Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i.

Miles Edgeworth distanced himself from the rest of the world at arm’s length. Manfred von Karma’s philosophies were imprinted on him from day one in the von Karma household: Relationships are mere obstacles against your potential perfection. Emotions were a weak crutch, nothing more than humans’ most compromising kryptonite. They made buffoons in love fumble and dissolved weaklings who fell out of love into sobbing messes. After repressing any insignificant feelings into the recesses of their hearts, von Karmas rose the ranks and carried perfect case records in their years.

The evidence was sound. Thus, these ideals followed Miles Edgeworth in his years as a newly introduced prosecutor. Even after returning to Los Angeles, von Karma’s teachers still itched in his mind, all of it. After leaving the von Karma household, no relationships bloomed beyond any of the professional variety; no friends, no partners, not a one.

Potential partners? Not even a thought; he could not think of a time he invited someone to his house or out for dinner, and he certainly did not plan to change that. Coworkers? They’d ask him if he wanted to grab something to eat after work, a simple and casual request, but he’d give them a disgusted look and turn away, not even gracing them with his verbal denial. Close associates, like detectives? They adhered to calling him by his last name; anything more would slash at the formality of their relationship.

Defense attorneys?

Enemies that needed to be smothered by the heel of his shoe.

He had ensured himself of that whenever he stepped foot into any courtroom, and this was especially so when one brought him to his knees and severed his perfect case record.

How dare that man? How dare he thrust himself into the world of law like the bumbling idiot he was, a novice who relied on luck and last minute saviors rather than logic or hard earned evidence? How dare he return to Edgeworth’s life, after all these years since they were children, and ruin the reputation he had upheld for years in one swift kick?

Why did he plague Miles Edgeworth’s head, like an incessant parasite?

He’d make him pay.

ii.

Two.

Two loses, both at the hands of that damned rookie defense attorney, Phoenix Wright.

Manfred had been slow on the news of his first loss, too busy with his own work to gather intel on Miles’. However, Manfred gave him well enough of an earful after the Steel Samurai Case over a phone call that was remarkably one-sided. Miles was just grateful that his mentor was not in town at the time, lest he deal with the man’s righteously furious face or Manfred grabbing him by his jabot, forceful enough to steal his breath for a moment, or the sting of the backside of a hand across his face—

He could only blame himself. Yes, he hated Wright, was infuriated at him, for his most plentiful of luck bestowed upon him, but at the end of the day, it was Miles himself who interrogated Dee Vasquez, who locked in Wright’s victory when it seemed like all was lost for the idiot.

That anger still simmered, though, and he directed it toward Phoenix Wright. Whenever he saw the man on the other side of the room, his childhood reflected in Wright’s stupidly determined eyes, drawing him back to a time when the world, once simple and naive, was not against him.

Miles pressed his hands into his face and leaned forward onto the dinner table. Even in the middle of dinner, which had gone cold, his head was still absorbed in his thoughts, which wandered to him, the one who ruined everything.

Phoenix Wright’s very presence in the courtroom continued to shake him to the core; all it did was bring back visions of the past, but with the past came the cruel reminder that Edgeworth from the past died long ago. And with the past came terrible memories and pain, so much pain, pain that stung enough in nightmares. So why did he have to look at Phoenix Wright and see himself as a child again with a genuine smile on his face and a loving father—

Miles all but jumped out of his seat, which groaned against the tiled floor. His breath was out of sorts, each inhale difficult from a constriction in his chest.

Fuck Wright. A harsh thought, yes, but he deserved it. How cruel of this man to walk in, careless and carefree, and upturn everything that Miles Edgeworth had worked on. How cruel of him to give Miles these conflicting feelings…

Despite the silence that pounded the air, his mind rang with noise and words and thoughts about von Karma’s cruel palm, of horrific screams, of Steel Samurais, of Phoenix fucking Wright.

iii.

Once he had been released from the detention center, Miles paid no heed to the invite to the dinner for Wright’s victory that was still ongoing, according to Gumshoe’s latest enthusiastic text. Rather, he drove straight home in a tense state of mind. His attempt at putting on soothing music seemed to drive his head further up the wall, so he decided against music. He drove in silence, white knuckled against the steering wheel.

When he returned home after what felt like a millennia, he slammed the car door shut. His fingers quivered as he retrieved his house keys and unlocked his front door.

Work files greeted him on the coffee table, scattered and abandoned due to him being thrown into the detention center. He was due to sort through those eventually. He shrugged out of his red suit jacket and hung it atop the coat rack, walking briskly past the table.

Miles stared at the kitchen, particular at the clock beside the fridge. Five minutes past seven; far past his typical dinner time. However, his appetite was lost on him. As to when he last had a decent meal, he could not recall, but this mattered little to his stomach, which had been feeling nauseous since the beginning of this whole damn trial.

It was over. In the course of one day, he was cleared of two murders that loomed over him, glinting and brushing over his head. The worst of his nightmares, the ones that haunted him night after night, revealed themselves to be visions born from nothing more than twisted lies. The man who had taken him under his wing was the psychotic mastermind behind it all; breaking Miles apart, manipulating and traumatizing and brainwashing and abusing him, for all of those years under his tutelage. Miles had accepted it all, believed it was right and what he deserved.

From all of that, he had been saved by Phoenix Wright.

He was grateful, and his thanks was genuine, if a bit lacking in heart, yet a strange sickness curled inside.

Miles trudged into his bedroom, then into his bathroom. Despite living alone, he locked the bathroom door behind him before throwing himself toward the sink, his hands catching the corners. His head dipped, yet the strange wave of nausea had vanished.

Still, that sickening feeling that sat like stones in his stomach persisted. It burned white hot. His shoulders trembled as he gripped the marble sink until his fingers hurt. Teeth gritted, he bowed his head again, bangs falling around his face.

Everything. Everything I’ve been taught, the past fifteen years of my life, all that suffering and bullshit…

He could see red.

It was all a fucking lie. That man… he ruined me.

Miles Edgeworth, lifting his head back up, stared into the depths of his reflection. A tired man, aged with sleepless nights and a soul broken by snake tongued lies, stared back with a withered, conflicted gaze.

He could see his features from his mother—the color of her hair, the shape of her nose—and his father—the shape of his face and his eyes—but within his eyes, von Karma glared back with a sadistic smile, eyes glistening with malice and bloodlust and he reached out a hand, inches from landing on Miles’ shoulder—

The burning blistered, and his hands fisted tautly. With a small grunt of agony hissing through his teeth, eyes shut tight, he arched his arms back.

And when he hurled them forward, pain sliced through his fingers. The sound bounced through his ears. Glass shattered and clinked as shards landed on the sink. Miles barely budged, though his nose scrunched when a lone shard nicked his cheek. And as quickly as it all happened, silence came back, blasting voluminously in his ears.

His eyes slowly opened. Shards glittered inside the bowl of the sink, reflecting from the light fixture above. His fists were still balled, small droplets of blood curling around his fingers and down his palm and down his wrist. The pain, already pressed into the back of his mind, receded. Miles looked up.

The mirror was beyond repair, and his cracked reflection stared back with broken, glossed over eyes.

