Archive of Our Own

Athena and Apollo think that Phoenix is particularly evasive about his past - particularly with one Miles Edgeworth - because he’s a difficult man trying to masquerade as someone much more mysterious than he is. 

That’s only partly true. It’s fun being an enigma, and it’s trivially easy as long as you refuse to answer personal questions.

But the full reason for why he dodges certain questions is - a little more complicated. Usually he’d be glad to talk about his past, especially when it comes to Miles, but there is a little complication when it comes to talking to his subordinates. See, there is a good chance that if he starts talking about Miles, they might mention the first time he and Miles met in court. And if they do, they might make a comment about how it was the first time they saw each other since they were kids. And if he does not voice his response to that very, very carefully, then Athena and Apollo will immediately realize he’s lying. 

Because in reality, that is not quite the truth. 

So, he lets Maya and Larry tell that story for him, because as far as they know, it is true. 

Because the only people who really know what happened are Edgeworth and Phoenix. And neither of them feel particularly inclined to tell people how they really met for the first time. 

The story starts like most stories in Phoenix’s life does - Larry Butz is there, and he’s being himself. In this case, it means that at 19, he cajoled a 20 year old Phoenix Wright into a college bar despite neither of them being old enough to drink and the bartender specifically being someone who knows Phoenix well enough to know his fake ID is bullshit. Larry, however, does not know the bartender and Phoenix is a good enough friend to not call him out so he orders something fruity and with a silly straw in it, and then he - not being a good enough friend - promptly abandons Phoenix at the bar to talk to a girl that is more than likely going to shoot him down. 

Phoenix sighs into his grape juice because, honestly, none of this is particularly surprising. 

It’s why Larry had to try so hard to get him to the bar in the first place. He loves Larry (at the time), he really does, the dude is his best friend (at the time), but there are a few particular things about him that are incredibly predictable. Leaving Phoenix alone so he can chase after a pretty girl? More predictable than the tide. 

He gives Larry enough time to be shot down or - somehow - have his affections accepted, and he’s just about to go back to his dorm when a man leans against the bar beside him. 

Phoenix doesn’t really look at him, only glances in the man’s direction long enough to notice his pink suit jacket, and then looks back down at his grape juice. He’s trying to remember whether or not he has any assignments due when the bartender notices the stranger’s presence beside Phoenix. 

And, in a deep, vaguely accented voice that makes Phoenix’s skin tingle, he orders a glass of wine of all things in this dive of a college bar. 

The attractive voice and the odd drink order is enough to attract Phoenix’s attention. He’s known and has been openly bisexual since he realized that his attachment to his childhood best friend was not entirely platonic (although they were only nine at the time, so it wasn’t like it was anything serious), and as it turns out, he’s incredibly weak to attractive voices. 

So, he says, before fully turning around to face the man, “Wine in this bar? Kind of unusual, don’t you think?” 

He’s glad he started saying it before he turned, because the second he actually sees the other man’s face is the second every last word in his throat dries up. 

The man with the particularly attractive voice somehow, magically, possesses a much more attractive face. He’s definitely young, around Phoenix’s age if he has to guess, with a sharp chin and defined jawline and perfect pale skin. He has silver eyes and prematurely grey hair to match that should probably look odd, but is only incredibly striking on him. He arches one perfect, judgemental eyebrow in Phoenix’s direction, although Phoenix doesn’t acknowledge it at first because his eyes sweep downwards from the man’s amazing face to his clothes, which include a rich blue waistcoat with button loops - because buttonholes are apparently too pedestrian for this guy - and gold thread accents underneath his pink suit. He’s also wearing something frilly tied to his neck, and he looks a little bit like he just stepped out of the Victorian era and a lot a bit like someone hot enough to somehow pull it off. 

Somewhere in the back of Phoenix’s mind, he also looks painfully familiar, just the sheer sight of him pulling painfully on his heart and filling his mouth with nostalgia. 

If he had full access to his mental capacities at the time, he might have figured it out. But as it turns out, the second he actually turned his eyes on the stranger, his dick took control so he was out of luck.

Because, see, the man also had very broad shoulders, and while his suit jacket was partly covering it, he’s pretty sure he can see where the waistcoat was hugging the man’s side, which if true, would imply he had a particularly narrow waist. Lower still, he had legs for fucking days, and with his hand shoved in his suit pants’ pocket like it was, it pulled the fabric around his very shapely ass, and Phoenix is only a man and not a particularly strong one at that. 

