Archive of Our Own

-

The first time Phoenix Wright touches him in a way that is not strictly friendly, Miles nearly runs.

Not because of the emotions associated with Phoenix Wright, that stubborn, irrepressible, brilliant man. Not because Phoenix is speaking incomprehensible volumes into his ear that Miles can’t decipher but understands the meaning of, understands the emotion behind, understands that after so long apart and so long denying such an intrinsic, cardinal tenet of his life, he can no longer escape the terrifying fact that his feelings are requited, because every word that Phoenix says destroys all of his arguments to the contrary.

It is because all of a sudden he is being touched. In many places. Phoenix’s hands on his back and his chest pressed against Phoenix’s chest and Phoenix’s cheek against his neck; he is being embraced, and it is all too much. He freezes, panic closing his throat.

Miles Edgeworth isn’t used to being touched. He is certainly not used to being hugged. He is stone for a moment as Phoenix clings to him, and then he is motion, pushing him away with a force that betrays the panic he feels.

He will not be able to forget the look in Phoenix’s eyes. It is one he never wishes to see again. It is one he has seen on Phoenix’s face before, years ago, that first time they had come face to face after Phoenix’s disbarment. It is the look of a man about to break.

If he wishes in that moment that he had not been the cause of that expression, at the very least it is the only thing which keeps him from bolting. “Wright - I - I apologize.”

Phoenix doesn’t lose that look, but he does try to mask it, which is worse. Miles shakes his head, stumbling over an explanation. “I am not - please understand, I return your feelings. I just -”

“You’re shaking,” Phoenix says, and there is something of his younger self in the startled way he says it, the Phoenix Wright he faced in court who was full of optimism and light and faith and Miles has to take several deep breaths before he can respond for fear of the sound that might emanate from his throat.

“I am unused to physical contact,” he finally manages. Phoenix is right. He is shaking. He closes his eyes. It helps, somewhat. “I was surprised, that is all. Please do not think - I care deeply for you as well.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says. The old him is gone if it was ever there at all. He does not mind so much, because it is this Phoenix Wright that is looking at him like that, and if the old Wright looked at him that way, he never noticed. The Phoenix Wright of now forces him to take notice. Or perhaps it is Miles who has finally allowed himself to see. “Oh. Uh - sorry.”

Miles straightens his collar. “If you wish to - resume the previous contact, I would not object.”

Phoenix looks at him. Something hopeful sparks in his eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

Miles nods stiffly. “You may.”

Phoenix steps in towards him, slowly. He closes his eyes and tries not to flinch as Phoenix’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder.

Phoenix kisses him, once, so quickly that he is unsure if it has actually happened until Miles opens his eyes to see Phoenix looking at him.

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix whispers, “Miles,” and that is all it takes for Miles to kiss him again, to kiss him until they are both breathless, and that afternoon he learns that Phoenix Wright is very warm against his skin, that he is loud at the beginning of their coupling and enticingly quiet when he comes, that he doesn’t seem to mind that Miles is clumsy and uncertain and both too eager and too restrained at once.

Miles comes much too quickly; he comes as soon as Phoenix wraps one hand around him, and he realizes afterward that it was as much from the pleasure of Phoenix’s strong, blunt fingers on his skin as it was from the overwhelming sensation of being held in Phoenix’s arms, pressed against the wall with no escape.

-

They do not have time to talk about it afterwards (and really, how foolhardy could they be - the middle of the workday and Miles had several meetings scheduled for that afternoon besides).

Phoenix calls him the next morning to ask if they can meet to work on the Jurist system legislation that day (as usual), and his voice is warm on the line (as usual, though he realizes now that - well), and then Phoenix calls him Miles, which is very much not usual, and Miles has to tell him to only do that when he’s not in public, because he’s pretty sure everyone in the coffee shop saw him turn beetroot-red and he has a reputation to uphold.

Other than that, it is not as if much is different about how they communicate. When Phoenix shows up at his office they argue over phrasing and Phoenix distracts him from his work when he gets stuck on a particular paragraph and it is all disarmingly ordinary.

And then, ten minutes before the end of their meeting Miles realizes what, exactly, has changed, and when he does, he loses any sense of normality entirely.

It is - the touching. Phoenix nudges his arm to point him to a certain passage. Phoenix places a hand on his upper back before he sits down next to him on the couch with reference books in hand. Phoenix clasps a hand on his shoulder with a smile that softens his face by frightening degrees when he finishes making a point, and it leaves Miles grasping for a response that would usually come with no considerable effort.

Phoenix touches him, casually, easily, with no apparent motive besides expressing affection, and it is - unsettling.

Logically, he knows that this is just one more facet of Phoenix’s personality. Miles has observed how the man reaches out to those closest to him, giving physical comfort or encouragement with a natural grace. He has even experienced it himself, though now that he thinks about it Phoenix has always respected the boundaries he erects between himself and others, touching him less than he would any other close colleague.

It follows that he should not be unnerved by the contact, especially as Phoenix is careful to ensure that it stays appropriate for the workplace, as if he is trying to make a point that they can still work together even with this newfound understanding. But he is, disproportionately so, and Miles cannot bring himself to examine why. He tells himself it is likely just frustrated desire, common in the start of a new relationship. He knows instinctively that it is something more insidious which curls uncomfortably in his chest, something more akin to fear.

Phoenix pats him on the arm, just once, before he turns to go, and Miles has to fight the overpowering urge to flinch away, to run and run and never come back; Miles has to fight the puerile urge to pull Phoenix back inside and cling to him in an endless embrace, and he honestly cannot decide which of those impulses terrifies him more.

-

Phoenix shows up at his office the next evening without asking beforehand, and Miles cannot bring himself to even pretend to be annoyed that Phoenix knows he will still be at work at seven on a Thursday. He spends the whole time being aware of how Phoenix is sitting close (too close, not close enough) to him, and making no progress whatsoever on the paperwork he had planned to have finished a full hour ago. What is worse, he cannot bring himself to care, because Phoenix smiles - a real smile, not that half-lidded smirk he still slips too-often into in public for Miles’ liking - and brushes his hand when he gives him a folder back as he’s leaving to go pick Trucy up from her show, which Miles, to his utter humiliation, promptly drops.

“Whoops. I’ll get it,” Phoenix says, and starts to bend down before straightening up abruptly with a wince. “On second thought - sorry. My back is acting up again.”

