Work Text:
December 28, 2016
Wright & Co. (was Maya Fey really considered "Co.?") was a spare, bland room in a cheap, rectangular building. At least one person had been murdered there. The nerve of it, to feel so lively. If Miles were forced to conduct his business there, he couldn't imagine making anything like the place it was under Phoenix Wright's stewardship.
He had stared at the window that looked toward the Gatewater Hotel, the patch of carpet where Mia Fey's body once lay in the police photographs. The ones that had burned into his memory like those of every other dead person he'd ever met alive. How could Wright stand to work here? Or her poor sister? Was there something Miles lacked that kept him out of the courthouse elevators? Was it a bravery or a foolishness?
In this way, Larry had been an easier friend than Phoenix. Miles had never had to ponder him.
Butz and Maya put the music on by committee, changing the radio station back and forth whenever they walked by. Miles had been straining his hearing over it all night to make sure Gumshoe wasn't telling any embarrassing stories about him. He headed off some, was unable to intervene for a couple—but almost worse was the praise once the detective started drinking more. "He saved my life once, Mr. Edgeworth! Did I ever tell you—?"
("I think we've all saved each other's lives by now," Maya had said dismissively.)
The reminiscence put Miles distinctly on edge. Not only that including himself, but the stories of Wright and Butz. They'd had a grand old time recalling their glorious youth of which Miles had been unable to be a part. What kind of man would he have been if he had? Was there any point wondering?
They were all asleep now. Butz in particular was a snorer—Miles recalled vaguely that he'd always been. He sat down in the creaky office chair under the cover of the dull, oddly soothing, groan. Miles slept little himself, had drunk only water and there was no room for him on the couch anyway. Frankly, it hadn't even occurred to him they would sleep here. His experience with friendly parties was lacking.
He looked over the desk now that he had the opportunity to indulge himself unobserved, creating an image of his old friend's working life piece by piece. The computer screen (filthy). The notepad (top sheet ripped partway off). The Steel Samurai pen topper (likely Maya's, but it tickled him to pretend otherwise).
The only defense attorney Miles was familiar with was his own father, who'd been crisp, collected and polite. Gregory Edgeworth's office had been the same. Phoenix Wright was like him in nothing but profession, and somehow Miles found himself surprised. Perhaps that was the reason he'd been so surprised to meet him in court in the first place. He'd never have pictured the Phoenix he'd known in law, because that had meant picturing him buttoned-up and boxed-in. Like his father. Like Miles.
Someone stirred and he jumped out of his skin. Wright was squinting blearily at him over the back of the couch.
Miles watched him flatten his hair back and gently lift Maya's head from his leg, re-open a bottle on the coffee table and pad over to the desk where a sleeve of paper water-cooler cups sat. "All you went through today and you're not even going to sleep?" he asked Miles quietly as he poured.
Butz took up one couch that Gumshoe was leaned against on the floor, Maya had stretched out along the one Wright would surely return to. Miles gave him a facetious stare. "Pray tell, where?"
Wright glanced behind him and let out the breath of a chuckle.
He inclined the bottle toward a second cup and jerked his head questioningly. Miles mulled it over. He'd declined drinks all night. He often did in social situations, to protect his inhibitions. But the situation really was no longer social, and frankly there was little left in him that Phoenix Wright hadn't seen during the course of this trial. He was a free man. A bit couldn't hurt.
"Is this wine?" Wright nodded and Miles sniffed it. "What kind?"
"Red."
"No, I mean—" He shook his head helplessly and took a sip. "Never mind."
Thoughtfully, Miles licked his lips. This certainly wasn't anything Manfred von Karma would serve with dinner. In honor of the occasion, he tipped back a long, impulsive swig.
Wright was looking at him in amusement. The man had solved a fifteen-year-old case today—Miles supposed he was sharp enough to pick up jokes unsaid. There was something satisfying about that. Disparaging the detective felt cruel after his glowing assessments, but Miles had been adjusting his humor for Dick Gumshoe for far too long.
"I'll sleep eventually," he said, eventually.
