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mllelaurelFandom: Ace Attorney
Title: The Next Train To Nowhere
Characters: Klavier Gavin, Thalassa Gramarye/Lamiroir, Daryan Crescend
Pairings: Klavier/Lamiroir
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: The first time he tries to kiss her, she pulls back, faster to react than someone sighted would have been. She must have felt his breath, sensed his movement in the air around her. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she tells him. Romances with musicians, set on trains in Eastern Europe, generally don't work out.
Anywhere you want to go in Borginia, you go by train. Oh, their manager could have hired special transport for them, but Klavier laughs her off. No way he’s passing up this chance. He misses trains when he’s back in the States, the rolling hallway beneath his feet, countryside scrolling by outside the window. Women from the markets calling at every stop, the taste of spicy, meat-filled pastry in his mouth. He likes the window seats, where everyone can see him and he can see everyone, feet up on the foldout table, till Daryan kicks him off, ‘watch it, you asshole, people gotta eat off of those!’ Likes the feel of a narrow bunk under his back, sheets too rough and pillows too hard, as he makes love to someone, with the hum of the rails in his ears.
He’s always hungry on these trips. Restless, though that’s not unusual. Up all night drinking shot after shot of peppery vodka with Daryan and the others, grinning as they get mobbed by the other passengers. Never thought they’d have heard of the Gavinners, even here. His Borginian’s awful, but it’s getting better, and he doesn’t need to speak any language at all, to hear someone calling his name.
Daryan grumbles, says he’s starting to understand what it’s like for black people, if one more little shithead touches his hair without permission, he’ll- but Klavier knows he loves it, too, almost as much he loves wailing away on his guitar in the heat of the spotlight, or nailing a criminal after a long chase. Besides, if he didn’t like his hair being jacked, maybe he shouldn’t have styled it into an oversized dick. “Compensating for something?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Gavin.” And it’s a little too close to the truth, because Daryan’s exactly the kind of straight where something could have happened, when they were both wasted, but Klavier’s not touching that kind of hot mess with a ten foot pole. Better to just be friends than to wake up wondering who actually wanted what, in the morning.
He doesn’t expect Lamiroir to join them in the dining car at two in the morning, but there she is, a sweep of silk dress against his thigh as she leans over to catch the scent of his meal. “Lamb?” She’s got it in one. “And pomegranate sauce - careful there, Persephone, or else Hades may drag you down into his underworld.”
Klavier laughs, makes room for her at the booth. “Who says I don’t want him to?” She’s alone for a change. Machi must be asleep. He wonders how she made her way across the train, without tipping anyone off to her blindness. He knows about it, of course. The whole band does. He still thinks her manager’s insistence on keeping it a secret is stupid as a herd of fucks. Just change the name of her act, what’s the big deal?
“How’s the song coming, Frau Lamiroir?” he asks her.
She shakes her head. “It would be better with your help. This is a song meant for two. Some songs are. You know it before a single note sounds.” He’d think she was flirting, but she’s speaking his language now. Some songs really are like that. They exist before you write them, before you’re ready for what they’re trying to tell you. Either way, he doesn’t need a second invitation, to follow her back to her room, and if his bandmates make lewd gestures at him all morning, that’s just because they don’t get it. His left hand aches, where the headstock of the acoustic guitar dug into his palm, and his fingers feel like jelly by the time the sun rises, but her voice still echoes in his ears when he falls asleep, clear and powerful, like a waterfall.
***
The first time he tries to kiss her, she pulls back, faster to react than someone sighted would have been. She must have felt his breath, sensed his movement in the air around her. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she tells him.
“A very young mother,” he retorts. All he knows is that she’s beautiful, and she understands music the way he does. “It’s only a sixteen year difference.”
“And you don’t think girls give birth at sixteen? Or far younger than that?” She’s right, he knows that. It’s not as though he was a virgin at sixteen.
He sits on the bunk, guitar in his lap, serving as artificial barrier between them. “Did you stop me because you’re not interested?” It would suck, but he can respect that. “Or because you think I shouldn’t be?”
She sighs. “The latter.”
***
There are stretch marks along her belly. She makes faces at him when he runs his fingers or tongue over them. “You have a kid?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
“I don’t remember.” Later, she lets him slide his fingers under her bangs, feel the outline of a scar right under her temple, and its twin on the other side of her head. A bullet went through here, he thinks. It must have damaged the optic nerve, but left her brain intact enough to let her live. All those nights of listening to Daryan complain about homicide cases are finally paying off. A few millimeters to the left and she would have been dead. He clenches his fists around the thought.
“Is that why you can’t remember?” he asks. ‘Brain damage’ is such a rude way of putting it, and he’s way more of a gentleman than that, even at twenty-three.
“Perhaps,” she says, noncommittal. “Some of the doctors have suggested that it’s because my memories are tied to the sight I’ve lost, and without it, I’ve no associations hang them from, no references with which to call them back. Or perhaps, it’s psychosomatic. Perhaps I don’t wish to remember, whatever it was.”
