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Phoenix can’t sleep.
He kinda drifted a bit once the sugar wore off and the other two fell asleep, but the TV in the corner is still on, playing the same animation and music in a loop every 20 seconds. It’s stuck on the menu, and Phoenix is pretty sure this music will be seared into his brain forever, but Larry’s TV is different to his, and he can’t find where the remote is, or the off switch on the unit.
And besides, Larry is snoring, so it’s not like Phoenix could sleep anyway.
Phoenix has already tried poking Larry with his toe, but he won’t wake up, or stop snoring - somehow louder than a fully grown man, though at least he’s down on the floor on the camp mattress. Instead, Phoenix rolls over away from the glare and the noise, pulling up his sleeping bag around his shoulders to try and block out the light. Now he’s facing Miles, curled up on the other half of Larry’s mom’s guest bed.
And somehow, Miles is asleep.
Phoenix can only just see him in the blue light of the TV, flickering as the animation loops again, but it’s enough that he can see the other kid’s hands balled up into fists under his chin, and his eyebrows furrowed into something like a scowl. True, it’s not that different to how he looks most of the time when he’s awake, but Phoenix had kinda expected him to maybe relax a little, considering he’s… asleep.
Bad dreams, I guess?
He doesn’t get it. But there’s a lot of things he doesn’t get, and there’s especially a lot of things he doesn’t get about Miles.
Miles can’t fold a paper crane, but he outruns Larry and Phoenix tenfold in the classroom. He wins awards in writing and philosophy and golf, but he won’t accept them or show them off, even though his dad showed Phoenix once where he keeps all the trophies in a secret cabinet. He can play piano and flute. He loves cartoons but won’t admit it, and won’t watch them with Phoenix and Larry. He’s scared of heights, and sneezes a lot in the springtime, but he’s resilient and strong willed and stubborn. Bullying doesn’t even seem to touch him.
Phoenix doesn’t understand him at all.
Across the bed in his own sleeping bag, Miles mumbles something and twitches in his sleep. Underneath his hair all awry, his frown deepens, fist clenching and unclenching, and now Phoenix is sure he’s dreaming. Probably about the law, or the courtroom, knowing him. It seems to be all he thinks about.
He never really shuts up about it, to be honest, which is why Larry says he has no friends, but that’s not true, because he has Phoenix.
And Larry too. But mostly Phoenix.
Miles talks a lot about his dad. Mr Edgeworth is nice. He didn’t seem much like a hero to Phoenix, but Miles talks all the time about how his dad is fighting for justice, and uses a lot of words that Phoenix doesn’t understand. (He’s trying, but most of them are really long, and Phoenix’s spelling isn’t so good yet...)
But Phoenix doesn’t mind. He never really wanted to be anything before, not even in first grade when everyone wanted to be firemen and astronauts, and the idea of growing up without this kind of heroic destiny waiting for him is kinda scary. He almost envies Miles for that certainty. It’s nice to have a friend who knows exactly what he wants and how he’s gonna get there. And he knows Miles. He knows that if anyone can go out there as a grown up and be exactly what they want, change things for the better, it’ll be Miles Edgeworth.
A timer clicks quietly, and behind him, the TV finally, blessedly, shuts off. In comparison, the room feels so very quiet. Larry is still flat on his back and snoring from the floor, but that's ok. Phoenix just wriggles a little closer to Miles and closes his eyes.
◈
Phoenix is exhausted.
It’s late.
Wish I could take this suit off .
He’s been wearing it all day, after all, and the way his shoulders are slumping with exhaustion is making the fabric stretch uncomfortably across his back, no give in the fibre. Phoenix has already tripped over his own feet once or twice, and his eyes are still open (technically, if not in spirit), but the details are passing by in a blur.
And they’re rich details, too. The district courthouse, though in dated creams and browns, is all carvings and columns, art on seemingly every wall, well-kept and gleaming tile floors. It’s understated, but well designed and well loved. This place had felt sterile to him once, and then something to aspire to after that, but now it just feels… like home, almost.
But right now Phoenix can barely keep his eyes fixed on the flashes of magenta fabric in front of him, following the clipped sound of his dress shoes on polished stone as Edgeworth leads them down the stairwell, past the third floor and down through the second.
