Work Text:
The first dream he’d had after the trial had not been about his father. The familiar scene taken away from him, like the sounds of his native language, the smell of the classroom, the comforting shine of his favorite action figure—gone, the moment he’d become used to it. Instead: the couch in his house, which he barely ever used, his body not even making a dent in the shiny leather. On the table, a bottle of pills. The good kind, the one he’d had to humiliate himself for at the psychiatrist’s office. There hadn't been a gun in sight, and he knew he could do it now.
He swallowed the whole bottle at once, the cloth of the dream not concerning itself with the need for water, and he gasped as the pills traveled through his esophagus one by one. It couldn't be that easy—another thing he knew. He knew the peace would not have come this quickly. He’d thrash and he’d choke and he’d throw up, and he’d been fine with it. Until he was not.
The silhouette of his father watched him from the corner of the room as he sobbed and crawled to get to his phone.
He woke up, just as he’d been about to make the call. To whom, he didn't know, didn't have many people he could've called in the middle of the night, but somehow, he knew he hadn't been about to call an ambulance.
He’d been shaken the whole day afterwards. Couldn't stop thinking—had I chosen wrong, I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it. He’d gone to work, prosecuted a case, somehow, shuffled some papers, ignored everything and everyone else. Came back from the office and slept until the next day, thinking, I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it.
He’d flushed the pills down the toilet in the morning. With shaking hands, pushed the flush, then brushed his teeth, put a shirt on—shirt stays, socks, sock garters, pants, waistcoat. At the front door, took his jacket and briefcase, then unlocked, locked the door, unlocked and locked the car. Had gone to work.
The heat had been unbearable. The pen slid in his grasp as he wrote, the sweat rolled down his face like the tears he couldn’t muster. It seemed the only thing he was capable of was sweating like a pig. He’d considered taking off his jacket but even that felt burdensome, his brain too focused on seeing the task at hand to completion. In his precise handwriting, the first word slowly appeared.
Prosecutor
He was one, wasn’t he? He’d been one since the age of nine. Emerged victorious from a battle with his foolish hopes and dreams of a much more innocent age. There was not much to him other than that. Now, a puppet strung loose, he was paying the price of his single-mindedness.
Miles Edgeworth
He took a quick pause after writing his name. The times of being called Miles had been long gone. The caring voice of his father calling him for dinner. The incredulous voice of Phoenix and Larry after he’d secured a rare prize from a claw machine. The stony voice of Franziska, angry but with a tinge of reserved affection to it. And even she stopped calling him that. He hadn’t been Miles in a long time.
chooses death.
It had been chosen for him, more like, but he didn’t know how to contain it in a note meant for an unsuspecting janitor coming in the next day without making it unnecessarily convoluted. The words on the page made it look like it was an active decision, possibly the first one he’d made entirely on his own in a long time, but he wasn’t sure that was even true. When he chased a guilty verdict, he could recognize it had been his drive, his will, pushing everything into motion. He’d been too blinded by his selfishness to notice the blade hanging above his head.
He stood up abruptly, jumping away as though the page had been a car driving through a puddle, and grabbed his bag. Already packed, everything he would need on his way down, which turned out to be only a handful of things. He could call himself foolishly sentimental, having first grabbed the Signal Samurai keychain, then his journal, his favorite fountain pen, a single photo. He supposed if there were anything beyond the veil, he’d like to not come empty handed. That, and it made the identification of his body easier.
He walked around his desk for a while, as if looking for something. Three circles in, it became clear to him that he’d been stalling. He’d never been one to procrastinate, yet he couldn’t bring himself to move. He could always shift the blame onto the heat—it made him disoriented, too hot in all of his layers, yes, that what the detectives would say, he wasn't thinking straight, sir, mistook a bridge for a diving board, poor thing, his father had been dead for fifteen years and they'd just put his mentor in jail, really unfortunate, do you know anyone at all who should be informed about this?
He needed to cool off. And he needed it now.
So he left and it was possibly the most boring ride of his life, and he’d had plenty of those, driving to work every day for the past four years, yet nothing compared to the feeling of knowing you arrived at your destination you’d been in some way or other destined to arrive at since your adolescent years, like a pig to slaughter, only aware of it the whole time. He stepped outside and thought to himself, this is it?
