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I don’t have to be doing this, was just about the only thought running through Kristoph Gavin’s mind as he sat on the dirty bathroom floor— holding back the dark and matted hair of one Phoenix Wright, idly pressing the ice pack to the back of his feverish neck, and trying to ignore the sounds and smells, for that matter, of projectile vomit. It was a meager attempt at ignorance, admittedly. His eyes strayed from the head half-stuck in the toilet bowl and off to the ceiling, until he started to wonder if those dark spots on the ceiling weren’t just peels of paint and something closer to encroaching colonies of black mold. Then it was off to the floor, which was woefully dusty and greasy at once, and littered with strands of hair and grime, all ruining the fabric of his finest suit… Or perhaps to the shower across the wall— the cheap sheet of plastic curtain was pulled back to reveal a tangle of dark hairs in a spider web over the cracking tile.
So it was back to Wright. Comparably one of the least skin-crawling sights in the room.
But once more, I don’t have to be doing this. It certainly wasn’t his problem when he watched Wright down enough shots to send an average man into a state of semi-permanent sedation. Not that Kristoph expected anything average from the man any longer. It just wasn’t his problem when the drunkard began to make a fool of himself, more so than usual, as he crawled back to the piano to mash miserably on the keys, belting something halfway between a ballad and a dying bird, if neither could remember how to make sounds come out of their mouth. When he could only prevent himself from charging up to the heckling crowd on account of barely being able to step forward without collapsing as he stood. Kristoph had no reason to do anything beyond calling a cab and shoving his body inside headfirst, still clutching the empty bottle to his chest. And that was saying nothing of the multiple, multiple attempts by Wright to seduce him at every turn, which he had no reason to decline as gracefully as he did. That was not uncommon for him. Though, the man’s breath absolutely stunk of liquor.
But instead he was here, having coaxed his company into the passenger seat of his very own car and driven him home, hanging off his shoulder as they made it to the front door. He was here, having assured a tireless Trucy that her father was just a bit under the weather, but well taken care of, only to turn afterward and find him crawling on the floor like the cockroach that he was. And he was here. On the dirty bathroom floor. Spectating as a man spewed his guts out for so long now that he had lost track of the time. It would be a better use of his time to hold Wright’s head under the water until every sound scraping at his ears finally stopped. What a shame.
But Wright was making spitting sounds again, so he supposed the worst of it had stopped for now; Kristoph let out a sigh, and handed him another wad of towels to wipe his mouth.
“Sorry,” he rumbled through a voice ripped and raw, with more lucidity than he had in the past four hours. At least. “Not a fun way to spend your three in the morning, huh?”
It was surely well past that now, though he could think of a few improvements to turn the night around still… But as Wright raised his head, he softened his gaze and reached to wipe a bead of sweat from that dark and furrowed brow. Wright’s eyes fluttered closed to embrace it; as he did, he quickly replaced the warm touch with a press of ice to his forehead. “It could be worse,” he cracked a smile. “I could be spending it in a toilet bowl.”
Wright made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke on the bile still stuck in the back of his throat, but he smiled slightly all the same. Kristoph smiled a little bit more as the other opened his eyes and scoffed, “Please. You’re too perfect for that.”
Well, he wasn’t going to protest.
“Ah, well. Think there’s a piece of lung in there,” Wright glanced back at his work as he slowly steadied himself up to sit straight. His hands still shook as he gripped around the seat’s edge. “Ha. Sure feels like it… Good thing I’ve got two, right?”
“You seem awfully certain the rest isn’t in hot pursuit.”
Whether the glistening droplets across Wright’s pallid face were sweat or melted ice, Kristoph couldn’t say for sure. But it didn’t make for a very promising look either way as his eyes flicked aside, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, once more attempting to clear it with a dreadful noise. It took a great deal of effort not to allow the scraping in his ears to reach his expression by even the slightest wince as Kristoph met Wright in the eyes. “Hey, I feel good. Or, uhh, better, I guess.” Again, he cleared his throat and cracked a weak, crooked smile, flashing a sliver of his teeth.
