Chapter Text
I.
The first time Miles is caught by surprise, though he had thought he was done being surprised when he had heard that scream, thought he was done being surprised when he had opened his trunk and found the body, thought he was done being surprised after Wright had saved him, again, as if it was nothing more than a welcome and inevitable duty. And then Wright kisses him and turns the shock Miles had thought to be incandescent into ash.
It takes Miles a moment to respond. He has to remember how. It is not as if he has not had prior experience. He can easily list the more significant encounters: age fourteen, William Clarke darting in when he thought no one was looking, the taste of chlorine, the shrill whistle of the lifeguard, the way the other boy had laughed as if it was all a cruel joke afterward. Age seventeen, at the formal: Christopher Torres had waved at him across the room and grabbed him by the hand, kissed him in the corridor until Miles had frowned at him and asked him "Why?", because why would Christopher want to kiss someone like Miles Edgeworth when Christopher was quite popular with their peers and regularly defended those slower pupils Miles eviscerated in mock arguments, and Christopher had shaken his head and walked away (and Miles still didn't have an answer). Age twenty, drunk, truly drunk, losing control for the first time; he had woken up in Andrew Leighborne’s bed with a nauseating feeling of debasement that persisted even when Andrew kissed him as if they both didn't reek of sweat and expensive champagne, as if and Miles had walked out the door and made every effort never to see him again and been mostly successful.
Age twenty-four, now, and they are in his office, and the sun has set into a cloudy February night, and Phoenix Wright is kissing him.
Wright kisses him differently. Wright kisses him as if he will never get another chance to. Perhaps he never will. Miles isn't sure. He isn't sure of anything at this moment, least of all what should be most obvious.
Wright breaks away and steps back with an expression so self-surprised it is almost comical. "Oh shit," he says. "Edgeworth I — I'm — shit. Sorry."
Miles stares at him. Wright has gone red. He is blathering nonsense.
"I'm just — I was so — and you just left, and you were saying all that stuff about — and I was — worried, and, uh —"
"Wright," Miles says. "Stop talking."
Wright closes his mouth so quickly his teeth make an audible sound. Miles looks away. "...It's fine."
"Oh," Wright says. "Wait — what?"
Miles scowls. "Perhaps you should have your hearing checked."
"My hearing is fine," Wright retorts. For some reason he flushes redder and does not continue after this statement, though he looks as if he would like to.
Perhaps he really did not hear. "I said," Miles repeats, taking care to enunciate and speak slower, so that there is no chance of Wright missing his words this time. "That it is fine."
"Right," Wright says. "Heard you the first time, I was just — processing."
Miles taps one finger on his arm as he waits for Wright to draw — whatever conclusions he wishes to draw.
Wright steps closer. His eyebrows are furrowed. He raises his hand, and then drops it back to his side. Miles stares at him.
"So," Wright says. "Fine as in —"
"Do you ever shut up?" Miles snaps, out of patience for Wright's slowness. "I said that it was fine."
The line between Wright's eyebrows grows more pronounced. "So — okay. Then..." He steps forward again, closing the small distance between them and placing one hand carefully on Miles’ arm.
Miles looks at him. He is probably supposed to feel something at this development. Pity, disgust, desire — anything.
All he feels is tired. He has been tired for a very long time.
“Edgeworth,” Wright says.
Miles does not reply. He feels as if he is observing from far away. A stranger glancing through the window and into the dark interior of his office, seeing Wright watching him, eyes full of concern.
He is sick of being worried about by Wright. He is sick of the guilt which inevitably follows. Miles closes his eyes, and leans forward.
This kiss is more deliberate than the first one. Less desperate. Exploratory. The feeling is not unpleasant. Miles tries to remember what it is like to connect his intellect to his body, to remember how to view his physical form as anything more than an object to carry out his will, to remember what he is supposed to do in this situation. Kiss back, most likely. He attempts it. From Wright's reaction he assumes he is moderately successful.
