It was as Gavin's gnarly fingers were hovering over the switch: she burst in. An angel in white with gloves and a gun. It was unclear how she managed to actually force the door open - maybe Gavin had been cocky and left it unlocked -, but God truly must have taken pity on the hot tears streaming down his torn up face and the red welts inflamed all over his body whilst he was chained to that accursed chair. He could only blink through his wobbling vision and try and decipher her moving lips through the excruciating pain, but he was at least aware of the fact that the blonde one was yelling back in flamboyant fury about something, his disconcertingly purple-tinted get-up falling about his rapidly gesturing limbs. He received an angry glare he felt he didn't deserve, the colour of the other's eyes hard to distinguish against the hollow blackness of their pupils; it didn't matter, though, because Gavin hastily left with the chair's settings still exerting the inanimate object's full force on him.

A rifle, a brunette and a picture of his previous modest abode were presented to him when he was next accompanied. The brunette was Ema - the fuzzy green in her hand made that clear - and the image sported a red vastness in the centre, making it undeniably the crime scene. That made the gun the murder weapon. Behind the triage, a large rectangular object and familiar person were rolled in by more people he couldn't quite distinguish. There were gasps and he didn't know why as he shuddered, suppressing a scream, and arched his back, his head rolling as far back as it could go in the inch of space it had been provided. A homely voice, his baritone refuge, cried something out and waves of humanity came crashing over him: relief and a loss of tension from his shoulders as the ridges cutting into his skin breathed for the first time in days. Phoenix felt wasted, spent, and his head lolled back further, spouting shaky breaths, without even noticing the crowd he was being observed by as his hands slipped off of the metal armrests.

"Fee," His eyes felt heavy and sore, aching as the lids began to close.
"Feenicks," His rounded shoulders became rounder as they slumped, sinking back into the device his dulled brain so desperately wanted to escape.
"Phoenix," He shook his head against it. Opening his eyes would be idiocy. They'd hurt him again. Opening his eyes meant accepting it: he didn't want to accept it.
"Phoenix," His shoulder felt warm and gooey: as though it was being lathered in blood, but it was nice. He hated nice. He hated it. Tears felt warm too but he wouldn't open his eyes for those, would he? Warmth was a cheap gag.
"Phoenix, oh my god, Phoenix." Whatever the nice sound was, it was being drowned by a cacophony of others joining it, peeling it away despite the obvious defiance it sported.
"Edgeworth, he-"
"Go away!" A snarl reverberated.
"Phoenix please don't go. I can't lose you. Phoenix. Please." He frowned and sunk further away from the hand on his shoulder.
"Phoenix, I... Fuck. I love you, okay?" Choking sobs accompanied it, but he wouldn't open his eyes.

"What do you want me to say? What do you need? It hurts so much. Phoenix, it hurts. I don't want you to hurt anymore." His loose hands were cupped gently, tenderly, with thumbs lightly tracing their wounds as though they were being genuine. Phoenix was crying with shut eyes as those thumbs reached for the wounds on his face.
"You were right. I'm gay. I love you. I'm so sorry Gavin did this to you. I tried to get here as fast as I could, but my fucking legs..." A whimper:
"I haven't healed yet. I can't stand for long." Phoenix gave a stupid smile with shut, crying eyes.
"M-Miles, I'm fine. Go and rest." His voice was so thin and cracked that Miles let out a loud sob upon hearing it, cupping both of the shorter man's bruised cheeks.
"S-Shut up." He stammered.
"Before you go, I... I love you too."
"I'm not going anywhere, idiot." Miles cried with a smile, his own eyes shutting as he buried his blushing head in his hands before leaning in to kiss the other man on the forehead.

Phoenix felt the warmth spreading all over him, the niceness throttling him. This wasn't what he wanted. Not here. Not now. But it was already done: the moment he'd imagined in 20 different scenarios had happened in the worst possible one - as he was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness and agony, this flurry of heat and heartbeats was pulling him back and splitting him in half in the process. It was almost more torturous than Gavin bringing him face to face with death in the chair 5 minutes ago as he opened his eyes ever so slightly to reveal a slanted view of Miles Edgeworth, clearly pained by his gaping gunshot wound and about to collapse, himself (judging by the way he was precariously lurching over), crying with red eyes.
"M-Miles!" Phoenix meekly said with a panicked expression, unable to move. A few dazed members of staff scrambled to his aid wordlessly, Nahyuta among them, with something unreadable lingering on their faces. Phoenix interpreted it as bewilderment.

Ema cleared her throat and stepped towards the spiky-haired man.
"You said you could prove Gavin shot him?"