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At age nine, Miles decides he understands exactly what his sunflower-shaped soulmark means. With the amount of time he spends admiring his father’s attorney’s badge, it would be shameful if he couldn’t recognize the flower it was based on.
“It means I’m gonna be a defense attorney, just the same as you, Papa. Married to my job, like you always joke about,” he announces boldly, and his father laughs and ruffles his hair. Miles beams. He is so proud to have something so important as a soulmark signifying his commitment to be like his father. His mark is on his left wrist, and he knows that some people with similarly placed marks cover them up, with scarves or bracelets, but Miles can’t imagine ever being ashamed of his mark like that. He wants to wear it proudly, for the whole world to see.
But then, several months later, when Franziska asks, he will simply tell her that it’s a flower, nothing more, and that he never wants to know what it’s supposed to mean anyways. In a moment of childhood innocence, she pulls up her sleeve to expose her shoulder and tries to compare their marks, but Miles looks away and hisses at her to keep it covered. (What is that even supposed to be? The number nine? Nevermind, what it means isn’t important. It’s just important that she puts it away before he sees) . They both know better than to discuss soulmates at length inside the house. The idea is weak and foolish, anyway. Unworthy of a Von Karma. Their mentor doesn’t have a soulmark, or so he claims, and they all know that this makes him stronger, unfettered by emotional human relationships. Miles and Franziska should aim to be like him, and the first step in doing that is disavowing their connections to their soulmarks.
Miles favors long-sleeved shirts now. Almost all the time. He’s noticed that his mentor tends to scowl and snap at him more when his wrists are exposed. He understands why, of course. Soulmarks represent weakness, and the fact that Miles has one is just a reminder of how fallible he is, how easily he can be held back by senseless emotion. It is something that ought to be punished, and Von Karma is simply performing his rightful duty. On days when it is too hot for long-sleeves, Miles keeps a length of black ribbon tied firmly around the mark. Sometimes he can almost convince himself that it doesn’t exist at all, that his skin is as blank and untouched as the winter’s first snowfall. Almost.
Miles will never have a soulmate, he decides, no matter what the stupid mark says.
At age nine, Phoenix wishes he knew more than three types of flowers. Maybe then he could figure out what exactly his soulmark is supposed to be. The petals are kinda pointy and they stick out from the center in clusters, but that’s about the only identifying feature , he notices as he rubs his thumb against his right wrist, inspecting the mark. He considers asking someone to help him identify it, but eventually decides that it’s far too personal a matter to share with anyone else. He thinks that maybe he could ask Miles, because Miles would never make fun of him for not knowing the names of flowers, or tease him about his soulmate like Larry would. But Miles never comes back from winter break, so Phoenix spends hours sitting alone on the floor of his bedroom, pressing his fingers into the mark and trying to force it to make any kind of sense.
Several years later, he knows that a Dahlia is a kind of flower, but he never looks up what one looks like. He just crosses his fingers and hopes he’s right. He’s so sure that Dollie is his soulmate, she just has to be. I mean, he loves her. Truly, deeply, astoundingly. There’s no way he could feel something like this about a person who wasn’t actually his soulmate, right?
A couple of times he goes so far as to type ‘dahlia flower’ into the google search bar, but then he just sits there with his mouse blinking ominously over the search button. He always exits the page without clicking. He doesn’t think he could handle the disappointment of realizing he was wrong about his soulmate after all.
He has to handle the disappointment of something much worse later on. How could he have been so stupid? He’d never even asked to see her mark. She’d never even said anything if he brought up the idea of soulmates and he’d been foolish enough to fill in those silences for her, put words in her mouth, make it infinitely easier for her to take advantage of him.
He starts covering his soulmark up with foundation every morning, or a thick leather bracelet on the days when he can’t be bothered to apply makeup. Honestly, he’s not sure if he even believes in soulmates anymore. Mia, bless her, never asks questions, even though Phoenix is sure he’d brandished the soulmark in her face during his trial, desperately trying to prove his connection to Dollie. Of course, even if he’d ever brought it up to her, she wouldn’t have been able to bear telling him the story of the sword that runs down the length of her back and the shield hidden by a certain prosecutor’s epaulets. A shield that will one day soon turn black and despondent, so that the other woman detests the sight of her shoulder blades. Mia does not know that this will happen, and so she cannot tell Phoenix about how truly tragic soulmarks sometimes are.
