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Miles stared at the single hand in front of him. It was relaxed, palm facing downward, resting on the coarse hospital blanket. Its owner was sound asleep, chest rising and falling faintly. Miles couldn’t bring himself to look at his face. He knew there was something about the way Phoenix was sleeping there–eyes gently closed, eyelashes fanning his cheekbones, lips slightly parted–that would ignite something inside him, something uncomfortably warm and unsettling that he would rather not have to think about at this moment. He already had enough on his jetlagged mind.
So, Miles focused on the single hand lying on the blanket. It twitched slightly, forefinger lifting for a moment before settling back down.
Miles felt his own hands begin to rustle nervously. He had never done anything like this before. Nothing quite as impulsive or as grand as this, as chartering a private plane halfway across the world in the middle of the night. But he had never heard anything as terrifying in his life as Larry Butz calling him to say that Phoenix had fallen off a burning bridge and that his life was in danger.
(Well, perhaps he’d heard something equally as terrifying once before. But he was 9 years old at that time, and there wasn’t anything he could do.)
His heartbeat quickened thinking what could have happened to the man sleeping peacefully in front of him. The reckless fool.
But wasn’t Miles also a bit of a reckless fool, dropping everything he was doing to make sure his friend was okay?
Figuring there was nothing left to lose, Miles made another impulsive decision and reached out for Phoenix’s hand to calm his restless own. It was surprisingly warm and soft, despite the cold winter raging outside. An unfamiliar feeling washed over Miles, one he could only categorize as comfort. He found it ironic: wasn’t he supposed to be the one comforting his sick and injured friend, not the other way around?
His fingers seemed to move of their own accord, and Miles found himself interlocking his hand into Phoenix’s, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles into the back of the other man’s hand. This filled him with a surge of something altogether new, something scary and exciting that made him never want to let that hand go. He held it close to his own heart, wondering if Phoenix could feel his heartbeat, wondering if it would sync up with his own.
A small noise escaped Phoenix’s mouth, and Miles looked up to see the man in front of him beginning to wake up. A faint look of recognition flashed across his hazy eyes, his lips curling up ever so slightly into a soft smile.
Miles realized how ridiculous he must look, holding the man’s hand against his chest, a wistful look undoubtedly on his face. But instead of pulling it away, instead of reacting in shock to the unexpected appearance of the man before him, Phoenix simply lay there and smiled up at him.
“Miles,” Phoenix whispered. As if it was the most expected, most natural thing in the world.
Miles stared into his teacup, eyes adjusting to the dim light and picking out the miniscule flecks of tea leaves settled at the bottom. He never believed in superstition or divination or whatever it was that believed in reading tea leaves, but just this once he thought he’d look for some sort of pattern that might imply a kind of meaning. His watch read 3:17 AM, and all was quiet and dark in his Munich apartment save for the lone kitchen light left on down the hallway.
He hoped Phoenix was asleep; he and Trucy had a long flight back home in the morning. He knew the travel was always hard on them–it was always as if they had barely recovered from the jet lag when they inevitably had to return. The trips were physically exhausting for the young girl, and emotionally taxing for her father. Miles could tell Phoenix struggled to wear his seemingly easy smile as he pretended to play lawyer again, investigating with his oldest friend. But he had made it through once again, and after a quick breakfast in the morning they’d be off and he wouldn’t have to see Miles again for who knows how long.
That was always the thought that secretly made Miles’ pulse rise whenever it crossed his mind: every time Phoenix and Trucy left, he didn’t know when he’d see them again. Keeping in touch with Phoenix was tenuous, and as much as Miles preferred to pretend it didn’t bother him, it did. Though he tried hard to dive into his work and forget about the remnant of his past still living in LA, disbarred and barely scraping by with a young daughter in tow, something always pulled him back to Phoenix. Miles didn’t like precarity, and though his own situation was quite stable, the uncertainty that plagued Phoenix’s life bothered him. More so than it bothered the man itself sometimes, it seemed.
“Fuck!”
A loud crashing noise from down the hall pulled Miles out of his musings, and he quickly stood up to investigate the source of the commotion. Phoenix, he thought, heart rate rising, afraid of what the man had gotten himself into now.
The sight Miles encountered upon entering the kitchen was enough to make anyone scream. Phoenix was kneeling on the cold tile, right hand holding his left wrist. A long gash stretched diagonally across his left palm, a bloodied knife lay at his feet. Both the man and the white kitchen were spattered with blood. Phoenix was breathing heavily, staring at the wound on his hand, unsure of what to do. He was pale.
Some sort of sense returned to Miles and he rushed back to his bedroom, grabbing the first aid kit he kept in the bathroom before racing back to Phoenix. He knelt beside him on the floor, suddenly unsure of how to start. Phoenix looked up at him. He looked pained, of course, but there was something hidden behind his eyes that Miles couldn’t place–dread? Shame?
