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It was a curious experience, to have woken up on the floor with his feet in the air. He moved his head around—left and right and left and right—it was so dark in the room, thank god, he didn't think he could handle an onslaught from even something as inoffensive as Miles’ reading lamp right now—and he felt so cozy with a pillow cushioning him all around. Experimentally, he raised his hand—he could make out the shape of five fingers, great, and a weird dark streak on the back of it, which was—
“Don't move.” A what he assumed could only be a wet cloth was placed gently on his forehead. Miles sighed heavily. “Phoenix Wright. You, as you'd have put it, scared the absolute shit out of me.”
He must've been more out of it than he'd previously thought, as any sound he tried to produce stumbled and fell on its head—and tangled together he could only croak: “Uhhh…?”
“Are you injured?” A hand was placed on his cheek. “I couldn't find anything, dear, aside from the nosebleed, but perhaps—”
A nosebleed would have definitely explained the weird stains on his hand—and at the thought he suddenly found himself short of breath. Not good, not good, he had never been good with blood, his own or otherwise, and it was here on his hand and possibly his whole face—he didn't went to imagine it or the way the back of his throat tasted kind of metallic as he swallowed.
No sooner than Miles said, “Stay with me, darling” he hissed between his teeth as fingers touched the side of his head. They were shaking—he desperately wanted to tell Miles he was fine—he was always fine, be it broken ribs or pneumonia or getting hit with a fire extinguisher, a stupid nosebleed wouldn't take him out. “Miles…”
“Yes?”
“Miles…” It was quite nice, to have been able to say something coherently—even nicer that it had been Miles’ name still so new in his mouth. He tried it a couple more times.
“You're really out of it...” Not too out of it to not have recognized the trademark Miles Edgeworth worrying tone. “Can you tell me how you're feeling? Do you know what happened? What year is it?”
“I… don't have it…” Of course he didn't have amnesia, it took way more than that, and Miles should have known that. He managed to mumble what he hoped was words of assurance between ragged breaths—why was it so hard to breathe? Every time he tried to inhale the ringing in his ears grew louder. He blindly reached for Miles’ hand at his temple and squeezed. “Warm…”
“What? Too warm? Or are you cold?” The hand slipped from his grasp and he whined. “Phoenix, I know I’m asking a lot of you right now, but if you don't show me you have your faculties about intact, I will be left with no choice but to call 911.”
He knew Miles was serious and that it wasn't an elaborate ploy to get him to speak, yet that didn't stop the wave of no no no I'm fine baby no hospitals please—he kept going even as a palm stifled his mouth—not the brightest idea in the current situation, in Phoenix's opinion, but he could get behind it—if it had been Miles in his place they both would have been lying on the floor unconscious right now. “It’s okay, just give me… a minute.”
Or ten.
“Very well,” Miles whispered, unsure—he only ever lowered his voice when he was unsure—and fixed the now uncomfortably tepid towel on his forehead. “Can you tell me what you need?”
Could he? His head was underwater. His lower body was freezing, while his face was burning like that one time he had fallen asleep on the beach with no protection. His arms couldn't stop shaking now that his vision was somewhat clearer and his throat felt like sandpaper. And there was the blood, still—now mostly dry. Small mercies.
“It's…” He flung his hand around uselessly and the red specks danced in the field of his vision. Not good, not good. “The blood— Miles…”
My Miles is so smart, he thought as he immediately took to removing any traces of blood on his face with the same towel—must've been a huge smear, as Miles kept going back and forth; an almost soothing circular motion on his cheek—then he took care of his hand, dutifully wiping his fingers one by one and the space between them, too. So soothing, he almost fell asleep.
“Looks about done…” Miles said, swiping his thumb across Phoenix's lip. “I will turn the lights on now, alright?
“Only the small one.” He instinctively closed his eyes anyway.
“Of course, dear.” He heard Miles click on the bedside lamp. “I’ll ask again: do you remember what happened?”
He didn't know anything, if he were to be honest, except for the nagging feeling in his throat and the urge to barf, like when they'd won a big case and had decided to celebrate by eating an insane amount of chocolate cake—he didn't remember the last time he had felt this weird after coming to. Was that concerning? Not enough to go to the hospital, in his eyes—probably low blood pressure—or high blood pressure? His body had been sending him mixed signals; either way, as long as he wasn't gushing blood like a garden hose any longer he reckoned he was in perfect health.
“Did you faint before or after the nosebleed had started?” Miles must've noticed he had trouble answering—it was so convenient to have a lawyer boyfriend—though being cross examined definitely wasn't as fun when he could barely string a sentence together.
