Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1450813.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      逆転裁判_|_Gyakuten_Saiban_|_Ace_Attorney
  Relationship:
      Garyuu_Kirihito/Garyuu_Kyouya_|_Klavier_Gavin/Kristoph_Gavin
  Character:
      Garyuu_Kirihito_|_Kristoph_Gavin, Garyuu_Kyouya_|_Klavier_Gavin
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Dubious_Consent, Mind_Games
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-12 Words: 2314
****** Penumbra ******
by mllelaurel
Summary
     Kristoph is very good at getting others to think they want what he
     wants.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Everything about the family home screams ‘you don’t live here anymore.’ Then
again, not many do. The space is dominated with Klavier’s belongings: law books
in precarious piles; an old guitar, covered in stencils. Dirty coffee mugs
stacked in the sink. My prodigy of a little brother, ever-desperate to conquer
every challenge he touches.
The door slams open and I hear voices. One is Klavier’s. The others? Who can
say. Friends of his, likely as not, though that doesn’t narrow down whether
they are scruffy musicians, or the sons and daughters of the elite he’d made
the acquaintance of, at Themis Academy. Klavier’s made himself their precious
little pet, students and teachers alike, with his devil-may-care grin and his
surprisingly sharp mind.
The door closes, and all voices but one fade out of earshot. “Kris, you in
there?”
I wait for him to enter the kitchen, then nod. No need to shout. “I’ve made
myself comfortable, as you suggested.”
“How was your flight?” He pulls a coffee mug out of the sink, makes a face at
it, sticks it in the dishwasher, as he should have done about a week ago.
I make a face of my own, though I don’t normally bother with such affectations.
“Don’t ask.”
“What, even first class?”
“If you don’t believe the wealthy are perfectly capable of making a nuisance of
themselves, clearly you weren’t raised by our father.” And he wasn’t, in most
senses of the word. Father Dearest hasn’t exactly made himself available to
either of us, since Mama’s death.
“How is he?” Klavier asks. Why he cares after all these years is beyond me, and
I allow myself the luxury of a snort.
“Same as always. Ever playing the Byronic recluse in the mansions of Europe’s
elite, where there are models and duchesses aplenty, to soothe the ache of his
weary soul.” Klavier laughs, though it’s not very funny.
“Give the man some credit. If I can still get models at his age, I’ll be doing
good.”
“You can’t get models at your age, either.”
Another grin. “That’s what you think.” Cocky, as always. I wonder if he’s
telling the truth. I wonder what he sees in women as vapid as the profession
guarantees.
“And have you been keeping up with your studies,” I ask, sure it will result in
him rolling his eyes, setting off an old routine I know by heart.
A routine he chooses to disregard, this time. “Ja. It’s not easy, but I’m
keeping up with it. I’ll be graduating as planned.”
I blame the break in the script for the slip-up which comes next, as I grimace
and say “English, please.” I dislike showing him harsher, plainer sides of
myself, even as I recall the years of vocal coaching it took to get rid of my
own accent, beyond a trace. “You sound like a damned immigrant when you do
that.” What’s the matter, Kraut, you some kinda Nazi? I remember keeping quiet,
schooling my face to calm and imagining the walls of a gas chamber closing
around my classmates.
“We are immigrants, Kris.” There’s an unwelcome, flat anger creeping into
Klavier’s voice. It’s something I may make use of, in the future, but I’d
rather it weren’t directed at me.
Yes, but that doesn’t mean we must act like it, I do not say. Klavier’s
acquaintances, of course, find it charming when he slips random foreign words
into conversation. They don’t even necessarily follow the rules of German
grammar. Nothing but a Eurotrash persona he’s affected, and it’s gotten worse
since those boarding schools Father had insisted on sending him to.
I raise my hands, in a universal sign of concession. “I’m sorry, I’m just
tired.” The flight is a handy enough excuse. It works, and Klavier relaxes.
“Are you hungry? I can order something.”
I shake my head, getting up to check what’s inside the refrigerator. It’s
decently stocked, probably in light of my visit. “Don’t tell me you live on
fast food, day in and day out?”
