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Probably the stupidest thing about tonight is the suit.
He knows all of it is stupid. Of course he does. It's self-destructive in a way that was already completely obvious from the start. The only responsible part of any of this was getting a babysitter, and he couldn't even feel slightly good about that because Trucy's reaction was so heartbreaking.
"I don't need a babysitter," she'd said with pure confusion. "Aren't you coming back tomorrow? I'll be fine."
"I – I was thinking tonight, I just might be pretty late," Phoenix had told her. And she'd just looked at him dead-on, and he hadn't known what to say so he awkwardly said, "I just didn't want you to worry?" like it was a question, and his daughter had hesitated, looking at him. Looking at his clothes in a quick flick of her gaze before beaming cheerfully up at him.
"Okay. I'm sure we'll have fun! I love you, Daddy."
She hadn't said she wouldn't worry because of course she still would. Maybe not that he wasn't coming back, like he'd feared, but about him. It was obvious from her face. She's really, really good at hiding it, but – but Phoenix is starting to be able to tell pretty reliably.
And why wouldn't she be worried? She doesn't even have to know what day it is to know how weird it is that Phoenix is dressing up in the old suit he used to wear to every trial and which has been gathering dust in the closet for about sixteen months straight now. If she did know what day it is, she'd be even more worried, because then she'd realize how he's been planning this for a little while now. Even though he knew perfectly well what it would do to him, he didn't even care, because he's been pushing it all down for almost a year and a half and it's driving him insane.
It's been four years, to the day.
Longer than that since he got the badge, of course, but getting the badge doesn't feel like it should count. Even assisting Mia in her trials doesn't feel like it counted. Phoenix has always counted his life as a lawyer as properly beginning the day of Larry's trial. The first time he was the lead on a case. The first time he was the person who won a not guilty verdict. The first time he was able to save someone.
Wearing the suit is the worst decision he could've made tonight, on top of all the other worst decisions he's been making this whole time. A part of him had thought it would feel good to get drunk. No, not just drunk – to get absolutely sloshed, to just give vent to every single bit of misery he has been so steadfastly avoiding acknowledging for the past year and a half nearly. To take the night, just one night he'd told himself, to really dive straight into a bottle or however many bottles it took and let himself cry and mourn and grieve what's gone.
But now Phoenix is drunk and on his way to worse than that, and he's been full-on miserable since before he walked in the door of this place, and every swallow just makes it worse. Not in a good way. Not anything remotely like a good way.
He's not mourning. Or, he is, but not in any kind of way that's new at all. There's no extra-special catharsis to this, all there is a deep feeling of profound loneliness and misery and guilt, because he's such a failure, he lost his badge mere months after Mia's spirit finally moved on from helping him. He couldn't even manage to keep it long enough to keep practicing longer than she did before her career was cut short by being brutally murdered – not unless he tries to ignore that time in between her first case and the one where he was a defendant, and even then he's done the math to know that he'd taken longer gaps between cases than she had in general, so if he's not giving those months to her there's more he would have to take away from himself and it's all pointless. It's all stupid nitpicking at the simple, uncontradictable fact that Phoenix failed, as a lawyer. And then after that, as a friend. As a father too, probably, what kind of dad is he to go do this when he knows it won't help and knows Trucy thinks he isn't going to make it home at all tonight, probably because she expects him to pass out in a ditch somewhere.
He doesn't want to do that, in the suit. Which is all the more stupid because this suit has been through a lot during his career and he really should have gotten something better a while ago. It just never seemed like the best thing to spend his money on, and maybe he was a little attached to it for memories' sake.
Wearing it now makes him feel like a fake. A minute ago he spilled a bit of red wine on the sleeve and he has just been sitting there staring at the drops slowly sinking in to the fabric, staining it, and he doesn't feel like he's giving any kind of respectful send-off to his former life, he just feels pathetic.
Phoenix swirls the mostly-full glass in his hand, a little too hard, and watches as a bit more wine sloshes out. None lands on his sleeve this time, just the surface of the bar, and for a moment he is tempted to go further: pour it straight onto himself, deliberately ruin the suit he'll never be able to legitimately wear again.
