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wingsonghalo · 6 years ago

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The PlayWright: A Narumitsu Fanfic-- Chapter 1

IT’S HEEEEERRREEE This fic has been a long time coming. Thank you so much to everyone who’s offered me support and encouragement during the many roadblocks I’ve encountered trying to write this thing. Thank you especially to my dear friend @prospectkiss, who is the most thoughtful beta ever and a lovely human being, and to the wonderful folks over at WingSongServer (come say hi, if you’re interested! Message me for a link!). You all are stars.

Title: The PlayWright Pairing: Narumitsu Words: 4,983 Notes: Takes place one year into the seven-year gap during Phoenix’s disbarment. Canon universe.

Use the Folger’s edition for line numbers in the titles. Also available on Ao3.

Chapter 1: Measure for Measure, 2.1.41-44

It was only supposed to be one time, and yet here he was again, sitting in a seat that had definitely had gum underneath it at least once, in the middle of a run-down theater, waiting for the lights to dim.

Miles Edgeworth liked to think of himself as a refined and cultured man. He drank the finest teas, ate at the highest-rated restaurants, enjoyed only the best music, and, of course, had impeccable taste in television programs. But he hadn’t ever been one for going to see a live show, until recently.

The first time had been about a month ago.

He’d wandered into the theater, intending to see a certain show about a certain Samurai. Rumor had it that the rehearsals took place here, though the official performance was to be at the Penrose on a night Miles couldn’t attend. He had seen the show before, of course, but it had a new cast now. He was curious.

But what he had seen hadn’t been The Steel Samurai Live. It had been the end of a rehearsal for The Tempest. He must have gotten the wrong theater, or the wrong time, or the wrong source for his information frankly. Obviously, when he realized his mistake, Miles planned on turning right around and walking out of the place.

But then he heard a voice that gave him pause.

“Now my charms are all o'erthrown, And what strength I have's mine own, Which is most faint: now, 'tis true, I must be here confined by you...”

Miles turned on his heel again slowly, captivated by the resonant voice. There upon the stage was a single man, delivering the final monologue of the play as powerfully as anyone ever had.

“Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands...”

Miles knew the monologue well. It was the speech in which Prospero asked the audience themselves to free him from his island prison by offering their approval of his actions. The audience was given the choice of whether to find Prospero guilty or innocent. Of course, thinking of it in those terms probably had something to do with certain things that had transpired recently—things that were taking up the majority of his thoughts, it seemed.

“Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer...”

He found himself drawn back towards the stage, and before he knew it, he was sitting down in one of the front seats. The man was in costume, so it was a bit difficult to discern what he might truly look like. As Prospero, he was weary-looking and battered, as befitting someone who has had their rightful place taken from them, who has been forced to live a life wholly unsuited to them. He was around Miles’s height, with a similar build. His brows were drawn together in emotion, the stage lights making the sweat shine on his forehead. His hair was buried beneath a wispy white wig, but it was clear that the man was not old. He couldn’t have been older than his late 20s, Miles thought, judging on his posture and the youthfulness of his face. His makeup had evidently not been applied for the rehearsal, because his face was unlined and lightly tanned, stubble darkening the squared jawline and cheeks. His eyes, though regrettably too far away to see their color, were alight with determination and fervor.

He was rather handsome, not that Miles usually paid attention to such things.

“Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults...”

There was something sorrowful in that voice. Something that ached with loss. A sense of finality. Or maybe Miles was reading into this too much; it was always a possibility, however faint.

“As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.”

The emotional tone, the weight of his words… it was familiar, in a way. But alas, not everyone could be pardoned by the mere approval of an audience.

Not yet, anyway.

His monologue over, the man onstage bowed low, and Miles suddenly realized he hadn’t moved a muscle the entire time he’d been sitting. The performance had moved him in a way few things had ever managed (or perhaps it had just reminded him of fairly recent events he was trying not to think about). He stumbled out of his seat, thinking to slip out before the man noticed his presence, but the old chair made a creaking noise that sounded deafening in the quiet room. Miles winced. The man on the stage did a double-take, not having realized he was actually before an audience, albeit an audience of one. He glanced down at Miles, and reeled back in shock, his mouth falling open almost comically as his eyes went wide.

Miles bolted from the theater.

----

He couldn’t explain it, but something had happened when he’d locked eyes with the man on the stage. His heart had lurched, the way it did when he lost his footing and all there was to do was expect the inevitable collision with the ground.

Miles was surprised at himself. He was not one to become nervous around even celebrities, so why had he panicked when this random person in a dingy theater met his eyes? Perhaps it had been embarrassment at having been caught staring with such apparent fascination. Perhaps it was his general distaste for interacting with people he didn’t have to interact with.

Perhaps it was because his stomach felt a little funny, come to think of it.

Mostly, though, it was the fact that Miles had finally been able to determine the color of the man’s eyes as they fixed on his own.

