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His first life had been spent on the plague. He had been young, only eighty, and it had happened quickly. Just a few blurred days of pain and sweat and sleep until he woke up in a burning house, dry heat scorching his throat, burning embers at his feet.
He had escaped through a basement window- shattered glass, howling flames, black smoke pouring into the night sky. He had coughed and coughed through his soot stained throat and it had almost been enough to claim his second life. But he treated his weeping burns with trembling hands and he wheezed out clouds of ash for days afterwards.
He had been very carefully not to catch the plague again.
Nobles in the high courts talk about “the new world,” and Miles thinks that he’s seen enough of Europe, so he stows away on a ship.
He doesn’t remember much of this life. The air had been sharp with salt, from the curing of meat to the tang of the ocean outside, and the boat had rocked and swayed for endless months. Even for an immortal, it took a very long time to cross the ocean.
The air is stale and sour with vomit. Someone had died in the next room over, and they had discarded the body into the sea, but it isn’t enough to ward off the scent of death from the cabin doors.
Miles doesn’t spend a lot of time below deck. He learns from the sailors instead, how to tie knots and whistle with his hands. They like him on board. They offer him a place more than once. Says he’s got natural sea legs, and the ocean is his home, they can see it in his eyes. He pulls at the rope until his hands are rubbed raw. Fresh blood. One of them.
You’re young, they tell him. Don’t sign your life away to the sea. Go and explore, the world is ripe and bountiful for a young man such as yourself.
He is nearly four hundred years their senior, when they tell him this.
He smiles politely. Thank you sir, for the offer.
He loses his second life on board that ship. He catches the disease his neighbor had, maybe it was airborne, or maybe there’s a curse soaked into these wooden boards. He hates it. Let him reach land. He tries to hang on through his fever addled brain, as the ship jolts, as the wood groans. Don’t let him be lost to the ocean.
He doesn’t see the sailors with their dark eyes, their thinly pressed lips, as they throw his young body into the sea. So young, they had murmured, as the foam slams closed above Miles’ head.
He blinks awake on the seabed, but there is nothing he can do as the salt water fills his lungs. He chokes and convulses, trapped under tons of atmospheric pressure with wide eyes, his mouth stretched into a soundless scream as he surrenders his third life to the inky depths of the ocean.
He wakes up in the new world anyway. Maybe the ocean had been kind to him, and pulled him in her warm currents directly onto shore. He is waterlogged and dazed and sluggish, and he coughs out salt water for hours afterwards.
There’s grit in his eyes, in his hair, crusted into his fingernails. He has cracked lips and pale skin and calloused hands. But the air here is clear and crisp and new, as he stumbles across the shore.
His first coherent thought about the new world is that it is very, very green.
Miles is content in the new world. Or America, as they’re calling it now. His life is more or less stable, and he appreciates it. God knows that he’s been waiting for a quiet moment for five hundred and twenty three years.
He is in a farming community. He has to move often, but he finds that he quite likes provincial life. He finds himself missing Europe, at times, but he is in no rush to cross the ocean again. So it seems he’s stuck in America for the indefinite future.
It would be easier to live in a city. There would be more people, so it would be easier for him to blend in. He could be forgettable, and it would be a blessing for an immortal being such as himself.
It would have been preferable, if cities were anything like he remembers them to be. But they’re clogged with fumes and smog these days, and the people there are harsh and cruel and worn. Always with a job to do, always with a place to be.
But he likes small villages and towns too much. It is a flaw of his, his appreciation of human connection. So he lets them think they know him. He lets them fuss over him as an “orphan”, he lets them titter over his accent and his manners, and he pretends not to notice when they keep leaving him in a room with their eldest daughter.
He doesn’t have much for bridewealth, anyway. No one seems to mind this, but if they get too close, Miles will have to move again. It’s a shame, but it’s how his life is now.
American provincial life is pleasant and slow and he finds that he appreciates it. It is hard to find a rural pocket in the north, with the way the industrial revolution has set its roots, and he loathes the day he has to turn his gaze south in his wandering.
The temperament there is sweltering and unpleasant. The people there, even worse.
But that is years in the future. One thing he’s learned from being ageless is to appreciate the moment. There are many of them, of course, and they’re all impossible to get back. Time marches endlessly onward, and he is simply a passenger.
The leaves crunch under his feet. It is the last time it will happen exactly this way. Next year he will be an older version of himself, with different circumstances, in a different place. Last year he was crunching leaves somewhere along the harbor. This year he is in the heart the woods, under tall oaks that nearly block the pale Autumn sky above him.
He takes a moment to breathe in the sweet air. Time is leaving him behind. The sailors he once knew have been dead for two hundred and thirteen years. But he still remembers how to tie a fisherman’s knot, how to whistle with his hands. Sometimes, it is almost enough.
He was so young then. It’s hard to believe that he isn’t getting any older.
The people in the town like him for his calm gaze, his patience, his humor. But they don’t understand him. He uses outdated words, references events none of them recognize. But they let him work in their fields and offer him a place at their table, nonetheless.
It’s windy today, he can see the gusts carding through the trees. It isn’t a good day to be walking in the forest, lest a branch be knocked loose. The oaks are tall and sturdy, but the weather is getting colder, and with it, they are dying too.
Miles is the only one that isn’t dying, it seems. Maybe he’s being careless. But his life is one of solitude and wandering, so what’s one more soundless death in the forest? The moment will have been worth it.
A breeze ruffles his hair. A woman next door will bring cider to him in the evening, because she feels bad for him in his solitude, and she will knit with thick yarn, knocking her needles together and quoting bible passages at him as the sun slips far below the hills.
Provincial life. Family, community. He is at best a visitor, at worst an intruder. But maybe he enjoys their cheer and red faces, just like he had enjoyed the sound of the ocean, once.
The trees creak overhead, shuddering under the force of the wind, he hears an impressive crack, but he hardly flinches.
It’s only when he looks up from is musing to realize that someone has appeared in the woods, farther along the path. The man is turned away, surveying his surroundings. Miles approaches, nervous.
His heart beats heavy in his chest. Has no one told the stranger of the dangers of wandering through the woods on days like today?
He picks up his pace, opening his mouth to call out. The stranger is oblivious, relaxed, as they take a few steps forward, buffeted by the wind. A tree bellows overhead. He hears another crack.
Miles breaks into a run, panic constricting his throat, but he has to save this human, he has to.
The man starts to turn as he hears Miles approach. But there’s no time, the momentum carries him forward, he is pushed by the wind as a sturdy branch comes free with a sickening lurch.
