Work Text:
Hey Miles!!
Ive never writen a letter before I actually just wanted to tell you that me and Larry really miss you. School is really boring without you my Mom told me you will be back next year is that true?????????
Please write soon my adress is on the envelope
Phoenix
The verdict had been: not guilty. The gavel fell and the thud felt deafening, like when the shell of his gun lodged itself into his father’s chest. He hadn’t heard a word coming out of Wright’s mouth next to him, and he must’ve been saying something, his dry lips curling around the vowels. If he focused long enough, he could almost make out his own name among all the ringing.
Edge—
He felt a sudden need to flee—to not exist. To let all the eyes fall on the ghost of him on the witness stand. To let everyone see it as he saw it—none of this was real, there had not been a murder, he had not been a perpetrator, he had not been a victim, or if there had been, it had been someone else, someone else’s body in the elevator, someone else’s child knocked out against the cold metal. It had been a tragedy in a newspaper article, a great plot twist of a novel. But he wasn’t the nine year old child anymore, as much as he’d clung to it, and so the conclusion was clear—find himself in the white space between the lines already written, or die trying.
Edgeworth—?
He had been familiar with dying, and trying, and trying to die—to know there was always a way out so enticing for his fourteen year old self, and eighteen, and twenty, and twenty four. But he had a mission to hunt criminals, to deliver the correct verdict no matter what, that had been his design, was still, he knew his job was not done. There was one person left.
“Edgeworth, wait!”
Phoenix Wright stopped in front of him, his ill-fitting suit blocking the exit doors. “Where are you going? We were supposed to celebrate at the joint later. I'm paying!”
“I have some pressing matters to attend to.” He made a show of looking over at his wristwatch. “Forgive me, Wright.”
“But—”
“I must get going now. Do send Miss Fey my regards.” It was a mistake, to look Wright in the eye. He swallowed—it felt like sandpaper. “Have a good afternoon.” He bowed and ran.
As he left the courthouse, he was sure: there could still be punishment without a murder—and he, the executioner and the convict.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I'm here if you need to talk
So now the verdict was: guilty. He didn't let himself forget his list of crimes as he put his pen to paper and wrote only the five parting words. He felt too tired to explain himself and the pen was too heavy in his grip, and it only got heavier as he signed his name on the bottom of the page. He left the note in a visible place, aware that hiding it wouldn’t change a thing—people would notice his absence whether he wanted or not.
Forgive me, Wright, he had said and he had thought the same the entire way to his car—it felt pathetic, how quickly he crumbled in the man's presence. Forgive me for what I’ve done.
He had been conditioned to apologize for his wrongdoings, for his imperfections, for being Edgeworth. I’m sorry Sir I’m sorry I’m sorry—the only person he ever had to beg for forgiveness for had been Manfred von Karma, and he had not been ready for how easy it was to murmur the other name, to know that one day he could look down—or up—on Earth, see Phoenix Wright, and understand what genuine forgiveness felt like. But he would not get it now, just as Phoenix would not get what he deserved, and it had been a thought that had almost made him reconsider his course of action—but then, he'd still be the same despicable man he had been his whole life, and so he completed his task in record speed with the dread that filled him at this prospect alone.
He thought still: Forgive me for what I’m about to do. And then he thought, perhaps more at peace than he had felt in a long time: You will get over it, Phoenix Wright.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I saw the note
sending it to forensics
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Its gotta be forged
He had failed, time and time again. It had been two months and six days and he was still alive and breathing the chilly March German air and looking at his childhood home like it might swallow him whole and never throw him back up. He wouldn’t be opposed. The house stood empty and overbearing, casting a menacing shadow where he stood with a small suitcase in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. Jeden Tag ein bisschen besser—it had felt somehow like a threat when he'd picked it.
He trudged through the hallway minding his steps like he was still ten and hungry at eleven PM on a weekend—last meal was at seven o'clock, period—he still knew which floorboards creaked enough to summon von Karma. He arrived at a kitchen with a breath of relief as if there would be anyone to chastise him—on a most basic level he was aware that was not possible. No one had lived here in months, Franziska only having come to clean it up, as she’d put it, and it made him think of how much more she must've hated this house, much more than him. The size of this hatred made him shiver.
