Archive of Our Own

October 12th, 2001

“You’ve got to stop taking the fall for him, Phoenix!” Miles exclaimed, sorting through the different VHS tapes he recorded of Signal Samurai episodes.

At this point, Phoenix and Larry stayed over so often that Miles’ house was starting to feel empty without them. It started as harmless as usual–which is to say, not harmless at all. After a week of pooling their leftover lunch money together, the trio had finally saved up enough cash to split the grand-deluxe special chocolate strawberry banana crepe special at the cafe two blocks away from their school. It was a wondrous day, Miles waited excitedly by the schoolgate for Phoenix and Larry so they could bask in their glorious achievement together. Phoenix showed up on time and Larry was, expectedly, late. So late that Phoenix and Miles thought it worth investigating and headed to the cafe together, to find the side covered in a spray-painted attempt at drawing a crepe and no Larry to be found.

When the teenager at the cash register finally got a whiff of the spray paint fumes, they found two likely perpetrators at the scene–Miles and Phoenix. While Miles stumbled over an explanation to why they were found at the scene of the crimes, Phoenix laughed sheepishly and apologized for the nuisance “he” had caused. It was only when the teen sighed, committed to their fate of cleaning off the wall, and got Phoenix’s house phone to tattle on his parents that Larry finally showed up, spray paint sticking out of his school bag.

As per routine, Miles brought them to his household where Gregory Edgeworth would welcome them with open arms. Phoenix would wait it out while his parents’ anger subsided and Larry would leech off of the hospitality, as always.

Miles fished his key out of his backpack, as per routine, and unlocked the door. The trio was greeted by the wafting smell of Earl Grey tea and the sight of Miles’ father with a newspaper strewn across his lap.

“Mr. Edgeworth is here!” Larry cheered, as though it was a special occasion for Gregory Edgeworth to get off early on Fridays to greet his son after school. Phoenix, who had already picked up on the pattern, greeted him with a polite, “Thank you for having us over, Mr. Edgeworth.”

Gregory grinned at the boys, ruffling Phoenix and Larry’s hair and leaving his own son, Miles, untouched, knowing how particular he could be about physical contact. “Welcome, boys! Make yourselves at home.”

Larry and Phoenix didn’t hesitate to take Gregory up on the offer, organizing the living room into a practiced arrangement, pillows and blankets strewn over the floor.

“Spray painting is so fun!” Larry exclaimed after they finalized their pillow castle. “You two should really join me next time.”

“You, uh, didn’t exactly invite us,” Phoenix reminded Larry.

“Yes, I did! We were supposed to meet outside the cafe and you two didn’t show!”

“Actually,” Miles chimed in. “As I remember it, you left the scene of the crime so we would be discovered with the evidence!”

Larry groaned. “Miles is using law words again.” He pushed a pillow over his ears, indicating the end of the conversation.

“C’mon Miles,” Phoenix smiled, always the mediator. “Nothing bad happened,” he pushed, conveniently leaving out how he specifically stayed over at Mile’s house so he wouldn’t have to face his parent’s reaction to the incident.

Miles sorted through his tv-cabinet of VHS tapes, avoiding looking at Phoenix. He was too good-natured for his own well-being; one look at his devil-may-care smile and Miles knew he’d cave. “You’ve got to stop taking the fall for him, Phoenix! It might just be petty crimes now but I won’t defend you when we’re older! Not unless you can afford it.”

“It’s just Larry, what’s the biggest trouble he could get mixed up in?”

Miles huffed, pulling out good old reliable, Signal Samurai 3: The Edo Warriors. “It’s not about the trouble, your testimony won’t be reliable if you keep covering up for him! That’s what Dad always says–the testimony is the truth!”

From one room over, Gregory Edgeworth called out, “Is that what I say?” From the kitchen, he entered the living room with a fresh stack of pancakes for the trio. They weren’t chocolate-strawberry-banana crepes, but they were free and made with love. And strawberries. At the smell, Larry perked up from his pillow-fortress.

“Here’s the truth,” Gregory laughed, placing the pancakes and three plates for the young boys on the ground. “I’d feel a lot better knowing my son has a reliable friend watching his back who will vouch for him in a tough spot than I would if I thought they’d sell him out as soon as there was trouble. You’ve got to have friends you can lean on.”

Miles retreated back into the couch, as if waiting to be swallowed up into the cushions.

“I’ve learned a lot as a lawyer, but the courtroom can only teach you so much. That being said,” he winked at Larry Butz, “I better not see any of you boys at the defendant’s stand, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. Edgeworth!” Phoenix and Larry cheered, welcoming themselves to pancakes as Miles silently placed the tape into the VHS player.

“Ugh, this one again?” Larry bemoaned.

“I like this one!” Phoenix argued.

“You say that no matter what Miles chooses!”

Unable to argue, Phoenix just laughed, like he always seemed to do, and smiled away all the worries. Next to him, Miles finally helped himself to his father’s homemade pancakes, quietly delighting in the sweetness.

The three young boys drifted into a quiet lull as the television droned on, until their eyelids grew heavy and the room grew dark. Miles didn’t worry about rewinding the tape at the end of the movie. Somehow, it was always back at the beginning in the morning.

Phoenix awoke to the unfortunate realization that he had forgotten to close the blinds and the sun was peeking in through the windows. But he was comfortable, with a soft toy in his arms, so he didn’t bother getting up. Except the toy was larger than usual, and quite warm, and breathing and–

Miles was on his back, in the center, with Phoenix’s arms wrapped thoroughly around his waist. Recalling Miles' touch-aversion, Phoenix shot up as soon as he was conscious enough to realize how they’d fallen asleep. On the other side of Miles was Larry, who had somehow managed to turn himself all the way around in his sleep so his feet were next to Miles face. Phoenix wondered how Miles hadn’t already woken up. But amidst the early morning haze, Phoenix did his best to flip Larry back to the way they’d fallen asleep.

He pulled at Larry’s legs, gently turning him around and thanking whatever entity watched over them sleeping that Larry slept like the dead. Unfortunately, Miles did not, and a bump from Phoenix’s actions had Miles taking a particularly deep breath.

His eyes quickly widened as he sat up, loudly proclaiming, “What is that horrid smell!”

Larry stirred but didn’t wake, and Phoenix figured he had moved him around enough to free him of Miles’ suspicion. “Sorry,” Phoenix laughed. “I somehow flipped around in the night so my feet were in your face.” Better Miles was mad at him than Larry, who would have to face Miles’ rage for the cafe and ruining his sleep.

“Objection!” Miles proclaimed loudly. At this, Larry stirred, mumbling something along the lines of “no law speak before noon,” as he woke.

“It couldn’t have been your feet because you put fresh socks on to sleep,” Miles deduced. “So it must’ve been you!” Dramatically, Miles pointed his finger at Larry.

Phoenix couldn’t argue with his impeccable child logic. Afterall, when something smells, it’s usually the Butz.

April 11th, 2014

“Mia Fey, huh?” Miles plucked the file away from his stack of reports to more closely examine it.

As usual, he ended his day by reviewing all the ongoing and recently finished cases. He had only been in the prosecutor’s office for a bit over a year, but Miles knew that one day his over-preparedness would pay off when he had to pick up trials last-minute. So far it had gotten him, if nothing else, the respect of fellow attorneys for his thorough attention to detail.

At the moment, he had bigger concerns than work, though. Mia Fey had just won a trial. Her first acquittal, and her second trial. Miles had moved on quickly from his first trials unfortunate ending, more concerned with his greenhorn reputation, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the loose ends.

So he read through the information from that morning's case. The contents made him sick to his stomach–Dahlia Hawthorne, the woman who, in his first trial, narrowly escaped a guilty sentence due to her ex-boyfriend’s obsession, seemed to have gotten more poor young fools caught up in her schemes. But this time, Mia Fey managed a guilty sentence and Dahlia Hawthorne was arrested. Miles couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in his chest. He was always unsatisfied with how his first trial ended, especially knowing that Ms. Fey had not returned to court since.

He tore through the court records, intrigued and impressed by Ms. Fey’s skills of deduction, all while ignoring the question eating at him. The second boy, the one who survived, certainly couldn’t be him, could it?

Afterall, his name wasn’t particularly common but it wasn’t uncommon enough to rule out someone else who happened to have the exact same name. And the record mentioned the boy was pursuing an art degree and, sure, he had something of a knack for origami as a child but wouldn’t it be a waste of his other talents? No, there was absolutely no way that the defendant in this trial was the boy Miles knew. It would be too far of a stretch, too convenient of a coincidence.

Or so Miles told himself as he read through the record, until he reached the end and received his damning evidence.

Who but Phoenix Wright would swallow a glass bottle knowing damn well there could be poison in it for the chance of getting someone he loved out of trouble.

Miles Edgeworth felt his chest burning with rage. It had to be him.

He left the court records on his desk haphazardly, skipping his usual closing procedures to find the bailiff for that morning's case.

It took a bit of digging, but he finally arrived at a cell phone number that could attach him to the bailiff from Mia Fey’s case. Stumbling, he typed the numbers into his phone and hit call.

One ring.

Two.

Miles was about ready to search every hospital room in the city.

“Hello? To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Bailiff!”

“Prosecutor Edgeworth?”

“What happened to the defendant of the trial you oversaw today?”

