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Miles Edgeworth's favorite color is blue.
If one were to tell this to anyone who only knew the man professionally, they would probably think the world had been flipped on its head. If Miles Edgeworth did have the humanity required to possess a favorite color, his would certainly be red, or even pink- "have you taken a look at his office?" they would ask, incredulously.
But the fact remains.
It requires a keen eye to notice without being outright told. A few more blue pens than necessary sit at his desk, although their number is still smaller than that of their black counterparts. A few decorative accents, clashing against the warm tones of the rest of the office, are hung proudly on his walls. Garish, perhaps, but tackiness is not the first concern of a chief prosecutor.
It is more obvious if one knows what his home looks like. Paintings that overwhelmingly favor a blue color scheme— landscapes, mostly, of the sea and the sky and floral fields— stand out in the neat apartment. They are more spread out, and some would say in better taste, than the various paraphernalia in his office.
Miles Edgeworth has three blue items that he is holding for safekeeping, left accidentally after various visits. He does not seek out their owners; he knows that they will return to him soon enough. Instead, he cherishes these lost objects, proof that this apartment has known souls other than him: A scarf, slightly tattered from age and lack of proper care. A hoodie, starting to be a little threadbare in spots, but still insufferably loved. And even a hat, shiny and carefully looked after, though returning this one to its owner is rather more time-sensitive. He will need to make a phone call to remind her.
This is not to say he does not enjoy red, love it, even. Red comes in at a close second; it is all career and passion and anger and life.
Blue, however, is— and always will be— home. It is so much kinder than his signature color could ever be. It is something to lean on.
He is satisfied keeping this knowledge obscured. It belongs solely to him, a secret to share between him and the color of truth.
Phoenix Wright’s favorite color is red.
This is not something he is quiet about, though one might be confused by looks alone. But the man is unafraid to repeatedly comment on his appreciation for the gem in a prosecutor’s badge— “theirs look so much nicer than ours; it’s unfair, honestly” — or to sing the praises of his tie— “I’ve never even thought about changing it, really, the color just pops so nicely, really makes a strong impression” — or even to compliment his daughter’s choice of neckwear— “wow, Truce, it’s just like mine!”
It has always been something that he treasured enough to love in small quantities. His first red tie was a gift from his mother, purchased long before the blue suit he sported in the early days of his career. Phoenix is a loud person, but red does not need an entire outfit in order to shine. It can exist against tides of blue and still jump out, surprising and familiar. Red refuses to be subtle.
Phoenix Wright has always loved sunsets. The way the sun paints the sky with reds and yellows, pinks and oranges, is a beauty incomparable to any other. The sun’s final defense against the deep outstretch of night, lighting up the world with colors never seen without the oncoming darkness.
Phoenix watches the sun bleed out, and he knows he will be there for it again tomorrow.
Though he appreciates even the smallest amount of red, he finds himself surrounded by it. A red vest zips by him at the office every day, crimson with anger, yelling at the world. Red hair whips around him in the courtroom, resolve and curiosity creating a new day. A coral cape, now too small, hangs in a closet of his home, and he cannot bring himself to throw it away.
And, inexplicably, constantly, a red suit faces him from the prosecutor’s bench once again. Red, blood, but also family. Red, dangerous, extreme, vigorous. Warm.
He is unafraid to feel red coloring his cheeks. It will always be there for him to return to, an eternal sunset, every day of his life.