Chapter Text
The Clef Hanger Symphony Hall was an architectural nightmare designed by someone who seemingly hated straight lines, logic, and, apparently, defense attorneys.
It was the second day of the investigation, and Phoenix’s feet were already aching from a wild goose chase—which, yes, had involved actually pursuing a rogue waterfowl.
His client was Eno Strument, the eccentric and hopelessly high-strung executive director of Clef Hanger, who stood accused of murdering conductor Phil Harmonic. The crime had taken place right in the middle of their special Steel Samurai: Crescen-Dojo concert, an event Phoenix had naturally been dragged to by Maya. He couldn’t help but wonder, for the hundredth time, why homicide seemed to follow their every outing. At the very least, he could take comfort in one minor miracle: for once, the police hadn’t immediately pinned the murder on Maya somehow.
Instead, Phoenix was stuck with Mr. Strument. Eno had spent the entire morning aggressively tuning a violin right next to Phoenix’s ear while shrieking about lost ticket revenue, pausing only to point out that Phoenix’s blue suit was “structurally offensive to the concept of visual harmony.” Naturally, the day only degenerated from there, leaving Phoenix to wonder if the venue itself was actively trying to assassinate him.
First, he accidentally walked too closely past the trombones warming up, and got knocked straight to the floor when they hit 7th position. Then, attempting to recover some dignity, he tried to lean casually against a grand piano, only for the heavy lid to slam shut, trapping his sleeve. To top it all off, he’d gotten his tie tangled in a harp’s tuning pegs, forcing him to politely ask a passing bassoonist to cut him free with their reed knife, leaving him walking around with half a tie. The entire bassoon section proceeded to snide at him for the rest of the day for forcing one of their players to utilize their precious knife for such an inane purpose.
At some point later, he had somehow ended up wedged inside the brass bell of a custom-made, oversized tuba. He had spent ten minutes wiggling like an upside-down turtle before finally breaking free. His brain actively blocked out the memory of how he had even managed to get stuck in there in the first place.
Oh, and then there was the goose. Apparently, the woodwind section unironically kept the bird around because they claimed its honks helped them calibrate the reeds for the oboes. Phoenix was still trying to figure out if the goose was involved in the murder. Regardless of its connection to the crime, though, the goose had taken an immediate, personal dislike to Phoenix’s spiked hair. It had spent the better part of an hour chasing him around the symphony hall with a series of furious honks and snapping beak lunges.
Phoenix was harboring a growing theory that the murder was a joint effort by multiple members of the orchestra, who collectively loathed the maestro. Phoenix suspected the musicians used the cover of the performance to pass the murder weapon down the rows of the orchestra, concealing it inside their instruments until it finally reached the percussion section, where it was fired directly at the conductor during the grand finale.
Unfortunately for him, he had to actually prove that theory in court tomorrow, which meant inspecting every single instrument in the building to find the exact point of modification. Given that Phoenix’s personal musical knowledge peaked at knowing how to play shitty, basic songs on the piano at the Borscht club, this was a logistical nightmare. He had spent the entire afternoon searching through the orchestra's inventory, trying to figure out what a “normal” instrument even looked like so he could spot any tampering. He fumbled through grainy internet tutorials, squinting at low-resolution diagrams of woodwind keys and brass valves while trying to deduce whether a French horn was naturally supposed to look like a labyrinth of coiled brass, or if one of those extra loops was actually a cleverly concealed launch tube. It was tedious, exhausting work, made worse by the fact that every polished wooden surface and gleaming brass bell looked exactly the same to his untrained eye. To make it all the more insufferable, Eno hovered over his shoulder the entire time, shrieking that Phoenix’s clumsy handling of the instruments was “giving the cellos severe performance anxiety.”
That was how Phoenix ended up here this evening, disheveled, wandering the maze of backstage corridors looking for the secure overnight instrument vault.
At this point, Phoenix was pretty sure he was losing his mind. Every single hallway looked completely identical. He had already passed the exact same oil painting of a grim-faced cellist three separate times, and the musician’s stern glare was starting to feel personal. He had accidentally walked into a room full of spare timpani drums, tripped over a stray bass string, and faced down a very aggressive janitor who didn’t speak English or Japanese but clearly understood the universal language of brandishing a mop threateningly.
Desperate to escape the mop-wielding custodian, Phoenix took three sharp, random turns, losing his bearings in the process. The sterile, fluorescent-lit backstage corridors suddenly gave way to rich, mahogany-paneled walls, plush crimson carpeting, and elegant brass sconces. He had clearly stumbled out of the jungle of rehearsal chambers and into an exclusive, high-end private wing where even the air smelled vaguely of expensive violin rosin and old money.
That’s where Phoenix first heard that beautiful, beautiful sound.
The wing seemed entirely deserted, save for a single, brilliant thread of music winding its way down the corridor. It was high, lilting, and incredibly fluid, the melody spinning out into the hallway like a siren song. It was some classical piece Phoenix didn’t recognize—something melancholic but intricate. Phoenix didn’t know much about music, but he knew excellence when he heard it. The notes danced through the air, weaving a tapestry of emotion Phoenix couldn’t quite place. It was profound, and delicate, and full.
