Chapter Text
“Where is he, man?”
The bar is busy, buzzing, dark in the places that are the least helpful for it to be dark in and lit with flashing, distracting neon lights everywhere else. Which means it’s your usual semi-popular run-of-the-mill bar, but it also means that when Edgeworth does get here, he’ll hate it. Phoenix plans to ply him with drinks, palliatives to and dullers of the senses, to keep him here as long as possible—because it’s Phoenix’s fortieth birthday, and because Phoenix never manages to get the guy out as much as he’d like to.
To Larry, Phoenix says, “You know what he’s like, he texted to say he’ll be here soon. In the meantime you can tell me more about your, uh,” he pauses to take a wincing sip from his beer, “new girlfriend.” If you must is left unsaid, but very much implied. If Edgeworth was here, he’d’ve picked up on it. Maybe even smirked at it.
“Oh, yeah!” Larry’s grin widens—a portent, an omen if Phoenix has ever seen one. “I haven’t even started on what she’s like in the sa—”
Ten or so more minutes pass. Phoenix keeps his focus on dwindling away his beer instead of the truly appalling words coming out of Larry’s mouth; he’s somehow only got worse with age. They’re forty now—or, well, Phoenix is. Edgeworth, and then Larry, will soon follow.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear: dressed still in his work suit, deep crimson befitting of all nine circles, and swinging a briefcase from one hand. Satan never sleeps, or something like that. Phoenix watches him as he pauses at the door to slide something into his pocket, probably a phone, and flick his bangs out of his eyes, then slalom through the bar's tables and patrons to get to the little raised enclave that is Phoenix's and Larry's booth.
“Happy birthday, Wright."
He's smiling as he says it. He sends his briefcase sailing over the lap of Larry to land it in the corner seat, and as Larry is still yelping in shock, Phoenix grins back at him and says, “Thanks, Edgeworth.”
“Apologies for being late, I had—”
“End of the work week stuff to finish up, I get it. You’re good, honestly.”
His shoulders drop a tad. As if he was genuinely somewhat worked up about being late and his words weren’t just the given polite platitude. Phoenix gets this little clench of affection in his chest, one that is already giving the impression that it's going to stick around all night, and then he's finding himself putting a hand up at Edgeworth to say, “Wait, actually—scrap that. It's my birthday, so I am pissed at you for being late. So pissed. And the only way you can make it up to me?”
Edgeworth raises a baleful brow. “...Is?”
“To get another round in.”
As that brow comes crashing down and Edgeworth is rolling his eyes from the recoil, Phoenix laughs and waves his hand at him.
“Off you pop, dear. Go on.”
He gives Phoenix one final stinking look before he goes. He’s got no idea what Phoenix and Larry are drinking, which is good; it means he’ll pick something expensive for the round, because in Edgeworth’s brain, price is a direct correlate of quality. Which isn’t always the case—but for once, it’s nice to be given the opportunity to find out if it is.
Larry's saying, “Since when did you two call each other ‘dear’? No fair. That’s gonna give me some serious FOMO, dude!” and sounds like he genuinely means it.
Under the table, Phoenix's foot starts tapping out an anxious rhythm. It goes a little bit like, safe-ty-marr-iage-safe-ty-marr-iage.
Like a lot of the ridiculous situations Phoenix ends up in, it’s Aristotelian philosophy at work; it’s a lot of little mundane, throwaway parts coming together and mixing up to create something much bigger and much more absurd than what they should really add up to. Studying in the law library, meeting a girl, getting too attached to both her and her gifted necklace: being accused of murder in court. Winning a poker game, accepting a case on the fly, being handed a rogue piece of evidence by a little girl: adopting a daughter (and getting disbarred).
Getting wisecracks from Trucy over the years about her wanting a new mommy, watching My Best Friend’s Wedding at 2AM on a particularly rough night, visiting Edgeworth in Berlin just a few days later? That one somehow resulted in the most absurd of them all: becoming Edgeworth’s safety husband, with the age cut-off set at forty.
Why the hell did Edgeworth agree to it? Something, something, he doesn’t take marriage seriously anyway so sure, Wright, he'll agree to be his safety husband since his daughter won’t stop “complaining” about him not getting married for her sake, something. Maybe Edgeworth knew more about tax laws and marriage allowances than Phoenix did (and still does), so he was just agreeing to what potentially promised to be a fruitful endeavour for holding onto his riches. Maybe he’d taken one look at Phoenix’s relationship history through the lens of the Hazakura trial and thought since he threw himself so carelessly and feverishly into his first one, his second would eventually follow much the same way, well before he hit forty, so there was really little chance their agreement would actually reach its conclusion.
Maybe it doesn’t even matter why Edgeworth did it. Not now that Phoenix is forty and Edgeworth is a month away from being the same, and both of them are still completely and utterly single.
“Where is he, man?”
“You know what he’s like—”
“It’s his own birthday!”
Another bar, except this one much quieter; another meet-up between the three of them, except this one a month later; another fortieth birthday, except this one is Edgeworth’s. Another ten or so minutes’ wait for him to arrive, and then Phoenix is standing up to clap a hand round his arm and say, “Happy fortieth, old man.”
Edgeworth smiles dryly. “Last month, if I recall correctly—”
With his other hand, Phoenix waves him off. “Details, details. Sit down, already,” he says, and pushes Edgeworth towards the free seat opposite his own.
Which also happens to be the seat next to Larry. “Edgey!” Larry says, and throws his arm round Edgworth's shoulders. Edgeworth's nostrils flare. “Happy birthday, man!”
