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Working at the Wright Anything Agency, Apollo has found, can be a whole lot of toilet cleaning and nowhere near enough… lawyering. It isn’t that he expected to have a caseload as large as Kristoph’s, but a steady case every few weeks or so would leave him satisfied enough, give him something to do instead of barreling through bottles of Jane Eeter’s Fast Action High Powered Toilet Bleach or polishing his attorney’s badge and looking wistfully at the door. The downside to this, of course, is that Apollo doesn’t have the luxury of being very picky when it comes to his clients; he’s thankful that Phoenix shares his moral belief in finding the truth above all, and he’s been lucky so far to have clients who are innocent, but he’s always wary of the day he may have to make the choice between his own pursuit of justice, and being able to afford this month’s rent.
So, naturally, it’s an easy ‘yes’ when a woman – Apollo would guess in her late fifties? – comes through the door practically begging for him to take on her husband’s case.
He makes her a cup of strong coffee and awkwardly pushes aside Trucy’s latest props to make space for himself and his client on the sofa.
“You see,” the woman says, her voice doing little in terms of composure to hide the stress she’s under, “my darlin’ simply wouldn’t do such a thing! A murder? Well of course, sweetie, he did have an argument with the waiter that night, but I’m sure so many other people did! He was just so gosh darn rude to us! And who’d’a thought he’d turn up dead before last call at the bar? But I’m tellin’ ya, my sugarpie was by my side practically the whole night and he ain’t go anywhere near that knife! That city-girl detective was talkin’ about fingerprints, but I’ll be damned – my hubby ain’t never touched it. It’s a set-up!”
Apollo tries to give her a smile. “I’ll take your case. Can you tell me a little bit about my client, your husband?”
“Well of course I can, sweetie! He’s just an angel, one 'a those real carin’ types, ya know? Buys me flowers every Saturday, takes me on dates, the whole hog. A right gentleman he is. That’s why we was at that restaurant in the first place! It’s our thirty year anniversary.”
“I suppose ‘congratulations’ would be a little awkward,” Apollo says.
“Well, thank ya kindly for the thought anyways. You’ll be able to prove my sugarpie innocent?”
“I’ll try my hardest. Which restaurant did you say the murder took place at?”
“That fancy new one just opened downtown! Oh, what’s it called again? Lounge 54, right up top on that big block ‘a apartments.”
“Right,” Apollo says, jotting down the name. His bracelet tightens against his wrist, but he’s certain that she isn’t lying. “Well, I’ll head down straight away and investigate the scene.”
“You’re an angel, sweetie. Here, can ya do me a favour?” She pulls out a handkerchief from her purse and kisses it, leaving the imprint of her lipstick on the cloth. “Can ya give this to my darlin’ down at the Detention Center? We never go a day without a good mornin’ kiss, and he’s been down there all night, so…”
Apollo takes the handkerchief and puts it in his briefcase, careful not to touch the lipstick stains. “I’ll make sure he gets it, ma’am.”
“Thanks, love. And here, I hear you lawyers need some kinda letter of request – I hope this’ll do.”
As he mounts his bike and starts the brief cycle downtown, Apollo wonders how anyone can put up with another person for thirty years, let alone to the point where going without a good morning kiss from them is as devastating as being deprived of oxygen. He’s always wondered – sometimes curiously, sometimes longingly – what it would be like to be in love, to hold someone’s hand like a lifeline, like his hands were made for it, like the atoms that created the world were waiting, holding their breath, for this beautiful moment of completion. Sure, he’s had crushes before, but they fizzled and faded before there was ever a chance of reciprocation, and then his life had been all law school and transitioning and flitting between apartments and friends and jobs just to stay afloat, how could he have ever made time for love? There are times where he thinks it’s just too hard – not for him, no, because he yearns for it sometimes, in the dead of night, when only the barn owls can coo alongside the empty, and nobody needs to know that he is not fine. It might just be too hard for someone else. Apollo Justice thinks, in these moments, that the problem may lie with him all along. That he might just, perhaps, possibly, if the evidence points that way, be too hard to love. Too loud. Too blunt. Too much of everything bad and nowhere near enough of the good to tip the scales into the balance that he’s been craving.
