It is not silent, but it is near. It ended, shattered in a million pieces, never to return, with a single hand, single finger, and a voice that pierced through all the lies and blame that he himself had built - if only it could hit the guilt, the guilt...

She stands in front of him; though she is not standing, but floating, levitating, he isn't sure. He thinks it must be a dream. Must be a dream, yet... yet...

Her hair is flowing in the wind - but is there even a wind? He doesn't know; he can't feel it. The world dances around them in pieces and bits, but it doesn't matter; the world is of no consequence to him. The world is dyed in red, something he knows all too well, because he vowed long ago he'd make it red if it was for her.

He cannot speak a word, for she has sealed his lips; with what force he does not know. He opens them, but no sound escapes, and he knows why; it is too fragile now. If but a word is spoken, it would echo, break, as if his voice were the same as the one that sentenced him to - where he was, heaven, hell, he wasn't sure.

She moves forward, though he can hardly see her; she is disappearing, a phantom, an illusion, but he feels as though he could reach out and touch her. She is covered in white, fading, but she touches him.

He feels his eyes snap open behind the mask, because he knows this is not just a dream, not just a dream even if he is asleep, and he looks at her, but is frightened. He does not want to take off the mask, because - if she is covered in red - he knows he will see it, and that terrifies him above all else.

"I--" He manages to get one word out, but he is choking, choking on blackness, bitterness, the hate that was forced down inside him long ago by a demoness with the face of an angel - the demoness who took her loathing and shoved it down his throat, cackling, grinning above him, and he could not move.

But as she moves around him, arms encircling his head, he can feel it being released from him; and finally his throat is cleared, and he can speak again.

"I-- I'm..." It is no easier now to get the words out. He is stunned to silence - no, not stunned, but he knows there are no words he can tell her of the lost years, of the year after he returned from hell, all for her! There are no words he can use to tell her of what she did to him, unintentionally, but more of what he did to himself!

"I'm sor--" She presses a finger to his lips. Her touch is light, and he feels faint just being near it, reveling in the moment, because he knows it will be fleeting.

"No," she says, firmly - her claws are outstretched, her teeth bared, but she does not strike nearly as harshly as she could - but it is enough to make him stop. He remembers his kitten as she was - afraid, soft; no more. She was a lioness, and they both knew that, and they both knew she could destroy him. But she did not, however much he felt that he deserved it.

"It's not your fault," she whispers, and he can do nothing but believe her, for doubting her would take too much energy, not when her voice was so quiet and yet so firm...

"You've... suffered long enough." The world is white and red; he cannot see it, only hear; he will gladly be blind if he can listen to this over, and over, and over. There is disbelief, and relief, and all of this flowing through him to an extent where he wants to scream and cry and laugh and grin, but it all cancels to produce stillness.

"Look at me," she says, and for the first time her voice is not soft and echoing, but firm, and his well of emotions opens yet again with the fear and guilt, and he tries to tell her that he cannot, will not, look at her, because he would - would -

"What you cannot see is what you yourself made red," she tells him, her voice still firm, knowing how she is fading in his eyes.

"I will not disappear."

And with that, any semblance of free will or fear is broken, shattered; with her one statement, she brings back the world, brings back his mind, and in one instant the mask that covers his face is thrown away and shatters somewhere in the distance, nearby, but it doesn't matter anymore, because he can see her, her face, her eyes, her hair, her spirit.

"I will not disappear, not now, not ever," she tells him, and her words taste better than any cup of coffee ever could, with or without sugar, milk, or cream. He doesn't need it anymore, and it becomes a puddle of brown on the earth, seeping into crevices he ignores.

The moment seems all too short before she is far away again, starting to leave as though they are parting after a date, as if they had just discussed where to go next time ("How about a coffee shop?" "Of course. What else would I expect with you?"). But this time he feels no pain, because he knows that waiting is simply part of it all; and he has waited years, so a few more mean nothing now.

Because, as she whispers to him in the end, "Next time it will be...

Eternity."

End

Damn you, Phoenix Wright. Damn you for making me obsessed with two fandoms at once. Sigh. I wonder if this turned out okay.