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Miles Edgeworth does not long for more than he has already been given.
He watches Trucy thrust a microphone in her father’s direction, her grin mirrored in his features and, per his signature, rife with clumsiness. Save for the monitor’s glare and the occasional beams of light cutting through the furnishings, the room he finds himself in is shrouded in darkness. It does not stop him from piecing together Wright’s features—the outline of his spikes, the tan of his cheeks—though it does prevent him from leaving the room the second he considers it, if only so the hallway lights wouldn’t flood in and ruin this carefully curated ambiance.
Two paces in front of him, an enthusiastic Maya Fey and Larry Butz clutch their own mics in their hands, clawing for a note too high for either of their vocal registers. As pitchy static fills the room, Trucy and Pearl bounce to the tune of the song, coercing Wright to do the same by clinging to the sleeves of his undershirt. It's a surprise they can make out the instrumental through the cacophony. Miles, for the life of him, has yet to hear the song’s bridge over his company's impassioned yodeling.
The chaos only escalates when Ms. Fey catches the bashful defense attorney with Trucy’s proffered microphone. Belting out the next verse, she whips her drink-occupied hand in Wright’s direction, encouraging him to pick up where she’d left off. Unfortunately, the jerky movement sends soda sloshing over her cup's rim and into the open air; Miles channels every iota of control in him not to let out an undignified "Ngooooooh!" when stray drops nearly land on his tailcoat, and is mostly unsuccessful when he jerks back and proceeds to shout it aloud anyway. The crowd erupts into snickers, Trucy’s tittering the brightest of the chorus. Miles cannot recall having ever heard her sound this carefree.
Then again, a withering glance at her aunt and the man beside her shows they too hadn’t been expecting to hear it. There is an easy serenity that flashes across Wright’s face as he maps his daughter’s expression. It is a face Miles has not seen on him in many years—perhaps ever; a peaceful bearing that replaces the lines of stress on his person with something softer, real, and true. Wright tilts his head back in a laugh as the young magician whispers something into his ear, which quickly morphs into embarrassment when Pearls shatters the sound barrier to nod along with her. “Ha ha. I‘m not so sure about that…”
“Oh my,” Pearl giggles, ignoring him, “how romantic!”
The exchange is hopelessly endearing. Fondness swells in Miles’ chest as he recalls a similar, doting quality to his and his father’s conversations. The nostalgia washing over him surges to a tide once Wright tenderly places his hand on Pearls' head, much the same way his father did his, in what would be one of the few joyous fragments of his youth. Miles briefly remembers wanting to deny himself the portion of his childhood characterized by euphoria. He hadn’t expected, in the midst of establishing his career, to be pulled from the depths by a remnant of it.
With a huff, he tears his eyes away from the sight and onto the floor. His hands, which had previously been folded in his lap, spread across the karaoke room couch fibers to ground himself in the present. Only after he’s fully collected himself does he lift his head to continue observing. What meets him there is the man who’d revived the thoughts of simpler times in the first place, very pleased and already staring in his direction.
Miles Edgeworth does not want to long for more than he’s already been given, but Phoenix Wright is nothing if not unerringly perceptive, and when the rest of their party gathers around the monitor to select their next “cult classic”, the former poker aficionado locates the crack in the crowd’s armor and silently slips past them.
”Not joining in?” he asks, teasing. The familiar thrum of taiko drums reverbrate through the space. With each beat of the instrumental, their table and its affects—styrofoam cups, dirty plates, half-eaten pizza slices and all—pulse alongside the music. Miles narrowly avoids another drink’s splash zone as its container teeters over the edge. Grape juice splatters onto the floor, just barely missing his shoes. He scowls at the offending beverage.
In truth, he could think of countless other, more productive ways he could be spending his time if only he’d chosen not to make an appearance. Multicolored lights beam from wall to wall within the cramped room’s confines, red between the couch cushions, blue when they burn through his retinas; had the Steel Samurai theme not been playing, he would surely have excused himself from the event. Alas, he was all too happy to take Wright’s bait and make himself a bed of his invite. Now, he must lay in it.
