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The first thing he sees is Kilometres Rufflesworth painted on a cardboard sign. The bright blue letters sparkle in the bleach-white hall, guiding him like a beacon to shore.
Edgeworth hurries forwards.
“Wright.”
“Edgeworth.”
After a moment, something loosens in Wright too. The curve of his lips solidifies into something more honest.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here just to greet me,” says Edgeworth.
“Maybe, but you’d probably cry if I didn’t.” A flash of a crooked smile. Edgeworth looks down the length of his nose, pleased that he’s finally crested their usually scant height differential.
Wright notices and pouts. “Nice glasses, by the way.”
“All the better to see you with,” Edgeworth quips. He taps the frames just to be coy. Half-rim blacks as opposed to the delicate lines of silver the Wrights had seen him in the last time they were in Europe.
“They suit you…” And it looks like there’s more to say, but Wright retreats and closes his mouth.
Edgeworth makes it easier for him. “I know,” he says, smiling. It’s a nice smile. A familiar smile. One that he’s worked hard to pry loose from the jaw that once believed he had no use for things such as laughter and joy. He cants his head, bangs fluttering over his vision. “I trust you’ve been well?”
“Can’t complain. It’s been pretty quiet here.”
“Oh? Then the papers must be abuzz about your latest exploits for no reason.”
“I’m not the only one they’re talking about,” Wright points out. He glances down, finally acknowledging the large suitcase Edgeworth has been pushing in front of him. The four wheels clack rhythmically along the grout between the airport tiles.
They’re close enough that Edgeworth can see the twitch in his brow before Wright raises his eyes to meet his gaze. “A bit much for a week’s stay, doncha think?” Wright says lightly.
“That’s because it is.” Edgeworth smirks. “Excellent observation, Herlock Sholmes II. Care to share your deductions with the gallery?”
Wright snorts, finally shaking the last bits of caution clinging to his lashes. His shoulders slump naturally, rolling his eyes in good humour. “I was dramatic and in my mid-20s, let it go.”
“You’re still dramatic,” chides Edgeworth, just to have the final word. “Glad to see that hasn’t changed.”
Strange how they’ve done this so many times before. Sometimes on opposite sides, sometimes not. Always together, he finds. Always side-by-side in the ways that matter even an ocean away.
Wright matches his pace, following Edgeworth out of the airport. “Sounds like we have a lot to catch up on.”
“We do,” Edgeworth concedes. “And now, we’ll have plenty of time to fill in the blanks.”
A taxi pulls up in front of them and Wright helps the driver fit Edgeworth’s luggage in the trunk. They pile into the back, an address rattled off and then they’re off.
Words flourish between them. All pastel shades melting like autumnal butter in their mouths. It’s hardly anything, looking at this moment years down the road, but right there, when Wright gives him a gentle smile as he recounts his journey, it is everything.
—·—
He wastes no time moving in. Moving back in. The penthouse is too large for one person and his dog, but that is of no consequence. Everything else will come in time. Time that he always had and now has the willingness to take it by the reigns and actively use it.
His personal affairs settled, he sets his sights on the professional.
There are hands to shake and peers to reconnect with. He matches faces with the flood of emails in his inbox, taking great care to greet and introduce himself properly. When the office floats a formal welcome back party by him, he agrees.
His casual acceptance shouldn’t drop that many jaws, but that’s neither here nor there.
(Edgeworth willingly forgets that he too was once dramatic and in his mid-20s.)
His employees practically run over each other in their rush to set things up and before he knows it, there’s a banner and confetti being flung in his face. People clap and roar in excitement.
“Mr. Edgeworth, sir?”
Edgeworth turns. Gumshoe crushes him into a hug as soon as they’re face to face. Edgeworth just barely coughs out the costs of spinal reconstruction surgery and suddenly Gumshoe is hopping back, hands up in the air and toes pointed away as if he had just dropped a knife.
A cordial nod. “Gumshoe.”
“I knew it! I’d recognize that fluttering cravat anywhere!” Gumshoe is quick to shorten the distance again, hands clasping around his arms and shaking him back and forth. “You should have told me when you were coming back! I could have picked you up since Maggey n’ I just bought a brand new car. I just knew it was going to come in handy. It has these fancy cupholders and everything!”
“I already had it sorted,” Edgeworth assures him. He resigns himself to his fate being shaken like a sheet of metal.
“Of course you did.” Gumshoe beams, genuinely proud. “That’s just like you. Glad to have you back, sir!”
The District Chief of Police finally lets him go. Edgeworth brushes off some microscopic dirt from his coat as an excuse to examine the other man.
Grey hair now dominates the man’s roots, crawling up and dusting the brown with salt. Gumshoe’s older and he’s grown into it. Distinguished and refined with deeper reaching wrinkles and scars telling a mess of stories that Edgeworth isn’t privy to and may never be.
There are also the quieter details: the well-cared-for ring around his finger, the way his trenchcoat is comfortably melded to his shoulders and the reading glasses tucked into his pocket.
“It’s good to be back,” Edgeworth says and he means it. He really does.
The former detective claps him on the shoulder, knocking out half a lung in the process. He lets out a loud Whoop! that’s entirely too loud for the room to hold.
“Whoop,” Edgeworth echoes quietly, tone deafeningly flat. The room responds in kind.
Edgeworth lets himself enjoy the good company and cheer as Gumshoe moves between him and the tide of people trying to shake his hand.
(It’s nice that he notices it now. When he was younger, he thought nothing of the way Gumshoe would carve out a space with his shadow, leaving Edgeworth room to breathe and exist unbothered.
He thought even less of way he needed it and why he would.)
Gumshoe raises his glass. Edgeworth meets him halfway and they clink their champagne flutes together.
“You’re here to stay this time, aren’t you, sir?”
“That’s the intention, yes.”
Gumshoe studies him, coal eyes burning with a quiet intensity. Perceptiveness compressed into prismatic glimmers by the years he’s lived. “I’m glad,” Gumshoe says and Edgeworth is given the weight of his honesty. “You look the best you’ve ever been, pal.”
The champagne is nice and bubbly it goes down. Warming his stomach in a world where everything’s two inches to the left and anchors him in the present.
—·—
Later, his phone rings right at eight on the dot. He lets the first beats of the Steel Samurai opening play out before he finally answers it.
“Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska snaps. Tired, but too proud to show it. “You’re late.”
“Franziska,” Edgeworth greets kindly. “Prompt as always.”
“A quality you should also strive to uphold, little brother.”
“Forgive me for my tardiness. It’s the jet lag.”
“A foolish excuse for a foolish fool,” she chides. “You’ve grown soft in your old age. You’ll grow even softer on that side of the world.”
“It’s not such a bad thing.”
There's silence across the line and he wonders what she's thinking.
