Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is truly no greater darkness than after a storm. When all the dust settles and the earth is tinged with the color of itself, God does not speak. He turns away from his creations, lungs filled with dirt and grit. He doesn't hear the wailing of a mother as her baby slowly suffocates. Nor does he watch a young man trek across the plains alone, coughing up earth and blood into his hand.

The storm is over, and sometimes Phoenix wishes it was still whipping him around, swallowing him whole. It would be easier then than to anticipate the next.

Phoenix's not sure where he is anymore, really. Everything is plains and long grass and dirt roads. Indistinguishable when the sun's starting to set. There's a farm in the distance, and Phoenix is praying that there's a family merciful enough to give him a couple of scraps. Just a few, to keep him going until he can find a place to work and sleep. He hasn't had much luck so far, ever since he started traveling east. Prairie women run into their homes far too quickly and shutter their windows, prairie men load up their shotguns with a boy, you'd better step off of my property, ya hear?

He's starting to get desperate. Kindness grows sparse after a particularly bad storm, when all the crops are gone to the wind and all the animals are slowly dying, one by one. There's no spare seat at the table, no extra room.

He approaches a farmhouse with caution. He's been chased off with enough shotguns and angry dogs to be ready at a moment's notice to flee. It's a nice enough farmhouse, he thinks. Whoever owns it must've had a little extra bread and butter before going west. It's been cleaned on the outside, leaving little trace of the dust storms. The only evidence of the dust storm is the fallen fence posts,

Feeling a little brave, he knocks on the door while rocking on the balls of his feet. He brushes himself off and adjusts his overalls. Phoenix is in desperate need of a bath, but he sincerely hopes he looks presentable enough to these people. Enough to get their dinner scraps and maybe a place to sleep, if he's real lucky.

The door opens to a scowling older man. Even a quick glance inside and at the man would indicate wealth beyond his understanding. He’s wearing a stuffy suit, gripping a dark, polished cane. Phoenix swallows a lump in his throat, feeling so much smaller in his father's too-big overalls. He fears he’s gone and knocked on the door of the Devil. 

"G'evening, sir. My name's Phoenix Wright, and I was wonderin' if you'd be willing to spare any of your suppers to me. And if you'd be so kind, a place to stay for the night. It gets mighty cold at night, and I've no home anymore." He clasps his hands behind his back. Behind the old man are a couple whispering figures, a young girl and another man his age.

He sneers, his slicked-back white hair appearing like snakes’ forked tongues. "We don't have anything for the likes of you. Now go, before I make you scurry away like a scared little rabbit, boy." His voice is refined. Too refined for somebody owning a farm. He assumes this is just how rich folk sound, coming from the East Coast. It's so unlike his own drawl.

"But sir—" He begins, voice cracking, "Lord, I haven't had anything to eat in days. Please, even a drink of water would be enough." Phoenix has never groveled, but desperation is clawing at his throat, filling his lungs like dust.

The young man behind him is staring, eyes piercing into him. He's staring back, pleading for some semblance of mercy, but the young man turns away.

"Beat it, or I'll send the sheriff's hounds after you!" The man slams the door, and Phoenix has half a mind to pound on his door and beg for a cup of water before he turns to dust himself.

It's so much darker now as the light turns on in the house and Phoenix trudges away. He's kicking himself in the rear for not presenting himself to be of use to the old man—he could fix those fence posts of theirs, take care of their livestock and horses.

But...Phoenix thinks desperately as his stomach churns and growls, he could at least look through their compost or their trashcans. 

When he hears a loud shout and the slamming of doors, Phoenix fears the man is reading his mind. He ducks into the grass--he prefers ticks over getting attacked by hounds any day.

The door is wide open, spilling cool yellow light into the night.

"Give it to the pigs! Go! You're better off starving than them anyway!" The older man yells, "Don't you bother coming back in for supper tonight!" The door closes with a finality.

Phoenix peers over the tall grass and watches as that boy scans the area, eyes searching. He's holding a plate in both hands, as if afraid he'd drop it. It looks as though the darkness is about to swallow him as he walks away from the lit-up farmhouse.

A bit of bravery settles in his bones, and he stands slowly, swaying like a willow. The rustling startles the boy, and he turns around to face Phoenix in the darkness. He does not speak. Instead, he locks eyes with him, slowly turns around, and walks towards the barn. It feels like a hesitant invitation. Phoenix follows him into the darkness, as everything turns various shades of indigo and aubergine.

The boy opens a side door to the barn, barely holding it open for Phoenix to catch it. It shuts behind him, and Phoenix can only stare as the strange boy lights a couple of lanterns, matches held expertly in-between pale fingers.

He doesn't even realize he's stopped lighting up the barn.

"Well, don't just stand there. I went through the trouble to get a plate out to you." The boy murmurs stiffly, gripping his elbow and looking at anything but him. Phoenix is now more mesmerized at the swath of light that envelopes them, the newfound warmth of the orange-yellow light in the barn. It curves against the boy's hurt cheek, and Phoenix wants to lean out and—

"I couldn't let his cruelty kill you, is all." The boy continues as he stares him down.

Phoenix can't hold back a grin. He picks up the plate as if it's a pure gold bar in his hands, weighing it. "You don't gotta defend yourself in front of me, sir. I'm grateful for your kindness." Phoenix steps closer with his hand outstretched, about to touch the angry red mark on the boy's cheek–that’s gonna bruise something awful. "It's a damned shame you gotta get yourself hurt for it." He's a real pretty thing, Phoenix notes. There have always been pretty girls, but by God, they could never match up to the sight he's seeing here.

The boy recoils at their growing closeness, like a feral animal. He doesn't quite meet his eyes until Phoenix draws his hand back.

"My name's Phoenix. Phoenix Wright." The boy's eyes meet his, and he continues, "Not like the Wrights that got a plane t' fly, though."

"Of course, you aren't. You wouldn't be here begging for scraps, otherwise," The other replies evenly, then outstretches his hand to shake. "Miles Edgeworth."

Phoenix takes his hand without hesitation. He's shocked at how soft Miles' hands are. As if they've never seen a day of work in their lives. Smooth and pale compared to his dirty, tanned, and calloused hands. A blush runs up to his ears and cheeks. There's a regality to everything about this boy. 

So he tells him. Without thinking. "You're real pretty. Your hair looks like cornsilk in the lamplight like this." He wants to reach out and touch his hair, just to see.

Miles pulls his hand away a little too quickly, flushed pink. "You should eat." He mutters under his breath.

Phoenix finally takes the plate and finds a seat on a hay bale. He remembers to have some semblance of manners while he's scarfing down the food. It's got a weird conglomeration of seasoning all over and some of it is burnt, but it's hardly noticeable. The old man must be unnecessarily cruel. 

He's halfway through eating a hunk of lamb chops when he hears a gurgle and a soft sweep of hay as Miles shifts uncomfortably. Completely forgetting he was there until now, Phoenix stops eating and pats the spot beside him. "You don't gotta stand there hungrier than a horse. Here—" he lifts up the plate from his lap.

Miles blinks but then shakes his head. Slender fingers touch his cheek as if thinking about something, or someone that'd stop him. "It's yours. I forfeited my meal tonight. Besides, you don't know when your next meal will be."

Phoenix shrugs. "Do any of us know? It would be hypocritical of me to let you go hungry so that I can eat. It ain't right."

"Mr. Wright..." Miles begins. Phoenix cringes at the formality.

"Just Phoenix. Besides , a meal is supposed to be shared. At least, that's what my momma used to say." Phoenix interrupts, wagging a finger at him.

There's a moment of tight silence. Miles clenches and unclenches his fists, considering and reconsidering. He finally sits on the hay bale beside Phoenix. He pulls something white out of his pocket, handing a handkerchief to him with a frown. 

"Alright. Wash your face."

Phoenix sets the plate down in his lap, taking more interest in how out of place this boy looks in a barn. He's never seen such a weird ruffled bandana in his life. It looks a little like a bib, in his opinion, but he chooses against insulting his new friend. His new friend is weird, eating oh-so daintily with his legs neatly crossed at the ankles.

"Your daddy must be rich, huh?" Figures it’d be polite enough to make conversation.

"Mr. von Karma has money, yes." He replies.

"He's not your daddy?" Phoenix presses, carefully.

"No, not biologically."

"So you been adopted."

Miles looks at him with a frown. "Yes," he answers in a clipped voice, "something like that."

Phoenix draws a leg up to his chest. He knows he's pushing boundaries, pushing against the kindness that Miles showed him, but his mouth just keeps running.

"And that little girl in the house with you, then. She ain’t look like either of youse. She adopted too?"

He chokes on a bite of carrots, shaking for a moment before swallowing. He clears his throat.

"My sister. Mr. von Karma's daughter."

It's a little weird to Phoenix that he doesn't call the man his father, but calls the man's daughter his sister. He doesn't intend to ask, his voice quiet. "Just you and them. So…you ain't married yet, then?"

"No. I'm rather...young for marriage." Miles says a little more sternly.

"Me neither. Although my momma always said that I oughta find myself a woman and get married in a couple years. I'm already seventeen," He jokingly holds up a couple of fingers.

"I'm sure you won't have to worry about that, when the time comes," Miles mutters to himself, then presses his hand to his mouth. He looks away, silvery bangs hiding his eyes.

Phoenix is close enough to hear it, like a match struck too close to dry grass. He grins toothily, "What? Me finding a woman?" He presses, leaning into the boy's space. "D'you think I'm pretty, Miles?" He's mostly joking, batting his eyelashes.

The match sets off a blazing inferno. The boy stands suddenly, dropping the plate on the barn floor. His eyes are fierce and icy as he stares him down and smothers the inferno in one fell swoop. "I need to retire for the evening. Now. I'm leaving now."

"Don't you want your—?" Phoenix lifts up the handkerchief still in his hands. 

"No…you just…keep it."

He's overstepped officially, Phoenix frowns. Standing up as well, he steps closer, fueling the fire. "I was only joking, I don't care if you think I'm pretty or anything. Actually, I'm the s-"

"There's a loft. Y-you should go to sleep." Miles manages out, his voice strangled. He makes a point of making a very big step away.

There's no use in arguing this one, or else he could risk losing a place to sleep, he realizes. His bones ache deeply. His body feels stripped, waiting to splinter.

"Thank you. Have a good evenin', Miles."

The boy leaves with his plate, without a word. Phoenix finds that dizzying. He likes that little pitter-patter of his chest.

Too tired to go up onto the loft, he curls up in a corner and dreams of cornsilk. 

Phoenix wakes up to the cock of a gun, the muzzle of it pressed against his forehead. He opens his eyes slowly, finding himself nestled in a pile of hay. He stares up the muzzle, to the old man, Mr. von Karma himself, holding it. Every nerve in his body is completely still as he stares into cold, dark purple eyes.

"I warned you, boy. You should consider yourself lucky that you're not ripped to shreds by the police hounds." His voice grates Phoenix's ears. 

He's eye to eye with the Devil himself. His glare is filled with so much hellfire yet it brings a shiver down his spine.

He half expects the man to blow his brains out right there in the barn. Put on a show for anyone else who dares ask for mercy from this man.

"Sir, you shouldn't do this." A voice says from behind Mr. von Karma.

"Get back in the house. This boy trespassed. And you ," Mr. von Karma turns to point at Miles. Phoenix sits up but doesn't dare run. "Giving him food instead of feeding it to the pigs. It's like feeding wild animals—they'll keep coming back."

"You shouldn't punish a starving boy."

Phoenix stands, slowly. He raises his hands, his eyes flying between Mr. von Karma and Miles. Now that he's standing on both feet, back straight as a pin, he's barely any shorter than the menacing man. It balances the scales, making him look less like the Devil and more like a man with a shotgun.

"You ain't gotta defend me. I did trespass." He tilts his head, nodding to Mr. von Karma. "Sir, I promise I will never come back on this land of yours. I'll book it outta here if you need me to. I swear on my momma-"

"He did nothing wrong, sir. It was me who erred last night. I told him to sleep here for the night." Miles protests. His fists are clenched, but they don’t tremble. "Don't punish him for my actions. It's not fair."

"Papa, may I?" A young girl's voice rang out. Phoenix whipped his head around to the source of the voice. Mr. von Karma's daughter. He backtracks on what he said about her last night–she definitely is her father’s daughter in the light. 

For some reason, he feels even more terrified of her. What’s worse is that she’s easily ten years old, eleven at the most.

She's carrying a riding crop, with a foal trailing behind her. Holding an air of superiority to him, she opens her mouth again, "It would be unwise to let go of this...mutt." He feels her eyes pick him apart. "Little brother, don't waste your breath defending him. He's guilty through and through! However, he should stay here. We need someone to take care of the livestock and the horses."

She points at Phoenix, and he feels as though he might collapse. "You! How proficient are you in taking care of horses? Of other livestock?"

"Very! Very proficient, miss! Before my family's barn burnt down, we had a cow and pigs and chickens. We used t' have a horse, but on account of my fath-"

She smacks him with the riding crop. His shoulder stings.

"Enough." She looks at her father, a confident smile on her face, "Do you see, Papa?"

It absolutely baffles him that Mr. von Karma doesn't outright reject the idea, but considers it with a twist of his mouth.

"You...boy. Your name, again."

"Phoenix Wright, sir." His mouth is suddenly running, despite a shotgun still being angled at him. "If you let me stay here for the summer, all I will need is a hot meal and a place to sleep in your barn. That's all, sir. Just for the summer and you ain't ever gonna see me again." 

Mr. von Karma's eyes bore into him, as if they're grabbing him by the throat.

"Pathetic. And you'll do this for no pay?"

The noose is wrapping around his throat. A summer's worth of work and nothing to show for it, other than a full stomach. But right now, he's thinking about where his next meal could possibly come from. Next time, maybe he'll get shot for trespassing. Next time, he could be found dead in someone's barren field, prairie grass and earth in his rigid mouth.

"No pay."

Something settles in the man's fiery eyes, and he lowers the shotgun. Phoenix audibly lets out a breath. He makes eye contact with Miles, mustering every drop of gratitude into his gaze. For defending him. 

Now, he pays the debt.

Something is relieving about working here. A guaranteed place to sleep and a hot meal at the end of the day is almost everything Phoenix could ask for in a time like this. Any other situation right now is miserable to him. He's been to town a couple of times before with his father after the stock market crashed. He's seen the long line out of soup kitchens, seen families kicked to the curb while houses lie in wait to be lived in again. It wouldn't hurt to stay for the summer. He can deal with a cruel man, whom he’s learned is a hardened veteran prosecutor in Chicago, and a little girl that follows him around with her riding crop and tells him what to do. He learns her name is Franziska, and she’s taken a weirdly affectionate disliking to him. 

He's hauling a pail of water to the barn when he sees, admittedly, his other reason for staying there. Phoenix isn't as quite as lovesick as his old classmate was in school, but he finally understands what Larry Butz meant when he got struck by a lovebug .

And maybe it's because he hasn't seen other people his age in ages, hasn't had many friends since he had to take over the farm and care for his mother. But it's definitely because of the way Miles looks in sunlight, all soft angles and shadows.

Phoenix watches him from afar, following him into the barn. He leans in on the doorway, carefully balancing the bucket on his boot so as to not make any noise. The boy stops at each stall and pets every horse, lips moving in a quiet greeting. He finally stops at a white mare and foal. Miles' lips spread into a soft, soft smile as he reaches into his pocket and feeds something to the mare. He brushes his hand against his carmine red shirt—must've been sugar cubes?—and Phoenix loses grip of the bucket handle.

Phoenix stares dumbfoundedly at the water as it floods the barn doorway. He picks the bucket up before all of the water is lost to the ground, but it catches Miles' attention and suddenly his smile is replaced with a disapproving frown.

"The water typically goes in the water trough," Miles says flatly.

Phoenix tries to ignore the blush crawling up his ears. "'Course it does. You think I don't know that?"

"No, you're certainly not that dense." Miles is now arms-length away, wrinkling his nose as the water seeps into the dirty hay on the ground. "Then there's no reason for you to dump an entire bucket on the floor."

Oh, he sees what he's doing. Phoenix cocks a brow, "You don't know that I was going to fill the water trough. Could've been washing the barn floor, y'know." He stomps on the dark flooring--rubber?--Phoenix assumes.

"Actually-" Miles motions towards the stalls, "You were. It's part of your daily chores, and the trough is practically bone-dry. Besides, it would be smart to sweep the area first before washing it, Wright. Anyone would know that it would be the most efficient way to clean a barn floor."

"They are not -" Phoenix begins incredulously. As he takes a step to demonstrate that the troughs were perfectly fine at the moment , his boots lose grip on the wet ground and he slips.

Hay and water and dirt cling to his already stained overalls. He stands up, and Miles has carefully darted around the puddle and stands in the doorway.

"I rest my case. I'd be careful walking in that if I were you." There's a glint in the boy's eyes, and he's smirking for only a fleeting moment. "You have a tendency to...let your eyes wander and then trip over your own feet." His face twists into something cooler and unrecognizable and then excuses himself.

Phoenix isn't quite sure what to make of the thrumming of his heart as he disappears into the house, taking the sun and leaving the wind to chill his damp legs.

He thinks he could get used to this push and pull, the way a warm breeze can turn into whipping wind at the drop of a hat. It's something so different, and Phoenix finds himself chasing it.

Chapter Text

It's not long before the next dirt storm, as he predicts.

Clouds come tumbling in the distance, dark and fast. When the sun's no longer in view, Phoenix looks up and stops little Franziska and her beloved foal, Lieutenant, in their tracks.

He feels the sting of her riding crop and her glare branding onto his skin. "Why did you stop walking?! Blöder Köter..."

Phoenix doesn’t answer. There’s a slight wind that picks up the long dry grass and tickles at their legs, but he knows better. This accompanied by black clouds in the sky was more than a summer breeze—it was a warning to run.

"Answer me!" Franziska smacks him again. Lieutenant whinnies softly as if imitating her. 

He needs to make a choice. Fast.

"Miss von Karma," Phoenix begins slowly, eyes not leaving the growing red and brown growing closer, closer... "Please, forgive me." He finishes, turning to her.

Phoenix picks her up like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. She starts to scream and kick and smack him, but he holds onto her squirming form and makes a mad dash towards the farmhouse. She's yelling as loud as she can, but it's quickly drowned out by the violent howling of the wind.

"Cover your eyes and mouth!" He manages to yell before the dust picks up and he puts his bandana over his mouth. He shifts his grip on her, holding her more carefully in both of his arms. She's still screaming, but now it's into his shirt and Phoenix thinks she might be crying too. He can't say.

Everything is dark, a swirling mix of burnt umber and black. This is when demons come out to trip you up, wrap their tails round your ankles.

He almost stumbles, twice. He refuses to. A slight slip of the foot is dangerous, falling to the ground is fatal. The earth knows when you've fallen, drags you down into the grass, and piles onto you until you can't breathe, breathe-

The light outside of the farmhouse comes in sight and Phoenix tumbles inside with the girl. Behind him, Miles shuts the door. Franziska finds her ground and immediately shoves herself out of Phoenix's arms.

"Are you alright?" Miles asks her, eyes darting between her and Phoenix. She's covered in dirt. Her hair's askew and her eyes are puffy and red.

She doesn't answer, brushing past Miles and disappearing into the back of the house. Phoenix feels like he’s in a fever dream, looking around their house. 

Miles turns to Phoenix, and those steely eyes force him to speak. "I had to grab her, she wouldn't have been able to—" As if struck by lightning, Phoenix pauses. He can save her.

"Her foal! I needa—"

"Wright! You're not—" Miles begins.

Phoenix nods, hand on the doorknob. "I'll be right back. Gotta take care of some things." He says casually as if it's something trivial. Like as if he forgot to fill up the water trough this morning or forgot to feed the pigs.

"Wright!"

He opens the door without hesitation and runs headfirst into the darkness.

God is bellowing, chasing any creature that dares to be outside during a black blizzard. Phoenix thinks he can outrun him.

He's definitely getting splinters from clutching this wooden fence, but he knows it's the golden thread back to the barn, where hopefully the animals remain and the foal... he prays has run back to.

His bare skin stings as dirt particles and debris are whipped around every which way. 

Phoenix fights against the wind until he's almost running into the barn doors. Both sets are still wide open. The animals seem alerted, moving and bickering amongst themselves in discomfort and confusion. He bolts the first set of doors shut, then runs over to the second. He and Franziska took her foal out this way...he can barely see in front of him, much less a tiny little thing like her. Phoenix steps out and tries to call out from under his hand and bandana, but nothing can penetrate through the wall the wind has created. 

He scrapes himself against the barn doors as he closes them. The doors don't keep all of the wind and dust out, but it's enough. 

Phoenix steps over to the thoroughbred mare affectionately named Captain, Lieutenant's mother, and pats her nose comfortingly. She lets out a snort.

Her brown eyes are all too telling. It's as though she knows he left her foal out there to die. He sees a grief in them that is almost too human. Phoenix wraps his arms around Captain’s neck and chokes back a sob. 

“‘M so sorry, I don’t know where she is…Lord forgive me…” He whispers into her neck.

Tears wash away dust easily. He’s learned that lesson. 

He tries not to think about the way foals wander around looking for their mother, whinnying and trotting aimlessly. Lieutenant must've been doing the same out there. Hoping that somewhere out there, her mother was waiting for her to come home.

You couldn’t save her. Just like your momma, Phoenix Wright. 

Perhaps he could've let Franziska run by herself. Could've had her by the hand and the foal around his shoulders. Could've found safety in the barn until the storm passed. He could've saved both of them. Who is he to determine who perishes out in the storm and who survives?

God above, how does he tell Franziska?

Phoenix is stagnant even as the howling stops and the barn doors open.

"Wright!" He hears Miles run up to him. He’s barely able to pull away when the boy grabs him and shakes him by the shoulders.

"What were you thinking, you absolute dolt !? That's how people go missing...that's how people die out here! Wright, are you even…?" 

His voice falters when Phoenix lifts his head to look at him fully. His eyebrows furrow similarly to the von Karmas when they're displeased with him.

"I couldn't save her." Phoenix mumbles, eyes wandering to a spot behind Miles.

"Who? Franziska is fine. Who couldn't you save?" Miles asked in exasperation, gripping his shoulders with a confused, fiery glare.

Phoenix can't bear to look into those eyes. Those disapproving eyes. They could rip Phoenix apart if they wanted. Right now, he'd let them.

"Left Fransizka's Lieutenant behind. That little baby was left out in the storm 'cause all I could think about was making sure your little sister got home safe. I ain't even bothered to think about her pet. Had to save y'all animals too, close 'em doors and make sure they were okay. They're all okay. 'Cept for maybe the pigs, they bein' so close to the door, but..." Phoenix sniffles, clasping a hand over his mouth, 

"I coulda saved that little baby."

"Wright," Miles' voice hardens as his grip tightens. His manicured fingernails are sure to leave little crescent-shaped grooves in their wake. "There was nothing you could've done."

"You think? You don't think I could've just taken both and kept 'em both in the barn with me? I am a capable man, sir. I didn't have to leave her out there, but I did."

"Wright. Look at me, please."

It's physically painful for him to look the other in the eyes. He chokes back a sob as blue and brown stare into stormy grey.

There's a different expression in his eyes. Something like... uncertainty. Something like sympathy.

"You made the right choice. You would've needed all of your strength to keep my sister in your arms." He looks away, letting go of his shoulders. "If...if you weren't out there, who knows what would've happened." Miles is quieter now, more hesitant.

"I...I guess..." Phoenix isn't quite convinced, but he nods anyway.

"Work with me, now. I'm not...used to being...comforting, exactly." Miles frowns at him.

"Well," Phoenix quips weakly, "I dunno how you folk work, but I usually hug people when they're sad, or something." He almost smiles at the incredulous look on Miles' face. "It's different for everyone, though. You don't gotta—"

"No." There's a determination aflame in the boy's eyes, though his entire body is stiff. "I'm going to...." He stammers, "Going to hug you. Now. Right now."

Phoenix attempts to hide the way his smile is curling up, tears welling in his eyes, hot and fresh. He can't help it—Miles is suddenly so earnest in making him feel better. Just the effort is comfort. 

"Okay. Go ahead." Phoenix opens up his arms, 

Miles freezes. He's staring as if he wants desperately to retract his statement. He suddenly hugs Phoenix around his middle, stiff and tense.

Leaning into the hug, Phoenix realizes three things.

One, they're almost the same height. Miles is slightly taller, only by an inch or two. 

Two, Miles’ hair is indeed soft like cornsilk. It brushes against the side of his face, and it makes Phoenix’s stomach flutter.

Three, Miles is trembling. As though he's about to shatter from this contact alone.

Phoenix can imagine that neither von Karmas are particularly touchy-feely. Maybe he's never been hugged. 

Maybe he needs this hug more than Phoenix does. 

Phoenix takes a deep breath. He smells of lavender and fresh linen and only vaguely of dirt. He gives him a squeeze, gently, and pats his back.

"Thank you, Miles," He murmurs as he pulls away.

"Y-you're welcome." Miles steps back tentatively and clutches his elbow. He’s frowning. “I should go...inform her. Do find her Lieutenant for me. Appreciatively.” He lingers for a moment, eyes darting around awkwardly. 

They part ways soon after. It hardly takes Phoenix a couple of minutes to find Lieutenant lying in the grass, covered in debris and dirt. He kneels down, and brushes the dirt off of her white skin. She’s still warm. 

Phoenix holds the white foal in his arms like a child. He tries not to imagine its last moments again. His head is reeling. All he feels is dead weight and hair and guilt, guilt, guilt.

It's not as though he's unfamiliar with death. He's held hens as they took their last breath, soothed the lame horse before his daddy took out his shotgun. Watched on helplessly as a prairie fire burnt down his family's farm, right after he watched the ground swallow up-

This is different, the dread and guilt he feels when he sees a blue-haired figure run out of the farmhouse. This wasn't his foal. It was a little girl's pet, who yelled and screamed for him to go back for her, to put her down. A little girl who loved her horses and Lieutenant even more. Who’d come down to the barn every morning to follow him around and make sure he was taking care of the horses properly. She would follow him around in the afternoon when he took out the horses, jabbering about horseracing and smacking him whenever she thought he wasn’t listening. She was not an unkind girl, though. 

He stares at everything and nothing. He fears he might pass out because his skin is both a hundred degrees too hot and too cold. 

The foal is still too warm. 

Phoenix swallows down his grief and blinks back his tears as the girl comes up to him, slowly. Miles is not too far behind. She drops her beloved riding crop and kneels in front of Phoenix. She takes off her dainty white glove and touches the Lieutenant's mane.

"I'll never forgive you for this, Phoenix Wright." She murmurs.

He chokes down an apology, for fear that speaking will make things worse. He doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness anyway.

"Bury her. Bury her deep, so the wind never takes her again." Franziska orders. Her voice is terse, her bangs falling in her eyes. It’s eerily similar to Miles' mannerism. "You're going to bury her in the garden. I don't care how long it takes, or how dry the ground is."

The air is still. It's a hundred degrees too hot, and she’s cold in his arms.

"Yes, miss." Phoenix manages out.

She closes Lieutenant’s eyes. In a moment of weakness, there's a sharp whimper.

The girl quickly stands and scrubs her face with a gloved hand.

Phoenix picks up the foal in his arms, and he figures his job is to be the gravedigger, the hearse, and the pallbearer.

The ground finally cracks under the weight of the shovel and his sheer force.

Phoenix rubs sweat off his brow as he studies his handiwork. 

He's buried animals before. Only in shallow graves when it was cool enough in the nighttime. Now, he's standing under the midday sun and somehow this is different than when he had to bury his favorite hen. 

This feels like a real funeral, as both of the siblings stand and watch him finally reach earth that has some semblance of moisture. 

He is the hearse, the gravedigger, and finally, the sole pallbearer as he lowers the dead foal into the ground.

Phoenix covers her up carefully, packs in the dirt, and nods at Franziska to assure her that the wind won't ever take her foal again. She's allowing herself a moment of weakness--Phoenix suspects it's because her father isn't here, he's at a trial right now--and she's clinging to Miles' side. Every so often, she sniffles. 

Miles is holding a couple of wilting flowers--that's the best they can do right now, they're not allowed to touch the garden that rarely blooms.

"Alright." He stands the shovel up and leans against it. The dirt is packed up as compact as he can make it, and he watches Franziska carefully. He wonders if she's ever seen death before, as she carefully kneels down in the dirt. Perfectly places the flowers on top of the mound. She clasps her hands and murmurs a prayer. 

He supposes that she has.

Miles kneels down beside her. It's almost...humanizing, the way they're kneeling in the dirt. There's no doubt they'll stand up and their knees will be dusted tawny. He does the same, dropping the shovel and crouching beside him.

"I know it ain't gonna mean much, but you took great care of that baby." He says slowly, carefully. His voice almost betrays him, "I ain't never seen someone love a horse like that."

Franziska doesn't answer. She doesn't need to.

Phoenix murmurs an apology and clears his throat as he gets up. He's gotta sweep the barn down, and make sure the rest of the animals are okay. 

It's not his place to mourn.

As he leaves, he feels steely gray eyes again drilling holes into the back of his head. He's unsure whether he should look back and face Miles. His words too kind, too forgiving, and eyes still too cold. 

Chapter Text

The water is devastatingly cool when he finally finishes up for the day. He scrubs at his hands and arms, caked in dirt and sweat.

In the distance, the lights in the von Karma farmhouse are on, and Phoenix can imagine the three of them sitting stiffly in their all-too fancy dining room. He's never actually been in the house, his knowledge of it limited to glances he allows himself while he's working. Their dining room was easily the size of his old house, the dining room table made in mahogany wood. That cost at least his family's farm a million times over.

Miles wasn't kidding when he said the von Karmas had money, the first night they met.

Idly, he wonders if one day he'd be invited in for supper. Just one time. He imagines he cleans up pretty nicely, and he'd slick his hair with the lanolin balm he gives one of the pigs every morning and smooth down his overalls twice over. 

Not that it'd ever happen, he quickly reminds himself. He’s still in the dog house, in each and every one of their eyes. 

Showing Franziska the foal was one thing.  Pointing to a mound in the garden and explaining frantically to Mr. von Karma? Hell on earth.

He was barely forgiving, like Franziska. He yelled, grabbed Phoenix by the collar, and stared him down with those snakelike eyes. Phoenix was convinced the man was going to send him straight to hell with just the look in his eyes.

By then, Miles had to step in again and explain to the man that Phoenix risked his life trying to save it anyway, and made sure the rest of the animals were safe. That seemed to satiate him enough to not cock his gun and give Phoenix a three-second head start off of his farm. He was let off with a warning, just by the skin of his teeth.

And he still felt overwhelmingly guilty about it all. It keeps him awake at night and seeps into his dreams. The foal would appear in his dreams, blinking uneasily. It lets out a woman's cry if he got too close to it, harrowingly familiar. Disappearing and reappearing to taunt him, it seemed. A cruel, cruel joke.

At least the little girl didn't cease her visits to the barn every morning. She was short with him, bitter and cold, but it was better than nothing, he supposed.

They most likely only tolerate him existing in their barn. He's fine with that. He deserves it, in a way.

He dunks his head in the water trough, rubbing at his face and his hair. It was absolutely senseless to even think that they liked him enough, that Miles -

The thought of the boy, intensely awkward and so kind , sends water straight up his nose and into his airways. He quickly lifts his head out of the water and hacks into his fist.

