Info
Song: Kokopelli - Mild High Club
Note: I tried a new, cheekier, tone/style here inspired by (& from the POV of?) Kokopelli; let me know what you think!

Story
Miles Edgeworth was sat at a desk. A pair of glasses bridged across his nose. Two cabinets filled with pairs of legal nonsense. A fruit-bowl with a ripe green pear perched just on top, precariously balancing, just out of his pair of hands' reach.

He was jotting something down - details of a case? An autobiography? Memorandum, the literature of eyes above? Nonetheless, the nib of his pen was poised just above, hovering humanly. He was pondering. Pandering, to some extent. One would not have noticed, at first glance, what their problem was - the pen and provider, the prosecutor extraordinaire and his pen. Perhaps it would have been more fitting to start with the start.

Here's a preposition: Miles Edgeworth was dead.

Not just in the eyes of others, but dead. Though the post-mortem had never really been performed, the papers were sold on the idea that the ex-man was as icily cold as the bitter, stiff exterior he'd previously portrayed to victims in court. And the papers did sell. Very well, in fact. Nibbling on a leg or two of the deceased was only fair, anyway; especially if they were featured in a front-cover special. Mr Edgeworth had paused, his hand hovering, pondering about this very fact: he had ceased to exist - as Miles Edgeworth, anyway. Whatever he was now was incredibly dishonest.

Actually, that was a lie. Mr Edgeworth wasn't thinking directly about his excommunication, he was thinking about his lost communication. The thing is, we'd all got so caught up in the wanderings of his passing that we'd failed to notice a crucial, essential detail. A pair of earphones, understated in white, dangling lifelessly from the prosecutor's ears. A sound was playing, little more than a profound hum to onlookers, stifling the pedantic scribbling. I could tell that he'd gone by the way his grave face cracked, an upturned curvature - A graph? A perplexing argument? - beaming on his lips, glowing in a startlingly alive way. He looked ten years younger. No, better. It was as though he'd been preserved on a pedestal with plush confectionary for his pupils to gorge on for all eternity. Sort of unsettling - the sort of thing that makes you itch all over, that niggling right knee twitching with the scraping, greedy appetite for attention. Yes, Mr Miles Edgeworth had left the hemisphere, his one hand neglecting the other, delving into a well-concealed zip-pocket, blindly blundering in, spending some brief moments lingering in the sweaty and pre-pubescent anticipation - fidgety, restless - before fingers found what they were looking for with great exhalation. The inky hieroglyphics and surrounding wooden tapestry were soon dismissed as a thin, wavering sheet of card nervously perched above them. It appeared well-loved: grotty fingerprints (no doubt Mr Edgeworth's) and a plethora of splotches in various colours of the known spectrum adorning it tastefully. What had been meagrely camouflaged by the idolatrous marks, their glittering blue eyes naked and exposed to a silver pair, was peeking out prematurely to witness the spectacle. A solitary finger outstretched to caress the earthy folds and creases defining the perfect jawline, fingering and thumbing, deliberating the slender slip of white fabric - cheap cotton shirt - on show. I could personify his fingers in many ways, when clawing so desperately at that image, but the outcome would be rather pitiful - a fruitless longing. That right knee of yours grows wistful.

Yes, Miles Edgeworth was thinking about the person in that image. Blue, startlingly hedgehog-like, but one could see the appeal. Musical notes flowing out of his ears, a perky expression lingering near wandering hands, his lips finally parting;
"Phoenix.." Shallow, breathy, melodic. Happy? Unhappy. There was a discordance to the melody. It felt like more of a weighty ballad than anything else. That was when Mr Edgeworth shifted - even his eyes seemed to promptly shuffle - with glitter pouring from his lenses, showering the blue deity. It was in this blossoming, swaying vulnerability that a straying hand visibly groped for something more. A shivering, shaking, stuttering smartphone. Silvery hair gently swayed as its owner composed. Then, the fingers did the rest of the work - swiping, tapping (frantically), like madmen, stopping the consuming sounds emanating from the earpiece, opening the contacts list. Ah. He seemed to have found what he was looking for. He was gazing, trying to close the distance (in some silly feat), cradling the pixels closer to his furrowed brows, the contact's lively little image under more intense scrutiny than the majority of evidence used in trials. Time seemed to crystallise. Mr Edgeworth stared down infinitely at the beaming blue image, dotingly fingering the pretty smile, doing everything in his power not to look left. Left was where the green elephant in the room remained, glaring. Something resembling a strangled swear word - an unholy, bitter confession - exhaled, filling the room with its discontent, slicing straight through the idyllic silence. Hovering fingers contemplated a precedented death, shivering, before eventually committing. Nothing followed - for a brief moment. Then the incessant ringing - the quivering whims of the sweating future. An age passed.

