Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

These days, Miles is the first to admit that he is a bit sheltered.

This is actually a major accomplishment on his part, as little as it sounds like one. He is perhaps very sheltered, but progress stems from the fact that he can admit it now. Instead of trying to mask it and ultimately making himself look more foolish when he can’t maintain his facade, he’s started making a conscious effort to be more transparent.

Thus far, this behavior has been rewarded. Once he manages to push his body over the tall hurdle of disclosing weakness, the people in his life have been surprisingly accommodating. Navigating carts in crowded grocery stores stresses him out enough to plunge the rate at which he restocks his kitchen, so Phoenix started coming with him and pushing the rickety little death trap himself. Gumshoe gets an alert when an earthquake is coming, so Miles doesn’t spend his day in paralyzed anticipation but there is someone with strong arms prepared to get him somewhere safe. Franziska doesn’t ever tell him she’s going to help, but she goes on long flights with him and has a remarkable talent for applying grounding pressure when she squeezes his wrist.

Miles would be the first to admit that he is actually quite sheltered, which must be why it’s been becoming impossible to be normal around his closest friend.

He hasn’t commented at all on the shift in Phoenix’s attire, slowly drifting further and further from recognizable royal blues. There is nothing productive for Miles to say about it and he doesn't trust himself to avoid making Phoenix feel weird with a neutral observation.

From a few cracks in Trucy’s facial expressions, he can deduce that Phoenix pays more attention to his appearance than he has been whenever he’s going to be meeting with Miles. She comments on his shirt being nice and both father and daughter keep eerily neutral faces. Both have excellent poker faces, but making a poker face in response to what should be an innocuous comment is suspicious in and of itself.

It must be by Phoenix’s design, then, that this is the first time Miles gets the more authentic picture.

He’s there by Trucy’s request; she invited him over for dinner using her father’s phone so Miles assumed Phoenix knew of his arrival. If the crooked line of Phoenix’s shoulders is any indicator, that is not the case. “Edgeworth! Uh, didn’t expect you!”

Miles frowns. “Really? That’s…” His eyes follow the zig zag of Phoenix’s brow, brush along the curve of his cheek bone, and settle on his jawline.

Phoenix with facial hair is nothing too unfamiliar. Miles’s genes have kept his own face smooth with minimal maintenance, likely because the deities above tried to picture him with a mustache and deemed the concept too disturbing to make possible.

Tough cases saw Phoenix sporting a noticeable five o’clock shadow, paired with equally prominent shadows under his eyes. The Engarde trial comes to mind. Just the sight of him was enough for even twenty-five year old Miles, callous and selfish and cowardly as he was, to understand that Phoenix did not have time for any of his bullshit. He winced at barbed words and considered coming clean about where he was, but he saw the small child with watery eyes clinging to Phoenix like a lifeline and thought better of it.

In a sense, forgoing shaving consistently altogether is a logical progression. The toughest case of all just took a wrecking ball to everything Phoenix built for three years. Where there was once no time to spend on keeping the clean, professional look, now there is simply no reason.

What does not make logical sense is the way staring at Phoenix’s prickly jaw scrambles Miles’s insides. The joints in his fingers tingle and there’s molten lava sinking from the pit of his stomach to his ankles.

Such a strong reaction surely means Miles has an opinion on this change. He is full of opinions and they are often better off being kept inside his head until he gets behind the prosecutor’s bench. Snarky comments are easier to generate than greetings more often than not.

Not a single jeer comes to mind. Miles’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Earth to Edgeworth?”

“Odd.” Miles clears his throat. “It is odd that you did not expect me. Your daughter called me about dinner.”

Phoenix frowns and looks back into the living room, presumably for his scheming child. He sighs, still facing away from Miles. “She’s full of ideas.”

The job Phoenix picked up doesn’t pay particularly well and he has to clothe and feed a daughter. As her father, this is something Phoenix doesn’t want Trucy to ever have to think about, but Miles can read between the lines. He tries not to take that frown too personally. “…Should I leave?”

“Lemme think.” Phoenix counts something on his fingers. “Maybe? No?” He scratches an itch on his cheek. Miles wants to do that for him and then some. Something in the line of his brow changes. “Actually, yeah. It’s not you, I never mind seeing you, I’m- everything’s just a mess right now. You don’t need to see that. I’ll make it up to you when I’ve cleaned up. Promise.”

Phoenix’s broad shoulders block a considerable portion of the doorframe, but Miles has a few inches and a pair of dress shoes over him. As far as he can see, the house is no more cluttered than it has been during previous visits. It is certainly cleaner than it was when Miles first flew into LAX after hearing the news.

“Wright, you…” Miles swallows the lump in his throat. “I will not intrude, but for future reference...I truly don’t mind the clutter.” That’s a lie. It drives him mad. “I mean that.” Despite his lie, he does.

He's expecting a response of some sort. Phoenix just looks at him, eyes narrowed with what Miles can best describe as a distant cousin of skepticism. Once again, Miles tries not to take it personally.

Miles has been there before, unable to believe comforting words not because of their source, but because of the recipient. He will probably be there again within the next week. He sort of is there right now, trying to cling to Phoenix’s assertion that the reason has nothing to do with Miles himself.

“I could take you two out for dinner. My treat.”

Phoenix blinks in such a way that it looks like an intentional gesture. “You don’t have to do that,” he says with very little resistance.

“I’ve intended to for a while now.” Miles goes in for the weak spot. It’s cheap, but honest enough that he doesn’t feel too guilty about his tactics. “Miss Trucy requested me,” he says to the room behind Phoenix, “did she not?”

The young lady of the hour appears right on cue, though Miles would expect no less. She pops out from behind the door frame, making her father jump a bit. “Hi, Uncle Miles!”

Her familial moniker seldom fails to put a wobbly smile on his face. “Hello, dear. Is there anywhere you would like to go for dinner?”

“Edgeworth-”

Trucy taps her chin with her finger in thought. Her darling pink hat is askew. “I’d say Eldoon’s, but I don’t think you’d like it there very much.”

“Hold on,” Phoenix interrupts. He gives Miles a pointed look, then starts heading inside. The angle of Trucy’s hat gets fixed without him needing to look. “If we’re going out to dinner, let me clean up first. Make yourself at home.”

Phoenix’s retreating back reveals a perfectly clean living room, aside from the expected spread of magical props and a separated pair of old slippers that Miles almost trips over. Trucy looks up at him with big, sad eyes.

“Phoenix,” Miles calls out, watching Phoenix pause his warpath towards the bathroom. “We can go somewhere more casual. What you have on now is fine.” It is not fine. His outfit is acceptable; just a modest t-shirt and jeans, but the mismatched animal socks are too endearingly Phoenix and Miles wants to use his unshaved face like a cat’s favorite scratching post. It is simultaneously spectacular and damning.

“Nah, I’ve been overdue for some sprucing up anyway.” The door shuts, keeping both best friend and daughter out.

Miles sighs and gets comfortable on the couch. Trucy keeps glancing towards the bathroom as she updates him on all that has happened at school since they last spoke.

When Phoenix emerges from the bathroom he is a clean slate. Clean jaw, bright eyes, a few stray hairs plucked from his eyebrows. That fact that Miles noticed that last point is a symptom of an ailment he’s failed to cure for four years now, one that he would let himself succumb to if he wasn’t so worried about burdening Phoenix’s full plate.

The t-shirt is tucked into his jeans now. He pats Miles on the back and asks where they’re off to. Makes a corny quip about adventuring on the S.S. Edgeworth’s-Bank-Account. That part feels authentic; Phoenix has never been shy about convincing Miles to pay for large meals with the Fey girls.

He missed a spot while shaving, right where his jawline is about to meet his left ear. Miles has to force himself to look elsewhere for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Text

Miles would be the first to admit that he is woefully inexperienced with matters of the heart.

His spur of the moment, whirlwind of a confession to Phoenix came with the admittance that he is twenty-eight years old and intimacy is a language that has never been so much as spoken in his presence. The emotions that come with it are wholly unfamiliar; a rich, delectable dish that leaves his taste buds overjoyed but his stomach unsettled for the rest of the evening.

Phoenix has been fine with that. Phoenix has been wonderful actually, and Miles never would’ve believed the man capable of doing anything with such careful intent and delicacy if that attentiveness wasn’t all just for him.

There are times, most often when he is fed up with the crossed wires in his brain, when he wishes he would have sucked it up and pretended to be normal. Then he envisions the inevitable catastrophe that would occur when he couldn’t do it anymore and how upsetting that would be for poor, well-meaning, already-going-through-enough-right-now Phoenix. This slow pace makes him rail against himself at times, but it is what he needs.

He's had his fair share of admirers. The Steel Samurai statue she gifted him is the only thing Miles wants to remember of that rabid harpy of an old woman; he's attempted to erase her message using nail polish remover (never doing that again, the smell made him quite dizzy) with little success. Lauren Paups's tendency to speak her inner monologue aloud revealed several perplexing thoughts she had about Miles; that he's a playboy (laughable), really good looking (...fine), but ultimately too old for her (hey!). Officer Roland made some questionable remarks as well, though part of him suspects that they were made with the intent of throwing him off.

Gumshoe leads him to believe there have been more that he's been completely unaware of. Who knows what about him seems to attract the attention of so many women when any effort would be entirely fruitless. He's known he liked men since he was a child.

Prior to finally confessing to Phoenix, Miles did a bit of window shopping among the male populace. Never with the intent of bringing anyone home, but he has eyes. If there's an attractive man on the crime scene then his gaze is going to linger a bit.

Agent Lang was a pipe bomb. With each “pretty boy” Miles wasn't sure how many more he could take without exploding. He's certain that shirt got lower every time he saw it.

The view was nice. Agent Lang could model if he wanted to, but that was really all Miles wanted to do about that, even disregarding the whole crippling anxiety thing. Look a little longer than is appropriate, acknowledge that the sight in front of him is quite pleasing to the eye, and move on.

He's never felt attraction before the way he does when he looks at Phoenix.

Looking remains as stellar as ever, (it's better, so much better) but it is always accompanied by the desire to do more. His eyes won't tell him how warm Phoenix's skin is all the time and how the muscles in his arms actually feel to the touch. Eyes alone can't convey what it feels like when he knows Phoenix is smiling into a kiss. That in particular is best experienced with his eyes closed, just drinking in the sensation with no extraneous sensory input. Then he opens them again and falls in love all over.

Phoenix has made a mess out of him. Before they started dating his nightly terrors were phased out in favor of painful what-ifs, passing ghosts of an embrace that never happened and a kiss that never could. Miles pushed them aside, or at least tried to, and shelved the whole notion as an impossibility.

Kissing used to be deemed too far, so now that it's possible and regularly occurring, his fantasies have had to get more creative. Far more creative than anything Miles is capable of executing in real life. There's no way he is actually going to ask Phoenix to tear his clothes off when just showing his forearms makes him horribly fidgety. Not when asking for anything is still so hard, so heavy with guilt. Miles doesn't like making Phoenix play charades, but more often than not it's the best he can do.

Currently, he is thanking his awkward, restrained nature, because the universe is once again testing him.

There is nothing special about Phoenix's shirt. It is a plain black t-shirt from Walmart with a shallow v-neck. Not even a tiny embroidered brand logo.

The only distinctive thing about it is the tag, which Miles imagines must say that it's at least one size smaller than Phoenix should probably be wearing.

That affordable, completely unremarkable fabric clings to his abdomen and the slight curve of his chest, offering no ambiguity about the shape of the body beneath it. Miles traces those soft lines with his eyes ten times over and shoves his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from doing the same.

“I like that shirt,” he says.

Phoenix looks up from the grilled cheese sandwich he's making. “Really? Think I should go back to the store and see if I can get the right size?”

He bends over to grab a spatula from a lower cabinet. The shirt, previously tucked into his pants, has ridden up to reveal tanned skin. There's a little scar at the small of his back.

Miles says, “That would be a waste. This one fits fine.”

