Work Text:
Phoenix didn’t realize he was sick sick until he lifted his head from a stack of paperwork and found he could barely sit up straight without his head spinning and his entire body protesting. He’d been tired and achy for the past two days but had brushed it off as the typical small cold he got at this chillier, germ-infested time of year. He’d been able to bike to work just fine.
But now he felt absolutely awful.
Phoenix pushed his pen away and slumped into the squeaky, worn-out desk chair that had once been Mia’s. His vision had been blurring intermittently for the better part of an hour, but he’d thought he had just spent too much time reading small legal print. Now, though, he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on anything in the room. A shiver rolled down his spine. It couldn’t have been past three in the afternoon, but he needed to go home.
Phoenix shivered again. He tried to push himself to his feet, wobbled unsteadily, and plunged back into the chair. He couldn’t bike like this—he’d endanger both himself and the other unsuspecting people on the road. He wasn’t even sure if he could crawl like this. No, he needed to be seated, stationary, in a car. Heck, he could probably use someone’s help to get him into said car.
Before he’d really thought it through, Phoenix reached for his phone and dragged it into his lap, and opened his sadly sparse text thread with Miles Edgeworth. The device felt heavy in his hands, and his thumbs shook with chills as he tried to type.
Sorry to ask but could you drive me home from the office? I’m sick and can’t bike. Sorry about this
That was a double sorry. That would probably annoy Miles more than anything else, but Phoenix really did feel bad. It was the middle-end of the work day. Miles was very serious about the work day. Ergo, this was a pretty substantial intrusion on his time.
Phoenix stared blankly at the screen until it fell asleep, then jumped when it buzzed with a message.
You can’t call a cab?
He slumped, tossing his phone back onto his desk. Well, that was that, then. Rebuffed by a man who he thought he was finally starting to get somewhere with, even after all the years and space and ups and downs between them, even after trials and earthquakes and plunging off bridges. Hadn’t Miles chartered a private jet just to make sure he was okay, once? What happened to that Miles?
No, Phoenix couldn’t call a cab. He simply didn’t have the money. He had some cash at home—he wasn’t completely broke—but that would require him to get home to get the money, which would then defeat the point of cab.
It seemed he was stuck here.
He should probably move to the couch, at the very least. There was a thin decorative blanket on that couch, also leftover from Mia’s time in charge. That plus his suit jacket, which was hanging by the entrance, would be enough to keep him a little bit warm. He could take a nap on that couch and then see if he woke up feeling any better, or at least enough to walk home. There was still no way he was getting on his bike, but stumbling down the street wouldn’t risk anyone’s safety too much.
So, yes. He should move to the couch. He should definitely not stay in the desk chair and curl his legs up to his chest to try and conserve body heat and drop his forehead to his knees. He should definitely not do that.
That was what he was going to do, though.
Phoenix shivered and curled up tighter. The chair was poking into his body at all the wrong spots, his shins and vertebra, but he was at least a tiny bit warmer with his limbs tucked close to his core. He tried to rub out his headache on his kneecaps, but everything grew heavy.
“Wright.”
Someone was saying his name.
“Wright.”
It was so far away. It probably wasn’t urgent, was it? Phoenix didn’t have to move, did he?
“Phoenix!”
Phoenix pulled his head up blearily, neck stiff. Dried sweat clung to the skin of his face and back. Everything felt gummy—his eyes, his mouth, his joints. Standing before him was Miles Edgeworth.
He was so handsome. Was he dreaming?
Miles crossed his arms and tapped at his bicep. “What are you doing?” he sighed. “You aren’t meant to sit that way in desk chairs.”
How long had he been out? Disgruntled, Phoenix put his feet back on the floor and reached for his phone. About forty-five minutes, by the looks of it. More interestingly, there were two additional texts from Miles that he’d missed.
Apologies, I asked out of genuine curiosity. I am more than willing to lend you my services if you are unwell.
I will be there in twenty minutes. Do not forget to hydrate.
Phoenix blinked at the messages uncomprehendingly. He wasn’t dreaming, then? Miles was actually here and wanted to help him?
“Hi,” he mumbled, putting his phone back down and settling slowly, uncomfortably, back into the chair.
Miles softened a little. He came around the side of the desk in a few quick steps and pressed his hand to Phoenix’s head. His fingers were cool and soft and Phoenix let his eyes drift closed. How was it possible to be this tired, even after a full night’s sleep and a nap?
Miles didn’t comment on the heat radiating from Phoenix’s forehead, just frowned and took a slight step back. “Well, we’d best be going if we’d like to beat the brunt of the traffic.”
Phoenix opened his eyes again and inhaled. It seemed all he had the energy for at this moment was just breathing. “You’ll really drive me home?” he mumbled finally.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miles huffed. Before Phoenix could spiral too far into confusion—had he really come all this way just to get Phoenix a taxi? Wasn’t that a ridiculous waste of time and energy?—, he continued: “I will be driving you to my home. You are clearly too unwell to be on your own as you can hardly keep your eyes open, and I can almost guarantee my kitchen and medicine cabinet are better stocked than your own.”