Worse yet, since his arrival, a misplaced feeling lodged in his chest—one that for years he’d bidden down—has for some odd reason chosen this occasion to begin webbing its way back up his diaphragm, spilling pink over his neck, dusting his cheeks the same hue. It is a useless warmth, saccharine and wholly unnecessary, yet when Wright looks at him, eyes steady and all-seeing, Miles can’t help but wonder if the man has already clued into it.
”Yourself?” he asks, voice steady, though he feels anything but.
Wright offers him a noncommittal shrug. “Next time, maybe. Gotta save it for the tear-jerkers”—he pauses—“those ones always have the highest notes.”
“You’re exaggerating.” Never mind the fact that he’s insulted the Steel Samurai’s honor—Miles would deal with his indiscretion later. Wright’s grin widens at his visible irritation.
”What would you know about love songs? Take your coat off. One wrong move and you’ll be smelling like pizza grease for weeks.”
”Ridiculous,” he says and proceeds to strip his coat off anyway. Of course Wright would fail to understand the concept of regular dry cleaning, or owning several of the same dress should the situation call for it. “I see you’ve yet to curb your childish fascination with grape juice. How fitting.”
“Yeah, well…” He quirks a brow in Miles’ direction. “I wouldn’t want to make Trucy cry.” His words are sobering; something—worry? guilt?—flits through his pupils. “Having trouble?”
“Hardly.” As if to spite him, Miles’ elbow catches on his remaining arm sleeve; he tugs, passionately, but fails to remove it. Scoffing, Wright finds Miles’ arm and peels the article off. Glare as he does in Wright’s direction, Miles does not swat the man’s hands away.
”Thanks again for all your help in Khura’in,” he says, removing his coat sleeve's hold on his undershirt. The action is painfully intimate, and Miles swallows down the lump in his throat as he looks on quietly. “The Sprocket case, too. That one was a doozy.”
He grunts. “I was only doing my job.”
“Were you?” he hums. “Didn’t know hunkering down in a rebel leader’s secret base of operations was old news to the Prosecutor’s Office. Maybe they should update your job description.”
“That isn’t funny, Wright. I did what I needed for the express purpose of uncovering the truth.”
“Agree to disagree, on both accounts,” he replies, draping burgundy directly over the back of the couch where Miles was sitting. When he moves his arms back, they brush against Miles’ shoulder. “You’ve helped me out a lot, Edgeworth. Take the 'thank you'.”
Miles does not long for more than he’s already been given.
Sometimes, though, when the planes of Wright’s body stand firm before him, when the curve of his smile stirs the memories of an old witness stand and that man’s unrelenting belief in him, he thinks about it. What it would mean to confess the heat he thought he’d quelled had steadily been growing. How he was grateful to have a spot in his life, although the desire to covet more of him was ever-present and all-encompassing. ”You with me?”
His suit jacket long discarded to aide his mobility, Wright bends to meet his gaze, painstakingly so, giving Miles no choice but to watch his waistcoat wrinkle and shift as he leans closer. Miles hadn’t noticed he had been speaking. In turning over this fact, he also fails to let Wright know he’s now actively listening.
“Edgeworth?” An errant strand of jet black hair bobs to and fro as he pores over Miles’ face; with a startle, Miles realizes that Wright is studying him. Gauging his reaction, waiting for him to flinch back from his immediate vicinity.
“Hm?”
”I was asking you why you did it,” Wright drawls. He’s surrounded by an emulsified blurb of noises: easy laughs, accompanying shouts, a beat. Miles isn’t feeling quite up to a lengthy conversation about his rationale, especially when he’s hell bent on convincing himself that Wright is happy, he is happy, that the fire brewing inside of him is a fluke, and that perhaps it was time for him to move forward with his therapy sessions— “You okay?”