He’d pulled an all nighter last night trying to get his case in order, and then their trial had run late - later than Phoenix’s usual cases, and even later than the inevitable prolonged trials whenever he and Edgeworth were across the room from each other. They’d broken for recess several times, for evidence and also for meal breaks (though Phoenix had barely noticed the time passing, the judge apparently didn’t have the same ability to ignore his grumbling belly). And it was dark now, and the courthouse was a long walk to the office. He’d been about to call a cab home, not that he could afford it, when Edgeworth had tapped him on the shoulder and wordlessly led him out of the lobby.
He followed. Of course he did.
Obviously it had occurred to him to ask where they were going, he wasn’t as dense as people thought he was, but he could barely muster the energy to open his mouth, and something in him didn’t want to, either. It wasn’t like Miles to take initiative outside the courtroom, and certainly not to invite him to hang out or anything, so wherever they were going - the reading room in the basement, to look up some statute records for a precedent ruling, maybe? - he didn’t want to open his big mouth and spoil things. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Besides, there was something in the set of Miles’ shoulders that stilled his tongue.
So he lets himself be led, and Edgeworth stalks onward down more stairwells and corridors, into the belly of the court underground. He’s a little less familiar with this area, though he's studied here in the reading room before… the same place he'd made an unfortunate acquaintance, a long time ago. But they go past the doorway to the cafeteria, and then past the door to the reading room, which makes the little part of Phoenix that’s still awake sit up and take notice.
I always thought that’s all that was down here, apart from the procedural offices, but…
Miles doesn’t slow, and he leads them through an open doorway past the library, where the lights are dimmer, and Phoenix can smell dust in the air.
Storage, mostly, he notes, as they keep walking swiftly down this last in a long list of corridors, though dust swirls around their ankles, and more than a few of the light bulbs in their sockets are burnt out and dull.
‘Here,’ says Edgeworth softly, unnecessarily, because obviously Phoenix stopped as soon as Miles did, and is at his elbow watching as Edgeworth cracks the door open.
It’s not what Phoenix expected at all.
Instead of sterile fluorescents in the ceiling and wall-to-wall filing cabinets, this room is softly dim even with the light switch flipped on, and there’s nothing but a leather sofa and two more doors, one shut. Past the one that’s open, he can see… a bed?
Wuh….?
There’s a huff from Edgeworth that might be something approaching a laugh, though still far removed, and Phoenix belatedly realises Miles is watching him.
Adrenaline fizzes sleepily into his veins.
“What?”
“They’re sleeping rooms for staff, Wright. Or ‘napping’ rooms, as it were. We’re not the first people on staff to stay at the courthouse late, after all, so provisions were made so that prosecutors in particular would stop sleeping on the sofas in the lobby hallway.”
That’s a mental image Phoenix can’t quite process - poised Edgeworth, sleepily undignified, with his tall frame crumpled to fit onto a couch - and it must be written on his face, because Miles scowls.
“Not that I would do that.”
“Oh, sure, obviously not…”
“Regardless, it should be acceptable for us to rest here until morning, when the trial resumes.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but Phoenix tries to reply anyway, his voice coming out as some kind of mumbled, garbled “Sure”.
Something imperceptible changes in Miles' face - the twitch of an eyebrow, nothing more.
“I had thought that both rooms would be free, but that can’t be helped.”
“I can crash on this sofa instead…?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Wright.”
There’s something there, something Phoenix can’t quite grasp, but he’s too exhausted to make any sort of argument even to himself, so he just follows dumbly through the doorway into the bedroom.
There’s no light here except for a tall, glass light stand in the corner, and its warm glow washes over a simple bed - queen size, probably, and utilitarian at best, with only a few pillows and comforter. Nothing fancy, but a sight for sore eyes regardless, and at least it looks like it gets remade every couple days with clean linen.
Feeling some dim sense of finality but too tired to wrestle with it, Phoenix just closes the door behind them.
Miles doesn’t waste any time. He crosses to the far side of the room and flicks open the locks on his briefcase with long, deft fingers - because of course Edgeworth carries a briefcase, and of course there are pyjamas in it. Silk ones. He can see the texture from here, shiny in the lamplight.
