Chapter Six
When Phoenix walked in to the restaurant, he had to stop himself from wincing impulsively. The entire place seemed wrapped in lacquered wood, expensive-looking rows of booze Phoenix had never heard of all along the back wall of the bar to the left, where a bartender standing polishing glasses. Even the air smelled different–Phoenix briefly wondered if it was pumped into the building using fans made out of one hundred-dollar bills.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thought, feeling distinctly ratty in his old suit.
That afternoon–when he had gotten to the office after a relatively sleepless night of staring at the ceiling, all of last night’s courage having evaporated hours before–he’d half expected several angry calls from Edgeworth on his cellphone voice mail. Or a single frantic one from Gumshoe on the office line, informing him that the prosecutor had packed up and moved back to Europe late last night.
Instead the day had been relatively quiet, almost painfully so, until Edgeworth called him around noon and asked him if he was free this evening instead of Thursday. Apparently Edgeworth had managed to get reservations to Il Cocina–and from the way Edgeworth said it, that sounded like a feat in and of itself–because of a last minute cancellation.
Between a tongue that was suddenly several degrees too dry and too many words vying for position in his throat, Phoenix managed a simple, “That sounds fine.”
Right now, pizza in his underwear was sounding even better as he scanned the crowd of tables, looking for a particular familiar face. After several seconds of peering, his eyes locked on that familiar shade of pink. Edgeworth was in a booth near the back, mostly obscured by a leafy potted plant. He looked up from his menu as Phoenix sat down.
“You made it.”
“Yeah,” Phoenix said. He shifted in his seat and reached for a menu. “So, what’s good here?”
“I’ve always been partial to their linguini alla vongole,” Edgeworth said. “But all of their pasta is excellent.”
And no doubt expensive, Phoenix added mentally. Looking at the menu, he noticed there were no prices listed next to the entrees. I guess I could always sell a kidney. I have two of those, right?
He eventually decided on the fettuccine al burro, and relinquished the menu to the waiter when he stopped by to take their food and drink order. When his water arrived after several agonizing minutes of silence, Phoenix fell upon it like he hadn’t drank in days.
As he watched Edgeworth take a sip of his wine and look across the restaurant in a pointed sort of politeness, like staring at Phoenix in this state would be as rude as gawking at someone with a disability, Phoenix couldn’t help but think, it shouldn’t be this different.
But it was. It was as though he had somehow become hyper-attuned to Edgeworth’s every movement, the way his broad fingers cupped his wine glass easily, the way his throat worked every time he took a sip of wine. What have I gotten myself into? Phoenix thought. The last time I can remember being like this was the first time I…
Their meals arrived. Thankful for the distraction, he nearly shoveled the pasta into his mouth, barely stopping to taste before he gulped it down.
“It’s good,” he said. Maybe “phone bill” good, but I’m not sure it’s quite “electricity bill” good…
Edgeworth nodded as he took a bite of his own dish. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. They’ve improved.”
“Really…” Phoenix said. He felt the knot in his gut suddenly tighten, like someone had grabbed both ends and pulled with all their might. “So, Edgeworth, about–” The words he was about to say suddenly twisted in his mouth to become something else entirely. “–this place. How did you find out about it?”
“Someone once suggested it to me, and its proximity to the office made it ideal.” Something like a shadow flashed across Edgeworth’s face. “I used to…have dinner meetings here.”
Guess I probably shouldn’t ask what type of meetings they were, or why he decided to bring me here.
They managed to lurch from one conversation topic to the next between bites of food. Phoenix shared what little news he had from Maya. Edgeworth talked about another prosecutor that had been caught taking bribes.
It’s almost like a ballet, he found himself thinking inanely when the topic shifted to the décor of the restaurant. Both of them dancing around what they really wanted–needed–to discuss.
When the check came–singular, not plural; Phoenix didn’t quite know how to read that–Phoenix barely glanced at it before fishing his credit card from his wallet and sliding it between the leather folder. Edgeworth looked like he was going to protest, but a look at Phoenix’s face forestalled anything he planned on saying. As long as it was less than a hundred dollars, Phoenix thought he could manage.
It felt like he was trying to digest strings of lead instead of fettuccini as they left the building and walked down the sidewalk towards the parking lot.
“I’ll drive you home,” Edgeworth said. It wasn’t quite a question, and not nearly a command.
It gave Phoenix pause. He tried to process the switch between the Edgeworth he’d grown familiar with–turning away from Phoenix and continuing alone to where his car was parked down the street–and the one who was staring at him right now. Edgeworth’s body angled slightly towards the red sports car in mute invitation, feet making crunching noises as he shifted against the gravel in the parking lot.
“All right,” Phoenix said, following Edgeworth to the car. He got inside and Edgeworth turned the key in the ignition, shifting gears in concise, almost abrupt motions, until they were back on the street again.
“So, about… all this.” There was a sort of ironic humor that it would slip out when Phoenix least expected, considering he’d been trying to keep the words at bay all night. Beside him, Edgeworth’s grip on the wheel tightened.
The prosecutor swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was level. “I understand if you–”
“No, that isn’t what I meant,” Phoenix said quickly, hoping to forestall a conversational path he didn’t want to take. And I didn’t go out to dinner to laugh at you either. “This is new to me, so I…” He ran his fingers through his hair when the words wouldn’t come.
“I know.”
“I don’t really understand what’s going on,” Phoenix said, feeling more and more stupid as the seconds ticked by. “Or what I want…”
A familiar silence settled, thrumming with a strange undercurrent.
“What happened last night doesn’t mean…” Edgeworth began, then abruptly switched to another thought. “If you need more time to think about things…” He never took his eyes from the road.
Phoenix was silent, but something seemed to loosen in his chest, like he could finally breathe for the first time in days. But looking over at Edgeworth, the headlights from the cars moving past shone over the prosecutor, washing out his pale complexion even further. It was irrational, but for a moment it felt like this was all a dream, that Edgeworth was going to melt away to the blearing beeps of Phoenix’s cellphone alarm under his pillow.
Phoenix turned away and leaned against the hand rest next to the passenger window, watching as a couple cars passed them and sped off into the night.
“Whatever happens, last night wasn’t a mistake,” Phoenix said. The quiet words filled the car. “I did it because I wanted to.”
Edgeworth didn’t respond.
The rest of the trip passed in silence, seeming both too long and too short, until they finally pulled up in front of Phoenix’s apartment complex. Phoenix walked around to the front of the car and realized, dimly that he wasn’t sure what the protocol for this situation was–that he wasn’t even sure how to define the evening in his own head.
