Work Text:
10 years later
Klavier Gavin disembarks from the public carriage and stands outside, looking up at the opera house that had claimed his brother's life. He can hardly believe that after all this time, he is returning here to make his debut just as he'd once assumed he one day would. In some ways, he feels almost traitorous—attempting to do what Kristoph had done would mean surpassing him—after all, Klavier has no desire to die—but Klavier suppresses his guilt. After all, this isn't his intention. His intention, he supposes, is to gain a sense of closure. This building has lived in his dreams and nightmares for the last 10 years.
The knowledge of what happened to his brother, to the dreams of his family, has darkened even his own ambitions, animating him with a kind of desperate fervor. Until the age of twelve, Klavier had grown up wanting to be a performer, just like Kristoph, and his parents had wanted this too, had educated him in music and dance, and encouraged him. But after Kristoph's death, after the opera house burned down, they never listened to Klavier play or sing or dance. When Klavier was old enough to begin earning a living on his own, they simply told him that he would either become a merchant, join the military—or remove himself from their sight. And so, of the three choices, he elected to leave.
Klavier had assumed that he remembered the building as larger, grander than it had been, that he would be disappointed by the size of it, the way one often is when viewing the grand spaces of one's childhood. But he had not accounted for the renovations, the expansions. It now looms larger than it ever had before, and he finds himself almost intimidated at the idea standing on the enormous stage in front of the large audience this space would command.
Mr. Edgeworth, however, seems calm and levelheaded. He speaks to Klavier almost tonelessly, and despite his aristocratic bearing, is completely businesslike, which makes it much easier for Klavier to keep his mind on his responsibilities, and hold his anxiety at bay.
By the evening, he is installed in a humble room in the upstairs company quarters, and already attending his first rehearsal. It goes well. Although Klavier is new and inexperienced as a company member, the primary issue they face that night is their leading man, Phoenix Wright.
Phoenix Wright has long been a wonder in the world of opera, the Gavin Opera House's shining star. Anyone who sees him sing once is guaranteed to return again and again. His hair fans out around his head like flames, and his voice rings out bright and clear.
Klavier is honored to have been selected to sing in the chorus behind him, but, now, on his first night in Phoenix's actual presence, he's disappointed to find that Phoenix is unable to sing.
"Sorry guys—frog in my throat," Phoenix croaks.
His assistant, who hovers endlessly at the edge of the room, attempts to dose him with a solution of apple cider vinegar and honey, but he resists her efforts, drinking the solution slowly and lazily, face scrunched in consternation at the flavor.
The entire ordeal makes Klavier uncomfortable. After two nights, even Mr. Edgeworth—known for being endlessly tolerant of his star's shenanigans—begins to lose his patience.
"Phoenix, this is three days now. If you cannot perform, we will simply have to replace you. We will open on time. Gavin, you're a baritone. Do you know the solo?"
Klavier, shocked, drops the prop he is holding.
When the show opens, though, he is ready, his name listed on the marquee, his focus narrowed to the singular point of his performance. Officially he is listed only as understudy. Officially, Phoenix will resume his role as soon as he is better, ideally tomorrow. But tonight is the opening, and the show is Klavier's.
It is a success. Klavier's voice is compared to that of an angel. People praise his performance—even over and above Phoenix's. For a while, it seems that Klavier is the new star of the Gavin Opera House, and all the talk about it is of his homecoming. Nearly as good as Kristoph. Klavier is grateful, if overwhelmed. Phoenix languishes, and Klavier continues to perform. Each night he falls into bed, exhausted, yet satisfied, after his shows and endless celebratory parties and dinners.
But Phoenix recovers.
The news travels through the company so that it is generally known even before anything has been announced. But one Saturday morning, Klavier knows what awaits him when he spots Phoenix emerging from Mr. Edgeworth's office, a smug smile creeping over his face as he locks eyes with Klavier.
Klavier attends his usual rehearsal, and is only a few moments in when Phoenix enters. Wordlessly, he takes his place again in the corps, beaming a dazzling smile as he does so. He will not be cowed: He knows what is expected of him as an ingenue—and he knows what is required as an understudy, just as well.
But then, just as Phoenix begins to sing the opening, the power goes out.
The show that night is a disaster. Phoenix's singing voice is as good as it ever was. Probably better than Klavier's—he really isn't sure. But Phoenix lacks a certain youthful passion, or a least that's what everyone tells Klavier.
"You brought a new energy."
"Phoenix just seems tired."
"He hasn't got anything interesting to add, you know?"
But Phoenix's performance—lackluster or not, is hardly the issue. The performance is plagued with technical issues: The curtain falling in the middle of Phoenix's solo. The house lights going up just as Phoenix stands alone in the spotlight. The chandelier crashing down into the audience just as they return from their intermission to Phoenix's big number. There are injuries. And there is, again, fire, and in the flickering, a figure, shrouded, face obscured—
And the singing does not stop. But the voice is not Phoenix's. Nor is it unfamiliar. But it can't be…
Klavier barely registers anything else, the panic and confusion paralyze him so fully.
By the next morning, he still cannot tell what happened after that. Even once everyone had been evacuated and the fire quelled, he could scarcely breathe. Ema Skye, the onsite medical attendant for the staff, brought him a sleeping draught, and he drank it gratefully. It was not enough to stop his dreams of his brother, of smoke filling his nostrils as he cried out for Kristoph.
It was not enough to stop him waking in the middle of the night to the sound of movement, a dip of his mattress, the flash of a shrouded figure whose long, white-blond hair is only partially concealed, pulling Klavier's bedroom door closed behind him.
Ema had not warned him that the draught would cause such vivid dreams, such blurring of reality. Nor had she warned of how strong the sleep it induced would be.
Klavier does not awaken until the next afternoon. Despite the lingering sense of another presence in the room, he finds himself alone.