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i. That Time It Was an Accident
The first time, Miles tells himself, was an accident.
He prides himself on being intentional in all he does. The mug he chooses to pour his tea in, the route he takes to court, every word he says behind the stand - everything is calculated meticulously. Miles Edgeworth doesn't do accidents.
Until he does.
He's lost, again. It's well known in the legal world by now that Phoenix Wright is Edgeworth's Achilles' Heel, and he detests how true the sentiment really is, because all it takes is a nick - ha! - to completely ruin him.
He's tucking his papers back into his briefcase, idly brushing confetti off the stand. His notes are meticulous: tiny rows of red ink squared off in the margins, carefully underlined and analyzed quotes of testimony.
Maybe he should start improvising, throwing himself aimlessly into a case. Then again, Miles can't imagine himself like that: fearless, passionate, good.
Wright clears his throat, somewhere nearby. Miles looks up, frowning as he meets the sheepish gaze of his colleague.
"Hey! Good game. Uh, case. I've got the - "
"Yes, the closing documents," Miles says, snapping his briefcase closed with such force that it makes Wright flinch. "Bring them to my office by the end of the day."
He's already making for the door, but Phoenix jogs after him, hastily gathering crumpled notes and case files. It's a wonder he ever manages to find anything useful in court, really.
"Are you going there now? I'll walk with you!" he calls cheerfully, falling into step with Miles. Their shoulders bump together, knuckles brushing for the briefest moment.
Miles tugs at his collar, trying to force back the slight flush that rises behind his ears. "Somehow, I doubt I can stop you."
Phoenix grins. "You got me figured, huh?"
Miles can't even look him in the eye. "Hardly. I just know you're insufferably social."
They're climbing the stairs now, ancient wood creaking under stiff dress shoes. Phoenix pouts.
"Some people would say that's charming," he says.
"I'm sure," Miles replies, exiting the stairwell and starting down the carpeted hall towards his office. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Phoenix looking up and down the austere hallway, slightly cowed by the large windows and admittedly excessive wooden pillars.
He looks so out of place it's almost endearing.
As they reach the door to Miles' office, Phoenix catches his eye and smiles. Miles fumbles the keys.
He curses himself, pushing open the door with more force than necessary.
"I'll sign the papers now," he mutters, circling around the heavy oak piece to fiddle with the pens.
Phoenix stands in the doorway, blinking, the scuffed tips of his loafers teetering at the edge of the frame. The dim light from Miles' lamp makes the blue of his suit look dull as he plucks nervously at the hem of his jacket.
Miles raises an eyebrow. "You know you can come in, yes?"
Phoenix grins crookedly, a nervous chuckle escaping as he shuffles over the door frame. "Sorry. I thought maybe you'd laid traps or something."
Miles rolls his eyes, tucking aside a couple folders to make room for the new documents. "Wright, I'm not a supervillain."
"Sometimes I'm not so sure," Phoenix says, and there's a hollowness to his voice that tells Miles he's only half-joking.
His grip on the pen tightens, and he extends a hand. "Just hand them over. Don't be so childish."
Phoenix scoffs in a very childlike way, shoving his briefcase unceremoniously towards Miles. "I'm not! You're just...a little scary, that's all."
"You've met my sister," Miles says. "And you still find me to be the frightening one?"
"That's different!" Phoenix protests.
Miles just raises an eyebrow.
"Well, you're not scary now," Phoenix admits. "It's...it's nice, seeing you somewhere you can relax. I guess law really is your true love, huh?"
A blot appears on Miles' signature on the last page. He curses internally, finishing the rest of his name unceremoniously.
"It seems that way, yes," he says, gathering the papers and crossing back around the desk to present them.
There must have been something pitiful in his tone, because Phoenix is suddenly looking at him like he's a kicked puppy.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
Miles barely holds back another scoff. "I've lost cases before, Wright. I'll live."
Phoenix frowns. "That's not what I asked."
With a huff, Miles shoves the papers into Phoenix's arms. "My personal issues are none of your concern. I've signed the papers. You may go."
It's a threat, more than anything, low and even in a way that sends most cowering away. But Phoenix has always seen right through him, right to the scared, corroded thing that is his heart.
