Gravity

Klavier swept his hair from his eyes as he left the stage. It was damp with sweat—all of him was damp with sweat, from his impeccable waves of hair to his thin, silvery shirt to his horrible, wonderful leather pants that he loved but—Gott, there were some things about summer in LA that he hated. He could feel sweat pooling in the small of his back.

He stripped off his shirt as he went, and noted with an absent grin the swell in the screams behind him. Once he was free of their sightlines he dropped his exaggerated saunter and made a beeline for his dressing room.

He left his shirt in the corner and collapsed into the chair, letting himself savor, just for a moment, the post-show high. It had been a good show. He was exhausted, but it had been a good show—the kind of show he used to have with the band, where he’d come off stage like a man coming down from an orgasm, legs and hands shaking, his whole body unfamiliar as he reclaimed it, slowly and disbelievingly, from music itself. His fingers and throat ached.

It was the first time one of his solo concerts had felt anything like the Gavinners had, the first time Klavier had felt anything like himself since—well. He smiled at his reflection. “You’re coming back, baby,” he murmured into his own eyes, and then pulled open the drawer of his dressing room table and removed a thick docket of papers.

He’d just found the pen amidst his many varied make-up brushes when someone in the hallway boomed, “I swear, he knows who I am—“

He winced. He did. Indeed, it was impossible not to recognize those vocal chords.

He heard his bodyguards mutter something, and then Apollo Justice shouted, “Prosecutor Gavin!”

Klavier stood, stretched—three vertebrae in his spine shifted with a satisfying crunch—and pasted on a sweet smile. He stuck his head through his dressing room door. “Ja?”

Justice seemed almost surprised to see him. He was mostly blocked by the wall of bouncers, but his spikes of hair and earnest face peered around them. “T-tell your guards to let me through, please,” he said at a more normal volume, although his face was still red.

Klavier made a show of thinking about it, emerging more fully from his dressing room to lounge against the doorway. He toyed with the pen, spinning it between his fingers. “Mm, let me see—what is your name again?”

Justice’s jaw clenched, and he went even redder. It was fascinating. “D-don’t be ridiculous, you—“

Klavier snapped his fingers, relenting. “Herr Forehead! Of course. Come through, come through.”

His security parted, and Justice stepped between them, muttering something to himself. Klavier blinked. He was—dressed down, was the only word for it, in a plain blazer, a band tee for some band Klavier had never heard of and jeans that were relatively tight even by the standards set by Klavier’s leather pants. If it weren’t for his terrible hair and pinched expression, he might look normal—even good—this casual. As it was, it was like seeing a turtle without its shell.

It was clear that Justice wasn’t comfortable in his clothes either—or perhaps not comfortable with Klavier’s, or lack thereof. He thought briefly about retrieving his shirt from the corner as Justice followed him into his dressing room, but decided against it. Nothing wrong with letting the opposition stew in its own discomfort awhile.

He gestured to the only chair not covered in costumes or guitars, and Justice took it, looking around with wide eyes despite himself. Klavier smiled at him, a real smile this time. He wrapped an arm around a spare mic-stand and used it as a support—his legs still a little too jelly to hold him up property—as he studied Justice and waited.

Herr Forehead seemed to be trying to find his sense of righteous rage, but kept getting distracted, his eyes flickering over everything in the room except Klavier himself. When Klavier delicately cleared his throat, Justice glared at him. “What?!”

Klavier stared at him. “Eins,” he said, holding up his thumb, “you have not told me why you are here, und zwei,” he raised another finger and an eyebrow, “you are wearing jeans.”

“I do own clothes other than my court stuff,” Justice said sullenly.

Klavier shrugged, standing up straighter as he did so. He ran his fingers up the mic stand until he was holding it like a spear, not entirely ready to let it go. “News to me,” he said mildly.

“Anyway,” Justice protested, “you’re wearing lipstick.”

Klavier blinked, and then smirked despite himself. “Only a bit of gloss,” he purred. He was also wearing eyeliner and gold dust across his cheekbones, but he thought it best not to mention that.

“Whatever,” said Justice, and took a breath, his face growing serious. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

Klavier frowned at him, resisting the urge to say, what, speaking to you in my dressing room? “You are going to have to be more specific.”

“This!” Justice snapped, waving a hand around him as if that explained anything. “The concert, the whole—everything! You know the Richten Trial is tomorrow, when was the last time you even reviewed the case—“

Klavier sighed, letting the mic stand go. “If you will turn your eyes slightly to your right,” he said calmly, “you will see that I was doing just that before you interrupted.”

Justice blinked, then looked at the docket on the dressing table. “This is—“

“My case notes, yes,” Klavier said. “Which by rights you should not even be looking at. You have come here to yell at me, because you think I am not taking this seriously.”

“You were reviewing them now? It’s 1 AM, the trial starts in seven hours!”

Klavier waved an arm at him, trying to gesture him up and out of the chair. “Seven hours that I would appreciate you not wasting, Herr Justice.”

Justice blinked at the use of his name, and then looked, of all things, sad, completely ignoring Klavier’s prompting. “Prosecutor Gavin,” he said softly, “I don’t want to face you in court if this is the way you’re going to treat the cases you prosecute.”

Klavier crossed to him and pulled him bodily up by the wrist. "Out of my chair," he said, his exhaustion no longer pleasant, "and out of my dressing room. This is a murder case, the murder of an innocent woman, and you have no idea how seriously I am taking it."

Justice let himself be pulled upward, and there was a moment when they were toe to toe—like boxers, perhaps. Klavier was used to feeling the intellectual animosity of the man; he knew how he argued and what he looked like when he was certain or uncertain, right or wrong. But what passed between them now was some more physical, antagonistic spark, a small shock of tension that left Klavier a little breathless. Justice's eyes met his and he said, a little unsteadily, "So tell me."

Klavier blinked at him, his mind gone soft with—music, exhaustion, weary anger, something. "I am serious," he said simply, holding Justice’s eyes. "Very. I always am about court."

Justice's too-large bracelet, which had stuck partly up his forearm, slid down and hit Klavier's fingers where they still grasped the defense attorney's wrist. He let go, and Justice stepped away from him, nodding slightly to himself as if he'd gotten what he wanted.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, a little awkwardly. He turned to go, and then paused in Klavier's doorway. "I-it was a good show," he said without turning around. "You look good."

Klavier sank back into his dressing room chair and watched him go, idly appreciating the cut of his jeans. There was more to Apollo Justice than his forehead, it seemed.

He didn't let his thoughts linger, though, turning them instead to the papers at his table. He'd been telling Justice the truth—now that his concert was over, this case had his full attention. Justice's client, Marcus van Richten, was a clothing magnate—rare for the young attorney, who, like his new mentor, tended to defend those with no means to defend themselves, including money. He was also...unzuverlässig. Untrustworthy. In Klavier's eyes, entirely and obviously guilty. But he'd been wrong before. Very wrong.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose to attempt to stem the oncoming headache, and reviewed the facts.

The victim was Marina Masters, a model who had been in Richten's employ until six months ago. She had been the face and form of their new line of autumn dresses, until she was fired for allegedly stealing $50,000 from Richten's personal bank account. That case had been dismissed because no one could actually prove she'd done it—Richten claimed it was her, and could be no one else, but there was no sign of the money itself and the theft had been committed wirelessly, with an online trail so convoluted that no one had managed to trace it. The only evidence against her was a blurry photo that could have been anyone with her coloring, entering a bank that no one could be sure was even the source of the theft. The charges were dropped, but Marina was left with no job and very little money, much of her savings being tied up in legal fees.

Two weeks later, Marina had taken a job with Richten's biggest rival, Joseph Jormand, and a week after that she'd been found dead in her apartment, strangled, the ligature marks at her throat matching the threaded gold-and-silk belt from Richten's newest design. The murder weapon itself had been found in Richten's desk, coiled between the false and real bottom of a drawer, the silk frayed from stress. Skin and hair follicles had been retrieved from it; both matched Marina Masters' DNA.

There was no doubt in Klavier's mind that Richtens was guilty, but there was also no doubt in his mind that he was missing something. There was too much mystery surrounding the theft, the motive was too thin—if it were about the money, why had Richten waited until months after the courts had failed to give him justice to mete out some of his own? Was it the second betrayal, Marina beginning to work for his enemy, that broke him? And what reason did Justice have to take the case in the first place?

He ran a hand over his face and stood, tucking the docket into his briefcase and stooping to retrieve his shirt before he left. The stadium was silent now—hours since security had moved his fans away—and the streets were just as quiet, the only noise his own motorcycle.

With the wind drying the sweat on his skin he found his thoughts turning to Apollo Justice. Why had he come to confront Klavier? Out of disappointment in general, built up over months of Klavier leading his double life? Or did he have some interest in making sure Klavier was sharp for this case?

The more he thought about it, the more that made sense. Everything about Richten marked him not as a client that Justice would take on, but one that Kristoph would have: rich, misogynistic, and obviously guilty as hell—so why was Justice defending him? Had he not escaped so fully from Kristoph's influence as Klavier had thought?

There was another possibility—one that folded both the reason for Justice's visit and the reason for his taking the case into one.

Klavier had been perhaps a bit—obvious, of late. He made no secret of it: he enjoyed working across from Herr Forehead, enjoyed it much more than working with any other defense attorney, despite the fact that Justice kept winning. So he'd been calling in old favors and perhaps performing a few new ones in order that he be consistently chosen to prosecute Justice's cases.

There was a chance, no matter how slight, that Justice had taken this case so that Klavier would be the one prosecuting it. Klavier had never seen any use for false modesty—he knew he was good, and he knew Justice knew it too: part of the reason he loved to work opposite the man was that it was a challenge for both of them. He liked to see Justice sweat, to see him struggle to come out on top. If he was right, Justice had chosen to face him in court because the case was more complicated than it seemed, because there was some evidence he'd found that threatened to clear Richten's name and he knew any other prosecutor would be brought down by it. His presence in Klavier's dressing room meant he thought even Klavier, were he not at the top of his game, might be brought down by it.

Justice had come to him tonight because he needed to lose this case, and Klavier was the only one he trusted to defeat him.

The thought was—startling, and flattering. Klavier killed the engine of the bike, some of its warmth staying low in his stomach even after he'd swung himself off and away.

He woke up after four hours of sleep feeling terrible and wonderful all at once, the musician's hangover fighting for dominance with the razor-sharp readiness of the prosecutor. He sat up, blinking away images of Marina Masters' dead face and the earnest eyes of Apollo Justice both, and got ready for court. He chose his least ostentatious suit, but at the last moment, seized by some spirit of mischief, he brushed a layer of shining pink gloss over his lips.

Justice was already there when he got to the courthouse, standing with his client waiting for the courtroom to clear. He actually smiled when he saw Klavier, and Klavier smiled back, and saw Justice's eyes drift to his mouth, and saw Justice's smile turn to a scowl, and smiled wider. Message received, Herr Forehead, but Klavier is still Klavier.

Still, beyond the smile and the scowl both were an unfamiliar nervousness, a little jittering tic between Justice's eyes. Klavier tried to make his gaze reassuring but Justice was no longer looking at him, leaning down to hear something his client was saying, and then the trial began.

Klavier called his first witness, Carla Charlemagne, Richten's secretary.

"Fraulein Charlemagne," he said mildly, and Carla blushed at him. "Y-yes?"

"You handle all of Herr Richten's appointments, is that right?"

"Yes, your Honor," she simpered.

"Hey," the judge protested. "I'm the honor, he's just the prosecutor."

"Fraulein Charlemagne," Klavier said again, "would you be so kind as to tell us Herr Richten's schedule for the day of the murder?" She looked hesitant, so he flashed her his best paparazzi smile.

He heard Justice roll his eyes and ignored him. He'd demanded Klavier at his best, he was going to get Klavier at his best.

The testimony was simple enough: Richten had had a brunch meeting, and then gone out for two hours, from 1 to 3 pm. On his return, he'd seemed shaken.

Klavier flipped open his case notes. "One until three? You're certain?"

Charlemagne nodded, and Klavier continued: "I would like to submit before the eyes of the court two things: the first is a copy of Herr Richten's schedule book, which corroborates Fräulein Charlemagne's statement. The second is the autopsy report of Fräulein Masters, where the time of death is estimated at 2 pm. Masters’ apartment is a mere fifteen minute drive from Richten’s office building. Ample opportunity, I am sure you will agree."

"Don't be so sure," Justice said smoothly, and Klavier, pleased, looked at him. He was examining Charlemagne intently. “When you say Herr—um, Mr. Richten went out, what do you mean?”

Charlemagne stared at him, her blush gone. “What are you, stupid? I mean he left, and he came back two hours later.”

“Right, of course,” said Justice. “But how, exactly, did he leave?”

Charlemagne twitched a curl around her finger. “In his car, duh.”

Justice smiled. “Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, miss.” He flipped open his own file. “Submitting to the court this accident report, and subsequent summary of repairs. Note the dates—on April 9th, three days before the murder, Mr. Richten was in a car accident that broke his windshield. The repairs took two weeks. On the date in question, Mr. Richten could not have left the office in his own car.”

Klavier frowned a little, disappointed. “So he took a cab, Herr Forehead, or rented a car. This is hardly conclusive.”

Justice shook his head. “I’m not finished. The question is not how Richten got out of the office, but whose car he left in. Miss Charlemagne, from your desk, can you see the parking lot?"

Charlemagne shrugged. "Sure."

“Can you describe the car that took Mr. Richten away on the day in question?”

Charlemagne thought about that. “It was black, and real nice. That’s why I thought it was his, I thought he’d bought a new car recently. He’s always doin’ stuff like that.”

Next to Justice, Richten shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

Justice slid a photograph forward on the bench and nodded to the bailiff, who took it and handed it to Charlemagne. “Is this the car you saw that day?”

Charlemagne squinted at it. “Yeah, that looks like it.”

“Let the record show that the witness has identified the car belonging to Maria Cameron, nee Masters.”

There was a murmur in the courtroom. Klavier raised his eyebrows, and the judge matched his expression. “Masters? Oh my.”

Justice nodded in satisfaction. “Your Honor, I direct your attention back to Mr. Richten’s schedule book.” For the first time, he flicked his eyes to Klavier. “Prosecutor Gavin, would you mind reading the name of the person who Mr. Richten was meeting with the morning before the murder?”

Klavier had already read it—had realized as soon as Justice had identified the car. He played along, feigning elegant surprise. “Maria Cameron.”

Justice nodded again. “My client was meeting with the older sister of the deceased, Maria, the morning of the murder, and when he left his office, it was in her car and in her company. Your Honor, if you will allow her testimony, you will see there is no possible way for my client to be guilty of Miss Masters' murder."

But perhaps I will see something else, Klavier thought to himself.

The judge, wide-eyed, nodded. He turned to Klavier. “Any objections from the prosecution?”

Klavier shook his head, his eyes still on Justice. “By all means,” he said. “I would be interested in hearing what the poor girl has to say.”

Justice glanced sideways at him and then away, the little nervous tic returning. "The defense calls on Maria Cameron."

There was a shuffling noise from the back of the courtroom, and Maria Cameron walked forward to take her place at the stand.

Klavier raised his eyebrows. She was gorgeous—dark-eyed and raven-haired, with lips painted the red of good wine. Although she clutched a silk handkerchief, her eyes were dry, her mascara impeccable.

She was, in fact, strikingly similar to her younger sister, whose dead eyes had haunted Klavier's dreams the night before. On the left side of her jaw, however—barely visible beneath the layers of porcelain-pale make up—was a patch of discolored skin: a burn scar. It pulled the left corner of her mouth down just the slightest bit, making the brave smile she cast his way perhaps sadder than she meant.

He smiled back, reassuring.

Justice cleared his throat. "Miss Cameron, please tell the court what happened the day you went to see Mr. Richten."

Cameron took a shaky breath, and Klavier could see her grief stark in her eyes. "I went to Mr. Richten to try and get him to give my sister her job back," she said. "I knew she couldn't have stolen that money, and I thought if I—" she shook her head, voice choked. "The meeting went on longer than we expected, and Mr. Richten offered to buy me lunch. His car was in the shop, so I drove. We went to that new restaurant across town, Matrucci's. We didn't get back until after 2:30 at least."

Justice nodded. "You see? My client was with Ms. Cameron at the time of the murder."

"I mean no offense, Ms Cameron," Klavier cut in smoothly, "but can anyone confirm your story?"

She blinked at him. "There were certainly others at the restaurant, but as for proof, I have that here." She produced a receipt from her purse and tried to hand it to Klavier, who waved it away, indicating the judge.

His Honor looked at it, and nodded: "It's charged to Mr. Richten's personal credit card, and issued at 2:13 pm."

Justice nodded. "The restaurant is at least half an hour from Mr. Richten's office in the opposite direction from Marina Masters' apartment. Half an hour if you drive very quickly. There is simply no way that my client could have strangled Marina Masters and gotten to the restaurant in time to be finished eating at 2:13, not to mention the fact that Ms Cameron was with him the whole time."

Ms. Cameron blanched and put the handkerchief to her mouth. Klavier narrowed his eyes at Justice. He was blunt—it was part of his charm—but he was rarely so callous. He looked at Mr. Richten, sitting at Justice's side. The fashion magnate was staring at Ms. Cameron with a hatred so intense it made Klavier shiver. He thought fast. "Herr Vorsitzender, did you say this lunch was charged to Herr Richten's personal account?"

There was a silence, and then the judge said, "oh! That's me! Yes, I did."

Klavier nodded. "And how did you know?"

The judge smiled, pleased with himself. "I recognized the last digits of the card number on the receipt. I've been reading over the last Richten case, you see, the theft? The last digits are my daughter's birthday, so it stuck in my mind."

Klavier frowned, although he had thought as much. The man had 50,000 dollars stolen from his account, and six months later hadn't even cancelled the credit card attached? He turned to Ms. Cameron. "Excuse me, Fräulein. Whose idea was it to go across town for lunch?"

Her mouth twisted, and she looked sideways at Richten. "His," she said shortly. "We'd been fighting all morning, I think he was trying to buy me off with fancy food."

Richten's scowl deepened, but Klavier's attention was caught by Justice, who was frowning as well, rubbing at his wrist. Klavier followed the motion and was surprised to see he'd switched out the giant bangle of the night before with something similar, but tiny—so small it looked like it was almost cutting into his skin.

He tore his eyes away and tried to focus, but not before Justice caught him staring. He dropped his wrist immediately and licked his lips, almost nervously. Klavier turned smoothly away from him and pasted on a gentle smile for poor Ms. Cameron. "And if I can ask—why did you keep the receipt?"

"Objection," Justice said, at half his usual volume. His eyes were warm when Klavier met them. "Relevance, Gavin? The receipt provides a bulletproof alibi, why she kept it doesn't matter."

"Herr Vorsitzender," Klavier said quickly without breaking Justice's gaze, "I have good reason to ask. If Fräulein Cameron were coerced into keeping the receipt, or paid--"

"Overruled," said the judge. "I'm curious to see where you're going with this. And remember, Ms. Cameron, you're under oath, and you're safe. If you've been threatened, protection will be provided to you."

Justice blinked slow at Klavier, and Klavier took a breath. Whatever had passed between them the night before had only made their tension in the courtroom more palpable, as if that strange physicality had infiltrated even their professional animosity. He turned with an effort to the witness. "So, fräulein?"

Cameron sighed into her handkerchief. "Nothing like that. It was habit at first, I suppose. I am not used to having money, Mr. Prosecutor. I am in the habit of keeping very tidy accounts." She took a breath. "After—" she started, but seemed overwhelmed with emotion for a moment. "After M-Marina was killed, I knew I had to keep it as evidence. I may not like the man, but Mr. Richten did not," she swallowed and closed her eyes, "kill my sister."

Across the room, Justice's fingers were at his wrist again. Klavier ignored him. "I'm afraid that remains to be seen, Fräulein."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, over the top of her handkerchief.

Klavier turned to the judge. "May I request we take a half-hour break? The defense's witness has offered much new evidence, and I would like to make some calls to confirm her testimony."

Justice cleared his throat. "Your Honor," he said, "if Gavin must continue to badger my witness, perhaps picking this up tomorrow would be a better idea. She is recently bereaved and Gavin's questioning has upset her."

Klavier rankled a little—he didn't need Justice buying him time—but didn't protest.

The judge looked between them. "I still don't see where this line of questioning gets us, Prosecutor, but if Justice is willing to let you pursue it so am I. I warn you, though, if you are wasting the court's time, I will penalize you."

The familiar bang of the gavel had Justice off like a shot, abandoning his client at the bench. Klavier tried to catch up, but Justice was gone before Klavier managed to fight through the crowds at the back of court, some of whom were pressing in close, trying to engage with him.

He finally gave up, shaking off the hands of several girls and retiring to his office. He had a lot of work to do.

Other than making phone calls and a single trip to the vending machine he barely glanced up from his desk for hours. He was just thinking of making another trek down the hall when a light tap on his doorframe startled him. He looked up to find Fraulein Fright, Herr Edgeworth's secretary.

"Mr. Edgeworth wants to see you," she said in a monotone, and then turned without another word.

Klavier blinked at his notes for a minute, then stood, leaving his stuff where it was. Herr Edgeworth was not one to call him to his office lightly; nor was there any “when you have a minute” attached to the summons. Better that he be prompt.

He tapped on Edgeworth’s open door, and Edgeworth looked up and nodded. “Thank you for coming, Prosecutor Gavin. Close the door behind you, please.”

Klavier did so, his confusion rising. Edgeworth lifted the file he was looking at and tapped it against his desk to straighten it, then put it down again. “I have been trusted with some information,” he said. “Understand that it is by my own discretion that I share it with you. Have a seat.”

Klavier’s eyebrows shot up. Did Edgeworth know something about the case? Was everyone conspiring to help him beat Justice, not just Justice himself?

As if reading his mind, Edgeworth shook his head. “It does not concern your current case, although as I understand it you have your work cut out for you there.”

Klavier shrugged. “I have it in hand,” he said, with only a little bit more confidence than he felt. “Tomorrow’s trial will go better than today’s.”

Edgeworth squinted at him. “I hope that you are correct.” He sighed. “I assume you are familiar with my early career?”

From anyone else, it would have been arrogance, but from Edgeworth it was resignation—not only was everyone familiar with his early career, but Kristoph had made especially certain that Klavier knew it back to front, knew every mistake that Edgeworth had made, every case that had been reopened. Edgeworth had been Kristoph’s favorite poster-boy for the evils of the Prosecutor’s office, and it had taken a long time for Klavier to get the idea of the “Demon Prosecutor” out of his head and let in the real, genuine man—cold, yes, but absolutely dedicated to truth. He could have said many things, but settled for nodding.

Edgeworth inclined his head. “It was a dark time. I had convinced myself that being right was the same as doing right. My pursuit of Justice—“ Klavier raised an eyebrow at him, unable to help it, and Edgeworth sighed. “The concept, Gavin, not the man. My pursuit of justice was subsumed by my pursuit of reputation, my ego. It took a long time, and a certain defense attorney, to break me out of a frankly terrifying pattern.”

“Herr Edgeworth,” Klavier said, attempting respectful tact but not quite reaching it, “not that I do not enjoy the reminiscences of a legend like yourself, especially when they touch on your oh-so-platonic romance with He of the Objecting Fist—“

Edgeworth’s eyebrows snapped together so hard that Klavier could swear he heard the click. “Platonic romance?”

Klavier widened his eyes exaggeratedly. “Am I mistaken? Have the two of you given in to—“

“Gavin,” Edgeworth warned. The file between his hands creaked. Klavier was impressed—he’d never managed to get so far inside Edgeworth’s cool exterior before. Plus, he didn’t think paper could creak—crinkle, yes, tear—but he was sure that if he pressed any harder the thing would snap in half like a plank of wood at the touch of a martial artist’s heel. He returned his eyes to Edgeworth’s face in time to watch his mask slip back on over something much more interesting. “My past with—my past is not the point.”

“Ah, which was, apologies, my point. If you would be so good, what is your point?”

“Your ego,” Edgeworth said, “and your reputation.”

Klavier felt the mirth slip out of him, replaced by a mixture of worry and anger. “You think I have been putting away the wrong men?” He asked, offended but mostly concerned. Edgeworth might have a stick up his ass the size of Daryan’s pompadour, but he was an incredible prosecutor and the most observant man Klavier had ever met (discounting, as always, Kristoph. Discounting Kristoph in every category he could, always, for the rest of his life). ”Ignoring evidence? Falsifying—“

Edgeworth shook his head, and Klavier relaxed. “No,” said the chief prosecutor. “You are excellent at your job. Both of them, as I understand it. But you let them—bleed together.” He held up a hand at Klavier’s protest. “Your songs about court life are amusing, I will grant you. It is the other end of the spectrum that concerns me. You—perform, in court. You draw crowds. Young, enthusiastic, female crowds.”

Klavier shifted his weight, frowning. “Herr Edgeworth—“

“Justice has been receiving hate mail,” Edgeworth said, cutting him off. When Klavier froze, he raised his eyebrows. “This time, I mean the man.”

Klavier finally took the chair Edgeworth had offered him when he first came in, his mind blank with shock. “He’s what? For how long—why?”

Edgeworth replaced the file carefully on his desk, squaring it with his large, steady hands. “Prosecutor Gavin, I had more faith in your intelligence than that. He is, quite publicly, your rival. He is the only defense attorney here, barring—“ his lip curled, “—'He of the Objecting Fist' that has ever beaten you in court—and unlike Wright, he has done so several times, and those wins are not mediated by the humiliation that Wright suffered at your hands.”

Klavier shivered at the coldness in his voice. He wondered if Edgeworth would ever forgive him that. Wright, bafflingly, already had—but Wright was baffling in almost every way, whereas Edgeworth—

He watched Edgeworth twitch his sleeves into place and thought, I am not the first prosecutor to “perform” at the bench.

“I appreciate that you are serious about your job, Gavin,” Edgeworth said. “I appreciate that your judicial duties keep you here, at home, and that you do not wish to change that, nor do you wish to cease performing music. But you are creating something very dangerous—your fans are here, in your home, stirred to frenzy by your constant presence on both their stages and their televisions.”

Klavier swallowed, but Edgeworth wasn’t finished.

“And as much as it is your home, it is also Apollo Justice’s home. He stands up every time the two of you face one another in court, stands up at the very center of your swirling nexus of obsession, and he claims—over and over again—that you are wrong, that you are incorrect, that you are less than perfect.” Edgeworth tapped one finger on his crossed arms. “This outcome was only a matter of time.”

Klavier ran a hand through his hair. “Gott,” he breathed, and then an awful thought struck. “He has not been—threatened, there has been nothing—“

Edgeworth shook his head, and Klavier felt himself start breathing again. “He has reported nothing to Wright, nor to the police,” Edgeworth said, qualifying his answer. “But as I understand it, he was slow to admit that it was happening at all.”

Klavier stood up in a rush. “I must—I will speak with him. Thank you, Herr Edgeworth, for telling me.”

Edgeworth nodded, and Klavier let himself out, shaking his hair from his eyes. Sheiße, this was bad. Herr Edgeworth was right—how had he not seen this coming? How had he not stopped this?

He briefly considered attempting to find Justice in his office, but it was 5:30 already and it would take him at least another half hour to get to Wright Anything Agencies, and unless Justice was working very late he’d be gone by then, away home to wherever he lived—to where he might find more letters waiting for him, letters that contained insults and abuse and maybe worse, letters that were Klavier’s fault.

How did they know where he lived, the girls sending him the letters? He frowned at nothing for moment, and then, with his heart like lead in his chest, he crossed to his own office. He shoved his papers into his briefcase, took a moment to send himself the links to the news items he’d been reading, and opened a new browser window.

He’d made a vow to never enter the Gavinner’s fanforums. He knew they were there, of course—Daryan used to look at them years ago and read out some of the more outlandish comments, laughing, but it had always rubbed Klavier wrong. It felt like a—an intrusion of privacy, somehow, not to mention the effects it would have on his ego and his self-image and everything else—but he’d never considered the effects of his ego on others, and now that he was, those personal rules didn’t seem so important.

He scrolled for a solid five minutes, letting his eyes read the titles of the topics without actually thinking about them beyond the surface level. Gavinner’s Fanworks Thread, LONG LIVE KLAVI’S SOLO CAREEER, the Great Gavinner’s Song Showdown, Top Klavier Outfits—it was all a little much but it seemed harmless enough, there was nothing mentioning Justice at all.

