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When Phoenix Wright met him (nine minutes late) outside the Borscht Bowl Club, he was wearing an unironed court shirt under a hooded sweater. Miles eyed him with distaste. "For god's sake, Wright," he said. "At least shave."
This was his usual greeting these days.
Phoenix gave the ruffles under Miles's chin a flick. "I'm not taking fashion advice from a man who wears this thing on a Saturday." Miles grumbled halfheartedly in annoyance and even more halfheartedly slapped his hand away. Phoenix laughed.
"Do you think I'd look good with a beard, though?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. "I'm considering it."
It infuriated Miles that he might.
They had come in midmorning, before the club was open. Phoenix rattled the key in the lock. "You have to kind of jolt it—there we go." He pushed in the old door, bells jingling. "Ta-da."
Plenty of places had been criminal bases that didn't look it, Miles had to remind himself. Embassies, temples, the damn police building… Frankly he didn't think he'd ever seen a case take place somewhere expected. Here in this bright red-and-gold restaurant, he resolved to keep that in mind.
Phoenix was messing with the thermostat. "I'll have to turn it back when we open," he said. "But I think we can stay just on this side of visible frost, for now."
Miles was starting to realize the ambiance really didn't mean much.
There was a piano at his own home, of course, but he had asked to see this one. He'd had suspicions about its tuning, or lack thereof. And though he had no plans to admit it, he'd wanted a look at the place. Miles had done all the investigation he could from a distance, both from the location and from Phoenix. He was going to come away from this with some understanding of what Phoenix Wright was doing here. So help him god.
His piano-related fears, at least, were justified. Miles tapped middle C and winced. "Good lord."
"That bad?"
Miles took off his jacket and heaved open the lid of the restaurant's surprisingly handsome baby grand. It was almost a shame, he couldn't help thinking, that the thing was being mistreated so. Pulling his flashlight out of his tuning bag, he squinted at the strings. "I can't imagine there's a duster here somewhere?"
Phoenix shrugged. "Neither can I."
With a sigh, Miles fished out his own handkerchief.
It was tedious work, back and forth from the pin to the keys as someone sat there waiting for him to finish. Alone, Miles found tuning sort of a pleasant task. Almost meditative. But here, he found nothing but a deep itch of self-consciousness.
Behind him there was the sound of a bottle uncorking. Miles looked back from the piano strings to see Phoenix lifting it straight to his lips.
"Must you?" he asked.
"You don't want a sip, then?"
He shook his head. "You'll be free to make poor decisions when I'm not here."
It surprised him that he didn't hear the slosh of wine again, but it didn't escape his notice.
Instead, Phoenix stood up and walked around to the back of the piano to look in. "Why do you know how to do this, anyway?" he asked. "You mean you didn't just pay somebody?"
It's not like you don't have the money, Miles heard. People said things like that to him with some frequency. "I prefer to trust my own ear," he said. "Besides, if you tune often enough, it's not this much of an—ngh—" He leaned further in to reach the next string. "—Undertaking."
He looked back again. Phoenix had leaned against the mantel to watch him with heavy-lidded intentness. Miles straightened his waistcoat and tried to put it out of his mind.
As he got closer he found his standards slipping, but it was still nearly noon by the time he finished. He came back around the front to test a few arpeggios. "Well, it's better than it was," he said, an air of resignation in his voice as he started constructing excuses. Better enough for the people who came to this godforsaken place, and he'd done this pro bono.
Phoenix sat in the middle of the piano bench and confidently struck a thoughtless, dissonant chord. "Alright, Professor. I'm ready."
From the lower end, Miles pushed him down the bench. "Move over, then."
They settled in, shoulder to shoulder. Maybe someone smaller could have sat there comfortably, but this bench clearly hadn't been made for two grown men to share. Miles shifted his leg off the outer edge. "Now, do you read music?"
Another chord, this one higher, echoed off the low ceiling. "Not a note."
Unhelpful, of course, but Miles hadn't expected him to. "That's alright, it's quite possible to learn some things by ear." He glanced down at the keys and then back over to Phoenix. "Unless you'd like to learn?" He couldn't help hoping. It was far easier to teach when there was a process to follow.
"Not if I can avoid it."
"Oh, yes," muttered Miles. "If it can be avoided, then of course not."
He straightened his back and hovered his fingers primly above the keys. "This is middle C." Miles struck it again. Far better. "The notes ascend in order." He tapped each as he went. "D, E, just ignore the black keys for now, F—"
"Oh, don't start with all the letters," groaned Phoenix.
"Oh?" Miles paused to look back at him again, more judgmentally this time. "Is that where math lost you too?"
"Ha ha. There's no shame in being a visual learner."
"That sounds like something Larry would say."
"Too far, Edgeworth, too far." Phoenix shook his head. "Even Trucy's a better teacher than you. Here, she showed me this one when she was here last week—"
Miles's eyes widened. "She was here?"
Phoenix paid him no mind. He hit a key but stopped short. "Nope, it's a different one—too many of these stupid things—aha! Heart and soul, I f—"
"Phoenix."
"You don't know the harmony?"
