trace (vestiges)
The car is slightly dusty.
He supposes that this isn't a big issue, nor would it be noticeable to anyone but himself. The world is still practically asleep, the sky illuminated by only the faintest hints of sunlight tinging the distant horizon with a hue that is almost a sickly, tepid forest green, like a dying tree that has turned waxy and limp. With that green melting into an inky blue that shifts almost immediately into a pitch, starless black, it is a wonder anyone can see at all.
The road to the airport is swift. The major routes are always busy, but always smooth, even in the dead of night; ample light from Frederik's headlights guide them onwards, the speed limit growing closer and closer to a suggestion rather than a rule as Miles' anxiety rubs off on the older man. At least, Miles assumes it does; he does not even remembering calling Frederik in an anxious, bleary mess, his entire body jittery as he stumbled out the ideal boarding time of his chartered flight and the fact that he needed someone to take his flat keys to his landlord in his stead after clearing out the remnants of his apartment. All he knows is that Frederik's voice had been an anchor, a lifeline, over the phone, and in a windswept, half-asleep daze, the older man had appeared in Miles' front door, his usual calm, well-kempt nature thrown to the wind in favour of holding out his arms in an uncharacteristic display of affection for the German man. He had gathered Miles' clumsily-wrangled belongings from his already-sparse apartment and organized them into some semblance of propriety, helping him be packed up and in the car within ten minutes of his arrival to Miles' apartment complex. Then, they had hit the road.
The words have died by now, though. Frederik's fingers alternate between gripping the steering wheel with a force that looks to be enough to crush a windpipe of a smaller man, and coming to rest comfortingly upon Miles' knee with a gentleness that makes the younger want to weep once again. He does not cry- his face is puffy and his tears are dry- but the shiver which wracks his body still consumes him, encouraging that connection all the more. "Your Phoenix Wright is going to be just fine," Frederik says determinedly, repeating these words and nothing else, almost like a mantra.
Miles repeats them each time, too. Phoenix Wright is going to be just fine. Perhaps if he repeats it enough, it shall come true.
But with nothing else to focus upon other than his creeping, crippling fear and the intermittent warmth of Frederik's hand, Miles instead examines the car interior. He looks at every speck of dusty, every fray in the leather; he looks at faint smudges and stains and paints stories in his mind from where all of them had come from. On a normal day, he would have never even noticed any of it- in all, Frederik's car is always clean, even to Miles' impeccable standards- but with nothing else in his mind other than Wright fell off a bridge, he's going to die, I can't lose him, please don't take him away-
Miles needs the distraction. So, the car is dusty, and his collapse is held off for just a few heartbeats longer.
Their parting is nothing like Miles would have hoped. Frederik drops him off at the gate, leaving Miles to tear through the terminal; yet, by the time ticket has been verified and he begins to jog towards security, the elder prosecutor is somehow already there, his greying hair windswept and normally-pale cheeks ruddy. He holds out his arms for one final time before Miles heads off, the younger gratefully accepting the embrace with a fervour he never would have been capable of before reuniting with Phoenix those scant few years ago.
Frederik is so, so warm. "He'll be alright, Miles," the elder murmurs, placing a soft kiss on Miles' cheek. It is an unusual display of affection- hugs are the most comfortable greeting anyone gives one another in the Berlin office- but the tenderness of the motion grounds Miles, allowing him to suck in a deep breath, centering himself as Frederik adds, "And you're going to make sure he's alright."
Miles nods, weary, ragged, his sleep-deprived bones aching for respite. He feels like he has been up too long and too little all at once, and the world is beginning to blur. "I must go," he croaks. "I- thank you, Frederik."
Pulling away, Frederik brushes his dark hair out of his eyes and grins, eyes twinkling despite his own disheveled state. "Take care, and let me know how it goes, alright?" he says with a wink. Then, his face softens slightly. "I- I have built up more than my fair share of overdue vacation time. Say the word."
This silent promise to come to Miles' aid almost shatters his fragile semblance of balance. Swallowing down his cries and weakness and frustration at his own vulnerabilities, Miles merely bows with a small flourish. "I am in your debt." Then, he straightens up, letting out a weary sigh. His fingers tighten around the handle of his briefcase. "I'll see you again."
"Find the truth," Frederik says.
Then, Miles is off. He does not look back to say goodbye to his best friend, his mentor; he does not say goodbye to the place which has truly become a second home. He can reflect on his time here another day.
His true home is in jeopardy, after all. He does not even attempt to hide his tears from the flight crew as the bring him his meals and blanket and beverages. They roll, thick and heavy down gaunt cheeks as he stares mutely out of the window from the first-class cabin. His reflection in the rounded window is horrifying, but he cannot bring himself to care.
He does not sleep much that flight, not for lack of trying. He does give up quite quickly, though. He will allow himself to sleep well again once Phoenix is by his side, safe and sound, breathing softly against his skin. That sensation, that warmth, shall be his lullaby. Nothing else can assuage his fears now.