"I'm not leaving until you talk to me, Miles! I'm not gonna let you keep it all bottled up until you have a nervous breakdown or something. Is it so hard to believe I just want to help you?"
It isn't, and that's the part that scares him the most.
"Phoenix," he says, voice sharp in warning.
Phoenix just frowns.
In hindsight, he never should have allowed Phoenix to come with in the first place. At the very least, it was probably some breach of protocol.
And even now, part of him still insists what followed wasn't an accident.
For one thing, Miles Edgeworth doesn't do accidents.
And for another, accidents are inherently unintentional, but Miles knew exactly what he was doing when he huffed, grabbed Wright by the tie, and kissed him hard.
He sees Phoenix's eyes go wide for only a moment, blue and amber flashing before vanishing behind thick lashes as Phoenix presses into the kiss with a soft sigh.
The newly signed papers hit the floor with a crisp sound, but Miles can't be bothered.
He waits in his office another hour after Phoenix leaves, flushed and affectionate as he gathers his coat and documents. He spends the hour pacing, shoes wearing through the carpet as he runs his tongue across his teeth where the taste of Phoenix still lingers.
When he does go home, he resolves to simply pretend it never happened.
Wright doesn't bring it up the next day, or any day after, so Miles assumes he's done the same.
ii. That Time It Was a Strategic Move
The second time is what he'd call a calculated risk.
Wright's been sloppy with the case, all conjecture and hypotheticals. But Wright has also won on less, his sharp mind piecing together every angle at lightning speed.
He's been Edgeworth's downfall too many times.
"Your Honor," Miles clears his throat. "I request a twenty minute recess."
"Very well, Mr. Edgeworth. The court will reconvene in twenty minutes."
Wright looks at him as the gavel comes down, pounding right alongside Miles' heartbeat. Wright's poker face has improved with time, but not much; he's confused and curious, cocking his head slightly.
Miles pays it no mind, even as his heart twists up into his throat.
"I'm going up to my office to reassess some of the evidence. Please ensure my stand is not disturbed," he says to Gumshoe, just loud enough for Wright to hear. The detective gives a clumsy sort of salute.
"You got it, boss! I mean...yes sir, Mr. Edgeworth."
In spite of himself, Miles tries not to grin as he gathers his documents.
"Thank you."
He's barely halfway to his office when he hears jogging footsteps behind him, worn leather shoes on the plush rug of the court lobby.
"Miles! Er, Edgeworth. Wait up!"
Always chasing him, Phoenix. It's easy, really, so easy it leaves a sour feeling in his throat. Is this what he'll do for a verdict, now?
"Can I help you, Mr. Wright?" he asks, slowing his pace enough that Phoenix can fall in step beside him.
Phoenix's face is flushed slightly from his chase, the spikes of his hair disheveled. He reaches up to smooth them back in place fruitlessly, and Miles has to bite his cheek to keep from smiling at the endearing attempt.
"It's just kinda weird for you to call a recess," Phoenix admits, not meeting Miles' eyes. "You're always so...prepared. Usually you're denying me a recess."
They've reached Miles' office, which he deftly unlocks. His fingers tremble slightly when they move to the brass handle, and he steadies them.
Given that Phoenix is pointedly avoiding any sort of visual contact, it's rather unnecessary, but Miles doesn't take such chances.
"Perhaps I'm just trying new strategies. It would be unwise of me to reveal all my plans to you, no?" he asks, as casually as he can manage.
Phoenix laughs, his gaze still not quite meeting Miles' eyes.
"No, I guess not. I'll let you get to, uh...reassessing. I should probably do the same," he says, turning to go.
Miles stops him with a hand on his shoulder, letting his fingertips trace down the thick cotton of Phoenix's blue suit as the man turns back around, finally meeting his eyes.
There's a silence between them for a moment, Phoenix's expression questioning, hopeful, and Miles knows now why he wasn't looking. Apparently all it takes is the sight of Miles to make Phoenix blush like an autumn sunset.
For the first time in a long time, Miles thinks the word fuck.