Wright took a slower sip from his own cup. "Are you thinking about the nightmare?"
Miles pressed his lips together. "I've tried not to."
He hadn't wanted to talk about it just to escape this look on Wright's face, the one he'd seen too much these days: concern. Pity, even. It sickened him. Miles knew this fear of weakness was the Von Karma in, if not his veins, his heart and soul—but he hadn't rid himself of it yet. He hadn't had the time to find out if he ever could.
"You know you can just call me if you ever need to," said Wright. "Or any of us. There are people on your side now, you know?"
Absently, Miles nodded. Yes, he knew that now. Despite his refusals and confessions and undignified pleading, Phoenix Wright had refused to let him be. The mere existence of Phoenix Wright in his prosecutorial life had always refused to let him be, of course, just on account of the long-lost self he represented—but it was clear now that the man himself would make an effort.
Miles, though, felt increasingly that he was no longer on his own side. Ought anyone to be? How could anyone be?
His thoughts had been nothing but questions tonight, it seemed.
"…Are you alright?" asked Wright.
"Yes," said Miles, who could say nothing else. None of it was ready to explain in words. "There's—just a lot on my mind."
Death, he decided to call it later in writing. Perhaps, more optimistically, a rebirth—but even those required death to begin with.
February 11, 2019
Miles was very drunk. Or at least, he was very drunk for a person of moderation. Drunk enough to describe himself as a person of moderation, which had made Franziska snort seltzer up into her nasal cavity.
"Just except for his temper," said Maya, in his mildly insulting defense.
They were celebrating her Pyrrhic courtroom victory today, and Miles might have expected her to take it as solemnly as he had his own. But Maya Fey just seemed happy to be alive and among friends. She seemed to include even him in this designation.
"I'm so mad I didn't get to see Mr. Edgeworth as the defense!" she'd cried. "A once in a lifetime opportunity, and I missed it!"
Miles chuckled quietly amid the others' guffaws.
"Oh, pal, it was great," said Gumshoe. "I tell you, if he'd gone down that road, he could have put Wright & Co. out of business."
"Geez, Detective, don't hold back…"
"It was miserable," said Miles, behind a faintly flattered flush. "Only someone like Wright could choose to do that for a living."
"Like me?" repeated Wright, brows raised.
Miles took a moment to choose a word, and then another moment to pronounce it. "...Indefatigable."
"Come on, now," replied Maya. "I don't think you're that fatigable, Mr. Edgeworth."
He'd laughed fully and taken another drink.
Miles had offered his own home for the celebration this time, because there was more than one room and his own bed to retire to if necessary. By the time they got there he started to regret letting his boisterous friends near his breakable objects. Letting anyone near anything in his home was quite honestly unusual. Visitors had always been for emergencies only.
Over the last few days, though, he'd done a number of things that he'd never planned to do. Hosting a little after-dinner party was the least of them.
A couple of hours in and Miles was feeling quite, in Maya's words, fatigable. Didn't these things exhaust other people? His friends had begun a rousing card game, but Miles's tolerance for socialization had begun to fall significantly.
Franziska scoffed at him from behind her cards as he'd taken his leave. "Pay him no mind," she said, with a supercilious flick of her hand. "He's never had any stamina."
He'd only gotten as far as pouring himself a glass of water and removing his jacket and jabot when there were footsteps down the hall. Someone was knocking on doors. Miles opened his own and turned toward the other end of the hall.
"Wright?"
"Oh, there you are." As he approached Wright tossed something small at him.
Miles caught it, but ungracefully.
"You left your cellphone downstairs," said Wright. "Wow. I don't think I've seen your neck in twenty years."
He had clearly also been drinking enough to voice the sardonic thoughts Miles had long suspected of him. "Eighteen," he muttered under his breath.
"Huh." Wright, instead of leaving, curiously looked past him inside. "Man—look at this room." He laughed. "I always sort of wondered what your bedroom looked like."
Miles might have been uncomfortable with that, but the last time he'd been in Wright's space he knew he'd had a similar thought. These were the sort of things one thought about rivals and long-lost friends. He and Wright had the misfortune of being both.