He returned his eyes to the top of the page, to one of the “sticky” topics, a link that remained atop the others regardless of when it had last been posted in. It had been posted in recently, though, and there were a lot of replies—numbering in the thousands. He frowned at the title. Operation Dionysus.

He clicked.

“AS WE ALL KNOW, Gavinners, the Greek God our Klavi most resembles is Dionysus, god of music, drinking, and SEX!!! And, god, he has been GOOD to us. Those PANTS, girls, those PANTS.

But recently it has come to my attention that we’ve got another of the pantheon in our midst—stick-in-the-mud Apollo, god of law and joylessness and assholes. And he’s made himself pretty obvious, with his hideous red suit and his loud mouth. He’s not worthy of Klavi’s spit, but he dares stand up to him and tell him he’s wrong? Klavi is smarter than he’ll ever be, and he’s gracious, too. No matter how much Apollo Just-Ass (and really, we’re supposed to believe that’s his real name? REALLY???) degrades him and hurts him, he’ll never let it show.

So it falls to us, girls, to expose this bully and liar for who he is. Klavi needs us—he’s hurting, our baby, because of this nobody dickhole, and it falls to us to protect him. Gavin’s Guards, huh?

What do you say? I’ve already taken the first step – all you need to do is write to him.”

And there, at the bottom of the post, was Justice’s address.

In any other context, he might have laughed at the jibes in the post—may have adopted Apollo Just-Ass for himself, although—he thought of Justice the night before, the way his jeans hugged his hips—he maybe would have meant it a different way than “champagneandklaviar” had. But now they just left him feeling cold, drained, and his hands shook as he took a last look at the address and shut off his computer.

His worry only grew as he slid through the streets on his bike. The neighborhood Justice lived in was not a good one. Klavier had once sat in as his brother gave a talk on the criminal mind, and remembered him describing the habits of observation that criminals get into, the subtle, constant, almost involuntary check for cameras, counting of exits, evaluation of the wariness of people around them. Klavier had developed that sense's natural twin—he checked for the same things for the opposite reasons: safety was only found where there were eyes everywhere, where crime was impossible without witnesses. He liked to think of it as prosecutor's paranoia.

There were precious few witnesses when he pulled up to the apartment building named in the forum post. The outside door was propped open with a beer can. He half expected to find Justice already dead.

But Justice opened the door at his knock, and Klavier let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Herr Forehead," he said, out of relief and to establish exactly which version of themselves they were tonight. "May I come in?"

Justice was still half in court wear, his jacket gone, his tie loose around his neck. This version of casual worked better on him than the concert-wear of the night before, drawing attention to the muscles of his throat and forearms. He looked older—his real age, rather than some sixteen-year-old sneaking in to a concert his mom didn’t want him to attend. He was also staring at Klavier like he'd grown a second head. "P-prosecutor Gavin? What are you doing here?"

Klavier peered around him into the apartment. There were letters on the table in the hall, more on the floor at Justice's feet. "Apologizing," he said grimly, and gestured at them. "For those."

Justice looked suddenly and totally miserable, but he stepped aside. "I told Mr. Phoenix I didn't want you to know, I can't believe he went behind my back."

"Herr Wright is not to blame," Klavier said, stepping past him. He bent to pick up a letter. "I doubt he told anyone but Edgeworth, und Herr Edgeworth made his own choice to tell me."

Justice snatched the letter from his hand before he could open it and flung it into a pile of others. "Mr. Edgeworth? Why would he tell you?"

Klavier did not move to pick up another letter, just watched Justice as he scrambled to stow them all out of reach. "He seemed concerned about you."

That made Justice stop. "Edgeworth? Concerned about me? Why? I'm just, like—a guy, he barely knows who I am!"

Klavier's eyebrows shot up. "Really? You truly believe that? You have too good a record to just be "a guy" to anyone in the prosecutor's office, Herr Forehead, not to mention being the protege of one of the greatest geniuses of law of the last thirty years."

Justice scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, I wouldn't consider myself Mr. Phoenix's protege, he just helped me out a couple—"

"I was not speaking of Herr Wright," Klavier cut in, and then grimaced. "I—sorry."

"Oh," said Justice. "I—yeah. You don't have to be sorry." He took a breath. "Whatever else your brother was he was absolutely a genius."

"Ja," Klavier said softly. "But I am—I do apologize. For what he did to you—"

"For what he did to me? Klavier—" the first name seemed to catch Justice by surprise as much at it did Klavier himself, and he stumbled to a stop.

"For what he did to you," Klavier continued carefully, unwilling to be harsh in this new, fragile silence, "and for what I am doing to you now." He gestured to the letters in Justice's hands.

Justice's face was firm. "This is not your fault," he said, too loudly, and then quieted with an effort. "And neither was anything that Defense Attorney Gavin did, none of it."

Klavier shot him a puzzled look. "Of course this is my fault," he said.

Justice made a frustrated noise. "This is why I didn't want you to know," he grumbled. "Come on, come farther in than my front hallway." He led the way into his tiny corner-kitchen. "You want a drink? I have, uh. Water. Maybe tea? I think this is tea. Or, um." He squinted into his fridge. "There's beer."

There was a note in his voice that Klavier hadn't heard before—embarrassment he'd heard, but this was a different flavor, shades of shame, of self-deprecation. He hated it, hated the way Justice was curled in on himself, so different than his courtroom stance. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said firmly, "I would love a beer, actually."

Justice blinked at him. "Um, okay."

While he busied himself at the fridge, Klavier took a better look around. Justice's apartment was clean, apart from the overwhelming volume of letters on most surfaces. It was cheap, yeah, and tiny, but it was well kept. Nothing for man living on Justice's income to be ashamed of, certainly.

He leaned over the table to better examine a letter. There was no return address. Justice had already read this one: the seal was broken.

What did you do to the judge so he'd let you win again today? I know you don't have the money for bribes, so it must've been something else. Did you go to your knees for him? You like the old man's cock shoved down your throat? I bet you do, you lying whore.

Klavier felt dizzy, sick, horrified. "Justice," he said, and it came out strangled. Justice didn't look at him, turned away with a bottle opener in his hand, his back muscles tense as steel. "Herr Forehead—" he tried, but it seemed wrong, too lighthearted, and finally, a little desperately, "Apollo. Look at me."

Justice's whole body twitched, and finally he turned, his eyes downcast. He held out one of the beers to Klavier, and Klavier took it. He licked his lips, and that, of all things, brought Justice's gaze to his. "Are they all—like this?" he asked, meaning the letter in front of him.

Justice shook his head, a quick, almost angry motion. He didn't even glance at the page; it had been the one at the top of the stack on the table, probably he'd read it himself not long before Klavier arrived. "Mostly they're just, like. Insults, or 'back off,' or whatever." He grimaced. "It's really no big deal—"

Klavier gaped at him. "No big deal? You're being harassed. You have to tell the police!"

Justice shook his head. "They won't be able to do anything, not without more evidence than some letters."

There was something in the tone of his voice that knocked Klavier sideways out of his horror. "Evidence...? You're—" he blinked, and took a sip of his beer in order to give himself time to process. "You're building a case."

Justice crossed his arms over his chest. "Slowly," he said crossly.

Klavier stared at him, unable to help his wondering smile. "Remarkable. You have a truly remarkable mind, Herr Forehead." Justice shrugged and glanced away, his cheeks tinged with pink. Klavier leaned forward into his space. "Let me help," he said earnestly. "This is my fault, let me help you—"

Justice shook his head. "Like I keep saying, it's not your fault. These people, if it weren't about you, it would be about someone else. They're wired that way, to. Fixate."

Klavier frowned at him. "But if it weren’t about me, it would not be about you. But it is about me, and thus it is about you. I'll—I'll tell them to stop, I'll have a press conference—"

"No," said Justice sharply. "The ones that think you hate me are bad, but worse are the ones who think you like me, the ones who are jealous of our." He stopped, and then shrugged, finally looking up at Klavier. "Whatever relationship they think we have."

Klavier gnawed at his lip, and Justice looked away, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and gesturing to another. Klavier took it. "Then I'll stop playing music," he said firmly. "If they don't get new footage of me, new pictures, new songs, maybe they will settle down."

Justice stared at him. "You'd—you'd do that for me?"

Klavier scowled at him. "Of course. What kind of man do you think I am? You are my friend, I would like to think, and I am not going to value your life as less than a few concerts every few months."

Justice took a long sip of his beer, and Klavier noticed his big bangle again, dangling from his wrist. "I don't want you to," he said quietly, once he had swallowed. "I want you to keep making music." He took another swallow, a little red. "A-and anyway, it's not my life. No one's going to hurt me, it's just a couple mean letters."

"A couple?" Klavier asked, gesturing around him at the letters piled like snowdrifts against the kitchen cabinets. "Remind me of this when I next invite you out for ‘a couple’ drinks." He leaned forward again, trying to get Justice to meet his eyes. "Take this seriously, bitte," he said. "They have your address. Right now it's just letters. Tomorrow?" He shook his head. "You have to move."

Justice's jaw tightened. "Oh, yes, it's that simple, isn't it."

"You have money from Herr Richten, ja? You can—"

Justice's face was bitter. "I can pay the bills I've been waiting to pay," he said evenly, "I can pay my rent this month. I can maybe put some forward until next month. What I can't do is rent another apartment, or pay for an extended stay in a hotel."

"I will pay," Klavier said immediately, and almost before the words were out he knew they were the wrong ones. Justice closed his eyes. "I-I'm sorry," Klavier said, feeling off-balance. "I should not have—I know that you are not asking that."

"No," said Justice, "I'm not."

Klavier swallowed, thinking fast. "Then—come stay with me. You can keep paying rent on this place, we can keep it as a mailbox, so that we can continue to build your case. But you won't be in danger, should it escalate." He smiled as Justice opened his eyes. "It will not cost me a thing, I have many guest rooms."

Justice toyed with the beer bottle between his hands. "Last night you threw me out of your dressing room," he said, "and tonight you're offering to let me stay in your house?"

Klavier found himself locking eyes with him again, obeying this new gravitational pull. "Last night I thought you were insulting my abilities as a prosecutor," he said. "But that's not what was happening at all, was it? Quite the opposite."

Justice looked relieved. "You do understand," he said. "I thought you did when I saw your suit this morning, but then." He ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, and Klavier found his eyes following the movement.

He flicked them back up to Justice's gaze and smirked. "You seemed to like it last night," he said, meaning both smirk and statement to be over the top, something to make Justice laugh. Instead they came out intimate and amused, his voice pulled low by the little flicker of tongue he saw retrace the path of Justice's finger.

Justice didn't seem to notice, scowling at him, and so Klavier played his part for him and laughed as casually as he could manage. He sipped his beer. "Maria and Marina, mein Gott, these parents must have hated them."

Justice seemed blindsided by the subject change, but he recovered well. "One of them, anyway," he said enigmatically, and took a swig of his beer. "We should probably not—hang out much."

Klavier's stomach twisted. "Ah," he said, dropping his eyes to the table. Well. That was a rejection if he’d ever heard one. He would have to take more care with his tone.

"Because of the letters, I mean," Justice clarified quickly, but there was guilt in his voice, and Klavier could take a hint. "Not because. Not any personal reasons." He spread his hands. "Like I said, the worst of them are the ones who think you like me."

Klavier drained his beer. "I could stop requesting to prosecute across from you," he said. "That would probably help, ja?"

Justice looked at him, startled. "You've been doing that?"

Klavier grinned at him, amused. “You thought it was bad luck, that we kept being paired up? Fate, perhaps?” He managed the light tone, this time.

Justice laughed a little, shrugging. “I thought maybe someone at the office had figured out that I liked working with you and was doing me a favor,” he said.

Klavier let out a little sigh, surprisingly pleased by that. “It would be a shame,” he said, “to stop. Tomorrow was supposed to be the beginning of my winning streak—my great comeback against the devastation you have wreaked upon my career.” He winked.

Justice reddened. “I haven’t won that much,” he protested. He flicked his eyes up to Klavier’s, his lip between his teeth. “It would be a shame,” he agreed. “But maybe—just for a while. Let it die down a little.”

Klavier sighed again, this time dramatically for Justice’s benefit. “Ja, ja. After tomorrow, I will only prosecute boring, straightforward cases with defense lawyers who think “I didn’t do it” is an alibi.”

Justice smiled at him, and Klavier smiled back, his hands loose around the empty bottle. “You’re going to win, tomorrow,” Justice said. It was almost a question.

Klavier set down the bottle and stood. “Yes,” he said simply. “I will win.” He squeezed Justice’s shoulder as he passed. “Goodnight, Herr Forehead.”

Apollo waited until he heard the door click closed, and then sagged, his face in his hands. He was fucked.

It’d all been fine until he’d gone to that stupid concert. He’d gone to see the Gavinners, of course, but that’d been different—the music was different, just loud pop rock with no soul to it, just Klavier hamming it up all over the stage with his fellow bandmates, and then there’d been the shooting and the trial and everything else, and very little time to think about the fact that, hey, Prosecutor Gavin had a really nice voice under all the shouting.

It’d all been fine until he’d seen Klavier—and he hated that it had taken all of these damn letters for him to start thinking of him as Klavier, although he refused to think of him as Klavi, that awful, cloying, infantilizing nickname, that assumed familiarity that all of these “fans” had with someone they’d never even spoken to. And shit, he’d slipped up tonight and actually called him Klavier, and the shock on his face was enough for him to know not to do that again.

It had all been fine, until he’d seen Klavier play solo, until he’d seen what he looked like when the music really mattered. He’d been annoyed when he arrived, even more annoyed when he saw how impossible it would be to get close to the stage. But he’d managed—slipped between groups of screaming girls to stand somewhere where he could decently see. When Klavier had come on stage he’d rolled his eyes at the sight of him, decked out in some kind of shimmering, snake-like thing—glimmerous, he’d once thought to call him, and it had never been more true than it was now—but then the lights had gone down, and Klavier was just a long, lean form against a single blue lamp, and without preamble he’d started to sing, and even if there had been anything else on the stage to focus on Apollo wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away.

Even Klavier’s speaking voice was musical, but when he sang—sang like this, bare and emotional, his long fingers running up and down the neck of his guitar like he needed it for comfort, it was breathtaking. When he started to play it only got worse—the lights came up, the tempo rose, and with it Apollo’s pulse—Klavier’s hair falling over his face, his eyes closed, his whole body curled in focused grace around his instrument. The song could have been about anything, for someone who knew less about Klavier than Apollo did—any figure in Klavier’s life who mattered, who’d hurt him, who’d torn him apart. It could even have been a love song, and he didn’t doubt that many of the girls around him believed it was. To Apollo, though, it could only have been about Kristoph.

At his kitchen table he opened his eyes and remembered Klavier’s face. I was not speaking of Herr Wright, he’d said, and then, quick as a gunshot, I’m sorry, as if Kristoph Gavin had ever hurt Apollo the way he’d hurt Klavier himself. As if he weren’t still walking around like an injured animal, shying away whenever anyone got too close to the wound that was Kristoph’s name.

After the concert he’d managed to pull himself together enough to force his way backstage, managed to remember the reason why he was there, the reason he should be angry with Klavier, not hurting and humbled and dizzied by him. But then Klavier had been lounging against the doorway of his dressing room in nothing but obscenely tight leather pants and lipstick—gloss, as if that made any difference to the attention it brought to his smirking mouth—had invited him in, still shirtless, had taken hold of his wrist and pulled him up into his space so that Apollo either had to hold his breath or breathe in the scent of his skin, could see the eyeliner around his dark eyes and the gold dust on his ridiculous cheekbones, and the tiny flame of the (definitely purely intellectual) crush he'd been harboring for months had roared to life. He hadn’t needed his mother’s bracelet to tell that Klavier wasn’t lying to him—it was written all over his beautiful face, exhaustion and truth dropping so clear from his mouth that Apollo probably could have tasted them if he’d kissed him.

Yeah, he—he was fucked. Klavier had barely touched him, tonight—a quick squeeze of the shoulder, his fingertips brushing against the back of Apollo’s neck, a goodbye from a friend—but he still felt the warmth of his palm. It was a good thing he’d managed to convince him they shouldn’t hang out, for more reasons than one—Klavier was a tactile, flirtatious guy by his very nature, and if there was much more of this Apollo might go mad.

All the same, he couldn’t help but hate himself a little bit for guaranteeing that he wouldn’t see Klavier again for a while. Even discounting this hideous new attraction, he liked the prosecutor—always had, despite his dramatics, despite his taste in friends. And if nothing else tonight had shown that Klavier did think of him as a friend, and that thought was surprisingly gratifying.

Maybe by the time he’d built enough of a case against Klavier’s fans to bring anyone to court he’d have gotten himself under control enough that they could be friends, just friends, without Apollo turning into a horny sixteen-year-old every time Klavier so much as looked at him. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing at how wilted it felt, and hoped to God Klavier never wore gloss to court again.

He drained his beer and pushed some of the letters aside. He was glad he’d managed to divert Klavier’s attention, not only from the letters but from the line of questioning he’d started to pursue. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to lie to Klavier’s face if the prosecutor had asked him if he had already received anything other than letters.

The photo was blurry, blown up too huge for its resolution. He remembered this day—it had been, until the photograph had arrived, one of the best memories of his career. It had been a theft case, up against one of the nastiest, most underhanded prosecutors in LA. Trucy and Phoenix had been in the audience, and until the last moment Apollo had been certain he was going to lose. But finally he caught a nervous twitch—a tightening of the prosecutor’s fingers around his cane as his witness testified—and he’d pressed and pressed on the issue, not letting a hesitation or a careless word-choice go, and the witness had caved, confessing not only his lies but who had forced him to tell them, revealing the true culprit and letting Apollo's client go free.

After the trial, Trucy had run up to him, squeezing him in a bear-hug. Phoenix followed, giving Apollo a nod from under his beanie, and Apollo had grinned back at him. Phoenix had opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, his eyes sliding left over Apollo’s shoulder. He nodded again—an indication, now—and Apollo turned to find Klavier striding up to him. The prosecutor held out a hand, and when Apollo took it Klavier pulled him in to murmur in Apollo’s ear. “If you had been facing me in there,” he said softly, “you would have lost.”

Apollo had laughed him off. "Make sure that I am, then, next time," he'd challenged, and Klavier had disappeared into the crowd entering the courthouse. Apollo had turned back to find Wright watching him with his head on one side. "Kid," he said, "I hope you know what you're doing better than I did."

Apollo had blinked at him. "What?"

Phoenix had grinned. "That job offer still stands."

The unseen fan had taken the shot at the moment of Klavier's taunt—the two of them on the courthouse steps, hands clasped, Klavier’s mouth almost against his cheek. What struck him first was Klavier’s expression, invisible at the time—the corner of his lips was curled up, his eyes shining. What struck him second was the black, aggressive lines the unseen fan had drawn across his wrists and throat. HANDS OFF, she'd scrawled in sharpie across the top of the photograph.

What struck him third, embarrassing and troubling both, was the blush staining his own cheeks, the way his whole body craned towards Klavier's, even then.

He got up and retrieved a box of children's chalk, taken from Trucy's magic supplies the day before, from his kitchen drawer. He didn't think she'd mind, or even notice—written magic didn't interest her much. He crushed up a piece of blue chalk and sprinkled it over the edges of the photograph. He carefully blew away the excess chalk dust and placed a piece of scotch tape over each smudge that remained. It was a long shot, but he could fit the tape to glass in the morning and bring slides to compare to fingerprints on record. He didn't expect the fan to have a criminal history, but at least it was a place to start.

He moved the photograph aside and stood with a sigh to put on water for pasta.

The next morning he dressed carefully, making sure his hair was perfect, his lapels straight. If this was the last time he worked across from Klavier for a while, he wanted to look good doing it.

Klavier seemed to have had the same idea, to Apollo's total dismay. He was not, thank god, wearing any makeup, but he'd swept his hair in to something more styled than usual, leaving the nape of his neck exposed. The effect was exacerbated by his switching his usual purple suit jacket out for a stark black one and an open-collared charcoal shirt, so that the whole of his long pale throat was framed for Apollo's eyes. He swallowed and did his best to smile non-vampirically when Klavier looked his way.

"Well then, gentlemen," the Judge said. "You know where we left off. Ms. Cameron, if you would resume your place at the stand, and give us your testimony again."

Maria Cameron looked a little worse for wear this morning. Her face was pinched, almost annoyed. Apollo watched Klavier sideways. Would he notice? Had he worked it out?

Klavier looked grave until his gaze caught Apollo's. He didn't smile, and for a moment Apollo's heart fell. But then, so quick it was almost invisible, Klavier winked at him. It was like the lights came up on stage—suddenly he snapped into place, eyes sharp. He cleared his throat, interrupting Cameron's halting repetition of her story.

“Fraulein Cameron,” Klavier said seriously, “I want to remind you that you are on the stand, under oath, and that lying is verboten.”

The corner of Cameron’s mouth twitched upwards in surprise and, just for a split second, anger. “Excuse me?”

Klavier shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid almost nothing you have said in your testimony is true. You said you went to see Herr Richten to get Marina her job back, ja?”

Cameron nodded, swallowing. “I knew she hadn’t stolen the money, and I thought if I—”

“Ja, ja, you thought if you threw yourself on his mercies, etc, etc,” said Klavier. “Answer me this: why wait so long? Your poor little sister, out of a job for six months, and it is only now you come to plead her case?”

Cameron frowned. “She was out of money, and she wouldn’t take charity from me, though I had it to spare. She had to get her job back—”

Klavier leaned forward. “No,” he said, “she did not, she had already gotten another that promised to pay even more.” He flipped open his court documents. “How long have you owned your current car, fraulein?”

Cameron blinked, off-balance. Apollo smiled. Klavier at his best danced circles around the guilty, waiting to knock their feet from under them. “Um,” said Cameron, “a month.”

“Three weeks,” Klavier corrected, and gave her a shark’s grin. “But perhaps that little lie we can forgive. Justice.”

It took Apollo a minute to realize he was being addressed—took Klavier’s gaze turned his way. “Ah, yes, Gavin?”

“Yesterday you presented an accident report involving Herr Richten’s car. Would you mind reminding me of the date?”

Apollo knew Klavier hadn’t forgotten—it was part of the performance, he was pulling him into the dance with him. He kept his voice steady. “April 9th. Three weeks ago.”

“And the type of accident?” Klavier pressed, a smile hovering around his mouth but not quite landing. “A collision on a highway, perhaps?”

Apollo felt his own lips twitch, but he scowled instead. “No,” he said. “Mr. Richten was parked, someone drove into the side of his car.”

“We are forming an interesting timeline,” Klavier said, holding his eyes, and Apollo licked his lips, hoping Klavier would take it for nervousness. Klavier took a breath and then turned away, addressing the court at large: “On April 10th, the day after the deliberate destruction of Herr Richten’s car, two seemingly unrelated events occurred. I have documented evidence of both to present to the court. The first is that someone withdrew a second large amount from Herr Richten’s personal account, which, for some reason, Herr Richten never reported. The second is that Fraulein Cameron bought a car.”

The judge stared at Klavier, wide-eyed. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Richten bought this car for her, prosecutor?”

Klavier shook his head. “Nein. I am suggesting that there is a reason a man accuses his best model of theft and then drops the charges but does not rehire her, that a man has 50,000 dollars stolen from under his nose but never closes the account. Herr Richten did not pursue charges on anyone else because he knew who had stolen his money, and he had reason to allow her to continue to do so.”

Maria Cameron crushed her handkerchief in her fist. “I am not a thief—”

“No,” said Klavier sharply. “You are worse: you are an extortionist, and an accessory to murder.” He looked down at his notes for a moment, and Apollo thought he saw something in his face—a flash of grief?—before he continued. “You said yesterday that you were not used to having money, but your car is quite expensive and just now you implied that you had offered money to your sister. That first fact was true: you were on the edges of poverty, until six months ago, when you broke into Herr Richten’s accounts. You allowed yourself to be caught on tape just enough to cast suspicion on your sister, so that she would be fired from her job. But you couldn’t show your face—because your face is the difference between you, isn’t it?”

Cameron’s eyes were livid. “You—”

Klavier traced long fingers up his throat and along the left side of his jaw. Apollo swallowed. “You have done a good job of hiding it,” Klavier said softly. “It is not fair that you should have to bear it at all. After all, it was your sister’s fault, not yours.” He broke the staring contest he was having with Cameron, and she swayed a little, licking her lips, trying desperately to hold on to the shreds of her composure. Apollo watched her, and heard Richten fumbling and fidgeting at his side. “Do something,” his client hissed, but Apollo shook his head and leaned down. “You can’t stop Prosecutor Gavin in the middle of a show,” he said, as innocently as he could manage. “You didn’t do it, right? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Submitting to the court,” Klavier said, louder now, “the police report of a house fire in the Masters family home, twenty years ago. Our victim was seven, Ms. Cameron eleven. The fire began in the kitchen, where, attempting to make homemade donuts, Marina Masters set a pan of oil on fire. She escaped unscathed, but her sister suffered quite bad burns on her jaw and neck.” He looked at Maria with genuine sympathy. “My condolences, Fraulein, for what surely would have been a lucrative modeling career. As lucrative as Marina’s was shaping up to be, if you had given her the chance to work at her new job.” He smiled slightly. “That was the last straw, wasn’t it—you thought you’d done enough by framing her, but here she was, on the edge of success again.”

Maria Cameron hissed at him. “Shut up,” she snapped. “Shut up, someone shut him up, this has nothing to do with what happened—Marina burned me, she ruined me, yes, I admit that, but I would never kill her—I couldn’t have killed her, I was at the restaurant! We were at the restaurant!”

Klavier let out a pleased sigh. “Yes, let’s talk about the restaurant. The restaurant where you kept a receipt for a meal you did not pay for in the name of keeping your accounts precise.” He stopped, and feigned a surprised look. “Unless—if you were the one who had stolen that money, why, you would have been telling the truth. For all intents and purposes, Herr Richten’s personal account would be yours. In that case, your receipt does not prove that the two of you were at the restaurant—only that, as you have just said, you were.”

Cameron gaped. “No,” she protested, but Klavier had already turned to Apollo, and Apollo bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning at him. He looked beautiful like this—all of him focused, victory writ in the line of his jaw. “Herr Forehead,” he said, low and triumphant. “You said it takes fifteen minutes to drive to Marina Masters’ apartment. How long would it take to walk?”

Apollo barely had to think about it. “The drive takes longer because there are a few one-way streets,” he says. “Walking, you could cut across them—it would take maybe forty minutes.” He held up a finger. “But prosecutor, my client could not have walked it. After all, your own witness testified that she’d seen him get into Maria Cameron’s car.”

Klavier gave him a sideways smile, his eyes dark and amused. “Did she? She seemed to think it was Herr Richten’s car. If she had seen him enter it, she would have known he was not driving. Nein, Herr Forehead. My witness saw Herr Richten leave his office, and then she saw Maria Cameron’s car leave the parking lot.”

Klavier turned to Richten, his smile vanishing, his eyes almost lazy. When he spoke, he lofted the words like darts. “But Herr Richten was not inside it. Herr Richten left his office at 1 pm, walked to Marina Masters’ apartment, strangled her, and then walked back to his office, arriving by 3 pm looking, as your witness said, shaken. Meanwhile, Maria Cameron drove the opposite direction to provide him an alibi.”

“Ridiculous,” snapped Cameron.

Klavier ignored her. “Herr Richten,” he said gently, “have you an answer?”

Apollo saw Richten straighten, saw him lick his lips, desperate to find some way out. Klavier’s eyes sharpened—a snake with a rat in its coils—and Richten’s face collapsed. “I had to,” he pleaded. “She broke into my personal accounts—! She knew everything. She had all my money, she destroyed my car. She forced my hand! She said if I didn’t kill Marina she’d force me to bankruptcy—my career, my business, my employees—I couldn’t let that—it was—it was self defense!” He fumbled blindly at Apollo’s chest. “Tell them, Justice—tell them it was self-defense!”

Apollo had thought he would be happy, when Klavier won, but instead he just felt—tired, disgusted. “You killed an innocent woman, Mr. Richten, for the sake of a car and some cash. That’s not self-defense. That’s—” he shook his head. “Evil.”