Miles feels himself propelled forward, he feels his hand on the stranger’s back, pushing him. He feels a terrible weight on his head, his neck, his shoulders, as the branch lands. He feels his nose break against the ground, feels thick warm blood on his face through the terrible pressure in his skull.
He opens his mouth to take a wheezing breath through the spiking pain, and then he is still.
“Oh God. Oh my God. Holy shit. I just killed a man. What do I do now? Will they burn me at the stake for this?”
Miles groans softly, feeling life stirring in his veins. He takes a moment to breathe, slowly, keeping his eyes closed, letting himself sink into the forest floor.
The leaves on the ground are sweet with decay. He smells leaves and dirt, rich and pungent.
He always liked Autumn. One of his favorite seasons.
He takes a deeper breath. His hand twitches. Whoever is babbling above him stops talking.
Leaves rustling. Miles is looking at the inside of his eyelids. He takes another breath, screwing his face into a frown.
“Are you okay?”
Then he blinks his eyes open.
His breath catches in his throat at the renewed pain in his skull. He groans again, louder, and fights the urge to close his eyes against the dizzying blur his vision has become.
He brings a hand up to press against his eyes. The pressure helps, somehow. He slowly peels himself off the forest floor and flips onto his back. Blinks his eyes open again. The stars swirl above him, and there is a nagging pain in his head, boring into his skull.
And there’s a person above him, peering down with worried eyes.
They’re blue, Miles thinks, slow through the haze of pain. They remind him of the ocean before he hated it. He opens his mouth to speak. His mouth is dry, his tongue is thick and useless. He swallows. Tries again.
The stranger doesn’t seem to notice. “Thank goodness,” he breathes, “I was really worried. Thought maybe this was some sort of Butterfly Effect thing.”
Miles keeps breathing, not trying to understand what the strange man is going on about. “Excuse me?” he finally croaks, and the man looks at him again.
The man quiets, looking down at him, “You’re really alive, huh,” he says, softly, “I’m so sorry about that. What I did- I mean. I was being an idiot. Sorry.”
Miles sits up. It’s easier. The world doesn’t spin as much. But maybe he still has some lasting brain damage, because he can’t seem to understand what this stranger is even saying, much less pinpoint his accent.
The man smiles uneasily as Miles continues to stare at him. “Oh man, what year is it?” he says, nervously, “Um. Art thou okay?”
Miles face cracks into a smile before he can stop himself, and he lets out an amused breath, “It’s 1833.”
The smile fades. Miles takes a moment to wonder how he’s going to get out of this. The man clearly saw him come back to life. In more superstitious places, he would be considered a miracle of God. In less kinder cases…
It’s a shame really. He was starting to like this town. The elderly lady next door will wonder where he’s been, as she waits with cider and half finished shawls.
The man seems to decide something, holding a hand out for a handshake. Miles takes it, still slightly bewildered.
“I’m Phoenix Wright,” the man says, “rookie time traveller. It’s nice to meet you.”
Miles shakes his hand, glancing over the man’s attire. It’s an assortment of rich blues, but it’s different from the blue-green of the ocean, so it doesn’t make Miles’ stomach turn quite so much.
Rookie time traveller, huh. Being an immortal, it doesn’t surprise him that much.
“I’ve seen you before,” Miles realizes, still holding Phoenix’s hand in his.
Phoenix doesn’t move to pull his hands away, but he frowns. “You probably saw a future version of me. This is my first time time-travelling.”
Miles looks at their hands. Looks at Phoenix’s eyes. Makes a decision.
“Miles Edgeworth,” he says, “I’ve lived five hundred and seventy three years so far, but this is the first time I’ve met someone like you.”
Phoenix smiles. His eyes crinkle around the edges.
Phoenix doesn’t stay long. He disappears in a flash of light as the sun peeks over the hills, scattering pink clouds over the horizon.
“I’ll come back,” Phoenix promises, “I’ll find you again.”
Miles nods. “Okay,” he says, and doesn’t think about where he’ll be the next time he sees Phoenix.
Still, he doesn’t expect the wait to be so long. He used to mark the passage of time in hundreds, or fifties, maybe, but he finds himself marking every single year that passes that he doesn’t see Phoenix.
There are thirty one. Thirty one winters and springs. Eleven thousand three hundred and fifteen days and nights, he waits. Time has never felt so slow.
He is listening to the radio. He had left the town where he first met Phoenix twenty eight years ago, regrettably. He made an excuse, his sister back home is ill and has no husband, his mother is old and wishes to see him before she passes. He has to leave them, he is sorry, but perhaps they’ll meet again someday.
They gift him with warm breads and blankets for his journey. He spends his last night with cider on the porch, among the townsfolk that think they know him. They’ll be sorry to see him go. He is sorry too.
A girl, Lucy, cries when he tells her the news. She begs to accompany him. Tells him she loves him dearly, she wants to be with him. He holds her small warm hands in his and tells her he must make the journey alone, do not wait for him.
The train passes slowly through the countryside. His hands are restless, nervous, as he taps them against his seat. The country is lush and green and brimming with life. He can see flourishing crops and a single strawberry roan horse working the field.
He turns his gaze away. He never much liked starting over. But the rocking of the train is different from the slow roll of ships on ocean waves, and he finds that he prefers the quick jolts and the screech of metal on metal much more than the whine of straining wood and crashing waves.
He spends his first night in a tavern on the outskirts of town. The air is warm and inviting, and yellow lamps cast a welcoming glow through the clouded windows. There is a pleasant buzz of chatter inside, a few drunken men caught in brazen loud drinking songs, slurring and sloshing beer over their shirts when they lean on each other.
The tavern is built from dark brown wood, stretched tall in arching ceilings. He hears the chatter of nondescript conversation, spikes of laughter, the sounds of footsteps, the sweep of faded dresses on the dusty floor.
It is a place for travelers, for storytellers and ambitious locals who dream of life outside of their small town.
They are curious about him. He is young and already so partial to brooding. He hears people whisper when he approaches the bar, wondering about him. A gangly young boy with fiery red hair approaches him, climbing onto the bar stool, brave enough to ask him of his tales. The boy smiles with his bright green eyes and his bouncing curls. He has an older sister, he tells Miles. His parents own the tavern.
Some day, he’s going to get out of this town and see the world. He wants to go to the city. Have you ever been, mister?
Do not travel, Miles tells the boy. Do not travel, it is dangerous and tiresome, and you will never find home anywhere else other than where you left it.
The boy’s lips twist into a frown. They are red where he has bitten them. It is a habit forged after a parade of strict school teachers and dusty blackboards, days and days of hands covered in chalk in a crowded schoolhouse and the sting of the school teacher’s strike.
