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"She kicked me out," Phoenix says sheepishly as he emerges from Trucy's room. "Guess sixteen-year-olds don't need their dads to tuck them in anymore, huh?"
Phoenix is wearing his old suit. It's always been ill-fitting, even when he'd had the weight to fill it and the youthful energy to make the fit matter less, but today not even the obvious too-largeness of it is enough to hide the confident, unflinching Phoenix Wright of years before, coming out again from under the guise of the slouching has-been he'd pretended to be. Miles never appreciated Phoenix in this particular shade of blue enough, back when he'd always worn it. And when he no longer did—Miles could understand why—he found himself missing the color dearly. Now Phoenix has reclaimed it. All is not yet right with the world, but with this Miles feels them inching ever so closer to a distant dream he and Phoenix has shared, unspoken, for a while.
"Franziska never let Manfred tuck her in after she reached the age of seven."
Phoenix grins. "Yeah, I figured if I wanted a baseline for normal teenage behavior, I'd look at Franziska von Karma."
From his spot near the desk, Miles watches as Phoenix digs out box from his pocket. It's covered in velvet a few shades darker than Miles's jacket. He walks towards Miles with the box in his hands, his hold on it deliberately casual. Phoenix looks thoughtful.
"Can you pin it on for me?" he asks, when he's right in front of Miles. Then he smiles crookedly. "I know I can do it myself, but I want you to do it. It'll feel right."
In answer, Miles takes the box in his hands. He doesn't quite trust himself to speak.
He opens it. The badge inside is the same as any other attorney's badge: circular, with a shape vaguely reminiscent of a flower, and the scales of justice etched in the center. Today it is only the most important badge in the world. There is only one more attorney's badge Miles cares quite as much about; he wore it himself once, and now it is lost.
His hands are steady as he works the pin on the back so he can attach it to Phoenix's lapel. If they linger a little, smoothing down the fabric, Miles blames some kind of nostalgia. He does not dare look at Phoenix's face just yet.
"There's something I have to say," Phoenix says, breaking the sacred silence. "But, well—not that you have to promise not to freak out. I'd understand if you do that—freak out, I mean. Especially you. I just hope you'd still want to be around me afterwards. I mean, you're my friend, Edgeworth, and I'm happy about that. I don't want that to change."
Suddenly the unbound joy he'd felt the moment Phoenix had walked out with the box in hand, earlier today, gives way to coldness settling in his gut. Especially you—what could that possibly mean? Miles chances a look at Phoenix. He is smiling, but it does not reach his eyes.
"It can't be that bad, Wright."
"No." Phoenix huffs out a laugh. "I guess you'll be the judge of that."
"Well then, I will be. Court is in session. Present your case," Miles requests, hoping that the mood will let itself be diffused. For another long moment Phoenix is agonizingly silent, his expression as unreadable as the last eight years has taught him to make it. Miles hears Phoenix taking steadying breaths, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. He tries to think of a list of things Phoenix could possibly do that would make Miles turn away from him; he comes up with nothing.
"Don't leave," Phoenix finally blurts out.
Miles blinks.
"What?"
"I just—every time you come here, you end up leaving again. I hate that. I just hate being away from you, and I—" Phoenix stops mid-sentence to laugh with one palm pressed against his forehead. "This is a mess. I even had a speech prepared and practiced in the mirror and everything, but nothing's the same now that I actually have to say it. So many words just aren't coming out, so, uh. This is... this is so selfish, but—I don't know, Edgeworth, maybe you are happier there, but I think I'm not being presumptuous when I say that you don't seem happier. You smile more when you're here. It's—it's the same for me. You don't know it, but those seven years... Those trips I took to see you, I was so happy just to be able to walk with you, to talk to you; watching you and Trucy talk to each other, just... I could forget about everything and just feel so happy, like my career didn't fall apart and I wasn't a deadbeat dad and Kristoph never happened. But if you—if you're already planning to go, I won't stop you. I'm glad you came here to see me at all." He laughs again, looking away. "Ah, what a mess. I'm not making any sense."
His voice betrays him, breaking in the middle. This is not a new realization, but being reminded of it sickens Miles anew every time: he, too, is responsible for the pain Phoenix has endured for so long. That a man like Phoenix Wright should suffer as he did is unacceptable; Miles's involvement in that suffering ends right now.
"Wright. I've yet to tell you something," he says, forcing himself to look Phoenix in the eye. He wonders when Phoenix learned to look so guarded.