“Herr vorsitzender,” Klavier said quietly, “I believe that was a confession.”

The judge had been sitting spellbound, and he jumped a little when Klavier talked to him. “Ah—yes, of course,” he said hastily. “The court finds Marcus van Richten guilty of murder in the first degree. And Ms. Cameron, I’m afraid the evidence is overwhelming—you are under arrest for—ah.” He paused. “Quite a lot.”

“Theft, extortion, destruction of property, and accessory to murder,” Klavier listed smoothly. “Oh, and perjury.”

“Yes, all of that.” The judge looked around him at Richten, still clinging to Apollo’s lapels, at Cameron, who was vibrating with anger as the bailiff led her away. “I suppose, everyone, court is adjourned!”

Apollo fought off Richten’s hands. “Don’t touch me,” he said firmly, and waited until Richten had been led away before letting himself relax. He hadn’t been—worried, exactly. Klavier had promised him he’d win, and as soon as court had begun Apollo knew that he would. But there was a sort of relief with having it over, anyway. Relief and—loss, a little.

He looked up to find that Klavier had not left yet, but was leaning against the prosecutor’s bench, watching him. He’d thought, for a while, that Klavier had two modes, rock star and prosecutor, and that he had to somehow switch back and forth. But the Klavier that was watching him now, long and lean in his stark black suit, was every inch the shirtless flirt that had greeted Apollo at his dressing room door. At Apollo’s look he sighed. “I know, I know.” He said, straightening up. “We should not hang out. I do get it, Herr Forehead, I will not keep you long.” He grinned, and Apollo saw that gorgeous glint of triumph again. “Just, please, allow me to bask in my victory a little, even if it was a victory that you allowed me.”

“I didn’t allow anything,” Apollo said. “All I knew was that both Richten and Cameron were lying. I couldn’t figure out why.” He let himself smile at Klavier and hoped it didn’t come out too—needy, starstruck, awed. “That first court day, all I did was give you the information I already had. You put together in a single afternoon what I couldn’t figure out in a week and a half.” He shook his head. “It was genius, what you did today.”

Klavier stared at him, startled. “Thank you,” he said, real emotion in his voice.

Apollo shrugged, feeling his cheeks heat. He wanted to keep talking, tell him how much he meant it—how impressed he always was with the mind behind all the performance, tell him he didn’t even mind the performance anymore either—saw it for what it was, armor and anchor all in one. Klavier needed to hear it from someone. But the last thing he wanted was to come of as some—as a fan, as cloying, clinging, flattering. He looked at Klavier, at the way he shifted on his feet, his eyes thoughtful. He’d settle for shaking his hand—

But there was laughter in the back of the courtroom, and the sharpie’d photograph on his kitchen table flashed across his mind. That had been a handshake, too. He felt suddenly sick, shaken—was the photographer here? Watching them now, as they stood an awkward four feet apart, did they know how much Apollo wanted to close that distance?

“I should go,” he said, and it came out a little thick. He looked up at Klavier and pasted on a smile. “Things to do.”

Klavier opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Alright,” he said, and then grimaced. “I will—see you around, I guess.”

Apollo nodded, and forced himself to turn. He’d almost made it to the door when Klavier called, “Apollo.”

Apollo stopped and squeezed his eyes closed. Was this going to be a thing, Klavier calling him by his first name? It should—not be, if Apollo’s sanity was going to last.

“About the other matter,” Klavier said carefully. “You would tell me, if something happened?”

“Sure,” said Apollo, as evenly as he could manage, and fled.

He gave the slides with the fingerprints to the police—calling in a few favors so that no questions would be asked; Detective Chambers still owed him for defending his daughter against that breaking and entering charge—and thought about taking the rest of the day off. He was strangely exhausted, like he’d been pulling against something all day, maybe since last night. He refused to think about the elastic stretch of air between himself and Klavier, alone and not alone enough in the courtroom.

But going home to his apartment where there would be more letters—maybe more photographs—made him pause. He doubted he was actually unsafe, but that didn’t make sitting alone in his apartment knowing that there could be eyes on him any more comfortable. He shook his head and headed to Wright Anything Agencies instead.

Phoenix stuck his head out of his office when he heard Apollo arrive. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Good job in court today.”

Apollo made a face at him. “I lost, Mr. Wright.”

Phoenix grinned. “Yeah,” he says, “I know, but they got the guy.”

“Yes,” said Apollo slowly, “my client was the guy.”

“Which you knew going in,” Phoenix said, matching his tone, “so good job.”

Apollo shook his head and wandered into his own office. “Do you know everything? How did you even know I was done?”

Phoenix waved his fingers like Trucy did while warming up for a show. “I have my ways,” he said mysteriously.

Apollo wandered back out of his office and into Phoenix’s, frowning. “Speaking of your ways,” he said, “You told Mr. Edgeworth about my mail?”

“Ah,” said Phoenix, and his smile changed, from open-teasing-Phoenix to something more careful. “Yes, I did.”

“You knew he would tell Klavier,” Apollo accused.

“I knew he would do what he thought was right,” Phoenix corrected. “Which happens to be what I think is right, as well. This is potentially a very dangerous situation, Apollo.”

Apollo glared at him. “One I can handle, Mr. Wright.”

Phoenix held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I won’t interfere again.”

Apollo nodded firmly and went back to his office. “Good luck,” Phoenix called after him, and Apollo smiled despite himself.

He’d just managed to sit down and organize his thoughts when his office phone rang. He picked it up one-handed, juggling case files in his other. “Hello?” he said, and then, a little belated, “Defense Attorney Justice’s Office.”

“Workaholic,” Klavier accused, and Apollo nearly dropped his phone.

“Gavin,” he said when he’d gotten his heart under control. “What, uh, what’s up?”

Klavier sighed. “It just feels a little wrong, is all. I should be taking you out and getting you drunk so you can wallow in your sorrows and I can crown myself king of the courthouse, and instead you’ve gone back to work and I have to sit here like I’m not king of anything at all.”

Apollo let himself consider, just for a moment, going for drinks with Klavier. Going for drinks with Klavier with Klavier looking like he did in court. Every possible scenario ended up with Apollo straddling Klavier’s narrow hips, his hands in Klavier’s hair and his mouth at Klavier’s throat, and then probably a lawsuit and/or a murder, depending on whether or not the fan that had been sending him the worst of his mail was watching.

“Also,” Klavier was continuing, and Apollo made himself focus. “There is something about today’s case I still don’t understand.”

“Mm?” Apollo said helpfully.

“The murder weapon,” Klavier said. “It was the only bit of evidence that definitively linked Herr Richten to the scene, and it did so in spades. If Maria Cameron took the time to alibi him so thoroughly, why did she let him just shove the thing in his desk drawer like an amateur?”

Apollo blinked his daydreams fully away. “The murder weapon is the other part to this case that made me take it, other than knowing you’d be able to figure it out,” he said, and Klavier made a little pleased noise that Apollo really did not need to know he was capable of. “I asked Mr. Richten about it when he first approached me, and he told me he had no idea how it had gotten in his desk drawer.”

There was a pause, and then Klavier said, “that’s it? You just believed him?”

Apollo shook his head. “He wasn’t lying. Don’t ask me how I know, okay, you know I’m good at this stuff. He truly didn’t know how it got there.”

He remembered his own surprise at discovering that little puzzling truth, in amongst all the lies Richten was telling. He’d thought perhaps Cameron had known something about it, but it hadn’t made any sense to him at the time, and still didn’t.

“How very odd,” said Klavier. “Perhaps I have missed something…?”

Apollo shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You put them both away, and the fashion world is safer for it.”

Klavier chuckled. “I am so glad,” he said. “I benefit much from the fashion world, I would like for it to be safe.”

Apollo tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and kept organizing files. When it became clear Klavier wasn’t going to continue, he cleared his throat. “Um,” he said. “Was there—something else?”

“Oh, ah, no,” said Klavier, and then, awkwardly, “or, actually, yes.”

Apollo stopped organizing. Klavier sounded unusually small, unsure of himself. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Herr Forehead.” Klavier’s voice was warm, and Apollo imagined him alone in his office, smiling down at his desk. “I am just,” he said, and Apollo heard the smile fade. “...why would she do it? Her own sister.”

Apollo frowned. “You solved the why yourself,” he pointed out. “The fire ruined her for modeling, she was jealous of her sister’s success.”

Klavier was silent for a moment, and then he said, quiet but fierce, “Family should be stronger than that,” and Apollo got it, understood the little twitch of grief he'd seen on Klavier's face in court.

God, he was an asshole. The last kind of case Klavier needed to be involved in was anything that might remind him of Kristoph’s treachery, and this had sibling betrayal written all over it in huge sharpie’d letters. “Klavier, I’m so sorry,” he said, too angry with himself to even regret the first name. “I shouldn’t have made you work this case.”

“You did not make me do anything,” Klavier said, a touch disdainfully. “And I can handle it, thank you.” But he sighed, and didn’t hang up.

Apollo stared at his hands. The silence stretched long, but not uncomfortably so. “Have you been to see him?” he asked.

Klavier took a breath. “Nein,” he said, “No, I don’t—I don’t know that I have anything to say. Not yet.”

“I guess it wouldn’t do any good to ask him why.” They didn’t—talk about this. As far as Apollo knew, Klavier didn’t talk about this at all. Klavier’s song about Kristoph had lyrics about how he couldn’t talk about this. But here they were anyway, talking about it, and Klavier hadn’t told him to shut up, or hung up on him, or anything.

Klavier snorted. “Kristoph? Answer a question in a straightforward way?”

Maybe it was the phone. Maybe not being able to see who he was talking to helped. Maybe Klavier was pretending that Apollo was someone else, someone he was entirely comfortable with, someone he trusted, and it was very important Apollo not fuck this up. All he had to do was listen, and not say anything stupid.

“I’ll go with you,” he offered. “When—after I figure out this thing with the mail, I’ll go with you to see him.”

The silence was suddenly so loud that Apollo winced to hear it. Well. That had definitely counted. “Only if you want—” he started, at the same time that Klavier said softly, “I would really like that.”

There was something in his voice made Apollo’s chest hurt. He swallowed hard. “Oh,” he said, “really?”

“Really,” Klavier said in the same tone, and Apollo wished, wished he could see his face, because he didn’t know what emotion to call it but it coiled itself tight around his heart and wouldn’t leave. Maybe Klavier heard it too, because he cleared his throat. “I will not keep you from your work.”

“That’s okay,” Apollo said, before he could stop himself. “It’s—any time.”

There was a small pause, and then Klavier said, "Thank you, Herr Forehead ," and hung up the phone.

When Apollo finally went home, he discovered another envelope on his doorstep: two more photographs and a note. The first photograph was him, leaving Klavier's concert. He looked flushed. The second was of Klavier leaving Apollo's apartment. It was a much better composed photograph, or perhaps Klavier was just much more photogenic, but Apollo stared either way—Klavier was smiling, a little, private smile, the streetlights caught shining in his eyes.

The note just said, STOP THAT.

Tuesday, May 15th, 3:47 PM.

“Apollo Justice’s Office.”

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier said by way of greeting, “Do you have a minute? I have a question.”

“Um,” said Apollo, and then, “yeah, sure, what is it?”

“About three months ago, you assisted Mr. Wright with that case against that jewel thief, correct?”

“Eugenia Malis, yeah,” said Apollo. “With the hair.”

Klavier grinned down at his notes. “With the hair, yes. In her testimony, she told you the name of an associate—the prosecution assumed it was her fence, but when she was cleared no one ever followed up with it. Do you remember the name?”

“Give me a sec.” There was the sound of shuffling papers, drawers opening and closing, and then Apollo sighed, short and satisfied. “Here we go,” he said. “Damien Chance.”

“Danke,” Klavier said, noting it down.

“What d’you need it for?” Apollo asked curiously.

“I am prosecuting a man with several aliases, and I think that may be one of them.”

There was a silence, and then Apollo said, “you know you could have just requested the court record, right?”

Klavier grinned. “Of course,” he said, “but then I would not have gotten to bother you for it.”

+

Friday, May 25th, 8:07 AM.

“Apollo Justice’s Office.”

“I just want you to know that I will be very disappointed if you don’t win today,” Klavier drawled, leaning back in his desk chair.

“Gavin,” Apollo said, sounding annoyed and surprised both, “I’ve only got an hour—”

“Ja, ja, I know.” Klavier bit his lip. “Only, I really dislike Prosecutor Heng.”

Apollo sighed into the receiver. “So do I.”

“So,” said Klavier, smiling.

“So?”

“Viel Glück," Klavier said. "Good luck."

+

Wednesday, May 30th, 2:19 PM.

“Apollo Justice’s Office.”

“Apollo,” Klavier said, and then stopped, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he tried to gather his thoughts.

“Klavier?” Apollo sounded immediately concerned. “Is that you? Are you alright?”

Klavier reached out and straightened the stapler on his desk, the file in front of him, the row of pens. “I received a package today,” he said slowly.

“From your fan?” Apollo asked sharply.

Klavier shook his head before he remembered that Apollo couldn’t see him. “Nein,” he said, “no, nothing like that. It was covered in customs stickers—Germany, England, France, I think even India. Inside there was a drumstick, and a note.” He stopped messing with his desk, examining his fingernails instead. “It was from Daryan.”

Apollo said nothing, just waiting, and Klavier leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “We used to play this game with the band,” he said, “where we would mail a package to ourselves just too late to arrive wherever we were staying on tour—try and time it so that it would never quite reach us, see how long it took to catch up.” He smiled a little against the red darkness of his eyelids. “This one was the best yet, kept shuffling through the mail for over a year before it got to me.” He licked his lips. “The drumstick was labelled for Kristoph,” he said, “and the note said, to match the one he’s got shoved up his ass.”

He heard Apollo take a breath and pictured him, sitting at his desk. He knew what his office would look like, though he’d never been there: sunlit, just on the edge of cluttered, much more personal than Klavier’s own, despite the guitars hanging above his desk and the album art on his walls. He probably had a picture on his desk—him and Trucy smiling at the camera, maybe even Wright there in the background with a goofy smile. It seemed like the kind of thing he would endorse.

“What was it like?” he asked, “Discovering you had a family when you had grown up alone?”

He wasn’t at all sure Apollo would answer him—it was an incredibly personal question, after all—but he didn’t regret asking. The urge to understand how it might be to live a different life, any different life, even one as difficult as Apollo’s must have been, was too strong to endure.

“Surreal,” Apollo said after a moment. “Especially discovering that that family was a sister, a younger sister. Growing up, I always used to daydream about finding my family, but it was always. You know. A mother and a father. Maybe a brother, but sisters were like—a whole other species.” His voice was warm, and Klavier kept his eyes closed, letting it wash over him. “I still feel that way, sometimes, with the sister I’ve got. She’s weird, but she’s amazing, also, and I think—I can kind of triangulate, you know? Me and her the compass points with our mom the pivot. I can kind of imagine her, now that I found Trucy.”

“Tell me about her,” Klavier said. “She is—Zauberkünstler, ja? A magician.”

“Ja,” said Apollo, and then laughed a little, and Klavier found himself grinning wide at nothing, his chest lighter than it had been since he found the package on his doorstep. “She’s really something else,” Apollo said. “You should come see one of her shows—” he broke off, and then, more uneasily: “After. You know, this—thing is over.”

“I would love to,” Klavier said honestly. He sighed. “I want this thing to be over now, please. I do not like this thing.”

“No,” said Apollo quietly, “neither do I.”

Klavier was about to press him for more—had he received anything else? Maybe it was stopping, maybe they were losing interest—when Apollo said, “shit, Klavier, I’ve got to go.”

Klavier swallowed. “Of course,” he said. “I am wasting your time—”

“No,” said Apollo loudly, and Klavier blinked at his desk. “No, but I do have to go, I promised Mr. Wright I’d meet him—um, five minutes ago."

"Ah," Klavier said guiltily. "You should go, then, I have wronged Herr Wright enough for one lifetime."

"Hey," objected Apollo. "Stop that."

"Yes, sir," said Klavier, catching the softening of his voice too late to stop it.

There was a moment of silence, and then Klavier said, "You were going—"

"Right," Apollo said hastily. "Right, um. Bye."

+

Monday, June 12th, 1:31 PM.

"Apollo Justice's Office."

"I want," Klavier said abruptly, "to take you out to lunch."

"Sorry," said Apollo, startled, "what?"

"I thought I would let you know, even though I can't actually do so," Klavier explained. "Nothing fancy, I am not trying to wine and dine you." He paused, cocking his head to one side. "Not yet, anyway. We shall see, the next time I need something from you."

There was a noise like a lot of papers sliding onto a desk, and a long pause. "Right," said Apollo at last.

Klavier pouted at his hands. Here he was trying to thank the man, and Apollo wasn't even listening. "Apollo," he said, "achtung, please.”

“You, um, you definitely have my attention,” Apollo reassured him. “We’ll get lunch when we can, I promise.”

“We should make a list,” Klavier said, “of things to do when we can. What has there been so far? Drinks to celebrate my victory, of course.”

“Of course,” said Apollo, and Klavier could hear him smiling.

“Lunch. The fraulein’s magic show.” Klavier counted it off on his fingers.

“Facing each other in court,” Apollo said quietly.

“Ja,” Klavier said, and sighed. “Especially that.”

+

Friday, June 17th, 10:17 AM.

“Prosecutor’s Office, this is Klavier Gavin.”

“Um, hey.”

Klavier blinked, and then grinned. “Apollo! Good morning. You are returning the favor for once.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” Apollo said, sounding unsure.

Klavier spun in his chair. “Of course not, what can I do for you?”

“Why didn’t you take the Morgan case? You were up for it.”

Klavier raised his eyebrows. “Business, hm, not pleasure?” He teased, and then caught himself, and coughed a little. “Sorry. I didn’t take it because he isn’t guilty.” He frowned. “Which is why you did take it.” He didn’t care that Apollo would know he was paying attention to his cases; obviously, the reverse was true as well. That was a nice feeling.

“Mm,” Apollo said. “I did, and I know he isn’t, I just.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I can’t figure out who else would have benefited from Morgan Sr.’s death. There was practically no one else in his will.” He paused. “I know he’s not guilty because I can tell he’s not lying. How do you?”

“The wounds on the elder Herr Morgan’s body,” Klavier said immediately. “The murder was savage and drawn out. The younger Mr. Morgan might not have gotten along with his father but he didn’t hate him. The murderer did, this was a crime of passion.”

“So the money isn’t the motive at all,” Apollo said. “The motive was rage, maybe vengeance?”

“Maybe,” Klavier agreed, “and the murderer set up our Herr Morgan to take the fall. His rage is at both of them, not just the father.”

Apollo hummed, and then said “Oh,” and then there was a long pause, and then he said, “Oh!” again.

Klavier smiled. “Gotcha?” he suggested.

“Gotcha,” Apollo said with satisfaction. “Thank you, Klavier.”

+

Tuesday, June 21st, 4:39 PM.

“Prosecutor’s Office, this is Klavier Gavin.”

“Going to dinner and comparing notes,” said Apollo, all in a rush.

Klavier watched the door close behind his client. “I’m sorry?”

“Add it to the list,” prompted Apollo, “of things I want to do with you when we can.”

Klavier licked his lips. Things I want to do with you. “Done,” he said as lightly as he could. “What notes are we comparing?”

“Mr. Edgeworth and Mr. Wright,” said Apollo, like that explained everything. “I’ve got to go, just wanted to let you know. Talk soon.”

+

Thursday, June 23rd, 11:25 AM.

“Apollo Justice’s Office.”

“Apollo, hello.” Klavier smiled at his desk. ”Is this a good time?”

There was a short silence, and then Apollo said, “Actually—Gavin, it’s really not, I’m very busy.”

Klavier sat up straight, his stomach twisting. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Apollo said shortly. “If it can wait—”

“Sure,” said Klavier slowly. “Perhaps after lunch—?”

Apollo hung up on him.

+

Thursday, June 23rd, 3:34 PM.

“Hello, you’ve reached Apollo Justice’s Office. I’m sorry, I’m currently out of the office. Please leave a message after the tone.”

+

Friday, June 24th, 9:02 AM.

“Hello, you’ve reached Apollo Justice’s Office. I’m sorry, I’m currently out of the office. Please leave a message after the tone.”

+

Monday, June 27th, 8:30 AM.

“Hello, you’ve reached Apollo Justice’s Office. I’m sorry, I’m currently out of the office. Please leave a message—”

Klavier put down his phone.

+

The next few weeks were without a doubt some of the most boring of Klavier’s life. It was too soon to plan any kind of concert, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to, anyway. I want you to keep making music, Apollo had said, but while Klavier appreciated the sentiment (and the implied compliment), he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. They were taking a break in the courtroom, after all; better that he do the same on stage.

He took cases basically at random—ensuring that the accused was guilty, of course, but beyond that taking whatever was thrown his way. His record shot upwards, but apart from a few near misses and one quite deserved loss there was little challenge in it. He still enjoyed it—he enjoyed the pure mechanics of law, the puzzle of it, enjoyed knowing the breadth of his own knowledge and putting it all to the test—but there was something lacking. He realized one day, with a shock of recognition, that he was lonely. When he worked with—well, against—Apollo, there was a feeling of give and take, a tug of war with two sides. The defense attorneys he was working against now ran together until they became as featureless as the law itself, and Klavier found himself working alone to find the truth, rather than straining to wrench it out of someone else’s hands.

He couldn’t even gloat, anymore, now that Apollo had stopped taking his calls. Klavier knew he was alright—he saw him, sometimes, always from far away, leaving or entering the courthouse, looking as serious and sleek as ever, but whenever Klavier dialed his number all he got was Apollo’s pre-recorded voice, professional and colorless, a poor imitation of the real thing.

It didn’t help that his schedule—balancing rehearsal, performance, court work and paperwork—hadn’t left him much time to make or maintain friendships (or, said a small voice in the back of his head, that those he had made—spent years making—had abandoned him). He found himself spending most nights alone, going over case law or messing around on his guitar, not even trying to write music so much as listen to the sound of his own voice.

He’d finally had enough. It was not to be stood for. Klavier knew himself to be a man that thrived in company, and he refused to let himself wilt away here like some shut-in. He got dressed carefully—wanting to look good but also not obvious, if he had to go the shallow route and meet people in a bar he wanted them to be the “hot guy” kind of shallow, not the “famous rockstar” kind of shallow: he tied his hair back low against his neck and pulled on a baseball cap, shed all of his necklaces but the simplest of silver chains, traded his leather pants and suit jackets for a tight black beater and jeans.

He examined himself in the mirror, watched the light play off the line of his jaw, examined the shadows under his eyes. "Not bad," he told himself. "Not perfect, but not bad."

He could go to one of his usual haunts, but then he would see people he knew, and there were really only two categories of people he knew. Friends and acquaintances from the music world would inevitably ask him about the band, and friends and acquaintances from the law world would inevitably not ask him about Kristoph—conspicuously and silently and unbearably not ask. Of the two, the musicians were infinitely preferable, but he'd really like to avoid both crowds if possible.

He chose a mid-scale bar he’d been to a couple times when he’d been too lazy to get very far from the offices, a smallish, intimate joint where being a new face got you a second look by default. It promised music, cheap strong drinks, and strangers to buy them for, exactly the right mix for Klavier's mood.

He went in with the second partying crowd, the first having already arrived and being well on their way to shitfaced in the corner, and slid between two bodies to get the bartender’s attention. He ordered a gin and tonic, letting his eyes roam the bar as he waited for it.

Most of the people in the place were in clusters, laughing and chatting, their arms looped loose around paramours or people they hoped would be paramours soon. Klavier had a brief moment of envying them, but he shook it off. At the end of the bar sat a brown-haired man with well-muscled shoulders and a ring through his lip; he turned, feeling Klavier’s gaze on him, but Klavier looked away before their eyes met. It felt—close to home, somehow. It would be too easy to substitute another face, another name.

Instead, he let his eyes linger on a black-haired woman sitting alone at one of the tables, the shoulder of her dress slipping a little off one shoulder, her dark hair swept over the other. She was beautiful—bird-like, freckled, and when she met his gaze he saw her appraise him, saw a quick mind behind her black eyes.

He paid for his drink and crossed to her, deliberately adding a little bit of sway to his hips. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the seat at her table.

She nodded, eyes still appraising, and when he sat she held out a hand. “Lucia,” she said.

He took it and brought it to his lips. “Klavier.”

If she recognized him she gave no sign of it, taking back her hand from his but leaning in to be heard over the chatter. “So,” she said, “come here often?”

He smiled at her. “Is that not supposed to be my line?”

She gave a little half-shrug. “Doesn’t matter, I know the answer is no,” she said, “because my answer is yes, and I surely would have noticed you.”

Klavier let his smile slide toward a smirk. “I’m flattered.”

She fixed him with a look. “Don’t be,” she said. “Notice does not necessarily mean approve.”

He gathered himself to retort, but stopped. "Hang on," he said. There was something familiar about her, about her voice. "I’ve seen you before."

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Let me guess, I remind you of some actress or model. Come on, that's the oldest trick in the book."

Klavier shook his head and concentrated. "State vs. Checron," he said after a minute, triumphant. "You were a witness."

She blinked at him, and then broke into a disbelieving smile. "That was nine years ago. How could you possibly—"

"I never forget a pretty face," Klavier said, wagging his eyebrows exaggeratedly. She laughed at him, eyes still shocked. "But I remember especially—my professor used that case as a teaching aid, my last semester at University." It wasn’t a lie—but it also wasn’t why Klavier remembered: Kristoph had been defending, and Lucia had been his witness. He remembered the twist of disappointment to Kristoph’s mouth as he watched the tape back, over and over. Stupid girl, he’d murmured. You had enough prep, stop stammering.

Lucia shook her head, her hair falling around her face. "God," she said, "you were a student then? That makes me feel old."

"You could not have been much older than I at the time," Klavier objected, and then grinned at her. "Besides, I don't mind."

She arched a graceful brow, her smile teasing. "You have a thing for older women?"

Klavier sipped his drink and leaned forward. "I have a thing for competence," he said easily, "I find it often comes with age."

"But not always?"

For an instant Klavier thought of Apollo, but blinked his face away. He brushed his hair behind his ear, looking at her through lowered lashes. "Some of us are born talented."

She leaned forward too, her dark eyes flicking over his face. "Do they work for you, these ridiculous lines?" she asked, no malice, just genuinely curious. "Do people actually buy it?"

Klavier shrugged, unperturbed. "Sometimes.” He leaned further in, lowering his voice, and she played along, meeting him half way, her head cocked so that she could hear. “Sometimes,” he said, lips almost against her ear, “I have to resort to—"

"See? Magic." The interruption came from the bar, where several people were gathered around a girl with a set of cards. Klavier knew that voice—not from the distant past like he knew Lucia, but from recently, from—from a week ago, when he'd heard it on the courthouse steps and turned, saw Apollo leaving the courtroom, his whole face lit up in a way that Klavier knew meant he'd won in court. He'd wanted to go over and congratulate him, confront him, do something, but Apollo was already leaving, laughing and chatting with Wright and—

He stood up abruptly. Lucia stared up at him, surprised, and he flashed her a quick smile. "Sorry, darling," he said with mostly unfeigned regret, "just give me a moment."

He crossed to the bar and laid a hand on a purple-clad shoulder. "Fräulein Wright," he said softly, "what do you think you're doing?"

Trucy spun. She'd done something to her face—stage makeup, tricks of the light—to make herself look older, although she still wouldn't pass for more than nineteen or so and definitely should not have been let through the door. Her eyes widened as she recognized him. "Prosecutor Gavin?" she hissed. "Wow, you look different."

Klavier arched a brow at her. "So do you," he said, "but not different enough." He smiled at the people surrounding her, and then pulled her a little ways away. "Trucy, you are fifteen years old—"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not drinking," she said, as if it should be obvious, although there was a beer where she'd been at the bar and a suspicious flush to her cheeks. "I'm investigating."

"Well you shouldn't be doing either in a bar," Klavier said firmly. "Come, I will take you home."

"No, please," said Trucy pleadingly. "If Daddy sees me like this he'll flip—"

Klavier sighed sharply. "Fräulein, I am not going to leave you here!"

Trucy gnawed at her lip. "Then take me to Apollo's."

It was Klavier's turn to hesitate. "That—may not be the best idea," he said slowly. "Your brother doesn't really want to see me, lately."