“Okay, then I won’t tell you that.”
“I can make something for us.” The pitch of my voice is gentle, but it brooks
no arguments, and Klavier’s face lights up.
“I’ve missed you doing that. I’ve missed you.” He hugs me without warning, and
I move to wrap my arms around him in return. He’s almost as tall as I am, now.
Almost done with his growth.
“Good. If you didn’t miss me, I’d have to be hurt, Little Brother.” I
disengage, rummage for onions and potatoes, frowning when I realize he’s put
them under the sink.
I don’t look at him directly while I heat up the pan, but my peripheral vision
catches him watching me the whole time. I shift very slightly, give him a
better angle. He’s grown bolder and more focused since my last visit. Last
time, I had to encourage his curiosity with glances of my own, ‘accidental’
touches timed well enough they wouldn’t come off as intentional instead.
I keep him busy fetching things for me and staring, until dinner is done. He
eats like someone who hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in years, and I will not
lie: the sight of him relishing something I’ve made is gratifying.
After he’s done, he leans back in his chair, knuckles his eyes and yawns.
“Gott, I wish Barnes wasn’t giving us a test tomorrow. He couldn’t have waited
till after your visit, could he?”
“You should study,” I say. The pile of law books has been pushed off the dining
room table and onto the floor. I pick one up and flip through it.
“That’s the plan,” Klavier replies, plucking the book out of my hands. “I
actually need that one. Here, you can have ‘Corporations,’ if you’re bored. Or
if you have insomnia.”
My ‘thank you,’ can’t be dry enough to suit. I expect Klavier to get bored or
distracted and abandon his studies within an hour at most. Instead, I watch the
sky go dark outside the window, and he never looks up from his notes,
handwriting surprisingly meticulous, his body folded into an awkward half-
pretzel. Surely, that can’t be comfortable.
I reach forward to dig in my thumbs right below his shoulder blades and he
winces. The muscles under my hands are pulled tighter than the strings on one
of his guitars. “What have you been doing to your back?” I ask, as I keep
rubbing.
“Law school,” he says, and puts down his reading. I’d expected the answer to be
more along the lines of ‘band practice.’ He leans forward, head resting on his
forearms, and I work my hands over his shoulders, down the column of his spine,
up to the flare of his neck where it meets his collarbones. Most of the knots
relax, but one begins to spasm, as I miscalculate and press down too hard, and
Klavier lets out a startled hiss, hands clenching into fists.
“Shhh, it’s alright. Here, stand up and let it stretch out naturally. Like so.”
He does as I direct him. “Better?” He makes an affirmative noise and sags
against me. We’re so close, like this. If I slide one of my arms around him,
splay my hand against his chest, I can feel his heartbeat, strong, rapid and
unsteady. If I lean down just a little, I can press my lips against the nape of
his neck, right at the hairline. I can feel his shoulders tensing again. It
doesn’t take much effort to tilt his face such that he’s looking at me, over
his shoulder. His eyes are huge and very, very blue. I let him do the honors of
reaching up to press his lips against mine.
It’s a triumph, though not a lengthy one. He pulls back all too soon, but I
don’t let him retreat far. “It’s alright,” I repeat, and pull him toward me
again, before he lets nerves get the better of him. He’s eager for contact,
cheek pressed against my chest, catlike. He shivers when I slide my hands under
his shirt, scrape my nails lightly over his belly. Doesn’t protest when I guide
him toward the guest bedroom I’m staying in, down onto the bed.
I catch his gaze and hold it, when I ask, “What do you want, Klavier?”
He’s flustered, off-balance, lonely here in this old guard of a house. He
desperately wants to please me. He will overshoot, ask for more than he wants
or is ready for. His face is hot and bright when he says, “Please, f- please,
fuck me.” I hide a smile in the crook of his shoulder. He does not disappoint.
It doesn’t take long to strip him of his clothes, loosen my own pants, guide
him to his hands and knees. There are condoms and personal lubricant in the
nightstand drawer, where I had put them upon arrival. Once again, I look him in
the eye and ask, “Are you certain?” I give him just enough time that he’ll
remember me asking. Not so much that he will say no.
