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Miles
Like most evenings as of late, Miles finds himself outside the Wright household. He's bone-tired after a long day of work, fiddling with the key to the apartment before jamming it in the lock and entering. There's something about his friend's home that rejuvenates him; the clutter of shoes strewn beside the entryway, the warm lighting bathing everything in comforting ambers and golds, the worn edges of the upholstery and couches. It's well lived in and well loved, a stark contrast to Miles' sterile condo.
He toes off his shoes, hangs his coat up beside a jumble of capes and blue jackets and pads down the short hallway. He peeks into the living room— the now familiar sight of Wright, focus locked on his laptop, textbooks scattered around his crossed legs, greets him.
In preparation for Wright's bar exam, Miles has spent the last few months hunched over legal tomes with him, running through exam papers and practice essays. They'd started meeting at their respective offices, cramped around the WAA coffee table or working awkwardly around piles of Miles' paperwork. Wright was the first to suggest moving his revision sessions to his apartment, which Miles was embarrassingly quick to agree to.
Wright only needed a slight push in the beginning, understandably reluctant to return to the legal world that had cast him out. It only took a few weeks of analysing case files and Miles' gentle encouragement before Wright was in the full swing of things. Miles started to feel a little redundant after that point; his legal knowledge was not much use once his friend was tearing through exam questions with impressive accuracy.
That's how Miles has come to find his evenings spent puttering aimlessly around the Wright household.
"Hey," Wright says, craning his neck over his shoulder. Miles nods back in greeting, ambling into the room to crouch beside the coffee table. He picks up empty mugs and takeout containers, beginning their near-nightly argument about when Wright last had a proper meal. He learns in horror that the man had skipped breakfast and was living off week-old leftover Chinese food. Miles leaves Wright to his studies and resolves to cobble dinner together.
It's somewhere between the act of washing up Wright's mug and debating whether to recycle or throw the takeout in the trash that it dawns on him. How has he not noticed sooner? He can almost hear his sister's voice in his head, screaming that only a foolish fool would allow himself to become domesticated by an ex-attorney.
That's what he's become. Domesticated.
It would have been appropriate for Miles to at least shudder. To want to run away at the thought of this change. It's what he's done in the past, to very poor results, but the option is there. Instead, he decides to empty the contents of the takeout into the trash and recycle the box.
He finds himself smiling as he pulls out the ingredients to make pasta, unearthing garlic bread from the depths of the freezer and gets to work.
"Is Trucy going to be in tonight?" Miles calls out loud enough to carry into the neighbouring rooms.
"She'll be out until late. Just us tonight," comes the bellowing reply. Miles accounts for her anyway, adding more garlic bread to the oven tray. There's a slam of a laptop case and the tread of bare feet against linoleum before Wright surfaces beside Miles, "smells good."
"You're not exactly difficult to please," Miles mutters, smirking at the gasp of offence that slips past his friend's lips. Miles scoops pasta onto his wooden spoon, blowing the steam away before offering it up to the man beside him. Wright's frown evaporates as he inelegantly takes a bite, red sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth. Miles nods at his hum of approval, taking the pot off the heat.
Miles is trying hard not to think about the way Wright's pink tongue darted out to swipe the sauce away.
They're piling their plates high with pasta; Miles is trying hard not to think about the way Wright's lips wrapped around the spoon. Their thighs are pressed together on the couch as they eat; Miles is trying hard to ignore Wright's moans of delight at every other bite of food. They're arguing about what movie to put on; Miles is trying hard not to reach out and brush away the crumbs of garlic bread trapped in Wright's stubble-littered chin.
He had always thought he was more attracted to the idea of Wright rather than the actual man himself. This great and unconventional legal mind that had saved and changed him for the better. He was fine with being a little infatuated; he could deal with that. Then, that image of Wright shattered over the disbarment. He took on the mantel of father and traded polyester suits for beanies and sweatshirts. These changes had not broken the spell he had on Miles like he would have expected. He was horrified to realise these feelings were something more.
The last few months had him truly free-falling. He's managed to keep him at a professional distance all this time— but now he gets to watch him intimately, brows scrunched in concentration as he revises in loose sweats and ratty t-shirts, bathed in homely golds and yellows. He had paid for a bespoke suite worthy of the head of a legal firm. He cooks and cleans for him. He's dropped everything to cross the world for the man.