Coming back from the quote en quote dead had left nothing more than sour tastes in the mouths of everyone involved. At first, these calls had been a familial obligation. Yet another gesture on the list of things to smooth further interactions with her and show that yes, he indeed cared and he was still very much alive.
In retaliation, she carved out a block of time in his life. Every week, at the same time on the same day, she'd call him. It didn't matter what she would be doing or what city he would happen to be in: she would call and he would answer.
“There's nothing I can say, is there,” Franziska sighs. Quieter and in softer shades of teal than she’s known for wearing on her lips. He can hear everything she's not saying. Every little thing she's cut out in favour of saving time and maximizing efficiency.
“Congratulations, perhaps?” he teases. “I've been promoted to Chief Prosecutor.”
“I know,” Franziska deadpans. “I was the one who had to deal with your indecision and complaining when the offer first came in months ago. I still don’t think it’s an achievement to be boasting about."
“Shall we talk about your own success with Interpol instead—”
“Are you running away again?” she cuts in suddenly.
He tips his head, drawing the curtains open. For a moment, he listens. The flurry of people hurrying home and the resonant electric hum of a city still so lively even after dark rises up from below his feet. It smells faintly of ozone and concrete. So different from the cobblestone-fog thoroughfares and manors carved from cold stone.
It’s been a long time, he’ll admit. And the decision had not exactly been planned.
(And still, he had been welcomed with open arms. Wright at the airport and Gumshoe at the party. Not to mention the flood of emails in his inbox, not all work-related, and the little card that was slipped underneath his door with a three-legged crow stamped onto it.
Welcome home, Miles, says a tinny voice that sounds suspiciously like old, dusty books and warm trench coats. I see you’ve made some friends.)
“Actually, I think I’ve finally stopped.” Edgeworth smiles. “At the very least, I feel as if I am finally far enough away from the sting of your whip to be safe."
“As if something so mundane as distance would stop me,” she scoffs and rightly so.
“I know,” he says simply.
Franziska hesitates, seeming to rethink her approach.
“When you have had enough of this whimsy, be mindful of the time difference," she decides on. “I’ll drag you back to Europe myself if I have to, but I’d prefer not to be alerted of your foolishness at an obscene hour in the night.”
A pause.
He wants to say a lot of things, at that moment. Come with me, he wants to offer even though they both know that she is the wrong person for those kinds of words. She's found her place already and Edgeworth has been staring at her back for a long time. Franziska von Karma's heart belongs elsewhere, as does his own.
“May I visit you next month?” he asks.
“It's your life," she hums, voice drifting on a verdigris breeze. “Do what you want.”
She cuts the call there in punctuation.
He smiles, after a thought. Smiles wider when the warmth of their conversation sinks in deeper, still holding the phone in his hand. It buzzes to confirm their next call and Edgeworth wastes no time in accepting.
Somewhere, out there, she’s looking at the same sky. Rising to meet it, as she always does.
Edgeworth breathes softly, gazing out towards the city for a moment longer before closing the curtains and heading off to bed.
—·—
(A few weeks ago, he was glued to his laptop, watching a live feed in front an old courthouse.
Wright was there, standing out in his silhouette of greys and slumped posture.
Here’s what he knew about Wright: he was kind. He was very kind. Edgeworth felt as if he’d only seen a drop in the ocean of mercy Wright kept locked deep within the blues and watery stripes of his clothes.
It took something special to render those eyes dry as he watched. Tired and troubled, but never wavering as seven years of work was led away in handcuffs.
Wright grabbed his daughter's hand.
"Eldoon's," he mouthed with a lopsided smile. "My treat." There was no audio and Edgeworth could barely see through the grainy news footage, but he knew Wright. Knew those lips, those words and knew the heart that spilled from behind those teeth that the man couldn’t help but give and give away.
They used to be so young. So ready to believe that they were special just because they saved each other from the courthouse lift or that rushing river. Their relationship seemed to only exist in peril. Take away the doom and danger and what did they have left?
What do they have now?)
—·—
The vultures waste no time.
“What are you going to do next, Chief Prosecutor?”
Cameras roll in front of him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Demon Prosecutor wearing a new skin. He greets them cordially instead.
“Can you tell us more about the MASON System?” they demand.
“There is a lot to do,” he says to the microphones threatening to knock out his teeth. “But things are changing, that I promise you.”
They crush in closer, but Edgeworth has been in their eyes far too long to be affected. He smiles with a razor’s silvery sheen and cuts a path straight through. His car is neatly parked at the end of the mob and he slips inside with a smooth, practised motion.
He goes to lunch without any trouble.
Wright grins at him shamelessly across the table, elbows propped up and head laying atop his hands. His eyes twinkle and there’s nothing—nothing at all—that Edgeworth can do about it.
“Keep that up and your face will be stuck that way,” Edgeworth frowns. “You’re scaring the children.”
“I’m not the scary one,” Wright says. The line of his spine is lax and easy. It only makes his eyes shine brighter, delight widening into something more playful. The other patrons uniformly stiffen at the sight of it. A camera flies over their heads in an impressive arc straight into some shrubbery and someone, somewhere, coughs.
“Well,” Edgeworth says. He looks down at his cup of tea when he takes a sip of it. “I suppose people will have to continue to be wrong.”
Wright hums. “The move is going well?”
“It is,” Edgeworth answers. “Surprisingly smooth given my usual track record. I haven’t been harassed by murders or ten-year-long conspiracies yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“I don’t fancy a career change so soon into my promotions, please don’t invoke such misfortune.”
“Well, at least a career as a bulldozer is a viable option.”
Edgeworth stares.
“Lotta Hart’s still the quickest on the draw.” Wright pulls up his brick of a phone and shows Edgeworth the grainy animated gif that Trucy emailed him—a glance at the timestamp—thirteen minutes ago. There’s a pixelated name in the corner confirming the woman’s thumbprint.
Footsteps sound in sharp clacks and neither of them says another word as his order is placed in front of him. He thanks the waitress with a quiet nod and Wright’s eyes lift from where he was watching her hands.
“Are you sure you’re not going to get anything? I did say it was my treat.”
“I’m good,” Wright says. Something flickers across Wright's features. Too quickly for him to parse. “Actually, I’ve been wondering about why you called me all the way out here.”
“It’s just lunch,” Edgeworth assures. “I haven’t seen you in months, that’s all.”
“You saw me like two days ago.” Wright laughs a little too quickly. “If you wanted help on a case again, you could have just asked. I thought we were past this whole song-and-dance thing.”
He reiterates, “It’s just—”
"It’s never just lunch," Wright cuts in. His eyes tighten, a deep shadow of brown. Unfathomable. Unknown. Unyielding. “There has to be something that you want.”
And—
What does he want?
(The answer is actually quite simple. It punches him in the face, filling in the same bruises Wright left him once upon a terrible decision.
The easy way would be to talk about it.
