Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 9, 2016, 2:31 PM
District Court
Courtroom No. 1

Edgeworth methodically collects his things as the buzz begins to die down in the courtroom, the judge and spectators filing out, still loudly discussing the events of the trial that day.

“Someone finally took that Edgeworth kid off his pedestal, huh? Serves him right, I think.”

“I bet he was being bribed to take the case by that scummy businessman. Guys like him are all the same--the only thing they care about is getting the verdict they need for the paycheque they want.”

Something tight and vile like shame coils up inside of him. His cellphone rings: it’s Franziska. Of course she would have been watching his trial--of course she would have been horrified and furious to see her “little brother” lose.

He doesn’t pick up. She’ll give him a face-full of whip later, but he doesn’t care right now.

He takes a depth breath, opening the latches of his briefcase.

He studies the court photo of that damned receipt, again. That stupid, lucky piece of evidence. It wasn’t just the fact that he lost the trial--it was the fact that he missed something. It was the fact that he saw what Miles didn’t.

He sorts through his files slowly, rearranging his papers to be in the right order so that the moment he returns to the prosecutor’s office he can slip the file back into it’s chronological place within his filing cabinet. He moves meticulously, with graceful, practiced ease.

And if he perhaps spends a little more time sifting through files in order to avoid running into him, then. Well. That’s just an added bonus.

He can hear the court reporters setting up outside of the main door; he thinks he might try to sneak out of the prosecutor’s lobby just to avoid them. He slides open the door, moving quietly as to not alert anyone of his presence. He doesn’t even glance at the lobby until the door is closed firmly behind him, and--

Oh.

Wright is standing in the prosecutor’s lobby--his lobby--staring at him with his stupid mouth hung wide open as if Miles is the one that isn’t supposed to be there. It’s just minutes after he was officially released from custody; he can still see the red marks on his wrists from the handcuffs and the bags under his eyes from staying awake all night.

“Wright,” he greets. He nods his head in simple, meaningless formality, but does nothing to hide the menace in the glare that he levels him with.

Wright takes a step forward. Already pressed back against the wall, Miles’ hand returns to the doorknob. He’d take court reporters over this.

“What happened, Miles?”

Something cold and clammy thrums in his chest.

He feels sick, like he might throw up. He wonders if Wright would leave him alone if he just vomited all over his shoes, but thinks against it; knowing him, he would only pursue Miles further.

He exhales slowly to hide his shock, hoping that the pallor of his face doesn’t reflect his unsteady heartbeat.

“Edgeworth,” Miles corrects, his voice cool and even as it glides above his thinly-sealed nausea. He adjusts his cufflinks.

“What?”

“It’s Edgeworth. You called me--” he lowers his voice, glancing around-- “Miles.”

Wright’s face twitches in indignation, his mouth setting in a thin line and his eyes lowering as hot shame rises beneath his cheeks. His movement says it all: Wright thought he would be an exception to the rule.

“What happened?” he asks, again.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I thought you wanted to be a defense attorney?”

“I did,” Edgeworth agrees mildly, avoiding his gaze. “When I was nine.”

His hand is back on the doorknob and he can see the single gear that has been working overtime churning away in Phoenix’s brain--if he lets Miles escape here, he’ll never have this chance again.

“I wrote,” Wright says quickly, changing the topic and the pace and taking another step forward. He puts his hand up as though he’s going to rest it on Edgeworth’s shoulder but instead he lets it fall limply to his side.

“Letters, I mean,” he clarifies. “I don’t know if you got them. I called your house in Germany, too, and your office, a few times.”

He did. He got every single one of them. And all the voicemails, too. And all the texts, and all the postcards. And he read over and listened to all of them, over and over again.

I wasn’t allowed to write back for a long time, he wants to say, and I didn’t know what to say once I was able to again.

“I didn’t.” he says instead, swallowing the lump in his throat that forms at the lie.

Wright visibly deflates.

“Oh,” he swallows, “Well, that’s. Okay. They were probably pretty bad, anyways. I didn’t get good at writing until I started university.”

“Mm,” Edgeworth hums. He adjusts his cufflinks, again. Another bead of sweat slides down the back of his neck, joining the small ocean already coalescing back there--he’ll have to get his suit done at the drycleaners, again; he hasn’t sweat this much at a trial since… well, he doesn’t know when.

“I just--” Wright starts again-- “I saw your picture in the newspaper, and it didn’t look like you. Like, it looked like you, but it didn’t look like you.”

He pauses for a moment, searching Edgeworth’s face. He stares back blankly, feeling the hollowness of his cheeks.

“Are you happy?”

With that, any willingness Edgeworth had to hear him out is stamped out and doused like a dying, flickering cigarette.

“That’s it, Wright,” he snaps. Wright draws himself back as he tries to hide his flinch. “My personal life is neither none of your concern nor none of your business, and it’s entirely unprofessional to ask that of someone who you don’t even work with. The assumption that our friendship fifteen years ago was of enough importance to excuse you parading in here and demanding questions of me like that is incorrect.”

He opens the door behind him.

“Miles, wait--”

“Edgeworth.” he spits, sparing a final, dark glance behind him.

And he’s stalking off towards the main doors of the courtroom, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind him with a low, rumbling thud.

Chapter Text

December 25, 11:30 AM
Detention Centre
Visitor’s Room

They’re sitting in a grey box separated by a thick pane of glass and a telephone cord. Wright has this terrible, sullen expression on his face, all of the colour drained from his complexion. Wright isn’t even the one on trial, this time; he’s not the one that should be crying.

“Miles,” Wright calls, and his voice has gone all soft and warm like putty. He wonders if he talks to all his clients like this. He wonders if this is another one of Wright’s exceptions.

“I told you to stay away from this case, Wright. I can’t let you get involved.”

“Please, let me defend you.” Wright is sliding his badge towards him as if he hasn’t seen it a million times before. Edgeworth watches the glimmer of it as it slides across the table until it’s pressed right against the glass. “I want to defend you.”

I want you, too.

The words get lost somewhere between his heart and his lips.

“I can’t.” is what he says instead, his head hung low with shame.

“Miles--”

Wright opens his mouth again, but he’s stopped quickly as his gaze flickers to something above them, a nervous expression crossing his face. Miles feels it, too: the swaying of the light source as the shadows dance from side to side. There is a gentle roll that carries the room like a speedbump. Wright looks back at him and even though the phone isn’t pressed to his mouth anymore he can tell what he’s saying.

Earthquake.

Miles’ stomach flips and he’s on the ground before his mind can catch up with his body. He tucks himself into the leg space of the cubicle, curling in on himself as he feels another tremor rock the room.

Someone calls his name, but he’s already gone.

When he resurfaces, he’s sitting in the nurses’ office of the detention centre. He inhales as though it’s his first gasp of fresh air after being waterboarded. The air is stagnant and reeking of antiseptic but he can breathe.