He dumped the bags on the floor—the jet-lag had wrung him dry, as much as he hated to admit it—and he didn’t even bother to take off his jacket as he flung himself onto the living room couch. It was cleaner than he had expected it to be, not a speck of dust clung to his pants. That had been enough for him to temporarily call it his main base—not for long, he thought, just this night, he was tired—so tired, and it was not about the jet lag anymore, he just wanted to—he wasn't sure what he wanted. Someone— No. Something—peace, to not exist, still, it always came back to this. Yet there was not anything in this house he could’ve used to relieve himself—and hadn’t he already chosen?
He let his head fall back and sighed. He wasn’t ready—he had known this when he had boarded the plane from the UK, had known when he’d stood in the aisle and contemplated which vodka would knock him out better, had known when he’d used the key to the front door. He was terrified knowing it was his only choice. He tried lying down, it was an appropriate hour to go to sleep after all, and the couch was so stiff—he didn't think anyone had ever used it for its intended purpose—it had always been about the appearance—he supposed Franziska and he weren’t that much different from it. He thought of his home—not this manor, too big to be a home for anyone, much less two lonely kids—but his father’s house, perfect to watch the Signal Samurai in, to sit at the kitchen table and cry doing math homework, to invite Phoenix and Larry and play for hours on end—he thought how nice it could’ve been to play with his best friends in the whole world and his big sister in that safe heaven, where the best and worst punishment had been a talk on the same couch he laughed and played on. He thought how many times he had turned his father away—I can’t go, father, I want to finish this book—and how he had never been disappointed or angry and he had never raised his hand and his cheek had never stung and the tears had never burned quite like they were burning now. He thought, this is what I deserved, as he looked at the ceiling and wept.
He fell asleep in the same position he had sobbed in, still thinking. This is what I deserve.
He dreamed of his father and the elevator.
The door to his bedroom greeted him like an old lover. They stood opposite each other not really knowing what to say, the burden of the past suspended between them, unmoving. He looked at the polished wood and could almost see his face reflected back. He stepped closer—the features now clearer, revealing a different face underneath. There was his sister when she was nine and he was sixteen and she’d just gotten her first period and she knew he had supplies. He hadn't been ashamed of it, she’d been the only one at home who called him Miles after all—she was his safe place and he was hers between these cold walls, despite it all—and then she grew up and he grew up and he left for the States and he hadn't been able to ever pick their relationship back up and now he was ready to die without having ever thanked her.
He pushed the handle down—it gave way with a screech that rang in his ears long after he moved past and sat on the floor. He breathed out the dust and debris, grimaced at the gray spots forming on his pants and palms, and willed himself to take it in. The room had not changed, which was to say, there had not been many things that were capable of doing such—his room had not been much different from that of a furniture catalogue. To change it would mean desecrating a perfectly proper room to let guests sleep in. In some way it was a time capsule, forever trapping the impersonal dull wooden pieces with whatever clutter he had managed to sneak under von Karma’s nose. He had paid the maid half of his monthly allowance not to say a word, too.
One of the comics lay safely still inside of his office’s magazine rack. The rest, if Franziska hadn't gotten rid of them, should have been neatly stacked at the bottom of the box under his bare bed. among other things—the ones he had actually come for all this way. He let his eyes wander around the room more—there was not much to sight-see. Left unchanged to rot, he had felt too much like that room. The sickening bare orange walls, he had always hated that color—von Karma somehow knew, didn't allow him to repaint them—the empty frame of a mirror he had smashed when he couldn't look at himself anymore, he must’ve been fourteen at the time, and he looked wrong, like his brain had been plucked out of his own body at birth and into a stranger’s, but at least shirts and waistcoats helped to hide it. Von Karma had refused to replace the mirror, and Miles had never asked.
He was glad he didn't have to look into it now. There had always been something perverse about seeing yourself in a mirror, and he had always feel like a voyeur, scrutinizing the body that was not his own, yet one that was copying his every move. He had feared the moment the body would move on its own, forcing him to dance to its melody like a monkey would, snickering and yelling “See! See how it is to be a mindless creature at my mercy?” He had never attempted self-harm that would leave marks for the fear of angering the person in the mirror. He supposed he should be glad for that. At least one thing of his had been clean.
You used to worry a lot, you know. Everything and everyone rattled you, especially back then.
I still think u worry a lot. About how people see you. I look into your eyes in the morning paper and I know you think they know.
They don't know shit, Miles.
He reached for the box under the bed with the kind of numb stoicism that had been his default state since he’d left the courthouse that one afternoon. He knew this was not calmness, and he was not healing, but it was better for the next phase of his plan, to have a somewhat clear mind. The punishment was only fair if the defendant understood the weight of the accusations, after all.
