trace (vestiges)
This bed is far too empty.
Miles sighs, rolling over onto one side. The night before a trial is always exhausting, and this case is doubly so thanks to his strange, almost surreal role in it; his time spent in his office had been fraught with far more nervous, aimless pacing than ever before, his heartrate rising almost to the point of concern each time he so much as fathomed ever standing upon the opposite side of the courtroom.
The defense is not his podium to protect. It is not his bench. And yet, here he is, with evidence compiled and testimony ready and contingency plan after contingency plan prepared not to prosecute, but to prove someone's innocence. His palms sweat, mouth going dry and back hunching instinctively at the mere thought of it.
His eyes land upon the shimmering golden pin sitting upon the desk within his bedroom. He had promised to Phoenix to keep the trial going for as long as possible, and so, keep the trial going, he shall. All the pieces are lined up; he has requested that a different judge preside over the case, ensuring that his role as the defense stay safe; and, of course, he has requested for a temporary replacement for the still-missing Godot, managing to land the exact person he knows shall happily keep the trial going for a chance to face off again against Phoenix in the future.
Wearily, he massages his temples, sits up, and lifts his gaze, eyes landing upon the mirror hung upon the wall. With a start, he notices the glasses still perched upon his nose. He had been reading case notes even as he had gotten ready for bed, leaving the spectacles perched upon the edge of his nose instinctively. In this darkness, however- with his hair pushed back out of his eyes and the shadows exaggerating the gauntness of his cheeks, giving him a striking, if haunting, silhouette- he looks so much like the father from his faint memories, from the few photographs which remain, that he almost weeps.
Tomorrow, he shall stand in court not as his father's enemy, but as his father's protégé.
His lip trembles as he removes the spectacles, folding the legs neatly and placing them upon the bedside table. It is only this one time. He hopes he shall do proud all of those whose faith has been placed so earnestly within him.
In order to do so, however, he needs his rest. As he swings his legs up onto the mattress, his gaze sweeps over his bedroom. It has been a year since he has properly been here. This is his home- his bedroom, filled with his furniture and his amenities and his trinkets, creating the place he has always called his own beyond any doubt. Once upon a time, he would have called this place 'perfect' in all its poised, almost sterile symmetry. This place had been exactly as ostentatious and proud and put-together as someone of his stature deserved to be.
Now, his bed is too big. He rolls over, feeling soft, familiar sheets brush his skin, his body sinking into a mattress which still molds to his weight. It is too big, too cold, too empty.
His lip trembles once more, but thoughts of his father are nowhere to be seen. All he can think about his fantasy, the silent, yet unbreakable promise- nigh-unbreakable, he should say, for it has indeed been broken- that he would be able to spend his first night home in Phoenix's arms. Without the other man, this place he used to occupy happily all on his own is far too hollow, for the space in his heart which Phoenix occupies is too prevalent to ignore. This place belongs to Phoenix, too.
The scent which rises up to his nose eases some of his ache, strangely enough. Although the pillowcase smells of detergent and crisp, fresh air, there is the faint, lingering scent of cologne attached to these pillows. Miles pauses, then rolls over, burying his face into the softness and breathing in deep; the scent is stronger now, tantalizing, rising into his brain and warming his heart like a heady potion meant to seduce and befuddle.
It's Phoenix's cologne. He really did stay here whenever Maya and Pearl weren't visiting.
For some reason, this thought catches him off-guard. He knows Phoenix loves him; yet, after meeting the beauty which is Iris, after finding out about Dahlia Hawthorne's inextricable grip on Phoenix's past, there is little he can do to deny the heartache which springs forth from this scent which hangs like a ghost in Miles' nose. Did Dahlia, a convicted murder, know this scent, too? Has Iris ever felt the heat of Phoenix's hand upon her own delicate skin, long fingers wrapping around her waist, thin lips capturing her own-
No. This is silly.
He knows it is. His reflection still looks miserable at the thought, though. Miles Edgeworth is a handsome man, but he is not a woman.
Groaning, Miles runs his fingers through his hair. He knows, better than anyone else, just how much Phoenix Wright has given up heart and home to Miles; he knows just how much adoration, how much tender care and want and affections lives boundlessly in those dark eyes, all for the sake of one prosecutor. He knows better than anyone else just how much Phoenix has given up everything again and again in order to find Miles, to bring him home, to keep him in Phoenix's life. He knows that Phoenix loves him-
It does not make his chest ache any less.
Lifting himself to his knees, Miles flips on the lamp beside his bed, glancing around. Now that he has gained even some distance from the case, small details begin to pop out at him; there is an extra throw blanket he remembers Phoenix buying hung over the back of one of the coffee table's chairs. There is an extra hook attached to the wall, upon which hangs Phoenix's favourite casual jacket. A bottle of that same cheap cologne which Miles can smell within his bed sits in the corner of Miles' armoire, the dull golden cap almost hidden behind Miles' own luxurious bottles.
This place is neat and tidy, but there is no dust. It is lived in. It is home.
It is Phoenix's home, too.
His heart thuds in his chest. It is not painful, though; as he stands, pulling that jacket off its hook, quietly spraying it with that cheap, tasteless cologne, he finds that his heartbeat is calmer than it has been in months with that jacket held in his arms, the scent he has always found tinging Phoenix's skin floating lightly into his nose that night as he sleeps. And, when the morning comes, he opens his eyes and looks in the mirror, standing tall- no glasses needed, the jacket hung up neatly upon its hook which now belongs in his room, just like everything else.
Miles Edgeworth shall be a defense attorney. And he shall be a damned good one.
And in three days' time, when this trial is put to its end and Phoenix is released for better or for worse, he can smell that cologne emanating from Phoenix's skin once again, and that shall be that.