Firecracker ( Phoenix / Edgeworth ) [1/2]
Title: Firecracker
Pairings & Characters: Phoenix Wright/Miles Edgeworth, Kristoph Gavin/Miles Edgeworth, implied!Maya Fey, implied!Pearl Fey, implied!Larry Butz, Trucy Wright, Apollo Justice, implied!Mia Fey, Dick Gumshoe, Ema Skye
Rating: Make it a safe R.
Warnings: Metaphors like a sonovabitch, un-beta`d, sexual activity, angst, swearing, character death.
Prompt:
I want angst. P/E Angst.
Sometime after GS4, Phoenix gets a phonecall from Edgeworth. But all Edgey wants to say is that he loves Phoenix, and Phoenix snaps. Yelling into the phone, accusations, what have you.
A day or two later, Gumshoe shows up and tells Phoenix that Edgeworth is dead, and that Phoenix's number was on his phone a few minutes before his time of death.
How does Phoenix react hearing that the last thing Miles heard before he died was that Phoenix hated him?
Word Count: 11.411
Author's Notes: The kink meme ensares me in many a things, you guys. I loved writing this, as difficult as it was, and I think that it came out very well. I hope that OP loveloveloves it forever, as well as the rest of the fandom.
p.s.- I really hate the American flight system.
Part Deux
There’s a certain sort of elegance in this place. It’s cold and comfortable at the same time - they had put new sheets on the cots, he took notice - and for some reason, he has no problem laying down, pulling his hat down, and blocking out the rest of the world. No problem at all; because he doesn’t have any problems. No problems. None. There’s nothing wrong with him. He can breathe, he can feel his heart still pumping blood to the rest of his body, and he’s fairly sure that two plus two still equals four. No, wait-yes, his calculations were correct. Two and two were four. Three and three are six. Four and four are eight. He blinked particularly harshly, frowning and folding his arms behind his head.
Math was never his strong suit.
Looking down his body, the man wondered if it was still numb. He poked and prodded in a few places, finding places that hurt when he pinched, and places that still had no response. Oh well. It mattered not. Numbness would allow faster sleep, wouldn’t it? That would be nice. He could use some sleep before the tongue-lashings that were headed his way. Frowning in thought, Phoenix wondered what kind they would be. Bitter? Furious? Solemn? Different people for different emotions, he supposed. Phoenix could think of three people off the bat who were going to rush to see him.
Oh, wait. Two.
Three minus one equals two.
Hm. Maybe he was pretty good at math.
For a split second, Phoenix has to remind himself how to breathe. Through his nose doesn’t seem to be working - ah, goddamnit, was he getting a cold again? - so he opened his mouth. In, out. In, out. Expel carbon dioxide, take in oxygen. CO2, O2. Easy, easy.
So it was odd when it became difficult for him to properly saturate his blood with the gas.
Soon enough, he was able to find a different way of comfort, breathing in through his nose and out of his mouth, and somehow had made it able to work without a hitch. He shifted on the cot, making himself at home, and quietly being smug about not having a cellmate while in holding. Good. Now he wouldn’t have to do anything with anyone, and could be left to himself. Which was probably better for him, as well as anyone else, because he didn’t really feel like being cooperative with people. Surely a person confronting him about taking the cot would end up with a broken nose.
There was a moment wherein he wondered why he was so violent-why he was so serious. Then it clicked again, and he rolled to his side, remembering that, oh, yeah, he was a suspect in a murder case. Or at least that’s what they wanted. The thought made him twitch, made him tuck an arm under his head while the other was shoved haphazardly into a hoodie pocket.
He wasn’t guilty. He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t kill anyone. He wasn’t a murderer. His hands were not disheveled with the blood of a lamb; he hadn’t touched anyone - in a violent or affectionate way - in some time. Unpleasant events will do that to a man, and if anyone knew him, they would realize that Phoenix Wright was not the luckiest man in the world. Compared to almost anyone else, it would appear as if he were the unluckiest man to ever grace the planet Earth.
So what, maybe he was. Maybe he had the luck that paled Ichabod Crane’s. What did it matter. He didn’t need luck. Luck were for the foolishly optimistic and hopeful - both of which had vacated Phoenix’s body some time ago. Spiteful old men didn’t need luck. Experience and a hardened mentality that let them find any results, cross any bridges without the use of fortune. Bah. Phoenix would shift then, the little, near-silent part of him that hung onto traces of light trying to coax into something that the aged and withered part of him knew better.
He couldn’t trust that little voice. Those sweet words of promising tomorrows and another sunrise were just too good, and his heart couldn’t take it. His soul couldn’t take it, and he wasn’t certain why that part of him was still living. He thought it had been quelled, abolished, diminished along with his youth. Those things were of times long passed. They called for hamburger joints and waterfalls, odd jobs and art; for playing with toy balls and the circus, plants and cups of coffee; for containers of ramen and puppies, luminol and dreams.
For letters never answered and mock trials.
Behind closed eyelids, there’s imagery of tiny hands. They’re playing with sparklers and watching as, by the grace of God, colors explode in the air. They suck in the fresh scent of nature and laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh; share popsicles and one helps tutor the other in arithmetic. There’s something in the back of his head that tells him that it will last, that they’re better than the world, and no matter what happens, they know that they’ll be together. They can overcome anything, so long as they believe it will happen. Friendship is a stronger bond than steel, than the force propelling them apart.
Love is a stronger bond than life itself.
He opens darkened blue eyes, letting them only hang halfway. He can’t stand the light that’s flooding through the corridors, despite that it’s already evening and making it’s way dutifully to the night. It’s a slow progression that he can always count on, despite his wishes of something different to happen. Perhaps the Moon can meet the Sun. Perhaps the Moon loves the Sun. Perhaps the Sun loves the Moon. They’re lovers that can never touch, that will never see one another; but they know without a doubt that they cannot live without the other. They will never be complete if disaster were to occur to their other half.
An ache settles itself in his chest. It tugs and pulls on his lungs and heart, obviously assuming that his ribs were a jungle gym. Phoenix curses the feeling with extra vulgarity before pulling his legs up toward the rest of his torso to settle himself further. He’ll be here a while, the man assumes. If it’s evening already, that would mean visiting hours were over. No one would come to see him in this cold state. That was probably for the better. God knows what may spew out of his mouth at this point.
Allowing eyes to drift back shut, the man exhales slowly, ever so slowly, and wills himself to sleep. Sleep was a painless affair. It required not that ache and burn, he could dream of anything. The law may be able to trap his body, but they could not keep down his mind.
Without fail, his mind fluttered to a silver-haired male. The hairs are fine and soft, perfectly trimmed, framing elegant ivory skin and stormy eyes. A nose and a sharp mouth, smooth features that were seemingly too flawless to be on any mortal.
His body - a work of art.
His personality - a love that had been Phoenix’s.
His mind - a tattered and beaten creature.
The man is speaking to him, now. It’s telling him all sorts of things. What Europe is like, how Phoenix shouldn’t wear those sweatpants all the time, that he enjoyed French cuisine. American lifestyle will kill you, Phoenix. Phoenix, come to bed, you’re not going to figure out that case by getting frustrated. Here, let me help. It’s okay, you don’t have to understand it all at once. Phoenix, I’m not going to work today, the weather said that there’s a thunderstorm coming.
Phoenix, I’m sorry. I never meant to leave you like that. Things were too difficult, I couldn’t understand. I’ve never been anywhere decent with these…emotions, so you must comprehend when I fail at properly communicating; but I would understand if you never want to see me again. I’ll understand if you want to punch me, want to kick me, want to hurt me in any way possible, because I deserve it. I deserve the worst kind of punishment. I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Phoenix, I need you. I need you and want you and I can’t think of my life without you in it. You’re my pillar, you’re my world. It doesn’t make much sense, but you’re the Sun to my Moon. I hope that someday you’ll be able to grasp what I’m speaking of, but I promise that wasn’t a jab at your intelligence. You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re so intelligent, half the time I can’t keep up with you. I’d like to think that was a good thing.
Phoenix, I love you. I-
The former defense attorney doesn’t let the man continue. He rouses himself from that dream with such force, that he finds himself shaking. Not because those words had gotten to him. Not because those words had such power, such history that they put too much emphasis on his own psyche. It’s because he hasn’t eaten anything since the day had begun, and his blood sugar was running low. Licking his lips, Phoenix thought that a glass of grape juice would do nicely right about now.
