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Kristoph does not often get visitors, these days. Those who do come by are carefully pencilled into his planner, notifying him of their obligatory scheduled visits weeks in advance, citing bureaucracy for their infrequency despite knowing that the guards will let anyone in for their favorite prisoner.
It’s a surprise, then, when Chris in his untucked uniform tells Kristoph there’s a man here to see him after normal visiting hours.
“Who?” Kristoph says, trying to sound pleasant. It’s Wright, no doubt, still doggedly pursuing honesty that will never come. Finding a new tactic to catch Kristoph off guard, not realizing that lateness no longer has any meaning in solitary.
“Uh, some guy with weird hair?” Chris checks his clipboard. “Ah, Apollo Justice. Right, Shelly said he was by to see you once…”
Indeed, the month after his first arrest, Justice had come by to get his last W-2 and discuss the fate of the Gavin Law Offices. But that was over two years ago, and Kristoph has only seen his former employee in the papers and on TV, the media chronicling a meteoric rise worthy of his new mentor.
“Should I let him in?” Chris asks.
“That depends. What kind of mood is he in?” Whatever his reasons, Justice won’t be able to hide his emotional state from even a dumb guard like Chris.
“Rough, to be honest,” Chris says. “He seemed upset.”
“Send him in,” Kristoph says.
“All right, Mr. Gavin.”
Kristoph settles back in his chair and wonders why Justice is here. Surely he’s not upset at Kristoph — there’s no dirty laundry between them that has not already been aired. Unless Klavier has been running his mouth again, spinning a perfectly fine childhood into whatever tales of monsters and manipulators it makes him feel better to tell.
He picks up a book and acts pleasantly surprised when the door closes behind his visitor, closing his unread tome and placing it on the end table.
“Mr. Justice,” he says, cordial. “This certainly is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Chris wasn’t lying: Justice looks distinctly rattled. Far more undone than he looked upon discovering his boss was a murderer. He’s in his red slacks, but not his vest, and there’s a light spattering of rain across his shoulders. As if he came straight here from the office. He’s noticeably older now. He’s not any taller, but his hair is grown out a bit in the back, and there’s a new angle to his jawline and his eyes aren’t as wide and naive. They’re red now, and not just in the whites. It’s unnerving.
He’s been crying. But he doesn’t look sad.
“You play chess, right?” Justice says.
Has he given up on his Chords of Steel exercises? Kristoph remembers Justice as bombastic, his tone and volume always going up, up, up. Now, his chords really are made of steel — his voice is cold, hard, unchanging, yet trembling under the weight of architectural stress.
“I did, yes,” Kristoph says. “I have a foldable set in the bookshelf. Though I’ve lacked partners as of late.”
Justice walks to the bookshelf, quickly finding the set. He has to get on his tiptoes to reach it, but somehow doesn’t look small doing so.
“Let’s play,” he says.
“May I ask why?”
“Why not?” Justice says, slamming the board open on the end table and setting up the pieces. “It’s not like there are any stakes.” He lets a pawn dance over his fingers, glaring at it with unearned venom. “I can’t fire you if you lose.”
Kristoph’s lips tighten. “I doubt you came here for a friendly game, Justice. I’ve heard you’re friends with the Attorney General, and he’s reportedly quite the player.”
Justice fetches the chair from behind Kristoph’s desk and pulls it beside the table. He sits down. There’s something cavalier and uncaring in how he sits.
“I play with him every Wednesday,” Justice says. “I have a question to ask you, actually. I was going to just come in and ask you, but that felt too much like something Wright would do.”
No “Mr.” before his boss’s name. Interesting. The whole thing has the feel of a tantrum. Isn’t Justice too old for teenage rebellion?
“So that’s why you didn’t pick poker,” Kristoph says. “Or is it because you can’t play?”
“I’ve learned the rules pretty well, actually,” Apollo says. “I can call bluffs better than he can now. But my poker face sucks.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. So instead you’re interrogating me with chess.”
“Not an interrogation.” Justice glances up at Kristoph’s face, and for just that moment Kristoph feels like he’s being burned. He doesn’t remember Justice’s gaze feeling like this, and his skin prickles.
“Yes, Wright often says the same. He pretends his questions are friendly as he tries to find out more about a business that was settled years ago.”
“Like I said.” Apollo slams the last black rook into place. He’s given Kristoph the white pieces. “My poker face sucks. And I don’t give a shit about why you killed Enigmar.”
