Chapter Text
Klavier swept his hair from his eyes as he left the stage. It was damp with sweat—all of him was damp with sweat, from his impeccable waves of hair to his thin, silvery shirt to his horrible, wonderful leather pants that he loved but—Gott, there were some things about summer in LA that he hated. He could feel sweat pooling in the small of his back.
He stripped off his shirt as he went, and noted with an absent grin the swell in the screams behind him. Once he was free of their sightlines he dropped his exaggerated saunter and made a beeline for his dressing room.
He left his shirt in the corner and collapsed into the chair, letting himself savor, just for a moment, the post-show high. It had been a good show. He was exhausted, but it had been a good show—the kind of show he used to have with the band, where he’d come off stage like a man coming down from an orgasm, legs and hands shaking, his whole body unfamiliar as he reclaimed it, slowly and disbelievingly, from music itself. His fingers and throat ached.
It was the first time one of his solo concerts had felt anything like the Gavinners had, the first time Klavier had felt anything like himself since—well. He smiled at his reflection. “You’re coming back, baby,” he murmured into his own eyes, and then pulled open the drawer of his dressing room table and removed a thick docket of papers.
He’d just found the pen amidst his many varied make-up brushes when someone in the hallway boomed, “I swear, he knows who I am—“
He winced. He did. Indeed, it was impossible not to recognize those vocal chords.
He heard his bodyguards mutter something, and then Apollo Justice shouted, “Prosecutor Gavin!”
Klavier stood, stretched—three vertebrae in his spine shifted with a satisfying crunch—and pasted on a sweet smile. He stuck his head through his dressing room door. “Ja?”
Justice seemed almost surprised to see him. He was mostly blocked by the wall of bouncers, but his spikes of hair and earnest face peered around them. “T-tell your guards to let me through, please,” he said at a more normal volume, although his face was still red.
Klavier made a show of thinking about it, emerging more fully from his dressing room to lounge against the doorway. He toyed with the pen, spinning it between his fingers. “Mm, let me see—what is your name again?”
Justice’s jaw clenched, and he went even redder. It was fascinating. “D-don’t be ridiculous, you—“
Klavier snapped his fingers, relenting. “Herr Forehead! Of course. Come through, come through.”
His security parted, and Justice stepped between them, muttering something to himself. Klavier blinked. He was—dressed down, was the only word for it, in a plain blazer, a band tee for some band Klavier had never heard of and jeans that were relatively tight even by the standards set by Klavier’s leather pants. If it weren’t for his terrible hair and pinched expression, he might look normal—even good—this casual. As it was, it was like seeing a turtle without its shell.
It was clear that Justice wasn’t comfortable in his clothes either—or perhaps not comfortable with Klavier’s, or lack thereof. He thought briefly about retrieving his shirt from the corner as Justice followed him into his dressing room, but decided against it. Nothing wrong with letting the opposition stew in its own discomfort awhile.
He gestured to the only chair not covered in costumes or guitars, and Justice took it, looking around with wide eyes despite himself. Klavier smiled at him, a real smile this time. He wrapped an arm around a spare mic-stand and used it as a support—his legs still a little too jelly to hold him up property—as he studied Justice and waited.
Herr Forehead seemed to be trying to find his sense of righteous rage, but kept getting distracted, his eyes flickering over everything in the room except Klavier himself. When Klavier delicately cleared his throat, Justice glared at him. “What?!”
Klavier stared at him. “Eins,” he said, holding up his thumb, “you have not told me why you are here, und zwei,” he raised another finger and an eyebrow, “you are wearing jeans.”
“I do own clothes other than my court stuff,” Justice said sullenly.
Klavier shrugged, standing up straighter as he did so. He ran his fingers up the mic stand until he was holding it like a spear, not entirely ready to let it go. “News to me,” he said mildly.
“Anyway,” Justice protested, “you’re wearing lipstick.”
Klavier blinked, and then smirked despite himself. “Only a bit of gloss,” he purred. He was also wearing eyeliner and gold dust across his cheekbones, but he thought it best not to mention that.
“Whatever,” said Justice, and took a breath, his face growing serious. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
Klavier frowned at him, resisting the urge to say, what, speaking to you in my dressing room? “You are going to have to be more specific.”
“This!” Justice snapped, waving a hand around him as if that explained anything. “The concert, the whole—everything! You know the Richten Trial is tomorrow, when was the last time you even reviewed the case—“
Klavier sighed, letting the mic stand go. “If you will turn your eyes slightly to your right,” he said calmly, “you will see that I was doing just that before you interrupted.”
Justice blinked, then looked at the docket on the dressing table. “This is—“
“My case notes, yes,” Klavier said. “Which by rights you should not even be looking at. You have come here to yell at me, because you think I am not taking this seriously.”
“You were reviewing them now? It’s 1 AM, the trial starts in seven hours!”
Klavier waved an arm at him, trying to gesture him up and out of the chair. “Seven hours that I would appreciate you not wasting, Herr Justice.”
Justice blinked at the use of his name, and then looked, of all things, sad, completely ignoring Klavier’s prompting. “Prosecutor Gavin,” he said softly, “I don’t want to face you in court if this is the way you’re going to treat the cases you prosecute.”