Phoenix huffs a little laugh. “Glad you think so.” He stretches and it rides further up. Miles gets a glimpse before Phoenix tugs the fabric back down. “Hm. Maybe as a crop top it does. Don't think I could pull those off like I used to.”

“I-” I beg to differ. Miles sips his tea and swallows those deeply embarrassing thoughts. “You used to wear crop tops?”

A shrug. “College was a weird time for me.” Phoenix flips the sandwich over. Some of the melting cheese drips onto the pan. “I tried a lot of stuff out.” He looks at Miles with a sly grin. “I saw the newspapers back then. Your fashion sense hasn't changed a bit.”

“Untrue,” Miles tuts. “My suit now is much more tasteful.”

“Same color though.”

“Wrong. I picked a less saturated one.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

Miles scowls at him. The cook moseys over to plant a kiss on his cheek, sending an electric shock through his fingertips. The beginnings of his stubble are rough against Miles’s face in the best way. His grimace melts away like the cheese getting baked onto Phoenix’s spatula.

‘Phoenix’s spatula’ sounds like an innuendo. It is certainly not intended to be one, but once the thought enters Miles’s mind there is no hope of evicting it. What does the cheese represent then? Is Miles the grilled cheese sandwich? Because sometimes he wants Phoenix to flip him over and pin him to the floor? But that’s not happening anytime soon because a few times Phoenix has ended up on top of him when they’re snuggling and Miles’s legs feel like they’re made of jelly?

His partner is plating his sandwiches now, inspecting them to see which one is less messy looking for Miles. Phoenix leans down to examine the edges and wipe off some excess cheese with his thumb. All Miles can think about is Phoenix on top of him in that tight shirt, wiping the saliva from a sloppy kiss off of his cheek while Miles has a front row seat to how his chest looks held by that cheap fabric.

A plate enters Miles’s line of sight, accompanied by a paper towel that was visibly used to remove any excess grease. “Your royal hotness.”

Miles rolls his eyes in hopes of distracting from the blush creeping up his neck. “Does that make you the court jester?”

“I'd hope I'm at least a knight. I conquered my crappy burners for you.” Phoenix slides into the seat next to him with a significantly messier grilled cheese sandwich. Those sleeves have a chokehold on his biceps. Crispy breadcrumbs flake off on Phoenix's face as he eats.

“No, you’re definitely the jester.”

Phoenix pouts at him, which only serves to accentuate the crumbs under his lower lip. Some have landed on his shirt, resting right on the noticeable swell of his pecs.

Miles takes a bite to keep his hands busy and vows to find out what letter is on the tag of that shirt.

Chapter Text

Miles would be the first to admit that being casual is not a strong suit of his.

In his line of work, this is an excellent quality. Never shall his appearance portray him as anything but a legal professional of the highest magnitude. Given how often his daily life is interrupted by a murder occurring ten feet away, looking credible on short notice has proved undeniably useful.

In his personal life, it is often a point of ridicule. He knows about Kay’s theory; the one that he has no neck because no one has ever seen it. Everyone in his life except for maybe Detective Gumshoe has parroted his flowery vocabulary back at him in a mangled inaccurate accent at least once.

Phoenix is probably the nicest about it. He gets in his teasing remark, notes Miles trying not to look self-conscious, and asserts that he finds all of Miles’s idiosyncrasies charming. He points it out because he finds it endearing, not because he thinks Miles is weird.

“Oh no, I totally think you’re weird,” Phoenix corrects, “but I like you that way.”

Miles can’t really argue with that. Not when Phoenix is simultaneously the strangest and most desirable man he’s ever laid eyes on.

He is still just as weird as ever, but he’s working on the whole being-casual thing. His closet has slowly started looking less copy-pasted since he began therapy, which coincided with him trying to actually let people into his life. Phoenix once joked about being relieved to see his friend Miles instead of Prosecutor Edgeworth, all because Miles wasn’t wearing his blazer and cravat. The phrase “my friend Miles” short circuited his brain enough that he spent the next week searching for informal clothes.

Maya Fey wants him to accompany her and Phoenix to a burger place. She knows for a fact that he will find nothing on the menu remotely appetizing, but she also knows for a fact that he will not let her or Phoenix pay. He is entirely being invited because being a spirit medium (Miles has learned to keep his opinions on that to himself) doesn’t pay well and she’s been more hesitant to mooch off of Phoenix than she ever was as his assistant.

She probably also wants to talk to Miles about the recent Pink Princess season. They’ve texted a bit about it, but he is far better at reigning in his excitement over text than he is in person. Every message is typed with the awareness that it could easily be screenshotted, sent to his boyfriend, and used to tease him for the rest of his life.

Face to face, it takes less than he would like to get him going on an endless tirade about this franchise. As soon as Maya realized he was a fan, she made it her personal mission to rile him up about a plot line he didn’t like or an incredible action sequence he rewatched too many times. When Miles first started getting invited to things, that was often the only way to draw him into the conversation.

He finishes tucking his turtleneck into his slacks and attaches a small pin to the lapel of his blazer. The pin is the Steel Samurai’s fan, of course. Noticeable to a fan but tasteful enough not to out him as a massive nerd to the general pedestrian.

Hm. The pin is where a lawyer’s badge usually goes. Muscle memory from a life Miles never lived, he supposes. He switches it to the other side.

Phoenix and Maya are waiting for his car at the Wright Talent Agency, the cunning Miss Fey having already strong-armed Phoenix into surrendering the passenger’s seat.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Phoenix grumbles from the back seat.

“And he’s my favorite fanfiction author,” Maya retorts. She blows a raspberry and connects her phone to Miles’s bluetooth without asking. “Did you like my comment?”

“You have no evidence that this online creator is me,” Miles says. He hears shuffling. “Phoenix, put the rock away.”

His partner’s weasley smirk is visible in the rearview mirror. “I thought you didn’t believe in any of this stuff.”

“I will withhold my credit card when the check comes around, Wright.”

Maya turns around in her seat and Miles swallows his complaint about car safety. “It’s totally him. All the headcanons match his and I have to keep a dictionary open in another tab. I can send you the link if you want.”

“I reiterate my previous threat.” Both of them are suspiciously quiet after that. Miles lets his shoulders relax and makes a note to incorporate more modern slang in future drafts to throw her off of his scent. He can use Kay for research.

Of course the two adults who don’t drive would want to come here. The parking spots are all at contradictory angles. Miles watches three idiots almost dent his beloved car. He hopes the burgers are worth the years taken off of his life.

He orders a plate of mozzarella sticks and an iced tea. Maya orders something with “double-decker” in the name, which should really be a term reserved for buses. Some burger with specialty sauce with a goofy name piques Phoenix's interest, which Miles responds to with a request for extra napkins.

Phoenix elbows him in the arm. “Meanie.”

“Am I wrong?” Miles asks.

“No, but you're more annoying when you're right. Cut it out.”

Maya steals one of Phoenix's French fries. “Edgeworth is right? Didn't know you two got married so soon.”

Phoenix laughs far too much for such a lackluster pun and gives her a high five. Miles's hands fidget in his lap. “Marrying after three months would be quite premature. I would never do that.”

His tea comes with a Lipton bag dangling from the rim. It takes every muscle in Miles's face to stop him from grimacing at the sight. He is undoubtedly guilty of doing that in front of a waiter before. Phoenix knows how particular he is with his tea, so he laughs and forks over four packets of sugar.

The double decker burger is as much of a monster as Miles feared it would be. Maya’s face lights up with a gasp. The bun and ingredients at the very top of the burger are shifting its center of balance, slowly sliding into oblivion. Somehow even worse is Phoenix’s burger, gooey sauce already dripping down the edges. This is exactly why Miles ordered mozzarella sticks instead.

Maya takes off the bun and Miles almost deceives himself into thinking there is hope. Split in half, while unconventional, that double-decker burger would be far better suited to actually fit the human jaw.

She takes out the pickles on top and gives them to Phoenix. They are covered in god knows what condiment but she still uses her hands instead of a fork. Phoenix eats them without question. The burger is maybe a millimeter shorter.

Phoenix picks up his burger. His fingers are contaminated within seconds of him doing so. Miles almost wants to hold up his napkin as a shield in anticipation of that first bite sending sauce squirting everywhere.

It turns out that doing so would not have been unreasonable. The first bite comes with a squelching sound and a spray of sauce. Thick droplets trail down Phoenix’s jaw and hands. Miles watches in horror as one trickles down to his elbow.

Someone ought to do something about that and rescue his jeans. Miles is cursed by a brief vision of him cleaning up Phoenix’s mess with his tongue. He crosses his legs and clamps his jaw shut. That would be obscene. That would be the most mortifying thing that could possibly happen, and even Phoenix would think it disturbing.

Phoenix looks at him with a mouthful of burger. “Shhmrthmg wrmmg?”

Do. Not. Lick him!!! Miles digs his teeth into his lower lip. He takes a napkin and starts with the greasy bead approaching Phoenix’s neckline. “You have sauce on your face,” he states plainly. The napkin is completely soiled now. “And your hands.” Maya snorts.

“Erh shrt.” Phoenix swallows his bite and sticks each individual finger in his mouth. As far as it can go down his throat. “Mmm. So good. Thanks.”

“Ah. You-” Miles clears his throat. “You missed a spot. Your elbow.”

“You’re kind of a mess, Nick,” Maya adds helpfully. Phoenix looks at her with an eerie clarity before trying and failing to lick his own elbow. That sends her into hysterics. Eventually Miles just has to intervene with another napkin.

“You two shouldn’t be allowed in public spaces,” Miles declares, using the remaining napkins to preemptively pat down the offending burger while his boyfriend pouts like a toddler.

Little does Phoenix know that Miles doesn’t care! Phoenix could dip his fingers in ketchup and Miles wouldn’t try to stop him. He would be upset, but that would be the extent of it. The burger is just making him way too horny in the middle of a crappy diner and he doesn’t have the tools to deal with that in a rational way. What is he supposed to do, blow off steam in a public bathroom? Absolutely not.

Miles cuts one of his mozzarella sticks and picks up a piece with a fork. Maya gives him a formidable stink eye but he has decided that no one at this table is allowed to have an opinion about the way he eats. At least he doesn’t need an entire tree worth of napkins.

Maya asks him about the Pink Princess and for once he cannot summon an entire analysis essay on command. When Miles’s response is only one sentence long, Maya glances at Phoenix with a sour face. The Fey girls have always had an unsettling way about them, similar to Trucy, such that Miles has to wonder if she can tell what’s happening in his head.

Phoenix takes another bite and makes a pleased sound into the meaty patty. Thank god Trucy isn’t the one here.

Chapter Text

Miles would be the first to admit that he is not in a particularly fit state for driving right now.

No, he is not drunk. He tried getting completely wasted exactly once when he started living alone for the first time. The goal was to grant himself one evening where he could shroud the violent activity in his brain with a calming haze. He does not quite remember what happened after that, but he suspects that his state of mind was altered for the worse.

Larry has tried to get him to go out drinking numerous times, but getting sleepy and/or depressed with only the company of an equally (if not more) wasted Larry Butz sounds like one of the worst ways he could possibly spend an evening.

He just had one glass of wine over dinner. And then another. The bottle was his own, of course, because he would die before letting Phoenix pay for that. It didn’t go particularly well with spaghetti and meatballs, but it paired quite pleasantly with the movie on the couch immediately after.

…During which he had a third glass.

This leaves Miles a little too buzzed to stay in the right lane and a little too tired to notice when the traffic lights change colors. The movie was perfectly fine, quite funny at times, but Phoenix pulled a blanket over their legs and Miles knew he was a goner.

Phoenix’s arm is draped over Miles’s shoulders as the credits roll. Miles somehow managed to stay awake the entire time, despite his partner’s apparent efforts otherwise, but his eyelids are heavy and he cannot recall the last time he was so comfortable.

The clock above Phoenix’s TV is exactly twelve minutes and thirty two seconds ahead. Were they both not scared of heights, Miles would have demanded it be fixed or done so himself. Instead he just does the math. Even subtracting the extra minutes, it’s quite late. Miles groans. “I suppose I ought to take my leave.”

