trace (vestiges)

Miles has never felt more shame in his living situation, in the sheer opulence of it, before now; however, as they cross the threshold of his home, he flicks on the light to reveal a chandelier hanging above an elegant table in the lounge off the main foyer, the plush carpeting shining from its weekly cleaning even without sunlight streaming in through tall, delicate windows. He slips off his shoes and tucks them into the vast closet by the door without a second thought, readying to turn to Phoenix to take the man's overcoat and blazer when he catches sight of a slack jaw, disbelief and amazement oozing from every pore.

Then, Phoenix turns to look at him. Slowly, his shock transforms into a mixture of bitter regret and embarrassment, the man's proverbial tail between his legs without so much as a word.

For a moment, Miles' fingers merely grip tighter onto his own sleeve, lost for words. What can he possibly say? It is not like he can deny the truth of their statuses that he himself has been so starkly aware of since that night in Phoenix's office, nor can he pretend that there is nothing strange about his home. There is nothing that can change the fact that Miles has no idea the adversity which Phoenix has faced to get to where he is in a world controlled by money. After all, Miles is no fool- he knows the truth of his upbringing, as rocky as it may have been. From the start, he had been planted in soil that had been nutrient-rich and fertile, whereas Phoenix had been able to bloom in naught but the cracks in the concrete.

…he still thinks Phoenix blooms more beautifully than he ever could.

He gulps, sighs, then takes in a deep breath. Ripping his hand away from its safe place upon his elbow, he reaches out to Phoenix, gently removing the man's overcoat for him. "If… if you don't want to come in, I can call the taxi back," he says softly, avoiding Phoenix's gaze, "but… it would be my pleasure to host you, should you stay."

"Miles…" For a moment, Phoenix is stunned. Then, he finally allows Miles to slip off his jacket. "You… you're really okay with me?"

You're the only one who's ever been 'okay' for me. "Yes."

Still hesitant, Phoenix relaxes at last- not completely, but enough to begin to follow suit. He pulls off his blazer, hanging it up neatly beside his overcoat. His scuffed loafers are placed next to Miles' pairs and pairs of pristine, polished leather. He takes a tentative step inside the house, fascination still captured by the decadence around him.

Miles takes in a deep breath, then steps forward, holding out his hand towards Phoenix. "We should go upstairs," he states.

Phoenix obeys, fingers curling around Miles'. They are clumsy in their trek up to Miles' bedroom; Phoenix is absolutely baffled by the size of his bed, his walk-in closet, his giant bathroom.

Miles tugs his hand, drawing his attention away from everything. Swallowing down his fear and the frantic, nervous energy thrumming under his skin, he turns Phoenix around to face him. His fingers tremble, but he has not spent the entire taxi ride for naught; his mind is made up, and when he decides he shall do something, he shall see it through to the end.

So, he finally does what he has longed to do secretly for months; fingers hook into the knot of that brilliant cardinal-red tie, pulling it down, releasing some of the tension held against a thick, muscled neck.

Apparently, that is the trick, the trigger which can destroy this sense of distance between them in favour of rekindling the sheer want which had hung heavy in Phoenix's dark eyes throughout their entire dinner at the Gatewater. Miles has barely any time to blink before skilled hands (far too skilled to be doing this for the first time- for a moment, Miles wants to sob, for he has finally found something at which Phoenix is the expert and he is the novice, and the sense of loss in this fact can neither be explained nor understated) snap open his cravat. Phoenix is far too good at removing other peoples' buttons, for Miles' blazer is off and slung across the back of his chair before he can even protest as the wrinkles which will surely form. Within the blink of an eye, the other man has smoothly wrapped an arm around his waist, his other hand embedding itself into Miles' hair, within seconds.

He is only able to focus on what is happening when Phoenix draws him closes, pausing a few scant centimeters from his lips. Hot, heavy breath hits his lips, fingers massaging his scalp with a kind of sensuality which threatens to become his undoing, urging him to move forward, to move closer. "Are you sure you're okay with me, Edgeworth?" Phoenix repeats breathlessly.

This is it. This is his chance to say no, to push Phoenix away, to regain what little semblance of control he has ever been able to assert over the other man. This is his chance to stand up to Phoenix Wright.

He doesn't.

"…Yes."

And so, those lips he has craved finally reunite with his. They taste of wine, of skin- of mint lip balm. That last flavour is what causes his knees to buckle, supple, smooth lips only so soft thanks to his tenderness, thanks to his gift which Phoenix is actually using. Phoenix is easily able to catch him, though, pulling him upright, pressing his toned body into every hollow of Miles' until the two are inextricably linked, the sheer heat emanating off of Phoenix's form seeping into Miles' skin without restraint.

No longer is it just a wisp of warmth. This is what he has always wanted.

He can no longer breathe by the time Phoenix pulls away from him properly, the other man immediately taking this pause to bury his strong nose into the crook of Miles' neck. His collar is unbuttoned before he even realizes it, pale skin exposed only to be covered again by lips and teeth, that goofy grin turning into a weapon, biting so gently- and yet, the pain lingers indelibly, carving out pieces of his soul forever.