Phoenix knows better than to comment on the color. Edgeworth has always worn pink and mulberry and maroon, though if Phoenix was more awake he might be able to muster up a joke about a famous, dignified prosecutor wearing silk sleeping clothes that are, frankly, adorable, but…
But his eyelids are drooping, and his better judgement for once wins out, so Phoenix settles for hauling his suit jacket off by the sleeves and dumping it on the floor next to his battered folder of case notes.
He stops at the jacket, obviously. No need to make things weird.
I dunno if I have the brainpower to work the buttons on this shirt right now, anyway.
Phoenix likes to think he has a good read on Miles by now - for a lot of reasons, including a need to be able to recognise his courtroom tells, apart from other, blurrier motivations - but he can’t get a grasp on the prosecutor’s cool, collected attitude. There's something beneath it, but true meaning slips through his fingers like water. Anyone would be nervous in this situation, but Miles looks so in control...
Phoenix has to be missing something.
Or is it just me that’s nervous…?
“Are you planning on sleeping in that?” says Miles.
“Uhh,” he says, perfectly articulating the sound of his train of thought screeching to a halt. “Yes?”
“You’ll wrinkle the undershirt.”
Should I tell him that this shirt hasn’t been ironed in weeks…?
Miles is already in his pyjamas - stop staring, Phoenix - and he crosses his arms from his spot on the edge of the bed, raising an eyebrow.
“What, have the buttons stymied you at such a late hour? Lacking the mental faculties to operate them, Wright?”
He’s clearly joking or I’d be mad that he read my mind just now.
Phoenix makes the executive decision to ignore him.
“I’m turning the light off.”
Edgeworth gives another of those perfectly noncommittal huffs under his breath and turns away, facing the wall.
As if sucked out of the room with the light, any room for jokes and levity evaporates once the room is in darkness. Somehow even the air itself feels intimate, and Phoenix has to force himself to take the next breath, ignoring the odd sensation that making too much noise might break… something. Whatever this is.
Well, isn’t this meant to feel weird?
It does, kind of. But it’s less so than he thought. The atmosphere in this darkness is less bumbling and awkward, and more…. Expectant, somehow.
...That thought needs to be discarded as soon as it appears.
Jeez, Phoenix. Go to bed, and don’t do anything stupid when you get there.
It’s dark, so of course he stubs his toe on something in this unfamiliar room on the way to the bed.
Miles is still and quiet, so Phoenix just tucks himself into the empty space on the other side of the bed and curls away from Edgeworth’s form under the covers, mirroring him in lieu of any better ideas.
For a while he screws his eyes shut and tries to sleep - he’s certainly tired enough that his eyelids feel like sandpaper and his body melts into the mattress as soon as he settles onto his side.
But before too long, Phoenix’s eyes flutter back open.
I’m so tired...
And yet, his mind won’t stop whirring. The soft, even swell of Edgeworth’s breathing next to him is somehow deafening, even as it quiets, drawing longer as Miles drifts closer to true sleep. Phoenix is too used to having nothing and nobody there when he sleeps, so it’s hard to stop noticing every twitch or murmur. Or at least, that’s the easiest explanation for why he can’t stop listening for every little noise, hanging on the even tempo of Miles’ breath like snatches of a far-off melody.
Against his better judgement, Phoenix rolls over.
And that’s his undoing, really.
This is not the first time they’ve shared a bed, not even close, but so much has happened in the interim. The weight of all their shared history is almost tangible, an anvil hanging in the air above them forcing Phoenix to be still, even though warmth bleeds under the covers between them, beckoning. Now his eyes have adjusted, and he can see, rendered in greyscale with the light bleeding under the door, how Miles still curls in on himself when he sleeps.
Even in rest, there’s tension held in the wide line of his shoulder and his jaw, though Phoenix can’t really tell if he’s asleep or only being drowsily still. His grey forelock is half splayed out on the pillow above him, like only in slumber will he finally push it out of his eyes, though half of it has flopped back down over his face.
Oh...
It’s too late for Phoenix, because now he’s so very awake, and he’s thinking about it. In this safe cloak of darkness it’s so easy to think about how it might feel to reach out and brush away those last strands of silver hair from Miles’ face. It would be so simple to worm his way closer under the blanket and press himself into the curve of Miles’ back, gently wind an arm around his waist, maybe leave a kiss behind his ear or let his forehead rest there, touching the bend of his spine.
