nothing seems to phase you.
[[welp

so this decision has been dwelled upon for the past couple weeks, and I’ve decided that I’m going to be dropping Kristoph and putting Trucy on official hiatus, until I decide whether I’m going to leave her or not—it’s a combination of lots of IRL things that I need to get done and, quite frankly, my RP muse is shot. I’m terribly sorry to everyone here, but I owe the biggest apology to our lovely Hobo, whose character interactions are quite dependent on mine and, not even going to sugar coat it, I’ve been quite a shitty RPer.

the good news is, our original Kristoph will most likely be coming back to claim him again and we all had so much fun with Mama, right~? so no worries on not having a Kristooph for long periods of time.

again, I would really like to apologize for how inactive I’ve been; I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. so… here it is.]]

[blinks]
...you look like Klavier.

I would imagine so, given we are brothers.

@Kristoph, A Small Meltdown, Saturday 11th June. Warning: Trainwreck!Klavier.

klavier-gavin:

[In that moment, Klavier trembles a little more, though it has very little to do with the drink in his veins. Still, he’s smiling, and all he has to do to hide the reflexive anxiety is curl his fingers tighter around the bars behind him, tipping his head back to survey his brother from half-lidded eyes. His hair is … fluffy. Another couple of gulps of breathless laughter at that, before he presses the back of one hand to his lips, closes his eyes. Calm. Calm, or he’ll end up not saying anything. Or he’ll end up crumpling like a naughty child. No. Get angry again, Klavier. Get angry.

So instead of the hair, he focuses on his brother’s tone. Enough to piss him off on any given day, worse in this state. That’s it. The audible contempt in his voice… The hand drops from his lips. The other uncurls itself from the bars, thumb going into the loops where his belt should be. He’s still smiling, still on the edge of laughter, but it’s more volatile - less giggly, more … Something less pleasant.

Yeah, yeah, [he waves a hand, no need for the separate ‘ja’ when he’s speaking German automatically] surprise visit after dark, how … inconvenient, right? You were sleeping and now you’re awake and you have me to deal with and you probably … [crossing the room to the small table as he speaks, he picks up the book he had given Kristoph two weeks earlier, flipping it over in his hand to look at the back] have things to do in the morning. But you know I was bored and I th-ought [there it is again, that odd stammer as he tries to get the words out, an odd, trembling gulp for air. Hm. A more sensible person might worry. Instead, he takes a deep breath, centers himself] looking at things, I probably owed you a few late night visits, right? 

[He fixes his eyes on Kristoph, gauging the reaction carefully, heart pounding a bit, hands still twitching weirdly.] I thought … given that the balance was tipped so … wildly in your favour on that score, perhaps I should start paying you back. God, I’m — [another frantic laugh, one hand on the edge of the table, drawing in deep, panting breaths] I’m … really fucked up right now, Kristoph, forgive me if I’m a-a little … 

What was I saying? Visits? I th-ought I … owed you. Well, I do visit - you’re never happy to see me though, are you? [At that he stills a little, breathing slower, calming down.] It’s funny. If not for me, you wouldn’t see a single soul for the rest of your life, but you’re never happy to see me.

[Kristoph suddenly isn’t sure if he’s awake or no—the way all of this is panning out seems to suggest some very surreal and strange dream, not reality. Klavier doesn’t handle himself with the utmost grace, definitely so, but this is just ludicrous; stumbling in drunk, gushing about utter nonsens—

Late night visits. Kristoph pauses, feeling tense. The suggestion is completely transparent to the former attorney and his posture becomes rigid, as he stares down Klavier, a dangerous and hostile look in his eye. Whatever his brother is trying to suggest here with such a comment, it’s made Kristoph wary.]

… You owe me nothing that I could possibly need, Klavier. You and I both know that.

[He brushes some part of his mussed fringe out of his eyes.] If there’s something else you care to discuss, spit it out; otherwise, be on your way, because my desire to see you is non-existent, given the circumstances.

prosecutor-godot replied to your post: 

Not going to deny you slept with Klavier, black sheep? How scandalous.

I believe at this point, I have repeated myself enough times about this matter that I don’t need to humor the unintelligent masses with any response about non-existent relations.

@Kristoph, A Small Meltdown, Saturday 11th June. Apologies for the length, subsequent replies shooould be shorter. Warning: Trainwreck!Klavier.

klavier-gavin:

[Saturday night, 10pm, Klavier pulled his hair out of its coil and brushed out the spray and tied it back into a severe ponytail sitting low at the back of his head. Already well on his way to wasted at the time, music loud enough to earn any tenant complaints in any lesser building, bass vibrating in odd tingles throughout his body. Alone. Crescend was … somewhere and who else would he be spending time with? He smirked at his reflection. Nobody else, on a night like this. Except, somehow that train of thought led to a new option. Shivering around his apartment beneath the bass and the weird scratching drums he thought, I wonder if Herr Godot paid my brother a visit yet. And then he thought, perhaps I should pay my brother a visit. Because suddenly he had things to say. That happened, sometimes, left to his own devices. His brother entered his thoughts as naturally as anything and as naturally as anything in his thoughts he tore him apart. In ways he never would out loud, in the real world; from limb to metaphorical limb.

