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Apollo looks down at the red helmet pressed into his hands. His reflection shines up at him, awkward and disproportionate along its bulbous side. What a bad time to remember he’s always hated the look of his own boyish face. He’s suddenly very conscious of the sweat streaks his palms are probably going to leave across the gleaming metal. “This is probably a dumb question,” he admits.
“No such thing, Herr Forehead.”
“Do I put this on before or after I sit on the bike?”
Klavier snorts and it’s adorable the way his nose scrunches and he tosses his head. His fingers reach up to toy with his bangs. Apollo half-expects him to take back his previous statement, but instead, Klavier says in the midst of a rush of German, “After.”
“R-right.” Apollo sets his mouth into a thin line.
He tries to ignore the funny feeling that squirms in his stomach as he steps closer. Klavier hasn’t once taken his eyes off of him since he stepped out of the apartment building; Apollo doesn’t know what to make of that. Especially now, as he’s supposed to climb on the damn motorcycle behind Klavier. That’s what he’s supposed to do.
Why is his heart beating so damn fast?
People do this in movies all the time, Apollo. C’mon. Get it together.
He shoves the helmet on over his head and climbs on the bike.
Klavier laughs.
“W-what?” Apollo huffs and decidedly does not think about the fact that he’s wrapping his arms around Klavier’s middle and that Klavier is warm and curling over his back like this is nice.
“Nothing.” Klavier shakes his head again and slips on his own helmet. With a twist of his wrist, the motorcycle under their thighs revs and rumbles—a beautiful, thrilling purr. Apollo’s gut swoops. “Have a good hold, Herr Forehead?”
“Yeah! I think so!”
“Gut!”
Klavier kicks back and Apollo hikes his knees up higher and then they are moving.
It’s probably dumb that Apollo has never ridden a motorcycle before. Probably. But the world blurs into lines and shapes around them and the first thing Apollo notices is how strange it is to be driving so fast with nothing else but the helmet protecting him, surrounding him. Unlike a train or a car, there’s nothing separating his arm from reaching out and being hit by that palm tree or skinning his knee against the asphalt—or worse—if he were to fall. His jacket flaps wildly around his middle; he probably should have zipped it up before climbing on, but he hadn’t even known to question it.
They swerve to pass a car.
Apollo’s gasp catches high in his throat; his arms tighten around Klavier’s middle. Admittedly, it’s a bit exhilarating, once he gets beyond the initial terror: to move so fluidly and smoothly. To have an entire existence narrowed to the thin point of an arrow’s head.
The entire drive lasts no more than a handful of minutes, but by the time they pull up to the curb of the restaurant, Apollo is still breathless. Shaky.
Klavier’s foot kicks down to the sidewalk. The motorcycle bounces and tilts until it’s stable. He pulls off his helmet and shakes his hair free—far, far more handsome than is necessary. Does he always look like he’s stepping out of a shampoo commercial? “Ja. Well. Here we are, Herr Forehead. Be careful as you get off.”
Apollo swings his leg around to descend the motorbike and yanks off his helmet. He spins around to Klavier, mouth open in another question—when suddenly, Klavier starts laughing.
“W-what? What is it?”
Klavier shakes his head, snorts. Then, he lifts and holds two fingers—a peace sign—at the crown of his brow.
Apollo’s face burns red.
Furiously, quickly, he looks back down at his reflection in the helmet. His bangs are all messed up: dented and askew. With a muffled curse, he tries to fix them until Klavier, waving a hand, says, “Don’t worry about it, Herr Forehead. You can fix it once you’re inside.”
You’re?
“You’re not coming?” Apollo jerks his head up to look at Klavier, one hand over the top of his head and pressing his bangs flat.
Klavier gestures to the motorcycle still purring underneath him. The long and lean, curved line his spine makes leading down to the bike should not look as sinuous as it does. “One of us has to find a parking spot. You go in; I’ve made reservations under my name.”
“Uh, okay.”
Apollo hands him back the borrowed helmet and watches as Klavier kicks off and smoothly turns down at the corner of the block. He runs a hand through his hair again once more, ducks his head to catch a quick peek of his reflection in the restaurant window, feels mortified all over again, and decides to keep his hand on the top of his head before he walks inside. He’ll get to a bathroom soon enough.
