Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Apollo handles the dossier with all the calculated coolness that he learned from the man who raised him a long, long time ago. His hands are still, mirroring one another, as he reads over the information assigned to him by his boss of five years, and friend of four, Mr. Phoenix Wright. It’s a job much like ones he’s taken on many times before; the request is simple: to provide services as a bodyguard, which, naturally, makes it not very simple at all —people usually only pay for his assistance if there’s a genuine, looming threat over their heads, and so his assignment could involve anything, from helping someone fake their own death, to head-on confronting a homicidal maniac alone. Such is life, Apollo thinks. He has his adoptive father to thank for raising him with the conflicting ideals of self-preservation and self-sacrifice.

Maybe in another life, he could have had a standard, boring job, like some kind of finance lawyer.

This assignment, though, is by far the most public one he’s ever received. In the past, he’s provided bodyguard services for CEOs and politicians, usually for a week or two at most while they were on important business, but this is different. He’s been asked—or, rather, ordered, since he’s not exactly financially stable enough to refuse a job when it’s handed to him—to serve and protect a high-profile celebrity; and the word that sticks out most to him in the dossier is ‘indefinitely’. Beneath that, there’s a breakdown of how much he will be paid weekly, and oh, Holy Mother, it’s a lot. More than he’s ever gotten from a single job before.

He’s not familiar with the celebrity’s name, but a quick online search tells him that this isn’t because Klavier Gavin is, by any stretch of the imagination, unknown; it’s just that Apollo has been living under a very comfortable rock for the past decade, and he’s never been one to bother himself with the latest trends and fads of pop culture. Mr. Gavin, Wikipedia helpfully tells him, is the frontman of internationally famous band The Gavinners, as well as having a successful modelling career on the side. As Apollo reads the whole Wikipedia article, he wonders if there’s any niche of fame that Mr. Gavin hasn’t dabbled in; from a single article, he sees that he’s had over fifteen chart-topping albums, he’s been featured in Vogue no less than thirty times, and he’s even guest-starred in some of the biggest films of the decade. He certainly seems like he’s a busy man, but Apollo doesn’t doubt that he can keep up.

“So,” Phoenix says. “You in?”

“Naturally. It’s not like I’m ever in a position to refuse.”

“I know,” Phoenix laughs. “But I just thought I’d give you the option, since this is a big one.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Apollo replies.

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that, because Mr. Gavin kind of needs you to start straight away. Like, within the day. He’s performing tonight and when he met with me this morning, he seemed to think that his regular security detail wouldn’t be enough.”

“So he’s meticulous?”

“Surprisingly, I didn’t get the impression that he was. Just… typical tortured artist stuff, probably. You’ll be fine.”

“I always am.”

Apollo packs his briefcase with everything that Phoenix gave him alongside the dossier; a photo of Klavier Gavin—which, Apollo thinks, is stupid, considering that he could just search his name online and find a million photos of him—as well as a set of keys and some printed directions. Phoenix had told him that the rest of his things would be given to him in person by Mr. Gavin; he’d apparently been very firm on this point.

And so, Apollo stands in front of the backdoor to the Sunshine Coliseum, wondering exactly how paranoid Mr. Gavin is going to be; suddenly, the question surrounding this job changes from ‘How much physical danger will this put me in?’ to ‘Am I going to be able to mentally put up with an irritating, distrustful celebrity indefinitely?’

Still, the only way to find out is to push onwards, and Apollo unlocks the door, making his way down the hallway until he reaches a dressing room helpfully marked with Klavier Gavin’s name; he uses a separate key from the set to unlock it, and when he walks inside, he sees Mr. Gavin—who had previously been lying on the bed doing something or other with his guitar—shoot up in fear.

“Ach,” Mr. Gavin says. “You startled me. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s my bad. I’m Apollo Justice. You hired me through my employer?”

“Mr. Wright, ja. I knew it was you straight away.”

“You did? How?”

“Well, Mr. Wright gave me a brief description of your appearance. He mentioned something about an abnormally large forehead.”

Apollo brings his hand up to his head, as if he’s confirming the very rude observation of Mr. Gavin.

“Forehead aside,” Apollo says. “I’m here now.”

“I’m glad. I’m Klavier, but you probably already knew that.”

“I did. Can I ask why, specifically, you requested my services now, Mr. Gavin?”

“Didn’t I just tell you to call me Klavier?” Mr. Gavin— Klavier —flashes a smile at Apollo that practically screams ‘I’ve had professional teeth whitening.’

“I apologise.”

“Nein, you don’t need to. I just don’t want this to be too formal, you know? And I know how I came across to Mr. Wright this morning—I could tell from his expression that he thought I was just another self-obsessed celebrity, but I’m really not as uptight as I probably seemed to him. I just think it’s better to be on the safe side, don’t you? It was my manager’s idea. She had enough anxiety about the whole thing for the both of us; practically scared me by association into agreeing.”

“Well, I’m not going to disagree, especially not since you’re technically my boss now. Don’t argue with the guy who pays your wages, I say.”

Klavier laughs. Strangely enough, it seems genuine, not like a rehearsed movie-laugh, but something that shakes his shoulders and comes from his stomach; but, even though his eyes wrinkle and his forehead creases, there’s something behind his expression that betrays an intimate fear. “Oh, please, don’t get all serious with me,” he says. “The last thing I need is another manager.”

“Well, I am here to protect you, after all. That is what you’re paying me for.”

“Ach, you wound my pride, Herr Forehead. I’m not a damsel in distress. You should see yourself as more like… my backup? Hopefully you won’t need to actually do anything other than make sure I don’t forget to lock the door when I go to bed.”

“You’d really pay that much just because you’re too lazy to lock your own door?”

Klavier waves his hand in blas é dismissal. “I’m a rockstar. We’re supposed to blow our money.”

“Can’t relate,” Apollo deadpans.

“You’re welcome to use my credit card for anything you need on the job,” Klavier replies, like the sarcasm went entirely over his head. He’s too genuine for his own good, Apollo thinks.

“Thanks. I’ll, uh, be fine. What time are you going to head out on stage?”

“In about two hours, probably. I still have to get ready.”

“Right,” Apollo says. “Well, do you want me to check the security detail while you do that?”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

Apollo nods, his mind shifting instantly into work-mode. He goes over the locked doors and makes sure that everything is as it should be, before making himself familiar with the security guards, triple-checking each of their ID cards and noting down their names. The stage itself is easy enough to secure; there aren’t any spots where someone could lie in wait, save for a small nook in the wings that Apollo makes a mental note to station himself in when the concert starts. All in all, it takes him just under an hour to do his first checks, and then he finds himself back in Klavier’s dressing room, watching him apply heavy, dark eyeshadow and enough hairspray to burn a small hole in the ozone layer.

“Ah, Herr Forehead,” Klavier greets him. He stands up from his dressing-table and strikes an over-dramatic pose, showing off his outfit, which Apollo notes is primarily made of chains and the most translucent fabric he’s ever seen. “How do I look?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

Klavier puts his hand dramatically over his chest and acts like he’s been shot. “I guess I’m not paying you to be nice to me,” he jokes.

“All I can promise is that, while I’m here, you’re definitely going to be safe. It’s not in my job description to fuel that extortionate ego of yours.”

Before Klavier can respond, the dressing room door opens and another man walks in; if Apollo thought that Klavier dressed weirdly, he’s got nothing on this guy. His hair itself seems to be a crime against Apollo’s eyes—it sticks out so far away from his face that he worries that if this man turns his head too fast, he’ll be hit with an eyeful of hairsprayed quiff. And his outfit, while not as revealing as Klavier’s, is a mess of blue and red, with silver shark-teeth sticking out like spikes from the fabric.

“Yo, your fancy security guard arrived?” He says.

“That’s bodyguard, Daryan,” Klavier responds. “And yes. He’s called Apollo, and he’s already brilliant at his job.”

“Still weirds me out that you’ve hired a bodyguard, man. Like, don’t you think it’s just a prank? Those le—”

“Anyway,” Klavier says, his voice loud. “We still have a little while before we’re due on stage. Where are the others?”

“Fuck if I know, dude. Last I saw, Elias was having a losing fight with the vending machine and Victor was looking at him with those ‘please make out with me’ eyes like usual.”

“Have you not seen Finian?”

“Nope. Probably sleeping in his dressing room like fucking usual.”

As if on cue, the door opens again, and two men pile in. The larger of the two stands at least three inches taller than Klavier, with light brown hair that just scuffs his chin; he’s wearing some distressed band t-shirt for an artist that Apollo doesn’t recognise, and when he smiles, the gap between his teeth is very obvious (and, if Apollo is permitted to say so on the job, very attractive). Next to him, there’s a man who rivals only Apollo in short stature, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in sheer presence; he must be wearing some kind of coloured contacts, because his eyes are a dazzling shade of orange, and they match the sunset tones of his hair. He sticks his hand out for Apollo to take.

“Nice to meet’cha,” he says. “I’m Elias. And the big guy here is Victor, my totally platonic best friend and the best pianist you’ll ever meet in your life.”

“Oh, please,” Victor responds, blushing. “I’ve got nothing on your skills on the drums.”

“If you can stop flirting, please,” Daryan rolls his eyes. “Where the fuck is Finian?”

“Asleep,” Elias says. “I tried bashing my cymbal outside his door, but no dice.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Daryan replies. “I’ll go and wake him up then.”

It takes less than five minutes for Daryan to drag a tired, frowning man into Klavier’s dressing room; he’s got short black hair with red accents, and it looks like the oversized hoodie that he slept in is going to double as his on-stage outfit. His bass guitar is slung over his shoulder and he looks less than pleased with Daryan.

What an incoherent aesthetic for an internationally famous band, Apollo thinks.

As they file onto the stage, Apollo takes his place in the hidden nook of the wings, his eyes keenly trained on the stage. He’s already briefed the rest of the security about doubling down on screening every guest, so he feels somewhat assured of a job well done; now, all he has to do is sit back and let the concert begin.

And begin it does.

Holy Mother, Klavier and his band are loud. And these lyrics? —Apollo can’t believe that they’re an internationally famous band with corny lyrics like, ‘My heart closed off with locks on guard / Evidence I love you will get me disbarred / Cross examination! Is what you demand / Forging my heart on the witness stand’. It’s all he can do not to laugh at the sheer emotion Klavier is putting into singing about falling in love with a fictional defense attorney.

If he weren’t on the job, he could maybe even enjoy himself, but he’s far too well trained to let his guard down. Every time the spotlights flash on stage, he holds the gun in his belt, just in case; maybe he’s a little paranoid, but his adoptive father taught him, through an involuntary life on the run, that he can never be too cautious.

The concert goes off without a hitch, however. Even with the encore, the worst thing that happens is Daryan tripping over one of his wires and swearing loudly down his microphone, which earns him a glare from Klavier and a wild cheer from the audience. Once it’s done, he takes the backstage passage back to Klavier’s dressing room, getting there around the same time as the band themselves.

“I love you guys so much!” Elias shouts. “We were so good. So fucking good.”

“You really killed it out there,” Victor smiles at him. 