"Erm..." He hears a voice, and he raises his head to see the boy that made him inhale water. Miles' nose is wrinkled in that cute way, and Phoenix realizes-

Oh no, he was in the splash zone. 

His bangs are damp, and there's a streak of dampness now down Miles' middle. "Are you...quite done?"

Phoenix pretends he's not thinking of running away. Jumping on the nearest train and finding a circus troupe to join. He'd make a real fine clown. Or maybe they'll feed him to the lions. Miles can have a front-row seat. He can even throw peanuts at him if he's so inclined.

"Sorry! You caught me just washing up for supper." He says sheepishly.

"I see. Well, here you go." Miles hands him his plate and his glass of water once Phoenix dries his hands on his overalls.

"Thank you!" Breaded chicken, still hot mashed potatoes with gravy, corn and a dinner roll on the side. His mouth is absolutely watering. His plate is heaping, tonight, with a little extra of everything. He's unsure what he did to deserve it, but he's grateful regardless. He sits down on the cool grass, balancing the plate on his knee, mentally planning out the best way to scarf everything down. 

Miles is unmoving. He stills his fork, awkwardly tapping it against his plate.  

Phoenix is used to seeing the back of his head before he can even thank him. Usually finds it unnecessary to chitchat. But now, Miles is fidgeting with his sleeve. It’s as if he’s waiting to be acknowledged. Phoenix meets his eyes once before Miles glances to the side.

Does...does he want to stay? He couldn't see why he'd want to. 

However, he knows that someone like Miles wouldn't admit to it.

"You know, meals are meant to be shared." He begins, softly. A subtle invitation, "I usually sit next to the pigs, but they ain't talkers. They just hang around waiting for my scraps." Phoenix jokes, eyes crinkling.

Miles releases his arm. Visibly relaxes, as much as someone from that farmhouse can .

"I...don't talk much. I’m not any good at small talk." He admits as he sits down in the grass, legs perfectly tucked underneath him. "But...I do have some inquiries, Mr. Wright. About your past life, if you'll allow me."

Phoenix laughs and stabs his fork into the chicken. "Inquiries about my past life?" He's holding back a grin. "You make it seem like I died and reincarnated, Miles."

" Wright ."

"Phoenix."

"You know what I meant, Mr. Wright!" Phoenix laments his failed attempt at being on a first-name basis. "I obviously meant your life prior to working for...my father." The other’s voice strains at the end, twinged with discomfort.

"Coulda said that in the first place," Phoenix points out, earning a glare. "What are your 'inquiries' ?" He thinks it's hilarious and almost endearing, the way the boy speaks like he was born a few decades too late.

Miles averts his eyes. "I thought you'd dismiss me, so I haven't had time to come up with any questions."

"Gee...I guess I can just tell you about my family, yeah?" He rubs the back of his neck. "Was only me, my momma, and my daddy. Momma always said I was born in a dust storm. Not as bad as these ones are, but she told me all the time I came out howling and screamin' just like the wind." He smiles sadly, turning his fork over in his hand. "We was never rich folk, but she had laughter that could be spun into gold. I never lived poor when my momma was alive." Phoenix prays Miles can't see that his eyes are watering, or that his voice is quivering.

Miles can see it, watches him with concern. "Ah, she sounds lovely. You're talking about her in the past tense...did-"

"She's passed," Phoenix murmurs. He can't bring himself to tell him everything. Not yet, not when he's looking at him like that. He can't tell him how God turned his back on him that day. How the earth practically swallowed them up, the wind, the fire -

He shakes his head. "It's okay." He doesn't go further than that.

"Why did you leave? What about your father...?" Miles asks with hesitation.

"My father disappeared a while before she...we assumed that he's dead. Think...it's easier that way." Phoenix murmurs.

"So you're an..." He trails off.

Something in those gray eyes softens . He expects pity, to be looked at like a sopping wet barn cat. He's never actually told anyone about his 'situation', at least not when he was starving and desperate. All he'd get was a pitied look from women and glares from their husbands.

Something completely different is there. There's something like /understanding/. Even with the darkening sky, there’s a warmth in Miles’ eyes. It curls like ash, settling warm and hot on Phoenix’s body.

"I...er, I used to be in your position. My mother passed when I was an infant, and my father did too when I was nine years old. Legally, I am no longer an orphan, but..." Miles bites his lip.

"You can say you know how I feel, y'know. Don't gotta beat around the bush." Phoenix points out.

He receives an indignant scoff in return, but then Miles sighs something heavy and nods.

"I know how you feel, Wright."

It's a start, he notes. But now he feels weirdly in the spotlight, tension rolling and crashing in waves. 

He shifts uncomfortably, dragging a hand through his spikes.

"But, uh...my life wasn't all that much of a bummer, y'know? I'm very lucky! Been in a lot of dust storms and made it out alive, and uh, I’ve gotten kicked by a horse and been fine--"

"That wasn't just an isolated incident?!" Miles asks, incredulous. Good. Didn’t notice him deflecting.

“Just the one time, that horse was real nas-”

“Wright, the dust storms? The ones people die in?”

"Oh! I was known for being able to get out of 'em without a mark! I think some folks thought I was the devil or somethin'. Saved many chickens by going out there.”

Miles pinches the bridge of his nose, as if incredibly pained. "Mr. Wright, what about your lungs?"

"My lungs?"

"The dust...it does remarkable damage to people's lungs. You know how many people have died from dust pneumonia caused by them?" 

Phoenix merely shrugs. "I'm fine! Sometimes I get a little wheezy after a real bad one, but that's all."

Miles rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. Phoenix takes the chance to make him even more riled up.

"Don't tell me you've gotten your little heart all worried over me. Do you care about little ol' me, Miles?" He teases lightly.

"You're being asinine. Your food is getting cold."

"D'aw, don't avoid the question. You went through the trouble to put extra food on my plate. You also been sitting with me, asking me where I come from..." Phoenix presses in a sing-song voice, grinning.

Miles' face scrunches up as if he's about to yell, but then he feels a cold hand on the back of his head shove him down. Next thing he knows, he lifts his head, face covered with cool gravy and lukewarm mashed potatoes. Breadcrumbs stick to his bottom lip.

Phoenix is speechless, staring at Miles incredulously. 

He didn't even think the boy would do something so...

"That was childish of me, I apologize. I don't know what came over me." Miles says quickly, wringing his hands. He's perched on his knees, like a bird about to take flight any moment now.

Oh, I like you.

Phoenix bursts into a fit of laughter, wiping off his face with one of his hands. "After I went through all that effort to clean up for supper..." He flings his mashed potatoes-gravy-corn-covered hand in Miles' direction and it sticks to his perfect silk hair.

A sound of absolute glee escapes him as Miles gasps, glares at him, and grabs a handful of anything off his plate to shove in his face.

"I don't enjoy your sloppy seconds, thank you." He mutters when he leans in close. Phoenix’s heart starts racing, just a little bit.

Gravy drips from one of his bangs and onto his pale cheek.

"Tough talkin' for somebody who's lookin' really dumb with gravy in their hair." He retorts.

"I'm afraid you're looking even worse for wear, Wright. You're filthy."

"Oh, you want more?" His meal is practically ruined and he's likely going to be a little hungry waking up, but he doesn't find himself bothered too much by that.

Phoenix's hand is full of whatever's left of his corn and potatoes when Miles shouts, "Hold it!"

"What?"

"If you get any of that on my clothes... I'll... I'll..." Miles comes up short, "Draw and quarter you using the pigs!"

Phoenix relents with a roll of his eyes. "Ain't that a sight. Ain't we in the 20th century?"

He wipes his hand, to Miles’ chagrin, both on the grass and on his pants.

Phoenix reaches in his front overalls pocket and pulls out Miles' handkerchief. It's still pretty clean from when he had first given it to him.

"You better not go back in there all messy like that anyway. Your old man wouldn't like that. I can wash up when you leave."

Something in Miles' expression shifts as Phoenix turns to him, sitting on his knees. Phoenix hesitates to touch him, recalling their first encounter, how he flinched away from him.

"Can I?"

Miles doesn't look at him.

"It's fine."

Phoenix carefully takes his chin in between his index finger and thumb, wiping off any evidence that could point to their little tussle. Miles' eyes are fluttered shot. He has very long eyelashes, curled up all prettily like a girl's. Phoenix doesn't quite realize he's slightly trembling.

A swipe under his eye, then another on his jaw, and Miles lets out a tiny wince. Must be...

His heart breaks something mighty.

"Also, you ain't gotta ask to sit with me or anything." Phoenix says after a beat, "I ain't Mister von Karma or your little sister. I don't bite. Gets lonely out here sometimes, and I bet it ain't any better inside that farmhouse."

Miles stiffens, jaw twitching.

"I’ll keep it in mind."

Phoenix pulls away once the gravy is out of his hair and his face is back to being flawless. He tries to ignore the beating of his heart as he watches his long eyelashes flutter open.

There's a long silence between them as he sits back down on the grass. Miles stares at his shoes for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"I'd better go.” He says suddenly, standing up. Brushes the grass off of his legs. “It was–interesting, tonight.” Miles takes Phoenix’s plate off his hands, making a face at the mess. 

“Yeah? I’ll see you around, then.” Idiot, he lives here. 

“Goodbye, Wright.” He leaves without another word.

It’s a start, he notes. 

"C'mon in, Miles, don't be a stranger!" Phoenix says to the door. It's not quite time for supper yet, leaving him slightly confused as the boy steps inside, two plates in hand.

"Already? It's awfully early..." He peeks outside a window. 

It's easily five in the afternoon, the sun still proudly beaming through the windows and the sky still a light blue. The clouds are billowing, painted with darker grays and blues below.

Miles clears his throat. "Mr. von Karma is in the city for the night due to post-trial paperwork. Dinner is usually timed for when he comes home, but today we had it earlier," He suddenly hesitates, "I hope that's fine?"

"Naw, of course it is! It's nice to eat early, I'm starving! But..." As Miles hands him his plate, he cocks an eyebrow and nods his head at the other plate. "Y'got two?"

The other is a little too interested in the dirty hay that he's yet to sweep up. He's flushed bright pink, and if he wasn't holding a plate, Phoenix is sure he'd be rubbing a hole into the elbow of his sweater.

"You've insisted that meals are meant to be shared, Mr. Wright." He says in a real quiet voice.

Oh .

"Oh," Phoenix repeats lamely, frankly stunned that Miles even recalled that. Butterflies threaten to rise up from his stomach into his chest, like a soda he once shared with his mother. Bubbling, threatening to spill over.

"Apologies if I assu-"

"And I'll insist again! Come sit, Miles."

Phoenix sits on a hay bale and pats the spot beside him. He's desperately trying to contain just how ecstatic he feels as Miles sits down with him, their legs barely brushing against each other. Prays that the other can't feel the way he's absolutely vibrating , his legs bouncing imperceptively.

Eating with Miles means he can't just scarf down every morsel until his chin's dripping with juice from the meat and crumbs from the cornbread. He's fighting the urge to shovel corn by the forkfuls by turning to him and starting to speak.

"I-"

Miles raises an eyebrow in displeasure, and Phoenix immediately blushes and swallows.

"Was gonna ask you about your day." 

"It was fine enough, I suppose," He says as he meets his eye, his gaze suddenly intense and overwhelmingly determined. "Wright, how do you feel about President Herbert Hoover? And what breed of horse do you think is the best?"

He could've burst into laughter, had Miles not sounded so earnest asking.

Phoenix stayed absolutely silent, his fork hovering in mid-air.

"Strange pair of questions, dontcha think?" He asked quietly with a chuckle. Miles frowned at him, then at his plate.

"...I'm going to kill her." He mutters under his breath. It reminds Phoenix all too much of the grumbling from Franziska earlier in the day.

"Somethin' bothering you?" Phoenix asked, looking up at Franziska in the saddle. She had been quiet the entire walk, only clicking her tongue at Captain and huffing when Phoenix tried to spur up conversation.

Franziska shot him a fierce look and smacked him with the riding crop. "If it wasn't for the likes of you, Phoenix Wright, I wouldn't be bothered."

"What did I do?"

She crossed her arms, face screwing up. "My little brother's been asking me questions, constantly. Whether or not they pertain to you is none of your business."

"But you j-"

"Don't be nosy! You shouldn't be asking a little girl for details," She sniffed, turning her head away from him. "He asks stupid questions. That's all. It’s improper of him to be asking me."

It’s just now that he realizes he was asking about him. Some stumbling attempt to get to know him. 

It was sweet, in a way.

"Well, he ain't a real strong president, I think. I don't hear the news all too often anymore." Phoenix finally answers with a shrug. He's never had much time to sit and think about the president and what he does. "But I had a Clydesdale growin' up, so I think I'm a little biased. Fran ain't too fond of my answer when she asked that to me. she likes y'all's Thoroughbreds best. Don’t tell her I call her Fran."

Miles visibly deflates in relief, his bangs fluttering as he lets out a breath. "I see. What was their name?"

"Daisy. Called her my lady, so I guess that's why none of the girls at school talked t'me. Or maybe it was 'cause my friend Larry was real ann--" He stops himself and clears his throat, "Well, you woulda liked her a whole lot, Miles. She was just like your Pess. Sweetest little lady, such a good girl." Phoenix smiles fondly, eyes darting across the barn to the palomino horse. "Ain't that right, Pess? The sweetest little lady this farm ever did see?" He coos.

The horse, as many animals do, was too occupied eating to even raise her head.

"Wright, please," Miles replies tersely, sounding awfully embarrassed.

He laughs. "Miles, you're acting like I just sweet-talked you."

"No, you're patronizing my horse and I’m embarrassed for you. Eat your dinner before it gets cold."

Phoenix pouts through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Yanno, she'd like you more if you gave her more pets and kisses. She don't like it when you talk to her about your problems."

Before Miles could shoot him a horrified look and try to prove him wrong, Pess neighed loudly and it echoed in the barn. He took it as the horse agreeing and grinned slyly. "See? I told you."

He scoffed, crossing his legs and scrunching his nose. "No, Wright. She wasn't agreeing with you. You simply don't understand her like I do."

"'Course I understand her. I'm like...one of those kinda horse whisperers."

"You're a terrible one, then."

"Am not! Horses understand me, and I understand them!"

"My Pess is an enigma, and you shouldn't treat her like any other horse." Miles turns his nose up at him. A prissy little gesture that makes Phoenix giggle.

He sets his empty plate to the side, leaning back on his palms. "My apologies. I'll give the little lady all my love."

Miles seemed pleased enough with that answer, shaking his head and returning to his food. The wind had picked up a little outside, and out of curiosity, Phoenix wandered over to the door.

He poked his head outside, peering at the dark, ominous sky. The grass quivers under the wind. He fears all too fleetingly that it's another dust storm when he feels the faintest of raindrops on his skin.

The air is earthy and damp. 

Suddenly, the wind is no longer a worry, the sky no longer threatening.

Rain was coming. He couldn't remember the last time he felt the rain, watching it fall on his tanned skin. It shines almost like jewels.

"What is it, Wright?" Miles asks, mouth turned down in that worried frown of his.

"Rainin' out, Miles." Phoenix breathes out, motioning him over hurriedly. "C'mon! Who knows the next time you'll be able to feel the rain on your skin!"

Rain, to someone like Phoenix, is worth more than the biggest of diamonds. He steps completely outside, taking in the cool air. 

"Please--come back inside, Wright. It can get dangerous out there." Miles warns from inside the barn. He's gotten up, but he's standing noticeably away from the door. Gripping his arm.

"Oh, it's just a little rain, Miles. It ain't gonna hurt me none." He reassures, dragging his hands through his dampening hair and rubbing his face with the liquid gemstones.

Miles sputters. He can't come up with a good enough reason to make Phoenix come back inside, and Phoenix feels a sense of accomplishment in that. He looks up at the sky, dark and cold and forgiving. It seems that God is repenting today, for looking away for so long. Allowing the plains to dry up into a desert. 

He can almost forgive him.

The first strike of lightning hits just a couple of miles away. It tears across the sky, and soon after, the rumbling comes. It ripples over the grass, shaking the ground.

He supposes he has to listen to Miles' fretting, again , and retreats back to the barn with his tail tucked between his legs. It’s a different kind of cold, now that he’s out of the rain.

When he steps inside, Miles is frozen stiff, his eyes blown in pure terror.

"Hey, M-" Phoenix begins as he starts to approach him.

"The door. Close it." Miles manages out, his voice strangled and tight like wire.

Closing the door, Phoenix tries desperately to analyze the situation. Anybody could tell that Miles was scared out of his mind, trembling like the grass outside.

Another flash of lightning, followed by a bellow. The boy is shaking, pale and sweaty.

"Miles, we should sit. You're gonna pass out like that..." Phoenix suggests, guiding him to the ground. His knees knock together as he sits down, just barely falling.

Phoenix tries to rub his back, but it only makes Miles even stiffer, his gaze equally terrifying and terrified.

"Don't touch me. Don't...say anything. Don’t…" His voice is weakening by the minute.

The boy doesn't want help, and Phoenix has absolutely no idea how to reconcile that with his growing desire to help . He can’t sit there and watch him cry.

He's fumbling around, even climbing up to his loft to grab a blanket. Tries to recall the comforting voice of his mother, and how she sounded when he was scared. Quiet, like a lullaby. Talking about anything and everything until it was alright again and his tears were dried. 

Phoenix drapes the blanket over Miles' shaking shoulders. He's got his knees up to his chest, bangs fanning out across them as his head's ducked down.

"You may not want my help, Miles, but I want to give it anyway." Phoenix murmurs, tucking the quilt around him, covering his head. "'N I'm gonna stay right here until the storm passes. Make sure you're breathin' and all. Got it?"

He's silent, but not protesting. Phoenix takes this as an okay .

There's another boom, and Phoenix sits beside him as the barn shakes.

"I know you been trying to get to know me." He prays this is distracting enough, his voice echoing in the barn. "It's real nice of you, I think. I don't think there's a lot to know 'bout me, but I can try to tell you some things..." He worriedly eyes the blanketed form, watching it rise and fall too quickly for his liking. "I can draw pretty well I think. Not too good at drawing many things, but I can draw a couple flowers and horses pretty well. Give me a few hours and I can draw people. Nobody ever sits that long for me, though. I also know how to whittle, my daddy taught me a long while ago. I still have his knife."

There's a small sniffle and Miles shuffles under the blankets.

It's a bad time for Phoenix to realize he is a terribly lame and unexciting person. Bad idea to talk about himself.

"I can..." He falls silent just as another roll of thunder comes in. His voice returns, loud and fast. "O-oh, gee, I guess I can carry a tune and I've played guitar before, but I ain't no good at instruments. I can lick my elbow. and touch my nose with my tongue. I can't do one of them cartwheels, but I can hold my breath for 'bout 57 seconds exactly before I start gettin' real dizzy. And I-"

He shifts again, and Phoenix fears he’s making things worse, until he feels a weight on his shoulder.

Miles is leaning against him. It's slight, given how close Phoenix already is to him, but he can feel it. It dizzies him.

"Wright..." The other warbles out, weakly. Pushing him away, only to pull him back in.

""m still here.

A sharp inhale.

"I know." It almost sounds like a thank you .

After a long while, the rain disappears, and the thunder fades into the distance. But it seems they stay there for hours after the storm has passed until Miles can bring himself to speak again. 

It’s a start, Phoenix reminds himself, as the boy quickly excuses himself once he takes off the blanket and folds it neatly. It smells faintly of him, of lavender and expensive soap.

It’s a start. 

Chapter Text

A pleasant warm breeze is the only thing keeping Phoenix from panting like a dog. However, he's still finding himself seeking out the shade of the barn or the farmhouse to escape the heat.

He enjoys that his breaks are left to his own discretion, he can take as many water breaks as he desires. Phoenix fills up an old bucket from the spout, humming a tune. The window just beside it is open, and if he's sneaky enough, he can usually catch a glimpse of Miles being tutored.

He peeks his head just above the windowsill. He's pleased to find out that the boy is the only one in the room, no tutor to be seen. He immediately stands up and leans against the windowsill.

"Good afternoon, Miles." Phoenix greets with a tip of his straw hat.

Miles doesn't look up from his schoolwork. "Shouldn't you be working, Mr. Wright?"

"Can't a boy have a waterin' break? I'm perishing out here in this heat from working so hard, Miles Edgeworth." He dramatically rests his hand on his forehead, tilting his head back.

He answers with a huff and a roll of his eyes. "Working hard or hardly working?"

"I could ask the same for you, sir."

"I'm studying, Wright. I'm trying to work hard, but y— what're you doing ?!"

The windowsill is uncomfortable, but Phoenix settles in this new spot easily.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" He asks with a bat of his eyelashes.

"Ngk!" Miles drags a hand through his bangs and lets out a loud sigh. "Yes. I should get back to it—it's very important, you know."

"How important?"

Miles pauses, "Well, in the grand scheme of things...it's not very important. It's merely American literature...poetry."

He didn't strike him as a poetry kinda fellow.

"How come it ain't important?"

"It's not necessary for my career path, but it doesn't harm anyone to be well-rounded." Miles turns towards him, a thick book in his lap. "After high school, I plan on attending college for pre-law. I'll be going to Northwestern University."

Phoenix cocks an eyebrow. Certainly fits the image—he could see him in a stuffy lawyer suit and briefcase. "So you gonna be a defendant?" He asks.

"No, no. I believe you mean a defense attorney. They defend...well, defendants. They're the accused." Something flashes in Miles' eyes. "However, I'm going to become a prosecutor." There's something heavy weighing behind his voice. Something creaking under weak wood, like a fence waiting to snap under the merest weight.

"Prosecutor? Yanno, I never met somebody that's ever liked 'em." Phoenix murmurs.

"Mr. von Karma expects it of me, and so do I. Franziska is expected to become one too."

Phoenix shivers at the thought of that ten-year-old girl wielding a riding crop in a courtroom. "And you wanna become one? Just like him?"

"I've always wanted to be a lawyer, yes," Miles answers, his fingers twitching. "I'm on the right track to becoming one as soon as possible."

Phoenix can't stop staring at his eyes, how they're shining with excitement yet weighed with something so much darker. He can't quite figure out this contradiction.

"Well, I hope you're a good'un. I always admired them public defenders. Always tried to protect smaller farmers." He smiles slightly, "But I help people in other ways, I s'pose."

"Is this...not a job you've wanted?"

"I dunno. Guess I've never had too much of a choice. I was pulled outta school to help on the farm, so I ain't gotta chance to even go to college." Phoenix shrugs, "I don't mind. I like my animals. I don't mind being poor too much, but..." Phoenix runs a dirty fingernail down the windowsill.

"Do you know how to read, at least?"

Phoenix rolls his eyes. The gall of this boy! "Gee, Miles! Of course, I know how to read! I went to school long enough for that--"

There's a knock at the door, and Miles hurriedly pushes Phoenix out of the window. The wind's knocked out of him as he lays sprawled under the windowsill. Above him, is Miles sporting a half-smile as he looks down on him. Bastard.

He opens his mouth to protest, but the boy presses his index finger to his mouth. He furrows his eyebrows as he whispers, "My tutor's here. We'd best not speak right now. Goodbye, Wright."

"Give a boy a warnin' the next time you push 'im out of a window!" Phoenix hisses.

"Watch out." Phoenix barely misses a book being dropped on his head. He rolls out of its way, groaning into the grass.

He hears the windows shut, Miles' voice fading as he presumably returns to his studies.

The book that Miles nearly crushed him to death with, was none other than a thick law book that could easily kill a small child. Phoenix took one look at the inside cover and made an indignant sound at the small type.

When the boy in question stood outside of the barn, balancing over the threshold, Phoenix has half a mind to throw the book at his head back.

Miles bounced on his heels slightly, plate in hand. He looks like a bird ready to take flight again.

Once Phoenix had stored his shovel and broom, he lit up the hung lanterns. "C'mon in, Miles. Don't be a stranger."

As soon as Miles sits down on a hay bale, his legs and hands clasping together perfectly, Phoenix dumps the law book into his lap.

"You're real funny thinking I can read youse and your daddy's jargon."

"It can’t be that difficult. I find this author to be the least pretentious."

"Why'd you give this to me anyway? I ain't becoming a lawyer." Phoenix sits beside him, stirring the pasta on his plate.

Miles crosses his arms and scoffs, "It was the only object in my reach that would shut you up."

"That woulda shut me up permanently, I think. Given me brain damage!"

"The ends justify the means." Miles retorts simply, opening the book, "Well, did you try reading it?"

"A little bit while I was watchin' Franziska. I didn't understand it too well." He rubs the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle, "I'm a bit of a slow reader since I ain't read in... forever."

Miles makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Do I have to do everything for you?" He's opening the book and Phoenix stares at him, bewildered.

"I think it's vital for you to understand property law, especially if you eventually plan on owning and tending to your own acres as a farmer." Miles continues, "Now, you'd best listen."

Whenever his schoolteacher would say something like that, it was usually Phoenix's cue to start doodling on the desk and stare out the window. But this was different, somehow, than learning arithmetic. Miles practically glowed, pointing to the small print and somehow weaving it into something that made some sense . He doesn't realize his dinner's turned cold until Miles stops talking, ducking his head.

"...I apologize if none of this makes sense. I've been surrounded by legal professionals all of my life. I've never had to explain it to someone."

Phoenix simultaneously shovels the cold pasta in his mouth and tries to speak. "No! 'm un'stan'ing! Oo s' s'thing 'bout P'rson v. Po?" He assures, coughing as he swallows down. He feels Miles' disapproving look. "Pierson v. Post! The guy with the fox. 'nd the guy who killed it, it became his because he killed it."

The boy's hardened look softens and nods. "Because of first possession, yes. Post was merely chasing it and hadn't exercised enough control over it for it to be considered his . Pierson was able to capture and then killed it."

"I think you should write these books instead. You're better at explaining than the men that write them." He grins as Miles ducks his head down again, silver bangs falling in his face.

"Ah, I suppose they're a little outdated..." Miles murmurs, closing the book. "Many academic readings expect a highly educated audience to be reading them." He says in a distasteful tone, his mouth slightly quirked down. Miles tucks a section of his bang behind his ear as he meets his eye. "I hope you found it interesting regardless."

"It was nice to learn somethin' new. Like I said before, I ain't been to school for years." He shrugs.

"Would you go back?"

"To that tiny little schoolhouse? Lord, no. But I don't think I'd be able to go to college in this lifetime anyway. I ain't got the type of money, and I ain't too smart." Phoenix's attention darts to the law book, "But I don't needa go if I got Mr. Lawyer teaching me everything." He pats the cover of the book and smiles toothily.

Miles' grip on the law book tightens, and he notices. "I wouldn't consider myself...a great substitute for college education. But...I, er, enjoyed this. I...well, I wouldn't mind..." He's clutching the book to his chest, curling into himself.

"As long as you stop throwing them books at my head, you can read anything to me." Phoenix offers.

His eyes widen, "Oh! I mean, if you wish." Miles touches his chin as if contemplating something. "Very well, Wright. If you're so eager."

Phoenix thinks it's real cute that Miles is pretending to be calm, when he can easily glance at his left leg, bouncing ever so slightly. His hands are trembling too as he strokes the book's spine.

"I was also not throwing books at your head. I dropped it over the windowsill." He adds quietly, "If you're going to preface with that condition, then surely I have nothing to worry about."

"It was an object aimed at my head! Doesn't matter whether you threw it or dropped it!" Phoenix protests.

"Objection! I wasn't looking when I dropped it. I had no intention of causing potential brain damage."

"Wait! You had said you was looking for something to shut me up with! Ain't that implying harm?!" Phoenix lightly shoves him.

Miles shoves back weakly, "Many things can shut a person up, Wright. You assumed bodily harm because it's the only way to shut you up."

"Hey! There's puh -lenty of things that could shut me up!"

Phoenix swears that for a moment he sees Miles' eyes imperceptibly dart down.

The boy scoffs, turning his head in a slight pout. "You're insufferable. Are you finished with your cold pasta? It's getting dark outside."

It's a presumed victory to Phoenix, and he's giggling to himself as he hands him the empty plate. He stands up and stretches before following Miles to the door.

"Don't get lost on the way back. You gotta tell me more about lawyerin' tomorrow." He says as he opens the door for him. The lights are still on in the house, acting as a lighthouse among the dark grass.

"It's not called that." Miles says with mild annoyance, "Have...Goodnight, Wright." His lips quirk up slightly before he turns on his heel to make the trek back home.

Phoenix watches his silver head fade into the darkness, only to reappear under the porch light as he goes inside.

There was only so much law Phoenix could listen to if he was honest. As Miles rambled on about what sounded like meaningless courtroom procedures (who knew there was so much to putting somebody in jail?), Phoenix was starting to doze from his perch on the windowsill, lulled by Miles' quiet voice. The von Karma's tutor was still around, and the other had made it clear that at a moment's notice, Phoenix would have to be shoved out of the window again if the tutor came into the room.

(Although, Phoenix suspects he just found great pleasure in doing so. It wouldn't be so hard to hide him under his desk, really.)

"Wright?" Miles snaps his fingers, just as he was finally about to nod off.

Phoenix whips his head up, "Huh? Oh-you were saying somethin' about plea bargaining? Somethin', somethin'...defendant pleads guilty to a lighter charge..." He trails off, offering his most innocent smile.

"I mentioned that almost five minutes ago." Miles furrows his brow and frowns at him. A twinge of disappointment lingers in his voice. "You're getting bored, aren't you?"

Oh no, now he's done it.

"Not at all!" He quickly assuages. "I mean- I don't get bored listenin' to you at all, I swear!"

"I'm not that oblivious unlike you. You were drooling on my windowsill." Miles deadpans. As Phoenix takes a moment to look and check, the other lets out a sigh. "You don't have to stay here. You have much higher priorities and only so much time in your day..." He's spiraling, fast. Too fast, as he crawls down from his spot on the windowsill, law book firmly closed.

Before he can take a step away, Phoenix grabs his wrist. "Wait! Miles, I wanna stay here! Let me stay here, please." He pleads gently, "My head sometimes gets a-swimming with all that lawyering, and then it feels like it's full of cotton."

Miles pulls away from his hand, fiddling with the edge of his sweater. "I understand."

Phoenix is about to convince him even further that he wants to be here, wants to listen to whatever comes out of that pretty mouth of his when Miles sets down the book.

"I planned for when you'd eventually tire of...'lawyering'." He repeats Phoenix's word with a scrunched nose. "I figured we--I could read you something different. If that's alright."

"Throw it at me," Phoenix hesitates when he sees Miles' lips curve up mischievously, "Not literally, now..."

The boy strides over to his bookshelf, tapping his arm in thought. He's got that cute frown on his face as he turns back around and instead opens up his nightstand drawer. Out of that, he retrieves two books, ponders both titles, and settles on one.

"Have you heard of Walt Whitman?" Miles asks quietly as he sits across from Phoenix, settling on the windowsill.

Doesn't quite ring a bell. "Can't say I have."

Miles looks like he's about to blow a fuse for a second there, but then as if reminded, he shakes his head. "Not a problem. I forget you and I have different experiences with school. He was a very famous poet. I admire him immensely for the work he produced during his time."

He's got that glint in his eye again, like how he does when he talks about law and pretends he's not absolutely enthralled by it.

Phoenix nods at the book in his hands. "That why you got it all marked up and busted like that?"

The worn book in Miles' perfectly soft hands was a contradiction to everything Miles let anyone see about him. The law books on the bookshelf were treated with methodical carefulness, avoiding any folded or crinkled pages. When he read to him in the barn, he would set the book in his lap, wary of the dust and dirt.

