Chapter Text
Edgeworth let himself and Phoenix into his office, where a bottle of L’Aroma Cabernet Sauvignon and two wine glasses sat waiting for them on his desk. Phoenix draped himself over the couch against the wall while Edgeworth walked up to the desk and produced a corkscrew from his breast pocket to open the wine.
Phoenix let out a groan as he shook off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “God. That was four hours of my life I’m never getting back.”
The deposition of Otto Corazzi, a key eyewitness in the Musqué case, had yielded little fruit. Corazzi tried several times to end the proceedings prematurely, fixating on emphasising that Musqué had deceived him into thinking he was a homeless man in need of shelter and Corazzi had merely offered to guide him. The longer it went on, the more Phoenix had started to wonder seriously if Musqué’s sob story was a crock. After all, he had walked into a hospital masquerading as a doctor — the man was clearly unstable. But to admit that would be conceding to an insanity plea, and this just didn’t sit right with Phoenix.
D’Artagnan had been of completely sound mind during their handful of interactions prior to the second stabbing. He was certainly lucid enough when they… Well, at any rate, whatever madness had gripped him around the time of Edgeworth’s stabbing, Musqué had more than regained his sanity by the time he showed up at Phoenix’s apartment to collect his keys and eventually wound him. He was a criminal, simple as that. And his story about Corazzi’s philandering may well have been a scheme to garner sympathy. After all, where was the evidence of this research? Musqué’s attorney had been extremely resistant to any attempts by the prosecution to raise the question of its whereabouts, citing, “relevance? Relevance?” And, when the very obvious relevance to the case was pointed out to him, he insisted that it didn’t pertain to Musqué’s state of mind, which was the subject in question.
Phoenix just wanted it all to be over with. He did not look forward to facing Musqué again at his own deposition, despite Edgeworth’s firm but gentle encouragements. The only reason he agreed to appear at Corazzi’s had been because of Miles. Miles and his relentless logic. Miles and his stupid, velvety voice that could persuade Phoenix to do almost anything.
The cork in the wine popped, drawing Phoenix out of his head and back into the room. Edgeworth decanted some wine into one glass, swilled it around, then poured it into the other. Then he poured the wine from the second glass back into the first, before handing it to Phoenix.
“Is that an OCD thing?” Phoenix asked earnestly.
“As a matter fact, no,” said Edgeworth. His immediate colleagues were all aware that he had some minor, what he would call, ‘eccentricities’ that were generally not to be commented on. These were little rituals he had to complete sometimes, which rarely got in the way of his work but occasionally raised some eyebrows. A lot of these were purely cerebral, and therefore invisible to the untrained eye. “I don’t drink enough of the stuff to warrant keeping a decanter around, so this is just how I aerate my wine.”
“I see.” Phoenix took a sip. “You know, I’m partial to the nasty screw-top stuff, myself, but this isn’t half bad.”
Edgeworth, now with his own glass, leant against the edge of his desk. “Do you believe Corazzi’s testimony?”
“I believe it’s very important to him that we believe it,” said Phoenix. “Which does give the philandering story some credence. But I kind of don’t want to give Musqué any credit.”
“Mm.” Edgeworth sipped his own wine thoughtfully. “I think he’s telling the truth about Musqué specifically. If Corazzi preys on feminine-presenting twenty-somethings as Musqué claims, he wouldn’t be interested in a fifty-year-old. Even if Musqué is in absurdly good shape.” He grimaced a little.
Phoenix pondered this. “That’s true. He made it sound like Corazzi was a serial sugar daddy. They tend to go for younger men or women.” He looked down suddenly. “Of course — that’s not always the case.”
“It’s enough of a precedent to question why Musqué would use himself as bait in the first place,” said Edgeworth. “The defense says he was not of sound mind. If we believe that, the question is: what’s wrong with him? Is it grief? Obsession? To prove he was unwell enough to believe he could seduce Corazzi, who we are presuming is exclusively interested in feminine-presenting men and women under — thirty, let’s say, Musqué’s defense would need to establish a history of mental illness, or else a piece of evidence to explain this lapse in rationality. Was his husband in immediate danger? Why did he choose to act then?” Edgeworth stared off into the distance, the look on his face one of deep vexation. “The truth is buried somewhere between Corazzi’s testimony and Musqué’s, but the stretch between them is a hundred acres long and wide.”