Edgeworth made things easier by rolling down the window, but not making a move to get out of the car.
Phoenix leaned down and, after a short pause, found himself saying, “You’re free on Saturday, right?”
“Why?” Edgeworth responded instantly, blinking. “Did you have something in…no, you never do.” He ended in a half-chuckle, and Phoenix realized it was the first time he’d seen the prosecutor smile all night.
“I’ve got a couple of days. I’m sure I can think of something by then.”
“If you manage to think of something besides an impromptu walk in the park, then, yes, I’m available,” Edgeworth said.
Something seemed to bubble and fizz underneath the surface of Phoenix’s skin, like champagne, as he focused on Edgeworth’s face. I’m still not sure what I’m doing, or where this is going to lead…but I don’t think I need any more time.
“Then, it’s a date.”
Phoenix pulled the phone free of its charger. The battery was only partially refilled, but his own supply of nervous energy seemed endless. While years of opening up a law office still had yet to beat out a regular schedule in the framework of his morning, this particular ritual was becoming ingrained habit only with a few days of practice. It was difficult to feel cowed at his own lack of responsibility, though, when his heart performed the funny spin it always did when the clock flipped its minute hand to a quarter past twelve.
As he punched in the numbers, he was pretty sure he'd used this thing more often in the past two weeks than he had in the past two months.
For most of his life, Phoenix had carried mixed feelings about the weight of the cell phone in his pocket. The best he could usually "hope" for was a voice mail from an inebriated Larry or the occasional check-in from Maya. But now it didn't seem a day didn't pass without his fingers drumming impatiently against the outline of rectangular shape of the device, checking the time on the half hour and eventually leaning back against the wall with the receiver against his ear and a smile touching his lips as he heard that one particular voice, irritable more often than not, filter over the line.
A quarter past twelve was one of the few periods through the framework of Edgeworth's workday when it was less likely that he'd be greeted with a terse “I'm busy, Wright, I'll talk to you later” and the subsequent companionship of a click and a dial tone. Phoenix supposed this was around the time that he was on his lunch break. 'Lunch break' probably meaning something more along the lines of 'a span of about a half hour where Edgeworth was working on two papers at a time as opposed to six'.
"It's a Greek restaurant this time. I've never been there myself," Edgeworth explained, once they were past the standard 'hello' and 'how are you'. His voice was accompanied by the familiar sound of a pen tapping sharply against paper. "But I've heard good things from a coworker."
You actually talk to your coworkers about things not related to work? Phoenix mused. Didn't see that coming...
"Trust me, Wright,” Edgeworth said, “I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about being on the receiving end of the recommendation."
"Receiving end?" Phoenix repeated. "So you were invited out?"
"Once in a while, it does happen." Edgeworth said, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, and Phoenix realized that his own nails were digging tightly into the side of the phone.
I don't doubt it, Phoenix thought, but...
"Greek sounds fine," he said, not wanting to dwell on this.
“All right,” Edgeworth said. “I don't have trial that day, so we'll have to meet...”
Phoenix didn't hear the end of Edgeworth's suggestion; a shrill series of beeps abruptly cut over his voice. For a split second, he considered ignoring them, but sighed in resignation as they only seemed to sharpen in insistence.
"Hang on a second, Edgeworth, I'm getting another call."
"Oh." Edgeworth sounded slightly disoriented at the intrusion. "Of course."
Phoenix pulled the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “It's Maya. I'll get back to you later, all right?”
“All right." There was the bubble of a pause that meant Edgeworth was half-considering adding something more, but as he did nine times out of ten, ultimately decided against it. As his call ended, Maya's automatically took its place.
“Hey Nick!" she greeted at once. It was somewhat jarring hearing her cheerfulness replace the low voice of the High Prosecutor in such rapid succession. "I didn't wake you up or anything, did I?”
Come on, Phoenix protested, it's past noon! I'm not that much of a deadbeat...
“Oh, quite sulking, Nick; I was just kidding,” Maya said. “I was just seeing how you were doing; it's been nearly a week since I've heard from you!”
“Nearly a week?” It doesn't really feel like it...
“Yup. Holding up the fort okay?”
“It's still standing, at least,” Phoenix reported. “How have things been for you?”
“Mmm.. pretty busy, as usual, but okay," she said, in half sing-song. "Dealing with this and that, you know...” I really don't. “Though I've been having to get my hands pretty dirty."
A series of bizarre mental images flashed before Phoenix's eyes, all of them fairly unsettling. "Uh, excuse me?"
"You've seen the gardens up here in Kurain, right?” Maya said. “Because we're so out of the way, we just grow a lot of our own food. And there's some old tradition about using, uh, what was it... purified, natural diets to hone the soul, but I don't really remember the specifics. No one really follows that tenet anymore, but it is about time to start pulling out some of the early stuff, so..."
"Oh.” To be honest, Phoenix couldn't remember seeing any gardens around Kurain, but it was probably in his best interests to keep that to himself. “Yeah, right.”
"Make sure you're actually awake when you're up and about, would you, Nick?" Maya teased. "Anyway, that's been the bulk of it recently. Winter's coming, so we've got to be careful.”
You mean the acolytes have to be careful. Anytime you got hungry you'd just come rushing down here asking me to treat you to a burger...
“And with you?” Maya asked. “Anything exciting going on?”
“Well...” he opened his mouth, a shapeless, unknown word readied against his tongue, then closed it again, brow furrowing. He had no idea what his instinctual reply would had been.
No, he probably had a good feeling what it would have been. He switched the phone to the opposite ear, feeling something twist uncomfortably inside him. In spite of everything, he still wasn't quite sure how to define whatever it was that sent him going to dinner with Miles Edgeworth and pacing around the room waiting for a chance to call. Even more unfathomable was the prospect of having to explain it to Maya.
“Huh? Don't tell me you actually took a case?”
“No,” Phoenix said. “Not really...”
“Tch. Why do I bother asking anymore?” Maya clucked her tongue. “Well, as long as you're doing okay. Keep me updated, will you?”
“Yeah,” Phoenix said. His stomach twisted a little farther; once again the phone switched ears, outside of Maya's perception. “Of course.”
“Oh, Pearls is back from Hazakura, by the way!” Maya added. “There she is–why don't you say hi to her, too?”
“Oh–uh, sure.”
If he expected the knotted lump in his gut to ease a bit when he heard Pearl's voice, he was sorely disappointed; it only clenched heavier against him.