He won’t do it. He can’t.
But it’s almost intoxicating to finally peer into this Pandora’s box, held firmly shut for so many years; to think about how Miles might mumble something sleepily in reply, and fumble for Phoenix’s hand under the sheets, or how he might be able to smell the cologne Miles wears in discreet little dabs under his jaw.
Oh, god, he can smell it now if he concentrates...
Maybe, if they were closer, Phoenix could finally do something to unspool that deep-seated tension in the set of Miles’ shoulders, ease that little pucker between his eyebrows that he gets when he can’t stop thinking. He can picture it so clearly it feels like it’s actually happening, even more vividly because he’s right there , just inches away; maddeningly close but seemingly miles away, further than ever.
Now that Edgeworth is no longer an ideal he’s chasing but someone real, concrete, a force in his life, Phoenix had thought the way they were… it might be enough.
Franziska’s right. He’s a fool.
Phoenix takes one, deep, shuddering breath in, trying desperately to steady himself. He has to sleep, or he’ll be out of his mind in the trial tomorrow - and he can’t embarrass himself in the courtroom, especially when it’s Edgeworth there behind the prosecutor’s bench. No mercy.
So he takes the closest half-measure he can find. Phoenix inches closer, ever so slowly, trying not to wake him. He curls on his side, around Miles’ space in the bed but without touching him, as if being close enough that he can feel the warmth will be good enough.
It’s not. Of course it’s not. But it’s all he has, and all he deserves.
Somehow, Phoenix falls asleep.
◈◈
Phoenix has no idea what time it is.
It’s still dark in the sleeping room beneath the courthouse, and there are no windows, which is disorienting. Phoenix blinks. Something tells him it isn’t morning yet, that the lights outside in the hallway have just been turned off, but he’s awake. Why…?
Then he sees it, and his breath stutters, and stops.
Oh. That’s...
He’d fallen asleep on his side, but at some point he must have rolled onto his back, and there’s someone -- there’s --
Miles’ head is pillowed on his chest. Their legs are tangled under the sheets, and there’s a weight on his stomach where Miles’ hand is fisted in the cheap linen of his button-up shirt. Miles is tall enough that one foot is sort of dangling off the other end of the bed, but he doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, he’s so deeply asleep. He looks so… relaxed. Miles has melted into him completely, breathing even and slow, and that little pained wrinkle on his forehead is gone.
Miles Edgeworth is. Cuddling him.
… Phoenix’s brain immediately begins to scramble itself.
Heat kindles in his cheeks, and somehow his first instinct is to panic, but he can’t move - not when Miles is clearly asleep, so close and so peaceful, and who knows how long they’ve been like this. He doesn’t remember reaching out. He can’t imagine Miles starting it, but Phoenix had felt so frozen before he fell asleep, so riveted to his side of the bed… so maybe it was him.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. He wrenches his thoughts away from their usual path of puzzling out evidence and finding truth, and instead tries his best to keep his breathing even and his body still, in case he wakes Miles and then this all has to be over. However they got here, whether it was his doing or not, it won’t happen again, he’s sure of it. Phoenix has to absorb every detail of this while he can.
Hesitantly, Phoenix curls his right arm around Miles’ back, resting it there in the narrow of his waist, and he doesn’t wake, though Phoenix sort of imagines that his next deep breath comes out in a soft, contented sigh.
Whether it actually does or not… he can’t trust himself to be a reliable witness.
In his mind he traces the twining of their bodies, memorises the way Miles’ breath catches a little in his throat - like he’s too dignified to snore, but he can't quite help himself. Phoenix tries to stay awake, because even as tired as he is, and as much as he’s lulled by the steady rhythm of Miles’ heartbeat that reverberates through his own chest, and the headiness of yesterday’s cologne and satin under his fingers...
He has to keep all of this very safe somewhere, so he can remember it.
He has to…
...
Phoenix falls asleep again.
◈◈◈
When he wakes up, in what he can tell is true morning this time, Miles is gone.
Phoenix isn’t surprised, and he tries to bear down on the hot well of shame and guilt and disappointment, now that his vain hope that they might talk about this has evaporated. He’s not surprised. He’d expected this.
