Archive of Our Own ^beta

july 16, 2026

Klavier awoke to a shock of white light and the sting of an open palm on his left cheek.

“Ms. Bering, please refrain from assaulting my employee.”

“Oh, shut up! He’s my employee too, and just look at him! He’s a mess!”

Admittedly, he was a mess. Slumped against the glass wall of his shower, still wearing his pants as the faucet washed over him, and struggling to stay lucid. He shouldn’t have emptied that bottle of Knob Creek (Daryan’s favorite) and he definitely shouldn't have taken his insomnia meds in addition to that. Though, given the week he’s had, he’d felt entitled to at least one tantrum.

His drifting thoughts are firmly disrupted by another slap to his cheek, just enough to startle him. He looks up, and is met with the face of his manager, Paloma Bering. Her hand is still raised and ready to strike, accompanying the frantic look in her aquamarine eyes.

He cranes his neck around the curtain of her wavy brown hair to peer at the rest of his bathroom. He’s having some trouble, eyes trailing sluggishly, not obeying the instructions from his brain.

He’d already seen his manager, still crouched next to him on the tile. She’s accompanied by a man, dressed in a dark uniform and holding a medical bag. And next to him? His new boss, Miles Edgeworth with disdain written plainly on his stern face.

Just his luck. He knew his missing keys were a bad omen.

“H-Hallo...Herr Edgeworth…” He slurs, aiming for polite and landing at incoherent. There’s no way to salvage this situation, and everyone here knows it. Klavier’s embarrassment is all consuming, and he’s grateful his complexion is too bronzed for a flush to show.

Edgeworth nods in response, looking more uncomfortable than angry. That was probably the best he could hope for.

Paloma rises from her place beside him and begins her tirade. “Damn it, Klavier! We don’t have time for this! I really thought you were dead, and then I come in here and see you acting like a moron when you have an unfinished project to work on and a meeting with PR in less than sixteen hours?! Get up. Take an actual shower and then go to bed. I’m staying right here until you deal with...whatever your problem is, ok?”

“Ach...H-help me up…?” He lifts a hand, which Paloma ignores.

“Klavier. You’ve had five days. Come on.” Paloma says, as though five days is anywhere near enough time to recover from the knowledge that his closest friend had killed someone for seemingly no reason. He would roll his eyes if he could.

“Ms. Bering, calm yourself. He may require medical attention.” Edgeworth pinches the bridge of his nose and turns to speak to Klavier directly.

“If you are...currently capable of wondering why I’m here, your manager requested a wellness check. I decided to accompany her, seeing as you’ve missed work and no one has seen or heard from you since July 10th.”

He looks away, hand resting in the crook of his elbow. “Given your recent circumstances, I also wished to...personally check on your condition.”

Klavier could hear the concern in his voice, despite the awkward phrasing. “Danke…”

Edgeworth avoids his eyes, gaze resting on the orange bottle sitting atop Klavier’s vanity.

“Ms. Bering, what are those?”

“Hm? Oh. Probably his Ambien. It’s prescribed though, I promise!”

Klavier wants to remind them that he’s still in the room, or at least scold Paloma for her indiscretion, but he’s far too used to being discussed like a commodity.

Her eyes widen. “Klavier. Please tell me you didn’t…”

He only smiles in response.

As it turns out, he did need medical attention. The EMT made him throw up, then supervised as he chugged 2 bottles of water. He told Paloma to make sure he ate something starchy and to bring him to the ER if he became feverish or seemed too off-kilter. Edgeworth told him he would deduct the past week from his vacation time, and that he expected to see him at work no later than this upcoming Monday.

Paloma stayed with him like she said she would, and got him back in working order with her usual efficiency. He woke up dehydrated, groggy and aching like an open wound, but his phones were charged, his apartment was clean, and there was even a slice of spinach frittata on the table for him.

The sound of her typing echoed through the main room of his apartment. He finishes his breakfast, washes his plate, and settles on the couch next to her.

“Thank you for all of this. I really didn't mean to do that...Sorry that I worried you.”

“Mmhm. You’re lucky we already got all of our negotiations out of the way. As long as you deliver, no one will care how you got there.” She squeezes his shoulder, and he’s grateful for the comfort, despite the fact that she’d spoken about him like an investment property.

They spend the rest of the day reviewing the contractual obligations of his solo record deal and everything else involved in the making of an album. He outlines a potential tracklist, schedules his studio time, establishes a release date and production schedule, and contacts a few potential producers. By Friday, he’s agreed to a few appearances courtesy of his booking agent, Todd Surley, scheduled an interview with his publicist, and gotten a feature for his debut single.

july 20, 2026

Monday is far less productive.