He moves on the cot, finding that his past position is not in any way aiding him in his quest for rest. He switches onto his stomach, letting his arms cross under his head and tucking his chin softly in the worn material of his hoodie. He breathes in the smell of his home; and Phoenix notices that he misses it. He misses Trucy. He misses his bed. He misses the sound of Apollo and his daughter bantering, and for a disgusted moment, Phoenix wonders if anything has happened between them yet.
He makes a mental note to break it to the pair that they’re related before anything does happen.
One leg unceremoniously hanging off the edge of the cot, Phoenix adjusts his head and gets a face full of mothball-scented old furniture. And as much as he hates it, as disgusted as he finds it, the smell brings back memories. He remembers almost instantly about how memories are often triggered by scents. And he knows it to be true; because he’s remembering an old, large house tucked away. It’s dusty and foreign - in all sense of the word - with furniture that looks like it’s never been touched, and books in languages that Phoenix could never learn.
He remembers being inside that house. He remembers cleaning and moving things, helping it look presentable enough so that someone else will purchase the home. To be honest, he couldn’t remember why they had needed to clean it up in the first place - it had been almost spotless when they started. Insides tightening, Phoenix finally comes across the memory of actually asking the owner why they had to clean an already clean, clean place. They tightened further when he recalls a flustered look and a tentative smile.
“It’s foolish; but I suppose you deserve an answer. I wanted to spend time with you.”
Eyes find forearms again, and soon the sockets are being pressed close. He doesn’t like this place. He doesn’t want to be here, on this cot. Can’t he have a different one? One that didn’t smell like recollections? Preferably grapes, if they had one in stock. He hummed quietly, enjoying the idea that furniture could smell like grapes. What a world they live in today, where anything could easily smell like anything else.
Well, it wasn’t like people were unable to just rub the fruit on their possessions, Phoenix eventually reasoned. But that would cause molding or sour scents, if not done in the proper sort of way. Were there precautions that one could take? What if someone were to rub leaves on a couch? Would it smell like a forest? Or would there be just green stains?
Making a face, he tugged down his hat a little farther, closed his eyes a little tighter. Sleep was definitely something hard to come by. And here he was, without a worry in a world - and still unable to rest? There had to be something wrong with him. He must be wicked-taking into account that there was no rest for the wicked.
Swallowing thickly, Phoenix quickly discarded that phrase. No, no. This cot - it was causing all sorts of hallucinations. There was no reason to get so worked up over five little words. Five words. Five words that, pulled apart, had no real meaning to them, and yet when put together so articulately, could mean the difference between life and death.
Wait. Life and death. Five words. Where had that come from-
“Goddamnit.” The man growled, rolling over to his side again, letting the bars of his holding cell look at his back. This was becoming ridiculous. Mimicking his posture from earlier, he slipped an arm underneath his head, and used his free hand to rub at his eyes. If this were to keep up, than this was going to be a long, fruitless night - literally and figuratively. They couldn’t possibly try him for murder; because he had an alibi. A stone-cold alibi. He’s got two witnesses to his alibi among his daily schedule. It was stupid. It made his head hurt. It made him wish for his bed even more.
It would be another hour until he began to feel the familiar rocking of sleep. Back and forth, gently swirling and taking him to an elated level. Gods, it felt so amazing. His whole body aching in such a wonderful way that it made him close his eyes tighter, sink into those flickering sensations for all he was worth.
Then came the ability of flight. He was being lifted, up and off his cot, up and away from this holding cell. He drifted, drowsy and drunk with his senses being clogged with a fog of complete ecstasy. He swooned, he floated, he swam and relaxed, opened his eyes and was greeted by a patchwork of colors that took his breath away in a painful and beautiful work of art. He was melting into it, becoming part of that graceful, wondrous haven.
Music was crawling from ear to ear, swallowing him whole. Piano, if he wasn’t mistaken. It was a few shy notes, playing him from cloud to cloud, from star to star - from one height of pleasure to another. It was a dull roar that reminded the man of a blanket being tightly wrapped around his frame, keeping him safe. Singing to him in a soft voice, and he allowed himself to get caught up in that simply gorgeous poetry. He could be beautiful, too; he was matching that sort of glory.
Another figure soon catches his lazy eyesight, and he smiles, wide and genuine. He’d never admit it, but there had been some hope in his heart that they might meet here, in this place of serene beauty; and his heart had skipped a beat, glad to know that finally, finally, he didn’t have to worry about disappointment. There was no reason to - not when there was everything he’d ever need in this place. This refined sort of landscape that let him forgive, let him forget.
He croons. The other smirks. They fit together so perfectly. It’s all so wonderful and dreamy, until the sudden and painful dead weight of the other makes Phoenix fall. Fall, and fall, and fall; he’s trying to push off that weight, trying to make it light and weightless, because surely the impact with the ground will kill both of them.
Jolting awake, the man heaves, sitting upwards with his arms supporting him. He blinks once, twice, thrice, and must realize where he is - why he’s here, and swears softly.
That voice had caught up with him again.
Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he bends his arm, letting his chin be cupped by his palm and stare angrily at the cement flooring. He can still hear the piano, still can recall the warmth of being at such peace. It’s only then that he realizes the song that had been playing was the song that he botched each and every night - and that warmth was one that he had experienced before. That he needed his Moon for.
He spat, making another disgusted face. No. He didn’t need his Moon. His Moon didn’t need him, so he didn’t need his Moon. Simple. Sweet. To the point.
“But if he didn’t need you, why would he call?”
“Torture. Mind-fuckery. He was always good at that, wasn’t he?”
“No. He needed you. He still loved you - he said it himself.”
“’Love’? I’ve heard that word before. It’s grown stale.”
“Rigid?”
“Yes.”
“Lost its luster?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, so has he.”
“What’s your point? You basically said it yourself, he’s dead. Mourning won’t change a thing.”
“Sure, it’s not what he would have wanted, but you’re starting to seem like you didn’t care at all.”
“Because I don’t. I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can tell when you are.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really. I know you better than anyone else.”
“You can’t make me say that I loved him.”
“I don’t have to. I already know that you do.”
“Then why so bent on making me admit such a ridiculous idea?”
“Simple. You need to hear yourself say it, more than anything else.”
“Don’t try to appeal to my humanity. Dear God, please don’t.”
“If you say that you don’t have any, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You aren’t getting rid of me, now that I know how much you hate me.”
“Oh? And just whom am I loathing?”
“Yourself, duh.”
Phoenix’s head snaps up, shocked and appalled, all sorts of things as he notices that he had been pacing around his cell. He’s considerably shaken, and getting weird looks from the people across the hall, but shoots them a frosty look before returning to the cot, sitting and cradling his head in his hands.
So he was becoming a psychopath. Nothing wrong with that, right? He already had the hobo-persona, the sociopath would compliment it nicely. Sure, maybe tatter his clothes up a little more, start painting his nails black, and let some of his hair spike out from underneath his hat - Phoenix could easily pull off the appearance. But, ah, the acting that went along with it. There were significant problems with that. He’d already been investigated by child services - not because he had harmed Trucy in any sort of way, mind you. She must have spoken about their line of work, or something about home life that hadn’t sat quite right with the teacher, or one of the kids. They must have told a higher authority, who then contacted that group of Nazis.
Phoenix frowned. Being a sociopath would just give Child Services another chance to try to take away Trucy - plus, she probably wouldn’t enjoy it all that much.
It slowly began to set in. He pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the cot, legs bunched, elbows and kneecaps touching while his forearms hang uselessly. He bites his lips together, feels a headache coming on, and he blinks, squeezes his eyes together, and nothing changes. He doesn’t have enough energy to hope that it will; he doesn’t have that sort of belief that this was just a misunderstanding. That this was a dream. That his Moon will come and bail him out; scold him for being so reckless and stupid.
He’d laugh and shrug it off, which would, inevitably, make his Moon irate.
Phoenix covers his mouth with a hand, a sickening feeling wrapping in his intestines. How many times had he taken advantage of that playfully angry attitude of his Moon’s? It’s quite obvious: too many times, and now, he had nothing. He had no wavering fingers and furrowed brows. Nothing. He’s got nothing.
He looks around the cell. It’s colder than he remembers it to be. It’s smaller. It’s more depressing. He breathes, and the air is stifling, it’s trying to choke him. He’s being strangled by this place, sucking the very life out of him. No, no, he doesn’t want to die. Phoenix claws at his throat, trying to remove that invisible hand that’s pressing down so forcefully on his windpipe. His vision is getting hazy, and he chokes, chokes, struggles to do anything.