But this book, with its binding falling apart at the seams, is treated with terribly loving reverence. There's a different kind of devotion Miles holds, as he flips to a bookmarked page.

The boy flushes pink in response, his grip tightening on the book. "It was once my father's. Mr. von Karma dislikes seeing tattered books such as this...he strives for perfection in every aspect of our lives." He runs his index finger down the spine, worn and ripped at each end. "I hide them inside my nightstand. I ought to get rid of it someday, their condition is unacceptable, but..."

"I think it looks well-loved if you ask me. It's nice." Phoenix interrupts.

"Nice?"

"Yeah! It's like...my daddy's guitar. He had it since he was a little boy, and y'can see where he held it so many times at the neck. I thought it was pretty special when I got my hands on it." Phoenix laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "Too bad the music genes ain't worn off on me... he always said I was better off with a pencil on paper."

Miles considers this, rubbing a page between his index finger and thumb. "You make a fair point, Wright. So...you would say it makes it almost unique?"

"I'd say so!"

"I see." He seems to settle on the page he's at, and Phoenix slides down the windowsill slightly to get comfortable and closes his eyes. Then Miles makes a soft noise as if remembering something.

"That reminds me."

Phoenix cracks open an eye to see that Miles' hopped off the ledge. He's on his hands and knees at the end of his bed, pulling something out.

"I went to town with my tutor the other day. And I..." He sounds terribly sheepish now, clutching what looks to be a booklet to his chest. "I couldn't help but remember what you had said to me during that thunderstorm. It was incredibly comforting at the time and..."

Miles is suddenly very close, thrusting what Phoenix realizes is a sketchbook into his hands and a tin.

"And I figured it would be helpful to support the artisan on the street selling these. Gently used, but very high quality. As are the pencils."

Oh, he remembered.

Trying not to expose the way his heart traveled to his throat, he opens up the sketchbook. There are a couple of light sketches on the first couple of pages he assumes are from the past owner. When he arrives at a blank page, he runs his hand over it. Smooth, flat, thick paper he's never had the chance to draw on.

He opens the tin, cool in his hands. Pencils carefully sharpened--he suspects is Miles' doing--and unlike the stubby pencils and chalk he had used at home. They're real drawing pencils that he's never seen

"Miles, I--"

"I was hesitant, of course," Miles adds, "I figured you...you deserved something new. Only yours. But...now that you've said you don't mind otherwise."

It's all too much for him, and he drops the pencils and sketchbook to hug him.

"Don't they ever tell you it's mean to make your friends cry?" He manages out, his heart threatening to spill from his mouth.

The boy tenses, patting his back stiffly. "They didn't- I didn't intend t-"

He pulls away with a smile. "I was only foolin', but..." He laughs, touching his arm. "I'm in debt to your kindness, always, Miles."

"It's nothing, really." Miles offers him a rare, soft smile that threatens Phoenix's heart again. He's receptive to the touch, and Phoenix swears he sees him touch the same spot after he pulls away.

There's a fluttery sort of silence, as they stumble back to the windowsill, a buzzing air between them. Phoenix picks up the sketchbook and pencils, holding the gifts to his chest.

Phoenix watches as Miles settles down across from him, idly dangling his foot out the window.

"Now, may I begin?" He asks as he holds the book in his lap. He reopens it and starts to read again.

While he's reading out loud, Phoenix pulls out a pencil from the tin and wanders it across the open sketchbook. He's not really drawing anything until his gaze travels up to the boy. And oh , what a sight. His pencil immediately focuses on its point and he immediately starts tracing the sharp tip of his nose, his sharper chin. Phoenix watches him pause, quickly memorizing his subtle smile, the dimple on his left cheek. They're drawn onto the paper carefully.

He can't seem to stop staring. Phoenix can't call himself a God-fearing man, he's never been able to, and never will. Damn him to hell for idolatry--he's found a new kind of worship in the faint curve of his lips. His pencil scratches a psalm into the furrow of his eyebrow.

Miles' words come into focus. There's something about his voice, the way he's reading to him as though he's the only person in the world.

"O you whom I often and silently come where you are,

that I may be with you;

As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the

same room with you,

Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your

sake is playing within me."

He doesn't miss the way his eyes dart up to him. Once, twice, and Phoenix finally catches his gaze and holds it, blue and brown into grey.

Damn him for his idolatry, as his eyes wander across his soft cheeks, to his lips-

"Are you even listening to me, Wright?" The boy asks in light exasperation. "I don't know why I even bother with you."

"I'm listenin' to you. You even readin' what's on the page? You been staring at me." Phoenix's mouth stretches into a grin.

"And you've been staring more than you've been drawing."

Phoenix tsks at him, "You're real cute when you deflect, but I'm drawing and you're reading. Don't drawing require a little bit of observation? And reading require a little bit of concentration?"

"I'm not even sure you were drawing. I looked up and was sure a horsefly would fly right into your gaping mouth." Miles draws his leg up to his chest, frowning at him.

Phoenix immediately shakes his head, "Oh no, sir, I was drawing." He flips the sketchbook over to show him.

He's found a new religion in the darkening of his cheeks. "Don't he look pretty, Miles?"

"I, well..." Miles clears his throat. "It seems you can draw." He looks like he wants to say something, as his eyes dart from the drawing to Phoenix. "It's too bad you can't also listen." All it takes is one look at Miles to see that he's struggling to hold onto his composure. If Phoenix touched him, surely he would shrivel up into a little rose petal.

Phoenix tosses the sketchbook onto Miles' desk. Inches towards him with a cocksure grin. "'Course I been listening." He leans forward on his hands, looking up at Miles as if he's the one to give the Final Judgement. His voice soft and silky smooth, "As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you--"

There's an almost indistinguishable sound of footsteps in the hallway. A knock. "Mr. Edgeworth?"

Phoenix doesn't need to be told--or pushed--otherwise, as he scrambles off the windowsill and lands outside on the grass. He ducks below the window, leaning against the siding of the farmhouse. Placing a hand on his heart, he knows he is definitely damned.

"I've finished for today, ma'am. I was merely reading on the windowsill and patiently waiting."

"Good, good." The woman doesn't have even half the bite in her voice like the von Karmas. She sounds pleasant, definitely someone Mr. von Karma would never want in the house. "But I do urge you to find a new copy of Leaves of Grass , Mr. Edgeworth. It's falling apart by the seams!"

"Ah, I find I quite well-loved in that way, you see. This copy holds importance to me." Miles' voice is traitorously fond, and Phoenix is damned .

The tutor laughs, "I see. Just make sure your father doesn't see that, you hear? You know I can't keep too many secrets from him."

"Yes, ma'am."

There are quiet goodbyes, and the door shuts again. Phoenix peeks through the open window. Miles is facing the door.

"Psst!"

He whips his head around, "Wh-what are you still doing here?" He approaches the window and kneels so they're eye-to-eye.

Phoenix props his head upon his hand, "I didn't finish the last line of the poem."

"What?" Miles' lips are threatening to curve up. "Good Lord, Wright..."

"Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me." Phoenix recites, his whisper like a prayer.

"You're a fool," Miles murmurs. He catches a glimpse of a wide, betraying smile. /Two/ dimples are visible. Lord, he could die right now with the sun smiling at him like that.

"Just a little bit." He admits, "Mind joining me tonight for supper?"

Miles nods, "As always."

He stands up, "Bring your little book along too, yeah?"

He's found a new kind of worship in that rare, damning smile. 

Chapter Text

Phoenix never had younger siblings or been around wealthy little girls, but Franziska von Karma was one weird little girl.

She was very particular about how the horses were to be taken care of, how she wanted their manes to be braided, and even gave them a quick sweep of her brush and hoof pick to make sure Phoenix didn't miss a single speck of dirt.

Despite his protests, she would point out every spot he missed with a lashing of her mouth and her riding crop. 

Weird little girl, alright. Regardless, he enjoyed her company. It seemed that she mostly enjoyed his.

"Phoenix Wright, accompany me while I'm riding." She declares as she stares down at him from her saddle.

Miles turns around from putting his saddle on his own mare, frowning at his sister. "I said I was here to join you, Franziska. There is no need to make Mr. Wright follow you around like a loyal dog."

"Oh." Franziska smiles at Phoenix, waving him off with her riding crop. "I suppose my little brother doesn't want your company right now. Go on now, Phoenix Wright."

Phoenix doesn't see the look she gives Miles, but Miles returns it with a scowl.

"Fine. He can come, but at least give him a horse to ride." He says, bristled.

He tries to approach Miles, waving his hand dismissively. "Oh, I don't gotta go if you don't want me to. I ain't offend-"

"No! I mean--no. You're coming with us. There's one more saddle and bridle, you can take Bucephalus out."

Phoenix blinks, looking at the horse in the stall.

"My father's horse, Wright. Bucephalus?"

"...so that's how you pronounce it. I been calling him Boots this entire time, 'cause it was easier to say."

Boo-- Bucephalus was a quiet horse. A bay Thoroughbred. Another older, retired racehorse. Unfortunately not as doted on as the other two horses, but Phoenix always made sure he got as much attention. It was rare for Mr. von Karma to step foot in the barn, leading him to wonder if the poor stallion could even recognize that terrible man as his owner.

Miles rolls his eyes, "You can take Boots, or however you’d like to call him. You'd better hurry, Franziska doesn't like to wait." He nods his head at the big barn doors, where she's already left with Captain.

"Hey-wait!" Noises of protest die in his throat as he hurriedly moves to equip his horse. Miles leaves soon after her, presumably to keep an eye on his sister.

By the time he's out of the barn and trying to catch up to the two of them, he's working up a sweat and panting under the sun. It's warm now, but it's going to become sweltering as the day goes by. Not looking forward to that.

Catching up to them and slowing Bucephalus' gait, he rides beside Franziska and Miles. Franziska sits up tall and proud, eyes trained on the horizon.

"Beautiful day, isn't it, miss Franziska?" Phoenix offers conversation. 

She doesn't take the bait at first. She purses her lips into a tight line.

"It could be." She says after a while, her gaze still ahead of them. Her hands tighten around the reins.

"And why can't it be?" Phoenix presses, carefully,  Her riding crop is at her side, a little out of immediate reach. Her defense is lowered this way.

Franziska lets out a half-hearted sneer at him. "I don't need your pity, Phoenix Wright. Don't look at me as if I'm a wounded little rabbit."

"I'm only askin'. I'm...inquirin', as your brother likes to put it. Ain't no reason for a little girl like you to not have a good day with the sun as nice as this."

She bites her lip, then as if scolded, she stops. "Lieutenant...would have been one today. That is all. And don't look at me with those guilty eyes."

Ah.

He swallows a hard lump in his throat. "I'm real sorry about that, miss."

Her hair falls in her face as she whips her head around to stare at him with her intense von Karma eyes. "She's not coming back, no matter how remorseful you feel." She murmurs bitterly, "You can't understand. She was not your horse."

The silence between them is wire-tight.

Phoenix lets out a sigh, "I can't." He can't find it in him to tell her he does understand--he's lost his own Daisy to the same fate--because perhaps he doesn't.

She's a little girl with presumably not many friends, with a father and brother she always seems to always be chasing after. A mother whom Phoenix assumes is dead and family members that never seem to call. He is not a lonely little girl that's gone and lost her only friend.

"I was there when she was born. I was going to train her, and she'd be a mighty racehorse. Better than any of them. She was going to be perfect. " Her voice wavers. She takes her riding crop and turns it over in her hands. "I don't forgive you, still."

"You don't gotta." Phoenix shrugs, "I can be sorry all I want, but you ain't gotta forgive me for anything, miss. I don't need it."

Franziska's shaking. Her cheeks are a dark red now, and she's clenching her crop and reins so tightly that her fingernails dig into her palms. "Your kindness doesn't make you better than me! You're a fool with no backbone! You should be angry that I don't forgive you! You should be upset!" A pitiful noise escapes her, and Captain breaks into a trot ahead of them.

"Let her go, Wright." Miles sidles up to him, and they ride in silence.

"Let's stop here at the river, Franziska. The horses need a break." Miles calls to his sister, shielding his eyes as he looks up at the sky.

Phoenix is roasting, his shirt sticking to his sweaty skin. It seemed like every beam of sun was pointed directly at him. The cicadas loudly sing, and the breeze barely subdues the sweat that beads at his brow and upper lip.

He dismounts from Bucephalus and leads him to the river to drink. A slow-moving, gentle river. Deep enough to go swimming. The thought of water is enough to make him audibly sigh in relief.

Then he looks at his companions and pities them. Too many layers for this weather. It seems unlikely that Miles is even going to unbutton a bit of his shirt despite the heat.

He sits on the river bank. "D'you two know how to swim?" He asks, dipping his hand into the water. Cool, inviting. 

Both of them look away from him, unmistakably both clutching their arms.

(Phoenix swears he's seeing double.)

Miles mutters something under his breath.

"Naw, it's okay if you ain't ever gone swimming before!" Phoenix tries to assure as he unties his boots. He steps out of both boots and socks and steps into the shallow area of water. It's a little useless to cuff the pant legs of his overalls after already stepping in the water, but he does anyway.

"Figured if youse was okay with it, I could teach you! It’s too hot to be in the sun like that anyway."

Something in the back of his head is telling him that teaching these two a skill that takes a little longer than five minutes to master is an awful  idea.

He doesn't listen to it until Franziska is clinging to him like a drowned barn cat. She's barely ducked her head underwater, trembling in her camisole. 

"If you drown me, Phoenix Wright, I'll make sure it’ll be my papa that prosecutes you! You'll be hanged for drowning a little girl!" She says when he tries urging her to move into the deeper part of the river.

Phoenix hoists her into his arms with a sigh and trudges into slightly deeper water. "I ain't gonna drown you, Miles is right there and he ain't a good enough alibi." Miles opted to sit on the river bank and watch them. Claimed that he learns best with observation. Phoenix thinks he's just scared of embarrassing himself.

For a girl of small stature, she's terribly strong, digging pale fingers into his arms. She's trembling, her eyes inspecting the water critically.

"Now, I'm going to let go of your legs so you can-" He stops when Franziska glares at him. "C'mon, miss, I promise I'm right here to make sure you don't sink like a rock."

"You have every reason to let me drown, Phoenix Wright." She frowns, touching the gentle current. Her fire is smothered, just a little.

She's right, in a way that's never crossed Phoenix's mind. She's never been too nice towards him, not outwardly. Sharp and all hard edges that Phoenix has barely managed to sand smooth.

You should be angry that I don't forgive you! You should be upset!

He's never thought of her as unkind. Phoenix thinks about that farmhouse and perhaps that coldness is necessary to survive living with the literal Devil. He can't blame her. Not at all.

"Now, that's just crazy talk." He shakes his head at her. "Who else would make sure Miss Captain and the rest are brushed down all nice? Your brother would be too polite to even tell me I missed a spot."

Franziska's frown fades. The flame reignites. "He's a foolish little boy. I would never allow that to happen."

"That's what I'm tellin' ya! I ain't gonna drown you 'cause I need you to keep me in line, yeah?"

It seems to be enough to soothe the girl, a gentle fanning of her flames. She stays silent for a long time.

"You will still hold onto my hands then?" She asks, finally facing him.

Phoenix holds out his free hand, nodding. "'Course, miss Franziska. Until you want me to let go."

She tentatively grabs his hand and braves the water as she pulls away from him.

It’s easier to teach her now, nodding in approval. "There you go, miss. Kick your legs, especially since we fighting against the current—there." Her grip on his hand is tight yet unafraid. "Now when you do the doggy paddle, you gotta use your hands like this. Watch me a little—" He makes the hand motions with his free hand. "This ain't the best way to be swimmin', I think. But it keeps you 'bove water enough, alright?"

It's a wonder when Franziska at last lets go of his hand, doggy-paddling around him in a circle.

"You'll teach me every way to swim, and I will master each." She demands. The girl grips his arm again when she goes to shoot Miles a winning look. "Do you see me, Miles?" She asks, proud and sure, "I'll be a stronger swimmer than you'll ever be!"

Franziska pants slightly and she looks up at Phoenix. She's smiling, not in the fiery way she does. The way a little girl should smile when she's happy. "Do you think so? Don't you think I'll be stronger?"

He glances at Miles, who's sporting that fiery competitive look as he's dipping his feet into the water.

Ah. The competitive streak between them. Encouraged and cultivated by their father. It pulled them into each other's orbit and sent them colliding at any given opportunity. Rather than a brother, Miles was her rival. For what? He assumed the little praise and attention Mr. von Karma gave to his children.

Is this how all siblings acted? He couldn't say. He didn't like it.

"I think you'll be a swell swimmer, miss. You kick hard like a horse!" He answers instead, "Don't tell your little brother now, but I know what that feels like--"

Franziska bursts into a fit of giggles. She grasps Phoenix and holds onto him, tugging his hair. "Phoenix Wright, you've gotten kicked by a horse?!" She says all too loudly. Definitely on purpose. Definitely to alert Miles.

"Shh! Ain't I tell you not--"

"Wright, how are you alive ?" An incredulous voice asks near them. Franziska is horrifically gleeful.

Phoenix turns his head to the source of the voice. Miles stands on the bank still, closer to them with his perfectly ironed slacks now wrinkled and cuffed. He's frowning at him in that disappointing way.

He shoots a devastated look back at Franziska. Now she's done it.

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing nervously. Phoenix tries to ignore the ten-year-old trying to shove his head into the water. "Good luck, I s’pose...? Sometimes I pray,, but y'know I ain't even think He's listenin' sometimes. H-" She's crawled up onto his shoulders now, using all of her body weight to bring the two of them down.

"Remarkable, truly." Miles deadpans. He watches Franziska with a disapproving look. "Franziska..." He warns her, "Don't be childish."

From above his head, she blows a very loud raspberry at her brother.

He waves him off with an unbothered shrug. "She's alright, Miles. Only playing. Right, miss Franziska?" Phoenix holds her ankles and leans back into the water. And that's all it takes for her to scream at him and smack his head.

"If you let me go, I'll drown!" She's clutching onto him tighter.

Phoenix fights back a chuckle. "Aw, c'mon miss. I just taught you how to swim, didn't I? And aren't you tryna be the strongest swimmer?" He presses, tapping her ankle with an index finger.

"I'll let myself drown and you'll feel sorry for acting so foolish, Phoenix Wright!" Franziska tugs his hair again, enough to sting like the bite of her riding crop. So he relents with a loud laugh, straightening his shoulders and back.

"Okay, okay..." He laughs out, "Hey, how 'bout a game? I'm sure you'll love it, missy. You think of a color and I'll try and guess it. If I don't guess right, then you can dunk my head in the water."

He cranes his head to see Franziska very clearly weighing the pros and cons in her head.

"Is it a point system or do you play to the death?"

"Behave, please!" Miles gasps.

Phoenix doesn't quite know how to answer. "Whichever way you want. I can be a good guesser, so you might get bored tryna kill me this way." He pats her knee.

Once she agrees, her eyes clench shut as she thinks of a color. Phoenix rattles through her potential favorite colors in his head. She wouldn't go as far as to name something /just/ blue. Aquamarine, turquoise, cerulean...silver, perhaps?

"Wright, you should be careful giving her that much power over you," Miles begins.

"That's the fun in it, Miles. Don't you w-"

"Guess the color." Franziska says impatiently.

"Aquamar-" His face is immediately submerged into the water. Phoenix briefly reconsiders his life choices for the second time that day.

Franziska holds his head down a little too long, and he comes up gasping and choking for air. His hair falls in strands around his face.

"Don't hold him down for that long!" He hears Miles scold her. "Wright, you shouldn't be playing such a reckless, silly little ga-"

"Count to two when you dunk my head, alright? Turquoise." He interrupts him and gives her leg a squeeze.

"Wr-!" 

Phoenix feels another shove on his head. The second dunk is never as bad as the first shock of cold water, and he's grinning when his head is tugged up.

"You're terrible at this, Phoenix Wright! You'll never guess my color!" Franziska laughs maniacally and kicks her legs. "Guess again, guess again!"

"Good Lord, am I at least close? You're awful good at this game."

Another fit of evil laughter erupts from her and her heels hit his chest. Compared to her subdued self earlier, it's worth snorting up water as he guesses cobalt this time.

If there was anything Phoenix had wanted for most of his life, it was a little sister. Somebody to follow him around and make fun of him, and he'd love it anyway because that was his sister.

He always had too much love to give, his mother would always say when he was much younger. He used to cry over how badly his chest ached from it. It was an abundance, so easy for Phoenix to give, give, give without a second thought. He loved as much as he breathed.

It was a shame he didn't have much family, not many he could call friends.

He wanted to share so badly, this sweet air that gave him life, but nobody to take.

But here. Here, as his head breaks through the water, it's different. These two, are eager enough to take, take, take. Love is a scarcity here. Love here is a negotiation, a contract. Sweet syrupy honey in exchange for being obedient and vying, calculating and cold. It's a cup of sugar that runs out all too quickly.

Not anymore. Not if Phoenix can help it.

"She's not even thinking of a color, Wright, she said that just now. She's cheating."

He looks up through wet strands of hair at Miles.

"You're such a tattle! He would've never guessed!" Franziska protests from above him and then points at Miles accusingly. "Dunk him, dunk him now! Miles hasn't even been in the water, so he can't possibly understand the game."

The boy on the bank scowls, "You're taking advantage of Wright's kindness. He's too nice to say no to you."

"You're just cross with me because he's not paying attention to you!" Franziska shoots back, "Go dunk him, Phoenix Wright! He's getting fussy!"

A brilliant shade of crimson colors Miles' cheeks. " Franziska -"

Phoenix watches them go back and forth. Maybe he should step in, take neither of their sides and then resolve their little argument. It would be smart of him, really.

But where's the fun in that?

"C'mon, Miles." A grin spreads across his face. They must look like some sort of two-headed demon to him because he looks spooked. "You're panting like a dog. You've gotta be real warm--you're still buttoned up to the chin." Miles had since removed his burgundy sweater, but his white shirt was plastered uncomfortably to his skin in some places.

Miles stammers before resigning to another glowering stare. "I'm perfectly fine here, Wright. There's enough of a breeze to keep me cool."

It's a fair point, but not what he wants. He lifts his head to glance at Franziska, who catches his eye. Her eyes are impish, and he knows what to do to get Miles in the water.

Phoenix feigns disappointment, frowning at Miles. "Aw, if you say so. Miss Franziska, we can keep playing then. You know what they say- you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make 'm swim." To really amp up the dramatics, Phoenix tilts his head to the side and stares wistfully at the water. 

"Did you hear that? Now you've gone and upset him!" Franziska pretends to comfort him and pats his head a little too roughly. "That's too bad, Phoenix Wright. We can keep playing."

"Promise to have a color in your head this time?" He asks all too sweetly.

"You two! Fine, I'll play." The boy gives in, muttering something about them being impossible as he removes the frilly thing he calls a jabot. Phoenix tries not to stare as his neck is exposed. Immediately looks away when Miles works at his pants.

"You don't gotta, Miles-" Phoenix begins, flushed, but Miles shushes him immediately.

"It's 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make them drink', by the way." He turns back to look at him and laughs when he sees him folding his discarded pants neatly in the grass.

After a reproachful scan of the water, his eyebrows stitch together in uncertainty.

"Lemme lend you a hand, there," Phoenix reaches up to him, "Don't need you slippin' on your way down."

He hesitantly takes his hand, and Phoenix tugs him into the water.

Miles is just as bad as Franziska in the water, he realizes, when the other comes up out of the water and grabs onto his shoulder.

"You-!" He'd look terrifying if his bangs weren't drooping and if he didn't look like a drowned kitten.

"Better than being out in the heat, yeah?" Phoenix laughs.

"Not when you're pulled into moving water! I can't swim, Wright!" 

"Oh, you're just bein' dramatic. I've got you." He moves to pull Miles into his arms, to which the other immediately pushes him away.

"Let go of me! I can handle myself!" He protests.

Phoenix raises an eyebrow and nods at Miles' hand gripping onto his shoulder still.

Miles hesitates, "On second thought...don't let go. Please. You don't have to, erm- I can just-"

"I can hold you, I don't mind. I mean-yeah!" Phoenix blurts out, voice rising a couple of octaves. Franziska gets down from his shoulders. She grumbles under her breath about how annoying they are, and she doggy-paddles to the shallower water.

He reaches out and hoists Miles up into his arms.

Oh, they're quite close now, aren't they? His throat is dry and his body is on fire as Miles hooks his hands around his neck. They've never been this close. Close enough for him to count every one of his grey eyelashes. This may have been a mistake, as Phoenix swallows down his heart once again.

"I'm ready to guess your color. Since you ached to play this terrible game." Miles interrupts his thoughts, mouth set in a pout.

Color, right. He knows colors. He settles on blue. Simple. It's his favorite color, always has been.

"Ready."

"Chartreuse."

"Char-what?"

Miles rolls his eyes at him, "Really, Wright. You guess cobalt and yet you don't know chartreuse."

"I'm no colors expert, Mr. 'It's Burgundy Not Maroon'."

Bringing up their recent debate topic forces an indignant sound from Miles. "Burgundy has a touch of purple in it, while maroon is m-"

"You're wrong anyway," Phoenix replies, then dunks him under the water.

Miles comes up seething, coughing up water.

"G-green! Chartreuse is green." He manages after his mini coughing fit.

Another dunk.

Phoenix giggles, "Not regular ol' green either."

Miles is looking positively finished with him, but he continues anyway.

"Red." Phoenix submerges him under the water again. He comes up spluttering in frustration. A shiver runs through Miles and he forgets how to breathe when Miles instinctively presses closer.

Oh .

He might have to reassess his favorite color.

Miles' cheeks are a splotchy, watercolor conglomeration of pinks and reds. When he brushes his wet bands behind his ear, Phoenix is transfixed by the same colors in his hands, on his slender fingers and knuckles. Rose-red, carnation pink.

His lips are the same color, and he's struggling to come up for air.

"Try again." He breathes out.

"...blue."

Phoenix lets out an airy laugh, "You win."

Miles smiles in victory, "Finally. I was considering taking you down with me if I didn't guess it right again."

"What, is Miles Edgeworth a sore loser?" He teases lightly. They're so close again...

"Of course not. I'm more than mature enough to not be upset over a silly game like this."

"Not mature enough to resist arguin' with me 'bout the shade of red you wear?"

Miles kicks the water and splashes him. "I'll tell you that maroon and burgundy are different until the day I pass. The latter is my favorite, I'll have you know."

"I woulda never guessed. Thought it would've been maroon. Like the color of your sweaters." Phoenix muses.

This is what gets Miles to laugh and Phoenix is more than willing to drown in this river and die a happy man. It's breathy and quiet, unexpectedly wheezy and all too contagious. And oh Lord--he's resting a cool hand on his chest and he thinks he could roll over like a dog and die -

"You're terrible." His voice is overwhelmingly fond, a strange tone to his ears.

Phoenix shifts him in his arms, threatening to submerge him into the water again. "Y'know, you should be nice to a boy that's keepin' you from drowning. You put a lotta power in my hands to not let go of you."

"You wouldn't do that. You're too soft for that, Wrig-"

Out of pure impulse and spite, Phoenix tosses him like a bag of potatoes into the water. He doesn't expect a pair of hands to come out and drag him in too.

When they come up for air, hands extend to each other and they're pulled together all too close.

The other's bangs are back in his face again, and Phoenix takes a brave hand and brushes them behind his ear. Exasperated, glaring eyes soften before him. Staring.

"You're awful. Don't let go, please..." He grips his other hand in both of his.

"Would never think of it, Miles." The words tumble out of his mouth before he can even think to stop them. His fingers are lingering by his ear, where his ear meets his jaw. It would be so easy to mold his hand to the curve of his jaw, to tilt his head and seal that promise into the seam of the boy's lips.

He's lightly cupping his face, his hand braver than the rest of him, and he's so close, it's so easy to-

His bravery sinks when he hears Franziska shout in their direction.

A small groan escapes him as his eyes dart behind Miles to his sister. "S'pose we'd better go to her?"

He's staring at a spot on his lips, blinking intensely. Once. Twice. Then finally makes eye contact. "Unfortunately, I do suppose so."

Phoenix hums, "Grab onto my shoulders, I'll swim us to her, yeah?" He turns around so his back faces him. Upon feeling Miles' hands grip his shoulders, he swims them to shallow water, where Franziska kicks water at them and announces the game she invented while they were "being foolish".

They don't leave the river for hours, splashing and play-fighting until their fingers wrinkle and their ears are full of water.

It's hardly late afternoon when they return to the farm. But when they finally ride home and Mr. von Karma’s black car is there, Phoenix feels nothing but dread. 

Mr. von Karma was a habitual man. It was easy to settle into a schedule that danced around the man's prowling. It was easy for Phoenix to spend time with the von Karma siblings this way. He wouldn't know anything about the friendship he had with them, his deliberate untying of the tight stitches the man sewed into them.

The content buzzing in the air between the three of them dies instantly.

Phoenix gets off of Bucephalus and leads him the rest of the way to the barn. It was hardly even late afternoon, why was he home early? 

The other two were strikingly silent as they tucked the horses into their stalls and trudged to the farmhouse.

There was no lying they could do. Franziska's hair is still damp, and a glance at Miles' barely dry white shirt indicates without a doubt that they had been by the river.

Phoenix trails behind them, watching as Franziska and Miles step closer to each other. Pale hands outstretch and meet in the middle. Curling protectively over another. Their father can't take this away.

Mr. von Karma steps out onto the porch, tall and terrible.

"There you are." He says, eyes scrutinizing them. "Where have you been?" A manicured hand touches Franziska's hair, the ring on his thumb catching an out-of-place curl. His mouth curls down when he rakes his eyes down Miles.

"Out, sir. We rode the horses to the river."

"Out," He repeats the word as if it's poison on his tongue, "It would've been tempting to go 'out' today, I imagine. Enough to take a day off of your studies, even."

Miles clutches Franziska's hand tighter, drawing it behind them. As if he's trying to pull her behind him.

"Both of us finished, sir."

"Finished." Manfred repeats again, "You are so lucky to be students. When you are a prosecutor, your work is never finished. In my over thirty years of prosecuting, I have only taken a day off once, and not once have I taken a day off to go...out. Look at you two. Is this how I raised you?"

"Papa, I-" Franziska begins, to which she is shushed.

"I expect better of you than anyone, my daughter. Is this any way a proper young lady looks?"

Franziska shuffles her feet, staring at the ground. She lets go of Miles' hand, clenching her fists at her side.

"And you-" Manfred turns to Miles, disappointment shifting to something more merciless. "You forget who you are, Miles Edgeworth. Must I constantly remind you of how lucky you are to be under this roof? To treat this path you’re taking lightly. Ungrateful child, do you remember why you’re here?”

Phoenix can't take it anymore, stepping forward as the two are dismissed inside. He stares right into the man's eyes despite how they make him shiver.

"Sir. Don't blame them none, please." He clasps his clammy, shaky hands together. "It was my fault they were out for too long. I insisted on spending time over yonder at the river." He motions in the general direction. "But sir, if I may. I think you could stand to show them the light o' day a little more. You work hard, but miss Franziska? She just a little girl. She ain't even know how to play games. And Miles, y-"

He doesn't expect the man to slam the end of his cane into his foot. He's lucky he's got boots on, but it still sends pain up his leg, shooting into his already aching joints. Phoenix almost cries out, tears pricking his eyes.