It wasn't a lie or anything, he told himself. He didn't have any reason to feel guilty. But he didn't really have any reason not to tell her what changes had been going on in his life since she had left, either. The former notion was just a more comfortable one to focus on than the latter.
Still, as he said hello to Pearl, the lingering unease continued to prick sharply at the back of his neck, and no amount of rationale could erase it completely.
In hindsight, Phoenix was fairly sure that the only way he'd managed to survive the first few dinners was forcefully blinding himself to how uncomfortable the situation had really been. It was easier to sprint through a mine field ignorant of the actual danger. Now that things were like this, though–where the long stretches of uncertain silence were no longer acceptable–the process of trial and error that was learning to converse with Edgeworth seemed to be outlined with sharper, deeper boundaries–almost regulations to tally and keep track of.
There were certain lines that weren't to be crossed when speaking with him–not yet. Phoenix had known that as a generality for a long time, but he began to trace where they were etched in more precise terms–discussing their childhood was always dangerous, but talk of this funny incident or that particular idiocy on Larry's part was a pass more often than not. Gregory Edgeworth's name was never to be invoked when it could be helped. Phoenix also had little, if any, room to broach the subject of Manfred von Karma without express prompting.
He also had to come to grips with taking more stairs than he ever thought he would have to in his life. Some of the city's fancier restaurants employed a skyline view as part of the attraction. Phoenix had moved automatically to the elevator; Edgeworth had moved to the stairwell–he hadn't looked back while Phoenix had, and by the time, panting and nearly doubled over, he had managed to catch up, there was a wall closed behind Edgeworth's eyes and a clench to his jaw that told him that this habit wasn't up for discussion, either.
It was frustrating–but it wasn't really all navigating through explosives, trying to determine which wires were safe to cut, either. There were the other things, smaller things, captions scribbled into the edges of his archive of mental recollections. Not off limits, but there. It was like having a blindfold taken off. He wasn't sure how they'd failed to escape his notice before.
When the day's work at the Prosecutor's Office had been stressful, Edgeworth's tone was a little too level to ring naturally; his eyes focused a little too hard on his utensils as he ate. Those were the days when Phoenix learned that the bulk of the conversation would have to come from him. When he ran out of interesting college stories to relate, he took to reading the newspaper more carefully, skimming for anything that looked remotely like something Edgeworth would be willing to talk about. It wasn't a perfect system, but it more or less worked–though he still wasn't sure how he and Edgeworth had at one time managed to maintain a nearly six-minute conversation about football. He considered it a landmark.
Edgeworth was also surprisingly straightforward taste in food. It was probably the ruffles that brought to mind the idea of his taste for escargot and its ilk--”I have eaten it,” Edgeworth said, when Phoenix brought it up over a plate of steak and potatoes, “For your reference, it is actually quite good”--but he seemed willing enough to eat most anything as long as the presentation met his standards. Experimental rather than elitist was probably a good way to frame it, Phoenix figured. Though on further consideration, he couldn't help but wonder if the prosecutor might be toning down his real preferences for the sake of Phoenix's wallet. He hoped not.
When Phoenix went out to eat, he was usually content just to focus on his food. He'd raised an eyebrow, as they were leaving an Italian place he'd been more than satisfied with, when Edgeworth neglected to leave his usual excessive tip.
“Didn't like it?” Phoenix asked, as they were walking back. “I thought mine was pretty good. Maybe you just chose a bad dish.”
“It wasn't the food,” Edgeworth said, running a distracted hand through his hair. “The service was rude--” I didn't notice anything strange, Phoenix thought, somewhat bewildered, but continued to watch Edgeworth tick off everything imperceptibly wrong with their dining experience with something approaching affection, “the lighting was distracting, and the music was grating...”
Phoenix hadn't really noticed any of that, either. He considered himself musically illiterate; he couldn't really tell the difference between this week's rock band and last month's pop sensation. He supposed he assumed Edgeworth was mostly the same, too consumed in his own professionalism to spend much time dwelling on the arts–Phoenix himself hadn't exactly devoted an excess of thought to them even when they were his major in college.
So the week after that, it had caused a few blinks when Edgeworth had drifted quickly over to the records section when they stopped by an antique store. (Edgeworth had slowed as they passed by the sign; Phoenix turned on his heel and pushed the door open before he could catch himself and resume their regular pace.)
It had surprised him more when Edgeworth's fingers flicked quickly over the classicals and moved onto the selection of jazz.
“I already own most of that,” he said, glancing up and seeing Phoenix's expression.
He realized as they were leaving that it was sort of funny that it struck him as more odd that Edgeworth had a taste for jazz than that he still owned and purchased records in this day and age. But then, given his taste in fashion, it wouldn't have surprised him to step into his apartment and find himself transposed into a century or so in the past, either.
He did notice one day–he was pretty sure when they returned to Exposé for another walk, this time treading the beach and crunching sand beneath their feet–that Edgeworth was actually wearing a different suit. He was almost certain he wouldn't have noticed it before; the discrepancies were subtle. While the main bulk of the design itself was identical, and the color was still a shade of vivid magenta, it was just a shade darker, the sleeves angled slightly differently at the cuff.
“You're wearing something different today,” he observed.
“So are you,” was Edgeworth's sardonic reply.
The suit I wear to court is pretty much the same each time, actually... But he supposed it was different when you were juggling different cases day in and day out. Still, it was though a switch had flipped; Phoenix began keeping track of the different suits he was able to identify. He counted off at least a dozen–differences lying in different-shaped buttons, narrowly folded lapels–before he began to see them cycle over again. He wondered if he'd ever get to see Edgeworth in something normal. A sweatshirt or a pair of jeans. It was a nicer thought than it really had any right to be.
They weren't able to meet every day, but with enough pressing Phoenix found he could usually pry three or four holes in Edgeworth's schedule per week. It wasn't long before he found himself becoming a little tired of only seeing his face over a dinner table, even when they tried out different restaurants.
So the next time they wound up at a museum–most of its material about colonial times–and even though Phoenix felt about as much interest as Edgeworth displayed at the old cookwear and muskets, it was nice. And the surreal, vaguely nightmarish sight of Edgeworth's head surrounded by carnivorous fish afterwards when they stopped by the aquarium was definitely different.
There was a time when, at a general loss, they had actually just gone to the local library, an abode Phoenix couldn't remember stepping foot into for years. After amassing an impressive collection of tomes covering, of all things, dog breeding, Edgeworth had performed a singularly magnificent eye roll when the librarian, stereotypically stern, bespectacled, and elderly, informed Phoenix that his account had expired quite a long time ago.
