Near Misses

Near Misses
A love story in counterfactuals


Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth first failed to confess to each other on the St. Valentine's holiday of their fourth grade year. Their teacher -- behind on her grading and weary of the notes covertly passed, the muffled unwrapping of teeth-rotting sweets -- had ended the Social Studies lesson early in favor of pushing the traditional card-and-candy exchange into the open and out of the way. She retreated to her desk, a silent bulwark overlooking the river of children winding their way around the student desks -- most of the girls, she noted with a wry grin, making at least one pass by the chair of Attorney Edgeworth's outspoken son.

From the seat to Miles's right, Phoenix Wright looked on in envy. The odd carvings and discolorations on his desk did little to hide its lack of love-tokens.

Finally -- much too long in Phoenix's estimation -- the boys returned to throwing spitballs and the girls retreated to their corner of the room, whispering amongst themselves over who would be the lucky recipients of gifts or cards from certain young men. Miles brushed off their periodic shy glances and giggles as best he could, and when he was fairly certain no one was looking directly at him, he surreptitiously reached into a white paper bag on the floor next to him and retrieved a red plastic-wrapped box that he promptly slid over to Phoenix's desk.

Phoenix picked up the box. It was made of cardboard, and it was suspiciously heart-shaped. Phoenix looked up at Miles, puzzled.

"My -- my father told me about it once," Miles explained. "About giving them to my friends," he added hurriedly.

Phoenix blushed.

"Larry got one too," Miles said defensively.

Phoenix blushed harder and looked away. Miles sighed. Larry exulted in his prize and pretended not to notice that his two best friends could not quite manage eye contact for the rest of the day.

That evening, Miles immersed himself dutifully in supper and schoolwork, fighting the instinct to replay the afternoon's encounter. When he lay in bed, though, when he could no longer interrupt the free flow of thoughts into his mind -- a serene smile played then about his lips, and he whispered "thank you, Father," sweetly into the darkness before sleep overtook him.

Elsewhere, young Phoenix Wright ate himself sick on chocolate and had his dessert privileges revoked for a week.


---


The first love letters they never exchanged were written when Phoenix was a sophomore in high school. His read:

Hey Edgeworth,

How's school going? German high school must be pretty nuts, huh? I bet you're great at it, though. You'll make a great defense attorney some day, I know it.

School here's boring as always. How come you never write me back? Larry says it's because you're too busy with your hot German girlfriend, but Larry's an idiot...right?

Anyway, write back soon. We miss you.

Phoenix

The letter was crushed by the merciless hands of Manfred von Karma, but not before his watchful eyes caught the eraser residue on the word "We" -- a moment's inspection confirmed that the subject of the closing sentence had originally been written "I".

Von Karma deposited the crumpled letter in his circular metal wastebasket, as he had every one before it for the previous six years.

---

Edgeworth, on the other hand, had never been such a diligent letter writer. Three days prior, he penned his first attempt:

Dear Phoenix:

I hope this letter finds you well. I...hope it finds you remembering who I am, actually; despite our promises to remain in touch, I am somewhat surprised not to have heard from you these past six years. But, then, I have hardly been the world's greatest correspondent either, so I suppose it's only fair.

You must be in high school by now, correct? I wonder what that experience is like -- I myself have been privately tutored at the von Karma residence. Evidently, he feels that my education would be stunted by public schooling. I can't say I disagree with him, necessarily, but I wonder whether he considers the effects on my social life -- not that I have one to speak of, sad to say.

At any rate, I shouldn't take any more time from my studies, or it will arouse suspicion.

In an alarming breach of his ordinary composure, Edgeworth found himself tapping the back end of his pen against his teeth. Quickly, he added, I hope to hear from you soon. A moment of further deliberation later, he signed the letter with a flourish:

Yours faithfully,

Miles Edgeworth

Edgeworth carried the letter with him for nearly a day, tucked surreptitiously between pages 236 and 237 of Freckmann and Wegerich's The German Legal System, before he retreated to the sitting room, placed it carefully in the fireplace, and watched it burn to unrecognizable ash.


---


Their first sexual encounter did not take place when they were seventeen. Phoenix had been working late nights on a high school theater production that year, and Edgeworth was studying furiously for the German bar exam.

