"How was the movie, Klavier?"
Klavier closes his eyes. It is just him, in the darkness. Alone, with Kristoph. Alone.
"Not worth speaking of, I take it? I'm surprised, then, that you would even bother going." Kristoph does not sound the least bit surprised. He never is, at least as far as Klavier is concerned.
Eyes still shut, Klavier tells him this. One of the few things he can tell Kristoph and be certain of.
"You're right, surprised isn't really the best word. Disappointed, perhaps? But I suppose that would mean I built up my expectations of you in the first place."
He so desperately wants to admit he went with Blackquill, with Athena and her friends. His friends, and the movie doesn't even matter to him. But he knows it will only make things worse; if Kristoph learns of the connection Klavier is forging with Blackquill and his circle, he will take it from Klavier, make it his. Like a toy he doesn't even want but Klavier has it and Kristoph does not.
This new venture of Klavier's doesn't involve him, which is unforgiveable. But once Kristoph finds a way (and he always does), he'll taint, and eventually, destroy it. What is Klavier thinking, trying to show he is capable of a life without Kristoph's influence?
"Isn't it interesting?" Kristoph, again, does not seem interested. Not that Klavier has anything in recent memory to base this presumption off of. "You're so concerned with... what was it, seeking the truth? And yet, I can't recall you ever once being honest with me... Brüderlein."
Kristoph's endearment bears no affection, only mocks the culture that he so readily tossed aside and Klavier embraced. Fitting.
Klavier doesn't—can't—respond. Can't tell the truth. What would it even matter, if he could?
"Oh, but that's right: I'm the bad guy. The unpardonable criminal, the Devil incarnate. You're just another victim, hm?" Kristoph's tone is the same cool one he would use in court, when he was sailing to a clear-cut victory. "So it's all excusable. Pathetic, but excusable."
He needs to get out of here.
No, Kristoph needs to get out of here—he's the intruder, the one with no misgivings about entering whatever space he deems in need of his service. But that won't happen. No one will turn him away.
Klavier won't turn him away.
Moving to stand, Klavier opens his eyes. Kristoph is only a shadow, a blurry figure blacker than the darkness of his cell. There is no source of light but his glasses gleam a stripe of hot white, become larger, brighter as he reaches through the bars and lowers Klavier back into his chair. "You aren't going anywhere. You—"
"Don't fucking touch me."
Klavier tries to stand again, the force of it throwing Kristoph's hands from his shoulders. He's ready to push back this time. He doesn't know how to defend himself—he's never really thought he'd have to do so. But he's sick of, as Daryan would always accuse him, pussying out when it comes to Kristoph. He can't take the law into his own hands—he can't become Kristoph, he can't, but he has to; it's inevitable.
He has to.
His arms propel through the opening in the bars, making solid contact with Kristoph's chest. There's an oomph, uncharacteristically low for his brother, followed by his wrist being snared and used to push the rest of him firmly back to where he was seated. The chair is much wider, softer than before.
"Sit, Gavin-dono."
Kristoph's outline fades, eroding away like ice under salt.
In his place—in reality—is Blackquill. Taller and broader and a burning intensity in his eyes that counters the frosted-over gaze Kristoph would always assess him with. As they'd been before, only Klavier knows it now, Blackquill's hands are on Klavier's shoulders, guiding and steadying him, not casually ushering him towards self-destruction.
He should... either thank Blackquill, or apologize. He does both, though neither feels wholly suitable. "I'm sorry. But danke."
Blackquill's hold drops. He is somewhere between confused and impatient, and Klavier wonders just how long he's been detached. Even more so when Blackquill asks, "I take it you have not heard a word I've said?"
"I..." He doesn't dare to not attempt an answer. "Ah, about how I should be more attentive to my personal schedule, now that I've no longer agents or assistants to do it for me."
Blackquill lets out an amused Hmph, smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. "Your aim is true, but your blade too dull. It so happens that I did not say anything. I was waiting for you to... reconnect, as I assumed you were deep in thought. Obviously you were, in some sense of the word."
"I was," Klavier confirms. Should it bother him that Blackquill seems to be taking this all rather lightly? Because it doesn't, but maybe that's a good thing. "I didn't mean to ah... I wasn't shouting at you. I didn't mean to shove you."
"You were hardly shouting, but yes. I know you weren't. As I've already pointed out, you were not entirely present. You were mentally elsewhere."
"I didn't... mean to be."
"No, of course not. It was only a sort of defense mechanism. Something unsettled you—presumably, the fact that you mistook what day it was—so you fled the only way you could. You could not do so physically so, much like a dream, your mind carried you to somewhere familiar."
"Familiar" should denote "comforting", but they both know that's not the case here. Blackquill can read him like an open book, so why can't he reciprocate? If they're going to work together—if they're going to be friends—there needs to be communication. The kind that doesn't involve the backdrop of a hazy bar, or is squeezed out of them after a night of drinking and violent outbursts.
The kind Kristoph insists Klavier has never used, and the kind that can start now.
