Chapter Text
Dear Miles,
If any of this were up to me, I wouldn't have ever said goodbye to you or Miss Fran.
The sun rose above the plains. It turned the landscape into a plethora of light–it filtered through the open window, where Miles Edgeworth sat on the windowsill. The clouds skittered across the sky, soft and purple. The westerly winds cooled his bare feet as they dangled outside of the window. A promise that there was more coldness to come.
It was the end of the summer, after all. It was the end of most things.
Phoenix never did return.
Miles checked every acre. He took Pess out before sunrise, searching for anything, anyone. A selfish voice in his head urged him despite knowing it was all in vain. When someone leaves, they never come back.
When he had exhausted the desire and his horse, he found himself in the barn, dimly lit by the blue sky.
Only the blankets in the loft, still wrinkled with sleep, remained as a reminder that Phoenix Wright lived here . It was as though he hadn’t left.
Miles knew better than to hope on cold cotton and knew better than to search in every sunrise for him.
He could hope for a last goodbye when he retrieved his copy of Leaves of Grass from under Phoenix’s pillow. A piece of paper stuck out, folded messily and shoved into the book haphazardly.
Another piece of evidence that Phoenix Wright lived here. One last goodbye, in graphite chicken scratch.
And now Miles sits, watching the sunrise with this in his shaky hands. He unfolds it.
Phoenix wrote, All summer I wanted to take you two and run away. I could've hurt him. I could've killed him. I sometimes wish I did.
Can you do me a favor and share this part with Miss Fran? She never got a goodbye. This is the least I can do.
Miss Fran, take good care of the horses for me. You always did do such a better job than me braiding their hair. My deepest regrets lie in leaving you behind. I hope someday you'll forgive me for this one, Franziska von Karma.
It didn’t take long for his sister to find out. She found him at the window, staring at the sunrise in hopes that maybe if he stared enough, he’d see him again.
She didn’t believe him at first. She yelled at him, stomped and screamed, “ What did you do? Why is he gone?”
“It was ultimately his choice, Franziska,” He had said, hollowed. “He’s gone.”
Franziska let out the worst, most agonizing scream he had ever heard. It reminded him of a similar scream from his nightmares, but this one was so much more broken and grieved. A pain that transcended anything his nightmares could make up.
She ran off with her horse and didn’t return for hours. Fearing the worst, he went out after her. Searched every inch of their property until he fell upon the river, and decided he’d follow it in fear she had…
She was sitting at the bank.
Her hair was wet, and her clothes were drenched.
“Franziska.” He remembers saying.
“Leave me alone.”
He refused and sat beside her.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.” He lightly scolded. It was all he could say. What else could he say?
“I don’t care.”
“Franziska-”
“I can’t drown. He won’t let me. Phoenix Wright taught me how to swim, and now I can’t drown myself in the river, no matter how hard I try.” Her gaze moved to him, eyes rimmed red and wet.
He remained silent.
“Why won’t he let me drown?!” Franziska wailed, shrill and warbled, and she grabbed at him in one last desperate attempt for comfort.
And she wept, and wept. They sat for hours at the riverbank, silent in their grief. She had never cried in his arms before. And she would never weep again after that.
And because Miles has never been a Phoenix Wright to her, her tears would dry on her face, as would his own. Because neither of them were that kind of person to each other. Neither of them had that kindness. They are both cruel to each other. Not out of hatred, but because they didn’t know anything else. It just was.
No, he didn’t think she’d let him wipe her tears. No, he couldn’t do it right. Not the way Phoenix wiped away tears.
That’s how it goes, it seems.
I couldn't stay. Not when you had a whole future ahead of you. Not when your daddy damn near sent mine to the gallows, and not while you watched and called for my daddy's head.
Guilty or not. Innocent or not. He's still my daddy. He's all I got left. I need to be his son.
That's not to say I misunderstand you in that way. If I were anybody else in that courtroom, maybe I wouldn't have believed in his innocence either.
Ms. Fey visited me in the detention center. She believes in her client's innocence, even if they don't.
She's gonna continue fighting for my daddy. I'm going to watch.
I like her a lot already. She's one of them public defenders. They fight for those who can't.
Isn't that something?
Mr. von Karma dropped the case as soon as he could, into an old, cranky prosecutor’s lap.
He said to Miles, who accompanied him the days after, that it was a waste of time. I’ll give it to the Paynes. It’ll be like throwing an old dog a bone. I have more important cases to deal with.
And maybe it was, Miles had thought when he found himself in the gallery for the second day of Mateo Wright’s trial. He stayed hidden in the crowd–ducking his head behind men that tried to sound important and men who were important.
He sat behind a tall man to remain relatively out of sight. As much as he wanted to see Phoenix, he knew better than to seek h-
God, there he was.
He's there, besides Ms. Fey. Acting as co-counsel? He was uncertain. It’s strange, how they’re in each other’s places now. Him in the gallery, and Phoenix in the heart of the courtroom.
Phoenix Wright looked like he was born to be standing at that bench. He leaned against it on his palms, with his sleeves pushed up.
