trace (vestiges)
Where he lives in Germany, he does not experience many earthquakes. He is grateful for that- nothing comes along to rumble his foundations, to shatter his resolve and the precarious work he has built up to this point in his recovery. Thanks to that stillness, he can focus on learning, on growing- on allowing that blemish upon his skin- that proof that his broken, jagged pieces had needed to be held close in order to stay pieced together- to finally, truly heal.
It becomes a habit, though- touching his neck. When he is nervous, he tends to do it, feeling the lingering traces of Phoenix's touch upon his skin. It is soothing, comforting, even though there is no longer any visible indication of the love which the other man had given him so effortlessly.
Miles does not forget, however. He is here for Phoenix. And one day, he shall go back to Phoenix. He swears it.
He does not notice this habit, however, until someone at the office points it out, but when it is demonstrated, it becomes glaring. He becomes conscious of it a little too late each time, ending up flushing and stumbling as he tries to duck away from the group to which he speaks. The secretary of this prosecution office in which he has been working for the past three months is a sweet woman, despite her gruff demeanour; she teases him about this habit of his with a motherliness that is comforting, although he truly wishes she would simply leave him be.
What makes it such a glaring issue, though, is the way that others overhear her teasing words.
"So, Edgeworth," Frederik Mazen, one of the senior prosecutors in the office, says lightly one afternoon as Miles enters the shared kitchen to make more tea. "You seem stressed."
"And why would that be?" he replies noncommittally. "I'm doing quite fine, actually."
Frederik shakes his head, leaning back against the kitchen countertop, crossing his arms. His entire posture radiates confidence and comfort, the man completely at ease. He brushes dark hair out of his face, large, dark eyes smiling as they look at Miles' stiff form. "You're touching your neck again, you know."
His hand freezes halfway to the cupboard, his breath catching in his throat. "I… I'm not quite sure-"
"I overheard Martha teasing you this morning." He steps closer, his smile wry and caring, not an ill desire in sight. "Besides, I've noticed it too."
Clearing his throat, Miles grabs his loose leaf tea canister and a fresh strainer, creating some distance with which he can examine this man. Frederik is indeed one of the top prosecutors in this public office, and his reputation is well-earned. The fact that he is able to so flawlessly fight even losing battles with the calm confidence of the most seasoned veteran is almost legend amongst the newer staff. As Miles sets the kettle to boil, crossing his arms and tapping his finger against his sleeve impatiently, he finds that his mind fixates upon that confidence without him even realizing.
Frederik Mazen's track record is not perfect- far from it, actually. He has had numerous losses, an amount that would have made Miles scoff in disgust a year earlier… and yet, people still refer to him as one of the firm- no, the country's- best. But why?
"Would you like to know?"
His face burns in humiliation as he realizes that he has stated all of this out loud. "I- well…" Clutching his elbow, he looks away, ignoring his flushed expression in the reflection of the steel kettle.
Frederik pays this no mind, the older man throwing his head back and laughing lightheartedly. "It's a fair question, you know," he teases. "I would expect nothing less from the famous 'Demon Prosecutor'-"
"Do not call me that," Miles cuts in on instinct.
To his surprise, Frederik only nods. "Alright. Then, who are you, Miles Edgeworth?"
He bites the inside of his cheek. He has spoken of none of what has occurred between him and Phoenix, of the DL-6 incident, of how his entire life has been stripped of meaning and restored and torn apart again and again. He has said none of this to anyone. It is too painful, too much to unpack, and he would like absolutely no one else to know of just how fiercely he has lost his way.
And yet, as he stands here under Frederik Mazen's gentle scrutiny, he cannot help but mumble, "I… don't know."
The hand upon his shoulder is warm, gentle- comforting. Familiar. He freezes as he realizes just how similar this heat, this warmth, is to the touch of which he has dreamed every single night since his departure from America. That hand squeezes as the older man raises a full brow, a crooked grin on his face growing as he murmurs, "Well then, that's why you're here, isn't it? To learn. Let me help you, Miles Edgeworth. You have potential."
For a moment, Miles closes his eyes, imagining that the man offering his hand in help is Phoenix Wright. His pride would never allow him to voice his insecurities to Phoenix himself, but here, thousands upon thousands of miles away…
"…Alright. I have much to learn here."
That hand squeezes again. "I look forward to it."
Miles gulps. He is here to learn the truth, to learn how prosecutors like this man bears the badge so proudly on a puffed-out chest. He shall do what he must.
After all, if he is one day able to come home to finish with this level of confidence, this level of ease…
He smiles, genuine and true, heart softening wryly as he imagines it. Phoenix has never been shy about his respect for Miles' work in court. Perhaps, on the day of his return, Miles shall wear his glasses, too. He hopes Phoenix will like that.