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It was strange how concrete soaked up blood as well as any paper towel. Red dribbled from the corner of his upturned lips, it splattered when it fell. Why was he still smiling? How was it that between hobbling steps, he had not so much as whimpered?

"Why would you do that?"

A wet spot had formed on his left side, the one he was using to support Phoenix. It was sticky, and an uncomfortable warmth was growing from the place. Trickles slid down his arm. Miles could visualize it, like raindrops on a window, racing each other. But he didn't dare stop to check, not when he needed to get Phoenix help.

"Why wouldn't I?" Phoenix asked, his voice as saccharine as the blood. "Those teenagers were making fun of you! And besides, you'd do the same!"

"I don't under-" they struggled to walk over the curb, his leg had been hurt badly. "-stand."

"You stood up to the entire class and our teacher, and we weren't even friends then," was his simple explanation. "A few teenagers is nothing."

"We're friends?"

Then he realized the question had most likely come out wrong, and hastened to apologize. Phoenix beat him to speaking.

"Well yeah, of course," he said, unflinching. He was not self-conscious in the slightest by saying so.

The word had always been strange to him. Sometimes his father addressed the prosecutor as My Learned Friend. It didn't matter if it was the lawyer with the ugly suit and the bad teeth, or Prosecutor Faraday, who always asked him out on "off the record" lunches. It was the proper address, yet it was oddly foreign.

Friend meant something different to adults than it did to little people, he reasoned. When he tested out the word, it was only a step away from sounding ridiculous. Like an eldritch name, trying to seem beyond the scope of humanity.

"You would do that again, because we're-" he struggled to pronounce the word. "-friends?"

"Yup."

"What if they had a switch knife, like the gangsters do?" Miles asked, thinking of how it could have been so much worse. Instead of tossing him around like their newest toy, they could have cut his hair and clothes to ribbons. Or forced him to carve insulting words on the inside of his arm, until they stayed there forever.

"I'd figure something out. And I know you would too!"

"Because we're friends?"

"Now you're getting it."

With each of these innocent remarks, he found less and less he wanted Phoenix as a friend. What if this sort of bond got him killed? Or worse, expelled from school?! Friendship would only drag Phoenix down with him, he refused to let it happen. He needed to do something, but what?

Their slow, looping walk eventually took them back home. As they trudged up the stairs to his house, he saw the first signs of discomfort on Phoenix. A little grimace formed, each jarring step making it worse. Miles couldn't even search for his key, his arms were too full, and he was tired. Instead, he knocked on the door until he was certain his father would come.

"Oh my."

Interrogation would come later, he knew from experience. Phoenix was gently lead to the bathroom. He brought clean clothes for Phoenix, and then returned to his bedroom. Still, he could hear their voices echoing through the hall.

"This'll sting a little," he warned.

A sharp cry, and an even faster apology. He paused unbuttoning his bloody shirt to listen.

"I-it's fine!" Phoenix dismissed. "Your hands are j-just cold!"

"Alright," he soothed. "Just take a breath, and then we'll try again."

What could possibly keep Phoenix Wright away from him? When he tried to think, all he could hear was the next sappy declaration he would make in the name of friendship. Something about walking through fire, or confronting four times as many teenagers. Then he recalled hands, yanking out tufts of his hair. No, he would just go through more pain that way. There had to be something else which could restrain him...

That was it! He nearly fell over when the idea struck, since he was in the middle of changing. Phoenix might be above picking fights with the wrong people. Also that one time where he had fallen down the stairs with only bruises to show proved he was above physics. But no one was above the law. It was the fourth-most commonly yelled phrase in court, so it had to be true! Inspiration did not last nearly as long as he hoped it would have. By the time he had pulled out lined paper and something to write with, he was lost.

Mostly because he did not know how to spell Official Restraining Order.

