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This, Miles Edgeworth thinks as he stares at the cell phone ringing in his palm, is a situation that must be handled delicately.
He flips open the phone, his thumb hovering over the CANCEL button, then the OK button, then the CANCEL button again. His head throbs; the exhausted muscles in his thighs and hips tremble when he stands; he swears he can feel the membranous connective tissue inside him vibrating like a timpani. It's barely 7:00 on a Saturday morning, and his mouth tastes like the basement of a fraternity house. In other words, there might eventually be a time that is not too early for this shit, but that time is certainly not now.
But to reject the call would make a stronger statement than to accept it, and the fact that the call is coming in at all suggests that Edgeworth should not, at this juncture, make such a statement. That the call is coming in at all suggests that Phoenix Wright has no idea what happened last night.
Edgeworth's thumb moves back toward the OK button.
"In my defense, your honor," he mutters, "no reasonable man could be expected to behave with his usual level of sense and good judgment after having just been acquitted of homicide. And besides, I wasn't the one paying for the drinks."
Edgeworth accepts the call.
"So, where are we headed, pal?" Detective Gumshoe asks, slinging an arm around Edgeworth's shoulders as he steers Edgeworth out of the courthouse. The bulky fabric of his trench coat is soft and creased from wear, and several unidentifiable and curiously-shaped stains mark the sleeve that dangles down Edgeworth's arm. A half-step ahead of them, Phoenix and Larry are bickering over Maya's head about the lunch money incident.
"So you're saying we wouldn't even be friends if I hadn't taken that money? That's cold, Nick. Real cold!"
"You wouldn't have stuck up for me if you hadn't stolen it yourself!"
"There's other reasons to be someone's friend. I'm not just friends with you because you stick up for me!"
"I guess Nick can stop getting you out of trouble every time you're a suspect in a murder case, then," Maya teases, poking Larry in the ribs. He yelps and rubs his side.
"Where to go for dinner..." Edgeworth considers, running down his mental list of favorite restaurants. Narrowing the selections by the time of day (breakfast cafés aren't an option), the size of the group (anywhere popular enough to require reservations won't be able to seat five at the last minute), the occasion (some level of celebration is in order), and the location (anywhere that would require driving to, and therefore driving home from, is right out for safety reasons), it becomes a rather short list rather quickly.
"Yeah!" Gumshoe says. "Wherever you want to go!"
"What about Antico Nuovo? Their food is exceptional."
In unison so perfectly timed Edgeworth would swear in a court of law that it had been choreographed, all four of his would-be dinner companions wince.
"What?" Edgeworth asks.
"It's nothing, pal, really."
"It's alright, Gumshoe," Phoenix says. "Look, Edgeworth, Antico Nuovo's really nice. It's just that..."
"That place is crazy expensive, Edgey! I took Kiyance there once and it cleaned me out!"
"Well, that's no problem," Edgeworth says. "I'm happy to pay."
"No way!"
"Absolutely not!"
"Edgeworth, you can't! We're celebrating you!"
"Nuh-uh, pal," Gumshoe says. "Dinner's on me and that's final. Just, well, maybe somewhere a little more, uh, budget-friendly."
"Ooh!" Maya cuts in. "What about that place around the corner from the hotel -- you know, the one with the big neon sign?"
"Oh, that place!" Larry says. "Yeah, I can't think of the name right now, but they've got this brownie sundae --"
"-- and their burgers --"
" -- and the onion rings --"
"-- and the drinks --"
"-- the drinks --"
" -- oh, yeah, the drinks --"
"-- plus it's dirt cheap!"
"It's a plan!" Gumshoe says.
Edgeworth considers, for a moment, pointing out that if their goal is to celebrate his freedom, they might better serve it by allowing him to pick the restaurant and treat them all to tortelli and rosticciana and a glass or two of good wine. But that, he senses, would be rude, especially considering he's still struggling just to properly identify the feeling overflowing his chest as gratitude, let alone to express it properly; especially considering how excited everyone is now that they're bouncing off each other, trying to remember the name of the restaurant ("I swear it started with a D"), throwing out the most absurd possibilities they can come up with; especially considering that Phoenix Wright -- the real hero of the hour, no matter what everyone says, no matter what Edgeworth tries and fails to say -- is grinning right at him, letting Maya and Larry and Gumshoe walk up ahead, falling into step beside him.
"It'll be fun," Phoenix says, low enough that the others can't hear, not that they're listening; they're too busy debating whether the place they're headed is called Dino's or Dodo's or Dingo's. "I promise."
"I never said it wouldn't, Wright."
"Yeah, but you were kind of making a face."
"Ah. I see. I believe I mentioned earlier that this sort of thing is... not my strong suit."
"That much was pretty clear, yeah." Edgeworth grimaces, and Phoenix laughs. "Hey, at least we're in it together, right?"
"Are we?"
Phoenix rubs the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. "Well, yeah, I kind of thought so. I mean, I'm sure I'll be standing on the other side of the courtroom from you again soon enough, but..."
"Until you switch to being a prosecutor, that is."
"Not if you switch to being a defense attorney first."
Edgeworth chuckles, and Phoenix joins him, and Edgeworth is less sure than ever that gratitude is the proper name for the feeling in his chest. Is that really what you're meant to call it when your childhood best friend resurfaces after fifteen years, makes it clear that he's never stopped thinking about you, that he can trace his entire career to a single act of kindness you did him in the fourth grade, and then he saves your life? When he does it all, or at least most of it, with a confident smile and a snarky remark and a seemingly endless string of brilliant, last-minute reversals and realizations? When literally everything appears to be his strong suit? When he seems incapable of saying your name without a meaningful ellipsis after it? Is gratitude the word you're meant to stick on the way it makes you feel when he does all that?
It must be, or else he would have said something already. The time to do that would have been when all hope seemed lost and my conviction felt like a foregone conclusion. Precisely the sort of desperate situation that would put one in a confessing mood. If, that is, one had not already been told never to show his face in front of me again. If, that is, one hadn't previously thought of me as a cruel and unfeeling man who would do anything to get a conviction. If, that is, I hadn't made the mistake of closing off that avenue quickly and repeatedly every time it seemed about to open itself to me. If, that is, I hadn't referred to my own feelings as -- oh, God, did I really say that? -- unnecessary. That we might even be considered friends at all, under such circumstances, is nothing short of a miracle.
