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6AM is not an hour Phoenix Wright is accustomed to seeing. The uniform lines of the bedside clock mock him with their artificial light, forcing his eyes to adjust to their gaze. Its light isn’t the only one disrupting Phoenix’s sleep. A small gap in the hastily-closed curtains emits a warm, golden glow, bathing unfamiliar bedsheets with aureate tones.
The light seeps its way to Phoenix’s brain and sparks life into his neural pathways. It is Sunday morning. There is something warm and comforting pressed to his back and draped across his stomach. There is no alarm signifying a need to awaken. Rather, Phoenix’s zeitgeber seems to have been mundanely biological in nature.
A glance down reminds him that the weight on his stomach is Miles’s pink, silk clad arm. Phoenix recalls mocking the pyjamas the previous night. Slowly, so as not to disturb the other’s slumber, Phoenix lifts the arm and slides his body from under it. Miles doesn’t shift a muscle, despite the disturbance, his body lax with sleep.
Phoenix wishes he could stay and admire the scene in front of him for longer; the relaxed expression adorning Miles’s handsome features, the mussed fall of his once-orderly silver hair, the absence of the regular crease between his brows, the small parting of his lips, and the combined beauty of all his features cast in the sepia hue of the rising sun. Unfortunately, biology denies him the opportunity.
The room is filled with enough light for Phoenix to find his way to Miles’s ensuite and back without hassle, aside from his foot tangling in a stray tie. Its presence only alerts Phoenix to the disarray yesterday’s clothes are in. By some miracle, Miles’s magenta three-piece is folded neatly, jabot and all, in a tidy pile. Phoenix furrows his eyebrows as he organises his own clothes. He’s almost certain the belt and waistcoat had been removed by his own hands, so how they emerged from the crime scene pristine is beyond him.
Once the floor is clean, Phoenix returns to the bed. Miles slumbers on, his face having shifted to press into Phoenix’s pillow. His hair has fallen forward and Phoenix leans down to push the grey strands behind Miles’s ear. He’s uncertain if manoeuvring back into bed will wake Miles, now his position has adjusted to Phoenix’s absence, so he takes a second to admire the man.
There’s a steady, warm thrum in Phoenix’s chest accompanying the sight of Miles at rest. He’s slept over at the Edgeworth residence before and he’s seen Miles asleep before, but never simultaneously and never under these circumstances.
Staying over has been out of convenience, in the past, rather than by request, and Phoenix has always been resigned to a guest room. Similarly, Phoenix has only happened upon a sleeping Miles when the man’s workaholic tendencies leave him slumped over his office desk.
The sleepovers they had as children don’t fulfil the quota for the new sensation this current phenomenon causes. Last night is the first time Miles Edgeworth has invited his boyfriend to spend the night in his house. The contented hum the situation gives Phoenix’s heart is unparalleled.
Still perched on the edge of the bed, his early morning fatigue ebbing away, Phoenix’s eyes trace the smooth, pale line of Miles’s neck to where his collar indiscreetly covers the litany of purpling marks Phoenix created last night. He hopes to kiss each one with a tender vigour once Miles is awake.
Phoenix softly traces his fingers against Miles’s smooth palm, its warmth spreading through Phoenix’s whole body. Gently lacing his fingers with Miles’s is an arbitrary action, and yet the joy it fills Phoenix with makes the gesture anything but inane. At the contact, Miles shifts imperceptibly closer and Phoenix has never loved the man more.
Miles is an early riser- even on weekends, if the time stamps of texts and emails Phoenix has received from the man are any indicator- so Phoenix knows it won’t be long until he awakens. Carefully extracting himself once more, Phoenix stands, an idea fresh in his mind. Whether it’s the surreal reality of being awake before eight or the giddy excitement of being with Miles in every sense of the word causing such sentimentality, Phoenix is unsure, but he resolves to spend the day showering Miles with as much love as possible.
First on his agenda is breakfast.
Miles’s cupboards are more bare than Phoenix had hoped. He’s no expert cook, but having Maya around in his formative years accelerated his abilities in the kitchen in a valiant effort to save his wallet. What Miles does have at hand is eggs, flour, milk, and more boxes of tea than any person living alone should ever own. Phoenix locates a fruit bowl on the counter and decides he can work with this.
Phoenix rifles through cupboards until he has the necessary utensils and ingredients spread in front of him. Pancakes with fruit are a safe bet for breakfast and are easy enough that the making should proceed without a hitch.
As Phoenix seamlessly moves through the cooking process in practiced motions, his concentration allows for the wandering of his mind. Six in the morning on a weekend is a peculiar time. Traffic outside is scarce, leaving the streets unnaturally bare of pedestrian or car. Everything about the experience should feel foreign, and yet Phoenix has never felt more at ease.
