Disclaimer: I do not own Phoenix Wright. It is the property of Capcom; I merely borrow the characters for my own amusement.

--

Identification

In the mirror a man looks back at him with the same, disapproving frown he had seen so many times before on another, that the selfsame expression on his own face seems ill-fitting and stern, aging his own features inexplicably.

Nearly puzzling, but for the fact that he knows why.

He knows why the face in that mirror sends a train of shivers down his spine, and yet cannot stop looking, staring with those shell-shocked eyes.

Klavier takes one last glance in the mirror before shrugging on his coat and leaving the room, twirling his hair pensively around one finger.

--

“I’m thinking about cutting my hair,” Klavier announces spontaneously after a case one afternoon, and Apollo pauses mid-stretch to look at him with a raised eyebrow,

“…And…?”

Klavier shrugs fluidly, hands in his pockets, “Just saying, ja?”

“…Okay…” the defense attorney looks puzzled for a moment, appeared to chalk it up to more celebrity eccentricities, then stops again, “How come?”

Another shrug, “No reason.” Because I see him every time I look in the mirror. Because everyone sees him when they look at me.

“…Okay…” More speculative silence, “…Well, won’t that sort of destroy your rock-star image?”

“…If you say so, Herr Justice.”

“…Say, we still on for lunch tomorrow? Trucy already reserved us bowls at Eldoon’s and Mr. Wright might come too,” Apollo makes a face, “She’s been talking about it nonstop for a week.”

--

“Mr. Gavin, Apollo says you’re going to cut your hair!” Trucy bubbled.

Belying her diminutive stature, she had polished off her own bowl of noodles in record time and appeared not to suffer any of the ill-effects two bites had bestowed upon the unfortunate Justice.

“I’m thinking about it,” Klavier corrects, flashing her a gentle smile, “What do you think? Should I?”

Trucy taps an ungloved finger (a rarity) against her chin thoughtfully, “Well, wouldn’t that make you look less like a rock-star? No offense, Mr. Gavin.”

Klavier inclines his head graciously and foregoes a response to take a sip from his bowl.

“Daddy, Daddy, Apollo’s dead!” Trucy exclaims, unmercifully poking her half-brother’s green face. Apollo lets out a piteous groan and half-heartedly waves his arm in an attempt to swat her hand away.

Klavier looks up see the older man across the table regarding him impassively over the rim of his noodle bowl. “Herr Wright,” he says deferentially, as if the man’s disinterest hadn’t more than once caused awkwardness during the course of lunch.

No response, not even a blink.

With a vague, whimsical smile playing about his lips, Klavier returns his attention back to his meal.

“Why?”

The question is surprising, as well as the interest.

“It’s time for a change, ja?” he says lightly, meeting his half-lie in those piercing blue eyes.

“…Is that so,” Phoenix says diffidently, and finishes off his bowl, “We better make a run for it. That appears to be a stampede of teenage girls coming this way. C’mon Polly, take it like a man. Everything with a block of salt, hm?”

They leave to Mr. Eldoon’s fervent concurrences.

--

The fans have spoken, shouts the ridiculously mountainous bag of mail sitting in his office at that very moment. The excitable mailman had unloaded an entirely separate bag from his back and wished to him amidst screeching megaphone the “bottom of the morning”.

Klavier selects a few letters at random and opens one wearily on the way to the Detention Center, scanning quickly the plea that his hair remains attached to his head.

“Solitary Cell No. 13, please,” he says absently to the guard, who nods and leaves through the adjoining door.

The next letter contains much of the same, speaking in a manner that convinces him that the rest of the monstrous pile will say much to the same effect. Perhaps mentioning his indecision to the reporter wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

“Klavier, this certainly is a surprise,” a smooth, cultured voice follows the light whuff of a figure settling gracefully into the detainee’s chair and distracts him from the text before him.

“…Kristoph,” he says quietly, in subdued greeting.

His older brother faces him through the glass and with some effort, he remembers that he was not at home, not before his mirror…

“Klavier, I’d love to sit for hours and chat, but alas, I have approximately ten minutes left. A rather charming young lady came earlier and informed me she wished to ‘see what evil looked like,’” Kristoph pushes his glasses further up his nose in a calculated display of nonchalance and continued, almost talking to himself, “What was her name? Skye—something Skye, sister of the previous Chief Prosecutor,” he shook his head, as if to dispel the memory,

“In any case, what did you want to talk to me about?”

So he asks, as if this were a normal visit, as if nothing had happened amiss.

“I-I’m thinking about cutting my hair,” Klavier says slowly, unsure of any other way to begin. Those eyes regard him silently from behind the harsh gleam of halogen lights on glass, then,

“Why?”