Kristoph hummed a low note under his breath, one eyebrow just barely raised. Though the time spent had slipped strangely through his fingers, one thing he certainly hadn’t lost was just how many times Wright had insisted upon such a feeling. Shortly before attempting to stand up and nearly collapsing back to the floor, promptly closing his eyes and turning to the toilet. So as he promised this thing once more, Kristoph simply nodded, raking a pointed fingernail across his temple to brush back a lock of hair plastered to the skin. “Of course, Wright,” he mused. “Just one moment, hmm?” He placed the ice pack into Wright’s outstretched hand, flicking his own at the wrist to shake off the droplets which dripped from his fingers. As he made to stand up and dust off his pant legs, Wright attempted to stand and follow; he stopped as Kristoph held up a single pointer finger in pause. If he left for just a few minutes now, the chances were high that he’d come back to another round of retching… But he might as well allow himself the quick relief of silence from the kitchen.
He cocked his head, and smiled. “Allow me to fetch you some more water first.”
Wright nodded. And so Kristoph slipped out the bathroom door, half-expecting young Trucy to be standing across the hall in the shadows, silently staring and waiting for that very moment. He shook his head slowly; the Wrights were wearing on him, the both of them.
—
As he approached the bathroom, that single sliver of yellow light looming across the hallway, Kristoph raised his eyebrows slightly at the realization that no noise came from within. Unless, of course, Wright had finally passed out cold onto the floor. But he creaked the door open to find him surprisingly stable indeed: eyes closed, hands pressed tenderly to each temple as his elbows rested over the seat cover. He stirred slightly as Kristoph stepped inside, eyes open and a meager grin resurfacing to his lips.
“Hey. You come here often?”
As Kristoph knelt to rejoin his side, shaking his head slightly at the comment, he handed Wright the glass: the other grasped at it with both hands as if it were liquid gold. To the poor, pathetic thing, it might as well have been. When their fingers brushed, just a trace of his touch was clammy and cold, still shaking slightly. In trade, Kristoph took back the ice slowly seeping into the fabric of Wright’s shredded sweatpants, raising it to the underside of his neck while he drank. To the right area just below his ear; then the center, and to the left, slowly moving back and forth across his skin. After all this time, the pack was about equal parts of water and ice, sloshing around within his grasp and sagging slightly to the space between his fingers; condensation trickled down his knuckles and down his wrists, which he pretended not to notice as the cold continued to soak his sleeves and prickle his skin. Wright, of course, pretended in equal measure not to shiver as it in turn slid down his neck and around his collar. Or, perhaps, he truly was so feverish that the sensation was nearly unnoticeable. He had half a mind to stand up once more, to insist on replacing the pack, but… For a few minutes, there was nothing else but this. Simply the two of them sitting in silence. And the drip of water that began to melt.
Wright gave one final gasp for air as he set the glass aside, and Kristoph in turn dropped his arm, snapped to attention with eyes searching his face for a sign. “Told you,” Wright muttered, “I feel better.” But when Kristoph made no movement to accept the claim, he slowly raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck, no doubt feeling the phantom sensation of water running down into his hoodie. “I feel better!”
“You couldn’t keep down the last glass I gave you,” he replied, and though Wright grumbled something below his breath in response, evidently full of excuses, his only next movements were to hunch over the toilet cover. His pouted cheeks came to rest in the crook of his elbow as he gazed up at Kristoph expectantly. Childish as ever, but oddly obedient. Perhaps he liked this rendition of Wright better than the rest, after all. And so he too shifted closer, tracing the tips of his fingernails up and down Wright’s arm. “What’s a few more minutes to either of us with nowhere else to be?”
“You,” he chuckled, until his own laughter was interrupted by a hiccup. “How’d you get to be so good at takin’ care of people when you’re so…”
“When I’m so…?” he repeated with a tilt of his head.
Wright made several noises of dreadful attempts to process his own lack of thought. Were he not currently resting his head in arms probably too heavy to move much anymore at all, he was certain it would have been complete with hand gestures. “Y’know,” said the man who most certainly did not know, “Princess-y.”
A small laugh escaped his lips, slender fingers flying up as if to obscure the noise. Kristoph had been called an onslaught of things throughout his life, behind his back or otherwise; why, there could be a good length of a novel attributed to Klavier’s bastard of a “boyfriend” alone. But, he must confess that anything to the extent of “princess” had never been among those titles thrown about. Wright was, as ever, just full of surprises. Unwilling to let him catch onto that simple fact, however, Kristoph softly cleared his throat and continued on. “Perceptions aside, Wright… it’s merely my responsibility to look after others as I do. Really, you should know that as well as I.”