Phoenix’s lips quirked faintly. “I get it, you’re rich,” he sighed, rubbing at his aching, itchy eyes. “Okay, let’s go.”
He reached for the edge of the table and heaved himself up, wobbling on flimsy legs for a moment like a newborn fawn. Miles didn’t offer a hand to help, but he did keep a close, piercing eye on Phoenix as he took a few shaky steps towards the door.
The change in levels was not helping Phoenix’s headache, or his dizziness. He forced his breathing to stay steady as his stomach began to flop uncomfortably. If he could just get to Edgeworth’s car, everything would be fine. He could sit down and shut his eyes. Maybe Miles would even turn on the heat and he could finally feel warm again.
Miles followed Phoenix closely as he stumbled down the few flights of stairs to the front entrance of the building. The chill November air swept over him as he opened the front door, and he shivered more violently than ever, teeth practically chattering, heart hammering with fatigue.
“Come.” Miles hand wrapped around his elbow, herding him towards his car, which he’d left right in front of Phoenix’s building in a spot that definitely was not a parking spot, hazards flashing. He opened his car door and Phoenix tumbled inside, sinking into smooth, comfortable leather and trying to catch his breath.
And to think, he’d thought he might be able to walk home like this.
Miles was soon sliding into the driver’s seat and the car rumbled to life. The sound and feel of the engine under Phoenix’s body was soothing, but even now that he was sitting, his stomach was still swirling uncomfortably. After ten minutes of stop-and-go-traffic, he found himself growing tense.
“Edgeworth,” he mumbled. “I think I… can you pull over?”
Miles eyed the cars around them. “Not ideally.”
Saliva was pooling in his mouth. “Now, now, right now.”
He wrapped a hand around his mouth, blood rushing in his ears and bile rising in his throat. Not here, not in Edgeworth’s car—the man would never forgive him. Phoenix could never look him in the eyes again.
Miles muttered a curse and honked the horn a few times, flicking on his blinker and forcing his way between two cars and into the parking lot of a McDonald’s. He was parked faster than Phoenix would have thought possible, and Phoenix scrambled out of the car and over to a public use trashcan just as his esophagus gave up the ghost. He gagged and emptied his stomach into the can, body straining with the effort.
Once again, Miles kept his distance, respectfully averting his gaze. Phoenix felt his eyes blurring with tears of fatigue and strain as he retched again, leaning against the can as his legs wobbled.
When he’d finally emptied himself out, Phoenix tried to straighten up only for his knees to turn to water. He sat down hard on the patchy dead grass beside the trashcan and panted, mouth slightly open, sweat ice cold on his back as the wind picked up.
There was a moment of stillness where Phoenix tried not to think or feel or remember, and then a small plastic water bottle entered his field of vision. Miles offered him a sympathetic wince and Phoenix took the bottle gratefully. He swished the rotten taste out of his mouth and spat it onto the ground beside him, then took a couple careful sips. He could feel the cold water traveling down his throat and through his chest and shivered again. He just wanted to be home. He just wanted to be home, in bed, out of this sweat-drenched dress shirt and off of the half-frozen ground of a McDonald’s parking lot.
“Do you think you can move?” Miles asked cautiously.
“Yeah,” Phoenix rasped. He set the water aside and swallowed. “Um… do you mind… I think I could use a hand up.”
“Of course.” Instead of his hand, Miles gripped his bicep and elbow and braced himself to help ease Phoenix to his feet. Phoenix stumbled a little, planting a heavy hand on the hood of Miles’ car, then stumbled his way back to the passenger’s seat.
“Thank you for not vomiting in my car,” Miles mentioned as he started the engine up again and carefully merged back into traffic.
Phoenix only groaned, wrapping his arms around his aching stomach and resting his forehead against the car door. The world faded to a fuzzy haze as they continued to drive, and he was only about an eighth awake when Miles pulled into the driveway of his unbelievably grand house. So grand, in fact, that in Phoenix’s dulled state all he could do was sit back against the car seat and blink up at the grandness.
“Wow,” he mumbled. “You are really rich.”
“I’m comfortable,” Miles huffed, unbuckling. “Lets get you in bed.”
Phoenix started to smirk and snicker out an innuendo, but then he remembered that it wasn’t Maya with him right now and that whatever he came up with (which would be seriously lowball comedy, considering the layup Miles had just offered him) would probably make his companion extremely uncomfortable.
Miles led Phoenix up his gravel front walk. He still wasn’t touching him, which Phoenix found distantly disappointing. This would have been a nice excuse for contact—at least on his end. Most likely, Miles wasn’t looking for any excuses to touch him, because that was weird and gay and Miles wasn’t weird and gay. Probably. Phoenix supposed he didn’t really know, not for sure, at least about the gay part.
He blinked himself out of his cloudy, spiraling thoughts as Miles unlocked his front door and allowed Phoenix to step inside. Everything was dark shiny wood and deep fuchsia—not unlike Edgeworth’s office, actually. A small dog bounded up to them, yapping excitedly.
