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A/N: Hello, omo-minded people!

I'm starting to write a NaruMitsu story about paruresis. Thrilling stuff, I know. It's probably mostly for me, what with the potential for examining psychology AND the omo aspect. Yep. Posted on AO3 as well, as per usual.

Please let me know what you think, and, particularly, if you'd be interested in where this is going! Here, have a warning that's almost entirely equal-but-opposite to the warning I give on AO3:

WARNING: The first chapter contains pretty much no omorashi. Just the suggestion of it.

Chapter 1: The Problem

Phoenix didn’t mind the movement, at first.

He enjoyed it, actually. It was soothing. A kind of soft, repetitive rocking that accompanied his surroundings perfectly. He lay on some kind of pier jutting out into an expansive ocean, surrounded by the warmth and light of a blazingly red sunset, gazing out into the sparkling water. His head was slowly swaying along to the tune of some spritely, far-off song, and he was wonderfully content.

But the motion didn’t remain gentle. As Phoenix bathed happily in the glow and the music, what was once rocking transfigured incrementally into something altogether more insistent: A shuddering, first, then an all-out shaking that jarred his head and his entire upper body. An earthquake?

“An earthquake?!” Phoenix gasped, and sat up abruptly. The shaking didn’t stop even as he lifted himself up on his arms, and looked into the face of the man sitting beside him: Miles Edgeworth, looking pale and drawn even in the crimson light of a looping DVD menu, arms crossed and finger tapping and gaze fixed somewhere against the opposite wall. “Miles... are you okay? Do you need me to—?”

“Phoenix.”

“What?!” He touched a hand instinctively to Miles’ shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“There’s no earthquake.”

“Wha—?” The shaking had stopped as soon as he’d spoken, and Phoenix looked around at last: He’d been leaning on Miles’ right leg—dozing there, actually—and found himself still propped up on it with a hand pressed into his thigh. “Oh. Heh. Yeah.” His ears prickled a bit as he pushed himself away and back into his own cushion on the sofa, and the night’s events began to filter back to him: Dinner together. A glass or two of Lambrusco. The decision to take in a movie before parting for the evening, and the slight blurring at the edge of his vision as a huge silhouette stomped towards a screaming cityscape….

“Sorry about that,” Phoenix said, grazing sheepish fingers against the nape of his neck. “I guess Moozilla III didn’t really grab me the way I thought it would. I mean, I’m sure John Marsh is still great and all, but... what did you think?”

“Yes.”

Now, Phoenix was used to a certain level of terseness. One had to be, when dealing with L.A.’s finest Chief Prosecutor. It was always a toss-up with him: No matter what the subject—unless it related directly to the law or the Steel Samurai franchise—Phoenix could never be sure if he should prepare himself for an hour-long speech or a single word. But he could generally rely on having his questions answered with some amount of relevance, no matter how curt the response.

“‘Yes’... what?” Phoenix prompted. The DVD’s menu music played through another half-loop or so before he was granted another non sequitur of a reply.

“Well, it’s evident that you’re awake.” Miles still hadn’t managed to turn to look at Phoenix, though his leg had taken up its bouncing again.

“Oh? What tipped you off?” Phoenix resisted probing further or adding a biting remark to the question. It was too late, and he was too groggy. So groggy, in fact, that the warm presence by his side and the low music from the DVD threatened to lull him back to a comfortable sleep curled into the sofa. Only a particular baritone voice could possibly have roused him from his slow slide into slumber. And it did.

“It’s about time you left, don’t you think?”

Phoenix instantly regretted the noble decision to keep from scoring off his boyfriend, a man who clearly deserved to be scored off of. A hundred times or more. Peeling open his tired eyes, Phoenix fixed Miles with a wide, doe-ish gaze that the man still couldn’t be bothered to meet.

“But Miiilees,” he whined. Phoenix normally preferred to reserve whining for truly dire situations—or at least after he’d presented some salient point in his defense— but this situation was rapidly approaching direness. Sleep tugged at his eyelids more insistently by the moment. He tugged insistently at Miles’ burgundy shirtsleeve. “It’s so late....”

“It’s just after midnight,” Miles supplied brusquely. Phoenix groaned.

“Right! Like I said....” His arms—of their own accord, naturally; he would never have consciously resorted to this kind of coercion—reached out and wrapped themselves around the slightly shaky shoulders beside him. “So late. Don’t you think I could stay over? Just for tonight? You don’t want to have to drive me back at this hour, do you?”

At last, some evidence of life flickered behind Miles’ glasses. He didn’t look at Phoenix, precisely, but he turned his eyes in his direction, and he didn’t offer up a throwaway response. After a few moments of apparent debate on his part and surreptitious snuggling on Phoenix’s, he spoke again.

“I’m afraid it’s not possible,” he said, with a note of finality that made Phoenix sigh and loosen his limpet-like grasp. “There’s much I have to be doing tomorrow. I must be reviewing some things prior to the morning trials... and I don’t want the trouble of working out your morning schedule as well as my own.”

“I could just leave when you do.”

Miles raised an incredulous eyebrow. “At six A.M.? Perhaps earlier?”

“Ugh. Never mind. But... well....” Phoenix wracked his weary brain for another solution. “Couldn’t I just leave later? Or don’t you think I could manage leaving your precious stuff alone and locking the door behind me?”

“It’s... not that... but....”

Just like that, Miles’ head turned obstinately back towards the television. The arms were still crossed, the leg was still restless, and the finger was still rapping silently on the bicep. All of this combined with a notable silence proved one thing: This was a Miles Edgeworth in an advanced state of distress. But why?

“Hey, come on, Miles. It’s really no big deal. I’ll just sleep on the couch. I was kind of headed that way before your leg woke me up, anyway,” Phoenix laughed. “I promise I won’t invade your personal space anymore. Guess I’ve done that enough tonight, haven’t I?”

“Mmm.”

Phoenix sat up a little straighter and leaned over to look into Miles’ face. He refused to meet his eyes again. With another sigh, Phoenix stood, turned on the lights, turned off the DVD player and the TV, and turned back around to face his boyfriend. No change at all.

“Okay,” he began, with about as much frustration as he could shove into two syllables, “what is it? What’s wrong? Did I do something? I already said I’m sorry for falling asleep on you.” Miles hastened to reply.

“N-no! No... you didn’t do anything,” he countered, yet, unbelievably, he still didn’t look into Phoenix’s face.

“If you’re really not mad at me, why do I have to go? It’s late, we’re both tired, and I already told you I’d take the couch.”

This time, complete silence was his answer; he didn’t even have the maddening menu music to accompany him anymore. Not to be daunted, Phoenix let out an exasperated noise and took to his knees to force himself into Miles’ line of sight. The man blinked as if astounded, gazing brightly behind pristine polycarbonate lenses.

Then he turned away again.

“Miles!” What an absolute ass he could be! Phoenix would have liked to have moved a bit closer, maybe pulled his boyfriend’s fantastic face back towards him, but he couldn’t. Touching him seemed to have been what got Phoenix into this mess in the first place, after all. “Come on... I know something’s bothering you. If it’s not me, what is it?”

“It’s really nothing,” Miles insisted, off into the space that Phoenix had left on the couch. Moving to cross one of his impossibly long legs over the other, he nearly clipped Phoenix on the nose. “I’m not... ‘bothered’... I just want you to go. That’s all.”

Although he hadn’t brought any magatamas with him—he’d found that they were really better kept out of his personal life—Phoenix could swear that he heard the lock and chain wrap themselves around Miles’ words.

“‘That’s all’? C’mon, I thought we’d left that kind of thing behind us a long time ago,” Phoenix groused. He softened his tone as he went on, however. “Haven’t we talked about this? ‘Communication’ and all? No more hiding behind vagueness and dismissals?” He shifted his hips so he could sit on the floor; the position left him closer to his boyfriend’s knee than his face. “Something is bothering you. You can, and you should, tell me about it. Aren’t we—what’s the word you like so much?—‘partners?’”

Miles had put his hand over his mouth; the gesture inadvertently revealed just how red his face had become during Phoenix’s little lecture. At last, after far too many low clicks of the mantel clock, he turned his head back around to face Phoenix. His eyes were weighted on the floor now, but at least he appeared to be talking to him.

“It’s... embarrassing,” he intoned quietly. Phoenix made a dismissive gesture.

“Don’t even worry about it.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t! When have I ever laughed at you? Well, when you were really down, anyway.”

Another long pause—longer than the first—reigned before Miles seemed to reach a point of decision and words came pouring from his mouth.

“I can’t... use... the facilities when I have company,” he said, quickly and tremulously. “Not when anyone else is around. I can’t. So I need you to leave. Now, if you could. It's been... some time... and I would very much like for you to go.”

As Miles pulled off his glasses and buried his face in one of his hands, Phoenix had to stop to consider the insanity his partner had just proposed to him. He’d been prepared for a lot of the things he’d imagined. Hell, he’d wanted some of the things he’d imagined (mostly the scenarios involving a Miles who broke down and finally admitted that he lusted for Phoenix just as much as Phoenix lusted for him.) But this? This was just... strange.

“Umm, Miles,” Phoenix began, gingerly, “I don’t have to ‘leave’ for that.” Miles said nothing, only pressed his hand harder against his flaming face, so Phoenix continued: “I’m not going to follow you into the bathroom. Just turn on the tap or something if you’re so worried.”

“Th-that’s—! It doesn’t...work that way,” Miles said, and stood abruptly, and took to pacing the small space between Phoenix, the coffee table, and the couch. Phoenix stood in reply, and furrowed his brow at his boyfriend’s absolutely unnecessary display of consternation.

“Look, this is me we’re talking about. Just me. Alone with you. I’ll do whatever you want—wait in the kitchen, in the hall, whatever—just don’t make me leave.” At last, Phoenix stepped forward and touched his companion on the shoulder; Miles stopped short and jumped about a foot. “Please.”

Miles proceeded to look at Phoenix, then back at the sofa, then back to the floor at Phoenix’s feet. Phoenix watched him closely. Just as he suspected, his boyfriend closed his eyes, and a finger came to rest on his temple, the sure sign that Miles was racing through a list of logical possibilities in his head. His brain had to have been running at about a hundred miles per hour—and for what? Divining the same procedure any three-year-old would’ve gladly enlightened him on?

“No. I’d really rather not discuss this any further,” Miles nearly whispered. He’d begun rocking his whole body backwards and forwards, from his toes to his heels; it might’ve been cute if everything else Miles did that night hadn’t been so damned infuriating. “I just... can’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“What are you saying? Miles,” Phoenix returned with the barest of chuckles, “I mean, you must be able to—how would you spend the whole day away at work and court if you ‘couldn’t’? How would you take all those trips abroad? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

That seemed to have done it.

Phoenix would never be sure if it had been the words themselves or the little laugh that accompanied them, but something in what he said sparked the sort of righteous fury in Miles that he never really liked to see. Not as his opposing counsel, and certainly not as his boyfriend. All of a sudden Phoenix was being rounded upon by a seething, red-and-white-faced man with a furrowed brow and a hissing voice.

“It doesn’t, does it? Well, I hope that this makes sense enough for you.” As he spoke, Miles fumbled for his wallet, extracted a few bills, and pressed them into Phoenix’s hands. “Your ride home. Good-bye, Phoenix.”

Thankfully, it was warm enough that he hadn’t needed a jacket, and he’d left his shoes in the hallway—otherwise it would have been a bit of an inconvenience for Phoenix to find himself pushed bodily from Miles’ apartment and left by himself outside the door. As it was, he was simply discombobulated and a little hurt.

“I said I’d wait out here! You don’t have to—” The lock clicked insultingly behind him. “Fine! Do whatever you want, I guess!”

He’d wanted to throw out some bitingly cynical observation about the stupidity of this fight. It would’ve served Miles right. But he ended up being much too distracted by the bills he’d had thrust upon him instead.

“Wow,” Phoenix muttered to himself. Eighty dollars?! He would’ve whistled, but such feats were beyond him. It seemed that Miles really had gone insane, or he was just so disillusioned by his own wealth that he had no idea what anything cost anymore. It was difficult to tell.

With nothing more to do and no more to say that didn’t sound all wrong in his head, Phoenix made his way to the complex’s elevator. It—what was “bothering” Miles, his so-called “inability”—really didn’t make a bit of sense, but Phoenix wasn’t going to find the logic in it that night. He’d been too tired for mysteries for hours, and, besides, he didn’t know if he’d have been able to work it out even at the height of his mental abilities. In the end, he had to settle for calling a cab and unwillingly wondering things he’d never imagined he’d have to wonder about his boyfriend’s bathroom habits as he waited at the curb.

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  • 4 weeks later...

Chapter 2a: Parfait d'Amour

It didn’t take long for Phoenix or Miles to climb down from their respective high towers and attempt to make amends. When Phoenix checked his phone the morning after, he found that he’d already received several short texts:

Wright—

I hope this missive finds you well.

I apologize for the events of last night.

We needn’t discuss them any further.

Enjoy your day.

-Miles Edgeworth

This was a bit of a problem.

Not because his boyfriend would never realize the difference between a text message and a letter to the Attorney General, though that was also something they’d have to discuss. No, it was because, apologetic though the message began, it ended with demanding that Phoenix forget.

He would have liked to have forgotten. He really would have. It was all pretty embarrassing, and, though he was still a little sore about being shoved out of his partner’s apartment that night, he preferred for them to remain on good and clear terms with one another.

But now that seemed impossible. It had been difficult enough trying to wade his way through the intricacies of a relationship with Miles Edgeworth from the start—adding this thing, a thing he would never have imagined could be a problem, transformed the path of their relationship from a long but comprehensible labyrinth into a maze. And Phoenix had already found a dead-end.

He couldn’t allow himself to be trapped by it. What would happen to them in the future if he did? Would they never make it past this mincing half-on half-off period? Would they ever be able to live together if this continued on?

Phoenix picked up his phone and texted rapidly:

thanks 🙂 but i really think we should talk about it

call me when u get the chance?

Phoenix went about getting ready for work with his phone’s volume turned up to full-blast, and heard nothing by the time he left the house. All day he found himself checking, opening his phone again and again to the same stock photo of a palm tree and no notifications. The phone rang once, and he jumped on the call, only to have a cheerful, robotic voice from his local pharmacy informing him that his prescription was ready to be picked up.

By the time the evening rolled around, Phoenix was grousing again. Even Trucy’s latest fire-ring trick couldn’t cheer him like it should have. So, after the fire department had cleared off, he gave up and went to bed early.

Just as he was drifting to sleep, Phoenix’s phone gave a deafening PING and vibrated. Miles, responding at last.

Wright—

Would you care to dine together tomorrow evening?

We can go to Cellini’s. It’s been some time.

-Miles Edgeworth

Damn it.

Phoenix groaned and covered his eyes. So. He was right. Miles really was going to pretend that the “events of last night” had never happened. He would take Phoenix out to dinner and hope that everything would be forgotten over an expensive meal and a few glasses of wine—and he wasn’t wrong to think it was possible.

But Phoenix was determined that he wouldn’t be swayed this time. Their happiness together was at stake! Did Miles really think that they would live apart forever? That he would always be able to run home, alone, whenever he had to use the toilet? Phoenix had said so before, and he would say it again: It didn’t make sense.

Phoenix would go to dinner, of course. But he wouldn’t like it, at least not until he was able to make something of it.

He and Miles arrived at Cellini’s in comfortable style by cab the following evening, where they were seated at once and poured generous glasses of ice water. Miles took up his glass perfectly nonchalantly and drained about half of it as he perused the wine list. Within a few minutes, they were sipping some species of white wine, and Miles was attempting to strike up a conversation.

Phoenix offered up responses and a little commentary here and there, but found that he just couldn’t tear his immediate focus away from all of the... liquid. First the water, which was gone from Miles’ glass by the time the waiter returned for their order, then the wine. Phoenix did his best not to gawk, to subtly observe his boyfriend behind some menu or other as he would’ve behind a hand of cards. The effort was unsettling. When, exactly, had he become a creepy piss-based voyeur?

Miles seemed not to notice. He didn’t say anything, anyway, and his expressions betrayed no suspicion. Not even when Phoenix went to the bathroom about halfway through the night and floundered awkwardly around the once-simple words.

“I’m, uh... I’m... going to the bathroom, I guess,” he stammered. Miles was supremely unaffected. “If... uh... if....”

“Don’t worry, Phoenix. I’ll let the waiter know that you want more bread,” Miles returned with a touch of a smirk. Phoenix allowed his companion to think he knew what he had been going to say and scampered off.

