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Miles Edgeworth didn't know much about poker.
It wasn't one of the lessons of his upbringing, like legal precedence or high society etiquette.
If anything, it had been considered lowly. Not based on skill or strategy, but pure lies and bluff. To spend any time on something so dastardly was not allowed, more suited to refined hobbies like chess or piano.
Which is why Miles is surprised to find himself and his mentor here, in the basement of a cold and dingy bar.
Manfred Von Karma sits at one end of a folding table, cards in hand. His cane rests against the table.
Miles stands dutifully behind his mentor, near the door. Across the table sits one Phoenix Wright.
He'd been in the legal world once, a defense attorney. And though he'd been shunned in the public sphere for forged evidence and disbarred, there was no denying that he had a knack for finding things out.
That was what Von Karma told him on the drive over. Along with instructions to keep quiet and out of the way. They'd been there at least an hour already, where after a low and heated exchange, the men agreed to a game.
Miles tries not to look at the man too closely, with his stained hoodie and bright blue beanie. The evidence of several days lack of shaving and the way his fingers wrap around a grape juice bottle and bring it to his lips. Miles shakes himself and looks off.
There's a couch on one wall, a bookcase on another. It seems too small of a room for the current activities, like a repurposed storage closet. The rickety staircase had given credence to the idea that the room and bar had been around at least several decades. Which would explain the lack of central heating.
Wright laughs, bringing Miles’ attention back to the game. Two sets of cards lay on the table, face up. Miles can't make heads or tails of them by themselves but by the smirk on the man's face, it can't be good.
“You played a good game, Manfred. But you have nothing left to bet.”
Von Karma’s shoulders tighten, Miles knows the man has a sharp glint in his eye.
“Wrong again, Mr. Wright.” He speaks without turning. “Boy, come here.”
Miles steps forward, until he's at Von Karma’s side.
“Will this suffice?” He asks gruffly.
Miles looks between the two of them in confusion.
To his credit, this is the most emotion on Wright's face that he's seen all game.
“You can't be serious.”
“Are you declaring forfeit?” Von Karma replies calmly.
Wright spares one last glance over Miles, before settling once more to Manfred. “I've never lost.”
“Neither have I. Play.” Von Karma waves his hand.
The air is tense as Wright deals them each a new hand.
Miles watches on silently, unsure of what has transpired.
He watches cards exchange from his new perspective. He can't make heads or tails of it, not really. All he knows is that eventually Von Karma spreads his cards on the table with an air of triumphance.
And Wright smiles. Or grimaces. He spreads his own cards wide.
“Royal flush. This game is over.”
Von Karma pushes back his chair roughly, sending it almost toppling. “Bah! You-” He raises an accusatory finger.
“A game's a game, Manfred. You searched me when you came in. You got your witness. And there's nothing you can get from threats.”
He speaks like a man who has nothing to hide.
Or nothing to lose.
Miles doesn't know which is worse.
Manfred exhales sharply, looking like he'd like to send the man to jail right there. Or worse.
“You don't have friends in here, Manny.” Wright leans back in his seat. “In fact, I’d say you have just the opposite. Might want to check on your car.”
Von Karma glares at him, a look Miles knew well. He instinctively shrinks from the gaze, as though if he does not react it will soon turn to him.
But instead of replying, his mentor turns swiftly. He takes his cane in his grasp and makes his way to the door.
Miles starts to follow him out. Manfred barely turns. “You stay.”
“Wh-what? Sir-”
“Are you daft, boy? You'll return to the manor in the morning.”
“Sir-"
“Not a moment sooner.” Von Karma barks. He looks past Miles then, to the man watching the scene unfold. “I expect a certain level of restraint.”
The voice floats through the air. Settling over Miles’ shoulders and around his neck. “As you wish.”
Von Karma leaves briskly after that, turning on his heel and letting his coat bellow after him.
Miles is rooted to the spot, hearing the tap of his mentor's cane grow more distant as he ascends the stairs.
When he can no longer hear it, he turns wildly to the poker player, still in his seat.
“I thought he'd never leave. Fucker gives me the creeps.” The man laughs, and then stands.
“What did you do?” He seethes.
“I won a game of poker, Miles.”
“Don’t call me that.” He spits. "My mentor-"
The man ignores his interruption. “Your mentor decided you'd be good collateral. And then he lost. I'm just as unhappy about it as you are.”
His world seems to careen, and he shakes his head. “No… No, that's not right.”
Wright pauses in his cleaning of the table, shuffling the cards idly. “Would he tell you to stay here like a good little prize if it wasn't?”
Miles takes a step forward, finger raised. “You cheated. Just like you forged that evidence. All you attorneys know how to do is lie.”
“When was the last time you've eaten?” Wright interrupts.
