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Miles lives in a nice old house in a nice old neighborhood, the kind that’s populated almost entirely by old people with even older money. His neighbor’s aren’t as nice as his house, but he can handle them, mostly. Does his best to keep the house in good condition to keep them off his backs, jogs on Saturdays, joins a book club.
He doesn’t let anyone know that he’s only keeping this house because Von Karma paid off the mortgage before Miles was disinherited, and he doesn’t let anyone inside, just so that they don’t notice that all his appliances are a few years out of date. And they would notice- the women Miles has book club with have eyes like hawks, and even their toasters are state of the art.
He goes to his job at the library every morning and gets paid on the 1st and the 15th, and the book club women coo over the fact that he’s still single, tell him to go out and get a wife to share his huge house with. He laughs along and does his best to steer their attention back to the novel- a Little Life.
It’s good. The group as a whole hasn’t gotten to anything outrightly queer yet, but Miles read ahead. He spent a night reading chapter after chapter in his bath, sipping at a glass of red wine and deep-conditioning his hair. He blames the fact that he’s sobbing for half the book on the wine. The next day he goes to book club and laughs over Malcom’s sexual confusion with the rest of the women.
They finish their discussion of the book- the way they talk about JB’s boyfriends makes Miles feel a little bit ill, but he does his best to gently steer the conversation back to Jude and the plotline- as they nibble on the tea sandwiches Helen made. The discussion makes its way to gossip, as it always does. Miles thinks he’s the only one in the group who really cares about the books.
Miles only stays this late in the night to make sure they’re not gossiping about him.
“The girls say I need to paint my house,” Miles sighs, head resting in his hands. “That’s what, five thousand dollars?”
“Five thousand?” Klavier repeated incredulously. “How big is your house?”
“Extremely. My estranged father was rich, remember?”
“Ah, yes, how could I forget.” Klavier purses his lips. “If the rich part of your family is estranged, why do you still dress like that? ”
“I dress like a librarian, Gavin,” Miles says tiredly. He moves to check in another book. “Cardigans and skinny khakis are librarian-y.”
“Say what you’d like,” Klavier says. “You dress like a snob. I dress like a librarian.” To emphasize the point, he does a little spin. The sequined skirt and silk scarf he’s wearing fan out around him.
Miles drags a hand down his face. “No one thinks you look like a librarian. Everyone always thinks you’re an art student.”
“ Ja, Ja , whatever.” Klavier shakes a few dollar bills from the centerfold of a novel. “Why don’t you just paint the house yourself?”
Miles chuckles. “I’d be scorned out of my book club. Laughed out of the neighborhood. All of the distasteful old men would glare at me when I take my weekly job. One look at me on a ladder and there’d a scarlet letter on my breast pocket for eternity.”
“So? Why do you care what a bunch of cishet rich bitches think of you?”
“I hate being talked about,” Miles says. “If I’m not there and my name is mentioned…” he shudders. “It’s never for anything good.”
“On the contrary,” Klavier says, “All press is good press.”
“You just say that so that your bandmates won’t quit on you,” Miles shoots back, and Klavier chuckles.
“Touché.”
They check in books in silence for a while, until Klavier glances back up. “Hey, Edgeworth,” he says, “If you’re serious about the whole I need someone to paint my house thing, my boyfriend knows a guy who paints houses. I’ve heard he’s pretty good.”
“How does your boyfriend, the lawyer, know a house painter?” Miles inquires.
Klavier shrugs. “How do you, the random librarian, know a rockstar like me?” Klavier is not a rockstar, but Miles has given up on reminding him that.
“You’re also a librarian,” Miles says, then sighs. “Text me his contact info, please.”
The painter’s website looks like it was made by a twelve-year-old with a passing understanding of HTML. Everything is just a little bit off-center, and the text just barely cuts off the edge of the screen.
Miles calls him anyway, after checking his prices against the only other recommendation he’d gotten and finding them dramatically more reasonable.
“ Yyyyyy ello,” the voice on the other end drawls, “this is Wright and co. Talent Agency, what can I do for you?”
“Er,” Miles says, silently cursing Klavier, “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number. Do you know Herr Gavin?” If this guy runs a talent agency, it’s probably someone Klavier met through his band. Not sure why he’d decided to prank Miles in this specific way, but Klavier’s an asshole no matter what.