Apollo takes one look at the hostess, the white-cloth tables, and the other guests. He walks back out onto the sidewalk.
Fuck.
He’s underdressed.
He said we’d be getting Italian! He didn’t say it’d be a fancy-ass, 5-star-restaurant!
Apollo puts his hands over his face and in the safety of obscurity where he can’t see who will see him and hear him and look at him, he squats and screams against his palms. The Chords of Steel have always served to calm him down as much as pumped him up for whatever impossible feats he has in front of him. From tackling impossible cases in the courtroom to manning up and walking back inside an establishment of the highest-end of fine dining he has ever stepped inside all while in jeans and a red zip-up hoodie.
And bad helmet hair.
Fuck. Tonight was such a bad idea.
With all the dignity he can muster for someone who definitely was not backing out of the very same restaurant in a panic, Apollo Justice clears his throat and says, “Uh, two for Klavier Gavin? I think he put us down for seven-fifteen.”
“Ah!” the hostess says brightly. Her eyes flash with recognition—or is that admiration? “For Klavier Gavin from the Gavinners? Of course!” She uncaps a marker, scribbles something down that’s hidden on the other side of the podium, then grabs two menus and props them up against her hip. “We’re so happy to have him here! Right this way, sir.”
“Uh—Klavier’s still—” Apollo glances behind him to the door and then supposes there’s no other choice. He follows the young woman, trying not to let his mind run wild with questions.
Is she his age? She looks like she’s his age. Is that weird? Looking around, most of the people at the surrounding tables seem older than him. There’s one large banquet table with a giant party of people of all ages, but everyone gathered still seems to be dressed up. Suits, waistcoats, ties—if only Klavier had told him that it was upscale dining, he might not have bothered to change once he finished work.
“Here you are, sir.”
“Thanks—um.” Apollo snaps his eyes back to the hostess. “Hey, where’s the bathroom?”
She points, gives him directions, and after another meek thanks, Apollo ducks behind the door with the plastic plaque labeled “men’s” to restore his hair’s lost honor.
It’s a battle that takes longer than it should. Once finished and his hair is finally back to normal, Apollo puts his hands on the quartz countertop on either side of the blown-glass bowl sink and stares at his reflection. His bangs are fine now, so everything else should be fine too, right? He’s fine.
Why does his gut still churn and churn and churn?
He turns on the tap. Splashes water on his face. He rips out a few paper towels to dab it off.
Why am I freaking out? He withholds a groan, muffled by the paper over his mouth. It’s just dinner. Except it’s a dinner date. But you’ve been on tons of dates before. It’s not like Klavier’s your first boyfriend. Yeah! Get a hold of yourself, Apollo! You’re fine!
“Yeah.” Apollo releases his pent-up air and meets his reflection head-on.
You’re Apollo Justice and you’re fine!
“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine!”
Apollo Justice walks out of the men’s bathroom and back into the restaurant and sees the handsome rockstar now lounging at his table with a red menu in hand and decides he’s not fine. He has never been fine. He might never be fine again in his life because for some reason, Klavier Gavin said yes when he asked him out last week and now, Apollo's probably about to prove that was the biggest mistake of Klavier’s life.
Apollo swallows. Fists tight on either side of his body, he begins the long walk back to their booth against the far wall.
“Oh my god. Is that Klavier Gavin? Of the Gavinners?”
“It is! Oh my god. What are the odds he’d be here the same night we are?”
“Look at his hair…”
“Do you think he has a date?”
“I wonder who the lucky girl is. I bet she’s super fancy if he’s taking her here.”
“Ah! There you are, Herr Forehead. I was beginning to get worried, wondering where you had slunk off to.”
Apollo is fairly sure he can give his red waistcoat a run for its money by the time he finally sits back down. Once the world stops spinning, he crosses his arms over the table and hides his face for one second. Two seconds. Three.
“Apollo?”
He lifts his head on the tail end of a deep, wide inhale. “I’m fine. What’s good here?”
Klavier blinks at him. “I—well, I’m a particular fan of the spaghetti alle vongole.”