Blue, as deep as the sea around Prospero’s island.

***

Miles Edgeworth was not in love.

He may have been letting his thoughts drift to a particular person frequently for the past four years. He may have missed him terribly whenever he vanished from Miles’s life for months at a time. He may have spent long hours desperately asking himself why things had turned out the way they had eleven months ago, or wishing he could turn back time and stop these things from happening.

No, Phoenix Wright was not close enough to love.

But, god, whenever Miles ran into him, saw the haunted look in those blue eyes, watched his posture gradually slump a little more every time they met as if carrying the world on his shoulders…

Miles may have thought to himself that he’d like to close the distance.

Once or twice.

***

“Hey, wait up!” a voice called after him when he’d fled the theater. Before he realized it, Miles was turning to face the speaker, his body responding to the almost familiar tone.

He watched the man from the stage approach. “Yes?” he prompted, squaring his shoulders and leaving his face carefully blank.

“How come you didn’t stop and say hi?” the man asked. Miles tried desperately not to look into the blue.

“I don’t make a habit of throwing out greetings to every person I meet,” he said coolly.

The man’s mouth scrunched over to one side in thought. Miles tried not to stare at that, either. Actually, his whole face was problematic for some reason, so Miles fixed his eyes on the man’s left shoulder instead. “I guess you didn’t care for the performance…?” said the man. He sounded a bit hurt.

Miles’s mouth fell half-open. How could anyone not care for such a performance, even one performed alone on an empty stage in incomplete costume? “On the contrary,” he admitted, “never before have I observed such talent in such an unlikely place. What are you doing on that tiny stage, Mr….?” He wasn’t fishing for information, he told himself. He was merely being courteous. It was polite to address someone by their name.

The man stood there silently for a moment, and judging from the momentary glance Miles took at his face, he seemed confused. “You… you don’t know who I am?” he said, after a time.

“No,” Miles confirmed, now a bit confused himself. “Should I? Are you famous?” Miles was rather poor at keeping track of famous people. He hadn’t time to worry about such things.

The man laughed. “Hardly,” he said, and god, taking another quick glance had been a bad idea because now he was smiling and it was very distracting. “Well then, it’s nice to meet you,” the man continued, extending his hand.

“Miles Edgeworth,” he introduced himself, grasping the man’s hand in his own. The other’s grip was firm, and his palm was warm. “And you are?”

The man held on a moment longer, his fingers twitching almost imperceptibly before they relaxed and he released Miles’s hand. “Shakes,” he said at last, and this time Miles couldn’t look away from the brilliant smile he sent his way. “Billy Shakes.”

From that time last month onward, Miles found himself frequenting the theater more often.

He’d pop in after work sometimes and see rehearsals for all kinds of things, from community theater to more professionally organized productions to what appeared to be school talent shows. But somehow, none of the other performances held his interest the way Shakes’ had, so he tended to leave pretty quickly if he didn’t see him up on the stage.

Mr. Shakes had… some kind of indescribable draw to him, seemingly inexorable. Watching him deliver his lines, become his character so thoroughly… it was inspiring.

And if he caught Miles’s eye while he was up on stage and smiled at him knowingly, well, it wasn’t completely unpleasant.

He hadn’t seen a smile like that in a long time, after all.

It was with this in mind that he made the call the next week.

Miles paced his office as he waited for his old friend to pick up the phone. He hadn’t heard from him in quite a while; surely it wouldn’t be unheard of to just check in with him?

“Wright and C… I mean, Wright Talent Agency,” said the voice on the other end at last.

A sweeping sensation of relief washed over Miles, and he stopped pacing and let out a breath. He’d been holding it while he waited for him to pick up the phone, he realized. “Wright,” he said.

“Oh, hey, Edgeworth. What’s up?”

“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me,” Miles spat impatiently. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“Aw, does that mean you miss me?” Wright’s voice was teasing, but held a false cheerfulness that made Miles’s heart feel sick.

“No, it means I’ve been worried about whether you actually know how to cook enough things to keep feeding yourself,” he sighed. He was mostly being facetious, but the truth was that Wright had looked thinner the last time he had seen him.

“Well, it’s nice of you to worry, but I’m fine.” His voice sounded a little cooler now. Guarded. “Trucy’s being good, too.”

Ah. The girl Wright had taken in after… the incident. Miles had only met her a few times. She seemed a good-natured child, if a bit cheeky. He’d first wondered if she was part of the reason Wright was in this predicament in the first place, but he couldn’t bring himself to resent her when he saw how Wright’s face lit up when he looked at her.

“Listen,” Miles said, before Wright could decide he was being too nosy, “I’ve, erm, I’ve been visiting the theater lately, and...” An image of Mr. Shakes delivering his impassioned final monologue flashed through his mind, and Miles’s face suddenly felt warm. “I-I’ve found it to be quite inspiring.”

