Ye Merry Gentlemen

He should have been at a party right now, should have been drunk and fumbling notes on a borrowed guitar right now. He should have been slurring his words and stumbling into good-looking people, telling them in languages they did not understand that he thought they were pretty and needed another drink. He should have been flirting with cute interns, touching shoulders and lingering just a little too long to be innocent. That was what he should have been doing, but Kristoph Gavin was getting out of prison today.

Klavier looked down at his watch for what must have been the nine hundredth time since he had parked the car and walked over to the bottom of the steps leading up to the Detention Center's front entrance. His brother had been transferred back into the city from the state prison this morning to finish some paperwork regarding his parole, which – Klavier rationalized – must have been why he was so late. It was cold out here, and he had been waiting for almost a half an hour already. The blond crossed his arms over his chest, fighting the urge to pout or sulk.

Technically, Klavier could have gone inside. He could have sat down in the lobby and waited impatiently in the warm, spartan room. But that was the last thing he wanted right now. He knew that he could not go in there with a smile, and that questions that he did not want to voice the answers to would be asked. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration, a day of being thankful and feeling blessed; it was Christmas Eve, after all, and Kristoph was getting out of prison after two years of hard work and endless phone calls.

Kristoph had been found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder, two counts of conspiracy, and four counts of obstruction of justice. Phoenix Wright had, surprisingly, not pressed charges for defamation of character or asked to be reimbursed for the irreparable damage to his career. He had even turned down Klavier's suggestion for an out-of-court settlement regarding the matter. Perhaps he was allergic to the idea of getting paid for his trouble. Still, Klavier could not believe that he had gotten his brother off with such a light sentence, given the serious nature of the man's crimes. Being a prosecutor had its perks, though, regardless of whether or not he felt guilty about having used them. Did he feel guilty, though, or just angry that he had ever needed to use his influence like that? The elder Gavin had gotten a measly sixty years, and fifty-eight of those were to be suspended on the condition that Kristoph live with his younger brother and be under strict house arrest for the first five years after his initial release. He would be unable to go more than a few feet from the edge of their property, unless Klavier was taking him to one of his appointments.

Klavier had very few places that he would be able to take his brother, and would have to follow the same route every time. His brother had been instructed to meet with a parole officer three times a month, and have weekly sessions with a court-appointed therapist. Being late to either of these appointments, regardless of circumstances, would be seen as a direct violation of parole. Kristoph Gavin had also been banned from ever setting foot inside a court of law again, although he had long since been disbarred, of course. There were multiple restraining orders in place to keep the former attorney from making contact with anyone who had been involved with his indictment and the following trial, with the singular exception of his brother. Even the smallest infraction on his parole would result in him going back to prison, not for the end of his sentence, but rather for the remainder of his natural life.

Of course, his brother had, at the time, assured him that the 'remainder of his natural life' would not be very long in that particular scenario. They may have bargained their way out of the death sentence, but Kristoph had signed a DNR while in prison, and had promised not to accept any medical services meant to prolong his health. He had even changed his life insurance after realizing that the policy did not 'afford him the opportunity to maintain his dignity.' When Klavier pressed him on that odd statement, his brother had just smiled and rather bluntly informed him that his previous one had not covered death by suicide and that he had wanted his precious, precocious baby brother to get something worthwhile for having to deal with the hassle of a funeral.

If they had not been separated by glass at the time, Klavier would have slapped him.

Klavier shook his head. Although he had negotiated the details of Kristoph's plea bargain two years ago, and made shady deals and cashed in favors to keep the state from seeking the death penalty, it did not lessen the slimy feeling that had invaded his person. They had both been forced to dirty their hands to get the damn agreement signed: in Klavier's case, it had been with the attorney assigned to prosecute the case and with the High Prosecutor himself. Kristoph had called up the presiding judge and the current Chief of Police, presumably to blackmail or bribe them, although Klavier had no evidence suggesting foul play. Still, this was his Kristoph, and he did not need – nor especially desire, given their history – for such evidence to exist.

The young prosecutor hated to admit it, but he sometimes wished that everything had just gone the way that it was supposed to. He sometimes wondered what life would have been like if he had been the sort of man to just cover up and hide the truth, wondered what he might be doing right now if he had not felt forced to throw back the sheep's skin and expose the wolf to the rest of the flock. If no one else had ever had to look into the eyes of the man – murderer – monster – that was the real Kristoph Gavin. It was a heady possibility, resting on the assumption that, in some strange alternate universe, Klavier could have just gone along with the hoax, the dirty lie that Kristoph had tried to force down his throat almost ten years ago.