When he finally darts his eyes back up from his very obvious gawking, the man only looks amused that he’s being so blatantly checked out. Which is great, because Phoenix may have just met this man (or so he thinks), but his heart might literally break if he turned out to be homophobic. 

“Are you not drinking wine yourself?” The man does ask once he realizes Phoenix is making eye contact again. The college student’s poor, blood deprived brain is further robbed because the statement makes Phoenix flush bright red. 

“U-uh, no,” he says, and stares mournfully at the grape juice which is poured into a wine glass. “It’s just grape juice. The bartender thinks she’s funny.” 

“Awful brave of you to imply that a stranger drinking alcohol in a bar is more out of place than someone drinking fruit juice,” the man says, and God, Phoenix would pay to hear that voice narrate his textbooks. Hell, he’d pay him to read the dictionary to him. He is fairly sure he wouldn’t actually learn anything from these endeavors, too focused on his timbre and the interesting way he sounds out vowels, but it would sure make the texts more enjoyable.

“I would be getting drunk if I was old enough,” Phoenix mutters petulantly, and the man just gives him the same judgemental look and it so shouldn't be as hot as it is.

“Have you never heard of a fake ID?” he asks and Phoenix glowers.

“The bartender knows me,” he answers and the man parts his mouth in a silent ‘ah’. The aforementioned bartender chooses that exact moment to return with the man’s glass of wine and he thanks her very politely, which somehow seems off with his whole demeanor and Phoenix can’t help the dubious look he sends him. 

“What?” the stranger asks, taking a sip of his wine.

“You’re very polite,” Phoenix says with a shrug, because it would be rude to suggest that the man exudes disrespect. Or perhaps he just oozes of haughtiness and money, both of which makes his politeness to the bartender just as surprising. 

“A gentleman always is,” the man says with a sniff, as if he’s offended that Phoenix would imply that he’d ever be anything but polite to a bartender. 

“So you’re a gentleman.” Phoenix says, and in a strange sort of word association that he’s not entirely sure makes sense even in his own brain, he follows that up with, “Does that mean you’re straight?”

The man does not choke on his wine, probably because he’s too dignified to do something like that, but it looks like it comes awfully close. He’s completely bewildered by Phoenix’s question, which is great because Phoenix is just as confused about how those words came out of his mouth. Maybe the statement about being a gentleman has nothing to do with his curiosity about the other man’s sexuality and has everything to do with how he’s probably the prettiest confused person Phoenix has ever met. 

“I do not believe being a gentleman requires heterosexuality,” the man states, which is such an unwieldy sentence that Phoenix almost wants to laugh, but his hindbrain has other concerns at the moment. 

“Does that mean you’re not straight then?” he asks, leaning towards the man slightly. The man narrows his eyes.

“Who's asking?” he asks suspiciously.

“Uh,” Phoenix says, caught off-guard by the question. “I guess I am.” 

“Why?” 

“Uhh!” Phoenix says eloquently, his face flushing red again. He rubs the back of his neck and tries to explain, but isn’t able to get anything out but a few stammered sounds. What would he say anyway? Hi, I want to know if you’re into dudes because I want to lick your face?

“Nevermind,” the man says, shaking his head, and Phoenix is thankful for the reprieve. “Who are you, anyway?” 

“Oh! You can call me Nick,” he says, because he’s gotten used to people poking fun at his real name and doesn’t really want to deal with it right this second. “I’m an art student at Ivy University. Actually, a double major - an art student and a theater major.” 

“A theater major,” the man repeats, and eyes Phoenix closely. “That could explain your arms, what with the sets and everything.”

“E-excuse me?” Phoenix says, but the man waves him off, as if signaling that it wasn’t an important statement. Phoenix isn’t sure he agrees with the sentiment, but the man continues speaking before he can express as much. 

“I’m Miles,” the man says and he offers a hand to Phoenix. When he shakes it, he tries not to think too hard about how soft the man’s hands are, or how long and slender his fingers are. The touch lingers longer than he means for it to and when he realizes that he’s just staring into the man’s eyes and holding his hand, he snatches it away, face beet red still. 

Miles just looks amused again. “Have you ever had wine, Nick?” 

“Uh, I can’t say I have,” Phoenix says, glancing at the ruby liquid in the man’s glass. “Most of the parties I’ve been to aren’t exactly the sort that have wine.” 

“Here,” the man says, and he offers the glass to Phoenix which - what?

“Uh,” he says, and the man smirks. 

