Chapter Text
There is truly no greater darkness than after a storm. When all the dust settles and the earth is tinged with the color of itself, God does not speak. He turns away from his creations, lungs filled with dirt and grit. He doesn't hear the wailing of a mother as her baby slowly suffocates. Nor does he watch a young man trek across the plains alone, coughing up earth and blood into his hand.
The storm is over, and sometimes Phoenix wishes it was still whipping him around, swallowing him whole. It would be easier then than to anticipate the next.
Phoenix's not sure where he is anymore, really. Everything is plains and long grass and dirt roads. Indistinguishable when the sun's starting to set. There's a farm in the distance, and Phoenix is praying that there's a family merciful enough to give him a couple of scraps. Just a few, to keep him going until he can find a place to work and sleep. He hasn't had much luck so far, ever since he started traveling east. Prairie women run into their homes far too quickly and shutter their windows, prairie men load up their shotguns with a boy, you'd better step off of my property, ya hear?
He's starting to get desperate. Kindness grows sparse after a particularly bad storm, when all the crops are gone to the wind and all the animals are slowly dying, one by one. There's no spare seat at the table, no extra room.
He approaches a farmhouse with caution. He's been chased off with enough shotguns and angry dogs to be ready at a moment's notice to flee. It's a nice enough farmhouse, he thinks. Whoever owns it must've had a little extra bread and butter before going west. It's been cleaned on the outside, leaving little trace of the dust storms. The only evidence of the dust storm is the fallen fence posts,
Feeling a little brave, he knocks on the door while rocking on the balls of his feet. He brushes himself off and adjusts his overalls. Phoenix is in desperate need of a bath, but he sincerely hopes he looks presentable enough to these people. Enough to get their dinner scraps and maybe a place to sleep, if he's real lucky.
The door opens to a scowling older man. Even a quick glance inside and at the man would indicate wealth beyond his understanding. He’s wearing a stuffy suit, gripping a dark, polished cane. Phoenix swallows a lump in his throat, feeling so much smaller in his father's too-big overalls. He fears he’s gone and knocked on the door of the Devil.
"G'evening, sir. My name's Phoenix Wright, and I was wonderin' if you'd be willing to spare any of your suppers to me. And if you'd be so kind, a place to stay for the night. It gets mighty cold at night, and I've no home anymore." He clasps his hands behind his back. Behind the old man are a couple whispering figures, a young girl and another man his age.
He sneers, his slicked-back white hair appearing like snakes’ forked tongues. "We don't have anything for the likes of you. Now go, before I make you scurry away like a scared little rabbit, boy." His voice is refined. Too refined for somebody owning a farm. He assumes this is just how rich folk sound, coming from the East Coast. It's so unlike his own drawl.
"But sir—" He begins, voice cracking, "Lord, I haven't had anything to eat in days. Please, even a drink of water would be enough." Phoenix has never groveled, but desperation is clawing at his throat, filling his lungs like dust.
The young man behind him is staring, eyes piercing into him. He's staring back, pleading for some semblance of mercy, but the young man turns away.
"Beat it, or I'll send the sheriff's hounds after you!" The man slams the door, and Phoenix has half a mind to pound on his door and beg for a cup of water before he turns to dust himself.
It's so much darker now as the light turns on in the house and Phoenix trudges away. He's kicking himself in the rear for not presenting himself to be of use to the old man—he could fix those fence posts of theirs, take care of their livestock and horses.
But...Phoenix thinks desperately as his stomach churns and growls, he could at least look through their compost or their trashcans.
When he hears a loud shout and the slamming of doors, Phoenix fears the man is reading his mind. He ducks into the grass--he prefers ticks over getting attacked by hounds any day.
The door is wide open, spilling cool yellow light into the night.
"Give it to the pigs! Go! You're better off starving than them anyway!" The older man yells, "Don't you bother coming back in for supper tonight!" The door closes with a finality.
Phoenix peers over the tall grass and watches as that boy scans the area, eyes searching. He's holding a plate in both hands, as if afraid he'd drop it. It looks as though the darkness is about to swallow him as he walks away from the lit-up farmhouse.
A bit of bravery settles in his bones, and he stands slowly, swaying like a willow. The rustling startles the boy, and he turns around to face Phoenix in the darkness. He does not speak. Instead, he locks eyes with him, slowly turns around, and walks towards the barn. It feels like a hesitant invitation. Phoenix follows him into the darkness, as everything turns various shades of indigo and aubergine.
