Archive of Our Own

2026, December 20th. Sunday.

It was The Last Sunday Before Christmas, and Apollo Justice was standing in a seemingly endless queue to pay for his groceries. He had spent most of the day Christmas shopping for the two people he knew who weren't easy to buy for (his foster mom, and Mr. Wright), and now he was in Wal-Mart with his best friend and roommate, Clay Terran. They'd be spending Christmas Day itself visiting Clay's dad, so they didn't need to buy Christmas dinner ingredients, but they did still need a week's worth of ordinary food. It would have been mostly instant noodles if Apollo's wallet had been the only one involved. Fortunately, Clay drew a regular and reasonably large salary from the Cosmos Space Center.

As the queue inched closer to the till, Apollo stared into space and brooded. How exactly had he gone from being a well-paid lawyer training under “the Coolest Defense in the West”, Kristoph Gavin, to earning peanuts working for the disgraced Phoenix Wright? How had he gone through almost all of his savings in eight months? Both questions had the same answer, which was that Mr. Gavin had turned out to have a sideline as a murderer, and indicting your own boss while defending your innocent client was apparently not a good way to get yourself hired by any other respected law firms. So no shit, there he was, working for a man who wasn't even a lawyer any more. It would bother him considerably were he not confident that Mr. Wright's 15 year old daughter, Trucy, was the real boss of the company.

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Clay, snapping his fingers under Apollo's nose to get his attention.

Startled, Apollo's head snapped up, and he glared at his friend. “Don't do that.” He went on to answer the question with a shrug and a muttered, “You know. The usual.”

“Mmm,” said Clay, sympathetically. “It has been a really rough year for you, hasn't it? I hope next year will be better.”

Apollo didn't reply, because by then their position in the semi-infinite queue had reached the point by the till where all good supermarkets pile up last-minute impulse purchases. He wasn't tempted by candy, he didn't need any batteries, and he definitely did not need any trashy magazines. Nonetheless, despite loathing celebrity magazines as a concept, he found his gaze drawn to the front page of one of them. It featured (Prosecutor) Klavier Gavin, the rockstar, and brother of his former boss Kristoph, looking almost entirely unlike his usual glossy self.

Klavier was wearing sweatpants and sneakers with a hoodie – his beautiful blond hair was greasy and shoved mostly inside the hood. The big sunglasses on his face still failed to cover the dark circles around his eyes. His skin was blotchy, and was that really a trace of stubble around his chin? Klavier must have failed to see the paparazzo hiding in the bushes due to all of his attention being taken up by the large golden retriever, who seemed to be taking him for a walk, rather than the other way round. Apollo remembered the excitable Vongole only too well. He glanced over the headline and winced as he read, ‘Klavier: Can He Still Have a Career After His Brother’s Second Conviction?’.

Muttering to himself, Apollo grabbed the magazine from the shelf and started flicking through it to the feature. It turned out to be even worse than the front cover, featuring a delightful photo of Klavier bending down to pick up Vongole's poop, and the words ‘Klavier Gavin: Still Cleaning Up His Brother's Mess.’ Klavier looked exhausted, obvious even in the highly zoomed-in, low-resolution photograph. At one point, he'd actually caught sight of the photographer, and greeted them with a snarl and a middle finger, gleefully pixellated out by the magazine.

Clay glanced over Apollo's shoulder to see what was making him so angry, and whistled. “Dear God, those pictures are bad. They've really gone for the worst possible angle. He almost has a double chin.” He paused for a moment, scratching his head under his visor. “Hey, Apollo, you know how they airbrush celebrities in photoshoots to make them look flawless? Do you think they have filters to do the opposite to their candid shots? Like, to make a person look worse?”

“I don't know,” said Apollo, baring his teeth in a growl as he set the magazine back on its shelf. “I just know that Prosecutor Gavin doesn't need this shit after the year he's had.”

“Oh yeah, you actually know him. I keep forgetting that he's a lawyer as well.”

“I keep forgetting that he's a rockstar as well. At least until I see these so-called journalists dumping on him like this. They wouldn't know honesty and integrity if it...” Apollo trailed off, mumbling something which sounded like ‘bit them on the ass’, and shook his head. “I'd be suing for defamation of character if I were him.”

“Did you get him something for Christmas?” asked Clay, casually. Apollo frowned at him, but his friend appeared to be utterly serious – his face was calm, and his voice lacked any playfulness or teasing intonation. Even after all these years, Clay could still set off his bracelet by joking around.

“Um.” Apollo blinked. “Do you think I should?”

“Well, you're his friend, right?”

Apollo had to think. Was he Klavier Gavin's friend? They'd been out for coffee a few times when meeting to talk about cases, gone back to the prosecutor's apartment for much stronger drinks after seeing Daryan Crescend jailed, and then they'd worked together to prove Kristoph Gavin guilty of the murder of Drew Misham. After seeing his brother sent back to jail, Prosecutor Gavin had all but collapsed into Apollo's arms. Gavin was always a touchy-feely sort of guy, but there had been something rather desperate in the hug they'd shared after the Misham case was over.

“Uh... I guess. Sort of.”

“So you're at least his sort of friend, and he doesn't seem to have a lot of those at the moment.” Clay indicated the magazine, and shrugged. “Look, I don't know him beyond anything I've read in interviews, but... all of this must be hard to deal with.”