The back of his pants buzzed. He retrieved his cell phone from his back pocket.

Hey, glad you’re finally outta there. Shame ya passed on the dinner, but that’s alright. Seemed Wright wished you had been there, but I think he understood. Maybe next time, Mr. Edgeworth! Have a good night, sir!

Miles tossed the phone aside. It thudded softly on the carpeted bedroom floor. He leaned on the countertop by his elbows, clutching his head in his rigid palms. Fingers scalped through gray hair as he internally begged himself to get a grip.

Too stubborn, even against himself, he collapsed onto his backside onto the bathroom floor, his back pressed against the mahogany door. As his hands buried into his face, a choked sob escaped him as he waited in agony for this real, fresh nightmare to end.

Part of Miles Edgeworth almost wished Phoenix Wright never reentered his life.

But part of him knew the truth.

iv.

… Farewell.

Miles Edgeworth stormed out of the courtroom, pushing past Wright and his companions without another word.

An overabundance of noise consumed his head, between his thoughts and others’ words. The past cast shadows over him, pointing fingers. He needed to escape the courtroom, separate himself from here as far as he could manage.

The truth, however, was not something he could escape, no matter how fast he drove back to his apartment.

No, the rumors of forgery were all false; he’d never concede to those horrendous lies, nor would he have ever stooped to such lows. The lies were birthed by furious people who wanted justice for their loved ones he sentenced as guilty. The Demon Prosecutor came to life from the myriad of lies and gossip that magazines and news columns loved to bloat.

Gant’s words, however, loitered, no matter how openly Lana Skye and Phoenix Wright sought to console him. Gant crept into his head with his poisonous, haunting words, and the poison mushroomed until it consumed him whole.

He slammed the door to his apartment shut loudly and locked it. He had to; his job came with grim caveats, such as the danger of being inside his own goddamn house. He had his fair share of stalkers, house invaders with death threats, as well as letters and phone calls and even a brick through the window. All demanded justice where the opposite saw otherwise in the system.

When he crossed into his bedroom, his eyes met his reflection of his dresser mirror. A panic-stricken look crossed his features, pained and tortured.

He thought he was doing his job. He thought he was doing right. He was so sure! He wanted to do better, but how could he, when his mistakes would always trickle in the recesses of his mind, always there, always whispering to him?

Thoughts shook him, of serial killers walking the streets, while innocents were sentenced to life in prison or given death sentences…

His stomach lurched. He launched himself into the bathroom and released what little was inside.When his stomach was emptied, he sat on the floor for a minute, rubbing his palm under his eyes.

At last he rose, and his eyes wandered to the sink. Even if he never got a replacement bathroom mirror, at the very least, he cleaned through most of the mirror shards. Most of them. One caught his eye, about the size of his thumb, which he brushed against the reflective side. Sharp edges jutted out.

He looked over at the mirror, and he blinked. Yes, he never fixed this mirror. Nevermind that it had been two months since he shoved his fists upon the glass. Part of him simply did not want to bother ordering another mirror at all. A shattered reflection stared back, hair unkempt, eyes wild.

You’re not like Gant… you’re nothing like that unjust beast. You’re… you’re better.

Am I? Who am I kidding? His fingers brushed up against the single shard perched on the sink. I don’t even know anymore. Will I ever be?

His hand tightened around sharp edges, pain pinching his fingertips. Can I ever move on? How can I move on? What more could I do from here on out? Is there even a point? I… I...

His blood grew cold.

No. No no no stop. Not this again.

When reality surfaced, he clenched his chest; under his fingertips, his heart hammered viciously. He backed up into the door, eyes wide and looking down at himself. He threw the shard into the corner. Splotches of blood landed on the bathroom floor, and he glanced down at his now cut fingers, stained a maroon red.

A shuddered breath escaped him. That wasn’t his answer. There was too much to leave behind, too much waiting for him and telling him that he could come out of his mistakes a better man. He had to prove them right. Right…

The solution, however, wasn’t here. The world surrounding him despised him, even with a few pitying souls standing at his corner, and had too strong a pride for him to convince them otherwise. Whatever he had to do to help himself grow, it was not here.

The idea was forming in his head over a quick, lackluster dinner. It grew tempting with each day that dragged by every grueling hour, every case he preceded over where he felt all eyes on him. Eyes of coworkers, companions, and when he passed by Wright one day, those eyes locked tight on his. He had to look away, lest Wright somehow figure him out.

Weeks later, he could no longer ignore what had to be done. By eight o'clock as he sat solemnly at his office desk, the plane tickets were ordered, his suitcase packed, and a pen and paper sat on his desk. He began to write out a letter that would change his life.

Miles Edgeworth wasn’t needed here, nor did he belong here, not anymore. Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth especially didn’t belong here. Perhaps the day would come, when he truly found what he was looking for, he could return a better man, a better lawyer. One not stained by von Karma’s bastardized teachers, by past wrongdoings and failures of his own right.

Wright… Phoenix Wright. Always so worried about him, too worried. Miles didn’t understand it; perhaps Wright didn’t understand him.

At least once he vanished, Wright wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. Even if Wright felt hurt even an ounce, Miles knew he’d be forgotten. Just another person lodged deep into Wright’s memory, but nothing more. More prosecutors would come into his life to challenge him and become his proper, untarnished rival. They’d replace Miles and eventually when he’d return, he’d just be another passerby in Wright’s life, not someone to save. He didn’t need any of that, didn’t deserve it.

Until that day, however…

He glanced over his shoulder, one last time into the empty expanse of his office.

No one was there to convince him out of this, at least.

Later, as he stepped out to begin what he hoped was a second chance at life, the letter of Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth’s death sat neatly on his desk.

v.

He remained professional in his calls with Gumshoe, ever stern and determined, as per usual. He kept in touch due to a case back home, although Gumshoe was unlike him, and sometimes went on about the nonwork related events going on in his life before ending their work calls. Miles could have interrupted him, told him to keep the calls white-collared, but every time, Miles let him ramble on for another five minutes.

He was adamant to never let slip the fact that talking to Gumshoe made the ache fade during those first few months in Germany. By now, these talks were commonplace.

This time, however, when Gumshoe mentioned Phoenix Wright and his newest case, Miles’ face sunk. The spoon he used to stir his tea stilled.

How long had it been, at this point? Months? Almost a year, if not already, at this point. Time accelerated with all the work he engrossed himself in and with all the time spent absorbing knowledge and delving into deep introspection and challenging and questioning himself.

Because if he ever had a moment to himself, he would take a moment to himself and think about how yes, he had coworkers in Germany who he got along with fine, but they did not compare to his rivalry with Wright or his partnership with Gumshoe.

Despite all the strange amount of homesickness, however, he knew it was all worth it.

Later in the conversation, when he told Gumshoe that he would be back in America soon, while Gumshoe sounded beyond ecstatic and Miles kept at his neutral tone, Miles himself could not help the growing smile on his face.

vi.

By the time the moon settled in the sky, Miles found himself sitting idly at the work desk in the apartment he rented out upon his sudden return to the states. With his return came a rush of paperwork, and really, he wanted to rid himself of it all as soon as possible.

