Archive of Our Own

Phoenix Wright opens his eyes to find himself staring up at a white ceiling. He looks around to find a clock, white walls, and a single lounge chair. There’s a television in the corner of the room, but it looks far too old to function properly. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to a sitting position, wincing as pain shoots through his ribs. Out of all places to wake up in, Hotti Clinic is not what he’s expecting. 

A nurse enters the room a few minutes later, just as Phoenix is beginning to get his bearings. There’s an ornate clip in her hair and pity in her eyes as she asks him when he woke up, how he’s feeling. He answers to the best of his ability but his brain feels fried. His body aches with exhaustion and his mind is faring the same way. The nurse is gone before he can ask her what’s happening, how long he has left. He’s not certain he wants to know the answer to that question anyway, though. 

Phoenix is beginning to contemplate just how to escape from his confines when the door opens. He blinks in surprise, watching as the very last person he wants to see enters the room. Admittedly, he is shocked to find Miles Edgeworth standing in his hospital room. After all, he hasn’t heard from the man in far too long. Edgeworth looks about the room for only a few seconds before his gaze settles on him. The prosecutor doesn’t say anything, however, and for a painful moment silence stretches across the room. 

“What are you doing here?” Phoenix can’t help but ask. He’s slowly getting over his initial shock, which leaves plenty of room for anxiety, irritation, and a bunch of other unpleasant emotions. 

“Larry called me and told me you were… on your deathbed,” Edgeworth replies, his eyebrows furrowing at the latter words. Phoenix feels his cheeks flush for some odd reason. He can admit, however, that he doesn’t want his rival to see his weakness. He doesn’t want to be seen like this, period. 

“Oh, well, I’m fine,” the defense attorney remarks quickly. For a moment, he almost thinks that he pulls off the bluff. Somehow, the universe must want to spite him for thinking so, because Phoenix is immediately struck with a coughing fit. His chest burns and his ribs ache as he hacks into his hand. A familiar liquidy feeling burns up his throat, and he feels the petals before he sees them. Gritting his teeth, Phoenix turns his head to the side to block Edgeworth’s view. This is something he doesn’t want anyone to see- least of all Edgeworth. Eventually, Phoenix regains his breath and straightens out on the bed.

“Your hand,” the prosecutor remarks, staring down at his hand. Observant as always, Phoenix thinks. He follows the man’s gaze, only to inhale shakily as he realizes that the sheets are spattered with blood. There’s a considerable stain where his hand is resting. He clenches his fist tighter, resolutely pretending not to feel the tightness in his chest or the roaring in his ears. 

“It’s nothing,” Phoenix murmurs with a shake of the head. He knows it’s not nothing—is sure Edgeworth knows it too—but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Phoenix doesn’t want to spend the limited time he has left worrying. Denial has never been a good look for him, but it seems to be the safest option in this situation. 

“Wright,” Edgeworth implores. Phoenix resolutely keeps his fist clenched at his side. The prosecutor standing at the foot of his bed takes a deep breath, before stepping forward to the side of the bed. Before Phoenix can even argue, there’s a tight grip on his hand, prying his fingers apart. Whatever is in his hand must be sufficiently harrowing, because the color fades from Edgeworth’s face.

Phoenix follows the man’s gaze, looking down at the palm of his hand. His skin is stained crimson. Pink petals lie crumpled between his fingers, red spots darkening the vibrant pink and transforming it to a murky fuschia.¹ His hands tremble with nervousness, impatience, and a whole slew of emotions he can’t begin to describe. Edgeworth’s grip shifts to cup his hands and the gesture would feel intimate, if not for the blood dripping down Phoenix’s fingers. There’s a devastated look on the prosecutor’s face.