The boy tells him of glory and riches and adventure, spinning tales of conquest and discovery with fervor and hope. The boy tells him that he must not have been on the right adventures, seen the right things. It’s going to be different for him, he tells Miles.
A woman with silver blond hair reprimands the boy for bothering him. The visitor is tired and weary, the woman (his mother) scolds, leave him to rest.
The boy slides off the barstool, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder, and the owner of the tavern offers him a room for the night. He accepts, smiling into his drink as the boy pickpockets one of the more inebriated patrons.
He looks up from his book when he catches a flash of light from the corner of his eye. Phoenix materializes soon after, glancing around the room. He relaxes when his eyes stray to Miles, and sits on the chair across from him.
“It’s you,” Miles says, pleasantly surprised. He closes his book and sets it on the table.
“It’s me,” Phoenix confirms, rolling his shoulder to tease out a few lingering aches. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been faring well,” he says, “the year has been kind thus far.”
Phoenix smiles, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’ve been getting the hang of this time traveling thing,” he tells him, “I got here on the first try.”
“Why travel?” Miles wonders, “You have a family waiting for you back home, of course? What use could you have of wandering?”
Phoenix settles back into the chair, “It’s more fun this way. Wouldn’t you go back, if you had the chance?”
Miles considers. What waits for him in the past? It would be useless to revisit old haunts, knowing that he would be working on borrowed time.
“It would not soothe the pain of parting, no matter how many times I relive it,” he says to Phoenix’s sharp blue eyes, “There is no use in delaying the inevitable.”
If there’s one thing he knows about time, it is that is progresses onward, no matter what happens in this life. It is the only known constant of the universe, the only comfort he has in this great sprawling unknown.
Who is he to question that? Who is he to refuse the gift of immortality, a gift so generously given, by treading into histories he was not meant to exist in? He has chosen where to spend his infinite amount of time, he is not so greedy as to ask for more than he has been given.
He tells Phoenix this. Phoenix frowns thoughtfully, his black hair catching on the candlelight, illuminating his features.
“So you’re content with aimless wandering?” Phoenix asks him, when he is done, “You don’t ever want to make a lasting difference on the world?”
“I am but a spectator,” he tells Phoenix, weary and slow, “I have seen hundreds of years of human creation. It is my job to witness, not to partake.”
Phoenix rests his head on his hands, thoughtful. They stay that way for a long time, as the moon arches overhead, as the earth turns into yet another anonymous day.
“What about you?” Miles says, a hint of curiosity seeping into his voice, “Have you any goal in your sporadic travels?”
Phoenix’s gaze is downcast, he breathes steadily, “I guess I’m just here to experience as much as I can,” he tells Miles after a pregnant moment, “There’s so much that I don’t know. I want to learn more about human existence.”
He thinks for a moment. “Human existence,” he repeats, tasting the words on his tongue, “There is nothing in particular I want with this life,” Miles feels himself smile, “but I would be honored to accompany you in your endeavors.”
Phoenix smiles brightly, and Miles feels something hopeful sprouting in his chest, poking through his rib cage. It is a purpose for him. It breathes a gentle wash of color into his heart, and it makes him feel a lightness he has not felt in a long time.
“I’ll help you find what you’re looking for,” he says to Phoenix, feeling the dying warmth of the candle as the room grows darker around them. “I can’t promise that I will be of any use, but I can share my experiences with you.”
Phoenix smiles widely, “Great,” he says as the candle flickers in a pool of wax, as he shadows curl around his features. “You’ll be my informant. We’ll have little adventures.”
Miles feels sleep around the edges of his eyelids, but he meets Phoenix’s gaze with a resolve of his own. He has a purpose to his life, for the first time. It makes the world seem fresh and new, and the infinite future doesn’t seem all that daunting with Phoenix at his side.
So he holds out his hand, and they shake on it. “And with that,” Miles says as the light fades, “I’ll leave the rest in your capable hands...partner.”
New York City winters are endless and bitter, and this one is no exception. It feels like a lesson he should have learned long ago, as he trudges through piling snow, as the cold wind slices his face. He burrows his hands in his pockets as he drags himself through the city streets, just trying to get through it.
The wind howls, the blizzard rages on. Miles has only a few more blocks to go, or maybe he can find a bar to defrost in, whichever comes first. He casually looks, over eyes narrowed against the cold.
He sees two men in suits are scuffling in an alley, through the blizzard. They stumble in the deep snow, and Miles can hear an occasional shout pierce through the smothering wind.
He can’t hear what they’re saying, as he passes. But he does hear the shot ring out, and he feels a sudden sharp warmth spreading through his back. His legs buckle beneath him before the pain registers, and his breath catches in his throat when he hits the ground.
He feels the wetness on his back, a burning pain laced through his sides as he struggles to take a breath. His lungs spasm, whether it’s from the cold or the agony, he cannot tell. But his eyes are wide with shock, and he can see his blood soaking into the snow, staining it red.
The mounting snowfall quickly covers the splash of red, but it’s all he can see before his vision fades to black.
He wakes up groggy. His back aches and stings when he pries himself from the layers of snow. He lays on it heavily, and it supports his weight. He breathes. His lungs spasm in the frigid air, so he coughs wetly in clouds of breath.
He is cold. He is wet and tired and cold. His body is stiff, and he is so tired, suddenly. He could fall asleep here. The thought sends a pleasant warmth through him. His body aches too much to get up.
He stares up at the sky. The skin around his mouth is pulled tight with dried blood. His lips are chapped, his nose is pink and raw, and he sucks in breath after breath, feeling the pain shoot through his ribcage.
He looks at the sky. It is gray and endless. He sees snowflakes, they fall against his vision, catch onto his eyelashes.
He is tired. There is snow gathering on his chest, burying his splayed arms. There is a certain sepulchral air hanging in the frozen city, with it's white snow and dark gray buildings. Even Miles Edgeworth is only ever gray and white, splayed out on the ground as the temperature plummets. The only color is the browning of dried blood. It had been red when it was spilled, the only spark of color in this blank canvas.
He feels his eyes drift closed. He sluggishly blinks them open. What is this, his fifth life? Sixth? Is he ready to spend them on bullet wounds and hypothermia?
Maybe. He has more. He can spare some. And he is so tired and soaked and heavy, and the snow is so cold.
He sighs. His chest barely raises with the movement. The blood inside him is beginning to freeze in his veins. He closes his eyes and prepares to die again.
He stirs back to awareness. Why?
He feels a pressure somewhere in his consciousness. His shoulder. It is stiff and waterlogged. More pressure. Around his head. Two hands on each of his cheeks. Then a hand on his neck. Looking for a pulse.
He hears garbled speech, wiped out by the wind. He peeks his eyes open, and it almost takes all of his strength.
