Ace Attorney: We Are Made From Broken Parts
Chapter Two:
- I Can Hold It Up But I Hold It Up Hardly -
By Soulkit
"Geez Miles, it's a birthday party. You're not getting knighted." Phoenix rolled his eyes in amusement as he watched the prosecutor scowl into the mirror, struggling to fix his cravat. What exactly was wrong with it, Phoenix had given up wondering. He'd only just stopped calling it 'that frilly neck thing' so he supposed the finer points of cravat arranging would still be a mystery.
"There's no harm in looking smart." Miles replied stiffly.
"I never said there was," Phoenix shrugged as he sat up from where he had been sprawled across Miles' expensive couch. Shoes off, of course. "Just don't want you whisked off half-way through the celebrations to protect queen and country."
"I'm American," The prosecutor gave Phoenix an exasperated look he knew all too well. "It's impossible for me to be knighted."
The spiky-haired lawyer waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, but you spent so much time in Europe that I wouldn't be surprised to find out you're an honorary Brit or something."
Miles snorted, showing his opinion of the idea through a single sound. Phoenix doubted it had anything to do with some sort of secret disdain for the British. The prosecutor probably thought he was being stupid, as per usual.
"You're being fanciful." Obviously Miles Edgeworth would never use such a common word as 'stupid'. Phoenix let a small teasing smirk cross his face, one he'd learned from the very man before him.
"Funny. You always say something like that just before I whip your ass in court."
"No, I don't. And you don't 'whip my ass' in court." Miles said dryly.
"Says the guy who always loses." Phoenix sniggered. Miles glared at him in the mirror.
"Aren't you going to get dressed, Wright?"
Phoenix grinned. He must have hit a nerve if he was being referred to by his last name. Then the prosecutor's words sunk in and Phoenix blinked before looking down at himself. Compared to Miles' extravagant pink ('wine red' his ass) get-up, he supposed he did seem a little informal with just a smart pair of black jeans and his usual shirt and blue suit jacket sans the tie. Then again, everyone looked informal no matter what they were wearing compared to Edgeworth. Besides, it was Larry's birthday party. The guy was Phoenix's best friend and the lawyer knew not to overshoot his expectations because of this. Better to place them gently on the ground and hope for the best. If anything it was Miles who was going to look out of place.
"You're changing the subject," Phoenix replied rather than pointing any of this out. To his surprise, the prosecutor stiffened. "Wait you actually are?"
"Wright…" Miles groaned as Phoenix exploded with laughter.
"Aw you don't have to be embarrassed Edgy! No-one can stand up to me in court!"
"Wright."
"I bet you lie awake at night fantasising about being as good as me." Phoenix carried on, not noticing Miles was now stalking towards him.
"Wright."
"I mean, I'd teach you my secrets but then I'd have to kill—" An undignified yelp left Phoenix as Miles dragged him to his feet and the prosecutor placed his hands on either side of Phoenix's face.
"Phoenix."
"Uh… yeah?" Phoenix wondered where his breath had suddenly disappeared to.
"Shut up."
He would quite happily never talk again if Miles kept kissing him like that.
Phoenix woke with a jolt, his breath sobbing in his throat and his eyes stinging. Exhaustion still tugged at his mind, seducing him back towards sleep. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be awake. Being conscious meant he had to remember and remembering only hurt him. Every time. Being unconscious meant he had no control over where his mind went and would probably end up remembering anyway. But his exhaustion was stronger than his fear. So he lay back and hugged the blankets to himself, giving into sleep once more.
This time, the nightmare was not a memory, but just as painful and twice as cruel.
A strong hand gripped his throat and slammed him back against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. He struggled blindly but other hands descended upon him and held him still.
"Did you honestly think you could escape us forever, Wright?" A laughing voice said. A cruel, cold, familiar voice. 'Engarde…?'
Phoenix couldn't answer as the hand around his throat tightened and he struggled for air while he fought not to cry. He couldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. He could barely see their faces, but somehow he already knew who they were.
"Poor Feenie is wondering why this is happening to him." A woman's voice hissed inches away from his face. He cringed at the sound. 'Hawthorne.'
He could actually feel that bitch's breath against his mouth. Fear had grasped his body, immobilising him. Although he had stopped fighting them physically, he still had to block out their vicious lies, the poison that dripped from their lips. The hand left his throat and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look into the shadowed faces of his tormentors, the faces of every single person he'd ever sent to prison. He gasped, taking in precious oxygen and it burned down his bruised throat.
"It is because no-one loves you. No-one will ever love you again. You are just as bad as the rest of us, no better. So you can step down off your pedestal and join the ranks." A flash of an evil smile. 'Von Karma.'
"No…" He gasped out. It wasn't true. It wasn't…
"That's too bad, Feenie…"
The hands released him, and as fists and boots slammed into his body, Phoenix couldn't help but scream and cry and beg for someone, anyone, to come and save him. No-one came. The voices laughed louder, the pain rained down harder and their words cut deeper. No-one loved him. No-one even cared.
He was alone.