“A-ah.” Apollo opens his menu wide and hopes it hides the mortification spreading pink across his face when he realizes he has no idea what that means or any of these words in front of him mean. He clears his throat and hopes it masks the way his voice squeaks. “Klavier?”
“Ja?”
He folds his menu closed and places it flat against the table. Slightly impressive, the way his hands don’t shake. He has to give kudos to his nerves. They are in top form tonight. “When were you going to tell me you speak Italian?”
Klavier laughs. “I—I don’t. Did I give you the impression I did?”
Apollo’s gut squirms. Is whatever the hell ‘alle vongole’ is just a thing people are supposed to know? How come he doesn’t know? “Do they have lasagna?”
Klavier looks every bit amused, save for the small pinch to his brow. “I believe so, yes.”
“Great. I’ll take that.”
“Excellent. What kind?”
Apollo almost bites his tongue as all his gathered breath wheezes out of his lungs. “There’s more than one?”
“Of course!” Klavier sets down his menu, reaches over, and opens Apollo’s in front of him. His pointer finger presses to the paper and slides down towards an ornate text box in the bottom left corner and taps. “There’s a vegetarian option, of course, but then you have the lasagne di carnevale, lasagne al forno—”
“—I’ll take the first one! Yep! Carnival sounds good!”
Apollo swings the menu shut too fast and too quickly. The right leaf smacks the top of Klavier’s hand. Immediately, Klavier bites out a curse, pulling back.
Apollo’s heart sinks to his toes. “Fuck! Shit! Oh! Shit! I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay.” Klavier shakes out his hand, fanning his fingers out in a wave. He chuckles, but it sounds less exuberant than his earlier laugh. Less cheery and bright and at its dimness, ice spreads up Apollo’s stomach. “It’s okay, Herr Forehead. Not a big deal. Just a little tap. You don’t need to look like you just kicked a sick puppy.”
Apollo can’t dislodge his eyes from Klavier’s hand.
“Apollo?”
There’s—
—a strange feeling not unlike white noise that’s been settling in his gut all evening, Apollo thinks.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“You can stop apologizing. My hand is fine.” Klavier’s eyes are super blue. Like, super blue. Apollo thinks he might bother with comparing them to oceans if he cared about things like poetry and if Klavier’s gaze wasn’t so sharp on his right now. So very unlike water at all. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve—” Apollo’s breath catches in his throat. “—gotta go to the bathroom.”
“Didn’t you just come back from there?”
If there’s something else Klavier says, Apollo misses it completely. He’s already halfway across the restaurant again, having trouble breathing—for some reason—as he skirts around the round tables that are standing between him and the bathroom hallway.
“Oh my god, I can’t wait until my sister hears about this!”
“Shh! Don’t say that so loud!”
“Do you think if I asked him, he’d sign my book?”
“I thought Klavier was dreamy on stage, but up close? He’s a fucking—"
“—Look out!”
Apollo bumps into a waitress with a wide tray perched on her shoulder and a folded stand pinned between her hand and hip. His heart stops, ice filling him. He snaps his hands out and shouts, “I’M SORRY!” and all at once, every single conversation at every single table in the entire restaurant falls silent.
All that fills the quiet is the loud clatter of the porcelain as it wobbles on the tray.
None of it drops.
It’s fine. The tray is fine. The food is fine. The waitress is fine, if a little shaken. He’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s all fine.
“S-sorry,” he says again.
He catches a wide set of pretty blue eyes just before he turns and then the next thing Apollo knows, he’s bent over the blown-glass sink again. Is it the same one as before? An old article he read for a college class on psychology read that human beings are such creatures of habit—
Apollo yanks on the tap and he splashes his face. He splashes it again. Turns off the faucet. He squeezes his eyes shut and he gasps and yanks on the nearest dispenser. There, with his eyes closed and an excess of paper towels pressed over his face, he breathes. And he breathes. And he breathes. Actually, he can’t breathe. Why is he not breathing?
“—llo? Apollo!”
Light floods his vision as his hands are torn away from his face.
