it overflows
"Did Miss Fey perchance anger some rain spirit whilst spirit channeling?" Miles grouses as he shakes off his umbrella. The action causes a veritable spray of water to cascade across his porch, much to his chagrin; it is to be expected, though. The sudden sheets of rain that had begun to pour down upon the city have been swift and merciless, shocking everyone caught unawares on the sidewalk. In Miles' car, however, the duo had been safe from it all.
Miles almost wishes he had been caught in the rain after all. It would have been better than sitting in that- in the tense silence, the heat emanating from Phoenix's cheeks somehow flooding Miles' own face up to the tips of his ears, his stomach twisting into knots as he fought his hands to relax, to not betray the pure, undeniable regret roiling up from deep within.
The urge to flee into the night the moment he parks his car is pitiful. Alas, Phoenix had not had an umbrella, so Miles had been forced to shut away that primal fear and take the attorney into his own, guiding him to Miles' front door.
Underneath the protective covering in front of his large, stately front door, the two men now wait. The prosecutor's fingers shake as he fumbles with his keys, but soon enough, he has unlocked the front door, silently motioning for the attorney to come in. It is the first time Phoenix has been in Miles' home, he realizes dimly; even in their childhood, before their separation and falling out, Miles had only ever been a visitor to Phoenix's childhood home.
The faint memories Miles carries are quickly squashed down, just as he swallows down the thick lump which immediately begins to form in his throat. He remembers Phoenix's childhood home. The single-story house had been cozy and warm, filled to the brim with knickknacks and love and the scent of cookies and lavender and whatever commonplace laundry detergent Phoenix's mother used to buy-
No, he scolds himself silently. I can't think back to that.
He refuses to go back to that time. He cannot. It- there is too much which lingers there, still haunting him.
As they walk into the foyer of Miles' home, however, the thought of showing Phoenix his own home is strangely horrifying. What will the other man think? Miles is normally proud of what he has built, having poured in his own sweat, blood and tears to designing the ideal space for him. It is spacious and classic, the rustic furniture elegant and sleek; the layout is simultaneously cozy and grand, giving him everything he needs on those rare days off when Miles may simply relax. He does not need to fear any kind of judgement from anyone's appraisal, let alone Phoenix's.
Yet, when Phoenix murmurs, the image of his furrowed brow painted by the unease in his voice, "Um… do you have any lights-" Miles cuts him off without hesitation.
"Just follow me," Miles instructs softly.
Phoenix's gulp is audible. "…alright."
And just like that, Miles reaches out, turning on the small lamp which sits in the foyer. It is enough to illuminate where to place their jackets and shoes, to give Phoenix a bench upon which he can leave his backpack, and Miles, his suitcase. It is enough to allow Miles' hand to timidly gesture towards the stairs a few feet away, leading up from the main living room and kitchen and study, heading towards Miles' bedroom.
And his bathroom.
Has climbing stairs always been so difficult? Miles asks this question again and again internally as he slowly begins to move upwards, his footsteps slow and ungainly. He does not bother reaching over to turn on the main overhead light for the staircase, simply moving up the same steps he has a million times before; despite the fact that he should be well-accustomed to it, though, he continues to bump his toes, muffled curses swallowed down in humiliated, silent hysteria until he has finally reached the top.
Phoenix fares no better behind him. The other man's hand clutches the handrail so tightly that Miles can hear the wooden grip creaking under the strain.
Finally, they are at their destination. Miles' bedroom is fairly sparse, in all honesty. He had invested in a large, comfortable bed, spending far more on the bedding itself than he shall ever admit to any living soul. A coffee table is placed beside the floor-to-ceiling window, the elegant drapes a lush maroon velvet; normally, Miles likes to walk over and open up the curtains, allowing light to stream in onto the table as he sits and sips his tea and reads.
Today, the blind stays shut. In the recesses of his mind which have retained their function, he logically knows that it would be smarter to simply illuminate the room to get this entire farce over and done with. He refuses to obey that logic, however, striding past the window and straight to the walk-in closet; within, he gathers an extra robe, some pyjamas, and slippers for the other man, his hands shaking the entire time.
