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It is an indisputable truth that Phoenix Wright loves Miles Edgeworth.
Miles Edgeworth’s feelings on the matter are less obvious.
Phoenix told him, once. It was over some wine during one of the weeks that Miles was back in the States, before his permanent return to Los Angeles. Phoenix may have been a little tipsy—a saving grace in terms of an easy excuse, perhaps—but he meant it all the same.
“You really don’t need to do that,” Phoenix had said when Miles gestured for the waiter to bring him the bill. “I can split it.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Miles answered, his voice measured. “After everything... you’ve done for me.”
The “everything” was loaded, and the “you’ve done for me” was an afterthought because Miles knows he doesn’t like charity. Phoenix frowned and pulled his beanie down, not enough to cover his eyes, but enough to conceal the details of his expression.
“Yeah, I did those things because I love you, Edgeworth,” he said.
It came out so naturally, so casually—and he brought it up to mean that his friendship didn’t need to be repaid. But then Miles froze, his eyes going impossibly wide, and Phoenix felt his breath hitch in his throat.
‘Platonically!’ Phoenix almost shouted. ‘As a friend!’ he nearly added. But he said neither of these things as he held Miles’ gaze.
“I—” Miles swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”
(Say you love me too). The thought came unbidden, before Phoenix could examine it too closely. He was a mess, literally and figuratively—not in the right headspace for a relationship. Not with Kristoph watching his every move, not with little Trucy depending on him.
That’s why it was probably a blessing Miles didn’t end up saying anything. He paid for dinner, and that was that. They didn’t address Phoenix’s confession again; it was easier to pretend Phoenix wasn’t entirely sober and didn’t mean what he said, even if both knew it wasn’t true.
But years have passed since that moment, and though Phoenix knows, deep down, it wasn’t the right time, he still wishes Miles had said, “I feel the same way.”
It’s absolutely pouring rain, and Phoenix stands miserably in it, jacket hunched over his head. (Why oh why did someone have to to commit murder in the park today?)
In his defense, it wasn’t raining when he took the bus from the jail where his client was awaiting trial to People Park. Sure, it was a little gray outside, but Los Angeles has been in a drought off-and-on for the last hundred years, and who has the time to watch the Weather Channel?
At least he isn’t alone. Detective Gumshoe apparently also didn’t expect this weather.
“Boy, it sure is comin’ down in buckets, isn’t it, pal?” he commiserates with Phoenix, who only grunts in response. He considers calling Athena and asking her to bring an umbrella from the Agency.
He doesn’t have to. Suddenly, he finds himself standing on drier ground.
“Honestly, Wright,” Miles scolds as he holds an umbrella over both of their heads. “You’ll catch the death in this weather.”
“Oh!” Gumshoe reacts before Phoenix can say anything. He salutes Miles. “Chief Prosecutor, sir! It’s good to see you, Mr. Edgeworth.”
“Detective,” Miles politely acknowledges him. “I’ve requested the LAPD set up canopies to preserve the crime scene before the rain washes it away. Please assist them in doing so.”
“Understood!” And with that, he scampers off. Phoenix and Miles stand in silence for a moment; Phoenix tries to shake off some of the water dripping from his suit in vain.
“I didn’t know you were prosecuting this case, Edgeworth,” Phoenix eventually says.
“I’m not,” Miles corrects. “But I do oversee all cases, and when I saw there was a 70 percent chance for precipitation on the Weather Channel this morning, I thought this particular scene might need a stronger guiding hand. I’ll leave as soon as the evidence is secured.”
Phoenix nearly riffs on him because of course Miles Edgeworth actually watches the Weather Channel, but he decides against it; he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth when it’s thanks to Miles’ attention to detail that he’s not ruining his suit any more.
Miles doesn’t leave even after the canopies are erected. He stays the entire time, close enough to keep the both of them dry.
Reviewing case files together has become something of a ritual, even for trials where one or the other isn’t involved. It’s just nice, having a prosecutor’s perspective—and vice versa, Phoenix supposes. Miles wouldn’t let him stay in his office if there wasn’t some sort of professional benefit.
Phoenix once accused Miles of being a workaholic after calling his cell at 8 p.m. on a weekday, only to discover he was still at the prosecutor’s building. Of course, Miles immediately called Phoenix out on his hypocrisy when it turned out Phoenix was contacting him about some case details. (“Yes, but at least I’m working from home,” Phoenix had retorted.)
