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Handing his badge over to the Bar Association had been the beginning of a day of humiliation for Phoenix. It had felt like wet cardboard in his hands, malleable pulp with no meaning other than the falsities that he had attributed to it, but watching it leave his possession had broken his heart almost as much as learning that Edgeworth would not delay his plans for Europe. Phoenix had thought—however briefly—that his personal tragedies might finally be enough for Edgeworth to stay, and to his credit, Edgeworth had offered him a place by his side on his travels, but Phoenix suspects that neither of them ever took the offer seriously. There’s just too much between them to act as though a disbarment would ever change anything. While Phoenix had worn the suit, flashed the smile, bluffed his way to victory once or twice, he looks at Edgeworth now and sees an old friend who won’t ever fit quite right into the hazy childhood memory of what he once was; what he once could have been.
But, knowing that the Bar Association’s decision to disbar him had not been unanimous—now that’s something worth investigating. He leaves Trucy with Edgeworth, asking her to look out for him as he finishes packing for Europe, because he will not take her where he is about to go. And Edgeworth must know—of course he knows, because he touches Phoenix’s face too lightly, meets his eye too briefly, doesn’t ask him where he’s going because the knowledge might just poison them both. In return, Phoenix does not speak Kristoph’s name in front of Edgeworth, a blank refusal to mix the oil and water parts of his life in a way that he might not ever be able to take back. The thing with Miles Edgeworth is that, as much as he goes, he always comes back, and Phoenix would sooner die than drive him so truly away that there is no option other than to fall completely into Kristoph’s arms.
Temporarily, however? He feels no shame that he wouldn’t otherwise feel, knowing who he is and what he has done.
Edgeworth waves him goodbye. The look in his eyes says everything—that by the time Phoenix returns, bitter and dirty with false love, he will have already left for his flight. But there’s no expectation of more, and Phoenix can’t entirely take all the blame; he’s tried and tried until he knows how to do nothing else, but Edgeworth had never been honest with himself. Edgeworth had never taken what was offered to him, and now the highest bidder sits with the Bar Association, casting a white-flag pity vote, an olive branch with all the pits still inside.
So Phoenix goes, without shame, without self-preservation, all the way up to the ornate gates of Kristoph’s house. He wonders what he’ll find inside; whether Kristoph acts in private as he does in public. Phoenix can only imagine the pristine decor of the mansion, the white on white on gold, gleaming in every corner a thousand times over until even the mildew shines—perfect. New acquaintances come with caveats—blissful votes in favour of changing nothing, hatred at a masquerade ball, a fine detective’s greatest work. As he watches the gates swing open, controlled from inside by Kristoph, Phoenix wonders if he is the cat, the mouse, or the trap.
But Kristoph is cordial; kind, even—if Phoenix didn’t know better. He welcomes him into his home with a graceful extended arm, as though he’s a ballet dancer vying for the Black Swan. The hallway is crafted almost entirely from marble, bookended by two gorgeous statues that Kristoph must have paid a hefty price for, and Phoenix can’t help but admire them. The first—a milky white depiction of the frozen, tortured agony of Saint Sebastian, struck into eternal pain by the arrows of martyrdom. And the second—a great, bronze Cassandra, her mouth bound with metal so delicate that it could be fabric.
“Admiring my artwork?” Kristoph asks with a smile. “It’s the pride of my collection.”
“Are these real?” Phoenix—taken aback by how obnoxious beauty can be—responds.
“Naturally. I have had each piece verified by an independent art critic. I wouldn’t display something less than perfect in my home.”
Then why invite me in? Phoenix thinks. What are you planning for me?
“Come,” Kristoph continues. “I have a fine wine you simply have to try.”
It doesn’t pass Phoenix by entirely that Kristoph walks him through his office to get to the wine cellar in the basement. He only needs to take a passing glance at the desk to see that it’s a little too flawless in its arrangement of disarray—the case files are open, but not to the point of giving away any information within, and it all looks remarkably like a set-up from a movie. Like it was designed not for work, but for the inherent voyeuristic nature of a disbarred lawyer, like an alcoholic walking through a vineyard. God, what Phoenix would give for one of those cases to be his. The only thing he wouldn’t give is his soul—not for a game of poker.
“Do you drink red?” Kristoph asks, holding up a bottle.
“Yeah,” Phoenix shrugs. “I’m not too fussy.”
“I’m quite the connoisseur myself. Tell me—how are you doing? Are you alright? I heard the news this morning.”