“What has gotten into you?” Klavier breathes and his eyes scan over Apollo’s face. The smooth, handsome lines of his brows are furrowed. How the hell does he manage to look handsome under the gaudy luminescent lighting of a fucking bathroom? “Are you all right? You’re making a scene.”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry!” Something in the back of Apollo’s head is horrified at the fact that his volume keeps raising and raising and raising. “I’m sorry that I’m making a scene when I’m about to have a panic attack over how badly I’m screwing up our first date!”
“You’re…what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me I should’ve dressed up?!”
Klavier blinks. Beautiful blue eyes wide, genuinely shocked. “Why should you have to dress up?”
“W—” Apollo’s voice turns shrill. He throws an arm out towards the bathroom door. “Have you seen everybody else at this place? The suits? The ties? The dresses? At the very least, you could have told me not to change out of my work suit! Even that would have been better than what I’m wearing now!”
There’s a flicker of amusement that crosses Klavier’s face. His nose scrunches—adorable. Fuck. “Herr Forehead, please explain to me what is so wrong with what you are wearing?”
Apollo’s mouth falls slack. He pinches at the seam at his thigh and yanks it out, wagging the excess fabric. “Jeans?!” He pulls on the edge of his hoodie, tight enough for him to feel the zipper leaving imprints against his palm. “Hello! Jacket? An old tee? Do you actually need me to go on right now?”
“You don’t need to dress up to be the best-looking young man in this entire establishment.”
Apollo’s face floods with heat.
He stares at Klavier, brown eyes blown wide.
“You can’t be serious,” he breathes, voice fallen low. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I guarantee you,” Klavier hums and his hands slide into the pockets of his dark, tight pants, “I am very much not.”
“That—” Apollo works his mouth, tries to come up with something else to say, something else to point out and articulate to make this growing mess in his head make sense. Find the loose thread and unravel the whole knot of yarn; that’s how this is supposed to work, right? Why isn’t his bracelet growing tight? “—you’re not funny. Stop it.”
“I’m not trying to be.” Klavier’s eyes follow the short line of Apollo’s form from head to toe. He shifts his weight and frowns. “Apollo, why on earth do you think I would joke about this? About you?”
“Because you’re Klavier Gavin!”
Something dark and hurt shatters across Klavier’s face.
Immediately, Apollo realizes his mistake: that fine line where his words could possibly be misconstrued.
He reaches forward and then yanks his hands back to his chest. He winces. “No! Fuck! I didn’t mean it like that! I meant—” He scrunches his face up tight. Forces himself to stop. Breathe. Try again. “I mean, look, you have magazines out there that literally call you ‘sexy’ and a ‘god of rock’ and ‘hottest young star of the year.’”
Now, Klavier just looks confused.
“What I mean is that you’re amazing, Klavier.” Funny enough how the words come so easily to Apollo when he means them from the bottom of his heart. “You’re talented and you’re handsome and you’re good. And everyone out there knows it. Take one step outside and you can hear people talking about you. They can’t believe you’re here. Everyone wants you, and you could have anyone that you want. You, quite literally, have your pick of the entire world, but for some reason, you said yes to me, the guy who put on a motorcycle helmet before he got on the damn bike, even when you told him otherwise.”
That gets a soft chuckle out of Klavier, at least. “You do know there’s no right or wrong time to actually put the helmet on, ja?”
Apollo looks away and presses his fingertips against the sink still at his side. He hadn’t realized at the time, but now that he glances at his feet he can see the paper towels he had crumpled in his hands scattering the pretty faux-marble floor.
“Apollo?”
“Not to mention I’m half the reason your brother and your bandmate are both in jail.”
Klavier sucks in a sharp breath. “Is that what this is really about?”
“No?” Apollo scrunches his face and covers his face with his hand. “Yes?”
“Because I thought we talked about that. A long time ago.”
“We did,” Apollo mumbles into his palm. “We did. I just…think my mind’s trying to think of every little thing I’ve ever done wrong to you as more proof of, ‘See, there’s no possible way someone as cool and awesome as Klavier Gavin is genuinely interested in dating you.’”
“Mm. And all because you convinced yourself you wore the wrong clothes to our first date.”
Warm fingers wrap around Apollo’s wrist. Gently, they tug him forward until their shoes bump against one another—worn sneakers side-by-side with polished, black boots.