Dinner passed amiably, if anxiously. By the time Phoenix had returned from the bathroom a second time, they’d finished with their salads and entrees, and, by the grace of his second glass of wine, he’d had at last built up the courage to address the problem head-on.

“So, Miles,” he began, “about... um... the other night... I was—”

“No,” Miles interrupted, a low note of sound deep in his throat. “I’ve said already that the subject is closed.”

“But Miles—”

“Now, what would you like for a nightcap? Some brandy, perhaps?”

“I don’t think so, but—”

“Perhaps a cream liqueur?”

“No! Just—come on, we really need to—”

“Sommelier!” Miles commanded, and at once a servile middle-aged man with a permanent bend to his back was grinning at Miles’ elbow. “Two cocktails, if you would. Parfait d’amour and gin. And a suspicion of rosolio, if you’ve any on hand. Shaken well.”

The man replied with a servile phrase and—if possible—a deepening of his bow. Miles worried the stem of his wine glass between his fingers for a silent moment.

“We don’t ‘need’ to discuss anything more,” he answered at last, and finished off his wine; Phoenix found himself watching the motion, rapt. Two glasses of wine, plus the entire glass of water, and a cocktail was coming. “We hadn’t spoken of it before. We never needed to. I don’t see that it bears further examination; it’s barely even a subject.”

“But how do you expect us to get anywhere together if you’re doing—whatever this is?” Phoenix demanded. He’d been quick to ask, but the sommelier (a man Phoenix suspected of being your standard barman, but for whom Miles liked the title) was faster, and he’d already returned to their table with a pair of subtly blue cocktails. Phoenix took his in hand but refused the beginnings of a toast in Miles’ raised glass and parted lips. The man scowled faintly and sipped at his drink.

“I think we can manage it,” Miles grated behind his glass, “if only we stop harping on the minutest details of our existence together. You’ll notice that it barely affects us.”

You think it’s “minute?” You think we’ll “manage” if we have to be totally separated every few hours? Or if we never live together at all? Does that “barely affect us”?

Phoenix tried to distract himself from his thoughts with a tiny taste of his cocktail, which was immediately spit back out into his napkin.

“Oh my God! What’s that supposed to taste like?!” He gasped, and dove for what remained of his water. Miles smirked.

“Violets and roses,” he returned airily, and took another sip of the disgusting concoction. Phoenix gawked—openly this time.

“God... it’s like... drinking your grandmother’s perfume,” Phoenix breathed. “Trust you to find the worst combination imaginable. And probably the gayest.”

Miles’ near-snort into his own cocktail surprised them both, and then they were smiling again. By the end of the evening, comfort had made its way around their table. Dark, warm, smothering comfort that settled in Phoenix’s brain and caught every stray thought in its sticky influence.

How long has it been since he’s been to the bathroom? How many times have I been since we got here? Twice? Is he okay? He seems okay... but it’s been hours....

“Are you ready to go?”

Phoenix focused his eyes. Miles was gazing at him over his small collection of empty glasses.

“Are you?” Phoenix asked sharply.

“Yes, I’ve been for some time,” he said, stood, and offered his hand to Phoenix as he made his way around the table. “I hope you’ve found the evening pleasant.”

He had. And he hadn’t. Frankly, Phoenix considered the date to have been nothing more than a frustrating waste of time. Was this what it was like to live the same fastidious life as Miles: needing to find the answer to something; being physically and mentally unable to rest until it was found?

He didn’t know how he did it. This life was not only very dispiriting—it was exhausting. Every time Phoenix interacted with Miles, it was a new, draining slog. He would wonder, but could never actually address. He would watch him, just as he did over dinner; he would try to listen for changes in his voice when they spoke, in-person or over the phone. He began to try to catch him at inopportune times—just as he left work, unexpectedly over the weekend—but still discovered absolutely nothing. Not the barest inkling that something was amiss, not even at the oddest time and place.

Once a couple of weeks had passed with no tells whatsoever, Phoenix began to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t some kind of bizarre fabrication on Miles’ part. The excuse had worked, after all: It had gotten Phoenix to leave the apartment that night without being insulting to his character. The excuse Miles had chosen was incredibly strange—mortifying, even—but, then, Phoenix couldn’t pretend that he’d ever fully understood everything Miles did and said.

There was nothing else for it, Phoenix decided. He’d have to test the matter.

Chapter 2b: The Plan

Later, years later, when Phoenix was reminded of this plan, he could only shove it to the back of his mind and hope that nothing ever prompted him to open that particular memory box again. But when the plan had first occurred to him, he’d considered it a stroke of genius.

Two Sundays after That Night, as Phoenix had come to think of it, he invited Miles out to the movies. A Hitchcock festival was going on at the local cinema, and he knew that his partner would agree to go. Miles Edgeworth never could say no to an afternoon of pretension.

It was a bright, hot day outside, and a relief to step into the biting breeze of the cinema’s air conditioner. Phoenix had just about worked out the last detail of his plan; as soon as their tickets were torn, he took Miles’ hand and led him over to the concession stand.

“I suppose I’m buying,” Miles grumbled. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

“Thanks, Miles,” Phoenix crooned in return, and began perusing the menu. “Let’s see... we’ll have a large popcorn, and a box of caramels, and a large grape soda, and... what do you want?”

Miles considered for a moment. “An unsweetened iced tea, please.”

“Miles!” Phoenix cried, offended by his partner’s unmitigated drabness.

“What size iced tea?” The cashier asked listlessly.

“A sm—”

“Large, please,” Phoenix cut in. He smiled at Miles’ scowl. “What? You won’t get your money’s worth with a small. At least get the large so you can take the refill home.”

Miles sighed, but didn’t resist. Laden with snacks, they made their way into the mostly-empty theatre and took seats in the very back just as the previews were beginning.

The film—“Psycho,” as it turned out—opened uncomfortably. After a just a few seconds of black-and-white voyeurism, Phoenix had to avert his eyes. He looked towards his boyfriend instead, whose face was highlighted by the silvery light of the screen; smiling, he laced their fingers together. Miles allowed it, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at Phoenix for the entirety of the showing, as a matter of fact. When Phoenix tried to comment, he shushed him; when Phoenix jumped and cried out during the notorious shower stabbing, he did no more than smirk a little and take a sip of his tea.

Post-first killing, Phoenix found himself more susceptible to distraction. Not to say that the rest of the film wasn’t interesting—it featured more of the strikingly handsome leading man, after all—but Phoenix had been reminded of his intended focus.

It was still an awkward focus, even after the last couple of weeks spent watching. Phoenix longed to return to playing the cinematic voyeur instead, but the movie didn’t allow it. So, he was back to subtly staring at Miles, watching his every move and every taste of his shockingly boring choice of beverage. Fortunately for him, Phoenix was released from his creepy bonds when Miles decided to rattle the ice at the bottom of his empty cup, and Phoenix could at last return to concentrating on the movie.

“Well, that was... something,” he pronounced when the lights came up.

“Indeed,” Miles replied. He hadn’t moved to stand, but instead looked absently towards the black screen as he toyed with the straw on his drink. “One forgets about Hitchcock’s mastery of visual storytelling after awhile away.”

“Uh-huh... but... what was with Bates’ voice-over?”

“Excuse me?” Phoenix scratched his neck in response to the sudden scrutiny.

“Well, I mean... you know... the woman’s voice. It seemed a little weird.” Miles raised his eyebrows all the way into his long, silvery bangs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Hitchcock’s still a genius and all, but, I mean—”

“Weren’t you paying any attention to the last few scenes?” Phoenix let go a kind of half-laugh.

“I... well, not really. I got... distracted. The—uh—drinks and all,” he admitted. Miles graced him with a smile and stood. Phoenix paused for a second; his heart may or may not have stopped in that time. “I’m going to the bathroom!”

“Fine. I’m going to see about more tea,” Miles replied, and moved off in the direction of the concession stand. A few minutes later, feeling significantly more composed, Phoenix met him there, unable to keep a knowing smile off his face.

“So... are you ready?” He asked. Miles nodded in reply.

“Yes. Shall I drop you off at your home on the way, or is there somewhere else you’d like to go?” He inquired mildly, and reached for his keys in the pocket of his slacks. Phoenix’s voice fluttered a little as he suppressed a giggle.

“Oh, Miles... I meant for the next movie! Double-feature, remember?” Phoenix waggled his ticket stub. The stub did, in fact, list two movies. Phoenix had insisted upon buying the tickets, and it was a stroke of pure luck for him that Miles hadn’t looked at his—this plan hinged pretty heavily on his boyfriend’s ignorance. “The next one’s starting in a couple minutes. Don’t want to miss the previews, do we? Course, they might be the same as last time... it being an older movie and all.... Hey, are you even listening to me?”

It was difficult to tell. Miles’ gaze had shifted slightly while Phoenix was talking to him, and it fell somewhere on the wall behind him instead of on his face. Phoenix sighed and took Miles’ hand to lead him back into the theatre; he found it rather clammy.

“Come on,” Phoenix prodded. “Let’s get back in. They’re showing—what’s it called?—‘Infamous’?”

“Yes... I think that’s it,” Miles replied distantly.

“Yeah, that one. The one with the Invisible Man or whatever. Come on—it’s just about to start!” With another tug at his hand, Miles at last allowed Phoenix to pull him back into the dimmed theatre.

Honestly, Phoenix wondered why they’d saved this movie for last. “Notorious” (the title card corrected him) wasn’t exactly the same thrill that “Psycho” had been. It was all political intrigue and vaguely attractive people becoming vaguely irritating lovers. There as something about riding clubs, men with two first names and tailing Nazis to Brazil. It was hard to follow, but Phoenix tried. The first stage of his plan was finished except for the waiting, after all—might as well watch the film he’d shelled out for.

Phoenix had just about worked out what was going on by the time the leading lady was revealing the villain’s intentions to marry her. The leading man stormed out at this, grumbling about “women who never changed.”

Miles chose that moment to storm out, as well; Phoenix wouldn’t have noticed but for the fact that Miles’ hand suddenly tore away from his, leaving it horribly cold and moist. Phoenix followed briskly behind him.

“What is it?” Phoenix asked Miles as soon as he caught up with him. He’d found him pacing furiously outside the theatre door. “You could’ve told me you were going to—”

“We have to go. Are you ready?” Miles cut across him. He already had his keys in his free hand, and had managed to stop his pacing to fix Phoenix with an almost-steady gaze. The tone of this conversation was awfully familiar....

“No, I’m not. The movie’s not over yet,” Phoenix replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I’d really like to see it through to the end.” Miles raked a hand through his hair and started his pacing again. The other seemed to be chained inside his trouser pocket. “Why exactly do we ‘have to go’?”

Silence. Silence and quick, long steps. Phoenix wasn’t about to put up with it this time. It wasn’t as though Miles could throw him out of the cinema. Phoenix took a few steps of his own and intercepted his boyfriend just as he began to make a turn; Miles made a strangled little noise and covered his mouth.

“Are you going to tell me?” Phoenix asked quietly, and lightly grasped Miles’ arm. Miles allowed a long, silent space to fall between them before he forced out some words.

“I-it’s... I... it’s... the same,” he muttered from behind his hand. “Please, just... let’s just go. I— I’ll....”

Okay, so maybe Miles hadn’t been lying about this being a problem. But when would they begin to solve it, if not now? The solution was right in front of them.

“Come on,” Phoenix sighed, exasperated, and tugged lightly at the front of Miles’ sweater-vest. “The bathroom’s right—”

“D-don’t! Don’t....” He resisted. Miles’ breaths were coming deep and fast, and the hand with his keys pressed alternately at his mouth and his crimson forehead.

“What’re you going to do, exactly?” Phoenix leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “What? You’d prefer to wet yourself than go in there?”

Miles didn’t respond; he only shook his head unevenly.

“Well, then,” Phoenix reasoned, “you can go to the bathroom, and I’ll—”

“I can’t!” Miles cried abruptly. He shook his head again, wildly this time, and Phoenix was forced to let go of him as he bent at the waist and wheezed loudly against his hand. People were beginning to stare. “I can’t, I can’t, I can not....”

Phoenix was stunned into inaction by Miles’ near-childish display for a few seconds. He could do nothing but join the starers, at least until an explanation bubbled to the surface of his thoughts.

“L-look, I didn’t mean for it to go this far, okay?” He whispered, and tried putting himself between his partner and the gawkers by the concessions. “I just... wasn’t sure if you were being honest with me about this stuff. You weren’t telling me anything, and... I just wanted to help!” He stopped, and chanced putting a hand on Miles’ shaking shoulder. “But I see, now... we can leave....”

Several moments and many unsteady breaths passed before Miles managed a response.

“‘It’?” He gasped, “‘It’? What is ‘it?

“...What?”

“What is ‘it? What you... ‘didn’t mean to go this far’?” Thankfully, the panic seemed to be filtering out of his voice; instead, it was rapidly being replaced by a sort of furious hissing. Phoenix took a quick step back.

“Oh, I... uh... this, you know... the movies,” he replied, on a ghost of a laugh. “It seemed like a good time to find out... test this... thing... with the, uh, double-feature and all....”

“Oh... my God....” Miles began backing away, still crouched over; Phoenix followed him closely.

“Come on, Miles, we can go now,” Phoenix said, and tried a smile. Miles had made it to the side door and reached out, backwards, to press the bar with his free hand. “It’s really all—”

“Don’t you dare speak to me any more, Phoenix Wright!” Miles cried, and dashed out the double-doors. Before Phoenix could think of a response, Miles had made his way across the parking lot through the scorching afternoon sun.

“Miles, just—wait!” Phoenix called after him out the door. But he was too late. Miles’ cherry red sports car was already racing out towards the road, leaving him behind with the group of chattering onlookers.

Edited by HoneyBeam521 (see edit history)
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I love this story so much! I never comment on here but damn this really deserve some more appreciation. I guess that most people here prefer female desperation and I always struggle to find male desperation fiction (I think I read them all by now). Also M/M are my favorite.

I found this really hot and I am dying to know how it will go on, especially since Miles haven't talked about it yet. I wonder how many times he has been desperate and just hid it...

Anyway I really love your style and the fact that it is somewhat angst, it's just perfect. I felt so bad when I realized it was unfinished, so I went to AO3 and read the 4th chapter there and then I read your other stories about them. Yes, you've got a fan now, I loved them all very much, especially your description of the desperation. I am not familiar with the fandom, but I love the enemies/rivals to lovers and I have a kink for uptight, dignified characters in omorashi situations (ex. Draco Malfoy).

Can't wait for the next chapter! Also, I think we could have fun chatting about our fav fanfic since it is so rare to find lovers of male desperation :3

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On 5/5/2020 at 9:04 PM, HoneyBeam521 said:

Chapter 2a: Parfait d'Amour

It didn’t take long for Phoenix or Miles to climb down from their respective high towers and attempt to make amends. When Phoenix checked his phone the morning after, he found that he’d already received several short texts:

Wright—

I hope this missive finds you well.

I apologize for the events of last night.

We needn’t discuss them any further.

Enjoy your day.

-Miles Edgeworth

This was a bit of a problem.

Not because his boyfriend would never realize the difference between a text message and a letter to the Attorney General, though that was also something they’d have to discuss. No, it was because, apologetic though the message began, it ended with demanding that Phoenix forget.

He would have liked to have forgotten. He really would have. It was all pretty embarrassing, and, though he was still a little sore about being shoved out of his partner’s apartment that night, he preferred for them to remain on good and clear terms with one another.

But now that seemed impossible. It had been difficult enough trying to wade his way through the intricacies of a relationship with Miles Edgeworth from the start—adding this thing, a thing he would never have imagined could be a problem, transformed the path of their relationship from a long but comprehensible labyrinth into a maze. And Phoenix had already found a dead-end.

He couldn’t allow himself to be trapped by it. What would happen to them in the future if he did? Would they never make it past this mincing half-on half-off period? Would they ever be able to live together if this continued on?

Phoenix picked up his phone and texted rapidly:

thanks 🙂 but i really think we should talk about it

call me when u get the chance?

Phoenix went about getting ready for work with his phone’s volume turned up to full-blast, and heard nothing by the time he left the house. All day he found himself checking, opening his phone again and again to the same stock photo of a palm tree and no notifications. The phone rang once, and he jumped on the call, only to have a cheerful, robotic voice from his local pharmacy informing him that his prescription was ready to be picked up.

By the time the evening rolled around, Phoenix was grousing again. Even Trucy’s latest fire-ring trick couldn’t cheer him like it should have. So, after the fire department had cleared off, he gave up and went to bed early.

Just as he was drifting to sleep, Phoenix’s phone gave a deafening PING and vibrated. Miles, responding at last.

Wright—

Would you care to dine together tomorrow evening?