The man props Miles up, frozen and stiff and encased in ice. He can hardly tell the difference. He supposes if he could feel it, he would be writhing in agony over the man’s knee in his healing bullet wound, but he can’t feel anything. Is he breathing? It feels like he might not be.
He looks at the stranger blearily. He can’t see their face in the blizzard. He sees their mouth moving against the white backdrop.
What are they saying? It feels so far away.
He is cold. He thinks of the color blue for some reason. It feels familiar. He wants to hold it close to him. He supposes he would be happy dying this way, with the memory of blue trapped behind his eyelids.
Blue. Blue ocean. Blue lips. Frostbite. Purple lips, pale skin. Blue fingers and toes. Death. Death is always the color blue.
Phoenix. Is Phoenix death? Is he the reaper, appearing by Miles side only when he is close to dying?
Blue eyes. Sparkling with laughter. Hidden depths. Blue suit jacket. Warm hands, smiles, laughter.
No, of course not.
Someone is carrying him through the snow. Did he fall asleep? Did he die again? He feels himself moving. He feels someone’s arms around him. He feels the stranger’s warmth seeping into him.
“Phoenix,” he mumbles.
The person pauses. Adjusts their grip. Keeps walking. Miles closes his eyes to the warmth. Phoenix , he thinks, Phoenix.
He wakes up alone.
He wonders if he died of hypothermia anyway. Maybe whoever it was that saved him was too late. What life does that make it? Five, six?
He’ll go on the safe side and say that he has three lives left. If it turns out that he’s wrong, then that means he actually has four. Better safe than sorry.
He sits up. He’s in his bed. His bed in his apartment in the city. At least he feels alive. He gets out of bed. The only person who knows where he lives is Phoenix. Does that mean Phoenix saved him?
He finds a note on his kitchen counter. After a lot of squinting, he is able to decode the handwriting. Don’t they teach cursive in school anymore?
Miles,
I guess our first adventure will have to wait. Don’t go off into storms alone! Drink tea. Stay indoors until the roads are clear, at least. And take care of yourself.
I tried my best to get the blood out of your coat and shirt. We’ll talk about it when I see you next. Be careful, I mean it.
-Phoenix Wright
He folds the letter and tucks it into his pocket. He sees his shirt and coat hanging up by the radiator. They’re dry. Phoenix had tried to get the blood out, like he had said. His shirt is too far gone, but his coat might be salvageable.
He takes out a sewing kit, and gets to work.
Twelve years later, Phoenix flashes into his living room as the clock strikes midnight. He startles at the sudden noise, glancing around the room in surprise.
Miles raises his glass of champagne. “Happy New Year,” he says, draining his glass.
Phoenix wanders over to sit beside him, frowning. “I do have impeccable timing,” he jokes, but his heart isn’t in it.
Miles can feel the anxiety radiating off him, so he waits, spinning his glass by the neck between two fingers.
Phoenix watches the glass spin. “What was that, the last time I was here?”
“I was hit by a stray bullet on my way home,” he says. The glass keeps spinning, and he looks at the droplets of alcohol still left on the rims.
Phoenix swallows. Looks down.
“Does this...happen a lot?” Is what he finally comes up with.
Miles puts the glass down, deciding to take the conversation seriously. “1888 was one of the snowiest blizzards on record,” he tells Phoenix, “we got twenty one inches of snow. It killed about two hundred people. If I had known that beforehand, I wouldn’t have been so keen to set foot in it.”
Phoenix seems satisfied by this answer, and he relaxes a bit. But he still seems thoughtful, so Miles waits for him.
“I had thought…” Phoenix pauses, chewing the inside of his lip. “I had thought maybe you did it on purpose.”
Miles frowns. “On purpose?” he echoes, “No, I do not particularly enjoy dying. I try to avoid it.”
The last of the tension seeps out of Phoenix’s shoulders. He sighs. “It was scary,” he murmurs, “You were still and frozen. Your lips were purple. I worried that you wouldn’t come back. I tried to stay until you woke up, but...”
Miles raises a hand, “I had thought it was you,” he says, “I don’t remember much, but I had a feeling.”
Phoenix gives him an empty smile, and they share the moment on the dawn of the next century.
“I don’t remember it,” Miles says suddenly. “Dying. I think you saved my life.”
Phoenix takes a deep breath, offering Miles a weak, but genuine smile. “That’s good,” he says, “Happy New Year.”
Miles looks into his eyes. He gets up suddenly, and returns with two bubbling glasses of champagne. He hands one to Phoenix. They take a moment to hear a neighbor's radio through the walls, listening to laughter and noise and celebration that unites the city.
“A turning point in the history of the world, is what they’re calling it,” Miles remembers. He laughs, “How many times have I heard that one before?”
Why does the English language have to be so infuriating? He had just gotten used to it when they go and switch it up again. Miles’ head is swimming from all this new slang, all these new inventions that need names.
And the fashion, why must it always change? All the girls decided to cut their hair short and wear dresses with fringes, all the men wear hats and ties. And these cars, these awful, filthy machines, they crowd roads and fill the air with foul smelling fog and let out shrill screams of the horn every time he takes a step off the sidewalk.
Miles sips his tea, trying his best to forget about the noise and chaos outside. Maybe it’s time to move back to the countryside again.
Phoenix stumbles into his living room in a burst of light. He glances around and when his gaze lands on Miles, calmly reading a newspaper in his own home, he suddenly looks embarrassed.
"Sorry," he blurts, with wide eyes. "Wrong century, I think."
Miles calmly takes a sip of his tea, and there is another flash of light as Phoenix disappears.
He slowly places his cup back on the plate. There is another flash of light. "Not again," Phoenix mutters, frowning. "Sorry about that. I'm trying to get to 1925."
Miles blinks at him. "It is 1925."
Now Phoenix looks even more confused as he squints. "Then why are you dressed like it’s the 1700’s? Cravats went out of style ages ago."
Miles bristles, "I happen to like them."
A smile breaks across Phoenix's face. "Is it Halloween?"
"You know as well as I do that the holiday is a fad and will die out soon. It’s only existed for about forty years. You can’t just invent a new holiday like that."
A secretive smile creeps across Phoenix’s face as he choses to ignore Miles comment. He flops down on Miles' couch. "So, what's new?"
"The television was invented last week, and my neighbor Claudia finally got rid of that yappy dog of hers."
Phoenix nods, "Exciting," he notes, with a goofy smile on his face.
Miles eyes him. "And what are you back here for?"
"I just wanted to see you. Is that such a crime?"
Miles sighs, "You want to go to the speakeasies."
Phoenix pretends to consider before smiling again, "Alcohol is more fun when it's illegal."