Trucy scowled at him. "What are you talking about? He always wants to see you." Mind apparently made up, she returned to the bar long enough to retrieve her pack of cards and take a rebellious swig of beer, and then made her way back to Klavier. “Well? Let’s go, if we’re going.”

“A moment,” Klavier said, and fixed her with a quelling look. “Stay here.”

He crossed back to his table. Lucia watched him as he approached, her eyebrows raised.

“The sister of a friend,” Klavier said, grimacing. “I am truly sorry, I have to go.” He grabbed a napkin from a neighboring table and wrote down his number, offering it to her. “Call me, I promise we’ll have a better time.”

She took the napkin, lips quirking. “Shame,” she said, “I was looking forward to making you prove that competency you claimed.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Next time,” he said, “I promise, you will be persuaded.” He started to straighten up but she caught his chin and kissed his mouth, lingering. She was a good kisser, catching his lip between her teeth as he pulled away, and he gave her a half-bow of respect.

He could feel her gaze on his back as he stalked back towards Trucy, and smiled to himself. Trucy cocked her head to one side. “You’re smirking,” she said. “Who was that?”

Klavier shrugged. “A friend, I hope,” he said shortly. “Come on.”

He took the bike, because he’d only had half a drink and the night was warm and it made Trucy gasp and grin wide at him. She protested when he made her wear the helmet, but relented when he gestured to his hat. It was not a long drive to Apollo’s apartment, just long enough for Klavier to start panicking about what he was going to say when he got there. Hi Apollo, I found your teenage sister in a bar. I swear to god the lipstick isn’t hers. It was her idea, coming here, but I didn’t exactly fight it. I know I’m not supposed to be around you but it’s so terribly boring when I’m not—He resolved to just leave Trucy at the curb and not say anything at all.

As soon as he pulled up, however, she hopped off the bike and fixed him with a glare. “You leave now and I’ll just call a cab and go back to the bar,” she threatened. “You have to walk me inside.”

“Trucy,” he protested, but her face was set, and there was something in her jaw that was as stubborn as Apollo at his worst. Klavier considered. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just say hello. Maybe Apollo would have relaxed about it a little, maybe they could sit down and talk for a while. Maybe Apollo would fill him in on what was going on and he could actually help. The thought eased some tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying, and he turned off his bike and followed Trucy to the door. She nodded in satisfaction and rang the bell.

Klavier hung back a little so that Apollo would see her first. He opened the door, face lined with concern. “Trucy? Is everything okay?” He looked her up and down, and then looked at Klavier, still talking. “It’s one in the—” He stopped, his voice dying in his throat.

Klavier bit his lip, trying desperately to read his expression and not just smile at him like an idiot. “Ah, good evening, Herr—”

Apollo lunged forward, fisted a hand in his shirt, and yanked him bodily into the apartment, shoving him up against the wall inside the door. All the breath went out of Klavier in a rush and he blinked, hard, opening his eyes to find Apollo’s face very close to his own. “Get in,” Apollo snapped at Trucy, “and close the door.” He was looking at Klavier like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, his pupils huge in the dimness of the front hall. The only light came from the kitchen and threaded gold through Apollo’s hair, sleep-soft and ungelled. Klavier itched to bury his fingers in it and tug, just to see what Apollo would do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Apollo said finally, moving back a little, releasing Klavier’s shirt but keeping a warm, broad palm flat on his chest. Klavier let himself lean into the touch, just a little, not enough that he couldn’t deny it if asked.

“I know,” he said, “I do know, Apollo—”

Apollo winced and took back his hand, and Klavier straightened, frowning. “What’s—”

“Nothing,” Apollo said quickly. “I—you weren’t followed?”

Klavier licked his lips, feeling lost. “Why would I be followed?” He looked around. There were no longer letters on every surface, just a large envelope on the table in the hall. He picked it up. “What is this, what is going—” he stopped. The envelope was full of the familiar green-and-white printout of automated phone recordings. Kristoph? He read, answer a question in a straightforward way?

"These are—our conversations," he said, horrified, and flipped through them, eyes taking in things he'd said—things he'd said about Kristoph, about himself, things he had never said to anyone but Apollo. "They tapped your phone?"

"Trucy," said Apollo, and Trucy yelped. She'd been standing very still in the corner, as if willing them to forget that she was there. "Go to bed."

"But—I have evidence—"

Apollo turned and smiled at her, and Klavier felt his heart squeeze at how long it’d been since he’d actually seen that smile. "Thank you," he said, "I look forward to hearing about it in the morning. But I have to talk to—" he took a breath, his smile slipping off his face, "—to Prosecutor Gavin alone."

Trucy looked between them for a moment. "Fine," she said, and leveled a threatening look at Klavier. "Don't keep him up too late."

Klavier smiled at her. "You have my word, fräulein."

Trucy slipped down the hall and through a door. She closed it with a conspicuous thump.

"She," said Apollo tiredly, "there's no they, not anymore, this is just one person. She tapped my phone." He picked at the seam of his jeans, and Klavier finally took the opportunity to really look at him. After over two months of constructing an image of him on the other side of the phone, of picturing his smile and his laugh and the line between his eyes, seeing him in the flesh was a shock. He was rumpled and heavy-eyed, the kind of tired that comes from several sleepless nights in a row, and he was absolutely beautiful. He stared at the floor for a moment, and then looked up at Klavier sideways. "Could be a he, I guess."

Klavier's mouth was dry. It was ridiculous—here, away from any prying eyes, he should be able to move closer—touch Apollo, make sure he was okay. But he felt rooted to the spot nonetheless, kept there by some warning in Apollo's face. "It could," he agreed. "Have you—is there any evidence that this is someone who has been, ah, involved with me?"

Apollo shook his head. "Just someone who really wants to be." He sighed. "Now that you're here, you might as well see."

He led Klavier past the room Trucy had disappeared into, past the kitchen, and into his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was small, spartan, and quite neat. Apollo flicked on the lightswitch and Klavier's eyes widened.

The entire wall above Apollo's bed was covered in photographs, blown up huge and scrawled with black sharpie. They were all of Klavier, or Apollo, or both of them together. There was even one through his office window, where he sat on the phone, smiling to himself. It was taped to another, taken through the Wright Anything Agencies window, where Apollo was captured mid-stumble, dropping files all over his desk, the phone caught between his shoulder and his ear.

Klavier swallowed. "These are threats," he said, his eyes moving across the pictures of Apollo, taking in the lines drawn over his throat, his hands, his eyes. “You did not tell me—”

“How, exactly, would I have told you?” Apollo asked. “I can’t approach you in person without them sending another picture, I was about to tell you on the phone but—then the transcripts arrived. I don’t have your cell phone number and I don’t—” He shook his head. “Think about it,” he said quietly. “The only way they could have bugged my phone physically is by being in my office. The only people who have been in my office are myself, Mr. Wright, Trucy, and my clients, and my clients are only there under my direct supervision. While there’s a chance they could have done it while I was watching…”

Klavier nodded, thinking hard. “The much more likely thing is that they’re doing it remotely, somewhere along the telephone line, or digitally. Which means they could just as easily have rigged something up on your cell as well, or mine.”

Apollo bit his lip. “Same with email. I wanted to tell you, but.”

Klavier frowned. “You are working with the police, ja?” Apollo might be stubborn, but he was far from stupid.

Apollo nodded. “Detective Chambers and I have been working together,” he said. “We agreed not to use any visible police force in order to let whoever this is think I’m beaten, I’m not investigating anymore. Draw them out. That’s why I don’t know how they’ve tapped into my phone, we haven’t removed it.”

Klavier blinked at him. “But all your other conversations—”

Apollo shook his head. “This is about you, not me,” he said. “They never sent me anything that doesn’t involve you somehow.”

On the table by the side of the bed was a stack of papers, and Klavier recognized them as letters, a few dozen chosen out of the hundreds that Apollo had received, organized neatly. He leaned over to pick up the one on top, but Apollo stopped him, a hand against his chest. “Don’t, please,” he said. “They’re—personal.”

Klavier raised his eyebrows. “You said it was about me, not you.”

Apollo gave him a small, sad smile. “You don’t think there could be anything personal to me that’s about you?”

Klavier had no idea how to respond to that, so he settled for looking sideways at him. “So you stopped taking my calls.”

Apollo didn’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t let you keep—confiding in me, knowing this creep could hear you too,” he said, his voice fierce.

Klavier swallowed and reached out a hand, brushing his knuckles up under Apollo’s chin so that he would raise his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, trying to push everything he meant into the two words. Maybe it worked, because Apollo’s eyes were soft as he looked back. Klavier turned his wrist so that he could slide his fingers up Apollo’s jaw. “Apollo,” he said softly, “I—”

Apollo twitched and pulled away, color high in his cheeks. “Y-you smell like alcohol,” he said sharply, “have you been drinking?”

Klavier dropped his hand, feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. “I had meant to be, but the night didn’t quite go as planned,” he said, bewildered. “You don’t think I would drive Trucy home drunk—”

“No,” said Apollo quickly, “obviously, I just—” He stopped. “Were you going to drive yourself home drunk?”

Klavier tugged off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, feeling loose in his own skin. “I had not thought to be going home tonight at all,” he said carefully.

“Oh.” The syllable dropped between them like a brick. Apollo crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry Trucy interrupted your date.”

Klavier frowned at him. “I’m not,” he said honestly. “Why don’t you want me to say your name?”

Apollo froze. “What?”

“This is the second time,” Klavier said, watching his face. “Twice now I have called you Apollo and it’s like—it’s like I burned you, how quickly you pull back from me.”

Apollo licked his lips. “I don’t—” he started, and then sighed. “You didn’t look very closely at those transcripts, did you?”

“The telephone calls?” Klavier shook his head. “Nein, just long enough to know what they were.”

“They circled it,” Apollo said, “my name, every time you said it. Yours too, every time I did.” He shrugged. “Just another scare tactic, a reminder to back off.”

Suddenly Klavier was furious, his hands twitching into fists. “So you do?” he snarled. “Even here, in the walls of your own home, you stand four feet away from me and you wince when I speak your name and you let them win? I thought you were only pretending to be beaten.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened. “Gavin—”

“Don’t,” Klavier snapped. “You were calling me Klavier, before this began, and you will continue to do so or I will go to the police myself.”

“You can’t,” Apollo said. “Promise you won’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Klavier asked, less sharply now. “I understand you are investigating, but all this—” he gestured around. “It’s too much, you need protection.”

Apollo scowled at him. “All of this is the reason you can’t. While she thinks she’s winning, she might slip up. If we scare her off, yeah, maybe she’ll stop for a while, but it won’t be over. The level of her obsession…” He shook his head. “Two, three years down the line, we’d be dealing with her again, older and more experienced and more careful. I’m not going to risk that—risk what she might do to you. We have to catch her now.”

“Fine,” said Klavier, because it did make sense, much as he hated the idea of someone having such access to his life, to Apollo’s life. “Then say my name.”

Apollo licked his lips, silent.

Klavier stepped up into his space, and Apollo swayed backward. “Say it, Apollo,” he said deliberately, his eyes searching Apollo’s face. He brought his hands up slow, tracing his fingers up Apollo’s throat. "You're fine," he said softly, running his thumbs over Apollo’s cheekbones. “You’re fine.”

Apollo closed his eyes. “Klavier,” he said shakily, and Klavier kissed him.

Apollo took a sharp breath in through his nose, his hands stuttering against Klavier’s chest. His lips were warm and just the slightest bit chapped. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth opening to the barest suggestion of Klavier’s tongue, and Klavier buried his hands in his soft hair as he deepened the kiss. Apollo made a tiny noise deep in his throat, and then his grasping hands turned to pushing, insistent ones, and Klavier backed off. “Sorry,” he said immediately, cursing himself for moving too fast. "Es tut mir leid—forgive me."

Apollo was staring hard at the ground, one hand raised to his lips. “You should go,” he said. “Please.”

Klavier swallowed hard, his heart racing. “Apollo—”

Apollo looked up at him and smiled, but it was a little hollow and his gaze was focused just behind Klavier’s ear. “You promised Trucy,” he reminded him quietly.

Klavier straightened against the downward pull of his heart. “Ja,” he said, “of course.” It came out bitter but he didn’t quite care. He turned, settling his hat more firmly on his head. “Goodnight, Apollo.”

He was halfway down the hallway before he heard Apollo say, “Goodnight, Gavin."

He wrenched the door open with a pleasing, savage wrench, swung himself onto his bike, and went back to the bar.

Apollo closed the drawer of his desk. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you if you’re just going to lie to me.”

The girl across from him gaped. “I’m not,” she objected, and Apollo barely had to be looking at her to feel the pressure at his wrist.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing the skin between his eyes, “you are. Three times, in fact: you have seen the plaintiff before, you do know what happened after you left the store, and, unfortunately, you do know where the money is. My advice would be to give up your fence for a lighter sentence.” He frowned. “What’s his name, by the way?”

The girl was staring at him. “What?”

“Your fence,” said Apollo. “It’s not Damien Chance, is it?”

“Wh-no,” she stuttered.

Apollo massaged the back of his neck, trying to stave off the headache that seemed to constantly hang just at the base of his skull these days. “That’s four,” he said, “and you can probably forget the lighter sentence, if it’s Chance they already got him.” Klavier would have cleared that case, no problem. He swallowed and cut the thought off there, before it could spread to anything else about Klavier. He felt like he was orbiting a black hole—his whole mind caught in its gravity, unable to break free, but unable to get too close without being entirely consumed. “Please leave,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

She stood up in a rush. “I will pay double your rate—”

“Miss Klein,” Apollo snapped, “I will not defend the guilty!”

She jumped, flushing. His window rattled a little, and from down the hall he heard Phoenix say, quite clearly, “Geez.”

He took a long breath and then let it out again. “I’m sorry,” he said to Miss Klein. “It’s been a stressful—” six months, year, life “—week. Please find someone else to defend you.”

She glared at him. “Fine,” she said, “but if this is the way you treat your potential clients no wonder your office is such a dump.” She stamped away.

Apollo spent a vacant minute staring at his hands, and then Phoenix rapped on his open door with a knuckle. He looked up, trying on a smile. Phoenix shook his head. “That was just unnecessary.”

Apollo winced. “I know, I’m sorry—” he started, but Phoenix cut him off.

“I meant the comment about the office,” he said. “Got a lotta character, this office.” His voice was mournful, but his eyes were knowing when Apollo met his gaze. “You haven’t been picking up your phone, lately,” he said.

“Ah,” said Apollo, “yeah, I—I installed a caller ID, though, so. It’ll be fine now.”

Phoenix raised his eyebrows. “Avoiding someone?” His eyebrows twitched together. “Not Gavin’s rabid fan, she hasn’t started calling you now—”

“No,” said Apollo quickly, “no, I’m. Avoiding Gavin himself, actually.” He licked his lips and tried, desperately, to think of an excuse that wouldn’t immediately ring false in Phoenix’s extremely perceptive ears. He came up empty; he was so goddamn tired.

Phoenix was still looking at him, blue eyes mild. “Why?”

Apollo swallowed. “Would it be enough to say that I really, really don’t want to talk about it?”

There was a moment where he thought Phoenix might press him, and then he shrugged. “Your business, Apollo,” he said. “Just try not to bring Trucy into it any further than she already is."

Apollo grit his teeth. "She's my sister, Mr. Wright," he said. "I won't put her in danger."

"She's my daughter," Phoenix responded, and Apollo was about to protest when he held up a hand, "and in my book that makes us family, too. Your business is your business, but know I have your back, okay?"

Apollo nodded, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Phoenix,” he said, “I—thank you.”

Phoenix shrugged. “‘Course. “ He squinted at the walls. “Do you think I should repaint?”

+

Apollo had gotten into the habit of approaching his own door cautiously—checking the mat, under the door, through the mail slot for letters or large envelopes of photographs. There was nothing tonight, though, and he let out a long sigh of relief as he unlocked his door. The last letter he’d received had arrived two days after Klavier had shown up with Trucy on his doorstep, looking devastatingly handsome and even more devastatingly happy to see him.

Apollo wanted so badly to think about that night, to think about that kiss, to understand it. Motive was his weak point, in court—always had been. Klavier always got it, had always been able to help—but he couldn’t exactly ask Klavier to explain his own motives, even if he’d been able to talk to him in the first place. If Klavier even wanted to talk to him at all anymore.

His best guess was a cocktail of things. Loneliness, frustration at the interruption of his date, maybe gratitude for Apollo’s help—but he’d backed off immediately, had stumbled all over himself to apologize, clearly realizing his mistake. Maybe he’d constructed something that Apollo wasn’t, during those two months without seeing him. Maybe it took the kiss for him to realize Apollo didn’t measure up.

He couldn’t think beyond that, because the why of it was always eventually lost in Apollo’s memory of the sensation itself—the first feather-soft touch of Klavier’s lips on his, like he was asking permission. The sure sweep of his tongue. The way Klavier had sighed when Apollo had opened his mouth to him, embarrassingly easily. The slide of Klavier’s fingertips across his scalp.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning over to the stack of letters on the night stand. He chose one at random, letting his eyes drift over the familiar words.

You know that you’ll never be good enough for him. You’ve won a few times in court, but it’s been so hard, every time, barely scraping by. I know. I see you. I see him, too—he’s toying with you. You amuse him, but he’ll never think of you as an equal, as someone worthy of anything but idle conversation. He has everything already—success on two fronts, money, fame. Why would he want anything to do with you? Look at you. Look at this place you live. He’s seen it now too. It disgusts him. He’s offered you money, hasn’t he? Of course he as. How embarrassing it must be for him, to be constantly paired up with someone who lives like you do.

Apollo put it aside, his heart a lead weight in his chest. He knew it wasn't true—not about him, necessarily, but about Klavier, who had offered money out of concern, not disgust. Still—the casual offer, the immediate ‘I will pay’ that night in the kitchen—he shook his head. The space between their worlds yawned wide.

He chose another letter, more recent.

You put on a nice show in court today, it read, and he checked the date—the day after Richten’s trial. Lusting after him like that, I’m surprised the bailiff didn’t have to restrain you. You know people talk like we’re the freaks? His fans, the ones who support him, the ones who worship his beauty. But you, his so-called friend, can molest him with your eyes all you want and nobody says a peep. You better be careful—soon he’ll start to notice, and then he won’t want anything to do with you anymore.

Klavier hadn’t tried to call him since the kiss. Apollo knew he’d made an ass of himself—melting against him, even making a little noise into his mouth. Had Klavier realized how much Apollo wanted him, how disproportionately he’d responded to Klavier’s impulsive mistake? He would probably feel guilty—blame himself, accuse himself of leading Apollo on somehow. He hated that idea, hated thinking that Klavier might be regretting the kiss not only for his own sake but for Apollo’s as well. He couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it, despite how it tormented him—it might make it worse, to know what Klavier’s lips felt like against his, but he still knew, and it still spawned a thousand varied, gorgeous fantasies that Apollo couldn’t help but indulge. He couldn’t see Klavier, or talk to him; he was certainly never going to kiss him again—so conjuring him up in guilty daydreams was the best he was going to get.

He set aside the letter and kicked off his shoes. He took off his shirt and his tie, folding them and setting them on the chair by the bed so they wouldn’t wrinkle. He hadn’t done laundry in too long—no time, no cash, and he was beginning to be nervous in public spaces, constantly checking over his shoulder for anyone suspicious. For a day or two he'd kept a log—a little notebook in his breast pocket, shorthand descriptions of every stranger he saw near his apartment or the courthouse, but it had only made everything worse. It put him so on edge he started forgetting case details, too focused on the faces in the back of the room to notice the nervous liar's twitch of the man on the stand.

He unbuttoned his slacks and let them fall, too tired to do anything but leave them in a heap on the floor, and crawled into bed. He doubted he would sleep much—his brain was caught on loop, ricocheting between memories of Klavier’s mouth and the mocking words of the letters. With his eyes open he could only stare at the photographs above the bed, at the harsh black lines that cut him off at every point of contact with Klavier. With his eyes closed…

He let out a long sigh and trailed a hand down his chest, concentrating on the feeling of his breathing and the softness his own skin. He let himself remember the casual way Klavier had invited him to stay in his house, let himself imagine taking him up on that offer, in another universe. Klavier’s house must be huge—a true rock star’s mansion, all sleek post-modern furniture and borderline pornographic artwork that cost more than Apollo made in a month. He imagined waking up to clean, open rooms, high ceilings, Klavier singing somewhere away in the halls. Klavier emerging from the shower, towel slung low on his hips, water tracing its way down his chest. In this universe there was no hesitation—in this universe Apollo stepped into his space and kissed Klavier like it was his right.

He slid his hand lower, tracing patterns down the muscles of his stomach, and briefly escaped his cage.

+

The next day he came home to a letter and a large envelope on his doorstep. His stomach twisted, and he stopped dead in the hallway, taking a moment to settle his heart. “I’m Apollo Justice,” he said to himself, calm, steady, “and I’m fine.”

The letter was unmarked like all the others, but the envelope had a return address, and with a start he realized it wasn’t from her at all—it was from the police department, from Detective Chambers. He took both inside, leaving the letter on the kitchen table as he slit open the envelope. Inside were several sets of photographs—no, stills; it was security footage from outside the courthouse. There was a note at the top of the set:

Justice -

I went back and checked the dates you received the letters against footage from the security cameras for the times when Gavin was prosecuting. I’ve printed the clearest images from those times—does anyone look familiar?

Chambers

Apollo laid out the stills across the entirely of his kitchen table, his eyes flickering over the blurred faces and bodies in motion. Men and women in suits, here and there a cop in uniform, a few couriers on bicycles. He caught a glimpse of himself in a few of them, entering or leaving the courthouse, Klavier in a few others. He focused instead on others, and on people who looked like they were lingering, rather than on their way somewhere else. There were a few repeated faces: a man carrying a briefcase, caught both June sixteenth and two weeks ago, around the first of August. A woman in high heels, talking on her cell phone, who was there twice in one day and again a week later.

There was the sound of a key in the lock. “Apollo?”

Apollo straightened, but didn’t look up. “Trucy, hey—”

“I’m just here to grab the rest of my supplies for my show.” She crossed to him so that she could look over his shoulder. “What’re you doing?”

He grabbed the unopened letter from the table and stuffed it into his back pocket. There was no way he was going to risk her reading any of the stuff the stalker had sent him, and anyway, Phoenix was right: he’d involved her enough. “Pictures from the security cameras at the courthouse,” he said vaguely, trying to wave her away.

“Hey,” she said, frowning. “I’ve seen her.”

Apollo stared at her. “Where? Which one?”

She pointed to one of the people he’d overlooked, because she was in motion—clearly moving past the courthouse, not lingering to stalk anyone. “Here, too,” she said, pointing to another. “And there.” The woman had been passing the courthouse no fewer than six times in the spread of days that Chambers had provided, always between 6:00 and 8:00 AM. Apollo swallowed, feeling his heartbeat pick up.

“Trucy,” he said. “You said you saw her?”

Trucy nodded, frowning down at the photographs. “That night in the bar, when I was following that guy for you,” she said, and then bit her lip, looking up at him. “Um. Prosecutor Gavin kissed her.”

Apollo sat down with a jolt. “Oh,” he said. He stared at the blurred woman. Her hair was dark, her face sharp, birdlike. She was beautiful, even blurred. “I,” he said, and swallowed again. “I don’t suppose you heard him call her anything.”

Trucy shook her head. “He said she was a friend.” She paused. “No,” she said, “he said he hoped she would be a friend. What does that mean?”

Apollo shook his head, his mind racing. Was this the escalation he’d been worried about? I WARNED YOU had been scrawled all over the last photograph he’d received, but nothing more had actually happened. Was she making her move, first removing Apollo entirely from Klavier’s life and then moving in to take his place, only moreso, the place that he wanted?

He licked his lips. Replaying their kiss in his head was wearing raw tracks in his mind, but imagining Klavier kissing anyone else was so much worse.

He mentally constructed the timeline instead. She wasn’t passing the courthouse every time he’d been sent a photo, but that only meant she hadn’t been caught on tape every time. She must have known Klavier was going to be in that bar, lay in wait for him there, and then, when Trucy had interrupted their date, she’d followed them here, where she’d snapped that final picture. It must have hurt - Klavier leaving her side and speeding directly to Apollo’s door. He felt a stab of fierce satisfaction at that.

“Thanks, Trucy,” he said, when he could focus again, when he remembered that she was in the room.

She crouched next to him. “You okay?” she asked.

He smiled at her, a truer smile than he’d managed in weeks. “I’m going to be,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “If only I knew her name.”

Trucy cocked her head, perplexed. “Just ask Prosecutor Gavin, right? If they’re friends.”

Apollo licked his lips. He—could. He actually could. He could call Klavier in the morning, explain everything—remember that woman you kissed before you kissed me? His mind went a little blank at the idea of just being able to talk to him, to work together to figure out how to catch her, how to prosecute her. If Klavier accused her, he could defend—they could do what they’d done with Richten, work together to sort through her defenses and lies and put her away and then this would end.

He took a breath. “I—yeah, I will.”

Trucy looked at him for a long moment. “Okay,” she said finally. She made to turn away, and then spun back. “Polly.”

Apollo blinked at her. “Yeah?”

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him tight, and he let his head fall onto her shoulder. They didn’t—hug, much, still a little awkward around each other, trying to build physical and social habits that were meant to build themselves over years of shared childhood. But she had in a very real way made a place for herself in his mind and his heart as family, and he returned the embrace with a kind of dizzy relief.

“Thanks,” he said as she pulled away, and she smiled at him, wrinkling her nose.

“For what it’s worth,” she said as she turned to go, “I really like Prosecutor Gavin.”

Apollo frowned at her back, his cheeks hot. “I, um, I do too.”

Trucy laughed at him all the way down the hall. “Duh!” she called, and closed the door.

Apollo stood up, shaking his head. It wasn’t until he’d made his way into the bedroom that he remembered the letter in his back pocket. He almost didn’t read it—it was going to be over soon, whatever it said wouldn’t change that—but slit it open out of morbid curiosity and an overattachment to the twisting nausea her handwriting evoked.

He’s got a girlfriend, it said, and there were photographs—normal sized, non-defaced; they looked like paparazzi shots cut from magazines. Klavier outside an unfamiliar apartment, leaning in close to the woman from the security footage. The two of them on Klavier’s bike, the woman’s hands on his chest. The woman sitting on a wall, with Klavier standing between her legs, his face turned up to hers. Her long dark hair was falling between the camera and their faces, but Apollo could tell they were kissing.

He’s got a girlfriend, the letter said. He doesn’t care about you. He’s abandoned you to me, Apollo, and he’s moved on. Do you think he calls her in the middle of the day to talk about his brother? Do you think she was the one he was imagining, on the other side of the phone? Was it her voice, her mouth, he was looking for all along?

Apollo swallowed hard. “No,” he muttered. “But—”

Her name is Lucia. Lucia, Italian for Graceful Light - and she is both. Look at his face.

Apollo didn’t, at first, like a child. He didn’t want to do anything that she wanted him to. It was sickening—knowing that the stalker was writing all of this about herself, giving pictures taken by the press because she couldn’t lurk in the bushes to take them—she was in them, trailing a hand up Klavier’s chest, leaning in to murmur at him, kissing him, and Klavier was looking at her with a sweet curl of a smile that made Apollo’s throat ache like he was about to cry.

Had they known each other long? Was the date Trucy interrupted their third, or fifth, or tenth? Had he thought, all this time—

“No,” he said again. “No.” His plans crumbled, and with them any control over the muscles in his face. His teeth drew back from his lips in a contorted almost-sob, and he collapsed flat onto his back on the bed. He drew in a shaking breath. If they were dating—if Klavier loved her—he couldn’t just. He couldn’t call. He couldn’t even accuse her, not without proof. Klavier would never believe him.

On the nightstand, his cell phone rang.

After a moment he managed to roll sideways to grab it, flipping it open with his thumb. “Hello?”

“Apollo, it’s Ema Skye. I’m sorry for calling so late—”

“It’s okay,” Apollo said immediately, wondering if she could hear the panic and misery in his voice. “I—wasn’t sleeping.”

“Good,” said Ema, “because you’ll want to hear this.”

Apollo sat up, his heart suddenly in his throat. “You got something?”

“We got something,” Ema said triumphantly. “We got a fingerprint match.”