“The…defendant? He was found not guilty, Prosector.”

“Obviously he was, " I read the court records. I mean, what happened after the trial?”

“After?”

“What hospital did he go to, bailiff. Please tell me he wasn’t sent home with that glass bottle in his stomach.”

“No, no, he’s under observation at the Hotti Clinic. I can send you the details, but…Prosecutor, you weren’t connected to the case, as I understand it. What is it to you?”

Miles faltered, but not for very long. “There are still a few loose ends in this case. I intend to see them through to the bitter end.”

“Very well, prosecutor. I know I can’t stop you. I’ll text you the details, okay?”

“Thank you, bailiff,” Miles responded gruffly, his tone less than gracious.

He nearly sprinted to his car, waiting impatiently for the bailiff’s message with Phoenix Wright’s hospital information. As soon as he got the information, he rushed to the location.

He was familiar enough with Hotti Clinic, as they’d taken various witnesses and suspects there before. Fortunately, his association with the prosecutor's office was well known enough to offer him some leverage.

“I’m sorry, sir, visiting hours are over,” the receptionist at the front desk smiled politely as Miles approached. With practiced authority, Miles pulled out his prosecutor’s badge to show the receptionist. “I’m not here to visit, I need to conduct an official post-trial investigation. Confirming suspected testimony, and the like. Could you direct me to Phoenix Wright’s room? I need to ask him a few questions.”

The receptionist typed into his computer, muttering under his breath, “Mr. Wright? Ah, that boy…” before finally smiling up at Edgeworth with practiced grace. “I do believe Mr. Wright has already gone to sleep. I hear he’s had a long day.”

“Not a worry,” Miles wouldn’t budge. “I will wait for him to wake up,”

Fighting a losing battle, the receptionist resigned to Miles’ request. “He’s on floor 2, room 12N. Next to the nurses’ station, can’t miss it.”

Miles nodded and headed off without a second thought.

He didn’t particularly enjoy hospitals, not that anyone did. Something about all the white was so clinical it was unnerving. He had once spent a week in the hospital, when he was but a boy, while the adults around him decided what to do with him. But he didn’t have time to dwell on past memories as he reached Phoenix’s room, quietly pushing the door open.

It was already quite late, so it was no wonder that Phoenix was sleeping soundly in the hospital bed. It had been over a decade since Miles had last seen him, but any doubt in his mind was crushed at the sight of him. The spiked hair and unruly eyebrows gave it away–that was his Phoenix Wright lying in the bed, without question.

With the practiced authority of a Von Karma-trained prosecutor, Miles found the nurse's notes left in Phoenix’s room, reading up on his prognosis.

The notes were short and simple, offering Miles instant relief. All indicators suggested Phoenix would be fine, although he did undergo emergency surgery to recover the swallowed bottle. He swallowed the bottle intact so his esophagus remained fully intact, with the only concern remaining his ability to pass the foreign object. He was recovering now, and still recovering from the effects of anesthesia. But he was young, and the healing would be relatively easy.

For the first time since he picked up the court record that evening, Miles let himself relax against the wall. Fool, he wanted to mutter, but he swallowed his words so as not to disturb the sleeping man.

It was far from the first time Phoenix was asleep in front of Miles, but the circumstances felt so different. They weren’t children anymore. This wasn’t Miles’ home anymore. Phoenix wasn’t Miles’ steadfast friend anymore. He looked weak in the hospital bed, skin paler than Miles remembered and breaths shallow. Even with the steady beeping of the EKG, Miles wondered if Phoenix would unravel in front of him at a moment’s notice.

“Dollie…” Phoenix rasped, causing Miles to jump in his seat. He almost left out of self-preservation, before he noticed Phoenix still hadn’t opened his eyes. He seemed keenly aware of someone’s presence in the room, but too high on pain meds to discern who that someone was.

“Dollie?” Phoenix repeated, softer this time, and managed to swing his arm so his hand was palm up beside him, begging to be held.

Miles’ body moved before he could think, like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole. He slipped his hand into Phoenix’s, gripping it tightly.

The logical conclusion to his actions only followed after he’d carried them out. When he gained consciousness, Phoenix would surely realize the truth about Dahlia Hawthorne. In the meantime, he was seeking comfort and the least Miles could do was provide it. There’d be plenty of time when Phoenix woke up for Miles to tell him how he was right, how Phoenix needed to stop taking the fall for those he cares about because it only ends him in trouble.

For now, he’d let Phoenix lean on him.

It was late, Miles was feeling drowsy, and the warmth from his hand seemed to be spreading all the way up to his chest.

There were no open curtains to let the sun into Phoenix’s room, only the stale yellow of the hospital light. He woke up a few times after he was dismissed from surgery–woke to the nurses taking his vitals every few hours, woke when Mia Fey stopped by with flowers for long enough to say “fank yuh” before falling asleep again–but when he finally felt awake enough to sit himself up and have a drink of water, he was utterly alone.

He had no clue what time it was, but he was certain it was still visiting hours. Aside from the buzz of machines around him, he could hear the steady murmurs of families outside his door, visiting their various loved ones. Slowly, Phoenix oriented himself to the hospital room. There were a few wires sticking out of him, most egregiously the IV sticking out his left hand. His right was bare, save for the plastic patient identification bracelet on his wrist. Yet, it felt heavier than earlier.

Phoenix didn’t dwell on it. He had probably slept weird. He had the vague memory of his right hand being weighed down by something warm while he slept, but he didn’t have it in him to investigate why that was. Another machine, probably.

Instead, he let himself get distracted by the room around him. Mia had left flowers and a small card next to his bedside, sending hopes for a quick recovery and instructions for contacting her after he woke up to start apprenticing.

Phoenix couldn’t even pretend to contain his excitement. Who knew getting framed for murder by his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend, now) would be his ‘in’ to becoming a lawyer?

Further away from the flowers was a stack of books. Phoenix almost completely dismissed them at first, assuming they were magazines provided by the hospital for bored patients. But some quick investigation revealed they were law books. Children’s law books.

Legal Terms for Little Lawyers. A Dummy’s Guide to Becoming a Defense Lawyer. Baby’s First Cross-Examination!

Phoenix wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be offended by the books. He was sure they weren’t from Mia—there was no mention of them in her detailed instructions. There was also a separate note on the stack of books, in elegant handwriting clearly different from Mia’s chicken scratch.

See you in court, Wright was all the note said .

The books were well loved, the spines creased and edges of the pages frayed. Unsure who left it, Phoenix simply took it at face value. A gift.

On the off chance these books were left with sincerity, Phoenix made sure to treasure them.

December 30th, 2016

Miles Edgeworth is not a fool.

He was raised without space for imperfection. Not in his investigations, not in his trials, and certainly not in his personal life. He knew vulnerabilities made him susceptible to lapses in judgment, that any doubt in his mind should be cast out with self reliance.

Yet this carefully calculated independence also meant Miles was incredibly self aware. He knew when to exit a situation, when to find the nearest restroom where he could sit through his panic silently and alone, when to isolate himself for fear of being seen. And it was this acute intellectualizing that made his particular situation so peculiar.

Miles Edgeworth leaned on, nay, needed Phoenix Wright in his life. This wasn’t such an issue in and of itself. Sure, he leaned on Detective Gumshoe for help investigating, and he leaned on Von Karma–or he used to–for financial support, but he knew never to need someone more than they needed him.

So how had Wright smuggled himself into Miles’ life so seamlessly, without Miles ever getting a glimpse at his?

At the end of the day, it was Wright who defended Miles in court. It was Wright who proved his innocence. For all of his self-reliance, Miles had resigned himself to his fate and his past. He was ready to leave himself out to dry when Wright grabbed him by the wrist and pulled Miles from the deep end. He was unrecognizable from the young boy Miles used to know. Hell, he was unrecognizable from the rookie prosecutor just a few months earlier. Somehow, his back was broader and Miles didn’t know what to do with that information.

So he found himself here, cell phone trembling in his hand, finger dancing over the ‘call’ button.

This shouldn’t be so difficult. This was foolish. Preposterous.

He hits call.

The phone buzzes in his hands, once, twice, click.

“Hello, this is Phoenix Wright, attorney at law. How can I help you?”

“Wright.”

Miles hears Wright fidgeting on the other side of the line before he replies.

“Edgeworth?” His voice immediately softens away from his professional tone. Miles tries not to think too deeply about it. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How are you holding up?”

“Fine. Actually, I am calling you regarding our previous…situation.” The trial. Miles tries to say it and the words die in his throat. You’d think it’d be easy for someone who dedicated his life to the courtroom. Pathetic.

“Unfinished business?” Wright asks.

“A proposition.”

“I’m all ears, Edgeworth,” Wright goads him. “No need to drag this out.”

But he does need to drag it out, because the longer Wright is on the phone, the more time Miles gets to spend with him if he rejects his stupid proposal, and the less time Miles spends thinking about his actions.

“Dinner. My treat.”

Wright doesn’t respond. Miles can tell he’s waiting for the catch.

“As thanks,” Miles specifies. “For your defense.”

“Right,” he responds, a question lingering in his voice. “Dinner, as lawyer and client?” Wright clarifies.

