Chapter Text
February, 2017
There's a gnawing feeling in Phoenix's chest that his drink can't shake off. Gumshoe's laughter rings next to him, loud and unabashed, and even though he hasn't felt that relieved and free after a case in months, he still can't quite join in with his friend.
Gumshoe invited both him and Miles Edgeworth out for drinks to celebrate Lana Skye's acquittal, but Edgeworth politely declined, looking like he was in a hurry to head home. It was to be expected, a man such as him wouldn't be caught dead in a cheap corner pub like this, more so in any such social situation. Imagining the prosecutor here with him, under the dim lights, enduring loud pop music from one side of the bar, combined with loud sports commentary from the other, was almost amusing. Imagining him sipping a beer with them and talking about things other than work was downright surreal. He'd probably be the kind of snob to order red wine and swirl it around, talking about bouquets and vineyards. These brutes around them, yelling at the TV and wearing football jerseys, would eat him alive.
"–And I'm telling you, pal, that ramen was to die for! And so cheap! Hard to find that in the city– Pal! What's got you so down?"
The detective's question startles him, as he wasn’t quite paying attention to his words. He looks up from his beer, the third one for the night, focusing his gaze on the big man next to him. For a moment, he considers telling him, since, surprisingly- and sadly, thinks Phoenix with a hint of jealousy- Gumshoe is the closest to the Prosecutor out of the two of them. The alcohol buzzing in his chest threatens to make him spill his guts in more ways than one, and even if some part of his consciousness warns him that Gumshoe is a man who isn’t exactly known for his ability to keep secrets, no matter how harmless, he caves in.
And why did Phoenix want to treat it like a secret, anyway?
"Edgeworth looked strange. After the case, I mean," he responds begrudgingly. Gumshoe rubs his temples and nods approvingly, all too familiar with the prosecutor’s antics.
"Of course he did. He lost, didn't he?"
"Yes, but… That resignation letter he was going to write– He said some weird things. I don't know if I should be worried about him. I don't even know if it's my place."
Gumshoe’s smile is reassuring, and he pats Phoenix on the back with just a bit too much force, causing him to choke on his beer. ''Oh, pal, I get it. Don't worry, he's a tough guy. I don't think he has it in him to resign, trust me. Besides, he has way too much fun taunting me about cutting my salary, so the thought of a nicer prosecutor replacing him would probably keep him up at night.''
Yet Phoenix is still worried -has been, constantly -ever since the resolution of DL-6, guilt and concern keeping him awake in moments where he’d absolutely need some peace, in his dreams, nightmares and in the quiet of his office, so painfully silent ever since Mia passed away, ever since Maya left for Kurain, no longer there to snap him out when he was staring into space for too long.
Later that night, he bids farewell to Gumshoe and considers heading home. He feels too tipsy to ride his bike safely back to his studio, so he heads to his office on foot instead. Maya used to sleep on the couch there, before she left for another round of Spirit Training, so he supposes it can't be that bad. Then again, she's much smaller than he is, and she was used to sleeping on futons back at home. Ah, the perks of being young. He misses her so much that it drives him insane some days. Maybe she wouldn’t understand him, though she was scarily insightful at times, but she’d laugh obnoxiously or tease him or blast the soundtrack of the latest Steel Samurai movie so loud that he wouldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. She’d know what to say.
By the time he finally arrives at his office, the cool night air has sobered him up a little. That relief only lasts from the front door of the building to his floor, and then he seriously thinks that he's having alcohol-induced hallucinations or something. There, in the white LED lights of the hallway, stands Miles Edgeworth, leaning against a wall, appearing lost in thought. He looks strange like this, his cravat nowhere in sight, his coat neatly folded on his arm. He startles when he finally sees him, a deer in the flickering hallway lights, as if it's Phoenix intruding upon his space and not the only way around, but he regains his composure soon after.
''Edgeworth,'' is all he can say, more to make sure that he's actually real.