Phoenix Wright is the very last person that Miles expects to see at the trial for the murder of his superior’s former lover. And yet, here he is, standing across the courtroom from Miles, eyes ablaze with passion and hands clenched in fury. Miles has never seen an expression like that on Wright’s face, which used to be soft smiles and sparkling naivete. He forcibly damns the flood of memories running through his mind. Now is not a time to be reminiscing on his childhood. It is never an appropriate time to foolishly reminisce. The past is nothing more than a shelter for weaklings, says a voice inside his head that sounds strikingly like his mentor, and Miles agrees. There is no place for the kind of man Phoenix Wright is in a courtroom such as this, and it seems to be up to Miles to prove that. He slams his hand into the desk so many times throughout the trial that he doesn’t even notice the faint burning feeling in his wrist or the subtle clenching in his chest.
After the trial, after losing a trial for the first time, after losing his pride and his win record and the majority of his self-confidence to Phoenix Wright of all people, Miles locks himself in his office for several hours on end. How dare that foolish rookie defense attorney stand against him like that? How dare that man and his stupid faith in other people throw himself back into Miles’s life? He’d used to believe in Miles...look at him the same way he’d smiled at that Fey girl in court. But today, he’d frowned at Miles like he didn’t even recognize him. And really, he shouldn’t recognize me, Miles argues with himself, there’s nothing left inside me of that weak, idealistic child he used to know. We don’t even know each other anymore. We don’t owe each other anything.
His wrist throbs, evidently displeased with his train of thought. Miles stares down at the accursed flower on his wrist, with his heartbeat pumping furiously directly under the petals. He scowls, and deems it just another pain he will have to ignore. He wraps his length of ribbon incredibly tightly around his wrist until he almost cannot feel his fingers, then stands up to open his office door. His moment of weakness is over. It is time to throw himself into his work again.
The day Phoenix Wright realizes what his soulmark truly means is utterly anticlimactic. It’s a slightly dreary September 5th, and he and Maya are at a flower stand trying to decide what sort of flowers Mia would like best. No matter how much people say ‘time heals all wounds’, the wound of Mia’s death feels just as fresh and painful two years later. Maya is putting on a brave face, like she always does, and is chatting enthusiastically with one of the two florists about arrangements. They’ve nearly settled on a bouquet of yellow goldenrod and blue aster from Maya, to symbolize sisterhood, and one of orchids from Phoenix, to symbolize mentorship, when the other florists slips around the booth and tucks a familiar-looking spiky bloom into Phoenix's hand.
“A chrysanthemum. For your soulmark,” she explains softly. Phoenix looks down at his wrist. In the melancholy of the morning, he must have forgotten to slip his bracelet on. “I can never resist giving away a little gift when I see a floral mark. They’re always my favorites,” she beams.
Phoenix says a quick thank you and walks away to join Maya, who is now attempting to hold both of the bouquets in one arm while holding her phone and taking a picture of them with the other. Wordlessly, Phoenix reaches over to pluck the orchids out of her grasp before they fall.
“Oh, thanks, Nick,” she starts to walk slowly down the sidewalk, “What’s that?” she asks, pointing to the singular flower in his right hand.
“It’s a chrysanthemum,” Phoenix explains, stumbling slightly over the word, “The florist lady said it’s for my soulmark,” he holds the mark up next to the flower, showing off the near-perfect match. "Crystanthemums...where have I heard of them before?” he muses as he rolls the flower stem back and forth in his hands.
“Nick, you dummy! They’re the flowers that prosecutors' badges are based on,” Maya answers gleefully while a shit-eating grin starts to spread on her face. “Maybe it means you’re gonna fall in love with a prosecutor. Oooooh, Nick! What if your soulmate is like...Winston Payne or something?”
Phoenix’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “My soulmate is not...oh my god, Maya, what if it is Winston Payne?” he groans, and Maya just giggles. “He tried to have both of us found guilty for murder! And his hair is terrible! Why would you speak that into existence?!” he shouts, and she descends into actual gut-wrenching laughter at his expense. He throws an arm around her shoulders in order to noogie her hair good-naturedly, and to try and distract himself from the small, glowing hope taking root in his chest.
Miles’ wrist burns for the entire plane ride. Really, it had been burning ever since Larry had called him, the whole time he threw a random assortment of clothes in a suitcase and frantically called a taxi to the airport. Phoenix Wright, dying? It simply cannot be possible. Miles sits in his seat, hands gripping the tray table so hard it shakes, working very hard to ignore both the idea of Phoenix Wright being dead and the searing pain in his left wrist.
The sensation finally goes away when he bursts into Wright’s hospital room and sees for himself that the man is neither dead nor dying. When Wright asks him to serve as a defense attorney, he cannot help but hold the small golden badge up against his soulmark, painfully reminding himself of what he used to hope it would represent. Then he forces away all thoughts of soulmarks and throws himself fully into the investigation.