“Exactly,” Miles confirms, because it is easy when their relationship is transactional like this. He does not have to mention how clients aren’t normally privy to their lawyers personal cell phones, or how lawyers don’t usually consult with their clients’ coworkers, or how there is no way in hell they will ever have a working business relationship because the past two decades have already ruined their chances. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30?”

“You know where I live.” It’s a statement more than a question.

“I’ve read your file,” more times than he can count.

“Course you have. 6:30, then. Dress code?”

“The usual.” They don’t have a usual, because they are nothing more than lawyer and client, but if Wright is wearing his usual blue suit then at least Miles can confirm he is wearing something that fits and is vaguely presentable.

Wright hums a response and, click, the call ends.

Before he can let the panic sit in, Miles busies himself with replaying his conversation with Wright. It felt too casual. When all of their interactions in his recent memory were under the pretense of court, calling to ask for dinner suddenly seemed intimate.

We were friends once, Miles reminds himself. Over a decade ago, sure, but the muscle memory was still there. He could survive one dinner. He suggested it. Hell, he wanted it.

Miles Edgeworth was no fool. He had just been forced to reevaluate the event that shaped his life and career, to consider that maybe he had been wrong. He was mourning his mentor-slash-caretaker, if Von Karma could be called that. He was putting off calling Franziska. He needed company because if he was alone for thirty more seconds it would drive him insane.

Haphazardly, he pulled out his phone again and dialed in the same numbers.

One ring. Two.

Click.

“Give me directions?”

He can hear the smirk in Wright’s voice. “From?”

“My office.”

“To start–”

“I’ll tell you when I’m driving.”

“Give you directions while you’re driving?”

“So I won't forget them.”

“You could write them down.”

“I can’t read while I’m driving, you fool.”

“I could meet you at your office.”

“I have a car.”

“I have a bike.”

“I’m in my car. Where now?”

Wright doesn’t ask why Miles needs him on call. He banters, but patiently gives him directions and when it gets too silent he begins talking about his day and about Maya–almost like he’s sitting directly next to Miles. And when Miles finally pulls up to his home–an apartment, barely a block away from Wright’s office that apparently he inherited from Mia Fey–they continue their conversation seamlessly, as though they’d been at it for years.

“Maya’s off to Kurain Village?” Miles repeats when Wright enters his car, blue suit familiar yet entirely different when Wright is next to him, reclining, laughing.

“Yeah, I saw her off yesterday. Biked to the train station and barely made it. Teary goodbye.”

I could’ve driven you, Miles wants to say, but the world where Wrights calls him and asks for help is the same one where Detective Gumshoe gets a raise.

“Mm,” Miles says instead, because he is not very good at small talk, but Wright always knows that and seems to have a masterful skill at filling in the spaces.

It’s easier when they get to the restaurant–Wright seems overwhelmed by the decor of it all and Miles can’t even pretend like he didn’t choose the restaurant to show off some of the European class that rubbed off on him while he studied in Germany.

He takes over for the conversation, explaining to Wright why he chose the wine he did, and practicing with him how to drink it properly. He swirls the drink in the cup and watches Wright study his motions and then repeat them far more clumsily. There’s an instinct to reach out and correct him, once hand pressing on Wright’s wrist to relax and the other tracing his fingers and placing them in just the proper way, but that’s far too childish for a restaurant of this class.

When they get their meals–steak for Wright and lobster for Miles, who doesn’t particularly like lobster but must make a show of buying the most expensive item on the menu–there’s no reason to talk, because they are too busy enjoying the food and wine. Except that Miles just picks at his food, because he doesn’t particularly like lobster, and Wright looks up at him like he’s a skin tag waiting to be ripped off.

“Do you even…want that?” Wright asks.

Miles doesn’t answer because he has too much pride, but he also doesn’t stop when Wright starts switching their plates, keeping his eyes on Miles like he’s waiting for him to swat like a threatened animal. When no such thing occurs, Wright finds a lobster in front of him, and a steak in front of Miles.

“Didn’t like the steak much?” Miles asks, because it’s easier than saying “thank you.”

Wright hums an affirmative, snapping a leg off the lobster and eating it with his hands like they’re at a fast food joint. “I prefer the lobster,” Wright teases, but there doesn’t seem to be a hint of malice in his voice. The steak melts in Miles’ mouth and he briefly forgives Wright for his conduct.

They babble between bites, but the buzz of conversation has mostly died down. Miles absentmindedly wonders how it’s possible to talk with someone about everything and nothing all at once. He knows about Wright’s unexpected friendship with Maya, the burger joint they go to after trials, why he only owns one suit and how he got it (it was a gift from Mia–like most of his belongings, it seems), yet he feels like there’s still so much left to know. Like why Wright won’t by a car even though Miles knows he has enough money for it. Did he fail his driver’s test? What’s the story behind that?

But there’s no time to ask, because the check has already been placed at the edge of the table and Miles is rushing to place his card where the waiter will retrieve it.

And there’s so much more Miles wants to know, but he has no idea how to ask any of it, and he’s not ready to go home alone, and he’s no good at small talk and–

“Say, what about those other wines you mentioned?” Wright asks, sipping at his cup.

“What about them?” Miles repeats.

“Well, I know you told me you picked the best one, but it’s a damn shame I didn’t get to try the others to see if I agreed.”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “I can write down the brand for you if you trust my judgment so little.”

Wright shakes his head, a little quirk in his eyebrow taunting Miles and saying ‘I know something you don’t.’ “That’s too much hassle. There’s a liquor shop within walking distance of my apartment.”

Miles curses von Karma for never training him more thoroughly on how to handle dinners with ex-best-friends-turned-rival-turned-lawyer-turned-friend-again-maybe.

“Wright. I need you to spell it out for me.”

Pink dances on Wright’s ears and Miles wonders if it just got warmer in the restaurant. He doesn’t feel much of a difference.

“We could do a wine tasting back at my apartment,” Wright suggests. “My treat. To thank you for dinner.”

Miles eats away at the temptation to object. Dinner was meant for Miles to thank Wright for getting him an acquittal, so Wright thanking Miles for dinner is counterintuitive. But he also isn’t ready to go home just yet, so all he says is, “I suppose we could,” as he leaves his tip on the restaurant table and guides Wright to his car.

Normally when Miles gets this drunk he stops drinking because when he’s this drunk he starts thinking insufferable things, like wondering if Phoenix’s hair stays that way naturally or if he secretly gels it. But normally when Miles is this drunk, Phoenix isn’t within arms reach so he takes another swig of wine and the opportunity to lean forward and feel it beneath his fingertips.

Phoenix, the good sport that he is, leans into Miles’ touch and when Miles shows curiosity about the bottom of his scalp, Phoenix sits up straighter so Miles can reach it with more ease.

“It just…grows like that?” Miles mumbles.

“Always has.” Phoenix does an awful job at suppressing his amusement, but Miles is far too gone on his expedition to stop now.

“These, too?” Miles wonders out loud and his hands wander to Phoenix’s eyebrows. He traces the left brow with his thumb, inadvertently cradling Phoenix’s cheek in his hand. Dissatisfied, he mimics the motion with his right hand and finds Phoenix’s face conveniently between his hands.

“Grew them myself,” Phoenix offers, but he’s too close and too distracting. From this close—much closer than an arm's reach now –what do you call it when someone is so close that you’re touching? What do you call it when Miles has Phoenix’s face in his hands and they’ve both turned away from the tv now so they are facing each other and at this point it’d be more comfortable if Miles was straddling Phoenix but then he would be too aware of the implications of that word—straddling?

From this close, Miles can guess Phoenix didn’t shave this morning because Maya was gone and he didn’t expect any clients, least of all Miles, to meet with him so there’s stubble that Miles didn’t know Phoenix could grow and now that he sees it, it's prickly beneath his hands. Miles wonders how it would feel against his jaw and that is how he knows he’s been drinking too much. He promptly lets go of Phoenix, misses the way his shoulders drop, and Miles crosses his arms tight to himself.

“When did we get so old?” Miles wonders aloud.

Wright gives Miles space, despite how close they were mere seconds earlier, and responds, “Sometime between when we used to make arts and crafts and when we started to call each other by our family names.”

It's meant to be funny. At least, Wright says it in a way that means Miles is supposed to laugh, even though he never does. Usually, Maya fills in the silence. Miles is still learning to be around Wright without her. He’s particularly bad at this part he’s just been presented with: acknowledging their history and the distance he’s enforced despite it.

“You used to make arts and crafts, Phoenix. I was quite bad at it, if you recall.”

Wright stands and Miles knows he fucked up. Wright basically just said ‘now that we’re old we’re not friends anymore’ and Miles, who was already overstaying his welcome, responded in kind by calling him by his first name. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Mentally, Miles prepares for the conversation that he should head home before it gets too late, even though it’s already past when he normally sleeps and he’s in no condition to drive safely.

Instead, Wright asks, “Water?”

Miles shakes his head yes.

“Do you want sweats?” Wright asks from the kitchen and Miles wants to ask if he intentionally left the room to have this conversation because the physical distance makes it easier to ignore the social distance.

“My current attire is perfectly adequate for wine tasting, thank you very much.”

“Sure, but even you’re not going to sleep with a cravat.” The word falls out of Phoenix’s mouth unnaturally and Miles wants nothing more than to scoop them up and place them back in his lips and—wow, water cannot get to him fast enough.

