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Kristoph’s dog is a bit strange.
The first time Klavier had met her, he didn’t know what to think. She seemed happy enough, though the sight of her pearly fangs did nothing to untie the knot in his stomach. She had round beady eyes, pale fangs and a mouth stretched wide. That was normal, for dogs. What wasn’t normal was the shadows curling off her, wafting from her dark coat and floating into the air. The creature tracks him with knowing eyes, it’s tail scattering wisps of shadow across the floor with each swing.
“Her name is Vongole,” Kristoph supplies, unhelpfully.
Klavier stares at the dog through the pulsating feeling of dread in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s of his own mind’s creation or the dog’s doing, but his brother seems unaffected by the ominous, mounting sense of doom. He had heard about grims before, of course. He had read about them in books, but never seen one in real life. And certainly never this close.
He opens his mouth, worried about the dog’s sudden appearance in his brother’s home, but the words that come out are: “Clams?”
Kristoph makes a face. “Vongole, ” he enunciates, stroking the dog’s head.
Klavier tries again. “I mean,” he stalls, trying to think of the best way to phrase it, “You know what it is, right?”
The grim smiles at him from the floor with its sinister eyes, leering with it’s fangs in full view. Dark smoke emits from its black fur. It almost looks as if the entire creature is made of smog, with only two gleaming eyes at the head. But from the way Kristoph’s hand has found purchase atop its head, he can’t be sure.
“She’s a Newfoundland, I think,” Kristoph says, smiling benignly.
He doesn’t really know who to tell about this. Should he tell anyone at all? What could he even say? That he suspects his brother has been claimed by the harbinger of death? There’s no protocol for this.
He reads about grims in between concerts and hotel check ins. Daryan rolls his eyes-- of course he does, but Klavier just tries to ignore him. He had assumed that the nature of the grim was that it appeared by the side of those who were meant to die soon. Does that mean that Kristoph is in danger? Should Klavier be by his side right now, instead of on tour?
He googles “what to do when a death omen hangs out with your brother”, but all that he gets is information about birds, mostly crows and owls.
What could a death omen mean? Should he be worrying about his brother?
The next day he gets a phone call that tells him the answer is yes.
Kristoph’s stuff can stay where it is. Everything can stay where it is until Klavier can figure out what the hell is going on.
The only thing that doesn’t stay where it is is the demon dog. In fact, it is currently rushing through Klavier’s unused apartment, sniffing at every angle. It pants excitedly, or, it pulses rapidly, like a heartbeat. Parts of it drift off and float into the air, dissolving into nothing.
“There might be some dead mice in the walls,” Klavier calls to it, watching it with dull eyes. The dog pays him no mind, and she leaves trails of smoke in her wake.
Klavier rests his head on his hands, slumped over in the couch. His apartment is dark, he hadn’t had the chance to really move back in yet. He didn’t think he would have to, but then again, he didn’t think his brother would kill a guy.
There’s a lot of things he didn’t know about. And this man, Apollo Justice, what could he possibly be like? The curious part of Klavier almost can’t wait for court tomorrow, just to see more of him.
Vongole jumps up on the couch, and presses into his side, knocking the thoughts from his mind. The icy tightness in his chest right now could be from the dog, but that’s anybody’s guess.
He swats at her halfheartedly, “No death omens on the furniture,” he scolds, but she doesn’t budge.
Vongole blinks up at him with her piercing eyes, with her tongue hanging lazily out of her mouth. She flops down at his side, and smoke rolls out from her at the movement. He feels a thick, inescapable sense of dread in the air, swirling and accumulating inside his chest. But every time Vongole curls into him or kicks a foot out, the feeling sways and wanes for just a moment.
Without realizing, Klavier starts to card his hand through her cold fur. Her fur is thick and stiff, and the feeling sends chills down his spine. She feels like a dead animal, but by the way her tail is whacking the leather couch and by all of the loose hair covering his jeans, she is very much alive.
He probably shouldn’t get too attached to a supernatural death creature. But she flops over and looks at him with her glowing eyes, and he smiles back through the shiver that overtakes him.
Kris, that’s a literally harbinger of death.
You’re going to be the harbinger of my death if you don’t stop criticizing of my dog.
The death omen nuzzles into his side, and he wonders if he should do anything about her. Creatures like this were indicators of what was to come, and why should he agree to bring more misfortune upon himself?
