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The afterglow was hazy and beautiful. The kind of bliss-making beautiful where you felt almost drunk-- or drugged; where you could stretch under previously-clean sheets and it didn't matter that they no longer were, where your senses were blunted to most other stimuli but you were still in tune with one thing.
Miles could feel Phoenix's pulse, now slowed, beneath his fingertips. He stretched and adjusted himself, turning so to lie on his stomach, still mostly covered with the blanket over them, a hand reaching up to Phoenix's jawline.
Phoenix, lying on his back, his eyes partially closed, smiled. He looked content, for once-- he could be content now. Of course the events at Hazakura had taken their toll on everyone, but for the moment they'd reached a conclusion where there was nothing more they could do. Time had to heal the remaining wounds.
For the first time he could recall considering it, Miles wondered if love could possibly make them heal a bit faster.
He ran a fingertip across Phoenix's skin and smiled. "You look peaceful like that, Phoenix," he said quietly.
One blue eye opened fully and then the other. "Phoenix?" he asked with a wry smile. "I think that's the first time you've called me that. Since we were nine years old."
He was almost teasing, and Miles could feel himself verging towards tense. That had been like a confession, some sort of invisible step which he'd never noticed crossing but which the other man had.
He shouldn't be tense. He should be... letting his guard down. So many times Phoenix had suggested that he'd felt more towards him than casual friendship; he'd gone up against a thoroughly respected prosecutor for him, he'd apparently gone to pieces when he'd had that ...turn... eighteen months ago... he'd cared far more than a mere friend should.
And now they were lying under the covers of the double bed in his hotel room. Their bodies tingled with sweat and spent energy, the air around them smelt of what should have been a disgusting odor of sweat and semen, but Miles didn't feel repulsed by any of it.
Everything was all so perfect. It was like Phoenix had finally figured it out, like he was finally in space safe enough to dare utter those words.
He returned the smile and lifted his finger away, almost teasing. "Always a stickler for details, aren't you?" he chided, and then stretched again, moving closer to the warm body next to him. There was a brief pause before he said it, once again he reconsidered. Too late? Too early? Too obvious? He didn't want to tense up again, to lose his nerve, to not say it.
When he didn't say it, people left anyway, and sometimes he never saw them again.
He inhaled slowly and blinked, not quite able to look Phoenix in the eye, yet for some strange reason, certain he'd be met with something pleasant.
It was time for the walls to come down.
"I love you, Phoenix."
Phoenix shifted. Not quite writhing away from him, but turning ever-so-slightly, so that he wasn't facing upwards any more, but looking at the bland, inoffensively peach wall next to him.
He didn't say anything, and Miles felt his heart race. This... wasn't to be expected. The automatic, heartfelt reaction to such a statement was the same thing... wasn't it? He didn't know, but he felt stupid.
His muscles tensed, and he moved away slightly.
And then came the hand; patronising and sweet-natured, rested on his shoulder.
"I need to make something clear," Phoenix said slowly, still not looking at him. There was a hesitancy in his voice which Miles didn't like, too. "I care a great deal about you."
Miles wanted everything to stop. He wanted to have left the room before Phoenix-- Wright-- had opened his stupid paved-with-good-intentions mouth, before he'd uttered those damning words.
He wished he'd never said anything, that he could undo the mess that he'd made.
"That's... nice, Wright." He couldn't help it that he sounded slightly testy. What a stupid thing to say-- I care a great deal-- people cared a great deal about lots of things.
They didn't expect trust from them. They didn't initiate sexual contact. They didn't...
Of course, he was partially to blame, and he hated himself for it. So many years prior, he'd promised himself that there would not be the distractions and interruptions of other people to his career-- that trust was pointless because when you trusted someone, they went away, or they used it against you.
Phoenix had seemed different; years of messing around, backwards and forwards, there'd been almost-innuendo, close to confessions of... something and then... it had ended up here. In his hotel room. Every tension and confession and regret and thing that they couldn't put into words otherwise had come to a head; Phoenix had initiated the physical contact; Miles had been surprised when he didn't resist at all, and he'd moved into the kiss, tugging on Phoenix's tie and pulling him onto the queen-sized bed.