Phoenix had, by this point, buried his face in a pillow on the couch, his empty wine glass on the floor next to his feet. “Ugh. I can’t think about the case anymore.” he lifted his head and looked up at Edgeworth beseechingly. “I need more wine.”
Obliging, Edgeworth picked up Phoenix’s glass and filled it nearly to the rim. “I’ll withhold any reproachful comments tonight, for your sake. You deserve a drink.”
“Thank you,” Phoenix whispered, taking the glass back hungrily. “I was teetotal for five years. If that doesn’t show restraint, I don’t know what does.” Well, I suppose I can think of one other thing, he thought.
As if reading his mind, Edgeworth undid the button on his jacket, letting the sides hang loose at his waist. And what a waist it was. What a waste, Phoenix joked to himself, he could have been a model.
Edgeworth topped up his own glass and held it out to clink against Phoenix’s. “To surviving the knifepoint.”
“To being alive,” Phoenix said half-heartedly. He took a swig, then winced as it went down. “Jesus. That’s some good grape. I’m going to regret this in the morning, aren’t I?”
“The best of life’s pleasures usually result in regret,” said Edgeworth.
Phoenix pursed his lips. “Is that why you won’t sleep with me?”
The room went silent. Edgeworth raised his eyebrows and looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Phoenix said quickly. “That was — came out wrong, completely wrong. I spoke to Trucy…” Edgeworth glanced back at him. “She said I need to go easier on you, you know, about—” He gestured between the pair of them, “—and how maybe I came on too strong, at first. I get that. You know, I don’t mind… whatever you wanna do, you know, with yourself, and… I’m just happy to be here.” He drank his wine to silence himself.
Edgeworth smiled. “Phoenix,” he said, and the gentleness in his tone made Phoenix flinch. He resented himself for being so short with Miles at times, who was always so patient with him. “I… really rather appreciated your forwardness, actually. I never would have…” He stared down into his glass. “I couldn’t acknowledge, even to myself, how I felt about you until you put it out in the open. For a moment, it was as though this terrible weight had been lifted.”
“But then,” Phoenix continued for him, “the implicit expectation…”
“Precisely.” Edgeworth inclined his head gratefully.
Phoenix sighed. “I’ve just been… restless,” he confessed. “You were right, kind of. After you were attacked, I started thinking about my future more. How I used to imagine it. I always figured I’d have a kid or two, but more like when I was thirty-five, or forty. And I figured I would have someone by then, you know? For a while, I thought…” He frowned, as if deliberating whether to continue. “Well, I had Trucy. But I also had someone… looking out for us. Granted, we weren’t exactly Leave It to Beaver, but we were taken care of. And I missed being… touched.” Now Phoenix was staring at his wine awkwardly. Was this how Edgeworth felt every time he had to confess to momentarily experiencing an emotion? Crushing, all-consuming shame?
“That’s understandable,” said Edgeworth. “I had my fair share of — stopgaps, in Europe—” he said, then seemed to think better of it, “—’flings’ is perhaps the correct term. Of course, if you’d only told me you were struggling—”
“I wouldn’t. Even now, I don’t want anything to do with your money,” said Phoenix. “Which is to say — it would be nice, you know, to be with someone who isn’t a murderer, or a violent criminal, or effectively paying for the pleasure of my company.” He stood, knocking back the rest of his wine before walking over to the desk to get more.
Edgeworth stopped him with a hand, swigging the rest of his own wine with the other then setting his glass down next to Phoenix’s. “Let’s not get hammered, tonight.”
“Hey, I can handle my grape juice,” Phoenix replied indignantly. “It’s spirits that are my kryptonite.”
“Still.” Edgeworth set the wine to one side, then turned his gaze back on Phoenix, who was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were.
Phoenix glanced down at the desk, where Edgeworth’s hands were gripping the edge for balance. He wondered what wood they had used to make it. Was it hollow? Or did Edgeworth keep all his heaviest documents in there, along with all his secrets?
