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When he gets over the initial shock of his childhood friend suddenly showing up across the courtroom from him, the first thing that Miles Edgeworth notices is inane, illogical, and confusing.
The man cannot tie a tie.
It’s not so bad that it’s not technically tied up, he reasons – a person with slightly lower standards than his own probably wouldn’t even notice – but it is loose and wonky, and could look so much better with a little help from a more deft hand.
It’s not an outright obsession; there are often much more pressing matters at hand, obviously, both professionally and personally. But in tiny moments throughout the years, something living in back of his mind taps him lightly on the shoulder with slowly increasing confidence to say Miles, you really want to reach out and fix that tie.
Every time it comes to him, the thought is accompanied by an increasingly tighter chest, faster pulse, and more detailed visions of what Wright’s face might look like that close. How he might look at him. Whether he would feel the same pounding and rushing and near loss of control that Miles does. What that meant.
He thinks about it during multiple post-trial celebrations, looking across a tightly populated dinner table with the buzz of alcohol consumption in the air, unable to hear anything anyone said for worrying amounts of time, and especially unable to look away from a triumphant and jubilant Wright, smiling enough for all of them.
He thinks about it hundreds, thousands, infinite times while away in Europe for that secret year, wondering if Wright still hadn’t learned how to tie a tie properly. As lonely months pass, that thought becomes less wistful and more riddled with guilt and anxiety.
When he returns home, the first time he sees him is in the Criminal Affairs department, a young girl in robes clutching his hand tightly. He’s never seen Wright look this dishevelled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days and hasn’t changed out of his suit or showered in just as long. The tie is barely holding on. A selfish and stupid thought flickers through Miles’s mind, for just a moment: is this what happens when I leave?
How absurd, he thinks, shaking his head. Something else must be wrong.
When Wright is disbarred, Miles can’t get hold of him for weeks. He drops everything and rushes over when he finally hears from him. Two surprises meet him at the door, albeit one much bigger than the other; Wright has a daughter now, and there isn’t even a tie in sight to fix.
He finds himself taking a more active role in Phoenix’s life from then on; as a current friend rather than just an old one. Visiting often for game nights, or just to watch TV, or giving financial or personal aid. Some nights just talking, some just listening, most a mixture of both.
After about six months of this new, altered relationship, they develop a silent agreement. If they just so happen to be sitting adjacent on the sofa, and perhaps Trucy has gone to bed or fallen asleep with her head on Phoenix’s lap, and all is still and dark and quiet except for lights and sounds from the television, they enter a different state with a different set of laws.
Heads can lean on shoulders and against the napes of necks. Thumbs can brush softly over knuckles while the other fingers grip each other tight. Feet can gently kick and nudge each other on the floor, that or perhaps the TV eliciting chuckles that can be felt as rumbles against skin or as breaths in hair. Every moment of living in this warm space they create makes Miles’s heart burst aflame and crash violently against his rib cage, screaming to be set free… and yet, mysteriously, he always wants more of that destructive feeling. As years roll by like this, ties are long forgotten.
Until Phoenix gets his badge back.
Miles walks into the defendant lobby a few minutes before the trial is due to start, to wish his dear friend luck. He stops in his tracks when he sees him. Back in that familiar blue suit, but better. So many details that are already driving Miles insane. The hair, the chain, the waistcoat.
The tie. Even this new, more mature, somehow even handsomer version of Phoenix was hopeless.
Before he knows what he’s doing, Miles has already walked over to him and opened his mouth.
“Wright.”
A turn, a beaming smile that threatens to blind him, a slight crack in the voice that is echoed on the surface of Miles’s heart. “Oh, hey Edgeworth!”
“I… just wanted to bid you good luck.” He bows out of habit. Too formal, even for the public eye, he scolds himself as Phoenix’s face falls ever-so-slightly. The last thing he wants right now is for Phoenix to think he’s been demoted to Wright. That being a lawyer again means their previous, stiffer relationship has been reinstated along with his career. He panics slightly, not wanting that idea to take hold.
“Thanks.” It’d sound happy to anyone else, but Miles can hear the undercurrent of worry.
Again his body moves without his mind’s explicit consent and he’s reaching for Phoenix’s tie in the middle of the defendant lobby before he’s registered the impulse to do so. Phoenix squawks and goes stiff as a board and red as an apple but doesn’t quite get as far as moving away. “Edgeworth, what… “
“You never were any good at tying this thing. Hold still.” His own voice sounds much farther away than Phoenix’s. Miles distantly decides that if he’s going to exist in this insane dream state for a moment he might as well embrace it. He commits to memory the heat coming off Phoenix’s skin, the cheap feel of the tie, the way his knuckles brush against his neck and he thinks he feels the hint of a nervous gulp. The air in the room suddenly feels unbearably hot.
After he finishes finally fixing that godforsaken pink tie, he admires his work for a moment, and then dares to look up to Phoenix’s face. The actual proximity of his eyes shocks him mute. He feels a slight tremble in his fingers as he pulls them away from Phoenix’s lapel. The room doesn’t exist.
He spots Phoenix wet his lips quickly with his tongue, and speak:
“I love you.”
It’s not said as if it’s news, or as if it’s a dramatic declaration, just a simple statement. Like it’s a reminder of something he’s already said. In a way, Miles supposes he has, in ways other than with words, countless times. He supposes they both have.
Phoenix looks just as shocked as Miles feels. Miles can’t help but laugh a little, even in his stupor. Phoenix looks even more shaken at that.
Distantly, as if echoed through a valley, they become aware that the bailiff is standing a few paces away, awkwardly trying to get Phoenix to go into the courtroom. Miles steps back, clearing his throat. His finger catches on Phoenix’s newly reattached attorney’s badge for a moment, giving him a burst of pride that is somehow perceptible over the rest of his body screaming bloody murder.
“I-I should go,” Phoenix stammers.
Miles faintly registers just before Phoenix turns away that he shouldn’t leave this conversation at that bombshell; he doesn’t want him to think the feeling isn’t mutual - the one that tears him apart day and night. He takes a deep breath and replies perhaps a little too loud.
“I love you too. Call me after the trial?”
“Way ahead of you,” Phoenix breathes, chest heaving. The beaming smile is back and somehow even brighter. It seems to illuminate the entire courthouse in a radiant golden light. Miles weakly offers up an uncharacteristically erratic wave before Phoenix turns and disappears into the courtroom with a skip in his step. Miles makes a mental note to apologise profusely for the distraction if he loses the case.