He didn't do things like that.
But there had been an urgency, a sense that unsaid things would make sense after this moment, after the release.
He'd welcomed it. It had been a matter of years since he'd touched someone; it had been the first time he'd offered and given himself to someone so freely and wholly.
And it had all been for--
"I mean," continued Wright, lazily rolling over to face him again, though his head was turned towards the door, considering walking out-- though how do you walk out of your own hotel room and leave someone else there?-- "This was good... don't get me wrong..." the hand now kneading the muscles of is shoulder-- "It was incredible."
It was incredible that you got my defenses down that far, Wright. He stared at the door, unblinking. He could leave. Now. But some awful, masochistic side of him wanted to hear Phoenix out. A cruel voice in his head suggested that maybe the results of Phoenix's little confession would end hopefully.
He murmured in response, and Phoenix continued. "I just think-- god-- I'm going to sound like a complete prick for saying it like this-- but... you know when you think you really want something because it seems so far out of reach and then you get it without really expecting it and you realise..."
"That you didn't really want it after all?" Miles finished up. He'd saved him with those words. He could then save his own face, continue on about how he was feeling the same, but... no. Why should he have to?
"Yeah," said Phoenix. "I'm so glad you get it," he continued quickly. "I mean, there I was worried I'd gone and ruined our friendship..."
No, thought Miles unhappily. That was me... for having expected more of you... for having thought I even had a chance with someone who was... no out to stab me in the back and reasonable.
He thought of the others. Manfred had been the perfect teacher, the perfect gentleman, but there'd been a lack of passion; the whole thing felt biological rather than emotional. Gant had been a friendly colleague who'd taken advantage of that trust, in hindsight.
And now there was this.
He could be kind and let Phoenix go, laugh it off in therapy when he got back into the good doctor's office. He could be wry and myterious and have a swagger in his walk, wear a smile that suggested Mr High Standards Untouchable got the best damned defence attorney in Japanifornia into bed.
He could have done that, if he were so inclined. Instead, he felt that same pull of horror, that sense that he'd been the last one to turn up at the party as everyone was leaving, that sense of having the ground pulled out from beneath him; like Wright did to him in court when he appeared with surprise evidence or an unexpected take on events.
He wasn't sure if this was worse than realising that Manfred had known all along that he hadn't shot Gregory; it came close.
It was that stinging, hot faced tears-down-your-cheeks humiliation like when he'd realised that Damon had stopped talking to him about work after they'd had sex in the office after hours, that suddenly his interest value was reduced to that of... a body.
He felt sick, and was determined to not let Phoenix know-- he remained silent-- because what was the use in doing otherwise? It wasn't going to change anything; all it was going to do was inflate that ego a bit more.
"Miles?" Funny that he was now Miles and not "Edgeworth."
He clenched the blankets towards himself, suddenly feeling very naked beneath them, wildly out of depth and vulnerable. There was no compelling evidence for this. It was out of character for Phoenix-- he'd spent fifteen years; more than half his life acting like a borderline obsessive with some serious interest; once Miles had adjusted to the idea, it had felt almost nice. Maybe his psychologist was right and he did deserve someone who really cared about him, maybe there was more to him than to provide entertainment and release for some high-powered narcissist with a power complex...
"What?" Holding the material in fists towards his throat, he wondered if he willed himself to stop breathing, then maybe he could black out and not answer the question. Of course, people couldn't do that, the body had protective measures in place and allegedly a survival instinct, but suicidal tendencies and a stubborn willpower-- seemingly at odds with one another-- could be a formidable combination.
"Are you okay?"
Was he asking that because he really cared or was he asking that for the ego trip that came with realising that his rejection had that much impact? Miles felt Phoenix's leg shift under the covers and he flinched away.
He'd fallen, he'd failed, he'd gotten too close to the flames and been burned. He vaguely wondered how long it would take to recover from this; he'd shut down after von Karma, he'd disappeared after Gant; it had been odd fleeting thoughts of Phoenix and the dream about him on the plane to Germany which had caused him to disappear rather than to end it all.
Phoenix was a twinge of light in the distance, a little beacon of hope.