He ruminates on this depressing thought for far too long, only snapping himself out of it when he almost rides directly into a streetlight.
And then he’s standing outside the block of apartments, looking up at the top floor where he knows – as much as he doesn’t want to admit it – the crime scene is. It must be at least fifty floors high, which is fine, except he looks at the advertisement for Lounge 54 outside the building and reads that it’s some new, supposedly ‘hip’ style of restaurant situated entirely outside, boasting beautiful views of the city (and, Apollo sarcastically thinks, only a 50% chance of having a bird shit in your dinner).
What else can he do? He promised to take the case, and it’s not like he’s ever had the luxury of being picky. He boards the elevator and the doors close, encasing him in the thick summer heat that threatens to bend the metal (and send him plummeting to his death down an elevator shaft, with the way his luck is turning out today). Fanning himself with his hand, he mutters “I’m fine,” until he almost believes it; but this elevator is going up and up and it feels like it will never stop, and at least two minutes of travelling to the restaurant pass before the doors open again.
Blinded momentarily by the sun, he puts his arm over his face and steps away from the elevator; only a second ago it had felt like it was a claustrophobic rocket escorting him to his execution, but now it feels like the safest place he could possibly be, given the alternative. Still, he takes a few steps towards what he assumes is the crime scene, behind the high wall of the cash register; it’s covered by a canopy and everyone standing around looks like they have a very important reason to be there. He steps into the shade of the canopy clutching his letter of request.
Well, he might nosedive fifty-four stories to his gruesome death, screaming in terror the entire time, but at least he won’t get sunburn.
Walking up to Detective Ema Skye, he shows her his letter of request. She looks it over for a moment, then steps out into the sun to hold it up to the light, like she’s trying to inspect it for forgery. Or, more likely, she’s just playing forensics again.
“Hmm. Alright, you can investigate.”
“Thanks,” Apollo says.
“Watch out though. You-know-who is prosecuting this case and I don’t think he’s too happy about being dragged away from whatever yacht he was sunbathing on to investigate a crime scene. He’s even got his sunglasses on, like, how pretentious can you get?”
Probably just a little less pretentious than wearing luminol-testing goggles wherever you go, but that’s none of Apollo’s business.
Besides, not to jump to Prosecutor Gavin’s defense like a lapdog, but sunglasses seem like a particularly good idea when you’re fifty-four stories up, investigating a crime scene with only a small canopy to cover the outline of the body, and nothing for miles that’s high up enough to cast even a little bit of shade over the rest of the restaurant. What absolute freak approved the planning permit for this, anyway?
He gets straight into investigating. Ema excitedly shows him the fingerprints she found on the murder weapon, and asks him if he wants to test out her new piece of kit: a chart documenting all the different types of blood splatter. Apollo muses for a second, trying to weigh up the lesser of two evils – go investigate the suspicious wallet on the floor right by the guard rail at the edge of the restaurant, or compare the blood of a freshly-murdered dead guy with an aspiring forensic scientist who seems like she’s having far too much fun? He’s spoiled for choice.
His eyes drift from the blood splatter chart, to the wallet, and back to the blood splatter chart, and back to the wallet, which is now being picked up by a gloved hand. Following the movement, his eyes rest on Prosecutor Gavin, who looks… decidedly different today. Not that Apollo ever takes much notice of Prosecutor Gavin’s appearance, but it’s hard not to make a mental comment when he has foregone his usual fancy suit in favour of… is that a crop top? Is he seriously investigating a crime scene in a crop top and shorts? And huge celebrity sunglasses? And fishnet tights? And heels? Maybe Ema’s statement about him being dragged away from activities in the sunshine to investigate might have held a little more truth than Apollo initially thought. But still, he could have at least gone home to change. And really, it’s not like he needs heels, he’s already almost a foot taller than Apollo, god, he does not want to walk over there and hear another comment about his height or his forehead or the fact that he’s not “dressed for the weather” enough in Prosecutor Gavin’s eyes. Apollo gets angry at the little Klavier in his head (which is a totally normal mental antagonist to have, thank-you-very-much) – he’d like to tell him that a button up shirt is, in fact, a completely normal outfit to wear when working outside in the summer, unlike the unprofessional hot mess he’s got going on over there.