In conclusion, Miles is fucked. He knows he is. He's so far gone for him it's ridiculous.
He knows it's not a case of if but when Wright passes his exam. And when that does happen, Miles won't have an excuse to hang around like this anymore. He stills his thoughts and allows himself to enjoy these stolen moments. So naturally, Miles puts on a documentary with a soft-spoken narrator, knowing Wright will eventually fall asleep slumped on Miles' shoulder.
He had the foresight to pile their plates on the nearby coffee table, so his hands are free to grab the blanket slung over the arm of the couch. He drapes it over his friend's sleeping form.
Miles lets the documentary play quietly in the background, afraid of breaking Wright's fragile sleep.
The only disadvantage of this position is that Miles can't really see Wright's face. The consolation is the feel of Wright's nose buried into his neck, his dark hair tickling at his jaw, his breath coming out in warm puffs to condense against Miles' skin. Perhaps sight is overrated. Anyone is free to look at the man. Lord knows he's spent a lifetime staring, whether that be across the courtroom, through the divide of the glass of the detention centre or here, in Wright's home.
There aren't many who can say they know how Wright feels— if Miles knew his solid mass pressed against him would drive him this insane, he would have done it sooner. Or, he would go back to warn himself to stay away because the ache of parting when Wright inevitably wakes up drives him equally insane.
In conclusion, again, Miles is fucked.
"You look cozy."
Miles suppresses himself from jumping out of his skin. He searches the room, eyes landing on Trucy sauntering in. There's a knowing smile on her face.
"Good evening, Trucy," Miles whispers, "there's tomato pasta in the kitchen if you want it. Had to fight your father to leave some garlic bread for you too— it's in the oven."
Trucy sniffs the air as she squeezes herself beside Miles on the couch, "see, that's how I knew you were here. Smelled way too good for it to be Daddy's cooking."
"Wuzzat..?" Wright grunts, roused from sleep, squirming himself upright. Miles' executive functions shut down as Wright's lips unintentionally brush against his pulse point. He hopes the dim lighting hides the blush creeping up his neck as the man sits up, smacking his lips together, "oh, hey Truce."
Father and daughter converse, but Miles' ears are ringing. His mind is blank, the only sensation he's clinging to is the ghost of lips pressed to his breath-warmed skin. He knows what it's like to watch Wright, to listen, to touch him. Now he's overwhelmed with his need to taste.
He notes Trucy getting up, saying her goodbyes and goodnights before leaving the room. He can't be sure; his mind is still rebooting piece by piece, but he thinks he said goodnight back.
Once his frontal lobe is back online, guilt floods his system. He feels sick. Yes, he's in love with the man; he made peace with that years ago. But his thoughts have surely crossed a horribly repressed line. If Wright knew what he was thinking, would he be repulsed? Would he feel violated?
"Has anyone told you that you have a real comfy shoulder?" Wright yawns, sleep tugging his eyelids down. Miles can't even open his mouth to reply, not that it matters, as Wright doesn't wait for an answer. He slumps against Miles again, "tell me to go to bed."
That snaps Miles out of his trance, "excuse me?"
Phoenix sits up again, eyes cracked open a sliver, "if I fall asleep here, my back will be fucked by tomorrow morning, so I need you to tell me to go to bed."
"My shoulder can't be that comfortable."
"But it is. Just tell me," Wright sways, unstable now he isn't moored to Miles.
"You're impossible," Miles scoffs. Wright looks ridiculous, eyes closed, and lips spread into a sleepy smile. Miles thinks about pink tongues and red sauces and lips around spoons and breaths on necks and— God, do you know what you do to me? "Fine, to bed with you, Wright."
"Sir, yes, sir." Eyes still shut, guided by some inner compass with Miles at its north, Wright sways close. Too close. Dangerously close. Miles should move back, should push him upright. He's helplessly frozen as warm lips press against his. That's all it really is, a brief brush of skin on skin. It's barely a kiss; Miles isn't sure if it even constitutes as that. Whatever it is, it lights his nervous system on fire. He's dimly aware of Wright leaving the room. He's left alone with nothing but dirty plates and a blanket that holds Wright's lingering warmth to watch over him.
