Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the second time in his life, Miles Edgeworth wakes up staring at the ceiling of a cold, bright white room, not quite sure of how he got there. The harsh fluorescent lights feel like knives through his eyes and into his already-pounding head, so he squints and raises an almost unbearably heavy hand to shield his eyes. He tries to concentrate on where he is and why, but his thoughts are fuzzy and only semi-coherent and he doesn’t even have the focus to feel frustrated when an answer doesn’t immediately bubble up to the surface of his mind.

After a few moments, though, the sounds of murmurs from the hallway and short, rhythmic beeping break through his daze, and then the scent of cleaning chemicals makes him realize the familiarity of the setting. His hand moves down from his eyes to his neck, where raw, stinging skin is covered with gauze and tape, and the sudden rush of memories throws his mind back into lucidity.

The pieces are falling into place now, the order of them not perfectly clear but that’s not important to him right now, as he remembers. He remembers considering his options, finally deciding on a length of rope that he’d found in the garage; anything else might have made too much of a mess. He remembers standing on an old chair, tying the rope to a support beam that he hoped was strong enough to support his weight.

He remembers opening his eyes that morning, wrapped in a feeling of odd but not unwelcome serenity, somehow having already decided during those waking moments that it was as good a day as any. Miles almost wishes he could have that calm and tranquility back, but he figures that for now he deserves the self-loathing and disappointment and humiliation that feels like a bowling ball has been dropped on his chest.

Miles hears someone approaching the entrance to his room, and he closes his eyes. If a doctor or nurse saw him awake, they would want him to speak, and he isn’t ready. Not right now. So he pretends to be asleep while he listens to someone pick up the chart at the end of his bed and the scratching of their pen on the paper.

He wonders what’s written on it. It’s probably the second time the phrase “lack of oxygen to the brain” will be in his medical records, at least. He wonders how long he was unconscious, or what sort of permanent damage he might have caused. And with a knot forming in his stomach, Miles wonders if someone noticed the scars on his hips and thighs, the older ones more faded but still noticeably more jagged thanks to hesitant hands and the newer ones a darker pink against his pale skin but straighter and more surgical, while he was being changed out of his normal clothes and into a hospital gown.

Most of all, though, he wonders what he did wrong, because he was nothing if not a meticulous planner. He had waited until the manor was empty, before Manfred von Karma came back from the Prosecutor’s Office and after the maid left and Franziska was off to her piano lessons. He should have had plenty of time, according to his own calculations, so it makes no sense to him that he’s alive. He had intended to be found hanging limply, unable to be awoken, face blue or purple or whatever combination of colors that came with asphyxiation-- not in a state where calls for help and attempts to revive him could still prove successful. There must have been something he missed, a variable he didn’t account for, something that still evaded the scrutiny of the logical thinking he thought he was good at.

I can’t even kill myself correctly.

He suddenly turns his focus to keeping his breathing even, because he is startled by the feeling of the other person in the room putting their fingers on his neck, gently lifting a corner of the gauze to check on the skin beneath. The dressing must not need changed, because they pat the tape and gauze back down and then he hears them leave. But now that he’s alone again he doesn’t bother to open his eyes, hoping to drift back to sleep for now, because he figures he’ll have the rest of his life to contemplate his failures.

-----

When he wakes up again, it isn’t of his own volition but instead due to the recognizable rhythmic tapping of cane-on-floor, and a cold tendril of dread wraps itself around his insides. For a few sleepy seconds he lets himself hope that he’s dreaming and that his mentor hasn’t just arrived, presumably to chastise him, but when Miles opens his eyes he sees Manfred von Karma approaching his bed and looking particularly unamused.

Neither of them acknowledge each other as Manfred crosses to the side of the room opposite the door. They spend a few moments in silence while Miles stares at the ceiling and concentrates on taking deep breaths, and Manfred settles into a chair by his bedside. He turns to prop his cane up against where the back of his chair meets the wall and then turns back, crossing one leg over the other and resting his folded-together hands on his knee.

Miles is quite familiar with his mentor’s harshly condescending glares; he knew even without looking when he was the target of them, and he imagines that this one is particularly contemptuous. He continues to stare straight ahead at the ceiling, taking a few more long breaths before he finally tries to break the silence.

