Archive of Our Own

“You will be all right, Klavier. You have spent your life preparing for tomorrow.” Kristoph rests a hand on his back, a steadying touch, formal reassurance as he leads Klavier into his apartment.

Klavier has likely no idea that the support is for himself as much as him. Kristoph knows he can’t falter. Can't let his brother know of the riptide beneath the calm surface, his own fears about tomorrow's outcome. 

“I expected to be facing off against you, mein bruder.” 

“Of course you did. As did I.” A slight smile in his voice: Kristoph had considered the repercussions. Keep it in the family. The Gramarye trial would be attracting nationwide attention: whoever won, he considered, it would be a win for both of them. If Klavier managed to best him– well. Beating the Coolest Defence in the West would be a worthy achievement. Even going up against him and hoping to was symbolic, it was a nice debut. 

Phoenix Wright had ruined it. And with that, the game had changed; a fifty-fifty, well, maybe eighty-twenty, ninety-ten possibility of victory now need to be absolute. It was no longer a show trial, it was about pride. About justice. About showing Zak Gramarye--- and Phoenix Wright--- exactly what happened when one dared disturb the universe, was tempted to fuck with the fabric of fate. 

He’d made some hasty adjustments, and the world had changed. Klavier, bless his pure and eternally earnest heart, did not know, but Klavier had never known the depth of his sacrifices. 

“I’ve seen Herr Wright in action,” Klavier admitted. “I’ve watched his old trials. He–”

“Is nothing to worry about. He’s a novelty, Klavier, he’s a gimmick. He’s relied on the power of personal branding, as some sort of clueless underdog, and it has consistently worked in his favour–”

“But his clients,” Klavier protested. “They were–”

Kristoph nudged him towards the sofa. They’d already met in the prosecutor’s office– full of distractions and a bewildered, close to nail-biting Klavier on edge about tomorrow’s trial. Upon reflection, bringing Klavier here would have been preferable for the discussion, but Kristoph needed to say something to him as quickly as possible. To alleviate the terror at such a drastic change. 

“They were innocent, yes. He drew good hands. But he grows arrogant, Klavier. You have an advantage–-” Klavier seated himself on the beige leather as Kristoph walked to the bar. He’d wanted a drink since he’d been advised of the replacement, but repositioning things had meant a delay in gratification. Grabbing two glasses and measuring out two perfect shots of gin, he continued. “You have your own style and unique showmanship, you have your intelligence, you have your name, and–” adding tonic water over ice to both glasses– “you have a particular hunger and understanding of the weight of this case and your reputation that Wright no longer has.”

“Are you calling me green, Kristoph?” Even in the private confines of Kristoph’s apartment, with an audience of one, he still sat like a rock star. If he lacked the confidence and posture, the ability to own every room he walked into, it would have been tacky, Kristoph thought, but Klavier had learned well from observing him, albeit applying it differently. His knees were wide, the opposite ankle resting on one, he was leaned forward, curious, engaged.

“Of course I’m not saying that, Klavier–” He looked down at the glasses and gave them a quick stir before taking both and heading back to the sofa, “But you have a need to prove yourself, a desire to win that time has dulled in Wright. He’s not some sort of revered silverback, not a von Karma. He’s been lucky--” he nudged himself a spot amongst the cushioning, deliberately nudging Klavier’s knee back. “But luck runs out. If you’ve studied Wright, you have an idea of how he plays the game. And now you have an advantage.” He raised his glass, indicating to Klavier to follow. “To your debut, Klavier. I know you will not disappoint.” 

Klavier beamed at his brother, but there was remorse in his voice. Those huge blue eyes focussed on Kristoph’s, a damning, burning undertow. “I wanted my first time to be with you.” 

Closing his eyes, Kristoph tried to ignore any possible implications or innuendo. Klavier often did this, an almost flirtatious whine in his voice, those doe-eyed expressions– when he felt insecure– and right now, Kristoph knew he could not even consider– let alone address it– in any way. 

“To your debut,” he said, holding out his glass. Opening his eyes as Klavier, somehow now sitting much closer than he had assumed he’d been, gently touched his own glass to its rim, he smiled with satisfaction. 

Klavier would be coming into his own tomorrow, building a new facet of his public identity. He would triumph and be forged in the courts a lawyer, a professional, a serious legal mind. Kristoph had no doubt this would shift those childish rockstar notions he had, repurpose that desire for the spotlight into something more respectable.

“To my debut.” 

Kristoph didn’t miss the uneasiness in his voice or the way he chased it down with a sip of his drink. Or the way Klavier’s other hand rested on his thigh, as though steadying himself. 

He should have moved away. Should have filed this to the in-tray, something to deal with later down the track, once this was all over. But he didn’t, allowing himself this small luxury. The shift in scheduling had created some new complications to address, and when Klavier won, a need for protecting that win with whatever means necessary. It would never be truly over for a long time. But Kristoph knew, by that stage, Klavier would have ascended, this would all be a vague memory, that first trial where he was blooded, sharpened his teeth, found his place in the legal world. He sipped his own drink, lost in thought, allowing his hand to remain there as long as he could before conscience got the better of him.

Klavier would never realise just how much he had secured his future, how much and how madly he loved him.