One look at the clock told him it was just after midnight. After such a long, overbearing day, one might be exhausted by this point in time. However, Miles was the exact opposite, too awake to even think about entering his bedroom. The thought of pouring a cup of coffee was all too compelling by this point.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a knock at the door, and he flinched.

He had only just made his appearance back in American apparent. Gumshoe came to mind, but not only did he know for a fact that Gumshoe had joined Wright and company to have dinner and was very likely resting off a beer-inspired headache, but Gumshoe had a signature knock, as Miles had grown to understand. Loud, unsurprising given his size and strength, and often in fours, for some reason.

These knocks were moderately light, albeit rapid, almost desperate.

Despite the paranoia, Miles made his way across his living room and opened the door.

His heart nearly stopped when Phoenix Wright stood in the doorway.

Wright said nothing as his gaze locked onto Miles’. Miles, as opposed to greeting his sudden company, took a moment to observe Wright. This was unusual, to say the least. “What are you doing here, Wright?”

“Well, hey to you, too, Edgeworth.” Wright’s tone was not cruel, though neither kind. He leered to the side, his mouth a straight line.

Miles crossed his arms firmly, his fingers tapping his bicep. “You’re the one barging into my apartment at midnight,” he snipped. “Do not pretend I’m the one being rude here.”

Wright said nothing, eyes downcast with this guilty look about them. It was almost… pathetic, Miles was loathed to think. He, too, crossed his arms, but in a manner most disant socially; very unlike Wright.

Miles’ nose scrunched. “I can also smell the alcohol from here.”

Wright’s eyebrows furrowed, but he again remained silent. Miles was not aware that Wright drank; he didn’t seem the type. Though based on his well balanced posture and his severe lack of slurry dialogue, he wasn’t too inebriated, at least.

Not that that helped lessen Miles’ confusion. Wright still made an appearance in his office after having just one drink too many. “I ask again Wright; just what are you doing here?” he asked again, keeping his voice firm.

“I…” Wright trailed off. He loosened his arms, keeping them to his sides. “I just need to talk.”

“... About?” Miles hesitated for a split second, only because he knew exactly what about.

And Wright would not be a worthy adversary of a defense attorney if he didn’t catch that delayed response. He regarded Miles sharply. “You know.”

Miles’ shoulders twitched. “I thought we already discussed this matter.”

“Not really, but that’s understandable, considering the case and all.”

Miles exhaled audibly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Of course the night after his victory, Wright decided to go out for drinks, and however many he had was enough to inspire him to find Miles and chew him out. He had thought he faced the worst at the precinct. While he tried not to let the words “It'd been better for everyone if you never came back from the dead” haunt him (he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t), they clung to the back of his head, singing a horribly melody to him, faded in the background but very much still there.

“I see.” Gritting his teeth, Miles focused on Wright with cold eyes. “So you came all the way to continue your rant about me leaving. To make me feel more guilty, I suppose, or to just make yourself feel better.” His lips curled back with his bitter tasting words. Miles made a show of turning to the side and gesturing to his living room. “By all means, come in,” he finished with a hiss.

Wright took two steps inside, hands in his pockets, then turned his head to Miles. “So you do feel guilty. Well, at least you’re not completely heartless like I thought.”

His word stung more than Miles thought they would.

“Now, what else is there to possibly talk about?” Though he tried to sound annoyed—maybe then, Wright would grow impatient and leave Miles by his lonesome—his voice dropped low. He had been so certain that they had ended this topic of discussion, allowing them to turn this page of their stories.

From the way Wright’s face crumbled for one moment before he shut his eyes, he seemed to disagree. “Are you kidding, Edgeworth?” His features wrinkled, and he scratched just below his eye with the pad of his wrist. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Miles waited, while Wright contemplated his next words. His head tilted toward the ceiling, and as if something up there inspired him, he said with a shake of his head, “Just… geez, Miles, how could you do that to me?”

Miles’ chest felt heavy. The way his name slipped from Wright’s lips sat wrong with him. If he was mad anymore, he did not sound it. Instead, his voice cracked and dripped with dread and desperation. A hidden desire for an answer, for everything to go back to the way it was, back to their days of innocent childhood, back to a time where they weren’t scarred by abuse and trauma or heartbreak and betrayal.

“It wasn’t anything personal, Wright.” He fought to keep a neutral expression; he needed to, because he worried he’d break apart, too. “I explained my reasoning for leaving.”

Wright grimaced, eyes again falling to the floor. “Can’t help it when your sister blames me for it—”

Miles faltered. “She—”

“Don’t blame her entirely, though, because, well,” Wright continued with a casual shrug of his shoulders, “I was already on that train.”

Miles’ hands rose up to chest level, and they betrayed him by their slight tremble. “Wright, you cannot possibly think that you had anything to do with—” His head turned with frustration. “I-I told you why I left—”

“I know, I know,” Wright said, his words tart, “you obviously went on some sort of soul searching journey to become a better prosecutor or something. But…” His hands rose to his temples one moment, and in the next, they tightened to fists at his sides. “W-why a suicide letter?” he asked, exasperated, tired. Oh so tired. “What in the world made you think making us think you killed yourself was a proper send off? W-was a simple goodbye not enough? D-did you….” Wright never finished his sentence, though Miles had an idea as to where his train of thought flowed.

Miles gripped his arm tight, with his other hand pinching his slacks. Though he tried to hide pitifully behind his bangs, his features twisted into a pained expression.

Phoenix, even in his slightly intoxicated state, caught onto all of this, piecing the parts together. When it all created a singular picture in Wright’s head, the man’s face fell. “You didn’t… M-Miles—”

“A fleeting thought,” Miles cut him off abruptly, his arms sitting across his chest. “Nothing more. I’ve… it had been an exhaustive few days, Wright. I’d never actually go through with it, but the thoughts… they were there.” Not once did he look at Wright; he simply couldn’t.

For maybe the first moment since Wright entered his house, his anger and devastation were replaced with a different kind of sadness, one more selfless and sympathetic. He reached out a little toward Miles, a hand unsteady in the air.

Miles stared at his hand, then into Wright’s eyes, his eyes icy cold.

Wright jerked back, cradling the raised hand with the other. “That…” He shook his head with fervor. “You still shouldn’t have… w-we really thought you were dead.”

“I was so sure… a part of me was sure you’d notice something was off. Even though I provided such a morbid letter, there was no body found—”

“I’m sorry I decided not to investigate your stupid letter,” muttered Wright, eyebrows knitted. And thus the anger returned, albeit a small flicker of a flame at this point. “I was too busy mourning you, thinking you were dead. For a year.”

“I didn’t want you to mourn me, Wright.” Miles grinded his teeth together. “Especially this long.”

That seemed to break whatever ounce of patience Wright had within him. His eyes widened, and in a blink, fury burned a bright blaze within his irises. “Did you think I wouldn’t? Th-that me or Franziska wouldn’t care? I cared—I still care, you asshole!” Now he was shouting, and he clearly had no intention of lowering his voice. “What was I supposed to do? Not give a shit that you were gone? There was no funeral. Nothing at all. The whole world seemed to move on so quickly, but I… I couldn’t.” Though the fire still brewed, his chest heaving, a heavy sadness tainted his features. “A whole year later, and I still couldn’t bear hearing your name without this-this pit in my stomach.”