"A boy with no family advising me how to raise my children," Manfred von Karma sneers at him, "You forget your place as well, boy. You are but a bug to them. You are temporary in their lives, destined for something much greater than you can even begin to fathom." His cane digs into his foot as he leans on it. "Understand me, boy? By the end of the summer, they won't associate with the likes of you."

Phoenix hardly believes that, but he nods so the man can release the painful weight on his foot.

He steps back from him. Mr. von Karma doesn't even verbally dismiss him. It's his eyes that are the shotgun today, and he doesn't need to be told twice to dart away.

By the end of the summer, they won't associate with the likes of you.

It almost makes him laugh, as he watches the man disappear into the farmhouse. As soon as he thinks the coast is clear, he loops around to the side of the house, where he’ll wait for Miles to sit at his window. Funny how that won't happen, as he sits under the windowsill.

Chapter Text

There's a great old crabapple tree near the white farmhouse. It's one of the only trees seen for acres—a lone pillar among the rolling plains.

It's a testament of strength, Miles says to him when he first invites Phoenix to sit under the tree with him, book in hand. And to the stubbornness of nature, he adds when Phoenix sits close to him, as it was there before his family moved here.

And they're in the same position now, despite Miles' light complaints of Phoenix breathing in his ear. His chin ghosts against soft burgundy, and he contemplates crossing the small space to rest his head there on his shoulder.

He's exhausted. The aching in his body is settling in prematurely today, weighing him down like rocks tied to his wrists and ankles. His foot hurts the most–from when von Karma slammed his cane down onto it last night. In the morning, it was an ugly cluster of purple in blue. He tries to keep his complaints silent–Miles doesn’t have to know. 

Defending him and Franziska last night was something he didn’t regret. He could do it again even with a gun pointed at him. Over and over until they got what they deserved–a loving father. Anything for them to smile.

Oh, anything to get Miles to laugh like that again…

Ever since he heard that wonderful, breathy sound, it’s haunted him. He wants to hear it again, to watch Miles’ eyes crinkle and watch him smile until dimples form. 

He aches and aches and aches.

Phoenix thinks he can blame it purely on exhaustion when he shifts to rest his head on Miles' leg. He'll bluff and say he's got a headache, tease him that he's working him to the bone.

He's closing his eyes without a second thought, choosing to ignore the spluttering from the other.

"Wright? What are--"

"M'head hurts. Keep reading." He mumbles, "I promise I'm still listening."

Miles makes another noise of disbelief. He remains silent for a tense moment, but then continues reading out loud to him. Miles likely thinks he won't notice, but his voice is much softer now, light and airy like the warm breeze that's brushing the overgrown grass over his ankles.

He's reading poetry--Walt Whitman, again--but Phoenix swears he could be reading out law to him and it'd sound just as honeyed and sweet. He finds he quite enjoys Whitman too, although he doesn’t understand it all. 

It’s been a couple of poems now, and Phoenix directs his gaze heavenward, towards the boy above him. He’s still reading, mouth twitching up with every other word.

“Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;

Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the

best;

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.”

Glee springs up into his chest when he sees Miles’ eyes travel to him absentmindedly, widen when he sees that he’s staring back, and then dart back to the page. He’s fighting back an embarrassed scowl, to which he grins at. 

The thought that Miles thinks of him when reading these poems is dangerous. It’s everything he could ever want really. For Miles to think of him worthy of prose, to think of him as fondly as Phoenix does him. Maybe he could be someone Miles could fall in love with. 

He wants to say something, tell him all his dangerous thoughts and how he feels like his heart might come out of his throat. But Miles quickly recovers and moves on to the next page. His chance escapes him, and he turns back onto his side again and closes his eyes. 

Miles' words start to blur together as he dozes off. 

He's tired enough to not think anything of the gentle hand touching the top of his head, touching his ear as a finger delicately tucks hair behind it. The thigh he's resting against is plush enough, the voice soft enough, for Phoenix to believe in his limbo of half-awake and half-asleep that the person stroking his hair is his mother.

In this limbo, he’s outside his home, his real home, resting against his mother's leg. She's petting his hair, reciting poetry in her native tongue that Phoenix can barely make out. She's touching the long tufts of hair, teasing in broken English how his hair is getting so long. 

Ryuuichi, you grow too fast, way too fast. Ryuu-

"Wright, are you asleep?" The voice shatters the faint watercolor memory. 

His momma’s supposed to cut his hair with her kitchen scissors now, she’s supposed to laugh at all the clippings on the ground. I can make another Ryuuichi with this hair! Look! 

He opens his eyes to see it and numbly stares at the leg before him. In the distance, is that farmhouse. It's so unlike the little brown house he used to live in, cold and white and he's not home anymore, it’s gone and so is she-

He’s catapulted into a world where mothers are swallowed up by the earth, where homes are burnt to smithereens, and where there is not a place on earth that Phoenix Wright calls home.

Phoenix doesn't realize he's crying until Miles is shaking his shoulder, calling his name. The world is all too clear and not like his watercolor memory, where his mother is a blur of soft colors as she ruffles his hair and scolds him for stealing a fresh roll she just made, you ruin your appetite, Naruhodo Ryuuichi!

Sitting up all too quickly, he buries a whimper and makes the mistake of looking right into the other boy's too-gentle eyes.

"...Phoenix." Miles murmurs. His name is like a prayer on his lips. "Are you alright?" He's closing his book and something about that tells him it's going to be tough to scrape by this one.

Phoenix's heart is lurching out of his throat, but he's swallowing it down with a forced smile. "I'm alright. 'M sorry, I swear I was listenin'."

"You were falling asleep. I could tell."

"I'm s-"

"You're crying." You're upset. I've seen you cry before remains unsaid.

Phoenix squirms, staring at the ground. Wishes he wasn't under Miles' gaze, all too gentle yet unrelenting.

"I'm alright, got dust in my eye."

"For goodness's sake, Wr-Phoenix," Miles is really trying here, "You're...you clearly look upset. You're..." His hand reaches to touch Phoenix's wet cheek, and Phoenix recoils slightly.

"Please. Tell me what's wrong." It sounds like a plea. "I'm not good at comforting, you know this." He adds weakly. He looks so lost, and he can’t take it. 

Phoenix is wrecked, and suddenly he's pressing his face into cotton fabric and bony shoulder. It's been countless weeks since he lost everything, and finally. Finally, it hits him.

Your momma’s dead, and so is your daddy if he knew any better. You ain’t got nothin’ in this world, Naruhodo Ryuuichi. You ain’t got nothin’ in this world ‘cept for this boy’s kindness, Phoenix Wright. Ain’t even got a place to call home. 

It’s a cryin’ shame, ain’t it?

And he can't help but hate himself for this sudden realization. For ruining a perfectly good moment between him and Miles. He feels as though he is too heavy in the boy's arms as he wraps his arms around his neck and at last bawls .

Miles doesn't seem to know what to say, but his presence is enough for him. He's real and warm and he's rubbing his back stiffly. Phoenix thinks for a moment that he could find a place to call home in the crook of Miles' neck and in the curve of his arm.

He doesn't know how long they sit there like that, but he's silent as he slowly detaches himself. If he was exhausted then, he's bone-tired now.

"I miss my momma, more than anything. It was nice restin' against you, and when you touch my hair all nice like that..." Phoenix doesn't look at him with this admittance. "I ain't had any time to mourn over her." He thought being too tired to think at the end of every day would keep everything at bay, but look at him now. 

Miles keeps hesitating, shifting and reaching.

"My condolences. Truly..." Is all he can manage out. His hand is mere inches away, trembling, and Phoenix takes it.

"Don't worry your little heart all over me, though. Y'don't have to." He squeezes his hand. Offers a watery smile.

"I want to worry," Miles replies firmly, eyes steady on him, "About you. I will worry about you." It almost sounds like a confession, almost like a promise, as he clasps Phoenix's hand tightly. Phoenix could almost cry again, as those grey eyes search him again with a firm determination, a firm kindness .

It's a match that's flicked into dry grass, a prairie fire crawling across the field, curling and licking up the walls of a barn and a little brown farmhouse. It's ash falling into his hair as he watches the world burn to the ground. It's a very similar feeling of falling, of losing everything to the flame. This fire, Phoenix notes, is not cruel. Miles is not cruel. In a world where Phoenix Wright loses everything to the flame, he feels he has fallen in love with one. He thinks, in his vulnerable, tired state, he could bear to lose everything again.

He rests his forehead against his friend's shoulder--he'd go in for another hug, but Miles seems tense enough just holding his hand--and lets out a deep sigh. "I...that's--you're real kind, Miles." Phoenix sniffles, "You're even kinder for not being upset at me for crying all over your nice shirt."

"O-Of course I wouldn't be upset." Miles mumbles.

Phoenix would argue against that, but he just squeezes his hand again and stays quiet for a long while.

"Miles?"

"Yes, Wright?" Phoenix already misses him saying his first name.

"Your daddy died a long time ago...what'd you do?"

Miles hesitates, "You mean, to deal with his passing? I suppose I was in the same situation as you. Von Karma took me in shortly and we moved here."

"Well...what do you think you woulda done?"

He's silent for a long time. He's thinking, by the way he's stroking Phoenix's hand with a thumb.

"My father and I used to get ice cream at this ice cream parlor after he won a trial. The parlor boasted it had 12 flavors, but my father and I always got the same; he always got maple walnut, and I got butterscotch. If I had a chance, I think I would've gone back and tried out all of the other flavors for him. I'm sure the parlor is closed down by now, though..."

Phoenix wonders what he means by his father winning trials, but he smiles at the idea of a little Miles picking out butterscotch ice cream.

"I like that a lot," He murmurs, "I had ice cream once or twice. Think I like chocolate ice cream best." Phoenix lifts his head slightly to rest his chin on Miles' shoulder. Watery brown-blue meets the other’s eyes. "My momma and I did everything together after my daddy left to go find work, but I miss dancing with her the most. We'd turn on the radio and dance to whatever was playin'. Dancing distracted us when a dust storm would hit and all we could do was wait it out."

Miles hums thoughtfully, eyes flitting away from Phoenix. "I see. That sounds lovely, Phoenix." His voice trails off with his name, eyes clouded with distraction.

Phoenix's about to ask him what he's thinking about--a decent diversion, in his opinion--but then Miles picks up his abandoned book and offers to read to him once more, as long as he doesn't go and fall asleep on him again.

A dust storm starts quick and fast just days later. This time, Phoenix doesn't need to run out and risk his life. 

Instead, he’s grabbed rather forcefully by the two siblings and tugged inside, after assuring the animals would be fine. Phoenix can’t have another Lieutenant incident.

And now he’s here, balancing over the threshold separating the hallway and the rest of the farmhouse. He’s inside. Phoenix frowns down at himself. In his daydreams of coming inside, he’d at least wash himself up. He’s covered in a fine layer of dirt and sweat. He sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the impeccable cleanliness of the parlor, not a thing out of place.

Out of place. His dirty boots, untied and worn, sit uneasily beside Miles' spotless shoes. He certainly doesn’t belong here.

It's even nicer on the inside, Phoenix marvels. Even bigger, too. 

"You don't have to stand by the doorway the entire time, Wright." Miles calls his attention. "Please, come sit in the parlor." He beckons with a hand.

Phoenix hesitantly follows. Mr. von Karma is never home during the day, but he still fears that the man is hiding in every corner, shotgun in hand. That he's going to throw him outside like a bad dog and leave him to the wind.

The wind is howling just like one. He's never liked it, even before his mother passed. Never liked the way it taps on the window, shakes the house, and threatens to let itself in.

He sits down on the very edge of the loveseat beside Franziska, who’s sitting all too perfectly as she busies herself with embroidery. 

Miles is still standing, his eyes all-too intense as he watches over the two of them. It would be a little endearing if Phoenix wasn't staring out the window. His chest is tight as he watched debris fly by. His palms are sweating as he scans every structural beam in the room, every window. Every apocalyptic scenario runs through his head. Looks like the dining hall is in that room…we’d fit under the dining room table. Might hold if things turn south…

“My papa made sure the house would withstand even a tornado when he bought it.” Franziska kicks her feet. “You don’t have to worry yourself with foolish thoughts of my papa being incapable.” Gray eyes scan him with concern.

A little comforting. Phoenix can refrain from worrying. Yes, he is perfectly capable of that. He unclenches his jaw and slumps his shoulders, then watches over the parlor like a hawk. Franziska is beside him, within reach, and Miles, Miles-

Miles leaves the room, and it takes everything in him to not yell at him to stay right there in the parlor. In his sight. He instead stares intensely at a pattern on the wallpaper until it resembles a face. 

When Miles steps back into the room, he's avoiding his gaze as he approaches him in slow, hesitant steps. Clutching his elbow, fiddling with the fabric there. One day he’s sure to wear a hole in his shirt…

He's thrusting his hand out to Phoenix, his eyes flitting towards him briefly before quickly ducking his head. Beckoning him again with pale trembling fingers. A blush runs from his nose to the tips of his ears.

"Everything alright, Miles?" In the corner of his eye, Franziska's watching them. "Lookin' like you're going to faint any moment."

"Use your words, little brother." Franziska pipes in helpfully.

"Fine! I'm fine. I..." Miles stammers, "Wright, would you join me in the kitchen? Just for a moment. Right now. You should also worry about yourself more. You look especially pale."

Phoenix stands up slowly so he doesn't faint himself, rolls his eyes, and attempts a smile. "Must be your imagination."

"Just. Come with me. Please." Miles manages out.

He complies, wondering what could be making him so nervous. Following him, he looks behind at the back of Franziska's head. Just for a moment, Miles said. Phoenix walks as though he's a foal learning how to use its legs.

They're standing in the middle of the farmhouse's vast kitchen. It's a little too clean, nothing out of place. It's expected, he supposes. The only thing of real interest is a radio sitting on the counter. Miles is fiddling with it, muttering under his breath with a frown. Static emanates from it, no matter how many buttons and knobs he presses. 

"It's not gonna work in a storm, Miles." Phoenix murmurs, standing beside him. He ignores him as the static grows louder.

With a disappointed sigh, he retracts his hand. "If circumstances were better," He turns to face him, "I had planned on...well, I had only decided it was worth an attempt now because you looked..."

Phoenix looks between him and the radio. It hits him, what Miles was trying to do. And the fact he had remembered...

"I apologize if I've overstepped, or if this brings up memories that bring you grief. It was a foolish move, on my part." Miles is backtracking before he can even think of words to respond. He's slipping, and Phoenix is scrambling to pull him out of his nervous spiral. 

"You...you wanna dance? With me?" He asks, stupidly.

This doesn't help. Miles frowns, face twisting in discomfort. "I had intended to offer it...for your comfort. You had told me about that memory of you and your mother, and I thought..."

"You remembered?" He asks again.

He looks almost offended. "Of course I did. I...Wright..." He sighs, defeated. "I wanted...you to be able to dance again. That's the reason I was absent from our reading session yesterday. I sought out someone in town that would be able to fix it. And I...Phoenix," Miles is struggling again, but Phoenix doesn't need him to elaborate.

His heart is about to jump right out of his chest, both from anxiety and from pure, absolute adoration of this boy. He can only tearfully smile and hold out a calloused hand to him.

"Miles. May I have this dance? Before you say something real dumb and make me cry?" He croaks.

He takes his hand.

They're all awkward movements and stepping on toes and sweaty hands until they find a pace that suits both Miles' ability to dance (it's clear he's taken some form of ballroom dancing) and Phoenix's limited knowledge of dancing with his mother.

At some point, the lights cut out and the kitchen goes mostly dark. Miles forces them apart, only briefly, to light candles for both them and Franziska.

When they rejoin, he laces his fingers with Miles' and fondness takes over him. He used to be all sharp edges, softened only by candlelight and sunlight. But here, up close, Miles' face has an undeniable softness to it regardless of the lighting. He's all warm yellows and oranges, like the night they first met. It's hard to think that the same boy that once recoiled when touched is the same one he's loosely waltzing with.

Something hard hits the window, likely a rock, and Phoenix freezes. His attention immediately starts to hone in on the storm outside. He's tensing up again, and Miles squeezes his hand to get his attention.

"Tell me more about her, Phoenix," Miles murmurs gently.

Phoenix closes his eyes and racks his brain. "She..." He figures that if he was to tell anyone in the world what happened to her, it'd be him. "She died during one of these storms. Was one of the worst ones we was in. I had gone out to the barn t' check on our animals. They...didn't make it this time. Momma got real worried about me--I spent too long out there for her liking I s'pose--and she went outside." Phoenix swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

"I swear God looked away that day. The storm ended almost immediately after. She..." Phoenix can't even feel the hot tears that run down his cheeks in rapid succession. "I had t' unbury her just so I could bury her again." He shakes his head. "Soon after, there was a prairie fire and it had grown far too big--the barn and my home caught fire. And I made it out alive."

He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"My daddy left the farm to go find work, but he'd been gone for so long that I just took to the road. And then 'bout a week later, I came here."

Phoenix briefly lets go of Miles' hand to wipe away his own tears.

"My momma didn't know English very well, 'cause she was right off the boat from Japan with her ma and daddy. My daddy ain't white either, some of his family was from down south in Mexico. Them kids at school were never nice about that…"

He’s silent for a long while. A burden’s been lifted off his shoulders, and he’s swaying there realizing he’s damned once again. Spilling his heart out to Miles like this, laying bear everything. He’s ruined for him, again and again. 

Phoenix feels he’s said too much already, settled heavy and hot like ash on Miles’ shoulders. Receiving another hand squeeze enables him to speak again. Speak of something nicer he remembers. He only wants to remember the nice things. 

"But... I like to think in another life, she woulda been some kinda singer instead of a poor farmer’s wife. She sang to me all the time. Especially if the radio gone out and it was real stormy outside," He murmurs. "She'd sing real quiet in my ear..." Phoenix leans in, cheek lightly pressed against Miles'. "Real soft."

They're hardly dancing now as Miles releases his hand and wraps his arms around Phoenix's neck.

"Would you as well?" He asks. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it's all Phoenix can hear when his heart is thumping in his ears.

"Sometimes. Wanna hear?" He feels a faint nod. Eyelashes sweep across his cheek.

"Please."

He obliges. They're so close again, practically enveloped in everything Miles. His breath ghosts his ear. He smells of lavender and linen and the tea that he drinks when he's in tutoring. Phoenix reaches up with a hand to touch his cheek, impossibly soft with peach fuzz. 

There's something so stark about this against the roaring storm outside. Crooning syrupy words into the ear of a boy as the world falls apart around them with a scream. 

When he stills his voice, draws his head back, and kisses him, everything goes quiet. He's in the eye of the storm.

It's a simple press of the lips that overwhelm Phoenix. He pulls back to meet uncertain gray, his eyebrows furrowed together in that cute little way. Phoenix feels a little brave, smoothing it out with a thumb.

"Phoenix," Miles starts. His voice is filled with uneasy disbelief. Their noses are touching, just barely. If he looks too close at Miles’ cheek, he can see the faintest splattering of freckles. An imperceptible flaw in the skin that drives him up the wall. 

The other pulls back slightly an unreadable expression on his face. 

For a moment, he fears he's misread everything between them. He should be apologizing for being too close, knowing that the other has boundaries, limits he has no right to challenge.

"Might've overstepped myself, there." Phoenix mumbles, "You din't hav-"

"Your lips are chapped." He interrupts him, "You ought to use the lanolin balm on them rather than your ridiculous hair." And then with a mildly exasperated sigh, he smothers Phoenix's fears by kissing him again soundly.

One of the most romantic things to have ever been said, in his opinion. Phoenix laughs against his lips, apparently much to Miles' chagrin.

"Could you attempt to be serious about this, Wright?" Miles mutters.

"Thought my name was Phoenix for a long while there, Mr. Edgeworth."

There's a pause where Miles just glares at him. Then he grabs his face with both of his hands. "Insufferable. Ridiculous. Reckless. Annoying. Impossible." He punctuates each word with a kiss. "I despise you horribly."

"Didn't take you for the romantic kinda type, Miles." He's laughing again, pulling away to take in all of his displeasure.

"You need to reconsider what you consider 'romantic', Wright." The other replies. And with a scoff and a roll of his eyes, Miles looks at him with unguarded fondness.

He thinks he can get used to that look. It’s something he wants to keep. 

It takes a moment for Phoenix to notice the noise from the radio has shifted from background static to the recognizable sounds of music.

"It's working." Miles turns his head to the window, "Ah, that explains it. The storm's calmed down at last."

Phoenix glances over, watching as the world stills. It's a strange kind of feeling stirring in his chest. 

Just above the waning storm is sunlight poking through sepia.

Most times, he dreads stepping outside after one. The darkness doesn't come from the sky, but from the destruction left on the ground. He dreads broken fences and shattered windows. He dreads suffocated animals and going into town to hear that somebody's kin died from inhaling too much dust. It goes from inconvenient to tragic. And expensive. It ain't cheap to fix a window, and it ain't cheap to properly bury family.

He wonders if there's ever been that sort of worry here in this farmhouse.

Likely not.

Miles clears his throat to grab Phoenix's attention.

"When I had planned this," He motions vaguely to the radio and to him. "I thought it best if we danced outside in nicer weather."

"And you still out here claiming you're no romantic." Phoenix grins. There is only sunlight.

They carry out the old radio to the porch. Franziska follows them, jabbering in rapid German and laughing when Miles flushes and shoots back a reply. 

By the time the three of them decide on the best place to put a radio (based on balance, sound, and whether or not Franziska can reach it to change the station), the dust had completely settled. 

Everything is almost golden, yellow ochre across the plains. There's nothing the sun doesn't reach, painting everything in light and warmth. 

With the radio placed on a wooden crate from the barn, upbeat jazz plays. When he grabs Miles' hands and pulls him into a dance, he swears that it's the first time he hears Miles truly, loudly, laugh. It might as well be the laughter of the richest kings, spun from the finest of silk and gold. 

He laughs too as they kick up the dust and dance in the sun. 

Chapter Text

A little cough never hurt nobody, he thinks when he wakes up and a scratch curls in the back of his throat. It reverberates in the barn as Phoenix hacks into his elbow until the feeling passes. He's sweating now from the exertion, but no matter.

And maybe he's sweating more than usual, despite the morning cool. He coughs again, and again, and again. He figures his throat is just dry, that he might just have to sweep up the barn again after the recent dust storm. No matter. He'll do it after he brings water in. The world spins, so maybe he'll sit for a second.

He's a little dizzy. Maybe he was a little too generous about supper last night, insisting on feeding Miles off his plate until the other got annoyed by his airplane noises and his I ain’t part of the Wrights that got those airplanes to fly jokes. Phoenix got a kiss out of it, so he could never be upset at that.

Besides, it's not like he can merely stop his work--he figures his work is arguably more important than any little morning sickness. Everything's starting to blur, and he's suddenly struggling to carry this bucket--since when has this bucket been so damn heavy? There's never a thought that he should put it down and go inside the barn until he can see straight. Not a thought to use the last of his quickly whittling energy to go to the farmhouse and tell somebody he's feeling a little under the weather, he just needs a little help today, but not too much-

When his vision goes dark and before he slumps in the grass, he wonders vaguely if he should've at least fed the horses.

Hushed voices are what bring him to. It's a struggle to parse what they're saying.

"Are you sure he's not dead ?" He recognizes it roughly as Franziska's voice, watery and weak.

"I checked his pulse, he's only unconscious right now," A voice he'd recognize deep in sleep says. Miles sounds confident, but Phoenix knows it's a facade when he says, "He should be fine, Franziska. He's survived worse, apparently." That slight warble of his voice is what forces Phoenix to sit up and open his eyes. His arms are jelly as he tries to hold himself up. It throws him into a coughing fit.

Franziska lets out a loud, harrowing cry and a door slams shut. There's a cool hand on his back, holding him up as he hacks and he hacks and he hacks.

It's a wonder that his dry cough brings up anything. 

He watches in a slight daze as Miles wipes the mucus off his arm. The small eyebrow stitch and the cute frown on the other’s face almost makes him smile.

"You gave Franziska quite the scare," Miles goes straight to the point, meeting his eye critically. "She burst into the farmhouse thinking you were dead in the grass."

Guilt settles on his shoulders, "Oh, miss Fran... I oughta—" He tries to stand, to which Miles forcefully sits him down. The hay pokes him through the growing hole in the pants of his overalls. He makes a feverish note to patch it up sometime. But he's got so much to do today...and Miles is weighing him down.

"Phoenix."

"Miles," He keens, "Lemme go. I gotta feed the horses. You know how miss Pess gets when she ain't fed on time. And then I've gotta clean out their stalls and feed the pigs-" His head hurts now, and he presses his head against Miles' shirt.

He’s cut off with a disapproving noise. "Phoenix, do you even realize what happened? You went unconscious. And then you wake up hacking your lungs out."

"A little tickle in my throat is all," Phoenix murmurs dejectedly.

The other scoffs, "If you're going to be delusional, you're not doing it here." He looks surprised at himself for being so commanding.

"Wh'ya mean?" Phoenix fights back another cough.

"You're coming to bed with me." Miles immediately pales, "I mean. In bed. You're-no. You're coming with me, so you can be in my bed." He corrects himself with flushed cheeks.

Still confused. He narrows his eyes at him. "Why would I be in your bed?"

He's pushing Miles' patience now, as he watches the boy pinch the bridge of his nose. "Wright, you're just being ridiculous now. You're going to rest and recover away from the barn. I'm taking you to the farmhouse and calling the doctor."

Phoenix feels Miles' arm around him, and he starts to protest as he's pulled to his feet. "Oh, you know I ain't really allowed in there, Miles. I can work still, you don't gotta call anybody..."

He's barely able to stand by himself, and that seems to be enough for Miles to merely make a dismissive noise. His protests die as he's practically dragged across the property.

Before he realizes it, he's being sat down on Miles' bed. His body aches to lay down on the soft mattress, but his head is still stubborn enough to push away Miles' hands when they try easing him down.

"Who's gonna...who's gonna take care of miss Pess?" Phoenix asks with a weak cough. He shakes his head, "Miles, if I get caught in here...oh, I'm already in bad blood with your daddy from the other day...he gonna take me out back to pasture and shoot me like a rabid dog." He laments.

Miles isn't listening to him. He's weaving in and out of the room with various supplies and settling them gingerly on his nightstand. His complaints fade away again as he watches him roll up his sleeves. Mouth agape as he watches him dip a washcloth in water and wring it out in careful, methodical movements. He reaches up to brush his bangs back behind his ear, and Phoenix forgets why he was arguing in the first place.

"Lay down, Phoenix," Miles orders gently, wet cloth in his hands. When he obliges and lays his head against the cool pillow, Miles takes a spot on the bed beside him and feels his forehead with the back of his hand. "You're feverish."

"And you're pretty." Phoenix supplies as Miles places the cloth over his forehead, closing his eyes at the relieving sensation. He wants more feather-light touches against his searing skin and nearly whines when Miles pulls his hands away. He blindly reaches for one of his hands, grabs hold of one, and presses it to his neck.

He opens his eyes and feels one of Miles' fingers skim across the soft skin of his neck. The other is frowning, eyes scanning him. Phoenix wants to massage that wrinkle out of his brow. There's no need to be so worrisome about him. 

So, he pulls himself up and kisses it. Warm lips against cool skin. "I'm feeling alright. You ain't gotta get your heart all worked up over me." He assures, despite the way he feels his lungs are on fire.

"Phoenix." Miles sighs something heavy. Phoenix hums against his skin in response, but it stirs up a cough. He has to pull away to cough into his elbow again.

There's a pause after he stops when Miles speaks up.

"I'm going to call for a doctor, and that is final.”

How Miles managed to get a doctor to come the very same day is beyond Phoenix. He must’ve called every clinic in the state. Phoenix could hear him in the other room, using the von Karma name and money in order to pull someone to the farmhouse. 

Dust pneumonia, the doctor gives out his verdict after listening to his lungs. By the time he's finished examining him and talking to Miles, Phoenix is leaning against Miles with his sweaty face pressed against his chest.

"Anything you can give him. The cost is of no concern." He hears Miles say, voice waveringly calm. Phoenix rubs his back as if Miles is the one that's sick.

"Miles...you don't gotta..." He protests against cotton, "Don't gotta do this for me. I ain't even need a doctor in the first place, I-"

"Have you not been listening to the doctor, Phoenix?" Miles hisses, "Don't be ridiculous."

The doctor, an odd fellow with stitches running down the middle of his face, clears his throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Wright. You ought to thank your friend for calling me in. It would be very unfortunate if you refused my medical help." 

As he continues to lecture him, Phoenix reads his name tag. Dr. De Killer. Ironic name, ain't it? If he wasn't already on Miles' bad side and wasn't in enough pain, he'd laugh about it.

The power of both Miles' glare and the mildly disapproving look from the doctor gets Phoenix to nod in agreement. He's tired. He just wants to sleep.

"I'll see it through that you are paid handsomely for your haste, Dr. De Killer." Miles stands up as he assures the doctor, leaving Phoenix to rest his head pathetically against his side. He shakes Dr. De Killer’s hand, "When will his medication be delivered?"

"I will send one of my men tomorrow morning," Dr. De Killer instructs, "Leave the money at the door, and he will leave a brown paper bag there." He rips a page off his notepad and hands it to Miles. "The amount is at the bottom. I expect it all to be paid."

"And nothing less," Miles nods, "Thank you, sir. Your efforts are appreciated."

De Killer's eyes travel to Phoenix. "I do hope your friend recovers quickly. I've seen too many people die of such an unfortunate illness."

In a feverish daze, Phoenix waggles his finger at him. "Actually, mister doctor, I'm his boyfr-"

Miles clamps his hand over Phoenix's mouth before he can say any more.

"That'll be enough. Apologies, he's a little delirious. From the fever, you see."

As Miles sees Dr. De Killer out, Phoenix dumbly realizes that he hasn't even asked Miles to be his boyfriend. 

It takes a moment for him to come back, and Phoenix just knows he’s cross with him about the whole boyfriend thing. Miles avoids his gaze as Phoenix tries to idly chat.

"Think he was a little suspicious. What kinda doctor is called De Killer?"

Miles sits at his side, wetting the washcloth once again and putting it on Phoenix's forehead. "I have suspicions he's involved with organized crime." He says simply as if he's talking about a neighbor's occupation, "He is an exceptional physician, though. Anyone else wouldn't have made such haste. It was an emergency, and he treated it as such."

"But it wasn-"

Something in Miles finally snaps. "Phoenix! Will you take your life into consideration? For once in your life?" His face fades into an expression raw with worry, and he's avoiding his eyes again. Fiddles with his rolled-up sleeve.

Oh.

Phoenix sits up slowly, unsure what to do or say. He eventually settles on wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and resting his head against his back. "Hey, I'm real sorry..."

"I wish you'd let me help. I'm perfectly capable of it." The boy confesses quietly, tense under his touch.

"Shoot, Miles. I know you're capable. I'm just..." Phoenix stammers, "Gee, I owe you so much already. And it'll take a lifetime to pay it all back. I ain't got a penny to my name, y'know that."

Miles turns around in his arms to frown at him. "Is this why you've refused even an antibiotic? You don't want to be in debt to me?" He asks, touching his arm. "Wr-Phoenix. I have not once asked for anything from you. You don't owe me anything."

Phoenix shrugs, avoiding his eyes this time. "I can't even offer you anythin' regardless, nothing to show of my labor. All I got to show is my aching body and a swept barn."

It was a simple bargain to work for a meal and a place to sleep in the barn. It's a more complicated negotiation now when Miles offers to take care of him, and let him sleep in his bed, all for nothing in return. It never works like that.