"Ja, that's... you're right, I thought tomorrow was Saturday, not Sunday, so..." There's no way to deliver this softly, and Blackquill's already shown he has no tolerance for beating around the bush. "I can't go to the movies with you tomorrow. I know we just discussed asking Athena about your... the case, but it might have to wait until some other time, and—"
"You... how do you mean, you can't?" Blackquill asks, eyes and words sharpening. "You certainly can. You've already agreed to it, and—"
"Kristoph," Klavier interrupts. "I see him every other Sunday. In the afternoon."
"So you would rather disappoint Athena, and essentially, throw me to the wolves? Lend me none of the support you so adamantly claimed you were here to provide me, all for the purpose of visiting your..." Blackquill pauses long enough to rethink his word choice. "For visiting Kristoph Gavin."
"It's not that... easy." Nor does his reply come easily, and Blackquill leaps on the opportunity.
"How is it not? It was easy enough for you to accept Athena's invitation—I do not think your 'forgetting' of the day was entirely accidental."
"I always see him. I have for..." Gott, how long has it been now? "Almost two years."
"Did you not also frequently visit Detective Crescend ? That is, the way you've spoken of him, it sounds as much. From what I gather, you've stopped doing so."
Has he? It's been almost three months since he's seen Daryan. Since leaving sooner than he'd wanted to, because he couldn't keep having this dead-end discussion, with Daryan labeling his crime a dozen different things except for what it was: capital murder.
And it's still etched burning hot in his mind: that sneering laugh he'd once been charmed by, it's owner spitting derision at the back now turned on him.
"See you next week."
"No." His voice betrayed how disconsolate he'd become, and Klavier had been thankful Daryan couldn't see how much more prominently it showed in his expression. "I don't have to come see you."
"Yeah, ya fucking do. So you can spend another hour trying to figure out where I ruined everything for us, because of how fucked up I am. You know what, Gavin? I might be a convicted killer, but you don't get to stand there all high and mighty like you're in any different place than where you were when this all went to shit."
High and mighty? No, Klavier doesn't carry himself like that. Or, he doesn't try to. If he did, Ema and Blackquill would have been quick to cull it.
But he is somewhere different than he was "when this all went to shit"—that is, when Kristoph had first been arrested.
At least, he thinks he is. Daryan is the only one who would really know, but then again, Daryan only saw what they used to have—the Klavier he used to love. Perhaps even still did love, in his own fucked-up way, because the person Klavier had become over the years—the one who couldn't figure his shit out, who had wanted Kristoph, Daryan, the band, and everyone else to do it for him—wasn't cutting it for him anymore.
That much he'd made clear when they'd had it out with each other a few weeks after Kristoph's arrest. Until Klavier decided he was done with all this Kristoph bullshit and actually did a goddamn thing about it, Daryan was done with him.
"Gavin?" Again, Blackquill gently urging him, though this time with quantifiable concern.
Klavier answers hastily, if only to keep Blackquill from thinking he's doing or saying anything wrong here. And taking the same route as Daryan.
"I... yes, I've quit visiting Daryan." The reason why emerges as the sentence takes shape, leaves his mouth.
Because he'd stopped loving him. Not just fell out of love, romantically, but in any sense. He doesn't love Daryan, doesn't even like him. Sure, Klavier misses him in the way he misses that part of his life, when his biggest worries were the acoustics in a new arena, not grappling with a storm cloud of depression looming over him and threatening to downpour and drown him at any moment.
But what he'd told himself was sheer obstinance—that he was simply proving Daryan wrong—is hardly that complex, and it's exactly why he hasn'tstopped visiting Kristoph. Why he knows he never will, until the set day when he literally can't...
"Daryan... er, Detective Crescend, he... " Klavier pauses, looks to Blackquill. Has he referred to Daryan by his first name when mentioning him to Blackquill before? It doesn't matter, Klavier supposes, as Blackquill is astute enough to realize Daryan wasn't just a bandmate, or detective, to him. "Well, this might go without saying, but the dissolution of our... partnership followed a different trajectory than ah... the one between my brother and myself."
"Kristoph." Blackquill has pointedly avoided, and is now correcting Klavier himself, in referring to the Gavins as brothers.
Klavier's not as oblivious as everyone likes to think he is—at least, he's not anymore. He knows what Blackquill is getting at, and opens his mouth to make that crystal clear, but Blackquill anticipates it and adeptly counters.
"You said it is not easy for you, Gavin-dono, but just think: it's been easy for him, through all these years, to forgo seeing you. Your concerts and your trials—you've made mention of how he always had a scheduling conflict to prevent him from attending."
So? Klavier had always assumed it was because of Daryan being so heavily involved in both of his careers, that Kristoph refused to be openly supportive. If he'd really disapproved, Klavier had thought, he would have stopped Klavier because if Kristoph was anything it was meticulously dedicated to ensuring everything went his way.
Of course, that was before the complication known as Phoenix Wright needed to be disposed of. At last, Klavier had become invaluable to Kristoph, and Klavier will never forget the unvarnished admiration Kristoph had looked at him with following his first trial. That reverence, that pride; he'd drunk it so deeply and let himself stay intoxicated by it for years, obsessively seeking out another serving each and every time he'd seen Kristoph since.
But the way Blackquill has been quietly studying him—attempting to really understand Klavier Gavin as opposed to vacillating over what use Klavier Gavin might be to him, and only then may he be complimented or treated with any sort of base human decency...