Klavier crossed to him and pulled him bodily up by the wrist. "Out of my chair," he said, his exhaustion no longer pleasant, "and out of my dressing room. This is a murder case, the murder of an innocent woman, and you have no idea how seriously I am taking it."
Justice let himself be pulled upward, and there was a moment when they were toe to toe—like boxers, perhaps. Klavier was used to feeling the intellectual animosity of the man; he knew how he argued and what he looked like when he was certain or uncertain, right or wrong. But what passed between them now was some more physical, antagonistic spark, a small shock of tension that left Klavier a little breathless. Justice's eyes met his and he said, a little unsteadily, "So tell me."
Klavier blinked at him, his mind gone soft with—music, exhaustion, weary anger, something. "I am serious," he said simply, holding Justice’s eyes. "Very. I always am about court."
Justice's too-large bracelet, which had stuck partly up his forearm, slid down and hit Klavier's fingers where they still grasped the defense attorney's wrist. He let go, and Justice stepped away from him, nodding slightly to himself as if he'd gotten what he wanted.
"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, a little awkwardly. He turned to go, and then paused in Klavier's doorway. "I-it was a good show," he said without turning around. "You look good."
Klavier sank back into his dressing room chair and watched him go, idly appreciating the cut of his jeans. There was more to Apollo Justice than his forehead, it seemed.
He didn't let his thoughts linger, though, turning them instead to the papers at his table. He'd been telling Justice the truth—now that his concert was over, this case had his full attention. Justice's client, Marcus van Richten, was a clothing magnate—rare for the young attorney, who, like his new mentor, tended to defend those with no means to defend themselves, including money. He was also...unzuverlässig. Untrustworthy. In Klavier's eyes, entirely and obviously guilty. But he'd been wrong before. Very wrong.
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose to attempt to stem the oncoming headache, and reviewed the facts.
The victim was Marina Masters, a model who had been in Richten's employ until six months ago. She had been the face and form of their new line of autumn dresses, until she was fired for allegedly stealing $50,000 from Richten's personal bank account. That case had been dismissed because no one could actually prove she'd done it—Richten claimed it was her, and could be no one else, but there was no sign of the money itself and the theft had been committed wirelessly, with an online trail so convoluted that no one had managed to trace it. The only evidence against her was a blurry photo that could have been anyone with her coloring, entering a bank that no one could be sure was even the source of the theft. The charges were dropped, but Marina was left with no job and very little money, much of her savings being tied up in legal fees.
Two weeks later, Marina had taken a job with Richten's biggest rival, Joseph Jormand, and a week after that she'd been found dead in her apartment, strangled, the ligature marks at her throat matching the threaded gold-and-silk belt from Richten's newest design. The murder weapon itself had been found in Richten's desk, coiled between the false and real bottom of a drawer, the silk frayed from stress. Skin and hair follicles had been retrieved from it; both matched Marina Masters' DNA.
There was no doubt in Klavier's mind that Richtens was guilty, but there was also no doubt in his mind that he was missing something. There was too much mystery surrounding the theft, the motive was too thin—if it were about the money, why had Richten waited until months after the courts had failed to give him justice to mete out some of his own? Was it the second betrayal, Marina beginning to work for his enemy, that broke him? And what reason did Justice have to take the case in the first place?
He ran a hand over his face and stood, tucking the docket into his briefcase and stooping to retrieve his shirt before he left. The stadium was silent now—hours since security had moved his fans away—and the streets were just as quiet, the only noise his own motorcycle.
With the wind drying the sweat on his skin he found his thoughts turning to Apollo Justice. Why had he come to confront Klavier? Out of disappointment in general, built up over months of Klavier leading his double life? Or did he have some interest in making sure Klavier was sharp for this case?
The more he thought about it, the more that made sense. Everything about Richten marked him not as a client that Justice would take on, but one that Kristoph would have: rich, misogynistic, and obviously guilty as hell—so why was Justice defending him? Had he not escaped so fully from Kristoph's influence as Klavier had thought?
There was another possibility—one that folded both the reason for Justice's visit and the reason for his taking the case into one.
Klavier had been perhaps a bit—obvious, of late. He made no secret of it: he enjoyed working across from Herr Forehead, enjoyed it much more than working with any other defense attorney, despite the fact that Justice kept winning. So he'd been calling in old favors and perhaps performing a few new ones in order that he be consistently chosen to prosecute Justice's cases.
There was a chance, no matter how slight, that Justice had taken this case so that Klavier would be the one prosecuting it. Klavier had never seen any use for false modesty—he knew he was good, and he knew Justice knew it too: part of the reason he loved to work opposite the man was that it was a challenge for both of them. He liked to see Justice sweat, to see him struggle to come out on top. If he was right, Justice had chosen to face him in court because the case was more complicated than it seemed, because there was some evidence he'd found that threatened to clear Richten's name and he knew any other prosecutor would be brought down by it. His presence in Klavier's dressing room meant he thought even Klavier, were he not at the top of his game, might be brought down by it.
Justice had come to him tonight because he needed to lose this case, and Klavier was the only one he trusted to defeat him.
The thought was—startling, and flattering. Klavier killed the engine of the bike, some of its warmth staying low in his stomach even after he'd swung himself off and away.
