Summary: Done for the kink meme. Deathfic. Post JFA. Phoenix dies. Edgeworth does not react well.
Prompt: I have yet to find good deathfic focusing on Edgeworth and Phoenix that has been written to the point where either ones dies and the other has to deal with their death. What I really want to see is Phoenix being killed somehow while Edgeworth is there. I don't care what the scenario is, though I'm thinking shot by someone aiming for Edgeworth, someone related to one of his guilty verdicts maybe? How does Edgeworth react to this? How does he deal? Does he recover, become stronger from it somehow, and move on? Or does it destroy him mentally? Does he feel responsible in some way?
It's my fault.
All my fault.
I should have moved.
I saw it coming. Saw the sniper. Saw him pull the trigger, if only just barely.
He... He was trying to pull me away. Push me into the crowd. I don't know if he noticed the sniper as well, but...
I saw the sniper pull the trigger, just as he moved in front of me.
I should have gone when he first told me to.
It's all my fault.
God, it's all my fault...
H... He's in my arms, now.
H... His suit is turning purple.
I can feel it. His blood. It's pulsing out. It's warm and wet and sticky.
His hands are shaking. I can feel them on my back.
G... Gumshoe. Where's Gumshoe...? Where is that dick when you need him!?
He's trying to talk to me. He shouldn't. Stop talking, you idiot. You'll only make it worse.
Where the fuck is Gumshoe!?
I should have moved.
That bullet was supposed to hit me.
Not you. Me.
Someone's screaming. I can't make out what that someone's screaming.
He's getting heavier. I don't think he can stand on his own two feet anymore.
Gumshoe, you bastard, get the fuck over here if your ass wants to keep food on the table!
I taste salt. It's wet. My cheeks are wet. I can't breathe.
Someone's still screaming. My throat feels oddly hoarse.
My chest hurts. Not like him, though. I know there's no bullet inside me. The sniper left. Unless there's another one, there's no way I could have been shot.
He's still talking. I can barely hear him. Shut up, you moron! You're weak as it is...
His suit isn't purple anymore. It's just red now. So, so red...
My hands are red, too.
I'm so sorry. I tried to stop the bleeding...
There's so much blood.
I feel dizzy. The world is turning staticky and red. My fingers are tingling.
I hear someone hyperventilating. Saying his name over and over. That person is sobbing.
He's talking less now. He's having trouble breathing. I told you not to talk, didn't I? Now look what happened.
That sobbing person is saying "no" now. Saying "no" over and over. That person seems very upset.
He stopped talking. He feels very heavy now.
I can't feel his pulse anymore.
That person is screaming now. I tighten my grip on him possessively. I don't want to let go. That screaming person scares me.
My throat is killing me. A lot of saltwater is falling into my mouth.
... Oh. The person crying and screaming is me.
"PHOENIX!"
Phoenix died yesterday.
Yes, Phoenix.
Not Wright. Phoenix.
I don't have the right to call him by that name.
We're barely friends. I don't even know how or why he remembered me. We knew each other for less than a year before my father died and I moved to Germany. I almost didn't remember him at all.
Why did he feel the need to try to contact me?
What made him think I was anything but perfectly fine?
Why did I even matter to him?
What drove him to believe in me, after not seeing me in fifteen years?
What drove him to defend me, when even I was thoroughly convinced of my guilt?
Why did he try to befriend me, even knowing how I've changed?
Why was he so hurt when I "died"?
Why, why, why?
Why did he die?
I can't work like this.
He saved my life.
He was my rival.
He was my childhood friend.
He was a nuisance.
He's done so much for me.
I can't think.
Why, Phoenix, why?
Phoenix died three days ago.
He was an art major in college.
His degree outside of law is for art.
There is absolutely nothing in his records that implies he may have wanted to pursue a career in law.
Nothing before 2013.
In 2013, he tried to contact me. Multiple times.
One of the messages he left that I ignored but never deleted was from the detention center. He was accused of murder.
Why didn't he tell me he was involved with Dahlia Hawthorne!? I would have answered him that much sooner, had I known!
Then, maybe we could have had more time to become friends.
Maybe we'd be inseparable by now, like we were as children.
Maybe he wouldn't have entered the courtroom as an attorney.
Larry told me yesterday. Phoenix became a lawyer to meet me. To find out what turned his friend into a demon.
He hadn't seen me in eleven, twelve years and yet dropped any and every plan he had for the future just to save me.
What was I, to you, Phoenix? What was I?
Phoenix died a week ago.
The funeral is in three days.
I haven't gotten any work done in a week.
I can't stop thinking about him.
About his death.
There's no one to save me anymore.
You're not here to save me.
What do you expect me to do, Phoenix?
I've been asked to speak at your funeral. I don't know what to say.
What can I say?
That you were a good rival?
That you were an idiot?
That I would have dropped everything to save you in return?
That by the end of your fourth case, you had succeeded at taking my world and ripping apart everything I knew of it?
That I was grateful, am grateful you did?
That in return, I ruined your life?
That it's my fault you're dead?
That it's my fault you were ever in a position to be killed?
That it's my fault you died a lawyer of a little less than three years?
That it's my fault you never got to pursue whatever art-related dreams you had?
I think I remember... Back in grade school, you wanted to be a comic artist, didn't you? Or was it an actor? Both? You tried, at least.
But then, you found me.
I... I wish you hadn't.
I wish that we had never crossed paths at all.
Then, maybe you'd be a movie star right now. Or a famous manga artist, with his own anime. Or some combination of the two.
Not lying in a casket.
It's my fault... It's all my fault.
Phoenix died ten days ago.
Today is the funeral.