He’s going to pass out - he’ll die from asphyxiation. Death won’t come swiftly, not while he’s thrashing about. But he doesn’t want it to come swiftly, so he moves harder, tries with more fervor to get out of this creature’s grasp and away from his doom.
Gasping, the man starts to suspect something is the matter when he coughs, taking in air so desperately. He’s half-sprawled on the cot, disorientated and nervous, slinking back up against the metal, slim headboard of the piece of furniture. He didn’t like this place. It was trying to kill him.
Wait, wait, get a hold of yourself, Wright. Places can’t kill people. Don’t be so stupid.
“Yes, they can.” He mutters, and immediately, he sees flashes of all sorts of places. Some of them he forces out of his mind, others he lets linger there, because really, at this point, it’s not going to make any sort of change. Nothing will. But he’ll be damned before he lets his Moon take hold of his mind again.
No. No, whatever - Phoenix doesn’t care.
He doesn’t.
He never did.
To be that naïve, to think that everything can be solved so quickly and easily, that wounds will mend without any traces of scars had to be as childish as the vows they had taken in their adolescence. Just words that had no meaning, that they thought had meaning, and like everything else-worthless. A waste of space. Like him. Like everything else he’s done. Phoenix grits his teeth, falling to a new low as he compares pacts his Moon - at that age, had he been a mere crescent moon? - made on the swings, in the fort in his basement, behind that shack in the woods, to his present failures.
He had said that they’d never be apart; he’d be there. Phoenix recalls laughter - Gods, why did they laugh so often? - and saying that they’re going to be in the same class next year. And the next. And do you really think that it’s cool that I’m so good at art? I’ve seen your pictures, I like them. You know, I drew you something; but it’s not finished yet. I’ll show you once it’s done.
Eyes returning to their half-lidded state, Phoenix remembers how he never did get to show him that picture.
He kind of wondered where it went. Maybe he’d call his parents once he was released.
Breathe low, steady, a pause before he inhales, a pause before he exhales; his body starts to ache as childhood is forcefully thrust upon him. He didn’t want it, didn’t want to experience that feeling of abandonment when his Moon had suddenly disappeared. That unabashed anger because it had gone against everything they had agreed upon. Who was going to understand his inside jokes? Who was he going to go to the library with? Who was going to let him hold another at sleepovers, and not get all weirded out? Nobody, that’s who.
He wouldn’t have anyone. There wouldn’t be anyone.
Because if there’s anything Phoenix has learned: it’s that the Sun and the Moon cannot truly exist without the other.
The Moon had taught him that.
Fighting it, the man stands. He will have none of this. He’s an adult, he should have the final decision of what’s going on around here. So when he stands to stretch and try to get a grip on things, it only frustrates him more when nothing good comes from it: he’s hurting and out of breath, and the tired feeling in his bones only reminds him of how impossibly old he must be.
Worst of all, his Moon doesn’t appear to want to stop invading his mind.
He thinks of awkward, unsure touches. Those fleeting gestures when they would visit; a hand accidentally touching another when they would exchange files, or a blue knee brushing against a magenta, or how the sea and the storm would fixate on one another, leaving nothing unsaid, nothing undone. Colliding in a hurricane that knocked both of them to the ground; flipped them to their sides, thrashing and pushing with winds that startled bodies, caught bodies, touched them in ways never thought possible.
It was exhilarating, being so overcome by the storm, it gave him something to strive for - to work for. He had his goal, and sights set on that warm place. Nothing else mattered; nothing else had ever mattered. Unfortunately, the Moon had been to high in the sky, too far away from the Sun to hear his calls of the truth.
Blinking, Phoenix lowered his eyes. He was a Storm, a Moon; both entities had such unwavering power over the Sea. Which couldn’t possibly be closer to what was real.
Finally, finally, he lets his Moon’s name fall from his lips, and with it, comes a punch to the gut, and he’s collapsing onto the bed with a groan. It was unleashing the floodgates, and the man was drowning in thoughts and sensations; not all of them entirely welcome. He sees the wonder of waking up to see his Moon in the morning, to have the ability to see the Moon in broad daylight, and while the Moon’s true attributes came out only during the evening, the night, those times where the Moon would think that everyone was away, closed off in their own business - the Moon would think, nobody’s watching, it can be itself without a worry. No one will judge.
Phoenix choked.
He was the Moon. So unfalteringly beautiful with pale skin and elegance that was otherworldly. He’d gracefully risen and fallen, just as the nighttime had predicted it - had warned them of it. Like the children they were, they’d ignored those tales of woe, of pristine and perfect failure. They had each other, after all. They had said it themselves, they didn’t need to world, they could overcome anything.
The man sort of wonders why they had been so cocky.
But, he thinks, that was youth, was it not? To be so confident in oneself, in the entire youth of the world. That nothing will go wrong, no matter how many times they tripped and fell, they would always get back up.
But, he also thought - this with a little more melancholy - what about when they were finally old enough so that when they fell, they were unable to stand once more? Were they left to simply rot where they lay? Should they have known not to trip in the first place.
He was missing out on some big life lesson, Phoenix eventually decided, rubbing at his face. He didn’t know when he had missed it, the man was certainly jaded enough for him, for a magician, for a newcomer. There’s plenty of broken edges going around, Phoenix sums up, and while he doesn’t particularly enjoy it that way, he does nothing to change these waves of sorrow.
Unraveling, he pictures his Moon. When they had first seen one another after too long, the shock, stepping on glass, working around problems they hadn’t anticipated. He thought of the first time they made love: slow, sweet, taking their time because they finally had understood that they had all the time in the world. The pleasure would never leave, not when they didn’t want it to. That glow would never die down, they could turn it to a bright bulb or down to a barely-living candle on command. They had listened to the whispers of the muses, telling them that no, no, no-
They laughed, Phoenix remembers.
“Wright, I’ve waited fifteen long years to feel like this again; why would I want to let it go?”
It’s ebbing and cresting, taking the man with the swell. For the first time in years, he feels helpless, a sensation he’s not really fond of - and he keeps fighting it.
Whenever he thinks of how gentle Miles had become over the years, Phoenix thinks of forged evidence and falsified testimonies.
Whenever he sees sensual movements - a grasp of hands, a soft expression, the man brings up the mental image of the hatred, the aggravating brat that he had encountered.
When he hears the words ‘I love you,’ Phoenix pictures his Moon being loved by another star.
It’s enough to quell the storm for now. Panting, he stands once more, the sudden feeling that lying on that cot was the equivalent to letting his Moon draw him back. Because he wouldn’t - he wasn’t going to. The Moon no longer had a place in his star system, and whether it liked it or not, he would continue this revolution. He’d nurture it, make sure it would grow strong and righteous-then like the Sun he was; burn, burn away.
Seeing himself in a half-assed mirror the police department had set up in the holding, Phoenix was faced with an unholy truth; one that made him turn his head, look away, turn a blind eye to that image.
He was already nearly burnt out.
Vision drawn back to that mirror, that damned contraption, he blinks lazily, straight faced. Keep it up, keep it up - don’t let that reflection fool you. Give it an inch, and he’ll take a mile. Don’t you know that? What a fool, he doesn’t even recognize himself. He still pictures himself as some sort of savior, some sort of hero among the masses; doesn’t quite realize what his place in society was.
He was a poorly paid, poorly playing pianist. He lived in an office, and often, used his daughter to help win poker games. Filthy, disgusting hobo - he doesn’t even know how to dress himself. So infatuated with fixing the past, he must record every bit of the present, trying to make mountains out of molehills. How simply degrading.
For a moment, Phoenix convinces himself that these were reasons, that they were solid reasons. It took a good long time, clutching the wall on the other sides of the mirror and staring hard at the grimy person that’s looking back. It doesn’t dawn on him that he’s trying to fake himself out; he too bent on convincing himself that these were totally reasons for adultery. Because they were. They were. They are.
Assaulted by a plethora of new imagery, he staggers away from the mirror, letting out a sharp yelp as he covers his eyes. Covers his ears, attempting to block it all out.
He doesn’t want to see pale hands touching his Moon. They didn’t belong there. No - oh, oh God, now they were trailing over other parts, mapping it out perfectly. Finding the small scar under his Moon’s left pair of ribs - and he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know the history behind that mark, that his Moon had slipped as a child, that Phoenix had carried him piggy-back style all the way back to his home.