''Wright,'' is all that he hears.
''I have a phone, you know.''
''That brick you own can't exactly be called a phone," he mumbles without the usual bite.
''Wanna buy me a new one?''
Edgeworth sighs again, this time in annoyance, as if Phoenix is the one who should have any idea why he's here, as if this is just another sign of his incompetence. There's a long pause where they only stare at each other, with the prosecutor looking conflicted as he searches for his words.
''Do you want to come in?'' he offers, because Edgeworth doesn't look like he's going to be of any help explaining what business he has here at this fucking hour. He nods and follows him into the office. Phoenix takes his coat and points him to the couch like the good and gracious host he is. Fuck, he certainly can't sleep now. He leaves him for a minute as he starts brewing some tea for him. He risks a look back as he plugs the electric kettle in, and he sees Edgeworth slumping, his head in his hands. He's rubbing his eyes, then his temples, muttering things to himself that Phoenix can't hear. He'd like to say that he hasn't seen him like this in a long time, but that would be a wishful lie on his part.
He thought he saved him. He thought this was the happy ending.
He pours the hot water into the cups, the Earl Grey tea bag slowly turning it dark. It's the kind that Maya makes for herself, albeit with tons of milk and sugar, and it's the only one he has that isn't some cheap blend of forest fruits. Perhaps serving this to Edgeworth would get Phoenix sent to death row instantly, but he steels himself and places the cups in front of him on the coffee table.
He sits down on the couch opposite him, stirring some sugar into his own cup. ''Are you going to tell me what's going on?'' he asks, as gently as he can muster. He feels like he's beckoning a feral street cat to eat. He desperately searches for the boy he used to know in the sharp lines of this man's face, in his tired, almond eyes, in the downturned corners of his mouth, in his furrowed eyebrows. The boy who was supposed to come back magically and possess the demon prosecutor once DL-6 was resolved, just like the way Mia came back in Maya's body. Instead, Edgeworth looks up at him, impossibly sad, his silver eyes studying Phoenix right back, not as an opponent, but almost as you would a stranger.
''Look at the problem, asking what the problem is,'' he says with a sad chuckle, turning his face away. Anger bubbles up in Phoenix's throat, and he swallows it back down, gripping the teacup until his knuckles turn white. How dare he, after he turned his whole life around for him, after he saved him from prison and eventual execution, how dare Edgeworth come into his office and tell him that the problem was Phoenix all along? He didn’t expect to be worshiped for his choices, and he certainly didn’t want to hold it over Edgeworth for the rest of their lives, but was it really so wrong to want the man to treat him with more than utter contempt?
''And what,'' he asks, voice low and infuriated, ''pray tell, is the problem with me?''
Edgeworth turns back to face him, an unreadable expression on his face. ''You should have had it figured out by now, Phoenix Wright. You always seem to think you know me better than I know myself.'' That threatens to send him over the edge. Were this a courtroom, he would have banged his hands on the table and yelled an objection.
Instead, he sets the cup down a little louder than normally called for, the tea threatening to spill out and burn his fingers, but he pays it no mind.
''You are the one who came here, Edgeworth. I believe I'm owed an explanation.''
''I didn't think you'd come,'' he replies, matter-of-factly, and it well, yes, it was true. If he weren’t tipsy and incapable of riding home, Phoenix wouldn't have set foot in this all too empty place. How long would Edgeworth have hung around his office then? Why did he even come here, then, if he wasn't planning on talking to him in the first place? Was he trying to sneak in and steal something? Would questioning him about it cause him to run away? Even though he makes him angry, even though he barely even knows him anymore, he still wants him to stay, to work things out. He fixates him with a stare that he hopes comes out as firm, but his eyes feel droopy, thanks to the alcohol. Still, miraculously, it works, and Edgeworth finally sighs in some semblance of defeat, the crease between his eyebrows smoothening the tiniest bit.