The thought returns forcefully two days later when Miles finds himself inspecting the sacred cavern with Wright. He is already stricken from the earthquake and how foolishly he allowed Iris to escape, so he is not paying as much attention to his actions as he should be. When he reaches up to inspect one of the trick locks, his sleeve slips down a little, exposing his wrist. He barely registers it, the majority of his thoughts devoted to unlocking the door. When he turns back to face Wright, however, the man is staring at him with a gaping expression even more comical than his regular one.
Miles follows Wright’s eyes down to his wrist, where his soulmark is clearly visible. He silently curses himself for forgetting to pack a ribbon to cover it within his haste to come and see Wright.
“Ah, yes. My soulmark,” he says, endeavoring to keep his voice casual, however much he detests the word. He’s come to terms with the idea more now, now that Von Karma is gone, but he still isn’t sure he believes in soulmates. If they are real, then what is this blasted mark even supposed to mean? He is not a defense attorney as he had once hoped to be, he is a prosecutor. Is the mark supposed to forever taunt him, reminding him of what he could have been...should have been, even? Is it meant to remind him every time he sees it of all the mistakes he’s made, all the innocent lives he may have condemned rather than saved? If so, then he thinks that soulmarks are unnecessarily cruel. “My apologies,” he tells Wright, back in the moment, “I am not usually so forward as to leave it out for anyone to see.”
Wright shakes his head softly back and forth, like a dog attempting to dry itself off, obviously trying to clear his thoughts. In the split-second Miles allows himself to find the action endearing, his left wrist burns. Not again, he thinks briefly, before forcing himself to studiously ignore it.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Wright stammers, “I’d just...forgotten what it looked like, you know? Been a while since I ever thought about it. You having a mark, I mean.”
Miles nods courteously, hoping to put a quick end to this conversation. Then he turns back to inspect the locks again, even though he’s relatively sure he’s gleaned all the information he can from them. Really, he takes advantage of the moment facing away from Wright’s searing eyes to glare at his wrist. He refuses to acknowledge what that painful sensation from a second ago may have meant. He has always been excellent at ignoring what is right in front of his eyes in favor of his own personal gain. He’d done it to dozens of witnesses in order to get a guilty verdict, so he can do it here as well. He will not think about it. He will not think about it.
“So...do you know who it is?” asks Wright, as though this is in any way an appropriate question.
Miles blushes scarlet and remains purposely faced directly away from Wright. “That is-I mean-that is not a proper topic of conversation! Especially not at this juncture,” he says, gesturing around at the cavern in which they are currently standing. “And even if I did know,” he continues, “Do you really think I’d tell you about it?”
“No, I guess not,” Wright sighs.
“Besides,” Miles scoffs, trying to be angry enough to justify his elevated heart rate, “We all know that soulmarks are not necessarily indicative of romance. They can represent platonic connections, or even our worldly passions. They don’t have to be people at all.” Somehow, Miles feels like he is trying to convince himself just as much as Wright.
“Yeah, you’re right, sorry. I just thought, you know, a flower. Could be pretty romantic.” Wright sighs again. “Let’s get on with our investigation.”
As he watches Wright walk out of the cavern, Miles has the distinct feeling that he just did something wrong, and the burning in his wrist isn’t helping at all.
Phoenix Wright is not having a good day. His nose is stuffed, his throat is sore, and his head hurts. The bruises on his legs from falling into the river haven’t stopped aching since he woke up. He’d nearly gotten used to all of those. But now, worst of all, his wrist feels like it’s about to fall off. Part of him hopes it does, just to stop the burning he’s been feeling ever since he accidentally caught a glimpse of Edgeworth’s soulmark.
If we held hands, our marks would touch, he thinks. Then he mentally slaps himself. He needs to focus. He’s here to defend Iris and to save Maya, not to moon over Edgeworth like an idiot. He marches through the snow, dead set on finding Gumshoe and asking him some more questions. And if he can’t find Gumshoe, then maybe Bikini, or hell, he’d even settle for Franziska at this point. He’ll talk to anyone if it means stopping his mind from repeating the same idea over and over: His soulmark matches Miles Edgeworth’s. Miles Edgeworth could be his soulmate. He needs to distract himself because he’s on the brink of either jumping into the air and celebrating wildly that these fluttery feelings in his stomach actually mean something or jumping into Eagle River for a second time because he knows nothing will come of it. Edgeworth probably doesn’t believe in soulmates, but if he does he still doesn’t care about finding his, if the conversation they just had is anything to go by.