“You have a dog?” Phoenix asked dumbly, coming to a stop two feet into the entry hall and leaning against the wall to keep from collapsing again.
“This is Pess,” Miles said, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it on a neat, ornate wooden coatrack by the door. He scratched Pess on the top of the head and made some cooing sounds that Phoenix had never in a million years expected to come out of Miles Edgeworth’s mouth, then strode into the entry hall. “Come, before you topple over again.”
Phoenix trailed dutifully after him, emerging from entry hall to brilliantly shining kitchen, then a stiff, tidy, over-plumped living room, and finally a small room off another short hallway. It contained a bed and a simply mahogany dresser and Phoenix looked at Miles questioningly. “This isn’t…?”
“It’s the guest room, Wright,” Miles sighed, sounding borderline impatient. He marched inside and yanked down the quilt. The bed was so tightly made he had to tug a few times. “You clearly need to rest. I’ll find you something more comfortable to wear.”
“Thank—” Miles had already strode out of the room, as if this was just an inconvenient task he was trying to complete at record speed. “…You.” Phoenix sank onto the mattress, then realized he’d made a terribly mistake as his body instantly became leaden and he was unsure he’d ever be able to get up again. He propped himself against the cool, fluffy pillows and tipped his aching temples against the headboard. His body pulsed with discomfort, skin sticky and irritable. His stomach still felt off, not queasy but generally unsettled. Chills snaked down his spine, making him desperate to get out of his sweat-soaked shirt and underneath the thick duvet.
When was the last time he’d been this sick? Potentially when his then-girlfriend tried to poison him with cold medicine, but he’d rather not think about that right now. Or ever.
Miles returned soon enough with a comfortable-looking t-shirt and sweatpants. He paused in the doorway and Phoenix blinked open bleary eyes to find the prosecutor watching him with an unreadable expression.
“What’s up?” he mumbled, trying and failing to pull himself upright. All right, he’d stay against the pillows. That would make changing really easy, sure.
“Nothing,” Miles huffed, darting into the room, laying the clothes on the bed, and then darting back out and shutting the door behind him. Phoenix squinted slightly at the odd behavior, then began the arduous task of undoing each and every one of the buttons on his dress shirt with stiff, shaking fingers. He peeled the sweat-soaked fabric off his back and immediately shivered from head to toe, teeth rattling in his jaw. He pulled on the fresh shirt and quickly as possible and then struggled out of his dress pants and into the sweatpants.
Then, head swimming with fatigue, he buried himself into the wonderfully soft bed and the even more wonderfully warm, thick, heavy blankets, and let his eyes fall shut.
The door creaked open again. Phoenix, biting back a groan, peeled his eyelids open in response.
“I’ll launder your clothes,” Miles announced, picking them up from the slightly embarrassing heap he’d left them on the ground.
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
Miles shot him a glare, as if offended by the mere thought that he wouldn’t do Phoenix’s laundry for him, despite the fact that that it was kind of absurd and insane. “I will be in the living room. Shout if you need anything or require further assistance. I will be coming in to check on you incrementally to be certain your fever hasn’t worsened to the point of requiring hospitalization.”
“I’ll be okay, Miles, really,” Phoenix mumbled, nuzzling into the pillow. “Just… gotta sleep. Thank you.”
Miles huffed and left the room again and Phoenix allowed himself to slip away.
The next few hours were a haze. He drifted in and out of an unsettled sleep, too warm, too cold, skin prickly, clothes and blankets twisted around his body.
He awoke very suddenly, disoriented. His hands were shaking and his stomach was churning and he threw himself out of bed, instantly wracked with shivers. Where was he? What time was it? He was going to throw up—he needed a bathroom or a trash can or—
Too late. He’d just managed to make it out of the bedroom door when he leaned over and heaved up a splash of stomach bile. He heard a thump and footsteps and a familiar voice: “Wright! What are you doing out of bed?”
“I’m sorry,” Phoenix mumbled, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Miles grunted slightly, then a hand was grasping his elbow and dragging him from hardwood floors to distinctive bathroom tile. Miles deposited him in front of the toilet and Phoenix heaved again before groaning and resting his head against the lip of the bowl. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Your floor…”
“It’s fine,” Miles huffed. “I told you to call if you needed assistance.”
“Happened too fast,” Phoenix groaned, wrapping an arm around his stomach. The floor was stone cold and he shook miserably. He should get off the floor and get back into bed, but he simply couldn’t rouse himself enough to move even an inch. In his peripheral, Miles opened the cabinet below the sink and rustled around in it, then quickly left the bathroom again.
Phoenix shut his eyes. His head was throbbing and his eyes burned with fatigue. Why had Miles insisted Phoenix stay here in the first place? Why hadn’t he just dropped Phoenix off like he’d asked? Then Phoenix would have thrown up on his own floor, which was already dingy, instead of Edgeworth’s pristine hardwood. He hated being a burden to Miles like this—and a burden he clearly was, given how brusque the other man was being.
Phoenix flinched slightly, startled, when a hand fell to his shoulder, and it immediately lifted. “Apologies,” Miles said. “Would you like to return to bed? I can bring you some sort of bucket, or perhaps something to settle your stomach. Tea, or perhaps crackers?”
