trace (vestiges)
Miles' fingers twitch when he sees Phoenix laying his painfully-thin wallet on the table, but he bites his tongue. A deal is a deal, after all- and as much as the humiliation of losing that case bothers him, there is something to be said about the simple, pure, relieved happiness which radiates off of Phoenix Wright's face as he takes off his blazer and gets comfortable at the table, his confidence that he can provide a service to Miles clearly outweighing the fact that this restaurant shall dent his accounts more than he'd probably ever like to admit.
"Are you sure this is where you'd like to go?" Miles murmurs, amused and touched all at once. "I know you tend to just get fast food with Miss Fey, so-"
Phoenix shushes him before he can finish his sentence, reaching across the white cloth-covered table at the Gatewater Hotel to grab Miles' hand with the tentativeness of a school boy. Miles' heart melts at the contact and the unsureness of it all, for Phoenix's pleading touch has barely changed from when they were young; the hesitation, the yearning, the desire for more- it all rings painfully clear as long, rough fingers intertwine with his, gently moving their joined hands off the table, out of sight of prying eyes.
"I know you like the tea here," Phoenix murmurs with a clumsy smile. "Why not have some as dessert?"
Miles cannot believe just how those few words can send his heart over the moon and back, and yet, here he is; so, he obliges Phoenix, showing him the menu with his one free hand and pointing at what he usually likes to order whenever he is at this hotel for business dinners. It is easy enough to take his time explaining dishes which Phoenix has clearly never even heard of, for there are few patrons there around sunset on a weekday. This dining hall shall likely be busy with reservations and whatnot in a few hours, but for now, they have a modicum of privacy which is well-deserved after having suffered all the prying eyes of the courthouse.
Soon, they are eating their fill. Miles finds that Phoenix likes to talk while he eats. Half of him instinctively rejects that fact, for von Karma had drilled into him from the moment he had entered that stiff, unfeeling household that mealtimes should be for food and nothing else; however, the other half of him adores the way Phoenix's eyes light up, his words a little muffled as he quietly gushes about the flavour, about his day, about every inane thing he can think of, around mouthfuls. Phoenix has always been like this, after all- always enjoying things to the fullest, expressing his emotions with a range which Miles has never been able to achieve.
He loves this emotiveness. Phoenix feels so alive. The very thought that the defense attorney can feel this way with him, too, is more than enough to make him ignore his automatic discomfort at the less-than-polite manners of the other man.
Soon, the food is finished, leaving behind glasses of wine, soon to be followed up by tea to finish it off. Phoenix's hand finds its way back to Miles'; for that, Miles is grateful, for as Miles finishes eating and manages to fight off the immediate blush which threatens to consume him at Phoenix's touch, Phoenix asks, "So, Miles. Tell me about you."
Miles does not know what to say.
Phoenix understands. He always seems to, when it comes to Miles. "I mean your life. Last time, I told you about me- about law school and everything. But you… you were with von Karma all that time, right? How was it for you?"
Miles freezes. What can he say? How in the world can he ever explain how it had been to be under the thumb of Manfred von Karma- to suffer in the household of the man who had murdered his father for all those years? Goodness knows Miles has barely given himself any time to process this fact, to process this situation which has left him without an anchor for months. What is he supposed to-
Then, the man immediately backtracks. "If you don't want to talk about it too, that's okay!"
Miles pauses, confused. "But-"
Phoenix shakes his head, squeezing Miles' hand, thumb brushing the back of Miles' palm tenderly. "It's okay. That's probably a little too much for a first date," Phoenix chuckles wryly. "Just- tell me anything, Miles."
He is sure that Phoenix says something else, but his mind has already blanked out, utterly fixated upon those words. "…'First date'?" he repeats numbly.
Phoenix's ears darken in the flickering candlelight. "Well… yes," he offers, "unless you don't want to do this again-"
"No!" He… wants to do this again? With me? Immediately, Miles buries his face in his free hand. "No, I- we can of course…"
He can hear Phoenix's chair push back, can hear the man's footsteps as he closes the small distance around the table to Miles. He can hear the man's knees groan and creak as Phoenix squats down in front of Miles, gently pulling Miles' hand away from his face. "Hey," Phoenix whispers, eyes focused far more on Miles' lips that his eyes, much to Miles' absolute embarrassment, "would you like to save that tea for another time?"
For a moment, Miles does not understand. He frowns, lifting his gaze to meet dark eyes, half-lidded and rosy thanks to wine and candlelight and shimmering crystalline reflections off the chandelier hung overhead. There is hope in that gaze, he realizes- hope, and gentleness, and worry, and warmth-
It's for me. That truth crashes into his chest so fiercely he can scarcely breathe. Phoenix watches him with that warmth which can only belong to Phoenix- which can only belong to Phoenix when he looks at Miles.
He finally understands. Silently, he bows his head, looking away, reaching over to clutch his elbow-
Phoenix's hand intercepts his. "Dinner's on me, then…" He flushes, shame and rueful humility filling his voice. "Maya has my keys, so…"
Swallowing thickly, Miles nods. "I'll call a cab." Even if he hadn't been drinking, his head is spinning too much in anticipation, in disbelief, in shock, to feel comfortable behind the steering wheel that night, anyways.
Phoenix takes his seat once again, waving down the waiter to pay for their meal whilst Miles make the phone call. There are drivers available, and within minutes, they have paid, thrown their jackets back on, and rushed out into the cool night air to their awaiting driver.
They do not exchange words on the drive back to Miles' home. Phoenix's index finger remains curled loosely around Miles' the entire way back, however, his fingertip scalding upon Miles' skin. Miles almost feels guilty about it- this habit of Phoenix's has not changed since he was a ten-year-old boy, completely unaware of his feelings- so to taint that pure-hearted image with the half-lidded looks of desire sent his way across the taxi seems uncouth.
He does not pull away, though. He can never extricate himself from Phoenix- not really.