“Who said anything about sleeping?” Miles sputters.

Wright hands him the water, waiting a moment to make sure Miles won’t drop it before he lets go, like he’s sitting with a baby or a hospital patient. “You’re in no condition to drive, and I don’t have a license.”

“I knew it!” Miles' mouth works quicker than his brain and he knows he’s really too far gone. Wright wasn’t supposed to know Miles was thinking about him outside of a lawyer context. Miles clears his throat. “I would be amicable to sweatpants.”

Wright’s mouth quirks into a smile he can’t quite hold back and Miles wonders if he’s the reason why. He wants to reach out and cradle his face again, on purpose this time, and smooth out all the tension so Wright can smile without seeming so tense about it, but instead, he turns away and waits for Wright to deliver him clothes.

When they arrive and Miles has to stand, he is reminded of why he doesn’t drink often. He stands, stumbles, and Wright catches him by the elbow.

“Woah there,” Wright laughs and Miles feels his knees go weak. That must be the liquor, too. Wright, who has drank just as much if not more than Miles, is entirely unphased aside from a dusting pink across his cheeks. “I didn’t think you’d be such a lightweight. Didn’t you go to college in Germany?”

Miles rolls his eyes and tears his arm away as he trudges to the restroom. “Sure, when I was still a child.”

“So?” Wright teases. “It’s Germany!”

Miles shuts the bathroom door on him and sinks to the floor, heart beating loudly in his chest. He really should build his tolerance, if this is what happens after a few drinks. His palms are sweaty, his ears on fire, and the idea of sitting next to Wright in his clothes, talking like they’ve known each other for years–which they have, but not like this–is all too much for Miles. He feels like he’s been less intimate with men he’s kissed. At least those interactions were transactional, at least he didn’t have to see them the next day, at least–

Miles exits the bathroom in Wright’s clothes before his thoughts can consume him whole. Somehow his sweatpants are both too short for his legs and too loose around his ass. Miles understands why immediately (afterall, he has stood behind Wright before) and tries not to think much of it. Wright gave him both a t-shirt and a zippered hoodie to choose from, of which Miles wore both so he could have the safety of a high neckline and the ability to cover his pale arms. Miles recognizes he needs as little skin-to-skin contact with Wright if he wants to survive the night.

“All good?” Wright asks when Miles rounds the corner. He’s gotten more comfortable, too, changing into a ragged shirt that Miles prays he never leaves the house in because he can see the wear it's been through and an innocuous pair of checkered pajama pants. What really does Miles in is how Wright sits: with his legs tucked beneath him and one arm slug over the back of the couch where Miles is meant to sit.

Business transaction, Miles reminds himself.

“Affirmative,” Miles manages, sitting next to Wright. The couch feels far smaller than it did earlier, somehow.

They dip into the worst silence of the night as they each take their glasses of wine and continue to sip–against Miles’ best judgment–until Wright interrupts it by humming suspiciously loud.

“Why are you humming the Steel Samurai theme?” Miles blanches, not sure if he was supposed to take the hook and ask or hum along.

“Oh, that!” Wright laughs and Miles is glad he quit acting school. “I’ve been meaning to watch some of the old movies. Maya’s been up in arms about how I need to see them and–”

“Okay.” Miles would never argue against watching the Steel Samurai.

“Okay?” Wright repeats.

“Put it on, then.”

Wright all too giddily picks up his remote and turns on the television, which is all too conveniently set to Wright’s DVD player which all too easily already has Steel Samurai Rewind: The Tokugawa Warrior ready to play. Totally unplanned.

Wright relaxes back onto the couch. Miles remembers that if a couch has spots for two people, it’s often called a loveseat and decides he is going to focus on the movie in front of him, and not the way he is sitting or the man next to him or the size of the loveseat–couch.

“This movie is actually a huge reference to Signal Samurai 3,” Miles pipes up about thirty seconds into the movie. Internally, he curses himself for not being able to keep his mouth shut for even a minute into the film.

Despite Miles' expectations, Wright leans in a bit and says, “Oh? Is that why the palace looks sort of similar?”

“Quite.” Miles tries not to show that he is impressed by Wright’s recognition, but something between the liquor and the way that Wright is close enough that Miles can smell his shampoo makes Miles feel like he’s floating off the couch-loveseat and he opens his mouth and keeps talking. “In the original movie, the backgrounds were all painted and performed in front of, but they actually made a set for this film. It’s a real testament to how the franchise has grown and…”

Wright leans in, listening closely but keeping his eyes on the movie. It’s what Miles should expect from a lawyer, honestly. Of course he would be detail oriented. Of course he listens to everything Miles says and responds in kind so he knows that Wright is listening, but never makes him feel like he’s talking too much.

After they get through the opening premise, Miles finally slows his heart and mouth down enough that he’s only making comments every few minutes or so, to ensure that Wright doesn’t miss out on a valuable detail or easter egg. The comfortable silence is in no small thanks to the amount of wine in Miles’ system. He’s watched the movie enough to know what comes next and he doesn’t need to pay particularly close attention to chime in about fun facts. Instead, he’s able to list side to side, eyelids drooping ever deeper.

It’s funny how quick he goes from feeling weightless to feeling like all of his limbs have lead balls attached to them. But he’s too comfortable in these clothes that aren’t his, and too warm next to Phoenix, to worry about that. There’s just one last thing he has to do, for politeness sake.

“Thank you,” Miles mumbles under his breath. Phoenix perks up a bit, but keeps his eyes trained on the movie. “For having me over…for keeping me company.”

Miles' eyes drift closed, slowly enough to see Phoenix’s lips move in response, but too tired to recall the words he says.

“…Anytime, Miles. Anytime.”

Phoenix wakes up to something heavy weighing down his side and rays of sun filtering in through his blinds. Ah, he fell asleep in the living room. Curse the lack of blackout curtains everywhere but his bedroom.

He quickly identifies the weight next to him as one Miles Edgeworth and just as soon feels his heart melt like butter in his chest. Edgeworth has always been a deep sleeper, but still Phoenix is mindful not to make too much noise. In the still-sleepy haze of the early morning, Phoenix quickly prioritizes Edgeworth’s comfort. They fell asleep on the couch before the movie could end–Phoenix makes a mental note to use it as leverage to invite Edgeworth over again some time–and the angle of Edgeworth’s neck against Phoenix’s shoulder can’t be comfortable.

As gentle as he knows how, Phoenix hooks one arm under Edgeworth’s knees and the other around his shoulders so Edgeworth’s head can lean against Phoenix’s broad chest. He makes quick work of carrying Edgeworth over to his bed and ever so carefully laying him beneath the covers.

There’s a tugging sensation in Phoenix’s chest as he turns around to put up a pot of coffee. It would be easy to walk to Edgeworth’s bedside. He could hold his hand for a short while, just enough that they warm up again–he has always had poor circulation, after all–and easier, even, to just bend down where Phoenix’s lips could meet the top of his head. A kiss like that doesn’t need to be romantic. He is looking after a friend. A friend who has had a long, arduous week.

Phoenix knows not to take his chances with Edgeworth.

Miles Edgeworth, the demon prosecutor, deals in absolutes, after all. If there’s any margin for doubt, any chance that Phoenix’s feelings aren’t reciprocated, he doesn’t stand a chance. He’s already taken plenty of risks in the past twelve hours, inviting Edgeworth over, convincing him to stay the night.

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth needs a friend right now, regardless of Phoenix’s own desires. Even if he doesn’t crumble in front of Phoenix, he is no doubt grieving his father all over again. And Prosecutor von Karma, as well. His second father lost, if you can call him that.

Phoenix makes a mental note to find out–but not to ask.

He knows not to test his luck.

Instead, Phoenix starts brewing a pot of coffee and sets aside his dreams for a later date.

March 23rd, 2018

In all the excitement of returning to California amidst a hostage-situation-slash-trial, Miles and Wright aren’t actually afforded a moment to talk to each other.

Certainly, they see each other at the Police Station when Miles offers his assistance. And then, the next day they see each other in court, and during the investigation, and then in court again. But all of it is under the pretense that there are bigger things going on, bigger and more important than, “how are you”s? and “Where have you been”s?

There will always be something more important in Wright’s life than you, Miles finds he reminds himself as he heads to the airport with Franziska in tow.

They just finished celebrating Maya’s safety at the Gatewater Hotel. Miles secretly put the tab on his card. He said hello and goodbye, politefully, and now there was nothing else keeping him in California. Certainly not his younger sister, who was currently crying on his shoulder after swearing to beat him.

The physical contact is unfamiliar, but Miles knows better than to scold her for it. He is also, admittedly, a bit too frozen to say anything along the lines of “this is overwhelming to me, please stop,” so instead he keeps a firm grasp on her hand, grounding her, and himself, in the only way he knows how.

Eventually, the mechanical airport announces, “Zone 2, Boarding Now Available,” and Franziska sniffs all her tears back. Miles offers her his pocket handkerchief, which she accepts silently.

“This isn’t the end, Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska swears, despite the tears streaking down her face.

In his softest voice, which is admittedly not very soft at all, Miles promises, “I’ll see you back in Germany, Franziska.”

He’d never fly in a commercial flight, after all.

With all of his goodbyes accounted for, Miles calls a taxi to bring him to his chartered jet, where he’ll be able to fly home in the peace and quiet of an empty plane.