It’s not his first instinct. Some things require a more unconventional approach and, well, it’s them. They’re practically the poster boys for unconventional approaches. Run away to Europe, dedicate yourself to a career wearing the skin of a nine-year-old boy’s conviction and—
stay.
That’s right. That’s the most unconventional thing of all.)
“I missed you,” he blurts out before he can chicken out by punching himself in the throat.
Wright’s eyes widen and he leans back, mouth going slack. Edgeworth’s insides twist, but he forges head, refusing to let go of the updraft underneath his wings. “I missed you,” he repeats, more deliberately. “I had thought that perhaps now that I’m now permanently based here that we might…reconnect.”
Wright continues to stare at him, uncomprehendingly. “It’s not like we fell out of touch,” Wright argues. “I flew to Europe for you. Multiple times! My email auto-fills your address whenever I kick up a new draft.”
“That’s different.”
And you know it.
There are a lot of things stuck under their tongues. The way Wright looks at him through his lashes and the locket hanging around his neck speak a lot about how much things have changed since they were in their young.
“Come with me to lunch again next week,” Edgeworth says, leaning back to make it easier for him. “You don’t have to, but the offer is and always will be there.”
A long, dreadful moment of silence passes between them as Wright considers the shape of his words. Something curdles in Edgeworth’s gut and winds itself into knots, but he holds fast against the tides threatening to wash his castle of conviction away. He’s seven years too late for most things, but there are things outside of regret that he is capable of.
Eventually, something in Wright loosens. A little release of breath and then the unfurling of clenched fists and a relaxing jaw.
“Fine,” Wright says weakly. “Next week, then.”
It’s more than he could have ever hoped for.
—·—
Next week, Wright surprises him. He invites Edgeworth out to one of Trucy’s matinees.
“It was her idea,” Wright explains, scratching his cheek. Edgeworth might even call that expression sheepish. “Oh, there she is.”
Trucy lights up when she sees them walking in. Edgeworth waves back, a little stiffly, a little unsure of his place.
It’s a special set tonight. It always is with him.
“She’s really been looking forward to this,” Wright is saying as they find their seats. He’s buzzing with unbridled energy that’s one part pride and another part something that’s still thawing. “Even I don’t know what she’s going to do. She didn’t ask me to help her build any of her props.”
“I’m honoured,” Edgeworth says, feeling warm. “I know how busy she is.”
They’re served a bottle and food to pair.
Wright leans in to fill his glass. And oh. Oh. That’s what it’s like to forget how to breathe. Edgeworth hadn’t realized it would smell so much like after-shave. “You’re one of the few people who can figure out her tricks.”
“Not all of them.”
“No,” Wright agrees, looking contemplative. Then, he smiles. “But enough.”
Edgeworth busies himself with the tall wineglass filled with purple liquid in his hands. He squints at it, swirling it to watch the liquid churn sluggishly.
“This isn’t what I think it is, right?”
“It’s not going to bite you.”
“Dubious.”
“It’s just grape juice.”
“It’s never just grape juice,” Edgeworth bites, eyes sliding to Wright. Wright, for his part, seems more delighted at the rapport than anything.
He steels himself. Surely it can’t be that bad. Wright certainly chugs it down like it’s an olympic sport and Edgeworth has always been curious.
He tips the glass for a sip.
(Strike one.)
It sloshes inside in his mouth. Edgeworth blanches, hands coming to his mouth and stifling a cough.
“Awful,” he judges, pushing the glass and bottle towards Wright’s side of the table. “Nrgh. It’s stuck in my mouth now.”
Edgeworth licks his lips and the taste worsens. Spreads like a plague, coating every gum and tooth until all he can taste is that painfully sugar-free flavour watered down so much it might as well be food colouring.
“Heathen,” he complains, glaring at Wright who only laughs. Edgeworth’s eyes follow the movement of his lips. Gets even more lost when Wright brings up the wineglass and drinks, neck bobbing rhythmically as he does.
(Strike two.)
“You’re just too picky,” Wright grins, leaning back.
“I have an acquired taste for quality,” Edgeworth huffs, flagging down a waiter for another glass. Wine this time, now that he’s learned his lesson. “And I’m not a child.”
“Tell that to your Steel Samurai cereals.”
“I don’t see why they would be a problem.”
“They’re more sugar than wheat!” A finger jabs into his chest, waving up and down in the air. “You got Trucy addicted on the stuff. She won’t have anything else for breakfast.”
“It’s hardly my fault.” He draws up, arms crossing and brows furrowing.
“Somehow, I think you’d hate to see a cereal box in the defendant’s chair.”
Edgeworth raises a brow. “Not if they were a serial killer.”
Wright nearly pushes him off the chair, shifting his hat over his eyes as he laughs. All low and rough and real. Happy too. Bursting from him without any thought or care, freely allowed to exist and be heard and Edgeworth’s jaw drops a little in awe.
(Strike three—and you’re out.)
It’s over too soon, but the warmth lingers in Wright’s eyes.
The lights dim.
“It’s starting,” Wright whispers, breathlessly. He shimmers, eyes turning towards the stage and body twisting to follow. It's the end of that conversation. Wright doesn't take his eyes off his daughter until the curtains drop and the lights come on again.
Edgeworth doesn’t take his eyes off him either.
—·—
Two month’s after Vera Misham’s trial, Edgeworth receives half of a message. Scrambled words rush out of his phone, imparting an excuse about not being able to make it for lunch, but dinner is still in the cards.
Your jacket is still at my place by the way. Dry cleaned it and everything. It’s Bellboy…well I guess I should say Hotelier approved. Anyway, I should be there by seven or so. Don’t bother coming early.
Something gurgles in his stomach, heavyset with blackletter and cold winds.
He texts Franziska about it and she shoots back that she’s tired. One postponed date isn’t reason enough for her to fly out.
Edgeworth spends the rest of the day trying to wade his way through the syrup-drip mess of paragraphs about the MASON’s other trial runs. When that doesn’t work, he works his way through the latest Steel Samurai light novel before he finally gives up and drives over.
He knows he’s way too early to be polite when it’s Apollo who greets him at the door.
“Hello.”
“…sir.”
“I left my jacket here.”
“Oh! Uh. It’ll be right here, Mr. Edgeworth.” Justice hops to it, leading him inside. As promised, Edgeworth’s jacket is in perfect condition, smelling faintly of detergent and amber.
“Thank you,” Edgeworth says, folding it over his arm. He looks over at Justice and asks, “Do you know where Wright is?”
Justice rubs his forehead in consternation. “He's at the library. He actually told me he was leaving, so I'm sure whatever he’s doing, it's legal. Probably. He should be back soon.”
But who knows with Mr. Wright, follows the dark mutter.
There’s a story there, Edgeworth knows. One that he’s seen from a very particular side. Vague obscurification seems to be a prerequisite for this agency.