For the second time, Phoenix bolted upright, this time clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the scream rising in his throat, breathing heavily through his nose and unable to hold back the tears spilling down his cheeks. For a moment he sat there, forcing himself to calm down and not panic. Eventually, the urge to scream subsided and he removed his hand from his mouth in order to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, swearing softly. The tears stopped a few seconds later, but the dull, stabbing ache in his chest remained.
Phoenix sighed and scrubbed his face violently. There was no point in trying to sleep now. His room was cold and condensation clouded the window. The dull red glow of his alarm clock told him it was 3:23am and he wrapped a blanket around himself as he shivered dully. The nightmare continued to cling to his thoughts no matter how much he tried to push it away. Reluctantly, Phoenix allowed his mind to analyse it as the dark, silent apartment seemed to close in around him.
Dreaming about Edgeworth (any of his old friends really, but particularly Edgeworth) was always a painful experience. It forced him to think about everything he had lost and wanted back more than anything. It reminded him that even now most of the world thought he was nothing more than a liar and he was too much of a coward to talk to the few people that didn't. It emptied something inside of him, making him want to give up this idea of proving he was innocent and crawl into a corner of his apartment to never be found again.
But he wasn't that much of a coward. He wasn't suicidal. ('Not yet anyway…')
The other nightmare though… He hated to admit it but it had brought up his most basic fear: being forgotten. No matter how many nightmares he had about his past cases, murderers seeking revenge and failing at proving his friends innocent, he refused to forget the faces and names of every single person he had interacted with. He would never forget his friends, but it meant remembering his enemies as well and it played hell with his subconscious. The idea that the images of people he knew – the way they looked, the way they talked, the way they smiled – could be reduced to nothing but vague recollections terrified him. So, out of principle, he forced himself to remember whenever he thought his broken mind could handle the pain his memories always brought. He did it to convince himself that people did the same for him, that there wouldn't be a day where he had no-one that cared, no-one to remind him that he was and always would be Phoenix Wright.
'So you cut yourself off from everyone who claimed to care because obviously that'll make them more likely to remember you.'
Phoenix scowled and buried his face into his arms which were resting atop his knees. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't going to drag them down to where he was now. Only he deserved that.
'They could help you dumbass. Y'know, like they used to.'
No. Phoenix wasn't going to make them deal with that. It had been hard enough pretending he was alright when everyone was so fucking sympathetic and sorry and telling him it would all work out in the end. He had despised lying to them, telling them he was eating fine, sleeping properly and had a proper job that paid enough to appease his stupid landlord. Yes, he was upset that he no longer owned Wright and Co Law Offices ("I'll get it back one day. Just you watch."), yes, he missed being in the courtroom even though he always had the weirdest – and sometimes dangerous – cases, ("Come on, that's what made it fun!"), yes, he was seriously pissed off Edgeworth was such an uptight, egotistical bastard that the idea of having a relationship with a disgraced attorney was unthinkable ("You're embarrassed of me, aren't you?"), but that did not mean he was made of fucking glass. He didn't need to be coddled and told everything was alright. And in the end it had simply became too difficult to successfully play his game of pretend anymore, to act like he was still the same man. What would happen, he wondered, if he went back to his friends and was unable to properly hide himself?
The ex-attorney almost laughed when he thought about it (not cried. He was definitely not almost crying). Edgeworth would probably lock him up in some mental hospital after listening to a very, very concerned Maya and a troubled, upset Pearly (he doubted Larry would say anything. The Butz probably wouldn't notice anything else was different).
The real Phoenix was terrifying, as far as the raven-haired man was concerned. He was negative and mean, constantly thinking terrible things about everyone around him when he wasn't too drunk to even notice them. Not only that, but he was horrible to himself. 'You deserve all of this and more, you lying little bitch. Deserve every angry beating those stupid poker players give you. You should be begging for it. Hell, you're not good enough for what they do to you. They should treat you far worse. It'd only be fair. After all, you're a liar, you're pathetic, good for nothing but illegal gambling and stress relief.'
Phoenix abruptly stood, the idea of just sitting there any longer making him feel sick. The raven-haired man started scratching at his neck as he continued to lose himself in his thoughts, digging his nails into the skin roughly, again and again, reddening the area and drawing blood. It wasn't until he tripped over a discarded pair of jeans and pitched forward towards his sorry excuse for a coffee table that he snapped out of it.
He couldn't get his hands up in time, so Phoenix crashed face first into the table, a grunt forcing itself passed his lips as he rolled onto the carpet, hands on his bleeding nose. He really needed to pay attention to where he was going, he thought with a groan.
As he waited for the blood to stop, the ex-attorney lay there, momentarily empty of everything as he stared up at his ceiling. The night seemed to swamp the small apartment and Phoenix found himself wishing the sun would never come up. Things would be so much easier that way. He could just lie there and not have to worry about proving himself innocent or winning poker or how much he was disappointing his friends, disappointing Edgeworth…
The anger was back again, searing his ribcage and burning his throat, and Phoenix actually choked on the emotion, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to get a hold of himself. The prosecutor might once again be missing from Phoenix's life, but he wasn't gone, and while his mission to clear his name initially kept the other man's presence at bay in the two years since he last saw him, now he just felt cold and empty and haunted.
