Chapter Text
Instead of the bright eyed defense attorney that was supposed to stand in front of him, his smile being so bright it could rival the sun, there was a gravestone.
It was gray, and clean and as cold as the attorney now is, six feet under him. Well, he wasn't really six feet under as they had never found his body but that didn't matter. Miles was sure Phoenix was six feet under somewhere.
They had found a note explaining what he had done, plain and simple, not explaining why and not addressed to a single person. It was neat handwriting, neater than even Wrights law documents.
Miles was gripping the bouquet, filled with blue and white and mute colors except one singular poppy. He didn't ask for the poppy as he ordered the flowers so it must have been included on accident but he didn't care about the semantics of flowers right now.
Miles put the flowers on the grave, he had never understood the tradition of bringing flowers and he still doesn't. After all they would still rot, exactly like the corpse underneath.
He feels like he wants to cry, to sob, to scream his friends name and beg him to come back. A drop of control prevents the outburst.
The prosecutor scurries out of the graveyard. A tiny bit of the pressure on his chest subsides as he drives back home.
----
Dick Gumshoe got some time of, which was weird because he never got time of. He would even be happy about the lesser amount of work if it wasn't because one of his friends died.
He and Phoenix had become quite good friends, they each helped each other out and the attorney's presence was genuinely relaxing to him.
Yet now he was gone, he of course knew that but somehow it still hasn't arrived at his brain. Every time he's at a crime scenes he expects the attorney to stand around the corner with the same fiery passion he has for every case he accepts.
Yet he never sees that person, with his mismatched eyes and his spiky hair. All the other attorney's are bland, not special and sometimes even mean.
It has been two weeks, and yet his mind still thinks that Phoenix will return and he has just not taken the case. Except there was a gravestone with his name in a graveyard, and he won't come and investigate ever again.
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Tears and snot mixed with sweat run down Larry's face. His friend was dead! How couldn't he cry.
Larry was wiping his eyes every two minutes with the sleeves of a sweater that he borrowed from Phoenix once and just never returned. It was not something he would usually wear as he was more of a jacket guy if he were honest.
Larry's face was red like a tomato, not just because he was ugly crying but also because he was wearing a sweater in summer.
So he mourned his friend rolled together on the couch, ugly crying and wearing a sweater when it is way to hot.