And no, of course Miles was not okay—how could he be, what with Wright’s eyes—resilient, warm, but cunning—boring into him, lit aflame by the karaoke room strobe lights? What was a man to do when the mere scent of his dearest, most indispensable friend—freshly laundered fabric, cologne, sweat—halted his brain functions like he was made for it, leaving Miles to contend with the inevitability that he wanted this, wanted him, in every way he could have him?
His motivations haven’t changed since Wright helped him discover his calling; Wright is a good lawyer and a shrewd man. To ask for a clarification is redundant, that is unless—
”Edgeworth.”
If he were to tell Wright that he already knew the answer: that he'd been spurred into action due to his creed, his pursuit of justice, he knows he’d only be propagating a half-truth. A secret by omission. In other words, a lie. “I wanted to help you,” he says, earnestly.
Wright's shoulders rise and fall, an even rhythm. He takes a deep breath in, resoluteness catching in his irises. “Why?”
Miles’ lips part.
Because I owed it to you.
Because you’d have done it for me.
Because you needed it.
Because I wanted to.
Because…
Sensing something in the darkness, Wright brings a hand to Miles’ shoulder. It does nothing to free him from his trance, merely redirects his focus from his face, lined with age, to his palm. The other one that had been hanging at Wright’s side reaches for Miles’ wrist, closing in over pale skin. Wright is sun kissed and Miles is burning. “Help me?" he repeats. The music swells to a crescendo at the same time certainty dawns on his features. "Hey," he starts, "Do you…?”
Miles can hear nothing else.
It isn’t just their companions’ raucous squawking that makes it difficult to parse the syllables falling from his lips, but the rampant thud of Miles’ heart against his eardrums, the rush of blood creeping up his neck and over his cheeks when he notices the man has seen through his defenses. Wright‘s fingers press into bone, gently and with great feeling, and Miles’ brain ceases all function.
”Wright,” he chokes, breath stolen by their proximity. He tips his head to bring attention to the unnecessary contact. At Wright’s fingers branded into his flesh.
The man nods absentmindedly, eyes following the downward slope of Miles’ spectacles. Miles does not remove his eyes from Wright’s mouth. “Do you really?” he whispers. “I’m not just imagining it?”
“Wright,” he tries again. The man closes in, then, head tilting in a way that has Miles thinking he should match him. His heart stutters.
“Your hand, Wright,” he gasps, a final attempt at bringing either of them to their senses. Their breaths mingle together, delicate. There are phantoms between them when they do this, twenty-some odd years overflowing with memories.
Phoenix, he thinks—finally—at the moment the distance between them dissolves into nothing. The feverish press of their lips together sends waves of heat rushing up Miles’ back, over his shoulders, through his spine. Wright’s grip on his body is a steady weight. Comforting, if not for the way his touch pricks at Miles’ nerves, sending him into overdrive. Fire licks at his stomach as he takes in the sensation: Wright’s hands, calloused, on his skin. Wright’s lips, hot, on his mouth. Desire sweeps over him, a longing so desperate he loses his ability to breathe. Dazed, Miles’ eyes stay bulged open. Wright’s, pointedly, remain closed.
Nearby, their company carries merrily on, none the wiser. Selfishly, however, Miles longs to reach out for them. In the flames of Wright’s eyes, he pictures it freely: a seat next to the family Wright has made for himself, a spot in their shared history; forever. He wonders if the people dearest to this man could ever learn to accept him. Would Ms. Fey, who’d only recently come to acknowledge him as a friend, truly want him there? How would Pearl take the news? What of Trucy?
It is that final thought that shocks Miles completely from his stupor. With a gasp, he recoils from Wright’s arms. The man’s expression shutters; distantly, Ms. Fey’s soda cup collapses to the floor.
“A moment,” Miles blurts, stumbling to his feet. Eyes flicking about the room, he spots the nearest door and wobbles towards it. “The restroom,” he attempts. “I-“
His hand finds the handle. He wrests the door open. “I will be back shortly,” he assures him, sparing the crowd of people turning to look his way no acknowledging glances.