+++

Apollo had him up against the wall of his apartment again, but this time they were alone—this time Apollo did not snap at Trucy, wild-eyed and panicked, this time Apollo’s eyes were dark for other reasons. His breath ghosted over Klavier’s mouth and Klavier wondered if he could feel the beat of his heart, throwing itself wildly against Apollo’s knuckles where his hand was fisted in Klavier’s thin shirt. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Apollo leaned in, nudging their noses together so Klavier would lift his head, giving him better access to his mouth. He kissed Klavier with a single-minded thoroughness, and Klavier kissed desperately back, skimming his hands up Apollo’s chest and over his shoulders to tug at the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Apollo pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw and throat, licking at the hollow of his collarbone, and Klavier gulped too-warm air, throwing his head back against the wall and watching Apollo work his way down his chest. Apollo’s broad hands slid under his shirt, tracing warm fingers over the muscles of Klavier’s stomach, and he looked up from under his eyelashes to meet Klavier’s gaze, his brows drawn together in concentration. Klavier would have laughed at his expression if his pupils weren’t blown so wide, if his mouth wasn’t slick with saliva, if he didn’t immediately lower his head again and follow the path of his fingers with his teeth and his tongue.

“Apollo,” Klavier breathed, and it came out shivering, broken. Apollo stilled, and for a heart-stopping moment Klavier thought he’d ruined it—that he would pull away and kick him out again, that he’d lose this before he’d even really gotten it at all. But Apollo’s hands were busy at his fly and he pressed little butterfly-light kisses to the fabric of his boxers as he tugged down Klavier’s jeans, and Klavier slid a hand into his hair, urging him on, his hips stuttering with every feather-light touch of his lips. Apollo sighed against him. “Klavier,” he said softly, and Klavier twitched, but there was something wrong with his voice—throaty, too high. “Klavier, wake up.”

He opened his eyes, and the hallway dissolved. The wall at his back was white sheets, the hair his hands were buried in too dark, too long, and Lucia was looking up at him, her hands spreading his legs. “Here with me, please,” she commanded, and nipped at the inside of his thigh to punctuate the point.

He pasted on a smile over his dizzying disappointment. “Of course,” he said, “always.” He ran his hands through her hair, concentrating on her face, on the wide, full stretch of her lips, on the beautiful curve of her nose. “Gorgeous,” he said softly, meaning it, and ignored how much he needed to.

She snorted, and his hips twisted at the touch of her breath. “Damn right,” she said, but before she lowered her head again he saw something uncomfortably knowing in her gaze.

After, as she sat on the edge of his bed, pulling her stockings up her long pale legs, she asked casually, “so, do I get to see you in action any time soon?”

He frowned. “You are welcome in court any time,” he said slowly.

She shook her head, her hair falling forward around her face. “I meant on stage.” She saw him tense and rolled her eyes. “Come on, do you think I’m stupid? How many sexy German prosecutors named “piano” do you think there are in L.A.?”

He laughed despite himself. “Fair enough, I suppose.” He sighed. “Anonymity was a nice dream.”

She leaned over to kiss him. “If it helps,” she said against his mouth, “I’m here because you’re hot and I like you, not because you’re famous.”

“It does,” he said honestly, and she grinned at him, standing up to pull her hair into a bun. Her short dress slid a few inches up her thighs, and he saw the shadow of a mouth-shaped bruise through her sheer stockings. He reached out to slide a thumb over it, smirking.

She caught his hand and brought it up to her lips, sucking lightly on the tips of his fingers. He swallowed hard. “If I didn’t already know,” she said around them, “these would tell me. You’ve got guitar calluses like nobody’s business.”

He pulled his hand back slow, trailing it over her mouth and jaw and down her throat before letting it fall. “I might play a show soon,” he said. “I have been feeling—off, perhaps it will settle me.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Maybe it would,” she said, and then leaned down to pull on her shoes.

She left him with a promise that she’d call. That was all he would ever get (the first time, she had lifted her head from his chest, her hands still trembling against his skin, and announced, “just so you know, I’m not looking for anything but this,” and he’d leaned in, brushing kisses over her freckled cheekbones. “Neither am I.”), and it was okay—a friend, he’d said to Trucy, and they were. He liked Lucia a great deal, enjoyed talking to her, enjoyed fucking her even more, but his heart was—well. Elsewhere.

He sighed and stretched. He felt well-rested, pleasantly sore, and he carefully put aside the last shreds of his dream. It had been three weeks since he’d kissed Apollo, and he was—mostly, although apparently not as much as he might have hoped—succeeding in putting it out of his head. There was nothing to be gained from dwelling.

It was still early—Lucia always left before her shift began at 7:00—and he puttered around his apartment for a while, making himself coffee and taking down his acoustic guitar from its hooks above the fireplace. He sat on his bed, playing snatches of songs—his own, other people’s, things that hadn’t yet been written. By the time he had to get dressed for work he had a few lines he actually liked.

It was going to be a good day.

+

“Why is Apollo Justice avoiding you?”

Klavier stopped with one hand on his office door. “Ah—Excuse me?”

Edgeworth crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow, apparently not one for repeating things.

Klavier licked his lips. “We both thought it would be a good idea,” he said, “because of the letters he’s been getting.”

“He is still receiving them?” Edgeworth asked, scowling.

“I’m afraid so,” said Klavier carefully. “Less, I believe—I think they are all from a single source, now.”

Edgeworth’s gaze was piercing. “But you still have a full caseload.”

Klavier blinked. “Yes—I see no reason that this should interfere with my work,” he said, half a question.

“I see,” said Edgeworth coldly. “You prefer it only interfere with Mr. Justice’s, and your own record continue to improve.”

Klavier clenched his jaw. “Are you implying that I am somehow profiting from Apollo’s harassment?”

Edgeworth raised a hand to inspect his fingernails, as if to let him know how unimpressed he was with his tone. “Nothing so drastic,” he said, “simply that it is his harassment to bear, despite your part in causing it, and I see you doing nothing to help him.”

Klavier turned away from his door and strode up to him. “I get it,” he said furiously. “I understand. This is the part where you tell me that if your precious Herr Wright were receiving hate mail you would drop every case you had to rush to his side and catch the culprit, ja? You would do anything for your defense attorney, and you think that because I am still working, the same is not true of me.” He held Edgeworth’s gaze. “Perhaps Herr Wright would welcome that help, would let you shoulder your part of the blame and the investigation both. But Apollo Justice is not Phoenix Wright, and he will not let me in.” He’d managed not to raise his voice, but he realized after a minute he was trembling, with adrenaline and anger and a sudden overwhelming helplessness that he’d been holding at bay for weeks. “I am not helping,” he said miserably, “because I cannot.”

Edgeworth crossed his arms over his chest. He was still scowling, but there was something more complicated in his eyes, something Klavier didn’t understand. “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said, “when a Gavin admitted there was something he couldn’t do.”

He spun on his heel, leaving Klavier swaying in the hallway, and it took him another five minutes to get through his door to his desk.

+

He was just contemplating heading out for lunch when his phone rang. He had a moment’s horrible swooping hope that it might be Apollo, which turned into a pleasant disappointment when he heard Lucia’s voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to call again so soon,” he teased. “I must have made a good impression.”

Lucia sounded troubled. “Actually, Klav, I’m calling because I need legal help.”

Klavier blinked and sat up. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been accused of several crimes I didn’t commit,” she said slowly. “Ordered to turn myself in, in fact.”

Klavier frowned at his desk. “What? What crimes?”

Lucia was silent, and Klavier bit his lip. "I know a very good defense attorney," he said, "brilliant, really, I'll give you his number. His name's Apollo Justice—"

Lucia laughed, short and sharp. "I'm afraid that won't work."

Klavier frowned. "Why not? I know he's young, but I can personally vouch for—"

"Because," Lucia said, "Mr. Justice is the one accusing me."

Klavier went cold. “You are being accused of stalking,” he said. “And—harassment, blackmail. Libel.”

“Yup,” said Lucia sourly. “Apparently I stalked, photographed, and seduced you, and have been sending letters to Mr. Justice for almost six months now.”

Klaver shook his head, his mind working slow against the shock. “It’s a mistake,” he said. “Apollo must have seen the paparazzi photos and assumed…” he trailed off, his words ringing so implausible in his own ears that he couldn’t even finish the sentence. Not only were Apollo’s assumptions not enough to warrant an actual declaration of arrest, but he wouldn’t leap to conclusions in the first place—he was too good for that, too smart. “I don’t know what this is, Lucia, but I am going to find out.”

“Thank you,” Lucia said. “Please let me know when you do, because I’d really prefer to stay out of jail.”

“Ja,” said Klavier, “of course. Auf wiedersehen.”

“Good luck, Klav.”

Klavier hung up. He glared at his desk for a moment, took a breath, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

Apollo picked up. “Klavier,” he said, and Klavier was so surprised—that he’d answered, that he’d called him by his first name, that he just stopped with his mouth open, his outraged rant forestalled in his throat.

“...Hello?” Apollo asked after a moment.

Klavier shook himself. “What—Apollo, what do you think you are doing?”

Apollo took a breath. “Catching your stalker,” he said steadily.

“It is not Lucia,” Klavier said, because—it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. She’d always been so unimpressed—so down to earth, so totally uninterested in romanticizing him or them or any of it. She was casual and fun and lovely and sexy as hell and not in the least bit obsessive, and he was pretty sure that if he didn’t sort this out she was never going to speak to him again, and that would be a damn shame. “It cannot be.”

“Why not?” Apollo demanded.

“Because—” Because she does not admire me. Because she was there because I am hot and she likes me, not because I’m famous. “She didn’t even know who I was!”

Apollo snorted. “You believed her? How many German prosecutors named “piano” live in LA, Klavier? Come on, it was a front!”

The echoed phrasing—with the dully painful exception of ‘sexy’—made Klavier’s head spin. “She did not know I was a prosecutor when we met,” he said weakly, but he thought back: my instructor used that case as an example when I was in university. It would take a mind far less sharp than Lucia’s not to work out that he was a lawyer at least. But that wasn’t even what Apollo meant—Apollo meant that she had already known, had always known, and that wasn’t true. He’d seen nothing of it in her eyes, ever, not once.

“Please,” said Apollo, and his voice was different. He sounded exhausted. “Please. Believe me. It’s her.”

Klavier shook his head, wanting to reach through the phone and embrace him, wanting to hang up on him and give up on him and erase the whole thing from this day and every previous day and pretend that nothing had ever happened, that Lucia was just a beautiful girl he’d met in a bar because—she was, she had to be. “I can’t,” he said. “You haven’t even met her—”

“Fine,” said Apollo, raw, now, angry. “Fine. I’ll meet her. I’ll talk with her, and I’ll ask her questions, and when I come out of it you’ll see. I’ll know when she lies—you know I will, I always do.”

“She will not lie,” Klavier snapped, rising to his level, because Apollo had no right to be angry with him, no right to accuse a woman he’d never met, a woman Klavier knew and trusted, of being so awful. “I referred her to you, you know,” he said, a little bitterly. “As the best defense attorney I knew.”

Apollo went silent. “That’s—” he said, voice small, and then, a few moments later, “that’s not even true, you know Mr. Wright.”

“I do,” Klavier said, and didn’t say what he would have, any other day, because any other day he would have wished to make Apollo smile: you are better than he is, because you I trust. “And he’s exactly who I will come to see, if you persist in this nonsense with Lucia.”

“Like hell he’d take this case,” Apollo snapped.

“He will take it,” Klavier said with a surety that he did not quite feel, “because she is innocent.”

+

“Like hell,” said Phoenix Wright.

Klavier blinked at him, and then scowled. “Herr Wright, she is exactly your kind of client. She works very hard, and she has been falsely accused of several terrible crimes—”

“I said no, Gavin,” Wright said. “I’m not getting involved in this thing with you, and I am absolutely not getting involved on your side of things against Apollo.” He scratched at his stubble. “Now, if that’s all—”

Klavier clenched his fists, staring around at the drab walls. “She is innocent, Herr Wright,” he said, “and I am very rich.”

Wright stood up. “Klavier,” he said, and Klavier looked at him in surprise. “I want you to think about what you’re asking me to do, and then I want you to think about the fact that you just threw money at me in order to make me do it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Apollo is my family.”

Klavier stared at him for a long time, realization dawning. “I would never ask—” he started, and then swallowed the rest of his sentence in horror, because Wright’s eyes said, you already have.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I will—let myself out.”

“Do,” said Wright mildly, and Klavier turned and wrenched his door open, striding out into the hall. Apollo, halfway out his own doorway, froze.

Without letting himself think about it—without letting himself think about anything—Klavier reached out and caught his wrist. “Come with me,” he said, not looking at him. “We’re going to work this out right now.”

“Hey—” said Apollo, and stopped moving, digging in his heels against Klavier’s tugging. Klavier turned halfway, and Apollo jerked his wrist out of his grasp. “Let me just—” he started, “—my files.”

Klavier nodded, staring holes in the floor, and waited as Apollo disappeared into his office and then reappeared, holding a stack of folders. He offered his wrist to Klavier, and Klavier finally looked at him—the heavy bags under his eyes, the whiteness of his lips, the tiny, bitter smile that twitched the littlest bit wider when Klavier met his gaze. He reached out and curled his fingers slowly around the proffered wrist, tightening his grip so he could feel the staccato beat of Apollo’s heart.

“Come on, then,” he said softly, and led the way.

“You two need to sort out your shit,” Lucia said tiredly as she let them in. “I don’t know what this is—lover’s spat, bad breakup—but it’s not what I signed up for.”

Apollo went hot, and then cold. “We’re not—”   

“What makes you think we’re involved?” Klavier cut in, much more calmly.   

She raised her eyebrows. “So you know a different Apollo whose name you’re likely to be moaning when I’m blowing you?” she asked acidly. 

Apollo nearly swallowed his tongue, and did drop his notes all over the ground. He focused on picking them up rather than looking at Klavier, couldn’t look at Klavier, looking at Klavier would be the worst possible choice—

Klavier was bending to help him with the files, his cheeks flushed, but he met Apollo’s gaze defiantly. “If this is such news,” he murmured, his lowered voice  sending a little spark down Apollo’s spine, “you haven’t been paying enough attention.” He held Apollo’s eyes for a moment, and then dropped his eyes deliberately to Apollo’s mouth. Apollo’s lips parted, involuntary. 
   
Klavier straightened and Apollo scrambled to do the same, taking the files that Klavier offered  him. “What we are makes no difference,” Klavier said smoothly, all of the embarrassment gone  from his voice. “This is part of a much larger case, one we are working towards discovering  together, and one that, yes, involves both of us.” He smiled. “I really do appreciate your  cooperation, Lucia,” he said, a note of fondness in his voice that made Apollo want to tear out all his hair. “Herr Justice is only being thorough.”

“It’s not thoroughness,” Apollo snapped, feeling the Herr Justice like a knife in the back. “You know I wouldn't be here if I didn't have proof.” He looked at Lucia, who was watching him warily. “You’re good, but you’re not that good.”  

“Trust me, kid,” she said, sitting down at her kitchen table, “you have no idea how good I am. The  rock star here was just beginning to find out, but I guess that’s over with now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Klavier protested.

Lucia smiled at him, dark eyes sad. “It does, Klav,” she said, “and you know it.”

Apollo frowned at that—Klav, not Klavi, a misdirect on her part?—and cleared his throat. He  shook his wrist, letting his mother’s bracelet swing free.

Lucia raised her eyebrows at him. “What, no lie detector test? You’re just going to talk to me?” 
   
Klavier moved across the kitchen, taking a glass from a cabinet and filling at the sink, familiar  with this space, with her space, in a way that made Apollo’s skin crawl. “He’s basically a lie detector test in human form,” he said, and placed the glass at Lucia’s elbow. She flashed him a smile.
     
Apollo grit his teeth together hard. “Why were you at the courthouse on May third and twenty-first? And June fourteenth, July second—” 
   
“I work around the corner,” she interrupted, “I was passing by the way I do every other day of the  week.” 
   
Apollo’s bracelet didn’t change, and Lucia looked—annoyed, but there was nothing off, no  nervous twitches. He frowned. “You were not there to see Klavier?”    

She shook her head. “I'd never even met him until that night in the bar—July something.”    

“Nineteenth,” supplied Klavier. He was still standing at her elbow, but his eyes were on Apollo,  focused and waiting, like they were in a courtroom, not the kitchen of the woman who had been making both their lives miserable for months.    

“You know I was there because—what, security footage?” Lucia said. “Did you bother to check  the rest of it, the days Klav wasn’t there? I promise, I go by there every day.”    

Apollo rolled his tongue in his mouth, uncertain, because he hadn’t, Chambers had only sent him the photographs from the relevant days. “That night,” he said, “why did you choose that bar?”

   
“Because I was bored, and it’s local,” Lucia said. “Cheap drinks, hot strangers, can’t blame a girl  for having fun.”
    
He wished he had Trucy’s eye for magic, or better, that he’d called Mr. Wright’s friend Maya and asked her along. Maybe she was doing something to him, or to his bracelet. Maybe she was  even better than he thought. “You had no idea Klavier would be there?” 
   
She shook her head. “None.”
    
Apollo licked his lips, his confusion growing. “But—he left, and you followed him—”
    
“Followed him?” Lucia said, offended. “I did no such thing, I finished my drink and was about to  go home when he came back.”
    
Apollo flicked his eyes to Klavier, surprised. Came back? He pictured Klavier—beautiful, with the  memory of Apollo’s mouth still on his, stalking out of his apartment and away into the night.  Pictured him not going home, but returning to the bar, leaning in to kiss this pretty, cynical  woman, erase Apollo’s touch from his skin with her graceful hands. He clenched his fists at his  sides, his nails biting into his palms.
   
“It’s true,” Klavier confirmed. “After—” he swallowed. “After I took Fraulein Trucy home, I returned to the bar and met up with Lucia again.” He shook his head, eyes sad. “Apollo,” he said, and it  took the strength out of Apollo’s arms, made his fists go slack. “End this. It isn’t her.”
    
Apollo took a deep breath and drew his trump card from his file. “It is,” he said, “and here’s how I  know.”
   
It was the most recent photograph she’d sent him—outside of his apartment, July nineteenth.  Trucy was standing in the hallway outside his door, drawing back a little in surprise. Past her, through the open doorway, Apollo and Klavier were a blur of motion, an almost indistinguishable  tangle of limbs. All around them, in savage black marker, over and over, overlapping itself and blurring into illegibility, were the words ‘I warned you.’

Klavier leaned forward to look, as well, his face gone pale with horror, and Lucia let out a low whistle. “This is the kind of shit you’re being sent?” she asked. “No wonder you’re so on edge.  Christ.”
    
“Don’t pretend,” snapped Apollo, off-balance. She was so—honest, none of her reactions calculated or delayed as she worked out how to get around his questions. She made eye contact. She answered things seriously and simply, and his bracelet had never so much as twitched. 
 
 She looked up at him. “You think I took this?” 
   
He folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe you didn’t take it yourself,” he said. “But you know who did.”
    
She shook her head, her face more serious now. “I don’t,” she said, and she was telling the truth.  “I’m sorry, kid, this is some serious shit you’re in, but I have never seen this before in my life. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

Apollo stared at her, at the genuine concern in her eyes. “Then how are your fingerprints all over  it?” he asked, his interrogating voice lost entirely in confusion.   

Klavier drew in a sharp breath, and Lucia’s eyebrows flew up. “My what?”  
 
Apollo leaned over the table, pointing to the edges of the photograph, where traces of blue chalk  remained. “I had these tested,” he said. “Along with all the others, but here you were less  careful—these ones came back a match. You were a witness, right? Nine years ago? They took  your fingerprints then, because they were all over the crimescene and they needed to separate them out from the suspect’s.”
     
“Sure,” said Lucia, “I remember that, but.” She shook her head. “All I can say is, I—I don’t know.”  She turned to Klavier. “Klavier—I swear, I don’t.”
    
“Lucia,” breathed Klavier, taking a step back from her. For a moment Apollo was tempted to  accuse her of lying, to let Klavier think—but the wave of self-loathing that followed was so  intense it threatened to choke him. Klavier had already been betrayed by his best friend and his  own brother, letting him think even for an instant that his girlfriend, as well—  
 
“No,” said Apollo thickly, “she’s telling the truth.”
    
They both turned to look at him in surprise. He stared hard at the table. “I’m sorry,” he said. 
 
 “You’re sure?” Klavier asked sharply.      

Apollo looked at him. “Do you trust me?” he asked. He had no idea of the answer—he hadn’t  given him much reason to, lately. 
 
Klavier nodded immediately. “Yes.”  

Something unknotted, just a little, inside Apollo’s chest. “Then trust her,” he said. “Nothing she said was a lie.” 
   
Klavier relaxed, and Lucia held out a hand to him. He took it, but didn’t smile.  
   
Apollo sat down at the table, putting his head in his hands. He had been so sure. “Then we’ve got nothing,” he said, suddenly so weary he could barely move. “As clueless as we started.”
    
He heard a soft sound behind him, and then Klavier’s hand was on his shoulder. He leaned down over the photograph. “Not quite,” he said. “It is not Lucia—but you were not stupid, to accuse her. Someone has worked very hard to make us believe it was her.”
   
“Why, though?” asked Lucia.     

Klavier shook his head. “Apollo,” he said, and squeezed Apollo’s shoulder, and Apollo  wanted—wanted to pull him down and curl into his chest and never leave. “You said you thought it was someone who wanted me, who wanted to be with me.”
    
Apollo nodded. “Sure,” he said, “a fan—someone jealous of all of your other relationships.” He thought of the stack of letters by his bed. “Territorial.”
    
Klavier was staring down at the picture. “It is not jealousy,” he said. “It is war. They are trying to  hurt me, not win me for themselves.” He turned to Apollo. “Think about it. First they stopped my rivalry with you, then my friendship, but they never substituted themselves in your place—only left me lonely. When I made a new connection, they did not do the same to her—instead, they  framed her, so that it would seem as if she betrayed me.” He smiled thinly. “A third betrayal, and a completion of the trifecta—Freund, Verwandte, Geliebte—friend, family, lover.”
    
Apollo nodded. “I was thinking that—systematically destroying the connections you’ve made.” He  reached up without thinking about it to put his hand over Klavier’s where it rested on his shoulder, wanting, needing him to know that it hadn’t worked, that she hadn’t won. 
   
He couldn’t help the little shiver that ran down his spine when Klavier shifted, threading their fingers together, tracing little circles over the knuckle of Apollo’s thumb.
    
“But it’s not just about you, Klav, is it?” Lucia said abruptly. She wasn’t looking at them, staring  instead at the photograph. “All the harassment, it’s been centered around you, but it’s being sent to Justice. Right?” Apollo nodded, and Lucia looked up at him. “When was the last time you slept, kid?”
   
Klavier’s fingers tightened on his and Apollo shrugged against the combined weight of their hands. “A while.” He smiled hollowly. “I don’t, uh. Feel particularly safe, at home.”
   
Lucia snorted, almost but not quite covering up the little pained noise that Klavier made, behind him. “I can see why,” she said. She shook her head. “This is about both of you, definitely. It’s too thorough not to be.” She stared at the photograph for a long time, and then looked back up at  Apollo. “Go on then, bedroom’s down the hall.”
    
Apollo blinked. “What?”
    
Lucia sighed. “Think about it. You come here, you confront me, we break Klavier’s heart, it’s what they want. So long as you look like you’re doing what they want, you’re safe. Take  advantage of that. Sleep while you can.”
    
Apollo frowned. “But—” He was tired, dead tired, and the idea of a few hours of uninterrupted rest  sounded incredible. But he couldn’t quite let go of his mistrust of this woman, and besides,  sleeping in her bed—Klavier’s girlfriend’s bed, that. 
   
Klavier leaned down without letting go of his hand. “Please,” he said, very close the Apollo’s ear.  “Go, or I will carry you there myself.”
    
Apollo let go of his hand as quickly as possible, hoping the motion would cover his full-body twitch at the thought. “Fine,” he said, and then felt like an asshole. “Thank you, Lucia. I really—thank you.”
    
She waved a hand. “Drop the charges and we’ll call it even.” She fixed Klavier with a look. “Now, you’re going to tell me everything that’s going on. I may not have signed up for this but I’m sure  as hell a part of it now.”
    
Apollo slipped out the door, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He undid the buttons of his shirt  with clumsy hands, folding it and setting it aside, and kicked off his shoes, but anything beyond  that seemed impossible. The promise of sleep tugged at him, pulling him into the clean, soft bed.  The murmur of voices, Klavier’s musical tone mingling with Lucia’s throaty one, slowly ate away  at the shield of wakefulness he’d constructed around himself, and within moments he was asleep.    

+    

He woke, once, painful and groggy, to hear Lucia say very softly, “I’m sorry.”    

They were in the room with him, and something in him tensed, ready to run, but he kept his eyes  closed, staying curled as he was under the sheets.    
“For what?” Klavier asked, just as softly.    

“I shouldn’t have said that, about you saying his name. I was angry that you were pulling me into this—and I thought it was different, I thought he was your ex.”    

Klavier sighed. “Nein,” he whispered. “We have never—but it is alright, I am not angry with you.” 
 
“You’ve never—?”    

There was a rustle, and a clink of necklaces as Klavier shook his head. “He does not,” he said, and then lapsed into silence.  

Lucia murmured, “Oh, Klavier,” her voice full of sympathy, and Klavier let out something like a wet little laugh. Apollo’s heart seized. Was he—he couldn’t be crying, that made no sense—

“Ah, I am sorry,” Klavier whispered, and there was a tightness to his voice. “Es tut mir leid—I am  very tired, as well.” 
 
 “I’m going to help you,” Lucia whispered fiercely. “We’re going to solve this, and then you can—”    

“Thank you,” Klavier cut in, his voice warm, grateful. "Liebling Lucia, thank you.” Apollo heard a footstep, and then the little slick sounds of kissing, and he squeezed his eyelids tighter shut and willed himself back to sleep.    

+    

He woke again to Klavier singing, soft and slowly. At first the words were indistinguishable, but he concentrated and it became clear they were German, at least, although what they meant he had no idea. He uncurled, stretching upwards, letting his muscles relax, breathing in the last of  sleep and letting the lilting melody wrap around him, trying not to think about anything but the clear tenor of Klavier’s voice. He felt better than he had in weeks, maybe months, and he didn’t want to let that go, let everything else come crashing in. He pressed his cheek into the pillow and took a long breath. The bed smelled like clean sheets, perfume, and—faint but present—the heady, masculine scent of Klavier’s skin, that Apollo had first been dizzied by in his dressing room nearly six months earlier. It sent his stomach swooping—of course Lucia’s bed smelled of him, they slept here, they fucked here—she’d blown him, here, and he had moaned Apollo’s name.   

If this is such news, you haven't been paying enough attention.

Mind cleared by sleep, Apollo could finally think about that, reevaluate the way that Klavier had been acting with him on the basis that it wasn’t just—just Klavier being Klavier, caring too much  about his friends, touching too much, flirting too much, doing things with his whole heart and pretending he had none at all. He replayed the last few months in his mind. Klavier wanted him, had wanted him, had apparently been quite obvious about wanting him. He barely suppressed a whimper at the thought that those casual touches had not just been electric for him, but a slow seduction. Klavier wearing lip gloss in court. Klavier joking about wining and dining him, on the phone. Klavier inviting him out for drinks, Klavier sliding his fingers up his jaw—that had not been because he was drinking, or frustration about his date with Lucia, that had been about Apollo. Klavier kissing him, the best kiss he’d ever had in his life, because he wanted him. He opened his eyes.     

Klavier was draped across the chair in the corner, watching him, a light in his eyes that made Apollo’s brain go soft and fond. He stopped singing when he saw Apollo was awake, and sat up a  little. “Herr Forehead,” he greeted. 
   
“Don’t stop,” Apollo said, his voice coming out gravelly with sleep. “S’beautiful.” He pushed himself up so he was sitting, and the sheet slid down his chest. He let it, watching Klavier, and took a breath when Klavier’s eyes followed it, his gaze sliding almost tangibly against Apollo’s skin. Apollo swallowed. “Where’s Lucia?”   

 Klavier smiled at him. “She’s gone out,” he said. “I believe in search of food; it’s nearly eight o’clock at night.”  
 
Apollo blinked. He’d slept for seven hours? “She’s very nice,” he said, and then, quieter, “I can see why you’re with her.”    

