Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-

Phoenix Wright sees Miles Edgeworth for the first time in fifteen years from across the street. He’s surrounded by what could be called a gaggle of photographers, but his prematurely grey hair is easy to spot. Also the fact that it’s Miles Edgeworth and he has the sort of presence that would be harder to miss than a freight train going through Times Square. “Oh my God, is that Miles Edgeworth?!” Maya half-squeaks in his ear.

“I think so, yeah,” Phoenix says, a little put out. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to play Romeo, or Brutus, or Hamlet, and Miles Edgeworth was supposed to just happen to be in the audience, and he was supposed to come backstage to Phoenix’ private dressing room, and say something like “Phoenix...it’s been a very long time” or “Phoenix...I got your letters, but my wicked stepfather wouldn’t let me respond, please accept my ardent apologies” or “Phoenix, I simply must say that I am in love with you and you are the best actor I have ever seen, let’s make passionate love now and then I will propose to you after a respectable twelve months of dating.”

It wasn’t supposed to be Phoenix, sitting in a Pret-a-Manger, watching forlornly through the glass while his childhood friend/idol/rival/celebrity crush gets swarmed by paparazzi outside the Westin on 42nd St. and his agent won't even call him back to let him know if he had gotten that part that he really wanted. “Mmph,” he says, and stares down at his tomato soup as if it will explain to him why his life is this pathetic.

“What?” Maya asks. He grimaces at her. Speaking of his agent. “Oh cheer up, Phoenix. The reason Mia hasn’t called you back yet is probably good news. Have you ever known her to avoid telling you a part has been cast and you weren’t it?”

“I guess not,” he admits. The head of grey hair vanishes inside the hotel doors.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You got it. Don’t tell Mia, or she’ll never trust me with a secret again.”

He looks at her, Miles Edgeworth almost forgotten. “Wait - are you serious?”

“Would I lie to you about this?” She asks, clutching her chunky pearl necklace in mock-offense. “Yes, obviously! They’re just waiting on some big name actor for Coriolanus. Apparently his people are being very cagey with scheduling.”

“Maya,” he says, “this is the best news I’ve heard in years.”

She grins at him. “Good enough to buy me an overpriced cookie from the coffee shop next door?”

“Of course.”

“Five?”

“I have less than two thousand dollars in my bank account.”

“One and a hot chocolate?”

“Sold,” he groans. Having Maya Fey as a friend and roommate is not really the easiest on his wallet, but he can’t complain at a time like this. Not when she’s just confirmed the sort of thing he’s been waiting to hear for a very long time. Phoenix Wright is going to be on Broadway. In a Shakespeare play. Things were finally looking up.

-

Things were looking very bad. “They’ve pushed back the rehearsal schedule by two weeks,” Mia tells him, eyebrows drawn together in concentration as she hands him a contract and proposed schedule. “You will only have four weeks to rehearse from the table read until the first night of previews. Yes, this includes the fight choreography. You’re up on your rapier and dagger, correct?”

“Uh…”

“Phoenix, she says, rubbing her temples. “Please tell me you didn’t lie on your resume.”

“N-no...” He responds. Is it always this hot in her office? “I just - I did do rapier and dagger, in college. Freshman year.”

“Hmm.” She eyes him thoughtfully. “Well, I’d suggest brushing up on it if you don’t want to get skewered. Edgeworth has nine years of fencing under his belt.”

“Sorry - Edgeworth?”

“Oh didn’t I tell you?” Her enigmatic smile tells him she had, in fact, not, and she knew it. “Miles Edgeworth will be playing Coriolanus. That’s why the rehearsal time has been condensed, he’s shooting a movie in London and won’t be back until the eighteenth of March.”

“Wha-?!” He gapes at her. “Mia.”

“Sign the contract, Wright.”

He does as he is told.

-

The table read is on the twentieth of March, in a generic beige conference room, in the generic beige and blue interior of the building that is the Actors Equity Association Headquarters on 46th. He weaves his way through the dense crowds of people and tries not to think about how he is going to sit across from Miles Edgeworth, GQ’s Top Snappy Dresser of the Week For January 9th-16th 2018 and Phoenix Wright’s Top Childhood Crush For Basically His Entire Life, in a few minutes. The weird, somehow beige-sounding elevator music doesn’t do much to help distract him.

Almost everyone else is there when he arrives, including Edgeworth himself. He sits down at his assigned place and looks anywhere other than the man sitting across from him. There’s that awkward feeling of a table read where everyone tries to suss out their pecking order in the room without being too obvious about it.

At the head of the table is the director, a bearded, bald-headed man. Next to him is a woman with long brown hair who reminds him of Mia, and on the other side a genial-looking man who seems to have gotten stuck in the spray-tan booth for a few days too long. Sitting behind Edgeworth, presumably, is his manager, a tall, scruffy-looking man in an olive green coat, pen stuck behind his ear. He doesn’t have time to look everyone over before spray-tan man claps his hands together and laughs a little loudly. “Well alright! Looks like everyone’s here. Should we start, Udgey?”

“Er, yes.” The man he presumes to be the director says. “This man to my right is one of our producers, Mr. Damon Gant. The lovely lady to my left is Ms. Lana Skye, my assistant director. And everyone calls me the Judge, so if you’d like to as well that’s a-okay with me!”

Forced laughter. “On to the crew introductions! I suppose they would like to introduce themselves?”

“Hi! I’m Maggey Byrde!” a smart-looking, short-haired woman says. She has enthusiasm in droves, which makes up for the somewhat awkward mood of the rest of the table. He thinks he even sees Edgeworth’s manager perk up. “I’m the stage manager!”

The rest of the crew introductions go as usual. When it comes to him he straightens in his seat. “Hey. I’m Phoenix Wright, and I’ll be playing Aufidius.”

There is a chorus of hellos directed at him. Edgeworth doesn’t look up from his script, nor does he betray any sort of recognition of his childhood friend. Right, Phoenix thinks, sadly. Of course he wouldn't remember. Of course Miles Edgeworth would have forgotten him long ago. He probably had a lot of other things to think about, like how much money he made and which part he wanted to play next.

“Hello,” Edgeworth says, once everyone is finished. “My name is Miles Edgeworth, and I will be playing Coriolanus.” He glares down at his script as if it is personally responsible for that fact. There is a decidedly more awkward chorus of hellos.

“Right,” the Judge says, when everyone is finished with their introductions. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

-

This is what Phoenix finds out at the table read: One, Miles Edgeworth has an enormous stick up his ass, Two, Miles Edgeworth is a huge dick, and Three, Miles Edgeworth reads Shakespeare like it’s honey on his tongue, like he was born to do this, like he’s reading something with the difficulty of a weather forecast and not iambic pentameter, and trochaic verse, and words that Phoenix has had to write the meanings of in the margins.

He finds out the third thing first. The next two are revealed to him after they’re done, as everyone is packing up, yawning and saying their goodbyes as they disperse into the night. Edgeworth doesn’t yawn. He just gets up and turns to his manager (Mr. Gumshoe, Phoenix thinks he had introduced himself, Dick Gumshoe - although that couldn’t be right). It’s now or never, he guesses. “Hey - Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth turns and, yikes, glares at him. “Yes?”

“It’s been a long time.”

“...Indeed.” Edgeworth says. His face looks like he’s just gotten suspicious subway liquid on his Prada shoes. It isn’t a great start. Phoenix presses on.

“So you do remember me.”

“Obviously,” Edgeworth replies. He turns to leave.

“Wait,” Phoenix says. “Do you maybe want to get coffee at some point and catch up?”

Edgeworth frowns. There are dark circles under his eyes the magazine pictures must photoshop away. “I have no time for unnecessary personal entanglements.” He says after a short pause, and then he turns to his manager and walks out the door and Phoenix is left standing in the generic beige conference room so flummoxed by the rejection that he doesn’t even get mad until he’s halfway home.

-

“What the hell?” Maya shouts, loud enough that a group of tourists turn to look at them even in the busy dining room of the midtown Shake Shack. “Who says that?”

“Miles Edgeworth, I guess.” He responds, picking forlornly at his crinkle cut fries. “Turns out people change.”

“Wait, you mean like - change from their public image?” She asks. “Or did you know him before?”

“Yeah, as a kid.” He slides her the fries before she has time to ask. “We went to school together when we were nine.”

“Woah,” she says. “I can’t even picture it. Did he wear the cravats back then?”

“A bow tie.”

“Nick. For real?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, slumping forward on the table. “We did our first play together. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Aww, cute. Did you play Bottom?”

“No,” he says, a little offended. “Lysander.”

“Oh yeah that tracks,” she responds. “Who did Edgeworth play?”

“Titania.”

“What?!”

“It was a progressive elementary school,” he shrugs. “We basically got to pick our own parts.”

“So he’s definitely gay, that’s not the problem then.”

“Maya,” he hisses. “He’s been out since a year ago. Did you not see the article?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Nick, I am way too gay to be going around reading articles about Miles Edgeworth or whatever random man the media is obsessed with that week. Anyway, so it’s just that he isn’t interested in you, specifically.”

“But I didn’t ask him out on a date!” He protests. “I just said, hey, would you want to get some coffee and catch up sometime. For one thing, we’re in a show together so it’s not weird, and even if we weren't, wouldn't you want to catch up with your childhood friend, see how he’s doing after fifteen years?”

“Hmm,” she says thoughtfully, taking a long pull of her milkshake. “Celebrities! Guess they aren’t just like us after all.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Helpful.”

-

The stage combat rehearsal is brutal. At first, it’s because he arrives at the gym in Hell’s Kitchen to see Miles Edgeworth dressed in a short-sleeve black turtleneck and slim black sweatpants that probably cost a month’s worth of rent on his apartment and that’s just unfair for a number of reasons.

But if anything can make him forget the sad little flame he’s still carrying for a very imperious, intimidating scene partner, it’s fighting. And the fighting is brutal. Whatever Edgeworth wants to say about “unnecessary personal entanglements”, one thing is clear: they work well together. Really well, actually. Edgeworth is precise in his movements, whip-quick and never one second off the beat. Phoenix knows he can’t match him there, so he plays up his other strengths, ducks when he should block, throws himself into the fight with all the energy and passion and intensity it deserves. Edgeworth fights clean. Phoenix doesn’t mind getting a little dirty.

By the time they break apart at the end of their spar, Edgeworth isn’t so composed anymore. He’s panting, they both are, and his bangs are stuck to the pink skin of his forehead with sweat. Phoenix isn’t much better, but at least he’s having a good time. Edgeworth looks like he wants to take one of the quarterstaves off the wall and throw it javelin-style through him and everyone else in the room.

The fight choreographer claps her hands. “Great, guys! Really thrilling. We’ll choreograph the end when we block that scene, so just run through it before our next session and we should be good!”

“Thanks, Desirée,” he says.

“Thank you, Ms. DeLite,” Edgeworth says. “I find your choreography refreshingly challenging.”

Okay, so it turns out Edgeworth can be courteous, just not to him, apparently. Desirée grins. “Helps to have a husband who’s a stunt double. Keeps me on my toes, you know?”

“Verily,” Edgeworth says. Phoenix gapes at him. Was that a joke? “Question, Wright?”

“Nope,” he says, a little hurt that Edgeworth can find the time to complement the choreography and not him, his actual fight partner. “Guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Mm.” Edgeworth responds, and picks up his bag, walking out the door without so much as a by-your-leave. Phoenix shakes his head.

“Man,” Desirée says. “That guy is an enigma, huh?”

Phoenix wishes that covered it.

-

So basically it’s this: They have rehearsal. They play games of Zip Zap Zop and do group warmups because the Judge is a little too sentimental about cast bonding and Edgeworth is, well, not exactly convivial, but he’s civil. Polite. Except to Phoenix. It’s infuriating. He feels like there’s a wall ten stories high between them and it’s, frankly, psyching him out.

“Cut,” Lana says after the third time getting through their scene. She’s frowning thoughtfully at Edgeworth. “Phoenix, go ahead and take five. Edgeworth, can you walk me through your goals for this scene?”

He goes to get his water bottle from his bag and check his phone, and when he comes back Edgeworth refuses to make eye contact with him. His lips are set in a thin, tight line. Lana smiles at him pointedly. “Phoenix, I’d like to try something new if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” he says. As if he has a choice. “What were you thinking?”

“Well,” she replies. “I know the Judge talked about this scene in tablework, and how it can be interpreted.”

He both likes and dreads where this is going. “Yes?”

“Some more modern productions have made the relationship between Coriolanus and Aufidius explicit, adding in a kiss or heavily implying a connection in that vein.” She spins a pen around in her fingers. “The Judge is more of a traditionalist when it comes to text, so I don’t think he’ll want to keep the version of the scene I’d like to try, but I think playing with romantic and sexual tension added into the scene will help loosen you both up and infuse some more energy into your dynamic. Right now it feels kind of stiff.”

She’s right. That doesn’t make it any easier. “I...I see,” he says, trying to keep his grimace from showing too clearly.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Problem?”

“No! It’s just…” he glances over at Edgeworth, who is glaring at the wall. “Uh, I’m fine with it if Edgeworth is.”

“Of course.” snaps Edgeworth. “I am willing to try whatever Assistant Director Skye suggests. That includes kissi- physical intimacy.”

There’s an awkward moment. “Alright then,” Lana says. She scribbles something down on her notepad. “Let’s go through the scene once more from your entrance.”

Phoenix gulps. Okay. It’s time to square his shoulders, stuff his pride, and be professional. They get into places.

“Go.”

“Whence comest thou? what wouldst thou? thy name?” he asks, stepping closer. “Why speak'st not? speak, man: what's thy name?”

“If, Tullus,” Edgeworth snarls, “Not yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not think me for the man I am, necessity commands me name myself.”

“What is thy name?” he repeats, drawing even closer. He searches the other man’s face for some sort of clue.

“A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine.” Edgeworth says, and some of that rigid quality melts away from him. He’s not Edgeworth, fastidious actor, anymore, but Coriolanus, driven from Rome to the doorstep of his greatest rival. He clutches his arm, turning his face away. Instinctively, Phoenix catches his chin, forces him to look straight on.

“Say, what's thy name?” He grins, and steps back, making a show of looking him over. “Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn. Thou show'st a noble vessel: what's thy name?”

“My name is Caius Marcius,” says Coriolanus, as if it’s being torn from him, as if he hates the sound of his own confession. He speaks the long speech in halting tones, so different from that easy theatrical diction Phoenix knows he’s capable of. When he’s finished, Aufidius waits, still, and then draws him into his arms without warning. Edgeworth makes an indignant sound that doesn’t seem quite in character.

“O Marcius, Marcius!” he says, letting the tears spring forward in his eyes as he rocks Coriolanus back with the force of his embrace. He draws back, shaking his head. “Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart a root of ancient envy.”

Edgeworth is staring at him, open-mouthed. He laughs, Aufidius delighted, and continues, backing away and drawing closer at each beat in the monologue. He can feel his heart beating in time to the lines, feel the rhythm between them, tension easing and growing as he backs away and gets closer, until finally they’re forehead to forehead and he’s basically speaking into Coriolanus’ mouth. “I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters ‘twixt thyself and me;” he says, and in the little corner of his brain that keeps his active consciousness while he’s acting, alarm bells start ringing. He ignores them. “We have been down together in my sleep,” he breathes, and kisses Coriolanus soundly.

He’s shoved back, hard. Edgeworth is looking at him with a flushed scowl, as if he’s shocked by his own action. Phoenix pauses for a moment, but Lana doesn’t call a halt, so he continues. There will be time to freak out later. “Unbuckling helms,” he says, and advances again, placing a hand on Edgeworth’s throat. “Fisting each other’s throat, And waked half dead with nothing.”

Edgeworth looks at him with wild, unfocused eyes as he finishes the speech, and then he blinks, and he’s Coriolanus again, in control. “You bless me, gods!” He cries.

Aufidius continues, giving him the dagger at his hip, playing the gracious host to his once-rival. “Yet, Marcius,” he finishes, holding out his hand. “That was much. Your hand: most welcome!”