He wonders if the reason is that Phoenix can’t recall a day in recent history he hasn’t woken up with the knowledge that he is irrevocably in love with Miles Edgeworth. The only tangible difference is that, today, he’s allowed to openly admit this fact; is allowed to act upon it.
The early morning rays and the challenge of learning how to cook in an unfamiliar kitchen present Phoenix with a pleasantly domestic feeling. Phoenix can’t help but wonder if he’ll get to feel this way for the rest of his life.
He’s just finished the fourth pancake and taken a small break to prepare some fruit when a floorboard creaks upstairs. Phoenix checks his watch and notes that he’s prolonged the morning enough that seven o’clock is looming just around the corner. Despite the absence of an alarm, it would seem Phoenix’s ‘breakfast in bed’ plans are about to go out of the window.
Phoenix is keeping the pre-made pancakes warm under the grill when he starts the next batch and when the footsteps make their way down the stairs. He continues humming the show-tune that’s been circulating around his head and pretends to be unaware of the new presence in the room.
“What are you doing?” a dry voice, deep and rumbly with sleep, asks. Its lower cadence accelerates the beating of Phoenix’s heart and he turns around with a grin.
Miles is still in his pink pyjamas, his hair matted from the pillow and his eyes squinting from the absence of his glasses. Yet again, Phoenix is struck by how impossibly attractive his boyfriend is under any circumstance.
“Come on, Miles, I would think you’d be able to figure it out, even half-asleep,” Phoenix can’t help but tease, smiling fondly at the other man.
“Let me rephrase my question, then,” Miles responds in a tone equally as mocking whilst Phoenix turns his attention back to the pancakes. “Why are you doing this?”
Miles’s voice is considerably closer by the end of the sentence. It’s the only warning Phoenix gets before a chin hooks over his shoulder and two warm hands settle against his waist. He’s grateful the pancake he was focussing on was just tipped out of the pan, or else his surprise could have spelled disaster.
“And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Miles adds in complaint as his hands slide from Phoenix’s waist over the hard planes of his stomach. Phoenix sucks in a breath at the sensation of warm, smooth hands on his skin.
“You don’t seem to mind,” Phoenix pointedly murmurs in response as he pours more pancake mix into the pan, lowering the heat of the stove a little. In response, Miles buries his nose in Phoenix’s neck and mutters.
“Shut up.”
Miles is never normally so tactile. It’s typically Phoenix who initiates physical contact, so the new knowledge that an early morning Edgeworth is a cuddly Edgeworth is precious and invaluable information.
“To answer your earlier question,” Phoenix mindlessly rambles to fill the empty air, “I was going to make you breakfast in bed, because I wanted to do something nice. Your inability to lie in ruined my plans.”
“Apologies that not everyone sets their own work hours,” Miles grumbles in complaint, his breath ghosting Phoenix’s neck as he speaks and sending pleasant shivers down his spine. “Besides, I’d rather we didn’t get crumbs all over my sheets.”
“Your sheets have seen worse,” Phoenix nonchalantly says, dragging a spluttered noise from Miles. The fact that he remains a prude after the things Phoenix has witnessed is both endearing and hilarious.
“Furthermore, I feel I should be protesting the fact my guest is making me breakfast,” Miles continues, face still half-buried in Phoenix’s shoulder.
“Objection,” Phoenix counters, waving the spatula around. “I practically invited myself over- I’m hardly a guest.”
“Objection,” Miles wags a finger in front of Phoenix’s chest. “This is still my house and my kitchen, therefore I should be cooking.”
“Objection,” Phoenix can’t help but continue as he flips the pancake defiantly. “The meagre amount of food in your cupboard suggests you’re not much of a cook. I’m happy to take the lead.”
“Nghoh,” Miles complains in defeat. “The prosecution rests.”
Phoenix chuckles and slides the last pancake out of the pan, nudging Miles to release him so he can set about serving breakfast. Miles slumps into a seat at his breakfast bar, practically downing the cup of tea Phoenix hands him in an impressive feat.
“The defence would like to present pancakes for the consideration of the court,” Phoenix dramatically announces, placing a plate in front of Miles and sliding into the seat next to him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you, Phoenix,” Miles fondly replies, an open and honest smile on his face in a rather rare display. “You really didn’t have to.”
“But I wanted to. Wanna know the secret ingredient?”
Miles raises an eyebrow at him.
“Doubtfully, although I assume you’re going to tell me, regardless.”
“It’s love,” Phoenix grins. Miles snorts with laughter and pushes Phoenix’s waggling eyebrows away.
“You are an utterly ridiculous man,” he insists, shifting his hand to caress Phoenix’s face.
Phoenix knows he means ‘I love you too’. It’s all he could ever wish for and more.