It was odd, Phoenix thought; he had been leaving school grounds, intent on walking home and sleeping most of Saturday away, when Edgeworth appeared before him. Phoenix recognized him instantly despite the eight-year lag: if Edgeworth's trademark silvery hair had not given him away, the ostentatious three-piece suit certainly would have.

"E-Edgeworth?" Phoenix called, jogging over to the other man. "Is it really you?" He reached out to pull his friend into a bear hug, but stalled halfway as he felt the warmth of Edgeworth's hand on his shoulder blade. It was...unexpectedly nice.

"Long time no see, Wright," Edgeworth replied, but his smile was genuine and Phoenix felt himself returning the expression. They made small talk en route to Phoenix's house -- mostly it was Phoenix doing the talking, but Edgeworth returned the occasional comment on German food or traveling in Europe. When they arrived, Phoenix instinctively led Edgeworth up to his room; it had not occurred to him that anything would have changed since they were children, visiting each other like this, until Edgeworth sat on Phoenix's bed and looked at him.

Phoenix trailed off, kneading his quilt nervously. He opened his mouth to speak, unsure how to break the awkward silence that had fallen between them, when Edgeworth raised an elegant eyebrow at him and pointedly glanced toward a pornographic magazine face-down on the floor next to them. "Nice literature you have there," he opined.

Phoenix blushed furiously, waving his hands in front of him. "No, I, uh -- you know how it is, right? I mean, I just read it for the articles..."

Edgeworth moved to grab Phoenix's wrists before he could knock over a lamp and pushed them against the bed, so that he was leaning over the brunette. "How uncharacteristically studious of you, Wright," he returned with a smirk. "But wouldn't you rather learn by doing?" he finished, and as soon as Phoenix opened his mouth to reply, Edgeworth attacked.

Whatever argument Phoenix had intended to raise melted away as he felt Edgeworth's tongue slide along his own, the young prosecutor's hand gently caressing his cheek before moving to tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. There was an audible smack as Edgeworth pulled his lips away, followed by a quiet moan from Phoenix as Edgeworth reapplied them to Phoenix's neck. Somehow Phoenix's shirt had come open in the interim, and Edgeworth quickly took advantage, caressing a nipple into hardness and sliding it gently between his fingers.

"Miles," Phoenix panted against Edgeworth's ear; the latter hummed approvingly and redoubled the efforts of his hand. "I -- I need to fuck you."

Edgeworth turned to look at him -- when did his pants come off, Phoenix wondered, and why had he not noticed how hard Miles was? -- and sat back slowly, admiring his handiwork. "If you're sure," he replied carefully. "I wouldn't want to rush you."

Phoenix shook his head vigorously, earning himself a momentary bout of dizziness. "I'm sure," he answered immediately. "Oh God, I'm sure. Miles, I...I need..."

Edgeworth responded by shifting himself so that he was straddling Phoenix's very pronounced erection. "What's that?" he inquired, a practiced smirk gracing his features. "You need...this?" Edgeworth braced himself with his left hand and wrapped his right around Phoenix's cock, giving an experimental stroke.

Phoenix's eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, and his groin pitched upward, begging for more contact. "Yes," he hissed, his arms reaching out to reposition Miles above him. "Miles...please..." he begged, and was soon lost to the sensations of thrusting and flesh-on-flesh as Edgeworth impaled himself upon him.

Phoenix came with a shout and sat up spontaneously, eyes focusing swiftly in the darkness. His bedside clock read 3:54, and he was alone.

Alone, cold, and uncomfortably wet.

"Fuck," Phoenix groaned, and ran a hand shakily through his damp, tangled hair. Muscles protesting against the movement, he rose, intent on changing his underwear and pajamas. The sheets, at least, could wait until the morning. Something underfoot nearly set him off balance; he dropped to the floor and glared at what turned out to be the porno mag, face down where he'd left it the night before.

Walking slowly toward the bathroom to clean himself and change, Phoenix resolutely convinced himself that there was absolutely nothing strange, peculiar, or worrisome about dreams starring one's long-lost childhood friend, not even when his skin still tingled with the imagined warmth of Edgeworth's caresses and his pulse still raced at the emotion writ plainly in Edgeworth's slate-grey eyes.

