trace (vestiges)
Three months is already entirely too much without Phoenix, he is finding. Three months of nearly-daily phone calls, of video calls every weekend, of quiet text messages and small trinkets sent across the seas to the other man are all well and good, but it is still too much and not enough all at once. Miles knows with confidence that he is doing well with this whole 'long-distance relationship' that Maya loves to swoon over and tease him about whenever they get the chance to catch up- Frederik is the main indicator of this, the older man constantly amazed by just how regimented and focused their relationship is after all this time apart- but he still feels unfulfilled, he finds.
It takes him entirely too long for him to realize what he is missing. Once he understands, however, he almost wishes he had stayed ignorant forever; there is no way to avoid colouring every interaction he has with Phoenix with the longing that spreads through every fiber of his being whenever he hears that voice or sees that open, loving face.
He wants Phoenix's warmth.
The attorney has always been far too quick for his own good. He picks up on Miles' embarrassment with shocking speed, worry and trepidation evident in his tone as he gently chides Miles, asking what is wrong.
Miles gulps. It is early morning for him and evening for Phoenix, but he does not have work that day, and Phoenix should be free this weekend as well. So, he sighs, finally allowing his desire to tinge his voice.
Phoenix understands. There is a slight intake of breath- nervousness, hesitation. Neither of them have mentioned missing each other in the flesh, although Miles for one knows that he has spent far longer than necessary in the shower with his thoughts locked on his memories of Phoenix's touch far too many times that he would ever like to admit. Phoenix clearly does not know how much he can push here, how much he can want.
Miles sighs, sinking into his pillow, his phone's microphone catching his sharp inhale as his hands begin to stray, silently pleading for more.
Tentatively, Phoenix murmurs, "I wish you were here, Edgeworth."
"And why's that, Wright?"
And just like that, the switch is flipped. He can hear Phoenix walking, moving along hardwood, then carpet; he can hear the man biting his tongue, holding back his words as the phone drops onto something soft, the rustling of cloth echoing in the air. Miles can hear the sound of silky sheets gliding down, and his heart leaps into his chest as he realizes that it is his own bedroom back in LA- his own bed, his own sheets, his own pillow upon which Phoenix props himself up as he finally whispers, "Because…"
They begin. Miles is silent for most of it; he is far too domineering in court, he will be the first to admit, but there is something so soothing in relinquishing control to Phoenix, small hums of pleasure filling his empty apartment as he obeys Phoenix's quiet, assured commands. He imagines what it must look like upon the other end; his mind has no shortage when it comes to memories of Phoenix waiting for him upon his bed, the myriad moments of their time together providing him more than enough evidence upon which he can build this fantasy to the tune of Phoenix's yearning voice. Buttons come undone, cloth slipping off skin, fingertips tracing and brushing over expanses that have been neglected for far too long.
His body is touch-starved, he finds. His own hands are no substitute for what he craves; his fingers are nowhere near as rough, as strong, as thick and comforting and tender as what he truly needs.
And yet, he finds that there is something so wonderful about this exchange, about listening to Phoenix's firm, lustful voice whisper out order after order, the quiet, yet unmistakeable sound of bottles uncapping and closing, liquid moving across aching flesh, and slow, languid movements providing the accompaniment to Phoenix's words. Miles' body moves with barely a thought; in fact, he probably is far more unabashed now, with no one to see his shameful want ruining his sheets, his spine bending in a way he hasn't since their separation.
Fingers find heat. He places his cheek against his pillow beside his phone, softly murmuring, "Phoenix…"
Phoenix sighing in contented pleasure is what brings him undone. He shudders, gasping, a guttural, hoarse whimper escaping his lips as he imagines hands not of his own exploring his body, that tall, proud nose buried in dark grey curls-
God, how he longs to have that voice echoing in his apartment breathing into his neck instead. He can imagine the heat of Phoenix's breath upon his nape, Phoenix's fingers digging into his hips, Phoenix's weight atop his body. Without the other man, even this pleasure still rings a little too empty for his liking.
Still, as he hears those rough fingers moving faster, Phoenix's words fading away into nothing but whispers of praise and adoration as he loses himself in his own imaginings, Miles merely hums, riding out his high with the thought of the other man being with him. It is not the same, but as the other man falls apart, his own hoarse cries of ecstasy echoing in Miles' bedroom and reverberating into his heart, Miles knows that it is better than nothing.
They both keep the phone call connected as they clean themselves up. It is strange; although his head still buzzes with pleasure, he feels far more contented listening to Phoenix curse mildly as the attorney asks, "Is it okay to put your sheets in the dryer? I know they're fancy, but I'd rather not leave them for the housekeeper-"
"Made a mess, did you, Wright?"
"I'd rather have made a mess of you, but yeah, Edgeworth. Don't rub it in."
"You've already taken care of that yourself-"
"I can't believe you!"
They bicker and banter like this. It is absolutely baffling to think that this exchange comes second-nature to him, but Miles is comfortable and at ease as he replaces his bedsheets. With Phoenix's teasing laughter and wry, lethargic indignation still filling his ears, it almost feels like he is at home with Phoenix. That thought is enough to ease the wanton desire in his heart.
For now, at least- as they both drift off to sleep, with Miles promising himself a lazy restful day and with Phoenix turning off his alarms come the morning, he knows that this is something they shall do again. He cannot wait.