Edgeworth glances down at his outstretched palm and takes it, holding it (Phoenix thinks) much tighter than necessary as they walk off upstage.

“Great,” Lana says as soon as they’ve crossed the tape line indicating the stage area. “So, I think we should cut the kiss but keep everything else as far as blocking.”

“Right,” Phoenix says. He really wishes there was a conveniently timed union break right now because his active consciousness is fully back online and it is currently screaming “HOLY SHIT I JUST KISSED MILES EDGEWORTH” on a continuous loop. Alas, the universe does not bend to his will, and Lana makes them try different things to replace the kiss during his monologue for the last twenty minutes of rehearsal.

“Good work today, guys,” she says, dismissing them. Phoenix feels like his brain has been cracked into a pan and fried. It’s all he can do to get his stuff together.

“Good work,” he says, half out of habit, as Edgeworth grabs his bag. Edgeworth, to his surprise, halts in his stride towards the door.

“Wright,” he says, half turning, and pauses.

“...Uh, yes?”

“...It’s nothing.” Edgeworth says, with a curl of his upper lip that makes it very clear just how little he thinks of this conversation, of him. “...Goodbye.”

He turns on the heels of his cliché Gucci loafers and walks out so quickly Phoenix doesn’t even have time to respond.

-

Fine. He’s prepared to accept that, for some inexplicable reason, Edgeworth hates him. Maybe he had accidentally pushed him on the playground when they were nine, or maybe Edgeworth thought his letters were super creepy stalker letters and not, you know, the desperate outreach of a friendless, parent-less kid trying to keep some sort of constant in his life. He can think whatever he likes. Phoenix is done caring about it.

Except no, he isn’t, because every time he tells himself he should just give up and stop trying to look for the sweet, kind person he knows is inside somewhere, something in him pushes back. He’s always been stubborn.

Something about Edgeworth draws him in, won’t let him go. It’s the little flashes of vulnerability he sees, when Edgeworth thinks no one is looking, or the times when he changes his acting on impulse and thinks there’s something like respect in the way Edgeworth responds, even if he seems huffy about it later. Okay, part of it is the fact that he is undeniably attractive, but mostly it’s just - well, it’s Edgeworth, and at this point Phoenix is in so deep he may as well try to swim.

-

Chapter Text

-

It’s a Monday, two weeks before tech, and they’ve moved into the space already courtesy of Gant’s frankly terrifying number of connections, and everyone is tired, when Edgeworth makes a mistake.

Phoenix has been up since six for no reason, an abominably early time for an actor with no survival job at the moment. The subway was delayed by fifteen minutes due to a random hailstorm, because why not, and that had been the time he had been planning on using for a much needed Starbucks run. So already not a great day. Then he sees Edgeworth outside the theater. To Phoenix’s immense surprise, he seems to be -

“Is that - are you juuling?” He asks, before he can remember how bad of an idea that question is. Edgeworth looks at him like if looks could kill he’d be under arrest for extremely aggravated homicide and shoves the little device in his pocket. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises, and his skin is even paler than normal. He pushes inside the theater without even answering Phoenix’ question. Phoenix just stands on the street for a second, mouth open in surprise. Edgeworth’s manager comes up behind him.

“Hey pal,” Gumshoe says. He looks extra glum this morning. “I probably wouldn’t talk to Mr. Edgeworth any more than necessary today if I were you.”

“Something happen?” Phoenix asks. Gumshoe sighs and shakes his head.

“Not that I know of. But Mr. Edgeworth doesn’t really tell me much.” Gumshoe says. “He doesn’t usually smoke, either. I think it’s the weather.”

“The weather?” Sure, it had been hailing earlier, but right now it’s just overcast. Maybe Edgeworth is more of a diva than he’d thought. “Huh.”

“I dunno,” Gumshoe says, and shrugs his shoulders. “Well, see you inside.”

“Yeah,” he says, and stares at the spot Edgeworth had been standing for a few more moments before heading into the theater.

-

Rehearsal is...not going well. Edgeworth, usually the most consistent, seems to be having an off day, and given that almost all of Phoenix’s time on stage is with him, it’s throwing him off as well. He can see the Judge talking heatedly with Lana and even Maggey looks frustrated. They’re in the middle of their fight scene, and Phoenix feels like they’re moving through molasses, when Edgeworth stumbles, driving the edge of his dagger into Phoenix’s side. He shouts in surprise and pain. Edgeworth freezes. He hears Maggey yell “Hold!”, but all he can do is stare at Edgeworth, dumbfounded. Somewhere, without even thinking about it, he’d begun to trust implicitly that his scene partner would always be perfect. The pain in his side doesn’t hurt so much as the immediate irrational feeling of betrayal.

“Phoenix, you okay?” shouts Penny, one of the assistant stage managers, from the wings. He tries to calm his breathing and hears the hailstorm outside start up again, loud on the pavement outside.

“Fine!” he yells back. Edgeworth is still frozen in front of him.

“I need...to request a break,” he chokes out, finally. Not sorry for stabbing you, Phoenix, not are you okay, Phoenix, not sorry for being a dick all the time, Phoenix. He looks away from the other man so he doesn’t have to hide the irritation on his face. Gumshoe says something to Maggey, and he hears the crackling of the god mic coming on.

“Everyone, take ten, okay?”

“Thank you ten,” everyone responds, except Edgeworth. Phoenix winces, stretching his side where the dagger had struck him. Edgeworth goes even paler somehow, seeming to recognize his own mistake for the first time. He stares at Phoenix and then abruptly turns around, walking quickly off the stage.

“Need an ice pack or anything?” Penny asks him.

“Nah,” he responds. “Just a bruise.”

She looks off stage right where Edgeworth had walked out a second ago. “I’ve never seen Mr. Edgeworth like that before.”

“Hmm.” he says. Now that the initial shock of the blow was wearing off, Edgeworth’s behavior was beginning to seem more and more concerning. Even when they were both tired, he had always been consistent, precise in his movements even if they were slow. He groans, grabs a drink of water. Minutes go by. He talks to Will about his upcoming audition for a kids show. Even more minutes go by. It’s been ten minutes, and Edgeworth isn’t back yet, and if he was concerned before he’s both pissed off and kind of really worried now. He sees Gumshoe pass by in the hallway past the backstage.

“Gumshoe,” he shouts. “Have you seen Edgeworth?”

Gumshoe shakes his head gloomily. “Maggey’s still looking for him. I’m going to go check the parking garage next door!”

Phoenix nods and starts walking back through the warren of corridors to the green room.

He rounds a corner and almost doesn’t see the form sitting huddled next to a stack of chairs until he’s already a few steps past it. Edgeworth’s head is between his knees, and his shoulders are shaking, but he’s eerily silent. Phoenix stops, looking around. On the one hand, he doesn’t think he’s really the best person for this. On the other hand, Edgeworth doesn’t really look like he’s in a position to be left alone. A soft whimper makes the decision for him.

Carefully, slowly, Phoenix sits down next to the man, keeping a few inches away. He waits until the small sounds Edgeworth is making become fewer and further between, rustling his clothes so Edgeworth will know someone is there.

“Hey,” he says, when Edgeworth’s breathing has slowed to a less frenetic pace.

Edgeworth’s head shoots up. He stares at Phoenix, who stares stolidly at the wall. When he’s satisfied Phoenix isn’t going to yell at him or call a psych hospital or whatever, he rests his chin back on his knees. Only then does Phoenix turn to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, but there aren’t any tears on his cheeks. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says thickly, and swallows. “What are you doing.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Edgeworth is silent, suspicious as they look at each other for a long moment. He sighs, finally, and closes his eyes. He’s very pale. Phoenix goes back to staring at the wall, which is dirty and covered in random paint splatter. “The - hailstorm,” Edgeworth says, voice ragged.

“Oh,” he says. Something is niggling at the back of his mind. A sudden squall. Roads covered in salt. A single red mitten. “Right.”

“In fourth grade,” Edgeworth mutters. “When my father died.”

“I remember,” he replies, and he does, now. Remembers fourth grade, early spring, when an unseasonable storm had shut the schools down for a long three day weekend. When they had returned, Miles was gone. No explanation, just an empty desk and the mitten he thought he had lost a week ago, resting casually on the top of it.

“We were on the way to sign up for an acting class,” Edgeworth says. He’s speaking quickly, like if he doesn’t say what he needs to say now he’ll never say it. “There was a hailstorm. Freezing rain. It came on so quick - he hit a patch of ice. We were trapped for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, truthfully. Edgeworth nods, not looking at him. Phoenix leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

They’re only an inch or two apart, but he doesn’t think Edgeworth would react well to any attempt at physical comfort right now. It’s hard for him not to reach out anyways. As soon as he’d seen that scared, lost look in his eyes, the memories had come flooding back. Miles Edgeworth, crying over a sheet of paper because he couldn’t fold a paper crane. Miles Edgeworth, helping him take worms off the sidewalk back onto the grass after the rain, even though he had looked like he was going to puke every time Phoenix had picked one up with his fingers instead of a stick, because Phoenix was near tears thinking about all the poor worms that had lost their homes after the storm. Miles Edgeworth as Titania, all proud and regal, speaking the lines that had made Phoenix fall in love with Shakespeare in the first place in a clear, confident voice. The fairy land buys not this child of me.

Half of him wants to take Edgeworth by the shoulders and shake him, say I know you’re in there, Miles, it’s okay, it’s me, Phoenix, remember? The other half just wants to give him a hug. Either option seems like it might result in a dagger in his side on purpose instead of on accident right now, so instead he sits, a few inches away, and lets Edgeworth breathe, staring up at the ceiling.

“It’s weak,” Edgeworth finally says, bitter. “I shouldn’t - what if there were to be a hailstorm during a show? I don’t deserve to be an actor if I can’t work through all conditions.”

“Hey,” Phoenix responds, gentle as possible without being patronizing. “You’re only human, Edgeworth.”

“Unfortunately.”

He laughs, surprised. “Well, unfortunately we aren’t doing Cats.”

“I would never.”

“Right.”

There’s a pause. The hard patter of hail has softened a little, turning to rain. He gets up, offering his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Edgeworth takes it, rising to his feet. “Let’s get back. I think Gumshoe might start breaking into random cars if he doesn’t find you soon.”

“Mm.” Edgeworth replies. His eyes are still distant, but his face has a little more color in it, now. Phoenix turns to go and almost misses the soft “thank you”, it’s so quiet. He nods without looking back, and Edgeworth follows him down the hall back to the stage.

-

If he had expected anything to change, he would have been disappointed. Luckily, he knows Edgeworth a little better than that by now. It’s not that Edgeworth is mean, or cruel - he’s never been those things, not on purpose, except for that first time at the table read. But he also doesn’t start acting like Phoenix is his favorite person. If anything he seems more closed off than before, at least when they’re not on stage. Phoenix will make a joke, or take a note, or he’ll be running lines with Angel and Will, and he’ll look up to see Edgeworth glaring at the wall to the side of his head. He’s starting to think maybe that’s just Edgeworth’s default expression. It would certainly explain a lot.

It doesn’t explain the way Edgeworth starts acting on stage. To be honest, he hadn’t exactly thought Edgeworth was phoning it in before, it’s just - he kept thinking that Edgeworth was holding something back, because the Miles Edgeworth he was acting with in rehearsals wasn’t really like the Miles Edgeworth he had seen in a few foreign indie films, or filmed Globe shows, or, okay, the bootlegs he’d found online.

Now, Phoenix can hardly bring himself to go back to the greenroom when he leaves the stage, because he doesn’t want to stop watching Edgeworth act, wants to stay in their scene, improv some Shakespearean nonsense just so he can continue forever. Edgeworth speaks in a stage whisper and everyone leans in to listen. Edgeworth speaks words that by all rights should be cheesy and hackneyed and they sound like absolute truth. Phoenix forgets his line and Edgeworth rolls with it, turns it into a whole thing where there’s this pause, and this unspoken conversation between them that is Coriolanus saying whole paragraphs in the silence just by looking at him and is Phoenix trying to act like he’s totally planned this and not like he’s just forgotten the stupid “I was moved withal” line. They keep the pause, because, as it turns out, Edgeworth is a really, really fucking good actor who can turn a line drop into a goddamn masterclass in saying what you want with your eyes.

Unfortunately a side effect of this transformation is that Phoenix’s celebrity crush, which had basically curled up and died when Edgeworth rejected him at the table read, is now back in full force. Honestly, how could it not be? For one thing, the whole panic attack had renewed his conviction that the Miles he knew was there behind whatever wall he was putting up. For all Phoenix had been told he couldn’t help everyone, he really thought he was the one person who stood the best chance of helping Edgeworth. What, exactly, he was trying to help Edgeworth with he wasn’t exactly sure, but darn it, he was at the very least going to try to be Edgeworth’s friend so he could find out.

Not to mention it’s kind of hard for a crush to go away when you are actively working with the subject of said crush, who is really, incredibly, inspiringly good at his job, and actively working for you means playing a character who is somewhere between sexually attracted, in love, and/or in mortal hatred with your crush’s character for most of the show. God, actors really were annoying.

“I feel you, Nick.” Larry moans, gesturing a little too broadly with a greasy napkin in hand. “Love is...so hard.”

“I’m not in love with him,” he says. No one listens to him. “Guys? Hello?”

Maya has a dreamy look in her eyes that reminds him of Pearls. “Nick, you literally became an actor because you did your first show together with him. You’re totally head over heels.”

“Uh, I never said that.” Out loud. “Again, not in love with Miles Edgeworth. Crush. I have a pathetic, showmance, emotional transference crush, and also I know he’s a good guy. I’d just - I’d like to see him show it, at some point, y’know?”

“Ohhh, right, right, because wanting to fix someone because deep down you know they’re really a good person is totaaaaally a thing that, like, a normal friend does.”

“Maya, tell me you would not be in the same situation as I am if you were in a show with like, Franziska von Karma or one of those other intimidating actresses you’re always talking about.”

“I wouldn’t,” Maya says with a kind of scary gleam in her eyes. “Because within a week we would be friends with benefits to maybe be more after the show is over, TBD, because unlike you, Nick, I am not a coward and also have huge lesbian energy, which makes women fall for me left right and center.”

“Yeah, maybe he thinks you’re straight, Nick.” Larry points out. He’s swiping through Tinder again, because that always works out so well for him.

“Actually, that’s a good point,” Maya says, taking a sip of grape soda.

Phoenix thinks, for the nth time that week, that everyone he knows is insane. “Okay, did you guys miss the whole ‘unnecessary personal entanglements’ thing? The whole thing where he looks like he wants to kill me everytime I open my mouth? The thing where I want to actually be his friend, not just get him to sleep with me? Guys?”

“He’s probably just mad you’re turning him on so much,” Maya tells him. He rubs a hand over his face in disbelief. “Okay, okay, so maybe he’s a little bit of an asshole. Doesn’t mean you aren’t in love with him anyway.”

“Why can’t my life be normal,” he mutters. “Actually, why can’t you guys be normal?”

“Cause that would be boring,” Maya points out. “C’mon, aren’t you going to buy the lady another slice?”

“Maya, do you want me to keep buying you food, or do you want me to pay the electric bill?”

“Ugh,” she says. “Lighten up.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve gotta keep the lightens on.”

Loud groans. “Oh come on, that one was good!’ He protests.

“You know what, just for that, I’m not giving you any more advice.” Maya says.

“Yeah, and I’m not letting you use any of my Patented Butz Pick-up Lines,” Larry tells him. “Trust me, if Edgeworth heard one of those your troubles would be over pronto.”

“Uh-huh,” Phoenix says, groaning. Somehow he doesn’t think walking up to Miles Edgeworth and saying ‘Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you (courtesy of Larry Butz, 2019)’ would get him anything other than a restraining order. Not that he wants to test that particular theory out.

-

Maybe he just needs to get laid. Maybe it’s just a lot of sexual frustration built up from fighting and being in close quarters with someone who is really hot and really uninterested in him, and once he resolves that, it will be easier to make friends with Edgeworth. Maybe his little show crush is super obvious, and that’s why Edgeworth is so uptight around him. He just needs to get some energy out of his system, and then everything will be easier. Right?