"You're already here. At least let me make you some tea for the road," he offers finally, holding the door open. He lets his voice swing low, soft, almost secretive. The questions he knows Phoenix wants to answer lie beneath his friendly words, waiting for Phoenix to pick up on them.
Phoenix bites his lip, and his hesitation is all Miles needs to know he's taken the bait.
"Okay," he says, and Miles follows him inside.
The door barely clicks shut before Miles has Phoenix pinned against the wood, mouth on his with a demanding desire he didn't realize he was even capable of.
He thinks it again. Fuck.
"Miles," Phoenix gasps, like a prayer, as Miles reaches behind him to lock the door again while his other hand deftly undoes the buttons of Phoenix's clothes.
"Phoenix," he murmurs back, somewhere between them as his fingers trace the shape of Phoenix's chest.
His breath hitches, and Miles kisses at his throat, teeth teasing at the soft skin as Phoenix whines, reaching down to thread his fingers through Miles' hair, pulling him back up into another kiss.
When court reconvenes exactly seventeen minutes later, Wright's suit is wrinkled and his hair is hopelessly destroyed. He tugs at his collar, as if to better conceal the bruises blossoming along the column of his throat just beneath the hem.
Miles is untouched, and inordinately pleased.
Until, of course, Wright still wins the case.
iii. That Time There Was Alcohol
The third time, well. They're drunk.
It's Gumshoe's birthday. He's 38, or 42, or some other irrelevant number. He'd handed out homemade invitations to the entire courthouse, complete with glitter glue and stickers and misspellings.
Miles doesn't like parties. At least, not real parties. He can handle galas and stifling social events, where the clothes are uncomfortable and the champagne is a month's rent in Paris and the talk is all small and stupid. But real parties, with homemade dishes and karaoke, where the goal is just to enjoy?
He has no idea what to do.
Wright makes him go, of course. Has to coax him out of his suit, too, and he feels as though he might as well be in his pajamas, standing at Gumshoe's doorstep in just his vest and slacks, jacket and cravat abandoned at home.
Pheonix is wearing a hoodie and jeans, hair more tousled than sharp. There's a softness to him, something disgustingly endearing, and Miles is desperate not to look.
Gumshoe opens the door with a red-faced smile, highlighted by warm lights and the sort of cheerful pop music Von Karma forbade in his household. "Oh, my favorite lawyers! Come in!"
"Detective, surely you know showing favoritism is unaccep - "
Phoenix nudges him. "Happy birthday, detective!"
Gumshoe's grin widens, and Miles sighs.
"Happy birthday."
The house is small, somewhat cramped with clutter, but there's an odd tidiness to it all that gives it a feeling of coziness, rather than claustrophobia. Gumshoe's taste in decor is downright offensive to anyone with a sense of style, but somehow Miles doubts he would notice even if someone pointed it out to him.
Most of the guests are other members of the forensics department, and Miles only hopes he doesn't have to pretend to remember all their names. Phoenix probably does.
Larry waves from the kitchen. At least, he tries, somewhat hindered by the red plastic cups in each hand. "Nick! Edgy!"
Phoenix waves back. "Hey, Larry. It's good to see you here, I didn't know you and Gumshoe were so close."
Larry laughs, face roughly the shade of a sunburnt tomato. "We aren't! He jus' felt bad about all the times I've been in the slammer, so he invited me!"
Miles sighs, turning back towards the living room. "Yes, that does sound like the detective."
"Byeeee! Come back later so we can do shots!" Larry calls.
"I don't think he knows what kind of party this is," Miles murmurs.
Phoenix chuckles softly beside him. "I doubt it. I think he's closer than you, though."
"Very funny, Wright."
The low table in the living room is packed with presents, clumsily wrapped in colorful paper. Phoenix puts his gift on the top, and Miles suddenly feels sheepish about the plain brown gift bag in his fist.
He hates this, he decides. Being so out of place. He should have stayed home, or locked himself in his office.
Phoenix glances back and sees him standing frozen in the doorway. He holds out a hand, and Miles almost takes it.
He stops himself, and maybe there is some divinity out there, because Phoenix says, "Pass me the bag, I'll add it to the pile."
Miles acquiesces, watching as Phoenix leans the package against his. It looks somehow plainer.