And he was just like the rest of them.
"I'm fine," he said coolly, "Considering the fact that you didn't kill my father or try to seduce me with organ-playing, I guess this hasn't been as bad as it could have been."
Keep it sharp, sarcastic and unaffected. It wasn't like Wright asked for his trust in the first place, that was all his own stupid, sentimental projection...
"I don't know what you..."
"I'm just saying that this is far from the worst post-coital discovery I've had about someone's nature," Miles said, keeping his voice deliberately even. "I thank you for your honesty, vulgar as it might have been."
There was an uncomfortable few moments of silence between them as Miles realised what he'd just done-- trusted him again and all but told him that he and Manfred-- and he and Gant had had some sort of involvement-- and he felt vulnerable and disgusted with himself once more.
He was surprised at the irritation and anger in Phoenix's voice. "So I take it that you're not up for round two?" he snapped.
"No thankyou." Keeping his voice even, still, Miles found himself blinking-- Why am I nearly crying- oh god, I am nearly crying... as he looked at the door helplessly. The shock hadn't registered yet-- the warm body next to his was Phoenix's, the man who'd slowly invaded his thoughts and dreams and interest. The man who'd pulled him away from the myopic career vision he'd set out to follow, the man who'd messed up my entire life and turned order into chaos all for... this. He was irritated with Phoenix's anger. "I'm feeling a bit used right now so I think I'd prefer to sleep for awhile."
He felt the bedclothes rustle next to him, and a naked, impressive figure stood beside the bed. Back turned to him, he watched as Phoenix pulled on a pair of grey underpants-- then the shirt, then the slacks-- as he found them around the floor.
He couldn't help but sneak a glance as Phoenix dressed. There was still something unfathomably nice and beautiful about him.
"I think I should go," he said, for the first moment sounding almost cowardly.
"I think that's a good idea," Miles agreed. "Goodbye, Wright."
He heard footsteps across the carpeted floor and then the door close behind him.
It's days afterwards and Miles sits in front of the chessboard, idly fingering the pieces, playing against himself. It's distraction. He finds himself putting more into the black pieces-- who decided white-- or defense attorneys were the good guys, anyway?
What Wright had done was... no better than what either of the others had. He wonders if Wright would kill a man or set up a web of lies and blackmail against others in order to save his own hide-- the alarming part is where he can't see Wright just honestly admitting that he fucked up or was taken by surprise or his pride was wounded.
He draws the game with himself out for as long as possible, slowly removing each white piece from the board until there's one black army surrounding the white king.
"Fuck you, Wright," he mutters as he steps away from the board; it's uncharacteristic-- just like Wright's pathetic reaction towards his confession was.
He's not sure what he wants to do. He wants to lose himself in work but there's nothing. He's been told to take a break after the Hazakura events but he doesn't want to. Gumshoe's out of the office, having taken the paid time off gladly; Miles is grateful for the lack of a familiar face around the building. He wants to be alone. He wants to be dead: somehow the anticipation possibility and the frustration of nothing happening was better than this.
More than anything right now, he's regretting losing the resolve to end it all in Berlin. He's regretting coming back, that strange, and perfectly unexplainable thought-- I think something's gone horribly wrong for Phoenix and he needs me (and that irritated him; as a man of logic, sentimental hunches should not happen and if they do, he should be smart enough to ignore such baseless and pathetically superstitious ideas)-- and he's regretting his resolve to bring the walls down.
They're back up, and there's a security system in place and loops of razorwire at the top. No one's getting near him. Everything in his life was fine until Phoenix came along.
Briefly, he wonders, as the hot water boils for his tea, if any of this would have happened if he'd never bothered to trouble himself by standing up for Wright back in fourth grade.
And then he's disgusted with himself for idiotic magical thinking. Of course all this would have happened, because the world, by and large, is a horrible place where dreams are shattered and the only thing that has any weight or meaning is evidence and solid testimony.
And Wright, like every other defence attorney (except his father, of course not his father-- I can have fond and sentimental memories of my father, all right?) is merely in the business of embellishing lies and appealing to emotions to get an outcome acceptable to him. And once the case, the challenge, the illusion of that mess is over and you've won, it's time to move on to another person you temporarily care about.