Miles picks the folder up off the floor and turns away under the guise of replacing it on the shelf, attempting to regain some of his usual composure. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Phoenix says, though it’s less convincing when he forces it through his teeth like that. “Ow. I miss when Trucy was little enough to walk on my back.”

“She is still quite petite.”

“Yeah, but now she charges me one magic trick assist per minute,” Phoenix says, rather proudly. “And I usually just hurt my back again while I’m helping her.”

“Perhaps you should see a masseuse” Miles replies, frowning. “I can book you an appointment if you would like. I have never utilized such services, but Franziska has recommended a spa in the area very highly.”

“Tempting,” Phoenix says. “But uh, now that we’re - would that make you my sugar daddy?”

Miles flushes a violent shade of vermilion. “That is highly - you - Wright -”

“Kidding, kidding,” Phoenix says, the corner of his mouth twitching in barely suppressed amusement. “I could use a shoulder rub, though. If you’re offering.”

Miles glares at the other man over the rims of his glasses and ignores the twinge of discomfort this suggestion inspires. “We are in the workplace.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

“Out,” he growls. “Get out.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Phoenix looks at him with one hand on the door handle and rummages in his bag. “Oh. Here, let me give you a flyer for Trucy’s show. Same time next week just like always, but you know.”

Miles approaches, still scowling, and takes it from him. Phoenix reaches out. Miles flinches back before he can stop himself.

“Uh - sorry,” Phoenix says, frowning at his hand like it’s some foreign attachment. “I didn’t -”

“It’s fine,” Miles says, too loud in the quiet of his office. There’s an awkward pause.

“Right.” Phoenix looks like he wants to say more. He lets go of the door handle, and the sound of the lock clicking automatically back into place sets Miles’ blood alight.

They stare at each other, and then Miles is closing the distance between them and smashing their lips together with very little grace or anything approaching technique; Phoenix moans into his mouth, and when he presses him down on the couch Phoenix goes down easy, gazing up at him with a little too much understanding even as he follows the frenzied pace Miles sets with kindred enthusiasm, and it is over too quickly again, thank God, thank God it is over so quickly, because he thinks he is too high-strung to do anything but snap and he does not care to consider what the alternative would be.

They do not talk about the way he had flinched back when Phoenix had reached for him at the door. He drives both Wrights back to their apartment, helps Trucy carry her things up the stairs, and still they do not talk about it, even when he turns to leave and sees Phoenix watching him from the open doorway, light spilling out golden-warm into the darkness of the hall.

-

The third time does not go well. Miles is unsure exactly which variable makes it so different from their first two encounters, but he suspects that the times in his office had been too quick, too long-awaited to do anything but feel and act.

The third time, they are in Wright’s office, and it is midday on a Sunday, and they have time. Time to be slow. Time he spends wishing they were going faster so he does not have the opportunity to think quite so much.

Phoenix kisses him as if they will never get another chance. Miles tries to focus on kissing him back, irritated at how he still does not know all of the man’s preferences and dislikes by heart. Phoenix laughs at his varying approaches until he finds the one that makes his laughter break off into a soft gasp.

A feeling rises in Miles' chest, wavering between pleasure and panic. He ignores it. Phoenix pulls him closer, against the wall. His hands roam over Miles’ back, his chest, hips rocking against him. He tries to breathe, hands fumbling at the zipper of Phoenix’s sweatshirt, and Phoenix moans, parting his legs to slot their hips together, and he is just beginning to think that perhaps he will be able to overcome this trepidation, or foreboding, or whatever it is when Phoenix pulls back, one hand coming up to cradle his jaw, kissing him tenderly.

“Hey,” Phoenix whispers, unbuttoning his waistcoat, “I want you, I want to see you,” and to Miles' horror thick-hot panic rises in his throat with a vengeance even as the words fan his blood to flame. If only Phoenix would let him - he is too aware of everywhere they are touching, too aware of exactly how vulnerable he is in this moment, how little control he still possesses, too aware of how easily he could be overcome in ways that have nothing to do with the arousal burning hot in his stomach - he is struck with the unbearable urge to escape somewhere safe, solitary, to peel his skin from his bones and hide where he can never be laid bare like this again, to run, to run to -

Phoenix draws back. “Miles?”

He knows his eyes must betray his affliction because as soon as Phoenix sees his expression there’s a hand on his shoulder, firm. Miles flinches away, stumbling back.

“A moment,” he grits out in answer to the question he knows is coming but doesn’t think he can bear to hear right now, and closes his eyes. Everything is too much. He feels caged in by his awareness of being in himself, in his body, by the sensations he can still feel echoes of crawling over his skin, and any remaining arousal has been drowned out completely by the panic crashing over him in suffocating, cacophonous waves. He forces himself to breathe, hands flexing at his sides.

Five things he can see: Miles opens his eyes. The couch, the shelves, the floor, Phoenix, who has retreated a few feet away from him to sit on the arm of the sofa, the trophy behind his right shoulder. Four things he can touch - he skips that step, and digs his fingernails into his palm instead with no small sense of irony. Three things he can hear: the buzz of the fluorescents, the sound of traffic outside, the sound of his own breathing. Two things he can smell: some sort of cleaning agent and the mustiness of cheap office carpet. He swallows. One thing he can taste. Well.

Phoenix looks at him steadily. Miles looks away, taking his glasses from his breast pocket and putting them back on. Were he any younger he might be tempted to make some fumbling attempt at an excuse and bolt. Only his regard for Phoenix and an unwillingness to further injure his already-wounded dignity keeps him from doing so. “I...apologize.”

“It’s fine,” Phoenix says, a little too quickly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Miles most certainly does not, but he also feels that he should at least try to justify his actions. He nods, and Phoenix gets up, returning with a chair that he places a few feet away.

Miles sits. Phoenix looks at him. Miles looks away. “I am not used to...these things.”

“These things?” Phoenix asks.

“The accoutrements of a relationship,” Miles clarifies. Phoenix is silent. He closes his eyes. “The touch.”

“Is it me?”

“Partially,” Miles admits, and then realizes how that might sound. “No - that is, not -”

“Hey,” Phoenix says, and his eyes soften. “It’s okay.”

“It is not. You deserve an explanation for my behavior.”

Phoenix studies him intently. “Okay,” he says, after a long moment. “I’m all ears, if you want to explain.”

Miles takes a deep breath. “I am...unused to such close physical contact with another person. I find it overwhelming.”

Phoenix looks at him. He flushes.

“In a bad way?”

“Somewhat,” Miles admits. Phoenix’s eyes widen infinitesimally. “Not completely.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says.