“Have you told her?” The question breaks through the silent air. Edgeworth stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Phoenix resists the urge to laugh at the implication his rival just made. Instead, he simply shakes his head. He doesn’t trust his voice to remain steady, his face to remain expressionless. “Why haven’t you? I’m sure many women would jump at a chance to be with the legendary defense attorney himself.” He resists a laugh at the pain on the prosecutor’s face. Clearly, that wasn’t easy for Edgeworth to say.

“I doubt that,” Phoenix rolls his eyes, for a multitude of reasons that he hopes Edgeworth isn’t able to discern. It’s amusing to see Edgeworth’s face scrunch up, although he’s not at all sure of the reason. 

“You can’t be serious,” the prosecutor remarks, his gaze flitting about his face. He glances away for a moment like he’s embarrassed. Resolve paints over the hesitation and Edgeworth continues to speak. “Wright, you… have a heart. You’re determined—stubbornly so—and that’s an admirable quality.” Phoenix wants to be reeling that he’s getting a compliment from Edgeworth, but he can hardly focus over the roaring in his ears. His heart slams into his chest at a rhythm far too fast to be normal. 

“They’d… hate me.” Phoenix isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince anymore. Even so, he doesn’t want to hope. He can’t give in to hope, because that leaves an avenue open for despair. He doesn’t want to have expectations that he’ll survive, because what if he doesn’t? The other option—them accepting his confession—is absolutely out of the question. Phoenix is waiting for his death, essentially. 

“I don’t think they’d hate you,” Edgeworth states with certainty, as if the notion is ridiculous. The flat pull to his lips momentarily shifts to a frown, just unnoticeable enough for the defense attorney to wonder if he imagines it. “Whoever it is.”

“I’m not doing it,” Phoenix asserts, even when his stomach turns with uneasiness. Ironically, his body takes that moment to force him to choke again. Somehow, this coughing fit is even worse. When he looks down at his palm, moments later, Phoenix is both unsurprised and slightly sickened to find entire flowers resting delicately on his skin. The juxtaposition between the bright colors of the petals and the muddy blood splattered around them is enough to make his stomach turn. He hears a sharp intake of breath from the prosecutor. 

“You’d rather die than take a chance?” Edgeworth’s voice is stone-cold, determined and stubborn in a way Phoenix has only seen in court. The man clenches his fists. Truthfully, the defense attorney isn’t sure what is provoking such an uncharacteristic display of emotion out of his enemy, rival, friend. “I can’t let you do that.”

“What are you going to do, rip a confession out of me?” Phoenix’s voice is barbed and sharp. Edgeworth doesn’t so much as flinch, probably because he too knows that Phoenix’s anger isn’t directed at him. Sometimes, he wishes the prosecutor were less clever. It would make things easier on Phoenix, at least. 

“No,” the prosecutor shakes his head almost immediately. There’s a sad look in his eyes, one Phoenix can’t even hope to comprehend. His rival’s next sentence tears the carpet from underneath his feet. “I’ll just leave.”

“What?” Phoenix’s voice cracks and breaks, a portrayal of the inner turmoil he feels. Edgeworth can’t leave, not when he just got back. Phoenix spent the past year thinking he was dead. He doesn’t want to go back to tense conversations and stiff nods from across the courthouse lobby. Anything but that. 

“Do you really think that I want to leave?” Edgeworth takes a half-step forward restlessly. The prosecutor is never wound up, and yet he paces around the room as if anxious about something. “I have no choice. It’s not fair, but… I refuse to see you like this. I refuse to sit idly by and watch as you fade away.” The latter words are quiet as a whisper, as if the prosecutor is afraid of speaking them too loudly and cementing them into reality. 

“Don’t,” Phoenix reaches out, grasping nothing but air. His heart is racing in his chest, for an entirely different reason than before. “Edgeworth, please.” He’s not above begging. He doesn’t care about pride, appearances. All he cares about is that Miles Edgeworth is leaving again, and the cavity in Phoenix’s own chest feels emptier already. 