The way he talks to Ms. Fey with a puppy-like look in his eyes stung. He recognized it, of course—he remembered all too well the worship in Phoenix's eyes, that sort of idolatry that seems to naturally come with that boy's love.
Miles ached an irrational amount.
He wished that were him again.
Stop it. He is nothing now. Think of your future.
He wished his thoughts didn’t sound like his mentor’s. That boy was nothing but trouble for you both anyway. A shame for him to go, but you both have jobs you need to do.
The trial started, and he promptly shut down any thoughts of Phoenix Wright. Feelings don’t matter in court. Focus. It seems the defense has brought in a witness, and a couple more pieces of evidence up their sleeve. Hah. Shouldn’t change anything.
Open and shut, as his mentor said. It’s a perfect case. Prosecutor Payne just had to-
“Objection!”
It wasn’t Ms. Fey’s voice or Prosecutor Payne’s shriek.
It was none other him. His voice rang loud and clear, pointing directly at Prosecutor Payne.
Miles just stared. Oh, how he wishes Phoenix had stayed. They could’ve gone to school together, they could’ve both become…
His mentor’s case fell apart, bit by bit.
Turns out, there was someone else there that night. Some local farmer with a grudge against Mr. Green. Some petty feud between farmers that went too far. All it took was too much drunken rage that turned into action.
Mateo Wright was found not guilty. By sheer luck and by the skin of Ms. Fey’s teeth.
The verdict pounded in his ears.
Her first victory.
Was justice served?
He didn’t know yet.
Maybe justice was the relieved grin on Wright’s face when the judge declared, not guilty.
Maybe justice was the victim’s son, accompanied by a police officer, finding Miles in the crowd afterwards. They really found the right guy, huh?
And maybe it's the Wrights pulling Ms. Fey into a hug in the defendant's lobby, where Miles had peeked in.
He didn’t know how to feel about that.
What was justice, exactly?
It never fits in the description of a prosecutor. Where did that go? Did it matter?
Mr. von Karma didn’t lose, but it felt like one.
And yet…it was good to lose.
He doesn’t understand.
-
The blankets in the loft have since been covered in layers of frost and dust. Untouched as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to cold, desolate months and months to years.
It’s been nearly three years now, and Miles doesn't think he’ll ever quite process what happened that summer.
Something happened, the dust and the frost would say.
Someone left a long time ago, the mice would say as they chewed and chewed on the blankets.
That boy’s absence plagued the farmhouse, no matter how long it had been. Miles never saw him after the trial.
And the world kept moving.
Miles went off to school. He became a lawyer at 21, just as he wanted. His sister followed soon after.
He came back home, and Mr. von Karma shrugged at his achievement.
“You got your badge. Prove to me what you can do.” Hollow praise. All that he had worked for...for Mr. von Karma's approval.
He came back home and sat on his windowsill. How cruel it is to have to visit here. He'd rather live in a cemetery.
Not a day passed when he was in Chicago where he didn’t search the crowds he walked in. Sometimes he’d wander the streets, looking for a stranger he once knew. For a dark-haired boy with a toothy grin–he still remembers so vividly his smile–and a pair of brown and blue eyes that were extraordinary.
And here, time moves even slower. Here, time is like molasses. His absence is still here. His laugh is still heard when Miles opens the windows. The boy’s breathing is still heard at night when Miles wakes up from unending nightmares and clutches at empty sheets.
And he still hears that boy whistling when the wind picks up. When the world turns dark, Miles always wonders if he’ll come running inside from the howling outside. Sometimes, he’s tempted to go out there, and see if he’ll find him in the center of the storm.
Everything about this prairie was touched by that boy. Especially as the dust settles and the world is reborn again and again.
Soft yellow ochre. Blue skies. It’s him. It will always be him, to Miles.
So he turns on the radio and sits on the dusty porch.
Phoenix wrote, Miles, please know none of this summer was in vain. In another life, in another time, I would've carried you over that threshold. We’d be married, the two of us. I wish it could’ve been this lifetime.
You will always have my heart, though it breaks at what you might become. You have your daddy’s eyes, after all. I fear you might end up with his heart, too.
Maybe one day we'll meet again. I don't know where I'm headed after this.
Miles Edgeworth is twenty-three years old now. A rather insignificant age. two years of prosecuting under his belt, and many more to go. Many more to go.
He is twenty-three years old when he hears Phoenix Wright on the radio.
“Your first case, Mr. Wright? And already…you’ve found a congressman involved in the murder of a small businessman?” The reporter asks in awe.
And his voice. God, his voice.
“Yessir. Of course, I ain’t–couldn’t have done it without my boss and mentor, Ms. Mia Fey. In fact, maybe you should talk to h–” There’s a pause and quiet mumblings. Phoenix laughs, and it's beautiful. “...she told me to put on my big boy pants and tell you myself. Well, our very own congressman…” Phoenix goes off on a wild story about a congressman, a barber-turned-hitman, and the innocent ice cream man they pinned the murder on.