Might as well try. He goes to a bar in the Village one night after a long day of rehearsal. There’s an attractive, sophisticated-looking man with white-blonde hair and tanned skin sitting at the end. He sits down one seat away and orders a glass of red wine to match what the stranger is drinking. “Hi,” he says, before he can lose his nerve.

The stranger smirks at him. He’s wearing these glasses that seem to say I am a distinguished professional, or at least I would like you to think so. “Hello.”

“Phoenix,” he says, and offers his hand. The other man shakes it, a little too firm.

“Kristoph.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Any plans for the night?” the man asks, fingers sliding lightly along the stem of his wine glass. Phoenix smiles a smile he doesn’t really feel.

“None whatsoever.”

They chat about nonsense, work, wine, whatever, and then they’re heading to a bar across the street and Kristoph pulls him into the shadow of an alley for a kiss, hungry, and all Phoenix can think about is kissing Edgeworth, during their scene, the little noise of surprise he had made, the way his hands had grasped at Phoenix’s t-shirt before he had pushed him away, and he thinks: Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it wasn’t just emotional transference, because if it was just a stupid showmance crush he would be thinking about Kristoph’s surprisingly talented mouth and the hand on his ass right now and not Miles Edgeworth’s disapproving frown and Miles Edgeworth’s haughty way of leaving a room without saying goodbye and Miles Edgeworth’s shoulders shaking as he suffered through a panic attack alone in the dark hallway. Fuck. Why did Maya always have to be right?

“Phoenix?” Kristoph says, disengaging. He pushes those stupid glasses back up his nose.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m - I’m not really feeling it.”

Kristoph nods, looking an appropriate amount of disappointed, and bids him a good night. Phoenix kind of wants to die. Instead he finds the nearest bodega, buys himself a can of cheap beer, and drinks it in the paper bag waiting for the subway home so he’ll have something to think about that isn’t Miles Edgeworth looking adoringly at him and saying the line “This man, Aufidius, was my beloved in Rome”. It doesn’t help. The busker playing love songs on the platform also doesn’t help. Sometimes he really hates New York.

-

Chapter Text

-

“Wright,” Edgeworth says one evening, completely out of the blue. They’re in one of the first full-act rehearsals, and everyone’s too tired to do anything other than sit around the green room when they’re not on the stage. Phoenix looks up from the NYT Mini Crossword he’s been staring at blankly for the last five minutes. “The answer is ‘Tokyo’.”

“Huh?” Phoenix says. He’s still trying to parse through the fact that Miles Edgeworth is speaking to him off stage and of his own free will. Edgeworth sighs, and looks pointedly at his phone.

“Four down.”

He looks at the clue, The Steel Samurai fights evil in Neo Olde _____. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“Mm,” Edgeworth says, and goes back to looking at his script. Phoenix stares at him. Edgeworth glances up. “Question?”

“No, no,” he replies. Truthfully he has several. He settles for the least incendiary. “Are you a...fan?”

Edgeworth purses his lips. “I am a regular viewer of the show, yes.”

“Cool.” What. “My roommate is really into it.”

“Your roommate has excellent taste,” Edgeworth responds.

He’s having a conversation. With Miles Edgeworth. About a show Maya keeps trying to get him to watch that, as far as he knows, is basically Batman meets Chushingura. Unfortunately, Phoenix has never learned to stop when he’s ahead. “Isn’t it a kids show?”

Edgeworth glares at him, full force. “The Steel Samurai is a sophisticated program which explores many fascinating themes. It may have begun as a program intended for children, however it attracts and appeals to all age groups due to its nuanced characters and plot. I find it echoes many of Shakespeare’s greatest works.”

“Wow,” Phoenix says, partly because he can’t believe the Great Shakespearean Actor Miles Edgeworth just compared some weird kids show to, like, Macbeth, and partly because he thinks this is the longest Edgeworth has spoken to him about something that isn’t his tragic past and/or in modern English for the past fifteen years.

There’s a hint of pink in Edgeworth’s cheeks. “I would certainly recommend it,” he responds, and then closes his script.

Phoenix thinks, faintly, that this might be what is called an out of body experience, or that he might be asleep and dreaming in the green room and that in a minute assistant stage manager Oldbag is going to come in and yell at him for missing his cue. It would make a lot more sense than Edgeworth being a huge fanboy of a kids show. It would also make it a lot easier on his heart, because what the hell, that’s the sort of image-ruining thing that makes him want to write ‘Mr. Phoenix Edgeworth (heart heart heart)’ in big loopy cursive all over his script. Why does he have to have a thing for smart, intimidating, beautiful, unattainable dorks? “R-right,” he manages. “I’ll check it out.”

“Mm,” Edgeworth says. Phoenix looks back at his phone and thinks that at this point he couldn’t complete a crossword if his life depended on it.

-

He lets Maya talk him into watching The Steel Samurai that night after rehearsal ends. It’s boring, the fight scenes are mediocre, and he can’t follow what’s going on after the first five minutes. He watches the whole first episode anyway and tries not to think about some hypothetical situation where Edgeworth invites him over to watch it and they’re sitting on the couch and Edgeworth pauses it to explain some obscure detail, but he gestures so emphatically that he accidentally hits Phoenix in the face, and then he apologizes and asks if Phoenix is okay and Phoenix tells him it’s okay, he understands, but Edgeworth feels really bad about it and asks if there’s any way he can make it up to him and Phoenix (who is much more courageous in this imaginary situation than in real life) says maybe he could kiss it better and- “Niiiick, are you watching?! This is the most important part!”

-

After that conversation in the green room, which Phoenix still can’t believe actually happened, Edgeworth starts to talk to him. Maybe it’s because they’re in the final stretch of rehearsal now and they’re spending so much time together that it’d be noticeably weird if they didn’t at least have a short conversation now and again. Maybe it’s because they’re having so much fun acting onstage that it just feels natural to carry that dynamic over into real life. Maybe it’s because Phoenix is just really, really persistent and Edgeworth figures it’s easier to just give in.

He doesn’t care about the why that much, because ultimately, Edgeworth is talking to him - awkwardly, in short bursts of random conversation, but he’s clearly making an effort. Phoenix tries to tell himself that he’s Very Happy, and that this had been his whole goal from the very beginning.

And he is happy. It’s nice, to talk about work, and the weather, and the Judge’s way of slipping proud facts about his grandchildren into the most tangentially related notes. Now he knows Edgeworth is a big dork about kids shows. Now he knows Edgeworth likes to have plants in his dressing room. Now he knows Edgeworth uses the word “personage” completely unironically, because Cammy Meele tries to use him as a pillow during tech and Phoenix is blessed to have been in the same room to witness this event (although anyone within a twenty-foot radius would probably have heard at least Edgeworth’s undignified ‘Ngohhhhhhhh!’ when she plopped over onto his lap).

“It’s just,” he says the night after said event, back at his apartment “it’s the worst.”

Maya nods sympathetically, and pours him another glass of wine. He stares at it from where his head rests, sideways, on the surface of the table. “It’s...I kind of wish he was being mean again, you know? Because now he’s nice in his own weird Edgeworth way and I really like being friends with him and it’s just...sad.”

“Oh Nick,” she sighs. She pats him on the back. He tries not to cry like a baby at this.

“I just feel like it’s making everything really hard,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “That’s love, I guess.”

“Ughhh.” He replies, and hears more than feels the thunk of his forehead on the wood. “If I start sounding like Larry, please kill me.”

“Will do,” Maya swears, solemn. “You are hereby allowed to wallow for ten more minutes, and then we’re Postmatesing ice cream so you have something to look forward to.”

“Okay,” he groans. “Wallowing time now.”

In the end, he only wallows for two minutes due to a belated realization that Maya knows his phone passcode and can easily order a dangerous amount of Phish Food if he doesn’t do something to stop her. Well, only for two minutes at that very moment. He has plenty of time to wallow in the future.

-

For example: he’s on his way back from the theater one night when he sits down on the subway and sees a silver-haired man on some random ad for something that claims to be The Uber of Bedsheets. Phoenix stares at it. Soft, eco-friendly sheets - share with a friend ;), the ad says. The model is winking cheekily at the camera. He doesn’t even look anything like Edgeworth. Share with a friend ;), the ad says. Phoenix buries his head in his hands and doesn’t look up until he hears the barely intelligible announcement that they’re at his stop.

For example: It’s second dress, and he’s just gotten backstage when he overhears laughter from the dressing room. “ -you know? He’s just, like, noble.”

“I bet he stays up all night studying Shakespeare and then falls asleep on his script and has little creases in his cheek from the paper in the morning.” says a voice he thinks belongs to Lana’s little sister, Ema, the technical intern. “And his bangs are all messed up and wavy.”

More giggles. Phoenix rounds the corner and sees Penny, Ema, and a very buff man in a makeup artist’s apron. Penny has the grace to blush when she sees him. “Hi Phoenix,” she says, hoping quickly off the dressing room counter. “Jean is here to talk to you all about makeup and hair.”

“Oui,” Jean says. “Le Judge is, unfortunately, a minimalist when it comes to beauty, so it should not be too difficult.” He hands Phoenix a character sheet, winking. “Of course, it ‘elps to be naturally beautiful, no? And ze leading man sets quite a bar.”

“R-right,” he replies, and goes to set his stuff at his spot at the mirror. I bet his bangs are all messed up and wavy.

He stares at the dressing room counter and starts putting on his base as the others arrive. Little creases on his cheek in the morning. He can hear Jean laughing at something as he goes down the hallway, presumably on his way to Edgeworth’s dressing room.

“Phoenix?” Will says from next to him. “Uh, I think you grabbed the wrong powder.”

He looks in the mirror. His whole face is glittering. Ben Nye Lumiere Ultra Bright Powder apparently looks exactly the same as Ben Nye Colorless Bella Luxury Powder when you’re thinking about what your fellow cast member looks like in the morning. Will passes him some makeup remover wipes with a sympathetic pat on the back.

For example: CORIOLANUS ON STAGE, reads a headline on the newsstand in front of him. He’s walking to the station, on his way to their final dress rehearsal. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and doesn’t even hear the artful cursing of the woman walking behind him as she pushes past. On the page displayed there’s a promotional picture, he and Edgeworth in the middle of a fight, foreheads basically pressed together, both kind of shiny under the lights. In the picture, Phoenix is grinning with Aufidius’ mad fury, and Edgeworth is serious and focused, cutting a handsome figure in his tailcoat and blood-red sash. They’re looking into each other’s eyes. Phoenix nearly has a heart attack. NEW PRODUCTION PROMISES AN “EDGE”, the tagline says.

Sometimes, Phoenix Wright really, really hates his life.

-

The first preview is on a balmy evening in April, both too soon and not soon enough. As soon as he gets into the theater he can feel the thrum of adrenaline, taste it in the air of the dressing room. It tastes like hairspray, and cake foundation, and the promise of top shelf tequila from a bottle Jake has brought to do shots with the cast after bows, although knowing Jake it’s just as likely to be bathtub tequila with a fake label. Phoenix probably couldn’t tell the difference.

It goes well. The Judge is happy, and even Gant has only a few changes he decides to make as they go along, which causes some very interesting conversations about creative interpretation between Gant and Edgeworth during notes as the rest of the cast looks on in everything from fear (Rhoda) to boredom (Cammy) to barely concealed enjoyment (Angel).

Every night, he and Edgeworth share the stage, in hate, in love, and then in hatred again. Every night, whether he goes out for drinks with the rest of the cast or goes home, Phoenix thinks of Edgeworth as Coriolanus, proud eyes belying his vulnerability, and he thinks of Aufidius, furious, embracing his former enemy as he stabs him through the heart, blood staining the white shirt and his hands with red, dripping onto the floor.

There’s only so much Jake’s seemingly never-ending supply of liquor can erase. It’s bad enough that he almost asks Cammy if there’s more of whatever she’s smoking. Almost.

-

Before he’s even had time to think about it, it’s the last night of previews. He hangs around after the Judge’s too long post-notes speech and waits for Edgeworth to finish writing something down in his thick leather notebook as everyone filters out, talking about what they’re wearing and who they’re bringing to the opening night party. Edgeworth looks up at him, putting the cap on his ridiculously fancy pen and standing with characteristic efficiency. “Wright.”

“Hey,” he says. “Excited for opening?”

Edgeworth frowns. “I suppose I’ve never held any particular sentimentality for such occasions.”

“...Right,” he replies. Edgeworth looks suddenly contrite.

“And...yourself?” Edgeworth asks, pausing awkwardly. He wonders if the reason Edgeworth seems to be so unused to small talk is because no one’s ever really consistently tried to talk to him casually before. Maybe everyone else never got past the intimidating shield of “hot perfectionist actor with resting bitch face” except for him and Gumshoe, and Gumshoe still seems a little trepidatious about Edgeworth’s temper. Phoenix had stopped being intimidated by him (as a person - Edgeworth as an actor was a different story) once he’d learned about the Steel Samurai obsession. Or maybe it was when he’d seen Edgeworth trying to do Japanese calligraphy in elementary school, eyebrows drawn fiercely together, mouth a thin line of concentration as he held the brush. He thinks it’s hard to find someone intimidating when you’ve seen them near tears because the word they were trying to write turns out looking like a splotchy mess.

“Same,” Phoenix says, just because he can’t resist messing with him a little. Edgeworth glares at him, and Phoenix thinks of a little kid in a dorky bow tie glaring at an ink-splattered paper. He grins. “I mean, I’m excited, don’t get me wrong. But it isn’t the same with two weeks of previews under our belts.”

“I agree,” Edgeworth responds. “The presence of an audience is the most significant difference, whether that is in previews or otherwise.”

“It helps when you haven’t really changed anything,” Phoenix says. “You and Gant should do staged debates, by the way.”

Edgeworth’s face darkens. “I believe I would find that extremely taxing on my limited reserves of patience.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” he says.

“Mm.” Edgeworth tugs down his cuffs. They start walking back towards the dressing rooms.

“Are you inviting anyone to the party?” Phoenix asks.

“I am. She is unable to attend the show due to prior commitments of her own, but she will be joining us afterward.”

“I’d love to meet her,” Phoenix says, trying to imagine what Edgeworth’s friends look like. He can only come up with the image of either a stereotypical Columbia professor or a clone of Edgeworth, and girl version of Edgeworth, isn’t that a very interesting idea. “I’m inviting my roommate, Maya. I told Larry I only got two tickets, and one was for my agent, but I think he’s going to try to show up anyways.”

Edgeworth raises his eyebrows. “Larry. Not…?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix confirms. “Unfortunately, Larry Butz is my other roommate. He's actually a scenic painter now. He...hasn’t really changed much.”

“Ah,” Edgeworth says. They pause at the entrance to his dressing room. “So, the saying…”

“When something stinks, it’s usually the Butz? Yeah, still true. Just this time it’s about him forgetting to put the lid on his turpentine and forcing us all out of the apartment for a few hours while he airs it out.”

Edgeworth smiles. Phoenix thinks he should be used to it by now. He’s not. “His best subject even as a child was art, if I recall correctly.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says. He thinks of gel pens and construction paper, some long-forgotten school project, sprawled on the deck in Larry’s backyard. Edgeworth cutting neat squares for labels, Larry filling the space between with garish and colorful drawings, and Phoenix gluing the text he’d written onto the poster-board, Mr William Shakespeare lived a very long time ago in England…

“We really missed you, you know,” he says, soft.

Edgeworth stiffens. “...I had no hand in determining if I would stay or not.”

“I know, I know,” he responds, before Edgeworth can jump to any conclusions (or down his throat). “I just - it wasn’t the same after you left.”

After a moment, Edgeworth seems to accept that he isn’t being blamed for being nine years old and having no control over major life decisions. He looks past Phoenix’s shoulder. “I...enjoyed our time together, brief as it was.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Phoenix says, heart beating in his throat. He swallows. “I sent - letters.”

“Yes,” Edgeworth says. There’s a pause that feels like millennia. “I did not know exactly how to respond.”

Phoenix nods. It’s better than Yes, and I thought they were super fucking creepy, you weirdo or Yes, and I thought they were pathetic, who does that. “I get it. It was probably kind of weird.”