Another grating pause haunted the air. Though Wright somehow did not seem even close to finishing with airing out his aggressions and issues, he nonetheless appeared winded, like this conversation was taking a toll on him.

Miles swallowed a lump in his throat. Too caught up in what Wright was saying (I still care… couldn’t bear hearing your name), he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“And now you’re back,” Wright continued, his fingers splayed against his temple, “and now I’m just supposed to be okay, act like I didn’t—that hearing your name or even just thinking about you hurt.”

“I’m not asking you to act like you need to do anything,” said Miles, at last able to gather a semblance of words.

“I know, but geez, Miles, you could’ve been a little kinder with that whole reunion—”

“I could say the same to you,” Miles interrupted with a hiss. Better off if you never came back from the dead, never came back…

Wright glared daggers at him. “Oh, don’t even try that, Edgeworth—” (Back to Edgeworth, I see…) “I’m sure you want to just put all of this behind you, but I can’t. You have no idea what you put me through. Just… god, when Gumshoe… when he called me into the precinct that day, I...” He caught something in his throat, letting the sentence drift away.

Miles leaned back, the front of his work desk pressing into his back. His hands had a vice grip against the corners. He did not want to watch Wright relive this. “Wright, it’s—” He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to…” His attempts to get Wright to drop this were pathetic, at best.

“Miles, please,” Wright was pleading now. “I can’t keep this to myself anymore. I don’t think I ever talked about this to anyone. I came all the way here, didn’t I? Can’t you at least entertain me a bit longer?” His forced smile had no joy to it.

He’s drunk, so no, you shouldn’t entertain this at all. Call him a taxi, take him home, and maybe tomorrow he’ll just forget all of this.

Miles nodded his head, which suddenly felt like lead and regrets. “You can take a seat, if you wish,” he added when he realized that they had been standing this entire time, from the moment Wright appeared at his door.

Wright took a moment to sit atop one arm of Miles’ couch. “When Gumshoe called, telling me to go to the precinct, that it was about you, I didn’t—well, of course I didn’t assume you killed yourself. I was thinking, ‘Oh man, is he being accursed for another murder? Good thing Gumshoe called so I can help him. Anything for him.’” He started scratching at the velvet surface of his couch.

“Then Gumshoe showed me the letter.” Wright’s face darkened. “Told me they didn’t find a body, so I-I tried to convince them you just ran off or something. B-But you were completely gone, off the grid. They had to assume the worst.” He breathed in and out, and each breath sounded wavy and dense.

Miles struggled against the gears in his head, but his brain conjured the images Wright was describing: Wright burst into the precinct; Gumshoe appearing disarrayed, Miles’ letter in hand; Wright’s eyes on the letter, a flash of emotions exploding across his face. The confusion, the sudden clarity, the horror, the devastation.

“Gumshoe just told me to go home once it hit me.” Wright leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I bet I wasn’t good at hiding how badly I was freaking out. The guy even gave me a car ride back.” A small, shaky smile stretched on his face.

Miles smiled slightly back, but Wright’s smile had already vanished, an emptiness in his eyes.

His hand cradled one side of his face. “I-I cried pretty much the rest of the day.” His voice quivered. “It hurt, everything hurt that day… so much more than…” He left the sentence to be unsaid, like he whisked himself into the middle of a memory, one that Miles had no desire to probe into. Whatever memory Wright thought back on caused him to bury his entire face in both hands.

“I thought I failed you okay? I tried so hard to save you from god, everything you had been through.”

You did, you moron.

“I wanted you to know you weren’t alone here. That you had all these people—myself included—who care about you.”

I know that now, Wright.

“But…” Wright took a moment, then brushed his hands across his face, back through his hair, and looked up at Miles, who startled. Fresh tears cascaded down Wright’s face, and a bitter laugh spilled from his mouth. “At that moment, I realized I wasn’t enough.”

You are.

Miles waited, waited, waited, for him to continue, but instead, they sat in this horrible, uncomfortable silence. Because Wright was silently crying into one of his hands, using it in an attempt to shield his miserable face. Because Miles was too deep in his thoughts.

He wanted to refuse to believe any of this.

The mourning, Wright blaming himself for Miles’ ‘suicide,’ the idea that just hearing his name made Wright feel hurt, the idea that Wright cared this much. It couldn’t… it was not possible! And yet…

Before her departure, his sister was not afraid to go into detail as to how Miles’ departure had tore apart his rival. Even with how little she spoke about Miles with Wright, anyone with open eyes could see the devastation on Wright’s face, and anyone with ears could hear the cracks in his voice when Wright said his name, as if he’d break down at any second.

He mourned. Day after day, he mourned, even to this day, over a year after Miles hid away in luxury hotel rooms while molding himself a path of redemption. While Miles wrote the next chapter of his life, Wright cried into his own pages, his tears filled with Miles Edgeworth.

Miles Edgeworth broke Phoenix Wright’s heart.

“God, I’m so pathetic,” murmured Wright, his voice filled with tears. He slowly lifted his head up. “What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What, two beers, and here I am, crying in your apartment like an idiot,” he said, sounding distracted, as he stood up, brushing at the thighs of his pants. He turned and took one step. “I should… I need to go—”

“Wait.”

Wright did not turn around, but he did not take another step. Small victories.

“Please sit down. I’m—we’re not ending this conversation here.”

Wright looked over his shoulder, thought it over, and nodded. He placed himself properly on the couch. He leaned forward, gaze still on Miles.

“Wright, I…” Miles felt uneasy standing by this point. He walked over to the couch and, after thinking it over and with a weary sigh, placed himself on the coffee table across from Wright. He had no idea what to say at this point. Yes, you do. “I-I’m sorry.” His voice wavered.

“That sounded like a struggle for you to get out,” Wright snarked around tears.

Miles said through his now gritted teeth, “For God’s sake, I never wanted to hurt you. I had no joy in leaving you in the dark.” He straightened himself. “But I wanted to leave my old self behind, so it had to be done. I thought it best.” When a thought crossed his mind, he looked away. “I was so certain that you’d just forget me. Or at least move on. I’d rather you did, so that when I did come back, you’d barely notice.”

Wright’s eyes widened, and when he spoke, he sounded the most sober all night. “I told you why I changed my career path. After, what, a decade, I still remembered you and wanted to follow you.” His eyebrows determined. His surprised look hardened, steely with determination. “I’m not forgetting you.”

An unsettling, foreign feeling crept up Miles’ spine. “I… I suppose I was mistaken then,” he replied lamely. He clasped his hands together, holding them in his lap. “I had no idea. Truly. I’m sorry. Really.” He looked into Wright’s eyes. “Perhaps one day, your one-sided hatred of me will lessen, and we can be friends again.”

Wright smiled, small and not so bright, but it was enough. Then he chuckled behind his hand. Miles stiffened. “Wh-what’s funny, Wright?” he snapped, almost like a challenge.