It takes Kristoph a few seconds to realize he’s talking about Zak Gramarye.
“Then is this about Klavier? He did mention you two have become close.” Kristoph can’t help but feel the old thrill of cross-examination. Old habits die hard, and he’s determined to be the one on the bench, not the stand.
“Not everything is about someone else!” Justice snaps. “Make your move.”
Warily, Kristoph moves his king’s pawn two spaces forward. Justice moves his knight. He’s barely looking at the board, and Kristoph gets the sense he just needs something to do with his hands. This won’t be a satisfying game. Hopefully, the conversation will be worth it. Sometimes, Justice’s hand will go to his bracelet, rubbing it like the metal aches somehow.
They’re five moves in before Justice speaks again.
“I was glad to hear the news,” he says. “That you got off death row.”
“Ah, yes, as was I,” Kristoph chuckles dryly. “Though I’m sure I was not the intended benefactor, I owe a great deal to the Attorney General’s reforms.” He wonders if Justice knows just how much. If he knows that it was Miles Edgeworth who pushed through new evidence accountability regulations just a few months before they’d be used to disbar Wright. “I’m surprised you weren’t saddened. Don’t you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you,” Justice says.
“Why not?” Kristoph says smoothly. “Aren’t lawyers supposed to hate criminals?”
“I’m used to criminals by now,” Justice says. “I guess it didn’t really feel personal. You were a good boss, but you were never any more than that to me. Just a place to work. And I was just an employee to you, wasn’t I?”
“I was under the impression we had a bit more trust than that,” Kristoph says. “I suppose I trained you too well.”
Justice doesn’t flinch. “Not well enough, actually,” he says.
“So you don’t hate me because I didn’t hurt you,” Kristoph says. “Awfully selfish of you, don’t you think?”
“I work in criminal justice,” Justice replies. “I don’t have the space to hate everyone I come across who kills people.”
Justice trades a knight for a pawn. He holds onto that white pawn like it’s more important than a king.
“Did you know about Enigmar’s wife?” Justice says.
Ah, the other shoe. In his lap, Kristoph’s hand clenches into a fist, stretching the skin over his scar. Gramarye and Wright, Wright and Gramarye, always coming back to those two infernal names.
“Your mouth is twitching,” Justice notes, and Kristoph hates that he noticed.
“I’m sick of that man,” Kristoph says. He’s not sure if he’s talking about Wright or Gramarye.
“Well, Zak doesn’t matter,” Justice says. “I told you, I don’t care about him. Did you know about his wife?”
Kristoph pauses to think. While the Gramaryes loom large, too large, in his memory, the details of the investigation are concerningly vague, lost in a fog of an embarrassing loss of control.
“I remember something about a woman,” he says. “She used to be a part of the troupe, correct?”
“Oh, right, ‘course you know,” Justice says. “She was on the stamp you killed Drew with.”
Yes, Kristoph remembers now. The Misham girl told him how pretty she was, an angel in powder blue, elegant and eye-catching. The audience couldn’t look away from her, the way Vera made it sound.
“I wanna look like that when I grow up,” Vera said enthusiastically. “I wanna be that beautiful.”
Kristoph wondered what the point was, at the time. If Vera refused to go outside, what was the point in beauty? Now, still painting his nails in solitary, he understands.
This line of questioning is straying uncomfortably close to the sun. Justice sets up his bishop too clumsily to hope to pierce Kristoph’s defenses.
“She’s Trucy’s mom,” Justice says.
“That does make sense, yes,” Kristoph says, playing at pleasantness. “I suppose I must have known that, though it didn’t seem to matter.”
“And how much did you know about the Gramarye’s past?” Justice asked. “You must have known about it. You must have found things in your investigation.”
The investigation that got handed over to Wright. Where it all came crashing down. Where it was all ruined, ruined, ruined: the brother he’d tried so hard to raise well, the legal system he dedicated himself to, Kristoph himself. All in shambles. Kristoph breathes deeply, tries to hide any signs of discomfort. In here, all he has is his composure.
“I find it hard to believe that Wright didn’t set you on this line of questioning,” Kristoph says.
“Of course he didn’t!” Justice says, as if it’s inconceivable that his boss would tell him to ask questions of a criminal they both helped catch.
“You’re not a very good interrogator.”
“Oh, Christ, Gavin, you’re missing the point. It’s not about the murder, I don’t care about the murder —“
“You certainly are horrible at bluffing. You cared a great deal about it two years ago —“
“I said I don’t care!”
