Work Text:
The ticking of the clock was starting to wear on Miles’ nerves.
During the day he hardly even noticed the thing, and when he was caught up in a case and had to stay late he couldn’t hear anything over the thoughts in his head, let alone the quiet little ticks of clock hands. But it had been dark for hours now, his desk a yellow lit oasis in the dim office, and his eyes were starting to ache as the words of the report blurred beneath his highlighter.
Miles cast a glance over to the accursed clock.
9:14 PM.
That was late, even by recent standards, but Miles felt no urge to go home. He was running out of excuses to stay at the office, but he hardly wanted to go back to an empty house with only his own mind to keep him company. At least here there were more important things to think about, even if his focus was failing. So Miles stretched his shoulders and adjusted his posture, breathed deeply to reorient, and turned back to his work.
Then something unexpected happened.
Miles’ cell phone, laid out to charge at the edge of his desk, buzzed and chirped.
Someone was texting him.
Curious, Miles unlocked his phone to find several messages from an unrecognized number.
‘i hear ur back dude :ooooo’
‘we shud totally hang out + catch up’
‘drinks @ my place?????’
Miles blinked down at his phone, baffled. The only person who ever texted him was the detective, and only ever for work reasons. And besides, even Gumshoe wasn’t this illiterate. As unlikely as it was, he could only think of one person that would send him, Miles Edgeworth, such an absurd series of messages.
‘Is this Larry Butz?’
He put his phone down and turned back to his work, but he didn’t even have time to read half a sentence before his phone chirped again.
‘duh!!!! new phone edgey?’
Miles cringed.
‘u better add me to ur contacts dude!! and give me a cool nickname ;)’
‘ANYWATYY u game?? drinks @ my place??? or not drinks if u dont drink thats cool too, idk if ur dry or not but im chill either way. i keep some nonboozy drinks n tea n shit at my place too. gotta be prepared for aaaaaall types u know ;) ;) ;)’
Miles stared at that message for a long time, trying to comprehend it.
‘not coming onto u by the way!!! just to clarify!!! not that u arent hot af but i dont sleep w my friends it gets 2 messy and anyway i figure ur not up for that kinda thing :ppp’
‘Shut up.’ Miles texted back, just to make the stream of increasingly bizarre messages stop.
‘lol k.’ Butz texted back immediately, apparently unbothered. ‘so anyway u wanna hang out?’
No, was obviously Miles’ answer to that absurd question. No, he had no desire whatsoever to go and get intoxicated with Larry Butz at his no doubt disgusting apartment. Despite Butz’ numerous attempts to call him or waylay him in the courthouse since their unfortunate reunion last year, Miles had been steadfast in ignoring him. Wright may have forced his way into Miles’ life through sheer force of will, but Miles refused to allow Butz to follow suit. Wright at least had the good sense to study law and make himself useful to society, even if he was a complete disaster. Butz, as far as Miles could tell, had not changed one bit since fourth grade, save for becoming an obsessive serial dater.
No. Miles did not want to ‘hang out’.
‘come on dude its a wednesday night wth else coud u posbisily be doing thats more fun thn drinking wit ur old pal????? ur such a nerd i bet ur still at work lik doing boring ass paperwrk cuz ur such a nerdddddddd’
Absolute disgust rose up faster than he’d thought possible at such a childish and absurd message, and Miles felt the petty urge to text back an immediate denial. Butz was obviously incorrect on every point. Miles was a renowned prosecutor, a professional and a functional adult, and he most certainly had better things to be doing on a Wednesday night than whatever the hell Larry Butz planned on doing. And even if he was still at work, it hardly had anything to do with being, as Butz so crudely put it, a ‘nerd’. A prosecutor’s work was crucial to the health of society itself, and a prosecutor’s work was never finished. That fact wasn’t changed just because Miles couldn’t actually remember at this point what exact document he was reading or why.
‘You’re a fool and a child. We are not friends and I am ashamed to have ever associated with you.’ Miles texted out carefully, taking the time to be as pointed as possible.
He sat back and told himself firmly that he’d made the right choice. He had. He may be low on friends at the moment, but he certainly didn’t need to be fleshing out his calendar with the likes of Larry Butz. He barely even knew the man, for goodness sake. It was for the best that he clip that dangling thread now.
But then Butz texted back.
‘lmao u rly havent changed at all i missed u edgey. so u wanna come over rn or u actually got wrk left to finish first??’
Miles stared at his phone, dumbfounded.
How on earth had Butz taken his previous message as some kind of acceptance?
He took his phone in hand and made to write an even more scathing and explicit rejection that even Butz couldn’t misconstrue. Running people off wasn’t usually something Miles had any problems with. Making them stay, that was the issue. Miles barely even knew what to do with this sort of problem. He’d only ever struggled with shaking off the unwanted advances of one other man, and that had-
Miles clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. By force of habit his eyes flickered back to his work. The words were still unfocused, and he’d long since lost his place in the page, but work had always been a distraction when nothing else could be.
The clock was still ticking away on the far wall, louder than it had been before, and with every tick Miles had to suppress the urge to flinch.
‘Now is fine. What’s your address?’
Miles stared down at his rogue fingers, unable to believe what they’d just typed.