Klavier cocked his head. “We are not,” he waved a hand, “together, not like that. We have sex and we are friends, but she is not my girlfriend.”    

“Oh,” said Apollo, a little stunned. “That’s—not what I heard.”    

Klavier raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been reading the tabloids about me?” he asked, voice teasing.    

Apollo opened his mouth to tell him about the letters, but then closed it. The last thing he wanted  to do was bring down this perfect lightness, this open happy tension. Klavier was still watching him, his eyes weary and wary and warm.     

“Come here,” Apollo said.    

Klavier raised his eyebrows. “What?”   

Apollo smiled at him, feeling light, impossible, brave. “I said, come here.”  
 
Klavier swallowed and stood, crossing to the bed, and Apollo shifted so he was sitting on its edge, Klavier between his legs. He reached up to slide his thumb over the skin under Klavier’s eye—he had been crying, Apollo could see the telltale redness, although his face was dry.  Klavier stared at him, eyes wide, his breath coming shallow through his nose. He looked so  beautiful—so open, so vulnerable, and Apollo’s fingers shook as he trailed them down across his cheekbone to his mouth.   

Klavier’s breath hitched, his blue eyes darkening, and he parted his lips at Apollo’s touch. Apollo slid his thumb across Klavier’s lower lip, electricity in his blood. “Miss your gloss,” he said  shakily, and then hooked his bare heels behind Klavier’s thighs, slid his hand to the back of Klavier’s neck, and pulled. 
   
Klavier collapsed forward with a yelp, nearly colliding with Apollo’s collarbone, but Apollo managed to fall backward just fast enough. He ended up flat on his back, laughing breathlessly,  Klavier hovering over him, holding himself up with his arms on either side of Apollo’s head.  “A-apollo,” he said, his face flushed, “what—”    

Apollo grinned up at him. “I started paying attention.” He bit his lip, thought better of it, and lifted his head so he could bite at Klavier’s instead, catching the flesh of Klavier’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging.    

“Oh, fuck,” Klavier said into his mouth, and Apollo ran his tongue over the place he’d nipped and then into his mouth, and Klavier went boneless against him, sucking at his tongue, kissing him hungrily. Apollo lifted his hands to lock them together at the nape of Klavier’s neck, keeping him  close, kissing and kissing and kissing him. Klavier kept making tiny, filthy noises into his mouth  and Apollo squirmed, half hard already just from the heat of Klavier’s mouth and the scent of him  everywhere. "Fuck," Klavier said again, pulling back to look down at him. "Apollo."    

Apollo ran featherlight fingertips up the shaking muscles of Klavier's arms, braced as they were  around him, and Klavier shivered, his eyelashes fluttering. Apollo turned his head, pressing a  kiss to his bicep. “You have such nice arms,” he said idly, because he could. “You looked so good, that night you kissed me, when I first saw you I thought I’d conjured you up. Hallucinated  you, from lack of sleep.”    

Klavier swallowed hard. “I, ah. I feel the same, just now.” He smiled, open and disbelieving, and  Apollo felt the warmth of it settle into the pit of his stomach. “I think you should kiss me again,” Klavier said slowly, “just to convince me I’m haven’t.”  
 
“Ja,” said Apollo, “Okay,” and he leaned up to swallow Klavier’s surprised laughter. Klavier shifted sideways without breaking the kiss so he was up on one elbow, curled at Apollo’s side  with one leg thrown over him. Apollo licked into his mouth and Klavier wrapped his free hand around the back of his head, pulling him closer in. His blunt nails slid across Apollo’s scalp and  Apollo shivered, a thousand fantasies collapsing into one reality. “Oh, god,” he said in the space between kisses. “God, god.”    

Klavier laughed a little and used his leg and his arm to pull Apollo into his chest. Apollo squirmed closer himself so that Klavier was one long, hot line against him, their bodies coming flush together like two pieces of a puzzle. Klavier bit down hard on his lip, his hips twitching into Apollo’s, and Apollo said, voice embarrassingly shaky, “oh.”    

Klavier pulled back a little, licking his lips, his pupils blown wide. “Sorry,” he started, and Apollo kissed him to shut him up.   
 
“Stop apologizing,” he hissed fiercely without opening his eyes. He was nervous enough without having to see Klavier’s face. “Do you know how much that confused me, before? Christ.”
    
He took a breath and rolled his hips, gasping against Klavier’s cheekbone as his cock ground into Klavier’s hip and he felt Klavier’s against his own. Klavier shuddered. “Ah—” 
   
Apollo shifted so that they were better aligned, then rolled his hips again. Klavier slid his hand up and down Apollo’s spine, his nails dragging against his skin, and then worked lower, gripping  Apollo’s ass through his jeans. Apollo kissed him and kissed him as they rocked together, their mouths meeting messily between ragged breaths. Klavier bit at his jaw; Apollo responded by lowering his mouth to Klavier’s throat and latching on, not letting go as Klavier trembled and  groaned, his voice buzzing against Apollo’s tongue.

Apollo released his mouthful of Klavier’s skin with an audible pop, then got a hand under himself so he could roll further over, moving Klavier with him until he was flat on his back with Apollo straddling his hips. Klavier stared up at him, one hand fisted in his long hair, splayed out against the pillows. He looked—wrecked, gorgeous, halfway undone, and Apollo's whole chest was filled with a kind of squirming lightness.

"Thought about this," he admitted. "That first time you called me, thought about getting drinks with you and ending up here."

Klavier’s eyes were huge and dark, and he licked his lips several times before managing to say anything. "Did you," he finally managed. He reached up with both hands, sliding them up Apollo's chest.  His guitar calluses dragged over Apollo's nipples, and Apollo twitched forward with a ragged gasp. Klavier leaned up to murmur, "Did you touch yourself?"

"Not while we were on the phone," Apollo stuttered, scandalized despite himself.

Klavier took a sharp breath, then tried to hide it with a theatrical sigh. "Shame," he said. "I would have liked to hear that."

Apollo grinned at him, face prickling hot, and leaned down to kiss him. "You like hearing that it happened at all," he said, and shifted his hips inexpertly. Klavier gasped against his mouth and then sighed as Apollo dared to slide his hands into his hair. "Besides, you still could, you know."

Klavier closed his eyes, arching his neck at the slow roll of Apollo’s hips and the slide of Apollo's nails across his scalp. "Could?" he asked, breathless.

Apollo licked a long stripe up his throat to his ear. "Hear it," he murmured. "What I, um, sound like, when." He balked at the last second, self-conscious, but it didn't seem to matter—Klavier thrust up against him, hips twisting desperately. "Yes," he said, "please." Apollo kissed him hard, pulling Klavier’s mouth against his with his grip on his hair, and Klavier made a little keening noise, both his hands on Apollo's hips.

On the nightstand, Apollo's phone rang.   

He almost ignored it—wanted so, so badly to ignore it, to ignore everything that wasn't the sweet, not-enough-too-much of Klavier's mouth and hands and frantic hips, but it was Mr. Wright's ringtone, the emergency one they'd set up in case—  

In case anything happened to Trucy.    

He rolled off Klavier to the edge of the bed, ignoring his protesting whine. He flipped his phone open. "Mr. Wright?"    

"Apollo," Phoenix said, relief evident in his voice. "Where are you? Is she with you?"  
 
"No," said Apollo. "But I'm not at home, she may be there. She didn't come home?"
    
“And she didn’t call,” Phoenix confirmed quietly. “I’m on my way to your place now, can you meet me there?”

“I—” Apollo glanced over his shoulder. Klavier was still up on one elbow, watching him, his graceful brows pulled together questioningly. His hair was mussed, his shirt half unbuttoned and pulled askew, baring a slice of pale, muscled chest and a dusky nipple. Under the line of his jaw,  Apollo saw the slick, reddened skin where his teeth had been. He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”    

“Great,” said Phoenix, “I’ll see you soon.” He hung up, and Apollo lowered his phone, flipping it closed. He bit his lip and turned to look sidelong at Klavier.   
 
To his credit, Klavier sat up, his face concerned. “Apollo? What’s wrong?”
    
Apollo leaned over and hooked two fingers in Klavier’s shirt, tugging gently, and Klavier scooted forward obligingly so that Apollo was half in his lap. “Trucy never came home,” he started.

Klavier tilted his face up with gentle hands. “Surely she is just hanging out with her friends?”    

Apollo shook his head. “Trucy’s—she’s not exactly a normal fifteen-year-old, Klavier. Both her grandfather and her father were murdered, she’s weird about safety. No matter what, if she’s not coming home directly after school, she calls. She definitely wouldn’t not answer her phone if Phoenix called her.” He swallowed, looking up to meet Klavier’s eyes. “It might be fine. She might just be at my place. But—”    

Klavier nodded. “But it might not,” he finished, and sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment. “I believe you are going to kill me,” he said, and then kissed Apollo again, slow and lingering. Apollo made a soft, involuntary noise, and Klavier pulled away. He took a breath and stood, offering Apollo a hand. “Shall we?”    

Apollo took his hand. “You want to come?” he asked, surprised. “But what about Lucia—”

 Klavier shrugged fluidly. “I will leave her a note, or call her on the way. Let us make sure the Fraulein is alright, and then we can all have dinner.” He tugged Apollo to his feet. “And then,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.    

Apollo felt his whole body flush, and scrambled for his clothes.

Apollo was silent across from him in the cab, staring out the window with his files on his lap, and Klavier watched the streetlights play across his profile. It was a luxury just to be able to look at him, to be in the same space for more than a dramatic half hour.

He felt a bit like he was dreaming. He felt a bit like he’d been dreaming for months—skimming by across the surface of life, making choices not based on anything but whim and feeling because he couldn’t make himself grasp anything deeper. He was a man of equal parts gut and brain, instinct and intellect, but he’d been running on the former for so long he couldn’t seem to reengage the latter. He ran his court work by that two-shift system: he was used to relying on feelings before he figured out motive and opportunity and evidence and all the facts of what he had immersed himself in. Here, none of the facts fit the feelings—none of the facts fit each other—and it was like his experience was abstracted from the world around him.

Fact: Lucia’s fingerprints were found on the edges of a picture of himself and Apollo that could only have been taken by the woman stalking them for months.

Fact: Lucia did not take the picture, nor did she know who did.

Fact: Lucia had left them alone, and an hour later Apollo’s little sister had gone missing.

(Fact: Lucia had left them alone, and an hour later Apollo had kissed Klavier like he needed him to breathe.)

Klavier took a breath, running the tips of his fingers back and forth across the knuckles of his own hand, trying to somehow release the need to touch, because fact: Apollo was now sitting jammed against the door on his side of the cab, his mouth tight with worry, his face turned away.

Theory: Someone, somehow, planted Lucia’s fingerprints. Someone who had access to them, someone who knew how to, some kind of supergenius mole inside the police department—

He rolled his tongue around in his mouth and tried again.

Theory: The stalker took the picture, then tricked Lucia into touching it without showing her what it was. Or alerting her to anything suspicious. Somehow.

Theory: The stalker had taken Trucy to further cement their suspicions of Lucia, which meant she had eyes on Lucia’s apartment as well because she knew when Lucia left, which meant that she was multiple places at once or there was more than one of her. He thought back to the forum post, to the thousands of replies. Two crazed minds in all of that was no less likely than one. Maybe more.

Apollo turned away from the window to look at him, the worry in his eyes softening a little. “Klavier,” he said, “I—” he stopped, his cheeks going a little pink.

(Theory: This was not a dream. Klavier wanted this so, so badly to not be a dream.)

"I'm sorry I accused Lucia," Apollo said quietly. "I guess—I was jealous, I leapt at the idea that she was—" he shook his head. "I should have checked the rest of the security footage."

Klavier smiled a little and wondered when, exactly, he'd grown to recognize Apollo as someone who was not too serious but too sincere, when that became something that made his heart swell in his chest. "As flattering as that explanation is," he said gently, "your jealousy did not plant Lucia's fingerprints on that photograph. Our enemy is smarter than we realized, that's all."

Apollo blew out a breath. "Yeah," he said. "I guess you're right."

He lapsed into silence again, face worried, and Klavier placed his hand on the seat between them, palm up. Apollo took it without hesitating, threading their fingers together and pulling Klavier’s hand into his lap. After a moment, without looking at Klavier, he raised it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to Klavier’s palm.

Klavier felt the abstract world and the real one phase through each other, aligned perfectly at the press of Apollo’s lips against his skin.

They arrived at Apollo's apartment to find Phoenix Wright looming in the doorway like a worried scarecrow. Klavier had seen pictures of him when he was younger (Edgeworth kept one in his top desk drawer, a fact that Klavier had discovered with some delight) and he had been quite well-muscled, a broad-shouldered servant of Lady Justice with flashing eyes and, yes, an Objecting Fist. His long dance with poverty, the most recent bout of which was perhaps the worst, had left him thin, drawn into himself like he was trying to keep his bones together inside his skin. His eyes still flashed, though—now they were something terrible to see, furious and so, so worried. He seemed unsurprised to see Klavier, just giving him a little nod before looking to Apollo. “Hey.”

"Nothing?" Apollo asked, tense at Klavier’s side.

Phoenix shook his head. "Let's go inside." He led the way into Apollo’s apartment. “I’m making coffee.”

It was nearly nine o’clock at night, but neither Apollo nor Klavier questioned it as Wright moved automatically around the kitchen, opening every cabinet in turn until he found several mugs and a box of sugar cubes. “Milk?” he asked Apollo from behind the fridge door, as if there would be milk anywhere else.

“I’m out,” Apollo said, gnawing on his lip. “Sorry.”

Wright shrugged, a twitch of shoulders, and slid two mugs across the table. Apollo sat, and Wright across from him, but Klavier hovered, within touching distance in case Apollo needed him. It felt—foolish, mothering, but he couldn’t help himself.

Wright looked between them. “So. What do we know?”

Apollo opened his mouth and then closed it, swallowing hard. He cast a desperate look at Klavier.

“It may not be a fan at all,” Klavier said slowly, trying to line everything up in his head. “We think it’s someone trying to cut off my connections, rather than get close to me. They managed to frame my lover quite adeptly, either through the police department—” Wright raised his eyebrows, “—or by contacting her some other away and tricking her into leaving incriminating fingerprints.”

“This—lover,” Wright said, looking to Apollo. “You’re certain it’s not her?”

Apollo nodded and touched his wrist with his opposite hand, just under the band of his bangle. Klavier blinked. A nervous tic? He’d seen it in court, too.

He looked at Phoenix in time to catch his gaze leaving Apollo’s wrist as well. “That’s all?” he asked.

Apollo shook his head. “Lucia—Klavier’s, um, friend—she thinks the stalker might be targeting both of us, not just Klavier. Like. Since I’ve been getting all the mail.”

Phoenix nodded. “Like she wanted to be abusing you specifically, and just used that fan operation as a place to start.”

Klavier blinked. “You know about Operation Dionysus?”

Wright wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug. “I did some research when Apollo first told me,” he said. “I reported that thread for publishing Apollo’s address.”

Klavier nodded. “I checked, a few weeks later, and it was gone.”

“Good,” said Phoenix. He took a sip of coffee. “Your forums were already in my history,” he said with a kind of sideways twitch of his lips that in some other universe could have been a smile. “Truce is a fan, but you knew that.”

Klavier nodded.

Phoenix looked up at Apollo, his hands white-knuckled, now. “If she’s targeting you, too, and taking out your connections—”

“No,” said Apollo, white-faced, cutting him off. “No, she wouldn’t—I don’t—she hasn’t. Escalated to violence.”

"Yet," said Wright, and then exploded upwards, thrusting both hands into his hair. "Fuck," he snapped, voice a whip-crack. "I told you not to involve her—"

"I didn’t," Apollo protested, hunched small at his own table. "Not any more than I already had—I had her follow a guy who I thought might be hanging around too much once but it turned out to be nothing, Klavier brought her home and then I stopped even telling her what was going on, I.” He clenched his fists, his mouth twisting bitterly. “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

Klavier laid a hand on his shoulder. “This is not your fault,” he said quietly, glaring at Wright. “You had no way of knowing.”

Wright’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Klavier ran his fingers across Apollo’s shoulder to his neck, curling them there, warm reassurance. “If she has taken Trucy, it must be for a reason,” he said. “She will have demands. We saw through her framing technique so this is her other strategy—maybe she will threaten me away from Lucia.” He glanced at Apollo, who had his eyes closed, his head dropped forward to give Klavier’s fingers access to the nape of his neck. There was a trust to that, a willing vulnerability, that made Klavier’s mouth go dry. “Or away from you,” he said, and Apollo opened his eyes. “We have not been—particularly good at staying apart.”

Apollo gave him a bitter little smile, and Klavier slid his thumb forward over the skin behind his ear, trying to make his expression soften into something that didn’t hurt.

“Sometimes I think there’s something about this job,” Wright muttered, and Klavier turned, about to ask what he meant, when Apollo’s phone buzzed on the table next to his coffee mug.

Apollo reached for it, but Wright was faster, flipping it open with a thumb and asking, “Trucy?” almost before he had it to his ear. There was a moment of suspended silence and then he sagged in unmistakable relief, and Apollo reached for Klavier, slipping an arm around his back and pulling him into his side. Klavier laid a hand on his head.

“Thank god,” Wright breathed, and then: “Where are you? What’s—” he stopped, frowning, and then lowered the phone from his ear. “She’s fine, she—she says she’s outside?”

Across from Apollo’s apartment building was a small park—not much other than a bench, a copse of trees, and a bicycle rack, but enough to grant a little bit of green to the relentless gray of city life. The three of them crossed into it, glancing around, until Klavier noticed a flash of purple in the center of the thicket. “There,” he said.

Trucy was sitting on a branch of one of the trees, her dress smudged with dirt. She held her phone in one hand and her magician’s wand in the other, carefully trained at an exact horizontal in front of her. As they rounded the corner into the little clearing, Klavier saw why:

Floating about four feet above the ground, lying straight-backed like the levitating body trick without the sheet, was Carla Charlemagne, Marcus van Richten’s secretary. Her face was contorted with rage, but she was bound tightly with ropes around her hands and ankles. When she saw Klavier her face transformed: suddenly she was doe-eyed and smiling. “Klavi,” she simpered. Trucy snorted, and at Klavier’s side Apollo tensed.

Klavier let out a low whistle, his feeling of surreality back at full force. “Very impressive, Fräulein,” he said to Trucy. “I cannot even see the strings.”

Trucy flicked her eyes to him and smiled a little. “Thanks, Prosecutor Gavin.”

Wright licked his lips. “Let her down, Truce,” he said quietly. “And then come here.”

Trucy concentrated, lowering her wand, and Charlemagne’s form dropped to the ground a little too quickly to be comfortable. She let out a little pained grunt. Apollo left Klavier’s side to go and kneel by her, and Trucy hopped down from her tree branch. When her feet hit the ground she gasped, going white, and listed to one side.

Klavier didn’t even see Wright move, but he caught her before she fell. “Hey, hey,” he was saying. “What’s wrong, did she hurt you—”

Trucy smiled a little, but kept her arms wrapped around him. “Forgot to watch out for her legs,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Kicked me in the ribs. M’okay, though.”

“Little bitch,” sneered Charlemagne from her place in the dirt.

Apollo leaned down. Klavier could only see his profile, but there was something in the set of his mouth that made him shiver. “Shut the fuck up,” he said quietly.

Charlemagne stilled, then fought it off, twisting her hands against the ropes. “I don’t have shit to say to you,” she said. “This is assault—kidnapping—”

Klavier shook his head. “Nein, Fräulein. Not on our part, anyway.” He looked at Trucy, who was leaning her head against Wright’s chest. “She was watching the apartment?”

Trucy nodded, licking her lips. “This is where the pictures were taken from,” she said. “I—” she stopped, then bit her lip. “I know you guys said I shouldn’t be involved anymore, but Papa—I knew if I set a trap, I could get her.”

Wright frowned down at her. “A trap?”

Trucy nodded. “I saw her outside the offices earlier with a camera,” she said. “I stopped by at lunch to see you,” she said to Wright, “and she was hanging around on the street outside and Prosecutor Gavin’s bike was outside and. I recognized her from that trial earlier this year, with the scary woman and the model, right?”

Klavier nodded.

“So I thought—and—that night I was—that night you—” she jerked her head at Klavier “—brought me home—” she looked back at Apollo, “—you said she’d tapped your phone. And if she needed more pictures she would come here to take them.” She bit her lip. “So I called you, ‘Pollo, and I said on your machine that Prosecutor Gavin was coming over later after all, to your apartment, like. As if you’d been using me to pass messages, and silly me, I’d just forgotten about the phone-tap.” She grinned, and Klavier shook his head. She’s not exactly a normal fifteen-year-old, Apollo had said. Apollo had a penchant for understatement.

“I’m sorry for not answering my phone,” Trucy said, looking back and forth between her father and her brother. “I had to stay quiet so I could catch her when she fell into my trap.”

Wright put a hand on each of her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Three things,” he said sternly, and the triumph faded from her eyes. “First,” he said, “you are never going to get yourself involved like this in a case again, understand?”

Trucy’s mouth twisted. “It’s not a case, it’s Apollo, I had to—”

Wright raised his eyebrows at her, and she fell silent. “Understood,” she said at last.

“Second,” he continued, a little rueful now, “when you inevitably do get involved in a case like this again, you will do so with the full knowledge of both myself and Apollo, and possibly Prosecutor Edgeworth and Prosecutor Gavin as well. Okay?”

Trucy smiled a little. “Okay.”

“Third,” said Wright, and he pulled her into his chest. “You’re brilliant and I’m so proud you’re my daughter and—and I thought you were dead, Trucy, god.” He had one hand in her hair and the other in his own and he was laughing with relief. Apollo stood and crossed to them, and Wright pulled him in. “Stupid sister,” Apollo muttered to Trucy, “Thank you.”

Klavier looked away, his heart unsettled in his chest. It took him a minute to recognize the feeling as jealousy, and he fought it down, chiding himself. Unfair of him. Selfish.

From the ground, Carla Charlemagne met his eyes. “Don’t worry, Klavi,” she said, stilling the manic twist of her wrists. “I’m here for you.”

Klavier wanted to spit. He narrowed his eyes and knelt by her head, where Apollo had been a moment before. “Why do this, Fräulein?” he asked, as gently as he could, keeping his anger behind his teeth. He knew Apollo would not be able to—and he couldn’t blame him, he’d suffered months of abuse at her hands much more directly than Klavier had—so it fell to him to be good cop.

She blinked at him. “I love you,” she said. “It’s okay that you can’t see it yet, but we’re perfect together.” She bit her lip and looked down, the bashful expression incongruous with her bound form, her wrists rubbed raw. “Ich liebe dich,” she said softly, her German halting, her accent atrocious. “Dein ist mein Herz.”

Klavier felt his lip curl despite himself. “Du bist nichts für mich,” he replied, just as quietly but with none of her tenderness. “Nichts, Fräulein, weniger als nichts. You are a stranger—a deranged stranger. You have violated my privacy. You have interfered with my work and my friends. You have harassed and psychologically tortured the one I care for—”

Charlemagne snapped her teeth together like an animal. Klavier imagined that had her hands been free, she would have slapped him. He felt buoyed up on her rage, finally awake at last. “Ja, Fräulein,” he said with satisfaction. “Sein ist mein Herz.” He gestured to Apollo, who looked up from his quiet conversation with Phoenix.

“No,” said Charlemagne, her eyes wild. “No, he’s nothing—”

“Sorry,” said Apollo, crossing to them, “what?”

“Entschuldigung,” Klavier said to him with a smile. He ran a hand through his hair. “I am not very good at being the good cop.”

Apollo stared down at Charlemagne. “It’s okay,” he said. “Mr. Wright called the real cops, they’ll be here soon. We should probably untie her, we don’t want her filing charges.”

Klavier shrugged, standing up. “We’ll call it a citizen’s arrest,” he said.

They all watched as the cop car pulled away, Charlemagne stiff and silent in the back. It was—it was over, they’d caught her. She’d all but confessed to him, lying in the dirt, hadn’t even tried to deny any of her actions. As a witness she had access at least to police personnel that had perhaps helped her attain Lucia’s fingerprints, and while she didn’t have seem to have the makings of a mastermind, well. Neither had Maria Cameron. The details could wait until her full confession. For now, it was enough that it was over.

Klavier still felt keyed up, filled with a kind of disbelieving nervousness. He turned to Apollo, wanting nothing so much as to march him backwards into his own apartment, lips locked, and let Wright and Trucy sort themselves out. He deserved that—they deserved it, a chance to truly be alone at last, alone and unseen and private.

Apollo was frowning at the ground, and only looked up when Klavier touched his shoulder in concern. When he saw Klavier’s look he smiled a little. “You should call Lucia,” he said. “She must be wondering what happened to us.”

Klavier blinked at him. “I—yes, I suppose,” he said slowly. He flicked his eyes to Wright and Trucy, then back to Apollo. “I had hoped…” he said, trailing off.

Apollo reddened, and Klavier smiled helplessly at that, couldn’t help but step in a little closer and murmur, “I believe we have some daydreams to fulfill.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow. “Mine?” he asked, and deliberately licked his lips, holding Klavier’s eyes. “Or yours?”

Klavier lay a hand over his heart to cover the stuttering of his breath. “You wound me. I am not a selfish man, Herr Forehead,” he said. “You may go first.”

Apollo held his gaze a minute, his eyes warm, and then Wright said, “Apollo.”

Apollo turned to him, coughing a little in embarrassment. “Yeah?”

“I’m taking Trucy to the hospital,” he said. “I’m worried about her ribs. Are you coming?”

Apollo glanced at Klavier, and Klavier flexed his fingers, pushing the corner of his mouth up in a kind of sideways smile he didn’t quite feel. Selfish. Unfair. “Go, herzchen,” he said. “We have time.”

Apollo licked his lips and nodded. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Soon.”

Klavier bit back the it had better be, knowing it would come out bitter and demanding and not the teasing way he meant it, and went to call Lucia.

+

"Why is Apollo Justice avoiding me?" Klavier demanded, leaning against Edgeworth's open door.

Edgeworth didn't answer, just looked up at him with raised brows.

"Well?" demanded Klavier after several minutes of twin expectant silences.

"I was waiting for you to explain why on earth you were asking me," Edgeworth said coolly.

"Because maybe Phoenix knows, and everything Phoenix knows you know," said Klavier, "somehow, despite the fact that I never actually see the two of you interact. Not lately, anyway."

"Go on," said Edgeworth acidly, and for the first time Klavier noticed the circles under his eyes, the extra tightness around his mouth. "Please, tell me more of your brilliant deductions. I do not know why Apollo Justice is avoiding you. Thus?"

Klavier licked his lips, stopped in his tracks. Edgeworth was better at anyone in the world at turning every conversation into a tightrope walk. "Thus, he said slowly, "either Phoenix doesn't know, or."

Edgeworth's left brow inched higher. "Or?"

"Or you no longer know everything he does," Klavier said, apologetic.

"Excellent, Gavin," Edgeworth replied, looking back down at his notes, one hand at his temple. "You are at least 50% correct. You may be 100%, but as you've discovered, I wouldn't know."

Klavier wanted to flee, but there was a weary note of despair in Edgeworth’s voice that tangled itself up in his voracious curiosity and rooted him to the floor. "Um," he said, "can I ask what happened?"

Edgeworth looked up, surprised. He opened his mouth, and then shrugged. "Several years ago Wright asked for my help with something. I," he paused, "I believed that I could not help, and so I refused him. Recently I realized that it is not only something I can do but something I wish very much to do, and I offered my assistance again." He swallowed. "I—phrased it badly, however, and it seems that even if I had not the request no longer stands. I am unsure he ever forgave my original refusal."

Klavier frowned. "That doesn't sound like him," he said. "Apologies, certainly you know the man better than I but—I was instrumental in his being disbarred, in his living in poverty for years, and he has entirely forgotten that. Surely he forgives you for refusing to help when you truly believed you could not?"

Edgeworth smiled thinly, the curve of a blade. "I believe I am exempt from Phoenix Wright's universal forgiveness policy," he said. "I believe he has never fully forgiven me for abandoning him the first time, not to mention the second, and least of all this."

Klavier resisted the urge to whistle, or to press him about each of those abandonments, and watched his face instead. "What did he need help with?" he asked, extending one metaphorical foot into empty air.