In response, Elias pulls him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him on the cheek. “Not as good as you, mon nounours.”

“See, I told you I’d play better if y’all just let me sleep,” Finian says.

“What did you think, Apollo?” Klavier says. And his eyes are so hopeful; expectant, almost. Apollo can’t exactly tell the truth that it was so far removed from his own music taste that earplugs wouldn’t have been unwelcome.

“It was good,” he says. “Not my usual style of music, but you guys are undeniably good.”

“Ach, you flatter me. But now it’s time for the real show.”

“The real show?”

“Have you ever been to a celebrity afterparty, Herr Forehead?”

Apollo shakes his head. Klavier takes his hands in excitement, practically bouncing up and down with a huge smile on his face. 

Half an hour later, the band are sprawled out across Klavier’s large dressing room, and Apollo is sitting awkwardly on the sofa, unsure of how much he should participate. He’s definitely not going to partake in any of the suspicious white powder that Finian is laying out in lines across Klavier’s dressing table, nor is he particularly interested in joining whatever steamy makeout session Elias and Victor have going on. Daryan has a bottle of red wine in his hand, and he’s drinking it without using a glass, and Klavier… well, Klavier seems to be completely in his element. 

He’s lying down on one of the large sofas, staring up at the ceiling with a goofy smile on his face. In his hand, there’s a tightly-packed, badly-rolled blunt, and he takes occasional drags from it, flitting between pointing up at the sky like he’s trying to figure out why the stars aren’t visible inside, and draping his hand over the bed, dropping ash onto the expensive wood floor. The soft sound of him humming a song to himself flits in and out of Apollo’s ears, and with the way the bulbs surrounding the dressing table hit him at just the right angle to illuminate the shades of deep, rich blonde in his hair, he looks like he could be posing for one of his modelling shoots right now. His translucent purple robe has fallen off his left shoulder, exposing an old tattoo of a sharp-edged ‘G’, and the glitter on his face has rubbed all over his cheeks and under his eyes, where it mingles with smudged eyeliner and makes him look like… well, Apollo doesn’t exactly have the words to describe him, but the closest he can think of is ‘hot mess’.

“Hmm, Herr Forehead,” Klavier drawls.

“Yes?”

“You look tense.”

“It’s my job to be tense.”

“Ach, that won’t do. Why are you worried?”

“I’m your bodyguard. It’s my job to worry about you, especially when you’re in a state like this.”

“I’m not in a state. I’m relaxed.”

“And that’s exactly what having your guard down feels like. I’m supposed to look out for you.”

“How noble. My knight in shining armour,” Klavier laughs. “Come here.”

Apollo reluctantly gets off the comfortable sofa and walks over to where Klavier is lying down. Klavier rests the blunt between his teeth and uses his free hand to reach out, like he’s asking for Apollo to hold his hand. 

Well, this wasn’t in the job description.

Slowly, Apollo links his fingers into Klavier’s. His hands are surprisingly calloused, which makes sense considering the fact that he plays guitar for a living, but Apollo never expected it, considering how soft Klavier’s skin looks.

“Danke,” Klavier says. “For looking out for me.”

“It’s my job,” Apollo huffs, looking away.

“You didn’t have to take it.”

“We can’t all be millionaire rockstars. Some of us have to take what’s offered.”

“And what if I offered you a million dollars right now, no strings attached? You wouldn’t have to be my bodyguard, you could just leave with the money and live your life. I’ll do it.”

“Don’t,” Apollo says. “I’m committed to this job, and that means protecting you, even when— especially when —you’re in a state like this.”

“Ach, you’re so serious. It’s cute.”

“You have a fucked up idea of cute.”

“Nein,” Klavier laughs. “I know what cute is. Like, look at Elias and Victor. They’re cute, and I’m betting within ten minutes they’ll be making up some excuse to get out of here and go back to their hotel.”

It doesn’t even take ten minutes. In fact, less than thirty seconds after Klavier finishes talking, Elias and Victor are holding each other up and stumbling out of the door, leaving only Finian (who follows behind them, muttering something about not getting any sleep), Daryan (who very loudly states that he’s not going to be a third wheel to anyone before leaving), and… Klavier and Apollo.

“We should probably get home, ja?”

“Yes. We never actually discussed the terms of the contract—do you want me to come home with you and stay there? I usually stay with my clients so that I can keep watch.”

“How forward. I don’t think anyone has ever come onto me so formally before.”

“Klavier!” Apollo protests. “I know you’re not taking this seriously, but I am.”

“Understood, understood. Let’s go, then. I have a spare room already made up for you in my apartment.”

They leave through one of the more subtle back exits, close to where Apollo parked his car before. When he’s not on a job, he much prefers to get around the city on his bike, but it’s safer to drive, especially at this time of night, and even more so when Klavier is in such an intoxicated state. He helps Klavier into the passenger seat of his car, buckling his seatbelt for him before getting into the driver’s side and starting the car.

“Do you have an aux cord, schatzi?”

“Schatzi? What does that mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a nickname. Or would you prefer Herr Forehead?”

“Schatzi is fine, whatever it means,” Apollo scowls. “And yes, I do.”

He hands the aux cord to Klavier, who puts on a Spotify playlist of his own songs. Apollo keeps his eyes on the road, but he can’t help from focusing a little bit of his energy on listening to Klavier belt out lyrics that are somehow even worse than the ones he heard at the concert tonight—really, what the fuck is ‘Prosecute my body’ even meant to mean?

When he pulls up in the basement parking garage of Klavier’s apartment, Apollo looks over to see that Klavier is grinning at him, pulling the aux cord out of his phone and getting out of the car like he’s excited to be going home. Even as they ascend the elevator towards the penthouse together, he’s still smiling, clinging onto Apollo’s hand.

Klavier leads Apollo through the front door of his apartment, and Apollo is… well, he’s taken aback, and that’s an understatement.

The place is huge. The front door opens into a vast living room, which in itself is over twice as big as Apollo’s whole apartment, and branching off from that there’s an open-plan marble kitchen. When Apollo peeks round the corner, he sees a door—it’s ajar, and leads into a home-gym, and just off from that, there’s another small hallway, down which Apollo can only assume is Klavier’s lavish bedroom. At the back of the penthouse, the wall is lined with floor-length windows, through which the hazy purple glow of a city alive illuminates the soft fabric of the elaborate silver carpet of Klavier’s living room. Beyond the windows, there’s a wraparound balcony extending all the way around the penthouse, and Apollo spots a hot tub on the decking outside, complete with a fully stocked bar next to it, and sun loungers decorated with plush silk cushions. 

“Wow,” he says, half-involuntarily.

Klavier, however, takes no notice of him. Instead, he’s crouching down, gently patting his hands on his thighs and calling out for someone— something? —called Vongole.

Moments later, a huge golden retriever bounds down the hallway from the direction of the bedroom. It stands almost as tall as half of Apollo’s height, and has shaggy fur that makes it look even bigger than Apollo assumes it must be naturally.

As the dog practically jumps up onto Klavier, knocking him down onto his back, Klavier wraps his arms around it and gives it lots of enthusiastic pets. “Braver Hund!” He says, a stupidly large smile on his face. “Apollo, meet my beloved daughter, Vongole.”

“Oh, I’m not really a dog p—” He’s cut off by Vongole jumping up; at her full height, standing on her hind legs, she easily comes up to his chin, and she’s certainly friendly. She’s practically Klavier in dog-form, Apollo thinks. He pets Vongole and she looks overwhelmed with happiness at the affection.

Okay, so maybe he is a dog person. Or maybe he just thinks Vongole is a sweetheart. So what?

“Vongole,” Klavier says. “Down, girl. You’ll make me jealous.”

Vongole stands down and wags her tail, running back into Klavier’s bedroom.

“She’s the best, isn’t she?” Klavier says.

“She’s a sweetheart.”

“Anyway, I’ll show you to your room.”

Klavier takes Apollo’s hand and leads him past the living room, down another small hallway, into a large bedroom.

“Sorry it’s only small,” Klavier says. The worst part, Apollo thinks, is that he’s sincere when he says it.

“It’s big,” Apollo replies.

“I’m glad you think so. Uh, I changed the bed sheets this morning so they’re all fresh. The bathroom is in the next room; I use my en suite, so don’t worry about a bathroom schedule or anything. I’ve put towels and everything in there so you should be good. I’ll probably wake up around seven so if you need anything before then just knock on my door, ja?”

“Thanks, Klavier. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning?”

“You sure will,” Apollo replies.

Once Klavier has left, Apollo opens the suitcase he took out of his car and changes into his pyjamas, in as much as he can call an oversized Steel Samurai t-shirt and boxers ‘pyjamas’ . He looks into the full-length mirror on the wall and runs a hand through his hair, working out the hair gel that normally keeps his bangs sticking straight upwards; once he’s satisfied that his hair is suitably loose, he inspects the bed and cautiously pulls back the bedsheets.

Damn, they’re comfortable.

He’s never felt anything so smooth before; his legs slide against the duvet like he’s made of clouds, and it’s all he can do not to fall asleep. He has to force himself to stay awake, at least long enough to assure himself that Klavier is asleep, too, and then he can check the whole house over before getting a few hours himself. Still, the bed is so comfortable, so there’s no harm in lying down and playing on his phone for a while.

There’s a small, subtle knock on his door, and Apollo shoots up. He reassures himself that any self-respecting home invader wouldn’t knock first, and he pulls himself out of the bed, without really making much of an effort to pull his t-shirt down to cover his boxers.

When he opens the door, Klavier is standing there; he’s taken his stage makeup off, and he looks so much more… human, in his purple silk pyjamas, with his hair tied up in a high ponytail.

“Ach, you’re still awake?” Klavier says.

“Of course I am.”

“Good… I was just thinking… well, I can’t sleep. Do you maybe want to come and chill in the living room with me and watch a movie?”

Apollo somehow doubts the truth of Klavier’s statement. His eyes are heavily lidded, and the dark circles underneath them betray the fact that he probably hasn’t slept well in weeks.

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

“Perfect! Come on, I’ll set Netflix up,” Klavier takes his hand and leads him through to the living room.

This, by far, is the strangest job Apollo has ever taken. He never expected to find himself with an internationally famous celebrity resting on his shoulder, watching Mamma Mia of all things. Klavier hums along to the songs, but eventually, his voice tapers off into a sleepy mumble, and he brings his legs up onto the sofa and wraps an arm around Apollo.

“Stay?” Klavier asks. His voice says ‘I’m half asleep,’ but his words say ‘I can’t sleep unless you’re here.’

“Sure,” Apollo replies. “Your sofa is pretty comfortable.”

“Good… good…” Klavier mumbles. “I’m safe here, right?”

“Yeah. You are. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Danke…”

Klavier’s eyes stop fluttering and taper off into a restful state; his arms, still around Apollo, fall loose, and he starts to snore a little. When Apollo looks— professionally, of course —he sees that Klavier’s mouth is half-open. 

Apollo can’t move. It would be unfair to wake Klavier up like this, when he seems so comfortable cuddling into Apollo; and, so, he stays. He’s about to drift off himself when, as if his body is on autopilot, he lifts his arm and puts it around Klavier, holding him close.