“Perhaps it’s time to graduate to the more adult form of grape juice, yes?” he teases, and Phoenix wonders if he’s being flirted with or, perhaps more realistically, if he’s died and that explains why the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen is still speaking to him. 

“Alright,” Phoenix says, because what else can he say, and he reaches for the stem of the wineglass. His fingers curl around Miles’s, but the man’s hand doesn’t retreat, his piercing eyes not leaving Phoenix’s face. 

Okay so - okay, he probably maybe is flirting with Phoenix. Right? Right? Phoenix wishes he could ask someone. Someone other than the stranger, who his brain actually considers asking for one feverish second. 

Phoenix instead swallows thickly and tilts the glass gently to his face, not breaking eye contact, and drinks. The wine is bitter, which isn’t surprising, but also rich and fruitier than he had expected. He isn’t exactly sure that he likes it, but he also isn’t exactly sure that he doesn’t like it. If it was his own glass, he probably would have followed up that tentative sip with a big gulp, but it isn’t his own, so instead he just slowly pulls off and watches as the man’s eyes seem to cloud. 

“How does it taste?” he asks, his voice somehow even lower than it had been before.

“I like it,” Phoenix responds, which isn’t entirely honest, but the man leans into him and he can’t help but mirror him, following Miles’s lead. 

“In that case,” the man says lowly, their faces close now, and he sets the glass back on the bar. “I know where you could get more, without worrying about the bartender knowing your age.” 

“Oh?” Phoenix asks. “Where would that be?” 

“My hotel room,” the man says and Phoenix suddenly forgets how to breathe. 

Oh. Oh. Okay! So this is happening! Wow, holy shit, this is happening!

“Okay,” he manages, then he blinks. “Wait, what?”

Miles seems surprised. “Are you not interested?”

“No! I mean, yes, I am!” Phoenix blurts, and god, he isn’t sure that he’ll ever stop blushing around this man. “I just - I guess I’m surprised? Why me?”

“Why you?” Miles frowns, the tone of his voice making Phoenix feel silly for asking. “Why not you?” 

“I-I just,” Phoenix stutters, and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck again. “You’re like, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen and I’m - me.” 

“Please, Nick, flattery will get you everywhere,” the man smirks, then reaches out and brushes back a loose strand of Phoenix’s hair with a gentleness he didn’t expect. “Besides, I rather enjoy looking at you.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says quietly. “Um, did you want to go now or. . ?”

“No time like the present,” Miles says with a shrug, and he pulls his wallet out. He throws a few bills onto the bar and before Phoenix can think of doing the same, there is a hand wrapping around his wrist and pulling him towards the door. He isn’t drunk, not from a single sip of wine, but he certainly feels a little bit like it as he follows behind the man. He guides Phoenix to a bright red sports car - which, holy shit. It has leather seats and way more technology than any other car Phoenix has ever sat in, but his exploration of the car is quickly cut short by Miles pulling him over the console by his shirt collar and smashing their faces together. 

Miles kisses like he’s trying to escape something or maybe escape himself. It’s rough, not quite sloppy but not very precise, filled with more teeth than most of the kisses Phoenix has gotten, but it’s also probably the hottest thing he’s experienced in his entire existence. He curls his fingers in Miles’s soft grey hair and Miles keeps one hand around his shirt collar, the other drifting to Phoenix’s waist and tugging him painfully into the center console. 

He pulls Phoenix’s bottom lip between his teeth and Phoenix responds by opening his mouth and allowing Miles’s tongue to dart in. He tastes like the wine and he decides, a little deliriously, that he does in fact like wine quite a bit after all. The hand on his waist drifts lower, cupping Phoenix’s ass through his jeans and the man squeezes hard.  

“I want to fuck you,” Miles whispers in his ear, voice gravelly and heated before pressing his hot lips against Phoenix’s neck, and he almost moans, between the words and the hand on his ass and the bruise that is very much being sucked onto his throat.

“So you’re definitely not straight, then,” Phoenix says dumbly. 

“Do straight men often stick their tongue down your throat?” MIles asks against his skin, stretching the collar of Phoenix’s shirt so he can lick along his collarbone. Phoenix likes this shirt so he’s a little bummed about Miles ruining the collar like that, but he’s mostly very okay with it because it’s really just an old band shirt and he’s enjoying the tongue against his skin much more. 

“More often than you might expect,” Phoenix says, fingers leaving Miles’s hands so he can run them across the man’s shoulders. 