A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he jumps hard. He lets go, the wineglass rattling on the bartop but ultimately keeping its balance as he spins around to see who touched him -
A ghost.
"-sorry, I don't think you could hear me over all the noise," he says.
(No, not a ghost. He's not the one who was dead for a year this time.)
Miles Edgeworth is smiling. "I didn't expect to see you here," he's saying.
(When he'd left that suicide note, Phoenix had been enraged beyond belief. Even once it became clear that it wasn't his life but his career he'd been talking about, he hadn't understood how quitting should mean he had to cut everyone off, leave everyone behind, not even tell them in person, how he could be so utterly selfish and give up so easily and not even give anyone the opportunity to offer to help.
He got it later, obviously.)
"It really is loud. I wouldn't normally come to this sort of bar, but it's close by my hotel and I thought a nightcap might help with the jetlag," Edgeworth goes on. His speech slows down as he gets a good look at Phoenix, and there's a moment where he almost pauses, almost says something different before he instead sits down on the stool next to him and asks, with a little nod to his glass, "Is that any good?"
Phoenix opens his mouth to answer, and then shuts it. He hasn't spoken to Edgeworth since before he lost his badge – very deliberately. One of the first things he'd done after the hearing ended so unequivocally not in his favor was to block Edgeworth's phone number. He'd gotten a few phone calls anyway, from unfamiliar numbers with overseas area codes, but he never picked up and they stopped after a little while.
The first thing he says to Miles Edgeworth after all this time can't be some inane comment on the quality of the alcohol he's trying and failing to drown his sorrows in. It's... god, Phoenix can't even believe he's thinking it, but the idea is embarrassing.
Instead he shakes his head, and then picks it up for another sip. Drinking wine is something he picked up from Mia. It used to make him feel classier than the cheap beer that had been his experience with alcohol up to that point. But he's older now, and – fuck, starting in on a fourth glass of the cheapest red this place has, he's well aware this isn't any good in just about any sense of the words.
"What are you doing here?" he thinks and says at pretty much the same time: with the same edge of accusation in his voice as his thoughts, too. These don't feel like any better first words, but at least they're more comfortable. Familiar on the tongue. He has to clear his throat after; it feels the kind of tight you get after talking for a very long time, or crying hard. He hasn't done either tonight, yet at least, but the feeling is there.
"I just s- oh," Edgeworth looks away, waves a hand in the air to try and catch the bartender's attention. She's busy with someone else right now and it doesn't seem to be working, or maybe it's on purpose that he leans forward to be more noticeable to her, turning his back to Phoenix as he says, "I'm in town for a case."
The bar is kind of loud. It wasn't when Phoenix got here, or at least not this much. If he weren't already expecting those words, he probably wouldn't be able to make out what Edgeworth said.
If that was on purpose out of consideration for his feelings, it was the wrong move. Phoenix can feel his cheeks burn as he takes another hasty drink. He doesn't answer, doesn't ask any of the kinds of follow-ups that would once have been second-nature. He doesn't want to know anything about it at all.
"Actually, maybe you would like to offer your thoughts on the matter," Edgeworth offers a little louder than before, back still turned. He raises his voice even more a moment later, this time successfully calling out to the bartender, who comes over to ask what he wants and if he'll be starting a tab.
"No thank you, just the one glass of the same as my friend, please," he says with a nod at Phoenix's drink, and it's just bad move on top of bad move. Phoenix feels shitty, so shitty right now and he doesn't want Edgeworth to call him a friend, doesn't want him to be considerate of his feelings, doesn't want him to take pity and try to involve him in things that aren't any of his business anymore, doesn't want him to drink this stupid subpar wine that he already said wasn't any good, doesn't want Edgeworth in this bar in the first place or in this country in the second or in his life in the third!
He's ashamed.
The anger that was rising up in him so swiftly dies away in an instant at the realization, and Phoenix curls deeper into himself without making a single sound.
