“Thank you for bringing me lunch, Agent Lang,” Edgeworth says.
“I just came across Detective Gumshoe on the way to your office. He told me that he was about to bring you lunch, so I volunteered. You know, you shouldn’t make your subordinates do such trivial matters for you, Mr. Prosecutor.” Lang says, with obvious distaste on his face.
Edgeworth gets defensive. “I’m not forcing him to bring me lunch, he volunteered!”
“Lang Zi says: The alpha wolf must dictate the matters of his pack.”
Edgeworth was going to respond about how he told Detective Gumshoe at first to not bother with bringing him his meals, actually, but Lang changes the subject before he can.
“Anyway, I came here to speak to you about something,” Lang pivots, eyes still directed at Edgeworth’s office case files.
Edgeworth waits for him to continue, but Lang… doesn’t. He just keeps on standing there. When Edgeworth nudges him along, Lang just growls a small “Have a good lunch, Mr. Prosecutor,” and proceeds to walk towards the door and exit Miles’ line of sight. He seems embarrassed, almost. Perhaps tense?
Again, a logic bubble pops into Edgeworth’s head and connects with the other. Lang is here not for a case, but to visit him. The man is nervous, tense, and allegedly is here to speak about something with Miles. Ergo…
But alas, logic is only as useful as the evidence it leads towards. If Edgeworth is going to figure out Lang’s motivation for showing up in his office out of the blue, then he would need to do more investigation.
Edgeworth waits for a reasonable time to be awake in Germany before calling Franziska.
“Why are you calling me in this ungodly hour, Miles Edgeworth!” is the first thing out of her mouth.
“Franziska. I suppose then you are not in Germany as of the moment,” Miles responds. He should have texted before calling, but alas he did not, so now, a call during an ungodly hour.
“No, I am not, although I am staying up to do some research for my current work with Interpol, so you did not wake me. Is this an official consultation?” she asks, and breaks Miles’ heart a little. To think that Franziska would assume that Miles calling her would first and foremost be about work…
“No, not this time.” Edgeworth starts. “I was first going to ask you if your work with Interpol is still ongoing, but I already have the answer.”
“You know I cannot share with you important details of the case, little brother. That you would call me and assume I would is nothing but a foolish-“
“I was not assuming anything, Franziska.” Miles interrupts. Her whip may not be able to touch him through the distance of a call, but her litany of insults very much still can. “I merely wanted to ask about one of your… colleagues. Is there any reason why Agent Lang showed up in my office today unprompted?”
“Agent Lang… visited you…?” Franziska asks, a bit of surprise in her voice.
“He said he wanted to tell me something, but didn’t. He also said it was not about a case.” Edgeworth explains as Franziska stays silent over the other end of the line.
She stays quiet for a couple more moments.
“Shi-Long Lang… is on leave from Interpol.” She finally says. “It was a big deal due to no one knowing why he is on leave. Lang has never taken non-required vacation leave from Interpol since he entered the force.”
Hm.
“For how long is he on leave?” Edgeworth inquires, and Franziska’s answer comes almost immediately.
“Why don’t you ask him, since you’re the one he’s visiting,” She spits out, a little bit of bitterness in her voice.
“I assume he did not personally inform you of his leave, then,” Miles calmly states.
“No. He also turned his work phone off, so I cannot contact him,” Franziska responds. Knowing Franziska, she would have a more than easy time finding Lang’s personal number. Her not doing that is a form of respect, a sign of maturity. Edgeworth feels a little bit proud.
He asks Franziska a little bit about her week, and he appreciates the excuse to catch up with his sister. When they eventually hang up, Edgeworth realizes that he is no closer to proving his logical conclusion on what Agent Lang meant to say to him earlier.
Lang visits the next day, and this time he arrives at twelve sharp with no knock on the door.
The moment he enters, Edgeworth sets his mind on one thing and one thing only: extracting information from the man. Given Edgeworth’s line of work, he supposes it would be easy.
The paper bag containing Edgeworth’s lunch lands neatly on his desk. Just like yesterday, Lang spends a couple of seconds looking around Edgeworth’s office, this time eyeing the Steel Samurai figurine with a tilt in his head and a small huff.
“Agent Lang. Why don’t you take a seat?” Miles suggests, and the man does. Come to think of it, has Miles ever seen the agent sit before? He probably hasn’t, because Lang sits in a position Edgeworth would never consider for his own sitting endeavors. If he had seen it before, he probably would have noticed. Lang is half sitting, half leaning back towards the cushioned seat, hands still in his pockets as his left ankle lands on his right knee.
Miles tries to conceal a smile. It’s such a quintessential way for Agent Lang to sit, full of confidence in the space he’s occupying.
“How are you, agent?” Miles starts, as he unwraps his food. Today it’s squid ink paella from an Italian restaurant he adores. He just has to remind himself to drink lots of water after eating it so the ink won’t stain his teeth afterward.
“What, you’re my therapist or something?” Agent Lang snickers, obviously amused by the way Edgeworth is handling this visit.
Edgeworth looks at their setup and admits that the comparison is not unfounded. He recalls going to therapy during his ‘death’ a couple of years back, and even a few months after the fact. It did, in fact, have a similar structure.
Edgeworth’s eyes meet Lang’s, and Lang gently taps the area to his right on the couch. The message is simple: sit here.
Edgeworth takes the seat like an obedient dog, carefully balancing his paella with his hands as he eats it in increments. He’s aware the food has a strong aroma, but if Lang minds, he doesn’t show or tell.
“How are you, Agent Lang?” Edgeworth asks again. “The last time we saw each other prior to yesterday was an intense week for the both of us.”
A snort. “You could say that,” Lang says. “I went back home afterward. My mother was very happy.” He takes his hands out of his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just the two of us now, all that’s left in the family. My father is gone, and so the burden of the SS-5 incident is something only my mother and I could share. I’ve always tried to take on most of that burden and spare her the misery, although the aftermath of that week was the first time I felt I succeeded.”
Huh. Edgeworth is… shocked, quite frankly, by Lang’s openness. When Lang looks at him expectantly and bursts out laughing instead, Edgworth is finally taken out of his stupor.
