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The first time Miles Edgeworth sees Phoenix Wright in fourteen years, he’s in line at the grocery store. It’s such an out of context domain that Miles passes by him three times in his search for cereal; by the time he finally recognises those untameable spikes, Wright is almost out the door. He seems to be in animated conversation with a brown haired woman – a woman who, on closer examination, appears to be Mia Fey. Miles stops dead in the middle of the dried goods aisle, barely able to believe his eyes; by the time he shakes himself out of his stupor, the pair have left the store, and a middle-aged woman is forcefully and repeatedly asking that he move out of the way.
Dazedly, almost robotically, Miles makes his way to the checkout, forgetting half of the items on his shopping list as he attempts to process the sudden appearance of his childhood friend. Not to mention Wright’s acquaintance with Ms. Fey – Miles is too tired to try to follow the thread of logic through on that.
Seeing Wright again; it’s strange. So strange that Miles takes two wrong turns on the way back to his apartment and almost runs a red light. The July heat steadily increases as Miles takes the stairs two at a time, half pulling himself up by the banister. By the time he’s at his door, he doesn’t even feel alive; the combination of figures from his past showing up in the perfectly unassuming grocery store and the mind-numbingly high temperatures have left him feeling weak and unsteady on his feet.
Getting the key in the lock while balancing three bags of groceries is a trial, but he just about manages. When the food is in the correct locations, Miles allows himself to slide to the floor, back facing the cabinet, and close his eyes. The whirring of the air conditioning washes over him, and he flattens himself even further to the floor, trying to lose as much heat as he can as quickly as possible.
Well, he thinks semi-deliriously, It’s a big city. Wright’s life isn’t so entangled with mine that I’ll see him often. Or even ever again.
Even before he’s finished thinking it, he knows it’s a wishful thought. There’s no such thing as coincidence.
Einstein’s field theory of gravity is elegant and sleek, beautiful in its simplicity and power. It works so well that it perplexes physicists with its efficacy; Victor Weisskopf once said of this theory, “It’s like the peasant who asks the engineer how the steam engine works. The engineer explains to the peasant exactly where the steam goes and how it moves through the engine and so on. And then the peasant says: ‘Yes, I understand all that, but where is the horse?’ That’s how I feel about general relativity. I know all the details, I understand where the steam goes, but I’m still not sure where the horse is.”
There are things in life that Miles fundamentally understands – law being the obvious example – but there isn’t much he struggles with. Physics, to him, has always been an exercise in strings of numbers, basic principles stacking together to form a larger picture, calculations beginning and ending in the space of a few lines. And law, law has always interested him in its similar ability to build complexity out of simple rules, how one can argue an opponent in circles and leave them tripping over thin air.
The beauty of simplicity itself has never interested him as much as the complexity that simplicity can build. A theory made of marble, the elegant curve geometry that Einstein so desperately sought, is less comforting to Miles than it is unsettling. Puzzles should not have simple solutions. This is the way he was taught; this is the way that he is.
Though he stepped off the witness stand almost an hour ago, Miles’s legs are as shaky as when he first confessed to his father’s murder. Falsely confessed, anyway; Wright seems to be making it his job to completely shatter Miles’s worldview in as few months as possible.
Wright’s smiles seem to be playing on repeat in his head; every look, every interaction they’ve had since they were nine years old ingrained in some intrinsic part of Miles’s brain. The golden light of the sunset cuts across Wright’s face, recalling the broken fluorescents of the store, recalling the childhood that seemed lost for so long.
They walk him home. Or rather, Wright walks him home, and Detective Gumshoe insists on tagging along to “Make sure you’re okay, sir!”, and then Miss Fey insists on accompanying the three of them to try to convince Wright to buy her food; they all end up walking down the empty streets at 7:24 pm, nothing quite seeming real but the buzz of the streetlights and the way Wright is haloed by their warm orange glow.
Wright asks if he’s okay. Miles doesn’t know how to respond beyond a swift nod and a mumbled affirmation. Wright inclines his head and asks again, as though it’s that simple. This time, Miles considers his answer.
Further down the street, Miss Fey and the detective are arguing about which brand of instant ramen is superior. A car rushes by down the road they just turned off. The air around Wright seems to crackle with something viscerally human. Miles can’t look away.