We can go to Cellini’s. It’s been some time.

-Miles Edgeworth

Damn it.

Phoenix groaned and covered his eyes. So. He was right. Miles really was going to pretend that the “events of last night” had never happened. He would take Phoenix out to dinner and hope that everything would be forgotten over an expensive meal and a few glasses of wine—and he wasn’t wrong to think it was possible.

But Phoenix was determined that he wouldn’t be swayed this time. Their happiness together was at stake! Did Miles really think that they would live apart forever? That he would always be able to run home, alone, whenever he had to use the toilet? Phoenix had said so before, and he would say it again: It didn’t make sense.

Phoenix would go to dinner, of course. But he wouldn’t like it, at least not until he was able to make something of it.

He and Miles arrived at Cellini’s in comfortable style by cab the following evening, where they were seated at once and poured generous glasses of ice water. Miles took up his glass perfectly nonchalantly and drained about half of it as he perused the wine list. Within a few minutes, they were sipping some species of white wine, and Miles was attempting to strike up a conversation.

Phoenix offered up responses and a little commentary here and there, but found that he just couldn’t tear his immediate focus away from all of the... liquid. First the water, which was gone from Miles’ glass by the time the waiter returned for their order, then the wine. Phoenix did his best not to gawk, to subtly observe his boyfriend behind some menu or other as he would’ve behind a hand of cards. The effort was unsettling. When, exactly, had he become a creepy piss-based voyeur?

Miles seemed not to notice. He didn’t say anything, anyway, and his expressions betrayed no suspicion. Not even when Phoenix went to the bathroom about halfway through the night and floundered awkwardly around the once-simple words.

“I’m, uh... I’m... going to the bathroom, I guess,” he stammered. Miles was supremely unaffected. “If... uh... if....”

“Don’t worry, Phoenix. I’ll let the waiter know that you want more bread,” Miles returned with a touch of a smirk. Phoenix allowed his companion to think he knew what he had been going to say and scampered off.

Dinner passed amiably, if anxiously. By the time Phoenix had returned from the bathroom a second time, they’d finished with their salads and entrees, and, by the grace of his second glass of wine, he’d had at last built up the courage to address the problem head-on.

“So, Miles,” he began, “about... um... the other night... I was—”

“No,” Miles interrupted, a low note of sound deep in his throat. “I’ve said already that the subject is closed.”

“But Miles—”

“Now, what would you like for a nightcap? Some brandy, perhaps?”

“I don’t think so, but—”

“Perhaps a cream liqueur?”

“No! Just—come on, we really need to—”

“Sommelier!” Miles commanded, and at once a servile middle-aged man with a permanent bend to his back was grinning at Miles’ elbow. “Two cocktails, if you would. Parfait d’amour and gin. And a suspicion of rosolio, if you’ve any on hand. Shaken well.”

The man replied with a servile phrase and—if possible—a deepening of his bow. Miles worried the stem of his wine glass between his fingers for a silent moment.

“We don’t ‘need’ to discuss anything more,” he answered at last, and finished off his wine; Phoenix found himself watching the motion, rapt. Two glasses of wine, plus the entire glass of water, and a cocktail was coming. “We hadn’t spoken of it before. We never needed to. I don’t see that it bears further examination; it’s barely even a subject.”

“But how do you expect us to get anywhere together if you’re doing—whatever this is?” Phoenix demanded. He’d been quick to ask, but the sommelier (a man Phoenix suspected of being your standard barman, but for whom Miles liked the title) was faster, and he’d already returned to their table with a pair of subtly blue cocktails. Phoenix took his in hand but refused the beginnings of a toast in Miles’ raised glass and parted lips. The man scowled faintly and sipped at his drink.

“I think we can manage it,” Miles grated behind his glass, “if only we stop harping on the minutest details of our existence together. You’ll notice that it barely affects us.”

You think it’s “minute?” You think we’ll “manage” if we have to be totally separated every few hours? Or if we never live together at all? Does that “barely affect us”?

Phoenix tried to distract himself from his thoughts with a tiny taste of his cocktail, which was immediately spit back out into his napkin.

“Oh my God! What’s that supposed to taste like?!” He gasped, and dove for what remained of his water. Miles smirked.

“Violets and roses,” he returned airily, and took another sip of the disgusting concoction. Phoenix gawked—openly this time.

“God... it’s like... drinking your grandmother’s perfume,” Phoenix breathed. “Trust you to find the worst combination imaginable. And probably the gayest.”

Miles’ near-snort into his own cocktail surprised them both, and then they were smiling again. By the end of the evening, comfort had made its way around their table. Dark, warm, smothering comfort that settled in Phoenix’s brain and caught every stray thought in its sticky influence.

How long has it been since he’s been to the bathroom? How many times have I been since we got here? Twice? Is he okay? He seems okay... but it’s been hours....

“Are you ready to go?”

Phoenix focused his eyes. Miles was gazing at him over his small collection of empty glasses.

“Are you?” Phoenix asked sharply.

“Yes, I’ve been for some time,” he said, stood, and offered his hand to Phoenix as he made his way around the table. “I hope you’ve found the evening pleasant.”

He had. And he hadn’t. Frankly, Phoenix considered the date to have been nothing more than a frustrating waste of time. Was this what it was like to live the same fastidious life as Miles: needing to find the answer to something; being physically and mentally unable to rest until it was found?

He didn’t know how he did it. This life was not only very dispiriting—it was exhausting. Every time Phoenix interacted with Miles, it was a new, draining slog. He would wonder, but could never actually address. He would watch him, just as he did over dinner; he would try to listen for changes in his voice when they spoke, in-person or over the phone. He began to try to catch him at inopportune times—just as he left work, unexpectedly over the weekend—but still discovered absolutely nothing. Not the barest inkling that something was amiss, not even at the oddest time and place.

Once a couple of weeks had passed with no tells whatsoever, Phoenix began to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t some kind of bizarre fabrication on Miles’ part. The excuse had worked, after all: It had gotten Phoenix to leave the apartment that night without being insulting to his character. The excuse Miles had chosen was incredibly strange—mortifying, even—but, then, Phoenix couldn’t pretend that he’d ever fully understood everything Miles did and said.

There was nothing else for it, Phoenix decided. He’d have to test the matter.

Chapter 2b: The Plan

Later, years later, when Phoenix was reminded of this plan, he could only shove it to the back of his mind and hope that nothing ever prompted him to open that particular memory box again. But when the plan had first occurred to him, he’d considered it a stroke of genius.

Two Sundays after That Night, as Phoenix had come to think of it, he invited Miles out to the movies. A Hitchcock festival was going on at the local cinema, and he knew that his partner would agree to go. Miles Edgeworth never could say no to an afternoon of pretension.

It was a bright, hot day outside, and a relief to step into the biting breeze of the cinema’s air conditioner. Phoenix had just about worked out the last detail of his plan; as soon as their tickets were torn, he took Miles’ hand and led him over to the concession stand.

“I suppose I’m buying,” Miles grumbled. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

“Thanks, Miles,” Phoenix crooned in return, and began perusing the menu. “Let’s see... we’ll have a large popcorn, and a box of caramels, and a large grape soda, and... what do you want?”

Miles considered for a moment. “An unsweetened iced tea, please.”

“Miles!” Phoenix cried, offended by his partner’s unmitigated drabness.

“What size iced tea?” The cashier asked listlessly.

“A sm—”

“Large, please,” Phoenix cut in. He smiled at Miles’ scowl. “What? You won’t get your money’s worth with a small. At least get the large so you can take the refill home.”

Miles sighed, but didn’t resist. Laden with snacks, they made their way into the mostly-empty theatre and took seats in the very back just as the previews were beginning.

The film—“Psycho,” as it turned out—opened uncomfortably. After a just a few seconds of black-and-white voyeurism, Phoenix had to avert his eyes. He looked towards his boyfriend instead, whose face was highlighted by the silvery light of the screen; smiling, he laced their fingers together. Miles allowed it, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at Phoenix for the entirety of the showing, as a matter of fact. When Phoenix tried to comment, he shushed him; when Phoenix jumped and cried out during the notorious shower stabbing, he did no more than smirk a little and take a sip of his tea.

Post-first killing, Phoenix found himself more susceptible to distraction. Not to say that the rest of the film wasn’t interesting—it featured more of the strikingly handsome leading man, after all—but Phoenix had been reminded of his intended focus.

It was still an awkward focus, even after the last couple of weeks spent watching. Phoenix longed to return to playing the cinematic voyeur instead, but the movie didn’t allow it. So, he was back to subtly staring at Miles, watching his every move and every taste of his shockingly boring choice of beverage. Fortunately for him, Phoenix was released from his creepy bonds when Miles decided to rattle the ice at the bottom of his empty cup, and Phoenix could at last return to concentrating on the movie.

“Well, that was... something,” he pronounced when the lights came up.

“Indeed,” Miles replied. He hadn’t moved to stand, but instead looked absently towards the black screen as he toyed with the straw on his drink. “One forgets about Hitchcock’s mastery of visual storytelling after awhile away.”

“Uh-huh... but... what was with Bates’ voice-over?”

“Excuse me?” Phoenix scratched his neck in response to the sudden scrutiny.

“Well, I mean... you know... the woman’s voice. It seemed a little weird.” Miles raised his eyebrows all the way into his long, silvery bangs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Hitchcock’s still a genius and all, but, I mean—”

“Weren’t you paying any attention to the last few scenes?” Phoenix let go a kind of half-laugh.

“I... well, not really. I got... distracted. The—uh—drinks and all,” he admitted. Miles graced him with a smile and stood. Phoenix paused for a second; his heart may or may not have stopped in that time. “I’m going to the bathroom!”

“Fine. I’m going to see about more tea,” Miles replied, and moved off in the direction of the concession stand. A few minutes later, feeling significantly more composed, Phoenix met him there, unable to keep a knowing smile off his face.

“So... are you ready?” He asked. Miles nodded in reply.

“Yes. Shall I drop you off at your home on the way, or is there somewhere else you’d like to go?” He inquired mildly, and reached for his keys in the pocket of his slacks. Phoenix’s voice fluttered a little as he suppressed a giggle.

“Oh, Miles... I meant for the next movie! Double-feature, remember?” Phoenix waggled his ticket stub. The stub did, in fact, list two movies. Phoenix had insisted upon buying the tickets, and it was a stroke of pure luck for him that Miles hadn’t looked at his—this plan hinged pretty heavily on his boyfriend’s ignorance. “The next one’s starting in a couple minutes. Don’t want to miss the previews, do we? Course, they might be the same as last time... it being an older movie and all.... Hey, are you even listening to me?”

It was difficult to tell. Miles’ gaze had shifted slightly while Phoenix was talking to him, and it fell somewhere on the wall behind him instead of on his face. Phoenix sighed and took Miles’ hand to lead him back into the theatre; he found it rather clammy.

“Come on,” Phoenix prodded. “Let’s get back in. They’re showing—what’s it called?—‘Infamous’?”

“Yes... I think that’s it,” Miles replied distantly.

“Yeah, that one. The one with the Invisible Man or whatever. Come on—it’s just about to start!” With another tug at his hand, Miles at last allowed Phoenix to pull him back into the dimmed theatre.

Honestly, Phoenix wondered why they’d saved this movie for last. “Notorious” (the title card corrected him) wasn’t exactly the same thrill that “Psycho” had been. It was all political intrigue and vaguely attractive people becoming vaguely irritating lovers. There as something about riding clubs, men with two first names and tailing Nazis to Brazil. It was hard to follow, but Phoenix tried. The first stage of his plan was finished except for the waiting, after all—might as well watch the film he’d shelled out for.

Phoenix had just about worked out what was going on by the time the leading lady was revealing the villain’s intentions to marry her. The leading man stormed out at this, grumbling about “women who never changed.”

Miles chose that moment to storm out, as well; Phoenix wouldn’t have noticed but for the fact that Miles’ hand suddenly tore away from his, leaving it horribly cold and moist. Phoenix followed briskly behind him.

“What is it?” Phoenix asked Miles as soon as he caught up with him. He’d found him pacing furiously outside the theatre door. “You could’ve told me you were going to—”

“We have to go. Are you ready?” Miles cut across him. He already had his keys in his free hand, and had managed to stop his pacing to fix Phoenix with an almost-steady gaze. The tone of this conversation was awfully familiar....

“No, I’m not. The movie’s not over yet,” Phoenix replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I’d really like to see it through to the end.” Miles raked a hand through his hair and started his pacing again. The other seemed to be chained inside his trouser pocket. “Why exactly do we ‘have to go’?”

Silence. Silence and quick, long steps. Phoenix wasn’t about to put up with it this time. It wasn’t as though Miles could throw him out of the cinema. Phoenix took a few steps of his own and intercepted his boyfriend just as he began to make a turn; Miles made a strangled little noise and covered his mouth.

“Are you going to tell me?” Phoenix asked quietly, and lightly grasped Miles’ arm. Miles allowed a long, silent space to fall between them before he forced out some words.

“I-it’s... I... it’s... the same,” he muttered from behind his hand. “Please, just... let’s just go. I— I’ll....”

Okay, so maybe Miles hadn’t been lying about this being a problem. But when would they begin to solve it, if not now? The solution was right in front of them.

“Come on,” Phoenix sighed, exasperated, and tugged lightly at the front of Miles’ sweater-vest. “The bathroom’s right—”

“D-don’t! Don’t....” He resisted. Miles’ breaths were coming deep and fast, and the hand with his keys pressed alternately at his mouth and his crimson forehead.

“What’re you going to do, exactly?” Phoenix leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “What? You’d prefer to wet yourself than go in there?”

Miles didn’t respond; he only shook his head unevenly.

“Well, then,” Phoenix reasoned, “you can go to the bathroom, and I’ll—”

“I can’t!” Miles cried abruptly. He shook his head again, wildly this time, and Phoenix was forced to let go of him as he bent at the waist and wheezed loudly against his hand. People were beginning to stare. “I can’t, I can’t, I can not....”

Phoenix was stunned into inaction by Miles’ near-childish display for a few seconds. He could do nothing but join the starers, at least until an explanation bubbled to the surface of his thoughts.

“L-look, I didn’t mean for it to go this far, okay?” He whispered, and tried putting himself between his partner and the gawkers by the concessions. “I just... wasn’t sure if you were being honest with me about this stuff. You weren’t telling me anything, and... I just wanted to help!” He stopped, and chanced putting a hand on Miles’ shaking shoulder. “But I see, now... we can leave....”

Several moments and many unsteady breaths passed before Miles managed a response.

“‘It’?” He gasped, “‘It’? What is ‘it?

“...What?”

“What is ‘it? What you... ‘didn’t mean to go this far’?” Thankfully, the panic seemed to be filtering out of his voice; instead, it was rapidly being replaced by a sort of furious hissing. Phoenix took a quick step back.

“Oh, I... uh... this, you know... the movies,” he replied, on a ghost of a laugh. “It seemed like a good time to find out... test this... thing... with the, uh, double-feature and all....”

“Oh... my God....” Miles began backing away, still crouched over; Phoenix followed him closely.

“Come on, Miles, we can go now,” Phoenix said, and tried a smile. Miles had made it to the side door and reached out, backwards, to press the bar with his free hand. “It’s really all—”

“Don’t you dare speak to me any more, Phoenix Wright!” Miles cried, and dashed out the double-doors. Before Phoenix could think of a response, Miles had made his way across the parking lot through the scorching afternoon sun.

“Miles, just—wait!” Phoenix called after him out the door. But he was too late. Miles’ cherry red sports car was already racing out towards the road, leaving him behind with the group of chattering onlookers.

Oh wow well written quality male omorashi. Anxious for the next predictments! If I were to say sth.. I guess maybe Miles need Phoenix to caress/torture his tummy to ‘help’ or some devilish fetish ideas.. luvin you're story.

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On 5/19/2020 at 1:26 PM, ErzaCrane said:

I love this story so much! I never comment on here but damn this really deserve some more appreciation. I guess that most people here prefer female desperation and I always struggle to find male desperation fiction (I think I read them all by now). Also M/M are my favorite.

I found this really hot and I am dying to know how it will go on, especially since Miles haven't talked about it yet. I wonder how many times he has been desperate and just hid it...

Anyway I really love your style and the fact that it is somewhat angst, it's just perfect. I felt so bad when I realized it was unfinished, so I went to AO3 and read the 4th chapter there and then I read your other stories about them. Yes, you've got a fan now, I loved them all very much, especially your description of the desperation. I am not familiar with the fandom, but I love the enemies/rivals to lovers and I have a kink for uptight, dignified characters in omorashi situations (ex. Draco Malfoy).

