Chapter Text
At twenty-two years old, Apollo Justice was going to make his debut as a professional musician.
Well, he'd hopefully be making it soon enough, anyway.
Right at that moment, however, he was sitting in a plastic chair outside of an auditorium waiting for his name to be called. After years of training and practice he was going for his first real, major band audition.
Yeah, sure, he'd had little projects growing up. He'd done lots of gigs with friends and family, getting a feel for what it meant to perform for people. Simple things like that. But none of that felt especially authentic, let alone professional. They weren't the sort of things that involved, say, putting out formal want ads in expensive newspapers for “only the best of the best, please.” Then again, that could have just been a case of a shitty leading man who wanted a solid band to compensate for them.
But he wanted to believe that he'd made the right choice in showing up that day.
He'd been learning how to play guitar since he was old enough to hold one, but he still couldn't fight the feeling that he was going to pass out in the middle of the lobby from his overactive nerves. He'd practiced particularly hard for weeks now, gotten up early to assure punctuality, kept it casual (he wanted to believe his potential bandmates wouldn't be the types to judge based on looks), and headed out the door to assure he'd be on time. At that moment he'd been staring out of the glass doors to the theater, where the district courthouse stood. His first jury duty had been in that courthouse, and he hadn't enjoyed it. It was all suits and papers and hostile discussions about evidence, things like that. He remembered the defense attorney from that day with his strange haircut and habit of shouting when he caught onto something important. It was too much pressure and definitely too uptight. That sort of work wasn't the life for Apollo.
He couldn't imagine himself doing anything that wasn't at least tangentially related to music, and so this audition had become critical in his mind. It was his first big test to prove his merit as a professional to himself. It was one thing to be able to do gigs with his friends in dive bars, not unlike his father used to. A long-term project would be much more of a challenge, and one that he felt himself to be more than eager to participate in.
Texts from his friends and family had been buzzing in, wishing him well on the day he'd been openly nervous about for weeks.
mom [8:42 AM]: don't be nervous, i know you can do it <3
dad [9:05 AM]: you're a shoo-in. I taught you too well lol
clay [10:23 AM]: dude!!!!! dont fuck it up!! I got your back if you do tho!!
He pressed his hands against his guitar case tightly, not wanting to drop it in his anxiety. His father was Jove Justice, a man who was never a huge mainstream star, but was a well-respected folk musician with a decent following. There was no room to embarrass him after years of lessons, well-loved instruments as birthday presents and constant encouragement growing up. Jove had never forced him to play, but he did get him started, and as Apollo grew, he'd felt a strong attachment to the career path his father had taken.
His parents were both thoroughly involved in the arts, so it hardly surprised anyone that Apollo had followed suit. He had no idea how he could ever be passionate for anything else, though there had been other opportunities in his youth. Music was the thing that made him happiest, and nothing else that he'd attempted to take interest in had stuck quite the same, nothing had even come close. Success as a professional musician wasn't necessarily easy, even with the advantages that Apollo had, but he was determined to carve out a spot for himself. He didn't have to be famous or widely-loved, nor did he even particularly want to be. Those things didn't guarantee happiness. But if some people out there liked what he played, even if they weren't many, that made all the difference to him. Playing made him happy, and he wanted to share that with people.
He felt kind of silly looking the way he did as he sat there. Usually, he dressed in a less simple way, his hair styled in a manner that made him look fairly distinct from his father. But he wanted to just be seen for his playing now, so he'd just thrown on clothes and left.
The issue was now that his fringe, a distinctly Jove-looking one, was peeking out from under the hat he was wearing. If there was one thing that he didn't want applied to him in this audition, it was "just Jove Justice's son." He loved his father very much, of course. But ever since he made the decision to go into music as a career, he realized that, to some, he would indeed have to prove that he was his own artist. Apollo knew that they were far from identical, outside of their similar features that genetics had readily provided. His family knew that, too. The trouble was convincing strangers of this. A large part of him hoped that whoever was holding this audition didn't know who his father was. But, if they knew more than the average person about the medium (enough to have the experience for judging guitarist auditions, anyway), this would probably be unlikely.