“Sir, I--” he manages to choke out hoarsely-- he underestimated the damage to his vocal cords, it seems-- but he’s interrupted.

“You’ve made yourself quite an inconvenience to me, Miles Edgeworth.” Miles winces, because Manfred has a particular tone of voice that he uses to say his full name when he wants to remind Miles of his place as a mere student and not a true von Karma, and that was it. “Are you going to stare at the ceiling or are you going to face me properly?”

Miles looks around for a moment and finds a panel of buttons printed with up and down arrows on the side rail of the bed. He presses on one of the buttons labeled with an upward-pointing arrow and the upper third of the bed begins to rise with a mechanical whirr. He stops when the head of the bed is inclined enough that he can sit up without making any effort to do so himself. He looks at Manfred, unsure of what to say next or if he should say anything at all, but after a moment his mentor takes the initiative and speaks first.

“The maid found you. She heard suspicious noises coming from the garage after she returned to the manor to retrieve something she’d left behind, fortunately for you.” Probably the sound of the chair falling after he kicked it out from under himself, Miles laments, wishing he’d been more careful. Manfred continues, “Are you happy with yourself?”

The question catches Miles off-guard, so he sputters for a second before responding. “I-I’m... not sure what you mean, sir,” he responds in a whisper loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to make the rasp in his voice less evident.

“Are you satisfied with this foolish little stunt you’ve pulled? I don’t believe that I need to remind you that the von Karma household has a reputation to maintain. Gossip travels quickly, and your pathetic cry for attention is no exemption.

“Surely even you must understand that it is degrading and humiliating to have to explain the fact that the child I took in, the son of a lowly defense attorney, the boy who had nowhere to go so I chose to feed, clothe, house, and educate him, attempted to hang himself in my own home, and to accept sympathies and well-wishes on behalf of such an undeserving ingrate.”

Manfred has made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice. Miles wants to protest, to speak up and defend himself, to say that he needs help, but fear of the resulting consequences causes him to stay silent, balling his hands into fists and digging his fingernails into his palms to suppress an outburst. He opens his mouth to start apologizing instead, but stops when Manfred picks up his cane again, standing and closing the distance between himself and Miles.

Before Miles can even process what’s happening, Manfred places his free hand on his neck and presses against it, closing off his airway. Miles tries to struggle against him, but gives up quickly after realizing that not only is he too weak, but the more he struggles, the harder Manfred presses.

“You are merely a student, but you are my student. You will be held to the same, if not greater standards under which I place my own children, my flesh and blood. You will recover. You will continue to study to be a prosecutor. You will not speak of or attempt this foolishness again, and if you choose to defy that order, I suggest that you try harder to finish the job properly next time.”

As soon as Manfred releases his grip, Miles begins to cough and sputter as air tries to rush into his lungs through his already weakened windpipe. As his fight to catch his breath dies down and he’s able to breathe in deeply, a passing nurse in the hallway stops in his doorway.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” the nurse says chipperly, walking into the room. She stops halfway, glances between them, and after an awkwardly silent few moments, she asks, “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Manfred begins as he nonchalantly smooths out the cuff on one of his jacket sleeves. “I was just leaving.”

Manfred makes his way toward the door without looking back at Miles, satisfied that he had made his point and that no further reinforcement would be required, and Miles watches him leave, ashamed and wishing harder than ever that his escape efforts hadn’t been in vain.

Chapter Text

Miles isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, between one of the walls of Phoenix Wright’s apartment and Phoenix Wright himself, both of their jackets haphazardly abandoned on the floor, and with the other man’s lips pressing feverish kisses against his own. Well, logically he knew exactly how he got there, but there was always something about Phoenix that drew him in while simultaneously bringing out the humanity and spontaneity and compassion he’d spent so long thinking he’d abandoned. That's the part he's never been able to figure out, but he's a little distracted to question it for now.