“Your lips are all blackened from your meal, Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang comments as he howls in laughter. Miles goes and grabs a napkin from the paper bag, but the agent must have taken that as a queue to leave, for he stands up as well.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Edgeworth. Have a good day,” he says, with a bow.
He exits before Miles can even think about how much he failed at his goal of extracting information from the agent.
Third time’s the charm.
When Lang bursts in again, he brings with him a delicious Salisbury steak. Edgeworth has changed his technique from yesterday, opting for a more direct hit. He doesn’t even wait for Lang to take a seat.
“I’m surprised you're using your precious leave from Interpol to hand me my lunch,” he says, direct, to the point, impressively straight-forward.
“Heh,” Lang smirks. “I see you’re catching up, Mr. Prosecutor. Who should I scold for ratting me out?”
Edgeworth smiles. “Franziska, although I doubt you can scold her without getting a scolding of your own from her whip. She’s upset you didn’t inform her about your leave, by the way.”
Lang grimaces. “She could have easily gotten my personal number if she wanted to contact me. I have no doubts about that.”
“I thought so myself,” Miles admits, “but she seems to want to respect your boundaries.”
That punches out a sincere smile from the agent. “Lang Zi says: The fiercest of wolves have the most caring pack.”
“Indeed,” Miles says, although he’s not particularly sure whether the fierce wolf in question is indeed Lang or Franziska.
“It’s an indefinite leave,” Lang finally says, after a while. This is the first relevant information Edgeworth has gotten out of the man.
“You… got kicked out of the force?” Edgeworth hedges, and regrets immediately as soon as Lang growls at him.
“If that was what happened do you think I would have not just said that?” Lang says, a bit angrily. “I asked for an indefinite leave. That’s all.”
Miles hums. Yes, this is new information, much more than he has gotten in the past two days combined, but there is still no proof for his logical conclusion on why Lang is choosing to spend time with him. He asked straight-forwardly a while ago but to no avail. He supposes, then, that the best solution is to have the on-leave agent spend even more time with him.
Yes, this is a very good solution.
“Agent Lang, I will not be in my office tomorrow for I will have a trial to attend. However, I would like to formally invite you to visit me the day after.”
Lang looks like he’s a mix of embarrassed and pleased.
“I suggest you bring your own lunch, though,” Miles continues. “Unless you may want to go out to an actual restaurant?”
“No, here would be okay,” Lang says. “Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth.”
Lang says that last bit with a sweet, soft smile that Miles would not deem him capable of. Well, apparently he is. Lang is still towering over the desk Miles is situated on, blocking a little bit of the overhead light. The light looks like a blinding halo over his head, but, Miles thinks, his smile is even brighter.
During their next lunch together, Lang walks into Edgeworth’s office with pad thai and bubble tea. Apparently, Miles’ invitation to the agent to bring his own lunch has been interpreted as ‘you are now to choose what the both of us will eat’.
“I told that detective of yours to give me a list of restaurants you enjoy so I can figure out what to bring for you. I took one look at it…” Lang imitates the motion of ripping a piece of paper with his hands. “You are so fortunate, Mr. Edgeworth. You live in a real hot pot area-“
“I think you mean melting pot,” Edgeworth interjects, but seemingly goes unheard.
“-but all you eat is European cuisine. Not bad, but Lang Zi says: Novelty is the cure to boredom. Aren’t you bored, Mr. Prosecutor?” Lang inquires. Throughout his little speech, he has unpacked the two servings of pad thai. Now he is holding two plastic cups in front of him like Edgeworth is meant to choose.
To say Miles is overwhelmed may be an understatement.
“What… are those…?” He asks, and Lang snorts.
“Bubble tea. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” Lang says with a roll in his eyes not executed, but very much felt.
“The one with milk I can see to be tea, but the other one is bright yellow.” Edgeworth critiques.
Lang shrugs. “It’s passion fruit flavored tea. Anyway, I bought a milk-based one and a fruit-based one because I had no idea what you would prefer. Choose one,” he says, still holding up the two beverages.
Edgeworth ends up choosing the milk tea. When he takes a sip of it, he’s aware that Lang is closely watching him. The taste is… of a very strong and robust black tea with milk and an intense amount of sugar. The pearls at the bottom add a texture that he admits to being good.
“It’s quite… offbeat. But I can see the appeal.” He finally says.
That gets a howl of laughter out of Lang. “You’re the only one I know who would call bubble tea offbeat.”
The rest of their conversation was… quite nice. Miles knows he ought to confirm his theory on why Lang is here, but all that investigation seems to be so dull in comparison to just sitting with the man. Lang is jubilant today, which Miles assumes is a product of not meeting up at a crime scene for once, as well as the events of two days ago when he finally confessed to being on leave. He’s light, charismatic, and so confident. Miles feels like he can drown in it.
That meeting on their first lunch together was quite telling of how their future lunches would go. When Miles is not in court for the morning, he spends it doing paperwork, research, and essential reading and strategizing for his cases. Then at twelve sharp, Lang enters his office door and breaks the silence and monotony while placing himself on Edgeworth’s couch. They spend the hour talking: about food, past cases, how Edgeworth’s current trials are panning out, Kay entering university on the east coast, Sebastian taking time off to study-
But Edgeworth can’t fail to notice that Lang never shares anything personal anymore, not after that one time he talked about his mother. He’s still loud, of course, still lively in his introductions of various food items to Edgeworth. However, the topic of his leave has yet to be broached again. It seems to be something he’s avoiding.
On the topic of things Lang is avoiding, he also seems to never have brought up the topic he wanted to bring up with Edgeworth the first time he visited the prosecutor’s office again.
Here’s the situation: the first thing Edgeworth thought of when Lang left his office that first day was that the agent was going to romantically confess to him. That is where his logic concluded, and since then, evidence both to prove it and disprove it has been scarce. Yes, the knowledge of Lang’s indefinite leave threw Miles a bit of a curveball, but Lang seems to genuinely just want to get to know him, despite not being as open as Miles would hope.
What does it all mean? Miles would be the first to admit that the conundrum has been eating away at him. It often feels like every time they meet, he is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Lang to finally bring up the idea of romance.