The throbbing noise of an amped-up guitar had long stopped from inside the auditorium. Apollo had ended up being the very last person on the list, or so he assumed by the empty room around him. This hadn't exactly been ideal, as it had given him plenty of time to sit and worry about his chances as his competition had filtered in. He was indeed confident in his abilities, but he was well aware that there was always someone far more skilled than him out there. A few of those someones could have just as easily shown up to try out that day. The only sound that he heard now was very faint voices deliberating, unable to be made out by him through the thick door.
He didn't know anything about frontman for this band or who he was. He actually didn't know much about the band at all. But he had heard buzz crop up around this audition, and he wanted to be a part of that. They were going to be “the next big thing.” Whatever that meant. But whoever was behind this had enough clout to rent out the usually busy local playhouse for the day to run auditions. That alone had given Apollo a sense that something big was happening, something that he definitely wanted to be a part of.
An man with a bitter expression on his face exited the auditorium, leaving the door open behind him. His long hair was pulled back neatly, with a white streak running through it. A well-loved guitar case tapped against his side, a white-knuckled fist gripping the handle.
“Did it go well?” Apollo dared, trying to ease his own nerves. The man froze mid-step and grimaced at him.
“No," he said sharply. "He's totally pretentious. A real drama queen with a big mouth. If I don't get it, I might be glad. He sounds like he'd be a total pain to work with.” The man scoffed and left without another word. Apollo felt his blood run cold. Maybe this had all been a total mistake. Maybe he should have just gotten a job as a an electrician or something...or at least auditioned for another band. Either way, that was the last time he bought a newspaper that cost more than two dollars.
“Apollo...Justice?” a voice called from inside the auditorium, and it was too late for him to turn back. He glanced at the door and then at the courthouse. He could have just ran, easily. His parents wouldn't have been angry with him or anything like that. The guy running this thing could probably go home early and look over his other options. It would be a win for everyone.
“Apollo Justice!” the voice called again, a little louder this time. He paused as he eyed the doorway, briefly remembering all the work and time his parents had put into his love of music, readily encouraging his dreams at every turn - even when it was difficult.
He went inside.
-
Apollo walked down the auditorium's aisle, noticing only one person seated in the large room. Maybe it really was a one-man thing. Just a spoiled rich kid trying his hand at the music industry and trying to use other people who actually cared to get there. Apollo tugged at the edge of his hat, his inherited horns of hair poking out over his eyes no matter how little he wanted them to. Almost everyone noticed that he resembled his father in his youth. This was almost impossible to avoid. It felt like everyone told him that they looked alike. But the way he was dressed now—plain turtleneck, cloth hat to keep out the autumnal chill putting his unique hair on display no matter how hard he tried—maybe it was a bit too obvious. Perhaps he'd subconsciously wanted to put the thought of the underrated, talented Jove Justice into peoples' heads.
He tried not to consider that possibility.
He stepped onto the stage, setting his case down and pulling out the acoustic guitar that had served him well for so many years. It was only after he pulled the strap over his head and grabbed his pick that he finally got a decent look at the person running the show.
He was a man, probably not much older than him, leaning back casually in the seat a few rows in. There was a book full of jotted-down notes in his lap with a pen laying clicked open on top of it. He had a relaxed aura about him and a smile on his face. Once their eyes had met, he even gave a small wave to Apollo, which he returned casually.
Just an everyday guy. Nothing intimidating about him. He looked almost mundane, with short blond hair and a single pierced ear. Not too unlike the kind of guys Apollo would play with on open mic nights.
This guy seemed alright. Maybe the candidate he'd met outside was just pissed that he potentially botched his chance. Then again, Apollo barely knew either of them. He couldn't make a fair assumption either way, and that only made uncertainty swirl further in his gut.
“Good morning, Apollo,” the man said with a grin.
“Actually, it's past noon now,” Apollo corrected as he tuned his strings.
“Ah, I see," he said, nodding. "You lose track of the time when you're in here, y'know. It's been a long day.” He had the slightest hint of an accent, but Apollo couldn't pinpoint what kind of language it would come from.
“Yeah, I feel you,” Apollo replied. Seeing the guy face-to-face had put him a little bit more at ease. He usually wasn't really an antsy guy in the first place, but but the tension from this audition had been a rare exception. Both of his parents had always been pretty relaxed, nor was he the type to argue much (though that didn't save them from the time they split up). Knowing that the man he was auditioning for was just a regular guy had gotten rid of some of the excess tension. All he had to do now was play with care and what would happen would happen.