He’d gone to work early, hoping to apologize to Herr Edgeworth, but ended up dodging paparazzi, camped out on the guest side of the parking garage. Normally he would just wave and avoid them completely, but Gabi (his publicist) advised him to get as much exposure as possible. He’s mum about the details of Daryan’s trial, he ignores all questions about his brother, and poses for a few ‘candid’ shots, just to make it worth everyone’s time.

The elevator ride to the tenth floor is quiet, and the hallway is empty. His fingers tense around the handle to his office. Trepidation washes over him and he chastises himself for being so childish over a problem of his own making. Klavier never bothers to clean his office, and last week was no exception. Though everything had changed, the room would look exactly the same as he’d left it; blueprints of Sunshine Coliseum open on his monitor, the charred remains of his favorite acoustic guitar on the desk, and an open file folder, page turned to Daryan’s police department ID photo.

Klavier finally steps inside, because he has nowhere else to go (and the receptionist for their floor is starting to stare at him). The floor is covered in books, dockets, stacks of paper, protein bar wrappers and used coffee cups. He gags a bit and resolves to clean at some point, before sinking into the buttery leather of his Eames chair.

He checks his music phone, schedules a tweet for his peak time and makes a short to-do list. He still needed to return the evidence from last week to Ema’s locker, pick up his drink from Juice Press, and get started on the armed robbery case he’d been assigned, which went to trial this Thursday.

He figured cleaning his room would kill some time and distract from the aching loneliness in his chest (also, old food on the floor is objectively gross), though everything in him rejected the thought of doing it himself (If only Paloma could send the cleaning service to his office!).

His approach to organizing had always been to throw away whatever poses glaring problems, and pushing everything else into a convenient hiding place. The drab grey of early morning gives way to a blistering blue as he completes his task, waste bin and out box filling quickly he sorts his papers into three piles: relevant, outdated and ‘guaranteed to break my heart all over again if I look at it for too long.’

He leaves a few times, puttering between the storage closet (the site of a few very ill fated hookups), the break room and Simon’s office in search of a cardboard box. He finds one and packs away the remaining evidence for Ema, pausing again to look at that ID photo. Daryan’s arrogant smile looks back at him. Klavier doubts he’ll ever see that look directed at him again. The thought disturbs him more than he feels capable of thinking about.

The clock reads 10:18, and he frowns at his apparent failure to waste time. He spends another hour at his desk (though calling it that may be a bit too generous), preparing for tomorrow’s trial, watching CCTV footage and reading witness accounts. He approaches it with the same objectivity he always does, looking for any holes in his case that may warrant further inspection. He watches the tape over and over again, noticing a few seconds of missing time, the mysterious absence of the second cashier and the apprehensive look on their suspect’s face as he points his gun.

The rest of the day is equally slow. Same uninspiring view, same slow moving traffic, and same blinding sunlight, glaring off the reflective windows of neighboring buildings. He’s desperate enough to scroll through his music inbox, but he avoids the temptation of checking his TweetDeck (A new self-imposed rule). His mind feels freeze dried and he longs for the swift and blank sleep of his insomnia medication.

When Paloma calls he’s actually grateful. It wouldn’t have been much of a distraction before, his work and his music career too meshed, but right now it’s more of a reprieve than ever. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hallo?”

“Klavier! Guess who’s co-headlining a world tour with Petra this February?”

“The Ver—”

“Don’t even answer. It’s you!” Well that was a surprise. His last tour had just been cancelled, and he had no hope that his label, Paxton Records, would want to finance another one for a long time.

“I managed to salvage the last venue from Guilty As Charged. Todd thought it’d be a good idea to package you together, so you’ll boost each other's sales. Isn’t that sweet? I’ll email you the dates, so make sure you’re free. Once the album is done we can plan more concrete things like sets and costumes because we’ll have an idea of the look you’re going for. Sound good?”

“ It does sound good, but I’m worried about leaving the office again so soon. I’m already in bad standing with my boss—” Klavier didn’t want to ruin one of her rare good moods, but he had only returned to law last March. They’d planned the Gavinners last tour on a smaller scale (10 concerts, all in the United States) for that exact reason.

“Honey, screw the office. And your boss! He was very rude to me on Thursday.”

Klavier rolls his eyes, safe in the confines of his office. He had no doubt that Herr Edgeworth was rude, but there was more than a fair chance that Paloma started the confrontation. He changes the subject before the conversation can devolve.

“Does Petra know about this?”

“No more than you do. Gabi and I were thinking you should polish up one of those demos from your last collab. It would go a long way to help promote the album too, but we can talk about that when you get home. Maybe over dinner? Keep it in mind, ok? Later!"

“Auf—”

Of course, she’d already hung up. At least he had plans for later.

august 5, 2026

“Ok, hold still.” The cosmetologist tilts his chin up, blending foundation down his neck and brushing bronzer along his jawbone.

