
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8455126.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      逆転裁判_|_Gyakuten_Saiban_|_Ace_Attorney
  Relationship:
      Karuma_Gou_|_Manfred_von_Karma/Mitsurugi_Reiji_|_Miles_Edgeworth,
      Mitsurugi_Reiji_|_Miles_Edgeworth/Naruhodou_Ryuuichi_|_Phoenix_Wright
  Character:
      Mitsurugi_Reiji_|_Miles_Edgeworth, Karuma_Gou_|_Manfred_von_Karma, Karuma
      Mei_|_Franziska_von_Karma, Naruhodou_Ryuuichi_|_Phoenix_Wright, Mitsurugi
      Shin_|_Gregory_Edgeworth_(mention)
  Additional Tags:
      Character_Study, Past_Child_Abuse, Past_Sexual_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-11-02 Words: 3103
****** Compartmentalization ******
by TheSilentUnderworld
Summary
     He never told anyone.
     And then, it was too late to tell anyone.
     You can't take a dead man to trial.
Organization was a Von Karma specialty.

Organization was simply another form of perfection, so of course it was.

Edgeworth compartmentalized everything to help in this pursuit, the honorary
Von Karma he had been. Cases, itinerary, friends, and emotions. Especially
emotions. All of it in his head like a neat little binder he could flip
through, add too, and edit.

He was going to look through their old home, enough time had passed, he had
learned to (he prayed) dissociate from how it made him feel, the place most
people might regard fondly. Edgeworth had conflicting emotions about it. On one
hand, he had been raised here. His little sister and he had learned everything
they knew within these walls and without it he might have grown up at the hands
of the state.

On the other, the man he once saw as a mentor, a god, a man he once dare he say
loved, had killed his real father and attempted to have him convicted for the
crime, of which he did not commit, and raised him foolishly, ignorantly under
this roof.

But those things he crushed down into little, thin, tearable, burnable pieces
of paper that he stuffed far, far back into his head. When they tried to pull
themselves to the front he grabbed white out.

██ ███ ██████ the man ██ ████ ███ ██ █ ██████, a god, █ ███ ██ ████ ████ ██ ███
loved█ ███ ██████ ███ ████ ██████ ███ █████████ ██ ████ him █████████ ███ ███
██████ ██ █████ ██ ███ ███ ███████

It was as easy as lying. Von Karma's knew how to lie. Especially to themselves.

Even so the home, all empty and dark in the moonlight, still made him shutter.
He had paused a moment when he pushed the key in the lock, gave himself ample
time to turn back. Instead he stepped forwards and his mind went blank and all
he could think of was that it was cold, it was a borderline castle, it was
winter.

'Of course it's cold' he remembered Manfred Von Karma saying, speaking to a
then 8 or 9 year old him. 'Its Germany, it's winter. Petulant child, how ever
will you learn anything if you do not even understand the weather?' It’s a
very, very vivid memory. It was the first time he realized that Von Karma was
not kind, and all of that fatherly action and soft tone was just to have Miles
consent to living under his wing.

He crumbles that up and ignores it. Von Karma is dead, dead men can't be put to
trial for child abuse. This emotion, like all of them (he was so taught) were
useless to his situation.

His hand drags across the wall while he walks down the entrance hallway, feels
the indentations and imperfections that wrought a building when no one is there
for upkeep. It is not falling apart, no not yet, Franziska wouldn't allow it,
but Edgeworth finds a sick satisfaction thinking about how it will, someday. No
matter how much or who tries to fight it, the building will fall and so with it
the Von Karma name.

While he walks past portraits upon portraits of past perfection he can think
only of how they are but ghosts. Manfred Von Karma is just a name now, like the
portraits on the wall.

But he knew each picture, had to memorize them and what they meant to history
under threat of missing supper.

He soon came to the last in the long line, Manfred, then Franziska. He glared
at the visage of the man, dead eyes staring back.

It was funny, he couldn't recall a single person who knew anything about the
dead Von Karma's but he and Franziska.

Some day that old world will be like bad memories. Burnt, edited, redacted, and
fixed.

He found comfort in that.

Miles makes his way into the dining room, takes a left when he could go
straight to the parlor, and feels the tension. Even in the dark like this, no
plates set, no food, he feels the urge to move quickly away from the head of
the table and sit to the right of it. That is where Von Karma sits- sat, and
always would. He was the head of the household, he was the authority. Edgeworth
and Franziska sat on his right and left respectively.

Edgeworth once sat there on accident, without realizing it, to do his studies.
He could still feel the sting on his cheek. How old was he then? 10? That was
old enough to be hit, he rationalized.

Despite better senses he looked at the chair, let his eyes linger on it, and
for a moment spite took his thoughts. Nothing could stop him from sitting, he
considered, before scoffing at himself. How petty.

Lying that it was just that, just petty, and not anxiety giving or set in
stone, he moved on to the sitting room. The fireplace sat untouched, the couch,
the armchair and coffee table covered in a thin sheet of dust. Edgeworth found
himself lighting the wood that still laid there, years unlit now. Matches were
always on the right of the mantle, under this little miniature globe made
before all 7 continents were known. He barely had to look to find them.

