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As they climb up the stairs to their shared apartment, Phoenix feels like he might explode if he's exposed to so much as a lighter. A spark. A smolder from the man currently muttering to himself some key-related mnemonic as they climb the stairwell, step-in-step. It doesn't matter that said man only wears shades of red and black like some kind of sexy checkerboard, and he has dog hair on the seat of his pants. If anything, that seems to make it worse. Phoenix can't stop running his finger over the band on his other hand, gold and red and his, his, his.
Edgeworth should have been a butch, thinks Phoenix with inordinate fondness, as he watches his partner fumble with his keys. He already carries around a carabiner heavy enough to make all the other lesbians jealous, complete with duplicates of both his and his friends' house keys, a flashlight for emergencies, and several tokusatsu keychains he insists he only keeps out of respect towards the friends who gifted them.
If Edgeworth was a lesbian Phoenix probably wouldn't be here right now, about to enter their shared apartment in a haze of just-engaged bliss. But if Edgeworth jumps off a cliff, Phoenix would be right behind him, parachute in hand. If Edgeworth gives him a dead body, Phoenix would grab a shovel and start digging. So if Edgeworth becomes a lesbian - well, a little estrogen seems downright pleasant in comparison.
He laughs again, and this time it sounds positively girlish, enough to give Edgeworth pause. He fixes him with that look of consternation where his brows knit together, deep enough to bury his eyes behind his adorably dorky glasses. “Wright. Are you going to behave?”
“I don't think so,” says Phoenix, reaching out, and that giddy feeling in his gut grows and grows. He's surprised he hasn't started glowing.
But Edgeworth elbows his approaching hands back with surprising deftness and not a bit of affection. “Down, boy,” he admonishes, and it's only at that moment that Phoenix realizes there's music playing from the other side of their apartment door as Freddie Mercury croons about dining at the Ritz. This in itself wouldn't be that unusual, but he knows that Trucy would never willingly blast Queen on a school night because it is, in her words, old person music.
Edgeworth hums with approval as he slots the correct key into the door, turns the knob, and pushes inside.
Phoenix hasn't even crossed the threshold when Maya throws her arms around his neck and whoops into his ears, making his head whirl. The rest of their friends start cheering, and the gears catch up as he understands this is a celebration of the rings on their hands and not some poorly timed defense request from his best friend. Edgeworth twines their fingers together, and in an unprecedented act of PDA, doesn't let go.
For the first time, Phoenix's new reality starts to sink in. A lump starts to form in his throat. But there's no backing out now: Phoenix pastes on his best grin, puts the twinkle in his eye, and lets himself be touted from person to person.
He doesn’t even last an hour. The lights are too bright, the music too loud - any touch, no matter how slight, is set to make him explode. Phoenix braces his hands against the edge of the bathroom sink, torn between forcing himself to stare down his red eyes and chapped, glistening cheeks, and turning away so he doesn't have to face his shame. The candle on the sink flickers, and rose petals bob gently in the melted wax. Despite his best efforts to scrub away the proof of his sins, more tears take their place.
Someone knocks at the door, jolting Phoenix out of his reverie. "Daddy? Are you okay?" Knock, knock, knock. "Aunt Maya got worried you fell in."
The title of ‘Aunt’ makes his heart twist. Phoenix wipes his eyes and his stomach swirls with confusion and delight at the feeling of metal pressing against his cheek. The emotions balloon inside him again, swelling three sizes and forcing more tears out of his ducts. "I'm fine, sweetpea." He prays feebly to whatever gods may be listening that his warbly voice doesn't betray him. "I'll be out in a minute. Tell Aunt Maya to hold her battering ram until next time."
"If you say so,” says Trucy unconvincingly, but at least she doesn’t press the issue.