His plan had been simple—leave, leave where no one could possibly look for you, the end. His current predicament had been a somewhat new addition to the list, added on a whim after the last time he looked at the array of pills on the side table in his Finnish hotel room and kept avoiding them as one would a rabid dog. The need to flee once and for all as enticing as a salacious magazine, yet he had proven himself time and time again too cowardly to glance past the first page. So, faced with failure, he devised a new strategy, straight from the police book—torture the suspect until he breaks and incriminates himself. He supposed it wouldn't take him too long. Cooped up alone in a place with so many unpleasant memories couldn't possibly lift up his spirits and risk wrecking his plans.
He’d made several preparations in order to ensure he wouldn't have to leave the house any time soon: the freezer was filled to the brim with ready made meals, the cupboards were full of ramen cups Wright and Miss Fey were so fond of (himself, not so much) and he stocked up on his favorite tea of the finest quality—as much as he hated himself he was not known to be a masochist. That, and he had alcohol to help accelerate the self loathing.
He reached for the box. It was a normal looking box, brown and unassuming, with only a sticky note placed on top. He gently pried it open, making sure the note stayed in place. The letters were too elegant for a thirteen year old, the kind of stilted symmetry that had to be beaten into you. He recognized it from his own handwriting—to this day, when his Js ended up lopsided, his hand still shook in fear.
I took from Papa what I could, it read, black on a light blue background.
“Thank you, Franziska” he whispered, too used to having to keep his voice down in this house.
Inside the cardboard walls: letters—paper upon paper stacked together, tens of creams and whites scribbled all over and it had not even been all of them, Miles knew—one particular year having seen the mailman every day at the front door.
He had refused to read them the first time Franziska delivered the box to him. He had been twenty and ready to work himself half to death to put every criminal behind bars. “Your correspondence, little brother,” she said to him and he said, “Get it out of my sight,” and that had been that. She didn't do what he'd asked, exactly, of course she didn't, sometimes he felt like she knew him more than he knew himself and he’d never been more grateful now that he had them in his grasp and could bore his eyes into the ungainly letters and quirks of the selected works of Phoenix Wright, age 9-20.
He opened the first envelope, looked inside, tossed it away, muttered “I can’t do this sober,” stood up. He went to the kitchen on wobbly legs as if he'd already been drinking. The kitchen was bare except for the remarkable collection of alcohol on the counter. He opened a bottle, took a swig standing where he’d been and took the rest with him back to the bedroom.
The buzz in his throat was a welcome distraction as he took an apprehensive look at the discarded letter. What was he so afraid of? He’d given himself an ultimatum—either face what he'd ruined or fucking die, and the longer he looked the more bearable the idea of killing himself became. He sighed, took another burning swig, mourned the lack of easily accessible 20-story buildings nearby, sat down, took a swig, stood back up, turned around, felt acid coming up his throat, sat down, drank drank drank until his legs stopped working, crawled to the bathroom like a wounded animal with the bottle still in his hand, drank some more, gripped the sink so hard his knuckles turned white, actually stood up—and at last, locked eyes with his own reflection.
“Tomorrow,” he said and didn’t know what he had meant, yet mirror-him nodded enthusiastically. “Cheers!”
Miles
I wish you could
be my prom date
Miles Do you miss me
like I miss you?
Yours
Phoenix
Miles Only
yours
Phoenix
He woke up at the crack of dawn with his head on the closed toilet seat. He groaned, every possible muscle in his back protesting as he tried to stand up.
“God damn it,” he muttered when he felt wetness at the bottoms of his feet. Looking down—a pool of leftover vodka he must've accidentally knocked over. Looking ahead—a corpse wearing his face in the mirror. He snarled and was met with a cocky grin. There was a yellow stain on his front tooth. He asked, “Why did I do this?” as if the mirror could've answered.
But he had to do it, because whatever fucked up version of atonement he conjured up had required him to read and read and read and understand—how much he had lost, how much he could have had, how there had been one person in the whole world still on his side, how he didn't deserve any of it. He couldn't leave until he had absorbed the weight of it all into his skin, until it had either freed him or made him drown—and maybe then, maybe in three years, maybe never, he'd be worthy of living like an innocent man.