He woke up after four hours of sleep feeling terrible and wonderful all at once, the musician's hangover fighting for dominance with the razor-sharp readiness of the prosecutor. He sat up, blinking away images of Marina Masters' dead face and the earnest eyes of Apollo Justice both, and got ready for court. He chose his least ostentatious suit, but at the last moment, seized by some spirit of mischief, he brushed a layer of shining pink gloss over his lips.
Justice was already there when he got to the courthouse, standing with his client waiting for the courtroom to clear. He actually smiled when he saw Klavier, and Klavier smiled back, and saw Justice's eyes drift to his mouth, and saw Justice's smile turn to a scowl, and smiled wider. Message received, Herr Forehead, but Klavier is still Klavier.
Still, beyond the smile and the scowl both were an unfamiliar nervousness, a little jittering tic between Justice's eyes. Klavier tried to make his gaze reassuring but Justice was no longer looking at him, leaning down to hear something his client was saying, and then the trial began.
Klavier called his first witness, Carla Charlemagne, Richten's secretary.
"Fraulein Charlemagne," he said mildly, and Carla blushed at him. "Y-yes?"
"You handle all of Herr Richten's appointments, is that right?"
"Yes, your Honor," she simpered.
"Hey," the judge protested. "I'm the honor, he's just the prosecutor."
"Fraulein Charlemagne," Klavier said again, "would you be so kind as to tell us Herr Richten's schedule for the day of the murder?" She looked hesitant, so he flashed her his best paparazzi smile.
He heard Justice roll his eyes and ignored him. He'd demanded Klavier at his best, he was going to get Klavier at his best.
The testimony was simple enough: Richten had had a brunch meeting, and then gone out for two hours, from 1 to 3 pm. On his return, he'd seemed shaken.
Klavier flipped open his case notes. "One until three? You're certain?"
Charlemagne nodded, and Klavier continued: "I would like to submit before the eyes of the court two things: the first is a copy of Herr Richten's schedule book, which corroborates Fräulein Charlemagne's statement. The second is the autopsy report of Fräulein Masters, where the time of death is estimated at 2 pm. Masters’ apartment is a mere fifteen minute drive from Richten’s office building. Ample opportunity, I am sure you will agree."
"Don't be so sure," Justice said smoothly, and Klavier, pleased, looked at him. He was examining Charlemagne intently. “When you say Herr—um, Mr. Richten went out, what do you mean?”
Charlemagne stared at him, her blush gone. “What are you, stupid? I mean he left, and he came back two hours later.”
“Right, of course,” said Justice. “But how, exactly, did he leave?”
Charlemagne twitched a curl around her finger. “In his car, duh.”
Justice smiled. “Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, miss.” He flipped open his own file. “Submitting to the court this accident report, and subsequent summary of repairs. Note the dates—on April 9th, three days before the murder, Mr. Richten was in a car accident that broke his windshield. The repairs took two weeks. On the date in question, Mr. Richten could not have left the office in his own car.”
Klavier frowned a little, disappointed. “So he took a cab, Herr Forehead, or rented a car. This is hardly conclusive.”
Justice shook his head. “I’m not finished. The question is not how Richten got out of the office, but whose car he left in. Miss Charlemagne, from your desk, can you see the parking lot?"
Charlemagne shrugged. "Sure."
“Can you describe the car that took Mr. Richten away on the day in question?”
Charlemagne thought about that. “It was black, and real nice. That’s why I thought it was his, I thought he’d bought a new car recently. He’s always doin’ stuff like that.”
Next to Justice, Richten shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
Justice slid a photograph forward on the bench and nodded to the bailiff, who took it and handed it to Charlemagne. “Is this the car you saw that day?”
Charlemagne squinted at it. “Yeah, that looks like it.”
“Let the record show that the witness has identified the car belonging to Maria Cameron, nee Masters.”
There was a murmur in the courtroom. Klavier raised his eyebrows, and the judge matched his expression. “Masters? Oh my.”
Justice nodded in satisfaction. “Your Honor, I direct your attention back to Mr. Richten’s schedule book.” For the first time, he flicked his eyes to Klavier. “Prosecutor Gavin, would you mind reading the name of the person who Mr. Richten was meeting with the morning before the murder?”
Klavier had already read it—had realized as soon as Justice had identified the car. He played along, feigning elegant surprise. “Maria Cameron.”
Justice nodded again. “My client was meeting with the older sister of the deceased, Maria, the morning of the murder, and when he left his office, it was in her car and in her company. Your Honor, if you will allow her testimony, you will see there is no possible way for my client to be guilty of Miss Masters' murder."
But perhaps I will see something else, Klavier thought to himself.
The judge, wide-eyed, nodded. He turned to Klavier. “Any objections from the prosecution?”
Klavier shook his head, his eyes still on Justice. “By all means,” he said. “I would be interested in hearing what the poor girl has to say.”
Justice glanced sideways at him and then away, the little nervous tic returning. "The defense calls on Maria Cameron."
There was a shuffling noise from the back of the courtroom, and Maria Cameron walked forward to take her place at the stand.
Klavier raised his eyebrows. She was gorgeous—dark-eyed and raven-haired, with lips painted the red of good wine. Although she clutched a silk handkerchief, her eyes were dry, her mascara impeccable.