Klavier’s apartment was in total disarray. His couch and the wall with the One corner (deemed the most photogenic by the camera crew) was left untouched, the eye of the storm. Everything else was covered in wires, or pushed aside for improved acoustics. His kitchen had become a full makeup studio, complete with folding lighted mirrors. An enormous Softbox light sat in front of his couch. Apparently, there was no such thing as a “relaxed” (style notes from E! News) live interview.

She finally allows him to tilt his head down, and the cosmetologist pulls the no-crease hair clips from his bangs, graciously letting him braid his own hair, before declaring him TV ready.

He settles on the couch, puts an earbud in his ear as a stylist adjusts the collar of his drapey tee shirt, exposing more of his clavicle and his Gavinners necklace. A member of the production crew positions a laptop next to the camera, displaying the interviewer, who waves at him. They perform a quick sound check, making sure everyone can see each other and adjusting for lag. Everyone gets the all clear, and the interview begins, almost without warning.

All of it is fairly routine. The interviewer laughs at his jokes, tries to sidestep their agreed upon list of topics, and is ultimately diverted when the questions get too personal.

He says very little about law and even less about the Gavinners breakup. He tells them it’d be too difficult to continue without Daryan and leaves it at that. It won’t satisfy their fans, but it doesn’t satisfy him either.

They chat for a bit about his new single, about Petra’s feature on it, and his previous work on her sophomore album. He fends off dating rumors again, but he knows the interviewer doesn’t quite believe him. He’d been friends with Austin Petra Brooks since they were 17, since she’d still gone by her full name and the Gavinners still performed at amusement parks. Both of them had been far too successful far too fast and were in desperate need of a friend who could understand. She’d moved back to New York after her career really took off, but they still kept in touch. Now that he’d had time to think it over, he was really looking forward to touring with her and getting out of L.A. for a bit, though he wasn’t allowed to talk about it publicly yet.

Instead, he tells them to expect his debut album in the fall, and lets himself grin a bit at the genuine excitement in the interviewer’s voice. He’s not sure if it’s as a fan or as an entertainment journalist who just got an exclusive story, but for now, he’ll be happy with whatever he can get.

The filming crew leaves his apartment an hour later. He orders a celebratory dinner of pesto gnocchi, makes himself a vodka soda, and lays down.

He checks Twitter as soon as his back hits the floor. Part of him is actually curious about public perception, but most of him is just seeking some positive reinforcement. He won’t lie, he was pretty happy to see his name already trending, even though they used the worst screencap ever as a subject header. He tried to put it out of his mind, and scrolled down.

Ach, if only they knew. His work phone buzzed twice, shifting on the surface of his coffee table. Klavier rolled over, unwilling to rise from his sprawl on the carpet. Oddly enough, it was a text from Fraulein Wright.

thank you! im glad to hear it xx

you drive a hard bargain fraulein :) i’ll be there

For the first time in a long time, he feels truly and innately happy. Though he’d done all of this— the press gambit, the parties, the faux casual appearances— before, he’s doing it more or less alone, and he was happy to know that someone out there could still derive joy from something he’d done.

He devours his pasta, ends up drinking too much vodka and falls asleep with a pleasant buzz, which he couldn’t solely attribute to the cocktail (It even survived the morning, until he’d had to wash his dirty plate and discovered his last apple missing).

august 20, 2026

Klavier is alone in the recording booth, early morning sun substituted by warm mood lights, reflecting off deep mahogany walls and geometric acoustic panels. For now he’s just experimenting, messing around with the mixing board before his actual producer arrives. He’d been in and out of the studio all month, and though his work attendance had definitely suffered, he felt consumed by his need to make something, to prove himself.

He was trying to capitalize on his sudden productivity, polishing up a few demos he’d liked, but felt strayed too far from the Gavinners brand. Though he was admittedly very frustrated (Paloma had been on the receiving end of a truly impressive fit) that fans had heard unreleased and incomplete music, he figured he could soothe his pride by incorporating one or two onto his album.

A dulcet voice interrupts his train of thought.

“I’m really feeling those vocals. That’s all you?” A man steps into the room, around his age, broad shouldered and svelte, small black braids swaying with the motion of his head.

“Ja, danke.” You’d need to live under a rock to not know about Dash Ward. Though Klavier had never met the man himself, he definitely enjoyed his work. He’d even go so far as to call himself a fan.

Klavier extends a hand and the man accepts, pulling him in and patting him on the back before releasing him.

“So what brings you to my humble abode?”

“I’ve got this amazing beat, but it needs a hook. So for now, I’m just window shopping.”

“Do you...see anything you like?” Klavier asks, more than a little excited.

“For sure, but I’ve gotta like what I hear first.” He expertly adjusts a few of the sliders, a concentrated set to his strong jaw. Klavier hears his own voice from the speakers, sounding breathy and glacial and a little dreamlike.