One reason he's kept to drinking wine is because the servings are a bit larger than average, here. Edgeworth's glass starts a new bottle. Phoenix stares down at the bartop as he accepts the drink and pays, and maybe pays for Phoenix's drinks up to this point too by the further exchange of words he can't quite hear and doesn't want to, anyway. He stretches out a finger, drags it through the puddle from his spill.
He doodles his badge number, watching as the liquid flows in to fill up each digit in the wake of his fingertip. When he's done it looks the same as when he started.
"Here." Edgeworth hands him a napkin. Phoenix takes it, twists his fingers in it to dry them, and then drops it onto the counter to soak up the rest.
He doesn't say thank you. It would be for more than just the napkin, if he said it.
It's slightly satisfying to watch the mild distaste on Edgeworth's face after his first sip of wine. Phoenix has never drunk with him before, but he just knew he'd have higher standards of quality.
It's the kind of thing he'd have laughed over, once. Right now, the most he can muster is a halfhearted smirk, but Edgeworth still spots it and rolls his eyes before sarcastically clinking his glass against Phoenix's and drinking some more.
That reaction is almost playful, and it's – not something they've done, really, not since they were nine years old. And of course thinking that makes Phoenix think of why they separated, of the nine years they spent apart and how often he thought of Miles in that time, of their first reunion, of how much they grew to trust one another and how some of that trust shattered, at least on Phoenix's end. He remembers thinking that he was going to stop caring so deeply about Miles Edgeworth, that he wouldn't put his faith in him any more. He'd known even as he did that he was lying to himself, but he’d felt so hurt he tried to believe it anyway.
And yet they haven't ever really hung out. They've barely spent any time alone together as adults, at least not when they weren't working. It's not something Phoenix really minded at the time. To both of them, their work was of monumental importance, and the trust they shared eclipsed any sort of casual relationship dependent on frequent contact and upkeep. Even if they never spent any time together outside of the courtroom, Edgeworth would always be one of the most important people in his life.
That's all still true, even with Phoenix's efforts to cut off any communication since losing his badge. But somehow... it feels like a waste, now. If he'd known what was going to happen –
Well. He didn’t, did he.
They drink in silence for a little while. It should be a relief, that Edgeworth isn’t breaking it with questions or comments or worst of all, advice, but somehow it’s not. Maybe that’s just Phoenix, unable to see the silver lining on any cloud at this point of this night, but somehow as the minutes tick by without a word, he just feels more and more morose, more ashamed. The pressure of the conversation they aren’t having is weighing him down.
Eventually, he’s the one to speak first. It feels like giving in to the inevitable, tipping over the edge of something huge: “So, big case? To bring you in from overseas?”
“Yes, well, somewhat. It’s more of a favor to Gumshoe, actually.”
“Huh,” Phoenix says, tries on a smile for all he can’t really bring himself to look directly at Edgeworth’s face, feels bile rise and swallows it down.
“I’m sure it will turn out fine in the end,” Edgeworth says by way of dismissing the subject. And logically, Phoenix is certain it’s because his lack of desire to talk about it any more at all is plastered all over his face. He’s positive that it’s another kind gesture, the backtracking coming in response to his own obvious reluctance, because Edgeworth isn’t an idiot and he must’ve picked up on the fact that Phoenix doesn’t want to talk about what was once his work tonight.
But at the same time he can’t help but wonder if it’s finally sinking in, now that the man has spent more than a few minutes with him – if Edgeworth isn’t just realizing for himself how far Phoenix has fallen. How much of a wreck he is, how little he deserves to be trusted with even a casual and informal advisory role. He’s never been a great legal mind anyway, not really – he was just the kind of person who dug his teeth in and refused to give up long enough that someone would slip up. Now that he’s given up so totally and completely, it must be obvious from the outside that he wouldn’t be much use even if he wanted to be.
