Place: Some Golden Space

[professeurdeloi]

When he'd found the set of rooms, he hadn't been thinking of anything in particular, that he was aware of. But the resemblance of them to his college rooms in the year he had spent at Cambridge was striking enough that he had occupied them almost at a whim.

The main door is heavy and slightly too low for modern comfort. It opens onto a room that is high-ceilinged and grand; large, but not too large to lose its cosiness. The walls are panelled, the wooden floor varnished and mostly bare, the ceiling painted plain white. On the wall, opposite the door, there's a tall, arched window that reaches almost to the ceiling, heavy burgundy tapestry drapes pulled back, to reveal a snowy scene. There's a cushioned window seat at its base, and it always seems to be winter outside.

The wall to the left of the window houses the centrepiece of the room - a large, tall stone fireplace with a small fire in the grate that is lit most of the time - a pile of small logs stacked on the hearth beside it. There is a large mirror over the mantlepiece and  a small wooden carving of a green man propped up against a few leatherbound books of poetry. In front is a deep rug, an armchair, a small low table and a large leather sofa. The latter has a grey wool blanket thrown over it and a few cushions piled up against one arm.

Either side of the fireplace are heavy oak doors. One leads to a surprisingly modern bathroom and the other to a small study, lined with bookshelves and with an antique oak desk under the small, deep window - which also looks out on the same scene as its larger counterpart. On the desk are papers, a fountain pen, and a small laptop.

To the right of the window in the main room is a large wooden bedstead - the bed itself neatly made with a feather comforter and white sheets, a cover matching the burgundy of the curtains folded partly back over those. On one side is a nightstand, on the other, a rug and the doors of a small walk-in closet. On the nightstand is a small  vase containing three dark pink, heavily scented roses.

On the same wall as the door is a bookcase and a long, low cupboard that houses some crockery and a small, built in refrigerator. On the counter top is an electric kettle and yesterday's copy of Le Monde. It is always there, and always the most recent copy. He has given up trying to understand how it happens.

The bookcase is filled with a mixture of law, history, philosophy and poetry books - some were here when he arrived, and some he has borrowed from the libraries he has found here. There is also a small stereo and a selection of CDs.

There are no personal belongings, save for the books and CDs, and a few things he has been given since he arrived. Woodsmoke, floor polish, coffee and tobacco mingle with the scent of the roses and the air in here is always slightly cool, as if winter is encroaching from the view outside.

"Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them..."  - Rupert Brooke

Comments

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

The glare is certainly an improvement and he's happy to return it, setting the bottle between his leg and the window.

I don't need you to do anything, Edgeworth, except let me sit with you without questioning my damn motives, you prick.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He glances at Wright, his face impassive, but his mouth set in a hard line. He knocks back the remainder of the Scotch in his glass, his eyes not leaving the other man's.*

I'm not a child, Wright. I don't need your damn company. Or your abuse.

*And he swings himself up off the seat in one movement, pausing briefly to steady himself with a hand flat against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment until the dizziness passes. Then he crosses the room, slamming the empty tumbler onto the mantlepiece in passing.

His hands are still shaking as he reaches into the refrigerator icebox for the vodka, but he can't tell if it's from the cold or from something else.*

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He watches him, standing up as Edgeworth gets to his feet, eyes narrowed angrily.

Drinking yourself into a stupor isn't going to help any.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

Mind your own damned business. You don't know me, Wright, and I don't know you. I think you made that perfectly clear.

*And he unscrews the lid of the vodka without turning round, taking a drink straight from the bottle, wincing slightly and the iciness of the liquid. He stares at the wall for a moment, then closes his eyes.

You didn't see it.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

Oh fuck you, Edgeworth. Until that got brought up, you and I seemed to know each other pretty damn well. I'm tired of blaming myself for it and being blamed by you and Miles over it. You want to hash out your problem with it with me, do it when you're not downing alcohol like it's water.

He stops as Edgeworth drinks, scowling.

I saw the result. That was enough.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He turns around to face the other man, taking another swig of the vodka; the coldness of the liquid chilling his throat for a few moments before the heat of the alcohol kicks in.*

I hardly think you're fit to lecture me on my drinking habits, Wright.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He reacts before he can stop himself, hand curling into a fist as he hits Edgeworth across the cheek. It's a good enough hit, the Scotch only just starting to effect him, though he's sure it will hit hard in a minute.