Can't wait for the next chapter! Also, I think we could have fun chatting about our fav fanfic since it is so rare to find lovers of male desperation :3

Aah, thank you sooo much for this lovely comment! I've been a bit distracted by my non-omo fics of late, and life in general. But I plan to work on it more this week! I'm delighted to find another fan of this sort of thing (particularly the uptight characters in omorashi situations bit; that really is my favorite); hope that you continue to enjoy it!! ❤️

On 5/29/2020 at 12:01 PM, eucoloco said:

Oh wow well written quality male omorashi. Anxious for the next predictments! If I were to say sth.. I guess maybe Miles need Phoenix to caress/torture his tummy to ‘help’ or some devilish fetish ideas.. luvin you're story.

Thank you very much for reading and reviewing!! And complimenting! :3 I do have ideas for the future... what you say makes me unsure if I should montage them as I was planning, though, or go into some deep omorashi-based detail... maybe I should do the latter, in the interests of making this more of a true omo fic....

Edited by HoneyBeam521 (see edit history)
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  • 2 weeks later...
On 6/17/2020 at 12:25 PM, Anji said:

I really, really love that! I like the anime. I like you brought magatama to the fic. Also, I have a little of paruresis (not extreme like Miles). It's perfect! 😍

Please, keep writing! ❤️

Thank you so much!! I'm about to post a couple more chapters that have already/are about to make it to AO3. I've been delaying the omorashi content too much because of my desire to go off on an emotional tangent-- but I think, finally, chapter seven should have some omorashi stuff! Hope you continue to like it!

A/N: Sorry about any chapter number confusion. And the fact that this has been posted to AO3 for some time if you're looking for new content. But I think I'll post my next new chapter here first, and then, after that one, I think I MAY ACTUALLY have cause to insert more omo content....

Chapter IV: The Pall

How did this happen?

Phoenix wondered miserably as he cleaned the toilet.

We were doing so well together!

He scraped the brush violently along the underside of the rim.

We’d talked about so much!

He squirted some more pungent blue fluid around the bowl and began scrubbing hard.

We’d never had any issues before... well, maybe a few disagreements here and there... but now....

Phoenix barely registered his fleet-footed juniors sneaking into the doorway. He was much too concerned with eradicating what was clearly a permanent stain.

“Uh... Mr. Wright?” Apollo began tentatively, “Are you okay?”

“Just fine, thanks,” Phoenix grumbled in return, and hit the stain all the harder. He could hear Athena’s gloved hand clenching into a fist somewhere behind him.

“Oh, come on, Boss. We’re not idiots. We can tell when you’re not filled with the old joie du vivre,” she insisted. “I mean... have you seen your office recently?”

“Yeah, of course I have!” Phoenix replied at once. “And I know for a fact that it looks great right now!”

“See, that’s my point,” Athena continued, took a few more steps into the room, and closed the toilet lid on her employer. He dropped his brush and frowned up into her too-concerned face. “It never ‘looks great.’ And you’ve cleaned the toilet, what—four times this week?”

“Only three,” Phoenix mumbled under his breath.

“Well, I think we all know that there’s something going on with you,” she said firmly. “I mean... even Apollo noticed it.”

“Hey!”

“I’m sorry, guys... it’s not something I really think we should be talking about,” Phoenix sighed, stood, and reluctantly began peeling the rubber gloves off his hands. “It’s kind of... personal.”

Athena put her hands on her hips. “It’s about Mr. Edgeworth, isn’t it?”

Athena—!” Apollo hissed. Phoenix had much the same reaction, only his next instinct was to take a large step backward. Luckily the closed toilet lid meant that they didn’t have to spend the rest of the afternoon unjamming Phoenix’s foot from said toilet.

“Athena,” Phoenix said again, a little more calmly, “there’s nothing wrong with me and Mr. Edgeworth. You don’t have to worry.”

Apollo’s hand shot to his wrist, and the thing around Athena’s neck flared a bright crimson. Naturally, Athena was the first to speak again, and, naturally, Apollo had to make a valiant effort at reining her in.

“We do have to worry, Boss! You’ve been neglecting your cases in favor of all this—” She waved her free arm vaguely around the bathroom. “Why? Because of all the clients we’ve got pouring in? Come on, Mr. Wright. There’s something wrong with you two. I know. You’ve been moping for—how long? Days? And I haven’t heard Mr. Edgeworth call your cell once in all that time.”

“How did you—?!” Phoenix gasped. “N-never mind. Okay, so I guess we haven’t been... talking... for a little while... but it’s really no problem.”

“Mr. Wright,” Apollo said lowly, and fixed Phoenix with a piercing brown gaze. It only took a few seconds of locked eyes for Phoenix to fold and throw his arms up in the air in exasperation.

“Okay, so it is a problem! But it’s nothing that I can’t manage by myself, so why don’t you guys just get back to your own work if you’re so worried about the Agency?” He shot, picked up his bucket of cleaning supplies, and pushed past them through the cluttered entryway and into his office. The place had been transfigured in the past seventy hours or so into a pristine haven of shiny surfaces and the faint scent of lemon cleaning solution.

“We just want to help,” Athena said as she trotted along after him, with Apollo a step or two behind her. Phoenix frowned again, this time at his own reflection sulking eerily in the surface of his desk. “After all... this office doesn’t run the same without us all in tip-top shape.” She grinned, and glanced over her shoulder at her senior associate. “Isn’t that right, Apollo?”

“Oh! Um... yeah,” he agreed, rubbing a recently-elbowed bicep. “If we can do anything, we’d be glad to.”

Phoenix sighed and turned his eyes up to the ceiling instead. He’d missed some cobwebs in the corners.

“It’s just... I thought things were going great between me and Edgeworth,” he muttered upwards. “Then this... thing... got in the way....”

“What was it?” Athena gasped. She watched her employer quietly for an entire moment before waving her hands animatedly in his face. “Wait—don’t tell me! There was a B.O.C.!”

“A what?” Apollo and Phoenix said in unison. Athena furrowed her brow between them.

“A Breach of Confidentiality, of course! Come on, guys, how long has it been since you went to school?” Athena shook her head and continued, “Anyway... I always wondered if that might not happen when you and Mr. Edgeworth started seeing each other. You know so many dark secrets as a criminal lawyer. I knew it could only be so long before you let something slip in a moment of passion and ended up ruining something big—”

Athena!” Phoenix cut in. “Two things: One, you clearly spend too much time imagining your employer’s love life. Two, it’s not that.” He sighed. “It’s a lot worse than that.”

“What is it, then?” Athena tried again softly. “Like I said: We just want to know what it is.... To help.”

“So do I,” Phoenix muttered, and stood. He took a few steps behind his desk, then turned back to his juniors. Athena was looking as bright-eyed and intense as ever; Apollo, distinctly discomfited. “I really don’t know everything myself. It’s... some kind of anxious problem, I think.”

“Oh, I know this one!” Athena leapt on Phoenix’s words. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. Apollo says it happens to every guy sometimes!”

A suddenly-red Apollo made an indistinguishable noise from his side of the desk, and muttered something at the floor.

“No... it’s not that, and it’s not me. It’s Edgeworth. He’s the one with the problem,” Phoenix sighed. There was a space of silence; he began to feel his skin crawl with an inexplicable irritation. “What? What did I say?”

“Well, nothing, Mr. Wright, but....” Apollo trailed off before starting again with a bit more conviction, “I mean... you’re sure it’s Mr. Edgeworth who has the problem?”

“You’re sure it isn’t you? I mean, he’s the one who hasn’t been calling,” Athena added helpfully. Phoenix looked back and forth between them several times.

“What? No! It isn’t me!” Phoenix defended himself. “I mean... I don’t think I... helped, exactly... but I wanted to! I was trying to! It just didn’t work out!”

“Then just tell us what it is already, um Himmels Willen!” Athena slammed the palms of her hands down on Phoenix’s desk and glared at him across it. So much for “pristine.” “For the hundredth time: We’d really like to help. Apollo and I both want to see this place picking up new cases again, and we can’t do it without you at the helm.”

Phoenix allowed a bit of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t tell you everything,” he said slowly. “It’d be a—what did you call it?—a ‘B.O.C.’. I probably wouldn’t get sanctioned, but... I don’t think I’d have long to live afterwards. All I know is that it’s really... weird, and really complicated. It’s led me and Edgeworth into two fights so far, and I really don’t know what to do about it.”

“Didn’t you say you think this is an ‘anxious’ thing?” Apollo asked. Phoenix nodded. “Well, then... maybe you should look it up. Research it a little.”

“Yeah! Break out a book for once in your life!” Athena cheered.

“I was thinking more like searching the internet, but... yeah, essentially. Anxiety’s a difficult thing. You can’t always take a hammer to it.” Phoenix nodded again. Apollo was probably right. The last time Phoenix had tried “hammering” it, he’d come out less another thirty dollars in cab fare, and, it seemed, all hope of further boyfriendly affection. “You might have to know something about the reasons and the triggers before you can do anything about it.”

Athena chimed in, “Plus, if you haven’t been talking, maybe taking an interest could warm him up again!”

Phoenix looked around at his junior associates and marveled, bathing in the first pleasant silence he’d known in weeks.

“Apollo, Athena...” he said, with a smile, a shrug and a sigh, “have I ever mentioned how brilliant you guys are?”

“Oh, Boss, you don’t have to worry about that,” Athena chirped through a toothy grin. “Not when quarterly bonuses speak for themselves!”

Phoenix raised his eyebrows. “Umm, yeah, about—”

“Come on, Apollo! Let’s leave Mr. Wright to his research!”

With that, Athena dragged the still-pink Apollo out of the office, leaving Phoenix alone with his slightly cheerier reflection.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took Phoenix longer than he would have liked to find what he was looking for during his “research.”

It was awkward enough having to think in any depth about Miles’ issues; having to transcribe them into some comprehensible form in a search engine was just about the end of him—particularly when he shared a computer with his daughter, and particularly when he forgot to clear his search history one evening. But, eventually, he made it: from fumbling pee-based sentences to a term, and from a term to websites, books and articles.

After a few nights’ worth of bookmarks and notes and total cell silence, Phoenix was ready. That night—three weeks after That Night—he decided to make a call.

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A/N: Just a short phone call to set things up.

Chapter V: The Phone Call

“Edgeworth speaking.”

Phoenix stopped, struck hard by the wall of formality.

Edgeworth speaking,” the voice repeated, now with a distinct edge.

“Hey,” Phoenix greeted airily. Perhaps a bit too airily, as he was interrupted almost immediately.

“What do you want, Wright?”

There wasn’t as much outright anger as he’d anticipated. There was something else: weariness.

“Um... what’s with all the ‘Wright’s and ‘Edgeworth’s?” Phoenix asked tentatively.

A second of silence, then: “I think that we rather left first names behind, wouldn’t you say? At the cinema?

Phoenix had holed himself in his bedroom for this call, thrown on some sweatpants and crawled under his covers, and yet he still felt a nauseating chill pass through him.

“I... uh....”

Yes?” So pointed and smooth. Phoenix swallowed.

“It’s just... uh....”

“Wright, if you have nothing of any pertinence to say to me, I’m hanging up.”

“It’s just... I... uh... wanted to talk to you about your... problem....”

“....”

“...Hello? Are you—?”

 “I’m hanging up.”

“No—wait, wait, wait—just—” Phoenix scrambled for the right words, “just—listen for a second, would you?!”

There was a silence. Not just a pause, but several long, empty moments. Miles couldn’t have hung up, though. Phoenix checked his phone; they were still connected. After a little while, he could hear Miles breathing quietly on the other end.

“Wright,” he sighed eventually. Or perhaps it was “Right.” It was impossible to be entirely sure. Just as it was impossible for Phoenix to actually see the scowl adorning Miles’ face, though he was sure it was there. He thought he heard the whisper of a hand passing across a forehead, too. “All right. For a second. I’ll give you a minute, even, if you want it.”

“Uh... right.” Phoenix cleared his throat and went on, “So, you see, I know I went about things all wrong the other day, for starters. I messed up. I’m really sorry about that.” There was a small, derisive sniff on the other end of the call. “But I’ve been looking into all this stuff of yours—paruresis, the sites call it? Is that how you pronounce it?—and I really think that I could actually help. You know... you. With it.”

It was so much harder than he’d pictured it. Phoenix had had it all laid out in his head: He called, and confidently informed his estranged lover that he would do everything he could to lead him out of his bizarre form of despair. Miles naturally, gratefully, accepted. Together, they followed all the guides Phoenix had discovered with ease, and, within a month, all of their problems were resolved and they were happily living in some fashionable spot together.

In reality, there was a lot more silence than he would’ve liked. Every time he finished another one of his disjointed sentences, Miles took that time plus a half to even begin to reply. And every quiet moment made Phoenix begin sweating anew.

“That was hardly a minute,” Miles mumbled, low enough to have been to himself. Phoenix forged ahead.

“Well?”

“‘Well’ what?

“Well... what do you think? About the help?” Phoenix sighed, “And, please, just answer me this time.”

“I....” Phoenix couldn’t help but to smile a little at Miles’ obvious discomfort. “I... well... I— why does it matter to you?”

“What?”

“Why does it matter?” Miles hissed lowly into his phone, as if he feared being overheard. Phoenix could suddenly hear every one of his breaths blowing into the microphone, and every hard syllable as it left Miles’ lips. “It didn’t matter until you... made it matter. I don’t see that it requires resolution. If we both simply continue on as we have been—”

“That’s just it Miles! Don’t you get it?!” Phoenix burst in. “I don’t want to ‘continue on as we have been’! I’m tired of you refusing to talk to me. I’m tired of this—this—lukewarm romance! I love you, Miles, and I want us to be together—together, you know? I want to see you all the time, every day... and... I don’t really see it happening if we just ignore something that’s going to keep us apart.”

Phoenix would have given anything to see Miles’ face just then. To know if he met with the idea with any hint of pleasure or shock. Revulsion, even. But he was given nothing, nothing at all but harsh, uneven breathing.

“Miles?” Phoenix asked quietly, before being shushed.

“I—I—”

“It’s okay. Take your time,” Phoenix replied in what he hoped was a soothing voice. Miles made a few more abortive attempts at replying before managing to speak coherently:

“I... I love you, too, Phoenix.” It came out in a whisper, so soft that Phoenix might have missed it altogether if he hadn’t been pressing the phone so tight to his ear. “And I would like us to be... together... as you say... but....”

“It is possible,” Phoenix supplied, sensing the probable end to his boyfriend’s sentence. “I’ve read that it’s possible. Other people have done it, especially when they’ve got someone there to help. I’ve learned a lot these past few days.”

“Where from?” Miles asked, clearly skeptical.

“The internet, of course.” Miles gave another haughty sniff in reply. “Hey, how did you expect me to find out about it? You didn’t even tell me what it was called.”

“No. No, you’re right,” Miles conceded. “Your research seems to have led you down the right path... for once. A shame you don’t put the same effort into your cases.”

What? I—I put so much time into my last trial case! I had about twelve billable hours in research alone!” Phoenix cried. But he’d heard the smile in Miles’ voice; the grain of defensiveness in him was quick to crumble. “It doesn’t really matter, though. He’s looking like another candidate for pro bono anyway. And I didn’t call you to talk about work.”

“Well... what more do you want to talk about, then?” Miles’ voice came over, soft again; gentler.

Phoenix stopped, thinking. There was a lot he could’ve talked about. Sitting up in bed with the bedside lamp casting warm lights and shadows across him... he could’ve said anything. He’d imagined a lot, after all, while sitting in this exact spot in the middle of his over-large bed, illuminated by this light, wearing—or discarding—these same sweatpants... and Miles’ voice was there now, hanging just at the other end of the line, waiting for him—

“Phoenix?” It asked, suddenly, breaking and bolstering Phoenix’s reverie in the same word.

“Ah! Uh... what?” Phoenix gasped. Miles almost laughed, a little pleased hum of misplaced understanding into his phone. Phoenix shook his head sharply. “Right, I... really just wanted to schedule another time for us to meet up, to discuss this more. Whenever you can find it.” After a beat, Phoenix continued, “Soon. That can’t be too difficult, can it? I mean, you must be really good at finding time—”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Miles interrupted tersely. Maybe he wasn’t ready for jabs about this subject just yet. “Perhaps... Tuesday evening. I shall be off on Wednesday. We might have... sufficient time, then.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll bring my notes. Your place?”

“Yes. I’ll order something in for us.”

“Great.” Phoenix absently thumbed the waistband of his sweatpants. “So—uh—did you want to talk about... anything else?”

“No.” The reply was broad and firm; it left no room for argument. “I really must be going. I have another early morning tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Phoenix thought he masked the disappointment in his voice quite well. “Guess I’ll let you go then.”