So he goes to work.
It’s not like he has any better ideas. Though in the end, the trial is something of a disaster. He scrapes by with a Not Guilty verdict, but just barely, and trying to pin down a coherent argument in his mind feels like herding geese. Even more so than usual.
“Nick, you look awful.”
“Gee, thanks, Maya. What a compliment.”
“Niick, you know that’s not what I meant! But really, are you feeling okay? Maybe we should skip the burgers this time, if you need to go home.”
Phoenix goes to protest, but she’s right. He feels like shit. And it’s not like he can concentrate on hanging out with her right now, anyway. So he pedals back to the office, entirely on autopilot, nearly mowing down a few pedestrians because his mind is occupied; trying desperately not to think about the events of last night, and in the process, thinking of absolutely nothing else.
He manages to change into a spare set of clothes he keeps in the office, at least. Then he ends up on the couch. His stomach growls, but he stays there, head tipped backward, staring at the ceiling.
At least Charley the plant is the exact kind of company he needs right now. Charley is a good listener. All he does is sit there and photosynthesise.
Phoenix grants himself one heavy sigh, and then his eyes fall closed.
Edgeworth hadn’t scraped by in the trial today. He’d looked fine. Great, even, as untouchable as ever, while Phoenix wrestled all day with sleep deprivation and other, harder things to name.
Why am I always the one that has to be a mess?
To tell the truth, he’d been worried about Miles. He always was, to some extent - built a career on the back of it, in fact - but lately the instinct had kicked up a notch. He knew that the prosecutor was prone to overwork at the best of times. Seeing Miles relax in the bed last night, even just for a few minutes and while Phoenix was half-swallowed by anxiety, had soothed that need in him somewhat; the need to follow Miles, to watch out for him, to pry some of the weight from his shoulders.
Selfishly, he wants to think maybe that it was his presence that had made Miles finally take a breath, but to let himself actually believe that would be silly. Foolish, even.
At least one of them had woken up well-rested, anyway.
Phoenix stays on the couch for a long time. He might have taken a nap sitting up, but he’s not sure, and he still feels like hot garbage, so obviously it didn’t do him any good. Lights have come on in the street below, and in the windows of the Gatewater hotel. The sky around the building is dark and starless.
Before he can persuade himself otherwise, Phoenix fumbles for his phone, as if by doing it quickly it’ll escape the notice of his better judgement.
Wright
good work today
at court, I mean.
Edgeworth
I gathered. Thank you, Wright.
Though the truth was with you, as is usual. I’m merely glad we came to a just verdict.
Wright
me too
you still at work?
Phoenix isn’t entirely sure why he’s asking that. He’s curious. And some part of him wants to peer underneath that veil of perfection, of grandeur and poise, and figure out if he really is the only one grasping for something he can’t name.
His phone vibrates.
Edgeworth
Yes. I am currently filing some paperwork about today’s case in the courthouse’s procedural offices. Why?
Wright
oh. that makes sense i guess
Edgeworth
Is there something about the case you must bring to my attention, Wright?
He doesn’t know why he does it. But Phoenix takes a breath, and then presses the call button.
There’s a long moment with nothing but dial tone, but Edgeworth finally picks up.
“Wright? Is something the matter?”
“Hey, Edgeworth.”
He hears Miles give one of those short huffs through his nose.
“What’s the matter, Wright?”
“What, no ‘hi’ or ‘how are you’?”
“Please, I’m attempting to work at the moment. Is there something you wanted?”
You’re gonna have to bluff, Phoenix.
He’s not even sure why he called, not sure what he’s bluffing to conceal, but there’s something deep in his gut that he’s dancing around. He’s too chickenshit to look at it closely enough to see what it is, but he has suspicions.
“I - Uh. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” It’s not a lie, not really. “Since I know I didn’t sleep too good last night, at least. And it’s late, too, shouldn’t you be home already?”
There’s a long pause. Phoenix thinks he hears Miles’ breathing stop for a second on the other end of the line, but he can’t be sure.
“Miles?”
“Wright. You don’t need to concern yourself with my health.”
“Yeah, I do, actually.”
“You are incorrigible. And inscrutable.”
“I’m gonna pretend I know what those words mean and take that as a compliment, thanks.”