Distantly, Miles wonders how Wright does not see the truth and flinch away. But then, Wright has always been blind to everything but his own faith. Has always been irritatingly stubborn in his belief in the goodness of his clients, of people in general.
Perhaps he does not need to disillusion Wright of the fact that he is wrong, this time. Perhaps he can pretend, for a brief time, that all of Wright's efforts have not been wasted.
It is a lie. It is all Miles has left to offer. It will be, at the very least, a distraction.
Wright starts to pull away. Miles pulls him in by the lapels and kisses him again, hard. Wright makes a surprised sound that turns quickly to a moan. His hands move to Miles' waist, pull him close. Wright is aroused. Blood, warm on his hands. Miles pushes him back onto the couch and Wright goes, reaching for him, pulling him down. One hand skims down his back, down the curve of his spine. The body curled in his trunk. Bodies, countless; Miles clutches at Wright's arms, no doubt painfully, but Wright only holds him closer; the sound of their breath, loud in the silence of his office, the woman who had sobbed when the judge had read her verdict and Miles had watched without pity, because all of them claimed that they weren't guilty, all of them said, Wright's hands on the buttons of his shirt, and his eyes, dark; Terry Fawles dying on the witness stand eyes like a child who didn't know who to turn to for help and Wright, kissing his neck, Wright standing across from him in court, Mia Fey defiant at the defense bench Wright warm against him Mia Fey cold on the autopsy table Mia Fey’s lifeless eyes staring up at him that scream the blood and —
"Edgeworth," Wright gasps. "Let's — hold on."
Miles stops automatically, midway through undoing a button. The room sways for a moment. Wright hurriedly amends his statement. "I don't mean stop, I just. We don't have to go so — we can slow down. If you want."
Miles does not want to slow down. He does not want his thoughts to catch up with him. He continues to mechanically undo Wright's shirt buttons. Wright's breath hitches. His hands move to Miles' belt buckle. He is talking. Miles hears the sounds but does not comprehend the words or the meaning behind them. He does not want to. They are not meant for him, not really.
It is a relief to discover that he is physically aroused. That Wright cannot tell the truth of his detachment. Wright touches him like the action is a benediction and Miles — follows. There is no good word for it.
It is over quickly, for Wright at least. Miles murmurs half-false excuses which Wright accepts as if they are confessions and not untruths which turn Miles' stomach at their utterance. Wright traces fingers down his cheek and does not protest when Miles pulls away. The guilt is bitter in his mouth.
—
February in Oslo is cold, and dark. It is three months before Miles stops dreaming of falling. It is six before he stops thinking about it every time he is somewhere with an accessible ledge.
February in Oslo, the second day, hours before dawn. The wind, the lights of the city beneath him, and he had thought of Wright’s hand grasping at his arm as he turned away, away from empty space and towards the difficult choice of an imperfect (though perhaps not irredeemable — God, perhaps not irredeemable) life.
February in Oslo, the second day, almost a year ago now, his legs had given out as he had stumbled back, hands splayed onto the cold concrete of the rooftop, and the sky is just as grey now as it had been then, and Miles finds, to his surprise, that he is looking forward to returning to a place where one cannot escape the sun.
II.
In the police station, Wright is furious. This is not unexpected. And Miles has to admit that it had been tactless to announce his presence in such an abrupt fashion. But circumstances had demanded it, and in any case Miles was not unprepared for what he had presumed would be an initially hostile reaction.
What Miles had not been prepared for was the strength of Wright's anger, the vehemence in his voice. What he had not been prepared for was the pain behind it. What he had not been prepared for was how Wright's words had burrowed under Miles’ skin and into his chest to prick, needle-sharp, at soft flesh he had not even known was there.
And what had been entirely unanticipated is how Wright's enmity continues, even after the initial shock wears off and Miles demonstrates his willingness to assist Wright in their search for the truth.
It is — regrettable. Unsettling. Is it possible that his presumed death had had such a significant impact on Wright, one that would deserve those words, that depth of hatred? It seems improbable, but the evidence does point towards that conclusion, and Miles has, after all, been trained to consider the evidence first and foremost.