“It’s—okay, I wouldn’t call it funny.” He shook his head as he looked away thoughtfully. “I was mad, felt hurt, betrayed all the good stuff. I’m still pretty mad actually. I’m surprised I haven’t punched you in the face yet. Maybe if I had more to drink—”

“Wright.” A bit curt, admittedly, but Miles did not need to hear this.

“A-anyway,” Wright continued, a touch sheepish for a second, “yeah, it still hurts, but I never hated you. I still missed you.”

“Why?”

Wright looked dumbfounded for a moment. “I… huh?”

“You told me I should’ve stayed dead,” he spat out the words, directing his head to the side. The words still bit at his skin, but he refused to let Wright see that. “Yet here you are. And every attempt I make to keep you away, and you keep coming back.” His lips curled back. “Why?”

“Y-yeah, thinking back, the whole ‘you shouldn’t have come back’ thing was a bit harsh.” Wright wiped at something under his eye with a chortle under his breath. “Sorry about that. I-I had a lot going through my head at the time. It’s definitely not true, either; I very much prefer you alive.”

Miles scoffed, his grimace straining. “Very touching to hear.”

“Really, I mean it. To be honest, I keep coming back because I… I…” He hesitated, with his shoulders rising then falling with breath in and out. He sought Miles’ gaze and only when they met again, he said, “‘Cause I trust you.”

Miles blinked. “Even after everything I’ve done?” he asked, his voice softening a touch. “Everything you know of me? You trust me?” He failed to conceal his disbelief, the shock, in his voice. It was a hard pill to swallow.

“Yeah, I do.” His eyebrows narrowed. “Just don’t do something that fucking stupid again, okay?”

Miles gritted his teeth, eyes hardened. “Never. I promise.”

“Good,” was all Wright responded. His eyes, noticeably worn out, wandered around Miles’ living room. Once he was done with his observations, perhaps taking in all the decor and such, he glanced down at his fingers, which rested clamped on his thighs. “I’m sorry for barging into your apartment like this.”

“It’s not like I was having anyone else here.” Miles shrugged, but he frowned slightly when Wright exhaled a long, likely overdue yawn. “Though now may be the best time for me to kick you out. Actually, how did you get here?”

“Taxi. I meant to go home, but,” Wright explained, shying away, “I told the cab guy this address instead. Gumshoe told me you still had the same address. Had my heart set on something, and you know at that point, nothing will stop me.” He blushed, as if embarrassed by his own admission. “Guess I’ll call another one over—”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Really?” Wright’s voice rose an octave.

“Yes. You think I’m letting you waste money on taxi rides when I have my own car? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t mind a small ride for your sake.”

“Uh, it’s probably, like, a twenty minute drive; something like th—”

“Don’t make me change my mind, Wright.” He had already grabbed his car keys from their container by the front door.

“Well, okay.” Wright smiled, something gentle and warm. “Thanks, Edgeworth.”

They said little during the car ride, but that was because about halfway through Miles’ drive to Wright’s apartment, Wright had drifted to sleep, apparently winded after a long few days. At one of the stop signs, Miles snuck a glance at him.

All that anger, all that sadness, had vanished. He looked the most peaceful Miles had seen him in days—or rather, over a year, given Miles had run away from Wright’s life far too long ago.

“I missed you, too.”

The words spill out before he could stop himself, and he nearly slammed the pedal when he swore he saw Wright blink awake. If he was even partially awake and heard that—

He didn’t, but Miles shook him awake when they arrived at Wright’s destination twenty-one minutes into their drive. Wright nodded, stepped out of the car, and prepared to shut it. Before he did, however, he smiled warmly at Miles and said, “Thank you, Miles.” And at last, he shut the door and disappeared into his apartment complex.

Miles pressed his fingers against his face, sinking a few inches into his car seat.

Damn you, Phoenix Wright, he thought, his mind accelerating and his heart exhausted.

vii.

“Well, hey, you’ll make sure to visit, right?”

Miles leaned back into his seat, his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. “I’m not leaving for good, you know. I just have some unfinished business in Germany. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it’s not for forever.”

“Good. That’s, uh, good.” Wright’s nervous titter caught on the phone, and Miles wondered if he was meant to hear it. “It felt like you just got back, that’s all.”

“This was a temporary visit, to be honest.” He flicked through to the next page of the newspaper in his hands. “I had figured I’d step in to help with that case, even if it meant coming out of hiding.”

“Well, thanks, but hopefully, the next time you visit there isn’t a serious trial going on. Maybe we can, I don’t know, hang out? Not have to worry about murders or, uh, kidnappings?”

“Just don’t do anything stupid, and perhaps we can come to that.” Even if Wright could not see it, he wore a wry grin.

“I make no promises.” God, Miles could practically hear the smile on Wright’s face. Too big, too bright.

Miles sighed. “Wright.”

Wright laughed on the other end, and it wasn’t until they ended the call that Miles realized his smile had grown soft.

viii.

“He may already be d-dead!”

Miles Edgeworth hated flying.

Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. Most plane flights often went smoothly, in and of themselves. However, should the flight be struck with a sudden bout of turbulence, then the tremors came. Some turbulences might last several seconds, or some might last a minute or more.

No matter the longevity, Miles would end up gripping the arms of his seat, struggling to keep his breath even, and his fingers would usually stay tight and white knuckled the remainder of the flight. He had gotten better over the years, and did not pass out with every trembling flight. On more than one occasion, he had requested some wine from the flight attendants because it at least numbed the inevitable panic that would surge through him for the coming hours.

Now, another problem arose when it came to flights, at least for this one situation.

The private jet could not get to his destination faster.

Though his decision to charter a private jet was made in haste, he by no means regretted it. At the very least, he did not have to concern himself with the company of random strangers. He’d rather not be watched as he clutched his head, trying his best to rid his mind of the worst case scenarios flying through his head.

Wright, you damn idiot. Larry better be as unreliable in information as usual. You’re too stubborn to just…

When Butz dialed him, Miles had been pulled from a perfectly dreamless night. The moment Butz ended the call, Miles had been wide awake and shaken to the bone, and he had dialed another number to plan a private flight back to America immediately.

He fidgeted in his seat, antsy to say the least. Despite flying via private jet, the travel was still taking too long. He needed to get back to America now. Any minute now, anything could happen or change. What if he was too late? What if—

How dare you make me worry about your demise, Wright! came the harsh thought. Even for a second.

Then another thought came, quieter but just as cruel: Hypocrite.

With a grunt, he buried his face in his hands.

It took hours for the flight to end, and even more time before he arrived at the hospital. He would dispute any facts that upon his arrival into Wright’s room, that the first thing he did was collapse onto the chair sitting beside Wright, because his knees threatened to cave in beneath him.

Wright was sleeping when Milles arrived, so he failed to see Miles brushing away some tears building up in his eyes. And Miles just sat there, waiting and watching, as if, should he walk away, his worst dreams would come to life.

ix.

“Edgeworth?” Wright’s surprise at the doorway was transparent all across his face.

Miles could not blame him. When had he ever stepped into Wright’s office, especially this late at night? Not a single time until now could come to mind, now that he thought on it. His gaze travelled across the room, and he transfixed on one piece of decor in the corner.