“Gott, how did you do that?”

“It pays to know your way around a soundboard. This is perfect and it wasn’t even recorded for my song.” He slides the dials back, and shifts his attention, picking up a pen and writing on the corner of a lyric sheet.

“Let’s be in touch, ok?”

He walks out with a half salute, and Klavier feels a bit starstruck.

ema i am freaking out!!!

this may be the 4th best day of my life :)

you wound me fraulein!

i’m in the studio

are you even going to ask about what happened?

Oh well. His expectations of Ema’s patience (or interest in his life) were low anyway. Had it really been that long since he’d gone to work? He’d wrapped up an assigned case on the 10th, and he’d kept track of his inbox. It’s not like he was required to sit in his office all day anyways. Ema just believed that everyone should subscribe to Herr Edgeworth’s insane work ethic.

And it’s not like he was idle! Paxton had insisted his album have at least 13 songs, a large leap from his intended 9, but he was still expected to finish production by October 2. He grumbles as he puts his headphones back on, and steps into the booth.

august 26, 2026

They kept in touch. They spend Friday afternoon in a joint meeting with their respective labels, Friday night getting drinks in Studio City, Saturday morning brainstorming, Saturday afternoon recording, Saturday night fucking on his couch, and Sunday revising until they had a passable song.

Maybe he was afraid of starting over, wanting someone to hold his hand through the hard parts like he was a little kid. Maybe he was just incapable of being alone for too long. Ultimately, he didn’t really know why and he didn’t want to analyze it.

He’d gone to the office a few times, taken a small grand larceny case, caught up with Ema, but he felt utterly vacant. For the first time in a long time, he was having trouble splitting his attention, mind was filled with the names of new acquaintances, instructions from his vocal trainer, and fragments of lyrics that he’d been too busy to write down. His prosecution was feeling more perfunctory than ever, and though he put genuine effort into being accurate, he didn’t have any of his usual showmanship to spare in the courtroom.

Even now, he was distracted, writing and rewriting the second verse of a potential song, though Dash had been talking to him for the past few minutes. He really needed a synonym for the color silver. Chrome? Pewter?

“— and my label begged me to change it to Cash Ward but I didn’t want to. Rather be fast than rich, you know?”

Klavier really didn’t know, but the man’s arm was a welcome weight around his shoulders, so he nodded anyway.

His work phone buzzes and he reaches forward, picking it up from its place on the floor.

not at all herr forehead ;)

i’ll be there, it’s at the wonder bar, ja?

He knew it would be awkward (there was no way Herr Wright wouldn’t be there), but this was a simple request. His family had already taken so much from her, watching her perform for an hour was the least he could do. He puts his phone and his notebook on the table, flashing his most charming grin to the man on his right. Perhaps it would be more tolerable with the right company.

“This is a...strange suggestion, but would you like to see some magic?”

“I’m down for anything if you phrase it like that,” he says, stroking Klavier’s arm with his thumb.

“Mmhm, I’m sure, but I meant literal magic. I promised my—” He’s not quite sure what to call Apollo, “friend I’d come to this magic show. It's at a bar.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“If you’d like to come. We can go back to my place after.”

He quirks a pierced eyebrow, but stands quickly at the implication. “After you.”

“Did you text him Polly?”

“Yeah, but I don’t get why I had to do it. You're the one with his phone number.”

“I’m simply delegating tasks to lower ranking employees! Well within my rights as CEO, in my opinion.”

Apollo rolls his eyes. Could she not just say she was busy? He was sitting on an old milk crate backstage, supposedly helping with set up, but really just avoiding Mr. Wright. He was being all doting and sappy, which was admittedly kinda sweet, but Apollo had no clue how to deal with him.

Showtime inched closer, and Trucy eventually kicked him out so she could change into her costume. He makes his way out front, stopping by his table to ask Ema what she wanted from the bar before placing their order. If he was being honest, he was kind of curious to see Prosecutor Gavin. He hadn’t been at the courthouse or at the police station any of the times he’d visited, and the last he’d seen of him was on that stupid gossip show. According to Ema, he was barely working, and according to Trucy, he was working exceptionally hard. Apollo always had a hard time accepting such blatant discrepancies.

Just as the bartender passes him his beer, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Hallo Herr Forehead.”

Klavier greets him with a dazzling smile. He’s accompanied by a vaguely familiar man, the warm lights over the bar illuminating his deep complexion, glinting off the metal clips in his crown of dark braids.

“Dash, this is Apollo Justice, he’s a defense attorney. Herr Forehead, Dash Ward. Now, where should we sit?”

“Well, you can sit wherever you want, but I doubt you want to sit with those two.” He points at the table where Mr. Wright sits, now joined by the Chief Prosecutor. “Detective Skye and I are at that table, on the left by the stairs.”