He looks up. Wright is standing in the doorway, looking like someone who is not supposed to be where he is. It doesn’t help that, before stepping further into the room, he peers conspicuously out into the hallway.

“I shouldn’t be in here.” Wright says dumbly, stating the obvious.

“You shouldn’t.” Edgeworth agrees.

“Are you okay?” Wright asks. “I didn’t-- I didn’t know you had a fear of earthquakes like that.”

Miles swallows a wince as he sits up too quickly and the room sways. He becomes dimly aware of a bandage on his head and becomes a lot more clearly, terribly aware of the fact that Wright just saw that Ordeal.

“Well. Now you know.” Miles takes a sip of water, trying to sour his expression enough to hide his nausea.

“I don’t remember you getting like that when we were kids.”

“That’s because I wasn’t.” Miles mutters, trying to glare but having difficulty focusing on which of his visions of Wright to look at; he’s seeing triple.

“Did something happen?”

“No.” Miles lies too quickly, and then: “I just haven’t felt one in a long time, being in Germany for so long. You know, motion sickness and all that.”

Wright looks at him like he doesn’t believe him for a second.

But Wright’s expression becomes more solemn, again, and the sinking feeling returns to Miles’ chest.

“Miles, I--” Wright bows his head, swallowing. “Please. I need to defend you. I know you didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?” Edgeworth replies hollowly. “You weren’t there.”

“Because I believe in you.”

“You’re even more foolish than I imagined, then.” Edgeworth mutters. “You can’t just-- you can’t just accept a case off of a gut feeling like that.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“A case isn’t won on believing, Wright.”

“I know that,” Wright replies, “But it’s where a case begins. Believing is what defense attorneys need to do.”

Wright inhales, taking the moment to pause and cast an uneasy look towards Miles as if he isn’t sure that he should say what he’s about to say next. He continues anyways:

“It’s what your father did.”

Miles’ eye catches on the gleam of his badge, again. He sucks in a low breath.

He thinks of the nightmare, first, but then he thinks back further. He remembers watching his father in court, in awe of his ability to command the room and seek the truth. He didn't often think about his memory of his father before his death--it was most often too painful.

But here, with Wright beside him, it feels easier to remember. It's still bittersweet, yes, but it doesn't leave his chest with the crushing sorrow that it so often does; he had most often punished himself with the idea of his father, with the idea that no other person on earth could seek justice as purely as he did. He had lived for so long in a state of permanent guilt and shame that he couldn't allow himself to believe in justice strongly, not for himself.

With Wright, it felt different, sometimes.

“Okay,” he breathes, “I trust you.”

Chapter Text

December 30, 2016, 1:17 AM
High Prosecutor’s Office
Rm. 1202

He’s been out of the detention centre for just over two days.

It’s after midnight, maybe something like one in the morning. The Los Angeles streets are still busy below his window, casting an array of artificial light upon his wall even from this high up, but he takes little notice.

He has a half-empty bottle of cabernet and a currently-empty wine glass that he’s replenished five or six times. He has also been staring at his resignation letter for the past three hours.

He wrote it when he was sober, but didn’t have the courage to leave it in his office. Then he had pulled out the cabernet that he had gotten as a gift at one of those dreadful office parties and had stashed in his bottom drawer and forgotten about. Then… a lot of the rest is rather blurry.

He tries to place the letter back on his desk but finds that his hands are still shaking from the nerves; he pours himself another glass but worries that even once he does find the ability to leave it there he won’t be able to stand.

Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to find out.

Someone knocks at his door, at first gently but with increasing urgency as he doesn’t respond, frozen in horror and glued to his chair as he is. How is he supposed to explain the state he’s in to his colleagues? He had thought everyone else would have gone home by now.

“Miles?”

This might be even worse than one of his coworkers.

It’s Wright.

“I know you’re in there. Your window is open on the street side and I saw your car in the garage. Let me in, please,”

There is a long, drawn-out pause, and then:

“I’m worried about you.”

Miles is only barely able to wobble to a stand. Blood rushes to his head, causing him to stumble back and forcing him to steady himself by pressing a hand to the cool, glass pane.

Something constricts in his chest as he glances around nervously. There’s nowhere for him to run; the largest piece of furniture he has is his desk, though the bottom of it is open and there’s no way to hide behind it.

“Miles, seriously, if you don’t answer I’m going to kick this door down.”

There’s his filing cabinet, but that would be ridiculous, and in order to hide in it he would have to empty the entire thing out which would leave very obvious evidence--not to mention the fact that he would have no way to close it once he was inside.

Phoenix is still pounding his fist against the door and the noise is ricocheting around Miles’ head, knocking his brain around like a newton’s cradle.

Finally, the noise stops, and Miles--in his stupid, drunken stupor--is relieved for all of a single second before it’s replaced with horror as he hears the sound of Wright actually breaking his door down.

It all must move in slow motion as Wright finally gives his door the final shove it requires before the hinges buckle under the pressure, giving in and sending the door (and Wright) thudding to the ground. Wright is back up as quickly as he had fallen, and then he’s just staring at Miles, dumbstruck as usual.

Miles feels his knees buckle under him and it’s all he can do to throw himself out of the way so that he doesn't hurl all over his thousand-dollar carpet.

Wright is by his side in an instant, his hand rubbing Miles’ back as he retches, coughing and shaking as one, two, three, four, five, six glasses of wine come all the way back up.

Edgeworth spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes feel glassy and he has to will back tears as he pointedly avoids Wright’s gaze.

“Shit, Miles, what happened?” Wright asks. “You shouldn’t drink that much when you’re by yourself--how were you planning on getting home?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He feels stupid.

“Wait here a sec, okay? I’m gonna go get you a glass of water.” Wright says, standing and reaching across Edgeworth’s desk to grab one of the crystal glasses lined up at the edge, but freezing mid-movement.

Miles’ face goes ten shades paler. He tries to stand to hide the evidence that Wright has definitely already photo-copied into his brain, but forgets his own intoxication, knocked off-balance immediately and swinging backwards to thud against the glass window once more, sliding down it pathetically.

The glow from the streetlamps below illuminates Wright’s face as he slowly turns to look at him.

“Did you write this?” he asks, his mouth taking a moment to catch up to his brain; he already knows the answer. “Why did you write this?”

“Because I’m quitting.” Miles says dejectedly, looking up at him. His own vomit inches across the hardwood floor, threatening to creep up onto his pantleg.

“But-- why?”

“‘Cause I’ve lost the--” his diaphragm is wracked with something between a hiccup and a sob and he has to wipe saliva off of his mouth again-- “last two trials I’ve run. And I couldn’t even-- prosecute my own father’s murder--”

He can feel a hot coil of shame constricting around him, can feel his resolve cracking.

