it overflows
His analyses of cases are always perfect, down to the most minute of details. Therefore, now that he has found some manner of conviction within himself, Miles makes his journey home, climbs up the tall steps in the opulent second floor, and enters his study without delay. He barely loosens his cravat before he finds himself seated at his desk, a warm table lamp flicked on and reading glasses perched atop the tip of his nose. The pad of paper is quickly filled with every manner of detail of his interactions with Phoenix Wright ever since his return from Europe- ever since their fateful reunion.
The case to save Maya Fey from her kidnapper, and their cooperation to bring down the true culprit responsible, had ended on amicable terms. Yet, the distance between the two men had lingered despite their cooperation during the trial; Phoenix's smiles had never since been sincere, his hands ready to rush the two young Fey girls off whenever Miles came into view. Even during their drive home from the conference, their conversations had been stilted and unsure, the attorney clutching his bag for dear life until Miles had forbidden its presence in the front seat. No light banter had filled the air, even though his memories paint Phoenix Wright as a lighthearted, chipper man.
That silly, friendly smile had been Phoenix's trademark in Miles' memories, even since childhood. Since when has it all turned so dour?
The question is silly. Their bond had never been reforged after their reunion in the courthouse. It feels like it had been eons ago, although realistically, Phoenix's rise to becoming a prominent attorney has only been in the last few years; perhaps the other man's reticence in Miles' presence has weighed heavier upon his shoulders than he had thought.
"It is not his fault," Miles murmurs, jotting down his notes idly, trying to piece together some kind of solution to this puzzle. "I have done nothing but cause him strife. Helping Maya Fey was hardly enough to make up for being such a rigid opponent- or for his efforts during…" His voice trails off, pen stilling.
Phoenix had been warm to him. Gentle. Kind.
He never gave up on me during my own defense.
Yet, ever since, no similar connection seems to have remained.
He circles the natural conclusion upon the page, heartbeats pounding in his ears as the logic finally clicks. "Wright… are you still angry that I left?"
Miles does not notice how cold his fingers grow, blood rushing instead to his core, through his ears, pounding in his skull with an agonizing ferocity. He does not notice how he opens his flip phone and stares blankly at the screen, still turned off from when he had left the office; he does not follow the movement of his fingers turning the device back on, nor the opening of the message which buzzes onto the dimly lit screen.
"Are you free tonight?"
He does not register any of this. Instead, Miles finds himself almost 6000 miles away, seated in the public seating of a courthouse. The light streams through high windows, far above anyone's reach, with beams of sunshine illuminating the warm, rich mahogany of the desks and benches within the main courtroom. Dancing in each beam are dust particles, gently floating through the air, completely in time with the even-keel, almost monotonous rigour of the figures speaking about the current case.
Miles' time away had been useful. Fruitful. He had watched, and listened, and swallowed down his pride in order to make room for some well-earned self-loathing and criticism to take root. His hubris had been ground down into nothing in the face of attorneys and prosecutors who did not spend their time in the courthouse trying to win, but rather, tried to find the truth.
It is a lesson which Manfred von Karma would've never been able to teach Miles himself. He does not regret his departure, not in the slightest- ever since his return, his newfound perspective had granted him naught but victory after victory. In seeking the truth, there is always victory to be found.
A reply is typed numbly, his hands shaking as realization takes hold. He has never actually spoken to Phoenix Wright about his departure, and since his return, he has hardly had the opportunity to discuss his lessons learned from his year in Germany in great detail. In fact, that particular conversation is one which the attorney had always staunchly fled from.
But why?
Only when his echoing, gallant chime of a doorbell rings through his home does Miles' jaw unclench, his shoulders instead stiffening in stunned silence. How long has he been sat there, leg shaking in nervousness, fingers digging into the crook of his left elbow, eyes unfocused and trembling as the missing pieces of his own logic scream in their absence?
The screen of his phone, still resting in his hand, lights up. "I'm outside," the message reads.
Mutely, he stumbles to his bathroom, plugging the drain and drawing steaming hot water into the tub. Idly, his fingers trace the elegant gold accents around the knobs, horrified acceptance clawing into his bones. He has invited the other man over again. Phoenix had accepted, and now, he is outside Miles' home.
What game are we playing, Wright?
Miles wishes the other man had said no. A bath alone may have done him some good- he has far too much to ponder on his own this night.
Still, he cannot leave Phoenix Wright standing in the cold. So, he shakes off his discomfort and stillness and makes his way down the stairs, opening the grand front door a crack to peek through.