It’s some sort of protection, he rationalises. That’s the only reason he’s doing it.

Chapter Text

Apollo wakes up to the warm feeling of Klavier nestled in the crook of his arm. He looks down and sees that Klavier’s arm is wrapped around him, holding him close, almost like a lifeline; he breathes regularly, snoring every so often. And he’s sleep-talking. Although he looks outwardly peaceful, there’s a knot between his eyebrows, and his mouth opens and falls, mumbling something that Apollo has to strain to hear.

“No…” Klavier mutters, his voice thick and laden with sleep. “Not… my… fault… don’t blame… don’t blame me… you made… your choice…”

Apollo debates waking him up.

“Please… I just… music… want to… make… music… please don’t… don’t ruin… don’t ruin this… like everything else… please…”

He’s evidently having some kind of nightmare. And yet, Apollo can’t bring himself to wake him up.

“Leave me… alone… I’m just… making music… don’t ruin it… don’t ruin it… again… please… please… please… let me… let me have this… the one thing… that makes me feel… like a person… please… don’t take it from me… please… please…”

It’s unbearable. Even though he’s asleep, Klavier sounds so torn, so hurt. Apollo shifts slightly, just enough to shake Klavier from his nightmare, and then Apollo is watching those big, beautiful, blue eyes blink and stare up at him.

“Ah, Guten Morgan,” Klavier says, his voice still weighed down by the throes of sleep.

“Good morning.”

“What time is it?”

Apollo looks at his watch. “Just after seven.”

“Ach. I have a shoot at eleven.”

“A shoot?”

“Some dumb magazine thing,” Klavier explains. “They’re going to pick me up at half nine. Sorry, I probably should have told you last night.”

“No, that’s okay. Would you like some breakfast?”

“It’s not really in your contract to make me breakfast, Herr Forehead. Besides, I don’t usually eat in the mornings. Something my old manager said about maintaining my figure.”

“Bullshit,” Apollo replies. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Are you vegan or anything?”

“Just vegetarian, schatzi.”

“Gotcha.”

Apollo walks into the kitchen and finds that Klavier’s fridge is well-stocked, although he suspects that he doesn’t do his own food shopping. Still, there’s a lot he can do with eggs and oat milk, and he’s no stranger to making a simple omelette.

He cuts spring onions, mixes the eggs, and adds seasoning. When it’s all in the pan, bubbling away, he feels quite proud of himself, especially when he manages to flip the omelette without breaking it in two; he puts it on a plate and hands it to Klavier, who smiles up at him.

“Didn’t you make one for yourself?” Klavier asks.

“I’m not getting paid to eat all of your food,” Apollo replies. Although, now that he thinks about it, he is hungry.

“Let’s split it, then, ja?”

Klavier cuts the omelette in half and pushes the bigger half along the plate to Apollo. Unable to protest, Apollo gets an extra fork from the kitchen and eats alongside Klavier; and he notices everything —the way Klavier seems to savour every bite like it’s the last meal before he gets executed, the way he taps his fork on the plate almost rhythmically, the beautiful, closed-mouth smile that beams at Apollo when Klavier looks up from the food.

When they’re done, Klavier reluctantly gets up from the comfortable position he was in and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Oh, scheisse,” he says. “My manager can’t make it to the shoot today. She’s sick.”

“Oh?”

“I know this is a lot to ask, but, uh, would you mind coming along with me?”

“I was assuming I was going to come along anyway, as your bodyguard.”

“Be warned, it’s boring. Even for me, and I’m the one posing.”

“This is my job, Klavier,” Apollo says. “And I’m serious about it.”

“Well, damn. But don’t blame me when you fall asleep after an hour.”

Apollo takes the breakfast plate away and puts it in the dishwasher, watching as Klavier lazily, beautifully, like he has all the time in the world, meanders over to the bedroom. Giving him some privacy, Apollo goes to the bathroom next to his own room, showering, brushing his teeth, and getting dressed. He leaves the bathroom, wondering if Klavier has a fancy coffee machine that he can make use of, when he hears Klavier’s voice calling for him softly from the bedroom.

“I’m coming,” Apollo calls. He walks across the penthouse and stands in the open doorway of Klavier’s bedroom. “Can I come in?”

“Please do,” Klavier says. “Turns out I misunderstood the timing of the photoshoot. They’re actually coming to pick me up at half eight, not half nine. So I might be completely fucked because there’s no way I can get ready in time. So, uh, I know it’s a lot to ask but, uh, could you dry my hair for me while I do my nails?”

“Sure,” Apollo says. “No big deal to me.”

“You are a lifesaver, schatzi. Let me pay you extra for this. You shouldn’t have to dry my hair.”

“It’s nothing. You don’t need to give me anything.”

Klavier smiles at him, attaching a diffuser-head to the hairdryer before passing it to Apollo. He gets to work taking off the black nail polish from last night and filing his nails, whilst Apollo turns the hairdryer on and gently runs his fingers through Klavier’s hair, fanning the warm air back and forth. And, Holy Mother, he should have expected this from an international rockstar who can probably afford the best hair products known to man, but Klavier’s hair is so soft. It feels like silk against his palms.

Once it’s dry, Klavier turns to him, over his shoulder, and flashes a smile; close up, his teeth aren’t perfectly white after all—they’re more like a light ivory, and they’re not as straight as they look from far away either. Still, Apollo can’t fault his smile. It’s bright, and wide, and the way it lights up his eyes makes it seem like Klavier Gavin is a man who could never sink deep into the darkness of despair, no matter what happens to him.

When he’s this close, Apollo realises that Klavier Gavin isn’t some rockstar god. He’s the same as Apollo, the same as everyone else in this world—just a person, trying to get by.

“Danke, Apollo,” he says. “You’re the best.”

“It was nothing,” Apollo replies. And why is he blushing?

The taxi that takes Klavier and Apollo to the photoshoot is more like a limousine, and Klavier looks so… at home, sprawled out across the backseat with a glass of expensive champagne in his hand. 

“So, what exactly should I be expecting here?” Apollo says.

“Oh, the usual shit. They’ll fuss over my hair and makeup for ages and then I’ll have to put on ten, maybe eleven outfits, pose in front of cameras like the only thing that matters about me is my abs, and then I’ll get a headache from the constant spotlights and by 4pm, I’ll be dropping on my feet with no right to complain because it’s hardly a hard day’s work, is it?”

“Damn. That does sound stressful. I guess I never thought of all the work that goes into photoshoots.”

“What, you thought I was just another dumb blonde without a single original thought in his head, playing it up for fame because he didn’t get enough attention as a child? Danke.”

“N-No,” Apollo stutters. “Not like that. I guess I just don’t really know how any of this… celebrity world works.”

“Keep it that way, schatzi. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

As the limousine pulls up outside a large, modern building, Klavier puts his sunglasses on, but Apollo can feel that he’s rolling his eyes, and then they get out of the car together.

Immediately upon entering, a woman holding a clipboard and a large Starbucks cup tries to separate them, but Klavier stops her hands from pushing Apollo to the side, saying, “Nein, he stays with me. He’s my bodyguard. And acting manager, I suppose, since Miss Andrews is sick today.”

“You’ve certainly upgraded since the last time we saw you; a bodyguard, really? Well, I suppose it can’t be helped, you solipsistic rockstar types can’t be swayed once you’ve set your silly little minds to something. He can stay, as long as he’s not a distraction.”

“Ja, Ms. Vasquez,” Klavier says. “As pretty as Apollo is, I’m not unprofessional enough to let that distract me.”

“As crude as ever, I see. Well, hurry through. We’re all ready in hair and makeup for you. And, what was your name? Mr. Apple, something-or-other, yes?” Ms. Vasquez addresses Apollo.

“Apollo. Or, Mr. Justice, if you prefer.”

“Right, right. Well, if you just take a seat, you can watch the magic unfold without getting in the way.”

Instead of following her orders, Apollo sticks by Klavier’s side and sits right next to him at the dressing table, a simple gesture, but one that makes Klavier’s face light up, although his smile is forcibly pushed down by the woman applying some kind of powder to his face; she hisses, “Keep still,” and Klavier does exactly that.

Apollo decides, right at this moment, that he would hate to be a model. Being surrounded by the suffocating mass of three people pulling and plucking at your hair, a further two up close in your face prodding around your eyelids and cheekbones, all while being handed forms to sign and shown outfits that, quite frankly, wouldn’t look too out of place in the circus? It’s a no from Justice, Apollo thinks. But Klavier seems… completely out of it. His eyes are staring straight ahead with a glazed-over look icing them with some kind of milky film; when one of the hair stylists pulls too hard, his whole body rocks backwards with the motion, all jerky and awkward and so far removed from the ocean-fluidity of Klavier Gavin in the early morning, eating breakfast and joking around. It’s like he’s dissociating his way through the getting-ready process, completely out of his own body, off in his mind somewhere, either composing his next hit song or, like Apollo, dreaming of a boring career in financial law.

“Hey, Klavier,” Apollo says. 

Klavier blinks, plasters a smile on his face, and shoos away the stylists for a moment. “Ja?”

“Do you want a coffee or something? You’re kinda spacing out.”

“Coffee… ja, that would be wonderful. There’s a little coffee station over there. Do you really not mind?”

“It’s only coffee. Do you want cream and sugar?”

“Ja, bitt—”

“He’ll take it black,” Ms. Vasquez says.

“Right,” Klavier responds. “Sorry. Black coffee is fine. Danke, Apollo.”

He walks over to the coffee station and pours coffee from the pot into a polystyrene cup; when he’s sure that Ms. Vasquez (whom he’s hating more and more with each second that passes) isn’t looking, he puts two sugars in Klavier’s cup and winks across the room at him. Well, damn, there’s something very endearing about watching Klavier have to suppress a laugh.

Once the photoshoot starts, Apollo sits next to Ms. Vasquez. He watches Klavier, dressed in a very short pair of shorts and a crop top, adorned with chains and bright purple lipstick, fire off poses in front of a very large fan that blows his hair out of his face. As attractive as it is, it all seems so fake, especially once the shoot director calls for an outfit change and Klavier’s perfectly-presented camera smile drops immediately off his face as he walks behind a partition to get changed.

And so it goes on. Klavier cycles through outfits; an all black, open-shirt suit ensemble, a pair of patterned pants with no shirt and far too much silver jewellery, a lace sundress—at some point they all seem to blur into one, and by the time they break for lunch, Apollo understands what Klavier meant about this whole thing being exhausting. And he’s only been watching. He can’t even imagine how it feels for Klavier himself.

Ms. Vasquez brings a boxed lunch to Klavier, finally leaving him alone to sit at a table with Apollo.

“Where’s Apollo’s lunch?” Klavier asks.

“We weren’t aware you’d be bringing company, so the caterers didn’t prepare enough. You can always give him yours.”

“Can you please get me another fork? We’ll share.”

“Really, it’s fine, I don’t usually eat lu—” Apollo cuts in, but Klavier and Ms. Vasquez don’t take any notice of him.

