so @randomdinomaiz you chose...an angsty one but i kind of love it. basic premise is...miles, directly post-RFTA, wakes up in the body of his future self, eight years later...in bed with a sleeping Phoenix at his side, and a wedding band on his finger.
a snippet for you:
Miles opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling.
At first, the confusion he feels is simple, unalarming. He squints in low light, drifting in the feeling that he is not in his own bed, looking at his own ceiling, in his own Los Angeles apartment. He patiently waits for the feeling to abate, for the typical flow of memories that will explain how he arrived here. It’s not so unsurprising a sensation, he reasons, surveying minute cracks in plaster, when he has only been in Europe for two days. Sleeping in hotels can often be an imbalancing experience.
Moments pass, and curiously, the feeling does not fade with helpful memories of settling in this space the night before, or falling asleep in this bed. As his mind casts aside the heavy cloak of sleep, clarity bleeding into his awareness like color, he comes to realize that the ceiling is not, in fact, the ceiling of his Parisian hotel room.
And the low snoring in his ear is not, in actuality, the rumble of an oddly guttural air conditioning unit.
Oh, my Lord, he thinks blankly. Did I invite a stranger into my room last night?
He flips frantically through the scrapbook of his Very Sober memory of last night, and thinks, with something approaching panic, that he certainly did not.
As slowly as he dares, he twists his head on his pillow, craning towards the source of the muffled snoring at his ear. What he finds is a face, half-buried in a mattress, that evaporates the oxygen from his lungs.
Phoenix Wright is asleep next to him.
Uncomprehending, Miles stares at his face. The softened plane of his nose and open mouth, the unmistakable bolt of his dark brow. He wasn’t sure he would ever see the man again. Writing the note he did, leaving it on his desk, he’d been almost certain of it.
How can you be here? he wonders, disbelieving. How did you find me?
Did you chase me?
A wave collides with his stomach, sundering, dragging severed pieces of him into an unseen pit.
You cannot save me from this, he thinks. Wright continues to snore as the warmth of amazement is smothered to nothing, cruel non-feeling trickling into his bones like thin rivers. You cannot fix me. No one can.