Silence. “I suppose it is a combination of personal preference and the result of many years of...solitude. I was never exactly desirous of contact, even as a child. Even if I were, I would not have had many sources for that sort of comfort in the years after my father’s death.”

He glances at Phoenix, who has gone slightly pale. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Phoenix says. “I’m - Jesus Christ, Edgeworth.”

Miles scowls. “I did not feel that I required physical affection at the time. If it were offered, I would have declined it.”

“Okay, okay,” Phoenix says, leaning back. “Sorry, I just...I was thinking about all the times I thought you looked like you needed a hug when you were younger.”

“I think we both know any attempt at one would not have gone well for you.”

Phoenix chuckles weakly. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

Miles shifts. “So.”

“So,” Phoenix echoes. “Is there anything - do you want me to ask every time before I touch you?”

Miles considers this. “No. Nor do I wish to deprive you of the physical contact you require for your emotional well-being.”

“Hey, don’t worry about me,” Phoenix says with a smile. He thinks it is just a little too smooth, too practiced; if Phoenix has a tell it is that his reactions are always perfect when he really wants them to be. “I’ll be fine.”

Miles glares at him. “I hold honesty very highly, Wright.”

Phoenix hesitates. For a moment a flash of a different man, a jaded, cynical version of him that Miles rarely has to see in private anymore flickers across his face. He blinks and it is gone. Phoenix sighs. “I mean it.”

“I do not wish you to have to simply endure our relationship,” Miles says stiffly. “I wish it to be fulfilling for both of us in equal measure.”

“Edgeworth,” Phoenix replies, exasperated and fond in one. “I mean, you’re not asking for me to never touch you again, are you?”

“Certainly not. Don’t be absurd.”

“So it’s fine.”

“Well.” Miles taps a finger on his thigh. “I realize that this is a suboptimal situation.”

“Right, cause that’s exactly why I fell in love with you,” Phoenix says, lips quirking up into a half-smile. “I thought it would be really optimal.”

Miles glares. There’s no force behind it. Phoenix grins wider. “Hey, come on.”

“Hmph.”

“Can I - can I kiss you?” Phoenix asks, after a short pause. “Or is that - sorry. You can say no.”

“Of course I understand that,” Miles retorts. “...Yes. You may.”

Phoenix stands, stepping forward and leaning down awkwardly towards him. Miles closes his eyes.

Phoenix kisses him once, tentative. Miles kisses him again before he can pull away. “I know that this may be somewhat - difficult to understand.”

“Hey, I’m smarter than you give me credit for,” Phoenix replies. He keeps his hands by his sides, carefully drawing back and returning to the arm of the couch so as not to further intrude on his personal space. Miles finds himself irrationally irritated at this consideration, as if he were not the one who had requested it.

He sighs, suddenly exhausted, and wonders why this, of all things, has to be so hard. “You underestimate my regard for your intelligence.”

Phoenix smiles a little bashfully. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

There’s a slightly awkward pause. Phoenix sticks his hands in his pockets and studies the floor. “So - I’m guessing you probably need some space.”

Miles nods, standing. Phoenix trails him at a distance to the exit. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Very well.” Miles opens the door and turns back in the threshold, though he cannot think of anything else to say. “Phoenix.”

“Yeah?”

“I - hm.” Miles clears his throat. They stand there for a moment.

“Thank you,” Miles says at length, and he thinks that perhaps it is already enough that he trusts his meaning will be understood.

-

They make plans to have dinner Friday evening, at his apartment. Miles cooks, and over steak salad and an excellent Spanish red they fall easily enough into their usual bickering style of discussion, despite the way apprehension seems to thread through every lull in the conversation for reasons that have a lot to do with how Phoenix looks at him and a lot to do with how he is suddenly, inescapably aware of being looked at.

“How is your back?” Miles asks suddenly during one such silence, for lack of anything else to say that isn’t I want you to touch me, I have never wanted to be touched and now it is all I can think of, all I can think of is how I want you and it makes me want to run far, far away or something of that same ridiculously emotional nature.

“A lot better,” Phoenix (who is, thankfully, unable to read minds) says, sipping his water thoughtfully. “I remembered this thing from my acting classes in college where you basically lay on the floor for twenty minutes, and it actually worked.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Phoenix glances at him. “You can still give me a shoulder rub if you want, though.”

“Hmm.” Miles pours himself a second glass of wine with the exact sort of self-consciousness he hopes the consumption of more alcohol will lessen. “I do not think I would be skilled at such an activity.”

“Is it that?” Phoenix asks, looking at him with an uncomfortable scrutiny. Miles wishes it did not spark as much desire as discomfort. “Or is it that you don’t - want to?”

Miles looks away. “That is not precisely the issue at hand.”

“But it’s related.”

“Somewhat,” Miles admits, drumming his fingers on the table. “I have no reason to believe that giving physical comfort would be any less challenging than the act of receiving it.”

Phoenix leans back in his chair. “And you’re not really eager to find out.”

“I did not say that.” Miles frowns. “I would like to become more familiar with both practices. It is simply…”

“What?”

Miles hesitates. “Since the beginning of our relationship, I find myself more desirous of physical contact than I can recall ever having been, besides when I was very young.”

“Oh,” Phoenix says, and scratches the back of his neck in a poor attempt to hide his pleased expression.

“However, I do not, precisely, feel comfortable asking for it,” Miles finishes, slightly amused at the other man's transparency.

Phoenix looks up at him. “So...right now,” he says slowly. “Is there anything you want to ask me for?”

The implication in his tone is very - Miles deflects. “Yes. Help cleaning up.”

Phoenix splutters. “You - agh.”

Miles swallows, and puts his hand on the table, a few inches away from Phoenix’s. “Phoenix. As I have previously stated, I am - unused to this.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says, soft. “Okay. So do you actually want help with the dishes, or were you just making a point?”

“What point would I be making? And yes, if you do not mind.”

Phoenix shakes his head. “I don’t mind. Um, but before that - thank you.”

Miles frowns. “What for?”

“For telling me about - this,” Phoenix says, and his eyes catch Miles’ and do not let go, warm and full and fixed unwaveringly on him. “For trusting me.”

Miles finishes the last of his wine, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “...I believe I should be the one offering thanks.”

Phoenix laughs. Any remaining tension drains from the air between them at the sound. “Well, you did cook me dinner, so we can call it even.”

“Hardly.” Miles stands. “Especially as I’ve already asked you to help clean up.”