It isn’t until the case is over, Maya Fey safe and Iris found innocent, that Miles allows himself to think about it. The burning in his wrist and what it must mean. The idea that he is in love with Phoenix Wright is perhaps the least concerning aspect of the whole thing. At this point, loving Phoenix Wright is inevitable. It comes as easily to him as breathing. Somewhere, deep down, he always knew what his true feelings for that man were, even if it had taken his wrist nearly burning itself off to bring them to the forefront. No, the concerning part is thinking about Phoenix Wright loving him. What is there inside the shriveled, broken, husk of a man that Miles Edgeworth is that could possibly be worth loving? Nothing, as far as he can tell. So no matter what his wrist seems to want him to believe, it simply cannot be possible for Phoenix Wright to love him back.
Miles has heard tell of one-sided soulmarks before, but only in whispers, so he’s unsure if they’re real or just an old wives tale. Generally speaking, he’d never believe such an outlandish story without evidence, but he’s so doubtful that someone like Phoenix Wright could ever love someone like him that he latches onto the story easily. What if Phoenix is his soulmate, but Miles isn’t Phoenix’s? What if Phoenix is destined for someone else, someone more deserving of his gigantic naive heart and overwhelming love? This is not just an obscure thought either, Miles has a culprit in mind. Phoenix had been so certain of Iris’s innocence, so adamant that Miles defend her, that it would certainly make sense for him to harbor...feelings for her.
Now that Miles has started thinking about these things, he’s almost unable to stop. In fact, his soulmark has taken up so much of his brain power that he hasn’t even managed to wonder what he is doing here, standing at Phoenix Wright’s front door.
And perhaps Phoenix’s mind hasn’t been working either, because the man barely seems surprised when he opens the door to find Miles standing there, he just greets him politely and ushers him in for a cup of tea.
They’re sitting on the living room couch, each nursing a warm mug in their hands (more for distraction than anything because they’re barely sipping) when Phoenix finally brings up the case.
“Maya and Pearl are in my room,” he says, “Sleeping. Maya offered to take the couch, but it was obvious she was just being polite. And anyway, after...everything that happened I don’t really mind giving up my bed for the night. Hell, I’d probably let them sleep there forever if I thought it would help.”
Miles nods. He understands the feeling. “Franziska refused my offer to house her for the night. She’s staying in a hotel.”
“That sounds like her,” Phoenix chuckles. The man is still avoiding looking Miles in the eyes, staring instead into the contents of his mug, as if he can find some important answer in its murky depths. Tea, Miles thinks, had been a good choice. Coffee has a bit too sharp of a connotation right now. But this is not what he’s come here to talk about. He needs to know, from the source, what is going on between Phoenix and Iris, before he accidentally ends up getting his heart broken. Hah. His heart. There was a time he would have sworn up and down he didn’t even have one, and the world might have believed him too.
“Wright.”
Phoenix raises his eyebrows to show that he’s listening, but says nothing.
“How are you...handling everything? With...Ms. Hawthorne? The living one, that is.”
Phoenix lets out a short sharp breath. “Is it fair to say that I’m not?” he asks, “Handling it, that is.”
Miles nods, encouraging the other man to continue speaking.
“It’s just, it’s been such a long time. Since everything with, you know, Dahlia. Since that first trial, I met Mia, became a lawyer, found you again,” Phoenix pauses, blushing slightly, but Miles is too distracted by the way he said ‘found’, as though Miles was something worth looking for, to pay attention, “And then Mia...dying, and meeting Maya and Pearls, and-I’m just such a completely different person now than I was when Iris knew me. I have so many more important people in my life now,” he says, and Miles hopes he isn’t imagining the subtle glance in his direction, implying that he is one of those important people. “So I don’t know, I guess the idea that her feelings towards me haven’t changed in all that time is sort of weird? Because mine definitely have.” Phoenix sighs, slumping down into the couch. “Even if she wasn’t going to jail for being an accessory to murder, I wouldn’t like...want her back or anything, you know? She’s a perfectly nice girl, but, I mean, she did help her sister deceive me for eight months and not say anything when she knew fully well her sister wanted to kill me. I wouldn’t want to go back to a relationship like that. Even if she was my first love, or whatever. Hell, even if she was my soulmate.”
“She’s not?” Miles asks suddenly.
“What?” Phoenix looks stricken by the idea, “No, no she’s not.”
Miles is unsure whether he should feel relieved or even more worried now.
