Chapter Text
„Gavin, what the fuck do you want? It‘s way past your bedtime.“ Ema sounds disgruntled on the other side of the call, tired. She has every right to be, considering that it‘s around three in the morning and her alarm is supposed to ring in two hours. Klavier also has that one distinctive memory that she is busy with a big case right now. Big, as in, astronomical in the sense of probably a serial murder thing , which means she is running on a bloodstream filled with more coffee than blood, two hours of sleep a night and sheer, utter spite.
Which also means that he is on very thin ice, calling her right now.
But it‘s an emergency.
The case she is working on doesn‘t matter, he is panicking.
„Ema, I just got out of the shower…“
„Gross, ew, I don‘t need to know more, thanks.“
„Not like that, we had a concert, I literally just got home.“ Klavier tugs at a stray strand falling into his eyes and winces when it comes off, leaving him with a handful of hair falling through his fingers, „I need a new hair stylist. Ema, I just got out of the shower and there are holes in my hair . Holes! I can card my hands through and I am holding fistfuls of hair! Please help me.“
He is met with a vaguely enraged groan and several choice words that promise Klavier hell the next time he is going to meet Ema, but, once again, he has no one he can ask anymore.
Kristoph is out of the question, this is the third stylist he recommended who fucked up his hair, his brother‘s taste in stylists is horrible. Daryan walks around with a hairstyle that is an affront to human decency and the rest of his band is boring.
He can‘t ask his manager, the poor guy is already overworked with wrapping up the tour and handling the recordings for his new album and wrangling the rest of the band into shape, so really, Ema is his last and only option.
It‘s not like he can ask his fans for a recommendation. The tabloids would eat that up like his bad does yesterday's leftovers after a gig.
„Can‘t you call me at normal times, you goddamned. . . Fine. You know what? I‘ll text you a place later. Try it or leave it, but one wrong fucking word to the boss and I will pull your intestines out through your nose and leave you to my autopsy kid for his experiments. She finally got new scalpels and is just dying to shove them into a corpse. Also, they have a private room for people like you…“
„Devastatingly charming gentlemen with a crisis?“
„More like idiotic drama queens with an ego. Where was I? Right. So don’t worry about your fans swarming the place unless you fucking post it on your account. Please don’t be that stupid, that place is sacred to me. Otherwise we will have words. “ The threat is very much a real one, he knows that all too well. The kid she is talking about is creepy, a menacing little thing that keeps wearing a gas mask and likes to throw those very same scalpels, much like Ema likes to launch snackoos at his head.
He should stock up on those, as a treat to her.
„Thank you.“ He likes what little privacy he has left as well, thank you very much. He hates putting his stylists on the spot, too, considering the shit one of his old ones got for, dear lord, cutting his hair differently once. Once .
„Sure. I go there all the time, you‘ll like them. But please behave like a normal person? If they find out that I know you, ‘Thena won‘t let me live that down.“
Klavier nods, remembers that she can‘t see him, and answers, „Sure! As long as they can save my hair, I‘ll be good.“
His hair is his holy grail, it‘s the thing his fans gush the most about. If something happens to it, he will never recover. His handsome face is the primary selling point of the Gavinners, aside from their music, he can‘t risk it.
Because who else is supposed to take over if he can‘t? Daryan? Please, god, no.
„Can I go to sleep now?“
„Yeah, thanks again, Ema. Text me the name and address.“
Some grumbling, some rustling, another curse, „Sure. Now go away. Bye.“
And she hangs up. Doesn’t even let him tell her „Good Night“ or anything, the grump.
The next morning, his phone buzzes and he finds the text with no address, but a name.
Wright Anything Salon .
A quick search on Badger reveals that Wright Anything Salon is located inside the mall near his place, in walking distance from Ema and appears to have reviews ranging from “Best place to do your hair” to “Please, for the love of god, never ask for the senior stylist” to „If anyone manages to get that one cute stylist‘s number without being roundhouse kicked out of the building, let me know how that went, please?“ Some more research unearths the reason for Ema’s protective “Don’t be a dick” comment: Phoenix Wright is somewhat of a legend in their stylist circles, with him being known to be able to save any disaster in the makeup or hair department. There are stories, whispered behind chairs and doors, so many of them, of a bright smile and unending faith in his clients. Too many to count, one story wilder than the next. They are glorious and adventurous and, frankly, probably over-embellished, but true nonetheless.