He hums, the vibrations tickling Phoenix’s neck. “I could see that. I can certainly see how even straight men might find you tempting.” 

“W-what?” Phoenix blurts, because that’s - not quite what he’d expect the man to say to him of all people. While he wasn’t of the opinion that he was ugly or anything, Phoenix is pretty sure the nicest thing that could be said of him is that he’s cute, not so hot he could tempt straight men. If anything, the man nipping his way back up to Phoenix’s jaw was the kind who could make the most heterosexual man a bit bi-curious. 

“Your face begs for someone to ruin it,” the man states and he isn’t sure he’s ever going to be able to think again. Miles runs his fingers down Phoenix’s cheekbones, the caress surprisingly soft considering his rough treatment so far. “You need someone to keep your mouth occupied.” 

Phoenix can’t really articulate a response to that, and what he manages to squeak past his lips is “Please.”

The man smirks, then pulls away, which immediately brings a pout to the college student's lips. He wants to whine, almost does, but then the man pulls car keys out of his pocket and he’s starting his car and oh, Phoenix would like to be in his hotel room right now. 

So, instead, he sits back in his seat, tugging his ruined shirt collar back over his shoulders, and touches his neck. The spot where Miles had paid particular attention to is sore and it’s way too high on Phoenix’s throat, he isn’t even sure a turtleneck would cover this bruise up, and something about that is extremely thrilling. 

The man’s hotel isn’t very far away, which is fantastic, because Phoenix doesn’t know what to say and Miles doesn’t seem particularly inclined to actually speak to him. He’s surprised when the man chooses to take the stairs up to his room instead of the elevators, but Phoenix finds he doesn’t mind all that much because it gives him a very good excuse to check out the other man’s ass. 

As soon as they’re inside the room, Miles is shoving him against the door and kissing him again, one well-muscled thigh shoved between his legs. Phoenix does moan this time, into his mouth, and his hands find grey hair again. He’s torn between wanting to press the man’s face as close to his as possible and exploring the man’s body with his hands. 

Miles doesn’t appear to have the same problem with indecision, because his hands are like brands against Phoenix’s skin when he shoves them under his shirt. They roam everywhere, his fingers tracing the various dips and curves of Phoenix’s muscles. When he finds one of Phoenix’s nipples, he scrapes his nail against the nub and Phoenix moans again, jerking his hips against Miles’s. The other man is hard against his thigh and it’s so flattering to know he’s as into this as he is. 

“You’re so hot,” he gasps when Miles pulls away to mouth against his jaw again. “You know, it’s actually kind of funny.” 

“What is?” Miles asks, nipping at the junction between his jaw and his neck. 

“The fact your name is Miles,” Phoenix says, rubbing a hand down Miles’s back. He tugs at the man’s suit jacket and he let’s Phoenix pull it off his shoulders. With the jacket gone, he’s thrilled to discover that his earlier impression that Miles has a narrow waist was correct. He runs his hands over the blue fabric, indulging in the shape of his body. 

“Why is that funny?” Miles asks, kissing down his neck again. 

“I had a childhood friend named Miles,” Phoenix says. “He was actually why I realized I wasn’t straight. He moved away suddenly when we were nine, though.”

The man freezes and Phoenix glances down, surprised to see the blank expression on his face. 

“M-miles?” he asks, and that seems to snap the man out of it. He pulls away more fully, and he glares at Phoenix. 

“You talk too much,” he says, and Phoenix blushes, remembering what the man said in the car. 

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks, and the man’s eyes darken. He pulls Phoenix towards the bed and shoves him down onto the mattress. Standing over him, he looks very intimidating and very hot, and Phoenix suddenly misses his touch with a fierceness that doesn’t really make sense. 

“I’ll just have to keep your mouth busy,” he says lowly, pulling the fabric from around his neck off, then he leans down to kiss him again, licking into Phoenix’s mouth. There is a different intensity this time, for whatever reason, like Miles is trying to kiss him deeper but it isn’t as rough, his teeth held in check as he presses so impossibly close to Phoenix. 

He lays over Phoenix and rocks their hips together with almost expert aim and Phoenix can only gasp into his mouth, fisting the fabric of his waistcoat as he sets a brutally delicious rhythm against him, his fingertips almost bruising where they’re holding his jaw. The part of Phoenix’s mind that’s still coherent wonders if Miles is particularly experienced or if the man just refuses to not be good at something like this. He isn’t sure why the second feels more accurate - maybe it’s just wishful thinking, that little hopeless romantic part of him hoping he’s somehow special to this man. 