Honestly, Miles is grateful for the preemptive conclusion. If it is true, Edgeworth just acquired ample time to prepare his response and not be ambushed by the surprise. He has found himself thinking about how he would react, if he would be gleeful to hear the confession, if he would reciprocate. All that thinking and imagining makes Edgeworth dizzy. Now, every time Lang leaves after the hour is over, Edgeworth finds himself uneasy. He supposes the uneasiness is due to unfulfilled scenarios plaguing his thoughts.
This has got to change, Edgeworth thinks. I must ask Lang his true intentions.
He looks over at the agent, who is currently dramatically telling the story of one of his vibrant arrests in Interpol over a bowl of laksa. He looks absorbed in it, too absorbed for Edgeworth to bother.
Tomorrow. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes way quicker than Edgeworth has anticipated.
As soon as Lang enters, Edgeworth starts feeling uneasy. He’s nervous. This is make it or break it, after all. It’s only fitting he would be tense.
This, of course, does not escape the expert investigator’s eye.
“You good, Mr. Prosecutor?” Lang asks, sincere as can be. He is bringing something different today. Instead of a brown paper bag, he is carrying a cloth bag folded neatly to conveniently carry around.
“Yes, of course. What gifts do you bring me today, Agent Lang?” Edgeworth deflects.
Lang smiles shyly. “I have brought you one of my favorite meals from Zheng Fa.”
Lang swiftly unknots the bag, revealing two segmented Tupperwares. He hands one to Edgeworth. When Edgeworth opens it, he finds the steamed rice still steaming while the fragrant smell of aniseed fills the air.
“Braised pork shoulder,” Lang helpfully supplies.
“You… made this?” Edgeworth asks, mostly in disbelief.
“Yes,” Lang looks away, almost like he’s embarrassed at the admission. “I had spare time this morning. I figured for all my talk of cuisines from around the world, I never brought you something from Zheng Fa.”
Edgeworth is… touched. He is not a good cook, so he doesn’t eat home-cooked meals often. Having Lang cook for him one of the agent’s favorite meals from his home…
That’s proof of Edgeworth’s conclusion if he’s ever seen one.
“Thank you, Agent Lang. I appreciate the sentiment, and I’m sure it will be delicious.” Edgeworth says with a little bow of his head.
Lang takes his usual seat on the couch, using a handkerchief to hold up the warm Tupperware of food. “Tsk. You haven’t even tasted it yet. Besides, you should be thanking my mother. She stayed up late to guide me through my cooking,” Lang says, blowing at his rice.
“Tell your mother I send my thanks and regards, then,” Edgeworth says as he takes his usual seat next to the man.
The next few moments were spent in silence. This is uncommon for Lang and Edgeworth, who have found themselves spending lunch with easy banter as background noise these past two weeks. Perhaps, it is Lang’s nervousness with regards to what Miles would think about his cooking. Perhaps it’s Edgeworth, tense in preparation for the conversation he is about to bring up.
Finally, Edgeworth cracks.
“Agent Lang, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you these past few weeks,” Edgeworth starts. He’s a ball of nerves, even though he has planned everything out. “I want to ask about your true intentions on coming here to see me almost every day of the week.”
Lang… takes a deep breath. He tends to look directly at Edgeworth when speaking to him, but this time he is looking at his food. “I see you’ve figured me out, Mr. Edgeworth.”
Edgeworth waits rather impatiently for the next part. When Lang doesn’t elaborate, Edgeworth takes the reins again.
“It’s alright, Agent Lang. I promise I will react to the best of my capabilities,” he says.
Lang still remains silent for a few seconds, despite Edgeworth's reassurance.
Just spit it out, Miles can’t help but think. Spit it out, and then we can deal with it together.
When Lang eventually does, Edgeworth feels like the rug is pulled under him.
“I’m thinking of leaving Interpol for good.”
Oh.
Oh no.
“You look surprised, Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang says, now looking at Miles directly like he usually does.
Edgeworth collects himself. This is a shocking turn of events, and not what he would have expected at all, but it is the information given to him, and he will make do.
This… unexpected reveal has planted more questions than answers in Edgeworth’s head. Edgeworth recalls one of his high school English classes where they were required to study and try their hand at writing journalistic articles. In that class, he learned to ask essential questions first; details on the who, what, when, why, and hows. He has brought this method to law school, to investigations, to the court of law. Now, he supposes he should bring it out in front of his favorite lunchmate.
WHO: Shi-Long Lang
WHAT: Resignation from Interpol
“When have you decided on this?” Edgeworth asks, already preparing to add Lang’s answer to his data sheet.
“I haven’t decided on anything yet,” Lang responds, ever unhelpful.
WHO: Shi-Long Lang
WHAT: Possible resignation from Interpol
WHEN: Undecided
“Why… are you considering it, then?” Edgeworth presses
His questions are met with a sigh. “Why are you interrogating me like a witness, Mr. Prosecutor? Are we not friends? Are there not any other more interesting questions in that head of yours?” Lang teases.
This line of questioning is obviously not working. Edgeworth concedes. “Fine. Why has this… potential resignation brought you to my office, then?”
“Because I’ve heard of your ‘death’ a couple of years back, Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang says instantly, like he has prepared this response. “And I know about your little stint with your prosecutorial position. I wanted to gain wisdom from such a man who felt a desire to leave the world of law strong enough to definitively act on it, and still make it back inside.”
Oh. Miles finally realizes. He’s here to seek… advice… from me.
It feels stupid now, that Edgeworth even thought Lang was trying to pursue him. Edgeworth chooses to save the embarrassment for later, and just be a good friend for now.
“Is that what you want to do? To come back from your leave?” he asks.
Lang shrugs. “When I arrived home after finally solving the mystery of the SS-5 incident, my mother welcomed me to her home with open arms.” He gives a smile at the mention of his mother. “She told me, ‘My beloved son Shi-Long, it’s finally over. You can breathe now. You can live now.’ and what she said stuck with me.”
Lang places his food on Edgeworth’s desk and stands up. He walks over to the window and looks over at the view.
“She’s right, you know. Ever since I was able to dream, I dreamt of solving that case. I became a member of Interpol so that I can find the truth. I made my way up the ladder despite the tarnish to my family name so that I can finally put my father’s name to rest. I did it for my father, and his father, and his father before that. I did it for them.”