He looks at her again, and wonders if she’ll need dog food, or regular walks, or a groomer. How does he even begin to explain something like that?
Anyway. He doesn’t have time for this. He has court to prepare for. But Vongole curls onto his lap and lays there until his legs are numb, and he can’t decide if he likes the sensation or not. Either way, she pins him to the couch until he falls asleep there, bent over with one arm draped around her, with darkness exuding from her coat and seeping into the air around them.
“What the fu-” Apollo catches himself, frozen in the doorway. “What the heck is that?”
Klavier cocks his head. “What do you mean?”
Apollo is still looking at Vongole, his eyes bulging out of his head. He doesn’t move from the doorway, but he doesn’t say anything either. Slowly, his facial expression grows more and more horrified.
“Polly, move,” Trucy gives him a shove before ducking around him, “what’s gotten you all-- oh.”
But Trucy doesn’t seem to have any of Apollo’s hesitation, as her face lights up in instant glee. “Ooh,” she cooes, “it’s a puppy!”
Apollo reaches a hand out to stop her, but Trucy brushes past him, kneeling down excitedly and letting Vongole sniff her hand. Vongole wags her tail, filling the kitchen with an inch of fog. It spills over the floors and tumbles into walls, but no one seems to notice except Apollo, who takes a step back.
But the darkness flows right through him, dissipating as it makes contact. Vongole yips excitedly as she turns circles around his legs, sniffing him and covering him in a cloud of smoke.
Apollo bats it away, “What--” he coughs, “What is this?”
Klavier shrugs, turning to open a window. “I had to take the batteries out of my smoke detector.”
The day after Daryan’s arrest, and then after the Misham trial, Klavier had thought that maybe adopting a hellhound wasn’t the best idea. He wondered if it was a cruel trick of the universe, or if it made him somehow responsible for all the deaths that had occurred since he adopted Vongole.
He doesn’t understand it at first. The guilt assaulted him daily, and some days it was all he could think about. Thoughts and what-if scenarios pile into his head, wearing him down, and he thinks that maybe he should try to get rid of Vongole, or get rid of himself, whatever’s easier.
But Vongole follows him home wherever he leaves her, and there’s no way to phrase “Otherworldly death hound, walking anxiety disorder” in a way that would make Craig’s list browsers more eager. Even the thoughts Klavier has concerning himself are short lived. For all of the death the grim brings with her, she is always nudging Klavier away from pill bottles, or laying on him until the cold blocks out every other thought in his head. If Klavier thought he was numb before, well, he can’t feel a thing with Vongole laying on his chest.
After a few months, he becomes used to the dread that she brings with her. That’s not to say it soaks into his mind until it’s all he feels, until it becomes normal, but rather, he becomes immune to it. The more time he spends with Vongole, the more she feels like an almost-normal dog. Soon, the only thing he feels from her is her cold tongue on his face, and the scent of the dog soap he uses.
Washing the harbinger of death had been an ordeal, at first. He hadn’t been sure if she even required baths. (Living with her for a few weeks informed him that she did in fact, require baths.) She hadn’t been excited about the bathtub, and somewhere in his mind he thought that warm water would cause her to melt, or something.
Their first bath ends with layers of angry black smog pooling on the ceiling, and a visit from the fire department. Still, he doesn’t stop trying.
He’s laying with his hands tangled in her hair when Vongole jerks her head up, expectantly. A moment later, a cardinal hits the window. Vongole grins. The next day, she sniffs it out on her walk and brings it to him, laying it proudly at his feet.
“Vielen dank,” he mumbles, unsure, before pulling them both away from the sight. Vongole makes it a habit after that. In fact, she brings him so many dead things that he starts to wonder if she’s closer related to a cat instead.
Vongole smiles at him and they continue their walk. She leads him confidently and he lets his mind wander, allowing her to pull him along.
Suddenly, Vongole perks up again, freezing for a split second before dragging him into an alleyway. If he had more time to react, he would have resisted her, but her strength leaves him no other option but to stumble after her.
A moment later, a car crashes into the lamp post, almost exactly where he had been standing. He watches with wide eyes for two whole seconds, taking in the warped metal, the smoke rising from the crumpled hood. He looks at the dented lamp post, imagines himself crushed between it.
He looks down at Vongole again. She smiles and wags her tail.
“You never told me what it is,” Apollo says, in the middle of their movie night.
“What what is,” he says, still watching the movie and only half paying attention.