“No, it was perhaps…” Edgeworth hesitates. “Easier for me to make a clean break.”

“Right,” Phoenix says. He tries not to feel crushed. “Anyway, I should get going.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth says as he’s turning to go. Phoenix looks back. Edgeworth becomes very interested in the floor all of a sudden. “...It’s nothing. Break a leg tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix replies. “You too, Edgeworth.”

When he gets home, Maya has taped up that picture of him and Edgeworth from the newspaper on his door. It’s covered in pink gel pen hearts and what appears to be a stick figure of him and another stick figure with bangs holding hands.

He takes it off his door, but can’t quite bring himself to throw it away.

-

Chapter Text

-

Someone must have taken a lot of pains to keep the opening night party planning outside the sphere of the Judge, because it’s at an event space in Chelsea instead of one of the usual hotel ballrooms, and the dress code is even black-tie optional. At the photo call, Phoenix is a little proud in his blue suit, trying not to squint at the rapid-fire flash of cameras. Edgeworth is wearing what is probably a five-figure tux in deep red as if it’s his daily uniform, which maybe it is given his propensity for coming to rehearsals in what Phoenix thinks might be called ‘business formal’. They pose for cast pictures, and somehow he and Edgeworth end up next to each other in almost every one. He can hear Maya laughing at him now.

“Let’s get one more of you two, boys!” the social media manager calls out, as most of the cast filters away towards the direction of the main dance floor. He slings an arm around Edgeworth’s shoulders without thinking, high on adrenaline and excitement, and Edgeworth stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. Click click click. “Perfect.” She winks, twirling a lock of pink hair around her finger. “You guys just look so handsome together, tee hee!”

He tries not to read too much into the tinge of red in Edgeworth’s cheeks as he steps away, for his own sanity as much as anything else.

-

Maya arrives resplendent in a purple sequin dress with Mia and Pearl in tow and nearly knocks him to the ground with the force of her hug. Thankfully he sees it coming and sets his drink on a nearby table before she flies at him so he doesn’t stain the only suit he owns. “Nick, you were fantastic!”

“Thanks,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and smiling sheepishly. “Hi to you too.”

Mia smiles at him from over Maya’s shoulder. “Excellent work, Phoenix. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

Pearl bites her thumb. “It’s so sad though. Why did you have to kill your special someone at the end?”

“Uh,” he says. Maya releases him so she can double over in laughter. “Pearls, we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“Okay,” Pearl says. He hopes she doesn’t hold him to that.

“Speaking of,” Maya says, with a gleam in her eye. “Isn’t that Miles Edgeworth over there?”

“No, not speaking of.” He looks behind him to see Edgeworth talking to someone, near one of the tall windows looking out onto the Hudson. “And yes, I think so.”

“Do you think he would be okay with me asking him to sign my program?” Pearl asks, biting her thumbnail anxiously.

“Sure, Pearls,” he tells her. “Let me go talk to him real quick.”

“Okay!” She says, blushing. “Take your time.”

As he gets closer he sees the person Edgeworth is talking to is a young woman in a suit with a slate-blue bob and an austere expression. They both turn and stare at him as he approaches. It’s extremely disconcerting. “Hey, Edgeworth. Happy opening.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth nods. “My adoptive sister, Ms. Franziska von Karma.”

She looks at him with an expression that could only be interpreted as pure disdain. “Hi,” Phoenix says.

“Really?” she says, ignoring him and turning to Edgeworth. He glares at her, and they seem to have some sort of silent argument vis-á-vis a staring contest. It’s both terrifying and...well, mostly just terrifying, actually. At last she scowls, and turns back to him. “Hello, Phoenix Wright.”

“Uh, hi. Nice to meet you.”

She takes a sip of her sparkling water.

“Are you enjoying the party so far?” Edgeworth asks, after a long, uncomfortable pause. He has the air of someone asking for more anesthetic at the dentist. Phoenix thinks: Yeah, now I am.

“I am, thanks. I actually wanted to ask you, my roommate’s little cousin came tonight. I was wondering if I could ask you to sign her program.”

Edgeworth’s expression defrosts a little. “Of course. Franziska, I will return shortly.”

“Take as long as you wish,” she replies, and stalks over to the corner where Matt and his manager are standing with an imperious turn of her head.

Edgeworth sighs, and uncrosses his arms. “Shall we?”

“Thanks,” he says, not moving. “Is she, um, mad at me about something?”

Edgeworth laughs, a small huff. “No. Franziska is many things, but she has never been accused of being warm or approachable. We are perhaps similar in that respect.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Phoenix says. It comes out much more fond than he means it to. “I’ve always thought first impressions are overrated. Besides, ‘I must excuse what cannot be amended’.”

Edgeworth looks at him, smiling that small, private smile he’s seen more and more of over the past few weeks. He thinks it’s not even that he’s the one making Edgeworth smile like that, it’s that Edgeworth lets him see it, that irrefutable, electrifyingly vulnerable evidence that under the layers of public image and persona, Miles Edgeworth is human.

“Wright?” Edgeworth asks.

“Sorry, yeah,” he says, looking out the window for a moment to try and quell the overwhelming feelings of - “They’re over by the door.”

When he looks back, Edgeworth is looking at him with eyes that - well, they aren’t warm, exactly, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Edgeworth be warm, but - stable. Curious maybe, a little perplexed, but not afraid, not wary. Trusting. He wants to hold onto that gaze forever.

Fortunately common sense interjects itself before he can embarrass them both by attempting to stare into Edgeworth’s eyes for the rest of the party. He gestures vaguely towards the door. “After you.”

Edgeworth hesitates, studying him for a moment longer, and then starts walking in the direction he’s indicated. They weave through the crowd of well-dressed party-goers towards the cluster of Feys.

“Ladies,” Phoenix says, sweeping a gallant bow as they draw near. Pearl giggles and bobs a little curtsy, lifting her pink tulle skirts gracefully. “May I introduce Mr. Miles Edgeworth.”

“Hello.” Mia introduces herself with an enigmatic smile. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Mia Fey, Phoenix’s agent.”

He thinks he sees a hint of color rise in Edgeworth’s cheeks as he shakes Mia’s hand. “Of course. Ms. Fey, it’s nice to see you again.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Likewise.”

“I’m Maya,” Maya says cheerfully. “Nick’s roommate, life coach, assistant, etc. You can thank me later.” Phoenix glares at her. She grins at him and shrugs. “And this is my cousin, Pearl Fey.”

“Hi,” Pearl says shyly.

“Pearl, didn’t you have something you wanted to ask Mr. Edgeworth for?” Mia asks her. She nods, and Mia hands her a program and a silver sharpie from her purse.

Edgeworth has to kneel down to take them from Pearl’s outstretched hands. Phoenix thinks his heart may actually burst at the sight. “How would you like me to write it?” he asks.

“Ummm…” Pearls thinks for a moment. “Please write it “To Miss Pearl, from Mr. Nick’s Special Someone, signed Mr. Edgeworth.”

Beside him, there’s a choked-off, gasping laugh. He is going to murder Maya if it’s the last thing he does. “Pearls. How about “To Miss Pearl, signed Miles Edgeworth? If the autograph is too long it might cover up the picture on the front.”

“Oh, okay,” Pearl says. “To Miss Pearl from Mr. Edgeworth then, if you please.”

Edgeworth looks completely lost, but he signs the program with characteristic gravity anyways and hands it back to Pearl. She smiles at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Of course,” he answers, with that stiff formality he’s come to know so well. Phoenix thinks it should be illegal to be that endearing. “Well. I should be getting back to Franziska before she accuses me of abandoning her.”

He thinks Franziska seems like she can (and prefers to) handle herself, but he’s not going to say that while he’s in the same room with either of them. “See you later, Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth nods. “Farewell, Wright.” He turns back to the Feys. “It was a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Wow, Nick.” Maya says once Edgeworth is safely out of earshot. “When were you going to tell me you’re married? Give a girl some notice.”

He glares at her. “Maya.”

“Okay, okay. Come on Pearly, let’s go check out the snack table before Mr. Nick blows his top.” She grabs Pearl by the hand and leads her away with a wink. He shakes his head.

“Edgeworth has changed,” Mia says. She folds her arms, thoughtful. He looks back at her.

“You knew him?”

“We were in a show together four or five years ago.” She laughs softly to herself. “We called him ‘The Demon’ behind his back.”

“Really?” Phoenix asks. He remembers a feature article he’d seen, still in college, a picture of a younger Edgeworth as Hamlet, holding up a skull. He’d been about to declare his major when he’d seen that image on a stray newspaper in the registrar’s office. It had been more influential to his choice than he’d like to admit. “What was he like?”

“Hmm,” she muses, tapping the stone pendant at her neck. “He was arrogant. Cruel. Very, very good. Everyone hated him for being the director’s adopted son even before the table read, but he gave us plenty of reasons to dislike him personally as well. That combined with the creative leadership...it was a toxic environment, to say the least.”

“Oh, are we badmouthing someone?“ Angel asks, appearing at his side with no warning. He jumps, spilling a little of his drink on the floor. She smiles at them. “Hello Mia.”

“Angel,” Mia nods. “How are you?”

“Fine. If you’re looking for Lana, she’s over by the bar.”

To his astonishment, Mia blushes. “Right. Thank you.”

“So,” Angel says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and staring coldly at them. “Would you like to continue the previous conversation?”

Mia smiles, apparently unfazed. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Angel.”

“I do indeed,” she murmurs, with a serene smile. Phoenix wonders if he should be relieved or insulted that they both seem to have forgotten his presence. “Well! My boyfriends are all clamoring to buy me a drink, so I suppose I’ll be off. Nice to see you again, Mia.” And she glides off to the bar.

Mia hides a smile behind her hand. “She hasn’t changed.”

“I can believe that,” he mutters. “So, did you know Lana Skye from a show you did with Angel?”

Mia coughs delicately. “I seem to have something in my throat. Perhaps I should visit the bar for a drink of water.”

“C’mon,” he shouts after her. “Maya’s probably told you all about-“

“What?” Maya says, plate loaded full of canapés.

“Argh,” he says. “Nevermind.”

“Aww, no fun.” Maya looks around the ballroom. A few steps behind her, Will is signing Pearl’s playbill, a dopey smile on his face as he scribbles. Pearl, usually so shy with strangers, seems to be bravely trying to pretend she isn’t frightened of him. Phoenix really hopes if he gets that kids show part, his costume includes a mask. “What does an underage girl need to do to get an overly sweet cocktail around here?”

“Maya,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If Mia saw you drinking, she would literally never forgive me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She nods enthusiastically. “Can you watch Pearl for a sec while I try anyway?”

“...Sure.”

“Thanks, byeeee!” She flounces towards the bar on the opposite end of the room that Mia had gone off to.

Pearl looks up at him. “Mr. Nick, what’s a cocktail?”

“Uh,” he says. “It’s a drink for...adults. I don’t think you would like the taste. Are you thirsty? We can get you some juice.”

She nods. He thinks he could probably use something to drink as well.

He scans the room for Edgeworth as Pearl sits on a too-tall chair, drinking her cranberry juice carefully. He spots him standing in a corner with the Judge and Gant, and from his body language Phoenix guesses that he’s currently caught in one of their rambling stories. He can sympathize.

Maya, apparently successful, walks up to them with a large glass in hand (already half-empty) and a grin. He scowls at her.

“Whaaat? He didn’t even notice!” She protests, before he can even say anything.

He has to admit she’s right. Still. “You owe me.”

“We’ll see,” she says, sounding eerily like her sister. “Did you get Nick’s signature yet, Pearly?”

Pearl gasps. “No! Mr. Nick, I think I left my program somewhere.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures her. “It’s probably by the drinks. I’ll be right back.”

Thankfully, her program is exactly where he thought it would be. He grabs it and turns around right into the withering stare of Franziska von Karma.

Phoenix, to his eternal pride and relief, only flinches a little bit, and doesn’t even scream. “Oh! Uh, hi, Ms. von Karma.”

She ignores this. “Phoenix Wright. You are a distraction.”

“E-excuse me?” he says, faintly.

She jabs an accusing finger at his chest. “Cease your foolish, fatuous farce of buffoonery. You know exactly what I mean. Forsake your distraction of my little brother or you will suffer the fulgurous snap of my whip in the very near future.”

She walks off, leaving him open-mouthed in shock. He can’t even wonder about the ‘little brother’ part or the fact that he’s pretty sure half of those weren’t even words, because her second phrase is repeating itself on loop in his head. “You are a distraction.”

By the time he recovers himself enough to look around the room, both she and Edgeworth seem to be gone. He scans the crowd for a wistful second longer, sighs, and goes back to give Pearl her program, the accusing tone of von Karma’s words ringing in his ears even as he’s on his way home.

-

If she had said anything similar to Edgeworth, he doesn’t mention it. He also doesn’t seem to have taken her suggestion, as their tentative friendship continues for the next performance, and the performance after. After a week or two of successful shows and no discernible difference in Edgeworth’s demeanor towards him, he starts to relax. He settles into the routine of a run, the excitement and anxiety of opening night fading into a faint thrill that echoes in his chest every time he’s called to places, or he goes on stage, or he sees Edgeworth in costume - although that last feeling has very little to do with nerves and a lot to do with how good Edgeworth looks in a military coat.

As the weeks slip by, it’s hard not to be lulled into a sense of security by the repetitiveness of it all. He stops thinking so much, tries to enjoy the moment he’s in now, and tries not to think about how long he has left until Edgeworth steps off their stage and out of Phoenix’s life.

The first two things are very much easier.

-

It starts innocuously enough. The Sunday matinee after a two-show Saturday. He doesn’t see Edgeworth until fight call, but that’s normal, most days, and everyone's a little less alive before matinees anyway.

When he gets to the stage, Edgeworth is pacing, already holding his rapier. Phoenix buckles his sword belt with a yawn. “Hey Edgeworth.”

Edgeworth’s head whips around so fast Phoenix winces in sympathy for his neck. He looks at Phoenix for a moment and then sighs, shoulders lowering by a tiny margin. “Wright.”

“...What’s up?” he asks, cautious. In his head there are alarm bells beginning to ring, quiet, but persistent. Edgeworth shrugs, mouth set in a dismissive scowl. Phoenix doesn’t press the issue.

They run through their fight. It goes fine. Edgeworth seems to move and act with his usual ease. Not that he would ever let personal circumstances affect his performance, even here with only Phoenix to really witness it. They part ways to get ready and Phoenix figures Edgeworth just has a headache or something, that his terseness is only temporary. He can hear Edgeworth delivering lines from his place in the wings, just as clear and strong as usual.

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down.

The mistake is Phoenix’s fault - really, it is - he’s too zealous when he lunges and he almost completely falls when he has to recover and parry Edgeworth’s next strike. He sees Edgeworth pause, make a move to catch him as he wavers. He pulls Phoenix up by the arm, Phoenix recovers his balance, and he continues with only a bruised knee and ego to show for his mistake. They fall back into their normal rhythm and finish strong.

Phoenix doesn’t think much of it until intermission rolls around and Edgeworth is nowhere to be seen. The alarm in his head has gone from bells to sirens, but he doesn’t have time to do anything more than worry before the second act starts. Afterwards, he’s gathering his stuff, making up his mind to stop by Edgeworth’s dressing room on the way out and check on him, when Edgeworth himself appears in the mirror behind him, without warning. He bites back a yelp. “Argh - hey, Edgeworth.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth says. His voice is quiet steel. The hair on the back of Phoenix’s neck stands up at the sound of it. “I would like to rehearse our fight, if that is agreeable.”

He nods, cautiously. On the one hand, he’s really tired, and he ideally would like to go home, shower, and go to bed.

On the other hand, Edgeworth is actually asking him for something. The choice is easier than he’d like to admit. “Sure.”

“Ms. Byrde is having a meeting with the dressers at the moment, so she’s assured me the stage will be open for another half hour,” Edgeworth informs him tonelessly. “Meet me there posthaste.”

“Right,” Phoenix says to the empty space where Edgeworth was just a second ago. He grabs his jacket and trods to the stage with a heavy sigh.