"Yeah?"
"I put in my bid for the post of Chief Prosecutor last year, and seeing as the last Chief has recently resigned, I am next in line for the position." Miles sees surprise come over him slowly, as though Phoenix is fighting against it. At that, his stomach twists. How could he have made it so difficult for Phoenix to believe that he would not abandon him again? Miles wants—there are so many things he wants, but for the longest time he's denied Phoenix one thing he's never been shy about wanting: the presence of a friend he cherishes. All because of what—insecurity in the face of Kristoph Gavin? Some fear of attachment? A vague sense that his duty is elsewhere, that he is less needed at home? It will be different now. Whatever Phoenix needs from him, he will never be too far to give it. "I'll take up permanent residence here, as my new post requires me to. And... I've wanted to come home for a long time."
Phoenix blinks, looking dumbstruck, then he stares hard at Miles, like he doesn't quite think what he's hearing is real. Miles doesn't miss the tiny movement of Phoenix's hands, like he was about to reach for him and thought better of it.
"I... This is—wow, this is—Miles, I just—wait, can I call you Miles?"
He loves the way his name sounds in Phoenix's voice—a single economical syllable, suddenly filled with warmth and cautious affection. Miles makes his mind up: the moment Phoenix calls him Miles, he will be unable to hide anything. He chooses not to, this time; Phoenix deserves nothing less than the truth.
"If anyone's earned the privilege of addressing me by my first name," he says, as clearly as he dares, "it would certainly be the man who saved my life and changed it for the better."
"Okay, Miles," Phoenix says.
From the window, streams of illumination pool in his irises and Miles is struck by the way they seem to outright glisten, by the wide-eyed joy plain on Phoenix's face. And then it all clicks into place, as though the world has finally aligned itself perfectly—years together and apart all leading up to this moment, suspended in the space between them. Phoenix's eyes are still so beautifully bright, and Miles, willing reality to keep itself at bay, reaches a hand out, brushing his knuckles against Phoenix's temple. He feels the shuddering breath Phoenix takes as his eyes fall shut.
"Phoenix." Miles is barely able to keep his voice from shaking. He lets his hand rest against Phoenix's neck; the pulse under his fingers paces up. Miles looks at the features he knows so well, studies the darkness of Phoenix's lashes against his skin, the shadows below the bones of his face, the curve of his lips. Miles never wants to forget what he looks like, in this moment, with Miles's fingers curling near his jaw. "I'm staying."
Miles watches as Phoenix opens his eyes, slowly. "Don't wake me up," Phoenix says, and kisses him. Just like that, the stillness shatters. Miles pulls him in closer, closer, grabs at his clothes and holds him there until they're pressed up against each other. Phoenix gives him a kiss a decade in the making. Miles savors the taste of him, responds with all he can, opens his mouth to Phoenix's tongue. The tiny, needy sounds Phoenix makes against his mouth drive him just this close to insanity. They kiss until Miles's lungs feel like they might burst, burning up with lack of oxygen and an overabundance of sensation. When they pull apart, Phoenix is grinning madly, his arms still tight around Miles's waist. Lightheaded, Miles leans into the embrace, breathing in the scent of Phoenix's skin; if given the choice, he'd stretch out this minute, until he could learn the rhythm of Phoenix's heartbeat, know the feel of his back under Miles's hands by heart.
Phoenix moves to kiss him again, but this time it's different. He kisses Miles slowly, deeply, like they have all the time in the world. His hands run through Miles's hair, caress the back of his neck, cling tightly around him. If it is possible to lose one's self in another person, Miles is certain that this is that point. He gives himself to that. It's easier than anything he's ever done.
"God, I love you so much," Phoenix says. Then he chuckles softly, seemingly oblivious to the way Miles trembles at the words. "That was what I was supposed to say earlier. That was what I made a speech about. It's not—you don't have to say it back. I just want you to know."
"Don't be absurd." Miles can suddenly imagine the two of them as old men, their joints creaking and their hair matching shades of white, standing like this. He'd do anything for the chance to map out the lines on Phoenix's face; to touch them, trace them one by one, grow familiar with them. "I do love you."
The soft, surprised laughter he hears will stay with him, he suspects, until he's old and forgetful and close to death. As Phoenix kisses his cheek, his nose, rises a little on his toes to kiss Miles's brow, Miles swears a silent oath: he will make Phoenix happy for the rest of his life or die trying.