She was, in fact, strikingly similar to her younger sister, whose dead eyes had haunted Klavier's dreams the night before. On the left side of her jaw, however—barely visible beneath the layers of porcelain-pale make up—was a patch of discolored skin: a burn scar. It pulled the left corner of her mouth down just the slightest bit, making the brave smile she cast his way perhaps sadder than she meant.
He smiled back, reassuring.
Justice cleared his throat. "Miss Cameron, please tell the court what happened the day you went to see Mr. Richten."
Cameron took a shaky breath, and Klavier could see her grief stark in her eyes. "I went to Mr. Richten to try and get him to give my sister her job back," she said. "I knew she couldn't have stolen that money, and I thought if I—" she shook her head, voice choked. "The meeting went on longer than we expected, and Mr. Richten offered to buy me lunch. His car was in the shop, so I drove. We went to that new restaurant across town, Matrucci's. We didn't get back until after 2:30 at least."
Justice nodded. "You see? My client was with Ms. Cameron at the time of the murder."
"I mean no offense, Ms Cameron," Klavier cut in smoothly, "but can anyone confirm your story?"
She blinked at him. "There were certainly others at the restaurant, but as for proof, I have that here." She produced a receipt from her purse and tried to hand it to Klavier, who waved it away, indicating the judge.
His Honor looked at it, and nodded: "It's charged to Mr. Richten's personal credit card, and issued at 2:13 pm."
Justice nodded. "The restaurant is at least half an hour from Mr. Richten's office in the opposite direction from Marina Masters' apartment. Half an hour if you drive very quickly. There is simply no way that my client could have strangled Marina Masters and gotten to the restaurant in time to be finished eating at 2:13, not to mention the fact that Ms Cameron was with him the whole time."
Ms. Cameron blanched and put the handkerchief to her mouth. Klavier narrowed his eyes at Justice. He was blunt—it was part of his charm—but he was rarely so callous. He looked at Mr. Richten, sitting at Justice's side. The fashion magnate was staring at Ms. Cameron with a hatred so intense it made Klavier shiver. He thought fast. "Herr Vorsitzender, did you say this lunch was charged to Herr Richten's personal account?"
There was a silence, and then the judge said, "oh! That's me! Yes, I did."
Klavier nodded. "And how did you know?"
The judge smiled, pleased with himself. "I recognized the last digits of the card number on the receipt. I've been reading over the last Richten case, you see, the theft? The last digits are my daughter's birthday, so it stuck in my mind."
Klavier frowned, although he had thought as much. The man had 50,000 dollars stolen from his account, and six months later hadn't even cancelled the credit card attached? He turned to Ms. Cameron. "Excuse me, Fräulein. Whose idea was it to go across town for lunch?"
Her mouth twisted, and she looked sideways at Richten. "His," she said shortly. "We'd been fighting all morning, I think he was trying to buy me off with fancy food."
Richten's scowl deepened, but Klavier's attention was caught by Justice, who was frowning as well, rubbing at his wrist. Klavier followed the motion and was surprised to see he'd switched out the giant bangle of the night before with something similar, but tiny—so small it looked like it was almost cutting into his skin.
He tore his eyes away and tried to focus, but not before Justice caught him staring. He dropped his wrist immediately and licked his lips, almost nervously. Klavier turned smoothly away from him and pasted on a gentle smile for poor Ms. Cameron. "And if I can ask—why did you keep the receipt?"
"Objection," Justice said, at half his usual volume. His eyes were warm when Klavier met them. "Relevance, Gavin? The receipt provides a bulletproof alibi, why she kept it doesn't matter."
"Herr Vorsitzender," Klavier said quickly without breaking Justice's gaze, "I have good reason to ask. If Fräulein Cameron were coerced into keeping the receipt, or paid--"
"Overruled," said the judge. "I'm curious to see where you're going with this. And remember, Ms. Cameron, you're under oath, and you're safe. If you've been threatened, protection will be provided to you."
Justice blinked slow at Klavier, and Klavier took a breath. Whatever had passed between them the night before had only made their tension in the courtroom more palpable, as if that strange physicality had infiltrated even their professional animosity. He turned with an effort to the witness. "So, fräulein?"
Cameron sighed into her handkerchief. "Nothing like that. It was habit at first, I suppose. I am not used to having money, Mr. Prosecutor. I am in the habit of keeping very tidy accounts." She took a breath. "After—" she started, but seemed overwhelmed with emotion for a moment. "After M-Marina was killed, I knew I had to keep it as evidence. I may not like the man, but Mr. Richten did not," she swallowed and closed her eyes, "kill my sister."
Across the room, Justice's fingers were at his wrist again. Klavier ignored him. "I'm afraid that remains to be seen, Fräulein."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, over the top of her handkerchief.
Klavier turned to the judge. "May I request we take a half-hour break? The defense's witness has offered much new evidence, and I would like to make some calls to confirm her testimony."
Justice cleared his throat. "Your Honor," he said, "if Gavin must continue to badger my witness, perhaps picking this up tomorrow would be a better idea. She is recently bereaved and Gavin's questioning has upset her."
Klavier rankled a little—he didn't need Justice buying him time—but didn't protest.
The judge looked between them. "I still don't see where this line of questioning gets us, Prosecutor, but if Justice is willing to let you pursue it so am I. I warn you, though, if you are wasting the court's time, I will penalize you."