“I see,” intones Edgeworth. He sits down on the for-clients couch.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long,” Justice informs him before proceeding to don the loudest jacket Edgeworth’s ever seen on a man. This, coming from one of the primary pillars of colour in the Los Angeles law scene. “Trucy’s practising for her gig tonight so the office is yours.”
“I see.”
Justice looks about half a comment away from bolting, his instincts as a host wrestling with the idea of leaving a guest alone in the agency. They’re both content to leave it there, looking at the door. Waiting for someone—
The rumble of a motorcycle rips through their mutual silence and Justice groans. He trudges towards the door like a man about to be strung up and Klavier Gavin struts in brightly. Then slower and more carefully once he sees that Justice is not alone.
“Herr Edgeworth.” The prosecutor gifts him a dazzling smile on the edge of too much. “I did not expect to see you here.”
Edgeworth re-crosses his legs, taking in Klavier's best and glittering makeup. “Klavier Gavin,” he nods. Then as casually as he can manage, he asks, “What brings you here? I thought you had the day off.”
“Case files,” Justice interjects, holding up a manilla folder. “We’re reviewing some case files together. At, um—not here.”
“Ja…case files,” Klavier laughs with pointed flick of his hair. “I wanted to get a head start before the holidays.”
It’s like spying on glaciers bobbing along a frozen sea. There's the obvious chunk of excitement and abject horror at this entire sham of a conversation. And then there’s hope. The underwater embarrassment and subtle beads of sweat.
The fumbling voice message comes to mind.
In a way, it’s a testament to everything that Wright's fought for. The agency is lived in. While Edgeworth studied abroad, Wright had made his home here.
People’s lives do indeed go on.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Edgeworth says, showing them some mercy. Justice squirrels away as soon as he can and Klavier lingers a little bit longer.
“I hope you enjoy yourself, Herr Edgeworth,” Klavier says, honestly.
“The same to you.”
The next generation, Wright had once chuckled in his ear. A new chapter of trials.
Wright does come back, takeout in hand. He doesn’t stop laughing at the encounter for hours. To be fair to him, Edgeworth doesn't either.
—·—
More leaves fall. Frost dusts his eyelids and clouds his breath when he steps out to brave the chill. Los Angeles slows, layered bodies fighting against the ice winding through their blood in crystal streams.
Christmas comes.
The Wrights invite him to dinner. So do the Skyes and the Gumshoe-Byrdes and half of the legal system. He even receives one from the inimitable Judge with a charming story about his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
They all collect in a pile on his coffee table, sorted into boxes by address. None he replies with any affirmatives, but they are meticulously preserved with return letters waiting to be written on his desk.
Fairy lights of blood pink and menthol green are strung haphazardly on the tree branches atop his building’s roof when he climbs up there to hear himself think.
It’s been twenty-five years and it hurts.
There’s nothing still about it. It just is. It just hurts. No rhyme, no reason, just this seasoned old grief that he’ll carry for the rest of his life. It’s all strata in the exposed cliff face that is Miles Edgeworth nowadays. Another ring in the tree.
Maybe next year will be better and he’ll find himself in a warmer place surrounded by people. Maybe it will be worse. But it will come, either way. He will be older and his grief age with him too.
Christmas goes.
He greets the morning of that day, wandering among the stone and other buried caskets. Shields ventures out to meet him. They don’t say much. Perhaps a word or two. A conciliatory word to obligatory questions and inquiries about their health, but nothing else.
Pess curls up with him on the couch when he returns. He makes a cup of tea and leaves it on the table to grow cold and the days pass without resistance.
—·—
Recent Calls
December 24, 2026
Franziska — 03:00 pm (30m)
December 25, 2026
Wright — 12:23 am (1h 27m)
Gumshoe — 9:00 am (15m)
Kay — 10:12 am (45m)
Maya — 12:38 pm (34m)
Trucy — 6:59 pm (56m)
December 27, 2026
Wright — 11:05 pm (3h)
December 28, 2026
Wright — 4:56 am (29m)
Shields — 7:12 am (2m)
December 29, 2026
Wright — 12:04 am (47m)
—·—
Calendars get swapped out. Twenty-six becomes twenty-seven.
They meet again on the second day of January. The ground is still covered in a thin layer of unshoveled snow and black ice.
Wright slips and Edgeworth catches him, a hand on the small of the man’s back.
They stare at each other for a moment before parting.
“Thanks.”
Edgeworth nods.
They clear the rest of the way in minutes, passing empty street after empty street.
Evidently, they are the only two people brave enough to go out in this cold. His light coat protects him well enough and he can’t help but stare at the innumerable layers and scarves Wright has looped around his neck.
“Looking forward to anything in the new year?” Wright asks.
“The Steel Samurai remake is scheduled to air in the spring,” Edgeworth says, glancing at a nearby bus shelter. The bold figure of the titular samurai has been downsized to a silhouette in the foreground. Outlined thickly with poignant highlights to capture the suggestion of his mechanical parts and muscular form. The looming figure of the Evil Magistrate takes up most of the poster, blotting out the moon. His sheer size turns into fog and misty blue, the distance between the two rivals a canyon and a gap in the same stroke.
Wright stops to scrutinise it with him. “So Powers finally moved onto other pastures?” he asks, pointing at the list of actors.
Edgeworth frowns. “Didn’t you watch the fifth season? He left the franchise shortly after it aired.”
“I told you I had the fifth season.” Wright shrugs. “You told me it was bad.”
Well. That was an understatement. Oh, the forums he could fill on their decision to—
Wright’s chuckle brings him out of his musings.
“Your face says it all,” Wright smirks. He brings the edge of his scarf down, thinking for a moment. “C’mon, might as well tell me about it.”
Edgeworth hesitates. “But you’re not caught up—” Wright waves a hand, regretting it when the cold air wraps around his gloveless hands.
“It’s fine. You’d stew over it and I’d hate for you to be miserable at lunch.” He looks over, a fond look in his eye. “Now, about the...Mercury Majin, was it?”
“Never say that name again lest you summon Sal Manella from whatever hole he’s crawled into after that horrible trainwreck of an arc,” Edgeworth says, tugging his friend along to explain just why the series should have ended after the Iron Infant successfully defended Neo Olde Tokyo during the Carbon Champion’s Games.
—·—
Edgeworth takes him somewhere nice once the snow melts. Wright’s smile immediately drops when the background music finally registers.
“Awful,” Wright decides.
“Well…”
“Edgeworth!”
“It’s not so offensive.” True, while not the typical affair Edgeworth likes to pass a workday to, it’s still a pleasant buzz in the back of his mind. Enough texture to ripple against the stuffy air of the other patrons, but simple enough to fade into the flickering candles.
And that would have been it, except Wright’s looking at him. Wright’s looking at him. Openly shocked in public and oh, when did the hat come off?