“Oh, have you?” Wright said lightly. His tone was almost… amused. “Well, I’m glad you’re finally trying to learn how to have fun.”

“It is not for ‘fun,’” Miles corrected. “I find it to be a good motivator. I relate to the situations a bit, sometimes, and it’s been helping me organize my thoughts.” He paused, and stared out the large window behind his desk. “I… I thought it might do the same for you.” If Wright could see Shakes performing as Prospero, he would surely be moved. Miles was almost positive of it. “Come with me to the production of The Tempest,” he finally threw out there, turning away from the window to start pacing again. “I think it will be beneficial to you.” Another pause. “Please,” he added quietly, since people were more likely to comply if he said it, and since the request was sincere.

A silence followed. “Edgeworth...” Miles’s heart lurched. Why did he sound even sadder now? What had Miles said wrong? “I appreciate this. Really, I do. But… I can’t go.”

He grabbed the back of his chair, his fingers gripping the leather firmly. “I haven’t even told you the dates of the performance yet,” he pointed out.

“Look, Edgeworth, I know you want to keep me busy so I don’t… wallow in misery or whatever,” said Wright, and he was finally starting to sound annoyed… or perhaps frustrated?… “But you don’t have to keep doing this. I’m not worth the time.”

“Wright, I—” Miles started to protest.

But Wright had already hung up.

Any further attempts to contact Wright ended in failure, or a voicemail message that hadn’t changed since Miles had first had to leave a message on Wright’s phone. He had been growing so distant lately. It was beginning to drive Miles up a wall.

Miles had never been one to keep in touch with someone consistently. He didn’t send personal emails, all of his texts had proper punctuation, and he wrote letters only for work. When something happened in his life, his first instinct was to keep it to himself, not shout it from the rooftops or post it all over the internet. And he stayed out of others’ business as well, ordinarily.

But then Phoenix Wright had lost his badge.

Suddenly, Miles found that only catching up once every three months was woefully inadequate for everything he wanted to say to him. Now, Wright seemed to grow more listless and bitter every time Miles saw him. Seeing the brightest presence in his life grow dim and cold made Miles’s chest ache.

Miles was used to being able to take care of problems. If he came across a mystery, he solved it. If he encountered a criminal, he prosecuted them. If he was dissatisfied with the way someone did something, he did it better himself.

But all he could do about this problem was keep reaching out, offering his reassurance while Wright seemed to slowly slip away from him. It was what Wright had done for him before. He owed it to him to never give up on him. And so he tried, again and again, to let Wright know that his opinion of him, his regard for him, had not and would not change.

It wasn’t enough. Never enough.

“I’ve been seeing you around at almost every rehearsal,” said Mr. Shakes one evening when the other actors had dispersed, as he hopped down from the stage and walked over to where Miles was sitting. His frumpy costume did nothing to disguise the fact that he was in good shape, objectively speaking. He grinned, an expression that was dazzling, also objectively speaking. “Are you becoming a fan of mine?”

“Well… that is, er…” He felt his face warm again. “It-It would not do to ignore talent when I see it,” he tried in his most composed voice.

He chuckled. Typically, Miles would not take kindly to people laughing at him, but it was such a warm and gentle sound that he couldn’t bring himself to mind. “Never expected to hear that, but thanks,” the actor replied. “You’re pretty talented yourself”— he leaned over slightly and raised his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling with good humor—“Mr. Prosecutor.”

Miles’s eyes widened, and he gripped his armrests. His face felt even hotter, all of a sudden. “Y-You know who I am?”

“Uh, duh,” Shakes said with a shrug, and then smiled at him again as he flopped into the seat next to Miles, the old folding seat creaking in protest. “Who could forget a face like that? I’ve seen you on the news.”

“A f-face like...” A face like molten lava right about now, it felt like. He let go of the armrest closest to the other man, as if accidentally touching him would leave a burn, and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s good to know you stay connected to current events, as you spend so much time stuck as someone from the seventeenth century.”

He laughed, and Miles couldn’t help the smirk that curled at the corner of his own mouth in response. “Nice one,” Shakes complimented, “though I’m not sure if a man in a cravat has any room to criticize seventeenth-century people.” He looked down at his lap, then, and it occurred to Miles that this was the first time he’d seen any indication of uncertainty from the other man. Offstage, he’d always seemed to brim with confidence. Miles wondered how much of the actor’s time was actually spent acting, even when he wasn’t in-character. “I wanted to ask you...” he finally said, his voice hesitant, and when he lifted his head to meet Miles’s eyes, Miles felt a lurch in his chest that was uncomfortably familiar and entirely unwelcome. The eyes trained on his were the same color as Wright’s, the exact same color, and the questions behind them reminded him painfully of the befuddled expression he had used to delight in seeing on Wright’s face in the courtroom. “What made you stop and keep watching, that first time?” the other man finished.