The group rounds the corner beyond the Gatewater Hotel, and the neon sign glows bright red before them, flickering in the descending dusk.
Maya, Gumshoe, and Larry let out another perfectly synchronized cry, this time shouting, "Dusty's!"
And Phoenix and Edgeworth begin to chuckle again, and Phoenix nudges Edgeworth's shoulder with his own and says, "How much do you want to bet that Gumshoe is a drunk crier?"
And Edgeworth pats the envelope in his pocket and says, "Thirty-eight dollars."
And they laugh harder, the two of them, following their friends into the restaurant, and Edgeworth nods to himself.
Gratitude is the strongest word for what I can reasonably be allowed to feel, under such circumstances. So gratitude it is.
"Wright," Edgeworth says crossly, pressing his phone to his ear, "do you know what time it is?"
"A little after seven," comes the staticky voice at the other end, slightly too loud. "Maya's gone. Are you hungry?"
"What? Maya's gone where? Is everything alright?"
"I just saw her off at the train station." Now that he mentions it, Edgeworth can indeed make out the faint noise of automated announcements and bustling passengers in the background of the call. "She's going up into the mountains for spirit medium training. She'll be back in a couple months, but..."
"You two are practically attached at the hip," Edgeworth finishes for him.
"Yeah. It's gonna be pretty lonely around here for a while." A beat of static and breath. "Edgeworth. Come have breakfast with me. You pick the place -- we can go wherever you want. For real this time. I'll even let you pay for me."
Despite the joking, there's a ragged edge under Phoenix's voice, barely discernible through the poor connection of the call, that sounds a little like he wants saving. Maya's gone away, and Phoenix is lonely, and won't Edgeworth please come and save him? For a man who has just been saved -- completely, dramatically, impossibly saved -- it's an irresistible offer. The beginning of something like repayment. And then maybe, eventually, Edgeworth's lungs and heart and stomach won't be full to bursting with gratitude anymore and he'll be able to move forward, he won't even be tempted to think about what happened last night, not like he is now, with Phoenix's voice -- however staticky and artificial it may be -- in his ear, asking for a rescue.
"You'll let me pay? How gentlemanly." Edgeworth considers, running down his mental list of favorite restaurants. "Sticks and Scones? They'll be open already."
"Great. I can be there in half an hour." Another long moment passes. The phone crackles. A robotic female voice announces a departure. "Edgeworth, I, uh... You..." Phoenix sighs, a burst of breath so loud Edgeworth has to hold the phone away from his ear and nearly misses the next sentence, but catches it just in time to hear Phoenix say, "Thanks. I'll, uh, I'll see you at breakfast."
The call disconnects, and Edgeworth is left holding the phone to his ear and listening to nothing, and the drumbeat aching in his head has resolved itself into the rhythm of he doesn't remember, he doesn't remember, he doesn't remember.
Dusty's ("I still think it should be called Dingo's," Larry says as they pile through the glass front door) is packed, the after-work crowd already getting rowdy, tucking into baskets of glistening fried food and cocktails as screaming neon as the sign out front. Their otherwise diminutive server has a name tag on her ample chest that says Triss and a pile of coppery hair so high that she's nearly as tall as Gumshoe, and she smacks her chewing gum as she leads them to a rounded corner booth. The menu, she explains as they squish themselves in shoulder to shoulder, is on that chalkboard over by the bar, and she'll bring everyone some water but would they like anything else to drink?
"What's the strongest thing you've got?" Gumshoe asks.
Triss purses her bright red lips. "Celebrating or drinking your sorrows away?"
"Celebrating!" Larry declares.
"Then you'll want the Dusty Derby for sure."
"What would you have recommended for drinking our sorrows away?" Phoenix asks.
Triss grins and pops her gum. "The Dusty Derby. My boss says we gotta move all our peach schnapps -- guess he ordered too much."
Larry grins back at her. "A round of Dusty Derbies for everyone!"
"Um, not for me," Maya says. "I'll stick with the water."
"Great, coming right up," Triss says, turning to Maya before she leaves. "You keep an eye on these jokers, alright, honey?"
"I'll do my best!" Maya replies with a giggle.
The booth is vinyl, overstuffed and red, and it curls around the circular wooden table in a softened right angle. Larry sits at one end, his long thin legs sticking out into the walkway between tables, his shoulder bumping Edgeworth's, who has laced his fingers together on the tabletop and is trying not to jostle Phoenix, who sits in the center, leaning back against the booth with one arm draped along the back of it and the other hand resting on Maya's shoulder, who's talking Gumshoe's ear off about the latest plot twist on the Pink Princess. Larry leans over the table to jump into the conversation. Edgeworth immediately tries to tune them out; he's not caught up on the most recent episode of the show, what with having been in detention, and he's wary of having it spoiled. Instead, he surveys the restaurant. The music pumping through the speakers is generic rock, loud enough that everyone has to raise their voices to be heard by their dining companions, but not so loud that he can actually make out any of the lyrics. The people here are largely of a type: pink-cheeked, calloused, with thick, well-worn jackets tossed over the backs of their chairs and sturdy boots on their feet. It's been an unusually cold December, which is not to say it's actually been cold -- it rarely is around here -- but chill mists have been rising up at night and people have been turning up their collars and seeking refuge in the kinds of places with neon red signs and strong drinks.
Edgeworth sits back to catch a better view of the chalkboard menu, and something warm and soft presses against the back of his neck. He swivels his head -- Phoenix's arm is still draped over the back of the booth.
"Oh -- sorry," Edgeworth says, tilting forward again.
"No, sorry, that's my fault." Phoenix moves his arm, but there's not enough space in the booth for his broad shoulders and he elbows Edgeworth by mistake. "I'm, uh --"
"It's fine," Edgeworth says. "It was fine where it was. I couldn't see the menu, that's all."
"Oh. Right." Phoenix lays his arm over the booth again. "They've got cheeseburgers, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks --"
"I know how to read, Wright," Edgeworth snaps.
"No need to bite my head off. Jeez."