It’s all gone as planned. He was finally able to show Wright that he has his own motivations as a prosecutor, that he can still stand on his own, with his own values. He was able to show Franziska there is more to prosecuting than victory. And now he’d be able to return home, without acknowledging the petty way he left.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Which is bizarre, really, because Miles Edgeworth always calls first. He’s built his reputation on being the person who calls the shots, after all. Surprised, he answers without reading the caller ID.

“Miles Edgeworth, Prosecutor. State your name and business.”

The voice on the other side knocks all the air from his lungs. “Can we talk, Edgeworth?” With all the excitement, there hasn’t been a quiet moment for Miles to focus on Wright outside of court. The last thing he expected was to find him on a silver platter, offering himself up for a chance at reconciliation.

His voice is meek on the other side of the call. Miles knows he’s had a long few days, staying out late into the night investigating and barely sleeping due to stress. It wears on his tone. Miles has never known Phoenix Wright to beg but with one, stern question Miles wonders what lengths Wright would go to if Miles simply denied his request.

Yet Miles finds he’s unable to deny him of anything.

“Let’s. Where are you?”

“Mia’s–My office.” Miles feels a pang in his chest. He wonders the last time Wright made that slip.

“I’ll be there shortly.”

Click.

“Driver, change directions. I have a new destination.”

It is criminally easy for Miles to change his plans at the drop of a hat for Wright. It eats at him–would Wright so easily fold to his pleas? Of course he would. He’d do that for anyone. Miles Edgeworth knows he is nothing special to Phoenix Wright. He knows and that is why he flees to Europe so fast, teaching himself to live without thinking about what Wright would do and what Wright would think and what Wright thinks of him. But one day back in the same country and he’s folding all over again.

“We’re here, sir.”

Miles clears his throat and automatically grabs his packed suitcase.

“Should I wait for you here, Mr. Edgeworth?”

Miles has already dismissed his chartered flight. He’s making actions on instinct at this point. “No, head home. I’ll schedule my flight at another time.”

He drags his feet up the stairs to Wright’s office. The sign on the door still reads Wright & Co. Law Office, shining like it's brand new. Miles sucks in a deep breath and raises his hand to knock, preparing himself for the worst. His wrist pulls back in anticipation and–

The door opens before his knuckles so much as tap the wooden door.

“Edgeworth.” Wright stands before him, clearly exhausted. He’s still wearing his suit from court, but without any of the usual bright-eyed enthusiasm he has in a trial. Miles feels just as tired as he looks. a terrible cocktail of jet lag and anxiety making his stomach flip and turn.

“Wright.”

The defense attorney clears his throat and steps aside from the walkway. “Come in, I’ll put up water for tea.”

Miles tries to respond with his usual spite but finds his throat parched. He steps inside as instructed.

“You wanted to talk?”

Wright busies himself at a kitchenette tucked in the corner of his office, unresponsive, as he fiddles with a match to light his stove.

“Wright, you wanted to talk?” Miles repeats, a bit louder this time.

Finally successful in lighting the stove and placing his pot atop it, Wright faces Miles and laughs his sheepish totally-not-practiced chuckle. It used to be disarming to Miles, but tonight it’s too strained for him to feel anything but irritated.

“I did, yeah,” Wright smiles. “But it’s late and I don’t want to inconvenience you. Where are you staying? We can talk in the morning if you’d prefer.”

Miles groans. “Listen, I came here to talk so–”

“I’ll call you a taxi! You don’t have to worry about the fair.”

“You can’t even pay to fix your stove, you are not calling me a taxi,” Miles insists, Wright’s faux politeness eating him from the inside out. They are supposed to squabble and argue, not dance around like a bunch of fools. “I don’t know where I’m staying, anyways, so you can’t call one.”

“You don’t know?” Wright repeats.

“No, I don’t.” Miles starts sternly, but feels the frustration boiling up in his throat. “Franziska has been using my condo so I am currently without accommodations. You called me on the way to the airport asking to talk so I’m here, and we are talking, but you’re not saying anything!” Miles doesn’t like shouting. It’s unprofessional, for one, and shows evidence of little self control. It also reminds him too much of Prosecutor von Karma. Each time Miles raises his voice, all he can hear is Manfred’s incessant demands. And in front of him, Wright shrivels back and all Miles can see is a scared child.

Miles goes to apologize but can’t find the words. Wright exhales calmly and offers, “Let’s walk to my apartment. It’s not too far.”

Silently, Wright turns off his stove and holds open the door for Miles. He has no energy left to argue, so he follows obediently. In the hallway, Wright pauses in front of the elevator before sparing a glance to Miles and holding the door for the stairs. He’s so mindful of Miles, it’s sickening. Miles hasn’t done anything but run away from or badger Wright, and yet he’s been granted nothing but his good graces.

They stay silent down three flights of stairs with only the creaking metal as company.

When they finally exit, the midnight air is cool against Miles’ skin. He can feel himself cooling down with each crisp inhale, tension washing away from his muscles.

About halfway down the block, Wright finally chirps up.

“I wanted to be mad at you,” he confesses. “I was mad at you. Pissed. But then when you showed up at my office, I just felt relieved to see you in front of me. So it’s hard. Hard to talk.”

Miles is at a total loss. “Why were you mad at me?” He decides to start there.

“I-I thought you were dead! For a year, I thought you were dead!” Wright exclaims, but there’s no malice in his voice, just surprise at the sheer ridiculousness. “And, and Detective Gumshoe knew you weren’t, but never told me? He saw I was distraught, but said nothing. And I thought, you must’ve told him not to. And I–” His voice cracks. Miles can’t bring himself to look at Wright, so he keeps his eyes trained at the ground in front of him. “I don’t know what to do with all of these emotions.”

“You were distraught?” Miles repeats. He finds it hard to believe.

“After that last trial, w-we had a meal and we laughed and I thought we were making progress. And then you were, just, gone. Like I had never even existed to you.”

Oh, he couldn’t be more wrong, but Miles didn’t have half the heart or guts to tell him. “I left because I wasn’t making progress,” Miles tries to explain. “I needed to go somewhere where I wasn’t a ‘demon prosecutor,’ I needed to figure things out on my own.”

Wright doesn’t respond to that. When Miles spares a glance to the man beside him, he’s looking straight ahead at the road in front of them. Try as he might, Miles doesn’t miss the tears trailing down Wright’s cheeks.

Miles doesn’t truly know what he’s saying. He’s trying to fill the silence. “I had no idea you’d mind my absence so much.”

“Did you even think about how your absence would affect others?”

Did he? Of course he did. He was Miles Edgeworth, he never made a decision without first exploring all the possible consequences. The prosecutor's office had grown corrupt under his success. Gumshoe was too trusting of him for his own good. And Phoenix Wright, who defended him in court despite how it may cost his own reputation. Nothing good ever happened to Phoenix because Miles was around him. Quite the opposite, frankly. He had to fight tooth and nail to win every trial, even though he was defending innocent clients. What good did Miles being around do for him?

“Of course I thought about it, you—you selfish hypocrite. Who are you to lecture me on how my actions affect others?” Phoenix Wright, who once ate glass to defend a guilty woman. Phoenix Wright, who defended Miles when he wanted to be found guilty. Phoenix Wright, who just managed to turn the tables on one of the world’s most heinous assassins. Phoenix Wright, who acted recklessly with no care for people who actually considered his own well being. “At least I look after myself!”

They had reached the front of Wright’s apartment before Miles could even process where they were walking. Wright still wouldn’t look at Miles. He searched his pockets for keys and hastily wiped his hands at his cheeks before turning to give Miles that same cheesy fake smile.

“Could I bother you to lower your voice? Maya and Pearl are sleeping.”

Miles shut right up. He could not emphasize enough how bizarre this night seemed to be–first they were arguing, and now Wright welcomed Miles into his home with a smile.

Wright holds the door for Miles, always making room for him. Miles enters gingerly, as though any step may cause the floorboards to collapse beneath him.

“Pearls and Maya are using the guest room so I’ll have to ask you to sleep in my room.” Wright moves about naturally, picking up like they had just entered his office and putting up a kettle for tea.

“Where will you sleep?” Miles asks, dumbfounded. He wants to say ‘weren’t we arguing?’ or ‘why can’t you see that I care about you?’ but all he finds himself capable of is following Wright’s stride, keeping with the pace he’s set.

“I’ve got an awfully comfortable couch,” Wright teases. Miles feels his ears warm as he recalls two years prior, falling asleep on that very same couch and waking up in Wright’s bed. He had been red as a beet when he thought about the implications of the wine in his system, and waking in an unfamiliar bed…only for Wright to explain he’d carried Miles to the bed that morning so he wouldn’t disturb him. And then the mental image of Wright carrying him and–

“I refuse to allow the host to sleep on the couch. It would be improper. “ Miles clears his throat. He couldn’t let himself go down that rabbit hole of memories.

“Well, I can’t allow my guest to sleep on the couch.”

“You can’t force me to sleep in the bed.”

“You can’t force me to let you sleep on the couch. I can carry you to the b–”

“You will not!”

“Let’s solve this logically, then. Like lawyers.” Miles rolls his eyes and sits on the couch, expecting this to take just as long as any of their trials. Wright quickly joins him, offering him a cup of tea as he does.