Miles thought a minute, recalling that night vividly. “I suppose it was… your voice,” he decided after a moment. “Not just your tone, but your words.” He folded his hands in his lap, staring down at the worn, threadbare theater carpet. “You… reminded me of someone.” He ducked his head a little lower, his voice emerging as a murmur. “Someone I want to help.”

“Someone you want to help?” he echoed, and when Miles glanced up, it was to see another expression which dearly resembled the confusion he’d seen so often in his courtroom rival.

“It’s strange,” he remarked. “You even resemble him in appearance. But you’re much more self-assured than he is.”

“I am, huh?” Shakes quirked an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Miles reaffirmed with a nod, “though you’ve both got a flair for the dramatic.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not,” the other man said. He swept a tuft of his fluffy hair, the color of walnut wood, aside. “But anyway, why do you have to help this guy? Don’t you have your own problems to worry about? Important prosecutor and all?”

Miles’s mouth twisted bitterly. A year ago, that was exactly how he would have thought. But now… “I have to help him because it is within my power to do so, and because I owe him much.”

“So you have to help because you’re obligated?” Shakes leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Sounds like a pain,” he assessed.

“That’s not it at all,” Miles said sharply, and the intensity in his own voice surprised him. It must have surprised Shakes, too, because his eyes had darted over to fix on Miles again. “I-I want to help him because… he’d do the same for me,” he continued slowly. “It isn’t fair, what happened. It isn’t right.”

Shakes frowned, considering. “So you feel bound by circumstance?”

“No, that’s not it either,” Miles sighed. He crossed his arms, tapping his index finger on his forearm thoughtfully. “I suppose,” he said after a time, “that I mostly want to help him because I…” He faltered a little, wary of how to phrase this. “...Because I care about him,” he said carefully. “He is irreplaceable and dear to me.” He ignored the blush he felt burning on his cheeks and glared over at the actor next to him. “Is that an acceptable enough answer?”

Shakes’ eyes were wide, and the stage lights must have been hot, because his face looked a little flushed as well. “Yeah, that’s acceptable,” he said, though the way those deep blue eyes moved over him suggested that he still had unanswered questions. “Well, you seem like the kind of guy who gets things accomplished,” he continued then, resuming his typical easygoing attitude as his posture relaxed back into the seat again. “You should tell him what you just told me. This guy is lucky to have you on his side.”

Miles shook his head. “Hmph,” he scoffed. “I do not think he would agree with you there.”

“Oh, I dunno,” said Shakes. “I’m pretty persuasive.”

“Yes, I’d imagine you’re quite used to being able to bring others over to your way of thinking, being an actor.” And his good looks couldn’t hurt either, Miles added to himself, but quickly shooed the thought away.

“I’ve been told I also have puppy dog eyes.” He turned them on Miles, putting on his best soulful expression. “What’s your verdict?”

Miles’s fingers trembled on the armrest. He had to look away. “N-Not the terminology I’d use, but… certainly, I can see why one might say that,” he mumbled. His heart had started to race, they way it only did around one other person outside the courtroom.

He laughed, and once again Miles couldn’t help but smile, too. “This probably sounds odd to you, but I think of us as friends already,” Shakes confided, one half of his mouth quirked up.

Miles’s heartbeat was suddenly irregular. “I don’t have many friends,” he confessed, “but I suppose I wouldn’t mind numbering you among them.”

Shakes sat up straight to give him a mock-bow. “Why, thank you, Mr. Edgeworth. I’m honored.”

“A friend would call me Miles,” he quipped.

The actor looked a little thrown off, which was exactly the reaction Miles had been anticipating. “Uh… okay,” he said after a moment, though. “Sure, I can do that, Miles.” Oh. Oh no. Miles had only said that as a joke, because only around 2 people ever really called him Miles. He hadn’t meant for Shakes to say it. He hadn’t meant for his name to sound so good coming from him. He should have known it would backfire; Miles was terrible at jokes. “I guess that means you can call me Billy,” Shakes said then.

Miles frowned, quickly recovering from his internal crisis. “I absolutely refuse to call a grown man ‘Billy,’” he said disdainfully. “I could call you William, I suppose.”

“Hey, how do you know it doesn’t say ‘Billy’ on my birth certificate?” the other man protested.

Miles arched an eyebrow. “Does it?”

“No,” Shakes admitted, “but it could have.” He crossed his arms, humming in thought. “I guess we’re left with ‘Will,’ then. Unless you want to go with Bill, but personally I prefer wills over bills. If you’re in a will, at least you’re getting something instead of having something taken.”

“Will,” Miles repeated, and it sounded a lot more natural than calling him ‘Mr. Shakes,’ that was for sure. “All right. That is acceptable.”

He looked amused. “Thank goodness you approve,” he teased, his eyes sparkling.

Miles smiled, but again his thoughts were lost in a different set of blue.

“It’s been a year now,” Wright told him on the phone the next evening, as soon as Miles scrambled to pick up upon seeing his name on the screen.

