Chapter Text
Kristoph leans against the doorway of Klavier's office, watching as he tunes one of the many guitars strewn around the room. It was really too easy to get here; all he had to do was give his name and the receptionist gushed oh, so you're Prosecutor Gavin's brother and let him in without any difficulty. What strikes him now is the extent of his envy, and of his fury, uncomfortably hot in his chest. Klavier, having passed the bar, is already said to be the office's next prodigy – even though he hasn't yet prosecuted a trial – and was given a case that even Kristoph failed to work his way into. And there's the matter of Phoenix Wright, a second-rate attorney, relying only on bluffs and having even worked to the detriment of his own clients, being given the same case not six hours ago. It's ridiculous; ridiculous enough to burn Kristoph up and reawaken that little second-best parasite that likes to hammer on his skull at times like these.
Kristoph lets the anger cool a little, until it's simmering in the background and not twitching into his face. He clears his throat, slipping on his customary ice-cold smile. "Klavier."
Klavier jumps at the sound of his voice, and turns, one eyebrow quirked. "Oh– guten Abend, Kris!" He lets out a short, awkward laugh, unhooking the guitar from around his neck and laying it carefully on his desk (which is less a desk and more a massive speaker lying on its side). "Odd seeing you here the day before a trial."
Kristoph's jaw tenses, and he has to actually fight to unclench it as Zak Gramarye's hideously irritating grin flashes into his mind, along with his disinterested dismissal of Kristoph based on, of all things, a card game. "Ah." Kristoph fights to keep the smile on his face, although he can feel the corner of it wavering. "About that; I won't be appearing in the trial, actually."
"Huh?" Klavier's eyebrows shoot up as his black-ringed eyes widen behind the sunglasses that he continues to insist on wearing indoors, jaw going slack before he remembers himself and swallows, leaning against his so-called desk. "Wait, why not?"
"I won't be facing off with you on your first trial, apparently," says Kristoph (which isn't really an answer, but he's frankly past caring), hands clenching into fists where they're folded behind his back. "But, in exchange," (and his smile is suddenly not-so-forced), "I brought information."
Klavier runs a hand through blonde, fluffed-up curls, pulling his fringe out of his face even as the little crease between his brows deepens. "Information?" he echoes quietly, uncertainly.
Phoenix Wright's stupid, smiling face makes its way into Kristoph's thoughts, and, although they've never spoken, Kristoph hates him; hates this foolish, bluffing attorney who has somehow achieved everything that Kristoph hasn't. It should have been him, he thinks: him that beat out legends, him that gained a reputation that fearsome, and him that was given the Gramarye trial and all of the publicity that it has already generated.
He thinks, for a second, of Vera Misham's wide-eyed face, so trusting, even while her hands, with glimmering nails, deftly moved to produce documents that could serve any purpose at all.
They won't serve their intended purpose, that's for sure, but Kristoph is nothing if not adaptable, and adapt he will. If he can't use the page he spent a small fortune on, then he will ensure that Phoenix Wright will, and that Klavier knows about it.
If Kristoph cannot win, then, by God, he will make sure that everybody else loses.
"The attorney who will be there in my place tomorrow," (and it is his place; it should have been him), "is not to be trusted." Somehow, Klavier's eyes widen further as he slips his glasses off and tucks them into his shirt, leaning forward a little, as if to ensure that he doesn't miss a word. Kristoph continues. "Don't even give him the benefit of your respect. Listen–" he picks up the briefcase he had with him, pulling out a single sheet of paper with Drew Misham's details on it, and crosses the room, handing it to Klavier in one swift motion, "I want you to call in a special witness."
Klavier nods, slowly, the little frown of concentration playing on his features slowly giving way to shock as he reads. He looks back up at Kristoph. "You think he will have commissioned this man, ja?"
Kristoph, of course, doesn't think anything. Wright will present that evidence tomorrow, since Kristoph knows better than anyone that he will have no other choice.
"Precisely," says Kristoph. "Obviously, that can't be allowed. So you will call this man to the stand and have him testify about the evidence he forged, and shut it down."