That’s not what Edgeworth’s thinking. He knows that’s probably not what Edgeworth’s thinking at all. But Phoenix is, and at the very least he feels like Edgeworth can probably tell. The fact that if he can, it’s likely due to experience of his own with such thoughts doesn’t help in the least. Edgeworth picked himself up in less time than this, and came back better for it too: steadier, more confident in his purpose and methods and relationships, even. It’s not really fair to compare their circumstances like that, but Phoenix didn’t come here tonight to be fair to himself.
“...Trucy is—”
“She’s at home with a babysitter.” Phoenix sounds defensive, he knows he does and knows it’s hypocritical given how he’s been thinking all night about his failure to adequately parent her, but he can’t stand the idea of anyone worrying that he would ever do any less than his utmost for her.
“I was going to ask if she’s ten yet. Maya told me her birthday was somewhere in the back half of the year, but I don’t remember if she knew what month.” Edgeworth’s voice is carefully calm, and he turns slightly on his stool to face Phoenix more directly for the first time. His eyes are intent, slightly pleading despite the nonchalant tone, and Phoenix feels it abruptly like a punch in the gut: by isolating himself from his former friends, he’s been isolating Trucy too.
It’s not the kind of thing that should be an epiphany. And it’s not even totally true; Maya has met Trucy before, a few times by now, and back when he first decided to adopt her he’d asked Gumshoe to help him out with making sure it went through okay so she knows him a little bit just from some of those first few visits. But looking at Edgeworth now, who shouldn’t even know about his daughter at all if not for some kind of gossip chain clearly being upheld by the one person Phoenix could never even try to fully shut out, his best friend in all the world and someone who should know his daughter’s birthday without a doubt yet doesn’t because he hasn’t let even her be in his life enough to remember – Phoenix can’t help but wonder if his attempts to protect his daughter have only hurt her worse. He doesn’t honestly think she would be entirely happy with anyone else because she isn’t entirely happy with him. And from the start, they’ve understood one another. Phoenix’s role in the trial is the reason he thinks she agreed to live with him in the first place, and let down her guard enough that he can see behind the smile she always wears even as often as he does. One of the few things he is certain about in the wake of his disbarment is that his decision to adopt Trucy was the right one for both of them. But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have been happier than she is now. Maybe right at the very start, licking their wounds together was the best thing and anyone else would have been too much, but it’s been more than a year. That can’t still be true.
Phoenix has never asked what the remainder of Edgeworth’s childhood was like, growing up in Von Karma’s household. He’s always, always assumed that it was lonely.
“No, her birthday’s in December,” he says, voice tight. He feels more like crying right now than at any other point in the night, and that’s saying something – but he doesn’t yet, not quite. He pulls out his cell, brings up a picture from the other night, and it aches to do so like he’s giving something up. He doesn’t want to share her, she is the one spot of sunlight left to him. But he can’t be that selfish. If there are people who want to care about her, she should be the one who gets to choose whether or not to let them. Edgeworth might even understand what it’s like for her in a way Phoenix never could, and any jealousy he feels at the idea is irrelevant, is something that shouldn’t matter to anyone but himself.
“That’s her,” he says, handing the phone over to Edgeworth. Their fingers brush; he can’t remember the last time they’d touched before this. “That whole album is her.”
He watches closely as Edgeworth looks through the collection of pictures, slowly, over the course of several minutes. Whenever the man smiles, fierce pride and fear battle for dominance in his chest. It happens a few times, both more than he would have expected, and not as much as he thinks it should.
When Edgeworth returns the phone, it’s on the very first picture in the album, one not of Trucy herself but of the basic bedroom setup he had put together for her so that she could look at it and let him know if there were any changes she wanted made. It’s changed a lot already, even though she never did ask for anything at the time besides a place to store her magic supplies. Those have long since overflowed the trunk Phoenix had put under her bed and are scattered about the entire apartment, as well as clothes, posters, and various accumulated belongings of all sorts. Trucy isn’t a filthy person, but she’s also not a tidy one, and Phoenix feels like a hypocrite getting on her case about cleaning up when he hasn’t done so recently either, so most of the time they both live in a state of semi-organized chaos.