He thinks—he knows—it's a far better wellspring to draw from, and his mind's a little foggy again. Defenses weakened but he does not feel weak, nor helpless.
"Must I give the final verdict right now?" He infuses his question with the same up-down laugh he'd patented for magazine interviews.
That he's used too many times during chatting at karoake, for Blackquill to not see through it.
"No. But if that is indeed the case, then come with me. Let me show you something." Blackquill beckons, and Klavier obliges.
He's led to the storage cube in the corner of the living room. It's a three-by-three grid, a solid pine product of fine Swedish engineering. Klavier, hardly a handyman by any stretch of the word, had constructed it himself. Its top, which sits slightly above waist-high on Klavier, acts as a home for a couple different awards as well as his expensive violin case with its even more expensive violin.
The body, its nine identical storage squares, house collapsible canvas drawers. Inside these drawers are everything from law reference books, to vinyls and CDs he amassed from other bands he's toured with, to old tax return envelopes and records. They all hold the common thread of being items that Klavier has not touched since he's initially tossed them in their respective drawers.
The bottom right cube is different. There is no canvas drawer, only a large transparent container that was once tightly lidded shut, but is now (and was of this morning, Klavier suspects) opened.
Blackquill lowers to his knees and heaves the container out from the cube. Motes of dust float up towards Klavier, and he rubs at his nose, watching Blackquill as his insides fill with equal parts dread and curiosity. He knows what's in this container.
Which is why he doesn't want Blackquill to know.
"Now, I only wish for your decision about where to spend your afternoon tomorrow to be an informed one," Blackquill says, looking up at Klavier. "I do not think you have all the facts – or, you have not examined them properly, from all angles."
Klavier frowns. Even if Blackquill is trying to help, he doesn't have to be so condescending about it. "I don't think I ever said anything about having trouble with making my decision; it's more how I will make it up to you and Fräulein Cykes. Maybe I don't have all the facts, but my mind is made up."
"Very well," Blackquill says, as if Klavier has told him nothing remotely deterring. Possibly encouraging, for how much more confident he sounds. "Then, if you so choose to not allow tomorrow to benefit you, we shall have make the most of today. Sit."
"I'll stand."
"So be it. Now, I did not mean to snoop through your belongings, but this discovery did not involve a great deal of detective work. I was in search of a kettle, to boil water for our tea. And I happened to find one here, clearly visible." He places a hand to the outside of the container. Klavier knows it's true, that the kettle would be the only easily distinguishable item inside.
"But you have since verified that you do not drink tea, and yet, there was this kettle. Also, this." He picks out a corkscrew from within. "And you've made mention while out at karaoke that you are not a fan of wine either."
Klavier doesn't say anything, only focuses on the violin case instead. Reaches to fiddle with the latches, if only to have something to do that doesn't involve listening to what he knows Blackquill's deduction is.
"And then, all this nail polish." Though he doesn't see it, Klavier hears the clinking of small bottles being combed through, knocking against each other. "But you yourself have professed to remaining faithful to your local salon, and allowing them, and only them, to service you while in Los Angeles. And then there's-"
"Did you know," Klavier interrupts, "that Kristoph wanted me to learn violin, when I first showed an interest in singing, songwriting? He saw it, I think, as a test to how committed I really was to becoming a musician. And, you know, I hated it at the time. But it... looking back now, it was for the best. It helped, a lot."
He chances a glimpse at Blackquill long enough to see what's almost a glare, but there's too much pity mixed in to describe it as exactly that.
"Yes?" Blackquill presses, assuming that Klavier can't be finished if he felt it necessary to introduce such an anecdote. "You may go on. There must be more."
It's Kristoph. There's always more.
"Well, I don't know if you know this either, Blackquill, but as far as instruments go, the violin is the closest to a human voice. With how nuanced it is, and how delicately one needs to handle it. Just its tone, its range." Klavier gently runs a finger along one of the strings. "I don't think I would have ever succeeded in music composition if not for having learned violin."
"I did not know that about the violin, no," Blackquill confesses. "Might I assume that, like what is being stored near it, the one you have there also once belonged to Kristoph?"
"Ja. I had one of my own. I sold it after... ah, after it was sitting around too long, you know. There is surely a child in this city in greater need of it. This one is his. Was his, at least, before he was moved."
To Death Row.
"So you do not use it." It's not a question. "Any of these. They are all for... not for show, as they are packed away. Then what? What is their value to you?"
Blackquill is not testing him; he honestly does not know. Klavier doesn't know either. Since the day he brought them here from Kristoph's office, apartment, he's been waiting for Kristoph to be the one to supply that answer, and... well, perhaps he already has. Klavier just wishes it were a different answer.
He's already made it known he has no tolerance for mind games, even if Blackquill is framing it all kindness and a dash of sympathy
"Let's cut to the chase, Blackquill: it doesn't matter what sort of value I ascribe to any of these." Klavier waves vaguely to the violin, the container. "You're going to tell me to throw all those things away—or give them away, but basically, to part with them in some manner."
"Yes. It bears repeating: I think you need to make use of this day, what, with tomorrow being wasted on—"
"You don't think I haven't considered it already?" Klavier snaps at him.