Fingers scratch the back of his head. He just got his hair trimmed in the back. This is not helping him stay awake. “Are you okay to drive home?” Phoenix asks.

Miles worries at his lower lip. This is new territory. Never before has he stayed out long enough that fleeing is not an option. He shows up on time and leaves early before it goes from enjoyable to overwhelming. His social battery was steadily degrading 5% per year since he was nine, leaving it at a dreadful 25% of its original capacity by the time he met Phoenix again. That capacity was never particularly large to begin with, and only in the past few years has it started to recover a bit.

Phoenix has this phenomenal talent for not draining him at all. His partner asks if he needs some time away from people and the only explanation Miles can come up with as to why not is that somehow Phoenix doesn’t count.

Still, this is a change from their norm. The norm where Miles goes back to his own place at the end of the night, puts on a color variant of his favorite pajamas, and drifts to sleep mulling over how he’s handling the whole boyfriend thing.

So many nebulous factors are at play. He’s had a very difficult time sleeping for most of his life. Even with the nightmares going from a constant to a rarity, he relies on the particular environment he’s created in his bedroom: pitch black except for a dim red night light just by the bathroom door, a weighted blanket between the soft sheets and fluffy comforter, the noise machine playing sounds of ocean waves.

And his medication. He tried melatonin prior to starting therapy, not knowing that it makes dreams and nightmares more vivid. Through clinical trial and error he has found something that knocks him out without damning him to spend the first few waking moments of each day disoriented and scared out of his mind.

Miles blinks three times to keep himself awake. He is already almost dozing off on Phoenix’s couch, though that can mostly be attributed to how comfortable it is to lie there with warm arms around him.

“I don’t think so,” Miles admits. He shifts a little. “Um. I could try to get an Uber.”

Phoenix frowns. “You would hate that.”

“I would.” Miles’s eyes drift to the significantly lighter bottle. It was a really good wine, okay? “This is my own fault though.”

“I mean, you could stay here for the night,” Phoenix offers. Miles’s grip on the blanket tightens. “Just to sleep!” Phoenix adds hastily. “I’d take the couch.”

That kind of sounds like hell. Lying in Phoenix’s bed where the pillows smell like Phoenix but Phoenix is in another room. Miles does enough yearning in his own bed where the pillows don’t smell like anything and his hands move to feel where Phoenix’s once were.

“We could try sharing,” Miles mumbles.

He dearly hopes Phoenix does not take that to be begrudging. The idea is actually incredibly inviting. There is just that lingering fear that head and heart will not align. What he wants and what he can actually handle are often not the same thing.

Phoenix is pretty good at figuring out how he works. He figured out that Miles actually does like physical affection, he is simply also a deeply maladjusted human being. That probably raised far more questions than it answered, but Phoenix has always had a knack for rolling with the punches. “Are you sure?”

“I am willing to try.” Miles allows himself a small smile. “It could be nice.”

He is unceremoniously removed from his boyfriend’s embrace and far too tired to conceptualize long term reward. “Cool. I’ll see if I’ve got any clean Edgeworth-friendly sweats. Truce has at least one complimentary toothbrush from the dentist you can use.”

Oh lord. He’s going to be wearing Phoenix’s clothes? For an entire night? Miles is doomed.

The complimentary toothbrush is pink and sparkly, just like its recipient. Phoenix hands him a bundle of folded clothes when they switch places from bathroom to bedroom. Miles was expecting Phoenix’s preferred gray hoodie with the zipper. If not that, then a t-shirt so he wouldn’t get hot (Miles is much too self-conscious to wear the black one, and he’s pretty sure he’d wear a larger size than Phoenix in the first place).

Instead, Phoenix gave him a light pullover with his alma mater on the front. No cold metal from a zipper, no short sleeves. Clean and Edgeworth-friendly, as promised. Miles holds the pullover up to his face and breathes in. He’s so lucky.

The sweatpants are a little short on his legs. He debates the merits of wearing his tuxedo socks to bed. And speaking of the bed itself, Phoenix’s full is much smaller than his king. It can fit two people, but they will truly be right on top of each other unless they both go to the furthest edge.

What the hell is he thinking?

Phoenix turns the lights off when he enters the bedroom. His room isn’t quite as dark as Miles’s, but it’s still pretty hard to see. There is the sound of moving fabric, then of something soft landing on the floor instead of in a hamper. Miles stands just in front of the bed, running his thumb over the ribbed part of his pullover sleeves.

“Pick a side,” Phoenix says. Miles surveys his options for a moment before padding over to the left side. “Wright on the right. Good choice.”

Miles rolls his eyes and slides under the covers. “That will never be funny.”

“I’ve caught you laughing before. You can’t fool me.” The mattress dips when Phoenix lands on the other side. Miles doesn’t think he scooted in that far, but their legs are practically touching. “How do we wanna do this?”

How should Miles know? He takes a deep breath. Phoenix is completely rational to ask his opinion, because he is the one who will have a stronger preference. He just has no frame of reference for what that opinion is.

The best course would probably be to broaden his scope of knowledge. “How do partners normally sleep together?” Miles asks. “To go to bed, I mean.”

“Of course. Uh…” It isn’t so dark that Miles can’t see Phoenix tapping his finger to his chin as he thinks. It’s adorable. “Spooning’s a popular one. That’s when you both face the same way and-”

“I know what spooning is.” Maybe he does know more about this than he thought. Research for…creative writing has paid off. “Do you have a preference? In terms of spooning.”

Phoenix shrugs. “Nah. But I think I might know which you’d like better. Wanna try?”

Miles considers. “I trust you.”

“Turn your back to me and act like you’re just sleeping alone,” Phoenix says. Miles does so. He can track Phoenix’s approach from the shifting of the mattress. Not that there is much distance to travel. “You okay with me putting my arm around you?”

It seems that Phoenix knows exactly how he works. Here Miles was, thinking himself a master of concealing how insufferably clingy he would be if not for the charcuterie board of assorted traumas. The guilt complex and his pathological inability to ask for anything keep him contained, but Phoenix has had to find mountains in much smaller molehills before.

Miles nods. His chest caves in to meet his knees on some horrible instinct. He can feel Phoenix hovering over him, waiting to see some evidence that he actually means it.

Deep breath. In and out. This is his partner. They have shared an embrace plenty of times before, this is just a variation on that. Miles likes their embraces. So often does his mind wander to the terrors of the past and worries of the future, but he feels safe with Phoenix’s arms anchoring him to the present.

Phoenix’s hand will likely be on his abdomen instead of his back. This is the more frightening of the two by far. This is also something that has happened before. It probably happened when they were on the couch just earlier this evening; Miles was just comfortable enough to forget how uneasy he is in his own skin. Perhaps he can find that comfort again.

Miles unfurls his constricted body and nods again, surer this time. He feels Phoenix’s arm reach around to rest just under his chest, then pull closer so that his back is flush against Phoenix’s stomach. There’s warm breath on the back of his neck.

He probably isn’t the most ideal person to hold, too bony in a few places and stiff as a board all around. Years spent hunched over a desk have made a knotted mess out of his shoulders. Phoenix tried his hand at a massage a few years before they started dating, but it was hard to make a dent when Miles’s shoulders tensed at the slightest applied pressure. He’s toyed with the idea of seeing a professional, but every time he ultimately decides that if Phoenix can’t make him relax, then no one can.

From the sweet way Phoenix is pressing his face into Miles’s back, one would never know there was anything wrong with him. “Is this comfortable for you?” Miles asks.

“Mmhm,” Phoenix says into Miles’s sweatshirt. His hand slides to grasp the smallest point of Miles’s waist. Even with the soft fabric separating their skin, it feels intimate. With how many layers of clothing Miles wears on a regular day, it is undoubtedly the closet Phoenix has been to touching his body. “There’s a nice spot for me right here.”

A nice spot. For Phoenix. Miles’s shoulders manage to relax a fraction. Perhaps he tends to sell himself a bit short. His eyes feel heavy again. “I think I might be able to sleep like this.” He pauses. “You don't snore, do you?”

Phoenix, bluffer extraordinaire who can turn a simple “yes” into four paragraphs of beating around the proverbial bush, is silent.

“Wright.”

“Don't kill me.”

“Right in my ear? Are you serious?”

“I might not when I’m sleeping on my side! You never know!”

Miles wakes up at four o'clock in the morning to an answer. As predicted, right in his ear.

He cannot bring himself to begrudge Phoenix this, because the man’s fingers are still pressed into Miles’s stomach and his light scruff is rough against Miles's neck. His legs fit right in behind where Miles's are bent, like a puzzle piece he never knew was missing.

Moreover, the low snuffling in his ear is so unlike any of the other noises that once interrupted his slumber. It is not a sharp, screeching echo of the day he lost everything at only nine years old; it is a clumsy, gentle sound that embodies a person who has been instrumental in helping him heal. Annoying, yes, but in a way that almost soothes. Miles will take harmless and annoying over panic-inducing any day.

He ends up drifting back to sleep in spite of Phoenix’s obstructed airways. If any dreams pass through, they are only remembered in vague sensations, flashes without words attached. There might have been a cat in one of them, or something in the shape of a cat, but that is where the recollection starts and ends.

When Miles does wake up, properly this time, Phoenix is playing with his hair. Words aren’t happening quite yet, so Phoenix doesn’t realize Miles is awake until he opens his eyes. Phoenix freezes with his fingers woven in Miles’s bangs. A breathy laugh escapes his parted lips. “Morning.”

Miles is pretty sure he parrots the greeting back. His mouth just barely moves and the sound is mostly air. Phoenix gives him a big smile, which Miles has to assume means he understood. “Did you sleep okay?”

The fact that he slept for the entire night without taking any drugs is nothing short of a miracle; one that his psychiatrist will get a laugh out of if he decides to bring it up. All of that trial and error just to find that he should’ve asked Phoenix out earlier! Who would have guessed!

Simultaneously, he can see his psychologist arching a fashionably shaped eyebrow at the notion that him entering a relationship when he first started seeking treatment would’ve been a good idea. Especially when many of those early sessions were spent trying to navigate the idea that Phoenix might be upset that Miles let him think he was dead for a year. Communicating that you’re alive is probably the bare minimum for communication in a functional relationship.

“You still snore on your side,” Miles says, because complaining comes far easier than thank you no matter the time of day. He’ll get to it. He will, just not yet. “You sound like a fifty year old man. It isn’t pretty.”

Phoenix snorts, as wonderfully graceless as he is in sleep. It’s completely unrefined and Miles is starting to discover that he likes Phoenix best that way. Shameless and unapologetic. “Gee, thanks.”

“Otherwise I slept fine.” Miles feels Phoenix’s fingers slowly resume combing through his hair. The nails are short and slightly jagged.

It feels nice.

“I haven’t slept well unaided since we were children,” Miles admits. He’ll swear later that it was last night’s wine talking when really what he’s really drunk on is Phoenix touching him. That tracks with previous behavior; being tipsy apparently makes him sleepy. “I do not think it would be absurd to attribute that to your presence.”

Phoenix's cheeks are red. “Even though I snore like a fifty year old man?”

“Somehow, yes.”

Miles can feel Phoenix's diaphragm when he laughs. “Thank god. Trucy can’t even be in the room with me, then she gets cranky.”

“So you were bracing yourself for me being cranky, which would be truly terrifying given how unpleasant I am on a normal day,” Miles concludes.

“You're not cranky. You're grumpy.”

He would grab a thesaurus if not for the fact that he doesn't think Phoenix has one and he is much too cozy to move. “Those mean the same thing.”

“Your sister is cranky. I say hi to her and she's already mad at me. You're usually not all that angry, just a little prickly.” Phoenix leans in closer. Their noses are almost touching. “I think it's cute.”

“Someone has to.”

There's a knock on the door that makes Miles jump more than it should. He is not particularly accustomed to there being other people in places where he is sleeping. “Daddy, I'm hungry. Stop being gross and make some pancakes.”