Miles makes his way to the front of his window as well and stands beside Agent Lang. He considers outstretching a hand to the man’s shoulder, but decides against it. He hopes his presence and listening ear is comfort enough.
“You ask me what I want, Mr. Edgeworth? I don’t know. I’ve never wanted anything for myself. It’s always for my family. I don’t regret it, not even one bit. But maybe my mother is right. Maybe it’s now time to live.”
Lang meets Edgeworth’s eye. Edgeworth has no idea what to say.
When Edgeworth calls Franziska that night to ask her advice on what to say to Agent Lang, he finds himself forced by Franziska to admit that he initially thought Lang was in love with him. This earns him a solid two minutes of laughter out of his sister.
Something shifts after that day. Lang still brings Edgeworth good food that is more than occasionally home-cooked, and they still talk about the things they used to talk about. Now, however, Edgeworth is aware that Lang is undertaking a most definitely emotionally loaded time in his life. Some days are more quiet, with Lang sharing his thoughts on his probable resignation, and Edgeworth giving his insights, often with anecdotes from his experience struggling through the same thing.
Some days are absolutely silent, too. Perhaps it’s a time when Miles has to concentrate extra-hard on his current case that even his lunchtime is occupied, or perhaps it’s a day when Lang is not at his usual energy. Edgeworth values these days too. He finds he likes them as much as the other kinds of days.
“Should I keep calling you an agent? Perhaps you may want me to go with Mr. Lang by now.” Edgeworth asks one day, curious.
“Lang would be fine,” Lang says. “Shi-Long, if you’re brave,” he adds with a wink.
The first time Lang was not able to attend lunch in Edgeworth’s office on a non-trial day is the day Edgeworth learns his personal phone number.
Edgeworth doesn’t answer it at first. He had just declined the call when a message pops up.
It’s Lang. Pick up.
His phone rings again, and this time Edgeworth answers.
“Not answering phone calls from strangers, huh? Smart move,” Lang says over the phone.
Worry is the first thing on Edgeworth’s mind “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I can’t make it to lunch today. What do you say to dinner later?”
Edgeworth reserves his question on why Lang can’t make it to lunch. Instead, he replies affirmatively to the dinner date.
“I’ll choose the place. I’ll meet you on the first floor of your office building.”
Lang hangs up, and Edgeworth feels a giddiness he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Miles grew up watching his dad drive the two of them everywhere.
It's quite easy to presume that Miles’ father loved to drive, as he took immense care of his car. They had a good old regular Honda Civic, but Gregory treated her beautifully. A beaded wooden charm was always hanging up the rearview mirror which Gregory would touch at every beginning of a car trip for good luck. It makes a clicking sound when the car drives on badly paved roads, a sound that Miles quite readily associates with sleeping in the back seat, with comfort and safety. Miles tried to recreate that sound once in his own rearview mirror, to little success.
But of course, like many things in his life, the setup by which he experienced driving changed tremendously after his father’s death. Manfred never drove anywhere; they had a driver for that. It was disgraceful, the concept of a Von Karma driving themself places, and Edgeworth is nothing but someone who was trying to live up to the Von Karma name back in those days. He learned to drive at 16 just for the convenience of having a license, but except for the hours spent in driving school, Miles never really got behind the wheel.
He hated it. It’s a privilege, he knows that, but it’s one he always thought he could live without. Maybe it’s the fact that having a driver always leaves him and Manfred in the backseat together. Even before Edgeworth knew about Manfred’s full intentions about taking him in, he had always felt that the man kept his eye on him. Waiting for him to mess up, Waiting for a perfect opportunity to snap an insult at him. Waiting for the right time to hurt him with carefully worded sentences about success and perfection that used to haunt his thoughts. Having Manfred sit with him in the back seat every time they go anywhere together did not help with that at all.
It’s partly the reason why he got this car. Moving back to L.A. had Miles see the freedom that he felt he didn’t have for the past decade he’s been in the Von Karma household. He didn’t take up a driver for personal car trips, opting to drive a more modern version of the Civic, just like his father. Yet every time Manfred would fly to California and meet with him, Edgeworth felt Manfred’s ire at him for being a disciple of the Von Karma house and yet driving a Honda with yourself in the driver’s seat! What a disgrace!
So Miles got himself a dashing, wildly expensive sports car. The next time Manfred showed up and met up with Edgeworth, Manfred’s scowl was apparent, but Edgeworth knew he won this round. The car is expensive enough to satisfy the man, and yet only features two car seats, which entails the necessity of not having a driver, because then Miles won’t be able to ride with Manfred, won’t he? Edgeworth would admit that he found himself giddy over this success.
Overall, Edgeworth loves to drive. He loves his flashy red car, and he loves the control it makes him feel, driving himself places.
This is why it is curious, if Edgeworth is to wonder, that Lang asked once, and now the man is driving Edgeworth’s car on the way to their dinner.
Given that Lang is not here permanently, he opts to get around the city using a rideshare app. Edgeworth is aware that the expectation tonight is he would drive together with Lang to the restaurant.
What he did not expect is the wolf-whistle Lang does when he spots Edgeworth’s car.
“She’s beautiful. Can I drive her?” he asks. And for some reason, Edgeworth agrees.
Watching Lang drive is… nice. Everything about Lang is nice, Edgeworth’s brain unhelpfully supplies. He’s focused on the road, and he does not speak while driving, both traits that he and Edgeworth share.
Edgeworth doesn’t mind when someone else is driving him, perhaps. Not when it’s someone he trusts.
Their meal today is in a Japanese ramen shop that Miles remembers taking Maya Fey in once. She is incredibly passionate about the Steel Samurai, and one of the few people Edgeworth deems worthy enough to share his opinions about the show and the franchise with. She tends to text him when a new twist in one of the shows has just occurred, and when the twist is big enough, even invites him out for a meal.
The day Miles took her here was his treat, for he knows the food here is pricey. He wonders if this is a problem for Lang at all.
Eventually, they get seated and their meals are served. They talk over it. Lang informs him that he has finally called Franziska and gotten quite an earful from her.
