Notes: This is a side story in the Struggling Against Gravity universe. It can be read as a stand alone, but it's suggested that you read it between chapter five and chapter six.
Hold Out Your Hand
Phoenix had long since lost track of what Miles was actually talking about.
Phoenix sat on the red brick wall outside the front elementary school, swinging his legs and letting his heels hit the bricks. He carefully avoided touching the jacket to his left where it lay neatly folded on the wall. Every so often he nodded encouragingly when the other boy paused in his speech. Beside Phoenix his other best friend, Larry, shifted irritably, but even he knew there was no stopping Miles once the subject of law was broached.
And Miles was in fine form today. The nine-year-old paced and gestured to his audience of two as other kids rushed past to meet their parents in the circular drop-off-pick-up point. It had rained the previous night, so his path curved as he walked to avoid the puddles of water still on the ground.
"Are you nervous?" Phoenix asked when Miles stopped for breath. This seemed to throw him off; he paused, adjusted his reddish-pink tie and looked down at his dress shirt before continuing.
"A little," he admitted, shifting from one foot to the other awkwardly. "I've been in the courthouse before, and I've seen my dad on TV, but this is my first time attending a trial."
"What if you get bored?" Larry said, hands crossed behind his head. Talking to Miles was infinitely more interesting than being lectured by Miles, so keeping the conversation going was in his best interest.
"I won't." Miles looked scandalized by the mere possibility.
"I wish I could go," Phoenix offered. He did wish he could go. The way Miles talked about trials and law and court made it sound better than a day at an amusement park. Even if it did seem as though you had to get dressed up in your Sunday best to attend a one.
"Maybe next time," Miles said. "I'll ask my dad."
"What kind of trial is it?" Larry asked, leaning forward from his perch on the wall.
"It's a robbery," Miles replied, walking closer to his friends, still carefully avoiding puddles. He paused where the expanse of concrete met the muddy grass.
"Did the guy do it?"
"Of course not!" Miles's answer burst from his mouth right as Larry finished the question. "My dad wouldn't defend a guilty person!"
Larry opened his mouth to say something else. But before he could get the words out, Miles suddenly hurtled forward. Like a scene in sickening slow motion, he threw his arms out to keep his balance.
It was futile. His foot caught on the edge of the concrete, and he fell onto the mud heavily on his right side. The palm of his hand left a long gash in the grass from where it skidded in an attempt to keep his body from the ground.
Phoenix, Larry, the boy who had slammed into Miles, and his friend a few paces behind stared in silence.
"I…I'm sorry…I wasn't looking…" the boy eventually said. Behind them, a blonde woman opened the door to a cherry-red car and impatiently called out "Greg!" Both the boy and his friend turned their heads at the sound. They hesitated, but the shouting grew louder and they shuffled away, glancing back guiltily every few steps until they reached the car.
Miles gave no sign of having heard the aborted apology or the subsequent yelling as he lifted himself from the grass. His hands made squelching sounds in the muck and his arms shook. As though the spell had been broken, both Larry and Phoenix moved as one. They jumped off the wall and rushed forward to offer assistance. Larry caught Miles's forearm while Phoenix grabbed his hand and together all three of them managed to bring Miles clumsily back to his feet.
Miles looked down wordlessly, inspecting the damage. His shirt was a mess. From his torso to his right armpit, the shirt wetly clung to his skin. Every spot where there wasn't a muddy streak, there were long, dark grass stains. His pants had fared better; they were dark and hadn't hit the mud as badly. His black shoes were badly scuffed.
"Are you okay?" Phoenix asked, breaking the silence.
Miles opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it again. His shoulders tensed, small hands balled tightly at his sides until the knuckles were stark white. To Phoenix's surprise, he suddenly turned around, his back to them.
"I can't…" His shoulders shook.
Phoenix and Larry exchanged glances, then walked around to face their friend. Miles glared, blinking rapidly. Not at them, but something far in the distance.
"I can't go now!" It came out a sob.
Phoenix nearly stepped back in alarm. Beside him, Larry also winced.
Miles Edgeworth wascrying.