‘perf! c u in a bit edgey!!!’
Then Butz sent over his address, an apartment only a fifteen minute drive away, and Miles was standing up and grabbing his coat before he could stop himself.
With an encroaching and subterranean horror, Miles realized that he was actually going to go and hang out with Larry Butz.
**
Butz greeted him at the door with an overbearing smile and a presumptuous clap on the shoulder, and Miles let himself be led helplessly inside.
Butz’ apartment was, to Miles’ surprise, not the disaster zone he’d imagined. It was a small single bedroom with the ‘kitchen’ along one wall of the living room and barely enough space to fit both a three-seater sofa and a dining table, but it was meticulously tidy. The only mess was shoved into one corner where an old drafting table was piled high with notebooks and unlabeled boxes. After a moment of confusion, Miles realized that the colorful mess spread across the tabletop was a half-finished painting surrounded by dozens of stubby oil pastels. It was too early for Miles to recognize the subject of the piece, but he couldn’t deny that already the composition and colors were eye-catching. Despite himself, he wondered what it would look like when completed.
Miles must have stared at the desk too obviously, because Butz followed his gaze and chuckled. “You like it? It’s actually a commission for that sports bar down by the courthouse. You know the one?” Miles nodded, and Butz kept talking. “Yeah, cool place, even if its a nightmare on game nights. Anyway, they’ve actually been around for like, a hundred years, can you believe it? They’ve remodeled a bunch of times though, and they wanted a painting of the original building to put behind the bar. Weren’t sure what they wanted exactly, but I talked them into pastels ‘cause I’ve been in a real mood lately ya know? Didn’t even like pastels in college, but I just got the itch. Maybe I just wasn’t ready back then, ha!”
Butz’ narration flowed over Miles as he wandered over to the kitchen and started searching around for something. Miles followed uncomfortably and took a seat at the small dining table. It was old and scratched up at the corners, but Miles was surprised to recognize it as real hardwood, a beautiful cherry antique that must have been a luxurious piece of furniture when it was first purchased. He doubted Butz was the first owner, but it had never even occurred to him that Butz would care about the furniture in his apartment.
“You’re an artist.” Miles said aloud, despite himself.
Butz laughed. “That’s me! But you knew that Edgey.” He grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet, then stopped. “Oh yeah, you never told me. You drink?”
“Occasionally.”
“You wanna drink right now?”
“… That would be acceptable.” Miles admitted. It might help take the edge off of his taught nerves at this entire strange meeting. He still wasn’t sure why he had agreed to it and was already regretting coming.
(Well… that wasn’t entirely true. Miles might, perhaps, have some idea why he had agreed to come. But he tried very hard not to think about how lonely his house felt these days, and how long the evenings alone could be. He’d always been lonely, even before his sabbatical in Europe, but these days it cut much closer to the bone. Perhaps he’d agreed to come over and drink with Butz because there was another man that Miles would very much like to invite over for drinks in his own kitchen, a man Miles knew would have no interest in any such thing. Not anymore.)
Butz brought over a cheap red wine and poured them both liberal glasses full. Then he brought over a small serving box filled with an assortment of incongruously elegant miniature puff pastries.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Butz cooed as he sat down across from Miles. “My girlfriend, Dana, she’s a pastry chef at that fancy new five star place downtown, so she’s always bringing home leftovers. That girl has definitely been upping my hosting game I’ll tell you that!”
Butz took a long drink of wine and hesitantly Miles sipped his own glass.
His reaction must have shown on his face, because Butz laughed. “Good, isn’t it? Best wine in Japanifornia for less than five bucks. Took Jacqueline and I a loooong time to try them all out, but we got there in the end!”
Miles nodded. Butz might even be right. It certainly tasted like it cost more than five dollars, even if it didn’t hold up to the vintages Miles was more familiar with.
Then Butz stopped babbling.
Miles didn’t notice at first, but as the silence stretched on it became obvious. Butz hadn’t stopped talking since the moment Miles stepped into the apartment, and as overbearing as it had been Miles found the silence even more so. Instead of talking, Butz was drinking. While Miles took the occasional polite sip, Butz was almost chugging his overfilled glass, and once he’d finished it he poured himself another and started in on that as well. Miles had never seen Butz drink before, but he got the distinct impression of a man desperate to get intoxicated as quickly as possible.
Miles Edgeworth of last year might not have commented, or if he had, it would have been snidely. The urge was still present within him. Miles had only scorn and pity for compulsive drinkers and did not bother to hide it. But Miles was not who he was last year. In part against his will- a permanent transformation, a death and rebirth at the hands of a multitude of shocks that could never be undone- but in part by his own hand. In part because, every day, Miles made the conscious decision to be a new man. A better man.
And so Miles swallowed and asked, “Is something wrong?”
Butz put down his glass- his second, half gone- and smiled ruefully. “Getting right to it, huh? You know, you haven’t changed much at all Edgey.”
Miles had no idea how he felt about that. “Why did you invite me over, Butz?”
