Chapter Text
It’s been months. Months of almost everyone cornering him into at least visiting one of those shady, filthy, ill-advised places people called ‘gay bars’.
‘I know you’ll never ever get over “that man”’, Kay had said on that fateful day when everything began. ‘But go there, make connections, maybe even some new friendships. Get to know your community.’
Ultimately, the last push was by his sister, who, friendly as ever, convinced him. Faced with Franziska’s genuine however rude words, Miles begrudgingly agreed to attend an establishment of the sort – under the condition he would get to choose it.
That is how he finds himself in front of the Fae’s Eye, a self-declared ‘queer bar’, though the prosecutor isn’t really sure what difference the title holds from the old, simple ‘gay bar’.
A plaque with the business’s name sticking out from above a double door is the only sign the sketchy stairwell actually leads somewhere. A few vases with varied assortments of flowers rest around the door, and Miles crouches to take a fallen petal between his fingers.
Briefly, he contemplates just turning around and returning home, so the only foreseeable interaction for the night would be between his face and a pillow. Miles quickly discards the idea over grey pavement alongside the bloom. A promise was made, and he is not one to go back on his word, no matter how undesirable the commitment.
After a steadying breath smelling of dust and smoke, Miles takes the first step. He tries not to clutch the rails too hard, traveling through the dim yellow lights that are just bright enough for the stairs to be visible. He feels like he is going to wake up tomorrow in a bathtub full of ice with a new scar on his abdomen.
Climbing up, the lightning turns progressively more intense, though never blinding. In no time at all, he is at a door, looking with surprise at the wide space that suddenly spreads, nearly overwhelmed by the music and chittering that abruptly appear after eerie silence, completely subverting his expectations. His mind is thrown for a loop. It’s almost surreal that a naked, dark stairwell – complete with bare cemented walls and a distinct smell of mold – could lead to such a place.
An amenable jazz sounds in the background. There are several wooden booths on the walls, alongside tables littered throughout. An empty stage tucked in a corner suggests live shows may sometimes take place. Best of all; there aren’t the semi-naked, lascivious ruffians Miles envisioned every gay bar having.
Don’t get him wrong; there isn’t any problem with it, if it’s an adult-only private location. But it would be a lie to say it’s the kind of environment he enjoys.
Well, if he’s being honest, that isn’t exactly a certainty. It might just be lingering prejudice from his Von Karma days that he still holds over himself. It is entirely within the realms of possibility that such preconceptions are nothing but something inherited from his late upbringing and close-minded mentor – he has never frequented one of those to know for sure, in the end.
But is that a can of worms to be opened today? Absolutely no.
He’s already here, and for now it has to be enough.
Fortunately that is a debacle he can shove to the back of his mind and forget about for the time being, as this, right here, is just like any other place he would visit on the regular, with the added bonus of being gay-friendly. The grey-haired man unsticks himself from his spot at the entrance and finds a cozy booth in a corner to hole himself in.
Surprisingly, it is comfortable, more so than many five-star restaurants he has been to, Miles can say without doubt. Comfortable upholstery, contrary to the usual generic synthetic leather from the common bistro, is soft and plushy, black and patterned with colorful flowery plants worthy of antique furniture.
A few seconds after he's stationed and comfortable, a waiter summons herself. A red-headed young woman, not older than her late 20s, who quickly fixes her glasses and addresses him in a thick French accent.
“Goodnight. Can I help you with anything?”
The prosecutor does a double-take at the peculiar lack of a ‘Sir’ tacked post greeting, but disregards questioning. Instead, he gives the menu a fast once over, not having perused it but a tad embarrassed at the prospect of sending the waiter away, and ends up ordering the first thing that catches his eye; a simple, old cup of gin.
Not five minutes later, a full glass slides into sight. Miles thanks her, and she acknowledges him with a quick nod before slipping aside to serve another waiting table.
His turbid reflection stares at him, before the glass is brought to his lips. Indulging in the drink, he feels his shoulders untense at the pleasant flavor and even more pleasant mood. This is… nice, despite many earlier misgivings. The single thing he doesn’t favor is the absence of windows, although that is understandable – despite times changing and people’s opinions morphing alike, LGBT people are often still targets. Desire for hiding and anonymity is perfectly rational.
And it doesn’t affect him that much, since he can only seem to focus on picturing a certain blue-suited man by his side anyway.
Phoenix. Phoenix would love this place, Miles is sure of it. It is just so him. The atmosphere is as warm as the attorney’s embrace surely is, with the soft lighting turning everything gold and the crooning words of a singer he can't recognize emanating from hidden speakers.
The impossible and concomitantly desirable hypotheticals refuse to leave his mind.
He thinks. About what it would be like, to be able to lean over the table and give that man a quick peck on the lips. To chat over innocuous things with the knowledge the conversation would extend all the way till bed. To shamelessly huddle into his warmth.