Phoenix winced at the thought of putting anything in his mouth besides maybe a toothbrush. “No thanks,” he mumbled. Then, eyes shut against the humiliation of it. “…I can’t get up. I need… I need help.”
“Of course.” Miles hesitated a moment, then his arm wrapped around Phoenix’s waist and dragged him to his feet. Phoenix sagged against him. He was warm and soft and comfortable. All Phoenix wanted to do was bury himself into Miles’ chest, tuck his aching forehead into the crook of his shoulder. He smelled good; it was soothing and it made his stomach feel less rocky.
Miles urged him forward before Phoenix could get too comfortable and give into his desire to… what? Cuddle his colleague? (friend? what were they at this point??) He deposited Phoenix carefully on the bed and then took a few quick steps back. “I apologize for the physical contact,” he said stiffly. “I deemed it necessary in order to make sure you didn’t fall, but I didn’t wish to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Phoenix squinted at him. He was way too feverish for this. “I seemed uncomfortable?” he asked blankly. And here he thought he’d nuzzled a little too close.
“I—I just assumed,” Miles mumbled, looking away and grabbing his arm with his opposite hand, squeezing his clear discomfort out on his bicep. “Given your…”
Phoenix swallowed, his throat rough and stinging. “Given my…?”
“Given your history. With… her,” Miles muttered, still not looking at him. “I can’t imagine that trusting another person when vulnerably ill would be… easy after something like that. Perhaps it isn’t even possible.”
Phoenix dragged his legs under the covers and tried to find a spot in bed where he could feel warm again. Miles was doing all of this because of Dahlia? And he was keeping his distance so, what? So Phoenix wouldn’t be triggered? “Is that why you’re being weird?” he asked, head sinking back into the pillow. His vision was beginning to darken, but he so desperately wanted to have this conversation.
“I just didn’t want you to feel unsafe,” Miles mumbled, hand squeezing tighter than ever. “But I, selfishly, was not willing to risk your health by allowing you to deal with this alone.”
Phoenix couldn’t quite find where the selfish bit fit in. “That’s really sweet,” he whispered. “You’re really sweet…”
Miles squawked, the sound making Phoenix jump a little. “I am—that is to say—have you looked in a mirror lately? You appear to be on death’s door. How am I supposed to redeem my winning streak if you die, Wright, hm? Answer me that!”
Phoenix was too tired to answer. “Really sweet…” he repeated, voice muffled by the pillow. “I really like you, Miles…”
A long, long pause.
“You’re delirious, Wright.”
“Noooo,” Phoenix groaned, pushing his forehead into the pillow, trying desperately to stay awake. “I love… you…”
Sleep swirled over him.
he’s being wrapped in a toga and it’s being pinned to his body and the pins keep sticking into him, is it opening night? and the toga is hot and
and he’s standing atop of an ice sculpture, slipping, trying to grip with his toes as he slides and the toga trails after him and it wraps around his mouth and nose and burns his cheeks with friction and
and he’s biking downtown through icy waterfalls and into the belly of volcanos and he turns turns around and maya is behind him, poking him in the back of the neck, his temples, and she digs her arms deep into his gut, squeezing him so tightly he can hardly get a breath in as he continues to peddle and peddle and
and he’s pined to a bed by his wrists by spiders that are sinking their legs and their fangs into his skin but he’s supposed to be getting mia coffee because she needs it because his trial is any moment now and she’s fallen asleep and he’ll be arrested for murdering doug but he’s dumped the coffee over his face and burned his skin and his eyes and his lips and he has no more money for coffee but miles has money, miles can help him miles always saves him so he tries to yell for miles to bring coffee but a spider crawls from his wrist to his throat and down his throat and he can’t get the sound out miles miles Miles MILES
“Miles…” Phoenix groaned, twisting, the covers caught tight around his body. “Get… coffee…”
Something cold and damp mushed across his forehead. Phoenix shivered but it eased the coffee burns on his face slightly. “Miles?” he asked through lips and tongue that felt too fat.
The distinctive feeling of a human hand on his neck. A worried sigh. Were the coffee shops closed? Did Miles not have cash? Did he think Phoenix wouldn’t pay him back?
The hand slipped away and Phoenix felt like he’d plunged into a chasm. The bindings on his wrist were gone and the bed underneath him was gone and he was spiraling through space and the void. He reached out desperately, the cold slipped off his forehead, where was the hand? He needed that hand.
His fingers grasped something solid and warm. “Please,” Phoenix whimpered. His brain trickled from the corners of his eyes and down his temples; the spider must have gone deep and sliced it all up. But as long as he wasn’t floating through emptiness, so alone, so cold…
All at once, a great warmth and weight enveloped him. A nearby star exploded, peacefully, quietly, sending a supernova of heat and light and stardust wrapping around his body. It felt like cool fingertips carding through his hair. It felt like warm breath on the back of his neck. It felt like someone saying his name, quietly but urgently.