“But you like it?” Wright asks, incredulous.
“I do,” Edgeworth whispers, though he doesn’t know why. “Like the music, that is.”
The wrinkle in Wright's brow deepens. “I really don’t know a thing about you, do I?”
A whispered confession. Almost unintentional.
“I wouldn’t say that…” Edgeworth trails off, raising a trembling hand to rest by Wright's. A sliver of distance between them, the table shaking on stilt legs. It's possible, suddenly. Not so far-fetched. “But the same can be said for me.”
Weekly lunches are hardly anything compared to the full scope of human connection, but even grains of sand can one day tip the scales. Even a rookie with three trials underneath his belt can strike at god.
Edgeworth sucks in a breath, a halogen star being born from dust and gold in his eyes. “May I ask you a question?”
Wright’s eyes are dark. Rimmed with nervous energy, but the caution from lunches past has fled. It’s been gone a long time and it’s the first time either of them noticed. “You just did.”
“Lunch next week?”
“Sure,” Wright says, a little relieved, a little disappointed. Then, almost shunted out of his mouth before he can think of better. “Just lunch?”
His heart skips a beat. “If that’s what you want.”
Wright doesn’t respond, but Edgeworth sees it there, percolating in his shy smile that he hides as soon as the song changes.
—·—
This is a memory:
It’s November, again. The taxi rolls to a stop and Edgeworth steps out.
His keys jangle against each other.
“Edgeworth?”
Edgeworth looks back, hand curled around the handle of his suitcase.
Wright tries for a smile and falls a little short. Tries again and while he doesn’t make it that time either, it means so much more to see the effort.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he settles on and waves as the window rolls shut.
—·—
March 23, 2026
Wright ‹ ladder or step ladder
Wright ‹ [MMS: A metal (step) ladder leaning against a pale coloured wall.]
Edgeworth frowns at the screen. He glances at the clock on the wall and his frown only deepens when he sees the time.
Edgeworth › It's six in the morning, Wright. Why on earth are you up at this hour?
Edgeworth › Incidentally, that's a ladder.
No answer follows in the immediate minutes so Edgeworth pockets his phone and climbs into his car. He smooths out the wrinkles in his suit and clutches the gearstick. It's closer to the afternoon when his phone buzzes again and he lunges for it, quickly opening up the messaging application when he sees who it is.
Wright ‹ oh my god. of all the things to wake up to
Well now. Before he can properly respond, the bubble indicating Wright's composing something pops up. Politely, he waits, even with the tip of those questions on his tongue.
Wright ‹ i thought i knew you
Wright ‹ it's a stepladder!!
Edgeworth › If it's higher than your shoulders, then it's a ladder.
Wright ‹ rungs = ladders
Wright ‹ steps = step ladder
Edgeworth › …Are those not rungs?
“Herr Edgeworth, I was hoping to—ah,” a foot squeaks against his hardwood. A click and slide of a hell turn, the swish and jangle of hair and chain. “Forgive me, I shall come back at a better time.”
Muffled behind the newly closed door are the faint murmurs of someone talking to his secretary. He appears to be in a bad mood, catches against his ears. The rest of those unimportant details fade away in the upcoming messages.
Wright ‹ excuse me but these are very obviously STEPS
Wright ‹ hence
Wright ‹ STEP
Wright ‹ LADDER
Edgeworth › If you were still a lawyer I would take you to court over this.
Wright ‹ bold of you to assume i ever stopped
Oh—
Wright ‹ you have no idea what can of worms you opened here
Wright ‹ ive been having this argument with maya for years
Wright ‹ if ur free for lunch come over so i can trounce your ass
Edgeworth wastes no time in storming out of the office in a flash of burgundy fabric.
—·—
(He forgot how much he missed this. How much he missed matching blows with Wright, no matter how stupid—
It’s like coming home. They fit in together seamlessly, pointing fingers and yelling as Justice and Trucy watch with heads flicking between them.
If you were still a lawyer—
Edgeworth’s heart swaps itself with thunder.)
—·—
The weeks fly by.
“We’re getting a new employee, you know?”
Edgeworth shifts the phone over from one shoulder to the other as Pess nuzzles her head into his side, tail wagging. “Is that so?”
“Yup. Do you remember Athena Cykes?”
Searching through his memory brings vague recollections of an energetic girl with playful wit lining her muscles and fire in her eyes. “The girl with exceptional hearing?”
“That’s the one. She’s going to be another employee here.” Ms. Cykes had attached herself to the Wrights as soon as they met. It was more so Trucy that drew her in than either of them, but somehow they had ended up with another companion during their investigations. Short-lived as it was, it had been a good experience.
It had been nice seeing Wright lighten up again, drawing back into his old skin as a lawyer and talking about helping people again in that soft-gold palette.
(Beyond that, he just looked happy doing it. He was good at it. He had fun.)
“At this rate, Europe is going to notice that they seem to be losing most of their talent to our jurisdiction.”
“Well, it’s their own fault for not noticing how many people seem to give up promising careers there sooner,” Wright chuckles.
“She’ll be stateside soon, I imagine?”
“Yeah, she’s coming on the seventeenth. Kinda told her I’d give her a ride from the airport.”
Edgeworth is quiet for a moment. Pess whines, moving against his still hand.
“Oh,” he starts. “Will you be late for dinner, then?”
“Weeell,” Wright elongates and he can hear the scratch of hair over the line. Can perfectly envision the sheepish expression and the hand behind the neck, lips pulled into a goofy smile. “I kinda told her I’d be picking her up in the most garish red sports car she could imagine.”
There’s a lot he can say to Wright. Maybe a firm admonishment and a redirect to the good Chief of Police who’d be more than glad to lend his services to an old friend. He lets the silence sit, turning his attention back to Pess who has now caught on and laid herself completely over his lap.
“Edgeworth?”
She’s not supposed to be on the couch, really, but his lap is technically not part of that stipulation so he can’t, in good faith, push her off. Edgeworth smiles, giving her a firm rub on the belly.
“Aw, c’mon Edgeworth, please? I can’t back out when I’ve given her my word!”
“Fine,” Edgeworth huffs. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and checks his schedule. “Though I do hope you’ll remember next time that I am the Chief Prosecutor, not your personal chauffeur.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The grin is loud and proud over the line. “Thanks, Edgeworth. I’ll pay for dinner again if that’ll help make up for it.”
“It’s the least you can do.”
—·—
A day later, he sees Wright return to court for the first time since Vera Misham’s trial. He shambles in there, a blue-knit sweater soft against the drab neutrals of the courtroom.
“She certainly didn’t waste any time,” Edgeworth notes, settling down next to Wright in the gallery. Their juniors are too busy with the trial to notice the pair tucked away on the highest row.
“It’s practically a rite of passage,” Wright says.