-

Edgeworth is already there, rapier in hand when he arrives. Phoenix dumps his stuff at the edge of the stage and grabs his weapons, tightening his sword belt around his waist. Edgeworth doesn’t say anything, just stares off into the now-empty audience as he gets into place.

“I’m ready,” he announces, after a moment of waiting for Edgeworth to notice.

Edgeworth looks at him with that same cold stare he’d had at the beginning of the rehearsal process. To see it directed towards him again is discomfiting, to say the least.

“Very well,” Edgeworth says at last. For a moment, he’s still, and then Phoenix sees the subtle shift in his posture that marks his transformation into Coriolanus. It seems to take him longer than usual to cast off the rigidity of his bearing.

Phoenix breathes, trying to settle into Aufidius’ own stance. He has a sinking feeling that somehow, for some reason he can’t quite grasp right now, it is essential that this goes right.

They fight. Edgeworth sets a fast pace, almost full speed despite the fact that they’re both clearly tired. It takes all of Phoenix’s energy just to keep up.

It goes fine, Phoenix thinks. No mistakes.

But the hope he had been holding that Edgeworth would go back to normal once they’re finished dies when Edgeworth shakes his head, retrieving their cast-aside weapons and thrusting the rapier and dagger into his hurriedly raised hands. “Again.”

“...Okay,” Phoenix says. He winces as he slides the dagger back into his scabbard, back protesting the twisting movement. Edgeworth is still, stick-straight, the only imperfection in his posture the turn of his head downstage as he waits for Phoenix to settle into place.

They start again. When they’re finished, the tension so apparent in Edgeworth’s shoulders is even worse than before. He clutches his arm and stares downstage, chest heaving, face hidden in shadow.

“Is this about my mistake during the show?” Phoenix asks once he’s caught his breath enough to speak. Sweat clings damply to his skin. He grimaces, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

Edgeworth shakes his head wordlessly once more. Whatever this is about, it’s not him. A sense of dread settles heavily in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a long pause. Phoenix’s mouth is very dry.

“...Again.” Edgeworth says.

“A-again?”

“Wright,” Edgeworth spits. Even from here, from a few feet away, he can see the other man is shaking. “Please.”

He shouldn’t say yes. They’re both tired. It isn’t exactly safe. Then Edgeworth meets his eyes, and what Phoenix sees stops the half-formed protests in his throat. Please.

“Okay,” he says, softly.

They start again.

He jabs. Edgeworth parries.

Riposte, beat parry. Edgeworth’s eyes are narrow and focused.

Pass back, appel, lunge. His breath is coming hard and fast with the effort of doing this so many times in one night.

Recover, parry, coupé, parry. Edgeworth brings his rapier up to slash at his head, Phoenix yield parries, arm above his head as Edgeworth bears down, glissade. His free hand slips, sweat-slick on the hilt of his dagger as he tries to draw it out of its scabbard. He flings back the overbearing rapier an inch, crossing his rapier and dagger above him to make an x that he catches Edgeworth’s blade in the crux of.

They pause, for a beat, rapiers locked together, both breathing fast. Corps-à-Corps. He’s trembling with effort. Edgeworth’s eyes are shadowed.

Croise, he swings their combined blades down in an arc, forcing Edgeworth’s rapier out of his hand. A knee to his groin, a hand on his shoulder, a twist of his arm and Phoenix releases his own rapier.

Step back. Circle. Grin. Phoenix throws his dagger away. In character, it’s meant to be a show of bravado. Right now it feels like a peace offering.

Edgeworth’s chest is heaving. His eyes don’t stray from Phoenix’s. They draw together.

Edgeworth jabs. Phoenix steps off line. He grabs Edgeworth’s wrist on his shirt as a leg snakes around the back of his knees, hooking his legs from under him, a cross past his jaw. He forgets the knap. They go down, Phoenix leveraging his body weight and the grip on Edgeworth’s arm to flip them over into a one-handed choke hold, pinning one of Edgeworth’s arms with the other hand, the one he hasn’t pinned coming up for an uppercut. Edgeworth doesn’t forget the knap. He doesn’t let go of Phoenix even as the uppercut drives him off balance, rolls them over so Edgeworth is on top and Phoenix is wishing this fight was more swashbuckling than scrabbling on the ground together.

What’s supposed to happen is that Coriolanus tries to gouge Aufidius’ eyes out and Aufidius tries to stop him by putting pressure on his windpipe from below. Instead, he’s so tired that his elbow bends when Edgeworth leans his chin down into his palm, can’t hold the weight, and the momentum of Edgeworth’s movement combined with his own weakness ends up carrying Edgeworth down towards him. Phoenix closes his eyes in anticipation of an impact that doesn’t come.

He can feel Edgeworth’s breath, hot on his skin from this distance, short, fast exhales. He can feel all the places they’re in contact, the brush of Edgeworth’s bangs against his forehead, the press of his weight, the sharpness of his elbows bracketing Phoenix’s chest. His arm is trapped between them, hand against the hollow of Edgeworth’s throat.

He opens his eyes. Edgeworth’s gaze is on his mouth. Phoenix stops breathing.

Edgeworth looks up, and his eyes are black and deep, the color of heavy thunderclouds; the pulse against his palm is rabbit-quick. Time seems to stretch, on and on between them, his lips part, and what he would have said he does not know, but he thinks he would never have found out because Edgeworth is closing his eyes and Edgeworth is leaning closer towards him and Edgeworth is -

There’s a noise from the wings somewhere. Edgeworth rears back, clambers off of him, stumbling to his feet. For a moment the only sound is their breathing, loud in the empty theater.

What Phoenix would like to do is groan, roll over, and remain in said position for the next decade. A bucket of cold water thrown over him would also be nice. He lets his head thump back on the ground and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars instead. “Sorry - I didn’t mean-”

“Phoenix - I cannot -”

“I’m really tired and - what?”

“Nothing,” Edgeworth snaps. Phoenix props himself up on his elbows to look at him. The tips of his ears are red.

“Hey,” he says. “Talk to me.”

Edgeworth glares at him. “It’s none of your concern, Wright,” he hisses, and storms out without waiting for a reply.

Phoenix wishes he’d just picked the dagger up off the floor and stabbed him in the heart with it instead. That probably would have hurt less.

-

Chapter Text

-

So Miles Edgeworth fought him, fell on top of him, and nearly kissed (?) him. And now he’s ignoring him. Apparently, it’s surprisingly easy to avoid someone in real life that you spend a lot of time with on stage. All you have to do is abruptly leave the room every time they get within ten feet of you, including during conversations with others and in the middle of getting stage blood cleaned off of you (“Mr. Edgeworth, come back, you still have blood on your nose!”).

Honestly, Phoenix isn’t even sure what he’d say to Edgeworth if he got him alone anyways, so it doesn’t bother him too much. He’s fine. Phoenix Wright is fine. Phoenix Wright is a functioning adult who can respect his colleague’s unsubtle request for space. Phoenix Wright does not lean his head on the subway window on the way home every night and gaze out at the tracks and platforms rushing by as Fleetwood Mac crescendos in his ears. That would be embarrassing. He only does it once.

-

“I don’t know,” he tells Maya. She’s perched on the arm of the sofa because he’s currently draped over the whole seat of it in despair. “Maybe he hates me.”

“Phoenix,” Maya says. “You are both morons. I mean, I seriously don’t know how you’re walking around.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Okay, dad.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s clearly got some sort of issue, and because he doesn’t seem to have emotional skills beyond the level of, like, a middle schooler, he’s just avoiding you instead of actually dealing with it.”

“Oh great, thanks. I really feel like I know what to do now.”

“It’s not you,” she tells him. “It’s him.”

“Maya, are you trying to cheer me up or make me feel worse?”

She looks thoughtful. “Hmm. That depends. Are you going to keep hogging the couch?”

He sits up. “Happy?”

“Thanks.” She plops down next to him. “Here are the options: One, you hold him at knife point during your fight call and force him to tell you what his deal is, two, you somehow get him drunk and then force him to tell you what his deal is, and three, you stage a fake interview and then when he gets there you force him to tell you what his deal is.”

None of those options seems especially viable at the moment, although they are pretty tempting. “Maybe I should just wait.”

She tilts her head at him. “Don’t you only have a month of shows left?”

“Urgh.” He drops his face into his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

She pats him on the back. “Sorry, Nick. I’m good at a lot of things, but this is one emotional tangle you’re just going to have to undo on your own.”

-

It’s not unusual, when doing a Shakespeare play, for lines to get stuck in his head like songs do. It’s the worst right before tech, but it usually continues through a run. He figures it’s just a consequence of hearing the same people saying the same words in generally the same way eight times a week. Sometimes he’ll be on the subway or in the shower and he’ll hear a line in his head, just like the chorus of a catchy pop song (and just as annoying - if he hears Luke saying How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? in his head one more time he might scream).

So when he wakes up one morning with the line Stand, Aufidius in his head, he’s not surprised. What’s surprising is that it won’t stop repeating itself. Constantly.

After what feels like the hundredth time he hears it, Phoenix realizes: he’s tired of moping. He’s tired of feeling sorry for himself. And he’s tired of walking on eggshells, wondering what he’s done wrong, and letting resentment slowly build up for each day Edgeworth ignores him. Stand, Aufidius. It’s time to fight.

-

He waits until after the Wednesday matinee. Edgeworth usually doesn’t leave between shows, just sits in his dressing room, probably writing in a character journal or communing with Shakespeare’s ghost for guidance or whatever it is Very Serious Actors do. Phoenix waits in the hallway until he sees Penny come by to hang up Edgeworth’s costume, and as soon as she passes him on her way back, he goes up and knocks on Edgeworth’s door.

“Yes?” Edgeworth opens the door. He sees Phoenix, frowns, and starts to close it again.

Phoenix sticks his foot in the gap to stop it from closing. Edgeworth tries anyway. “Ow! What the-”

“Leave me alone, Wright,” Edgeworth snaps.

“No,” he says, and pushes inside.

Edgeworth folds his arms over his chest. “Ngh - you - vacate these premises, or -”

“Or what,” Phoenix says. “You’ll keep ignoring me?”

Edgeworth glares at him. Phoenix stares back. He’s done backing down. “Edgeworth. Talk to me.”

“Talk to you?” Edgeworth asks, cold.

“Yes, to me,” Phoenix retorts. “Clearly, I’ve done something to upset you. I’d like to know what, exactly.”

Edgeworth glares at him. “I told you, it’s none of your concern.”

“No, I think it is,” Phoenix replies, anger building in his chest. “It is my concern, because like it or not, we’re in a show together, and I think I at least have the right to know why you’re ignoring me, if nothing else.”

Edgeworth clutches his arm, glaring at the wall. “You - how do you not understand?”

“Call me an idiot,” Phoenix says. “But it’s kind of hard to understand when someone won’t acknowledge your existence outside of the stage.”

Edgeworth turns the full force of his glare on him. “And what purpose would explaining anything to you serve?”

“I could help, Edgeworth.”

“I doubt it.”

“Try me.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth snaps. “Just - shut up, for one moment.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, after a pause. “Please. I want to help.”

“Have you not done enough already?” Edgeworth mutters. “Fine. I will answer your questions.”

“Uh - okay,” Phoenix says. “Do you want to do this here?”

“...Where else.”

“Fine.” He racks his brain for the questions he wants to ask. Best to start simple. “Why did you want to rehearse the fight scene after that performance?”

Edgeworth looks away. “You made a mistake.”

“You said it wasn’t about me.”

“That is correct.”

Phoenix frowns. “So…”

“I made a grave error as well.”

“What? I didn’t notice it.”

“You assuredly did,” Edgeworth snaps. “As did anyone with eyes and half a brain.”

Phoenix stares in disbelief. “You mean - helping me up?”

Edgeworth’s scowl deepens. “Breaking character is a mistake that cannot be tolerated. That I allowed my personal concern for your wellbeing in the moment to influence my actions is an unforgivable offense.”

“Are - are you serious?”

“Do I look like the joking type?” Edgeworth snarls. “Yes, Wright. I hold the craft of acting to a very high standard, unlike some. It is my chosen career, and I respect its rules.”

“So - what,” Phoenix says, too angry to care anymore. “You’re just going to run away forever? Ignore people as soon as you start to care about them just in case it might one day affect your acting career? That’s not dedication, Edgeworth, that’s cowardice.”

“And what do you know about dedication, Wright?” Edgeworth asks, dangerously quiet.

“I know enough to send letters to someone for years even when he never answers me back.”

A pause. Edgeworth looks away. “...This is different.”

Phoenix raises his hands in defeat. “Fine. Just - think about it, okay? And stop ignoring me, if not for me, then for Maggey’s sake. At this point she’s worried we’re going to kill each other for real every time we fight.”

Edgeworth folds his arms across his chest. “It was not my intention to cause concern.”

“Well, you did,” Phoenix responds, letting some of the hurt he’s felt over the past few weeks filter into his voice. “Believe it or not, people care about you.”

Edgeworth looks deeply uncomfortable at this statement. If Phoenix weren’t so invested in keeping Edgeworth from hating him, he’d laugh. For someone whose chosen career is ultimately about emotions, the man sure seems to dislike dealing with them.

“I feel...I must apologize,” Edgeworth finally says.

Phoenix nods. “Okay. Thanks. You might want to talk to Maggey, too.”

“I will endeavor to do so,” Edgeworth responds, and adjusts his collar. They stand in awkward silence for another moment or so.

“So…” Phoenix says.

Edgeworth clears his throat. “I am not good at small talk, Wright.”

“Okay.” He turns to leave. “Well, I’ll see you later then.”

“...Indeed.” Edgeworth hesitates. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. “No problem.” He leaves the dressing room, closing the door behind him.

-

Edgeworth stops ignoring him. They’re both painfully aware of how awkward the transition is going to be, which is maybe why they fall quickly back into their pre-Edgeworth-freakout rapport. Sort of. Phoenix can’t put his finger on it, but something is different.

For one thing, Edgeworth asks if he’d like to get coffee. Once Phoenix is done picking his jaw up off the floor, he says sure, name the place. Edgeworth, looking embarrassed, says he doesn’t really know any. And that’s how they end up sitting at a coffee shop in the West Village one afternoon before a show, arguing about Julie Taymor and Zola’s theory of naturalism and whether or not Pericles should be included in Shakespeare’s canon, the conversation continuing from the coffee shop to the subway and all the way to the hallway in the theater. He can’t stop smiling even when he’s sitting in the dressing room, putting on his stage makeup. “Ugh,” Cammy sniffs, sweeping behind him in her giant fluffy robe. “Smells like genuine happiness in here.”

-

Then, because the universe apparently just can’t let him have too much good luck, he wakes up one morning and feels like someone’s hit him over the head with a large blunt object. He’s feverish and achy, and he stays in bed until the very last minute and then some, barely making it to the theater in time to dump his stuff downstairs and go to the stage for fight call.

When he gets there, he can tell something is wrong. Just the very obvious pulsing of a muscle at Edgeworth’s jaw would be enough to clue him in without his ashen pallor and the way he’s staring at the stage like it holds the key to commuting his death sentence. “Hey,” he says.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says without looking up.

“Uh, everything okay?”

Edgeworth glares at the floor. “...I do not wish to discuss it at this time.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s had worse rejections. “Later?”

Edgeworth nods, jerkily, and Phoenix gets into position, trying to ignore the steadily-growing pain in his head.

By the time he gets back to the dressing room, he’s realized that it’s not just Edgeworth - everyone seems to be a little on edge. “Is something going on?” he asks Matt, slumping down into his chair.

“Beats me, dude,” Matt shrugs. “Ask Angel, she usually knows everything.”

Luckily for him, Angel crosses over onto the men’s side of the dressing room a few minutes later, wearing her open silk robe, nude base, and not much else. “Hello boys. Does anyone have any black eyeliner I can borrow? I’m fresh out.”

Tyrell nods, and hands some to her without even looking away from his mirror. “Angel,” Phoenix calls out. His head starts pounding at the effort. “Is there a VIP in the audience or something?”