What that conclusion implies is troubling in of itself.
Regardless, knowing what he knows now about the circumstances of the case, he cannot blame Wright for his outburst. Or for how it takes until the end of the trial for Wright to finally realize that Miles is not, in fact, attempting to win at all costs, despite multiple instances of Miles demonstrating his newfound dedication to the creed he had so carefully crafted in the year since he had left. Or for how Wright still seems wary, even when his actions speak to renewed trust.
There is a certain situation in chess, not uncommon with very unskilled players. The more aggressive side loses pieces quickly, even as it takes reciprocal pieces from the more defensive side. In the end the two players are stuck with only a few pieces to manipulate and a continual stalemate. White moves knight, Check, black moves King, safe. There is no solution, but if the players wished they could spend eternity playing a game in which neither wins or loses, only one step forward and one step back until both are forced to concede that they are at an impasse.
Miles is not used to being caught in a stalemate. He is good at chess. When the opportunity to spend a year in Brussels studying foreign legal systems for the EJTN arrives, he accepts it without hesitation. The topic is fascinatingly complex, and most of his time and energy is completely absorbed by his work.
Miles never does get around to unpacking his chessboard. It is not the same thing, he tells himself, as forfeiting.
—
In the hospital Wright smiles up at him. He is wearing some sort of wimple. It looks ridiculous. "Hi," he says, and smiles wider.
Miles does not think the situation is anything to be smiling about. He glares back. Wright frowns, almost childishly. Perhaps he is more ill than he had admitted — or he is simply on very strong fever medication.
Miles does not like hospitals. He gets up to leave as soon as he has agreed to help and accepted the evidence Wright had already collected.
The badge comes last. Miles has to unpin it from the lapel of Wright's suit coat, and what that small golden pin symbolizes, what it reveals about Wright's trust in him —
Miles will not consider it further, at least not at this moment. There is work that needs to be done. He cannot afford to be distracted from his purpose.
He thinks Wright reaches out after him, mumbles something. Miles doesn't look back to check. The metal is warm in his palm.
—
The second time it is just after the Hawthorne trial. He is leaving for Borginia in two days, and when Wright agrees to meet him at a bar of his choosing before he departs it is with obvious surprise at the invitation. Miles does not blame him. He does not think he has ever met anyone at a bar for purely social reasons, much less initiated such an encounter.
It was Maya Fey, of all people, who had inspired him to do so. Her strength of will in upholding a strong exterior for the sake of her young cousin had been impressive in itself. But it had been what she had said later which made him take this step, in the end.
Wright had been very late to his own celebratory dinner, so late that they had left the horrendous restaurant Gumshoe initially led them to and moved to a neighboring establishment, one with later hours and much better reviews. It is an hour away from closing, and most of the tables around them are empty, (though his dining companions are still making enough noise for the whole dining room by themselves, thanks to the bottles of wine Franziska had procured for the table with an intimidating crack of her whip and an exaggerated German accent that sent the poor waiter scurrying before he even had a chance to ask for her identification) when Wright finally shows up, Maya by his side and a half-asleep Pearl on his shoulder.
"We got her McDonalds on the way here," Wright says, settling her into the corner of the booth. "Figured it was better than waiting hours for whatever overpriced crap was on the Tres Bien kid's menu."
"I also got McDonalds," Maya says proudly, and inserts herself between himself and Franziska. Miles has to elbow a very happily drunk Gumshoe out of the way to make room. "But I'm still hungry. Pass me some of those green things?"
Franziska obliges. Maya grins at her. "Thanks."
"They are called dolmas," Franziska says, and hands her the wine bottle and an empty glass the waiter had hurriedly brought over as soon as he had noticed the new arrivals.
Miles frowns at her. Franziska glares back at him. Maya shoves a dolma in her mouth and pours herself a hefty glass of Chilean Chardonnay.
