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Miles Edgeworth could not believe he was doing this.
It was mad enough that Phoenix had actually proposed such a solution to his predicament. Stand as a defense attorney in court? Wearing his badge? Even just thinking of all of the violations and infractions he would be committing makes his head spin.
However, it is even madder that Miles had actually accepted the task, fingers brushing over the attorney’s badge on his jacket lapel as he stood in front of Hazakura temple.
The badge had not been the only thing Phoenix had handed to him in preparation for the investigation ahead. Along with the badge came a glowing jade pendant—a magatama, Phoenix had called it—which Miles had not even begun to understand in terms of the function it would serve, a haphazardly compiled folder of potential evidence to be submitted into the Court Record later on, as well as…
A small leather-bound journal was in Phoenix’s hand.
“What is this?” Miles had asked, grazing the tips of Phoenix’s fingers as he took the book, the attorney’s skin hot and dry.
“Ah, case notes,” Phoenix had clarified, his voice worn thin by the fever. “I…took the liberty of studying some of Mia’s old cases. Hope they help in some way.”
“...I see,” was Miles’ reply, the lesser option when compared to nagging his bedridden friend for working while in recovery. Pot meets kettle, he concedes.
“I’ve, um, bookmarked the relevant pages, so it’s easier to find when the time comes. So you don’t spend your precious time leafing through things irrelevant to Iris’ case,” Phoenix explains, rather hurriedly, his gaze pointedly away from Miles’ own…
Miles pulls out the journal in question. Its cover is worn but not abused, brown leather burnished to a dull shine by countless touches and surfaces. He can see the corners of pages, papers, and sticky notes sticking out of every side haphazardly, a visual testament to the journal’s somewhat hapless owner.
Miles sighs. How was he supposed to know which pages were bookmarked for his perusal when nearly every single page was bookmarked, colorful tabs sticking out of the pages indistinguishable from one another? Figuring he might as well take a cursory look at Phoenix’s notes before proceeding with his investigation, Miles locates a bench somewhere along the temple’s winding path and swipes the snow away before taking a seat. In the distance, he can hear the blaring of police sirens and the chattering of detectives and officers milling about the temple grounds, but Miles tunes the noise out as he picks a tab at random and flips open the journal.
…To the wrong page. Oh well, Miles concedes. It’s unlikely I would get it right the first time. He scans briefly through the notes anyways and realizes…oh, these were Phoenix’s notes on State v. Fey, the first case Miles had prosecuted against Phoenix for.
He doubles back, reading a bit more closely this time around. It’s all…very Phoenix, Miles observes. Bulleted points of case information interspersed by Phoenix’s thoughts and information scribbled diagonally, off-kilter, and all over the place. Musings on possible methods, motives, and occasional observations on the goings-on in court or investigation.
‘Maya looks exhausted, I hope she’s holding up well. Investigate the paper with her name more closely.’ Phoenix had scrawled into the margin near the top of the page. Miles flips to further on in the case and he reads about April May’s ‘ off-putting charm ’ and how she had apparently ‘ blown her gasket ’ when Phoenix had so little as approached the drawer that had contained the wiretap.
Miles lets out another sigh, more exasperated. What a witness she was.
And then he turns the page.
‘ What happened to Miles? ’ is the first thing written at the top of the page. Miles suddenly feels a pang of shame course through his veins, as he remembered the prosecutor he once was. Miles had grown throughout the years, in no small part to the man who had written in the journal, but…still. He is glad he had come such a long way from the person Phoenix had wondered about in passages and sentences scrawled onto already-cramped pages.
Miles leaves behind State v. Fey, leafing further in the hopes of locating the pages he was meant to read through.
As he captures glimpse after glimpse of Phoenix’s observations and notes on the cases he takes on, Miles’ mind begins to ponder his current situation. This as a whole feels…very intimate. Does Phoenix trust him this much? What Miles had in his hands was, in essence, Phoenix’s thoughts and feelings put into paper, an arrangement of Phoenix Wright composed of words, notes, and diagrams. Years encapsulated in scribbles, moments captured in paragraphs.
Well, one more thing…
Phoenix Wright doodles in his case notes. From the beginning, and throughout, Miles catches glimpses of sketches, scribbled in the margins, the corners, in whole pages , even. When he had first made the realization, Miles had scoffed in an almost familiar exasperation.
Really, Wright? You’re flying enough by the seat of your pants in court as is. Is it wise to be doodling while defending your clients?
Realizing the futility of nagging a Phoenix that isn’t even in front of him, Miles has to admit…they’re pretty good.
A lot of them are portraits. In State v. Fey, he had spotted a sketchy rendition of Maya Fey’s face, captured in lines shaky, urgent. Had he been trying to capture her expression at the time, When he had first met her?
He meets a lot of familiar faces in the margins of Phoenix’s notes. Smoke trailing off of the corner of the page from Dee Vasquez’s pipe. Larry in his Santa Claus get-up. Gant’s stare is eerie, even in sketched recreation. Morgan Fey’s elaborate up-do takes up nearly a quarter of the page.