When he looked back up and met Edgeworth’s eye again, he felt a tangible shift in the atmosphere. It was as if Edgeworth were challenging him. He looked faintly cross, which in Edgeworth Body Language usually meant he was extremely focused on something. Something told Phoenix that if he said anything, it would shatter the moment.
He brought one hand over to rest on Edgeworth’s knee, examining his face for a reaction. Edgeworth was unfazed. Phoenix slid the hand higher, to the beginning of the inner thigh, and felt the muscle under the fabric tense. He stopped, looking to Edgeworth for instruction.
Edgeworth appeared to be holding his breath. He glanced over at the door. “The key’s in the lock,” he muttered.
Obediently, Phoenix went over to the door and locked it, then walked back slowly to the desk. Edgeworth shifted in place, as if bracing himself. Slowly, very delicately, Phoenix snaked his hands under the flaps of Edgeworth’s jacket and let them rest on either side of his waist. His eyes flicked down to Edgeworth’s torso, his fingers tapping lightly against what felt like a band of thick fabric around the middle.
He looked back up at him quizzically. “What’s this?”
Edgeworth went slightly pink. “Shapewear,” he said quietly.
“Like compression gear? For your scar?” Phoenix asked. He worried he had utterly killed the mood already, but Edgeworth seemed determined to continue.
“Used to be,” he said, his voice thin. “But… I liked it. The straightening effect, how it made me look in my suits.” His cheeks were reddening, and Phoenix tried his best to appear neutral. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Phoenix glanced down at Edgeworth’s waist again, only now noticing the faint shadow of the fabric underneath his shirt. “Can I see?”
After some hesitation, Edgeworth nodded, and Phoenix carefully undid his shirt buttons until the bodice was revealed. It was a pleasant cream colour, with tiny floral patterns embroidered on the front. He traced his fingertips over them reverently, before withdrawing his hand and meeting Edgeworth’s eye again. “Thank you.”
“I can take it off, if you like,” said Edgeworth. “It’s just — vanity.”
“No.” Phoenix smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “It’s sexy,” he said earnestly. Then, “do you want to take it off?”
Edgeworth considered this. “I’d rather not. Just for now.”
Phoenix nodded, encircling Edgeworth in his arms and bringing his face very close to his. Edgeworth’s eyes were wide, making him look slightly terrified, but he grasped Phoenix’s shoulders as if to say, ‘Don’t go away. I’m just taking it all in.’
After a long moment, in which they stared into each other’s eyes seeming to converse with one another in total silence, Miles tilted his head slightly, and Phoenix twitched his chin a half-inch forward in response. Just like that, the gap between them closed and they were sinking into each other, plummeting through a bottomless chasm. Phoenix had his whole bodyweight pressed into Miles, yet somehow they weren’t falling over backwards. They were two equal and opposite forces, magnetised to one another so strongly there was little room to do much else besides excavate the other’s mouth with his own. Eventually, Miles gathered the wherewithal to plunge his hands into Phoenix’s hair, and it was at that point the unstoppable force yielded to the immovable object. Phoenix pulled away just long enough to reposition himself in Miles’ neck, where he set up camp quite comfortably for the next minute and a half. All the while, Miles was combing his fingers through Phoenix’s hair, every so often letting out a little involuntary sigh that encouraged him further.
Once again, Phoenix broke away but paused this time to regard Miles from more of a distance. His face felt hot, and he could tell from their proximity that Miles was starting to get aroused. Yet, inexplicably, he could not sense the same thing happening for himself. He frowned, then quickly masked it — but not before Miles noticed.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Phoenix replied breathlessly. His chest panged guility. “You’re amazing. You know that?”
Miles shrugged with mock-humility. “It has been said.”
“Prick.” Phoenix chuckled, although the confusion he felt at his own body’s non-compliance lingered.
Apparently sensing this, Miles reached up and brushed Phoenix’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’ve been such a fool,” he said, almost painfully. “You’ve been exactly this far from me countless times before, and I’ve never thought to kiss you until now.”
“Yeah. For such a smart guy, you can be a real dumbass sometimes,” Phoenix replied.
Miles grinned. Grinned. His smile had always been a precious, beautiful thing for all its rarity, but this was priceless. He was a different person entirely, when he smiled like that, a person Phoenix recognised and resonated with on a deeply buried stratum of his soul. Phoenix leant forward and kissed him, tentatively at first and then with voracity. Still nothing. His impulse was to slam the table, but he figured he didn’t need to kill Miles’ erection as well as his own.