He lifts a hand, tracing a finger across his lips, replaying those brief seconds of contact over and over again.
He's thinking about it as he drives home.
He's thinking about it as he lies in bed.
Blissfully, he doesn't dream about it. It's the first thing on his mind as he wakes up.
Phoenix
Phoenix wakes up with a jolt. His mind does a near instant reply of the previous night.
I've assaulted the Chief Prosecutor.
He flips over and groans into his pillow.
I've assaulted my best friend.
He pulls the covers over his head, writhing around in horror and embarrassment. Last night was perfect. Why did he have to go and fuck it up?
Edgeworth, the neat freak, had come in, accepted the state of his home and cleaned up for him without judgement. He'd cooked for him, let him drool over his pristine shirt. Touch-averse Edgeworth had let him nose into his neck, had let him breathe in his citrusy cologne mixed with Edgeworth's natural musk. His heady scent had enveloped Phoenix as he drifted to sleep, head cradled by his friend's shoulder.
Had he seriously called Edgeworth's shoulders comfy?
And then- and then he had-
The love of his life had spoon-fed him, lulled him into a sleep-drunk state, and had looked so gorgeous and soft in the low light of his living room. But none of these are new experiences. There's no excuse for his behaviour; he knows that. Phoenix has been able to resist making a move for years. He doesn't know what possessed him last night to act on his feelings in the worst possible way.
"Fuck," Phoenix is so close to tears. His heart clenches at the thought of what Edgeworth must be going through.
He picks up his phone, navigating to Edgeworth's contact. His fingers hover over the keyboard. He hesitates over the call button. He swallows thickly, presses the button and holds the phone to his ear.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And-
You have reached Miles Edgeworth-
"Edgeworth, I'm so-"
-I can't take your call at the moment, please leave your message after the tone.
Phoenix ends the call before he can hear the beep. He knows at this exact time of 6:15 am, Edgeworth is on his morning re-watch of Steel Samurai. He knows Edgeworth is specifically starting season 3 today. He knows this because the morning prior, Edgeworth had called him at this exact time to gush about the season 2 finale.
It had irritated him to be woken up by the steel samurai theme, only to hear someone talk his ear off about said show. But he loved Edgeworth's voice more, so he got over his grievances fairly quickly.
Phoenix fiddles with the silent phone in his hands in disbelief; he misses his daily dose of Steel Samurai gushing.
He calls again, heart dropping at the same voice message playing out. He takes a breath after the beep.
"Edgeworth. All I can do is offer my apologies. I'm so sorry. Please, could we talk? Even if it's just for you to yell at me. I- I'll do anything, I just," Phoenix swallows the lump in his throat, "I'm sorry," his voice drops to a whisper, "call me back. Please."
Phoenix works slowly through his own morning routine. He puts on a brave face when Trucy surfaces from her room. All it takes is a quirk of her eyebrow to let Phoenix know she isn't buying his act. Thankfully, she doesn't pry, leaving home with a peck to his cheek.
He's numb when he gets to the Wright Anything Agency. He knows there's no use masking his emotions when he made the mistake of exclusively employing human lie detectors. Athena and Apollo steer clear of him the rest of the day, both blooming into highly competent and independent attorneys. They're also incredibly conflict-avoidant when it comes to Phoenix.
Phoenix buries himself in work— tackling paperwork he's neglected for weeks, clearing his inbox for the first time in years and making grocery runs to restock their office kitchenette. He frequently checks his phone, heart sinking each time there's no contact from Edgeworth.
Apollo is the first to bid him goodnight, closely followed by a call from Athena to inform him she'll be clocking out after her investigation has wrapped up. Usually, he'd be home by now, waiting for Edgeworth to-
No, it isn't productive to think about him now.
However, home isn't something he can avoid forever. For one, the bed he's eager to bury himself in for the rest of time is there. More importantly, He has a daughter to take care of. One who's probably wondering where he's gotten to and why her doting Uncle is nowhere to be seen.
Once he's cycled himself home, he can't help but notice the Edgeworth-shaped hole left behind. Something is missing as his eyes sweep the collection of shoes near the front door and the coat rack. The apartment's quieter, no one around to argue about the importance of the order of the cutlery in the drawers. The place somehow smells different. How Edgeworth had become such a fixture of his home life, Phoenix isn't sure. He can't believe he's driven him away.