Miles gives another of those noncommittal almost-laughs. Phoenix pretends it doesn’t kindle a warm kind of certainty in his gut.
“Actually, I’m at the courthouse, too. I’m pretty zonked. Why don’t we both crash at those sleeping rooms again, or something?”
Now he’s really lying through his teeth, and he’s positive Edgeworth will notice - Miles can usually read Phoenix just as well as Phoenix does him. For a long moment, there’s nothing but quiet on the other end of the phone.
And then, Miles’ voice, slightly husky with the late hour, and dropped low enough that nobody can hear but Phoenix.
“Alright. You should rest, and I can’t deny that I am tired, as well. I do have a few forms left to file, but after that, I shall see you there.”
The call ends.
For a moment, Phoenix just sits there, breathless, though he can feel himself immediately break out into a sweat.
So that was probably a bad idea.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s locking the office and hurtling out the door.
◈◈◈◈
Somehow, Phoenix gets there in time.
He abandons his bike somewhere out the front of the courthouse without bothering with the lock - it getting stolen is the least of his concerns right now - and whirls into the ground floor lobby, speeding downstairs. He’d forgotten that he was wearing track pants and a t-shirt until one of the clerks gives him a severe look on his way past, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Phoenix has also forgotten his case notes and his badge, but nobody stops him. He hadn’t factored in either the fact that the sleeping rooms are past the procedural offices, and he thinks he sees a flash of crimson out of the corner of his eye, but by some miracle Miles doesn’t find him. Not until he’s had time to rig things in his favour. Phoenix closes the door to the other sleeping room - both of them are unoccupied right now, but he can take a gamble that Edgeworth won’t check the other door, right?
Unless. Well. He can’t let himself think of the alternative.
He fumbles for the switch on the glass light stand and fiddles with the bedspread to give himself something to do, trying to clamp down on the anxiety rising up his throat like bile, and yet trying not to look too comfortable, so Miles will believe he’s just got here after work. It’s madness, trying to fool a gifted prosecutor like this, one with a frankly superhuman eye for detail. Phoenix is an idiot.
Though, to be fair, this is the latest in a long line of idiotic things he’s done in the last twenty four hours.
“Wright.”
Phoenix jumps out of his skin and drops the pillow mid-fluffing at the shadow of Miles in the doorway, cursing himself as he turns around.
Try and look less guilty, will you, Phoenix!
...Miles is already in his pyjamas.
“I took the liberty,” says Edgeworth, obviously following Phoenix’s gaze to the fact that he’s already in head-to-toe pink satin.
Where in the courthouse did you do that, and how many people saw you on the way from there to here??
“You - You sure did.”
“As did you, I see.”
Edgeworth closes the door softly behind him, toeing off his shoes and placing down his briefcase on the floor next to them, at a perfect right angle.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I learned from last time.”
“Can’t have been comfortable to wear your dress pants and shirt to bed. No wonder you didn’t sleep well.”
That’s a much more convenient reason than the actual one, believe me.
“How did your… form-filing go?”
Edgeworth looks back at him evenly.
“Perfectly well. And your… work?”
“Oh, yeah. Super good.”
Phoenix still can’t quite believe this is happening, and that Edgeworth isn’t pinning him with that shrewd gaze and trying to get to the bottom of what is obviously a hastily patched-together falsehood. He just… goes with it, quietly, in a way that is so unlike him that Phoenix doesn’t trust this not to be a dream.
Edgeworth goes to fold his arms, before appearing to think better of it and shoving them into his pockets.
It’s funny - there’s something about Miles that feels different. He’s holding himself too still, almost - and there’s too many jokes, too barbed in their delivery, like he’s on the defensive. Phoenix can’t shake the feeling that Miles is almost a little… jittery.
“Would you like to turn the light off, Phoenix?”
He’s been staring this whole time. Oh, good.
“Sure.”
In a perfect mirror to the night before, Edgeworth takes his place on the other side of the bed, Phoenix turns out the light… and he stubs his toe on the way to the bed.
I have got to find whatever that is.
The room is dark and still, faint yellow light bleeding in under the door.