Edgeworth sits back. The arm stays where it is. The smooth fabric of Phoenix's suit jacket rubs against the back of his neck with every minute muscular shift that he makes. Phoenix's fingertips dangle down, nearly but not quite brushing Edgeworth's shoulder. If either of them moved, just a little --
Edgeworth stays very still and feels grateful.
"I'm -- I'm sorry," he mutters. "It's been rather a long day."
Phoenix's annoyance rolls off of him, and he smiles. "Some of that was my fault. I really thought von Karma had me there."
"When?"
"The whole trial!"
They laugh, and Triss appears with a tray of water glasses and cocktail glasses, the latter of which are filled to the brim with pinkish-orange liquid that recalls a sunset finger-painted by a child with a touch of colorblindness. She doles out the drinks with practiced speed, ending at Maya, in front of whom she deposits not only the requested water but a tall glass filled with crushed ice and a deep, vibrant, crushed pink.
"Raspberry lemonade," she explains with a wink and another pop of her gum. "On the house. Bad luck to toast with water, y'know."
"Thanks, Triss!" Maya reaches for her raspberry lemonade and raises it toward the speakers above, still piping in indeterminate rock. "I propose a toast!" she says.
The others lift their cocktails. Edgeworth wraps his hand around his own glass, feels the cool condensation on his skin and eyes the sunset inside with suspicion, lifts it along with everyone else's.
"To Edgeworth," Maya says, "for staying strong, and for not being a murderer in the first place! To Larry, for his testimony that helped prove Edgeworth's innocence! To Gumshoe, for always believing in Edgeworth and helping us on the case even when he wasn't supposed to!"
"Don't let my supervisor hear you saying that, pal!"
"And most of all, to Nick, for never giving up. It's all thanks to you that tonight we're celebrating and not drinking our sorrows away. You're really impressive, Nick!"
"What about you, Maya?" Phoenix asks, nudging her shoulder with his own.
"I'm the one giving the toast, silly. It would be rude to toast myself." Maya thrusts her glass higher. "To justice!"
"To justice!" everyone else echoes, clinking glasses, and Edgeworth takes a sip of his Dusty Derby. It's sweet -- too sweet, really, it hits him in the back of the teeth -- and tastes strongly of peach and lime and syrup and hardly at all of alcohol. Edgeworth might not even have guessed it was a cocktail if not for the way that one sip almost immediately makes his head spin. He takes another sip, and the sweetness is more bearable the second time.
"These are dangerous," Edgeworth says, taking a third sip.
"Hell yeah!" Larry says, clinking his glass against Edgeworth's again. "That's what I'm talkin' about, Edgey! Time to loosen you up."
"Phrasing, Larry," Phoenix says with a snort, swigging his own drink. "Whoa, these are really strong."
"I didn't mean it like that!" Larry squawks.
"So you don't want to loosen me up?" Edgeworth says, feeling a smile starting to pull at the corners of his mouth as he, Phoenix, and Larry slip right back into the dynamics that made them such good friends all those years ago.
"No, I do, but --"
"At the dinner table, Larry? With our friends here?" Phoenix shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Gross."
"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, Larry. Really, I do. I'm afraid you're just not my type."
Larry groans and takes another long pull of his Dusty Derby. "You guys are the worst."
"And you claim I get worked up too easily," Phoenix says.
"You do," Larry and Edgeworth retort in unison, and Larry's long face transforms itself into a laugh. Edgeworth can't help but laugh along, and his shoulders bounce, and Phoenix shakes his head and throws up a hand in a gesture of what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you, and suddenly his arm is not just resting on the back of the booth but is, in fact, around Edgeworth's shoulders, and not only his fingertips but his whole hand is resting on Edgeworth's shoulder, and as soon as Edgeworth realizes this he freezes. Because it feels nice. Not unexpectedly nice, either, but correct, right, jigsaw-fitted, and it makes his heart race and his stomach flip but it doesn't make him want to bolt, no, he wants to settle back, maybe even 'loosen up,' in Larry's words, let someone else share a little of the feeling that has been overfilling him to bursting, release the pressure.
But if he wanted that, he would have said so long ago. I already owe him enough.
"So who is your type, Edgeworth?" Maya teases, punctuating her question with a long sip of raspberry lemonade. "If it's not Larry."
"Maya, come on," Phoenix says, nudging her shoulder. "Hasn't he already been interrogated enough for one lifetime?"
"Aw, c'mon, pal," Gumshoe interjects. "This is what's supposed to happen when you go out and get drunk with your friends! You tell embarrassing stories that none of you remember the next day. It's fun!"
"Hey, Edgey, tell us! I won't be offended, promise! Well, maybe a little..."
"You don't have to answer that, Edgeworth."
Edgeworth drains the last of his glass and sets it down on the table. "On the advice of my legal counsel," he says, "I will not be answering that question. Not without several more Dusty Derbies first."
"Another round!" Gumshoe calls out, and the whole party bursts into laughter, and to Edgeworth's immense -- gratitude -- Phoenix squeezes his shoulder.
Edgeworth lives not ten minutes from Sticks and Scones, and he considers waiting at home for about two seconds before brushing his teeth without even bothering to flip on the lights, selecting a jacket, and leaving. The fresh air will be good for his head, he thinks -- he hopes -- and he might as well get a table rather than pacing around like a caged cheetah.
This is a reconnaissance mission, he thinks as he rounds the corner near his apartment and strides down the block toward the café. There are few people out this morning. It's still early, and there's a chill in the air, and not too many cars go by, and the world, in contrast to the pounding in his head, is blissfully quiet. Objective the first, determine whether Phoenix Wright remembers anything at all that occurred yesterday evening, December 28th. Objective the second, determine whether my moral obligation in this situation is to tell him the truth or to keep it from him at all costs.
Ordinarily, the truth is all that matters. But --
If it would cause him more distress to know than not to know, then he ought not to know. It would be selfish to keep it from him solely on the grounds that his knowing might repulse him, but if that repulsion would so affect his ability to be around me that it might impact his career, his well-being, then keeping it from him is clearly the moral option. And if he doesn't care, or I can't determine a clear ethical choice?
I already owe him enough. There's no need to make him carry this, too.
They didn't order enough food.