Edgeworth doesn’t say anything. His lips are pulled taut and he shakes his head, as if he can’t possibly utter any words. He bites his lip, clenches his fists and turns on his heel. Phoenix watches his retreating back, feeling as if the man’s departure is in slow-motion. Each step rings louder in his ears, as the distance increases between them. The prosecutor’s hand clasps the doorknob and Phoenix knows this is his last chance. This very moment is it. Edgeworth doesn’t turn around. The words are stuck on his tongue, as Phoenix tries his damn best to say what he wants to say. He watches in horror as the door slips closer and closer to meet the end of the doorframe. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

“It’s you.” The moment Phoenix confesses, he feels a thickness bubbling in his throat. He coughs into his hand and more flowers come out. It almost looks like a bouquet, he thinks wryly. To Phoenix’s horror, his coughing fit seems to go on and on. He brings up a hand to wipe at his lips and is disturbed to find that his hand is bloodstained. There’s a coppery and metallic taste in his mouth, a constant reminder that he will never be free. He continues to hack into his hand, even as his chest and ribs begin to burn. Suddenly, there’s a soothing pressure on his back and a grip on his opposite shoulder. Phoenix blinks up at Edgeworth, whose eyes are wide with something. He isn’t quite sure what it is, and he quickly looks away when they make eye contact.

“Phoenix.” The defense attorney returns his attention to the prosecutor at his side. His face is ghostly pale. “What did you say?”

“It’s you, Miles,” Phoenix breathes, somehow finding the confession easier to say the second time. He suspects that Edgeworth heard him correctly the first time. Perhaps he’s entirely unable to fathom it. Is he truly that disgusted?  

“No, it isn’t.” Edgeworth almost seems to be talking to himself, as he stares past him to some unknown point in the distance. Phoenix feels his heart wrench. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself calm and collected. His efforts don’t work for very long. 

“Yes, it is,” Phoenix shakes his head, feeling tears begin to slip down his face. He feels like laughing, for some reason. Instead, the attorney settles for pushing himself back further into the pillow at his back. The distance between the two of them has increased even more. Phoenix looks back on the few moments when he felt like the tension between Miles and him was disappearing. There’s always been a chasm between the two of them, an insurmountable distance that he couldn’t ever hope to cross by himself. Now, it feels as if Phoenix has been thrown into the dark void between. There is no salvaging the wreckage of his words now. It’s too late.

Edgeworth is entirely silent. His arms are crossed and there’s a strange pull to his lips, as if he’s contemplating everything that occurred within those few short moments between them, surrounded by the dilapidated yet bright walls of the hospital. Phoenix takes a shuddering breath and puts a hand over his eyes, not wanting to see the loathing written all over his rival’s face. He brings the back of his hand up to his lips and wipes the blood from them.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to say anything,” Phoenix blurts out before he can quite stop himself. Miles’s attention turns to him and he struggles not to succumb to the overwhelming pressure, the intimidating yet very persuasive urge to stop talking. “I knew it would go like this.” 

“You ‘knew it would go like this,’” Edgeworth repeats, his eyebrows furrowing as if the mere repetition of the statement feels wrong. “What does that mean, exactly?” Phoenix’s hands tremble from where they’re resting on the spattered sheets. 

“You know what it means,” Phoenix snaps, beginning to grow tired of the circular conversation. Surely, Miles knows what is happening. The prosecutor has to be deriving some amusement out of making him sweat like this. Yet, when he looks at Edgeworth—the pensive expression on his face, the hesitance in his posture—he second guesses that conviction. 

“Enlighten me.” Phoenix swallows, digging his nails into his palms. The words he wants to say linger on his tongue, heavy and unsavory. He doesn’t want to say the truth, to speak it into existence. He doesn’t want the flowers to keep falling from his lips. The defense attorney isn’t sure he has much longer. 

“I knew you would reject me,” Phoenix manages to choke out. It’s a horrible statement, just about the worst admission he’s ever had to make. He thinks he tastes blood in his mouth—whether it’s from biting the inside of his cheek too hard or acknowledging the rejection, he isn’t sure. 

