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It still feels unnatural for Phoenix to wake up early to head to the office.
Over the past several years, he’s gotten used to working late hours and sleeping in until noon. The office became a storage unit for Trucy’s show stuff, not for serious work. So many memories associated with the place, and not all of them good; Phoenix wasn’t looking for more excuses to visit than he already had.
But, he has an employee now — even if Apollo is technically not on Phoenix's payroll yet — with Athena just months away from making it two, and if he wants to get his badge back, he needs to remember what the normal hours of an attorney look like.
Today is a Sunday, though, so he doesn’t really need to be going into the office at all. He does anyways, because otherwise he’s going to buzz out of his own skin. He uses the excuse to start moving some of Trucy’s equipment into boxes, even if he’s not usually one for cleaning.
Phoenix doesn’t mind the mess, exactly, but it’s like he’s become more aware of it somehow. The past seven years, he was trapped in a sort of tunnel vision, with nothing on his mind except looking after Trucy, taking down Gavin, and making enough to stay afloat. There wasn’t time for him to notice things being untidy, as long as the untidiness didn’t get in his way. Being sloppy, in many ways, became part of the routine.
This morning, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. In the end dragged himself out of bed at seven a.m. to deal with it before he went crazy.
It’s already nine, and he’s not even halfway done. It’s fine though; Phoenix is finding the mundanity of it relaxing. He needs a distraction anyhow, or else he’ll spend the rest of the day counting the minutes until the clock strikes five.
(It was supposed to be earlier, but the flight got delayed. Phoenix tries not to feel bitter about it.)
Trucy will probably arrive sooner or later; he tries to hide it, but she knows well enough when he’s feeling off. Maybe she’ll drag along Apollo, or even Ema. The conversation will help get him out of his head.
And it’s not that he’s not excited, because he is. He’s more excited than he knows how to deal with. He’s been waiting for this day in some form for seven years — even longer, if it goes the way he thinks it will. Hopes it will, really.
But he’s been burnt too many times over the course of his life, and if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll start to worry. Phoenix doesn’t want to worry, not over this.
That’s why he’s distracting himself, but he’ll let himself think about it soon. He’s spent so long lying, and he wants, more than anything, to start being honest. With Apollo. With Trucy. With himself.
And, once he gets here, with Miles. Phoenix feels giddy at the thought that just hours from now Miles will finally be home, permanently, and he has to shut it down before that giddiness turns to nausea.
So he packs the boxes, and forces himself not to worry over what he’s going to say. It won’t be perfect, and it won’t be easy, but at least they’ll be together again. That will be enough.
The thought is sweet enough to make him smile.
***
Phoenix had a hard time making friends as a child. It wasn’t for lack of desire on his part — he craved company insatiably. Rather, it was because he was shy.
Larry had been around since they were small, of course, but besides him, Phoenix rarely talked to anyone he didn’t know. It was something Miles would chastise him for frequently, after they had met, although he privately thought Miles was glad Phoenix didn’t really have anyone else to spend time with. They were both lonely children, after all.
And because Phoenix had never had many friends, it took him a while to realize what the fluttering in his stomach when Miles was around meant. Wanting to spend every waking moment with Miles felt normal, and it was easy to assume the warmth in his cheeks and the bright feeling in his chest were normal too.
In the end, it was Larry who made him realize what was really happening.
He doesn’t remember what set off that particular bout of teasing; he figures it was bound to happen eventually, regardless of the circumstances. Larry may be Phoenix’s oldest friend, but that doesn’t mean he was always nice when they were kids.
But, nevertheless, Phoenix knows he started to realize when Larry had nudged him and said “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” in that annoying, singsongy tone.
Phoenix furrowed his brow. “Who?”
“Miles.” Larry grinned. “Everyone knows you have a crush on him, y’know. It’s so obvious.”
“What?” Phoenix stammered. “N-no I don’t!”
“Yeah you do!”
“I don’t! Shut up!” Larry had kept teasing him until Phoenix was close to tears, but Phoenix doesn’t really hold it against him, not anymore.