The brief humiliation was thoroughly worth it to see the look on the prosecutor's face when he deftly took Phoenix's place at the front of the line, and was promptly given the same notice.
"I've only been back for a few months," Edgeworth muttered, growing only more agitated when Phoenix could not for the life of him wholly wipe the smirk from his face. "And I've been occupied."
“Right,” Phoenix answered. Edgeworth only looked more sour as he signed the registration form. Phoenix moved to take the pen from him.
“Never mind,” Edgeworth said shortly. “It's not like you'll be coming back, is it?” He slid Phoenix's selection of books against his own. The librarian set to work checking both sets out under a single name without so much of a questioning look. Once again, it was only after they had already left, and Phoenix was reveling in the blessings of Edgeworth's car heater, that it occurred to him that he'd somehow become accustomed to keeping an eye for it whenever he and Edgeworth went out together. That look.
The awareness of it was oddly detached. It wasn't as though they knew Edgeworth.
Though their meetings became more frequent, and as Phoenix's archive of facts to remember about Miles Edgeworth grew heavier and heavier in volume, learning to greet each other was never much of a problem. Phoenix was still trying to adjust to that odd flutter in his chest whenever he saw Edgeworth approach, one hand raised when their eyes met. A part of him didn't really want to have to get used to it.
Learning to say goodbye was harder.
When he over-thought it the second time, it had been strange to accommodate for the taller man's height; miscalculating this and insufficient warning had led to heads knocking together briefly and lips pursed mainly over cold air. Edgeworth's eyes had bugged strangely before he started chuckling, low and strained; Phoenix joined him shortly after, but didn't let it last long before gripping his forearms and making a better job of it on the retry.
Edgeworth had been hesitant, his arms began to raise from his sides, palms turning halfway inwards, before falling again in a rather helpless motion.
On the fourth or fifth night, he had finally leaned in as Phoenix did, and Phoenix felt his right hand lift, as though of its own accord, to cup the underside of the other man's cheek. They stayed like that for a long moment.
It was nice, he thought. Even as the autumn chill settled more deeply into the evenings, necessitating gloves and scarves and warm drinks as they walked through town, the sun fading into the horizon a little earlier as August slid into September–for the few seconds after he pulled from Edgeworth to make his way back down the stairs and across the street to the nearest bus stop, he could never shake that lingering warmth from his fingertips and the nerves of his lips.
It really shouldn't have left him so flabbergasted.
He and Edgeworth had spent the evening grimacing at each other over similar plates of undercooked Indian food. Phoenix recalled he had entered the restaurant considerably hungry, but his stomach was making painful jabs of protest against his ribs as he even contemplated attempting to further shovel the overspiced mess down his throat. Edgeworth managed somewhat better than he did–probably owing to a broader pallet of experience–but still led a conspicuously small tip behind them as he led the way out. As the fresh air rushed against their faces, and they turned to start walking back in the direction he had parked his car, he'd suddenly stopped to tell Phoenix he was leaving next time's choice up to him.
“Uh,” Phoenix answered, “what?”
“I don't have the time or the patience to booking restaurants week in and week out, Wright,” Edgeworth said, adjusting the cuff of his left sleeve, lips drawn into the beginnings of a pensive frown. “I'm leaving it to you next time.”
Everyone picks a bad restaurant now and then, you didn't have to take it that hard...
“Er,” Phoenix responded, smartly, “All right.”
After they had said goodbye, and he was back in his own apartment, Phoenix silently cycled through all of the nationalities they'd dined at until now–German, Italian, Greek, French, Indian, Japanese and Russian–what was left? For a ridiculous moment, his mind offered him nothing but white noise in answer–American?
Unfortunately, spending more time with Edgeworth didn't make the idea of the prosecutor accepting a burger and an order of fries any more plausible to Phoenix. He was briefly tempted just to return to their old German standby, but in his mind's eye he thought he could see an imaginary Edgeworth's expression twist in the faintest hint of disappointment in response.
Eventually he settled on fondue. That seemed safe enough, as he couldn't think of anyone he knew who disliked it off the top of his head. The sheer number of internet searches and ad pages he'd flipped through to come to that conclusion was slightly embarrassing, but Edgeworth didn't have to know about that part.
It turned out that there were four establishments that served fondue in the local area. He selected the one with the name he thought was most pronounceable and reached for his phone.
Edgeworth agreed deftly to the suggestion; the actual ease of it after all of that anxiety and frustration made Phoenix grin a little sheepishly to himself, beyond Edgeworth's sight.
And after hanging up, giddiness he couldn't remember feeling since his college days rushed in a wave of goosebumps down his arm as he looked up directions, and then browsed through the menu selection posted online.
Good, they have that Vin-Soulier wine... he likes that, doesn't he?
The pictures the website had of the interior–rich velvet lined with silver, and subdued lighting–were promising, too, if he trusted his familiarity with Edgeworth enough to venture a guess as to his preferences there. He remembered the prosecutor hadn't seemed to take well to the grey, stony layout of one of the places they'd gone earlier–if he remembered right, that Greek place...
Maybe I can convince him to stick around long enough to check out the local theater, too... we still haven't done that...
When the hour hand of his watch hit six on the arranged evening, Phoenix made a quick check around the office premises before moving to leave. The television and the lights were off. Everything more or less in its prescribed location. After a final, ceremonial glance in the mirror and a quick adjustment of his tie, he reached for the doorknob–when the Steel Samurai theme began wailing at him from his pocket. He felt something tug at the corners of his mouth when he saw who it was.
“Edgeworth?”
“Wright,” came the reply, sounding agitated–the knotted stress in his voice fell like a dismaying weight upon Phoenix's ears. “I can't make it in tonight.”
“Huh?” he said, rather stupidly. “Why?”
“Something's come up on the case I'm working on. The details aren't important.” There was bustling in the background; if Phoenix strained his ear he could make out voices hollering about updating reports and re-examination of some crime scene. “But I'm going to have to be here all night, by the looks of it.”
Phoenix's hand fell from the door.
Oh, he was supposed to say here, all right then, goodnight. Maybe some other time.
He didn't voice it. There was something else curdling against his insides, bitter and acidic in the shadow of the stock lines–lines that had been easy to utter barely six weeks ago.
“You've always managed to make it before,” he protested.
“What?” Edgeworth said; his voice rang harsh and somewhat surprised. Phoenix didn't repeat himself; he knew Edgeworth had heard him.
“I have cancelled before,” the prosecutor said, after a terse moment. The earlier agitation grew a degree more audible. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Ahead of time,” Phoenix argued back. “The reservation is half an hour from now, I was just on my way out the door--”
Edgeworth's voice became stony, slanted oddly downwards. “I don't see how this is different.”