He smiles down at his phone for a moment himself. A soft, wordless noise catches his attention, barely audible over the ambient noise of other conversations and background music, and he looks back up to see Edgeworth watching him.
“She looks wonderful,” Edgeworth says, and it’s the very first thing he’s done tonight that feels like completely the correct choice. Any comment on her looking happy or healthy or well-cared-for would’ve set Phoenix’s hackles raising again with defensive guilt at not doing better by her, but she is wonderful, she always has been and it’s not something Phoenix could ever be responsible for. Not something he could ever mess up.
“She is,” Phoenix agrees. He looks back down at his phone again, and turns off the screen. And when he says what he says next, it still feels like giving in to a necessity, but no longer one he’d rather be fighting: “Maybe you can meet her before you leave.”
“Oh. I’d like that very much,” Edgeworth says, earnest in a way he never used to be. Phoenix knows that any awkwardness between them is entirely his fault but it’s so strange to see. He feels like most of his life he’s been reaching after this man, trying to get closer over time, distance, regret, denial. Even after the second time Edgeworth came back to town and Phoenix’d been so furious, it still felt like he was the one at a disadvantage, he was the one hurting and struggling and wanting more than the other could ever give him.
It’s been years and years since he should really be shocked by Edgeworth being a good friend to him. But somehow he still feels it. Everything about this encounter tonight feels so raw, so exactly what he would have wanted once that it makes him feel all the worse for not wanting it now. Phoenix might be drunk, is definitely drunk and griefstricken and too touchy because of it, but he isn’t blind to how hard Edgeworth is trying right now. He would’ve had every right to storm up and start yelling at him from the start. He’s obviously censoring whatever he wants to say about Phoenix’s coping methods, any questions about what he’s been up to all this time or why he chose to drop off the face of the earth, or even what he’s doing here tonight. There’s no way Edgeworth would have memorized the date of Phoenix’s first trial when it was before they had even met each other again, so for all he knows this is just a regular part of Phoenix’s schedule rather than any kind of special occasion.
And yet he hasn’t tried to ask anything at all. Instead he’s sitting next to Phoenix, drinking his matching wine at more or less Phoenix’s same pace like he doesn’t want to leave any excuse for him to either leave Edgeworth behind at the bar or to order more while he’s still drinking, and the only topic he’s persisted even slightly on is Trucy.
(Maybe, having been the ghost before, he does understand. Even if only slightly, even if it’s different. Even if his was a suicide and Phoenix was killed by someone unknown, maybe Edgeworth knows how it feels to have his entire life and sense of self uprooted and destroyed and to know there’s no one else he can really blame but himself in the end. To know the deep abiding shame of it all, the desire to stay hidden from everyone who deserves better. Maybe that’s why he stopped calling, stopped making Phoenix choose not to answer. Maybe he’s just been waiting for Phoenix this whole time.
Maybe there’s no maybe about it.)
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” Edgeworth says, breaking the silence again. This time, he’s the one to avoid Phoenix’s eyes with another drink of wine. His voice is a little bit looser, like maybe he doesn’t usually drink this fast. He swallows twice on the next sip, one more than necessary, and doesn’t look up as he says, “I’ve missed you.”
Phoenix starts to cry.
It’s been coming, of course it has, all night and especially since Edgeworth showed up, but what really made it inevitable was that compliment to Trucy. That’s what broke down the wall of mortified resentment enough for Phoenix to admit this sadness in. It’s not even that it’s no longer tainted with guilt and regret and feeling like he can trace all of his misery back to his own personal failings, because all of that is still very much there. But now Phoenix is able to look past himself at least a little, and what he sees is awful.
Edgeworth’s in love with him.