For a moment, Edgeworth laughs. Phoenix feels his heart break into a million pieces. He isn’t sure what emotion he’s broadcasting on his face, but it must be a suitable portrayal of his feelings because the prosecutor immediately stops. Phoenix desperately wants the man to leave, before he can look at him any longer and remember just who he’s losing. He tilts his head to the side, manifesting a sudden interest in the cup of water on the table, the painting on the wall, anything but the man standing next to him.

“Oh, Phoenix,” Miles shakes his head in disbelief and, in that moment, the sun shines through the window at his back. His skin is illuminated in a golden glow and his smile is brighter than anything Phoenix has ever seen. Something glimmers in his eyes, an emotion he hasn’t seen the man adorn in a long time. “I’ve loved you for years.”

“What?” Somehow, the conversation has flipped on its head. Now, Phoenix is the one who’s confused. He must be dreaming. Certainly, that’s the only explanation for the words that just came out of his friend’s mouth.

“Why are you crying?” He turns to the side, only to be met with the gentle swipe of a thumb on his cheeks. Edgeworth is wiping his tears away. Phoenix’s head is spinning. The more they talk, the more confused he becomes. He tells the prosecutor the truth—that he rejected him. Edgeworth pauses. “I never rejected you.” The confusion Phoenix is feeling must be evident, because Miles shakes his head in disbelief. There’s a euphoric smile on the man’s face, but Phoenix isn’t sure what he could possibly be happy about. His own humiliation, perhaps? 

“You complete, utter fool,”² Edgeworth remarks. There’s a strangely fond smile on his face, which convinces Phoenix that the man isn’t genuinely insulting his stupidity. The prosecutor moves impossibly closer, until he’s leaning over him. Phoenix flattens himself against the pillow at his back and closes his eyes. Maybe it won’t hurt as badly if he closes his eyes, doesn’t see the vindictive, angry expression on the prosecutor’s face.

Phoenix is expecting a punch, slap, or hit. Subconsciously, he’s even expecting to be thrown out of the bed and beaten up. Violence certainly isn’t Miles’s style, but perhaps he’s revolted enough to commit some uncharacteristic misdeeds. 

Phoenix isn’t expecting Edgeworth’s lips meeting his or the prosecutor’s hands cradling his jaw. For a moment, he’s too shell shocked to do anything except sit frozen. Miles senses his passive resistance and begins to move away. In a sudden burst of recklessness, Phoenix reaches out and tugs him back. The prosecutor clearly isn’t expecting this, but he doesn’t resist in the slightest. Before long, Phoenix’s hands make their way to his rival’s hair, and Miles has a death grip on his shoulders. 

The door flies open and they both flinch. Phoenix looks over Miles’s shoulder, only to find the nurse standing awkwardly in the doorway. Her eyes are wide as she looks between the both of them. Evidently connecting the dots, she shakes her head. “I’ll just come back,” the nurse squeaks, her cheeks flushed. Phoenix is immediately aware of their positioning and tries to remedy the situation. His hands slip from Miles’s hair and he smiles awkwardly at the nurse. On the contrary, Edgeworth doesn’t move an inch. The nurse quickly turns around and leaves the room. Phoenix looks up at Miles and lets out a disbelieving laugh. Before he knows it, the two of them are descended into hysterical, somewhat maniacal laughter. 

“Stay?” Phoenix manages to ask later, after they’ve calmed down. Even as their fingers are interlaced, he can’t quite get rid of the doubt gnawing at his chest. Fortunately, the prosecutor seems to sense his incoming negative thoughts, because he squeezes his hand. 

“Of course,” Miles responds, without a moment’s hesitation. “Where else would I go?”

"Back to Europe?" Phoenix jests. Miles sends him a death glare, which Phoenix returns in kind with a bright smile.