“It just is.” Before Edgeworth could point out what an irrational and stupid statement that was, he added: “Isn't there something you can do? You can't even swing thirty minutes...?”
“Wright, you--”
“Twenty?” He didn't need Edgeworth to call him on being pathetic by now; Phoenix was painfully aware of it all on his own, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. “What's going on, anyway?”
“I'll tell you what I can,” Edgeworth said, “later. ” It was attempted reassurance as much as dismissal.
“Right,” Phoenix agreed. “Unless you're too busy with work.”
There was a sharp sound on the other end, like something had snapped.
"Look, there's nothing I can do about it," Edgeworth said. His voice had a bite of impatience to it, an underlying grow up. “I can't compromise my cases and the people involved just so that I can have a meal with you, or anyone else.”
For a minute, neither of them said anything.
“All right,” Phoenix said, finally. “I guess I'll cancel.”
“Please do.”
Another stilted pause. If he hadn't been able to manage a graceful goodbye, take care from the beginning, he could still make do with it now and cut his losses, leaving both of them with dignity relatively intact. Things came up, after all. It couldn't be helped.
"I was just looking forward to seeing you," Phoenix said. "That's all."
It was the most unfair thing he could have said.
"I..." Edgeworth began, then hesitated; he finished the thought with a heavy sigh that cut as deeply as any retort might have. "I have to get back to this, Wright." Phoenix opened his mouth to reply, not quite done with being petty, but realized he was only speaking into the sound of an empty dial tone.
He didn't know if he'd expected it to ease his disappointment or not, but it did nothing of the sort. As the lights flipped back on, in much slower succession than they had been turned off, and Phoenix sank back against the couch, fingers of one hand cradling his temple against a building migraine, part of him wondered what, exactly, had been happening to him over the past month.
Tinny laugher echoed from the office television across the room. Though the lights were on inside, dusk had given way to night at least half an hour ago. That, coupled with the darkened receptionist area, gave Phoenix the feeling of being adrift and alone, like he was the last living person in the entire building complex.
His phone rang, Steel Samurai ringtone taking on an almost humorous–if startling–quality in the low light and relative silence. He answered it without even glancing at the screen, there were only two people that would call him this late, and one of them was probably out on a date with his latest girl.
“Edgeworth?” he asked, turning the television off with a wave of the remote.
“Wright,” Edgeworth said in greeting.
“What’s going on? Do you have to cancel again?” Phoenix asked, keeping his voice neutral and light. Directly after that debacle last time he’d tried to pick a place to eat, there had been several days of no contact between the two of them–he assumed Edgeworth had been too unsure of where they stood, and Phoenix too stubborn to outright apologize until he had to. It wasn’t something he wanted to go through again so soon.
“We’re still on for tomorrow,” Edgeworth said distractedly, as though Phoenix had derailed what he’d been planning on saying. “Though I was considering pushing our reservations back a half hour, if you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine,” Phoenix said, puzzled. When Edgeworth didn’t affirm and hang up, his bewilderment grew. “If there something–”
“How was your day?” Edgeworth said abruptly.
“Me? Good, I guess. Made some follow-up visits on my most recent clients, went down to the detention center to talk to some prospectives…”
“I see,” Edgeworth said. There was a long silence on the other end, and Phoenix was just about to ask again if Edgeworth was feeling all right when it hit him.
He blinked from the force of it, smile slowly stretching across his face as he leaned forward, chin in hand. “Yeah, just the same old same old. How was your day?”
He thought he heard an audible sigh of relief on the other end–he really isn’t good at this sort of thing, huh–before the other man replied, “It was decent enough, all things considered. My case went well, Detective Gumshoe’s dithering on the stand aside...”
I’d think he’d be used to that by now, Phoenix thought. “What happened?”
“He got the testimony he was supposed to give for my case confused with the one he had just given for another prosecutor. When I asked for an explanation, he apologized and said he’d been distracted over thinking about what he was going to do for dinner,” Edgeworth said, voice spread thin with irritation even hours afterwards. Then, relatively normal: “I’m not sure he’s been eating properly.”
A mental image of a particularly clumsy, young ex-police-officer-turned-waitress surfaced. I think it’s less what he’s planning on eating, and more about who he’s planning on eating it with. But Phoenix had a sneaking suspicion that Edgeworth wouldn’t be especially keen on discussing the particulars of his subordinate’s love life.
Phoenix heard the sound of Edgeworth shifting in his leather chair. He wondered if Edgeworth was still staring at his desk with its stacks of paperwork, or if he had turned around to take advantage of what had to be a gorgeous view of the nighttime city skyline. “Still at work?”
“Yes.” Judging by the unusually soft tone of Edgeworth’s voice, Phoenix was surprised to find himself assuming it was the latter instead of the former.
“Me too,” Phoenix said.
“Really? Since it’s this late, I would have expected…”
“I’ve been running around all day, so there were some things I had to finish up here,” Phoenix replied, letting Edgeworth’s disbelief go without comment. He’d finished up what little paperwork he had about thirty minutes ago. “I guess I sort of feel obligated…”
“Obligated?”
“Well, it is a law office. If there’s someone who absolutely needs my help, I’d like to be here,” Phoenix said, thinking about coming in to all the messages left on his machine every morning.
“It might be more helpful to them if you kept regular hours,” Edgeworth said, a touch dryly.
How did I know that was coming? Phoenix sighed. He pushed the chair back further and propped his feet on the desk, turning his own gaze towards his “view”–that of the Gatewater hotel rooms across the alley. A motorcycle backfired from somewhere down the street.
“Sometimes it’s a little hard to get motivated to come in,” he admitted. “Especially when I go down to the detention center because I think someone wants my help, then they tell me I only have fifteen minutes because they have an appointment with someone else after me.”
“Most lawyers aren’t like you,” Edgeworth finally said after a moment of silence. Phoenix got the feeling the prosecutor was trying to phrase something delicately. “They’ll take whatever comes their way.”
That’s not really what I meant, but thanks. “I’m planning on leaving pretty soon here,” Phoenix said, getting up to close the blinds.
“I’m about done here as well,” Edgeworth began as Phoenix deposited the last of the paperwork in the newly organized filing cabinets. He jiggled the keys in his pocket–finding the one to the door by the familiar shape–as he made sure all the windows were secure and turned off the lights, Edgeworth’s voice intimate against his ear the whole time.
