Chapter Text
Miles does not believe in "happy endings", but insofar as he can tell, this is his.
Being a prosecutor in Japanifornia inevitably meant that Miles' life was full of idiotic problems happening constantly all around him. These days, with his recent changes to the legal system and his and Wright's respective protégés taking the reins, Miles has very little to do with his days besides supervise cases, sign paperwork, and watch his husband be a complete and total idiot, and as far as things go, Miles will take that over false verdicts and kidnappings and earthquakes and other such bullshit that comes with being on the front lines of the justice system.
Seriously, as far as married life goes, Miles really can't complain.
"All you've done is complain for the last twenty minutes," Franziska says pointedly over a cup of tea. “Really, Miles. It’s not my fault you chose to marry a complete and utter fool."
Yes, well, Franziska was the one who asked about how he was adjusting the married life in the first place. And Franziska is really the only person Miles can let loose on. "He doesn't understand public boundaries!" Miles splutters, indignant. "He cannot simply just - kiss my cheek while we're walking down the street together! Has he no shame? No sense of decorum? There are people around!"
People who do not need to know that Miles Edgeworth is loved. People who do not need to see it, or witness it, or comment on it. The idea makes his shoulders tense even now.
Franziska rolls her eyes. "You are the most foolish fool I've ever known."
Franziska spends most of her time hunting down new cases for her and Maya to solve together, because neither of them can rest to save their own lives. It’s a partnership that somehow works despite it being fuelled entirely by spite and foreplay. These days, Franziska likes to walk around with her hair in a ponytail, held there by one of Maya's beads; Franziska used to complain endlessly about how Maya liked to comb Franziska's hair early in the morning, only to then inevitably make a total mess of it late into the night, and Miles had only laughed in response, because Franziska clearly liked it if she kept letting it happen again and again and again.
Long story short, married life is treating them both extremely well.
"Fine," says Miles. "How about you? How are things?"
"Terrible," says Franziska, like always, even as she's perennially rosy-cheeked and wearing purple beads in her hair and has definitely gained a bit of post-wedding weight since she moved in with Maya. She’s practically glowing. “That foolish fool and I went out for dinner last night, and she put ketchup on a bratwurst. Can you believe it? Those are expensive. And when I scolded her she just laughed at me! Laughed!”
"How terrible," says Miles.
"I'm serious, verdammt! I think she does it on purpose just to get under my skin, and it works. She makes me so angry, I’ve never met a more foolish fool in my entire - oh, thank you, my darling," she says, when Maya enters the room with another mug of tea to replace the one Franziska has just finished. "Oh, is this Jin Shuan Zhen?"
"Yep!" Says Maya cheerfully.
"This flavour is good, little brother, you should try it. She gets it from Kurain for me."
"I'm sure," says Miles.
Maya gives her wife a peck on the cheek, waves at Miles, and disappears into the other room to finish her meditation routine, footsteps light and unhurried.
What a sticky wife, pretending to deliver tea just so she can check in on Franziska. Miles wonders if Maya gets her stickiness from Wright.
Franziska watches Maya disappear with a fond expression she would probably deny under oath, then turns back to Miles, taking a slow, deliberate sip of tea. "I beg your pardon," she says. "You were not finished."
"Excuse me?"
"You finished complaining about Phoenix Wright's appalling lack of decorum," Franziska says, unimpressed. "But you were not finished talking. There is something else."
"There isn't. I was done."
Franziska gives him a sharp look. "Something is bothering you."
"Nothing is bothering me," Miles says, and he's not lying. Really.
"You seem tense," Franziska observes. "Frustrated."
"I'm not," says Miles, putting his teacup down sharply. Typical of Franziska to invent a problem where there isn't one. "Everything's fine.
"Little brother, I am not going to stand for you to lie to me one more time. I can tell when something is wrong with you." Her eyes flash with sudden, terrible clarity. “Is it - ?"