Christ, Apollo is already pissed off and he hasn’t even spoken to Prosecutor Gavin. Blood splatter it is, then.
As he listens to Ema talk about the presence of two distinct blood splatter patterns by the body, Apollo’s gaze flicks up again to where Prosecutor Gavin is standing.
To where Prosecutor Gavin is leaning over the building rails, standing on his tiptoes in those stupid stilettos.
Shit. Apollo sees Prosecutor Gavin’s ankle twist, and he stumbles, losing his balance.
“KLAVIER!”
He shouts without even realising it, and then everything just… stops. The entire crime scene falls quiet, and everyone is staring at Apollo, he feels their confused looks, even though his eyes are fixated on Prosecutor Gavin. Oh, how embarrassing. He’s leaning back against the rail, like one brush with death wasn’t enough for the idiot, looking directly at Apollo with a smirk and one eyebrow raised.
Okay, so he may have overreacted to a little twist of the ankle and a slight stumble, but come on. He’s fifty-four feet in the sky, looking at the blood splatters of the recently deceased. Any sane person would be on edge too.
And, oh no, oh no, Prosecutor Gavin is walking right up to him, which means that he’s going to have to explain his little outburst.
“Mein Gott, Herr Forehead, you can shout. Suffice to say you have my undivided attention.”
“Sorry,” Apollo says. “I thought you were going to fall over the rail.”
“You realise that’s impossible, don’t you? That’s what the mesh netting is for.”
Apollo briefly glances over; he’s right. He hadn’t noticed that there’s a thin netting going from just under the balcony, right to the top of the scaffolding poles around the sides of the restaurant. Still, though, it looks flimsy to stay the least. He’d rather steer clear of the edge.
“Right. Well, sorry about that.”
“Nein. You were only looking out for me, ja? Although I doubt even your chords of steel could stop someone falling off a building.”
“Y-Yeah.”
“So,” Prosecutor Gavin – or, Klavier, as he should probably get used to calling him, since he just shouted his first name for the entire crime scene to hear – says, “You’re the defense attorney for this case?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if I should ask if you’re here to investigate the crime scene or perform some sort of striptease with the way you’re dressed.” Did he really just say that out loud?
“Well, Herr Forehead, which would you prefer?”
“Prosecuting, definitely.”
“You wound me.”
“A-Anyway,” Apollo says. “I saw you looking at that wallet that was dropped. Where is it?”
“Oh, very keen observation. I put it back where I found it. This is a crime scene, after all.”
“Right.”
Apollo takes a hesitant step closer to the edge of the building, and then another, and before he knows it, he’s shaking violently as he leans down to pick up the wallet.
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier says from behind him, making Apollo jump, drop the wallet, and clutch onto the guard rail with both hands. “Ach, es tut mir Leid, did I startle you?”
“Just a little. I thought my voice was loud.”
“My voice carries well. Are you scared of heights, by any chance?”
He weighs up the pros and cons of lying, before settling on a tentative middle ground of, “I’m not the biggest fan.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of. Heights can be a beautiful thing. Very… freeing.”
“Well, I’m glad you see it so poetically, but I’d rather not plunge to my death any time soon if I can help it.”
“Didn’t I already explain the function of the mesh netting to you?”
“It doesn’t look very sturdy. Don’t look at me like that – I’ll be fine once I get my feet firmly back on the ground.”
“And until then…?” Klavier says, his tone half-mocking, half-concerned. “You’re in no state to gather relevant evidence for tomorrow’s trial if you’re spending most of your time glancing over the ledge and looking like you’re about to pass out.”
“It is what it is,” Apollo huffs. “I’m just here to do my job.”
“Would you like to hold hands?”
Apollo can feel himself going bright red. He knows he can’t be picky, but for once he’d just love to investigate a normal case with a normal suspect and a prosecutor who doesn’t flirt like his life depends on it. He wishes he had crashed into that streetlight earlier; even a concussion would be better than the current situation.
“Just a suggestion,” Klavier continues. “My bandmates used to hold my hand when we went through a tunnel in the tour bus.”
“You’re… scared of tunnels?”
Klavier laughs, and Apollo hates how effortlessly musical it is. “Nein, nein. I just... how did you put it? I’m not the biggest fan of the dark.”