Edgeworth doubts there’s a lawyer in this country that hasn’t been tossed straight into the fire. One of the things he’s hoping to fix in his small pocket of history.
“Hey, Edgeworth?”
“Hm?”
“I think,” Wright starts unevenly, pushing and pulling at his own teeth. He doesn’t look away from the trial below. “I think I need your opinion on something.”
They’re close to each other. Scarcely a hands-breadth of distance between them. He lays a hand on the small of Wright's back. The man tenses underneath the gentle touch, before relaxing the rest of the way.
“Talk to me.” It's all he can do, in moments like these. “I'm here to listen.”
He watches as complicated expressions twist Wright's face, confliction warring across his skin and making every wrinkle and fold deeper and more grey.
Edgeworth is catching onto the little tricks the Wrights like to employ. They’re a family of smoke and mirrors, dashing glitter on top of every word and action. A magician and a former stage performer—theatrics must run in their blood.
“I think…we could've been friends, in another life,” Wright whispers eventually, tucking his hands across his chest and hunching his shoulders. “Kristoph, I mean.”
Edgeworth breathes, finally remembering to.
In the silence given to him, Wright continues, steadily. “We were friends. Kind of. If having weekly Battleship games under the pretense of dinner dates qualifies as being friendly with each other. It's all arbitrary. I mean, look at us, right?”
There's a lot he can say to that, but it's not his turn, so he doesn't. He just sits back, folds his leg across the other and clasps his hands together. Relax the muscles, the face. Study. Observe. Leave no stone unturned.
(Of course it happens in the courtroom. What did he expect? The truth will always come out, ugly and raw and unwanted but always needed.)
“I wanted…” A beat. “I want to know why he did it.”
The words fizzle against his mind, bright purple and amaranth soil. It settles against the other things that Edgeworth has thought to death. There's an endless list of disasters all in varying states of realisation, but through it all is this single truth: Edgeworth's never been too scared to poke the bear. Everything seems to hang in a fragile balance bound by rules and far-flung laws from a book everyone's read except for him.
“Psycho-locks,” Edgeworth infers. “Psycho-locks you couldn’t break.”
That sparks a laugh, equal parts amused and hollow. "Got in one.” Wright digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Blinks blearily at the fading moonlight and the ragged sea of clouds. “Trying to cross-examine the devil in my mind—probably shouldn't, right?”
It appears to be rhetorical, so Edgeworth moves on without acknowledging it. “Is this for closure?”
“I mean, yes. Of course I’d want to know for closure. I won’t get it and honestly, I shouldn’t be so obsessed with it, but I…I still—”
“—need to know?” Edgeworth finishes, thinking of elevators in the dark. Wright nods at that.
Clawing at the truth buried in dirt-filled throats; uncovering the treasure with a map written in ciphers—it all leads to the same end. Getting to the bottom of things leaves you drowning in the sea and Wright has been swimming for an awfully long time.
“Perhaps it’s simply because he’s an awful human being?” Edgeworth offers, knowing that it’s not as comforting as he thinks. His own demon had been awful, inexplicably so. And even he hadn’t believed it until the very last moment.
“So you say.”
“I do.”
“You don’t—didn’t—know him.” Wright mumbles, taking off his hat and looking at the bright pink letters.
Edgeworth can concede that. “Not like you did.”
Of all the things, Wright smiles. “No,” he says. “No one knew him, I guess.” He pulls out the magatama and Edgeworth is surprised to see a stone. Just a regular piece of jade, inert and normal. It means more than words can express what this gesture means. There are no secrets Wright is searching for, knowingly or not. It’s just this—an honest, fumbling testimony on the stand. “I certainly didn’t know shit about him either, but I like to think I did. Just a little bit. I’d like to think I knew him in the moments he was being honest.”
“You’ve been fooled before, even with your mystic powers,” Edgeworth cuts in because he needs to say it. Needs to say it before Wright can continue. Can wrap himself further in the chains of his own self-imposed expectations and convictions. “You’re only human.”
It’s been seven years of living with that.
“Do you think I could have saved him?” Wright bleeds, entirely ash and sputtering flame.
All at once, he remembers that Wright is a man who didn't give up for seven years. He nestled in the brood of devils and their advocates. Played the wheel of fate with luck's loaded die and expert card hacks. Walked into hell itself only ever equipped with a button on his hat and hands deep in his pockets. With no other choice that he saw, he became every inch a monster to stack against the ones that stood in his way.
But still, something remained. Still, something persisted. Something refused and dared not to be defined.
And finally, finally, Edgeworth understands.
“That’s not the question you want to ask me,” Edgeworth whispers, fierce.
Wright curls up into himself, sinking to the floor and digging his hands into his eyes. His shoulders tremble, words seeping out in hissing whispers in a long, bitter exhale. “Kristoph’s gone.”
“He is.”
“I did a lot of shitty things to ensure that.”
“You did.”
“I’m going to have to live with them.”
“You will.”
“I’m sorry. I’m—I’m sorry. For doing it. For everything. For all of it.”
Guilty.
—Hold it!
Edgeworth breathes and he does not make it easier. “Are you?”
Wright unfolds his limbs, looking up with eyes drenched with the same water in Edgeworth's own. “I’m not sorry I did it,” Wright solemnly swears, present and alive. “But I am sorry.”
A horrified look passes through his face. “I going to have to apologize to Apollo. And Trucy. And so many other people.”
“And to yourself, as well,” Edgeworth reminds him, trailing off. He inches closer. The sliver of distance between them vanishes. Wright grabs his hand. Edgeworth’s heart leaps into his throat and then Wright’s thumb rubs into his hand. Softly. Gently. Skin on skin, two plates grinding against each other with magma bumbling in the undertow.
“I’m scared.”
“I don’t recall that ever stopping you before.”
He leans forwards in a gentle exhalation, tipping Wright's chin upwards and staring straight into the abyss trapped inside human skin.
“So tell me this, Phoenix Wright—” What are you going to do next?
No…no. He chooses this—this moment, this future and this man.
Edgeworth goes for the throat. “What do you want?”
Something flickers across Wright's expression. Too quickly for him to parse anything, but ice cold settles in the pit of his veins and seeps all across his body anyway. It’s just a glimpse. Just a split second of a vision and it hurts.
It’s the most vulnerable that Edgeworth has ever seen him.
“I want to stop running away.”
—·—
Something changes after that. It's there—like a physical, tangible thing. A pressure that they hadn’t noticed before suddenly vanishes. It draws up through their lungs and then blooms, leaving behind a pile of flowers with their stalks cut smooth.
Seven years is a long time to be a pianist. It's also a long time to be a prosecutor abroad.
Maybe if they're lucky, they'll have seven more.
—·—
“A bakery,” Phoenix says. Slurs. “Could open a bakery instead.” Miles doesn’t check the bottles. He knows Phoenix hasn’t seen a drop of real alcohol in years.