The living room taunts him as he walks past, cringing as he glances at the couch, the scene from last night replaying in his mind like a broken record.
"Hey, Daddy-o," Trucy greets, barrelling out of her room.
"Hey, Truce," Phoenix replies weakly. She grins up at him, walking past him in the direction of the kitchen. Phoenix scoops his daughter into a hug before she slips out of his reach. Trucy grumbles into his arms but complies, squeezing him back briefly.
"I was going to grab some dinner, you want anything?" she asks, breaking free of his hold.
"Sure, I'll have whatever you're having. Haven't eaten anything since…" Phoenix trails off. Did he have breakfast?
"Makes sense, I do have impeccable taste," she giggles to herself and strides into the kitchen. Phoenix loosens his tie and unbuttons his waistcoat, tagging along behind his daughter.
She roots around in the fridge before producing a covered container of food. She waves it triumphantly at Phoenix; he shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips for the first time since last night.
Trucy tips the contents of the container into a large bowl and shoves it into the microwave.
"So, what did you do to Uncle Miles?" Trucy asks, spinning around to glare at Phoenix.
"W-what? Did he say something to you?" Phoenix splutters. Surely Edgeworth wouldn't discuss something like this with Trucy.
"No, but he promised to help me with my history exam at some point," she looks down at her feet, her voice growing smaller, "we, uh, were also meant to make something for my bake sale tomorrow and, he isn't here tonight and he's been here like every night for months," she looks up raising an accusatory eyebrow, "also, you woke up looking like someone kicked a puppy."
Phoenix pales. Oh God. Trucy loves Edgeworth, too. How could he forget? He knows Edgeworth loves her just as fiercely. His irresponsible stunt has messed up their family.
Stupid Stupid Stupid
"Oh Trucy, I-"
The jingle of keys and the bang of the front door opening shuts Phoenix up. He launches himself out of the kitchen, jaw hanging in disbelief as Edgeworth stumbles over the threshold of the apartment. Trucy rushes towards him, relieving him of the array of plastic bags in his hands. The pair exchange words, the fond smile Edgeworth shoots at Trucy sets Phoenix's heart alight. He turns to shrug off his coat as Trucy almost trips over herself in her haste to rush back to the kitchen, bags in hand.
Parts of the Edgeworth-shaped hole heal as his coat and shoes fit into their rightful place. The Edgeworth-shaped hole is also filled by Edgeworth himself, Phoenix drawn to the movement of the broad expanse of his back as he shucks off his waistcoat.
"Hey," Phoenix says breathlessly. The man looks up, his lips set in a grim line. He steps hesitantly forward, his gaze lingering and scrutinising. Phoenix wishes Edgeworth looked angry, or sad or just… anything. Not this, he doesn't want to be shut out again. If he reached out to shake his shoulders or screamed at him, Phoenix would take it. He wants to beg for any reaction. Isn't arguing what they do best?
Instead, Edgeworth's slate gray eyes hold no readable expression. Phoenix was halfway to falling in love with the severe images of Edgeworth's demon prosecutor days in the newspapers. Now that he's fully gone for the man, he can't help but think how beautiful he looks now, no matter how little he may think of Phoenix. He's quick to tamp down his feelings, knowing they are what led to this mess in the first place.
Edgeworth breezes past Phoenix, following in Trucy's footsteps.
Phoenix feels like a stranger in his own home as he loiters at the edge of the kitchen, observing as Edgeworth navigates around the counters with practised ease, Trucy hot on his heels.
There's a lot of Edgeworth in Trucy. Not in appearance, but in the way she carries herself; in her tone and wit. Phoenix secretly loves it, seeing his two favourite people reflected in each other. He hopes she has the best parts of himself too.
Phoenix decides to leave them be, wary of upsetting Edgeworth again. He's reluctant to head into the living room, so he opts to hide away in his bedroom.
Burying himself with work is what had distracted him before, so that's what he does now. He pulls out his laptop, working dutifully through some exam questions.
