Chapter Text
Miles lifts his second champagne glass to his lips and watches Phoenix readjust his tie where he stands beside Apollo a few steps from the front door to the venue. His tie is the usual pinkish-red, tucked into a waistcoat that shimmers a little in the amber lights. This suit is darker than his old one, not black, but a deep blue-grey. It ages him. But in a pleasant way, like the newfound sharpness of his shaved clean jawline, and the lock of hair that falls over his forehead, the rest swept back in its usual fashion.
Apollo says something to him, scowling, bracing his hands on his hips, elbows pointed up. Phoenix laughs, eyes closed, grin wide and Apollo’s head falls, chin to chest, with a pained expression. Miles feels his lips lift at the edges, around the rim of the flute, in a mirrored motion.
“Right, sir?” Gumshoe’s voice says in his direction, light and airy on the edges of laughter.
“Erm,” Miles blinks, pulling his eyes away from the pair. “Pardon me, what did you say, detective?”
Kay laughs around her wine and it bounces, echoing in the glass.
“Our trip to the Cosmo’s Space Center this Thanksgiving! Ema was explaining somethin’ about mechanical dynamics to the kids, Callum and Beau, when that spotlight fell from the rover display and killed that ex-astronaut?”
“Oh, yes, that was a pleasant day up until the murder.” His grip tightens on the flute when the silence between them stretches. “What about it?” He asks.
Gumshoe’s face drops into a pout and Kay folds into his side, barking in laughter. “I told you Gummy, we should let Mr. Edgeworth go and greet his guests.” She slips an arm in the crook of Gumshoe's elbow, covering her mouth with her free hand as she cackles vibrantly.
His face flares up in embarrassment. “Miss Faraday, please–”
“Ehp bap bap!” She holds a finger up in his face, skewing her wine glass to the side precariously. Miles’s hand reaches out on instinct to tip it upright. “Mr. Edgeworth we’ve been over this. Just because you organized this event doesn't mean you aren’t allowed any fun.”
“Fun?” He asks, although Kay is right, they have rehashed this a few times prior.
“Yes, fun, with your defense attorney.” She waggles her brow as Miles’s scowl deepens. “And the rest of his office, of course. ‘Mingle with the enemy’ as Franny would say.” She pulls the wine glass back to her face and takes another sip. Miles rolls his eyes, barely fighting his smile. “Come on Gummy!” she straightens, clicking her boots together. “Let's go find some less distracted conversation partners.” Kay spins on her heel, kicks up her leg and starts marching away, dragging Gumshoe along and he lurches, forced off balance.
“It’s good talkin’ with ya, sir! Happy New Year!” Gumshoe hollers over his shoulder, lifting his glass in toast and Miles returns the gesture, nodding to him as they weave through the crowd.
Miles takes another sip of his glass, smiling to himself. Mingle with the enemy indeed. As he turns to walk towards the door Miles freezes in place when he spots Phoenix approaching him.
“Hey, Miles.” Phoenix grins, warm and easy, walking towards him across the ballroom. His hand is lifted in greeting, drawing up one side of his jacket and revealing the line of his waist, cut slim by the tailoring of the vest. “Sorry we were running late, I couldn't find a clean dress shirt.”
Miles swallows thickly and straightens as Phoenix approaches and stops at his side. “To say I'm impressed you met the dress code at all would be an understatement.” Miles says, face impassive.
Phoenix chuckles, scrunching up his nose. “I looked, but they didn't rent out anything with ruffles. So we'll have to settle with me in a three-piece.” From this distance Miles can see the crows' feet at the edges of Phoenix's eyes darken. Miles clenches his jaw.
“It.” He says, looking down at the waist coat again, it's double breasted with fabric buttons of the same color. “It looks good on you.”
Phoenix's eyes widen only slightly, a small twitch, but the reaction is controlled. “Would you say it suits me?”
Miles can't help the snort that catches in the back of his throat. He covers his mouth as he laughs, low and soft.
Phoenix’s mask falls clean off his face then. His brows fly up, high on his forehead with the shock. They furrow as he continues to stare, a grin sloping on his half open mouth.