He regrets sleeping with Wright more than he ever did with Manfred or Gant.
He pours himself a cup of tea, sprinkles in some sugar, and sits down at his desk. The time to begin the rest of his life is now, unfettered and unbothered by stupidly sentimental notions. He's got an amazing career. An address people would kill for. (At least Wright didn't get into my house...) Looks apparently --and ironically-- a decent proportion of the female population are interested in.
He thinks randomly about heading up to the women's prison every weekend, forging a relationship with Iris; something Wright himself would be too busy and too selfish to consider, and then proposing to her on her release date. Just to watch Wright's face crumple, to see the smirking, neck-rubbing bastard finally beaten at something.
Only... no. The thought of a perfectly asexual marriage where no one could get hurt if no one loved anyone appeals to him, but probably not Iris. He's not actually selfish and indifferent and opportunistic enough to use another person like that.
He sips his tea, and the phone rings. It must be important if Hannah's put it through to him. Probably payroll; they call when they need to confirm overtime-- really, the incompetency of the office sometimes...
It's him.
He knows that if he sounds upset or bothered, Wright will get to know that he'd gotten under his skin.
No-- he can sound bothered, because he was busy, dammit-- he had stuff to do, or at least Wright would have assumed that much.
"Hello?" He keeps his voice vague and distant, like nothing's happened.
"Miles..." There's a sudden silence, and he can imagine Phoenix swearing under his breath, beads of sweat forming at his temple, because he's suddenly realised that he shouldn't have called.
"Yes?" It's almost fun talking to him like this, wishing he couldn't just hear him squirm.
"I-- I was just ringing after the other day."
No response.
"You know-- the hotel room." He sounds almost pained. Awkward. It's almost-- strangely, slightly-- hopeful.
"Yes-- I have a recollection of being in a hotel room, Wright--" His own voice speeds up. "What do you need to discuss with me?"
"I didn't like the way things eventuated," Phoenix admits quietly. "I wish we'd had more..."
Sex? Is that all you can think about?
"of a conversation afterwards."
"You made yourself perfectly clear, Wright. I thank you for your honesty."
There's a sigh. It's not going the way Phoenix wants it to. He has the wretched urge to keep things in that vein.
Miles chuckles airily. "Of everyone who knows me, you're probably the only one who understands to what extent I am essentially damaged. To have misinterpreted you and thought you would be stupid enough to even consider..."
God. I'm doing it yet again. Behind the humour is a bitter, bleak truth. Admit to it before someone else does. Fire that much ammunition at yourself to show the other side that you're indestructible. Not how you deal in court, unless you're leading someone into a trap, but there's a procedure for dealing with people. Sort of.
"Don't say that, Miles." He sounds pathetically childish now, optimistic, almost pleading. "You make it sound so hopeless-- you're not damaged, you're one of my best friends..."
"Not damaged? Please, Wright, if I'm one of your best friends, you can at least do me the favour of not insulting my intelligence."
Phoenix pauses, and Miles realises he'd quite like this. If Wright hadn't been his closest... friend, of course, and if he hadn't been stupid and sentimental enough to admit that he loved the man.
"Well, uh..." He trails off unexpectedly, caught.
"There's no need to patronise me, Wright. Let's look at the facts of what we're dealing with here."
"Well, uh, yeah." There's another uncomfortable pause from him. "I wish I could... I don't know. Make it up to you somehow. I mean, the last few weeks have been..."
"Crazy," he offers in monotone.
"Yeah." He sounds relieved to have found an agreement, some common ground.
"I was just trying to be honest with you, Miles... I mean..."
There's more silence then, followed with the compensatory-- "It's not that I don't love you as a friend." Then the hurried "And it's not that I didn't enjoy--" lowered voice-- "what we did-- I did enjoy that-- a lot." Then the awful silence again, where he's stumbling for words, and Miles can only look at his watch and be glad he didn't take the call on the speaker.
"I just... I don't know." Another sigh. "I don't see sex as any kind of expression of love. Not necessarily." Fumbling again.