Phoenix does refuse to be an easily forgettable fuck, though, and his hands slip from the man’s waistcoat to his slacks, fingers curling around a fine leather belt and tugging gently. When Miles breaks their kiss to look at him curiously, Phoenix says, “I want to feel you in my mouth.” 

Miles eyes go wide, his bangs hanging beautifully in his face, and Phoenix is torn between following through on his wish and kissing the man again. He’s really too handsome to bring him home (for a certain meaning of the word), but he isn’t going to waste this night. Miles swallows, his throat visibly bobbing, and Phoenix leans forward so he can press his lips against his Adam's apple. 

“Don’t leave any marks,” Miles warns, which makes Phoenix laugh.

“Why? You left one on me,” he says, touching the bruise. Miles gazes upon it unrepentantly and Phoenix laughs again, then Miles is pressing their lips together and he can’t laugh anymore, lost in the taste of wine and something unique to the other man. 

“I imagine a hickey on a prosecutor would be more of a scandal than a hickey on a college student,” Miles points out. 

“You’re a prosecutor?” Phoenix asks. “How old are you?”

“I’m the same age as you,” he says, and pushes himself off Phoenix. “20 years old.”

“But - you were drinking?” 

“Like I said,” Miles says, shoulders moving in a cocky shrug. “Have you ever heard of a fake ID?”

“But. . . isn’t that breaking the law?” 

“I’ve been drinking legally in Germany for four years, I’m not going to stop just because the United States put it arbitrarily at 21,” Miles says, and he says the words with a casual dismissal but Phoenix doesn’t fail to notice the tenseness in his shoulders. He’s curious and has more questions, but Miles is already standing up again and he doesn’t want to push too far and have this end abruptly for him. 

So, instead he sits up and reaches for the other man’s hips, looking up at Miles with his wide blue eyes. “So? What do you think? About what I said?” 

Miles exhales slowly, and slowly begins to unbuckle his belt. “I think that would be an excellent use of your mouth.” 

Phoenix grins at him, and the second the man’s pants are unbuttoned, he’s reaching forward and tugging the waistband of his boxer-briefs down. He hasn’t been with too many men, but he thinks that Miles probably has the best cock out of all the ones he has been with. It’s a little bit longer than average and it’s thick, and Phoenix is distinctly aware that however that thing goes inside him, he’s going to be feeling it for days. It curves slightly to the left and sits upon a nicely kept bed of grey curls. It’s as beautiful as it’s owner, and Phoenix can feel the drool pooling in his mouth. 

“Do you have -”

“- here,” Miles says, pressing a condom into his hand. He flashes the man a quick smile and unwraps the foil. He’s about to attempt something he’s only tried on fruit before (for practice!), so it’s very likely to go wrong, but if it goes right, he thinks that it might impress Miles. 

He tries to remember exactly what the guide says as he unrolls the condom just enough to tell what the right way is, then he places the rubber in his mouth. With more confidence than he feels, he guides his lips to Miles’s cock and slowly, carefully, slides the condom on with his mouth. The man’s hands immediately find their way to his hair, a short hiss escaping from his lips as soon as Phoenix touches him. 

When he looks up, Miles' face is flushed and his pupils are blown wide. He watches Phoenix’s progress with a slack-jawed look of something akin to wonder, and he suddenly feels very, very glad that he let Larry cajole him into coming to the bar tonight. 

Once the condom is fully in place, Phoenix pulls off so he can pay attention to the head of Miles’s cock, sucking it into his mouth and sliding his tongue around it. He runs his hand down the shaft as he works, the latex easing the glide although he wishes he had lube to make it even smoother. He swallows down the first several inches of his dick and bobs his head, making sure to keep his eyes on Miles’s face as he goes, makes notes for whatever makes his fingers tense in his hair or draws sounds of pleasure from his lips. 

He doesn’t particularly like giving blowjobs - much less when the only thing he has to taste is latex - but he finds himself enjoying this one, enjoying the way his lips stretch around Miles’s thickness and the way he feels sliding down his lips. He loses himself in the process, in the idea of pleasing Miles, and he’s almost disappointed when the hands in his hair hold his head still as the other man pulls away. He pouts performatively at Miles but it’s quickly wiped off his face by the other man’s lips and he’s lowered back into the bed again. 