After a few more minutes they have to pause to come up for air, so Phoenix uses the opportunity to pull Miles away from the wall by the waist, maneuvering and guiding him to the sofa. He gently pushes Miles back onto it and into a sitting position and straddles him, supporting his upper body by placing a hand against the back of the sofa next to Miles’s head. Miles briefly considers asking Phoenix if what they’re doing is really alright with him and that maybe they should talk first-- he isn’t quite sure of the proper etiquette concerning intimacy with one’s rival and childhood friend after faking one’s own death for a year-- but he finds the answer when they lock eyes for a moment, each of their faces mirroring the same craving for the other.

Miles puts one of his own hands on Phoenix’s hip, gripping it lightly to keep them close, and uses the other hand to curl his fingers into the hair on the back of his head to pull him down and into a deep kiss. When they break apart, Phoenix changes his focus, planting a trail of kisses along and just barely scraping his bottom teeth on the underside of Miles’s jawline, unable to keep himself from smiling against the other man’s cheek when he lets out a shallow but pleasurable gasp, tilting his head slightly to allow Phoenix better access.

When Phoenix’s lips finally find the spot where Miles’s jaw meets his ear, he stops to speak. “It feels like it’s a thousand degrees in here,” he begins breathlessly, and he hooks a finger under Miles’s cravat, tugging at the silk to loosen it. “I don’t know how you’re still wearing this thing--”

Miles feels Phoenix’s finger brush against his neck, and his breath hitches in his throat as a tendril of sudden, insuppressible panic grabs him and pulls him harshly out of the moment. “W-wait, Wright, stop--” he stammers, grabbing Phoenix’s wrist and pulling it away from him with a little more force than he means to, “Please, don’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Phoenix asks as he backs up slightly, eyes suddenly wide with concern. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s not that, I just--” Miles’s heart is pounding in his ears and he looks downward to avert his gaze from Phoenix for a few moments. “I… I think I should go,” he says finally, letting go of Phoenix’s wrist. He attempts to move to stand, hoping he can maneuver himself from under the other man, but he’s stopped by a flat hand to his chest, firm enough to stop him from getting up but lacking enough force to hurt him.

“Edgeworth, stop. Don’t leave, just talk to me, please,” Phoenix says, keeping his hand in place. Miles continues staring downward to avoid eye contact, shoulders rigid, and several silent seconds pass before Phoenix adds, “...Please, don’t disappear on me again.”

Miles isn't sure he owes Phoenix an explanation, but there’s something desperate and pleading about his voice (and Miles is sure he has the damnably expressive eyes to match), and he feels a cold shard of guilt in his chest because it reminds him of Adrian Andrews as she begged him not to reveal her secret in court only days before. It was secret that was entirely too similar to his own, but he’d decided during his year away that he would dedicate himself to finding the truth, holding himself to that promise even if it meant coldly and ruthlessly exposing a woman’s suicide attempt to the public.

Suddenly it seems undeniably hypocritical and selfish of him to hide the same thing, especially from someone who he’s been through so much with and knows him better than anyone, someone who is important to him and he's certain he can trust.

With a deep breath Miles relaxes his shoulders and settles back into the sofa, finally looking up to meet Phoenix’s gaze. Phoenix lets out a sigh, relieved that it doesn’t seem like he’s going to try to leave again, so he removes his hand and leans back a bit to give Miles some extra space, but he stays on his lap. “What’s wrong?”

Miles swallows hard, taking a moment or two to mentally prepare himself, and he begins to remove the cravat around his neck. When it’s completely off and the skin under it is exposed, Phoenix lowers his head slightly to look, and his eyes widen not with confusion, but rather realization and understanding. Miles isn’t surprised, considering they’ve just spent a few days looking at Celeste Inpax’s suicide report-- though her skin was torn and raw in the autopsy photos compared to his own scar that has long since healed over, the shape of the discoloration on his pale skin is unmistakable.

Phoenix leans forward again, reaching a hand out and running his thumb along a few inches of the scar on one side. The touch is faint but it’s unfamiliar, and Miles tenses slightly at it, which Phoenix notices so he retracts his hand.

“Sorry, I just…” Phoenix trails off, and then raises his head to look at Miles again. “When did this happen?”

“Eleven years ago. I was fourteen,” Miles answers softly, unconsciously raising his own hand to his neck, as though to protect it. “It’s… not something that I’m especially used to other people seeing.”

