Cleaning Out the Closet

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Ace Attorney AU
Chapter Summary: Klavier needs someone to talk to about the events of the final trial, and who better than a best friend, even if he is incarcerated?
Word Count: 1556
Rating: Teen
Pairing: pre-Klavier/Apollo
Note: Apollo Justice spoilers.  Apollo is talked about but does not appear.  Same with Kristoph.

          “The hell you doing here, Gavin?”
          Klavier carefully doesn’t flinch, crossing his legs as he sits in the visiting room chair rather than allowing a foot to tap to the restless rhythm of his heart.  “Further news of Kristoph’s misfortune seems to always make you smile, so I thought I would share it.”  He’s aware that his fury shows on his face.  But it’s safe, ja?  Safe, here, to show how he feels betrayed.  It’s rare, his scowling stormcloud.  He tries not to show it, too often, because it’s certainly intimidating and he doesn’t want to scare anyone.  As a Prosecutor, he’s all too aware of what an angry man is capable of, particularly to a woman, and doesn’t want to inflict that fear in others, however innocent his intentions.  Even Apollo, who at times reminds him of a small, fierce dog unafraid—or incapable of allowing itself to show that fear—had been taken aback, at that disaster of a concert.  He’d tried to ignore it all, but after that final trial he just couldn’t contain any of it.  He’s gone through more emotions this week than he’s named in his songs, each threatening to pull him in pieces, but some places are more…welcoming, to certain of his feelings, than others.  And Daryan has never flinched, even from his foulest mood.
          He’s aware that Daryan was going to send him away.  Going to, but something about the exact tone of his voice or his body language is enough to make the man hesitate.  “Further news?  The man’s on death row for murder.  What’d he do, get assassinated in jail or something?”
          Involuntarily, his fists clench.  He wants to chastise his—friend?  Former friend?  He’s not sure how to label someone, once they’re in jail, and he’s always been terrible about cutting ties.  Clearly, because even now, his instincts say to act as Kristoph’s well-trained attack dog.  Instead, he takes a deep breath, breathes through it, stills his tongue until he can be sure of his words.  That he has cut all strings labeling him merely the marionette property of his Bruder.  “Ja, but they have ein Motiv, now.  A second murder, an attempted third, blackmail, forged evidence, using me as a tool to get to Herr Wright simply for taking a case he wished to have—!”
          He pauses for a moment to breathe, again, and dismiss the image of throttling his dear brother with his own hands.  However vivid the hallucination or satisfying the emotional impact would be, at the time, in the end it would be a loss, for it would merely spin things back into Kristoph’s control.  If he could bring down Herr Wright or Apollo as well, his brother would do so.  But putting Klavier in jail as well, for attempted murder, escaping punishment by the courts while using them as an instrument for his own ends—that would be his crowning glory.  Daryan is actually eyeing the blond with what may be concern.  The smile that comes to the singer’s lips is more of a snarl than camera-worthy, but ah, well.  If the guards are corrupt enough to sell the footage to anyone other than his brother, he can always sue.  “In any case, he was far too eager to gossip about you, last I visited.  I suppose I should return the favor.”
          Daryan’s smile is that of a shark.  Fair enough, under the circumstances.  “Well, I’m glad you’re living up to your morals, anyway.  Makes me feel better about rotting in this cell.  So go on, what did the bastard do?”
          So out it comes, the whole sordid story, even that which neither Apollo nor Herr Wright could bring themelves to speculate about.  Who knew him better, after all, than his own brother?  His voice breaks, sometimes, but the words come easier, this time.  It feels like all he’s been doing is talking about this, and he’s ready to be done.  He’s ready, really, to never speak about this again, but he’ll never move past it, never exorcise the demons from his life.  Or, well, Kristoph’s demons, honestly.
          He speaks until he’s hoarse, until his voice begins to shake, and, well, there come the tears.  Daryan had never been particularly understanding.  For all else that he had been, he, too, had disapproved—or been annoyed by—certain of Klavier’s emotions.  Perhaps not to the same, wide-reaching extent, nor had it come at more than a teasing about what a real man should do.  Kristoph believed everyone not as emotionless—nein, that is wrong, not as sociopathic as he is—was lesser.  Klavier strove to live up to that ideal, however failed his attempt.  Daryan merely bought into society’s lies about toxic masculinity.  A lesser offense, true, with less damage in its wake, but both still led to harm.