“What happened?” Miles breathed, taking Phoenix’s injured hand into his own, assessing the damage. “Are you okay?”
Phoenix nodded. “Fucking knife. Tried to cut up an apple and it slipped. Guess my hands were wet. Fucking hell,” he replied breathlessly. “Why do your knives have to be so goddamn sharp?”
“Well, actually, it’s easier to cut yourself with a duller knife than a sharp one,” Miles pointed out, immediately regretting his words. Good job, Miles, he chastised himself mentally, you literally added insult to injury.
“Sounds like you need to sharpen your knives, then,” Phoenix huffed in response, rolling his eyes.
Miles averted his gaze, heat rising to his cheeks. He busied himself with inspecting his first aid supplies, searching for antiseptic and gauze. “I can bandage myself, you know,” Phoenix chided.
Miles looked up at him suspiciously. “With one hand? I’m not sure that would be entirely effective.” Having found what he needed, Miles set about cleaning and bandaging the wound. “This may hurt a bit. Sorry in advance.”
Phoenix inhaled sharply as Miles applied the antiseptic to his hand, fingers curling in reflexively. “Stings,” he commented.
Miles nodded sympathetically. “It doesn’t look to be very deep. The bleeding’s mostly stopped.”
“Good,” Phoenix exhaled. “I don’t have the time to get stitches here, and I can’t afford to get them back home.”
“Nonsense. I’d pay for them, of course,” Miles responded automatically. He felt Phoenix’s hand stiffen in reply. Miles met his gaze. “It was my dull knife, after all.”
Phoenix didn’t respond. Miles returned to bandaging his hand, applying antibiotic ointment to the cut with clean gauze and wrapping it with a white rolled bandage secured with medical tape. “There,” he finally said, smoothing his thumb over the bandaged cut. Surprisingly, Phoenix didn’t pull away, instead letting Miles hold his hand. “Does it still hurt?” he asked gently.
“No,” Phoenix whispered. Miles suddenly became very aware of how close they were, sitting together on his kitchen floor. He could feel Phoenix’s warm breath ghost across his face as the panic of the previous moment had calmed. “Thank you, Miles.”
“Of course,” he responded breathlessly. “You should try to get some sleep.”
Phoenix nodded, turning his injured hand over to inspect Miles’ handiwork. It was impeccable. “D’you think it’ll scar?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Keep the bandage clean, if you can.”
Phoenix cracked a small smile. “Well, if it does, it’ll be a reminder.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “To be more careful with knives?”
“No,” Phoenix chuckled slightly. “Of you.”
Miles could feel himself turning red. “That’s hardly a pleasant reminder.”
“Hey, if it weren’t for you finding me so soon, they might’ve had to amputate my whole hand.”
“That’s far from likely. You’re delirious. Go to bed.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“You’re lucky I was awake.” Miles stood and grabbed a paper towel and his spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner. “I’ll clean up the kitchen. You should make sure we haven’t woken up your daughter.”
“She sleeps like a rock, so she’s probably good.” Phoenix grunted as he stood up, careful not to use his bandaged hand. He inspected his clothes–aside from a few blood spatters, all was okay. “Thank you, Miles, again.” Phoenix stopped at the door to the kitchen and turned back. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Miles whispered in return as Phoenix turned and disappeared into the dark hallway.
It was unseasonably warm for March. Miles could feel the sweat forming under his collar from the midday sun, and he cursed himself for not switching into his summer jacket sooner. It had only been a few months since he moved back to Los Angeles, reuniting with the newly-exonerated Phoenix and his teenage daughter, who, as far as Miles was concerned, was growing up entirely too fast.
It was nice, Miles had to admit–the Chief Prosecutor job was demanding, but rewarding, and he felt a certain sense of comfort upon returning to his old residence. He was only in his mid-30s, but it felt like his life had fallen into place. He had a job he enjoyed, a small but tight-knit group of close friends, and a familiar routine he could relax back into. Though LA life was not as fast-paced as his time in Europe, he cherished the ability to actually enjoy it.
Not having to worry about a certain friend’s unfortunate predicament halfway across the world helped in particular.
Indeed, upon arriving back in LA Phoenix had insisted they get together for a weekly coffee or lunch (and Miles eventually noticed his friend’s uncanny ability to make sure it was Miles who paid for everything; but even after realizing it, he somehow didn’t mind). It was a bit strained at first–Miles wasn’t used to Phoenix as a defense attorney once again, after seven years, and Phoenix had his own growing pains adjusting back to his old life–but it soon became as natural as the seasons changing. There was a permanent vacant spot on Miles’ calendar every week, and like clockwork, Phoenix would show up at his office with a suggestion on where to go.