“Another fork, Dee, bitte.”

“As you wish, Gavin.”

Ms. Vasquez brings over a plastic fork and puts it on the table in front of Apollo with a curt smile.

“Thank you,” he says.

Once she leaves them alone, Klavier opens the boxed lunch; it’s some sort of salad, and he makes a face of disappointed disgust before taking a reluctant bite. “Bland, as usual.”

“We’ll get some real food on the way home,” Apollo says, his voice a low whisper.

“Oh, you tempt me. Where are you taking me for a dinner date, Herr Forehead?”

“Nowhere if you’re going to make fun of me like that.”

“Who said I was making fun of you?” Klavier bats his eyelashes. “I’m deadly serious.”

“Don’t you have another concert tonight? I was thinking we could just grab McDonalds on the way home.”

“Ja, that’s fine.”

They barely have time to share lunch before Klavier is called away to get ready for the rest of the set. It’s pretty much just more of the same, but every time Apollo feels like his mind is about to wander, he remembers why he’s here and bolts up, alert to any possible danger. 

Well, that, and the fact that Klavier keeps flashing him a brilliant smile and winking in his general direction.

Finally— finally —the photo shoot draws to an end and Klavier, who looks like he’s about to collapse at any moment, puts his arm lazily around Apollo and mumbles something about McDonalds. They stop off for food on the way back home, but it’s more of an eating-on-the-go situation, because the moment they get back to Klavier’s apartment, he gets straight in the shower and starts packing a bag of clothes and makeup to take to the concert hall.

Apollo is no stranger to busy days, but if this is Klavier’s life, it’s no wonder he needs that much concealer to cover his dark circles.

Although last night was fine, Apollo is no less vigilant as he checks the Sunshine Coliseum in preparation for tonight’s concert; in fact, he’s even more attentive tonight—now that he has the list of all the security guards from last night, he checks it against everyone claiming to be working.

Once he gets back to Klavier’s dressing room, he hears raised voices coming from inside; they’re muffled, but understandable.

“So you’re putting yourself above the band again?” That’s Daryan—Apollo can recognise his deep, husky voice even after only exchanging a few words with him yesterday. He sounds irritated beyond belief, his voice filled with tension and stress.

“It’s not that and you know it!” And there’s Klavier, frustration laden thick in his words.

“This is the Gunna Lock U Up tour all over again!”

“Stop it! Why would you bring that up?”

“It was two years ago, Klavier! You need to get over it! You can’t just go around cancelling shows whenever you feel a little bit anxious—it’s pathetic! If you’d have known you were going to be such a neurotic bastard, why did you even take the lead in this band?”

“I need to ‘get over it’? Daryan, how the fuck would you feel if you’d been in my position? You would have shit yourself the same way you do every time we have to get on a plane! You’re not immune to fear, but at least mine is rational.”

“There’s fucking nothing rational about this! It could be anyone! It’s probably a prank! I get weird messages all the time but I’m not so stupid that I give them attention. And besides, it’s not like he can do anything from pri—”

“ Geh mir aus den Augen!”

“There you fucking go again, you always do this when you’re mad! It’s like you’re still trying to be him! We all know you only studied German because he had the chance to learn it from your mom and—”

“Get out, Daryan,” Klavier seethes.

“With pleasure, asshole. See you on stage.”

The door almost hits Apollo in the face when it swings open and Daryan storms out; he looks Apollo up and down with sheer disdain, and then shouts over his shoulder, “Your little bodyguard was eavesdropping, by the way. He’s obviously not doing such a good job if you’re still this fucked up.”

Apollo balls his fists at his sides as he watches Daryan storm down the hallway, and he only turns his head when he hears Klavier softly call for him from inside the room.

“How much of that did you hear?” Klavier asks.

“Not much,” Apollo lies. “But have you been getting threats?”

“Nein, nein, nothing like that. It’s just that Daryan… well, he’s not very understanding of things that he can’t see right in front of him. You know, sort of… the big concepts in life? Love, friendship, mental health… he thinks it’s all bullshit because if it doesn’t exist to him, it mustn’t exist to anyone.”

“What a horrible way to live a life,” Apollo murmurs.

“It’s just how he is. Practical. He’s great at anything he can fix with his hands.”

“I’m guessing whatever’s going on isn’t something can fix with his hands, then, huh?”

“Nein. I just… ach, saying it out loud is a little pathetic. I get a bit anxious sometimes.”

“That’s not bad, though.”

“It got pretty bad two years ago. Some… stuff happened in my personal life, and I ended up cancelling two shows. All of the fans were really nice about it, and we rescheduled, but Daryan’s kinda… held a grudge… ever since then.”

“I’m sorry he’s like that. I mean… I did overhear a little bit of your conversation. He was talking about messages; Klavier, it’s really important that you tell me if anyone’s been threatening you.”

“It’s just some overbearing fans, and definitely nothing I’ve not dealt with before. Plus, you’re here, right? So I’ll be fine.”

“I can guarantee you I’ll do everything I can, but you have to be honest with me.”

Klavier seems to freeze up a little, and he suddenly stops making eye contact with Apollo. Instead, he stares off into the distance, and then, quietly, says, “He shouldn’t have brought up meine Mutter.”

“Your mom?”

“Ja. She… I never knew her. She died when she was giving birth to me. I always thought it was my fault. Ach, I’m oversharing. I apologise. You’re not here to play therapist for me.”

“If something’s bothering you, though, I’m here to listen.”

“It’s really nothing. I should just get ready for the concert. I’m already behind schedule.”

Apollo sits on the largest sofa, watching Klavier do his hair and makeup in a similar fashion to last night. He still seems worried, but like he said, it isn’t Apollo’s job to be his therapist—not that Apollo doesn’t want to help, of course he does, but he doesn’t want to overstep his professional boundaries. All he can do is keep his promise to protect Klavier, a promise that seems all the more important now that there’s evidently something going on.

Still, though, the first half of the concert goes off without a hitch. When the intermission rolls around, the band leave the stage, doing a good job of masking their interpersonal tension to the crowd, but Apollo has always had a sixth sense for these sorts of things. He leaves his little nook in the wings and follows them, once again, backstage.

“Hallo,” Klavier says when he sees Apollo in the doorway. “We got gifts.”

He’s right. The room is filled with an assortment of things, most of which, Apollo thinks, would look more in-place at a middle-school dance than in the dressing room of a band made of mid-twenty-somethings. There are roses, plush toys, chocolates, bouquets of caramels, letters signed with kisses and sprayed with perfume—it’s all so garish and, quite frankly, sickeningly obsessive.

“Is this normal?” Apollo says.

“Ja—every so often people will bring gifts to shows. Usually our team holds them all back until the final show at whatever stadium we’re playing and then we get them all on the last day, unless fans give them to us at the stage door, but we’ve been holding off on stage door appearances recently.”

“What do you do with it all?”

“We’ll post a picture on social media thanking everyone, and then usually we just donate the stuffed animals to children’s hospitals; we let the venue staff take any of the flowers and chocolates that they want, and then the rest we just sort of… wait until people come and take it off our hands, or we get high and eat enough sweet food to kill us. We keep all the letters, though.”

Apollo doesn’t even need to voice the dangerous potential of this whole scenario. Because Finian is choking.

His hands are grasping at his throat, but he’s not wheezing—which, Apollo knows from basic first aid, is a bad sign. Between the band’s panicked shouts about poison and ambulance, Apollo runs over and, as embarrassing as it is to have to stand on a chair in order to be the correct height to perform the manoeuvre, manages to dislodge whatever was stuck in Finian’s throat.

Finian, despite everything that’s just happened, only takes a moment to catch his breath before standing tall and laughing.

“Damn,” he says. “Look at you all getting worked up over a fucking peanut.”

“What?” Klavier says.

“Yeah. It was just something in that,” he gestures to an open box of chocolates with only one—the offending item—missing. “Man, if I’d have known, I wouldn’t have eaten it. I hate nuts.”

“Let me see that,” Klavier approaches cautiously and picks up the box. He inspects it for a moment, his eyes wide, and then he looks up at Apollo. “This was addressed to me.”

“And?” Daryan says. “It’s not like it was actually poisoned, you know.”

“Some friend you are,” Elias tells him. “You don’t even know your own bandmate? Klav’s like, deathly allergic.”

Apollo takes the box from Klavier’s hands and looks at the ingredients list on the back. There’s not a single mention of peanuts. “This has been tampered with,” he says. “I think it’d be best for you to cancel the second half of the show.”

“What?” Daryan interjects. “Not you too. For fuck’s sake! It’s not like someone’s gonna launch a peanut into his mouth while he’s belting out a song, is it?”

“The fact remains,” Apollo replies, coolly. “That somebody sent this specifically to Klavier, with the intent to trick him into eating something that would kill him. And, no, you can’t brush it off as an accident. Anyone weirdly obsessed with a celebrity enough to send them a gift would also know such a basic fact about him. Klavier—am I right in assuming you’ve talked about your allergy in public before?”

“Ja. It’s pretty well known. I mean, I’m a pain to have at restaurants.”

“Then the show absolutely can’t go on.”

“You’re not my manager,” Daryan stares at Apollo. “And you don’t get the final say on this.”

“Daryan,” Klavier says. “I’m not going back out on stage if Apollo doesn’t think it’s safe.”

“Oh, you were just looking for an excuse, weren’t you? Ever since that stupid letter arrived earlier you’ve been determined to make this all about you again. Face it, partner, you’re just not cut out for—”

But Klavier isn’t listening any more. Apollo watches him pull out his phone from his back pocket; his hands are shaking as he unlocks it and scrolls through his notifications. And then, slowly, he hands it to Apollo without a word.

The texts are from an unknown number, and they don’t go very far back—the first one was sent around the time that the intermission started.

[UNKNOWN] Good show.

[UNKNOWN] I would have loved to see you perform but your security isn’t as lax as it used to be.

[UNKNOWN] Your photoshoot earlier, however, was as tacky as ever.

[UNKNOWN] image0.jpg

The attached image is a blurry photograph of Klavier and Apollo earlier that day, eating lunch together in the photo studio. It looks like it was taken from far away using the zoom feature of whatever camera the stalker used, but it was definitely taken in the same building.

“We have to go,” Apollo says. “Now.”

“Where?” Klavier asks. He’s somehow managing to keep his voice low and calm, although it does shake a little.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll have to leave your phone here, though.”

“How long will we be gone for?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Then at least let me make a call first?”

“Alright,” Apollo replies. “But be quick. And don’t say anything on the line that you wouldn’t say down the microphone to the entire audience out there. It could be wiretapped for all we know. As for the rest of you, contact your managers and go back to your own dressing rooms. Don’t take any detours on the way, okay?”

“Danke,” Klavier says. He takes his phone back and walks to the other end of the room, making a quick, two-minute phone call as the rest of the band file out of the room. Once he’s done, he walks back over to Apollo. “I just spoke to my manager.”

