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The space between the Borscht Bowl Club and his apartment is liminal, in the way most places are when it's just past midnight. Time isn't real and he can almost believe that the smoke-filled hydeout isn't either. On the bad days, he can almost convince himself that he, like them, isn't real and just a figment of some sick mind, a figure battered by the winds for no reason but someone's amusement. On those days, he needs to go home and hug Trucy for a long time, even if it means waking her up.
Today isn't one of those days, thankfully. It would be a shame really, if it was, because he wouldn't be able to properly enjoy the sight that's waiting for him at home.
Either 15 minutes or 5 hours after he steps onto the bus, the tired and dead-eyed bus driver of the late night route pulls to a stop, opening the door and staring expectantly at Phoenix. He smiles at her, one of his more genuine ones, and pulls himself to his feet.
"Goodnight Phyllis," he says as he departs. "I'll see you tomorrow."
She makes a vague noise that could either be 'good night' or a disgruntled grunt, it's hard to tell, and leaves him where the bus deposits him on the Los Angeles sidewalk. The air has a bite to it tonight as summer pitches into autumn, and for once Phoenix feels like he's actually seasonally dressed.
While the track suit combo is certainly a look that helps accent the whole debonair persona he has going on nowadays, it's more practical purpose is to keep warm in the hellhole that is the Borscht Bowl. He has no idea how they manage to pay that place's electricity bills - cold as mother Russia, indeed.
The light is on when he walks into his apartment, which is a little surprising, and he can hear the sound of running water in the kitchenette. He didn't expect anyone to still be awake.
He kicks off his sandals next to Tracy's boots and Italian leather loafers more expensive than anything he owns and follows the sounds coming from deeper within his apartment/former office. He's probably breaking a zoning law or two, converting this place into a living space for him and his daughter, but he isn't quite ready to let go of the place Mia entrusted him with.
In the kitchenette, in a stunning picture of domesticity, is Miles Edgeworth, actually stripped down to just a button-up and smart-looking, normal-colored black slacks. His sleeves are neatly folded to his elbows, too sophisticated to shove them messily back like Phoenix used to, and the shirt is almost definitely tailored by the way it follows the tapered line of his waist. He turns his head when the door opens, glasses perched on his nose, and he gives Phoenix a quick nod of acknowledgement before he turns back to the washing.
"Good evening, Wright," Edgeworth says, in a crisp, businesslike tone which immediately makes Phoenix grin because only he'd speak like that while practically undressed - for him - in the middle of the night, while doing another man's dishes.
"It's 2 am," Phoenix points out instead of returning the greeting, and Miles shuts the sink off.
"Good morning, then," he says, facing him now and leaning back against the sink. Edgeworth looks entirely too comfortable in Phoenix's kitchenette, like he belongs, and it's a dangerous, wonderful picture in his head. "How was your journey home?"
"Same old, same old," Phoenix says with a shrug, still hovering in the doorway, not quite willing to step inside the small room and break into the illusion. The prosecutor probably won't disappear if he enters, but he wants another minute to memorize the way his silver hair looks under the harsh lights in the room before he risks it.
Edgeworth nods like he expected that non-answer - he probably did - and glances down at his watch, something like fatigue crossing his face for just a moment.
For a wonderful, bewildering moment, Phoenix realizes that the other man stayed up waiting for him to get home. Even though he must be jet lagged, even though Trucy must have worn him out.
"There is pasta in the fridge for you," Edgeworth says, visibly fighting back a yawn. "I made an extra plate when I cooked dinner for Trucy and me."
"Thanks," Phoenix says genuinely, then he finally walks across the room so he can kiss Edgeworth like he's been thinking of doing for years.
He's not as surprised as he might have been only 30 minutes prior that Edgeworth kisses him back, before it really set in just what this ridiculous, precious man has done. He is surprised to find out that the prosecutor is a greedy kisser, palms holding Phoenix's face in place as he presses deeper and one kiss slides into a second and then a third, and he stops counting and slides his arms around Edgeworth’s waist and just enjoys the fact that he's kissing Miles Edgeworth.
He tastes like grape juice and probably whatever he made for dinner and like home, like the taste of his mouth is the taste left behind by domesticity, and Phoenix loves it almost as much as he loves the man himself.
"Your mouth tastes like an ashtray," Edgeworth says against his lips with disapproval, although it doesn't stop him from kissing him again.
