Work Text:
Phoenix sat cross-legged on the carpet of the master bedroom, chin resting on a contemplating, gray-speckled hand. He stared up at his easel and canvas, where his earlier attempts at art glared at him. He scowled right back (stupid paint, not cooperating with me!) before he slumped forward, resting his forehead against the white wool.
With Kristoph finally behind bars and the results of his second bar exam in transit, Phoenix had taken to painting. He had been an art major first, after all, and oil and acrylic were his favorite mediums to use, back in Ivy University. He missed painting quite a lot while practicing law, but in between investigating and solving cases, defending clients, and taking Maya and Pearl out to eat burgers, he didn’t have enough time to even pick up a paintbrush. He had time now, though, since his only real, current obligation was to be a capable father to Trucy (and occasionally play piano-slash-poker and clean the agency’s toilets).
Phoenix’s projects first started out small — still-life pictures of the Blue Badger or grape juice bottles in crates, landscapes depicting Gourd Lake or the courthouse, abstract paintings of evidence from his cases, like the yellow banana glove and the bloody ace. He later on progressed to portraits of people — Trucy pulling out a rubber chicken from her magic panties, Apollo fiddling with his bracelet, Maya kneeling and praying, right before channeling a spirit.
Today, however, Phoenix planned to create his biggest project yet. The following day marked one year since Miles and Phoenix had started dating, and Phoenix wanted the occasion to be extra special. Phoenix hoped for his painting to convey everything he felt about Miles, which was why he was taking great pains to make it perfect.
The things I do for you, Miles, Phoenix thought, a small smile on his lips as he raised his head from the carpet and looked up at the wall clock. The smile gave way to an expression of horror as he realized the time.
Shit, Miles will be home in two hours!
Scrambling to his feet, Phoenix panicked — and managed to knock a liter can of red paint onto the pristine, white carpet.
He righted the can in a flash, but by then the damage had been done, not a small amount of paint spreading through the wool and seeping to the floor.
Miles had warned him again and again that the bedroom was not a good place to paint, and Phoenix was only realizing it now. Cursing under his breath, he dashed to the bathroom to retrieve paper towels and wet rags and anything that could possibly help him salvage the carpet from the gruesome mess he had made.
He didn’t realize that he had tracked crimson, sandal-shaped footprints all over not only the rest of the white carpet, but also the hallway leading to and from the bedroom.
Oh, fuck me, Phoenix muttered as he looked back at his footsteps and pinched the bridge of his nose. In vain, he tried to concentrate on just the carpet first and wipe the mess he made but only succeeded in spreading the red even more. Resigning himself with a sigh, he stared at the pool of quickly drying paint. It was evidence to his crime, and this bedroom (I’m sorry, Miles, I’ll never paint in the bedroom again) was his crime scene.
When Miles comes home, I’m pretty sure it will become one, came Phoenix’s wry thought as he slid, boneless and suddenly weak in the knees, to the floor.
I wanted this to be the best anniversary gift ever, and I go and ruin his house, Phoenix lamented, passing a hand over his face to try to calm his growing anxiety and shame.
He caught sight of the offending can of red paint, still mostly full.
It would be a shame to waste so much paint, Phoenix rolled up his sleeves and huffed with resolve, I may not be able to save his carpet, but I can carry on with my original plan and do what I do best.
Which is bluff your way through, Wright, Phoenix could almost hear Miles say.
No use crying over spilt paint, he mumbled to himself and promptly set to work.
Miles’s day had been awful.
As he unlocked the door to his house, he wondered just how these detectives could be so incompetent and still wear their police badges with pride. He was quite surprised Detective Gumshoe’s salary hadn’t dropped down to zero — he could have sworn he said “look forward to your next salary assessment” more times than he could count. Not only had they overlooked crucial evidence (causing Miles to double his efforts and reinvestigate the crime scene of a supposedly open-and-shut case), but they had also mistaken a passerby for the culprit and let the real perpetrator sneak from under their noses.
Sighing, Miles took comfort in the knowledge that Phoenix would already be in his house, possibly sleeping or snooping through some of his case files. It was wonderful to come home to someone warm and comfortable after all the shenanigans of his day. He thought that giving Phoenix his spare house key was one of the best decisions he had ever made.
“Phoenix?” Miles called out. He was curious as to why the house was eerily silent; Phoenix tended to make a lot of noise.
Then, he saw the red footprints by the bedroom.
Miles froze, his fingers and face numbing with shock and terror. He had seen far too many crime scenes and had analyzed too many murders. His mind automatically assumed the worst as he dropped his briefcase with a loud thud.
Dimly, he told himself that the blood looked far too bright, a lighter shade than that of bloodstains he had seen before. He paid no heed to this thought — if anyone could bleed differently, it would be Wright.