Butz threw his hands up like he was surrendering. “It wasn’t supposed to be a set up, dude. I do wanna hang out with you more often. Or at all. It was really cool meeting you again last year. And I’m glad you’re back again. I really am. But uh… I guess I did have a specific reason to invite you over this time. Or like, a specific topic. Um…”
Miles swallowed and took a long, fortifying drink of his own. He would have been able to guess the topic himself, even if it weren’t for the familiar way Butz was humming and hawing and looking anywhere but Miles’ face. It was a terrible song and dance Miles had already gone through with dozens of people over the past several months, and one he knew was the least of his due penance. Everybody wanted answers from him, and he’d come to realize that they deserved far more than he’d left for them.
“Alright.” Miles said grimly. “Ask your questions.”
Butz rubbed at the back of his neck and pressed his lips in an awkward sort of compulsive smile. “I, uh, it’s not so much a question, actually. Although, I’ve got some of those too. Um, it’s more like, uh-”
“Just spit it out Butz.” Miles snapped. As soon as he’d done it Miles regretted it, but Butz didn’t even seem phased. He just sighed.
“So uh… you, uh… You really broke his heart, you know?”
Miles’ blood stopped in his veins.
“I just, uh…” Butz stumbled on mercilessly. “I dunno if he would have told you. And I, uh, I thought you needed to know. Not to be mean or anything, I know you got your own reasons and shit. But uh… it really fucked him up. What you did. Leaving, and never telling him you were okay. I dunno if anyone else would tell you. But you should know.”
It took all of Miles’ concentration to keep breathing.
“He- he really thought you were dead at first. And then… I don’t know, I think he needed to keep believing that. Cause otherwise, it would mean you cared so little about him you’d just leave and let him think that on purpose. At least if you’d killed yourself it was only sort of about leaving him behind, and mostly he was just collateral damage. Which like yeah, is all different kinds of fucked up. You’re definitely not the only one I’ve been dragging here for drunk therapy sessions dude. And I’m not trying to spill his secrets for him, but like, I think you need to know-”
Miles staggered to his feet, shoving his chair aside with shaking hands. His vision had started to take on that strange warped quality, as if it was zooming farther away without losing any fidelity. He felt trapped an armslength behind his own eyeballs.
“Oh shit, fuck, I’m sorry dude, I shouldn’t have-”
Butz’ fingers on his forearm stung like a taser, and Miles stumbled back with a hiss. “Don’t touch me!”
“Okay! Okay, sorry dude, no touching, got it. Shit, I wasn’t thinking- fuck, sorry. Uh, you think it’d be fine if you touch me instead? I think maybe we should sit down, you seem like you’re about to fall over dude.”
Butz held out his hands to him, palms up, a courteous distance away. Distantly, Miles knew he would be mortified by this under normal circumstances. But as it was Miles felt like he might fall over at any moment, and he barely hesitated before grabbing Butz’ hands with his own.
Butz dragged him to the nearest wall, right by the fridge, and then slowly knelt down. Shakily Miles followed him, until they were both sitting down with their backs against the wall. Butz removed his hands as soon as Miles loosened his sweaty death grip, leaving Miles feeling cold.
“Drink this. It might help.” Butz said, and a glass of water appeared in front of him. Rather than wonder when Butz had gotten it, Miles accepted it and drank. It did help a bit. The cool temperature was nice.
Slowly the fog of his own mind faded away, and Miles found himself sitting on the floor of Butz’ apartment, listening to the grating hum of his cheap fridge as cool condensation dripped down his shivering fingers.
“I apologize for that.” He forced between clenched teeth.
“Huh?” Butz perked up, looking over from where he’d been picking at his nails. “Dude, don’t apologize for not being a robot. I’m the one who needs to apologize. I was trying to stand up for Nick but I totally just, like, verbally assaulted you. Here I was, calling you out for not thinking about Nick’s feelings, but here I am not even thinking about yours. How fucked up is that? I’m such an asshole!”
Miles wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He hardly saw how it was Butz’ fault that Miles couldn’t stomach the truth of his own sins.
That’s what it came down to, didn’t it?
Butz had finally told Miles what no one else would, and Miles was so horrified he’d hardly been able to remember to breathe.
“So yeah. I’m super sorry, dude.” Butz said. “Seriously. I’ll just shut the fuck up now, yeah? I promise I won’t bring this shit up again if you don’t want.”
The offer should have been a comfort, but for some reason what Miles felt was panic.
“No. Please.” Miles said, the words forcing their way out before he could filter them. “I want to know.”
Butz looked at him with a frown. “You sure? We could like, wait. Do this next month or something once you’re more sorted out.”
“No.” Miles grunted. He needed to know. He needed to know what exactly it was he’d done to Phoenix Wright. What he’d unintentionally done that had put that manic look in Wright’s eyes, that terrible fire that had burned so hot when they finally reunited. What pain he’d caused that had made Wright wish that he’d stayed dead. What scars he’d left behind that even now, after Wright had retracted that statement and was making a stalwart effort to behave as though nothing had changed between them, caused Wright’s smiles to falter when they turned on Miles.
Miles had ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he needed to know every detail of it. And if it hurt him, good. He deserved every ounce of pain he had caused Wright twice over.