“It would be different,” Miles murmurs. “You could use a hobby outside of dubious piano playing. Your sourdough has always been very good.” He turns on a lamp and the circles underneath those dark brown eyes deepen as Phoenix hisses. The coffee table creaks, almost bowing underneath the weight of all the textbooks. Alongside the books are case files upon case files. Newspaper print drowns the rest of the floor in grey.
Miles picks up one of the folders, recognizing the year this practise exam came out.
“Mmm,” Phoenix hums. He closes his eyes, quiet for a moment. Fingers tap-tap-tapping on his chest. Then— “I’m really doing this for real huh?”
“‘For real’?”
“Sorta tried a bit last year, but…don’t think I was ready for it, then.”
“And now?”
“…I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
Miles flips through the chicken scratch and shorthand, adjusting his glasses. Months of notes date back to late November. Phoenix hadn’t stopped since, either. Maybe the fervour died out, but he kept at it, unable to give up once he’s decided something even against his own will.
Miles devours every word. Every clever answer and insight that even he can’t touch because he can never replicate this mind. “How about lunch first and then we’ll come back for some light review.”
“When you say ‘light’, do you mean it the way normal people say it or is it some weird holdover from von Karma?”
Miles smiles, kind as anything.
—·—
Trucy is the one who pushes them past that last little leg of plausible deniability.
“Mr. Edgeworth,” she starts, bouncing on her heels. Her smile is nothing wicked, but a cold sweat breaks through anyway. “It’s just you and Pess at your apartment, right?”
“…yes.”
Her eyes sparkle, just like her father or maybe her father’s just like her.
She starts twirling around him like a shark smelling burgundy-coloured blood in the water. “Polly’s been complaining about how now that ‘thena’s here and Daddy’s studying again, the agency’s practically a powder keg rigged to blow.”
The lawyer in him bristles at the leading nature of her statement. The man who values his relationship with the Wrights knows that he’s already lost the battle.
“That does seem to be a problem,” he admits.
“One that you have the solution to.”
“It would appear so.”
“Study dates at yours, then.” Trucy grins and pats his arm. “Polly’s going to be so happy.”
—·—
If Phoenix is at all surprised, he does a good job at hiding it. What he doesn’t hide is the flush on his cheeks and the uncomfortable nervousness moving in Miles’ space. There are still boxes and furniture to be built. An embarrassing well of evidence of Miles’ incompetence towards building a home of his own.
“Lots of books,” Phoenix comments, pointing to the wall-to-wall shelves filled with textbooks, tomes and novels.
“All the better to study with,” Miles provides, leading him into his kitchen to fix up a snack.
They have to go out later once they realize the truly dismal state of his fridge. Apparently daily dinners and lunches make it easy to not cook especially when he’s never been very good at it.
At the very least, it livens the atmosphere and they’re no longer play-acting two thirty-year-old men getting bashful about visiting each other’s house.
It gets easier after that.
And then even easier.
And even easier.
And—
—·—
May 17, 2027
Miles › The grape juice is bad enough, but carbonated water as well?
Phoenix ‹ listen
Phoenix ‹ carbonated water has all the good sensation of pop and beer but without the unpleasant side effects of sugar and alcohol
Phoenix ‹ it is the perfect indulgent afternoon beverage and i will not stand for this slander
Miles › I drink soda for the sugar, not for the fizz.
Phoenix ‹ D:< just drink juice!!
Miles › No.
Phoenix ‹ the sugar sticks to the throat and is bad
Phoenix ‹ fizz is best
Miles › It's really not.
Phoenix ‹ love that fizz, fun mouth feel
Phoenix ‹ makes you feel more full than you actually are!
Miles › I'm still not going to buy you Montellier.
Miles › I refuse to sully our fridge with it.
Phoenix ‹ rude
Phoenix ‹ im out here studying my ass off and you wont even buy me water
Phoenix ‹ human rights violation
Miles › Perish.
Phoenix ‹ tell kay she just lost christmas present privleges
—·—
“Just move in already!”
“I—”
“Daddy, I’ve been packed for weeks.”
“Trucy, you can’t just assume—”
“Ass out of you and me, I know, I know. I normally wouldn’t be so blunt, but you promised no lies between us, Daddy. And you’re lying right now if you keep making excuses.”
Phoenix drops his face into his hands. “Oh my god.”
“And you—” she whirls on Miles. “You’ve been courting my Daddy for how long?”
“It’s still a bit too early…”
“It doesn’t have to be forever,” Trucy relents, giving them this. “It doesn’t have to be serious, but Daddy’s already leaving clothes in your drawer and sleeping over. I know Mr. Edgeworth’s combination code for his suitcase and I use it regularly for my shows. Mr. Edgeworth’s pantry is filled with our favourites and we built his TV stand for him. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“…I can’t refute that.”
“…shit, neither can I.”
“Phoenix, will you—”
“If you ask me like that, I will push us both out this window I swear to God—”
“Too many witnesses,” Miles says, too flustered to make the tease land properly. It’s still enough to make Phoenix blush. “But I suppose I’ll just get you copies of the key and arrange a truck.”
“Fine. Can we go back to evidence law now?”
—·—
The grand piano, as Trucy predicts, fits perfectly in the corner of his penthouse.
Miles wakes up sneezing in a fit, spring still unwilling to let him go.
“Here,” Phoenix says, handing him his allergy medicine and a glass of water.
Miles can’t help but stare.
“Uh,” Phoenix fumbles. Blunt nails card through his hair, upsetting the ruffle of freshly washed strands. It’s…admittedly odd seeing him shaved and somewhat kempt. “Hope you don’t mind if I used some of your skincare stuff.”
“It’s a ten-step process.”
“Google exists,” Phoenix huffs, rolling his eyes. He sighs and wanders over to the closet to get dressed. He rubs his jaw, a little self-conscious. “Figured it was time, y’know?”
There’s a little private smile tossed over his shoulder, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.
“It suits you,” Miles blurts out. There’s something more he wants to say, but he can’t get the words out.
Phoenix smiles, making it easier for him. “Speaking of, I’ll have to get a new suit, right? The old one definitely doesn’t fit me anymore and now that we’re, uh, like this, I guess you’d maybe want a say in it? Not that I trust your tastes, Mr. Pink Badger, but you have tailors and shit on call, so…”
“Alright,” Miles says, feeling a little far away and faint. Then the rest of Phoenix’s words catch up with him and he’s scrambling out of bed. “Now wait just a minute, Phoenix—”
Phoenix winks. Actually winks and then he’s dashing out of the door, cackling like he’s twelve.
Trucy watches from her doorway, leaning against it as Miles runs past in hot pursuit.
She shakes her head. Amateurs is the only warning they get before she’s tearing through the hall with the Amazing Mr. Hat and his twelve rubber swords spinning threateningly.