At the opposite end of the table Wright seems to have gotten himself pulled into a conversation with Larry. He casts an appealing look at them. Maya waves without any sign of remorse, and turns to Miles. "So. You're back!'
"For now," Miles replies. "I am leaving for Borginia in a few days."
"Oh." She chugs half the contents of her wine glass and reaches for the large dish of spanakopita still left on the table. "Wait, weren't you just in Europe for like, a year?"
"Yes. I finished my research fellowship a few weeks ago and was preparing to move when I got the call from Larry. He had greatly exaggerated the seriousness of Wright's condition. That is why I am here and not currently in Borginia."
"Whoa." Maya looks at him. "Wait, you flew all the way back cause you thought Nick was like, dying?"
"Yes," Miles says stiffly. "It was a charter, so the flight was not —"
"You chartered a plane?! I didn't even know regular people could do that!"
"Of course," Franziska sniffs. "Miles' portion of the von Karma estate is more than sufficient to finance a private international flight. As is mine."
"Good to know," Maya says, and winks at her. Franziska's lips curve into a smile. Miles stares at both of them, aghast. "So what did Nick say when you told him?"
"He was quite feverish. We only discussed his request that I defend Ms. Hawthorne in court."
Maya stops with her fork halfway up to her mouth, which hangs open as she stares at him. "Wait, you — what? For real?"
"He foolishly accepted that man's request," Franziska says, leaning back against the booth. "And represented Ms. Hawthorne as her defense attorney on the first day of the trial. Against my recommendation, of course."
Maya shakes her head. "Wow. I'd say I can't believe it, but — wooooow."
Miles looks away, unintentionally directing his gaze once more to where Wright is sitting. Wright smiles tiredly back at him and shrugs as Larry continues to talk into his ear.
"Nick," Maya shouts. "You have to try these dolma things! So good."
Wright reaches for the plate. As soon as his attention is directed elsewhere Maya turns to Miles with a gleam in her eye. "So," she says. "You paid for a private plane, flew all the way to Los Angeles, and then defended Iris Hawthorne in court, just cause he asked you to?"
When she states it so bluntly it sounds — "Yes. I owe him a great debt."
"Sure," Maya shares a look with Franziska, who scoffs into her wineglass. "You should probably tell him. Nick is smart but he can be pretty dumb sometimes."
Miles frowns. "Tell him what, exactly?"
Maya rolls her eyes. "Duh."
"Men," Franziska pronounces with disgust. "Fools, all of them."
"Aren't they?" Maya says with a grin. Miles glares at them both. Neither seem to notice, or care. "Anyway, just ask him out for like a drink or something. I'm pretty sure he's done being pissy about your whole disappearing thing."
Miles thinks that this is a gross oversimplification on several different levels, not to mention inaccurate.
Nevertheless, her words stay with him, resisting his attempts to rationalize their impact enough that the next day Miles places a call to the Wright and Co. Law Offices, if only to prove to himself that she is wrong on that last point, at least.
She is in fact proven correct. Wright is surprised, but he quickly agrees to a meeting. And so Miles finds himself standing uncomfortably inside an unfamiliar bar that very evening, waiting for Wright to arrive.
When he finally does, Wright is slightly out of breath, wearing what looks like his usual blue slacks and white dress shirt sans tie, his sleeves rolled up despite the chill. Miles nods at him, and adjusts his collar. He is suddenly, irrationally nervous. He does not usually do this sort of thing, meeting up with someone to discuss — Miles is not sure what he had even had in mind, but he is fairly certain Wright is not expecting to speak solely about legal topics.
“Hey,” Wright says.
"Wright. Thank you for coming."
Wright nods. They stand at the bar. Behind it the purple-haired bartender is making some sort of ridiculous cocktail with a fruit skewer. Wright scratches the back of his neck.
"So, uh do you drink? Beer, or...?"
Miles does not really drink in general, other than the occasional glass of wine, but he nods all the same. “Do you have a preference?” Wright asks.