Just as he is about to leave the walk-in, he finally looks at what he has gathered within his hands. The clothes he has picked out are all brand new. His face burns as he wonders just when in the world he had purchased these, for he cannot remember from when or where they had come.
They are also all blue.
The rigidity with which he hands off the stack of clothing to Phoenix goes unmentioned, thankfully, and soon enough, the two men are standing in terse silence in the entrance to Miles' bathroom. The prosecutor walks over to the large, luxurious bathtub, peeking over his shoulder. What he hopes to find outlined in the shadows of the dark house, he does not know- rejection, perhaps? Refusal? Shock that Miles has even allowed this nonsensical play to progress this far? Are you not going to say a thing, Wright? Miles wonders in awed horror, his eyes wide as he takes in the other man's stiff figure.
Rather than any of that, all he sees is the other man's chin tilted towards the floor, his eyes hidden away, entire stance bashful and shy as he clutches the bundle of clothing and slippers to his chest.
Miles' heart squeezes painfully at the sight, forcing him to turn back around. With a grimace and a forceful twist, the man sits upon the edge of the tub, reaches out, throws caution to the wind, and opens up the faucet. A scalding jet of hot water rushes out, spraying him lightly as he tests the temperature. Behind him, he can hear Phoenix shuffling into the bathroom, his movements jerky and uneven as he sets down his clothing on the wide, clear countertop. Neither man says a word, the rushing water's cry echoing throughout high ceilings and tiled walls for an eternity before Miles has the sense to throw a bit of bath foam into the water. If they truly are to do this, then he needs some modesty- otherwise, his heart might actually stop.
As it is, Miles' heart already pounds in his ears far louder than the actual sound of the tub filling up. His body fluctuates from hot to cold, the side by the water causing his temples to sweat whilst the side closest to Phoenix is chilled to the bone.
Finally, the bath is drawn, but in Miles' distracted trepidation, the water far too hot for either man to enter. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Phoenix chuckles, voice dry and strained. "So, uh… let's get in?"
"…showering first might be better," Miles whispers, the man standing up at last. "You can go ahead."
Phoenix's hummed understanding sounds more like a strangled squeak, but Miles makes no comment. As the prosecutor turns to face the basket in which he had instinctually placed his own robe and toiletries, Miles' knees weaken for a moment. The numbness from sitting perched upon the edge of the bathtub knocks him off balance, and soon enough, he has stumbled, his body careening over-
Until strong arms catch him, and suddenly, all Miles can feel is muscle, tensed underneath him; cheap fabric smelling slightly of cologne, slightly of sweat, the combination horrifyingly heady, pressing against his cheek; warm, moist breath hitting the rest of his face, all of which steals the breath away from Miles' lungs in shock as Phoenix cries out, "Are you alright?"
Scrambling away from the other man, Miles stands and turns away from Phoenix, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "Just go. Be quick."
Without a word, the other man complies. Before long, the sound of falling clothes and the shuffling of fabric upon marbled countertops has fallen away in favour of the shower's gentle rainfall cascading down, the sound of the water hitting the fogged-up glass cubicle thrumming in Miles' ears. The prosecutor does not dare to turn, does not dare look towards the other man. Even though it is nearly pitch-black, the very thought of catching a peek at the silhouette in the darkness, suddenly so much more defined after being caught in those arms-
He cannot turn the lights on. Miles clenches his fists, nails digging painfully into the palms of his hands in an attempt to distract himself from the heat rushing through his veins, pooling in his gut, the sweat beading upon his temple flashing between too cold and too hot out of dizzying nervousness and fear and something else which he simply cannot name.
After but a few minutes, the sounds of shifting and scrubbing and bottles popping open and closed have all stopped. The shower is shut off, and the attorney steps out, his footsteps wet against the smooth, cold floor. "You can use it, Edgeworth," Phoenix offers. Just with his voice, Miles can imagine the crooked, awkward smile which he has seen so many times across the courtroom- feeble, clumsy.
His heart aches.
He hums once he realizes that the other man cannot possibly see him nod in the shadows. Then, the act of disrobing and showering himself is finished swiftly, mechanically. These movements are practiced, easy, after all.
It helps that, once Phoenix has hissed his way into being seated into the tub, he mumbles, "I'll… close my eyes, I guess?" which grants the prosecutor just a bit of privacy.