”Mr. Edgeworth?” The voice—Trucy’s—would ordinarily be enough to garner his attention.
Miles can’t tear himself away from Wright’s eyes. There is an ocean in them, black and storming. It warps and swirls as Wright’s jaw tightens. He makes his exit.
As he wobbles his way to the bathroom, hand braced against the wall for support, Miles considers his plan of action. He is not running away from Wright, he has done enough running to tide him over for the next century, but he needs time to visualize his next move before everything collapses.
In the latrine, Miles washes his hands clean of embarrassment. His hair is slightly askew, face rose red and ruddy. He takes a shaky inhale, contemplating how to confess the machinations of his heart to the man properly. He’ll need to admit this isn’t the first time he’s felt this urge, that he fears for his family’s future, should Miles be allowed a place in it.
It takes another round of slotting the puzzle pieces of his confession together to come up with a viable script. By the time he returns to put it into practice, however, Wright’s eyes are dark with shadows. The browns of his irises show him nothing.
The drive back to the agency is uncharacteristically quiet, not on account of the girls' conversation, but because of the person in his passenger’s seat—one Phoenix Wright—whose lack of commentary as the backseat hurls questions at them frays Miles’ focus and precipitates not one but two near accidents. Trucy throws a playful jab at Wright sometime between the first and the second, something about procuring a “new mommy” within the next decade, and Wright chuckles bitterly, conceding that he’d find one as soon as he was able.
Miles’ knuckles go ash white on the steering wheel.
Somewhere, somehow, Miles has made a grave error. He’d spent the rest of the night signaling to Wright, waiting for him to come within arm’s reach so they could deliberate. He never did. In fact, he’d done much the opposite, shielding himself using his daughter, hanging up a cordial facade and forcing Miles to tolerate it for one arduous hour.
He forgets, sometimes, that the 7 years of distrust that loomed over Wright have honed one of his greatest weapons: an unyielding poker face he now wields against Miles to keep him at a distance. Miles chances a glance at the man, looking silently out of his window, and nearly pays for the transgression with everyone's lives.
“Eeeeek—the pole!”
”Edgeworth!” Wright snaps.
Miles jerks the vehicle back into their lane.
He doesn’t believe Wright is angry that they came together. If he’d wanted to blow a fuse (he had a short one, anyhow) out of disgust for him, he’d have already done so. He hasn’t.
The issue, therefore, must lie in Miles’ strategic retreat, which he’d happily clarify was not meant as a rejection if Wright would only speak to him about what happened. But he’d be a fool to think Wright would act so childishly over the possibility Miles did not mean to kiss him, so the logic never comes together; Miles is left to guess what exactly he’s done to make the greatest man he’s ever known retreat into his shell.
Miles quickly realizes what he’s lacking once he pulls into a familiar street: time. His vehicle stops outside the curb leading to the Wright Anything Agency, and still, he has come no closer to cracking the code to Phoenix Wright. From the back, a harmonious round of “thank you”’s followed by the sound of his car doors clicking open stir his nerves. Miles waits with baited breath as the girls file out of his car. Then, he turns to the man beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Wright says. “I don’t know what came over me. It was an honest to God mistake.”
Any hopes of a satisfying resolution go up in a puff of smoke with Wright’s unwarranted apology. His final sentiment rattles Miles’ skull from wall to wall. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he replies, hollow.
“…You sure?” And then, “no—I mean…that’s good. Great.” A short exhale. His lips thin as he swings open the door. “I’ll see you then,” he says, voice strained. “Thanks for the ride.”
It happens all too quickly. Miles watches Wright retreat towards the building, throat raw with discomfort.
This was not how he’d visualized the rest of his evening, downing a bottle of vintage wine and partaking in a Steel Samurai marathon to soothe the hurt of rejection. Miles raps his fingers against his steering wheel, considering what would become of their friendship if he allowed him to throw this under the rug. At most, he and Wright would awkwardly circle one another for the next week or so. Then, gradually, they’d fall back into their routine. Wright had made his stance abundantly clear, after all: he’d been swayed by the atmosphere, metaphorically “lost in the moment.” If Miles pulled away from the curb now, their relationship could easily be salvaged.