"Kris–" Klavier swallows, glancing down at the paper for a second. "That– I mean, that is enough to get someone disbarred. Are you sure that you're right about this?"
The merest hint of warning creeps into Kristoph's voice. "You doubt me, Klavier?"
"No! No, I– it's just a serious accusation to make, ja?" Klavier forces a smile, so blatantly fake that even Kristoph can see right through it. "I wouldn't want to ruin someone's career on a false hunch–"
"It isn't false," says Kristoph, without hesitation. "You do trust me, don't you?"
"Natürlich," Klavier grins, and the worry in his smile is patched over by determination. "Vielen dank, Kris."
Kristoph really needs to do something about his brother's habit of slipping German into every conversation. Not only does it sound stupid, it's tacky, just another thing to make him more appealing to the public (not that Kristoph, who has quite deliberately toned down his own accent until it's barely detectable, has any room to talk).
"Of course." Even as he smiles, he fixes Klavier with a stare, the don't-argue-with-me that they can both recognise. "By the way, don't bring my name up, will you? I'd prefer not to be seen to be consorting with the prosecution, even though you are my brother."
Klavier nods, already clearly more focused on the trial than Kristoph. "Kein Problem. It'll be an anonymous tip, ja?"
"Perfect," says Kristoph, briefcase in hand and back in the doorway. "Good luck," he adds, as an afterthought.
Klavier flashes him a different kind of smile, the exaggerated one that Kristoph has seen in passing during interviews and on magazine covers. "Doubt I'll need it."
It was an offhand comment, Kristoph tells himself, as he makes his way down the street; a joke. Regardless, it still sets his teeth grinding and does nothing to alleviate the rush of selfish triumph that comes with having done this. He will have beaten them all, he thinks: Klavier, trial tainted by lies, Wright, who will almost certainly be disbarred, and Gramarye, who, with a defence attorney that forges evidence, has little to no chance of escaping a life sentence.
Of course, being Kristoph's plan, it goes perfectly. Perfect, he thinks, from the gallery, as Klavier calls his witnesses and Wright freezes with horror. Perfect, as Drew says exactly what Kristoph wanted him to and the judge calls the trial to an end. Perfect, all up until Zak Gramarye pulls his little disappearing act and the room launches into chaos.
When Kristoph leaves the courtroom, it appears that his presence was anticipated, because he finds himself faced with a cluster of reporters and a microphone uncomfortably close to his face. He keeps his expression pleasant, despite the childish impulse to shove them all out of the way and storm off to seethe about this unexpected loose end.
He can't see where the voice originates amongst the clamour, although that's hardly relevant. "Mr. Gavin, what were your thoughts on the trial today?"
Kristoph tilts his head, smiles. "I'm extremely proud of Klavier, of course," he lies smoothly. "It's a shame how it turned out, although I suspect this isn't the last you'll see of him. This has been his dream for years, you know?"
In the reflection of the window, he can see Klavier enter the room, stage-smile already plastered on his face, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses. He looks every bit the part he wants to play, Kristoph concedes, but that doesn't mean he wants to interact with it. "If you'll excuse me," he says, and steps neatly past the bustling group, ready to leave.
Obviously, it isn't that easy, because an overjoyed "Kris!" stops him in his tracks as Klavier catches up to him, beaming. "Kris, you came!" he cries, seemingly unaware of the cameras trained on them both. Comes with the territory, it seems.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," says Kristoph, watching as his brother's smile widens, before he's pulled into a hug. It takes him a minute to disentangle himself – gracefully, because there are people watching them – and, even then, Klavier's arm rests over his shoulders.
"You know," and Klavier addresses the reporters, "I couldn't have done it without mein Bruder. He's such a huge inspiration to me, even though we stand on opposite sides of the court, and he has supported me through all of this. So I'd just like to thank him here, while I have the chance."
The reporters fall into adoring silence for a minute, and while Kristoph knows that Klavier cannot be being honest right now, knows that Klavier is playing to the cameras, he still has to fight to keep the disbelief from showing on his face. An inspiration, says Klavier, about Kristoph, who is known for being so incredibly unlike him. Supportive, about his brother, who told him for years that his dreams were practically impossible. I'd like to thank him, he says, about the man who nearly drove him to suicide.