“Right, well,” Apollo pretends to think for a moment, but he knows the answer already. “I suppose we would cover equal ground if we investigated together anyway.”
Klavier links his hand into Apollo’s, like it was always supposed to fit there. And Apollo – who really should have thought this far ahead, honestly – notices everything about the situation; the way Klavier’s hand is a lot rougher than he’d have guessed, how his own heart is beating at double time, how Klavier’s thumb so softly moves up and down like he’s trying to comfort him.
He’d take the obnoxious flirting in the courtroom any day over this. There’s no way he can pretend that he wants any of this to be platonic.
“Here,” Klavier bends down, still holding Apollo’s hand, and picks up the wallet. “We’ll go and look at it over there, ja?”
He leads Apollo to one of the tables at the restaurant and hands him the wallet to look through. Nothing immediately strikes him as interesting, but he takes photographs of the multiple business cards inside, and notes the presence of many notes of different currencies; it could be a lead. He makes a mental note to call the business cards’ numbers once he’s done here.
Meanwhile, Klavier is leaning back in his chair, teetering on the back two legs as he drums his fingers on the table. “Hold on,” he says, getting up from the table and walking over to the bar. He reaches behind and takes two bottles of water from the chiller, leaving a handful of coins in their place. Apollo is sure that that’s not how transactions at a high-end restaurant are supposed to go, but he supposes that Klavier Gavin himself isn’t very used to acting in an un-rockstar way; besides, he’s thankful for the water – the combination of the heat and the anxiety of being so high up has left him with quite a headache.
Once he’s finished looking through the wallet, he stands up, and Klavier is instantly holding his hand again as they walk to the bar. If Apollo didn’t know better, he would think that Klavier had found some evidence behind there, and was guiding Apollo to it – but why would he do that? He’s the opposing prosecutor, for Holy Mother’s sake.
Then again, there is a slightly out of place kitchen skewer stuffed on top of the drinks chiller…
And so it goes this way, Klavier holding Apollo’s hand, Apollo tensing up at the welcome, but unfamiliar, physical contact, as they investigate the crime scene together. Every so often, when there’s a lull in the investigation, he’ll catch Klavier humming something quietly – it’s not a song that Apollo recognises, but that doesn’t exactly narrow down what it could be. Most likely, it’s one of his own, and Apollo doesn’t recognise it simply because his music taste is more soft, sophisticated jazz than five sweaty men screaming and smashing guitars on a stage. Not that he’s particularly against the idea of Klavier Gavin being in a band with five swe–
Never fucking mind.
They finish up their investigation of the crime scene just as the 3pm sun is getting slightly less harsh, and Apollo is a little ashamed at the fact that he only lets go of Klavier’s hand when the elevator doors open on the first floor.
“You know,” Klavier says. “Of all the restaurant dates I’ve been on, that was the strangest.”
“Oh, shut up, Klavier.”
“Now you’re using my first name… and I’m supposed to believe that wasn’t a date?”
“I said shut up!”
Hiding his face, Apollo walks out of the front door towards the railing where his bike is chained up. Or, rather, towards the railing where his bike was chained up.
Huh?
He looks down the side of the building, thinking that maybe he just forgot which spot he parked it in, but after five minutes of searching, he’s forced to come to the fucking perfect conclusion that his bike has been stolen. Sighing, he sits on the kerb, wondering whether he can afford to waste money on a taxi home, or if he should just suck it up and walk back to his apartment in the blistering heat.
And then, Klavier is sitting beside him.
“You sure you want to sit on the dirty ground in those shorts? They look like they cost a fortune,” Apollo says.
“I live next to a laundromat, Herr Forehead. Why are you sitting on the ground?”
“Oh, just debating whether I should have thrown myself off the top of that building.”
“You changed your tune fast. What’s up?”
“Someone stole my bike.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You should go and file a police report with Fräulein Skye.”
“It’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’ve had that bike for years and it’s been through more DIY repairs than I can count, it probably isn’t worth the trouble of filing a report right now. I just want to get home and get in the shower.”
“Then… how are you going to get home?”
“I’ll walk, I suppose.”
“In this heat?” Klavier says, sounding genuinely appalled at the idea. “You’ll get heatstroke!”