"Whatever you are drinking."
"Okay," Wright says, though this only seems to make him more uncomfortable. They stand in increasingly awkward silence until the bartender finishes arranging the garnishes and comes over to take their order.
When they have obtained their drinks (half pints of a draft beer Miles had not caught the name of), Wright gestures to a table in the corner, lit by an antique stained-glass lamp perched in the small alcove behind it. "That okay?"
"Yes." He follows Wright across the room, and they sit at the table he had indicated. It is smaller than it looks. Miles is forced to take a sip of his beer in order to keep the liquid from sloshing over his hand as they arrange themselves.
Wright, for his part, had downed a third of his glass on the walk from the bar to the table and therefore has no such difficulty. “What do you think?”
Miles frowns. “What do you mean?”
“About the beer.”
Miles considers it. The beverage smells faintly of orange peels, and it is not overly bitter. “It is…I do not often drink beer.”
“Oh," Wright says, and looks down.
“However I do find this one — pleasant.” Miles takes another sip. Partially to prove his point, partially because he does, in fact, like it, and partially because he thinks he will need some form of chemical assistance to keep the rest of this meeting from consisting solely of awkward silences and stilted conversation.
“Oh," Wright says. "Great.”
Miles glances around at the space. It is still relatively early, and the bar is not very busy. Floral wallpaper peeks out behind numerous ornate frames containing miscellaneous etchings and pictures. There are a lot of fake plants.
Not the sort of establishment he had expected Wright to select, but overall a well-executed effect. "Do you come here regularly?"
"Nah. I can't really afford it. Only for — only occasionally."
"I see." There's a pause. It is not, Miles thinks, quite so awkward as the one before. "I do not often go to bars."
"Not even fancy ones?" Wright looks around as he drinks. His ankle brushes Miles'. Miles moves his foot away.
"No. I suppose I do not see the point."
"What do you mean?"
Miles frowns. "I never saw the value in such an activity. Moreover I am not usually invited by colleagues to participate in social gatherings."
"Well," Wright says, after a moment. "I guess part of it is the drinking, and the social element. But you can also meet people."
"Have you met anyone?"
Wright grimaces. "No. I think that's because I usually just go out with Larry."
"Mm. That sounds…"
"It sucks," Wright finishes for him, and drains most of his glass. Miles follows suit. "Half the time he thinks the bartender is in love with him because she took his order and didn't slap him across the face with a coaster afterwards."
"I can’t say I am surprised."
"Yeah, well, he's also the only friend from college who kept in touch after," Wright mutters. "So I kinda feel obligated, you know?"
Miles looks away. "Oh, uh," Wright rushes to amend his previous statement. "That wasn't —"
"No, it is not —"
"You guys need anything?" The cocktail waitress asks them.
Miles starts. Her approach had been hidden by the large fern which hangs precariously down from the ceiling, blocking his view of the end of the bar.
"Ah — Wright?"
"I picked first round," Wright says. "Go ahead."
Miles stares at him. Wright stares down. The cocktail waitress stares above both their heads. "Two of the same, please."
"You got it," she says, and whisks their empty glasses off the table.
"So," Wright says, after a moment of silence. "If you don't go to bars, then why…"
Miles glances away. "I did not get a chance to congratulate you on your win, after the trial. I wanted to do so before I left for Borginia."
That is at least partially true, even if Miles has left out a few minor details. Mainly that the catalyst for this meeting had been what could only be called a challenge, and that said challenge had come from none other than Wright's young assistant. He does not think anyone would blame him for leaving those out.
Wright looks vaguely disappointed, though why or in what, Miles cannot fathom. "Oh. Uh — thanks."
"Of course."
Wright leans back in his seat. The lighting is objectively flattering, Miles notes, the combination of the stained glass lamp and the lanterns overhead casting Wright's features into soft amber shadow. "...So, are you looking forward to it? Borginia?"
Miles considers this. "Not particularly."
"Really?"
