trave (vestiges)
He stares in the mirror. His razor has swept half of his face, leaving him clean-shaven on one side, the other still coated in soapy foam. He does not pay it any heed, however, because his eyes can only fixate upon one point, one marker shining against his pale, waxy skin, that one blemish enough to highlight his lack of rest and his sorrow.
The mark which Phoenix has left is fading.
He swallows thickly, running his hands over it. That bruise still feels warm to the touch, for it holds within it the remnants of Phoenix which remain on his person; he presses his fingertips into it, longing for the heat which sparked through his flesh with just the merest hint of Phoenix's breath upon his skin.
Maybe I shouldn't have let Phoenix touch me, he thinks idly, slowly but surely resuming his task at hand- shaving the rest of his chin and face. Maybe then it would not linger so.
He cannot bring himself to regret it, however. Phoenix's touch- the knowledge that there is a place in the world which exists in which Miles can simply be, and that is enough for someone- that knowledge is likely the only reason why he has decided to go in to this office today, why he has decided to push himself to stand on his own. He comes here as Miles Edgeworth, without using any of the carefully-laid connections which Manfred von Karma had cultivated over the years. He comes here as a man who wants to learn what prosecution truly is, for his image of it has been tainted over and over and over again by the corruption in Los Angeles, and he knows not what to do but to start over and learn from scratch.
The mark lingers, however. It lingers, and it stings, and when he comes home that night and undoes his ascot and looks at himself in the mirror after a long day of work, he sees that mark there. His heart aches anew, and he longs to tap those digits which he has memorized long ago into his new phone; he does not give in to those desires, though. If he hears Phoenix's voice, he knows he shall give in.
So, the mark stays. But the next morning, it is a little bit lighter. And the next, it is lighter so; and as the days progress, and as Miles continues to ignore his cell phone which he had allowed to die halfway through his flight in favour of purchasing a new one here in Europe (the thought of turning it on and seeing Phoenix's name in the missed calls is enough to make him dizzy with nausea, with fear, with regret), he pretends to not be upset that the mark is fading. It is a birthmark, he thinks- a piece of him that, no matter how much it lightens, can never truly go away, tattooed into his skin indelibly. Phoenix's lips upon his skin shall never truly go away- not as long as he presses against that flesh each morning whilst he shaves, whilst he looks at himself in the mirror and wonders who he truly is.
He cries the first time he realizes that that deep bruise is gone. It is silent, his towel shoved into his mouth to muffled sobs which refuse to even depart from his throat, wracking his body so painfully that he wakes up from his broken stupor with puffy eyelids and sore knees, the cold tile of the bathroom chilling his very bones after kneeling for who knows how long.
As time goes on, he finds that his heart no longer aches as bitterly, as fiercely, when he looks at the spot where the hickey used to be. He simply gets up in the morning as one month turns into two and shaves, and all he needs to do is lightly press his fingers against his neck, a mere charm more than anything. A promise of his return that cannot be erased by time, it continues to permeate through his bones, the memory of Phoenix's arms wrapped around him enough to lull him to sleep each night even though it is far, far colder than the place his heart calls home.
It will take time. He does not cry these days, though- he does not cry, does not stifle his voice, does not look away. He speaks his mind. He feels more at peace.
And when he sleeps, nightmares of the incident which took his father's life are naught but a distant memory, for his mind has a new image to conjure up- Phoenix's sleeping face on the pillow next to Miles, his light breathing hitting that spot upon Miles' neck, keeping him warm throughout the night.