Because that night, Phoenix had laid in bed, and realized for the first time that Larry was exactly right. And he particularly doesn’t care to think about how long it would have taken him to get there if Larry hadn’t been around.
It was a thought he turned over in his head for a while. Phoenix had never had a crush, not a proper one anyway, and it was equal parts scary and exciting to realize his first one was on Miles.
He had meant to tell him, he really had. But then Miles disappeared.
And after he left, Phoenix made him a valentine — one of those classic ones cut out of red cardstock into a heart shape, with lace glued around the edges. It was the first letter he ever sent to Miles. And when he didn’t hear back about it, he just kept sending more.
He doesn’t know exactly what he wrote in that valentine, but Phoenix suspects what it said isn’t much different to how he feels now. A lot has changed, but that never will.
***
It takes considerable restraint for Phoenix to actually wait until he gets a text from Miles to head to his hotel. After finishing up cleaning around noon, Phoenix had found himself drifting aimlessly about town, trying to find something else to distract him with, largely to no avail.
But, finally, his phone pings with the message from Miles, and Phoenix is out the door within seconds.
And then, as he’s making his way to the address (not Gatewater, Miles had flat-out refused when Phoenix suggested it), he doubles-back to grab takeout, changes his mind, changes his mind again, almost texts Miles to ask if he wants any dinner, and ultimately shows up at the hotel twenty minutes late and empty handed.
(Maybe he’s a little more nervous than he’s been giving himself credit for.)
He doesn’t let his anxiety get the better of him, however, and finds the hotel room with minimal drama.
Before standing outside the door for longer than he would like to admit, trying to convince himself to knock.
It’s never felt this nervewracking before, is the thing. Back when they were “rivals”, Phoenix was still a bright-eyed young lawyer, and he never worried that what he said or did would ruin anything. He had nothing to lose at the time.
Then, when he lost his badge, it was easier to just keep what he was really feeling hidden, even from Miles. Not because Miles didn’t know — surely he knew — but because knowing it and saying it aloud were two different things, and only one of them was able to keep their relationship steady the way Phoenix needed in those years.
Phoenix can’t do that anymore. It’s not fair to Miles, and it’s not fair to himself. That doesn’t make trying to be honest any less terrifying.
But Phoenix Wright has never ran away from anything before, and he certainly won’t start now. So, he takes a deep breath, smoothes back his hair, and finally raps his knuckles on the wood. There’s a clatter from the other side, then the door is swinging open.
And standing there, looking jet-lagged and a little dishevelled and altogether beautiful, is Miles.
He smiles, bright and open, sending Phoenix’s pulse thrumming to a jackrabbit pace against his skin. “Hello, Wright.”
Phoenix grins back. “Edgeworth.” He sounds more relieved than he means to, but it doesn’t matter because Miles is here, he’s actually here, and he’s going to stay.
Miles simply looks so pleased when he hears Phoenix’s tone of voice that Phoenix can’t help himself, stumbling forward and pulling him into a tight hug. He buries his face in the nape of Miles’s neck, inhaling the scent of his stupidly expensive shampoo. It only takes Miles a moment to reciprocate, holding Phoenix just as tightly, and his skin burns where Miles touches him.
Neither of them say anything, but the hitch of Miles’s breath sounds just like I missed you to Phoenix’s ears. He digs his fingers just a little harder into his shoulder, because he still can’t find the words to tell him that he missed him too.
Finally, they pull back. “Let’s go inside,” Miles mumbles, and if Phoenix catches him wiping his eyes when he turns away, he doesn’t mention it.
***
He kept sending the letters, because in truth, he didn’t know what else to do.
They never received a reply, not even once, but Phoenix rarely felt disheartened by it. There were so many reasons why Miles could be prevented from replying, and at a certain point, not receiving anything back became as much a part of the routine as sending them in the first place did.
For over a decade he didn’t stop sending them, until he met Dahlia.
He hadn’t had many partners over the course of his life, but there had been a few here and there. Dahlia was the first serious one, though. They met around when Phoenix started looking more seriously into switching majors, and he was becoming desperate in the face of this “demon prosecutor” who was once his old friend. He began to lose faith.
And then there came Dahlia, like an angel come to save him. It was easy to fall in love with her, and for a time, he almost forgot about Miles.
