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I.
The first time they kiss they are nine years old and they are playing truth or dare, because they are nine and that is what nine year olds do. Larry instigated, because of course he did. On one side of the spectrum was Butz and on the other side was Miles, and in the middle, balancing them, evening them out, was Wright.
“I dare you to kiss Miles.” That was fourth grade truth or dare for you – there were really only two options. Who do you like? And Kiss someone. What else was there to do when you were nine?
Wright had sputtered. “What?!”
On his part, Miles had just stared at the ground. He tried not to focus on what was supposed to happen. There was no point in trying to decide how he would feel about Phoenix kissing him, because Phoenix was not going to kiss him.
So he does not expect Phoenix in front of him, nor does he expect Phoenix to press his lips against Miles’. They bang against each other, and it is almost painful, hard enough to bruise. It lasts barely a second, and Phoenix doesn’t look him in the eye after, although Butz is grinning like an idiot.
He dreams of that kiss for two and a half weeks until his father dies, and then he dreams of that for fifteen years.
II.
Their second kiss is unfair, and he spends the rest of his life apologizing for it. There is a plane ticket in his briefcase and a note on his desk and his affairs are mostly in order. There’s just one thing left.
Wright answers the door in a crumpled undershirt and boxers, with his stupid hair still spiky. How does he sleep that way?
“Edgeworth? Are you okay?”
Rarely does he act without thinking. He is not like Wright – he can’t wing it. But he had sat in his car for almost half an hour trying to figure out what he should say, and he is up here standing in front of Wright and he still doesn’t know. He is flying by the seat of his pants, and he fucking hates it.
He kisses Wright. Slams his mouth against his, hard enough to bruise.
Wright makes a gentle oomph but he does not pull away. He reacts quicker than Miles had expected, pulling him inside, and Miles runs his hands through that stupid fucking hair. God, he hates that hair. He never wants to let go of it.
“Shouldn’t we, uh –”
He cuts him off. He doesn’t want to talk. The less they talk, the least likely it is that he will have to lie.
Wright will hate him for this, and he will deserve it.
They do not talk anymore. They kiss hard against the wall and then they kiss hard on the bed, and this is not something he has ever done, because they are moving fast, so fast, but he is dying tomorrow.
Later he will marvel at the fact that Wright had kissed him back immediately, that he had brought him inside, shoved him up against the wall and kissed marks into his skin. That means Wright had wanted this. He had thought about it. Had thought about him. Had kissed him hard into his mattress, flush against him, and he wonders when Wright started feeling like this. He had arched up against him and Wright had moaned, a sound that he replayed over and over for the next year.
Wright falls asleep next to him, and Miles stares up at the ceiling, listening to the breathing beside him, urging himself to stay awake, don’t fall asleep.
It’s not real, he thinks.
Wright wakes up without him.
III.
The next time, he has won the battle, but Wright has won the war. Maya Fey is safe.
And he is alive again.
Wright shows up at his door. He has been drinking but he is not drunk. His eyes are clouded and accusatory.
“Why did you do it?”
“I was saying goodbye.”
“You could have just… sent me a card, or something. Or, crazy idea, you could have not pretended to die.”
He deserves this. Deserves the anger in Wright’s eyes. He remembers how he had looked at him after Miles had kissed him, and wonders if Wright will ever be able to look at him like that again.
“What do you want me to say, Wright?”
“Most people would apologize.”
“Would that help?”
Wright shakes his head. “Fucking hell, Edgeworth.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “If that’s what you want to hear.”
Wright stares at him. Miles remembers the way he had moaned his name and has to look away.
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
Me neither, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He is wondering what Wright had been drinking tonight. Wondering if he could taste it.
He can.
It’s gin.
“This room is utterly ridiculous,” Wright mutters against his lips, pushing hard, and he threads his hands through that stupid hair again.
“If by ridiculous you mean clean, then yes, it is.” Wright nips at his lower lip, and Miles can feel the anger thrumming through him, knows he is not forgiven. Maybe he never will be. He pushes Miles against the wall and kisses him deeply, fingers biting into Miles’ hips. He won’t be surprised if he bruises.
“It wasn’t fair,” he mutters. Miles hums in agreement.
“I know.”
Wright bites him again.
He wakes the next morning alone in his bed, the smell of coffee in the air. He joins Wright at the table; the other man watches him, expression guarded. He looks tired – eyes red, hair deflated, clothes wrinkled. He wants to kiss him again. Never wants to stop.