Phoenix let himself drift off into the void with the stardust in his lungs and his eyes, keeping him safe, keeping out the chill.
When he awoke fully, finally, he found himself caked in old sweat, hair soaked with it, body slick and sticky. He was propped up against something firm but warm—a chest. A body.
Phoenix blinked slowly. He was beyond exhausted but felt like he could at least think properly again. The room was dark but after being shut so long his eyes were adjusted enough to make out Miles’ face inches from his own. Phoenix’s head was propped up against his shoulder, his body half in Miles’ lap, both of them in a partial seated position with Miles’ arms wrapped tightly around his middle. The other man appeared to be out cold, but after Phoenix shifted he startled with a sharp little inhale and looked around.
When his eyes landed on Phoenix, he immediately went rigid. “Phoenix. Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”
“I’m at your house?” Phoenix mumbled, reaching up and rubbing at his face. His skin felt stiff and stretched tight.
He could feel Miles’ body lose some of its tension at those words. “Yes. Right. Good. That is rather a relief.”
“How long was I out?” Phoenix asked. He was feeling a deep need for a full-body stretch but didn’t want to move, partially out of fatigue and partially out of not wanting to dislodge Miles.
Miles reached for his phone on the bedside table and squinted at it. In the dim glow the bags under his eyes were deep. “It’s 4am,” he reported. “Your fever rose significantly around ten o’clock, which is not unusual for fevers, but still.” He pursed his lips. “You were approximately 0.2 degrees from hospitalization.”
“It was really that bad?”
Miles just huffed.
Phoenix frowned. “Did I ask you to get me coffee?” he questioned. Snatches of memory were coming back to him—not much, but the coffee. And the stardust.
Another huff, this one amused. “Multiple times.”
Phoenix chuckled, shaking his head. “So…” He took in the position the two of them were in once more. “Why are you… here?”
Miles’ eyebrows pressed together. “It’s my house, Wright.”
“No, no, I mean here, like, in bed. With me.”
Miles immediately stiffened and began to retract his arms and Phoenix, panicked, desperate for him to not misunderstand, grabbed them and pressed them back to his torso. “No, that’s not—I didn’t mean—I like it, I don’t mind it at all, it’s—it’s—it’s. Nice.” He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop talking.
Inch by inch, Miles relaxed underneath him again. Phoenix tentatively loosened his grip on his arms, once again allowing him the free will of movement.
“You…” Miles sighed, shifting slightly. His hands came to rest lightly on Phoenix’s waist, fingers interlocked with one another. “I’m not precisely sure what you were dreaming about, but when you stopped demanding I bring you coffee you—you began to shake terribly and you reached out for me and you… you simply wouldn’t let go. Frankly it was remarkable, considering you’d been too weak to even hold a cup of water just an hour before.”
“I drank water?” Phoenix asked dazedly. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yes,” Miles replied, slightly bemused. “I forced water and ibuprofen upon you several times. Anyways, when I realized you were not going to settle until I did as you wished, I… I allowed you to draw me into bed with you, after which I must have drifted off. It was a very late night.”
“Sorry about that,” Phoenix muttered, guilt creeping in upon him as the weight of inconvenience landed again on his shoulders.
“Nonsense,” Miles huffed. “With every passing hour I’ve only grown more relieved I forced you to come home with me. Think what could have happened had you been home alone, too delirious to hydrate or take medication? You could have choked on your own vomit, for all we know.”
“You really have a way with words, Edgeworth.”
Miles’ lips quirked involuntarily before he smothered the expression with a halfhearted glare. “Says the man whose fever dreams include me participating in secretarial duties.”
“I don’t think you were my secretary.” Phoenix sighed, letting his head fall more heavily onto Miles’ shoulder. “But fair enough. I really need a shower.”
“You do,” Miles agreed, with an offensive amount of vehemence. “Would you like to do that now?”
Phoenix really, really didn’t want to move. He was, sticky sweatiness aside, comfortable, he was finally warm, and if he and Miles got out of this bed, how would he ever get the other man back into it? Would he ever?
But he probably stank, and taking a shower always made him feel better. He’d sleep sounder if his skin wasn’t prickling.
“Yeah,” he sighed, sitting up slowly. His stomach muscles ached, sore like he’d done a rigorous core workout, and he cautiously slung his legs over the side of the bed. The world spun when he stood, dehydration and weariness screaming their presence in his body.
“Perhaps a bath would be better,” Miles commented wryly, grasping onto Phoenix’s elbow to help him stay upright.
“Yeah,” Phoenix repeated with an even deeper sigh.
Miles helped him to the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet seat while he ran the water to a reasonable temperature. “You’re still feverish,” he told Phoenix after a quick check with the thermometer on the bathroom counter. “I don’t wish for it to worsen, so the water may be slightly cooler than you would wish.”
“It’s fine,” Phoenix replied glumly. “Better than nothing.”
“I shall change the bedding,” Miles decided.
Phoenix caught his wrist before he could leave the bathroom. “Or maybe you should rest,” he suggested. “You look beat and you’ve been up all night taking care of me.”