He leans down and whispers in Apollo’s ear. “I don’t know how cautious we have to be but I didn’t want to say this out loud just in case. I’ll come with you wherever you think is safest, but I’m taking Vongole. Miss Andrews has a key to my apartment, she’s going over there now to pick her up, and no, I won’t hear any arguments otherwise. We wait until I know my dog is safe, and then I’m in your hands.”

Apollo thinks of his own cat, safe with Mr. Wright and his daughter, where she’ll be showered with affection, love, and treats, and he can’t say no to Klavier.

Anxiety mounts in his chest, as all he can do is wait until a blonde haired woman, who looks like she’s only just gotten out of bed, walks into the room with Vongole on a leash. “Hey, Klav,” she says. “It’s gotten worse, huh?”

“Ja, Miss Andrews.”

“Do you know how long you’ll be gone?”

“Nein. Will you be able to… sort things out while I’m gone? Don’t let the press find out, please.”

“Of course,” she says, pulling Klavier into a tight hug. “Be safe, okay? You’re in good hands.”

“You too, Adrian. Take care of yourself, ja? No more overworking yourself.”

Adrian Andrews laughs a little. “Pot, meet kettle,” she giggles. “I’ll see you soon, kid. I’ll distract everyone while you leave through the back.”

Klavier nods at her with a sincere, thankful smile. Then, he takes Vongole’s leash and, with his free hand, reaches out to hold onto Apollo. “Let’s go then,” he says. 

As distracting as it is to see Klavier struggling to hold Vongole in his lap in the front seat of the car, Apollo is completely and wholly in work-mode. He takes his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket—even when he’s asleep, it’s never more than a metre away from him, so he’s confident that his communication will be safe—and fires off a text to Mr. Wright.

[APOLLO JUSTICE] Playing my trump card. You know what to do?

[PHOENIX WRIGHT] Gotcha. Be safe.

And then he drives.

Normally, it would take him seven hours to drive out to the little lake house that he hasn’t visited in so long, but he’s extra cautious tonight, and he takes wrong turns and backstreets just in case he needs to throw off the trail of anyone following him. It’s only when he’s been the only car on a lonely country road for at least fifty minutes that he starts to actually follow the street signs in the direction of the secluded lake house where he spent much of his childhood.

At some point, Klavier falls asleep. His arms are softly wrapped around Vongole, who also looks comfortable and safe, and Apollo wishes that his job would always be this easy—if only he could drive forever, letting the low hum of the wheels against the road turn the intimacy of such a small car into a complete sanctuary. Apollo turns the radio on; it’s playing quiet jazz music as the road stretches on into forever. His hands are steady on the wheel, Klavier is safe, they’re going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Apollo drives through the night into the creeping, early hours of the morning, when the sky is tinged with a soft pink flush, and the clouds dissipate into a milky mist that hangs over the horizon, trapping the stars with a filter of thick smoke. Klavier has been snoring for hours, and so has Vongole, but it isn’t too distracting; if anything, it’s nice.

As he pulls into the forest, he’s surprised by just how easy it is to remember the exact directions. Given… everything about how he was raised, he wouldn’t blame himself for blocking out the bad memories associated with this place, but as he drives through the little path, pushing through the thick of the trees, he can only remember how good it seems now, through rose-tinted glasses. Climbing far up into the branches with his brother, falling down and scraping his knee, having his adoptive father carry him all the way home for fresh soup and homemade bread —there’s a certain kind of nostalgia to it, almost enough to forget everything that came afterwards. Now, it’s just one of those little pocket-memories that Apollo can fold up and keep close to his heart, safe in a little bubble where the before is irrelevant and the after never happened.

Not that any of that matters now. The last thing he needs to do is get caught up in things that he can’t change, especially when he’s got a job to do and someone to protect.

At last, he reaches the clearing he was looking for and knows that it’s probably best to ditch the car and walk the remainder of the journey; from here on out, they’ll have to traverse through a far more densely populated forest that can, if memory serves correctly (and, Apollo knows, it will), only be navigated by foot or mountain bike. Turning the engine off, he softly says Klavier’s name, hoping to wake him up gently. No dice. After a few more tries, he settles on softly brushing Klavier’s hand with his own, still repeating his name in a low, almost comforting tone.

Klavier, however, wakes up with a sharp shock and jerks back so violently that the car door shakes. He blinks in the haze of the very early morning, and softens a little.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Apollo says.

“Ach, sorry. I panicked. I’m a little on edge.”

“It’s understandable, given everything that’s happened. We’re going to have to walk for a little bit, is that okay?”

“Ja. Vongole could probably use the exercise after being in a car for so long.”

Apollo notices that, when Klavier gets out of the car, he stretches in a ridiculously dramatic way and leans on the metal body, looking directly at the horizon with a wistful expression on his face.

“C’mon,” Apollo says. “It’s cold. We’ll want to get inside soon.”

“Inside? Are you finally going to tell me where we’re going?”

“In a minute. Once we’re away from the car, y’know, just in case.”

“You’re very thorough, aren’t you, schatzi?”

“I just want to cover all my bases,” Apollo says. He starts walking in the direction of the lake house, keeping Klavier and Vongole close to him at all times.

Instantly, obediently, Klavier’s footsteps fall in time with Apollo’s. “I never said it was a bad thing,” he says. “I mean, you’re doing all this for me. I’d be a bit of an asshole if I complained about that.”

“Well, you at least have every right to be stressed. But,” Apollo looks over his shoulder and sees that they’re far enough away from the car, and yet he lowers his voice to a whisper anyway. “We’re going to a safe house. Or, as close to a safe house as I know, anyway.”

“That’s it? That’s all the detail I get?”

“You’ll see it in ten minutes anyway, it’s not a long walk if you know where you’re going.”

“How can anyone know where they’re going when it’s just trees, trees, trees here?”

“Long story.”

“We have time,” Klavier smirks.

“We have ten minutes. That’s the prologue at best,” Apollo rolls his eyes.

Klavier thinks for a moment, then breaks out into a huge smile. “I know! Give me the tagline. Sell it to me like it’s a movie.”

“Okay, uh…? I spent a bit of time here as a kid.”

“Hmm. It’s not the most enticing line, but I’ll take it.”

“It’s safe though, I promise. I doubt it’s been used in years, and legally it belongs to my brother since he’s older and he got everything after my dad… well, I don’t think he has any more desire to use it than I do.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Klavier says. “Do you get on well?”

“We did. We don’t really talk any more.”

“Oh,” Klavier says, sadly. “Why not?”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t agree with my job. Hey, look, can you see it? Just through those trees, there,” Apollo points towards the little lake house that’s slowly coming into view.

“Ach, it’s beautiful! Let’s hurry,” Klavier smiles. As he starts to walk a little faster, Vongole thinks it’s some kind of competition and she bounds ahead, dragging him behind; Apollo has to run to match Klavier’s pace—he bites down the temptation to make a comment about his legs being a lot shorter than Klavier’s. Still, he’s never been more thankful that he works out daily and has enough stamina to run a lot faster for a lot longer.

By the time they reach the lake house door, Klavier is either stupid enough to have forgotten that he’s here because he’s being stalked and threatened, or he’s really, really good at putting on a mask.

Apollo takes a moment to properly look at the lake house. It’s a little worn down, but nowhere near as bad as it would have been if it hadn’t undergone regular maintenance; and, somehow, he’s a 12 year old kid again, and the fire burning in the hearth isn’t something that scares him any more, and he thinks that having an adoptive family is actually the best thing in the world, because they’re people who chose to love him.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he reaches his hands below his shirt collar and takes out the key that dangles underneath his clothes at all times, held by a subtle, thin chain around his neck. Without it, a cold, chill shiver passes through his chest.

He unlocks the door to the lake house and it’s exactly as he expected it would be; dusty, but not the way he remembers it from over a decade ago. Not that he was expecting to see his father’s jacket hanging off the back of the chair or anything like that, just… well, now it’s just a house.

Klavier follows behind him and shuts the door. Vongole’s paws skitter across the wooden floor, and the noise echoes off every wall in the little living room, until she settles down on the only sofa available. Apollo looks towards the bare hearth, making a note to get firewood from the outdoor shed later, and sees that there’s a yellowed envelope on top of the fireplace. Thankfully, though, Klavier is looking at Vongole and surveying the rest of the room, giving Apollo a slight window of opportunity to pocket the letter—not enough to read any of the writing on the envelope, but at least it’s out of sight.

“This is nice,” Klavier says.

“You should probably get some more sleep. It’s still really early in the morning.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you’ve been driving all night, if you want me to lock the house up while you—”

“Klavier, I am your bodyguard. That’s my job. Now come on, I’ll show you where the bedroom is.”

Apollo leads Klavier to the only bedroom in the lake house; it’s slightly bigger than the living room, with a bed in the middle that’s somewhere in size between a single and a double, and rugs splayed out across the floor that, if Apollo remembers hard enough, he can almost see his adoptive father sleeping on so that his sons could take turns sleeping on the bed and the sofa. 

Like he thought before, it’s just a rug now. Just a rug in a house where the kitchen door still catches on the loose floorboard and the window in the bathroom probably still doesn’t open all the way. 

“Well, here it is,” Apollo says. “Sorry it’s so much worse than what you’re used to.”

“Nein, not at all. It’s… nice. I like it a lot, actually. It was so easy to feel unsafe in such a big penthouse.”

“I’m, uh, glad you like it? The bathroom is the room opposite this one, you can’t miss it because there are only four rooms and the other is the kitchen. Can’t promise much hot water, though.”

“We’ll make do, ja? Like a little holiday!”

“Right, sure,” Apollo says. “Anyway, there should be some clothes in the drawers and supplies in the bathroom, and we’ve got food. I sorted that out with Mr. Wright before we got here.”

“You really do think of everything,” Klavier says. “You’re amazing, frankly.”

“I’m good at my job. Like you’re good at yours. Your multiple jobs, all of which must be exhausting, so get some sleep, okay?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave the door open in case Vongole wants to come in, ja?”

“Alright. Sleep well, Klavier.”

“You too, Herr Forehead.”

While Klavier is getting ready in the bathroom, Apollo checks over the kitchen; as expected, the cupboards are stocked with the kind of food that doesn’t require much more than a can opener and a portable camping stove to cook. There’s some fresh fruit in the fridge, though. He’s not even surprised to see that there are bottles of spirits and wines in the cupboard under the sink, and he rolls his eyes; just because some people drink on the job, doesn’t mean he’s going to. Then again, Klavier might like a drink to destress if they end up staying here for a while, so it’s not necessarily a bad thing that he’s prepared.

Once he hears Klavier’s footsteps softly go from bathroom to bedroom, Apollo takes out a lighter from his pocket and lights the candle sitting in the middle of the table by the fireplace. He double checks that the house is locked up and then stations himself in the living room, watching the front door. There’s a blanket—he recognises it—hanging off the back of the sofa, and he lays it over himself as he sits next to Vongole on the sofa; it’s a blessing that she’s so warm, and she nestles underneath his arm.

He pulls the letter out from his pocket.

If Klavier had seen this, he might have freaked out, thinking it was another correspondence from his stalker; but Apollo knew the moment he saw it on the fireplace who it was from, and it’s far too long a story to explain to Klavier at this time of the day. Or ever.