He deposited the magazine in the trash anyway.


---


Their first non-kiss marked the same occasion as the first time Phoenix did not spend the night at Edgeworth's house, the night the latter was released from jail only for his adoptive father to take his place. A celebratory post-trial drink had turned into two; two had become several more; and that had yielded sufficient brooding that Phoenix had not felt safe allowing Edgeworth either to drive or to take a cab by himself.

Edgeworth had gone through the motions when he finally returned to his apartment, depositing his keys and wallet on the side table by the door, exchanging sleek street shoes for plush slippers -- but then he made an uncharacteristic detour to the middle of the couch. He sat heavily and wrapped his arms around his knees, delicate hair falling forward to obscure his eyes from Phoenix's view.

Phoenix sat down next to him, deeply uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, but Edgeworth gave no sign of recognition. "Hey," he tried softly; "Edgeworth…"

"I just can't believe it," Edgeworth whispered, then immediately shook his head. "No, that's a lie. I don't want to believe it. I don't want to admit that I was so stupid..."

"No!" Phoenix objected. "Edgeworth, you were a child -- "

"I was a child prodigy, one more intelligent than most of the adults I encountered," Edgeworth interrupted. "I should have seen his game for what it was -- "

"You were an intelligent child whose father had just died! Jesus, doesn't that count for anything?" Phoenix argued. "Your whole world had been shattered, and the man was a monster -- "

"A 'monster' I've modeled myself after for the last decade and a half," Edgeworth replied bitterly. "So what does that make me?"

Phoenix did not reply. Edgeworth's stomach clenched, and he turned to look at the other man, wry grimace ready on his lips. The vision stunned him: Phoenix Wright, speechless and stricken; lower lip trembling and eyes plaintive; so fraught with emotion the prosecutor was unsure whether he was meant to suffocate or explode. Edgeworth, in short, could not have stopped staring had he wanted to.

He found that he did not particularly want to, after all.

The Phoenix-wall finally crumbled. "You were my inspiration, you asshole!" Phoenix shouted. "Sure, I was surprised when you wound up at the prosecutor's bench, but I wouldn't have gone for a goddamn law degree if I'd thought that meant you'd sold out! Play the martyr all you want, but at least give me a little credit!"

Edgeworth blinked at him, funk momentarily forgotten in the face of this new illogic. "Your...defense, of my humanity...is based on your impetuous career change? Wright, I know you're new at this, but surely even you can think up something more convincing than that."

Phoenix visibly relaxed. "Shut up, Edgeworth," he retorted, but his expression remained serious, and he reached out to clasp a steady hand on Edgeworth's shoulder. "Look," he began. "I know this must all be incredibly hard for you, and I can't even imagine what you're going to have to sort out in your head. Yeah, everything's changed, but...really, it hasn't -- "

"Everything's changed, but it hasn't," Edgeworth said, rolling his shoulder lightly where Phoenix held it. Phoenix gripped it harder in response, and Edgeworth stopped squirming. "Forgive me for saying this, but I think I've had too much to drink to follow another of your convoluted arguments -- "

"Edgeworth, dammit, I'm serious," Phoenix broke in. "What I'm trying to say is, you're still the same person you were before the trial. You're not a murderer, Edgeworth, you know that now, but...but I've known that all along."

Edgeworth wisely remained silent, but his eyes widened as he watched Phoenix watch him, minutely alarmed at the honesty revealed there. Unsure how to respond to seeing the attorney so open, so vulnerable, he shifted his focus to Phoenix's lips as they formed his argument. Edgeworth found himself entranced enough by the process that he missed hearing the first few words.

"...don't win cases by killing off people who oppose you, you win through logic and deduction and sheer force of intellect," Phoenix lectured. He still held onto Edgeworth, although his grip had shifted to the latter's upper arm and his fingernails dug in as he emphasized his point. "Edgeworth. I've known you for fifteen years now. Maybe you don't know who you are right now, but...I do."

I've always known lay unspoken on those honest, open lips, and Miles Edgeworth could not turn away.