Maya's fine -- a burger half the size of her head and free raspberry lemonade refills paired with conspiratorial winks from Triss -- but the rest of them are running on too many Dusty Derbies and too few onion rings. Larry is leaning halfway over the table, scarecrow elbows dangerously close to his water glass, slurring through a detailed explanation of his romantic woes to Maya, who's nodding sympathetically and only occasionally giggling behind her hand. Gumshoe is going on to nobody in particular about how nervous he was and how glad he is that Edgeworth's okay and how he knew, he just knew, that everything was gonna be alright, and his eyes are misty, and he sniffles and takes another long sip of his umpteenth drink, and a couple tears trickle down his cheek.
"Hah!" Phoenix erupts, pointing at him. "Drunk crier!"
"Look, I just get emotional sometimes, pal." Gumshoe scrubs at his face with the heel of his palm.
"Me too," Larry mumbles. "I think maybe I come on too strong?"
"No, no," Maya says, patting Larry's hand and shooting Phoenix a look. "I'm sure that's not it."
Phoenix leans over to Edgeworth. He doesn't have to lean very far -- the booth is still slightly too small for everyone, maybe more so now that alcohol has completely fucked the party's collective proprioception. "Drunk crier," Phoenix repeats. "You owe me thirty-eight bucks."
"I was the one betting on him being a drunk crier," Edgeworth says. "You owe me thirty-eight dollars." He over-enunciates the words, pronouncing them precisely, like they're a tongue twister. His tongue does feel awfully twisted. It's hot in here; the air feels thick, and his tongue feels thick too. At some point in the shuffle that ensued two drinks ago when Maya had to get up and use the bathroom, jackets came off, sleeves were rolled up, and now the arm that is still draped around Edgeworth's shoulders is bare from the elbow down, bare forearm against the bare nape of his neck, bare hand through the single layer of his dress shirt, and his cravat feels too tight and his waistcoat is wool and he's starting to sweat.
"No way, I was betting on him being a drunk crier."
"I really thought I was."
"Were we both betting on the same thing?"
"It seems so."
"So, what, we owe each other thirty-eight dollars?"
Edgeworth rummages in his pocket for the envelope of money that Larry gave him and hands it to Phoenix. Phoenix takes it, nods solemnly, and hands it back. Edgeworth replaces it in his pocket. He holds it together for another few seconds before letting out a high-pitched hiccup. Phoenix breaks out into peals of laughter.
"I forgot you're funny!" Phoenix gasps between hoots.
"How very kind of you, Wright."
"No! I --" He gets a handle on his breathing, slugs his drink, lowers his voice beneath the thrum of the music and the crescendo of Gumshoe and Larry encouraging each other's emotional breakdowns. His arm tightens around Edgeworth's shoulders, pulling him closer, and his mouth is nearly pressed against Edgeworth's ear. The heat shifts from warm to unbearable, and Edgeworth forces himself not to squirm even as his cheeks flush and Phoenix says, "It's been so long since I've seen you be -- uh -- do -- what's the thing people say? Let your -- lower your bridge? Your drawbridge?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"It's a saying. People say it. Man, I'm drunk. Stop guarding your drawbridge?"
"Are you sure it's got a bridge in it?"
"No." Phoenix chuckles, and the sound of it is low and a little scratchy, a rumble, a warm, sun-baked dirt road, thunder in the distance, and as close as his mouth is to Edgeworth's ear that chuckle seems to vibrate directly through Edgeworth's bones and it's way too hot in here, he feels nearly feverish, and the heat suffusing him seems to be not just intensifying but concentrating, pulling itself into a ball of humid warmth and as Phoenix's mouth actually does just barely brush the shell of his ear, all that humid warmth finally condenses between -- ah.
Gratitude. Come on. Be grateful.
Edgeworth shifts his hips and crosses his legs under the table and redirects his attention away from the bare forearm resting against his neck and the lips that are still resting, lazily, against his ear and tries very hard to focus on what Maya is saying about wanting a bigger TV for the office and not on the fact that he is, at present, half-hard and twitching in his slacks.
Their server comes by and begins collecting the empty onion ring baskets and drained glasses. They don't all fit on her tray. "Can I get you anything else?" she asks.
"These are sooooooo good," Larry drawls, handing her his empty Dusty Derby glass. "Another one!"
"If you say so," she says, but as she turns to go Maya holds out a hand.
"Wait, Triss," she says. "Just the check, please."
"Smart cookie," Triss says, and walks off toward the kitchen.
"Wait, Triss," Larry repeats. "That's what you said. Wait, Triss."
"And she's a waitress!" Phoenix says.
"Wow, that's funny!" Maya says. "What are the odds?"
"Pretty good," Phoenix replies. "You ever noticed how many people we know with names like that? I mean, think about Lotta Hart."
"She's got a lot of heart!" Larry says. "Whoa, Nick, that's wild!"
Maya's face is screwed up in concentration. "Dee Vasquez was a diva. Winston Payne's name sounds like someone winced in pain."
"Which he does a lot," Phoenix says.
"They're called atpro -- apto -- oh dear," Edgeworth says, his voice coming out louder than he intends it to. He makes a conscious effort to lower it to a normal volume, forces his tongue to make the correct syllables. "Hold on, I've got it. Ap-tro-nyms. Yes, aptronyms. Amusingly appropriate names. Like a florist being named Flora Gardner, or a detective being named Dick Gumshoe."
"I don't see what's so funny about that, pal! It's a good name!"
"How are you so smart even when you're drunk?" Phoenix asks, his mouth pressed against Edgeworth's ear again, his words blurring together in a long, low legato that does nothing to ease the tension in Edgeworth's legs as he fights not to squirm. "I'm not even that smart normally."
"Don't be ridiculous, Wright. For one thing, I think you're an awful lot drunker than I am right now."
"We've had the same amount. You just hide it better." Phoenix points to the empty glasses on the table; the rest of the party's drinks have been cleared away, but his and Edgeworth's remain. "Look. Four of mine, four of yours."
"Perhaps I have a higher tolerance than you do."