It hits Miles when the broadcast ends.
Phoenix Wright is a lawyer now.
How he managed that is beyond his own understanding and…somehow, completely expected. Of course he would.
A farmer’s boy turned lawyer. It’s crazy, and it's so him that it hurts.
But now…he’s in reach again.
It's such a big world out there, isn't it?
That boy was always in sight. Maybe, maybe he hasn’t truly left.
Miles could meet him again, in court. Start how they had ended. He wants to see him again. Now he’s got something to prove.
(And if he bought a newspaper to see him in a terrible, cheaply made suit that still brought butterflies to his stomach, he’ll never admit it.)
It’s only fate that a case, with that man’s name written all over it, shows up on Mr. von Karma’s desk one day. Another murder case.
“Let me do it, sir,” Miles says to Mr. von Karma, “Allow me to destroy him in court. I’ll teach that farmer’s boy his place.”
He doesn’t think that man will win against either of them–according to that first court transcript, it was all sheer luck–but…it would be also too cruel to let Mr. von Karma get his hands on Wright’s record. He’d send him running for the plains.
“I hope unnecessary feelings aren’t involved in this, Edgeworth,” Mr. von Karma replies, all-too knowing. “In the case you may still be…soft on him.”
Miles has never lost a case, and he still doesn’t plan on it. Mostly.
It becomes his.
When he approaches Franziska that night, she only scoffs at him.
“I haven’t heard that name in a while. Phoenix Wright…” Her voice curls around it with familiarity, and then her lips curl downwards. “You are foolish.” She mutters, icy grey meeting his own. “Chasing after a boy you only knew for a couple of months. You are so very foolish. Do you forget how he ran in the night? Do you forget how that house still grieves? Do you forget how many nights you spent crying, how many I-” She remembers herself, and turns her nose up.
“How can you be so sure he wants to see you again?”
His silence, as it always does, answers for her.
And she answers back with her own silence.
Miles wishes he could be a better brother to her. He wishes he’d stay at the farmhouse longer rather than at his apartment. She’s fifteen and now she’s started wielding a whip instead of a riding crop. She received it for her birthday. Courtesy of their father.
Of course she would. A whip is longer than a riding crop. A whip offers her more distance between her and anyone like Phoenix Wright that could possibly care about her.
He hopes indeed that she remembers forgiveness.
But neither von Karma attends this case, for completely separate reasons.
As he stands across that man in the courtroom, he’s grateful they didn’t.
Phoe–Wright radiates that juvenile confidence only found in newer attorneys, but it’s so intoxicating that Miles almost forgets himself. He's supposed to crush him. He...
What is justice, again?
What is the role of a prosecutor? He doesn't know.
What does a lawyer truly do?
Watching Wright...it seems he has some sort of idea. Some sort of idea behind that stubborn determination and the cocksure grin that he's certainly copied from Ms. Fey.
If we see each other again, someday, sometime when we're grown–
Wright acts in court as he did back then–insufferable, ridiculous, reckless, annoying, impossible.
Miles wants to despise him, horribly.
“ Is that all you’ve got, Wright?” He cocks an eyebrow. The case is going terribly for the defense. The man is sweating bullets, searching through reports as the judge asks him for the third time if the defense has anything else linked to the current witness.
And because a von Karma is perfect, he knows exactly what Wright is missing.
“Damning evidence is what gets you anywhere in court. Did Ms. Fey not teach you that?” He says as he holds up the shoelace noose, the one that led to the victim’s demise.
It matches the witness’s shoe, with it’s missing lace. He stares into blue and brown.
He doesn't quite know the job of a prosecutor. Not anymore. He’s got his own point to prove to Phoenix Wright at this trial.
Wright, I am not my daddy’s son. I will never be the man nor the prosecutor he wants me to be.
I can no longer bear to be where you cannot see me.
When the judge finally declares not guilty, it doesn’t quite sting. Miles is focused on the way Phoenix turns to Ms. Fey, beaming.
His first loss will be a blow to him later, when Mr. von Karma finds out. He will go home and feel nothing but shame…it will curl around his neck and choke him.
But now, he basks in the heavenly light of a victorious Wright.
The defendant’s lobby is filled with that light after the trial. Miles stands in the threshold, as he has so many times. He feels he is Tantalus. Fearing that Wright will leave if he reaches too far.
Ms. Fey and Mr. Mateo Wright are in there, and he feels almost envious of how they can just bask in this light. It’s all he could ever want back, to curl up like a barn cat in the warm rays of Wright’s laugh.
In another life, in another time…Miles can’t wait that long. He has never been a patient man.
He is not one to give in to what he truly wants. He should not reach for that fruit he doesn’t deserve.
And suddenly the sun is looking at him. Wright turns to him, broad-shouldered and still messy-haired and all grown up, and stares.
He smiles and beckons him inside with a hand.
It’s a gentle pull. Just like when they were younger. An invitation.
Come in, Miles.
don't be a stranger, alright?
And by God, Miles will cross that threshold once more.
-
Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
- "To a Stranger", Walt Whitman