Miles
I know you’re not reading these letters and I’ve just been wasting paper, but if you somehow are and you just decided not to reply you’re a bigger asshole than I thought. But you wouldn’t do that, right? We’re still friends
Dear Miles
My Mom told me it’s rude to start with hey so now I'll be writing dear I hope that’s Okay. I’m scared you didn’t get my last leter I’m not sure if I got the Wright adress. We really miss you. I don't wanna watch signal samurai any more
I hope to see you soon
Phoenix
He spent the whole day curled up on the bed, methodically sorting the letters by date. Then, when he was done, he started again, this time sorting them by topic—Phoenix had a lot to say. School, Larry, the Signal Samurai, Miles, theater, Miles, school, Miles Miles Miles Miles— He gave up when he realized all of the letters could be put in a single impressive pile.
On the third day his stomach refused to digest any more Absolut. He didn't feel any better, his mind wasn't any clearer, and the letters kept blurring, and he couldn't remember anymore if Phoenix had broken his arm before or after he had chipped his tooth. His heart thumped in his chest as he started sorting again, simple—read and unread. There had to be an answer and he knew he would eventually find it—if only he committed every detail of Phoenix’s life to memory the same way Phoenix had done to him over the years maybe he too would know what to do. He wondered, if Phoenix’s job was to save me, what is mine?
If Phoenix had been there, would I have let him save me?
His phone kept chiming as he looked through the letters. There was only one left, the latest one, as far as he knew, four years old.
Miles
I'm drunk and I probably really shouldn't be writing this but I really have to tell you. It was so rare what we had. I still think about you holding my hand. Lunch break, remember? You sacrificed your motor abilities just so you could keep holding my hand while we ate. You looked so silly trying to eat soup that one time. I remember you spilled most of it on the way to your mouth and your dad had to be called to calm you down. And you refused to drop my hand. Larry kept telling me how weird it was and I got so mad at him I didn't speak to him for a week after you left. I thought it was his fault you were gone, honest.
Anyways, I saw you in the newspaper. Imagine my surprise. A prosecutor huh? I guess you haven't been getting my letters because you were here all this time and I thought you were living your best German life in the Dracula looking house. I found it on Google Earth. Entschuldigung.
PS You’re so handsome and your hair looks so soft. I want to touch it. Would you let me?
I normally would never tell you this but you won’t get this letter and you're here in the same city as me and you're so close and still out of my reach and every time I look at your photo in that paper I get so wet I can barely st
He threw it across the room like it had burned him, and then watched as it pathetically landed on the floor next to his bare feet. He stepped around it and vowed himself to seriously burn that piece of paper first thing in the morning, and went to bed throbbing between his thighs. He dreamed of Phoenix Wright’s hand in his hair and woke up with his own lonely hand down the front of his boxers.
He lied in bed for a long time, spent and breathless, and lonely—so lonely—and he thought, If I presented you my head and said you could touch me, would you? Would you still want me that way now, having seen the sickness inside me?
Please say yes.
He fumbled blindly for his phone, found it lying under the bed—dusty and with about ten minutes left to live—and he cursed under his breath, he didn't even know where his charger was and this was too important to stand up and stumble around the house—where even was his bag? had he even packed a charger?—He unlocked the device, had to be quick, before his mind caught up and made him spend the rest of the week in bed indisposed thinking uselessly about Phoenix Wright. He still didn't deserve even that—he knew that part of his mind, the never ending screeches, the voice of von Karma—he could never turn them off, like that one time he'd destroyed important documents in the paper shredder—the second you started it was already too late to stop. What he was about to do, he surmised would be about the same—one could never stop Phoenix Wright once he got a hold of you. For once in his life he didn't mind. His eyes didn't linger on the countless messages Phoenix had send him since he'd left as he typed.
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Forgive me.
Please say I do.
He picked up the letter as he waited uselessly for the expected incoming call. He purposely avoided the postscript—too much, it was too much for now—only to find a post postscript written hastily at the very bottom of the page.
PPS I’ll always wait for you
It felt like a sign and he hated it—it couldn't be this easy, there had to be—a catch, a trap, something, maybe Phoenix would not call, maybe he would block his number—there would be no forgiveness—why did he think Phoenix couldn't have changed when he himself had changed beyond recognition? And yet he had texted. They both had—that was something.
Phoenix eventually called, and he hadn't expected it to be so hard to decline. With unsteady breath he typed out a quick message to the tune of the Steel Samurai ringtone.
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Do not waste your money. I am currently outside the States.
He scoffed as another call came through right after. Declined.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Edgeworth?
Is this actually you or am I getting pranked
?????????