“Fine. We have a paradox. I want to sleep on the couch so that you sleep in your bed, because you’re the host, but you want me to sleep in the bed because I’m the guest. Unless one of us budges–and it will not be me–then we are at a loss for solutions.”

Wright scratches his chin thoughtfully. Miles absentmindedly wonders if he’d ever consider growing out his beard and twisting it like an old man lost in thought, but pictures Wright as the old judge and immediately banishes the image from his mind.

Wright lights up as though he’s solved the problem and snaps his fingers. “Your logic has a flaw.” Miles can almost hear the “objection!” at the tip of his tongue.

Miles rolls his eyes, but plays along. “Of course you think that. What’s the contradiction, dear lawyer?”

“This logic assumes that only one person can sleep on the couch–something we have already proved factually incorrect–and that only one person can sleep on the bed.”

Miles blanches. “You can’t be suggesting…”

“But if we share the bed, then both parties criteria is satisfied.”

Miles rubs his temples, wondering if Wright has even processed what he’s suggesting. “So we share the bed,” Miles concludes. “Fine, sure. I don’t have it in me to argue.”

Wright looks at Miles wide-eyed, apparently surprised at how easily Miles caved. “Right, I’ll grab you a change of clothes, then?”

“Please.”

Having finally stilled his pounding heart, the exhaustion finally washes over Miles. When Wright delivers him his pajamas, it’s all Miles can do to carry himself to the bathroom and dress himself. Wright knocks at the door softly as he’s changing, telling Miles of an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet (“I bought a four pack when Maya and Pearls moved in, but there’s only three of us,” he laughs, and Miles tries not to hear it as an invitation.) and he’s so tired that only his fear or poor hygiene motivates Miles to actually brush his teeth.

He knocks gently on the bedroom door, and it opens slowly, left ajar by Wright.

Phoenix is sitting on the side of his bed, fully changed into his own pajamas. Miles wants to laugh at how familiar this all feels. He’s dressed in Phoenix’s gray sweatpants and zippered hoodie, while Phoenix wears checkered pajama pants and a worn out Steel Samurai shirt that’s much too large for him. Miles feels as though he’s been here before and yet yearns to be here again, by Phoenix’s side with no precedent. No trial, no excuse, just the two of them.

Miles sits on the other side of the bed, back facing Phoenix. This is all too much for him. It’s far too easy to abandon their earlier argument when they’re in Phoenix’s home, all worries melted away. But Miles knows better than to end things silently this time.

“I’m not sorry I left,” Miles confesses to the wall, hoping Phoenix is listening. “But it didn’t even occur to me that you would care about my absence. For that, I am sorry.”

There’s rustling. Miles feels the bed dip behind him, from Phoenix’s weight.

“Goodnight, Miles. It’s good to have you back.”

Miles feels his heart in his throat and swallows it back down.

“Goodnight, Phoenix.”

With the strategic purchase of blackout curtains, Phoenix finally managed to curtail his body’s awful penchant for waking with the sun, but he still couldn’t avoid his own circadian rhythm and stomach. At a cool 7:30 am, he awoke to the sound of Maya and Pearls fussing around in the living room and something warm around his hand.

It takes Phoenix a moment to gather the situation he’s found himself in, especially given how dark his bedroom is. He’s vaguely aware of the back against his chest, and more keenly aware of his own arm draped over said-body. Gripping his hand like a stuffed toy is—ah, that rich cologne smell. Miles. Or Edgeworth, rather.

Phoenix doesn’t really know where he stands anymore. Sure, Edgeworth came in from Europe and immediately took to helping Phoenix lose a case (on purpose) and rescue Maya without Phoenix so much as asking for his help. But he also tried to flee California just as fast without so much of a “see you at Christmas!” or “sorry I let you think I was dead!” so Phoenix wasn’t sure what his priorities were.

That and the way Edgeworth called him a “selfish hypocrite” the previous night.

So Phoenix lets himself be selfish, just as Miles claimed. He stays there, awake, and lets his breathing fall in time with Miles’. He holds him close, letting them exist in the liminal space before they become people with lives and histories again. In the early morning, in the dark of his room, Phoenix lets himself be, selfishly. He holds onto Miles like a lifeline.

Eventually, reality sets in as Phoenix hears the Pink Princess theme start to play on the television. Maya and Pearls will be hungry soon. He will be real soon. Phoenix does his best to detangle himself, praying the jet lag would keep Edgeworth from waking, and heads to the restroom. Edgeworth doesn’t so much as flinch as Phoenix exits.

Phoenix hazily follows through with his morning routine, Edgeworth’s words from the previous night echoing in his mind. The passion with which Edgeworth scolded Phoenix was certainly unexpected. Afterall, Phoenix wanted to talk because he was mad with Edgeworth, not the other way around. But Edgeworth’s anger and words seemed somehow practiced, like he had thought about it for a while.

How long had Edgeworth thought he was a hypocrite? What started it?

On Phoenix's bathroom sink, there are four toothbrushes in the toothbrush holder, one considerably newer than the other three. It makes Phoenix’s stomach do somersaults. He longed for the fourth to stay, to become as bristled and worn as the others, but he knew he couldn’t ask that of it.

Would that be hypocritical? Inconsiderate of the toothbrush’s feelings? Of its obligations?

This train of thought is getting Phoenix nowhere, and his gums are starting to burn from how hard he was brushing. Hurriedly, Phoenix rushes out of the bathroom to greet Maya and Pearls, both sitting on the couch and watching the morning replays of the Pink Princess series.

“Morning, Nick!” Maya greets with a smile.

Phoenix answers her with a wistful smile of his own, affectionately patting the top of her head as he passes by. “Morning, troublemaker. Mind lowering the volume a bit? Edgeworth is still asleep.”

A look that Phoenix quickly identifies as ‘ready-to-gossip’ quickly crosses Maya’s features, but she doesn’t make any fuss as she turns down the TV volume.

Phoenix makes his way to the kitchen, having housed Maya and Pearls long enough to know their routine already. Without a second thought, he starts to get out ingredients for breakfast. Flour. Sugar. Baking powder. Eggs. Buttermilk. Blueberries, for Pearls. Chocolate chips, for Maya. And then, without even thinking, strawberries, for Miles.

Phoenix freezes, the ease with which he makes space for Edgeworth not lost on him. But it’s the morning, and he hasn’t had his first cup of coffee yet, so he quickly dismisses the worry. He has work to do, after all.

Even the chipper, “good morning, Mr. Edgey!” from Pearls doesn’t stop Phoenix. Nor the all too sweet and not-at-all hesitant, “morning, girls” that Edgeworth sleepily replies. No, Phoenix is on a roll and no silver-haired attorney nor any quickening of his heart rate will interrupt his kitchen duties.

Phoenix manages to perfectly time it so he’s serving the plates of pancakes on his kitchen counter just as Edgeworth exits the restroom.

Maya and Pearls each move over a seat from their regular spots so Edgeworth has a spot next to Phoenix.

“Pancakes?” Edgeworth asks groggily.

“Maya’s favorite,” Phoenix clarifies. Yours, too, he doesn’t add.

“Mm,” Edgeworth agrees, staring at Phoenix with a look he doesn’t quite recognize. He’s not sure if it’s a symptom of him just waking up, but his features have none of the usual tenseness to them. Edgeworth is all soft edges and relaxed shoulders as he indulges in a plate of strawberry pancakes and a cup of joe.

They eat in comfortable silence. Maya has politely refrained from asking why Edgeworth is joining them for breakfast, and everytime Pearls starts to, Maya manages to change the subject.

Letting Edgeworth into his life is one of the easiest things Phoenix has ever done. Eventually, when they all finish and Maya and Pearls take up cleaning duty, they stack their four plates together as though they were always meant to be four.

Finally, with some semblance of privacy, Edgeworth and Phoenix are able to talk.

“I should be going back to Germany soon,” Edgeworth clears his throat. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Phoenix finds his throat is dry. There’s no anger left in him. As much as he wants to explode, all Phoenix feels is relief that Maya is safe and Edgeworth is alive, and emptiness that he’s leaving so soon.

“Don’t be a stranger, Miles.”

Edgeworth graces Phoenix with one last glance before he exits, and Phoenix wishes he could read his expression better. If he didn’t know Edgeworth so well, Phoenix would think he didn’t want to leave.

“I’ll be in touch, Wright. I mean it,” Edgeworth promises, but he’s already gone.

In the kitchen, Maya is drying off dishes Pearls has cleaned.

“Nick…” she asks. “Are you and Edgeworth alright?”

Phoenix smiles, the same way he was taught to. “I think so, yeah.”

The magatama glows green on his chest.

February 8th, 2019

Though he’d never admit it, if not for Franziska’s hand gripping his own, Miles isn’t sure how he’d survive the flight to LAX. Between his raging headache that seems to persist no matter how much sleep he gets, the heavy turbulence from the storm ravaging the West Coast, and the way the air seems to be running out from all the people packed into this tight tin can, Miles is frankly surprised he’s lasted this long.

Economy was his only option. He could’ve chartered a jet, sure, but this flight was sooner and as much as Larry tends to over exaggerate, “Nick fell into Eagle River from Dusky Bridge” is a pretty straightforward accusation. Miles took the first and quickest flight he could get, with nothing but a suitcase to his name.