He’d chosen the location ahead of time as his backup plan, months before, on incognito mode, data on, under a blanket in his apartment as though he’d been browsing the black market and had been afraid of getting caught, but no, it had only been the maps app, mindless swiping of a finger in every direction, looking for a perfect place.
The bridge he had picked was not anything special. He’d almost missed it in his search, if it hadn’t been for a Reddit post he found by accident, not really having expected "suicide spots japanifornia" to yield any results. But there had been, comments somehow missed by a moderator, from throwaway accounts, last active years ago. He could’ve guessed why.
He thought of all those people, possibly having taken the same steps as him, getting out of their cars, breath stuttering as the door slammed closed, walking straight on, with their heads high, with or without a note in hand, marching onwards still, until their hips hit the railing of the bridge, looking down—deep waters.
And then, despite everything he’d been telling himself moment prior to this, he hesitated. Gripped the cold railing, swung one leg in front of himself, observing, testing. It was a considerable height, which had been good, had been the point, and yet—
He had always been scared of heights. Not as bad as Phoenix was, who couldn’t even climb down their tree house without shaking, but he had been. He took his leg back, exhaled in rhythm with the water. Why had he chosen a bridge? There it was, the unknown; at least back in grade school he had known he would land more or less safely on the steady ground. Now, only the abyss.
He didn't feel anything, save for the fear that seized him in its grip and refused to go, mocking in its embrace, taunting him. What are you so scared of, boy?
He ran back to his car.
What happened—what he assumed had happened—was this:
He took a step back, almost tripped on the sidewalk as he turned, muttered I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it, with trembling hands, opened the contact list. Three rings, and a voice.
"Hello? Who is it?”
"Come pick me up." He couldn't probably feel any more ashamed so whispering, he added. "Please." And Phoenix’s voice raised, nearly talking over him, "Edgeworth? How did you—" A pause, consideration. " Yeah, yeah, okay." A shaky sigh on his end. Perhaps a yawn. It was near midnight, after all. And then a sober: "Where are you?”
His body stood away from the whole scene, floating, and watched as a couple of seconds later, the phone vibrated once, the sign of a finished call.
Miles thought Phoenix must've known something was very wrong (and yes, wrong was the most adequate word to describe Miles Edgeworth), if the speed and the state of his clothes in which he'd arrived at were any indication.
It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes since he’d made the call he hadn't been sure he’d actually made until now, which meant Phoenix couldn't have come by bike (he knew where his office was, and he knew Phoenix had been practically living in it), which meant he had taken a taxi, possibly an uber, in his pajamas and the only shoes he seemed to own, the beaten up sneakers. So unseemly, so unprofessional in court. But, it meant Phoenix hadn't taken his appearance into consideration, only focusing on the absolutely pathetic call Miles had made, which meant Phoenix was decidedly a better man than he ever had been.
"Edgeworth?" He only raised his hand to show his position on the dry asphalt. In any other circumstances, he supposed he’d feel abashed by the picture of imperfection he was presenting. He supposed that never mattered to Phoenix Wright either way, evident by the way he sat down in front of him, legs tucked under his body like a schoolboy, that made Miles want to say, sit straight, your back will complain later. And perhaps he would, if the image before him, of a nine year old boy with a nervous grin and ripped pants, didn't suddenly make him want to throw up on his shoes.
"So," Phoenix even cleared his throat as though he was about to answer a question before the whole class. He wrung his hands. "What’s up? I never thought you'd call me about anything, much less… whatever this is.”
I never thought I’d call you either, Miles thought to himself but didn't voice it.
"To be honest, I didn't even know you had my number. I was about to ask you to give me yours after the last trial, but you fled court so quickly… Not that I blame you, you know— by the way, you don't need defending again, do you?”
"Wright." He put his hand out and Phoenix, for his part, closed his mouth shut. "What I need is you to promise me something. I need you to swear you will not under any circumstances call 911 at any point tonight.”
"W—What? Edgeworth, did you actually kill someone?" He looked him up and down. "And you look like shit too, no offense."