That wasn’t why he stopped sending the letters, though. The truth was that he had continued trying to contact Miles, not because he believed he would ever get through to him, but because he still hoped, deep down, that one day they would reunite. And in that reunion, someone like Dahlia could never be in the picture.
The guilt was enough to get him to stop. He loved Dahlia, he really did. Even if he could never quite imagine a future with her, he thought that she deserved someone who was committed to her, entirely.
(The letters stopped, but the fantasies didn’t. That was one thing he could never rid himself of.)
Once everything fell to pieces, however, and Dahlia — the real Dahlia — had finally decided she’d had enough of him, Phoenix couldn’t find it in himself to go back to writing letters. Mia had inspired him. It wasn’t enough anymore to send his empty words to get no reply. He knew, then and there, that he would have to face Miles in court if he ever wanted to get through to him.
He didn’t even try to date again after Dahlia, not even after he realized that the Miles he thought he knew was gone. Even with everything that happened, his commitment continued to be unshakeable.
***
There’s so much to catch up on — seven years where they could only ever live on the periphery of each other’s lives. But Miles looks exhausted, and Phoenix can’t stand to bring any of it up, not right now.
So they don’t talk about it, not yet. They’ll have to soon, but Phoenix figures that a couple hours of avoidance is nothing compared to the near-decade they’ve been at it.
Instead, he makes Miles tell him about his new job as Chief Prosecutor, laughing at Miles’s woes about all the charity galas he’ll now have to arrange, and feeling privately disappointed to hear Miles won’t actually be prosecuting cases nearly as much anymore.
“Oh, don’t give me that face, Wright,” Miles says, because apparently Phoenix’s expression is not as subtle as he thought it was. “If I ever deign to make an appearance in court, you’ll be the first to know.” He takes a sip of his tea, looking thoughtful, before adding in an artificially light tone, “We haven’t actually been across the bench from each other since the Engarde case, anyhow. Surely it can’t be that distressing to you.”
It’s such a little thing, but to have Miles talk like that, to actually acknowledge their history and the distance that has been between them in such a blatant manner, is almost enough to crack Phoenix’s poker-face.
He laughs instead, because even if they’re working on it, he’s not ready to be quite so vulnerable yet, and changes the subject.
They just keep talking, slowly but steadily learning what it feels like to not mince words with each other, and before Phoenix knows it three hours have passed without either of them even realizing. Miles huffs when he glances at his watch.
“Is that really the time?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Apologies, Wright, I meant to order in some food by now. I got distracted.”
Phoenix bites back a grin. “It’s alright. Glad I can be so distracting.”
“Do you have to go soon? I know it’s a school night.”
“Nah.” He waves a hand back and forth. “Trucy’s probably eaten. Besides, she’s used to me coming home late. It’s fine.” He feels his stomach clench, suddenly reminding him that the last thing he ate was a sandwich around one in the afternoon. He smiles sheepishly at Miles. “...Could I still take you up on that takeout offer, though?”
The only thing open at this hour is Chinese, which Miles of course has to complain about. “It’s not that it’s bad, I was just hoping to have something a bit more refined for my first day back in the states!” Phoenix can’t even bring himself to pretend he finds Miles’s snobbishness anything less than charming, but he does a pretty good show of laughing at him anyways, because how else is he supposed to respond to that?
Somehow, by the time their food arrives, they’ve found themselves entrenched in a deep debate about the value of reality television — a topic that not even the besotted fantasies of Phoenix’s early twenties could have predicted. They keep arguing over their boxes of chow mein. It’s so domestic that Phoenix kind of feels like he’s going to puke.
Miles is gesturing widely with his chopsticks as he rants about the glamorization of unhealthy relationships in popular television, and Phoenix watches, almost in slow motion, as a fleck of carrot is sent flying by a particularly sharp flick and lands just by the corner of Miles’s mouth.
Without really thinking about it, Phoenix leans forward and brushes it away with the pad of his thumb.
Miles cuts himself off abruptly, looking at Phoenix with wide eyes. Phoenix suddenly remembers a night, many years ago, when they had been sat like this, and he had done the exact same thing. When Miles had kissed him.