Miles looks forlornly at his cooling tea, his forgotten article, and prepares to give up the rest of his quiet evening.
“Why don’t you go to these more often?” Phoenix yells over the noise, “I’ve been practicing the Charleston with my daughter just so I could dance with you, Miles!”
He rolls his eyes. He misses when music made sense. There were rules and traditions, a certain respect for the instrument. This new invention, jazz, it’s uneven and choppy and wrong sounding, and he hates that he can’t quite get the beat out of his head. He taps his foot without noticing.
A player blares on the trumpet. How do people like this? It’s loud and disruptive. It breaks all the rules that had governed music for centuries. Centuries! You can’t just throw away tradition that easily.
“You’re going to miss it when it’s gone,” Phoenix calls over the disjointed cacophony of sound, “It’s the best thing since sliced bread.”
A girl with a frilly dress walks by and winks at Phoenix. Miles stares at him, bewildered through his headache, wondering if this is another one of Phoenix's futuristic slang.
Phoenix say something that’s probably a curse word, though Miles doesn’t recognize it. “I forgot, sliced bread wasn’t invented yet. There goes my joke.”
That makes Miles crack a smile for the first time since the evening had begun. Phoenix sits next to him. Miles misses when bars were for humble travelers and owned by families.
He thinks about the red haired boy that had asked him for his stories. He must be in his seventies by now, if he is still alive. Miles takes a moment to wonder if he ever went on any of his adventures, and if they lived up to his expectations.
The boy must be old and wrinkled by now, if he’s still alive. Miles wonders if he ever raised any rambunctious children of his own, wide eyed adventurous ones that spilled out of bedroom windows past curfew, itching to embark on their own adventures.
But he doesn’t make any friends in the speakeasy, in between bootlegs and bronze. Bars these days are seedy and dark and dirty and illegal instead, and no one cares about their neighbor. Everyone keeps their stories to themselves in the dim light. It’s a shame, really.
The faint light catches on Phoenix’s white teeth as he talks to a flapper, clumsy with his use of the slang Miles had begrudgingly taught him. He’s wearing clothes that Miles had bought him, so he could fit in easier.
The girl laughs harshly, bold and daring through the cloud of cigarette smoke and hedonistic indulgence.
“Well aren’t you the berries!” The girl laughs with red lips, putting her hand on Phoenix’s shoulder. “Cash or check?”
Phoenix frowns at Miles, “I thought we paid already?”
Miles waves the girl off. “He’s not interested,” he tells her, and glares at her until she shrugs and wanders off.
He flushes slightly under Phoenix’ curious gaze, though he blames it on the alcohol. “She wanted to know when you wanted to…get with her.” he coughs, embarrassed.
“Oh,” Phoenix brings a hand up to his face. Miles looks at his lips in the dim light.
“But if you want to, then by all means,” Miles waves his hand, pretending to be unaffected, “You can track her down again. I’ll see you in forty years.”
Phoenix frowns. “I didn’t come here for her,” he says, “I came here to get you to dance with me! So come on. The sooner you do the sooner we can leave.”
Miles feels a smile pulling on the edge of his lips. He takes Phoenix’s offered hand, and the band strikes up a song that actually sounds like music as they spin and swing under the bright lights.
Phoenix laughs loudly in the night air. Miles is warmed by the memory of energetic music, breathless through the dance, through the warmth of Phoenix’s eyes on him. He smiles at the memory, and Phoenix catches his gaze.
“See?” He says, voice still loud from the club, “Isn’t life better when you’re actively taking part?”
Life is better when I’m with you.
He finds himself laughing, and to his surprise he cannot stop. He can’t remember the last time he had been this full of happiness, this comfortable with his company. Phoenix’s eyes are bright and joyful in the night.
Miles Edgeworth has been alive for six hundred and sixty five years, but this is the first time he really feels like it.
"Same time next week?"
"You mean in thirty years?"
Phoenix makes a face. "I'll skip the world wars and economic depression, thank you very much. I'll see you in the fifties, okay? Get a better fashion sense in the meantime! We'll go to a sock hop and drink milkshakes."
"You have a terribly biased view of the fifties."
"It's not like you would know, since you haven't lived it yet."
The flash behind him startles the horses, but they calm down after a moment of nervous jittering. He stalls before getting into the carriage, glancing back to see what had caused the disruption.
The stranger looks horrifically out of place. He’s wearing clothes that are unlike anything Miles has ever seen, dyed a deep blue. The stranger must be rich, Miles thinks, to afford such outlandish clothes.
“Still wearing that cravat,” The stranger notices, cocking an eyebrow.
“1742 is a strange year,” Miles narrows his eyes, “But I’m confident that it will have a comeback in fashion. Is that why you must bother me?”
“No,” the man says, “I’m here because you told me to tell you to enjoy horse and buggies before they invent the next best thing.”
Miles frowns. Who is this person? Why is he talking like they know each other already? He’s never seen this man in his life.
He turns away, trying to think of a way to phrase his questions, but when he looks back, the man is gone.
There is one known truth about the universe, and it is that time stretches infinitely onward, progressing through three neat stages: past, present, future. Everything is sorted neatly into those categories, each second, minute, month. Every moment he holds is aging before his eyes.
He has lived a very long life. He has seen countless deaths and births. He had pressed his back against crumble cathedral walls, survived plague and wars and famines.
But horrors like those do not stay in the past. They cannot be confined to the assigned box. They stretch out with cloying tendrils and taint the present, the future. Will all the years he’s lived, he should expect it.
There’s nothing that the Great Depression doesn’t destroy with it’s all encompassing reach.
Miles gives his food away. Gives his clothes away, his money. He gives until he is thin and weak and exhausted. He sleeps in damp shelters and walks until his legs give out from under him. His eyes are sunken and weary. There is dust everywhere, etched onto his skin. Hunger is a dull pang in his stomach, day and night. It drains the world of all color.
He has no words to describe the thirties. His hunger has taken it all out of him. He hardly remembers the time. But there is one known truth about the universe, so time must be passing somehow, even if he can hardly feel it.
All he does is pass food through his hands and give up shelter onto those who need it more. The mortal humans. They have a family. They have connections and such precious little time on earth. It’s not right for him to take what he doesn’t need. He has so much more time they they do. They deserve to live.
He had always been jealous of their human connections. It is a fatal flaw of his. Maybe life would be easier, if he didn’t care so much. These humans have families and bonds and such limited time. They deserve to live.
But it doesn’t stop the death. The thirties are hot and dusty and endless. A constant blazing sun, crops blackened and withered, a drought that seeps all life from the earth until it is simply a husk, a carcass, as livestock starve in the field until even their bones are reduced to dust.