“Did you tell her about your plans?” Edgeworth asks.
“Yes. Sis has been one of the most competent investigators I have had the honor to work with. She deserves to know.” Lang says, and if Edgeworth gloats at the high praise for his sister, he doesn’t show it.
“What did she say?” Edgeworth inquires, genuinely curious. Would Franziska be the type to get mad? She got angry at Edgeworth back then, but that was in the past, and it was a different situation. Miles finds that he genuinely can’t guess how Franziska would feel.
“... She told me ‘Whatever it is you choose to do, do it perfectly and do it proudly. Interpol or otherwise.’”
That… very much sounds like Franziska. Edgeworth can’t help but smile.
The night passes with ease, and Lang volunteers to pay for both of their meals. When Lang gets his phone out to hail a ride, Edgeworth stops him, saying that driving the man home is the least he can do as repayment.
Lang lives in a beautiful two-bedroom house that he’s currently renting.
It’s in an affluent area, so Edgeworth knows the rent must be high. He knows Lang is from an affluent family in Zheng Fa, and this all but confirms it.
“You want to stop by? I have some nice whiskey that I don’t have anyone to drink with.” Lang says as Miles stops in front of the house.
“I’m driving,” Miles says, and Lang snorts.
“Obviously. Get a ride back to your place. Leave the car here and I’ll drive it to your office tomorrow.” Lang says, as if this solution is very obvious and straightforward.
Miles considers it. I don’t want the night to end just yet anyway, he thinks. And so he parks the car and steps out, handing the key to Lang’s waiting hands.
They enter the house together, and Edgeworth takes a quick look around. It’s smaller than Edgeworth’s house, as expected, and is neat and generic. Obviously a very nice rental, the only thing so visibly Lang’s in the house is a medium-sized wolf statue made of what seems to be gold sitting in the middle of the coffee table in the living room. Miles is willing to bet that the statue is a Lang family heirloom that Shi-Long lugs around.
In the middle of observing the place, Edgeworth feels a hand land on his shoulder. Lang is offering to take off his coat.
Edgeworth lets him, and Lang hangs Edgeworth’s coat in a rack by the door. He takes off his own jacket too, leaving him in just a button-down shirt. Edgeworth’s eyes linger on the way Lang’s shoulders are shaped when not wearing his signature jacket.
They move to the elevated kitchen counter, eventually, where Lang asks Edgeworth how he likes his bourbon.
“Just neat,” Edgeworth says, and Lang shoots him a big smile.
“Of course you take your whiskey neat, big boy. I, on the other hand,” he lifts a shaker up dramatically, “like mint juleps.”
Lang pours a drink out for Edgeworth and starts shaking his mint julep. He strains it to his glass and tastes it, grimaces, and adds more whiskey. Edgeworth snorts.
“Lang Zi says: Trial and error leads a wolf to perfection,” Lang says rather defensively, as he goes to take another sip of his drink, this time looking satisfied.
They drink and talk. This is not something Edgeworth does regularly. He knows that a lot of his colleagues drink to socialize, but Edgeworth also barely socializes anyway. Besides, he may be what one considers a lightweight, and embarrassing himself in front of his coworkers is not one of his dream night-outs.
“Shi-Long,” Edgeworth calls out, when they are both a few drinks in.
Lang looks at him quizzically at the change of name. “Yes?”
“You said I could call you that if I’m feeling brave,” Edgeworth reminds Lang.
Lang howls in laughter. “Three drinks and you’re feeling brave, huh, Mr. Prosecutor?” He shoves Edgeworth a little bit with his shoulder.
Edgeworth flushes. “I like it when you call me Mr. Prosecutor,” he admits. “I used to think of you as annoying for it, but now I know you don’t mean it with as much vitriol as you did before.”
Lang’s eyes turn serious. “Wow. You really are feeling brave, huh?” He ponders for a bit, and stands up from his chair. “Why don’t we get you that ride home, Mr. Prosec- Mr. Edgeworth.”
Lang helps him up and they walk towards the bench on the front lawn as Lang books a ride.
“Shi-Long, I thought you were in love with me,” Edgeworth says, because why shouldn’t he? He has been thinking about it for so long. His friend deserves to know. “I thought that was what you were hiding during our first few lunches.”
Lang sits beside him, stunned. “So when you were asking me to tell you my true intentions-”
“Yes,” Miles interrupts. “I thought you were going to confess to me.”
Lang just stares at him. Edgeworth has his eyes closed, leaning back against the wall.
“How would you have… handled that? If that was the case?” Lang asks.
“I suppose I would have tried it out by officially asking you on a date.”
Lang chooses his next words carefully.
“Do you still suppose that?”
“That you like me?” Edgeworth clarifies. “You buy me all our meals together. You show up almost every day in my office to have lunch with me. You cook me my lunch sometimes,” Miles lists off. “I suppose we could also just be good friends-”
“Not that,” Lang says. “I meant to say: do you still think the same about the date?”
Lang’s phone pings. The ride is here. He hauls Edgeworth into the back seat, goes back inside the house, and finishes the rest of his drink.
Edgeworth hates himself.
Thankfully, he did not wake up the next day with a headache. Unfortunately, that means he remembers everything he said and did last night.
This is why he doesn’t drink! It’s embarrassing. He’s embarrassing.
He considers skipping work today. Perhaps he can tag along with Detective Gumshoe in an investigation instead. He goes as far as looking for the detective’s number on his phone, but changes his mind before pressing the call button. Anything different he does today will be a dead giveaway that he was deeply affected by the events of last night, and he can’t have Lang thinking that.
Of course, if he is right that he made Lang uncomfortable, Lang could easily not show up today. Or show up and tell him. They are adults. They will deal with this like adults.
At lunchtime, Lang shows up with Miles’ car keys and coat from last night. He was mindful enough to place the coat in a shopping bag, hiding it from anyone in the prosecutors’ office who may find Lang carrying Edgeworth’s coat to be suspicious.
Lang does not bring last night up, and neither does Miles. They go back to normal after, like nothing ever happened. Edgeworth is both grateful and disappointed.