And Phoenix had pushed him away.
The look on Miles’s face tells Phoenix that he’s not the only one thinking about that night. He swallows around the sudden lump that has formed in his throat, trying to think of something to say. He can’t seem to pull his hand back.
He’s tempted to wait for Miles to speak, to see if he will acknowledge it, despite the fact that it’s one of the things on the long list of things they never talk about. He doesn’t know what the protocol is anymore and he, selfishly, wants Miles to be the one to guide the way.
But then, he sees Miles’s eyes flicker down, for just a moment towards his mouth, and Phoenix’s resolve breaks.
“Phoenix—” The name is caught between them, a puff of air that Phoenix captures against his lips, and then the only thing he can hear is his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
***
For a long time, Phoenix assumed that Miles had just never received the letters. Maybe it was something dramatic, like that von Karma had maliciously kept them from his disciple. Or maybe it was entirely mundane, that Phoenix had simply gotten the wrong address.
But, whatever the case was, Phoenix had figured that, one way or another, the letters he had poured years of his life into had never been seen by Miles.
He never mentioned them, except in passing. Maybe, subconsciously, he didn’t want to confirm his suspicions. He wanted to cling to the last dredges of hope that all of his writing to Miles over the years had not been in vain. Phoenix had been beaten up and dragged down by life enough times to know that hope of that kind was pointless. But, deep down, he was an optimist, and he could never be anything less than what he was.
It all changed on one of his many trips to Germany to “help Miles with a case”. (As an excuse, it was usually flimsy at best, but neither of them ever mentioned they were just looking for an opportunity to see each other.)
This particular instance, he remembers, was one of the more difficult cases they worked on together in those years. The type of case that seemed simple at first, but then spiralled out into a complex web of lies and turnabouts. The type of case Phoenix was once known for taking on.
He had needed to push back his flight a day, just to help Miles gather all the evidence, and they spent several hours sorting through notes, both from the police and Miles’s own office.
It was around six when it happened. Phoenix can still picture how the light of dusk had spilled through the office window, lighting Miles up as he stepped out of the office for a moment to make a call. He was digging through Miles’s desk, looking for a report from a recent case Miles had done, when he’d come across a cardboard box.
Thinking nothing of it, Phoenix had pulled it out. He had already known well enough the documents he was looking for would not be stored inside, but it was worth checking every nook and cranny.
As soon as he removed the lid, his eyes were assaulted with a flash of red. It took him a moment to realize what it was.
A cardstock heart, trimmed with lace, sat on top of piles of letters.
He was frozen, barely able to breathe. For years, he had resigned himself to the fact that Miles had not only never received his letters, but had barely ever thought of Phoenix until they had reunited in court.
But in front of him was evidence, real evidence. Not just of Phoenix’s devotion to Miles, but of Miles’s devotion to Phoenix.
They never talked about it. They never talked about anything that was actually important. But how could Phoenix ever question that he mattered to Miles when every single letter he had ever written was sitting in front of him, preserved after all this time?
How could he ever question that Miles loved him?
He heard Miles approaching the office, and shoved the box back where he found it before he could be caught standing like a deer-in-headlights.
Miles cocked his head a little when he walked in, but if he noticed that something was off with Phoenix, he didn’t voice it. Phoenix hadn’t anything either, had forced himself to focus on the task at hand, pushing down the feelings that were threatening to overtake him.
But he couldn’t rid himself of the small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t help the way his chest glowed warm. That day, he didn’t even really try.
***
Miles is frozen against his lips for only a second before his breath hitches and he digs a hand through Phoenix’s hair, pulling him closer. He kisses him like he’s starving, devouring Phoenix’s mouth with a ravenous hunger that Phoenix mirrors with equal passion.
He tries to push everything he’s left unsaid into the kiss. Not because he won’t have to say it later, but because he needs Miles to know, in every way he possibly can, that Phoenix is done hiding. He’s dedicated two decades of his life to this man, and he wants Miles more than he’s ever wanted anything.
When Miles pushes him back against the couch so he can get better access to Phoenix’s neck, their takeout boxes left forgotten on the coffee table, Phoenix figures Miles probably got it.