“Heard the news? Even you can’t have thought my hearing would go any differently. You were on the board of voters.”
“Well, yes, but I had hoped that my fellow compatriots would have seen the truth the way I could. I voted for your innocence—you must know that.”
“Thank you,” Phoenix says, swallowing down the bitterness in his throat. “I suppose it’s easy to believe in a disbarred lawyer when your own badge isn’t on the line.”
“Don’t mistake me for a fool. I put my reputation on the line for you. It simply isn’t fitting for a Bar member of my status to go against the flow. I put a target on my back for your benefit, Phoenix Wright, and you would do well to remember as such.”
“You should know my gratitude is genuine.”
“A reminder every now and then would be nice. Especially if we are to continue this… friendship,” Kristoph says the word through a tight smile. “But I suppose you didn’t come here to talk about your disbarment.”
“Actually, I did.”
“No, no. It’s just not proper to have such a conversation so soon after the event. You have to sit with it for a while, whatever you’re feeling, and come back once you know what you want to do with the rest of your life.”
“I already know,” Phoenix purses his lips, aiming for nonchalance. “The Borscht Bowl Club is looking for a pianist.”
“Do you play?”
“It can’t be that hard.”
“It’s a very delicate instrument,” Kristoph extends his hand to Phoenix. “You have to treat a piano in a certain way or it will rebel entirely against you. When you sit before those keys, you are the master. The instrument works to your purpose, but if you so much as shy away from it even momentarily, it will never play well for you, even if you have all the technical expertise in the world.”
“You talk like you have experience.”
“Well, naturally, I do. My parents were ever so musical. Of course, my younger brother outshined the rest of us with that modern rock of his, but I know my way around the classics easily. I’ll show you, if you’d like.”
“You have a piano?”
“I have many instruments,” Kristoph takes his wine glass and begins to walk out of the room. Phoenix has no choice but to follow, listening to him talk about his accomplishments and his belongings as though they are one and the same. “A grand piano, a beautiful Stradivarius violin passed down through the generations of my family, a collection of flutes.”
“And do you play them all?”
“I know how to play them all, yes.”
Leading Phoenix into a grand, walk-in wardrobe, Kristoph runs his hands over an array of well-pressed suits. “Take your pick,” he says. “Any pianist worth his salt must dress the part.”
“I’m comfortable as I am, thanks.”
“Oh, Phoenix. Phoenix, Phoenix, Phoenix,” Kristoph drawls. “Amuse me for a moment. Allow me to dress you in finery, and then—and only then—you may have the pleasure of playing for me.”
He takes out a beautiful, black suit, holding it up in the light of the grand room against Phoenix’s body. “Yes,” he continues. “This will do quite nicely. Get changed. I’ll be just outside—don’t keep me waiting.”
It’s strange how easily Phoenix follows an order given to him by a man who would be a lot less dangerous as a stranger. He shrugs his clothes off, quickly dressing into the suit to avoid the weakness of his own vulnerability, although the fine tailoring doesn’t make him feel any more comfortable than his own nakedness had. There’s a large mirror at the end of the room, and he stares at himself, feeling as though he’s watching a silent movie about a man of misfortune; a man who is not him, but could be. Slowly, he brings his hand up to the cool, almost silver glass, and his reflection follows perfectly. There’s no delay in movement, at least not on the side of the false image.
His hand burns, and he presses it deeper into the mirror, as if somehow—subconsciously—he’s trying to replace himself with the other man in there. But all that happens is that it shatters under the force of his palm, not fully cracking, but splintering enough to be evidently noticeable as Kristoph reenters the room.
“Ah, what a shame,” Kristoph says. “That’s seven years of bad luck.”
“Hm,” Phoenix responds.
“It’s no bother. You certainly needn’t feel guilty over it. I can have a replacement made quite easily; it will be indistinguishable from the original. But look at you! In that suit… why, it’s as if you were made to wear one.”
“My suit wearing days are over.”
“It wasn’t my intention to bring up any bad memories,” Kristoph crosses the room, placing his slender hands against Phoenix’s lapels and smoothing them out. “You look like a fine gentleman.”
“I feel like a prick.”
“You’ll get used to it. Now, if you’ll allow me to play around with your hair.”
Bringing his hand up to his beanie, Phoenix tugs it down a little. “Oh, don’t,” he says. “You’ll only mess it up.”
