Chapter Text
“Are you okay?”
Certainly, it was a question that applied to the present moment, but also one that had been building in relevance over the last several days, weeks, months, and years. Only now had he the opportunity to ask it.
“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.”
Miles was not convinced. Phoenix was doing what he’d been doing increasingly over the last while; scrutinising himself in the mirror, particularly his face and hair. Miles suspected it had begun after Phoenix had discovered his first grey hair, as he never ceased to find the chance to talk about it afterwards.
“…Are you sure?”
Phoenix turned around from the mirror. “I am, honest.” Something on Miles’ face clearly concerned him, as he then offered a caring smile. “Are you all right?”
No, he was not. He’d been worried sick about Phoenix for at least a year, increasingly so over the course of the last month. This was nothing new; Miles being worried about Phoenix had effectively become routine for himself at this point, but now he had reached a phase where he felt compelled to do something. Of course, he didn’t want to overstep his boundaries (a lesson that took far too long to learn), but Phoenix was just destroying himself with anxiety. It wasn’t completely obvious, but on the few instances Miles was able to get Phoenix to talk about it at all, listening between the words made it clear that Phoenix’s chief fear was that Miles would become less attracted to him as he aged.
This, of course, was completely ridiculous. Miles Edgeworth would not only be attracted to Phoenix Wright no matter how old he became, but his love for him transcended physical appearance, age, time, place, or anything.
Of course, expressing this principle was another matter, and it was in this department that Miles not only lacked severely, but that he created the problem he now faced. It had taken him a very long time to learn how to compliment , but when he did, he only did so based on Phoenix’s physical appearance; it was much less… soulful that way? It came from a place less deep in his heart, making it an easier thing to do. Miles Edgeworth had a long way to go when it came to expressing himself, and now he was paying the price of his personal failings.
…
Maybe it was time he did something about it.
“…Perfectly,” answered Miles, gaining some confidence as he quickly hatched a plan in his mind. “In fact, I was just about to make a proposition to you.”
Phoenix gave a cheeky eyebrow-raise. “You already did, though. Quite a while ago, actually.”
Miles huffed. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah, I do,” he admitted, facing his husband more directly. “What’s up?”
Well, this was it. If his plan was to work, it depended on how he handled this.
“I was thinking of taking you somewhere nice,” Miles began, thinking up his ‘proposition’ as he went. “There is a restaurant I frequent. Their food is very good, and they have excellent live music regularly. Mostly big-band jazz and that sort of thing, if that’s of any interest to you.”
Phoenix lightened up quite a lot at that. “I’d love that!” He declared. “When were you thinking?”
“There will be a particularly interesting night coming up in about a week that I hope to get us reservations for. There will be quite a lot of good music so I’ve been looking forward to attending. I’d like very much to bring you with me.”
“Sign me up!” Phoenix exclaimed.
Miles allowed himself a little smile. “I certainly will.”
***
This was proving to be much, much harder than he’d anticipated.
Writing the music itself was fairly simple; Miles had gotten enough theory training during his flute lessons when he was young that was able to compose light, simple music on his own. When nobody was around, he snuck into the Wright Anything Agency, fumbled with the old, out-of-tune piano for a while, and within an hour had his music written. That was fine.
But the lyrics .
He punched himself (mentally and physically) for his ineptitude. Miles Edgeworth was the Chief Prosecutor; a man with a significant portion of his skill based on his ability to present information, which required him to be a confident, capable, eloquent, and exact speaker and writer. Why was this ridiculous little thing tripping him up?
He crumpled up another sheet of paper into a ball, tossing it at an overflowing trash can. Then, he took a deep breath, and refocused.
Question: what was he trying to do? Well, at least that was simple: he was trying to convince Phoenix that no amount of time and ageing would reduce his love for him. That wasn’t a hard concept . Of course, in practice, it would not be easy; Phoenix was as stubborn as a mule when it came to things like this. Miles would have to make him believe it.
Believe it…
He scribbled a few words.
Believe me
He paused. ‘Believe me’ wasn’t enough, it needed context. But context is both king and killer. How to set this up?
Hmm. Maybe like an ‘if, then’ sort of statement, except no ‘then’, and that was the whole point. If Phoenix gets old, nothing changes.
He lengthened the first line, keeping it to the beat of the music.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
…“If all those endearing young charms” did what? Disappeared was the answer, of course, but it wouldn’t fit at all into the lyrical scheme he’d created with the music. He’d have to add another clause as the second line before proceeding. Then, when the main theme returned in the second musical phrase, he would continue the ‘if’, and then he’d move on with what he was really trying to get across as the music progressed.