“Thank you, Larry," Edgeworth replies, as he's gingerly plucking Larry's arm off of him.
Larry plows on. “I can’t believe this is the only time of the year I get to see you dudes on the regular, by the way—that’s terrible! It’s awful! What’s up with that?”
There's a pause. Phoenix manages to reply with something noncommittal, and then announces he's off to buy the next round to remove himself from further questioning. Edgeworth, meanwhile, either doesn't get Phoenix's memo or chooses to straight up ignore it: because he says, “It’s because your mode of conversation is bafflingly challenging on even a good day, Larry."
“Aw, dude, don’t worry! You’re still a smart guy, man!”
Edgeworth stands up. "Wright, I’ll come with you. I don’t trust you to buy even semi-decent drinks."
Phoenix grins up at him. “Charming. Managed to get a nice twofer in there."
He glares back. "Shall we, or not?"
They shall, Phoenix confirms, and they both head to the bar, leaving Larry to (ostensibly) hold the table. As Edgeworth is sweeping a keen eye along the row of beer taps before him, Phoenix asks him, “How’s it feel, then? The big four-oh?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“But you didn’t. And that was a month ago, so you’ve lost your chance to pretend to be that thoughtful. So, how’s it feel?”
Edgeworth stops scrutinising the beers to level one right at Phoenix. Loftily, he says, “Look inward.”
Phoenix shakes his head at him, grinning, and calls him a dick.
The bartender looks their way and asks them if they're ready to order. Edgeworth says yes. Then Edgeworth starts reeling off words like hoppy, and malty, and German names that Phoenix couldn't recite back never mind spell out and with each word that leaves Edgeworth's mouth the bartender, a man in his mid-to-late thirties, gets more and more starry-eyed, giving him tasters in dinky little half-pint mugs and watching his every micro-expression to see what emotion passes through his mind as the beer lands on his tongue. This whole spectacle, nay, extravaganza, takes a solid five minutes. When Edgeworth finally does make a choice, and the bartender finally turns to Phoenix for his, Phoenix says, “Oh. Uh. Just a lager, please."
He's looked at, from two sets of eyes, expectantly.
"Um. Asahi, if you have it?..."
All he gets is a nod.
The bartender walks down to one of the taps at the other end of the bar. Phoenix watches him go, moderately amused at the whole thing. He angles himself towards Edgeworth’s ear.
“Trying to figure out if he liked your taste in beer, or just you in general.”
Edgeworth scoffs, but immediately betrays himself by then glancing at the man in question. “Don't be ridiculous," he says.
“Your default comeback—which means you know I'm right, you just don't want to indulge it.”
There’s a pause. “Don't be ridiculous,” Edgeworth says again, but it’s a disgruntled mutter this time. Resigned.
Phoenix laughs. “Hey,” he says, “I know it's not your usual style, but it's your birthday. Go wild, get his number.”
“How would you know what my usual style is?” Edgeworth asks, as Phoenix starts to feel slightly too warm. “But, no. I’m not interested.”
Phoenix’s eyes flick back over to the bartender. He’s facing them now, busy grabbing a glass from somewhere just under the counter. Dark hair. Tanned skin where the shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the collar is open by a few buttons at the neck. A little bit of stubble just above that, swiping across his jaw. Eye colour, Phoenix can’t remember nor see it in the darkness of the bar. That’s probably a good thing. As for demeanour—the sparkly, frothy earnestness as he gushed about various beers, the feverish excitement when Edgeworth picked out one of his personal favourites... Phoenix thinks, thank god he isn’t like that anymore. Phoenix thinks, why the hell did that come to mind?
Edgeworth clears his throat. Phoenix jolts back. Edgeworth is looking down at his hands where they’re clasped together on top of the bar. Then he’s looking up at Phoenix, because Phoenix is staring.
So Phoenix blurts out, “So how's your week looking next week? There's this case I'd love for you to look over when you’re free. Maybe Thursday? Early afternoon? How's Thursday early afternoon sound.”
Edgeworth blinks at him. “Erm... Yes. Then will be fine.”
Phoenix nods at him. The movement feels jerky and traitorous. Then, blessedly, their drinks arrive.
Later that night, when Phoenix is drunk but not really that drunk and Miles is drunk but even less so, and Larry’s not here anymore because he left over an hour ago to go chase some woman at the bar who was clearly barely interested in him, they’re saying their goodbyes outside. And Phoenix is grabbing Miles’ face on one side and gruffly kissing his cheek on the other as he wishes him a happy birthday one last time, laughing as he does it, and then releasing Miles and saying he’ll drop in next week sometime, as is their usual. And Miles is letting Phoenix kiss him on the cheek, even smiling through it, even resting a steadying hand on Phoenix’s shoulder—because while they’re both not that drunk, they’re still a little bit drunk.
They've known each other so long now, long enough for them to both be forty, long enough for the thought to make Phoenix's chest ache, but it's still only really times like these that he can get away with such an intimacy. If he can even really call it that. Its disguise—that gruffness, the jostling around, the wilful transformation of a kiss into a joke—all but smothers any real intimacy. The kind that's left is a self-conscious, overcompensating kind. It's been like that for a while now; Phoenix has never managed to trust himself with anything more.
Miles' taxi arrives first. As he climbs in the back, he gives Phoenix one last smile goodbye, one of his rare big ones that reach up to his eyes. Phoenix wonders when he started to get such visible crow's feet.