“Nonsense,” Kristoph takes the fabric out of his hands, gently lifting the hat off his head. He runs his fingers through Phoenix’s hair, loosening the spikes from their natural placements until Phoenix feels the brush of his own hair against his chin. And Kristoph keeps talking, although it sounds more like he’s talking to himself. “You look like a new man. If your hair was a little longer, you could almost style it like mine.”
“No thanks,” Phoenix says dryly. “It seems like too much effort for not enough payoff.”
“I’ll try not to be offended. Now, come, I’m positively dying to hear you play my piano.”
Kristoph walks through the hallways of his large house, and Phoenix follows behind, checking every shadow in every corner to make sure that nothing is about to jump out at him. Eventually, they make it through to a beautifully decorated parlour room, in the middle of which sits a white piano. It’s polished to the point of reflection, shining as a mirrorball, but when Phoenix lifts the lid, the keys are slightly dusty.
“Here,” Kristoph sits at the edge of the stool, leaving space for Phoenix to join him. Like this, their knees are touching, and the static electricity that they’re generating merely by being in the same room is near-deadly. But there’s that old saying about where a man should keep his enemies, and Phoenix closes the distance with uncomfortable ease.
“Play for me.”
With creaky hands aching with disuse, Phoenix touches one of the keys. He hadn’t expected anything less than fine-tuning, and Kristoph’s piano certainly delivers. The tone of the note is rich and wonderful, ringing out in the otherwise piercing silence.
“Middle C,” Kristoph says. “An excellent starting point, but not enough if you want to seek employment as a pianist. Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
The sharp crack of Kristoph’s knuckles as he spreads his hands together betrays what has always gone unsaid; that they are both trying to stay on top of a game that neither of them is truly confident at playing. But the music is beautiful, if a little simplistic, and Phoenix can’t fault that Kristoph presses each key perfectly. It’s almost too methodical, as though the piece is being played by a computer rather than a man, and what prowess Kristoph has over the technicality of his instrument is immediately offset by how obvious it is that there’s no passion in his playing. He doesn’t feel the music, doesn’t enjoy the song, doesn’t add his own flair to the sheet music. He plays excellently, but with a sick sense of apathy.
“It’s alright,” Phoenix says. “I mean, the song was nice. But you’re obviously not a pianist by trade.”
“I never claimed to be,” Kristoph bites back. “I don’t have half as much time as I would like to spend on my hobbies these days. My cases just keep—oh, well, I suppose I won’t upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
“I didn’t realise that your disbarment had made you a liar,” Kristoph says, his voice far too sweet for the content of his words. “You don’t have to hide from me. I voted in your favour because I see something in you that the Bar Association failed to notice. You’d do well at my office.”
“Like I said, I’m going to give the Borscht Bowl Club a go.”
“It’s not a place I would usually dine, but I would appreciate it if you kept me in the loop. I’d like to see you perform. Properly.”
As if proving his point, Kristoph lays his hands over Phoenix’s and guides him to play a simple chord. The music itself is sickening, beautiful only by virtue of being called so by the composers of old, but Phoenix can’t bear it any more. His mind keeps flickering to visions of Edgeworth, and how he had left with only a silent goodbye, the punctuation of their lasting relationship. And he suddenly feels very, very guilty about even being here in the first place, deluding himself into thinking that he could get his old life back if he simply won against Kristoph. It’s a moment of clarity that goes as soon as it had come, a fleeting fantasy of being a normal person, before he remembers that quitting the game is conceding a win to his opponent.
“I should go,” he says. “It’s getting late. And I have people to see.”
“People to see at this hour?” Kristoph responds, standing up. “My, my—what are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing. I just have other relationships to tend to.”
“I suppose I’ll have to bid you farewell, then. But promise me one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Kristoph’s mouth curls into a snakelike smile. “I have quite enjoyed your company this evening.”
Phoenix barely breathes until he’s outside the house. Kristoph’s mere presence is suffocating, like a pillow over his face when he least expects it, and he gulps in the night air like a lifeline. All the stars have come out now, and he watches them from his position on the grass for a moment, trying to pinpoint the constellations he has never learned the names of. These same stars have seen him pass the Bar, seen him lose everything, seen him gain a daughter and begin a game that he won’t ever be able to tell her about.
And, as one of the stars flashes across the sky, it could almost be a comet, if it weren’t so linear in its trajectory. It must be an aeroplane, taking off to a destination, a place where Phoenix can’t follow.
He wonders if Edgeworth will be looking down on him, or if he will have averted his eyes from what the great Phoenix Wright has decided to become.