Lest You Forget
When Miles moves his first steps in the place where Phoenix Wright lives, he senses a curious change in the atmosphere.
Developing expectations is not a part of his character for sure. There is, however, a linear simplicity that takes him by surprise. The scarce, simple furniture leaves an abundance of empty spaces, open to air, shadows and light.
It is so far, Miles muses, from the noisy crowds which always seem to tag along wherever he goes. Nothing like the rush of adrenaline and chaos he easily associates with the defense attorney.
Of course, everyone has the right to unpredictable sides to their personality. It's just – with him, it feels so strange to still be amazed at anything.
He follows politely in Maya's wake. They walk in silence, not to bother the two sleeping children – one of them severely overgrown, he thinks with a snicker – in the rooms next to them. As she knocks, to enter and be greeted by a very sick-sounding man, he takes his time to look around some more.
The hallway, too, is narrow and bare. Just a few pictures break the monotony of the dull yellowish paint.
Miles does not realize he is getting closer until he stands right in front of them, nose up in the air. He scans them, in a nonchalant sort of fascination. And there, even in the half-darkness of the lowered blinds, he shivers to recognize himself in many of them.
He is there indeed. Captured sideways, time and time again, by the occasional photographer's unsteady aim. He is among happy people and their friendly faces – nodding, even smiling, but watching them live above all.
He is always a spectator, in a way. As if a hard glass layer constantly stood between him and the world, parting him from everyone else. How can he hope to reach out?
By the time Maya returns, he is close to lifting his fingers and outlining the edge of one of the pictures. Her steps, if careful and discreet, are just too loud not to be heard. He shoves his hand in his pocket, hoping she did not notice.
"He is awake and looking terrible," she giggles, still unable to hide the concern in her tone. "Very infectious and green. Be careful, mister Edgeworth."
Her happiness is still evidently forced. None of them came out of the last few days unscathed, but this young girl bears the heaviest load. He cannot help worrying for her.
"Thank you, Maya. I'll make sure to be checked for biological hazard on my way out."
He accompanies his words with a generously overdone eye-roll. Joking a little cannot hurt – not in the aftermath of such gloomy events, for sure.
"In the meantime, do take care. You should try to rest, too. What you need right now are lots of sleep and good luck, and I wish you both."
The glance they exchange is brief, but what passes through it is dense enough to make up for the long time they have spent not speaking to each other. Many are their shared sentiments, on the same boat of misfortune. Maybe, someday, they will find the chance to talk it out.
"Thank you," she says, weakly. "For everything. I mean it."
After giving him a forceful nod, she retreats to Pearl's chamber. He is left alone – alone with his certainties, his fears, and all the things he would or wouldn't like to say.
Not that it is a big deal. Not anymore. By now, Miles knows the way it is supposed to go; they start talking first, and the ideas flow out in the process. Nothing to be afraid of.
Even so, as he enters the room, he pushes the door very slowly.
"Hello there, Edgeworth."
The voice which rises from the bed is barely a whisper. Miles had not heard a sound so grating and nasal in a long while.
This hopeless fool, he thinks, almost chuckling.
"Considering I was told you were on the verge of death three days ago, you seem to be doing, uh, quite well."
"Shut up," Phoenix groans. "Relapses are no better, you know."
"I know," he snorts, no less amused than before. "I am the one who told you to be careful, if memory serves me. You, on the other hand, insisted to cycle home on your own from the hospital, and that was the most of your cautionary measures. Surely you didn't expect otherwise?"
"Not expected! I am not stupid. I… well, I hoped for it, rather. I deserved some luck after such a mess, come on."
"That's so like you. The results show."
The answer, although muffled by the pillow, retains all the frustration of whoever falls victim to a very tenacious flu.
"You know what, you are not wrong."
Still grinning, Miles moves to pull the curtains open. The sliver of town he can see through the opening is radiant with the colours of the sunset, reflected in every angle by the skyscrapers in sight.
He will have to make it quick. It isn't much longer until the appointment.
"So, you didn't tell me anything on the phone," Phoenix finally wheezes, aching but curious. "You are always welcome here, but I wasn't expecting you to visit. Oh, and before any more misunderstandings happen: I am not dying this time. Not that I know of."
"That's not funny," Miles cuts in, dead serious.
"It's not. Back to the subject. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
All right, this isn't the hardest part for sure. The difficulties lie in what comes later; the partings, the questions, the things left unsaid.