They’d continue to touch, barely scraping over pink nubs, and Phoenix can just see how his Moon would arch and let out a breathy sound. Fingertips would move lower, mouth following suit, pulling more sounds from him. He might plead, might lift his hips and beg, he might opens his mouth and let out a long, drawn-out moan as those hands tug off a belt, press off those buttons, slide magenta slacks down, down, down-
Phoenix is going to throw up. He’ll vomit all over the place if those images don’t stop. They don’t stop. They hadn’t before, and he doesn’t suspect that they will now. In this situation, it’d be just his luck if he saw the all of it, if he were to be force-fed the entire happening. He stumbled a little farther backwards, calves ramming against the cot and falling on his ass.
Gritting his teeth, he suppressed a howl as they continued. Those hands have arms now-long and languid, so completely different from his own. The arms connect to broad shoulders, milky skin and a lean, lithe body. A long neck and soft features, fair hair and discarded glasses.
The Devil was touching the Moon.
The Devil was touching his Moon.
The Devil was pressing and licking, eliciting a various tone of sounds. Keening and whining, moaning, loud and wanton, the Devil would smirk inwardly as his Moon pushed back, wanting more, more. He needed more, the Moon cried.
And the Devil would oblige, because who was he to deny such a precious creature?
Preparation would be a torturous process, one that would make Phoenix cringe and writhe, because he’s desperate to get it out of his mind, out of his psyche, he needs to break the illusion otherwise he’ll surely go mad. He’s forced to witness as his Moon takes fingers into his mouth, slicking them with saliva in a fevered need, and just as the Devil goes to press a digit into him, Phoenix finally shakes him.
He’s crouched in one of the corners of his cell, heaving and huffing, clutching the fine hairs on the back of his neck and wincing at every sob he doesn’t let out. No, no, no. He had gotten over this a long time ago. A hand planted firmly over his mouth, the man doubles over a little further, the top of his head coming into contact with the wall, because he doesn’t think he has the strength to keep it up himself.
The hurt returns, then. The spite, the pity, the anguish; it’s waging wars inside of Phoenix, and all he can do is crouch and try his best not to die in the process.
He wants to not feel bad so desperately. He wants to be able to look at this situation and think, ‘Oh, hey, that’s pretty bad, but I don’t really care.’ At one point, Phoenix comes close to persuade his psyche into thinking that, yes, that’s what he felt. There was no grief over the passing, he was neutral. Normal. He need not shed tears for when the Moon dips down below the horizon for the last time.
But Phoenix did. He felt guilty and angry all at the same time, and not entirely for the same reasons. He was still so fucking pissed that his Moon had done that to him. So blatantly performed adultery, cheated on him - with the Devil no less. Phoenix suspected, and he knew. His Moon began to spend more and more time away from home, staying at his office all night, whether or not that was completely true was beyond the man; staying up and away, purposely avoiding Phoenix no matter the cost.
At first, he had wondered if he’d done something wrong. If he’d wronged the Moon, if he’d scorned it in some way. He had pled, begged, wanted nothing more to make things right. With such force, with such unattached faces, Phoenix had been turned away. Completely ignored. Oftentimes scored, yelled at, nearly verbally beaten at any chance his Moon had. He didn’t understand at the time. Hadn’t quite known. He hadn’t been able to put two and two together.
Simply put, his arithmetic had become somewhat lacking.
But it was a simple calculation once he had gotten the hang of it. His Moon, becoming more and more reclusive, was avoiding him. Spending more time out of the house, and was so openly not interested with the happenings going around him. He cared not for Phoenix, wouldn’t pay a lick of attention to him, and whenever Phoenix would try to be affectionate with his Moon, show his Moon that he was beautiful, show his Moon that he loved him, so, so much; the pale-faced grace would make a disgusted expression and slip away.
Back, back to slipping underneath the horizon and away from the Sun. Just out of reach of his rays, of his touches, of that warmth that he was trying to offer.
He shakes, ankles giving and falling unceremoniously to the ground, leaning his weight on the wall to his side. He needs to breathe, reminding himself to breathe with such vigor, the man opens his mouth, gasping and clawing for oxygen like he just broke surface; because he’s drowning again. Drowning in those thoughts and feelings, in the fact that he had pushed away the Moon, and, effectively, drawn the tide with it. It didn’t matter if he pushed the Moon, pulled the Moon, the Sea would follow so obediently. Because the Sea would love, the Sea would watch, unable to express anything but merely watch the Sun and Moon’s never-ending game of chase.
Exhaling, the man pulls his hat down. Cover his eyes, cover his head - he’s suddenly so very cold, so nauseated. He wasn’t certain how it had come to that-how he had failed the Moon so horribly. He thought that they had been happy; but figures those, like the mothballs collecting in his blue suit, are ancient relics. Apparently he wasn’t worth a shit without that gold badge on his lapel. Apparently, he doesn’t amount to anything. He can’t be fixed, no one wants to fix him.
He’s broken. Without a mechanic to puts his pieces back together, because Phoenix can’t do it on his own, he’ll fall to the ground-utterly shattered. It’s happened, and there’s no fixing him now.
He’s lost without those guiding moonbeams. He can’t make it through this darkness-wait. No. You’re stronger than that. He’s stronger. The man doesn’t need the Moon, the Sun doesn’t need the Moon. He’s proven that over the past, he can make do.
Clutching the fabric on top of his head, Phoenix remembers the confrontation.
The storm had started. The sea had raged. There was a hurricane, and while both elements were used to this meteorological phenomena, it was foolish to think that he hadn’t been shocked by the outcome. He can perfectly recall the look on the Moon’s face - that ghostly beauty painted flush from overflowing emotional wreckage. This baggage was too much for the both of them to handle, and the Sun had dropped them. No more, the star had whispered, he couldn’t take it anymore, and needed the Moon out of his life. He couldn’t stand this loneliness of always chasing after the angel in the sky, and if the Moon wasn’t coming to understand, float softly in his direction for once, the Sun wanted nothing more.
No more, he whispered again. No more. Please leave me be.
The Moon hadn’t protested. He had kept moving away, drifting in that damned fashion that made the Sun want to pull him back, reach and bring that cold, magnificent bastard into his arms and nurse him back to their loving nature. But he had to scold himself, because now no one would, because he couldn’t stand having the Moon taunt him so. He’s broken too much, cracked a little too often, and he was letting those jagged edges show.
He had to let the Moon go. Let it keep drifting, and try to keep him out of his mind, despite the difficulty that just came when he thought about not thinking of his former lover - his continual love. It was too true, he’d never stopped loving the Moon, it was his job, as the Sun, as the Sea - as being Phoenix Wright. He was torn and ragged, would deny it so fully, but would never stop loving that Moon.
Before the Moon had left, it finally faced the Sun. In that silky, velvet voice, he’d spoken. So lovely, so smooth when it passed through Phoenix’s ears, surrounded him and slid around his skin; Gods, even the Moon’s voice was glorious enough to tame the tiger, a demoness, to entrap and ensnare the Sun in a trap that he didn’t want to get out of. A siren, really, but within that voice, those sounds, that underlying tone of honey and gloom that always had drifted after him in the heavens, it was hard to think that the Moon was telling lies.
He had to remind himself that those words were untrue, that it was akin to falsifying testimony. He had to convince himself that his apologies wouldn’t work, that the Moon was trying to trick him again. The Moon had been spending too much time around the Devil, and, apparently, had picked up a few things. Like making your voice melt and forcing the Sun to want to make it stop; just stop already, it doesn’t matter anymore. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and never meant for this to happen. Believe him, Sun. If you don’t, who else will?
He had inwardly sneered.
Nobody, that’s who.
He wouldn’t have anyone. There wouldn’t be anyone.
Although the Sun couldn’t wait to start anew, to get this over with and try again, he had to ask. Those decades of unfaltering trust and adoration - had it all been for naught? Why had the Moon gone and fancied himself with the Devil; and yes, he knew it was the Devil. There was no hiding it, anymore. He could see those marks, those bites and bruises that the Sun wouldn’t dare staining his Moon with.
The Moon had stiffened, and he had seen the way that his spine went rigid and his eyes got cold. So the Devil was supposed to be a big secret? Too bad, the world knew. He had found out, and there was no possible way that the Moon could deny it.