Miles deflates from shock. “What?”
“You guys were my last game for the night, and I'm pretty hungry. I'll get us some borscht. Have you had it?”
“I… Yes?”
“Good. This place makes good borscht. Compliments to Vlad.”
Despite himself, Miles' stomach rumbles. Enough to be heard about the quiet, dank room.
“Sounds like a plan, Edgeworth.” Wright responds to the noise. “You stay down here, your outfit just screams trouble.”
“But- You- How dare-” Miles fumbles to disagree.
A good little prize.
“You can sit at the table but the couch is more comfortable.” Wright says, straightening his beanie and already on his way through the door. “I'll only be a few minutes.”
He's gone before Miles can straighten his thoughts.
With nothing else to do, he goes to sit. He shivers, stewing in his thoughts.
Will this suffice?
He hadn't known then that it was him. How could he? How could he not? Had his mentor always planned this? Had he planned to win? Or had he always thought he would lose? Wright had a reputation of being undefeated. He couldn't imagine Von Karma going in with nothing short of an exact prediction of how the night would go.
Von Karma had always told him to have a backup plan. If an autopsy report wasn't updated, if a testimony was going awry. It paid to be prepared.
And so. Miles must trust that his mentor knew exactly what he was doing. And Miles would play his part, in whatever role that took.
When Wright comes back he's balancing two bowls on a tray.
“You're lucky Olga's not working tonight. She would have killed for a look at you.”
Miles frowns. The tray was already placed on the table, and a blanket was produced from somewhere in the dark corners of the room.
It settles on his shoulders, and he's so immediately wrapped up in warmth that he doesn't question how dirty it could be. He wraps it tighter around himself.
Then, he makes his way gingerly to the table. He settles himself into the chair vacated by his mentor, and lifts a spoon to his mouth.
It is good. He hums in appreciation.
The man sits across from him, digging into his own bowl.
There's another bottle of grape juice open on the table. He's sure the man hasn't drank directly from this one yet. Hasn't wrapped his cracked lips around the rim and stuck his tongue in to lick the errant drops. Hasn't gulped it down, allowing the liquid to slide down his throat.
There's a scar running across his lips, Miles notices. A long faded scar that he wonders if it would feel rough under his tongue.
He blinks rapidly unsure where the thoughts came from. He finds the poker player staring at him.
To distract himself, he grabs the bottle.
“Are you even old enough to drink?” Wright laughs.
“In Germany.” Miles responds.
“Fuck, kid. And Manfred just left you alone here?”
“I'm not alone. I’m with you.” Miles says, matter of factly.
“That's not saying much. Damn.” Wright leans back in his seat. Takes off his beanie and runs a hand through his hair.
It's longer than Miles would have expected. And spikier. Softer, too, by the look of it.
He wonders what it would feel like under his hands.
The beanie is replaced too suddenly for him to do something as stupid as act on the impulse.
“What are we going to do with you?” Wright mutters, as if mostly to himself.
Miles jolts in his seat.
He's a prize isn't he? He has a role to fill. One his mentor expects him to provide.
I expect a certain level of restraint.
What did that entail? Bite marks under his collar line? Leaving Miles with the ability to walk the next day?
“I guess you can take the couch at the apartment.” Wright continues.
“Hmm?” Miles blinks.
“My place isn't far from here. Since Manfred effectively threw you out for the night, you can stay with me.”
“Ah… Yes.”
“My shift’s pretty much done, if you want to get out of here.”
Miles looks down at his bowl. It's empty.
“I'm ready.” As he'll ever be.
The walk back to Wright's apartment is like something out of a dream. He walks in a daze, unsure of where to place his next footfall.
With every step the situation seemed more and more real.
His mentor. His adopted father. Had bet against him. Used him like a chip. And he'd lost him.
Wright, Phoenix, as he'd taken to calling him as the man talked about annoying customers and coworkers, had at least seemed to be exercising the restraint his mentor had requested.
More than, a bitter voice squeaked in the back of his mind. He stumbles on a bump in the pavement when he hears it.
Phoenix catches him, steadying him on his arm before continuing on.
His apartment is small. The living room and kitchen areas are probably the size of Miles' office combined. It's littered with various paraphernalia. Books and rings and… a plate of floating spaghetti?
“Does someone else live here?” Miles asks idly.
“Nope.” Phoenix says. And Miles drops it. He doesn't know enough about the man to push it, even as he sees the different size shoes in the entryway.
He'd brought nothing with him to the club that night, he can't afford to be kicked out a second time.
“We got some DVDs around here for the TV.” Phoenix says, waving to the stand. “Don't have much use for cable.”
“Hmmph.” Miles steps towards the collection. He tries not to light up at the large swatch of Steel Samurai episodes and movies.
