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Over the past two years, Phoenix Wright had landed himself in numerous strange scenarios. His beloved mentor was murdered, Maya Fey was framed not once but twice for another’s death—not to mention her kidnapping—and he had fought it out in court with his childhood friend, the man who’d inspired him to become a lawyer in the first place. What a ride that had been—he’d stood valiantly across one Miles Edgeworth, flying by the seat of his pants and coming out victorious. During that first trial opposite the steely-eyed, stern man, he could never have imagined where the two of them would end up.
In a figurative sense, they ended up as allies. Phoenix found that he was at ease when the prosecutor was Edgeworth—well, as much at ease as he could be given the life-or-death situations his clients were often placed in. He had recently come to realize just how much he trusted the man across the courtroom, snide comments and decisive evidence aside. How did they end up here? One could say it began with that fateful case, where Edgeworth was framed for the death of Robert Hammond. Its impact was felt so deeply that it gave his client a mid-life crisis twenty years too early. He’d left without so much as a warning. The prosecutor’s absence was felt (emotionally, but also physically. The sting of Franziska’s whip haunted him daily). But even that was behind them now. Time and time again, the two proved to each other that they came to court for the same reasons: to find the truth. It was for this reason that Phoenix found his mind sharp and his nerves alleviated in court.
In a literal sense, a pipe burst in Phoenix’s apartment complex, Maya was away on a training retreat, and there was still another day of investigation ahead of him. Fortunately, Phoenix had managed to highlight crucial contradictions to keep his innocent client out of hot water. Unfortunately, Edgeworth caught sight of him in his distraught state.
“Wright.” He’d been staring absently at the floor when the other man approached him. His gaze was straightforward and told his rival that he could see right through him. “Do you truly believe that your client is innocent?”
“Of course.” He said it without thinking. Edgeworth furrowed his eyebrows. “We’ve been over this. Trust in my client is the most important part of being a defense attorney—”
“Then why have you been giving the court such lukewarm, distracted arguments?” The last thing he needed was to be chided by this man. “I know Maya is not with you, but I’ve seen you perform fine without her support. This is most unlike you. There is something more to this case than you’re letting on.”
He had a point. He could feel that his finger had not been fully extended during several objections. To think that Edgeworth had noticed as much . . . his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Of course his sharp eyes would never overlook such detail.
The real question, however, was whether he’d take the truth at face value. “I . . . well, yeah. I should apologize—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Oh?” Edgeworth dared to smirk at him. “I didn’t know you actually prepared for court, Wright.”
“That’s not—why are you like this?” Before his rival could answer, he admitted the truth. “I woke up at 4am to a flooded apartment. They don’t think they’ll be done fixing the damage until tomorrow . . . guess I’ll be sleeping in my office the night before the last trial.”
Phoenix could not tell if it would be worse if Edgeworth mocked or pitied him. When it came to their personal lives, they had matured beyond the former. This could only mean one thing:
“. . . That is unfortunate.”
“Yeah.” Both were lawyers by profession, yet the prosecutor’s suit was custom-made from Italy and Phoenix had gotten his off the rack at Lordly Tailor. If Edgeworth were to stop by his apartment, he felt that he would die of shame. It was a strange thing. He and Mia had shared the belief that good impressions could be achieved without excessive wealth. Yet he found himself avoiding Edgeworth’s gaze. This was a situation he had a hard time imagining his well-composed friend in.
An oddly performative cough interrupted this line of thought. Edgeworth’s eyes darted to the side, hands in his pockets. “Regardless of guilt, you would be doing a client a disservice if you were to perform in less than peak condition tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine,” Phoenix backpedaled. “I mean, we were both law students—who hasn’t slept in the library the night before an exam, or . . .”
“No. This isn’t textbook-reading or a mock trial. You would be a fool not to know the stakes by now.” He held his left arm and looked away. “Which is why I cannot allow you to stay in your office tonight.”
Phoenix blinked in disbelief. “What is it you’re suggesting?”
“I . . . come stay with me tonight.” He spoke those words as if he took physical damage. It was utterly perplexing. Is the idea of offering your home to me really so repulsive?
Wait . . . did he just—
“We won’t discuss the case,” he continued. “That would be inappropriate . . . but we’re both in for a long day. I cannot leave you in for a long night, too.” When that failed to elicit a response, he muttered, “I have some nice wines.”
Phoenix had a choice to make. He felt as if there were two options—one which would inevitably change his course, and the other which would leave him in a never-ending loop until he decided to take a chance on the other option. The dangerous option . . . the only way to find out what lie ahead. This feeling came up in court often. He’d gotten so far by trusting his instincts. What was the harm in doing the same now?