The familiar bang of the gavel had Justice off like a shot, abandoning his client at the bench. Klavier tried to catch up, but Justice was gone before Klavier managed to fight through the crowds at the back of court, some of whom were pressing in close, trying to engage with him.
He finally gave up, shaking off the hands of several girls and retiring to his office. He had a lot of work to do.
Other than making phone calls and a single trip to the vending machine he barely glanced up from his desk for hours. He was just thinking of making another trek down the hall when a light tap on his doorframe startled him. He looked up to find Fraulein Fright, Herr Edgeworth's secretary.
"Mr. Edgeworth wants to see you," she said in a monotone, and then turned without another word.
Klavier blinked at his notes for a minute, then stood, leaving his stuff where it was. Herr Edgeworth was not one to call him to his office lightly; nor was there any “when you have a minute” attached to the summons. Better that he be prompt.
He tapped on Edgeworth’s open door, and Edgeworth looked up and nodded. “Thank you for coming, Prosecutor Gavin. Close the door behind you, please.”
Klavier did so, his confusion rising. Edgeworth lifted the file he was looking at and tapped it against his desk to straighten it, then put it down again. “I have been trusted with some information,” he said. “Understand that it is by my own discretion that I share it with you. Have a seat.”
Klavier’s eyebrows shot up. Did Edgeworth know something about the case? Was everyone conspiring to help him beat Justice, not just Justice himself?
As if reading his mind, Edgeworth shook his head. “It does not concern your current case, although as I understand it you have your work cut out for you there.”
Klavier shrugged. “I have it in hand,” he said, with only a little bit more confidence than he felt. “Tomorrow’s trial will go better than today’s.”
Edgeworth squinted at him. “I hope that you are correct.” He sighed. “I assume you are familiar with my early career?”
From anyone else, it would have been arrogance, but from Edgeworth it was resignation—not only was everyone familiar with his early career, but Kristoph had made especially certain that Klavier knew it back to front, knew every mistake that Edgeworth had made, every case that had been reopened. Edgeworth had been Kristoph’s favorite poster-boy for the evils of the Prosecutor’s office, and it had taken a long time for Klavier to get the idea of the “Demon Prosecutor” out of his head and let in the real, genuine man—cold, yes, but absolutely dedicated to truth. He could have said many things, but settled for nodding.
Edgeworth inclined his head. “It was a dark time. I had convinced myself that being right was the same as doing right. My pursuit of Justice—“ Klavier raised an eyebrow at him, unable to help it, and Edgeworth sighed. “The concept, Gavin, not the man. My pursuit of justice was subsumed by my pursuit of reputation, my ego. It took a long time, and a certain defense attorney, to break me out of a frankly terrifying pattern.”
“Herr Edgeworth,” Klavier said, attempting respectful tact but not quite reaching it, “not that I do not enjoy the reminiscences of a legend like yourself, especially when they touch on your oh-so-platonic romance with He of the Objecting Fist—“
Edgeworth’s eyebrows snapped together so hard that Klavier could swear he heard the click. “Platonic romance?”
Klavier widened his eyes exaggeratedly. “Am I mistaken? Have the two of you given in to—“
“Gavin,” Edgeworth warned. The file between his hands creaked. Klavier was impressed—he’d never managed to get so far inside Edgeworth’s cool exterior before. Plus, he didn’t think paper could creak—crinkle, yes, tear—but he was sure that if he pressed any harder the thing would snap in half like a plank of wood at the touch of a martial artist’s heel. He returned his eyes to Edgeworth’s face in time to watch his mask slip back on over something much more interesting. “My past with—my past is not the point.”
“Ah, which was, apologies, my point. If you would be so good, what is your point?”
“Your ego,” Edgeworth said, “and your reputation.”
Klavier felt the mirth slip out of him, replaced by a mixture of worry and anger. “You think I have been putting away the wrong men?” He asked, offended but mostly concerned. Edgeworth might have a stick up his ass the size of Daryan’s pompadour, but he was an incredible prosecutor and the most observant man Klavier had ever met (discounting, as always, Kristoph. Discounting Kristoph in every category he could, always, for the rest of his life). ”Ignoring evidence? Falsifying—“
Edgeworth shook his head, and Klavier relaxed. “No,” said the chief prosecutor. “You are excellent at your job. Both of them, as I understand it. But you let them—bleed together.” He held up a hand at Klavier’s protest. “Your songs about court life are amusing, I will grant you. It is the other end of the spectrum that concerns me. You—perform, in court. You draw crowds. Young, enthusiastic, female crowds.”
Klavier shifted his weight, frowning. “Herr Edgeworth—“
“Justice has been receiving hate mail,” Edgeworth said, cutting him off. When Klavier froze, he raised his eyebrows. “This time, I mean the man.”
Klavier finally took the chair Edgeworth had offered him when he first came in, his mind blank with shock. “He’s what? For how long—why?”
Edgeworth replaced the file carefully on his desk, squaring it with his large, steady hands. “Prosecutor Gavin, I had more faith in your intelligence than that. He is, quite publicly, your rival. He is the only defense attorney here, barring—“ his lip curled, “—'He of the Objecting Fist' that has ever beaten you in court—and unlike Wright, he has done so several times, and those wins are not mediated by the humiliation that Wright suffered at your hands.”