“Thank you. Good night, Phoenix.”

“Good night, Miles.”

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A/N: Posting this here (only slightly, but still) prior to its AO3 release, as I've been neglecting this thread sorely. Hope you like it! I actually kind of do, as I feel like I'll be able to pivot pretty well from this into actual omo content....

Chapter VI: Parallax

The following Tuesday saw Phoenix back at Miles’ swanky apartment for the first time in weeks. The handsome brown leather and gunmetal corners of a briefcase didn’t exactly match with his short-sleeved button-up and jeans, but Phoenix hadn’t felt comfortable carrying his mountain of notes around in anything he couldn’t keep locked. So: the briefcase it was, unless he wanted to borrow one of Trucy’s trick chests.

He was let inside with a near-smile and greeted by a kitchen table filled with all the trappings of a cozy Italian dinner. The rich scent wafted warmly to him the moment he stepped in, and the dining room was wonderfully arranged, from the tall white candles to the fresh bread and pasta to the fragrant red wine. It could have been any other night from before That Night, and Phoenix was grateful for it.

He couldn’t quite tell if Miles was. Though he’d set up the dinner to perfection, and he sort-of smiled and he called Phoenix by his first name, little things seemed to oppose the idyllic setting: Miles fiddled with his wine glass periodically, only sipped at it once that Phoenix noticed, and he barely met Phoenix’s eyes. He did manage to laugh when Phoenix dropped a joke, but the sound fell out of him dry and unsteady.

When they were just about done with dinner, Phoenix reached across the table and grasped Miles’ chilly hand.

“You don’t have to worry so much,” he said, smiling and seeking his boyfriend’s leaden eyes. “We’re just going to talk tonight. And you can tell me as much or as little as you want. No pressure.” Miles smirked into his half-empty plate. “Come on, let’s get everything cleaned up. Then we can just relax and talk.”

“Yes... all right,” Miles said, and they adjourned to the sink. In about fifteen minutes they had all the food packed away and the dishes put into the dish washer; once their hands were dry, Phoenix took Miles’ once more and led him into the living room, a sleek, almost Spartan space decorated sparsely in black and white and glass. There, he let go of him again to flop down in an armchair situated at the end of the low glass-topped coffee table.

“Why don’t you take a seat on the couch? You can even lie down, if you want,” Phoenix offered. Miles narrowed his eyes.

“What are you, my therapist?” He asked, and gingerly set his wine down on the table.

“Your sexy therapist,” Phoenix replied with a tilt to an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. Miles let out another dry laugh (though Phoenix liked to think that it had a little more body than the last) and sat down on the middle couch cushion. Phoenix took up his briefcase and began shuffling through the papers inside until he found his first page of notes. “Aha! Now, then... like I said... I just wanted us to talk. Maybe you could just... start... by....” He perused the pages for a few seconds, “Uh... well, start by telling me a little bit about the problem.”

As always—or, rather, as it had been since all this had begun—Miles was silent. He fell at once into a state of contemplation, leaning forward with his elbow on his knee and a hand over his mouth. It was maybe thirty seconds before he replied, sighing,

“Well... I suppose that I didn’t think it a ‘problem’ until recently.” His gaze was fixed, focused just as it had been on That Night and during the intermission of the Cinema Disaster. “I... I had learned to live with it. Quite well, if I do say so myself. I—” He paused, and swallowed. “I never had to worry about waiting until I was home alone, or in a hotel en suite. I’d learned how to do everything I needed to. I... had control over it.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to tell me something about that,” Phoenix replied. Miles turned a rather wide gaze on him.

“About... what, precisely?” His voice wasn’t exactly tremulous, but it hardly sounded enthusiastic about leaving Miles’ mouth. Phoenix shrugged.

“I don’t know, just... how you ‘learned to live with it.’” Phoenix leaned back in his seat with his lapful of papers. Maybe, just maybe, if he managed a completely casual attitude, a little of his own tranquility might osmose into Miles. “I mean, I can’t say I have the biggest bladder around—” Miles seemed to choke a little, despite having not touched his wine— “but I also can’t imagine an entire work day without going to the bathroom. And what about when you travel? How do you do it?”

Red began filtering into Miles’ face at the question, starting with the very points of his cheeks and nose, and his gaze settled resolutely forward.

“I’ve... learned, very well, how much I can safely drink,” he murmured, nearly into his hand. “It took some time... but it was fairly simple to determine. Simple cause-and-effect. I’ve learned how to limit myself. At this point, I daresay that people don’t even notice.”

“I mean, you’re right. You’re definitely right. I never noticed,” Phoenix said. “But... doesn’t that hurt you?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied firmly. Phoenix frowned.

“Hmm... well, what about That Night?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean the night when you told me. About this.” Miles’ fingers drifted to rest wholly over his lips. “What went wrong?”

“I’d had two glasses of Lambrusco with dinner, and no water,” Miles replied after several moments, with his hand barely out of the way. “You were to stay until the end of the film, which would have put your departure at around 10 o’clock PM. At most I would expect some discomfort at that hour, nothing... damning.”

Phoenix raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And? What happened?”

“You fell asleep about halfway into the movie. With your head on my leg.” Miles paused, and the bit of his mouth that was visible crept into a smile. “You were so... adorable. I just couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”

“‘Adorable,’ eh?” Phoenix smiled too, and the once-skeptical eyebrow took on a distinct waggle. “Good to know. I’ll have to remember that. Make sure to fall asleep on you more often. But it would’ve been a lot better to know how adorable you find me before all of this went down.”

“I thought you were going for ‘sexy’ tonight,” Miles remarked, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a small sip.

“I was going for ‘Sexy Therapist,’ actually, and now that we’re back on the subject....” Phoenix took up his notes again. “You never actually answered my first question. So I’ll ask you again: Can you tell me a little about your problem? Tell me what it is for you, at least.”

Miles, glass still in hand, stared into the reddish depths as his face struggled to match them in color and vibrancy. The fingers of his other hand took to drumming his bottom lip.

“It’s okay,” Phoenix broke in, after nearly a minute of quiet. “If you don’t feel like it, you don’t have—”

“I can’t void in the presence of others. It’s impossible for me,” Miles said slowly. He stopped for several moments, apparently intent on glowering at his drink. “It started at school, I think. Nothing was ever clean at school, not like at home. There was no privacy, and people could hear me, and then... it became difficult. It became so much easier, better to just wait until I got home... I never had to humiliate myself by asking permission; I never had to worry about being noticed or heard... and then there was von Karma.”

“I wondered when that name was going to show up,” Phoenix sighed. “What happened with him?

Miles began to swirl the nearly-full glass of wine in his hand. “We were leaving the courthouse,” he said, a little faraway now. “I was... perhaps eleven, or twelve... I’d made a mistake. I had to use the facilities before we left. I was dismissed, but I persisted... then I was told to ‘be quick about it.’ So I tried.” Miles put the wine glass down and folded his hands convulsively. “I tried, and... it didn’t work. Every second in which I failed seemed to last... forever, and then—and then there was yelling, and—I couldn’t. Still. When he’d had enough, he took me away and put me in his car and made me suffer the ride back to von Karma Manor, humiliated, and—!”

Miles breathed at last, but it was a shaking, faintly wheezing sound, and he’d pressed his face into his hand. Phoenix was quiet then—he hadn’t prepared for a deluge.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, though the words sounded lame and ineffective in his head. “I’m... really sorry, Miles.” He thought for a few moments more, scooted up to the edge of his chair, and continued energetically. “But—but you’re not a kid anymore! No one’s pushing you around like that! You don’t have to keep on holding it all the time. You shouldn’t! It can’t be good for you.”

“Like I said before,” Miles said grimly, “I have to. I can’t do otherwise. I have had occasion to make attempts at... correction... but nothing has ever worked.”

“What have you done? In support of ‘correction,’ I mean,” Phoenix asked. Miles shifted in his seat.

“W-well... just... attempting... public places... the restroom at my office, restaurants....” He muttered, as though he could avoid the embarrassment the words clearly caused him if they tripped off his tongue quickly enough. “But nothing has ever come of it, no matter how... extreme my condition.”

“Just a minute—let me see—” Phoenix began shuffling through his papers again. “Let me—ah, yes, here we go! Have you ever tried having a Pee Partner?”

“I—I beg your pardon?!” Miles could hardly have looked more aghast if he’d tried: Eyes wide,  face flushed and hands grasping his elbows, he looked rather like Phoenix had just begun speaking to him in tongues—and said something particularly outrageous, besides.

“The materials talk about it a lot. Having someone there to help you, especially with the first few steps,” Phoenix said, lightly tapping one such material with the tips of his fingers. “You’re supposed to make a list, you see, of the places and situations that are the most distressing for you to pee in. Then you go through them with your partner. They’ll start far away, but get closer as you begin to get more comfortable with going in front of them. The theory is—”

“Yes, yes, I think I understand,” Miles said, and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Who is this partner supposed to be?

“Well, they say that you’re supposed to find someone else who’s had these issues. Someone who understands what it’s like and has already overcome it, at least to a degree. I’ve got a list of contacts right here if you want to look at it—there’s even a couple of them here in L.A.”

Miles took the page and scanned it unblinkingly before he spoke.

“Do you think... er...” Miles wavered on the words, but ultimately forged on after a swallow, “do you think that... you could do it?”

“M-me?” Phoenix stuttered. “I mean... well, you know I haven’t had any experience. You’re supposed to find someone else who’s lived it, I think. They’d know how to advise you and all.”

“Yes, I know... but....” Miles leaned over and looked directly at Phoenix again. After a second of apparent debate, he reached out and prized Phoenix’s hand away from the pile of papers to take it in his own. “Phoenix, I really can’t imagine trusting anyone else with this.”

Despite all his notes said, despite all the talk of professionalism and keeping personal relationships out of treatment, Phoenix grinned; despite the fact that he had no real knowledge apart from his research and no idea what he was doing, he put the papers aside, leaned forward and kissed Miles soundly on the lips, framing his face in his hands. When they broke apart, he leaned their foreheads together.

“Of course I’ll help you,” he said quietly into the small, warm space between them. “I’d be glad to. And besides... I’ll have to do something once my Sexy Therapy License is revoked.”

“...What?” Miles asked, breathlessly bewildered. Phoenix motioned between them.

“Fraternizing with a patient. The Sexy Board won’t look too kindly on it.” Miles moved away, smiling, and shook his head.

“You’re an idiot,” he laughed, and took up his glass once more for a few swallows of his wine. Phoenix laughed along with him, then smirked.

“Wait, does this mean you’re ready to start now?” Phoenix asked, nodding towards the glass of wine. Miles put it down again with a loud click of glass against glass.

“No,” he said definitely, and stood, offering a hand for Phoenix to do the same. “It means that, while I do appreciate your efforts, I think it’s about time that we parted for the evening.”

“Well, then... when will we start?” Phoenix asked as he shoved his notes into his briefcase. “You said you have the day off tomorrow, right? What about then? There’s not much going on at the office right now. I could come down here in the afternoon.”

“...Yes. All right.” Miles said shortly. He hardly seemed convinced by his own assent.

“I want you to make that list, if you can,” Phoenix said. “Ten places or scenarios, from the least- to the most-... frightening? Concerning? However you think of it. Oh, and have a lot of water handy.” The color that had just about emptied from Miles’ face returned with sudden intensity.

“We live in the city, Wright; I don’t anticipate any shortage of—” Phoenix crept up on him with another light kiss before heading for the doorway.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, winked, and passed out into the hallway with a grin on his face

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  • 1 month later...

A/N: Guess what? I still haven't manged to do some real omo content. I'm thinking it'll come in a chapter or two, when Edgey-boy gets beyond the initial anxiety; I just can't abide feeling like he's being pushed (figuratively-speaking, anyhow.) I want this to be nice and fluffy and stuff despite it all!

Hope that you enjoy, as per usual; comments are cherished and loved! ❤️

Chapter VII: Poker

“Phoenix... we have to stop.”

“Now? Really?

“Yes—now—really.”

“Okay... fine.”

Phoenix opened the apartment door and took a step inside; Miles stepped out of his washroom door in the same moment, absolutely red-faced, with one hand clenched at his side and the other splayed over his mouth. Phoenix sighed and flopped down on the sofa.

“So....” He trailed off, and waved his hand vaguely. “What do you want to do now?”

Miles shook his head and didn’t respond at once. He walked—with small, uneven steps—over to the end of the sofa. He looked as though he were about to sit for a moment, but stopped himself, and ended up standing there with his body held perfectly perpendicular to the floor.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled into his palm. Phoenix sighed again, louder this time. They were both quiet for several moments, but the quiet wasn’t silent; Miles’ breaths were loud and uneven through his fingers.

“Are you—?”

“I just—”

They both cut themselves off as their voices crossed over one another.

“Go on,” Phoenix said, and leaned back in his seat, watching Miles’ face. It seemed that it really had hit a point of saturation; otherwise more color definitely would have been flooding into his cheeks, if the timbre of his voice was any indication.

“I—just—I—” He stuttered, and stopped himself. Phoenix’s gaze shifted, taking in the entire image his boyfriend presented to him: Dressed in his most casual attire—a burgundy button-down tucked tightly into black slacks finer than anything Phoenix owned—Miles would’ve appeared normal to anyone else, if a little overdressed. But from where he was sitting, Phoenix could easily make out the slight convex bulge peeking out just below Miles’ stomach; he could see the fine drops of sweat glistening at his temples and heard the strange, barely-audible noise that caught in his throat just before he spoke. “It’s just... it isn’t working. I can’t.

Phoenix dragged his gaze back up to Miles’ face. “You can! Look, I know this is stressful for you and all but... we haven’t even been at it for that long,” he sighed, and glanced at his watch. “You’ve only been trying to go for, what... twenty minutes? Don’t you think we could try a bit longer?” Miles shook his head minutely.

“No... not right now... I feel....” He swallowed. “I feel... like my heart shall burst out of my chest.”

Phoenix raised a distinctly doubtful eyebrow. “And how else do you feel?”

“F-fine!” Miles countered at once. “Perfectly fine....”

“Hmm.” Phoenix thought for a moment or two. “Do you want to know what I think?” He looked back over at Miles, whose eyes were focused very attentively on the crook of his own left arm.

“...I don’t know,” Miles muttered.

“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway: I think we might have to go back a step in your list.” Miles furrowed his already-furrowed browed gaze.

“We’re on the first step, Phoenix,” he said flatly.

“Yeah, I know,” Phoenix said with a shrug. “But I think we might’ve skipped something.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” There was a bit of a bite to Miles’ voice. Phoenix chose to take it as a good sign.

“I think you’re still too nervous to begin with. We’re going to have to get you calmed down and...” Phoenix fished for the right word for a second or two, “used... to having to pee. To the thought and the feeling and to letting people—me, at least—know about it.”

Miles shook his head once, with sharp finality. “N-no, no... I... I don’t want to... talk about it anymore. The subject is so... it’s... I really don’t like it at all.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Phoenix reached for his pile of papers and smacked the one he was looking for with the backs of his knuckles. “Yeah, yeah... it says here that ‘for some paruretics, the anxiety associated with even the contemplation of the act of urination exacerbates symptoms.’” He looked up at Miles’ very still form next to the couch as he finished. “Well? Doesn’t that sound like you?”

“Ngh... perhaps....” Miles clutched suddenly at his elbows, and began shifting slightly from foot to foot. Phoenix offered him a smile.

“It does. And you know what? I really think we can do something about it. Get you used to thinking about it, to talking about it....” Phoenix stood, then, and turned around to put his hands on Miles’ shoulders. Miles flinched. “Starting with you admitting that you have to go.”

Miles sucked in a gasp laced with indignation. “But—I—”

“Look, I’m not upset, and I won’t be,” Phoenix said carefully. “Just tell me: Do you have to go?”

Miles shook his head silently, and took several moments to begin to form a response.

“I... I don—”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Phoenix cut in.

What?” Miles looked up at once, clearly derailed from some familiar mental track.

“I just asked you if you think I’m stupid,” Phoenix repeated, distinctly enunciating every syllable. “Do you?”

Miles’ eyes widened perceptibly, and he clutched his elbows all the tighter. “Certainly not! What brings—”

“Well, you must,” Phoenix continued. “If you were about to say what I think you were... then you must. Or else you’re not actually prepared to be trying this, and you should probably have another glass or two of water. One or the other.”

“Th-that’s—!” Miles looked as if he would have reeled back, were he capable of such extreme movement just then. Had he really never had anyone else turn his own ruthless logic against him this way? Did he really think he could escape Phoenix of all people with his comfortable lies?