His face was red and screwed up in sheer frustration as he scrubbed at his eyes in angry, short motions, leaving grimy streaks from the dirt on his hands. His breath came in choked hitches and gasps.
Phoenix hadn't seen Miles this upset since the time the class had folded origami cranes for cultural day and he hadn't been able to manage a single one.
"Can't they let you in anyway?" Phoenix asked after a few moments, hesitant, but feeling like he should say something.
"No!" Miles took a shuddering breath. "A courtroom is a garden of judgment, you have to show it the proper respect!"
Phoenix didn't quite understand, but Miles seemed adamant on the point that it was better to not show up to court at all than to show up with mud on your shirt.
"So, let's clean you up," Larry suggested.
Miles fixed his wavering gaze on the sandy-haired boy, then looked back down, as though he could make the dirt vanish if he simply glared hard enough.
"That won't work," Miles finally said flatly. There were still tear tracks on his face, but his breathing had steadied.
"You haven't even tried yet!" Phoenix countered, relieved that a course of action had been decided. If they could just somehow get Miles presentable, everything would turn out fine. "Come on!"
Luckily, the inside of the boy's bathroom was deserted. Miles made a beeline past the three white enamel sinks and the row of small urinals on the opposite wall, into the back where two green stalls stood. Phoenix trailed behind, having been given the task of holding Miles's jacket. Bringing up the rear was Larry with their backpacks. He shifted his load and knocked the doorstop up with his foot, letting the heavy bathroom door close, giving them an illusion of privacy.
As Miles undid his tie and began to unbutton his shirt, Phoenix looked around for a place to put the jacket. There were no hooks or anything of the sort he could see. He made a half step towards the urinals, figuring he could sort of drape it across one of them, but the mere thought of Miles's reaction was enough to pull him back.
He decided the best course of action was to hang it over the side of one of the toilet stalls. Holding the jacket in one hand, Phoenix climbed on to one of the toilets, bracing himself against the wall with his free hand. He half flung the clothing over the side, making sure it would stay, then quickly hopped off and back to where his friends were waiting.
By that time, Miles was holding his shirt. The fall had been even worse than it looked at first glance. Even with the shirt off, his stomach and sides were alternately rubbed red and dirty.
"I'll wash it," Larry said confidently, moving to take the button-down shirt out of Miles's hands.
Miles didn't let go. Phoenix could almost hear the familiar phrase about their friend echoing in his head. Apparently, Larry could hear it too.
"Come on! Don't you trust me?" Larry's lower lip wibbled. "I've seen my mom wash my shirts a million times! I'm practically an expert!"
With a small sigh, Miles relinquished the shirt.
Larry went back up to the front where the sinks were. Miles seemed disinclined to follow, so Phoenix went up and grabbed three or four huge handfuls of paper towels. He wet half of them as Larry turned on the water in the sink next to him. Larry worked the soap dispenser with abandon until the pink liquid soap almost overflowed in his hand. Every so often, he took his heaping handful and worked it into the shirt in vaguely clockwise moments. Phoenix couldn't say if he was doing it right or wrong, but Larry seemed sure enough.
Phoenix went back to where Miles was waiting. He handed the wet paper towels to his friend, who silently began to wash the worst of the muck off. Phoenix followed up by inexpertly patting the wet spots dry. Over on the other side of the bathroom, Larry began humming loudly and tunelessly over the sound of running water.
Then, the wet slap of something heavy and waterlogged hitting tile. The humming stopped.
"Oops…"
"Oops?" Miles parroted, tensing. "What are you doing over th—"
"Weren't you telling us about something before?" Phoenix hurriedly interjected. "That jeopardy thing?"
"Double jeopardy?" Miles turned his attention back to Phoenix.
"Yeah, that's it." Phoenix gave an inward sigh of relief. He didn't know what Larry was doing, but getting Miles worked up again was the last thing he wanted right now.
"Double jeopardy makes it impossible for someone to be tried for the same crime once they've already gone to trial for it."
"So…they can't try me for stealing lunch money ever again?" Phoenix asked after puzzling the sentence out.
