Chapter Text
It's rare that Apollo is awake before Klavier. It is very hard not to laugh at the groan that emerges as Apollo prods him in the shoulder. The groan seems to communicate all that is wrong in the world. Apollo has to briefly bite the side of his tongue to keep from laughing.
"No coffee if you don't get up now."
A jumbled German protest. The only word that Apollo understands with Klavier's face muffled by his own pillow and arms is Kaffee. He gives the shoulder a light but firm shove before leaving Klavier to return to the coffee machine and the pot that's finished brewing in the kitchen.
He's just finished stirring in a tablespoon of sugar when Klavier finally staggers in, dressed in a pair of pants that no normal person should have been able to put on while groggy. Apollo purses his lips, trying to repress his amusement as Klavier stares blearily at the coffee machine like it's the entire world.
"You put it in a cup."
German again, but Klavier retrieves a mug from the cabinet, so he's at least partially conscious. Apollo sets his teaspoon on the counter, blowing on the coffee before taking a small sip. Just the right temperature. Klavier sits down on the stool next to him, hair spilling about his shoulders, a few errant strands just barely missing the mug he has pressed to his lips.
"Mister Edgeworth said he'd pick us up in about an hour."
"Mhm?"
Apollo reaches to the fruit bowl that whoever upkeeps Klavier's apartment and groceries set out at some point in the week. He takes an orange for himself and sets a pear in front of Klavier.
"Mister Wright will be with him."
Klavier sets his mug down. Apollo sips his coffee, watching out of the side of his eye as Klavier shuffles with the back pocket of his pants to produce his phone to look at the time. It reminds Apollo that he keeps meaning to send Klavier an email to nag him to buy a clock for the kitchen.
"Will an hour be enough time?"
Klavier blinks. He's spotted the pear. He doesn't appear to understand what it's doing there. He picks it up like it's an alien and stares at the sticker label.
"Ja," he says, and Apollo starts peeling his orange. "Help me braid my hair."
The biggest problem with this plan, Apollo reflects, is that he's depending on Wright and Klavier to actually talk to each other. Wright can be painfully obtuse at the worst moments, and Klavier is often either very intuitive or completely unwilling to engage in anything remotely personal. This is Klavier's first day off in nearly three weeks, so it's a toss up between which Klavier is going to feature. Apollo has never been good at figuring out what goes on in Wright's head.
"This was a good idea."
Apollo makes an undignified jerking motion, turning around much too quickly. Edgeworth holds up a hand in apology, a vintage album of Steel Samurai stamps in his other. Apollo breathes out, trying to calm his heartrate while still feeling nervous around this man who is his boyfriend's boss and his boss's boyfriend. This is the second biggest problem.
"You think so?" Apollo asks as they simultaneously pretend to be browsing neighbouring stacks of discounted comic books.
Edgeworth shifts slightly to glance back at their second halves before picking up an issue of something Apollo doubts anyone has heard of in many years. "We can establish they don't outright hate each other."
"They aren't the type," Apollo points out, looking at the price on a bundled set of a run of something from the late 2000s.
A thoughtful noise. Apollo glances over. Edgeworth is inspecting a single issue of the brief American serialisation of the Steel Samurai manga with only perfunctory interest.
"I've been curious," Edgeworth says, and there's something trained about the tone; he's had to learn to be indirect. "It is the opinion of both Simon and I that Klavier works too much."
Apollo resists the impulse to squint or reach for his bracelet. If this is Edgeworth being indirect, he hates to think of how hard he must be to comprehend when he's unconsciously being so. There must be some sort of logical explanation for those two sentences to be presented together, but Apollo can't quite find it.
Edgeworth grimaces slightly. Not at Apollo, but the kind of grimace that's used in self-incrimination. He sighs through his nose.
"How are the two of you?" and that's direct as anyone can get.
Apollo can't say he didn't expect this to happen. After all, he had been the one to contact Edgeworth about setting up a double date, even though he'd nearly pulled his own hair out in clumps over the anxiety and pre-emptive embarrassment. He had been frankly shocked at how quick Edgeworth was to accept the invitation, and how smoothly the coordination had seemed to go. Aside from Klavier having to appear on a talk show to appease his manager enough to get a full Saturday off (Klavier hates talk shows, Apollo has found out), everything had come together neatly. Wright had even seemed excited about it, saying it was a good idea. Apollo isn't sure of that anymore.
"We're about as well as you can expect," Apollo answers, not bothering to hide his apprehension. "It irks me that you see more of him than I do, but we do have different clients the majority of the time."
"People who get arrested are occasionally guilty," Edgeworth says, and if that's a joke, it's to the world's benefit that Edgeworth never attempted stand-up. "But that isn't what I was asking."
Still being indirect then. Apollo wants to know if this a prosecutor trait, if all of them are so painfully bad at expressing themselves. At least with Wright Apollo is pretty sure he wants to be honest and it's only prolonged exposure to Kristoph that's made it occasionally difficult for him to remember how. Apollo can sympathise with that. Apollo privately calls it the Kristoph Effect. He's pretty sure that's not what's going on here with Edgeworth, though, unless Kristoph and Edgeworth have a history Apollo doesn't know about. It's not a comforting thought, primarily because there's a lot of evidence to support it.
"I know what you're asking," Apollo says, slowly, cagily, "but I don't know if I can answer."
There's been a few horrible moments in the months since Apollo and Klavier started dating when Apollo hadn't been sure where Kristoph stopped and Klavier began. Klavier, like his brother, plans all of his actions as best he can, but no one is able to predict everything. It's in those moments when Klavier is taken by surprise that Apollo both relishes and fears. He loves them because he gets to see Klavier as natural and himself as possible, and he fears them because Klavier inevitably clams up afterwards, discomfited by his own skin. It makes sex particularly awkward. Apollo is sometimes unsure if Klavier is agreeing just to please him or if Klavier actually wants the same.
Edgeworth's face is calm and grave, a well-worn expression from the faint lines in his still mostly smooth face. "That's a good answer," he says, like a teacher rewarding a pupil, but it's not meant condescendingly. "We should pay."
Apollo nods, glancing back at where Klavier and Phoenix are still standing. He recognises the stance that Klavier is in and bites back a sigh.
So much for a day off.
They sit out on the balcony with it's spectacular view of Los Angeles and the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance.
"I didn't want it to be an interrogation."
Klavier's eyes blink open. "He cares about you."
Apollo turns his bracelet on his wrist. "Mister Edgeworth wanted to talk, too."
A hum deep in the throat. "I thought so. You don't collect comic books."
"You worry a lot of people."
Klavier's lips quirk. "I can't help it," he says, and it's that particular tone of voice that Apollo hears in interviews the majority of the time. "I am the natural centre of attention."
But then he drops the act and leans forward on his elbows, looking out at the mountains he can't see without his contacts. "I'm not a liar."
Apollo reaches out and rubs his fingers at the back of Klavier's neck underneath the half undone French braid. Klavier hums. It takes on a tone, and they stay like that for a while, Klavier humming something to himself. It's not his music, which Apollo would recognise nowadays.
"Apollo, why are you with me?"
He says it to the mountains, but Apollo is not actually a god. Apollo rolls the question over in his head, turning it over to see the underside and all the dirt still caked on from where it must have rested for a very long time. He could become very powerful if he answers one way. He could lose Klavier forever if he chooses another. And then there's the in between.
"Because you're probably the only person who understands half of me," Apollo says, and he watches the mountains now, too. "And you don't pity me for it. You never will."
Because to pity Apollo would be for Klavier to pity himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Klavier smile. It reaches his eyes.