Work Text:
His tea has gone cold.
It’s been sitting there for a few hours, ever since Miles set it down on a coaster and then promptly forgot about it, getting sucked into some report or another. He doesn’t remember which one anymore. Maybe it wasn’t a report at all.
Making the tea had helped settle his nerves. He had thought to himself, at the time, that drinking it would help perk him up — a little more caffeine in his system so he didn’t drop the moment the clock struck ten.
He’s usually up well past ten, but this time, he figured he would need the extra help. He’s been sleeping poorly recently; his superiors told him he should go home early. He made tea instead.
He can still faintly smell it, as he taps away at his keyboard. The lingering scent of earl grey wafting through the air. The clock on the corner of his desk informs him it’s nearing midnight at this point, but he couldn’t fall asleep even if he wanted to. And he can’t stop working. If he stops working, he’ll start spiralling, and then pacing, and then he’ll end up in a mood. He doesn’t want to be in a mood when—
Ah, well. That’s why he’s working at this hour. Better not to think about it until it actually happens.
He considers dumping the tea, for just a moment, but then puts it out of his mind again. He needs to stay focused, because he has another hour to go, and if he allows his mind to drift for even a second, he won’t be able to get back on track.
Miles keeps working, and forces himself not to think about it. It’s hard, though. The clock is like a beacon for his attention, and he briefly wonders if he should throw it in the desk drawer where he threw his cellphone earlier, just so he can not think about it more effectively. But that feels like admitting defeat, somehow, so he leaves it.
It’s late. It’s so, so late, and his eyes are starting to become fuzzy and unfocused. He opens another document, and his computer takes a second to load.
It’s enough time for his mind to drift. Miles wonders, briefly, why he hadn’t objected more strongly to the taxi. Why he hadn’t insisted on being the one to come to the airport — he has a car after all. It’s an unfamiliar city, one which Miles only knows because he’s lived in Berlin for so many years of his life. And taxis are expensive. Miles glances at his car keys, but he doesn’t want to come off as condescending. It isn’t his decision to make how Phoenix—
He’s thinking about it. He needs to stop thinking about it.
He removes his hands from where they’ve stilled on the keyboard and grabs the cup, downing the tea in a few gulps and setting it heavily back down on the desk. He goes back to typing.
The cold had turned the tea bitter.
***
Phoenix had been Miles’s first friend. There had been acquaintances, children of his father’s colleagues, classmates who Miles worked on group projects with, but never any friends. Miles did not enjoy other children his age — he found no reason to run around a field trying to tag each other or to sit in a box of sand with a toy car. And there were certainly no children who wanted to talk about legal procedures.
But Phoenix was different. Phoenix always listened to whatever Miles had to say, no matter how dull it seemed to others, and he made things that had once seemed pointless fun. Phoenix didn’t ask silly questions, or try to prod about which girls Miles liked. Maybe it was because of this it had occurred to Miles, very early on, that he could see himself spending the rest of his life with Phoenix.
Miles remembers he told his father that, and his father had chuckled and asked him, gently, if that meant Miles would want to marry him.
Miles doesn’t know how he responded. Perhaps he had just shrugged. Perhaps he had told his father that, as long as Phoenix was by his side, he didn’t care either way. Perhaps he didn’t answer at all.
But he does remember asking to see his mother’s ring that day. His father and mother had never gotten legally married, but socially, she was his wife in all the ways that mattered. She had died before Miles was old enough to remember her, but his father always wore her ring on a chain around his neck. And Miles loved looking at it, loved trying to fit it on his small, childish fingers. It wasn’t uncommon for him to ask his father for it, but that day must’ve been different.
In his naive mind, he had probably wondered, as he looked down at the heavy piece of jewelry sitting in the center of his palm, what type of ring Phoenix would like. He may have even asked Phoenix the question, but if he had, he doesn’t remember the answer. Maybe, as he sat in his father’s study, he had let himself fantasize about what it would be like, being married to Phoenix.