“Okay.” Butz agreed slowly. “But I’m gonna stop if you start, uh, ya know. If that happens again, I’m stopping. If you wanna know I’ll tell you, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Miles marveled a bit at that because he could tell Butz meant it. And he wondered why, when even Wright had not hesitated to take his pound of flesh upon Miles’ return. Butz was no Wright, but he had some small claim to Miles as well. He was due some repentance, same as all the rest. But Butz had never shouted at him or demanded answers. And even now, after landing a mortal blow that Miles undoubtedly deserved, the man showed only remorse.
“I got a question though, actually.” Butz said quietly. “You don’t gotta answer it. I, uh… I don’t know if I should ask it. But like, I dunno if anyone else would either? And I feel like somebody should. So um… did you? Try and kill yourself, I mean?”
Miles swallowed and closed his aching eyes. He’d been close to that edge several times in his life, considered the concept in the abstract. But to make that most final decision? To take that final step?
“No.” Miles said. “It is a notion I have contemplated, but never acted upon. Nor have I ever truly intended to.”
“Okay. Good.” Butz swallowed. “I mean, not good that you’ve thought about it. That sucks, dude. But like, I’m glad you never got that far, you know? I’m glad I don’t have to live in a world without Miles Edgeworth.”
“Oh.” Miles breathed.
It had never occurred to him that Larry Butz, over-emotional terminal extrovert and Wright’s long-time friend, cared about Miles Edgeworth specifically.
“Did you think I had?” Miles asked, too curious to stop himself.
When he’d fled to Europe and left that terrible note behind, he hadn’t been thinking at all of how it would be received by those who cared for him. It had been a statement of harrowing purpose and condemnation. A declaration he had felt needed to be made in order to free himself of the past that weighed him down like cinderblocks chained to his ankles. He may not have sought his own literal death, but he had craved, had needed, to symbolically destroy the man he had once been. It had been too agonizing, too suffocating, to live one moment longer as the Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. That man needed to die and be reborn anew.
It was only later, when detective Gumshoe of all people had managed to get back in contact, that Miles fully realized what he’d done. To his utter mortification, Gumshoe had responded to his voice on the phone with a deafening shout of joy and then, mere moments later, the detective had begun to weep. Miles had held the phone in a deathgrip, frozen in place, as the detective sobbed for several minutes straight.
“I knew you’d never kill yourself sir, I knew you wouldn’t, I tried to tell Mr. Wright but he wouldn’t listen, he kept saying all kinds of things- but I knew you’d never quit on us sir, I knew it-”
From the tearful hysteria, Miles had gotten the sense that Gumshoe had not been as certain as he claimed. He had been struck by the image of the stalwart detective, desperately searching for him even as the whispers at night told him he was wasting his time. It had made him ill.
And then— well. Wright blamed Miles for leaving, but Miles considered his true sin to be what he did then, a month into his absence, when he asked Gumshoe to keep their contact quiet. He had never initially meant to give Wright the impression that he’d killed himself, but it was with eyes open that he’d asked Gumshoe to allow Wright to continue believing such a thing.
There had been reasons, of course. But looking back now, Miles could peel back all the pathetic excuses and recognize them all as the same shameful one: cowardice.
“Did I think you’d killed yourself?” Butz considered the question. “Well… I don’t know. I mean, the note you left seemed pretty final to me. And Nick had his mind pretty good and made up. But some of your other friends weren’t so sure. Some of them were pretty certain you were still alive, and that that note was just you being a dramatic bastard.”
“But what did you think?” Miles asked again. He wasn’t sure why he was so desperate to know.
Butz shrugged. “I guess… At first I’d thought you’d done it, but then… I guess I was never sure. But I figured you were still alive.”
“Why…” Miles trailed off. If Wright had been so sure…
“Why didn’t I agree with Nick? I don’t know. I guess… I guess I figure, Nick and I knew you when you were a kid. But that detective and your sister and everybody else, they grew up with you. They actually… you know. Knew you.” Butz shrugged again. “Nick’s got it into his head that ‘cause he knew a side of you other people didn’t that he’s the only one who knows all of you. But I figure, Nick and I know one part of you, and the others know the other part of you. And they’ve known you for longer and more recently. So like… I never said any of this to Nick, obviously. But I figured it was pretty likely he was the one who was wrong about you.”
The soundness of Butz’ logic took Miles aback. And that in itself pinged a sort of distant nostalgia- faded memories of childhood games that ended in unexpected victories, youthful arguments won by surprising bits of insight. Even as children Miles had not thought much of Larry Butz, and Butz had seemed to relish proving him wrong. Strange, and frustrating, that Miles could still be so blindsided by the fool.
But if even Butz had come to the correct conclusion, it begged the question.
“Why was he so certain?” Miles asked, although it physically hurt to force it out.
Butz sighed. “Like I said, I think he sort of had to believe it, ya know?”
“No. I don’t know.” Miles said.
Butz shrugged helplessly and grabbed his hands together, massaging and stretching them nervously. “He… hmm…” Butz went quiet for a while, and Miles watched his face as it twisted and shifted between emotions, Butz’ uncertainty so plain on his face even as Miles was lost as to what he was thinking through. It seemed that Miles had stumbled upon some deeper secret of Wright’s without even meaning to. That man made himself out to be an open book, but it seemed that Miles was not the only one to have depths buried in their years apart. He ought to stop Butz preemptively out of respect for Wright’s privacy, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when Butz might offer him some hint of where exactly they had gone so terribly wrong. Some hint as to why even Franzisca had forgiven him while Wright, despite his protests, clearly had not.