"No," Miles interjects quickly. "It's not." And he's not lying about that, either. Wright really does keep him satisfied. More than satisfied, if he’s being honest. In fact, if honesty is allowed here, Miles has to be on guard at all times or they’d probably do nothing but have sex twenty four hours a day. Wright is a man who dedicates considerable time and intellect to the singular pursuit of getting Miles hard for him; it used to be little things, like straightening his tie just so, knowing Miles could see the skin of his exposed collarbone, or tilting his head to expose the long, pale line of his throat, or stretching his arms above his head to show off a hint of hipbone. Nowadays, Wright is much more explicit. Most mornings, Miles wakes up to find his half-hard cock in Wright's mouth, and most nights, Wright takes great delight in massaging Miles' thighs after dinner which inevitably turns into fucking him roughly on the couch, and of course after most cases Wright likes to pull Miles aside into the nearest empty office room, spread Miles out on the desk, and -
Basically, all this to say, Miles isn't lacking in that department. Not by a long shot. Actually, his ass is starting to hurt with the amount he and Wright have been having sex lately. For Miles' own peace of mind, he has always been the one to receive; if he ended up hurting Wright by accident, then that's one more disappointment to Miles' rival than Miles will allow. Better to bear the responsibility, in his opinion.
"I'm more than satisfied," Miles says. "Really.” If he has passing thoughts or indulgences, that’s for him to know and absolutely nobody to find out. If he has wants or desires that don’t neatly fit the shape of what they do, that’s for him to mull over late into the night next to the warm, breathing body of his husband.
Because sometimes he does. Have those desires. Those thoughts. Miles knows he does. He thinks about it more often than he’d care to admit. Phoenix Wright, under his hands, soft and eager and willing, maybe chained up or tied down, looking at Miles not with mischief or challenge but with raw, unfiltered need; and Miles standing over him, able to do what he wants, take what he wants, leave his husband writhing and gasping and begging for more, for anything Miles was willing to give him -
But.
But the system works. The outcomes are more than satisfactory. For both parties, or so Wright would lead him to believe. He does not wish to disrupt something that functions perfectly well simply because of a selfish whim.
Franziska only looks at him once. Then, seeming both resigned to his silence and disgusted at his weakness, her eyes flicker away.
As usual, Wright lets Miles cook him dinner.
These days, when they don't have work, Miles wakes up to the smell of Wright's handmade breakfast - scalloped potatoes and bacon sitting on a warm tray with a glass of orange juice and a mug of his favorite tea. The first time Wright made him breakfast in bed, Miles - never one to be outdone - had retaliated by preparing an absurdly fancy dinner that very same night: Osso Buco, the fanciest thing he knew how to make, chosen purely out of spite. The elaborate flavour had been intended to intimidate Wright, and perhaps it did, though Wright had only smiled and said it smelled wonderful, which only served to infuriate Miles even more.
After that, it sort of just became a routine: Wright cooks breakfast, Miles cooks dinner. It isn't an explicit agreement, or even something either of them has articulated out loud. It just simply happens. They wash the dishes and clean the kitchen together afterwards, though Wright still leaves scuff marks on the fridge sometimes, and Miles lets them stay there because he is perfectly capable of tolerating imperfection, as he tells himself often.
They migrate to the living room once the kitchen is clean, each to their respective chairs, a perfect picture of domestic tranquility, so precise it borders on staged: Wright is slouched comfortably with the evening paper folded into quarters, while Miles sits upright, glasses balanced on his nose, reading the final volume of the six-part Steel Samurai manga series Maya gave him for Christmas.
In this most recent volume, the main love interest is having a passionate argument to defend the Steel Samurai's reputation, except "passionate argument" is a rather subjective phrase, since this "love interest" is a rather taciturn man who hardly ever says a kind word to those around him out of a strict sense of propriety and duty.