Wright scoffed, turning his head to bury himself fully in the cross of his own arms. Unwilling to face anyone, let alone himself, as he managed to utter a husky and hollowed, “Not anymore.”
Kristoph let out a sigh as his head shook ever so slightly, bangs brushing against his brow. His fingers paused in their path up and down the fabric of Wright’s arm as he did, discarding the pack of ice still in his grasp onto the floor. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said simply. “I’m not speaking as a lawyer.” Once more, he shifted closer, until their knees could touch on the bathroom floor, until he could perch himself on one arm beside the other. And he reached now to run his fingers along the spine, feeling the twitch of the shoulders and the hitch of breath beneath him. Try as he might to hide his face, to shut himself away in all his sulking, Wright could not help but acknowledge him still. To let him in. There was some kind of familiar-feeling pride in that. Some kind of joy, a tender smile seeping into the tone of his voice despite not meeting the mouth as he corrected, “I’m speaking as a parent.”
Only then did Wright spring up with a sudden burst of rejuvenated energy: knocking his hand aside in the jolt up straight, eyes wild, wide, and wandering across the other’s face. His mouth hung open dumbly, until the whole of his expression screwed up: narrowed eyes and pressed lips, one finger raised to point accusingly back at Kristoph. “D’you… have any secret kids you’re keeping from me?”
His eye twitched. “I’m obviously referring to Klavier.”
Every bit of energy burst with a single statement, as he deflated like a woefully worn out balloon— shrinking back down once more to rest in the crook of his arms. He even blew out a puff of air, almost like he was disappointed at the very denial. “Oh. Right,” he mumbled. Frankly, Kristoph thought with a twitch crawling downwards to his lips, he had his hands full with the one child right in front of him.
A moment passed in silence, then another, then another. Silence, without the wretched sound of all that retching and spitting, without Wright piping up with another ridiculous joke or comment. As Kristoph Gavin sat on the dirty bathroom floor, staring down at a man leaning forward onto a toilet seat. Beads of sweat on his skin, grease in his hair glinting just right under the flickering white lights, there was something sobering seeping into the moment. Kristoph tilted his head, clear now for the first time in hours. It was almost difficult to believe that this man was the very same that was once revered in the courtroom as the Turnabout Terror, the very same that Kristoph reviled so— this man, the thief of the case and all its glory that was so rightly his. This man who would tremble at his touch, trusting in him even if it wrapped around his throat, nails digging into the flesh. His hand reached higher and higher until it grazed the back of his neck, combing through the hair plastered down against it; Wright’s eyes flicked back to him as he did.
And he did not have to be doing this, what he was about to do next. But Wright was far too drunk to remember anything about this night when the sun would rise, save for the headache pounding holes into his skull that was sure to follow along shortly after. And though Kristoph could never dare to acknowledge it, no matter how deep down it may be, there was a light caught in Wright’s dark eyes that sparkled with such earnest in every moment, and there was no such light in the pale eyes that were his own. When their eyes met, one reflected in the other, there could be something like it. Though Kristoph could never dare to acknowledge it, the soul laid bare and bloody before him could coax out as much honesty as he could bear, shaving it out one sliver at a time.
Or, at least, the night was finally chipping away at the frustration festering in his chest, leaving nothing but the resignation to occupy himself with his own conversation. His only “partner” offered few meaningful things in response, now more than ever.
He did not have to be doing this, but he began to speak. Wright was far too drunk to remember anything about the way the words fell from his mouth slightly slower than they should, heavier, subtly yet suddenly without the effortless grace with which he flowed from one thought to another. Too drunk to remember the way that placid smile slipped slowly from his lips as he began to speak, and did not return. Too drunk to remember that there was some sort of tenderness to it, nonetheless. “There was a time, once,” he said, “when Klavier fell horribly ill, like this. I didn’t think it was possible, the young and bright-eyed, bounding ball of endless energy that he was.” He twirled a lock of dark and matted hair around his fingernail idly, eyes wandering. Wright’s eyes stayed solely on him. “But one could hardly recognize him. Reduced to a small, bedridden little thing: weak and trembling, pale and feverish. Even the water that he could stomach down disappeared across his brow.