Miles laughs again at his expression, ducking his head a little as heat reaches his cheeks.
Phoenix starts to laugh as well, leaning forward to catch his eyes. Miles lifts his head and clears his throat, holding Phoenix's gaze, trying and failing to school his expression.
“It does suit you.” He says, feeling his lips twitch. “It’s been a while since I've seen you like this,” Phoenix scowls a little around his grin, “you ought to dress up more often.”
Phoenix scoffs at that, turning his head to the side, bracing his hands on his hips. “Keep inviting me to these fancy lawyer parties and you can try your luck.”
A waiter strides past them with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Phoenix perks up, twisting to grab a cocktail shrimp from the dish. The tendon in his neck flexes as he turns, drawing a line from his jaw to his shirt collar. Miles’s eyes follow the line down his lapel to the curve of his waist. And then Phoenix turns back, lifting the shrimp to his mouth and Miles’s eyes snap up. He bites, baring his teeth, and pulls the tail away, leaving a drop of cocktail sauce on his lips. Phoenix chews and swivels in place to drop the tail back on the waiter's tray as she walks around him.
Then warm brown eyes meet his and Phoenix raises a brow. “What is it?”
“Huh?” Miles blinks at him.
“Did I get something on my face?” He asks.
“Oh.” He says, clearing his throat. “You, um.” Miles points to his own mouth with the champagne flute in hand.
“Hmm?” He looks down, as if to see his own face.
“On your lips, Wright.” Miles explains through gritted teeth.
Then, a pink tongue darts out and licks the sauce away, leaving a shiny gloss in its place. Edgeworth nearly shatters the glass in his hand.
“Sorry,” Phoenix chuckles again as he smiles. “Haven't eaten all day.”
“I–” Miles starts, voice strained, and then stops, forcing himself to look away. “There’s a buffet if you’re peckish.”
“Later,” Phoenix shifts his weight on his feet. He folds his hands behind his back, and glances away, that specially crafted mask of neutrality and ignorance. “How's the party been? Everything going smoothly? No hernias over unfolded napkins?”
Miles shoots him a glare, recalling an angry phone call he made a few weeks ago concerning said napkins and Phoenix’s smirk only widens. “So far, yes.” Miles nods. “I had to free a wine bottle from Prosecutor Gavin a little while ago, and bribe Larry to keep the music to the predetermined playlist, but otherwise all is well. Let us pray it remains that way,” He says, gravely.
Phoenix laughs at that, and a slight warmth fills his half-lidded eyes that, even after years of seeing it, Miles cannot decipher.
“Speaking of trouble, was that Kay you were talking to earlier?” Phoenix asks, eyes flitting past Miles to the crowd for a moment.
Miles blinks a little in surprise. He doesn’t mention Kay often, and he and Phoenix have barely talked in the past couple years at that. It was a humid summer when he first spoke about her, offhand outside a bistro in Bordeaux. When Trucy had pickpocketed Phoenix to buy a quiche Miles mentioned that she would get along nicely with Kay. Phoenix had stared at him incredulously as Miles described her and how they had met.
“It was, I will have to introduce you two later.” Miles smiles fondly at the thought. “You will definitely like her. She reminds me a little of Miss Fey, although I fear if we introduce the two of them they might set something on fire within the hour.”
Phoenix cackles, lifting the back of his hand to his mouth and warmth swells in Miles’s chest. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I think I have enough experience wrangling troublesome girls that I could at least keep the building standing.”
“Of course, the fact that the Wright Anything Agency hasn't burned to the ground despite the building’s insurmountable health and safety violations is evidence of that.” He replies, downing the last of his champagne to hide his smile as Phoenix laughs again, loud and unruly. It's been a long time since he's heard this particular laugh.
Another waiter comes around, stopping and offering his tray. “Evening, sirs,” he says cheerily.
Miles replaces his empty glass on the waiter’s tray for another and inclines his head. “Good evening.”
The waiter turns, offering the tray to Phoenix who, with eyes still half closed in laughter, absentmindedly picks up a glass of champagne.