Finally, Miles stands at the edge of the bathtub. With trembling fingers, he hangs up his towel, pushes his wet hair back out of his eyes, and slips into the tub. It is usually far too spacious for him, which is perfect; today, however, Miles moves like a cornered animal, pressing himself against the far end of the tub until he is completely submerged. He keeps his own eyes closed shut. The heat of the water itself, however, is delicious, surrounding him in a wondrous warmth that covers him from head to toe, instantly easing his tensed, aching muscles. Without thinking, the man stretches his legs slightly, relaxing-
Then, his feet bumps into Phoenix's.
Instantly, his body reacts. Limbs stiffen, heart screaming in fear, lungs suddenly labouring for air as he grows dizzy from heat and proximity. Claustrophobia suddenly strikes, forcing the blood in his veins to boil frightfully, the electricity running down his spine igniting physical desire that causes crashing waves of equal shame and apology into him.
However, before he can curl up into a ball or try and escape, the other man cries out, "It's all good! It's fine. Just… relax?"
The sound of Phoenix's voice- small, almost whimpering- draws a bark of a laugh out of Miles, despite his utter humiliation. "I could say the same thing to you, Wright."
Slowly, Phoenix laughs, the movement growing bigger and bigger until finally the water itself is vibrating with joyful energy. It is infectious, Miles finds, and soon enough, the prosecutor leans his head back and laughs as well, the sound throaty and low and exasperated.
Just like that, the tension is gone. His body is languid and relaxed, that manic fluctuation in his heart calming down to comfortable, amicable ease. His knee bumps into Phoenix's, but neither man pulls away once they settle down.
"What the hell are we doing?" Phoenix mutters, humour wry and comfortable.
Miles rests his head against the rolled-up towel he had placed at the edge of the bath like a pillow. "Who knows? Perhaps we've both lost it," he responds in kind.
"Too many weird cases will do that to you, I guess."
"Verily."
The conversation between them is scant for the rest of their time together that day. Phoenix praises his house- what little of it he has seen, at least- and talks about his own one-bedroom apartment. Miles hums, accepting the compliments with silent but bursting pride, his chest puffing up despite himself. Miles points out Phoenix's strength, and the attorney sheepishly admits that physical training is one of his hobbies. "It's free," is Phoenix's embarrassed reasoning.
"There's nothing wrong with taking care of oneself," Miles responds instantly.
"…yeah. Thanks."
When the water grows colder, there is no confusion nor embarrassment in their procedure to leave the bath. Phoenix moves first, and Miles gives him the privacy he needs until he may get dressed as well. Phoenix turns down a cup of tea, citing some paperwork and research needed before his next trial. Before he knows it, Miles is standing at his front door, a plush robe covering his pyjamas as he watches Phoenix step out of his home. The other man's face positively glows under the fading sunlight, the sky having cleared sometime during their time together.
As he moves to leave, the attorney pauses. Phoenix readjusts the straps upon his backpack, turns to look over at Miles, and blushes. Perhaps it is the fact that they have been stumbling about in the darkness for nearly two hours, but the colour in Phoenix's cheek- the sparkle in his eyes- seems somehow more vibrant than anything Miles has ever seen before. The sight is darling, Miles' mind supplies on instinct. Perhaps red pyjamas would suit him, too.
The mere thought makes Miles' face heat up in kind.
Clearing his throat, Phoenix scratches the back of his still-damp hair and offers, "So… see you around?"
Despite all of his common sense screaming otherwise, Miles nods. "Until next time."
The words 'next time' are the spell the attorney needed, and just like that, his smile bursts forth, utterly brilliant amidst the encroaching dusk. "Yeah. Sounds good." And with that, Phoenix is off to the nearest bus stop.
It is only once Miles has locked his front door, walked back upstairs, and turned on the lights in his bathroom at last that he realizes just what has occurred, for there are two sets of towels hanging upon the drying rack.
Until next time.
For the first time since this strange situation had begun, Miles does not fear the flood of endorphins, the rushing heat in his gut. Instead, the thought of having that moment of serenity which the duo had achieved by the end is more enticing than anything else.
Miles smiles. Perhaps he should get another basket to sit alongside his own.