“It’s really not that hard,” Phoenix said quietly. “Look, I’ll say it now: I have to pee. See? Not hard. And it doesn’t make you angry with me, does it?”

“N-no....” Miles was clearly struggling under the weight of Phoenix’s argument, enough that his left hand drifted up to rest a finger on his temple. But he didn’t fold immediately. “But—”

“Do you feel embarrassed for me? Upset with me?”

“No! Of course I don’t....”

“Well, then. You could try taking the same attitude towards yourself, don’t you think?” Phoenix offered brightly. Miles struggled on the edge of a word for several moments.

“B-but... but....”

“‘But’ what? Is the Great Miles Edgeworth really a god, immune to the bodily functions of us mere mortals? Is he really so much more controlled than everyone else who’s ever walked the planet—?”

“All right, all right—fine.” Miles shifted unsteadily, his eyes nailed to the floor between them. “I... er... I... have to... I... would like to...” He paused before the last word, as though uttering it would actually kill him. “...V-void.”

“Close enough!” Phoenix declared, and patted his boyfriend heartily on the shoulder. Miles let out another soft, indefinable noise. “Right. Good. Practice that. I’m going to go out for a little while, and when I come back, we’re going to work on getting you relaxed when you need to pee.”

“Er... does that mean... I mean... should I—?” Miles gestured vaguely towards the bathroom.

“Yeah, you should probably go now. And try to calm down a little while I’m gone, would you?” Phoenix paused and thought for a second. “Come to think of it, what do you usually do to relax?”

Miles thought in return. “I... don’t have any prescribed routine. Tea, perhaps?”

“Hmm. Well, we don’t want to get any diuretics in you right now.” Miles fingers twitched against his arm. “I’ll try to find something to help while I’m out. I’ll be back in half an hour, okay?”

“Okay.”

They exchanged light kisses on the cheek before Phoenix headed out into the world. He wasn’t sure where he was going, at first—he’d really just needed an excuse to leave before Miles burst—and eventually decided to make a trip back to his own place for a diversion. Miles owned enough Steel Samurai seasons to last them multiple lifetimes, but Phoenix was looking for something for them to do together that involved a little more communication, and a little more concentration. Maybe, then, they’d manage to get to the bottom of this. The beginning of the bottom of this, anyway.

After waffling between a video game and an ill-used portable chess set for a while, Phoenix gave both options up in favor of a pack of playing cards and a handful of poker chips. It was almost forty-five minutes later when he returned to Miles’ place; he found Miles there sitting on the sofa with his glass of water, hand over his mouth and paleness back in his face, glaring into the spotless glass surface of his coffee table. So much for “relaxation.” Phoenix took a few steps in and slammed the front door shut behind him, waking his partner out of whatever reverie he’d caught himself in.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Phoenix greeted cheerily. “You feeling better?”

The color returned immediately—a dusting, at least—across Miles’ cheeks and nose. “Yes. Thank you.”

Phoenix smiled. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Congratulations, babe.”

“I don’t... what?” Miles deigned to meet Phoenix’s eyes, if only to fix him with a gaze narrowed in bemusement.

“You’ve completed the first step! Well, step zero, I suppose,” Phoenix mused. “You managed to go to the bathroom with me existing anywhere on the planet. Heck, with a lot of people existing in places on this planet!” Miles groaned and turned away again. “Hey, that’s good, isn’t it? Progress.”

“You’re not funny, Phoenix,” Miles said into his hand. “I really wish that you’d stop... making light of all of this.”

“You see, my dear,” Phoenix began, flopped down on the sofa, and allowed an arm to rest easily over his boyfriend’s bow-taut shoulders, “you’re taking ‘all of this’ way too seriously. It’s a problem. And it’s exactly what I want to help you with today.” He pulled the pack of cards out of his sweatshirt pocket and shook them slightly.

Miles looked over and observed the cards impassively. “By returning to your gambling addiction?”

“No!” Phoenix cried in defense. He opened the deck and dumped it into his hands; as soon as the cards hit his palms, they took to eager, subconscious shuffling. “I just think this’ll be something good to do while we wait for you to try again. I think you’ll find it relaxing after a while. And we can talk during the games, and it’ll keep your mind occupied, and—”

“With poker, you mean?” Miles interrupted.

“Naturally.” Phoenix stood again, walking the waterfalling cards across the room and over to the kitchen door. “Come on. We’ll play at the kitchen table.”

“And what if I told you that I don’t know how to play?” A loud, staccato laugh burst from Phoenix. He pushed the rest back inside his throat before replying,

“Even better! I’ll teach you. Then you’ll really have to bend your mind around it! Less room for distraction.” Phoenix made another encouraging motion towards the kitchen; Miles began to follow slowly. “Bring your water, though! We’re not done just yet.”

Miles grimaced, and blushed, and snatched his nearly-full glass of water from the coffee table. Phoenix got one for himself—a bit of solidarity never hurt anybody—and began to explain the rules of a five-card draw game at Miles’ pristine black granite table.

It didn’t take long for Phoenix to lay out everything and for them to begin playing without much pause. Miles, for all his recent displays of discomfiture, turned out to be quite good at maintaining stoicism during his hands. Not good enough that Phoenix couldn’t read him, of course—Phoenix had just about memorized the hundred or so varieties of glare Miles had in his repertoire—but better than most newcomers. They sipped at their drinks (at Phoenix’s encouragement) and chatted about this and that as they played, and it seemed to Phoenix that they were finally heading towards something like “relaxation.”

After about an hour of winning hands, though—

“Wait,” Phoenix sat, stunned, staring down at the hands laid out on the table: His own, a pair of kings, and Miles’, three sevens. “I lost?! How did I—?”

Phoenix ran down the facts in his head: He’d dealt the cards. They’d looked at their hands. Miles had grimaced just a little as he looked at his, and sighed as he’d rearranged the cards. He’d crossed his legs and begun drumming his fingers on the table after changing two of them, and sighed a second time when he looked at his new hand. He’d shifted in his seat, and had glanced repeatedly at Phoenix as he changed his own....

“Oh.” The realization hit Phoenix like a stiff slap to the face. Too bad he’d already sacrificed his winning streak. “How... uh... how are you feeling, Miles? Okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Miles replied tersely, concentrating very hard on clearing up the old cards and shuffling them inexpertly together. Phoenix levelled a hard gaze at him.

“Oh, yeah?” Phoenix asked, making absolutely no effort to keep the skepticism out of his tone. If anything, he leaned into it. “You always shift around like that, then? You always cross your legs? I’d never noticed before. I could swear I’ve never seen you do that in court....” Miles slammed his hand down on the table, sending a few of the cards fluttering off the top of the deck and onto the floor.

“What do you want me to say, Phoenix?” He demanded abruptly. “Do you want me to just... describe every one of my physical feelings to you? You want me to tell you every time I have to—to—”

“Yeah, I think I do, actually,” Phoenix replied. He sat back, folded his arms, crossed one leg coolly over the other, and maintained a firm gaze even as Miles’ began to falter. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

Miles looked at Phoenix, astounded, for a second, before dropping his eyes again. Phoenix groaned out loud; Miles curled his hand into a fist and remained mute.

“How about I tell you what I’m feeling, then?” Phoenix asked the unbearably sharp silence. “I’m pretty frustrated, actually. And a bit uncomfortable. I have to go to the bathroom. All that water, you know. Hold on a minute—I’ll be back.”

Phoenix broke off his gaze and walked resolutely out the door, through the living room and into Miles’ washroom. It, like everything in Miles’ apartment, was really quite nice, if a little too clean for Phoenix’s tastes. Not to say that he liked his bathrooms dirty, of course, but the shocking air of cleanliness in this one made actually using the facilities a little unsettling.

After a quick use of the toilet and wash of the hands, Phoenix returned to his partner at his place at the kitchen table. Miles was still sitting there, legs crossed tight, but had since put his arms up on the table and buried his face in his hands. His glasses had managed to end up on the floor, along with a few more cards and some of the chips. Phoenix approached quietly, picked up the discarded frames, and rested a hand on Miles’ shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently, “I thought you said ‘no elbows on the table.’”

Miles breathed audibly through his nose, pulled his arms in to his chest, and looked back at Phoenix, as red-faced as he’d been at the start of the day.

“I’m not fit for this, Phoenix,” he said, in a low, small voice. “I’m not like you; I’m not....”

“A loud-mouthed cretin who’s always blabbing about how he feels?” Phoenix offered. Miles nearly smiled.

“No, no.... It’s just that... I’m not candid. Not enough. Not even for you, when you ask,” he sighed, and accepted his glasses back wearily. “But the words pain me... so much.”

“I know,” Phoenix responded softly, and reached out to smooth one of Miles’ bangs behind his ear. “I think we can get there.” Miles let out a sardonic half-laugh. “No, really, I do. I think we just have to get used to talking about it. And doing it. We’ve both got to try a little harder.”

They remained there for several moments, Phoenix absently toying with Miles’ soft silvery hair and Miles staring off towards the ceiling, lacing his long fingers convulsively around one another. He spoke eventually, but so quietly that Phoenix couldn’t make it out.

“What was that?” Phoenix whispered along with him.

“I hate this feeling. Having to... urinate,” he said, very softly, but, Phoenix thought, without quite so much mortification. “Whenever it happens, whenever anyone else is about... anxiety takes hold. Then... the need becomes stronger, and... the feelings... they feed into and upon one another. It’s really just horrible.”

“Do you feel that way now?” Phoenix asked.

“A little, yes,” Miles admitted. Phoenix took a moment for thought, removed his hands from his boyfriend’s hair, and made his way back around to the other side of the table after picking up the scattered chips and cards from the floor.

“Let’s play a little more, then, shall we?” Phoenix asked. The cards in his hands began flying almost as soon as they reached his fingers. Miles’ eyes widened. “You can make it for a little while longer, can’t you?”

“I suppose,” Miles murmured, almost meekly. Phoenix dealt out ten cards and placed the deck between them.

“Don’t worry. You can just tell me when it gets to be too much,” he assured him, and picked up his hand. “Looking good over there?”

Miles picked up his cards, glanced across the table, and slapped his mask of stoicism back on. “I couldn’t say. Three cards, please.”

They continued on in this fashion—playing, Phoenix making attempts at friendly chatter, Miles responding as well he could—for some time. Longer than Phoenix expected. Long enough that Phoenix began to be able to read Miles even through the urgency that twisted his body and expressions. It was more than an hour later when Miles at last put his cards down, shivered, and folded his hands together before him.

“I think that’s about enough for this afternoon,” he proclaimed tightly, but managed a ghost of a smile. Phoenix smiled back.

“That bad a hand, huh?” He asked, drawing all the cards on the table back into his hands and into their box. Miles glowered. “Kidding, kidding. But, uh... why do you want to stop now?”

Miles stared. “Th-that’s... it’s obvious, isn’t it?” He asked in a rush, caught, it seemed, between the embarrassment of speaking and the embarrassment his body was causing him.

“Yes,” Phoenix said. Miles was right. It was obvious. Miles had spent the last half hour in quite a state: crossing and uncrossing his legs and contorting his spine and clenching and stretching and tapping his fingers. His voice had been, rather than the baritone work of art that Phoenix was used to, a strained, anguished thing. There’d been a time—an unexpected twinge, maybe?—that had had him gasping and groaning; the hand with his cards had trembled and the other pressed suddenly into his upper thigh. Yes, it was obvious. “I still want you to tell me, though. ‘Progress’ and all.”

“‘Progress’... yes....” Miles took several seconds and several heavy breaths before he could continue, but he did: “I... have to use the restroom... and I’d prefer if you left. For now.”

“Great. That’s really good, you know, Miles,” he replied cheerfully. Miles’ flush deepened and his eyes dropped, but this time they were accompanied by a small smile. “Keep on doing that. I’ll get out of your hair. But we’ll have to do this again soon; the guides recommend doing this a few times a week. I guess with work it’ll have to be only a couple, but maybe on Saturday we can... hey, are you coming with me?”

Phoenix had been walking out of the room as he spoke. Miles remained resolutely contorted in his chair.

“No, I... feel free to show yourself out,” he returned, again in that strange, small voice. Phoenix sighed, crossed the step over to the table, and kissed him quickly on the lips.

“Okay. Saturday, then,” Phoenix declared.

“Saturday,” Miles replied, focusing quite hard on the subtle stripe in the granite of his table.

“I’ll bring the cards again.”

“Yes.”

“Text if you want to talk or anything.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Okay, well... enjoy your kitchen.” Phoenix waved, and made his way out.

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He shouldn’t have hung around Miles’ apartment door after he’d said he’d go. He definitely shouldn’t have. But, he thought, listening to the quick, light steps, and the clicks of two locks, and the slam of a door inside Miles’ apartment, it might be good to let him know that he’d managed to complete his first step without even trying.

Edited by HoneyBeam521 (see edit history)
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  • 2 months later...

A/N: So, this chapter's a bit... confusing.

There's a POV change. The mood isn't as cheerful as what I expected from whence I left off from the last chapter.  I diverted from what I feel would have been a bit more of an organic path (storytelling-wise, anyway) because I really wanted to get a bit more omo content in there.

If you're reading this: Do you like its style at all? Should I flesh out the memories at some point (perhaps separately from the body of this work)? I'm just not sure about this whole thing.

The only thing I do know is that the next chapter's fixing to be the climax.

Well, anyway, as always: I hope you like this! Reads and reviews are always appreciated!

SECOND A/N: I guess I'm going to sort of beta-post this here prior to AO3, as I just don't know how to feel about what I've done with the tone and internal consistency and everything here. But I've spent so much time on it tonight and really want to get something out.

I can't say that I think I'll get a lot of response here, but I'll try it. I really appreciate you fine folks who do read, as well! All of my appreciation be unto you!

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Chapter VIII: Proustian

Edgeworth scrutinized himself in the mirror above his sink. He was red in the face already.

Was this—the pinkened, tremulous thing in the glass—really the same that stood unflinchingly in courts of law, condemning the rotting chaff of humanity? The one that had grown from a lauded, eloquent child; the one that had been recognized and even feared for intellect and—fearlessness?

It was, indisputably. Repugnantly. It was him, and that cursed tinge of blood that always seeped into his skin whenever he regarded Phoenix and his visits and... this... had arrived already.

Phoenix had not yet.

Sighing through the nose, Edgeworth left his washroom, closing its door with startling force behind him. He could use a glass of water. He didn’t want one, but Phoenix would expect him to have one in hand upon arrival. He would expect him to be ready; he wasn’t.

Avoidance. Avoiding avoidance. That was what he was meant to be doing: to be chasing after his anxieties rather than hiding away from them; to be—

His heart nearly stopped when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. Ten to ten. Phoenix was early.

Edgeworth stepped to, unlocked, and tore open the front door, gazing hard at the man without.

“You’re early.”

“Oh! Hi, Miles. Yeah, a little, I guess.” The smile beamed through Phoenix’s voice, even as Edgeworth’s glare broke and the sharp grey eyes fell.

“You might have been... too early,” he told his handsome rosewood floor. It could use some polishing. There had been too much pacing going on by the doorway of late.

“I’m not, am I?” Phoenix asked airily. Edgeworth exhaled slowly through his nose.

“No... no, the timing was... adequate. But it could easily have been otherwise.” He wrested his focus away from the slight scuff in the floor to look into his partner’s face. It was smiling. Strangely.

“You know, I really don’t think you should be worrying about things like ‘too early’ and ‘too late’ anymore,” Phoenix said, quick and easy enough to make Edgeworth’s eyebrows pull together and a frown to tug at his lips. “We’ve done this, what—five times now? You’ve really got to get used to it at some point. ‘Too early’ or not.”

“I think you’ll find that timing is essential to this matter, Phoenix,” he said lowly. Phoenix took a few steps inside; Edgeworth closed and locked the door behind him.

“Maybe it feels like that now, but it doesn’t always have to be that way. It shouldn’t.” Edgeworth shook his head. Phoenix had been reading altogether too many self-help books, or vlog posts, or wherever it was he obtained his recent wealth of pseudo-therapeutic knowledge. Every time he had a thought in those days, Phoenix had to cut in with a challenge. “You’re not always going to be able to plan. You’re not always—”

“All right, all right,” Edgeworth interrupted, and led the way into the living room. “Let’s just... sit, please.”

Phoenix sat obligingly enough. But then he looked around and up again, his brows knit.

“Drinks?” He asked, and leaned back into the sofa cushions. Edgeworth resisted the impulse to scowl and gave a curt nod in its place.

“Yes. What will you have?”

