Colors of the Rainbow

Seven Phoenix Wright/Larry Butz Oneshots Featuring the Colors

By Cracktastical

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Red

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IN THE WORDS OF PHOENIX WRIGHT

I often find myself in a dream within a dream, with my body standing in the middle of a crowd of people with no faces. No eyes, no lips, no nose, no nothing – just emptiness and monotony and everything non-human you could think of. It's scary, I remember. They all walk past me and ignore the fact I'm standing, and I don't know why I want them to notice me. There's this want I have in the pit of my stomach, how I want them to see me for who I am and not simply 'the shadow of the great Mia Fey'. It's hunger. The want to soar. The need to spread my wings and fly.

But they keep on walking past me, breezing through and pretending I don't exist. I would attempt to catch one of them, to speak; but each time I would reach out they would disappear, and leave me emptier than I came.

I would feel annoyed, and I would cry in frustration and try my best to be noticed. But they'd keep moving, and I'd stand there with a look of desperation on my face.

Then there would be a back in front of me, a surprising scene considering all those who pass me by. A back splashed in orange, hair spiked upward to reach for the sky; and that stance of casual enjoyment. I would shout, then, two syllables rising from my throat and dancing throughout the entirety of this world of blankness and inability.

"Larry!"

My shout would dance and engulf the world, and would finally land onto the ears of the man I called for with such an unbearable tone of torment. He would turn, then; and my eyes would brighten up – and at that point the world grew colors and faces and –

- he was bleeding.

"Nick," he would say, a look of pain in his normally excited brown eyes. "Run while you still can. They'll find you – they'll mangle you – they'll destroy you and – "

A horrified shriek, ripping from my throat before I realized where it came from – and the risk of being known and different and out of the shadows –

And all those I knew would appear, Edgeworth on the ground, Maya hanging; and Larry –

- Larry.

Destroyed and laughing, smiling; charming grin on his face as he'd fall to his doom.

"La-"

A hand on my shoulder, then, and I'd turn and stare at the blank face that touched me. He'd laugh sardonically, take me in his arms and –

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I wake up in a cold sweat, lips pressing together to form a thin line as tears drip down my cheeks. An arm raises and pulls me down, and soon enough I'm pressed against a sleeping Larry Butz; using me as a teddy bear replacement. The red, battered old couch we're sleeping on groans when our positions shift, but I sigh in the feel of someone beside me.

But remembering that look and that laugh makes me shiver, and I have no choice but to remain awake the whole night.

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Red is the color of blood.

The color of anger and frustration.

But it's also the color of a battered old couch that's been with two best friends for well over fifteen years. And as much as I know that now would be the perfect time – Larry, there's something important I want to tell you - I know that what I want to say would never make sense to him, or to me.

"Larry, I want to protect you. Larry, I want to keep you safe-"

And again, I go back to sleep, or at least try to – haunted by the nightmare that continues on and on with every night that passes me by, knowing that what I want to say will never find its way out of my throat.