He gazed meaningfully at Miles, who sighed and struck up the jaunty lower part with gritted teeth.
"That's it, perfect." Phoenix resumed the melody. "Heart and soul, I fell in love with youuu… Lost controool… Something something sooo—ooomething, da dum da dum dum dum…" His fingers skipped down the keys towards Miles's end, arm leaning further across him, until Miles grabbed his wrist inches above the keys and firmly held it there.
"I've indulged you. What was your daughter doing here?"
Phoenix shrugged, infuriatingly unruffled. "Keeping me company."
"I looked into the Borscht Bowl Club," whispered Miles, just a moment before realizing how much love and care it betrayed. He shook the embarrassment off with a shake of his head. "This isn't somewhere I'm comfortable with you taking her."
"Oh, I hadn't realized we were co-parenting; my apologies—"
"Wright, this place is a hotbed of criminal activity—"
"Is that what the whispering's about?" Phoenix laughed loudly, just to rub in how little he was worried about being heard. "Of course it's shady. What, you think I just picked this place off the want ads? If I wanted to flip burgers I'd be doing that." He chuckled fondly. "I'm sure Maya'd rather me do that, too."
"Alright." Miles let go of Phoenix and crossed his arms expectantly. "Please explain to me, then, your motivations for choosing a known criminal establishment."
He'd maintained his serious expression, but Phoenix just seemed to find it funny. "First of all, use some sense, Miles," he said with audible amusement. "If you're a criminal, you don't go where everybody knows the criminals go."
Miles snorted. Plenty of criminals, in his experience, were too stupid to think it through.
"Most of us are honest, hardworking people who just want a nice bowl of cold beets. Anyways, second of all—I'm looking into Gavin."
"The teenager?" Miles had been backwards and forwards over the Gramarye case, had run the prosecutor through a fine-toothed comb. "Have you found something?"
Phoenix shook his head. "Kristoph."
Miles stared back into his face and furrowed his brow. It took him a second. "…You suspect him. Of setting you up."
"And I can't prove it yet."
This thought overwhelmed Miles into silence. He had met Kristoph Gavin once and quite enjoyed his company—but on the other hand, he knew he had a history of rather grievous errors in character judgment. Not everyone could carry mystical artifacts around to help, after all. "Why do you expect to find proof here?"
"He happens to be a regular." Phoenix shrugged. "We're friends now, at his insistence. We play. It's the closest I've seen him get to letting his guard down."
"...You play the piano?"
For just a moment, Phoenix hesitated. "Come on." He stood and clapped Miles on the back. "I'll show you where I really work."
Where Phoenix really worked, apparently, was nowhere near the piano. It was nowhere near the vaguely charming service area of the restaurant at all, instead down a thin staircase in the dim basement. The possibilities raced through Miles's head. The man had gone out of his way to keep this secret, after all, so it couldn't possibly be harmless, could it? It was ridiculous to think. Phoenix Wright was the most tirelessly moral man Miles knew.
But, then again—was this still the Phoenix Wright Miles knew? Each time they met now he found himself wondering.
They came out into a tiny, crumbling room. Phoenix spread out his arms like a proud artist at his gallery opening, and leaned casually against the center table. "Welcome to the Hydeout."
Miles peered out the little window into the stairwell. "And what, precisely, hides out here?"
"People come to play poker with me," said Phoenix. "That's my real job."
For a second this was almost even stupider than the piano. "I hadn't realized that was a job," said Miles.
"I'm undefeated. Brings in a lot of business."
The undefeated record of Prosecutor Godot came suddenly to mind. Miles arched his brows. "You've actually played, I hope?"
"Yep. Eight-month hot streak so far. I've got a reputation now." Phoenix gave him a faint smirk. "You know a little something about that, don't you?"
Yes, of course. He knew something about being demonized in the media, beaten by a rookie, and then, shortly after, framed for murder.
"So you're gambling," said Miles shortly.
"Not technically," said Phoenix. Clearly he'd prepared his defense ahead of time. "We don't play for money; it's all above board—"
Miles glanced up at the ceiling where the restaurant lay above them. It was all, quite literally, below board. "Then why cover it up?" He scoffed viciously. "Do you think I'm as naïve as your daughter?"
"No," said Phoenix, "but I didn't think you thought so little of me."
He shouldn't have been surprised to hear something so sharp, but Miles was speechless nonetheless. Phoenix had been bringing this feeling out in him quite frequently these days. Perhaps an amount of his post-disbarment personality shift was simply for obfuscation.
Shameful, Miles thought, that it worked even on him.
"Hand to god, I'm not breaking the law. And I am good at poker." Phoenix's smirk was back. "Want a lesson?"
Miles shook his head. "As I'm not currently employed as a professional poker player, I believe I can live without one."
Phoenix laughed heartily. "I can't tell if you're angrier that I'm involved in all this, or just that I dare represent myself as a pianist."
"I can be angry at both," muttered Miles.
"Oh, I'd never doubt that you can." His voice was smooth, but Phoenix betrayed his nervousness as he picked up a deck of cards to fidget with. "To—answer your earlier question," he said, "Trucy helps me."
This was stupider than both the piano and the poker. Miles raised his eyebrows. "She's nine."