"Judging by the film of dust that was present on the lid, no, I don't. Similar to the expired tea I found earlier; you would rather hold on to these trinkets out of sentimentality. Perhaps, even, out of hope. That they will be used again by their original owner – that you might be asked to bring them to him."
"That's quite a conclusion you've jumped to." Klavier smiles, thin and fabricated—like what his faith in Kristoph has become. But still there.
"Am I wrong?" Blackquill asks.
"No," Klavier replies,voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Ah, I mean, not about that. About why. But I promise, I have thought about getting rid of... most of it. All of it, even. I've even discussed it with my counselor, how I would go about doing so, and-"
"It requires no discussion. You decide which belongings you will donate, which you might want to gift to friends or acquaintances, and what is rubbish. That is all."
"Hah, that is not all."
"For today, yes, it will be," Blackquill says. "Listen, Gavin-dono: I trust you, I really do. But I... I worry that I can not, where Kristoph is concerned. And if you are to commit yourself to the phantom's case, I can not allow him to take precedent in your life."
It's true, what Blackquill is saying, and for him, Klavier does want to try. But... "I guess I just feel like you're trying to prove something, more than trying to help me in some way."
Blackquill shows no offense at Klavier's skepticism. "All I'm hoping to prove is what you outlined to me no less than a half hour ago: the idea of taking strides to move beyond past tragedies. I do believe in what you said, and that your support can help me, and even Athena. But I can not accept it if you do not take the same measures yourself. This is not by any means a cure. It is only one small step in what will be a lengthy process. Small, but necessary."
Klavier hates that he wants to argue; he's not ready, and Blackquill can't make him do any of this. But he'll never really be ready, just as he has been told that freedom is something Blackquill's entirely unprepared for. And yet, Klavier's pushed him along into this whole life thing, firm but not unkind. He's not forced Blackquill, so he can't act as if that's what Blackquill is doing to him.
It's just, he's not sure there's any point to this. That it's really as necessary as Blackquill claims.
He should offer to take Blackquill home now. Begin planning how to approach Herr Edgeworth on Monday. But to appease Blackquill—show that he's making some kind of concerted effort—he throws out a suggestion.
"Hm, why don't I keep the kettle—for your visits?" He tacks on a hopeful smile; Blackquill is unmoved.
"The goal of this exercise is not to retain any of these possessions. Although, you've a point, with the kettle. That, you may keep. But only that. Now this," he says, picking out the corkscrew, "I will take in on Monday. Perhaps an offering to Edgeworth-san, to express my remorse. Not that I don't deserve punishment to the fullest, but... I do not need it, and it'd be a shame to throw away. All this nail polish, on the other hand..."
Klavier plucks at a violin string, carefully and meticulously tuning the instrument. Not looking at the container that serves as an extension of his brother makes talking about expelling all its contents easier. But only a little. "Don't throw those away. I'll just bring them to him tomorrow."
"But they can not possibly be usable. I'm sure they're years old. And such items are not allowed as gifts to Death Row inmates; I feel as if you're aware of that, but even if you are not, I most certainly am. It must be tossed."
Klavier sighs, positioning the violin between his chin and shoulder, as if to play. "At least let me tell him first. That I'm throwing them out." His left-hand fingers press along the finger tape, muscle memory guiding him through the opening of Ode to Joy. He hums the tune ever-so-lightly under his breath, and when it's over, he concludes enough time has passed that Blackquill will permit him this compromise.
He's wrong.
"May I point out that if these items were at all important to you – that is, you believed them to be important enough to Kristoph, you would have gone through them already. Given them to him, if possible. But you haven't, because you are beginning to move beyond him—and that is perfectly alright. I'm only... I really am trying to aid you, Gavin-dono."
"Right," Klavier agrees, but in a tone of insouciance. It might have a worse effect on Blackquill than if he'd tried to debate him, judging by the heavy beat of silence between them. Remaining fixated on the violin, Klavier asks, "And what of the vinyls? I won't throw those out; they're music, after all."
"And yet, you haven't listened to any of them. Some of them are still in their wrapping."
Blackquill runs a finger along the edge of one of the shrink-wrapped albums. Klavier assumes it's one that he himself picked out for Kristoph. His brother, though demanding when it came to Klavier becoming a well-rounded musician, just didn't spend the time listening to it, certainly not to the degree Klavier did. That he had more than ten albums other than the ones Klavier had bought for or gifted to him was something close to miraculous.
"Like I said, I can't toss them in the trash. I wouldn't, ever."
"But you can not keep all of them, either."
"Then I'll keep some of them? Half?"
"Five. You may keep five," Blackquill concedes. "We will sort them. Since I am seeing Athena and her friends tomorrow, perhaps two albums each, between the four of them, and myself; that makes ten total. The rest I will try to sell for you. Athena often speaks of going to a record store near her apartment; I'm sure they will take these, if only for a few pence each."
"Blackquill..." He's done pleading; this is a warning.
"Or we will put them in the break room at the office, free to a good home. Heaven knows how much our coworkers enjoy pilfering lunches and snacks from the refrigerator, even when labeled. I'm sure these will be gone by week's end."
