trace (vestiges)
It has become increasingly difficult to persuade those in the Prosecutor's Office that Phoenix is merely there to look over case files, he is finding. And yet, Miles cannot bring himself to say no to Phoenix when the man messages him, his words simple and comforting and warm: "Case files at your office?"
Miles always says yes. With Maya Fey running between her home village in Kurain and the Wright & Co. Law Offices, Phoenix is alone more often than not in that dingy, run-down building in which he still struggles to pay rent some months. Miles is more than happy to provide the other man a place in which he can work and be warm- where if he falls asleep, Miles can take him home to sleep on his bed, rather than letting the man pass out on that sad, bedraggled sofa. If he has to put up with some knowing smiles from his peers, or some passive-aggressive comments about fraternizing with the defense, or less-than-subtle winks from the bellboy of the Gatewater Hotel whenever he now delivers coffee with Miles' tea, then he shall do so for the sake of giving Phoenix a place to be.
After all, despite the fact that during these work sessions Miles arguably does more for Phoenix on the surface- collecting evidence, sharing details which Detective Gumshoe has received, feeding him- Miles still finds that he is the happiest one in the room. Phoenix is always too hung up on the humanity of his defendants, so his emotions are constantly in disarray during the preparation for a trial. Miles, on the other hand, finds that the other man's presence is soothing, a balm to ease the aching, raw sores of doubt which the DL-6 Incident and every single case since have created upon his heart. The nearness, the sight of Phoenix's silhouette upon Miles' couch as he spreads out the reports and testimonies… even the simple ability to stand up, to stretch his legs and to have a goal at the end of his aimless walks about his office, changes the very air he seems to breathe. Weary, rueful kisses exchanged in the comfort of his office feel simultaneously forbidden as rivals in the courtroom, and still utterly domestic, instilling a sense of peace in Miles' heart which he has not felt since childhood.
Since… well, Phoenix.
He is happy, he realizes three cases into this tentative arrangement. He is happy.
That does not mean he is not exhausted, however. Although he knows that whatever the outcome of his trials, Phoenix will always be by his side, the fact remains that Phoenix's presence has caused one unshakeable truth to well up in Miles' mind: Manfred von Karma had hurt Phoenix, and Miles still does not know how to extricate himself from his mentor's teaching after 15 years of feeling like nothing he do will ever be ruthless enough, powerful enough, good enough. Everything corner of this office is stained with von Karma's presence: the way he arranges his files, the order of supplies in his desk, the matching colour schemes of his upholstery. It all reeks of von Karma's old office back in Germany.
Miles had modelled this office originally to resemble that of his mentor, after all. It still hadn't been enough for him, though. It never would have been.
Miles jumps when a large, comforting hand lands upon his nape, squeezing and massaging the tense knot there. "What is it, Edgeworth?" Phoenix asks, perching himself upon the edge of his desk. "Something on your mind?"
Miles' smile is immediate. It is given far more freely as of late, he finds; just a few weeks with Phoenix like this, and already the ice-cold bars which had chained his heart down for so long are easing away. "I… it's a lot of things, Wright. Don't worry about it."
The way Phoenix's forehead furrows into a frown, his lips curling into a small, unimpressed pout, is so painfully dear to him, he thinks. "You think too much, Edgeworth. Relax a bit." He stands to move behind Miles, hands landing upon his shoulders, beginning to massage his stiff muscles.
Miles lets out a long, shuddering sigh before hanging his head back, his eyes roving over his office again. This office isn't entirely von Karma's, he realizes faintly as warm hands knead away strain. The Steel Samurai figurine will never be moved from his windowsill. The chessboard's red and blue pieces will always match their suits in the courtroom, as unintentional as that decision had been. The small coffee machine, newly installed in the corner of the room, will always smell like Phoenix- like late nights and gentle mornings, like weary cups after a long trial.
This office isn't entirely von Karma's, he thinks. It never has been. And as one large hand moves to cup Miles' cheek, Miles nuzzles into a callused palm unconsciously, closing his eyes as one question begins to overtake his mind:
What will it take for Phoenix's presence to erase the nightmares engrained into the fibers of his very being?
He longs to know- to know when he will no longer feel this insatiable urge to gain approval from a man who was veritably an abuser- to know when he will finally become a man whom Phoenix Wright can be proud of.