“It’s not my secret to tell.” Butz said finally, eyes cast away from Miles and picking at his fingernails. “But… Nick’s had one serious relationship before. It was in college, four or five years ago now.”
Miles clenched his fists against his thighs reflexively. Ah. That sort of secret.
“It, uh, I won’t say much, Nick really wouldn’t want anyone knowing, especially-” He cut himself off, but not soon enough. Not before Miles’ stomach went sour with the knowledge that he had fallen far enough from Wright’s affections to have become a disfavored keeper of secrets. “Anyway. You’re a prosecutor. So, uh, you’ll know what I mean when I say that she was, um, a terrible person. And a worse girlfriend.”
It was an effort to unlock his jaw from his tongue before it drew blood.
Butz must have known what he’d done- giving Miles just enough of a hint to send his mind spinning in all horrifying directions. He wished that he could think Butz didn’t know what he was implying, but there was an uncharacteristic bleakness to the man’s voice, and even from the side Miles could catch the shine in his eyes of an emotion Miles had never before credited to Larry Butz: hatred.
He’d only prosecuted several domestic abuse cases in his career, his specialty being in homicide, but that meant he tended to see the very worst of it. The times when the cruelty went so far it could no longer be contained. When abusers went too far to hide it anymore, or when victims reached the ends of their rope and fought back the only way they felt they could.
Miles knew it couldn’t have ever been so serious for Wright- not if Wright was still a free man with a clean record- but he couldn’t help imagining Wright in the courtroom, bruised and flighty, barely able to get the words out for a sense of twisted loyalty still binding him to his abuser.
Abuser. Just the thought of it made him sick. He couldn’t even imagine Wright subjecting himself to anybody else’s control. He was a maniac, a hurricane, a man not cowed by death itself.
(He had once been a boy though, scared, lonely, feeling unwanted, and Miles had done one half-kind thing for him and from that moment on Wright had done anything Miles ever asked him to without question, had all but worshiped him, and Miles had barely recognized Wright in the courthouse because that fierce and challenging look in his eyes was something he’d never seen there before-)
“Even that’s probably saying too much, but…” Butz shook his head. “Well. Anyway. Let’s just say Nick’s a lover, but he’s learned to be a fighter. But he’s still Nick. He’s an all or nothing kind of guy, you know? And Dollie didn’t really help with that, cause she was all good and then all bad. I think he didn’t know what to do with the idea of you hurting him like that. If you’d killed yourself that meant he could just blame himself and keep thinking you were all good and keep things simple.”
It took Miles a minute to even figure out where to begin.
“He blamed himself?” He asked faintly.
Butz raised an eyebrow and finally turned back to face him. “Uh, yeah? Dude, half the reason Nick even became a lawyer was because of you. He got it into his head that there was like, a little ten year old Edgey trapped inside the Demon Prosecutor and that it was his job to set him free. Which like, I guess was kind of true. I mean, Nick did save you from that dick von Karma, so credit where it’s due.”
“He-” Miles cut himself off, forcing himself to ignore that insane revelation to return to his initial point. “Butz. You said he blamed himself.”
Butz frowned. “Well, yeah. I mean, we all did. That’s like, just what happens when somebody kills themselves. But he took it really personally ‘cause… well… I mean, he ruined your career, right?”
“W-what?” Miles stammered. He’d never heard anything so insane in his life, but Butz was staring at him like he was the stupid one.
“I mean, he ruined your perfect record, and he kept thrashing you in the courtroom. Plus he helped bring your mentor down, and he was the one who helped uncover all the cheating shit going down with the cops that got you in trouble and the tabloids all calling for your head. I’m not agreeing with him! Cause obviously none of that’s his fault. But I know you know that kinda guilt don’t always have to make sense.” Butz gave him a look that, to Miles’ horror, resembled pity. “Your life totally imploded dude. And like, I don’t blame you for wanting to run away, even if it was a major dick move to do it like you did. But can you blame him for feeling guilty for his hand in all that?”
Miles opened and closed his mouth several times, speechless.
He had known, given the awkward truce Wright and he had reached at the end of the Engarde case, that much of Wright’s anger had come from a misunderstanding of just why he’d left. Wright had, based on the evidence available to him, concluded that Miles had fled from a formerly perfect career that had ended in public humiliation. It was the sort of thing the former Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth might even have done, under different circumstances. Wright hadn’t realized just how important he’d become to Miles, just how deeply he’d shaken Miles’ entire world down to the foundations. He’d done everything he could to prove that Miles’ philosophy was not productive or just, but he’d never realized just what a good job he’d done.
Guilty. Not just angry, but guilty.
“I explained to him that it wasn’t his fault.” Miles said. He hadn’t known that’s what he was doing at the time, but he had. He had.
“Good.” Butz said. “Glad he got to hear it from you, cause he definitely wasn’t listening to any of the rest of us.”
Miles clenched and unclenched his fists. His fingers hurt from how much he’d been clenching them.
“… He still hasn’t forgiven me.”