“Hey, calm down,” Wright chides, his hand on Miles’ shoulder, the dim glow of city lights illuminating his eyes. “You can talk to me. Please, Miles, I want to help you.”

“I’m still having nightmares,” he confides. “They haven’t gone away.”

He doesn’t know why he thought that the nightmares would stop; maybe he thought, since he had earned his innocence, that the visions that tormented him would understand, karmically, that it was their time to leave and move on to the next tortured soul. He knows he shouldn’t have believed that; his belief in karma and cosmic retribution died a long time ago, but there was some childlike yearning for simplicity within him that had just innately believed that it would be okay.

It wasn’t, of course. Now that he had the full picture, his imagination didn’t need to fill in the gaps; it was even more terrible and vivid than usual. He had lived with von Karma for so long that every wrinkle and scar of his face was perfectly placed and vivid; the sound of the bullet shuddering into his father’s ribcage was terrible enough, but the sound of von Karma’s voice was so true to life that it became even worse.

He hasn’t gone home since.

“Oh, Miles…” Phoenix strokes his hair as he cries. He can feel his chest rising and falling steadily against him. “I’m so sorry.”

Phoenix pulls him closer; Miles allows it. He’s drawn to him in a way that feels magnetic--gravitational--like he’s being guided to Phoenix by forces outside of either of their control.

They stay like that for a long time. It feels like hours, but it probably isn’t.

“I’m gonna give you a ride home, okay?” Phoenix murmurs, standing and reaching out his hand, “Let’s take my car.”

Edgeworth nods, letting Phoenix pull him up off of the floor like a ragdoll.

Their walk down the stairs is quiet and careful. Phoenix doesn’t ask him if he wants to take the elevator--he already knows the answer. He has to help Edgeworth down; trying to go down stairs already messes with his depth perception, even when he isn’t stupid drunk. He’s still swaying as they walk to the garage, and Phoenix pulls his arm up and drapes it around his shoulder to help him to stand.

Phoenix slips into the driver’s seat while Miles thuds into the passenger’s seat, slouching as he fights unconsciousness. Tonight has been embarrassing enough; the last thing he wants is for Phoenix to have to carry him inside.

They drive in what is mostly silence, save for the clicking of turn signals and the rhythmic swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of windshield wipers.

He casts a glance at Phoenix. He doesn’t know why he came into his office--let alone why he was even in the neighborhood at this hour. His agency is on the other side of town, and his house is even further.

“I’m worried about you.”

Had he thought that Miles was going to…?

Phoenix jostles his leg to draw him out of his thoughts. The way his hand brushes briefly against his inner thigh makes him feel… something that he is too drunk and tired to unravel right now.

“We’re here.”

“Thanks.” Miles says, the drunkenness wearing off just enough to give way to embarrassment. His hand moves to rest on the door handle. Phoenix’s hand rests on the gearshift, but makes no action to switch out of park.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Phoenix says.

“Yeah,” he swallows, “Tomorrow.”

“Hey, Miles?” Phoenix looks over at him.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t-- Don’t do anything stupid.” he says, “I care about you.”

“I won’t,” he breathes, turning to look at him and allowing himself the mercy of seeing the other man’s face glowing pale silver by the streetlamps, “I care about you too.”

But when he wakes up the next morning, the last thing he remembers is his fifth glass of wine.

The next day brings American news of a suicide note, a ruined office, and a body that has not yet been found. He does not sleep that night, either.

Chapter Text

March 21, 2018, 6:34 PM
Police Station
Criminal Affairs Dept.

His reintegration back into American law was supposed to be simple: a low-profile case that he could unofficially “assist” on and a small, unpublicized seminar for the High Prosecutor’s Office. Then he’d fly back to Europe, finish his work, and return officially in a year or so. No fanfare, no questions, just in and out. Easy.

It wasn’t supposed to be whatever this is, with the precinct being turned upside down, Phoenix barging into the police department all unkempt (with a seven-year old in tow, no less--Miles has a moment of pause in which he seriously questions if Phoenix’s assistant was that young the last time he saw her), and Franziska mauling poor Gumshoe to death with her whip.

He hadn’t been prepared for this--for Phoenix. He knew the conversation would have to come up eventually, of course--it would be foolish to believe that nobody would discover or question his reappearance--but he hadn’t expected for this moment to arrive so quickly.

Phoenix turns around--the only part of his conversation with Gumshoe that Miles can overhear is a dejected “Sorry, pal”-- and crouches to comfort the small girl next to him who has all but burst into tears, but freezes.

He catches Miles’ gaze and the world collapses.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, standing but not moving. An entire year of emotions flicker behind his eyes in a single moment. “I thought-- I thought you--”

Miles takes a slow breath in. “I had to leave.”

“But the note, the--” he shakes his head-- “I don’t-- I-- What?”

His mouth goes dry. He’s searching for an explanation that he knows he cannot give. He doesn’t have one, after all.

“I’m sorry I ran away for a year, I couldn’t stand losing to you.”

“I’m sorry I swore Gumshoe to secrecy and flew off to Europe without telling anyone else, I needed to rediscover myself.”

“I’m sorry I faked my death, I wasn’t convinced of the verdict that you had earned for me.”

“It’s… complicated,” is all he says instead, “But I’m back. For now. I'm sorry.”

The silence stretches on for a long moment, and it’s only after several seconds that he realizes Phoenix is waiting for him to say more. When he has nothing, the shock in his eyes begins to harden into anger.

“You’re sorry? That’s it?” he asks, and the words are a sharp, ice-cold slap to the face, “What the hell, Edgeworth?”

“You write a fake suicide note, disappear for over a year, and then have the gall to waltz back in here without a shred of explanation?”

‘I--”

“I mourned for you, Edgeworth. When they couldn’t find your body, when they were tearing your apartment to shreds looking for something--anything--that could explain it,”

“And now you’re back, and you’re standing here in front of me, and all that you can say is that you’re sorry? And that you’re back ‘for now’?’’

“You don’t understand,” Miles pleads, and he can feel a hot, familiar shame bubbling up inside of him again, boiling under his skin and making him prickly and hot all over. “It was an erratic decision, yes, but I had to do it, I-- I wasn’t-- I didn’t mean--”

“An ‘erratic decision’?” Phoenix echoes, “You ran away from everything. I thought we were supposed to be friends again. I thought you had changed.”

“I have changed,” Edgeworth begs, “That’s why I came back. I’m sorry.”

He knows he should match Wright’s anger but it’s all he can do to hold back tears. He’s ruined it, again. He’s ruined everything they ever had, again.

And the worst part is that Phoenix is right. Of course he’s right, of course it was a bad decision that he should have thought through further. But he doesn’t know how to express how necessary it was for him to leave.