Edgeworth regarded him for a long moment. "Trucy," he said at last.

Klavier blinked. "Oh," he said. "Oh, like, in a. Um. Second father capacity?"

To his utter astonishment and inner glee, Edgeworth went pink. "Originally I believe the impetus was mostly financial," he said stiffly, not quite meeting Klavier's eyes. "But yes, when I offered recently it was—I certainly meant it to be more—" he spread his hands, still blushing. "I am very fond of the girl."

"To say nothing of her father," Klavier teased, and wobbled, a little, on his high wire.

Edgeworth glared daggers at him. "Indeed," he said shortly. "But like I said, apparently I am not welcome in that capacity any longer, and I would appreciate it if you would not laugh at me."

Klavier sobered, picturing Edgeworth—a man who walked through life wearing so many layers of metaphorical armor that it was a surprise he didn't clank when he moved—baring himself enough to offer something like that, and to have Wright reject him. He swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said. "That must have been incredibly painful to hear."

Edgeworth passed a hand across his face, and when he looked up again his expression was calm, disinterested. "I appreciate your sympathy," he said. "Now, if there's nothing else...?"

"Right," said Klavier, "I'll. Just—if there's anything I can do."

He slipped out and back to his own office, blowing out a breath of frustration. It had only been three days—nothing in the face of the months he’d had to endure without contact from Apollo—but it was a three days of a silence which should no longer exist. From where he stood, was no reason for them to not be speaking, more than speaking.

Apollo, to his credit, had called, the day after Charlemagne was arrested. “Klavier, hey,” he’d said, and immediately there was a distance in his voice that Klavier didn’t like. “Can I ask you for something kind of unfair?”

Klavier blinked at his desk. “So this is not the promised phone-sex,” he said, but it came out too worried to be funny.

Apollo had laughed anyway, just a short huff of air, and then gone silent again. “I’m. Sorting some things out,” he said slowly. “And.”

Klavier closed his eyes. “You do not wish to see me.”

“No,” said Apollo immediately. “I mean—yes, I want to, but.” He sighed sharply. “Like I said, it’s not fair. But. I’m not quite myself yet—I need to get my head right.”

Klavier bit his lip. “I wish—we cannot even speak about this in person?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Apollo said, his voice a little cold, and Klavier has never felt so much like he’s being broken up with in his life, even the several times he has actually been broken up with. But then Apollo’s voice softens and everything is confusing again: “I don’t exactly think straight when you’re near me.”

Klavier licked his lips. “I could help you—”

“Klavier, please.” Apollo sounded anxious, and Klavier gave in.

“I cannot refuse you anything,” he said teasingly, though his heart was heavy in his chest. “I will give you space. But, Apollo—I trust you. I wish you would do the same.”

“I do,” said Apollo, “I do, Klavier, this isn’t about trust, this is—I have to know whether or not I’m right, and I will tell you about it when I can. I promise you that.”

“You’re okay?” Klavier asked. “Trucy, she is okay, her ribs are alright?”

“Yeah,” said Apollo, and Klavier could hear the smile in his voice. “She’s bruised but—yeah. We’re all fine.”

“Good,” said Klavier, heartfelt. He scowled at his hands. “I—I cannot say that I’m happy with this,” he said. “I want—fuck, Apollo. There is so much that I want, and Charlemagne, she has already made me wait so long.”

“I know,” said Apollo, and he sounded so miserable that it shocked Klavier out of his frustration entirely. “I’m sorry.”

Klavier closed his eyes with a sigh. “It’s okay,” he said, and smiled. “It will give me more time to make new daydreams.”

Apollo made a little thankful noise, halfway between a sigh and a hum. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re—more than I deserve.”

Klavier snorted a laugh. “Nein, Herr Forehead, I—” he swallowed, suddenly aware of how empty his office was, how vulnerable he was with nothing to anchor himself to but Apollo’s voice, how frightening it was, to speak the words he meant into that kind of void. “Ah. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Apollo said, and then, very quickly, “um. Love you. Bye.”

He hung up, and Klavier had lowered the phone and set it very carefully on its receiver. He leaned back in his chair and ran a shaking hand over his face.

Now, spinning slowly in that same chair, he lifted his guitar down from its hooks above his desk. Closing his eyes, he ran his fingers over the taut strings, tuned his ear so he heard nothing but the sharp buzz of unamplified sound, and began to write a song.

+

Three days became a week, and a week became two. Klavier called his agent to book a venue and started putting together a set list. The courthouse organized a Fall Bash, with invitations to the Prosecutor’s office, the police department, and the Defense Attorney’s office, as well as respected law firms and other associates in the area. Edgeworth stalked through the halls like a stressed albino raven, occasionally pausing at Klavier’s door, but if he wanted to talk he never made any move to.

The day of the party, Klavier took Lucia out to dinner. It was the first time he’d seen her since just after Charlemagne’s arrest, when Apollo had dropped all charges and the warrant for her arrest had been scrapped. She looked gorgeous, perfectly at home in the upscale french restaurant he’d chosen, her hair swept upwards into a smooth but entirely unsevere bun, her make up impeccable, the freckles along her cheekbones as alluring as they’d been when he’d first seen her. He pressed a kiss to her cheekbone and sat down.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the expensive meal,” she said cautiously once they’d ordered, “but we’ve not exactly been the type to do dates before. You know I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“And you know that neither am I,” Klavier said, taking a sip of his wine.

“Not with me, anyway,” Lucia said softly.

He set down his glass. “Not with you,” he agreed, hearing all the bitterness that was missing from her tone in his own.

She held out a hand across the table. “Klav,” she said. “How are you really?”

Klavier smiled at her, a little hollowly. “I have something for you,” he said. He fished around in his pockets for a minute, and then laid two tickets in her palm.

She blinked, looking at them. “What are these?”

“Tickets,” said Klavier unnecessarily. “Advanced passes to my show.” He smiled again, more genuinely. “You asked when you would see me in action, ja?”

She blinked at him, and then grinned. “I look forward to it,” she said, and then raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

He coughed. “For—a date, if you would like.”

Her smile shifted into something more complicated. “I see.” She held his gaze. “Will I see Mr. Justice there?”

Klavier looked away, noticing their waiter weaving his way between tables. There was something familiar about his short-cropped brown hair, the ring in his lip. He let his mind linger on it rather than think about her question. “Actually,” he said, still not looking at her, “I was hoping you would come home with me after this.”

She made an inquiring noise, and he looked back at her. “Not for sex,” he said with a regretful smile. “I, ah. I wish to look good for a party, and I was hoping you would help.”

The waiter arrived as Lucia laughed at him, and it wasn’t until he saw them next to each other that he realized—he’d seen the man before, at the bar on July nineteenth, rejected him for looking too much like Apollo. He frowned a little. Odd, that he’d be here, as well–

“He called me,” Lucia said.

Klavier tore his eyes away from the waiter’s back to look at her. “What?”

“Apollo called me,” Lucia said, winding pasta around her fork. She jerked her head at the waiter. “Striking resemblance.”

“Ja,” said Klavier, still frowning. “It is. What, um. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know about the Checron trial,” she said. “Who I spoke to, who knew me back then.”

Klavier blinked. Apollo was still investigating? With Charlemagne behind bars, awaiting trial? “Why?”

Lucia shook his head. “He didn’t say.” She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know.”

Klavier stared at his food. “We—haven’t spoken lately.”

Lucia’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Klav—”

Klavier blinked his worries away. He would see Apollo tonight at the party, and they would talk about it, and it would all be fine. “It’s an office party, so I think leather pants are unfortunately off the table,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps I could get away with eyeliner though, do you think?”

She regarded him for a long moment. “Probably,” she agreed eventually. “So long as you don’t overdo it. We’ll take a look at what you have when we get back.”

They ended up settling on just mascara and—at Klavier’s insistence—a touch of pink gloss. He tucked the tube in his vest pocket for ready reapplication. He may have promised to give Apollo space, but a man’s patience had its limits and there was no way he wasn’t going to go down swinging.

Lucia smoothed down the shoulder of his suit and stepped back, her narrowed eyes widening. She shook her head. “Klavier Gavin,” she said, “you clean up fuckin’ amazing.”

Klavier gave her his most charming smile and did a little twirl, and she cracked up, stepping into his space and stopping him with a hand on his chest. “If he doesn’t climb you like a tree the second he sees you the boy is madder than I thought,” she said softly, looking up into his face, and Klavier felt himself flush.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, not insulting her intelligence by asking how she knew. He laid a hand over hers on his chest, looking down at it. “I really—hope so.”

She chucked him under the chin with her knuckle. “I’m always right,” she said. “Now. You’re going to be late.”

He wasn’t—not more than was fashionable, anyway. He arrived amid a crowd of well-dressed lawyers, court clerks, people whose faces he knew but whose names mostly escaped him. There was no sign of Apollo.

Klavier’s record was good, he knew that, but once he’d entered the party proper he was immediately overwhelmed by how many people wanted to talk to him, to shake his hand. Several people asked for his autograph, even. He wasn’t exactly unused to crowds of fans, but there was something about this that was—claustrophobic, awful, an intrusion of that concert-energy into a place that was meant to be fast-paced in an entirely different way, fast-paced minds and professionalism and not this—weird sycophantism.

He found himself searching the faces of his acquaintances and colleagues for the kind of madness that twisted Charlemagne’s, for some hint of obsession rather than admiration. Small talk became a defense mechanism—keeping them all at arm’s length, assessing why they asked about him, evaluating any knowledge they had that maybe they shouldn’t. He kept one eye out for Apollo’s spikes of hair, needed the casual, familiar tension that was talking to him, wanting him, being sure of him. The only moment of relief was a brief exchange with Edgeworth, who if anything looked more anxious than he felt, and barely had two words for Klavier, his own eyes scanning the crowds.

Finally it was too much, and he murmured an apology his current conversational partner, slipping as unobtrusively as possible through the throng to the balcony doors, hoping the cool night air would help lift his mind from this paranoid spiral. He stepped outside and stopped, surprised. “Herr Wright?”

Phoenix Wright stood up from where he was leaning against the balcony railing. “Hey, Gavin.”

He had a cigarette between his lips, unlit.

Klavier stepped up beside him. “I didn’t realize you smoked,” he said cautiously. There was something in Wright’s face that told him to tread lightly.

Wright grinned, the butt between his teeth, and then crunched down on it. “I don’t,” he said around the shards, “s’candy. Maya had such a sweet tooth—well, a food tooth—and now with Trucy around.” He shrugged. “I’ll never escape.”

Klavier smiled at him, charmed. “A healthier habit anyway, I’m sure,” he said. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Wright turned back to look out across the city. “I could say yes, and that I just needed some air, but I’m a big believer in telling the truth, and truth is, fuck this party.” He looked at Klavier out of the corner of his eye. “You?”

Klavier had never met anyone who was as good at detecting a lie as Apollo Justice. But Apollo at least left you the choice to lie, if you wanted to disappoint him and feel awful about it and know he would see right through it and probably never trust you again. There was something about Phoenix Wright’s small smile that made you rethink lying in the first place. People who lied to Phoenix Wright ended up behind bars too often for the idea to ever be a good one.

Klavier sighed and gave in. “Fuck this party,” he agreed.

“Good man,” Wright said, and offered him a candy cigarette.

Klavier shrugged, taking it and tucking it between his lips. It was nice—sweet. He sucked on it for a minute and then took it between his fingers so he could talk. “I saw Herr Edgeworth earlier, he said. “I think he was looking for you.”

Wright gave a little laugh. “Really,” he said. “That’s a change.” He put the box of candy cigarettes back into his inside jacket pocket, the wind shifting through his spikes of hair, and turned more fully to face Klavier. “Polly never showed, huh?”

Klavier raised an eyebrow at him. “Polly?”

Wright winced. “Shit, he’ll never forgive me that. It’s, uh, Trucy’s nickname for him.”

Klavier grinned at him, delighted. “That’s adorable.”

Wright squinted back. “It really is, isn’t it? Those kids’re gonna kill me.” His eyes lingered on Klavier’s face, and Klavier lost his grin, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “If he’d been here,” Wright said, his tone carefully neutral, “what would you have done?”

Klavier turned to look out over the city, but he could still feel Wright’s eyes. “Playing the part of the concerned father?” he asked, meaning it teasing but missing the mark rather widely.

“Brother, thank you, I’m not that old, but hell yes I am,” Wright answered immediately. “The man never had a real one, and the first guy to take the job—well. You’d know better than I do how he holds up in terms of male role models.”

Klavier’s candy cigarette snapped in his grip. “Don’t—” he said, and then forced himself to relax, to step back from the edge he always rushed to whenever anyone criticized Kristoph. He closed his eyes and actually thought, thought about who was talking about his brother and why. Thought about who Kristoph had been to Wright, what he’d done to him. And what his influence—his judgment, his condescension, his endless disappointment—had done to Apollo, and to Klavier himself.

When he opened his eyes again Wright was still watching him, gaze steady. He inclined his head, just a little. “There you go,” he said. “Good.”

Klavier took a breath. “I am certain you are a much better brother to Apollo than my own was to me,” he managed. His voice was shaking, but he didn’t really care—because he knew Wright didn’t, there was nothing in his eyes but surprise and genuine concern. “As for what I would have done had Herr Forehead been here,” he said, “I just.” He spread his hands, feeling helpless. “I only want to talk to him, to have him in my life. Everything else is—zusätlich, extra, a dream I can live without.” He swallowed. The possibility that Apollo had reconsidered, was avoiding him because he’d realized Klavier was not what he wanted after all, was one he tried to think about as little as possible, along with the quick, almost casual love you muttered in his ear.

Wright stuck another candy cigarette between his lips, the motion somehow not comical at all, and then he nodded like he’d decided something. “Okay,” he said. “You wanna get out of here?”

Klavier raised his eyebrows at him, and Wright laughed. “Christ, kid,” he said. “I’m not that old but I’m not that young, either, plus that would just be massively fucked up, considering. I’m not hitting on you. C’mon.”

He grabbed Klavier’s wrist and towed him off the balcony, only to duck behind a pillar almost immediately, pulling Klavier with him. “Oop,” he said, his eyes tracking something across the room, and Klavier followed his gaze to find Edgeworth standing alone, looking their way, a glass of red wine in his hand. He looked worried. Wright bit his lip. “God, Miles, why now of all times—”

“Um,” said Klavier. The use of Edgeworth’s first name had thrown him. He knew what it was, of course, but no one ever said it, not by itself—even Franziska von Karma called him Miles Edgeworth every time, and she was his sister. From Wright’s mouth it was low and habitual and distressingly intimate. “If you want to—I can just go—”

Wright cast a last look at the head prosecutor, but shook his head. “No,” he said, “no, I’m not letting you do the same shit that got me where I am.” He waited a moment, although not long enough for Klavier to even begin to parse whatever the hell that meant, and then hissed, “C’mon!” and made a dash for the double doors closest to them.

They made it outside unseen, Wright laughing like a schoolboy caught spiking the punch. Klavier started toward his bike, but Wright pulled him back. “No way I’m getting on that thing,” he said, and then, more to himself, “besides, too conspicuous. We’ll take a cab.”

While they waited at the curb, Klavier looked Wright up and down. He was cleanshaven for the occasion, his blue suit well-cut, but his shirt was wrinkled and there was a slight sway to his steps. With a shock Klavier realized he’d been drinking. He frowned. “Herr Wright—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of a cab, and Wright leaned in to mutter directions to the driver, then slid in and patted the seat next to him. Klavier took it, his misgivings growing. Where on earth was Wright taking him?

“Why do you still do law?” Wright asked abruptly.

Klavier stared at him. “What?”

Wright shrugged. “You’ve got your music, and it’s not like you need the extra money. Seems to me you going into law was Kristoph’s whole thing, not yours, although you went about it exactly the way he didn’t want you to.”

Klavier stared hard at the darkness outside his window. “If you think about it that way, my music is because of Kristoph, too,” he said shortly. “Much of what I am I became because I knew it would disappoint my brother.” He turned to look at Wright. “But that is not why I am those things now. I love law, and I love music, and whether that's because I have taught myself to through sheer brotherly rivalry or because they are what I would naturally love, it makes no difference.” He frowned. “I am not sure there is a difference for anyone. Natural talent, hard work, you get far enough in any career and the distinction is meaningless.”

Wright grinned at him. “You’re exactly right,” he said. “Did you know I used to study art?”

Klavier raised his eyebrows. “I did not,” he said. “Why did you pursue law instead?”

Wright hummed. “Love,” he said, and before Klavier could figure out how to react to that he’d opened the door and clambered out. “Here we are.”

Klavier got out and stared at the building in front of them. “You have brought me to your office?”

Wright leaned against the side of the cab. “Apollo hasn’t gone home for nearly three weeks, he said. “He sleeps here.”

Klavier blinked at him, horrified. “You’re serious?”

Wright nodded, watching him.

Klavier looked at the office, and back at Wright. “I should—”

“Yes,” said Wright, “you should.”

Klavier started towards the door, and then Wright called, “Gavin.” He turned, and Wright jerked his head sideways. “Pay for the cab first, double fare. I’m going back to the party.”

When Klavier raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. “What? You got me disbarred, I feel like you owe me at least a cab fare.”

Klavier opened his mouth to—protest, apologize, something, but Wright held up a hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, laughing. “I promise to only hold it over your head when I need money.”

Klavier shook his head and paid the cabbie, then watched as Wright pulled away. Every time he thought he’d figured the man out, he casually dropped another dozen details about his life that made no sense with the picture Klavier had drawn of him.

He squared his shoulders and headed up the drive, intruding once again into Apollo’s space, showing up, once again, uninvited.

Apollo opened the door already talking. “You’re not going to make anything better with Edgeworth by hiding here and doing work,” he said, “you actually have to talk—”

He stopped, staring at Klavier. His friend had his hands shoved into his pockets, his whole stance a little canted in uncertainty, but it didn’t make him any less breathtaking. Apollo was doubly glad he hadn’t gone to the party. He didn’t think he could deal with seeing Klavier like this in a crowd. Here, he could drink him in: the sweep of his darkened lashes, the shine of his lips as he smiled, embarrassed, maybe, or flattered by Apollo’s scrutiny. “I didn’t hear your bike,” Apollo said, softer than he means to.

Klavier shook his head. “I took a cab,” he said, and then licked his lips. “May I come in?”

Apollo stepped aside, and Klavier moved in past him. “I’m sorry for dropping in again,” he said. “It’s becoming a familiar scene, my intruding like this.”

Apollo closed the door without answering, stepping up into his space. He had enough time to see Klavier’s eyes widen and then they were kissing, and it was so easy that he almost wanted to laugh. Maybe they could just stay here, maybe he could just keep this, keep the truth locked up and give in.

Klavier made a little noise against his mouth and Apollo kissed him harder, walking him backward until his back hit the hallway wall. He undid the button of Klavier’s jacket and slid his hands under it, smoothing over the silken softness of his shirt. Klavier was so warm—his chest where Apollo was pressed against it, his palms as he slid them up Apollo’s neck to cup his head as they continued to kiss. Apollo sighed a little and Klavier pulled back just far enough to breathe, mouth slick against Apollo’s jaw. “You are making me into a liar, Herr Forehead.”

Apollo pressed a little kiss to his cheekbone, sliding his hands up his chest. “What do you mean?”

Klavier nudged his face around so that their mouths were aligned again. “I told Herr Wright we would only talk,” he said, and captured Apollo’s mouth again with an enthusiasm that made Apollo’s heart swoop in his chest.

Apollo sucked suddenly at his tongue, and Klavier twitched against him. I don’t want to talk, Apollo thought as hard as he could, trying to push it into Klavier’s mouth so he didn’t have to say it aloud, because if he said it aloud Klavier would ask him why. Instead he fumbled at Klavier’s shirt buttons and finally managed to get his hands against the prosecutor’s skin. If we talk I have to tell you, and if I tell you—

“Apollo, gott,” Klavier said shakily as Apollo lowered his head to nip and suck at his jaw. “I am glad to see you too, but—”

“I want to blow you,” Apollo interrupted, proud of how little his voice wavered. He pulled back so he could meet Klavier’s eyes and slid a hand up his chest to his throat. He felt it against his thumb when Klavier swallowed. “Daydreams, right?”

Klavier caught his hand. “Apollo,” he said, sharply now, and Apollo slumped, just a little. He’d betrayed himself, somehow—he did want to, so, so badly, but the nervous tension that was running through him now was not eagerness but desperation, and maybe Klavier could see it. Maybe he could see the lock sitting in Apollo’s chest, maybe his tongue had found the key tucked into Apollo’s cheek where he’d not quite managed to swallow it in time.

Klavier’s fingers were gentle around his wrist. “Apollo,” he said again. “What’s wrong?”

Apollo opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Nothing?” he tried.

Klavier’s lips tightened. “I may not have your knack for detecting the truth,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can lie to me. Tell me, please.”

Apollo’s throat was tight. He pulled a little pout, a last-ditch hopeless delay. “Do I have to?” he asked. He ran a hand down to Klavier’s fly, cupped him through his suit trousers. Klavier bit his lip, his lashes—made even longer by makeup, Apollo realized—fluttering. “I can think of things I’d rather do,” Apollo said, but even in his own ears his tone sounded off.

Klavier slid his fingers along his jaw. “There is very little in this world that I want more than I want your pretty mouth,” he said, incredibly, impossibly sincere the way he somehow was in everything, “but that is not why I am here. I am here because I am worried about you.” He swallowed hard. “I—care very much about you, Apollo, and it is clear that you are not alright.”

Apollo felt warm down his toes and turned on and shaky and nauseous all at once, and he stepped away. Klavier let him go, watching him with dark, worried eyes. “Okay,” Apollo said, more to himself than to Klavier, and led the way down the hallway. “Step into my office,” he joked, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

He had, thank god, had a manic fit of energy the previous evening and cleaned out the whole place. If he hadn’t, he would have been leading Klavier into something that looked more like a home for a family of law-obsessed raccoons than a defense attorney’s office. As it was, he was able to flick on the light, pull out Klavier’s chair, and collapse into his own without more than a small wince at the lingering smell of cleaning products.

Klavier looked around, and gave Apollo a little smile. “It is precisely as I imagined it,” he said. He picked up the photograph of Trucy on Apollo’s desk, and his smile widened. “I had thought you would be in the picture, too, though.”

Apollo lifted a shoulder. “I don’t—like to look at pictures of myself. Stared at the ones Charlemagne took too long, maybe.”

Klavier’s smile faded. “You think it isn’t over.”

Apollo leaned gingerly back in his chair, watching him. “You think it is?”

Klavier licked his lips. “I did,” he said. His shirt was still unbuttoned, his jacket open, but he was sitting in Apollo’s client chair like he’d dropped in for a chat on a Monday afternoon. “But there’s—a man.”

Apollo sat up, narrowing his eyes. “Brown hair, lip piercing?”

Klavier nodded, surprised.

Apollo sighed. “His name is Jackson Grant. He was the guy I had Trucy follow to the bar that night, but then he didn’t even approach you. Maybe he was biding his time.”

Klavier blinked. “You think he is a partner of Charlemagne’s?”

Apollo gnawed his lip. “Not—exactly.” He took a breath. “I think both Charlemagne and Grant are puppets, working for someone else.”

Klavier stared at him. “Who?”

“The common denominator.” Apollo slid a file from his drawer. “Three years ago Grant was arrested for petty theft. He was found not guilty and his record cleared. His father’s some business big shot, so he was able to afford the best for defense.” He met Klavier’s eyes. “You know what that meant, until recently.”

Klavier’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Apollo swallowed and slid another file from his drawer. “Carla Charlemagne was arrested five years ago for stalking a local celebrity. Her uncle owns a chain of supermarkets in central L.A., so again she could afford—”

“Apollo,” Klavier said sharply.

“And then there’s Lucia,” said Apollo, louder, “this puppet master—he would have to know that she was a witness to know about her fingerprints, right? I called her to ask about that case, about who knew her then.” He smiled, a miserable twitch of lips. His stomach was a tight, nauseating fist. “She had some less than fond memories of your brother.”

Klavier stared at the flat expanse of Apollo’s desk.

Apollo watched his face. “I don’t think she’s a puppet like the others,” he said. “I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think you were supposed to go home with Grant, that night, and when you chose Lucia he had to improvise.”

Klavier nodded, still not looking at him, and was silent so long Apollo was scared he’d never speak again.

He filled the silence desperately.“I first got clued in when I remembered how Charlemagne was at the Richten trial. She called you Your Honor, not the judge, which might have just been early evidence of her obsession with you but—” he shook his head. “I don’t think she has the brains to pull all of this off. Lucia could have, I was ready to believe that, but Charlemagne—she’s a pawn if I’ve ever seen one.”

Klavier raised his eyes, but he was looking at something far away, beyond Apollo’s head. “Kristoph is very good at chess,” he said distantly. “Never really got the hang of it myself. Did you?”

Apollo shook his head. “Mr. Wright taught me to play poker.”

The edge of Klavier’s mouth turned up, disconnected entirely from the emptiness of his eyes. “I bet no one can bluff you.”

The air was heavy between them. The darkness outside Apollo’s too-clean office seemed oppressive, a bubble closing in. “Klavier,” Apollo said, trying to break it before it suffocated them both. Klavier’s hands twitched into fists on his knees.

Suddenly his gaze snapped to Apollo’s. “Let’s go get drunk.”

Apollo blinked. “What?”

Klavier stood up, one sharp, shuddering motion. “It’s the first thing on our list, nein?” he said, his voice as too-fast as his movements. “After we find the stalker: get drinks to celebrate my victory.” He started to laugh.

Apollo moved around his desk to pull him in, and Klavier didn’t resist, dropping his head onto Apollo’s shoulder. He was shaking so hard Apollo’s teeth knocked together, earthquakes rolling through the point where they were pressed skull to skull. Apollo wrapped his arms around Klavier hard, trying to hold him together, and after a long time Klavier’s ragged sobs turned to little panicked hiccups. He shifted so that he was pressing his face into Apollo’s neck, and Apollo relaxed his grip, just a little, so Klavier could breathe.

He took Klavier to a bar Phoenix used to haunt, mostly because it was within walking distance and the longer the silence between them stretched the more worried Apollo got. It was tiny and grungy and probably not at all what Klavier was used to, but he draped himself onto a bar stool like he came here every night. He turned away for a moment, staring around at the scattering of other sullen patrons, and when he looked back at Apollo he was smiling, half smirk, the expression that Apollo had labelled Klavier Flirting even before it was ever leveled at him. He wondered if it was always as much of a mask as it was tonight.

“So,” Klavier said smoothly. “What can I get you?”

Apollo bit his lip, torn. Did he play along? Is this what Klavier needed, to lose himself in the performance? Or did he push past it, make Klavier talk it out with him? He flexed his fingers and took his own seat, feeling useless.

“Herr Forehead,” Klavier said, and there was a note of pleading in it. “Achtung, I asked you a question.” He was still smiling, his eyebrows raised, like maybe Apollo was just spacing out.

“Ah, I don’t really drink much,” Apollo said, smiling apologetically. “Whatever you think is good?”

Klavier inclined his head at him, his eyes a little mocking, but Apollo saw the thanks in it anyway. “The measure of a bar is taken by its whiskey,” Klavier said decisively, and raised a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

Apollo wondered when exactly he’d become aware of all of the layers of emotion Klavier was conveying at all times. Maybe it was what made him so captivating on stage—the lights caught him at all angles, the tones of his voice were fanned out, and everyone could see the whole kaleidoscope of his heart. “Are you planning any concerts?” he asked, half to make the kind of small talk that Klavier seemed like he needed and half because he suddenly wanted so badly to hear Klavier sing again.

Klavier raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. “Yes, actually,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. “Ah, I was going to give you this at the party. You know, unless it turned out you wanted to never see me again.” He said it so casually that it almost slid under Apollo’s radar as he accepted his drink from the bartender. When he realized, he pivoted on his bar stool to stare at his friend, who was fishing around in pocket of his coat.

“You—really thought that was a possibility?” he asked.

Klavier looked at him through his eyelashes. “Wasn’t it?”

Apollo shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”

Klavier raised his head and smiled, his real smile, filtering through his mask. “Good,” he said, and held out some slips of paper to Apollo. “It would have made some of the songs I will play terribly ironic.”