Oh god. Does Trucy know that he’s here? How is he going to explain that? Has Phoenix talked to her about the birds and the bees? No one ever talked to Miles about the birds and the bees in a sense outside of conception, which is obviously not applicable for him.

Is the health program at Trucy’s school going to cover gender and sexuality or will they just tell her what a tampon is and call it a day? Prosecutor von Karma made house servants explain it to Franziska, but all of them were too scared of the ten year old with the riding crop so somehow that ended up being Miles’s job, because he was ultimately still too nice and he wouldn’t get fired if she smacked him. Does the responsibility once again lie on Miles, who has no idea what he’s talking about and isn’t even Trucy’s father?

Phoenix’s voice pulls Miles from his plans to speak at length with several curriculum supervisors. “Sorry, Truce! I’ll be right up.” He throws off the covers and stretches. His back produces every onomatopoeia known to mankind. “Yikes. I feel fifty already.”

He stands up and Miles has to restrain himself from gawking at the man's backside. With those sleep shorts clinging to his posterior, he certainly doesn't look fifty.

Miles has his fair share of hang ups about being remotely undressed. Phoenix knows; that’s why Miles is in a pullover instead of a t-shirt. There isn't a particular incident that made him that way. He’s just generally very insecure, he was skipping a lot of meals for a while (still does sometimes, but far less often) which resulted in a mutually unyielding hatred between him and his body, he’s established such a status quo of showing no skin that others would find it highly disturbing if he did, and in all seriousness there are some things about him that he thinks no one should have to look at.

His therapist applauds his self awareness. Meaning she acknowledges it as being far better than the alternative where he denies needing help. Franziska finds it incredibly annoying.

Phoenix has none of that going on, yet this is still the first time Miles has seen his bare legs. Now that he has, Miles can only come to the conclusion that Phoenix decided he would be too irresistible if he wore shorts all the time, and therefore swore off of them for the greater good of humanity.

The man has the thighs of a Greek god. Miles looks again. No, better than a Greek god. All those marble statues have enviable muscles, but Phoenix’s thighs look like they’d be equally good for using as a pillow and crushing Miles’s skull.

“You coming?”

“Excuse me?” Miles is forced to remember how to use critical thinking when Phoenix looks confused by the defensiveness of his response. How would he know you were thinking such unscrupulous thoughts?! “Um. Yes. Sorry, I seem to have misinterpreted what you were asking.”

“What the hell did you think I meant?”

“Trucy’s waiting and I haven't had my tea yet.” Miles makes a shooing motion. “Leave. You are needed elsewhere.”

“You're shooing me? Cold,” Phoenix complains as he proceeds to do exactly what Miles said. Miles gets up slowly and follows a few paces behind.

He didn't wear socks last night. Sleeping in his tuxedo socks instead of one of his soft pairs at home felt wrong. The floor is cold and his pants are still too short.

Phoenix's old dress pants fit like that, just a few inches too short, baring his mismatched zany socks to the world. His whole courtroom ensemble was a bit ill-fitted, too wide in the shoulders and a bit boxy even when buttoned shut. It was a sight any man of reputation would immediately underestimate. Miles would know. Manfred von Karma thought himself entirely unthreatened until suddenly he was the ant under Phoenix's magnifying glass, writhing under the light of his bumbling brilliance.

He's always been brilliant. Unapologetic and bold. That suit bordered on fluorescent in the wrong lighting and he flaunted it without shame.

The socks are still in regular circulation, but Phoenix's sweatpants are long enough on him that the designs are hidden away. Miles can't recall which patterns are on what color socks anymore. His favorite was the pair with the simplified cats. Perhaps he ought to buy Phoenix some new additions.

Miles ends up quickening his pace so he can hide behind Phoenix as they enter the kitchen. This puts his thighs within tantalizing grabbing range. Not that Miles has the audacity to even consider acting on that observation, but it lingers longer than he'd like to admit.

He isn't hiding because he doesn't want Trucy to see him. Even at this hour, he knows he is tall enough that hiding is pointless. Only Gumshoe has the stature to actually conceal him. He is simply trying to postpone the moment he has to meet her frighteningly perceptive eyes and tell her that he was sleeping with her father.

Franziska is in his head calling him a fool, because Miss Trucy Wright is a delightful angel who starts her morning by tackling her father into a tight hug. The way Phoenix's face lights up makes Miles's heart ache a bit. He backs up a few steps to let them have their moment.

Trucy’s attention is on him as soon as she releases her father. “Seeing you in sweatpants is really weird, Uncle Miles.”

Kids are known to be quite blunt at times. “I agree.”

Trucy pats him on the shoulder in sympathy and moves on with her life. Miles is left dumbfounded by the interaction.

“You can’t hide anything from Trucy,” Phoenix says. His eyes grow distant for a moment, but it is gone before Miles can so much as blink. “She probably saw your coat at the door.”

Sure enough, his coat still hangs from the rack that Mia Fey probably purchased. Next to it is Phoenix’s puffer jacket and a darling pink wool article courtesy of Trucy’s Auntie ‘Ziska. “I would not be very good at covering up a murder.”

“Hot.” Phoenix kisses him on the cheek, at which Trucy mimes retching on the carpet, to which Phoenix sticks out his tongue. Trucy returns the crude gesture. Both parties break off their glaring match with a laugh. One day, when she’s much older, Miles will have to tell Trucy just how grateful he is that Phoenix has her in his life.

And how lucky he is to have both of them in his.

Chapter Text

Miles would be the first to admit that he is horribly, incurably smitten with Phoenix Wright and when he thinks it cannot get any worse he is always proven wrong.

This is an admission best kept to himself. Franziska will hang up and ghost him for two months if he waxes poetic in front of her, Kay would try to embarrass him for sport, and Larry would ask him genuinely curious questions that he can’t answer about the logistics of having sex with another man. Miles can already picture that last one in startling clarity. ‘Do you smash your dicks together like swords, Edgey?’ What a fine question, Larry! He hasn’t seen that particular method of fornicating depicted in his leisurely MagiSteel perusal, but he might not be looking in the right tags for it!

He goes to proofread the heavily classified files on his personal computer and the evidence is damning. His bleeding heart is etched in every other line of his prose, rife with a longing for what is barely in reach. A reader who is unfortunately Maya Fey appears to have caught on, leaving him messages in her lengthy comments such as “please go visit him this is so much you are so GAY ITS PATHETIC! YOU ARE NOTHING! (I promise I know him irl I am not a hater source trust me bro)”

Miles ends up taking her advice. Not because she called him pathetic in his own comments, but because he woke up squeezing one of his pillows like it was a person. A warm, sweet person who brightens his gloomy days and softens his unforgiving evenings.

He wakes up earlier than is sane so he can handpick cheese and crackers for his charcuterie board without having to interact with another soul. It would be easier for him to send Gumshoe to the grocery store with his credit card, but he’s certain the detective’s cheese knowledge is limited to American and the powdered cheddar abomination that comes with microwave macaroni and cheese.

Phoenix arrives just as Miles sets his finished board on the coffee table. The house renovation show they're going to watch is in the middle of a commercial break. Miles brushes any stray cracker crumbs off his red cashmere sweater before he approaches the door.

He’s trying to be a bit more casual, wearing two layers on his torso instead of three and forgoing his cravat. Where his waistcoat is tailored to show off (and slightly edit) his figure, the sweater softens it. One can still ascertain his general body shape, but not the approximate ratio between his chest and his waist.

Miles cannot help but feel a little underdressed; neckwear was a staple of every outfit he wore long before it became frilly. He can vividly remember being mortified to hear that one of the mothers thought he looked like a little penguin in elementary school with his blazers and bow ties.

Looking back at the framed photos in Phoenix's office, he doesn't not look like a penguin. His arms are so stiff at his sides that they almost look like flippers. More recent pictures liken him to a bird with far more concentrated feathers at its breast, but the arms have only gotten worse.

He goes to turn the doorknob and his elbow feels like a poorly articulated joint on an action figure. Four months of partnership later, he doesn’t get nearly as nervous about dates— seeing as they are essentially just time spent with his closest friend under a more intimate context— but he’s still just as tense and awkward. The arm pops when he straightens it out. This does not bode well for the state his body will be in when he’s actually old.

Phoenix is in a navy Ivy University sweatshirt with black sweatpants. The clashing colors look atrocious together. They also bring out his eyes somehow, so maybe Miles can forgive him.

Maybe.

“I thought you studied art,” Miles says in lieu of any attempt at a pleasant greeting. “Then again, I’ve only ever seen you sketching. Was basic color theory a fatal weakness of yours?”

Phoenix gives him a wry smirk. “Says the man who only wears one color palette.”

“Why reinvent the wheel?”

“Great question, Miles.” Phoenix takes the material of Miles’s sweater between his fingers. “You’re usually a little more pink.”

This from the same man who gets a kick out of saying Miles’s suits are magenta. “And do you see me pairing this with my slightly pinker dress pants? I think not.”

“I like the beige. Tan. Cream. Khaki. Whatever synonym won’t make you kick me out.”

Miles sighs. His pants are actually taupe, but he needs someone to help him plow through the entire cheese platter, and despite all the tomfoolery that comes with it he actually wants to spend time with Phoenix. Otherwise he wouldn’t have invited him. Or told him he was madly in love with him.

The commercial playing from his living room is for an auto-insurance company that wasn't much help when the police department's favorite HR nightmare hid a body in his trunk. Obviously he has switched providers since then, but the resentment lingers. “That degree on your wall has to be a fake. Get inside before I change my mind.”

Phoenix laughs and slides by with a peck on the cheek. “Think I should start forging degrees and see if Gavin notices? Bachelor of Music in Piano Performance is right there.”

“No one would believe you.”

“From Juilliard,” Phoenix adds in a voice that sounds far too much like his terrible Edgeworth impression. Miles rolls his eyes and shuts the door.

Phoenix pulls a sandwich bag filled with apple slices and a whole jar of peanut butter out of his sweatshirt pocket. Miles thought Phoenix looked a little misshapen when he opened the door, but he attributed that to the sweatshirt being too big on him, not a snack for two being stuffed in the largest pocket.

“I smuggled a lot of snacks into movie theaters with this in college,” Phoenix says, clearly catching Miles’s bewilderment. “They’re always trying to bleed you dry for a bucket of popcorn that isn’t even that good. It’s messed up.”

Miles thinks he has been to a movie theater approximately once. It wasn’t even with a smaller Phoenix and Larry, or a treasured memory with his father. It was when he was twenty five, the most mentally unstable he’s ever been, and they were playing My Neighbor Totoro with subtitles in German. He sat in the very back corner and purchased the surrounding seats so no one would bother him. That was the first time he’d felt something that wasn’t unpleasant in months. Even though he did need to use his handkerchief.

Needless to say, he paid very little attention to the concession stand. It wouldn’t have been the right currency anyway. “How much does popcorn cost?” Miles asks.

“Eight dollars.”

“Eight? You could buy a pack of twelve bags at the grocery store for that much!”

“That’s what I said!” Phoenix has taken it upon himself to shuffle through all of Miles’s cabinets to find a plate for his apple slices without asking. That’s…fine. Miles did reorganize Phoenix’s living room unannounced two weeks ago, so he has little room to complain. “Larry kept buying the theater popcorn every time he went on a movie date with a girl. And he wonders why he’s always low on cash.”

Once they're both settled on the couch with sufficient plates and knives, the commercial for a terrible looking horror movie fades away and the house hunting resumes. It used to take a bit for Phoenix to offer his arm and for Miles to lean into it when they were on the couch like this. Now it is essentially a given, with Phoenix giving Miles a questioning look that allows him to decline, but otherwise immediately pulling his partner close.

The couple on the house hunting show wants three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a playroom for the kids, and a spacious yard with a porch. The husband wants the yard more than the playroom, so of course the wife is ride or die for the playroom. If they were in full agreement over what they wanted, the producers would have undoubtedly found another couple instead.

“The yellow house is cute,” Phoenix says. “I like the blue accents.”

