Work Text:
Present
Phoenix looked around himself miserably, taking in the scene of destruction: two ruined canvasses, a busted speaker, and Miles gripping his elbow hard enough to bruise. "How did this happen?" he whispered.
Miles sank down amidst the debris, suddenly terribly weary. "It's been a long time in the making, and it long predates your involvement," he said. "It all began seven months ago..."
7 Months Ago
"In closing, I am confident that a modern art exhibit would be an excellent investment in not only the future of the museum, but in our country's great culture. Any questions?" World-renowned art conservator Miles Edgeworth clicked to the last slide of his presentation. He surveyed the assembly, a theater hall filled with donors and directors of the Von Karma Fine Arts Museum. He himself had started as a tour guide, working weekends while attending art school. It had taken him the better part of a decade to gradually work his way up to his current post as the museum's head conservator, building both his restoration skills and his confidence along the way.
Now, waiting for the vote, he was sure his logic was unassailable: Modern art would not only draw in a new visitors, it would revitalize the region's art scene. With a show of hands, the voting was underway.
"All in favor?" the organizer announced.
A smattering of hands went up, not nearly enough, and an uneasy pit settled in Miles's stomach.
"All opposed?"
He had misjudged his audience. Raised on a lifetime of comfort and familiarity, these people had no interest in changing the museum, modern art or otherwise. From the front row, Manfred von Karma smiled with all teeth and no warmth. "Thank you for an excellently researched, thoughtful proposal," he said with a sneer. "I will think on your recommendations."
"You humiliated me before the entire art community," he admonished Miles in private, his tone clipped and angry. "I can no longer have you representing the museum." The letter of termination was delivered to his office before the day was out.
7 Weeks Ago
He was weary before the day was out. On his first morning at his new job, Miles stared forlornly at the dated walls and chipped quarry tile. The three-room county museum in Cornflower County had none of the opulent elegance of the Von Karma Museum. "I'd better get used to it," he mumbled dourly. "This is my new life."
He plastered a smile on his face, shook hands with the director, and made mental note of the obvious forgery in the central gallery.
"Something the matter?" museum director Andrews asked him, seeing his perturbed expression.
"I, ah, that is. Not at all," he stammered out. There would be a day when he could renovate the museum, when he'd look forward to merrily dumping that forgery on the trash heap, but not today. It would not do to start off his new job by making an enemy; he had learned that lesson all too recently. He spent his first day reading about the fifty-odd pieces housed in the modest museum and making a shopping list of supplies for their upkeep, begrudgingly added supplies for the forged Seurat as well.
At promptly six in the evening, he packed his briefcase, climbed into his car with his single suitcase still in his trunk, and pulled out the smudged napkin with the address hastily scrawled on it. He'd written in the night before in a hand as disordered as his mind, without looking at the paper. All the faster for him to forget.
His car turned off the main road onto an unpaved dirt path, its every jolt threatening to shake loose his barely-restrained despair. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel by the time he reached the ramshackle cottage with the shirtless man crouched in front.
At the sound of the engines, the man straightened up, a pallet of flowers in one hand and a shovel in the other. Chunks of his black hair hung loose and gleaming around his face, framing gentle eyes and a glowing smile. His bare chest was smudged with sweat and dirt; the muscles stretched when he moved. "You must be Miles," he said brightly.
With inhuman effort and an iron will, Miles wrenched his gaze up to the man's eyes. "Verily," he answered, then internally kicked himself. Of all days for his short-circuiting brain to default to his most formal Victorian manners!
The man snickered, each breath a little ripple of joy, and Miles found he couldn't stay angry. "I'm Phoenix Wright, and I'll be your new roommate," the man said.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Miles replied automatically, all of von Karma's training continuing to spill from his mouth. He winced.
"No need to be so tense," the man answered, his easy smile growing. "I heard you're a conservator! I'm an aspiring artist; I hope we'll become friends! There's ratatouille in the microwave. Let me show you to your room." He took Miles's suitcase without asking, and unthinkingly, Miles let him.
Beautiful, thoughtful, and an aspiring artist, Miles mused, tugging at his jabot which suddenly felt too warm. Perhaps they'd get along.
7 Days Ago
"I can't believe I thought we'd get along!" Phoenix fumed. "I try and I try to accommodate, but you're not grateful for a thing. You don't even notice any of it!"
"Oh, because not blasting music late into the night is such a sacrifice, when you have all day to listen to that noise to your heart's content," Miles scoffed with his arms crossed and one finger tapping impatiently.
"You're judgmental too. Did anyone ever tell you that? And snobby!"
"Any more of my glowing qualities you'd like to unload off your chest, Wright?"