They were no longer either, though, were they?
"You really turning in?" asked Wright.
Miles nodded.
"Sure? Poker with Larry is always hilarious."
He nodded again.
Wright shrugged. "Well, thanks for all your help," he said. "Edgeworth, I mean it."
Miles put up a hand in acknowledgement. "I'm not standing in for you again, I hope you know."
"Don't worry." Wright mirrored his wave with a chuckle. "I think I'll look out for cases I don't have so high a stake in from now on."
"I think the both of us could take that advice," said Miles, after a pause.
"Sounds nice, doesn't it?" Wright's face sobered slightly. "This one was rough. Especially on Pearls, and on Maya."
"Naturally," said Miles quietly. He'd observed the case of his own father's murder and could still recall the anguish. But the man had been fifteen years cold before Miles had been tried for it himself. "They'll be alright," he said. If he could be alright, anyone could. "They know how much you care for them. That there are people on their side."
Wright met his eyes. Miles wondered if he still remembered that night in his office as well.
"Yeah," said Wright. "There sure are."
There was a lull.
"And what of the nun?" asked Miles impulsively. "Iris."
"What about her?"
Liquor was worth it, perhaps, for letting him summon the nerve to ask. "Are you going to...rekindle your relationship with her?"
He regretted summoning this nerve immediately. Wright watched him for a moment as he considered the question, an odd, calculating look on his face that made Miles's skin crawl.
Eventually he spoke. "It felt good," admitted Wright, "to find out that some of it was real. For years I was so ashamed of myself, you know? For not noticing Dollie was…"
Miles did know, so deeply he had to snort. If anyone knew, he knew.
Wright looked at him in surprise for a second before cottoning onto the comparison Miles had drawn, and he too let out a morbid laugh. He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. "Yeah, I loved her. Loved Iris, I guess. But that part of my life is over now."
Miles knew about that too.
"Should have left a note, back then," said Wright. "Mediocre art student Phoenix Wright chooses death."
Unsure whether he was meant to feel like he'd been punched in the solar plexus or like this was the funniest thing Wright had ever said, Miles felt both of them at staggering, overwhelming once. He made a choking, laughing, sobbing noise and lowered his face shamefully to his glass. It took a minute to force his mouth back open.
"I know I—worded that poorly," he said to his water. "I should have thought about the worry I would cause—"
"I forgive you," said Wright. His tone sounded careful, practiced. A rarity. He'd gone over this moment in his head, Miles realized dully as he looked back up into his old friend's face.
"Don't," rasped Miles, which was all the argument he had.
Wright could not restrain the roll of his eyes. "I think that's enough self-flagellation, Edgeworth." He rested a warm hand on Miles's shoulder. "Probably for several lifetimes. We all get it, you're sorry."
This still didn't sit right with Miles, and he laboriously strung the words together to say so. "Wright… There's no need to comfort me."
"Fine," said Wright, with a soft huff. "Would I have liked to know you weren't dead? Yeah, of course. It was ridiculous, and it put—us all through the wringer. But I can't blame you for needing time to work things out on your own." He laughed lightly. "And besides, thanks to Larry, now we're even."
Miles sniffed. The trial hadn't done much to soften his frustration with Butz after Wright's brush with death.
"Thank you again, by the way," said Wright. "I can't thank you enough."
"It was nothing," said Miles. He looked back down and rubbed his fingertip along the rim of his glass. "After all, it's not as if I would have run across a burning bridge."
As he said it, as he recalled the desperate, panicked terror that had gripped his chest when he'd crossed the ocean for Phoenix Wright, he couldn't help wondering whether that was true.
Wright shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. "At least one of us is smart."
His hand was still on Miles's shoulder. He'd shifted it at some point, Miles noticed now. Curled it up towards his neck, just the side of the palm touching him. And now he was moving it again. This time they were both focused on it, gaze held, as Wright lay his hand gently against Miles's bare neck.
The kiss came much more swiftly.
