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phoenix wright was a riddle at best and an enigma at worst. phoenix was a royal flush—something almost impossible to get, and you something you should thank your respective gods for.
phoenix— is someone miles could never understand. he’s justice personified then he’s not then he’s optimistic then he’s cynical then he’s— he’s just phoenix, he tells miles—nothing more and nothing less. he’s still the nine year old who bawled his eyes out when he’d been accused of stealing thirty-eight dollars, he’s still the man who saved him (and kissed him when they were alone, drunk, and lonely and everything else in between), both from the horrors of dl-6 and from von karma’s vice grip hold.
even sans blue suit and attorney’s badge: he’s still phoenix wright, he assures miles, fingers interlaced with miles’ own and his breath warming miles’ face, assuring him that even if the world ends— he’ll never stop becoming phoenix wright.
even if he swaps the badge and suit for a beanie and a zip up hoodie, he’s still the turnabout terror. his eyes still narrow at things miles would never notice, missed evidence—some fatal flaw in the testimony that would crack a case wide open at the seams. he scrunches his eyes up examining fingerprints and checking the nooks and crannies of crime scenes, miles would tell you that phoenix has this small smile reserved for showing evidence and reviewing crime scene notes just before trials (and miles laughs, and he smiles, and he melts for phoenix wright and he’s not even mad).
he works as a pianist now—playing poker on the side, he tells miles—voices hushed and faces close late into the night. steel samurai is playing in the background, the blurry figures of the titular character and the evil magistrate battling for dominance (and of course, the steel samurai wins, as always. miles could almost imagine powers’ triumphant face underneath the mask—and he allows himself to smile). the warmth of his hands and the hot cocoa he made fills the room with a certain sentimentality he hasn’t felt for seventeen years— more than seventeen years? he doesn’t know but he buries his head deeper into phoenix’s touch and stays there until morning.
miles figures out later that phoenix can’t play a lick of piano and miles teaches him chopsticks, carefully guiding phoenix’s shaky fingers with a gentle, familiar hand. phoenix laughs as miles groans at the prospect—and phoenix mentions that he hasn’t lost a poker game yet and miles raises an eyebrow at the statement but humors him with a play. (phoenix wins.)
well, miles never was a gambling man—but for phoenix? he’d rather lose everything else than to lose him. so he agrees to thumb through playing cards and figure out why his partner—his best friend, his childhood sweetheart—is like this, why he abandoned his profession and thrown away his credibility.
but phoenix smiles while they play poker and he forgets to ask because, oh god, his heart starts skipping beats again and everything bad in their messy lives are forgotten until phoenix has to leave for home and go back to his daughter and that stupid, stupid poker job of his and leave him alone in the middle of europe.
phoenix wright is unfair, miles tells him one time—but phoenix laughs and he steals the duvet and the covers, but it’s a good thing miles could withstand cold because he doesn’t have the heart to steal the blankets back.
miles realizes later that phoenix’s voice sounds different on phone lines and miles hates the fact that they’re continents apart when responsibilities catch up to them, trucy’s excitable chatter consumes most of the conversation time he has with the wrights—not that miles particularly cared, trucy was practically his daughter as well now, phoenix points out with a chuckle. they laugh and they catch up and they talk about everything that’s been happening like trucy’s shows in the wonder bar and phoenix’s plans for a jurist system and everything in between.
but there’s things they could only discuss face-to-face and with the luxury of privacy. so miles travels far and wide to finally settle down and live where his home—where his phoenix and his little trucy is.
(they never talk about kristoph and miles thinks it should stay that way forever. even trucy is tight-lipped in regards to the faux-german, skittish pomp of an attorney and—miles thinks she knows more than he would ever know.)
so when apollo justice finally, finally, clears phoenix’s name—miles could breathe a little deeper than he used to. no more secret rendezvous in europe with the company of a hotel room and a corpse—no more hiding—no more trying to keep secrets because phoenix was being paranoid that he’d destroy miles’ reputation and his chance to stay permanently as the chief prosecutor of the state.
they play cards to celebrate, and miles wins with a royal flush and with a laugh.
you sure you’re not cheating, phoenix teases, hands already halfway on his waist—miles shakes his head no and smiles.
like i’ll ever lie to you ever again, he answers—and he closes the gap between them and kisses him with a passion that has not faded since fourth grade and everything else that had happened since.