Downswing
"F-Five of a kind!?" he sputters out, breaking out of his drunken stupor. Did this strange, mysterious, young woman just really defeat his 6-year long streak of winning poker?! She leans back in her seat with a satisfied smirk, arms crossed over her chest. "I win . . . Nick." it's their first meeting in five years after he loses his badge and their last before she leaves for Khur'ain, but it's not necessarily a happy one. — narumayo
Happy Narumayo Day, everyone! I tried to whip up something fluffy and quick for Phoenix/Maya day, but as you can see, this has turned into an angsty mess because I love writing a bummy, alcoholic Nick. If you're familiar with my other Narumayo oneshot "Distance," this was the original path I was going to take with that story until I scrapped and decided on a happier ending. I hope you enjoy it!
Warning: To be safe, I'm giving this oneshot a Teen Rating, for depictions of a character suffering from alcoholism.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is copyright © 2018 Turnabout Writer. All rights reserved.
downswing – a period during which a player loses more than expected
His boring days at the Borscht Bowl Club have been full of horrendous attempts at playing the piano – with the exception of that one song he has learned to play – so, tonight's challenger is a blessing.
When the time of the "appointment" approaches, Phoenix arises from the piano bench, his hand simultaneously reaching into the crate beside it for an unopened bottle of his personal, heavenly hell, and walks to The Hydeout. As he enters the stairwell, the air turns frigid. His hands immediately pull his hat down to cover the tips of his ears and he burrows his free hand further into the pocket of his hoodie.
Trucy isn't here with him today, but he's not concerned – he has won games without her and has maintained his wining streak with ease.
Tonight will be no different, he thinks to himself, as a dark-haired woman in a long, purple coat awaits his presence at the bottom of the steps.
.
His eyes widen as he begins to choke on the beverage he'd been trying to swallow down. "F-Five of a kind?!" he sputters out, breaking out of his drunken stupor.
Did this strange, mysterious young woman just really defeat his 6-year long streak of winning poker?
The beauty's dark pink lips twitch upward. "Well, I had a wildcard, and it's not like you told me if I won with a wildcard, the hand would be held in lower regard when comparing it to your hand." She leans back in her seat with a satisfied smirk, arms crossed over her chest and vague recognition tugs at Phoenix's mind for the, maybe, fiftieth time during this poker game. "I win . . . Nick."
Phoenix lets out a sharp exhale of breath as the woman pushes down her hood and shrugs out of her coat to reveal her trademark acolyte's garb.
The bottle of "grape juice" drops from his hand in shock. It does not shatter, like he expects to hear, but it does roll around the floor for a moment, spilling the alcohol onto the thin, old, musty carpet. Seeing the drink spill doesn't leave his heart feeling gripped in a strong vice-hold, as it normally would. Maybe Maya's presence is too overpowering. A blessing and a curse – relief from the bind the alcohol crushes his heart and mind in, but only a passing relief that will subside when she leaves.
But with her presence, a new vice grips his heart instead, causing his chest to tighten and making it hard for him to breathe properly. "M . . . M-Maya?!" he gasps out, jumping to his feet.
"Shh, don't worry," she assures, her voice gentle, as she stands up from her chair as well, walking to him with small, deliberate steps. "Your loss is only between us."
He shakes his head, still slightly disoriented, as the scent of cherry blossoms hit him with her closeness. His win streak may be damned, for all he cares in this moment. "You . . . Maya!" He immediately pulls the woman to his chest. She fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, which allows him to bend his head down slightly to bury his nose into her hair.
"Hi, Nick," she murmurs back, hugging him back. "I've missed you so much."
Still in their embrace, Phoenix pulls them down so that he is sitting on the office chair, with Maya in his lap. His callous palms move from her waist to her tear-stained, yet cold cheeks, reveling in their softness, before his lips captures hers (and her lips are softer than he imagined them to be).