There are other doodles too. Some are more structured, such as a view of the courtroom from the defense bench, or a recreation of notable pieces of evidence. Some are more fluid, more dynamic. A drawing of the Berry Big Circus’ main tent in full swing. The Nickel Samurai flies through the air, across the edge of one page and going into the next. Detailed sketches of the deceptively good-looking ‘food’ on Tres Bien’s menu.
Snapshots of Phoenix’s career, of the people he’s encountered, the truths he’s uncovered. All captured in pen, pencil, and whatever other writing utensil Phoenix had at the time. Is that crayon ? Miles wonders, fingers brushing over waxy streaks of green that made up a drawing of the potted plant he’s spotted in Phoenix’s law offices.
Throughout it all, however, Miles notices a distinct lack of…well, him.
It’s…surprising, almost. It isn’t as if he’s indignant at his absence in the pages of Phoenix Wright’s journal like some vainglorious diva. It’s just rather… hm. Miles can’t quite put a word to it. Is he disappointed? No. Sad? Not exactly. The feeling sits vaguely, undefined and amorphous in his chest as he finally finds the page detailing Phoenix’s notes. The things he was supposed to be reading in the first place.
Even sick and feverish, Phoenix draws. Miles meets the doe eyes of Dahlia Hawthorne and physically shudders, dark eyes and a sickly-sweet smile drawn hastily, angrily? The strokes are bold, yet disjointed in a way, as if he was in a rush to get it all out of his head and onto the page.
The notes are not dissimilar to Miles’ own, not surprising considering one of the cases Phoenix had studied was Miles’ first case as a prosecutor. He commiserates with Phoenix’s belligerent ‘ bimbo??? ’ against his younger, more foolhardy self. Shame begets self-reflection.
And then, the notes end. The last stroke in ‘ Iris = Dahlia? ’ drifts and trails off of the page, and Miles wonders if Phoenix had actually fallen asleep as he wrote out his summary of the case.
The page next to it is blank. He shrugs, flipping through the remaining pages until he reaches the end, making sure he didn’t miss anything else.
He spots ruffles.
Miles blinks, closes the book, and skims through the pages again. Ruffles, near the end of the journal, pages apart from the rest of Phoenix’s notes. He fully opens the page, and he’s met with, well…
A page full of Miles. Incredulous fingers weave between headshot after headshot after sketch, a compilation of his face filling every corner of the two pages his eyes pore over, wide and incredulous.
Miles’ scowl, captured down to the tiniest crease in his brow. Motion lines trace over and over himself as he takes a bow from across the courtroom floor. A wry smile plays across the contours of his face. Some sketches are vague, some more polished and distinct, but they are all very much, unbelievably, of him.
Wary fingers leaf over to the next page, and now writing accompanies the images. Writing that addresses Miles . Specifically.
‘ Miles, I figured writing all of this separate from my notes would be better, since it’d be pretty moot to send you letters at this point, and it’s not very relevant to my cases, anyway. ’
Letters upon letters, one-sided exchanges chronicled one after another, carefully dated.
‘ ...I really wanted to punch that smirk off of your face when you brought out that updated autopsy report… ’
‘...You didn’t do it, Miles. I will find the truth, because I believe in you, even if you don’t believe in yourself…’
‘...Why did you do it?...’
‘...It hurts to think about you. Was your win record really that important to you? That you had to die for it…’
‘...I think I was too tired at the time, but if I had the chance, I really would have punched you at the precinct, cops and Franziska be damned…’
‘...Thank you. For saving Maya. For helping me. I think you have changed but in a really, really good way…’
Miles’ hands are shaking, heart hammering at a jackrabbit’s pace. That uncertain feeling has returned, now stoked high into a frenzy that climbs up his throat, its name barely slipping out of reach. Despite the snow and the biting cold, his head swims in a torrential heat as he reads the next page, damn his curiosity.
'Miles, I love you.'
…What?
‘We’ve known each other since we were kids, and ever since then, you’ve been an anchor point in my life. Get to the point. Cut the cheese, jeez.’
‘Even though at times, I’ve really wanted to punch you, not anymore! You love him, don’t make him think you hate him, dumbass.’
‘Your face is hot and I really really want to kiss you NOTE TO SELF. DO NOT WRITE CONFESSION WHILE HAMMERED’
‘Hey Miles, would you want to grab dinner with me someday? Has potential. Probably going to end up using something along these lines. Wing it, maybe?’
Miles closes the journal.
Phoenix loves me.
His hands feel light, dancing, barely resting on the journal’s leather-bound surface.
Phoenix loves me back.
In front of Hazakura temple, wearing Phoenix’s badge on his lapel, in a shuddering, silent realization, that feeling in his chest solidifies, its name becoming known and…and…
Miles has to prolong this trial. He has to succeed in his task and keep Iris away from the ‘guilty’ hanging over her head. To meet Phoenix again, to see him eye-to-eye, and answer the question that names the feeling in Miles’ heart and, apparently and unbelievably, Phoenix’s as well.
Miles Edgeworth has to do this.