"Nope. Your vision's blurry. All night you've been reaching for the full glass and accidentally grabbing an empty one. You're having just a hard time -- just of hard -- uh -- just as hard of a time talking as I am. Obviously. But you're compensating for it by being extra careful with your words." He pulls back, takes a long look at Edgeworth, then leans back in, his breath hot, his lips soft as they brush Edgeworth's ear, why won't he stop doing that, does he not realize, of course he doesn't, or else he wouldn't be --
"And your face is bright red," Phoenix concludes. "You're hot."
Edgeworth sputters as the ache between his legs intensifies. "What?"
"Hot," Phoenix repeats. "Warm. Your temperature is too high. You're sweating. Because you're drunk. Drunker than you let on."
"And I'm afraid you're smarter than you let on."
Phoenix pulls away, grins. "Edgeworth, that might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Alright, everyone," Maya says, clapping her hands together. "Gumshoe has very kindly paid for dinner and drinks, so we'd better get out of here before they close. Is everyone going to be able to make it home?"
"I'll be fine. But that's awfully nice of you," Gumshoe says with a sniffle. "I'm just... so happy we're all pals..."
"I'm okay too!" Larry says, hoisting himself to his feet. "My girl's picking me up."
"I thought she was moving to Paris?"
"She's not leaving tonight, Nick! I've got one more night with my sweet Kiyance. Gonna make it count!"
"Gross," Phoenix and Edgeworth say in unison, prompting a giggle from Maya and a tearful chuckle from Gumshoe.
"What about you, Edgeworth?" Maya says, turning to him with a sparkle in her eyes. "You live pretty far from here, don't you?"
"I suppose so, yes, but I'll be alright." Edgeworth scoots out of the booth after Larry, stands up, immediately gets dizzy, stumbles, grabs the table for support, rattles the remaining glasses.
"It doesn't look like you'll be alright. Why don't you go back to the office with Nick?"
"Maya," Phoenix hisses, just audible above the music. "Come on."
"It's for safety," she insists, much louder than Phoenix. "It's dark and cold outside! He shouldn't try to get all the way home by himself until he's sobered up! And the office is just around the corner."
"Maya, stop. I told you, he doesn't feel --"
"So it's settled!" she says brightly. "I've gotta go home and take care of some things, but I'll stop by to check on you in the morning. Night, everyone!"
And then, without really processing the steps between the table and the door, Edgeworth's outside with his jacket slung over one arm and Phoenix Wright clinging to the other and the red neon glow behind him and the darkened city spread out in front of him and a feeling that definitely isn't gratitude warming him against the December night.
When Phoenix arrives, a little out of breath, cheeks pink from the chill in the air, the ghost of stubble dotting his unshaven face, wearing old jeans and what is recognizably the same wrinkled dress shirt from last night under a warm blue coat, Edgeworth stares down into his mug of hot coffee and tries very hard not to think about it.
"Good morning," Phoenix says, shucking his coat and sitting down across from Edgeworth. He signals the waiter, who brings over a second steaming mug of coffee within moments. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long."
"Fifteen minutes or so," Edgeworth says. "I didn't mind. How is Maya?"
"Excited about her training. It's gonna be weird without her around, but... I'm happy for her. I'm glad I got to say goodbye."
"Right." Edgeworth glances up from his mug, sees what the high collar of Phoenix's coat had concealed and the limp, rumpled collar of the dress shirt very much does not, and nearly spits out his coffee. He swallows, coughs.
"You okay?"
"Yes, fine. Ah, have you looked in a mirror this morning, Wright?"
Phoenix snorts. "No, but I'm sure I look like death warmed up. I feel like it. Maybe I should have gone back to bed, but I, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, and Edgeworth looks fixedly down at his coffee and does not stare. "I guess I wanted to see you."
He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember.
"Well. Here I am," Edgeworth says awkwardly. He is saved from having to put together another coherent sentence when the waiter comes by to take their orders, and while Phoenix is distracted, Edgeworth dares another glance at the constellation of very obvious hickeys, the same deep, crushed pink as raspberry lemonade, that descend from Phoenix's jawline down his neck and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt.
Oh, God. I'm going to have to tell him.
"That can't be true," Edgeworth says as he and Phoenix weave along the sidewalk together.
"What can't?"
"That me telling you you're smarter than you let on is the nicest thing I've ever said to you. That can't possibly be the case."
"I'm pretty sure it is. Unless you said something really nice to me in the fourth grade that I can't remember now. But it wasn't that long ago that you told me you never wanted to see my face again." Phoenix chuckles. "It's not exactly a high bar."
Gratitude. Be grateful he's willing to spend time with you at all after that.
"I do, ah, regret saying that. I didn't know how to deal with the feelings I had about seeing you again." He pauses. "I still don't."
"See, you're being so open tonight! Larry was right, we gotta get you drunk more often. You're really -- oh, my God, what is that saying? Not guarding your bridge? Laying your garden?"
"...Letting my guard down?"
Phoenix stops in his tracks. "Yes!" he crows. "Letting your guard down! You're so smart."
"You're too easily impressed."
"What happened to wanting to say nice things to me?"
"Wanting to? Who said I want to?" Edgeworth nearly careers off the sidewalk but corrects himself at the last second, swerving back toward Phoenix, knocking their shoulders together. Phoenix leans over to knock him back but stumbles, grabbing at Edgeworth's sleeve for balance. Edgeworth tries to keep walking, but Phoenix stops, keeping a tight grip on his sleeve. "What is it, Wright?"
Phoenix points up at the building rising up from the sidewalk beside him. "We're here."
They make it into the elevator without any more near-accidents. They glide upward, the floors dinging one by one, and Phoenix says, "Well, maybe I want you to say nice things to me."
"Everyone wants people to say nice things to them, Wright."
Phoenix groans exasperatedly. "Yeah, but maybe I want you to say nice things to me."
"You're drunk."
"So are you. Come on, I just saved your life this morning!"
"You're going to hold that over my head, aren't you?"
"Oh, for sure. You're gonna owe me one forever, Edgeworth."
Gratitude, gratitude, as the elevator stops and the doors slide open and Phoenix grabs Edgeworth's hand -- his hand, their fever-hot palms pressed together, their fingers interlaced -- to drag him out of the elevator and into the office even though Edgeworth is perfectly capable of walking forward by himself with a minimum of stumbling, thank you very much, but if I am going to owe him for this forever, and I am, then I am never going to be able to be anything but grateful.