"Stop thinking," Phoenix says.
Miles rolls his eyes, almost on instinct. "One of us has to."
"Hey! Even if that were true, you're thinking too much for the both of us. It's a party, Miles," Phoenix insists.
"I'm aware, Wright. That's rather the problem. I haven't been to a birthday party since before - "
For the second time, he catches himself. Phoenix's eyes are already glittering with sympathies and assurances, and Miles is in no place to be saved right now.
"Since we were kids," he finishes. "I don't...I don't really know how."
Phoenix has that knowing grin on his face again, crooked and confident.
"The great Miles Edgeworth doesn't know?" he asks in mock surprise.
"Do you want to find a new ride home, Wright?"
Phoenix laughs, and Miles' chest is tight. "Just have fun, Miles. There's no special protocol."
He turns to go towards the kitchen, and like a lost puppy, Miles follows.
"I know that," he says, as Phoenix retrieves a beer from the cooler. "But supposing there was. What would it be?"
Phoenix hands him a beer. "You'll figure it out."
"Wright, I'm driving - "
"You'll be fine. We can always get a cab," Phoenix promises.
Miles takes the can. "On my dime, I presume?"
Phoenix blushes as he cracks his own can, watching the froth rise and deflate. "No! I was going to pay."
Miles won't let him, but that's a discussion for later. He cracks his beer and offers a smile. "Well, then. Cheers."
Admittedly, a great deal of the aftermath is hazy. Miles would never admit it, but he's a lightweight through and through, something Franziska (who could drink half a bottle of Grey Goose at 16 and still walk straight) never ceased to torment him about.
All he remembers clearly is the now, sitting on Phoenix's squeaky couch. They'd gotten a cab, he remembers, although who paid will probably remain a mystery.
"So...how did I do?" Miles asks.
Phoenix frowns. "What're you talking about?"
"The party. Did I do well?"
It seems a reasonable question. Parties, he's always reasoned, are the social equivalent of exams. Miles assesses he's done quite well, but self-graded exams hardly count for anything.
"That's not really...how that works, Miles," Phoenix says.
Probably not well, then. Miles just crosses his arms and looks away. "If I failed, you can just say so."
The couch creaks as Phoenix adjusts himself slightly, shifting closer to out a hand on Miles' knee.
"You didn't...god, you're so stubborn sometimes. You did good, okay? A+, or whatever," he says, coaxingly.
Miles looks back and sees those eyes watching him close, hopeful and every-so-slightly unfocused. He feels the alcohol in him bubbling up again, giddy and easily charmed.
(As if he isn't always easily charmed by Phoenix.)
"Thank you. I give you an A+, as well," he decides.
There's silence for a moment as they both process his statement. Then Phoenix throws his head back to laugh, the street lamps outside catching at his flushed face through the blinds in splashy streaks of gold.
"Shush, you'll wake the whole complex," Miles scolds, face going hot.
Phoenix giggles, wiping his eye with the back of his palm.
"Sorry, sorry. I can't tell if you're funnier drunk, or I'm just easy," he says.
Miles finds himself grinning, the warmth now buzzing beneath his cheeks. "A bit of both, I'd imagine."
"Probably," Phoenix agrees, head lolling slightly to stare at Miles.
And then, a moment later, "Kiss me?"
Miles' mouth runs dry instantly. "What?"
He'd heard Phoenix perfectly. It was simply a matter of believing it.
Phoenix's cheeks flush an even deeper rosy shade, and he looks away.
"Nothing. It was - "
Miles takes him by the chin and kisses him. After all, they're drunk, although he's not sure if it's the drinks or the way Phoenix moans into his mouth that's making his head spin. It's loud and shameless, and enough to drag Miles unceremoniously back into clarity.
He pulls away and Phoenix whines.
"Phoenix, we - "
Phoenix shakes his head, clutching at Miles' collar as he swings himself into his lap, eager in a way that has Miles catching his breath. "It's fine. Please, Miles."
He's breathless and beautiful, and Miles has never known how to say no to Phoenix.
iv. That Time It Was a Victory Lap
By the fourth time, Miles is running out of excuses.