His mind wanders to how Edgeworth is usually loitering over his shoulder, convincing him to take screen breaks religiously every hour. Apparently, he has a habit of staring unblinkingly at his laptop, and it freaks Edgeworth out. His thoughts linger on how Edgeworth is happy to lounge on his couch, legs tucked neatly beneath him, book in hand, whilst Phoenix maps out his essays. He would often space out, distracted by the way Edgeworth's glasses had slipped down his nose, or the way he would fiddle idly with the pages. Sometimes their eyes would meet, exchanging easy smiles before returning to their respective activities.
A knock at his door pulls him out of his reverie.
"Come in, Truce," Phoenix calls out. The door opens and shuts, "what's up baby gir-irk-" Phoenix's words die on his tongue as he looks up. A very un-Trucy like person stands awkwardly at the end of the room. Edgeworth wears the same indecipherable expression as before, a bowl held in his hands. He steps forward.
"You look like shit," Edgeworth says flatly. Phoenix should probably be embarrassed at the joy he feels at those four words. He doesn't find it in him to care. He will take any insult hurled at him if it means Edgeworth will keep talking to him. "I was told this is for you. When was the last time you-" he inhales sharply, grimacing, "never mind. Take this."
Edgeworth unceremoniously drops the bowl on the bedside table. Phoenix doesn't care about the food; his eyes are only for Edgeworth.
"Hey, can we talk?" Phoenix pleads.
Edgeworth's eyes flit to the door and back at Phoenix, "listen, Wright. In truth, I'm only here because I promised to help Trucy," he takes a step back, hand on the door handle, "you being here is… incidental."
"Me being in my own home is incidental?" Phoenix says with a raised brow.
"Yes! No- I…" Edgeworth's grip tightens around the handle, knuckles growing white, "last night, what you did was… I-"
"It was unacceptable. I know. I'm so sorry, I'll never stop being sorry. It isn't how I wanted things to go."
Edgeworth stiffens at his words, moving his hands away from the door to fold them over his chest, "it isn't how you wanted things to go?" he mutters to himself. He lifts his head, raking a calculating gaze over Phoenix. Whatever he's concluded makes him decide to yank the door open, "after Trucy is in bed, we can talk," he says with an air of finality before shutting the door firmly behind him.
He blindly grabs the bowl Edgeworth set aside for him, freezing once he recognises its contents— the pasta from the night before. His stomach churns, appetite lost.
Miles
"You need any help washing up?" Trucy asks as she deposits the cooled brownies in the fridge.
"No, I'll handle this, don't worry," Edgeworth accepts the sideways hug Trucy offers him, briefly resting his cheek against her head before turning back to the sink.
She steps away, "are you and Daddy fighting?"
Edgeworth drops the bowl he was cleaning into the sink with a clatter, "Trucy…"
"You are, aren't you? I bet it's his fault." She frowns, glaring accusingly at the wall with Wright's bedroom adjoined behind it.
Edgeworth is always shocked at her level of perceptiveness. He sighs, "now Trucy, you shouldn't talk about your father like that."
"You aren't denying it though," she retorts.
"It's complicated," he returns to the sink, picking up the neglected bowl, "but you don't need to worry. Whatever happens between Wright and I won't stop me from being around for you, okay?"
"Oh-" Trucy gasps. Miles knows the girl has issues with being abandoned. He's felt it all night, with the way she's been glued to his side, trailing behind him like a lost duckling as he wandered from room to room as the brownies were baking. Miles shoots her a sly grin, a reminder he can be just as perceptive as her. She looks flustered, caught off guard, muttering a quick goodnight before hurrying out of the kitchen.
When Trucy's door shuts in the distance, a neighbouring one opens. Miles directs his full attention to the soapy metal pan he's washing, ignoring the sounds of footsteps growing closer. The footsteps come to a stop at his left. There's a brief rustle of fabric before a hand reaches out to pluck a bowl from the counter, towelling it dry.
They work in amicable silence, Wright dutifully wiping down bowls and spoons whilst Miles scrubs at a particular stubborn stain. It feels dangerously normal. If Miles allows it, he's sure they could pretend that nothing happened and this is just another night. Selfishly, he wants to stretch out this moment, fingers growing wrinkly as he takes more care than usual to get the coffee stains out of a mug. He allows himself to discreetly glance at Wright. In the corner of his eye, he's certain the tablespoon in his grip is the driest it's been in its life, Wright wiping it robotically over and over again.