Klavier waffles over Blackquill's proposal. It's nothing he couldn't have come up with, only something he refused to. It really is the best option. Not the easiest, but the best.
He finally lowers the violin, holding it by its neck at his side. When he's able to meet Blackquill's eyes, something in them calms him, telling him that this is not a task he is to undertake alone.
"Alright. So... how do we do this, exactly?" Klavier's not quite sure how to decide to part with music; he's never wanted to. The multiple CD towers in his bedroom and office, the shelves stocked full of vinyls here in the living room all attest to that.
"Like this." Blackquill selects the first album, and lifts it to show Klavier. It's the full score of the Swan Lake ballet, as performed by the London Symphony Orchestra. "Who would enjoy this the most?'
Klaver doesn't even have to think. "I know Fräulein Newman would like that. She's told me she listens to classical music sometimes when she paints."
"Alright." Blackquill sets the album aside, and picks up the next one. He shows it to Klavier but doesn't give him the chance to voice his opinion. "Consider wisely before you suggest Athena be the recipient of this."
Klavier grins, with the quartet on the album cover grinning back at him. They're made even shinier by the shrink-wrap enhancing their blond, Nordic features. "Fräulein Woods, then." Klavier can't help himself, adding by way of the group's song, "'But if you change your mind, I'm the first in line—'"
"Silence!"
The process continues. Six albums are set aside for Blackquill's friends, three sorted into the giveaway pile. Surprisingly, Klavier doesn't feel a strong desire to keep any for himself. With each album, it becomes easier to decide, and Klavier even begins enjoying himself, if for only how Blackquill reads each album title with such formality.
They're more than halfway through, and a collection of the NPR station's latest in-studio performances is placed into the stack for O'Conner. Blackquill reaches for the next album, but pauses, his head tilting slightly as he examines it. And doesn't remove it.
"What?" Klavier asks, puzzled by Blackquill's sudden seriousness.
Blackquill doesn't say anything. He lifts the album, and before he even turns it to show Klavier the cover, Klavier recognizes it.
13 Years Hard Time for Love. Limited edition. Still in the cellophane wrap. Unopened, unlistened.
"Let me see." Three simple words. All strangled as Klavier forces them out.
Klavier sets the violin beside its case so he can take the album and have his fear confirmed. His fear of which single, specific copy it is. The one with a personal autograph—or, less an autograph and more a message.
To my #1 fan
From his #1 fan
And then Klavier's name, signed with a large, flourishing heart beside it. His love for Kristoph bleeding red and unapologetically.
And promptly packed away.
But he was young and naive—that's what he can say now, hindsight being 20/20. A stupid teenager who didn't know any better, and just wanted his brother's approval.
Who grew into a stupid, naive adult, who still doesn't know any better, and aches for his brother's approval.
"Gavin..." Blackquill starts, cautious and even, as if approaching a wounded animal.
"Just get rid of this one." Klavier uses his thumbnail to slit the wrapping open along a corner, and peels a large scrap of it away. It cuts his signature in half. He crumples the wrap, along with his adoring words, up. Squeezes it in his fist, once, and over and over, tighter each time. "With the nail polish, and—"
"Or, I'll take it," Blackquill offers. "The album, that is. I'm not that familiar with your catalogue of music. Athena's been trying to catch me up on all that I've missed, but—"
"I'll get you your own albums, Herr Schwarz. Just get rid of this one." He reaches out the album for Blackquill, and Blackquill, so eager for Klavier to eradicate anything even slightly Kristoph-related from his apartment, takes it with great reluctance and slips it back where it came from.
Klavier drops the balled-up cellophane into the container. It falls among everything else Kristoph kept tucked away, all these expendable things: a corkscrew, nail polish, a little brother and his love.
He can't quit staring down at the album the way one does when at a particularly bloody crime scene, so sickening and magnetic in how raw and telling it is. "You know what's on there, Blackquill?"
"Pardon?"
"That album. It's limited edition. We hit it big before the album was even released, ja? Just our singles, you know that, right?"
"Er... yes. I... believe so." Blackquill likely doesn't, but neither does Klavier care about what Blackquill knows, or has to say, at this point.
"We did a pre-order," Klavier goes on. "First ten thousand pre-orders received a limited edition album, with a few bonus tracks that didn't make the final cut. Well, I kept one of the copies. For Kristoph."
"I see," Blackquill acknowledges. "In that case, I would like to hear them. You've a phonograph somewhere in here, I assume. Let us—"
Klavier talks over him, a runaway train full-speed along its rails. "We covered this eighties ballad Daryan and I always liked. Had a string arrangement in it, ja? Violin, actually. I played it, on the album recording. Our record label didn't want it on the final edition—our first album, covers weren't the best idea, not until we were more established, but... I wanted it, so bad. Because of the strings. For Kristoph. To show how much I appreciated him forcing me to play this."
Trading the album for the violin, Klavier brings the prized instrument back to its playing position. He can still imagine being in the studio, eyes closed and letting his fingers take over, both on the strings and the bow. The bewitching melody, low and tender, of that song that touched him so deeply. Pushing tears to his eyes over being given the opportunity to make it is his own, and even more, to share it with the world.
