Chapter Text
Klavier’s had a rough year or so. It’s a truth he’s tried to brush off in public, but it’s more than obvious as he stands in his bathroom.
He looks in the mirror, stomach dropping at the sight. His makeup from the day has been lazily removed, remnants of mascara adding further shadow under his eyes. God, he hates how he looks without makeup. Oh, he’s not unattractive, he knows that, but he looks so human and vulnerable that it makes him sick. Along with a face that looks about to break, he’s dressed in an oversized tour shirt and boxers. Everything about him screams “beyond exhausted”, and he knows he needs to sleep.
But Klavier’s not in bed, he’s in the bathroom, kitchen scissors on the sink as he ties his hair into a low ponytail. His hands are shaking the whole time, itching to fling the door open and drag himself back to bed, to pull the covers around him before he does something he might regret. After all, he will definitely regret this, no question about it.
That’s a lie, though, and he doesn’t need Forehead’s bracelet to figure it out. For every thought of I shouldn’t do this , there’s a chorus of yes, yes you should that keeps him rooted on the tile floor. He’s teetering between the two paths, each option so heavy. Sure, he’s wanted this for years, and he can’t really deny that anymore. This is about a foot of hair he’s talking about, though, and that’s not something he can exactly grow back overnight.
You know what, maybe he should just deal with it. He looks damn good with long hair, and he’s spent so much time and money maintaining it. Sure, he never really had a choice , but he had accepted it with grace and flair. It didn’t matter if he missed the short cut because Kristoph had always said--
Kristoph always had something to say about everything, if he’s being honest.
There are good memories, moments where he still believes Kris cared to some degree: getting his hair brushed, homework help, driving lessons. For every pleasant thought, though, there is gritty evidence. What he thought was constructive criticism was closer to manipulation, cold words under the guise of bettering him. Klavier was clay, methodically sculpted, shaped into a brother Kristoph wanted. A pawn, nudged into place.
He was loved, but for what reasons? How conditional was that care? Would he have found himself here earlier, had he resisted? If he’d only fought back, would it have changed things? He thinks of murder, a man without a badge, and his own role in in the latter.
Everyone he cares about has told him time and again that the disbarment of Phoenix Wright is not his fault. Even the ex-attorney himself has been fairly polite to him, distant but not rude, even though he has every right to be. True, it was Kristoph behind the whole mess, feeding him information he had no reason to disprove, but Klavier still feels unbearable guilt every time he passes the W.A.A.
He hates that Kris still has such a tight hold on him, choking away his happiness whenever he comes close. He has people he can reach out to, but his hand always stops short. He doesn’t want to be a burden, not when he has so many things to make up for and set right.
Klavier has spent so long playing the roles of Gavinners member and dazzling prosecutor, and the idea of showing the whole person behind those exaggerated facades is terrifying. Besides, those walls are well-built, and who on earth would stay long enough to knock them down? Even more ridiculous is the idea that someone would stay even after their destruction, that they would see Klavier at his most vulnerable and do anything but run. God, he wants someone to stay, knows who , but it’s a dream he’s still convincing himself he even deserves.
He’s getting better, though, or at least trying. Sure, he’s been sprawled at rock bottom for a year, but he’s slowly pushed himself back up. It hurts, and it hurts so much more when he has to keep that pain hidden, but he’s doing pretty okay on his own. He’s healing, little by little.
This is a part of the healing, he thinks, and he squeezes the scissors shut.
It takes more than a couple snips, scissors clumsily sawing through the thick ponytail. It’s with a sickness in his gut that Klavier realizes he can feel Kristoph behind him. He knows it’s impossible, that the monster is incarcerated and gone, but it doesn’t stop the eyes boring into his skull, the voice in his head whispering immature and weak and nothing without my help .
And yet, Klavier pushes on. As he keeps hacking away, the agony is replaced by something akin to waking up. Chains he’d long since settled for are unlinking themselves, giving him room to breathe. When the last hairs are severed away, the ponytail falling to the ground in defeat, it’s like a breath of fresh air.
The result is far from perfect, the trim uneven and shaggy. Kristoph would be mortified, a part of him thinks, but the thought bounces away as he puts his hands in his hair and starts to giggle .
He’s never felt better.
At that thought, Klavier lets himself break, sinking to the floor as tears overwhelm him. He’s smiling so hard it hurts, laughing and sobbing as tension leaves his muscles. The bathroom floor is cool on his back and limbs, a soothing touch when every part of him feels like it’s burning. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the discarded ponytail, and he feels giddy all over again at the sight. Eventually, when the raw emotion subsides, he pulls himself to his feet, tossing the ponytail in the trash and turning back to the mirror.
He’s beautiful. Okay, he’s always been beautiful, and almost always been aware of it, but this is different. This is beauty completely on his own terms, the final thread connecting him to Kristoph cut off with a pair of kitchen scissors.
He’s still healing, still growing. There will still be bad days, horrible ones, and he knows that. The shit he’s been through over the past year can’t be as easily discarded as ten inches of hair. But, as he grins in the mirror again, Klavier thinks that maybe, just maybe, things will be a little better now.
...
Plus, he looks really good with short hair. That’s a plus.