The boy opens a side door to the barn, barely holding it open for Phoenix to catch it. It shuts behind him, and Phoenix can only stare as the strange boy lights a couple of lanterns, matches held expertly in-between pale fingers.
He doesn't even realize he's stopped lighting up the barn.
"Well, don't just stand there. I went through the trouble to get a plate out to you." The boy murmurs stiffly, gripping his elbow and looking at anything but him. Phoenix is now more mesmerized at the swath of light that envelopes them, the newfound warmth of the orange-yellow light in the barn. It curves against the boy's hurt cheek, and Phoenix wants to lean out and—
"I couldn't let his cruelty kill you, is all." The boy continues as he stares him down.
Phoenix can't hold back a grin. He picks up the plate as if it's a pure gold bar in his hands, weighing it. "You don't gotta defend yourself in front of me, sir. I'm grateful for your kindness." Phoenix steps closer with his hand outstretched, about to touch the angry red mark on the boy's cheek–that’s gonna bruise something awful. "It's a damned shame you gotta get yourself hurt for it." He's a real pretty thing, Phoenix notes. There have always been pretty girls, but by God, they could never match up to the sight he's seeing here.
The boy recoils at their growing closeness, like a feral animal. He doesn't quite meet his eyes until Phoenix draws his hand back.
"My name's Phoenix. Phoenix Wright." The boy's eyes meet his, and he continues, "Not like the Wrights that got a plane t' fly, though."
"Of course, you aren't. You wouldn't be here begging for scraps, otherwise," The other replies evenly, then outstretches his hand to shake. "Miles Edgeworth."
Phoenix takes his hand without hesitation. He's shocked at how soft Miles' hands are. As if they've never seen a day of work in their lives. Smooth and pale compared to his dirty, tanned, and calloused hands. A blush runs up to his ears and cheeks. There's a regality to everything about this boy.
So he tells him. Without thinking. "You're real pretty. Your hair looks like cornsilk in the lamplight like this." He wants to reach out and touch his hair, just to see.
Miles pulls his hand away a little too quickly, flushed pink. "You should eat." He mutters under his breath.
Phoenix finally takes the plate and finds a seat on a hay bale. He remembers to have some semblance of manners while he's scarfing down the food. It's got a weird conglomeration of seasoning all over and some of it is burnt, but it's hardly noticeable. The old man must be unnecessarily cruel.
He's halfway through eating a hunk of lamb chops when he hears a gurgle and a soft sweep of hay as Miles shifts uncomfortably. Completely forgetting he was there until now, Phoenix stops eating and pats the spot beside him. "You don't gotta stand there hungrier than a horse. Here—" he lifts up the plate from his lap.
Miles blinks but then shakes his head. Slender fingers touch his cheek as if thinking about something, or someone that'd stop him. "It's yours. I forfeited my meal tonight. Besides, you don't know when your next meal will be."
Phoenix shrugs. "Do any of us know? It would be hypocritical of me to let you go hungry so that I can eat. It ain't right."
"Mr. Wright..." Miles begins. Phoenix cringes at the formality.
"Just Phoenix. Besides , a meal is supposed to be shared. At least, that's what my momma used to say." Phoenix interrupts, wagging a finger at him.
There's a moment of tight silence. Miles clenches and unclenches his fists, considering and reconsidering. He finally sits on the hay bale beside Phoenix. He pulls something white out of his pocket, handing a handkerchief to him with a frown.
"Alright. Wash your face."
Phoenix sets the plate down in his lap, taking more interest in how out of place this boy looks in a barn. He's never seen such a weird ruffled bandana in his life. It looks a little like a bib, in his opinion, but he chooses against insulting his new friend. His new friend is weird, eating oh-so daintily with his legs neatly crossed at the ankles.
"Your daddy must be rich, huh?" Figures it’d be polite enough to make conversation.
"Mr. von Karma has money, yes." He replies.
"He's not your daddy?" Phoenix presses, carefully.
"No, not biologically."
"So you been adopted."
Miles looks at him with a frown. "Yes," he answers in a clipped voice, "something like that."
Phoenix draws a leg up to his chest. He knows he's pushing boundaries, pushing against the kindness that Miles showed him, but his mouth just keeps running.
"And that little girl in the house with you, then. She ain’t look like either of youse. She adopted too?"
He chokes on a bite of carrots, shaking for a moment before swallowing. He clears his throat.
"My sister. Mr. von Karma's daughter."