As before, Miles is curled away from Phoenix towards the wall, and the sheer breathless quiet is tangible, oppressive. Suffocating. His gambit worked, somehow, and yet… Miles is still turned away from him, face hidden, tension still held in the hitch of his shoulders.
Part of Phoenix wants to scream.
It’s miserable, being so very close to something he never let himself want until now, though he's been unconsciously chasing it for most of his life. In hindsight it’s so obvious - his life has orbited around Miles all this time - and yet, he’s still unable to cross the hand’s breadth between them. It feels more like a miles-wide bridge over a yawning chasm.
He can’t do it. Phoenix is not someone who is good at holding things in, most of the time. Though it feels like this truth might burst out of him unbidden, a thunderstorm caged impossibly, he can’t let himself give in. Too much rides on his relationship with Edgeworth - too much of his career, his life, the core of him - that no matter how badly he wants to at least admit out loud that his feelings run deeper than Miles’, he can’t do it.
By force, he squeezes his eyes shut. These thoughts stampeding in neverending circles are giving him a headache. He might as well try and sleep, instead of staring at the back of Edgeworth’s head all night and simmering in his own impotence.
“Phoenix.”
It’s so quiet, but his name in Miles’ voice - his first name - almost seems to echo, in this room so small and so dark it feels like their own tiny universe.
He says it gently, almost reverently.
“...Yeah, Miles?”
Miles rolls onto his back toward him, head tilted to meet Phoenix’s gaze, and his features are soft, one eyebrow quirked as though in curiosity or sheepishness.
“Just this once, would you allow me to be selfish, Phoenix?”
Phoenix doesn’t know what he means by that, which is not unusual, but he’s nodding before he can even begin to process it, and the wrinkles around Miles’ eyes relax.
Allow you…? Anything, Miles. Don’t you know that by now?
Slowly, as if he’s trying not to spook Phoenix, Miles shuffles closer, and somehow he makes it look effortless, though Phoenix can see that something breathless is coiled tightly within him. In waking mimicry of the night before, Miles rests his head on Phoenix’s chest and settles there, curled into him, hand splayed out in a delicate arc over Phoenix’s collarbone.
Heat washes over Phoenix in a blistering wave, but he doesn’t move. Not until Miles takes a breath, a barely perceptible quiver on the intake, and lets his eyes fall closed. Then, in an attempt to match his bravery, he does something that had felt impossible until moments ago, and cards his fingers gently through the strands of Miles’ hair, impossibly soft, rendered into inkier grey darkness in the gloom.
Miles’ sigh in response is pure contentment.
This is… not how Phoenix thought this would go.
Before long Miles already seems mostly asleep, the hint of a smile at the edge of his lips, breath even and shallow, and Phoenix curls an arm around his back, cradling him closer. Phoenix already feels drowsy himself, too, though he feels that same urge as before to capture this moment safely somewhere; to stay awake for as long as he can while Miles is here, somewhere he might never be again.
He is close, and he is safe.
This is what Phoenix wanted… isn’t it?
For something like this to happen - twice - is already luckier than any last-minute evidence or piece of logic. This vision of a softer Miles, one he can keep close, beautifully steady and yet almost undignified, still feels like it could shatter at any time. All this, and yet Phoenix’s true wildest hope still lingers.
This should feel like a beginning, not an ending.
Now that the box has been opened, the lid won’t close, and though mired in guilt Phoenix still yearns for certainty, words spoken instead of tacit, ambivalent silence. How can he… He can’t go back to the way things were, can he?
“Wright…”
His name, again, in Miles’ voice, but the wrong name. His voice is rough with half-sleep and suddenly guarded, the half-hopeful caution that had begun to recede slammed shut over himself.
“M-Edgeworth?”
Miles is frozen, and Phoenix can’t read his expression from here, face masked by his hair and the crown of his head.
“If you are unhappy, I can move away.”
If I’m - what?
Suddenly resolute, Edgeworth sucks in a desperate breath and then sits up, breaking the contact between them that had felt so arterial. The oxygen feels like it has been abruptly yanked from Phoenix’s lungs.
“Edgeworth,” he says, ignoring how blindingly obvious the note of pleading is in his voice. Then, louder, when he doesn’t respond. “ Miles .”
He’s turned away from Phoenix, already at the edge of the bed, but his head cocks to the side, the curve at the edge of his mouth enigmatic and yet softly mournful.