"Come on," Phoenix says again, collapsing on the couch, limbs akimbo, gesturing for Edgeworth to do the same. "Tell me one nice thing about me. I believe in you."
The trouble will be stopping at one.
"Fine. But know, your honor, that I testify only under extreme duress, and if asked about it tomorrow, I will plead the Dusty Derby."
Phoenix snorts. "Don't worry about it. There's no way I'm gonna remember this tomorrow."
"You're not?"
"And I bet you won't either. Those things were strong. It's like Gumshoe said -- you embarrass yourself, and then you forget all about it. It's fun."
Phoenix is taking up well more than half the couch. His head is tipped toward Edgeworth's, cheeks flushed, a goofy grin on his face and his eyes focusing and refocusing on Edgeworth, his tie loose, his knee pressed against Edgeworth's knee, his other leg kicked up over the armrest of the couch, one of his hands resting in his lap but close enough to Edgeworth's thigh that he swears he can feel the heat from Phoenix's fingers.
"Wright. I -- I'm not sure how to say this."
Phoenix's goofy grin softens into nothing. "It's fine," he mutters. "I shouldn't -- you don't have to."
"No, it's not that. It's -- well -- I owe you one, right? Which makes it rather difficult to... ah..."
"Forget about that for a second, then."
I don't think you know what you're asking me to do.
His face is so close to Edgeworth's, and it's so hot in here, and he's so -- and it's so -- and they're so -- and Edgeworth doesn't have the words but he has this feeling that's about to overflow his entire body and he has two choices here, either say something or do something, and either of those choices might haunt him tomorrow if he's unlucky enough to recall them because he's grateful, he's so fucking grateful, and he knows that's not the word but he's so bad at this, he hates that he's so bad at this, and it would be easier if he weren't drunk but if he weren't drunk then he wouldn't be here so what choice does he have, it's say something or do something, and at least if he does something he won't have to name the thing that's about to overspill its banks --
He shifts his hips so he's turned half sideways on the couch and there's a little breathing room between his face and Phoenix Wright's, and for a second he thinks he might be able to keep it all under control, actually.
"Edgeworth...?"
When he seems incapable of saying your name without a meaningful ellipsis after it? Is gratitude the word you're meant to stick on the way it makes you feel when he does that?
The word, Edgeworth realizes with the kind of perfect, heaven-sent clarity that makes it feel for a moment like the muddled magnetic filings of his drunken brain are all pointing north, is desperation.
He grabs a fistful of Phoenix's shirt collar and pulls him in and kisses him, roughly, open-mouthed and urgent. The way one might kiss if one were in a desperate situation, or possibly in a confessing mood. Phoenix's mouth is hot under his, and he makes a little noise of surprise in the back of his throat that alchemizes itself, as Edgeworth yanks him closer by his collar, into a low moan that Edgeworth feels as much as he hears. He slides his tongue into Phoenix's mouth, relishing the heat, the way Phoenix tips his head back and presses their tongues together and opens his mouth and practically invites Edgeworth in. It's a sloppy kiss; neither of them is all that coordinated at the moment. It takes Edgeworth two tries to pull Phoenix's tie off of him and another two to undo the top button of Phoenix's dress shirt, and meanwhile Phoenix's hands have found Edgeworth's back and are bunching up the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling at the tails of his shirt, scrambling for purchase of skin on skin and meeting with more and more layers of fabric, and Phoenix whines into his mouth but Edgeworth doesn't stop, doesn't pull back, because if this is happening then it is happening and if he thinks for even a moment then he will think better of it, so he doesn't think.
He fumbles with the buttons of Phoenix's shirt for an embarrassingly long time, until Phoenix's hands leave his waistcoat and take care of the last few so Edgeworth doesn't have to, for which he is grateful -- so that's what it feels like -- and he runs his palms up along Phoenix's shoulders and down his back to husk the shirt away and then it's his exposed neck, his pulse pounding so hard that Edgeworth can actually feel it when he presses his lips beneath Phoenix's jaw, and Edgeworth sucks and nips at that soft spot just below the jawbone until Phoenix lets out a sharp breath and a little "oh," and then Edgeworth kisses the spot once more for good measure and picks a new spot, further down, closer to Phoenix's throat, and repeats the whole process again, eliciting a new gasp or sigh or whimper every time until he's kissed his way down to Phoenix's collarbone, and then his broad flat chest, and with every kiss he pours out a little more of the feeling that's threatening the boundaries of his rib cage and it feels good.
"Edgeworth -- Miles -- fuck," Phoenix gasps as Edgeworth summons all the coordination in his body to gently graze one of Phoenix's nipples with his teeth without hurting him, and clearly it works because a shiver runs down his whole body and he propels himself forward, bowing his head to catch Edgeworth's lips in another kiss, and starts working in earnest on the buttons of the waistcoat, his hands fumbling a little less this time, enough that between the two of them they can get the waistcoat, cravat, and shirt gone without ever breaking the kiss. Edgeworth leans back, wraps his arms around Phoenix and presses his palms flat against his back, takes Phoenix with him as he realigns his hips, sinks back into the couch, pulls Phoenix into his lap. Phoenix is willing and pliable, easy, straddling him with a knee on either side of his thighs and a hand braced on his chest and a hand grabbing a loose fistful of his hair. Edgeworth runs his palms down Phoenix's back, on either side of his spine, then around to his hips. He grabs them, digs the pads of his fingers in just a little bit and is rewarded with a low groan against his lips, and pulls Phoenix down as he angles his hips upward, and grinds up against him.
Paradoxically, Edgeworth is so preoccupied with satiating his desperation, with the delicate skin of Phoenix's throat under his tongue and the noises the man is making, a constant soundtrack of steadily escalating arousal -- he really does get worked up easily -- that he's almost forgotten about the hot, throbbing ache between his legs until the moment Phoenix actually settles down into his lap, but now the weight and warmth and friction against his cock mean that it's suddenly all he can think about. He grips Phoenix's hips harder and rocks up, again, again, gasping with his mouth open against Phoenix's neck, every buck of his hips somehow relieving and intensifying the ache at the same time.