“Little brother,” Franziska startles Miles to attention. “We’re landing soon. After that, I’ll be heading to my apartment for a night's rest. I’ll meet you at Hazakura Temple in the morning to investigate, yes?” Though her question is straightforward, Franziska's grip on Miles’ hand grows tighter, silently begging please, don’t rush into this so recklessly.

“Very well,” is all Miles manages to say, green in the face and knuckles white as he braces for landing.

Miles doesn’t have a plan like Franziska. His condo is far more her home than it was ever his, and he knows he won’t be able to sleep without seeing Phoenix, regardless of where he’s sleeping. So when they exit and Franziska bears him farewell for the night, Miles almost mechanically calls a cab to Hotti Clinic.

The world has been foggy since he received the call from Larry. Miles knows he booked a flight, he knows he’s in a taxi on the way to see Phoenix, but there’s a tugging feeling in his mind. This is ridiculous. This can’t be happening. He sits there, unraveling and numb, and acting on only his foundational programming.

He walks into the clinic at 12:42 AM, his legs guiding him where his mind won’t. The receptionist at the front starts to say, “Sir, visiting hours ended at–” but cuts himself off as he recognizes Miles in front of him.

Practiced, as he’s done so many times before, Miles pulls out his prosecutor's badge and ID and shows it to the receptionist. “I’m here looking for a witness in a recent case at the Hazakura Temple. First name Phoenix, last name Wright?”

The receptionist swallows his words and types the name into his computer. “He’s out of the ICU but still under observation. Floor 4, room 36W.”

Miles bows his head politely and heads to the stairs. Even late at night, the hospital is buzzing with nurses, rushing to check up on patients, take vitals, and fill out paperwork. Miles never particularly enjoyed hospitals, but he takes comfort in the buzz. His office in Germany is so quiet. No one bothers him, but it's far from the excitement he always seems to find in California.

When he enters Phoenix’s room, he finds the room dark, aside from the glow of a laptop. On the hospital bed, Phoenix is sitting up, squinting at the screen, very much alive and in one piece.

Relief floods Miles’ body as he returns to Earth. Suddenly, he’s all too aware of how heavy all his limbs feel. His briefcase feels like it's filled with bricks, and his headache is only worsened by the horrible blue light.

He switches on the lights so they glow a gentle yellow and clears his throat. Phoenix finally notices Miles’ presence and hastily shuts the laptop.

“Edgeworth, what are you doing here?” He squints at Miles, as though he’s not sure whether or not he’s hallucinating him. “I thought you were still in Germany.”

“I just got back.” Miles heaves a sigh he didn’t know he was holding and pulls a chair to sit beside Phoenix’s bedside. “What happened?”

The way Phoenix eye’s wonder to the laptop isn’t lost on Miles. “I don’t know. I think it’s…there was another case, and…” Phoenix stumbles over his words, and it occurs to Miles how bright red he looks. Miles presses the back of his hand to Phoenix’s forehead to find he’s burning up. Quickly, he grabs the pitcher from his bedside and pours Phoenix a cup of water, forcing it to his mouth.

“Drink.”

Phoenix doesn’t argue, taking the cup from Miles’ hand and gulping it like a man who’d just been saved from the desert. Or a California drought.

He finishes it with a heave and hands the cup to Miles, who refills the cup without a second thought. “Iris is innocent,” Phoenix declares. “I have to defend her, Edgeworth. You have to help me get released tomorrow morning so I can be in court.”

Miles raises an eyebrow at Phoenix. He tries to put on an air of his usual pretentiousness, to say with his body language, you want my help? But he feels himself melting at the way Phoenix implores him, brown eyes far too sincere for his own good. Afterall, this is Phoenix Wright, the man who can turn around even the most dire of circumstances. What is Miles Edgeworth next to Phoenix Wright? What is a cheater to a miracle worker? Yet here he was, begging Miles for any help he would offer.

“You are in no position to defend anyone, Wright,” Miles scoffs, tearing his eyes away from Phoenix to avoid the disappointment pooling in his eyes. Miles softens. He’s all round corners when it comes to Phoenix. “But I will make sure she is not declared guilty in your absence. You have my word.”

“You will…?” Realization dawns on Phoenix’s features, crossed with guilt and worry of the task Miles has set up for himself.

“Just focus on getting better. Please, Phoenix. Just take care of yourself, I beseech you.” Miles grabs his suitcase, quick to leave before Phoenix can respond. He’s not sure if he’d be able to stand the sincerity on his face for a moment longer.

Once on the streetside, Miles is struck with the monstrosity of a task he’s taken on. He used to dream of being a defense lawyer, and the opportunity has finally presented itself and he finds himself so out of his depth he doesn’t even know where to start. He doesn’t even know where to sleep.

Franziska is in his condo. They’d lived under the same roof for most of their childhood, but it still seemed like an intrusion to take over that space. He didn’t want Franziska to see him like that, pathetic and at a loss for what to do. He barely wanted her to see him when he woke in the morning.

Instead, he found himself calling a ride to the only other place he had easy access to.

The car pulls up in front of an apartment complex just barely a block away from the Wright & Co. Law Office.

Miles walks up the staircase with a haunting familiarity. He fishes for the key in his suitcase.

Phoenix had given it to him “In case of emergency, or if you ever need a place to crash” in one of his letters. Miles had kept his promise to be in touch, becoming quick pen pals with Phoenix. He had said that he was making keys for Maya and Pearls and figured he’d give one to Miles, as well. At the time, Miles thought it was ridiculous, because he wasn’t sure what course of actions would constitute him flying from Germany and needing to get into Phoenix’s apartment without him there to unlock it, but here he found himself.

Without Phoenix beside him, it’s hard for Miles to feel like he isn’t trespassing. He’d even prefer the company of Maya and Pearl to nothing at all. At least, they’d maybe put on reruns of the Pink Princess or show him where the sweets were hidden.

In fact, Miles found he wanted their company, and Phoenix’s. It was easy to imagine the four of them living together in this space. Too easy.

Miles finds a change of clothes in Phoenix’s room–the same pair of gray sweatpants and hoodie that Phoenix always lent him–uses his toothbrush still left in the bathroom looking newer than the other three, and quickly curls up on the couch. Even if he’s slept in Phoenix’s bed before, Miles finds himself uncomfortable staying there without Phoenix beside him.

Everything here is so hollow without Phoenix. Despite himself and his efforts, Miles finds he still hasn’t been unable to untangle Phoenix Wright from his life.

Everything would be simpler without this damned dependance. If not for Miles in his life, Phoenix never would have become a lawyer. He never would’ve studied at the courthouse and met Dahlia Hawthorne. He never would’ve found his mentor’s dead body and taken in her younger sister. He never would’ve fallen into Eagle River and landed himself in the ICU with what Miles thought was certainly pneumonia.

Nothing good ever came to Phoenix Wright from being around Miles Edgeworth. And yet, Miles couldn’t stay away. After all, Phoenix would never chase Miles and no matter what he claimed, Miles couldn’t picture a life for himself without Phoenix in it. So he kept running after him, always a distance behind. Never too close to the edge.

Miles goes to sleep on the couch, afraid of falling any further for Phoenix Wright.

For the fifth day in a row, Phoenix wakes up with a mouth tasting like mud.

Despite the antibiotics and Miles’ incessant reminders to drink water, Phoenix is still so congested that he sleeps with his mouth open every night. He wants to be frustrated and tired, to miss Maya and Pearls, but he’s too occupied with recovering from pneumonia and amusing one defense attorney asleep on his couch.

Miles insisted on “supervising” Phoenix while Maya and Pearls went to Kurain Village to do damage control after the trial. Which, apparently, included making Phoenix breakfast, lunch, and dinner (to the best of Miles’ ability; it was a lot of eggo waffles, soup packets, and sandwiches), as well as making sure Phoenix took his antibiotics, steroids, and cough medicine on time.

Fortunately, Phoenix is on his last day of medicine. Unfortunately, Phoenix is running out of excuses to ask Miles to stay.

Phoenix rolls out of bed, burdened with a headache from his cough medicine. It’s like waking with a hangover for a week straight, except he’s missing the college-aged constitution to shrug it off. Slowly but surely, he makes his way to the restroom hoping toothpaste and mouthwash can solve some of his terrible morning breath. On the bathroom counter, there are two toothbrushes, one noticeably newer than the other. Still, it’s wearing down from the past few days of use. Phoenix’s heart melts in his chest.

He exits the bathroom and is met with a view he’s starting to get used to. Miles is asleep on his couch, legs too long for the furniture. They hang over the side, feet covered by fuzzy cat socks Maya had gifted Phoenix last Christmas. There’s a book open against his chest, A Dummy’s Guide to Becoming a Defense Lawyer, and if his glasses are any indicator, Phoenix guesses Miles fell asleep reading.

Phoenix had nearly suggested they sleep in the same bed–again–but thought better of it given Miles’ health anxiety. Still, Miles insisted he sleep on the couch because the Steel Samurai figurines in the guest bedroom (really, Maya’s bedroom) “wigged” him out. Phoenix didn’t complain. It meant every morning he got to wake up and see Miles, dressed in Phoenix’s clothes, curled up on his couch.