On this occasion, more than ever, enough has happened to keep him busy explaining for months. Really, Phoenix does not know the half of it.
He tries to weave a convincing attitude anyway, and hopes to end it fast.
"Well… since we wrapped up the case and I took care of things, I wanted to say goodbye," Miles answers, somehow managing to make every syllable sound matter-of-factly. "I am leaving in two hours."
He makes his way back to the entrance, taking advantage of the walk to face Phoenix once more. The poor man, apparently filled to the brim with medicine, is struggles to lift himself on his elbows, and feel his way up the mattress to sit down. He is not sure whether the effect is due to the illness or not – but his eyes are widened in surprise, and his head hangs on one side, caught between hurt and confusion.
It's a heartbreaking sight. Why has he gotten himself into this again?
"You are?" he asks, faintly caught off-guard. "So soon?"
Miles taps his arm with his fingers. He is, as usual, infinitely patient, despite the slight bout of irritation that captures him.
"As you can imagine, I have pressing matters to tend to, Wright," he says, with a tone meant to confirm he is stating the obvious. "My short trip overseas wasn't exactly planned."
If there is something this man can do just fine, it is having the most uncalled-for reactions. He blinks repeatedly, and his face fills up with guilt for no apparent reason. Might be the fever, come to think of it.
"Of course," he coughs. "I see. I… of course I couldn't see you off in these conditions. I am so sorry."
Miles shakes his head, hurriedly, to assure him it is all right. He still can't help crossing his arms, unable to forget about the pile of paperwork that awaits him.
"You can't change the fact you are ill, Wright. But there wouldn't have been time anyway. On such short notice, it is already a miracle I managed to leave. There was no conceivable way for me to put all my work on hold on the spot – I am required to go back in a rush."
"I can imagine that," Phoenix sighs, looking down. "Did you… was there any damage? Missed trials and stuff?"
"Nothing major, no. I fixed what I could of my schedule in flight, before the case swallowed us whole. The serious things, in fact, are going to happen if I don't journey back right now."
The defense attorney nods energetically, at least as much as the headache lets him. Miles is relieved to notice his gaze is a little more focused. Just in case he has the brilliant idea of dying of flu, he won't be allowed to fly back again.
He had better be fine, or damn him and his vast array of brilliant ideas.
"You don't look so well, Wright," he must say, in front of that hint of sadness which doesn't leave. "Is everything fine? Besides… your health, I guess."
It is surprising how, while sick to the tip of his toes, Phoenix can still gift people with such brilliant smiles. They are always surprising, no matter how frequent.
"Yes," he assures, a little melancholic. "I just hope to see you back home soon. It's nice to have you here."
Sunken in work and contracts as he is, Miles can't help sharing the sentiment. He is sure now, after the past days, of the arrangements he wants to take for his future. No point in running about the world, when there is a destination to reach.
And less money to waste, on a convenient note.
He would leave now – he really would. It is getting more and more trying to just stay here, in silence. The weight of the events, the dark tones of the past days, hang between them, with all the hardships and the joys left unsaid.
Of course, Phoenix starts talking before he can escape.
"You know, I have thanked you," he says, softly. "But I haven't apologized. Nothing of this would have happened, hadn't it been for me. You are right when you say I don't think through stuff as hard as I should. I just… never meant to cause you all this trouble."
With all they have been through, especially the graver things than a flu, his hurt expression is too much to look at. The need to chase it away is automatic.
"You already apologized twice when there is nothing to do it for," Miles observes, somewhat vexed. "To come here was my own choice, not yours. And I don't want to start imagining what could have happened, if…"
"That's what I mean," Phoenix reiterates, gently interrupting him. "I understand, and I owe you for life. But it was so much of a hassle, I can't imagine how bothersome it must have been."
You can't, Miles confirms in silence.
"I don't see why you should have put yourself through this. It is true I asked. But it was up to you anyway, as you said. Not me."
For a moment, not even Miles knows how to answer. Doing what he elected to do felt as natural as breathing. And if Phoenix can't see through it – the complicated pattern of his values, his certainties, his acts between regret and redemption – then he will explain.
He gets closer to the bed, with a new rush of energy swelling in his chest.
"Listen well, Wright," Miles tells him. "Of the two of us, I am the one who is in your debt. If I let anything happen… to Maya, to you… it would be like the old times. To this day, I haven't forgiven myself… there would be no hope to do it after that."