"Sorry," Phoenix says, tilting his head slightly so the angle is better for Edgeworth's probing tongue.
He's a better kisser than Phoenix expected and as good as he always imagined all at once, skilled despite his seeming lack of interest in romantic entanglements and constant veneer of social awkwardness. But then again it's hard to believe that Miles Edgeworth would ever be bad at anything. He's kind of amazing like that.
Also, for all his apparent disinterest in relationships, he is certainly interested in mapping the contours of Phoenix’s mouth, so honestly, who is to say that he actually understands the man at all?
"What is this for?" Edgeworth asks a moment later when they're catching their breath, foreheads pressed together. When Phoenix opens his eyes, his oldest friend is watching him with wary but warm eyes, and he finally lets his lips twitch into a soft smile.
"Why are you here?" Phoenix volleys back, and the prosecutor frowns at the topic change. His cheeks color too, just a light shade of pink, and it's so becoming that he has to kiss him again.
"Is that not obvious?" he asks, his baritone rumbling and making Phoenix’s lips tingle. "Did I not say earlier?"
"You told me you were in the area," Phoenix says with a disbelieving laugh. "That you wanted to meet my daughter. But you had your suitcase in your hand and offered to stay and watch her way too easily for that to be the truth."
Edgeworth makes a sound that's vaguely disgruntled and conceding, his face growing pinker. "I see your skills of observation haven't dulled, at least."
"Neither has your skill at deflection," Phoenix points out, pressing his lips to the side of Edgeworth’s mouth and then along his jaw.
"You're one to talk," he mutters, his fingers sliding into Phoenix's hair as he tilts his head back, subtly encouraging Phoenix’s exploration of his long, pale neck. He isn't sure whether or not he’s seen it without the frills since they were nine, but he's happy to become acquainted with it now.
"I'm kissing you because you're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen and you watched my daughter for me and then stayed up until I got home," Phoenix says.
"So out of gratitude?" Edgeworth says, an unhappy edge to his tone.
Phoenix snorts. "No."
"I love you," he blurts, and Phoenix finally pulls away, both shocked and not all at once. Edgeworth won't meet his eyes but he isn't taking his words back and his face is a nice rosy shade now. Phoenix might be grinning, he might be gaping, he really doesn't know.
"I love you too," he says softly, and Edgeworth is too dignified to sag in relief, but he does something awfully close, his shoulders drooping and the tension in his expression draining. "That's why I'm kissing you."
"I came as soon as I heard," Edgeworth says, and Phoenix kisses him again because he can and he let's him.
"I know," he says, pulling the prosecutor closer.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, his voice quiet and almost small against Phoenix's mouth.
"I didn't tell a lot of people," he says, which doesn't explain anything but its the truth. "I didn't know how you'd react."
"I would have been at your side at once," he says, which makes Phoenix smile into their next kiss.
"I see that," he says, and he wants to kiss Edgeworth forever and he also is starting to get really tired, so he buries his head in the other man's neck and inhales the smell of his expensive cologne and fancy soap.
"We'll figure this out, Wright," Edgeworth promises, running his fingers through his hair. It's soothing, and he further relaxes against the man. "I'll be here every step of the way."
"You don't have to be," Phoenix says quietly, one hand idly trailing up and down Edgeworth's back. "I know your life isn't here."
"You're here," Edgeworth rebuts, which really says it all, doesn't it?
"How was Trucy?" Phoenix asks. "She gets upset about me being gone, sometimes."
"She was fine. She showed me more magic than I think I've ever seen in my entire adult life," Edgeworth says, pressing his lips against Phoenix’s temple. "I like her."
"Good. You'd have to," Phoenix says, and there is a question between them.
"I know," Edgeworth says, and answers yes.
Phoenix pulls his face out of his neck so he can kiss Edgeworth again, more chaste this time, just a signature on what they've agreed on.
"Come on," he says, stepping away and catching Edgeworth’s hand in his, tangling their fingers together. "It's late. Let's try to get some sleep before Trucy wakes up."
"Okay," Edgeworth says, and he smiles, that rare but precious smile that never fails to bring a matching one to Phoenix's lips. If he had to pick a moment he fell in love with the other man, he thinks it would probably be the first time he saw that smile.
Edgeworth wears it the entire way to Phoenix's bedroom.