Miles holds the last of the sink's contents: a lone metal chopstick. He wonders where its partner could be. He can sense Wright's unwavering gaze as he runs it under the tap. They watch together as the suds slide down the drain. Miles is still holding the chopstick as he switches off the tap.
"I don't like being caught off guard," Miles' voice is low, gaze focused on the sink. Wright reaches over, fingers twitching in hesitation around the chopstick. Miles pushes it into the man's palm, and it's swiftly taken away. He anchors himself to the counter, gripping it with force, "I don't like surprises. And, I need to know why."
"Why?" Wright parrots. Miles still hasn't looked to his side, but he can hear the clink of metal being put down.
"Yes, why?" Miles is yelling now, aiming his frustrations at the sink, "why did you do what you did? What does it mean? Why would you do this to me when I…" he stills, taking a steadying breath. He wants to see what expression is on Wright's face. Indifference? Disgust? He's surely given too much away. His questions would be answered if he just looked up. If he squints, he can see Wright's distorted reflection in the sink.
Wright takes a shaky breath, "I love you."
Miles almost breaks his neck as he twists his head to look up. Wright looks awful, guilt written all over his features, his shoulders hunched defensively.
"Come again?" Miles splutters.
"I love you," Wright repeats, voice shaking, "that doesn't- I know what I did was out of order, I'm not- I don't- I'm not trying to find an excuse. But you asked why and what it means. I know you don't feel the same way. I all but assaulted you, and I can't tell you how endlessly sorry I'll be forever."
"Wright, hold on, give me a minute," Miles takes a step back, leaning against the counter for support, Wright's hushed confession the only thing running through his mind.
I love you I love you I love you.
I love him.
This should be easy. They both love each other. Why is Miles holding back?
"Please say something," Wright's clipped voice brings him back to the present. He sounds tearful, but there are no tears; his expression is worn and tired.
"You said before, this isn't how you wanted things to go," Miles pushes off the counter, feeling his strength returning, "how would you have wanted things to go?"
Wright frowns in confusion, "haven't I humiliated myself enough?"
"Perhaps, but humour me. You said you would do anything I wanted in your little voice message this morning," Miles goads. Wright's eyes widen in bewilderment.
"Alright… I would, well, I wanted to… After I… Fuck, you're seriously making me do this?" He licks his lips nervously. Miles levels him with an expectant look over the bridge of his glasses. Wright sighs, dropping his shoulders in resignation, "fine. Whatever. I was never planning on telling you any of this— that, you know, I love you-" Miles is sure he'll never tire of the thrill that runs up his spine at those words. "- but, if there was ever a time for confessions, it would be if I got my badge back-"
"You mean when," Miles scoffs.
Wright frowns at his words, "please, don't make this harder. Let me say my piece and I'll be out of your life forever," Wright drops his gaze to his feet, breath ragged. Miles thinks he should probably put him out of his misery. However, his curiosity wins out.
"Continue," Miles prompts.
"So, if I got my badge back, well, it would be all thanks to you. Your support and all that. So, I would swing by a florist to grab some flowers and head over to yours-"
"I shudder at the thought, "Miles interjects again, "which of the three flowers you know of are you bringing to me?" He knows it's wrong to take so much glee in the way Wright shoots daggers at him.
"What? Edgeworth, this isn't some interactive story or whatever. I don't need audience participation. This is mortifying enough, and you're asking…" Wright swallows hard as Miles directs him with a pointed look, "sunflowers I guess?"
Miles scoffs, "no, that won't do. I think roses will suffice."
"You can't- stop inserting yourself into my fantasies!"
"Fantasies, huh?" Miles has to fight to keep his voice neutral, "continue."
"What the fuck is happening?" Wright whispers under his breath, "so… Roses? I bring you roses. Sure. And, I'll make sure to come by on a Saturday morning, after your sacred Steel Samurai time and before you start burying yourself in your weekend research work. I would let myself in, find you probably already working away in your study-"
"At which time I would be having my late morning tea," Miles muses, "pastries from that new bakery that opened close to my place would go well with it, I think." He allows the corners of his mouth to twitch into a small smile. Finally, realisation dawns across Wright's features, eyes wide and hopeful.
"Theoretically speaking, which pastries would sway you in my favour the most?" There's light in Wright's eyes again; Miles has sorely missed it.