He kisses her long and hard, trying to forever preserve this moment in his memory and afraid to let go – who knows when he'll ever get to do that again? He feels Maya shudder against him and respond to his kiss, reaching up to the nape of his neck and weaving her fingers through the hair there.
"Maya." He speaks against her lips, before pulling away slightly. "I-I'm happy to see you, but what are you doing here?"
He knows he is always being watched by someone, and though he hasn't been able to confirm it is Kristoph, he warned Maya and Pearls to stay away, not wanting to put them in a position where Kristoph could use them to his advantage – plus, the future Master of Kurain can't sully her good name and reputation by associating with an ex-attorney disbarred for presenting forged evidence in court, right?
Maya quickly averts her eyes from his and nervously tucks some stray tendrils of hair behind her ear. "I . . . I came to say goodbye." She peeks a look at him to gauge his surprised reaction.
"Goodbye?"
Her eyes appear to be full of sadness, but her smile is gentle, and for a moment, he is reminded of Mia. "I'm leaving for the Kingdom of Khura'in in a week," she whispers dejectedly. "I have to go there to finish my training, once and for all."
His hands drop from her face. "You and Pearls are leaving me?" His voice is full of hurt.
She shakes her head, pushing herself off of him and standing up. "Only me. Please, you and Trucy take care of her for me."
With the loss of her touch, he feels light-headed, and his chest hurts with need once more – for Maya or for the alcohol, he doesn't know. "Y . . . You can't leave me like this!"
She squeezes her eyes shut, but tears escape their corners regardless. "I . . . I'm sorry, Nick. Goodbye." There is an unspoken 'I love you,' behind the words – Phoenix can nearly hear it. Before he can say it back, though, she turns on her heels to walk away.
"W-Wait, Maya!" His hand shoots out to grab her arm, but she's too far from him.
So, he pushes up from the chair, but trips on his flip-flop as he does. "Shit!" he cries, as he stumbles, and then steadies himself. "Maya, come back!" He tries to run after her, but knows that he is not sober enough tonight. His legs tremble and his knees wobble, giving out on him as he collapses to the ground. Automatically, his shaking hands reach for the bottle on the floor, giving into the need that he knows won't leave him.
"Get that bottle out of your hand, Wright!"
He suddenly recalls how Edgeworth had shouted at him that first night he found him in the office, and how his had hands grasped around the glass bottle and had tried to tug it out of Phoenix's hands.
"N-No, Edgeworth, please! I need it!" he had pathetically cried back, pulling back the bottle to his chest.
The memory hits him like a brick, and, in his chagrin, his mind registers that he is clutching the bottle close to his chest in that very same manner. He hears a choked sob and looks up to Maya, who is still walking away from him, but the heartbroken expression on her face that he can discern makes him realize that the sound has actually escaped his throat.
She stops in her tracks and gives him one last glance, her blank eyes filled with tears. Is she as ashamed of him as he is of himself?
Nonetheless, he stares back with heavy-lidded eyes, as he brings the rim of empty bottle to his lips, choosing to despair over the bottle of spilled alcohol instead of chasing after her.
It's a huge mistake, something that occurs to him a few moments later. He wrenches up from the floor in a sudden movement, the bottle tumbling out of his hands, and, this time, the impact is hard enough to make it shatter. The word, "Maya!" is a hoarse shout, a realization, a plea, out of his dry throat.
But it's too late. She has disappeared.
Heartbreak, self-loathing, and a wretched, never-ending thirst hit him all at once, causing him to gasp for air and stagger, suddenly crippled with that aching, burning need. His head turns back to the bottle, to silence the thirst and give into the pull, but it is shattered, its pieces strewn across the mildewy carpet.
His knees hit the floor once more and his quivering fingers touch the shards, as if it would allow the bottle to reconstruct and refill itself. His chest tightens, his throat feels like a desert, and, in that moment, his heart burns with one, heart-wrenching thought -
She is gone, and his one and only escape from her is, too.