There were other factors that he’d yet to consider, however, like what on earth compelled Wright to inquire about Miles’ efforts in Khura’in. What he’d said as he was positioning himself to kiss him, about imagining Miles’ feelings, paired with a light Miles recognized all too well as hopeful disbelief.
As Wright’s back shrinks from view, he considers the situation from a different perspective. If he played along, he’d be accepting Wright's offer: of safety, a chance to pretend. A way to keep his fears about playing a larger role in his life at bay. It'd be easy, Miles imagines, to take the opportunity.
A light flashes on from the agency window. He thinks he sees the Feys’ and Trucy’s silhouettes from within the frame.
Ah.
Of course.
Miles does not want easy. He wants Phoenix. With stinging clarity, he turns off his ignition and pushes the car door open.
His heart thuds in his ribs as he strides across the pavement, reaching out to catch the man by his suit’s fabric. “Wright,” he chokes out, hands fisted in his clothes.
The man's expression is blank when he angles himself towards him. “Shouldn’t you be heading out?” he asks, suspicious.
”Not quite.” He’s careful with each word, slow and deliberate. “I believe there’s still something left for us to discuss.”
“Funny. I don’t remember there being much for us to talk about.”
He’s as stubborn as expected, though beneath the immovability, Miles senses a melancholy to his demeanor. Unequipped to draw it out of him, Miles takes a page from Wright’s playbook and bluffs his way towards it. “…Would you like a reminder?”
Wright sighs. He’d hoped he wouldn’t catch on so soon, but, alas. “Look, Edgeworth. I don’t know what else you want from me. I told you I was sorry. It’s”—he shoves his free hand into his pants pocket—“it won’t happen again. Can’t we just forget about it?”
I would prefer not to. “I’m afraid not. I am…put off by your behavior. You’re acting strangely and I”—his grip tightens on his sleeve—“I must get to the bottom of it.”
”You’re put off? Seriously?” A humorless laugh. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Miles winces. “What is this about, Wright? Tell me in a way I can understand.”
Another car rolls down the street as Wright regards him with a dismissive tilt of the head. Some distance away, a street light flickers to life, illuminating the asphalt below. ”Ha. Ha ha! Damn, I should’ve expected this. Anything to find the truth, right?” He spits the latter half of his sentence with no lack of vitriol. Miles shoots him a pained expression, pleading for mercy, and finds Wright’s icy glare. “What happened tonight? Was the kiss too real for you, Edgeworth? Couldn’t help but run away?”
It’s like someone has dunked Miles head first into the arctic. Is that what this was? Some longstanding grudge borne of his actions a decade ago? ”I only stepped out to collect myself,” he says. “I said as much when I left.”
Wright looks off to the side, but not before Miles manages to catch a hint of his smirk. He’s seen that look on his face before, spikes buried under blue cotton, hoodie gray and loose over his frame. “Don’t suppose you expect me to believe that. I wondered what would finally set you off. Been waiting for it, actually. It’s been a while since you last fled.”
There is no part of him that doesn’t ache from the accusation. Miles clutches him tighter. “You’re operating on outdated information.”
”Yeah, you’d know all about that wouldn’t you?” he counters easily.
”If I appeared at all displeased, it is only because I wasn’t prepared for it.”
Wright either doesn’t hear him or chooses not to. “Why are you still here, Edgeworth? I’m giving you an out. Take it. Or, what—you doing this on purpose?” He stops. Then, quieter, “Do you even know what you do to me?” Wright’s mouth pulls down, a flicker, before resituating into his facade. “So we kissed, my bad. I wouldn’t have minded if you didn’t want to, or if you told me you hadn’t been interested.” His jaw tightens. “That’s life. I can respect that. What I didn’t expect you to do was fall back on old habits.” A pause. “Guess they’re called that for a reason.”