Still, he has to read it, if only because he’s almost forgotten what the messy, scrawled handwriting looks like, and he doesn’t want to lose memories the same way he loses people.

The envelope, weathered and yellow, simply says ‘APOLLO’ on the front. He opens it.

Apollo!

It’s been so long, I thought I’d never hear from you! Good to know I’m still your emergency contact. When your buddy Mr. Wright contacted me about getting the lake house ready for you, I thought damn, that’s our Apollo, off on some big bodyguarding job just like his old man.

There’s food in the cupboards and clothes in the drawers etc etc. I also left you some wine because you need to stop being so serious and relax a little. Maybe come visit sometime? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you or Yuty.

Good luck and be safe!

Still your buddy,
Datz

Apollo carefully folds the letter, but he can’t bear to put it away just yet. It’s been so long since he’s had to think about the year he spent at the lake house, but all the memories seem so fresh the moment he actually takes a minute to remember them. 

His adoptive father—Dhurke—building a little rope swing on the tree outside so that he and his brother Nahyuta would have a place to play and pretend like they weren’t on the run. Dhurke’s best friend, and Apollo’s unofficial uncle, Datz, accidentally breaking the swing when he decided, alongside Apollo and Nahyuta, that they could all fit on it at once. The loud, booming laughter that echoed all the way into the forest. The way Dhurke taught him how to fix the rope swing, because a broken thing doesn’t have to stay broken forever. Badly cooked soup made in a pot over the roaring fire. Staying up later than his usual bedtime because, Dhurke had said, “you’ve got the rest of your life to sleep, but there might never be another opportunity to lose so embarrassingly at Monopoly to your old man.”

He doesn’t even realise that he’s nearly crying. It’s been years since Apollo cried properly; he’s always been so good at bottling it up, so why now? Why, when he has a job to do, is he so caught up on old memories?

Vongole wakes from her sleep and sits on his lap, conveniently pinning his hand down so that he can’t torture himself by reading the letter again. He takes his free hand and runs it lazily over her fur; it’s comforting, somehow, and it’s a welcome distraction from thinking about everything that he’s been pushing away for so long.

The candle burns right down to the end of the wick before Klavier wakes up, and by then it’s almost midday. He traipses into the living room wearing a plain set of grey shorts and a t-shirt with a dragon on it; Apollo recognises it as one of the many that Datz printed the one time he tried to make a bit of extra money on the side selling questionable fashion items. He’s got his wet shower-hair in a bun, and he yawns and leans over the back of the sofa, muttering good mornings to Vongole and Apollo.

“Haven’t you slept, schatzi?”

“Nah. I wanted to stay up and keep watch. Vongole made for very good company.”

“She obviously likes you,” Klavier says. 

“She seems like the kind of dog who likes everyone. Did you sleep well?”

“Ja, danke. Let me make you some breakfast?”

“No offense, Klavier, but you don’t give off the vibe of someone who’s able to cook on a regular stove, let alone a portable one designed for camping. I’ll handle breakfast, you can make the coffee.”

Klavier makes a joke-pout and walks to the kitchen, where Apollo follows him. He watches in the doorway as Klavier opens and closes a few of the cupboards, a smirk creeping onto his face because he knows exactly what Klavier is doing, and he’ll let him be an oblivious, rich rockstar for a minute longer before he drops the bombshell.

Yeah, just a little longer. Klavier is looking on top of the cupboards now. Just a little longer.

Okay, Justice, this is getting cruel. Put him out of his misery.

“You’re looking for the coffee machine, aren’t you?” Apollo says.

“Ja.”

Apollo laughs, and oh, Klavier is blushing. 

“Ach, did I embarrass myself?” Klavier says. 

“Only a little. I consider it a victorious moment to have knocked you down a peg.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not up for a challenge. Show me the Apollo Justice way to make coffee.”

Apollo shakes his head in disbelief and gets out a pot, some instant coffee, and a little portable camping stove. He puts them on the counter in front of Klavier and stands back without an explanation.

In response, Klavier studies them for a moment, before he starts trying to turn the stove upside down and use it as a lid for the pan; Apollo is absolutely astounded that someone could have lived such a sheltered life that the idea of instant coffee made in a pot is beyond the capabilities of their problem-solving, but he’s not mad about it. It’s quite endearing, actually.

“Impossible,” Klavier says, his voice dramatic. He drapes an arm across his forehead like he’s about to faint in the same manner that a Victorian woman would, were she the plot device in a novel. “This is impossible. Ach, I’m an embarrassment! A failure! Woe is me, how will I ever recover?”

“You still want to offer to make breakfast?”

“Nein, nein! Have mercy on me, dear Apollo,” oh, he’s really going for it now. No holds barred, Klavier Gavin is most certainly an actor. “Anything but breakfast!”

“You just sit your pretty self down at the table then, and I’ll show you how the rest of the world makes coffee.”

Apollo sets breakfast and coffee down at the little kitchen table, and Klavier beams up at him. 

“This is probably a far cry from the luxury you’re used to, right?” Apollo asks. “We shouldn’t have to be here for too long, though. Just laying low until I can figure out what we’re going to do next.”

“I don’t mind it, actually. It really is like a little vacation. The clothes leave much to be desired though, I’m dressed like you.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Nein, nein. Just very… plain. When all this is over I’ll have to show you what it’s like to wear silk shirts and pants chains,” Klavier says, and his eyes flit up to the side like he’s daydreaming about something.

“Hard pass, thanks,” Apollo replies. “I don’t fancy sounding like a pocket full of loose change whenever I walk.”

“You break my heart daily, schatzi. But you do make a delicious breakfast. When my life is no longer on the line I might just pay you to stick around and cook for me. Or we could just get married.”

Apollo almost chokes on his coffee. “You’ve known me for less than three days!”

“I take it you don’t believe in love at first sight, then?”

“I don’t think I can understand how you can just see someone and love them. Don’t you have to like, go on dates or something?”

“Why, are you asking?”

“You are insufferable, Klavier.”

“Then suffer me.”

Oh Holy Mother, Apollo is still thinking about that stupid pick-up line as he’s washing the dishes and Klavier is feeding Vongole scraps in the next room. This was the one thing he didn’t prepare for—the natural flirtatiousness of an international celebrity; there’s no doubt in Apollo’s mind that this is how Klavier acts with everybody, so the last thing he can be caught doing is blushing and fumbling over his words when he’s supposed to be the serious one. 

He finishes washing up and finds Klavier in the living room, looking through the books on the bookshelf. Apollo already knows that there won’t be anything from the last decade or so on there, but Klavier seems interested anyway; his long fingers, with their perfectly manicured nails, brush slightly over the spines of the books as if they’re living creatures that he’s scared of disturbing. 

“Find anything you like?” Apollo asks, and Klavier turns around at the sound of his voice. He looks him up and down, his eyes lingering around Apollo’s collar for just a little too long.

“Ja, I think so.”

“Well, take whatever books you like. There’s not much else to do around here. I mean, there’s probably some board games hanging around on the bottom shelf, but I don’t know if Monopoly is really your thing.”

“Are you kidding me? I will beat you at Monopoly so hard you’ll be feeling the loss for weeks.”

Apollo smiles at him. Klavier is taking this whole situation very well, all things considered. And then, because he can’t stare too long at that stupid rockstar grin, he glances out of the lake house window and sees that the clouds are starting to turn grey.

“I should probably go and chop up some firewood before it starts raining,” he says. “So we don’t freeze to death overnight.”

“It’s summer,” Klavier says.

“Still. I like to be prepared. You can just hang out in here and read, if you like.”

“You’ll call me if you need help, right?”

“What, cutting firewood? Klav, you couldn’t work out how to boil water this morning.”

Klavier laughs. “Point taken.”

Apollo goes outside and drags a number of logs out from the shed; it takes him a few trips, and then he goes back for the axe. When he was a kid, the axe had seemed so big, so impossible to lift, but now he swings it over his head with ease and splits the first log directly in two. 

Apollo, using all of his strength to pass a log over to Dhurke, who smiles and tells him that he’s proud of him for getting so strong. Dhurke, lifting the axe and cutting the log in half cleanly. Apollo, beaming and promising himself that one day, he’s going to be as strong as his dad, and able to protect anyone who needs it.

He keeps hitting the logs, rhythmically, until he needs a little break and he leans on the axe, wiping his forehead and glancing at the lake house. In the window, he sees Klavier, his chin resting on his hands, staring out at him; when he notices that he’s been spotted, Klavier smiles and waves.

Apollo shakes the thoughts right out of his head and immediately gets back to work. Cutting firewood, at least, isn’t as confusing as whatever the hell that was. 

“Sorry to disrupt your hard work,” Apollo hears Klavier’s voice, and looks up to see him standing a few metres away, holding a tray with two glasses of lemonade on. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

“Oh, thanks,” Apollo says, taking one of the glasses. It’s… actually really nice, if a little sweet, and he can tell that Klavier has made it by hand using whatever he could find in the kitchen.

“Mind if I hang out here for a bit?”

“Be my guest.”

Apollo knows that he probably has enough firewood to last a month by now, but he can feel the hot burn of Klavier’s gaze against his back, and he knows that the moment he stops, he’s going to have to turn around and look into those big, blue eyes, and—

Just keep chopping the wood, Justice.

“You have very nice arms,” Klavier says.

Apollo drops the axe—the blunt end, thankfully —right onto his foot. “What?”

“Sorry, did I startle you?”

“I’m fine. Thick boots are a lifesaver.”

“Ach, I’m glad. I was just saying… you have very nice arms. They look strong.”

“Well, I kind of have to work out for my job, so…”

“Be still my beating heart,” Klavier dramatically slaps his hand to his chest and almost fake-faints.

“Oh, shut up. Help me carry this inside.”

For every one log Klavier manages to bring inside, Apollo manages about six. It doesn’t take them long at all to transport the firewood inside, and then Apollo makes one last trip outside to put the axe back in the shed; it’s just his shitty luck, though, that the downpour begins the moment he enters the shed. Even though it only takes him a few seconds to run at full speed back to the lake house, it’s enough that his hair drips water into his eyes the moment he steps inside.

“Ach, bad luck, Forehead,” Klavier says. “I’ll get you a towel.”

Apollo stands in the living room until Klavier comes back holding a few towels in his arms; Apollo uses one to dry his hands enough that he can handle the firewood and pack it into the fireplace. He takes a match and lights up a thin piece of kindling, holding it against the dry logs until a few sparks take; within minutes, it’ll be a full fire. And he’s fine with that. He has it under control.

“Sit down,” Klavier says, motioning to the rug by the fireplace. Apollo does so, but only because he was planning to do that anyway.

Klavier sits behind him and wraps one of the towels around his shoulders. “Can I dry your hair for you?” He asks, and his voice is soft and, strangely, comforting.

“I guess?” Apollo says. “I mean, you don’t have to or anything.”

Klavier starts to gently brush through Apollo’s wet hair with his fingers, towelling it dry. “I want to,” he says. “Do something nice for you, I mean. After everything you’re doing for me, I don’t want to feel useless.”

