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What a way to celebrate the new year, and what a way to celebrate a win. He supposed it was better than being alone with his thoughts for the rest of the season.
Edgeworth was not much of a drinker. Wright seemed to assume he was, or maybe he just had expensive tastes himself—he said expensive only relatively, of course. It was red wine. He recognized the label. He took care not to spill even a drop on Wright's couch cushions, even if he could stand to replace them, even if he grew dizzier the more he drank.
Wright had a better tolerance than him, but he still loosened up more than Miles could ever dream of, laughing, reminiscing, telling stories. He sounded sad when he spoke of Maya, and not much better when the conversation managed to make its way to their shared childhood. They didn't speak of that very much.
The apartment was terribly warm, so he shed his coat halfway through their conversation. Wright insisted he just "ran cold", and that he always kept it like this in winter, and Miles silently mourned the bills he must have to pay. Perhaps he would lend him some money. Perhaps that was too friendly for their relationship.
He was not particularly tempted to sleep. He rarely was, until maybe halfway through January, when the nightmares became a little more bearable. He really ought to be over it by now. He knew it wasn't him. Nothing about it was logical, and yet here he was. Another personal failing, he supposed. Wright did not comment on this failing, likely out of some attempt at politeness. Or comfort, he couldn't help but think, before he drove that helpful mental intrusion away. They were coworkers. Honestly, Miles. It wasn't as if a shared victory made them codependent.
"Hey, doin' okay?" Wright startled him out of his useless thoughts. He nodded. He was only tired, that was surely it. As he leaned his head back, looked up at the ceiling (there were greyish water stains above the television), Wright shifted to his side, stared for a bit too long.
He stood.
"I really should be going," Miles muttered as he dusted off his vest, which was not very dirty at all, "thank you very much for…all this." Whatever all this meant. Resolutely, he marched (or perhaps wobbled) toward the door. He'd have to order a ride home. He could deal with his own car later—another excuse to come by and see Wright, as if he'd let himself pursue that foolish train of thought.
Wright near-immediately pushed himself up off the couch as well, catching him by the shoulder. "Miles—er, Edgeworth.." He was halfway through the hall, why was Wright grabbing for him now—"Your, uh. Coat." He held it out awkwardly, draped over his arm.
"…right, thank you."
"It's cold. Wouldn't want to leave it."
"..no, I wouldn't."
God, how did he win any of his cases?
With a strained smile and polite nod to Wright, he made his way to the door. As he swung it open (it squeaked, he hated the noise) he was faced with a gust of freezing air and a smattering of sleet. He grimaced.
Wright did the same from behind him. "God, I hate winter." Miles chanced a smile. "You say so often." It was true—ever since he was a child, it had been.
Wright pointedly ignored the statement, but he laughed almost nervously before his next comment.
"Hey, surely you don't wanna walk all the way to the street in this weather..you'll catch a cold, and—"
"You can't catch colds from chilly weather, Wright."
"—And yeah, I know that, but I'm really trying to find a good reason to ask you to stay."
Miles flushed. "Honestly, Wright. You're too straightforward."
"I thought you liked straightforward!" Wright protested, throwing his hands up. He was right. He usually was.
"I like straightforward when it isn't idiotic! Why would I want to stay here?" When had he gotten drunk enough to sink to Wright's level? Petty arguments weren't worth it.
"Because you just got proved innocent in a murder case, and it's probably been a bad year, and I missed you-" Miles sighed. Fuck, there's no way he was considering this.
He shut the door, turned around. No use in letting in cold air. Wright's expression shifted to something a little more hopeful, like a dog. He was always quite akin to a dog. Miles liked dogs.
"I'll sleep on the couch, Miles. It'll be easier, and we can both sleep off the wine…" Wright sighed.
"I'm not going to ask you to sleep on the couch, Wright. It's your home, for God's sake." He shook his head. "I will be fine there. Thank you." He couldn't help but smile as Wright clearly relaxed.
He followed the man back into the apartment, sat down stiffly on the couch. It was soft enough, it would do for the night. It wasn't as if he'd get much sleep. He expected Wright to head off to his own bed like any reasonable man, but instead he sat down, staring over at Miles. Miles liked dogs.
"…you're okay, right? After the case and all?" Miles nodded, because he didn't care to explain in detail.
…
"You know I won't sleep." Did it hurt to be honest? It felt like it would.
"I—we don't have to sleep, right? It's already late, and-"
"Go to bed, Wright. I won't have you sacrificing a half-decent schedule for the sake of me staying over on a whim. What would that accomplish, in any case?"
Wright sounded exasperated. "I was trying to employ innuendo, Miles. I forgot you can't understand that for shit." Miles thought he was perfectly good at understanding innuendo.
…
"Christ, Phoenix. You can't be serious."
"I already explained myself earlier. I'm not—you don't have to say yes, and we don't ever have to talk about it again, and I don't want to pressure you or anything—but it's been a bad year, yeah? And we're friends?" Miles was already flushed redder than his car, but the last bit didn't necessarily improve it. "Just-say no if you don't want to, and I don't wanna make any of this worse, I'll call a cab for you if you just want to go—"
"I didn't turn you down, Wright." Miles forced out. He sounded more confident than he was.
…
"Huh?"
"I said that I don't intend to refuse, but if you keep rambling, one of us will lose our will, so-"
(Fuck it, this would surely be the end of his private and professional life-)
Miles clumsily crashed his mouth against Wright's, hand fisting into his shirt and drifting up toward his hair.
Miles liked dogs, and he liked how Phoenix lapped at his mouth and panted, and he liked how careless it all felt. Miles hated his body, because it hadn't fit right for a long while, but maybe while they were both drunk enough, Phoenix could make him feel wanted, or liked, if he was lucky, and maybe this was a good arrangement.
He gradually flattened Wright against the couch, and they were sure to regret all this, but Phoenix had said it himself, that they didn't have to talk about it. That it didn't have to mean anything.
It had been a bad year.
And so, 2 months later…
Edgeworth was at a low point. The sort of low point where life consisted of work, and deep thought, and his damned 12th floor office. He hated heights. He couldn't stop looking out the window.
He hadn't seen Wright for a long while, at work or at home, save for an instance where they passed each other in a supermarket and Edgeworth left without half the items on his list just so he could hurry away.
He supposed it was lucky. A good excuse to keep true to their word, to not talk about it all. The sex had been…good, kind. The morning after had been terrifying. Edgeworth left early with a hangover and a feeling that he wouldn't forgive himself for the whole situation. Phoenix hadn't minded his body. He'd felt a bit like crying.
And so, he pulled into the carpark and he took the stairs to his floor, and he started his day by looking out the window and wondering how long it would take him to fall, and if Wright would think it was a murder instead of his own choice.