“Yes, Wright?”
“I’m not. Unhappy.”
He looks away again.
“Wright, do not lie to me, not now.” It feels like Edgeworth has to grind the words out, and he stands up woodenly, though he teeters, unsteady on his feet. “It is obvious that you are… uncomfortable with this sleeping arrangement. I shall remove myself, and then you may rest properly. That is all.” His voice drops so low Phoenix can barely hear it. “It was a flight of fancy on my part, nothing more.”
He can’t move, he can’t think , fear clawing up from inside his chest, and Miles gets almost to the door where he’d left his shoes before Phoenix can manage to squeeze any words out into that warm, dark quiet.
“Don’t go.”
Phoenix can hear Edgeworth stop in place.
“It wasn’t one. A flight of fancy.”
Finally, Phoenix rolls over, and sees Edgeworth is hovering in the doorway, eyeing him half over his shoulder, wavering like he’s caught in the ocean between two fighting currents.
“Wright,” he says, tone perfectly even but stretched at the edges, like he’s clinging white-knuckled to the sheen of normalcy between them. “It was my understanding that you were graciously humoring me with this arrangement. Is that not the case?”
“No,” says Phoenix, voice half-strangled by hope. “That is not the case.”
“Ah,” replies Miles, in a tone that is almost breezy in its mildness, but his eyes are molten, burning into Phoenix’s.
Miles turns away from the door, icy straightness of his posture finally beginning to liquefy, and perches on the side of the bed next to him.
“If I am completely honest, I don’t quite know how to talk about this with you, Phoenix.”
Phoenix lets out a grateful breath.
“Me neither.”
Edgeworth doesn’t smile, but his eyes do, softening in the way that used to be such a rarity.
“Let me begin by saying that I have enjoyed being close to you over these past two nights,” and now there’s a flush creeping up his cheeks, but his effort to keep his voice even is valiant, “and that I would like to continue doing so, as long as it does not complicate things between us.”
He sits back, reclining his head against the wall, and in the darkness he has the unmoving aquiline form of a regal statue.
“What is it, Phoenix, that you want?”
Phoenix can’t not be honest now. It’s much too late for that. But he hedges his bets, just a little.
“Depends what you mean by complicate .”
Miles’ mouth opens and closes a few times.
“Complicate as in irrevocably damage, I suppose. I wouldn’t be opposed to other… broadening measures, for example. And I am open to negotiations.”
Miles, I’m so sleepy, and you keep using such long words...
“I wanna do more of… what we were doing, and maybe more stuff further along those lines, but only if you’re up for it.” Phoenix isn’t blind. He’s seen the apparent celibacy, despite every available stranger within thirty feet throwing themselves at Edgeworth. He has his suspicions. But they can talk about that later, if he wants to.
“Hmm. There really is no dignified word for cuddling, is there?”
“What, you don’t like ‘canoodle’ or ‘snuggle’?”
Miles blanches in mock-severity.
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”
Phoenix can feel the smile widening across his face.
“What a shame. I should have said ‘fondle’ instead.”
Miles grants him one huffed chuckle, and reaches across the pillow to place a hand on Phoenix’s shoulder, leaning closer.
“Future discussions may be in order, but for a start, may we resume where we left off?”
Phoenix gives him one last escape route, flinging the life ring out into the ocean just in case.
“Only if you want to, Miles.”
Miles’ mouth quirks up at the corners.
“Phoenix, I assure you, I do.”
“Okay, then. Get in here.”
Phoenix opens his arms, and Miles finally slots there between them, nestling on his side into the curve of Phoenix’s body. Aligned like spoons, just like he’d imagined, Phoenix buries his face in the nook of Miles’ shoulder and breathes a sigh of relief, heavy with the history that had floated above him so menacingly.
He finally feels like he can be sure Miles isn’t going anywhere.
Somewhat more daringly, he hugs his arm around Miles’ waist, pulling him closer, and places his hand over Miles’ right where it rests on his stomach. Even thinking about this used to feel like it would spell disaster. But Miles tangles his fingers with Phoenix’s own, somewhat clumsily, and holds him there, and in darkness within the belly of the courthouse, it finally feels like Phoenix is home.
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