After another minute, Phoenix broke the kiss again and looked down at the floor in frustration. “I’m sorry,” he said, the heat of shame and anger rising into his face. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” Miles asked. His tone was one of concern, but knowing Edgeworth, Phoenix knew there was some hurt mixed in there too. How could he tell him it wasn’t his fault without explaining it in plain terms and humiliating himself?
“I think it’s the wine,” said Phoenix, making a show of rubbing his temples. “Goes straight to my head. The — tannins. I think I need to lie down.”
Evidently determining the show was over, Edgeworth guided Phoenix over to the couch and began doing up his shirt. He sat next to him, watching Phoenix’s Oscar-worthy performance with an air of both amusement and unease.
“We’ve had a long day,” said Edgeworth, his usual steely demeanour swiftly repossessing him. “You ought to take some time for yourself, at home.”
Phoenix lifted the arm he had dramatically thrown over his eyes to peer at him. “Can I get a ride?”
“Certainly,” Edgeworth replied, smiling as he took his phone out of his jacket to text his driver. Phoenix threw the arm back over his eyes and half-sighed, half-groaned.
Edgeworth’s driver took them back to Phoenix’s apartment building, where Phoenix and Edgeworth said their farewells. Phoenix wanted to lean through the window into the backseat to kiss Miles goodbye, but his persistent embarrassment from earlier that night prevented him from doing so. Nevertheless, there was a definite longing in their gaze as the driver pulled away, the hand outstretched through the open window squeezing Phoenix’s hand tightly before letting go and waving.
This is what you wanted, he thought as he climbed the first flight of stairs. The elevator was functioning, but he needed the walk up to tire him out and put him to sleep that night. Why does it feel so shitty?
Maybe it was stress. That was the story he was telling himself, in any case. There was simply too much going on at the moment, what with the case and the dilemma about the house and, perhaps most of all, getting used to his new routine. He now had to incorporate emptying a stoma bag into his every day schedule, and it made already bad days feel ten times worse. He was grateful to be alive, of course, and that the doctors had been able to operate on him so swiftly. He was grateful his body worked, if a little differently to how it used to, and he was grateful to be independent. But none of that made seeing himself with different anatomy, however supposedly trivial that change may have been, any easier.
His therapist — the one they gave him after apprehending Musqué — had told him this was normal after any life-altering surgery. It was natural to feel somewhat stripped of one’s autonomy after being operated on and waking up to a body that was still yours, but changed in some way. Moreover, it was a constant reminder of his attack. Musqué had left a permanent mark on him, more permanent perhaps than a scar like Edgeworth’s. He could not ignore this mark no matter how hard he tried, and he had been forced to change his behaviour to accommodate it. He had to care for the mark, pay close attention to it so that it didn’t get damaged or infected, and worse still — had to show it to the jury. He had requested not to be asked to lift his shirt up in court, but there were pictures of his stoma that had been entered into evidence to illustrate the severity of his injury. Phoenix was not a shy man, but this level of exposure unnerved and demoralised him. Even if he went to prison for life, Musqué had won in some small way. He had won by the metric of punishing Phoenix for being vulnerable, for walking blithely into the web of yet another beautiful, venomous spider. Phoenix had come away alive, miraculously, but not with superpowers or an immunity to the poison. Just a gigantic thorn in his side.
He let himself into his apartment and took a shower. It felt oddly good to be naked, to not feel his clothes tugging on the bag constantly. He thought about kissing Miles earlier that evening, and it was only there in the shower that his body finally responded as it should have done. He masturbated, not with great enthusiasm, and got ready for bed. Kissing Miles for the first time should have made this evening one of the best in his life. It was definitely up there, but his frustration with himself and his guilt for not showing Miles a better time ate away at all the good stuff.