Apollo looks at him. “Your dog,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “Vongole? She’s pretty weird.”
Klavier looks over to him through the wall of smoke steadily arising from the dog in between them. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Klavier.”
“Fine. She’s a little weird.”
“A little?” Apollo’s voice spikes up an octave in incredulity, “She’s awful. I thought I was having a heart attack the first time I met her.”
Vongole lifts her head at the word “heart attack” as if searching for her next victim. Klavier runs a hand down her back to calm her, and soon enough she drops her head back onto her paws and sighs, letting her eyes blink closed. Klavier feels himself smiling fondly at the ways her ears twitch, and he wonders if she’s dreaming. Apollo misinterprets the expression, frowning with thought.
“Is it because of your brother?” he casts out, awkwardly, “I mean, he did belong to her first, right?”
Klavier keeps his eyes trained on Vongole. “I guess,” he says, doubtfully, “I don’t really see it like that. She’s a good dog, Herr Forehead.”
“So like,” Apollo gestures weakly, “You don’t really feel this mounting sense of doom?”
He shrugs, “It wears off,” he says, “or you get used to it.”
They’re silent again. The movie flickers on in the background, but neither of them are paying too much attention to it in particular.
“It’s not that I haven’t had the same thoughts you are right now,” Klavier says, slowly, “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. Maybe some things are just meant to happen, ja?”
Apollo casts his eyes down on Vongole. “Maybe,” he echoes, “I don’t think owning a creepy dog turns people into murderers.”
Klavier stares at him, “What does turn people into murderers?”
Apollo meets his gaze. Neither of them have anything to say. Eventually, Klavier lets out the sigh building in his chest, lets his lungs deflate. He feels exhaustion blur the edge of his vision, but he doesn’t give into the lull of sleep just yet.
Eventually, Klavier is the one who breaks the silence. “Like I said,” his voice is quiet in the darkness, “I’m not going to dissect it. She’s just a good dog who happens to be a grim. It’s not a death sentence.”
“She is pretty cute,” Apollo offers, and they leave it at that.
When they finish their movie, Apollo types something into his phone and shakes his head at Klavier’s offer to stay the night.
“Sorry,” he says, tucking his phone into his pocket, “I’m up early tomorrow.”
“I could have given you a ride back on the motorcycle,” he says, and Apollo rolls his eyes.
“That’s more of a death sentence than that dog is,” he mutters, rolling his shoulder. “Clay’s nearby, anyway.”
As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door, and Clay sticks his head in. “Are you two love birds having fun?” Clay asks, grinning, “Is it-- aw sweet, a dog!”
Vongole leaps off the couch and bounds over to him. Klavier smiles and shakes his head, reaching over to reign her back from where she paws at Clay’s work jacket.
Clay laughs, unaffected by the air of dread she exudes. “I don’t have any treats,” he says to her, before turning to Apollo, “Ready to go?”
For one perfect moment, everyone manages to forget that Vongole isn’t a normal dog.
He didn’t think he would make it home after hearing the news. It was like the ground had been stolen from under him, leaving him without something he didn’t even know he was depending on.
Constance Courte is dead, and her killer has gone to jail, and he wasn’t able to do anything. He couldn’t lead the investigation or prosecute the case in court, hell, he could barely manage to sit in the gallery while it all went on.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Apollo or Athena, it just hurt to look across the room and think about how he should have on the other side of the prosecutor’s bench. But maybe the only thing Klavier is actually good at is condemning the people he trusted, not avenging them.
But he comes home drained and he thinks that maybe it’s better for him not to get involved. He did what he could to help their investigation, put on a mock mock-trial, but in the end that didn’t amount to anything, now did it? They all found the truth on their own. The only thing he did was stare at the courtyard, frantically trying to remember the last thing professor Courte had said to him.
He can’t remember, of course. Nothing worthwhile ever sticks in his head.
Vongole must be asleep when he’s home. Or maybe she’s fazed through the walls again. She comes and goes as she pleases, he finds. Something in the air must call her to her duties, but she always ghosts onto his bed at night and shoves her cold snout into his hand, licks his face until he wakes up.
But she’s gone today. Had she been gone the morning professor Courte died? Klavier can’t remember. So he sits on his couch alone and listens to the silence.
He looks at the guitars he has aligned on the walls. He had taken some of them back from his office, but now he’s thinking maybe he should sell them. He hasn’t played anything in months. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to.