“Your plant’s wilting.”

“H-Hey, I’ve been taking good care of Charley!” Wright exclaimed, defensive.

“Charley.” It wasn’t a question or need for clarity. He just needed to repeat the fact that the plant had a name. “Still, Charley doesn’t seem to be doing well. When was the last time it—or perhaps he—was watered?”

“Okay, okay, what did you come here for, Edgeworth?” Wright interrupted with an annoyed look, hands at his hips.

Miles smirked briefly. When he mentally reminded himself why he came here in the first place, he clasped his hands together behind his back. “I’m leaving for Germany.” His attempt to look Wright in the eye went miserably, as he did not have the strength. Charley caught his attention, though. “My flight is due early next week.”

“O-Oh.”

Miles twitched. “I’ll be studying abroad. International law.” He crossed his arms. “I had been working on my papers to enroll when I received the news concerning the bridge.”

“Oh.” Wright scratched the back of his head, grinning awkwardly. “Y-yeah, sorry for dragging you back here like that—

“That was Butz’s doing. Besides, I made the conscious decision to come here. I wanted to come back.” His face fell. “But I have to return, if I want to continue my extensive work.”

Wright grew silent, yet by the time Miles looked up to gauge Wright’s reaction, an amused laugh broke the silence. “You just can’t sit still, can you?” Wright hummed. His eyes wandered to the ceiling. “International law, huh? Fancy.” He grinned.

“That’s one way to describe it,” said Miles, clearing his throat. “I figured I’d at least let you know in advance—”

“So I don’t think you died again?” Wright’s eyes crinkled, a strange grin on his face.

Pins danced in Miles’ stomach. “Yes. There’s no need for feigned deaths from me, anymore. I will simply be away. I don’t know how long, though you know as well as I do that studying law takes years. It, uh, won’t be some sort of extended vacation.”

“You’ll be gone for a while, then, huh?” Wright asked.

Miles nodded.

Wright nodded back. “Will you visit?”

“I will also be working overseas at the same time. I simply won’t have much time at all.” He sighed. “That is to say, I will certainly try.”

“That’s all I ask for.” Wright’s face lit up.

Miles shoved his hands into his pants pockets and turned toward the door. “That was, uh, all I really needed to tell you. I should return home now. I have lots of papers to sort through—”

“Hey, before you go,” said Wright, a hand outstretched. When Miles looked back at him, he said, “We should grab something to eat.”

Miles hesitated, biting his lip. “I apologize, Wright. I already had dinner before coming here—”

Wright snickered. “I just meant before you left for Germany. As a sort of farewell, and since this would be the last time we see each other in a while, I figured—”

“On one condition.”

Wright grinned. “Name it.”

“I’m choosing the restaurant.”

And the grin fell away. “You’ll probably choose someplace really fancy that I can’t afford!” he accused.

“Implying you’d be paying for it,” Miles scoffed with an exaggerated eye roll. “If we went someplace on your payroll, it’d be that noodle shop you go to, what, five times a week?”

“Hey, don’t knock street corner karts and their quality noodles!”

“I personally feel that a farewell dinner should at least have a diverse menu and perhaps be inside?” Miles snarked, his arms crossing firmly across his chest. His fingers tapped against his upper arms.

Wright threw his hands up in defeat, palms facing Miles. “Fine, fine. Fancy place, on your paycheck, it is. You win.”

Miles smirked despite himself. “Now if only it were that easy in court.”

Wright looked less than amused. “I am gonna miss kicking your butt during trials,” he said, a smile gracing his features.

“Save the sentimentalities for our final goodbyes, Wright.” Another eyeroll, but he exchanged smiles with Wright this time. He turned around, holding a hand up in a stiff goodbye gesture. “I shall take my leave. Goodnight, Wright.”

“Later, Edgeworth!”

As Miles drove back to his apartment for the evening, he shut off the music as a thought invaded his head.

Did Wright just ask me out on…?

Miles shook his head to rid himself of the ridiculous jump to conclusions, trying to ignore the feeling in his chest such a thought gave him.

x.

Two weeks had passed before the news spread to Miles.

Miles’ phone rang and his contact registered the caller as Gumshoe. There was a twinge of guilt for missing a few of his prior calls throughout the week as well as Phoenix Wright’s, yet he shoved it aside, rationalizing that he had been too busy every time to pick up, and he could never find a proper time to call back. If necessary, he reminded himself to provide apologies where they were due.

Picking up the phone, he greeted Gumshoe as he read through one of his many textbooks piled on his desk, freshly brewed tea sitting in a cup beside said pile. Gumshoe gave his own friendly hello, but he sounded off. Miles, too busy to beat around any bushes, asked him what the matter was.

By the time Gumshoe finished his understanding of the situation, the man on the other end grew silent, anticipating a response from Miles.

Gumshoe coughed. “Um, sir—”

“I have to go.”

“Wh-er, okay, sir, but—”

Miles closed off the call before slamming it against the desk. His cup shook from the impact, the tea inside rippling. Were an unsettling feeling not bubbling in his stomach, he would have felt rude for ending the call with Gumshoe like he did.

But he had phone calls to make.

A few calls, between work and associates in America, one suitcase packing, one last minute plane ride later, Miles had returned to Los Angeles in the dark of night, approximately thirty-two hours after receiving Gumshoe’s call.

If only Phoenix Wright picked up.

With his sports car provided to him upon exiting the airport, he sped on the road and toward Wright’s apartment, his leg off the pedal vibrating. He refused to waste a single second more, given how late he already was.

Miles struggled to think of a time he had ever stepped into Wright’s apartment; it felt too personal. To think, this was why Miles was about to greet Wright at his own house, after just a few weeks in Germany when he was so sure he had no need to visit America this soon.

When he stood in front of Wright’s apartment door, his hand curled into a fist to knock. He sucked in a breath, and he rapped on the solid wood door. He waited, a knot in his chest.

The door opened, just barely ajar. Wright’s eye appeared in the gap. When it found Miles, Wright’s lips—from what little Miles could see—curved downward, and he slammed the door shut again.

The door did not immediately open. Miles was tempted to knock again—and perhaps promptly call out Wright’s name—but he heard a low mutter on the other side, the words indistinguishable. After a long pause, the door opened again.

Miles’ mouth fell open, but no words came to him.

Wright looked tired, to be kind. That had little to do with it being just after nine o’clock at night. He was draped in a baggy gray sweater and heavier bags under his eyes. Wright glared at him with a shocking amount of contempt, not an ounce of surprise or delight.

“W-Wright,” said Miles, any other potential words caught in his throat.

Wright took his time responding, and when he did, his words were strained. “Shouldn’t you be in Germany?”

Miles fidgeted in lace uncomfortably. “I heard about what happened. I came back to America, a bit sudden on my part admittedly, to well... “ He chewed on his bottom lip, because truly, he did not have a straightforward explanation as to how he ended up here. For once, his emotions had taken the wheel. “Check on you.”

Wright’s glare hardened. “Well, as you can see, I’m doing great.”