Phoenix’s want burns a hole in his chest, swallowing and possessing him.

He shakes himself from the stupor. There’s no room in their relationship for Phoenix’s petty feelings to get in the way. Instead, he puts up a pot of tea and starts to make pancakes.

He’s sure Miles has gotten tired of eggo waffles, and if he washes his hands and doesn’t blow his nose the entire time that he’s cooking then maybe Miles will be willingly to eat his pancakes. Maybe. By the time he’s finished, Miles is sitting up on his couch.

“Eat,” Phoenix pesters him, carrying in a stack of pancakes with a strawberry syrup drizzled on top. “It’ll help the neck pain.”

“How did you…” Miles’ loses track of his words. The book falls in his lap as he sits up.

“Thinking of switching sides for good?” Phoenix teases.

“Huh?”

Phoenix looks at the book pointedly, waiting for a laugh. Miles huffs indignantly, sitting up straight and accepting the offering of pancakes and earl gray tea.

“I understand now why your courtroom etiquette is so…unique. You learned everything you know from children’s books?” Miles smooths out a napkin on his lap and stuffs another into his neckline, a makeshift cravat in absence of his normal one.

“I’ll have you know, those books were a gift.” Phoenix turns his nose up, sipping at his tea.

“I know.”

This gives Phoenix pause. “You know?”

Miles coughs into his tea. “The books!” he corrects himself. “I know the books. My father bought them for me when I was little.”

Phoenix smiles at the image of a little Miles reading his law books with one leg crossed over the other, mimicking Gregory next to him, reading the newspaper. He could picture it clear as day.

“So, did that last trial finally scratch your itch to be a defense attorney?” Phoenix teases.

Miles rolls his eyes. “You know I’ve long since abandoned that path, Wright. I was doing that as a favor to a friend.”

“Really. You’re certain there was no other way for you to help me than to take the case yourself?”

“I am quite certain.”

“You couldn’t have pushed it back a few days?”

“No, you know the trial system waits for no one.”

“You couldn’t have gotten another reliable defense attorney to take the case? Grossberg, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t have trusted them to prolong the verdict.”

“You couldn’t have been the prosecutor and just done a really shitty job?”

“I would never.”

“You have before. Matt Engarde?”

“Special circumstances.”

“These were special circumstances!”

“I didn’t think before I acted, Phoenix!” Miles slams his cutlery down, surprising both himself and Phoenix. “I rushed in. There, is that what you wanted to hear? I was sloppy and I rushed in without thinking.”

Phoenix sits silently, mulling over his response. “I didn’t mean to push you,” he decides. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it you’re sorry for, exactly?” Miles bites. Phoenix recognizes this same spite from nearly a year earlier. He recognizes he’s done something wrong, albeit he’s not sure what exactly. But Miles is mad at him for something, and he vows he will make it better.

“For asking you to take on such a burden for me. For asking you to toe the lines of the law and act untruthfully as a defense attorney. I…” Phoenix watches his words carefully. “We are fortunate it worked out, but I shouldn’t have asked so much of you.”

Miles tussles his hair in his hands, pancakes finished and plate long forgotten. “Wright–why are you so damn…you?”

“Uh, sorry?”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Phoenix didn’t think he could get more confused, but here he is. “Because you’re mad?”

“I’m not mad at you for asking for help!” Miles exclaims, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then what are you mad about?” Phoenix begs. “I need you to spell it out for me, Miles.”

“You never change, Phoenix! You’re loyal to a fault, and the only thing that beats out your loyalty is how quick you’ll sacrifice yourself without any regard for the worry it forces on your clients and–and me. And everyone who cares about you.”

“That’s good in this profession,” Phoenix defends himself. “I’m supposed to care for my clients.”

“I know you are, and that’s your problem.” Miles stands, starting to pack his few belongings into his small travel suitcase. Phoenix feels his stomach drop. He’s leaving again. No goodbyes.

“You jumped off a bridge, Phoenix.” The anger in Miles’ voice was palpable. Normally, someone getting mad at him made Phoenix want to curl into a ball and hide in his room like when he was young.

“And when Larry called and told me, I knew you did it for Maya, and I knew no one would be there to catch you.” Yet something was sad about Miles’ voice. He sounded so distraught, all Phoenix wanted to do was to reach out and hold him.

“So here I come, a bumbling idiot, running as fast as I could, because if I could not be a net I would be damn sure to be the rope to pull you back up. Do you understand me?”

Phoenix doesn’t. He wants to, desperately.

“What is it you want, Miles?” he begs to know. Anyway he can make things better, he will. Phoenix has always been able to mediate, he’s always been able to get himself out when things looked rough. And always, he’s afraid this will be the time he fails.

Miles’ voice is filled with an unrecognizable emotion, like no matter how much he tries to stop himself from speaking the words keep tumbling past his lips. “I want to be something to you. I want to sleep like shit because you’re snoring next to me. I want you to chase me because I’m something no one else is to you. But you give yourself away to anyone. I can’t ask the sun to only shine on me. I can’t–” Miles cuts himself off. There’s tears streaming down his cheeks, like Phoenix has never seen before.

“I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t leave now,” Miles chokes out, closing his suitcase.

“I’ll call you a cab,” Phoenix whispers, afraid of what will happen if he keeps holding on.

Miles shakes his head, refusing to look Phoenix in the eye. “My chauffeur is already outside. I have no time to change, I-I’ll ship your clothes back to you, is that agreeable?”

Phoenix swallows down everything he wants to say. “Keep them. Return them next time you visit.” He prays there will be a next time. Phoenix knows if they never say goodbye–and they never do– then that means they will see each other again. “I’ll see you later, Miles?”

Miles’ back hides all his emotions, but the pink climbing up his ears gives away everything else. “Goodbye, Phoenix.”

The door slams, and Phoenix stands in his living room, in the sickening silence, alone, and always the one left behind.

+1

Truth be told, Miles isn’t comfortable being in one place for too long. He’s stood at the prosecutor's stand in four different countries, and the defense’s in one, and yet each time he returns from California, his desire to settle down grows ever stronger.

His bed feels too large for him, and emptier as well. He’d even prefer Phoenix’s cramped loveseat. Or his bed, if they shared it.

Miles’ bathroom feels lonely. One electric toothbrush, loud and domineering.

His morning routine is all out of sorts. The temptation to text Phoenix and ask if he’s taken his medicine overwhelms him, although he knows that his dosage only lasted the five days. Not to mention, he’s come down with a sore throat himself, which he certainly blames Phoenix for.

He tells him as much. Perhaps, he left Phoenix’s home on a rather sudden note, but that’s no reason not to contact him. He sends his weekly letter as usual, giving him a vague update. His flight went quietly and safely in his privately chartered jet. He has washed Phoenix’s clothes before returning them in an express delivery package (and slept in them one night longer, but that part goes unmentioned in the letter). All is well. Business is usual. And how is Phoenix?

He does not tell Phoenix how scary it is that Miles has fallen into a routine built around him, nor how difficult Miles finds it to fall out of it. He’s not naive. Miles is done chasing after a man who won’t live for himself, let alone live for Miles. There is only one solution to these unrequited emotions—distance, distance, and distance.

So Miles recovers from jetlag and lets himself sulk, like he always does after returning from California, but never for more than a few days. He pouts, he doesn’t take any new cases, and he waits with bated breath for a response to his letter, or any indicator that he and Phoenix are–as Phoenix would put it–“good.”

On the seventh day, he wakes up to a knocking at his door. It’s eight in the morning and he has half a mind not to answer it–he’s never awake this early. But he manages to drag himself out of bed, wearing the zippered jacket he “forgot” to send in Phoenix’s care package, and drags himself to the door.

“Guten morgen,” he stumbles out, opening his front door.

He registers Phoenix’s laugh before he meets his eyes.

“Is that my jacket?” Phoenix chuckles, and maybe he’s still waking up but Miles swears it sounds like a melody he’s dreamt of.

“Hoodie,” Miles corrects, before shaking himself awake. “What are you doing in Germany?”

Phoenix keeps laughing sheepishly, nervously, but this time it doesn’t grate at Miles. “You said in your last letter you were getting a sore throat.”

Miles scowles, calling Phoenix’s bluff without even speaking. “Why are you really here?”

Phoenix clears his throat, pink dusting his cheeks. He puffs up his chest, as though preparing to make an announcement to a room full of people. “I selfishly wanted to see you,” Phoenix confesses. “And nothing you say or do will make me leave until I’m satiated. Understood?”

“Phoenix?” Miles suddenly feels light as a feather. He presses one hand to Phoenix’s broad chest–he needs to make sure he’s real and hasn’t dreamt all of this up.

Phoenix stares up at Miles with his beautiful brown eyes, and for the first time Miles recognizes the thinly veiled desire within them. “Yes?”

Miles feels as though his heart might beat straight out of his chest. “You may stay here on one condition. May I kiss you?”

Phoenix heaves a sigh of relief, as though his whole life had led up to this very moment. Miles pauses to consider maybe it has. Maybe his has.

“Please,” Phoenix steps forward, quickly closing the distance between the two of them. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

Miles is out of practice–he’s been so occupied with self-pity he’s had no time for kissing. But he’s still quick to oblige, one hand pressed to Phoenix’s stumbly cheek, closing the breath of air between them as though they were never meant to be apart.