He turned to sit, to find a moment of peace, but like walking on shards of
glass it seemed every new movement caused him pain. The streaks, small- very
small and partially covered by new varnish- that were sunk in the wood under
the couch legs made him want to stop breathing, and for a moment he did.

Was it that hard?

He didn't want to recall the night Franziska was at show for her horses. The
first night he and Von Karma were truly alone but not the first time it
happened.

So he didn't.

He just walked away, down a new hall towards the bedrooms. He wishes his goal
didn't involve this, it could only get worse there.

He stepped into Franziska's room. Everything was ruffles, there were little
porcelain horses lined up neatly on the windowsill, and law books on the
bookshelf in the corner. This was a child's room, literature cataloging the
different degrees of murder did not belong here. He never thought about that
before.

His room was next. It was as orderly as he had left it, bed perfectly done,
papers, books, and binders (the metaphor was not lost on him) neatly stacked
and placed precisely where they belonged. By chance he picked that one up, only
realizing when he already had it in his hands.

It's where all of those letters went. The ones Phoenix wrote him, ever so
often. For years.

He never responded. Partially in fear of what it would mean to rekindle that
connection, partially in fear of what Von Karma would do about him seeking an
interpersonal relationship that wasn't strategically beneficial, but he kept
every letter. Each in their own plastic cover, each in order by date. He read
and re-read them, and could probably recite them from memory, like free-verse
poetry, even now.

Edgeworth kept this in his hands as he made his way to the master bedroom.

His free hand touched the wood of the door and felt the cold chill. Demons
lived here. They stayed right under the floorboards and slipped out through the
cracks at night. They would hold you down in bed and cover your mouth when you
cried- that’s how he had thought of it as a child. Monsters instead of men,
because men weren’t evil, were they?

Some were.

Demons were years gone. The demon was dead. He deserved closure. He deserved to
do what he had set out here to do. He squeezed the little binder in his hands,
a bible, a verse. He was stronger than this now.

The door opened with a distinct creek that he would know even on his deathbed.

Looking at the bed, dark and sunken, he wondered why he had never told anyone.
There was so much evidence, so absolutely many details that would lead an
investigator to the right conclusion. He'd like to say he didn't know any
better, that he was too young when it all started happening to know it was
wrong.

The moment he was given a book on law he knew exactly what was happening.

It was called coercion, what Von Karma used to keep him complacent. It was
codified as a duress crime. Such actions are used as leverage, to force the
victim to act in a way contrary to their own interests. Von Karma's were good
at coercion.

But he had believed it for a very, very long time. Every blatant lie and every
threat.

In a moment he wouldn't call a flashback he was 13 and sat on the end of that
bed, Von Karma in front of him.

'What did you do wrong.' The larger man, the adult enquired, knowing the
answer, in this stern tone that would bring a judge to their knees, that had.
Edgeworth was maturing at the time, had just started to in fact, but Von Karma
was always and would always be bigger than him.

'I... I, tried to tell-'

'No!' The tone was like a whip crack, it might as well have been. 'You lied,
Miles.' The informal name made his skin crawl, even then. 'Say it.'

'I... I lied to the detective.' He looked at his hands, busied himself with
them. The detective was working on a case with Von Karma. Edgeworth dared to
ask for help.

'About?'

'About, about...' He barely knew the word then, he shouldn't have had to know
the word.

'Rape.' It was so vile, Edgeworth cringed because the word made him feel dirty,
made him face the events. 'I have never raped you, Miles. What do I do?'

'Teach, teach me.'

'And when you do something wrong?'

'Punish me.' The detective hadn't heard it all before Von Karma interrupted,
came back in from another room. Edgeworth doubts they would have done anything
any way, being on the accused's payroll.

'Thats right.' Von Karma prowled forwards, a wolf looking at trapped, easy
prey. His shadow was over Miles in a perfect display of symbolism, in what he
knew as an adult to be intimidation. 'And what do I do when you lie?' The
answer was, usually, encourage it. Unless incriminating against him, that is.

'P-Punish me.' He closed his eyes, waited for a slap, a hit, anything. He had
grown accustomed to that. It didn't come, and Miles only opened his eyes when
he felt weight settle besides him.

Von Karma grabbed him, bent him over his leg, before Edgeworth could even
wonder what was happening. 'This is what you get for lying Miles.' He said, his
hand raised and came down harder than most of the slaps he threw. This was new,
and worse somehow, because at least when Miles got hit he was often standing,
able to stagger back and hold his face.

He had no such luxury now, his hands only fisted in the sheets. Even then he
knew he was too old for this. It became two, three, on the fourth Von Karma's
hand rested just a second too long. On the fifth he squeezed, laughed at the
little surprised, scared noise Miles made in response.

That night was the first night that what happened to him could truly be, under
law, categorized as rape. By technicality, every other instance would be
classified as molestation.

It didn't matter much to him while it was happening. All he remembers, in
detail, is that it hurt more than anything he had experienced prior, and hurt
for a long time after, and made him feel disgusting for the rest of his life.

