Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth doesn’t drink.
He will nurse a glass of wine or two if the social climate demands, however it rarely does at the Prosecutors' Office. He’s managed to avoid every holiday party in his four years of working in Los Angeles. Drinking had been more expected of him when he was of age in Germany, attending extravagant legal functions as von Karma’s ward.
But truthfully, he has never understood the appeal of wine enough to partake in it without reason, and as a result the expensive bottles of red gifted to him each year by the Prosecutors’ Office sit unopened on his shelf.
A shelf that, prior to tonight, held four bottles. Now there are three, a circle of dust revealing where the fourth one had sat just an hour before.
The bottle is open and near empty. Miles places his lips to the glass once more and wonders whether it is his third or fourth drink. He supposes it doesn’t matter. The bottle will be finished that night regardless. Only fools would try to ascertain how much has been drunk by using such an arbitrary measure as glasses, which he is certain have not been consistent as his pours have steadily grown more generous.
He stares at the red liquid as he swirls it, and without warning his mind forces the image of Mia Fey’s dead body into his thoughts.
“Stop it,” he mutters, closing his eyes and raising his free hand to touch his forehead.
He would do anything to forget the events of the previous three days, hence the drinking. But the floodgates have opened and all he can see in his mind’s eye are Maya Fey, Redd White, April May, and…
His hand tightens around the wine glass’s stem and he places it down in fear of breaking it.
Wright.
What the hell is he playing at? Miles had briefly wondered whether he’d run into the man by coincidence when he returned to the States. Until he’d seen his name listed as Maya Fey’s defense, he’d never considered the possibility that their encounter would take place in the courtroom, far less so that Wright would be the one to end his perfect win streak. In elementary school, Wright had wanted to be an artist, for God’s sake.
A pursuit, he notes as he lifts the glass to his lips again, that Wright had been on track to achieving. His cheeks blaze when he recalls curiosity getting the better of him a few years back, looking Wright up online only to find that he’d been shortlisted for an award in the art department at Ivy University. Good for him.
And, having learned that information, it was only natural that he kept an eye out for Wright’s name whenever he happened to visit galleries and exhibits. It was not important that he had shown little interest in fine art whilst living in Europe. He had matured. Of course his tastes would change.
But the uncomfortable truth eats away at him that his research into Wright’s life and his increased patronage to galleries might have a stronger connection than he’d initially allowed himself to believe.
In one swallow, he finishes the glass.
He leans back into his armchair, able to see the humour in the situation. While he had tried to tip-toe into Wright’s world, the other man had been preparing to launch into his.
What could we possibly want with each other?
Something inside him stirs.
He stands and grasps another bottle.