''Even if I wanted to tell you, I find myself incapable of forming a sensible reason, and because of that, truth to be told, Wright, you're the last person whom I should talk to.'' His words are sharp, but his tone isn’t, and that leaves Phoenix dumbfounded. Here he is, in his office, sipping on his tea (without the expected complaints, surprisingly), making things worse for him with every word he says, both in and outside the courtroom.
''Yet you came here. And you say that I'm the problem, for some reason. Should I try to piece your cryptic bullshit together, or will you do it for me?''
He scoffs. "Must you know everything, even now? Am I not allowed to drink my tea in peace?"
Right. Well, if Edgeworth wants to play at being two best friends taking their afternoon tea at two am, then he should act a little better, because it's clear that he has no intention of drinking it, and he's also not being a good fucking friend.
But even if he can't be one, it's clear that he needs one. "Miles," he tries, hoping to appeal to whatever childhood fondness is left within him, but somehow, that manages to annoy Edgeworth even more.
''For crying out loud, you don't know when to stop, do you?" he cries. "I just wanted… God, I should have gone home. I truly don't know why I came here. Of course I'd run into you, of course you'd blow the whole thing up-''
''Blow what up? You're not making any sense-''
"I'm not!" he yells, hands in the air. "I know! Be my guest and try to figure me out, Wright! I knew all of my resolve would crumble if I saw you… I knew it, yet I still found myself at your door!" He gets up from the couch and marches to the window, his back deliberately turned to Phoenix.
Naturally, Phoenix follows him to the other end of the room, putting himself between the prosecutor and the view of the Gatewater hotel. ''Resolve to do what? Edgeworth, don't tell me you still want to resign-''
''Hah. See? What did I tell you? You tried to fix this,'' he gestures vaguely at himself, ''God, and you're still trying… It's so- so foolish! Useless! You can't!... Nobody can.'' The last part comes out weak and defeated, and Phoenix’s heart rips in two at his words, tearing at the exact pressure point that marks his greatest fear.
''Don't you dare resign, Edgeworth-''
"Or what? Get angry at me, Wright, come on! Yell at me! Bring back the pride and accomplishment I felt in my career! Oh, my apologies, you've ruined them, too.''
Oh, Phoenix is truly, incredibly angry now, incandescent with frustration. ''Joy of what? Prosecuting? Do you even fucking hear yourself? There shouldn't have been any joy for me to ruin in the first place! Don't tell me you found satisfaction in sending people to their execution–''
''I was good at what I did, the best, even, for four whole years, and then you show up–''
''So it's about your win record, then? God, Von Karma really fucked you up, huh?'' That may have been too sharp, and it seems to have struck Edgeworth for a moment, but he doesn’t back down.
His voice trails low and dangerous, and his gaze is fully on him, a glare so piercing it could kill. ''Oh, he did, I’m painfully aware of that. He really, truly did, but not as much as you have, it seems.''
It's Phoenix's turn to be rendered speechless. It's so easy, yet so frustrating to argue with Edgeworth, who seems much more like himself now that he's yelling, but it's infinitely more frightening now, because there's no audience, no judge, no defendant, no obstacle whatsoever in the way of their arguments, and now that things have escalated like this, yelling, gesturing wildly and standing very close together, in the back of his mind, the headline is clear as day:
'Phoenix Wright, 24, rookie defense attorney, was found murdered in his office, in the same spot as his former mentor, Mia Fey. The suspect, Miles Edgeworth, rival prosecutor and recently Wright's client, denies having anything to do with the incident at all, yet his fingerprints were found on several objects at the crime scene, including on the handle of the electric kettle believed to have been used as the murder weapon. The witness, Charley the Plant, claims to have been scared for his life.'
Phoenix tries to think of something, anything to say that would knock some sense into his former friend, while trying his hardest not to take the bait in feeling guilty for saving him. Of course, Edgeworth would come up with the most destabilizing remarks; of course, he would rise to match him whenever he gained the upper hand.