Being under Wright’s scrutinizing gaze was unsettling, so Miles turned his attention elsewhere. With the door fully opened, pieces of furniture and decor inside caught Miles’ eye. “You’re packing. Are you—”

“Like I can afford this place anymore.” Wright clawed through his spiked hair, which was far messier and greasier. “We’re moving into my office. It’s not the same, of course, but I’m making due. At this rate, I have one more week before actually being kicked out.”

“Wait. We?”

Wright recoiled. More equipment stood out to Miles. Nothing added up. “Is that…magician’s equipment?” Miles’ eyebrows jumped, then slanted down. “I figured Gumshoe’s understanding would be missing a great amount of details, but Wright, what in the world is going on?”

“Oh, now you care,” Wright scoffed.

Miles flinched. Alarm bells rang in his head that things were worse than he thought. “As soon as I heard what happened to you, I came straight here.”

“Two weeks, Edgeworth.” Wright’s face hardened, showing the hidden scars of his downfall. “I didn’t hear from you in two weeks. I-I know you’re busy, and across the ocean, but I tried calling, but you never picked up.” He leaned against the doorway.

“I messed up, I know. If I had known the severity of the calls, I’d have picked up or called.”

“You should have picked up anyway!” Wright argued, anger contorting his features. “Because that’s what friends do, Edgeworth. They call and talk. They keep in touch with each other. So I don’t have to give up on hearing from you.”

Miles frowned. “I didn’t intend to ignore your calls. I—”

“I don’t want to hear any bullshit excuses.” Wright pulled himself from the doorway, his hands waving through the air in a furious manner. “I thought we were on better terms, but I guess I was wrong. How stupid and naive of me.”

“If there's anything I can do it make up for my screw up—”

“Daddy?”

Miles’ heart stopped. He leaned as best as he could to look further inside. A small child, about eight years old, approached the door. She wore casual pajamas with her chestnut brown hair pulled into a ponytail, her blue eyes half lidded from exhaustion. She looked up at Wright, like she… like she meant to call him… but that meant—

Wright turned and bent down to meet her at eye level. He took her tiny hand into his. “Everything’s okay, Trucy. I’m talking with someone. An old f-friend. Just go back to sleep.” And just like that, Wright’s entire demeanor changed. He spoke softer, quieter, and a gentle smile met his face, like nothing was wrong with the world.

The child, named Trucy, nodded quietly and looked briefly at Miles before departing into the depths of Wright’s apartment. Miles watched her go until she vanished from his sight, and his eyes were hard on Wright. “Wright, who was that?”

Phoenix Wright sighed, digging his fingers into his face, and he explained everything, down to the last detail. The girl named Trucy, the father who abandoned his daughter, and how Wright took her in, allowed her into his life. He commented how badly she needed someone in a terrifying time in her young life, and the unspoken and so do I rang loudly in Miles’ ears.

Everything about this felt so wrong, so off to Edgeworth. “Wright, if you need—”

Wright raised a hand to silence Miles. “Before you even try giving me charity, you can forget it. I’m not listening to any form of pity in the slightest, especially from you.”

“I’m not…” Miles' hands rose to his face, fingers clenched. “Christ, I’m not trying to offer pitiful charity. However, I don’t want you to be struggling during this time, especially with a child in your care. There has to be something I can do.”

“Yes. Stay out of it,” Wright jeered, each word dripping with acid, and he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Miles’ breath stifled. “I refuse to simply let this entire case drop. As soon as Gumshoe told me about the case, I knew something was wrong.” His eyebrows narrowed. “Forgery? That’s not you, yet here you are, without a job and packing your bags. You can not possibly let it end like this.”

Wright looked baffled. “What can I do?” The resignation in his voice was like a stab in Miles’ heart.

“Fight for what’s right, Wright.”

“The puns aren’t as fun coming from you.”

Miles gritted his teeth. “Don’t tell me you’re just giving up!”

“Don’t… don’t give me that tone, Edgeworth.” Despite the gruffness in his tone, he lowered his voice, to avoid any sounds bouncing off the living room walls. “I’m doing all I can at the moment, but… I don’t want you involved.”

“Why not?” Miles was shocked. He was certain he’d be beneficial to helping Wright get the proper justice for the wrongs that put him where he was. Even if he had to work an ocean away, he’d do it. He would.

Wright’s eyes fell to the floor, and he shook his head. “It’s late. I need to take her back to bed.”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Miles said, trying so hard not to sound high-handed. Wright avoided his question; Miles wanted to help, but why wouldn’t Wright let him? Why won’t he talk to him?

“Well, I am.” Wright, in tone and appearance, was forlorn, a former shadow of his old self.

“Don’t shut me out, Wright!” Miles demanded, letting forth a burst of emotions; exasperation, desperation, devastation.

Wright paused, caught off guard, but his guard caught up to him again in mere milliseconds. His head lowered. “At least now you know how it feels.”

It was like someone punched Miles squarely in the stomach. “Wright, I—”

Wright slammed the door and from the sounds of locks on the other side, it was for the final time.

Miles stood in front of the locked door for about a minute longer, his stiff hands still in the air, trying to reach out. Once he collected himself and gathered his thoughts, he stepped back. Trying to talk to him again now would only infuriate Wright even further.

In the middle of the night, Miles sat on a comfortable double bed at the Gatewater Hotel. His gaze wandered to the window; Wright’s office (Actually, it would not be his office anymore, would it? It’s his new house, came the miserable thought at eleven at night) haunted him on the other side. He tried to shake away a sinking feeling in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough.

He refused to let Wright slip from his fingers like this.

xi.

Miles had requested five days off. Apparently, his boss was more than accepting of that and in fact encouraged him to take off longer when he had first only requested three days, telling him “For Pete’s sake, Mr. Edgeworth, I can’t think of the last time you took a day off with us ever. Just take a vacation.”

I wouldn’t call this a vacation, but alright.

Perhaps he should have been thankful to his boss, because he worried he might need every single day in America.

He spent late into the next day meeting with Gumshoe, asking for more details on the Gramarye trial that brought misery into Wright’s existence. However, Gumshoe, after giving Edgeworth an impromptu side hug, could only provide so little details into the specifics of the case, given that not only was Edgeworth not part of that case, nor was Gumshoe. There had to be something strange to note in the case, though, Edgeworth swore.

“There needs to be an investigation into this,” Miles said, slamming his hands on the table separating them. “We can’t let Wright suffer the consequences of a case that is as suspicious as this.”

“Sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, but there’s only so much that can be done. Wright tried to get something going, but got denied every which way. And that ain’t my doing.” Gumshoe scratched the back of his head. “It’s outta my hands, sir.”

It was suspicious, all of it. Not that he could blame Gumshoe for it. He pinched his nose with a groan. “This all feels wrong, but… ugh!” He sat back, arms firmly held in front of his chest. “I’m at a loss at what to do here, and Wright… he refuses to cooperate!”

Gumshoe frowned. “I tried talkin’ to him and all, but he wasn’t exactly in a good mood. To be fair, we ain’t exactly close.” He looked back at Edgeworth with a smile. “But you guys are. I’m sure you can help him.”

“But no one’s willing to reopen the case,” Miles said, on the edge of his seat. “What can I possibly do?”