It hurts to look at the way Phoenix's eyes dart towards him. He has no wish to read whatever is in them – pain, shock, disbelief. He doesn't stop talking.
"I had no other choice at all," he admits and clarifies to them both. "I wouldn't have had a second thought. It is true, you saved my life; it is still my burden, and mine only, to choose what to do with it. I… I chose to help people. And if there is anyone I feel bound to help, it is you. But I will live many years, if I ever get to it, before I can look into a mirror without thinking of all the wrong things I have done. Take this as my last word on the matter."
The strategies are ones he knows too well. A curt nod, a fast pace, and he is already at the edge of the door, safe. There may be a storm coming – there certainly is.
"Why are you always so harsh on yourself?"
The sound of those words nails him on the spot. There was no escaping it from the start, he guesses.
He hears a rustle of sheets right behind, and a silhouette shifts at the corner of his eye. Within the weak body it encloses, a fragile balance is being shifted – come what may, this is the day they start talking for real. He should have known.
For the first time since their reunion, Phoenix breaks open like a fallen dam.
"You feel guilty for things no one could possibly blame on you," he says, fatigued, but with a fire burning in his voice. "Things you were tricked into doing with tortures and lies, for years. Meanwhile, you save lives. You change fates for the better. And you flew in from the other side of the world, just because I needed help. How can you even say that?"
Miles does not turn yet. Lost in the sound of his words, he cannot move. They hit him, strong and insistent as hail, pulling the strings behind all his existence is about. A whole life story is enclosed in them – and Phoenix lays it bare like an open book, with the ease of a long-time reader.
"It is unfair, that's what it is. I know your past. I know how hard it must be," he swears, fighting the burn in his throat to speak faster. "You… you hurt people before. No one, let alone I, has the right to pretend you didn't. But stop and think – you do it so well, so use your head. Count the people who suffered to become the person you are. Look for someone who would consider making the same choices you made. Then, once you have, come back to me and tell me how many others you found. But don't you try to do so before that same stubborn brain of yours gets just how good you are."
Behind his turned back, Phoenix stretches a feverish hand in his direction. He does it with the same hope he has nurtured all his life. He brings a message – forever awaiting a reply.
There is a long minute of silence. The tension leaves Miles' body in small rivers, collecting at the junctures of his limbs. His mind is clouded by a thousand fuzzy thoughts, all molten at their ends, with no beginning.
How is he ever going to explain?
"I have no clue how you don't see it yet," Phoenix finally murmurs, resigned. "You won't believe me or anyone else on this. You are not bad. Miles, you are such a good person."
In that bubble of stillness, despite being so low, his words ring with extraordinary clarity.
From the same position he is frozen in, Miles feels the hint of a crack in his breathing. It is barely there – he could be mistaken – but the impression runs deeper, beyond the mess of coughs and inflammation and clogged nose.
When he turns around, Phoenix lies down, facing the window at the far end of the room. He is already sure he will be left alone. His arm, tense and out of the blankets, dangles from the mattress like a forgotten invitation.
In other occasions, the careful prosecutor would have taken control, to ponder the effect of every word and gesture. He would have trapped himself in a net of safe procedures, of expectations, of boundaries far from risk and pain.
But no written rule applies to him anymore. He deserves better.
At this point, it is only fair to let him know he is listening.
In complete silence, Miles sits on the bedside, and lays delicate fingers on his forehead. It is a quiet gesture, without fear, without impatience. It speaks for him, voicing whatever he lacks the power to explain – and they both understand.
They have a lot to learn. Thankfully, he thinks with a sigh, they also have the chance to. There will be all the time in the world; he is returning, to stay.
"I will do my best to remember that."
When it is almost time to go, he lays his hand back on the mattress. Another warm, feverish one rests on it, just before it can rise. He doesn't move.
In the growing shadows of the room, neither can see the other is smiling back. They don't need to, in any case. They know.
There are three reasons why this story exists. The first is that my poor mom is bedridden with a flu, and my mother hen instincts are manifesting in even acuter levels than usual. The second reason is my therapist's advice: repeat to yourself that you are a good person until you come to believe it. The post below is the third reason.
altairattorney dot tumblr dot com /post/136327343923/this-post-is-a-little-personal-so-id-be-grateful