He couldn't stay here. Not in his apartment. It was too cramped. There wasn't enough air. He dressed himself haphazardly, throwing on the same jeans he had tripped over, an unwashed white t-shirt and his favourite dark grey hoodie. He didn't bother washing the blood off of his neck, face or hands. He doubted anyone would care ('Not important enough, Phoenix, you're not important enough for that.').
As soon as he burst out into the open the cold air hit him like a punch to the face. His injured nose stung as the panic that had started to grip him in the apartment slowly lost its hold. Phoenix forced his body to relax as he picked a random direction and started walking. Honestly, he had no idea where he was going but he didn't care as long as kept moving. It felt like the whole world would crumble around him if he stopped, and although he couldn't escape the thoughts swirling relentlessly around his head, at least it felt like he was going somewhere if his feet were moving.
He'd had nights like these before. Nights where his mind refused to rest until he was left curled in a ball clawing at his throat as he tried to breathe and every last pent up emotion threatened to overwhelm until he passed out and woke up feeling like he'd fallen off of a bridge again. Panic attacks he knew now. The first time it had happened he'd been convinced he was dying. But they'd occurred often enough for Phoenix to learn that being in the open streets where he was surrounded by space and open air and nothing but possibilities was far better than being trapped inside his apartment.
It didn't fix it, however. Not by a long shot. He kicked an empty can in front of him angrily, sending the offending object hurtling several feet away. It didn't alleviate his anger. His chest was burning with all the contained emotions and Phoenix scowled deeply, stalking down a random street with a violent 'don't fuck with me' attitude.
He didn't know what to do. That was the simple truth of it all. He was tired, he was lonely, he was sick of being stuck inside his own head and for the first time in his life he really, truly, honestly did not know what to do. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his friends. He wanted to be a lawyer. He wanted to be Phoenix Wright again.
He wanted to talk to Apollo.
Phoenix actually stopped mid-step as the thought flashed into his mind. Where the hell did that come from? Sure he'd thought about the younger man in the week since they'd met. He couldn't help but wonder where the kid was now, why he had needed the money and if he was looking after Phoenix's hoodie. But he had never thought about seeing the brunette again… had he?
"And who knows? Maybe I'll see ya around."
The raven-haired man resumed walking, much slower this time with his hands relaxed into his pockets and a thoughtful expression across his face. He'd been too caught up in his own thoughts, Alexei's adamant demands that they didn't tell a soul he had lost and the never-ending poker games to give Apollo much more than a passing thought. He remembered the warm feeling he had gotten seeing the kid smile from the depths of his hoodie, the guilty expression on Apollo's face when he'd accepted his winnings, and, more than anything, that strange stillness Phoenix had felt from the younger man as he'd apologised for winning (like Edgeworth but different, quiet, dark).
"Oi, don't worry. I will."
Why had he needed that money? Why had he been so bitter at the mention of his parents? What was the kid hiding? There were so many questions surrounding Apollo's sudden appearance and equally quick disappearance and Phoenix couldn't help but be intrigued the more he thought about it. And more than that…
"They never have before. I don't see why they should start now."
He had liked Apollo. The kid had shown enough of himself to hint that he was at least a little bit as fucked up as Phoenix was and he hadn't shown any fake pity or empty well-wishing. He'd simply treated Phoenix like… like another human being, not a kicked dog that needed to be coddled into near suffocation. It was rare nowadays for Phoenix to give a damn about somebody else. Hell, it was rare for him to even give a damn about himself. But something about the kid had drawn him and he realised, a little belatedly, that he did want to see Apollo again.
Phoenix was broken out of his small epiphany by the shadow of someone standing in front of him. He froze and stared with a sense of dread at the man before him, several years younger than Phoenix with a heavy build and a cruel smirk twisting the unpleasant face unnaturally. Glancing behind him, the ex-attorney felt his throat constrict as he saw another two men approaching him menacingly, their intent clear with every step.
"It's pretty late to be out on a midnight stroll." The man in front of him spoke conversationally. Phoenix lowered his eyes. He wasn't going to bother with pleasantries. He knew where this was going.
"I don't want any trouble." He mumbled. The man leaned into his face and sneered.
"You hear that boys? He thinks we're trouble."
"Do we look like trouble?" One of the others asked. Phoenix wondered if they really wanted him to answer that.
"You're the one who looks like trouble," The first man said, his gaze flicking down to Phoenix's bloodied nose. "We're doing the community a favour."
"You should try taking a shower next. You might get a medal." The words formed in the remnants of Phoenix's fury and he had spoken them before he even knew what he was doing. The man actually snarled and Phoenix wasn't entirely surprised when he was slugged in the stomach. Still, he crumpled to his knees and struggled not to cry out from the pain. Here he was being beaten up once again. Whether it was in his dreams, after a poker game or in a deserted street at nearly four in the morning, the same principle always applied. He couldn't show them he was terrified.
He was squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable blows to start pounding down, when from nowhere a voice rang out, angry, shockingly loud and startlingly familiar.
