The clock struck nine, and Miles Edgeworth threw open the blinds.
A melancholy fog settled over the city- only slightly dampened by the light patter of rain and minor movement of people scrambling for cover under bar awnings. The city was aglow with multicolored lights and overpriced restaurant signs which shone through the fog like cloudy fireflies. Edgeworth sighed and pulled them closed once more, then placed himself at his leather chair and rifled through an old file.
The term "DL-6" caught his eye for a brief moment, but that was all it took to chuck the file into a bin to be sorted later. Groaning inwardly, he tugged gently on his cravat to loosen it from its tight knot. He placed the bundle of silk in his drawer and slid it shut with a click. Edgeworth stood then, brushing nonexistent dust from his wine-colored jacket, and retreated to his library.
He rose a hand to the organized shelves of books, lightly tracing along their worn spines until one became of particular interest. This novel was carefully pulled out of the compressed line and set upon a deep rosewood table. In fact, a fine set of furniture was set in a circle around this table- seats for ghosts of guests that Edgeworth knew would only arrive in spirit. The ghosts of all the men I wish I could have been, he mumbled bitterly to himself.
The clock struck ten, and fell from the wall onto an armchair.
Without prior warning, the entire structure began shaking in a restless tremor, sending fine china and fountain pens shattering across the floor. Edgeworth's eyes widened with apparent trepidation and he found himself in a mess upon the ground, arms hugging his trembling legs. With ivory knuckles and tears pricking at the sides of his eyes, he managed to crawl close enough to the mounted chairs in order to pull himself up on one.
Cold sweat dripped down his back and he convulsed once more, seeing the gunshot, over and over, the pained look on his father's face, the blood, oh, all the blood. Manfred's scream, gunshots, white flashes, red, red, so much red. Crimson butterflies, sloshing maroon wine, a bitter taste that would leave the drinker intoxicated for life. His breathing quickened, turning to short, pained gasps. Edgeworth's throat was sandpaper, and his coughing ground against the rough material that he was sure was there.
This is it, he told himself through anguished gasps, I cannot live in constant fear.
Edgeworth crawled over to his desk, holding onto to the rich wood for support, and pulled open the hidden drawer just under the face. Inside this compartment, a small, pearl-handled pistol rested upon a thin layer of magenta fabric. He lifted it with only a pang of uncertainty... was that guilt as well? At the action of the cold metal being placed against his forehead, tears began pooling and flowing down his face, staining and smudging old files that had managed to stay on the table. He felt the trigger, a little piece of iron that was going to make everything okay.
The clock struck eleven, and the door slammed open.
"Edgeworth, I was helping Trucy cope with the quake, and I just wanted to stop by to make sure that you-"Phoenix's eyes enlarged with sudden panic, and he didn't think for a single moment as he propelled himself at Edgeworth, sending both men and the gun flying across the room.
"Edgeworth, Miles, please! What are you doing? You can't do this to yourself!" he screamed in exasperation, sitting next to the man where they had both ended up in a heap. "Was it the earthquake? Oh god, forgive me, I could have been here sooner, you wouldn't have even taken that out, I could have helped, I could have helped, this never would have happened." Tears were now freely flowing down his face, catching on the ridiculous Steel Samurai shirt that was his idea of suitable pajamas.
"Leave me, Wright, and forget this ever happened. You coped with thinking I was dead once. A broken man taken from his platform won't be remembered." Edgeworth scoffed, sharp tone slightly dampened by his glassy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
"Edg-Miles. You mean everything to me. My life is how it is because of what you did for me all those years ago. Were it not for you, I wouldn't know that Trucy existed, nor would I deal with Payne's ridiculous comments, nor would I make all the friends I have today. Nothing would be the same without you here. I'd be a shell of a man, an empty, hollow shell, dead and buried." Wright placed his hand on Edgeworth's shoulder and he flinched slightly, but didn't move away. He squeezed lightly, warm pressure relaxing him enough so that the tension melted away.
Phoenix crawled around the prosecutor's slumped body at an awkward angle, placing both of his arms under those of the other man. He pulled up firmly, supporting his body, and embraced him with warm arms, chin resting on his shoulder. With a light grunt, Phoenix helped him over to the sofa, sitting down close-but not too close- to the still-shaking man. Then, he leaned a slight bit closer to talk to Edgeworth.
"Give me a chance to help you, Miles. Things are tough, but I care, I really do, and I will be here until the end. Let me show you what it feels like to mean something." Edgeworth looked up with conflicting eyes, embarrassment settling in from his previous outbreak. He angled his head downward, letting silver bangs cover his face again.
The clock struck twelve, and the men made their way to the daybed.
Phoenix set Edgeworth down on the bed with gentle hands, hurrying to his bedroom. From there, he ran his hand along fine silk sheets and pillowcases placed on the bed. Then, deciding that they were too formal, rummaged through a box in the closet until he emerged with a bundle of quilts and soft pillows. Wright glanced at them quickly, breath quickening when he noticed that the pale red, worn down quilt was a gift from Gregory Edgeworth. He set the pile down save for that one, deciding instead to fold it and place it carefully at the bottom of the box. For a brief moment, he could smell the distinguishable cologne of Edgeworth all over it, and pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose.
Carrying the bundle along with him, he went to the kitchen, out of Edgeworth's view, and pulled out a mug and carton of skim milk from the fridge. He heated the mug of milk to a warm temperature in the microwave, then carried both bundle and mug back to Edgeworth, who now sat in a heap on the futon. Phoenix pressed the mug into his hands, to the other man's surprise, and gestured for him to sit on the chair until he placed all of the bedding.
Edgeworth took modest sips from the mug as he watched Wright assemble a large lump of blankets and pillows on the futon. Finally, he laid the final pillow and stood, taking the mug from Miles to set on the banister and lowed himself and Miles onto the bed. He edged away from Wright, half-covering himself with an arm, and tried to hide on a corner of the bedding. However, Phoenix had other plans- he took Miles and pulled him flush against his side, letting his head rest upon the defense attorney's broad shoulder.
With a sigh of defeat, Edgeworth nuzzled-if only slightly- into the bend of Wright's arm. He contented himself against the other man and stared drowsily as a quilt was pulled over the two of them. If he were more awake, a considerable amount of protests would have been made- "Why Wright? Why am I letting him do this?" but considering his current mental state, he was in no mood for such thing. Miles would enjoy it for what it was and ask questions in the morning.
"Please sleep well, Miles. I won't leave, I remember your night terrors. Don't be afraid to wake me if you need something. Goodnight." Wright wrapped his arm around the slightly smaller frame and smiled, if only gently.
In the last notion of his living room before Miles went to sleep, he could swear he remembered a soft pair of lips pressed against his forehead, but he didn't know for sure. Another question to add to the pile in the morning.
The clock struck one, and Miles was no longer a broken man.