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It’s raining. That’s the thing that Phoenix notices, first—the way the water collects on the pane-glass of the window, the office dark and silent otherwise.
How long has he been in the building for the weather to have changed so drastically? How long did it take to extricate himself from the aftermath of the trial, to escape the celebrations and cheer once he’d noticed the conspicuous absence where someone should have been?
Long enough for the cup of tea abandoned on the desk to have gone stone-cold, he realizes, when he presses his fingers gently against the side of the delicate china vessel. Long enough that Miles Edgeworth might be long gone by now, and he’d have to ride his bicycle home in the storm, without even getting a chance to check in with his oldest friend.
Motion, from the corner of his eye, and Phoenix swings around to a previously unexamined corner of the room, in the shadow of the vibrant pink sofa and the framed jacket on the wall. A hiding place, of sorts, and for half a second he feels the chill of adrenaline through his veins as he wonders if he’s about to be attacked in Edgeworth’s office, victim of a trap planted for the prosecutor and not for him.
But he relaxes, as much as is possible, when he recognizes the figure slumped against the wall by his distinctive cravat, his steel-grey hair. Miles Edgeworth, looking distinctly miserable, but Phoenix will take it if it means he’s here.
“Of course you’d manage to find me,” the man grumbles, and Phoenix laughs, awkwardly.
“Well, you know what they say about defense attorneys,” he jokes, hand combing through the hair on the back of his neck. “Always sticking our noses where they don’t belong.”
Miles huffs, as though he can’t be bothered to dignify that with a response. With some trepidation, Phoenix moves closer, kneels next to him, attempts to put himself on a level with the prosecutor. He doesn’t quite reach out, the way he so desparately wants to, because he’s never quite sure where exactly he stands with Edgeworth, these days. He’d hoped, that since they’d cleared up the history behind the DL-6 incident, that they would have properly reconnected, but…
Well. It’s unfortunate that they only ever seem to see each other at opposing ends of the courtroom, or so it seems.
But Edgeworth looks so downtrodden that Phoenix can’t help but want to help him, and so he crosses his legs and leans against the wall, nearly casually, and risks his life to ask his next question:
“What’s the matter? Why aren’t you out with everyone else, celebrating a job well done?”
“Wright. Really?”
“Well, yeah, maybe it didn’t turn out quite as well as it could have, but...we’re still a step closer to fixing the justice system, aren’t we? Sure, the Chief Prosecutor’s….in jail, and the Police Chief is...also in jail, but--”
“Wright, I’m going to stop you before you can jam your foot even further in your mouth than it already is.”
“That’s...probably a good idea, yeah.”
They pause, for a moment, listening to the wind and the raindrops against the window. A distant lightning strike illuminates the office, and Phoenix is reminded of quite how high up they are.
“Would you come to my funeral?” Edgeworth asks, apropos of nothing, and Phoenix’s head whips around almost faster than he can process the words.
“Your—Miles, what are you--” He can’t form a full sentence, finding his mind blank even at the prospect. Edgeworth sighs, deeply, and leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
“My funeral, Wright, it’s not that difficult of a question. At such a time as I perish, whether through natural or unnatural means, would you attend the event that I assume someone would inevitably arrange for honoring my memory or other such tripe.”
Phoenix is still stuck processing, the very prospect of Edgeworth and death and funerals all sparking associations he’d rather not think too hard about, calling to mind the ceremony they’d had for Mia not even six months ago—and, even earlier, the image of a far younger Miles Edgeworth in a black suit, surrounded by arrangements of lilies and with an unreadable expression.
“I—well, in a purely hypothetical scenario, because you aren’t going to have a funeral anytime soon—in that case, of course I would come to your funeral, Miles, what do you take me for?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know. I’m not—” and Edgeworth pauses, clutching at the fabric of his sleeve as he averts his gaze to the opposite corner of the room. “I’m not exactly a paradigm of innocence, and your reputation for...well…”
“Are you still trying to say that you’re guilty when we’ve proven that time and time again to be untrue? Miles, c’mon, that’s bullshit. And—my reputation? What, do you think I’d even care, if you were—”
“Wright, surely you’re not that much in denial. I’m as much guilty of evidence tampering as Lana Skye. And worse—you know the tactics us prosecutors employ. I did not gain the name Demon Prosecutor for nothing. I’m not—you shouldn’t even associate with me.”
Phoenix frowns, eyebrows furrowing. He’s clenching his hands into fists, he realizes, as he takes a deep breath and focuses on trying to have this discussion rationally, as much as possible.
“Miles Edgeworth, you can’t blame yourself for doing as you were taught. You were only a child, you should have been able to trust your mentor figures—it wasn’t on you to be able to construct a detailed critique of the legal system! And you think that I wouldn’t associate with you because of that? I guess…” he swallows, looking away from the prosecutor. “I guess you don’t know me as well as I thought you did, then.”
The silence is almost tangible, as they let Phoenix’s words sink in, settle around them in the dark office. In his mind, Phoenix begins to count the seconds that it’s taking Edgworth to answer—one, two, three…
“I suppose I don’t,” he finally supplies, and that’s it, then, the kind of sentence you don’t continue a conversation from. It’s not the only thing he seems to want to say, Phoenix notes, but it’s the only thing he vocalizes, letting the sound of the rain fill in the empty spaces.
Phoenix breathes out, slowly, and stands up. His knees pop as he does, tiny cracking noises competing with the rumble of thunder from outside.
He looks over his shoulder, and Edgeworth’s still on the ground, avoiding eye contact. It’s not like he wants to leave, but…
Maybe Miles just needs some time alone. He seems to have a lot on his mind, and Phoenix probably isn’t helping by bothering him with conversation.
He lets himself out of the office, vowing to himself that he’ll check back in tomorrow morning, when the rainstorm’s let up and the world’s back to normal. He isn’t going to let Edgeworth wallow in his thoughts for too long, at least.
Overnight, the rain fades to nothing, clouds making way for soft sunshine, promising bright blue skies for the day and uncharacteristically warm weather for February. Miles Edgeworth’s office window lets in the sunlight, where it illuminates the grand desk and the items on top of it. In turn, the light falls on a pen, a nameplate, a lamp.
A teacup, still half-full from the night before. And…
A note, with one single line of neat cursive penned in the middle of the crisp, textured paper:
Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death