Phoenix lets out a sigh that turns into a wet snort. His relief is short-lived when, moments later, someone knocks on the door again. "Maya, I promise, I'm-"
"Wright," the voice that comes through the door is a deep baritone that doesn’t belong at all to his overinvolved best friend or his well-meaning daughter. But at this moment he'd waste a million wishes for it to be either of them, and not his- his-
"Just a minute," he tries again.
The door rattles. "Please open the door."
Phoenix knows if he turns Edgeworth away it's only a matter of minutes before the door is opened on him anyways, and the only question is who gets there first: Maya gleefully kicking the door off its hinges or Kay dismantling the doorknob altogether.
His fingers tremble as he slides open the lock and opens the door. He stands aside to let Edgeworth in, and just as shakily closes it again. Then he slumps to the floor because the alternative would be to face his partner of however many years - of the rest of his life, though the likelihood of that feels smaller with every passing moment - and he can’t bear to see his face as Phoenix lets him down.
After a moment, there's the sound of Edgeworth readjusting, and out of the corner of his eye Phoenix sees him sitting gently on the seat on the toilet lid. It makes the hem of his pants ride up, and from his position on the floor Phoenix can tell that Edgeworth is wearing his ultra-rare, limited edition Steel Samurai socks: the ones he saves for special occasions or particularly grueling trials, when he needs all the good karma the universe can throw his way.
Until now Phoenix had put on a valiant effort of ignoring his leaking face, but at the realization that Edgeworth thinks today is special enough to merit breaking out a prized possession that he can only wear, by his own estimations, no more than six times before the heel wears through, is enough to break the dam open.
He has to bury his face into his knees to muffle his ugly snorting. He’s not vain, and he has no illusions of being a pretty crier. Normally he doesn’t have it in him to care, but the sounds echo around the tiny bathroom and he knows Edgeworth hates the throat noises he makes when he gets snotty.
But Edgeworth doesn’t protest. He doesn’t say anything. He waits, and waits.
“I have a proposal, if you’ll indulge me,” Edgworth says earlier that night, as they sit across from each other at an intimate table at a restaurant that is both elegant enough to cater to Edgeworth’s increasingly limited palette, while still being reasonably-priced so as to not to bankrupt Phoenix.
“Business or pleasure?” Phoenix asks, teasing, though his expression falls as Edgeworth pulls a stack of paper out of his briefcase and slides it across the table.
He waits without question while Phoenix skims through the dense legalese, slowly at first, and then faster. “This is about-”
“Sharing assets, yes.”
“But we could only do this if we were-”
“Yes.”
“Miles.” Phoenix says. Edgeworth wouldn’t look him in the eye but that was nothing new; Phoenix could recognize the severity with which he approached this matter, as he did everything else in life, by the set of his jaw and the stiff line of his shoulders. “Are you proposing?”
Edgeworth scowls, and his fingers move in circles along the side of his water glass. “I already said that. Or should I add ‘Hard of Hearing’ to my list of concerns for the next time I meet with the Judge?”
The sparks in Phoenix’s heart, the ones that he keeps under watch like a park ranger during fire season, fizz and pop and burn.
Because in every way that matters, they’re already a family. They'd been living together for almost a year. They had regular date nights and Edgeworth came to all of Trucy’s shows. Pearl penciled sleepovers into Trucy’s calendar, and Maya was never far behind, ready to drag Phoenix out for food or drill Edgeworth about his thoughts on the latest Steel Samurai spinoff, who always had a suspicious amount to say no matter how hard he denied watching it. Even Franziska kept in touch when she was out of town, and Phoenix was proud to announce that their awkward, stilted phone calls could now last a whole fifteen minutes. Their little group might seem strange to some, but it was theirs.