What a horrible love interest. How is the Steel Samurai supposed to know what he's thinking or feeling? How is anyone supposed to know? What is wrong with you? Miles wants to snap, fingers tightening around the page. Of course it takes them a fucking eternity to get together; Miles is nearly at the end of the sixth volume, and still nothing has happened.
This manga series, so far, is terrible. Miles has hated every single page. The plot isn't cliche, the dialogue doesn't drag, the protagonist isn't annoying, the prose isn't unbearable. The story itself isn't bad. It's just the damn love interest! That stubborn, silent, brooding stock archetype who can't explain himself clearly even after six fucking volumes!
Who care about your pride? Miles wants to shout at him. Just say what you mean! Ask directly! Doesn't this love interest know that he’s the love interest? He should act the part and make his feelings known to get the damn romance subplot happening instead of wasting away under the weight of his own repression!
Why are you struggling so much? Miles thinks. What's the point? Accept your fate and bend over for the protagonist already!
This fucking author! Miles doesn't recognize the pen name at all, otherwise he would be writing a letter at this very moment, outlining in meticulous detail how unbearably agonizing this plot line is. Who wants to read six volumes of emotional repression?! Whose idea was this? What kind of romantic story involves no romantic confession, no reconciliation, no communication, all because the love interest is too far up his own ass to get his shit together?!
Miles snaps the book shut and decides he can't take it anymore. He grunts in frustration, which is what gets his husband's attention. "You okay?" asks Wright.
"This book," says Miles, and then stops, overcome with the urge to rip the damn thing in half.
"A good book?" Wright guesses.
Miles' fingers tighten around the spine.
"...a bad book," Wright corrects, already familiar with this aspect of Miles' hobby.
Miles explodes.
"- the most absurd emotional drivel I've ever laid eyes on!" Miles says, flipping through a dozen pages to find the scene he's talking about. "I've never seen anyone so incapable of articulating himself in my entire life! It's not even that the love interest doesn't know what he wants! He very clearly does! The protagonist at least has plausible deniability because he's an idiot, but this man? This man is being willfully obtuse, and I can’t believe - why are you looking at me like that?"
Wright is looking increasingly soggy, like a wet paper bag filling with moisture, collapsing under its own weight. "N - Nothing!" says Wright quickly, and somehow even more miserably. "Nothing, it's just... well, I thought you were enjoying it, and - I liked - watching you read it, I guess..."
"It's clearly not nothing, then!" Miles says, a little exasperated. "What is it?"
Wright shuffles awkwardly.
"What is it," says Miles.
Wright looks down.
"What do you have behind your back," says Miles flatly.
Wright's face begins to colour red. "Sorry," he says, producing a new book and placing it into Miles' palm with exaggerated contrite.
And what do you know - it's the last volume of the six-part series that Miles has just been reading. The seventh and final one, which hasn't even been publicly released yet.
How did he...?
"I thought you were enjoying it," says Wright again, looking more and more miserable the longer Miles stares in silence at the seventh volume. "So I talked to Mr. Powers about getting this one early... but if you don't like it - "
No! No no no no no!
"When did I ever say such a thing?!" Miles' voice is shrill even to his own ears.
"It’s fine, Edgeworth, seriously. You should stop reading it if you hate it so much."
"Absolutely not! I intend to finish the entire series!"
“You really don't have to do that just to spare my feelings," Wright says, looking at him soggily.
Too soggy! Too soggy! Miles has to do something, and fast!
"That's not it," Miles sputters, a touch desperately. "I'm telling you, I like - "
For some reason, he stops there.
He had meant to say that he likes to read these kinds of terrible manga, but somehow, even saying that is too much. Maybe it's because he spends so much of his time lambasting the Steel Samurai franchise in general - no, that's not it. Maybe it's because he's spent too long pretending to be the aloof and untouchable demon prosecutor - no, that's not it either.