"Well... that would be foolish, wouldn't it?" Miles asks, a rhetorical question.
"It just complicates things, and I never understood why people had to get so hung up on it. I mean we still had... a good time, right?"
"I did," Miles utters, still clinging to dignity.
There's a sigh of relief. "I'm glad we're on the same wavelength," he says. There's a tentative pause. "I suppose my next question should be... when do we get to do it again?"
It's the lecherous smirk in his voice, like he's won which causes Miles to press his finger into the plastic notch in the phone's cradle, hanging up abruptly. He hastily presses Hannah's autodial key, and without even waiting for her usual 'Mr. Edgeworth,' he utters one single request. "Don't put any more calls through from him."
He wanted to say something when he knew what had happened.
Wanted to, but... didn't want to; it was a couple of months later-- Wright had given up trying to contact him, and that only added to the sense of feeling used which Miles harboured. If Phoenix had truly seen him as a friend, he would have tried to repair the friendship, wouldn't he? It seemed utterly ridiculous that he'd spent a decent proportion of his life desperately trying to get in contact with him, writing all those letters, trying to pry him open-- and then all it took was that event to cast him into the realm of the unimportant.
A bitter sense of something had consumed him. He went to work. He performed perfectly. He was starting to doubt Wright and his influence-- if all of Wright's actions had just been an elaborate ploy to get him into bed for some meaningless sex, maybe that invalidated everything Wright had told him.
It was like Manfred von Karma telling him that he was like a son to him.
It was like Gant telling him that he was brilliant.
Sure, it didn't happen overnight, there'd been months of laying down the path to make it all happen, years, in Manfred's case, of getting familiar with his security system and then managing to override it. Wright had just done it in a different way, and he'd caught him off-guard while he was particularly vulnerable. He'd sworn never again to fall victim to... emotional pulls after that; he'd resisted well enough.
Of course he was lonely from time to time; he was only human and required regular human interaction of a meaningful nature.
It broke his heart when he realised that he couldn't trust any more.
He now looked at Gumshoe sadly, realising that he second-guessed his colleague's kindness. No matter what ("Are you all right, Mr. Edgeworth?-- You seem even unhappier than usual...") he said or did, the notion that it was only for one reason occurred to him.
Maybe it wasn't that sort of a reason-- but it was wanting a closeness, a vulnerability, a glimpse at what lay beneath from him ("I'm perfectly all right.") He couldn't ruin the relationship he had with Gumshoe by letting him in only to be possibly used and discarded.
The relationship changed anyway; Gumshoe seemed more on-edge and less responsive, more resigned and less optimistic. But Miles knew he couldn't take the barest of chances.
It wasn't that he lacked for human companionship of a more personal type, either; he'd met someone, he was taking it slow and impersonal. Not expecting too much; not expecting anything. At least this one wasn't old enough to be his grandfather. At least he wasn't connected to his career. Like Gant and von Karma, he was dignified and carried an air of power and self-control about him, he seemed comfortable in formal attire, he knew the rules of social conduct well.
Miles wasn't in love with him; he was never going to fall in love again, it didn't matter, love was a meaningless, suicidal waste of time and energy.
They met once a week for drinks out at a stylish bar where the darkness enveloped them and they could pretend to be perfect strangers if they wanted. He always had his usual; an acceptable house red-- a hangover effect from Manfred's teaching him to appreciate the stuff-- combined with his own frugal sense of not wasting money on anything too expensive. These meetings were not special occasions, they were a gateway to a type of intimacy, a cheap, quick, mostly pointless action. It killed time and it felt good, and they were both using one another equally.
It was safe, but in an entirely different way from the way being with Wright-- or either of the others had felt safe. It was safe because it didn't matter.
He wondered to himself on the odd occasion, if this was what had happened with Wright, if he was looking for a no-commitment, no-real-concern relationship, if he had felt as safe as his new beau did. Moments after wondering, he'd force himself to stop thinking about it; it was stupid and sentimental, and Wright probably hadn't even considered him since that last phone call. No; Wright had made himself crystal clear.
"Mr. Edgeworth? It's your... friend... on the phone."
