Info
Song: Me - The 1975
Note: Another sad one.
CONTAINS INAPPROPRIATE THEMES.

Story
The cheap, grotty plastic viciously scraped against the clothing of anybody  who dared to perch upon it; clawed at the seams in desperation - willing the craftsmanship to succumb to its dastardly ways. That was how Miles Edgeworth would describe the affair, anyway, sitting in dismal solitude within the dripping, oily walls of a 2 star takeaway, meagrely picking at the limp corpses cunningly advertised as 'chips' on the machiavellian menu. If they had actually, at some point, been alive, then they had been drowned. After running the post-mortem, Edgeworth was positively certain that the generous helpings of grease pooling at the corners of the flimsy polystyrene coffin were the offenders. It decidedly didn't matter. It wasn't as though the prosecutor was hungry anyway; not after seeing that.

Discontented grey eyes unenthusiastically flitted across the scene, frantically avoiding the table in front: nobody seemed to be residing at the counter besides a few sticky pots of ketchup (which was no surprise, really, for such a rank establishment), the ceiling fan seemed to be twitching brokenly at a jaunted angle and a patchy crimson wall stared back at him quizzically before his attention again returned to the lethal image. Edgeworth couldn't look away for long, even when he firmly dug his oil-lathered nails into his leg and silently willed himself to look anywhere else, for the sloppy sounds seemed to invade every corner of his mind until he was submerged. It was sleazy, really. If the establishment had possessed any form of dignity, the prosecutor knew that they'd have been extracted from the premises by now.

It had been a few minutes and the blemishes created upon Edgeworth's pale skin had grown numb, transfixed only on the soul-crushing event before him: Kristoph Gavin's tongue prodding and poking at Phoenix Wright's rosy lips - snogging shamelessly. The devil had Phoenix backed into his chair, and Miles could clearly see through the wriggling motions that the young ex-defence attorney's toes were uncontrollably curling with each drawn out whine stolen from his lips, his knees weakening under Kristoph's invasive touch. If the pair had been standing, Miles knew that Phoenix would have fallen straight into the other's arms - which sickened him even more. What was even worse was that he was close to the pair - so unbearably close - that his twitching fingers could mindlessly snatch that moulding blue beanie (which was barely maintaining its hopeless clinging to strands of the young ex-defence attorney's wiry hair as it was), yank the hood of the dingy grey fabric sagging atop that beautiful torso and pluck the inebriated man right out of the devil's hands. He could play the devil's advocate, and it was bloody tempting, but something told the prosecutor that forcibly kidnapping his desired partner could only result in a case of assault. That was why his itching fingertips erratically fiddled with the pale chips messily strewn out before him with a great lack of interest, gradually becoming smothered in a watery red condiment. His ingrained grey eyes didn't miss the spindly tanned hand trawling up Phoenix's leg at a deceptive pace. His eye twitched as it reached the thigh.

Miles Edgeworth didn't like Kristoph Gavin. He and Phoenix didn't even seem to be exchanging any words besides the latter's endearing moaning. What was he after? Anybody could see he wasn't after love - even from that piercing icy-blue gaze; a penetrating gaze which Edgeworth was certain had painstakingly peeled away whatever fallible defences Phoenix had hurriedly put up. But the young man was adamant about the good in others - blissfully unaware of the hands grasping at and embedding themselves in his tantalisingly perfect body without consent - which Miles knew only caused him more strife. Seeing Phoenix cry was awful. It was the equivalent of gouging fingernails out with a sharp blade and watching the pools of blood gradually scab over, or watching someone drown a flailing Labrador. It inherently made anyone nearby wail with fumbling apology as glistening pools leaked out of bloodshot eyes, the weighty baggage residing under them seeming somewhat darker and more deceased than before. People surrounding the spiky-haired man were incredibly lucky, the prosecutor decided, for he rarely cried before others: his affectionate blue eyes seemed to always fret about everything else, for that was the sweet fool he was.

