Chapter Text
One of the most ancient forms of artwork, the art of tattooing was established somewhere around five thousand years before the common era. The earliest evidence of tattooing in human culture can be found on clay figurines unearthed from Japanese tombs and Egyptian statuettes and depictions carved into sandstone burial chambers. A global phenomenon, the oldest discovered tattooed bodies can be traced to corpses exhumed in the Pazyryk tombs from the sixth century BC in Siberia and a mummified individual uncovered in the Italian-Austrian border, estimated to have died somewhere around five thousand years ago. These breakthrough discoveries suggested that not only was tattooing an integral part of human history, but that multiple civilizations, stretching thousands of years apart and having no contact with one another, all used tattooing in varying forms for some purpose. A collective consciousness branching aeras.
The synchronicity of tattooing can be juxtaposed with another ornate practice which has developed alongside the evolution of mankind.
Arranging flowers can be dated back near five thousand years past to the period of the Ancient Egyptians. Woven into fine displays, antediluvian wildflowers were used in burials, religious offerings, royal processions and for personal decoration. Flower arranging became an artform in its own right, used to convey emotions where words failed or could not be used. A language of flowers developed with each type of flower holding a symbolic meaning. In the time of the Ancient Egyptians and the old gods, flowers such as the lotus flower were considered sacred to the head goddess Isis. Roses were the preferred choice for the Ancient Romans, who used the strongly scented blossoms in religious rites and grand banquets. Buddhists in Ancient China created arrangements using flowers which represented longevity and fertility. Peonies were long considered both the ‘king of flowers’ by Tang Dynasty royalty and the flower of love in common folklore.
By the Victorian period, flower arranging had become a profession and the language of flowers blossomed into a tactful way to deliver inferred messages when the atmosphere of the time regarded direct emotional expressions as indecorous.
The two professions of tattooing and flower arranging evolved alongside one another in their own spheres, interrelating infrequently until the rise of modernity. Flowers are often seen embroidered into the skin in fine ink, each delicate petal and curved leaf fastidiously woven into elegant and extravagant, monochrome and rainbow designs. As each carefully crafted tattoo has meaning to its owner and is used to express some part of themselves, so too the tacit language of flowers remains an exercised, wordless dialect.
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Miles Edgeworth was the proud proprietor of Edgeworth florists, a respectable, distinguished establishment that catered to the discerning tastes of members of high society. Edgeworth’s was a renowned flower shop which had been a staple in the city for some thirty years prior to the founder’s, the current owner’s highly respected father, early retirement.
One who entered the luxurious, contemporary shoppe through the foliage twined gateway for the first time would immediately be hit by the thousandfold scent of exotic and universal flowers. Every surface was kept pristine and meticulously clean. Row upon row of flowers layered the tall, baroque walls, separated by shade, species and meaning. Miles, following his father’s footsteps and guidance exactly, knew the names and connotations of each thriving floret. Customers flocked to his venerable shop and Miles catered to their needs skilfully and efficiently. For those regulars wanting to express friendship and trust, garlands of emerald green ivy and bouquets of violet irises and delicate lilies of the valley. The other halves of young couples, ripened in romance and high on life, relied on his guidance to express their fervour. Miles picked out and arrayed conspicuous camellias, striking morning glories, the classic crimson roses and flamboyant tulips. Celebrators of promotions and other personal achievements left with bouquets of gerberas and orchids. Happier couples who came in hand in hand were guided to bright and florid crocuses or any number of the other lily varieties kept in stock. Other patrons, draped in all black, their grieving faces downcast in quiet reflection, Miles professionally and courteously arranged funeral bouquets of cyclamens, hyacinthe, marigolds, poppies and rosemary.
There was one emotion communicated by the flowers Miles worked with that he had not personally experienced himself. An idealistic, quixotic, amorous kind that, although he wondered briefly if he was indeed besotted, the ardent sensation faded quickly. Carnations, gardenias, heliotrope, sunflowers, sorrel and salvia were the species selected to articulate this foreign feeling that Miles would not encounter and cling onto until his twenty sixth year.
That emotion, one would not be surprised to learn, was love.