"Not exactly. Let's say you stole lunch money again—"
"I didn't steal it!" The issue was still a little bit sore.
"I know." That was the best thing about Miles, the way he could say that without hesitation or impatience. "It's just an example. You've been on trial for it once, right? Let's say you decided to actually steal some this time."
"I wouldn't!"
"I know. But let's say you did. It's a separate crime, so you could be tried again."
He paused in his lecture to wipe his face off. Now he looked like the boy Phoenix knew again. The dried tear tracks and dirt were gone; the only evidence of his previous outburst was a slight puffiness around the eyes. It was a comfort to see Miles's dignity returned.
Miles continued. "But they could never try you again for stealing my lunch money that one time. Basically, double jeopardy means that the court can't change its mind."
"Oh," Phoenix said. That seemed like a safe enough answer.
At this point, Miles was as clean as he would ever get without the help of a shower. He began to walk back up to the front of the bathroom where their other friend stood, uncharacteristically silent.
"I'm, uh, not done yet!" Larry called out as he heard footsteps. The note of panic in his voice made Miles speed up his pace towards the sinks rather than slow down. He stopped just short, next to Larry, leaving Phoenix to duck around the two to get a glimpse of their friend's handiwork.
He hadn't known it was possible to use that much soap and to still make a shirt dirtier in the process. Miles looked as though he wanted to kill something; Phoenix was just glad he was glaring in Larry's direction.
"I thought you said you'd done this before!" Miles said. Larry's eyes darted back and forth, as though the way to appease Miles's wrath was hovering to the right or left of his head.
"W-well, it's your fault!" Larry finally replied. Miles turned an interesting shade of red and began to open his mouth, but Larry cut him off. "I didn't say I had done it before! And you gave me your shirt!"
Miles shut his mouth with a nearly audible snap; his eyebrows furrowed as he seemingly tried to find a mental route past Larry's own brand of logic. When that failed, Phoenix watched as Miles pulled the shirt out of the sink instead, holding it up to inspect the damage their friend had wrought. His eyes moved wordlessly over the foamy streaks of dirt and dust down to the dripping mess it was leaving on the tile.
"Even if it was clean, I couldn't wear it," he said, falling into a morose silence that was somehow worse than anger.
"That's no problem!" Larry said, motioning to the row of hand dryers along the side.
"It'll take hours to dry it with those," Phoenix noted when he pressed the rusting button of the one nearest to him and all that came out was a half-hearted whisper of hot air.
"H-how was I supposed to know that!" Larry's demeanor took a sharp right turn once again. "It's not my fault!"
"This was a stupid waste of time," Miles said, tossing the shirt back in the sink and folding his arms.
"Guys," Phoenix offered, "There has to be some way to—"
"No!" At least they could agree on that.
At this rate, Miles wouldn't be able to go to the trial even if the boys' restroom had a washer and dryer in the corner. As Miles glowered and Larry's protestations of innocence grew louder in volume, Phoenix sank into a calm introspection. Larry was the creative one, and Miles was the smart one, so if they hadn't been able to fix the situation, there probably wasn't much Phoenix could do…but…
If only there was a way to get another shirt, Phoenix considered. His own shirt wouldn't do, it was a dingy shade of brown, faded by one too many times in the washer. Larry's was even worse—his was a sort of pukey neon green. Phoenix had a feeling Miles would rather go stark naked to court than wear it even under his jacket.
The ideal solution was to somehow get Miles a dress shirt, but he was the only kid in their class crazy enough to wear one to school. Phoenix looked down. He hated dressing up himself, but he wouldn't have minded if it had meant Miles had something to clean to exchange.
Phoenix stopped.
He glanced at Miles—it was difficult to measure how tall he was with his shoulders hunched and arms tightly crossed against his chest, but there wasn't really much of a difference in terms of size. And if it was just a matter of getting a replacement shirt…
"I've got an idea. I'll be right back," Phoenix promised, rushing out the door before either Larry or Miles could protest. Instantly, he took a deep breath of air, feeling his spirits lift automatically at getting out from in-between Miles's muted anger and Larry's spastic defensiveness. All he had to do was make it back before he had to worry about a dead Larry and a dirty shirt.