"I am looking forward to the research I will be able to do there. But I am not looking forward to the relocation."
"Then why go?" Wright asks, using one index finger to draw a figure-eight through the condensation gathered on his empty coaster. "I mean, if you aren't excited about it."
"I have already committed to the fellowship."
"Right, but — why did you want to go in the first place?"
"No particular reason, besides the obvious." Miles realizes his knee has been touching Wright's for at least the past five minutes, and not, as he had assumed, the leg of the table. He considers moving it, and decides not to. It is obviously not bothering Wright. "I was offered the position and I accepted."
Wright sighs. Miles feels somehow as if he has misstepped, though he does not know where. "Okay, I get it."
"I do not," Miles replies. The cocktail waitress sets their drinks down in front of them. "— Thank you. I have explained my reasoning without withholding anything."
"Hm." Wright sips his beer. An awkward silence descends.
Wright sets his glass down and leans back in his seat. Miles looks at him.
"So," Wright says.
Miles stiffens. This is what he had been dreading, when he had decided to initiate a meeting. That Wright would have questions. That he would ask things Miles does not know how (or want) to answer.
He glares back at Wright, mentally steeling himself for the worst. "...What, Wright?"
"Uh," Wright says. For a moment they look at each other in apprehensive silence.
Then Wright sighs, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he slumps forward. "Fuck it," he mutters. "Wanna get shots?"
Miles is pleasantly drunk by the time the lights turn on and they are politely kicked out of the bar. Wright is quite drunk. Miles could not say if it is pleasant or not. "It was flying," Wright slurs, as they stumble out the door and onto the sidewalk. "The cape was flying. I hate my job so — so much, Edgeworth. What the hell. Why the clowns? Why me?"
Miles shakes his head. Wright thankfully doesn't seem to notice his lack of insight. He is too busy searching for his phone. It is in his pocket. "Found it," Wright says. He pulls out his wallet and keys. "Found these." He grins. Then he points a finger at Miles. "Found you."
Miles laughs despite himself. The sound startles them both. "Wow," Wright says. "Don't think I've ever heard you laugh before. Y'know. When you're not being a smug dick."
"Mm." Miles tries to frown sternly and does not succeed.
"And you're smiling, kinda,” Wright says with an awed sort of incredulity. "I'm going to jail."
"And why is that?"
"Cause — urgh. Nevermind." He folds his arms across his chest, mirroring Miles' posture. Wright had not brought a coat, despite the fact that February thus far has been unusually cold for Los Angeles. "Where are we going?"
Miles stops. They had been walking aimlessly down the sidewalk with no apparent direction or reason for doing so. "I suppose we should call a cab."
Wright yawns. "Can't. Too much money. I'll just walk."
"I cannot allow you to do that," Miles tells him, frowning. The area is much too expensive for Wright to live anywhere within reasonable walking distance. "I will have it drop you off on the way."
"Okay," Wright says. He sways on his feet. Miles steadies him automatically. "Man, you suck a lot sometimes, but not — not now."
"...Thank you."
"You're welcome," Wright replies, and yawns again. "Didn't mean to get this drunk. Sorry."
"It's fine." Given the stress of the past week it's a wonder the man isn't falling apart more than he already is. "Wright."
"Huh?"
Miles tries to remember what he had been thinking about a few seconds before. It takes longer than he is accustomed to. "...I need your address."
"Oh." Wright tells him. Miles orders the Lyft. By the time it pulls up Wright's weight is becoming significantly more difficult to support.
In the back of the car Wright leans on Miles' shoulder. Miles looks down at him.
"Ugh," Wright says, lifting his head up and pulling away to lean on the door. Then he reaches across to poke Miles in the arm, hard. "You suck."
"Indeed," Miles replies.
"I mean it," Wright mumbles. "You left for a year without telling me — stuff. And before. Thought you died. Sucked."
Miles is silent. Outside the window the buildings of the city blur together into shadow. "But you didn't." Wright continues. "So —"
"No," Miles says. "I did not, in the end. Obviously."