For Miles was no stranger to liaisons. Quite the opposite in fact. The aloof, self-sufficient and downright handsome florist was talk of the town. Many admirers tried their luck and Miles would scarcely entertain them, not that many were ever successful in garnering his attention. Those he did consider he did so only to distract himself for a time, only lasting two weeks at most and never advancing into what could be considered a relationship. Miles preferred his career and the relative solitude it provided him, electing not to engage in an active dating life and instead spending hours alone inside his shop crafting magnificent displays, stopping only to savour a cup of freshly brewed tea. Flowers did not spin lies nor gambol in histrionics as people did. They were taciturn and dignified and were not in need of socializing, much like the owner, and in such his reserved but polite, logical and cold attitude that was the staple of his personality became well known and something of a local challenge to those who would seek to attain his inaccessible heart.
If he looked back, Miles Edgeworth could recount the exact moment a curiosity awakened and developed toward love and the unseemly art of tattooing. It was when he first laid eyes upon that man, probing around the confines of his flower shop, Atlantic blue eyes tracking over the keenly fashioned displays and posed arrangements in open admiration. It had been a particularly quiet day. A evening Friday, to be precise, some thirty minutes before closing. The florist was cutting a bouquet for his own apartment, carefully shearing away dishevelled leaves and wilting heads. Amaryllis and chrysanthemums, two favoured species that flowered brilliant shades of wine red. His sole customer was examining some passionflowers growing on stakes near the crystal clear windows, vines, petals and sepals basking in the faint traces of sunlight piercing the swirling clouds. The crimson clad florist quietly continued to prepare the bunch, keeping an eye on his single customer and analysing him from afar. Wearing a royal blue two piece suit, burgundy tie, and crisp white shirt, the man was likely the same age as him or somewhere around it, and stood an inch or two shorter than him. Black hair sleeked back from his forehead into spikes, inset his handsome, sun kissed countenance lay glazed sapphires that continuously flicked over the resplendent displays to glance at the observing owner. Miles’ lips piqued into a slight smirk, amused by the other man’s sheepish reaction when their eyes met.
Whoever this inquisitive, peculiar patron was, he was exactly Miles’ type.
Perhaps it was because he had been single for quite some time, mostly due to refusing to divorce his independence, the rest down to his inability and reluctance to handle feelings he deemed unnecessary, that drove the florist to stop and admire the other man. The ravenhead continued to browse the flowers, appearing more lost and dumbfounded by the second the longer he remained unattended in the refined flower shoppe. Again those oceanic eyes wandered to him, hanging onto him longer, tracking him up and down from his perfectly kempt hair to his polished shoes and swiftly looking away, wide eyed and flustering hotly. Miles was no stranger to being admired. Still, being checked out so brazenly would typically leave a sour taste in his mouth. However, whoever this man was and whatever his real purpose for being there could be, his unexpected attention mustered no ill sensation in the pit of his guts.
Opting to continue his personal arrangement later, Miles approached the confused man, who practically yelped upon realising the statuesque owner had shifted from his previous position to stand directly behind him. “Good afternoon, sir. May I be of any assistance?” It was the standard greeting his father taught him to use for any client. Courteous and open ended, allowing the unpressured customer to respond with ease should they choose to.
Initially the spiky haired man stared blankly back at him, trying to affix a tangible response. Miles patiently waited, arms folding over his chest. Then he replied, flashing a coy grin. “Oh, hey! Um. Yeah. I’m uh… looking to get some flowers.”
Miles rose a pointed eyebrow, refraining from indicating to the multiple rows. Well, he’d certainly come to the right place, was what a less decorous man would respond. Instead Miles nodded curtly and answered, “Of course. Are they for a special occasion?”
Again a vacant stare met his eyes. Now Miles was tapping a finger upon one scarlet sleeve. “N-no. I just thought they’d brighten up my workplace…” the customer ultimately admitted, rubbing the back of his head and tearing his rapt gaze from Miles. Ah, so that was what had him so tongue tied.
Miles proceeded to detail the various flowers and what options he would recommend for a multitude of occasions, the discussion remaining thoroughly one sided.
Nodding like a drooping flowerhead caught in an autumnal breeze, the customer eventually pointed to a selection of aureate flowers and softly said, “I kinda like big, bright ones. Like those. Err… they’re sunflowers, right? Sorry, I don’t know a thing about flowers.” Another shamefaced smile broached those pert lips.
Forgiving the other man’s admitted ignorance to proudly show off his own knowledge, Miles followed his gesture and unfolded his arms. “Those are Helianthus debilis. Commonly known as beach sunflowers.”