“I can’t deal with this right now.” Phoenix snaps, taking the girl--who is now staring at Miles with big doe eyes--by the hand and stalking past him. The precinct door clatters behind him as he leaves.

He stands perfectly still for a long moment.

“Sorry, Sir.” Gumshoe says after a while. “Bad timing. Things are… not looking good right now. Let me brief you on the case.”

Chapter Text

April 12, 2018, 9:42 AM
Wright and Co. Law Offices
Doorstep

It’s a few weeks after Engarde's trial. Miles was supposed to be back in Europe by last week, but leaving with his relationship with Wright as it is feels… unfinished. And he isn’t sure if he’ll have another chance if Phoenix is left to simmer for another year.

Phoenix had been cordial--even cooperative--during the Engarde trial, which Miles felt was certainly more than he deserved.

After it, however, he had been a ghost. Miles had called his office, once, though to his dismay Maya Fey had answered the phone instead, explaining to him in no uncertain terms that Phoenix didn’t want to talk. He saw him in the district court a few times as well, though since they didn’t have any trials together there was no excuse for them to talk and Phoenix certainly wasn’t going to make one on his behalf.

But. He leaves for Germany again tomorrow. And here he is, in front of the Wright and Co. Law Offices.

This is his last chance.

He’s been standing here for at least five minutes, lifting his fist to the door as if about to knock, but getting anxious and dropping it again. He’s sure he looks ridiculous to onlookers--a fully grown man getting so anxious about knocking on the door of a law firm that he has to close his eyes and take deep breaths--but he tries to push his anxiety down and finally raises his hand for three quick, firm raps against the door. He wipes his sweaty palms.

There’s some shuffling inside, accompanied by an exasperated “Who’s knocking? We don’t open for another twenty minutes!” from a feminine voice that he’s sure must be one of the Fey girls, but soon enough the door swings open.

It’s Phoenix, which he’s glad for because he’s sure that Maya or Pearl would have shut it in his face after what he did, though he isn’t entirely sure that Phoenix won’t do the same right now, either.. He’s relying on the base, last-ditch hope that Phoenix will make one more exception for him, now that they’re properly face-to-face.

Phoenix bores into him a glare that could level cities. He goes perfectly still, his posture drawn in and tense.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his voice hauntingly quiet. His cool, calm anger settles below the first layer of Miles’ skin like frostbite.

“I came to apologize,” he says.

“I don’t want your apology,” he mutters, “I wanted you here. Alive.”

“I know,” he says, “And I know it was selfish of me to leave. I was… blinded, by grief and insecurity, and I didn’t know how to direct it, so I just ran. And I think, in a way, that it was what I needed. I’ve learned a lot. But I also know that I didn’t go about it in the right way. I know that I hurt you. I should have understood that I wasn’t the only person affected by my actions.”

“I’m sorry, Phoenix. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, honestly. You don’t have to. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and that I’m never going to do anything awful to you like that again, I swear.”

“I…” Phoenix looks at him, his voice much more strained than it had seemed before. He looks like he’s searching for something within Miles. There’s something in his eyes, too, something that reminds him of how Phoenix used to be--something that reminds Miles of how he himself used to be, too.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says at last.

The quiet between them stretches out for a long time; Edgeworth doesn’t try to step forwards, but Phoenix doesn’t close the door, either. He almost wonders if the silence is a cue for him to leave, if he should just give Phoenix space and let him come to his own conclusion.

“Did Gumshoe tell you about what happened when you left?”

Miles pauses, his brow furrowing, so he continues:

“They questioned me,” Phoenix says, “Because I was the last one to see you alive. They had me in the box for almost thirty hours. The only reason they stopped pursuing it was because Gumshoe had the case closed, somehow. Because you told him, I guess.”

Miles does not miss the venom in his last accusation.

“And it was one thing that I had to sit in that interrogation room knowing that you were dead--trying to fucking understand that you were gone, and what that meant--and having to try to explain to a room full of cops that I didn't know what had happened, but it is another thing entirely to learn, an entire year later, that you weren’t dead and that you could have stopped it the entire time.”

“But,” Miles protests, “I was at the High Prosecutor’s Office the night before I left. I didn’t see you that day, I don't understand,"

“You don’t remember?” Phoenix asks, “When I came to your office at like one in the morning? You were piss-drunk, you threw up, we talked, and I brought you back to your apartment?”

Miles breathes in shakily, smoothing back his hair. He doesn't remember.

“When I dropped you off, I had told you not to do anything stupid,” Phoenix continues, mercilessly, “And for an entire year I thought that that had been your last conversation with anyone. That I was responsible for what happened to you. That if I had just talked to you more, or if I had stayed with you until you sobered up, or--”

His voice breaks, and he covers his mouth to stifle a sob.

“--Or if I had just been better, that you would have still been here.”

“Oh my God,” Miles whispers, "I'm so sorry."

He didn’t know. He feels stupid--idiotic--to not have thought that foul play would have been suspected, but he doesn’t remember Phoenix being there at all. His memory from that night is… hazy, at best, and the next day was just as cloudy, shrouded in a haze of self-hatred and a desire for escape. Everything blurred together, back then, and it certainly wasn’t helped by the fact that he wasn’t exactly sleeping, either.

“You really hurt me, Miles,” Phoenix says, “And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you did. I wish you had just-- told me, or gone about it a different way. I could have helped you. I would have helped you.”

Miles averts his gaze.

“But I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re alive,”

Miles looks up to see that he’s properly looking at him, now, a sad sort of smile just barely gracing his lips.

“I’m so sorry," Miles says, "I really value you, Phoenix, and I’m sorry that I never demonstrated the extent to which I care about you. I have made a lot of mistakes, but leaving you for the second time was the one I regret most deeply.”

“I should have been there for you, like you were for me," he says, "Like you have always been for me."

Phoenix looks at him, taking a step forward as the door closes behind him, and pulls Edgeworth into the tightest hug he’s ever experienced in his life.

Something in Miles’ chest is squeezed just as tight.

“God,” Phoenix says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, “I missed you so much.”

Miles hugs him back.

“I missed you as well.”

Chapter Text

July 10, 2018, 8:50 PM
Marseille, France
Miles’ Apartment

True to his word, Miles starts making an effort. He starts calling Phoenix weekly--even daily, sometimes--just to talk.

It’s something he isn’t used to, talking to people for any reason other than a scheduled meeting or chance encounter; he never kept in contact with any of the other boys from his boarding schools after he left them, and von Karma would usually transfer him around the continent between school years so that he would never stay in one place for very long. And of course he hadn’t replied to any of Phoenix’s letters, either, so long-distance communication is not yet a skill he has honed.

Most days, they discuss nothing in particular: trials, daily anecdotes, stories from the fifteen years that they missed (though those mostly come from Phoenix--Miles’ stories are largely too depressing to be shared). One time, they even discussed the weather.