“So...how long have you been working in music, hm?” the man asked. His tone was playful, friendly. There was something oddly authentic about it that Apollo appreciated. He walked up to the mic this time so he wouldn't have to raise his voice, adjusting it to his shorter stature. The man who had come out earlier had been quite tall compared to him.
“Kind of my whole life," he answered. "I sort of inherited it.”
The other man screwed up his face, looking closely at him after he said this. A wave of realization seemed to wash over upon inspection, and an even wider grin (if possible) broke out on his face. He was quite handsome, actually. Apollo figured that he must have been popular with women. And maybe men.
“Wait,” he said, looking as if he might laugh. “Justice. Are you Jangly's kid?” Apollo was only slightly surprised, and found himself smiling back. Jove had done well as a musician, but he wasn't typically recognized among people who weren't already thoroughly interested in songwriters. That alone told Apollo this guy was probably the real deal.
“Most people just call me Apollo,” he replied. “But, yeah. That's me. I hope that's not gonna cause a problem.”
“Nein, no, of course not!” he said. German. That was the accent. “I'm just...well, I suppose I'm flattered that his son would find time to audition for my little...” - he paused and awkwardly fiddled with the pen in his lap - “...passion project.”
“Hey, I do what I can,” he said teasingly, a wry smile still on his face. “Just who are you, anyway? Not to sound rude. It's just that your listing didn't have much info, you know. If I'm trying out, I'd like to at least know your name.”
“Good point," he said, "but I'm not really that big of a deal. Information wasn't quite warranted, you see." He sat up a bit in the chair. “Though it was quite rude of me to not introduce myself when you arrived. My apologies. I'm Klavier. Full name's Klavier Gavin. I play guitar, keyboard, I do vocals, ah...” He glanced around the room as if he'd forgotten something and was trying to find it. “I can sort of play drums, but I'm not so good at it. I'm holding auditions for those, too. You have any chops with percussion?” Apollo let out a chuckle directly into the microphone. The sound of his laughter bounced around the room, low and soft.
“Not at all, I'm afraid,” he answered. Klavier stared at him for a few moments, a smile still on his face.
“Fair enough. Whenever you're ready.”
Apollo nodded and began to play. It was a song that he'd only learned a few weeks ago but had become quite fond of. It had showed off both his acoustic skills and his (far from perfect, but not bad overall) vocal range. Klavier's face remained neutral the whole time, taking down notes every few seconds. Then, two-thirds of the way through the song, he put the book aside and simply leaned back, taking in the music. His eyes were shut and his hands hung slightly off of the armrests. Apollo had seen the look of a person listening intently before. He'd been that person before. Maybe he had made a good decision.
The song ended and the last echoes of the final note reverberated briefly before Klavier opened his eyes again. Apollo stood patiently, waiting to hear what he had to say.
“That was very good,” Klavier said. “I'm not surprised to hear that you were raised by someone like Jove Justice.” Not exactly the kind of reaction that Apollo was hoping for, but he'd take the positive feedback in any case. Klavier paused, looking Apollo in the eye, and his expression faltered. "Shit. I'm sorry. Do you not like to be associated with him? That must have been really obnoxious. Pardon me.”
Apollo laughed again. Clearly something in his face must have given him away.
“It's fine," he said, "don't worry. Other people I've worked with have been really into it before, so I kinda expect it at this point. And we only just met. I can't say I like hearing it, but I don't mind compliments, either. Don't think too hard on it." He paused and pulled the guitar back over his shoulders to place it back in the case. “Though,” he said quietly, “I do hope, under the circumstances, that we do get to meet again soon. Maybe I can show you how I stick out on my own.”
Klavier sat still for a brief moment, surveying him closely. Apollo gave a slight smirk in response. He'd been told many a time that he was a charming guy. Maybe it could do him a favor when he needed it the most.
“You look quite young, you know,” Klavier remarked suddenly. Apollo couldn't help but crack another grin at this.
“I'm twenty-two,” he answered.
“Ach, never mind," Klavier said, shaking his head, "You're almost as old as I am." Apollo cocked a questioning eyebrow before picking up his guitar case.
“That's old to you?” he asked, smiling slightly at the thought. Klavier shook his head and waved his hand dismissively.