“It is rather quaint,” Miles agrees. The wife immediately says she would want to repaint it to a white or gray. “We live in a dystopia.”

“Why would you do that?!” Phoenix chomps an apple slice with anger. “Giving people directions is so much easier if your house looks unique!”

“Ah, so it is a matter of practicality for you.” Miles takes goat cheese and spreads it on a cracker. “I suppose that is more important when your phone is too old for a GPS.”

Phoenix shrugs. “I manage.” He releases Miles to smear some peanut butter on the edge of his plate. Miles is only a little upset about it. “Think you’d be able to find any amaranth houses in L.A. eventually?”

Miles huffs indignantly. “Oh, please. That would be gratuitous, even for me.”

“I guess neither of us would be too keen on getting on a ladder and repainting a house, huh?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.” Phoenix sets the plate on his lap and his arm goes back where it belongs. “You’d look cute in those white overalls painters always wear.”

Miles would be hard-pressed to find a pair of overalls that looked remotely flattering on him. Anything long enough for his legs would surely be too baggy elsewhere. And it would be irrational to get a pair of overalls custom made just to get pink stains all over them.

This thought pattern is not spoken aloud, but evidently it shows on his face in some form. “Miles. You’re thinking too hard again.”

“Am I now.”

“There’s a face you make.” Phoenix plants a kiss between his eyebrows. “All the tension goes riiiight there.”

The dull ache between his eyes (which he hadn’t noticed at all until Phoenix pointed it out) feels remarkably better. “…Sorry.”

“All good.”

The couple on screen rejects the sweet yellow house because they are fools. It has everything they want and it is well within their budget, why on earth wouldn’t they take such an excellent offer? Yes, some of the paint choices on the interior are highly questionable, but repainting a room or two is far more manageable than a whole house.

Phoenix would look good in overalls. He might wear them without a shirt if it was hot enough outside. Miles takes the heights out of the equation and places a run-down fence around the house they don’t have yet. Phoenix is out in the hypothetical yard. He’s painting the fence in an alternating pattern of pink, blue, green, and white to match the decals on Trucy’s cape. Trucy is helping by telling him what color to paint each plank of wood, but she isn’t doing much actual painting.

Miles has maybe offered assistance. Maybe. Phoenix would probably tell him to stay in the shade and keep his clothes clean. So Miles sits on their future porch and enjoys the view as sweat drips down Phoenix’s biceps, a sheen forming right at his bizarre hairline. Someone ought to help him cool off later. Naked. In the shower. Together.

“That is the ugliest carpet I’ve ever seen.”

Phoenix’s voice draws Miles’s attention back to the TV. Oh, gods. That really is ugly. It looks like an assortment of hotel hallway carpets put through a randomizer. “I would buy the house just to get rid of that forever and spare the next buyer the sight of it.”

The husband likes it. Of course he does. Miles grimaces. “I think that is a severe enough crime to file for a divorce. Can you imagine trying to coordinate the furniture with that mess?”

“I would tear it out myself.”

Miles does not swoon like a lovesick hormonal teenager at the thought of Phoenix ripping out that ugly carpet with nothing but his bare hands and sheer determination. What he does do is lean a little closer, his hand just a few inches from resting on Phoenix’s leg.

Perhaps he will assure Maya Fey that he is well by posting a brief excerpt of the Steel Samurai uprooting terrible flooring with his spear. It would be so ridiculous and out of left field, but it would get her to stop calling him a gay loser in his comment section.

They watch a few more episodes. Miles learns that Phoenix wishes he had somewhere to run around outside with Trucy, he likes the idea of a blue house but isn’t married to it, and he wants the kitchen and living room to be one open space for entertaining. Prior to today, Miles didn’t really have many strong opinions about a house. The permanence of a house doesn’t mesh with his upcoming commitments across Europe, yet he cannot help but let his mind wander to a time when that will no longer be the case.

He wants a pool. Not for him to swim in— there is not a practical bathing suit in existence that he would be comfortable being seen in— but for Phoenix and Trucy. Phoenix liked swimming when they were children. He and Larry would spend hours having completely moronic competitions (some of which involved trying to knock Miles off of his floatie, which were not appreciated) in the chlorinated water. Trucy would surely find some joy in pushing her father into the pool.

Miles also learns that he was right to pick gouda for his charcuterie board, because Phoenix ends up taking almost all of it.

Apples and peanut butter are a simple but nice addition to the spread. Miles is a bit disappointed when the last of the slices gets eaten. He certainly doesn’t have a crisp refill sitting in the fridge. Maybe he ought to start buying them.

The knife is still covered in excess peanut butter. Miles reaches to take it to the sink, but Phoenix beats him to it. “Can’t let this go to waste.”

Phoenix takes the knife and slowly drags his tongue up the length of the blade. Miles’s palms are sweaty against his thighs. The area between them feels…funny.

With a satisfied noise, Phoenix swallows the remains of the peanut butter. “Okay, now you can wash it.”

He hands the knife over to Miles, whose face feels like it’s burning at this point. How can he act so casual after that? Does he truly have no idea what kind of debauched face he was making? Or is this a scheme devised specifically to make Miles crave stimulation so badly that he forgets to be frightened by the vulnerability of it all? To do what alcohol cannot and wipe his ravaged slate clean for an hour or so?

Miles takes the knife to the sink and washes away the impure thoughts. He is so completely and utterly whipped. Feeling such a way for one’s partner is probably incredibly promising…if one knows what to do with those feelings.

Phoenix is turning off the TV and stretching out his back. There is so much Miles wants to tell him. How handsome he is. That he’s the reason Miles is still on this Earth. What strange things his antics do to Miles’s insides. Miles has never been ‘turned on’ in his life but Phoenix could work him like a light switch if he wanted to.

Every time Miles thinks he has it all neatly sorted out, something new and exciting appears to jumble his thoughts all over again. This shouldn’t stop him from spilling his guts. Phoenix himself could be described as a bit jumbled, and Miles loves that about him. Yet inexperience proves his greatest enemy once again; the fear of stumbling and falling keeps him locked in place. In his old ways of bottling things up until they are forced out all at once.

Miles sighs as he puts the offending knife away. If Phoenix licking a knife gets him so…heated, he should be preparing himself to warn his partner that he might.

Um.

Well.

His…reactions might be a bit fast when they ultimately do anything of that nature.

Chapter Text

Phoenix would be the first to admit that the airport was not the place to suddenly decide he felt like dressing up a bit. Especially to hop on a transatlantic flight with a mischievous ten year old.

Changing shoes was a good idea at least. There’s a vent right by his feet that hasn’t stopped spewing arctic winds since they took off. Which was around twelve hours ago. In his slides, his toes would’ve been numb by the second hour. Yeah, he kinda made himself look like a doofus in the security line when he was struggling with his shoelaces, but his sneakers aren’t letting him freeze.

The rest of the outfit was a mistake. His dress shirt is wrinkled from slouching too much and he’s starting to hate denim like it killed his grandma. Any evidence that he brushed his hair is gone and his freshly-smooth face is already sporting a little more than a five o’clock shadow. He’s a mess. He might as well have worn his damn sweatpants and been a comfy mess.

Trucy still looks cute as a button, but that’s because she’s already the cutest kid anyone on the planet has ever seen. Every part of her outfit comes from the time Franziska declared that the only way she would accept Phoenix as her future-brother-in-law was if she could take Trucy on a fancy European shopping spree. This left Trucy’s wardrobe restocked, Phoenix’s wallet unscathed, and him alone with Miles, so of course he let her do whatever the hell she wanted.

Those Mary Janes have seen better days. He’s hoping that Franziska takes that as a sign of how much Trucy loves them and doesn’t try lecturing Phoenix about how often he should be polishing his ten year old’s shoes. She’s just going to go on the playground the next day and get them dirty again!

Currently, Trucy’s watching Sonic the Hedgehog. Phoenix raised his kid to have taste, unlike the little snot two rows ahead who’s watching Trolls. What kind of parent takes their kid to a place known for amazing cultural landmarks but lets them watch such a nothing movie?

Sonic the Hedgehog is having a heartfelt pseudo-father-child moment with James Marsden in a hotel. That’s kind of how Phoenix feels sometimes; some random guy who happened to stumble into a supernova of a kid while fumbling through life. Who’s the evil Jim Carey in his life? Is it Gavin?

Phoenix should tell him that next time they sit down for a horribly toxic dinner. Gavin will politely tell Phoenix he looks more like a sack of molding potatoes every time he sees him, and Phoenix will tell him he’s the live action Grinch with the weird hairy fingers.

He slumps further into his seat, rumpling his hair even more. Gavin hasn’t called him a sack of potatoes yet, moldy or not. He made that one up himself.

What Gavin has done is pretend to be concerned about him, and that almost stings worse. If Phoenix hadn’t had the magatama on him when they first met, he might’ve believed it. With the warning sirens already blaring, he can see the way Gavin’s eyes smile while his mouth forms a cruel mimicry of sympathy. Phoenix would rather just get called a slob than sit through another person pretending to care about him.

Miles has yet to say anything at all, and Phoenix has no idea what to think about that. Pretty, proper Miles with his sharp jawline and expert tailoring and body shaped like a glass of imported European wine. He has the same snobbish, dignified thing Kristoph has going on, just with a little more dorky vampire and a lot less treacherous snake.

Yeah, Miles is worried about him and has said as much, but Phoenix knows Miles has a pathological inability to stop worrying about literally everything. And Phoenix losing his job and living out of Mia’s old office is a little worrying to the average bear. But not once has Miles linked any of that to his metamorphosis into a potato sack.

Miles tells him he finds him attractive like it’s a long kept secret, whispered like something he doesn’t want to admit. It’s not all that different from the voice Miles used to tell Phoenix he wanted no chicken in his salad a few weeks ago, and he’s generally pretty shy, so that probably doesn’t mean Miles is secretly deeply ashamed of him or something. Maybe it’s just the paranoia talking. Sometimes Phoenix ends up spending his hours at the piano questioning his loved ones to stave off boredom, whether he wants to or not.

It’s weird. He could probably track it back to Dahlia if he went to a therapist, but he doesn't have the money for that right now. If he didn't have the necromancer lie detector on his side it would probably be much worse. Miles has psyche locks when Phoenix asks what he wants for dinner, but never when he's talking about him.

Badge or no badge, Phoenix figures the only thing that’ll shut his suspicions up for good is evidence. He’s been doing a little research, slowly prodding to see how far he can let himself go before Miles gets fed up with it. How does the most organized, meticulous person react to watching chaos and clutter unfold? A few more days pass without touching his razor. His hair’s the longest it’s ever been. It’s been intentional to make Kristoph see him a certain way, but he used to try to reset when Miles visited. Not anymore! Each day he looks and feels a little further from the bright-eyed rookie defense attorney who saddled Miles with feelings all those years ago.

He wonders if this is how Miles felt receiving letters addressed to his nine year old self. To have someone look at you in hopes of seeing a version of yourself that doesn’t really exist anymore.

Still, Phoenix hasn’t heard a single complaint. Nothing about needing to shave or get a haircut or wash his goddamn hoodie or organize the papers scattered all over the place. Just consistent offers to provide whatever he and Trucy need or do some of the chores. Miles likes cleaning, he says (false, he hates touching filth but he likes when things are clean). He wants to get practice with domestic tasks after relying on hired help for most of his life.

Using Miles to confirm or deny his insecurities isn’t fair. Not when Phoenix can vividly recall Miles, years after the fact, admitting that after the Powers case he was trying to compliment Phoenix’s performance in court. It just went so badly that he panicked, told Phoenix he never wanted to see him again, and ran off. Phoenix shouldn’t be expecting clear data from that.

He might be a little selfish. Playing martyr earned him a good old stab in the chest, so he might as well lean into it.

Selfishly, he doesn’t say a word of protest when Miles offers to pay plane fare for him and Trucy. With extra legroom. And refreshments charged onto his card. Phoenix has ordered half his weight in little boxes of cheese and crackers by now. It’s great. He’s going to feel so bloated and achy later, but that’ll be his excuse to get Miles on the couch with him and probably eat even more cheese.