“I’m not stupid, and this has Wright written all over it. Why don’t you just come out and ask what he sent you here for —“
“Why did you hire me?” Justice yells, slamming his fist down on the end table so hard the board nearly flips and the game is ruined.
For a moment, Kristoph has no idea what to say. It’s clear that this is Justice pushed to honesty, telling Kristoph why he’s here, but what does this have to do with the damned magicians?
“My, my,” Kristoph tuts in disapproval, “you’re certainly unstable.”
“I don’t wanna hear it from the guy who lost it on the stand,” Justice downright snarls. His hair horns are frayed. “Answer the question!”
Kristoph takes a long pause, trying to think of where this question is coming from. The answer is obvious, is the problem. Kristoph actually told Justice about the strong points in his resume, if he remembered correctly. Yet Justice stares at Kristoph like his very life hangs in the balance of the answer.
There doesn’t seem to be any risk in answering. It’s the kind of question he’d answer truthfully without a second thought, were Justice to ask while they still work together, and he sees no connection between this and Wright’s little investigation. Yet there obviously is one, judging from the build-up.
The rewards, though…
If he gives Justice harmless information he wants, perhaps Justice will tell him why he’s asking. And that’s something Kristoph very much does want to know. It’s not often he gets a leg up on Wright these days.
“It’s rather simple, really,” Kristoph says. “I was impressed at what you’d accomplished at such a young age. I received glowing recommendations from your professors, praising your quick wit and assertive style. When I shadowed that mock trial at the job fair, you stood out to me, and you continued to do so in the interview.”
“I know there were people lining up to intern at Gavin Law Offices,” Justice says. “Plenty of good lawyers. Why me?” He starts setting up the pieces again. “Because I looked easy to manipulate, maybe?”
“Most lawyers take proteges. I knew that the career of whichever attorney I trained would reflect on my office even after they left it,” Kristoph says, ignoring Justice’s jab. “I did not want a good lawyer. I wanted a great one. In you, I saw that potential, and the ways in which you lacked, I felt you would benefit from my teaching.”
Justice laughs like a jackal. “Well, you could’ve gotten what you wanted if you hadn’t killed anyone. At this point, Wright’s benefitting more from my reputation than I am from his.”
“So you came here to gloat? Forgive me, but I’m not interested in hearing it.”
Justice sighs. “Sorry,” he says, and he actually sounds like he means it. “I just…yeah, this is kinda pointless, I guess. Of course you had totally normal reasons. I never played into any of your plans, and you didn’t know about Thalassa.” He laughs again, this time helpless and almost crying. “You just…believed in me. Thought I was worth it, just because of who I was. Not that it means much, coming from you.”
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Justice?”
“Go ahead,” Justice says. “You were honest with me. Ask me anything.”
“Why are you here?” Kristoph asks. “If you already knew the answer to your question, and Wright didn’t send you.”
Justice sits back in his chair, folds his arms, stares at the ceiling. His lips purse like they always do when he’s thinking. That, at least, hasn’t changed.
“Because you can’t hurt me anymore,” he finally says. “And…”
“And?”
“You know what it’s like to fucking hate Phoenix Wright’s guts,” Justice spits.
Now this is a surprise.
“I suppose, then,” Kristoph says, “whatever this is about, I am the only person who understands.”
“You raised Klavier, didn’t you?”
Another curveball, but it somehow feels relevant.
“Yes, since I was 19.”
“Given the kind of person you are,” Justice tells the ceiling, “I think you did as well as could be expected.” His throat works, swallowing. “You moved across the Atlantic to raise him in America, he told me. So he wouldn’t have to leave his friends.” A tear falls down his face, and Justice jerks his head to the side, trying uselessly to hide it from Kristoph’s view.
“I did quite a lot for his sake,” Kristoph says. “None of which he seems to appreciate now.”
“I think that’s the sign you did a good job,” Justice says. “If you cared for him so well it all became a backdrop.”
“Well, what do you know about it?” Kristoph does his best to say it pleasantly. But Justice has no right to comment on how well or poorly Kristoph did raising his brother.
“Nothing,” Justice answers softly. Another tear. “Not a thing.”
Kristoph gets the sense that this doesn’t actually have anything to do with him.
“You’re right,” Justice continues. “How the hell would I know what good parenting looks like?”
A long pause.
“Mr. Justice.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you by chance pregnant?”