Phoenix is signing the paperwork this time, after a particularly nasty defeat. Admittedly, Miles doesn't feel great about the victory - the defendant broke down on the stand before he could even press, giving a tearful confession about murdering his ex-fiancée in a fit of jealousy.
It's hard to say if it feels like a victory at all, really.
Phoenix is also uncharacteristically quiet on the walk to his office, hands in his pocket and eyes low. It's rather discomforting to see him that way, and it makes Miles' throat ache and his chest tight.
"It's not your fault," he says suddenly.
Phoenix gives a wry smile, chuckling mirthlessly as he pushes a hand through his hair. "Does that really matter who's at fault?"
Miles just sighs. "I don't know. I'd like to think so. If only to sleep better at night."
He winces internally at how raw the words had come out. Too far, especially now.
"The point is, you did what you could do and it's over. You can't change anything. You can just...do better. Tomorrow."
Phoenix stops abruptly, crossing his arms. As always, he looks endearingly out of place in the upper halls of the courthouse, small under the graceful slopes of the wooden architecture.
"What if I didn't do all I could? What if I missed something?"
Miles bites his lip. There's a special kind of pain in hearing Phoenix ask the questions he used to repeat to himself every night after their trials.
For Miles, the answer had always been the same.
"It's always a possibility," he says, and Phoenix visibly deflates, shoulders sinking as his gaze drops to the floor.
Miles clears his throat quickly. "Although, in this case, I would argue you simply had bad luck choosing your client."
Phoenix's chuckle is more of a huff than a laugh. "You think?"
Miles reaches out hesitantly, placing a hand on Phoenix's shoulder.
"Wright - "
"I really thought he was innocent," Phoenix admits. "Am I...am I too gullible? Too soft?"
Miles opens his mouth and closes it again. His instinctive reassurance, no, of course not, rings false even in his own head.
Phoenix is soft, and gentle, and kind. And it's why Miles will never really deserve him.
"You do often make decisions with your heart, not your head," Miles says slowly. "And although in this case it failed you, it is nevertheless something I...admire, about you."
Phoenix meets his gaze, eyebrows raised in undisguised surprise.
"Really? The ever-practical, perfect Miles Edgeworth, admires me?"
Incredibly, Miles wants to say. Excruciatingly. Impossibly.
Instead, he says, "Believe me, your court manner could still use some refinement. But your...passion? That is unmatched."
The smiles that crosses Phoenix's features is enough to dull the late afternoon sun outside. Phoenix in general can dull the sun, truthfully; Miles can't remember a day when Phoenix wasn't his light in some way or another.
He used to loathe it. He's not sure anymore.
"Thanks, Miles. It...it means a lot, from you," Phoenix says softly.
The moment stretches between them, warm and unfamiliar. There's something in Phoenix's eyes, a question, and Miles knows he's not ready to answer.
He lets his hand fall away from Phoenix's shoulder, clearing his throat and adjusting his cravat. "Of course. Now let's get this case over with, hm?"
Phoenix smiles. "Lead the way."
The rest of the walk to Miles' office is quiet, flickering with something beneath the surface. It's a familiar feeling this time, and unspoken uncertainty they're both skirting the edges of.
Miles unlocks his office and holds the door open for Phoenix.
They're hardly a step inside before Phoenix has a hand on Miles' lapel, looking up with that same question in his eyes.
Miles gives the only answer he's sure of anymore.
Papers flutter to the ground and Phoenix lets out a soft gasp as Miles presses him into the wall with a kiss. It feels almost comfortable now, like they're supposed to be doing this, like it's right.
Or maybe it's simply a bad habit. Miles can't bring himself to care either way.
Phoenix lets out a breathless sort of laugh.
"This isn't your way of lording your victory over me, is it?" he asks, a grin tugging at his mouth.
Miles lets his teeth graze along his lower lip as he pulls away. "No. It wasn't a victory, for either of us."
As always, it's not quite what he means. But Phoenix always understands, somehow.
He lets his head fall back, the column of his throat flushed and exposed. When he speaks, his voice rasps from the angle, and Miles' face flushes.