Miles watches Phoenix as he climbs off of him to give him more space, opting for a spot next to him on the sofa and sitting sideways on it to face him. He can tell Phoenix has more to say, so he waits patiently without speaking.

“So then, a year ago, when you left,” Phoenix begins hesitantly, looking for any indication that Miles might not want him to continue but Miles seems to be expecting the question, so he does. “Did you... try again?”

Miles takes a slow breath, considering his words. “No, I didn’t. But... that was my plan.” He can tell that Phoenix is going to prod him for more details anyway, so he continues, looking down at his hands and absent-mindedly playing with the silk cravat. “I was quite… distraught, as I’m sure you remember, but I changed my mind not long after I left. It was in part because I was afraid because I failed the first time. The idea that I might wake up if I tried again, possibly even with irreparable physical damage, was unbearable.

“The other part was because… of you, I suppose,” Miles looks up to see if Phoenix reacted to that, which he did with a bit of confusion and slightly redder cheeks than he had the last time he looked at the other man’s face. In careful, measured words, he keeps speaking, “I never forgot you, you know. But after von Karma took me in, I was made to feel... broken, like there was something fundamentally wrong with me. Which was his intention, I’m sure-- I was still young, so he could break me down and mold me into whatever he wanted and while still constantly reminding me that I was in his debt.

“I wasn’t allowed to read your letters when they came in the mail. He made sure I was there to watch while he threw them into the fireplace. But, at the time… knowing that you were still thinking of me, even though I could never respond, was the only thing that kept me connected to who I was.

“And then last year, when you believed in my innocence even when I was so sure of my guilt, I realized that was you reaching out to me again-- not to the broken ‘demon prosecutor,’ but you could still see the child I was before my father died. And I changed my mind, because I thought… maybe I wasn’t beyond repair after all. But I didn’t come back immediately because I wanted to find out for myself. I... didn’t want to rely on anyone else to find the answer.” When Miles finishes speaking, he looks at Phoenix again, this time expecting a response.

“...Have you heard of Kintsugi?” Phoenix finally asks after a moment of hesitation, and now it’s Miles’s turn to be confused.

“I… no, I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s something that I learned about in one of my major classes in college. It’s a Japanese method of fixing things like broken pottery and ceramics. They’d mix together resin and gold or silver powder and use it to repair the pieces or sometimes replace missing ones.”

Miles isn’t sure where the impromptu art lecture is coming from, but despite Phoenix not noticing or just completely ignoring his confusion, he listens quietly as Phoenix continues.

“There’s some interesting philosophy behind it. The idea is that by repairing the pieces with a precious metal they become more beautiful because they were broken, and the damage becomes part of the piece instead of being disguised.

“Everybody has chips and cracks-- some people certainly more than others. But they can be filled when you take what you’ve been through, and you use those experiences to try and make sure nobody else has to go through that-- or at least not alone-- and to help other people recover, too. And that’s the gold, I guess. But... it’s okay to ask for help, because you can’t always repair the damage on your own, you know.”

When Phoenix ends his explanation, he realizes Miles is staring at him, and he’s suddenly incredibly self-conscious. He looks down and away, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I know that just sounds like stupid rambling, but it’s something that always stuck with me because it reminded me of the class trial in elementary school, and--”

His words are interrupted when Miles cups Phoenix’s face in his hands to tilt it back up, and he leans in to kiss him again, slowly, gently, but thoroughly.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Miles reassures after their lips part again, and he can see an affectionate warmth in Phoenix’s eyes-- which, Miles mused, never were good at keeping his emotions disguised, but if Miles was a more experienced and optimistic man, he would see something there that’s more than that.

He’s caught off-guard when Phoenix wraps his arms around his shoulders and back, pulling him in close. It takes few seconds for Miles to relax into the unexpected embrace, but he finds the simplicity of the gesture is surprisingly comforting and he returns it, allowing his head to drop and rest on Phoenix’s shoulder. Phoenix moves a hand up to tangle his fingers into Miles’s hair.

“I’m so happy that you’re alive, Miles.”

When Miles replies a few moments later, it’s soft and slightly muffled and he isn’t quite sure if he’s saying it for Phoenix’s reassurance or his own, but it's the truth so the words bring him contentment all the same.

“So am I.”