trace (vestiges)
Phoenix Wright genuinely loves him. He has known it since Phoenix's lips had pressed against his badge that hazy, clear afternoon in the courthouse all those months earlier; he has seen it spelled out in dark eyes, on thin lips, in the gentle touch of callused fingertips carving their way across his own skin with the lightness of a feather, the heat of a flame, over and over again. He has only more recently internalized this, but the knowledge has been there for long enough.
And yet, Miles finds that he is even more awestruck as of late every time he notices the intensity of Phoenix's emotions conveyed through the tiniest of actions. Perhaps every small action comes to his attention even more so now in the aftermath of everything they have been through; or, perhaps it is because Miles has truly grown, and now that Phoenix's heart is unguarded once again, the prosecutor is finally able to truly see the effects of that growth at last. Either way, it is noticeable, and once Miles spots it once, he can never ignore it.
How can he ignore it, though? How can he possibly pretend that his heart doesn't swell two sizes in his chest every time he sees Phoenix's figure in Miles' office, the man spending his idle time making more tea for Miles or absently polishing his Steel Samurai figurine? How can he act as if Phoenix's cheery insistence on standing by his side while they cook, clean, live, is not Phoenix's attempt to give him the companionship Miles has never had? How can he avert his eyes from watching Phoenix mark down case files as the two of them pore over evidence and try to sort out webs of lies together, the other man arranging everything exactly how Miles likes it even though Miles knows that Phoenix absolutely detests how Miles organizes his work? How can he ever act as if Phoenix's quiet acts of service are something to be ignored, something expected, when Miles is so used to being given no care, no attention, at all?
How can he pretend that he does not notice the way Phoenix sometimes shifts while they are seated together in the car, on the sofa, in bed, the man turning his entire torso so that he can truly face Miles- so that he can see the prosecutor fully, his hands reaching out to grasp onto the back of Miles' neck, his shoulders, arms, hands, desperate for something to hold onto to prove that Miles is indeed real?
The distrust is gone, after all. The habit of doubt is harder to kick, but that in itself is proof of Phoenix's love, and it hurts more than he could have ever imagined it would. The burden of Phoenix Wright's undivided feelings is painful, heavy. Miles has never worn this weight upon his chest. It is sometimes so thick that he can barely breathe under it all.
And for that, Miles is grateful, too.
He knows that Phoenix doesn't want to have his efforts acknowledged. After all, Miles is the same way; Phoenix still cannot wrap his mind around the fact that Miles likes caring for Phoenix in ways he knows the other will never give to himself. So, he doesn't thank Phoenix for his small acts. Instead, he merely allows the other man to do as he will- Miles has never been a touchy person, after all, but there is something about how Phoenix's shoulders relax the moment his ankle hooks around Miles' on the couch, the moment their fingers touch across the table, the moment lips brush against bare skin, that causes Miles to lean into those touches rather than simply submitting to them. He encourages them. He smiles, and moves closer, and allows his stiff demeanor, his carefully-maintained guard, to always fall in the face of Phoenix Wright.
Miles baring his heart is the ultimate act of affection, and yet, he does it without hesitation when it comes to Phoenix. Phoenix knows this, and he never thanks Miles for that vulnerability. With this, they're even, as they should be.