Kristoph is not one for emotional displays, but he feels a little faint, and he fears that he may, in fact, collapse if he has to hear more of these blatant lies. It's not that he isn't used to lies, in themselves, but hearing them from Klavier is a whole different feeling. Watching his brother, who has finally let go of him and is now charming the press, lying with such ease – even with good intent – is a game which Kristoph is not quite prepared to play.
While the spotlight is still on Klavier, Kristoph, as usual, fades into the shadows.
He doesn't quite arise from them until the Bar Association votes on the matter of Phoenix Wright's disbarment; only then does Kristoph dig himself out of his office. After all, he cannot miss this.
This: Wright, barely able to stand still, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and grief, hair only half-brushed. He looks quite small, actually, Kristoph notes from his chair, in that ill-fitting polyester suit, littered with creases and in a shade of blue that would be somewhat dashing were it less saturated. It isn't a hopeful look: it's one of defeat that the man isn't quite ready to admit, not until it's all over.
When it is all over, Kristoph is first questioned on his vote against the disbarment, and then praised on his leniency, with I didn't think you had it in you, Gavin, and a clap on the shoulder, and some or other remark about how compassion is all well and good, but this is forging evidence, which is a crime, and–
Kristoph ignores the last comment. They don't understand, anyway, and he hopes they never do. His vote is no more than a way to strike up conversation, to establish himself as a saviour in Wright's life and watch him as he falls.
Yes, Kristoph is a certain kind of twisted.
Kristoph is the kind of twisted that times his exit perfectly so that Wright sees him leave, and, predictably, walks fast enough to catch up with him. Kristoph stops, and turns, letting the question seep into his face, and Wright gives him a breathless, "Hey." He clears his throat, and Kristoph notices that his eyes don't match: the left is blue, the right brown. It's strangely fitting, actually, that such a last-minute, hastily put-together person would have odd eyes. He doesn't have time to dwell on it; Wright clears his throat again, awkwardly, giving Kristoph a weary – although honest – smile, crooked and chip-toothed, revealing dimples hiding in his freckled face. "Uh– I just wanted to say thanks. For not voting against me. I, uh, appreciate it."
Kristoph smiles, too, but it's as far from honest as it can be: this perfect, even smile that he cultivated in mirrors to be as non-threatening as is humanly possible for someone with features as sharp as his. "I only apologise for not being able to make more of a difference, although I'm honoured that you noticed, actually. You could say that I admire your work."
Wright grins wider, even as he winces a little at the mention of work. "Wow– um, thanks!" He frowns, just a little, and holds out a hand for Kristoph to shake. "Although it seems weird to take compliments when I don't even know your name."
Kristoph takes the proffered hand, if only for a second, and it's surprisingly warm, and a little clammy, calluses scattered over it. "Kristoph Gavin," he says, and watches for a reaction in Wright's overly expressive face. "It's a pleasure."
Wright's brows furrow. "Wait– Gavin?"
Kristoph tilts his head, hands folded oh-so-neatly behind his back. "Yes. That was my brother you… met."
"Wow," says Wright, and there doesn't appear to be any malice in it. "I would never have guessed, honestly."
It's frankly unsurprising: unless you actually look, there isn't a huge resemblance between them. Klavier is all glitter and messy, dyed hair and eyeliner, having slipped right into the teenage-rockstar persona he has, and Kristoph could not be much less like him in regards to that. It's a perfectly valid observation, but it still jabs at him in a way that nothing else quite does.
"I'm almost exactly eight years older than him," he shrugs, hoping for nonchalance. "It makes a difference. Although I'd hate to keep you, and I should really be going–"
"Wait–" and he stops as Wright steps forward. "Wait," he repeats. "Uh– I'm sorry, I'm keeping you now, but I just–" he sighs. "Would you like to get a drink sometime?"