Miles stares at it as the waiter leaves and Phoenix comes back to himself. He looks at Miles, a little confused and then follows his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Oops,” he says and scans the crowd for the waiter. “He's not gonna let me put this back will he?”
“Not likely,” Miles says, tilting his head a little at Phoenix. “I was about to ask…”
“Nah,” he shakes his head, causing the lock of hair falling across his forehead to sway, “still sober.”
Miles nods, recalling the first time Trucy phoned him in a panic after Phoenix passed out on the couch and she couldn't wake him. His stomach turns slightly at the memory of the screaming match that followed Miles pouring a glass of ice water on his head.
“You won't get mad at me if I dump this in a potted plant, will you?” Phoenix says, lifting up on his toes to search for a green fixture against a wall he can discard the drink into.
Miles makes an offended squawking noise. “The champagne was cheap but not that cheap, Wright!” He plucks the flute from Phoenix's hand, their fingertips brush, and brown eyes dart back to his. Miles brings the glass to his lips and, perhaps unintelligently, chugs the entire thing.
“There,” Miles huffs, and hands the now-empty glass back to Phoenix, who is staring at him with wide eyes. “Now you won't be forced to poison any plant life.” He clears his throat and feels a small swell of heat in his gut.
Phoenix continues to stare. He blinks. “Wow,” he half grins, “Miles Edgeworth, unlikely defender of LA’s sparse vegetation.”
Miles smirks. The warmth from his gut spreads through his limbs to his fingers and toes. “At least that of what is isolated to this ballroom.”
Phoenix sputters out laughter again, eyes crinkling and bright, hand half lifted to cover his mouth, shoulders shaking slightly, and it occurs to Miles, then and there, how dearly he had missed this.
The change in him had been a slow moving thing near the start of it all. Button downs to t-shirts, dress pants to jeans, the growing collection of wine bottles in his cupboards, Miles had been certain that it was temporary. And then months passed and Miles was turned away by the bar association for inquiry and Phoenix grew distant, despondent. Then he was offered a research opportunity in Europe. And Phoenix told him to take it, so he did.
After that, Phoenix had seemed to all but disappear on everyone in his life. The next time Miles saw him, nearly two years later, he almost didn't recognize him. Their conversation had maintained more or less the same cadence over the phone as it had when they lived in the same city, but there, at the arrivals terminal in Munich, had stood a stranger.
Following the initial out of the blue phone call that broke the silence between them—he had called at 10AM CET; 2AM in LA, Miles had fumbled with the phone for only a moment, fearing the worst—they had kept in contact semi-regularly. Usually it was Miles initiating, asking after Trucy, sending him links to articles, rambling about work, anything to keep them talking.
And when Miles encountered a particularly troubling case during his stint assisting Franziska and Interpol, he had invited Phoenix to give his opinion. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, Phoenix subsequently blew the case wide open after a few pointed questions about the train’s late arrival time and the witness’s history as a financial advisor.
Phoenix had accepted the consultation job with an unexpected ease—especially considering his frequent insistence that he was strictly focused on being a father now and no longer a lawyer—responding to Miles’ email with a succinct “sure,” but while they were in Munich working on the case, the veil Phoenix had laid between them remained a permanent fixture.
His sardonic smile was the most jarring feature. For all the time Miles had known him, especially that brief time as children, Phoenix Wright was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. The sarcasm and cattiness, his bluffing and bulldozing, all together he was lively, expressive, loud and brash and wonderfully irritating. But the Phoenix Wright who was a father, a piano player, a disgraced lawyer, kept all his emotions neatly tucked away. And Miles had silently resigned himself to the reality that he may never catch a full glimpse of the man he once knew hidden behind that veil.
But then, see it's this—the gentle notes of his laughter, the sweetness of his smile. His head held higher, a years-long burden lifted off steady shoulders, and the easy way he stands, here by Miles’s side. Miles can only imagine what he had looked like when the judge declared him not guilty nearly a decade ago. The way grief and self-hatred had slipped from him in that brief, ephemeral moment. That first inhale, free of his sins, looking over to Phoenix Wright across the courtroom as the cheers from the gallery drowned out his hammering heart—it is freedom, a freedom granted by truth, and it twists something open and wanting between his ribs.