To share it with who was his world at the time. Kristoph.
"And he told me he liked it, when I asked him about the album, what he thought of it. He told me he liked it, Blackquill. He lied to me." His words all come out fast, like ripping off a band-aid. But the pain is nowhere near as brief. "He's always lied to me."
His grip tightens around the violin's neck, the taut strings digging into his fingers. When was the last time he felt this much disbelief? Was it when Lamiroir named Daryan as her assailant? Because his mind is filling with the same grating, squealing static, and distorting everything around him.
His voice relaxes; his heartrate and nerves do not.
"He never listened to it," Klavier says again, more into the open than to Blackquill. "I recorded it for him—made it part of a special edition, for him. And he never listened to it."
Blackquill stands, but does not approach Klavier. Yet. His gaze locks onto Klavier's hand, which is clamping the violin much like Blackquill had the knife. Tighter, even. "Gavin..."
Klavier takes a step backward, stumbling against the storage unit. Blackquill begins to lift his hand, to reach towards Klavier as if to, as he's become skilled in doing, steady him.
Or to take the violin.
To take Kristoph's violin.
No one will take it from him. Not even Kristoph, who's already taken so so much.
The static spikes, blasts up to eleven. Klavier whirls and turns the violin around in his hands, holding it like a sledgehammer and bringing it above his head in the same manner.
Blackquill shouts something, or maybe it's just a shout. Klavier can't make it out over the crashing, shattering of the violin upon the top of the storage cube. Sharp pain zings through Klavier's hand, the violin having grazed the case and sending a reverberation back through him. Klavier shoves it off the cube, and the album is still there, undamaged, which isn't right at all. He knocks that off as well, and lifts the mangled violin to smash it again when he's being dragged away bodily.
"No, Gavin... KLAVIER!" Blackquill's arms around are Klavier, restraining him. They end up only a few feet away, but far enough that Klavier can't make contact with anything other than the wall if he were able to swing the violin.
Klavier tries to fight out of Blackquill's hold on him, but it turns more into him flailing around a violin that is in two halves, held together only by its strings. "He's such a goddamn lying piece of shit! And I fucking... Gott, Simon, what did I do?!"
Blackquill manages to wrench the broken violin from Klavier, throwing it aside unceremoniously. In doing so, he releases Klavier, who stumbles away. Klavier thinks there might be tears lining Blackquill's eyes, but he can't tell with his own vision wet and blurry.
"Nothing, I swear to you. There is nothing you did that warrants... any of this." Before Klavier can pick and scrape at every little inconsistency in those statements, Blackquill is apologizing. "I am sorry, Gavin-dono. This is not what I wished for; I only was trying to help, to... not for this to happen, I can assure you. I hadn't any idea."
Ach, his hand still hurts. And he can't look at Blackquill, too embarrassed by his outburst to do. It didn't even feel like something he did, almost as if he'd been... possessed. This ugly, evil part of him, once untapped but now surfacing. It ran through Mutti, and Kristoph, and it's running through him, too.
But Blackquill's still here. Not shying away, when he's likely blaming himself every bit as much as Klavier is.
"That's the thing." Klavier stares at violin on the floor, past Blackquill's feet. "Of course you didn't have any idea. No one ever did, with Kristoph. I never did, anyway."
"I still... I am sorry. Truly. That at every turn, no matter what path to freedom you seek, you find yourself so... overcome." Blackquill inches closer to Klavier. He is not one to demonstrate affection, platonic or otherwise, through physical gestures but it's as if he's debating whether this should be an exception. "It is not an exaggeration when I say that I hate to see you like this, Gavin-dono."
"I hate it too," Klavier says. "And you know what's the worst part of it? If anything, I should hate Kristoph for it. But I don't." He rubs his sore hand with his uninjured one. His face is warm and now it's damp too. "You know, I hate everything about him, but I don't hate him. I can't. Not when I miss him so much. He's my brother."
The disdain emanating from Blackquill is like a storm, darkening his features as he draws nearer to Klavier. For the first time since shearing his hair, the Twisted Samurai makes his return.
"I will say this once, and it would behoove you to listen closely: he is not your brother. That is, you and he will forever be linked genetically—that is unavoidable, a biological fact. I too have an older sibling, and I think of myself as one, in every facet of the word, when it comes to Athena. For you to use that term for yourself in conjunction with Kristoph Gavin... I know you are not intending to upset me, but it does. Every time I hear it, my ire towards him and the horrors he inflicted upon you and others—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally; it grows, festers like an open wound."
The way his monologue ends... it's not admonishing Klavier; it's sad, where Klavier has been but could not properly express because he can't say those things about a brother who was such an integral part of his life.
"Blackquill," Klavier starts. "I..."
"Silence!" Blackquill commands, presumably of the mind Klavier means to dismiss him. "You need to hear this, Gavin-dono, because you do not hear yourself, see yourself when you speak of him! The fear, the confusion... that is a brother, to you? Who made you react so alarmingly? One who nurtures only feelings of crippling hopelessness within you?"
Crippling. Hopeless. He'll have to remember those terms for when he sees his counselor again. The words from Blackquill alone stir more inside him than he's allowed himself to demonstrate in past sessions. Frustration, yes, and regret; they've spilled forth. But this naked, almost child-like sadness touching the edges of Blackquill's questions?