"I don't drink," says Kristoph, and watches as Wright flushes. "But I'm not averse to the idea, outside of that." He slips a card from his jacket pocket and hands it to Wright. "Call me whenever you feel like it. I'm saying it as a friend."
The relief on Wright's face is so obvious that Kristoph can practically feel it emanating from him. "Thanks– I mean, seriously, thank you. I guess I'll, uh, see you around, huh?"
"I'd certainly hope so," Kristoph tosses over his shoulder as he leaves.
The next evening, Wright does, in fact, call him. Kristoph is conveniently alone in the office – he works the longest hours, being who he is – when an unknown number buzzes up on his phone and he picks up to the sound of Wright pretending he hasn't been crying. This would be significantly more effective if Kristoph had not spent the majority of the last decade raising Klavier, who has been known to cry at Christmas adverts. So when Wright tries to give him a jaunty greeting and his voice is all thick and wobbly, Kristoph has to actually bite the inside of his cheek so that his knife-wide smile isn't audible. This; this, God, is what victory feels like, he thinks, and he may be drunk on it, even though he's never been drunk in his life.
"So," and Wright's funny little fake-happy voice pulls him back to reality, "I kinda forgot about the issue that is childcare. I'm coming across as really smart, huh? Oh, Jesus–"
Kristoph will be a philanthropist, today. Kristoph will play the part of concerned-rich-lovely new friend and make everything better, and maybe plant some bugs along the way. "If childcare is an issue," he says lightly, "I'm happy to help."
"Wait, what?"
"What I said. I mean, if the issue is money, specifically, unless you want to leave Klavier in charge of a child, which would be asking for a lawsuit."
Wright laughs at that, and it's one of those loud, frothy laughs that will set a room off. "That's actually a scary image. But– like, are you serious?"
"I'm not prone to jokes." Kristoph inspects his nails in the evening light, and wonders absently whether he should get them redone. "My offer still stands."
"I– Jesus, thank you, but I don't want to accept charity, you know?"
"It isn't charity," says Kristoph, "if it benefits both of us."
It takes all of five minutes to arrange a meeting after that – the next night, no less – and Kristoph sets aside a wad of money to pay Wright's friend, or someone (he wasn't exactly listening to the details) to babysit his adopted daughter. It's strangely mundane, and strangely amusing. There's an irony in it, Kristoph thinks, and is pleasantly surprised to find that he quite enjoys that irony.
He continues to enjoy the irony when he finds himself in some or other middle-class bar, sipping on sparkling water and watching as Phoenix Wright walks in. He somehow manages to look both better and worse than he did when they last met: less dishevelled, but just as tired. His hair is actually somewhat close to normal – less like he's spiked it up and more like he's just brushed it – and he's ditched the suit for a simple shirt and slacks. It's not dissimilar to what Kristoph is wearing, actually, although quite obviously in a whole different price range.
Kristoph waves him over, wearing his most pleasant smile. "Good evening," as Wright, having ordered a drink, slips into the chair opposite him (Kristoph tends to avoid actually sitting at the bar, because that feels like inviting people to talk to him, which is the last thing that he wants).
"Hi," Wright says, breathless. "Sorry I'm late– there was… well, I had to convince Trucy that I wasn't abandoning her, actually." He frowns a little, mismatched eyes brimful with sorrow and care. "It's been hard on her, y'know?"
"I can't imagine how difficult it must be," says Kristoph, all while wishing that he could, for what would be more satisfying than that? "Are you sure that you're alright?"
"I'll live," Wright shrugs, but there's a heaviness to it that betrays him. "I guess I'll… I don't know, shelve groceries or something while I figure out what to do. It'll be fine," he says, a little too brightly.
Kristoph raises an eyebrow. "Are you not slightly above shelving groceries? I'm certain a man of your intelligence could find a better job than that."
Wright sighs. "Not with a reputation as a liar. I don't think any honest organisation would even think about hiring me."
"Not even if I put in a good word for you?"
"You'd do that?"