“I want to fuck you,” he practically growls in Phoenix’s ear and his dick jumps, almost painfully hard against constraining denim, and he pulls Miles face in so he can kiss him again and again. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he says against his lips and he feels him smirk, so he kisses the corner of his mouth before pulling away and lifting his hips off the mattress to shimmy out of his jeans. They’re still mostly fully dressed, but both of them are too preoccupied at the moment to fumble with Miles’s button loops or care about Phoenix’s band T-shirt. 

The other man fetches a bottle of lube from his bedside table and he presses soft kisses against Phoenix’s toned thighs as he coats his fingers generously. He holds it in his palm for a moment to warm it and something about the gesture feels meaningful to Phoenix. He feels a little lost in his head and he has to remind himself that this is just a one-night hook-up, because he can already feel the infatuation coming on strong. 

Phoenix has a bit of a problem with falling in love quickly and without warning, and as Miles peers up at him, his silver eyes hungry and dark as presses gently inside Phoenix, he thinks it would be very easy to fall in love with Miles even if he didn’t.

Miles puts those slender fingers to good use, stretching Phoenix well and, once he has two fingers inside of him, searching out his prostate with pinpoint accuracy and pressing against it until Phoenix’s back is arching against the mattress and he’s pushing down on the other man’s fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?” the bastard of a man teases as he presses against that knot again and Phoenix keens. 

“I want you inside of me,” he moans and Miles chuckles. 

“I am inside of you, if you haven’t noticed,” he says, crooking his fingers just to prove his point. 

“I mean I want your cock inside of me,” Phoenix says, even as the words leaving his lips causes his face to flush. 

“You’re not ready,” Miles admonishes, rubbing his free hand against Phoenix’s thigh like he’s trying to calm him, and Phoenix grunts because Miles is probably right - no, he definitely is, he’s had the man’s cock in his mouth - but he wants.  

“It’s taking too long,” he whines, and Miles chuckles, pressing his lips against his inner thigh. He’s so close to Phoenix’s dick, and while he rather have Miles fuck him than touch him right that second, he’s desperate for something more substantial from the man. 

“You’re so impatient,” Miles tuts, although he slides a third finger in and doubles his efforts to stretch Phoenix. “You’re going to end up hurt, rushing like that.” 

“It’ll be worth it for you,” Phoenix says. The man between his legs looks up sharply, a frown on his mouth and Phoenix isn’t entirely sure what he said to garner that reaction. Miles searches his face for a moment before he scoffs, shaking his head slightly.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says softly before pulling his fingers out of Phoenix and crawling up the college student’s body to kiss him again. It’s not as heated as Phoenix had expected, surprisingly soft as he just slides their lips together, and he suddenly feels like he’s in danger. If Phoenix thought he’d be easy to fall in love with earlier, he can already feel himself falling for a man who kisses him like that. 

Miles is merciful, however, and his mind doesn’t have time to linger on that thought as he starts to press into him. There is a slight burn as he enters, but the wonderful sensation of him finally, finally being inside Phoenix brings more than enough pleasure to cover up the pain. Miles moves slowly, pressing forward until he’s fully seated and resting there just for a moment, peppering Phoenix’s face and jaw with small kisses as he adjusts to MIles’s girth. 

Phoenix wraps his legs around Miles' waist as he manages to relax around the intrusion and experimentally rolls his hips. The prosecutor bites back a curse, pulling his full bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs and Miles shakes his head. 

“Are you always this sentimental with men you sleep with?” Miles asks as he starts to pull out. 

“Just the devastatingly handsome ones,” Phoenix says with a grin and Miles rolls his eyes before he thrusts in again and wipes the smirk off Phoenix’s face. His rhythm builds slowly, steadily building speed until Phoenix’s toes are curling and he can’t articulate any of the thoughts in his head, too lost in the sensations. Miles cups Phoenix’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheek, as he leans in to kiss him again and Phoenix doesn’t know how to handle it, not that he can think about it for long when Miles manages to hit his prostate. 

He tightens his legs around Miles' waist and arches his back, moaning wantonly into his mouth. Miles responds by adjusting his hips until each thrust hits that spot in Phoenix. 

“Miles,” he pants. “Miles, Miles, Miles . . .”

The other man makes a guttural noise, then he thrusts harder, his hips moving faster until he’s punching breathless, keening noises out of Phoenix with every movement. Then he moves his hand from Phoenix’s face and takes him in his hand, flicking his wrist in time with each thrust. 