He had managed to obtain both rings, after his father died, and he kept them even after von Karma chastised all thoughts of romance and marriage out of his head. As he got older, he would think back on that, on his first friend who he had considered marrying, and wonder how he could’ve ever been so silly.
The rings are sitting in a box at the bottom of his bedside table’s drawer now. They’ve been resized, but Phoenix doesn’t need to hear about that. He doesn’t need to know that Miles is still giving into silly, childish fantasies.
***
Miles is only really pretending to work when there’s a knock on his office door. It’s already 1:42, the clock proclaims, although he’s spent the last half hour trying to keep his mind off the time. He hasn’t done a very good job.
It’s just three gentle raps against the wood, but Miles is out of his chair and across the room within seconds. He can’t be allowed to psych himself out, not over this. So he grabs the handle of the door and gives himself a heartbeat to panic, before he’s wrenching it open.
On the other side, just like he expected — but perhaps didn’t manage to internalize — is Phoenix.
He’s smiling, softly, but Miles thinks it doesn’t look quite right on his face. He clearly hasn’t slept, and the corner of his mouth seems to be struggling to stay up. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Miles doesn’t comment on any of it. It’s not his place to comment on it, because this is a work trip, and Phoenix just got off a thirteen hour flight that he took at Miles’s request, and he doesn’t need to feel like he’s being condescended to. Even if Miles, really, truly, only wants to help.
He tilts his head in acknowledgement and doesn’t voice any of this. “Wright.”
“Edgeworth. Good to see you.” They don’t hug, but there’s a gap in conversation as if they’re leaving room for an embrace that should be there. He takes Phoenix into the office, and doesn’t think about it.
Phoenix drapes himself across the sofa. He is so unlike the soft, shy boy he once was, but Miles cannot bring himself to mind the change. “So. How about that case you wanted me to look over?”
“It’s rather late. It may be better to go to bed, and we can begin discussing this tomorrow,” Miles responds, already picking up the stack of files he has left on his desk. Phoenix is a stubborn creature.
“Nah, I’m good. I had some coffee on the flight over, so I’m a bit wired.”
Phoenix doesn’t actually like coffee, is the problem. He drinks it for the sole purpose of battling his endless insomnia, and Miles can’t see him ordering it on a flight taking place late in the evening. He does not say this.
“If you’re sure.” He puts the paperwork down on the table, and lets Phoenix begin rifling through it.
The case he chose is not worth the trip across the world, and they both know it. He could’ve easily shared the details with Phoenix over the phone and gotten his input from there, but his longing for Phoenix, for his physical presence, had begun to turn into that old familiar ache, and he couldn’t help himself.
Phoenix probably knows the real reason. Miles can’t decide if he hopes for that or not.
But it’s, ultimately, irrelevant, and no mention of it gets made. Miles likes to think he’s gotten quite good at knowing which spots not to press when it comes to Phoenix, and they’ve learned, by now, how to pretend at professionalism.
***
Miles had been told from a young age to see romance as a waste of time. Von Karma may have been married, but it said something that Miles could barely remember Mrs. von Karma’s face despite living with the family for most of his adolescent life.
They had never been close by any stretch of the imagination, but von Karma’s advice was still something that Miles chose to follow. He spent his younger years studying, avoiding connection with others, and slowly but surely becoming the isolated pawn his mentor had probably always wanted him to be.
To be fair, that didn’t mean Miles was entirely uninterested in relationships and sex as a whole — although, his consideration of the subjects was likely more clinical than was usual for men his age. Nonetheless, when he moved back to the states to complete his studies and take the bar, it wasn’t long before the trysts began.
He didn’t have the time for, nor the interest in, a more permanent relationship, but the occasional liaison was something he sought out relatively often — more often than von Karma would’ve been pleased with had he known.
He created many excuses for why he did it, both during and after that period of his life. A form of rebellion. A way of letting off steam. A compulsion from his years of loneliness.
