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Miles Edgeworth was angry.
This was not a new occurrence, nothing especially out of the ordinary. But today it bubbled behind his eyes and set his body aflame. It was no one thing in particular. A week of frustrations and tedium. His current case not going his way; evidence misfiled, an afternoon wasted in pursuit of another person’s mistakes; Franziska’s needling arrogance; Gumshoe’s bumbling tomfoolery, well-meaning or otherwise; burning last night’s dinner; his show cut off right before the finale by the nightly news. A stack of normally tiny irritations resulting in his downright foul mood.
He paces behind his desk, too wired to sit, burning a hole through the rug. If he can just wrap up this report and leave this godforsaken office then maybe—
A knock on the door grinds his mind to a halt, the last straw on an already broken camel’s back. He flies across the room, ripping it open. “WHAT?”
A supremely startled Phoenix Wright stands before him, one hand still raised from the knock.
“Edgeworth! You scared the shit out of me. Are you ok?”
Great. Just great. Wright, the last possible person he wants to see right now. Just the sight of him unleashes yearning he quickly tackles back into its corner of shame. He tries to calm down. The last thing he needed to do was yell at him and hurt their already precarious friendship (which was admittedly his own fault).
“What do you need Wright?” He does his best to steady his voice, only slightly succeeding.
The man lifts a folder. “I, uh, was bringing by the file you asked for.”
Edgeworth sighs, sweeping back into the room. “Come in then.”
Wright enters hesitantly and shuts the door behind him. His eyebrows knit with concern. “A-are you ok? I can come back later if this is a bad time.”
“No, no, it’s fine, I just—” he sighs, placing his hands on his desk and dropping his head. “There’s just been a lot going on and I am admittedly not handling the stress well. I apologize for startling you. That was rude of me. Thank you for bringing that so quickly.” He gestures vaguely towards the letter tray which was already filled with other folders. “You can just leave it there. I will get to it later.”
The file slides gently onto the pile. But the man does not leave. "C-can I help you?"
The question brings him up short. "...with?"
"Your... emotions? Whatever is bubbling in that big brain of yours. I probably can't solve your problems, but Maya's been teaching me some techniques to help me relax and clear my mind. So... Will you let me help?"
The prospect of letting another person, let alone this person, see him in such a vulnerable state makes his skin hot and itchy. But that corner of him he tried to keep under lock and key yearns. This was a bad idea. He didn't know what this entailed but he knew it probably wasn't going to help him with ridding himself of the feelings he harbored for Wright.
"Fine," he hears himself say without permission. "Just lock the door please. I don't need anyone barging in on whatever inane yoga pose you’re about to place me in."
Wright chuckles, a wry grin on his lips that spears straight through him. Ridiculous. "No yoga, I promise. Go sit on the couch."
Miles stiffly moves to the sofa, sitting ram rod straight and staring at the bookshelf in front of him. Why was he agreeing to this? What demon had suddenly possessed him? He felt the cushion depress next to him.
"God Edgeworth, you need to learn how to relax.”
“Is that not what you are about to teach me?” He snaps more forcefully than he meant. The nearness of the other man sets him so wildly on edge, even more so than he’d already been.
“Fair enough,” Wright concedes. He's quiet for a moment. “Can you at least turn and look at me?”
He forces himself to turn his body to the right and meet the other man’s eyes. Blue, striking, beautiful. Dangerous. He flicks his eyes away as quickly as they meet. Wright thankfully does not comment.
“Ok, we’re going to start with something simple. Just copy my breathing.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “Breathing exercises?”
Wright swats at him. “Oh hush. I know they seem dumb, but they actually do work. Follow me.” He closes his eyes and changes his breathing into something slow and deep.
Edgeworth rolls his eyes slightly but concedes. He matches the rhythm. Deep breath in, hold for a few seconds, then slowly back out. He lets himself feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, his lungs filling with air. Watches as Wrights chest does the same. He loathes to admit it, but it does seem to help, if only a little.
After a few minutes, Wright opens his eyes, quietly assessing. “Any better?”
“Marginally,” he concedes, feeling self-conscious.
Wright grins. “Ok, now next step,” he lifts is hands from his lap, but hesitates. “I-is it alright if I touch you?”