It’s too good, and it’s coming too soon, but Phoenix can’t find it in him to ask for less. He can only make pitiful noises and babble Miles’s name until his words blur into nonsensical syllables. 

“Come on, Phoenix,” Miles murmurs in his ear. “Let go for me.”

He captures Phoenix’s lips and then Phoenix can’t hold back any longer, too overwhelmed with the feeling of Miles on him, too overwhelmed by the new sensations, and he paints his shirt and Miles hand with his come.

Miles isn’t as far gone as Phoenix is and fucks him through his orgasm. It’s almost too much, making him even more incoherent than he was before, and he clenches down against the sensation in hopes of dampening it. 

While it doesn’t work, it does help push Miles over the edge, and soon he’s coming himself, his face pressed in the crux of Phoenix’s neck, his name on his lips. Phoenix wishes he could have seen Miles’ face as he came, but he settles with running his fingers through the other man’s hair as he catches his breath. 

It’s only then that he realizes something.

“You called me Phoenix,” he says, and Miles stiffens in his arms. “How did you know my name?” 

Miles sighs into his neck. “Can we not have this conversation while I’m inside of you?” 

“You can pull out at any time,” he points out, and after a second Miles does, frowning as he looks down on Phoenix. His hand is still coated in Phoenix’s cum, but his fancy waistcoat seems to remain clean despite it all. It would almost be funny, if his mind wasn’t still churning with the fact that Miles apparently knew him better than he knew Miles. 

Unsurprisingly, they don’t have the conversation as soon as he pulls out, as Miles escapes into the bathroom very shortly after and Phoenix hears the sink turn on. He pulls his boxers and jeans on and tries to think of how the man could have learned his name. His first guess would be that the man was in one of his classes, but that couldn’t be right, because he’s already a prosecutor. Supposedly! He might not be, actually, who knows. 

When Miles comes out of the bathroom, he’s wrapped in a bathrobe and carrying his waistcoat and shirt in arms. It’s kind of absurd that the man can look so attractive dressed in something so fluffy. 

“We’ve met before,” he says as he picks up his jacket from the doorway. 

“And you didn’t think to maybe tell me that?” Phoenix asks and Miles immediately grimaces as he folds the jacket over the bundle of cloth in his arms. 

“I didn’t know for sure until we were already here,” he says. “I didn’t see much of a point at mentioning it then.”

“Where did we meet?”

Miles tucks his clothes into a suitcase and very purposefully does not look at Phoenix as he says, “Grade school.” 

“Grade school?” Phoenix repeats, as a chill crawls down his spine. “Wait, wait - Miles Edgeworth?” 

The man doesn’t answer, which Phoenix takes as confirmation. He jumps to his feet, wincing at the slight soreness their activities have left him with, then blushes harder than he has all night as everything falls into place around him. He just had sex with Miles Edgeworth. Miles Edgeworth, his childhood best friend, his childhood crush, the boy who made him realize he wasn’t straight. The boy who grew into a ridiculously attractive man who he just had sex with. 

“Oh fuck,” he says. 

“I do think that sums it up, yes,” Miles says, the corner of his lips quirking upwards.

“You’re a prosecutor,” Phoenix says, and something dark crosses over Miles’s eyes as he frowns. The fact that Miles is a lawyer but isn’t a defense attorney is almost impossible to believe, and something had to happen. Whatever made him tense when he talked about Germany, or shadowed his eyes just then. 

“Phoenix -”

“Wait, I wrote you letters,” Phoenix says, and none of this was exactly how he’d be expecting it to go when he first saw Miles Edgeworth again, but he can’t stop. “I wrote them for years - why did you never answer?” 

Miles crosses his arms over his chest, looking away from Phoenix again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” he repeats, and the shock from the realization comes tumbling down, bringing with it a torrent of emotions. “You weren’t going to tell me who you were, were you?” 

“It hadn’t been my first plan, no,” Miles says with a sigh and those emotions whip into a storm. God, Phoenix has been pining over this man since he was a child and he’s just going to brush him off like this? 

Tears prickle his eyes and he sniffs, hoping that he doesn’t actually cry because God, that would really be the cherry on top of this entire embarrassment. 

“So, what, you were going to just fuck me and then leave again? Without me ever knowing it was you?” he asks. 

“We don’t all cling to our childhood like you seem to. You don’t mean anything to me, Phoenix Wright,” he says bitterly, and Phoenix feels like it would have hurt less if he had just slapped him.