Apollo took the tickets—three of them. One for Phoenix and one for Trucy, Apollo assumed. “You—you wrote songs about me?”

Klavier shook his bangs out of his face. “Well,” he said. “You know what they say.”

Apollo sipped his drink, wincing at the burn. Klavier grinned at him and downed his in two smooth gulps.

“Pretend I don’t?” Apollo said, taking a big swallow to try and catch up. “Know what they say, I mean.”

Klavier cocked his head to one side, his lip between his teeth. “I think,” he said, “I shall have to be drunker.” He raised a hand again.

They got drunker fast. Apollo wasn’t quite sure where they were supposed to be in time—was Klavier pretending it was the night after the Richten trial? should he be?—but it was almost freeing, not having that matter. He could choose what knowledge he had; he didn’t have to know any of the awful truths they’d left behind in his office, but he still knew that if he leaned forward to brush his fingertips against Klavier’s throat he wouldn’t pull away. “I like hearing you sing,” he said, because it was true, and because even if he ignored the reasons why he still knew Klavier needed all the compliments he could get.

Klavier blinked slow at him, his fourth or fifth drink at his elbow. “Is that so?”

Apollo nodded. “S’when I first realized how beautiful you are,” he said. It wasn’t fair, after all, for Klavier to be the only honest one.

“Oh,” said Klavier, gone pink. “Well then.”

Apollo shrugged and tried to lean back in his chair before he realized that he was sitting on a bar stool. Klavier caught his wrists before he fell, and maybe he misjudged his strength or maybe he only pretended to, because Apollo was suddenly halfway in his lap. “Oops,” Klavier said softly, very close to his face.

“Oops,” Apollo echoed, and then laughed. “You did that on purpose,” he accused.

“Never,” Klavier murmured fondly, his eyes flickering over Apollo’s face.

Apollo shook his head. “Liar,” he said. “Liar. Look.” He held up his wrist, where his mother’s bracelet was snug to his wrist, and then realized that Klavier had no idea what that meant. The moment stretched, and he knew, even drunk, that he had a decision to make. In this atemporal space, though, secrets seemed stupid things. Unnecessary. Knowledge itself was transitory, so like. What the hell, right?

Klavier was looking between his wrist and his face, eyes puzzled, and Apollo slid backwards so he could see him better. “Wanna show you something,” he said. He shook his wrist until his bracelet shifted to its neutral size, and then held it up between them. “Lie to me.”

Klavier blinked hard at him. “Entschuldigung?”

Apollo grinned at him. “Tell me a lie. Anything you like.”

Klavier licked his lips. “Okay,” he said. “Um. I definitely did not prepare several different scenarios for how to seduce you at tonight’s party.”

Apollo laughed, his face kind of just perpetually hot, and his bracelet shrank around his wrist. Klavier almost missed it, his eyes warm on Apollo’s face, but he caught it out of the corner of his eye, and his eyebrows twitched. “What—”

“Okay,” said Apollo. “Now—tell me something true.”

Klavier stared at his wrist, and then back at his face. “I have missed you,” he said, “very, very much.”

Apollo’s bracelet grew again, and Klavier reached out to touch it. “Magisch,” he murmured. “I have seen you play with this, in court. This is how you always know?”

Apollo nodded and dropped his eyes, suddenly regretting telling him. “Less impressive now, huh,” he muttered.

Klavier slipped two fingers through his bracelet, his knuckles against the pulse-point of Apollo’s wrist. “Apollo,” he said. “Look at me, bitte.”

Apollo cocked his head, looking at him sideways, afraid of the disappointment he’d surely see. But Klavier just looked—interested, and reassuring, and alight with something Apollo didn’t quite dare name. “Nothing you could do would make me less impressed with you,” Klavier said softly.

Apollo twitched a smile at him, hopelessly and helplessly relieved. Klavier smiled back, a little wryly, and before Apollo could ask why he was toying with his bracelet again. “Would it work for me?” he asked. “If I were to wear it?”

Apollo shook his head. “It was my mother’s,” he said. “I think it might work for Trucy, but."

Klavier sighed, overdramatic. “I guess I shall just have to trust you to tell me the truth,” he said, and Apollo blinked at him. There was an odd, almost nervous note to his voice. “Did you mean it?”

Apollo attempted to sip his empty drink. “Mean what?”

Klavier still had his fingers through Apollo’s bracelet. “On the phone,” he said slowly.

Apollo set his glass carefully on the bar, remembering the fifteen straight minutes it took for his heart to stop pounding after that impetuous love you, how he’d longed to call and take it back, how he’d longed to be able to say it again when he could see Klavier’s face, or not say it at all because it was too much, of course it was too much, they’d made out once and—

“Yes,” he said, “I meant it.”

Klavier took a sharp breath in through his nose, his eyes going soft and disbelieving. He opened his mouth, but all of a sudden Apollo couldn’t—couldn’t hear this now, whether it was Klavier kindly rejecting him or pitying him or even the outside chance that he felt the same it was—hearing it here, where anyone could know, he couldn’t. There were too many eyes and ears. And he knew that was just Charlemagne talking, just Kristoph, just the mocking voice of the letters by his bed, keeping him scared, but. Scared he was, nonetheless.

He also couldn’t just let that sit, not get anything back. He’d already done that for nearly three weeks. He reached up to lay his fingers across Klavier’s lips before he could say anything. “Your turn,” he said loudly. “You’re drunker now, so. Tell me what they say.”

Klavier smiled against his fingertips. “Write what you love,” he said, the quiet to Apollo’s perpetual over-loudness, and Apollo felt the shape of the word almost more than he heard it. Captivated, he let his fingertips drag Klavier’s lower lip down as he dropped his hand, and swooped in to kiss him before he could close his lips again. Klavier caught him as he stumbled—the floor/bar stool/Klavier arrangement was much more confusing than it should have been—and they managed to be kissing anyway, drunk and tangled and shifted sideways into a timeslip where nothing else mattered.

And then Klavier said, “It will certainly be a happier concert than my last,” against his cheekbone and time reasserted itself like a hammer against an anvil. Apollo pulled away unsteadily to see Klavier’s Flirt Mask gone, his face flushed but his eyes a little hollow. He shook his hair out of his face like a bird settling his feathers. “You said you would come with me,” he said. “To see him.”

Apollo nodded, his throat flooded with a cocktail of pure happiness and pure misery. He felt elated and sick and sad and drunk, and he swallowed hard against it to listen.

“I want to go so badly,” Klavier admitted, running his hands through his hair. “More than I should.”

Apollo shook his head. “It’s okay to want an explanation,” he said. “You deserve an explanation.”

“Ja,” said Klavier. “But that is only half of why I want to go. Less than half.”

Apollo cocked his head and waited.

Klavier took a breath. “I am—lost, Apollo,” he said. “Adrift, paranoid, lonely, I—” he swallowed, wrapping his arms around himself, and suddenly he seemed smaller, his face opened up by alcohol and honesty into something vulnerable and young. “I want to go see Kristoph because he always knows what to do.” He smiled bitterly. It seemed especially wrong on this new version of his face. “You tell me it is his fault I am this way, and he is still the one I would flee to for salvation.”

Apollo’s mixed emotions gave way entirely to anger. “He did that to you, too,” he said tightly. “Made you depend on him, made you look up to him while he continually betrayed you—”

Klavier jerked his shoulder in a shrug. “I betrayed him as well,” he said quietly. “All my life, I let him down. He must be paying me back. Worse, of course, but—in his head, it is only the logical extension of our lifelong feud. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.” He picked up his drink. “Of course it is him. Stupid of me, not to see it sooner.”

“You’re not stupid, and you didn’t do anything to him,” Apollo insisted, slamming a hand down on the bar in his frustration. “This isn’t a—a logical anything, this isn’t justified—”

Klavier shook his head. “Of course it isn’t justified,” he said wearily. He lifted a hand to touch Apollo’s jaw. “He should never have involved you.”

Apollo grabbed his hand, his teeth clenched hard. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop—defending him.”

Klavier smiled softly at him, his eyes sad. “I can’t,” he said. “He’s my brother.”

Apollo blew out a frustrated breath. “Klavier,” he said. “Whatever imagined betrayals you committed against him, this is—” he grasped for words, but his mind was a haze of anger and whiskey and he couldn’t come up with anything other than, “it’s worse. Impossibly worse, so worse it doesn’t even.” He shook his head. “You can’t think you deserve this.”

Klavier shook his head. “You are misunderstanding,” he said. “I do not think what he has done is deserved, or fair. Ich bin nicht verrückt, I—I am not crazy.” He sipped his drink. “But I understand it. I understand why he thinks it is fair. It is the way he is.”

“Then he’s verrückt,” Apollo muttered, both because it was true and because he liked the way Klavier laughed at him whenever he attempted to speak German, all dark, scrunched-up eyes. It worked, and Apollo grinned back, relieved.

“So,” Klavier said, setting his empty glass back on the bar. “Tomorrow, we will go tell my brother he is crazy.” He sounded calm, but there was a tremble to his fingers as he twitched his clothing straight. “As for tonight…” He raised an eyebrow at Apollo. “You proposed something very tempting, earlier. If you are still willing…?”

Apollo realized he was still holding Klavier’s other hand, and he brought it up to his mouth. He wrapped his lips around the tips of two of Klavier’s fingers, sucking gently and running his tongue against the little ridges of his fingerprints. Klavier swallowed visibly, and Apollo spoiled it by grinning at him, embarrassed.

Klavier didn’t seem to mind, though, running his slick fingertips up the corner of Apollo’s smile. Apollo wrinkled his nose at him. “Let’s go, then.”

“Ja,” Klavier said. “Yes. Please.”

He fumbled a few bills onto the counter and Apollo forced himself not to care about the ease with which he spent money, focusing instead on the warmth of their joined hands and on keeping his feet under him for the walk back to his office. He’d set up a bed in the supply closet in the last few weeks and he made himself not care about that, either, about the difference between this and those clean perfect fantasies he’d been building where they fucked against white silk sheets in Klavier’s airy mansion. He pressed Klavier back against a set of shelves loaded with old case files and the only difference that mattered was that this was real.

Apollo started in on Klavier’s buttons again and came across something in his jacket. He fished out the tube of gloss, raising his eyebrows. “Several different plans to seduce me, hm?” he teased.

Klavier smirked at him, his hands on Apollo’s hips. “A man must be prepared.”

Apollo hummed, suddenly remembering the mark he’d left under Klavier’s jaw. It was gone by now, of course, but. He opened the gloss without really thinking about it and ran the brush inexpertly over his lips. Klavier made an inquiring noise, but Apollo didn’t look at him yet, closing up the gloss and tucking it into his pocket. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Klavier’s throat, then another, working his way up the tendon leading to Klavier’s ear. Klavier’s hands flexed on his hips, and Apollo leaned back to look. He’d left a shining, slightly pinkish trail against Klavier’s pale skin. Klavier raised his eyebrows at him.

“I like to see where I’ve been,” Apollo explained.

Klavier licked his lips, his pupils blown. “Oh,” he said. His eyes were on Apollo’s mouth.

Apollo smirked at him. “Does it look good?”

“You remember when I told you I thought you were going to kill me?” Klavier asked.

Apollo ran a hand down his chest, too lost in the heat of his skin to pause while they talked. “Mm?”

“Now I know,” Klavier said breathlessly, and then gasped as Apollo trailed his fingertips over his erection, tracing its outline with curious fingers. He lowered his head to take one of Klavier’s nipples in his mouth and moaned against his skin when Klavier’s cock twitched against his palm in response. His stomach was molten heat and nervousness, and he laved his tongue over Klavier’s nipple while he gathered his courage.

“A-apollo,” Klavier said, his hands slipping into Apollo’s hair, and Apollo moved with the weight of them, dropping to his knees, leaving a smudged, shining trail down Klavier’s stomach. “Ah—fuck, herzchen—”

Apollo’s shaking hands still made quick work of Klavier’s suit pants, and he pulled down his boxers without letting himself think about it. He wrapped a loose fist around Klavier’s cock immediately but mostly ignored it, leaning in to press little pink kisses down Klavier’s happy trail, against the skin of his inner thighs. He closed his eyes, breathing Klavier in and just breathing in general, settling himself.

Klavier was whispering little bits of broken German, pleasantly harsh, and Apollo thought about his voice. He opened his eyes and looked up at Klavier, at the slick parting of his mouth, the darkness of his eyes and the sweep of his lashes, the glittering pathway Apollo had left down his body, like he’d pressed tiny stars into his skin with his tongue. When he finally slid Klavier’s cock into his mouth, Klavier’s hands tightened in his hair and all of Apollo’s nervousness flash-forged into need.

After, curled into Klavier’s side, with Klavier’s fingertips tracing slow patterns up his spine, he felt—glorious, safe, and blissfully relieved, all the tension he’d been holding on to for weeks lost in the simple perfection of skin on skin. “I thought you would hate me,” he said quietly, almost absently.

Klavier shifted. “For what?” he asked, his lips in Apollo’s hair.

“For accusing Kristoph,” Apollo explained, sleep tugging at the backs of his eyeballs. “For—making it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse,” Klavier said, and Apollo could hear his frown. He smiled a little at that, pressed it against Klavier’s chest so he would know. Klavier’s hand tightened on his back. “You just told me the truth. And I can’t imagine hating you.”

“Isn’t hard,” Apollo slurred. “Lots of people do. All those letters.”

“Nobody who knows you,” Klavier said firmly. “Nobody who knows you could.”

“Kristoph knows me,” Apollo said, and fell asleep.

+++

Klavier wandered out of Apollo’s office at 6 AM wearing only a pair of Apollo’s pajama pants, and came face to face with Phoenix Wright as he hurried through the front door. He looked startlingly happy, and was still wearing the same suit as the night before, although around his neck was a long chain with a ring on it that Klavier had never seen before. He stopped when he saw Klavier, started to frown, and then seemed to give up. “Morning,” he said ruefully.

“Uh,” said Klavier, “guten Morgen.”

Wright looked him over with a squint. “What is that,” he asked, “strawberry jam?”

Klavier glanced down at himself, at the pink smears that remained on his chest. “Oh,” he said. “Uh—”

“You know what?” Wright said, spreading his hands. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know. Is Apollo—uh, decent?”

Klavier rubbed the back of his head. “Ah. Nein.”

Phoenix sighed. “Right. Okay. Well. Just remind him about Trucy’s show this afternoon, would you?” He slipped past Klavier, gesturing down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way.”

“Danke,” said Klavier, a little dazed, and watched Wright disappear into his own office.

He let himself back into Apollo’s storeroom/bedroom as quietly as he could. Apollo had uncurled in his absence, burrowing face-first into the pillow, the sheet tangled around his legs. Klavier knelt over him, sliding both palms slowly up the plane of his back and over his shoulders, then down again, running his hands appreciatively over the curve of Apollo’s ass. Apollo let out a long sigh and rolled onto his side, reaching up to hook an arm around Klavier’s neck and pull him down.

Klavier went, tucking his head into the curve of Apollo’s throat and molding himself to the line of his body. He’d always been tactile, in his friendships as well as his relationships. Lucia hadn’t been cold, certainly, but she also hadn’t been much of a cuddler, and Klavier wrapped his arms around Apollo embarrassingly eagerly. He clung, also, because this little room was safe in a way that the rest of the world wasn’t. So long as he remained here, wrapped up in Apollo’s arms and Apollo’s bed, he didn’t have to face what Apollo’s marvelous brain had worked out, what his should have.

Of course it was Kristoph. He should have known the first moment he knew that it wasn’t a fan. He should have known when Lucia pointed out that it was an attack on them both, he should have known when Charlemagne spoke to him in German—he imagined Kristoph coaching her through it, keeping his contempt behind the walls of his eyes, imagined him teaching her to say I love you, I love you, over and over again. Her voice in his memory became his—dein ist mein Herz—and he pressed his face hard into Apollo’s shoulder, his skin crawling.

“Klav?” Apollo asked sleepily. “Y’alright?”

Klavier relaxed his grip, nuzzling up under Apollo’s jaw. “Ja,” he said. “Or. I will be.”

Apollo shifted so he could look down at him, his dark eyes worried. Klavier smiled at him. “Herr Wright says to remind you of Trucy’s show today,” he said.

Apollo blinked, and then went scarlet. “Phoenix was here?” he said, too loud. “He saw you?”

Klavier twisted his lips to keep from laughing. “I am afraid so.”

Apollo groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Klavier kissed him fondly on the jaw. “If it helps,” he said, “he was still in the same clothes from last night and he looked very happy.”

Apollo shook his head frantically. “Doesn’t help, ew, ew.”

Klavier hummed. “Do you think they actually have sex,” he asked curiously, “or just sneak into the courtroom and shout at one another until orgasm? I ask because it is very hard for me to imagine Edgeworth without his cravat, and the idea that he would wear it in bed is too ridiculous.”

“Klavier,” Apollo wailed, and Klavier wriggled laughingly upwards so he could kiss the distress off his face.

He tried to hold onto that happy lightness as they got dressed and left the Agency offices, but he felt it slowly draining away. Apollo seemed to sense his need for silence, but he was there, physically there in a way that Klavier had never really experienced before. Serious, sincere, solid Apollo, there on the end of Klavier’s arm like a shield.

They stepped into the hallway outside Kristoph’s cell. He was sitting on the end of his bed as poised as he ever had been in his office. His ice-blue eyes snapped to Klavier’s and it was like Apollo had never been there at all.

“Lieber Bruder,” Kristoph said smoothly. “To what, finally, do I owe this pleasure?”

Klavier swallowed, all his prepared speeches lost beyond reach. “Carla Charlemagne,” he said falteringly.

Kristoph’s face remained blank. “The name is vaguely familiar,” he said. “Who is she?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Klavier snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Kristoph straightened the cuffs of his prison uniform. “I see we’re in a mood,” he said. “Please, go on, tell me what you think you know.”

“I know she wasn’t the only one,” Klavier said, forging ahead on shifting sands. “Jackson Grant—”

"Looks a lot like Mr. Justice, doesn't he? Edgier, though." Kristoph’s lip curled. "More your type."

"You think I would have gone with him just because they look alike?" Klavier asked in disbelief. "Apollo and I—"

Kristoph waved a hand. "Oh, I know, it's as much about minds as bodies, right?" He smiled, thin and unpleasant. "Why do you think I had dear Carla plant the murder weapon in Richten’s drawer?"

Klavier felt Apollo’s fingers tighten on his. “You—?”

Kristoph inclined his head. “This is what you are not understanding, mein Bruder. It was all me. Everything. You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him, when he was working for me? There was potential there. That’s all people are—potential, a thousand potential truths and feelings and relationships waiting to happen. It’s so easy to draw that potential out.” His gaze slid down Klavier’s arm like oil, resting on their joined hands. “This little romance of yours was a bonfire waiting for a flame, and the Richten trial promised sparks. I just had to get the two of you involved.”

“Why?” Apollo asked, his legs spread, his shoulders squared, like he was setting himself wholesale against the things Kristoph was saying. “What was the point? Revenge? Retaliation?”

Kristoph finally looked at him. The disgust in his eyes made Klavier go cold. “Against you? Ja, richtig. But an afterthought only, dear boy. You were never the priority. The point was to show my little brother that putting me in prison changes nothing: he is still mine. Freedom is meaningless. Choice is impossible. I govern him as completely as I always have.”

“That’s not true,” Klavier said, but he felt—liquid, unmoored. “It didn’t work,” he insisted. “I didn’t believe it was Lucia, and we caught Charlemagne, and we’re here, we found you out. We’ve won.”

Kristoph turned back to him, blinking his eyes wide. “Have you?” he asked, surprised. “And what has changed, now that you’ve won?”

Klavier swayed on his feet. It was so much worse than he thought it would be, being here. Apollo gripped his hand. “We’ll press charges,” he said firmly. “Conspiracy. Stalking. We’ll arrest Jackson Grant—”

“The loss of a pawn means nothing, Herr Justice,” Kristoph said lazily. “And I am locked up for murder. What more can you do to me?” He smiled a little. “I am proud of you Klavier,” he said. “I thought it would take you much longer to put the pieces together.”

Proud of you. Klavier’s chest bloomed with warmth, and he bit his lip bloody to keep from smiling. “It wasn’t me at all,” he said quietly, defiantly, disgusted with himself.

Kristoph’s eyebrows rose. “Ah,” he said. “How disappointing.”

Klavier set his jaw, and Apollo took a step forward. “It’s over,” he said. “That’s what this means. It’s done, you can’t hurt him anymore.”

Kristoph regarded him sideways. “Hurt him?” he asked. “I was hurting you. Him, I am guiding, that’s all. He would be lost without me, and he knows it.” He looked at Klavier over his glasses and suddenly Klavier was sixteen again, coming home with his first tattoo. “What good is a defiant little brat without his brother to defy?”

“Shut up,” Klavier snapped. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

Kristoph watched him like a cat. “Much of what I am,” he quoted softly, “I am because I knew it would disappoint Kristoph. Your words, nein? And fresh from your lips.”

Klavier froze. “How—” There was no way that Phoenix was in on this. “The cab driver? It was Grant?”

“Don’t be so simple,” Kristoph murmured. “What makes you think the two you found are the only two I hid?”

Apollo was a trembling, livid force at Klavier’s side. “You bastard,” he said. “You total monster—”

“That is the point,” Kristoph said, ignoring Apollo, his eyes warm and satisfied on Klavier’s face. “You will never know where I am. You will never know what I know. And the things you are, the people you love, the people who love you—they will be chosen at my discretion, not yours.” He smiled. “After all, I know better. I have always known better.”

“That’s not true,” Apollo insisted. “I love him of my own free will—”

“Klavier,” Kristoph said. “Your boytoy is boring me. Leave, please.”

Klavier took a long breath. He focused on the floor beneath his feet, focused on being here and now, twenty-five rather than sixteen. “Apollo,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Apollo whirled on him. “Okay?” he snapped. “How is this possibly—”

Klavier smiled at him. “Please,” he said. “Trust me.”

Apollo searched his face a moment, and then he nodded, subsiding.

Klavier let go of Apollo’s hand and took a step forward. “You talk well from behind bars, Kristoph,” he said softly. “I suppose you arranged to put yourself here just for dramatic effect, hm?”

Kristoph’s mouth tightened. “You—”

“Ich,” interrupted Klavier, “brauche dich nicht. My life has no been worse since you have been in here, except in those ways that you have actively made it worse. And even those? Apollo may have not been the target, but he still took the brunt of the damage. You attempted to drive me away from him.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can see how well that worked.”

“I brought you together in the first—”

“You also attempted to seduce me away from him with a pale imitation, a dollar-store Apollo with a lip piercing because you think I like things that are edgy.” He was angry now, angry like he hadn’t managed to be at Kristoph’s actual trial, angry at his smirk and his self-assurance and the loss of the brother he always thought he’d had. “I instead chose a beautiful, intelligent woman, and when you attempted to drive me away from her you failed there, as well.”

Kristoph shook his head. “A minor loss—”

“Among many.” Klavier cocked his head, flooded suddenly with pity. “My poor brother, you have not been very successful at all, have you? Everything you have done we have undone, and here you are, lashing out about freedom and choice as if I am the caged one.”

Kristoph narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “I’ll still be watching you.”

“So watch,” Klavier said, crossing his arms. “Watch me make a life for myself free of you. Watch me be successful without you. Watch me take the shreds of your terrible choices and build something beautiful.” He reached for Apollo, who was watching him with an open mouth. He shook himself and came to stand at Klavier’s side, and Klavier threaded their fingers together again. “The idea that this is something you built is laughable,” he said quietly. “The hubris, Kristoph, the delusion.”

Kristoph’s lip curled. “Fine,” he said. “See how long you last, now that you are not pushed together by the forces of my will. Without me to unite against, you’ll fall apart.”

Apollo shook his head. “No,” he said. “We won’t.”

“If you heard that part of what I told Herr Wright,” Klavier said, “then you must have heard the rest, too. That the impetus of something doesn’t matter. I am who I am, Kristoph, and I love what and who I love. That no longer has anything to do with you, and that is your fault, not mine.”

Kristoph growled. “Klavier—”

“Goodbye, Kristoph,” Klavier said, his voice wobbling. “I love you, despite what you have done. That, most of all, despite you.”

He turned and left, Apollo at his heels. Halfway down the hall, he hear Kristoph scream, “KLAVIER!”

He made it another few paces before he slumped against the wall, shaking, his mind gone blank. Apollo stepped up behind him, sliding his arms around him, and Klavier relaxed backwards, letting Apollo hold him up. “That was amazing,” Apollo said softly in his ear. “God, Klav.”

Klavier chuckled weakly. “Thank you,” he said. “I have always been better at performing under pressure.” He took a breath. “Thank you for being there,” he said. “I don’t think I could have done that without an audience.”

“Diva,” Apollo accused, all warm breath against his temple.

Klavier huffed a laugh, twisting in his arms. “Correct,” he said. “I am a diva, and you, apparently, are my boytoy.”

Apollo smiled at him. “Doesn’t sound like such a bad life.”

Klavier shook his head. “You would get terribly bored,” he said. “Lazing around scantily clad in my bed all day, drinking champagne. No bad guys to catch at all. Seems a terrible waste of a disgustingly appropriate surname.”

Apollo cracked up, dropping his head down onto Klavier’s shoulder, and Klavier took the opportunity to let his face go slack while Apollo couldn’t see him. He took a long, shaking breath, swallowing against the panic in his throat and blinking hard against the tears in his eyes.

“I guess I’ll keep my day job,” Apollo said, lifting his head, and Klavier was able to meet his eyes steadily and smile. “I’ll have to laze around in your bed scantily clad as, like, a part-time thing.”

“Please do,” Klavier said, and maybe Apollo saw the panic under his mask because he sobered a little, raising a hand to trace a thumb over his cheekbone. Klavier dropped his eyes.

“We’ll still charge him,” Apollo said. “I’ve got everything he said in there on tape, that’s enough to take away visitation rights and make sure he never gets out of here. And we’ll arrest Grant, and maybe Phoenix got that license number—he’s been doing this a long time, he pays attention to—”

“He was drunk,” Klavier said gently. “And—there is little point in ferreting out every cabbie in LA, ja? We will let it go.”

Apollo searched his face. “You’re sure?”

Klavier nodded, taking a long breath in and letting it out again. “I am sure.”

Apollo watched him a moment longer, then nodded and leaned up to kiss him, sure and slow. When they separated, Klavier had to blink the wetness from his eyes. “Trucy’s show,” he murmured.

“Right,” said Apollo, and stepped back a little. “You know, at this point we’re going to run through our list in no time.”

Klavier raised his eyebrows. “The list of things I want to do with you?” he asked. “Never.”

He saw Apollo twitch his wrist like he was expecting something to change. Nothing did, and the smiled that bloomed across his face made Klavier’s heart turn over in his chest. This was not just a calculated fruition of potential. This was not a romance engineered. This was not Kristoph.

“Come on then,” he said, smiling helplessly back. “Mustn’t keep the Fräulein waiting.”

Phoenix and Edgeworth were already in the park, which wasn’t too much of a surprise. More surprising was the sight of Edgeworth in casual clothes, his coat spread out on the grass beneath him, and Phoenix sitting between his knees, his back against Edgeworth’s chest. He sat forward to wave at them.

Edgeworth’s eyes widened when he saw Klavier, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to move. But Phoenix had a hand on each of his knees and Klavier smiled at him, trying to reassure him without coming off as condescending, and eventually the head prosecutor relaxed, giving Klavier a nod.

Apollo crossed to nudge Phoenix’s leg with his toe. “Fixed?” he asked.

Phoenix looked up at him, squinting in the afternoon sun. “On its way, anyway,” he said. “And you? Is it over?”

Apollo looked to Klavier, who turned to look around the park. In the hollow below the hill where they perched, Trucy and a few helpers—friends from school, Klavier guessed—were setting up a makeshift stage. Bright streamers hung from nearby trees. She noticed Klavier and gave a little wave, and he wriggled his fingers back at her. Beyond them, a woman was walking her dog, bright pink earbuds tucked into her ears. A man sat on a park bench, reading the paper. Children gathered to stare at Trucy’s stage, or tossed a frisbee between them, shouting to each other.

You’ll never know where I am. Klavier shook his head. He knew exactly where Kristoph was—declawed, voiceless, caged. “Ja,” he said. “Yes. It is over.”