He wouldn’t have to be, to do any of this. Friendship would have been enough, for all of it. There’s no one single moment Phoenix could point to that would explain the sudden certainty, the utter conviction that his oldest friend loves him and has been waiting patiently and must be hurting so much to see him like this tonight: a drunken bitter mess. But he is certain, is completely convinced in the space of a single second, and he wonders suddenly if this is what he was thinking earlier without even realizing – this is the waste. This is the thing that, if he had only known before –
He hasn’t thought about it, maybe hasn’t let himself or hasn’t wanted to. Miles was a memory from childhood, precious and protected and Dahlia shattered so much of his idealism in college but never about him. He always believed in him, always had faith that the person he remembered and was so grateful to was still in there somewhere and could be found eventually no matter what he had become in the meantime. He was always, always reaching out and never even considered if there was any reason other than that old friendship, the gratitude held close to his heart for fifteen years. When they rebuilt something even stronger it never occurred to Phoenix to want more, or to wonder if he had wanted more all along.
If he’d never lost his badge, and he was here today in honest celebration. If they had planned to meet up, if they were sharing a first glass instead of Phoenix having finished most of a bottle before Edgeworth even walked in. If this weren’t ever about punishing himself, if the suit hadn’t gathered dust for so long, if he hadn’t stained it and just let the wine soak in, if, if, if –
Phoenix can tell exactly when Edgeworth looks up and sees him crying. He doesn’t know if that’s because he’s making noise or if it’s just been long enough the man wants to check on his response, but he jolts pretty dramatically when he notices, so there’s no missing it even when Phoenix can’t see anything clearly anymore through the haze of tears.
“Wright,” Edgeworth gasps, sounding downright frightened, and a hand reaches out to him slightly before hesitating, pulling back. Phoenix realizes that neither of them has said the other’s name out loud until now, and wonders if Edgeworth would have preferred to call him ‘Phoenix’. If he himself would have wanted to call him ‘Miles’ on a different day, in a different life.
Doesn’t wonder for more than a single second because the moment the thought occurs he knows the answer, and he feels the loss of that life so much that he shoves himself to his feet and into Edgeworth’s arms in the very next second.
Edgeworth sways back with the force of the sudden hug. He must catch himself on the bar, because Phoenix isn’t doing anything to support either of their weight but they don’t fall. He doesn’t waste time hesitating, just wraps his arms around Edgeworth as tight as he can and presses them together. He’s standing and Edgeworth is sitting, so even with a tall barstool it’s relatively easy for Phoenix to drape his arms over Edgeworth’s shoulders, to lean down over him and envelop him in an embrace like they’ve never shared, not once in all this time.
“What- uh,” Edgeworth is stammering, and Phoenix thinks about the last time he wanted to do this so strongly he had to walk away: watching Edgeworth cowering on the floor of the Detention Center, terrified of an earthquake. He remembers wanting to hug him then, remembers being afraid he’d give it away and offend Edgeworth, bruise his already mangled pride, remembers deciding it would be wiser to act like the sight didn’t bother him at all and being so grateful Maya played along.
He’d had other ways to help, then. More important ways, or at least more immediately urgent ones, and less likely to earn him a panicked rejection. But Edgeworth doesn’t need saving from anything anymore but loving a person who is in no place to reciprocate or even really accept, and Phoenix can’t save him from that. Phoenix isn’t ever going to be able to save anyone again, that’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place. So all he can do is pull Edgeworth close and weep into his hair, finally achieve his goal for the night by losing himself in the act of crying, mourning, deeply and sincerely grieving both what’s gone and what’s never been. He sobs it all out, for a while probably, because time slips away from him and when he surfaces back to awareness Edgeworth is standing too. His hands are warm against Phoenix’s back, rubbing up and down his shoulders in a soothing rhythm – he’s returning the embrace.
Phoenix tucks his head further into Edgeworth’s shoulder. Presses his shut eyes hard against the fabric of his suit jacket, softer than it looks.
“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Edgeworth answers. His voice is rough with emotion but quiet, the words spoken right into Phoenix’s ear.
And Phoenix opens his eyes, looks at his own hands clinging so hard to Edgeworth’s back, trying to hold on to something he never noticed wanting until his capacity to accept it was robbed from him along with everything else he liked about himself. Looks at dirt under his nails, the stain on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. Sniffs hard, like a child, and lets go.