Now they feed into each other’s bad habits, and Phoenix justifies it like this: They’re both busy men, and they’re friends, and they don’t have ample time to spend together outside of work. So it’s dark, and they’re alone together in Miles’ office. Phoenix is tired and thinking about how maybe it’s time to turn in for the night. He already told Trucy he’s going to be late, but he doesn’t like leaving her alone for too long, lest she practice some of her dangerous magic tricks. At least she’s old enough to work the fire extinguisher now.
Then Miles holds out a cup of coffee toward him.
“Two tablespoons of cream and half a pack of Stevia,” Miles announces when Phoenix blinks at him. “That’s… how you like it, isn’t it?”
“It… It is,” Phoenix manages. “Thank you.” He can’t recall ever telling Miles his coffee order, but he guesses after so many nights of this, he must have figured it out.
Phoenix decides to stay a little longer as Miles sits next to him and takes a sip of his tea.
“Now, where were we?”
“It’s a little cold to be riding your bike, don’t you think?”
Phoenix scoffs at the question and only briefly looks up before persisting in unchaining his bike.
“Yeah, sure,” Phoenix grunts. “I’ll just leave this here and take my Tesla back, then.”
He catches the way Miles’ mouth twists into a frown. He adjusts his glasses before apologetically saying, “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
Now Phoenix feels bad, too. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. Rough trial today.”
“I saw.” Miles clears his throat. “Convoluted as it may be, this was supposed to be my way of asking if you would like a ride back to your office.”
Phoenix hesitates. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” Miles says. “I’m heading in that direction anyway.”
Phoenix studies Miles for a moment. Truth be told, it is a little cold to be biking around, even if the exercise is good for him.
“All right,” Phoenix gives in with a grin. “If you insist.”
He thanks Miles when he drops him off in front of the building where the WAA is located, and after clumsily pulling his bike out of the trunk, he watches Miles drive away—in the wrong direction.
Turns out, the trip was out of the way.
“I have something for you.”
The last person Phoenix expects to see turn up in the defense lobby during a 30-minute recess is the Chief Prosecutor, but there he stands, extending a yellow Manila folder toward him.
“It’s the updated autopsy report Prosecutor Blackquill requested after your little turnabout this morning,” Miles clarifies. “It seems you were right, after all.”
“Oh! Thanks.” Phoenix accepts the folder and is about to pull out the report when he catches the look on Miles’ face. His nose is crinkled, and his gaze is narrower than usual.
“Your tie,” he tuts disapprovingly. Miles reaches out and gently tightens the knot; Phoenix hadn’t realized it was at all loose. His hands linger near his neck for a moment, and then Miles pulls away, his eyes connecting meaningfully with Phoenix’s.
And then it—it just hits him, like a train barreling down the tracks, sudden and unavoidable.
Miles Edgeworth has just told Phoenix Wright that he loves him.
In fact, Miles Edgeworth has been telling Phoenix Wright that he loves him for a very, very long time, starting with that goddamn check he refused to split on. Every shared umbrella, every cup of coffee, every car ride—but it’s the tie that finally gives him away, that finally clues Phoenix into the words Miles hasn’t said. It’s the soft look in his winter gray gaze. It’s the simple intimacy of such a little gesture.
“Wright?” Miles questions after a moment.
“Uh,” Phoenix stammers. “Sorry. Thanks, Edgeworth.”
Miles manages half a smile, nods to him, and leaves.
Phoenix feels like he’s about to pass out under the weight of his revelation. He can’t do this, of course, because he has a client depending upon him. So he pulls himself together and files this moment under “Important Conversations To Have Later” in his brain.
“Later” turns out to be after the trial in Miles’ red sports car. He had offered another ride, and Phoenix jumped at the opportunity.
“To home, or to your office?” Miles asks as he buckles his seat belt.
Phoenix swallows and summons up his courage. For years, he’s made himself content with their platonic companionship; he’s ready for that change, has been ready for it to change, but Miles is an enigma. Even if Phoenix is now certain Miles feels the same way, he can never be sure how he’ll react.
“To dinner.”
Miles looks at him questioningly.
“But this time, I get to pay,” Phoenix adds. “I’m asking you out on a date.”
The bemusement in his expression transforms into surprise—but not fear, not like how it was when Phoenix first told Miles that he loves him, not when the timing was all wrong.
“Where’s this coming from, Wright?” Miles asks.
Phoenix smiles and lays a warm hand on Miles’ knee. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know,” he answers. “It just took me a while to catch up.”
It’s then that Miles smiles, too, and rests his hand atop Phoenix’s.
“Okay.”