I can't face anyone. Can't look them in the eye.
I'm afraid.
I don't want to see the accusing looks. The tears. Worse, the pity.
It's not as if I had the most to lose. I wasn't dependent on him, after all, unlike Miss Fey. Maya.
He saved her with a guilty verdict just before he died.
Technically, it should have been a "not guilty" verdict to save her. But Phoenix and I found the truth together, and we were able to save her even with the correct verdict.
We were celebrating, that day.
I stood off to the side, uncomfortable with the crowd.
Phoenix was trying to get me to join the others.
Then he was shot instead of me.
He did nothing wrong. Nothing.
I am the Demon Prosecutor. I have done a great many things that I need to atone for.
Phoenix was innocent. Always, always innocent.
Why him? Why did he, the innocent one, have to die?
Why not me, the guilty one?
It's time for me to speak.
I stand at the podium.
I have nothing to say.
I apologize into the microphone and sit back down.
I meet no one's eyes.
I can't speak to them.
It's my fault they're here. My fault they're grieving.
I wish he hadn't taken my case two Decembers ago.
Or that I had the balls to follow through with my plan shortly after.
Then, maybe he would be alive.
Because I would be dead.
Phoenix died a month ago.
I don't remember the last time I ate.
I don't remember the last time I got any work done, either.
I should come in to the office. Crime will not wait for me.
I can't bring myself to get out of bed.
I stare at the ceiling, a hand on my stomach.
I'm still wearing my suit and cravat.
I don't remember the last time I changed my clothes, either.
I should change.
I can't bring myself to get out of bed.
Maybe if I get up and go to work, this will all turn out to have been a horrible nightmare.
Yes. Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe if I get up and go to work, Phoenix will be waiting for me on the other side of the courtroom.
Not the other side, other side. Just the courtroom.
No bullets embedded in his back.
No blood staining his blue suit purple... red.
Not in a casket.
No crying peers.
Alive and better than I've ever been.
I can't bring myself to get out of bed.
I'm afraid to check only to find out no, I'm not dreaming.
Phoenix died. I don't know how long ago that was anymore.
I'm not hungry.
I'm not thirsty.
I don't feel anything.
My best friend has been dead for I don't know how long, and I don't feel a thing.
I must be a terrible friend.
The phone is ringing.
I don't feel like answering it.
It's cold.
I'm sleepy.
I haven't done anything at all in recent memory, but I'm still so tired...
It's not like I've left my bed at all, anyway.
I'm going to sleep. Hopefully I dream well...
"Mr. Edgeworth! Mr. Edgeworth, sir! I got him! I got the sniper that killed Mr. Wright! MR. EDGEWORTH, OPEN UP!" Gumshoe bellowed, pounding on the door.
Edgeworth had been depressed since Wright's death a little over a month ago. Gumshoe, in a moment of highly inconvenient brilliance, had gone after the sniper when he saw the man flee. He caught him, but the bastard pulled out a handgun and shot him in the leg. It took a month to track him down again, but he got him, even while recovering and doing his best to keep an eye on his boss in the meantime. It seemed his boss hadn't really noticed, though.
It seemed like his boss hadn't noticed anything at all in the past month.
He'd done what he could to keep the man eating and somewhat aware of events while he was still recovering from his injury, but after that, all bets were off. Ordinarily, Ms. Fright would care for the man if he wasn't around, but the poor woman had essentially been put out of a job when Edgeworth faked his suicide. She needed to pay the bills, so she left to work elsewhere, and had yet to hear of her former boss' return.
Gumshoe hadn't been around in more than two weeks. He couldn't remember how long it took someone to die of starvation or of thirst, but he was rather sure two weeks was plenty of time for that to happen.
He could only hope the man had had enough sense left in him to at least try to nourish himself.
"Mr. Edgeworth, I'm breaking down the door if you don't answer me somehow!"
It seemed drastic, the detective knew, but he'd called at least three times a few hours ago. He saw the familiar red sports car outside, covered in a layer of dust and nature's droppings. He knew the man was here and had not left in some time.
And he'd been bellowing here for at least five minutes, now.
"If he's really alright, I'm really going to regret this...," he mumbled to himself before finally bellowing, "That's it! I'm breaking down the door! One, two... Three!"
The door went down with a bang! and Gumshoe entered, scanning the area.
Everything seemed covered in a fine layer of dust.
That was worrying. Very, very worrying.
"Mr. Edgeworth!" he called, looking left and right. He headed down the nearest hall, still calling for the man.
At the end of the hall was a room, door ajar.
"Mr. Edgeworth?"
There the man lay, peacefully still, in his familiar garb of borderline-magenta maroon suit and white cravat on his bed. Beside him on the nightstand was his phone, blinking, indicating he had unchecked messages.
"Mr. Edgeworth?" he asked carefully, approaching the slumbering man.
Upon closer examination, the man was extremely still. As in, he didn't appear to be breathing.
"Sir?" he asked again, reaching a hand out to jostle the man.
The stiffness and lack of resistance together were disturbing.
He hovered a hand over the prosecutor's nose and mouth. Nothing. He wasn't breathing.
Gumshoe cursed to himself and placed two fingers to the man's neck. He knew instantly it was a lost cause; the man's skin was cool to touch. Still he held his fingers there for a minute, hoping desperately for one little movement beneath the skin to indicate the younger man's heart was still beating.
Nothing.
Gumshoe sighed and pulled out his phone. Much as he wanted to break down right now, he didn't want to end up like the man before him. Not without at least informing someone else of the tragedy that had occurred here.
For all that he was rumored to be a demon, Miles Edgeworth had died of a broken heart.