One known truth in the universe.
His hands shake.
This too shall pass.
His skin is stretched tight against his ribs.
Logically, it has to. Time moves forward endlessly.
He is gaunt, pale, ashen.
It is the only reliable variable, the only true constant.
He takes in as little as he can. He has no right to take more. Their suffering is not his suffering. In only ten years, he loses two lives to starvation.
He avoids the World Wars. He only has one or two lives left. He has to be careful. Somehow, he manages to stay out of it, though his frown hardly lifts.
He does not see Phoenix. He has spent longer without him, but this stretch of time feels unbearable long in particular.
How can life recover from such loss? The carefree, lighthearted atmosphere of the twenty’s seems alien and implausible. Did it ever truly exist?
The years drag on, etching a scowl into his face. It has been twenty one years since he’s last seen Phoenix. His happiness then was fleeting and far away. He should have known it would not stay.
Who could have guessed what the 20th century would bring? Who could have predicted all of the death and loss?
But the only known truth of the universe is that time creeps onward. Though with the way Phoenix moves back and forth through time, even that might not be a truth anymore.
He senses more than sees Phoenix appear behind him. He is tired, drained, run into the ground. He has no energy. He has nothing.
He turns to Phoenix just to watch the way the man’s face falls when he sees Miles’ expression.
Phoenix approaches cautiously, like Miles might lash out at any sudden movement. He holds Miles’ tired, cracked hands, and he looks at him with worried eyes.
Miles can’t seem to look back at him. He feels empty. He stares into the distance. He wants to hug his arms into his chest, make himself seem smaller, like a wounded animal. He wants to disappear.
“I’m tired, Phoenix,” he rasps, and that’s all he can say before Phoenix pulls him into a hug.
He feels himself shaking in Phoenix’s strong arms. He leans into the embrace, breathing in Phoenix’s scent, and it’s then that he realizes he’s crying.
He clutches Phoenix’s jacket with his cold, aching hands, letting the sobs rack through him.
Phoenix holds him for a very long time. Miles has been alive for six hundred and eighty six years, but he’s never felt as exhausted as he has in this moment. He sobs until his throat is raw, until his eyes are red and stinging, until his hands shake.
When Phoenix pulls away, he is solemn and quiet, and something in his eyes makes Miles’ heart ache.
Phoenix’s soft hands glance over his tear streaked face, and Miles can see longing and an incredibly tenderness in his gaze. Miles sighs, and they keep the contact.
Miles brings his hand up to hold Phoenix’s hand against his cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he says, “I miss you when you’re not here. I don’t know how I survived before I met you.”
Phoenix looks sad. “I know,” he says, “I miss you too. Come and find me in the year 2028, okay? We’ll live long happy lives together.”
He smiles wetly, “Okay,” he breathes. He wants to spend his last life with Phoenix. He knows this, has always known this. He’s earned this. He’s seen enough.
There is another known truth in the universe: he wants to spend his last life with Phoenix. He’s sacrificed enough. Just let him have this one life of content, is all he asks.
With some repositioning, he leans against Phoenix’s chest. They’re sitting on the couch in the 1950’s, and Miles is listening to Phoenix’s heartbeat.
“Remember what you said, all those years ago?” Miles murmurs, watching the dying light of the afternoon filter through the window. “You asked me if my life had meaning. I had thought that I was content with simply wandering and witnessing. But I’ve learned a lot about suffering in these past twenty years.”
He sighs at the memory. “A hundred years ago, I would not have gotten involved with humanity's plight. But I want to do more since I met you. I want to be a part of it, this human experience.”
He hears a vibration of laughter from where his head rest’s on Phoenix’s broad chest. “I’m glad,” Phoenix says, and there’s a certain heaviness in his voice that Miles can’t quite place. “I want to spend my life with you. You’re the adventure I’ve been looking for.”
MIles twists his head up at the sudden thickness in Phoenix’s voice, but he isn’t prepared to see tears spilling down his cheek. Miles lifts his hand to wipe them away, and Phoenix takes a deep breath.
“I’m only doing this to prevent a paradox,” Phoenix says through his tears. “Okay? Don’t hate me for this.”
Miles doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t affect his answer. “Phoenix,” he says, calmly, “I could never hate you.”
Phoenix smiles again, bitter. “I know,” he says, “that’s the worst part.”
Miles kisses him. It’s a dumb move, and he shouldn’t have done it, but all doubts leave his mind when he feels Phoenix kissing him back. His lips are as soft as they look, Miles finds. The rest of his thoughts are lost to the warmth of Phoenix’s hand and the light, breathless feeling of joy inside him.
They pulls apart, breathing heavily, and he braces his hands on Phoenix’s chest. They look into each other’s eyes.
“Did you know you would find me in the woods that day, when you first came here? How do you always know where I am?”
Phoenix shakes his head, “No,” his eyes don’t leave Miles’ “I just got lucky. I guess something in me was drawn to you.”
Miles thinks about the nature of the universe as he smoothes one of Phoenix’s stray hairs. The peace and relaxation he’s feeling is unmatched, unprecedented, as he watches Phoenix dry his eyes.
“I’m glad we have each other,” Miles says. It feels like something that was meant to happen, something he’s been waiting for for a long time, before he even knew that it existed.
Phoenix grins back at him and voices his thoughts. “You think our souls are connected through space time, or something?"
Miles can feel his lips twitch into a smile. "Perhaps."
He sighs in frustration as a flash of light appears somewhere behind him.
"Tell a younger version of me to enjoy horse and buggy before it's too late," he mutters darkly the moment Phoenix materializes.
Phoenix cocks an eyebrow, "Why's that?"
Miles simply turns to show him his ruined shirt, stained with mud splatters from multiple passing cars.
Phoenix tells him he has to be in New York in August of 1969, preferably as close as possible to a town called Bethel. Miles decides to do what he’s told and not question it. If this is what Phoenix wants to use his knowledge of the future for, then who is Miles to judge?
On August fifteenth, Phoenix bursts into his life and they make it through the rain and mud and traffic to a festival called Woodstock.
Phoenix is charged with energy and excitement through it all, telling Miles about how his mother is here right now, actually, somewhere in the crowd. This is years before she met his father, so hopefully they don’t mess that up and prevent him from being born.
They made a movie like that, did you know, Miles? Of course you didn’t. It hasn’t come out yet.
“Back to the Future,” Phoenix tells him through the noise, “We’ll go see it in 1985, so mark your calendar, okay?”
“Okay,” he calls back, deciding that he doesn’t care to decipher what Phoenix is going on about.
“What’s the future like?”
