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Phoenix Wright was enjoying what was, by all accounts, a pretty perfect morning.
Cozy bedsheets to nestle into, soft and still warm from residual body heat.
The perfect amount of light filtering through the curtains—enough to stir him awake without frying his retinas.
The distant sounds, streaming through the open window, of the city waking up. A dog barking at a mail carrier; a mother barking at her kids to hurry up before they missed the bus; a street busker coaxing life out of a dented saxophone. Closer, the sounds of whoever lived down the hall singing tunelessly in the shower, backed up by the ding of elevator doors.
The faint aroma of coffee brewing from the little cafe around the corner that Edgeworth always said was so pretentious—and yet, over the course of the past few weeks, pastries from there kept mysteriously appearing on Phoenix's desk.
And, carrying over it all, the dulcet tones of Miles Edgeworth, blustering through the room like a frazzled hurricane and letting out a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush.
"Mnn...Miles," Phoenix groaned, cracking an eye open. "What's going on?"
There wasn't an answer at first, just more frantic rustling and muttering. Then, finally: "It's 6:47 AM."
"Yeah. Couple of hours before God gets up." Phoenix flopped his face back into his pillow and let the fabric muffle his next words. "What's the big deal?"
The rustling suddenly stopped.
Phoenix peeled his face free to look back up, still blinking the last traces of sleep away.
The sight that greeted him was Miles, turned away—and oh, what a sight he was. That smooth, pale back, lit soft by the daylight spilling in, above legs that seemed to go on for miles. No pun intended. And that ass...
Slowly, rigidly, Miles looked over his shoulder, eyes like storm clouds brewing beneath his bangs. "The big deal," he ground out, voice tight, "is that I'm to prosecute a case at seven."
Oh, shit.
Phoenix scrambled out of bed in an instant, nearly tripping over the sheets still wound around his legs. Both their phones sat on the end table, Phoenix's battered blue relic next to Miles' sleeker model. He fumbled for the charger that lay coiled between them—not plugged in, he realized with a vague sense of dread, but dangling uselessly to the side.
"My alarm never went off this morning, it seems," Miles huffed, still rooting around for his clothing. "So I overslept."
"Yeah..." Phoenix gave him a sheepish grin and idly rubbed at the back of his neck. "I meant to plug in your phone last night, but it kind of slipped my mind. I forget not everyone has a brick like mine that can go, like, a week between charges. Sorry, baby."
Miles let out a long, slow breath and ran a hand through his hair. "It's fine, dear," he said, sounding more than a bit pinched. "I just...need to hurry, is all."
We're still 'dear' and not 'Wright.' So far, so good.
"I mean, you still have, what? Ten, fifteen minutes? And the courthouse isn't too far from here."
"...that's right. Sometimes, I forget you don't drive."
In answer to Phoenix's slow blink, Miles let out another sigh. "Japanifornia traffic is...how do I put this? What would be a ten minute drive anywhere else can be two hours here. Maybe longer, depending."
"Wow," Phoenix smirked. "I had no idea we lived in the land the space-time continuum forgot."
Miles tried to hide the way his lips quirked upward at that. He failed spectacularly.
"The space-time continuum, and most people's basic knowledge of how to operate a vehicle, it would seem. Sometimes I feel like I missed an opportunity not going into auto law."
He bent to retrieve what he was fairly certain was his boxers and shimmied into them. Phoenix tried to suppress a small whine as he watched the curve of that bottom disappear from view. Focus, Wright. We've got bigger problems right now. Court now, thirst later.
Miles, meanwhile, appeared to be going over some kind of mental checklist. "No time for a shower," he muttered under his breath, "the one from last night will have to do." He scooped up a sock and frowned at the sight of what had become of its poor garter. No matter; he guessed it would have to suffice.
Actually...
It slowly dawned on him, as he reached for the other sock, that he didn't actually have a thing to wear.
His staying the night had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, though hardly the first. Lately, what started as outings that “weren’t dates” had a way of ending with them tangled in each other's arms—and sheets.
Last night had been no exception. They’d gone out to celebrate a win—whose win hardly mattered. It was just another excuse to carve out a few hours together, a brief recess from everything else.
Miles had shown up in jeans and a sweater, a far cry from his usual formalwear. He had to confess, he'd felt almost naked wearing something so casual. But he wanted these stolen moments to be about them, without reminders of work looming overhead.
Judging by the way Phoenix had gawked at him from his barstool, it seemed like his choice in clothing had gone over well. But, he noted with a soft groan, what had been acceptable in Phoenix's opinion wouldn't exactly pass muster when it came to court.
"Doubt you'll have time to run home and grab a suit," Phoenix called over his shoulder, as though reading his thoughts. He seemed to have an uncanny knack for doing that; or maybe Miles was just that predictable. The romantic in him preferred to think they were just that in sync.
"Unfortunately. I'm just irritated with myself." Miles shook his head. "I should have remembered the trial today and at least gotten some things together."