Wright walks in on Edgeworth and Lang eating lunch on a Thursday. It was a peaceful affair before his entrance, the two of them sitting quietly on Edgeworth’s couch. The food today is an array of sushi from a restaurant Miles is moderately familiar with, having eaten there a few times.
Days like this, where they chew their food methodically, sitting shoulder to shoulder with each other, are nice. Nice enough for Miles to admit.
And then, of course, Phoenix Wright. He knocks on the door first before entering, and his face moves from Edgeworth, to Lang, and then back to Edgeworth before schooling his expression into a more professional-looking one. He even tries to break a smile as Edgeworth places his food on his desk and stands up.
“Wright,” Edgeworth starts. He considers confessing to having forgotten about Wright’s text from this morning about dropping off some files on a blackmailing case that Edgeworth is prosecuting in two days' time. He decides against it.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Phoenix Wright.” Lang is standing now too, hand outstretched to the attorney. “Shi-Long Lang.”
Phoenix takes the hand and shakes it, and yet Edgeworth cannot ignore his pained expression.
Miles can explain the situation, of course.
1. Agent Lang is from Interpol (debatable).
2. He is here on official business (he’s not).
3. This is not a date that we are partaking in (although I did think all prior engagements of a similar fashion were dates).
4. I am professional enough to not entertain such matters in my office (I am definitely not).
Okay, so maybe Miles cannot sufficiently explain the situation.
“I respect your work, Mr. Wright. You are a beacon of hope in the world of law.” Lang states with a slight bow and his hands placed together in front of his face. Phoenix looks flustered but says a thank you at the compliment.
Lang excuses himself out of the room, leaving Edgeworth and Wright behind. Wright’s eyes follow the man through the door, only turning back around when Edgeworth clears his throat.
“The case files, Wright,” Edgeworth says, which springs Phoenix right into action. He explains that the files are not exactly official, but more investigative. Mia had been looking into Redd White then, and inevitably, she has also gathered information on other people in the blackmail circuit.
“Thank you, Wright. I’m sure these will help build my case.” Edgeworth concludes. They’re leaning over his desk now, contents of the files in a neat binder splayed right in the middle of the table.
“Thank Mia,” Wright chuckles. “Even after all this time, she’s still helping so many people.” He says the last part in a solemn way that makes Edgeworth's heart twinge. He’s wracking his brain on what to say, and eventually, lands on “She must be proud of you. I’m sure.”
Wright smiles at that. He takes his bag and starts to walk off. A few steps away from the door, he stops and turns around. His eyes land on the sushi at the edge of the desk, and then on Edgeworth.
“I’m happy for you, Miles. I really am.” He says. And he looks like he means it too.
Miles steps out of his office moments after Wright leaves and sees Lang on the 12th-floor hallway couch. His back is against the wall, eyes turned towards where the elevators are located. Miles follows his eyes, and spots as Wright enters the elevator.
Looking back at Lang, he finds the man now staring at him, face neutral. Controlled. Edgeworth motions back at his office and Lang enters to follow him.
“He likes you.” is the first thing out of Lang’s mouth as the door clicks shut. Edgeworth grabs their sushi and motions Lang’s towards the man, taking a seat once Lang has taken his.
“Yes,” Edgeworth responds. There’s no point in denying such accusations against a man whose work’s backbone includes reading people for lies.
Previous work. Potentially. Edgeworth reminds himself.
“Hmm.” Lang hums. Sits. Puts a piece of sushi in his mouth.
The previous peaceful silence now feels suffocating. Edgeworth can’t help but wish Lang would press, so he would have reason to explain the situation other than because-
Well. Because it’s Lang. And he wants him to understand.
He figures that’s reason enough.
“He told me some time ago. That he likes me.” Edgeworth starts, faking casual. He feels Lang look at him, but he keeps his eyes on his food.
“Phoenix is a very important person in my life. He… believed in me. He met a boy in his childhood who was principled. A boy who had strong convictions towards the truth.”
He thinks back to those days of childhood. He remembers thinking of Larry and Phoenix as his friends. First friends he’s ever had in his life, in fact. He never would have imagined how much Phoenix looked up to him in those days.
“He believed me to be that boy, even as I grew far from those convictions. Despite proving him wrong, he still believed in the good of who I am. He woke me out of my nightmare and made me see the day again, solely because he believed in me. And for that I am grateful.”
Miles risks looking up now, and Lang is looking at him softly, patiently. He’s weaving this tale, and Lang is watching as the threads form a tapestry.
“When he told me he wanted to pursue me romantically, I felt stunned. I wanted to try, I really did. But I owed him too much. There’s so much history between us. I was afraid that he saw me as entrenched in that history. He saw me as he did in our childhood: bright-eyed and hopeful. I suspected that he thought of that, somehow, as the real me.”
A hand lands on his forearm, which is when Edgeworth realized that he had his hands balled into fists. Lang is still looking at him, his hand soft and heavy on his forearm. The message is clear: relax.
Edgeworth unclenches.
“But that is not the real me. Not anymore. There is no going back to the beliefs and hopes of that boy, after everything. In a way, I rejected him– not through his own fault, but of what he reminds me of. Of what I lost. Of what I have failed to become. Of what I am trying to move on from.”
“Too much history,” Lang concludes. Edgeworth looks up to him and nods in the affirmative.
Lang is still looking at him so softly. His hand is still on Edgeworth’s arm. He’s so close… When have they gotten so close?
Edgeworth’s phone rings, but they do not move.
Edgeworth’s phone stops ringing. They stay where they are.
“I hope you find someone who you can share your present with, instead of your past,” Lang says, and Edgeworth could have kissed him right there.
The second time Lang misses lunch is a week after the first one. Detective Gumshoe arrives in Edgeworth’s office with a paper bag of food. It’s just like old times, and yet Miles cannot hide his dismay.
“Well don’t look too disappointed, Sir! I promise I didn’t get this meal from Tres Bien this time!” Gumshoe says, humorously, which reminds Edgeworth to school his face into a more friendly one.
“Agent Lang told me to bring you your food today. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said he woke up sick this morning.” Gumshoe adds, with the intensity of how he would deliver a testimony during a murder trial.
“Sick, huh? Alright, detective. Thank you so much for the meal.” Edgeworth replies, a plan already formulating in his head.