For heaven’s sake, Edgeworth’s gift for Trucy's bat mitzvah was almost enough to singlehandedly fund the whole party. Edgeworth had gifted Trucy birthday and Hanukkah presents alongside her Daddy since she was ten, and Phoenix only pretended not to know about their years-long string of late night calls - where Trucy stayed up past her bedtime to phone Edgeworth before his breakfast at some sunny villa in Paris or Oxford or Tuscany - so as not to push her teenage rebellion towards something more dangerous. As far as Trucy is concerned, they've been a happy little family for years now, with the fact that Edgeworth had spent much of it five thousand miles away on another continent a mere inconvenience instead of a genuine roadblock.
In every way that matters, they are a family - except in the eyes of the law. “Yes.”
Edgeworth nudges the contract, wetting the edge of the paper with his condensation-soaked finger. “You didn’t finish. You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.”
“Yes,” Phoenix repeats. “Yes, yes, yes.”
"I do want this," Phoenix says, once his breathing has evened out, even as he presses himself further against the wall, curling his legs against his chest and squeezing tight. "I do, I do, I- I really think I do."
The silence between the stretches out. The fan kicks on, and it softens the conversations outside, the muffled chords of Steely Dan.
Phoenix has been on the receiving end of Edgeworth’s Mind Chess too many times to crumple this easily. It's pathetic. It's pathetic and Edgeworth doesn't deserve this. "I love you so much."
Edgeworth tilts his head and taps his fingers where his hand rests against his knee. Not impatient, just thoughtful. "Is the party too much?"
"No," Phoenix rushes to say. Edgeworth hates parties and the fact that he organized one for Phoenix makes his heart cramp. He sniffs and wipes away a river of snot with the palm of his hand. Edgeworth wordlessly unclips the toilet roll and hands it over, and phoenix balls up a wad and presses his nose into it and hurks. "I love it. I love you."
"But it's too much," says Edgeworth, a question hidden underneath his words.
Phoenix shakes his head, and then nods. “Not out there.” He points to himself, into his sternum. "In here." Like an overeager puppy, acknowledging the feeling makes it fester under his skin. For a moment he deliriously wonders if he’s going to explode.
His love is a bomb, he wants to say. It simmers and boils and explodes into a million burning pieces, taking him and everyone else down with it. And at first it's charming, how he dotes and fawns and bends the will of every one of his atoms to helping his loved ones. But sooner or later it becomes suffocating, and before he knows it Edgeworth is taking his ring back and slipping poison in his coffee when he's not looking.
Phoenix chokes again and presses his face further into the wad of tissues.
"Wright," Edgeworth starts.
In the space between the start of his sentence and the end, Phoenix wildly fantasizes how he might finish. “True love’s kiss will fix you, and then you'll feel emotions normally, and this will never be a problem again,” or, “I know you're a terrible person who incinerates everyone you've ever cared about with your love, but have you considered that's actually how I want to die?” or maybe even, “You're an ungrateful bitch who's made a mess of everything, and I'm leaving and taking Trucy with me.”
But instead Edgeworth says, "I have known you for over three quarters of my life. I've seen your best and worst parts, and you've seen mine. I know who you are, and I want to marry you anyways."
Phoenix hiccups and starts crying again in earnest, too hard to speak. Edgeworth lets him. He offers space and the quiet comfort of his presence both, like some kind of polite cat, a mental image that would be funny if Phoenix wasn’t currently crying hard enough to hack up a lung.
Edgeworth materializes a glass like he's performing on stage with Trucy at the Wonderbar, which he presses into Phoenix's flushed and shaky hands. "Drink this," he says, and Phoenix tries even though half of it ends up dribbling down his chin. Edgeworth, still kneeling in front of him, cups his face gently. "You’ve made a proper mess of yourself," he tuts, wiping down Phoenix's face with another wad of toilet paper, and Phoenix coughs and leans into his touch. "Did the water help?"
"Y-yeah."
"Would you like me to stay? Or would you like to be alone for a few minutes?"
He's so clinical about it. Phoenix's heart smolders. "Stay. Please."
Edgeworth sits against the wall next to Phoenix. He offers his hand, and Phoenix wastes no time interlocking their fingers.