“You know,” he says, “I bet I can make you forget anything you don’t like in there,” and she chuckles, calls him cocky.
***
“What are we?” he asks her one night, well aware that this officially makes him the girl in the maybe-relationship.
She touches his face, traces the mood of his mouth, sighs. “Something more than just strangers on a train, I suppose.”
“There’s a movie with that name,” he tells her. “Have you seen it?” The idiocy of the question only hits him after the words are out of his mouth.
“I’ve heard of it. But seen it? No.” And he has no choice but to pull out his laptop, rifle through the movie files - legally downloaded, not pirated, thank you - turn the sound all the way up, and narrate, scene by scene. She leans her head on his shoulder as the movie flies by, the side of her breast warm against his arm.
Afterwards, she says, “was that meant to be homoerotic?” and he has to laugh.
“Oh, yeah, that’s totally the lesson here. Don’t obsess over a straight guy, kill his wife and try to make him kill your dad.”
“You know, in the book, it’s made pretty clear that the father does not deserve Bruno’s venom. And then, Guy is forced to kill him anyway.” She smirks at his double-take. “You asked me whether I’ve seen it, not whether I’ve read it. And if you think Guy is straight, you’re not paying attention. I think that’s the lesson here, if there are any lessons at all - pay closer attention to those around you. They may be better than you think. Or they may be worse. Case in point, Bruno Antony.”
He thinks of Kristoph for some reason, when she says that. There’s a lot of unspoken anger still hanging between them, and Klavier doesn’t think he’s ready to air it all yet.
He doesn’t ask her again, about how this love affair of theirs will end. He knows there will be music before it does, her haunting voice making love to his guitar. What they have will be good, and they will part friends. But sooner or later, the train has to pull into the station, leaving a cloud of exhaust smoke behind, and like a magician’s apprentice, she’ll be gone when the smoke clears.
Notes:
This fic basically exists for two reasons: I got hit with a crippling wave of nostalgia for trains, and I think it's freaking hilarious to assume Klavier has slept with Apollo's mom.
The food mentioned in this fic is derived from Georgian cuisine. It's delicious, you should try it.
The references to Strangers on a Train are partially inevitable due to setting, and partially a shoutout to Dirty Sympathy. That fic made me cry way too damn much, in all the best ways.
I am apparently incapable of writing het that's entirely straight in its nature. And you know, I'm okay with that.
Title: The Next Train To Nowhere
Characters: Klavier Gavin, Thalassa Gramarye/Lamiroir, Daryan Crescend
Pairings: Klavier/Lamiroir
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: The first time he tries to kiss her, she pulls back, faster to react than someone sighted would have been. She must have felt his breath, sensed his movement in the air around her. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she tells him. Romances with musicians, set on trains in Eastern Europe, generally don't work out.
Anywhere you want to go in Borginia, you go by train. Oh, their manager could have hired special transport for them, but Klavier laughs her off. No way he’s passing up this chance. He misses trains when he’s back in the States, the rolling hallway beneath his feet, countryside scrolling by outside the window. Women from the markets calling at every stop, the taste of spicy, meat-filled pastry in his mouth. He likes the window seats, where everyone can see him and he can see everyone, feet up on the foldout table, till Daryan kicks him off, ‘watch it, you asshole, people gotta eat off of those!’ Likes the feel of a narrow bunk under his back, sheets too rough and pillows too hard, as he makes love to someone, with the hum of the rails in his ears.
He’s always hungry on these trips. Restless, though that’s not unusual. Up all night drinking shot after shot of peppery vodka with Daryan and the others, grinning as they get mobbed by the other passengers. Never thought they’d have heard of the Gavinners, even here. His Borginian’s awful, but it’s getting better, and he doesn’t need to speak any language at all, to hear someone calling his name.
Daryan grumbles, says he’s starting to understand what it’s like for black people, if one more little shithead touches his hair without permission, he’ll- but Klavier knows he loves it, too, almost as much he loves wailing away on his guitar in the heat of the spotlight, or nailing a criminal after a long chase. Besides, if he didn’t like his hair being jacked, maybe he shouldn’t have styled it into an oversized dick. “Compensating for something?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Gavin.” And it’s a little too close to the truth, because Daryan’s exactly the kind of straight where something could have happened, when they were both wasted, but Klavier’s not touching that kind of hot mess with a ten foot pole. Better to just be friends than to wake up wondering who actually wanted what, in the morning.
He doesn’t expect Lamiroir to join them in the dining car at two in the morning, but there she is, a sweep of silk dress against his thigh as she leans over to catch the scent of his meal. “Lamb?” She’s got it in one. “And pomegranate sauce - careful there, Persephone, or else Hades may drag you down into his underworld.”