He couldn't help the ugly snort escaping him, though judging by Phoenix's expression what had actually come out sounded more like a sob. And then:
“Would you care to go for a walk with me?”
It was still warm, and his shirt clung to his back as they walked. He kept his arms unmoving by his sides; Phoenix nervously played with the strings of his hoodie. Neither of them talked, unsure, not wanting to ruin the silence that was all in all quite pleasant. It was the first time Miles had taken a walk with anyone in a long time.
He didn't look at Phoenix, scared of what he’d find on his face. Did he know? Had he known what Miles had wanted to do when he’d picked up the call? Was it clear, in the reds of Miles’ eyes, the wrinkle of his shirt? Phoenix seemed to possess an unnatural ability to see straight through Miles at any given time, but now, as they marched aimlessly, he didn't feel anything from the other man. He didn't feel a single thing, actually, and for a moment then he let himself pretend that this was a very nice casual evening stroll, just Phoenix and he, talking over their recent cases, cases that didn't involve Manfred von Karma or his dead father or elevators or earthquakes or death penalties or wrongful convictions or lakes or suicides or forged evidence or death death death death—
“Do you need to sit down?” Phoenix grabbed his arm and he jumped, startled. “Sorry, sorry!” He did sound sorry, but didn't stop touching him as he pushed him onto a nearby bench. They were at a park, now, he realized belatedly. “You look like you're five seconds from falling over. You've eaten anything?”
“I’m perfectly fine, Wright, there’s no need to fret over me,” he said sharply, “and I’d rather you refrain from touching me.”
“Right! Right…” Phoenix stepped back immediately, and so had the heat on his shoulder. He trembled, suddenly cold. “Look, it’s not that I’m not enjoying walking around with you, but do you think maybe we should —” Talk about how you had wanted to jump over that bridge just there? “I have a trial in the morning and it'd do me good if I wasn't found wandering around at night by guys that really fucking hate me and my client” he said, his smile sheepish and his hand rubbing the back of his neck and Miles thought, I wish one of my enemies was brave enough to kill me. “My office?”
“You want me to go with you?”
“What, don't wanna be seen with a shoddy lawyer like me?” Phoenix asked back, looking like he wanted to bump his shoulder to say just kidding, but Miles recognized it for what it was.
His question had been genuine curiosity, for he hadn't expected in a thousand years to have been invited into Phoenix’s—anything, they weren't that close, they weren't close at all, if Miles had anything to say about it, and who did Phoenix even think he was, their relationship was purely professional, all childhood sentimentality aside—
“You coming?”
And Miles realized, Phoenix had had every right to be suspicious of his motives. He didn't even sound genuine to himself.
He looked around. They weren't far from the spot where he had parked his car. "And how exactly are you planning on taking me there?” Phoenix followed the movement of his eyes . “Absolutely not.”
And yes, there had been an oversight on Miles’ part. He was aware Wright didn’t even have a license, but this didn’t seem to matter to his scattered brain in that out of body moment when he’d made the call, and a fool of himself. How embarrassing. He was in no state of mind to drive, and he didn’t trust Phoenix Wright with even sitting in the driver’s seat, license or not. Out of all the methods his brain had conjured up, car accident wasn’t his favorite. Nor was murder-suicide.
“Okay, sure! If you're not driving and if I’m not driving, then you should call a taxi.”
“Me?” Phoenix took his hands out of the hoodie pockets and spread them wide. Between his middle and index fingers—a taxi receipt, nothing else. “If you're this broke, how did you even get here in the first place?”
“I only had enough for the ride there! And only because the guy was really insistent on setting me up with his daughter,” he mumbled. “I probably would've walked here otherwise.”
“And the way back?”
“These sneakers have survived much worse, I’ll tell you that.”
“And there’s an insistent feeling at the back of my skull that tells me you would’ve nagged me to give you a ride, more like.”
Phoenix’s mouth stretched in a smile. “Wouldn't you?”
He kept grinning as Miles called for a taxi back to the office.
"So, uh… Welcome?" He could see Phoenix trying very hard not to treat him like one of his clients—in the set of his shoulders, in the nervous smile, and it didn't quite land. "Don't— don't take your shoes off by the way, Maya hasn't vacuumed the floor in like three weeks."