“Alright. Can I have some of those?”
“Certainly. Six with a dozen white Cosmos bipinnatus should make a humble and appealing arrangement.”
Immediately he got to work preparing the bouquet, taking the brightest sunflowers and trimming the stalks to an appropriate length. Tailing him around the store like a lost puppy surrounded by a towering wilderness, the patron stopped next to the counter and watched Miles perform his work, tracing every careful, skilful movement of his fingers.
“What kind are your favourite?” the customer blurted out.
Miles looked up from the luminous yellow and creamy white florae, scrutinizing the man and his abrupt question. Was this some attempt to initiate flirtatious commentary, or was this unpretentious individual just interested in him beyond the untouchable mien and uncongenial reputation? There was little to gain from revealing such trivial details about himself to a man he had met not ten minutes prior.
Whatever the authentic purpose for the query, he answered candidly. “…If I had to limit myself to a single kind I would have to choose chrysanthemums.”
“Chrysanthemums…” the oblivious customer repeated, casting his azure eyes around the store and throwing an entreating look to the erudite florist.
Miles pointedly glanced to the flowers he had been preparing earlier. “There is a small arrangement on the counter.”
“The large red ones?”
“Indeed.”
Those striking cerulean eyes fell upon the bouquet, tracking over every delicate, primed petal and glossy leaf. A hand rested under his chin in open contemplation. Miles continued to prepare the beach sunflowers and Mexican asters, quietly dissecting the customer’s interest, equal parts fascination and curiosity.
“They’re really something. I like the rows of petals.” The spiky haired customer eventually decided, lips tugging into a firm grin. “I’ll try drawing them sometime.”
Calculating how much the total was for the flowers, whilst continuing to deduce what profession the customer worked in, using his newest informative statement to establish a groundwork to build upon, Miles finished tying the stems in a scarlet ribbon and said, “combined with the vase the total will come to thirty dollars.”
“That’s… a lot less than I was expecting.” The other man replied in a chuckle. Miles refrained from mentioning he had discounted it, placing the flowers in a baroque vase on his own expense. The customer sifted through his wallet and paid using a credit card.
Determining he had gathered enough evidence to support his theory, Miles checked the payment was cleared and asked the ravenhead, “so you are an artist?”
“I guess you could call me that.” His client remarked, admiring the immaculately assembled bouquet and placing it back on the counter. Diving into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a rather outdated model of phone, “I have some of my work on my phone I could show you?”
“I would appreciate that, if you would be so amenable.” Miles agreed. The florist was unaware that a new gallery had opened in town. Frequenting most fine art exhibitions upon their opening, Miles deliberated exactly what form of art this blithe newcomer specialized in. A man who he still had not ascertained the name of. Aiming to correct this, he questioned, “…Mr…?”
“My name’s Phoenix Wright,” the customer introduced himself. The name settled on Miles’ tongue and seared itself into his mind. Wright, a surname deriving from Britain. Nothing untoward about that. The given name ‘Phoenix’ however… perhaps his parents were equally artistic minded, or fanciers of Greek mythology. “You’re Miles Edgeworth, aren’t you?” Wright asked, the grin he wore faltering slightly.
“You know of me?”
“Yeah.” Wright nodded. “I moved here a couple of weeks ago, once the lease for my business and apartment were settled. I’ve… heard people talking about you.”
“I wonder what manner of talk you must hear.” Miles observed.
Wright’s eyes widened, a bead of sweat cascading down his forehead. “Urk! N-nothing bad! Honestly!” he hastily informed, shaking his head. The rubicund blush that crept over his cheeks now conquered every inch of his tanned face. “I mean, it kind of spurred me on to come meet you myself.”
“…You were going to show me your art, Mr Wright.” Miles said in a cool, civil manner.
Regathering his fortitude, the newly introduced Phoenix Wright handed over his phone to him, opened on his gallery for his perusal. “R-right… here. This is the newest piece I’m working on.”
Taking the archaic device in his hands, Miles scrutinized the artwork submitted before him. Furrowing his brows, ashen irises glided over each indelible, jet black line etched onto a beige canvas. It was unfinished, with large sections hosting only the thin outlines of a strange, Lovecraftian design. Concomitantly diabolical and beautiful. Every sleek scale and jagged claw and bulging eye was drawn without fault, waves of emerald green and pelagic blue steadily filling the sculpted flesh.
