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It would be easy to worship Phoenix Wright. After all, it seems all he does is save people with a cocky grin and a slam on the table. It would be easy to say that the wrinkles near his eyes are from that easygoing grin that puts his clients at ease. That his one-track mind is admirable, his selflessness an aspiration, and his restlessness and determination a true mark of a hero.
For the longest time, Miles agreed. Maybe Wright was cut from the same cloth as heroes. Phoenix radiated golden, undying faith. Belief not in himself but the defendant's innocence. He felt it himself, from the opposite side of the courtroom and the defendant's stand. It is easy to worship Phoenix Wright from where he stands in the courtroom. A god among lawyers and a hero among men. An Achilles, a Heracles.
Miles knows better. He knows better now, at least.
He knows now, as Phoenix sleeps beside him, that he is Atlas rather than Achilles. A man rather than a hero.
He snores quietly. His hair is beyond disordered, rumpled from sleep and from last night when Miles kept dragging his hands through it and tugging him impossibly close. Phoenix is more of a man up close when Miles can see his eye bags and make out the white scar on his lip. If he squints through the dark, he has little freckles on his nose.
He used to count them when they were children. They'd have a sleepover and Phoenix would always fall asleep first. He used to count them until he fell asleep too. Funny, how they ended up in the exact same place. Surely Wright will make a joke in the morning about how time is a circle or maybe how Miles needs to find a better way to get to sleep or even how silly Miles looks with bedhead.
It's a wonderful thought. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. A hard prospect, really, when all he can think about is how the moonlight proves that Phoenix Wright absolutely radiates light even when he's sleeping.
There's a sharp gasp, after a long while. A slight shift on the bed makes an irritatingly loud creak. (Miles has the startling realization that they were definitely disturbing the neighbors just hours ago.) For the sake of his sanity, he chooses to ignore it. He's pressing the metaphorical Do Not Disturb setting on his brain and leaving it at that.
That is, when he hears that the other's breathing is too shaky, too heavy. It's the kind of breathing Miles recognizes from himself, when he used to feel the shadows on his walls creeping into his bed. Of course, he'd recognize it after fifteen consecutive years of nightmares.
He hears a shuffle, and there's a muffled sound, almost like a sob. As if trying not to bring any attention to it. Phoenix freezes when Miles makes the smallest movement. He's holding his breath. Waiting for him to settle back down.
He doesn't.
"Wright?"
There isn't a response. Phoenix lets out a small exhale.
"I know you're awake." Miles continues. He opens his eyes. "Are you alright?"
He manages to catch a glimpse of a raw expression on Phoenix's face. The slight frown as he works his jaw and an unreadable blankness in his eyes. Similar to...
The idiot smiles.
"Fancy seeing you here, Prosecutor Edgeworth," He croaks, "You come in through the window? I'm sure I locked my door last night." His face is splitting in half.
Miles rolls his eyes at the title. Surely they were past the need for honorifics now.
"If I remember correctly, I was the one that locked your door. And don't call me that. Not when we..." Miles clears his throat, "Not in this type of environment." He realizes that the man's deflecting, "But are you alright?"
That grin doesn't cease, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's still trembling with those shallow breaths. "Yeah? Just woke up." He murmurs, rubbing his eyes.
"You're trembling."
"'M cold. You're hogging the blankets."
"Phoenix." Miles narrows his eyes.
"Plus I'm naked!" He adds helpfully.
"Phoenix Wright." He has half a mind to turn on his other side and go to sleep if he's going to be so stubborn. "You know, it's not typical of people to wake up shaking and gasping."
His face falls. "Look, I'm sorry I woke you-"
"Did you have a nightmare?" That shuts him up. Miles realizes that comforting people isn't exactly his strongest suit. It seems to come out more as a confrontation. He exhales. "I'm not upset, despite what you might think. I'm worried that you'd try and pretend that you're not troubled."
Phoenix doesn't make eye contact. "Miles, it was just a nightmare." He murmurs finally.
Miles knows he hasn't won yet. Phoenix is curling in on himself, like loose paper set on fire. He does it subconsciously, drawing his hands to his chest. Now, all he has to do is not snuff it out too quickly.
"I'm listening." He says. Let me in, Wright. I'm right here. I'm right here.
"I don't usually get nightmares." Phoenix begins tentatively, as though he's afraid he's going to say too much. "Most times they're just embarrassing. Like I forget to wear shoes to court, and suddenly I'm in contempt of court for being bare-footed."
Miles nods, a silent request to keep going.
"I...I don't know. It's a little dumb to get nightmares about things that already happened, and that I can't ch-" Phoenix pauses and accidentally makes eye contact, "That's not to say that your-"
"Just keep talking, Wright. I'm not saying anything."
"I mean. It's...things are better now. Everything's fine now."
"Things?"
Phoenix shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "The Engarde case."
He can't be too surprised—he powers on. "Tell me about it."
Oh. That makes Phoenix squirm. He can see the hesitation, the slight part of his lips as they try to form words. Miles doesn't move a muscle.
"I almost willingly sent a woman to the slaughter." He confesses. Speaks barely above a whisper. He pauses and then continues as if he physically can't stop from spilling his heart. "When Maya was gone...I was truly convinced I had lost everything then. I thought you were dead, and that she'd soon be too. And Pearls...she would've lost her cousin. The only family she has other than her mother. She wouldn't stop crying. I had to carry her everywhere." He heaves in a breath, "We were both so tired, Miles. We were running with our heads cut off. And then you show up out of nowhere-"
Phoenix cracks. He is Atlas and his shoulders are aching. Miles cups his cheek and feels a tear run down his hand.