Inside his mind, echoes that bright, hearty laugh, sounding like the loveliest melody in the world. No noise, no matter how rare the bird, how finely-tuned the instrument, could possibly be more beautiful.
Oddly, he can hear it in a much clearer tune than usual, its mellow tones not made fuzzy by the veil of his mind, instead powerful and reaching his core instead of radiating from it. As if Phoenix was by his side.
When his eyes flutter open again, Miles startles with such strength he is grateful the cup wasn’t in his hand, but in the steady and decidedly not trembling smooth surface of the table.
There, in a booth almost directly across from his, sits the exact man Miles was just daydreaming of. His laugh, he realizes, wasn’t confined to his imagination. It carries over to the real world, as Phoenix chuckles at something one of his companions said.
It is only then that the prosecutor partially gets over the shock of Wright’s presence, enough to register something other than it, such as his appearance. He is… different.
Wright is wearing a dress, for starters.
A long, crimson, glimmering split tube dress, that clings to him in all the right places.
Black satin gloves, reaching till mid-arms, appearing as soft as his spiky hair. Stiletto boots that climb up until strong thighs. Long teardrop earrings cascading parallel to his neck.
Makeup. Lipstick and hard eyeshadow, in tones of wine, making his half-lidded eyes appear razor-sharp. Eyeliner. Mascara?
Miles jumps to the opposite side inside his own booth and cranes his neck around the divider wall, peeking with overflowing curiosity. In this position, it’s easier to hide if Phoenix happened to look his way.
The man is talking, yarning an inaudible tale to his friends, a small crowd as varied as the flowers lining the establishment’s entrance. Friends, whose faces Miles can’t for his life put a name on.
A crease deepens between his eyebrows. Somehow, it never crossed his mind that Phoenix might have companionship outside the little family they had formed throughout the years, that there could be friendships Miles wasn’t aware of. He was under the – wrong, as it’s being displayed – impression his and Phoenix’s lives had become irreparably tangled, both men deeply imbued in every aspect of each other.
And the realization stings. It hurts a bit, to think the attorney never spoke a word about this part of his existence. Didn’t trust him enough to do so, even when the prosecutor trusts him wholeheartedly and with everything in return.
Filthy liar, his mind whispers. And – despite fervent denial that runs deep as the Mariana’s Trench – it is right.
That is, in fact, a bold-faced lie. Miles has never told him of his sexual and romantic preferences, after all.
He likes to award himself points for not actively hiding the fact – if it came up he’d choose the blunt route as is habit and admit. But it never did, and regardless of many attempts at gaslighting his own brain into believing it isn’t fear that manifests at the idea of sharing that piece of himself, the prosecutor can’t truthfully say he has made any considerable efforts to be forthright either.
So, if Miles can gloss over his sexual orientation, then Phoenix is absolutely entitled to keeping this, as outlandish as it may seem, in secret. Proudly wearing the sash of a good friend, he will simply step back and allow Wright to do whatever makes him the most comfortable. If that means keeping him in the dark, then so be it – his hurt feelings don’t factor into the equation, and, besides, it isn’t as though Phoenix owed him the truth, absolute honesty and nothing but frankness all the time.
Thus, Miles ignores the bitter part of him – one which, regardless of being loud, is weak and silenced with ease – to instead refocus his attention on admiring the man sitting not so far away from his standing.
Spying around the corner while absently sipping from his gin, it’s easy to find Phoenix amongst it all. His outfit is as tacky as it’s eye-catching, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the easy environment, the way he dresses as a fancy plus one of a late 1900s ball overlapping oddly with warm lights and cozy atmosphere.
He would usually say Phoenix is blinding. His suit, his smile, the sparkle in his eyes; everything is like the Sun itself shining directly in Miles’s face, even when they’re into the darkest hours of the night. But like this? Oh, like this, Phoenix is as beautiful as the moon. His shine is subdued, but only so he can be seen and appreciated in full. In stark contrast to Daylight Phoenix that can barely be looked at without causing retinas to be scorched, this Nighttime Phoenix radiates a gentle glow that invites grey irises to willingly trap themselves on the visage. To raptly observe him with the same mesmerism one would deign to watching the Northern Lights.
Miles sighs. He would gladly launch himself into Apollo 13, if only for the mere chance of seeing the moon so closely.
One of the people at the table, a blonde girl sitting next to Wright, throws the grey-haired spectator a weird look. The furrow between her brows betrays uneasiness, and he abruptly realizes his relentless staring, drowning in his friend’s figure for what surely was a socially unacceptable amount of time. To his horror, she pokes the man once and whispers in his ear.
The prosecutor’s neck produces a painful popping noise when he jolts back into hiding. The now terrifyingly real concept that his cover has been blown and Phoenix might not just be made aware of his presence but also come to give him a piece of his mind is panic-inducing, and throws Edgeworth into a spiral.
When the world comes back into focus and he doesn’t hear the tell-tale clacking of heels approaching, Miles scurries away.