Initially the intricate eldritch piece beguiled Miles, if not for the subject matter but for the sheer quality of the linework and salient colours. Then it dawned on him exactly what he was looking at. The florist could not suppress the palpable scowl stealing its way across his face.
“M-mrph…! I see. You’re… a tattoo artist.” Miles eked out, handing the phone back to its owner.
Wright did not notice the irked tone. “Yeah. Do you like them?”
“I have no significant opinion on the subject.” Miles tersely replied. It was not a lie, not quite. Miles had never put much thought into tattooing, deeming the entire area as little more than childish barbarity. To have a tattoo was unprofessional and distasteful, treating one’s body akin to a youth’s sticker book. Whatever attraction Miles felt toward the thorny haired man dwindled the way sand poured out betwixt the jagged glass in a broken hourglass. Indicating to the navy blue suit Wright donned, he questioned pointedly, “Do members of your profession typically wear two piece suits?”
“Huh? Oh, no. I had a meeting with the bank earlier.” Wright stiltedly replied.
Sensing he would have to make an excuse to urge the tattooist to leave, ideally before a regular customer entered and overheard the strained exchange, Miles was about to acquit the conversation when Wright interrupted him to request another bouquet much the same as the one he held. Miles could not think of an appropriate excuse to shirk the business, trying to appear unphased and tetchily responding, “…I’ll have the flowers delivered to you by tomorrow.”
Wright did not budge. Miles lifted his tea cup to indicate their exchange was over. The liquid was now cooled to room temperature, much to his disliking.
“Err, you don’t need to do that, I can just come and pick them up. My parlour’s only a few doors down—” Wright explained, pocketing his phone and taking the white and yellow arrangement into both hands.
Miles almost inhaled the tea, stifling a sharp cough. The town board allowed a tattoo parlour to open up on this influential street?!
“N-not at all. It’s part of our complimentary service.” Miles cleared his throat. “The shop is closed now, so I must ask that you leave.”
“But it’s not five o’clock for another ten minutes—”
“Good evening, Mr Wright.”
Dejected, the tattooist conceded defeat and took his flowers to the door, opening it to the soft jingle of the bell. “A-alright… I’ll see you later, Miles.” A fresh upsurge of irritation poured over Miles at Wright’s flagrant, casual use of his first name, completely inappropriate conduct for two people who had just met. Before he could correct him, however, Wright the blue suited man was strolling off onto the sidewalk, leaving the irked florist to bore a hole into the space he had been.
“Y-You…!”
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Miles assumed Wright would lose interest and find some other way to waste his time the longer he continued to give him the cold shoulder, persisting in remaining staunchly indifferent to his frequent appearances over the next three weeks. Yet the tattooist kept materializing in the unsociable florist’s place of work repeatedly, fawning over new arrangements placed out on the front shelves ready for collection and talking about trivial things. Most of these days he wore what Miles supposed was his typical attire, a pair of navy blue jeans and a t-shirt with some graphic logo on the chest, exposing his, albeit well-toned, heavily tattooed arms. Every inch of his sleeves were covered in intricate, deft designs which Wright gladly showed to him when he caught Miles trying to decipher exactly what they were. Great eastern dragons curled around his forearms, talons clutching glistening orbs, majestic horns and dagger shaped scales coasting upon copper. The way the delicate light in the flower shop caught on Wright’s tattoos made the black ink gleam, giving the impression that those dragons were alive and coiled possessively around their owner. Breathing works of art. Other tattoos, exposed on the days that were far too humid (where Miles merely removed his jacket and slackened his cravat, Wright opted for a pair of shorts and closer resembled a college student than a grown professional) revealed highly detailed futuristic and fantastical landscapes inked onto his legs. The shocking sight was enough to cause one of Miles’ elderly, prestigious customers to feel faint and take leave of his establishment. Wright merely flashed an apologetic smile and squirreled himself to a more inconspicuous part of the store, directly behind Miles’ counter, the location of which the florist had continually scolded the ravenhead for lurking around until finally allowing his presence there if only to spare his clientele any further mortification.
