Prompt: au where everyone is born with a very unique tattoo on their ankle, nobody else in the world has that tattoo. every time you fall in love with someone, their tattoo appears somewhere else on your body. (not necessarily soulmates, just who you fall in love with.)
The Marks We Left Behind
He hates it.
He hates it so much — he tries everything to erase it.
It's funny — how a few days can upset everything he'd ever known about his life, how a single event can twist a badge of honour into a brand of shame.
He used to wear the circle of flame on his wrist with pride. Now…
Now it won't go away.
He scrubs, and he scratches, and it won't go away.
He slashes, and he burns, and it still won't go away.
But maybe it'll scar over this time. Maybe, after they remove the bandages that mercifully hide it from him —from the world— this time, it'll just be a mass of cut and burn marks — indecipherable.
It's not fair, he decides, that these marks don't go away even when the feelings that made them have faded or soured. It's not fair that there's no way to tell they've changed. It's not fair that you can't even tell if they're still alive.
That's a childish sentiment though. At least the pain is fitting.
"M— Edgeworth!"
Phoenix Wright bursts into the ward, at once the last and only person he wants to see.
"Wright," he sighs as the attorney drops gracelessly into the bedside chair, letting his document bag fall to the floor beside him. Miles finds himself tracing the sword and eye mark on his left elbow again, forces himself to stop that nervous tic.
"You're awake! You're alive… I'm so glad." The man is still wearing his usual blue suit — he must have rushed over directly from court or the office. "Edgeworth…"
Miles looks up — in place of the earlier relief, Wright looks dead serious.
"Please," his expression melts into pleading concern, "talk to me. Look, I know—"
"Wright, it was an accident," Miles groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not— I wasn't trying to—"
"Oh. Oh!"
Now that that's out of the way, it's awkward, and Wright is scratching the back of his neck nervously, neither knowing what to say. As usual, Wright breaks the silence first.
"I uh…" He rummages in his document bag for a bit, then straightens when he finds it. "I saw this in a shop the other day." He holds out a silver bangle. "It's probably not your usual style, but it… reminded me of you, somehow, and I wanted to give you a congratulatory gift. I mean, you paid for our celebratory dinner too, so…"
Miles takes the bangle before Wright can ramble on. It's a thin, close-fitting piece with a spring hinge, simply decorated with delicate filigree —a classier piece than he'd expect of Wright's taste— and of a width he suspects was precisely calculated. The other has seen von Karma's mark before, after all, and the bandages are a dead giveaway now.
"Thank you."
Even after all these years apart, trust Wright to know these things — to wait with the keychain, to have faith in his innocence, to help cover up the mark he wants so desperately to remove.
"It's um… surprisingly nice."
"S—surprisingly? Gee, thanks, Edgeworth." Wright pulls his tie off and drops it into his bag before crossing his arms. "If I squint, I'm sure I'll see it for the compliment that it is."
"Ngk… I mean—"
The attorney sighs, expression softening. "You know, I— I used to wish that these weren't permanent too." He scratches at the top of his left arm, near the shoulder. "But now, even the ones that used to hurt are important to me, reminders of the lessons they taught me, whether they were kind or painful." Faintly, through the white dress shirt, Miles can see the many colourful sigils on the other's fair skin — Wright has always been trusting and open-hearted. "And whenever I was feeling down, I always had something to look at, mementos of the people who matter."
Wright's hand has moved to rest over his heart now, eyes closed and expression tender, and Miles remembers the magenta mark there clearly — fifteen years ago, at a sleepover, a nine-year-old Phoenix Wright had been so excited to show it to him, those two swords crossed inside a horseshoe, his own. Proof, the boy declared, of their everlasting friendship. Miles had been embarrassed even then to show Phoenix the corresponding blue birdlike insignia on his inner thigh — of all places for it to appear!
Suddenly, a warm hand covers his own where it rests on his thigh, where it feels like the mark is burning up under his fingertips, and his eyes snap to blue ones. The attorney opens his mouth, closes it, then looks away, settling for squeezing Miles' hand briefly with a wistful smile.
"When will you be back to work?" he asks at length, letting go and leaning back, and Miles can't decide whether he's more relieved or disappointed to be rid of the earlier tension.
"Soon, I hope," he replies. "It's not even my dominant hand."
The other chuckles. "Would it kill you to take a break sometimes?"
"Unlike you, I actually have work to do."
"Ouch," Wright deadpans. "Don't mind if the only ones lining up at my doorstep right now are the truly guilty, yeah?"
Miles winces, struck with a sudden sense of remorse. He shouldn't be unkind to the friend who'd saved his life barely a week ago. "I apologize, Wright. I d—" No, that wouldn't be true. "I admire your integrity," is what he goes for.
"Uh… Thanks…?" The other is scratching the back of his neck again, and Miles knows the mark there — resembling a paintbrush, from his mother.
It's funny, he thinks. We're not children anymore, but we still seek comfort from our parents. Like the grey one from his father on his elbow.
"Say, Edgeworth, when you get out of here…" Blue eyes look earnestly at him now. "Would you like to go for dinner? Um, I mean… I know you didn't really enjoy that boisterous party we had, so… I was hoping…" A red tint blazes over the other's cheeks as he averts his gaze, looking anywhere but at Miles. "I was hoping," he soldiers on, fiddling with a button on his suit jacket, "that we could have a proper, quieter celebration, just you and me."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
Not the button, but the sigil below it. Not a celebration, but maybe…
"Indeed! Verily, I say... Ergo!" He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the last few minutes replay in his mind — the evidence seems so clear. "Right."
"…as in my name or…"
The glare is reflex, and it cuts Phoenix off.
Phoenix… a name, like a feeling, from fifteen years before.
"M—maybe I should just go." Phoenix stands hurriedly, grabbing his bag. "You need the rest, after all."
"I'll call you," Miles says quickly, before Phoenix can go.
The other stops, turning. "R—really?"
The hope in blue eyes is blinding, and Miles deliberately traces the mark on his inner thigh through the hospital sheets, takes the plunge.
"Yes, it's a date."
And he feels himself mirror that radiant smile.
On the tattoos: Most were inspired by the references in the characters' names. Phoenix is obvious. Miles and Gregory have swords from their Japanese names; Gregory has an eye for "watchful" while Miles' horseshoe-like shape was supposed to be a milestone or a reference to knights in chess. The hidden one on Phoenix's upper arm that he scratches is from Dahlia. Popular fanon suggests Phoenix's mother is an artist, hence the paintbrush. Karma goes around in a circle, and Manfred's Japanese name references a hunting demon and the fires of Hell. I like to think that the other ones Miles saw through Phoenix's shirt are from the Feys and that Miles has a whip encircling a flame from Franziska on his shoulder.
Thank you for reading. Let me know if you spot any errors I missed. I'd love to hear whether you enjoyed it!