“That’s what this is about,” The Moon had uttered.
Pairings & Characters: Phoenix Wright/Miles Edgeworth, Kristoph Gavin/Miles Edgeworth, implied!Maya Fey, implied!Pearl Fey, implied!Larry Butz, Trucy Wright, Apollo Justice, implied!Mia Fey, Dick Gumshoe, Ema Skye
Rating: Make it a safe R.
Warnings: Metaphors like a sonovabitch, un-beta`d, sexual activity, angst, swearing, character death.
Prompt:
I want angst. P/E Angst.
Sometime after GS4, Phoenix gets a phonecall from Edgeworth. But all Edgey wants to say is that he loves Phoenix, and Phoenix snaps. Yelling into the phone, accusations, what have you.
A day or two later, Gumshoe shows up and tells Phoenix that Edgeworth is dead, and that Phoenix's number was on his phone a few minutes before his time of death.
How does Phoenix react hearing that the last thing Miles heard before he died was that Phoenix hated him?
Word Count: 11.411
Author's Notes: The kink meme ensares me in many a things, you guys. I loved writing this, as difficult as it was, and I think that it came out very well. I hope that OP loveloveloves it forever, as well as the rest of the fandom.
p.s.- I really hate the American flight system.
Part Deux
There’s a certain sort of elegance in this place. It’s cold and comfortable at the same time - they had put new sheets on the cots, he took notice - and for some reason, he has no problem laying down, pulling his hat down, and blocking out the rest of the world. No problem at all; because he doesn’t have any problems. No problems. None. There’s nothing wrong with him. He can breathe, he can feel his heart still pumping blood to the rest of his body, and he’s fairly sure that two plus two still equals four. No, wait-yes, his calculations were correct. Two and two were four. Three and three are six. Four and four are eight. He blinked particularly harshly, frowning and folding his arms behind his head.
Math was never his strong suit.
Looking down his body, the man wondered if it was still numb. He poked and prodded in a few places, finding places that hurt when he pinched, and places that still had no response. Oh well. It mattered not. Numbness would allow faster sleep, wouldn’t it? That would be nice. He could use some sleep before the tongue-lashings that were headed his way. Frowning in thought, Phoenix wondered what kind they would be. Bitter? Furious? Solemn? Different people for different emotions, he supposed. Phoenix could think of three people off the bat who were going to rush to see him.
Oh, wait. Two.
Three minus one equals two.
Hm. Maybe he was pretty good at math.
For a split second, Phoenix has to remind himself how to breathe. Through his nose doesn’t seem to be working - ah, goddamnit, was he getting a cold again? - so he opened his mouth. In, out. In, out. Expel carbon dioxide, take in oxygen. CO2, O2. Easy, easy.
So it was odd when it became difficult for him to properly saturate his blood with the gas.
Soon enough, he was able to find a different way of comfort, breathing in through his nose and out of his mouth, and somehow had made it able to work without a hitch. He shifted on the cot, making himself at home, and quietly being smug about not having a cellmate while in holding. Good. Now he wouldn’t have to do anything with anyone, and could be left to himself. Which was probably better for him, as well as anyone else, because he didn’t really feel like being cooperative with people. Surely a person confronting him about taking the cot would end up with a broken nose.
There was a moment wherein he wondered why he was so violent-why he was so serious. Then it clicked again, and he rolled to his side, remembering that, oh, yeah, he was a suspect in a murder case. Or at least that’s what they wanted. The thought made him twitch, made him tuck an arm under his head while the other was shoved haphazardly into a hoodie pocket.
He wasn’t guilty. He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t kill anyone. He wasn’t a murderer. His hands were not disheveled with the blood of a lamb; he hadn’t touched anyone - in a violent or affectionate way - in some time. Unpleasant events will do that to a man, and if anyone knew him, they would realize that Phoenix Wright was not the luckiest man in the world. Compared to almost anyone else, it would appear as if he were the unluckiest man to ever grace the planet Earth.
So what, maybe he was. Maybe he had the luck that paled Ichabod Crane’s. What did it matter. He didn’t need luck. Luck were for the foolishly optimistic and hopeful - both of which had vacated Phoenix’s body some time ago. Spiteful old men didn’t need luck. Experience and a hardened mentality that let them find any results, cross any bridges without the use of fortune. Bah. Phoenix would shift then, the little, near-silent part of him that hung onto traces of light trying to coax into something that the aged and withered part of him knew better.
He couldn’t trust that little voice. Those sweet words of promising tomorrows and another sunrise were just too good, and his heart couldn’t take it. His soul couldn’t take it, and he wasn’t certain why that part of him was still living. He thought it had been quelled, abolished, diminished along with his youth. Those things were of times long passed. They called for hamburger joints and waterfalls, odd jobs and art; for playing with toy balls and the circus, plants and cups of coffee; for containers of ramen and puppies, luminol and dreams.
For letters never answered and mock trials.
Behind closed eyelids, there’s imagery of tiny hands. They’re playing with sparklers and watching as, by the grace of God, colors explode in the air. They suck in the fresh scent of nature and laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh; share popsicles and one helps tutor the other in arithmetic. There’s something in the back of his head that tells him that it will last, that they’re better than the world, and no matter what happens, they know that they’ll be together. They can overcome anything, so long as they believe it will happen. Friendship is a stronger bond than steel, than the force propelling them apart.
Love is a stronger bond than life itself.
He opens darkened blue eyes, letting them only hang halfway. He can’t stand the light that’s flooding through the corridors, despite that it’s already evening and making it’s way dutifully to the night. It’s a slow progression that he can always count on, despite his wishes of something different to happen. Perhaps the Moon can meet the Sun. Perhaps the Moon loves the Sun. Perhaps the Sun loves the Moon. They’re lovers that can never touch, that will never see one another; but they know without a doubt that they cannot live without the other. They will never be complete if disaster were to occur to their other half.
An ache settles itself in his chest. It tugs and pulls on his lungs and heart, obviously assuming that his ribs were a jungle gym. Phoenix curses the feeling with extra vulgarity before pulling his legs up toward the rest of his torso to settle himself further. He’ll be here a while, the man assumes. If it’s evening already, that would mean visiting hours were over. No one would come to see him in this cold state. That was probably for the better. God knows what may spew out of his mouth at this point.
Allowing eyes to drift back shut, the man exhales slowly, ever so slowly, and wills himself to sleep. Sleep was a painless affair. It required not that ache and burn, he could dream of anything. The law may be able to trap his body, but they could not keep down his mind.
Without fail, his mind fluttered to a silver-haired male. The hairs are fine and soft, perfectly trimmed, framing elegant ivory skin and stormy eyes. A nose and a sharp mouth, smooth features that were seemingly too flawless to be on any mortal.
His body - a work of art.
His personality - a love that had been Phoenix’s.
His mind - a tattered and beaten creature.
The man is speaking to him, now. It’s telling him all sorts of things. What Europe is like, how Phoenix shouldn’t wear those sweatpants all the time, that he enjoyed French cuisine. American lifestyle will kill you, Phoenix. Phoenix, come to bed, you’re not going to figure out that case by getting frustrated. Here, let me help. It’s okay, you don’t have to understand it all at once. Phoenix, I’m not going to work today, the weather said that there’s a thunderstorm coming.
Phoenix, I’m sorry. I never meant to leave you like that. Things were too difficult, I couldn’t understand. I’ve never been anywhere decent with these…emotions, so you must comprehend when I fail at properly communicating; but I would understand if you never want to see me again. I’ll understand if you want to punch me, want to kick me, want to hurt me in any way possible, because I deserve it. I deserve the worst kind of punishment. I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Phoenix, I need you. I need you and want you and I can’t think of my life without you in it. You’re my pillar, you’re my world. It doesn’t make much sense, but you’re the Sun to my Moon. I hope that someday you’ll be able to grasp what I’m speaking of, but I promise that wasn’t a jab at your intelligence. You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re so intelligent, half the time I can’t keep up with you. I’d like to think that was a good thing.
Phoenix, I love you. I-
The former defense attorney doesn’t let the man continue. He rouses himself from that dream with such force, that he finds himself shaking. Not because those words had gotten to him. Not because those words had such power, such history that they put too much emphasis on his own psyche. It’s because he hasn’t eaten anything since the day had begun, and his blood sugar was running low. Licking his lips, Phoenix thought that a glass of grape juice would do nicely right about now.
He moves on the cot, finding that his past position is not in any way aiding him in his quest for rest. He switches onto his stomach, letting his arms cross under his head and tucking his chin softly in the worn material of his hoodie. He breathes in the smell of his home; and Phoenix notices that he misses it. He misses Trucy. He misses his bed. He misses the sound of Apollo and his daughter bantering, and for a disgusted moment, Phoenix wonders if anything has happened between them yet.
He makes a mental note to break it to the pair that they’re related before anything does happen.
One leg unceremoniously hanging off the edge of the cot, Phoenix adjusts his head and gets a face full of mothball-scented old furniture. And as much as he hates it, as disgusted as he finds it, the smell brings back memories. He remembers almost instantly about how memories are often triggered by scents. And he knows it to be true; because he’s remembering an old, large house tucked away. It’s dusty and foreign - in all sense of the word - with furniture that looks like it’s never been touched, and books in languages that Phoenix could never learn.
He remembers being inside that house. He remembers cleaning and moving things, helping it look presentable enough so that someone else will purchase the home. To be honest, he couldn’t remember why they had needed to clean it up in the first place - it had been almost spotless when they started. Insides tightening, Phoenix finally comes across the memory of actually asking the owner why they had to clean an already clean, clean place. They tightened further when he recalls a flustered look and a tentative smile.
“It’s foolish; but I suppose you deserve an answer. I wanted to spend time with you.”
Eyes find forearms again, and soon the sockets are being pressed close. He doesn’t like this place. He doesn’t want to be here, on this cot. Can’t he have a different one? One that didn’t smell like recollections? Preferably grapes, if they had one in stock. He hummed quietly, enjoying the idea that furniture could smell like grapes. What a world they live in today, where anything could easily smell like anything else.
Well, it wasn’t like people were unable to just rub the fruit on their possessions, Phoenix eventually reasoned. But that would cause molding or sour scents, if not done in the proper sort of way. Were there precautions that one could take? What if someone were to rub leaves on a couch? Would it smell like a forest? Or would there be just green stains?
Making a face, he tugged down his hat a little farther, closed his eyes a little tighter. Sleep was definitely something hard to come by. And here he was, without a worry in a world - and still unable to rest? There had to be something wrong with him. He must be wicked-taking into account that there was no rest for the wicked.
Swallowing thickly, Phoenix quickly discarded that phrase. No, no. This cot - it was causing all sorts of hallucinations. There was no reason to get so worked up over five little words. Five words. Five words that, pulled apart, had no real meaning to them, and yet when put together so articulately, could mean the difference between life and death.
Wait. Life and death. Five words. Where had that come from-
“Goddamnit.” The man growled, rolling over to his side again, letting the bars of his holding cell look at his back. This was becoming ridiculous. Mimicking his posture from earlier, he slipped an arm underneath his head, and used his free hand to rub at his eyes. If this were to keep up, than this was going to be a long, fruitless night - literally and figuratively. They couldn’t possibly try him for murder; because he had an alibi. A stone-cold alibi. He’s got two witnesses to his alibi among his daily schedule. It was stupid. It made his head hurt. It made him wish for his bed even more.
It would be another hour until he began to feel the familiar rocking of sleep. Back and forth, gently swirling and taking him to an elated level. Gods, it felt so amazing. His whole body aching in such a wonderful way that it made him close his eyes tighter, sink into those flickering sensations for all he was worth.
Then came the ability of flight. He was being lifted, up and off his cot, up and away from this holding cell. He drifted, drowsy and drunk with his senses being clogged with a fog of complete ecstasy. He swooned, he floated, he swam and relaxed, opened his eyes and was greeted by a patchwork of colors that took his breath away in a painful and beautiful work of art. He was melting into it, becoming part of that graceful, wondrous haven.
Music was crawling from ear to ear, swallowing him whole. Piano, if he wasn’t mistaken. It was a few shy notes, playing him from cloud to cloud, from star to star - from one height of pleasure to another. It was a dull roar that reminded the man of a blanket being tightly wrapped around his frame, keeping him safe. Singing to him in a soft voice, and he allowed himself to get caught up in that simply gorgeous poetry. He could be beautiful, too; he was matching that sort of glory.
Another figure soon catches his lazy eyesight, and he smiles, wide and genuine. He’d never admit it, but there had been some hope in his heart that they might meet here, in this place of serene beauty; and his heart had skipped a beat, glad to know that finally, finally, he didn’t have to worry about disappointment. There was no reason to - not when there was everything he’d ever need in this place. This refined sort of landscape that let him forgive, let him forget.
He croons. The other smirks. They fit together so perfectly. It’s all so wonderful and dreamy, until the sudden and painful dead weight of the other makes Phoenix fall. Fall, and fall, and fall; he’s trying to push off that weight, trying to make it light and weightless, because surely the impact with the ground will kill both of them.
Jolting awake, the man heaves, sitting upwards with his arms supporting him. He blinks once, twice, thrice, and must realize where he is - why he’s here, and swears softly.
That voice had caught up with him again.
Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he bends his arm, letting his chin be cupped by his palm and stare angrily at the cement flooring. He can still hear the piano, still can recall the warmth of being at such peace. It’s only then that he realizes the song that had been playing was the song that he botched each and every night - and that warmth was one that he had experienced before. That he needed his Moon for.
He spat, making another disgusted face. No. He didn’t need his Moon. His Moon didn’t need him, so he didn’t need his Moon. Simple. Sweet. To the point.
“But if he didn’t need you, why would he call?”
“Torture. Mind-fuckery. He was always good at that, wasn’t he?”
“No. He needed you. He still loved you - he said it himself.”
“’Love’? I’ve heard that word before. It’s grown stale.”
“Rigid?”
“Yes.”
“Lost its luster?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, so has he.”
“What’s your point? You basically said it yourself, he’s dead. Mourning won’t change a thing.”
“Sure, it’s not what he would have wanted, but you’re starting to seem like you didn’t care at all.”
“Because I don’t. I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can tell when you are.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really. I know you better than anyone else.”
“You can’t make me say that I loved him.”
“I don’t have to. I already know that you do.”
“Then why so bent on making me admit such a ridiculous idea?”
“Simple. You need to hear yourself say it, more than anything else.”
“Don’t try to appeal to my humanity. Dear God, please don’t.”
“If you say that you don’t have any, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You aren’t getting rid of me, now that I know how much you hate me.”
“Oh? And just whom am I loathing?”
“Yourself, duh.”
Phoenix’s head snaps up, shocked and appalled, all sorts of things as he notices that he had been pacing around his cell. He’s considerably shaken, and getting weird looks from the people across the hall, but shoots them a frosty look before returning to the cot, sitting and cradling his head in his hands.
So he was becoming a psychopath. Nothing wrong with that, right? He already had the hobo-persona, the sociopath would compliment it nicely. Sure, maybe tatter his clothes up a little more, start painting his nails black, and let some of his hair spike out from underneath his hat - Phoenix could easily pull off the appearance. But, ah, the acting that went along with it. There were significant problems with that. He’d already been investigated by child services - not because he had harmed Trucy in any sort of way, mind you. She must have spoken about their line of work, or something about home life that hadn’t sat quite right with the teacher, or one of the kids. They must have told a higher authority, who then contacted that group of Nazis.
Phoenix frowned. Being a sociopath would just give Child Services another chance to try to take away Trucy - plus, she probably wouldn’t enjoy it all that much.
It slowly began to set in. He pulled himself the rest of the way up onto the cot, legs bunched, elbows and kneecaps touching while his forearms hang uselessly. He bites his lips together, feels a headache coming on, and he blinks, squeezes his eyes together, and nothing changes. He doesn’t have enough energy to hope that it will; he doesn’t have that sort of belief that this was just a misunderstanding. That this was a dream. That his Moon will come and bail him out; scold him for being so reckless and stupid.
He’d laugh and shrug it off, which would, inevitably, make his Moon irate.
Phoenix covers his mouth with a hand, a sickening feeling wrapping in his intestines. How many times had he taken advantage of that playfully angry attitude of his Moon’s? It’s quite obvious: too many times, and now, he had nothing. He had no wavering fingers and furrowed brows. Nothing. He’s got nothing.
He looks around the cell. It’s colder than he remembers it to be. It’s smaller. It’s more depressing. He breathes, and the air is stifling, it’s trying to choke him. He’s being strangled by this place, sucking the very life out of him. No, no, he doesn’t want to die. Phoenix claws at his throat, trying to remove that invisible hand that’s pressing down so forcefully on his windpipe. His vision is getting hazy, and he chokes, chokes, struggles to do anything.