Trucy tears her eyes away from one spiky blue guy to another. “Daddy, this is why your back sounds like Rice Krispies.”

She learned that one from Maya. Snap crackle pop. It’s pretty clever. Accurate too. Phoenix sits up and sets up his last cheese-cracker combo. “I dunno, Truce. There might be a little magician who’s getting a bit too big for her dad to carry.”

“Blasphemy!” Trucy gasps. There’s no way she got that from anywhere but Miles, the only other elementary schooler who Phoenix has ever heard use words like that. “You’ll always be able to carry me.”

It’s a good thing Phoenix can’t afford a chiropractor to tell him otherwise. “Trucy, please never get tall.”

Finally, finally, the flight attendant tells them they’re going to be landing in Berlin. Miles is so lucky that Phoenix has been yearning for his rich ass since his days of shoveling mulch into his mouth. He would not deal with flying for that long for anyone who he was into for less than twenty fucking years.

Time moves in slow motion after they land. Trucy has to tell him to stop tapping his foot so loud. He can’t help it. He’s antsy to see his boyfriend and go into his cheese coma on a nice clean IKEA couch. His sleep schedule is already a disaster with the hours he works at the Borscht Bowl Club and he hasn't had his sugary grape juice, so he's just about running on fumes.

People start getting up. Thank god. There's a group of people in the front taking a million years to pack up their things and Phoenix is ready to shoot lasers out of his eyes. Trucy is starting to look a little antsy too, and she actually managed to sleep through half of the flight.

Through the gate. Phew. He dumps a shameful stack of snack pack boxes into the trash can on his way out. Starts looking for that dark red berry color that no one else wears while clinging to Trucy's hand.

Phoenix sees him. Blazer and ruffles and all. He's standing away from the crowds by one of those big ugly pole things that massive rooms have for structure. Even from here Phoenix can tell that he's squinting looking for them. As cute as the little wrinkle in his nose when he does that is, he should really look into getting glasses.

With Trucy by his side, Phoenix starts his approach and calls out his partner's name. Miles jerks his head around like a bird for a bit looking for the source of the noise, then breaks into a soft smile when he finds Phoenix.

That smile is really special. That smile took work. When they were first reconnecting, all of Miles's smiles were these hesitant little things, just the slightest quirk of the lips. If Miles's neutral face wasn't so sullen, Phoenix wouldn't have realized they were supposed to be smiles at all. He kind of looked like a frog. He has a lot of faces that kind of make him look like a frog. Phoenix’s awkward frog prince.

His smile still doesn’t come as naturally as that merciless sharklike smirk of his. Sometimes smirking is just what his face does when he’s trying to smile. But the face he gets when he’s feeling mushy enough has grown into something shy but sweet. Kissable, even.

Phoenix runs over to his thoroughly defanged demon boyfriend and flings his arms around the man’s neck. Miles squawks and nearly topples over, but Phoenix has a sturdy grip on his shoulders.

Phoenix must be the stupidest man alive. There are a lot of people who would agree with him on that front, namely Miles’s sister. Mia too if he did something particularly goofy. Somehow, because for all he likes to pretend he’s so tough and jaded now his head still tends to drift among the clouds, he didn’t look below Miles’s waist at all before pulling away from his tackle-hug.

There must’ve been a lot of short people blocking the view when Phoenix spotted him across the terminal. That has to be it. Phoenix gives Miles a fond once over with his hands on those broad shoulders. His eyes reach below the hem of Miles’s waistcoat and stutter a bit when he doesn’t see starched and ironed dress pants.

He might be drooling a bit.

“You look well, Phoenix,” Miles says. That sweet smile of his gets wider but only on one side, landing it solidly into dubious-smirk territory.

Phoenix has an incredibly normal response. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Miles blinks. “What?”

“You showed up looking that good in a skirt and you didn’t even warn me?!” Phoenix exclaims, gesturing wildly to this lovely, long black skirt that Miles has replaced his dress pants with.

“Ah. Well, I am trying to expand my horizons a bit,” Miles replies sheepishly. He rubs the material between his fingers. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Give us a spin!” Trucy says, demonstrating with her adorable little dress. She looks like a little princess.

Miles’s eyes dart to the masses of other passengers surrounding them. He lifts his arms ever so slightly and gives the meekest twirl Phoenix has ever seen. His skirt isn’t flared like Trucy’s, so it wouldn’t have a very good spin even if Miles whipped out some crazy pirouettes.

What it does have is a slit. One that reveals long, slender legs clad in sheer black tights. Of course Miles would wear pantyhose. What the fuck.

The whole time they’re walking to the baggage claim, Phoenix cannot stop watching Miles’s stride. With each step forward his leg emerges from behind the flowing fabric. Phoenix knows Miles only takes the stairs and his office is on the twelfth floor, but he wasn’t expecting the effect it would have on those calves. One would think he was a runner if they’d never seen him buckled over catching his breath after jogging. It’s not like he’s building any ridiculous muscle (Miles doesn’t eat enough to put on that much muscle even if he tried), but the tone on those bad boys. Hoo boy.

They’ve been dating for about half a year now and this is the closest Phoenix has been to glimpsing Miles’s bare legs. That’s probably a little weird. Miles has definitely seen Phoenix in barely anything a few times by now, but never the other way around.

Not that Phoenix is in a rush to see Miles naked! He wouldn’t mind, but he’s also been very clear that they don’t have to do anything if it makes Miles uncomfortable. Judging just from how many short sleeved shirts are in his closet (hint: zero) and how many layers we wears on any given day, being naked would probably make him very uncomfortable. And the fact that Phoenix can count the number of times he’s rolled his sleeves up on one hand. One finger.

Phoenix isn’t stupid. He’s spilled luminol spray on the floor of Miles’s office by accident before. Actually, that makes him a little stupid, but he’s at least smart enough that he knows what the reaction probably meant, and from there he can figure out what's going on in Miles's head.

He's definitely held himself together, then gone home and cried about it before. Phoenix is not nearly as weepy as he was in college; sometimes stuff just gets to him. Miles hung up the moon but he talks about himself like he's the reason mosquitoes exist.

What's happening right now is good though. Really good. That perfectly tailored, frilly cocoon of his is breaking. The skirt is probably still perfectly tailored, but his tailor was probably relieved to have a new project instead of remaking the same suit again. Miles didn't have to request something with a slit, yet he did. And he felt good enough to wear it in public. That's pretty neat.

They find Phoenix's ratty old suitcase for two. Phoenix insists on struggling to carry it down the stairs instead of taking a lift and meeting Miles at the bottom. His altruism and tomfoolery come with a reward; approximately two appearances from Miles’s thigh as he walks a few steps ahead. Then they're off to Miles's current place. It's nothing permanent, just somewhere he's renting for the next three months, but there are two bedrooms and it’s obvious that decor influenced his decision at least a little.

Trucy lost all her spunk as soon as she crawled into the back seat, so Phoenix carries her off to the guest room and hopes Miles will pay to dry clean that dress before Franziska chops his head off for letting it wrinkle. Phoenix feels pretty close to snoozing himself, but he clings to the sliver of adrenaline he has left. No way is he going to sleep when his boyfriend looks this damn good.

“We need to talk. And I mean that in a good way, I promise.” He takes Miles by the hand and drags him into the master bedroom. The comforter looks fluffy enough, but it’s a vibrant blue that doesn’t really match the red pillows Miles clearly brought with him from L.A. Phoenix lets his suitcase roll off and closes the door behind him.

“…Wright?”

“You’re stunning. Did you know that? I don’t think you knew that. You’re so pretty. It’s not fair.”

Miles stares at him with his mouth agape and eyes wide. He inhales softly like he’s about to start a sentence but the airflow stops there. Phoenix is still trying to figure out if Miles doesn’t like being complimented like that or just doesn’t know how to respond. Or he’s stopping himself from objecting. It could really be a combination of any of those three things.

Did Phoenix go a little overboard when he hurriedly pulled Miles into the bedroom like they were going to have the most awesome gay sex ever off screen? Maybe. There’s always been a little bit of theater left in him; that’s why L.A.’s particular brand of courtroom shenanigans suited him so well. That’s why he’s so committed to playing the part of this shifty, crooked, evidence-forging has-been until he can drop his diss track on Kristoph in front of a judge (and jury if all goes well).

“You have no room to say that after what you’ve put me through.”

Huh? “Huh?”

Phoenix finds himself lying on the bed with Miles practically straddling him, an accusatory finger mere inches from his face. The fabric of the skirt parts around Miles’s knees.

“You listen to me, Phoenix Wright,” Miles starts, low and dangerous, and Phoenix can hear the infamously awkward ‘Don't ever show your face in front of me again’, but he’s way more turned on now than he was when Miles was telling him to piss off. That’s gotta be a good sign. If this is the closest he ever gets to Miles topping him, he will die completely satisfied. “I don’t want to hear anything about how unfair I’m being when you’ve done so much worse to me.”

Phoenix swallows some really pathetic, horny plea that he can’t even remember. “Worse?”

Miles gives him this devastatingly attractive glower that means he’s in deep trouble. The prospect is exciting. “Far worse. Would you like your crimes listed chronologically or by severity?”

At this point Phoenix has to wonder: what the hell did he do? He can think of plenty of intentionally provocative things he could do, but he hasn’t done any of them because he’s got a kid running around the house and his boyfriend has looked downright terrified by the idea of anything sexual until literally right now! “Your choice?”

“Severity then. That blasted black t-shirt you got from Walmart. You made us both grilled cheese sandwiches while wearing it.”

“The one that shows everything?” Phoenix asks wryly. Miles nods. “Huh. I thought you said you liked it.”

“I do!” Miles grips his shoulders and Phoenix feels like the hand of God is about to strike him down. “It leaves nothing to the imagination and it drives me mad!”

Phoenix looked in the mirror when he got dressed that morning and thought he looked like someone vacuum sealed him. He checked the tag and maybe swore a little. Most of his budget these days is going to rent and food. Stupid mistakes like that are just something he has to deal with. That thing was painted on and he hated it, but it was laundry day, so time to suck it up.

Miles pulls his skirt higher. Oh. Thighs. Oh, wow. Those tights are living up to their name. “Is this not the same appeal?”

Maybe if you look like a model it is. The only thing truly preventing Miles from abruptly switching careers is his camera shyness. Miles could rock one of those playboy bunny suits if he wanted to and every man-liker on the planet would fall to their knees. Not that Phoenix has ever thought about that.

He’s not really up to arguing with Miles right now. Not when Miles’s voice has this little growl in it and it’s being used to tell him he’s attractive. No one else has ever gotten this treatment. If Phoenix revels in it a little, then sue him. His jeans feel tight and he’s pretty sure these fit just fine when he got on the plane. “You’ve got me there.”

Miles smirks. Not the smirk that’s trying to be a smile, but the one where he was going to eat Phoenix alive in court. Phoenix hopes he tastes good served with several pounds of airplane cheese and crackers. “My greatest crime is your most minor transgression, Wright. Shall I continue?”

Phoenix meets his energy and he almost feels like he’s bluffing out of his ass again. He kind of is, because Miles has never taken charge like this before and Phoenix honestly has no idea what’s about to come out of his mouth next. “Be my guest.”

“Your…” Miles trails off. He loosens his hold on Phoenix’s shoulders. “Hm. I appear to have gone out of order. That was your second worst transgression. It was just the most relevant one.” His hand slides up Phoenix’s neck to cup his jaw. Those soft hands have never done a day of manual labor and it shows. “I…I like how you look when you haven’t shaved in a few days. You certainly don’t look bad clean shaven, but I am never upset to see that you aren’t.”

Even when he’s being sweet, Miles has this exceptional talent for making Phoenix feel like a dumbass. “You’re kidding.”

Miles’s thumb finds a spot Phoenix missed. He always misses a spot no matter how thorough he thinks he is. There’s that sweet smile again, here to answer Phoenix’s question before Miles even speaks. “Have I ever been known to be the joking type? I thought I was a notorious buzzkill. The enemy of all fun.”