Butz frowned. “Hasn’t he, dude?”
“No.” Miles said bleakly. “He claims that we are ‘good’, but he is… different.”
Butz watch him expectantly for a while before finally replying. “That’s it?”
“He’s made it clear enough.”
And Butz, of all the damnable things, rolled his eyes. “Well of course things are different Edgey, jeez. Do I have to wrap back around to my first point? You broke the dude’s heart. Of course it’s not gonna be the same.”
Miles swallowed acid. “So it’s too late.”
“Uh, did I say that? You’re still friends, so obviously it’s not ‘too late’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Are we?” Miles asked grimly. “He trusts me as a prosecutor, but he doesn’t trust me. How can we be close when he feels he cannot trust me as a friend?”
“He said that?” Butz asked in surprise.
“No. But it’s obvious.” Miles scoffed. “He is surprised when I help him. He keeps expecting me to leave-”
“Well yeah, that’s just a pattern of behavior dude.” Butz cut in.
Miles stared, unable to close his mouth.
“I’m not a total idiot Edgey,” Butz winked, “I still roomed with Nick even after he switched majors ya know.”
Miles managed to scrape his jaw off the floor, along with what was left of his dignity, but he still wasn’t sure what to say.
“Seriously though,” Butz continued, “Why wouldn’t he think you’re gonna leave again? I figured you’d be back in Europe soon as you wrapped up Maya’s kidnapping thing. Not that it’s not awesome to have you around more! But, ya know. I figured if you wanted to be back here you wouldn’t have left.”
“I know I have given him good reason to distrust me.” Miles said miserably. “That’s why we can no longer be friends.”
“Dude, come on!” Butz cried. “Not you too! It seems like Nick is finally getting his shit together, I do not wanna go through round two of this with you!”
“What are you talking about?” Miles demanded, reaching his limit with Butz’ condescension.
“I’m talking about how you two idiots spend your day jobs with psycho killers but don’t seem to get how fucked up we are as, like, a species!” Butz exclaimed. “How are you both, like, way more adult than me but also like, less mature than Pearly?!”
“Butz,” Miles growled, “I don’t appreciate-”
“Does Nick talk to you at work?” Butz interrupted.
Miles ground his teeth. Then, grudgingly, “Yes.”
“Even when he doesn’t have to?”
“…Yes.”
“And does he seem interested in your life?”
“Yes, but-”
“Does he still do that thing where he stares at your butt when he thinks you aren’t looking?”
“Does he what?”
“Nevermind, what I mean is- look dude.” Butz sighed and shifted so that he was facing Miles straight on. “Nick cares about you. Obviously. And you care about him. Obviously. You hurt him when you disappeared, and now I guess he’s hurting you by not, like, doing everything you used to do together. You apologized to him, and it seems like he accepted it. And I bet if you told him that he’s hurting you now he’d apologize too. Cause you’re friends. Friends hurt each other all the time dude, people are just assholes, us included. Being friends is just about caring enough to stick around afterward to make up for it.”
The words were a balm, and Miles desperately wanted to believe them. But because he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. “But he doesn’t trust me anymore.” He mumbled, knowing how childish it must sound.
“From what I can tell, he doesn’t blindly trust you anymore,” Butz said. “Which is a big improvement as far as I’m concerned, considering Nick knew Dollie for less than a year before he almost killed himself for-”
Butz cut himself off violently, jolting back as his eyes snapped wide, but it was far too late to take back.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, pretend you didn’t hear that, fuck,” Butz clapped his hands over his mouth. “That was a secret, don’t ever tell Nick I let that slip, shit!”
Miles’ own hand strayed to his mouth as he tried to process the shock.
Phoenix Wright had, at one point, almost killed himself.
As he had before, Miles struggled to connect such a notion to the man he thought he knew.
(One more reason, perhaps, that Wright had been so certain of Miles’ fate. One more parallel in their lives coming to fruition. And one more reason to feel betrayed when Miles returned.)
“Shiiiiiiiit, I’m the worst friend in the universe!” Butz wailed. “He’ll kill me!”
“I won’t tell him.” Miles promised. And then, still heavy with the knowledge of all the ways he’d betrayed the trust of those who had known him, “I know you don’t have a reason to believe that, but I won’t.”
“I believe you Edgey.” Butz said immediately. “I know you keep your word. I don’t got the sort of trust issues you and Nick do, so don’t worry about me. I know you don’t tell me much, but I figure what you do tell me is solid.”
“Oh.” Miles said. “… Thank you.”
“Ha! You’re welcome. You can trust me too you know! About the important stuff, anyway. Though I expect just saying that doesn’t mean much to you. It never meant much to Nick.” Butz said. Strangely, he didn’t seem overly put out by that. One of his closest friends thought he was a liar, but Butz barely seemed more than mildly annoyed by that fact.
What was it Butz had said?
Patterns of behavior.
“I believe you as well.” Miles told him uncomfortably. He almost didn’t, but he made himself say it. He had made promises upon his return, to himself and to others, promises he intended to keep. Promises he’d made without Larry Butz in mind, perhaps, but ones that extended to him regardless.
Butz had been truthful with him tonight in a way nobody else had. So while Butz could be unreliable in general, perhaps he could indeed be trusted when it came to the important things.
