trace (vestiges)

"It's likely not quite up to your lofty standards, Wright," he murmurs, his tone somehow managing to remain calm and steady despite the painful hammering within his chest, "but I hope it's palatable, at least."

His stomach plummets to his feet as he watches Phoenix step into his home, slow and unsteady, the epitome of hesitation personified. His eyes dart anxiously around the entrance, the man slipping off his shoes at the foyer and stepping inside without removing his coat. A thin lower lip is chewed is nervousness, slipping out of his lips every few seconds only to be captured once again, his balance growing more and more fleeting as he walks further into the room, approaching Miles as the man stands at his kitchen island where all that remains to place upon the table is a decanter for water, chilled and crisp.

There is not even the faintest trace of a smile upon Phoenix's lips. Phoenix is ready to leave. Phoenix is ready to run.

And Miles cannot even blame him.

Still, he keeps his smile as unassuming as possible as he waves the defense attorney over, then gestures to the meal he has set up upon the table. "I'm sorry I got Detective Gumshoe to rush you over- I didn't want the food to get cold."

Phoenix awkwardly stands behind a chair, tucking his hands into his pockets with far more force than is necessary. "You… made this?" he asks after a moment of staring at the spread in wary bewilderment.

Nodding, Miles comments, "I picked up more than just prosecutorial skills in Germany."

Unfortunately, this reminder of their separation has the opposite effect to what Miles had intended with his rueful smile; Phoenix's eyes immediately cloud, brows furrowing together. "I suppose so," he replies dryly.

Sighing, Miles walks around the island, pulling out the seat for the other man. "Stay for dinner. You won- you deserve it."

"Did Gumshoe tell you?"

Miles cannot hide the pride in his voice as he murmurs, "He keeps me up-to-date whenever you are in court and I am not prosecuting. You've improved tremendously, Wright-"

"Don't patronize me," Phoenix cuts in. Still, the other man takes a seat, begrudgingly taking off his jacket and hanging it off the back of the chair. Miles' eye twitches at the sight, but he says nothing at the action; the fact that Phoenix is agreeing to sit down at all is nothing short of a miracle. Despite the fact that they have once again become a part of each other's lives, after all, does not change the fact that this is Phoenix's first time back at Miles' home. He has refused again and again, each time Miles has offered casual invitations. It is easy to see why; that understanding does not ease the sting any, however.

Perhaps it was unfair of me to use the detective as bait, Miles thinks wryly as he sets up a plate for Phoenix. When Miles had asked Detective Gumshoe to help him bring Phoenix back to Miles' place, the detective had been more than willing to oblige. He cannot help but wonder how exactly the man had framed this visit to finally convince Phoenix to enter his home after so much refusal.

This place must be painful for Phoenix. Even if Miles stands right before him, it does not erase the countless nights he must have suffered on his own, believing that no one would inhabit this house ever again. Miles understands; the evening glow of the setting sun streaming in through his windows, reflecting off his chandelier to cast a million tiny rays of light refracted into every colour, does nothing to beautify the shadows of grief still so deeply engrained behind Phoenix's eyes.

Still, Miles shall not back down. He was never one to back away from a challenge, after all.

The food is delicious. Miles finds that he is silent for much of it, as is Phoenix; where the other man is likely quiet due to nerves, Miles finds that his reason is far more soft, far more embarrassing. He shall not ever admit it, but the sight of Phoenix eating something which he himself has cooked- and enjoying it, if his surprised contentment with each bite is anything to go by- manages to grip him somewhere deep within, filling him with a sense of heady warmth and gratefulness and desire that cannot be explained. He wants to monopolize Phoenix. And, while Miles does not love cooking the way Phoenix clearly does, he'd happily make these meals for the other man, any day.

Franziska would vomit if she saw this, he thinks wryly to himself. This domesticity had no place in the von Karma household.

For that, strangely enough, Miles is thankful; this action of supping together, of sharing food and company, has never been tainted by Miles' demons. That, at least, is wholly Phoenix's.