“Oh, so you’ve noticed, have you?” She smiles that disarming smile. “There’s a certain, shall we say, notorious director here all the way from sunny Los Angeles.”

“Oh my god, is it Quentin Tarantino?” Matt exclaims. “That dude is like, my favorite.”

“It’s such a good thing you’re pretty,” Angel purrs at him. “No. Manfred von Karma has decided to grace us with his presence.”

A chill runs up Phoenix’s spine that has nothing to do with his fever. “Von Karma,” he repeats.

Angel smiles even more beatifically at him. “Hmm. Yes, you have heard of him, haven’t you? His methods certainly have a...reputation.”

He stares, a sinking feeling growing heavy in the pit of his stomach. Behind him, Jake whistles, long and low.

“Fifteen to places,” Maggey calls out from the doorway.

“Thank you fifteen,” they echo. The tense atmosphere of the past few moments breaks as everyone scrambles to finish getting ready and into costume. Angel whisks away back to her side of the dressing room, humming.

Phoenix is too sick to really wrap his head around everything right now, but he knows one thing for certain: he has to get through this show. He takes a deep breath. Mia’s voice echoes in his head, The worst of times…

-

It goes well. He thinks. He can’t be sure, later, when the memories are all blurred together with fever and smushed into one nebulous blob of two or so hours of his life, a two hours which he has repeated so many times before. He knows it goes well because he doesn’t have any regrets or negative emotions when he thinks about it. But other than that, Phoenix has no idea. If it weren’t for the fact that he knows Edgeworth would have personally murdered him before the end of the first act, he could have done a Shatner impression the whole night and been none the wiser.

He does remember bows, because he knows he maybe blacked out a little during the final cast bow. He knows this because he has a strong, clear memory of Edgeworth’s hand gripping his own, tight enough to bruise. It was pulling him up, or so he thinks.

-

He takes longer than usual getting out of costume, and by the time he’s done everyone else is gone. It’s hot in the hallway. The walk to the back exit seems so long. He just needs to sit down for a moment. If he rests for a minute he’ll be able to make it.

He sits down on the floor a few steps away from the green room. The wall feels blissfully cool on his back.

“Hey Phoenix!” Maggey says, carrying a pile of hangers. Her voice sounds very far away, even though she’s only a few feet in front of him in the hallway. “You okay? You look kinda pale.”

“Yeah, I think so,” he says. Maybe he can just sleep here, against the cold wall. It really does feel nice. “I think I’m just getting sick.”

“Okay,” Maggey says. She sounds really concerned. He wants to tell her he’s fine, don’t worry, but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth. “Um, you just stay there, okay? I’m going to go put these in Mr. Edgeworth’s dressing room and then I’ll bring you some water and cold medicine.”

“Okay,” Phoenix agrees. As long as he can keep sitting here. He closes his eyes and hears her walk quickly away. The sound of a door opening. Rustling, voices.

Footsteps near him. “Thanks, Maggey,” he says, and then opens his eyes to see Edgeworth glaring down at him.

“Wright,” he says.

He doesn’t have any makeup on, and the dark circles under his eyes are more like bruises than shadows. He looks horrible. “You look horrible.”

Edgeworth ignores this. “Maggey will be back shortly.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. “Right.”

“How long,” Edgeworth says, flat. Phoenix tries to piece together what he’s asking through the brainfog of too hot and feel bad, but he can only focus on Edgeworth’s jaw, clenched so tightly Phoenix can see the tendons of his neck bulging through the fabric of his high collar.

“What?”

“How. Long. Have you been ill.”

“Oh.” He considers this. “Since this morning I guess.”

“Why,” Edgeworth snarls, and Phoenix has seen him angry before, but not like this. He’s visibly trembling with the force of his own fury. “Did you not tell anyone.”

Phoenix tries to piece together an explanation that makes sense. Why had he not told anyone? “Uh...I guess, I didn’t want to be a distraction?”

Edgeworth has gone completely white. He stares at Phoenix in wordless horror. Phoenix blinks at him. “What?”

“Phoenix Wright,” Edgeworth breathes, after a long moment of silence. “You are an utter, unbelievable fool.”

Then he storms away without waiting for a response.

Phoenix sighs. “Yeah,” he replies to the empty space where Edgeworth had been. “You’re probably right.”

Maggey returns a moment later with (bless her) extra strength cold medication, water, and an ice pack. He eventually manages to convince her that he’s fine to go home, he’s just going to wait a few minutes for the medicine to kick in and then he’ll get an Uber back to his apartment.

When he finally drags himself off the floor and gets out the back exit, Edgeworth is there, exhaling a cloud of vapor and scowling at the ground. He doesn’t say anything, just stalks off and gets into a ostentatiously red sports car parked illegally on the street. “Get in.”

“Hey, I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Get. In.” Edgeworth grits out. Phoenix does.

They sit in silence for a moment. “Your address, Wright.”

“Oh.” He gives Edgeworth his address. “It’s kind of far-”

Edgeworth doesn’t say anything, just pulls into the street at what would be an alarmingly fast speed if the medicine wasn’t kicking in right about now. He closes his eyes, the noises of Manhattan fading into the background against the hum of the car’s engine.

By the time he opens them again, they’re on the BQE, the lights of the city reflecting in the water like a planetarium full of stars. Edgeworth is staring at the road, but he turns when Phoenix stifles a yawn. “Wright.”

“Wha?”

“How are you feeling?”

He thinks about it. He doesn’t feel great, but it’s nice to be in the air-conditioned car with Edgeworth. And the cold medicine is making him feel kind of floaty. “Better.”

“I am relieved to hear that.” Edgeworth glares at the rearview mirror. “Earlier, I did not mean...”

“”S okay,” he says. “Hope I didn’t do anything weird during the show.”

Edgeworth clears his throat. Is he blushing, or is it just the red light they’ve pulled up to? “No. Your acting was admirably consistent under the circumstances.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. “That’s good.”

Edgeworth turns to look at him. There’s something Phoenix can’t quite name in his eyes. Some sort of question. Phoenix wishes he wasn’t high on cold medicine so he could figure out what it is and answer it.

At last Edgeworth turns back to the road. “We’ll be at your apartment shortly.”

“...Great,” Phoenix says, and yawns. He’s tired.

“Mm,” Edgeworth says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Phoenix smiles back.

-

Larry’s smoking on the couch when they get in. “Dude,” he says, slowly, staring at them both. “What the fuck is in this weed?”

“Hello, Larry.” Edgeworth says. “Stop laughing, Wright.”

Larry turns horrified, glazed-over eyes to Phoenix. “You see him too, right?”

“He’s here, Larry,” Phoenix says, once he’s caught his breath. “It’s Miles Edgeworth, in the flesh.”

“Oh my god, dude, how are you?” Larry shouts. “Whoa, it’s been so long.”

“...Indeed,” Edgeworth says. He turns to Phoenix. “I must be going.”

“Aww man! C’mon, you have to stay and tell me how you’ve been.”

“Wright is ill,” Edgeworth informs Larry. “I was simply here to ensure he got in safely.”

“Thanks.” Phoenix says. “See you later, Edgeworth.”

“...Get some rest, Phoenix,” Edgeworth replies, not unkindly. He turns back to Larry. “Goodbye. I’m sure we will have the opportunity to catch up in the future.”

He leaves, ignoring Larry’s protestations. Phoenix grins at the door for what is probably a weird amount of time before he’s forcibly pushed into his room. (“Phoenix, dude, go to bed, you’re freaking me out.”)

He dreams weird, cold medicine dreams of stars, and of faceless directors sentencing him to a lifetime of soap opera roles and swing positions for an infinitely-touring non-union children’s musical, and of Edgeworth, pulling him up with an iron grip from icy darkness.

-

When he wakes up, there’s a giant bottle of Powerade on his nightstand. He drinks half of it, takes some Dayquill, falls back asleep for another hour, and feels immensely better when he wakes up again. His memories from the night before come back in bits and pieces. Sitting in the hallway. Edgeworth’s garish red sports car. Larry.

He groans. Thank god the theater is dark today. He doesn’t think he can face the scolding he’s going to get from several people for at least another twenty-four hours. He checks his phone, which has several very concerned texts from Maggey, asking if he’s alright and if he thinks he’ll be able to perform tomorrow. A text from an unsaved number catches his eye.

Please take better care of yourself in the future. I do not wish to lose a trusted acting partner and friend. - M.E.

He stares at the text, half-expecting it to disappear. It doesn’t. Not even when he blinks. Trusted acting partner.

He locks his phone. Puts it back on the nightstand. Resists the urge to scream. Picks it up again.I do not wish to lose a trusted acting partner and friend.

“Argh,” he says, staring at the screen. He is so, so, head-over-heels fucked.

-

Chapter Text

-

He takes his scoldings with what he hopes is an appropriate amount of embarrassment and humility (“Phoenix,” Rhoda says. “You’re a great guy, but as the union rep, do you know how much paperwork I would have had to do if something happened on stage? I’m not sure I could have forgiven you.”), and goes straight home to sleep for as long as humanly possible after the next couple shows.

“I can’t believe I wasn’t there,” Maya groans after Larry finishes telling her what happened. “How could I not have been there?”

“You didn’t miss much,” he reassures her. “Really. All he did was walk me inside.”

She scrunches her hands into fists. “I’m never leaving the apartment again.”

“Good luck with that”, he says. “Have fun watching Larry bring Tinder dates over.”

“Ughhhhhh,” she groans, “I just can’t win.”

“Hey,” Larry protests. “I told you, I swore off Tinder for Lent.”

“Larry, it’s June.”

“And you’re not even Catholic,” Phoenix says.

“S-so?”

“...Never mind.”

“Anyways, text me next time he comes over,” Maya says.

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Phoenix groans.

Maya grins. “You know, that’s exactly what Franziska said at the party.”

“What?!”

“Kidding, kidding,” she sighs. “More like in my dreams.”

“Your dreams involve an actress telling you there won’t be a next time?”

“Hey, my dreams are realistic. Your dreams probably involve marriage and, like, Edgeworth sweeping you off to a private island.”

“Now you just sound like Pearls,” he tells her, disturbed at how accurate her descriptions are. “My dreams are usually more about forgetting my lines or being late to my call time.”

Larry looks wistful. “My dreams are-”

“Which reminds me, I uh, have to go,” Phoenix says. “Sorry Larry.”

“Yeah, ummm, the new Steel Samurai special is on,” Maya says, and scurries off to the couch.

“C’mon, we don’t even have cable!” Larry shouts after her. He shakes his head pitifully. “Man, I was just going to say I had a dream I was running a hot dog stand, and then there was this giant inflatable Steel Samurai blow-up thing, and then there was like this lake monster, and we -”

“See you later!” Phoenix calls from the entryway, and he’s out the door before either of them have time to respond.

-

Tuesday night, after the show, he knocks on Edgeworth’s dressing room door. Edgeworth answers, after a panic-inducing moment of silence. He’s wearing a dress shirt with tiny faded-red and white stripes, apparently hastily tucked into the slim waist of his pants by the way the material is slightly wrinkled. His cuffs are unbuttoned. Phoenix’s mouth is suddenly dry.

“Did you need something?”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. He had had an excuse for coming here, but he can’t remember it now that Edgeworth is standing in front of him in what is the Edgeworth equivalent of half-undress. “Yeah. I just wanted to say…I really liked the last scene tonight.”

“Ah,” Edgeworth looks away. “Yes. I too thought it went well.”

“Right.” Phoenix says. “So, I guess I’ll see you later then. That is, unless you want to come out for a drink with some of us.”

“I do not wish to impose on an established social dynamic,” Edgeworth says, frowning at him. “I have been told my intimidating presence usually dampens festivities.” As if to prove it, he turns away with a glare. Phoenix grabs his wrist to stop him from leaving.

“Hey - okay, so, got it. Maybe - do you want to have a drink with just me?”

Edgeworth hesitates. Phoenix realizes he’s still holding his wrist and hastily drops it. “...That would be agreeable.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says, somewhat dazed. “So,”

“I will need a moment to gather my belongings.”

“Right,” Phoenix says. “I’ll be right here.”

-

They go to a nice, dark wood and leather upholstery sort of bar near the theater. Edgeworth orders an expensive glass of wine and Phoenix orders an Old Fashioned with their cheapest whiskey and tries not to lose his mind at the way Edgeworth’s long, elegant fingers curve around a glass or the way his cheeks flush a little with the alcohol.

By the time they’ve finished talking about that night’s performance (there had been a few very distinct-sounding laughs - not that there was much to laugh about in Coriolanus - mostly from what they thought sounded like a group of high-schoolers) and rehashing a conversation from earlier about Les Misérables (Phoenix thinks Edgeworth would make an excellent Javert if he sang, Edgeworth has read the book but has no interest whatsoever in the musical), they’re both on their third drink, Phoenix because he keeps sipping his just to have an excuse to look away.

“So,” he says after a comfortable lull in the conversation. “Do you have anything lined up? After the show?”

Edgeworth frowns. The amber bar lighting makes him look like a Caravaggio portrait come to life. Phoenix took too many art history classes in college. “I did, however…” he pauses. “I have been reconsidering.”

“Reconsidering what?”

Edgeworth takes a sip of his wine. “Recently, I have been re-evaluating whether my career priorities were unduly influenced.”

“Influenced?” Phoenix asks.

Edgeworth looks away. “I became an actor in part to punish myself.”

The mood Phoenix thought might have been building up until this moment deflates. He leans in, setting his drink down on the low table between them. “What do you mean?”

“...It is, perhaps, difficult to explain,” Edgeworth says. He drains most of his glass, and pauses, scowling into the remainder. “It has to do with the accident.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says.

Edgeworth studies the wall. “I cannot deny that I feel compelled, in some way, to make sure that my father did not die for some meaningless errand.”

Phoenix is silent. He remembers the hailstorm. Edgeworth, pale. A single red mitten.

Edgeworth looks at him. His eyes are steady. “It was a long time ago, Wright,” he says, quietly. “Logically, I understand I was not the sole cause.”

“You can’t,” Phoenix bursts out, against his better judgement. “Quit acting, I mean.”

Edgeworth raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“Because you’re a good actor, Edgeworth,” Phoenix says. “You - every time we’re on stage together, I never want to leave, and neither does anyone else. You can’t just throw your whole career away over some - crisis.”

“It is not a crisis,” Edgeworth says, peevishly.

“What else would you call it?”

“...Ngh. Regardless, I am confident in my skills. That is not the issue at hand.”

“Does it make you happy?”

Edgeworth looks at him as if the question had never been asked of him before. “Happy?”

“I mean, do you enjoy acting?”

“...Yes. At the very least I find it intellectually and personally stimulating."

Phoenix tries very hard not to let that last bit loop in his brain. “So why quit?”

Edgeworth takes a sip of his wine, avoiding his gaze. “It is a personal decision.”

Phoenix resists the urge to roll his eyes. If they ever cast the human embodiment of the phrase two steps forward, one step back, Edgeworth would be a shoe-in. “And this is an impersonal conversation?”

Edgeworth glares at him. “It’s okay,” Phoenix says. He finishes his drink. Time to jump off the cliff and hope he’s picked the right parachute. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

A flash of surprise. “How…?”

“Theatre is a small world.”

“Hmph.” Edgeworth closes his eyes, finger tapping thoughtfully on his glass. “I suppose it is. Ms. Mia Fey?”

“Uh-huh,” Phoenix says, hoping Edgeworth won’t call what must be an obvious (if partial) bluff. Thankfully he seems too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice.

“I must admit that his...that my upbringing has likely contributed to my thoughts on the decision.” Edgeworth says. He adjusts his cuff. “Von Karma certainly has the standards of a perfectionist and undeniably cruel methods of achieving them, though I cannot disagree with his approach.”

“I can,” Phoenix says.

Edgeworth looks up at him with the barest hint of a smile. “Of course.”

“I’m not just saying that,” Phoenix replies. He tries to choose his words carefully. “Perfection is...a barrier to the truth.”

“And I suppose you have evidence to back up your claim?”

“What are you, a lawyer?” he counters. “The truth isn’t perfect. It’s - messy. Complicated. Watching perfect on stage is boring. Watching the truth on stage is interesting.”