Truth be told, Phoenix Wright was not at all what he expected. The highly strung florist’s initial impression of him was that he was an inattentive, easy-going man with his head in the clouds who took great joy in disturbing Miles’ solitude. This opinion transmuted the longer and more he came to know the other man. Seemingly shirking off Miles’ complaints, Wright discreetly adjusted his apparently spur-of-the-moment social calls to avoid busier hours and appointments with important clients, showing a significantly selfless, considerate nature. They disagreed on things and agreed on others, most notably the opinion of tattooing as a discerned profession, however Wright argued his case so fluently and passionately Miles startingly found his original judgement to be drifting toward a very different trajectory. Learning that Phoenix Wright was no novice who simply picked up a needle and decided to brand unfortunates in amateurish scrawls, but an art graduate from Ivy University who took a commendable pride in his work, Miles acknowledged his vocation and talent.
Though the florist soon found his unanticipated arrivals to be something he looked forward to, Wright was under no obligation to visit him, day in and day out. In the beginning Miles was far from a welcoming host, chiding him for interrupting him but refraining from outright throwing him out. Long, quiet days he focused on his work peacefully became slow and tedious, only livened by Wright sauntering in and diverting him with talk about his own newest clients and tales of his adventures in college. Wright would wait for Miles to finish clipping the thorns from some roses and then launched into a stimulating conversation, easily matching each of Miles’ counters and seizing his undivided attention.
It became a repeated pattern. Wright’s anticipated presence was soon enough a daily occurrence. Picking up on little things most overlooked, such as Miles liking high-quality tea and having a sweet tooth, Wright popped in regularly and with him he brought small, thoughtful gifts. Succulent blends of herbal tea from the nearby café Miles enjoyed thoroughly. Slices of luscious cake and collections of sugary treats in every colour, the saccharine, honeyed scent of which almost matched the sweet aroma of Miles’ flowers. Miles initially refused the offerings, ignoring them on his counter and continuing to pick out fresh flowers for an order until Phoenix left, taking pleasure in them only once alone.
Throughout it all Wright continued to order more flowers for his tattoo parlour, collecting them himself and spiriting them away to the location Miles had only swiftly and circumspectly passed on his way to work. Miles, who was well versed in the language of floriography, did not immediately suspect anything. Why would he when the flowers were being ordered for an unconventional customer, rather than gifted to him? When the client who requested them was, in his initial opinion, an idealist solely conversant in ink and needles? Wright was in all likelihood, lingering around the florist asking inane questions about flowers and their tacit meanings and ordering bouquets for a paramour of his own.
The first of Wright’s myriad of orders was for azure blue hydrangeas amid a cluster of sweet peas. Both symbolized gratitude, to which Miles would later reflect back and comprehend it was Wright subtly thanking him for his assistance during their brief introductory encounter. Next he began buying blue hyacinths, fragrant and flamboyant, symbolizing sincerity, and towering alliums blooming architectural domes of imperial purple, denoting both patience and unity. One day, he would come to understand this was to represent Wright’s steady perseverance in establishing and cultivating their friendship. Miles was, after all, a difficult person to get to know in contrast to the tattooist who wore his heart on his inked sleeves.
Wright’s design changed once Miles grudgingly and apprehensively accepted his companionship. Larkspur and lavenders, indicative of an open heart and willingness to devote oneself entirely to the receiver. The evening Miles remained in his work beyond closing hours, daylight merging into nightfall, Wright walking by his side on his route home under the starlight, resulted in those orders altering from blues and purples to Miles’ own preferred colour, red. Bouquets of Persian red carnations, scarlet amaryllis and crimson camellias. Aztec gold and sunrise orange petals peppered in flickers of chocolate brown alstroemerias. Long stalks of sorrel, roses bursting with life. Spangled cardinals and crowded verbenas. All species of flower that signified admiration and affection.
Some who attempted to seduce their significant others, when the predictable, cliché roses fell through, ordered sprays of passionflowers, incorrectly imagining the name indicated to some romantic influence and failing to lift a single book to educate themselves otherwise to learn that they were in fact named so for religious reasons. Wright, surprisingly, did not make that novice mistake in his orders and stayed clear of them.
Over the weeks Miles elected to discount Wright’s implicit orders as ordinary coincidence, or perhaps he simply chose to ignore the rising feeling of recognition and something else budding in his chest. It was not until Wright’s final order, an array of sunflowers and chrysanthemums combined, that became indisputable evidence that the florist could no longer overlook.
“Hey, Edgeworth.” Wright greeted, meandering into Edgeworth’s florists to collect the newest bouquet that sat prepared on the counter. Back in his two piece suit, Miles construed he had most likely been to another bank meeting, or an otherwise vital gathering.