Edgeworth wants -- he wants -- he lacks the presence of mind to determine what exactly he wants, but by God does he want it. The hand in his hair tightens as Phoenix reaches down with his other hand, unbuttoning and unzipping his own slacks, reaching in to palm himself through his underwear, and Edgeworth feels a growl tear itself out of his throat as he grabs Phoenix's wrist and guides that hand back to his chest, replaces the hand in Phoenix's pants with his own.
His cock is still soft -- the drinks, presumably -- but there's already a wet spot spreading and when Edgeworth gives a little pressure with his palm Phoenix throws his head back and whines. Edgeworth uses the hand still on Phoenix's hips to pull him down again, grind harder against him, and he massages Phoenix's cock with his hand and feels it begin to stiffen beneath his fingers, and as he nips at Phoenix's collarbone the whines resolve themselves into words.
"Edg-- Miles -- oh, fuck -- Miles --"
His name in Phoenix's voice, that rumble under the sounds even as his voice pitches up with pleasure, sends a whole new wave of desperation crashing through Edgeworth's chest, and at this rate he'll never be able to pour enough of it out, never stop feeling it.
"You really never shut up, do you, Wright?" he murmurs against Phoenix's neck.
He can hear the smile in Phoenix's voice when he replies, "Never learned how. I'm -- oh."
He cuts himself off with another moan as Edgeworth pulls the elastic waistband of his underwear away from his abdomen and slides his hand inside, wraps his fingers around Phoenix's cock. He rubs his thumb across the head, feels the wetness gathered there, drags it down the underside of the shaft, twists his wrist, starts rubbing up and down at the same rate as he grinds himself against Phoenix until they're both panting, heads bent, tucked into each other's shoulders, hand on hip and hand in hair both grabbing almost hard enough to be painful.
"Clothes," Edgeworth chokes out as he rocks his hips faster, his cock straining against the seams of his pants, Phoenix's cock twitching in his hand.
"Yeah -- oh -- God --"
With superhuman effort, Edgeworth manages to let go of Phoenix's cock and Phoenix's hip and, surprisingly deftly given how far to one side he lists when he stands up, Phoenix manages to free himself of his remaining clothes. Edgeworth's head is spinning and he doesn't dare risk the wasted time that falling over would be, so he lifts his hips and shimmies out of his pants and his underwear while still essentially seated on the couch. No sooner has he unhooked the last of the fabric from his ankles and tossed it aside who knows where -- who cares where -- he'll certainly regret not folding it in the morning, whether or not he remembers why -- but Phoenix is bracing his hands heavily on Edgeworth's thighs and sinking to his knees between them.
"Wright --"
"Please," Phoenix says, looking up at Edgeworth with his bristly dark hair falling in his face and his lips swollen and slightly parted and the smell of sweat and alcohol rolling off of him along with something animal that makes the ocean of desperation inside of Edgeworth crash and rise and spit.
By way of answer, Edgeworth cups a hand around the back of Phoenix's head and guides him downward, and oh God, he doesn't take it into his mouth right away but runs his tongue up the whole length of it, base to tip, and Edgeworth's cock twitches and throbs and only then does Phoenix wrap a hand around the base of it and let Edgeworth push up into the wet heat of his mouth.
Phoenix is good at this. He bobs his head up and down and follows with his hand, swirls his tongue around the head of Edgeworth's cock, and his free hand rubs little circles on Edgeworth's inner thigh. He was already close from the frantic press and grind of Phoenix's hips, and now the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his hand are very quickly becoming too much to bear.
"Wright," Edgeworth hisses with a tug on Phoenix's hair. "You're going to make me cum."
Evidently taking this as encouragement rather than a warning, Phoenix sinks down further, taking as much of Edgeworth in his mouth as he can, playing the tip of his tongue over the head of his cock and moaning -- he's enjoying this -- as Edgeworth, unable to resist, unable to even consider resisting, grabs a fistful of his hair and fucks his mouth, faster, harder, desperate --
When he cums, his whole body shakes, and he feels dizzy, and the desperation crescendos into an impossibly loud roaring in his ears, and his cock throbs in Phoenix's mouth, and Phoenix groans and doesn't pull away until he's swallowed and the feeling of his tongue is nearly painful against Edgeworth's sudden sensitivity. Edgeworth can feel his cheeks shining bright red, but the rest of him is all of a sudden cold, and he shivers.
"Come here," he says, and Phoenix does, and after a moment of wordless, awkward fumbling they manage to lay side by side on the couch. Phoenix turns his head so he can kiss Edgeworth, and it doesn't feel nearly as messy this time, their mouths pressing together like that's exactly what they're supposed to do, not a hint of clumsiness about it, and Edgeworth lets his hand travel down Phoenix's chest and across his stomach and around his hips and take hold of his cock again.
Phoenix groans, long and low and needy, and Edgeworth breaks the kiss to listen, watching Phoenix's eyes screwed shut and his cheeks burning, watching as Phoenix runs a hand through his own hair and bites his lip, watching the long arc of Phoenix's throat as he tips his face toward the sky and gasps, "Fuck, please -- more -- fuck -- more --" and Edgeworth obliges, but barely, gripping just a little tighter, pumping his hand just a little faster, because the desperation is still bursting at its banks but it's become the desperation not of now, everything now but of I will never get this chance again and I may not even remember that I had it, so I had better make it last.
The moans come faster now, and louder; Phoenix is clearly beyond the point of being able to make even cursory efforts at stifling them. He thrusts his hips up into the rhythm of Edgeworth's hand, and maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the fact that, even though he just came, he can feel that same ache building between his legs again, or maybe it's the reassurance that this will all be a blur soon enough, or maybe it's the terror that this will all be a blur soon enough, but Edgeworth opens his mouth and what pours out, along with his desperation, are words.
He says, in a low voice that rolls like a bassline under Phoenix's moaning, "You want me to say something nice to you, Wright? You want me to tell you how pretty you look right now?"
"Oh -- fuck -- yes, Miles, please --"
"You want me to tell you how aroused I was in that awful restaurant with your mouth on my ear?"