He’d turned up at the crucial moment to save Miles’ life after all, hadn’t he?
“Aw, that’s great to hear Edgey.” Butz said. “I was worried you only cared about seeing Nick again when you kept avoiding me.”
“You’re not wrong.” Miles said without thinking. Then, as a poor attempt to make up for it, “I am not disappointed to meet you again, however.”
“Aww, you’re making me blush!” Butz cried, seemingly only flattered and in no way put out.
“You’re a strange man, Larry Butz.” Miles observed.
“Ha! I’ll take that as a compliment Miles Edgeworth.” Butz laughed.
And there it was again, the baffling but unerring pattern of Larry Butz. Foolish and shallow, a flighty thing that seemed to blow away in the slightest breeze, but stalwart at the least expected and most important moments. Butz, with his flailing arms and distractible idiocy, beside Miles now as he laughed, still sitting just far enough away not to stifle but just close enough to reach out.
Were they friends? For all Butz named them so, they barely knew each other. Miles had far more memories of the child Butz had once been than the man he was now, and Miles must surely be even more of a stranger. But Butz seemed to think of friendship not as a measure of time or of intimacy, but as an intentional pattern of effort. Inviting Miles over tonight to inform him of Wright’s suffering in his absence was surely such an effort on Butz’ part towards his own friendship with Wright, but it was an effort towards Miles’ as well. An effort on Butz’ part to construct a pattern with him, one of critical honesty he could get nowhere else. It was more than Miles felt he deserved after how he’d willfully neglected the other man, not to even mention the way he’d left, but Butz had made it clear what apology he felt those sins deserved: just care enough to stick around afterward. And that Miles could certainly manage.
Miles had already sworn not to run away again from those who cared for him, not like he had. If such a promise was friendship, then Miles supposed that yes, he could call Butz a friend. By such logic, there were many he could call friend. One of them in particular, Miles would call his friend gladly.
The trouble was, did that man still feel the same?
Miles had been nothing but cruel to Wright for a long time. Not simply antagonistic, but intentionally cruel. And even after his murder trial he’d stayed distant. Since then he’d made the effort to help Wright with his cases, but that only sometimes succeeded. Wright did let him help though. He’d let him help back then, before Miles left, and he was still letting him help now. Even when Wright hesitated to agree, watching him with the wary eyes of a man who had been burned before, he let Miles help. And when it was all over, more often than not, Wright gave him a small smile and thanked him.
It was a pattern. A pattern of… something. Hesitant, delicate, unvoiced for fear of spooking it, but mutually fostered and present even now.
Wright did not trust Miles with his heart. Why would he, when by Butz’ own admission he had so callously broken it? Perhaps he never would again, not when Miles’ own pattern of behavior gave him little reason to. Miles still had a hard enough time trusting Wright with his own, when the man had done nothing but prove his sincerity again and again.
But they were not left with nothing.
“I will show him that I am a man worthy of his trust.” Miles promised. “Perhaps, in time, that can be a more meaningful apology than mere words could ever be.”
And in the meantime they could be… friends. If it was not overly presumptuous to name them so.
“Awww, that’s beautiful Edgey!” Butz cried, shattering the contemplative moment. Then, between one moment and the next, he burst into tears.
“Good lord,” Miles grumbled, “You’re worse than Wright.”
“Pffff, nuh uh,” Butz hiccuped. “Nobody’s more of a crybaby than Nick. He- he- did you know he cried at graduation? Not his- well, yes at his- but no, I mean- he cried at my graduation!”
Miles felt the familiar urge to be the dignified adult in the room. But he was thoroughly wrung out, emotionally exhausted, and he was also desperate to know more.
“Did he really?” Miles asked.
“He did!” Butz cackled. “He- hold on, give me a second-” Butz crawled over to the table and grabbed the wine glasses and bottle. He drug them back over, arranged them on the ground between them, and proceeded to top them both off liberally. “Okay, okay, now I’m ready for this story. So anyway-”
Miles took his glass of surprisingly mediocre wine in hand and, after a moment of deliberation, began drinking it like the cheap swill it was.
**
It was with a terrible headache, and a worse taste in his mouth, that Miles reluctantly woke up.
The bed beneath him was bouncing and shaking.
“Oh shit! Did I wake you up? Sorry about that.”
Blinking blearily, Miles looked up to see Larry Butz across from him in bed in only his boxers.
Abruptly sober, Miles shot upright. “Butz. Did we-”
“Nothing happened dude, pinky swear. I told you, no friends, that’s my rule. Besides, we were both too blasted to do it even if we’d wanted to, ha!” Butz grinned and winked, far too blase about whatever the hell had happened. It came back to Miles like pouring chilled pudding, agonizingly slowly as he watched Butz stumble to the closet and start getting dressed.
He really ought to get up himself, Miles thought, but he was worried about what his roiling stomach might do if he stood up. Besides, Butz’ bed was far, far too nice. It was giant, large enough to fit four people if they were particularly snug, and if he wasn’t mistaken the sheets were the same brand of exquisite imported Egyptian cotton that he himself preferred. He tried, very pointedly, not to think about why bachelor Larry Butz had spent so much money on his bed.