Miles inhaled steadily, mustering a glare once his previous customer shuffled past the tattooist and aiming it openly at him. “What brings you to my workplace yet again, Wright?”
Wright lifted the paper bag clutched in one hand, popping it onto the worktop and rummaging through it, withdrawing the inducing items and offering them up to the interrogative florist. “Err… I brought us some breakfast bagels and tea, if you’d rather something else I’ll go back to the bakery and check what’s left—”
“Bagels… and tea…” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Miles exhaled shortly, rewording his question. “What is you want from me?” Wright tilted his head. The small gesture only served to vex the florist further. Miles drew his hand and pointed an accusatory finger directly at Phoenix’s chest. “Why do you insist on inundating me day in and day out with these visits and unsolicited gifts?”
“What I want…? Right now I want to have breakfast with you.” The spiky haired man answered awkwardly, “besides, I thought you liked the tea. You always drink it when I leave.” Miles’ scowl doubled in intensity. How on Earth could he—? “Maggey told me you take the empty flasks back to the café.” Wright informed in a languid shrug.
“Th-that is… mrph!” Clearly Wright was friendly with the luckless young woman who worked in there, who now acted as a decisive witness to support his claim. Miles would not shirk the choice blends and leave them to go to waste, it was not as if Wright had figured out his favourite fusion of pure Ceylon. Returning to his direct examination, intent on uncovering the truth for the persistent bribery before Wright could distract him, Miles continued, “furthermore, do you think I don’t notice your flagrant use of floriography in your orders?” That made Wright’s face shift from the sheepish smile into a barefaced expression of guilt. Eureka. Concluding that Wright had taken an interest in flowers for the purpose of gifting them to another, Miles pursued the line of questioning like a steadfast hound tracking a mark in the thickets, “Any fool could interpret your intentions are far beyond merely establishing a… friendship.”
Wright stared blankly back at him. Miles wore a victorious smirk, arms outstretched in a proud, confident stance. He had won this joust of words, but at what cost? Exposed for his true intentions, would the tattoo artist back down and flee, tail tucked between his legs, never to show his face in the florist’s again? Miles’ lips flagged into a thin line the longer the pregnant pause lasted.
Wright was trying to form some coherent reply and failing miserably. “…I… I mean… you… we… urk…”
Miles sighed. Rather than hauling him out by the scruff of his neck he walked past the faltering man, locking the door and turning the sign to announce the shop was closed. Pulling down the blinds and shuttering them closed, he returned to the counter where Wright remained in a state of limbo and prompted him to confess. “The truth. Now.”
“…Y-you got me…” Wright rubbed the back of his head, mumbling the admission. Miles rose a sleek eyebrow but otherwise let him continue. Taking his silence as a positive sign, likely expecting to be rejected outright like the countless other enthusiasts Miles attracted, Wright flushed hotly but kept his assured stare levelled and unwavering. “…I didn’t know much about them so I looked up flowers and learned they all had different meanings. I should’ve known you would figure it out.”
“If you wished to convey your interest in someone you should have told me. I’m well versed in this subject area, clearly,” he gestured around his establishment before adding, “and some of the combinations you’ve requested are, in all honesty, ridiculous.”
A flicker of annoyance fanned in the forefront of Miles’ head. Marking it down as umbrage over the puerile deception, the florist refused to acknowledge it as clear-cut envy.
“Hold it! You… think I’m giving them to someone?” Wright blinked rapidly, confusion now pooling in those sapphire irises.
“…Are you not?”
“They… aren’t for anyone else…” the tattooist noticed Miles’ sceptical look and insisted, “really, I’ve just been putting them in the parlour. You’d have seen them if you came over sometime.”
“…You mean to tell me you’ve been ordering them… for yourself?” Miles queried, scowl fully transformed into an equally perplexed expression.
“I… I couldn’t exactly send your own flowers back to you. That would be kind of weird, right?” Wright chuckled nervously, a toothy grin spreading from ear to ear.
Miles was now fixed on understanding Wright’s motivations, his certainty in his deduction eroding with the tattoo artist refuting his original inference and inelegant admittance that the bouquets were not being presented to some fortunate woman and instead sat in the tattoo parlour Miles refused to set foot in.
Wait. Fortunate?