“Then - what was this? What was all of this?” he asks, gesturing towards the room, towards his stained shirt, and Miles finally turns back to him with a fierce glare. He shrinks back under the other man’s gaze and feels the first of his tears to fall. 

“I went to that bar for a distraction, nothing less and nothing more. That is all you are to me,” Miles practically spits and Phoenix feels so god damn foolish, but some part of him shouts that this isn’t right, that Miles isn’t telling the truth. Where is the boy that saved Phoenix all of those years ago? Who spoke about being a defense attorney with stars in his eyes?

The man standing in front of him is not the same boy, but Phoenix refuses to believe that he’s just gone.

“What happened to you?” he asks, quietly.

“Life, Wright, life happened!” Miles shouts, and he somehow manages to cut an intimidating picture even now in the fluffy hotel robe. “I don’t know what world you live in that things that happened 11 years ago matter, but it is not the world I live in!” 

“You don’t mean that,” Phoenix retorts, but his voice is shaky, full of tears and Miles shakes his head.

“The thing is that I do,” he says, then runs his fingers through his hair. “This was a mistake. You need to leave. Now.” 

“What?” He isn't sure why that surprises him, but he is surprised. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to go. “You can’t just throw me out -”

“I can and I will,” Miles says, glaring again. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police. I don’t suggest testing me here.” 

And for the first time in the last few minutes, Phoenix believes him. He rubs desperately at his eyes, to try and stymie the tears, and when it fails, he just shakes his head. 

“I don’t know what happened with you, Miles,” Phoenix says quietly. “But this doesn’t end here.”

He doesn’t wait for the man to respond - mostly because he doesn’t expect him to - before he turns to leave the hotel room. It’s dark outside now, something he’s grateful for because it helps hide the state he’s in. As he rides in a taxi back to his dorms, he stares outside of his window and plans. 

Something happened to Miles Edgeworth, something seriously bad, and he’s going to find out.

And he does, eventually. 

15 years after that night, he stands in Miles Edgeworth’s office, rubbing his chin as he looks thoughtfully at the waistcoat and jacket the man has hanging on the wall. A waistcoat and jacket Phoenix is rather intimately familiar with. He isn’t sure if chasing his childhood best friend through law school is better or worse if he adds the one time they hooked up in a bar before realizing who the other was and maybe, just maybe Phoenix’s tendencies at 20 convinced himself that he was in love with the man. 

It doesn’t really matter now, he guesses. 

The man of the hour, Miles Edgeworth himself, finally returns to his office from wherever he went and only looks mildly surprised for a second to see Phoenix already inside. He shoots him a vaguely unimpressed look and Phoenix just grins, because he knows the difference between the man’s genuine annoyance and fake annoyance by now. 

“I’d welcome you to my office, but it seems like you’ve already made yourself quite comfortable,” Miles says wryly as he strides over to his desk, dropping whatever files he had gone to receive on top. Despite his attitude, there is a subtle smile tugging on his lips and Phoenix knows he’s glad to see him. 

“I didn’t see the point to waiting for you outside when the door is unlocked,” he says with a shrug, his grin stretching wider as Miles approaches him. 

“Ah, I see where my mistake was now,” he says as he slips his arms around Phoenix’s waist and presses a sweet kiss to his lips. In a lower voice, he says, “I should have known ruffians might try to break in.” 

“If this is how you greet every ruffian, I’m not surprised if that’s a problem for you,” he laughs, kissing his partner again, deeper this time as he wraps his arms around Miles’s neck. The Chief Prosecutor hums against his lips and when they pull away, his eyes are bright with fondness.

“I only greet my favorite one like this,” he says, and it’s just the right mix of teasing and sappiness that Phoenix feels like he could melt in the man’s arms, but instead he cups his cheek and kisses the side of his mouth. 

“Speaking of your favorite,” he says, because if he doesn’t ruin the mood he might genuinely melt and Miles probably wouldn’t appreciate him doing so in his office. “Have you ever thought about the fact you've had the jacket and waistcoat you were wearing when we first had sex hanging up in your office for at least 11 years?”

Miles blinks at him, glances behind him to look at said jacket, then blushes, and embarrassment looks so good on the man that Phoenix can still hardly believe sometimes that he chose him. There are probably a lot of responses to his statement - he can see Miles trying to work through them - but eventually the man chooses to shake his head and sigh.

“Shut up, Wright,” he says. “You talk too much.”

Phoenix smirks, and leans until their lips are almost, but not quite touching, and says, “What are you going to do about it?”