Somewhere along the way, he gives up- gives in. He closes his eyes, but for once, it is not out of fear; he knows he shall be swept away, but with large hands cradling him as if he is the most precious thing in the world… he feels safe.

When he finally opens his eyes once again, he is seated at the edge of his bed. There is something unbearably wanton in the way that Phoenix gently parts Miles' knees, wedging his body into the space between, one hand intertwining with his hair and pushing it back out of his face so softly, that he almost cries. His lips ache, each nerve ending trembling from excitement, from confusion, from palpable desire; he strains to find release, although it shames him to admit he has no idea how to ask for it.

Phoenix knows, however. He notices Miles' confusion, his torn heart. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down, fingers undoing his belt and button and zipper before Miles knows what is going on; those long fingers which Miles has jealously watched across a courthouse for so long reach in, wrapping around him, removing him from his constraints.

He is free. He trembles, exposed. This isn't-

However, his protests die upon his lips faster than he can put them to voice, for before he can say a word, he realizes that Phoenix- this confident, strong, beautiful creature before him who radiates affection in a way which Miles has never experienced- is trembling.

He does not know, either.

Somehow, this understanding cools down his fear, wiping away any of his hazy insecurity. It fills him from head to toe, drowning him in a sense of… what is it, pride? Confidence? He cannot say, but whatever it is, it spurs him onwards, his own hands finding the belt, zipper, button before him.

Phoenix is beautiful like this, he thinks- sweat beading at his temple, want causing straight white teeth to bite that mint-covered, bruised lip, hair falling around his face. He towers over Miles, but he does not push, does not demand.

So, Miles does.

It is easy enough to draw the other man back to his lips, the men connecting as if they are magnetic, two poles meant to be joined in harmony forever; it is easy enough to wrap his arms around Phoenix's neck, drawing the man in, pressing their chests together and lying back on his bed so that Phoenix's weight rests upon him.

Phoenix's heat pressing against Miles almost brings him to pieces.

He is not long, though; those rough, callused fingers push both of them together, a sort of timid desperation juxtaposing the gasping air passed between their lungs every time they part for a scant breath. They wrap around the two of them, and Miles can only cry out soundlessly against Phoenix's mouth as those long fingers begin to squeeze, begin to move, slick and filled with wanton desire that is torn between bringing them both into nothing, and maintaining this heady high for as long as they possibly can. Miles contents himself to simply submitting, to simply winding his fingers into Phoenix's sweat-soaked hair, tugging dark strands and clutching onto his nape in a desperate attempt to retain any sense of sanity.

He holds out valiantly. He tries, gods, he does; however, when Phoenix pulls back from one blustering, bruising kiss, his eyes seem to shimmer with tears in the dark room as he looks down at Miles, cupping his face with his free hand with a softness that he cannot even fathom. Then, the dark-haired man snorts. It is ungainly, distracting, in this moment of passion. The sound draws Miles a little out of his high, the sudden recognition of their positions a splash of cold water. "Wh-wh-what is it?" he mutters hoarsely, his throat unused to speech after having his cries so thoroughly silenced by Phoenix's lips.

Phoenix smiles, eyes creasing into crescent moons, pressing his forehead against Miles'. "You… you've always been so beautiful," he whispers softly. "Always. Always, Miles. You've been everything."

And that is what destroys him, heat coiling from the deepest part his core, pouring out of him without restraint as his head clouds, fuzzy and faint, heat coursing through his veins so painfully that he wonders whether this is death- whether this is peace.

He is only faintly aware of how Phoenix lays his cheek against Miles', his thick body shuddering against him as he falls apart as well, liquid coating his hand, seeping between those lovely fingers and soaking into Miles' dress shirt. Although at any other time, he would be absolutely horrified at this desecration of his workplace attire, the knowledge that Phoenix's desire is so visibly burning into Miles' clothes fills him with a sense of satisfaction which he has never before achieved.

Phoenix lets out a haggard sigh, the man stripping himself of his dress shirt and pants leisurely whilst Miles remains in a pleasure-induced haze; he faintly feels Phoenix performing the same ministrations to him, before the other man's arms suddenly lace under his bared knees, clutching his bared back.

He snaps to wakefulness. "Wright, what-"

But before he can say a word, Phoenix has scooped him up bodily, the strain of the effort clear on his face. Miles is honestly in awe- he is fit, but to think that Phoenix can carry him so easily is not something to be understated- but he is unable to respond coherently until he is laid onto the bed, naked and exposed at last.

The other man lays next to him without hesitation, his own eyes glassy with contentment and joy. Lips press against his temple- barely minty now, still soft as ever. Those lips drag down his cheekbone, down the curve of his jaw, until he is once again at Miles' lips. "Again?" he asks with a childish delight, a barely-contained eagerness that is so horribly hidden that Miles does something he has not done in a long, long time.

Miles laughs- truly, from the bottom of his gut, his body shaking as he turns his head to lean upon a bare, toned shoulder. He laughs and laughs, tears in his eyes, his heart a wellspring of something which he does not know how to name in his near-delirium.

It is wonderful, though.