Any tension that may have left Miles’ body quickly returns. “Why?”
It’s Wright’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s just what Maya taught me. Come on, don’t you trust me?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately. Too quickly. Wright’s cheeks briefly color. Miles shakes his head. “Fine. Yes. You have my permission.”
Wright smiles and lifts his hands again, gently placing them on Miles’ shoulders. Luckily, he’s already as tense as he can possibly be. Slowly he presses down, dragging his hands from neck to edge, resetting the motion once he runs out of space. It’s not exactly a massage. But it does not feel bad. Wright works some of the tension out, bit by bit, his shoulders lowering a fraction of an inch with each pass. He slowly starts his hands higher and higher, bringing them further up Miles’ neck with each pass. Wright’s fingers on his bare skin are electric, sending spirals of shock down to the base of his spine. The sensation is nearly overwhelming, but he does not pull away. His eyes drift closed.
They fly back open when he feels those fingers brush against his face. Wright looks equally startled, maybe a little guilty, a bashful smile on his lips. “Trust me,” he murmurs.
Miles pauses, then nods, letting his eyes slide shut once more. The fingers rest on the sides of his head and Wright’s thumbs make slow, mirrored passes over his face. Across his forehead, over his eyebrows, down his nose and under his eyes, following the curve of his jaw. It is gentle and firm. Intimate. He slaps the thought away before it can make him flee. He could allow himself this. Wright offered in any case. It would be rude to reject him, right?
The thumbs move to his temples next, the rest of the fingers burying further into his hair. He bites back a moan at the gentle massage. The blinding anger slowly melts into a whisper. “Maya taught you this?”
The murmured response is too quiet for him to hear.
The motion slows to a standstill and Wright removes his right hand. Miles’ face feels cold without it. Then, a ghostly whisper of sensation, as a finger traces down his forehead to the end of his nose. A shudder runs through him, and he resists the urge to open his eye. He does not want to run. For once in his life, he wants to stay.
The finger maps out his face. Brushes through each eyebrow. Circles each cheek, traces his jaw. Ghosts the curve of each ear. Each trail leaves sparks in its wake, lighting Miles on fire. He barely contains his shivers. It takes everything in him to bite back a moan as the other hand begins running through his hair.
The man is trying to kill him, he concludes.
The finger then strays to his lips. Tracing the outline, brushing against the top, then the bottom. Edgeworth is a statue, not breathing, not moving, not daring to even think. Then something else, soft and warm, brushes against them.
His world explodes.
His eyes fly open, and he meets that piercing blue gaze, so much closer than before. The kiss was brief, so brief he could almost believe he’d hallucinated it. His hands fly into the man’s lapels, but before he can drag him back in again Wright is shushing him. “Shhh, please, let me finish.” That devilish finger returns, once again continuing its slow trail. “Close your eyes. Please.”
Against every instinct, he listens. Closes his eyes, locking the years of yearning and confusion and hope back behind his eyelids. Was he dreaming? Had he been hit by a car and was actually in a coma in the hospital? Was this some kind of stress-induced delusion? It all feels cruelly real. The hand still locked in his hair. His hands still clutching his friend’s jacket. The soft breath against his face.
The finger begins a game he thinks really will kill him this time. It taps against the tip of his nose, quickly followed by the press of lips against the spot. If the trailing felt like sparks, this was full electrocution. A tap on the left cheek. A kiss. A tap on the right. Another kiss. Miles does not know how to breath, how to think, how to move, only feel.
When the next kiss brushes over his closed eye, he can’t stop the whispered whine that escapes him. “Phoenix, please.”
A kiss over the other eye. “Patience.”
But he must have sensed that was an impossible ask, Miles’ entire body beginning to tremble, and the next tap hit his lips again. He does not wait, yanking the man forward to meet him. He pours every ounce of desire and want and need he’d kept bottled up for over a decade into it, barely letting the two of them breathe before diving in for another. He unhooks his hands from Pheonix’s jacket, wrapping his arms around his waist and dragging the man into his lap, not wanting a single inch of space between them. They’d spent enough time dancing around each other at arm’s length. Never again.