The sadness swells in his throat, swamping through his thoughts and constricting his chest. Something uncomfortable and heavy lays on his chest, filling his lungs with tar until all he can do is blink quickly and try to remember to breathe.
Everyone he’s known had taken something from him. Whether it was his innocence, his passion, or even the ability to feel useful, it was as if everyone he’s met is just taking parts of him away. It makes him feel hollow and cold, and he’s thinking about things he told himself he would try to forget.
He hasn’t had a day like this in a long time. But how could he forget? Every spell of stability and calmness was just that, a brief lull before plunging him back into this. This is who he really was, everything else, any happiness or peace he might have known was just a way to hide it. And he had been feeling so well lately, almost optimistic, that he had almost forgotten what awaited at the end.
But it’s here now and, well, maybe it’ll just be here forever. Maybe this is what he deserves. Every scathing word from his brother, every angry thing Daryan has ever said, well they were all true. Of course, how could he ever fool himself into thinking differently?
He doesn’t feel the grim’s presence until she materializes at his side, leaning into his slumped form. She doesn’t make any sound, just presses against his chest. He stands up, roughly, a bitter feeling welling in his throat. He doesn’t want her comfort-- he doesn’t deserve it.
He paces, tense and agitated, and she watches him from the couch with her flashing eyes tracking his movements. After a while she leaps off the couch again and comes to his side, planting herself in front of him and pushing her head against his palm. He sighs, frustrated, but obediently reaches to pet her head. Maybe Vongole is more like a dog than he had given her credit for. There are things she wouldn’t understand, after all. Seeing her owner like this would just make her want more attention for herself.
But the moment his hand makes contact, the knot in his chest loosens, melting away into nothing so he can breathe again. The pressure in his head lessens, and the anxiety that had him wound so tightly lifts off him.
He looks at her again. She smiles and wags her tail. Then he’s down on his knees, hugging her. Vongole leans into his touch and licks at his ear. He wrinkles his face at the sensation, but doesn’t pull away. He just clings to her, and she sits there patiently for longer than any other animal would have.
They stay like that for a long time until she turns to try and lick his face. He laughs as he pulls away, relieved to be pulled out from under those crushing thoughts. Vongole barks playfully, pawing at him when he covers his face. He breathes in again, deeper. His chest is clear, he feels lighter somehow. He almost doesn't realize it, but for the first time since everything had happened, he had cried. He almost didn’t think he was capable of it anymore.
“How do you do that?” He asks her, but she doesn’t have any answers. Vongole smiles at him and wags her tail so hard her entire body vibrates, and Klavier smiles gently back.
Vongole is gone in the morning, when he wakes up. He’s just reached his office when he hears that there was a bombing in courtroom four. He learns all he can of course, but there’s only one fatality. Just one. They had been lucky.
Vongole is waiting for him when he gets home. He doesn’t think much of it until Apollo calls to tell him that he thought he saw something strange just before the flash of the bomb’s explosion.
“Either way,” Klavier tells him, hoarsely, “It’s a good thing you’re alive.”
The next day, Vongole slips away again, right before Klavier leaves his apartment. Later, Athena calls to tell him that Apollo had been attacked in that same courtroom, but should be fine.
Klavier looks over to Vongole when he hangs up, feeling slightly chilled. He opens his mouth, but can’t decide if the emotion he’s feeling is disturbed or grateful.
“You’re protecting him?” he asks, but Vongole doesn’t have any answers for him. She just wags her tail and picks up her leash, as if that was the answer he was looking for.
Here’s his hypothesis. The grim is attracted to death, sure, but maybe she’s also drawn to heavy feelings like sadness or grief. Either way, she seems happy enough to absorb all the thoughts that drag him down and clog in his mind.
He goes to Clay’s wake, and when he comes back, Vongole is waiting for him. He holds onto her all night, and when he wakes up, the frenzied, irritated, useless frustration he had is replaced by a soothing calm, an easy understanding of the events before him.
If given the option, he would be glad to lay with his face buried in Vongole’s fur for the entire morning. But as his alarm clock reminds him, he has to go to work.
He goes through his morning routine slowly, as he usually does. He pours his coffee and holds the warmth in his hands, letting it seep into his bones as the morning light filters through the window. Still, he gives himself plenty of time, so later he pulls on his jacket and heads towards the door, yawning.