But Klavier Gavin was not that kind of man, though he often felt that he would have done anything to go back to his childhood and banish all these sleepless nights and memories of dry, wracking sobs that tore through him when he had no more tears left for his dear, beloved brother. He would have sold his soul for the opportunity to return to simpler times, to slow afternoons when he would sit at his brother's feet and listen to him play the violin or crawl into bed with him when he was too scared to sleep alone at night. Klavier wondered if there really was a way to reconcile these two conflicting feelings: this love of truth, this passion to discover it and force others to see it as it truly was, and this aching longing for the ignorance and innocence that he once had.

But the truth was precious, was wonderful, was a thing to be protected and flaunted and never hidden behind lies, no matter how tempting the chance to turn on it was. The truth was that, regardless of how it had happened, he would still have been here, standing out in the cold waiting for Kristoph to be released into his custody. Even if Kristoph had not killed Shadi Enigmar in that dirty little basement beneath the Borscht Bowl Club, and even if Kristoph had not commissioned the forged diary page from Drew Misham, and even if he had not had such a cunning backup plan to kill the painter, Klavier was certain that he still would have ruined everything and messed up all their carefully laid plans and cherished dreams, because that was what Kristoph was really good at doing.

The doors to the Detention Center opened at long last, and Klavier jerked his head down to check his watch again. It was half past seven now. Slowly, he dragged his tired gaze up the stone steps. A part of him hoped that it was just some lowly officer getting down with his shift and heading home for the night, because he was not sure that he was ready to see Kristoph just yet, but he quickly silenced that rebellious sentiment. Kristoph may have been a mad man – a loose cannon, really – but Klavier, at least, was a good brother and would stand beside him when the rest of the world had turned their back on the Gavins.

There was a detective at the top of the steps, but he was not alone.

Blue eyes traveled up past slightly rumpled slacks and over a matching light blue suit jacket. His gaze caught on the pale, dirty ribbon tied around the neck before sweeping over the blond hair that had been carefully twirled into a neat spiral. Klavier's vision slid along the familiar curves of a strong jaw. He saw the smirking mouth – lips pulled up slightly higher on one side – and the delicate wire frames of designer lenses as they were pushed further up on the prominent bridge of the older man's nose with one manicured finger. Klavier swallowed hard.

It was hard to see anything but the Devil, even in this poor lighting, and the one truth that Klavier had never wanted to admit was standing right in front of him. That contradictory evidence that would tear down his own house of cards –

"Guten nacht, mein bruder."

Klavier had only ever lied twice in his life. The first time had been when he was small, and did not understand that it was wrong. The last time, though, had been when he told Justice about nothing standing in the way of truth, because the real truth was that blood was thicker than water, or pride, or even love. There was no greater bond, no stronger obligation than the blood that he shared with Kristoph: their brotherhood was the ultimate truth, the one thing that he could not deny or dismiss as a frivolous technicality unrelated to the nature of the case at hand. It was the one thing that he dared not hide from, the thing that would have destroyed him if he tried.

No matter how he looked at it, in the end, they were the same man, by virtue of that tainted blood. And regardless of how much he loved his brother, he also hated Kristoph for turning them both into this monster. He hated him, and wanted to protect him and hurt him and make him pay for every crime he never knew he committed. It was all conflicted, all confusion and strange, boiling feelings in that poisoned blood pounding in his veins whenever he saw Kristoph.

"I've come to take you home, Kristoph." The detective walked his brother down the steps to meet him, holding the criminal by the arm until they stopped in front of the prosecutor. Klavier nodded to the detective, and the man tilted his hat to him and released Kristoph. For a moment, there were no words between them. There were no meaningful looks, no whispered congratulations, no comforting sentiments. For a few, painful seconds, there was only silence. Klavier coughed, and then took his brother by the arm in the same way that the detective had, leading him away from the Detention Center and towards the car. "Come on."

"If I didn't know any better, Klaus," the tone was meant to be pleasant, Klavier knew, but he could not get past the cool glare and patronizing use of his real name. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. He fumbled with his car keys. "I would almost think that you weren't glad to see me again."