“That’s very generous of you, Edgeworth.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you. I don’t want to burden you . . . but I might have to take you up on it.”
“O-Oh.” Was that . . . a stutter!? Edgeworth took a legal pad out of his briefcase, scribbled something on it, and handed the paper to him. It was an address. His address. Phoenix was going to find out where he lived. If it looked anything like his office, he figured he’d get as much sleep on the couch of Wright and Co. Law Offices. “Well, there is an ongoing case. I suppose I’ll see you tonight.”
You “suppose?” You’re the one who offered . . . By now, Phoenix knew this was the man’s way of communicating. Something about it struck him as odd. It seemed as if he was embarrassed to make the offer. I have more right to feel that way than you do!
“Um, Mr. Wright?” He jumped. His client, Claire Subtexte, looked to him in confusion. “Why are your cheeks so pink?”
The offer turned out to be a blessing. By the end of the day, Phoenix’s nerves were frying themselves. He felt he had enough decisive evidence to pull of his signature turn-around, but there was no telling what could happen in the courtroom. Sleeping on a couch when he had the opportunity to stay with the attorney who would be challenging his every word in court the next day—
What was he doing here, again?
He was relieved to find that the prosecutor did not live in a mansion. It was a penthouse. It was also eleven p.m., and the Miles Edgeworth who opened the door was dressed in a burgundy silk pajama set with his initials monogrammed on the pocket. If his eyes weren’t deceiving him, there was a pocket square sticking out of it. Phoenix had planned to wear an undershirt and sweatpants.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” He had no response. “You don’t have to stand there. Come in.”
Phoenix obliged. The room was set up similarly to his office—the only furniture he seemed to own was antiques in peak condition, well-polished mahogany tables and cabinets, meticulous displays of books and old family photos. His eyes fell to one of Edgeworth as a boy. He was sitting on a park bench with his father, smiling wide at the camera. He was holding up a trophy for some indeterminate event; the man beside him beaming with pride. Phoenix wondered if he’d ever seen that face. Even when they were classmates, he recalled the boy sitting in the corner and reading, occasionally looking up to chide his peers. In many ways, he was not so different from the man that peered at him from across the room. Suddenly looking at the image felt illegal.
“Would you like some wine?” The kitchen’s sleek silver appliances and black countertops made his apartment look like it was the intersection between the past and the future. Edgeworth pulled a bottle of red from a rack, then reached for glasses. He hesitated. “Or would you prefer tea?”
“Wine is good.” He never drank around Maya because he feared he would give her bad ideas. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to drink the night before an important trial, but one wouldn’t hurt. His host finished gathering the cups. As expected, they were specially selected to match the kind of wine. Phoenix imagined doing the same. The thought of pouring cheap grocery store liquor into the Steel Samurai glass set Maya got for the office and handing it to a man in a cravat was nothing if not amusing.
“I’ve selected a merlot for this night,” Edgeworth began, in an attempt to break the silence between them. “Some call it forgettable, but that is merely a consequence of mass-production. You’ll find that this one perfectly balances its components. This is not your over-acidic budget offering.”
Phoenix had no idea what the “components” in question were. It was as good a conversation topic as if Edgeworth had started talking about his car. Fortunately, talking about drinks meant that he could fill the awkwardness by drinking. Unfortunately, there was probably some etiquette thing he was going to mess up. He waited for Edgeworth to take his own glass.
“I haven’t tampered with it,” he clarified. “If that’s what you’re worried about—”
“I trust you.” It came out a little too earnestly. Phoenix reached behind his head and smiled sheepishly. “Just uh, admiring the glass?”
Edgeworth swirled the glass in his hands. It gave him sudden flashbacks to the Matt Engarde case—oh, of course that’s what you do with wine. Phoenix began to do the same as Edgeworth’s question at the time came back to him: why do you stand in court?
He answered with his own: what do we talk about when we’re not in court!?
“You were great today, by the way.” Before he could stop himself, he was complimenting the prosecution. Wonderful. “You cut down my every objection, yet I felt calm. Well, as calm as I could be, given the stress of my situation . . . uh, thanks.”
It was weird praise and both of them knew it. Edgeworth stared into his glass, too stunned to comment. Phoenix could not tell if he was stunned by his heartfelt sentiment or by the sheer mess of an admission that was. Eventually, he sipped his wine and nodded.
“Please . . . let’s not talk about the trial.” Then what else is there? He would have to use the improv skills he typically saved for the courtroom. “Do you like the wine?”