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I can assure you it's me, Wright.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
How do I know that
to:+1 213 XXX-XXXX
You’ve once told me you had called a male PE teacher “Mom” and you were so embarrassed you had spent half the period crying in a bathroom stall. Thrice.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Oh my god you actually read those
And you never replied
You really r a huge asshole
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I have only recently gotten a hold of your correspondence. But that’s a pretty adequate description of me regardless.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Jesus christ Edgeworth
Where are you
Are you safe
What he hadn’t expected either was the trembling lips and the tightness of his throat—though perhaps he should’ve, given the past few days had definitely wrung him dry. Being safe had been maybe the furthest thing on his mind, his mind more concerned with not feeling, his body with screaming at him to run run run. Was he safe? Had he ever been? He didn't feel like he was, empty and alone and sick with his insides burned to nothingness from the alcohol. Could he, with a hundred percent certainty, say to Phoenix right now that he was safe? What would Phoenix do if he wasn't? He didn't dare ask—he didn't feel ready for all of the truth. He felt even worse as he replied.
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I am currently in no danger. Do not worry about me.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
We are all literally worried sick
You left a suicide note in your office
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I am aware of my own actions.
from:+1 213 XXX-XXXX
Also currently?
Edgeworth you better pick up the damn phone
I will find you
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
This sounds awfully like a threat.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
And you should start treating it like one
Im so mad at you you have no idea
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
As you have every right to be.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Dont twist it around so you can feel guilty about this too
First a note then u go radio silent on everyone and then out of the blue I get a text asking me to forgive you
What the hell
I guess I just don't know how else to feel
But
Edgeworth
There is nothing to forgive you for
Just keep talking to me okay
It was too much—he couldn't stop the gasp tearing out of his throat even if he had tried. He didn't know how to talk when it was not about court cases or convictions or what a bad boy he had been. No one had ever encouraged him to speak, unless it had been to defend himself and he wasn't sure what to do now that he was free. A whimper escaped him before he bit down his lower lip, drawing blood, a taste of iron on his tongue—he hadn't eaten meat in days, and suddenly he felt so hungry it nearly bent him in half. But he didn't want to eat, he didn't want to leave the room, the room where it was dark and quiet and Phoenix was there and his words not yet tainted by adulthood were there, and his phone was there, too, and there was a real person on the other side, somewhere, and he was not ready—Phoenix had asked for too much, for him to talk, and he didn't know how to speak without choking on his tongue now that he’d been allowed. Just talk to me. How do I do that, he thought, as his eyes stung. How do I do that without running? He didn't realize it had been an hour since his last message until his head was pounding and he couldn't breathe through his nose and there was a vibration next to his thigh.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Edgeworth
The screen in front of him went blurry as he typed. He had nowhere to run, he was tired and Phoenix was right there, and he wanted him to talk and he thought—maybe I am allowed it. Maybe telling the truth, no matter how small, was alright if it was said to Phoenix Wright. Phoenix Wright was a better man than he was, and he would not run.
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I wish I could’ve gone to prom with you, too.
He made a pathetic noise, which came from somewhere deep inside of him where he had not looked since he was nine years old, from that part of him which had not yet known the reality of loss, love or lack thereof. It hurt—the absence, the lonely house that was never his home, the letters and the reflection in the mirror and how even the slightest crack in his facade burned and pricked like a gaping wound.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Oh Miles
You would have been prom king no doubt
In your gaudy three piece
But you should focus on the future rn
You went to a doctor right
?
What? The question made his tears stop in their tracks. His first thought: what a ludicrous idea. His second: should he have gone? In all of his twenty four years on this Earth he had not once entertained the idea of baring himself in the psychiatrist office. But maybe he should have—whatever he had been doing did not feel like the right thing to be doing in his situation, even by his corrupt standards. But then, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes—the intended effect would've been lost in the puffiness of his eyelids—who was Phoenix Wright to tell him to get his head checked?
His phone chimed again.
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
I'm taking your silence as a no
to: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
Why should I
from: +1 213 XXX-XXXX
The fact that you need to ask this should tell you everything
He booked an appointment immediately.
“So, what brings you to my office, Mr. Edgeworth?” was the first thing he heard after getting comfortable in the patient chair—as much as you could get comfortable in front of a person who was about to make you dig your brain out and perform an autopsy on it for a prescription—and he already had to fight the urge to flee.
What a loaded question that had been. He could have said, I have been coerced into doing this, he could have said, I have spent the last week torturing myself with everything I had lost to finally end my worthless existence and to everyone's displeasure I’m still here, he could've said a number of different things—there was a lot wrong with him, he'd been reminded of that enough times—yet he spent the next five minutes in complete silence, and the doctor looked at him knowingly, like they had already figured him out.