He is like a teenager. It is shameful.
“This is horrid coffee.”
“It’s hotel coffee, Wright. I’m not sure what you expected.”
“You would think such a fancy hotel would have better coffee.” He takes another sip and pulls a face. “God.”
Miles rubs at his eye. Eventually Wright stands, finding his jacket, pulling on his shoes. Miles doesn’t know what they are supposed to say or do. How to end a night of angry kisses and dirty sheets and a year’s worth of regrets.
“Edgeworth.”
He looks up and Wright kisses him slowly, softly, lips barely even touching. And then he leaves.
IV.
When it’s all over he finds him in his office, a drink in front of him.
“Wright.”
He doesn’t respond, but he does gesture to the other side of the couch. Miles sits down, watching him carefully.
“Are you okay?”
Wright takes a drink. “Yes, I think so,” he says after a few moments. “Would you like a drink?”
“No.”
They sit in silence; Miles tries to think of what he could say and comes up empty.
“I want to thank you, Edgeworth.”
Miles waves a hand to brush this off. “We’ve gone over this.”
“I guess I just… didn’t realize how far we’ve come. The two of us.”
Miles looks away. “Don’t worry about it, Wright.”
Wright leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. “I never thought I’d be faced with that part of my life again,” he says. Miles isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to this, so he stays quiet.
“What about you, Edgeworth?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have any exes?”
He swallows. “I don’t really think that’s pertinent, Wright.”
“Oh, come on. You know all my dirty history.”
“I have no dirty history.”
“What about me?” Wright asks, voice low. “Do I count as dirty history?”
Miles studies the carpet as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I don’t know what you are, Wright.”
“Do you regret it?”
Miles stands up. “Goodbye, Wright.”
“Hang on. So you can fuck me and disappear but I’m not allowed to talk about it?”
“I am sorry, all right?”
“For what? The leaving, or the fucking?”
“You need to stop drinking so much.”
“I’m not even drunk and you know it. Why did you come here? You’re going back to Europe, right? Did you want a quickie on the couch first?”
“I can assure you,” he says curtly, “you need not worry about that happening again.” He turns to leave, but Wright – because it’s Wright – doesn’t stop talking.
“I never said I didn’t want it to happen again, Miles,” he says. “I would just like to be able to talk about it like adults.”
The use of his first name stops him in his tracks. It sounds wrong, almost, but it still sends a thrill down Miles’ spine.
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. But it’s happened twice.”
“Three times,” he mutters under his breath. Wright smiles.
“I wasn’t really counting a fourth grade truth or dare.”
Oops. He hadn’t meant for him to hear that.
“I am surprised you remembered.”
“You think I’m not going to remember the first time we kissed?”
This is getting dangerously close to a territory that Miles does not want to be near, a territory he has been trying to avoid paying attention to. “I shouldn’t have come, Wright. I apologize.”
“Don’t pull that shit on me, Edgeworth. Come back. Sit down. Have a drink, for God’s sake.”
He considers for a moment. Wright gets off the couch and steers Miles back to the seat. “Relax, Edgeworth. Put your feet up. Unwind.”
Wright sits down next to him, closer than they had been originally. Wright pushes his drink into Miles’ hand.
“Finish this.”
He sniffs it experimentally. Wright laughs.
“It’s not poison, Edgeworth.”
He takes a sip, then gags. “Jesus, Wright.”
He is laughing at him. “Sorry. You probably only drink expensive wine and thirty year old scotch, right?”
“I don’t drink thirty year old scotch. I also don’t drink vodka from Walmart.”
“Walmart doesn’t sell vodka. I checked.”
Miles snorts. “Classy.” He hands Wright his drink back. Wright grazes their fingers, puts his drink on the table, and kisses him.
Finally.
He pushes him down and Miles can taste that horrible fucking drink but God, it doesn’t matter. He shifts his legs so he is lying fully on the couch, but his foot clips the table and spills the drink.
“Fuck,” he mutters, trying to push Wright off of him, but the other man doesn’t move.
“It’s not important, Edgeworth, Christ, you’ve seen the rest of my office, let it go.”
He lets it go.
V.
“Not that you need help,” his sister says disdainfully, “but even if you did, why would you ask Phoenix Wright?”
“Wright is one of the best lawyers I know, Franziska.”