“I was there by his bedside for every moment, you know. Even when he settled down enough to sleep, I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off him if it weren’t to fetch water, food… Only for a minute, only if he needed it.” He hummed a gentle low note, and for just a moment, flickered his eyes down to find a knotted bedhead of blond beneath his touch: eyes closed as he lay sleeping, quiet but for the gentle wheeze with every breath. “Nothing else asked of me could ever come close,” he murmured, and quickly wiped it all away with a chuckle. “But I’m sure Klavier doesn’t remember any of it, it was so long ago. And thank goodness, dear Trucy has never been ill, energetic as she is, too. But if it should ever be the case… you would remember it, too.”
“Shit,” Wright whispered as he lifted his head, fully turned now to face Kristoph head-on. Catching the reflection of light in his dark doe eyes that fixed on him with all the seriousness a drunken man could afford. “You must’ve been terrified, seeing a little kid like that. If Truce…”
But Kristoph only smiled and tilted his head, as placid and pleasant as ever. A young child… Yes, that was how he made it sound. But, well, there was no reason to correct him by offering up any more than he did. For the truth was that Klavier was not a child in anyone’s eyes, but Kristoph’s own, nor sick with any illness but the parasites that festered around him. Poor dear Klavier, just a naive teenager in over his head. Stumbling off a private plane into Kristoph’s arms, sedated with a cocktail of things he couldn’t even begin to imagine. If there was a name to put to the feeling wrenching in his stomach for days and weeks, perhaps someone else would have called such a thing fear. But fear wasn’t something Kristoph could afford any longer. And so he smiled, and tilted his head, and the longer his gaze met with Wright’s, the more that feeling began to curl and contort, until it became something like disgust. “It’s nothing to worry yourself over.”
Klavier was all grown up now, so he said. Klavier didn’t need Kristoph now, so he said. But Wright had nowhere left to grow: plucked out from the garden and left to rot. Wright needed Kristoph. He always would. And he supposed that would have to do.
Wright placed his hand on Kristoph’s knee, still trembling and twitching slightly when Kristoph glanced down upon it. “No, really,” he mumbled, and when pale eyes raised once more to meet that earnest light among the darkness, there was something— For just a moment, just a fraction of a moment, there was a flash of something in his chest, sharp and sad and scraping against the chambers of a hollow heart. Then Wright looked away, his hand retracting with it. And that something was gone. “I feel like shit…” he groaned, clutching his head with a wince. “I don’t wanna go to work tomorrow…”
“Foresight is a skill for a fortunate few,” Kristoph replied with a clearing in his throat, beginning to rise from his seated position and brush the dust, hair, and whatever else from his pants. “It’s been quite some time without any more of your retching, I’m sure you’ll be alright for the night.” As he reached out a hand to his companion, he asked, “Are you alright to stand?”
And so Wright took his hand without another word, though he managed quite a chuckle to himself as he nearly pulled Kristoph down with the sheer weight of him. As if to rub in the difference all the more, he wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned against it, more or less propping up the both of them as he gripped the edge of the sink. A few moments of swaying gently proved he was capable enough of standing, especially given what little support Kristoph had to offer; he gestured to Wright and the sink.
“Come now, and get ready for bed.”
And he obliged.
—
Wright’s fingers trailed across every surface they passed, as if reaching out to somehow break his fall, should Kristoph collapse underneath him. He brushed his hands blearily against the cracked porcelain edges of the bathroom sink, down hallway walls and the doors that lined it, into the door frame of his bedroom. Right up until he threw himself down into bed, unleashing a horrendous squeak of the springs struggling to survive the impact. With a sigh, Kristoph caught his eye and beckoned for him to sit up, just for a moment. There were stains dribbling down the front of his hoodie; it surely made its way down to the undershirt beneath too, as it trickled down his neck. Whether they were liquor or vomit, it was hard to say— the latter mostly consisted of the former anyway. And while getting the stains out may very well be a lost cause, Kristoph couldn’t tolerate the thought of leaving without at least getting them off, or else Wright would end up sleeping in his own filth. More so than he already did… as Kristoph threw glances around the peeling walls, the sheets thin and twisted into knots, and the random assortment of empty dishware.