“WHAT!?” Ah, there the Chords of Steel are again.
Kristoph folds his arms. “Well, given your frazzled state and angst about parenting, and I do happen to know you have the ability to carry children—“
“Why would Wright have anything to —“ Justice’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, you didn’t think —“
Kristoph actually feels his cheeks color. “You’re being extremely cryptic and unstable, Justice, I’m simply trying to guess at what’s gotten you so flustered.”
Justice’s hands go to his face. “Oh my God. Oh my God. No, I am not having Phoenix Wright’s baby.”
“Well, that’s good to know. Though I don’t believe it was an unwarranted assumption on my part.”
“Gavin, just because I learned your courtroom tactics doesn’t mean I inherited your taste in men.” Justice half-groans, half-laughs. “Why the hell would I go to my baby daddy’s ex, anyway? What the fuck, Gavin!”
Justice fully laughs, not vicious or sad, just a high-pitched giggle, smile stretched beneath his palms. He looks back at Kristoph, still laughing. Kristoph had forgotten how nice his smile was. It’s wide and unguarded like Wright’s, yet unlike his mentor, given freely.
“I needed that,” he mutters.
“It’s a shame, really,” Kristoph sighs, attempting dry humor. “Given the name you chose for yourself, I have no doubt you’d be good at naming children.”
It works, and Justice erupts into a new bout of laughter.
“God, can you imagine?” Justice says. “That kid would be a menace.”
“I imagine every prosecutor in California would simply quit their jobs.”
This is…familiar, familiar and wrong. Because they used to be like this on quiet days, Justice’s fire against Kristoph’s ice, talking and laughing about everything from law to what meat was best in enchiladas. They shouldn’t be like this again, and yet Justice seems to have forgotten everything that happened, still gives his company as freely as fire gives its warmth to dry grass.
“That would be Reddit levels of messy,” Justice says, “considering he adopted my half-sister.”
He doesn’t say it like a joke. He says it as bitter as atroquinine,
“Your half-sister?” Kristoph repeats. He’s reached the phase where questioning is barely necessary anymore. For whatever reason, Justice wants to talk. Kristoph won’t waste it. Who knows when Justice will be back? Probably never. The world turns outside, and cell 13 is left behind.
“Trucy’s mom is my mom,” Justice says. He half-shrugs. “And she’s alive. They all knew. All three of them. For two years. And they didn’t tell me until about two hours ago.”
The wound was raw, then. Across from Kristoph sat a fox newly freed from a trap. And what a trap it was.
“Are you surprised?” Kristoph asks. “It seems you shouldn’t be. That Wright lied to you, that is.”
Justice shrugs fully. “It’s whatever. It’s whatever! They’re Wrights and Gramaryes and it’s my fault for expecting more from them.”
But he does not expect more from Gavins, apparently. Perhaps that’s why he’s here.
“I’m fine,” Justice says. It’s his catchphrase, but for the first time Kristoph’s seen, he doesn’t mean it. “I’ve been left behind more times than I can count, sent across the ocean, bouncing between foster homes. I’m used to it. I’ve got a mother who doesn’t love me and I barely feel a thing.”
“Saying something doesn’t make it more true,” Kristoph says.
“I’m fine,” Justice repeats, and Kristoph doesn’t know why he bothers. He’s obviously not fine, and why would he feel the need to pretend for Kristoph? Surely he doesn’t still think of him as an authority figure in his life, someone worth acting strong for.
No one still respects the role Kristoph played for them.
“You’ve got an odd way of showing it,” Kristoph says. “Fine people don’t turn up on the doorstep of an evil man they caught.”
“I don’t think you’re evil,” Justice says, tired. “I don’t think Wright is a born liar, either. You both could’ve turned out different. You just…didn’t.” He sighs. “After this, I haven’t decided if I’m gonna drink till I can’t breathe or yell at your brother.”
“Neither seem warranted. Are you really rendered this unstable by something so ultimately inconsequential? You’re, what, 25?”
“Don’t play these games with me,” Justice tells him. “I told you. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
“In any case, I don’t see what Klavier has to do with this.”
“I dunno, I’m just mad at him.”
“Perhaps you should eat something before making such decisions based on your emotions.”
“Surprised to hear that from you. I’d think you’d understand the satisfaction of self-destruction.”
“Justice. Get some pizza or something. For my sake, at least.”
Justice used to bring him coffee in the morning. In return, Kristoph would take him out for lunch, and they’d discuss their work over a high-end sushi bar two blocks down from the law offices. Justice balked at the price at first, but Kristoph insisted on paying.
