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With another lurch forward Franziska clutches the toilet bowl like it’s a lifeline, her sweaty forehead pressed against the bare skin of one arm. The strain of it pulls her tight like a rubber band refusing to snap, a spike through her pounding skull and a searing burn in her throat that’s overspent and rancid and raw. The urge to cough and sputter and make even more of a mess of herself is there—but it’s early in the morning, and the thought of waking anyone else up with her foul noises is a little mortifying, to say the least.
Another silent retch and tears spring up in her eyes—emotionally, she’s fine, but the force of every muscle she has contracting at once forces them out regardless—icy, invisible tracks down her cheeks. There’s nothing left in her stomach, and there wasn’t much there to begin with, a fruitless endeavor by her body that serves no purpose but to make her miserable. Her head feels like it’s caving, and she doesn’t hear the door open until Miles is already at her back, crouching down to rub circles against her shoulder blade. She stiffens for a moment before finally relaxing, rolling her head to the side to face him through a watery blue gaze.
“What took you so long?”
“Apologies.” He offers her a sad smile and a tall glass, fizzy brown liquid bubbling inside. “Frau Wagner caught me on the way up, and I thought I might die before I got a word in edgewise.”
“Your lack of a proper spine is not something I’ve the energy to tolerate today, Miles Edgeworth.”
“Shall I take this back to the kitchens, then?”
“No,” Franziska rasps miserably, sniffling through the aftershocks. Before he can say another word she snatches the cup out of his hands and drinks, reveling in the taste of sugar and spice and the way it cools the acid still burning her throat.
Once she’s downed the thing entirely Miles puts a hand out to take it back, and she wordlessly presses it back into his palm with an expression he can only think to describe as a seething pout. He tries not to lose himself in the way his heart aches to see her like this, barely fourteen and looking so much younger.
“What did you tell her?” Franziska asks, and Miles blinks a little, cocking his head to the side a mere inch.
“Pardon?”
“Frau Wagner,” she elaborates, “I know she asked, and if she didn’t I’m sure papa was interested in why I’m not at breakfast.”
“The official story is you’re not feeling well.” Miles crosses his arms. “I didn’t say much else.”
With a tiny sigh, Franziska seems to say that’ll do, the words living behind the groggy look in her eye. Her hair’s a mess, sweat-logged and stuck to her forehead, and on closer inspection Miles can see reddish splotches decorating all around her eyes, vessels burst under her skin from the force of puking her guts out for the last two hours. She never was good at letting that happen, every muscle she had fighting the relief of it as though it would be their end.
My lack of a spine indeed, the guilt settles over him like a rolling storm. Miles wants to go back in time and throttle himself for whatever the hell he was thinking last night.
It had seemed innocent enough to his wine-hazy mind—the clamour of one of the von Karma estate’s world-famous Christmas parties was at its apex, giving Miles ample time to sneak out of the limelight and off to some corner of the hedge maze where no one could bother him, besides the biting air. Franziska had a nose like a bloodhound for finding what she was looking for, though, and when Miles was home she was very often looking for him.
There she stood in the darkness, swaying slightly on her feet and with flowers on all sides, her hair looking particularly silvery in the wintery glow of the moon. She’d offered him a bottle of one of her father’s cheaper wines—unremarkable, invisible, something that wouldn’t be missed—and kept the wider fifth of tiramisu-flavoured vodka to herself. Leave it to Franziska to develop a tongue for dessert alcohols, she hadn’t changed at all since she was young.
Back in the present, Miles stops, corrects himself. She’s still young. No refusal to acknowledge it on her part or promising law degree would change that Franziska was just a girl, and that he had lost sight of that in the hurricane that was his headspace. Alcohol, December, Germany—it all—it just—
It made him forget. Blank spaces in his mind, lapses in common sense, failures. Everything mounted, and Miles found himself losing touch.
When she’d found him in the greenery Franziska was already tilting to the side, eyes half-lidded and tongue a little loose. She was quick to remind him the drinking age was sixteen and he was quick to remind her that she was two years away, and naturally she shot back that thirteen was fine with family supervision, and that she was surrounded by family, so there. When she blew a raspberry at him and tripped mid-curtsy, he quickly realized he’d never dealt with a drunk Franziska before—all that barely-contained violence now uninhibited and free—and elected not to try his luck with her ire or her riding crop.
It was a nice night, all things considered—spotting constellations hiding in the holes of the overcast, talking about what they’d been doing in the months since Miles had been home. Franziska was in a backless dress and short sleeves, and Miles was cold just looking at her, but she’d shrugged off the winter chill with fire in her veins and a quip on her tongue about how pathetic his Californian constitution was. And when she stifled a shiver, seemingly out of his line of sight, he was wise to make no comment and instead throw his jacket around her shoulders without a word.