When food is finished, he guides the man upstairs. With a full belly, Phoenix is more compliant, more willing; for a moment, Miles glances over to his wine cabinet, but decides against it. This exchange must be made sober, after all, so he simply takes Phoenix's hand and pulls him up the staircase which the attorney has not touched for over a year, the footprints in the carpet finally growing to two sets where they have been only one for too long.

The bath is drawn. Phoenix tries to protest, but Miles makes no move to join, to enter, to push. "Take your time, Wright," he murmurs with a smile, having already laid a robe and clothes before Phoenix's arrival. "Relax."

Phoenix's mouth presses into a thin line of all the words he clearly longs to say, but does not; his eyes flash with a million and one emotions, racing thoughts playing across his expression without hesitation. However, he does not turn down this offer, walking over to the bathroom after only a moment of regarding Miles' gently expression.

Miles throws himself back against the bed, covering his eyes with the back of his hand as he lets out a long, slow breath the moment the bathroom door shuts. He's here, he mouths silently. He hasn't let. I can do this.

He will not make another mistake.

Twenty minutes later, Miles has finished what he needs to do, cleaning up the dishes downstairs and finishing up with his preparations in the bedroom; an extra towel is on hand as he awaits the attorney's reappearance. In a puff of steam, Phoenix appears as if on cue, the loose-fitting navy blue bathrobe covering his built form far too flattering to be good for Miles' heart. When his eyes land upon Miles, though, something in Phoenix's gaze twists, freezes, snaps after being pulled taut to the breaking point.

Collapses, his guard in shambles, his fears finally coming through without any obfuscation.

The sight is gut-wrenching. "I'm not leaving, Phoenix," Miles says firmly. With a sigh, he removes his glasses and places them neatly upon the table, then reaches out to Phoenix. Grabbing the attorney's hands, he gently pulls the attorney to the other side of the bedroom, picking up the towel he had already prepared along the way.

Phoenix does not speak until Miles is halfway through drying his hair, his eyes focused upon his knees as he sits upon a chair by Miles' coffee table next to the window. When he does open his mouth at last, his words come out clumsily- stuttered, fumbling, unsure. Scared of being hurt again. He whispers, "You didn't leave."

"…I'm sorry I did so last year. That kind of foolishness shall not happen again."

"You…" Snorting, Phoenix lets out a quiet sigh, the rueful self-hatred in his tone agonizingly apparent. "But do you even still want to be with me? I thought you would've found someone better."

Miles' hands pause in their tender ministrations for a moment as he gathers his thoughts, fighting to retain his balance, his poise. He is unsuccessful; dropping his hands down to Phoenix's shoulders, he leans forward, pulling the attorney's head to rest against his stomach. "How could I, when all I've thought of every night since I left was you?"

"You don't want me-"

"When have I said that?"

Phoenix freezes, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat. He shifts in his seat, half-dried strands hanging limply into those dark eyes which look up at Miles with such yearning, such heartache, that Miles almost wants to weep. "…even if I want more than before?"

Nodding resolutely, Miles sets down the towel and takes Phoenix's hand, squeezing firmly, softly. Reassuring. There. "Whatever you want- within reason, of course," he adds after a moment, his mind instantly flashing over to past teasing from Frederik as the older man had asked about the nature of his relationship with Phoenix.

He does not know what Phoenix is searching for in his eyes; whatever it is, however, he finds it, and soon Miles finds a hand he has missed for over a year finally, truly touching him again.

His cheek is warm in Phoenix's strong, callused palm. It is rougher than he remembers- likely more so due to his workouts- but the heat is exactly the same, entering every pore and flooding his body with safety, just as it always has been. This time, however, Miles does not feel any accompanying fear, any accompanying shame.

He touches Phoenix's cheek. It is wet, and Miles smiles. After a year of dreaming, he is finally looking at Phoenix Wright's heart. Even in tears, snotty and splotched cheeks shining in the dim light, for some reason, Miles cannot help but consider this man as beautiful.