In one of their conversations, Miles agreed to remain in contact with his sister in addition to Phoenix. He had thought it would be “good for them.”

Miles was skeptical, but willing to try it. He rings her one evening as he sorts through his files. She picks up after the second ring.

“Franziska,” he addresses her.

“Kleiner Bruder,” she greets coolly, “How have you been?”

“Kleiner Bruder” is what she would greet him with when they were children, even though he was the eldest of the two of them. They used to speak to each other in German back then, too, once Miles had the hang of the language. He suspects her use of English--her weaker language, even if only slightly--during their phone calls is a mercy on her part; his time in Germany had not been particularly pleasant, in the past.

“Quite acceptable. I’m working on a case I think you would enjoy.” he says, “And you?”

“Quite acceptable as well,” she replies, “I’ve been…”

He can hear her gritting her teeth as she looks for the words:

“Working on myself--Gott, ich fühle mich Amerikanisch wenn ich sage ‘Working on myself’--during my absence from court as of late. Perhaps you had a point, with what you said at the airport and all of that. Travelling for purposes other than work is… enjoyable. I went to Paris and didn’t visit the Eiffel Tower. I felt like a local.”

He smiles. He’s glad his sister is doing well.

“Not being tethered to anything is difficult, but it’s worthwhile. When you aren’t stuck to a concrete reputation--to an idea of yourself--or anything else, you let go of your pride. It’s good for you,” he hums, “I know from experience.”

She snorts.

“Untethered from a concrete reputation, maybe, but you were always tethered to something, Kleiner Bruder.”

“Oh?”

“Do not ‘Oh?’ me,” she laughs, “You are tied to that foolish Phoenix Wright like balloon to string.”

“What?”

He can imagine the way she quirks her eyebrow, even over the phone.

“Do you not think I knew of your stash growing up?” she says, “Big box of letters under your bed--I know Papa burned the first ones, so you kept them a secret.”

“You’ve known?”

“Of course I’ve known. I was the perfect height to see under there, back then. It was a good idea, though, which is rare for you; Papa couldn’t bend down with his hip the way it was.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Miles asks.

“Why would I have?” she asks, and the authenticity in her question causes him to frown.

“I don’t know. You didn’t like me.” He shakes his head, furrowing his brow.

“You thought I didn’t like you?”

“I…”

He doesn’t know what he thought. Franziska had always been stuck-up, sure, but when he considered it, he couldn’t actually recall a particular incident that would have given him the impression that she wanted to exact any kind of vengeance against him. Maybe that had just been what Manfred had wanted him to think; sibling competition, and all.

“You are my Kleiner Bruder,” she says, “Of course I protected you.”

“And besides, snitches get stitches.” She rhymes, laughing at her use of the English colloquial.

He can’t help but smile, too.

Chapter Text

February 8, 2019, 3:35 AM
Mitte, Berlin
Miles’ Apartment

RRRRing.

Ring.

Ring.

Miles ignores the first call. He’s sure it must be Gumshoe back in America, forgetting the time distillation between them again. Burying his head in his pillow, he groans and rolls over, letting the call go to voicemail.

Except it doesn’t. It rings again.

RRRRing.

Ring.

Ring.

He rolls back the other way, squinting as he stares at the fluorescent glow of the screen.

It’s a facetime call, which is a form of a communication that he absolutely despises. He doesn’t recognize the caller--it’s certainly not anyone who’s called him since he got his new phone two years ago; he’s the sort to create a contact name for everyone, even spam calls and wrong numbers.

RRRRing.

“Edgeworth speaking,” he grumbles, rubbing the bridge of his nose and fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand.

“Edgey!”

A shudder runs through his entire body. He has to dig deep for every ounce of constitution he has ever possessed in order to not hang up. He stares at the screen.

“...Larry?”

He looks like he’s outside, though it’s so dark on his screen that he could also be just about anywhere. He’s definitely running, causing his phone camera to have an absolute meltdown--it’s running at maybe three frames per second--and his shaky camerawork is doing Edgeworth no favours in trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Yo, Edgey, Nick’s in trouble!” Larry yells over the sound of wind whistling through the speaker, “Took a really bad spill!”

“...What?”

“He fell off a bridge like, two seconds ago!”

“What?”

He sits up further.

“Where?” he demands.

“Eagle River,” Larry’s voice warbles as he switches the camera around; now Miles can see the river running alongside him, his phone flashlight illuminating the dark water.

With that, Miles takes in a sharp breath. He knows Eagle River very well.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I’m looking!” Larry calls. He points the phone up at the bridge, which is illuminated with a crackling fire, molten scraps of wood and wire crashing into the river below, “He fell from up there. Holy shit, Edgey, I don’t know what to do,”

He begins to run again, following the current of the river as he calls Phoenix’s name.

Miles is fully out of bed, pacing around his room as he scrambles to get his things. He takes his laptop from his bedside table, typing furiously as he keeps Larry on speaker.

“Have you called emergency services?” Miles asks, running through the checklist in his head.

“Yeah,” Larry pants, running faster, “Shit, shit, shit, I don’t know where he went,”

Edgeworth buttons up his shirt, stuffing his suit jacket into his suitcase.

“Larry, listen to me. When you find Phoenix, you need to get him as warm as possible immediately. Get him out of his wet clothes immediately--give him your jacket, or something. If he’s conscious, keep him awake. If he’s unconscious, check his vitals. Do you know CPR?”

“I took a class a few years ago to get with this girl who was a lifeguard,” Larry says, “I think I remember some of the training.”

Edgeworth feels his eye twitch at that revelation, but he steels himself.

He charters a private jet from the closest airport, not even checking the price. It doesn’t matter. He’ll pay anything for Phoenix. He owes him everything and anything he has, and he will give it to him with no hesitation.

“Okay. Remember to do the breaths before the compressions, since he was in the water.”

“Okay,” Larry breathes

“I’ll be there in--” he does the math, slipping on his socks-- “Nine hours. Get in the ambulance or the helicopter--whichever one comes--with him. When you get to the hospital, tell me which one he’s at. I won’t be able to respond on the plane--I’ll call when I land.”

“Thanks.” Larry says with a grave confidence that he’s never seen on him before. “I’ll find him. I’ll do it.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He hails a cab and gives him a two-hundred euro tip to get him to the airport as fast as possible. They complete a thirty-minute drive in fifteen. He gets on the jet, and waits.

Eight hours.

He completes a crossword puzzle, poorly. It takes him more time than average, finding his mind slipping out of focus. He reads the news off of the on-flight newspaper, but finds that there is no singular piece of news that he could possibly care about more than Phoenix’s safety. He checks the time.

Seven hours and forty-five minutes.

