Chapter Text
Two knocks at the door. Miles' secretary opens it enough to poke her head in. "Mr. Wright is here to see you, sir. Can I let him in?"
"Yes, of course, Ms. Fright. And feel free to leave for the night, you do not have to keep my late hours, by any means."
"Thank you, Mr. Edgeworth." She bustles away and a couple seconds later, he hears louder, somehow distinctive footsteps. A few months ago, Miles realized that he could recognize the particular rhythm of Phoenix's footfalls – and now, just the sound of that beloved man is enough to bring a broad smile to his face.
Phoenix, of course, doesn't knock at all, but bursts into the office and flings himself onto the sofa, grinning. "Heeeyyyy, Miles." This is enough to bring a flush to Miles' cheeks. He clears his throat. Get yourself together, Miles, you have a plan!
"No shoes on the sofa, Wright."
Phoenix rolls his eyes but complies. "So why'd you want me to come meet you here? Wanna grab dinner?"
Miles takes a breath. He stands up from his office chair, walks around the mahogany desk, and leans against it, facing Phoenix. "Come here, Wright." There's a beautiful smile playing across his face like ripples on a pond – delicate and fleeting. "Sit on the desk with me."
Phoenix looks mock aghast. "Sit?! On your desk?! Who are you and what have you done with Miles Edgeworth?!"
"Ha ha. Seriously, Phoenix, come here." Miles hops up and pats the surface next to him. Phoenix joins him, looking impish and curious.
A rakish grin emerges, because the man’s favorite pastime is clearly flustering his partner. "You know, I've had some great dreams involving this desk-"
"WRIGHT. Er. Phoenix." Trying to keep Phoenix focused is an ever-intimidating task. "We can discuss those dreams,” Miles allows, “After I... show you something."
"Really?!" Phoenix's eyebrows dance suggestively. "Okay! So, what's up?"
"Do you know what day it is?" Miles starts as scripted, a small smile percolating.
"Uh... Tuesday? Or Wednesday? Shit. Honestly, with my schedule so variable, I-"
"No, Phoenix, that's not- I mean- well – it's September 7th. 2021." A pause, and he adds, "Also, Tuesday, for the record, that's not especially relevant."
Phoenix looks confused. "Oh, uh, okay." He cocks his head, thinking. "I think I'm still missing something."
Show time, Uncle Miles, he hears Trucy say in the back of his mind. Curtains up.
Miles softly takes one of Phoenix's hands in his own. With the other, he pulls a green, cellphone-sized device (Kay’s generously-lent Little Thief) from the inside pocket of his maroon suit-jacket. He clicks a button, and Phoenix jerks in shock as a grid of bright green light consumes the world around them, refining into solid shapes that look like children's school desks and holograms of children behind them.
"September 7th, 2001, was the day of the class trial. The day we became friends. Phoenix, we..." Miles raises his gaze to meet Phoenix's own. "We've known each other, been in each other's lives, for twenty years."
Miles blushes and feels an unexpected prickling at the corners of his eyes. He’s a little embarrassed to be so forward, so emotional, but he’s written it out and is committed to making sure the plan, as designed and rehearsed with Trucy, is fully executed. Miles knows Phoenix well enough to understand that the mushy, sentimental, undeniably true words he says will be the real gift, and the rest just background scenery, props. The man he loves is a complete sap, and… Miles is starting to think it’s infectious.
"I am so grateful for our lives, for the family we've made, for the truths we have found side-by-side or across the courtroom, despite all the sadness and pain.” A trembling breath.
Miles pours himself into the truth. "I am- Phoenix- I am astounded by you. You plunge into everything you do headfirst and somehow land on your feet. You dove into fatherhood, unexpectedly, and- god, you're a fantastic parent." Miles shakes his head in amazement.
"How do you do that? You turn everything around. You'll turn this badge debacle around too, I know it. I know it." He tightens his hold on Phoenix's hand for a beat.
"I feel... Phoenix, I feel honored that I get to witness and be a part of your life. I feel so distant from the child I was," he gestures with the hand holding Little Thief to a short figure with a conspicuous bow tie, "but I am so deeply thankful for him.
“Because, one September day, he brought me to you.”
There are rivulets of tears streaming freely down Phoenix's cheeks. He brings Miles' hand to his lips and softly kisses his knuckles. Miles detaches, only to cup Phoenix's face and wipe the tears away with his thumb. Phoenix places both his hands over Miles' and leans in to kiss the side of his palm. I love you. It doesn't need to be said aloud.