“I was only gone for a moment. Surely, you didn’t think-“
“That you were only pretending to be fine while figuring out how to cut me off for the third—no, fourth—time?” Wright quips. It isn’t fair, really. The “third” incident was not for Miles’ lack of effort; he’d uprooted his life the moment he understood what Wright needed of him. Though he couldn’t say the same for the first, nor the second, not when the note he’d penned and stuck to his desk still hung like a phantom over his dearest friend’s head, he’d never stopped trying to make it up to him. “You wanna know what I think?” Wright flicks his wrist once, shaking Miles’ grip free. “I’m tired of losing people, Edgeworth. I’ve already lost enough.” He moves towards the agency door, wringing it open and finding that in the short time they’d spent spitting venom at one another, someone had locked it shut. Clicking his tongue, Wright begins fishing for his keys.
“…Will you not listen to what I have to tell you?”
“Already have and it’s bullshit.” He finds them in his other pants pocket. They jingle sharply as he pulls them out. “It was just a kiss. It doesn’t need to mean anything more.”
“You can’t possibly mean that. Not when you know the risks-“
“Thank you for the ride,” he cuts him off, slotting his key in. “Goodnight.”
It is not the first time Wright has shut him out, and it scares him. The 7 years he spent chasing his shadow rise like bile up his throat. “Baseless conjecture,” Miles says into the dusk. “You claim I don’t return your feelings, but believe I ran off because I was overwhelmed by them.“ He stops. “A logical fallacy.”
The man’s movements falter.
”I was affected. Both when you kissed me at the karaoke bar and when you played it off as an accident.”
Silence. Wright casts him a glance over his shoulder. His poker face is flawless; Miles finds that he hates it. “Huh. New strategy? Pretty cold of you to kick a guy while he’s down.”
Do not do this to me again, Phoenix, he thinks, desperate. Do not go where I cannot follow.
Wright whirls around. “What did you just say?”
A beat.
“I understand why you are angry with me.” Miles swallows, tamping down his mortification. You fool! Did you say that out loud?! “But I have no intention of walking away from this. I only needed a moment to ascertain my method of approach.”
His eyes narrow, as if searching for something. He doesn’t find it. “You’re lying.”
”Am I?” Miles takes a careful step forward, eyes flickering to the 6-shaped bulge in his pocket. Wright sucks in a breath. “The brief apology you gave me in my car was”—he grits his teeth—“unpleasant. Perhaps for you, kissing me was a simple lapse in judgement. I, on the other hand, feel differently.”
Wright, for all the times he’s managed to derail Miles’ train of thought with a smarmy comeback, remains perfectly quiet. Miles leans into it naturally.
“I did not mean to ‘run away’ from you, as you put it. Truth be told, when we kissed at the karaoke bar, I was elated. I’d resigned myself to thinking you would never feel the same for me. You must understand, with your track record, I…was not hopeful.” Wright gives him an exasperated stare. Miles clears his throat. “Nevertheless, I was happy to indulge you, and would have continued doing so had I not remembered what was at stake—namely, what you’d already made for yourself.”
In the silence that follows, a cicada’s song floats above, into their unsuspecting ears. Miles trails his gaze down, searching in vain for something to hold onto. At some point beyond his recollection, he’d reattached himself to Wright’s sleeve, and Wright—to his amazement—had let him. His chest squeezes. “A fine group of people who adore you, care for you, and wouldn’t dare hurt you.” His eyes burn, a steady pressure. “I…hesitated. If this were to develop into something greater, would the people whom you cherish want me there? Would you?”
“…You’re kidding me,” he breathes, not fully understanding. No matter. By the end of this conversation, he would make him.
”I was not raised in a 'normal' household, Wright. I was cared for, fed, and dressed, but simple affections afforded to those my age eluded me. It is only after I met you again that I began to reconsider the distance I put between myself and others." He thinks of Franziska, then, fighting the impulse to call at his earliest convenience. All in due time. "By the time I’d pieced myself back together, you already had a family of your own.”