“Wunderbar! We’ll be over in a second.” He turns to face the bar, and the two of them order. He can’t help but notice Dash’s arm curling around Prosecutor Gavin’s lower back.

Apollo makes his way over to the little round table where Ema sits, glaring at nothing in particular. She begins her complaints as soon as he sits down.

“Is nothing sacred? Must I be forced to see the Glimmerous fop off the clock?”

“Trucy really wanted him here.”

“You knew about this and didn’t tell me?!”

Apollo deflects quickly, before her ire can transfer to him. “Uh, have you seen that guy he’s with? Do you know him?”

Ema leans forward and squints, looking without a hint of subtlety. “Yep. He’s a rapper. Dashboard or something like that.”

Despite her pointed disinterest in the Gavinners (and their frontman), Ema is also a huge gossip. Her apathetic front could only last for so long.

“Wait, why is he here? No offense to Trucy or anything, but her shows are the only thing keeping this dive afloat. Unless...eugh, nevermind. Justice, remind me to never think again.”

Ema guzzles her soda, and Apollo stews over what she says (and what she didn’t say). The house lights dim, and the aforementioned pair settle at their table.

The show is genuinely impressive, almost too well done for the venue. Apollo particularly enjoyed watching Trucy saw Mr. Wright in half. Dash leaves to take a call, and Ema goes over to talk with the rest of their group, leaving him and Klavier alone.

“Mein Gott, that was truly impressive! If only we’d hired her instead of Valant!”

“Speaking of, how have you been lately?” He asks, grateful he hadn’t had to broach the topic himself.

“Alles easy. I released a song with a friend of mine on the first, which was pretty fun.”

“Oh, um, that’s nice? What I really meant to ask was how you’re doing. We haven’t really talked since that case and—”

“I suppose it left me with a few extra VMA tickets. Would you like to take one off my hands?”

“Huh?” Did he really think Apollo wouldn't notice such a blatant diversion?

“The awards are next month. I asked Herr Blackquill as well, but I don’t think he’ll go. I don’t remember the exact date, but I can text you, ja?”

“What, so I’m your second choice?” Apollo frowns, indignation overtaking his desire to finish their initial conversation.

“Don’t be so down, Herr Forehead. You could never be my second choice.” Klavier says, tilting Apollo’s chin with the tip of his finger.

Apollo scoffs, pretending that his face isn’t beet red. Trucy bounds over, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Klavier praises her performance, procuring a single rose from his jacket. Dash returns from his call, walking over to their group and resting his hands on the back of Klavier’s chair. Trucy seems doubly starstruck, though she handles it with far more grace than Apollo would expect a teenager to have.. He finds Mr. Wright and Detective Skye by the stage, says his goodbyes, and leaves the bar.

september 13, 2026

“I’m not doing the red carpet with you. I already paid too much for this suit, that’s all you get.”

“I’d say it was worth every penny. Ach, if only I could show you off...” Klavier sighs, faux wistful.

Apollo was still trying to figure out how he ended up in a hotel suite, sitting across from Prosecutor Gavin as he got his hair curled. The initial invitation was an obvious ploy to change topics, but then the man had actually texted him the next day, outlining all the details of the event. He had no interest in the awards or meeting any of the man’s glitterati friends, but he sort of enjoyed hanging out with Prosecutor Gavin.

For all his...eccentricities, he was oddly down to earth, and seemed to have a stronger moral character than his lackadaisical rockstar persona would suggest. Yet something about his charismatic smile and practiced deflections bothered him. Krisptoph’s politeness felt glacial compared to Klavier’s warm affability, but both brothers seemed to have an innate superficiality that Apollo couldn’t help but notice. He looks down at his bare cuffs as his mind wanders.

Mr. Wright had given him the day off on Friday (owing to his so called “secret mission”), so he’d spent the afternoon at an outlet mall with Clay, trying on nearly every suit on the rack. They landed on a simple black suit, too formal for court, but maybe a bit too plain for where he was going. Whatever.

“Klavier! Are you done? The Cartier guy is here!” A woman with sandy brown hair sticks his head into the room. Prosecutor Gavin had introduced her as his manager, but Apollo can’t remember her name. She still hasn’t spoken to him directly, and he’s both offended and glad to have been spared from the full force of her nitpicking.

Klavier rises from his seat at the makeshift vanity table and follows her into the other part of the hotel room, stopping as he crosses the threshold.

“They’re lending me some jewelry for tonight. Do you want to take a look? I doubt they’ll mind if you borrow some as well.”

“Wouldn’t it look— a little, um, odd if we were matching?”

“I don’t think so…unless!” He gasps dramatically, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. “Are you telling me you don’t like my swagger?”