His throat closes upon the twelve other reasons he could give and Klavier looks back without an answer, knowing that whatever he says – whatever he unsays – the truth between them lurks in the air and envelopes them both, suffocating him—

“Do I dare guess why?” and suddenly that voice, ordinarily so courteous, pleasant, turns cold, “Shall I guess your reason?”

He continues to say nothing. What is there to say? And nothing to unsay.

“I had thought that you—” For a moment Kristoph sits there, jaw working around words that clamored to break free, words that could not – for the sake of pride – be voiced, “I have nothing more to say to you,” his brother declares frostily and returned from whence he came, to conclude a reunion as abruptly ended as their tumultuous relationship.

Klavier watches him go in silence, and thinks he knows what his brother was trying to say, not say—after all, of thirteen cursed choices, it is the only one that makes sense.

I had thought that you were ashamed of me. I never suspected how much.

--

“Here’s the evidence,” the detective says stiffly, holding the plastic bag out to him by her fingertips, as if she couldn’t bear to get any closer to him than she had to.

Klavier accepts the curious-looking object with a smile in thanks, and stopped her mid-stride to the door (which had begun the moment the bag came into contact with his hand),

“Fraulën Detective, do you expect that short hair will suit me better?”

Slowly, as if on faulty clockwork and decidedly unwilling, Ema turns around and raises an eyebrow at him, “…Does it matter?” her lips say, but her expression asks What? Should I care?

“I’m considering a haircut,” he remarks, as if he didn’t hear her, leaning back in his chair and examining her face for any clue. To what—no idea, which is why he’s searching.

The detective shrugs, “Then get one,” she says dismissively, and that is all. Klavier makes the mistake of waiting for her to elaborate and her attention wandered about his room, sweeping across his table, lingering on the view beyond his window, grazing his collection of guitars. A perfect study in I don’t care and Can I go yet?

“So you think I should get one?” Without even knowing why I want to…?

She looks back at him, amused, “You know, Prosecutor, scientifically speaking, it is your hair. You can do whatever you want with it and nobody’s going to think the better or worse of you for it,” the smirk steals its way across her face none too stealthily and she adds, “God knows you’re insufferable enough that it doesn’t matter.”

Klavier looks at her, briefly, and against all expectations, he starts to laugh. And continues laughing. And he can’t stop, no matter how much his lungs need oxygen.

Ema leaves his office, muttering to herself.

Long or short, your hair doesn’t change the fact that you’re crazy, Glimmer-boy.

--

“I thought you were going to cut your hair?” Apollo asks him, squinting down the cue at the ball. He takes aim and his shot, only to realize that the ball has disappeared, and quite obviously how,

“Trucy! I had that one!”

“Polly, pool is so boring! Magic is much more interesting!”

“Not in the middle of a game it isn’t! Give it back!”

“Yea right!” A rather mature displaying of the tongue, “Make me!”

Phoenix takes a gulp of what, as he will fervently swear to Trucy, is most definitely not beer and pulls the cue ball out of his daughter’s back pocket (who is so occupied bickering she doesn’t notice). He bends over the table to check the angles and comments offhandedly,

“I wouldn’t ever wear glasses if I were you.”

Klavier blinks and asks for clarification, but Phoenix has already forgotten and moved on.

He sets down the ball at an advantageous angle and readies his cue, only to be elbowed remorselessly in the side, “Uh-uh, Mr. Wright, I’m after Apollo, remember? Way to cheat. Aren’t you supposed to set an example for us of the younger generation or something?”

“Aren’t you of the younger generation supposed to show some more respect to your elders?” he retorted, rubbing his stomach as Ema sinks the shot easily.

“I show you plenty of respect!” Ema exclaims indignantly, readying her next shot, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“That’s supposed to be respect? And not that I’m being picky or anything, but you’re completely missing the meaning of the quote.”

Klavier looks across the room at the wall that consists of reflective glass, the vibrant forms of his present company—their exuberant conversations bring an expression to his face, one that testifies to his youth, and the identity of someone called me.

It looks like it belongs.

--

“Argh! Mr. Wright, you bumped the table, didn’t you?”

A much too innocent, “Did not.”

“I bet you did! Oh, forget it. Hey, Glimmer-boy! You’re next!”

He brings himself back from contemplation, smile still firmly in place, “…Right away, Fraulëin.”

The smirk returns in force, “Still thinking about that haircut? Maybe you should just go shave your head so you don’t have to worry about it any more.”

Klavier takes one last glance in the mirror and turns to the table, murmurs,

“No, it’s really not necessary anymore. My thanks, Fraulëin Ema.”