          Yet now…now he looks sympathetic.  “If it helps, Klavi, I wish I was wrong about the whole ‘your brother will only hurt you’ thing.”
          Klavier’s smile in response is weak, but true.  “Well, that’s a first.  You’ve never failed to gloat about being right.”
          “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”  Bittersweet, now.  The faintest hints of another song, maybe.  Now they’ve made it here, he’s left feeling…hollow.  He doesn’t know where to go from here.  He’d expected—he’s not sure, the aforementioned gloating.  Something, anything other than sympathy, understanding.  Maybe he didn’t even feel like he deserved it.  And, of course, like always Daryan can’t bear to let him wallow in his own pain.  “But you’re scared he’s turned you into him and screwed up your chances of screwing that lawyer, huh?”
          “D-Daryan!” Klavier splutters, blushing.  It’s not often another can provoke that reaction—he’d grown out of it as a rock star.
          Daryan laughs, but it doesn’t hurt.  It is embarrassing, though.  “Come on, I realized when you invited your courtroom rival to a concert.  You don’t even send tickets to the media for the PR!  I mean, there was that charity event, but—you didn’t forget to pay for the tickets, that time.”
          Klavier buries his face in his hands and groans.  “So not cool!”  But it’s strangely nostalgic, too, because it’s hardly the first time his former bandmate teased him about a crush.
          “I don’t know, I find it funny.”  He would, too, the jerk.  “It’s adorable, in a way.  The silver-tongued rock god can’t even speak to his crush normally.”
          “I can too!” Klavier protests, though he’s starting to laugh himself.
          “Oh, I’m sorry, have you actually tried to talk outside of court?  Oh wait, you did.  You do know he probably can’t afford to pay for those, right?  Poor attorneys are really, well, poor.”  And then, well, he was still in professional mode, because the concert was a catastrophe, someone died, and his attempt at impressing Apollo failed because the whole thing was a dismal failure.  Easy to talk to him, then, thinking of things other than playing with the attorney’s hair antenna.  Daryan sobers, and Klavier internally braces himself for what the man’s about to say next.  “In any case, if Kristoph made you his carbon copy, you wouldn’t be making a fool of yourself over a cute boy.”
          The blond sighs, fiddling with one of his rings.  “He’s definitely not a boy, Daryan.  Despite his looks.”  He’s not like certain other musicians he could but won’t name.
          “All right, he isn’t, but you’re acting like you are.”  That one, he can’t argue.  He hasn’t acted the shy schoolboy even when he was an actual schoolboy, even when he’d been interested in others before.  “You’re always the cool, collected one.  Always had the ladies, and some of the gentlemen, not that I envied you them.  Man, if only your fans could see you like this.”
          Klavier sticks his tongue out.  Perhaps confirming his perceived age, but there’s not really a better response.
          “You’re right.  They probably wouldn’t see you so awkward, because you wouldn’t be comfortable enough to let yourself be vulnerable with them.”  His old friend usually is more straightforward, but then, he’s probably starved for proper conversation, by this point.  “You should tell him.” 
          “Hä?”  What, that he’s a mess inside?  True, it’s probably a better impression than ass, but…
          Daryan rolls his eyes.  “At the very least, let your ‘cute man’ know that you made a mistake, that you’ll pay for it.  Maybe invite him to dinner to make it up to him.  Don’t let your pride get in the way.”
          “Ahaa!”  Klavier responds softly, finally on the same page of sheet music.  “I suppose, if I did so, I really would be letting Kris win,” he muses.  “Danke, Daryan.”
          “Bitte schon.  Seriously.”  His accent, as always, is terrible, but then, it would be.  He hasn’t put any effort into it.  Not like he put in their music—and, evidently, smuggling.  “Thanks for letting me know about the asshole’s misfortune, and giving me one more chance to play wingman.  Despite everything, you deserve something good for once, Piano-man.”
          Klavier stands.  The feeling, now, is bittersweet, regret at what could have been, happiness at what little he has now, hope at what could be.  Sehnsucht.  Yet maybe now something can grow from the ashes.  “Wish me luck.  Tschau.”  For the first time since that trial, he’s looking forward to the future.