The way things turned out is only half surprising, he would say. (Hindsight is painfully twenty-twenty.)
One of them had departed on the journey to find himself — wherever that was.
One of them had lost himself and frankly didn't care to find it again.
The only thing that truly stayed the same was the warm flicker of something beyond rivalry or friendship, the brief lapses into intimacy that arrive naturally, gently, without force or desperation—
"Some things never change, I see."
Snapped out of his reverie, he looks at Edgeworth from the corners of his eyes (because he knows; eye contact is asking for dissection from the only person who can do it with flawless accuracy).
"Now, what exactly is that supposed to mean?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow as he props his feet up on the table, taking another sip of wine.
He can't help but wonder if it's him or the wine that doesn't belong here.
The tenseness on Edgeworth's face dissipates into bemusement. "Despite your capabilities in the courtroom, you were never good at hiding anything when it came to yourself."
"I can say the same for you, can't I?"
The tenseness returns and a cold front passes through the room.
Edgeworth's expression becomes unreadable as he downs the last of his wine.
"How do you expect me to keep coming here and seeing you in this miserable condition, Wright? Seeing you in prison would be preferable to seeing you dulled and lifeless."
His throat tightens and something akin to pain blossoms in his chest. "It's a way of life by now, Edgeworth."
His response is met with a wave of the hand and a satisfied smirk. "I know you're many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them. Live up to your namesake."
Their glasses are empty and his eyes (and heart) are heavy, but their smirks never fade.