Phoenix took the right of the two hallways that opened at the bathrooms. The slightly curved halls always made him think of being underground in a large ant tunnel, though Phoenix was fairly sure most tunnels weren't festooned with art projects of varying levels of talent. (Of the three of them, Larry was the real artist. Phoenix was decent. Miles had long since dismissed art as being "unnecessary for his life goals", which was a good thing because he "kind of sucked at it", to use Larry's words.) Phoenix broke into a trot—not quite a run, lest a teacher poke his or her head out from one of the classroom corridors and give him a lecture—until he emerged out the other end. Stopping only to blink momentarily at the sunlight, he ran past the bike rack and into the field that separated the school from the row of houses in back.
The rain had left the field treacherously muddy; several times Phoenix nearly lost his tennis shoes, and once he almost fell. Water seeped in above the rubber soles, so when he finally made it to drier ground his footsteps made unpleasant squelching noises.
Most of the kids that went to Phoenix's school walked in the other direction out of necessity, but his house was just beyond the street that that bordered the grounds. A while back there had been a gap between fences that allowed the neighborhood kids a shortcut, but it had been closed for a couple of months now. Still, this was the fastest way to get home; he didn't have the luxury of taking the long way.
Mumbling a quiet apology to the owner of the yard he was about to sneak into, he rubbed his hands together, then pulled himself up on to the wooden fence, wet shoes scrabbling against the side as he strained for purchase. Somehow he managed to climb over the other side and drop down. He tip-toed past the assortment of dying potted plants and through the gate; his heart ground to a stop when it let out a heavy screech as he unlatched it.
From there, Phoenix's house was on the next street. The front door proved to be his biggest challenge yet as he emptied his pockets of dryer lint and candy wrappers while searching for his lost key. He finally fished it out from a twisted fold in his left pocket, and then it was through the front door—stopping only to pull off his wet shoes and socks—down the left hall and into his room.
Once immediately inside, his right foot crunched down on a model car. He winced as he half-limped, half hopped towards his closet, distantly wondering if there wasn't something to this "clean room" thing Miles constantly harped about whenever he came over here after school.
Phoenix knew there was a dress shirt back here somewhere—he'd been forced to wear it to a distant family member's wedding a few months back. The real question was if he had bothered to hang it up, or if it was in the pile of the rest of the clothes on the floor. He shuffled past winter coats; vests his mother bought that he had never worn and were two sizes two small now; and sweatshirts too bulky for his regular drawers.
Finally, there it was, way in the back. Phoenix reached towards it, but drew back upon seeing his own hands—streaked with grime and sweat from his climb, fingernails filthy.
There was no point in taking his shirt back in the first place if it was too dirty to meet Miles's standards; Phoenix sighed as he went into the bathroom and began scrubbing his hands. Once they looked clean enough for Miles's approval, he went back and retrieved the shirt.
Thinking about it, as he walked back into the living room, he was probably going to have to climb the fence again. There was no way the shirt would remain unscathed unless he took the long way, which would add at least ten minutes he couldn't afford to waste. They had already spent at least ten cleaning Miles up and wrecking his shirt; his dad couldn't be too far away at this point. And if Miles had been that upset over a messy shirt, Phoenix didn't want to see him confronted with not being able to go for real. Phoenix bit his lip as he paced across the living room, careful to keep the shirt from dragging on the carpet, as he tried to figure a way out of his dilemma.
His eyes lit up. He crumpled the shirt into a large ball and rushed into the kitchen. Pulling open a drawer, he pushed past the serving spoons and spatulas until he found what he was searching for: a box of plastic wrap. A few seconds later, the shirt was wrapped as securely as one of his mom's rice crispy bars and he was already out the door.
"It's wrinkled," Miles said as he held the shirt against the light, as though looking for factory defects. Phoenix manfully resisted the urge to punch him. Instead, he slid down the wall next to Larry, who was engaged in running his fingers in strange patterns on the floor—in other words, thoroughly bored.