"Oi! What the fuck are you doing?"
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Apollo frowned as left the vandalised phone box and his bracelet tightened suddenly against his wrist. He glanced around, breathing in the night air and found what he was looking for quickly. A man dressed in a shabby suit was walking in his direction, darting his eyes nervously to Apollo before looking elsewhere, then back again, trying hard not to show it but obviously wary. Apollo rolled his eyes and skirted around the phone box so he could cross the street. His bracelet instantly began to loosen and left a dull ache shooting through his arm.
Lifting up his sleeve, Apollo examined the chafed skin on his left wrist underneath the metal band he had worn all his life and decided it wasn't worn down enough to warrant the removal of his bracelet. He was glad. Whenever he had to carry it in his pocket he ran the risk of someone stealing it. This late at night, muggers and desperate vagrants would be in their element, and while Apollo was confident he could fight them off if they bothered him, he never wanted to risk losing his bracelet.
He trekked a confident path through the dark streets towards where he slept, skittering down alleyways and avoiding the few cars speeding down the roads with ease, all the while fiddling with the blood red sleeve of his over-sized hoodie. He'd thought about the original owner of the hoodie a lot over the past week. He hadn't meant to. He had more important things (food, sleep, survival) to worry about rather than some poker player. But the kindness Phoenix had shown him had struck Apollo and made him feel something he hadn't felt since Clay left to train to be an astronaut.
It had been strange playing his game of pretend again to the people inside the Borsht Bowl Club. Since Clay had left two years ago he hadn't had much reason to interact with people, other than begging, and he'd been out of practice. He was pretty sure he had pulled of his innocent and naïve act to the extent possible when you were gambling illegally in the middle of the night and doubted the owner of the club and the dealer had thought he was anything more than a stupid kid trying his luck for a bit of money. Phoenix, of course, was different.
He had interested Apollo from the first moment he had stepped out of the basement. It was almost funny that Phoenix thought Apollo didn't look his age when the other man looked nearly forty. Apollo had learned to look past initial perceptions, however, and guessed the older man was actually closer to thirty. His cerulean blue eyes had shone out of insomniac-ringed sockets and his raven black hair was impossibly spiky. Despite the baggy clothes, Apollo could just make out broad shoulders and a rather muscular build. But the man's face had been drawn and there was a weird feeling emanating from Phoenix (dark and dirty and wrong) that Apollo had felt many a time from the homeless people he often passed (and from himself whenever he got a chance to look in a mirror). It had almost made him turn away and find some other way to raise the money he needed, but it had taken months of starving more than he usually did and causing himself more pain than he thought he could endure to raise the two hundred dollars he already had and he'd known he couldn't put himself through that again, even if Phoenix's constant tensing had broken the skin around Apollo's ankle as his bracelet pinched every single time it happened.
So despite his reservations, Apollo had played and won. It had been a huge risk. He could have lost the money he already had. It was only thanks to his bracelet, fixed to his ankle rather than his wrist so nobody would notice it and accuse him of cheating, that he had won. He supposed it was cheating in a way, but Apollo eventually convinced himself that it was no different than being extremely skilled in bluffing. You either had it or you didn't, and it wasn't cheating if the other person didn't.
This didn't assuage the guilt that assaulted him when the strange darkdirtywrong hanging around Phoenix only seemed to become more prominent and he didn't understand how the other two men in the club hadn't noticed anything, hadn't even stopped Phoenix as began to leave when there was obviously something not right. Apollo had known in that moment he couldn't let the older man disappear without saying something (because he knew what darkdirtywrong meant and he wasn't going to let Phoenix leave like that) and had dropped his act without a second thought. He'd shoved his panic to the back of his mind (stop him stop him stop him) and said what he knew he needed to. Then he'd left because he'd already shown Phoenix far more than he'd ever shown anyone in months and couldn't fight the feeling telling him to run and hide.
Of course Phoenix would just have to follow him. Apollo had managed to relax enough when the older man stopped approaching him (he didn't want people in his personal space) to realise that the dark and dirty and wrong was dampened once again and instead Phoenix told him he hated liars. The confession had made Apollo want to grin because it was for exactly that reason that he'd been sent back to the orphanage so many times (it's not going to be alright stop lying) and had started his game of pretend in the first place. But then Phoenix went and mentioned his parents (and even after twenty-one years Apollo was still so angry and betrayed by the two people who were supposed to love him) and he'd snapped. He hadn't meant to be so bitter and had almost screamed in regret as the bracelet pinched, violently broadcasting Phoenix's guilt and the return of the dark feelings hanging in a heavy haze around the older man.
Then Phoenix had given him his hoodie.
Apollo had been thrown by that. He'd been even more surprised when Phoenix made a joke and Apollo realised that maybe he wasn't the only one who played games of pretend. And Phoenix had looked so happy when Apollo had smiled at him and when the brunette called him by his first name that Apollo felt a surge of warmth whenever he thought about it.
