A/N: Bahahaha. I don't even know. I don't wholly endorse the reading of this story, because I do not know where my penchant for writing went. So, if you have the time, please review if you have some suggestions on how I might go about salvaging my writing. Thank you! Oh, and enjoy, if you must.

"Wright, are you shuure we shhhould be doing this?" he slurred, hanging on to the suede couch for dear life.

"I've never seen you ssoo drunk before in my life. I could have sssswornn you didn't drink, Miles. I mean, you're just too—" he hiccupped, then burped. "Refined."

"Okay, that is disgusting. N-not in my house, Wright."

"Heh. Well, do you mind if we do this in your house?" and that is the last thing Phoenix said before he engaged his life-long rival in something that can only be vaguely described as a kiss. It was … sloppier and, well, if you had been able to see Miles' face, you'd swear he was drowning ….

He wasn't even sure he liked it. Also, it would have been nice if Wright had stopped pulling on his cravat, since it was making it kind of hard for him to breathe. No, wait, it was Wright's tongue down his throat that was making it kind of hard for him to breathe. With a slight tug, and then another more forceful tug, he felt his cravat come off and flutter to the floor. It had been a one of a kind, but first things first: he had to support himself by holding on to Wright's neck; the man was about to send him tumbling to the floor, weighing him down … kissing him or what-have-you. He heard himself moan and felt Wright giggle between their lips. A grown man, giggling, how absu—wait, had he just moaned? Damn that Wright, always squeezing things out of him, even outside the courtroom—and oh, dear God what was he squeezing now? Another cursed moan and he was putty in Wright's hands. And Wright's hands had a way of getting into places they shouldn't be getting into, and making Miles almost enjoy it.

"Wr-Wright, I … think … we should … stop," he heard himself pant. He was staring at Wright now, their jagged breathing fogging up the minute space between them with the thick, intermingled smells of expensive wine and the only kind of beer Gumshoe could ever afford.

After they had settled down, Wright broke the awkward silence."You're right, Edgeworth," he said with an intoxicating—or was it intoxicated?—grin. "No, wait. I'm Wright and you're Edgeworth. Hah, I'm funny.

"But you know, it's a shame. I was just thinking …" He lowered himself until they were face to face again. "…you'd look awfully sexy with that cravat back on. And nothing else." And then Wright started kissing Miles' exposed neck, with the usual disregard for decency or any sort of common manners.

"Stop it, damn it!" He pushed Wright off of him and stormed off to the other side of the room. "You are drunk, Wright. Drunk. You have no idea of what you're doing right now, so I suggest you kindly stop making a fool of yourself."

"You know what? You are such a killjoy, Edgey. I was trying to have my way with you." Edgeworth's ears perked up as Wright purred the words that finally sent him over the edge. But not the only edge that night, sadly.

"You irritate me, Wright. So much."

"I know," he said as he led him to the next room. "Man, are you going to be that angry the entire time?"

"Yes, and I am really hoping it will bother the hell out of you."

"Nah, I kind of like it, actually."

You and I were made for each other, made for each other, made for each other.