“It’s nice–you, being back,” Phoenix says, yanking Miles out of his reminiscing. “I didn’t realize how badly I missed it. Not having to cross an ocean to see you.” He avoids his gaze, voice raw and honest.
“I,” Miles flounders, looking away as well, pressing his mouth into a thin line. He swallows, and turns the champagne flute in his hand. “LA hasn't felt like a home to me in many years.” He takes a breath, voice growing softer, “But, I’m hoping that will change. I plan on staying for the time being.” He looks up at Phoenix hesitantly.
Phoenix is staring off to the side, face blank, hand over his mouth. Then, he squeezes his eyes shut, pulls his hand away, and sighs, looking down at his shoes. “Good. That's good.”
Miles clears his throat and nods, taking a sip of his champagne.
“I wish—” Phoenix starts, lifting his head, but he catches a glimpse of something behind Miles and a flash of dread spills over his face before it's swiftly replaced with that mask of easy neutrality.
“Mr. Phoenix Wright,” Franziska calls out, “and my little brother of course.” The tell tale sounds of her heels click to a stop behind him.
Miles clears his throat and spins to face his sister. “Franziska, and Miss. Faraday,” he smiles warmly at them.
“Look who finally decided to show up!” Kay giggles from where she's draped over Franziska’s shoulder.
“Oh please,” Franziska scoffs, “this poor excuse for a party has barely started, and I'm the best dressed here, can you blame me?”
Miles raises a brow, and Kay chuckles into a gloved hand.
“It's not so terrible, sure beats those post-trial celebration dinners at Trés Bien, doesn't it?” Phoenix comes to stand beside Miles, hands in his dress pants pockets.
Franziska grimaces, “Don't even remind me. The only satisfactory thing in that lousy restaurant was the wine. I'm glad it burned down.”
“It burned down?” Miles says, nearly choking on another sip of champagne.
“Indeed,” Franziska smirks, no doubt relishing in Miles’s ignorance on the, arguably, inane subject. “A few years ago, a simple electrical failure. Although, where are my manners,” she holds her hand out, gesturing to Kay beside her. “This is Kay Faraday, she works as a security specialist for Interpol.”
“Oh, right, yes of course,” Miles says, “Kay, this is my good friend, Phoenix Wright.” Miles gestures to him, placing a hand on the small of his back. “Wright, this is Miss Faraday.”
“It's a pleasure,” Phoenix smiles, plastic, putting out a hand, “Edgeworth’s told me a lot about you.”
“Oh boy, only good things I hope!” Kay laughs, shaking his hand and clearly relishing in giving Phoenix a look-over.
“Why, yes, of course, only good, unrelated to breaking and entering, things.” Phoenix nods solemnly.
She gasps in mock-offence, “Mr. Edgeworth, you know I never broke any of the locks on your doors or windows. You're gonna ruin my reputation!”
“I still had to pay to change all the locks, If you recall.” Miles says, terse, as he smiles into his glass and Phoenix laughs.
Kay quirks her mouth to the side, hand on her hip. “Always so picky. Anyway, I hope we aren't interrupting your guys’ catch-up time, Mr. Edgeworth has been really looking forward to you coming to this New Year's party, Mr. Wright!”
Miles goes stiff, pointedly avoiding eye contact as Phoenix side-eyes him.
“Is that so?” He laughs.
“Yeah, I swear he jumped thirty something feet in the air when you sent him that confirmation text, nearly ruined Gummy and I’s paper maché figure!” Kay says, gesturing up above her head, either in reference to the paper maché from last week or Edgeworth’s apparent vertical leap.
“Miss Faraday—” Miles begins, gritting his teeth through the burning at the back of his neck.