"I don't think I care what it was. Make me forget it."
v. That Time He Didn't Want to Mean It
The fifth time, there's no getting around it. He means it, as much as he insists to himself he doesn't.
Wright is staring idly up at his collection of law books as he signs a form with practiced ease. The last case hadn't marked a losing streak for Wright, after all.
With a sigh, Miles gathers the documents. Wright doesn't look, seemingly fixated on his Blackstone collection. He can't recall ever opening them, truthfully.
He clears his throat. "Wright?"
Wright startles and turns, his surprised expression quickly smoothing into a soft smile.
"Thanks," he says, fingers brushing over Miles' as he takes the folder.
In the past, he would have left without comment, and Miles would have stayed in his office into the early hours of the morning, rehearsing every detail of the trial to find his own weaknesses to fix, and Wright's to exploit.
But now, Phoenix lingers, with a question in his eyes, hesitant and wary.
As if Miles knew how to change the answer.
He pushes his chair into his desk, retrieving his briefcase from its place. Phoenix watches inquisitively, lips just slightly parted around something unspoken.
Miles meets his gaze. "Join me for dinner?"
As always, it's not what he means. But it hardly matters, because Phoenix blinks, brows rising and eyes going wide with an innocent understanding.
"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. Yes!"
Miles can't help but smile. It still doesn't feel quite right, but it's getting there.
Phoenix picks the pop station on the drive back, humming softly along. He watches the sidewalks and offices roll by, gaze flicking back and forth to observe as much as possible.
It's horribly endearing.
When they do finally get to Miles' penthouse, Phoenix is a fish out of water. He stands stiff as cardboard in the foyer, arms pressed to his sides as if to avoid touching too much air.
Miles draped his jacket over the sofa. "You're allowed to breathe, you know."
Phoenix laughs softly. "Are you sure? This is all pretty...out of my league."
"Quite. I'd hate for you to pass out before I've even offered you a drink," Miles replies. "Why don't you have a seat?"
He's not really surprised when Phoenix sits at the very edge of the sofa, back ramrod straight and hands folded in his lap.
"It's a very nice place. You must like showing it off," he says, and Miles can't help but laugh.
"I wish I could take more credit. I had someone decorate it for me," he admits. He doesn't add that no one but himself has set foot in the apartment since he moved in, that the guest bedroom lies unused, that he can hardly stand the emptiness each night.
Phoenix glances up at the modern light fixture before his gaze drifts to the sleek furniture, the monochromatic photography and plain throw pillows.
"I can tell, just a little bit. There's not much...you," he says, looking over his shoulder.
Miles meets his eyes for just a moment before looking back at the wineglasses between his fingers.
"And what would make it more me?" he asks, retrieving a bottle from the shelf. It's one of his sweet wines, something with cherries and honey. He can't imagine Phoenix liking anything bitter.
Phoenix gives the room another look, before a sly grin crosses his face.
"I think a Steel Samurai poster would look good on that wall," he says.
Miles scoffs, the glasses clinking as he sets them down on the coffee table. "Please. I'm not a preteen anymore."
Phoenix shrugs, still grinning. "It hasn't stopped Maya."
Miles sits on the opposite end of the couch, filling his glass before passing the bottle to Phoenix. He takes it hesitantly, as if it's going to shatter the moment it touches his skin.
"I'll...take it into consideration. Any other suggestions?" he asks.
Another pensive look as Phoenix brings the glass to his mouth. The corners of his nose scrunch at the taste, and he quickly sets the glass down.
"I guess...I'm not sure. I don't know much about what you like these days," he admits. "We don't really talk much if it's not about law."
The truth hurts, as always. Miles has to stop himself from draining his glass to dull the sting.
"No, I suppose we don't."
Phoenix offers a disarming smile. "Well, we're talking now. What do you like?"
A thousand things rush into Miles' head. History. Gardening. Horrible romantic comedy films. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. It's all childish and wrong, hollow like his heart.
"I don't...I don't know," he lies, looking away.
The silence that follows is nothing short of awful. Miles doesn't know if he's ever felt more pathetic, not losing to Wright, not failing Von Karma, not cowering away from earthquakes like a child.
This is how he'll always be, isn't it?
"Miles?"