“Apollo. Schatz. Look at me.”
Slowly, Apollo raises his eyes.
Klavier’s fingers of his other hand curl underneath his chin. It’s a soft touch, almost tickling. “Have I told you why I said yes when you asked me out?”
“No.” Apollo swallows. “I mean, I hoped it was because you were interested in me maybe half as much as I was interested in you. Am interested in you. Shit.”
Klavier chuckles. Apollo leans into the sensation, the rumble of his chest; he presses up against Klavier’s stomach to seek and chase his quiet warmth. Slowly, Klavier lowers his head so their foreheads brush together. “Ah, my Herr Forehead. You have the funniest way of wording things. I had thought, and still do think, the same thing about the way you asked me out.”
“Oh gosh—”
“—no, don’t look away. It was cute. I adored it.” Klavier hums and lifts his fingers to rub the back of them over Apollo’s cheek. “In truth, I admired you—admire you, even—for your courage.”
“What?”
“You are so brave, Apollo Justice, and you don’t even know it.”
Apollo stares.
“Even when you are afraid, you charge forward.” Klavier’s voice turns fond. Wistful. He rubs his fingers along the curve of Apollo’s cheek. “Meanwhile, I’m a coward. I’m content to let things happen around me. Afraid to confront and face harsh realities even when they are right in front of me.”
“That’s…not true, Klavier—”
“—isn’t it?” Klavier tilts his head, blue eyes pained and rainy. “I grew up with my brother. Arguably, I knew him better than anyone else. For years, some part of me knew the kind of man he was, even if I never wanted to admit it. I held my silence, played complicit into his plans because I was afraid of admitting there was another side to him: that he was not only capable of being the brother I loved.” He sighs. “And yet, you, his student, his employee, weren’t afraid to turn to him and challenge all that he was and all that he had done.”
“Klavier…”
“You, Apollo, on the first day of your first trial as a fresh-out-of-college rookie attorney, did in a matter of hours what I was afraid to do for my entire life. ” Klavier hums. “Now tell me, in light of that, when you suddenly looked my way and asked me if I would like to ‘have dinner with you sometime,’ how could I have been anything but swept off my feet?”
Apollo’s face floods red. “I think you’re simplifying things.”
“And you have an uncanny ability to overcomplicate them.” Klavier’s grin widens. “Together we make quite a pair, don’t you think?”
Apollo’s heart skips a beat. He tilts his head back and laughs.
“Ah yes,” Klavier nearly purrs and snakes both arms around Apollo’s waist, pulling him tighter to his front. “Finally. There’s the sound I have been waiting to hear all night.”
“Wow. You’re a sap.”
“But of course. I write love songs for half of my living. What did you expect?”
Apollo’s laugh turns into a scrunched-nose snicker. He rolls his eyes and sags into Klavier’s hold, wrapping his arms in turn around Klavier’s middle. He enjoys all too well the way his fingers lace together at Klavier’s spine. “Just don’t write me any love songs, and we’ll be fine.”
“Ah. And there go half of my drafts.”
“Wh—okay, now you’ve gotta be joking,” Apollo huffs. “This is our first date!”
It’s Klavier’s turn to laugh, a bright and happy thing. Apollo feels every bit of it, every tiny bounce of his chest against his, and falls head over heels all over again. “How very bold of you, Herr Forehead, to assume that I haven’t had feelings for you earlier than last week. As if I haven’t pathetically pined after you since before the moment you asked me to dinner.”
Apollo’s face reddens. “W-well. Speaking of dinner…”
“Mm. I suppose our waiter is wondering where we went.”
“You don’t think they gave our table to someone else, do you?”
“Herr Forehead, exactly what kind of restaurants have you eaten at before?”
“Not restaurants like this one.”
“Evidently.” Klavier hums and wraps his arm around Apollo’s, tugging him away from the bowl sink and counter and away from all the fallen paper towels still strewn about the floor. “But don’t worry. Now that you’re dating me, I’ll make sure to remedy that post-haste.”
“Actually, I think I reserve the right to pick where we eat next,” Apollo hums. His sappy grin is a mile-wide. “But honestly? I can’t wait.”
There is something overwhelmingly relieving in the promise of date number two.