“Urgh. I thought Europeans were supposed to linger after meals,” Phoenix says, getting up and stretching his arms above his head with a groan.

“...I am not European,” Miles responds belatedly. He had been distracted by the way Phoenix’s shirt had ridden up at his motion, revealing a small sliver of golden skin just between his waistband and undershirt. He’s wearing one of his new button-downs in a deep hunter green, and he looks - good does not seem an apt enough descriptor. “...And neither are you.”

Phoenix doesn’t seem to notice him looking. “Yeah, but you’re supposed to be sophisticated.”

“Well,” Miles replies, “Perhaps I am just impatient to get to the latter part of the evening.”

And he heads into the kitchen with no small satisfaction at the good thirty seconds or so it takes Phoenix to follow him.

Once they’ve restored the kitchen to its usual orderly state, Miles glances at Phoenix, who watches him from the counter perpendicular to the sink. Something about the way he leans there, so casually, as if he’s always been there, as if he expects to be leaning against that particular counter in the future, makes his chest constrict.

Phoenix catches his eye with a grin. “Hi.”

Miles raises his eyebrows and does not reply, drying his hands on the dishcloth instead.

Phoenix slides off the counter and takes a step towards him. Miles ignores him, purposefully taking his time in shaking the dish towel out and folding it meticulously before meeting Phoenix’s gaze. “Was there something you needed?”

“Hmm. I don’t know.” His eyes say differently. “Maybe you could help me figure it out?”

Miles considers this. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to be of assistance if you are not more specific. Perhaps next time you should decide what, exactly, you are asking for before you speak.”

“Miles.”

He smirks. “Yes?”

“Oh my God,” Phoenix says, clearly delighted, “I am so, so fucked. This is terrible.”

Miles clears his throat to cover his laughter. “And how do you propose to rectify this ‘terrible’ situation?”

“I guess you’ll just have to take responsibility,” Phoenix says, grinning at him.

“Will I?” Miles is still holding the dish towel. He arranges it neatly by the sink, making sure it lines up in a precise parallel to the edge of the counter before he continues. “Perhaps I don’t feel as if there is anything I need to take responsibility for, yet.”

Phoenix makes a strangled sound, and all at once Miles is out of patience for games. He turns, and Phoenix stands still as he steps closer, eyes fluttering closed as Miles leans in to kiss the grin from his mouth.

He can feel Phoenix’s hand twitch at his side, but he doesn’t move, even when Miles curls a hand around the back of his neck, a strange pride blooming in his chest at how pliant Phoenix is against him, at the way his breath hitches when Miles deepens the kiss. Phoenix smells like soap-scrubbed skin and generic deodorant and something indescribable, something uniquely intoxicating, and he’s clean-shaven for once, and for some reason that is what makes him ache, what makes him bring one hand up to Phoenix’s chest, push him back until he is against the edge of the counter, the steady thrum of his heart beating under Miles’ palm, and still Phoenix does not reach for him, though by the way he kisses him back Miles can tell he wants to.

Miles pulls back, fumblingly removing his glasses. It takes a moment for Phoenix to open his eyes. “You may - if you want.”

“I do,” Phoenix murmurs, and then frowns. “I do, but - can I...ask you for something?”

“Of course.”

“I want to give you a massage.”

The request catches Miles off-guard. He steps back, folding his arms. “If anyone needs a massage, it is you. Did you not request one earlier?”

“Yeah, but…” Phoenix looks away. “I thought it might be good. For - for us.”

“How so?”

“I don’t -” Phoenix rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Um. Couples bonding, I guess.” Miles glares at him. “No? Uh, maybe...it’s a long-held sexual fantasy of mine? I have a...back kink?”

The corner of his mouth twitches irrepressibly in amusement. “Do you.”

“Well - yeah, technically I do,” Phoenix retorts, smiling triumphantly at the wordplay. “So...there.”

Miles shakes his head. “Ah. A flawless conclusion to a very strong argument.”

“Yeah, well,” Phoenix says, and something bitter curls around his voice, half-lids his eyes even as he continues to grin. “Can’t say I’m exactly in practice.”

There’s an uneasy pause. Phoenix scrubs a hand over his face. “Damn. Edgeworth, I didn’t mean -”

“Phoenix.” Miles closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. This is frustrating for me, as well.”

“I’m not frustrated,” Phoenix says. “Well, maybe a little, but not - it’s not you. Anyway, it was a bad suggestion, so just - forget it.”

Miles sighs. His throat is suddenly dry. He looks around for his glass and is disappointed to find it sitting empty on the counter. “Did you have a...plan? Or had you decided on following your usual modus operandi?”

“Winging it? No. Not this,” Phoenix responds. He nods at the wine bottle, which Miles had left unstopped in an uncharacteristic bout of indecision. “Do you want me to put a cork in that for you, or...?”

Miles pauses, and pours himself another serving before putting the stopper in. He does not want to be drunk in any sense of the word, but he also knows himself well enough to recognize that his inhibitions will need to be lowered more than they currently are for this to happen. He sips it not-quite-slowly as Phoenix watches him. “Perhaps you should explain what you envisaged.”

“...Okay,” Phoenix says slowly. “Well, I thought you could lie on the couch or your bed or wherever you felt comfortable. And I thought we could have a system, some way for you to let me know what you’re okay with. Like, you could say ‘green’ when it’s not too much.”

Miles resists the urge to scoff. “Colors, Wright? Really?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

He does not. “Okay,” Phoenix says. “So let’s go with that.”

Miles drains most of the glass. Phoenix raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “Maybe,” he continues. “I thought it might help if - you could be face down the whole time and, keep your eyes closed, if that helps.”

Miles considers this as he finishes what remains of his wine. Strangely, the suggestion puts him a little more at ease. It is what Phoenix leaves unspoken that appeals to him: that Phoenix will not be able to see his face just as he will be unable to see Phoenix’s.

Still. “I cannot guarantee that I will react in a positive way.”

“That’s fine,” Phoenix says. “I trust you to tell me if it’s too much. Just...” There is something indecipherable in the other man’s eyes, something fierce. “Please. I want to do this for you.”

Miles is not sure that trust is warranted. He does not give himself that much credit. But he trusts Phoenix, and he thinks that is enough.

Miles nods.

“Okay,” Phoenix says. “So -”

“I will get undressed and wait in my bedroom,” Miles says brusquely, more matter-of-fact than he feels. Courtroom bluffing skills can be helpful in many diverse situations, apparently. “It should not take me more than five minutes to prepare.”