“How many times do I have to tell you—”

“It’s your job, I know, I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it hard or thankless for you. It’s like people who don’t say ‘thank you’ to cashiers, I mean, what’s the point, right? If you have the opportunity to be nice, why wouldn’t you take it?”

“You’re certainly something,” Apollo says. But, honestly, the feeling of Klavier’s hands in his hair is so nice, he’s not about to complain, even if he does rationalise it as him doing a favour for Klavier by making him feel useful.

Once his hair is dry, they sit by the fire for a little while longer. Vongole joins them, and for a moment, it’s almost as if this truly is a holiday and not a safe house that they’re having to hole up in because someone out there wants Klavier Gavin dead. When Apollo brings the portable stove into the living room to heat up some canned food, and Klavier takes a book off the bookshelf to read, it’s practically domestic.

It’s a good thing, in Apollo’s eyes, that Klavier feels relaxed enough to pour himself a glass of wine and lounge by the fire that’s slowly beginning to die out as the night wanes on and Apollo stops feeding it firewood; with the way his eyes lilt slowly closed, any outside observer would think that he couldn’t possibly be under the amount of stress that must come with having a persistent stalker.

It’s late when Apollo decides that he, too, needs sleep. He stands up, his back cracking from hours of disuse, and puts his hands on his hips when Klavier doesn’t follow.

“C’mon, bedtime for you,” he says.

“Mm, no…” Klavier says, his voice thick with sleep. “Think I’ll just sleep here. Too tired.”

“You’ll hate yourself in the morning when you wake up and you’ve got the world’s worst back pain.”

“Jokes on you, schatzi, I hate myself every morning,” Klavier laughs.

“Holy Mother, help me, go to bed.”

“Make me.”

“Fine,” Apollo shrugs, bending down and picking Klavier up with ease. He carries him through to the bedroom and, as tempting as it is to drop international superstar Klavier Gavin down onto the bed, he chooses instead to lay him down softly. “There. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

But Klavier is already snoring.

Apollo checks the locks and then settles down on the sofa himself. Every so often, just as he’s in the muffled haze of being half asleep, he jolts awake, but the door is still locked and the fire is still out, and he’s fine.

The rain doesn’t let up at all overnight, and although the sun comes out in the morning, the ground outside is wet and the lake glistens with a thick shine. It’s a good choice to stay inside all day, and an even better one to pull out the old Monopoly box after lunch, if only because Klavier’s eyes light up when Apollo says that of course he can play as the dog piece.

Four hours later, and they’re both hanging above the abyss of bankruptcy by a thin thread; Apollo holds both Mayfair and Park Lane, but Klavier has far more hotels. The board has almost been flipped three times, and a dispute over money had put a pause on the game for thirty minutes while Apollo explained that no, Klavier could not replenish his stock of fake money with real-life dollars from his bank account. Eventually, though, Klavier has to concede into bankruptcy and Apollo gets to do a stupid victory dance across the living room floor, much to Klavier’s amusement. 

And then, a comfortable silence falls across them for a moment, until Klavier speaks.

“You know,” he says. “Would it be strange to say that this is the most fun I’ve had in ages?”

“Considering the situation, yeah, it would be a little fucked up. But thank you. I’m glad I can be good company.”

“You’re just… very you. I like that.”

“Huh?” Apollo says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just like the person you are.”

“Well, for the record, I like the person you are too. Especially when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” Klavier says, batting his eyelashes and resting his chin on his hands.

“Well now I’m not gonna tell you,” Apollo taunts. “If it’s just going to fuel your ego.”

“Please?” Klavier puts on his best puppy-dog eyes.

“I just mean when you’re you. Not when you’re posing, or on stage, or whatever. This is the best version of you I’ve seen so far.”

“Ach, I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before. They usually like the photoshopped Klavier Gavin.”

“Well, people can be stupid sometimes. I much prefer just Klavier.”

Overnight, the wet ground dries out to reveal a bright, sunny morning. Apollo wakes up on the sofa, and he can hear that Klavier is already awake and in the kitchen, humming something to himself; he comes into the living room, holding two cups of coffee and looking so proud.

“I thought I’d try and make coffee the Apollo Justice way,” he beams. “Here you go. And then go and get ready, because it’s a beautiful day today and we’re spending it by the lake.”

Apollo doesn’t take long to get ready, but by the time he’s done, Klavier is already standing by the door, looking even more excited and expectant than Vongole. He’s got a little bag of food and wine in his hands, and he’s practically bouncing up and down on his heels— damn, he really is just a human golden retriever. When Apollo unlocks the door, Klavier runs straight out towards the lake, putting down the bag and taking off his shirt, throwing it aside as he plunges into the cold water.

Shaking his head in affectionate disapproval, Apollo follows him up to the shoreline, but no further. Both Klavier and Vongole are swimming, now, bobbing up and down in the water as the sunlight beats down; despite the fact that it’s early in the morning, it’s already hot.

“Aren’t you coming in, Apollo?” Klavier asks.

“No way. I can’t swim.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Never been able to.”

“It’s easy! You just—”

“Whatever you’re about to suggest, I’ve tried it.”

“Ach, fine,” Klavier splashes Apollo with the water and then lies on his back and floats out towards a deeper part of the lake.

“Hey, don’t swim out too far!” Apollo calls.

“Can’t hear you!” Klavier taunts back.

“I said don’t swim out too far!”

Klavier waves his hand in dismissal and, frustrated, Apollo realises that he’s not going to give in. Klavier Gavin is the type of man who, when he gets a stupid idea, has to follow it through.

Apollo keeps a keen eye on Klavier, though, because it would be tragic and embarrassing if Klavier were to die not because of his stalker, but because he drowned under Apollo’s watch. Although, Apollo thinks, watching Klavier swim gracefully through the water, it doesn’t seem likely; he’s a very competent swimmer. After a while, though, it looks like he gets bored, and he races Vongole back to shore, a competition that he naturally loses.

By the time it hits midday, the sun is hot and heavy, and Apollo really wants to go back inside and cool off, but Klavier looks like he’s having so much fun, and god knows he must need that.

“I’m boiling,” Apollo complains. Even if he’s not going to do anything about it, it feels good sometimes to just be a bit of a hater.

“Why don’t you cool down in the water? You wouldn’t need to swim if you stayed in the shallow part of the lake.”

“I’m supposed to be working.”

“You are working! Doesn’t it make sense to protect me wherever I am? Like, for example, if I’m in the lake.”

“Ugh, I hate that you’re right. Fine. But only because I’m your bodyguard. Not because I think splashing around in lake water is fun.”

“Whatever you say, Forehead.”

Apollo debates whether he should take his shirt off or not. If he doesn’t, then it’ll be soaking wet and uncomfortable when he gets out of the lake, but if he does, then he’ll have to go through the awkward process of explaining to Klavier why over half of his chest and back are covered in burn scars. Still, it’s not like he’s been embarrassed about that for years, so why should he suddenly be self conscious now?

He takes his shirt off.

And Klavier Gavin doesn’t ask.

Instead, he just watches Apollo, his head cocked slightly to the side, as he wades into the water. When Apollo gets far out enough that the water laps at his upper chest, he stops, having gone far enough; Klavier swims up next to him with a huge grin and puts his arms out.

“Go on,” Klavier says. “Lie back. You’ll float, but I’ll be there to catch you even if you sink.”

“Are you sure about this?” Apollo replies.

“Positive.”

“I’ll humour you, then, I guess.”

Apollo lies back, fully expecting to embarrass himself by sinking under the water and emerging, coughing and spluttering and kicking wildly, but instead he just… floats. The way Klavier said he would. He looks up to see that the sky is watercolour, and the world around him melts into the softness of the cool lake; he feels Klavier’s hand intertwine within his own, and turns his head slightly to see him floating next to him, smiling right at him like he’s the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Hey!” Apollo protests. “I thought you were going to catch me if I sank!”

“But you didn’t sink. You’re floating. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I… suppose so.”

They stay there for a while, holding hands, letting the sun shine down on them, until they naturally drift back to shore, where Vongole waits for them. 

Klavier opens the bag of food and pulls out some strawberries; they’ve gone soft in the days that they’ve been in the fridge, and probably should have been eaten yesterday, but in this moment, Apollo thinks that nothing has ever tasted sweeter. They sit on the rocks for a while, talking about completely inconsequential things, like the weather and their favourite music, as Klavier tries to catch strawberries in his mouth.

The feeling of the rocks, smooth and stable, under his hands reminds Apollo of simpler times. He closes his fist around a flat stone, standing up and skimming it across the lake, where it bounces four times before sinking into the water.

“Herr Forehead, I didn’t know you were cool,” Klavier says.

“What, you can’t skip stones?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Klavier laments.

“Want me to teach you?”

Klavier nods, his face bright and excited. Apollo searches the ground for the perfect stone, and when he finds one, he motions for Klavier to stand next to him.

“Just watch,” he says. “It’s all about the angle.”

He flicks the stone out of his hand, with most of the motion and power coming from his wrist, and it glides across the surface six times before sinking. Impressive, even for a seasoned professional as he is. 

“Now you try,” he tells Klavier, passing him another smooth stone. “Just like I did.”

Klavier tries to copy Apollo’s hand movement, but the stone just flies through the air for a moment before landing unceremoniously into the lake with a sad plop. 

“Ach, terrible,” Klavier says.

“You have to do it more like, here,” Apollo passes Klavier a stone and positions it just right in his hand, “Do it like this.”

He gently takes Klavier’s arm and puts it in the right position, his hand cupping the back of Klavier’s, and skips the stone. Although it only bounces twice, Klavier looks like he’s just won the lottery.

“I did it!” He says. “Apollo, is there anything you can’t do?”

“Swim. We already established that.”

Klavier snorts with laughter. “But look,” he says, pointing out across the lake. “It got so far!”

Apollo looks to where Klavier is pointing, across the lake, all the way out to the forest at the other side. And… he sees something.

Something moving. 

His instincts kick in as a grey static plunges his heart into ice, a sensation that seeps through his entire body in less than a second, flooded by adrenaline and fear. Klavier is still smiling, but Apollo takes his hand and turns Klavier towards him.

“Someone’s here,” he says.

“What?”

“I think… I know I saw someone in the forest. It’s probably nothing, but… we need to get inside. Quickly.”

“Okay,” Klavier says. His face visibly falls. “Sorry. I ruined a perfectly good day.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t. Just get inside, I’ll get Vongole.”

Apollo picks Vongole up and follows Klavier into the lake house; he locks the door behind them and walks through into the kitchen. Thankfully, he remembers exactly which floor panel he needs to pull up to reveal the keypad, and the 20-digit string of numbers is still entrenched deep in his memory; he pulls up the hatch once he’s entered the code, and ushers Klavier onto the first step down the stairs.

“Take Vongole,” Apollo says. “I’ll only be a minute.”

He goes to the front door and jams one of the logs of firewood underneath it to serve as an extra lock, and then he takes one last glance out of the window—he can’t see anybody, but he’s not got as wide a scope of vision as he had outside—before closing the curtains.