“…Then… why are you…?” he uttered, the epiphany coming into his consciousness with the same intensity as a careering cannonball colliding through solid stone, forcing the rest of his sentence to trail off into nothingness.
Oh.
Oh.
“I like you, Edgeworth. I really do.” Wright revealed, every word falling onto Miles like spring rain tracking down his glowing skin, soaking into his far too tight shirt.
“…What?” Ragmatical heartbeat rising in his ears, near deafening the stunned florist who now found it was his turn to labour with what to say, Miles could only make out in a strained pitch, “Care to repeat what you just said?”
Wright’s heavy gulp resounded far too loudly, the tattooist continuing his unremitting candour. “…I really like you.” Commencing an arduous, gauche love confession in the middle of Miles’ shop, the florist was grateful that he had locked the door and pulled down the shades to prevent any uninvited customers from ambling in to intrude on this precious trice, securing and secreting the sentimental moment for them alone. Miles listened to every profound word spilling from Wright’s mouth, the other man emboldened that Miles was more than willing to listen.
The mood had shifted from a gauche, suffocating atmosphere, softening and enveloping the florist in a sense of sereness. Begrudging toward Wright’s theoretical love interest was replaced with a novel hopefulness entirely unexpected and not altogether unwelcome to Miles. Everything began to make sense. Wright’s staunch persistence in earning his friendship, his respectfulness toward his place of employment and genteel clientele, those drawn out, charming conversations, day to day visits without fail, and recurrent gifts. It was never aimed toward earning Miles’ rapport for the sake of another. It was all for him. Miles, who was so used to previous, presumptuous admirers unashamedly flirting and brazenly pushing for more, earning no more than his discomfort and disliking, was completely caught off guard by the ingenuous man’s want to get to know him first, rather than throw himself at him in the hopes he would join him in bed.
Still, for as much as Miles’ interest was piqued, the florist finding himself considering it whilst the tattooist kept rambling away not three feet before him, there was still the matter of Wright’s profession. Whilst Miles was not disgusted by Wright’s tattoos (more accurately, he had shrewdly been regarding them with silent approbation, lest Wright get any ideas about offering to tattoo him), he had never pictured himself becoming entangled with anyone involved in such a profession. Yet Phoenix Wright was an attractive, kind hearted, altruistic man who was unintimidated by Miles Edgeworth’s aloof nature and taciturn demeanour. Who hung on every word Miles spoke and was thrilled to spend every free moment he had with him.
“If… if that’s a problem, then I’ll quit coming over. If you tell me to stop I’ll leave you alone.” Wright ended with a solid assertation, the silly smile he typically sported faded from view, replaced instead with a confident, pledging, longing look.
It would be easy to shut down Wright’s heartfelt plea mid-sentence and order him to leave. Accepting his confession, accepting him, was that a challenge Miles was willing to take?
There were no objections to be voiced. None that Miles could not overcome.
Miles’ eyes fell shut, a tense breath he did not know he was holding escaping him. Sighing, he slowly took in Wright’s traffic light red form and anxious, full moon wide eyes. “You are incorrigible.”
The tattooist remained frozen in place, unsure of how to reply. “…Is… that a no or…?”
“Come here.” Miles ordered, motioning for the other man to step closer. Wright cautiously did so, closing the gap between them. Grabbing Wright by his tie, Miles tugged the slightly shorter man into him, cupping the ravenhead’s burning cheek in his free hand. Wright’s uneasy bearing dispersed, a nervous, excited grin breaking loose. “If I agree to this… arrangement… then it will be on my terms, Wright.” Miles instructed, holding Wright in place, catching a glimpse of himself reflected in those lazuline pools.
“Y-yeah. I’ll do anything for you, Miles—” Phoenix answered, nodding rapidly and placing one of his own hands upon Miles’ waist. The other sought to brush one of Miles’ leaden grey bangs away from his face, exposing the pink tinted hue his demarcated countenance took.
“Well then. Shall we get started, Phoenix?” Miles leaned closer, the unique, ardent name rolling off his tongue, pausing to see if Phoenix would reject the advances. When he did not, staying firmly in place brimming eagerly, the florist ran his nose smoothly across the tattooist’s, detailing every section of the other man’s face up close and storing it in his memories before indulging in their first tentative, tender kiss.
Phoenix melted under the sweet caresses, letting Miles effortlessly guide him behind the counter to do whatever he wished with him. “Nnhh…!”
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