Kristoph studies the sudden hope glowing in Wright's face, dark circles under his eyes and a hint of stubble on his jaw. He thinks about what he's done, and what he wanted: he's achieved it, in truth. Klavier's first trial will always be bittersweet, regardless of whether it played out like Kristoph had originally planned. Wright will never be accepted back into the legal industry, even if Kristoph has anything to do with it (especially if Kristoph has anything to do with it). And Gramarye… well, Gramarye isn't worth thinking about. He'll never have a relaxed moment again, which is good enough for now. Kristoph thinks of this, and gives Wright a guarded little smile. "Yes," he says, "I would."
Wright frowns. "Why? Like, not to be ungrateful, but why would you believe me?"
Kristoph sweeps a strand of hair from his eyes and takes a sip of sparkling water, letting the sourness prickle over his tongue. "They're calling it the dark age of the law, did you know that?" He rests his chin on his hand casually. "I mean, was there even a proper investigation done into your trial?"
(There wasn't. Kristoph knows this, because, if there was, he would be gone by now, running far and fast to escape his own actions.)
Wright looks away sheepishly. "No," he admits. "But I guess it wouldn't matter if the person who commissioned the forgery was anonymous. They'd find some way to make it out to be me, 'cause I'm already suspicious."
"You're more cynical than I'd expected."
"Yeah, well. Being a defence attorney in the so-called dark age of the law does that to you."
"Yes," says Kristoph. "I suppose it does."
"How d'you cope with it?" Wright asks, all of a sudden.
"Hm?"
"I mean, I basically broke myself after every case. Like, I'd get super attached to winning it and burn myself out. But you – I mean, not to be rude – you don't strike me as someone who does that. So how d'you deal with, like, not winning a case, or something?"
"I find that insulting the prosecutor does quite a lot to remedy it," says Kristoph, letting the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Earn his trust, screams his brain, and nothing earns trust better than the illusion of vulnerability. "I can't claim to be exactly the sort of person who develops emotional attachments to things so fleeting. I defend my client; if I win, I win, and, if I lose, I lose with grace."
"Wow," Wright says quietly. "I don't think I could have that mentality if I tried. I'm not… I was always way too invested." (Kristoph takes satisfaction in the past tense there.) "You heard of the Hammond case?"
"Not in as much detail as I'd like. Why?"
Wright smiles, some kind of wistful nostalgia that suits his face far too well and creases up into dimples. "I defended it."
Kristoph steeples his fingers over the table and leans forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of him. "So I've heard. Is it true that nobody else would even touch that case?"
"Yeah. I mean, I couldn't really blame them," Wright shrugs. "Edgeworth wasn't – isn't – exactly popular, with the whole demon prosecutor thing going on. And there was also von Karma to deal with – I mean, the guy was insane. I hated him on sight, so I kinda made up my mind to win the case – not just for Edgeworth, but also to screw him over."
"And so you did," notes Kristoph.
"Only 'cause I cross-examined a parrot."
Kristoph actually, properly drops his pleasant little mask with what can only be shock; a pure, unguarded moment of surprise before he remembers himself and shuts it down with something more manufactured. "I'm sorry?"
Wright laughs. "No, you heard me. I put a parrot on the stand and won a case that way."
"That's–" Kristoph smiles, amused, despite himself. "Frankly, that's ridiculous. Not that I want to insult your… methods, per se."
"I mean," and Wright's eyes fix on his drink, avoiding Kristoph's gaze, "it was either that or let one of my oldest friends go to jail for a crime I knew he didn't commit."
There's a little spark of envy, somewhere deep in Kristoph's labyrinthine mind; a quiet longing for that kind of honesty, the kind of trust in humanity that allows Wright to tell a perfect stranger about vulnerable moments like that. It's something that he shares with Klavier, actually, the ability to shamelessly put himself on display and damn the consequences.
Kristoph says none of this.
Instead, he asks, as casually as is possible: "You know him, then?"
Wright nods, a little flush rising in his cheeks and the tips of his ears (Kristoph wonders whether it's the alcohol, or something – someone? – else entirely). "We were friends back in grade school, before he… left. We… owe each other a lot, I guess."
"Ah," says Kristoph. "And does he know about your… situation?"