He reaches backwards, hand groping for me. I would prefer to do this without
interference, so I see no choice but to gather his wrists and pin them above
his head. I keep my grip careful. Bruising him is not my goal. He makes small,
shuddery noises as I prepare him, and a louder, almost pained cry, as I press
inside. I lean down, brush my lips against the small of his back in apology,
and he arches slightly, rolls his hips backwards toward me. It’s so easy to
move against him, into him, over and over again. He is mine, like this, bent
before me, every breath, every sound he makes caused by me. I wonder if I am
his first. I won’t ask, in case the answer is no.
As I get closer to climax, I remember to reach around, take him in hand. The
noises he makes are worth it. His body tightens as he comes, and that’s enough
to send me over as well.
Next comes the tricky part, after I’ve pulled out and he’s sprawled on the
sheets, shivering in the aftermath. I mustn’t seem like I’m rejecting him
outright - the purpose of this is to draw him closer to me, not to push him
away for good. Nevertheless, it won’t do to seem too enthusiastic. If he sees
me as the initiator here, it might raise all kinds of questions. Klavier may be
impulsive and malleable, but he’s hardly stupid. A show of guilt, perhaps?
I will have to wash my hands thoroughly, later. The sticky feeling is quite
unpleasant. For now, I just wipe them on the bedsheet, sit down far enough from
Klavier to create a sense of distance and disconnect. Rest my elbows on my
knees. Head in hands? No, that would be too much. Too melodramatic. He’s pulled
a blanket over himself, cold. “You should shower,” I tell him. “I will strip
the bed.”
I straighten my glasses and don’t look back at him, as I get up. Behind me, I
hear the bedsprings shift, footsteps, the sound of running water.
He finds me again, afterwards. His hair is still damp from the shower. He’s cut
it again. A shame, I prefer when he lets it grow out. “Kris?” he asks. I look
up from my book, give him a hesitant smile. “Can I ask you something?” His
voice is quiet. I gesture toward the couch next to me and he sits.
“Did you even want that? What just happened…”
Of course he would choose the most awkward question possible. I’m treading a
very thin wire, all of a sudden. The moment calls for displays of
vulnerability, and I’ve never been good at those. “I feel like I’m losing you,”
I say. “We barely see one another anymore. Before long, your life will be
entirely separate from mine.”
He snorts. “Why do you think I’m studying law?”
To stay in contact with me? That might actually be touching, if it were true.
“You will have a career of your own,” I tell him. “For now, all I want is to
take care of you. You know I don’t have the heart to deny you anything, and you
always want, so badly…”
When I look back to his face, it’s a mask of ice-cold fury. “You could have
just said ‘no,’ when I asked.” He switches fully to German halfway through the
sentence. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. “In the future, try not
to do me any more favors, okay?” I’m starting to think I’ve miscalculated.
Pushed him a little too far, or more accurately, too far in the wrong
direction.
He grabs his jacket, jams his feet into boots, laces still untied.
“Should I leave?” I ask.
“You’re my guest. I’m not gonna kick you out.” Every word drips with disgust,
like it’s choking him and he can’t spit out the bitter-tasting thing fast
enough for his liking. “You know, for the one with ulterior motives, you sure
are good at making me feel like the whore. I’m going out.” And the door slams
again.
Definitely a miscalculation. Once again, I’m left alone in that damnable house.
We don’t speak for the rest of the visit, and I find out later that he’s
transferred out of Themis Academy, enrolled in some law school in Germany. I
wonder if he’s running from me.
Still, he takes the evidence I offer him, two years after the fact, during the
Enigmar trial. Perhaps he believes the gesture to be my apology, or perhaps his
acquiescence means he’s apologizing himself. Either way, it seems I haven’t
lost my hold on him, as I’d feared. Whether or not he chooses to acknowledge
it, he’s still mine.
End Notes
     Kristoph sure does utilize child_grooming and gaslighting tactics. I
     sure can't answer why this fic needed to be told in first person. My
     brain sure does need a dozen showers.
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