pressure (pushing down on me)

turnabout memories

I.

2014

"Phoenix."

He blinks up at her from where he's slumped on her couch, scraping up a smile. It's a nice couch for a law office, he thinks idly, words moving like sludge through his skull. Square-like but still comfortable. "Huh?"

His eyes grudgingly focus on her face like a slow camera aperture, and he doubletakes at the sight of the clock behind her head. It's nearly 8pm. Shit. Get it together, Phoenix, this is her office, she can't go home until you do. "Oh! Jeez, I'm sorry, I know it's late and I—"

He's barely to his feet—only a little dizzy from vomiting up every crumb of breakfast he'd managed to force down in the courthouse men's room earlier—when she lifts a flat palm in his direction.

"Hold on, Phoenix."

She says his name like...like somebody else used to a long time ago, whenever he apologized for something unnecessarily. Looking up at her, cheeks red, he has to concede that Mia looks nothing like Gregory Edgeworth. The look on her face alone is more grave than Mr. Edgeworth ever dared to be in front of him.

"I want to apologize in advance if this is inappropriate," Mia begins slowly, voice soft with concern. "But...you don't look well."

Probably because he hasn't slept in days. He swallows thickly, disgust welling up in his stomach as he looks downward. He smells like sweat, layered and sour, and his scalp feels nasty from too much tacky hair gel and not enough soap. In the mirror earlier today, washing the acid from his mouth, he thought his reflection looked thinner, drawn pale with bruising dark circles. At home, his dorm looks like a tornado ripped through it, he hasn't gone to class in ages, his clothes are stained and rumpled—

And his girlfriend is going to prison for murders she absolutely committed. "Unwell" is probably too kind.

"Yeah," he says, aiming for sheepish. "Sorry. All the stress from the trial, you know? I'll be fine with some shuteye."

He struggles to keep his smile fixed, knowing it's a lie. But none of this is Mia's fault. Hell, without her, he'd be in pieces behind bars. Maybe even worse. He can keep it together in front of her, at least until he gets home.

The burden of her gaze remains steady, holding him in place. "Phoenix. It is alright if you aren't...okay, after all this. You just went through a traumatizing experience. Do you have someone you can talk to?"

He stares uncomprehending at her. "I—"

Her eyes soften further. "Do you...I know you're a legal adult, that you're in college, but...I didn't see any guardians there for you at the trial."

Phoenix can't hold her gaze, unwilling to watch her face swell in pity like he has so many times before. "Ah...my mom died when I was three. I aged out of the system when I graduated high school."

"I see," Mia says quietly. He waits for the inevitable followup, What about grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Anyone? but Mia holds a beat of thoughtful silence. He looks up, and the pity he was expecting is there, shining through brown eyes. But there's also something else. A weight in her expression, a knowing, that makes something in his chest clench tightly, like she's looking deeper and seeing something in him that he'd rather not acknowledge.

She reaches abruptly into her suit pocket and pulls something out. A slim white card. "Listen, Phoenix. You're a good guy. But I think you could use someone to talk to." Her serious expression flickers a bit, a ghost of a modest smile. "Someone who isn't a friend."