Time stretched on between them: Edgeworth, who would not notice until much later that Wright's pull on his arm was wrinkling his fine court suit, searching for salvation in the only person remaining who had believed in him unquestioningly; and Phoenix, unmindful of the strain on his arm, the late hour, or the crushing hangover he would have the next morning, wanting desperately to say or do anything that would make Edgeworth whole again, make him right again, return him to somewhere Phoenix could follow.

They stopped to breathe, and time caught up in a rush -- they both instinctively looked away, embarrassed and suddenly hesitant. Phoenix blushed lightly but had the presence of mind to wonder at it, and Edgeworth fiddled with the hem of his cuff and assiduously slowed his mind and heartbeat. They looked back at each other, shyly almost, and nearly instantaneously the excuses began:

"It's late, I should probably be getting to bed -- "

"I'm sorry, I should go home -- "

" -- you have nothing to apologize for, I invited you in -- "

"-- only because I was an ass and wouldn't let you come back by yourself -- "

The 'conversation' died as quickly as it had materialized, and they resumed their awkward fidgeting. Finally, Edgeworth stood, dusted imaginary lint from his pants, and offered, "I'll show you to the door, then."

Phoenix made a noncommittal noise of agreement and followed. Edgeworth opened the door but turned in the doorway to face Phoenix -- or at least Phoenix's shoes -- and nearly knocked the attorney off-balance. "Wright," Edgeworth said gruffly, then softened his tone. "...Thank you."

"It's nothing, Edgeworth -- " Phoenix began, puzzled.

"It's something," Edgeworth said, barely audible.

Phoenix felt the blush returning. "I -- you're welcome." He inspected Edgeworth's face for residual tension and found none. "Hey...do you, y'know, want me to stay here tonight?" Edgeworth looked up sharply at him, and Phoenix found himself holding up his hands in a warding gesture. "No, I mean...just, so you won't be alone with your thoughts." Or your headache tomorrow, he added internally.

Edgeworth studied him for a moment. "I...don't believe that will be necessary." He nodded once, an affirmation. "I have some things to...'sort out,' as you put it."

Phoenix returned the nod and stepped into the hallway. "Okay, then...well, goodnight, Edgeworth," he said. He was smiling, Edgeworth found; it was small but genuine, and for some reason that warmed Edgeworth immensely.

"Goodnight, Wright," Edgeworth replied, and gently closed his door.


---


"And your phone number won't change?"

"We've gone over this, Wright," Edgeworth said with an irritated sigh. "I'll be traveling a lot, and I likely won't have service much of the time -- and I won't want to have service when you'll be awake anyway."

"But the number won't change, right?" Phoenix asked again, expression plainly worried. Edgeworth might have been grudgingly amused had he not been in danger of missing his flight.

"For the last time, no," he answered. "And no, I will not have a convenient mailing address, and no, you may not send things through Franziska unless you want her to go through it first, and no, I will not fall victim to murderers or thieves or gamblers or the Mafia or whatever manner of villain you've been representing lately; so if that's all, Wright, I have a plane to catch. You know what airport security is like."

Phoenix did not, in fact, but that was rather beside the point. "I get it, jeez," he muttered, but he stood a little straighter and dropped his casual demeanor. "I'll think about what you said, okay? And, Edgeworth, if you see Franziska..."

"Get the card back, I know," Edgeworth finished. Phoenix had never seen what Maya had drawn on the back of Shelly de Killer's calling card, and after learning that Franziska had squirreled away the evidence with her when she returned to Europe, Phoenix grew quite insufferable about retrieving the missing items and that card in particular. Even Gumshoe had not been so concerned about having his own coat returned to him.

Then again, Edgeworth thought, Phoenix Wright could be rather insufferable in general.

"I'm off, then," Edgeworth declared with a nod. He looked a moment too long at Phoenix, whose mouth twitched up in an impish grin as he lifted his hand in a wave.

"Have a safe flight, Edgeworth," Phoenix answered. The prosecutor turned toward the security checkpoint; to anyone else, Edgeworth would have appeared to take his usual purposeful strides, but Phoenix knew better. "Come back soon," he murmured to Edgeworth's retreating figure.

It was April in Los Angeles, overcast but warm, and it was the first time Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright had not said goodbye to one another.

It would not be the last.

fin


Note: Originally written for threerings during Yuletide 2007.