trace (vestiges)

"This… isn't exactly the way home," Phoenix murmurs.

Miles doesn't respond, merely turning the car onto that same off-ramp rest stop. The bus is not running that day, leaving the entire area vacant and silent, the serene atmosphere which filled Kurain Village seeping down the mountainside and into this wide clearing. Miles parks off to the side, pocketing the keys and stepping out without answering Phoenix's curious, baffled expression; the sun beats powerfully overhead, inciting him to abandon his blazer despite that chilly February morning. straightening his ascot, he glances over the Phoenix once the blazer has been hung up in the backseat of his car, gesturing to the bench which still sits upon the edge of the cliff, overlooking the scenic city below.

Phoenix follows. He always does, his footsteps just a few behind Miles' own; Miles thinks on this, his heart shattering, palms growing moist, breath hitching. Phoenix has always been just a few steps behind, but he's never given up once. He's never given up on Miles.

They sit. Miles takes a moment to gather his thoughts before whispering, "Why did you really pursue law, Wright?"

Phoenix's eyes widen, shock causing his mouth to fall open, no answer in sight.

Sighing, Miles presses onwards. "You said you were college when you… knew Dahlia- or, I suppose, Iris?"

Straight teeth grab hold of that lower lip, and Miles feels a rush of heat surge through his body at the sight. Even in his doubt, the other man, who nods meekly with downcast, weary eyes, is still beautiful to him.

"…What were you studying?"

Phoenix does a double-take. "I- um, what?"

"What were you studying, Wright?" Miles repeats, turning to look out into the far distance. The sky is a clear, brilliant blue despite all of the gloom that morning. "Tell me."

Swallowing thickly, Phoenix finally replies, "Um… art."

Art? For a moment, Miles is stunned; he had never even seen Phoenix remotely do anything artistic before. In fact, Phoenix has shown time and time again that he seems to have little patience for the artistic creations... Since when had he been interested in the fine arts? "When did law become a part of the cards?"

Chuckling wryly, Phoenix scratches his nose, and Miles can feel the other man lifting his chin to face the same way as Miles- the distance. "I, uh… after Dahlia poisoned her ex," he admits softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Miles can see the slight, crooked grin pulling up one corner of his mouth.

In his eyes, there is no joy.

"I suppose you asked Mia Fey to help you with that?"

Nodding somberly, Phoenix's façade falls away. "I thought about it for quite a while, and then I saw your photo in the newspaper- y'know, of when you first became a prosecutor."

Flushing, Miles can only mutter, "I'm well aware. 'Demon Prosecutor'."

Snorting humourlessly, Phoenix adds, "I… I think I couldn't make a decision for quite a while. It took me a while to pick myself up after that trial, but when I saw your photo, I just remembered everything- I remembered you." He turns to look at Miles once more, that bitterness in his eyes fading away, leaving behind nothing but wry, unadulterated affection in crescent moons creased by laughter and love. "And I found a way forward again."

Sighing, Miles hums, "We've… saved each other a few times then, hm?"

Phoenix laughs. Unlike before, it sounds earnest, genuine. "I guess so. Always."

Without looking for permission in the other man's face, Miles reaches over, grabbing onto the hand which rests upon the bench by Phoenix's side. His movements are clumsy after a year apart, but he laces their fingers together anyways, squeezing lightly, shivering as the warmth he has missed floods back through his veins, their touch a source of heat which no amount of winter sunshine could ever beat. "I plan on staying in America for the next while," he says softly. "But… I may go elsewhere soon enough."

Immediately, the grip upon his hand tightens tenfold as Phoenix swivels in his seat to gawp at him, flustered, feverish dismay staining his face red, brows furrowed in disbelief. "What do you mean, you're leaving?!" he cries. "You only just-"

"Our justice system is broken, Wright," Miles insists, still focusing upon the distant horizon, allowing the blues of the end of the earth to keep him anchored amidst this conversation. "I- they allowed me to defend Iris. You were impersonated a few months ago by someone with a cardboard badge, were you not?" Flustered, Phoenix attempts to protest, but Miles cleanly continues, "I've been thinking about it for quite a while, but I just don't see how we can continue our work in good conscience when there may be- no, when there are- better ways to defend the innocent and prosecute the guilty."

Speechless, Miles feels Phoenix shift his weight, the man sinking back into the bench wearily. Finally, the other man whispers, "So… you might leave again?"

"Not anytime soon," Miles promises immediately. "I'm going to ask Frederik to help- I have a few contacts in Interpol who may be able to provide guidance, too."

For a long, frightening moment, Phoenix is terrifyingly silent. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Miles feels his right side grow warm as the other man shifts to sit closer to him, grip upon Miles' hand tightening, a callused thumb stroking the back of his hand. "…okay. Tell me what I need to do."

Miles freezes, turning to stare at Phoenix blankly. A quick search of the other man's face proves that he is completely serious, though; for some reason, the image of his stoic faith burns itself into Miles' brain, his resolute, unwavering trust in Miles carved into the back of Miles' eyelids, lingering long after Miles' eyes have closed and he has turned back to face the viewpoint, shoulders shaking from laughter. "…I was more hoping you'd forgive me for saying I want to leave at some point again, but that shall work, too."

Immediately, Phoenix bumps his shoulder roughly into Miles'. His voice is hoarse as he whispers, "Well, sorry for taking you seriously! Do you think I want you to go away again? Three years since we've reunited, Miles, it's already been three fucking years and we've been together in person less than we've been apart, and I just-"

As Phoenix rambles, all Miles can do is watch him. His bitterness from the events atop Eagle Mountain remain. He doubts they will ever go away, if he is being honest; he would like to think of himself as being mature enough to forgive, but he knows that the wounds which had festered over those few days of anxiety and heartache run deep, and he cannot see himself ever simply letting go of the pain which Phoenix had caused him by leaving him behind to chase after the prospect of closure.

And yet, as he looks at Phoenix growing more and more agitated, his words flying out far too quickly for Miles' fatigued brain to even comprehend, all he can think is one, silly- to quote Franziska, 'foolish'- little sentiment.

So, he moves forward. He cuts Phoenix off mid-sentence, allowing his lips to meet minty, soft skin, brain shutting off as he finally, truly kisses Phoenix for the first time since the end of Iris Hawthorne's trial. The touch is electric, and yet, not; it is soft, and warm, and somehow everything he had imagined after their year apart, and still somehow so much more.

It is silent. They breathe together, lips moving in gentle harmony, their frustrations moving to the side in order to enjoy this one quiet moment of peace after so much hardship. They pull away- they return, magnets draw back to their opposing poles so easily, finally interlocking with the other half from which they had been separated.

After what is likely far too long to be even remotely considered proper, Miles pulls away, opening his eyes to find Phoenix watching him with just as much longing. "I'm back," he breathes against Phoenix's lips.

Phoenix smiles, his arms lifting to wrap around Miles' shoulders, a wry, hapless smile growing wider by the second as he leans his forehead against the prosecutor's. "Welcome back."

Miles smiles. It feels good.