“Sir, if I may say…” Gumshoe starts, and his uncharacteristic hesitance cuts through Edgeworth’s thoughts about Lang. “I still receive money for the meals that I’m supposed to deliver to you, and yet I haven’t really done that in a while. I appreciate the extra cash, of course, Mr. Edgeworth, but I feel perhaps this may be something you missed?”
Gumshoe is right, Edgeworth did miss it. However…
“You’re due for a salary evaluation anyway, detective. I will arrange it so the lunch meal money will reflect directly on your salary instead.”
Gumshoe looks delighted and thanks Edgeworth, and Edgeworth rewards the enthusiasm with a smile of his own.
Immediately after his office work ends, Edgeworth drives over to a Congee place. He hesitates at the counter, wondering how sick Lang might be and if he needs someone to take care of him. He was fine yesterday, so it may not be that bad, but he didn’t call Edgeworth today, so the prosecutor wouldn’t even know how badly he is unwell.
Miles opts for two servings of Congee; if Lang is well enough, Miles will leave him to rest and take the other serving of congee with him to eat at home. If Lang is a bit more unwell, Miles will stay behind and keep an eye on him for a while.
Actually, Miles wonders, does Lang have a cold? Waking up sick could mean an array of things. Perhaps he does have a cold. Or perhaps his leg is in pain from where he has been shot. Edgeworth wonders for a little bit if it’s even appropriate to visit the man, even if he intends to hand over dinner and potentially take care of him. The food arriving breaks him out of his trance. Well, I already have the food. I might as well hand it over to him, Miles thinks. And so he drives to the house Lang is staying in.
Edgeworth rings the doorbell and waits patiently outside the door. He’s wearing a mask, a pack of which he keeps in his car in cases like this, where he needs them. They’re the same color as his coat.
He hears a “Hold on!” from somewhere inside the house, some footsteps, and the door bursts open, and he is greeted by Lang. Edgeworth politely says good evening and steps in, heading over to the dining table. He was busy unpacking the congee when he noticed a pile of clothes on the floor of the living room, right beside an open travel suitcase, already halfway filled with neatly folded shirts. He takes a look around the house, and finds it very clean and neat, the center table lacking the wolf centerpiece that Edgeworth was sure is a Lang family heirloom, the kitchen sink empty of plates or glasses, very much unlike one would expect the residence of a sick person’s would be. Finally, Edgeworth braves a look at Lang, who is still standing near the door, looking… well. Lang always looks good, but today he looks no different from how he usually looks, save the fact that he is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual outfit. He looks guilty, almost. Perhaps sad.
The dots are connecting in Edgeworth’s head, and saying he does not like where they are leading is an understatement.
“Mr. Edgeworth…” Lang starts, but does not continue. He is still standing by the door. Miles is still standing by the table.
Finally, the dots connect. And one thing is for sure: Edgeworth wants to leave.
“I brought you dinner. There are two servings of congee in the bag, so I hope you are starving. I shall be taking my leave.” Edgeworth takes a bow, and he realizes that he is so grateful for the mask because wearing it means he doesn’t have to school his expression into something even close to cordial.
When he straightens up to head to the door, Lang is in front of him.
“Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang says. “Tell me where that head of yours is leading you.”
Miles looks right at him and takes a breath. “You’re not sick, or in pain. The house is clean, perhaps set the way it was when you first arrived. And most importantly, you’re packing your clothes back into your travel bag. You’re leaving. Perhaps flying back to Zheng Fa. And you weren't going to tell me. Am I wrong?”
Please say I am wrong. Please deny that you would leave now without even telling me.
“No,” Lang says.
“Good. Then I shall be taking my leave,” Edgeworth says, moving towards the door.
He’s halfway through the door when he hears a loud “Miles!” ringing through the room, and Edgeworth doesn’t know if it’s the intensity by which Lang said his name, or the fact that Lang is using his first name, that got to him, but he stops and turns back towards the man.
“I got accepted into a lecturer position at Ivy University.”
That… is not what Edgeworth expected.
“… What?”
“I applied to IU. I got the call yesterday afternoon that I got the job.”
That shut Edgeworth up. Conceptually, he knows that Lang leaving Interpol means he ought to get a new job, but for some reason, he didn’t think that Lang was actively looking for one at the moment.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Lang says. “Because I was afraid you’d be excited.”
“What’s wrong with me getting excited?” Edgeworth rebuts
“I don’t want you to be the reason I take the job.”
Huh. Again, Edgeworth is at a loss for words. His thoughts are swimming, the logic bubbles not forming into any concrete idea that he could connect. He waits for Lang to continue, instead.
“I can still come back to Interpol.” Lang sighs. “It’s what I’ve known my whole life.”
Edgeworth wants to tell him to not come back, but he doesn’t trust himself to not do it for selfish reasons.
Lang continues. “I am flying back to Zheng Fa and consulting my mother. Then I will make my decision. I just don’t want you to be a part of it,” his eyes look up to Edgeworth. “If you ask me to take the job, I would do it. And I don’t want you to be the reason that I do it.”
That… takes Edgeworth aback.
“Do you want to sit?” Lang asks.
Miles and Lang find themselves seated in front of the living room coffee table, right there on the floor with some of the sofa cushions thrown down under them for comfort. They’re eating their congees in silence.
The fact of the situation is this: Edgeworth is fully aware that it is his turn to speak now. Lang has given his argument, so it’s time for Edgeworth to press. However, Edgeworth doesn’t really know what to ask.
He settles for a simple inquiry.
“I didn’t know you had a Ph.D.,” he says truthfully. One would expect an Interpol agent to study in a police academy and have most of their other learnings occur in the field, not in academia.
“I don’t. Just a masters. They think my field experience is insightful enough to warrant a position without being a Ph.D. holder. I will be doing a Ph.D. thesis while working, though,” Lang explains while blowing on his food. He’s uptight in a way that he hasn’t been in quite a while. He’s keeping me at arm’s length, Edgeworth thinks, and knows to be true.
So he decides to pull out the big guns.
“So if I tell you to take it, you would?”
Lang… nods. Hums in agreement.
“Why?” Edgeworth presses.
“You know why, Mr. Edgeworth,” Lang says with a smirk. Cheeky bastard.