“You like those?” Phoenix calls. “Put one on.”
Miles doesn't answer, but he does choose the one that appeals to him the most. It contains season two, episode seven. A Samurai’s Heart.
He slides it home, finding the remote before he sits on the couch.
“I'm gonna get you some blankets.” Phoenix says, leaving Miles in the room. He doesn't feel alone though, as the man hums obnoxiously down the hall.
It cuts into the opening theme of the show, making Miles frown. And then he catches himself. How comfortable he's made himself in this stranger's home. And why? Because he fed him? Caught him when he stumbled? Pathetic.
Phoenix comes back and places the sheets and blanket at the end of the couch. And, unsurprisingly but still unexpected, had handed a change of clothes out to Miles.
“I know you wouldn't have other ones. And I'm sure you'd hate to wrinkle your suit.”
“I… Yes.” He stares at the clothes in the man's hands. A large t-shirt that he could see the Steel Samurai’s spear tip on, teasing more of the design under the fold. Plaid pajama pants completed the set.
He changes in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. He hasn't looked so… inelegant in years. His regular pajamas were a pastel satin set. This looked… uncoordinated and ill-fitting.
But he liked the design.
When he gets back Phoenix is sitting on the couch. He'd stripped his hoodie and beanie, clad in only a black t-shirt and his sweatpants. Miles’ eyes trail along the man's hand up his bare arm, until his skin is hidden under the cotton.
He's watching the episode. Or so Miles thought, because as he rounds the couch he sees the man's eyes closed.
“You're asleep?” He says, almost indignant. This was such an important episode for the Samurai’s hero arc. When he finds the reason to keep going.
“Wah-” The man jolts. “No, I'm awake.”
“Hmmph.” Miles huffs, sitting next to him on the couch.
They aren't close enough to touch, but Miles can feel the heat radiating from the man. His arm is spread across the back of the couch, almost touching Miles' neck.
Miles grabs the blanket and wraps it tightly around himself.
The blanket is soft against his neck. The borscht is still heavy in his stomach. His eyes start to close of their own accord. He struggles to pull them open.
He spares a glance to the man beside him, as the tv glow spreads over his face.
Phoenix has taken care of him so sweetly. Like a guiding figure. Like a father.
He's so horny it aches.
Miles reaches across the couch and fumbles at the waistband of the man's sweatpants. His hand is caught swiftly.
“Miles.” His tone is gentle, but stern. Miles shivers. “What do you think you're doing?”
He's a goner. Caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I… I…”
“Hmm?” Phoenix turns his hand around, starts to massage Miles’ palm. “Use your words.”
“I… I want to touch you.” The words stumble out of his mouth, clunky in their path.
“You're cute.” Phoenix coos. “But I'm not going to fuck you because Manfred put you in my lap.”
Miles whines, pulling his hand free.
“Aww, come on. Don't pout.”
“I'm not pouting.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you call this, then?” Phoenix makes a crude impression, an exaggerated frown.
Miles ignores him. “I thought I was supposed to be your prize. For winning the game.”
Phoenix waves him off. “I'm not going to do any of that shit.”
Miles is… He's not sure what he is.
Disappointed? That would be ludicrous.
“Oh.” He says. “I see.”
It's silly, he realizes, to have thought he could do something so spontaneous. If there was one thing Miles did, it was plan. And none of the night had been planned from Miles' perspective. He'd been a leaf in a stream, floating rapidly downriver. He'd never been a player.
His hand flexes, still aching to touch something. To feel that heat simmering under the man's skin.
As if sensing his thoughts, Phoenix calls him softly. “Hey. Really, I have my problems with the guy. But I'm not going to take them out on you.”
“I understand.” He grits his teeth. Stops himself from gripping his elbow where there is no longer fabric to stop his nails from digging into skin.
“I don't think you do.” The man shifts closer.
Miles expects him to elaborate further. Though, he's not surprised if a former defense attorney had a problem with his mentor. He was the best prosecutor in the nation, possibly the world. To not have a single not guilty verdict was a testament to skill and-
A hand cups his chin, pulling his gaze firmly to Phoenix Wright. He only has a moment to glance down before those chapped lips are on his. The old scar scratches against him, a bump of friction.
If Miles had his way, he would map the entirety of the man's mouth until he could recognize it by feeling alone.
It's unfortunate, then, that the moment passes as quickly as it starts.
He still sits there, hoping for more, when the man speaks.
“You can stay up if you want, but I got an early day tomorrow.”
Miles does as well, but the force of just a taste of the man has frozen him in place.
Even after the man has gone to bed, Miles stays up. He watches the television unseeing, not even the Battle of Neo Olde Tokyo holds his attention.
He realizes, distantly, that he's planning for a second kiss.