“Five minutes, got it,” Phoenix repeats, and his smile is bright even in the dim light of his kitchen. Miles puts his glass in the sink, turns, and heads to his bedroom before he can change his mind.

Miles undresses quickly, stripping down to his boxer briefs, placing his clothes neatly in his laundry basket, folding the duvet and top sheet back halfway, and lying face down in the center of his bed. Anticipation spikes his heart rate even as the wine dulls his nerves somewhat.

It isn’t long before Phoenix knocks on the door frame. “Enter.”

He can hear Phoenix’s sock-clad feet pad across the floor of his room, and feels when he sits down on the bed, the mattress dipping under him. For a moment he is silent. The tension is irritatingly palpable. “Well? Is this acceptable?”

“Yeah, uh - sorry,” Phoenix responds, sounding distracted. He moves off the bed, and Miles can hear the rustling of clothing. Presumably he is undressing as well. Miles swallows.

When he returns Miles feels a blanket, the one he keeps folded at the foot of the bed, being pulled over his lower body. “Too warm?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Phoenix pauses, and then the mattress dips underneath him as he feels the other man carefully move to straddle his hips, only the dull feeling of his knees against the thick blanket and the slight pressure of his weight on Miles’ upper thighs belying his proximity. Phoenix adjusts his posture slightly. “Okay, I’m - I’m going to start now.”

There’s the light sensation of Phoenix’s hands on his upper back. Miles tenses automatically. The hands don’t move, and after a moment he relaxes into the touch.

“Color?” Phoenix asks.

Miles huffs. “Green.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says. The pressure on his back increases a little, firm. He can feel Phoenix’s palms against his shoulder blades, one on each side of his spine. They rest there for a long time, until the feeling is dull. Miles shifts, not from discomfort, but from a combination of anticipation and boredom.

“Is this the sort of massage you are used to receiving?”

Phoenix laughs. “I’m guessing that’s a green then.”

“Mm.” The hands on his back lift away, and Miles finds he misses their presence. The realization shoots icy panic into his stomach. “Phoenix.”

“Yeah?”

He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing in a regular pattern. The feeling ebbs away after a moment, leaving only a vague sense of unease. “Nothing.”

Phoenix pauses, but seems to accept his unwillingness to say more. “Okay. I’m going to put my hands back on your back now.”

“That is acceptable.” The silky feeling of lotion on his skin makes him flinch. Phoenix pauses, waits for him to relax again, and then continues applying it in smooth strokes over his upper back and shoulders. It isn’t cold - he must have warmed it in his hands, Miles thinks - and it doesn’t feel unpleasant. It smells faintly of lavender. Not his favorite scent, but not an unwelcome one. “Is that mine?”

“It was in your bathroom.”

“Ah.” Phoenix’s hands are careful and unyielding against him. After a long few moments of repetitive movements, it becomes almost soothing.

Miles has never really been touched like this before, not since he was very young, and even then it was not the same. Phoenix’s hands glide over his skin, again, and again, and each pass invites some new, unfamiliar emotion into his chest, crashing in waves against the part of him that wants to cringe away, to tense up, the part of him that says that he does not deserve this sort of feeling, that he is not worthy of it.

There is something almost too decadent for comfort in the way Phoenix touches him. Miles has sometimes been mistaken for a sensualist, given his liking for the finer material things, but this has nothing to do with his preference for well-made clothing or fast cars. This is hedonism at its purest and most primal, the sort that he has always outwardly disdained as too crass and inwardly dismissed as too self-indulgent for him to partake in.

“How are you feeling?” Phoenix asks.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Physically, the sensation is pleasant enough, if unfamiliar.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says. He rubs his thumbs in slow lines up and down on either side of Miles’ upper spine. The pressure is unexpectedly soothing; he had not realized that the muscles there were quite so tense. “You wanna talk about the other stuff?”

Perhaps it is the wine which makes him so candid. “It feels...uncomfortable.”

Phoenix stops abruptly. Miles rushes to clarify. “I only mean - I do not wish you to stop.”

Phoenix resumes, though Miles can tell the admission has distracted him somewhat from the stutter in his motions’ previously steady rhythm. “If you want to stop it’s fine. The whole point is for you to enjoy it.”

“Mm.” Phoenix is making progress on a certain tightly-wound point in his shoulder, and the sensation of release is beginning to obfuscate Miles’ higher thought processes. “That is partially the problem. It feels...inexcusably self-indulgent.”

“Wow. And that’s coming from a man who wears silk underwear.”

“There is a difference between having a preference for quality products and - this,” Miles replies icily. “I do not feel guilt for investing in well-made clothing.”

“And you feel guilty about this?”

“Yes. Despite the best efforts of various professionals, I still retain some vestige of my upbringing.”

Phoenix’s breath hitches, and Miles starts as he feels a kiss being pressed to the base of his neck. The feeling is quickly gone, but Phoenix does not speak for quite a while.

Miles has just begun to relax again when Phoenix says, voice shockingly husky: “You deserve this, Miles.”

Ah. That is - “Yellow,” Miles says, and swallows past the tightness rising in his throat. Phoenix stills immediately. “Phoenix. I cannot…”

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” Phoenix says. They are both silent for a moment. “Do you want me to stop talking?”

“Not necessarily,” Miles murmurs. “It is - the combination of physical sensation and the discussion of more...serious topics that -”

“Right, got it.” Phoenix says, sounding embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Miles swallows and reaches blindly out behind him with an open palm. After a moment Phoenix takes it, interlacing their fingers. “Do not apologize. Your intentions, as usual, were good.”

Phoenix squeezes his hand, once, and slowly places his hands back on Miles’ back. “So no positive affirmations then.”

Miles scowls. “I find those infantilizing.”

Phoenix laughs. “You’ve heard of them?”

“Detective Gumshoe used to read them before he had to testify in court.” Phoenix’s hands find the tense muscles of his upper back and begin to knead softly. “And a therapist once recommended them to me.”

“Oh?”

“She was not a good fit,” Miles admits, and Phoenix laughs.

“Trucy’s been obsessed with them recently. She said something about how it’s a form of hypnotism.”

“I - ah - find that hard to believe,” Miles says, just as Phoenix presses a thumb into a particularly tight area just below his shoulder blade.

“Too much?”

“No." Phoenix continues to apply pressure. The pain clears his head even as it directs his focus to the knot of tension Miles had not even realized was there. Perhaps he should take more care in following the recommendations regarding acceptable length of time spent sitting at one’s desk without a break. “Has it been working?”