He thinks about Phoenix. It’s been forty-five minutes since his call with Larry, which means an hour since Phoenix fell into the water, accounting for the time that it would have taken for Larry to call 9-1-1 and begin his descent down the cliffside.

He has no idea if he is dead or alive, and there are about one hundred immediately probable factors that could have killed him by now.

Seven hours and forty-three minutes.

He writes a draft of an email to send to his boss once he lands, explaining: “I can’t come into work today because the man I owe my life to just fell thirty feet into fast-moving water and then got swept under a current for at least another twenty minutes, and I’ve flown across the world to either see him in hospital or attend his funeral.”

Seven hours and thirty-six minutes.

He thinks he’s going to throw up.

He does not know what he will do if he lands and is told that Phoenix is gone.

Franziska was right: despite everything, he has kept him grounded. He was the rock; he was the tether. Miles can’t stop coming back to him, can’t stop getting pulled in. He doesn’t keep coming back to Los Angeles, or to the courthouse, or to prosecution--he keeps coming back to Phoenix.

Anxiety grows within him like a weed bursting from his heart. The airplane is hot--or maybe he’s just nervous--and when the flight assistant asks if he wants a flute of champagne he gratefully accepts it and tips it back like it’s nothing.

He tries to relax, but sitting still is impossible right now. He taps his foot, tries to get through a book, and waits.

Seven hours and thirty minutes.

He groans.

February 8, 2019, 7:54 AM
Los Angeles International Airport
Entrance

When they land, he’s on the phone in three seconds and off of the plane in two minutes.

“Talk to me, Larry,” he demands, barreling through the airport.

“I found him a little while after you hung up. We got flown out, he’s at the Cedars-Sinai right now. Things went crazy wrong, Edgey, there’s been a murder-- I have to go to the detention centre, I’ll talk to you later.”

“What?”

Click.

And… Larry has hung up. Edgeworth walks faster.

He shoves a fistful of cash at a cabby and tells him to drive. He does as he’s told, and Miles is at the hospital thirty-eight excruciating minutes later. To his credit, it has only been eight hours and fifty-eight minutes since he spoke to Larry in Germany.

It’s just past eight in the morning Los Angeles time. He is running on four hours of sleep, a flute of champagne, and three cups of coffee. But Phoenix is alive. He’s alive, and Miles is going to see him again.

“He was very lucky,” the nurse says, walking him down the hallway, “Your friend found him caught on a rock a ways downstream--if he hadn’t been stuck the way he was, face-up, he likely wouldn’t have made it since he was unconscious after the concussion he suffered from the fall.”

“Not to mention the placement of the breaks in his ribs. A few inches to the left and it would have been a break in his spine. Hypothermia, a concussion, and broken ribs are incredibly mild injuries, given the circumstances.”

The nurse knocks on the door and peers in; Phoenix is still asleep.

He’s propped up in a hospital bed, wrapped with bandages and swaddled in blankets. The upper right half of his chest is exposed to reveal a thick line of stitches--presumably where his ribs broke, as well--and he’s plugged into all sorts of machines that beep and whir mechanically beside him.

“You can stay beside him, but please mind the machines; he’s hooked up to a lot of medicine and monitors. He’s also on morphine right now, so he might be disoriented when he wakes up.”

“Thank you,” he says, nodding.

The nurse checks his vitals quickly and then slips out through the door, leaving them alone. Miles pulls up a chair next to Phoenix, sinking into it.

Phoenix is alive.

The relief he feels is palpable, easing the weight on his joints and the strain on his muscles.

Beside him, the bed shifts.

“Miles?” Phoenix hums sleepily.

“Phoenix,” Miles murmurs, feeling his heart finally sink back into place from where it had sat in his throat, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Phoenix grabs his hand from where it lays on the side of the bed. He squeezes it, and it does something to Miles’ heart that he can’t explain.

“I thought you were in Europe?” he asks, blinking. He tries to shift over, but is wracked with pain, grimacing. Miles sets a hand on his shoulder to steady him back into the bed.

“I was,” Miles says, “I flew out when Larry told me what happened. I chartered a jet.”

“Holy shit,” Phoenix says, a grin cracking across his pale, bruised face; he has a bruise that stretches the length of his entire left cheekbone that roars an angry purple, “That’s crazy. That's like--fifty thousand dollars, Miles, oh my God.”

“You just tried to run across a burning bridge,” Miles says, finding himself unable to resist returning Phoenix’s smile.

“And you renting a private jet is still crazier,” Phoenix laughs giddily, but the feeling wears off fast.

He inhales, slowly, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling fan that whirs above them. It doesn’t move very fast, and there is a definitive jankiness to its movement that catches his attention.

“I’m glad you came.” Phoenix says more seriously. “There’s no one else in the world that I would have rather woken up to than you.”

“I’m always going to be here for you,” Miles says, swallowing, allowing the words “from now on” to go unspoken. He continues:

“You are so terribly important to me. I owe my soul to you, and I would give it to you in a moment’s notice. That was my greatest fear, on the plane: the idea of losing you and having never been able to tell you how much I care for you.”

“God,” Phoenix says, looking back over to him, tears spilling from his eyes, “I’ve been scared of that since I was nine years old and you disappeared from my life.”

And Miles melts. He crumples like a soft sheet of paper and his heart puddles in his chest. All of the tension in his body releases itself as the seams of his composure tear, all of the trust he feels towards Phoenix spilling out at once.

He’s sobbing like a fool--he’s sure his sister would tell him so--hugging Phoenix as closely as he can without hurting him. Phoenix hugs him back, and now they’re two idiots sobbing in a hospital room even though they’re both okay.

Chapter Text

February 9, 2019, 4:57 PM
Eagle River
Inner Temple

Miles is driving up to Eagle Mountain, escorting Iris up to unlock the psyche-lock on the door. The road is small, winding, and lonely; he has not passed another car in almost an hour.

Iris is handcuffed at the wrists and ankles in the backseat. He had a temporary plexiglass sheet installed between the front and back seats. It’s impersonal, really; he doesn’t want his car to be ruined if Iris decides to hijack it and drive them both off of the cliffside.

“So you know Phoenix,” she says mildly.

“Yes,” he replies carefully. Phoenix feels like dangerous territory, with her, and he doesn’t want to let slip what he knows. “We met when we were children, and reconnected as adults. He’s a dear friend to me.”

She glances up at him strangely, and something changes. She inhales and straightens her back in a small, disjointed movement.

“Hm.” she hums.

“Do you know him?” he asks, skirting the precipice of the topic.

“No,” she says quickly, looking up at him in the rearview mirror, “But when I first met him, a few days ago, I thought I might have. I was mistaken, however.”

Thwick.

A snare of chains wraps around her like a cobra strangling its prey. He realizes that he has not yet given Phoenix back his magatama.

She gives him that look, again.

“Hm,” she repeats.

Her gaze bores into his in the rearview mirror.