Vongole looks up from where she has positioned herself. She is planted in front of the door, looking at him with glinting white eyes. She yawns, showing her unnaturally long canines as he approaches. She sits up as he reaches for the handle, putting her weight into the door and preventing him from opening it. He looks down at her, mildly exasperated, before trying again. But the door doesn’t budge, and Vongole growls faintly at him from the floor.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “What?” he asks her, as the smoke rolls down her frame in angry plumes. “Am I not allowed to go to work today?”
Vongole fluffs her dark fur out, smoke pouring from her mouth when she barks at him. Klavier sighs again, moving to open a window and let the smoke pour out.
He crouches down to her level. Seeing that he doesn’t make another move for the door, Vongole quiets, satisfied. But she doesn’t move from the doorway, simply looks at him with her pale eyes.
“What am I going to tell Herr Edgeworth, hmmm?” He asks her, running a hand over his face. “That the death omen I adopted wouldn’t let me out the door?”
He sits down on the floor and stares at her. She stares back, right until he’s officially late for work. He sighs again as he takes out his phone, feeling guilty as he dials.
But Herr Edgeworth is considerate, as he usually is. He doesn’t even ask Klavier why he’s requesting the day off-- which makes him feel even guiltier. It’s probably because they’re all reeling from recent events, but still, he doesn’t like asking for time off when he doesn’t need it. Then again, he’s not that good at asking for time off even when he does need it, so maybe this makes up for it.
He’s still sitting on his floor when he hangs up, checking through his notifications. “So, what’s it gonna be?” he asks Vongole, who is sprawled out with him, “Something at the prosecutor’s office? Something on the road?”
Vongole blinks at him, happily. “Or maybe you just want a companion?”
She doesn’t disappear, though. Whether that’s out of desire to keep him in his apartment or because no one was destined to die today and needed her attendance, he can’t tell. He just looks back at her and guesses he should be lucky that she’s protecting him from whatever invisible threat there was.
After a few more minutes, his phone rings, and he picks up without looking at the caller id.
“Sorry,” Apollo blurts into his ear, ‘This isn’t an emergency, and you don’t have to call back--”
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier says, cutting him off. Apollo is quiet for a moment before he talks again, sounding strained and awkward.
“Oh,” he says, “I thought I was going to get your voicemail. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“My dog won’t let me outside,” Klavier confesses, glancing over to the grim who pants happily in puffs of smoke. “So I took the day off.”
“Oh,” Apollo bleats, “Well, that’s good. I, uh, well, I have the day off too, and I didn’t really know what to do with it? I mean, I don’t know what to do at all. But I ended up like, right outside of your apartment complex somehow.”
“Okay,” Klavier says, pulling himself off of the floor. “You want to come in?”
“I mean, I’m already here, and if you’re not doing anything--”
“My doors unlocked. You remember the room number, right?”
“Yes, I’ll be right there."
The line goes dead. Klavier listens to it distantly, lost in thought until a robotic voice tells him if you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again. He slides his phone into his pocket, looking down at Vongole.
“So?” he says to her, putting his hands on his hips. “You sensed bad feelings in the area and made sure I was home for it? If you want to comfort Apollo, I don’t think you need me there.”
Vongole looks at him blankly as her tail smacks the floor. He has the feeling that she’s much more intelligent than she lets in on, as she nonchalantly stands and trots out of the room, leaving him confused by the events she just strung together.
But then Apollo knocks on the door softly and Klavier is inviting him in. He doesn’t say anything about it, but his eyes flicker over Apollo’s appearance anyway. It’s not that he expected him to look any better in the past couple days, but the drastic change still makes him double take. He’s never seen Apollo looking so drawn and tired.
It’s a far cry from sharp, energetic person he had been when Klavier met him in People Park. Though it has hardly been a year since then, the time seems to have aged them both, turned them into two different people.
Klavier leads him into his living room, at a loss for what to do. Apollo sits heavily on the couch, looking over when Vongole wanders over as if she hadn’t orchestrated this entire meeting.
“You know,” Apollo says, letting the grim sniff his head, “I used to think this dog made something in the air feel weird. But now I can’t tell the difference.”
Klavier perches on the edge of the couch, pleased to find that Vongole has recruited Apollo to pet her. Hopefully it will have the same effect on him that it had on Klavier. Apollo runs his hand down her back, and soon she climbs onto the couch next to him and slowly melts onto his lap.
