This was written for a prompt on the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, but I kinda lost the prompt, and it was way back in part 2 or something anyway. All I remember was that it was supposed to be about Klavier and Daryan and incorporate the song "The Lovesong Writer" by Thursday. Could be implied KlavierxDaryan, but only if you want to see it that way.
Disclaimer: Characters (c) Capcom, lyrics (c) Thursday
Warning: Implied spoilers for case 3 of Apollo Justice
. . .
The bar was dingy. Dusty. Empty. Abandoned. Forgotten.
Such a far cry from when they'd first met, but here he was, in the shadowed doorway, and there he was, seated on a stool on the small stage. Guitar in hand- but acoustic, plain, the thin fingers moving slowly across it in careful, focused movements, as though the guitar was the only thing in the world. An entirely different image from those same familiar, calloused hands on the instrument's electric cousin… neon lights turned grey. The sweat on his skin faded to dust.
The man on the stool wore his dark hair down loose around his shoulders, and it moved with the same sadness as the rest of him as he continued to play the soft melody. As Klavier stood there, watching, he opened his mouth and began to sing softly, not performing for anyone but himself.
"Sitting alone in the dark of a stadium… he whispers his secrets into a cheap guitar…"
That voice rasped more than he remembered.
"With the flick of his wrist he turns words into melodies… chords into church bells, fill up the allies." He fell silent for a moment, letting the pads of his fingers brush along the strings almost caressingly. His voice grew slightly hoarser, roughened with emotion. "Lovers entwine in the heat of the night… and by dawn are apart in the shivering silences.
"We will pretend… that it's all just made up…"
Suddenly, Klavier was conscious of a heavy pressure in his chest, pushing up against his throat. He pressed a hand against the back wall, the other finding its way to his necklace, reassuringly tracing its angles and edges.
Up on stage, the man sang, with all the time in the world. His voice dipped into a rough, tired whisper, so that Klavier had to strain to hear his words.
"The songs that he writes are too personal…"
Just like that, the man on stage began to raise his head, and Klavier's hand tightened around the metal at his neck.
"… he can't play them for anyone."
Daryan gazed out across the empty room, eyes searching but finding no one. Of course; no one was there. It was foolish to have felt that he was. Such things happened only in dreams nowadays.
"When he's all alone, the lovesong writer sings…"