“I will be.” he replies. As though it’s that simple. He doesn’t know what drove him to say that; Wright smiles, touches his arm as he passes, shouts something down the street about how Kabuto are the best, you heathens! As he passes, Miles smells something floral drift along past him. The wind rushes and pools around his shoulders, then follows the others down the road.
Miles trails after.
The thing is, things aren’t supposed to be simple. After his father died, Miles was set adrift in a world of dizzying intensity, of motivations so numerous and contrived that he stopped thinking of people as people and more as problems to be solved.
The thing is, Miles has lived his life in a shield of ice and cynicism, denying emotional connections for his own safety. The balance of probabilities told him that most people are far more complicated than meets the eye, and that it would be a lot more trouble than it’s worth to get even marginally close to them.
The thing is, Miles can’t find it in himself to think of Phoenix Wright as a problem.
The part of Miles that is distant, that is separate, that keeps him safe; it is killed anew every time he looks into Wright’s eyes, and that terrifies him.
So rather than following this path to its logical conclusion, he does something that has been denied to him for fifteen years.
Miles runs.
A year later, he sees Wright again. It is strange. It doesn’t stop being strange.
An object in free fall acts only under its own weight, accelerating towards earth with the magnitude of earth’s gravitational field. As such, all objects, regardless of mass, fall at the same rate.
Miles isn’t sure how applicable this is to falling in love, but he’s sure the principle is the same.
Regardless, anyone with the slightest inclination to consider it knows that an object in free fall has no control over the rate of its fall, over its trajectory, over anything at all.
Now, Miles might be being dramatic. But it doesn’t feel that way when Phoenix is only feet away, laughing and crying at being reunited with Miss Fey, bright and brilliant and real.
Miles watches their reunion, laughs slightly as the younger Fey breaks away and tackles Franziska around the middle with a grateful hug. Franziska looks like she’s running the numbers in her head, calculating how to respond; with her shoulder bandaged, her hair in disarray and a small child clinging to her abdomen, she looks younger than Miles has seen in years. He makes a mental note to hug his sister more often, despite the serious risk of bodily harm.
Pearl Fey’s sudden movement draws the attention of the remaining two members of her little family. Miss Fey offers Miles an exhausted smile, then moves to tug her cousin away from Franziska, potentially concerned for the girl's safety.
Phoenix, however, looks at Miles and doesn’t stop looking. He doesn’t stop looking and Miles doesn’t stop looking back; he can see the thoughts and emotions working their way through his head, can see the betrayal and hurt softening and revealing something altogether too gentle for Miles to comprehend. Slowly, slowly enough for the earth to fully turn on its axis, slowly enough for stars to die and for nebulas to reform on their graves, Phoenix smiles.
Miles is an object in free fall, and at some point he’s going to hit the earth.
In the end, Miles isn’t the one who ends up hitting the earth; the chartered flight can’t get him to Phoenix’s side fast enough. Predictably, Phoenix is almost entirely unharmed and is only being kept at the hospital just in case; he hands Miles his badge and a strange, allegedly magic rock, and asks him to defend a woman Miles has never met. Despite the absurdity of the request, Miles can’t do anything but assent.
The days that follow are some of the most bizarre and stressful that Miles has ever experienced. The bitter cold around Hazakura Temple doesn’t help the situation; Miles spends the entire duration of the case shivering and glaring at the various insufferable witnesses he has to deal with. The case’s conclusion is even more dramatic and extraordinary than Miles would have thought, though he still refuses to entertain ideas like the existence of spirits.
Miles ends up driving the Feys back to Phoenix’s apartment. Miss Fey and Pearls pass out in Phoenix’s room almost instantly, leaving Miles and Phoenix sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, watching an episode of Brooklyn 99 in complete silence. Miles looks over at Phoenix. It hasn’t stopped being strange. Miles feels compelled to do something, to break the silence or move or even just change the volume on the television. He’s buzzing with tension, unable to do anything but sit perfectly still, bound in place by his racing thoughts.
The episode ends. In his peripheral vision, Miles sees Phoenix halt the auto-play and turn towards him. He knows he’s being observed, but can’t find the strength to turn and face the man next to him. He sees Phoenix reach out a hand, then pause and pull it back. Sees him open his mouth. Hears him speak.
“I missed you,” he says; this, somehow, is what pushes Miles to look at him. This is worse, this is so much worse; Phoenix’s mismatched eyes seem to tear straight through him, leaving him unsteady and unprepared. He doesn’t know how to respond.