"Well, since you asked, sure! You're strict as a Victorian and just as repressed, with your absolute silence after nine. Honestly!"
Miles frowned. "Some of us need to go to work in the mornings, unlike you, living off your savings—"
"More like my settlement. For being a victim of attempted murder!" Phoenix spat.
"I—oh. Erm. I apologize," Miles mumbled.
Phoenix looked away. "I didn't mean to say that part out loud," he sighed.
Miles sighed too. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't resent you for who you are," he said quietly.
"What can we do about this situation?" Phoenix pondered. "Your day begins at five and ends at nine. My day begins sometime before noon, mostly, and ends in the early hours of the morning, and I like to rock out to The Gavinners. What can we do?"
"You needn't concern yourself over it much longer," Miles said pragmatically. "If all goes well, in a few days' time, I'll be headed back to Germany."
"What?" Phoenix asked, alarmed.
Miles led Phoenix to his room, to a parcel leaning against the wall, shrouded in packaging. Slowly, reverently, he unwrapped it layer by layer, revealing a tortured visage upon a scroll in faded, peeling paint. "Ecce Homo," he breathed. "Behold the man. It seems my mentor could find no other conservator with my skill, and he has made me an offer. If I restore this painting, he will allow me to return to the Von Karma Museum and resume my role as head conservator there."
"Oh no, I. . . oh god! I mean, I'm. . . happy for you," Phoenix stammered, looking oddly crestfallen.
7 Hours Ago
"I'm happy to see you can prepare a meal! What's this for?" Phoenix asked, stumbling into the kitchen, just a few minutes shy of noon.
"Picnic basket. Sunday special," Miles answered, and even made an attempt to smile. The table was set with a gingham cloth, a bouquet of sunflowers set to one side. A basket of strawberries sat next to a heaping plate of deli sandwiches, and a pitcher of lemonade completed the spread.
"It's not much," Miles said apologetically. "Merely a small token of my appreciation. You've been very kind to me. Consider this a small gesture of my gratitude, and to say good-bye."
"It's perfect," Phoenix said sadly. "Like your work." His eyes flickered to Miles's workbench with the painting nearly completed. The painted figure stared back in vivid reds and tans, the crown upon his brow a deep, rich green. Phoenix glowered at it.
"Your work is quite good as well," Miles said, breaking into his thoughts.
Phoenix brightened immediately. "Oh! Is it?" he mumbled, pleased and pink to the tip of his ears. "I'm never as good as the works in the museum," he added. "Can't quite get the faces and hands. But since you've been here, seeing how hard you work, and how damn good you are... it inspires me too. I've gotten a lot better just being around you."
"Phoenix," Miles murmured, feeling very warm. In a surprising flash of boldness, he reached out and took his companion's hand, and rubbed his thumb gently over Phoenix's fingers one by one. "I may be technically skilled at restoring hands, but you have something I do not." He grasped Phoenix's hand tightly in his, dredging up the words from deep within himself. "Your works are bursting with originality, with life. And that's something that no amount of tracing faded hands can replicate."
"Wow," Phoenix breathed. "Thanks! Miles... I don't know what to say." He was leaning in, his eyes sparkling, and Miles found himself leaning in too.
A loud buzz broke them apart. "I beg your pardon," Miles exclaimed, fumbling out the offending device. He fled the room, all too relieved to take the call.
Phoenix frowned at the sight of Miles hurrying off to update von Karma on his progress. "I'll be sad when you're gone," he sighed, when Miles was safely out of earshot. "These few weeks were the highlight of my life."
7 Minutes Ago
"Just a couple more highlights," Miles mumbled under his breath, delicately dipping the barest tip of his brush in Titanium White with intense focus, when at the worst possible time—
"HE SNATCHED MY HEART!" the speaker blared from right next to Miles.
"Aaaaaghh!" Miles jumped, upsetting his entire palette all over the painting.
Phoenix came running out of his room. "Sorry!" he gasped. "I bumped my phone and it switched from headphones to the speaker! Miles, are you ok? Um... Miles?"
Miles lifted up the overturned palette in utter devastation. Bright, saturated colors lay smeared over the canvas, blotting out the gentle folds of the figure's robe and the textures of his skin. A horrid red gash disfigured the man's face, and in a haze of rising fury, Miles thought the man quite resembled a murder victim.
7 Seconds Ago
"—And you're a mediocre artist!" Miles screamed murderously, flinging the speaker at Phoenix. It flew past him and crashed into the canvas behind him, and only then, too late, did Miles see: the painting was of him—
Present
"That about sums it up," Phoenix said, sitting down with a huff. "I guess I'm not very good at painting, am I? I call it abstract, but honestly it's just bad."