He fought off a grimace. “That’s fine.”
Phoenix looked over him with a smirk. “It’s okay if it’s not. I know this is not exactly up to your standards.” He pushed past Miles to a little kitchenette—a counter, a microwave, a kettle, a clock above it. “Make yourself at home”. He gestured at the couch in the middle of the room and Miles said: “Thank you.” And Phoenix said, “You want some tea?” and Miles replied, “Yes, thank you.” Phoenix asked, “Anything to eat?” to which Miles said, “No, thank you.”
“One Good Value black tea coming right up!” And five minutes later, the clock told him, Phoenix put a steeping hot cup in front of him, with the teabag still in. “I hope you don’t take sugar because we’re currently out.”
"That's perfectly adequate, thank you." And it was not in fact neither perfect nor adequate, Miles' palate groaned in protest, but he wasn't going to take advantage of Phoenix's generosity more than he’d already had. The tea was bitter, which Miles had liked, usually, when it wasn’t completely obvious the tea had been oversteeped to hell and back. He didn’t feel like taking the teabag out, despite. He’d been supposed to be dead by now, he could stomach a cup of mediocre Walmart tea. For a man so adamant on not making it to the age of twenty five, he sure was a snob.
A quality instilled in him by the von Karma household, of that he was sure. Manfred von Karma hated imperfection and cheapness, and he hated Miles even more. He’d had everything he could've ever wanted, as long as it didn't interfere with Miles’ studies, which turned out not to be many things. A brand new suit, that he would always remember. A book, or two, always law, and don't even think about any comics, young man. More books. A pair of leather shoes that hurt his feet so badly he’d been bleeding for days.
He put his hands around the mug and noticed the words on it. “World’s Best Lawyer” it read, in big bold letters, mocking him.
“Oh… That’s a gift from Maya. Pretty cute, right?” He was silent. He hadn't exactly gotten any gifts that could help him offer any insightful remarks. Phoenix looked at him. “I probably should've got you a different one, huh? We could switch if you want.”
“You own only two vessels that are able to hold beverages? I’m not touching anything you've got your mouth on, Wright.”
“Jeez! Fine.” He put up his hands in defense. “Maybe you should stop looking at it like it killed your grandpa, then.”
He winced at the choice of words but mulled it over. He didn't hate the mug, not particularly more than any other mug that wasn't imported straight from central Europe, but now he had a point to prove. He wasn't sure why, but he was determined, he could prove to Phoenix Wright that he didn't mind his germs or his lips on the edge of the cheap porcelain, the way it would feel to close his own mouth over it—
“Give it to me.”
“What?”
“Give me the mug, Wright.” He should've been dead by now. Why? Why was he thinking about Wright’s—
“Okay, sure?” Phoenix pushed the mug in his direction. The exact same tea, bag still inside. He hadn't seen Phoenix ever drink anything else but coffee. “I was just joking, you often look like a cat pissed in your bag anyway, so…”
And damn that taxi driver. He should've died, and yet he was sitting there, letting Wright tease him.
“Are you always this nice to your clients?”
“Only the grumpy ones,” he said, and straightened up. “Okay, sorry, this wasn't the way to go… but I don't really know what to say.”
“Me neither. I’m not good at it—” He waved his hand around. “—this.”
“Okay,” Phoenix started, the drawl buying him time to think. He settled on what they knew best. “Got any cases lately?"
“No.”
“What did you do today?”
“Nothing of particular interest to you.”
“How’s Gumshoe doing?”
“Seriously, Wright?”
“I told you I don't know what to talk about! If you have any better ideas then be my guest.”
He didn't, in fact. He wasn't feeling social tonight, which was a way of putting what he’d been feeling for the past fifteen years, and this made him a certain type of hypocrite. He could sense Wright’s nervousness, the look he’d become accustomed to over their outing, the elephant in the room clear as day, now that they'd exhausted every possible topic of conversation they'd apparently had in less than a minute. It had been itching for Miles to acknowledge it, for Wright’s mouth to open and stumble. Why exactly did you call me, what’s wrong, are you okay.