Miles shrugged him off. “I’m fine,” he huffed. “I’m perfectly capable.”
“I know you’re capable,” Phoenix sighed. “You don’t have anything to prove here, Miles, so you can really—”
“Wright,” Miles interrupted firmly. “I wish to care for you. I wish to drive you home when you are unable to walk and to force you to drink water when you are delirious and dehydrated. I wish to show you that—that you are able to be vulnerable when sick and that will not be taken advantage of. I wish that I could take your suffering away completely, but as I can not, please allow me to do what I can to ease it. There have simply been too many times in the last many years where I should have been there and was not. I am now.”
Phoenix swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He blinked a few times to clear his traitorously blurry vision and nodded mutely. Miles nodded back, satisfied, and exited the bathroom.
As Miles had warned, the bath wasn’t quite the temperature he would have hoped. Phoenix washed his hair, the scent of pomegranate filling his slightly stuffed-up nostrils, then was so worn out he had to rest for a few minutes before he could scrub at the rest of his body.
He didn’t understand why Miles thought he hadn’t been around. Yes, the months he’d spent in Europe had been long and strangely lonely, even with Maya and Pearl almost always around. And there was, of course, the entire year that Phoenix had thought he was dead. But Miles was always around when Phoenix needed him. Swooping in at the height of the tension, Cinderella-like in his flair for the dramatic. He’d gone above and beyond multiple times, long since atoning for the cold way he’d treated Phoenix when they first reconciled.
Was this really all about Dahlia, then? About proving to Phoenix that vulnerability wouldn’t always be taken advantage of, particularly by someone who he loved?
Because he did. Love him. Not that Miles knew that, nor would he ever.
Because Phoenix shouldn’t tell him. Right? That would be rash and foolish, to use a von Karma favorite; it would ruin every tenuous little thing they’d built. Even though Phoenix, despite being absolutely miserably sick, felt safer and more cared-for than he ever had in his life, that didn’t mean that he should tell Miles he loved him and it certainly didn’t mean that Miles loved him back. He’d gotten into bed with him to be nice. To provide comfort. Perhaps even to prove a point. He was caring for him to prove a point, or even just to be kind, as one would naturally be to a longtime friend. There was nothing more to it.
So, no. Phoenix absolutely would not tell him how he felt.
Wait.
A flash of memory came back to him. Shoving his face into a pillow, telling Miles he was sweet, telling him-
Phoenix grabbed the bar of soap from the edge of the tub and began to vigorously scrub at his body until his skin was red. Had that been a dream? Had that been real? Had he been conscious? Had Miles heard? If Miles had heard and he’d still stayed, gotten in the bed when Phoenix wanted him to, then what did that mean? Did it mean what Phoenix hoped it meant?
His hands were shaking by the time he hauled himself out of the tub, stumbling slightly as a wave of dizziness warped over his body. He wrapped himself in a towel and then sat himself down on the bath mat to lean against the edge of the tub, hair still dripping, unable to get any further.
There was a knock on the door. “Wright? You haven’t… drowned, have you?”
“Haven’t drowned,” Phoenix confirmed, words slurring together slightly. His heart thudded a little harder just knowing that Miles was on the other side of the door after what he’d realized he’d done.
There was a pause as Miles clearly waited for him to say more and Phoenix contemplated if the energy it took to move his jaw was worth it. He decided it wasn’t. Miles was a smart man; he could figure it out.
“Are you decent? May I enter?”
“Mhm.”
Miles eased the door open, pausing when his eyes fell upon Phoenix. Phoenix lifted a hand in a wave and then let it flop back into his lap, too tired to even be that abashed about being very nearly naked in front of the other man. Miles picked up the thermometer from the counter and entered the bathroom to swipe it over Phoenix’s forehead. He frowned. “Fever’s back up. I should have made the water cooler.”
“Or warmer,” Phoenix suggested. Was there a way he could subtly ask Miles if what he remembered was a dream or reality? “ ‘f’it’s back up anyway.”
Miles turned his frown on him instead of the thermometer. Phoenix shrugged innocently and shivered.
Miles sighed, crouching to pick up another of the towels he’d set out for Phoenix. He began to gently dry off Phoenix’s hair, rubbing from the base of his scull to the crown of his head, carefully squeezing out the ends of his limp, soaked spikes. He laid the towel over the edge of the tub and raised his eyebrows at Phoenix. “I draw the line at helping you put your underwear on.”
Phoenix flushed red and it had nothing to do with the fever. He suddenly felt about six to ten times more awake. “Uh, I—no. Yeah. I just, um… give me a hand up?”
“Of course.” Like so many times in the last twenty-four hours, Miles helped carefully guide him to his feet. Phoenix staggered out of the bathroom, one hand gripping Miles’ forearm. He got dressed in a haze and crashed back down onto the mattress. The covers were crisp and smelled clean and light.
Through half-closed eyes, he saw Miles settle into a chair beside the bed that he was fairly certain hadn’t been there when he’d first arrived the afternoon before. “What’re you doing?” he mumbled in the pillow.