“Not exactly,” Phoenix says dryly, and begins to press on the same spot on the opposite side of his spine. “Unless the goal was to hypnotize me into hating positive affirmations.”

“Mm.”

By now, Phoenix has succeeded in easing most of the tension in his upper back, and the feeling of release is so enjoyable Miles forgets to be wary of it. He shifts, and Phoenix’s hands slip down, the pads of his thumbs smoothing down his lower back for a brief moment before he focuses his attention slightly higher. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” In truth it feels somewhat more intimate than the ministrations to his upper back, and therefore more uncomfortable. It is not, however, unbearable. Nor does Miles wish him to stop.

A pleasant heat flares to life in the pit of his stomach as Phoenix shifts the blanket down, making an appreciative sound. “Dimples,” he says, so quietly Miles wonders if he meant to speak aloud.

Miles clears his throat. “Indeed.”

“Hmm.” Phoenix’s hands splay out along his waist in the same soothing motions as before. He skims a hand up his side, and Miles cringes away before he can check himself.

“Ah - I believe I am somewhat…”

“Are you ticklish?” Phoenix asks, unable to disguise the delight in his voice. Miles glowers into the pillow. “Okay, sorry. I’ll avoid your sides.”

“Hmph,” Miles mutters, and Phoenix presses another quick kiss to the base of his neck in apology that surprises him with the force with which it makes his blood rush downwards. Phoenix straightens up quickly, lifting his hands away to place them back on Miles’ hips.

“Phoenix.”

“Hmm?” Phoenix says, a little too innocently. Then he begins to press over the fabric of Miles' boxer briefs, around his tailbone, and lower, which would be arousing if it weren’t for the fact that he evidently holds quite a bit of tension in his hip joints. He hisses in pain as Phoenix delves into the tightness there. “Oof. You should get a tennis ball.”

“Are you - nghhh - are you joking?”

Phoenix laughs. “I’m serious. When my bike seat was adjusted wrong I basically spent an hour a day just laying on my side with one under my hip for a whole week. It helped.”

Miles tries to think of a suitable response and has to settle for glaring into the pillow as Phoenix continues to knead at sore flesh instead.

When he is finally finished with his prodding, Phoenix skims fingers lightly up over silk and places his hands on Miles’ lower back, pressing down firmly. Miles bites back a gasp that is not entirely to do with how the pressure produces an excellent stretch in his spine.

Phoenix pauses. “Miles…”

“Yes?” Miles responds, distractedly. Phoenix sweeps his open palms in an outward motion from his center, fingers curling lightly around the jut of his hipbones, and Miles allows his mind to wander to undeniably pleasant considerations of that same hand placement in a different situation.

“I’m not doing this just to sleep with you.”

Miles frowns. “I thought that was understood.”

“Well,” Phoenix says, and Miles can hear a slight roughness in his tone that lets him know that he is not alone in being affected by their situation. “I didn’t - I don’t want you to feel like…”

“If you are wondering whether I feel obligated in any way, I do not,” Miles says, authoritatively enough to snap Phoenix out of whatever self-martyring path he is no doubt meandering down. “Phoenix. I comprehend well enough that you...feel as if I deserve this, somehow, without ulterior motive. Besides,” he adds, irritated, “do you really think I would hold such regard for you if I thought you were the sort of person to have such expectations?”

“Okay,” Phoenix says. When he speaks again his voice is warm and amused. “I regard you too.”

Miles smacks a knee (the only thing within reach) as Phoenix laughs. “Incorrigible.”

“You know,” Phoenix says, thumbs stroking gentle circles into the small of Miles’ back, “For someone who pretends to be a walking thesaurus, you repeat the same few words a lot.”

“And I suppose you have a better alternative?”

“...Incurable?”

“That implies your thick-headedness is a fatal disease.”

“Argh - unrepentant.”

“Carries religious connotations. What did you mean by ‘walking thesaurus’? I pretend nothing of the sort.”

“Uh-huh.” In lieu of a response, Phoenix tugs the blanket further down, shifting down the bed and running his hands down the sides of his hips. Miles resists the urge to arch into the caress, disappointed if not entirely surprised at how Phoenix continues down with only the briefest of pauses, beginning to massage his thighs at the same slow, steady rhythm he has kept all evening.

“Steadfast,” Miles mutters, and is glad Phoenix cannot see the way his face reddens as he says it.

“Not always,” Phoenix says, too lightly. Miles reaches back, fingertips just reaching Phoenix’s knee, and keeps his hand there despite the protest from his shoulder at the stretch. Phoenix pauses.

“Always. When it matters.”

He can hear Phoenix swallow in the silence. They are still, and then one of Phoenix’s hands moves to cover his. “Thanks.”

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Miles huffs. “It is simply a truthful observation.”

The hand on his tightens almost imperceptibly. He shuts his eyes tightly against the fabric of the pillowcase. “And it is just one of the qualities you possess that make you the only person I would trust to do this.”

After a long moment, Phoenix exhales in a shaky laugh. “I think I might need the color system. Jesus.”

“Hmph.” Phoenix pulls back, returning to his previous treatments. “It is only fair.”

“Is it.”

“Mm.” Phoenix continues to work on his legs with such a leisurely attentiveness Miles thinks it would be somewhat soporific were it not for the way desire flickers warm-bright beneath his skin every time Phoenix’s hands near the tops of his thighs. Sometime between their conversation and the present moment he had forgotten to be resistant towards the onslaught of sensations Phoenix’s hands are provoking, and the result is intoxicating, at once too much and not at all enough. Miles shivers, feeling slightly tipsy - not just with wine (though he cannot deny that is one contributing factor), but with touch, feels as if he is sinking down into the mattress, or floating on top of it, a haze of endorphins clouding his mind and clearing away what is left of his uncertainty, his fear.

A new desire creeps over him, like the high tide coming in, ebbing and flowing as it mixes with the more familiar feeling of arousal pulling low and insistent in his stomach. Skin hunger, his mind supplies, though Miles cannot fathom where he would have heard such a phrase before.

He supposes it is an apt enough description, though it does not quite encompass the deep sort of want he feels as Phoenix smooths up his thighs, the pressure enough to make him hiss impatiently. Phoenix either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

“For how long do you intend to do this?” Miles finally asks, and his voice is, thankfully, mostly steady.

“Um...I hadn’t really thought it out.”