"E-Edgeworth?" I witnessed, upon his hearing of that familiarly silky voice, Miles Edgeworth's eyes acquire something more. Rays of sunshine seemed to bounce off of them in exuberance - as though they contained all possible life, all the energy of youth - a rebirth, the rekindled flame of adolescence.
"Wright," A breathy relief of a sentence.
"O-Oh my god."
"Wright? Are you.. Is something the matter?"
"I-Is something the matter? Shut up. Whoever you are, this isn't funny." Mr Edgeworth's silvery brow creased at that.
"Pardon?" Tentative, a faint echo.
"Edgeworth's dead, and you think it's some kind of joke?" Blue grogginess - I could hear the cascading tears from afar, sense the shivering and pale corpse. The man swathed in crimson shifted uncomfortably, those vegetating fingers unearthing themselves from their erected position atop the harmonic blue, a chord struck deep within.
"No, no. It's me, Wright. Miles Edgeworth." There was a long and staggering silence, with a strange gait, before a shaky breath was taken.
"I'm a lawyer. It takes a lot more to convince me than that."
"Wright, I faked my suicide. I left a note - no corpse. I'm alive."
"N-No," Phoenix Wright's voice wavered on the other end of the phone - a seed of doubt had been sowed. The pears in the fruit bowl anticipated a future tree.
"No, that doesn't explain anything. Anybody could have disposed of Edgeworth's body."
"Then what of my belongings, Wright? What about that blue keyring you gave me when we were younger?"
"How do you kno-"
"Did the police find any of my belongings?" The question hung in the air - almost becoming rhetorical, if it weren't for the quiet reply;
"No,"
"Exactly. I took them with me." More turbulent silence filled with nothing but the hammering of nails, metaphorical coffins.
"Tell me, Wright, what use would my belongings have to my corpse?"
"W-Well! What about motives? There was no reason for you to lie-"
"I-I had my reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Listen, Wright; I have his voice, phone number, dialect and the evidence is in my favour. I am Miles Edgeworth." Mr Edgeworth snapped all of a sudden, pleading in the language of plosives - a language only those that clawed could begin to comprehend.
"What reasons?" A high pitched squeak, dissimilar to the beautifully crafted baroque - the defence attorney's usual soothing voice;
"What reasons could you possibly have that could lead you to.. To.." A line of dialogue trailing off into a whimper, a muffled wail acting as a bitter backing track.
"They have no bearing on-"
"No! Edgeworth!" A sniffle;
"If it's really you, then talk to me like I'm a human being. Please." There was a desperation nobody could ignore in that voice - Mr Wright's transparency was something Mr Edgeworth had waxed lyrical about on several occasions, one of the many aspects he'd never have changed about his idol, and it wouldn't do to discredit it by being tone-deaf.
"Curiosity killed the cat, Wright, I don't think it's wise,"
"Th-Then why the hell did you call me? You ruined my life once, and you now have the audacity to do it again?"
"What? No. Never."
"Don't give me that. You know exactly what you're doing." Phoenix wobbled:
"I cared about you."
"I cared about you, too, Pho-"
"No you didn't. You left - and now you're telling me you were lying the whole damned time?" Miles Edgeworth blinked. The idyllic vision of a gleeful attorney resurrecting him from the dead, ready to live in harmony once again, appeared discontinued - an abandoned venture.

"Phoenix," Incessant whimpering was not fazed by the soft grappling of a silver voice.
"Hey, I'm sorry," Something glistened upon Mr Edgeworth's eyes as well; perhaps he'd joined the pity party.
"M-Miles.."
"I want to make it up to you. I want to see you again. That's why I called,"
"Why did you lie? Please tell me,"
"I can't,"
"Why not?" A laborious sigh emanated from the prosecutor's end of the phone, reaching out with a warm arm between the speaker-holes in Mr Wright's phone, receiving a very audible shiver. We, the silent crowd, stoically watched on - the sun and I - with glares so piercing that Mr Edgeworth appeared to shut his damp eyes and defy time's ongoing tempo.
"Please."
"Phoenix, I-you don't want to know. Trust me."
"No. You trust me for once," That blazing passion, the familiar glint in those big blue eyes, was all phonetic - impeccably pronounced in those two sentences, the syllables seeming to tenderly grip one another in a slow-dance. The prosecutor opened his eyes, wistfully staring into the blank glass screen. A pair of crimson arms twitched, their attached crimson fingers frolicking in daydreams of purple.
"Ok." The shock of such a simplistically structured line escaping the silvery-haired man's lips, adorned only with a naked release of breath, left an aching silence in its wake.
"The reason I pretended that I was dead involves you." Shaky.
"I couldn't help myself when I was near you."
"What?"
"I," Miles Edgeworth paused, his fingers floating atop the crinkled blue image of his overseas companion, imagining a calm ocean.
"Every time I laid my eyes upon you, I felt a twinge. It wasn't good for my heart."
"I-I'm sorry, Edgeworth, but I don't follow," Stammering.
"I don't want to say it." Unstable and rocking.
"Don't make me say it." He repeated, incredibly vulnerable out at blue. Blue took in a breath of air.
"So you're saying that-"
"You evoked unnecessary feelings in me. Take that as you will." The floodgates were open and they were both drowning, smothered in a stuffy blanket of blue.
"Miles, these unnecessary feelings... Are they-"
"I've told you enough," Came the plea.
"Ok," A tiptoeing, pivotal pause;
"But Miles?"
"Yes?"

"I think that I feel the same way."