Phoenix lay in bed and tried to sleep, but his mind filled with details of the case. He began to dread the upcoming deposition of the defendant, Musqué. He would have to face him, especially if he wanted the man behind bars, and listen as the defense outlined their relationship to one another. The victim had an intimate encounter with the defendant. Victim. Part of him questioned if it wasn’t all his fault, in a way. He had invited the man into his home, after all. He knew this was an unhelpful line of thought; his therapist had warned him against going down these paths of self-reflection. Sometimes, he said, it can do more harm than good to be alone with your thoughts. Rumination is only helpful if you have a goal in mind for what you want to achieve. Are you trying to better your understanding of a situation? Are you examining your own behaviour to clarify whether you acted based on a feeling or a thought?
He put on one of his guided meditations in an effort to empty his mind. The narrator was a female voice with a low, lilting tone: “Now, I invite you to imagine a place where you feel completely safe and at peace. This can be a real place you've been to, or an imaginary landscape—perhaps a serene forest, a quiet beach, or a peaceful meadow.”
An open field.
“Picture this place in your mind. What do you see? What colours, shapes, or details stand out to you?”
It’s just me, alone in the tall grass. There’s a slight breeze. The sky is pink and orange and lilac.
“Now, tune into the sounds around you. Maybe you hear the gentle rustling of leaves, the soft lapping of waves, or the distant call of birds.”
There are children’s voices in the distance. They’re laughing, but the sound is very faint.
“As you rest in this peaceful place, take a moment to connect with your inner self. If you feel comfortable, silently repeat these affirmations, or create your own:
“I am at peace with myself and the world around me.”
I am at peace with myself and the world around me.
“I am calm, centred, and relaxed.”
I’m lonely.
“I release all that no longer serves me, embracing peace and joy.”
I’m lonely.
“Feel the truth of these words resonating within you. Let them become a part of you, filling you with a deep sense of calm and confidence.”
I am alone.
Edgeworth sat in his office the Monday following the deposition of Corazzi, sipping a cup of oolong tea and trying not to think about Phoenix Wright. It had been incredibly careless of him to carry on like that in his own office when he knew what that would inevitably do to his concentration. At present, he was staring down at a case file detailing the latest exploits of a serial killer in Japan, which he had requested specially from one of his associates there out of professional curiosity, and yet his mind was completely elsewhere.
He had offered to assist with the case if need be, which would involve flying himself out to Japan to appear as an expert witness. Edgeworth’s Japanese was serviceable, if noticeably American. In English, he spoke with his father’s accent, but in Japanese he spoke with what he could only assume was his mother’s. He had learnt it from the same tutor she did, a friend of his late grandfather’s who made it his mission to promote fluency in bilingual children. It was a trip Edgeworth had been looking forward to for some time, but now it seemed like a chore to so much as think about for over a minute.
Phoenix had been so gentle with him, so tender, precisely as he had always imagined. Well — truth be told, his fantasies had always more often than not manifested as dreams ranging from relatively chaste to utterly debauched. It was as if he were immersed in a cloud of relief; he had kissed Phoenix Wright, and the universe had not imploded. Granted, it did seem toward the end that Phoenix balked under pressure — something Edgeworth more than understood. It was immense. Were it not for the wine steadying his nerves, he may have been unable to cope with the sheer headiness of the whole encounter. Phoenix’s reaction to his bodice, especially, would have knocked him over dead had he been forced to endure it stone-cold sober. The tenderness with which he had regarded it, the obvious desire in his eyes as they scanned over Edgeworth’s body. He had forgotten how it felt to be desired, and being wanted by Phoenix Wright was altogether a different kind of high.
His libido since that evening had increased astronomically as well, to the extent that Edgeworth had been somewhat shy around everyone recently. He was afraid they might somehow smell it on him, that he was in love with a gorgeous, brilliant man and it was causing him to waste away from the inside out. Part of him didn’t want to hide it. It wanted him to wear it on his breast like a badge, or in a frame above his desk like a certificate. The Board of Total and Complete Pathetos recognises MILES EDGEWORTH as the world’s most insufferable sap.
They hadn’t addressed that evening since Edgeworth dropped Phoenix off at his apartment, but they didn’t need to. Strangely, it felt completely right that they weren’t discussing it. Nothing about that evening warranted a discussion. They were in complete understanding of each other, at long last. Edgeworth sat back in his chair dreamily, the steam from his tea turning the lenses on his glasses opaque. Phoenix Wright was his, and all was right with the world.