It was on the tip of Phoenix’s tongue to ask if Edgeworth wanted to meet somewhere for an impromptu late dinner or even just a cup of coffee. But he didn’t. For some strange reason, a quiet bowl of noodles over at the stand down the street, and then falling asleep to late night infomercials on the couch sounded like the best way to cap the day.
“I’m heading out. Yeah, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well,” Phoenix said as the door swung to a close behind his back. His voice seemed to warm in his throat. “Thanks for calling.”
When Edgeworth called him and mentioned he had come into possession of a couple of symphony tickets from a coworker, Phoenix wasn’t sure what to say.
On the one hand, being asked out by Edgeworth for something other than dinner was a rather nice novelty. On the other, all classical music sounded pretty much the same to Phoenix; he had never really understood the concept of going to watch people play music for hours; and his mental image of ‘going to the symphony’ involved a certain level of style not found within a ten mile radius of his closet.
“They’re good seats,” Edgeworth had offered, as though Phoenix should know what that meant.
“Sounds good,” Phoenix had found himself saying. It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do.
So here he was now, waiting outside his apartment, dressed in his other clean work suit. Edgeworth pulled up about fifteen minutes later, just as Phoenix was considering going back inside to wait. Edgeworth rolled down the passenger-side window as the car eased to a stop; he leaned forward and stared at Phoenix. Even in the relative darkness, Phoenix could see the prosecutor’s brow furrow as he squinted.
For a moment, Phoenix was genuinely sure he would be found lacking–that Edgeworth would insist he go back in and comb his hair, or find something to wear that wasn’t threadbare and navy blue.
“I know you’re attached to your badge,” Edgeworth said instead, “But I’m fairly sure you won’t need it tonight.”
Phoenix looked down and there it was, on his left lapel. “It’s a habit,” he muttered defensively as he got into the car. Edgeworth’s lips quirked for a second before he shifted into first gear. Perhaps it was Phoenix’s imagination, but he’d been doing that more often lately.
The drive went quickly enough. Edgeworth seemed well acquainted with this part of the city, grumbling under his breath about parking options aside. Eventually they managed to find a parking garage–with a fee that Phoenix generally attributed more to highway robbery than parking–but Edgeworth was silent as he pulled up and took a ticket from the automatically teller.
As they got out of the car and Edgeworth locked it, he turned to Phoenix and motioned to the back seat. “The music hall is a few blocks away. Do you want my coat?”
“No, I should be fine.” I’m not exactly a fragile flower.
Edgeworth frowned, but he seemed to reconsider what he was going to say because after a short pause he replied, “I’m wearing more layers than you.”
And your suit isn’t as cheap, huh? Normally, the unspoken implication of Edgeworth’s words might have been irritating, but instead, Phoenix found he had to struggle to keep a grin off his face. “Come on, you were the one that was antsy about being late, right?”
Though Phoenix hated to admit it, once they got out on to the street, he began to wish he’d taken Edgeworth up on his offer. It was colder than September had any right to be; the empty streets somehow gave the chill in the air more bite than normal. When Phoenix began to rub his hands together, Edgeworth glanced at him with a smirk that had more than just a tinge of ‘I told you so’ to it.
Phoenix grabbed Edgeworth’s hand, just meaning to dissipate some of his own chill–and annoy the prosecutor in the process. Indeed, Edgeworth frowned in irritation. “Your hands are cold, Wright,” he complained.
Nothing gets past you, huh, Edgeworth?
But instead of pulling away when he could feel his digits again, Phoenix found his fingers curling around Edgeworth’s. He matched his pace to Edgeworth’s as they walked past the lit shops and traffic lights. Just as Phoenix’s fingertips were becoming comfortably warm Edgeworth pulled away, shoving both his hands deep within his pockets and increasing the pace of his clip towards the building looming down the street.
The look on the prosecutor’s face reminded Phoenix of the few times he’d grabbed Edgeworth’s hand and pulled him towards a destination when they were children. Invariably Edgeworth would tug away after a while and rub his hand on his shorts conspicuously, making a face like he’d stuck his hand in muck instead of a little bit of sweat.
It’s nice to see he’s gotten a little more subtle about it, Phoenix thought as he trailed a couple of paces behind, grinning.
As if reading his thoughts, Edgeworth slowed and turned towards him. “What’s so amusing?”
“Nothing,” Phoenix said. Well, nothing he’d find funny, at any rate.
They passed the last street across from the music hall, and Phoenix was slightly comforted to see more of a mixture in levels of dress than he expected–actually, more of a mixture of people than he’d expected. A man walked past them, daughter’s hand in his. They, in turn, passed an older couple leaning against one another as they slowly navigated the steps.
Edgeworth was obviously familiar with the inside of the building too, as Phoenix found all he had to do was follow him as he led the way to the box seating on left side of the hall. Settling in, he watched for a few minutes as the orchestra began to warm up their instruments. His earlier assumption had been right, Phoenix discovered. While the acoustics up here were nice, it was difficult to sustain interest in watching people playing in the distance. He let his eyes fall shut.
“You can listen without closing your eyes,” Edgeworth whispered after a few moments. Phoenix didn’t dignify it with a response, he knew the end result would be a zing on his inability to do more than one thing at a time, or something along those lines. Instead, he allowed his head to loll to the side, against Edgeworth’s shoulder as though he’d fallen asleep.
He could feel the other man’s muscles suddenly tense, a slight twitch that not even the normally stoic prosecutor could hide, but instead of the shove and irritated chiding he expected to follow, Edgeworth didn’t even so much as move.
The light behind his eyelids dimmed, and the high, almost mournful sound of an unidentifiable wood instrument eased into the air…
Phoenix jerked awake with an almost-snort, blinking as applause filled the auditorium. “Wha…?” he mumbled.
“It’s over, Wright,” Edgeworth said, still clapping.
“The first movement?” Phoenix rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand.
“No, the entire concert.”
At first Phoenix thought Edgeworth was kidding, but the people a few seats down were already packing up their things and moving towards the exit.
“How did I…” Phoenix began, sleep still softening the edges of his brain.
“I don’t know either. At least your snoring provided an interesting counterpoint to the percussion,” Edgeworth said. It sounded like he was trying to work himself into irritation and was failing miserably.
“I don’t snore,” Phoenix protested, taking Edgeworth’s proffered hand when the prosecutor stood up.
Edgeworth didn’t have much to say as they maneuvered through the crowds towards the exit, but when they were back on the street, he turned to Phoenix once again. “I hope you know that was a complete waste of a perfectly good ticket. Are you too tired for a quick cup of coffee, or should I just drop you off at home?”