As Wright sat up with a groan, Kristoph began to unzip his wrinkled jacket, shrugging it gently from his shoulders. The thought that he could possibly do such a thing for himself didn’t seem to cross his mind. Luckily, the thought didn’t seem to cross Wright’s, either. And so he cooperated, too, when Kristoph murmured, “Raise your arms,” and slowly began to lift his shirt.
His eyes flit to the side as he did, making it a point not to catch a glimpse of his bare skin, dark trails of hair snaking upwards through the rolls of his stomach to the chest… A sight which he couldn’t care less to see or not see, if it weren’t for that smug glance looking his way, complete with a crooked smile slowly spreading across his lips and some ridiculous comment bubbling beneath them. He could just feel it on him, tangible as the sensation of his fingers against flesh. Suddenly, the matter of Wright’s capabilities did strike him, or at the very least, he no longer cared to consider them. Taking a step back and huffing as he straightened himself out, Kristoph added, “And take your socks off.” He reached for the ragged blankets spilling halfway to the floor, whipping them until they billowed out and fell straight across the bed. “God only knows what you’re tracking into bed every night, with the state of these floors.”
“Alright, alright,” he rolled his eyes in turn, slipping off his socks to drop scattered across the ground with the rest of his clothing. Kristoph pursed his lips… but he supposed much of it had been exposed enough to the floor already, if not something equally filthy. He seriously doubted that they could get dirtier.
So instead, Kristoph said nothing as he drew the covers over Wright and turned away, reaching for the light atop his cluttered nightstand. His eyes briefly crossed over the clock: half-past four in the morning. Only then did the exhaustion of the night begin to make itself known, crushing down upon his shoulders and trembling in his knees, clouding in the corners of his thoughts until his thoughts felt like dense fog and light as air all at once. Foresight is a skill for a fortunate few… and he still had to drive home.
“Went through all the effort to tuck me into bed… You don’t wanna kiss me good night?”
Though Kristoph smiled, even with his back turned and nothing to witness it, a scoff, too, left his lips, barely disguised by the click of the light that plunged the two into darkness. “Sleep well, Wright,” was all he replied, and began to step away.
Until, that is, he felt a firm tugging on his wrist— fingers clasped around him tight enough to feel the bone. Tight enough to feel a tingling sensation of blood rushing as it realized itself and relaxed. But still, the sudden strength was enough to nearly pull him back entirely, rocking on his feet to steady himself in step. He turned his head to see Wright, awash in the dim and dark blue light of the clock, having jolted up in bed. He was staring at Kristoph now, and though complete and utter darkness swarmed everything around them, even still, light found its way to sparkle in Wright’s eyes. Pure and earnest and so deeply, passionately pleading, like a stray and starving street dog fishing for scraps to live. Ever briefly, there was something familiar in those eyes; dark and blue eyes hesitantly meeting his gaze as he slowly sat up in bed by himself for the first time in days. Eyes which couldn’t even begin to hold back bulbous tears bursting down his cheeks as he threw himself into Kristoph’s arms, crying his apology. Ever briefly. Kristoph swallowed that pesky thing caught in his throat just in time for Wright to summon enough strength to speak, shattering that troublesome train of thought.
“Hang on,” he said, head falling shamefully as he paused, “I don’t… I don’t want you to leave.”
“That’s alright. That’s just the liquor talking,” Kristoph murmured in reply, his smile stretching slightly and slightly sweeter, more real as he placed a hand over Wright’s own. His voice was as gentle and as kind as ever, head cocked just a bit as was routine, comforting calmness in the face of someone who felt anything but. After parading around all night, and still with an abundance of his own responsibilities to tend to in the morning, Wright had really overexerted his patience, and Kristoph, surely overstayed his welcome. Not that he would ever make any indication of that inkling, no— so instead, he simply smiled, and gave Wright’s hand around his wrist a small squeeze. “I’m certain that we’ll see each other tomorrow, you know. Just try to get some sl—”
One equally simple “Please,” was all it took to stop him in his tracks. To freeze the smile on his lips until it fell, blue eyes never breaking their gaze into darkness, which stared into him in turn. No longer did those dark eyes seem to warp into something familiar, something better— there was nothing and no one to hide behind any longer. It was just Wright: just the sad, pathetically pleasing look of an unkempt man: grease-laden hair falling over his face, lips and hands trembling, the indomitable stench of liquor. The stench of desperation. It dripped from his every pore, smeared across his skin like the stains in his clothes. “Please stay,” he whispered. It was hideous, this desperation. So why did Kristoph feel so…?