“You don’t have to do this,” Justice muttered. “I can bring my own lunch.”
“One day,” Kristoph said, “you’ll be an established lawyer at the top of your field with more money than you know what to do with and interns lining up at your door, and you’ll understand.”
Kristoph wonders if Justice understands now, the threads of give and take and pay and earn. The intricate ways in which money buys goodwill. How generosity is both life’s greatest joy and the receiver’s greatest weakness.
He’s heard the Wright Anything Agency has a new junior partner. He wonders if Justice pays for her lunch. He wonders if Justice still eats sushi. If he can eat it without thinking of Kristoph. Kristoph hopes not. He hopes the rolls he bought are paying for themselves a thousand times over.
He never took Wright to that restaurant. Other restaurants, yes, when Wright could be cajoled into looking respectable, but that was the Gavin Law Offices sushi bar, and Kristoph did not like his foods to touch.
“Maybe some sushi,” Justice says to himself. Perhaps he wants food that will still allow him to feel miserable.
Justice used to laugh at Kristoph for adding barely any wasabi to his soy sauce. His own rolls were dipped in what was basically wet wasabi, and that was after ordering whatever had four chili peppers written next to the name on the chalkboard menu.
“Do you have blunted senses or something?” Kristoph asked incredulously as Justice ate the Volcano Special without his cheeks so much as turning pink. “I made the mistake of trying that once. I actually cried.”
“I grew up on spice,” Justice said, clacking the chopsticks Kristoph didn’t have to teach him how to use. “And I got addicted to it.”
Kristoph is an observant man, and somehow, without even trying, he ended up with a little mint tin in his brain full of things about Apollo Justice. Justice can tell how old paprika is with his eyes closed, and he can tell if a piano is flat just by hearing it played, yet he barely reads and wouldn’t know tasteful fashion if it hit him in the head with a glass bottle. His tongue can tell how long coffee’s been roasted, yet he’s got a fondness for Starbucks and their charbroiled beans. He hates alcohol, even Kristoph’s most expensive wine.
What a waste.
If it weren’t for Wright, Justice would have spread his wings from Gavin Law Offices. They would have become colleagues, and Kristoph would not have let such a promising mind go. He would have lended Justice use of his library and given him a fine tie when he flew the nest. He would have tried spicy curry and cheap lattes, if Justice was paying with his new fancy salary he got from Kristoph’s glowing letter of recommendation.
“Maybe grocery store sushi,” Justice continues.
“Your tastes continue to baffle me,” Kristoph says. “You used to wear Hawaiian shirts when I did casual Fridays.”
“That’s what you get for hiring a trans guy,” Justice replies easily.
He should have gotten Justice to quiet his colors, to curate a wardrobe that would draw respectful eyes, not judgmental ones. He should have taught Justice how to make his way through a glass of whiskey. He should have taught Klavier the difference between eye-catching and tacky jewelry. He should have taken them both to get sushi and chuckled as Justice tricked Klavier, who thinks ketchup is spicy, into trying some of his food. They should have trusted him, listened to him, respected him, and then Wright took his brother and apprentice from him in one fell swoop, both of them complicit.
Justice was not quite his friend, but he would have been. There’s new anger at Wright in Kristoph’s chest, something he didn’t even think was possible, and he’s not sure on which of their behalf it is.
“Go home and get some sleep,” Kristoph tells him. “DoorDash something. Watch some TV with your cat. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
He knows how to deal with fleeting moods. He raised a teenager, after all, one who got — still gets — irrational when upset. Though he worries this mood might not be so fleeting, some food and sleep never hurts.
“Yeah,” Justice sighs. “You’re probably right.” He stands. He’s cooled down since he arrived, but Kristoph can hardly take credit for that. Justice’s emotions go as quick as they come, in his experience. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Please. I have nothing but time.” Kristoph begins to put the chess pieces away. “You’re perfectly welcome to visit again, if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Justice says softly. “I’ll see you later, Gavin.”
“Good night, Justice.”
Justice calls out for Chris, who comes down the hall to let him out of Kristoph’s cell. Technically, there are stricter protocols than this, but the guards have learned that Kristoph makes no effort to escape.
Justice’s steps are heavy as he leaves, and they echo down the hall far longer than they should.
“Thalassa Gramarye,” Kristoph murmurs to himself. “Well, I’ll be damned.”