“You don't have to worry about interrupting them, Kay, these two could yammer on about any topic for days on end. I swear, Los Angeles could freeze over and they wouldn't notice.” Franziska waves her hand flippantly. “But I did want to say, congratulations, Mr. Wright, on your victory and your innocence. It was a battle well won.” Franziska bows her head slightly to him, and finally Miles turns to look at Phoenix.
“Aw, uh, thanks,” he says and huffs out another laugh, his smile is pulled back around his teeth in an almost grimace.
“I hope this means I’ll be due another rematch against you in court?” She smiles, as warmly as Franziska ever can.
Phoenix tenses under Miles' hand—good lord he forgot his hand was even there—but he chuckles good naturedly. “I don't know, you might send this old man to an early grave if I'm ever on the receiving end of that whip again.”
“Old man?” Miles scoffs, “Please, Wright you're thirty-five, We’re thirty-five—”
“Yeah? And I nearly threw out my back moving the coffee table last weekend—”
“That's because you never lift with your legs!” Miles rolls his eyes.
“You're the one who’s constantly telling me I have terrible knees,” Phoenix guffaws, “and you're one to talk, Mr. ‘I couldn't possibly be bothered to wear the glasses that were prescribed to me because they make me look old.’ We're both feeling it!” He says, around an incredulous laugh.
Miles inhales another breath, ready to meet the volley flung his way but cuts himself off at the sound of girlish giggling. He twists his head, blood beneath his skin burning violently, as Kay laughs, doubled over, leaning on Franziska, who's got her arms crossed and a smug grin on her face.
“What did I tell you?” Franziska says, gesturing to the pair, and Miles turns back to Phoenix, yanking his hand away—still on his waist! Christ!
“It's even better than the stories!” Kay says, and swings her head back up in a breathless sigh, ponytail flipping over her shoulder. “I’d always wondered what you were like, Mr. Wright, since Mr. Edgeworth would constantly mention you during our investigations.”
Miles freezes, fear and mortification slicing through him in an instant.
Franziska scoffs. “Be grateful you never had to live with him, it was incessant, Wright this, Wright that, I just about—”
“Phoenix!” Miles shouts, stopping Franziska in her tracks. “Did I ever get the chance to show you the beautiful view outside?” He swivels on his heel, turning to face him directly. Phoenix’s cheeks are flushed and his mouth is half open in a disbelieving smile. “It’s quite breathtaking, why don’t we get some fresh air!”
Kay laughs, barely muffled behind her hand as Franziska shakes her head.
“Oh, well, It was nice to catch up with you two!” Phoenix says hurriedly as Miles pulls him away, hand pressed to his back again.
Franziska shouts after them, “Don’t be a stranger, little brother!” And a few heads from the surrounding crowd turn to watch the commotion.
They weave through the crowd and Miles swings the balcony doors open, perhaps a little too forcefully. In the quiet of the night he can hear Phoenix laughing softly under his breath. Cool air kisses his sweltering skin and he walks ahead of Phoenix to the railing, leaving him by the door. Miles braces his arms against it, sighing heavily, staring out at the city lights.
Phoenix steps closer, stopping at his side, quiet now that his laughter has subsided.
“I apologize,” Miles starts, pressing a hand to his forehead, brushing back his bangs.
“For your sister?” Phoenix says.
Miles chuckles, and straightens. “I admit my tolerance for my baby sister’s teasing is quite low, especially when it’s alongside Miss Faraday.” He lifts his head to look at Phoenix, watching him lean back against the railing, crossing his legs at the ankle.
“Really? I couldn’t tell between that terrible excuse and the hasty exit stage left.” He smiles sympathetically, and twists to place his empty glass on a nearby table.
Miles laughs and lets his head fall to the side. “I’m sure your daughter would have a critique or two on my vanishing act.”
He sputters in surprise for a moment before it melts into another full bodied laugh, wholehearted and lovely.
Miles grins and lifts his champagne flute back to his lips only to find it empty.
Phoenix catches his breath and points to it. “How many of those have you had?”
“I believe this was my fourth,” he says.
Phoenix squints at him, waiting.
“I may have been convinced to do shots with a certain Kay Faraday before the night began.”