"Fuck --"
"You want me to tell you how often I think of you? That I haven't been able to stop thinking of you since the moment you waltzed back into my life?" Edgeworth can hear the desperation in his own voice, hears it spilling out unrestrained, pumps his hand faster, relishes the feeling of Phoenix writhing against him, the sound of those moans reaching a fever pitch. He doesn't realize what he's about to say until he's already saying it.
"You want me to tell you that you obsess me, Nick?"
With a gasp and a strangled yelp that's not quite a curse and not quite a name, Phoenix cums, twitching, shivering, all over Edgeworth's hand, all over his stomach and chest, until finally he's spent and Edgeworth lets his hand fall to Phoenix's hip and Phoenix lets out a long, slow, shaky breath.
"You haven't called me Nick since grade school," he murmurs.
"Hm. I suppose not."
"I liked it."
"Evidently." Edgeworth pauses. "Are there tissues somewhere in this office of yours?"
"On the desk." Phoenix gestures vaguely with one floppy arm. "I'd get 'em myself, but I'm going to fall asleep. Now."
Edgeworth grabs the tissues from the desk, uses a few to wipe his hand, then, seeing that Phoenix makes no move to help, several more cleaning up Phoenix. He tosses them all into a trash can, replaces the tissues on the desk, and begins dressing. The desperation is calm now, the sea after a storm, but curiously it doesn't feel as though there's any less of it than there was an hour ago.
"Where're you going?" Phoenix mumbles sleepily. "C'mere."
"Wright, that is not a two-person couch. I've got to go home."
"Mmph."
Edgeworth buttons his shirt, throws his waistcoat and jacket over it, not bothering with the buttons. His cravat he lets dangle around his neck. The temptation to stay -- to fall asleep half on top of Phoenix, to wake up here in the morning, to be able to murmur good morning, Nick -- is dangerously strong, and if Edgeworth takes the time to dress properly he may give in, even knowing what that means. I already owe him.
"Wright," Edgeworth says, unsure why he does it, hearing the desperation well up in his voice again. "Are we -- we are friends, aren't we?"
"After that?" Phoenix mumbles, hugging one of the couch cushions to his chest. "Mmm. No way."
"What?"
Phoenix doesn't say anything else, and after a moment, he lets out a soft snore.
If I stay, he will realize what we've done. And we won't be friends.
Edgeworth flicks off the lights on his way out.
"Look, Wright, I've got to tell you something," Edgeworth says as the waiter leaves the table.
"No, wait," Phoenix replies. He takes another sip of his coffee. "Let me go first. I, uh, I don't know how much you remember of what happened last night..."
Oh, God, this is it. He's going to ask me if I know why he woke up naked on his office couch. How much do I have to tell him?
"And I just want to say that... ugh, my head is killing me. Look, Edgeworth, we were both drunk, so I'm not gonna get upset if you didn't, but -- did you mean everything you said?"
Edgeworth swallows. "Everything I said when?"
"When we were..." Phoenix glances around at the mostly-empty café and lowers his voice. "When we were in my office. Uh, having sex."
"You remember that?"
Phoenix furrows his eyebrows. "Of course I remember. Did you think I didn't?"
"Well, yes, you said yourself that neither of us would."
"But you did."
"Yes. In great detail, I'm afraid."
"But you still thought I didn't?" Phoenix lets out an incredulous laugh. "Edgeworth, were you even gonna tell me?"
"Well, clearly I don't have to."
"You weren't? You were just going to let me think I had a really vivid dream about you and pretend like nothing ever happened?"
"I would have. I wouldn't have had much of a choice. You've got, ah..." Edgeworth traces a line down his own neck, and Phoenix grabs a spoon off the table, checking his own reflection in the back of it.
"Whoa. You really did a number on me."
"We don't have to rehash all the details, Wright," Edgeworth says crossly. He takes another sip of his coffee and tries very hard to sink into the floor and disappear. It doesn't work.
Phoenix shakes his head. "Well, I guess that answers my question."
"What does?"
"If you didn't want me to know it happened."
"Wright. Listen." The desperation swells in his chest, up his throat, into his mouth. "I -- yes. I meant it. And I'm sorry about that, because I'd rather not have you avoid me after we've only just become friends again, but... I meant what I said."
"Why would I avoid you?"
"I asked you, last night. You said we're not friends. Not after what happened."
Phoenix stares at him blankly, eyebrows arched, head cocked, before understanding dawns on his face. "Of course I don't want to be friends after last night," he says. "It was -- God, Edgeworth, I've been thinking about doing that for years now. I'm shocked you didn't realize; I mean, Maya was practically shoving us together last night. But I never thought you'd want to. But since apparently I obsess you --"
"Once again, we really don't have to go into every detail, here, in this public space --"
"-- then I'd be pretty upset if we could never do that again. Honestly I'll be pretty upset if we don't do it again right after breakfast."
"You..." Edgeworth gapes at him. "Years? Years? Why didn't you say something when I was on trial? I could have died, Wright."
"You didn't exactly need another thing on your plate. And I thought you didn't want -- hold it, I could ask you the same question! You could have died, Edgeworth. Why didn't you say anything?"
"You didn't need another thing on your plate. And I thought you didn't feel..."
They stare at each other, the absurdity of the situation dawning. Wordlessly, Edgeworth reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope containing thirty-eight dollars. He hands it to Phoenix, who nods solemnly before handing it back. Edgeworth replaces it in his pocket.
The two of them are still laughing when their food comes.
"It's been a weird twenty-four hours," Phoenix says through a bite of his breakfast sandwich. "This time yesterday you were still on trial for murder."
"Among other differences, yes." Edgeworth pauses to wipe his mouth. "Have you really got no plans after this?"
"Nope. Not until another case comes in, and frankly after your trial I could use a break. Ordinarily Maya and I would do something, but... well. You?"
"Nothing. One doesn't exactly make plans for Saturday if one expects to be declared guilty of murder on Friday."
"Want to come back to the office?"
Edgeworth shakes his head and smiles. He cannot sort through the feelings he has right now; naming such things has never been his strong suit. Desperation is in there, and gratitude, and anticipation, and there's also whatever feelings are produced by good food and good coffee, and the distinct feeling of seeing Phoenix's crooked grin. They all well up, expand.
Full, he thinks. That is enough.
"Much too far away. It's cold out there. But my apartment is just around the corner."