“Two people in a car,” she pauses, looking at where his hand has slid into his pocket, encasing the magatama, “And they both do not want to tell the truth, but know exactly when the other is lying.”

And it’s at that moment that he realizes that she has a magatama, too. Except, he doesn’t know what his lie was.

She sinks back into her seat. They both know that there is at least thirty more minutes until they reach the summit; they have more than enough time.

“How many?” she asks, her gaze meandering through the space around her as though she might be able to see the locks herself.

“Three,” he exhales. If he lies, she’ll just lie right back, so they have to trust each other.

“Same for you,” she says simply. No extra chains ensnare her. It seems she has the same idea.

Neither of them can lie, which means that the objective here has become to ask the right line of questioning that will lead him to the truth the fastest. The first one to get the information they want will pull back, logically, and have no reason to continue asking. It’s a battle of wits.

“So you knew Phoenix beforehand,”

She inhales sharply, but matches his gaze.

“Yes.” she says quietly. There is a soft clinking noise like the shattering of a thin piece of glass, and when he looks in the mirror again, another chain is gone.

“Where did you meet him?” he asks, pushing down the nausea rising in his throat as he makes another turn up the path.

“College,”

“But you didn’t go to college.”

“No.”

So she met Phoenix at his college. But how? Why?

“Are you and Phoenix enemies?” she asks.

“No.”

“Acquaintances?”

“No.”

“Are you more than friends?” she raises an eyebrow.

“No.”

She frowns, clearly having reached an impasse. It buys him time.

He reviews what he knows: Iris Hawthorne has lived, for the vast majority of her life, at Hazakura Temple. She appears identical to Dahlia Hawthorne, who was executed after being found guilty for counts of murder, assisted suicide, and attempted murder. She met Phoenix Wright in college. Dahlia, according to the police reports, went to the same college as Phoenix.

But since Iris didn’t go to college, she can’t be Dahlia.

“What was your relationship, when he was in college?”

“We dated, briefly.”

Clink. Another lock breaks; only one remains.

“But Wright only had one girlfriend during that period of time,” he says, and she’s six feet under, now.

“Yes.”

Nothing moves. She wasn’t lying, but the revelation wasn’t significant enough. He needs to prove how that’s true--how Phoenix dated both Dahlia and Iris, but also how he only dated one of them.

“Are you friends right now?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“But you did meet when you were children?”

“Yes,” he says, truthfully.

She grimaces; clearly, she has not gotten anywhere.

“How do you know Dahlia Hawthorne?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light and unaccusing. He can’t allow her to clam up here.

She covers her shock easily, but he still sees it. She hadn’t expected him to have known.

Interesting.

“She was my sister,” she swallows.

“What was your opinion of her?”

“I owed her a great deal,” she says quietly, “And I respected her motive, if not her methods.”

“Were you in contact with her when she was dating Phoenix?”

“No,” she says, and she isn’t lying.

So there was a period of time in which she didn’t speak to Dahlia.

“Why weren’t you speaking during that time?”

“There was no reason.” Another truth. He shakes the magatama inside of his coat pocket like it’s a glowstick; maybe it’s broken, he muses.

“Does Phoenix want you to remain friends?” she asks.

“To my knowledge, yes.”

“And you the same?”

“Indeed.”

She pauses, for a moment.

He has one final moment, one last chance to piece it together.

There had to have been a reason for their lack of communication; even if Iris hadn’t known the reason, saying that there was no reason at all would have registered as a lie, unless--

“Dahlia never dated him. You did,” he surmises, the idea seamlessly clicking into place with the case he’s built so far. The final chain unbinds itself, the lock shattering like ceramic.

“And you want to,” she replies. She purses her lips slowly. “You might be friends, but you wish it was more.”

They’re at an impasse, again, though of a different kind.

“Does he know?” they ask, at the same time, catching each other’s gazes in the mirror again.

…And they each do not answer.

He sucks in a low, shaky breath, concentrating back on the road. He can feel her looking at him in the rearview mirror, but he does not dare glance back. There is ten minutes of dead-silence.

Finally, they reach the summit. Gumshoe greets them, Phoenix not far behind him.

“Let’s continue our conversation later, Mr. Edgeworth.” Iris hums quietly as Gumshoe kneels to unlock the handcuffs at her feet.

“Yes, let’s.” he agrees.

February 9, 2019, 6:14 PM
Eagle Mountain
Inner Temple

Less than an hour later, they’re descending the stairs into the Inner Temple. Crossing the bridge over Eagle River had done his fear of heights no favours--he’s sure he must be as pale and clammy as Phoenix is, right now--though their slow descent into dusty darkness isn’t much better.

There is a single lantern at the bottom of the staircase illuminating their path. Iris is walking just ahead of him so that she would have to push past him in order to escape.

Nothing has changed, between them; Iris still has her magatama, and he still has his.

“So, you and Phoenix?” he asks quietly.

“...Yes,” she answers.

“You dated him in place of your sister, and he had no idea the entire time?”

“No,” she answers regretfully, “But it isn’t what you think. I was protecting him, you need to understand--Dahlia wanted him removed for what he had.”

“The pendant," she clarifies.

“She had given it to him to try to dispose of evidence,” she says, “But he hadn’t given it back.”

“She was willing to kill him for it, but I had convinced her that I would be able to get it back for her. That murder… it only happened because waiting had pushed Dahlia to the end of her rope.”

“Yes,” he says.

“I did care for him,” she murmurs, “He was sweet, and he was always so good to me…,”

“But in the end, it was just to get that pendant back?” Miles asks.

“I have no intention of taking him from you, if that’s your question,” she replies calmly, not missing a step.

She is silent for another long moment; when she turns back to him at the bottom of the stairs, her expression is as lovely as ever, as though he had never said a word at all.

“I’ll get this undone,” she says simply, gesturing to the cave entrance.

“Thank you,” he says, and they both know that he is not only referring to the lock.

He watches her work for some time, not that he understands any of it. She interlocks her fingers to form a sort of steeple with her index and middle fingers, bowing until her knees have lowered onto the cold stone earth.

With nothing else to do but monitor her, their conversation runs through his mind.

So that was it: “He’s a dear friend to me.”

Phoenix does something to him that is utterly unexplainable and that he does not think he can sum up in a single word. There are too many layers to it all, too many variables. It’s more than just their friendship as children, more than the way Phoenix could so gently guide him away from his own sin, more than the forgiveness that received but not deserve, more than rushing halfway across the world to see him.

He thinks of his conversation with Franziska:

“You are tethered to that foolish Phoenix Wright like balloon to string.”

And she was right, in a lot of ways. Despite how much he had ignored it, the idea of Phoenix had grounded him for years, even when they weren’t in each others lives.