“After…”
They had both been in bed, Miles had curled around him like a limpet, when he had suddenly felt something wet trickling down his lip—he sniffed once, twice, a very runny runny nose, maybe. He had pried Miles’ arms as carefully as he could, sniffed about three times more, sat up, wiped his nose with he back of his hand, looked down—he’d never seen snot this color before, and oh, suddenly it had become very loud inside his head and he could hear his uneven breaths as if it had been someone else panting straight in his ear.
He had tried standing up and it had become so dark, way darker than a moment ago, and he thought, briefly, were noses supposed to bleed this much?—and then it had been all black and quiet for about two minutes, before Miles had started shaking him awake, startled by the loud noise, calling his name, dear? Phoenix Phoenix Phoenix!? and Phoenix didn't remember most of that, his memory only slightly jogged by Miles’ account of events, and now he only felt bad that he had scared him so much.
“How long was I out for?”
“I am… not sure, exactly” Miles took his now clean hand and intertwined their fingers. They were still shaking, and Miles noticed him looking at their joined hands intently. “Forgive me, darling, it seems I've been more distraught than I had previously thought.”
“Yeah, seeing a lifeless body in your bedroom would do that to a person." He ignored Miles’ withering glare and sent him a smile. “No more self-blame when I’m unable to tackle you in a hug, okay?”
“Only you would still fuss about me when you're the one lying on the floor,” Miles said, his tone soft and so sweet—the way it always had been when he spoke to Phoenix outside the courtroom, and Phoenix thought, how stupid had I been not to notice he had been in love with me forever? “Are you feeling any better? I see that foolish expression on your face.”
“Just thought about how much I love you,” he said plainly and smirked when Miles turned his head to the side and said: “Y-yes, well…”
As comfortable as he had been, with his head on the pillow, legs on the mattress, Miles’ hands on him, he wasn't entirely placated—with a head full of cotton instead of brain matter and now even the slightest movement triggering a wave of nausea—suddenly the prospect of being vertical in any capacity seemed like an impossible thing. He should start slowly, he decided, one step at a time—he had to get on the bed, preferably without stumbling, so calling an ambulance wouldn't cross Miles’ mind; he had to not faint again, a less preventable of the two, but doable, if whatever had triggered his nosebleed didn't come back. He had to not give Miles a heart attack; that would not bode well for their married life some time in the future.
He had to get on the bed, and he had to do it by himself.
“Baby,” he said, a genius plan already formed, “would you fetch me something to drink?”
“Of course.” Miles stood up, ready to leave, then turned right back to narrow his eyes at him. “And you stay put, do you understand me?”
“Course, babe,” he said and stretched his arms languidly to emphasize his point.
“Yell if anything happens.”
He waited for Miles to be a safe distance away which didn't took long, as he’d had about twenty years of experience running up and down the stairs, and started to put his plan into motion—if only he could haul his upper body onto the bed, they could both just go right back to sleep after Miles came back , or at least cuddle, he wanted nothing more than cuddles right now—and he wouldn't even have to get too vertical! A great idea with absolutely no setbacks whatsoever—he knew he was deceptively strong, and his body wasn't the heaviest thing he ever had to lift, and it wasn't even his whole body, his legs were already on the bed, so technically it was only half of the weight anyway.
He tried for a variation of a bridge pose—which proved insanely difficult considering his feet were higher than the rest of him—then, fairly sure he was stable enough to try to lift himself up with his hands, he began to rise. The bed was higher than he remembered it being, too. His head was not in a good position, he realized quickly as his vision glitched—he was in the process of easing himself back on the floor just as Miles came back with his favorite IKEA glass.
“Hey!” He put the glass down in record speed, only spilling a little bit on the nightstand. "What did I say about staying put?”
“Forget you saw anything,” he grumbled, dejected. So much for not worrying Miles. “Help me up. I want to cuddle with you.”
“Phoenix, for god’s sake…” He did as he asked, and Phoenix marveled at how easy standing up was, suddenly, with Miles’ arms around him, even when with every step (and there was barely even one) he felt like he had an increasing number of plastic bags put over his head.
It cleared up, fortunately for him, as Miles sat him down on the ruffled pillows and thrust the glass in his hand. He barely made it one sip before coughing most of it up—Miles dodged it all gracefully.
“Ew, what is this? I thought I asked you for water.” He grimaced.
“No, dear. You said to “fetch you something to drink.”” He even made air quotes, dork. “I’ve heard sugar water is good for you after syncope.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Don't act like a child,” he said sternly, and Phoenix hated how much he could still make him feel like a nine year old. “After you're done drinking that we can go to sleep.”
“And cuddle?” he all but whined.
Miles sighed, though there was a faint smile on his face. “Yes, dear, and cuddle.”
He could bargain with him like a child, too.