But it scared him. There was a reason he kept himself closed off from people (you're not worth them they don't want you). For the first couple of days afterwards incident Apollo had made himself refer to the older man as 'Wright' because it kept him at a distance. He couldn't handle the thought that somebody other than Clay might actually care. Then he remembered the look on the other man's face as he called him 'Phoenix' and his resolve had crumbled. He'd meant it when he'd said he might see Phoenix around. He wanted to see the poker player. Once again though, his fear held him back and ended up avoiding the areas around the Borsht Bowl Club instead.
Maybe he couldn't handle the idea someone might actually care (didn't think about the warm feeling he got at the thought of someone helping), but it would break him to find out that Phoenix had only shown him the kindness he had because he was feeling guilty (not because you matter, because the he had to).
All of this had rolled up into a tight ball of emotions in his chest until he wanted to scream and he'd never exactly been known for his self-control. Sighing, he rubbed a hand through his dirty, deep brown tresses. Fuck he really was attention starved wasn't he? He'd only met the man once and all it had taken was for Phoenix to look happy and now Apollo wanted nothing more than to see him again.
He was starting to feel glad he hadn't told Clay about Phoenix over the phone. He would have teased Apollo for days. When he finally came back anyway.
Apollo was thankfully dragged out of his thoughts before he could start thinking about how much he missed his best friend when he turned a corner and saw three men further down the street surrounding another man, their violent intentions clear in the way they stood. He narrowed his eyes. It had always been a problem of his that he couldn't stand by and watch injustice in progress. He'd been labelled a 'problem child' early on when he couldn't stop getting into fights. Obviously they never listened when he said he hadn't started it or he had but only because the other guy was picking on someone else (you're an orphan, you're thoughts aren't important). It never stopped him, no matter how many foster families gave him up because of it. He understood that people were intimidated by his intelligence and his hot temper, so he had started the charade of being the harmless, naïve kid he showed to most people.
'And that worked out so fucking perfectly didn't it?'
The brunette scowled and started down the street. A buzz filled his system as he moved closer to the muggers and their victim. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, every breath flowing through his lungs and was completely aware of every single movement his body made. This was something he had long since come to love; the moment when he fought. It was purely physical. He didn't need to think about it. All he needed to do was follow his instincts. And it would help get some of his pent up emotions out too.
His eyes zeroed in on one of the men as he sank a fist into the other man's stomach and he crumpled instantly.
"Oi! What the fuck are you doing?" He yelled, using his Chords of Steel to get their attention pretty thoroughly. The three muggers spun round to face him, their eyes wide, surprise momentarily immobilising them and allowing Apollo to glance quickly at the person kneeling on all fours. The pre-fight excitement left for a second as Apollo recognised the impossibly spiky hair with disbelief. No time to think about that. One of the men was straightening his posture, making his admittedly impressive bulk noticeable, but Apollo spoke before the mugger could, his exhilaration returning. "Back off and you won't get hurt."
The biggest man laughed (the leader) and other two quickly joined in (and his cronies). "Well lookie here," The leader said with such overconfidence Apollo had to fight not to roll his eyes. His bracelet tightened as they refocused their attention towards him. "Looks like the guy's got a boyfriend."
Apollo raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to be an insult? Suppose it's the best you can come up with if you're as stupid as you look."
The head mugger's face twisted with rage, making him look (Apollo though with savage glee) mildly deformed.
"I know you." One of the cronies spoke this time – blond and stocky – and Apollo glanced at him, swallowing his fear and surprise.
"Do you really?" He managed a sarcastic reply. "I think I'd remember a face like that."
There was no danger of the three muggers doing any more harm to Phoenix if the murderous glares from the three men and the way his bracelet was practically cutting off his circulation was anything to go by. He spared Phoenix a quick glance (he wasn't moving why wasn't he getting up?) before moving onto the balls of his feet and surreptitiously angling himself diagonally to the men now approaching him.
"You're a bum. I've seen you sleeping in that abandoned car park next to the freeway." The blond man elaborated and Apollo let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The leader let out a cruel laugh.
"Well then, let's demonstrate how we deal with disgusting, homeless, lowlife— "He swung his fist round towards Apollo's face "—scum!"
Apollo's instincts kicked in and, as he had practiced years ago, he slightly shifted his body and moved his head to the side to avoid the punch barrelling towards his left cheek. Before the mugger could register this fact, Apollo was on the inside of his defences and was lashing out with a calloused fist towards the man's jaw. It connected with a satisfying crack and the leader's head jerked backwards while he was knocked to the ground in a spray of blood as his teeth cut into his tongue. The two cronies hesitated, staring down at their friend in shock.
"Oi, is that it? I thought you were gonna teach me a lesson!" Apollo jeered. It was an old tactic, one that Apollo had employed for years and Clay had aptly named the 'NA-NA-NA-NA-NA Approach'. Regardless of what it was called, it worked perfectly, causing the two men to burn with anger. It was their anger that would make them sloppy. Apollo's anger was cold and he could use it. Their anger was hot and so it used them.