Phoenix's hand is on his shoulder, brows drawn. "Are you okay?"
Miles sets his glass down. The clink stutters slightly as his hand shakes.
"Fine," he says, voice clipped.
"You're not. I'm not a complete idiot, Miles," Phoenix says, a smile threatening to bloom from the corners of his mouth.
Miles feels his own lips twitch. "Thankfully not. Our dear detective might be out of a job if that were the case."
Now, Phoenix does grin, sunny and crooked. Has he always had freckles, scattered like stars across his cheekbones?
"I don't know if I could..."
He trails off, and Miles realizes his hand is pressed to Phoenix's jaw, thumb tracing between those freckles like he's mapping a constellation.
Another silence hangs between them now, something both heavy and delicate.
"Miles?"
Miles closes the space between them, humming at the taste of wine on Phoenix's lips.
It's not until later, tangled between his sheets with Phoenix breathing softly in his arms, that he settles on an answer to Phoenix's question.
"What do you like?"
"Mostly you, I think."
+i. The Time He Meant It
The sixth time, he really does mean it.
The sun filters through the curtains, a warm pinkish glow stretching across his sheets. Miles blinks, sitting up.
The sheets beside him are pushed down, an empty space yawning back at him. Somewhere in the apartment, he can smell bacon.
And for the first time in a long time, the memories that come flooding back don't ache like an old wound.
What are they now? What are they allowed to be?
The questions flutter beneath his ribs, anxious and hopeful all at once. It's a bit pathetic, really, getting flustered over a crush like he's back in grade school, but for once he almost doesn't mind.
He retrieves a robe from his closet, tying it loosely before approaching the kitchen. The scent of bacon gets stronger, along with the bitter warmth of coffee.
Miles looks into the kitchen.
Phoenix is at the stove, back hunched over a pan of bacon. There's a small plate next to him with a batch already finished, and another play with eggs. There's a mug on the counter behind him, steaming.
He's also shirtless, button-up still crumpled somewhere on Miles' bedroom floor, and for a moment Miles forgets to breathe.
He wants this every morning, he realizes. It's a familiar realization, one he's held somewhere close to his heart for years, but seeing it now, right before his eyes, renders the want fresh and pure.
"Good morning," he says.
Phoenix jumps, head whipping over his shoulder. His hair is mangled from its usual style, soft as it flops across one eye.
"Edg - Miles! I thought you were asleep," he says.
"I was, yes. I realized you were gone and came to find you," Miles replies, approaching slowly.
Phoenix reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, grinning shyly. As always, it's dreadfully endearing.
"Sorry. I was gonna make something before I left. I don't want to...bother you, for too long," he says.
Before he left. He'd meant to leave before Miles woke, no goodbye and no mention of the past, like always. It's salt in the wound that's been festering since that first afternoon when Phoenix had walked away.
For the longest time, Miles had been desperate to convince himself he wanted exactly that: Phoenix, gone. Now, he wants something else, wants bright mornings and cool evenings and Phoenix's sunshine smile.
He doesn't want to keep running.
"That's thoughtful of you," he says finally. "But you're welcome to stay."
He takes a breath. "I would...I would like it, if you stayed."
Phoenix scrapes the bacon from the pan and onto his plate before clicking off the stove. "Look, as much as I'd love to nap in your fancy place all day, Maya's gonna wonder - "
Miles clears his throat. "I didn't mean...here. Now. Ahem."
Phoenix's brows fold together in confusion. "What?"
Bare feet make no noise against the tiled floor as Miles steps forward, reaching out to put a hesitant hand on Phoenix's cheek. His freckles look softer in the morning light.
"I meant if we stayed...together. If we stopped pushing each other away. I know this may be selfish, but I do care...deeply, for you."
He stops. There's plenty left unsaid, and Miles isn't sure if he could say it anyway.
Then Phoenix smiles, because Phoenix has always understood him better than anyone, hasn't he?
"I've been hoping you'd say that," he says, placing his hand over Miles'.
Miles lets a small smirk grace his features. "Exactly that?"
Phoenix laughs, stepping closer, forehead brushing against Miles' as he laces their fingers together.
"Anything. Because now I can say it back."