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Anyone who has spent more than a few minutes around Klavier Gavin at the prosecutor’s office knew how touchy he was. A hand to the arm, and arm around the shoulders, a wing across the back, hair ruffles for Sebastian…
That wasn’t to say he touched without regard, no. He had stopped the majority of his casual touches with Simon once the man had made it clear he wasn’t a fan, and he stayed well away from the Paynes, and Miss Von Karma, when she was in the States.
But still, when he got a bit too excited, it wasn’t unusual for him to forget himself and throw his arms around the closest person, wings flapping wildly, only to realize what he was doing and sheepishly retract himself with flustered apologies, wings held tightly against his back.
As much as Simon didn’t enjoy casual touches that he initiated (a rare thing in and of itself), he didn’t mind the occasional ambush from the rockstar, even if he’d had to train himself out of seeing it as an attack. (He’d had to do the same for Athena, once he’d been released. It had taken her a bit to see when Simon would be okay with hugs or not, her naturally tactile instincts overriding at first. But she was getting there.)
Which was, perhaps, why the past few weeks had been so odd.
Simon certainly wasn’t one to judge how a person grieved. If anyone could understand that process, it was him.
Still, Gavin being so quiet was off putting. No pop-rock music blaring through their shared wall, no cries of excitement, no black wings blocking the hallway or door or accidentally hitting the wall in moments of inspiration or frustration. No shared gossip over lunch – Simon didn’t even see him leave his office around lunch, most days.
Even more concerningly, he had yet to see or hear tell of Gavin touching anyone in the month since The Trial.
He’d asked. Reluctantly, but he’d asked. Even Sebastian, who was the closest with him at the office, had admitted to missing the touch.
The protective part of him, the part that he’d always blamed on his white-tailed kite heritage, had rankled at that, and he would have ruffled the boy's hair himself if he hadn’t recognized that the boy would’ve been even more terrified at that.
Which was perhaps why he was so worried at hearing sobs come from the supposedly soundproof office next door.
He didn’t bother knocking, just stepped inside and shut the door, stolen leftovers from the communal fridge in hand. (Say what you would about Winston Payne – annoying as the man was, his wife made amazing food.)
Gavin was against the wall, wings curled around him in a way that made Simon’s own ache.
“Gavin-dono.”
The rockstar flinched so hard that even his wings shook.
Simon winced, and changed his plan of attack.
“...Klavier-dono. I have food.”
“...I’m not hungry.” A surprisingly steady voice said.
“It’s the leftover sesame chicken Melissa-dono made for Payne yesterday.”
Slowly, Klavier untucked himself. His eyes were red-rimmed, face pale and tear-stained.
It made the part of Simon that had taken a fall for a murder he’d never committed want to go feral on the person he suspected was behind the tears.
He settled for handing Klavier a tissue and the food, and sitting next to him.
“Dare I ask?”
Klavier huffed, wiping his face and blowing his nose.
“I-it’s stupid, really. I just… I sat in on a trial, today. The…the defendant had an older brother in jail, and I…”
He looked like he might cry again, so Simon shoved the tupperware and a pair of chopsticks into his hands, and awkwardly shuffled closer, wrapping one wing around Klavier’s own.
Klavier’s gaze shot to him, confused.
“I thought you didn’t like touching?”
“I like crying less.” Simon deadpanned, but Klavier cracked up, in the sort of hysterical way that happened when someone hadn’t laughed for far too long.
Simon rolled his eyes.
“Eat your food.”
He kept an eye out for Klavier after that. He would never admit to being the one that tattled several times when he noticed the rockstar staying too late, Wright showing up the next day to scold him and make him go home early. And if Payne was confused because his wife was sending more food with him that mysteriously went missing later, well, the kid had to eat somehow.
(He’d asked him about it one time when he’d brought him food. Being blunt was usually his way, but he had tried to gentle his words.
“Do you have an eating disorder?”
Klavier had blinked, taking the tupperware in his own hands.
“Worried, Herr Blackquill?”
“Yes.” Simon said honestly.
The false grin had tapered off, become a little less dazzling, a little less sharp.
“...when the Gavinners were at the height of fame… I struggled, ja. Too much pressure with the band, and coming off the high of disbarring...Well. Our third manager was the one who noticed, and actually cared about the fact that it was a negative thing, not about my weight or looks. I got help, thanks to her, but… food is still hard sometimes.”