“I’m so stupid.”

Miles frowns. “Did you think I didn’t like it?”

“I’m so stupid.”

“Oh, Phoenix.”

Hearing that tone in his voice is awful. ‘Oh, Miles’ is Phoenix’s job! He brings out that classic when the conversation takes a sharp turn into ‘Well you see, Phoenix, I feel odd receiving gifts because no one has given me one since the Christmas before my father died and his biggest surprise was taking me to a trial with him, which ended with me being irreversibly traumatized as you know, though I might count my first cravat from von Karma as a gift but that has some fucked up implications too, doesn’t it? Also I don’t think I deserve anything nice and I feel selfish tricking people into spending time and money on someone undeserving.’ Sometimes there aren’t words that can unpack all of that, so Phoenix pulls out the perfect combination of absolutely horrified and sympathetic. And here Miles is out-turnabouting him! How dare he!

“I thought you'd want me to get my act together,” Phoenix admits through gritted teeth. With Miles looming over him he is getting a face full of cravat. Frilly, perfectly even cravat.

“Your ‘act’ is quite together,” Miles says. A pun! From the enemy of all fun! Who would’ve thought. “That act just happens to look good on you. You’re like some devilishly handsome rogue.”

Devilishly handsome. That’s a high Phoenix is going to be riding for weeks. It almost seems too good to be true. “And you're sure you're not pulling my leg?”

“I would never.”

“Yanking my chain?”

“Wright. Accept the compliment and do shut up.”

Message received. Shutting his mouth will make it easier for Phoenix to avoid snacking on the cravat. “The way you ate that burger when we went out with Maya was truly repugnant,” Miles continues. “The image of you dripping with greasy sauce is scorched into my neural pathways permanently.”

Good to know his intentional grossness came across. “I thought these were things you found attractive, not general grievances.”

“You thought correctly. The sounds you made into that burger were highly inappropriate and I did not appreciate you making them in public.”

Phoenix frowns. “That sounds like a general grievance. A gripe. A complaint.”

Miles’s ears get red when he blushes sometimes. Isn’t that cute? They look a little red right now, and Phoenix knows that isn’t a sunburn because Miles has Vitamin D supplements on his nightstand. He never sees the sun for more than five minutes at a time.

“I-It is not.” Miles makes one of his frog faces. “I need you to never do that again, because the thoughts it provoked were even more inappropriate than your noises and I do not think they should be allowed to exist.”

Oh what. Phoenix would like to think he’s alright at translating Edgeworth-speak into something a lot more straightforward. He’s had to get a lot of practice because wow, the ‘unnecessary feelings’ disaster was not a panicked one-off incident, Miles is just really bad with emotions.

Words fall out gracelessly, describing bodily sensations instead of emotions and all of them sound a little like variations of fear. Excited anticipation is dread but weird and the lack of familiarity makes the dread even more anxiety inducing.

Miles says he was thinking something inappropriate. Something unholy. Religious fanatics are hissing at the sight of him because they can smell his impure thoughts. Phoenix is more than a little honored to be the cause. Miles gives off the vibe that he'd find a sliver of ankle scandalous, but he's also on top of Phoenix right now and has already proven that his sensibilities are a little too steamy to be strictly Victorian.

“Were you turned on?” Phoenix asks.

It takes several stages of buffering for Miles to manage enough syllables to make a sentence. His jaw hangs slack, makes a concerning sound when he slams it shut, then he readies for a counterargument that just comes out as a croak. His face scrunches up like a muppet and stays stuck like that for a bit too long. Oh no, did Phoenix break his Edgeworth? Does he need to reset him? How do you force quit and restart your boyfriend?! Phoenix can barely do that on an actual computer!

“…You didn’t have to be so blunt about it,” Miles says quietly, muffled by his still-present muppet face.

No way. No fucking way. “You actually liked that?”

“I’m embarrassed enough as is, Wright,” he grits out. “You don’t need to keep making me repeat it.”

“Sorry, I’m just having a little trouble believing you.”

“I do not enjoy exposing myself, Wright. Why would I do so intentionally if I was lying.”

That’s true. Intentionally exposing himself is a big Edgeworth no-no. The shock of exposed legs is what got them in this position in the first place. That skirt is still pulled high enough for Phoenix to see Miles’s thighs. It is still just as hot as it was before.

“Touché.” Phoenix shifts a bit, though he can’t actually do much wiggling pressed between Miles’s legs with his entire weight on him. “Anything worse than me turning you on in a shitty diner?”

Miles flinches. “Yes,” he says, shockingly calm. “Take off your pants.”

Phoenix’s voice comes out hoarse. “What.”

“This requires a demonstration,” Miles insists. His reddening face betrays that stern, collected shtick he is clearly putting his heart into. “U-unless you would rather remain clothed.”

These jeans are getting pretty uncomfortable. “What the hell.” Phoenix takes Miles by the shoulders and flips him onto his side. He’s already upright with his hand on the zipper when he realizes he’s about to expose his boner to the world. Oh well. If Miles can think the burger thing was hot, he can handle seeing a little hard wood. It’s his own damn fault for climbing on top of Phoenix and looking at him like that.

When Phoenix throws his pants towards the suitcase and turns back to the bed, Miles is seated on the edge of the bed. His eyes are not at all on Phoenix’s face. They don’t seem like they’re on Phoenix’s dick either, which is a little hard (ha) to believe. Phoenix steps a bit closer to break that laser focus. Miles doesn’t waver; his hands rise to clutch his elbows but his body leans forward.

That looks like classic Edgeworth-speak for wanting a hug, but Phoenix doesn’t need to be pantsless to give him a hug. “What’s up?” Phoenix asks.

The fabric of Miles’s blazer strains against his fingers. “I like your legs.”

Apparently “worse” doesn’t mean hornier, it just means sweet. “You can touch if you want,” Phoenix offers.

Miles meets his eyes and Phoenix wonders if he just opened Pandora’s box. His twisted arms unravel and hover a few inches away while he analyzes every individual hair on Phoenix’s body. He’s trying to figure out where to start. Oh boy.

The answer is on the outside of Phoenix’s thighs, right above his knees. Miles applies barely any pressure, just brushes his thumb up and down. Unsure at first, but once he finds a rhythm he commits to it. He’s weirdly intense and methodical about something so intimate. That would probably be off-putting for a lot of people, but it’s so very Miles. Investigation means fascination and fascination is like a love language, a single focus to pour his attention into.

Miles’s hands climb a bit higher. He applies pressure. Hums to himself. Phoenix definitely doesn’t think about those hands climbing even higher and doing the same to his ass. He has to wonder if Miles has thought about it though.

“Your second worst crime is making me watch you walk around in tiny sleep shorts,” Miles says softly. He drags his fingers to the front of Phoenix’s legs. His hands are always cold. Tall people and their poor circulation and all that. It feels nice. “You started wearing them every time I wound up sleeping at your place. I kept wanting to put my hands on you before we went to sleep, but I always lost consciousness before I could convince myself to stop chickening out.”

Miles better tighten his grip again before Phoenix melts into a pool of dirty sludge on his nice floors. “I wanted to make sure I always had a pair of sweatpants for you,” Phoenix explains. “I know you run pretty cold.”

“And I’m horribly self-conscious,” Miles adds. When Phoenix doesn’t respond, Miles looks up at him unamused. “Don’t play dumb. I know that’s the real reason. With how much body heat you give off, I wouldn't be cold regardless of what I was wearing.” He glances away to some distant point in the room. “Your thoughtfulness does not go unnoticed.”

Busted. Well, there are worse crimes to be guilty of. “You really do look amazing,” Phoenix says. He touches Miles’s shoulder. He’s a bit firmer beneath Phoenix’s hands than he used to be. “I know that what I think can only do so much, but it's true.”

“I…appreciate that.” Miles pauses his study of Phoenix’s thighs to fidget with the slit of his skirt. “You have been helping. My reflection has always revealed a bit too much for my taste, but hearing what you see in me softens the blow, so to speak.”

No one gives a ratty old sack of potatoes a second glance, much less a thorough inspection. Well, Miles might if they were at a crime scene, but that’s besides the point. Miles likes Phoenix in tight shirts and tiny shorts, prepped for the most in-depth observation that’s still acceptable outside the bedroom. Just how Phoenix likes that those tights aren’t opaque.

Phoenix plants a kiss on Miles’s forehead. Some gray hair gets in his mouth. Miles will have to forgive him for that one. “I could say something pretty similar to you.”

Miles glances away. “I…” He clears his throat. “Know that for every one bit of praise I say to you aloud, there are dozens more that go unspoken. It is only the result of my own cowardice that you do not hear all of it.”

That’s going to keep him up at night. “Should I be multiplying everything you say by twelve?” Phoenix asks.

“That would still only be a mere fraction of what I feel for you.”

If this is what Miles sounds like filtered by anxiety, Phoenix is almost kind of grateful. He wouldn’t survive multiplying this by twelve, much less twenty four or thirty six. “You’re sweet.”

“I’m honest. When I can be.”

“Note taken: buy more tiny shorts,” Phoenix says, because if he tries to answer with anything remotely sincere he is going to weep openly. He’s pretty sure Miles would have no idea what to do about that. “…Any other crimes I should know about?”

Miles looks very intensely at Phoenix’s legs. Then…there it is. Phoenix resists the urge to squirm and/or laugh. His hard-on calmed down once Miles started buttering him up instead of seducing him, but it’s not necessarily hidden.

Also strangely endearing and hilarious that Miles is less embarrassed about staring at his dick than looking him in the eye. “You need to stop…” Miles swallows thickly, “deep throating any long object that has excess condiment on it.”

“I need to what?!”

“It’s obscene! Maya licks Cheeto dust off of her fingers all the time like a completely normal person, but you do it like you’re…” Miles makes a frustrated sound. “It is not normal to be so provocative about peanut butter!”

“Have you considered that it might be because you’re into me and not Maya?” Phoenix asks. He’s normal. He’s so normal. He’s never done anything weird. Probably.

“True as that may be, there is more to it than that. You…” Miles searches for the words. “The speed and the. The length. They are factors.”

“Uh huh.” What is he supposed to say to that? “I’m gonna ask you something and you have to promise not to slap me.”

Miles looks up at his face. “Slap you? Why would I even consider that?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes.”

“Cool. Okay.” Phoenix takes a deep breath. “Is this your way of saying you want me to suck your dick?”

Miles stills. “Hm.” He’s not looking at Phoenix at all anymore. When Phoenix said that, he wasn’t sure whether to expect a serious answer or not. In hindsight, he probably should have. “That is…currently an extremely confusing question.”

“Care to elaborate? You can say no.”

“…Give me a moment. Sit down.”

Phoenix plops down on the edge of the bed next to Miles, their legs pressed against each other. Those tights are thin. Miles’s legs are as cold as his hands. Phoenix scoots even closer in the hope that some of his body heat will help.

“Thanks in part to your antics, I have been thinking about the potential physical aspects of our relationship more frequently,” Miles starts. His hands wring in his lap. “In concept, I want to be more intimate with you. I am very attracted to you and it has only gotten worse since we entered a relationship. I trust you enough that I am interested in trying, though I think we probably should not start with you…doing that. I fear my restlessness would lead to you losing a tooth.”

That, shockingly, would probably take the cake for the weirdest reason for Phoenix to be at the hospital. And he’s not entirely sure that this is a Miles-thinking-of-the-worst-case-scenario thing. Miles really is jumpy enough about physical stuff that Phoenix’s pearly whites would be at risk. He would kind of rather die than have to explain what happened to anyone who asked.

“You said you want it ‘in concept,’” Phoenix says. “Sounds to me like there’s a ‘but’ there.”

“There is.” Miles shifts in his seat. “For as much faith as I have in you, my faith in myself is…lacking, to say the least.”

“Is it about being undressed?” Phoenix asks. “I could try to work around that. I’ll get creative.”

Miles smiles a bit. “That is part of it. Likely the easier one to resolve. The rest…” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”

“Obj-” Phoenix catches himself. “No, it’s not stupid if it’s bothering you this much.”