“Phoenix,” Miles says, and gasps as Phoenix’s thumbs dip inwards, pressing between his thighs. “There are - ah - limits to my patience.”

Phoenix stills, and Miles grits his teeth, unable to do anything that will ease the pressure that has been building off and on for the last half hour with Phoenix still straddling him. “Phoenix.”

Phoenix makes an unintelligible noise in response. “Eloquent as ever,” Miles mutters into the pillow, and then feels the mattress shift, and the press of Phoenix’s weight as he returns to his previous position kneeling over his thighs, and then Phoenix’s lips on his neck right underneath his hairline. His skin feels oversensitized, and even the small touch has him arching his hips uselessly into Phoenix’s weight.

“Ugh, I forgot - the lotion.” Phoenix says disgustedly, pulling back.

Miles rolls his eyes and is glad his fond smile is hidden by the pillow. “Honestly,” he murmurs, and flinches at the feeling of a damp washcloth rubbing in circles over his upper back. “Wright - please tell me that has not been on my duvet this entire time. It’s down, for God’s sake.”

“Uhh,” Phoenix says, and he can picture the other man’s guilty grin without needing to look. “Sorry.”

“Hmph.” Truthfully Miles doesn’t really mind, not when Phoenix leans back down to press lingering kisses down his spine, the sensations spreading along his skin in an electric current.

Phoenix shifts down the bed, hands warm and firm on his hips, pausing at his lower back, breath prickling warm on Miles’ skin. Miles shivers.

“Color?” Phoenix whispers.

“Green,” Miles says, the arousal that has been building within him for the past half-hour or so teetering on a precipice. He feels the warm wetness of Phoenix’s tongue darting out to taste the skin just above his waistband, and then Phoenix is moving back up the bed to rub his hands in gentle circles over Miles’ upper back. Miles hisses in protest and feels rather than hears the reverberation of Phoenix’s amusement at his expense.

The man seems irritatingly determined to take his time, and if there’s one thing Phoenix Wright excels at, it’s setting his sights on a course of action and following it through with the sort of blind conviction that used to infuriate him to no end when he had to argue against it.

Now that infamous stubbornness is focused on prolonging his pleasure, and it is just as aggravating as it had been in the days Miles had faced it in court, even as it makes something fond and saccharine-sweet bloom in his chest. “Phoenix.”

“You need something?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Oh.” The low purr of Phoenix’s voice does not portend anything close to fulfillment of his request. “What did you say earlier? Something about being specific and deciding what you want before you ask for it?”

Miles splutters. “Ngoohh - you - Wright!”

This time he hears Phoenix’s laughter as well as feels it. Then he feels Phoenix kiss at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, biting the flesh there and flicking over it with his tongue, and Miles forgets about everything else but that one point of contact, everything but the way Phoenix’s touch stokes the need burning beneath his skin into a fever-pitch.

Miles shifts in frustrated motions between the mattress and the constrictive weight above him as Phoenix sucks a mark into his skin and kisses up his neck, slow, giving him time to adjust to each new sensation. It is considerate, and thoughtful, and - utterly maddening, especially when, instead of acquiescing to the stifled gasps beginning to escape from his throat, Phoenix just kisses down the other side of his neck. When he gently bites at the muscle of his opposite shoulder Miles bites his lip so hard it bleeds. “Phoenix, I need -”

Phoenix pauses. “Can you - turn over onto your side?”

“You are. On top of me,” Miles snarls.

“Oh. Right.” Phoenix scrambles off of him, and Miles turns to one side, keeping his eyes closed as he does. Phoenix arranges himself so that he is lying behind him, not more than an inch or two away.

Phoenix places one careful hand on his shoulder. The touch burns white-hot on his skin, but it is nothing compared to the way he feels when Phoenix shifts closer, bringing them flush together, his chest warm against Miles’ back. He can feel the evidence of Phoenix’s arousal against him, can feel how ragged Phoenix’s breathing is despite his outward composure, and the knowledge only serves to make him even more impatient.

Phoenix, of course, takes his time adjusting them, pressing a leg between his thighs and resting there for a moment, still. “You’re - color.”

“Green,” Miles snaps. The feeling of Phoenix against him is not threatening to overwhelm him as it had in Phoenix’s office, mostly because he is half driven out of his mind already by desire and partly because of the way Phoenix has insisted on building up to this, on going so slow his thoughts can race and race until they are exhausted, easily interrupted by sheer feeling, or by something Phoenix has said, or by - Phoenix’s arm drapes over his hip to palm him through silk, and why, for Christ’s sake, why had he not thought to remove his underwear before turning over?

Miles doesn’t even realize how tense he is until Phoenix kisses his shoulder and whispers “Breathe, Miles, just breathe” in his ear. Vexingly, Phoenix stops touching him until he actually follows the instruction, taking in labored breaths as he forces himself to relax, if only to have Phoenix’s hand on him again. Thankfully Phoenix is quickly satisfied with his effort, and Miles tips his head back, hips canting forward against the pressure of Phoenix’s hand, not enough - he fumbles uselessly for a moment, and then he is shoving down his boxer briefs without a second thought, choking on an inhale as Phoenix makes a surprised sound at his action.

“Um, I just,” Phoenix says, and then he is pulling away for a too-long moment to reach for something, and when his hand snakes back over Miles’ hip he has evidently applied lotion to his palm, slick and warm against his skin. Miles can hear himself making small, frustrated noises as Phoenix kisses his jaw, stroking him slowly.

Too slowly. “Faster,” Miles gasps, and it sounds like a plea, though he had intended it to be a command. Phoenix doesn’t obey, just continues touching him in that same slow, steady rhythm. “Faster, damn you.”

Phoenix stops, because of course he does. “Color?”

“Oh for - green, Phoenix,” Miles snaps, the last syllable breaking off into a low cry as Phoenix resumes his motions, just as unhurried as before.

All else falls away, the world narrowing to the places Phoenix is pressed against him, to the frustrating legato of his hand, hot, and slick, and right on the edge of not and just enough. Miles' head spins with pleasure and endorphins and something deeper as the feeling builds and builds until he thinks he will actually go insane before it reaches its inexorable end, and Phoenix is telling him to breathe again, whispering things in his ear he would not allow himself to hear in any other situation, unbearably tender, but Miles can’t bring himself to protest because that might mean Phoenix would stop, and then Phoenix says “Miles, God, - fuck, you don’t know - love you, love you, please,” and finally, finally speeds up, slides his thumb across, yes, there, there, and the tension coiling whip-tight and radiant within him bursts, and he’s coming, heat prickling at the back of his eyes even as he shuts them tightly, unable to do anything but shudder and focus on the way Phoenix makes a startled, encouraging noise in his ear and holds him close.

