It's utter sublimation,
A feat, this heart's control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand's size
—from the poem Bonsai, by Edith Tiempo
The scent of fresh paint was something that wasn't exactly unpleasant to Miles Edgeworth's sense of smell. It brought to the subconscious mind the concept of newness, that feeling of walking into a newly opened building and the admiration and awe that sparkly new floor tiles, immaculate walls, and bright lights evoked.
However, it also reminded him of the little habit that Phoenix has taken to doing to the walls of their bedroom—which convinced his eyelids to finally flicker and open sleepily, noting that the room was still bathed in darkness. He also realized that his arm was stretched out on his husband's side of the bed, which was disappointingly empty.
"Phoenix?" he managed to croak out, his voice like a gunshot in the silence of the room, and he espied the blinking lights of the digital clock on the nightstand by Phoenix's side of the bed. The face told him that it was 2 AM, a rather blasphemous time to get woken up. The chill that numbed his cheeks made him grateful for the fact that he was snuggled comfortably under a mass of blankets and pillows, but only for that. "Christ. It's not even daylight out yet. Go back to sleep—I thought you hated the cold?"
He caught a slight movement from somewhere across the room. Propping himself up on one arm, Miles reluctantly raised his upper body from the warm bed and squinted at the blurry figure perched on a stepladder, busily painting something on the wall. The only apparent source of light that Phoenix was using was the weak moonlight that was streaming down from the huge ceiling-to-floor window that looked out over the front yard, the curtains having been swept in such a way as to bathe the working Phoenix in the light and the slumbering Miles in the darkness.
Seeing him with a brush and palette in hand while balanced on the top of the ladder and diligently painting on one of the only remaining blank spots on their colorful bedroom walls was strangely poetic—even if Miles's bad eyesight made everything look like a poorly-focused photograph. "Sorry for waking you up, Miles." His words just a soft murmur, Phoenix was turning his head to acknowledge his bemused husband, who was still squinting at him and shrouded in the shadows.
"Why the hell are you painting at this time of night?"
"Oh, I wasn't aware I was actually addressing Edgeworth."
It was one of the things on their ever-growing list of inside jokes. As retaliation to the fact that Miles called him "Wright" whenever annoyed, Phoenix had begun addressing Miles by his surname whenever the latter got into one of his more unpleasant moods. Miles recalled the reason as something stupid and sappy like "Edgeworth is your evil alter ego. I mean, Miles doesn't chuck stuff at me and spout smoke from his mouth when he speaks. Miles is nice and kissable and doesn't mind cuddling in bed."
"Stop testing me, Wright." Half-hidden in the velvety darkness, Miles nevertheless knew that Phoenix can feel, rather than see, his glare. Tiredly, he plopped back down on the pillows and tugged the blankets to his chin.
Phoenix grinned and turned back to his work. "I guess this was one of those things."
"What are you blathering on about?" Miles mumbled.
"Mm… Well…" As he was currently staring at the ceiling lamp, Miles had no choice but to just imagine that Phoenix was doing that familiar gesture where he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you know that quote that goes, 'writing is like gathering smoke'… or something?"
"…Walter Mosley."
"Who?"
"He was the one who… Never mind." Miles turned his head and yawned delicately into the pillow. "Anyway, carry on with whatever you were going to say."
"Ah. Ehem." The regular sound of Phoenix's brush making dry sounds against the wall as he painted was soothing to Miles's ears. "Well… I was saying that the reason why I'm painting at this ungodly hour is because of something like that."
"You mean…"
"I want to put my moment of inspiration into art before the feeling passes." Phoenix's tone was as gentle as the sounds of the brush strokes. "Er, d'you get it?"
"Mm. I think so." Miles hesitated, then asked, "What are you painting then?"
"I think you should see for yourself," Phoenix laughed. "If I just told you, that would beat the purpose of painting it on the wall, wouldn't it?"
Sighing at Phoenix's ever-present inclination for the dramatic, Miles reluctantly got up again and put on his glasses. "Come hither," Phoenix said, laughing quietly, finishing him with a flirtatious gesture with his index finger. His now-bespectacled husband rolled his eyes, but stood up and joined him to stare at the half-finished addition to their ever-growing bedroom mural.
"It's…" Miles breathed out, staring at the bright yellow flowers that are now blossoming on their wall, lifelike even though they were made of acrylic.
"Yeah," Phoenix said, balancing the palette and the brush on top of the ladder. "I'm kind of ashamed it took me this long to remember to add those to the wall, so now that I've remembered that I was planning to, I immediately got to work. What do you think?"
"They do remind me of our wedding," Miles admitted, smiling despite himself. "That's how realistic they are."
Phoenix scratched his nose, a smug air about him. "I'm pretty good with my hands, as you know only so well."
Miles snorted. Taking that as a sign of victory, Phoenix laughed and leaned down just enough to land a kiss on the top of his head.
"Be careful with the sudden movements. You might fall and break your hip." His adoring gaze at the sunflower mural turning to his talented husband instead, Miles grabbed the side of the stepladder to make it steadier, while Phoenix returned to his painting, chuckling.
"Are we that old, Miles?"