Miles froze as if caught in an illicit act. “Oh, I—I merely wanted to keep an eye on you. To ensure your fever doesn’t reach any dangerous levels as it nearly did earlier.”
“But what are you doing in the chair?”
Miles licked his lips and shifted. “I—I—”
“You can’t really tell how high my fever is if you aren’t touching me,” Phoenix pointed out, then tried to figure out if that had been majorly smooth or if he really was deliriously feverish.
Miles turned red. “I—you—that—you’re delirious, Wright.”
He’d said that before. Before Phoenix…
“I’m not,” Phoenix said softly. “And I—I wasn’t.” He had been, sort of, but that type of delirious didn’t make it untrue.
“Ah yes, you were terribly lucid when yelling for coffee,” Miles scoffed, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Wright, I would prefer not to take advantage of you. I already feel I… overstepped by allowing you to pull me into bed.”
He clearly hadn’t understood what Phoenix was talking about. Or maybe he was being intentionally dense, because he was trying to avoid the conversation. Phoenix tried to read the situation but found himself brutally, achingly exhausted.
“Miles,” he murmured. “Just come here, would you? Please?”
Another long hesitation. Phoenix gave up and shut his eyes, let out a sigh he knew sounded more than a little pathetic. Who could blame him, really? Here he was, sick as a dog, unable to get the man he loved to understand that he loved him, despite the fact that he had actually, concretely, verbalized it.
And then he felt the covers shift, the mattress dip, and a warm body encroached on his space. Phoenix rolled over, blinking heavy eyelids to stare into Miles Edgeworth’s flushed face. Not his eyes—Miles wouldn’t meet his gaze. But he was there.
“Not a word,” Miles grumbled, wiggling under the covers to get comfortable. “This is highly unorthodox. I feel as though I’m taking supreme advantage of you and your illness.”
Didn’t that imply that this was something he wanted? That was good, right? (He really could not logic right now.) “You’re not,” he protested, shuffling closer so he could return his head to its rightful place on Miles’ chest. “You’re seriously, really, not. I can put it in writing if you think I’ll wake up and say something different.”
A pause, as if Miles were actually considering his offer. Phoenix was dead serious—he would put this in writing, he would scream it from the rooftops, he would paint it on the sky. He just also sort of didn’t want to move and didn’t want Miles to move either, and neither of them had a pen or paper on them.
“That is… all right,” Miles replied finally. “I am going to trust that you are being truthful and won’t suddenly change your mind the moment your fever breaks.”
“If that was going to happen,” Phoenix said tiredly, shutting his eyes and relaxing against the feeling of Miles’ soft shirt against his cheek, “then I’ve had this fever for a long, long time.”
He was asleep before he could figure out whether that actually made sense or not.
When he awoke, Miles was gone. Phoenix groaned quietly, stretching. Sun was streaming through the cracks in the curtain, bright enough that it was likely midday, if not later. His mouth tasted terrible, his stomach muscles ached, but he felt leagues better than the night before.
He was a little disappointed that Miles wasn’t there, though. Or maybe more than a little disappointed. They’d talked last night (that morning), hadn’t they? About Miles being worried he was taking advantage of Phoenix? What if the real problem here was that Phoenix was taking advantage of Miles, using Miles’ clear sympathy for him to convince him into fulfilling his romantic fantasies of being held by the other man while he slept?
The evidence didn’t really support that, though, did it? Miles had brought him to his home instead of just dropping him off. He’d come in the first place, for that matter. He’d stayed up almost all night with him, kept him from becoming dangerously ill, and had, seemingly willingly, gotten into bed with him twice. He might have done even more if he wasn’t worried about Phoenix’s history.
All this conjecture was useless. Phoenix could talk himself in and out and around and upside down Miles’ hypothetical feelings for him—he’d been doing it for years. Would it be absolutely insane to just find the man and ask? Arguably no more insane than dragging Miles into bed with him like he’d done (much) earlier that morning.
He should get up. Shake off these thoughts. Phoenix slowly levered his legs over the side of the bed and stood, wobbling a little. He headed out of the bedroom and winced when he caught sight of the patch of floor he’d puked onto the night before. It seemed spotless, which was not a surprise considering Miles’… everything.
He could smell some sort of mild spices and herbs. Miles was probably in the kitchen, then. He’d cooked something. He was maybe even waiting for Phoenix.
Phoenix, suddenly anxious, ducked into the bathroom. He didn’t have a toothbrush (the thought of ever having a toothbrush at Miles’ place sent a thrill through him like none other), but he wasn’t above stealing some of Miles’ toothpaste, smearing it on his finger, and rubbing it all over his mouth, pate and tongue included. The rotten taste in his mouth gone, he took care of business and then inhaled deeply, facing the closed bathroom door.
He had to see what was waiting for him out there.
Walking slowly, still a little unsteady but mostly just nervous, Phoenix moved down the hall and towards the overly-cushy living room. It was empty save for Pess, who was curled up on the cushion. Phoenix blinked at the dog. He’d honestly thought she might have been a fevered hallucination, but, no, Miles Edgeworth had a dog. And he’d never mentioned her once.