It's a little weird to Phoenix that he doesn't call the man his father, but calls the man's daughter his sister. He doesn't intend to ask, his voice quiet. "Just you and them. So…you ain't married yet, then?"
"No. I'm rather...young for marriage." Miles says a little more sternly.
"Me neither. Although my momma always said that I oughta find myself a woman and get married in a couple years. I'm already seventeen," He jokingly holds up a couple of fingers.
"I'm sure you won't have to worry about that, when the time comes," Miles mutters to himself, then presses his hand to his mouth. He looks away, silvery bangs hiding his eyes.
Phoenix is close enough to hear it, like a match struck too close to dry grass. He grins toothily, "What? Me finding a woman?" He presses, leaning into the boy's space. "D'you think I'm pretty, Miles?" He's mostly joking, batting his eyelashes.
The match sets off a blazing inferno. The boy stands suddenly, dropping the plate on the barn floor. His eyes are fierce and icy as he stares him down and smothers the inferno in one fell swoop. "I need to retire for the evening. Now. I'm leaving now."
"Don't you want your—?" Phoenix lifts up the handkerchief still in his hands.
"No…you just…keep it."
He's overstepped officially, Phoenix frowns. Standing up as well, he steps closer, fueling the fire. "I was only joking, I don't care if you think I'm pretty or anything. Actually, I'm the s-"
"There's a loft. Y-you should go to sleep." Miles manages out, his voice strangled. He makes a point of making a very big step away.
There's no use in arguing this one, or else he could risk losing a place to sleep, he realizes. His bones ache deeply. His body feels stripped, waiting to splinter.
"Thank you. Have a good evenin', Miles."
The boy leaves with his plate, without a word. Phoenix finds that dizzying. He likes that little pitter-patter of his chest.
Too tired to go up onto the loft, he curls up in a corner and dreams of cornsilk.
Phoenix wakes up to the cock of a gun, the muzzle of it pressed against his forehead. He opens his eyes slowly, finding himself nestled in a pile of hay. He stares up the muzzle, to the old man, Mr. von Karma himself, holding it. Every nerve in his body is completely still as he stares into cold, dark purple eyes.
"I warned you, boy. You should consider yourself lucky that you're not ripped to shreds by the police hounds." His voice grates Phoenix's ears.
He's eye to eye with the Devil himself. His glare is filled with so much hellfire yet it brings a shiver down his spine.
He half expects the man to blow his brains out right there in the barn. Put on a show for anyone else who dares ask for mercy from this man.
"Sir, you shouldn't do this." A voice says from behind Mr. von Karma.
"Get back in the house. This boy trespassed. And you ," Mr. von Karma turns to point at Miles. Phoenix sits up but doesn't dare run. "Giving him food instead of feeding it to the pigs. It's like feeding wild animals—they'll keep coming back."
"You shouldn't punish a starving boy."
Phoenix stands, slowly. He raises his hands, his eyes flying between Mr. von Karma and Miles. Now that he's standing on both feet, back straight as a pin, he's barely any shorter than the menacing man. It balances the scales, making him look less like the Devil and more like a man with a shotgun.
"You ain't gotta defend me. I did trespass." He tilts his head, nodding to Mr. von Karma. "Sir, I promise I will never come back on this land of yours. I'll book it outta here if you need me to. I swear on my momma-"
"He did nothing wrong, sir. It was me who erred last night. I told him to sleep here for the night." Miles protests. His fists are clenched, but they don’t tremble. "Don't punish him for my actions. It's not fair."
"Papa, may I?" A young girl's voice rang out. Phoenix whipped his head around to the source of the voice. Mr. von Karma's daughter. He backtracks on what he said about her last night–she definitely is her father’s daughter in the light.
For some reason, he feels even more terrified of her. What’s worse is that she’s easily ten years old, eleven at the most.
She's carrying a riding crop, with a foal trailing behind her. Holding an air of superiority to him, she opens her mouth again, "It would be unwise to let go of this...mutt." He feels her eyes pick him apart. "Little brother, don't waste your breath defending him. He's guilty through and through! However, he should stay here. We need someone to take care of the livestock and the horses."
She points at Phoenix, and he feels as though he might collapse. "You! How proficient are you in taking care of horses? Of other livestock?"
"Very! Very proficient, miss! Before my family's barn burnt down, we had a cow and pigs and chickens. We used t' have a horse, but on account of my fath-"
She smacks him with the riding crop. His shoulder stings.