I don't know I don't know I don't know
And then Phoenix said, “Can I hug you?” and immediately started taking it back. “I mean—it’s fine—it’s fine if you don't wanna but I th—”
“Stop babbling, Wright.”
He had a distinct feeling that it was as much for his sake as for Wright's, and he’d found out he didn't mind it. He wordlessly put his hands out and marveled at how easy this movement was for Phoenix as he settled in his embrace. It wasn't the best hug in the world, even Miles could recognize that, as he himself was completely still, not knowing where to put his hands, if he should put them a anywhere at all. A question—was he allowed to have this?—as Phoenix wound his arms tighter around his middle.
“Is it weird,” Phoenix mumbled into his shoulder, “if I tell you that you smell really nice?”
“It would hardly be the strangest thing you told me,” he replied just as quietly, wary of ruining this—whatever it was, whatever Phoenix had wanted to accomplish, that had been maybe the closest he’d been to another human since his dad last kissed him on the head.
Phoenix trembled against him, with quiet laughter, and it wasn't really that funny, nothing was to Miles, but he was glad there had been something else besides the thumping in his chest, the static in his head, a distraction, a welcome sound.
“Whatever it is, don't tell me, I won’t remember it anyway. Probably some German bullshit.”
“French,” he said on instinct. “And you couldn't afford it.”
“And I couldn't afford it,” he agreed easily.
His hair tickled Miles’ nose and it was soft. So very soft, like the dog Miles had when he was nine years old, the only surviving member of his family besides himself, and then, after von Karma, the only one deserving the name of Edgeworth. Gone too soon—Missile, had been its name— the hug too. Not knowing what to do with Miles’ inaction, Phoenix had moved away.
The clock kept ticking. Miles didn't want to grieve the littlest attention he’d gotten, but he didn't want to ask for more either. They circled back to what they knew best.
“Didn't you say you had work in the morning?”
“Hm…? Not the first time I’m pulling an all nighter.” Phoenix yawned. “Don't worry about it.”
“I am not worried. Not about you anyway.” Phoenix snorted, Miles had never seen a person snort so much. “I’m more concerned you're going to manage to get your client the death penalty.”
He could feel Phoenix’s eyes boring into his neck, the question obvious.
“I’ve seen you pull some real miracles in the courtroom, Wright,” he said in answer, letting the words leave the confines of his mind for the first time. “It has… made me question the validity of my past actions.”
Phoenix made a sound, affirmative, as if it had been the natural course of action and for a moment, anger flashed in Miles’ chest. He exhaled through his nose. He was not the one who had manipulated you.
He’s not your enemy.
“You planning on retiring now?” Phoenix waved his hand around, trying to disperse the tension. “You already got the look.”
“Would you take me seriously,” he snapped and immediately regretted it as Phoenix stilled and leaned away. “I know you’re curious about why I called you, but for a reason unbeknownst to me you haven’t started badgering me yet.”
“Do you want me to?” he asked quietly. “Miles. Of course I’m—I’m curious, I’m anxious, I’m worried. But you’re a friend to me, not an uncooperative witness. And I’m not dumb enough not to notice that whatever it is, it’s something I probably shouldn’t be prying out of you.”
A friend. When had been the last time someone called him that? Miles Edgeworth didn’t have friends. Friends were an obstacle on the path of perfection. Franziska was at best, a relative and at worst, a workplace associate, and he couldn’t think of anyone else that was closer to him than that. But Phoenix Wright regarded him as a friend. And of course, Phoenix Wright was pathetic and gullible and stuck in the past Miles had locked away and eaten the key for and of course, he had no idea what he was talking about, wanting to be friends with a person who’d tried so ferociously to put him in jail for murder, and of course, it was preposterous, but the loneliness growing inside him for the past fifteen years was worse, and suddenly he couldn’t even breathe—
“A friend?” he choked out, the key stuck in his throat. He couldn’t swallow it back down. “I don’t—”
Deserve it, know what being a friend means, deserve you
“Think of me that way? Yeah, I know.” It was so easy for Phoenix to say, and his heart constricted. “But that won’t change the way I feel. It never really has, just so we’re clear.”