His words ring heavy; Mile lets out a quiet sigh of relief when the weight of his confession drags Wright’s mask to the floor. "Do you know how many times Apollo has asked me to set up a one-on-one with you?”
Miles gives him a weak smile. ”Your employees’ respect for my profession is different from a personal interest in me, wouldn’t you agree?”
Wright shakes his head. ”It isn’t just them. The girls are fully convinced you and I have been dating for years!”
”A misunderstanding that can easily be attributed to their growing up in a secluded village, with little exposure to things like romantic l-love.” Miles reddens, finishing on a low note.
Wright’s eyes are damp and shining. ”What about Trucy? You’ve been there for her since she went from performing on the streets to the Wonder Bar!“
Miles swallows. “And it has been an honor to watch her grow into a fine young woman, Wright. Truly. I only mean that I wouldn’t like to destroy what you already built by trying to fit myself into it. You are happy and safe, and I‘ve made peace with where I stand. I am fortunate you allowed me into your life to begin with, and felt I had already taken enough.” He closes his eyes, staving off his grief. “That is why I had to take a moment for myself. I was moved, you see, when I experienced it—what it felt for me to have more. I longed for it desperately: a place next to you and your family.”
“That’s why?”
He expects Wright to laugh at him. Miles Edgeworth, a victim of the idealism he’d time and time again denounced—wanting a permanent spot in his life? Ridiculous!
Instead, there is a hiccup much too close to a sob. Miles’ eyes flutter open to a warm palm cupping his cheek. “What are you talking about, Miles?” Wright chuckles wetly. “Acting like you need permission. Why would you ever need to? You’ve always been a part of this.”
Miles’ vision fogs with emotion.
“Do you know what you do to me?” Wright asks, this time, in awe. “When we were in Khura’in, I was scared out of my mind. Between the kidnappings, the assassinations, and the rebellion, nothing ever went the way we wanted it to. I had to be strong for Apollo and Athena, but do you know what I was thinking?”
“That you’d entangled yourself in something far beyond a lawyer’s scope?”
He huffs in amusement, but it comes out ragged. “Okay, that too…but the biggest thing going through my mind was how lost I’d be if you hadn’t been with me.” Wright thumbs at his cheek. The pads of his fingers are rough; his touch, by contrast, is reverent. “I know I pushed you away when you first came back from overseas, but you stayed, Miles. You stayed. So when you froze up earlier, I panicked.” His smile is bitter; Miles longs to kiss it away. “Figured my luck had finally run out.”
When he chides him, it’s done without heat. “Don’t be a fool. What good would it do me to vacate my current position?”
”Thought the same thing back then, too,” he replies. “You’d find a way if you really wanted to.”
Miles’ lip trembles.
“Once you left, I shut down. I know I made the first move, but I hadn’t meant to scare you off.”
”Did you know?” Miles whispers.
”I had a feeling. Or I thought I did, at least, before…”
”…I fled,” he finishes for him.
”I tried to keep it together, but Trucy noticed and wouldn’t leave me be for the rest of the evening. All I could think about was how to fix it, somehow, because if you left again, if you left now”—his voice quivers—"I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Honest.”
Admitted so plainly, Miles can only mimic his sincerity. ”I’m sorry for making you worry.” He inhales, searching for the right words. “I have no plans—either now or at any point in the foreseeable future—to run from this city, nor do I intend to run from you.” The summer air is sticky and thick. Miles, simmering in the heat, presses forward regardless. “I am hopelessly enamored with you, Phoenix Wright. I have been for quite some time.”
His cheeks are flushed dark by the time he’s finished. He fights the urge to look away from Wright, not wanting him to mistake his avoidance for doubt. Wright blinks so rapidly Miles can hear his eyelashes batting.
“How long?” he asks.