Blondie tried an off-balance kick towards Apollo's knees but the younger man crouched and grabbed the offending foot before yanking with all his strength. The mugger yelled out in pan and surprise and ended up on the ground next to his friend. Apollo ignored him as the third man rushed him and he drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, pushing him backwards and into a wall. The man didn't cry out as his breath was knocked out of him, but he did manage to swing his fist round into Apollo's unsuspecting face. The younger man reeled back as he tasted blood and was quickly grabbed from behind. The classic move at this moment would be to bring his heel up in the person's crotch, but whoever was holding this must have known because Apollo could feel them rising on their toes, thrusting their hips backward to keep Apollo from reaching their groin. Without seeing, Apollo knew it would bring their face closer, almost into Apollo's hair. So instead of kicking, he lunged upwards off the ground and jammed his head into the man's face.
Apollo whirled in time to see Blondie stagger back, his nose bleeding, gasping from surprise and pain. At the same time, the leader had snapped out his pain and was reaching for Apollo's ankles, but Apollo was too quick as adrenaline surged through him. He raised his foot and brought it down hard on the mugger's hand. The man screamed and rolled over. The other two made a desperate lunge for Apollo and the brunette almost laughed as he stepped back and they collided with each other with such force they almost knocked themselves out.
The leader lay where he was, clutching his hand. "You've broken it," He moaned before glancing up at Apollo in hate. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm your worst nightmare," The devil came out of Apollo there. He couldn't help it. And although he knew the unspoken rules of manly warfare (never strike an opponent who lay helpless on the ground), the brunette walked to the mugger and kicked him, viciously, in the ribs. The leader groaned and rolled away from him while the other two backed off in fear. "You ever think about hurting my friend, just remember what I do to people who try to hurt me. From then on you'd be wondering when I'd get you, and how bad it would be. It wouldn't be this bad," Apollo raised a fist that was spattered with the other men's blood. "It would be worse."
The two standing muggers grabbed their leader and dragged him to his feet before hightailing it out of there. Apollo watched them go with contempt, spat out the blood in his mouth and finally turned all of his attention to Phoenix who was still on the ground on all fours but had lifted his head up and was staring at Apollo in disbelief. Apollo took in the dried blood staining most of the older man's face below his nose and swore.
"What the fuck did they do to you?"
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Phoenix could only stare as he heard the anger in Apollo's tone (not angry at him, angry for him) and it was only the thought of the younger man chasing after the three muggers that finally got his mouth to work again (don't go, please don't leave me alone).
"A hello would be nice." He replied sarcastically, but not unkindly as he felt happiness surge through him at the sight of the younger man; everything from the unwashed tresses of dark hair, to the defiant brown eyes, to the split lip and rather impressive bruise swelling on his cheek to the blood red hoodie that Apollo was still wearing. Phoenix couldn't help but grin as he got unsteadily to his feet, his muscles aching the way they normally did after his panic attacks, his stomach protesting painfully and his nose stinging against the cold air. Apollo looked at him and his bloodied face sceptically and Phoenix rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment as he finally answered the kid's question. "Uh… they weren't the ones who did this to me."
"Who did then?" Apollo looked positively murderous and Phoenix had to fight not to smile wider (because see, there are people who care) despite his humility.
"I… kind of fell. Face first into my coffee table."
Apollo looked at him slack-jawed for a few seconds and then burst out laughing.
"Hey!" Phoenix said indignantly but somehow he knew Apollo's mirth wasn't directed at him. This was made a certainty when Apollo waved his hands and quickly apologised.
"Oi, I'm sorry. It's just I have a friend who's pretty clumsy and falls on his face all the time." He sniggered and for the first time since the younger man had come to his rescue, Apollo seemed to relax and Phoenix found his over-tensed muscles loosening as well.
"Thanks." The ex-attorney said quietly. He had hardly been able to believe it when the kid had appeared out of the shadows to stand up for him. "How did you do that anyway?"
"Do what?" Apollo looked genuinely confused.
"Fight like that."
"Ah, well," Now it was Apollo's turn to look slightly embarrassed as he awkwardly rubbed his left wrist. "I got into a lot of fights when I was younger and I picked up a few things." He shrugged. "Besides, on the streets it's fight or die. I chose to fight."
Phoenix could believe that. He'd learned a few things himself from the fights he'd had in the Hydeout. But the person he'd watched fight off those three muggers hardly even looked like the kid he had met only a week ago. Or had he? Once again, Phoenix remembered the strange stillness he had sensed off the younger man when he first apologised for winning. If he concentrated, he could still see it, slightly dampened, hiding in Apollo's eyes. All the same… "But there were three of them."
Apollo snorted. "Three assholes who did not know how to fight," He fixed Phoenix with a sudden serious stare. "Oi, what I wanna know is what you're wandering around at four in the morning for."
Inwardly Phoenix groaned. This wasn't exactly the conversation he wanted to have ('Don't want anyone to know how wrong you are, huh Wright?'). But he supposed he owed Apollo a little bit of truth. "I… couldn't sleep. Nightmares." He tried to sound nonchalant but failed with a rather spectacular tremor in his voice. Thankfully, Apollo didn't comment. He only groaned in sympathy.
