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"Wright."
A soft shake of the shoulder accompanies the call for his attention, filtering in through a dream.
"Wright. It’s me, it’s me, wake up."
The blur that is his blankets and pillows becomes clearer, as he opens his eyes a crack wider and turns to face the man lightly prying him awake. Whoever it is, his silhouette is darkened by contrast from light coming out of the desk lamp behind him—so he narrows his eyes, and rubs them twice, willing his brain to focus on the face.
"Miles…?"
Yeah. It’s that trademark silver hair, parted neatly down the center, which gives it away to his still half-asleep mind. That’s definitely none other than a certain Miles Edgeworth standing next to his bed.
He props himself on his elbows, and turns his attention to the clock sitting on the nearby table.
"It's 3:58. What the hell are you doing in my apartment? I thought—weren't you overseas?"
Miles holds still for a beat, mouth forming empty words. Then, he averts his gaze and swallows once before beginning to speak, but what he’s saying are garbled apologies and not explanations.
"I... Wrig-no, Phoenix, I'm sorry. I should go. It’s too late for me-“
His voice cracks a little, as Phoenix looks up at him, his tired face, bags under his eyes, and wonders what's brought him into his house at 4:00 in the morning.
But right now, it doesn't matter. Sitting up fully, Phoenix scoots back to lean against the headboard of his bed. He tugs on Miles' elbow lightly, beckoning him to sit down beside him. Miles hesitates, then obliges, and closes his eyes for a second. Thinking about something. Wanting to know what to say.
A second turns into a few minutes, of the two of them sitting there with Phoenix's left hand tracing circles upon Miles' wrist, and his other hand sliding through silky grey hair.
This is the silence they share in the dead of night, undisturbed by all, save for the ticking of his bedside clock. The passage of time is marked solely by ticks, tocks, as the minute hand creeps slowly towards the morning.
After he feels the silence has been unbroken for too long, he attempts to start up a conversation.
"You don’t need to go. It’s been a while. How are things?"
Miles cranes his neck slightly to get a look at his face, full on, and relaxes a little. "I've been better," he admits, his eyebrows creased in a you-know-how-it-is kind of expression while a worn out smile plays across his lips.
Phoenix grins a bit at that, because it's true, he does, and wraps his arms around Miles' waist to pull him fully onto his bed. He wiggles farther to the other side, freeing space under the covers for Miles to fit in.
It really has been a while since they've seen each other last, with Miles never finding the time to catch a break from the commotion that usually surrounds him. He looks wearier than ever, prominent circles under his lashes, and the rims of his eyes wet and a tad bit red. Casual attire, a somewhat wrinkled magenta button-down and worn-in dark grey jeans that scratch against Phoenix’s bare legs, reflect lapses in his usually immaculate appearance. His hair has grown a little longer, long enough to stay when he tucks it behind his ears, and his toes are cold as they brush against Phoenix’s. But his profile, the angles of his nose and where the line of his jaw meets the slope of his chin—these graceful features that make him himself remain the same.
Each time he sees Miles like this, with his barriers lowered and his tension released, Phoenix feels himself falling a little bit deeper. Deeper into his infatuation Miles Edgeworth, the prosecutor he respects the most as they face off across the courtroom, deeper for the man who, behind the ruffles of his cravat and the pressed creases of his suit, is still a boy who loves the Steel Samurai, deeper and deeper.
"I've missed you," he says, quietly but truthfully.
And after a moment, he hears a murmur whispered into his ear— “I have, as well."