“Nein, sorry, it's just...I got started at a really young age. Then I stopped. Now I'm starting again. Not to say there's something wrong with being where you are at your age, of course not. I just feel old.”
“Have you been in a band before...?” Apollo asked. He did look just the slightest bit familiar. Maybe he'd seen him at a club once.
“No, actually, I'm kind of new to professional music. Like I said, I started and then I stopped. I was going to do this a long time ago, but," - he paused, looking like he was taking a moment to consider his words carefully - "...things came up. I've been playing since I was little, but I'm only getting back into it as a job now. I'm actually a prosecutor for the district.” Apollo's eyebrows raised in surprise. So the courthouse being so close by may not have been a coincidence. “I've been doing it for a while now. Almost seven years. So I'm already kind of...worn out.”
“Just how old are you?” Apollo asked.
“Twenty-four.”
Apollo's brow furrowed as he did the math. “You were prosecuting at seventeen? Wow.”
Klavier rubbed the back of his neck. “Ja, well...strange things happen in this world. I just happened to be a very small one of those things.”
“That's good,” Apollo said with a smile. “It's cool. Makes you more interesting. When you debut, you can be the good-boy prosecutor by day and the tough-guy rock star by night. That's something different, to say the least.” Klavier laughed.
“If you say so." He looked down at his things. "Anyway. I'll start doing callbacks in a week.” He closed the notebook and began rummaging through a bag at his feet.
“Alright, then.” Apollo stepped down from the stage and began making his way back up the aisle. He stopped when he got to Klavier's level. “It was nice meeting you," he said. Good manners never hurt. Klavier stopped and looked at him for a few brief seconds of silence, as if he hadn't expected the parting words.
“You, too,” he replied simply. Apollo made his way out.
-
“How did the auditions go?” Ema asked. “Y'know, for your dinky little band?” Klavier scoffed as he flipped through his files.
“They went fine, thanks for asking," he said with assurance. "I think I have my guy."
“Are you kidding me?" she asked. "You only held the thing yesterday. How can you already know? Did everyone else suck that bad or was this guy just that good?” Klavier shrugged, handing her the packet of papers that she'd come to get.
“A little of both," he said. "Maybe I'm just too eager to get started, though. I've been wanting to do this for years, I just never had the time. My 'real job' got in the way." Ema grinned playfully.
“Yeah, kinda hard to run a band when it can potentially get in the way of Phoenix Wright kicking your ass up and down the courthouse once a month." He rolled his eyes, though she wasn't entirely wrong. The famous Phoenix Wright did indeed regularly trounce him in court, as he had been doing since their very first trial together. It still wasn't nice to rub this in, though. He was somewhat self-conscious about that particular issue.
“Thanks for putting it so kindly," he said, frowning at her.
“You have to realize that I'm biased here, Gavin. He's been doing me favors since I was a little kid. You know how he came through for my sister when he needed her.” She looked through the papers and made sure everything was accounted for.
“Ja, true. I guess I just can't compete when I haven't done your family favors or undone years-long legal problems.”
“Exactly. Give it a few years, though. You probably have time to achieve some kind of greatness. You're still young. Ish.”
“And what does that make you?” he asked, crossing his arms.
“Aging with grace. Anyway, save me a ticket when your band actually starts playing. Not because I particularly care about your side gig, but I wanna see this guy. If he's that much of a standout, he's probably at least entertaining to watch.”
“He's Jove Justice's son,” Klavier said, leaning back in his chair.
“Who's that?”
“Never mind. He's kind of obscure. But he's a guitarist. A good one. This guy was, too, obviously. He looked just like him and everything.”
“Wow,” Ema replied, “giving out jobs through nepotism. That's not like you, is it? I thought that you were all about neutrality in the workplace and doing what's right or whatever.”
Klavier shrugged. “I am. And what I know here is that this guy has what it takes. I think he's a piece that I really need. He's got a lot of talent, like he was born to play.”
Ema sighed and made her way towards his office door. “Well, frankly, I have no idea about any of this. Just hook me up with a ticket and we're squared. Thanks for the papers.” She exited the room and left Klavier to survey the view of the city from his office.
His fingers idly toyed at the keyboard on his chair, trying to remember the song that Apollo had played the day before.
Though, oddly enough, it was his laughter amplified by the microphone that had stayed firmly echoing through Klavier's mind above everything else he'd heard on that day.