Phoenix’s face splits into a grin. “How do I convince you to invite her to every party we attend from now on.” He shakes his head. “It's been a long time since I've seen you drunk.”
“I am not drunk.” He scoffs. “I'm merely tipsy, that is all.”
“Yes, and it's barely midnight—”
Miles clicks his tongue. “Oh, please! It's New Year's Eve, it's a celebration, I'm celebrating!”
“Celebrating? Since when have you ever celebrated New Year's?”
“I have a lot to celebrate this year.” Miles says, rolling his eyes. “Like the success of your jurist’s system,” Phoenix looks away, "Welcoming Detective Gumshoe’s youngest daughter into the world, and–” Miles is starting to point, “most notably, the clearing of a particular defense attorney's name–”
“Former,” Phoenix levels him with a guarded look, “don't forget the former.”
“Former defense attorney,” Miles relents, frowning at the way it sounds leaving his mouth.
Phoenix stares at him for a while, a rueful smirk on his face. His eyes trail up and down Miles, and again, it's that searching look that he still hasn't quite grown accustomed to. Then it hits him.
“You– you don't plan on retaking the bar?” Miles asks.
Phoenix raises one brow in a movement that feels almost mechanical. “Nope, it hasn't really crossed my mind.”
Miles stares at him and the world seems to all but fall away.
“Why?” Phoenix asks, and this time his voice betrays a small echo of emotion, the feeling of walking off a cliff's edge. His smile grows wider, tempting Miles to prod him.
“I can’t,” he inhales sharply, doubt and sorrow thudding against his sternum. He grits his teeth. “I can't say that I,” Miles sighs and looks down at his empty champagne glass, watching the lights reflecting off the smooth surface, “that I would ever look forward to practicing law in a place where you are absent.”
He looks away from the glass as blue shifts in its reflection. Phoenix’s expression is unreadable. It makes Miles’s stomach swoop.
The truth, using his heart like a parachute, pries its way from his mouth. “You were the best thing that ever happened to this district. It would be a shame if our courts were never to see your light again.”
Phoenix scowls, then looks away, and Miles watches the tension in his shoulders build. “You don't mean that,” he says, simply.
Miles takes a step around him to see his face. “You think I'd lie?” Phoenix glances at him and then away again, his mask shuddering around his features, struggling to keep a hold.
“Maybe I do need a drink.” His head falls to the side and he squeezes his eyes shut in pain.
“Phoenix–”
“Bad joke, I know.” He heaves a shaky breath that morphs into a laugh on the way out. “I’m not–” he lifts his hand and then freezes, the half formed gesture filling still air. “I can't–” he groans, and puts his hand up to his face, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. “Miles, that starry eyed kid died when they took his badge. I don't know if I will ever be him again, I don't think I can.”
“I'm not asking you to grow ten years younger, Wright.” Miles watches as his pain morphs slowly into a more familiar thing—rage.
“I've changed, maybe too much,” he says it through clenched teeth and Miles flinches.
“And that's what's stopping you from helping people?” Part of him knows it's petulant, part of him knows it's hypocritical, but was this not the lesson Phoenix himself had taught Miles after everything he believed in burned to the ground?
His jaw clenches and he pushes off the railing, standing straight. “What are you doing, Miles?” He glares, head tipped forward, shoulders rising. It's pissing Miles off.
“What am I doing?” He yells, “Why can’t you see all the good that you’ve done? All the good you are still capable of?”
Phoenix rolls his eyes and turns away, beginning to walk towards the door.
“Wright!” Miles cries out, leaving his own glass on the table, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him back.
Phoenix whips his head around, mouth twisted into a snarl.
“Damn your imbecilic pride and refusal to accept help,” he squeezes his arm. “If you…” he trails off a little, grinding his teeth, “if you haven't realized that the reason I am the man I am today, that I pursue the truth and the truth alone is,” he sighs, “it is because of you, Phoenix, and all that you taught me.”
Phoenix stares, lips screwed together in something a little like pain, and Miles avoids his gaze, looking down at his hand, gripping his sleeve.