He’s going to pass out - he’ll die from asphyxiation. Death won’t come swiftly, not while he’s thrashing about. But he doesn’t want it to come swiftly, so he moves harder, tries with more fervor to get out of this creature’s grasp and away from his doom.
Gasping, the man starts to suspect something is the matter when he coughs, taking in air so desperately. He’s half-sprawled on the cot, disorientated and nervous, slinking back up against the metal, slim headboard of the piece of furniture. He didn’t like this place. It was trying to kill him.
Wait, wait, get a hold of yourself, Wright. Places can’t kill people. Don’t be so stupid.
“Yes, they can.” He mutters, and immediately, he sees flashes of all sorts of places. Some of them he forces out of his mind, others he lets linger there, because really, at this point, it’s not going to make any sort of change. Nothing will. But he’ll be damned before he lets his Moon take hold of his mind again.
No. No, whatever - Phoenix doesn’t care.
He doesn’t.
He never did.
To be that naïve, to think that everything can be solved so quickly and easily, that wounds will mend without any traces of scars had to be as childish as the vows they had taken in their adolescence. Just words that had no meaning, that they thought had meaning, and like everything else-worthless. A waste of space. Like him. Like everything else he’s done. Phoenix grits his teeth, falling to a new low as he compares pacts his Moon - at that age, had he been a mere crescent moon? - made on the swings, in the fort in his basement, behind that shack in the woods, to his present failures.
He had said that they’d never be apart; he’d be there. Phoenix recalls laughter - Gods, why did they laugh so often? - and saying that they’re going to be in the same class next year. And the next. And do you really think that it’s cool that I’m so good at art? I’ve seen your pictures, I like them. You know, I drew you something; but it’s not finished yet. I’ll show you once it’s done.
Eyes returning to their half-lidded state, Phoenix remembers how he never did get to show him that picture.
He kind of wondered where it went. Maybe he’d call his parents once he was released.
Breathe low, steady, a pause before he inhales, a pause before he exhales; his body starts to ache as childhood is forcefully thrust upon him. He didn’t want it, didn’t want to experience that feeling of abandonment when his Moon had suddenly disappeared. That unabashed anger because it had gone against everything they had agreed upon. Who was going to understand his inside jokes? Who was he going to go to the library with? Who was going to let him hold another at sleepovers, and not get all weirded out? Nobody, that’s who.
He wouldn’t have anyone. There wouldn’t be anyone.
Because if there’s anything Phoenix has learned: it’s that the Sun and the Moon cannot truly exist without the other.
The Moon had taught him that.
Fighting it, the man stands. He will have none of this. He’s an adult, he should have the final decision of what’s going on around here. So when he stands to stretch and try to get a grip on things, it only frustrates him more when nothing good comes from it: he’s hurting and out of breath, and the tired feeling in his bones only reminds him of how impossibly old he must be.
Worst of all, his Moon doesn’t appear to want to stop invading his mind.
He thinks of awkward, unsure touches. Those fleeting gestures when they would visit; a hand accidentally touching another when they would exchange files, or a blue knee brushing against a magenta, or how the sea and the storm would fixate on one another, leaving nothing unsaid, nothing undone. Colliding in a hurricane that knocked both of them to the ground; flipped them to their sides, thrashing and pushing with winds that startled bodies, caught bodies, touched them in ways never thought possible.
It was exhilarating, being so overcome by the storm, it gave him something to strive for - to work for. He had his goal, and sights set on that warm place. Nothing else mattered; nothing else had ever mattered. Unfortunately, the Moon had been to high in the sky, too far away from the Sun to hear his calls of the truth.
Blinking, Phoenix lowered his eyes. He was a Storm, a Moon; both entities had such unwavering power over the Sea. Which couldn’t possibly be closer to what was real.
Finally, finally, he lets his Moon’s name fall from his lips, and with it, comes a punch to the gut, and he’s collapsing onto the bed with a groan. It was unleashing the floodgates, and the man was drowning in thoughts and sensations; not all of them entirely welcome. He sees the wonder of waking up to see his Moon in the morning, to have the ability to see the Moon in broad daylight, and while the Moon’s true attributes came out only during the evening, the night, those times where the Moon would think that everyone was away, closed off in their own business - the Moon would think, nobody’s watching, it can be itself without a worry. No one will judge.
Phoenix choked.
He was the Moon. So unfalteringly beautiful with pale skin and elegance that was otherworldly. He’d gracefully risen and fallen, just as the nighttime had predicted it - had warned them of it. Like the children they were, they’d ignored those tales of woe, of pristine and perfect failure. They had each other, after all. They had said it themselves, they didn’t need to world, they could overcome anything.
The man sort of wonders why they had been so cocky.
But, he thinks, that was youth, was it not? To be so confident in oneself, in the entire youth of the world. That nothing will go wrong, no matter how many times they tripped and fell, they would always get back up.
But, he also thought - this with a little more melancholy - what about when they were finally old enough so that when they fell, they were unable to stand once more? Were they left to simply rot where they lay? Should they have known not to trip in the first place.
He was missing out on some big life lesson, Phoenix eventually decided, rubbing at his face. He didn’t know when he had missed it, the man was certainly jaded enough for him, for a magician, for a newcomer. There’s plenty of broken edges going around, Phoenix sums up, and while he doesn’t particularly enjoy it that way, he does nothing to change these waves of sorrow.
Unraveling, he pictures his Moon. When they had first seen one another after too long, the shock, stepping on glass, working around problems they hadn’t anticipated. He thought of the first time they made love: slow, sweet, taking their time because they finally had understood that they had all the time in the world. The pleasure would never leave, not when they didn’t want it to. That glow would never die down, they could turn it to a bright bulb or down to a barely-living candle on command. They had listened to the whispers of the muses, telling them that no, no, no-
They laughed, Phoenix remembers.
“Wright, I’ve waited fifteen long years to feel like this again; why would I want to let it go?”
It’s ebbing and cresting, taking the man with the swell. For the first time in years, he feels helpless, a sensation he’s not really fond of - and he keeps fighting it.
Whenever he thinks of how gentle Miles had become over the years, Phoenix thinks of forged evidence and falsified testimonies.
Whenever he sees sensual movements - a grasp of hands, a soft expression, the man brings up the mental image of the hatred, the aggravating brat that he had encountered.
When he hears the words ‘I love you,’ Phoenix pictures his Moon being loved by another star.
It’s enough to quell the storm for now. Panting, he stands once more, the sudden feeling that lying on that cot was the equivalent to letting his Moon draw him back. Because he wouldn’t - he wasn’t going to. The Moon no longer had a place in his star system, and whether it liked it or not, he would continue this revolution. He’d nurture it, make sure it would grow strong and righteous-then like the Sun he was; burn, burn away.
Seeing himself in a half-assed mirror the police department had set up in the holding, Phoenix was faced with an unholy truth; one that made him turn his head, look away, turn a blind eye to that image.
He was already nearly burnt out.
Vision drawn back to that mirror, that damned contraption, he blinks lazily, straight faced. Keep it up, keep it up - don’t let that reflection fool you. Give it an inch, and he’ll take a mile. Don’t you know that? What a fool, he doesn’t even recognize himself. He still pictures himself as some sort of savior, some sort of hero among the masses; doesn’t quite realize what his place in society was.
He was a poorly paid, poorly playing pianist. He lived in an office, and often, used his daughter to help win poker games. Filthy, disgusting hobo - he doesn’t even know how to dress himself. So infatuated with fixing the past, he must record every bit of the present, trying to make mountains out of molehills. How simply degrading.
For a moment, Phoenix convinces himself that these were reasons, that they were solid reasons. It took a good long time, clutching the wall on the other sides of the mirror and staring hard at the grimy person that’s looking back. It doesn’t dawn on him that he’s trying to fake himself out; he too bent on convincing himself that these were totally reasons for adultery. Because they were. They were. They are.
Assaulted by a plethora of new imagery, he staggers away from the mirror, letting out a sharp yelp as he covers his eyes. Covers his ears, attempting to block it all out.
He doesn’t want to see pale hands touching his Moon. They didn’t belong there. No - oh, oh God, now they were trailing over other parts, mapping it out perfectly. Finding the small scar under his Moon’s left pair of ribs - and he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know the history behind that mark, that his Moon had slipped as a child, that Phoenix had carried him piggy-back style all the way back to his home.