Simon could understand that. He had struggled too, getting out of prison and realizing that he had to make his own food at certain times, or even just when he was hungry – and even before that, had to decide what to eat, and buy it, and that meant getting out of the house–
Food was an ordeal, sometimes.)
But perhaps the biggest issue was that Klavier still was quiet.
Not in volume. He’d even started playing that horrid strangely nice, familiar music again. But his…personality. He was toned down. Wrong. He’d started covering his wings – horrid, purple covers that matched his jacket and kept his wings tucked in tight, the sort of thing teenagers wore when their wings were getting in their adult feathers and the blasted things were too awkward to walk around loose with in public. He hadn’t prosecuted an actual trial since The Trial – the scuttlebut was that Klavier was only allowed to sit co-counsel until a few undercover investigations into his past cases were finished – but even so, there’d been no fists on desks or walls, no obnoxious guitar playing over the pop music on slow days, no hair ruffles for Sebastian, no hugs of excitement in the heat of the moment.
That was what worried Simon the most.
Then Klavier had come into work a brunette, hair several inches shorter, and he’d had enough.
“Herr Blackquill!” Klavier greeted, before he’d even made it to his office, “Would you mind calling off your bird? I’m afraid I need to get into my office.”
“No.” Simon said. Klavier blinked.
“Herr Blackquill–”
“We need to talk. And we can either do it here in the hallway, or in my office. Not yours.”
“Herr Blackquill, I don’t see what–”
Ah. Hallway, then. Very well.
“You’re spiraling.”
Klavier froze like a lying defendant on the stand.
“Herr Blackquill…” He trailed off before rallying himself.
“I think this is an office conversation.”
Simon snorted, and ushered the younger man into his office with one wing.
He hadn’t done much with his office – he’d been too focused on everything else. He had put a couple katanas on the wall, but that was the only personal touch, and so there was still the standard brown furniture, gray walls, high windows.
Thankfully, that furniture included a surprisingly comfortable couch. It took a bit of nudging to get Klavier to sit, even with the wing guiding him.
“You’re spiraling. You don’t sing, you don’t play. You’ve covered your wings, changed your hair.”
Simon took a deep breath, and then, because he’d suspected what this was about for a long time, and going from a blonde to a brunette overnight confirmed it:
“This is not the way to distance yourself from your brother.”
Klavier outright choked.
“Herr– Blackquill!”
Simon just looked at him.
Klavier folded in on himself, just a little bit.
“I… I kept seeing him. In my reflection. The media would’ve had a field day if there had been any hint of me smashing mirrors, and there would have been plenty of other reflective things outside the house, so this… felt like the better option.”
He let out a wet laugh.
“I almost chopped it all off. Frau Skye helped with ensuring that didn’t happen. Ack, the field day my publicist would’ve had...”
That, somehow, tipped Simon off even more as to how bad Klavier’s feeling. To drop Fraulein , all the good natured teasing and harmless, meaningless flirting behind it gone, especially with Detective Skye…
“Klavier-dono,” he said softly, “You know you’re allowed a break, right? You’re allowed to break.”
“Herr Edgeworth already offered me a few day–”
“I meant that you’re allowed to feel your emotions, you stupid rockstar.” Simon gritted out, voice far louder and far more stern than he’d intended.
Klavier flinchesd leaning further into the wing he’d been tucked into this entire time.
“...haven’t I done enough crying, recently?” he asked, voice cracking. Simon tucked him a bit closer.
“No one said you had to cry.”
Klavier huffed, a sad little thing that would almost be called a chirp, if he was still young enough for that. Simon watched as he sat, and stewed, watching as his face got redder and redder, hands clenching tighter and tighter–
Klavier started screaming bloody murder, and all Simon could feel is relief.
By the time Klavier’s done using his couch and its pillows as an emotional outlet, Simon is pretty sure that he’s going to have to get his ears checked. But it’s worth it to feel the kid lean in and hug him, exhausted, but the start of a smile on his face.
“... Danke.” Klavier rasped softly, and Simon smiled, wrapping his wings around him and hugging back.
“I’d say anytime, but I’d rather that not be true because you won’t need me all the time.” He says, chest lightening when Klavier laughs tiredly.
“But if you need me, you know where to find me.”