Miles quickly stepped back: an awkward, jerky motion that bumped him into the door and knocked it into his wardrobe. He opened his mouth without anything to say.
Wright was faster. "Wow—I'm sorry—"
His laugh was different now, ashamed in an acidic way that made Miles cringe. He was shaking his head just to look away. "I sure misread this situation, didn't I—"
"Stop it," said Miles sharply.
"Edgeworth."
"This…self-flagellation. Enough."
Mirthlessly, Wright snorted. "Come on, I think I deserve a minute of it here."
"No. Stop it." Miles took Wright's chin in hand and turned his face back to look at him.
It took some effort to force the thought out. He'd barely dared think it at all, let alone verbalize it. "Wright, you're not…entirely wrong," said Miles. "I do feel strongly about you." For him. More strongly than he could express. If Wright couldn't blame his words then, he couldn't blame Wright's actions now.
But this was something Miles hadn't ever intended to tell him, for a multitude of reasons he was struggling now to identify. He let go of Wright. "But…" If only he had had the time to put his thoughts on love together, to script and choreograph them like an opening statement, perhaps this could have been less disappointing. Monumentally off-guard as he was, Miles floundered. "I'm…unsure."
"So am I, honestly," admitted Wright.
Miles knit his brow.
Wright glanced away and scratched the back of his neck. "You…it's not like it was when I knew Dollie," he said. "But I don't want it to be. I mean—" He laughed again, bitterly. "How could I?"
"Ah," said Miles softly.
For years he had wondered how Wright seemed so unaffected by trauma. Whether he, in his murder scene of an office, was unnaturally strong; or whether Miles, shaking harder than the ground under his feet, was just unnaturally weak. But this was an interesting note to add to his collection on the subject. Perhaps Wright had just seen more of his weaknesses than Miles had had the chance to see of his. Perhaps romance was Phoenix Wright's earthquake.
"But when I talk to you," Wright said, meeting his eyes again, "sometimes I think... If there's anything in my life that I want to be love, it's you and me."
A striking thing to hear, thought Miles, from a man whose passions for others had run to the suicidal.
Wright shook his head. "Anyway, again, I misread—"
"There was no misreading." Just a difference in perspective, perhaps. A genius attorney seeing something Miles never would have in the same piece of evidence. "If anything, I—was an unclear author."
It hadn't occurred to him that he might ever need to be clear on this particular point. He'd simply put romance out of his mind and left it that way for years. But he had been blind. Wasn't there something to be said for closeness? Miles considered it as he watched Wright consider him. Some things could only be said with touch, and they'd come too far together not to say such things. They'd come too far for so many of the trappings of their old rivalry to keep hanging over them: the stiff formality, the surnames. Phoenix—that was the name of the man who loved him. The man Miles loved, in the way he could.
He leaned his forehead against Phoenix Wright's temple and closed his eyes.
"I should have a talk with the Chief Prosecutor about your clarity," said Phoenix, breath tickling his skin. "This weakens an argument, you know."
"Some things aren't arguments," said Miles.
January 18, 2020
Miles hadn't been to a child's birthday party since he was a child, and very rarely even then. Franziska's, perhaps? He remembered little but doing homework as an excuse to hide from her friends. Surely there would be no comparison even if he remembered. Nine-year-old Franziska von Karma, privileged and spoilt and four years away from her prosecution debut, had lived a wholly different life than nine-year-old Trucy Enigmar, spat out of a legal disaster into the home of a disgraced attorney.
Trucy Wright? The news of her formal adoption had reached him in Zheng Fa, but was still too bizarre a thought.
This mess Phoenix had gotten himself into now had been cause for as much worry and urgency as the near-drowning. Miles had called in every favor he had, pored over every detail of the case, shouted at every person he knew. Even in a system as twisted as this, he had refused to believe that justice was impossible. But it had become clear now that justice would take time. Miles would do so, but with gritted teeth. The more time went by, the more Phoenix Wright seemed to be becoming a different man.