Now, he thinks that his younger self probably just wanted to escape from the life he had been given. He liked the anonymity of it, the fact that he never saw any of those men again. He liked the idea that, for one night, he could be anyone he wanted to be to someone else.
After he got his badge, this habit waxed and waned — following particularly difficult cases, he often found himself seeking out a companion for an evening, but sometimes he would go months without doing so. It wasn’t until he met Phoenix again that he all but stopped, although he didn’t understand why until several months later.
The very last man had been Agent Lang, who had always had a smile that set Miles’s blood on fire and made him feel like a cornered animal. Right after Phoenix’s disbarment, they had reunited, and he was feeling reckless and self-destructive at the time. He had hoped that Lang might be able to help that.
But, after their second time, Miles had cut it off. Lang had been more sympathetic than he deserved when Miles confessed he couldn’t stop picturing Phoenix’s face every time they were together.
He didn’t try to seek out any other men after that. It would just be unfair to everyone involved.
***
It’s already three a.m. when they finally leave the office and head towards Miles’s apartment. Normally, Phoenix would book a hotel, but he’s flying back out the following evening, and they knew it would be too late to check into one when he landed anyways. So, the couch it is.
The drive there is quiet, and Miles wishes, suddenly, that he could ask what Phoenix is thinking. There had been a time when he could, and Phoenix would smile and tell him whatever was running through his overactive mind. They don’t have that anymore.
Miles throws together a rushed dinner — if it can be called “dinner” at this hour — and then they’re on the sofa with glasses of red wine, talking without any substance to their conversation.
Miles asks after Trucy. Phoenix asks after Franziska. They don’t ask about each other.
Phoenix, at the very least, seems to become looser when the wine enters his system. Miles is glad to see his shoulders droop as the tension leaves them, although it’s an observation he doesn’t bother to voice.
They lapse in and out of silence, never quite awkward but never quite comfortable without the safety of words between them. Miles wonders if they were ever able to find that — the ability to sit in silence together. He wonders if they ever will.
The clock strikes four. Their bowls are empty, but neither makes a move to get up. Miles is exhausted, but he doesn’t want to go to bed. Phoenix seems to feel the same way, and he pours more wine for them. With the rate they’re finishing this bottle, Miles thinks they’ll be up until dawn.
He doesn’t mind. He never minds, when it comes to Phoenix.
There’s another lapse in conversation, before Phoenix takes a sip of his drink and speaks as if they had been talking this whole time. “You should visit LA soon. Trucy wants to see you pretty badly.”
It’s casual, but Miles thinks — hopes, really — that Phoenix feels the significance of those words in the same way he does.
“Alright. How long should I come for?”
Phoenix smiles wryly, and Miles is glad to see that, sometimes, he can still guess at what Phoenix is thinking. “I don’t know. Her birthday’s coming up, so at least a few days. And you’ll have to be sure to bring her lots of gifts.”
Miles lifts his glass to his mouth, leaning into the cushions in what he hopes appears as a casual air. “I’ll come. As long as you promise not to play ‘Happy Birthday’ on the piano this year.”
Phoenix smirks. “What do you have against my piano playing, Edgeworth?”
“I would prefer my ears don’t start bleeding.”
Phoenix huffs a surprised laugh. “Hey!” He playfully shoves Miles’s shoulder. The motion causes a bit of wine to splash over the side of his glass and land on his perfectly pressed collar.
“Agh! Wright, look what you did.” He’s trying to sound serious, but it’s more of a defense mechanism than anything. Phoenix could ruin every single one of Miles’s shirts, if only it meant they could be like this always.
Phoenix is trying to look apologetic, but he must see that Miles isn’t really angry. “Shit, sorry, Edgeworth.” He grabs a leftover napkin from their earlier dinner, and begins dabbing at the stain. He’s very close now. Miles can smell the faintest whiff of his cheap hair products. “I would offer to pay for dry-cleaning, but you have so much money anyway…” He looks up, and his eyes lock on Miles’s cheek. “Hold on, you’ve got a bit,” He puts down the napkin, moving forward.