"You don't owe me anything," Miles repeats, brushing a damp strand of hair behind Phoenix's ear. "I'm doing this not because I expect anything in return. You are sick, and I want this. To take care of you." He's gentle with his ministrations, as he feels his all-too hot forehead and dabs his sweaty neck with the wet cloth.

It's finally then that Phoenix stills and lets Miles ease him back onto the pillow. "I'm sorry..." He's mumbling again, "I'm sorry for making you worry all too much like this. I won't get sick ever ag'in." He's tearing up now, "I'll eat an apple a day and keep that scary lookin' doctor away. I'll take every little drop of medicine and be so incredibly brave even if it tastes like spoiled milk." He rambles on, clasping Miles’ hand with his own sweaty hand.

Miles shushes him. It sounds like a lullaby. "You're getting yourself worked up, Phoenix."

But his mouth won't stop moving despite his brain feeling like it's been covered in molasses. "And 'm real sorry 'bout going 'round calling you my boyfriend in front of the scary doctor. I ain't even asked properly for you to be mine yet. Or even taken you out on a nice date or gotten you flowers. Oh, my daddy would be so disappointed in me, he ain’t raised me to be a skirt-chaser…" He wails. The tickle in his throat grows into a thorn, and he turns his head to cough. His mouth tastes coppery when he lifts his head from the crook of his elbow. He doesn't like the look on Miles' face as he wipes his chin with a handkerchief.

"I wasn't upset about any of that. I was more concerned you brought it up considering he could've had a...rather hostile attitude about it." Miles raises his eyebrows in a growing concern.

"And I lied to him too! I lied to a doctor, Miles!"

"W-"

"You're not my boyfriend! What if h-"

"Phoenix." Miles is starting to chuckle now--why is he laughing at him? He's screwing his face up in that funny way, like he's trying not to laugh. "You're being ridiculous, I wasn't...bothered by it. Not at all, in fact."

"But I-"

"You may ask me properly later. Flowers and whatever arrangements you feel are needed as soon as you feel better," Miles says with a finality, "Only when you feel better."

Phoenix starts to sniffle, his voice croaky. "I'll take you on a nice date. Make sure the flowers won't make you sneeze," He promises, "You get real fussy when you're all sneezy and stuffed up."

The other scoffs, "I do not. I'm also... unaccustomed to how courting works. I've," He clears his throat, seemingly to hide embarrassment, "Done some research. I'm unsure how outdated it is, but..."

"Research?" Phoenix cracks up, "Did that include asking miss Fran about how t' talk to m-?"

"Absolutely not!" Miles reddens, "I only asked for her counsel on how to befriend you, not how t-"

"How to seduce me?" Phoenix laughs, ignoring the way it's burning a hole in his chest and igniting his lungs on fire. If he wasn't sick, he's sure Miles would've smacked him. He wriggles further into the bed to make a point. "Well, I'm in your bed now."

"Don't be so crass. You're here because you're sick."

Because he can't turn down an opportunity to tease him, Phoenix shrugs and shifts his aching body onto its side. When he presses his cheek to a pillow, something curls in his stomach as he inhales faint lavender and soap and something so terribly Miles .

"Smells like you," He mumbles, albeit not sounding as teasing as he hoped. Regardless, a grin spreads across his face as Miles ducks his head. "Aw, Nurse Miles don't like getting embarrassed?"

"You keep doing it and I'm assigning Franziska to the job."

"I think she could whip the dust outta me if she tried hard." He laughs, but it quickly turns into another coughing fit. He moves off his side and onto his back with a huff. "No, I ain't gonna let her get near me since I'm really sick. She'd be worse off with it." Phoenix frowns. "You should be careful, too."

Miles shifts, "Actually," He begins, eyes trained on a wrinkle in the sheets. "This form of pneumonia isn't contagious...I believe you were starting to doze off when we were discussing it. I asked...just to be safe."

Phoenix narrows his eyes at him. Just to be safe...surely Miles wouldn't be embarrassed about not getting himself sick. Oh man, he's not running away from this one.

"So you were basically askin' the doctor if I could still kiss you?" He blurts out, suppressing a giggle.

The noise that comes out of Miles' mouth makes him giggle even more. "Ngk! I didn't--not directly! Wright!" He mutters something under his breath about not wanting to get sick, but Phoenix knows he's won.

"If you was so concerned about not getting sick, you woulda kept your distance," Phoenix says with a smug finality, "Am I wrong?"

The other boy rolls his eyes at him, "You talk too much." He says with too much fondness for it to hold any venom. He turns towards him, hand twitching in its proximity to Phoenix's. "May I?"

Phoenix nods, and Miles swoops down to kiss him lightly, sweetly. He does this funny thing where he'll hold Phoenix's chin in-between his thumb and forefinger. He's going to complain about his chapped lips just as he did the very first time, and he's going to pull away all-too-soon because I need to breathe, Wright . It's become a dance of sorts, as Phoenix always pulls him back in for another and their teeth click against each other.

He's never quite sure where to put his hands. He's only ever kissed one other person, a girl he went to school with, but his hands were in his pockets the entire time. Not his best move, and the girl never spoke to him again after that. And because this is Miles , he wants to touch him and run hands along planes of soft cotton and drag his fingers through cornsilk hair. Phoenix settles with a hand on his hip and the other on his sharp jaw.

It's him this time that has to pull away with his lungs burning. He turns his head to the side as he fights back a dry cough. He's out of breath already, feeling as though his lungs are the size of raisins.

"Don't push yourself, Phoenix." Miles sits back up, and Phoenix almost keens when he's out of reach to kiss. "You should be resting, anyway." The soft lull of his voice reminds him that he's exhausted, and a yawn escapes him.

He doesn't protest as Miles pulls the covers over him, smelling more of lavender.

"What 'bout the animals?" Phoenix reminds him, "They need... I need to..."

Miles shushes him, once again in reach as he kisses the bridge of his nose. "Franziska and I are capable of taking care of everything. You trust us, yes?"

Phoenix nods. "And what about your daddy? Mr. von Karma?"

"I'll take care of it."

"And what ab-" His worries are sealed away as Miles kisses him again. It feels like a promise.

"I'll take care of you." He assures when he pulls away, breath ghosting against his lips. "I'll do my best. Go to sleep.”

He dreams of swirling red and orange, of flames that tickle his feet like prairie grass. Phoenix doesn't even notice the heat, but he burns and burns and burns. He doesn't even notice the smoke filling his lungs until he takes a deep breath in, and he's choking, cho -

Phoenix wakes up with a wheeze, sitting up in bed. His lungs might as well be filled with smoke as he muffles his hacking into his shirt. If the taste of copper in his mouth earlier wasn't just delirium, he's sure to stain his shirt. His throat is raw, and when he finally is able to clear the smog in his lungs and breathe , he gulps down the entire glass of water left on the nightstand.

It takes a second for it to hit him that he's not in the barn, watching curtains shift and take shape of ghosts in front of the windows. Takes even longer for him to notice the figure beside the bed--which also isn't his--mumbling and twitching in their sleep.

He rubs the sleepiness out of his eyes and realizes he is sleeping in Miles Edgeworth's bed-- his not-yet boyfriend, his mind helpfully adds--and the boy himself is sleeping upright on the floor. He's holding a book in his hands, and he whimpers and twitches and frowns in his sleep. There's a sheen to the boy's skin as if in the middle of some nightmare he refuses to wake up from.

Phoenix figures he should leave him alone. Besides, he's never woken up Miles before, and he doesn’t care to make him upset. But he looks terribly uncomfortable sitting on the wooden floor like that...

He decides it's worth making him cross. So he gives his shoulder a gentle shake. "Miles, Miles, darlin'.” The pet name slips out before he can even catch it.

The other doesn't stir slowly. Instead, he suddenly whips his head towards him. Miles' eyes are the size of two moons, his shoulders tense as he stares at Phoenix for a long, long moment. Phoenix can barely see his face in the darkness, as the moonlight only reached so far.

"Phoenix...why are you awake?" Miles asks slowly as if still trying to bring himself out of whatever dream he was having.

"Woke up and couldn't breathe right. 'M fine now."

Miles nods. He settles back down in his spot. "I see. You should go back to sleep then."

"Why are you on the floor? Ain't that uncomfortable?"

"I don't sleep much anyway. Besides, you're sick and need somewhere halfway decent to sleep."

Phoenix shifts in the bed. "You can sleep up here with me. I don't take up that much room."

Miles stammers, "It'd be...improper, Phoenix. I'm also not exactly...someone who sleeps soundly. When I do."

"I ain't sleeping soundly either. I won't mind if it's me or you waking us up."

There's a long silence before Miles stands up, his pink striped pajamas becoming all too real to Phoenix. Oh, he's far gone, as he stares at Miles' collarbone poking out from under his shirt.

"Fine." Miles scans him with tired eyes, "But I'm not sleeping next to someone with overalls on." He turns on his heel and goes across the room to rummage in his wardrobe. "I should've gotten you pajamas before you fell asleep," Miles adds as he comes back, dropping a pajama set in his lap and turning away from him.

Phoenix sits there dumbly until Miles looks behind him and sighs. "Change into them, Phoenix."

He’s completely gone as he undoes the buttons of his overalls and shirt. He almost falls over twice as he scrambles to change. The pajamas are soft against his skin, a material he’s unfamiliar with. This and the thought of sleeping beside Miles is what drives him to crawl back into bed without much help. He coughs weakly as he lays down on his back, sprawling out on the mattress. 

"Okay, you can take a peek now. C'mon." Phoenix beckons.

The bed creaks slightly under the new weight as Miles sits down on the bed. There's still a frown etched on his face in the faint moonlight.

"You're still sure about this." He mumbles, bangs falling in his face.

Phoenix nods.

"I needed to check, just in case you...reconsider. Or end up thinking it improper."

Whatever Miles is hinting at isn't going through to him yet. Instead, he offers a tired smile and holds out his arms. "Miles, come here. You're worryin' your little heart over me again. Come here."

When the other crawls over to meet him, Phoenix pulls him into his arms and presses a slow kiss to his brow. "You worryin' too much." He whispers against his forehead.

Miles sighs heavily and settles down with his head on his chest. "Of course I do. You're not worried in the slightest, so I must pick up on your slack."

"'M not worried 'cause I know you're here taking care of me." He murmurs, "'Cause I'm right here with you, I don't got anything to fret about." The weight of Miles' head on him is something he didn't know he needed, nor the gentle press of his body, flush to his side. It's everything he could ever need.

"And don't you worry about thinking I'm gonna change my mind and think you improper for sleeping in the same bed as me. I already made up my mind." He continues, albeit a little sleepier. His words are slurring together now, as he closes his eyes. "I quite like the thought of waking up beside you. You'd look real pretty in the morning light." He can already imagine his hair looking like silver thread, and the sunlight caressing his cheeks.

It’s no doubt that Miles is rolling his eyes at him. “I’m not the morning angel you’re imagining, Wright.”

“Aw, is it wrong for a boy to dream?” 

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

“Miles?”

“What is it, Phoenix?”

“ Have you heard an angel I married-” Phoenix begins to sing, to which Miles promptly clamps a hand over his mouth. 

“Go to sleep.” His voice betrays him. Phoenix knows he’s smiling. 

So he settles in, listening to the cicadas and the soft sound of Miles breathing. It distracts him from his aching chest and burning throat enough that he falls into a light, dreamless sleep.

Well, he'll be damned.

When Phoenix wakes in the morning, Miles is sifting through a brown paper bag--the exact paper bag Dr. De Killer promised--with a pink shell neatly painted on the front. The medicine is carefully inspected by Miles and deemed legitimate. Forcing down both antibiotics and complaints alike is worth it when Phoenix sees him visibly relax. He looks like he's slept a little better.

And Phoenix was right about the way his hair looks in the morning, like silver. It's mesmerizing, watching him brush his bangs behind his ear. His heart curls when silvery strands fall in his face.

Franziska is venomous when Miles commands her to sit and do her schoolwork at his desk. Insists that she needs to keep an eye on Phoenix while he's doing chores. She almost yowls when Miles leaves, like an abandoned cat.

Then she is silent, furiously writing into her workbook. When he catches her eye, she only glares at him, then goes back to her work. She does it quite often, and he swears he sees her eyebrow twitch with something rawer than irritation.

Phoenix stares at the ceiling, attempting to slow his labored breathing.

"A penny for your thoughts, miss Franziska?"

Her mouth is pulled taught into a thin line. "No, I have nothing to say to you."

"Surely you do. C'mon, miss, you know better than to pretend you don't."

Franziska is silent. Her pencil stops moving.

Phoenix presses on, "You're angry with me. After all, you went and found me all passed out in the grass. Miles told me. Said you was crying thinking I was dead."

Her eyes harden as the grip on her pencil tightens. "Of course I would be upset. What is your point, Phoenix Wright? Are you going to mock a little girl for crying?"

He shakes his head, "But...I don't quite understand why you're still actin' like you're mad at me. Besides," Phoenix sits up too quickly, and then it begins again. He wheezes into his elbow, letting out a horrible cough that rattles his entire body.

"Stop it!" Franziska yells as he continues to hack and struggle to breathe. She shouts again and again until it bubbles into horrified sobs. Phoenix forces himself to cough up the mucus in his throat, to get it over with. He inhales sharply when he's done and reaches blindly for the tissue box.

Phoenix does a cursory cleanup of his mouth and arm, then turns his attention to the crying girl. His heart wrings as she tries to scrub her tears away.

"Oh, miss Fran..." He croaks, "I'm alright now, see?" Phoenix beckons her over, offering a weak smile. "Come here, please."

"Don't call me Fran." She mumbles, ducking her head as she steps over to his bedside as if ashamed to be crying. "I'm fine. You're the one that hacked out your entire lung, Phoenix Wright."

"Mm, I did." He admits, pulling another tissue out of the box. "But I ain't about to let you sit there and let your nose run like that."

She doesn't have that angry air about her anymore. Franziska looks at him as though he's already six feet under. As though she's already burying him and kneeling at his grave. As if she is the sole pallbearer.

He gently takes her by the wrist and pulls her to sit down beside him.

"You shouldn't be comforting me." She says as she avoids his gaze. "You are worse off." There's still something she won't tell him. Why she keeps looking at him as though he's already a ghost.

"Now, who put an idea like that in your head?" Phoenix chastises gently as he wipes at her runny nose. Her silence answers for him, and he continues, "I'm real sorry I keep scaring you." Phoenix wipes at her eyes with another tissue, "I'll be fine, I promise."

Her face twists in pain, "Don't promise that. You might not be able to keep it." Hands kept clutched at her side.

"Somebody must've broken a promise to you, then." He offers her a clean tissue. "Blow your nose. Were they sick too?"

She hides a nod behind her tissue.

"My mother...she sounded just like you when she got sick. She never stopped coughing." Her voice shrinks, "There was nothing my papa could've done for her." Franziska adds, eyes fixated on a spot beside Phoenix. Her gaze is heavy, and he nods slowly.

"I'll try my best to get better, yeah? I can't stand the sight of seein' you so sad or your brother being so worried. 'Sides, who else is gonna keep you company?" He nudges her with a small smile, "You think Miles is gonna let you dunk his head in the horses' waterin' trough?"

His attempt at cheering her up is a slight success. She shoves him back. "He would never forgive me for getting his hair wet."

"Mhm, and you need somebody foolish enough to do that. I can't promise nothin', but I don't plan on going anywhere." He assures. Of course, that doesn't account for what he's going to do when summer ends, but he can't plan that far ahead. Those are thoughts he can spare when he can't sleep at night. All he knows is that he'll remain in their company. All he knows is that he can't leave them behind.

"You will get better," Franziska mumbles, voice growing strong again. "Or I'll never forgive you."

"I never expected otherwise of you, miss." He puts a hand on her knee and squeezes it. "I will. You ain’t getting rid of me that easily.”

It's not going to be the pneumonia that kills him first. Maybe it would be a blessing if it did. Take him out of his misery like a lame horse.

The creak in the floorboards is whispering his final verdict, the hard tap-tap of Manfred von Karma's cane is the gavel. It’s going to be the master of the house that kills him.

And Phoenix swears on his momma's life that man knows he's in the farmhouse. He almost wishes the man would barge into Miles' bedroom and find him and shoot him dead. It would be easier, wouldn't it?

No, the man is a snake. He will sit and wait. Wait for Phoenix to breathe a little too loudly and incriminate himself. And then he will bare his fangs and swallow him whole.

Phoenix remains entirely still. Puts a hand over his mouth and prays the tickle in his throat goes away. Maybe his lungs will finally give out and he'll have no choice but to hack them up and let the whole farmhouse know he's dying. He could just die here with the sun in his throat. Tears prick at his eyes.

Miles breathes hot and soft against his neck in an uneasy sleep. It's too hot even during the night to be this close, but he insists on sleeping right beside him, head on his chest. If he breathes too quickly, it rouses Miles. Phoenix knows he's listening, in the case he ceases to breathe. His arm rests across his abdomen, legs splayed across his. It effectively weighs him down, offering a comforting pressure so different from the ache in his chest. He could die here with the weight of the sun on his chest.

He'd be quite fine suffocating right now.

As Mr. von Karma's footsteps fade, Phoenix exhales and it nearly comes out as a sob. His chest rattles, and it's enough to make Miles stir from his slumber.

Phoenix quickly squeezes his eyes shut and feigns sleep. If his paranoia serves him well, one word out of either of them would be a death sentence drawn out by the master of the house. He forces his breathing to steady as the boy wakes.

There's a sigh after a while, a hand resting on his chest. Miles' own breathing quivers, and it carries into the trembling hand that ghosts across Phoenix's face, along the planes of his cheeks, his dry and chapped lips. It's a desperate touch as he feels his warm cheeks and probes two fingers to feel his carotid artery. It's as though he's checking as if he's truly, really still alive.

And Phoenix wants nothing more than to wake up and tell him he's alive, tell him he loves him, and to go back to sleep. He wants to pull Miles back in and kiss his hair and ignore the snake wrapping around their legs.

As Miles presses a light kiss to his browbone, Phoenix shifts. Anything to silently reassure him, at the very least. Anything to ignore the snake slowly squeezing around his chest.

He might as well die here, so he'll turn his aching head and meet the sun's lips with his.

Chapter Text

His cough doesn’t cease when all the antibiotic is used up, nearly a week later. It still leaves him out of breath some days, but at least now it doesn’t leave him fighting for a breath, leaving his throat raw and red. It’s a permanent tickle in his throat, he assures Miles after some particularly bad coughing fits. 

Nothing he can do, please don’t call Dr. De Killer again, yes, Miles, I will be just fine.

But he’s thankful to be alive when the wrinkle in Miles’ eyebrow smooths out in relief when Phoenix can walk across the barn without needing to sit down and catch his breath. 

Be careful, please be careful, Phoenix.

And he’s even more thankful to be alive when Franziska can sit in the same room as him and not burst into tears. He’s half-convinced her threats alone single-handedly helped in his recovery. 

If you don’t get better, Phoenix Wright, I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you.

And when he’s able to walk to the barn without any help from Miles, he kneels in the grass, grabs Miles’ hands, and asks him out on a date. Officially. 

It’s decided that very evening. Saturday afternoon, they’d make the trek to town, with Franziska in tow, and spend the day there. The town itself is bustling since it’s not too far from the city of Chicago but within walkable distance from the farm. It’s a perfect plan, when they find out Mr. von Karma has business in Chicago all day, granting them an opportunity to leave.

It’s late Saturday morning, now, when Phoenix knocks on the farmhouse door. He runs his hand through balmed hair and double-checks his boots for mud. Positively nervous, he gives the wildflowers in his hand a glance over. They shouldn’t give Miles’ pollen allergy too much trouble, right? He bounces on his heels in anticipation, fretting over everything and nothing. 

He catches himself staring at the steps, in desperate need of a good sweeping. It feels like it's been years since he first came upon these steps. Begging for water, a place to rest. When desperation clawed at him and he had nothing to live for. 

Everything’s changed in these couple of months, with the changing of seasons and now into late summer.

As he watches Miles and Franziska come out in their Sunday best, Phoenix realizes he has everything to live for, now. His home lies within these two.

Phoenix steps back and leans against the railing to wolf-whistle at Miles. “Wow-ee, ain’t you a pretty thing?” He cracks a grin, eyes immediately darting to his carefully rolled-up sleeves. It’s a little too hot for his little neck thing (a jabot, Miles would correct him), so he’s wearing a black bowtie and suspenders to match. 

Phoenix can’t decide whether he’d grab him by the suspenders or the bowtie to pull him into a kiss. 

Miles rolls his eyes but flushes a shade of carnation pink. “You look rather fine yourself. I ought to put you in a suit next time.”

Clad in a borrowed pair of dark slacks due to the other’s insistence, Phoenix flushes just as pink. “Next time, you say?” He asks teasingly, “You already bettin’ on a second date?” 

“Don’t sound so hopeful,” Miles clearly tries to hold back a smile as he takes the wildflowers, “I’ll have you know I have standards. Very high standards, in fact.” He steps closer, and Phoenix can smell faint cologne. He could faint. 

“Lord, they must be pretty low if y-”

A sharp slap to the porch railing alerts them to Franziska. She’s tapping her foot impatiently. “Miles!” She scolds, “I am not spending all day watching you make goo-goo eyes at Phoenix Wright! I was promised ice cream!” 

“Ice cream?” Phoenix raises a brow at them, “Who said anything ‘bout ice cream, miss?”

“I did,” Miles groans, “It was the only way I could get her to come along without making a massive fuss. There’s an ice cream parlor on Main Street. Hopefully, it’s still in business.”

Phoenix remembers their conversation, long ago about the ice cream parlor and his late father. It must’ve been part of his original plan, aside from bribing his younger sister.

So he nods wholeheartedly and grins. “Well, we’d better get moving. Stop making them goo-goo eyes at me, Miles!”

“I don’t want to hear it, Wright,” Miles replies coolly as they step off the porch and start walking down the dirt driveway. “Your mouth was so agape when I stepped out, I could’ve sworn a fly had flown into your big mouth.”

Phoenix pouts, mostly at the last name, “Is it such a crime to admire somebody?”

“I’ll make it one.”

“Hey, y’can’t do that! Lawyers don’t make laws.”

“Then I’ll join the Illinois General Assembly and put it through legislation. Plenty of congressmen were once lawyers.” Miles replies, inspecting the bouquet with a critical eye and finger.

Phoenix snorts, “Now, you’re just being rid–”

Miles suddenly sneezes loudly, and holds out the flowers to Phoenix with a small grimace. “The goldenrod, Phoenix.” He wipes at his nose with a handkerchief, “Good heavens, I’m not sure how you managed to pick the flowers with the most pollen.”

Phoenix deflates, hanging his head in embarrassment. “I don’t know too many flowers, Miles…”

“Well…you picked here, goldenrod, a couple of daisies, a thistle, aster flowers, dandelions, and a few buttercups.” Miles peers at the flowers again. “And I’m certain you’re unaware about the buttercup’s symbolism.” He plucks them out with an amused hum. 

“Gee, is it bad?”

“Buttercups symbolize ingratitude and unfaithfulness,” His eyes crinkle at Phoenix, “But of course, you didn’t intend that. And…” He plucks each one out of Phoenix’s hands, “The daisies mean purity or innocence. The dandelion symbolizes hope. And…the only one that symbolizes love, like what you’d likely intend to give to a date, is the aster.” 

Phoenix memorizes the flower and its purple petals. Then he looks back up. “I s’pose I’d find you different flowers then?”

“Not at all.” The other shakes his head, bashfulness written on his cheeks. “Victorian flower language has died out, in any case, so I wouldn’t want to make you fret over it.”

“Who’s to say I wouldn’t want to fret? What should I give you then, Miles?” Phoenix insists, “Just a rose from your garden? One of them red ones?”

Miles immediately shakes his head, “No, no.”

“Then what flowers should I give you?”

“I like sunflowers.” He murmurs as if it’s some sort of confession. “But…I am satisfied with any sort of flower from you. Even if they make me all ‘cross and sneezy’ as you say some do.”

At this very moment, Phoenix has never wanted anything more than to build a garden around Miles. To plant every flower, rare and common alike, for this boy to see. To have a sunflower field sprout up from under their feet and allow them to get lost in it. 

“Well,” Phoenix nudges him lightly. “Next time, I’ll bring an entire sunflower field to your doorstep. How about it?”

Miles lets out an amused huff, “And you think I’m the only one betting on a second date.”

“I’m optimistic, Miles.” Phoenix grins, touching the other’s forearm, freckled and wonderful, with the back of his hand

“More foolish than optimistic.” 

“‘M a fool for love as well.”

“You sap.”

“Didn’t you just say somethin’ ‘bout being satisfied with any flower from me?” 

“Well, yes, bu-”

A third voice from behind them again let out what sounded like a mix between a whine and a groan. Franziska muttered something about wanting to turn around and go back home. 

Phoenix stops in his tracks and bends to her level. 

“Phoenix, just ignore her.” Miles says, mildly annoyed at the interruption. 

“C’mere, missy,” The other ignores him, beckoning the girl closer. “Sorry we’re having you trail behind. Can I?” He beckons her even closer, then picks her up carefully to set her on his shoulders. “How about it?”

Franziska puffs out her cheeks at him in response but doesn’t protest as he pats her knee and moves to stand up. 

“You’re such a pushover,” Miles says as he rejoins him, “That’s why you’re her favorite.” He sighs with softened eyes. 

Franziska, with her newfound height over them, can tap-tap-tap Miles on the head with her riding crop. “No! You, Miles Edgeworth, simply don’t know how to treat little ladies with gentle care!” She then taps Phoenix on the head, “Keep it moving.” 

He swears he hears fondness in her voice.

Miles brushes his hand against Phoenix’s. “Please, don’t push yourself. Your lungs…” 

As he takes a deep breath, his chest rattles slightly. 

He shrugs, “I’ll be alright, Miles. Don’t you worry your heart over me.”

The rest of the walk remained relatively quiet. Miles’ hand would brush against his in shy invitation, and Phoenix would clasp his hand with his heart in his throat. Phoenix mourned the loss of the touch as they reached Main Street. 

Main Street in this town was busier than the small town he grew up near. He figures it’s due to their closeness to the city. A little richer too, if that could even be a word in a time like this. Cars on the street indicated that–people here could afford to keep their car, and could afford gas as well! Phoenix admired a sleek black car parked beside a foreclosed building, its windows covered in newspaper. 

“Should be just a couple buildings down. It’s called Bert’s, you’ll see it.” Miles informs him. 

Bert’s was unmistakable as a former speakeasy, with big ice cream decorations in the front and Bert’s written in curly pink cursive down a sign. There were signs describing their new flavors, and of new items on their menus. It seemed to be thriving despite everything.

Phoenix kneels to let Franziska down from his shoulders. When he stands, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window. It’s an unfamiliar sight as he stares at his reflection.

His hair is longer than he remembers–maybe he should ask Miles to cut it for him–and he looks…strange, in Miles’ white shirt and slacks. The slacks are just a tad too long on him, bunching slightly at the ankles and sitting on top of his dirty boots. He sticks out amongst the three of them, surely.

A poor boy playing rich. 

Miles touches his elbow and Phoenix is drawn away from the glass, away from the strange boy in the reflection. “Coming in?”

He nods and steps inside with them. It’s certainly not as grand as it once was, stripped-down of its light and grandeur decorations of a time fading fast. It’s simpler now. A woman and a young pair of twins man the counter, the stained wood polished until it shone brightly. The stools look a little worse for wear, and they creak as the three of them take a spot at the end of the counter. It’s surprisingly vacant in the parlor, save for a couple of kids in a booth and an older man nursing a soda at the other end. 

“Hey there! Welcome to Bert’s! What can I get for you kids?” The woman, presumably the owner of the parlor, turns to them. Cher is embroidered at the top of her red apron. 

Franziska, having already made up her mind, smooths her skirt over her knees. “I would like one scoop of strawberry, please. That is all.”

“Of course, little lady. What about you boys? Anything?” She asks, turning to the twins at the counter. “Hear that, Leo? One scoop of strawberry for the lady.” A small boy with curly blonde hair nods and hops down from the stool and disappears into the back. 

Phoenix eyes the prices on the menu for a bit too long, to which Miles nudges him and gives him a look. “Just a small scoop of chocolate, ma’am.” He figures that’s cheap enou-

“Two scoops of chocolate for him, actually. And I’ll have two scoops of butterscotch if you would please.” Miles cuts in, already counting out the change to pay for it. 

“Miles-”

He ignores him, paying in exact change to the other twin manning the cash register. A girl with brown pigtails and Polly embroidered on her apron, counts out each penny and nickel before dropping them in the cash register with tiny clinks. 

When Miles sits beside him, he brushes his hand against Phoenix’s under the counter. “We’re on a date, and I’m paying,” He whispers to him with finality, “Don’t worry about it.”

Phoenix allows himself to smile, “If you’re sure.”

Their ice cream comes out in old glass dishes, carefully handled by Cher. Phoenix’s hands touch Cher’s when he takes his, and she makes a delighted noise. 

“Oh! You have working hands, boy!” She exclaims, as Phoenix outstretches his own hands and looks at the tanned skin and the hardened callouses. “You must be a farmer’s son.”

Phoenix nods, brushing back a strand of hair threatening to fall in his face. “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Phoenix Wright, and I work for Miss von Karma’s daddy until the end of the summer.” As he motions towards Franziska, his gut twinges with a troublesome feeling. Until the end of the summer…it’s August, the last time Phoenix checked. His time on the von Karma’s farm, with Franziska and Miles , is quickly coming to an end. 

“Oh, yes!” Pity flashes across the woman’s features, as though she’s heard unsavory things about the farm. “That old farm with the retired racehorses.” She tucks her rag into the pocket of her apron. “I remember going as a little girl to see the races with my daddy. That family had one horse, I forget her name…General, or somethin’ like that.”

“Major,” Franziska pipes in, failing to hide her eagerness, “My papa raised her. Captain is her foal, and she’s my horse.”

“Is she, now?” Her smile strains. Phoenix isn’t so sure whether it’s from Franziska being a von Karma or the riding crop the girl sets on the counter. 

“Well, Mr. Wright? What do you plan on doing afterward?” 

The question sends something cold down his spine. He just doesn’t quite know, and quite frankly, doesn’t even want to think about it.

“I mean…well,” He chuckles nervously, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “They always looking for work, right? I’m a bit far from home, so I don’t think I’m goin’ back…”

The woman hums in understanding, “I know it, sir. When I was your age, they sold my daddy’s farm after he died in the war. Left me and my five siblings off to wander the prairie in search of work. I was only sixteen.” She stares off for a moment, then tilts her head back towards Phoenix again, smiley. “Well, but that’s how I met Mr. Bert.” She fiddles with her wedding ring, a dull, worn gold. 

“He found me. He and I went and opened this place instead of havin’ a big wedding. Business might be slow nowadays, but we don’t mind. Not at all.” 

Phoenix clears his throat. Admittedly a little too soft for love stories. “That’s a real sweet story, ma’am.” It doesn’t help that Miles keeps brushing their hands together so carefully it tickles. 

So Phoenix, after giving a glance to the other patrons of the parlor, grabs his hand and settles their clasped hands on his bouncing leg. 

Cher has the most wonderful smile. Her eyes crinkle and tell of a life well-loved, despite everything. She is still young, without grey hair or any indication besides her crow’s feet that she’s aged. The look she gives him is that of a mother, and he just knows she’s a wonderful mama to Leo and Polly.