He glowers, dropping his hand to his side, daring Edgeworth to hit him back with a single look, the desire to take out everything he'd been holding back for weeks on the other man rising up in him so quickly that he nearly strikes him again.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*The alcohol is dulling his perceptions, and his subsequent reactions are slower than usual, so he's not expecting the punch.

The force of it knocks him sideways and against the cupboard; his head connecting with the wall behind him and the bottle hitting the floor with a crack as it falls out of his hand, showering them both with alcohol as it tips over too sharply.

It doesn't smash, just rolls in a circle on its side, vodka pouring out onto the wooden floor, first as a gush, and then as a trickle.

For a moment, he can taste blood in his mouth where he bit his tongue as his head hit the wall. He leans back heavily on the cupboard, his hand to his face; shock replacing anger, just briefly.

And then his anger flares again, and he raises his arm, backhanding Wright across the face with as much force as he can manage.*

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He was expecting the blow, but he doesn't move, taking it. The force sends him into the other wall, refusing to allow himself to be knocked down, grabbing the frame of the door to keep from falling over, head bowed.

Gingerly, he touches the side of his face, smirking as he slides down the wall to the floor, looking at the bottle lying between them.

You should work on that.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

Fuck you, Wright.

*But his voice is hoarse as he crosses the room back to the window, sitting down heavily on the window seat, elbows on his knees and leaning forward. He extracts his cigarettes from his vest pocket.

His hands are shaking as he lights one, replacing the pack, then he hooks the Scotch from where Wright had left it, uncapping it and taking a swig straight from the bottle, swearing sharply as it stings his bitten tongue.

He doesn't look up from the floor, just sets the bottle down next to his foot when he's done, cap still off.

He runs a hand through his hair, covering his face*

That bastard raped him, Wright. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

It takes him several minutes to work up the desire to even try and move after Edgeworth speaks, picking up the vodka bottle and downing what's left of it. A few mouthfuls and he hisses in pain as he swallows. He leaves the bottle on the floor.

He works himself up into standing, walking back over to Edgeworth and collapsing onto the window seat beside him; leaning against the cold window, shivering slightly.

Do you have to blame yourself for everything?

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He doesn't answer for a while, taking a drag on the cigarette and another swig of the Scotch. His voice is flat again now, the anger drained out of him*

I blame myself when he trusted me to help him, but then put himself in danger to save me. If he hadn't done that...

...now that bastard's free again, and I'm damn sure he's not done with his revenge. That Klavier was just the start.

*He's silent then, unmoving, the cigarette forgotten in his fingers.*

Christ, what a mess.

*He can see Wright shaking slightly from the cold from the corner of his eye and he shifts slightly, nodding to the other side of the room.*

There's a blanket on the sofa.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He's safe now. That's the important thing, Edgeworth. You can't blame yourself for something that he did on his own. He knew the risks, I'm sure.

Clutching his head, he grabs the bottle and cigarette from Edgeworth's hands; taking a mouthful of the alcohol and swallowing it with a grimace before setting the Scotch down between them. Taking a drag from the cigarette, he holds it idly between his fingers as he thinks.

I'll do what I can to help, Edgeworth.

He eyes the blanket from where he's sitting, debating with himself whether he wants to get up or not. After a minute, he stands, crossing the room and grabbing it, pulling it around his shoulders. Sitting down slowly, feeling a bit off-balance now, he takes another drag and offers the cigarette back to Edgeworth, exhaling slowly.

Thanks.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He remembers the text message that the older Klavier has shown him, and shakes his head, taking another swig of the Scotch before speaking.*

He'll never be safe, Wright. Not while he's here and the Devil walks free. None of them are.

*He's tired now, but his mind keeps running on the Klavier he couldn't find, der Leibhaftige's own brother.

And then there is Kristoph's brother, oblivious to what has happened, and vulnerable as a result. He needs to warn them, but he can't risk being seen there, not after this; not when there was a chance that he might be seen, and the dots joined.

He nods to the thanks, accepting the cigarette and taking a long drag before he sits back, the window cold against his back.