Phoenix stepped up behind him to wind his arms around his waist and press a peck against the back of his shoulder. "Hey," he purred. "Don't beat yourself up too much. You were a little distracted, after all."
Miles let out a small hum at that. Phoenix certainly wasn't wrong. He'd had quite a few thoughts on his mind last night, but funny enough, swinging by his place to pack an overnight bag hadn't exactly been one of them. Go figure.
Unless...
"We're about the same size, aren't we?" He asked, his eyes tracking over Phoenix's figure. Strictly for the purpose of research, of course.
Phoenix met his questioning look with an arched eyebrow of his own, his mind filling in the gaps. "I don't know if that's a good—"
But Miles had already peeled away from his embrace and padded off in the direction of the closet.
Fantastic.
Phoenix, for a long time now, had been keenly aware of the differences between them. It was a little hard not to notice. Miles was prim, proper, put-together, whatever other "P" words described a man whose record was almost as impeccable as his hair. In his visits to the other man's condo, when he had done a little exploring, Phoenix had stepped into a walk-in closet and discovered a parade of immaculate red suits, hanging uniformly beside an array of carefully folded jabots.
Phoenix's style, on the other hand, could have been described charitably as "bachelor chic." Most of his casual wardrobe consisted of threadbare sweats and old band shirts from college. And, of course, what he called his “court uniform,” which sounded way more dignified than “my only suit.”
Miles had never made any comment about Phoenix's chipped flat-pack furniture or dorky pajamas. But still, deep in Phoenix's mind, a small yet persistent voice whispered. These nights out and rolls in the hay might be fun distractions, it said; but sooner or later, Miles would want someone on his same level.
And the thought of that man slipping through his fingers...
It was somehow even more painful than if he'd never gotten to hold him at all.
It seemed like such a stupid thing to worry about, he thought as he listened to the shuffling coming from around the corner. He definitely had to be overreacting; after all, it was only clothing. But he still couldn't keep himself from cringing.
C'mon, Miles. Thought you were in a hurry.
After a lifetime compressed into thirty agonizing seconds, Miles emerged in—oh, God.
Phoenix’s gaze trailed from the scuffed shoes up the slightly too-short pant legs, past the blazer that sat wrong on his shoulders, up to the infuriatingly smug tilt of his mouth.
He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both.
"...that's my suit," he murmured, as though saying it aloud would somehow make it seem less ridiculous. His eyes were magnetized to every little flaw. The way the cuff of one sleeve was starting to fray, the tiny scorch mark on the pant leg where Maya had once accidentally singed him with some incense. Tiny details that no one else would notice, but that he couldn't make himself unsee.
"Is it now?" Miles smirked, pausing to straighten a lapel. "I would never have guessed."
Phoenix had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Nobody likes a smartass, babe."
"Hm. You seem to."
No objections there.
"You look..." Phoenix paused to really take a proper survey, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden heat in his chest. "...really good, actually." He had a certain bias, surely. But somehow, that cheap blue polyester had a way of not looking quite so cheap when Edgeworth was elevating it.
Miles took another step forward, but there was something almost uncertain in his movement. "You sound almost surprised by that."
"Nah, I didn't mean it like that, it's just..." Phoenix gnawed the corner of his lip and mentally weighed how he wanted to finish that sentence. That stubborn voice in his head might have gone from whispering to screaming, but that didn't mean Miles needed to hear it, too. "It's not normally the kind of thing you'd wear, is all."
"You're afraid I don't find it satisfactory."
And oh—that fell harder than any gavel could.
"I, um...yeah."
A slow grin stretched Miles' features—one that made Phoenix's stomach do a little flip. "You're right. This isn't what I'd normally wear. But it's unmistakably what you would wear, correct?"
Phoenix frowned, unsure of where this was going, but he made himself nod puppetlike in reply.
"So." Miles gave his bangs one last fluff—he'd already had to accept his hair was probably a lost cause this morning—and turned to face Phoenix fully, his teasing smirk melting into something softer. "Everyone will know exactly who this belongs to."
"The suit?" Phoenix blinked.
"That too."
Oh.
The word fizzled uselessly in his head, sparking and shorting out all higher brain function. He’d been bracing himself for mockery, maybe some dry jab about his questionable taste. Not this. Never this.
Before Phoenix could even open his mouth to reply, Miles breezed past him, far too casually for someone who had just dropped a bombshell right in the middle of his chest. "I really do have to get going," he sighed. "If I’m lucky, the judge will limit himself to a warning. My record of punctuality is flawless, after all."
Miles adjusted his tie—Phoenix’s tie—and Phoenix swore he could feel the tug in his own chest.
Then Miles leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth, quick but sure.
"I'll see you later on, alright? I love you."
The sun had fully risen now, but it had nothing on the warmth flooding Phoenix’s chest, nothing on the stupid, irrepressible smile stretching across his face.
"...yeah. Yeah, sounds good. Love you too."
And just like that, the voice in his head went quiet. In its place, there was only the memory of the smirk, the suit—and the faint, lingering kiss.
God help him, Phoenix was gone.
How fitting.