Honestly, Phoenix had seen him as more of a cat person. Or maybe it was just that Miles himself was more like a cat?
Pess lifted her head as Phoenix walked past, but she didn’t bark or even try to lick or sniff him. Phoenix offered her an awkward wave, and then he was stepping into the glossy industrial kitchen.
Miles, much like his dog, lifted his head at the introduction of Phoenix’s presence. Unlike his dog, however, he spoke: “Wright. You’re awake.”
“Mostly,” Phoenix joked, passing a hand back through his hair and staying in the doorway. He needed something to lean against, partially because his legs were tired, and partially because he was desperate to appear casual or relaxed and he wouldn’t know what to do with his body just… standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Miles rose and picked up his plate, which was empty save for an orange peel and some smudges of sauce. “I—would you like—are you hungry at all? How is your… stomach?”
“Better,” Phoenix told him with a wry smile. “Though, I guess that’s kind of a low bar? Sorry for all of… yeah.” He mimed throwing up, though felt that was maybe a poor decision when Miles flinched and grimaced slightly.
“You were quite unwell,” he mumbled, putting his plate into a two-tiered dishwasher. “But I’m pleased to see your recovery has been so rapid.”
“Yeah, same.” Phoenix risked emerging from the doorframe to find a seat at the kitchen counter in a elegant high-legged wooden chair. “It’s all because of you. Thank you for everything.”
“I hardly think that…” Miles’ sentence trailed off into a mumble. He’d turned his back to Phoenix when he began loading his dishwasher, but despite the fact that the dishwasher was loaded and Phoenix had moved a full ninety degrees around him, he still wouldn’t face him. Phoenix tried not to let his misgivings show. Maybe Miles really was deeply uncomfortable with what had passed between them?
A moment later, though, Miles clenched his fists and addressed the far wall. “Wright. You are no longer feverish, yes?”
“Uhh… I don’t think so?” He prodded his own forehead, though weren’t you not supposed to be able to tell yourself, at least by touch?
“Then I must—I must—know: what you said last night. Was it—are you—do you really—?”
Phoenix’s stomach flopped, but it wasn’t from whatever bug he’d caught. Miles was definitely asking about the moment Phoenix, delirious, had said he’d loved him. But was he asking because he was hoping it had been real? Or was he asking because he needed to confirm that it wasn’t?
Truth be told, there was no way to know for sure. Perhaps it was time for Phoenix to fully take a risk, come what may.
“Look, everything is a little hazy,” he admitted. “But I—I think I might have said that I love you. And if I didn’t, well… I’m, um… I’m saying it now.”
Miles slowly turned around. His eyes were uncharacteristically wide, almost giving Maya a run for her money, and he gripped the sleeve of his simple button down shirt fit to tear it in two. “After all this time,” he murmured, letting out a tremulous breath. “All it took was a stomach flu.”
Phoenix laughed shakily. This seemed like a pretty rock-solid Edgeworthian way of confirming what he’d hoped. “I guess now I’ll always have a strange fondness for hurling,” he said, grinning. “Not something I ever thought I’d say.”
Silence fell. Neither of them seemed to know how to follow this up. Miles approached cautiously, taking the seat beside Phoenix. Phoenix reached out and tentatively took his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you were just caring for me because you felt obligated,” he admitted.
“This is hardly something I’d do for my other colleagues,” Miles replied wryly. “Could you really imagine me bringing Prosecutor Payne back to my home and soothing him to sleep, tangled together in bed?”
The mental image was nearly enough to bring Phoenix’s queasiness raging back. He started laughing, planting his face in his free hand because he refused to let go of Miles’. “Okay, when you put it that way it’s ridiculous. But I’d seriously managed to convince myself that I’d somehow coerced you into bed with me because you just felt bad for me.”
“Well, you were pretty pathetic,” Miles admitted.
“You don’t pull any of your punches, do you?” Phoenix asked, lips quirking. He let himself gaze at the other man in a way he didn’t usually allow himself to do, taking in the stony, glinting color of his eyes and the little wrinkles just beginning to crease his skin and the curve of his lips, lips that came closer and closer until they were brushing against Phoenix’s.
Before long, Miles was pulling back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Did you… use my toothbrush?” he accused.
“I mean, we were just swapping spit anyway,” Phoenix pointed out, grinning at the instant look of disgust that flashed across Miles’ face. “Don’t really see what the difference is.”
Miles puffed up like a turkey, all romance and tenderness forgotten. “The difference is that it is my toothbrush, Wright, and you’ve been spewing your guts out all night long! The difference is—”
Phoenix kissed him again to cut him off, and kept kissing him to muffle the startled grunt he let out.
“I didn’t use your toothbrush,” he said when he pulled away. “Just my finger. Okay?”
“Okay,” Miles huffed, red-faced and ruffled.
They separated, returned to their own personal bubbles on their own chairs. Phoenix couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips as he stared down at the glossy granite countertop. “I really hope I’m not contagious,” he commented.
Miles let out a long-labored sigh. “It’s a sacrifice I suppose I’m willing to make.”