He's pushing it really, but Wright is clearly exhausted and – seemingly – friendless, and has downed most of a glass of overpriced alcohol at this point. In any case, he doesn't appear to notice or mind Kristoph's questioning, just sighs again. "No. I don't– I mean, he's in Europe right now, I… I don't want to bother him with stuff he can't change, you know? He's got enough on his plate as it is."
"That's… honourable, I suppose." Kristoph tilts his head, smiles in the way that he knows is pleasant, since that's what he made it for. "I know we aren't particularly well acquainted, but I'm happy to keep you company."
Wright frowns, even while giving a confused grin. "Wh– I mean, thanks – a lot – but why?"
Kristoph shrugs. "There's a lack of intelligent people in this world. I like to keep the few I find close by."
Wright laughs. "Can't blame you for that."
The evening wears on for another half-hour or so, before Wright exclaims at the time and excuses himself.
"Do you have a way of getting back?" asks Kristoph.
"Um," says Wright, sheepish. "I was just gonna walk…?"
Kristoph pulls his coat on. "Don't be ridiculous. It's pitch-black outside."
"Hey, I'll be fine! It's only–"
"I'll drive you," says Kristoph, in a tone that doesn't invite dispute.
"You have an accent," Wright notes, once they're in the car, and Kristoph wonders how he even noticed. It's not like he tries to make it known: in fact, he spent several months learning to hide it. Maybe Wright is more perceptive than he comes across as being.
"I try not to," says Kristoph, resisting the urge to point out that everyone, in fact, has an accent, and what Wright really means is that he isn't American.
"No, I mean–" Wright runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I'm sort of a mess right now. Uh– well, I thought Klavier's was fake, so…"
"It's exaggerated, certainly," Kristoph clarifies. "But fake it is not."
"You're German?"
Kristoph sighs, glaring at the road ahead of them, although Wright doesn't appear to notice. "Ja, ich komme aus Deutschland. Ich spreche Deutsch, Englisch, und ein bisschen Französisch. Bist du zufrieden?"
Wright's eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs: a small, surprised chuckle. "Wow. I know someone who grew up in–"
As quickly as it appeared, the little grin is gone, and Wright is left looking unsteady. Kristoph, being Kristoph, and having had the conversation they've had, knows exactly why, although he'd be a fool to voice it. Instead, he tilts his head and lets the silence lengthen, waiting for Wright to fill it (people will do anything to avoid silence, he's found). Wright stares at the dashboard and swallows, the street lights reflecting in those eyes when Kristoph glances at him. "Yeah, we haven't talked in a while, actually." He blinks, the tense sadness in his eyebrows falling, and looks up again. "Sorry. I wasn't intending to complain to you all night. I've never been, though. What's it like?"
It takes Kristoph a second to find a reply, since he remembers little but the people he hated and the manor house he should never have to think of again, now that it has no connection to him. "Well," and he tries for humour, "it's certainly colder than it is here. And I preferred the method of taxing there, if I'm being honest."
Wright snorts. "I'd probably die. Cold absolutely obliterates me."
"I doubt I'll ever be quite used to the heat," Kristoph says. "Two years has made approximately no impact on me. Klavier loves it, though."
"Yeah," sighs Wright, abruptly quiet again and staring out of the window. "I guess it is nice."
Driving turned out to be a good idea; the rain has started to beat down on the roof, and Kristoph smiles at it. There's something calming about the constant, unyielding drum of it, filling all the silences and becoming background noise. Although it's a bad idea to be unguarded, he lets himself drift a little, in the steady purr of the motor and the patter of the rain.
Wright's voice pulls him sharply back to reality. "Is he always like that?"
Kristoph blinks. "Who?"
"Your brother. Is he always that–" Wright gestures vaguely, "… well, flamboyant?
"Oh, Klavier?" Kristoph stares at the glimmering-wet road for a second, thinking about it. "Yes, I suppose he is. Why do you ask?"
Wright shrugs. "No reason, really. You two are pretty different."
because you're broken and he isn't is he
"We take after different people," Kristoph snaps, far too sharply to ignore, and they sit the rest of the journey in silence.