“That depends,” Phoenix replied, with that smile plastered onto his face again, “what vintage grape juice you got tapped today?”

Edgeworth sighed audibly and retired to the kitchen. He fetched them each a glass—grape juice for Phoenix, iced water for himself—and returned briskly to the living room; there, he placed Phoenix’s down on the tea table in front of the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his partner shifting a little, as if to make room for him to sit. He ignored the silent invitation and moved to the armchair that Phoenix habitually took instead, earning him a sullen pout when next he looked up.

“Well,” Phoenix said, affronted, “I see someone’s been looking forward to this.”

He allowed the scowl this time. “You arrived early.”

Phoenix let out one of his great shouts of laughter. “Oh, that’s it? I arrive, what—five minutes—”

Ten minutes!”

“Right, ten minutes early, and now you’re going to be angry with me for the rest of the day?”

“I’ve told you already!” Edgeworth insisted. He could feel his fingers itching to clasp together; he forced them to remain still on his knees. “You were expected at precisely ten o’clock.”

“I was only a little early. People, you know, are, sometimes,” Phoenix said, his voice tinged with bemusement. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Edgeworth made a derisive noise. “That’s obvious.”

Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Perfect. So... what?” Phoenix asked with a subtle glare of his own. “You going to throw me out the minute you have to pee again?”

Edgeworth stared. He was sure that, were he not sitting already, the sudden displacement of blood to his face would have caused his legs to give out. “N-no! Of course—”

“Because it sure sounds like we’re headed down that path,” Phoenix sighed. “Look, if you’re going to keep on being so stubborn about this, maybe we should just...” he made a non-committal wave of the hand and picked up his glass of grape juice, “stop.”

He took a sip of his drink, and Edgeworth’s gaze remained.

Of course he wanted this all to be over. The days of effort they’d sunk into the matter had yielded barely an inch of progress—none, really, since their first session. What’s more, every time Phoenix arrived at his home for this purpose, the shadow of horror fell over Edgeworth’s brain; every time the man arrived on his doorstep, he came that much closer to losing himself utterly to the iron grasp of panic. And all over something so... childish.

Yes, he wanted to “stop.” But he couldn’t ignore the subtler meaning of the choice. If they were to terminate their efforts now... Phoenix was quite right. He’d said it already, weeks ago. It would become nearly impossible to live together; absolutely impossible to live together comfortably. They’d never even be able to spend an entire day with one another uninterrupted.

To “stop” meant to cede. Wholly.

“No,” Edgeworth said at length. “We shouldn’t... stop. Not yet.”

“Well, maybe we can just take it easy today,” Phoenix suggested, and began writhing his way closer to his partner against the soft sofa cushions. “I know how difficult all this ‘trying’ has been for you. Maybe today you could just... tell me about some problems you’ve had. With the pee shyness, I mean.”

What?” Edgeworth shot, more icily than he’d intended. Phoenix’s hands raising up in minor surrender attested to it.

“It’s nothing to get upset over!” He insisted, and put one of the raised hands over Edgeworth’s where it was clutching at his knee. “I just think it’d be useful. Just... telling me about some difficult times you’ve had. Maybe it’ll make it easier for us to figure out what to do next. What we’ve been doing clearly hasn’t been working... maybe there’s a clue there.”

Edgeworth sat back in the armchair, lightly brushing off Phoenix’s touch, and he thought.

He considered the history of his “problem.” He’d been honest with Phoenix, at least regarding the fact that he’d never deemed all of this a “problem.” Only by sheer propinquity with Phoenix had Edgeworth begun to think in such terms, and, even then, he resisted the notion. It was simply another aspect of his life, another peculiarity that was necessary he live with, along with the facts of his early orphanhood and his inability to tolerate anything approaching an earthquake.

There had never been any marked issues throughout his schooling. He’d taught himself from a young age how to moderate his fluid intake; the incident with von Karma had been an unfortunate oversight that he’d never allowed to occur again in the man’s presence. Even throughout college and law school—the long nights, the ponderous lectures and the caffeinated teas—he’d never known any real difficulties.

It was only in his adulthood that Edgeworth had almost come to total disgrace because of his predilection. Mortifying. Repulsive. Behavior that should have been left behind him when he was barely a child; before he ever came to know Manfred von Karma in any capacity— it returned.

The first of these notable incidents fell on the day he began his employment with the Public Prosecutors’ Office. The instant he’d been cleared by the Bar Association, he’d started to work; work assiduously performed with all the zeal of a man convinced that he alone could bring about the end of violent crime. Files were ambitiously piled upon his desk, and he was prepared to conquer.

It was only when a meeting was called, and he into attendance, that he perceived it. He hadn’t intended it, naturally—was there a person who would intend such a thing?—and yet, there it was: immovable, irascible inside of him; an insistent, immutable pressure, agitated by the meanest movement and the barest brush of clothes. It had crept upon him, as imperceptible and damning as the dark. All at once, his body refused to submit to further suffering in silence.

Of course, the brain was the undisputed master of the body; it persisted past the primal demands. It also persisted past some vain, feckless thoughts of relief. They were impossible. He’d put the knowledge of the building’s restrooms out of his brain immediately upon its entrance—he didn’t require it. And he could never debase himself by asking for their location again, even if they were a feasible option.

He was called to speak. He’d been told he would, long before, in the early hours of the morning; it was a necessity, they’d said, for the new disciple of von Karma. He gave the address they asked for on trembling legs, with a red, sweat-bedewed face. He spoke with such fervor that his firm baritone broke and his spine bent over the table, that he could strike its face in a fit of righteous fury. It was an incendiary address; an impassioned, almost manic condemnation of the villainy of crime that would be recalled by the prosecutors at large for years to come, even if it did wander slightly toward its end.

As he attempted to leave a scene that had, miraculously, been one of victory rather than disgrace, his fellow prosecutors saw fit to express their appreciation with jarring handshakes and excruciating blows to the upper back. The offensive weight of that antiquated attire in which he’d been raised a prosecutor nearly squeezed him into an appalling death, but he escaped, at length. The disjointed jog back to his lodgings—the apartment he’d taken a scant block away, entirely for the purpose of working as much as possible in a day—was nearly as distressing as the amount of time he was made to spend cleaning stains from the fine wool and silk of his clothes, from sweat and... otherwise.

This all Edgeworth survived, well enough to work out how he might evade future disgrace. Well enough, even, to put himself in a similar yet startlingly novel situation some years later during his studies in Europe.

At that time, he was in the habit of standing courts in several European countries; this, of course, necessitated a great deal of travel. In order to keep such matters in order, and because losing track of any one of his many appearances would have proved an utter disaster, he eventually hired a secretary for his office in Munich. Haste and distaste for the task bid Edgeworth accept the first applicant who proved that they were capable of keeping an acceptable weekly schedule.

This, as it happened, was something of an error.

On checking in with Klara the following Monday, he’d perceived no trouble. The girl was deferential and pretty, and she handed Edgeworth his plane ticket to London with a charming little bow of her flaxen-haired head. He allowed a faint smile; she smiled back.

It was only upon entering the airport that matters began to turn: Upon his arrival, a call came in that the defense was prepared to present a new and possibly decisive witness. When he presented his ticket to the airport staff, he found that Klara—that fatuous girl; that girl who would find herself unemployed immediately upon his return—had booked him passage on a crowded flight in the commercial class.

Worst of all, there were certain matters to which he hadn’t been able to attend before he left his home that morning. Matters that couldn’t possibly be attended to in a corner restroom at the airport—not when its lock was broken and its door wouldn’t close securely. Matters that drove him to gasping, writhing insanity as two hours passed in the air; matters that drove him from Heathrow with Hell clawing at his insides and saw him bargaining brokenly with his hotel’s staff for the nearest suite on the ground floor.

Most-recently—barring the degradations foisted upon him by Phoenix—there had been the concert. After having been dragged along to a showing of Detective Gumshoe’s favorite rock and roll group, he’d deemed it necessary to grant the good detective a taste of real art in the form of Baroque chamber music. The Baroque period in music was, to Edgeworth’s mind, the most pleasant one; the antithesis of the histrionic drivel that the Detective professed such love for. It was predictable. It moved in clever forms and figures, contrapuntal melody and countermelody affixed perfectly to each other; it moved with constant interest, but it never surprised.

The same couldn’t be said for his body that evening. It surprised, in the very worst way. He’d been so careful; he’d only had a half-glass of water with his dinner, and yet—!

He’d not made it more than a movement into a spritely Handel suite before the horrifyingly familiar feeling descended, and with it, a vision of the future: It was like a sonata, like a passage of the very music that was running through his brain... but malevolent. A ceaseless line of logic, a devilish musical sequence; flowing maddeningly, pitching up, up, perfectly and inevitably from a single point forever. There was no climax. No end. Only ever-expanding horror with humiliation waiting at the precipice.

Escape became absolutely necessary halfway through the third movement of the piece, escape that took violent form in a sprint to the theatre’s public restroom. The room was blessedly, perfectly empty... for a moment. The world broke apart again almost at once as the room beyond the stall door was suddenly occupied by the Detective, fretting noisily over his superior’s health. Edgeworth spent an agonizing minute with his eyes screwed shut, his trousers open and his legs knotted, convincing Gumshoe that, yes, he was ill, but, no, he should definitely not summon a doctor, and that all would be well again in a moment.

There was nothing pleasurable in these minutes or hours of torment. They were distracting, distressing, humiliating; shameless displays of the child infiltrating the world of the man. But there was a greater evil hiding behind each of them, one which Edgeworth could scarcely articulate, even to himself: After each, the universe had realigned in ecstasy. These were trials, ultimately. Trials through which he’d always managed to pass mostly unscathed, and for which he was always handsomely rewarded. There was no purer pleasure than that of success and relief; nothing in the world that was more perfectly, crudely divine.

“There’s nothing.”

“What?” Phoenix asked. Edgeworth focused his gaze upon his companion. Phoenix had finished about half of his glass of juice and was wearing every mark of the bewildered.

“There have been no ‘difficult times’ I can think of,” Edgeworth replied easily. “No ‘problems’ in the past.”

“Wha—really?” The stare persisted; the bewilderment didn’t shift. If anything, it became more pronounced in the lines of the frown and the angle of the eyebrows on Phoenix’s bronzed and handsome face. “But that doesn’t—”

“Yes. I’ve told you how I learned to regulate my fluid intake, have I not?” Edgeworth picked up his full glass of water as in emphasis. “I’ve never had a ‘problem...’ not until you began trying to work it out, at any rate.”

“Wait—wait—are you saying that... I’ve been causing your problem?” Phoenix asked. One could almost make out the white all the way around his deep blue irises.

“I wouldn’t say that you made it manifest,” Edgeworth returned, speaking each word with very pointed deliberation over the cold glass in his hand. “However... it’s impossible for me to deny the correlation between your efforts and my proclivities being labelled as such.”

Phoenix took some moments to reply. “I’d probably be really mad if I understood what you said just now,” he groused into the arm of his sweatshirt. “Wouldn’t I?”

Edgeworth sighed, “I simply said that this is no ‘problem’ for me. You called it one, and it became one; you manipulated certain situations, and they became problematic.” He paused, thought for a moment, and went on, “I’ve come to the conclusion that our efforts are wasted. After all, under normal circumstances, this is simply... not a problem.”

There was a long pause, in which Edgeworth hazarded a sip of his water and Phoenix brooded. When the latter set down his glass, it was with a harsh clack against the glass-topped table; the sound paired with Phoenix’s sudden ascension to his feet made Edgeworth startle and square his shoulders against an urge to shrink back.

“‘Not a problem,’ eh?... Hold on a sec,” he muttered, and made his way out and into the kitchen. Edgeworth placed his glass down and watched the door, listening hard to the quiet openings and closings of cabinets and rustling noises from within.

He couldn’t cease staring as Phoenix returned, laden with a large duffel bag and a violently blue pillow.

“Mind if I stay the night?”

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A/N: The music I was thinking of for the Baroque concert is Handel's Water Music Suite No. 2 in D Major (particularly the latter part of the first movement) but I could think of no way to integrate that that didn't sound terribly on-the-nose.

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  • 2 months later...

A/N: For any of you looking for omorashi content: It will come. I promise. And I've been promising for a while, I know, but I've gotten really distracted by wanting to explore all of the potential twists and turns and things relating to the character and relationship development here that I didn't feel were satisfactorily explained up to this point, so... here's this.

Warning: Sexual content.

Chapter IX: Pro Hac Vice

“No.”

“Miles, I haven’t—”

No.”

“If you’d just let me—”

“Did you not hear me?” Miles asked tartly. “I said, ‘no.’”

“Did you ‘not hear’ me?” Phoenix shot back, and threw down the pile of soft things in his arms. “You haven’t even let me explain!”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Miles returned, closely observing the rim of his glass. “You’re demanding the impossible.”

“It’s not ‘impossible,’ and we—”

“Really?” Miles reached into his jacket pocket and glanced at his watch. “It’s just past eleven. Staying ‘the night’ implies to me that you plan to remain, from this moment, until you find a suitable hour to leave tomorrow morning. And you expect—” he swallowed convulsively, “you expect that I shall be able to endure for that long?”

“No, I don’t,” Phoenix said easily, and flopped back down onto the couch. “Isn’t that the point? Miles... we didn’t start all of this just so you could prove to me that you’re the perfect model of restraint.” He paused, and went on under his breath, “I think I’ve seen enough of that, to be honest.”

“But this... I’ve never... Phoenix,” Miles sighed. “Please. Try to understand: I’ve never... done this. With you here; with anyone. Not in years. I don’t think that we can simply agree that this will be the day and expect it to be so.”

“Ah, well, that’s where you’re wrong, Miles!” Phoenix wagged his finger sagely. “Not about the ‘day’ thing. About you never doing it while I’m around.”

Several cold, quiet moments passed between them, in which Miles’ face totally drained of color, and the frozen line of his gaze barely grazed Phoenix’s left temple.

“W-what?!” He whispered.

“Don’t look so shocked, Miles!” Phoenix said, and laid a firm hand on his partner’s knee. “It’s what we’ve been working toward. Isn’t it?”

“W-well... y-yes, but....” Miles was visibly trembling. The hand that Phoenix wrested from him on the way to covering his mouth was shaky and cold; Phoenix pressed it against his own cheek instead.

“It’s all right, really,” he said, low and even. “I didn’t mind. And have an idea that I think’ll help you today. I’m sure we’ll be able to make this work!”

“B-but... when...?” Miles trailed off. Phoenix spoke gently.

“Oh, it was a while back,” he said, “right after our first session. I left, and waited around for a while. You locked the door, and—”

“—oh my God—”

“—I can only assume that—”

Phoenix,” Miles breathed heavily. Phoenix pressed the shaking hand harder against his cheek, and leaned forward, nearly closing the space between them.

“It’s all right,” Phoenix said again, firmer, but with no trace of anger. He made sure of it. When Miles’ gaze focused again, and his eyes drifted back from the spot they’d fixed upon, Phoenix smiled.

“Did you—” Miles had to close his eyes in an attempt to force the question out, “did you—er—hear—anything?”

“No,” Phoenix said, though he wondered if a little lie wouldn’t have been better to prove his point. “But do you think I’d be angry if I did? Do you think I care?” Miles shook his head, seeming to struggle with an answer. “I don’t. Not at all. I mean, literally everyone does it! And I don’t care about anything you might do. Trust me—I’ve seen it all. I’ve been in a bathroom with Larry, for God’s sake! I don’t care if you’re loud, or if you take a long time, or—”

“Please, please... stop,” Miles interrupted. “I... understand. And I thank you. But it isn’t enough, simply... knowing these things. You know that, I think.”

“But... you get it, right?” Phoenix said carefully, treading as lightly as he could around the periphery of his boyfriend’s eggshell pride. “I haven’t been treating you any differently since I was there. Have I?” Miles shook his head again, tamely this time. “I know that I haven’t been angry or upset with you. You’ve seen that, right?”

Somehow, even though he’d allowed days’ worth of silences to pass between them in the last few weeks, that day, Miles managed to take even longer to answer anything—even questions that Phoenix read as extremely straightforward. Still, after several seconds, after quite a few beats and a moment or two besides, a voice did emerge from him. A small and timid one; one that Phoenix had had too much experience with recently.

“Yes. I... understand.” The words might have been whispered by the lightest seaside breeze. “But—”

“Miles... Miles, Miles, Miles, Miles, Miles,” Phoenix said emphatically, “no more ‘buts.’”

“Mmm.” Miles shifted, and moved his free hand to cover his lips.

“You’ve already beaten this thing.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’ve known about it for weeks. And I don’t care.” Another pause passed between them. “So...?”

 What?” Miles said sharply.