“I think I’ve spent my whole life missing you,” Phoenix continues, “You always end up leaving.” This time, Phoenix is the one to look away. Miles tries to think of something to say, anything at all.
“I didn’t realise you thought I was worth missing,” are the words that end up coming out of his mouth; the moment he’s said them, Miles wants to take them back. Phoenix's eyes lock back onto him with a contradictory mixture of fury and tenderness.
“Of course you’re worth missing.” The conviction in Phoenix’s voice is magnetic. Between one breath and the next, Miles feels himself being pulled onto a new trajectory. “You- I- Sometimes I wake up and I-“ Phoenix breaks off, closes his eyes, and with the air of someone ripping off a band-aid, says “Sometimes when I wake up I still think you’re dead. I think you’re dead and it hurts just as bad, all over again, and I-“
Without any conscious thought, Miles reaches out and grabs Phoenix’s wrist, cutting off his sentence. Wordlessly, he pulls Phoenix’s hand until it’s directly over his heart, where the warm thrum of his pulse says alive, alive, alive. Somehow, Phoenix seems to understand, fingers tightening in the front of Miles’s shirt, a shaky smile spreading over his face.
“You know,” Phoenix says, “There’s another reason I missed you so much.” His other hand is coming around to cup Miles’s jaw, to press fingers to the artery in Miles’s neck. It’s an unnecessary motion; Miles’s pulse is pounding in every part of his body, the vibrations over his heart strong enough to be visible.
“There is?” Miles might not be breathing. Phoenix is so, so close, every crack in his lips, every eyelash so very visible. Miles feels himself on the edge of a precipice, too close to do anything but step backward and let the air take him.
Phoenix is leaning in; Miles knows that the ground is giving way beneath him. He takes one short breath, and feels himself get pulled in toward Phoenix at the exact rate of gravity.
The thing is, Miles was on a collision course with his own conscience for fifteen long years before Phoenix Wright pulled him into a new orbit. It’s so breathlessly simple that Miles doesn’t know what to do.
Phoenix pulls away. His breath is warm where is flows over Miles’s lips. Where’s the fucking horse, Miles thinks dizzily; the fingers at his jaw tighten and pull him back in.
To this day, scientists haven’t quite figured out the secrets of gravity. While it is nominally a fundamental force, it appears to act instantaneously over long distances. This would, of course, necessitate movement faster than the speed of light.
Einstein's theory suggested that rather than a classical force, gravity was instead the curvature of space-time. This very simply and neatly turns mysteries that we could not solve for years into curved lines mapping the entire universe.
Miles is no physicist, but he is familiar with the principle of Occam’s razor; whichever is the simplest answer to a problem is usually right. So when Phoenix Wright reaches out a hand, offers his friendship, offers his entire heart, Miles follows that principle and jumps.
The hotel room is very slightly cramped. The three of them sit on the couch near the window, watching the lights across Amsterdam slowly blink and flicker; Trucy fell asleep hours ago. Her legs are sprawled across Miles’s lap, her head on Phoenix’s shoulder. She looks so peaceful in her sleep that one could almost forget how young she is, how lost. Miles wants to hold her close and tell her how okay everything’s going to be. He isn’t sure how to.
He watches Phoenix press a kiss to the top of Trucy’s head, cradle her closer like he can banish all the hardship of her life if he loves her strongly enough. Miles doesn’t know how he does it.
“How is this all so simple to you?” he asks. At Phoenix’s questioning look, he clarifies, “Parenthood.”
“Loving someone shouldn’t have to hurt,” Phoenix says, “It should just happen. It happened to us, didn’t it?” Miles has never smiled as easily around another person. It shouldn’t be this simple. “And, for the record, I think it comes easier to you than you realise.”
This time, it’s Miles’s turn to stop, tilt his head questioningly, follow Phoenix’s gaze down to his own lap. Nothing particularly jumps out to him about Trucy’s legs, carefully balanced over his own, her cape lovingly arranged to keep October’s chill off her- wait.
Miles looks from Trucy’s sleeping face to Phoenix’s joyous one. Somewhere in his chest, the calculation reaches its logical conclusion. Somewhere in the city beneath them, a light turns off. Somewhere endlessly far away, a planet finishes its orbit and begins anew.
Huh, he thinks. It really is that simple.