Klavier shivered at the coldness in his voice. He wondered if Edgeworth would ever forgive him that. Wright, bafflingly, already had—but Wright was baffling in almost every way, whereas Edgeworth—
He watched Edgeworth twitch his sleeves into place and thought, I am not the first prosecutor to “perform” at the bench.
“I appreciate that you are serious about your job, Gavin,” Edgeworth said. “I appreciate that your judicial duties keep you here, at home, and that you do not wish to change that, nor do you wish to cease performing music. But you are creating something very dangerous—your fans are here, in your home, stirred to frenzy by your constant presence on both their stages and their televisions.”
Klavier swallowed, but Edgeworth wasn’t finished.
“And as much as it is your home, it is also Apollo Justice’s home. He stands up every time the two of you face one another in court, stands up at the very center of your swirling nexus of obsession, and he claims—over and over again—that you are wrong, that you are incorrect, that you are less than perfect.” Edgeworth tapped one finger on his crossed arms. “This outcome was only a matter of time.”
Klavier ran a hand through his hair. “Gott,” he breathed, and then an awful thought struck. “He has not been—threatened, there has been nothing—“
Edgeworth shook his head, and Klavier felt himself start breathing again. “He has reported nothing to Wright, nor to the police,” Edgeworth said, qualifying his answer. “But as I understand it, he was slow to admit that it was happening at all.”
Klavier stood up in a rush. “I must—I will speak with him. Thank you, Herr Edgeworth, for telling me.”
Edgeworth nodded, and Klavier let himself out, shaking his hair from his eyes. Sheiße, this was bad. Herr Edgeworth was right—how had he not seen this coming? How had he not stopped this?
He briefly considered attempting to find Justice in his office, but it was 5:30 already and it would take him at least another half hour to get to Wright Anything Agencies, and unless Justice was working very late he’d be gone by then, away home to wherever he lived—to where he might find more letters waiting for him, letters that contained insults and abuse and maybe worse, letters that were Klavier’s fault.
How did they know where he lived, the girls sending him the letters? He frowned at nothing for moment, and then, with his heart like lead in his chest, he crossed to his own office. He shoved his papers into his briefcase, took a moment to send himself the links to the news items he’d been reading, and opened a new browser window.
He’d made a vow to never enter the Gavinner’s fanforums. He knew they were there, of course—Daryan used to look at them years ago and read out some of the more outlandish comments, laughing, but it had always rubbed Klavier wrong. It felt like a—an intrusion of privacy, somehow, not to mention the effects it would have on his ego and his self-image and everything else—but he’d never considered the effects of his ego on others, and now that he was, those personal rules didn’t seem so important.
He scrolled for a solid five minutes, letting his eyes read the titles of the topics without actually thinking about them beyond the surface level. Gavinner’s Fanworks Thread, LONG LIVE KLAVI’S SOLO CAREEER, the Great Gavinner’s Song Showdown, Top Klavier Outfits—it was all a little much but it seemed harmless enough, there was nothing mentioning Justice at all.
He returned his eyes to the top of the page, to one of the “sticky” topics, a link that remained atop the others regardless of when it had last been posted in. It had been posted in recently, though, and there were a lot of replies—numbering in the thousands. He frowned at the title. Operation Dionysus.
He clicked.
“AS WE ALL KNOW, Gavinners, the Greek God our Klavi most resembles is Dionysus, god of music, drinking, and SEX!!! And, god, he has been GOOD to us. Those PANTS, girls, those PANTS.
But recently it has come to my attention that we’ve got another of the pantheon in our midst—stick-in-the-mud Apollo, god of law and joylessness and assholes. And he’s made himself pretty obvious, with his hideous red suit and his loud mouth. He’s not worthy of Klavi’s spit, but he dares stand up to him and tell him he’s wrong? Klavi is smarter than he’ll ever be, and he’s gracious, too. No matter how much Apollo Just-Ass (and really, we’re supposed to believe that’s his real name? REALLY???) degrades him and hurts him, he’ll never let it show.
So it falls to us, girls, to expose this bully and liar for who he is. Klavi needs us—he’s hurting, our baby, because of this nobody dickhole, and it falls to us to protect him. Gavin’s Guards, huh?
What do you say? I’ve already taken the first step – all you need to do is write to him.”
And there, at the bottom of the post, was Justice’s address.
In any other context, he might have laughed at the jibes in the post—may have adopted Apollo Just-Ass for himself, although—he thought of Justice the night before, the way his jeans hugged his hips—he maybe would have meant it a different way than “champagneandklaviar” had. But now they just left him feeling cold, drained, and his hands shook as he took a last look at the address and shut off his computer.
His worry only grew as he slid through the streets on his bike. The neighborhood Justice lived in was not a good one. Klavier had once sat in as his brother gave a talk on the criminal mind, and remembered him describing the habits of observation that criminals get into, the subtle, constant, almost involuntary check for cameras, counting of exits, evaluation of the wariness of people around them. Klavier had developed that sense's natural twin—he checked for the same things for the opposite reasons: safety was only found where there were eyes everywhere, where crime was impossible without witnesses. He liked to think of it as prosecutor's paranoia.
There were precious few witnesses when he pulled up to the apartment building named in the forum post. The outside door was propped open with a beer can. He half expected to find Justice already dead.