“I have been plagued by recurring nightmares for the past fifteen years,” he ended up saying, and it wasn't exactly a lie.
No, he didn't have any issues with his job, that wasn't a lie either. No, I have not self harmed, he could almost believe that too. They asked him about his loved ones, and he thought of his sister and of Phoenix Wright, and he said no one.
He thought of Phoenix Wright still, as the doctor typed on their computer, still as they said, it looks like a case of a major depressive disorder and a post traumatic stress disorder, Mr. Edgeworth, are you familiar with those terms?, and still as they shook his hand goodbye thirty minutes later and handed him a prescription for a bag of pills.
He decided, in the line at the pharmacy and a therapy session booked for the next day, to take out his phone and finally let him know.
to: Phoenix Wright
I miss you. I miss you terribly. More than I thought myself capable of. But I can’t come back. Not as I am right now.
He was close to turning off his phone and never turning it back on, the sheer mortification of anyone perceiving his desires—and that hadn't even been the worst of them, no, missing Phoenix Wright was only a fraction of something much bigger—when a pharmacist called out “Next!” and he had been raised too proper to block the line with his incessant fumbling.
Wright replied just as he was taking out his card and the sound of the notification made him drop both the newly acquired pills and the phone he'd been holding. He hurriedly apologized, and with burning cheeks he completed the transaction, left without even saying goodbye.
from: Phoenix Wright
Im only a text message away
I miss you too
But I think you got a good idea of that already
He had half a mind to mention Wright’s last letter. Did he—did he remember what he had written, in his drunken state, how he had wanted? He wanted to ask—did you mean it? If only to have something else to talk about with his new therapist, a swift rejection that would take him about twenty five sessions to get over, anything to divert the attention from the root of all his problems. And he hadn't even mentioned on the phone that he lived in the very roots of his problems right now, having anticipated the suggestion of have you thought of booking a hotel room for the time being, Mr. Edgeworth? He wasn't ready to leave yet.
They talked about Phoenix's day, and he didn't ask.
Therapy had been excruciating and he had stopped counting after the tenth time he had cried in front of this stranger—the stranger who had been exceptionally kind, of course they had to be, he was paying them to, of course, but it felt good, to know there was a person who couldn't yell or berate you for an hour a day. It felt great, even, to have someone equipped to deal with trauma of age that was legally allowed to drink—even then he wished it had been Phoenix Wright in front of him, doing more than was ethical for a therapist—hold his hand, most importantly, hold him when he crumpled on the uncomfortable armchair at the mere mention of his father—but he supposed he would prevail.
Every day had been a little better, himself a little more open, more truthful than he'd probably had been in years. On a breezy afternoon sometime in June he packed up his things—pajamas, toiletry, three packets of ramen, the most important—all of the letters, even the last one that had still to this day made him blush like a schoolboy—and he left the von Karma manor. His current hotel might not have been the most luxurious, the most high-end or have the best service—but there were people, everywhere, in rooms next to his, in the restaurant and in the hallways—a welcome change.
He had just finished another session, still sitting in his pajamas on his new creaky bed—no spilled tears this time—they had talked about Phoenix, and it had been wonderful, and embarrassing when they had asked him how long had this been going on, Mr. Edgeworth?—and still, the good mood hadn't left him as he said goodbye, and he found himself texting the familiar number.
to: Phoenix Wright
I miss you. I hadn’t realized how alone I had been until you came into my life.
Wright.
You won’t need to wait for much longer.
Please. Do not lose your faith in me.
from: Phoenix Wright
I dont think you need to worry about that
I waited 15 years to see you again
A couple of weeks or months is nothing compared to that
to: Phoenix Wright
Forgive me.
from: Phoenix Wright
Come on
The court declares the defendant not guilty
Tell me about your day
So he did. He told Phoenix Wright about the type of tea he had drunk that day, how sick he had been of the instant ramen, that he actually had taken a liking to watching Formula One, how used he had become to wearing his pajamas all day and the best man he had ever known read it all, on the other side of the world, and he could almost picture the soft look on his face, and for a moment it was right—he thought: this is how it’s supposed to be. He thought: there’s no me without Phoenix Wright. He thought: I want him to smile at me and deserve it.
He called his therapist to schedule the next session, and as he was getting ready to start the day his fingers trembled with anticipation and fear, of how much there was to do, of the road ahead of him, how rocky—and he thought how this would all be worth it so Phoenix Wright could greet him at the door on a warm September afternoon and say “Edgeworth, welcome home.”