“I know what you mean,” Klavier murmurs, watching the sight with amusement. Apollo laughs quietly as Vongole crawls onto him completely, resting her paws on his shoulders and looking back at Klavier.
“She’s heavy,” Apollo comments, craning his neck to look at Klavier from around her thick fur, “Does she do this to everyone?”
“Just people she likes,” Klavier says, remembering how Vongole had disappeared on days where Apollo survived attacks that should have killed him. He feels another flash of gratitude to her, but he doesn’t know how to vocalize it without scaring Apollo off.
Apollo doesn’t seem to mind the company, as far as Klavier can tell, as he tries to continue their conversation from under Vongole’s mass.
“Do you think she’s a purebred?”
“She must be mixed with something. Part pitbull, part death?” Klavier grins, watching as Vongole emits so much smoke that she seems to be reduced to a gaseous shape. His smile dims when he thinks of how Apollo must be feeling for Vongole to be so drawn to him.
Vongole shifts her position then, and Apollo makes a face when she leans a foot on his stomach in an attempt to find a more comfortable position in his small lap. With his arms free again, he quickly resumes his petting, running his hand down the contours of her body.
Apollo continues to stroke her, staring down into the carpet. Klavier quietly extracts himself and wanders into the kitchen. He busies himself with cleaning last night’s dishes and checking his emails, wondering if he should be in the living room with Apollo instead. But he couldn’t tell if Apollo wanted to talk about it or not, so he puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave and hits the button right before the beep.
He tries to be as quiet as possible before returning, giving Vongole time to do her thing. In the time it takes her to do that, Klavier returns with a bowl of popcorn and a box of tissues. He again wonders if maybe he should be doing more here, but the thankful look Apollo gives him is enough to chase those thoughts from his mind. Klavier silently passes him the tissues and no one says anything for a moment, as Klavier curls into the couch with the popcorn bowl between them. Apollo relaxes, plucking a piece of popcorn from the bowl and letting his other hand rest on Vongole’s back.
“You have a weird dog,” is all he says.
But he looks different. Whatever had been winding up had finally loosened, smoothing over the frown that had been ingrained in his wide forehead. Even with the tear streaks on his face, he seems better, more like the Apollo that Klavier is used to.
“I know,” Klavier says, reaching for the remote, “She likes to bring me dead squirrels when we go for walks.”
Apollo scrunches up his nose in response, “Gross,” he says, watching Klavier flip through the channels. “I guess we’re watching a movie, then?”
Klavier nods, “I don’t plan on going outside today,” he says, “And I don’t think Vongole is done with you yet.”
“Pick something Disney,” is all Apollo says, as the grim on his lap picks up her head at the mention of her name, looking back at Klavier with a sleepy grin.
Klavier obeys. He sees Wall-e, but thoughts of space exploration tells him that it’s not the best idea. He settles on Mulan, and for a moment they watch the opening scene in silence, and Klavier thinks about how they both should be at work instead of on his couch.
They fall back into silence. Klavier had thought that maybe they would talk about it, all that had been going on in their life. But he is pleased to find that Apollo isn’t too eager to discuss it. He seems absorbed in the movie, with one hand threading lazily through Vongole’s fur.
“What if-” Apollo says, and then stops himself.
Klavier looks over, anticipating the question. “Any time,” he says, nonchalantly. “Vongole’s good at comforting people. If you ever need to come over, don’t even hesitate.”
Apollo nods, looking back at the television. “I meant, to see you,” he admits, quietly.
Klavier can feel himself blushing, “Oh,” he says, “Oh, well I have more of a schedule. But we can work something out. Herr Blackquill won’t stop talking about soba, these days.”
Apollo keeps watching the movie. “We should try it,” he mentions.
“We should,” he agrees, as Vongole begins to snore.
He feels himself smile. Through the shadows drifting from her coat, he sees Apollo smiling back at him. They talk more after that, careful to step over the subjects they know to avoid. It's casual, and comforting, and nice. After a long period of silence Klavier looks over to find Apollo with his eyes glazed over, and then he is asleep, curled around Vongole.
Vongole peeks open an eye to look at Klavier, smiling at him as if to ask if he was jealous. Klavier looks at the sight before him, wondering when the last time Apollo truly slept was. But Klavier doesn't want to disturb the image of Apollo cuddling with his dog on the couch, so he snaps a picture to send to Trucy later, and decides that this is good enough for now. In fact, it's more than enough.
Vongole sighs and swings her tail, once, as if in agreement.