“I couldn’t tell you.” His lips twitch up depreciatively. “I no longer recall.”
The man retracts the hand on Miles’ cheek to run it through his hair. Miles, sensing his need for space, drops Wright’s arm to accommodate him.
“What the hell Miles,” he sniffles, reaching forward to intertwine their fingers. “Don’t do that.” He squeezes them lightly, juggling the weight on his palm. It feels like acceptance, something close to salvation. “I’m crazy about you. Trucy—she loves you, you know. Maya says you’re the only one who can handle me-“
Miles attempts to push his glasses up his nose bridge and realizes they are not the reason he’s unable to see Phoenix clearly.
“Did you lock your car? Parking is free here,” he rambles, fighting through the croak in his voice. “You need to get out of this damn coat. It’s burning outside—come up for snacks. A movie, maybe. Stay over.” Wright chokes on the last word. “They’re waiting on you.”
”Why would they…?” he questions, looking up just in time to see a tall hat retreating from the windowsill.
Wright doesn’t seem to register his voice. ”Did you know Maya’s been begging me to host you? She keeps sending over Steel Samurai tapes and limited edition comics, they’re all over the floor, Miles, I think Trucy put some in my files-“
”For what purpose?” he asks, scandalized.
“Pearls keeps telling me to buy tea cookies and Earl Grey and-“ Wright rubs at his eyes with his free hand. “You have no idea how much they care about you. How much Trucy loves showing off to you. They always think about you, Miles. You’re their family, too.”
As another car hurtles down the road, Miles feels himself shatter. “I thought-“ he attempts to explain.
”Let them prove it to you.” The walls, the grass blend together. Miles tilts his head down, feeling for all intents and purposes as if he’s been shot through the chest. He stays like this—Wright cradling his hand—until it hurts his neck to bear the weight.
Wright’s eyes, darkened pools, rove over his face once Miles lifts his head. “You’ve done a lot for them. For me too,” he admits, running heated fingers over the curves of Miles’ hand. “You’re always saving me. I’ve stopped keeping track how much.”
”You said it before: we’re happy and safe. I might not have been ready back then, but things are different now. I don’t….” His voice is thick with devotion. “I don’t wanna let this go.”
”Edgeworth—Miles, I…” Wright hiccups. “Could we do this over?”
The flood of emotion threatens to sweep him away. ”How do you mean?”
”Exactly how you think I mean it,” Wright replies, deadly serious. “I don’t want to give you any more bad memories.“
It is a foolish declaration, all loftiness and idealism. Wright gently tugs him forward. “Wright-”
”We can go step by step. Start small with today, if you want.”
He blinks blearily. ”I’m confused.”
“You heard me.” Something in Wright’s tone tells him he’s gone manic. “I want a do over.”
Miles balks. He couldn't mean...“E-Excuse me?!”
”I’m going to kiss you, Miles," he declares, teary eyed, "and afterwards, we’re redoing it.”
He means to ask what possessed him to think up something so outlandish, but can’t muster the strength. He thinks Wright must already know. “That’s…we’re in public,” he protests.
He tips Miles’ chin forward, challenging him. “Mhm.” His lips quirk up. “We’re going back to the karaoke bar next week.”
His face colors. ”I-Is that really necessary?”
”You bet it is. Don’t try to wiggle your way out of it. We start at 4:30.”
”I work until 6-“
“I know,” Wright says, “I’ll tell them.” His lips brush against his. “Just so you know, I’m never letting you go,” Wright warns.
Miles can hear his heart thumping in his ears. ”…That would be ideal.”
”Great. Do you prefer nachos or burgers?”
”Burgers,” he responds on instinct. Wright smiles, lips velvety soft and devious.
”Pushover. Anything else you’d like to add?”
“No further comments—ah, just one, really. About next week…” he fights a grin, eyes fluttering shut. “Do save me a seat.” A pause. “Please.”
When Wright laughs through a fresh sob, Miles imagines bells tinkling together, jostled by the wind. “Obviously.”