Thank you, Wright. But I don't know that any of us can do anything... except perhaps for Kristoph.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He sighs heavily, crossing his arms as he leans forward, resting them on his knees, trying to think. Closing his eyes, he nods, too unwilling to do anything but try to push the image that Klavier had presented in the infirmary.

If there's anything I can do to help him, let him know...

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He looks over and nudges Wright's arm with the bottle, holding it out without comment.*

To help Klavier?

...Or did you mean Kristoph?

*He pauses, his gaze not leaving the back of Wright's head.*

I was not aware that you knew him, Wright.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He accepts the bottle with a silent, "thank you," taking a drink from it before offering the bottle back, looking at Edgeworth and shrugging.

Both, but I meant Kristoph I think.

Stealing back the cigarette, he sighs before putting it to his mouth and taking a drag from it before speaking.

I met him in the church. Bit of an asshole, not that you aren't so I suppose it works, but you can tell he's better than the others if you know how to read people. Or talk to him long enough.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*There's a laugh, short and harsh, at the implied insult. Then he takes back the bottle, putting it to his lips and taking a long swig, before resting his head back against the cold glass and closing his eyes for a moment.*

I suppose there are worse things to have in common.

*His voice is dry at that, and he glances towards the other man afterwards.*

He's a friend, Wright. I doubt he would say the same of me, but that does not prevent me from being concerned about his welfare.

I doubt that he would accept help from anyone, however.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

I figured as much.

He rubs his forehead lightly and chuckles, honestly amused.

He's still a bit like the Kristoph I knew. I'm sure he hates me, which makes it all the more entertaining.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He raises an eyebrow at that, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag before he speaks.*

Have you given him reason to? I don't believe he even knows the Phoenix Wright in his world, although his brother does.

*And then he sighs, leaning forwards to place the bottle on the floor. The movement makes him feel slightly nauseous, and he stays where he is for a moment, eyes closed.*

I don't know why I feel I owe you an explanation, Wright.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head, sitting up and leaning against the window.

I'm joking.

Content to stay where he is for a moment, letting the alcohol warm him, though he watches Edgeworth carefully, frowning at his last comment. It wasn't like Edgeworth and that's enough for him to drop the facade, tucking the blanket around his shoulders a bit more.

You don't have to do that.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

I am quite aware of that.

*He takes another drag on the cigarette, not looking round. His fingers brush the top of the bottle, almost hooking it for a moment, but he hesitates and lets it be, the fuzziness in his head already pronounced enough. He sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.*

I suppose that you saw the Kristoph Gavin that was caged. I gather most people did.

The Kristoph that I know... that you met. That was his doing.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He remembers that so easily that he half starts, not surprised really. Clutching his head suddenly, he nods, sighing. Adding that imagine to the one of Klavier only makes him want another drink to drown it out, but he keeps still, the cold glass against his back soothing.

I suspected, but...

Unable to bring himself to speak more, he falls quiet, turning slightly to look outside, features blank as he tries to think clearly.

You don't have to tell me this, Edgeworth.

[professeurdeloi.livejournal.com]

*He can hear the strain in Wright's voice even without looking around.*

I helped him. Myself and Klavier.

*And he's silent for a while then, running a hand through his hair and staring across at the fire, although all he can see is Klavier - the pain in his eyes as he bandaged broken fingers - and the nausea returns.*

Ever since I realised the true nature of this place I have been afraid, Wright. Of someone... of something. Of a version of myself who had never been saved. Who survived, somehow - who never went to trial; never learned the truth - never had a Wright to make him face it.

*He pauses for a moment as he smokes, eyes still closed and the after taste of the Scotch bitter in his throat.*

I don't know what I would do if such a person ever came here. I don't know how I would feel.

Kristoph does.

[hobophoenix.livejournal.com]

He listens silently to all this, taking it in with as little bias as he can manage. It's easier than he thought, but he sighs. He'd thought about it himself. How would be respond to such people. Some version of Phoenix Wright, twisted enough to do things that he couldn't ever bring himself to think on. Edgeworth's trial; failing to save the man from one death so he could have another. Engarde. Dahlia. Gavin.

In the face of an Edgeworth that was unsaved, it's nothing, but he can understand that fear and at least partially understand Kristoph's nightmare turned reality. But he can't think of anything to say, pulling his legs up onto the seat and crossing his arms over them, absorbing everything that Edgeworth says.