"What an interesting question. From a purely theoretical standpoint, I would have to say croissants, naturally. You have to ask them to provide you with the freshest ones available. I'll know if you don't," Miles taps his chin thoughtfully, "maybe something sweet? I've been craving, I mean, theoretically I have been craving something with strawberries. A tart of some kind perhaps?"
"I can- yes, anything for you. Whatever you want. So, I have these pastries and the flowers and I'm in your office. I messaged you earlier that I was dropping by so you barely react when I come in." Wright takes a tentative step forward. "I slide the pastries over, and hand the flowers to you. You'd have that cute, confused scrunch between your eyebrows, and I'd tell you…" Wright laves his pink tongue over his lips, eyes flitting wildly over Miles' face.
Miles takes the step to close the gap. Their heads are bowed close, breaths mingling, "I would be listening. I'm listening now. What do you want to say?"
"In the fantasy?" Wright asks breathlessly, raising his arms to rest his hands against Miles' hips.
Miles shakes his head, "No, what would you say to me now?"
"I would say- I am saying; Edgeworth, Miles," he murmurs, his breath tickling Miles' cheeks.
"Yes, Phoenix?"
"What I really want is this. You, in my home. Our home. You are my home. Wherever you are, I am… settled. At peace. When I have imagined my future, you are always there. I can't fathom a life without you in it," they bump foreheads, "and, I'm sorry, about last night. And, I'd really like to kiss you right now."
"You're forgiven," Miles surges forward, capturing Phoenix's slick lips in his. They twine ever closer, chest to chest, arms tightening around waists, braided into a single being. Miles twists a hand into Phoenix's hair, stomach flipping at the groan it elicits as he tugs at his dark strands. He swallows the sound with such greed it makes his head spin.
Without breaking the kiss, Phoenix tugs off Miles' glasses, throwing them unceremoniously onto the counter behind them before he pushes him backwards. Miles grunts as the counter digs into his hip, his lips disconnecting from Phoenix. The man is undeterred, taking the opportunity to explore the ridges of Miles' cheekbones and the planes of his neck. Miles allows it, panting heavily, sucking in the oxygen he had deprived himself of.
Miles grows upset that his neck is getting so much attention while his lips lie unattended. He swipes a tongue over the last remnants of Phoenix's spit, committing its taste to memory, before burying a hand in the man's hair, yanking him upwards. Phoenix complies deliciously, pupils blown wide, mouth frozen mid-kiss. Miles loosens his grip, skimming his fingers around the curve of Phoenix's head, reaching the nape of his neck. Miles guides them together much more gently than the last kiss. They slot together perfectly.
He takes the time to file away and categorise the salt of his skin, shudders involuntarily at the first brush of Phoenix's distracting tongue against his, savours every sigh and moan, unsure anything else could taste quite as heavenly as him.
Phoenix's stomach rumbles. They still, Miles frozen in the act of tugging Phoenix's bottom lip between his teeth. He releases his hold on the man, pushing him away.
"You still haven't eaten, have you?" He takes in Phoenix's dazed expression, lips shining and rubbed red. Miles is fuming.
"Wha- huh? Oh. Um, yeah, I didn't eat, sorry," Phoenix rubs his head sheepishly.
Miles rolls his eyes, grabs Phoenix by the wrist and drags him to his bedroom. The pasta has grown cold, but it will have to do. They bundle onto the bed, pressed close together, trading bites of food between stolen kisses.
Phoenix
Phoenix pads quietly past Miles' living room, stopping behind the door to his home office. He steels his nerves, grip tightening around an oversized bouqet of roses. His other hand holds a packed box of baked goods. He clamps the flowers between his teeth, freeing up a hand to grab the door handle.
Miles doesn't look up as he enters. His glasses have slid down his nose, the glaring light of his laptop reflected in its lenses. Phoenix glides closer, sliding the pastry-stuffed box towards Miles. The man doesn't acknowledge the other until the roses enter his periphery. He leans forward, his lips parting in a smile as he inhales their leafy scent. He finally tilts his head in Phoenix's direction, eyes sweeping upwards to stop somewhere around his chest.
Breath catching in his throat, Phoenix stays stock still as Miles rises from his seat. He moves around his table, crowding closer to Phoenix. He grips the blue of his lapel, running a thumb over the small golden sunflower-engraved badge.