Phoenix found himself moving forward before his brain could even register the decision. Step by tentative step, the music pulled him down the hallway, the lulling tug of the melody guiding him like an invisible string. The world outside evaporated, leaving nothing but the hypnotic pull of the song guiding him.
He came to a halt outside a door at the very end of the corridor. It was securely shut, but a small, unshaded window pane at eye level offered a clear view into a lavish private suite within. It didn’t look like a standard practice room—the lack of foam soundproofing panels on the walls gave that away—but rather a secluded, high-end sanctuary. It was a space where an instrument could be played, but didn’t necessarily have to be. The room felt built less for the repetition of technical drills and more for a master to simply exist with their art.
And that’s when Phoenix saw him.
That beautiful sound was coming from none other than Miles Edgeworth.
Edgeworth stood in the middle of the room, completely unaware of his audience. Stacks of classical sheet music sat piled atop a grand piano next to him, and his burgundy blazer had been draped over the back of a nearby chair. His cravat was gone, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood near a large window, the sheen of the setting sun catching the angular lines of his profile.
And pressed to his lips was a gleaming, silver flute.
The scene inside froze the air in his lungs. Phoenix stood transfixed.
He couldn’t move. He barely even dared to breathe.
He stared, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, half-convinced he was hallucinating, but Miles remained standing there, calmly tapping his fingers against the keys.
Phoenix had seen Edgeworth in many states. He had seen him commanding a courtroom with the authority of a thousand kings; he had seen him deep in deduction, solving case mysteries with his brilliant intellect and intuition; he had seen him unraveling in the wake of old nightmares and putting himself back together. He had seen him focus intently on a game of chess, and he had even seen him rave passionately about Steel Samurai. But Phoenix had never seen Edgeworth like this.
Edgeworth’s eyes were closed, a few silver strands of hair falling loose across his forehead. His fingers moved with an easy grace, sweeping over the keys with perfect habit. His shoulders were completely relaxed; without his vest and blazer, the weight of everything he usually carried had vanished. There was no sternness in his face. For once, he didn’t look like he was trying to calculate three steps ahead or dissect a situation in front of him. He was just… there. Existing exactly as he was.
Edgeworth’s partially unbuttoned shirt exposed the skin of his throat and chest where the linen collar parted. Phoenix found his eyes riveted to that smooth expanse, watching the steady, heavy movement of Miles’ throat as he swallowed and channeled each controlled breath into the instrument. Every deep inhalation was deliberate, causing the fabric of his shirt to strain faintly, expanding and relaxing in a purposeful cadence.
Slowly, Phoenix’s gaze drifted to the fluttering of Miles’ hands. His long, elegant fingers slid over the polished silver with an almost lazy seamlessness. They skimmed and caressed the open keys, the pads of his fingertips applying the gentlest pressure to bend the notes, moving with a loose, unthinking rhythm.
Then there was the press of his lips against the cool metal. Parted slightly, they cradled the silver embouchure, shaping the air into a warm, resonant hum. The curve of his mouth was entirely relaxed, softened by a quiet pleasure that seemed to vibrate through his body, yielding entirely to the whims of the music.
And Miles looked completely serene. It was an expression Phoenix had never seen on his face before. The deep, familiar line that usually sat between his eyebrows was nowhere to be seen, along with the tight jaw, the clenched teeth, and the rigid posture he used to keep everyone at a distance. Without those stern, guarded expressions straining his features, his face looked remarkably soft. He looked almost as though he were asleep, but this was even better. In sleep, Miles was always at the mercy of his nightmares. Awake, with the flute in his hands, his mind and heart were safe from his subconscious demons.
The melody swelled, transforming into a sweeping, cinematic crest of sound. Edgeworth tilted his head slightly, his chest rising and falling in deep waves as he kept pace with the tune. The music seemed to draw something straight out of his soul—every unspoken word held back by pride, the grief he kept barricaded behind steel doors, the crushing standards he demanded of himself, and the vulnerability he never dared to show—it all found a way out, pouring freely through the thin cylinder.
Phoenix watched, completely captivated. A sudden tightness gripped his chest. He felt a bit like a thief, stealing a glance at a side of Miles Edgeworth that was never meant for the public eye. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
He’s gorgeous, Phoenix thought. The sight before him went far beyond anything his imagination could have ever conjured up. He felt certain that if he were to ask the heavens to send down their most beautiful angel, even a divine vision like that would pale in comparison to the Miles Edgeworth standing in this room right now.
Phoenix was well aware that Miles knew how to play the flute, but he hadn’t seen him touch the instrument since they were kids. He knew that Edgeworth generally avoided anything that reminded him of his life before DL-6. Memories that were pure, golden nostalgia for Phoenix were a direct doorway to grief for Miles. Yet, some pieces of that past had survived the wreckage. For example, Phoenix knew that Miles maintained his love for chess (Phoenix could never forget that custom board sitting in Miles’ office—the thing honestly kind of terrified him). It seemed that, against all odds, a couple of Edgeworth's old hobbies had managed to escape the stain of his trauma.