And yet it had changed everything about the way Miles felt. The room fell quiet and Miles could focus on the soothing pattern of Phoenix’s breathing, now a respectable distance away from him on the couch. A terrifying thought: he’d been operating based on faulty information. And then, encouraged by it:
"I was going to kill myself.”
He said it with the same monotony one described the weather. The him of the day before would've smirked at the way Phoenix's eyes widened comically, his mouth opening and closing like a fish hadn't he been so terrified of the devil he’d unleashed by saying these six words.
Speechless for probably the first time in his life, Phoenix just kept looking at him, his eyes urging him to continue. But what else was there to say? For all the meticulous planning Miles had done he hadn't exactly intended to talk to anyone about it, or to talk at all, ever again. But here he was, in his childhood best friend’s office, the urge to pour everything out threatening to drown him from the inside.
But first, the shame, all of it. It had been building steadily during the course of their outing, reminded Miles that it had been a mistake, he should've never opened his mouth, should've chucked his phone into the water below him, why had he even brought his goddamn phone with him?, like a coward he ran from the arms of death into another, foolishly believing that it would change—something. As if Phoenix Wright could save him from himself, so insistent on not being here but too cowardly to let it happen. What could he do to piece Miles back together and why did Miles want it in the first place?
"As I said," he started again, desperate for Phoenix to respond, to understand, anything, as long as he didn't have to say more on the matter. He didn't know what. He knew they'd never be able to come back from it if he did know. "I had been fully ready to end my life, not too long ago."
He let his head down, unable to support the weight of it any longer, and it was then that he noticed Phoenix's hand twitching. He watched as intently when he took his other hand to steady it.
"…and why didn't you?" Straight to the point, and from any other mouth, from von Karma’s mouth, it would've been an accusation, thinly veiled with disappointment, you couldn't even do that, you worthless boy, but not from Phoenix, his words genuine and the look in his eyes even more so. His arms no longer shook, instead it was his voice. The rhythmic squeezing around his wrist pushing the trembling upwards, into his vocal chords.
And what kind of answer had Phoenix Wright been expecting? Miles didn't know, but he was certain it had been something he was not able to give himself, much less him. Why indeed? And then he didn't have to think it through any longer because Phoenix started sobbing in front of him, and it was a sound as startling as it was soothing. The same lips closing over the edge of the mug, trembling, red.
It was not the first time Miles had listened to the sound of Phoenix’s crying. Out of the two of them, he’d always been more prone to emotional outbursts, and Miles had been—jealous, even. How easy it was for Phoenix to show his emotions, to sympathize with others, to cry during a sad movie. Even after their reunion fifteen years down the line, he’d seen him furtively brush stray tears away from his eyes during recess, and he ached, reminded of everything he had lost that would never be his again. The image of the crying child was all he’d allowed himself to carry, except—
Now Phoenix was next to him, and Miles could actually do something about it, this longing; the thing he’d denied himself the first time Phoenix had embraced him tonight. Slowly, he raised his hand, letting it travel, from Phoenix’s rough hand, his forearm, the worn material over his shoulder up to the strands of his hair. He relaxed his grip, knowing they would never speak of this.
“Miles—” he croaked. “Fuck, I—’’ He raked his hand through his hair then too, briefly caught Miles’ fingers with his own. “I didn't think it was that serious, God, when you, at your office, I didn't—”
“I don't need your pity,” he cut him off before anything could come out, anything he wasn't ready for. “I just need you to know.”
A tense silence enveloped them, and Miles was scared. He held his breath and stilled his hand, simultaneously afraid of Phoenix understanding and not understanding, knowing and not knowing, staying and leaving, comforting him and laughing at him. His mind was loud, but Phoenix’s heaving was louder and he tried his very best to let it soothe him, not break his heart in half.
It had been a recent development, this—unfounded fondness, Miles would call it. Entirely unnecessary, detrimental to his well-being, and most importantly, to his work, turning his whole world upside down, taking, depriving him of stability his life had been built on, effectively pushing him into writing that accursed note. And yet, as fiercely as Miles had tried to run from it, it chased him down in the form of Phoenix Wright. he swirled his finger around the coil of his hair. Still soft.