“Wright, what are you—” But Phoenix is already cupping Miles’s face in a warm palm, wiping away the stray wine with the pad of his thumb. Miles feels his breath catch in his throat.
Phoenix meets his eyes, and suddenly everything has shrunk down to this one moment, to the scant inches of space between them. Miles’s gaze flicks down, involuntarily, towards Phoenix’s lips, and he’s certain that Phoenix sees it.
Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe, just maybe, Phoenix feels that ache too. But whatever the cause, Miles finds himself leaning in, and Phoenix doesn’t stop him, even as their lips press together.
The rest of the world goes quiet.
***
Miles often thinks back to their last trial together, the last time he got to see Phoenix so bright and dazzling before it all crumbled apart.
He’s not sure when exactly he realized he was in love. Miles had never been good in matters of the heart, and his feelings for Phoenix were a complex web of uncertainties. Trying to label it as any one thing is, even now, a fool’s errand, and Miles has known that for a long time.
After it all ended — Iris arrested, Godot arrested, Maya and Pearl returned to Kurain — Miles had followed Phoenix back to his apartment. He had wanted, selfishly, to be the one to look after Phoenix that night. He had wanted to stop Phoenix from falling apart.
Phoenix was good at pretending it was alright, something he had learned long after childhood. But his hands were shaking. And, even though he wouldn’t say it, Miles was confident that he was looking for a way to ask him to stay.
Miles had wanted to do…something. Anything, if it meant Phoenix would stop looking at him like that. Like he had a fatal wound, but was trying to be brave about it. Miles had crossed the distance between them and pressed a hand to the back of Phoenix’s neck. He had felt Phoenix shiver at the touch.
“Wright…” He squeezed gently, and then Phoenix shattered, pressing himself into Miles hard. The next thing that Miles knew, they were in the bedroom, his suit jacket thrown carelessly on the floor, Phoenix’s mouth searing against his own.
They slept together that night. They said nothing to each other, but they didn’t need to. It was achingly tender, and filled with a sorrow Miles didn’t know how to place. He’s certain he saw Phoenix wipe tears out of his eyes at one point, and he had never been sure if it was because of the events of that trial, or because Phoenix had somehow looked into the future and seen what was to become of them.
The next morning, Miles sat in the airport and added it to the list of things he didn’t think about. Phoenix woke up alone, and they never spoke about it again.
***
The kiss lasts seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Miles tries to put it all to memory — the feeling of Phoenix’s fingers skimming across his jaw, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the feeling of his chest, firm and warm and real, beneath Miles’s hands.
But dreams can’t last forever, and Phoenix pulls away from him. Miles allows his eyes to open slowly; he wants to pretend, for just a little bit longer, that this is something he can have.
The look on Phoenix’s face is carefully blank, but Miles can see how his eyes have gone dim. His stomach sinks.
“Edgeworth,” Phoenix whispers, as if he’ll break if he says the words any louder. “We can’t.”
And Miles knows that, he does. He can list the dangers and complications and hundred other reasons why this is something he can’t have by heart. But even still, it’s too much to bear, and he lets himself give into his silly, childish fantasies, just for a second. “Why not?”
Phoenix smiles — a bittersweet answer all on its own — and pulls away.
Suddenly, the moment’s over. Phoenix stands and stretches his arms above his head. “Man, I’m beat!” Gone is the soft tone and the longing glances. The mask is firmly back in place. “We still have some work to do tomorrow, so how about we both get some sleep, yeah, Edgeworth?”
Miles inhales slowly. Exhales. Catalogs that every piece of him is put back in place, and then forces himself to play the game — to pretend it never happened at all. “An excellent idea, Wright. I’ll get the bedding for you.”
“Thanks, Edgeworth.” And if Miles were a betting man, if he were the type of man to make judgements based on anything besides cold, hard evidence, he would say there are the lingering traces of something in Phoenix’s expression. Something that says not yet, but soon. But he knows it wouldn’t hold up in court.
Miles turns his back to him, and decides not to think about it.