“You need to drink some water before bed,” Miles had said, as the sun was rising and they were sneaking undetected back into their rooms. Franziska had looked green in the face then, loaded with booze and sugar and a questionable amount of food, and he didn’t want to think about how she’d feel in the morning. In response she just shoved him hard and spat a couple ugly sentences in Germanglish and proceeded to duck back into the bushes to be violently sick.
“I know what I’m doing,” she’d said, red-hot in the face as she wiped at her mouth. “I’m not a child, little brother!”
She was, but Franziska von Karma said everything with such conviction, it was often impossible to look her in the eyes and believe otherwise.
Cursing himself for his lack of courage, he watches now as she turns back around and throws up everything he’d just handed her, coughing wretchedly and wetly on the end of it. His hands move on their own, pulling back her loose hair as it falls forward with her, holding her steady while she shakes and sniffles and persists. When Franziska turns to face him her eyes are red and cloudy, and upon seeing him there she can’t help but scowl.
“Why are you doing this?” she says. “Rubbing it in my face that you were right?”
And Miles figured she’d say something like that, but he sighs regardless, wondering why he’s not used to this sort of treatment by now.
“None of that matters, Franziska,” Miles says. “Right now you feel miserable and I want to lessen that burden.”
“Always coddling me like I’m some sort of brat at your coattails,” she mutters, head hammering. “I told you, I’ve done this before, I can take care of myself.”
“Yes, you do keep saying that.” Miles sits himself fully down beside her, a soft attempt to make her feel like maybe he isn’t lordly above, looking down on her while she lies crumpled and sick. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean?” Franziska says. “I’m an attorney, Miles, forgive me if I drink like one.”
“I see,” he says. “And is it often to this excess?”
“Leading question.”
Miles rolls his eyes. “This isn’t court.”
“Then stop using your direct examination voice on me. Leading question.”
“Heaven forbid,” Miles says. “I’ll rephrase.”
“No need,” she clears some of the acid from her throat, sniffling sharply in an attempt to ward off the last of it. “You won’t be taking advantage of my slovenly state to make an issue out of something so unremarkable. The workload is stressful. A drink alongside it helps me remain productive.”
“This,” Miles says, gesturing to her current state, “this is productive?”
“This usually doesn’t happen!” she counters. “There’s not usually some foolish fool of a gadfly buzzing foolishly around my head and acting like he’s better than me!”
At the croaky tenor of her voice, Miles finds himself swallowing his kneejerk reaction to fight back. There… might be something to be said for that, of course; Franziska was the kind of person who detested being coddled so much, if she was planning on doing something and someone else told her to do it, she’d likely change her plans out of pure defiance. Miles is kicking himself now for not considering that, his instincts to take care of his sister far stronger than his sense of perspective.
Sighing, he gives in gracefully. “You’re right, Franziska. I’m sorry.”
Miles watches her soften—an incredibly physical sensation, all her tight-strung muscles going loose, the everlasting pinch in her brow wavering a little. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting him to say that, and the anger is immediately replaced with suspicion, her eyes narrowing again as she attempts to parse what he’s getting at. He reads her wordless language loud and clear, looking off to the side to appear less domineering.
“We need to talk about this subject eventually,” Miles says, holding firm, “but as I said—right now you need comfort, not a lecture. I’ll save that for when you’re feeling better.”
A light dusting of pink creeps onto her cheeks, and she pouts a childish pout that Miles has come to recognize as the face his sister makes when she’s touched and unsure of how to process it. The sight of it’s a victory all its own, and his heart settles a little knowing he’s gotten through. She averts her eyes to the marble underfoot, trying to force some of the bite back into her voice but sounding incredibly delicate despite herself.
“...I’d feel better if I had some zwieback.”
“Of course you would,” Miles allows himself a moment to be tender with her, brushing a few locks of hair back into place behind her ear, tracing her cheek with his thumb. He can’t help but smile, but he tries with all he is to make it less smug than its natural rest. Getting through to Franziska is monumental at best, impossible at worst—this victory matters, but more than that he’s grateful. She’s spent so many years insisting on caring for him, it feels significant when he’s allowed to return the favour.
Standing with purpose, he takes her glass from the counter. “Water, this time.”
“Don’t press your luck.” She levels a glare. “Bring me more cola.”
“Why, so you can puke it back up again?”
“Keep back-talking and I’ll aim for your shirt next time.”
“How often in your life have you heard the word ‘incorrigible,’ Franziska von Karma?”
“Not nearly as often as you’ve heard the word fool, Miles Edgeworth.” She straightens herself a bit, some of the colour having returned to her face. Quietly, then, she says, “Um… little brother?”
He turns around his shoulder to eye her. “Franziska?”
“...hurry back. It’s unforgivable to keep a lady waiting.”
Hurry back, says her mouth, but her eyes are a little less subtle—I want you here. Franziska would never be so bold as to say something so saccharine out loud, but thankfully Miles has ears for what few else do, hearing the sentiment all the same.
He makes toward the door, a smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t dare.”