Miles didn’t have to ask what he meant. He had been keeping track of how long it had been since Wright had lost his badge, too. He felt his brows furrow, but though his mind raced through several potentially helpful responses, the one he blurted out was “Are you all right?” He screwed his eyes shut, massaging the space between them with his free hand as he hunched over his desk. Stupid.

“If I wasn’t all Wright, I don’t know who I’d be,” he replied, his voice full of that sort of forced levity that Miles hated hearing from him.

Despite the reason for his call, Miles had to admit that he was glad to hear from him. His conversation with the actor the day before was still fresh in his mind. You should tell him what you just told me, Will had said. It couldn’t hurt to try, could it? “I suppose you already know this, but... I’ve never stopped believing in you,” he told him, and the words felt surprisingly good to say.

Wright didn’t say anything for a moment, just long enough for Miles to wonder whether he’d said something wrong. “Yeah, I knew,” he finally said, and his voice sounded a little rough. “But thanks for saying it anyway.”

Miles’s mouth twisted. He knew from the way his voice was breaking that his friend was crying. “Wright...” he started, but he couldn’t get any further than that, because he was horrible at dealing with emotions. Especially his own. “D-Do you need anything?” he forced out.

“Yeah,” said Wright, his voice unsteady. “I needed to talk to you. And I am.” There was a deep breath, and when he spoke again, he sounded a little more composed. “I know I’ve been kind of a jerk to you lately. I’m sorry.”

Miles sat up in his seat, surprised. “No you haven’t,” he protested. What on earth was he talking about?

“Look, I know you’ve been trying to watch out for me this whole time,” Wright went on. “And at first that was fine, because I really needed the support. But after a while, I guess I sort of started to feel ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Miles repeated, his brows furrowing. “Why?”

“Because I’m a grown man and I shouldn’t need babysitting!” he shot back, and then sighed. “Sorry. I’m… I’m still really messed up over this. I don’t want to take it out on you. You’re my best friend.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Miles told him. His heart warmed at the admission, though the worry he felt for the other man still left him feeling somewhat cold. “And I’ve never once thought that you were being unkind to me.” He hesitated, and then went further: “You haven’t done anything wrong, Wright. To me or otherwise.”

The other man laughed softly. It wasn’t a bitter one like Miles had grown used to hearing, though. It sounded more like relief. “I’m… thanks, Edgeworth,” he said, and Miles was sure he could hear the smile in his voice. One spread across his own face to match. “I thought I’d lost everything, a year ago,” he went on, more subdued now. “And it sucked. It sucked a lot. Even now, sometimes I just sit there outside the courthouse and will myself to wake up.” He blew out a breath. “But I’m still here. The world keeps turning. The loss didn’t kill me.” Miles’s chest felt tight. His words sounded uncomfortably close to how he himself had felt after the incident in the elevator, back when he was a child. “You know,” Wright continued, jolting Miles out of his thoughts, “I think there’s only two things in my life I couldn’t bear to lose now.”

“Oh?”

“One of them is Trucy, of course,” Wright explained, and after a slight hesitation: “The other one’s you.”

Miles’s mouth fell open. His heart flopped like a fish, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he probably looked like one as well, with the way he kept opening and closing his mouth. “I… ah. Th… um, well.” Never before had words of such eloquence fallen from Miles Edgeworth’s lips.

The laugh he heard then sounded more like Wright than anything he’d heard in months. “What kind of reaction is that?”

“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “A bad one.” He cleared his throat. “But, er, that is… thank you, Wright. The same could be said of you for me.”

“I’m sure you’d recover,” Wright responded dismissively, and then went on: “Actually, you’d probably get less flak from the Prosecutor’s Office if you stopped hanging around with me.”

“I don’t give a damn what the Prosecutor’s Office says,” Miles said vehemently, his hand curling into a fist on top of his desk. “I will keep company with whomever I please.” Indeed, he had come under suspicion for having connections to Wright. But Miles had come under suspicion for much worse than that. His frequent association with Wright was probably one of the better and more scrupulous things about Miles’s career, in truth.

“Edgeworth...” Wright sounded taken aback, but the surprise in his voice gave way to an awkward chuckle. “Gee, I feel kinda like Juliet here or something. Is your family clan of prosecutors gonna be mad?”

Miles flushed, both at the comparison to Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers and at the irritation he felt. “I’ll thank you to not make light of this. I mean what I say.”

“O-Of course,” Wright said quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply that I wasn’t taking it seriously. I, uh, I just didn’t know what to say to that.”

“Well,” said Miles, “now you know how I felt when you said that exceptionally sentimental thing a few minutes ago.” Wright just laughed again. “Will you be okay?” Miles asked him, a slight smile still stuck on his face.

Wright’s answer, when it came after a brief silence, was quiet, thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said. “Someday. Until then, I’m glad I have you.”

I have a Patreon and a Ko-fi! Drop on by if you feel like being a dear and supporting me, or requesting a particular Narumitsu fic! WILL WRITE FOR FOOD

Next time: A disappearing act.

See you all next week!! <33333

#narumitsu #wrightworth #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #the playwright #stuff i write #7 year gap #ajaa era #shakespeare #angst #but also fluff

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softedgeworth · 8 years ago

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Surrender the Land

Oneshot of a canon divergence from the 1001 times AU of @matsuorka . Word of God says it’ll never happen, so, enjoy this narumitsu pocket universe. You can find it here on AO3. My thanks to matsuorka for letting me share in her story adventure, being ever enthusiastic and supportive, and for letting me touch her stuff.

Characters: Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth

Summary: “I suppose that friends should expect to know about things that are significant to each others’ lives, things that shaped their lives.” He looked to the fire, the ceiling, the priceless art on the walls, anywhere but to his friend standing silhouetted by the fireplace. (Words: 2,681)

It started one evening as they sat beside the fireplace.

Phoenix had appeared in the cold spring dusk to knock on Edgeworth's door. Edgeworth opened it to the monochrome purple twilight outside, and Phoenix with his arms crossed against the chill on his doorstep.

"It's me again!" said Wright in that corny absurd way which made Edgeworth want to snicker. Instead, he rolled his eyes and fought down his smile. "Is now a good time to visit?"

Edgeworth regarded him, and stepped aside to let him in. "Wright, of course I knew it was you. That was why we agreed upon the knock, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," he answered, coming inside. He uncrossed his arms and took off his jacket as Edgeworth closed and locked the door again. "It's nippy here in the evening, isn't it?"

Edgeworth was accustomed to these inane comments of Wright's, his statements that didn't really make sense or serve any purpose. Wright had told him they were called 'small talk' in the slang of the future. Though he disliked the pointless exchange of information, he also had to admit that it was pleasant.

"Winter's cold still hasn't surrendered the land," Edgeworth said. "And you never seem to dress sensibly enough for your travels."

The two made more small talk as they went over to the hearth and took their comfortable places. Edgeworth slipped the book he'd been reading into the pile on the side table, and added another log to the fire. When he was done, Wright moved his chair closer to the fireplace, facing it at an angle.

Edgeworth stood at the center of the hearth, making sure the log would take. Wright stood behind his chair, waiting for Edgeworth to move so he could sit. Phoenix studied the sight of Edgeworth gazing into the fire, eyes calm and elegant, his immortal face still.

Edgeworth glanced over to him, then back to the fire. "Ah, my apologies. Excuse me." He stepped aside.

"Sorry, it's okay." Phoenix went around the chair, closer to Edgeworth, and put a hand on his shoulder as he moved past him to sit down.

Edgeworth froze at the touch, and couldn't seem to produce a single coherent thought in the long seconds it was there. When Wright's hand was gone, Edgeworth felt its absence. His mind was uncharacteristically blank as Wright warmed those same hands by the fire and sighed happily.

"Unfortunately, chamomile tea is all I have at the moment," said Edgeworth finally. "Would you still like some?"

Wright looked up to him and smiled. "That would be perfect, thank you."

"Please move that chair back when you're done," he said over his shoulder as he left.

With the space between them and a task at hand, Edgeworth was able to recover himself by the time he returned with his tea tray. Once he'd poured their cups, they talked per usual about the time from which Phoenix had come--a distant place, with what seemed like a riotous variation of people and strange, impossible inventions with functions Edgeworth could just barely conceive.

This evening, they got on the topic of personal accessories. Wright explained all the variety of purses and bags, that everyday hats and gloves had fallen out of fashion (which Edgeworth considered an unfortunate development), improvements to eyeglasses and contacts (barbaric and genius, Edgeworth decided), types of makeup and nail polish, how people cared for their skin and hair. He was explaining how men would buy products to restore their hair loss when he burst out laughing.

"Wright, what is it? I know our conversations usually tend to the substantive, but it is not that ridiculous to learn of personal grooming and care of the future."

"No, no, it's not that." Wright laughed a little more, then looked to Edgeworth with his laughing grin. "I told you I am a lawyer, yes?"

"Correct."

"Well, this one time…" he snickered at the memory. "Sometimes, older men cannot get their hair to grow back no matter what kind of product they try. So some of them wear false hair called a toupee which blends with their remaining natural hair, or covers it, which is smaller than a wig. I had a witness who wore one that was glued on."

"Gracious. I did not think wigs would last based upon what you've told me, however… Glue? My word."

"You might imagine it's very hard to maintain. Well--" He laughed to himself again. Edgeworth sipped his tea.

"My witness was not a good person. He was in fact the true murderer. When I found him out in trial, he ripped off his toupee and threw it across the courtroom. It hit me right in the face!"

There was a coughing splutter from behind Edgeworth's tea cup, and then, the most beautiful sound--Edgeworth laughing.