Who the hell talks like that? “I just don’t want to end up covered in chains or something weird like that!” He protests, but follows anyway, black dress shoes leaving indents in the soft carpet.

A man in white gloves presents them a red leather box, opening it to reveal a surplus of silver jewelry. Klavier takes about three of every item, spiked earrings, intricate rings, and hardware necklaces draping over the satin lapels of his suit. Apollo selects a pair of panther shaped cufflinks for himself, bemoaning the fact that he’ll have to return them later.

The man leaves, and Klavier turns to the mirror, standing idle as his manager brushed him with a lint roller and rearranged his accessories. Apollo had no clue how he put up with that all the time, he’d almost punched Mr. Wright again when the man tried to ruffle his freshly done hair.

When she’s finished with him, she gives Apollo a short once over, then ferries them out the door, past a sparse group of paparazzi, and into a black SUV.

“I hate the VMAs. No one ever shows up to get their prizes and the gift bags are shit every year, without fail,” she says, slouching into her seat.

“If I recall, you are the one who insisted we go, Paloma.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pulls her smartphone from a large leather envelope bag, scrolling with a manicured fingernail. “I have instructions for both of you, so listen up,” She says, taking a deep breath before reciting from her list like a drill sergeant.

“Klavier, that director you wanted for your music video is going, she’ll be in row G, so make sure you talk to her. Paxton also wants you to talk to the Global Studios head about letting some of their artists work on the soundtrack for that new action movie. Tell them you know John.”

“Was? I never agreed to play brand ambassador.” His brow furrows and he frowns, looking more pouty than angry.

“True, but we’re already on thin ice with them, so just play nice ok?” Her smile is sharp and more than a little foreboding.

“Laut und klar.”

“Ok. Don’t answer any questions about you-know-who, if they get pushy just tell them you’ve already spoken about it with E! News. They’ll stop you themselves if it seems like you’re advertising the competition.”

“What a devious little trick!” he snickers.

“Also, you can speak freely Paloma, Herr Forehead was the opposing counsel in that trial.” He looks away, and plays with his bangs. When he speaks again, it’s a bit quieter. “He was also an employee of mein Bruder.”

“Oh? Interesting.” She shoots Klavier an inquisitive look, before turning the full force of her gaze at him.

“So, Mr. Justice. The same applies for you. No Kristoph, no Daryan. Not to the press and not to anyone else. TMZ has their grubby little fingers everywhere. Am I understood?”

“Yes Ma’am! Loud and clear!” So much for being immune to celebrity.

“Good. I was going to make a legal threat, but I realized that probably wouldn’t work on you so…” She trails off. “Wait, Ma’am? How old do you think I am?!” Klavier's shoulders shake with unrestrained, musical laughter.

The rest of the ride is uneventful. They listen to some obnoxious, trashy music from the 2000’s, Klavier tells some funny stories about him as a middle schooler, and the three of them have an engaging and pleasant chat about almost nothing at all. Even though they were going somewhere very few people would ever go, he’d never seen Klavier being so genuine. Apollo glances at the distant lights of the Staples Center and smiles.

october 6, 2026

Klavier Gavin’s first complete solo project is released on October 2nd, and he’s on top of the world (and the charts, which is notable, but slightly less important). He’d stayed up all night with his team, popping champagne, reading reviews and anxiously awaiting the reactions of his fans.

Both had been shockingly positive, aside from a few who claimed he was a bad role model for daring to say ‘fuck’ at 24 years old. Nothing he wasn’t used to. Over the weekend he’d done a short live Q & A on his Instagram and (finally) publicly announced his upcoming tour. He was feeling humbled and grateful and fucking ecstatic, even as he sat on his couch picking at the giant fruit basket Paxton had sent him and watching America’s Next Top Model.

Things were looking up in his other career too. As production wound down, he’d spent more time in the office, and he’d actually been able to divert some enthusiasm into his investigations.

When he arrives on Tuesday morning, his inbox is already full and he has a meeting scheduled with the Chief. He replies to a few of them, prints out a document or two, and confirms with Herr Edgeworth on the office’s shared e-calendar.

He makes his way to the breakroom for a coffee, and sees Simon Blackquill slouched in a plastic chair, eyes closed, chin tilted back and head of dark hair dangling towards the floor.. Klavier approaches from behind, stepping quietly and stooping low to whisper in his ear.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Sleepyhead.”

“That was a feeble attempt at surprising me, Gavin-Dono.” Simon replies, one eye cracked open.

“Who said I was trying to surprise you?” He winks, making it as sleazy as he can.

“It’s too early for your antics. You have work to do, do you not?”

“Such a buzzkill. I’ll have you know I’m still enjoying the afterglow of a wonderful weekend.” Klavier sinks into the chair across from him, grinning like a schoolboy.

Simon’s glower only darkens. “I’m changing my stance on your return. I could certainly do without your puerile innuendos.”