"Enough." She looks at her father, a confident smile on her face, "Do you see, Papa?"
It absolutely baffles him that Mr. von Karma doesn't outright reject the idea, but considers it with a twist of his mouth.
"You...boy. Your name, again."
"Phoenix Wright, sir." His mouth is suddenly running, despite a shotgun still being angled at him. "If you let me stay here for the summer, all I will need is a hot meal and a place to sleep in your barn. That's all, sir. Just for the summer and you ain't ever gonna see me again."
Mr. von Karma's eyes bore into him, as if they're grabbing him by the throat.
"Pathetic. And you'll do this for no pay?"
The noose is wrapping around his throat. A summer's worth of work and nothing to show for it, other than a full stomach. But right now, he's thinking about where his next meal could possibly come from. Next time, maybe he'll get shot for trespassing. Next time, he could be found dead in someone's barren field, prairie grass and earth in his rigid mouth.
"No pay."
Something settles in the man's fiery eyes, and he lowers the shotgun. Phoenix audibly lets out a breath. He makes eye contact with Miles, mustering every drop of gratitude into his gaze. For defending him.
Now, he pays the debt.
Something is relieving about working here. A guaranteed place to sleep and a hot meal at the end of the day is almost everything Phoenix could ask for in a time like this. Any other situation right now is miserable to him. He's been to town a couple of times before with his father after the stock market crashed. He's seen the long line out of soup kitchens, seen families kicked to the curb while houses lie in wait to be lived in again. It wouldn't hurt to stay for the summer. He can deal with a cruel man, whom he’s learned is a hardened veteran prosecutor in Chicago, and a little girl that follows him around with her riding crop and tells him what to do. He learns her name is Franziska, and she’s taken a weirdly affectionate disliking to him.
He's hauling a pail of water to the barn when he sees, admittedly, his other reason for staying there. Phoenix isn't as quite as lovesick as his old classmate was in school, but he finally understands what Larry Butz meant when he got struck by a lovebug .
And maybe it's because he hasn't seen other people his age in ages, hasn't had many friends since he had to take over the farm and care for his mother. But it's definitely because of the way Miles looks in sunlight, all soft angles and shadows.
Phoenix watches him from afar, following him into the barn. He leans in on the doorway, carefully balancing the bucket on his boot so as to not make any noise. The boy stops at each stall and pets every horse, lips moving in a quiet greeting. He finally stops at a white mare and foal. Miles' lips spread into a soft, soft smile as he reaches into his pocket and feeds something to the mare. He brushes his hand against his carmine red shirt—must've been sugar cubes?—and Phoenix loses grip of the bucket handle.
Phoenix stares dumbfoundedly at the water as it floods the barn doorway. He picks the bucket up before all of the water is lost to the ground, but it catches Miles' attention and suddenly his smile is replaced with a disapproving frown.
"The water typically goes in the water trough," Miles says flatly.
Phoenix tries to ignore the blush crawling up his ears. "'Course it does. You think I don't know that?"
"No, you're certainly not that dense." Miles is now arms-length away, wrinkling his nose as the water seeps into the dirty hay on the ground. "Then there's no reason for you to dump an entire bucket on the floor."
Oh, he sees what he's doing. Phoenix cocks a brow, "You don't know that I was going to fill the water trough. Could've been washing the barn floor, y'know." He stomps on the dark flooring--rubber?--Phoenix assumes.
"Actually-" Miles motions towards the stalls, "You were. It's part of your daily chores, and the trough is practically bone-dry. Besides, it would be smart to sweep the area first before washing it, Wright. Anyone would know that it would be the most efficient way to clean a barn floor."
"They are not -" Phoenix begins incredulously. As he takes a step to demonstrate that the troughs were perfectly fine at the moment , his boots lose grip on the wet ground and he slips.
Hay and water and dirt cling to his already stained overalls. He stands up, and Miles has carefully darted around the puddle and stands in the doorway.
"I rest my case. I'd be careful walking in that if I were you." There's a glint in the boy's eyes, and he's smirking for only a fleeting moment. "You have a tendency to...let your eyes wander and then trip over your own feet." His face twists into something cooler and unrecognizable and then excuses himself.
Phoenix isn't quite sure what to make of the thrumming of his heart as he disappears into the house, taking the sun and leaving the wind to chill his damp legs.
He thinks he could get used to this push and pull, the way a warm breeze can turn into whipping wind at the drop of a hat. It's something so different, and Phoenix finds himself chasing it.