—·—
“This is a dishwasher,” Miles frowns.
“So it is.”
Phoenix rinses off a plate, rubbing the ceramic with his thumb to hear it squeak. He leans over, deposits the plate in the dishwasher rack and continues with the rest.
“A dish-washer,” Miles reiterates, at a loss. How many years as a working professional and all he can do is stare helplessly as Phoenix Wright hand washes their dishes and loads them into the dishwasher to dry.
“Yup,” says Phoenix.
Another plate joins the rest.
“I will never understand you.”
“If you’re going to judge me, at least make yourself useful and dry the pots,” Phoenix huffs, jabbing his chin toward the hand towel hanging on a hook.
Miles rolls his eyes, but he complies. Phoenix flicks a few suds his way and he storms out of the kitchen to the sound of full-bellied laughter and rushing water.
Later, Phoenix collapses onto the couch next to him and Pess is scrambling into his lap. The traitor.
“Can you go over the short answers?” Phoenix asks, scratching her belly and cooing. “Not really confident about them.”
Miles is already pulling out his reading glasses. “I really should be charging you for my free consultation and tutoring efforts.”
“It’s not as if you have anything else to do.”
Well. He could be reading, but he supposes he just lost the argument. Miles rolls his eyes and leans into Phoenix, red pen ready to correct his spelling.
—·—
Phoenix watches the entire Steel Samurai remake with him. He records the episodes Miles misses due to work on the VCR Gumshoe tinkered. The torrent sites have long since uploaded them in 4k with subtitles, but Phoenix keeps at it.
That’s when it really settles in.
In Europe, Phoenix was nothing but hard edges and sharp angles. The darkest point of his life, by Phoenix’s own admission. It wasn't even a stranger that looked back at him, much as Miles would have liked that to be true.
"I'm not getting my badge back," Phoenix swore. There were things shifting in his expression. Tiny, minute little things that Miles would have missed had he not been looking for the same things that spelled the same bleakness that pushed him to remake himself.
He had been telling the truth. Phoenix is not getting the badge he wore seven, now nearly eight years ago.
It will be new. The numbers will be different and the blue it will be pinned on will never reach the same obnoxiousness from before and it will never be the same. Justice and Cykes swap turns saving their friends and strangers, wrestling for the chance to prove themselves and Phoenix lets them carry on that torch.
Without any ghosts in the shape of nine-year-old boys and stolen older sisters, there’s just the complete and complex being that is Phoenix Wright.
He wants his badge for his own sake.
And that’s not a bad thing at all.
—·—
(He dreams a lot about the past. About halcyon days when it was just three young boys in a hazy sunset school. About that asymmetrical darkness filled with moving shapes and haggard breathing before it all crumbled into that wretched scream. He dreams of his father. Sleeves rolled up as he stirs the pot. Moving. Warm. Alive in a way Miles can't really remember now.
Had he been left to his own devices, he might have lived in that pervading limbo painted in midtone greys and croaking wind.
Then, of course, Phoenix had come in like a summer storm and pushed him straight into the forge.)
—·—
Miles didn’t pay much attention to what the Wrights brought with them. There’s more than enough room and with Trucy’s clever hands, they’re able to break physics to stow away the truly ludicrous amount of props and paraphernalia that had once occupied the agency.
There are the obvious things. The healthy plant soaking up the sun, a delicate row of paper cranes and a little bowl that clinks every time Phoenix deposits his locket in it. Then there’s the pink-lens glasses, a tin full of matcha that Phoenix never uses unless Pearl visits and a cupboard full of different kinds of mugs for different kinds of people.
Little ghosts of peoples' past and friends not currently there.
Miles has his box.
It’s a box hidden away in his closet. Memories. Precious physical evidence of the past and emotions he can't rightly name.
Old knicks and knacks that he slipped underneath the floorboards in von Karma manor. Travel brochures. Little dog toys. Photographs of him and Franziska because half his heart will always be on that side of the ocean. Dog-eared and ink-smudged books about every topic under the sun.
Letters. Important letters. All opened. Collected and carefully collected by Ray.
Dear Miles, they read. Dear Miles, Dear Miles, Dear Miles.
It's as far as he gets every time. He catches glimpses of words and phrases in bright blue ghosts when he glances over the squiggling lines, but he never allows himself to read further.
Nick's a romantic, Maya sighs in his head, suddenly nineteen years old again and eyes soft with familial fondness. That's why he likes Kids' Masterpiece Theatre so much. It's all of the childhood nostalgia without any of the scraped knees.
Two months after Phoenix was disbarred, he made a decision. Flying him out on von Karma blood money (and occasionally Interpol's) to keep that mind sharp hardly seemed like enough.
When he started writing back, it felt a little too much like the embarrassment of that dreadful New Year’s Party all those years ago. Then he found his rhythm and his voice. The daylight hours slowly dwindled until he was filling out more pages than throwing them away. It was different, somehow. Maybe it had to be different. It was for Phoenix Wright, after all. He had always been the exception.
He wrote. Long and gentle with an inkwell he fished from his father’s old things.
Initially, it had just been the one. The export of his unsaid wants and frustration over not knowing how to help Phoenix and how to help him more. And then he kept writing. Writing and writing some more, building his own stack of correspondence to match. One for one. And then one more, to be just that slightest bit ahead.
They used to clog up his empty drawers. No stamps or recipients in mind—just a writer with a lot of things to say. He had to clear them out to make way for Phoenix’s assortment of ties.
Years down the line, he leaves them on the table in a box addressed to Phoenix.
It’s gone the next morning.
—·—
Sometimes to move forwards, you're going to have to destroy everything. You will be left with nothing but yourself and only then is when you can truly stop running.
They're in the dark. The lamp is on and it's all they need. Their conversation about—about nothing at all really, has dimmed to a comfortable silence. They've contented themselves to simply sitting side by side on the couch, thighs and flanks flush together.
“Tell me this, Phoenix Wright—” Miles starts. He leans over, shoulders hunching and hands reaching up to block their lips from the sight of the doors and windows. Brown eyes meet his own. He opens his mouth, over twenty years of history wrapped in the weighted silence that follows.
Phoenix moves closer, to hear him better.
Miles' lips twitch. A smile, private and soft. Then, “What do you want?”
Phoenix's fingers grasp his chin and in here, in this quiet corner of the universe that they've carved out with rusted shovels, does everything finally fall away.
They kiss.
Slowly. Tenderly. A warm press of lips in persimmon and huckleberry blue. Phoenix pulls him in and Miles moves with him, following the salt-white tide and ocean spray. Hands braid through evening-soft strands, curling around every smooth arc of muscle and moulding into their divots and sides. Someone pulls away. Breathes. The other follows and they meet in the middle, sealing their smiles with a quiet sigh.