Keep needling me and I won’t tell you about the drool on your left shoulder, Edgeworth. Phoenix shook his head. “No, coffee sounds good.” I’m pretty well-rested thanks to someone who’d rather waste a ticket than wake me up...
Their meeting place this evening was just down the street from Edgeworth’s apartment–a privately owned café Edgeworth had suggested after shooting down Phoenix’s proposal of the chain closer to Phoenix’s office, since they were both too tired to make the effort for dinner.
There had been a point, Phoenix was pretty sure, when he would have mentally rebelled at taking the bus out of his way to drink a cup of coffee with Miles Edgeworth, then turning around and taking it back home. The fact that this sequence of events wasn’t only normal, but desirable, was probably a sign that what little sanity he had left after dealing with cases and Maya on a regular basis was slipping away.
Phoenix found he didn’t mind too much.
And when Edgeworth looked up through the window of the cafe from the magazine he was perusing while waiting, a sort of pleasantly startled expression coming over his face, like meeting Phoenix really was the highlight of his day, Phoenix found he didn’t really mind at all.
“Have you been waiting long?” Phoenix asked when he got inside.
“Fairly,” Edgeworth replied, closing his magazine and placing it on the table. “If I had known you would be this late, I would have gone home to change.”
My fault for asking, Phoenix thought. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. But, as it didn’t appear Edgeworth was particularly perturbed over the delay, Phoenix moved on without comment.
“This looks like a nice place,” he said instead. The ambiance was nice, especially compared to his local coffee chain, which was usually filled with people tersely grunting their orders and crying children. Most of the patrons seemed to be college couples, leaning over lopsided stacks of textbooks and papers a little closer than was strictly necessary.
“…the only place that serves it,” Edgeworth finished saying.
“Huh?” Phoenix blinked, returning to earth. He settled a little more firmly in his chair, trying to quash the idea that the two grown men in business suits seated across from one another at the small circular table made a particular sight. He reached for a drink list. “Why did you choose this place again?”
Normally Edgeworth would become irritated at having to repeat himself, but all that happened was a briefly sour look on his face, like he had bitten into a slice of lemon, before he sighed in a can’t be helped way that was almost affectionate. “I said they’re the only place in the immediate area that serves Lapsang Souchong that isn’t from a tea bag.”
I have no idea what that is. Having thought that, perusing the menu, if it was anything close to how Edgeworth pronounced it, it was the most expensive drink on the list.
“Have you decided?” Edgeworth asked after a few silent moments.
“Oh, ah, I’ll just get the house special coffee blend.”
The waiter came by shortly, nodding with familiarity to Edgeworth before taking both their drink orders and vanishing in back. I wonder if he comes here often…then again, with the way he dresses, once would probably be enough.
When their drinks came back, Phoenix took a sip of his coffee. As far as his unrefined pallet could tell, it was good enough. Phoenix could only really tell bad coffee when Maya burned it or if it had been sitting in the pot for several days, so the intricacies of tea were probably completely beyond his ken.
Watching Edgeworth take a sip of his and then unconsciously sigh contently in response, however, made a particular warmth hover in the center of Phoenix’s chest–he was fairly sure that wasn’t from the coffee either.
“That looks good,” he said.
Edgeworth paused, then inclined his teacup slightly in an almost-but-not-quite invitation. Before he could change his mind and pull back, Phoenix reached out. Their fingers glanced as Phoenix took the cup. He raised it to his lips and took a small sip.
His reaction must have been a sight to behold, because Edgeworth’s chuckle was particularly loud as he reached out a hand to rescue his tea.
“How can you drink that?” Phoenix said sourly, wiping his mouth and unconsciously reaching towards the center of the table for the sugar. It tastes like someone used it as an ashtray.
He had the packet open and about half of it into the tea before his brain caught up with his hands and saw it fit to inform him that he was dumping something in someone else’s drink. He drew back and fidgeted with what little remained, debating on whether or not to pour the rest of it into his own coffee. Edgeworth reached out and plucked the sugar from Phoenix grasp and poured the remainder in, stirring once or twice to make sure it didn’t just settle at the bottom before he took another swallow.
“Ruined,” he said almost conversationally, eyes half lidded in amusement as he stared at Phoenix over the edge of the cup.
Don’t look at me like it’s my fault. Just add some liquid smoke; that should fix it! “Sorry,” Phoenix said in lieu of anything else. “I’ll, uh, make it up to you.”
At that, Edgeworth’s smirk seemed to widen faintly, taking on the tinge it did when Phoenix said something particularly foolish in court. No, that wasn’t quite right–there was nothing derisive about the way Edgeworth was looking at him. It was almost affectionate.
“Good day?” he asked when Edgeworth set the cup down once again. It must have been. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before.
“About as well as can be expected.”
Phoenix smiled. Regardless of Edgeworth’s blasé response, he could tell. There was something calm and confident in Edgeworth’s entire air tonight, in the way he held the cup to his lips, the way his hand rested quietly on the table instead of drumming. It was a rare enough sight that he found himself wanting to soak it up; while Edgeworth occasionally turned to watch people walk down the street in-between bursts of small talk, Phoenix’s eyes didn’t move.
Eventually, Edgeworth set his teacup down and Phoenix took one last gulp of his coffee for the road, before both of them got up as if as one. Phoenix reached for his wallet, but Edgeworth was faster; he had pulled out a twenty and set it atop the check before Phoenix could even open his. Phoenix shrugged. Some part of him, no doubt left over from his days with Dollie, protested, but that particular aspect of his personality wasn’t paying the bills.
The night air was cold against his face and the sky rumbled ominously as he followed Edgeworth out the door. He paused to gauge the thick clouds hiding the moon from view. If this weather kept up, he was going to have to invest in a pair of gloves, or bribe Pearl or Maya to make him a set. In lieu, he reached for Edgeworth’s hand, and was momentarily surprised to feel it close around his own. And, when Edgeworth didn’t pull away after a minute or two, that surprise changed into something warm that seemed to radiate across his chest.
It almost became a strange sort of game Phoenix played with himself. He’ll let go after this stoplight, he’d think, and then Edgeworth’s grip would actually tighten as they rushed across the alternating white lines of the crosswalk, angry rumbles of thunder following their hurried footsteps.
Edgeworth didn’t actually let go until the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, about a block away from his high rise. They both picked up the pace, not quite running but no longer walking. By the time they made it to the entrance, Edgeworth’s long bangs were plastered to his forehead and his cravat was a limp parody of itself. The back and shoulders of his suit were damp.