“I’ll try my hardest not to die.”
“Nonsense, Herr Forehead. Let me give you a ride home.”
Klavier stands up, holding out his hand to pull Apollo up as well. Like it’s instinct – dare he say, like it’s natural for him to do so – Apollo takes it. And he doesn’t let go even when he’s standing, and he doesn’t let go even when they’re both walking, and he doesn’t let go until–
“No way,” Apollo says. “I am not riding on the back of your motorbike.”
“Oh, of course not. Here, put this on,” Klavier hands him a motorbike helmet. “It’s a size bigger than my custom one, so it should fit your forehead perfectly.”
“Like I said, I am not riding on the back of–”
“Herr Forehead.” Klavier takes his hand again and walks him round to the other side of the motorbike, where Apollo sees that there’s a small sidecar attached. He decides, in that instant, that he would rather risk life and limb clinging onto the back of Klavier as he rides (probably way over the speed limit, that stupid rockstar) down the street, than be seen dead with his legs bunched up to his chest in a tiny sidecar of a flashy motorcycle. Despite what Clay has always said, Apollo has some sense of dignity.
“No. Absolutely not.” Apollo says, folding his arms across his chest. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I will look stupid!”
“As stupid as you’ll look when you’re in hospital dying of heatstroke after walking home in this weather due to some misplaced sense of pride?”
“...Fine.”
He’s not exactly happy about it, but the sidecar is comfier than it looks. Or, maybe, he’s shorter than he tells himself he is, because there’s quite a bit of leg room in here. And, he has to admit, the feeling of the cool wind in his face as Klavier drives to the address Apollo gave him is a welcome change from the stifling sun of the crime scene they were just at. He’s just happy that Klavier can’t see him simultaneously scowling and blushing underneath the motorbike helmet.
When they pull up outside Apollo’s apartment block, he disembarks the sidecar and takes off the helmet, handing it back to Klavier, who hooks it onto the back of the motorbike.
“You live here? I’m assuming you live on the first floor,” Klavier says.
“The eighth, actually. Rent is cheaper.”
“I see.”
“Would you…” Apollo falters. Is he really doing this? “Would you like to come up for coffee? To say thank you.”
“Ja,” Klavier responds.
And so it happens, Apollo leading Klavier to the elevator up to the eighth floor, unlocking his apartment door and hoping that Mikeko hasn’t caused too much of a mess while he’s been gone.
Alas, Mikeko is a little bastard.
She’s thrown her food bowl over the floor and torn a hole in her blanket whilst Apollo has been out investigating. He awkwardly tries to cover up the mess, while Mikeko runs straight up to Klavier and starts rubbing against his leg.
“Sorry about her, she’s–”
“Ah! Eine Katze! Hello, little kitty… psspsspsspss,” Klavier coos. Apollo has never seen him so relaxed or… domestic. It’s a refreshing sight, honestly. To see Klavier smile like nobody is looking at him.
“Ah, yeah, sorry,” he says. “That’s Mikeko. She’s my little asshole of a cat.”
“She’s beautiful!”
Mikeko takes to Klavier instantly. She purrs, rubs herself against him, and lets him pet her, loving the attention. Klavier hums softly to her, giving her affection and praise for being such a beautiful little cat, I hope Apollo is treating you right, ja? Apollo bites back a scathing remark about Mikeko never being this affectionate with him, and lets Klavier have his moment. “I’ll make us coffee.”
“Two sugars, please.”
Apollo sets about making coffee, thankful that he has an expensive coffee machine that doesn’t exactly fit with the… whole aesthetic of his apartment. When he turns around, he sees Klavier holding Mikeko, giving her kisses and pets, and he feels somehow at home.
Klavier looks at Apollo’s coffee machine. “That’s a good one,” he says. “I want one like that.”
“It was a gift from my best friend Clay,” he says. “He got it for me when I passed the bar exam.”
“He sounds like a good friend.”
“A-Anyway,” Apollo says. “Here’s your coffee.”
Klavier gently puts Mikeko down onto the floor and takes the cup from Apollo. “Danke,” he says.
Apollo takes his own coffee and makes his way to the sofa, thankful that Klavier follows him without prompting. What is he supposed to say, or do? This is… awkward.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice filling in the silent gap before his brain can catch up. “For helping me out today. I’ve never been good with heights.”