“Ach, are you saying you missed me?”

The other man shakes his head and walks away, only to return with a cup of green tea and an Americano from the machine.

The two of them relocate after they finish their drinks, loafing around in Simon’s office. Klavier attempts to feed Taka again (Third time’s the charm?), only to have his hair mercilessly ruined. He pretends to read a casefile while looking at the user comments on Pitchfork, and checking the RSVP’s for Saturday’s release party. Simon studiously plays sudoku, occasionally breaking to look at whatever tweets Klavier shows him.

He leaves at 1:42, and arrives in Edgeworth’s office at 1:48. He’s 3 minutes late for the meeting, but he can barely pretend to feel guilty about it. He leaves the room twenty minutes later.

Drew Misham is dead. His daughter is their primary suspect, and he’s been entrusted to handle some sort of experimental trial. He’s unsettled by the name, but intrigued by the prospect, and all of his teenage ambition rushes to the forefront. He spends the rest of the day in the office, building his case and steeling his nerves.

october 10, 2026

“Is it weird that I’m worried about him? I mean...I still don’t know what to think about Kristoph, and he was just my employer. Imagine him being your actual relative.” He says, slouching further into the red leather of the office couch. He was stuck doing overtime in the office, filling out a never ending pile of surveys and response forms for the Jurist Committee.

“I guess it was pretty creepy to see him being all smiley after that,” Trucy says, gently tapping a finger against her chin. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Nothing? I don’t really know if it's my place. Like, I’m probably the exact last person he wants to see right now.”

“Polly! You’re approaching this all wrong! You’re probably the only person who could talk to him about it. Daddy made us all sign NDA’s before the trial began.”

Mr. Wright leans over, peering from his place behind a truly ancient desktop. “Hey, don’t blame me. The NDA’s were the Governor’s idea. Also, I think the last person he wants to see is probably me, if that makes you feel better.”

It really doesn’t, and Trucy is only encouraged by her father’s blasé attitude.

“We could send him some flowers? No, that feels inappropriate for the occasion. Maybe a singing telegram? Hm, no, that might not work out, I wouldn’t want to sing in front of him. Or! We could bring him a cake? Everyone likes cake! And we’d get to have some too!”

Apollo is still confused by her second idea, so he latches onto practical considerations. “Trucy, we have no clue where he lives. I was just going to text him.”

“Speak for yourself! He lives near that mall in Century City, in the building with the huge roundabout in front.”

“Huh?! How do you know that? Shouldn’t his address be unlisted?” Had she become some sort of stalker fan, right under his nose? And why was Mr. Wright still not saying anything?!

“I magically retrieved it from Uncle Miles’ work computer. His password is way too obvious.”

Magically? More like ‘criminally,’ but he opted to ignore it for now. Apollo hoped Mr. Wright would at least comment on his daughter’s breach of privacy (and apparently unchecked access to their state’s criminal justice system), but of course, his expectations for the man were too high.

The evening is almost over as Apollo finds himself standing in the elevator of a very swanky apartment building, holding a very lovely mango mousse cake from the Kitaki Bakery. Trucy had bailed on him at the last minute, citing some pressing SAT prep work for a class she’d never mentioned before today.

The elevator dings, and he steps out onto the second highest floor in the building. The thrum of loud music only increases as he draws closer to his apartment. He raises his hand, and the door opens before he can even finish knocking.

“Was? Herr Forehead, I had no clue you were coming. And you brought dessert? Come in, come in!”

Apollo is completely blindsided. He was expecting to see Klavier with teary, bloodshot eyes, eating some comfort food and wearing a bathrobe. Instead, the room behind Klavier is full of people, alt-pop is blasting from his speakers and there’s even a professional bartender in the corner. The man himself is fully dressed in some s less than opaque coveralls which he’s left unzipped down the front, revealing his toned chest and a dizzying array of silver chains. Not that Apollo was looking or anything.

Klavier ushers him in, leading him through a cluster of people and towards an open concept kitchen. He opens the door of his enormous refrigerator, and Apollo places the cake inside as he looks around the room. He recognizes Klaviers manager, two former Gavinners members and a model he’d seen on a billboard downtown. He’s suddenly very grateful and very embarrassed by his wrinkled work suit.

“Uh, I didn’t mean to crash your party,” is all he says, though his mind races with a million questions.

“Nein, nein, I’m happy you’re here.” He leans in, murmuring low and sonorous, “You’re definitely a sight for sore eyes.”

Again with the cheesy lines? He looks anywhere but at the man's face, slowly nodding his head to the music.The mix of pop, heavy metal and dance is unexpected, but it works, all blended together by a voice like quicksilver, spilling from the speakers.

“What do you think? I spent forever on the lyrics for this one.”

Apollo’s brows jump in surprise. “This is you? But it's so good!”