They’d continue to touch, barely scraping over pink nubs, and Phoenix can just see how his Moon would arch and let out a breathy sound. Fingertips would move lower, mouth following suit, pulling more sounds from him. He might plead, might lift his hips and beg, he might opens his mouth and let out a long, drawn-out moan as those hands tug off a belt, press off those buttons, slide magenta slacks down, down, down-
Phoenix is going to throw up. He’ll vomit all over the place if those images don’t stop. They don’t stop. They hadn’t before, and he doesn’t suspect that they will now. In this situation, it’d be just his luck if he saw the all of it, if he were to be force-fed the entire happening. He stumbled a little farther backwards, calves ramming against the cot and falling on his ass.
Gritting his teeth, he suppressed a howl as they continued. Those hands have arms now-long and languid, so completely different from his own. The arms connect to broad shoulders, milky skin and a lean, lithe body. A long neck and soft features, fair hair and discarded glasses.
The Devil was touching the Moon.
The Devil was touching his Moon.
The Devil was pressing and licking, eliciting a various tone of sounds. Keening and whining, moaning, loud and wanton, the Devil would smirk inwardly as his Moon pushed back, wanting more, more. He needed more, the Moon cried.
And the Devil would oblige, because who was he to deny such a precious creature?
Preparation would be a torturous process, one that would make Phoenix cringe and writhe, because he’s desperate to get it out of his mind, out of his psyche, he needs to break the illusion otherwise he’ll surely go mad. He’s forced to witness as his Moon takes fingers into his mouth, slicking them with saliva in a fevered need, and just as the Devil goes to press a digit into him, Phoenix finally shakes him.
He’s crouched in one of the corners of his cell, heaving and huffing, clutching the fine hairs on the back of his neck and wincing at every sob he doesn’t let out. No, no, no. He had gotten over this a long time ago. A hand planted firmly over his mouth, the man doubles over a little further, the top of his head coming into contact with the wall, because he doesn’t think he has the strength to keep it up himself.
The hurt returns, then. The spite, the pity, the anguish; it’s waging wars inside of Phoenix, and all he can do is crouch and try his best not to die in the process.
He wants to not feel bad so desperately. He wants to be able to look at this situation and think, ‘Oh, hey, that’s pretty bad, but I don’t really care.’ At one point, Phoenix comes close to persuade his psyche into thinking that, yes, that’s what he felt. There was no grief over the passing, he was neutral. Normal. He need not shed tears for when the Moon dips down below the horizon for the last time.
But Phoenix did. He felt guilty and angry all at the same time, and not entirely for the same reasons. He was still so fucking pissed that his Moon had done that to him. So blatantly performed adultery, cheated on him - with the Devil no less. Phoenix suspected, and he knew. His Moon began to spend more and more time away from home, staying at his office all night, whether or not that was completely true was beyond the man; staying up and away, purposely avoiding Phoenix no matter the cost.
At first, he had wondered if he’d done something wrong. If he’d wronged the Moon, if he’d scorned it in some way. He had pled, begged, wanted nothing more to make things right. With such force, with such unattached faces, Phoenix had been turned away. Completely ignored. Oftentimes scored, yelled at, nearly verbally beaten at any chance his Moon had. He didn’t understand at the time. Hadn’t quite known. He hadn’t been able to put two and two together.
Simply put, his arithmetic had become somewhat lacking.
But it was a simple calculation once he had gotten the hang of it. His Moon, becoming more and more reclusive, was avoiding him. Spending more time out of the house, and was so openly not interested with the happenings going around him. He cared not for Phoenix, wouldn’t pay a lick of attention to him, and whenever Phoenix would try to be affectionate with his Moon, show his Moon that he was beautiful, show his Moon that he loved him, so, so much; the pale-faced grace would make a disgusted expression and slip away.
Back, back to slipping underneath the horizon and away from the Sun. Just out of reach of his rays, of his touches, of that warmth that he was trying to offer.
He shakes, ankles giving and falling unceremoniously to the ground, leaning his weight on the wall to his side. He needs to breathe, reminding himself to breathe with such vigor, the man opens his mouth, gasping and clawing for oxygen like he just broke surface; because he’s drowning again. Drowning in those thoughts and feelings, in the fact that he had pushed away the Moon, and, effectively, drawn the tide with it. It didn’t matter if he pushed the Moon, pulled the Moon, the Sea would follow so obediently. Because the Sea would love, the Sea would watch, unable to express anything but merely watch the Sun and Moon’s never-ending game of chase.
Exhaling, the man pulls his hat down. Cover his eyes, cover his head - he’s suddenly so very cold, so nauseated. He wasn’t certain how it had come to that-how he had failed the Moon so horribly. He thought that they had been happy; but figures those, like the mothballs collecting in his blue suit, are ancient relics. Apparently he wasn’t worth a shit without that gold badge on his lapel. Apparently, he doesn’t amount to anything. He can’t be fixed, no one wants to fix him.
He’s broken. Without a mechanic to puts his pieces back together, because Phoenix can’t do it on his own, he’ll fall to the ground-utterly shattered. It’s happened, and there’s no fixing him now.
He’s lost without those guiding moonbeams. He can’t make it through this darkness-wait. No. You’re stronger than that. He’s stronger. The man doesn’t need the Moon, the Sun doesn’t need the Moon. He’s proven that over the past, he can make do.
Clutching the fabric on top of his head, Phoenix remembers the confrontation.
The storm had started. The sea had raged. There was a hurricane, and while both elements were used to this meteorological phenomena, it was foolish to think that he hadn’t been shocked by the outcome. He can perfectly recall the look on the Moon’s face - that ghostly beauty painted flush from overflowing emotional wreckage. This baggage was too much for the both of them to handle, and the Sun had dropped them. No more, the star had whispered, he couldn’t take it anymore, and needed the Moon out of his life. He couldn’t stand this loneliness of always chasing after the angel in the sky, and if the Moon wasn’t coming to understand, float softly in his direction for once, the Sun wanted nothing more.
No more, he whispered again. No more. Please leave me be.
The Moon hadn’t protested. He had kept moving away, drifting in that damned fashion that made the Sun want to pull him back, reach and bring that cold, magnificent bastard into his arms and nurse him back to their loving nature. But he had to scold himself, because now no one would, because he couldn’t stand having the Moon taunt him so. He’s broken too much, cracked a little too often, and he was letting those jagged edges show.
He had to let the Moon go. Let it keep drifting, and try to keep him out of his mind, despite the difficulty that just came when he thought about not thinking of his former lover - his continual love. It was too true, he’d never stopped loving the Moon, it was his job, as the Sun, as the Sea - as being Phoenix Wright. He was torn and ragged, would deny it so fully, but would never stop loving that Moon.
Before the Moon had left, it finally faced the Sun. In that silky, velvet voice, he’d spoken. So lovely, so smooth when it passed through Phoenix’s ears, surrounded him and slid around his skin; Gods, even the Moon’s voice was glorious enough to tame the tiger, a demoness, to entrap and ensnare the Sun in a trap that he didn’t want to get out of. A siren, really, but within that voice, those sounds, that underlying tone of honey and gloom that always had drifted after him in the heavens, it was hard to think that the Moon was telling lies.
He had to remind himself that those words were untrue, that it was akin to falsifying testimony. He had to convince himself that his apologies wouldn’t work, that the Moon was trying to trick him again. The Moon had been spending too much time around the Devil, and, apparently, had picked up a few things. Like making your voice melt and forcing the Sun to want to make it stop; just stop already, it doesn’t matter anymore. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and never meant for this to happen. Believe him, Sun. If you don’t, who else will?
He had inwardly sneered.
Nobody, that’s who.
He wouldn’t have anyone. There wouldn’t be anyone.
Although the Sun couldn’t wait to start anew, to get this over with and try again, he had to ask. Those decades of unfaltering trust and adoration - had it all been for naught? Why had the Moon gone and fancied himself with the Devil; and yes, he knew it was the Devil. There was no hiding it, anymore. He could see those marks, those bites and bruises that the Sun wouldn’t dare staining his Moon with.
The Moon had stiffened, and he had seen the way that his spine went rigid and his eyes got cold. So the Devil was supposed to be a big secret? Too bad, the world knew. He had found out, and there was no possible way that the Moon could deny it.
“That’s what this is about,” The Moon had uttered.