He wasn’t sure what it was about tonight which made him want to so badly to say them outloud. Maybe it was his interaction with Herr Godot, or the younger Phoenix Wright, or even Herr Edgeworth. All of the above, none of the above. 

In no state to drive, he hired a car. Drank a little more on the journey and left the bottle half-full on the back-seat when he got out, forgot to tell the driver when to pick him up, too busy pushing back the small, aggressive voice of reason he carried with him in the back of his mind at times like these - it sounded like Daryan, of course, saying things like I swear if you visit your brother in this state I will punch you in the face. 

Not too far gone to talk his way past the guards without seeming as buzzed as he was - and the trick to that was to talk as little as possible, hide his smile (and his hands) as he passed over chain, pendant, rings, everything they always asked for, emptied his pockets. When he first started visiting, they would go further – demand to see the contents of his mouth, pat him down, empty his sleeves, but he’d come enough times and been on best behaviour that they didn’t bother. They didn’t even question the hour of his arrival this time, knowing, no doubt, that there would be a reward in their next paycheck for the trouble. 

The lights in the long corridor flickered on one by one as he walked down it; giving the whole scene a movie-like effect, he thought, and though they’d done it every time he’d visited very late (or very early), it was hard, this time, not to suppress a laugh. What kind of movie would this be? Not for your average American audience. 

As he placed one hand on the bars which held Kristoph, each of his fingers felt like it was twitching a little. Bars! Simple, iron bars! Not even reinforced glass, or concrete. Sort of comical, when he thought about it. The guard, because he knew him, rapped sharply on the door to wake Kristoph for his visitor, twisted each key in its lock, ushered him inside and walked away. Eager to return to his nap, or porn, or whatever it was he was doing in his little room. 

In the fluorescent light overhead, faced with the prospect of actually speaking to his brother like this, Klavier suddenly felt weak. Over-aware of the ponytail which had replaced, for the night, his usual coil, and the anxious trembling in his limbs. He drew a breath, curled his fingers tighter around the bars behind him, not yet willing to step forward. The low, drunken smile, however, remained on his lips, his brain a little ahead of his body’s reflexive anxiety, and after a moment’s frozen silence, one heavy, twitching hand came up to brush back his fringe with a flick of the wrist.

Hi — I hope I didn’t w- [a breath] w-ake you [w’s were difficult, all of a sudden. Why? And then the smile widened into a grin, for no reason whatsoever.] I was in the a-aarea, thought I’d drop by. It’s been a while since I paid my brother a visit. 

[The last part was almost sing-songed, dripping off into a giggle at the end. Again, for no reason whatsoever. Another sharp inhale, attempting to calm himself.

[Kristoph had never been one for early evenings. Back when he had been a defense attorney, he hadn’t minded staying up until the long hours of the night working on cases; of course, these were far and few in between, but there had always been something about the encompassing silence that made work easier to sink into. He had regarded it as a sort of luxury he could have to himself, when people and daylight had sometimes proved to be too much for him.

This was no longer the case; ever since Justice had first convicted him, prisoners were put on a strict schedule: rise at 6, lights out at 8, no exceptions. The systematic procedures of it all were admirable in itself, but the hours were still something Kristoph struggled to become accustomed to. Kristoph had always risen early, went to bed late, and the opposite schedule here had thrown his body into chaos. Which was why, having just settled for sleep, the rap at his door is quite unwelcome.

The visitor stumbling his way in is even more so—in the time Kristoph rises, rubs his eyes and reaches for his glasses, Klavier has blathered on about visiting or something equally trivial. As he stares at his younger brother, he notices some things: Klavier’s hair is not kept in its usually neat drill (though Kristoph supposes he has no room to question, considering his hair is currently a fluffy, strewn about mess), but that isn’t nearly as noticeable or, really, as important as the slightly wobbling frame and half lidded look in his eyes. The slurred speech and asinine giggle at the end is the tip off Kristoph needs to be truly angry with Klavier.

He leaves Klavier in cold silence, before he speaks, not even bothering to cover up his contempt with the barely-there patronizing tone he usually picks up with his brother. He would be having a word with the guards later, that much is certain.] … Funny. I don’t recall ever arranging a visit with you. Much less at this hour and you in the condition you’re in.

have you fucked anyone in prison yet?

other than klavier
Anonymous

………..

No.

you blow my mind
Anonymous

you're so fine
Anonymous

… Thank you, I suppose.

hey krissy
Anonymous

Kristoph. Yes, Anonymous?

A new layout, I see.

I personally am quite fond of it—very sleek looking.