No. Not until now.
"It's what I know," Klavier replies truthfully. Quietly, hoping Blackquill can't hear the shame.
Blackquill gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. "But it is not, in the least. You said you do not hate him, and therefore, you have already proven to be beyond his complete control. And so long as you stay firm in that—as I know you will, Gavin-dono, because you do not have it within you to allow such hatred to take root—you will not be the replica you see yourself as. You are, and have been, more than he could hope to be, at least in the time we've known each other."
Klavier knows it's not a lie, any of what Blackquill is saying. He can't hate Kristoph, but he tricks himself into thinking, maybe sometimes, he really does. And it's mostly because... "When I told you it's not easy—nothing is. You're right, I can't hate him, but I haven't been able to forgive him either."
"Nor should you! You need not do anything in regards to Kristoph—not forgive, not love or hate, not anything. Why not spare some of that forgiveness for yourself? I admit, it is something I am struggling with myself, separating my own identity from who another person made me believe I was, but I've concluded that it ultimately can not involve them. Only myself."
The throbbing in Klavier's hand begins to dull, as does all the tension coiling throughout his body. He palms at his face when a few more tears trickle out.
Tears that are neither sad nor angry. A watery smile forms.
"I guess I'm not really helping myself, like you said. But ah...?" Klavier trails off when Blackquill crouches to gather up the violin pieces.
"Oh, I would question that," Blackquill says with a smirk. The violin sproiinngs as he tugs at its limply connected parts. "I would not advise for you to make a habit of such... drastic methods. But I am not condemning you for this particular instance. Still, it will not do to leave this task unfinished. We have come this far; let us complete our mission, so as not to revisit it."
They take the next several minutes to transfer what has been designated trash (Blackquill's severed ponytail included) to the garbage bag in the kitchen. In the now-empty container, Blackquill makes one stack of the albums already selected for Fräulein Cykes and her friends. The other stack is the remaining albums, that Klavier is too emotionally spent to bother going through. He instructs Blackquill to just let the foursome root around on their own, and any remnants can be brought along with the three different albums by a frizzy-haired saxophone player, already destined for the office break room.
Blackquill cinches up the trash bag that is poking out in odd places due to its contents, and looks to Klavier. "I will take this down to the alley. You may take a few minutes to... well, tend to yourself, if need be. As Athena often iterates to me via mobile messaging, I shall 'birb'."
Blackquill is out the door before Klavier can decipher his promise of "be right back." With a laugh, he takes up Blackquill's suggestion and finds his way to the bathroom to wash up. His reflection shows the wear and tear of the morning's events, and a swipe of eyeliner around each eye makes him relatively less of a nightmare to look at.
He fixes his hair too, loosening it from its bun and tying it into a low ponytail similar to what Blackquill used to sport. It still feels like there is a stranger staring back at him, but it's maybe the first time in what's been almost two hellish years that the stranger is someone Klavier thinks he'd like to get to know.
And the notion grows, spreads like a slow chant in an arena begging for an encore.
Klavier bolts from the bathroom, to what was listed as the second bedroom but for him is a studio. At this point, it's become more of a mausoleum, all the the expensive equipment stationed throughout, the awards and gold records adorning the shelves and walls honoring his late, lamented, career.
That he may, if only for a few hours, be able to revive.
Partially scratched-in sheet music lays strewn about the cluttered desk, and he grabs one at random. A pen, or pencil, it doesn't matter; he snatches up the closest writing instrument. With the black sharpie, he begins scribbling into the margins, into whatever scales are empty enough to accommodate it.
On the left, he repeats the word stranger in a column, four times. On the right-hand side, he rapidly fires out words that fit both definitions of the word, in semi-related clusters, and other words that could fit into the overarching theme of what he has in mind. Life, love. Me, you, I. Truth, fiction, lies. Mind, thoughts, think/ing. Music, words, sung/sing.
This could work, this is something. Stranger, what he feels to himself, to the world; what Kristoph is even more so, to him. Stranger, as an adjective to describe what his life has become when compared to fiction.
Sharpie still in hand, he shoots over to the bookshelf that's crammed with everything from theory to compiliations from music publications. He finds it almost immediately, the thick, marine-blue binder filled with "works in progress."
Not all of them are his; some are Daryan's—he was always better at writing music, translating it to tablatures without needing lyrics to accompany it. Klavier was always lyrics first, and this is only an exception because there is a particular tab that is in here somewhere, that is one of those arrangements he wasn't willing to waste on just anything.
Yes! He all but rips it out, doesn't even bother putting the binder away and leaves it open on the desk, dropping the Sharpie along with it.
This will certainly be acoustic, just him and his six strings, and what he'd thought had been a waste of time—tuning his guitars each month—is maybe the one thing he's done right in the past several months. He retrieves his favorite (not that he'd say it out loud; the others would hear), the jet-black dreadnought with a rich burgundy Gavinners G spray-painted on its body and bordered by stars in a variety of sizes. He's thankful he's never fallen out of the habit of tucking any picks he might find into the necks of his beautiful babies; there's three in his beloved Sternchen.