“I just found you,” Phoenix said suddenly and lifted his head up.
He didn't know how to comfort someone after telling them about their suicide attempt. He felt ill equipped to deal with it, and he thought, as Phoenix spiraled, why is he the one crying and not me.
“You can’t leave,” he started and the words pulled out of him like a sickness, like he had been holding a cough. “You can’t. The trials are over, you're safe, why would you even—”
“There is life outside of the court, Wright, did you know that? There is my life. My life that I’m never getting back” Because of you, he didn't say, yet somehow Phoenix heard it all the same.
“What, so it’s my fault now? Do you want me to apologize for not letting you rot in prison for murders you didn't commit?”
“Wright, you know that I—”
“What do you even want me to say?” sounded like “I’m not good at this.”
“And you?” sounded like “Me neither”, and yet, itching to let the emotions go one way or another, he pushed on, not believing a word he was saying. “Do you expect me—expect me to bow down to you now that it’s finished? Name you my eternal savior, what—”
“You just want to yell at me, so fine, be that way. But a fucking thanks would've been enough, just so you know.”
He watched Phoenix put his hand through his hair again and let him continue, the cough insistent.
“You wanted me here. I— I don't know why, why me specifically, you know I’m shit at the whole comforting thing, you saw it first hand, hell, you're seeing it right now. It’s like we’re— I don't know. All this time I thought it would all be over after I’ve proved your innocence and sent the right guys to jail, and it would all be, normal, and here you are wanting die and it’s—”
“Excuse me, and in what way does my—my taking my own life affect you?”
“Oh, I don't know, Edgeworth, in every fucking way, every possible way, what do you fucking think?”
“Very well.” The mugs clattered as he stood up. “Next time I decide to kill myself I’ll make sure to reconsider so as not to hurt Phoenix Wright’s feelings!”
“Jesus fuck, how selfish do you think I am?”
“Is this not about you? You meddle in my business and then cry in front of me about a decision I have made that, may I remind you, doesn't concern you in the slightest!”
Suddenly Phoenix was much closer to him. “God forbid anyone fucking cares about you then! Why did you even call me if you wanted to die this badly!”
Static, and then:
“Fuck… I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn't mean to—”
“You did,” he simply said.
“Edgeworth—”
“You did and I won’t hold it against you.”
“You should! Fucking hell, Edgeworth. This was a mistake.”
“Wright—”
“I’m glad—Really glad you had my number.” He exhaled, the movement rocking his whole body. “But this was a mistake. You really should call 911.”
“Wright, are you seriously asking me to leave—”
“Yes!” He threw his hands in the air . “No! God. I don't know what I’m asking. You shouldn't be alone, but all I know is that if I stay near you any longer I’m going to fuck this up beyond repair.”
“You won’t.”
“What?”
“I know you won’t,” he said and in that moment, he wasn't sure of anything but this. “Wright, please.”
And whatever he saw in Miles’ eyes then, in the grip on his elbow, in the same way he had said please just an hour ago, was enough to make him sit back down on the couch. He followed him, as if pulled, and as Phoenix attached himself to him again, Miles knew: nothing had changed. Phoenix was still telling him to not leave, just as insistently, into his skin, with every grip of his fingers on his shoulder.
It was quiet again, but the sort of quiet one got in a museum, silence to think, to look, to ponder what you were looking at, so Miles did just that. He closed his eyes, opened them, let himself feel the warm broad hands circling his upper arms, the sniffling near his ear, softness under his fingertips, the slight tremble of breath against his skin.
“It’s not fine,” Phoenix said to no one in particular, in that petulant tone that would’ve sent Miles off had he not been so positively drained.
“Nothing is,” was all he said in reply. Then, his head fell forward and, strangely and against reason, came sleep.
He left the office six hours later to pack his clothes and catch the nearest flight, with a crick in his neck and a dent on his arm, a reminder of how strong Phoenix Wright’s grip was when he was scared.
The time difference between Japanifornia and Berlin is 9 hours, for your information
+49 XXXX-XXXXXX
- M.E.