Gumshoe threw out a nervous laugh, his shoulders shaking. “I’m no expert here, but there’s gotta be other ways you can help your old pal.”

Miles took in his words and nodded, understanding all too well.

The next day, however, he realized as he sat in bed, having just woken up to the glinting sunset, that he had no idea what to do.

Talking to people and sweeping them from the dark recesses of their mind was not his forte. While he was all too familiar with drowning and needing a savior, he was not familiar with being the one to grab someone from the depths of the ocean. Wright always did the saving, every time, always brought him back to shore where everyone else left him behind to suffocate.

He had to save Wright. Somehow.

Did he work on a plan or a mental script as to what to say when he made his way back to Wright’s apartment? No, not one bit. He was going through with this anyway.

He knocked on Wright’s door sternly and silently begged for Wright to answer and not shut the door in his face again.

Wright opened the door, still looking exhausted and distant, which felt wrong, like these traits did not belong on Phoenix Wright’s face. He didn’t immediately slam the door in his face, though.

“You’re back.” Not a question, but a mere state of fact.

“I am,” said Miles, glancing over Wright’s shoulder. On the other side, only TV static bounced off of the walls. “Is Trucy here?”

Wright smiled a little. “Still asleep. It’s pretty early, after all, though she’s supposed to wake up soon for school.”

“Good, because I was hoping we could talk—”

“You know what happened. You know I don’t want you involved in any of this. What more is there to talk about?” Wright kept his arms against his chest, keeping his barriers up.

“You.”

Wright’s wild eyebrows curved. “What about me?”

Miles’ eyebrows narrowed. “Don’t pretend to be an idiot, Wright. I can see how well you’re taking all of this, which is not at all.”

“No fucking kidding, Edgeworth,” Wright said, practically spitting out the words. “I messed up, and I paid the consequences for it. Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

“Of course not—”

“Now that we’ve clarified I’ve been doing shitty, you’re free to go.”

Miles sought for something in Wright’s face, that told him he didn’t mean any of this. If only Wright could look him in the eye. “If you think I came all this way, spent hours on a last minute flight, to get a diagnosis on your well being, then you’re ridiculous,” Miles hissed. “I want to help, and if you think I’m going to leave you while you’re like this—”

“You’ve done it before,” Wright snapped, eyes brimming with an old bitterness from a wound that had never truly healed, and probably never would. Never fully, at least.

Slowly, he pointed one trembling finger at Wright and said, “Then don’t do what I did.”

Flames extinguished from Wright’s eyes. “What?”

“I know what you’re doing, Phoenix Wright.” He wanted so badly to grab Wright’s face, to force him to look him in the way, to stamp each word into Wright’s mind. He fought the temptation. “Don’t you dare live how I did for… far too long. It doesn’t suit you. You’re better than that, better than me. Now prove it.”

Wright’s face fell, and he started to mutter a weak, “I’m not—”

“For god’s sake, you changed your entire career just to-to see me, to save me.” His voice threatened to tremble. A broken chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Which you actually did, somehow. I am… I am not here because I’m indebted to you, or I pity you. I insist you let me help you, as you did for me.”

Wright kept his arms crossed, and still he refused to meet his gaze. Miles’ patience snapped. He reached forward, grabbed the front of Wright’s hoodie and yanked him slightly forward. Wright, too caught off guard to shield away his shock, locked eyes with Miles, eyebrows rising.

“I know you have Trucy, but don’t you dare push me away, Phoenix Wright.” Wright’s hoodie trembled in Miles’ clutch. It wasn’t Wright’s doing. “I’m far too familiar with being in your shoes, in a sense,” he continued through his teeth. “It’s an empty hell. Just. Don’t.”

When Miles released him, Wright’s face was more open and vulnerable than it had been the past two days. His shield had vaporized, exposing a broken, hurt man. A silence hung in the air as Miles waited, internally begging for Wright to heed his words, to open up to him. 

In the next moment, the door closed right in Miles’ face.

The air from the shut brushed into his face, and Miles grew still. It wasn’t a harsh close; it was almost as if Wright had simply closed it after they bid each other heartfelt goodbyes. The sound still thudded in his eardrums. He turned, his back facing the door.

He could have left, walked away from this bitter chapter in his life. If Wright refused his help, refused to listen, who was he to keep probing and persisting? His feet itched to move, but he never did. Every fiber of his being poked at him, told him to stay, stay, stay.

Time slipped from Miles’ fingertips, so he hadn’t the faintest how long he stood there. Seconds, minutes, he hadn’t a clue. However long, it was enough for him to hear it. A long, shuddering breath on the other side, alongside some unintelligible, shaky muttering.

He hesitated, then sighed and left the smallest knock in the world with the crook of his index finger. And he waited with held breath in the midst of the gruesome silence, head thumping the door just slightly. He tried to latch onto the fact that Wright was no longer on the verge of crying.

“How much longer?”

Miles looked confused, then, realizing Wright could not see him, said, “What?”

“I didn’t think you’d be back today. Thought you’d be back in Germany by now. I was just wondering...”

“I took five days off. I plan to leave in two days.”

Wright grew quiet.

“W-Wright?”

“I’ve been working on this.”

Miles blinked. “Hmm?”

“Investigating. On my own terms. Not like I have anything to stop me now, right?” Wright’s laugh was thick in its bitterness. “I’ll get to the bottom of things, I promise. But I don’t want you risking your own job by helping me out here; I know there’s something wrong here. But a prosecutor helping out a disgraced, disbarred defense attorney? That’s just asking for controversial rumors, Edgeworth.”

Miles wanted so badly to say screw them all, but he knew that Wright was devastatingly right. He nodded despite being alone in the hallway. “I’m aware, though to be fair, I am all too familiar with rumors. Unfortunately,” he said, his tone grave enough that he did not need to say further on that.

“Yeah, but you’ve come out of all of that better. I don’t wanna ruin that.” There was a slight shuffle on the other side. “D-do your own thing in Germany, and I can take care of things here, okay?”

Miles tapped his fingers against the apartment door. It felt so wrong to let the world break Wright apart and get away with it. Yet Wright’s determination had strong clarity, despite his faded spirit and his tired outer appearance. Hidden in the depths, Wright was still there. Deep down was the Wright that Miles—

Miles cleared his throat. “There’s nothing I can do to help, then?” he asked, an indirect offer of anything; just say the word, and he’d do it.

Silence hung as Wright pondered. “There is one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Trucy’s probably going to wake up soon. She has school, but I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

Miles cringed. “I’m not exactly great with kids, Wright, but I can’t possibly say no to meeting your… daughter.” No, that was not going to be easy to adjust to. His smile grew when an idea struck him. “And perhaps I can do a bit better.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll treat you both to dinner. I believe there’s still an exquisite Italian restaurant about a block from my old office.”

“I…” He could hear Wright shuffling behind the door again. “Edgeworth, I can’t.” He laughed in disbelief. “I, I don’t—”

“Wright,” Miles interrupted him with a delicate plea. “Please. Before I go.”

Wright waited a minute before answering, and he took that time to open the door. Dry tear streaks marked his face, but his slight smile more than made up for it. “... Okay.”

And Miles stepped inside.