Up until a few years ago, he was one of the top hairdressers known to anyone.
Until his brother happened. Now that he has a name for the owner of the place, he faintly remembers his brother going on yet another rant that his team has been rejected in favour of asking Phoenix Wright, he remembers the side eyes and the thinly veiled threats to never ask “that self taught fraud” for help. Not that Klavier had any idea where to find him back then.
But considering that the last stylist Klavier has accepted from his brother has fried his hair to hell and back… He is willing to try anyway.
If Phoenix Wright is capable of saving a whole ass film set with nothing but a comb, a curler and a can of hairspray on a rainy day, he can’t be that bad.
But first, he should probably stop staring down at his phone and actually call the place, instead of psyching himself up for it for a solid hour, like a loser.
Wright Anything Salon, Trucy Wright speaking, how may I help you?” He is greeted with the most cheerful voice, a squeaky young thing that belongs to a teenager at most. He doesn’t get to greet back, because her greeting is accompanied by some sort of screeching noise in the background, a very loud “FUCK” and several voices cackling at whoever cursed just now. Trucy Wright herself giggles into the phone, delightful and breathy, adds, “I take it he is not getting out of cleaning duty today. Now, sorry for the noise, are you still on the phone?”
“Ja, bin ich, I mean, yes, I'm here.” Klavier starts, pauses, then asks, “Is the other person okay?”
“Oh sure, he is used to bowling over Athena’s workstation, it’s fiiine. She will probably smack him in the break room later, but as long as he cleans it up before she notices that he just scattered half her products across the floor, he’ll live.” The girl babbles, “But Polly being Polly aside, how may we help you sir. Sir? You are a sir, right? We don‘t mind adjusting to any pronouns our clients ask us to use, so feel free to correct me!”
Poor Polly, whoever he is. Klavier will have to check on him when he has his appointment.
“Ja, thank you. No, he and him is fine. So, my usual stylist wrecked my hair, I have a gig in like, a week and I am in desperate need of someone who can salvage as much of my hair as possible.”
Miss Wright hums, “Long or short hair?”
“Long.”
“Alrighty, I think we’ve got just the guy for you. I’ll have to check whether he has a free slot, it’s wedding season, he is usually booked to the brim, but… Oh, he has a free one on Friday, two o'clock? Would that work?”
“Friday sounds good. Another thing,” And now for the hard part. Appointments? Easy. Asking for a private space? He’ll have to out himself. “A friend of mine recommended your place and mentioned that you have a private room? Would it be okay if I asked for that one?”
Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes…
“Sure, it’s free, I think. Lemme check for a sec… Whoever wrote this program deserves to be shot for their trouble… Yep, room‘s free! I mean, daddy’s out that day, so I’m sure Polly can use it. I’ll write you down, Mister…?”
“Oh, ja, sounds perfect. So, please don’t freak out, but the name’s Klavier Gavin?” She sounds about as old as his usual age demographic, so just in case, Klavier moves his phone away from his ear.
“Like the Gavinner’s Klavier Gavin? So the real deal or just the same name?” She is much calmer than he thought. Surprising, but in a good way, “I think I know why you’d ask for the private room. Wait, someone gave you a rec? Who was it?”
“Ema Skye?”
“EMA! Oh yeah, I love her, she’s great, daddy’s terrified of her. Last time he literally saw her, threw his scissors at ‘Thena and booked it, it was hilarious. Cool that she knows you, I did not expect that. But okay, Friday, two in the afternoon, we’ll see you there!”
Once again, before he can even say “goodbye” there is another crash, even more laughter and a very loud voice shouting “I AM APOLLO JUSTICE AND I AM FINE!!!”, followed by a yelp and some more mean cackling.
Klavier has to pull his phone away for that one.
What exactly has he gotten himself into, again?