“I gotta head out, got a consultation with this crazy busy lady who’s only ever free at the butt crack of dawn, but like, feel free to go back to sleep. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, there’s nothing I won’t miss.”
Butz continued babbling as he slipped into a pair of dark ripped jeans and his favorite horrifying orange sport coat. Miles might give the man some small credit for at least attempting some kind of style, unlike someone he could think of, but Butz really needed the help of an artist of the sartorial variety. It was hard to tell what resources Butz had at his disposal, but it seemed like the man spent his money where it mattered to him. Perhaps Miles should refer him to his own tailor? Was that the sort of thing friends did?
“You’ll probably be gone before I get back, so uh, it was great having you over last night. Seriously.” Butz gave Miles a big smile that pinched his eyes, and it was blinding in its sincerity. “I know it got a bit serious there, but it was like, good serious. And it was totally fun meeting drunk Edgey for the first time. You’re actually pretty cool when you loosen up, you know that?”
Miles was affronted by the implications of that, but his headache was still a bit too pounding for him to work up any actual offense.
“I… also enjoyed myself a surprising amount, despite my reservations.” Miles admitted.
“Cool! In that case we gotta do it again sometime. My schedule’s crazy, so like, I’ll just text you whenever. Or you text me. Anyway, I gotta go! See ya later Edgey! And good luck with your thing with Nicky!”
Butz left before Miles could construct a follow up question, but he was starting to remember enough of the night before to piece together what he might have been talking about.
Warily, Miles reached into the pockets of his pants (which he was thankfully still wearing) and pulled out his phone.
At nearly two in the morning, Miles had sent the following text to Phoenix Wright:
‘Wright. We are friends. Friends spend social time together. Therefore, I propose we spend social time together.’
Then, at Butz’ prompting if Miles remembered correctly, he had sent a follow up message.
‘I am free most evenings. Butz has informed me you enjoy drinking socially. I too enjoy that. Should you be amenable, we should do so together.’
Miles groaned and fell back on the bed.
It was, admittedly, far better than it could have been. The messages were unbearably awkward and undeniably desperate, and from Wright’s point of view they would come from absolutely nowhere… but they did not, at least, fill Miles with the desire to once more disappear off the face of the Earth. Which, considering some of Butz’ suggestions that were starting to come back to him, had been a real and near possibility.
Ugh.
At least they were not cruel. Or rude. Or displaying some kind of character flaw any deeper than incurable social awkwardness. In fact, the messages revealed an undeniable vulnerability. It was obvious with every stilted word that Miles was desperate for Wright to spend time with him. Which was mortifying, certainly, but also… well. Perhaps Wright was owed some vulnerability after all Miles had done to him in the name of his own pride.
And regardless, what was done was done. He could hardly un-send the messages, now could he?
So Miles forced himself out of Butz’ sinfully comfortable bed, cleaned himself up as best he could, and made the walk of shame home with what scant dignity he had left.
**
He was still eating breakfast at his own house when the phone buzzed in his pocket. His chest clenched. Slowly he wiped the crumbs from his hands and reached to open his messages.
‘you actually hang out with larry??’
‘and what are you doing up so late???’
‘are you ’
The last text cut off short, and then nothing. Miles’ heart pounded in his chest as he waited for Wright’s next damned message.
Finally, five minutes later, his phone buzzed again. (Not that he’d taken his eyes off it once, in any case.)
‘are you asking me to hang out with you?’
With shaking fingers, it took Miles a moment to type out his simple reply.
‘Yes.’
‘oh’ was Wright’s nervewracking reply.
‘So. Do you wish to hang out? You can say no.’
Miles had added the last part impulsively, hoping to make his purpose as clear as possible. He didn’t want Wright to feel like he owed Miles anything, not when it was most certainly the other way around. And though Miles knew Butz had not been intentionally manipulative in sharing some of Wright’s secrets with him last night, and that some of those secrets had not even been shared on purpose… it was perhaps close in his mind, the reminder that Wright was as mortal as any other man. That Wright, despite all appearances, could be compelled to act against his will by forces far more mundane than a hostage threat. And though Miles wanted desperately to be closer to him, he only wanted it if Wright did too.
Wright didn’t reply. Not by the time Miles had finished breakfast, and not by the time he had to drive to the office.
In a feverish fit, Miles sent him another message just before he left.
‘Nevermind. I apologize for bothering you.’
The drive to the office was long after that.
But then, just as he was leaving the parking garage-
‘sorry!!! client call + maya showed up. its so hard to have your own office you prosecutors dont even know D:’
‘anyway, you didnt bother me. i like talking to you. even if we fight sometimes you ARE my friend. so yeah we should hang out. im free on saturday @ 7pm, that work for you? theres this bar right by our office ive been meaning to try out. a bit snooty for me but i figure itll be a perfect compromise for us ;)’
‘seriously. im glad you reached out. ive missed you.’
Miles had to duck into the stairwell to compose himself.
His eyes stung and his lips were smiling and he couldn’t stop them.
‘That works for me. Send me the address.’
And then, because Wright deserved it, and Miles wanted to be the kind of friend that Wright deserved, he worked up the courage for one more message.
‘I’ve missed you too.’