"Oh," Wright says. He pauses. "Oh."
Miles is silent. They pull up to a stoplight. Red and orange light glares through the interior of the car. He glances over to see Wright looking at him. "What," he snaps.
"S'nothing," Wright mutters. "Just — I'm glad you didn't. For all that's worth."
Miles swallows. Perhaps he is just drunk. Perhaps it is just late, and he is tired. Perhaps it is a combination of many factors. But Wright's statement, for whatever reason, is worth a great deal to him in this moment.
Not that he can bring himself to admit that out loud. At least not while they are in the back of a stranger's car.
The light turns green. When he glances back over Wright is leaning against the window, eyes closed. Miles sighs and spends the rest of the trip contemplating why, for a brief moment, he had wished the traffic would move a little slower for once.
It quickly becomes apparent that Wright will need assistance in getting to his apartment. Miles sends the driver off with an apology and a sizeable cash tip, and half-drags Wright to his building door. "I'm not even that drunk," Wright protests, as Miles tries each of his keys and succeeds with the fourth and final one. "Just really tired still."
"Mm." They start up the stairs. It takes considerably longer than what he imagines is average. Partially because they go up one floor higher than Wright’s apartment before Wright realizes they’ve passed the correct level. Also because Miles stumbles drunkenly over a step and Wright wastes a full minute laughing at the startled noise he makes when he does.
Eventually they get to the right place, and Miles unlocks Wright's apartment door on the second try, barely avoiding tripping over a pair of shoes at the entranceway. "Oh God," Wright groans. "Don't — don't look. It's so bad."
Miles flips on the light, against his remonstrations. It is indeed quite messy, but given that a little over seventy-two hours had passed between the end of the trial and now, it is not as bad as it could be. Wright runs a hand through his hair and trudges inside, turning to face him. "Thanks for walking me up."
"Of course." Miles stands a few steps inside the doorway. Wright bites his lower lip. Miles wonders if he realizes he's doing it.
“Uh,” Wright looks down. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll, you know. See you around?”
“Yes,” Miles confirms. “I return from Borginia in a month. It is likely we will face each other in court soon after.”
He feels increasingly stupid as he says it. But his statement of a fact that seems obvious does not improve Wright’s sudden morosity. “I don’t know,” Wright says. “‘S not like cases are just coming at me left and right, y’know?”
“Ah.” Miles hesitates. “Well. Then. I am sure we will encounter each other in the future at — some point.”
Wright sighs heavily. “Yeah.”
They stand there for a moment. Miles tries to think of something to say to ease the somber mood and cannot. All his attempts at reassurance seem to have thus far had the opposite of their intended effect.
Wright's eyes are fixed somewhere on Miles' left shoulder. “You, um. You have a leaf.”
Miles stares at him. Wright rolls his eyes and plucks something from his suit jacket. It is piece of mint. Miles suspects the edible garnishes on their fourth round of drinks are likely to blame. “There.”
“Thank you.” Wright nods. A flush is spread over his cheeks, likely from the excessive consumption of alcohol and the trip up the stairs.
That explains the flush. It does not explain the way Wright is looking at him. In the dim light his pupils are very large. They stand in silence.
Miles waits. Wright does not say anything. Miles shifts impatiently. "Wright."
"Huh?" Wright mutters, eyes flicking down to his mouth. It seems to take him a while to remember to look up again. "What?"
Perhaps action will break through to him better than words can. It is certainly worth the effort. Miles steps forward, bending slightly. Wright's eyes flutter half-closed.
Wright's lips are dry and warm. He smells of laundry detergent. A cold feeling settles in Miles' stomach, unsettlingly familiar and heavy as stone. He steps back. They stare at each other.
“Wright —"
“I don’t,” Wright says. "Uh —"
Humiliation begins to set in. Miles can feel his cheeks burning. "Mm. Well. I, ah. Should — go."