“So... can I stay? Are we doing this?” Phoenix said, springing to his feet and hoping that he looked enthusiastic and confident rather than the silly and melodramatic he felt. Miles looked up at him, looked down again, and then sighed audibly into the space somewhere in the middle.

“Yes... I suppose we are.” Phoenix barely resisted a fist-pump, and settled instead for sitting again, smiling into Miles’ face and pressing a kiss to his distinctly wan cheek.

“Great!” Phoenix declared.

“Great,” Miles replied, with a little less enthusiasm. “Yes.”

And it was. Sort of. They managed as well as they had last time, anyhow, wiling away the rest of the morning and a fair bit of the afternoon with a bizarre combination of chess interspersed with hands of five-card draw (placed conveniently whenever Phoenix was having trouble devising his next move.) As always, Phoenix tried to keep up the conversation, but this time in particular, he found Miles stubbornly grave. What was he thinking? Was he really convinced that he’d lost something because of Phoenix’s decision to hang around that one time? How was it any different from Phoenix being, well, anywhere when he used the toilet?

Phoenix worked at steering conversation toward things that would keep his mind off of it: work, the latest TV shows; the baffling scoring system he’d devised to determine the ultimate winner of a chess-and-poker tournament. But it was difficult, particularly when Miles refused to contribute. When he finally did say something, it wasn’t exactly the diverting conversation Phoenix had in mind:

“So... these items you retrieved from my kitchen,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the duffel bag and pillow with a crimson pawn. “Where did they come from?”

“Oh, those?” Phoenix asked with a hint of laughter. “Yeah, I’ve kinda been sneaking the overnight things in since our first ‘session.’ Threw them in one of your empty cabinets. Thought I’d need to spring the ‘overnight’ idea on you sometime; hoped you wouldn’t notice.” He laughed again, and followed his boyfriend’s slim, nimble fingers as they approached the board and screwed his pawn into place. “Guess you didn’t!”

Miles locked his gaze on the chessboard and tied his arms back together across his chest. “No.”

“Makes sense, I guess. You don’t use your kitchen that much, do you?”

Miles’ hand migrated to his mouth. “Not really.”

“Shame. It’s really nice. That high-tech stove and all! Maybe sometime I should come over and—”

“Are you going to make a move at some stage, Phoenix?” Miles interrupted. Phoenix looked down on his line of blue royalty, then back up into Miles’ steely eyes. A grin spread across his face as a thought blossomed in his head. It had been too long since he’d done it....

“‘Make a move...’? Oh, yeah. Of course.” As he spoke, his hand drifted across the board to the elaborate knot in the tie at Miles’ throat. “Thanks for reminding me, babe.”

Before he could respond—pretty easy, given how much time Miles took to respond to anything those days—Phoenix executed a quick step-around the board and kissed Miles soundly on the lips. Rather than the submission and careful reciprocation he was used to, however, there immediately came a hum of protest, and Miles pushed him away with a sharp breath and a furrowed brow.

“What’s wrong?” Phoenix asked at once, with a bit of brow furrowing of his own. Miles closed his eyes.

“I don’t know.” Phoenix, reasonably sure that the silence would do all the prompting he needed for Miles to talk, said nothing. “It’s just, I... er... have to.”

“‘Have to...’?” Miles shook his head, sighed, and the inevitable wash of color overtook his face.

“Have to... void, and....”

“Ah. Well, that’s fine!” Phoenix took his seat again and leaned across the chess table, knocking over his king and bishop in the process. Ignoring Miles’ huff of distain, he said, “I’ve got an idea to help today, remember? One of those things I’ve read about on the sites. I know you might think it’s silly, but... I really think it could help!”

“Oh, yes?” Miles asked, righting Phoenix’s pieces as he spoke. “What’s that?”

“I thought we could just... you know....” Great, he was starting to have trouble talking about it! “I thought you could run the tap or something. The sink, you know. The bathtub too, if you want.”

Miles seemed to consider the proposition. That is to say, he didn’t immediately give one of his famously sardonic laughs or trio of tsks and reject it. He just remained silent, pushing each of his and Phoenix’s chess pieces back into alignment with the middle of its respective square. When, at last, he appeared to be satisfied with his work, he looked up and locked eyes with Phoenix over the rim of his glasses.

“All right.” Phoenix grinned again.

“All right! Great!” They both stood, one with considerably more ease than the other. Phoenix walked close beside Miles, and paused between the bathroom and the front door. “Um... do you want me to go?”

“Yes,” Miles said briskly. His fingers were tapping already, and he’d begun rocking back and forth slightly. Had they waited too long? It had been quite a while.... “Just... wait out there.”

After having made attempts like this in the past—minus the use of the taps, a suggestion Phoenix had reserved, worrying that he’d insult Miles’ efforts on his own—Phoenix wasn’t especially hopeful. They’d done and drunk a lot over the past few weeks, but, still, every attempt ended with Miles urgently calling it off, and Phoenix having to dash off somewhere down the street until he was given the dismal “all-clear” to return.

So it was really no surprise when Miles tore open the front door a few minutes after Phoenix had left it. Phoenix looked up from his game of phone-based Tetris to find Miles flushed and breathing quick and tight. Not good signs.

“I did it.” Miles’ gaze was once again on the floor, and his words came out so fast that Phoenix shook his head in surprise.

“Wait a second,” he said, stowing his phone back into his pocket, “did you say... you did it? It worked?

“Yes.” Miles still seemed quite uncomfortable; still very restless about the legs and fingers. Phoenix put it down to the admitted awkwardness of his report. After a chuckle or two, Phoenix pulled Miles into a hug to compensate; Miles grumbled and squirmed a little in his arms, but was smiling slightly when Phoenix let him go again.

“This is great! I mean, if this works for you... I don’t see why it shouldn’t keep working! What do you think?”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Miles agreed softly, pulling Phoenix gently inside the apartment by his hoodie sleeve.

“There are taps in every bathroom, after all!” Phoenix said, moving at last. Miles closed the door quickly behind him.

“Yes. You’re right. It’s a practical solution. Thank you for the suggestion, Phoenix.” Miles raised his gaze a bit, and smiled again, and suddenly reached for his wallet in his blazer’s inside pocket. “I know—you should go and get us a bottle of champagne. To celebrate.”

“To cele—what, the fact that you used the toilet with me two doors away?” Glad as he was to know that they’d cracked the code, “celebration” struck Phoenix as a bit much.

“Not... that... precisely... but....” Miles floundered for a second, looking through and counting out his bills with focused intensity. “F-for... our moving in together. You’ve mentioned it before, have you not? It would seem to be a....” He floundered a bit more, and waved his cash-laden hand as if to grasp the phrase he was searching for. “A... tenable proposition, now.”

“Oh, yeah!” Phoenix gave himself a light smack to the forehead in mock reprimand. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! We’ll have to start making plans soon, won’t we?”

“Yes.” Miles handed Phoenix several twenties, and Phoenix grinned. “There’s a decent liquor store not two blocks from here. You should be able to find something suitable.”

“Want to come with me? This is our celebration, isn’t it?” Phoenix reached out and hooked his arm around Miles’, thinking to drag him out the door by his side. “Maybe we could get an early dinner or—”

“No, thank you,” Miles declined, and quietly reclaimed his arm. But his subtle smile remained. “I’d like to prepare some things. I’ll still be here on your return.”

“Oh, okay,” Phoenix pouted, and reached out to give Miles a parting kiss. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, Phoenix departed with a smile on his face (the no-doubt goofy kind that tugged pleasantly at both corners of his mouth) and a spring in his step. Moving in with Miles! It was like a dream come true. It was, in fact. He’d dreamed about waking up beside his boyfriend enough times. The fact that they’d managed to bring it into reality, and so simply, it was just... perfect.

Locating a perfect champagne was nowhere near as simple, though it was a little less time-consuming. Phoenix evaded the retailer, headed for the coolers, and checked out the prices and the descriptions on his own. After a half hour or so of painstaking review, he chose the best-sounding champagne that neared the amount Miles had given him and headed back to the apartment.

On Phoenix’s return, Miles was much more settled. Phoenix found him entering the living room just as he closed the apartment door with a plate of cheese, strawberries and crackers and a pair of slim champagne glasses. There were no more blushes on his face or tremors in his hands. He simply smiled a little, placed the things down, and swept over to press a kiss to Phoenix’s lips.

Phoenix nearly dropped the champagne.

“Oh! Uh... what?” He exclaimed as they parted. The paper bag around the wine crinkled loudly as he held it closer to his chest.

“Yes, Phoenix?”

Phoenix nearly dropped the bottle a second time.

He was used to being greeted, of course. By Miles Edgeworth, even. He was used to a lot of things; used to quite a few interactions that might take place between him and his boyfriend. However... he wasn’t used to that suave, sonorous tone Miles had chosen. Not outside the courtroom, anyhow. It was enough to make the hands shake and the knees instantly weak.

“Uh... champagne!” Phoenix declared, and held out the bottle for Miles’ inspection. He was in his element. Miles was magnificent in his element: sharp eyes flitting down the black-and-gold label, long hands holding the bottle with firm, assured elegance; smirking just the barest bit as he doubtlessly divined something Phoenix could never have guessed at.

“Laurent-Perrier... a fine choice,” he said, still in That Voice, and handed the bottle back.

Phoenix raised his eyebrows. “Wha—?”

“I thought you might like to do the honors,” Miles said, taking up both of the champagne glasses in one of his hands. “This success was your doing, after all.”

Still lingering somewhere on the faraway side of dazed, Phoenix nodded and turned his attention to the bottle. Its cork yielded with a small, satisfying pop, and he poured out a glass for each of them as Miles allowed him. Once they both had their glasses and the bottle was placed down, Miles offered yet another smile and a word.

Santé,” he said, touched the rim of his glass to Phoenix’s, and took a small sip of champagne. Phoenix intended to reply, but, finding his mouth dry, he took a rather larger sip of his own.

It took Phoenix a while—too long, he decided—to figure out what had been missing. The fact was that he hadn’t really been “missing” anything. He’d dedicated himself to helping Miles as much as Miles agreed to be helped, and Phoenix sailed through all the difficulty and anxiety with as much support and love as he could muster. It had all been fine, if frustrating. But this... Phoenix couldn’t explain it. It just... hit him, and, once he’d realized what it was, he found he wanted it even more.

Miles suddenly exuded confidence. Real, awesome confidence that brought an alluring glint to his eyes and a firm set to his jaw. It was everywhere, all at once: in his gaze, in his hands; in the tilt of his mouth and the breadth of his posture. No more shrinking, no more intense studies of random objects around his apartment—just Miles, exactly as he was meant to be known.

Phoenix was finished with his first glass of wine before Miles was done assessing his own; when he let out a brief, low moan of appreciation, Phoenix had to suppress a gasp.

Very fine... finer than I expected, for something so cheap,” Miles remarked. His gaze, which had become so well-acquainted with the floor recently, remained resolutely on Phoenix. “Citrus flowers and apples... very fresh. You chose well.”

“W-well, I, uh... thanks. That’s good,” Phoenix muttered. He supposed the wine was good. It tasted like champagne, anyway. He liked champagne.

“Thank you,” Miles murmured, and somehow brought himself even closer to Phoenix without actually touching him. With no preamble at all, he pressed a hand to the back of Phoenix’s neck, and brought their lips into warm, champagne-laced contact. Phoenix’s hands clasped together around his glass to keep it from dropping, and to keep from grabbing Miles—or himself—violently. Thankfully, Miles smiled anyway when he pulled back, and took both champagne glasses to set them down on the coffee table before speaking again.

“I want to thank you, Phoenix,” he said lowly. Phoenix burbled for a moment before actually articulating anything.

“I thought you had already.” Miles laughed slightly and offered Phoenix the plate of cheeses, crackers and fruit.

Hardly,” he drawled, watching Phoenix closely as he selected an especially large strawberry. Once he had, Miles placed the plate down again and stepped impossibly closer. “You’ve righted my life again, Phoenix.” Phoenix raised his eyebrows.

“Really?” He said, muffled, through the fruit in his mouth.

“Yes, ‘really.’ I shall be able to live much easier with the advent of... this,” Miles said, with a vague wave of his hand. “I’m very grateful to you for it.”

“Well, I mean, we both did it, didn’t we? Not just me. You had to actually do it,” Phoenix added. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think straight—if he’d ever really been able to—what with the way Miles’ eyes were boring into him.

“Phoenix, don’t you think you deserve some thanks?” Miles asked, walking his free hand slowly up the front of Phoenix’s hoodie. “After all you’ve done; after all the hours you’ve wasted on this... farce?”

“W-well... not ‘wasted,’ really,” Phoenix stuttered, as deft fingers undid the tie at his throat and began pulling the freed zipper down. “I was... trying to help you....”

I think you deserve something.” Every one of Miles’ words poured into Phoenix’s ear; every one dripped, hot, from his ear to his throat to his heart, down across his ribs, and finally pooled heavily deep in his stomach. “Don’t you want it?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, I—b-but...!” Phoenix found himself at a strange edge. Yes, he wanted. Of course he did. He’d wanted since his return with the wine and Miles’ incredible choice of tone. He’d wanted since the first time he’d laid eyes on Miles in court. He’d wanted the moment he first read the notice of a “Demon Prosecutor” in the newspaper, and saw the sharp lines of Miles’ face as they’d been sculpted into adulthood. But they’d never even talked about sex before. Not really. They’d kissed, made out, even, but... this felt strange. Phoenix couldn’t place why, but something about this as their first time made his stomach squirm.

“But...?” Miles asked expectantly, resting the palms of both of his hands on Phoenix’s chest. Phoenix had almost forgotten that he’d begun speaking, and his brain took a good few seconds to access the thought he’d been trying to express.

“B-but... are you... sure?” Even then, Phoenix wasn’t quite sure he’d recaptured the entire thing. “I mean... I thought you hadn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Miles said lowly, and leaned in for another kiss. A whisper away from Phoenix’s mouth, he breathed, “I want to do this for you.”

Phoenix wasn’t present for some time. Maybe he was there, physically—the sensations lit up his brain and his body and would later burn themselves into him as delicious memories—but consciousness, thought and reason escaped him for countless minutes. Next he knew, he was sitting on the edge of Miles’ bed, hands pressed into the incredibly soft comforter under him, and Miles was leaning over him, tall and dark and imposing in the twilight. Both of Miles’ hands were on him: one supporting his head, holding him up in anticipation of more kisses, and the other was pressed into the side of his neck.

“I want to do this for you,” Miles repeated. He might have said a hundred other things since the last time he’d said it, but, to Phoenix’s mind, the statement was starting to sound like a mantra. As he spoke, one of Miles’ hands moved up into Phoenix’s hair, and the other trailed down, over his shirtless chest (when did that happen?) down over his non-existent abs and onto the top of his thigh. Miles stared directly down into Phoenix’s eyes. Phoenix stared back.

“Are you really sure?” Phoenix asked on a heavy breath. Miles nodded, and his hand lightly squeezed Phoenix’s leg, laying his intent as bare as Phoenix’s chest. Struggling not to babble, Phoenix continued, “I mean... I can’t promise you I won’t just fall asleep after. That tends to... haaappen...” Phoenix groaned as Miles squeezed again, the inside of his thigh this time, “t-to me....”

Miles didn’t reply, but dragged his other hand purposefully down Phoenix’s frame, until both came to rest at the waistband of his pants. Once there, he looked up at Phoenix again, then leaned down and pulled them down quickly, more like a schoolboy prank than undressing his lover.

 “I want to give this to you,” Miles said, deep in his chest. His eyes, focused blazingly upon Phoenix’s face before, seemed now to be glued to the bulge in his boxers. “I do.”

And then their lips were pressed together again and a hand was slipping into Phoenix’s underwear, and he only had half a second to consider just how ridiculous the scene must have looked—he, mostly-naked, writhing on the edge of the bed; his boyfriend hovering over him in a bespoke jacket and tie like he had a fancy wedding to get to—before Miles wrapped mysteriously slick fingers around him, and he was gone.

He could never have anticipated just how much that firmness, that persistence, that confidence in each of Miles’ movements would affect him. Whenever he’d imagined himself and Miles, it had been him in a dominant role, him pressing kisses to breathless lips and wrapping a hand around a hot, hard cock. It just followed from the way things were in their private life. But this... he’d never imagined it, never thought Miles was capable of this kind of glorious control. It brought Phoenix closer to completion faster than... ever. Within minutes, he was gasping against Miles’ lips; he grasped at the shoulders of his tailored jacket and his back and hips made hard, shallow thrusts into Miles’ perfect hand, and—

“Oh, Miles... yes...!

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