It's simply that phrases such as "I want", "I like", "I desire", "I enjoy" - these phrases had almost never left his lips in the ten years he spent under Von Karma's supervision. Desire had been trained out of him. Preference. Indulgence. Even the hobby he'd loved most as a child, before his father's death, he spoke of only with scorn: "incoherent garbage" or "cliche-ridden nonsense" were the only words he allowed himself, even about the show he had watched most faithfully. Miles had watched as he became a person he no longer recognized, a person he despised and abhorred and resented beyond anything.
But Miles is not that person anymore.
He takes a deep breath. "The protagonist is still acceptable," he says carefully. "The Steel Samurai is - always a delight. It's worth it to finish the series for him. He should have a happy ending after everything he's endured."
"So you do like the series," says Wright.
"I said the protagonist has undergone too many difficulties in his life, and I want to see him happy."
"Isn't the whole point of a protagonist to struggle and overcome difficulties?"
Yes, but at a certain point it just becomes excessive! Can't the protagonist just be happy? Can't he just be sated and content and fulfilled with a good, honest husband who loves him and provides him with everything he needs?
"Authors always try to push some kind of narrative hell onto their protagonists," Miles says instead, "just so they have a reason to make them stronger, or because they think that their suffering will make the protagonist more popular."
It hadn't bothered him so much when he'd read it in Steel Samurai: Escape From Neo Olde Tokyo - in fact, back then, the Steel Samurai had seemed almost too overpowered; to the point that no threats ever seemed to matter, no problem ever had stakes, and there was no narrative suspension over whether or not the hero would inevitably triumph over the villain of the week. Which had been a huge gripe at the time for him at the time.
Now, the Steel Samurai's weakness irritates him beyond all belief. And for the life of him, Miles cannot understand what has changed.
"I thought your issue was with the love interest?" Wright asks hesitantly.
"It is. That's my point. The love interest should be supporting the protagonist in his time of need, but he's behaving irrationally and withholding what he wants. There is no narrative justification for that level of emotional suppression."
"You mean besides fear, guilt, pride, and unresolved childhood trauma?"
Miles narrows his eyes. "You haven't even read the series."
"Am I wrong, though?"
There's a long beat where Miles feels like Wright is baiting him into saying something he shouldn't.
"Those things are not mutually exclusive," Miles says at last, "and I refuse to condone incompetent writing."
"Uh-huh."
"Or needless suffering."
"Sure."
"Or men who refuse to communicate their feelings and then act shocked when it causes problems."
Wright grins, and Miles gets the distinct impression that he's being mocked. “What?” he demands harshly.
"Nothing.” Wright’s eyes are very soft and round and full of love. “Just… You're cute."
"I am not cute," Miles huffs, and he suddenly wishes he had a cup of tea just so he had something else to do with his hands. "There is nothing cute about - about wanting a proper resolution to a chronically unfulfilling love story! There is nothing cute about desiring narrative closure! There is nothing cute about wanting the protagonist to just settle down and be happy for once!"
For some reason, Wright's smile only widens at that.
"It is perfectly sound," Miles continues, affronted, "to desire payoff. To expect that years of emotional buildup and sacrifice and frankly egregious mutual pining, should culminate into something more than a wistful glance and a fade to black. Closure is not frivolous. Wanting to know that the characters are - are okay, that they're allowed peace, is not... unreasonable."
Wright stands up, taking the manga from Miles' hands, smoothing out the tremor in Miles' fingers. Miles stares resolutely at Wright's embroidered collar. "...the protagonist deserves to be happy," Miles says. The words come out hoarse, as if from someone else's mouth.
Wright smiles comfortingly. "Miles," he says softly, "the story isn't over yet."
Wright is reading the first volume with the faint expression of someone who vaguely cannot believe Miles actually reads this stuff. Miles quickly turns his face away and wonders for a brief moment what the fuck martial life is supposed to be for if he can't read his shitty manga without being judged. "Which one is the love interest?" Wright asks, like a student trying to comprehend a difficult cultivation material.
"Oh." Miles forgot that the love interest is technically also the main antagonist of the series. "I'll... tell you later."