It’s been more than twelve hours and countless attempts at distracting himself with even the most menial of activities. Yet, mismatched eyes beautifully framed by burgundy haunt him everywhere he goes.
Whispers noting the prosecutor’s odd anxiousness trail behind him, their speakers taking his uncharacteristically frazzled appearance as indicative he is far too distressed by this mysterious affliction to properly hear them. Common mistake – he is excruciatingly alert, to anything and everything. And that’s not without reason.
When he woke up by the morning after a feeble five hours of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep, the illusion of tranquility was soon broken by a couple of text messages from a certain defense attorney sitting in his inbox, like a viper coiled and waiting to strike.
Miles opened them with a nervous thrumming under his skin, fearing that he had been found out and unimaginable consequences were coming his way. Subconsciously, he prepared himself for every scenario, from an amicable paragraph informing Phoenix would like to cut contact to being berated by an irascious version of his dear friend.
Mercifully – and he is a little embarrassed to admit he quite literally collapsed back into bed from relief –, it was naught but a simple request of meeting up to investigate together.
So, here is Edgeworth, on a small square, anxiously anticipating that man’s arrival, with a concoction of fear and delight swirling within his ribcage.
He feels elated, because – it’s Phoenix! How could he not be cheerful to see Phoenix?
But, at the same time, he is scared.
Scared because he knows. He knows he won’t be able to look into his eyes without seeing the droop so slight its existence was only noticed because the makeup did such a wonderful job emphasizing it. He knows he won’t be able to look at his body without imagining all the curves under that suit that were so magnificently highlighted by the dress. He knows that everything he’ll be able to see from now on is an eclipse. And he is afraid of committing a gross Freudian slip and letting slip out information of the wrong star.
What would happen, if he happened to pass by a clothing store in the company of his friend and absently motioned to a dress in the display, saying ‘that would look lovely on you’? If he stared too much, and when inquired, instead of excusing himself as usual, commented ‘you should wear lipstick more often’? If he subconsciously compared his height to Phoenix’s, and accidentally voiced a mumbled question of ‘how much taller are you in those heels?’
Miles doesn’t know, can’t predict, will not find out how Wright would react until he embarrassingly trips over his own tongue and discovers in the worst manner.
It is impressive, how a single night was enough to thoroughly ruin the efforts of an entire decade. All the hard work put into learning to control his mind and keep these alluring thoughts at bay – squandered, thrown directly into the incinerator because of a cheesy dress and a bit of makeup.
“Edgeworth!” A familiar voice calls, and he whirls around with his eyes so wide they’re white all around. The attorney instantly stops; his grin dims and his hand, lifted in greeting, slowly comes down.
“Edgeworth?” He repeats, tone distinctly concerned, prompting Miles to try and get his facial features under control. Fortunately, composure is quick to gather.
“Yes, Wright?”
He hopes the sentence doesn’t ring as shaky as it sounded to him. If it does, then Wright doesn’t show any signs of noticing.
“It’s just, you looked really spooked just now. ‘S everything okay?”
“I am perfectly fine, just didn't expect your arrival to happen in time, for once.” He motions with his hand, as if brushing the comment aside. “Now, about the case. You mentioned certain files you wanted access to, is that right?”
A sheepish expression takes over Wright’s face for a few moments, accepting Miles’s excuse while undoubtedly recalling all the occasions in which he was inexcusably late for a meeting.
“Yeah, my client’s son was involved in a crime some time back and I think some details from that case might make some sense of the chaos happening now.” Wright offers that tiny synthesis before launching into insane blabbering about an old lady, her teenage son, his obese cat and a frying spatula. The prosecutor soon tunes out his rambling to instead focus on… other things.
Like how his lips are so full. And still slightly reddened, presumably from last night’s lipstick.
When he surfaces from that warm sea, Wright is waving a hand in his face.
“-Edgeworth? Hey, you with me?”
“Hm? Oh, yes Wright. Of course I am, or did I turn invisible? Or maybe we should schedule a visit to the optometrist.”
It does not have its intended diverting effect. Wright gives him an odd look, strangely calculating, analyzing with care as he would a piece of evidence, and Miles suddenly feels his skin crawl, like there were a million bugs writhing just under the tissue. It vanishes in a matter of milliseconds when a grin stretches his features.
“Ha! Who knew Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth was capable of jokes?” The attorney teases, smiling widely. The grey-haired man feels himself relaxing, letting escape an amused huff.
“I am not a monolith, as you’re aware.” He turns to follow the path for the precinct with Wright in tow.
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re so stiff sometimes I think someone managed to animate a statue.”
“So tell me, why would a statue ever need glasses, Wright?”
“Dunno. Why wouldn’t it?”
The rest of the day flies by without any more flukes. Miles keeps a tight leash on his consciousness, and manages to reign any wayward, unruly thoughts successfully during his entire stay with Wright.
That does not stop him from lying awake at night after dreaming of wine marks marring unblemished porcelain.