“I wandered the prairie for years, working to make ends meet ‘til my husband found me. I was lost until he did, and I never wanted to let go. Word of advice from me, Mr. Wright. Ain’t no shame in doing things out of love. Of giving up a life you think you should lead to spend it with another. You find yourself a nice woman and you’ll realize that yourself.”

He’s already ruined for Miles. It’s not that hard to realize, with both of his feet having stepped over the threshold long ago, but he nods anyway.

“Thank you, ma’am. I believe I’ve already been found.” Phoenix squeezes Miles’ hand. 

Miles almost chokes on his ice cream, setting his spoon down as he tries to keep his composure. 

Cher smiles more, big and wide. “Have you? You go on and tell her I said hello. You’re welcome anytime, y’hear?”

When they finish their ice cream and step out of the parlor, Phoenix dares to nudge Miles with the biggest grin on his face. “Did you hear Miss Cher? She said hello, and we’re welcome anytime.”

The other screws up his face, as if he doesn’t know whether to punch him or kiss him silly. 

“You’re ridiculous,” is all Miles manages to say. Their shoulders graze against each other, and Phoenix has to fight the urge to take his hand again. 

As they walk down Main Street, they walk past a couple of vendors. Franziska tugs on Miles’ shirt at a fruit stand, and claims they have to buy every fruit from the stand. Although Phoenix knows she’s exaggerating to get on Miles’ nerves, it’s enough for Miles to get all flustered and start arguing with her on whether it would be financially wise to buy everything and how they’d get all of it home. 

Phoenix, like any sane man, takes Franziska’s side. 

“I like blueberries,” He helpfully adds during their argument. 

They leave the fruit stand with Franziska happily leading the way. 

“And you call me a pushover, Miles.” Phoenix teases, reaching over to pluck a blueberry from one of the small baskets in Miles’ arms. “You’re just as bad as me.”

Miles tries to swat away his hand. “I couldn’t argue with a majority, is all.”

“You coulda said no. You’re the one with the money.” Phoenix points out, “You could argue with the entire world against you.”

The other rolls his eyes at him, “It was a matter of the heart, I admit.”

“...my Lord, Miles, you can just say you went and bought two baskets of blueberries and strawberries just ‘cause I said something.” Phoenix laughs, “Lemme carry them since you paid.” 

“Fine, if it’ll stop you from being able to empty the basket by the time we get home. You’re insatiable.” Miles relents, handing them over. 

It’s hot in the sun, but the awnings hanging over each storefront provide enough shade to cool down the passerby and the vendors. As they continue their way back to the farmhouse, Phoenix stops at the sound of a guitar. Across the street sits a busker, his voice and chords rich as they reach out across the blazing pavement. 

He stops and stares for too long, watching tanned hands strum. For a moment, a foolish, hopeful moment, Phoenix thought it was his father. It could be. He wishes it was. No, it couldn’t be. His father had a lisp, and this man sings all too clearly. He’d recognize his father’s voice from a mile away, with his head underwater and his ears plugged. 

Mateo Wright used to be a busker before he met his mother. Played on the streets in California. They fell in love in an instant, or so they said. They didn’t quite understand each other due to their shaky grasp of English, but they wanted to understand each other. He’s told this story to Miles, dozens of times. 

He feels a turn in his stomach. Aching to see his parents. Homesickness he hasn’t felt in weeks.

A blur of red steps out from the corner of his eye, and he watches as Miles approaches. They chat for a second, then he drops a couple of coins in the busker’s guitar case. 

And Lord, Miles must’ve remembered the stories he told about his family when he reaches and touches the small of Phoenix’s back. Oh, he loves him something terrible. 

“If circumstances were different,” Miles clears his throat, “It would’ve been nice to dance with you here.” He looks behind them as they walk away, hand lightly trailing down Phoenix’s arm. “Live music is always wonderful.”

“Another time, maybe,” Phoenix replies with a small smile. “If you’ll have me.”

Miles fights back a smile, looking away bashfully. “Sounds like you’re asking for another date already.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m having a good time. How ‘bout you?”

“I suppose so,” His hand rests on the basket, then replaces the basket handle in Phoenix’s hand with his own.

Phoenix pretends to sound offended, “You suppose so? Has it not met your expectations, Mr. Edgeworth?”

“I’d say it’s been adequate. It’s met my expectations.” 

“So…can I count on a second one?”

“We’ll see after dinner.” Miles’ smile sits lazily on his face, teasing and all too fond. “Don’t count on it yet, Wright.”

Supper was different since Mr. von Karma was expected to be late again. Phoenix was taken inside by two different hands, two different voices telling him not to worry about their daddy.

Miles rolls his eyes at him when he protests. 

I’m not eating dinner in a barn for our first date. Just sit, please.

Franziska shoves him down into a chair, sits him in front of the dark mahogany table, and sets a doily placemat in front of him.

My mother made these, you better not ruin them! They’re only for special occasions. Phoenix Wright. And this is a special occasion, I've decided. 

And so Phoenix eats supper with his family, for the first time in a very long time. Meals are meant to be shared, after all. 

The afternoon light turns to dusky light, poking through the barn windows. The radio croons to them, jazz echoing throughout the barn. 

Franziska makes Phoenix dance with her shortly after supper, standing on his boots and letting him guide their footsteps. She lets out the brightest laugh, sweeter than the strawberry stains on her dress that she forgets to cover up. 

When she eventually leaves for the farmhouse, Miles immediately grabs his hand, pulling him into another dance before Phoenix can even open his mouth. 

He swears the world spins a little faster when Miles twirls him around and catches him in his arms, and it comes to a halt when he kisses him. They sway and kiss and act as lovers do until the sun hangs low and they must part. 

Stepping outside, Miles’ hand in his own, Phoenix stares at the sunset, mouth agape. 

The sky is carefully brushed into plum and mulberry. Streaks of orange and dark clouds are thrown into the heavens, breaking up the purples and blues. The grass reflects the dying sunlight, oranges and yellows appearing like brush strokes across the plains.

"Phoenix," Miles utters his name like a hymn. He clutches his hand as if it's a rosary, devout and holy.

There's a gentle breeze that finally gives way to the cooler night. The cicadas hum along to this wind.

They stop in their tracks, as Phoenix tears his eyes away from the sunset and onto the other. He's always envied the way sunlight has always been allowed to caress Miles like this. To touch his cheek, to soften his sharp nose and chin. To pull the shadows out from his face and finally, finally make Miles one with the sun.

And for the past couple of months, it's all he's longed for. Now, he finally can.

"Yes, Miles?"

The other sets his gaze on their hands. "I...well," Miles' expression softens further, "If you recall our deal we made when you were sick..." He begins shyly.

"Our deal?" Phoenix repeats innocently.

Miles shifts with uncertainty, "Don't you remember? You, ah- promised a date with flowers and other arrangements. And you also wanted to ask me something important."

"Ask you what?"

He stammers, before realizing Phoenix knows exactly what he's talking about. Miles furrows his brow and pouts at him. "Phoenix, ask me." He squeezes his hands almost urgently.

"Ask me to be yours. Please." His voice is barely above a whisper.

So he gets down onto trembling knees. The words catch in his throat as he looks up at Miles. Soft, beautiful Miles. Rosy-cheeked and painted orange by the sunset.

"Miles," He starts, voice croaky, "Would you give a poor boy the honor to be your boyfriend? For you to be mine?"

He thinks he could die right there when Miles' lips spread into a rare, happy grin.

"Stand up, Phoenix. You're not proposing to me." He replies gently, urging him back to his feet.

As Phoenix begins to stand and protest at his lack of an answer, Miles grabs him by the face and kisses him.

Phoenix forgets being envious of sunlight. Here, enthusiastic and warm, Miles is the sun. He has the sun.

"Of course, of course, my beloved..." He hears Miles murmur against his lips.

The feeling of lips against lips and cheek and brow is hardly novel, but it might as well be. Because everything feels so much more real, with that simple title of beloved, of boyfriend, of intended.

His lungs are on fire, but he's quite fine with the sensation of being swallowed by flames. By everything Miles.

A hand grips his bicep as Miles pulls away, terribly mindful of Phoenix's limitations. It doesn't stop him from pushing his own, grabbing Miles by the hips and spinning him around. He doesn't care that he's a little out of breath now, his body and lungs still recovering.

He doesn't care. He's never seen Miles look at him so openly.

"Careful," Is all the other says, when Phoenix stumbles slightly, leaning on Miles to wheeze. 

"'m all good." He manages after a moment. "Let's get you back home, yeah?"

They're usually careful about the rest of the walk back to the farmhouse. Miles is usually good at gauging the best time to create distance, to push Phoenix's wandering hands and lips away.

By the time they reach halfway to the farmhouse, they become friends. By the time they reach the yellow porch light, they are hardly acquaintances. A curt goodbye, a way for Miles to say to Mr. von Karma: I am merely being amicable.

But now, as they reach the porch light, they still walk hand-in-hand, giddy and happy-drunk about their new status as each other’s beloveds (officially). A simple mistake, really. Mr. von Karma wasn't supposed to come back home until late. Maybe Phoenix should've been the rational one for once.

Because on the porch stands Mr. von Karma, painted in a swathe of sickly pale light. He's still got his coat on. Just came home. Phoenix half-expects him to snarl at them, to beat him bloody and dead. That's what happens, right? He's heard stories. He could be as good as dead. Phoenix lets go of Miles' hand and clasps his hands together. Might as very well be their last moments before they're cut off and thrown to the pigs.

"Good evenin', Mr. von Karma," Phoenix greets as he steps into the porch light.

"Good evening....Mr. Wright," Mr. von Karma replies.

Miles mutters something of a goodbye before Phoenix can do something stupid like grab his wrist and run for the hills. He'll do it. He almost does, almost reaches for him as he disappears into the farmhouse.

"Sir," He croaks out. Nausea washes over him--did he let Miles go? Like a lamb to the slaughter?

(They should run. Do they grab Franziska too? He'll carry her.)

The most terrifying part is the look of calculating indifference on the man's face, his usual frown not shifting into anything malicious. The shadows don't morph the man's face into anything. In the pale yellow light, anyone could be fooled that he is just displeased to have his adopted son out so late.

(They'll take a train, hide in a boxcar for a couple days. Go somewhere Mr. von Karma can't reach.)

(Where he can't find them.)

"You're dismissed, Mr. Wright. It's getting late." The formality is new, and it drags a chill up his spine, paranoia soaking into every vertebra.

"Right, sir." Phoenix nods his head. He best not try to push the man any further. Maybe he is just being paranoid. It's dark out, perhaps the older man didn't even see them.

He is not foolish to hope like that. Not for one second.

Phoenix walks down the porch steps and walks a bit down the path back to the barn. When he hears a door shut and sees the porch light shut off, he makes a mad dash to the side of the house, to the window he's sat in so many times.

He hides in wait, closing his eyes and forcing the thrum of his heart to be quiet .

Phoenix listens. Waits for the heavy footsteps and the cane to come into the room. For a gun to cock and a yell. He can see it right now. He can practically smell the gunpowder, hear the scream. He'd stop it. He won't let it happen.

All is quiet as the prairie grass whispers of their affair to another. As the wind chimes pity him with gentle clinks. As the soft rustle of sheets and the soft hum of the boy he loves assures him he's still okay, he's still okay-

All is quiet as Phoenix Wright sits under the windowsill, praying to a God out there that they will be spared, at least until the sun rises. 

He doesn’t leave until the sunrise mirrors the sunset they had sworn to be the other’s, and they are still spared. The hum of the cicadas assures this, and so does the gentle beckoning of Miles in the morning. 

What are you doing out here? Come to bed. Sleep beside me for a little while. 

Soft cotton and cornsilk hair lull him to sleep. And maybe God won’t turn his back on Phoenix this time. 

Chapter Text

Something's wrong, says the darkening skies. Soon comes the rain, faint weeping onto the parched grass. Phoenix sits in the dampening grass, breathing in the metallic air. It's late, and the von Karmas are still not home.

Something ain't right, says the black car as it rolls down the dirt driveway, menacing and slow. Out come three figures and three umbrellas, rushed into the white farmhouse. 

Something's happened to Miles, says the lone little girl that trembles in the rain. She's carrying his supper, still steaming.

She is silent as Phoenix ushers her into the barn. He watches her sit down primly on a hay bale and school her face into a blank expression. Tugs her skirt over her knees and grips it there.

"Good evenin', miss Franziska." He treads carefully, "Didn't expect you to be here."

She sways like willows in the wind.

"I'm merely picking up the slack for my little brother." She replies curtly after a calculated moment. "That should be obvious enough to you."

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. "Is a little strange. He always been consistent with comin' to see me for dinner."

He plays it slow, the unraveling of a von Karma. It's a practiced skill for Phoenix, just as theirs is knot-tying.

"He went straight to his room when we came home." Franziska replies, "He was not feeling well."

"Really? He was very excited for today, miss. Miles promised he'd come and tell me all about it, as soon as he got home."

Phoenix loops a finger into a knot, wriggling it loose.

"Did something happen?" He questions further.

She looks at him as though she's about to answer, then stops herself. "It was nothing. Nothing you should be worried about. It is none of your business, as it is also none of mine."

"But you are worried." Phoenix shifts closer to her. He kneels in front of her, eye-to-eye. He needs her to know it's okay. Let me in, Fran . "Do you know how I can tell? You grip your elbow and look away from me, just like your brother does when he's bothered about something. Miss Fran, I ain’t stupi-"

"He shouldn't have been afraid of a little storm! He shouldn't have made Papa so angry!" Franziska blurts out. She's shaking now. Her hands, without the crop in them to steady them, look especially frail now. All too small to carry such a thing.

He's tugging on the knot now, pulling it free. A tear runs down her cheek, red and rosy from anger. Something tells him it's also humiliation. For being so quick to anger, to cry? He doesn't know.

"I'm real sorry for making you upset like this, Fran."

Franziska mumbles something under her breath.

"Huh?"

She breaks, completely unraveling as she clambers into Phoenix's arms.

"Don't you ever call me Fran, Phoenix Wright! You shouldn't, you sh-" She wails, holding tight onto him.

He swears he doesn't mean to make her cry so often. It does seem like something she needs, though. To be allowed to cry.

Franziska von Karma is ten years old and she is already a bundle of knots tightly wound up and intertwined with each other. As he holds her in his arms, he wishes he could spend the rest of his life helping her untie each one.

"He ain't here to tell you not to cry. I'm sorry, miss, I'm sorry." He picks the girl up in his arms, a bundle of ropes and knots, and rocks her slowly. Not enough for her to feel like she's being treated like a baby, but enough to comfort. Enough for her age.

God, it breaks his heart to even consider that this is the first she's been held in years.

Phoenix fears upsetting her further, so he stays quiet and listens to her sob. It's still raining something fierce. He hopes it doesn't thunder, for Miles' sake.

He shushes her gently and holds her head with a hand until all she can do is hiccup into his neck.

"That's it." Phoenix rubs her back. He sits down, expecting her to scramble out of his arms, but she remains. Curled into his chest.

The end of the summer is going to sting. He doesn't want to think about leaving Franziska to her own devices, to Mr. von Karma's cold hands. He wants to think he'd be a better father to her than that man could ever be. He could do it.

Phoenix can't think about that now. He looks at his untouched plate and hears the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling. Franziska shifts uncomfortably.

"Did you eat supper, miss?" He asks quietly, even though he knows the answer.

Franziska shakes her head, "I'm not hungry."

"You don't want to go to bed hungry, Fran. Trust me, I know what it's like being a littl'un goin' to sleep on an empty stomach." Phoenix insists gently, "Eat some of my roll."

He picks up the dinner roll and offers it to her. Initially, she shakes her head even harder. She gives in soon after when her stomach growls again.

"Atta girl. Thank you." Phoenix squeezes her lightly.

They eat dinner in silence. He tries not to rush her, no matter how badly he wants to run to Miles.

Crying's worn her out, he realizes as she lays limply against him. She doesn't even protest when he picks her up again, empty plate abandoned.

"Hey," He rustles her gently, "I'm gonna carry you back home, but I'm gonna have to ask you a big favor. Will you help me out?"

Tentatively, she nods. "You are going to help Miles?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna. But I'll need you to keep your daddy busy for a while so I can talk to him, make sure everything's alright." It's still raining as Phoenix opens the barn door. There's a whisper of thunder in the distance, a grim reminder.

"Fine."

They cut through the increasingly heavier rain. Phoenix makes it onto the porch in record time, holding Franziska to her chest. 

It’s a bit of a funny feeling when he looks down at her and recalls the first time he carried her in his arms. How things have changed. She fought him, kicked and screamed. Cursed him with no forgiveness. But now…she is quiet, head pressed against his chest. It’s a resignation of her independence, her coldness that kept her safe when nothing else would. There is warmth in his arms now. He loves her so.

"Have your daddy draw a bath for you, alright?" Phoenix sets her down, "So you don't catch a cold."

"I have never caught a cold." Franziska frowns, but turns the doorknob and disappears into the house.

It was supposed to be a good day.

Phoenix scrawls another word on Miles' notebook, checking it thrice to make sure it was spelled right.

He taps the desk with his pencil, catching Miles' attention. He smiles sheepishly, then points to the small list of legal jargon. It was easier–and much more pleasurable–to ask him to explain what they meant. Phoenix could consult the legal dictionary at the corner of Miles' desk, but he'd rather watch his eyes shine.

He could become a lawyer just to see that.

"Good heavens, Wright. Your handwriting can't possibly get worse..." Miles mumbles as he tries to decipher Phoenix's writing, glancing up and immediately rolling his eyes. "Don't pout at me. It's truly terrible."

"Well, I ain't able to read your handwriting either. I don't wanna hear it."

"The difference is that mine is in cursive."

"Still can't read it."

Miles pointedly ignores him and points at each word before explaining them.

Blue ribbon jury. Noun. A jury selected from prominent, highly-educated citizens—yes, Wright, people who've been to college—the use of blue ribbon juries in criminal cases violates the right to have a jury of one's peers.

Contempt of court, noun. There are two types of contempt: being rude, disrespectful to the judge or other attorneys or causing a disturbance in the courtroom—yes, calling someone stupid could put you in contempt—or willful failure to obey an order of the court, such as not appearing.

Testify—

Miles stops then gives him a narrowed-eyed look. "Ph—Wright! You should know that one. In fact, the last two are terms I've specifically told you about before!"

Phoenix grins at him. "Oh, didja? Needed a little reminder, I guess."

In response, he scowls at him.

"You're real stunning." He leans against the desk, watching Miles' cheeks turn rosy despite the sharp glare. "C'mon, Mr. Lawyer-ta-be, don't look at me like that..." Phoenix reaches out to take Miles' hands, "You know I just like listening to you talk."

Miles visibly softens. He looks at his open textbook, then back at him. "I'd like a break from talking about law. Let's go read, Phoenix."

After a good chunk of Miles reading Leaves of Grass under the tree, Phoenix resting beside him, the other closes his book. 

He hums thoughtfully, stroking the book spine. Then places a hand on the top of Phoenix’s head. 

"By the way, I will not be present tomorrow. All day. Mr. von Karma is taking Franziska and myself to one of his trials.” There’s an excited hum in his voice. 

The excitement brings warmth to Phoenix’s chest. He’ll never admit it,  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Miles. The real deal, huh?”

He nods, his hands failing to hide his eagerness–they shake as he sets the book on his leg. “If everything goes well…then I expect to be his co-counsel very soon. He’s said he has a case lined up for me already.” 

“So you’ll really be a lawyer?”

“Just an assistant, but…” Miles’ lips spread wide in an almost-grin. “I’m looking forward to it.” He looks away with a flush in his cheeks. 

And it was supposed to be a beautiful sight, Miles coming home. Not this cold summer rain. 

He creeps up to Miles' bedroom window, giving it a gentle knock. The rain is cold and piercing against his skin, and it becomes sharper every second he doesn't answer.

Phoenix peers into the window, and decides he's going to force his way in. That's breaking and entering, a misdemeanor crime, his mind helpfully supplies. He slides open the window just enough for him to wriggle through. He flicks on a lamp and peers into the shadows of the room.

"Miles?" He calls out quietly, his voice rumbling like the gentle thunder outside. He wanders about the room, his footsteps silenced by the carpet he's sure he's ruining with his boots. He stops by the wardrobe when he hears a sharp inhale coming from it.

Opening the wardrobe immediately, Phoenix swears he feels his heart squeeze mightily when he looks inside to see him curled up in such a tight space. He didn't think it was possible for someone as grown as Miles would be able to fit into a wardrobe still, but he figures that somebody could hide anywhere, as long as they didn't want to be found. He’s no longer wearing that bright red coat, only his navy waistcoat. He looks so, so small. 

"Hey...hey, darlin'," He whispers when he meets watery gray eyes. "I'd come in, but I ain't gonna fit in with you and all your clothes." Phoenix attempts to smile, squatting down to match his eye level. He finds it damn near impossible to lighten this situation, to assure Miles that everything was alright now.

"Phoe–Wright." His voice barely holds any strength, "You shouldn't be here. If he finds out-"

"He won't. Miss Fran's gonna keep him busy for me. So it's alright, d'you think you can come on outta there?" He offers his hands, coaxing the boy out like a cornered animal. It can't be any different, right?

Miles does not budge. He stares at him, gaze deadly and wild and so, so afraid. 

He bares his teeth, ready to attack. 

"He'll shoot you if he sees you in here, you realize that, Wright? What'll you do when he decides enough is enough? I can't defend you from a bullet, not again," Miles replies harshly, "Really, to risk your life for a coward hiding in a wardrobe? You're imprudent, reckless..."

Unfortunately, a cornered animal is also the most dangerous, as he knows. It isn't any different.

Phoenix is unwavering. "It's somethin' I'm willing to risk for you. C'mon out, Miles." This is a fight Miles isn't going to win, not by a long shot. "C'mon, please."

Let me in, let me hold you, he pleads.

The raw look Miles gives him is worse than any shotgun to the head. "You're a fool." He shakes his head. "If you found out what had happened, you'd surely laugh. If you knew, you'd think I'd deserve to be beat-"

"In what world would I think that you deserve to be hurt? Miles, darlin', listen to yourself." He aches terribly. "Y'know I love you, right?" It's no worse time for a confession, but Phoenix is grabbing at nothing here–he needs him to know he'd take a bullet, run into thousands of dust storms, would do anything-

As another roll of thunder crashes, a slender hand, pale blue in the light, grabs Phoenix's and Miles pulls himself into his arms.

Holding him as close as possible, Phoenix realizes three things.

One, Miles is hurting. He's wincing wherever he touches him. Wherever he tries to assure him he's got him.

Two, he's a silent crier. He forces himself to. He's shaking, inhaling sharply, and barely exhaling. It's like he's drowning.

Three, there's a blindness to the way he's grabbing at him, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. He hasn't been comforted like this in a long, long time. He was already broken, but now he's shattered.

Phoenix guides him. "I've gotcha." He whispers into his hair.

Miles trembles like an Atlas in his arms, even more so when he’s set down on the bed. There's an inherent shame in the boy's posture as Phoenix kneels in front of him. His shoes are still on as if he wasn't even given the chance to take them off.

"Phoenix." Miles breathes out, shaky and weak.

The other shushes him, working at the knots. "You can tell me all 'bout it in a second. I need you to relax." He slips off his leather shoes, one by one. The physical unraveling of a von Karma is just as important as the emotional.

"Phoenix." Miles repeats again, sounding hesitant as the other unbuttons his waistcoat and shirt. "Please, you wouldn't want to s-"

It's too late. He sits on his heels now as he takes in the angry red marks on Miles' sides, his abdomen, and his ribcage.

Phoenix inhales very, very slowly.

A fleeting image of the shotgun above the mantle in their parlor crosses his mind.

"I'll kill him." He mumbles, "Miles, darlin', honey, my intended- " He slowly sits on the bed, and then kisses him something fierce.

By God, he wants nothing more than to cock the gun and call it done, to ease these two of every burden just like that . He could do it. He could go that far.

If these hands were meant for fighting, he would.

Instead, he cradles Miles' face in them.

A slight knock startles them, but the fading sounds of a little girl's feet assure Phoenix who it is.

He presses one final kiss to Miles' hair, stands up, and goes to the door. Cracking it open, he spots a hastily put-together first-aid kit containing a wet washcloth, a cup of water, and a bottle of aspirin. Phoenix silently praises Franziska for being such a goddamn genius and brings it all to his bedside.

After coaxing aspirin and water down his throat, he begins, "Tell me what happened. Please." Phoenix murmurs. There’s nothing much he can do about the bruises other than press the cool cloth to them. 

Miles hesitates, avoiding his gaze.

"I told you, I ain't gonna think you deserved any-"

"There was a power outage during the storm in Chicago today," Miles' voice shakes, "At the time...Mr. von Karma had ordered me to join them on the elevator ride after the trial. There were important lawyers present, after all. I..." He looks away, "We were stuck in it for only a brief amount of time, but I panicked. Then the thunder hit, and I lashed out and..."

He can't seem to finish, hiding his face in his hands as he starts to weep again. "I scratched the Chief Prosecutor so hard I made him bleed. I don't know what hit me."

Phoenix can only hold his shaking form, to guide his head to rest on his chest. "Oh, darlin'..."

"I embarrassed myself and Mr. von Karma in front of the Chief Prosecutor." Miles mumbles out weakly. "If he had let me take the stairs..."

There's so much he still doesn't understand, about why Miles was so panicked, but he doesn't question. Not now.

He goes silent after that, his face buried in his shirt. "And you know what happened when we got home." He mumbles against the wet fabric.

Silence fills the room, broken apart only by soft sniffles. Across the house, he can hear quiet tinkering and movement. Franziska in her bath, Mr. von Karma likely in that vicinity.

“You couldn’t help bein’ scared, Miles.” Phoenix murmurs after a while, “Not at all.”

There’s nothing more to say, as he feels Miles press his face further into his shirt. He grips him pitifully. Phoenix feels something in him break. 

God, these hands were meant for loving. So he carefully extracts himself from Miles’ side (he swears he hears a small whimper) and pulls the waistcoat off of his shoulders. The other doesn’t meet his eye. 

So he kisses his brow and helps him out of his clothes, and into soft silk pajamas that seem so big on the hunched boy. He’s gone silent since then, limply moving whenever Phoenix requested. 

It’s a silent unraveling, again, as they wordlessly join in the middle of Miles’ bed.

Phoenix cards a hand through his hair as Miles breathes noisily against his chest. He's still a little stuffy from crying, it seems. The thunder still rolls on outside, but it's fading away. All the better, as Miles finally evens out his breathing.

"Did you really mean it when you called me your intended?" Miles asks quietly as if it's been on his mind.

"Hm? 'Course I did, Miles."

"I see."

"Something wrong with it?"

"No, no..." He plays with a button on Phoenix's shirt. "Just surprised."

"'Bout what? That I've made up my mind?"

"To be with me...as in marriage."

"'Course I have. Even though we can't."

"And you still want to stay with me. You'll never be married, even though..." Miles murmurs, disbelieving.

"Don't see why I'd settle for anything less than you, Miles. I'd love you like I would a wife. I'd carry you over the threshold and never want anything more." Phoenix aches with something deeper, something he will never be able to grasp and hold and have. "I love you like I'm supposed to love a woman."

Miles makes a small noise and Phoenix fears he's about to cry again.

"I see." Miles finally replies, muffled against fabric. "If it...er, assures you as well. I never planned on marrying in the first place. And I..." He pulls himself up so they're face to face. "I love you, Phoenix. Please, stay beside me."

He touches his jaw with a soft hand, dragging his thumb along some peach fuzz on Phoenix’s chin. Miles looks contemplative, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"I would never ask you to follow me..."

"But would you let me, Miles?"

He nods. "Without a doubt." Then, he adds, achingly, “Please, follow me.”

And they don't talk about logistics. About where Phoenix would go if he were to follow Miles to Chicago. About where they'd live. If they'd paste baby blue wallpaper onto the wall or if they'd leave the walls bare. If they'd leave the windows open while they slept, or if they'd have curtains.

They'd likely be poor. At least until Miles got his foot into a job. Until then, he'd likely have to walk to his classes, and Phoenix would have to walk to work.

But it'd be enough for him. And hopefully for Miles too. It would be enough to eat at the dinner table with him, rickety chairs and all.

He could hope it'd be enough for the other. And that he'd be enough when Miles finally becomes a lawyer. He'd hate to weigh him down, a poor laborer clinging onto somebody rich and important 'cause he loves him.

He'd follow like a loyal dog and rest at his feet.

Phoenix puts away those lingering thoughts, pulling Miles a little closer as the rain falls in soft pitter-patters outside.

It smells of nighttime and lavender, ozone and linen.

Something's coming, says the summer rain, of the rustle of sheets and gentle touches.

Something's coming, says the creaking of the farmhouse, tired and worn floorboard wailing in protest, of the staggered patpatpats of an old, wooden cane. 

"Are you certain you want to go, Phoenix?"

"'Course I do. I wanna see what you'll be doing soon. Besides, I've never been inside a courtroom before."

Miles huffs in amusement, pulling Phoenix's hands away from his tie.

"That's definitely a good thing, Phoenix. It means you’ve been out of trouble, legally, at least." His eyes are shining, glowing with pride. "I hope...my readings over the summer will benefit you here. You'll be in the gallery with Franziska."

Concocting an elaborate plan with the two siblings had turned out to be useless. Franziska had the idea of shoving Phoenix in the car trunk, and Miles argued it would be dangerous and uncomfortable for the long drive.

What ended up working was surprisingly, Franziska requesting an escort, from none other than Mr. von Karma himself.

Strange, Franziska. You are perfectly independent, usually...

I am being proper, Papa. I am getting to be a young lady, and I need to be escorted.

So now Phoenix stands in front of Miles, watching him tie a red tie around his neck.

"I'll be watching you the entire time." Phoenix beams.

"Mr. von Karma doesn't require much assistance, but he insists that being at the prosecutor's bench will be good experience." Miles tightens the tie around his neck and adjusts Phoenix's collar. His fingers linger on him, grey eyes wandering about his shirt, his face.

"Does it look okay?" Phoenix asks warily.

Miles inhales sharply. "Yes. Wonderful. Very okay." He takes a step back, but it doesn't seem to do him any favors. "Ngh...you should...you should keep it. The tie. It's not my color. And I'm not too fond of wearing ties..."

True, it's not his color or his style, Phoenix looks at the tie. It’s more orange, brighter than what Miles would usually wear. It settles in the middle of his chest, and it just feels right. 

"Keep it? Are you sure, Miles? Between this and the pants and..."

Miles nods, eyes dragging down to Phoenix's arms, and then back up. His hands follow his eye movements, and he squeezes his biceps. 

"I'm absolutely certain."

The morning air is sweet and cool, as they stand on the porch now. Miles looks beautiful, staring at the morning dew with a concentrated frown. His coat is a more vibrant burgundy, and underneath is an equally vibrant blue waistcoat. It’s tailored to him, and the gold buckles reflect the growing sunlight in just a way that makes him ethereal. 

A creaking and the sound of a cane hitting wood cuts through his admiration, as Franziska and Mr. von Karma step onto the porch. The morning air turns all too hot and tense.  

“Good morning, Mr. von Karma.” Phoenix greets, shoving his clammy hands into his pockets. 

Mr. von Karma merely raises his head in acknowledgment. He’s unreadable today, mouth drawn in a straight line. He holds a suitcase in the other hand and hands it off to Miles. 

“It’s time to go.” 