Phoenix presses his cheek against Edgeworth’s shoulder. Even now, after a full day out of the house, Edgeworth’s shirt is still pressed to perfection. He's wearing that stupid turtleneck and sweater vest that makes him look like a sexy professor at the start of a porno, but he smells much nicer than any porn actor ever could. Probably. Phoenix's nose is still too gunked up with mucus to tell.
He fingers the material between his fingers and smooths out the ironed creases. "How are you so calm about this?"
"I'm not," Edgeworth says lightly. He squeezes their hands together. "It's a little trick called ‘bluffing.’ I picked it up from this idiot called Phoenix Wright; perhaps you've heard of him?”
"Hah." Phoenix recognizes the olive branch for what it is. An opportunity to ignore the heavy thing that is Phoenix Wright’s neuroses that sits between them; he could throw some smarmy quip back at Edgeworth, and Edgeworth would volley back, and they could settle back into their comfortable repertoire and forget this ever happened. He would allow Phoenix to carry this burden, and he would politely pretend it doesn’t exist, until one day it explodes and Edgeworth realizes that there isn’t much to Phoenix at all, once you scrape away his outer layers and try to get to the heart of his burnt-out insides.
But Phoenix is too drained to fight or flee or fawn. He could probably fuck, he thinks, as he idly rubs his face into the crook where Edgeworth's neck meets his collarbone, like some kind of absurd cat. But Edgeworth is weird about sex and intimacy and the fact that he’s letting them hold hands is already pushing it. "So you aren't scared about this great unknown we're plunging into?"
Edgeworth rubs his thumb along Phoenix's finger, surprisingly gentle. "You know I never make a decision without considering it carefully from all angles and ensuring it is the smartest course of action."
He turns this around in his head and converts the Edgeworthisms into English: Obviously I am terrified out of my mind. This will change everything and nothing at all. But it's with you, and I've decided the risk is worth it.
Phoenix loves him so much it hurts. The bomb fizzes and sparks, ever closer to exploding, and he can't speak again.
The silence stretches between them. It's new, this quiet. For years they had filled every waking moment with jeers and bickering, and if they weren't arguing it was because they were too busy fucking. Through the door Phoenix can hear Pink Floyd reminding him that everything is eclipsed by the moon, and Franziska's distinctive shrill laugh, the kind she reserves for delightful displays of Trucy's magic.
Phoenix has plunged into the unknown before. He changed his major halfway through university. He faced down suicide notes and kidnapper’s ransoms. He ran over burning bridges. He became a single father at twenty-six. He passed the bar exam, twice. He did all that and more; surely he can do this.
He takes a deep, shaky breath. "I love you," he says again, quieter and for once not tinged with desperation. It's simply that, a fact.
Edgeworth leans his head on top of Phoenix’s. "I know," he says, and his voice vibrates through Phoenix straight to his core. “Just like you should know that your family knows you too well to be turned off just because you had a panic attack at your engagement party.” As Phoenix laughs, Edgeworth glowers, but in a stunning display of restraint he simply says, "Let me know when you're ready to rejoin the others."
"I'm, I think I’m okay. Just let me wash up." He sniffles, and when he lifts his head he's both embarrassed and pleased to see he's left a stain on Edgeworth's shirt. If he has to go talk to his family looking like a mess, it's only fair his fiancé (and his stomach flips pleasantly at the word) should, too.
After he reluctantly untangles their fingers and splashes water onto his rubbed-raw face, Edgeworth inspects him, straightens out his shirt (like that’s going to make him look presentable when his eyes are red and face is blotchy), and pats him dry with a towel. His face stings but he would never dream of asking Edgeworth to stop.
He doesn’t know much of anything. But as Edgeworth opens the door and leads him out to rejoin the others, he does know this: the all-consuming burning in his chest simmers, where it always has and always will be. He can stoke it, but it doesn't need to burn him down.