"It's Christmas Eve," he replied, as if the statement of that fact would distract the elder Gavin from his foul mood. Klavier opened the passenger door first, motioning for his brother to get in. He continued on this new strain. "I've missed the carolers this year. You'll have to sing to me on the drive home."

"Sing to you?" Kristoph repeated it, brows raised and a small smile playing with the corners of his lips. Klavier closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. He got in and buckled his seat belt. The keys were in the ignition, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, but he did not turn the car on yet. He heard Kristoph chuckle from the passenger's seat. "You haven't asked me to do that in a long time – "

"I'm not asking," he interrupted, cursed himself for the hard way that he had said it. Klavier had not meant to snap at him. Again, there was silence. He looked over at his brother, and their eyes met, gauging one another. Kristoph had always liked to be in control; it must have been strange for him to have his baby brother talking back like this. Klavier did not care. Their plans of a perfect team to find the truth lay in ashes because of his stupidity, his recklessness. Klavier would never get a chance to face off against his brother in a court of law. And, worse still, Kristoph had proven to them all that he was a liar, and the sullying of his once ideal beliefs were not something that the prosecutor could easily forgive. "Now sing to me."

". . .And what, pray tell, mein bruder, would you have me sing?" the words were clipped, the use of German meant to be condescending. Klavier grimaced. Their blood tie meant that he had the responsibility of ensuring that his brother was cared for, but that certainly did not mean that he would not take full advantage of his new position of power. They both knew that Kristoph would have to do as he was told; after all, it would only take one little phone call to his parole officer, or his psychiatrist, or the judge, and the elder Gavin would be back in prison before sunrise. The former defense attorney really could not afford to call the prosecutor's bluff.

Kristoph was always a little too cautious. Maybe that was why he lost that fated poker game.

"It's Christmas Eve," he repeated simply, turning the key and shifting the car into reverse. Klavier put his arm behind Kristoph's seat, twisting so that he could see through the back window as he began backing the car out of its parking place. "Sing me all my favorites."

When Klavier was little, he used to ask Kristoph to sing to him to help him sleep, or to keep from crying. Sometimes, he would ask his older brother to play the violin for him instead of a lullaby, or to show him some new chord on the guitar that he had gotten as a present. He had always been jealous of his brother's natural musical talents, the way that Kristoph could play any instrument that he got his hands on back then, or the way that he could sing so beautifully without any kind of effort. Klavier was not a natural musician, the same way that he was not a natural German; both were things that had been honed, carefully trained and practiced until he could be sure that no one could see through his cheap facade. His strengths had never really lay in music; it was only a hobby.

He had become a rock star to spite his brother, because he was sure that Kristoph envied his affinity for law. Prosecuting had come easily to him. Kristoph had studied long and hard to become a lawyer, had pressed and insisted that Klavier also enter the profession. You have so much potential, his brother used to say. Kristoph had sent him to Germany to live with their father and study under the best, to have a chance to take the exams early and become an attorney at a younger age than was possible in the States.

Klavier did a lot of things to spite his brother, now that he thought of it. He had come out to his brother a year ago, had mumbled his orientation through the bars that separated them in the prison, just to get a rise out of him. A week later, he had followed it with the news that he had gotten rid of Vognole, because he did not like dogs. He was angry at Kristoph for messing everything up, and he told himself that since he could not allow his brother to die or rot in prison, this was only fair. It was wrong, but at the same time, he thought that he could rationalize making his brother miserable and frustrated as part of his duty as caretaker now, another obligation to be fulfilled. It was a small price to pay for murder, he thought.

"Your. . .favorites, Klaus?"

"Ja. In German, mein bruder."

Kristoph licked his lips slowly, the tip of his tongue visible for just a moment before he set his jaw resolutely. He pushed his glasses up again with one hand, closing his eyes with a sigh. Klavier smiled as his brother's low, sweet baritone soon filled the small vehicle. He loved the sound of that voice: the way that it rose in volume and tempo just right; the way that it was strong and smooth and never fell off-key. The gentle and soothing nature of it was the closest Klavier would ever get to regaining his lost innocence.

"Stille Nacht. . .heilige Nacht. . . Alles schläft; einsam wacht. Nur das traute hochheilige Paar. Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar. Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh . . ."