Later, Kristoph Gavin was still dead but rotting away in a royal tomb. He had set a Japanifornian record for having been supreme Leader for the shortest amount of time out of any of his predecessors (a staggering 48 hours) and would only be commemorated in the unimportant back pages of cheap, mass-produced textbooks studied in an extremely niche set of educational centres; this, it seemed, was the first brief set of thoughts on the newly-returned Miles Edgeworth's mind before being instantaneously erased as his bleary eyes rested upon the sleeping beauty situated a metre away from him in a different bed whose elusive curtains had also been drawn up, providing as little privacy as possible. Miles smiled. Phoenix looked peaceful. The raw scabs adorning him seemed less worried atop slackened cheekbones, and the disarray of spiky hair seemed natural, as though it were merely due to too much tossing and turning beneath lavish duvets and other soft delights. Light had no right to touch Phoenix at that moment. Phoenix had ascended beyond light: he had become a messiah whom Miles would forever flock to, immortal, forever living in minds of the distressed - and, in Miles's case, sweaty and scandalously imaginative, with a pair of prying eyes that wished duvets were transparent - as a beacon of hope. Even his name transcended humanity. Phoenixes were birthed from a natural source of light: Phoenix was light itself and it all made sense in that surreal moment as unconscious skin glowed radiantly and gorgeous, sweeping lashes were as soft as feathers. Fatigued, these moments where Phoenix liberally abandoned his dying fleshy abode should realistically only have been embers, but he somehow exuded a warmth - albeit a tad feverish - that made Miles melt, testosterone providing an emulation of euphoria as it swirled around within him, along with the birth of scorching want. Watching Phoenix from afar, lopsidedly, was gradually driving the taller man over the edge, his abdomen weeping overzealously - even as it was being strangled by too many bandages - and his pupils dilating in accompaniment to his ruddy cheeks. What was the shorter man dreaming about? Each sigh or shift was torture. Miles could only look at the other's pink lips, as much as his school-boyish impromptus desires disgusted him. The brain confined by his silver hair was adamant that he wouldn't give in to temptation. They hadn't even discussed if they were a couple yet. To rush things would be a pompous error, so Miles forced himself back down into the sheets. That was, until he found that his eyes were wandering again.

Phoenix had let out another soft sigh and his brain was running haywire, performing somersaults as it turned the development into irrational filth. It was gradually becoming more and more painstakingly apparent that Miles was getting a little too excited by Phoenix Wright in a deep slumber. As though he had never experienced the fuzzy, freeing splendour of the mysterious s word, a familiar warmth was bordering on boiling further down in the murky depths of his duvet and Miles grimaced, wallowing in embarrassment, as he came to the reluctant conclusion that he would have to dismantle the tent himself.

However, even after he'd discreetly neutralised the situation, Miles felt electric. His face was flushed, gone, and all he could coherently recall was the name Phoenix. Phoenix, spilling out of his tongue like a mantra; Miles shook his head with furrowed brows. He was going too far. He wistfully glanced at Phoenix, twitching inadvertently. There was room for two. It was this tenuous thought process which had led to Miles furtively slipping out of his assigned velvet kingdom with a wince, his bare feet bitterly complaining as they met the cool marble of flooring and inched their way along under the influence of their eager Leader - who was desperately clutching at his blood-tainted bandages in an attempt to subdue the roaring agony - towards the blissfully unaware goal, dodging the wise equipment and its cautious beeping. Upon reaching the holy relic, Miles was unsure of the protocol, his hand lingering somewhere in pleasantly soft raven locks, soothingly running his fingers through and savouring the heated tingles it sent up his quivering spine. The taller man's breath hitched with Phoenix's, returning only when the spiky-haired man shuffled slightly and released a hoarse groan. He wouldn't have joined Phoenix in the protective comfort of lavish duvets if it weren't for the shivers grappling with his body after exiting his own, Miles told himself as he hesitantly peeled the velvety fabric off of the only man in the world he wanted to be in the same bed as, his cheeks ripening as he couldn't stop himself from ogling before committing the heinous act of entering.

The hot breath became predominant as soon as his head hit the pillow, gently probing his skin. This shouldn't have been as breathtaking as it was: Miles and Phoenix had slept together on many occasions (usually by accident), but this felt different somehow. Miles had time to observe. Quietly. Undisturbed. He had the time to notice things he'd never had time to notice before - an imperceptible dusting of freckles, smallish ears - and appreciate them. He had the time to appreciate Phoenix. It was borderline worship, the way silver eyes slowly traced scars. Phoenix was the Lamb of God, who took away all the sin of the world; the sin that had plagued Japanifornia for centuries; and those scars were the remnants. Lying there on his side staring endlessly, Miles decided he would change things. He was going to do things the Wright way. Nobody would be hurt like he was again. History could go to Hell.

Miles's hand performed a breach of security in interlocking with the other's as his tears struck the bedsheets again. He wanted to apologise.