Phoenix followed Edgeworth to the left and into the stairwell. It was always a slight shock to the eyes to go from the opulence of the marble tiled, open lobby to the cramped cement flights of stairs, but it was something he was getting more and more used to as time progressed. Their footsteps were wet against the steps, echoing loudly.
When they reached the familiar door to his apartment, Edgeworth turned around, digging through his pockets for his keys. Once he had gotten the door open, he turned back to Phoenix. This too had become familiar.
Edgeworth very rarely touched when they kissed–and when he did it was usually a fleeting palm against Phoenix’s arm. Phoenix sometimes had a sinking feeling it was more for his benefit, to allow for a quick get away if things should go beyond Phoenix’s comfort level.
So it was a surprise when Phoenix leaned across to give Edgeworth a goodnight kiss and he felt a hand come to rest on his lower back. There was no force behind it, but Phoenix leaned in closer than he might normally. He raised his hand, fingers skimming across the line of Edgeworth’s jawbone–stubble, his brain noted distantly, amusingly–before coming to rest at the base of Edgeworth’s neck, still cold and slightly clammy from the rain.
When their lips met, Edgeworth made a noise low in his throat, so faint Phoenix thought he might have imagined it. Phoenix broke away and, in a move of daring that left even himself surprised, moved down to kiss right below Edgeworth’s ear, at that sensitive junction where it met his jaw.
That time he knew he wasn’t imagining the sharp hiss of breath that escaped the prosecutor’s mouth. Or, for that matter, the hand moving up his back, pulling him closer. Edgeworth caught Phoenix’s mouth again, pushing forward. Phoenix’s breathing became labored as a twist of tension caught in his lower belly, taut and thrumming with anticipation.
Edgeworth pulled away first, breathing heavily. There was a second of brief silence, a thick pause overflowing with possibilities, but the moment passed before Phoenix could wet his lips or move his tongue.
Knowing it was too late, Phoenix forced his mouth to work. “I should get going.”
“Goodnight, Wright,” Edgeworth said, a faint tinge of warmth, an unspoken ‘see you soon’ ghosting beneath the surface.
“Yeah,” Phoenix said. “Uh, you, too. Sleep well.”
There was nothing left for him to do but leave.
In the elevator, Phoenix ran a hand though his still-damp hair and tried to decide which was stronger, the relief or the disappointment. Too late he remembered that it was raining.
I should have at least asked to borrow an umbrella.
Typical day. Recently, that meant waking up–somewhere in the range of ten and eleven o' clock–checking to see if he was able to scrape together a bowl of starch resembling breakfast, taking a shower, and heading to the office, chiefly to watch television. He turned the volume down when the phone rang.
His heart still gave a funny jump; maybe it always would–but he no longer felt obligated to let his mind race itself into the frenzy before he so much as answered, and his hands no longer went cold and stiff as he pushed the button to receive the call.
“Hey,” Phoenix said. “Are we still on for today?”
“No, not tonight,” came Edgeworth's voice, “I'm working late again.” There was an unspoken apology beneath the words. “Maybe tomorrow... no, the day after–wait a moment.” The sound of pages fluttering fell in place of his fading voice.
Phoenix drummed his fingers on the armrest as he waited.
“Actually...” Phoenix spoke up, then hesitated. “Can I still see you tonight?”
“What?” Edgeworth said. Then, slightly annoyed: “I just said I'm working late, Wright. I'm not going to have time to go out.”
“We don't have to go out,” Phoenix replied.
Half a beat, then, “Excuse me?”
“I could see you at your place,” Phoenix said. It was akin to forcing lead weights out of his throat–but he drove forward. “We could just meet there. If you give me a call after you've wrapped up.”
The sound of pages turning had stopped. Phoenix remained silent, waiting for him to answer, but internally his mind was churning at a rate that almost matched the rolling boil that was his stomach.
“It'll be late,” Edgeworth said again. His voice was tightly level. “Probably very late.”
“That's fine,” Phoenix said, before he could allow himself to rethink it.
By Phoenix's count, it took fifteen seconds, but he was fairly certain his heartbeat was firing at least six times that rate by the time Edgeworth spoke up, his words passing through tense fingers white against the curve of the receiver.
“All right,” Edgeworth answered. The right came out slightly strangled.
“See you then,” Phoenix said, “tonight.”
As it turned out, Phoenix got the call just shy of eleven. From the way Edgeworth had talked, he had half wondered if he was going to have to stay up waiting until past midnight into all hours of the morning.
“I'm driving back,” Edgeworth said, shortly.
“Okay,” Phoenix answered.
That had been the sum of it.
He'd walked to his door, turned the doorknob, heard it open with a click–and turned back around when he realized he'd left his jacket–and again for his keys. With the former slipped over his shoulders and the latter tucked into his pocket, he moved back to the exit, but the nagging feeling persisted at the back of the mind that he was forgetting something important.
Should I bring something...?
Imagining the look on Edgeworth's face if he showed up to greet him with a bouquet of flowers was enough to make Phoenix's flinch slightly from the force of the imaginary door being slammed in his face.
In the end, he had just went. He ended up sorely regretting it five minutes into the bus ride, too, when his throat was parched and aching painfully.
Phoenix flexed his wrists as he stepped off the bus into the evening air and began to walk; it was like his body couldn't figure out if he wanted to hurry or delay his approach. Maybe it just wanted to stay in the limbo of the darkened street, suspended just before the finality of walking through a door.
Inevitably, though, he caught sight of the apartment building. He gave a cursory glance into the parking lot for Edgeworth's car–it was there–before making his way in and up the three flights of stairs, realizing halfway up he could have just taken the elevator. It must have been out of habit–after all, though he didn't actually remember the exact number of Edgeworth's room, walking through the familiar halls made it easy. It was routine. He'd done it a dozen times before, after all.
He'd seen the door a dozen times before, but never stepped past it.
He raised the back of his hand against the polished wood, breathing deeply.
Here goes nothing.
Two quick raps with the back of his knuckles. It took about a second and a half; he ended up waiting for five minutes. He was about to decide if he wanted to try to call Edgeworth to see if he was alive or turn around and leave–his hand had inched towards the pocket of his coat–when the door opened abruptly, the click of the releasing lock like a soft bang in the otherwise quiet hall.
Phoenix had expected that seeing Edgeworth's face, knit tightly with unspoken anxiety, would only serve to knot his intestines into a further tangle–but to his vague surprise, he instead felt a strange wave of calm–and something resembling certainty–wash over him.
“Hey,” he said.
Edgeworth met his eyes.
Phoenix stepped inside.