Wright makes a strangled sort of noise which could be either agreement or dissent. Miles is not exactly eager to stay and find out. He turns, reaching for the doorknob, and is stopped by a hand on his coat.
Miles turns back. Wright lets go, hand flying to the back of his neck as he looks down at the floor. "You, um. So."
“Wright. It is late. That is — I am attempting to say — farewell.“
“Yeah, sorry,” Wright mumbles. “I’m not really good at goodbyes.”
“Mm.” Truth be told Miles is not exactly accomplished at them himself. He thinks this is self-evident.
Wright opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it again, and shakes his head. “Fuck it,” he mutters, the same way he had earlier when he had decided to order shots, and then his lips are pressed against Miles’ own.
It is not a very skilled kiss. It is also not an unpleasant one. Wright's hand cradles the back of his head, thumb unsteadily brushing up and down the nape of his neck. Miles attempts to divide his attention between reciprocating and keeping them from falling over and at least succeeds in his second objective.
After what he imagines is an acceptable time, and after making sure Wright is steady on his feet, Miles steps back. Wright blinks at him.
"Thank you," Miles says, and then realizes he should probably clarify what, precisely, he is thanking Wright for. "For — agreeing to meet me. It was an...enjoyable evening."
"Sure," Wright replies dazedly. "So, Edgeworth, does, uh —"
"Wright," Miles says. Wright looks at him. “...If you are uncertain about whether we will have the opportunity to face each other in court, then I would — perhaps we could meet, for — lunch. When I return.”
“Lunch,” Wright repeats. “Yeah, I — okay. Lunch. We can get lunch.”
“Indeed.”
"Okay," Wright says, and then he smiles, a little cautiously, but a smile all the same, and the relief it endows on him is surprising in its intensity. Miles nods, satisfied that he has made the right decision, and leaves without further obstruction.
Guilt this time is the lock clicking into place as the door shuts behind him. Guilt this time is the empty feeling in his chest as Wright had kissed him, the slow-dawning conviction that Wright deserves someone who can reciprocate his depth of affection, and Miles’ just as troubling reluctance when it comes to the thought of setting Wright free to find such a person. Guilt this time is the way that on the way home Miles looks up at the hazy night sky and thinks that perhaps this is what — something he does not waste much time thinking about — for him, could be: patience. The selfish desire to be continually forgiven for something that is, by most metrics, unforgivable. A heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Gratitude, that Wright had saved him from becoming a man beyond redemption. Resigned tolerance. Distant regret.
Miles does not think it would be so bad, if that were all it was. And it would explain many things.
It does not explain what he feels when he hears the news. It does not explain why he exhausts every method available to him at great personal and professional expense despite knowing he cannot realistically do anything to fix the situation. It does not explain why when Wright finally answers the door after twenty minutes of Miles' commands to open it, Wright, or I will call the police and get them to break it down for me, Miles pushes inside without giving Wright the opportunity to tell him to leave. It does not explain the third time.
III.
The third time he is twenty-five and so is Wright, so young, too young to know what they want, far too young to be parents as his father was, and Wright has already signed the emergency custody papers and the adoption paperwork is sitting half-done on his coffee table and Miles is furious beyond words and they are drunk but not drunk enough to act this way, Wright on despondence and Miles on an emotion he cannot name and both of them on some god-awful cheap wine Wright already has too many empty bottles of in his kitchen and Wright's eyes are far away as he explains his decision, far away even as he pulls at Miles' shirt, hands trembling, begging without words, and it is comfort twisted into something corrupt and it is rage and bitterness and regret and grief and nothing close to what it should be and he knows it is wrong even through the haze of his anger, knows from the way Wright says his name, only once, as if he had not meant to say it, from the way Wright tells him not to stop through gritted teeth, and in the morning they do not look at each other; when Miles turns back in the doorway it is only the girl left standing at the threshold, watching him with eyes that are wide and observant and all too solemn for her little face and Miles thinks of the way he had looked into the mirror that first night after the death of his father and does not contact Wright for months because of it.