Where was the legal dictionary? That would help sort everything out. He found the book piled beneath the others, and carefully pulled it out without causing a spill. Then he searched through the pages for the term he was thinking of. If he couldn't spell the word, then the chances were Phoenix wouldn't know it was wrong. However, he needed the writ to look convincing enough to fool him. With long strokes, his pen curled across the page. He added many lines to his capital letters, like he had seen a judge do before.

In the meantime, his father had moved on to questioning period. It always happened after ruffians decided to steal his school things, or when they pushed him around. His voice crept lower, until only hear muffled words were audible.

"-parents home?"

"- my dad I-"

"-the hospital."

Phoenix groaned with this. Being a magnet for disaster developed a dislike of hospitals in him. So stopping their friendship before it could escalate further was really doing him a favour. Phoenix shouldn't have to suffer for him.

Rummaging through his drawers, he got a ruler and pen. He used them to make a perfect blue line beneath the title. That would make it look more professional. He drew a box around the date and the time in the upper corner, and made spaces for where signatures would go. He blew on the ink, letting it dry, and then took out a black pen for the fake signatures. They hadn't started cursive in school yet, but he figured out how to join all the letters together.

A grim satisfaction filled him when he stared at it. The finished product was perfect. The clauses and their subsections were all neatly numbered and lettered. There was a judge's approval, and a witness signature. (Miles didn't actually know if it needed one, but decided more names meant more official.) He was particularly smug for closing all of the loopholes.

Phoenix could not speak to him, use Larry as a messenger, write letters, call him, use a walkie-talkie, and create a radio or television broadcast to address him. That covered everything. Phoenix would be so-well protected by this restraining order, he would never have to go to the hospital again! No more disgusting food and needles in his arms. He wouldn't be coughed on by other sick children.

His ward mate wouldn't die in the bed next to his like last time.

The restraining order was folded in neat thirds, he ran his thumbnail against the creases. Then it was tucked in a manila envelope, the appropriate stamps were licked and stuck. That would make it look like the courthouse had mailed it to Phoenix.

"Father?"

He quietly walked down the hall, and peeked into the bathroom. Phoenix wasn't there, but his father was. He put away the bandages and disinfectant in the high cupboard before turning to him.

"Mister Wright just picked up your friend. I'm sorry, but there was no time for goodbyes."

The word was back again, and it made his stomach lurch horribly.

"Does he have to go to the hospital?"

"Well," he paused, to swipe at the speckles of blood on the counter. "It looks like he will need some stitches."

"What else?"

"We'll just have to wait and see what the doctor says."

Miles wasn't happy with answer, but didn't say so. He knew that meant his father was hiding something. Part of him longed to step into the bathroom, and demand to know what would happen to his- Phoenix. The more sensible side knew that he should stay in the shadows of the threshold. Otherwise he would spot-

"What are you holding?"

Too late.

"A letter."

His face softened at this.

"Did you make your friend a get-better-soon card?"

"It's a restraining order."

The fuzzy expression was gone now.

"Erm, pardon me?"

He held the letter out in explanation.

"Miles, this says restitution order."

The dictionary had steered him wrong! How could that be?! He reached for the letter, but his father refused to hand it back.

"Care to explain your reasoning behind it?"

"If Phoenix is my friend that means he'll keep getting in trouble."

His father narrowed his eyes. Miles wanted to step back, but the sharp gaze rooted him to the spot. He knew that look, it was the cross-examination stare. From his eyes alone, it was possible to see him organizing the information. Sorting and linking aspects together, coming up with calculated responses to fill in the blanks. Now he knew what a witness on the stand felt like, being so systematically measured.

"Do you really think Phoenix will stop standing up for others, if not you?"

"No."

"And do you plan on stopping, when someone acts in a way you disagree with?"

"No," he miserably repeated.

Two questions were all it took to shatter his testimony. He hung his head, as if it could hide the flaws in his plan. His weapons of choice- logic, the law- had been turned against him. A crushing force swelled from inside his throat. Then he remembered hands closing around Phoenix's neck. He was so small the fingers had neatly meshed together.