But Justice opened the door at his knock, and Klavier let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Herr Forehead," he said, out of relief and to establish exactly which version of themselves they were tonight. "May I come in?"
Justice was still half in court wear, his jacket gone, his tie loose around his neck. This version of casual worked better on him than the concert-wear of the night before, drawing attention to the muscles of his throat and forearms. He looked older—his real age, rather than some sixteen-year-old sneaking in to a concert his mom didn’t want him to attend. He was also staring at Klavier like he'd grown a second head. "P-prosecutor Gavin? What are you doing here?"
Klavier peered around him into the apartment. There were letters on the table in the hall, more on the floor at Justice's feet. "Apologizing," he said grimly, and gestured at them. "For those."
Justice looked suddenly and totally miserable, but he stepped aside. "I told Mr. Phoenix I didn't want you to know, I can't believe he went behind my back."
"Herr Wright is not to blame," Klavier said, stepping past him. He bent to pick up a letter. "I doubt he told anyone but Edgeworth, und Herr Edgeworth made his own choice to tell me."
Justice snatched the letter from his hand before he could open it and flung it into a pile of others. "Mr. Edgeworth? Why would he tell you?"
Klavier did not move to pick up another letter, just watched Justice as he scrambled to stow them all out of reach. "He seemed concerned about you."
That made Justice stop. "Edgeworth? Concerned about me? Why? I'm just, like—a guy, he barely knows who I am!"
Klavier's eyebrows shot up. "Really? You truly believe that? You have too good a record to just be "a guy" to anyone in the prosecutor's office, Herr Forehead, not to mention being the protege of one of the greatest geniuses of law of the last thirty years."
Justice scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, I wouldn't consider myself Mr. Phoenix's protege, he just helped me out a couple—"
"I was not speaking of Herr Wright," Klavier cut in, and then grimaced. "I—sorry."
"Oh," said Justice. "I—yeah. You don't have to be sorry." He took a breath. "Whatever else your brother was he was absolutely a genius."
"Ja," Klavier said softly. "But I am—I do apologize. For what he did to you—"
"For what he did to me? Klavier—" the first name seemed to catch Justice by surprise as much at it did Klavier himself, and he stumbled to a stop.
"For what he did to you," Klavier continued carefully, unwilling to be harsh in this new, fragile silence, "and for what I am doing to you now." He gestured to the letters in Justice's hands.
Justice's face was firm. "This is not your fault," he said, too loudly, and then quieted with an effort. "And neither was anything that Defense Attorney Gavin did, none of it."
Klavier shot him a puzzled look. "Of course this is my fault," he said.
Justice made a frustrated noise. "This is why I didn't want you to know," he grumbled. "Come on, come farther in than my front hallway." He led the way into his tiny corner-kitchen. "You want a drink? I have, uh. Water. Maybe tea? I think this is tea. Or, um." He squinted into his fridge. "There's beer."
There was a note in his voice that Klavier hadn't heard before—embarrassment he'd heard, but this was a different flavor, shades of shame, of self-deprecation. He hated it, hated the way Justice was curled in on himself, so different than his courtroom stance. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said firmly, "I would love a beer, actually."
Justice blinked at him. "Um, okay."
While he busied himself at the fridge, Klavier took a better look around. Justice's apartment was clean, apart from the overwhelming volume of letters on most surfaces. It was cheap, yeah, and tiny, but it was well kept. Nothing for man living on Justice's income to be ashamed of, certainly.
He leaned over the table to better examine a letter. There was no return address. Justice had already read this one: the seal was broken.
What did you do to the judge so he'd let you win again today? I know you don't have the money for bribes, so it must've been something else. Did you go to your knees for him? You like the old man's cock shoved down your throat? I bet you do, you lying whore.
Klavier felt dizzy, sick, horrified. "Justice," he said, and it came out strangled. Justice didn't look at him, turned away with a bottle opener in his hand, his back muscles tense as steel. "Herr Forehead—" he tried, but it seemed wrong, too lighthearted, and finally, a little desperately, "Apollo. Look at me."
Justice's whole body twitched, and finally he turned, his eyes downcast. He held out one of the beers to Klavier, and Klavier took it. He licked his lips, and that, of all things, brought Justice's gaze to his. "Are they all—like this?" he asked, meaning the letter in front of him.
Justice shook his head, a quick, almost angry motion. He didn't even glance at the page; it had been the one at the top of the stack on the table, probably he'd read it himself not long before Klavier arrived. "Mostly they're just, like. Insults, or 'back off,' or whatever." He grimaced. "It's really no big deal—"
Klavier gaped at him. "No big deal? You're being harassed. You have to tell the police!"
Justice shook his head. "They won't be able to do anything, not without more evidence than some letters."
There was something in the tone of his voice that knocked Klavier sideways out of his horror. "Evidence...? You're—" he blinked, and took a sip of his beer in order to give himself time to process. "You're building a case."
Justice crossed his arms over his chest. "Slowly," he said crossly.
Klavier stared at him, unable to help his wondering smile. "Remarkable. You have a truly remarkable mind, Herr Forehead." Justice shrugged and glanced away, his cheeks tinged with pink. Klavier leaned forward into his space. "Let me help," he said earnestly. "This is my fault, let me help you—"
Justice shook his head. "Like I keep saying, it's not your fault. These people, if it weren't about you, it would be about someone else. They're wired that way, to. Fixate."