She sniffs. “You should meet new people.”
He almost smiles.
The fifth time happens naturally, as if both of them had been expecting it. Wright had proved as helpful as he had expected. They had called it a night and Wright had kissed him, stubble scratching against his jaw, and he had pressed his thigh between Wright’s legs and there was that moan again. He can feel the weight of the disbarment, feel it pushing down on Wright, a weight on his shoulder, a bruise on his soul. It seems incredible that despite this, despite everything, Wright should taste the same. Should feel the same. Sound the same.
He leaves the next day, heads to the airport by himself, but he kisses him goodbye gently, softly, just like the way he had that day in the hotel room.
And then he is gone.
VI.
This is what happens: Wright comes to him, helps him. The night before he leaves Miles climbs on top of him and Wright kisses marks into his skin, bruises that never seem to fade, that he has to hide from his sister. They come undone, skin on skin, hands on skin, sweat and that noise Wright makes, the one that ricochets around his mind for days, weeks after. When he leaves Wright kisses him tenderly, softly, slowly, carefully, and that is Miles’ favourite part. No one has ever kissed him like that. He dreams of them. They lull him to sleep.
VII.
It takes a few days.
“Fancy digs.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “Fancy digs?”
“Isn’t that what all the kids are saying these days?”
“You are the one with a teenage daughter, I recall.”
Wright smiles and sits across from him at his desk. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit yet.” All of their discussions had been over the phone.
He just shakes his head. “It’s been a busy year, Wright.”
“It’s been a busy decade.”
His mouth twitches upwards. “So why are you here?” He asks, not cruelly.
“Do I need a reason to come see you?”
“No. But you have one.” After all these years, he has come to know the man in front of him very well. Sure enough Wright smiles and nods, standing up to lean against the desk beside Miles.
“I wanted to say thank you, firstly.”
“Mhm. And secondly?”
“Secondly,” he mutters. “Secondly,” he says, louder than before, “I have a proposition.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “We are too old for propositions, Wright.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Once again you appear to be talking without thinking.”
Wright grabs his hand. “We are too old to keep doing this.”
His heart sinks. It’s true; they are not in their twenties anymore. It would be silly to expect they could keep this up. Wright would want to settle down – he had a daughter now. He couldn’t keep screwing around with Miles. He would want something more permanent.
A mother for his daughter.
“I understand.”
He extricates his fingers from Wright’s and crosses the room to the couch, sitting down and taking a look at the pile of paperwork on the table in front of him. He wasn’t retaining a goddamn work, but he looked busy.
“I don’t actually think you do,” Wright says, a funny expression on his face. When Miles looks up – forcing an expression of annoyance onto his face – Wright grabs his face and kisses him.
“Oh,” he mutters when they pull away. “I thought you wanted to stop.”
“No,” Wrights says against his lips, shifting so he is completely in Miles’ lap. “I want to do this properly.”
“Oh,” he says again. Wright’s hands are on his neck, while he is holding the other man’s hips tightly.
“Come home with me,” Wright whispers, as Miles’ fingertips skim across his skin.
“You have a daughter,” he says, affronted. Wright laughs.
“Let me rephrase that. Fuck me on your couch, then come home with me.”
Miles jerks his hips up, jostling Wright.
“Come stay the night, Edgeworth. We’ve been through so much shit. Come home with me.”
“Fuck me first.” He strips Wright of his jacket while his hands come up to fiddle with Miles’ cravat.
“I hate this damn thing, do you know that? I would rip it off of you if I knew I could afford to buy you a new one.”
“Do it,” he urges. “I have more.”
Wright pulls back. “You have a whole drawer filled with the exact same white cravat at home, don’t you?”
“It’s not a full drawer,” he says defensively. Wright lets out a loud laugh and then kisses him softly.
“Miles,” he says. There’s his name again. It sends a thrill through him. “Would it be tacky if I told you I love you?”
“Yes.” But his heart is racing. I have loved you since we were children and you kissed a bruise into my skin.
“Jerk,” Wright – Phoenix – says. Miles kisses him hard, tries to pass the words on through his lips, hoping Wright will understand even though the words are stuck in his throat.
“Phoenix,” he says desperately, as hands skim under his cravat.
“I know.”
It is not their first kiss – far from it – but it feels like it. Wright is electric under his fingers, and he grips him hard, writes words into his skin, as Wright throws the cravat to the ground.