Edgeworth releases him immediately, but only enough that he can catch Phoenix by the elbows instead, supporting him upright when he would’ve stumbled. He makes deliberate eye contact before repeating his reassurance: “It’s okay.”
He looks nearly as sad as Phoenix feels.
Phoenix pulls away completely and this time, Edgeworth doesn’t stop him. As he turns back towards the bar, he makes accidental eye contact with the bartender and they both wince. She’s half the counter’s distance away from his corner of the bar but has clearly been watching him cry pathetically all over someone else. He’s definitely made a scene. It’s probably good he stopped when he did, otherwise she might’ve felt forced to intervene eventually.
There’s just a little bit left in his wineglass. Phoenix picks it up, throws it back like a shot. He points at the empty glass and raises his eyebrows in question. She shakes her head and nods to Edgeworth; so he did pay earlier, as expected.
Phoenix nods a thanks and plucks a few bills at random out of his wallet as a tip before he turns to leave, staggering just a little. He’s completely exhausted all of a sudden. He has to go home. It’s probably pretty late. Trucy is expecting him to pass out in a ditch.
Edgeworth follows him out of the bar.
“Wright.” He trails a few steps behind. “You shouldn’t be taking public transportation like this. My hotel is just up the street. Can I get you a room for the night?”
Phoenix shakes his head. “I have to go home.”
“I could call and let them kn-” At Phoenix’s continued head-shaking and steady pace away, Edgeworth sighs. He sounds irritated for the first time tonight. It’s a relief, though overdue. He should’ve lost patience with him long ago. “Fine. At least let me call you a cab.”
Phoenix waits for the shame to well up again, for his pride to kick in and claim he doesn’t need the help, that he can make it home just fine on his own. But instead, all he feels is pathetically grateful to have the responsibility taken out of his hands. He wants to prove to Trucy that he meant it when he said he’d come home. He doesn’t know if he would make it, on his own.
He stops walking and lets Edgeworth catch up to him. Waits with him as the man calls a taxi service, and for the five or ten minutes it takes to arrive. The more time passes the more that brief moment of miserable clarity fades away, replaced by a numb, sick, thick feeling in his throat that’s only a small part due to drink.
He feels like he should say something. Some kind of acknowledgment – but that’s stupid, there is absolutely no way admitting that he has noticed anything about what Edgeworth feels is a good idea right now. It’s clear the other man has no intention of any kind of declaration, so why force it on him? Why make him feel seen, why make him have to talk about it? Better to let it lie. Much better to forget it if at all possible. He knows it isn’t possible, that he isn’t ever going to forget or maybe even to stop thinking about it, but if he could he really would.
Edgeworth doesn’t open the door for him when the taxi arrives. He leaves Phoenix to get himself situated in the backseat as he leans into the front passenger window and tells the driver where to go, swipes his credit card to pay for the ride in advance. Phoenix buckles up in the back, pulls the door shut behind himself.
He doesn’t even have it in him anymore to get embarrassed about Edgeworth paying the bill. He’s pathetic. He should at least thank him. He tells himself to just say it. To just roll down the window and say it, as the cab pulls away from the curb. To at the very least wave goodbye or something, show his appreciation in some small way, it’s the least he should do –
A thank you would be for more than the ride.
He can’t.
But Edgeworth is in love with him. And – Trucy, for Trucy alone is more than enough reason and always will be, so it doesn’t matter what he can’t do, he just has to anyway. That’s all there is to it, he has to.
He unblocks Edgeworth’s number on the drive home. Very carefully composes the text, making sure his drunk-clumsy fingers don’t misspell anything. He spends at least five city blocks just staring down at the two words, wishing this were that other life, before he hits ‘send.’
The babysitter says Trucy’s been asleep for three hours, but when he goes in to kiss her forehead she sits up and kisses him back. Phoenix isn’t surprised at all.
“I love you,” he whispers as he tucks her back in again. It’s so easy to say it to her, so easy to listen when she says it back.
It’s well past midnight. His anniversary is over.
Phoenix leaves his suit in a crumpled heap on the floor and crawls into bed.