“Which part?” Phoenix taps out a beat that Miles doesn’t recognize as he leans his head against Phoenix’s chest. A radio tune from his time, then. “Have anything specific in mind?”
He considers. “Tell me about your life,” he asks, twisting his head up to look at Phoenix. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a full time time traveler.”
“Phoenix.”
“Fine, I’m a lawyer.”
This sparks his interest. “I didn’t take you to be the type.”
Phoenix laughs quietly for a few moments, and Miles closes his eyes as if to absorb the sound, commit it to memory.
“I can’t always come back. People will wonder where I am,” Phoenix sounds apologetic, “I have to work sometimes.”
“You said you have a daughter?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Trucy. She’s adopted.”
Miles smiles at the note of warmth in Phoenix’s voice. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen. But she’s a gift, honestly. Really into magic. I should go back to see one of Houdini’s acts just to make her jealous.”
He feels Phoenix’s arms around him. Phoenix has a family. What more could he want from this life? Is he so discontent with what he has that he seeks to stretch his influence through space and time, instead of living with his family in the present?
How greedy, Miles thinks, how messy and entitled. Phoenix has been granted the human connection that Miles longs for, and he is still asking for more?
What does the past offer? He wants to ask. What can it give you that you can’t find at home? Why wander when you already have everything you need in one place?
He is reminded of something he had said, once. What was it? Home is always where you left it?
“I once met a boy who wished to travel and see the world,” he tells Phoenix with a voiced weighed down by sleep. “I had advised him not to leave in search of fulfillment he could easily find at home. Do not waste your time searching, I told him, only to return to find the time you’ve lost.”
Miles gazes up at Phoenix, who is watching him attentively. “You have a family waiting for you in the future, what more could you want here? All of human existence could not match the bond of a single family. What do you look for in the past that you do not already have in the present?”
Phoenix stares down at him with his deep blue eyes, face blank and impassive.
And he simply says: “You.”
Miles wonders if he should tell Phoenix about his remaining lives. But they’re so close now, so maybe it doesn’t matter. He only has to live thirty nine more years without dying. He’s gone through worse. He just has to be careful.
And he is. They go see the second Back to the Future movie in theaters after seeing the first one together, and Phoenix tells him about all the things they got right about the year 2015, and all the things they didn’t. He doesn’t really like movie theaters as much as he liked regular theater, or even the silent ones.
But with Phoenix by his side, it isn’t so bad.
So he starts to hope. He starts to make plans. In his excitement, ten more years pass. The world digitalizes. The lexicon changes. But in his excitement, he hardly notices. He is close now.
The 20th century was long and grueling and cruel, and he is ready for the year 2000. The world is ending, they tell him, and he thinks, Good riddance. It’s about time.
Ten more years. He is so close. Will time slow down once he is allowed to spend his life with Phoenix?
Phoenix visits and they make plans through giddy excitement. Miles almost doesn’t notice the changing world, how long ago the life he knew was.
He doesn’t remember how to tie a fisherman’s knot. He can’t whistle with his hands. He doesn’t remember the slang of the twenty’s. Even the brutal edge of the Great Depression is lessened, blunted by time and memory.
He is seven hundred and fifty years old, and all he has to do is live for eighteen more years, and all of it will have been worth it.
But if there is another known truth of the universe, it is that it’s chaotic and unpredictable.
Ten more years. 2020. He is close, so close. He lives on the opposite coast as Phoenix. Phoenix is awake and living and breathing in the same time as he is. It is exciting and invigorating and he fights the urge to fly across the country and meet him early, just to have more time together. But if he interrupts Phoenix while he is currently traveling back to create Miles’ memories of him, it would obstruct the flow of time. So he has to wait.
He marks the passing years obsessively. 2021, 22, 23. He has been waiting so long.
And then, he flies to California. Descriptions? There are none. He is much too excited to think of words to describe the scenery. He has too much on his mind, to many important things to think about.
2028. Happy New Year. The happiest one he can remember. He has been instructed to meet Phoenix on a certain day. They have gone over the plan in between quick kisses, made promises and shared secret smiles together.
- He is around the corner. He has to wait for a certain time. He glances at his clock. 2028. It’s going to be perfect. And it’s here, finally.
He glances around the corner. His heart leaps in his throat. Phoenix. There he is, that blue suit, that spiked black hair. He’s facing away from him, that’s perfect, it’s just like how they first met, with the tree branch.
Seven hundred and sixty eight years, he has waited for this moment. Seven hundred and sixty eight years, and the span of a single second, he forgets everything that he has learned.
He gets closer. He hears his name being called somewhere behind him. He looks over, and three things happen in quick succession:
- He looks over to see a car speeding down the road, swerving. Phoenix looks over too.
- Miles’ mind realizes something before he is consciously aware of it. He hears his feet hit the pavement.
- His hand on Phoenix’s back, shoving him out of the way. Muscle memory.
And then the car slams into his side and he knows nothing.
Nine lives. The Plague, sickness, drowning, blunt force, a bullet, hypothermia, and two spent on starvation. And one for a car accident.
But Phoenix only has one life. Phoenix only has one and Miles- Miles only has one left as well. Still, that knowledge didn’t stop him. It’s a sacrifice he’s glad to make. This is another known truth to the universe, that Miles would do anything to save Phoenix.
He feels himself hit the ground hard, he hears something snap and crunch and break, but the pain doesn’t reach him until he’s spread on the road. He gasps reflexively, stares at the blood streaks on the black road through spotted vision.
He sees a bone jutting out of his leg. His femur, the hardest bone to break. It is pearly and white and broken and poking through his flesh and skin-
Miles gags, tearing his eyes away from the sight. His ribs are cracked and loose inside him, his skull his aching, and he thinks, oh, this is my last life.
This is the last one. Shouldn’t this be a more monumental occasion? He has lived seven hundred and sixty eight years. Two hundred eighty thousand and three hundred and twenty days. And this is his last one.
Soon, everything he will have done will have been for nothing. His life, spanned nine centuries, will be useless. What has he learned in the meantime? What was the point? Having died so many times, he doesn’t miss the irony in being so woefully unprepared for death.
It saved Phoenix’s life. Of course it’s worth it. There was never any question, never any doubt.
He sees Phoenix kneel down at his side, scanning his body in a sweeping, frantic glance. His face is pale, his breath is coming out in short pants, as he props Miles’ body up. It helps him breathe easier. He leans into Phoenix, trying to remember as much as he can.
He’s going to be dead soon. Is there no pain because this is the last one? Phoenix is carding his shaking hands through Miles' hair as he takes shallow breaths.
Phoenix. Phoenix. Miles opens his mouth to speak, but blood pours out instead. He sucks in another breath, trying to form words through the coughs that rattle his body.