After a moment, Phoenix looks around in wonderment and stands, walks around the room, waves his hand through the figures to see what the light will do. He returns to the desk, fits himself in between Miles' knees.
"Thank you," Phoenix says simply, looking intensely into Miles' eyes and suffusing as much feeling into the two words as possible. "This is- wow- you, and- just- wow."
"Articulate.”
"Shhh," Phoenix says, and, hand under Miles' chin, leans him back into a deep kiss.
Eventually, after several seconds that seem more like a condensed lifetime, they emerge.
"I'm glad you like it," Miles says shyly, a little out of breath.
"I love it, this is the best present- what even is it?" Phoenix inspects his neon green childhood self.
"This device is called Little Thief, I borrowed it from Kay. She allegedly uses it to plan heists, but it has also proved useful for our criminal investigations."
"Wow," Phoenix breathes. "Twenty years." He turns to grin at Miles. "You know, in a sense, Larry Butz is the reason we got together."
"Literally never say that again." Miles glares at the idea itself, as if it could be forcibly extinguished with a look.
"No, it's true! If he wouldn't have stolen the lunch money..." Phoenix laughs. "Wow, we owe him big."
"Given that he's taken years off our lives by providing imbecilic testimony on numerous occasions, I think we can call it even."
"I'll text him a thank you anyway." Phoenix giggles maniacally as Miles lunges for his phone.
"Aha! Got it!" Miles smirks triumphantly, hiding the ill-gotten gains in his suit-jacket.
"You'll have to give it back eventually, Miles. That's just logic." Phoenix taps his head with a finger in a (frankly, rude, Miles thinks) imitation of his partner.
Miles scoffs in faux-aloofness. "Fine, Phoenix, have it your way." And then, summing up all his powers of magical showmanship (as taught by an 11-year-old phenom), he pats down his jacket and says, "I can't seem to find it. Maybe it's behind your ear?"
"Oh, is it." Tough audience.
"Yes, come here, Wright," says Miles impatiently.
"Alright, O Great and Magnificent Edgeworth." Phoenix raises his eyebrows and steps closer. "It's funny how so many, many things that get found behind my ear these days." The tribulations of a magician's father.
"I will not deign to judge your organizational systems, Phoenix," Miles quips.
"Here it is... aha!" Miles brings his hand behind Phoenix's ear and produces, not a phone, but a single red rosebud.
"A tiny rose!" Phoenix laughs brightly, and Miles could listen to that sound forever.
Miles' smile deepens playfully. "You know what a rose is?!"
"Ha, ha. Of course I know what a rose is! It's like one of my top three favorite flowers." Phoenix shines up at him.
"Favorite? Or just the only three you know?"
"I plead the 5th."
"As if you could keep quiet enough for that to be effective," Miles teases. "But yes, as you oh-so-accurately identified, this is a red rosebud, for you." He gently tucks it behind Phoenix's ear and is nearly blown aback by how goddam gorgeous his partner is, the flower shining bright in contrast against ebony hair. "I consulted Franziska on the proper flower, actually."
"I bet she was over-the-moon that you called her for advice."
"Yes, I might count it as her birthday present for this year," Miles muses. "Anyhow, according to some arcane British lecture from 1852, a rosebud means 'confession: thou hast stolen my affections.' In addition, I wanted a flower you could identify and my choices were limited. This one seemed apt."
(Kay, who had been eavesdropping on the phone conversation with Franziska, had yelled "The Yatagarasu strikes again!" when she heard the 'stolen' part. Miles reminds himself that he should stop having private conversations on the landline.)
"‘Confession: thou hast stolen my affections,’" Phoenix repeats, dimples deepening. "Do I get to, you know, cross-examine your confession?"
"I venture a guess that you are using 'cross-examine' as some kind of innuendo?"
"You venture rightly, my dear." Phoenix pulls closer. He places his hands on Miles' shirt, running them across his chest, and--
"Aha! Got it!" Phoenix gives Miles a lightning-quick peck on the lips and dances away, holding his cellphone.
What an incredibly infuriating man. Miles sighs affectionately. With a click, he shuts down Little Thief.
"Let's get dinner, love." Miles reaches for Phoenix's hand.
As they walk down the stairs together, Miles gazes contentedly at Phoenix, whose raven hair seems untethered to the laws of physics, who has turned his life on end (or maybe right-side up) for two decades, whose endless chatter, preposterous jokes, glimmering laugh, and strong footfalls Miles want to punctuate the soundtrack of his life – and Miles thinks:
Confession: I will follow Pearls’ suggestion. Soon.