He thinks that might be when he learned how to truly detach his mental self
from what was going on around him. He thinks, when his mind returns to the
present, that he wants to burn that bed and this house to the ground.

None of this is what he came here for. It was a piece of it, of this disgusting
thing he had to, in his heart, do. But it wasn't it.

He opened the nightstand drawer and picked up the key that was always well
hidden from strangers and even Franziska. It was buried under papers, a book,
and in an old glasses case. Miles was well acquainted with this damned key and
held it hard in his fists as he started out of the room, up the stairs, through
the loft, the library, and to another place he wanted to destroy. The office.

He looked at the desk with a mental wall up, protecting him from counting how
many times he had been bent over that, too. He stuck the key in the lock of the
middle drawer and pulled out three journals filled to the brim with writing,
pictures, and in some pages, CD's. When he was little he had always hated the
camera. He knew what it meant when he saw it.

These little booklets were why he never told as an adult. It was better to live
in silent agony than to have all of it, every disgusting thought, every lustful
look, and every illegal, unwarranted touch out for everyone and anyone to see.

Edgeworth looked down at the flash drive, newer than the journals but just as
familiar, left alone in the now empty drawer. He felt his stomach churn, too.

It was just barely morning, one or two am and maybe a month before he accused
Edgeworth of the murder, when Edgeworth was once more stuck in that mans
company.

It was probably the wine, he thinks, that spurred him into that little
outburst. Franziska had gone to bed (she had never been good at holding her
liquor), he and Von Karma were sitting in the upstairs loft drinking.

In a normal relationship this would be little more than a sign of respect, an
acknowledgment of adulthood by a parent, a relaxing evening talking as equals.
For a while it was but...

No, not in this house and not with this man. As soon as Franziska left he
changed, like a switch had flipped, once more took on that predatory persona he
used to keep Miles silent.

Von Karma was nearly on top of him, had him pushed to the arm of the couch,
when, like a bolt through him, he found the confidence to say 'No-!' and push
him back.

'No?' The rage burned cold in the older man, eyeing him like he might bite. He
might.

'I- I don't want to do this.' He was scared, an adult but a child stuck in fear
of a man he now matched heights with. 'If- if you make me do this I will go to
the police!'

Von Karma actually laughed, the wine most likely, and grabbed Edgeworth by the
throat. 'If you say a word I will leak every single thing we did onto the
internet. 'He was speaking too close to Edgeworth's face. 'You will be ruined.'

'What?' Edgeworth's eyes lit up with fear, his words were a croak under hand.

'If I am going to go down, you are coming with me, and I know how much you
value your reputation." He gritted his teeth, the grin is burnt into
Edgeworth's head even now. 'So I suggest you be quiet...' He was back on top of
Edgeworth, between his legs. '...and let this happen.'

That was the last time he let that happen, a month or so later Von Karma was
dead.

Miles put the journals on top of the binder and held the flash drive tight in
his hand before starting back down the stairs and into the sitting room.

The fire was still going, not as bright now, and he sat down in front of it.
Skimming over the journals was the same as walking through the home- Von Karma
had catalogued every incident, every moment, every sick idea he had about
Edgeworth within the content of these three journals.

It had been for his own sick pleasure first, Edgeworth hypothesizes as he turns
a page, sees a picture of himself too exposed, too young, on the floor here. He
was on his knees and he flipped the page before he can think about which time
that was.

It had become blackmail when Edgeworth gained any semblance of independence.

For a reason that escaped him he went through all of them, page by page,
picture by picture.

He started realizing that there was not enough new binder pages or pretty,
fixing whiteout in the world to let him compartmentalize all of this.

He firmly held the disgusting catalogues in his hand, cursed the man who wrote
them, and with less than rational thought hurled them into the fire place.

A dead man can't go to trial for rape.

The one on top opened with the force, to a page with a CD, a photo of mostly
Von Karma himself. Fire slowly erased the image, crawled over the man's
features and burnt them, destroyed them. The CD cracked audibly, making a
rainbow mosaic while the popping noises that followed gave a comfort Edgeworth
doubted he had ever felt before.

It felt good to destroy those. It felt good to be string-free. Edgeworth looked
at the flash drive in his palm and thought about setting it in the fire where
it belonged, to die like the originals of what was stored on it, like the man
who had made it.

But he sat up and put it on the end table. Some part of him wanted always to
have proof of it, a record that it happened and he was nothing less than a
victim of a manipulative sociopath. That if one day he broke the world would
know why.

He laid down on the couch and watched the fire blaze on with its new fuel, the
binder of Phoenix's letter presser tightly to his chest.

Everything went over in his head, he looked for the closure he so desired, a
conclusion, a moral.

He guessed it might be that he finally admitted to himself that this happened,
and it was real, and dare he say, he didn't deserve it. In his own way resolved
it, as much as it could ever be resolved.

It was far too late when his eyes started to get heavy, when the fire once more
began to dim. He fell asleep, in front of him the ashes of his past, to his
side proof that he was a survivor, and in his arms assurance that all the while
someone, somewhere, loved him.
 
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