Edgeworth mulls this over, finishing his wine. Phoenix gets up, putting his hand out for Edgeworth’s glass. Their fingers brush as Edgeworth hands it to him. “Case closed.”

Edgeworth watches him. The alcohol flush of earlier has spread over his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Phoenix is a little too slow in looking away. He hopes he can chalk it up to the whiskey. “I will consider it. Your argument has many weak points.”

“I win for now though, right? That means you have to buy me a drink.”

Edgeworth stands, brushing non-existent wrinkles from his dress pants. “I believe I should be getting home.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. “Yeah.”

“...Perhaps next time.”

A slow smile spreads over Phoenix’s face. “Sounds good.”

“Mm. I trust you will hold me to my word.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, still grinning. He definitely plans on it.

They return their glasses to the bar and settle their tabs, walking outside to a warm summer night. The streets are full of people, stumbling home from the bars, coming home from work, walking hand in hand. A few steps away from the entrance of the bar and from the bags of trash perfuming the air, Edgeworth pauses on the curb in front of a sidewalk planter, turning around to face him.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says. “...I...this was - it was an enjoyable evening.”

“Thanks,” Phoenix says softly. He wants to say more. Instead he waits.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says again. His mouth thins into a thoughtful line, and Phoenix is struck all at once with the rush of it, the strength of feeling, the bittersweet contentment-longing that makes his chest feel like it's going to burst open, and all at once he thinks: thou hast made my heart too great for what contains it and nearly laughs.

He knows he must look how he feels - utterly, totally gone. Edgeworth’s eyes don’t leave his, inscrutable, and Phoenix takes a small step forward as if drawn in by an invisible rope, heart beating loud in his ears.

A gaggle of girls who must be at least twenty-one by their obvious tipsiness but who don’t look much older than teenagers pass, talking loudly about something. “You guys were great, by the way!” a redheaded girl calls out, and is quickly shushed by her nervously giggling friends. “Hey, can I, like, get your autograph?”

Scandalized, distinctive laughter. Phoenix quickly retracts the hand that had been halfway up to Edgeworth’s collar. Edgeworth clears his throat, stepping back. “Of course.”

“Like, yay!” The girl scrounges in her Outdoor Voices tote bag for her program. Edgeworth takes one of his fancy pens from a pocket on his satchel and signs it for her. She turns to Phoenix. “Um, like, can I get yours too I guess?”

“S-sure,” he replies. He has to borrow the pen from Edgeworth to sign it. She tucks it back in her bag without a second glance at him.

“Thank you, like, so much!” She says, and rejoins the group of her friends, saying something in a low voice that they all laugh at.

They stand there for a second, watching the group leave. Phoenix grimaces. Edgeworth seems unfazed. He adjusts his collar and turns back to Phoenix. “Well. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Right,” Phoenix says, frowning. It wasn’t just his imagination, right? That had been some sort of moment?

Well, whatever it had been, it was clearly dead now. Miss Scarlet, next to the sidewalk planter, with the drunken autograph request. He straightens his shoulders. “Tomorrow.”

-

He sees Edgeworth the next day, of course, but things keep turning up, first a self-tape request for some courtroom drama he tries not to get too excited about but still spends way too much time preparing for, then Edgeworth has an interview, and then he gets physically dragged to the bar for “Boys Night” which mostly consists of Luke, Richard, Will, Matt, Tyrell, Jake, and himself (Marvin had apparently escaped, and Edgeworth had had a very dubious 'prior commitment' early the next morning) sitting in some sort of too-loud bar/club, spending too much on overpriced beer, and Angel inexplicably turning up halfway through to drink them all under the table.

Before he knows what’s happened, it’s Monday morning, the last week of their run, and he’s hungover, and Edgeworth still owes him that drink.

-

He’s in the process of unlocking his door on his way back from the grocery store Monday evening when it swings open. “Nick,” Maya says, thrusting a magazine in his face. “Holy fuck.”

He tilts his head back so he can actually read the headline on the page she’s put in front of him. Miles Edgeworth Talks Coriolanus, Truth, and Next Steps.

There’s a picture of Edgeworth in his dressing room, arms crossed, looking at the camera. He’s frowning slightly. It looks like a sexy advertisement for something Very Serious.

“Read it, dummy!” Maya hisses. “You can ogle your boyfriend later.”

He takes the magazine. “Can I come into my apartment first?”

“Oh.” Maya steps aside to let him in. He sits down on the couch, eyes glued to the article.

Miles Edgeworth Talks Coriolanus, Truth, and Next Steps
By Lotta Hart

We sat down with actor Miles Edgeworth and a bottle of 2013 Brunello in his dressing room at the -

“Skip to the second paragraph!”

“Will you please let me read?”

- arrangements calming,” he says, gesturing at the pristine bouquet of flowers. He pours another glass of wine, and -

“Further down!”

“Maya.”

How has playing Coriolanus changed your perspective on Shakespeare?

While I have been playing Shakespeare’s protagonists for as long as I have been working in professional theatre, this production has changed the way I see truth.

How do you reckon?

A trusted colleague recently confronted me on what it means to be an actor.

I have long thought that the way towards greatness was a combination of relentless personal discipline and adherence to method. These two concepts took precedence over all else. Stanislavski, Meisner, Hagen, von Karma - the creators of the method were enshrined above everything, including the craft itself. I lost sight of the most important thing: truth.

That man showed me greatness is not always found through analysis. He comprehends the soul of the character first, and trusts that the text will follow. It is contrary to all I had been taught. I believe he has saved me from becoming the actor I was trained to be, and I am...grateful for it.

Mm. Excuse me, I believe I have said too much.

Not at all! You just keep talking, y’hear? This is great.

…

…Well, do you want to give us any clues on this mystery man’s identity?

Ngh - I do not, no.

…

...

Is he the one who convinced you to take your next role as Benjamin Preminger in the upcoming psychological drama, Revival?

...Yes. I had previously planned on taking a break from acting altogether, perhaps permanently.

That’s quite a change!

Indeed.

What are you looking forward to with this next project?

I am looking forward to getting back to Germany, and the challenge of a new role.

Filming starts two days after Coriolanus closes - that ain’t much of a break.

That is correct.

Well, good luck, and congrats on being busier than a moth in a mitten! Thanks for talking with us, Mr. Edgeworth.

...Of course. Thank you.

“Uh,” Phoenix says. “This is…”

Maya stares at him. “Nick, it’s basically a love confession. In Playbill Magazine.”

“Maya,” he says, warning. “Stop.”

Maya rolls her eyes. “Listen, Phoenix, I know you love to feel sorry for yourself and pine about how your unattainable crush will never love you, blah blah blah, but come on. This is ridiculous.”

“Maya, did you read the whole article?”

She pouts. “No.”

He shakes his head. “He’s going to Germany to film right after the show ends.”

“Oh,” Maya says. Phoenix stares down at the magazine. The words are blurry for some reason. “Hey, um, it’s okay."

He can’t bring himself to speak, so he just nods. She hugs him, leaning into his side.

All the hope, the childish, stupid fantasy that had been building up without his knowledge had come crashing down as soon as he had read those words, bitter reality imposing itself in its place. The run was coming to an end. Edgeworth was leaving.

And the worst part was that he was the one who had brought this about, who had argued so passionately for Edgeworth to continue acting, and he was happy that Edgeworth had taken his advice, he was. But now he was going away for God knows how many months, and Phoenix would still be stuck here, in an apartment in Brooklyn with two roommates and student loans and Mia not calling him back about that courtroom drama and the memories of a childhood friend he had lost, found, fallen in love with, and then lost again, lost to a life with no room for struggling no-name actor Phoenix Wright.

Maya hands him a tissue from somewhere. “Nick, I love you but you’re getting snot on my sleeve.”

“Sorry,” he sniffs, wiping his eyes. He laughs weakly. “Maybe it’s allergies.”

“Yeah,” Maya says. “Sure is pollen-y out there, in July.”

“You must be pretty tired of my problems by now, huh.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, disengaging with one final squeeze. “You buy me food, I’m your emotional rock. It’s kind of even.”

“Is that a hint?” He asks.

“Maybe.”

Phoenix tries to smile. “Fine. Let me put my groceries away and then I’ll take you out to burgers.”

She pats his arm magnanimously. “We can get delivery if you want, Nick.”

“And spend more money on the delivery fees? I don’t think so.”

Maya grins. “There he is! The old Nick is back, and he’s just as cheap as ever.”

“Ha ha,” he grumbles, and gets up off the couch to start putting the now-melted frozen items into the freezer. The cool air clears his head a little.

As he puts away the groceries, he thinks. He doesn’t want to give up, to let Edgeworth disappear like he had when they were younger. It’s just that he also knows when things are too hopeless to even dream of continuing. And right now it’s looking like whatever expectations he had unwittingly built up for himself are about as dead as the rat Tyrell had killed in the green room the other day, and twice as pathetic.

Well, fine. If Edgeworth was going to leave, he was going to leave, and Phoenix both couldn’t and didn’t want to stop him. But Phoenix was going to do his best to make sure he would stay in contact, some way or another. What else can he do? He always has been too stubborn to really give up.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a text as he folds up the grocery bags. I’m collecting on my drink. Any night between now and closing work?

He stows the bags under the sink and heads to the bathroom to splash his face with water so he doesn’t look so red and puffy. He’s just finished drying himself off when his phone dings.

Miles Edgeworth: Unfortunately I am busy with preparations for filming, and will not be able to socialize outside of work for the next week, excluding the closing night festivities. Please accept my apologies.

Phoenix slumps over the sink and stares at the text for way too long.

“You know what,” he says, re-emerging from the bathroom, opening up one of the many food delivery apps Maya had installed, and tossing his phone to her. “Just - go nuts.”

“Yayyyy, thanks!” She says, catching it. He groans and tries to focus on the devastation she’s going to deal to his wallet instead of the fact that in less than a week, Miles Edgeworth will be pretty much permanently out of his life. Unsurprisingly, this is not exactly a successful method of distraction. Thank God for trashy TV and overpriced french fries.

-

Chapter Text

-

Closing night looms over them like a storm cloud, one that keeps rudely intruding on Phoenix’s attempts to forget it. He’s in line to get coffee, or waiting for the train, or putting gel in his hair, and all of a sudden lightning strikes, he remembers what day it is, and his good mood vanishes in a flash.

The shows slip by too quickly, and every time he exits the stage he feels a pang of regret. There’s a good reason actors are so dramatic, he thinks during a particularly self-indulgent moment (pre-coffee, in his defense). It’s because one day your entire life is ripped away from you and everyone applauds.

Obviously he would be laughed out of the theater if he voiced this incredibly sappy, melodramatic sentiment aloud, so he keeps it to himself and finds more and more justifications for holding Edgeworth’s hand during bows as long as possible, until Edgeworth is forced to pull away.

-

Maya and Larry and Mia and Pearl all come on Saturday for the evening show, and he meets them backstage, accepting the giant bouquet of sunflowers Pearl excitedly hands him with an abashed grin, hugging them one-handed one by one. “Mr. Nick,” Pearl says after he’s done accepting their congratulations and listening to Maya talk about how she’d been so overcome she’d almost forgotten to cover Pearl’s eyes at the bloody parts. “You never did tell me why you had to kill your special someone at the end.”

“Uh,” he says, and for once he’s glad that Maya claps her hands and suggests they all go out to eat, even though he knows his bank account won’t be. She hugs him as they walk to the restaurant.

“You’re so lucky I’m your roommate, Nick” she says.

“I know,” he replies, and he isn’t even mad when he gets the check.

-

And then it’s Sunday, and the last fight call, not that they really need it. They’d both showed up anyway, mutual habit rather than any sort of formal agreement. Phoenix picks up his weapons with a sense of dread and gets into place.

They fight in relative silence, only broken by the scuffle of their feet, the metallic clang of their weapons, and their breathing. A kick of adrenaline hits him right in the stomach as they start the hand-to-hand portion of the fight, and then he is on top of Edgeworth and Edgeworth is on top of him and the fight is over, but Edgeworth doesn’t get up.

They breathe together on the floor. Phoenix can’t tear his eyes away from Edgeworth’s. He has that look again, that look of something Phoenix was a little scared to name because it could also be anger, or annoyance, or just Edgeworth being in character, but right now, with Edgeworth above him, it looks a whole lot like want.

“Wright,” Edgeworth says, and Phoenix shivers despite the racing drum of his heart against his ribs. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Huh?” Phoenix realizes he’s been holding the hand that comes up to gouge Aufidius’ eyes out with a vice-tight grip, and releases it immediately. Okay, maybe it was just annoyance. “Oh - sorry.”

Edgeworth does this thing that he’s pretty sure is some weird movement training way of getting up off of him, standing up in a twist and offering him his hand. He’s slightly flushed. Probably just from the exertion. “...It was not - I only meant to let you know.”

“Right,” Phoenix says, taking the proffered hand. Edgeworth pulls him up with his usual ease. They stand, probably closer together than necessary. “Good fight.”

“Mm.” Edgeworth looks down with a frown at his chest. Phoenix tries to think very boring, unsexy thoughts and doesn’t exactly succeed. Edgeworth’s hand comes up, but it stops about an inch away and he steps back, clearing his throat. “Your button.”

Phoenix looks down. His shirt is gaping open where the fourth button has come undone. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Edgeworth replies, looking away as Phoenix buttons it. Now he’s sure the flush in Edgeworth’s cheeks isn’t just from physical exertion, because it’s only deepened since the end of their fight.

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix says, and he feels oddly calm as he says it. Edgeworth looks at him. Phoenix swallows, and Edgeworth’s eyes flick to his neck and back up as if he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. He feels his cheeks growing hot. He wants to say something, something to crystallize this tension between them, but he can’t think of the words.

It’s Edgeworth who breaks the silence. “Break a leg, Wright,” he says, in a voice a little rougher than his normal clear tone, and then he spins on his heel without waiting for a response.

Phoenix’s higher thinking skills had pretty much shut off when Edgeworth had pointed out the button anyway, so he doesn’t exactly mind. It was going to be a long two hours.

-

He stabs Coriolanus in the chest one final time, keeps his eyes on Edgeworth’s face long after his eyes have closed and Coriolanus has breathed his final breath. The Judge had been overruled in his offer to make a closing night speech due to no one wanting the audience to start throwing stuff at them when he inevitably got into what his grandchildren were doing twenty minutes into whatever rambling diatribe he had planned, so when they stumble off stage after one more bow than usual it’s for the very last time.

Phoenix heads to the blood station, walking slowly. Edgeworth is leaving just as he arrives, bloody shirt tossed in the laundry basket. He stares at it uncomprehendingly. Ema smiles at him. “Happy closing!”

“Thanks,” he says, taking her offered wet wipe and scrubbing the remnants of stage blood he couldn’t get off before bows from his hands.

“I got to watch quite a bit of it from the wings,” she says, thoughtfully. “You know, I was wondering if you guys were going to kiss again during the reunion scene for closing, like you did that one time. I know you’re not supposed to change anything after previews, but I honestly thought it really worked.”

Phoenix stares. “What - what one time.”

“Hm,” Ema tilts her head. “I think it was when that famous director came?”

“I - what?!”

“Yeah, you don’t remember?”

“N-no,” Phoenix manages. “I - don’t even remember most of that show, I was sick, and -” his head is spinning. “I have to go talk to -”

“Phoenix!” She calls after him, but he’s already gone.

He forces himself to speed walk instead of outright sprint to Edgeworth’s dressing room and knocks on the door, harder than he means to. Edgeworth opens it with an expression of alarm. “Wright - what is it?”

Now that he’s actually here, it seems incredibly stupid. What’s he going to say, sorry, I kissed you and I didn’t mean to but I also really really want to now? He scratches the back of his neck and smiles in embarrassment as Edgeworth frowns, waiting. “Uh.” Fuck. “I saw the interview. I’m glad you decided to keep acting.”

Edgeworth coughs. “Ah - yes. I was under the impression it would come out after the run had concluded.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says.