"Even with your help, with everything against him—I wanted to throw the towel in. I wanted the judge to just hurry up and deliver the not guilty verdict because I was so tired. And I did in this dream. I did. I let him get off scot-free. And all I can think about is just how badly I still wanted to save everyone. I needed to. But..."
"...you couldn't save everyone." Miles finishes for him.
Atlas breaks like a dam in front of him. Sobs wholly and messily as Miles opens his arms and allows him an out. In his arms, Phoenix shakes like a man.
This is no hero. This is a man in his arms that won't stop shaking as every burden from that case tumbles down from his shoulders. His faith is broken, splintered into shards too similar to the ones he had recently tried to pick up despite their sharpness. Despite the scars they left behind on his hands.
It used to be easy to worship Wright for his undying faith. He can't do it anymore. Not when he's falling apart in front of him.
"I really believed him. I really thought he didn't do it until...I nearly did it even when I knew he was guilty. I nearly did." Phoenix weeps.
Miles doesn't shush Phoenix. Lets the flame overtake him. Doesn't think him selfish for wanting to give in. Who is he to prod at this dark thought? He too often stays up at night, wondering if he'd ever sent an innocent person to die. He doesn't doubt it.
He drags his hand through Phoenix's unkempt hair, rubbing his scalp in slow circles.
"You managed to realize something that took me sitting in the defendant's chair, on the way to the slaughter myself. Took me an entire year to figure out." He murmurs. He fleetingly fears that this won't work to comfort him. "You realized that above all, the truth saves everyone."
Phoenix goes silent. His fingers press into his back, as though trying to grasp at something, anything.
"It's not you that needs to save everyone," Miles adds. "That's never been your job."
"It's hard not to think like that. Not when everyone says…they say I saved them. Something always gets fixed at the end of every case. Sisters are reunited, nightmares end, people are able to go on with their lives."
Miles feels he isn't the best person for this. After all, he's never been on Phoenix's side of the courtroom. He remembers his father sometimes took work home with him--he never said it outright, but Miles remembers nights where his father would gaze off into the distance, eyes unreadable. He can't imagine that sort of weight on his shoulders.
All he can do, really, is help him bear that burden. He tries not to think about the impracticality of that. Tries not to think about the barely unpacked suitcase in his apartment, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
Phoenix speaks again, "I really don't want to think about this anymore, Miles. 'Sides, I don't want you to spend the rest of your time here acting as some sort of therapist for me." He pulls away with a sniffle. His face is still shining, but he wipes at it with the back of his hand. He's stopped bandaging his hands. Miles can see the still healing cuts on his hands.
He doesn't want to press him more. After all, he's right, to his own dismay. They don’t have much time.
Miles takes one of those hands, presses it against his cheek. "Very well. But I don't mind, truthfully."
Phoenix makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Maybe you should've gone for therapy instead of law." He's teasing, clearly trying to deflect and pretend nothing happened. Miles lets him.
"Perhaps I can stay here and create a clinic. You'll be my first client." His tone is light, and he presses a kiss to Phoenix's palm.
"Don't think my insurance covers it. Can I just come in for free?" Miles knows for a fact that Phoenix doesn’t actually have insurance.
"That's hardly any way to run a business, Wright." Miles frowns.
Phoenix hums, amused. "Not even if I say pretty please with sugar on top?"
"Even less if you say that. In fact, I'll blacklist you from my services."
"You're terrible!" He exclaims.
It's a relief to see Phoenix chuckle. His hand is rough against his cheek, and he rubs his cheekbone with his thumb. It's more comforting than he'd like to admit.
He's staring again, as he always finds himself doing. He ought to ask Wright about that scar on his lip sometime. He's always wondered about it. It might be a more unfortunate story, knowing their luck, so he holds off. Maybe next time.
He doesn't want to think about how long it might be until "next time." Doesn't want to think about the case files in his suitcase that he uncharacteristically hasn't checked in a couple of days, about his passport sitting on the table, his ticket tucked neatly on the inside.
Maybe it's best if he sleeps now. Sleep deprivation can do a number on someone's logic. The last thing he needs is to cancel his flight like a lovesick man from one of those rom-coms he sometimes finds himself watching.
With finality, he presses a kiss to the man's lips. Turns his back to him and pulls the covers over his shoulder.
"Get some sleep, Wright. We're getting too old to stay up."
Phoenix nestles behind him, his nose pressed into the nape of his neck. He's warm against his back. He swears that man radiates heat like a furnace too. Miles tries not to imagine the cold, empty bed that awaits him soon.
"Going to miss you," Phoenix murmurs after a while, muffled against his hair. He's half-awake at this point, and Miles suspects he's not expecting or wanting a response.
He's going to miss Wright something terrible.
He feels like he hasn't done enough of a job, showing him that he's enough. Enough to have concern for. But he'd be pulling teeth pushing and pressing for any longer. It's also a "next time" ordeal.
And they're not going to talk about their arrangement, he knows. It's complicatedly simple. They go home. They eat takeout or whatever is in the house or apartment. They curl up in front of the TV, Miles' head in his lap. Sometimes they kiss until their lips are swollen. Other times they fall into bed. Neither leaves in the morning. Phoenix wakes him up and they have coffee at the kitchen table.
It's as though they had done this for years.
But they steer clear of words that come directly from the heart. Miles knows it'll be harder to leave if he spills out sixteen years' worth of feelings. Unnecessary and necessary feelings alike. It'll be harder for Phoenix, too. That man pretends that he's no longer upset about his sudden disappearance, the pseudo-suicide note he left. Miles knows better than to assume he's gotten over it. Not when Phoenix holds him in a vice grip every time they fall asleep, as though worried he's going to leave again without a trace.
He decides that everything will happen "next time," then.