“I want to hear it.”
And Miles does. He really, really, does. So he ignores the blood rushing through his ears and holds out for Lang’s answer.
A couple of moments pass. Lang looks up at him. His wolfish smirk is gone, and what’s left is a face so serious and sincere.
“Because I like you very much.”
It’s the answer Miles has been gearing up for, but hearing it out loud…
He works on schooling his face. Lang didn’t want his feelings to interfere with his decisions, and Edgeworth has to respect that by not betraying his desires either.
Lang must notice Edgeworth’s attempt at a neutral façade, though, for he says “Nice job with the poker face, pretty boy.” before turning back to his congee, which Edgeworth is truly grateful for. It’s very difficult to hide your feelings with a flushed face, after all.
“Thank you,” Lang says, eventually. “For not responding.”
Edgeworth doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead, he says “You’re welcome.”
Lang snickers. “Besides, I’m positive I know how you feel anyway. No need for me to inquire. I just need to not hear it directly from you right now.”
His look towards Edgeworth is equal parts playful and piercing. What the hell is this game they’re playing?
Edgeworth clears his throat, collects himself, and continues eating his congee.
Lang walks him towards the door, and they stop by the gate, standing in front of each other.
This is it, Miles thinks. This is either the end of this story or the beginning of it, and I have no way of knowing right now.
It’s terrifying, this not knowing. Who knows if this is the last he’ll see of Lang? Who knows if he’ll come back two weeks later, like he said he would if he decides to take the job, or if he’ll reside in Zheng Fa and never step foot in the United States ever again?
“Lang Zi says:” Lang starts, and Miles is taken out of his thoughts. “A goodbye to your beloved is only as bitter as the parting kiss is sweet.”
Miles is taken aback.
“Is this your way of asking me for a kiss goodbye?”
Lang hums. “Yes.”
“But wouldn’t the goodbye be a bitter one, then?”
Lang considers. “Yes,” he says. “What Lang Zi says and Lang Shi-Long thinks are not always the same.”
The kiss was sweet. Lang held Miles’ neck in his hands and caressed Miles' cheek with his thumb throughout it. Miles sat in his car for 10 minutes before he stopped shaking enough to drive.
The next two weeks all blend together.
He had only one trial in those two weeks, so most of his time was spent in his office. He doesn’t eat his lunch in the office anymore, though, opting to go out for walks or drives to actual restaurants, even stopping by the cafe on the first floor of the prosecutor’s office building that he, for some reason, has never eaten at before.
He’s waiting for Lang to be back, of course. But he’s also preparing for him to not be back. Lang hasn’t texted him any updates, and Miles thinks himself in no position to initiate conversation.
And so he waits and gears up for both good and bad news. He eats lunch with Wright, with Gumshoe, with Sebastian, he even eats ramen once with Maya, where they yet again spend the whole meal talking about the new installment in the Steel Samurai franchise. Miles is grateful for the company of every single person he dines with.
Mostly he eats alone though. It’s during these moments that he tries not to overthink.
Two weeks pass. Edgeworth waits until 12:10 pm for Lang to show up in his office. He doesn’t. Edgeworth walks towards a French restaurant near the building and dines there.
That afternoon, Miles stays in his office far longer than he does. People think of him as a workaholic, but he has much respect for time and working hours. Still, he spends an hour and a half finishing up some paperwork that honestly didn’t need to be finished up today. He just needs the distraction. He’s afraid that all his disappointment will finally catch up to him when he gets home.
Walking to his car, Edgeworth suddenly sees the silhouette of a man he can recognize anywhere. It takes everything in him to not run up to the man, but he’s still breathless once he gets there.
“Working tirelessly again, Mr. Prosecutor. You’re really quite a workaholic,” Lang smirks. But only for a short while. His face turns serious as he gives Edgeworth a bow. “My apologies for being late. I know how finicky you are with your time.”
Edgeworth can’t believe it. “You’re here.”
Lang nods, and takes a card out of his pocket. “I believe I owe you a new business card, Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth.”
Edgeworth takes the card and reads it.
Shi-Long Lang
Professor
Department of Political Science - International Relations
Ivy University
Miles looks up, and Lang is smiling. None of the wolfish smirk, though. Just a bright, beaming face of joy.
“Nice to meet you, Professor Shi-Long Lang.”
The kiss this time was a joyful one. Edgeworth can’t help but smile against Lang’s lips.
It’s the first day of classes for the undergraduates, which may not be the most ideal time for a prosecutor of Edgeworth’s renown to be in the cafeteria near the political science department of one of the most prominent universities in the country for the course.
People are looking at him and pointing, but fortunately, everyone was busy enough to get on with their day and not stop him for a conversation, or worse, a picture. Eventually, he finds Lang at the end of the lineup at the counter, and he takes his place right behind him.
“Tsk, you’re really having lunch here, huh,” Lang asks, a little howl of laughter in his voice.
“I told you I will have lunch with you on your first day, so I’m here,” Miles says, adjusting his cravat, which in turn makes him notice Lang’s outfit. “I’m impressed they let you on the campus while wearing that.”
Lang looks down on himself and proceeds to close up the previously open third button of his shirt. He looks up at Miles, who is still eyeing his chest. “Better?”
Miles blushes and looks away.
When they finally buy their food and take a seat, Edgeworth is surprised to find the food to be sufficiently tasty.
It’s nice being with Lang. They find themselves having lunch together less often now, what with Lang being busier than he used to be, but weekends and occasional dinners are often spent together: in the movies, at a restaurant, but more commonly now, at whomever’s residence they choose to spend the night in.
Miles told Lang, then, that it would be a privilege to have the man live in Edgeworth’s house. Lang politely refused, saying that he can only handle one big decision at a time.
Edgeworth likes it like this, though, everything coming up to a simmer, nice and slow. No one needs to rush anything. Lang is starting a new life, much like Edgeworth did after his previous life as a Von Karma disciple got uprooted. Lang is going through a similar thing, albeit dealing with it way better than Miles ever did.
It’s good. This is good, Miles thinks, and he knows he means both this lunch, and the first one they had together, and every meal since, and every meal they promise to share with each other from now on.