“Nein, it was nothing,” Klavier responds. “I understand your fear.”
“You do? You seemed pretty comfortable leaning over the ledge back there.”
“Not with heights. But… I get it. Sometimes you just need a hand to hold, ja?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you always been scared of heights?” Klavier takes a sip of his coffee, and smiles.
“Yeah. I mean, as far as I can remember, yeah. When I was a kid, I lived in this… you probably haven’t heard of it. But there were a lot of mountains. I can’t count the amount of times I nearly fell down while climbing.”
“That must have been scary.”
“For a kid, yeah. I guess I never got over it. It’s stupid, really.”
“Nein, I don’t think it is. I’m still scared of the dark, after all.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Klavier muses. “There’s nothing rational behind it. I just feel like things will… catch up with me… if I stay in the darkness too long.”
“Do you mean…?” Apollo can’t say his name.
“Maybe. But maybe not. I don’t know.”
“I liked holding your hand today,” Apollo says. Bold of you, the voice in his mind replies, to flirt with Klavier Gavin. Pathetic.
“Me too.”
“Why did you offer? You’re the prosecution, after all. It isn’t exactly helpful to your case to investigate with me.”
“We both want to find the truth. It’s as simple as that. But… on a more personal level… I suppose I just didn’t want to see you struggling.”
“I wasn’t struggling!”
“You’re scared of heights, Herr Fo– Apollo. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“I’m serious. Who isn’t scared of falling, in some way?”
Apollo gulps his coffee. He’s got a lot of thinking to do. And then he blurts it out, like he’s stupid, like he has nothing to lose. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Be fine,” Apollo says, frustration thick in his voice. “Your brother was arrested for murder! Your bandmate was arrested for the very same crime! How can you turn up to a crime scene and investigate like you’re not terrified it’ll be someone else you care about up on that stand next?!”
“Do you want the honest answer?” Klavier sounds more sincere than Apollo has ever heard him.
“Yes. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Because there’s nobody left that I trust. There’s nobody left who can disappoint me. Well… there’s one person. But I can’t picture him murdering someone if his life depended on it.”
“And who’s that?”
Klavier swallows a large gulp of coffee, before closing his eyes. “Mein Gott, you’re dense. It’s you, of course.”
“You trust me?”
“Intimately,” Klavier replies, almost instantly.
“Well… I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect that.”
“You didn’t?”
“I mean, why would you trust me? We’re supposed to be on opposing sides of the courtroom.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re not fighting for the same thing,” Klavier says.
“I suppose,” Apollo muses. “But you should hate me.”
“You’re right. I should. You got my brother and my best friend imprisoned. But… that’s not your fault. Nor is it… mine? It’s theirs, right?”
“Right.”
“So I’m not about to blame you for doing your job.”
Apollo thinks for a little moment longer than a second. He can see the pain written across Klavier’s face, the anguish, and his bracelet tightens; Holy Mother, he can feel how torn Klavier is over this.
“You’re nothing like your brother,” Apollo says, quietly.
“Danke,” Klavier breathes. “Danke.”
And then, like his body is willing him to do something that his mind is so reluctant to do, he rests his head on Klavier’s shoulder. Even though his bracelet tightens for a moment, he feels comfortable, especially when Klavier leans his hand over and pulls Apollo close.
“Liebling,” Klavier says. “You should rest. You seem tired.”
And all of the muscles in Apollo’s body cannot protest. Klavier is so warm, so comfortable, so right, even with his multiple accessories and stupid bejewlled shorts; he’s comfortable, and kind, and right now, he feels like home. He just… lets himself sink into Klavier, even though this is wrong, and he will regret it in the morning. For now, he’s just tired. So simply, completely tired. And with Klavier’s hand gently holding his shoulder, how could he not fall into the touch and relax wholly? He’s only human, after all.
But, it’s strange. He’s not falling into Klavier Gavin, lead singer and absolute diva rockstar of the Gavinners; but he’s also not falling into Prosecutor Gavin, either. He’s simply existing, simply falling, into the arms of Klavier and so deeply in love.
His bracelet makes absolutely no movement at all.