Phoenix isn’t too sure why it feels like they’re going to a funeral. 

He makes himself small in the sleek black car. Small and unimportant, just how Mr. von Karma would want.

Franziska sidles up to him, her puffy sleeves brushing against his shoulder. It's a comfort, the slight touch. Her riding crop sits beside her, her hands clasped perfectly in her lap.

It is absolutely silent. No giggles. No jokes. Not even a glance at each other, as Mr. von Karma rolls the car out of the driveway.

He hates it. Hates the stiffly posed siblings, still as statues.

No matter how Phoenix manages to break and untie and put these two back together, it seems that Mr. von Karma's grip is still solid. Still so tight.

He wishes he could do more.

As the novelty of staring out the window fades, his eyes start to close.

A soft weight against his shoulder makes him let out a quiet oh .

Franziska, eyes fluttering shut, dozes off against him. He can't blame her, with the only noise being the lull of the engine. 

Phoenix looks down at her, then at the rearview mirror.

Does she sleep at night?

Miles doesn't sleep peacefully, during the few times Phoenix snuck into his bed. He wakes up often, gasping for breath as if he was trapped in a box. He wakes up often, crying and reaching for somebody Phoenix doesn't know.

He wonders if she has nightmares, too. Nightmares that Miles never talks about. Nightmares that Phoenix can't quite unwrap to pull him back together.

Assume the worst. She does.

Phoenix risks a move and curls an arm around the girl. Stroking her arm, smoothing down a curl that she can't quite tuck behind her ear.

Her cheek presses into his side. She doesn’t stir, not even as the car jostles and jolts as they hit potholes and other ruts in the road. Nausea stirs up in his stomach, and he closes his eyes. There isn’t anything interesting to look at anyway…just the usual fields and downtrodden farms. A sorry sight that Phoenix doesn’t care to relive. 

Something prods at his knee, and he opens his eyes to a pale hand blindly reaching for him. Miles, still facing the front, opens up his palm to him. It’s some sort of reassurance. Phoenix clasps his hand for a moment, giving it a warm squeeze. He’s alright, he’s alright.

Satisfied, the hand pulls away, and Phoenix closes his eyes again until his stomach settles and they drive on smoother roads.

They must be here.

When he finally peeks out the window again, skyscrapers are nestled into the skies and clouds. His gaze casts heavenward and he feels the nausea stir in his stomach again at the thought of being on top of them. 

He prefers the ground, he thinks. 

The ground is full of people. So, so many people, more than Phoenix has ever seen in his life. It’s buzzing, with cars on the street, and people on the sidewalks. Signs line the sidewalk, THEATER and BANK and BURLESQUE– Phoenix doesn’t quite know what the last word means, but he figures he’d ask Miles later. He stares at a scantily-clad woman standing outside that last sign and blushes when she catches his eye and blows him a kiss. 

When they’re parked right in front of the courthouse, Phoenix feels his legs shake as he steps out of the car. Everything is so big and compacted together. He feels both claustrophobic and free. 

Chicago is not like home in the slightest. It towers over him, menacing and foreign. 

It’s a wonder he doesn’t trip over himself, his eyes cast up at the sky again . 

“Let’s get inside, Phoenix. We can look around after the trial,” Miles says to him, gripping his wrist and gently tugging him along. 

Franziska grabs his other wrist and hisses to him. “Remember, you are supposed to be my escort, Phoenix Wright. Act like it.”

Phoenix takes a deep breath, taking the girl’s hand instead and allowing her to lead. It’s fine, letting her drag them away from Miles and Mr. von Karma. 

He looks behind them, just before they’re out of reach. 

"Hey. Good luck out there, Miles," Phoenix says softly as Franziska tugs on his arm.

Miles nods, clearing his throat with flushed cheeks. “I’ll see you in the gallery.”

-

"Do you know anything about this, miss Fran? Who's on trial?"

Franziska tugs on his arm again as he bumps into another guy in a suit. "Watch where you're going, Phoenix Wright! Show some respectability!" She says with a little venom in her voice.

"Miss, if you don't know anything, just say no," Phoenix replies.

"I do know a little. Papa said that the details do not concern me, other than he is getting a guilty verdict!" The crowd dissipates and Franziska slows down, worrying at her lip. "He said it was open and shut—a perfect case. Someone killed someone's papa, after all. It is as simple as that."

"They did?!"

"I don't know the details. He did not discuss it in great detail with neither Miles nor myself."

Strange. He remembers Miles talking about the specifics of a couple of cases he oversaw. And why wouldn’t Mr. von Karma tell him, his co-counsel for this trial?

"But it won't take too much of our time. He said it will take only twenty minutes for the judge to hand down the guilty verdict." Franziska says, as though she’s assuring him. He receives a quick pat from her riding crop. 

He doesn't know if he quite likes the sound of that.

Franziska maneuvers them finally out of the lobby, and up some stairs to the balcony. It seemed it was where they were allowed, as he looked down at the room below and only saw rich white men in suits. Too many resembled Mr. von Karma, wrinkled and holding themselves in a way that said, I am the most important man in this room.

He sits down next to a dark-haired woman and Franziska. The woman beside him is much older, dressed in her Sunday best. He smiles at her, but she only gives him a sallow look. 

They're sitting right across from the prosecutor's bench. Below them, stand a tall woman and a shorter, more portly man who shuffle through papers and speak underneath the general chatter of the gallery.

"Ugh..." Franziska complains, smacking the railing with her riding crop. "I don't like that man. He is Mr. Grossberg, a defense attorney. Papa says he is weak both in constitution and in digestive processes.” She spits out the word defense as if it’s curdled milk. 

Phoenix makes a face. Court must bring something terrible out of Franziska.

"What about the lady down there?" She’s the only one down there, after all. 

Franziska gets on her tippy toes and peeks over at her.

"Hmm... I do not know." She admits, "A new attorney, I believe. And a woman, too! It’s a shame she will not stand a chance against my papa."

Phoenix likes her already. She looks around the courtroom with a fierce, determined fire in her eyes. She talks with her hands, biting back at whatever her co-counsel had just said. 

There's a buzzing sort of energy here, and Phoenix feels weirdly drawn to it. 

The prosecution finally comes in, and the gallery falls in near silence at the pound of the cane. It sounds like a gavel announcing a guilty verdict before the trial can even begin. Mr. von Karma walks in, with Miles following. He is stoic with his mouth drawn down in a frown.

He walks steady and sure, unlike the nervous, flighty boy Phoenix met all those months ago. It's as though he was born for this, to stand behind the bench.

The judge slams the gavel and silence fills the room completely.

"Court is now in session for the trial o-"

"Fifteen minutes." Mr. von Karma says, booming voice reverberating throughout the courtroom. It curls around Phoenix's neck.

"Prosecutor von Karma?" The judge raises a brow.

"I said, fifteen minutes," Mr. von Karma replies. His eyes are on the defense attorney across from him. "Earlier today, I promised my daughter it would only take twenty minutes to finish this trial.  However, I will crush this greenhorn attorney in less than that."

Poor lady.

She crosses her arms. "Prosecutor von Karma, you will not crush me so easily."

"Ms. Fey..." Mr. von Karma shakes his head and only chuckles.

Something in Miles' expression shifts, the furrow in his brow becoming more prominent. A hint of recognition, anger, and grief. He shuffles through the paperwork, cravat becoming ruffled and cheeks going red. What’s wrong? Does he know that woman?

"You'll regret this," The veteran prosecutor continues. 

And then, Miles visibly pales. Grabs Mr. von Karma's attention, holding a paper in his hand. He’s pointing to it, silver bangs falling in his face as he shakes his head. 

Why is he looking at him?

Mr. von Karma only smiles. He is the snake in the garden of Eden. Pushing Miles to continue despite his protest. There is something deadly in his smile, in the wrinkles that are supposed to indicate a good, God-fearing man. 

"My co-counsel would like to announce our first testimony, the defendant himself."

Miles looks like he wants to protest. He keeps looking in his direction. Why is he looking at him like that? Why does he look guilty? He is not the one at the defendant’s stand. The judge is not slamming down his gavel for him. This is not for him. 

Why does he keep looking at Phoenix as if he’s killed somebody?

"Edgeworth." Mr. von Karma starts, gripping his cane.

"The defend-I mean..." He swears a flash of anger crosses his features, then of grief and of guilt.

Then, he clears his throat, his voice singing out loud and clear throughout the courtroom.

The silence buzzes. His heartbeat is the only thing he can hear, a drummer’s boy in the midst of a silent battlefield. 

He beats and beats and beats. 

Until the first shot is heard. 

"The prosecution would like to call the defendant, Mr. Mateo Wright, to the stand." 

Chapter Text

His daddy is not supposed to be here.

He’s supposed to be back at the farm, washing Phoenix’s hair in the sink. He scrubs his scalp in circles. You got my hair, mijo. What’s next, my good looks?

Strong hands, full of love. Strong hands, that have seen war overseas and held weapons no God-fearing man would want to use. Hands that have forfeited violence since. He’s never laid a cruel hand on anything. Not his momma nor him. Not even the man that threatened to take their farm away when the money dried up.

He is supposed to be home with a wife that wasn't swallowed up by the earth.

And Phoenix is supposed to tip-toe his way out of bed to watch them slow-dance in candlelight. Singing in soft Spanish. The song travels to Phoenix, wrapping around him like a blanket. Yua, mi amor, he's fallen asleep in the doorway, again. Sweet boy. Let’s go to bed now.

When he hands Phoenix his precious guitar, he ought to exclaim when the boy crudely tries to play. Enough, enough, Ryuuichi! He's full of belly laughter,

You know what? Let your old daddy handle the music. You dance with your momma.

And they'd dance to his music, bare feet on the just-swept floor. His momma would laugh and sing in her Japanese tongue, a song only she can sing.

They dance, and dance in a pale umber. Phoenix remembers the music thick in the air, sticking to their foreheads as the world outside fell apart to the wind and the dirt. He remembers the crescendo, the increasing wind that made the windows tremble and the entire house quake-

It all comes to a climax.

"The prosecution would like to call the defendant, Mr. Mateo Wright, to the stand."

The golden haze of summer, that sweet summer song, fades.

Mateo Wright is led to the stand. It's slow. Deliberate.

The name rings in Phoenix's ears. Almost a foreign combination of syllables. Ma-tee-oh, they say.

It's pronounced wrong.

He stands up, hands against the balcony railing.

"Daddy!?" Phoenix blurts out, bringing Mateo's attention front and center to his son.

His father tilts his head to the sound. They make eye contact. Dark eyes meet his own. Mijo, it’s like I’m looking in a mirror. But you got natural protection from the mal de ojo, you see? Look at your blue eye.

“Phoenix?” He calls back, mouth agape. Mateo looks a little more worn, his black curls tinted with silver. He looks tired, and even a little bruised near the handcuffs he wears.

And despite it all, it’s like he never left.

A smile stretches hesitantly on Mateo’s face. It speaks of guilt. To anyone else, it was his guilt for the crime he’s been accused of. But Phoenix knows. He knows it’s guilt that he’s been away for so long, guilt that the first time he’s seen his boy, it’s with him in handcuffs.

This has to be one big mistake.

“Why are you here?” He shouts across the gallery. And then, to Mr. von Karma, pleadingly, “Mr. von Karma! Why is my daddy here, sir?” He must know.

Mr. von Karma’s lip curls.

The gavel slams.

“I ask that the members of the gallery be quiet during proceedings! Have you no manners, boy?” The judge frowns at him. He’s just as old as the rest of the men in the room, if not older.

Franziska tugs at his shirt, hissing under her breath at him.

Phoenix looks pleadingly to the prosecutor’s bench. Miles isn’t looking.

“Why your daddy’s on trial for murder,” Each syllable is plastered hot and thick, as Mr. von Karma answers. His voice is cruelly comforting. As if Phoenix is a lost child looking for his father.

“That can’t be! He didn’t do it, Mr. von Karma!” The man’s head tilts to the side as Phoenix protests. “Believe me, sir! My daddy would never hurt anybody! You gotta know! You gotta, you can’t-”

The judge slams the gavel down.

“Enough! Boy, I ask that you do not argue with the prosecution. That job is meant for the defense.”

“But-”

“Have you never been in a court of law, son? Sit down, before I put you in contempt of court.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek as Franziska's strength overcomes his will to fight. He's pulled back into his seat.

Franziska whispers into his ear, furiously, "Don't you do that again! They'll put you in jail if you try to disturb them, Phoenix Wright!"

She jabbers in his ear as the proceedings continue, and Phoenix feels nothing but dread. 

-

"State your name and occupation," Mr. von Karma begins.

"My name is Mateo Wright. I work for Mr. Green," His daddy replies. His voice is slow and clear, nodding with every word. Despite all eyes on him–Lord knows his daddy ain't much of a public speaker as much as a musician–his voice projects across the room.

"Could you elaborate on that? What exactly did you do?"

"I take care of his animals, sir."

"So would you say you're a ranch hand on his farm?"

There's a slight hesitation. Mateo nods. "Yes, sir."

"Where do you live, defendant?"

"He lets me room and board on his farm."

Mr. von Karma purses his lips. "The accused lives in living quarters with several other men, mere yards away from the main residence, where the victim and his family live. Defendant, you understand that you are suspected in the death of your employer, Mr. George Green?"

His daddy nods slowly, grieved, "Sir, I did not lay a hand on that man. I ain't killed nobody." He trembles. "I ain't ever hurt anybody, I swear on my life-"

"Swearing on your life will do nothing. You will have nothing to swear on, not in hell where you will soon find yourself."

"Objection! Your Honor, the prosecution is antagonizing Mr. Wright!" Ms. Fey butts in, a little too loudly.

"Ms. Fey, I assure you we can hear you from there," The judge replies, "There is no need to be so...enthusiastic. Stand down, Prosecutor von Karma."

Mr. von Karma relents, "Then, let's get to the point, Ms. Fey. Defendant, describe the day of the murder."

"I-"

"Now!"

His daddy's testimony starts shaky. Mr. von Karma's done gone and made him afraid, to Phoenix's dismay. Please, daddy, just tell the truth...there's no way you're guilty.

"It was Saturday evenin', so almost nobody was home. Ev'body was out in town, drinkin' probably. I stay home. I don't spend money. And then when I was walking by the main house, I heard gunshots. Was no fireworks, no nothin' of the sort. I ran into the house and-" As if physically pained, Mateo grimaces, "There was Mr. George in a pile of blood."

"You were all alone on the property, besides you and Mr. Green?" Ms. Fey asks.

"I believe so, ma'am...but there was also the..." Mateo hesitates.

"The...?" Ms. Fey encourages, motioning for him to go on. She's firm, but there's a certain twinge in her tone that makes Phoenix trust her. He hopes his daddy does too.

"The boy. Mr. George's boy."

"Did you see him at all?"

"...yes. He was...he was the one who found me there, ma'am. Saw me covered in his daddy's blood, and the gun, and he thought I'd done it."

Ms. Fey's attention goes to Mr. von Karma, who smiles.

"That is our next witness, Your Honor. We will hear the testimony of the boy, soon. If it's even needed." It is then that something in Miles' expression shifts even further. There's foreign cruelty, a coldness he hadn't seen in a very long time. He looks just like the man next to him, his eyes full of hellfire.

"However, there is the matter of the gun," Miles speaks up, "It has your fingerprints all over it. Testify regarding that, Mr. Wright, please." His tone slights at the surname.

It sounds like his daddy's already guilty on Miles' tongue.

Mateo shifts uncomfortably on the stand, "After I realized Mr. George was killed, I picked up the gun without thinking, sir. It was lying there."

"What kind of gun was it, defendant?"

"One of 'em rifles, sir. It was Mr. George's. He kept it over the mantle."

Miles looks to his mentor, to which the latter gives him a slow nod.

"Mr. Wright, how is your relationship with your employer? Mr. Green?"

"Good! It's good, sir. He is kind to give me a job and a place to stay."

"You said earlier that you don't go out on Saturday nights with everyone else. You don't spend money. Why is that?"

"Mr. George pays, but he must stretch it out among many men. We don't get much."

"So, he does not pay well, is what I'm hearing?" Miles replies, "Mr. Wright, do you sometimes wish you were paid more?"

"Yes, of course."

"How far would you go? You are poorer than him, yes? Would you go as far as to...murder someone?" Miles asks.

"Objection! The prosecution is leading my client!" Ms. Fey shouts, "Mr. Wright, let's turn our attention back to the gun. It was Mr. Green's rifle, correct? Do you know how to shoot a gun?"

"Asking a farmer if he knows how to fire a gun is like asking a fish if he knows how to swim, Ms. Fey," Mr. von Karma sneers.

Mateo winces, "Yes, ma'am. As the...the man said. I would be defenseless if I did not."

Mr. von Karma's smile stretches across his ghast face. He steps out from behind the prosecutor's bench.

"So you see, Ms. Fey...there's no way this man didn't shoot the victim. We have five minutes left, but I will explain this to you. One perfect witness, claims to have seen Mr. Wright with the gun. One perfect piece of evidence is the rifle with his fingerprints all over it. And now...his testimony. There's little room for doubt, as always. Hah...of course, he can fire a gun, Ms. Fey."

It's hopeless.

Phoenix almost begins planning his goodbyes to his father, when he sees Mateo reach up to scratch the back of his neck.

He can't...his hands...

He can't fire a gun. He knows how to, but...

And he remembers his father again in thick swathes of color. The lame horse laying against the barn in pain, the way his own hands shook holding the shotgun. His father, uttering directions and comfort in the same breath. It's okay, mijo. You are so brave for your daddy. Close your eyes and pull the trigger. Está bien, mi chico.

Mateo Wright plays guitar with his thumb only.

Strong hands, that have seen war overseas and held weapons no God-fearing man would want to use. Hands that have forfeited violence since.

His index and middle fingers were lost to the diseases in the war. His daddy told disgusting stories about how his fingers turned black, and how there was no real choice but to remove them. Gangrene's real ugly, mijo. I'd rather have nothin' but stubs left.

He can't fire a gun. Not without difficulty. In fact, with how Mateo complained of how he couldn't entirely move either hand, it'd be impossible.

Phoenix Wright's chest is on fire when he stands and yells, "Hold it!" He is akin to his English name when he pushes through and clambers onto the balcony railing. He lands clumsily next to the defense's bench and runs to the middle of the courtroom. All eyes are on him. He is the storm, the wildfire.

"Show them your hands, daddy! Show them your hands." He doesn't have much time left. He knows this.

Contempt of court, noun. There are two types of contempt: being rude, disrespectful to the judge or other attorneys, or causing a disturbance in the courtroom—yes, calling someone stupid could put you in contempt—or willful failure to obey an order of the court, such as not appearing. Miles' voice says.

He turns to Ms. Fey, clasping his hands. "Missus, you gotta. You can't give up on my daddy."

"Bailiffs! Take this boy away!" Footsteps from either side start to surround him.

"Missus, please listen to me. My daddy ain't handled a gun since he was a soldier. He can't fire a gun anymore. It's impossible." The two bailiffs grab him by the arms, and he resists.

He catches a glimpse of Miles and shakes his head pleadingly.

"You gotta believe me! Mr. von Karma is missin' something! His hands! Look at them!" His feet drag against the floor, and he kicks and stomps. Anything to prolong his presence in the courtroom, to feel his father's eyes on him again.

He's screaming until the court doors cast him out.

The walls and floor are cold grey. There is nothing to look at other than his reflection in the glass, and the outside shows only a bustling city. He can't focus on the novelty of it. He doesn't know how long it's been since he was shoved in here.

All he can think of is his father.

What's gonna happen to his daddy? If he's declared guilty, his daddy's going to the gallows. It's a capital offense...what will he do then? If his daddy dies?

Does he go back to the farm?

And Miles...the anger on his face burns Phoenix like a hot poker. The way he looked at his daddy...Ms. Mia Fey. He looked just like Mr. von Karma then. A snake in the grass. Hellfire in his eyes. It's that same look, over and over that replays in his head. How come he's only seen it on Miles until now?

Where has that cruelty been lying, and how does a place like this bring it out?

In the courtroom, there is no room for soft looks and quiet voices. No room for dreams of baby blue wallpaper on the wall, of open windows and curtains and rickety chairs. It was what they wanted, but...

Lord. He can't leave home again.

Wearing a hole in his boots from pacing back and forth, he doesn't stop until there's a knock.

"Mr. Wright, you have a visitor. You have ten minutes." One of the guards says.

Phoenix turns, and his father, still in handcuffs, steps in. They're so much closer, after all these years, and yet...this thick sheet of glass separates them. He can see himself in the glass reflection. Hair and eyes wild.

His daddy breaks the silence. "You've grown so much, mijo. It's like I'm lookin' in a mirror." A tear rolls down the man's cheek, and he sits down at the table. It's as though he's seen the second coming, his son just within his reach. As though the Lord is right across the glass, looking back at him.

Any tiny shards of resentment, of doubt, that Phoenix had about his father leaving him and his mama...the anger he suppressed so tightly in his fists until he bled...is gone in an instant the moment he sits down across from Mateo. He lets go and opens his palms. Phoenix slides his hands under the gap. To touch. To feel what remains of his family.

"Apá..." Phoenix breathes out, "Good Lord, where have you been?"

"I'm so sorry, Phoenix," The way he says his name makes him ache, "I couldn't come back until I've made a man o' myself for you both. Not until I could know I'd come home and we'd never want for nothin'." He touches Phoenix's hand with his own. They are the same roughness, the same color.

"It's okay, Apà. Been managing just fine, okay?" Phoenix assures. "But...you can come home. As soon as you can. Whether you got the money or not."

Lord knows he doesn't want to be the one telling his father the fate of his family.

"Oh but! I did, mijo!" Mateo brightens, "I was going to head home as soon as summer ended. I have money, still—Ryuuichi, I had enough to get you and your mama off the farm. Get us all into a small place by the city," His smile is strained with exhaustion, but he's so, so proud. "'N then we'd get jobs in the city. If food ran out, we'd be near the soup kitchens— you seen them, aren't they somethin' —and...if you wanted, you'd be able to go to school for a little bit. You used to like it so much, right? You're so smart, Phoenix-"

Tears well in Phoenix's eyes, and he can only nod. This is the love he's missed. A love that he had only known up until this summer. A love so selfless, Phoenix can barely handle the news.

He chokes back a sob, "Apà, I'm so proud of you. I promise...I promise we gonna make your dream happen, okay?"

Mateo looks ecstatic, despite the cold, grey walls that trap them now.

"We will figure it out as soon as I get outta here." He squeezes Phoenix's hand. He looks around, out the window, and at the guard.

"By the way, mijo, where's your ma?"

He asks it so casually.

It's as if she's in the other room. Perhaps outside of the holding cell, sitting and waiting.

Brings him back home, to when he'd ask the very same question. Where's that mama of yours, Ryuu? he'd ask with a mischievous grin. He'd be holding something behind his back.

As soon as Phoenix would tell him, he'd find Yua somewhere around the house and burst into song. Some song he'd make up throughout the day. Yua would exclaim and laugh, and she'd come into the room with wildflowers tucked in her long black braids. Ryuuichi! You are your father's keeper, no? Keep him out of trouble!

It's tumbling back down on him, the reality that when this summer ends, there is nothing to go back to. The sun keeps going down and the earth buries what's left of Yua Naruhodo's life. Nothing left but sun-baked footprints from where she'd stand in the rare, rare rain.

"...mijo," Mateo beckons again, softly. "Where is she?"

"Couldn't save her, Apà. Storm gone and took her." Phoenix squeezes out, his voice tiny. "I'm so sorry. She been dead since spring. The farm's gone, everythin'. Burned down. Nothin' but dirt." By God, it tumbles down, and he's watching his daddy so carefully.

By God, he sees a face of a man who's lost everything twice over. He wishes the Lord weren't so cruel, as his daddy fights back the tears in front of him.

" Yua...dios mio... " He's trembling so hard that Phoenix fears he'll break. He sees the face of a man who loved his wife more than anything. A love that transcended both of them, their backgrounds.

Spending hours dancing because it was the language they both understood. Love was never words to them.

But now...

His daddy is catapulted into a world where wives are lost to storms, where homes are destroyed by the wrath of God, and where there is not a place on earth for Mateo Wright to go home to.

It strikes Phoenix that he can't leave him like this. He cannot leave his daddy alone in the dust. he cannot let him wander as he did on the dirt roads and unforgiving plains. Begging for scraps, for work, for anything and anyone to spare him a bit of God's mercy.

Lord, they're running out of time. Mateo lets out a long drawn breath. A promise that he will grieve later, alone in a cold cell.

"Where have you been this entire time, mijo? How did you get here?"

Phoenix shakes his head, squeezing Mateo's fingers, "Not important anymore, Apà, okay? What matters is we found each other. And I'm gonna get you out. You ain't hurt a fly ever. You always been so good of a man..."

"Phoenix," Mateo draws his hand back and brings both hands back to his neck, where a chain sits.

"Want you to have this 'til I get out again. Protect what's left of our family, mijo." He unclasps it and pulls it off. Dangling on the chain is an old locket and his wedding ring.

"Your time is up, sir." The guard interrupts, approaching behind Mateo.

"Take it, Phoenix." He slides it under the glass, "I'm in good hands right now, I promise. Ms. Fey believes in me, that missus attorney? She's gonna fight for me to get home."

Phoenix takes it and clutches it tightly in his hand as the guards escort Mateo away. “You’re innocent, Apà! I believe in you too, I love you!” He raises his voice as the door opens and slams. 

He looks down at the chain when he no longer hears footsteps. In the locket, rusted and slightly broken at the hinges, are small portraits of himself and his mama.

And he weeps. 

"Right this way, Prosecutor von Karma." Phoenix hears faintly, not too long later.

The door opens, and the familiar tap-tapping of Mr. von Karma's cane calls for attention.

Because Phoenix is desperate, he clings to the selfish, tainted belief that Mr. von Karma's got to know the truth. He must seek it out.

"Sir! Sir, y-"

The man's lip curls. "I would have thought my children would've taught you some basic courtroom etiquette. You’re lucky that they are footing the cost of bail for you."

"That is not on them, sir. They taught me how to behave. But I had to say something. Sir, you gotta know he ain't no murderer."

"I find that hard to believe, Wright. His fingerprints are on the gun, he is the only one on the farm, and we have someone witness to him hovering over the victim's body. Someone in the gallery such as you is not admissible evidence in court, no matter how Ms. Fey tries to twist it." Mr. von Karma doesn't sit. He never does. Phoenix doesn't sit, either. Not for him. He can see him eye to eye.

Look me in the eye when you're speaking to me, sir.

"Ms. Fey...?"

"Your outburst had nothing on the case." Mr. von Karma says simply, "Merely speculation." He sounds a little more...bitter? But he still looks pleased regardless. It confuses Phoenix.

So, he pushes.

"But I'm sure you're missing something, Mr. von Karma. There's got to be a mistake, someone else must've be-" He protests, to no avail.

"A von Karma does not miss anything , Mr. Wright. We do not make mistakes. We create perfect cases, with perfect testimonies and perfect evidence, and perfect witnesses." The prosecutor's mouth curls downward, and this is an indication to Phoenix that perhaps he's unraveled it, just a little. Mr. von Karma simply won't acknowledge it.

Then, as an afterthought, Mr. von Karma adds, "Either way, it is out of my hands now. I have no use for a case such as this."

Out of all the people in Chicago, Illinois, and in the Midwest, Phoenix does find it oddly coincidental that the one time he finds himself in the courtroom...he sees his father at the stand. Mr. von Karma isn't stupid. He knows him by name. When this case passed by his desk...

"...you knew he was my daddy, sir." He says quietly.

The man laughs, low and raspy. "Don't act so surprised. Clearly, you're not related to the Wrights that managed to get an airplane to fly, are you?" His eyes rake down him like the way they did when Phoenix first came to his doorstep.

And Phoenix is shaking. One move and this man might steal his soul.

"Why would you...? Sir, I don't understand..."

Pale, bony hands clutch his dark wooded cane. They're a sickening sort of pale, rings stacked on his fingers. Worth more than any penny he's ever earned. Lord, if the Devil were in disguise again, would he wear rings on every finger?

If the Devil were in front of him, would he be smiling like Mr. von Karma? He recalls that same smile under sickly yellow.

"He has no use for such...relations."

Oh, how he smiles now. It's almost as if he's always known. Was there never anything that Mr. von Karma couldn't reach? He's been waiting for any moment to bare his fangs, to swallow Phoenix Wright whole.

"You planned this." His hands slowly curl into fists. Like paper curling into hot ash as fire spreads.

"The case? Foolish, Wright. I do not have the time to set up murder cases. It was an opportunity from God, I fear. It fell into my lap, boy," Mr. von Karma tilts his head slightly heavenward. "Don't look so deceived. He has no use for a boy without a penny to his name. No use for a boy who borrows his clothes to go out in public, who eats in a barn-"

Mr. von Karma should've cut off his hands. Phoenix slams his hand against the glass. "Look at me when you're talking to me!" He shouts, "You son's a bitch–you knew ! And you could handle your boy bein' a homosexual. Din't care at all. No, sir, you just couldn't have him parading 'round a poor boy!"

It's almost pathetic, how concerned the man is with the family name. It almost makes Phoenix laugh right in his face. "No, sir. 'Cause that would be despicable. A boy with nothin'...you're so ashamed to talk to me, you ain't ever looked me in the eyes. You'd hate for somebody like me to even dare talk to you like this."

The man says nothing, and Phoenix thinks he's winning this time.

But Mr. von Karma is perfect in all ways. This was never in his favor. It will never be.

"It's true that his preferences are of no bearing on me. However, I hope you realize the consequences...if word were to slip out."

When Phoenix only stares, he continues, "It would irreparably damage his career, everything that he's worked towards. I'm sure you're well aware of how much he has studied all summer."

"You wouldn't dare," Phoenix breathes out.

Mr. von Karma only smiles.

"You wouldn't dare! You sick bastard..." The shotgun above the mantle flashes in his mind. "Don't you ruin Miles, you hear? I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you!" He slams his hands against the table, face red with vile fury. He's panting so hard that he’s light-headed.

Hatred has never come easily to Phoenix, but now...now he wishes he could personally walk this man into hell.

When he stops hearing his heart roaring in his ears, Mr. von Karma clears his throat.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Wright. We can come up with a solution, easily. Sit down."

"Wh-"

"I said sit."

Phoenix, pulled by some other force, slumps into the creaky wooden chair.

"How far would you go, to make sure Miles Edgeworth succeeds?"

And despite how terrible Miles looked in court, how fiery...who is he to take that away? Some boy with not even a wooden nickel to his name. Dreaming of blue wallpaper and white curtains. His dreams don't amount to Miles'. All he could ever want is a place to sleep and eat. To have some company no matter how desperate times got. What could Miles ever want?

...he doesn't know.

"How far do you want me to go, sir?"

Mr. von Karma raises an eyebrow and huffs out in amusement.

"You've overstayed your welcome, don't you think, Mr. Wright?" He asks.

So then, there it is. It makes his heart ache, as it sinks to his stomach.

"That's...that's all?" He replies, weakly. C'mon, Phoenix. Put up a fight. You have created a place that's yours. Think of Miles. Franziska. Think of-

Mateo flashes in his mind.

It's as though Mr. von Karma is asking him to hold a gun to both families. Choose. Point and pull the trigger. A man knows how to shoot a gun, Mr. Wright. Asking a farmer if he knows how to fire a gun is like asking a fish if he knows how to swim.