A thin, wan smile. "Hey, Edgeworth."
A nod. "Hello, Wright."
And just like that, Phoenix enters Miles' home, the grand door swinging silently shut behind the attorney.
They do not speak. Unlike the night before, Phoenix knows where to go; all Miles has to do is hand him slippers and gesture him up the stairs.
Dark, thick brows furrow questioningly. "Aren't you going, too?" Phoenix asks.
A thick lump appears in Miles' throat. Why is it that his words seem to dry so when face-to-face with Phoenix Wright, when he is able to remain so calm and collected with their respective courtroom benches between them? "Just making some tea," he replies, clearly his throat awkwardly.
To his surprise, Phoenix nods. "I can help."
Before Miles can protest, Phoenix readjusts the straps of his backpack on his shoulder and strides past Miles. "This is your kitchen, right?"
The prosecutor can only gawp for a moment before he snaps back to the present, shuffling after Phoenix. Entering the large kitchen, kept spotless by the housekeeper a few times a week, Miles finds Phoenix somehow completely at ease; the man's classic blue suit jacket is draped over the back of a high chair parked beside the marbled island at the center of the kitchen. With one hand tucked into his pocket, Phoenix pours filtered water into the kettle and sets it onto the stove with simultaneous clumsiness and ease of practice. "Wright, I can-"
"I can hear the water running," is the attorney's quiet response. "Will it overflow?"
Cursing the situation silently, Miles flees the scene. Thankfully, by the time he turns off the faucet, the tub has just filled near the top; sagging against the side of the curved lip in relief, the man presses his forehead against the cool siding. His face feels flushed, ears burning in a headying concoction of embarrassment and shame and something he cannot name, something only amplified by the steam rising from the bathtub in an otherwise chilly room- something only made intense and raw by the image of Phoenix Wright standing in his kitchen.
Miles should already know that Phoenix cuts a clean silhouette- they have been far too close and personal over the past few weeks for him to have not noticed that much. But seeing Phoenix's shoulders pressing through his white button-up-
He clears his throat, grumbling to himself as he manages to make it back to his feet. This entire affair is humiliating.
If it is truly so, then why do I continue to play along?
Even as he constructs another basket of towels and pyjamas for the attorney, Miles finds that he still has no answer.
By the time everything is set up and Miles has made his way back down the stairs, Phoenix finishes the tea. He stands beside one of Miles' favourite teapots. Miles pauses, taking in the soothing, familiar scent of bergamot and assam floating through the air; however, there is only one teacup set out, waiting use beside the pot of sugar cubes and a small picture of what can only be milk. The setup is dainty and crisp, everything in its rightful place with an ease that Miles simply cannot picture coming from the other man.
"Do you not want any?" he asks, timidly lifting up the lid of the teapot. It looks like Phoenix has used a good amount for just one cup.
With a tight-lipped smile, Phoenix lifts up a coffee mug that had been hidden from view. "Not much of a tea person," he admits wryly.
Miles wrinkles his nose. "I don't have coffee in my house."
"I know. It's mine."
"Instant?"
Phoenix grimaces. "Yeah, so?"
A million questions that could have left Miles' mouth dry up when faced with the tinge of accusation on Phoenix's tongue. "Nothing," the prosecutor sighs at last. Pouring out a cup of tea for himself, he notes, "You prepare it well enough, for someone who doesn't like it."
Pink flushes through Phoenix's ears. "Pearls really likes tea parties, and Maya just joins in, so… yeah."
From anyone else, this context might have made Miles raise a brow with silent judgement. Coming from Phoenix, however, all Miles can do is think, Of course you do so for the sake of those children. Of course you, you foolish man, would learn to make tea for them.
Maybe Phoenix hasn't changed from their childhood after all.
The heat which wells up in his heart carries none of the trepidation from before. Instead, that thought is what gives Miles the courage to finally settle his racing heart, beckoning to the stairwell. "The water will get cold if we linger."
"...Yeah." Chugging the rest of his coffee down in a decidedly unrefined manner, Phoenix sets the cup into the sink, grabs his backpack, and follows after Miles for the second time in as many days up the stairs and into the large ensuite bathroom, nary another word exchanged in anticipation between them. It is silent, save for their footsteps and the rustling of clothes and their steady, even breathing.
Miles does not mind this silence, he finds. He is warm. He tells himself it is the tea, citrus dancing on the back of his tongue. It is simply the tea.