He takes a seat on the floor, cross-legged with Sternchen in his lap, the scratch sheet and tabs pinned down in front of him by his feet.
Starting right in, it only takes three strums until Klavier realizes that, first of all, he'll have to rearrange this into a minor key, to carry the heavy, haunting sense of discomfort that he knows will bleed through every second of the song.
He restarts, in that minor key. And again, again, piecing together some of the keywords into what might work in the context of lyrics.
This is just like it used to be, except the part where he's going it alone. Not forcing out lines as some sort of assignment, but his mind working on autopilot and his fingers along for the ride as he creates, throws out all the ideas at once, seeing what sticks to his guitar.
"Gavin?" Blackquill's voice carries to him. Klavier didn't even hear the door open.
"In here!"
Blackquill appears in the doorway, blinking down at what is surely a sight. Klavier Gavin in his pajamas, holding his guitar and sitting on the floor surrounded by sheet music.
"I've been inspired," explains Klavier. He motions up towards the desk. "Hand me that Sharpie, ja?"
Blackquill does, and Klavier pens in a couple more words, and even phrases this time. "Ah. And here I was about to ask if you were planning to drive me home. Not that I wish for you to, if you're not... in a place to, but..."
"No, no! I want you to hear this, Blackquill. Bitte, take a seat. Listen." Klavier gestures to the ergonomic leather chair, a more compact model of the one in his office.
"Alright. Although I don't understand how you've found inspiration in this short window of time. " Blackquill lowers into the chair. He tests its support, pressing forward and back in it. "...Why do you own chairs nicer than all the belongings I've ever had put together?"
Klavier laughs. "Help me with this song and I'll give you half the writing credit, and then maybe you could afford your own. I think I have a hit in the making here."
These angsty, introspective songs never earned the Gavinners even a quarter of the accolades of their face-melting counterparts. But Blackquill doesn't know that.
Blackquill wouldn't be obliging him out of pity—if anything he'd be far more adamant about being driven home, presuming Klavier might need a breather. He appears genuinely interested, if mildly perplexed, at Klavier's invitation.
"Now, what do you think sounds better? Stran-jer," Klavier stresses the second syllable, voice lilting up as he reflects as much in the chord he plays. "Or strain-ger?" He emphasizes the first syllable, his next strum mirroring that.
"I... I've no preference. They both sound acceptable."
Accept, Klavier jots down onto his ever-growing list. "Thank you."
Blackquilll sighs. "Perhaps, Gavin-dono, I could assist more ably if I knew what it sounded like. This song. You instructed me to listen, and if I'm to do so, I would like to hear something."
Klavier doesn't say anything, only looks up at his dear friend. Nothing is easy, he kept telling Blackquill. Last night, this morning—none of it was. And yet, this moment, the two of them here. In each other's company. It is easy, for Klavier. Strange, but easy. And just very...
Nice, he adds to the scratch sheet. Easy, new.
He's not sure if Blackquill can see his scribblings, but he also doesn't care. Let him see, let him know that after all the hell of last night, Klavier can still unearth some of the nice buried down deep beneath it.
"You know..." Klavier starts strumming lightly, just the first chord over and over, at different tempos. Background music as he delivers an important message. "I do want you to hear this when it's complete, Blackquill, but as for this stage in the process... maybe I should ask Fräulein Woods. She's quite the singer herself. Or Fräulein Newman, as a fellow artist."
"Perhaps," Blackquill agrees with a nod.
"Tomorrow, even," Klavier suggests. "After the movie. That is, if I'm able to develop enough worth sharing today."
A second, two, pass before recognition crosses Blackquill's face. Then, that aha! in his eyes, in the slight rise of his brows. "I have faith you will accomplish just that.
Klavier strums harder, looping a few more chords in. Sternchen sounds as brilliant as always, a worthy companion. "I... I can't help but wonder though, what Kristoph would think of how I treated his violin."
"Of course," says Blackquill. There is caution in both his tone and expression that telegraph his reservations about dampening the mood. "It's only natural that you—"
"And I've decided that whatever he'd think, I don't give a fuck." The strumming crescendos, and Klavier shreds out the best arpeggio lick he can manage on an acoustic. He smoothly wraps back around to the beginning, and plays, this time, for real.
Blackquill watches with a crooked smirk that sticks as Klavier launches into a horrible, tangled chorus he makes up completely on the spot.
It's everything Klavier can do not to laugh as it spirals into an unintelligible mess. He stops abruptly, knowing Blackquill is still his attentive audience, and adjusts his finger. He shifts into the same disco-pop tune he'd graced Blackquill with while sorting the vinyls. Blackquill's eyes widen, his smile dimming momentarily but returning as Klavier's voice grows stronger, clearer through the song's multi-layered melody.
And as the song requests, Klavier takes a chance. He plays on. Catching Blackquill's eye as he does, he returns the closed-mouth smile highlighting Blackquill's fresh new look with one of his own.
Damn all the damage caused by the poor decisions from Klavier's yesterdays, and damn the inevitable Kristoph-induced misery lurking in the shadows of his tomorrows.
There are too many songs left to be sung, and even if it's completely for the hell of it, today Klavier Gavin will live to sing them.