Hands dripping, he set the teacup and saucer down on the tray and picked up a napkin to dry his hands. He rested his right elbow on his crossed knee and continued laughing, hiding his face behind his hand with the napkin in it. Across from him, Phoenix continued to laugh as well, but softer, listening to the miracle that was this solemn, wearied man's laughter.

"Oh gosh, Edgeworth I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to spit out your tea!" said Phoenix after a few moments of that wonderful sound. He set his own tea down and stood to give Edgeworth the rest of the napkins from the tea tray.

His host took them, still laughing but now softly under his breath. "Thank you, Wright," he said, and looked up to the time traveler.

Their eyes met, and it was Phoenix's turn to pause. Humor still sparkled in Edgeworth's grey eyes, and he was captivated by their ancient richness--like moonlit clouds passing swiftly on the wind across the starry sky.

Edgeworth took the napkins gently and without looking. Their hands brushed. Neither could seem to manage to look away.

"What is it?" asked Edgeworth.

"You're… I…" Phoenix tore his eyes away, and they lowered with difficulty down Edgeworth's face and neck to his chest. "Oh, your jabot!"

"My…? Ah." Edgeworth looked down to his white jabot, which had been spattered with the faint golden drops of tea. He began daubing at the white cloth with a napkin, but from his angle, it was difficult to see how he was doing.

Phoenix watched him try, feeling badly. "Maybe it'll be easier if you took it off? I could try to clean it then while you get the water."

Edgeworth paused, then lowered his hands. "No, that's quite all right. I will simply change it for another one."

"Oh, it's okay, you don't need to go get another. It's fine if you dress more casually with me." Wright gestured to his own clothes, which were fairly casual by the standard of the time he was now in. "I never wear a vest or button my jacket or anything…" He trailed off.

Edgeworth was still, a fixed expression creeping onto his face. Phoenix could feel his tension. The emotion Edgeworth had shown so far this evening in his laughter had been unusual already, but this tightness, perhaps even fear, was just as exceptional.

Phoenix was used to the subdued expressions of his friend, and had seen for himself just how much control Edgeworth required to remain as stoic when emotion sometimes welled inside him. But this was nothing like those times. Edgeworth usually recovered quickly in those situations, yet here under his studied, neutral expression, he was struggling.

"Um… it's--"

"Not to worry," said Edgeworth, coming back to the present again. "I keep many in my wardrobe for my daily needs." He stood, and Phoenix backed off to let him.

"Edgeworth, uh, is ev…" The immortal went past him. "Is--are you okay?"

Edgeworth paused, and turned back to face him. That awful struggling neutrality was back on his face again and Phoenix felt his heart twist in pain for his friend. He wouldn't meet Phoenix's eyes.

"I am fine, Wright. I will be gone only a moment. Please, enjoy your tea while it's still warm."

Phoenix watched him as he walked out. He stood still in the room for a few breaths before going back to sit down. He naturally looked to the empty chair opposite him, and then damp napkins on the side table next to it.

The typically neat and conscientious Edgeworth would not want those napkins left there. Phoenix picked them up and folded them to fit on the lacquer tea tray.

His gaze rested on them, then on the chair opposite him, then he took his tea cup and turned to the fire.

There he sat looking into the hearth, his hands encircled around the mild golden tea, when he saw Edgeworth return silently from the corner of his eye. Edgeworth stood at the entrance of the room without his jabot, and instead his left hand covering the base of his neck and fingers covering the right side of his lower neck, and the arm crossed over his chest. The immortal looked paler than usual, a little frightened, and like he had made a decision.

"Wright. There is…" He paused to get his voice back from the whisper it had descended to. "Wright, there is something about me that I think you should know. I believe we are friends, after all, and I suppose that friends should expect to know about things that are significant about each others' lives, things that shaped their lives." He looked to the fire, the ceiling, the priceless art on the walls, anywhere but to his friend standing silhouetted by the fireplace.

"I agree," said Phoenix, soft and neutral. "If there is something you think is important for me to know, then please. I would be honored know I am considered so trusted by you."

"Mmm. Well." Edgeworth cleared his throat.

Phoenix stepped back closer to the fireplace, inviting him to come closer.

His eyes darted to the time traveler, and away, and he did not move. "This… what I have… what I would show you is not… pleasant. I'm afraid it's perhaps… gruesome. From that you will understand why I reacted as I did when-- at the prospect of removing my jabot before you. And from that I will also extend my understanding if you do not want to… see it."

"Thank you, Edgeworth." The immortal swallowed tightly as he heard his name. "It was good of you to tell me what I would need to know to decide. But I would like to know what this is, if you still feel comfortable telling me." Again, Phoenix gestured for Edgeworth to come closer to the fireplace.

This time, Edgeworth crossed the room, moving as unconsciously as if sleepwalking. All his attention was burning on the clock on the mantelpiece. Phoenix led him by nonverbal suggestion past the chairs and to stand next to the hearth.