"Then what will a falsified restraining order accomplish?"

"Nothing."

Somehow in that moment, the word was more difficult to say than friend. The gleaming of the bathroom tiles was too bright, he was blinking furiously. Yet little drips of water still collected in his eyes, and weighed down his lashes. And he pictured droplets of blood, sliding off Phoenix's scraped knees.

"And there you have it," was his closing statement.

He could always find comfort in the hard facts and the predictable, procedural methods which were used in the courtrooms. There were rules for everything, it made interactions with others so much easier. But the law had sided against him. His dictionary mislead him, made his hard work look like a fool's.

Was Phoenix Wright somehow above the law as well?

"There's nothing I can do," he thought despairingly.

"Would you like to know the proper definition of restitution?"

Humiliated, he refused to speak. The floor was quickly becoming a swirl of white before his eyes. Square tiles blurred together, and it stung.

"It means turning something back to its original state, as best you can. We have it in law to help replace what was taken from the victim."

"B-but I said thank-you!" Miles protested, offended at the idea he wouldn't have.

"I think you should thank him with a little more than that. Restitution isn't all that bad of an idea you know..."

TURNABOUT LINE BREAK

As it turned out, Phoenix didn't have to stay in the hospital, he just needed a few day's worth of bed rest. Phoenix was swathed in blankets. His parents had rolled him into the sheets and tucked the corners under the mattress so he couldn't escape anywhere. Knowing how much he liked to brush off his injuries, Miles thought it was a smart decision. The quilt was drawn up to his chin, and he had numerous pillows propped up. Only his arms were above the covers. The wrist of one was encased in a hard plaster cast. It crumbled chalky white.

"Hey."

A forest of get-better cards were on his dresser. Miles stood on his toes to make sure that his was placed the closest to the front. Then he turned to Phoenix.

"Hello."

He blinked sleepily, but otherwise did not try to move.

"How bad is it?"

"Less stitches than last time, but more casts than before. I've never actually had one. You wanna' be the first to sign it?"

"Yes please."

A box of markers was sitting on his nightstand, waiting for him. He wrote his name without any large flourishes or loops. Just the simple blocky letters Miles knew were correct.

"I brought you the next edition of your favourite manga."

Now his eyes lit up, and he stirred a little. Exciting him might have been a mistake, if he was supposed to stay in bed and not move.

"How did you know it comes out on Saturdays?"

"You've told me before."

"But I didn't think you were," he paused to yawn. "Listening."

"I always listen," he gently said.

"You do?"

"Yes, because we're f-friends," he answered. Then he swiftly changed the topic. "There's a prosecutor who wants you to testify against those teenagers."

"They were arrested?"

"Yes," he decided not to mention how another one of their attacks lead to a charge of attempted murder. "The detective of the case and Father are talking to your parents now."

"He's helping the state?" Phoenix skeptically asked.

"He's helping you. Besides, he's friends with the detective anyway. Will you do it?"

Despite how warm he must have been under the blankets, Phoenix shuddered.

"Yeah," he closed his eyes. "They were scary."

"Were you afraid?"

"Not until it was over. I was scareder for you."

That wasn't a word, but he wasn't going to correct him now. After all, he wasn't able to spell restraining correctly. Not even with a dictionary's help.

"I wish you hadn't stood up to them."

"I guess I was sorta' dumb," he admitted.

Was it even possible for an inanimate object to betray him? It couldn't be loyal, not like Phoenix.

"But you do reckless things as well!" Phoenix continued. "So you can't talk."

"I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I don't want you hurt either."

They fixed each other with stares, wanting their friend to back down. They were both too headstrong to be bystanders. Faces began to redden, and eyes prickled. Tears- simultaneously furious and upset- clouded their vision.

In the end, they would never be able to tell who started to cry first.

Fin