Repeating one final time, I don’t have to be doing this, Kristoph only sighed. “Just for the night. Then I really must leave, alright?” That seemed to satiate Wright plenty, a smile dawning on his face as his hand relaxed. Kristoph’s shoulders only fell further as he cast his gaze aside. “I do have work in the morning, you know. Unlike some people, I can’t simply slack off all day…”
Such an attempt to prod at him proved entirely unsuccessful, as Wright pulled him in and squeezed him tight. He really must have been drunk, he resolved with a huff, the last bit of air to leave his lungs until he was left choking out, “I need to prepare myself for bed too, Wright…”
With Wright’s begrudging blessing, he slipped down to the hall towards the bathroom. As he towered over the sink to clean his face, Kristoph studied the signs of true exhaustion seeping into his skin: the darkening undersides of his eyes and lids struggling to stay open. Wrinkles setting in between his brows, and golden hair beginning to frizz from its perfect furl across his shoulder. How hideous, he thought, as more and more which marred his appearance revealed itself beneath every wipe. What a blessing it was that it should only exist in the dark, where not even Wright would catch a glimpse. And so he reached a hand up to carefully unravel his hair, letting it spill over his chest in pale waves, and did the same with his tie. Slid his vest from his shoulders and folded it neatly onto the counter, the tie on top, and his belt to follow. His eyes glanced towards the mirror once more— and after a moment, he undid two buttons of his blouse, just enough to reveal the smooth collarbone underneath. That ought to do.
The leftmost cabinet beneath the sink had been left slightly ajar when Wright stumbled around it… As Kristoph reached to inspect it, he spotted a spare toothbrush inside, and split his lips into an uneasy grin. It seemed he even had the wherewithal to plan ahead, hmm…? But he sighed, and that sigh quickly shed its skin into a wide yawn. It wasn’t as if many other options presented themselves before him. He took the spare, and began to brush.
Just some minutes later, the door creaked behind him as he gently pushed it closed once more. Just enough light streaming in from the hall to shine on Wright, watching him with something like a sweet little smile as he curled up in bed. The empty space made beside him was obvious, and though he made no call to beckon him over, though Kristoph could simply say his good nights and turn for the couch, he stepped forward. And he climbed into bed beside Wright.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, reaching out a hand just enough to coil a bit of blond around his finger. “Thanks… for always being too good to me.” He didn’t even wait for Kristoph to respond with a scoff, some polite denial on his lips as he always did, to say what he must have wanted to say all along.
“I love you.”
Kristoph’s breath stopped— blood as red as wine flowing through his cheeks, as much as the air inside his throat did not. His hollow heart pounded loudly in his ears, each beat as explosive as the words that fizzled out on his tongue. Fear wasn’t something he could afford. But if anyone else had to put a name to this clenching in his chest… What a simple statement, this I love you… so casual in its confession, so very Wright. But it wasn’t, it mustn’t be Wright, not really. Only the meaningless word of a drunken man, who would say absolutely anything without inhibition… Even something as incredibly impossible as that. So Kristoph only chuckled and cocked a grin, bidding, “Close your eyes, Wright. You’ll need plenty of sleep to break that dreadful drunken stupor of yours.”
As he watched those earnest eyes close, he resolved that he would leave as soon as Wright fell asleep. And once he awoke, he wouldn’t remember ever making such a saccharine statement. That, this whole night, had never happened. That was for the better, wasn’t it? No need for Wright to embarrass himself any further. No need for Kristoph to entertain such an egregious thought. That was for the better… But he watched the gentle rise and fall of Wright’s shoulders, listened carefully to the soft breath between his lips. This whole night never happened. Wright never tried to kiss him, never laid in the same bed as him, never… Never said that he loved him. It never happened. For just a moment, though, he, too, closed his eyes. For just a moment, something deep and dark and buried inside wanted it to happen.
For just a moment, it did.