Apollo looked inside his wallet. Handing Clay a couple of $10 bills to cover his share of the groceries, he asked, “And what exactly do you propose that I should buy for an internationally famous rockstar slash prosecutor with the, uh... four dollars that I have left until Christmas?”

“I'm not sure,” replied Clay, “but there must be something you can give.” He laughed, and added, “I wouldn't recommend regifting anything, though.”

2026, December 21st. Monday.

Apollo went to the Wright Anything Agency as usual. That is, to say, he arrived at 8 am on his bicycle, opened the office door at 8.30 am, and spent nine hours mostly at his desk, waiting for a new client to call. This would never have happened if he'd gone to work for Swift and Fayre Law Offices, I.Z. Gilty-Arnott and Partners, or even if Mr. Gavin had managed not to be a murderous little bitch. Apollo clearly still had a lot of unresolved anger towards his former employer, not least in part for the way he'd manipulated Prosecutor Gavin from the witness stand, making the poor man almost break down. Fortunately, Klavier was made of tougher stuff than his brother had realised.

Although school was out for the winter break, there was no sign of Trucy today – Apollo thought she'd said something about going to see Vera Misham, who was still convalescing after her miracle survival. There was also no sign of Mr. Wright, who was presumably off on another of his Secret Missions and/or Wild Goose Chases. So Apollo might have indulged in using the slow, cranky office computer to try to research some sort of Christmas present for Prosecutor Gavin. Absolutely nothing that he could think of that seemed appropriate was within his price range.

Things that he could not afford: chocolates, alcoholic drinks, clothes of any kind, perfumes or colognes, make-up, jewellery, a gift card (for anywhere), or scented candles. He didn't actually know for certain that the slim rockstar would eat chocolates, but he'd certainly seen him drink hot chocolate. Maybe he could buy one of those boxes of Hershey's Kisses that just had one Kiss inside, or was that only for Valentine's Day? Or perhaps he shouldn't, on the basis that Prosecutor Gavin was flirtatious enough already.

Things that he could afford: instant ramen, a couple of cans of Diet Coke, a hairband, a small pile of rubber bands salvaged from his desk drawers, paper clips (ditto), a cheap lint roller, or a box of used tennis balls from Craigslist for Vongole. Well, Vongole wasn't fussy about who she gave her slobbery love to. Her owner, on the other hand, might think that Apollo was mocking him.

Frankly, unless he borrowed money from Clay, even a greetings card would account for half his budget.

Apollo contemplated whether he could make something featuring Prosecutor Gavin's godawful G-symbol, and then remembered that he hadn't been born under an artistic star. He further considered that perhaps Prosecutor Gavin didn't want to be reminded of his former band now that he was (allegedly) 100% committed to law.

He went home having achieved nothing except for cleaning the toilet.

2026, December 22nd. Tuesday.

Apollo went to the Wright Anything Agency as usual, and almost fell over with shock when he wheeled his bicycle in to find Mr. Wright already there. He was so caught off guard that he let out a rather embarrassing squawk, something like a cross between a squeaky toy being stepped on and a chicken having a tail feather plucked.

Mr. Wright laughed. “Wow, I don’t think I've ever heard a human make that noise before. Hey, do it again so I can record it and make it my ring tone.”

Apollo scowled and let the office door slam behind him rather harder than necessary. “Maybe instead of laughing at me, you should take a moment to reflect on what it says about you that seeing you awake at a respectable time caused me to react that way.”

“Mm, tempting,” Mr. Wright said languidly, stretching his arms above his head, “but I make it my policy never to perform any self reflection exercises on days that end in ‘y’. Anyway, how's tricks?”

Apollo gave a visible shudder at the word ‘tricks’. After a swift, furtive glance around the room to make sure that his real boss wasn’t hiding (as a magician, she could be anywhere), he said, “If this is about Trucy needing an assistant again, my answer is still no.”

“Oh, Apollo,” sighed Mr. Wright. “All I did was ask how you were, and your first assumption was that I want something from you? Your life must be lonely if you're that suspicious of people all the time...”

“I'd rather be suspicious and lonely than dead! Do you have any idea of the kinds of crap she puts me through up on that stage?! Last time she tried to saw me in half! And as if that wasn't traumatic enough, she didn't even explain how the trick worked!” yelled Apollo, frantically. “I thought I was actually going to be cut in half and put back together!”

“Yes, and your shouts of fear came across as all the more genuine for it. It was amazing.”

“Well, I'm not being a magician's assistant again unless you pay me!”

“Oh Apollo, Apollo, Apollo. Is this old man really going to be sent to his grave without ever seeing his only daughter's favourite trick ever again?” Mr. Wright knuckled at his eye as if wiping away a tear.

Apollo rolled his eyes. “You're not an old man,” he replied. “You're thirty-five.”

“Maybe I am old in my heart – have you ever thought about that? Like how some people feel young at heart and barely feel a day over twenty even when they're in their nineties. Maybe I'm the other way round, and have been ninety ever since my teens.” He rubbed his ‘bad’ back, and took a couple of tottering steps.

Apollo rolled his eyes as he made his way over to his desk and began to set up his desk for the day. “That would explain a lot,” he mumbled. “Anyway, obviously I can't kick you out of your own office, but can you at least not distract me? I have work to do.”

“Do you now? Does that mean we have a client?”

“No,” admitted Apollo. In a sudden flash of inspiration, he added, “In the absence of a client, I'm working on a project involving inter-office relations between the Wright Anything Agency and the Prosecutors' Office.”

“Heh. I see,” Mr. Wright replied, and Apollo didn’t need to look at him to know that he had an insufferable smirk on his face. “‘Inter-office relations with the Prosecutors’ Office’, huh. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? When I was young, we just called it a booty call.”

Apollo slammed his hands down on his desk as the heat flared up in his cheeks. “I-it’s not like that!! I was just thinking about getting Christmas presents for the prosecutors we work with! A little show of goodwill! That's all!”

“‘The prosecutors we work with’. I see.” Mr. Wright was still grinning as he picked at the pilling fabric on his hoodie. "By which you mean Gavin, right? Correct me if I’m wrong, but he’s the only prosecutor you work with.”

“...He's not the only one,” said Apollo, with a sullen pout. “There was... uh... that other guy. You remember. The one with the –” he gestured vaguely at his own countenance, "– face?

“Mm, right. Well, setting the guy with the face aside for a moment, do you even know whether Gavin will be in the country for Christmas?”

“In the country? Why wouldn't he be?”

“Well, I mean, the Gavins are German. He might well go back to Berlin, Munich, or Hannover for the festive season.”

“Oh.” Apollo gulped. He hadn't thought of that.

“If you have his number, you can check.” Mr. Wright was full of helpful suggestions today.

“Um. I have his number at the Prosecutors' Office? And he did give me a fancy business card once with his personal cell written on the back, along with a suggestion that I shouldn't lose the card because he didn't want to have to change his number again, but I never did get round to typing it into my phone.”

“Well, I suggest you do, then,” offered Mr. Wright, mildly. “After all, it would do you no good to plan the surprise of his lifetime only to find that he's out of the country for two weeks.”

With that, he swept into his office like a conquering king, leaving Apollo sitting at the front desk in emotional disarray. He still had the purple card in a hidden pocket of his wallet, and pulled it out to take a look. He remembered now why he hadn't exactly taken the offer of Gavin's number seriously – it was the way he'd written his name in glittery silver ink as if signing an autograph. Honestly, what kind of adult man would choose a glittery gel pen over a plain black ballpoint?

He dutifully entered the cell phone number into his phone, and spent close to an hour attempting to compose a text message.

Dear Prosecutor Gavin, I was wondering what your plans were for Christmas? - Too nosy.

Dear Klavier, will you be around over Christmas? - Too personal.

Dear Prosecutor Gavin, I was wondering if we are friends? If so, would you like a Christmas present? - Too formal. And also too awkward.

In the end, he dumped the prosecutor's business card into the top drawer of his desk, and spent the rest of the day vigorously vacuuming the office.

2026, December 23rd. Wednesday.

It was raining when Apollo woke up. After waiting for an hour to see if the storm would ease off, checking the weather updates on his phone, he put on his bright red raincoat and cycled into work. Just as he arrived at the office, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Typical.

He opened the office door to find a very excitable Trucy Wright waiting for him. “You're late, Polly!”

“Late?” he enquired. “What for? Do we have a client?”

“Of course not,” replied Trucy. “You're late for getting ready for this afternoon!”

“This afternoon?” Apollo echoed. “What's happening this afternoon?”

“A project involving inter-office relations between the Wright Anything Agency and the Prosecutors' Office!” Trucy clapped her hands with delight. Mr. Wright must have been sharing things with her again. Just like him to tell his daughter everything, but Apollo nothing…

“There's an event to celebrate Uncle Miles getting promoted to Chief Prosecutor, and we're going to gatecrash it!”

“Uncle Miles?” Apollo had heard something about the old Chief Prosecutor retiring, and the new one being rather younger.

“Edgeworth,” explained Mr. Wright, sticking his head out from behind his office door, where he had clearly been listening in.

“Miles Edgeworth?!” squeaked Apollo, overcome by the mention of one of his other great legal heroes. As far as he was aware, Edgeworth had been Phoenix Wright's court rival, but after Wright's disbarment, he'd left the U.S. to work in the European courts. Apollo hadn't exactly had time to follow his career since.

“Miles Edgeworth is the new Chief Prosecutor,” said Mr. Wright. That was two free pieces of information in a row from Mr. Wright. Apollo felt a strong suspicion that there would be a payback soon.

“And that's why we're going to the event tonight,” explained Trucy.

“Oh, well, I hope you have a nice time,” said Apollo.

“Oh, no, no. You're coming too!” replied Trucy.

And there it was. “What?”

“You're part of our family too now, Polly! So if we're going, you have to go too.”

“Um... If I understand this correctly, neither of you have an invitation.”

“Of course not. You don’t need to invite family. Uncle Miles is expecting us.” Trucy smiled, and Mr. Wright nodded along with her.

Apollo rubbed the back of his neck. “But is he expecting me?”

“Actually,” said Mr. Wright, “he's rather keen to meet you, Apollo. He's been very impressed with your work this past year.”

“Oh.” There wasn't anything else that Apollo could say.

Trucy took hold of Apollo's hand and started to pull him towards her bedroom. “So I'm going to need your help with my hair and my dress...”

“Woah, woah!” cried Apollo, snatching back his hand. “Where will your father be while this is taking place?”

“Oh, Daddy has an appointment to get his hair cut. Uncle Miles will kill him if he turns up wearing that beanie.”

“Mr. Wright, is this all right by you?” Apollo really did not want to lose his job, low-paid though it was, by being accused of ogling an underage girl.

“Of course,” said Mr. Wright, calmly. “I trust you, Apollo. You are family. Besides, aren't you gay?”

“I... I...” Apollo opened and closed his mouth a few times. “How do you know?”

“Well, if you're genuinely wondering, Kristoph Gavin told me.”

Apollo cursed the name of Kristoph Gavin, for his crimes of murder, murder, attempted murder, and outing people without their consent. It wasn't as if he was terribly closeted, and Trucy had certainly noticed the fact that Prosecutor Gavin kept flirting with him and he… hadn't told him to stop, but some things were for a person to tell people about themselves.

“Right,” said Apollo, and added too quickly for either of the Wrights to make their usual bad pun, “let's go and get you ready, then.”

He allowed Trucy to pull him towards her bedroom, and turned around while she put on her dress. It transpired that the only ‘help’ she needed was with the back zip. Apart from that, his job was mostly to make the appropriate impressed noises as she styled her hair.

Apollo had to borrow a towel and some of Mr. Wright's hair gel to sort out his own mess. Having his hair get absolutely soaked in the rain and then start to dry again meant that it was embarrassingly fluffy. His spikes hung down instead of up, and he looked like the singer of an emo band.

While they were sorting out their respective hairdos, he asked, “How exactly do you get to claim Miles Edgeworth as your uncle, anyway?”

“Oh,” said Trucy, lightly, “You know how he and Daddy have been friends since they were children. Isn't it normal to refer to your parents' friends as aunts and uncles?”

She definitely wasn't lying, but she was hiding something.

When Mr. Wright returned later that afternoon, much to Apollo's shock, he was [a] clean-shaven, [b] with freshly-trimmed hair, and [c] wearing a suit. Apollo's mouth dropped open, and he had to shut it quickly to avoid letting a swear word out in front of Trucy. The suit was black and rather plain, the type that a man with no regular need for formal wear might rent for a wedding or a funeral, but it was such a departure from the scruffy hoodie and beanie that he looked like a different person altogether. It was paired with a light blue shirt which was actually tasteful, and a dark blue tie.

“Huh,” said Apollo, instead.

“Do I really look that different?” asked Mr. Wright, curiously.

“Um, yeah? You look like... uh...” Apollo suddenly realised that there was no polite way to say either ‘like yourself’, as if that implied that the Mr. Wright in beanie and sandals wasn't in fact Phoenix Wright, or ‘like you did when you were a lawyer’, reminding him again that he had been disbarred.

Trucy saved him. “Daddy looks like he did when he adopted me,” she said, proudly, hanging onto his arm. Mr. Wright beamed.

“What's with the complete, uh, costume change?” asked Apollo, still struggling with his vocabulary.

“Well, the event tonight is rather formal. Besides, Edgeworth and I wondered what people would make of me, if I showed up looking smart again after all this time.”

“Is this... maybe... a first step towards returning to the Bar?” said Apollo, out loud. It hadn't escaped his attention that the entire disbarment debacle had been orchestrated by Kristoph Gavin as some sort of messed-up revenge plot, and with it all revealed in court, perhaps there was no longer a reason to prevent Mr. Wright from getting his badge back.

Mr. Wright's smile turned secretive, and he tapped his lips with his first finger, as if shushing him. “Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see.”

They actually called a cab to travel over to the Gatewater Hotel, rather than simply taking the bus. Apollo was so impressed by this extravagance that he only remembered to clarify something as they were pulling up to the venue.

“Will this event tonight be a Christmas party?

“Ah. No.” Mr. Wright shook his head. “Edgeworth does not celebrate Christmas.”

Apollo rubbed the back of his neck. “Is he Jewish?”

Mr. Wright looked entirely perplexed by the question. “Um. No. He was brought up by a German Catholic family and... just don't ask about it, okay? Ixnay on the istmaschray.”

It turned out to be a formal event with finger food, and speeches from both the retiring and the new Chief Prosecutors. There were some decorations, but they were all very non-denominational, with no particular reference to Christmas or any other winter holiday. Apollo listened attentively even as Trucy and Mr. Wright raided the buffet, returning with two stacked plates each. Edgeworth made reference to the conviction of Kristoph Gavin, and promised to do his very best to root out any other rogue lawyers contributing to the ‘Dark Age of the Law’.

After the speeches, Mr. Wright steered Apollo straight to Edgeworth, and – rather to Apollo’s astonishment – handed one of the plates of food to the Chief Prosecutor. Edgeworth thanked him gravely, with a slight bow.

“He never remembers to eat at these things,” explained Mr. Wright, “unless someone actually puts food into his hand.”

“Now, now, Wright, I remember a certain nine year old who would never realise that he was hungry, until his friend's father called them for dinner.” Edgeworth was smiling, eyes crinkling in the corners a little. Huh. So they really had been friends since childhood?

“May I introduce my associate, Apollo Justice,” said Mr. Wright, formally, and Apollo jumped to attention at the realisation that he was being talked about.

“I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Justice,” said Edgeworth, shaking his hand. “I have many observations regarding your performance in the courts over the past few months.”

“Oh, uh, thank you?” replied Apollo, really quite overcome.

“They can wait for another occasion, however.” Edgeworth smiled at him. “Tonight, I will unfortunately be tied up with the well-wishes of many people, some of whom will inevitably have hidden agendas in their congratulations. Instead, I might suggest that you speak with your court rival, Mr. Justice.” He indicated a dark corner of the room, where Prosecutor Gavin was sitting quietly, nursing a glass of champagne. “Gavin could certainly use a friend tonight.”

Prosecutor Gavin was here? Apollo hadn't seen him in court since the end of the Misham trial, and nor had he been in his office the one time he'd gone to check. His personal assistant, who was something like a cross between a secretary, a bodyguard, and a walking backup memory, had explained sympathetically that Gavin was “away”. She didn't give any more details, but Apollo had read between the lines that he was taking time off to deal with his personal trauma. Those awful paparazzi photos had reinforced his belief that Gavin was in a very bad state after discovering that his brother had not only committed murder, but also meticulously plotted it over many years.

Yet tonight, Prosecutor Gavin looked okay. Surprisingly so, which was to say that he was as well-groomed as if he were ready for a glossy photoshoot. His blue eyes were edged in black eyeliner, brows and lashes darkened, and his clean hair curled into a soft braid on his shoulder. His skin was clear, without any visible breakouts, and his pretty face once again gave the impression of androgyny. (Apollo was still uncertain whether that really had been stubble in the picture, or just a shadow.)

He was dressed in something like the inverse of his court outfits – a black jacket and matching pants with a purple, shiny, silk shirt. His jewellery was muted – the silver chain around his neck closer in diameter to a bicycle chain than a chain you’d use to lock up a bike, and his belt was made of perfectly normal black leather. His shoes were black leather too, with the slightly elevated heel that he preferred, as if he weren’t tall enough already. He sat with the glass dangling from his hand as if already somewhat drunk, and an affable smile on his lips which did not meet his eyes. A person who did not know him well would have believed him quite content to be there. Apollo knew otherwise.

As Apollo approached Gavin, the prosecutor glanced up and caught sight of him; he gasped with surprise, and the smile spread across his face to light up his entire expression. “Herr Forehead! I didn't expect to see you here!”

“I didn't expect to be here,” admitted Apollo. “I was rather dragged along by Mr Wright and Trucy.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion, watching the pair continue to interact with the new Chief Prosecutor. “They said that we were gatecrashing, but somehow I don't think we are.”

Gavin's gaze followed Apollo's, and he winced. “There has always been something between Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth. I don't know what, exactly, but they have always been at the very least close friends. Even through all that Scheiße with Kristoph.”

“Speaking of which,” said Apollo, a little awkwardly, “how are you doing? I haven't seen you in court, and I, uh... I did see some really nasty tabloid photographs of you.”

Gavin winced again, and bit his lip. “You did? I'm sorry for that.”

“Hey, it isn't your fault!” Apollo sat down next to him. “You didn't ask to be famous and have a murderous brother. Well... you might have wanted to be famous, but I'm sure you didn't ask Mr Gavin to kill people.”

“I did not,” said Gavin, quietly. He seemed very sad, and Apollo ached to comfort him somehow.

“So… what have you been up to?”

“I took some time off. Less a vacation and more of a... uhm, an enforced mental health break. As in ‘Klavier, you will go to see a therapist before you do something really stupid’.” He sighed. “Since I got back, I've been keeping a low profile. Working on cases behind the scenes, sorting out the initial paperwork for someone else to prosecute. I don't feel like turning any other court cases into spectacles for the vultures.”

“But you're all right, though?”

“I am alive, on antidepressants, and I have a therapist. And I'm here tonight.” He shrugged. “What more do you want?”

Apollo frowned. “Should you be drinking on antidepressants?”

For some reason, that made Gavin throw his head back and laugh. Not the full-bodied laugh that Apollo was used to, not the explosion of mirth that would have Gavin wiping away tears from his eyes, but he seemed to be genuinely amused by something.

“Ach, I even managed to fool you?” He indicated his champagne flute. “This is sparkling apple juice.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, my psych says it would be perfectly safe to drink a little on my medication, but... I don't want to. I spent about a week drunk off my ass, and it didn't help. All it did was numb the pain for a while until I sobered up enough for it to come back. Then I drank some more – at least, until Detective Skye almost broke my door down and dragged me to a doctor.” His mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Ooof.” Apollo looked rather distressed by this admission. “I'm really sorry you had to go through that, Prosecutor Gavin.”

The blond ran a hand through his bangs and smiled, slightly. “Herr Forehead... we are friends, ja?” He sounded genuinely uncertain, and concerned about the outcome. Apollo’s wrist twitched as his bracelet squeezed a little, though the tremors in Gavin’s hand were obviously from anxiety rather than prevarication.

“I think so,” replied Apollo, trying to sound as affirmative as possible.

“Then please call me by my name, not my title, when we're outside court.”

Apollo folded his arms and grinned. “That would be dependent on you calling me by my name, rather than that atrocious nickname.”

Gavin breathed deeply, in and out, before inhaling again. “Apollo,” he said slowly, his voice warm with affection.

Apollo turned and stared at Gavin... no, Klavier. He wasn't certain that he'd ever heard the prosecutor say his first name before, and it had never occurred to him how the word might sound when pronounced in Klavier's German accent. It turned out that there was something incredibly appealing about the sound of the syllables, and he suddenly found himself wanting the blond to say his name all the time.

“Huh,” he muttered, eloquently.

He'd always known that Klavier was gorgeous. Kristoph had been attractive too, but he had always been so stiff and formal, his demeanor polite yet so, so cold. Knowing Mr Gavin for just two days had been enough for Apollo to realise that he would never find himself with an unfortunate crush on his boss, because the man was like ice. Even when he smiled, there was something in his expression which entirely forbade any kind of intimacy. The closest he got to showing anything like affection was when he spoke about his golden retriever, Vongole. The same dog who was now being taken care of by his younger brother.

Klavier, on the other hand, was almost the spitting image of Mr Gavin. He had the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, the same facial features – and all of the warmth that was lacking in his brother. Though his fame gave him a tendency to hide his feelings in public, he did show his emotions in private. He smiled often, laughed, touched Apollo on the forearm, threw his arm around his shoulders – and flirted.

Apollo found himself wondering how much of that flirting had been serious. He'd always considered it a joke, a way for the prosecutor to try to discomfit the defense attorney during a case. But maybe, just maybe, Klavier meant it. He had spoken his name like a caress, after all.

“You look like you've just had a revelation about something,” remarked Klavier. He winked. “Care to share it with the court?”

Apollo was still staring at Klavier, eyes wide, seeing his court rival in a new light. He could see every pore on his friend’s face, the beginnings of soft laughter lines, the way that his irises were a ring of darker blue with a second ring of lighter grey/blue close to the pupil. As Klavier spoke, Apollo startled, realising that he was inadvertently Perceiving. He hoped that his own eyes were still brown and not a weird magical red. (He couldn’t Perceive himself in a mirror, so he only had other people’s words to go on, but even his own defendants had seen the colour change.) Shaking himself mentally, he tried to put a cool grin on his face.

“I'm not sure I will,” replied Apollo, doing his very best to sound calm. “Not today, Klavier.”

Apollo had no idea what Klavier heard in his voice, but from the blond’s wide eyes and open mouth, he was equally as affected by hearing his first name spoken aloud by his friend. He put his glass down, and reached out to take Apollo's hand - though he didn't attempt to flirt. He didn’t say anything. They sat for what seemed like several minutes, watching the party around them, in a comfortable silence. As though nothing more needed to be said.

“I had been wondering if we were close enough friends that I should be buying you a Christmas present,” said Apollo, after a while.

“Ah... I haven't been expecting you to,” replied Klavier. “Though I wouldn't be opposed to it.” He smiled. “In Germany, gift giving is mostly for children, and we do it on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day.”

Oh great. Christmas Eve was tomorrow, and Apollo still had no clue what to get him. “What are you doing for Christmas, anyway?” he asked.

“I was planning to be alone at home with Vongole,” said Klavier, glancing off to one side as he ran a hand through his hair, his usual tell for ‘I am telling the truth, but I feel very uncomfortable about it’.

“I'll be having Christmas dinner with my best friend Clay, at his dad's house.” Seized with sudden inspiration, Apollo added, “If you like, you could come too. There’s plenty of room, and I know Clay would be thrilled to meet you.”

“Ach, I'd love to, but nein.” Klavier shook his head. “The press vultures are still after me, and the last thing I want to give them is any ammunition. At least at home, there is security to keep them out.” He grinned, sheepishly.

They continued to talk for the rest of the night, until the party broke up. Klavier offered to give Apollo a ride home, but he declined, worried about Klavier's expensive car driving through his rough neighbourhood.

2026, December 24th. Thursday.

Apollo woke up hungover and extremely grumpy. He took a painkiller, drank some Alka-Seltzer, and grumbled to himself. Clearly, at the ripe old age of 22, he was getting far too old to drink on a work night. The fact that he'd had an entire one and a half glasses of wine was actually much less relevant to his headache than the fact he'd only gotten to bed at 1 am, but somehow it seemed even less cool for him to need a solid eight hours of sleep per night at his age.

He didn't quite feel capable of cycling without causing an accident, but he'd left his bike at the office anyhow, and needed to get it back. Thus he had to take two buses over to the Wright Anything Agency, and arrived much later than usual. It didn't matter since Trucy and Mr Wright were only just getting up, stumbling around the place, yawning.

“So, Apollo, how did things go with Prosecutor Gavin last night?” asked Trucy in a teasing tone of voice. “I saw the two of you looking very cozy in the corner there.”

“We had an interesting conversation,” Apollo admitted.

“Just a conversation? It looked like you were going to start cuddling!”

“Just a conversation.” There was a warning note in Apollo's voice. “We talked about how he had been getting on after the Misham case, and whether or not we considered each other friends.” He sighed, and clenched his fists with frustration. “And he does think of us as friends, and I still don't know what to get him for Christmas, and Germans do their gift exchange on Christmas Eve, which is today!”

Mr Wright wandered into the office at that point, back in his beanie and hoodie as if nothing had ever changed. He put a mug of coffee on Apollo's desk and nodded at him to continue. “What have you considered getting him?”

“Lots of things, but I can't afford any of them.” He began counting off on his fingers. “Chocolate, festive food, booze, clothes, jewellery, perfume, make-up, hairbands, an iTunes gift card or something... Some sort of festive ornament, or guitar strings, or another glitter pen. But I only have four dollars, and Gavin's such a perfectionist – he probably has a preferred brand for all of those things already.”

Mr Wright sat down on the arm of the sofa, coffee in hand. “May I offer a suggestion?” he said, mildly.

“Um, sure.” Apollo shrugged. What did he have to lose?

“It seems to me that you're going about this entirely the wrong way. You're thinking of things which you would like to receive if you were Gavin. But you're forgetting that Gavin is so wealthy, he can simply buy these items for himself whenever he needs them. It's something that I've had to learn, in my relationship with Miles.”

“...What was that last bit?” asked Apollo.

“Oh, nothing,” said Mr Wright, lying blatantly. “Simply that it is a problem for those of us who, uh, work mostly pro bono when confronted with much wealthier, er, partners.”

“Prosecutor Gavin and I aren't partners!” squeaked Apollo, feeling his face begin to burn.

“Then why are you blushing?” remarked Trucy.

“Ack! Not fair, not fair!”

“You are partners,” said Mr Wright, cutting through the bickering. “Perhaps not romantic, but in the legal world at least. He is your court rival.”

“I, uh... suppose that is true,” allowed Apollo, begrudgingly.

“He's very important to you, so you want to please him. But you're thinking of gifts which can be bought with money, which is something you have very little of and he has a great deal of. That isn't going to work.”

“Hm.”

“What do you have that Gavin wants?”

Why was Mr Wright always so goddamn cryptic? He was obviously getting at something specific, what with the mention of his own situation with his ‘court rival’. Though, given that Mr Wright hadn't been in the courts for seven years and Prosecutor Edgeworth had been out of the country, that really wasn't the right description for their relationship any more. And their childhood friendship had to be complicating things… How was this relevant to him and Gavin, again?

Apollo threw up his hands in despair. “I have no idea,” he said. “I'm going to clean the toilet.” He stomped off towards the bathroom in a rage.

Trucy Wright exchanged A Look with her father. “How long do you think it's going to take him to work it out, Daddy?”

“If he's as clever as I think, about five minutes. If he's as stubborn as I fear, maybe a couple of hours.” Mr Wright nodded. “Should we get some Christmas cookies baking, baby girl?”

“Yes!” squealed Trucy, running back to her bedroom to get changed.

Apollo was miserable. As he squirted thick bleach around the toilet bowl, he grumbled to himself about cryptic people and their useless ‘hints’. Mr Wright may have been the undisputed king of bullshit, but this time he had a specific idea. There was a definite Thing that he wanted Apollo to work towards, but he wanted Apollo to come up with it himself. Gah.

Come to think of it, Clay had done the same. He was the one who'd put the idea of buying something for Gavin – Klavier – into Apollo's head in the first place. He'd claimed that even if Apollo had no money, there must be something he could give. Worse, he'd even instructed Apollo not to regift anything – as if Apollo was stupid enough to try foisting any unwanted gifts upon his wealthy and worldly friend. As though any of Apollo's unwanted presents could ever live up to the level of quality and luxury that Klavier Gavin the rockstar would be expecting.

That was the whole problem here. Klavier was a rockstar. He had literal millions in the bank – Apollo wasn't sure of his exact income, but his luxury penthouse in downtown LA showed that he was pretty flush with cash. Apollo was a normal person, who had had savings once, before his boss had turned out to be a murderer. Now he had student loans to pay, rent to find, and nowhere enough coming in to deal with the bills going out.

Okay, so Mr. Wright was right (ugh!) that he shouldn't try to compete with Klavier financially. Instead, he should try answering the other question: What did he have that Klavier would want?

What did he even have that Klavier didn't? Student loans. Instant noodles. A very lovely but difficult cat. This was an entirely unhelpful train of thought. He closed the toilet lid and sat down on it.

What was it that Clay had said? Why had he been so convinced that Apollo should give Klavier something? “You're at least his sort of friend, and he doesn't seem to have a lot of those at the moment.” What had he said about the present itself? “There must be something you can give.”

Wait. Clay had said give. He hadn't said buy. What could Apollo give that he didn't have to buy?

Clay had emphasised their friendship. Klavier had been desperate to confirm that they were at least friends. He hadn't explicitly flirted for once, not in the teasing way which drove Apollo mad, but instead had uttered Apollo's first name with so much warmth that it made his affection crystal clear.

What did Klavier need that all of his millions could never buy? That Apollo could supply?

Oh. When viewed like that, the answer was suddenly incredibly obvious.

Taking off his pink rubber gloves and throwing them on the floor, Apollo raced for the office door. He grabbed his bicycle and helmet, and yelled, “I'm going to see Prosecutor Gavin!”

“Good luck!” screamed Trucy.

“Take care!” shouted Mr. Wright. "Don't forget to rubber up!"

"Note to self, I owe Mr. Wright another punch in the mouth when I get back," Apollo snarled under his breath on his way over the threshold, his ears flushing. Mr. Wright just smirked.

After the door slammed, Mr Wright pulled his old brick of a cellphone out of his pocket and looked at the clock. “Twelve minutes. Not bad, Apollo, not bad.”

Apollo rode to the Prosecutors' Office as fast as his legs would take him. He locked up his bike, charged into the elevator, and went up to the seventh floor. “Is Prosecutor Gavin here?” he demanded somewhat breathlessly of Klavier's PA.

“Yes, for now, though he'll be going home fairly soon.”

“Great!” said Apollo. “Thanks.”

He knocked on Klavier's door. “Prosecutor Gavin!”

Despite the soundproofing of the office walls, Klavier never had any problem knowing when Herr Forehead was there. The man's loud voice carried through the wooden door easily.

“Hallo?” he said, opening the door, a little surprised since they'd only seen each other the night before.

“I finally worked out what to give you for Christmas!” Apollo yelled.

Klavier looked at him critically. Apollo was flushed from his cycling, legs trembling with exertion. His spikes were flattened by his bicycle helmet, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Klavier thought that he had never looked more kissable. “Well, you'd better come in.”

He waited for Apollo to enter, and shut the door behind them. “Ja?”

Apollo didn't sit down, instead pacing on the small rug. He seemed extremely frantic, fists clenching and unclenching.

“Apollo, Apollo, calm down, bitte. What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, I'm just anxious. Like I said, I figured out what you needed for Christmas. Come here.”

Klavier took a step towards his friend, and suddenly there was a defense attorney embracing him. Apollo's arms wrapped around his waist, and his head rested against Klavier's chest. Apollo's head was against Klavier's chest. Apollo's head was against Klavier's chest.

Their height difference meant that the shorter man's head touched Klavier where his shirt was open. Apollo's head was against Klavier's bare chest. Klavier suddenly understood what it was like to be one of his own fangirls as a wave of excited dizziness passed through him, making him feel like he might just faint on the spot.

The rockstar trembled. Apollo looked up to see his expression. “Was that… okay?”

Klavier nodded. “Ja, ja!” He hugged back as tightly as he could, feeling tears prick his eyes. “Bitte, bitte, keep holding me.”

Apollo grinned up at him. “Merry Christmas, Klavier.”

When they broke off, he stared down at Apollo, barely able to believe what had just happened. “Was that... my present?”

“I'm sorry I couldn't wrap it,” said Apollo. “But I thought it was the one thing I could give you that you couldn't simply buy for yourself. The gift of friendship.” He immediately slapped a hand against his face, blushing. “Oh my God. Just… pretend I said something cool then.”

Klavier was still trembling. He sat down on the edge of his desk, rather abruptly, because his knees seemed to have turned into jello. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Gazing longingly at the man he was so attracted to, who at least cared for him as a friend, even if nothing more, he said, “Mein Gott, Forehead. It was cool. I don't even know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything.” Apollo was back to being awkward, standing with his arms folded, and pretending that he had a great interest in Klavier’s guitar collection. However, the glass was reflective enough that he could see his friend perfectly.

“Ja, but I should. That took guts, Herr Forehead.” Klavier was biting his lip and playing with his hair twist, clearly desperate to say more. “Apollo.”

The raw emotion in Klavier’s voice as he said his name was enough to draw Apollo out of his embarrassment. As he turned, the blond smiled, a little starry-eyed.

“Uhm,” he said, with a faint blush visible against his brown skin, “may I, uhm, give you something in return? A little, ah… Deutsch-style thing, for a friend.”

“Um, er… I mean, you don’t have to,” said Apollo, not exactly wanting Klavier to root through his desk and give him some random German item because he felt obliged to. Some chocolates, maybe, or a snowglobe. “But you can, if you really want.”

Klavier put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Then...” He pressed his lips to Apollo's cheek. “Frohe Weihnachten, Apollo.”

Apollo gave the same sort of screaming squawk that Mr. Wright claimed he’d wanted to record, and his entire face and neck turned approximately the same shade of red as his suit. “Oh my God, Gavin! You should… should…”

“I should what?” asked Klavier, mildly.

“You should warn a guy before doing that sort of thing!” Apollo flapped his hands in Klavier’s direction, not quite managing eye contact.

“Ach, I thought I did!”

“You really did not! You know Americans don’t have any kind of casual kissing culture!”

“Ja, but…” Klavier frowned. “Did you mind?”

Apollo crossed his arms, the bright red on his face beginning to fade away to an expression of grumpiness instead. “...No. But,” he pulled out an admonishing finger, “I think we should stay professional in the office. A hug, perhaps, if we’re not opposing counsel. A German-style friendly kiss on the cheek, with warning. But no goddamn flirting. Not in the office. Do you understand?”

“Ja,” breathed Klavier, who seemed to be entirely astonished.

“As long as that’s understood.” Apollo tilted his head, regarding his friend for a moment, and then sighed and pulled him into another hug. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Even if you're trapped in your apartment. Even if you’re at work. I can come by after dinner. I can even bring you some Christmas dinner, if you like.”

“I would like that, actually. Are you sure?”

“Klavier, I like you. Of course I'm sure.”

“Then... danke. I'll look forward to it.”

Apollo smiled at him, a little awkwardly, though he seemed to have gotten over his embarrassment. “I’d better go. I don’t want to be cycling home once the rush hour starts, and it always starts early on Christmas Eve.”

“See you tomorrow, ja?” Klavier waggled his fingers in a little self-conscious wave.

“See you tomorrow!” Apollo gave a proper wave, and left, shutting the door behind him.

Klavier let himself flop down into his massage chair, all the way past emotionally overwrought and into utter disbelief. He had to pinch himself to prove he wasn’t dreaming. The gift of friendship. Herr Forehead really was a genius. A massive dork, but a genius nonetheless.

Well, Klavier could work with that. He was secretly a massive dork too, a geek of the law rather than the suave rockstar that his fans believed him to be. He made jokes about statutes, and shitty bilingual puns…

‘Gift’ in German meant ‘poison’, a word that had become particularly abhorrent to Klavier since the Misham case. But Klavier couldn't think of anything poisonous about Apollo. He’d tried – actively looking for red flags, reasons to distrust him after his brother and Daryan. But he couldn’t find a thing, because Apollo genuinely seemed to be the most honest person that he’d ever met.

And Apollo had finally confirmed their friendship – maybe, even, reciprocated Klavier's flirting. He’d certainly had the opportunity to tell him to stop, and instead, he’d said “Not in the office.” That was extremely hopeful. Maybe, with time, Apollo's gift of friendship might become the gift of love.