It started to work. The form he’d imposed on himself with the music suddenly went from limiting to liberating, and he was able to finally pour the words trapped in his heart onto the page. The verse came to a rounded and satisfying conclusion, but it was left wanting more. A second verse gave him the opportunity to elaborate a little, touching on a couple things he hadn't had the chance to in the first verse.
Suddenly, he was looking at a fully-written song.
He gave it a look-over and found himself about to rip it up. Upon close examination, the lyrics were grossly saccharine, pretentious in wording and meaningless in effect. It was just a bunch of hot, pointless air.
…But he couldn’t get rid of it. Deep down, some part of him knew that there was nothing wrong with it. His instincts had led him true; the only thing that was holding him back was his inability to express himself the way he wanted to, the way he needed to.
Instead of destroying it, he folded up the paper, gathered the music, and wrote a note to be left on the fridge in the kitchen of their apartment:
Gone to dinner and to make our reservations at the restaurant I mentioned.
***
It wasn’t a total lie; he did genuinely make the arrangements for him and Phoenix to have the table closest to the band for that night once he’d found out when it would be. He did also have dinner, since he was already there.
But there was one last matter he needed to attend to before he left, one that he'd left out of the note.
As the restaurant began to close and the patrons began to depart, Miles approached the band at the stage, who were filing out of the room to pack up their instruments in the back.
“That was very good music tonight,” Miles commended as he approached the bandleader, Morgan Russell. “You and your musicians play very well.”
The middle-aged fellow, a little surprised at being approached, smiled once he’d processed Miles’ words. “Thank you!” He said. He then held out his hand, and Miles shook it. “I’ve seen you in here quite a lot. What’s your name?”
“Miles Edgeworth,” the Chief Prosecutor greeted. “I apologise for bothering you, but if at all possible, I would like to make a request for your 20s Gala coming up next week.”
Mr. Russell gave a sympathetic frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, but I’m afraid we can’t take requests, though I could tell you whether or not the song you’re requesting is on the program, if you like.”
“That’s the thing.” Miles paused, suddenly feeling rather awkward. “…It’s a piece of my own composition.”
Russell’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Oh, wow.” A curious glint came to his eye. “Do you have the music with you?”
The awkward feeling became nervousness as Miles handed the paper over. “W-well, it’s not very appropriate for the 1920s, but i-it’s-”
“Oh, wow,” Russell breathed, looking over the music and lyrics. “This is really nice. You’re quite a talent!” He looked up from the paper in his hands. “Is this written for a particular occasion, or something like that?”
“N-no, but it is important to me nonetheless.”
Russell nodded, his eyes understanding. “I can perform this for you, not a problem.”
A wave emotions— relief, joy, and terror— crashed over Miles. “Thank you. Do you think you could arrange this for your whole band? If not, solo piano is still fine.”
“Not a problem!” Russell exclaimed. “Did you have a particular voice in mind for the singing?”
“Uh…” Miles hadn’t actually thought of that. He’d written it so much from his own heart that he hadn’t considered how it would sound coming from someone else’s mouth.
Maybe he could… offer to sing it himself…?
Oh, no. That wouldn’t do. He’d fall apart completely.
“T-tenor,” was his eventual answer. “T-though I suppose it doesn’t matter, really.”
Russell nodded again, his expression a little more… mischievous now. “Gotcha,” he said.
“W-well,” Miles began then, trying to steer himself out of that awkwardness as swiftly as possible. “Thank you for doing this for me, it means a great deal.”
“No worries, Mr. Edgeworth. By the way, do you want me to credit you before the song begins or just in the program?”
…
It had genuinely not occurred to Miles that the authorship of the song would be attributed to him. It was only logical, of course; songwriters should be credited appropriately.
But it was no less horrifyingly embarrassing.
But… he wanted Phoenix to know. Otherwise, there would be little point. It wouldn’t be personal in the way he wanted it to be.
Hmm… What to do…
“…You may credit me before you begin the song,” Miles explained. “But do not put the song nor my name on the program available to the public. I would like it to be a surprise.”
“I can do that, no sweat,” Russell assured. “Come to think of it, you didn’t actually write a name for the song here. What do you want me to call it?”
Oh, that’s right. Dammit, he’d been so utterly underprepared. “J-just use the first line as the title,” he blurted in an embarrassed rush. “Thank you for your help, g-goodbye.”
With that, he gave the bandleader a quick bow and immediately high-tailed it out of there.
And tried to force down the feeling that he’d just made the worst mistake of his life.