Though Phoenix had been in high spirits today, one would have to be blind not to notice how poorly he was handling this. Miles Edgeworth prided himself on his eyesight. The metaphorical, at least—or perhaps just where his closest friend was concerned. Each time they met, Phoenix was more unkempt. Weirder, flightier, something odd and unhinged in his serenity. At the party he'd been almost unrecognizable. And he'd been drinking since lunch. Trucy hadn't seemed to find it unusual at all. By the time the rest of the guests were gone and she was in bed, Phoenix was so tipsy Miles was nervous he might drop the dishes they were washing.
Phoenix's mind was still on Trucy's party as he set them up in the dish drainer. "Do you think she liked it?"
"Of course," said Miles, as seriously as he could. "I'm not an expert on little girls—" Again, only Franziska, who was far from typical. "—But, yes. I believe so."
"She sounded so excited about that easel you got her, and the paints? Can't wait to see what she'll make. I can't tell you how full of weird ideas this kid is, Miles. My old professors would have loved her."
Miles had to admit, as he glanced over where Phoenix was grinning fondly at the plate he was drying, that fatherhood looked good on him. Or it might have, if disbarment didn't look so dreadful. "Good," he said "I'm glad."
He'd needed Kay's expert consultation to pick out something for Trucy's gift, but his second contribution had been his alone. He had been waiting to bring it up. It was less of a gift and more of a plea, and one Miles knew Phoenix might take offense to. After rinsing the last saucer, he peeled off the dish gloves and withdrew an envelope from his waistcoat pocket.
"For me?" Phoenix hung up his towel and took the envelope with a cheerful whistle. But as he withdrew the check and squinted at it, his face grew more serious. "What's this—a five?" This was stupid. Miles knew his handwriting had been perfectly legible, even to a drunk. "Thousand?"
"Five thousand dollars," muttered Miles. Thankfully he'd suppressed his first impulse to put an even ten. "I knew you'd be hardheaded about this—"
"You really expect me to take this, Edgeworth?"
Miles squared his shoulders and steeled his gaze, summoning his courtroom poise to argue with a friend in this tiny galley kitchen. "You're unemployed. Wright, you cannot raise a child without money."
"I'll have you know; I am employed." Phoenix said this defensively, but hesitated before continuing. "I'm a pianist now."
The reason for hesitance was clear. Miles couldn't stop his stupid mouth falling open. "You're a pianist?"
Phoenix gave him a shrug in return, unable to keep his lips from twitching with a half-suppressed laugh.
"When did you learn?"
"Never."
Still open-mouthed, Miles was speechless.
"It doesn't matter," said Phoenix. He scratched his unshaven chin and picked up his cup of wine. "No one goes to a Russian restaurant for the ambiance."
This was deeply suspicious, but before Miles could formulate an objection, Phoenix spoke again.
"I'm not going to fuck her up, you know," he said, though he didn't turn to meet Miles's eyes. "Like you got fucked up."
Miles was ashamed to be taken aback by the language, but he winced anyway. Phoenix rarely spoke so crassly. Despite the intrigue of seeing whatever useless ramshackle walls the man had come down, Miles thought he liked him better sober. With a filter.
"My childhood is neither here nor there."
At this Phoenix scoffed and looked back to him. It was Miles's turn to avert his gaze. "It's here and there," said Phoenix. "I know you. You know what it's like, to lose your family and be unhappy. You can't let that happen to Trucy." It's compulsive, unspoken.
Miles bristled. "And what's so offensive about an interest in her welfare?"
After a long, silent moment Phoenix put down his glass to grasp both of his shoulders and looked deeply into his face. Strongly and sharply, Miles found himself reminded of the look his friend had given him a year ago before he'd given him a kiss.
"I love her," said Phoenix. "Miles—don't worry."
This, Miles couldn't argue with. There was no man he could trust more to love anyone than the man who'd been able to love him. He couldn't argue that love didn't matter here—or even that it was less important than financial stability. That had been the deficit in his own upbringing, the one that had fucked him up in ways he worried were irreparable. But he could still argue that alone it wasn't enough. "If you love her, you'll want better things for her than a pianist who can't play can give." He grabbed the check from Phoenix's hand and slapped it onto the counter. "I've learned my lesson about accepting help, Wright," he said. Hopefully Phoenix took less time and pain. "Learn yours."