"Hm?" Miles eyed the paint smudges on Phoenix's hands and arms with slight disapproval, but refrained in favor of relishing the therapeutic moment of just watching this other side of Phoenix at work. "Well…"
His voice trailed off, and the thread of the banter forgotten in the next splatter of yellow paint on the wall, he spent the rest of the hour just watching as one by one, the last few sunflowers were painted on the wall. He could remember those golden flowers present everywhere at their wedding, carefully chosen as to not provoke his allergies, spots of color among the predominantly white-clad guests.
He could remember Trucy mischievously swiping a particularly huge one to put on her dress, and how ridiculous and happy and ridiculously happy she looked. And from that simple memory of his and Phoenix's little sunflower girl twirling happily among the crowd, her shoulder-length hair flying, he recalled other images.
He could remember Athena Cykes and Apollo Justice standing together as the juniors of Wright Anything Agency, both shedding their signature colors in order to don pure white—Athena in her element, beaming around at everyone but especially her boss, and Apollo as infinitely awkward as ever but heartfelt in his congratulations to Miles. He could remember Maya Fey, who lamented that she couldn't find an excuse to shed her traditional clothing even for this occasion as her Master's robes were already white, and Pearl Fey, who was faintly pink and looked much more grown-up in her new white sundress, one handpicked by Trucy.
He could remember his sister Franziska, looking decidedly un-Franziska-like for once with her soft eyes and unembellished clothing and the noticeable absence of her whip, even though she managed to amiably remind Phoenix that it was ready should he be the cause of any problem somewhere down their marriage. He could remember Shi-Long Lang, a reluctant guest, but genial all the same, his clothes serving to make him look more subdued than he actually was. He could remember Dick Gumshoe and Kay Faraday, the former as ruffled as ever in his worn-out clothes as he enthusiastically shook Miles's hand, the latter practically shining and much more mature with her ebony waves framing her green eyes and brilliant smile and telling him that she was hoping to finally join him in the office as a prosecutor, much to his pride.
He could remember the tall vase of sunflowers that peeked from behind Phoenix as they finally stood together before everyone, with golden rings exchanged and snug on their fingers, and the enthusiastic kiss that ended the ceremony at last—
"It's amazing how something so monumental can be contained in such a simple picture, huh, Miles?"
Train of thought broken, Miles turned to look at Phoenix, who was finally clambering down the ladder with something less than grace.
"Yes." Miles let another smile lift the corners of his mouth. "But more than just our wedding day, it'll always remind me of you, most of all."
"Hm?" Phoenix looked confused.
"It reminds me of that badge you're always flashing around," Miles told him, rolling his eyes, and Phoenix burst out in laughter.
"You do know that that sunflower badge has been the key to make you notice me? Literally and figuratively?" In a smooth, practiced movement, Phoenix slipped Miles's glasses off his nose so that he can crush their lips together without obstacle, Miles stiffening for a bit before finally relaxing into the kiss. He could feel Phoenix's laughter bubbling against his mouth before they finally pulled away from each other. "I think I at least deserve the honor of flashing it around after all my hard work."
"I guess it's better than showing off your ring," Miles conceded, laughing.
"Nah, I don't need to show that off," Phoenix grinned. "The kids all look at it surreptitiously when I'm at the office—as if thinking that I don't notice them."
Phoenix looked around at the many other bizarre objects that he had already painted on the wall, all of them evocative of so many milestones in their decades-long history together and apart—thirty-eight one-dollar bills flying off in the wind to a nostalgic red sunset, three suspiciously familiar and chipped keychains, a lost brown-furred puppy, trails of dog biscuits, bundles and bundles of diligent letters lovingly tied with red string, some weird flashy cufflinks, a huge Steel Samurai balloon, a squawking parrot behind a witness stand, an oddly-shaped vase with cracks all over it, another odd vase with the cryptic words "I AM" written on it, a white card with a pink seashell printed on it, a small glowing magatama and another gigantic one on an altar, a green diamond brooch and Trucy's Mr. Hat, a bottle of grape juice, poker cards scattered on the bottom of the mural, a swooping hawk with a piece of paper in its beak, Ponco the robot with its bright robot-smile, and many, many else—and Miles realized that without the aid of his glasses, it was a wall of pure color to his eyes, one seamless, giant evidence of the time that they had spent chasing, and catching, each other.
"It's curious how looking at paintings of a seemingly-random collection of objects made me feel like this," he murmured, and Phoenix flashed him a wide smile.
"Yeah. Like I said." He slid his arms around Miles's waist from behind and rocked them both gently. "Also, I told you so, letting me paint the bedroom walls myself is genius."
"Mm. Yes. Well." Miles let his head fall back on Phoenix's shoulder with a tired sigh and felt him start.
"Oh god, I forgot that you still have to go to work later. Sorry." Phoenix steered them both back to the bed, ladder and painting materials forgotten for the moment, and Miles gratefully burrowed once more into the blankets, this time with Phoenix in tow to fill the left side of the bed. Closing his eyes, he felt Phoenix reach over him to place the glasses gently on Miles's nightstand.
"I love you," he heard Phoenix whisper through the gathering fog of sleep.
Miles somehow knew that that explosion of color would star in his dreams.
"…I know."
After all, you never fail to present proof of it.