''You fucked me up, too, so where's that winning smile, Wright? Now I hate my profession and myself more than I ever thought possible. Congratulations. You win. Time and time again.''
Phoenix can't help but slap his forehead in frustration. ''God… Oh, my God, Edgeworth, how could you say that?''
''The things I've done... To you, to Miss Fey..." he grips his elbow, looking pained, then turns his gaze back towards him. "I don't know what foolish sentimentality you hold towards me, but you are intelligent enough that you should not let it blind you to the truth. You should hate me, Wright. You really should. ''
''And yet, I don't hate you,'' he states, keeping his voice as steady as he can muster.
Edgeworth pulls at his hair so hard that he could tear it out, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. "Oh, would you wake the hell up, Wright! Is little Phoenix sad that he can't recognize little Miles anymore? Did you think I'd become a defense attorney and be your law partner? Did you think we'd hold hands and ride off into the sunset–"
''God, Edgeworth, just shut the fuck up! All I wanted was for you to be happy!''
''I was happy!'' he declares, stomping his foot and clenching his fists.
''Were you, now?" he shouts as he jabs him in the chest with his pointed finger. "Look me in the eyes and say that again!''
Edgeworth obliges, spitefully, and really makes an effort to meet his eyes, but when he opens his mouth, no words come out. He's so close to him now, so incredibly close, his cheeks red from arguing, his breath heavy, his disheveled hair falling into his face, and Phoenix is struck with the most terrifying thought of his life, one that definitely has no place in a serious argument like this. He's never seen him like this. It's never gotten this far.
''Tell me you were happy, Edgeworth,'' he says again, his voice suddenly soft, his traitorous, inebriated body leaning even more into Edgeworth's personal space.
''I-I…'' He tries, but the words refuse to come out. Phoenix would normally be reeling with pride if he ever managed to gain the upper hand on Edgeworth in the courtroom. But here, in this haunted office of his, in the middle of the night, with no one awake in the world but the two of them, his heart aches for him, for the man who was once his best friend, for the man he could have been.
''Forget it,’' says Phoenix as he cuts him off, unable to watch him struggle like a trapped animal, unable to take the guilt of turning him into this. ‘'Edgeworth. Miles. I could never possibly hate you, no matter how much you want me to. You're right, you were good at what you did, infuriatingly so, and without you, I would never have discovered the truth. I truly think you could find happiness in it again, if you just went about it differently.''
Edgeworth turns his gaze away from him, looking wistfully through the window as the golden lights of Gatewater illuminate his achingly perfect profile. ''This is the only way I know how to be, Wright. I'm… I'm not good at being happy. I don't think I ever will be.''
That makes Phoenix's heart sink. Despite all reason, he feels like he's made everything worse as he looks at the man in front of him, at his distant eyes, as he hears his voice tremble. Softly, he places his right hand on his chest, feeling his erratic pulse, an attempt to mend the bridge between them, to comfort him, to say something that he doesn't have the words for yet. Edgeworth looks at him again, really looks at him, his piercing gray eyes rendering him speechless. The distance between them is less than an arm's length, and he feels it shorten as the man slowly steps close, as Phoenix's arm folds inward until it's being crushed between their chests, until it's the only thing separating them. He can see every detail of Edgeworth's face in perfect definition, can feel his breath on his nose, the pressure of the desk into his lower back as he's slowly being pushed in. At this distance, the two centimeters he has on him mean the world. He feels struck with the bewilderment of gazing upon a Renaissance painting, a split-second pause into a beautiful tragedy; he sees the angles and the curves, the sacred geometry of his face, and in that moment, Phoenix is at a loss for words. Maybe he should let Edgeworth kill him. It would be a fitting, beautiful end.