“You taught me that a man doesn't need to be perfect in order to do good. He only has to try.” Miles lets his hand go limp, grazing the edge of his jacket sleeve. “If you truly,” he stumbles on the breath, “no matter your choice, I will support you in any decision you make, please know that I will.”
Phoenix sighs, shaky. “I know,” he says, fists clenching and unclenching. “I know that. I just…” he groans. “I don’t know if I'm strong enough to do it again,” he admits, a near whisper.
Miles looks up at him. He stares at Miles' hand, opening his mouth and then clamping it shut.
“What if I fuck it up?” He squeezes his eyes shut, and then laughs, dry. “You know my track record. Igniting the ‘dark age of law,’ I’d never forgive myself if I ruined this chance for real change.”
“Phoenix you didn’t—” Miles huffs. “You don’t have to do it alone, you aren’t alone.”
He opens his eyes and meets Miles’ gaze. He looks tired, they're both tired.
“I’m standing right in front of you, aren’t I?” Miles pleads. “I don’t,” he shakes his head, “I never imagined doing it without you.”
Phoenix scoffs, looking off to the side again, and smiles sadly. “You’re the Chief Prosecutor now, you don’t need me.”
It’s like a slap to the face. “What?” Miles sucks in a deep breath through his teeth. “What are you talking about?” All at once the cool night air feels freezing on his sweaty skin, his shirt sticking to his back, his hair against his neck.
Phoenix’s smile twists, bleeding cynicism, as he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He breathes softly, expression crumbling, and presses his lips together into a thin line, jaw tense. Miles can’t remember the last time he looked so terrified.
It hangs between them as the silence stretches, tension folding over itself in thick waves. What could he possibly say to that? Even the very idea, that Miles wouldn’t need him, that Phoenix could even believe that Miles doesn’t need him, sends him reeling.
“You,” he begins, swallowing air into lungs that can’t seem to fill, “If not for you…” Miles squeezes his eyes shut, nausea pounding at the base of his skull, and takes a step back, fighting to keep his balance.
A gentle hand grabs his arm, and Miles opens his eyes. Phoenix looks him over, fear supplanted by worry.
“Why would you–” he tries and fails again to find the words, mind racing. It’s almost incomprehensible that the man in front of him, arguably the reason Miles is still alive on several counts, could think himself so nonessential. He looks down at his arm, Phoenix’s loose grip on his sleeve.
Even through his dull senses he can hear the hum of the crowd inside growing. The countdown is beginning, the reminder that time is slipping through his fingers. But Phoenix is here, within reach, and Miles knows that he is too important to lose.
Miles digs into his inner pocket with a free hand, above his heart, and pulls out the golden pin he’s held onto for nearly half a decade. It was a selfish thing, he knows, to ask Kay to steal this for him after Phoenix had returned it to the bar association.
Phoenix looks down at it and recoils. Jaw dropping, slack and noiseless.
The sounds of the crowd reaches its peak, the cheering nearly as loud as his beating heart.
“Years ago, when you gave me your badge, I myself was afraid that I’d fail. That I wouldn’t be able to live up to what you could do so easily.” Fireworks thunder above them, fired from the top of the hotel, shaking the floor and Miles shudders. The pin, small between them, shimmers in colorful reflection. “But you,” he nearly falters, “you put your faith in me. You trusted me, believed in me.” Phoenix is squeezing his forearm now. “You saved me, from that path of darkness,” he swallows and exhales a shaky laugh, “I would be lost without you.”
He tears his eyes away from the pin in his hand to Phoenix’s face. He’s smiling tearfully, lip trembling.
“Please,” Miles says. “I don’t know if I could bear it, if you weren’t by my side.”
A gasp punches out from Phoenix’s lungs, and he pitches forward, into the space between them, laughing wetly.
“Phoenix?” Miles whispers, throat raw.
“Fuck.” He takes a deep and stuttering breath. His head lifts, the planes of his face alight with color as another round of fireworks sound off, a smile on his lips. And then he relents, a little airy on the exhale as everything in Miles sings. “Okay.”