Klavier laughs, makes room for her at the booth. “Who says I don’t want him to?” She’s alone for a change. Machi must be asleep. He wonders how she made her way across the train, without tipping anyone off to her blindness. He knows about it, of course. The whole band does. He still thinks her manager’s insistence on keeping it a secret is stupid as a herd of fucks. Just change the name of her act, what’s the big deal?
“How’s the song coming, Frau Lamiroir?” he asks her.
She shakes her head. “It would be better with your help. This is a song meant for two. Some songs are. You know it before a single note sounds.” He’d think she was flirting, but she’s speaking his language now. Some songs really are like that. They exist before you write them, before you’re ready for what they’re trying to tell you. Either way, he doesn’t need a second invitation, to follow her back to her room, and if his bandmates make lewd gestures at him all morning, that’s just because they don’t get it. His left hand aches, where the headstock of the acoustic guitar dug into his palm, and his fingers feel like jelly by the time the sun rises, but her voice still echoes in his ears when he falls asleep, clear and powerful, like a waterfall.
***
The first time he tries to kiss her, she pulls back, faster to react than someone sighted would have been. She must have felt his breath, sensed his movement in the air around her. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she tells him.
“A very young mother,” he retorts. All he knows is that she’s beautiful, and she understands music the way he does. “It’s only a sixteen year difference.”
“And you don’t think girls give birth at sixteen? Or far younger than that?” She’s right, he knows that. It’s not as though he was a virgin at sixteen.
He sits on the bunk, guitar in his lap, serving as artificial barrier between them. “Did you stop me because you’re not interested?” It would suck, but he can respect that. “Or because you think I shouldn’t be?”
She sighs. “The latter.”
***
There are stretch marks along her belly. She makes faces at him when he runs his fingers or tongue over them. “You have a kid?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
“I don’t remember.” Later, she lets him slide his fingers under her bangs, feel the outline of a scar right under her temple, and its twin on the other side of her head. A bullet went through here, he thinks. It must have damaged the optic nerve, but left her brain intact enough to let her live. All those nights of listening to Daryan complain about homicide cases are finally paying off. A few millimeters to the left and she would have been dead. He clenches his fists around the thought.
“Is that why you can’t remember?” he asks. ‘Brain damage’ is such a rude way of putting it, and he’s way more of a gentleman than that, even at twenty-three.
“Perhaps,” she says, noncommittal. “Some of the doctors have suggested that it’s because my memories are tied to the sight I’ve lost, and without it, I’ve no associations hang them from, no references with which to call them back. Or perhaps, it’s psychosomatic. Perhaps I don’t wish to remember, whatever it was.”
“You know,” he says, “I bet I can make you forget anything you don’t like in there,” and she chuckles, calls him cocky.
***
“What are we?” he asks her one night, well aware that this officially makes him the girl in the maybe-relationship.
She touches his face, traces the mood of his mouth, sighs. “Something more than just strangers on a train, I suppose.”
“There’s a movie with that name,” he tells her. “Have you seen it?” The idiocy of the question only hits him after the words are out of his mouth.
“I’ve heard of it. But seen it? No.” And he has no choice but to pull out his laptop, rifle through the movie files - legally downloaded, not pirated, thank you - turn the sound all the way up, and narrate, scene by scene. She leans her head on his shoulder as the movie flies by, the side of her breast warm against his arm.
Afterwards, she says, “was that meant to be homoerotic?” and he has to laugh.
“Oh, yeah, that’s totally the lesson here. Don’t obsess over a straight guy, kill his wife and try to make him kill your dad.”
“You know, in the book, it’s made pretty clear that the father does not deserve Bruno’s venom. And then, Guy is forced to kill him anyway.” She smirks at his double-take. “You asked me whether I’ve seen it, not whether I’ve read it. And if you think Guy is straight, you’re not paying attention. I think that’s the lesson here, if there are any lessons at all - pay closer attention to those around you. They may be better than you think. Or they may be worse. Case in point, Bruno Antony.”
He thinks of Kristoph for some reason, when she says that. There’s a lot of unspoken anger still hanging between them, and Klavier doesn’t think he’s ready to air it all yet.
He doesn’t ask her again, about how this love affair of theirs will end. He knows there will be music before it does, her haunting voice making love to his guitar. What they have will be good, and they will part friends. But sooner or later, the train has to pull into the station, leaving a cloud of exhaust smoke behind, and like a magician’s apprentice, she’ll be gone when the smoke clears.
Notes:
This fic basically exists for two reasons: I got hit with a crippling wave of nostalgia for trains, and I think it's freaking hilarious to assume Klavier has slept with Apollo's mom.
The food mentioned in this fic is derived from Georgian cuisine. It's delicious, you should try it.
The references to Strangers on a Train are partially inevitable due to setting, and partially a shoutout to Dirty Sympathy. That fic made me cry way too damn much, in all the best ways.
I am apparently incapable of writing het that's entirely straight in its nature. And you know, I'm okay with that.