Teeth scrape, ever so gently, across his pulse, and Phoenix gasps. “Miles—” His hands scrabble through soft, silver hair, trying to ground himself. “Baby—”
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Miles confesses between kisses, the words pressed greedily against his throat. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” Another kiss. “All I’ve been able to think about for so long—”
“I know.” Phoenix’s voice is breathy, filled with all the emotions he’s forced himself to suppress. He’s babbling, barely aware of what he’s saying. “I always wanted you. I’m sorry, Miles. I’m sorry I made you wait, because I always wanted you, for longer than I can remember, and I love you so much, I can barely breathe sometimes.”
Miles inhales sharply against his throat, and it takes Phoenix a moment to realize what he just said. He almost tries to backtrack, but then Miles kisses him again, definitively and without room for argument, before pulling back.
There’s a sharpness to his eyes, an expression on his face that Phoenix can’t even begin to parse through. “Marry me.”
It’s so absurd, Phoenix actually laughs.
“What?”
“Marry me.” He sounds dead serious, and Phoenix feels his entire body flush all at once with feelings he doesn’t know how to name.
“I—what?” He laughs again, this time to fill the space more than anything. “Miles, I—we’re not even dating.”
“It doesn’t have to be soon.” Miles leans down again, speaking against the hinge of his jaw. “Or it can be. I don’t care. We don’t even have to have a ceremony. Whatever you want, so long as I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Phoenix is suddenly hit with the realization of all of the doors, previously closed, that have now opened to him. The idea of the things he’s suddenly, terrifyingly, allowed to have makes him feel useless in his own body, like he can’t even move.
He clears his throat, doing his best to try to bring the world back into some semblance of by attacking the easiest question. “I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.”
“Usually I don’t. But this is different.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s you.”
Phoenix feels like sobbing at the confession. He’s being burnt alive from the inside out, and he has no idea what to do about it.
“Plus,” Miles pulls away so Phoenix can see his face, and he has a smug little grin pulling across his lips. “There are several financial benefits to being legal spouses.”
He’s almost stunned — sometimes he forgets Miles even knows how to joke. A giggle forces itself out of his mouth, which quickly turns into a bout of laughter that he can’t seem to tamp down on. Even Miles begins chuckling, still half leaning over Phoenix, and everything feels so easy.
It hasn’t been easy like this, not since they were children. There was always something keeping them from each other. But now, Phoenix never has to deny himself anything of Miles again.
And suddenly everything comes into clarity, and the idea of what they’re relationship is going to be no longer feels so petrifying. Because, suddenly, Phoenix knows he and Miles will stay side by side for the rest of their lives, no matter what happens.
So he smiles. “Sure.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “‘Sure’ what?”
“Sure, I’ll marry you.” He shrugs a little. “Don’t know when, but probably sooner rather than later.”
The look on Miles’s face makes him melt even further. God, he’ll never find the limit to how much he can love this man, will he? “Maybe after you get your badge? We could just do it at the courthouse.”
“That’ll be a while. Sure you can stand to wait that long?” Phoenix teases, unable to help himself.
“Well, I am the Chief Prosecutor now. I’m sure I could pull a few strings.”
Phoenix vows never to tell Miles how attractive he finds that blatant abuse of power. And then he changes his mind because now that he can tell Miles anything, he never wants to hold back again.
But right now, it’s a little too embarrassing, so instead he says, “Guess we’ll have to start looking for rings, then.”
Miles’s face pinches in a way Phoenix doesn’t know how to place. “Well, actually, I — we may have to get them resized again, but I already have the rings.” He looks away, and Phoenix realizes he’s embarrassed. “If you like them, that is.”
Resized again. Phoenix can’t be blamed for the way he tackles Miles onto the couch, cutting the conversation abruptly short by kissing him again.
There’s a lot they still need to talk about; years of unsaid things sit between them, weighing on them. But for now, Phoenix is with the man that he loves, the man who loves him back, and he’s happier than he’s been for longer than he can remember.
He’s going to spend the rest of his life with Miles. How could he bring himself to think about anything else at all?