“Saying it aloud makes it sound ridiculous.”

“Probably not as much as you think.” Phoenix takes one of Miles’s chilly hands. “And if it is, I guarantee I’ve dealt with sillier. Particularly from Maya.”

Miles gives his hand a squeeze. “I guess…I worry that you will be too good to me. You have established a status quo of incredible care and consideration, which I trust you will continue and I will have trouble accepting that I am worthy of it.”

Phoenix frowns. “That’s not stupid at all.”

“I’m scared of you being too nice to me.”

“Yeah. That’s not stupid,” Phoenix insists. “If anything that’s…I don’t know. Profoundly sad?”

“Mm. As is par for the course.”

Phoenix isn’t going to confirm or deny that. “How about this? I’m not gonna stop being nice, because I think that would make things a lot worse.”

“Correct.”

“So, we start to work on the whole being naked thing at whatever pace you need, and hopefully along the way we’ll smack your brain with a rolled up newspaper until you’re ready to go for a test drive.”

Miles muffles a soft laugh with his free hand. “The way you speak is absurd.”

That’s Phoenix’s cue to only get worse. “We’ll put the keys in the ignition aaaand-”

“That is quite enough from you,” Miles says, shoving Phoenix away playfully. He stands up. “Keep licking knives like a harlot if it pleases you. Know that one day, I will have retribution.”

Oh no. That was really hot. “Ha! I’m looking forward to it.”

Miles’s ears get red again. “…Likewise.”

The room goes quiet. Phoenix hasn’t had a chance to really take all of Miles in at once since he first got off of the plane. That slim, fitted skirt really does flatter him. Something with more volume like Trucy’s dress could work without the blazer, but this silhouette hits him in all the right places. It makes Phoenix want to go out and buy a sketchbook to fill with graceful figures in nice clothes.

He’s drawn Miles from the shoulders up an embarrassing number of times, but never a whole body. There were pose studies in college that just kind of turned into Miles halfway through the sketch, with frills and a startlingly accurate memory of the embellishments on that fancy blazer he wore in the newspaper photos, though they all lacked a sense of movement.

Now that Phoenix has a frame of reference for how Miles moves, he’s enraptured by it. The elegant flamboyance of his courtroom gestures, how deliberate each step feels when he’s doing a task. How different that is from the shy, earnest way he slowly relaxes into Phoenix’s arms.

“We could start now if you want.”

Phoenix blinks. “Hm?”

“It’s not much, but…” Miles lets his blazer slide off of his shoulders and neatly drapes it over a chair. “I suppose I have to start somewhere.” He pauses. “And I feel a little odd about the fact that you are in your underwear while I remain ready to present a case.”

Whenever Miles isn’t over, a t-shirt and boxers is just what Phoenix usually wears to bed. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Miles turns his back to Phoenix as he unbuttons his waistcoat. “That will depend on how I end up feeling.” When he’s done, he adjusts his shirt to be more neatly tucked into his skirt.

Without the vest covering everything, Phoenix can see exactly where the skirt’s waistband hits Miles’s waist. It’s kind of impressive how his tailor got something without an elastic to fit so perfectly. Even when Phoenix doesn’t need a belt his jeans don’t hug him like that.

The cravat joins the rest of the pile on the chair. That’s how Phoenix knows he’s serious. Miles turns back around with the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. “I…don’t really know where to go from here,” he admits sheepishly.

Phoenix toys with the buttons of his own dress shirt. He’s considering chucking it and changing into a t-shirt. The nice shirt and patterned undies combo is a little strange. “Maybe I can give you a few ideas. With no ulterior motive whatsoever.” Phoenix gives a little sigh of relief when Miles’s resulting flush comes with a smile. “What’s absolutely off limits right now?”

“Hm.” Miles considers. “The obvious,” he starts, gesturing just below his hips. “If today’s experiment is any indication, I’d be more willing to forgo coverage on the bottom than the top. Nothing remotely like your shorts though.”

“I thought you liked them.”

“On you. Not on me.” Miles tugs down his shirt sleeves. “Chest is fine to a point. Nothing particularly low cut. No midriff. Back is fine, shoulders are fine, upper arm is fine, forearm is…less fine.”

“What I’m hearing is I get you one of those turtlenecks with shoulder cutouts and an open back,” Phoenix says, definitely not thinking about how hot that would be. Three accessible openings to put his hands on, maybe a few kisses if he’s feeling adventurous.

Miles doesn’t see his vision. “I would look ridiculous.”

“And I’d be the only one seeing you anyway, right? So it doesn’t matter so much if you do.”

Miles glares at him. That looks like a no on the slutty turtlenecks. For now. It’s a shame, but maybe one day Miles will understand his genius.

“I’ve got a few pairs of sleep shorts in my suitcase,” Phoenix says. “I see that look. Don’t try to blow me up with your mind just yet. You wouldn’t be wearing just the shorts.”

If only slightly, Miles’s glowering mellows out. “Alright. I will hear your plea.”

Phoenix wouldn’t call it a plea so much as a bargain, but he won’t deny that he’s pushing for as much skin as he can get. “Wear them over your tights. And if that’s no bueno, then we go buy something knee length instead.”

Miles has the audacity to look a little shocked when he says, “That…is a well thought out idea.”

“I have them sometimes.”

“Yes, but usually they at least sound more foolish.” Miles kneels down to unzip Phoenix’s ratty old suitcase. “Mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.” Phoenix gets up and kneels down next to him. He better not wrinkle this dress shirt any more than he already has.

Miles, to his credit, does not make any faces or comment on the state of Phoenix’s clothes. He might have been in a bit of a hurry when he was packing. Not that he was as notoriously busy as Miles. He just sat on the couch moping while he waited for Trucy to come back from school, and then spent most of his time helping her pack.

He grabs the shirt he was hoping to find and hands Miles the pair of shorts underneath it. He has no idea how they’ll fit, but there’s a drawstring so it’ll probably be fine.

Phoenix doesn’t think much about undoing the buttons on his shirt until he’s done and Miles is staring at him. In lieu of being remotely serious, Phoenix says, “Like what you see?”

Miles doesn’t respond right away. Phoenix maybe panics. “For the record you do not have to change in front of me. Uh. Sorry.” He takes the t-shirt and starts to pull it on. “Lemme just-”

“I do.”

Phoenix pauses with the shirt over his face. “Huh?”

“I do. Like what I see.” Socked footsteps approach. “…a lot, actually.”

“Oh.” Phoenix finishes putting the shirt on. When his head pops out, Miles looks a little disappointed. Or maybe that’s his wishful thinking trying to let him keep denying that he’s been letting himself go. Would Miles notice if he asked again later with the magatama in his hand? Does Phoenix want that answer?

“You want me to…?” Phoenix asks, lifting up the hem of his shirt.

“You’re smart. Brilliant, even. Figure it out by the time I’m done changing.” Miles takes the sleep shorts and closes the master bathroom door behind him.

If Phoenix tries to fish through the suitcase for the magatama now, Miles will probably stop speaking to him for the rest of the night. Besides, Miles has already given him something far more valuable than a psyche lock. Embarrassingly horny confessions.

You know what, fuck Kristoph. Miles isn’t concerned about him (well, he totally is, but not in that weird fake demeaning way) and that should be the only opinion that really matters at the end of the day. Apparently Phoenix is hot enough that he’s motivating Miles to conquer whatever body dysmorphia he’s had going on for all of his adult life, so that has to mean something.

Nothing but undies it is. He’ll be comfier like this when he sleeps anyway. He sees how heavy the blankets on Miles’s bed are.

Miles walks out holding the skirt in front of his legs. His dress shirt has been swapped out for a pink silk pajama top with a way lower neckline than Phoenix was expecting him to even own. He’s shuffling his feet and staring at the floor, but when he looks up at Phoenix his cheeks get pink. “You made the right choice.”

Phoenix is lying on Miles’s bed like a French girl begging to be painted by Leonardo DiCaprio. It’s stupid enough to be played off as a joke but no, Miles really is looking at him like his next masterpiece. “Thank god. I was ready for you to call me an idiot.” He sits up so he can return the favor. “How’re you?”

“Wearing tights with shorts is far too juvenile and trendy for me. I look like I am trying to dress like Ema.”

Phoenix snickers. “Okay, fair. But other than that?”

Miles hesitates for a moment before placing his skirt on top of the pile on his chair. “I’m glad they are looser on me than they are on you.”

He’s right about that. For all that Miles is beautifully crafted from marble or porcelain, whoever sculpted him used up all their clay before they got to giving him any hips. And then decided that the awesome tits absolutely made up for it, so they left him as is.

In no way is he implying that Miles has nothing going on in the back. The tailoring on his usual dress pants is on a mission to make sure no one ever thinks that. Maya has maybe caught Phoenix staring a few too many times.

On the other hand, Phoenix knows what he has going for him. Miles certainly seems to have noticed. Iris noticed too, which Phoenix only learned after a really strange conversation they had following everything with her trial.

He kind of remembers Kristoph of all people mentioning something now that he thinks about it. Best not to think about that one too hard!

So the shorts aren’t riding up Miles’s ass the way they apparently are when Phoenix wears them. Phoenix would not have minded if they did, but for tonight that’s probably a good thing. Miles is taller than him though, so they’re still pretty short, giving Phoenix way more thigh than the skirt was revealing.

“You have nice legs,” Phoenix says. There are far more specific compliments on his mind, but the only thing Miles doesn’t want examined in great detail is usually himself. So Phoenix keeps his observations to himself, tucks them away in the corners of his heart to be presented when the time is right.

“Ngh…” Miles slowly rejoins Phoenix on the bed. “…If you ever want to sleep without a shirt on, I will not object.”

Oh? That is not what Phoenix was expecting. It makes sense though, given what Miles said earlier. Everything involving Phoenix is a yes. Everything involving himself gets a little more complicated.

“Damn. Almost like we’re into each other or something.”

Being a smartass works as intended. Smartassery is their normal, the one constant from when they were nine to their time as legal rivals to now. In a weird way, it feels safe when Phoenix is talking out of his ass and Miles is rightfully calling him out with that smarmy smirk on his face.

Miles rolls his eyes and stops trying to cover his legs with his hands. “I sure would hope so after you came all this way to see me.”

“You missed the thirteen hours of me having to remind myself there was a gorgeous man at the end of the tunnel.” Phoenix yawns. He has no idea how he’s still awake at this point. Probably just too horny to conk out. “I wouldn’t deal with LAX for anything else.”

“I can’t say I blame you.” Miles glances at the clock on the wall. “We could sleep if you wish.”

How long has he been up again? That number is definitely approaching twenty hours. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Alright.” Miles stands up again. “…Could you turn around? Or otherwise shield your eyes. There is just no way I am going to sleep wearing tights.”

Phoenix untucks Miles’s comforter and pulls it over his eyes. He can hear drawers opening and closing. Miles is probably putting on the pants to match his shirt. He’s allergic to mismatched clothes. The combinations of socks Phoenix pairs together must silently drive him up the wall.

The lights in the room turn off. Next thing Phoenix knows, he’s lying on his back as Miles curls up against him. The legs intertwined with his own are free of all silky confines. Miles’s hand finds Phoenix’s chest and he makes a pleased sound into the flesh of Phoenix’s neck.

There’s a snarky little voice in his head now, chiding him for all the times he’s allowed himself to doubt this. Tsk tsk, Wright. Haven’t you realized, you absolute buffoon? I told you I was in love with you after you catastrophically fucked up your life! Ergo, my adoration must not be conditional on how close to your former self you are! Maybe I like whatever the fuck you have going on now! People liking hot dads is a thing these days, right, Wright?

Insufferable.

No one looks to him to do much objecting these days, but he can’t even come up with a good counter argument for that. That snarky little voice is also drawing reverent lines across his stomach, which is incredibly sweet and leaves him thoroughly overruled.

The two of them must be doing something right for all their bickering, because they both drift to sleep a little more comfortable in their own skin.