Klavier frowned at him. "But if it weren’t about me, it would not be about you. But it is about me, and thus it is about you. I'll—I'll tell them to stop, I'll have a press conference—"
"No," said Justice sharply. "The ones that think you hate me are bad, but worse are the ones who think you like me, the ones who are jealous of our." He stopped, and then shrugged, finally looking up at Klavier. "Whatever relationship they think we have."
Klavier gnawed at his lip, and Justice looked away, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and gesturing to another. Klavier took it. "Then I'll stop playing music," he said firmly. "If they don't get new footage of me, new pictures, new songs, maybe they will settle down."
Justice stared at him. "You'd—you'd do that for me?"
Klavier scowled at him. "Of course. What kind of man do you think I am? You are my friend, I would like to think, and I am not going to value your life as less than a few concerts every few months."
Justice took a long sip of his beer, and Klavier noticed his big bangle again, dangling from his wrist. "I don't want you to," he said quietly, once he had swallowed. "I want you to keep making music." He took another swallow, a little red. "A-and anyway, it's not my life. No one's going to hurt me, it's just a couple mean letters."
"A couple?" Klavier asked, gesturing around him at the letters piled like snowdrifts against the kitchen cabinets. "Remind me of this when I next invite you out for ‘a couple’ drinks." He leaned forward again, trying to get Justice to meet his eyes. "Take this seriously, bitte," he said. "They have your address. Right now it's just letters. Tomorrow?" He shook his head. "You have to move."
Justice's jaw tightened. "Oh, yes, it's that simple, isn't it."
"You have money from Herr Richten, ja? You can—"
Justice's face was bitter. "I can pay the bills I've been waiting to pay," he said evenly, "I can pay my rent this month. I can maybe put some forward until next month. What I can't do is rent another apartment, or pay for an extended stay in a hotel."
"I will pay," Klavier said immediately, and almost before the words were out he knew they were the wrong ones. Justice closed his eyes. "I-I'm sorry," Klavier said, feeling off-balance. "I should not have—I know that you are not asking that."
"No," said Justice, "I'm not."
Klavier swallowed, thinking fast. "Then—come stay with me. You can keep paying rent on this place, we can keep it as a mailbox, so that we can continue to build your case. But you won't be in danger, should it escalate." He smiled as Justice opened his eyes. "It will not cost me a thing, I have many guest rooms."
Justice toyed with the beer bottle between his hands. "Last night you threw me out of your dressing room," he said, "and tonight you're offering to let me stay in your house?"
Klavier found himself locking eyes with him again, obeying this new gravitational pull. "Last night I thought you were insulting my abilities as a prosecutor," he said. "But that's not what was happening at all, was it? Quite the opposite."
Justice looked relieved. "You do understand," he said. "I thought you did when I saw your suit this morning, but then." He ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, and Klavier found his eyes following the movement.
He flicked them back up to Justice's gaze and smirked. "You seemed to like it last night," he said, meaning both smirk and statement to be over the top, something to make Justice laugh. Instead they came out intimate and amused, his voice pulled low by the little flicker of tongue he saw retrace the path of Justice's finger.
Justice didn't seem to notice, scowling at him, and so Klavier played his part for him and laughed as casually as he could manage. He sipped his beer. "Maria and Marina, mein Gott, these parents must have hated them."
Justice seemed blindsided by the subject change, but he recovered well. "One of them, anyway," he said enigmatically, and took a swig of his beer. "We should probably not—hang out much."
Klavier's stomach twisted. "Ah," he said, dropping his eyes to the table. Well. That was a rejection if he’d ever heard one. He would have to take more care with his tone.
"Because of the letters, I mean," Justice clarified quickly, but there was guilt in his voice, and Klavier could take a hint. "Not because. Not any personal reasons." He spread his hands. "Like I said, the worst of them are the ones who think you like me."
Klavier drained his beer. "I could stop requesting to prosecute across from you," he said. "That would probably help, ja?"
Justice looked at him, startled. "You've been doing that?"
Klavier grinned at him, amused. “You thought it was bad luck, that we kept being paired up? Fate, perhaps?” He managed the light tone, this time.
Justice laughed a little, shrugging. “I thought maybe someone at the office had figured out that I liked working with you and was doing me a favor,” he said.
Klavier let out a little sigh, surprisingly pleased by that. “It would be a shame,” he said, “to stop. Tomorrow was supposed to be the beginning of my winning streak—my great comeback against the devastation you have wreaked upon my career.” He winked.
Justice reddened. “I haven’t won that much,” he protested. He flicked his eyes up to Klavier’s, his lip between his teeth. “It would be a shame,” he agreed. “But maybe—just for a while. Let it die down a little.”
Klavier sighed again, this time dramatically for Justice’s benefit. “Ja, ja. After tomorrow, I will only prosecute boring, straightforward cases with defense lawyers who think “I didn’t do it” is an alibi.”
Justice smiled at him, and Klavier smiled back, his hands loose around the empty bottle. “You’re going to win, tomorrow,” Justice said. It was almost a question.
Klavier set down the bottle and stood. “Yes,” he said simply. “I will win.” He squeezed Justice’s shoulder as he passed. “Goodnight, Herr Forehead.”