He turned, but took only a few steps before Phoenix pushed himself away from the counter to lean after him. "How about this: I'll work for you."
Miles turned again to look skeptically back. "…In what capacity?"
"Investigation. Consultation. I'll offer my expert opinion as the defense. You can pay me a thousand dollars an hour if you want, but I just want to do something."
On its face this was silly: prosecution wasn't something an unrelated random could wander in and be paid for their contributions to. Miles took his work behavior seriously. But he had to admit... There was something attractive in the notion of he and Phoenix working openly on the same side.
"I'd have to look into how possible that is," he said.
Phoenix smiled, and it was clear he'd had the same thought. "I know you know we make a good team."
Everyone knew they made a good team. Miles had even been receiving his own words of sympathy for Phoenix's disbarment, like he was some kind of war widow. Given the circumstances of their relationship, its existence mainly in relation to the legal sphere—wasn't he?
If they remained only as such, and consequently fell apart, Miles felt it would be a god damn shame.
"You know I'm happy just to be your friend, don't you, Wright?" he said. "We don't need to work together to...be a team."
"Of course I know that." Phoenix chuckled. "Yeah, maybe you're out of the country more often than not these days, but I know all I have to do is nearly die and you'll come running—"
"Phoenix."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know you're very serious. Yes, I know we're friends."
"And if you need help with Trucy, any at all—"
"I have your number."
Miles reached out to lay an affectionate hand between Phoenix's shoulder blades.
"Just promise to let me teach you some piano, when I have the time," he said. "And I trust you'll tell me what this nonsense is about too, of course. But until then—even a Russian restaurant doesn't deserve some fool plunking around at random."
September 30, 2028
The Flying Chapel, by virtue of being a flying chapel, was already two things that Miles had never cared for. But for this afternoon, he was willing to endure. "I like—excuses to get together," he admitted to Phoenix as they leaned against the windows on the vista deck. Seeing his friends without a reason had always been difficult for him to stomach, no matter how much he craved it. Reasons that didn't involve criminal charges were few and far between. "I haven't been to a wedding since the Gumshoes."
Phoenix chuckled. "Well—looks like we'll be at Larry's next, won't we?"
Miles gave a derisive snort. The Butz, unwilling to surrender, had tossed Ellen's bouquet off the side of the deck in the end. "Don't even joke. There's no woman alive I'd wish him on."
"I don't know." Phoenix looked back through the glass into the ballroom, grinning somewhat wistfully. "I think he'd be good at marriage, if he found the right one. Someone as crazy as he is." Miles followed his gaze to where their old friend's gaudy jacket flashed through the crowd.
He had to admit the Sprockets had made a compelling case for compatible craziness. "I'll grant you she might exist," he said. "But—would she be willing to call herself Mrs. Butz?"
Phoenix laughed aloud.
The sun was beginning to set. Earlier and earlier these days, Miles lamented, as he lamented every autumn. But if there was anything going for a flying wedding it was the view of the sky. He and Phoenix gazed out, shoulder to shoulder.
"I shouldn't have teased you about the flowers in court," said Phoenix suddenly, sheepishly and half-into his champagne flute. "That was—low."
Over the years it was rare they directly discussed it—the entire monstrous concept of love and sex and romance, the quagmire of whether they felt it for each other or for anyone. If Phoenix had pursued anyone else, Miles didn't know. Miles had never pursued anyone, but he supposed Phoenix wouldn't know either way.
Once or twice Phoenix had demanded answers of him. That one or twice Miles had tried but got the sense he'd failed to give them. He knew his hesitance toward forging a true romance hurt. He knew it sounded to someone like Phoenix like he loved less, cared less, was willing to sacrifice less.
