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The metal detector beeps angrily for the third time.
“Sir, could you please check your pockets for any phones, keys, or rings?” the man at the security arch drawls, with the tired and unimpressed annoyance truly befitting of his job. “All of them.”
“My apologies,” Klavier mutters good-naturedly. He spins on his heel and casually strides back through the offending machine. Meanwhile, the crowded lines of LAX’s airport security on holiday await, full of disgruntled city dwellers who even despite the din have already figured out that there is a celebrity in their midst, doomed to the same bureaucratic traveling hell as the rest of them. From beside the X-ray machine, stuck at the rear of this process even long after their own luggage has gone through, Apollo swallows and scrubs the nervous sweat from his face.
They have been here for only 5 minutes and Klavier has already lost his shoes, his blazer, his necklace, and his belt.
I suppose I should count my blessings that people are at least giving us some space, Apollo thinks, not entirely devoid of sarcasm. He eyes the rest of the security guards, who have conspicuously moved away from their stations near the machines and towards the lines that have yet to pass ID inspection. Of course, the city’s population has had enough celebrity saturation to the point where they actually pretend they aren’t staring and gossiping like teenaged girls to each other. Apollo notes the old woman behind him crooning to her granddaughter rather more loudly than necessary about his companion’s… attractive tan. Somehow, this only makes things worse.
His angry glare wanders back to Klavier, who is plucking the silver rings from his fingers, plus the singular trinket from his ear, and taking all of this with a practiced ease that makes Apollo narrow his eyes even more. But I think I might kill him if he makes me wave.
“Ah, I think I see the problem,” Klavier muses, more to himself than anyone else in particular.
“Good,” Apollo grumbles, glancing at the crowd uneasily. He can feel their eyes on them now, strange voices tittering in excitement, pitch rising. Handling the pressure in court was one thing, but this… “Then maybe we can finally—”
The bottom of his stomach drops out when he hears a collective shriek and realizes that Klavier is halfway through unbuttoning his shirt right next to him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” he yelps, making a desperate grab for the other’s hands. Klavier looks less than thrilled when Apollo successfully stops him from stripping further. The expression on his face is mirrored in the disappointed groan from the crowd behind them.
“No need to make such a scene, Herr Forehead.”
“You think I’m being unreasonable?!” Apollo sputters. “Stripping naked will not get us out of here any faster!”
A flash goes off somewhere in his peripheral vision. He tries not to think too hard about that.
“Relax,” Klavier replies smoothly, adjusting his shirt beneath Apollo’s clenched fists. “The buttons are metal, so perhaps they are setting off the detector.”
“That’s ridiculous! Those are way too small. It was probably your stupid rings.”
Klavier leans forward with a pleasant smile that Apollo really doesn’t find appropriate for the situation. “You want to get out of here, ja? Then we’ll have to try it sooner rather than later.”
Another flash, and Klavier tosses his hair before shooting a quick smile at the cameras. Cameras, Apollo thinks, hands going cold. He swears he can feel the blood draining from his face. It is not a happy thought.
“Are you two together, sir?” a female guard asks. It’s an innocent enough question that Klavier is (apparently) all too ready to answer.
“Ja, he is my—”
“LAWYER,” Apollo practically screeches (God, did his voice just crack there or was it his imagination being cruel to his delicate nerves), hands flying free from Klavier’s shirt. Both the guard and Klavier turn to blink at him in the same incredulous manner. “I’m his lawyer!” he repeats, loudly, all the blood that was once so content to migrate elsewhere suddenly rushing back up to his face eagerly. He grips the badge on his collar like a lifeline. “You know, for… legal… band stuff…”
Wait, says the voice in the back of his mind that loves to point out how much of an idiot he’s being. They know Gavin works in law. They’ve probably all followed his cases… connection to the law is the Gavinners’ whole—
Shit.
To his absolute horror, the guard actually smiles.
“It’s okay,” she says, leaning in with a sly grin and conspiratorial whisper, “you can tell me the truth. I know all about it.”
Apollo prays with every fiber of his being for the ground to open and swallow him whole. His mouth is dry and he can barely manage a hoarse reply. “You… you do?”
“Sure,” the guard answers with a nod. She pulls away with a playful swat on Apollo’s arm. “You’re his secret co-lyricist!”
“I’m—” What. “I’m his WHAT?”
“You know, in some of his interviews he admitted that the band’s lyrics weren’t all his idea,” the guard blunders on, heedless of the way Apollo’s jaw flaps like a dying fish. “Actually, not long after that case with Lamiroir, he confessed that he had a secret source of inspiration! Did you tell him to say that? Because wow, if the Gavinners made a comeback—” Her words are rapidly gaining a momentum and volume that Apollo does not like when suddenly the weight of two familiar hands falls on his shoulders, followed by a wave of relief when Apollo remembers that Klavier is actually there to save him from this terrible, terrible embarrassment.
“Careful where you share that information, Fräulein,” Klavier whispers deviously. “You wouldn’t want to spoil the secret, ja?”
A dead silence rings in Apollo’s ears as he turns to stare in horrified disbelief at the prosecutor. Klavier, unsurprisingly, is all charm and smiles. It makes Apollo want to punch him in the teeth. His perfect, beautiful teeth.
The guard’s eyes widen with a delight that could only be rivaled by a small child possessing knowledge on how to obtain all the world’s cookie jars. “O-Oh! Yes, of course, Mr. Gavin! Sir!”
I am definitely going to kill him.
“Achtung! Well, my mystery ‘lyricist,’” Klavier hums cheerfully in Apollo’s ear, “shall we be going? I don’t think your bracelet and that machine will get along so well.”
“Noted,” Apollo hisses. His eyes drop to Klavier's chest, the buttons still open and forgotten. “And please keep your shirt on. At least until we’re out of the airport.”
“And after?” Klavier waggles his eyebrows. Apollo fights both the blush and the indignant Chords of Steel outburst threatening to surface. He manages to win only one of those struggles.
“Just... go.”
The absence of the metal detector’s beep is like music to Apollo’s ears once Klavier makes it to the other side. The guard motions him through with a gleeful smile and Apollo rushes forward, desperate to put the airport and this whole fiasco behind him.
The metal detector beeps again.