“Phoenix,” Miles murmurs, once his breathing is regular enough to allow for speech, and Phoenix groans in response. Miles turns over to face him for the first time since they had begun this - whatever it was, and the sight of Phoenix’s face, flushed and altogether too pleased with himself, is enough to destroy what remains of his reserve.

Phoenix fumbles behind him for the washcloth and dabs at his stomach, or at least attempts to. He seems to be too preoccupied with how Miles is kissing him senseless to actually accomplish much. Miles pushes him away for a moment so he can clean himself properly, and when he finishes Phoenix is watching him with a dazed, incredulous smile.

Miles swallows, and considers his options. In the first place, Phoenix is still somewhat dressed. That has an easy enough solution, one he begins to implement by tugging down Phoenix's boxers. Thankfully Phoenix gets the message, shrugging his undershirt off and flinging it to the floor.

“Miles,” Phoenix says, and Miles kisses him again, pressing Phoenix back so that he is lying face-up on the bed. Phoenix goes easily, though he makes a disappointed noise at the loss of contact. Miles scowls. As if the man had not just finished making him wait for an interminably long time. “You’re - oh God.”

“Hush,” Miles says, and Phoenix’s eyes somehow darken even more as he shifts back, straddling Phoenix's thighs and taking his time looking at his shoulders, broad and strong, at his chest and the dark hair across his pectorals, down his stomach - he glances back up to see Phoenix watching him with a look so anguished with need it would almost be amusing were it not so effective.

Miles places a hand on his chest and leans down to kiss him again, smiling at the way Phoenix practically whines into his mouth. Very well. He will be merciful, for now.

There is a moment of adjustment as Miles shifts down the bed, any awkwardness tempered by the way Phoenix gasps as he kisses his stomach, the curve of his hip. He looks up to see Phoenix struggling to bring his elbows underneath him. Miles shakes his head, using one hand to push Phoenix’s hips down into the mattress.

The noise Phoenix makes as he drops back down is enough to spur him on despite his slight self-consciousness and the fact that Miles will likely be very clumsy at this, given his lack of experience. In the end it doesn’t seem to matter. Phoenix fists his hands in the bedsheets and babbles a string of expletives interspersed with his name as Miles meticulously attempting to put limited theory into practice. Judging by the force with which he has to press down on Phoenix’s hip to keep him still, he is not entirely unsuccessful.

Miles glances up to see Phoenix watching him with unfocused, pleading eyes. “Please,” Phoenix gasps, “Want - wanna see you.”

Miles hesitates for a split second before pushing himself up the bed to thread his fingers through Phoenix’s hair and kiss him, savoring how Phoenix whimpers when he reaches down between them to take Phoenix in hand, tipping their foreheads together, fascinated by the way Phoenix looks at him, open and trusting, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, the way his mouth opens in a soundless cry as he comes, fingers gripping into his shoulder, his hip, hard enough to bruise.

“That was…” Phoenix pants, and laughs breathlessly, head falling back onto the pillow.

“Mm,” Miles replies, finding the washcloth once more and handing it to Phoenix, wrinkling his nose at its already-soiled state. Phoenix laughs again at his expression and cleans himself off, flinging the washcloth carelessly onto the floor when he’s done.

Miles finds his underwear where he had shoved it earlier, slipping it back on with a sense of relief at the return to some state of dress and sitting on the edge of the bed. He glances over his shoulder to see Phoenix roll onto his side, looking up at him.

“Color?” Phoenix asks.

“Green. Will you be asking me that question every ten minutes for the duration of the evening?”

“I can if you want me to.” Phoenix stretches, catching his eye with a grin. “Like what you see?”

Miles lets his gaze roam purposefully down Phoenix’s form. “Obviously. You are an objectively handsome man, and I find you subjectively extremely attractive as well.”

Phoenix actually blushes. Miles smirks at him, glad to have the upper hand. “Did you expect me to say something different?”

“Uhhh,” Phoenix rolls back onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I mean - shut up.”

Miles huffs out a laugh and swings his legs fully onto the bed, marking the way Phoenix stills and then scoots over to give him distance as he does. The consideration the gesture implies makes something constrict tightly in his chest. Perhaps he has grown softer than he would like to admit.

Miles shifts down on the pillows, resting his chin on his palm. Phoenix watches him with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “So,” he says, “How was your massage?”

“Satisfactory,” Miles replies. Phoenix snorts. “I will return the favor at a later date.”

“Will you?” Phoenix asks, looking up at him.

Miles holds the other man’s gaze. “If you would like me to.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix replies, impossibly enamored. “I would.”

Miles brushes a stray strand of hair from where it falls across Phoenix’s forehead. “May I kiss you?”

“Like you need to ask,” Phoenix says, and Miles leans in, trying to put his gratitude into the way he strokes along Phoenix’s jawline with his thumb, the way he doesn’t pull away any more than necessary when they break apart.

“Miles,” Phoenix says, and his voice is fond, and his eyes are fonder, and Miles looks at him, really looks, and wonders how he had never looked this way before.

Phoenix doesn’t turn away. They are both too full of scar tissue and weariness to be coy. They have both seen too much of the world, too much of each other to be anything but clearsighted, and yet - still Phoenix looks at him, full of wonder, full of understanding, and the improbability of his regard, the fact that Phoenix Wright has seen him at his worst and looks at him that way despite everything -

It's not like Miles believes it will be easy. He knows there will be nights when they will argue and nights when they slam doors, nights when old wounds are reopened, nights filled with bleak winter, with bittersweet discontent. He knows there will be nights the buzzing beneath his skin drowns out his rational self with whispering in his ears that after all, this was too much for him to hope for, that he was never meant to be this dreadfully, radiantly happy, that this was all too much after all.

But he trusts Phoenix Wright. He trusts Phoenix Wright foolishly, absolutely, the way he trusts that at the end of night the sun will rise into kaleidoscopic dawn: Routine. Ordinary. Unfalteringly beautiful.

Phoenix kisses him again. Miles thinks he no longer wants to run. He thinks perhaps that he had never truly wanted to, and even if he had, he cannot think of a single place he could go that Phoenix would not be able to call him back from with one warm, stubborn smile and a touch to his arm.

-