Of course it was him. It was the time of day that he usually called-- like Miles, he had his own routines in place, and even though it was a Monday evening, it was five to five. The time he usually rang to suggest drinks and-- what followed the "and" never had to be stated.
"Put him through, please."
Hannah was naive; typically pleasant and concerned about her boss like all good secretaries, she couldn't hide her enthusiasm for his "relationship." Anyone else would have been deserving of the truth, but Hannah-- Hannah was sweet and kind, and she cared about him in her funny little platonic, professional manner. If she wanted to think that Miles was happy-- if it made her happy to think he was, he was prepared to wear the smiling face of a man possibly distracted by romantic urges.
"Hello, Miles." There was that cocky, smooth voice. Miles wondered if Hannah screened his calls and overheard everything-- it was unprofessional, of course, but he could imagine someone like her doing something like that; not out of maliciousness but out of too much interest.
"How are you?" he asked, equally smoothly. Not even bothering with a name. "And... Monday? Anyone would think you're starting to get attached."
There. Tease him about it. Show him that the last thing he wanted to do was to get attached. No-- the situation was simpler and more pleasant if he didn't. And Miles felt a strange sense of almost-honour towards him; he wasn't leading him on or into anything, he was making his lack of attachment quite obvious. Laughing about it, even.
"How sentimental of you, Miles-- I'm not." There was a sharpness in his voice now. "I've just had some interesting news that I felt I should share with you."
He'd heard the whisperings around the office. Klavier had come back, cocky but almost shaken; Miles had put it down to him being new to the game rather than anything else; and concerned with his own business, had all but ignored him.
"Phoenix Wright has been disbarred."
"Yes-- I heard about that."
He privately cursed him for mentioning the name. And once again, as he had when the Hazakura mess started, he felt that strong pang of longing to rush in, to help, to make it all better-- but it was blunted by something else. A revolting, almost smug feeling of satisfaction. So now you know how it feels when the universe strikes a hard blow.
Not that he would have admitted that to anyone.
"What happened?"
"Apparently the great Mr. Wright doesn't check his sources too well-- or forges evidence. I'm not sure-- I don't think he would have forged it... he just doesn't seem the type." He paused. "Wright was always so honest and clean cut. He spoke so good-naturedly that Miles felt himself tense up and long to betray Wright's good name with a little underhanded dirty laundry being aired.
"I find that surprising," he said evenly. He decided to change the topic. "Drinks?" he asked nonchalantly.
"While I don't believe it's a cause for celebration-- I think a few drinks would be in order. I certainly need one."
Miles chuckled. "Sounds like you might need something else," he said. He liked this; he could be someone else with the man, he could have innuendo-laden conversations and it didn't matter. He liked the chance to be someone else, even if he only had an audience of one.
"A drink to absent friends, then?"
Miles chuckled to himself. "Certainly, Kristoph," he said warmly, and knowing that he'd be already on his way, and that Kristoph would be waiting, patiently, down in the car park-- for hours as he'd learned a few weeks ago-- he headed out of the office and towards his car.
It wasn't a night for celebration, but it was an evening for closure. The news that his former friend and one-time lover had been disbarred meant the possibility, at least, of being able to wipe Wright from his mind and professional circle once and for all.
When he arrived at his car, he saw the other man waiting there, looking demure and pleased as he so often did. Kristoph Gavin was a simple, eloquent person. Miles didn't have to love him to be able to appreciate him. He sometimes wondered what things would be like if he did love him, if he could love him.
He'd been cursed with that affliction thrice before, and he knew how futile it was at the end of the day. His last chance had been and gone; from here on out, it was work, shallow friendships... and this.
Still, looking at that soft, enthusiastic face he wondered. Kristoph was gentle and harmless and decent-- the thought of breaking him occurred to him, but even after Manfred... and Gant... and Wright-- a part of him couldn't be bothered. This was sweet and simple, everyone got what they wanted.
Looking at Kristoph and smiling wryly, he opened his car doors and stepped inside, waiting for the other man to do the same. They drove down towards that bar-- the obscure Russian place which Kristoph liked sometimes-- in silence, the both of them lost in thoughts of their own.