“Don’t speak,” Phoenix begs him. But Phoenix doesn’t understand. This is the last time they’ll get to talk. He isn’t going to come back again. So he keeps trying, and all he succeeds in doing is letting out a few choked syllables and reawakening the pain that shoots through him.
“Phoenix,” he chokes. “I wasn’t just. Watching. I took p-part in life.”
“Shh, shh,” Phoenix says through his tears, cradling his limp, broken body in his arms. “It’s okay. Tell me when you wake up, okay?”
He coughs again and grimaces. “Not. Going to.”
Phoenix frowns. “What?”
Miles wheezes, feeling blood spill down his chin, feeling himself shake from exertion and pain. “N-nine. Nine lives.”
He can feel Phoenix stiffen. Miles arches back as another series of coughs rack his body. He feels his bones grinding together, and he struggles to stay conscious through the pain. He keeps his eyes on Phoenix, but the man isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at the blood on the road with horror.
“Miles,” Phoenix breathes, “Tell me this isn’t the last one.”
Miles barely hears him.
“Phoenix,” he croaks. Shadows crowd his vision, but he can see Phoenix’s worried blue eyes through the haze. He takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to smile with bloodied lips. “Phoenix. Love you.”
“Miles?” he hears a note of panic and fear in Phoenix’s voice. His eyes close.
He doesn’t wake up.
Phoenix stares listlessly at the office. The others don’t understand. They’re worried. But they don’t understand. They see how dark his eyes are, they see the purple bags under his eyes and how his lips are constantly downturned.
They’re worried. They have every right to be. Especially because he refuses to explain what caused this.
But he doesn’t want to talk to them. He wants to talk to Miles.
And he could, if he went back. He could talk to Miles at any point in the timeline. He could even go back to talk to Miles before the-
The accident. The last of his nine lives. Like a cat. Plenty of jokes spring to mind at this revelation, but none of them are really funny without Miles there to roll his eyes.
He goes back only twice. Way before the accident. One time they only have a simple conversation.
The second time is in the 1950’s. And with a heavy heart, Phoenix tells Miles to meet him in the future, knowing what will happen to him. But he has to do it. Miles kisses him softly and doesn’t fully understand.
But no, he doesn’t deserve to go back to the scene of the accident. Because doing so wouldn’t solve his problem. He could call Miles away, redirect his attention so he doesn’t see the car speeding towards Phoenix before it’s too late.
How come he couldn’t predict this? He had been standing on the sidewalk, waiting. A week later, a future version of him he had been across the street, trying to stop it from happening.
He knows, because he has tried on many occasions. All it really means is that Phoenix would cease to exist when the car hits him. And something in the universe doesn’t seem to like that, maybe a complicated past suicide is against the laws of time travel, because it never works. Miles never hears him call out, never pauses.
He spent his last life on Phoenix. All Phoenix had been doing is messing around with time travel, trying to enjoy life, while Miles been living and dying, painstakingly spending his entire ancient life waiting for this one moment to finally be happy. And Phoenix ruins it. Of course.
He’s a fool. Miles had been the one enjoying the human experience. All Phoenix is is a tourist. It’s all he’s ever been.
He wakes up. His first coherent thought is: holy shit.
He blames it on the weird slang in the 21st century and prolonged exposure to Phoenix. When was the last time he died? 1933? Such a long time ago. Almost a century.
Wow. He almost went a whole century without dying? Good for him. Maybe Miles should celebrate when he figures out where he is.
He gets up. It seems that the Powers that Be aren’t content with him to be slung out on a morgue table and pumped full of formaldehyde or buried six feet under. Or cremated. That would be very inconvenient to pick up the pieces.
He flexes his hands, wiggles his toes. It is good to be alive again, even if he doesn’t really understand it.
Miles knows better. There’s a reason for this. He just has to think. Maybe he just miscalculated somewhere. Anyway, he has more important things to do, and he should start by peeling himself off the road before he gets hit by another car and ruins his second chance.
The Wright Anything Agency? What a strange name. Where did it come from?
Miles feels a flash of insecurity. What if Phoenix doesn’t answer? Or worse yet, what if his daughter answers?
Hello little girl, I’m just the neighborhood supernatural being stopping by, your father’s resurrected immortal boyfriend. What a contradiction. Is he home? Can I leave a message?
What a disaster. Maybe Phoenix and him simply weren’t meant to be together. But that’s stupid, he chides himself. So he knocks on the door before he can talk himself out of it.
What is he supposed to say? Hey Phoenix, remember when you thought I was dead? Just kidding, April fools, don’t teach this magic trick to your magician daughter.
The door opens. He gets to see Phoenix’s eyes widen in shock. He is again thankful that he had the good sense to return home and change out of his bloodied clothing beforehand.
“How?” Phoenix whispers, standing in the doorway.
Miles blinks at him. “My sixth life was spent on hypothermia on a sidewalk in New York City. Or so I had thought. Turns out you got to me in time.”
He watches Phoenix’s eyes move as he tries to remember, and he watches them go wide with realization. “You mean-”
“Yes. It seems I still have one life left to spend with you, if you would have me.”
Phoenix’s face scrunches up and he darts forward to drag Miles into a hug. Miles wraps his arms around Phoenix’s shaking frame and holds him close. Phoenix buries his face in Miles shoulder and they stay like that for a long time, leaning on each other.
“I thought you were dead.” Phoenix’s muffled voice reaches him.
Miles holds him tightly. “I had miscalculated. I was lucky, for once.”
Miles thinks about the two of them, finally connected after all of these years. He thinks about when he first met Phoenix in the forest. He had not known how his life would have been so altered, just by that brief moment of contact. But he wouldn’t change it. If that moment was so pivotal as to alter the course of his life so drastically, then he pities the version of himself that never met Phoenix.
Phoenix pulls away, and his face is blotchy and red.
“Okay,” he says, laughing disjointedly. “But you have to get rid of that cravat. There’s no more excuses, Miles, it’s time.”
He accepts Phoenix’s invitation into his home, letting his hand drift down to grasp Phoenix’s. Phoenix turns to look at him, blue eyes glinting in the fluorescent light.
“I love you,” Miles says simply, and Phoenix smiles as his breath hitches, threatening to send another round of tears rolling down his cheeks.
Phoenix leans in close. “I love you too,” he murmurs, and kisses Miles softly, sweetly.
It has always been a flaw of his, this appreciation of human connection. It’s something he’s always wanted, always envied. He thinks about all the people he’s known. This is what they had. And now it’s something that belongs to him as well.
He holds Phoenix’s hand in his. In just one moment, he’s more human than he’s ever felt.