"I hate those. As if I don't have enough problems when I'm awake," The brunette ran a hand through his hair, completely unaware he had said what Phoenix had thought many a time after waking up from one. "You okay to go back now? It's not exactly warm out here."
Apollo shivered inside his hoodie as if for emphasis and Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "And what are you going to do? I mean, you don't have anywhere to go…" Phoenix forcibly stopped himself. He wasn't overly shocked to find out Apollo was homeless. He'd suspected as much last week and it explained a lot – the state of his clothes and appearance, the reason he needed so much money, his bitterness towards his parents. It didn't mean the kid would be happy talking about it.
"Oi, I've managed for five years, I'm sure I'll survive somehow. At least it ain't raining."
Now Phoenix was surprised. "You were homeless when you were sixteen?" He blurted out and mentally kicked himself immediately afterwards (that was Apollo's business not his, he didn't matter enough to know).
"Sorry, didn't know there was an age restriction for being on the streets," Apollo rolled his eyes then he shrugged. "I ran away to be honest. Some things you can't fight against."
Phoenix could only stand there and look at Apollo as once again it crossed his mind just how young the brunette looked. It scared him. But at the same time, he understood what the kid was saying. So he told him as much in a quiet voice. "I know how that feels."
Apollo nodded in silent acceptance, eyes distant and haunted. In the blink of an eye, however, a grin had replaced his forlorn expression as he cocked his head to the side and buried his hands in his pockets. "Oi, just cos I have to suffer the cold doesn't mean you do. So c'mon, where do ya live?"
Pushing down the guilt starting to squirm in his gut (because Apollo was a good person, it wasn't fair), Phoenix turned in the direction of his apartment and silently started walking. He didn't want to go yet. He'd wanted to see Apollo and now that the kid was right there walking beside him, he wanted to keep talking. Why was it so easy to relax around the younger man? To push his dark thoughts to an obscure corner of his mind and put a smile on his face? But Apollo's quiet satisfaction was enough to stop him from arguing. And it seemed like a twisted form of mockery to deny his soft bed when Apollo didn't even have so much as a roof over his head.
"So, how's the poker world doing? You still beating everyone who comes through the door?"
Phoenix glanced over at the brunette, wondering about how content Apollo seemed even though they were heading towards the security and relative warmth of the ex-attorney's apartment. Was he going to walk Phoenix right to the door? How could he make himself go so close to something he didn't – couldn't – have? "Almost," He replied dryly and Apollo winked at him. "My boss was pretty pissed off when I went in the next day. He more or less said that if you weren't going to tell anyone then I wasn't either."
Apollo sniggered. "He seemed like the type – proud and Russian."
"So just proud?" Phoenix grinned. Again. Why did he keep doing it around this kid? Apollo gasped theatrically.
"Stereotypes, Mr Wright? And about your boss, no less? I never took you for such a braggart!" He said in an overly posh voice and Phoenix rolled his eyes.
"Yes, Mr…" The ex-attorney frowned as he realised something. "Uh, I don't know your last name."
"Don't have one," Apollo replied cheerfully. How could he be so happy? ('Maybe he isn't. You aren't the only one with secrets.'). "When I get off the streets I can pick whatever one I want, I guess."
"That's… kind of cool actually."
"You're telling me, flaming-bird-boy."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Phoenix glared at him. Apollo returned it with a mischievous grin.
"I'm just saying some people would really like the ability to choose whatever name they wanted."
"Says the Greek god in charge of music."
"Oi!"
How was it so easy to settle into this playful banter? Less than twenty minutes ago Phoenix had been teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, swamped in dark thoughts and quite happy to lie down on the ground and let the shit be kicked out of him. Now he was being teased, and teasing back, as if he'd been doing it all his life. And even more terrifying than that, it felt real. He wasn't forcing his smiles, even if the out-of-practice muscles ached and his nose throbbed each time one crossed his face. His body was relaxed and his mind didn't feel as clouded or broken as it normally did. He didn't feel happy (he didn't deserve that), but he didn't feel as sad, and even that was such an alien feeling that Phoenix was surprised he was being so calm about the situation.
The fact remained he was so alone (always always always). He hadn't connected with anyone like this for a long time and it felt so good to interact with someone who didn't expect anything back from him that he almost wanted to cry. He was used to pasting a too wide smile on his face while inwardly he screamed. He was used to forcing a laugh while his soul cried inside. He was used to pulling the broken pieces of his mind together in a semblance of sanity and labelling it 'normal', knowing that later when he was alone and nobody but his empty apartment could be a witness he would let himself shatter into a thousand twisted pieces of twisted memories. He was used to pretending.
Apollo didn't need him to pretend though. The younger man didn't expect him to act in a certain way. He simply took Phoenix as he was. And maybe Apollo didn't know the man Phoenix had become (dark and dirty and wrong). Maybe he would never know. For now it wouldn't matter.
"Some things you can't fight against."
They reached Phoenix's apartment building far too soon. Phoenix looked up at the dark building, noting the way the sky was lightening as he did so. It didn't seem as daunting to return to his cramped apartment now that the night was retreating. He still didn't want to go up.