Edgeworth doesn’t kill him, but he might as well have. Instead, he leans in until their foreheads touch. His eyes move to his lips, then back up, and Phoenix is struck with the beginning of a hunch that he usually gets in court, but for which he doesn’t have enough evidence. He wants to see how this will go, to stall for time and keep the prosecutor in his personal space until the piercing blow of truth finally hits both of them.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Slowly, Edgeworth pulls away, staring at him in a way he can't discern, even though he's analyzed hundreds of facial expressions in art by now. Longing? Shock? Fear? All Phoenix knows is that he suddenly feels empty, thrown out into the cold, and Miles Edgeworth is dashing back wordlessly to the coffee table, taking a big chug from his teacup, and retrieving his coat from the hanger before Phoenix even manages to wake up from his reverie. From the doorway, he looks back at him wistfully, impossibly sad and defeated, an expression that would haunt his nightmares for many years to come, that he’d remember for the rest of his life.
''I apologize for my behavior tonight. I have been most disrespectful, despite your inviting me at this late hour. I should not have dumped my problems onto you,'' he says, trying to sound like absolutely nothing has transpired, even though his strained voice betrays him.
There's something terrifying about Edgeworth's look. Like he's in a daze, sleepwalking right towards the ledge, and it makes his stomach drop.
''Miles,'' he tries, desperate to bring the life back in his eyes.
''I'm afraid I must take my leave now.''
''Come back,'' Phoenix replies, a tinge of desperation in his voice that he didn't mean to show, a demon that he hasn't defeated yet either.
''I won't.'' He takes a deep breath, then he opens the door, steeling himself. ''I won't. Thank you, Phoenix. For everything.''
And with that, he's gone into the night.
Edgeworth doesn't call all weekend, but that's to be expected, after everything, so Phoenix doesn’t push any further, believing that they should both take the time to lick their wounds in private.
On Monday, he decides to swallow his pride and call him, but he doesn’t answer, so he rides his bike to the prosecutor’s office. The receptionist informs him that he hasn't come in yet and that he should wait, but before she can stop him, he walks on ahead and tells her that he'll wait for him there.
And he waits.
He sits patiently on his couch, staring at his bookshelves, at his peculiar chess set. He doesn't have anything to do today, so Edgeworth can be as dramatic as he wants, because Phoenix has all the free time in the world to chew him out again. He debates sitting in Edgeworth's chair at the desk, but realizes that he would probably be angry at him if he caught him, and in a bout of spite, he sits down anyway.
There, on the desk, lies a note, written in neat, elegant handwriting, and Phoenix, curiously, takes it in his hand to read it.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.
He doesn’t remember whether he or the note dropped to the floor first.
The next few days are a blur. Frantic calls to Gumshoe, office searches, apartment searches, police precinct visits, a tightness in his chest that wouldn't go away, wouldn't let him fucking breathe.
He can't be dead. He can't be dead. He can't be dead.
And through all of it, all Phoenix can think about is their argument from the other night, the strangeness in the way Edgeworth acted, how cruel they'd both been, how he should have run after him into the night and dragged him back with all his might.
About how this was all his fault.
At home, in the quiet of his room, he finally breaks down. He screams, he cries, he begs Edgeworth to come back, again and again, until his voice is raw, until he can’t even do that anymore. He swears at him for leaving him, but most of all, most of fucking all, he swears at himself for letting him go.
Phoenix failed to save him.
Spectacularly so.
The next few weeks are even more of a blur of alcohol, trashy reality TV, and instant ramen. The garbage piles up in the room, and his curtains haven’t been opened in God knows how long, but Phoenix can’t be bothered with them. He doesn't take any case, and how could he, when he can barely even leave the house and can’t find the courage to come back to the office, can't bring himself to see the remainder of that night?
Somewhere, on that coffee table, there are still two teacups, long gone cold and moldy, permanently stained by the black tea.
When Phoenix finally comes back, his hands trembling on the doorknob, he throws both the cups directly into the trash can without a second thought and waters Charley with tears in his eyes, apologizing over and over as his knees involuntarily give way to the ground.
Charley decides to forgive him and come back to life.
Edgeworth doesn't.