Mr. von Karma shakes his head. "You would not like your fate if I were to see you on my property ever again. That boy would not be able to protect you anymore. Nor my daughter." He makes a noise of disgust, "How she's grown fond of you, I cannot be sure."

He wonders fleetingly if he should take them both and run. Sure, he'll never return, and neither will they. It's a wonderful idea. Ideal, even. If only...if only they didn't have dreams as wide as the big blue sky. If only he refused to take that away from them. He shouldn't be that selfish.

"And you swear you won't tell anybody about Miles? Not a blood-suckin' news reporter? Not even if beating him blue and black doesn't do the trick no more to keep him in line?"

The man sneers, and Phoenix fears he's overstepped until his face settles to that indifferent sort of frown on his face. "I do not punish unless necessary, Mr. Wright."

"Swear it," Phoenix replies firmly. That won't do. He needs to hear this man swear before God. He needs to steal these words from in-between this man's teeth before he pulls them out himself. "Swear it right now on Miss Fran's mother. If you fucking dare , you will not like your fate if I find out and get my hands on you."

As if he's a child, Mr. von Karma chuckles. "You children and your promises. I swear it, then. I have no reason to ruin that boy's career, anyway."

Phoenix feels a burning in his chest. He's made a deal with the Devil himself, and he can't bring himself to pray for forgiveness.

And there's that drummer boy, drumming again in his ear and his chest, as he holds up his end.

"And I will leave tonight. You will see nothing of me, sir."

Mr. von Karma looks him in the eyes, for the first time.

"Nothing of you, after tonight." The man nods. He stops for a second, and his eyes pierce Phoenix's. "What matters to us prosecutors is the slam of the gavel followed by a guilty verdict. That is the way, Mr. Wright. I pray you'll understand that, should you end up in a place like this again."

He turns around, and leaves the cell, navy coat billowing after him.

And even as he goes into the hall, Phoenix still hears the tap-tap-tapping of his dark wooded cane.

It starts to settle in, what he’s just promised to do. 

"Mr. Wright. You have a visitor."

Burgundy flashes behind the door, and Miles stands just across from him. Phoenix wants to smile and praise. Good job, darlin'. You really got a knack for this lawyerin' thing. He wants to reach under the glass that separates them, and touch his soft hands. Feel the velvet sleeves of his coat.

He wants to be so happy, and yet...with every second, he wants to be swallowed by the earth. So he doesn't have to see Miles' face. So he doesn't have to break his heart.

All he wants on this goddamn earth is to go home. He aches for an embrace he'll never have again.

"Phoenix, I..." Miles trails off, and he sits down. "Phoenix, I'm sorry about your father." He starts, and every word is hesitant, "They are extending the trial by another day, though. Considering my mentor, it's almost unheard of. Suppose the defense should thank you, for causing such a commotion."

"So he's not guilty?" He sounds too hopeful.

Miles hesitates, again, "...not quite off the hook, Phoenix. The judge felt he couldn't give a verdict until all things were considered." He sounds so unsure as if it's the first time they've met.

"Miles, you sound terribly wishy-washy." Phoenix admits quietly, "What is it, darlin'?"

And the other falls completely silent. Unmistakably, he watches as Miles' hand goes to his elbow. That furrow of his brow returns, and Phoenix feels his heart sink.

"Your...disturbance...it does not change the case by much. If at all." He says in one breath, "It doesn't completely rule out anything. The gun...he could've used his non-dominant hand to pull the trigger. He could've...that is to say-"

"You think he's guilty, then?" Phoenix cuts in.

Miles looks away, and he knows the answer to that. Disbelief and despair and betrayal seep into his bones, and he might as well succumb to the chill.

After another pause, Miles spares a glance at him, "The evidence is overwhelmingly pointing at your father, Phoenix. There's not a lot of doubt in this."

But there is .

"But what about-"

"The details you and Ms. Fey pointed out don't change the facts of the case. I'm sorry, but if she made the case-"

Phoenix exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. He's never felt so cold.

"So you believe he done it, Miles?"

He hates the look Miles is giving him. Something of pity. Something of resolve.

"...the evidence says-"

"No. I'm asking you, Miles," Phoenix says slowly, not breaking eye contact despite how terribly he fears his response, "Do you believe in my daddy's innocence?"

"...your father may be a God-fearing, good man, but a man's life was taken today. And a child's innocence withered."

"...so you don't. Despite what I've said about him. My gentle daddy, a farmer who loved his wife and his only son-"

"It's not about what I think. It's what the evidence says."

Phoenix almost pleads. Somebody has to believe him. Somebody has to believe in his father. "Miles, something is missing and you know it. Everybody in that courtroom has got to know i-"

"As far as this case goes, the evidence points to him murdering that man. The evidence says he is guilty," Miles frowns, "And so that is what we should hear before the slam of the gavel. That's what a prosecutor seeks. Mr. von Karma-"

The mention of the man, the verbatim, brings something cruel out of Phoenix. It brings venom to his tongue. "Funny, Miles," He retorts. This is no place to be kind. "That's exactly what your daddy said when he visited me. His last words to me."

When Miles doesn't reply, it's another spark. Phoenix is a burning match and Miles is practically drowning the place in gasoline. Before he knows it, they'll have an inferno again. And it'll still be so cold. No warmth will seep into their bones and this fire won't paint their faces a pretty orange.

"Is that really what you believe?" Lord, forgive him. "You believe your daddy? Who would shoot me like a dog for beggin’ for scraps? Your daddy, who beat you till you was blue and purpl-"

There it is, as Miles slams his hand on the table. It burns. "He is not my father, Wright! How he treats me has nothing, nothing to do with how he prosecutes."

Before he can stop himself, tell himself this is still the boy you love , it escapes him, "He might as well be, Miles!"

"Wright. He will never be a father to me." Under the stern tone, he sounds hurt. Like he's been kicked.

But Phoenix shakes his head. "You got the same fire in your eyes as him! Miles, if I was on the stand, would you look at me the way you did my daddy? Would you treat me like 'm already guilty when you ain't even proven anything?"

Grey eyes narrow, and Miles stands up suddenly, red and furious. "God, you don't have the faintest idea, Phoenix. You talk and talk and yet-" He shakes his head, "You talk about believing in your father. So, so determined to make him not guilty before you've even considered everything. But I, as a prosecutor, am supposed to believe in justice." His eyes are dark, stormy, and terrible. "I talked to the son of the victim. His name is Thomas. He's nine and if no other family members take him in, that boy is being sent to an orphanage."

Miles' voice shatters, "And he will never, never not be haunted by the night he saw his father in a pool of blood! He will live the rest of his life knowing that he's outlived his own father! And you'll never understand that. You'll never understand what it's like to be on that side of the courtroom. To live without a resolution. But I believe in justice, and a guilty verdict gives Mr. Green and his son that resolution. And maybe, maybe he'll be able to live in peace."

It's hopeless. Miles is panting, and his gaze is averted to the ground. Phoenix wishes he could understand, and he wants to, but God- he can't just give up .

They are completely and utterly silent. The bustling of the city makes Phoenix nauseous. He wants to go home. And yet, home is nowhere. Nowhere here, nowhere outside of Chicago.

You've chosen where to go, Mr. Wright. Pull the trigger. You know how to shoot a gun. Asking a farmer if he can shoot a gun is like...

"Miles..." Phoenix begins, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"I apologize for blowing up like that, Phoenix. It's...uncouth." Miles interrupts.

"It's...it's okay, Miles. Look-"

"It's not, Phoenix. I...lost myself." He sits back down again, and this time, he tries to reach his hand under the glass.

Miles looks so earnest and so unlike the man he was before, fiery and cruel and passionate, that Phoenix almost forgets himself. He almost feels the warmth of the inferno around them. But it's as though he's got hypothermia and his heart is fighting, fighting to stay alive by seeping warmth through his bones.

It's still so cold, and he fears he might die if he says this to Miles. He will die a death of his own. 

"You'll be out of here tonight, Phoenix. I'm posting your bail, and you'll be able to come home." Miles keeps reaching under the glass. Grasping at nothing.

You know how to shoot a gun, Mr. Wright.

You're the only son. You are your father's keeper, before anything. He's taught you how to shoot, and now you must. 

Close your eyes and pull the trigger. Está bien, mi chico.

Phoenix does close his eyes as he confesses his deal to the Devil.

"I'm not coming home, Miles."

He opens them, and Miles is staring, dumbfounded.

"You're being ridiculous. You'll be out by tonight, I made sure of it."

Phoenix shakes his head, "No, I'm not coming back."

He hates the look on his face. He wants to take it back, but it's too late. It's too late, he's grabbed the gun. Shot the lame horse out back. And now he must bury it in the garden, deep in the night.

"It's been a long day, Phoenix. You're being rash, please-"

Phoenix rises, shaking his head. "I have to go. Your daddy-" He stops himself. Does he tell him? No. It would make things worse. Miles would find a loophole for them, and Mr. von Karma would know. He always knows. And...

"I'm leavin'. I gotta find out what's gonna become of my daddy. I need to be there, I'm all he's got left. And...he's all I'm gonna have left." Lord, make this easy for him. Phoenix ignores the hot trail of tears that sting his cheeks. "'Sides, Miles..." His hands betray him and inch towards the other’s.

"I'll accompany you. You don't have to leave." Their hands touch for the first time in what feels like days.

"And what of me when you go to school? Miles, you gotta..." His lungs rattle with every breath he takes, "You gotta whole future ahead of you that's beyond me. I'll never fit in."

"Phoenix Wright." The other replies sternly, gripping his hands, "You do. I am not giving up a life with you."

"Miles, you got your daddy's shoes to fill, and I gotta figure out how I'm gonna fill my own daddy's, if he ends up-" Phoenix breaks down. "And I don't think I can bear the way you look in a courtroom. I see Mr. von Karma in your eyes. I see his cruelty. You are not cruel, but I can't go home to that. I don't know much about law as much as you, but it don't seem right. I believe he’s innocent, at the bottom of my very heart. I know he is. A resolution to that little boy’s story is no resolution for me and my daddy."

He looks up at Miles, right in the eyes now. It's as though the sun was in both of their eyes, and now it's gone.

"Summer's over, Miles. I love you like the sun, love you like anything, but summer's over."

They fall in silence. And Miles is unreactive, unmoving. They only stare at each other, until the faint pitter patter of rain falls against the window. And truly, there is nothing left but the summer rain when the guard escorts Miles out.

It'll haunt him for the rest of his life.

For the second time in his life, there is nowhere on earth for Phoenix to call home.

He misses his mother.

The rain falls hard and suddenly. It's unlike anything Phoenix has ever seen in his life, an abundance of water. It would be beautiful, the darkening of the city, the newfound life outside his window. It could be beautiful if the stormy grey skies weren't so reminiscent of Miles.

God is not forgiving. Not even when he blesses the earth with this downpour. He never has, no matter which way Phoenix tries to twist his faith.

He doesn't even hear the door open. If he does, he doesn't want to turn his head from the wall. Maybe he wants to rot here. Give back the bail money. Let him rot.

"Mr. Wright?" Surprisingly, a woman's voice beckons from across the glass.

Phoenix turns his head. Ms. Fey, tall and powerful, stands in the other room. She's much more intense up close. Why is she here?

He slowly stands, drawn to her presence.

"Ms. Fey, I'm-" He quickly goes to sit in front of her, stumbling over his feet.

"You're one dumb kid." She interrupts him, scolding him as if he's a schoolboy that's gone and written cuss words on the desk. "Don't you know one thing about a courtroom?"

"Miss, listen, I-"

"You as a member of the public don't have a say in whether a defendant is guilty or not. That's not how our courts work here, kid. And yet-" She pulls out the chair and sits down, face-to-face with him. "You saved our asses. You saved mine." She smiles slightly, teeth showing.

Phoenix looks down at his hands, his ears turning bright red. "I caused a big ruckus in there, missus."

" You caused a big ruckus that ultimately gave us another day to investigate this further. You gave that man another chance. My client was your father out there, huh?"

He nods timidly.

"I've known your father was innocent the day I met him." Ms. Fey touches her necklace, a faded purple rock. It looks like it was made from the purples of a sunset. "And I still believe he is. I admit that I didn't quite look at his hands closely that day. That little detail, Mr. Wright, is what saved us. One little piece that casts doubt on the rest." Her eyes shine with determination. Phoenix quite likes her even more. She speaks slowly, comfortingly. The badge on her lapel is bright in the grey-walled room. It looks a little like hope.

"So, you'll represent him again, Ms. Fey?" He asks.

"I'll see it to the very end, Mr. Wright."

"Thank you so much for defendin' him, but I have no way to repay you. I've no money. Ain't nothing on me, missus."

Her dark hair moves like a wave when she shakes her head. "I'm not here for money. You don't have to pay me a cent." She says gently. She reminds him of his mother, soothing him during a storm. "I'm a public defender. It means I represent those who can't afford an attorney. It's like...giving a voice to people who have none. If they don't believe themselves to stand a chance in court, then I will."

Mia Fey is hope. More than that, she is determination and undying faith. Phoenix quite likes the idea of that.

He's lost everything, and yet, this woman holds out her hands to him. She tells him that he hasn't lost everything just yet. Not when he still hopes. Not when he still dreams and believes.

Stunned, he nods again. "I believe in you too, Ms. Fey. I'll be there again when you defend him. I'll be watchin'."

Ms. Fey smiles at him. She fishes something out of her pocket. A business card, crisp and clean. "Here, you can be the first to have my card. I plan on opening up my own firm soon." She writes something on the back. "If you need anything, please come see me at this address or give me a call. I want to reunite your family again, Mr. Wright. And I promise I will." Her face is sympathetic. It's like she knows.

He sniffles, "You can call me Phoenix, missus."

"You may call me Mia, then, Phoenix."

There is truly no greater darkness than after a storm. When all the dust settles and the earth is tinged with the color of itself, God does not speak.

The sun has set when Phoenix Wright makes his way back to the von Karma farm. The sky has never looked so clear, and it's never felt so cold.

If not for the dusty road, he would surely be as lost as he was months ago. And at some point, when he sees the familiar light that illuminates the porch, he wishes he had gotten lost.

He makes way under moonlight. He's careful near the house–if Miles or Franziska were to see him, he's not sure he could keep it together. He's not sure he could leave without them. In another world, he'd take them along. They'd be their own family without an all-watching eye.

God, he feels nauseous as he approaches the barn–what used to be his stomping grounds. His home. Where he and Miles would-

Stop. Don't let your thoughts wander on what you've chosen to lose.

There's not much to gather. His overalls. A couple of shirts. He picks up his overalls, and something falls out of a pocket with a thunk.

He picks it up, and Phoenix begs himself not to run to Miles' window right that moment. It's Miles' copy of Leaves of Grass, dogeared and bookmarked and annotated to no end. Out of some morbid desire to make himself ache, he opens the book to a bookmarked page.

A leaf of paper falls out. One of his sketches. And the poem on the page reads:

"For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy."

He slams the book shut. Then...he opens it. The loose leaf of paper is carefully placed inside. He still loves Miles. Deeply. Reverently. This choice was made for him as much as he made it for his daddy.

Phoenix finds some of his drawing pencils and writes on the back of the scrap. What he writes is between him and the cicadas outside. Between him and the moonlight. Whether Miles finds it or not, it does not matter. He hopes he does. He wants a proper goodbye. A proper burial.

There's not much to gather, and he knows he can't prolong his stay.

He stands in the barn, watching the animals sleep. Miss Pess and Miss Captain lay in their stalls, gentle giants unmoving as he reaches into their stalls to pet their manes one last time.

"Miss Fran will take real good care of you." He whispers to them, aching at the thought of Franziska. To leave her behind will be his biggest regret. He'll miss her company, her quips.

He'll never forgive himself for that.

And so he stands in the middle of the barn again. He hasn't even left, and yet, it feels like somebody's died here. And maybe he has. Maybe he will die a death of his own.

The moon droops in the sky, and the cicadas have started to sing of his sorrows when Phoenix finally steps out of the barn. His gaze falls upon the porch again, and the Devil stands there.

One last goodbye.

Mr. von Karma stands under the sickly yellow light, watching him walk along the dirt path. The moon paints little light on the landscape, despite its fullness, its brightness.

He stands there mockingly. Silent and cold. He's smiling. He's won.

Phoenix steps up to him and stares him right in the eyes. He sneers back. The wind's picking up.

"You shoulda just shot me like a dog that night." He snarls. Slowly, he takes a step back and spits on Mr. von Karma's shoes.

And he turns around and follows the dirt path down to the dusty road.

The storm is over, and sometimes Phoenix wishes it was still whipping him around, swallowing him whole. It would be easier then than to anticipate the next.

And God does not watch a young man trek across the plains alone, coughing up earth and blood into his hand.

The wind's picking up, and it sings to him like his mother used to. 

It sounds like home. 

Chapter Text

Dear Miles,

If any of this were up to me, I wouldn't have ever said goodbye to you or Miss Fran.

The sun rose above the plains. It turned the landscape into a plethora of light–it filtered through the open window, where Miles Edgeworth sat on the windowsill. The clouds skittered across the sky, soft and purple. The westerly winds cooled his bare feet as they dangled outside of the window. A promise that there was more coldness to come. 

It was the end of the summer, after all. It was the end of most things. 

Phoenix never did return. 

Miles checked every acre. He took Pess out before sunrise, searching for anything, anyone. A selfish voice in his head urged him despite knowing it was all in vain. When someone leaves, they never come back. 

When he had exhausted the desire and his horse, he found himself in the barn, dimly lit by the blue sky. 

Only the blankets in the loft, still wrinkled with sleep, remained as a reminder that Phoenix Wright lived here . It was as though he hadn’t left. 

Miles knew better than to hope on cold cotton and knew better than to search in every sunrise for him. 

He could hope for a last goodbye when he retrieved his copy of Leaves of Grass from under Phoenix’s pillow. A piece of paper stuck out, folded messily and shoved into the book haphazardly. 

Another piece of evidence that Phoenix Wright lived here. One last goodbye, in graphite chicken scratch. 

And now Miles sits, watching the sunrise with this in his shaky hands. He unfolds it. 

Phoenix wrote, All summer I wanted to take you two and run away. I could've hurt him. I could've killed him. I sometimes wish I did.

Can you do me a favor and share this part with Miss Fran? She never got a goodbye. This is the least I can do.

Miss Fran, take good care of the horses for me. You always did do such a better job than me braiding their hair. My deepest regrets lie in leaving you behind. I hope someday you'll forgive me for this one, Franziska von Karma.

It didn’t take long for his sister to find out. She found him at the window, staring at the sunrise in hopes that maybe if he stared enough, he’d see him again. 

She didn’t believe him at first. She yelled at him, stomped and screamed, “ What did you do? Why is he gone?” 

“It was ultimately his choice, Franziska,” He had said, hollowed. “He’s gone.” 

Franziska let out the worst, most agonizing scream he had ever heard. It reminded him of a similar scream from his nightmares, but this one was so much more broken and grieved. A pain that transcended anything his nightmares could make up. 

She ran off with her horse and didn’t return for hours. Fearing the worst, he went out after her. Searched every inch of their property until he fell upon the river, and decided he’d follow it in fear she had…

She was sitting at the bank. 

Her hair was wet, and her clothes were drenched.

“Franziska.” He remembers saying. 

“Leave me alone.”

He refused and sat beside her. 

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.” He lightly scolded. It was all he could say. What else could he say? 

“I don’t care.”

“Franziska-”

“I can’t drown. He won’t let me. Phoenix Wright taught me how to swim, and now I can’t drown myself in the river, no matter how hard I try.” Her gaze moved to him, eyes rimmed red and wet. 

He remained silent. 

“Why won’t he let me drown?!” Franziska wailed, shrill and warbled, and she grabbed at him in one last desperate attempt for comfort. 

And she wept, and wept. They sat for hours at the riverbank, silent in their grief. She had never cried in his arms before. And she would never weep again after that. 

And because Miles has never been a Phoenix Wright to her, her tears would dry on her face, as would his own. Because neither of them were that kind of person to each other. Neither of them had that kindness. They are both cruel to each other. Not out of hatred, but because they didn’t know anything else. It just was.

No, he didn’t think she’d let him wipe her tears. No, he couldn’t do it right. Not the way Phoenix wiped away tears. 

That’s how it goes, it seems. 

I couldn't stay. Not when you had a whole future ahead of you. Not when your daddy damn near sent mine to the gallows, and not while you watched and called for my daddy's head.

Guilty or not. Innocent or not. He's still my daddy. He's all I got left. I need to be his son.

That's not to say I misunderstand you in that way. If I were anybody else in that courtroom, maybe I wouldn't have believed in his innocence either.

Ms. Fey visited me in the detention center. She believes in her client's innocence, even if they don't.

She's gonna continue fighting for my daddy. I'm going to watch.

I like her a lot already. She's one of them public defenders. They fight for those who can't.

Isn't that something?

Mr. von Karma dropped the case as soon as he could, into an old, cranky prosecutor’s lap. 

He said to Miles, who accompanied him the days after, that it was a waste of time. I’ll give it to the Paynes. It’ll be like throwing an old dog a bone. I have more important cases to deal with. 

And maybe it was, Miles had thought when he found himself in the gallery for the second day of Mateo Wright’s trial. He stayed hidden in the crowd–ducking his head behind men that tried to sound important and men who were important.

He sat behind a tall man to remain relatively out of sight. As much as he wanted to see Phoenix, he knew better than to seek h-

God, there he was. 

He's there, besides Ms. Fey. Acting as co-counsel? He was uncertain. It’s strange, how they’re in each other’s places now. Him in the gallery, and Phoenix in the heart of the courtroom.

Phoenix Wright looked like he was born to be standing at that bench. He leaned against it on his palms, with his sleeves pushed up. 

The way he talks to Ms. Fey with a puppy-like look in his eyes stung. He recognized it, of course—he remembered all too well the worship in Phoenix's eyes, that sort of idolatry that seems to naturally come with that boy's love. 

Miles ached an irrational amount. 

He wished that were him again. 

Stop it. He is nothing now. Think of your future. 

He wished his thoughts didn’t sound like his mentor’s. That boy was nothing but trouble for you both anyway. A shame for him to go, but you both have jobs you need to do. 

The trial started, and he promptly shut down any thoughts of Phoenix Wright. Feelings don’t matter in court. Focus. It seems the defense has brought in a witness, and a couple more pieces of evidence up their sleeve. Hah. Shouldn’t change anything. 

Open and shut, as his mentor said. It’s a perfect case. Prosecutor Payne just had to-

“Objection!” 

It wasn’t Ms. Fey’s voice or Prosecutor Payne’s shriek. 

It was none other him.  His voice rang loud and clear, pointing directly at Prosecutor Payne. 

Miles just stared. Oh, how he wishes Phoenix had stayed. They could’ve gone to school together, they could’ve both become…

His mentor’s case fell apart, bit by bit. 

Turns out, there was someone else there that night. Some local farmer with a grudge against Mr. Green. Some petty feud between farmers that went too far. All it took was too much drunken rage that turned into action. 

Mateo Wright was found not guilty. By sheer luck and by the skin of Ms. Fey’s teeth. 

The verdict pounded in his ears. 

Her first victory. 

Was justice served?

He didn’t know yet. 

Maybe justice was the relieved grin on Wright’s face when the judge declared, not guilty.  

Maybe justice was the victim’s son, accompanied by a police officer, finding Miles in the crowd afterwards. They really found the right guy, huh? 

And maybe it's the Wrights pulling Ms. Fey into a hug in the defendant's lobby, where Miles had peeked in. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

What was justice, exactly?

It never fits in the description of a prosecutor. Where did that go? Did it matter?

Mr. von Karma didn’t lose, but it felt like one. 

And yet…it was good to lose. 

He doesn’t understand. 

-

The blankets in the loft have since been covered in layers of frost and dust. Untouched as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to cold, desolate months and months to years. 

It’s been nearly three years now, and Miles doesn't think he’ll ever quite process what happened that summer. 

Something happened, the dust and the frost would say.

Someone left a long time ago, the mice would say as they chewed and chewed on the blankets. 

That boy’s absence plagued the farmhouse, no matter how long it had been. Miles never saw him after the trial. 

And the world kept moving. 

Miles went off to school. He became a lawyer at 21, just as he wanted. His sister followed soon after.

He came back home, and Mr. von Karma shrugged at his achievement. 

“You got your badge. Prove to me what you can do.” Hollow praise. All that he had worked for...for Mr. von Karma's approval.

He came back home and sat on his windowsill. How cruel it is to have to visit here. He'd rather live in a cemetery.

Not a day passed when he was in Chicago where he didn’t search the crowds he walked in. Sometimes he’d wander the streets, looking for a stranger he once knew. For a dark-haired boy with a toothy grin–he still remembers so vividly his smile–and a pair of brown and blue eyes that were extraordinary.

And here, time moves even slower. Here, time is like molasses. His absence is still here. His laugh is still heard when Miles opens the windows. The boy’s breathing is still heard at night when Miles wakes up from unending nightmares and clutches at empty sheets. 

And he still hears that boy whistling when the wind picks up. When the world turns dark, Miles always wonders if he’ll come running inside from the howling outside. Sometimes, he’s tempted to go out there, and see if he’ll find him in the center of the storm. 

Everything about this prairie was touched by that boy. Especially as the dust settles and the world is reborn again and again.

Soft yellow ochre. Blue skies. It’s him. It will always be him, to Miles. 

So he turns on the radio and sits on the dusty porch.

Phoenix wrote, Miles, please know none of this summer was in vain. In another life, in another time, I would've carried you over that threshold. We’d be married, the two of us. I wish it could’ve been this lifetime.

You will always have my heart, though it breaks at what you might become. You have your daddy’s eyes, after all. I fear you might end up with his heart, too. 

Maybe one day we'll meet again. I don't know where I'm headed after this. 

Miles Edgeworth is twenty-three years old now. A rather insignificant age. two years of prosecuting under his belt, and many more to go. Many more to go. 

He is twenty-three years old when he hears Phoenix Wright on the radio. 

“Your first case, Mr. Wright? And already…you’ve found a congressman involved in the murder of a small businessman?” The reporter asks in awe. 

And his voice. God, his voice. 

“Yessir. Of course, I ain’t–couldn’t have done it without my boss and mentor, Ms. Mia Fey. In fact, maybe you should talk to h–” There’s a pause and quiet mumblings. Phoenix laughs, and it's beautiful. “...she told me to put on my big boy pants and tell you myself. Well, our very own congressman…” Phoenix goes off on a wild story about a congressman, a barber-turned-hitman, and the innocent ice cream man they pinned the murder on. 

It hits Miles when the broadcast ends.

Phoenix Wright is a lawyer now. 

How he managed that is beyond his own understanding and…somehow, completely expected. Of course he would.

A farmer’s boy turned lawyer. It’s crazy, and it's so him that it hurts. 

But now…he’s in reach again. 

It's such a big world out there, isn't it?

That boy was always in sight. Maybe, maybe he hasn’t truly left. 

Miles could meet him again, in court. Start how they had ended. He wants to see him again. Now he’s got something to prove. 

(And if he bought a newspaper to see him in a terrible, cheaply made suit that still brought butterflies to his stomach, he’ll never admit it.)

It’s only fate that a case, with that man’s name written all over it, shows up on Mr. von Karma’s desk one day. Another murder case.  

“Let me do it, sir,” Miles says to Mr. von Karma, “Allow me to destroy him in court. I’ll teach that farmer’s boy his place.” 

He doesn’t think that man will win against either of them–according to that first court transcript, it was all sheer luck–but…it would be also too cruel to let Mr. von Karma get his hands on Wright’s record. He’d send him running for the plains. 

“I hope unnecessary feelings aren’t involved in this, Edgeworth,” Mr. von Karma replies, all-too knowing. “In the case you may still be…soft on him.”

Miles has never lost a case, and he still doesn’t plan on it. Mostly.

It becomes his. 

When he approaches Franziska that night, she only scoffs at him.

“I haven’t heard that name in a while. Phoenix Wright…” Her voice curls around it with familiarity, and then her lips curl downwards. “You are foolish.” She mutters, icy grey meeting his own. “Chasing after a boy you only knew for a couple of months. You are so very foolish. Do you forget how he ran in the night? Do you forget how that house still grieves? Do you forget how many nights you spent crying, how many I-” She remembers herself, and turns her nose up. 

“How can you be so sure he wants to see you again?”

His silence, as it always does, answers for her. 

And she answers back with her own silence.

Miles wishes he could be a better brother to her. He wishes he’d stay at the farmhouse longer rather than at his apartment. She’s fifteen and now she’s started wielding a whip instead of a riding crop. She received it for her birthday. Courtesy of their father.

Of course she would. A whip is longer than a riding crop. A whip offers her more distance between her and anyone like Phoenix Wright that could possibly care about her. 

He hopes indeed that she remembers forgiveness. 

But neither von Karma attends this case, for completely separate reasons. 

As he stands across that man in the courtroom, he’s grateful they didn’t. 

Phoe–Wright radiates that juvenile confidence only found in newer attorneys, but it’s so intoxicating that Miles almost forgets himself. He's supposed to crush him. He...

What is justice, again?

What is the role of a prosecutor? He doesn't know. 

What does a lawyer truly do?

Watching Wright...it seems he has some sort of idea. Some sort of idea behind that stubborn determination and the cocksure grin that he's certainly copied from Ms. Fey. 

If we see each other again, someday, sometime when we're grown–

Wright acts in court as he did back then–insufferable, ridiculous, reckless, annoying, impossible. 

Miles wants to despise him, horribly. 

“ Is that all you’ve got, Wright?” He cocks an eyebrow. The case is going terribly for the defense. The man is sweating bullets, searching through reports as the judge asks him for the third time if the defense has anything else linked to the current witness. 

And because a von Karma is perfect, he knows exactly what Wright is missing. 

“Damning evidence is what gets you anywhere in court. Did Ms. Fey not teach you that?” He says as he holds up the shoelace noose, the one that led to the victim’s demise. 

It matches the witness’s shoe, with it’s missing lace. He stares into blue and brown. 

He doesn't quite know the job of a prosecutor. Not anymore. He’s got his own point to prove to Phoenix Wright at this trial. 

Wright, I am not my daddy’s son. I will never be the man nor the prosecutor he wants me to be. 

I can no longer bear to be where you cannot see me. 

When the judge finally declares not guilty, it doesn’t quite sting. Miles is focused on the way Phoenix turns to Ms. Fey, beaming. 

His first loss will be a blow to him later, when Mr. von Karma finds out. He will go home and feel nothing but shame…it will curl around his neck and choke him. 

But now, he basks in the heavenly light of a victorious Wright. 

The defendant’s lobby is filled with that light after the trial. Miles stands in the threshold, as he has so many times. He feels he is Tantalus. Fearing that Wright will leave if he reaches too far.  

Ms. Fey and Mr. Mateo Wright are in there, and he feels almost envious of how they can just bask in this light. It’s all he could ever want back, to curl up like a barn cat in the warm rays of Wright’s laugh. 

In another life, in another time…Miles can’t wait that long. He has never been a patient man.

He is not one to give in to what he truly wants. He should not reach for that fruit he doesn’t deserve. 

And suddenly the sun is looking at him. Wright turns to him, broad-shouldered and still messy-haired and all grown up, and stares. 

He smiles and beckons him inside with a hand. 

It’s a gentle pull. Just like when they were younger. An invitation.

Come in, Miles.

don't be a stranger, alright?

And by God, Miles will cross that threshold once more. 

-

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,

I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

- "To a Stranger", Walt Whitman