That was of no comfort to Miles as he forced himself to move towards the bedroom, where the footprints were headed. Maybe Phoenix was not dead yet. Maybe he could still be saved. Still, Miles was terrified to find what lay behind the door: the cold, lifeless body of the man he loved, bright eyes dull and spirit extinguished.
Oh god, please don’t be dead, Phoenix, Miles trembled, reaching for the doorknob. Please, I don’t think I can handle losing you, too.
He steeled himself and threw the door open, revealing —
— one Phoenix Wright, alive and breathing, covered in splotches of what was now clearly red paint, looking like he had been caught committing a crime.
“Uh, Miles, I can explain,” Phoenix started before Miles all but tackled him, wrapping his arms around the soon-to-be-defense attorney’s neck. Phoenix, confused but not unwelcoming of the hug, embraced him back, careful to shield the painting from Miles’s eyes with his torso.
“Wright,” Miles gasped, sobs racking his body and tears staining Phoenix’s dirtied shirt. “Phoenix,” Miles choked, almost suffocating the other man. Phoenix rubbed soothing circles on Miles’s back, worried now at the rare display of emotion.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Phoenix whispered in his ear, causing Miles to cry even harder.
“You’re such an idiot! I thought you were dead, dead and murdered in my own house, don’t you ever let me think that again, you fool,” Miles keened, saying it all in one breath, before kissing Phoenix Wright for all he was worth.
By the time they pulled away from each other, Miles had calmed down some, leaning his forehead against the other’s. Phoenix smiled at the look of pure relief on Miles’s face, but was still confused nonetheless.
“Why would you even think I was murdered — oh," Phoenix grinned sheepishly as he spotted the footprints outside the wide bedroom doorway, "Yeah, I can see how that looks bad. Sorry.” Miles glared at him and kissed him on the lips once for good measure.
Wiping his eyes and getting rid of the last of his sniffles, Miles stepped away from Phoenix. “Now that that’s over,” Miles cleared his throat and straightened his cravat, trying to act as if he hadn’t had a breakdown just a few minutes ago, “why, pray tell, are there footprints in red paint outside the bedroom?”
Miles had said it without any anger or warning. He just sounded curious; relief still seemed to be the overarching emotion in his mind.
Encouraged by the lack of hostility, Phoenix pointed to the dry puddle of paint beneath his feet. “So, I, uh, spilled some when I was painting and accidentally made those footprints when I went to the bathroom to clean it up,” Phoenix’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment and slight fear. Miles raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but Phoenix cut him off.
“But, but, I was painting this! For you! Um, happy anniversary?” Phoenix stared at Miles, a hopeful expression on his face as he stepped aside and allowed Miles to see his just-finished work.
Miles gasped upon seeing the painting, snarky comments and gentle admonishments dying on his tongue. He looked to be on the verge of tears, again, and Phoenix took that to be a good sign.
Miles had always known that Phoenix was a talented painter. He paid attention to detail and practiced a lot, relearning the lessons he had taken in the early years of college. At the moment, however, he could not focus too much on the skill of the artist. The very content of the painting left him swallowing the lump in his throat.
The painting was a portrait of Miles, standing in court behind the prosecutor’s bench, his hair gleaming and his suit the exact shade as his real one. He was smiling, not arrogant or condescending but happy and pleased, his face relaxed and open. Miles could pinpoint the times he felt truly happy — whenever he had successfully fought for truth and justice, and whenever he was with Phoenix.
This is how Phoenix sees me, Miles thought suddenly. Not a perpetual tragedy or someone burdened by the troubles of his past or present. Someone he loves, regardless.
Miles was having a hard time getting past the ache in his throat when Phoenix slid an arm around his waist.
“I had to get a whole can of red paint because I needed to mix the right shade for your suit, you know? ‘Wine red’, as you put it,” Phoenix chuckled, and Miles ducked down and buried his face in Phoenix’s hair, nuzzling the spikes.
“I really like seeing you happy, like this. One day, I looked at you smiling and knew I was in love,” Phoenix grinned, leaning into Miles’s touch. “I’m a cheesy sap, I know. I really hope you like it,” Phoenix continued in a whisper, a goofy smirk on his lips.
When Miles spoke again, his voice was raspy, but sincere and overwhelmed with gratitude. “I love it. I love you. Thank you, Phoenix,” Miles breathed before closing the distance between them again, Phoenix beaming against his mouth.
“Sorry about your carpet,” Phoenix chuckled, breathless, as Miles moved to wrap his arms around Phoenix’s stomach from behind. Miles kissed him on the temple.
“Please,” Miles murmured, “after falsely thinking you had gotten yourself murdered today, this carpet is the least of my worries.”
Phoenix laughed, intertwining his red-stained fingers with Miles’s own. Miles reminded himself again that Phoenix Wright was here, with him, alive and breathing and loved, and smiled.