A wave of warmth washed over Phoenix, seeing Miles so at peace. Edgeworth had endured a lifetime of heartbreak—more than Phoenix could ever fully fathom—and had somehow managed to piece himself back together in its wake. He was remarkable, a man who worked tirelessly and deserved every ounce of happiness the world could offer. Phoenix had always harbored a fierce desire to protect him, to give him everything, but right here, he was witnessing Miles finally give something back to himself. A moment of grace. A sliver of forgiveness. True freedom.
Miles would never be the type to admit to any sort of weakness, or acknowledge that he needed a sanctuary to retreat to. But watching him now, Phoenix knew this was it. He found himself wishing that whenever Miles was forced to face the terror of earthquakes or the lingering shadows of nightmares in the dark alone, his mind would carry him back to this exact place. (And God, Phoenix hated the gut-wrenching thought of Miles dealing with any of that alone).
As the piece began to wind down, the rapid trills gave way to long, sustained notes. Edgeworth held the final, fading note, letting it hang in the air until it naturally dissolved into silence.
He slowly lowered the flute, letting out a long sigh that looked like it had been held in for weeks. His thumb gently traced the silver instrument, his gaze fixed out the window at the distant city skyline. There was an undeniable sensuality to the moment—the loose linen of his shirt clinging faintly to his damp skin and the unhurried ease with which he handled the metal.
Phoenix wondered exactly what was passing through Miles’ mind in this quiet moment. For all the analytical brilliance that usually fired behind those grey eyes, right now they looked beautifully blank, reflecting only the glittering streetlights.
Realizing it was quiet and not knowing if Edgeworth was going to play another piece, Phoenix suddenly became acutely aware of his own presence. He didn’t want to interrupt, and he absolutely did not want to get caught. He could picture the exact shade of crimson that would flood Edgeworth’s face if he realized he’d been seen like this. He could practically hear Edgeworth’s voice: Nggh! Wright?! How long—what are you doing out there? Please, do not tell me you have been lurking in the dark this entire time. I was merely... assessing the acoustics of the room, nothing more. He’d probably be so embarrassed that he would lock the flute in a drawer and never play it again. Phoenix couldn’t have that.
Desperate to stay and keep listening to Miles’ sweet music, yet terrified of being discovered, Phoenix stepped back on silent feet. He slipped into the shadow of a recessed alcove just a few feet down the hall behind the folds of a heavy velvet curtain. Positioning himself carefully, he found a small gap in the fabric—just wide enough that he could still see into the room if he leaned forward, while remaining completely hidden from view.
Inside the room, Edgeworth lifted the flute back to his lips.
He began to play another piece, and this one completely swept Phoenix away. It wasn’t melancholic like the first; it was complex, cascading, and breathtakingly bright. The rich notes washed over Phoenix. He let his eyes close, the music vibrating straight through his chest.
The chaotic blur of the afternoon simply dissolved—flashes of trombones, crashing piano lids, and the suffocating brass darkness of a tuba bell faded into nothing. He forgot about the trial. He forgot about the intricacies of the French horn. And, finally, he forgot about that stupid goose that had spent the better part of an hour trying to murder his hair.
He just let himself drift, anchored to the sound of wherever Miles was unwittingly going to take him next.
When the last note finally tapered off, the silence that followed felt different—almost cleansing. Even though the space around him was technically empty, the air felt so full. Edgeworth didn’t immediately move. He stood still for a long moment, the flute resting against his palm as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Then, with an almost meditative precision, he began to dismantle the instrument.
He retrieved a soft cloth, polishing the silver with slow strokes. Each piece of the flute was laid gently back into its custom, maroon velvet-lined nesting case, fitting perfectly into place. Once the instrument was put to bed, Edgeworth unrolled his sleeves, smoothing the wrinkled linen before fastening his cuffs with a practiced, elegant flick of his wrists. Then on went the vest, then the cravat, then the blazer, each restoring the build of the poignant prosecutor.
Phoenix pressed himself flush against the wall of the alcove, holding his breath as the door swung open. Edgeworth stepped into the corridor, his shoes striking the linoleum. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed off the walls as he walked down the hallway, completely unaware of the eyes tracking his departure until he disappeared around the corner.
Phoenix stepped out of his hiding place, gaping at the empty hallway in absolute awe. The air still felt charged, humming with the reverberation of Edgeworth’s sweet music. Phoenix stared at the space Edgeworth had just occupied as if trying to memorize it.
He shook his head, forcing his brain to reboot. He had to refocus on the case. He had a trial tomorrow! But God, how was he supposed to go back to dealing with deconstructing keys and valves while dodging a homicidal goose after having his entire soul rewired by Miles Edgeworth?
He just knew, with absolute certainty, that he couldn’t survive on a memory alone of what he just heard. What he just saw. What he just felt. He needed to experience that again.