"I'm going to be worth it, I promise. I'm going to be worth those words, Miles."
"You already are," Miles says, and then realizes that isn't enough. "You always, always were."
He presses his lips to Phoenix's knuckles and looks up, feeling his chest constrict when he spots doubt on Phoenix's face. Miles knows the feeling all too well—even after he started to believe most people aren't like Manfred, he had still gone on for years picking out any hint of derision from anyone's expression of affection to him, twisting genuine gestures and words of appreciation into slights. Phoenix never used to be this way. He'd been sheepish with people, but never disbelieving.
Miles pulls Phoenix into another embrace wordlessly, his sadness giving way to fury. He will exorcise Kristoph Gavin once and for all. The first few times he'd heard of his involvement with Phoenix, Miles had thought he understood Gavin's attraction immediately. Phoenix is kind, brave, passionate, brilliant; Phoenix is so unflinchingly loyal that he would run across a burning bridge for someone he loves; Phoenix is faithful to the truth in a world where money, pride and power rule. But those things certainly weren't behind Gavin's interest in Phoenix—if anything, Miles had slowly come to realize, over months of puzzling agony, that they were among the many, many reasons behind his own.
Back then Miles had hated Gavin for changing Phoenix, slowly, into a man who seemed too afraid to show himself or even remember his many virtues. When Phoenix had given him the benefit of the doubt, Miles had relented, hoping that his friend could find a way to save Gavin from whatever dark twist of fate had made him the way he was; he had hoped that, after having Phoenix in his life, Gavin could become the man who could make him happy. Looking back now, Miles wants to hit himself for his foolish and unfounded optimism, for not hating Gavin quite enough, for not doing everything in his power to get the man as far away from Phoenix as possible. Gavin had not seen anything but the opportunity to keep an eye on Phoenix, to make him dependent on him, to enjoy the power he had over him.
Phoenix had put a stop to that.
"I can't keep it up, Edgeworth. He never lets me in. And I guess I don't really want to see what's underneath, either," he'd finally confided on a warm day in Paris. "And," Phoenix had added, then stopped, visibly hesitating.
Miles had looked at him inquiringly. "Wright. You can tell me anything."
"We keep trying to hurt each other," Phoenix had said, smiling ruefully enough that Miles could understand that he'd meant he keeps trying to hurt me. That had made Miles furious, the blood in his body suddenly burning, his teeth gritting together without his conscious approval—about as furious as he'd felt when Phoenix had announced he was rekindling a friendship with Gavin.
"It's not what you think," Phoenix had reassured him.
"I rather hope not."
"I have to get to the bottom of this." The glint in Phoenix's eye had been different, then; in that moment Miles was watching him on the defense bench again as he incisively picked apart a witness's testimony. It had made what Phoenix had said next entirely unnecessary. "This time, it's not for his sake."
"Good," Miles had said, swallowing down a sudden burst of want. The fire of determination in Phoenix's eyes had been the most dizzying thing on Earth, his certainty more intoxicating than any vintage. Back then he could only dream of holding Phoenix like this, of kissing a line down his jaw, his throat, the base of his neck. God help him if he has to deal with Phoenix looking that way in court. Now that he knows what Phoenix's skin tastes like, the simple task of focusing would become an uphill battle.
"Hey," Phoenix says quietly, his breath stroking Miles's hair. "Can you stay here? I want to wake up next to you."
God help Miles; he has to deal with Phoenix now, real and solid and warm in his arms, his expression so unabashedly sincere. What Miles would give to stir earlier than him, to feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, to watch him finally wake, blue eyes still hazy with sleep, and to kiss him, again and again, in the floaty, unearthly hours of the morning.
"Of course," he promises. He wants, more than anything, to beg for forgiveness. This is not the time, he realizes with something he hopes isn't cowardice. Besides, if Miles is lucky enough, they'll have their whole lives ahead of them for him to earn absolution. "I will stay, Phoenix—for as long as you'll have me."
Phoenix laughs, the sound delighted and carefree. He runs a hand through Miles's hair as Miles shuts his eyes, leaning forward so they're nose to nose, forehead to forehead, chest to chest. Intertwined hearts beat in rhythm: thump, ta-thump. Phoenix traces lazy circles on the back of Miles's hand with a rough-skinned thumb.
He murmurs, close and quiet, his breath warm against Miles's lips: "Then you're never, ever going to leave, you know that?"
Miles did not. But now he does. He wouldn't give up the knowledge for anything.