And Phoenix was a fool, the prosecutor reassured himself, because he always allowed people to mess him up. The first time he'd seen the ex-defence attorney cry was in primary school, when a girl had refused his gracious offer of a union; at her dismissal of him, the eagerly bobbing bunch of daisies and accompanying bits of lavish green grass he'd freshly picked seemed to wilt in his wake as the boy fled the scene in a stumbling hurry. Fragments of endearing little sketches had flown about the place in a frenzied manner, and the incessant sobbing had rung loudly in everyone's ears. Then it had been Dahlia. And then he'd had a fling with practically every human being that came across him, not realising that all they wanted from him was a bit of flesh - something to wet the appetite. Phoenix was naïve, and it hurt to know that Edgeworth seemed to suffer more than him as a result. Countless hours had been spent wallowing in sorrow for nothing: Phoenix had no interest in him. Phoenix seemed only to be interested in anybody who would chew him up and spit him out - not in the intense idolatry the prosecutor provided him from afar. A faint memory haunted his mind, clawing and clutching for recognition as Kristoph's hand hovered above the younger man's more sacred areas, and he could not ignore it.

The walls had been that awkward shade between red and blue, and they had been sat together beneath invasive streaks of dawn. They were silent, mostly, and their hands were intertwined, but nobody was blushing. Petrichor dominated the air they rhythmically breathed in. Phoenix had been trembling as thin words escaped Miles's lips:
"What did they do to you?" And to that Phoenix could say nothing, but Miles had felt his hand being warmly squeezed by a tighter grip, unfazed by the flowing yellow patterns oozing across his skin.
"I won't let them hurt you again."

Tears pricked his eyes with inherent meanness as the pair clumsily rose to their feet, Kristoph unable to keep his lips off of Phoenix for even a moment, the stiff chairs abhorrently protesting. Edgeworth couldn't stop himself from rising with them, couldn't help but reach out for his disappearing desires, whom froze once ketchup-laden fingertips made contact.
"I love you." A blunt statement waded through the viscous air and those blue eyes widened. Kristoph eyed the assailant coolly.
"Miles?"
"Phoenix, let's go."
"No... wait, Kristoph," The ex-defence attorney wavered, chewing his bottom lip as Miles filled his peripherals. Words were currently failing Miles.
"Miles, did you see us when we were-"
"Yes, I... I saw it all." Phoenix nodded shallowly.
"I beg your pardon, Mr Edgeworth, but we were leaving." A snide sound shattered the sonic scenery, suffocating Phoenix's waist with its gnarly grip, serving only to create a creeping queasiness within the prosecutor. A strange silence rose where nothing happened, and it was as though everyone wanted to say something but couldn't, for it had blotted them all out. Each and every one.
"Mr Kristoph Gavin, how nice it is to have your acquaintance on this fine evening." The prosecutor ground his teeth charmingly.
"And you, Mr Miles Edgeworth. How are things currently? Still alive and well, I see. It's a pity you left; things have changed since you were last here." It didn't take an eccentric genius to realise that that chokehold on Phoenix had only tightened, especially when the latter was squirming so uncomfortably, and the pointed remark left an ungodly stain atop snide lips.
"Have they now." It wasn't a question, and the grimy yellow lighting grimly chattered above.
"Yes, actually. As you can see, I have a partner now." Phoenix's eye flickered up to meet Edgeworth's gaze once again, guiltily.
"Which brings me to question why you're here. Since leaving, have you decided that second-rate establishments are a-la-mode? Or perhaps you're waiting for love?" Cupid was not being merciful that night. Edgeworth knew exactly what his opponent was alluding to and could do nothing to stop him inflicting wounds; his body was preparing to keel over, a sticky queasiness unfairly clutching to the insides of his throat, his stomach churning up remnants of the murdered potato he'd previously consumed. It was a bloody affair. He paled and bleated:
"No."
"Oh?"
"How long have you two been together?"
"About three months," Phoenix ducked his head elusively as the prosecutor shakily nodded.
"Congratulations. I'm happy you found someone, Phoenix."
"Miles, you, um... I missed you." Bright eyes seemed to glass over and glisten more beneath grimy spotlights, swimming in water which was repeatedly blinked back.
"I missed you too. I hope you can forgive me." Phoenix twitched as Kristoph shifted. Time was fleeting.
"Miles, I'd always forgive you." They made lengthy eye-contact at this point, perusing each other's glittery expanses surrounding sapphire and silver universes with silent longing, palms oozing expectant sweat, crying with years of unreciprocated affection.
"Call me, okay?" It was a faint whisper. A lover's whisper. And Edgeworth understood as he watched Kristoph and Phoenix leave, hand in hand.

Left alone beneath the buzzing lights, Edgeworth cried.