“How about just coffee today?” he had asked, on this particularly warm March day. “Trucy’s been getting into cooking, and she made me a pretty big breakfast. And also packed my lunch.”
Miles glanced at his friend bemusedly over his glasses. “Coffee it is, then,” he replied. “Shall we walk?”
The conversation was friendly, but surface-level–discussing work, family, current events and such. Yet Miles felt himself becoming uncharacteristically distracted. Perhaps it was the warmth and the smells of spring beginning to fill the air. Maybe he was just over-caffeinated. But walking next to Phoenix, an activity he had done nearly every week for several months, began to feel different. He felt he could hardly look at the man for fear of becoming flustered. Phoenix always looked dazzling in the bright sunlight, Miles remarked to himself, as it glinted off his mismatched eyes and made his tan skin shine.
They were walking awfully close together, Miles realized, and their pace was more than leisurely. Why did it have to be so warm out?
“–don’t you think, Edgeworth?”
“Mm?” Miles caught himself. He hadn’t been paying attention to anything Phoenix was saying.
“I was asking about the witness from your trial last week. Don’t you think it felt like they got all their ideas about the justice system from silly TV dramas?” Phoenix laughed, an easy and clear sound that cut through the ambient noise of the park and somehow made it even harder for Miles to focus.
“Oh. Yes, I suppose so,” Miles murmured. “Certainly led to some interesting antics.”
“Yeah, interesting by even our standards,” Phoenix chuckled.
Miles’ hand tightened around his coffee cup. Our standards… our standards, he repeated to himself mentally. What could he have meant by that? He felt his palms were getting sweaty, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the hot day or the conversation he was having with Phoenix. He tried to surreptitiously wipe his free hand off inside his pocket, but he felt it would look awkward. Why was he being so awkward?
He was suddenly very aware of where his hands were and whether they looked natural. He glanced quickly at Phoenix–he was mirroring Miles, one hand holding his coffee, the other–the one closest to him–in his pocket. Would he notice that Miles was copying him? He tried letting his free hand just dangle by his side, but then noticed that soon after, Phoenix did the same.
Why can’t I be normal about this? Miles pleaded with himself. They were so close, both their hands sitting idly at their sides. Miles felt like, if he wanted to…he could go out on a limb, and…
He tried as casually as possible to just brush Phoenix’s hand with his own. To his surprise, Phoenix didn’t jerk his hand away or put it back in his pocket. Miles could feel his heart racing. Over a simple brush of the hands. Something that could easily be explained as an accident.
This heat really must have been getting to him.
Content with his little experiment, with the small thrill of the simplest of touches, Miles felt himself relax a bit more. That is, until a few moments later, when Phoenix–seemingly absentmindedly–took his hand in his own. And didn’t let go.
What was even worse was that Phoenix didn’t acknowledge it. He simply kept on talking like nothing had happened.
Miles felt like screaming. He felt like cutting off his own hand so that he could preserve it, so that nothing else could ever touch it. Everything else–the conversation, the world around him, even the damned heat–faded away and all Miles could focus on was the feeling of Phoenix’s hand in his own, the way they maneuvered so it felt like they fit perfectly together. It was so casual, and yet it sent shivers up Miles’ whole arm. He had no clue what was happening to him.
It was over far too soon. Not long after that moment, they had reached the door of the Prosecutors’ Building, and Phoenix let go in order to face him. Miles hoped his face wasn’t matching the color of his suit.
“Well, have a good rest of your day, then,” Phoenix sighed easily, lips quirked up in a smile.
“You too.” Miles noticed they were still standing quite close.
Phoenix gave a small laugh, hesitating for a moment, before leaning in and giving Miles a soft kiss on his cheek. And if Miles wasn’t crimson-faced beforehand, he definitely was now.
His brain short-circuited. It took him half a second to register that his expression was probably something utterly shocked, or confused, or worse. But Phoenix didn’t seem to mind. He smiled again, and Miles detected a hint of a blush across his face. “Bye, then,” Phoenix said, turning to go.
“Bye,” Miles replied under his breath, quickly turning as well and heading into the air-conditioned lobby of his office.
He really hoped this wasn’t going to be something he had to unpack later.
Miles fished around in the pocket of his suit pants, internally panicking a little until his fingers closed around the small velvet box inside. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Nervous, little brother?” came a voice from behind him. Startled, he turned around to find his adopted sister leaning on the doorway.
“I never understand how you can be so quiet despite wearing stiletto-heeled boots,” Miles replied, rolling his eyes at Franziska’s satisfied smirk.
The icy-eyed woman strode inside and began smoothing Miles’ lapels and dusting off his shoulder. “You forget where and with whom we grew up. Silent footfalls were a necessity.”
“A good point.” Miles’ expression darkened.