"She reads people. Better than you or me." Phoenix looked away. "It's not just intuition, it's—something else."
"What do you mean; like that Fey trinket you have?" The psycho-locks didn't stack the deck enough?
He tossed his cards tensely in an overhand shuffle. "I know it doesn't make sense to you, but…"
"No, I understand perfectly," replied Miles. "In the process of gambling, you're also exploiting a child."
Phoenix scoffed. "Oh, don't be dramatic. It's no worse here than the Wonder Bar."
Oh, for god's sake. Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dare I ask?"
"Hey, she was doing that before me." Phoenix shrugged. "Kid magician, hell of a gimmick. Truce does well for herself."
Despite his disapproval, Miles couldn't help but be touched by the warm pride in his friend's voice.
The warmth was still there in Phoenix's next words. "You're disappointed in me."
Miles lifted his eyes to gaze into his friend's, searching. "Shouldn't I be?"
"I don't know." Phoenix set down his cards, smoothing out the sides into a perfect block. "It's just a shame losing my badge changed so much for you."
This time Miles was able to reply, probably just because this time the charge was more patently untrue. "Don't be ridiculous," he said sternly.
"Am I?"
"Wright." He kept staring him down. "You know very well you—haven't been yourself." I liked you the way you were.
"Huh." A mirthless smile twitched at the edge of Phoenix's lips. "I guess that's fair. But listen, Miles." He met Miles's gaze again, more confidently. "If I was still, as you so condescendingly put it, myself, I'd be a wreck. I wouldn't be able to get out of bed."
"I disagree," hissed Miles. Which of them had not once given up? Had been unwilling as long as they'd known each other to succumb to despair? It was preposterous that in this situation he was the hopeful one. He refused to entertain the thought.
Phoenix took his hand, soothingly warm in the frigid basement. "It means a lot that you would."
"Phoenix—"
He shook his head and went on. "And as I haven't got the money to fake my death and leave the country—"
"I did not fake my—" Whatever, it wasn't important. "Fine," said Miles. "Change all you want. Keep yourself alive. I...just don't understand why you wouldn't tell me everything."
Phoenix broke into a laugh. "Couldn't possibly be that icy glare of judgment."
Miles opened his mouth, but thankfully was able to stop himself from denying that he had such a glare whilst using it. It didn't stop Phoenix knowing he'd been about to. He laughed again.
"I didn't want to get you involved, obviously," he said, glancing down at their hands.
Rage licked at the inside of his throat as Miles drew in a long breath.
"How dare you?" he snapped. "Did you not think I'd want to help you?!" He placed his other hand on Phoenix's unshaven cheek, forced his face up. "Wright, I've been able to think of nothing but!" He'd assumed it was only obvious how many sleepless nights he'd put into the case. Phoenix knew him, didn't he?
"Yeah, of course," said Phoenix. "But...within the law. And that's fine." His amusement had softened into a gentle smile. "That's your job. But it isn't mine anymore, and I don't plan on getting you disbarred with me if I have to...toe the line."
Miles let go of Phoenix's face and exhaled heavily, the helpless fury of it all crashing back on him in a massive wave. "This is so stupid," he spat. "Anyone can tell you're innocent, but the evidence, it only goes so far—" The words of the erstwhile Yatagarasu drifted out of his memory, flotsam in the wake of the anger. There was a limit to what the law could do.
God help him if Phoenix set down their path.
"...I've been thinking about that, actually," said Phoenix.
Oh no—
"Plenty of countries give anyone a voice in conviction, don't they?"
"What do you mean?" Miles's first thought was low standards for judicial careers, but he got there eventually. "A jury?"
"Exactly."
He considered. If they were really up against Kristoph Gavin, there was no doubt the man could maneuver evidence into whatever he wanted. But he did have a certain elitist nerve that it seemed possible the layfolk could play on. A nerve that Miles could recognize, of course, as the same one he'd long been trying to rip out of himself.
"Jurors aren't stupid, Phoenix," he said. "You're—charismatic, yes, but you still haven't got a real case."
"That's why I'm here looking for one," said Phoenix. "And if you've really been able to think of nothing but me..."
Miles looked away, embarrassed. "I'll be in France this summer," he said. "And England after that. I'll look into it." See what of the system could be adapted. If any of it would be an easy sell.
Phoenix squeezed his hand and let go.
A short silence stretched between them. Phoenix broke it. "What's the easiest song you've got?" he asked.
Miles, who had specifically run an internet search the night before for easy-to-learn piano solos, was too wary to admit it. "What for?"
"I've been thinking I should learn one song, at least," said Phoenix, in a sheepish sort of way. "Just in case anyone gets pushy about wanting to hear one."
"Yes," replied Miles, now with less annoyance and more amusement. "How dare anyone expect you to do your job?"
"I know, I know." Phoenix waved it off and laughed lightly. "Heart and Soul just isn't any good with only me."
It hadn't been any good with only Miles either, on Manfred Von Karma's shining piano instead of his father's antique upright. "Alright," he said, and stood from the old poker table. "Come back upstairs. I think it's time someone introduced you to Beethoven."