Miles bristled at the wording. "What do you mean, about right? Which part of it is wrong?"
A small smile tugged at Phoenix's lips, sad and just a bit shy. "It actually started seven years ago..."
7 Years Ago
High school senior Phoenix drifted through the glittering rooms of the Von Karma Fine Arts Museum, surrounded in every direction by world-famous pieces, and seeing none of it. "On your left, you'll find a collection of works from Picasso's Blue Period," the tour guide was saying, and he was all Phoenix could think about. The guide was a young man about his age who must have been part of the museum's sculpture collection, come alive and stepped off his pedestal.
Phoenix shook his head, clearing away the dreamy daze. The tour was ending, and he didn't even know the man's name! He sprinted after him. "Wait!" he called out.
"May I help you?" the man asked distantly.
"Erm... may I have... the museum's number?" Phoenix settled on.
The breathtaking man politely handed him a business card. "Call this number if you have inquiries about the museum's collection, to purchase a piece, or to lend a piece for display," he said formally.
"I—alright, I'll call about a, um, piece for display soon," Phoenix improvised, mentally declaring a major in the fine arts.
With a quick, professional nod, the man was gone, burgundy tailcoats sweeping behind him.
Their hands hadn't even touched. Phoenix stared after him, captivated, cursing the moment his courage failed.
Present
"Ah," Miles said, lost for words.
"Yeah," Phoenix mumbled.
"... I have to go," Miles blurted awkwardly. Without waiting for a response, he shot into his room and slammed the door.
He spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, wondering how he could salvage the situation. Judging by the shuffling in Phoenix's room, he wasn't getting any sleep either. Phoenix's dejected face swam through his mind, interspersed with Von Karma's sneer, the two of them forming a dissonant duet. You humiliate me, his mind's von Karma said coldly. It's perfect, like your work, his internal Phoenix whispered from much too close, with unnecessary intensity. His breath was a warm puff on Miles's ear, and Miles imagined a warm hand on his shoulder to accompany it, and he shivered in unearned delight. The imaginary Phoenix turned Miles's face with two gentle fingers just barely touching his jaw. Why are you prostrating yourself for his approval when you have all of mine, he whispered against his lips, and in the next second Phoenix was kissing him, soft but hungry little presses urging his mouth open. His powerful arms surrounded Miles's back, pulling him in flush, and Miles melted into that perfect, dirt-smudged chest...
He awoke with a start.
It was noon, and Phoenix was nowhere to be seen.
Struck with inspiration, Miles sprang out of bed, into Phoenix's room, and grabbed the dented painting.
When Phoenix returned several hours later, he gasped out loud.
"Surprise!" Miles said, because he was much too dignified to shout, but not too dignified to be wearing an all-white formal tux and holding a massive bouquet of red roses as wide as the door, because director Andrews said it would be romantic.
Phoenix took the roses silently, his eyes filling with tears as he gazed around the room: floaty white gauze and fairy lights covering the walls, little tables set with trays of cheese cubes and tiny flutes of champagne, and the paintings from his room, framed and hung on the walls, with his painting of Miles expertly restored.
"Welcome to your first gallery," Miles announced softly, his voice a touch hoarse.
"Miles... you didn't have to do all this," Phoenix murmured, beaming in pure, disbelieving joy.
"Of course I did. I should never have taken you for granted, nor valued von Karma's judgment over yours. Art isn't about how much value you own in a display case. It's always been about people: you, me, and the artist, having a conversation through time and space. And..." Miles took a deep breath, gathering up every ounce of courage he'd ever had. "I will do all that is in my power to dismantle the time and space between us."
"I want to apologize too. Von Karma made the biggest mistake of his life letting you go. If you were mine, I'd do anything to keep you. Though my attempt is rubbish next to all this," Phoenix said, gesturing at the room. Nervously, he brought out Miles's painting, keeping it face down. "I had a try at restoring it... it didn't come out too great."
When Miles turned the painting over, he couldn't help but laugh. Phoenix was right, the restoration was terrible. A blank, cartoonish face stared back at him, the skin resembling a greenish sludge, the lopsided mouth set in a dopey grin. A mane of porcupine quills surrounded the figure's head, all that remained of the unfortunate man's hair, beard, and crown. Miles laughed in surprised, appalled delight. "Thank you, Phoenix. What am I to do with it? With you?" he wheezed.
"You could send that back to von Karma," Phoenix suggested, flicking his head at the portrait. "It would be the nerdiest, classiest fuck you ever sent. And as for me," he continued, his voice going soft and low, sending a shiver down Miles's spine that he couldn't hide. Phoenix leaned in close, his breath tickling Miles's ear just like he'd dreamed. "I have a few ideas," he said with a wink.