Edgeworth doesn’t say anything, just glares off to the side. He’s out of costume, the top few buttons of his dress shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a slender v of pale skin. Phoenix swallows. He looks up to see Edgeworth looking at him.

There’s a pause. Something hangs in the air, delicate. Edgeworth’s eyes bore into him. Heat prickles beneath his skin.

Phoenix can’t take it anymore. “Edgeworth,” he says, before he can stop himself. “I just found out, and I - I didn’t mean to kiss you during our scene that time.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth snaps. Phoenix closes his mouth. Edgeworth is looking at the wall like it’s personally insulted his taste in neckwear. His ears are red. “...I did not mind.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. He blinks. Oh.

Edgeworth meets his gaze, scowling. His eyes flick down to Phoenix’s lips. “What,” he mutters, without looking up.

Phoenix might be dumb, but he’s not stupid, and actually, he’s been known to be really smart. He can definitely trust his instincts, and right now his instincts are screaming: KISS HIM YOU FOOL. Or maybe that’s Maya’s bad influence. He doesn’t really care. Edgeworth inhales, and then he can’t say who moved first but they’re kissing, fumbling and eager, and they’re walking back into Edgeworth’s dressing room and Edgeworth has the presence of mind to kick his door shut with a slam, and Phoenix meanwhile is concentrating all his energy on kissing Miles Edgeworth within an inch of his life, because God knows he’s waited for this for way too long.

Edgeworth kisses like he’s asking questions only Phoenix can answer, tentative with his tongue, his teeth, and Phoenix does his best to draw him out of that analytical shell through the hot rush of Miles and you, please, want currently stalling out his higher functioning. He bites Edgeworth’s bottom lip and soothes it with a flick of his tongue and Edgeworth makes a small sound into his mouth as if no one has ever played that clichéd little trick on him before and Phoenix is going to Die.

There’s a knock on the door, and the sound of Gumshoe’s voice, muffled. “Hey Mr. Edgeworth? You in there?”

“I am going to murder him,” Edgeworth says, and looks as if he means it. His pale skin is flushed a lovely shade of rose that goes all the way down his neck. Phoenix really, really wants to find out if it goes lower. “And then I am going to cut his salary.”

“Don’t,” he says. “Hey Gumshoe? Could you give us like, ten minutes? Actor stuff.”

“Sure, pal!” Gumshoe says, and he can hear the man tromping down the hallway. They stare at each other. Edgeworth’s eyes are dark. He’s seen that look before of course, on stage. It’s another thing entirely to have it focused so completely on him and not his character, and yes, now he knows that look is want, plain and simple. He brings a hand up to Edgeworth’s face, pushes Edgeworth’s bangs away from where they’ve fallen over his eyes, and Edgeworth actually shivers.

“Wright,” he says, and Phoenix wishes it didn’t turn him on so much to be called by his last name like that, in that low, clear voice. “I,”

“Yes,” Phoenix says, not sure what he’s agreeing to and not particularly caring. Edgeworth closes his eyes, jaw tightening with tension, and Phoenix doesn’t like it, doesn’t want him to look so pained, so he grabs Edgeworth’s hand and places it on his hip, close to where he’s already kind of embarrassingly hard under his clothes. Edgeworth’s eyes fly open, surprised. That look he likes. “Please.”

“You-” Edgeworth sucks in a breath. Phoenix kisses him before he can finish the rest of his sentence and pulls him closer, backing them up against the dressing-room counter. Edgeworth, thankfully, goes with him, reaches around him to push the makeup and hairspray and cards off the counter and onto the floor (and fuck that’s a turn-on, he’s never seen so much as a powder puff out of place on the other man’s station before) so Phoenix can half-sit on it, pull him closer, hook one ankle around Edgeworth’s legs. He diverts from Edgeworth’s mouth to further unbutton his shirt, kiss his neck, his shoulder, biting a red mark into the pale skin there as Edgeworth gasps.

The hand he moved to his hip earlier comes up, perhaps without intention, but it brushes his cock through layers of clothing and he groans encouragingly enough that Edgeworth pauses, apparently reconsidering his course of action. The pressure is gone too soon, and Phoenix opens his eyes to see Edgeworth looking at him, lips kiss-slick, pupils blown wide, unsure.

“Miles,” he says, trying to sound somewhat calm, as if this weren’t a scenario he had pictured oh, at least a thousand times. Edgeworth bites his lower lip. His train of thought runs off the rails. “Uhhh.”

“Phoenix,” Edgeworth says, and starts unbuttoning his pants. “Stop talking.”

“Yeah” he manages, and then they’re kissing again, fast, breathing hard because neither want to stop for any longer than they have to, and there’s a hand on his chest and on his waistband, and he’s lifting his hips enthusiastically to help Edgeworth pull his pants and boxers down, just enough, and then Edgeworth is touching him, kind of clumsily if he’s being honest but Jesus Christ it doesn’t matter, he’s in Miles Edgeworth’s dressing room and Miles Edgeworth is touching him with that same focused, studious look he has when he’s trying to get the scansion of a line right and Phoenix is going to explode. “God, Miles -”

“Ngh,” Edgeworth replies, and Phoenix kisses him until Edgeworth finds a rhythm that makes him break away, his head falling back against the mirror as he rocks his hips in small, stuttering motions up into Edgeworth’s grip, pangs of electricity blooming in his stomach. Edgeworth follows him, leaning forward to kiss messily at his jaw, his neck, breath warm against his skin, and when Phoenix threads his fingers through silver hair to draw him back up to his mouth, Edgeworth makes a broken sort of sound that has him seeing honest-to-god stars.

Edgeworth, blessedly, doesn’t falter in his movement even when Phoenix gasps, pulling at the fabric of his shirt with a strangled warning, pleasure building all too quickly, white-hot. “Miles - I’m going to-”

“Phoenix,” Edgeworth breathes, voice rough and desperate against his ear, his thumb coming up to slide under the head of Phoenix’s cock and well, that’s all it takes. He shudders, fingers clutching at Edgeworth’s back as he comes.

When his breathing starts to slow he realizes Edgeworth is trembling, tension clear in his shoulders. He kisses him, deep, and when he pulls back Edgeworth chokes back a whimper.

“You good?” He whispers, and Edgeworth nods, but his eyes are clouded over, agonized with need. Phoenix splays a hand on his chest, sliding slowly down and pausing at the waistband of his trousers. Edgeworth takes a labored breath and nods again. He kisses him, quickly, and undoes the clasp, draws down the zipper.

He wants it to be a little bit of a tease. Instead, Edgeworth hisses, collapsing against him as Phoenix brushes his fingers against the damp silk of his boxers. He has enough time to push under the waistband and feel hot, velvet skin against his palm, and then Edgeworth is making quiet desperate sounds, and Edgeworth is thrusting into his hand, and Edgeworth is choking back a noise that sounds like a sob and coming, holding tight to his shoulder as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. Phoenix holds him until he stills, stroking his hair. “Hey,” he whispers.

“I must - apologize,” Edgeworth says, drawing back a little. Phoenix kisses him before he can fully disengage, chasing his mouth. It’s curved downwards. “I did not mean - without warning.”

“Miles,” he says, mostly because he knows it will make Edgeworth look at him again. His eyes are a little wild, a little open, a whole lot unguarded, and he thinks he’s never seen him look so lovely, so human. “It’s okay.”

Edgeworth looks at him for a second more, neither accepting this comfort nor denying it, and then reaches for the bougie makeup wipes he keeps on the ledge underneath his mirror, gingerly handing him a few. Pragmatic, as always.

“Let me twine mine arms about that body,” he says, after they have both cleaned themselves as much as possible and reached some semblance of being dressed. He’s grinning, high on endorphins and the shock of feeling on his skin and the giddy sort of knowledge that holy shit, he’d just made Miles Edgeworth lose control in the best possible way and he really really wants to do it again. Edgeworth goes an agreeable shade of pink.

“Do you think quoting your own lines is charming, Wright?”

“No,” he says, and tugs Edgeworth into him, sliding off the dressing room counter to bring them flush together. “I think I see thee here, thou noble thing, and more dances my rapt heart.”

“Nghh,” Edgeworth says. “You are incorrigible.”

“You love it.”

“...I cannot contest that,” Edgeworth murmurs, and oh, okay. Okay.

Phoenix smiles even as he pulls him in for a kiss, trying to put what he knows Edgeworth wants to know but can’t ask for in the way he strokes up and down Edgeworth’s arm, in the way he pulls back without pulling away, resting their foreheads together. He can hear Edgeworth swallow.

“Hey,” he says, kissing Edgeworth again just because he can, for the sheer joy of seeing him react, seeing his eyes flutter open afterwards. “Let’s get out of here before Gumshoe comes back.”

Edgeworth frowns. “I need to - Wright, you’re still in costume.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says, looking down. Thankfully there don’t appear to be any suspicious-looking stains on his shirt. “Hm.”

Edgeworth makes a funny noise. Phoenix looks at him, wonderingly. Edgeworth laughs again, a short, shocked sound and then they’re both laughing, with the ridiculousness of it. Edgeworth laughs like it’s being ripped from him, and Phoenix kisses him again, just once, just because he can’t very well help it, can he? “I’m going - I’ll go get out of costume.”

“I’ll see you at the party,” Edgeworth murmurs, eyes bright and crinkling a little at the corners. “Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he tells him, and when he looks back, hand on the doorknob, Edgeworth is watching him. He looks away, smiling that small, abashed smile, and Phoenix can’t stop grinning like an idiot and doesn’t really want to anyway. “See you soon.”

Edgeworth nods, and then Phoenix is out the door, because if he says any more or looks back again he thinks he might really lose what remains of his sanity.

He gathers his belongings in a daze, thankful that the dressing room is mostly empty by the time he gets there, mostly just the costume crew checking off all the items on their long lists. Everyone’s already packed up, off to their apartments to get ready for the party. He’s changed in record time, and then he’s leaving, one look back at the sad empty counters and racks of costumes before he goes to the stage door, where there are people waiting to have their programs signed and to say congratulations, good job, happy closing, and he’s definitely not going to remember any of it whatsoever because none of them are Miles.

-

At the closing night party in Gant’s frankly enormous apartment they all drink too much champagne and make promises they know they can’t keep, to meet for coffee, for drinks, because this isn’t goodbye not really, even though they all know it is.

He sees Gumshoe and Maggey talking together in a corner, Cammy smoking on the fire escape with the Judge and Dee, Matt and Jake doing shots of Jake’s (definitely homemade) tequila. Desiree and her husband do a demonstration of a fight they’ve been working on and everyone goes nuts. Angel and Richard do an impassioned lip sync battle to Amy Winehouse that Luke one-ups with a Robyn dance routine. Penny reveals the reason they’d started so late one night was because Maggey had accidentally locked the keys in the weapons safe, and they’d had to get Tyrell to pick the lock. Will tells them he got the part on the children’s show he had been hoping for, and Rhoda is so drunk by that point she starts crying as she congratulates him effusively, and then Will starts crying, and everyone else finds their melodramatic happiness so funny they have to walk away and pretend their own tears are just from laughing too hard. If closing night parties are funerals, this is one hell of a wake.

He catches a glimpse of Edgeworth across the room and smiles because he just can’t help it, and Edgeworth smiles back, small, private, pleased, and in the back of the cab they kiss like starry-eyed teenagers, and Phoenix thinks he could cry from happiness and he does, but thankfully they’re both too drunk to care.

When the cab pulls over to the curb, Edgeworth draws in a shaky breath and looks at him, eyes full in the semidarkness. “I - if you would like to stay I - would not object.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says. “I would.” Phoenix would like to stay for as long as Miles Edgeworth will let him.

-

Chapter Text

-

Epilogue

He’s sweating in the heat of the New York autumn sun as he walks the two or so blocks from the station to the Upper East Side apartment. It’s muggy, unseasonably hot for October, and his shirt is clinging to the small of his back with sweat, but he doesn’t slow his pace.

Phoenix sees Miles Edgeworth for the first time in three months from across the street. He’s looking down at his phone, but his prematurely grey hair and signature resting glare are easy to spot. Also the fact that it’s Miles Edgeworth, and Phoenix would know him anywhere, couldn’t miss him even if he tried.

When he gets closer he can see Miles is wearing his usual button-up and dress-slacks combination, an undone top button the only concession to the heat. As Phoenix approaches he looks up, folding his sunglasses and placing them in his breast pocket with characteristic precision. Phoenix grins, too happy to attempt any sort of self-regulation. “Miles.”

“Phoenix,” Miles says, lips curving up in a slight smile. His eyes are warm. They look at each other for a moment, just standing on the sidewalk, and then Phoenix steps forward and catches his hand.

“Your hand is sweaty,” Miles says. He doesn’t move to pull away. Phoenix can’t stop grinning, can’t stop looking at him.

“Well,” he says. “Guess you better invite me in then, where it’s cooler.”

Miles' eyes grow dark. He pulls him up the stairs with a nod to the doorman, and Phoenix happily lets himself be led.

It had been three months since the end of Coriolanus, three months since Edgeworth had gone to Germany to film Revival and Phoenix had been cast as the lead and started filming for Turnabout, three months since they’d kissed in Edgeworth’s dressing room and later, in Edgeworth’s apartment, staying up until the predawn light began to color the sky an odious blue outside Edgeworth’s windows and Phoenix had had to let him slip away, into the shower. He had joined him, obviously.

But eventually Edgeworth had had to leave, had to put his stupid, adorable, high-collared shirt and questionably fashionable neck ruffle (“It’s a cravat, Wright, and it’s Gucci, for God’s sake”) on, had to wheel his suitcases out the door for Gumshoe to wrangle down the stairs. Phoenix had appeared in the doorway to kiss him goodbye as soon as Gumshoe had turned his back, only letting him go when they heard the honk of the car horn outside.

“Phoenix,” Edgeworth had murmured, and then cleared his throat. “I - you, mm, have my contact information, correct?”

“Yup,” Phoenix had said, trying very hard not to sound like his heart was being shattered into a million pieces at that very moment. “Text me when you land.”

Edgeworth had nodded, kissed him again, so unexpectedly tender for a man whose whole demeanor suggested unrelenting steel. “Hearts remote, yet not asunder,” he had whispered, almost too quietly to hear, and then he had flushed beetroot red and turned around, stomping down the stairs with a scowl. Phoenix had stood, open-mouthed in the doorway for at least a full minute before he recovered his senses enough to close the door.

That had been the last time they had seen each other. They had both been busy with filming, and Miles was not exactly a loquacious texter, his messages concise and frustratingly formal. Phoenix spammed him with emojis just because he knew Miles found it annoying and would sometimes actually call him to tell him so, and Phoenix was a hopeless romantic who missed the sound of his maybe-boyfriend’s voice. It had been a long three months.

Now they kiss and kiss and kiss in Edgeworth’s pristine, irritatingly-neat bed, Phoenix taking pleasure in how they mess up the sharply folded corners, how he can make Miles remove his shirt and not hang it up immediately after, because he’s too focused on what Phoenix is doing with his mouth, how the tightly tucked topsheet comes undone when he’s clutching at it, saying “Please, fuck, yes, more, Miles, Miles Miles Miles,” how they splay together afterwards, duvet pushed to the floor, sweat cooling on their skin, and the late sunlight paints stripes of gold against Miles’ chest, lights his eyes with silver.

“How was your flight?” Phoenix asks, some time later.

“Long,” Miles says. He looks at Phoenix and then away, as if he won’t let himself look for too long. “...I tried to get an earlier one.”

“Miss me?” Phoenix teases. Miles opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and clears his throat. Not like he’d only finished showing Phoenix exactly how much he’d missed him less than half an hour ago. Not like Phoenix didn’t already know.

“...Yes,” Miles says, frowning. Phoenix tilts his head so that they’re face to face, close together. He breathes, slowly, closes his eyes and hears Miles swallow before he admits, “Very much.”

“Me too,” Phoenix says, too far gone to be anything but honest. Miles kisses him, a little hesitant, always the dissatisfied perfectionist, still trying to figure out what Phoenix likes best. Phoenix smiles against his mouth. It doesn’t matter. They have time to learn.

-