It was all muddied by the rest of the time they spent being, functionally, no different from any couple. European sightseeing and a daughter's school plays. Admiration and adoration. And, on occasion, when there was no other way to express it, an embrace. A stroke of the fingers, a comforting hand. A kiss to his temple as he hunched in his office chair in the middle of the night.
He'd spoken of it with others. The first awkward nudge from Dick Gumshoe years and years ago; truly agonizing encouragement from Raymond Shields nearly every time they spoke. He pretended not to know Phoenix had been over it in detail with Maya Fey and pretended it didn't matter what she thought. But when they spoke of it together, he and Phoenix, the words had more power. Miles feared things changing. He feared the pressure to label whatever kind of love this was. He feared Phoenix deciding they needed to.
He shook his head.
"I didn't have an argument," he admitted. "The crack about my…love life was definitely uncalled for. But I was no better." He pushed up his glasses and sighed. "I shouldn't indulge you when you're unprofessional."
"We know each other too well now to be professional," replied Phoenix with amusement. "Put us against each other these days and it's personal sniping in minutes."
Miles smiled lightly and glanced back inside. "Time to step back and let the youth grow into that, I suppose." From what he'd seen of Wright's new generation, they were already most of the way there.
The breeze ruffled them and Miles looked back. Phoenix was still fidgeting with his glass, empty now and dangling from his fingers by the base.
"You don't miss being strangers, do you?" he asked. "Or—as good as strangers. Whatever we were then." He laughed—that old insecure, acidic laugh. "You could argue a case without getting into your own business."
Miles scoffed. He'd never once argued a case without getting into his own business, no matter how much he'd convinced his younger self otherwise. All of the passion had come from somewhere deep. His own traumas and euphorias had urged him into the law, and from there into every case he took. Telling a judge his marriage plans was barely a step further. And frankly, Miles liked himself better without the illusion of objectivity.
There was only one reason he'd ever learned to set it aside. "Wright," he said, leaning close enough for his nose to brush Phoenix's hair, "I couldn't miss it less."
Phoenix chuckled softly at his side.
"And you don't miss it, being strangers?" Miles asked. "Before you got stuck with me?" When he'd been free to find a life that suited him, without an emotionally distant, globetrotting prosecutor to worry about.
"Before?" Phoenix laughed. "I've spent twenty-five years following you," he said, voice warm and low and loving. "I don't plan to change direction now."
There was no other way to express it. Miles took Phoenix Wright's familiar hand in his and drew his thumb tenderly back and forth.
("Twenty-seven," he muttered.)
November 10, 2001
Larry snored, so there was little point watching television when it could no longer be properly heard. Neither Phoenix nor Miles had made a move to turn it off.
It was late. Had he ever stayed up this late before? Miles felt a yawn coming on but forced his mouth to remain shut. It stretched out his face and made him look even stupider. Hopefully Phoenix just hadn't been looking at all.
(He hadn't. Phoenix was still staring at the TV, idly petting Missile, who lay peacefully in his lap.)
Miles had always been sensible about bedtime—even when there was a book he wanted to finish—but Phoenix and Larry had laughed when he'd admitted it. They laughed when he admitted a lot of things about himself. It didn't make them like him any less in the end, Miles was sure of that, but he'd developed a sensitivity to it all the same. The last thing he wanted was to be embarrassing. No one's opinion had been important to him until now.
It was a hassle, but worth it. Though Miles had had friends before, none had been close enough to sleep over on his birthday. This was the kind of life other children had, wasn't it? Miles had spent so long trying to convince himself that living like other children was beneath him. Now he knew how stupid that had been. Just because he'd never been able to find something he'd decided to believe it was unnecessary. But now that he knew... Wasn't this the most necessary thing in the world? Friends who'd sing Happy Birthday to you. Friends who'd happily watch every old Signal Samurai episode again just because you hadn't seen them. Friends that wanted to be with you so much they'd sleep on your living room floor. Finding them had been a victory. Keeping them had been what he'd wished on his birthday candles for.
Missile sneezed and Miles reached over Larry to give him a scratch.
In the glow of the TV, Phoenix grinned at him.
Delirious with pride, Miles grinned back.