"Thank you for your escort." He said to Apollo as he stopped, not quite able to inject the same cheer into his voice as he had into their previous bantering.
"Oi, I couldn't leave you for any muggers could I?" Apollo replied sincerely with a warm smile. Then he blinked and looked around. "Wait, you live here?"
"…Yeah?" Phoenix frowned in confusion which only grew when the kid's grin widened. But then Apollo waved a hand and shook his head.
"It doesn't matter. Forget I said anything."
Phoenix regarded him for a moment before deciding to do as Apollo said. They stood for a moment in silence, then Phoenix turned and placed a hand on the front door to his building (don't go don't be alone) and heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He didn't look back. Instead he leaned his head against the entrance and murmured quietly.
"Why did you save me?"
It was something he had been wondering ever since Apollo had appeared to chase off the three muggers. Three muggers that could easily have had weapons on them. That easily could have hurt Apollo and it would have been Phoenix's fault because he could barely spend a night in his apartment without breaking down.
"I said didn't I? You're my friend," Phoenix spun his head round so fast his neck cricked. Apollo held the ex-attorney's gaze and his voice was steady. "As much as you can be, I guess, when I've only met you twice."
Friend. Phoenix lowered his gaze. The word sounded suddenly strange, foreign and filled with countless possibilities. 'But you don't believe that, do you? You don't have friends. You push them all away to 'protect' them when really you don't deserve to be a part of their lives.'
"Phoenix. People can only make you feel small if you let them." Phoenix wondered if that strange stillness in those brown eyes really did let Apollo read his thoughts. Apollo didn't look like a kid as he spoke. In fact he looked old beyond his years.
"Do you really think it's so easy?" The raven-haired man asked in a low voice. He felt pathetic admitting it, but Apollo was right. He always let people make him feel small.
"I know it's not." Apollo said just as quietly and once again Phoenix got the sense that he wasn't the only one who hid inside a game of pretend.
"You looked terrifying, y'know." He was stalling for time now, desperate to stay in this strange little meeting at four in the morning where for the first time in seven years he actually felt like himself again.
"Fighting those guys?" Apollo snorted. "I know people like them. Beating them down is only the first fight. You've gotta be terrifying, you've gotta make them afraid of you, and then you win all the other fights too. They won't bother you again." Apollo lowered his eyes and began rubbing his left wrist. "Are… are you afraid of me?"
Phoenix's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No! I just… I'm more… impressed."
Apollo looked back up at him in disbelief. "I don't think anyone's said that before." He laughed. Phoenix couldn't help smiling too. Then his insecurities reared their head and he couldn't stop himself asking what he did next.
"You said… I was you're friend?" He hated how hopeful he sounded.
"Oi, you never had a friend before?" Apollo asked embarrassedly and, to Phoenix's surprise, he started rambling, "I get it if you don't want to be friends with me cos I'm not exactly the most stable of people but I just thought since you gave me your hoodie and you haven't told me to fuck off yet you might… I mean, you're a good person and—"
"I'm what?" Phoenix interrupted. Apollo cocked his head to the side. Then his expression softened.
"You're a good person, Phoenix. I can tell. Why d'you think I'm still talking to you?"
Phoenix instantly tried to push down the feeling of happiness that bubbled up in his chest, although he couldn't stop the grin splitting across his face from ear to ear. He knew he shouldn't feel as happy as he did, knew that there had to be a catch (because he wasn't a good person), but he couldn't ignore the feeling of such a foreign emotion building up inside of him.
"Well I guess I can accept your friendship then," He teased and Apollo sputtered indignantly.
"Geez that's the last time I give you a compliment," Apollo threw his hands up exasperatedly then glanced down the street. "Oi, I better get going so you can catch up on your beauty sleep. You look like a raccoon with those dark circles around your eyes."
Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "What about you? You're as skinny as a rat. I might lose you if you turn to the side."
"You don't think this hoodie makes me look fat?" Apollo put his hands on his hips and jutted his hip out to one side with a pout on his face.
"You look deformed when you do that."
"Keeps the paedophiles away." Apollo gave him a wink and a cheerful wave and, before Phoenix could respond, he bounded off in the direction of People Park. Phoenix stared at the space Apollo had been occupying just moments before and swallowed thickly. The kid had been on the streets for five years. He'd be fine. So why was Phoenix so worried?
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and winced when his fingers brushed against the gouges he had scraped into his neck earlier. He'd forgotten about them. He'd have to do something about it in the morning. So much for his good mood…
But just as Phoenix entered the door to his building, he heard a familiar voice call out to him.
"Oi! Make sure you clean up before you leave your apartment this time!"
It took Phoenix a couple of seconds to respond, "Yeah, we can't have someone unwashed running around the streets, can we?"
Apollo's leaving laughter rang in his ears and echoed a smile onto his face, his good mood returning as he climbed the stairs, entered his apartment and fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow. This time, there were no dreams waiting for him and he slept soundly through the remainder of the night.
Holy crap. I did not expect this chapter to be so long. And even with that I feel like it's rushed in places. Ah well, hope you enjoy!
A couple of familiar characters are showing up next chapter…