"They're barely going to see it anyway," Larry protested, looking up. "Unless you want Nick to run back to his house for an iron and a board too…"
Miles had the grace to look guilty. "You didn't have to do that," he said, turning to Phoenix.
Phoenix couldn't help but think a 'thank you' would have been nicer, but instead said, "You wanted to go, didn't you?"
Instead of answering, Miles pulled the dress shirt on. The sleeves were too long, so he began rolling them up, a tic of mild annoyance clear in his slight frown, though he didn't voice another complaint. He retrieved his jacket and pulled it on, tugging on the cuffs to make sure it hung properly on his frame before he buttoned it.
"See, you can't even tell," Larry said when Miles went to the mirror.
"I can," Miles said, before doing his tie and shooting a quick, unreadable look at where Phoenix was sitting on the ground, still breathing heavily. "…but I don't think my dad will."
"What are you going to do with the other shirt?" Larry asked. Miles looked as though he wanted to burn it—or Larry, one of the two—and be done with it, but instead reached for the discarded plastic wrap.
"I'll put it in dad's laundry; I don't think he'll notice," Miles said, wrapping the soapy mess with the same amount of disgust as the time Phoenix's mother had picked up a dead rat by its tail.
"I could take it home if you think it'll be a problem," Phoenix offered.
"How would you explain to your mom that you managed to get your dress shirt dirty, and it magically grew a size too small? Don't worry, I'll make sure it gets washed—properly—and bring it back."
Even as Larry looked like he was going to launch into another defensive spiel, Phoenix couldn't help but feel relieved at seeing Miles back to his normal self.
Miles gave his jacket one last brush, fiddled with his collar one last time, and then opened the door of the bathroom, Phoenix and Larry close behind.
Miles's father pulled up shortly after they made it to the front of the school; Phoenix recognized the navy blue car, mainly because it looked like it could do with a good wash. Probably Mr. Edgeworth had been too busy saving innocent people's lives, because it was hard to imagine Miles hadn't reminded him about it at this point.
To Phoenix's eyes, Miles looked extraordinarily composed for someone with a filthy, wet shirt wrapped in a ball of plastic wrap in his right hand and slight lumps underneath his jacket above the wrist from where he had rolled up the sleeves.
Mr. Edgeworth got out of the car when he saw them approaching, "Are you ready, Miles?"
Miles nodded, shifting so that the dirty shirt wasn't quite as visible. Larry, after scrutinizing Mr. Edgeworth, turned to Phoenix and whispered, "I thought he'd be taller…"
"I'm sorry we don't have more time," Mr. Edgeworth said. "But it's nice seeing you again, Phoenix. And it's a pleasure to finally meet you too, Larry. I've heard—" his lips quirked for a moment, "—a lot of interesting things about you from Miles."
Miles tapped his foot, looking tempted to open the door to the driver's seat and take a chance at driving off himself. As though sensing his son's impatience, Mr. Edgeworth gave one last wave and retreated back to the car. Before Miles opened the passenger-side door, he stopped and abruptly turned back to face his friends.
"Thank you," he said suddenly, easily. Miles's "thank you's" were usually a thing of dignity in miniature, like everything else he did. This time, the effect was somewhat marred by the ear-to-ear grin spread across his face. Even though his shirt was wrinkled, his tie had somehow become lopsided on the trip from bathroom to the front of the school, that smile was there, sheer happiness immutably beaming from every pore in his body.
It was a rare day when Miles Edgeworth actually looked his age.
Even Larry seemed struck speechless. The car had long since disappeared down the road before he finally turned to Phoenix. "Hey."
When Phoenix didn't answer, Larry shook his shoulder. "Come on, I'm bored! Let's go play video games at your house."
Phoenix blinked at the contact, and turned his attention reluctantly on Larry—now several paces away, and looking back irritably. Some part of Phoenix still felt strangely hesitant to move. "Okay…"
He took one last look over his shoulder before following Larry down the sidewalk to where he was busy stomping in puddles to see how high the water would splash. The air was chilly and Phoenix dimly realized he'd be in for a lecture if his mom got home before he did and discovered he'd left his jacket back in his locker.
He couldn't bring himself to care. For some reason he felt warm enough already.