… He’s distracted by the hanging scroll sliding out of its place on the wall. He takes a step forward to right it, but feels the soft rumble of the earth beneath his feet, the movement that rolls like an air bubble in his chest, like the moment just after hitting a speedbump before your front tires hit the ground again. Nausea washes over him, freezing cold and clammy. The drawers begin to slide out of the armoire as the ground shakes. Iris gasps, somewhere, ducking herself out of the ritual.

Not here. Not again.

He presses two fingers to his temple, willing himself to calm down. But the room suddenly feels a lot smaller, the walls suddenly more grey, and the lantern suddenly much more fluorescent. He barely even registers it as he feels himself slam back against the wall, knocking his head against stone.

Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

He had gone without this for so long. He had almost escaped him.

He tries to focus again. He’s here, he’s in the inner temple, he’s on Eagle Mountain, he’s in an elevator and he’s nine years old--no, he’s twenty-six years old, goddamnit, he’s in the inner temple, and he’s running out of air, and people are yelling, and he’s going to watch his father die, again, and the air is so much thinner, up here--

“Miles,” someone says softly. There is a warm, steady hand on his shoulder instead of a gun in his hands.

He wrenches open his eyes.

Chapter Text

February 10, 2019, 11:07 PM
Restaurant

It’s the evening after the conclusion of the trial. Miles had treated everyone to dinner and some glasses of wine (save for Pearl and Maya, who were each buzzing away after drinking their sparkling apple juice, and Franziska, who sat in the corner sulking after the bartender told her that the age requirement to purchase and consume alcohol was twenty-one.

Phoenix seems fully relaxed for the first time in days, Maya was released from the detention centre, Dahlia is fully gone. The overhead light is easy and warm; he takes a deep breath.

It’s past eleven at night; most people have filed out, saying their goodbyes and giving hugs, stepping out into the cool evening rain under umbrellas and getting into their Ubers.

Across from him, Phoenix glances his way.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the cheque?”

“It’s okay,” Miles hums, signaling over the waiter, “I don’t mind. It’s my treat to everyone.”

“You just blew, like, fifty grand to fly across the world to get here,” Phoenix points out. “At least let me split it with you.”

“It’s von Karma’s money,” Miles says, signing the cheque, “I know he’d hate the idea of it: me, spending his money on the people that I care about--the same people that got him locked up in the first place. I want to do this.”

Phoenix sighs, but doesn’t push it. They step out of the restaurant together, looking out at the rain from under the front canopy.

“So, you’ll be heading back to Europe, then?”

“For the meantime, yes,” he says hesitantly.

“What comes after ‘the meantime’?” Phoenix asks, pulling an umbrella from his bag and letting it shudder open.

“I don’t know. It’s… rather silly, but I’ve come to rather miss Los Angeles, despite everything.”

“So you’ll come back here? Permanently?”

“I don’t know,” he hums, “Maybe.”

Phoenix hangs the umbrella over their heads, and they walk towards Miles’ car.

“I’ve missed being here,” he says, “I’ve missed being around the people that I care the most about. Europe is beautiful, and my job is perfect, but it’s… lonely, when everyone is over the phone.”

“And--” he swallows, and tries again: “And, I don’t want to have to fly across the world if something happens to you again. I want to be here for you. To make up for the time that I haven’t been.”

Phoenix looks at him, his eyes glossy. Something flickers like regret in his gaze.

“That year, when--” Phoenix’s breath hitches-- “That’s… all in the past, now. I don’t want you to move your entire life around because you feel guilty about that, or because you feel like you owe it to me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Miles clarifies gently, “This isn't a decision I'm making out of regret or charity. I want this. I’ve always cared for you, even before everything. Any length of time that I wasn’t with you, or speaking to you--it was torture.”

Nerves tighten around his heart. He takes a deep breath of the cool, fresh air.

“I received your letters,” he says, “All of them. I wasn’t allowed to write back, for a long time. And when nobody was stopping me, anymore, I didn’t--I didn’t have the courage to write back. I distanced myself from you as punishment for the cowardice that kept me from you in the first place.”

Something in his throat goes tight, and something in his chest goes even tighter.

“I love you,” he says.

Phoenix goes completely, utterly still for the longest moment of Miles’ life.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.

“I’m sorry,” Miles gasps, pulling back, feeling his hands tremor fervently, “I don’t know what just happened. I don’t know why I said that--that was disturbing, I’m--sorry--”

Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

He’s ruined everything. His body reacts to the feeling of it before his mind has caught up--his heart swells with panic, his neck suddenly hot and beaded with sweat, his skin clammy. He steps back out from under the cover of the umbrella, his trench coat spattered with rain immediately.

He could have left things as they were--should have left things the way they were--but he couldn’t help but sabotage it, couldn’t help but change it, alter it, shift the dynamic again, and again, because he can’t stop running.

He’s ruined everything. Everything. Everything had almost slotted into place for the first time in two decades, and he’s gone and stamped it out, and shredded it, and burned it at the stake, and buried it alive, and--

Phoenix grabs Miles’ hand.

“Oh my God,” Phoenix grins, on the verge of something hysterical, “I can’t believe that just happened.”

“What?” Miles inhales sharply, confused.

“I’ve loved you for seventeen fucking years,” he laughs, “And you’re the one that made the first move. Miles ‘Unnecessary Feelings’ Edgeworth just beat me to the punch.”

“What?” he repeats, sure that his mouth is hanging wide open in the same idiotic way that Phoenix’s always is.

“I’ve been stupid head over heels for you since we met,” he confesses, “Like ridiculously stupid for you. I don’t think I thought about anything other than how to see you again for fifteen years. You’re why I went to law school--you’re why I became a defense attorney.”

“I had one girlfriend in college and I would still talk her ear off about you all the damn time, even though it had been eleven years since I’d ever even heard from you. I like you so much. I don’t think there’s anything that you could ever do that would permanently ruin that.”

“I revolve around you. I always have,” Miles whispers.

“That is the most attractive thing anyone has ever said to me,” Phoenix says plainly, pupils big and dilated.

And then Phoenix is kissing him. And then Phoenix is really kissing him. His hand is in Miles’ hair, and on his chest, and he’s pressing him against his own car. The umbrella is long-gone; his overcoat is soaked, but he doesn’t care.

They pull apart, and Phoenix smooths his hair back, brushing water away from his face. His collared shirt hangs off of him, translucent from the rain. He hadn’t even brought a jacket.

“Holy shit.” Phoenix breathes, his cheeks flushed and his skin hot to the touch. He’s electric, absolutely glowing. “I knew that you were crazy, chartering a private jet and flying all the way over from Europe, but then then telling me that--God, I’m so fucking in love with you.”

He grins, licking the taste of Miles off of his lips.

And Miles leans in to give him more.

(Maybe it wasn’t heliocentrism, after all. Maybe they were binary stars the entire time.)