“Now it sounds like you’re trying to drug me.” He hadn’t actually taken a sip yet. Once he did, he found it to leave a heavy feeling on his tongue. Truthfully, he had a hard time telling the difference between this one and every other time he’d had wine. “Y-Yes. Thank you.”
“I don’t know why I said all that about it,” his host admitted, swirling his glass again. “I knew you wouldn’t be knowledgeable in this area. I suppose it’s a habit.” He sipped. “von Karma used to tell his guests the origin of everything in his home. By some great stroke of misfortune, it seems that I’ve picked up on it.”
His swallow was audible. His gray eyes looked down for a moment. Roughly over one year ago, he’d learned that his old mentor was the man responsible for his father’s death. Phoenix glanced in the direction of that picture. Mr. Edgeworth clearly saw his son as his pride and joy. He’d gotten that impression from school, as well. Children didn’t aspire to become defense attorneys. At least, normal ones didn’t. Regardless, their loving relationship was cut short at a tragically young age.
Are we so at a loss for topics that we’re bringing up Manfred von Karma!?
“What a weird family,” Phoenix said, trying not to prod too deep into the subject. “Wait, if Franziska exists . . . that means someone on this earth has done it with that demon of a man.”
Are we so at a loss for topics that we’re bringing up THIS FACT about Manfred von Karma???
But some god or spirit or whatever might be out there was merciful, because Edgeworth stifled laughter. Oh thank FUCK.
“I pity the poor woman,” he finally managed to say. “I can hear his nit-picking—no, I don’t want to imagine this.” Before Phoenix could apologize, he added, “I pity her as much as I pity the defense attorneys who lost to a thirteen-year-old girl with a whip.”
“Did she have that with her on the first case?” Edgeworth gave a single nod.
“Of course, she knows how it feels.” He seemed to grimace. “That man was an absolute monster. In every sense of the word.” And just like that, they were back to silence. Both took another sip of wine. This direction was not one they needed to go in. In search of topics, Phoenix opted to look around. His host’s window gave an expansive view of the city. Each light was a life, worrying about their daunting to-do list or staying up with a loved one or preparing for bed, the outcome of tomorrow’s case inconsequential to them. He seemed to be lording over all he could see. This was a room for confident people, for those who knew the power they held and were not keen to give it up. Phoenix looked over to the room’s inhabitant and wondered where he fit into all of that. Sure, he was in silk pajamas, drinking expensive wine and staring at his immaculately furnished apartment. It all seemed to fit his style: precise and timeless. Yet Miles Edgeworth was not a man who sought power, nor did he need to compensate for a lack of it. His apartment presented a striking contradiction.
“So . . . how about that witness today?” Edgeworth’s melancholic expression turned to one of exaggerated frustration. “Is it the prosecution’s job to make the weird ones fall head over heels for you?”
“I never asked for this,” he insisted. He slammed his fist dramatically onto the counter, the way he often did on the stand. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Well, you’re a handsome guy who’s good at his job. It’s not hard to believe—I can’t explain why it’s always the old ladies or the secret murderers, though.”
Phoenix had believed this to be a neutral statement. He figured that because Edgeworth knew a lot about wine, he had a high tolerance for it. Half a glass was not enough to make him this flustered—oh, now he’s chugging the rest. Nice going, Phoenix.
Edgeworth coughed, then muttered something inaudible. He was a wreck when he asked for clarification.
“I said, i-if that’s the case, why do they never go for you?” Phoenix’s hand found the back of his neck once more. The room felt strangely hot for this time of year.
“I’ve asked that myself,” he admitted. “But you know, I’m the one pressing them for something incriminating . . . I have to say, I don’t pity you when it happens.”
“It’s torture,” Edgeworth agreed. “And that woman today! I cannot back up this claim, but I promise you the prosecution tells the witnesses to present information relevant to the case only!”
“The heart wants what it wants,” he teased. “In the end, she couldn’t prove that Ms. Subtexte was heavy-handed—” and just like that, he’d found the hole in Edgeworth’s case. “Wait, did you say I’m handsome and good at my job!?”
His rival-turned-friend ignored his face and poured another glass of wine. “Your methods give me aneurysms, but you never betray your clients’ trust. Matt Engarde notwithstanding.”
“Gee, thanks . . .” He figured he should touch his own glass. After taking another sip, he pressed further. “But you still haven’t addressed the first part of that statement.”
“Which would be?” Don’t play dumb.
“I didn’t realize you thought I was particularly good-looking.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or are you just returning the compliment?”
Phoenix had no idea where he was going with this. He supposed that made the situation no different from their day job. It threw Edgeworth off guard. A jolt of panic seized him. Did he think he was trying to take advantage of his generosity to sabotage his performance at tomorrow’s trial? Before he could take his words back, his host gave a surprising answer.
“You cannot be that ignorant.” Edgeworth was losing his edge. I suppose that makes him just ‘Worth’, then. He placed his wine glass on the counter with enough force to produce a clink. “I-I mean, from an objective standpoint, you are a striking individual, with how you carry yourself—so you must be aware that you . . .” he stopped abruptly. Gripping one of his arms, he turned away again. “That you should go to sleep, that is. And I as well . . . my bedroom is two doors down. The bathroom is right next to it. Please tell me you brought your own toothbrush.”
“Hold it!” Before he could realize it, he’d assumed his bold stance, finger outstretched. “If I am sleeping on your bed, where will you sleep?”
“My sofa is far more comfortable than yours. I will manage—why do you look like you’re going to shout ‘objection!’ at me?”
“Because I object, of course.” He glanced at the settee again. It was surprisingly narrow. “You are too tall for that to be comfortable! How can you possibly perform well in court tomorrow if you sleep on the sofa? The whole point of me staying overnight is to be well-rested!” Edgeworth was at a loss for words. Taking advantage of this state, he asked, “how big is your bed?”
“. . . big enough for two people.” Phoenix blinked.
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” Edgeworth took another sip of wine. He offered no explanation. “Is there a reason why we shouldn’t share a bed?”
The prosecutor opened his mouth to protest. Nothing came out. He tried a few more times, only to admit defeat.
“Get yourself situated,” he muttered. “I hope you don’t intend to sleep in that suit.”
~
Phoenix had a much easier time falling asleep than Edgeworth did.
The day had been exhausting for them both. Logically, it made sense; Wright was the one who’d received the rude awakening, who was constantly on the defense, who lacked the same investigative resources that he did. Despite Edgeworth’s two glasses of wine, he stared at the ceiling of a dark room, hopelessly aware of the fact that defense attorney and childhood friend Phoenix Wright was on the other side of his bed.
Edgeworth tried to keep himself exhausted so that sleep would come faster. That way, he didn’t have time to dwell on the constant negative thoughts that plagued him. If he was unconscious, he couldn’t hear Manfred von Karma’s abuse, the gunshot in that elevator, the swirling cloud of rumours concerning his integrity. It never truly worked. He was still awaiting the day where his mind could shut off. Sofa or bed, he was never going to have a good night’s sleep. And he was certainly stuck with the worse option: he now knew what Wright looked like in his undershirt and sweatpants.
He almost missed hating this man. Though even when his pride mattered more to him than the truth, he never truly did. He hadn’t forgotten that class trial. He’d seen how distressed he’d been, how everyone maligned him so greatly for a crime he did not commit . . . and he’d dismissed it to harden his heart. Von Karma’s tutelage had not been worth it. His entire career had been built upon a foundation of heartbreak and betrayal. The very bed he lay in was made by bloodied hands.
Just forget about it, he begged himself. He had been doing so since he was nine years old. The nightmares are infrequent now. You’re better now . . .
. . . all thanks to the man sleeping soundly beside him. Edgeworth did not like to owe anybody. It was why he went so far as to help the other man in court. Perhaps that was why he offered him a place to stay. Without this man, he would be in prison, forever holding himself responsible for his father’s death. There wasn’t enough he could give Phoenix Wright, and he hated it.
Edgeworth wanted more of him, and he had no right to. It was selfish to demand his time and attention after he’d gone so far to save his life and clear his head. The nightmares subsided because Wright unconditionally believed in him. Only a fool would mistake that for the possibility of unconditional love.
He made himself turn away, clutching the blankets as he closed his eyes. Perhaps he should focus on his breathing. That would slow his heartbeat down. He should regain what little control he had . . .
The earthquake struck the courtroom at precisely 2 p.m.
The elevator jolted to a stop beneath his palms.
Then, the fighting. Shouts echo in small, metallic spaces.
He was so very small.
The cacophony in the dark enveloped him.
Everyone screamed for air.
His lungs did, too.
He did not dare make a sound.
There was something near him.
Something dangerous.
He was on his knees, swallowed and suffocating.
It was heavy cold in his tiny hands.
There was a scream—
An Earth-shattering scream—
Then, silence.
Edgeworth’s eyes bolted open. He gasped for air and was not denied it. The room was dark but not cramped. There was a body he clung to, but it was not dead.
“E-Edgeworth?” Fuck. He’d woken Wright. Even worse, his hand was grabbing the other man’s arm for dear life, his head buried into his undershirt. Sweat dripped from Edgeworth’s forehead—both from the nightmare and from the position he found himself in. He loosened his grip and wrestled with the sheets as he turned away . . .
. . . only for a hand to catch him.
“What’s wrong?” Wright’s eyes were wide, concerned. For him. If he allowed him this, he would only fall deeper in debt. “Edgeworth . . . are you still having that nightmare?”
It had stayed at bay for so long. Why did it have to resurface on the one night he wasn’t alone?
“. . . every so often, yes.” He was too weak to deflect. “It’s easier now. I hear that scream . . . but it’s that demon’s, not my father’s. The guilt is gone.”
“But the dream isn’t.” Wright was laying on his side. His hand moved to brush a stray lock of Edgeworth’s. Even in the dark, he traced its movements. He learned that the bold finger that pointed straight to his heart was also gentle. Edgeworth’s arms trembled. “Hey . . . if it makes you feel better, I have dreams like that sometimes, too. I mean, it’s not the same as believing I killed my father for decades . . . but I see Mia’s body. Sometimes Maya’s crouched over it, the way she was when I met her . . . sometimes it’s her body instead. And then I’m on trial, or Maya’s on trial again, and I can’t save either of us . . .” Wright blinked slowly. “Sometimes it’s you. And I wake up paralyzed for a moment before I remember that none of it’s real.”
Their breaths were slow, deep. He felt the other man’s fingers in his hair. Miles almost asked him to stop. He could not handle that.
Wright then tried to ruin the moment. “Hell, I usually have stress dreams about landing my clients guilty sentences. You might’ve just saved me from one of those.”
“. . . I’m weak.” Edgeworth stayed on his side, staring at what he could of his guest’s eyes. This darkness was not suffocating. It was subdued, and he looked at the outline of his cheek. The way he sunk into the mattress. The way he raised his brow. “I should be free of these dreams, but I’m not. I . . . don’t know how to address the challenges I face. It’s all buried deep within.”
Wright muttered something under his breath about Psyche-Locks or something that sounded nonsensical. His voice was low and pleasant regardless. Edgeworth felt guilty for a reason other than his nightmare.
“Having nightmares doesn’t make you weak,” his companion countered. Always the contrarian. He felt him move in closer; Edgeworth’s breath shook. “Having emotions makes you human.”
“Nonsense.” He didn’t have a better counterargument, but he also lacked the energy to turn away. For the time being, he was stuck facing his old friend.
“Whatever you need, I’ll help you with it.” There was a breath. “And this doesn’t seem related to the trial, so I can help you to full extent of my ability.”
More silence. Then, an admission: “I . . . can’t ask you to do what I want you to.”
“And what is that?” He could hide. This was his last chance to turn back, to pretend to fall asleep again. He would never have to say what he longed to, what would put him at ease. This was the full admission of his weakness. On the minute chance that this wish were granted, he would be further in the red. There would be no repaying his rival for this. His friend. His confidant, the man who changed his life—
It was as it was in court. The truth always found a way out in the end. All Wright had to do was make himself so painfully available that Miles Edgeworth had nowhere to hide.
“. . . hold me.”
There was a moment where he feared for the worst. He was going to be laughed out of the room. Wright was going to stand up and leave him alone. He would lay in the darkness, that gunshot and scream resounding through his mind. But it never came. Instead, deceptively strong arms pulled him closer, so that his forehead rest just below Phoenix Wright’s neck. Edgeworth gasped—once he perceived the gesture as safe, he moved his arm to the other man’s shoulder. He could hear his heartbeat. It was strong but steady, an anchor in choppy waters.
Neither spoke. Where before, the silence was an oppressive fog from which they could not reach each other, it now provided clarity. Edgeworth had dimly known that he could trust Wright with anything. Now he truly believed it. Their chests rose and fell together, hearts in sync. It told him that he didn’t have to be the sole bearer of his emotions. His face was burning red, undoubtedly. Wright squeezed him tighter. The past can’t hurt you, he said wordlessly. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes. When was the last time he was this at ease? Unburdened, unthinking, unable to lose himself in pity? He shivered. A hand rubbed his back, slowly, rhythmically. It sent him into a euphoria from which he could never recover. Edgeworth allowed himself to keep his eyes shut and lean into this rare, unprecedented embrace. As he did, one realization reverberated through his soul:
I am in love with Phoenix Wright.
They would wake up tomorrow and look to each other. They would dress in their respective suits and prepare to slaughter each other on the stand. If the mood wasn’t soiled by the realization of what had transpired, he would offer to drive Phoenix there in his luxury sports car. Thinking too far ahead ruined what was present: the defense’s arms around him, his chin resting on the top of his head. He swore that if he concentrated hard enough, he felt the man kiss it. He might have imagined it. That, however, was a dream he could live with.