“Not sure if I should be offended or not, Herr Forehead, but I’ve always been an optimist.” His grin is a little lopsided, and his eyes are startlingly somber.

“I didn’t actually come here as a cake delivery boy. I just wanted to see how you were doing after yesterday. I mean, I don’t know if any of us expected it to go the way it did you know?”

Klavier just looks at him, no mirth and no pretense. “I—” He bites his lip, trying to confine the words, but they spill out anyway, bitter and just a touch heartbroken. “I just— I can’t talk about Kris anymore. I’ve had this party planned since September and I refuse to let him ruin this for me too. Besides, I meant what I said about you being here, so I’m going to grab us some drinks, and we are going to sit on the couch, and he’s not going to infringe on my life ever again, ja?”

Apollo follows him numbly, takes the offered drink (some sort of fancy vodka concoction), and tries to relax. He’s not really sure if this is helping anyone, but the drink has gone straight to his head and Klavier seems to be doing a bit better than before, so maybe it did more than he thought. Paloma clears everyone out at 11:30 (as per the rules of Klavier’s building), and leaves, promising to send a cleaning service in the morning.

The two of them are still slumped on the couch, surrounded by dirty glasses, feeling more lethargic than drunk.

“Do you wanna cut that cake? I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“Ach, that explains it. You were only plotting on my consolation cake. What would you have done if I didn’t want to share?” Klavier asks, tone just a shade too vulnerable to be a joke.

They rise from their seats and make their way to the kitchen. Klavier nearly finishes his piece as they stand in the kitchen, and Apollo takes his first bite as they return to their places and sit down.

He tries to pick up where they left off. “I’m not here out of guilt or something like that, it’s just— some of the things you guys said to each other in there were really intense, I just wanted to—”

“Can we please just stop talking?” Klavier groans, frustrated. Apollo puts his plate down and turns his head. The tip of his nose skims the other man’s coiffed hair, and Apollo can feel the warmth of his cheek, pressed to the crook of his neck.

He didn’t come here to just give up, but Klaviers is so near, and the scent of his cologne is so overwhelming, and Apollo kinda feels like his brain is leaking through his ears. He leans away until Klavier lifts his head, and then shifts closer, pressing their lips together. It’s chaste and unexpectedly sweet, until it isn’t. Klavier runs his tongue along the seam of Apollo’s lips, working his mouth open with spit slick kisses. He tastes like alcohol and mango and something else Apollo can’t quite name. Soon, Apollo is crowding Klavier against the arm of the sofa, slotting their hips together, tangling his hands in pale blonde hair.

Klavier’s roving hands settle on his vest, slowly undoing the buttons, and Apollo pulls away. In his haste, he’d completely forgotten that Klavier was probably seeing someone. He really didn’t want the confirmation, but he’d made enough mistakes tonight. He takes a calming breath and asks, “What about that guy— from before? The— the rapper. Are you…?”

Klavier speaks the words into his neck, smoothing his hands over the planes of his back. “Oh, him? We were never together that way. He went back to Houston, sent me some flowers for the album release. Now, less talking, more—”

He doesn’t get much further than that.

october 11, 2026

Apollo wakes up in what may be the nicest bed he’d ever been in. A thick, downy comforter, silk pillowcases and a head of platinum blonde hair, spilling over his chest like rays of artificial light. He can’t really bring himself to regret last night, though part of him feels he’s supposed to.

Once again, he’d started something that he wasn’t sure he could finish on his own. He looks at the clock, a little wooden cube that somehow displays the time. Apollo has no clue what to do. It’d be callous to just leave, seeing as they already knew each other, but maybe he was supposed to. The choice is taken from him when the alarm goes off a moment later. Klavier rolls over, and Apollo can see faint black smudges around his eyes and a few scars he hadn’t noticed before. Huh. That makeup in the dressing room really was his.

“Guten Morgen.” Klavier opens his eyes, head still resting on Apollo’s chest.

“Uh, Good morning?”

“Do you want breakfast? I have a meeting soon, but I should have something we can eat around here.” Klavier is too calm, like he always wakes up in bed with his (sort of) coworkers, or like his brother is always moved to death row after attempting to kill someone in open court.

He gets out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, before throwing a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt near Apollo’s head.

“Hey. Watch the hair,” Apollo says, as though his signature wasn’t already mussed beyond belief.

Klavier turns and smiles at him, quiet and familiar. Apollo feels a little giddy. They share a bowl of fruit salad and another slice of mango cake. Apollo pulls on his suit as Klavier gets dressed, and the man kisses him again as they ride the elevator downstairs. Apollo smiles, watching Klavier straddle his bike, aureole covered by a dark helmet. He walks through the park on his way home, thinking about that smile and the imprint of it on his skin. Maybe things would be ok after all.