“I really did think it was Dahlia, for a while,” Phoenix continues, unaware of the heart attack he’s currently giving Miles, “But it’s not. And it’s not Iris either. Maybe if I still wasn’t sure what the mark was, you could convince me it’s supposed to be her, but I...I know what it’s supposed to mean now. Who it’s supposed to mean.”
He reaches down to unclasp his sleeve before Miles can stop him, and holds his wrist dramatically out in front of him. The pure white petals of a chrysanthemum stare up at them; two young men on an overstuffed couch in the depths of the night, in the middle of a very important revelation.
Miles cannot bring himself to speak. As much as he’d hoped this would be the outcome, he was so busy telling himself it wouldn’t happen that he hadn't developed a plan for what he’d do if Phoenix Wright actually was his soulmate. His heart is beating faster now than he thinks it ever has before. In a moment of either bravery or stupidity, he silently lowers his own wrist down next to Phoenix’s, letting the flowers lie side by side.
“Well,” Phoenix whispers, “That’s a match if I’ve ever seen one.”
Miles swallows hard and then nods.
“Can I look at it? Like, actually look at it?” Phoenix asks. Miles nods again. He lets out a small gasp when Phoenix’s fingers brush against his skin, soft and reverent, as though Miles is something he’s afraid to break.
“It’s beautiful,” Phoenix says, running his fingers over each of the petals.
“Yes. Beautiful,” agrees Miles, his eyes firmly affixed on Phoenix’s gentle, awestruck face. Phoenix blushes lightly and Miles thinks that if his heart were to explode right now, like it seems to be threatening to do, he would die a happy man. Then, in one swift move, Phoenix lowers his head and plants a tender kiss right in the center of the sunflower, and oh, Miles is definitely going to melt into the floor right here and now. His breath hitches in his throat and Phoenix looks up, apologetic.
“Sorry, too much?” he asks.
Not enough, if anything, Miles thinks, shaking his head. “No, it--it’s fine. It was...nice.” He declines to mention the way his brain is now swarming with thoughts about how those lips that just grazed his wrist would feel against his own.
Phoenix still looks disappointed, and Miles hates it. Phoenix Wright does not have a face that inclines itself to sorrow. Miles wants nothing more than to prevent the man’s face from ever frowning like this again. Slowly, almost subconsciously, he raises his hand up to cup the side of Phoenix’s face. “Very nice, actually,” he continues, his mouth speaking without even asking for his brain’s consent anymore, “So much that I think I’d like to return the favor. May I?” he breathes. Phoenix’s eyes go wide, and for a moment Miles worries that he’s overstepped his bounds, but then Phoenix nods shakingly, and allows his eyes to flutter closed. Pushing aside his panic, Miles does what he’s wanted to do for years; he surges forward and kisses Phoenix Wright.
This is the kind of moment they write poems about, he thinks vaguely to himself, in between all his stuttering thoughts of Phoenix, over and over. Phoenix’s lips, Phoenix’s hands, he wants them all, everything that Phoenix has to give he wants to take, and that may be selfish but he doesn't care, because he’s waited so damn long for this, for Phoenix Wright’s lips against his own.
His wrist is burning again, but this time it’s a beautiful sort of burn, like the feeling of curling up beside a fireplace in the middle of winter. When he reaches out to grab Phoenix’s wrist, he can feel that same heat burning under his fingers, and this might feel better than anything else; knowing that Phoenix is burning up from the inside too, only for him. For Miles. And maybe that’s the whole point of having a soulmate, he realizes, finding someone who needs you in the same way you need them. Miles smiles into their next kiss, finally confident that soulmates really do exist after all, and that Phoenix Wright, as unbelievable as it may seem, is his.
Miles gets him a bouquet for their one-month anniversary. Phoenix is embarrassed to admit that he spends most of the day staring at the flowers instead of working on his active case paperwork.
Maya almost doesn’t believe him when he says it’s a gift from Miles. “It just seems really sappy for an emotionally-stifled guy like him, is all,” she says.
Phoenix laughs. It’s become a point of pride for him, knowing he’s about the only guy who knows the real soft Miles Edgeworth hiding under the hard exterior core that everyone else gets to see.
“He knows chrysanthemums are my favorite,” is Phoenix’s only explanation.
“And what about the sunflowers?” Maya challenges.
“They’re his favorite.”
“You guys are saps.”
Maya wanders away to water Charley, and Phoenix turns his attention back to the flowers. He takes in the sight of them; a gift from his wonderful, doting boyfriend displayed on his desk for the whole world to see, and sighs happily. At this point, he honestly doesn't care if he only knows two kinds of flowers, so long as they’re sunflowers and chrysanthemums.