It wasn't until after the trial that Klavier fully realized that he couldn't even try protecting Kristoph; maybe that was one of those sorts of things that Kristoph liked, one of those things that firmly adhered to the rule of "That's just the way things are" - Kristoph and his absolutes and his castles of crystal; for once, Klavier felt that he didn't feel much like metaphors.

He had overheard something said by Wright, spoken to Apollo after court; it was, in retrospect, not meant for him to hear, but that was the difference between intent and actions. It had been something about locks, about Kristoph, about darkness and nail polish, and he found himself moving toward the source of the conversation. To Apollo, it would look like nothing more than random wandering; Klavier could tell that it looked like an intrusion to Phoenix. Phoenix may not have been a lawyer anymore, but Klavier knew that he was far from stupid.

"Congratulations on your victory," Klavier said pleasantly.

Apollo looked uncomfortable; excited, but uncomfortable. "Y-you're welcome...thank you! Thank you is what I meant..."

Klavier laughed quietly. "It's fine, Herr Forehead. You'll put that much into it again when next we meet, ja?"

"Of course!"

"Good," Klavier said, giving a curt nod to Phoenix Wright as he turned to leave, his exit music set to the tune of Apollo making excited chattering noises about nothing of interest. He hadn't asked about their previous discussion, because it was none of his business; he knew that he probably never would ask, either, about those black locking devices supposedly protecting his older brother's heart. It would only lead to answers he wouldn't like.

Kristoph had not confessed, and he probably never would.

It was troubling.

"Hey," Klavier said; they had been sitting in silence for a few minutes, Kristoph in the chair next to a table and a few books, Klavier lolling on Kristoph's bed. He had been playing with the flowers on the stand next to the bed, initially wondering how they stayed alive in Solitary, then feeling the silk running along his fingertips and the backs of his hands. Of course.

"Mmm." Kristoph hadn't looked up from his book since Klavier had taken over the bed.

"Kristoph?"

Kristoph sighed and set the book down, slipping an envelope between the pages to mark his place. "I don't exactly have anything for you right now."

"I was just..."

"Don't you have anything more productive to do? I'm clearly unable to entertain anyone properly at the moment."

Klavier bristled slightly. "I just wanted to ask you again. You're making it hard for me to get any sort of assistance for you."

"Am I?"

"Did you do it or not?"

Kristoph looked at him for a moment, then smiled slightly. "I'm sorry, did I forget to give my signed declaration to the police? That should tell you all you need to know. You're a prosecutor. Don't you have access?"

With that, he picked up his book, sliding the envelope out of its place, and began reading again. Klavier watched Kristoph's eyes, shifting behind his glasses and trying to find the exact spot where he had left off; before he could really stop himself he had stood up, approaching Kristoph and standing directly in front of him.

"Light is a scarce commodity around here," Kristoph said evenly, "and I'll thank you to not stand in mi-"

He was cut off by Klavier gripping the spine of the book and snapping the pages shut. He looked up, his expression darkening.

"You can't hide from it forever, Kristoph. I need to know."

Kristoph looked at him for a moment, his expression shifting to one that was just as angry but somehow less disturbing to look at as he regained his composure.

"Who's hiding?" he said, shrugging slightly. "I don't get very many visitors, Klavier; do you think I haven't been asked before? I stand by what I said. It's not my fault if you can't do your own work." Another subtle shift in expression, this time reverting back to that same placid smile. "My other visitors are never here for something as pleasant as a family chat. Are you going to sully this time for me, too?"

Something came up suddenly behind Klavier's eyes; he had felt, at the time of that fatal concert with Lamiroir, that he couldn't possibly get angrier than he was then. He was proving himself wrong in that aspect. For the first time since they were young – or, rather, he was young; he couldn't remember a time when Kristoph had been younger than twelve years old, and that was if he pushed it – he wanted nothing more than to hurt his brother. Hit him, scratch him, do something that would make Kristoph look at him with something other than ice in his eyes. He was good at rehearsals, could recognize a practiced performance; it was still a rude wake-up call to realize that despite all Klavier's posing, his older brother would always be the master of it.

Klavier didn't envy him.

He contemplated the best way to injure Kristoph, staring at him for a full thirty seconds before simply leaving him alone. It wasn't that he felt that it was the best way to cause him pain – Kristoph would, after all, be alone for quite some time – but it was the best way to keep himself from doing something stupid. He made his way down the hall, making sure to put good distance between them, before stopping to let himself breathe, smacking the wall idly with his hand.

He had told Trucy once (and Herr Forehead, too, he supposed) that abuse of his guitars was never tolerated; they received his love, and as a result he tried to take care of them, even when there were issues with the sound emanating from them.

Kristoph was the same way, he supposed, with his share of things that needed to be handled with some sort of decency and care. Klavier didn't want to recognize the other point that he had brought up to her – that once the structure was warped and the base twisted, it resulted in mangled, gnarled chords that, in the end, were impossible to fix.