“Oh, yeah, the lausbub. ” The man on the other end chuckled. “Glad he’s recommending me to rich guys.”
This man has no idea how to run a business. “How do you know I’m rich?”
“You’ve got the accent,” the man says.
“It’s german.”
“Huh.” There’s the quiet creak of someone leaning forward in a chair. “Well, I’m Phoenix Wright, house painting extraordinaire. You need something painted? I’m the right man to call.” Mr. Wright chuckles to himself. “I’d like to point out, of course, that my services are not limited to houses. I’ll do sheds, fences, once my daughter’s friend hired me to paint up some monolithic sculpture she made, and I did that. Also do room interiors, all the good stuff.”
“I…” Miles stared at his wall. “That’s wonderful,” he says stiffly, “and I just need the exterior repainted.”
“Sounds terrific. I’ll be there tomorrow,” Mr. Wright says, and promptly hangs up.
He never took my address, Miles thinks, and redials the number. His iPhone beeps at him: it’s already been disconnected. Did he unplug his phone immediately? What an odd man. Miles checks the website and verifies that the man’s office isn’t far from the library. He decides to just stop there after work to clear up the details.
The office is on the fourteenth floor of the building, although Miles immediately notes that there’s no thirteenth floor in the buildings directory. He takes the stairs and reassures himself that it will count as exercise for today. The book club girls are always getting on his back about his weight.
He knocks perfunctory on the door after double-checking the number on the door. There’s nothing anywhere around it to suggest that it’s an office, let alone a house-painting business. Or a talent agency, Miles supposes.
It flies open after a moment, banging against the wall, and then there is a teenage girl standing in front of him, hand on her hip. She’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and artfully ripped jeans, a velvety cloak draped around her shoulders. She looks Miles up and down and he feels suitably judged.
“Daddy!” She calls, “some sorta gay librarian is here to see you!” She stops and frowns at him, almost as an afterthought. “Wait. You’re not here for the talent agency, are you?”
“Ah,” Miles says, “no.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re too stern to have a six-year-old and too ostentatious for a magician at your own birthday. I’m Trucy.”
“Ostentatious,” Miles repeats, rolling the word around his mouth. “Wonderful word.”
“Thanks.” Trucy grins shark-like. “I read thesaurus for fun.”
“A proper passtime for a young lady such as yourself,” Miles says, “I’m sure you’re going places.”
“You bet she is,” someone says. Miles recognises the voice as Mr. Wright. The man approaches the door, shirt only half-buttoned. “She’s going to be a world-famous magician.” Mr. Wright is tall and broad-shouldered, and his rolled-up sleeves show off impressive biceps. His skin is a light brown and almost covered in dark freckles. It’s a beautiful effect. The man in front of Miles is quite beautiful.
Trucy smiles apologetically at Miles. “I’m sorry about his lack of professionalism. I’m actually planning on going into social work! I do magic on the side to save for college.”
“Truce’s a miracle worker,” Mr. Wright says, leaning against the doorframe. He smiles lazily at Miles, one eyebrow cocked. “You wanna see a trick?” There’s a tiny, pale pink, razor nick right above his mouth, but his smile more than make up for any imperfections. It somehow lights up the room, and he’s not ever truly smiling. Miles worries he would go blind if Mr. Wright ever grinned.
“I- yes, I suppose I would.”
Trucy shrugs, leans forward, and plucks a feather from behind Miles’s ear. A moment later, she deposits it behind her father’s. She pulls her hands away, showing off the remarkable lack of feathers in them.
Mr. Wright rubs at his ear in exaggerated amazement. “Where’d it go?” He gasps.
Trucy rolls her eyes, and Miles nods. “I’m impressed.”
“It pays the bills.” Trucy shove her hands in her pockets. “Or, I guess, it will pay the bills, in a few years. Once I’m finally outta high school.” Her pocket chimes, and she grabs a phone from it. “Hey, daddy, that’s Pearls. I gotta take this.”
Trucy departs, disappearing into the mess of an office that Miles can see over Mr. Wright’s shoulder. Mr. Wright’s lazy smile turns to Miles, and he can feel his ears heat up.
“So, what can I help you with?”
“Er, I’m Miles Edgeworth. I called you yesterday about painting my house, and you hung up before I could give my name or address-”
“Oh, yeah, I know.” Mr. Wright tapped at his head. “Remember the accent.”
“Hm, yes. Well, you then seem to have… unplugged the line?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Truce- my daughter, the light of my life, the best thing ever, you’ve met her-” Miles smiled despite himself- “well, she likes to go through my call history. She’s decided that I’ve started dating again, and she’s trying to figure out who it is.” Mr. Wright lowers his voice conspiratorial and Miles finds himself leaning forward. “Just between me and you, and I don’t want to distress you, but you’re definitely the newest suspect.”
Miles is far closer to the man than he means to be, and the statement makes him blush more than he’d like. “I… indeed?”
“Oh, totally.” Mr. Wright leans back against the wall. “She’s cute, right? Like I’d have a chance with you, the cute rich librarian from Germany.”
“I…” Miles smooths his cardigan. “Well. I am neither cute, nor rich, so perhaps you have more of a chance than you’d think.” He starts to shuffle through his wallet, looking for the paper he’d written his address out on. Mr. Wright chuckles.
“Well, I’ll be at your house Saturday at 11. Does that work?”
Miles hands him the slip and nods. “Of course. I’ll be having a book club over at about 5, but we shouldn’t disturb any of your work. Thank you, Mr. Wright.”
“Terrific, It’s Phoenix, and that’s just my job.” Mr. Wright- Phoenix mock-salutes him, then retreats back into the office, closing the door behind him. “See you at eleven!”
“Yes,” Miles repeats to himself, “I shall see you.”
Phoenix arrives at Miles’s house at 11:34 in a paint speckled van, wearing paint speckled jeans and a tank top. Miles doesn’t say anything about the fact that he’s half an hour late, just gives him the bucket of paint and settles back into his weeding. It takes a few minutes for Phoenix to get set up. He spreads tarps, retrieves a few boxes of tools from his van, sets a ladder up against the side of Miles’s house.
Miles finishes weeding his vegetable bed and moves onto the roses his sister sent him.
“You garden a lot, then?” Phoenix asks, leaning against the ladder. He’s holding an odd machine in one hand that looks a bit like a nerf gun, except longer and attached to Miles’s outdoor faucet. It makes him look competent. Miles hopes he actually is.
“Enough,” Miles says, absently caresing a rose. “My sister used to visit me to garden, but since the rest of my family and I stopped speaking, I keep the beds maintained myself.”
“Huh.” Mr. Wright cocks his head. “They’re beautiful.”
Miles flushes. “Thank you.”
“Trucy wants to start a garden,” Phoenix says. “Our apartment’s tiny, though, and the balcony’s in the shade like, 90% of the time.” He looks genuinely glum about it. Miles thinks that Phoenix must be a good father.
“There are community gardens,” Miles says, putting down his trowel. “The library has some information about the one in your neighborhood. One of my friends- Dick Gumshoe, a very nice man- organizes it with his wife.”
Phoenix looks thoughtful. “Huh. We’ll check it out.” He grins at Miles and the other man has to avert his eyes.
“See that you do.” Miles’s eyes zero in on the not-nerf-gun Phoenix is holding. “What exactly are you doing, Phoenix?”
Phoenix chuckles. “I like how my name sounds when you say it. Uh, I’m power-washing your house. If there’s dirt on the old paint, the new paint won’t stick as well as it should. I assume you want a perfect paint job, living in this neighborhood.”
Miles sighs. “Tell me about it. My neighbors are like vultures.”
Phoenix walks Miles through the steps as he does them- caulk up imperfections, brush off chipped old paint, taping up the edges of all his windows. Once he finishes wrapping a plastic bag around Miles’s mailbox, Miles stands up. He dusts stay dirt off his jeans and stretches.
“Would you like some lemonade?” He asks. “I have some fresh-pressed stuff in my kitchen. It’s organic.”
“Organics aren't super high on my priorities,” Phoenix jokes. “But that sounds like heaven.”
Miles frowns slightly at the allusion to heaven. It’s not like he isn’t exposed to religion constantly, but he always closes off a bit when someone says god or heaven. Bad connotations. “I suppose it does.”
“I love your kitchen,” Phoenix says. He leans against the counter, glancing around the room almost dreamily. “It’s so homey.
Miles chuckles into his lemonade. “I don’t let my book club inside.”
Phoenix raises his eyebrows. “Why the hell not?” Miles feels himself stiffen at the word hell, and he downs the rest of his drink. This is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. “Your entire house is like, the dream.”
“All my electronics are a decade out of date,” Miles blurts. “My toaster is second-hand. There’s a crack in the tile in the bathroom. My floors are scuffed.”
Phoenix blinks at him. “Uh, yeah? My floors aren’t even hardwood.” He wrinkles his nose. “You’re not some kinda undercover snob, are you?”
“If I was a snob, I wouldn’t have to be undercover, living here,” Miles observes. “No, it’s not that. Everyone here is a snob, however, and I simply do not have the money to keep up with them. So I keep my lawn impeccable and keep everyone outside.”
“So you never have anyone inside?” Phoenix runs a hand along Miles’s counters. “Seems like a waste. Kinda lonely, too.”
“It is a big house,” Miles concedes. I am lonely, sometimes.
There’s a moment of silence, both men contemplating just how many empty rooms there are in Miles’s house.
“Well,” Phoenix says finally, setting down the mason jar he’d been drinking out of. “Thanks for the lemonade. I could taste the farmers market in it.”
“I’m glad,” Miles says.
“Why aren’t you married?” Phoenix asks after finishing his first coat of paint. He sits on the edge of Miles’s deck, chin resting in his hand. Miles sits a foot away in one of his lawn chairs, flipping through GQ. “Like, you’re handsome, your house rocks, you’re charming to be around. Why isn’t there a husband around?”
The question is an overstep. Miles shouldn’t answer it.
“I do not have the time,” Miles tries. “Meeting people is not a priority.”
“It wouldn’t have to be, though, being a librarian, would it.” Phoenix raises his eyebrows, his face open. “You probably meet tons of random people. Tell me, how many times do you get hit on in a day?”
Miles never notices when people flirt with him, but Klavier always points it out to him. “Kind of frequently, I suppose.”
“So, why aren’t you dating someone?”
Miles stretches out his legs and contemplates his answer. “I am not completely out of the closet, I suppose.”
Phoenix blinks at him. “Well, shit. I’m sorry about assuming, then. If you’re closeted. Someone definitely could’ve heard me talking, and that-” He looks genuinely sorry, and Miles does his best to assure him.
“No, no, it’s okay. Everyone knows I’m gay. Mid-thirties and not married with kids is already raising like seven red flags, and I do… well, I have been told I simply seem gay. ”
Phoenix hums.
“But there’s a difference between knowing that the man you have book club with is gay and seeing him with an actual partner. People will talk if I’m truly dating someone, and I don’t think I could handle that.” Miles stares up at his half-painted house, the sun slowly drying the first coat. “My father used to… it doesn’t matter. The point is, I do not want people to talk.”
“That’s legit.” Phoenix lays back against the deck. “I just came out a few years ago. It’s nerve-wracking, you know, trying to plan for everything that could happen. It was a few years after I adopted Trucy and she was like, twelve, so she knew what gay people were, and she had a few friends who were lesbians, or bi, or whatever. I still overexplained it to her, of course. Your daddy likes boys and girls, you know, and I- he might end up- you might someday have a papa instead of a mommy. She took it so well.” Phoenix looked like he was getting choked up. “I just love her so much.”
“She’s so lucky to have you,” Miles says softly.
“Ha, yeah. I’m lucky to have her. I wasn’t always so lucky with my family. Most people aren’t.”
“I wasn’t,” Miles agrees.
“Yeah.” Phoenix stares up into the bright blue sky for a moment, then props himself up on his elbows and beams at Miles. “Sometimes you gotta let’em talk, though. You know that Lizzo song?”
Miles doesn’t know who Lizzo is.
“ They can say what they’re gonna say, they’re gonna feel how they’re gonna feel,” Phoenix sings. It’s a bit off-key, and his mouth goes lopsided when he sings. “Sound familiar?”
“No,” Miles admits, “you’ll have to sing more.”
Phoenix laughs. “You’re cute. You know, if you ever get all the way out of the closet, text me. I wouldn’t be opposed to dating someone as cute as you.” He glances at Miles’s garden boxes. “Or if you ever want someone to fix up your garden. I think the one with your herbs in it is starting to rot through.”
Miles curses. “I might take you up on that offer.” He doesn’t bother specifying which- he’s not sure if he even knows.
Book club sits around the table in Miles’s backyard- close enough to the roses that the vague fragrance drifts over to them, far enough away that there’s no chance of anyone noticing an aphid or anything. Miles mills around his kitchen for half-an-hour before they come, arranging the snacks he bought on a platter, pouring the lemonade into his best china, enlisting Phoenix to carry everything outside.
He sits at the head of the table as the rest of the club arrives. They all cast an appraising look at Phoenix as they settle down, then an inquiring one at Miles. He stifles an irritated sigh. Just because you all fuck your pool boys, he conciders saying, doesn’t mean that’s what’s happening here. Besides, it’s all fine and dandy when they draw their own conclusions about Miles’s attraction to men- if he were to comment on how Phoenix looks in the dying light, they’d all titter and look uncomfortable.
“So,” he says, “let’s start right off, then?”
Karen, at the other end of the table, nods in agreement. All the other women follow her lead.
“So, in the most recent chapter… god, what happened?” Helen asks, twirling her hair around a finger. “The gay one did something, didn’t he?”
“They’re all gays,” Veronica snaps, “and the book is about them doing things.”
“Well, so she was right,” Miles placates. He spends a lot of the time placating these women.
The group starts to dissolve when they start gossiping, the women standing in clumps around Miles’s lawn and talking about each other in hushed tones. Miles usually sticks by Helen, because she’s not nearly as awful as the others, but today he wanders over toward Phoenix.
“Just finished up,” Phoenix says. He frowns at Miles. “You good?”
“Nrg,” he mumbles, “this is so tiring. I hate having to humor these women.” And he actually does, he’s finally realizing. He hates what he’s doing right now, hates every goddamn moment he takes, entertaining these people who don’t give a damn about any part of him that doesn’t appeal to them.
Phoenix rests the hand holding the paintbrush on his hip and leans toward Miles. “Well, let me tell you a secret.” He leans closer, close enough that Miles can feel his breath on his ear. “You don’t have to.”
“Oh, I don’t?” Miles laughs bitterly. “That’s what they all say.”
Even now, he can see Veronica side-eyeing him, measuring the distance between him and Phoenix. Miles doesn’t take a step back. She can’t make him, he realizes.
“They’ll never get better if something doesn’t shock them out of their comfort zone,” Phoenix says. He leans back and shrugs casually.
“Oh, really? What do you suggest I do?” Miles toes at the porch and stares up into Phoenix’s eyes.
Phoenix is the one who looks away this time, squinting up into the sky. “Well, I’ve been told that there’s nothing like suddenly kissing a brown, working class bisexual man to get a rise out of some bigoted old women.”
Miles puts a hand to his chest and steps closer. “Are you suggesting something, Phoenix Wright?”
Phoenix looks back down at him, an unvoiced laugh written across his face. “Perhaps I am. You planning on taking me up on my offer?”
Phoenix kisses like the goddamn sun. His mouth is warm and a steady pressure against Miles’s and his hands are warm. Miles thinks he can feel the other man’s eyelashes against his cheeks, the soft pressure of a paintbrush against his side.
He steps away. “You got paint all over my cardigan,” he sighs. He doesn’t look at any of the book club women, and he watches Phoenix’s eyes follow their departure, not stepping away.
“They’re gone,” Phoenix finally murmurs, and Miles collapses into a chair.
“Thank you.”
Phoenix smiles lopsidedly. “I feel like I should be thanking you. You’re a good kisser, Miles Edgeworth.”
Miles smiles back at him. “You’re not so bad yourself, Phoenix.” He glances up at the sky. “Getting dark,” he says.
“Yup,” Phoenix says, his eyes following Miles’s gaze. “I should get home to Trucy.”
Miles nods. “Yes.”
“Yeah.” Phoenix looks at Miles. He looks uncertain, and Miles wraps a hand around his wrist.
“I’ll call you,” he says. “We can make plans for a date. I think I’m ready to shock some of my neighbors.”
Phoenix’s grin widens. “Well, well. Even more than you already have?”
Miles shrugs. “I suppose,” he says, and his hand tightens around Phoenix’s wrist. “I think I’m ready to start actually living my life, you know.”
“Yeah,” Phoenix says softly, "I do."