Once he stood in its light, there was nowhere else his gaze could escape to. He looked to Phoenix, who bore the intense emotions in his eyes like a weight hitting his chest.

"Are you faint of stomach?" asked Edgeworth.

Phoenix shook his head slowly. "Not especially."

"What is under my hand and arm is a scar," said Edgeworth, speaking slowly. "Sometimes, even I cannot look at it, and I keep it covered at all times. Would you still like to see?"

Phoenix nodded, and Edgeworth lifted his left arm away. As he'd said, there was a long, twisted line raised from his skin, pinkish-brown, which trailed from a little up the right side of his neck and down across its base to his chest, and disappeared into his shirt. Phoenix's vision went white around the edges, and he took a deep breath.

Edgeworth covered the scar again. "Are you all right, Wright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." He closed his eyes and breathed again. When he opened them, Miles was looking back at him with an awful tangle of emotions. The only response Phoenix could give was to lay a hand gently on Edgeworth's left shoulder. "What was it? What happened?"

"I received it under mysterious circumstances in my childhood. I do not remember much about it, but I do remember the sword and, of course, the pain and... blood, before I fainted." Under his hand, Phoenix could feel him beginning to shake.

"It's okay," said Phoenix, and went closer to put his other hand on the other shoulder, the one beneath the scar.

Edgeworth made a small step forward to Phoenix, and let him embrace around his folded-up arm. The immortal didn't shake more, but Phoenix could feel it clearly as he rested against him. Phoenix circled his arms all the way around Edgeworth and held him gently, not wanting to hurt his arm or the scar it covered, pressing him as close as he dared.

Edgeworth did not let the embrace last long, though, and pulled away after a few breaths. "It… I'm… " he stammered.

"Edgeworth, it's all right. It's important to you. May I see it again?" asked Phoenix.

He inhaled sharply. "Again? Why on earth would…" The tension in his body stopped his throat.

"It's all right. Now that I know, I'd just like to see it again."

Slightly disbelieving, Edgeworth uncovered the scar again, watching Phoenix's face.

"I'm sorry, but, may I touch it?"

Edgeworth stared at him, his incredulity less subtle this time. "Wright."

"I'm simply curious. I don't have to, I understand if it's uncomfortable."

Edgeworth shook his head slightly, then took one of Phoenix's hands. Despite himself, Phoenix flushed. "Only if like this," said Edgeworth, guiding Phoenix's hand up protected in his, in case he wanted him to pull away.

Phoenix nodded, and with the pale hand holding his, brushed the back of a finger across the scar at the base of the neck.

"That didn't hurt, right?"

"No. This scar is many decades old."

"I see." His fingertips came back to touch the scar lightly, and then again to run a small ways along it.

Phoenix was aware of Miles staring into his face while he looked at the scar he was touching.

Phoenix looked up, and saw how close they were. He turned his hand in Miles' so that he was holding it.

"There's something else," said Phoenix.

"What is it?"

"May I kiss your cheek?"

Miles went a little paler, and stared. Then, he nodded. Phoenix gave him a featherweight kiss beside the mouth.

When he looked at Miles again, his grey eyes were wide, and nearly blank. Then, he looked to the clock on the mantle, and back, and ever so tiny, a smile appeared in them. Then, he nodded again.

Phoenix kissed him on the same side of the mouth. Miles nodded again.

Phoenix brought in his hand to kiss the back of it. Miles nodded again.

Phoenix let his hand down and hugged Miles close. Miles held him closer too, and Phoenix felt his next nod slide on the side of his head. Phoenix gently pressed his lips against Miles' neck, then against the beginning of his scar.

When Miles nodded, Phoenix squeezed him gently, and let go.

Miles wouldn't let go, and stared into his eyes as a flush began to wash over his face. Seeing it made Phoenix flush too.

"Wright."

"Edgeworth…"

The fire crackled beside them.

"I suppose I should be… I think I need to return to my time now," said Phoenix. Miles reluctantly released him, his hands lingering, the scar visible in the fire's light. "Thank you, Edgeworth. I'm- I'm lucky to know someone like you."

"I…" Miles began hoarsely. "I feel the same."

"I will be back. You know me," said Phoenix, a playful smile beginning to appear. "I'll be back."

This seemed to begin to wake Edgeworth from his pleasant stupor. "I know. Ah, until then."

"'Bye."

"Goodbye."

The strings appeared around the time traveler, and he vanished. Edgeworth stood staring at the spot, unconsciously feeling along his scar where Phoenix had touched.

#fanfic #narumitsu #even a year ago i would have never ever imagined i would be writing #fanfic for someone's fanfic and having a great time??? well here we are #scars #brief violence mention #au #friends #i spent all day on my day off writing this and i have 0.00 regrets #they are soft and i cant stop writing about it im sorry

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