“My apologies, little brother. I didn’t mean to bring up uncomfortable reminders of the past. Not on a day like today.”
“No need to apologize, Franziska.” He turned to look into the mirror. Franziska strained to poke her head over Miles’ shoulder. “I find it gives me perspective.”
“What a mature way to put it. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, dear sister.”
“Now,” Franziska met her brother’s eyes in the mirror. “How are you feeling?”
“Slightly over-caffeinated, but otherwise well.” He furrowed his brow, scrutinizing his appearance. “Are you sure my bow tie is straight?”
He moved to undo the crimson bow, but Franziska placed her hands over his to still him. “You are overthinking it. You look perfectly fine.”
“You of all people should know that perfectly fine isn’t going to cut it for something like this.”
“Fine. You look lovely.” She fiddled a bit with his hair, making sure his bangs fell perfectly over his face without obscuring his eyes. “Still can’t believe you went with the white suit, but oh well. Try not to stain it.”
Miles scoffed. “I think we both know that if it were to get stained, it would be because of someone else, not me.”
“You’re the one marrying him.”
“Very well. I suppose it’s about time, then?”
Franziska checked her watch. “Two minutes past two. Don’t want to keep the man waiting, do we?”
With one last deep breath in the mirror, Miles turned and offered his arm to his sister. It was time to do what he had been dreaming of since he was a child.
The sun shone brightly over Kurain Village, but a cool breeze blew and made the scent of cherry blossoms waft through the air. A gorgeous day for a wedding. Miles squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light and took in the scene before him: a dozen or so of their closest friends, standing upon seeing the white-clad man begin his walk down the aisle. But all Miles could look at was what awaited him at his destination.
Straight ahead, Maya Fey, dressed in her ceremonial robes and holding a small notebook. To the right, Trucy in a red and blue dress, carrying a bouquet of sunflowers and chrysanthemums. And between them stood the love of Miles’ life. He was trying—and failing—to subtly wipe away a flood of tears streaming down his face. The sight of him made Miles feel like sprinting to the end of the aisle and kissing him right then and there. And if it weren’t for Franziska’s iron grip on his arm and steady pace, he just might have.
After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, Miles reached the altar. Franziska gave him a big hug and stepped aside to take her place opposite Trucy, but not before looking Phoenix in the eye and whispering something to the effect of “if you ever hurt him, you’ll be tasting leather for weeks.” Phoenix simply laughed and nodded understandingly, knowing the threat was only affectionate.
The ceremony felt like a blur. Though Miles had spent the better part of a decade identifying and managing his emotions in a healthy way, he just couldn’t contain himself—his joy, his affection, his love for the man standing in front of him. But he was getting married. Decorum be damned.
Though the words of the vows and readings—carefully crafted and chosen by all sides—washed over him in an affectionate haze, Miles snapped to his senses when he felt Phoenix take his hand. He looked at their joined hands, then back up at his partner as Phoenix reached into his pocket. “With this ring,” Phoenix began, presenting the silver band to him, “I promise to love you just as I have since the day I met you. This is merely the start of a new chapter in our story. I will do whatever it takes to ensure you are taken care of, safe, and treasured. And I will remind you of that every single day for the rest of my life.”
Tears welling up once again in his eyes, Phoenix took the ring and slid it onto Miles’ left hand. It fit perfectly, and the cool metal of the band sent a spark traveling all the way up his arm. It was an unfamiliar feeling, Miles had to admit, feeling the weight of the silver on his finger. But it was one he loved immediately and knew he would always feel incomplete without.
Phoenix gave Miles a small squeeze of the hands, as if to solidify what he had just done. With a deep breath, Miles reached into his own pocket and pulled out the small box he felt had been burning a hole in his pants all day. Hands slightly trembling, he pried the box open to reveal a matching gold band. “And with this ring,” he breathed, taking Phoenix’s left hand in his own, “I dedicate my life to you. As I feel it always has been. And every time you look at it, or simply feel its presence on your hand, know that it is a symbol of my undying love for you, Phoenix. Because there’s nothing stronger than the love I have for you. Nothing in the world.”
With utmost delicacy, Miles placed the ring on Phoenix’s hand. He could feel both of their hands shaking as he interlaced his fingers with Phoenix’s and held on to them tightly. He never wanted to let go.
Miles didn’t even hear the words Maya said next, but he knew by heart what they were. And before he could even realize it, Phoenix had grabbed his face with both of his hands and pressed their lips together. The metal on Phoenix’s left hand felt new on his cheek, but he loved the feeling immediately.
Just as he loved the feeling of the word husband on his tongue , the knowledge of the security of the unbreakable bond between them, and the feeling of Phoenix’s hand in his as they strode back down the aisle. And in that moment, he knew he’d never let go.