Once he’s back in the kitchen, he pulls the floor panel back over the hatch and starts to descend the stairs, closing them both together so that, to any intruders, the kitchen floor would look undisturbed. The old, yet familiar beep of the hatch locking comforts him a little, and when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, his hands guide him to where he knows the little light switch is; it doesn’t illuminate the room much, since any bright light could shine through the floorboards and give the hiding place away, but it’s enough to see where he’s walking. Klavier is in the corner of the room, sitting down on the floor with Vongole in his lap.

“It’s probably nothing,” Apollo reassures him. “But this is a safe house. We may as well err on the side of safe.”

“I know,” Klavier responds, but the happy light has gone completely from his voice. “I just… well, we were having such a good time. And I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. It’s not your fault that you’re being threatened.”

“What if it is?”

“Huh?” Apollo questions.

“You just jumped into this job without even asking if I was a good person,” Klavier says. He’s staring at Vongole’s fur like he’s trying to pick out patterns in it.

“Klavier, you were almost killed and you still waited in an unsafe situation for half an hour just to make sure your dog was okay. You’re hardly a bad person. I need to make a phone call, okay? I’m just ruling out all our options before we panic too much.”

“Ja, okay. I’ll just be here. Not that I could be anywhere else,” he laughs, but it’s distant, dull, hollow.

Apollo pulls out his phone and scrolls to a number he hasn’t called in years. His hand hovers over the button for a moment, but he puts his own emotions aside for the sake of the situation he’s in, and calls Datz.

He picks up almost immediately with a, “Hey, A.J! Been a while!”

“Hey Datz,” Apollo says. “We’re at the… place.”

“Gotcha. It’s a safe line, but you’ve always been a little paranoid, haven’t you? I know where you’re on about, though. I was the one who got it ready for you.”

“Thanks for that. I just wanted to ask—you weren’t in the forest, were you? I saw someone about ten minutes back.”

“Nope, not been anywhere near since Mr. Wright called me. You think you’ve been followed?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Whoever it was didn’t follow us directly, because I’d have seen them much earlier than today. So we’re probably dealing with someone who has a lot of intel and ways of finding things out.”

“Shit, you mean like an assassin?”

“Possibly. Probably? Either way, we’re okay. I just needed to check whether I was being paranoid or not.”

“You need me to come round and sort things out?”

“No, no. Not yet, anyway. Maybe tomorrow morning, but don’t go running into danger prematurely. I’ll… call you, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to that promise, A.J.”

“Thanks, Datz,” Apollo says, hanging up the phone. There goes his only sliver of hope. If it wasn’t Datz that he saw in the forest, then it must be the person who’s been stalking Klavier, because nobody stumbles upon a lake house this deep in the forest on a regular walk. Hell, the lake itself isn’t even searchable on most maps.

He shifts his focus back to Klavier, who looks like he’s trying his hardest to pretend like he didn’t eavesdrop on that entire conversation. 

“It’s okay,” Apollo says. “That was just my uncle. He’s the guy who got this place ready for us, and he’s someone I trust. He’s gonna come and check things out in the morning, but for now, we’re safe down here. Even if someone did find this basement, they wouldn’t be able to crack the code or brute force the door open.”

Klavier manages a weak smile. “Danke,” he says. “I don’t suppose that lightbulb can go any brighter without giving us away, can it? I’m just… not very fond of the dark.”

“Nah, it’s designed to be dim. There should be a flashlight around here, though, hold on.”

Apollo walks over to the back wall, where there are a series of steel shelves installed. On the bottom one, at such a height that even a 12 year old could reach if he were to get scared of the dark, there’s a flashlight; Apollo flicks it on and hands it to Klavier. It’s not like he himself needs much light to navigate these shelves anyway.

He takes the box full of blankets and a crate of bottled water, putting them on the floor next to Klavier before going over to the connecting wall and unhooking a few buckles that are holding a mattress in place, which he guides gently to the floor and pushes towards the other corner of the room.

“There,” he says. “Home comforts.”

Klavier scrambles on top of the mattress and gladly takes the blanket offered to him by Apollo. He rests his back against the wall and Apollo joins him, sitting in silence for a moment before Klavier speaks.

“I’ve got a brother, too,” he says.

“Oh? That wasn’t in your file.”

“Ja. I omitted it. I tend to do that, these days.”

“Why?”

“He’s… in jail. For murder.”

“Really? How did that not make headlines? I mean, you’re really famous.”

“It was a well-orchestrated cover-up that Adrian helped me with. That’s why I trust her so much. She picked me off the ground at the worst time of my life and helped save my reputation. She’s been like… a mother to me, in a way. I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t put my life in Adrian Andrews’ hands.”

“You really trust her that much?”

“Yeah. Because she’s… she’s everything that he isn’t. My brother, I mean. Kristoph. I haven’t even said his… his name in years.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready, but… you suspect him, don’t you? Of being behind this?”

Klavier nods. Tears threaten to sink the waterline of his eyes. “He was my old manager, up until two years ago.”

“Is that what Daryan was talking about? Something that happened two years ago?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it? I suppose it’s not very good of me to keep secrets from the man who’s protecting me, though.”

“Take your time, Klavier,” Apollo reassures him, putting a hand gently on his arm. “We quite literally have all night.”

“He honestly thought he was doing the right thing. But it was the very beginning of The Gavinners’ popularity, and there were quite a few bands doing the same schtick as us, which I was fine with, because I never wanted it to get this popular anyway. But Kris, he… he knew that the moment someone did The Gavinners better than, well, the actual band, we’d be washed up within the year. So he… he killed someone. A singer who was just about to get his big break. The only real competition we had.”

“Oh, Holy Mother,” Apollo mutters. “Fucking hell.”

“Ja. And he got away with it. For years. It was only by chance that I put the pieces together when I saw him plotting to do the same thing again, with the same type of poison. I really believe… I mean I don’t know, but I think… if he’d have known that I knew, he’d have killed me and replaced me with someone else in the band in a heartbeat. It was always about his career, not mine. But he didn’t know I found anything out, and I went straight to the police.”

“And he was arrested?”

Klavier nods. “I cancelled some shows while it was all going down because I just couldn’t face being on stage. That’s why Daryan’s got that grudge. The whole thing was covered up to the public, naturally, just to save my reputation, but I’ve been living with the knowledge that everything I have right now is built on the foundation of my brother’s crime for two years, and it’s… I want to quit. I want to quit the whole thing and live off the grid forever.”

“I’m so sorry,” Apollo says. 

“It’s not your fault. You know, I visited him in the Detention Center when he first got arrested. And he looked so… so… betrayed. He told me he’d done everything for me and that I’d stabbed him in the back and thrown it all back in his face, when I should have been thanking him, and… I can’t even enjoy music any more. I hear his voice in every discordant melody, saying the same thing he said to me in the Detention Center— et tu, bruder? I think he never really forgave me for taking our mom’s life.”

“Klav, you can’t blame yourself for that,” Apollo says, but he knows that seven simple words aren’t going to undo a lifetime of self-hate and guilt. Still, he persists anyway. “You can’t blame yourself for what other people do.”

“I can. Just watch me.”

Apollo takes Klavier’s face in his hands and looks him directly in the eyes. “No, you can’t. Because you are a good person, Klavier Gavin, you’ve just had bad things done in your name, things that were out of your control, and that say nothing about you or the things you put out into the world.”

“But—”

“But nothing. The only things in this world that you can control are what you do and what you are. What you do, Klavier, is the best by people, and what you are, is a good person.”

This time, Klavier cries fully. Apollo just puts his arm around him and rubs his back, letting Klavier’s tears soak through his shirt. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Apollo says. “If you want to quit the music business, do it. The moment this whole, horrible situation is over, I’ll find a way for you to do that.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Klavier says, earnestly.

“That’s because I’m the only one dumb enough to be me.”

That earns Apollo a small laugh from Klavier, a sound that he considers to be a small victory, and the most beautiful thing he could possibly hear right now.

And then there’s another noise, an unfamiliar one, and Apollo just prays that Vongole won’t bark at the sound of footsteps over their heads. Much like her owner, however, she’s the type to sit in her fear like a bath that has long since gone cold; frozen, surrounded by the thickness of terror, unable to move.

Apollo manages to grab the flashlight and flick it off just as the footsteps go right up to the hatch, but they walk over it without even stopping. Still, though, they pace around the floor of the lake house above them, and Apollo silently creeps to the light switch to turn that out, too, plunging the basement into complete darkness.

When he gets back to the mattress, Klavier is lying down; he’s crying, silently, and shaking so terribly that Apollo can barely hold him without shaking, too.

“They’re in the house,” Klavier whispers.

“It’s okay,” Apollo reassures him. “They can’t get in here, I promise.”

“But what if they do? That puts you and Vongole in danger as well as me, that’s so selfish.”

“Shh, Klav, let me worry about that, okay? I’m here to keep you safe and I’ll do that at whatever the cost.”

“No… don’t say that. I don’t want any more lives ruined because of me.”

“Klavier Gavin, you wonderful idiot, let me do my job.”

Klavier sobs, heavy yet silent, into Apollo’s shoulder. The sound of the footsteps carries on above them, but if Apollo trusts one thing about Dhurke, it’s his ability to keep those he loves safe even after death. Nobody is getting into this basement, and nothing is going to get past Apollo himself. He just wishes that he could reassure Klavier of that fact.

Maybe it’s enough to rub circles into his back until his sobs dissipate, and his shoulders only occasionally shake. Maybe it’s enough to hold him so tightly that no weapon in the world could get past Apollo’s strong arms. Maybe it’s enough to stay like this.

Chapter Text

“You are not what was done to you, nor are you a product of those you tried your hardest to love,” Apollo whispers, holding Klavier tightly. The part of his brain normally blocked off by repression is blossoming, and blossoming hard, as Klavier flits in and out of sleep, occasionally asking softly if Apollo is still there. Every time, he reassures him, and as the footsteps die out completely, there’s nothing other than the quiet darkness surrounding them, seeping into Klavier, and Apollo swears that he will pull all of the hurt right out of him if it’s the last thing he does.

The arrival of morning is signalled only by Apollo’s phone telling him that it’s 9am. Klavier is still sleeping, presumably exhausted from yesterday, and the basement doesn’t have any windows to indicate that the rest of the world still exists. He rubs his tired eyes and thinks of how good it will be to actually get some proper sleep when all this is over, and then calls Datz, who once again picks up almost instantly.

“Any news?” Datz says.

“They broke into the house last night. I heard them, but I think they’ve gone now. Can you come over and check things out for us before we leave? We’re going to have to go somewhere else.”

“Sure thing, A.J. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but can we hole up at yours for a few days? I need somewhere safe for Klavier and I need someone I trust to watch over him while I… do what I need to do.”

“You mean you’re going to —”

“Yes. And don’t try to dissuade me, either. It’s not enough to run away forever. I’m not Nahyuta.”

“You two still don’t talk, huh?”

“How can we? He made it very clear that he disagrees with my life choices.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Bring a gun,” Apollo says. “They’ll still be around, I’m sure of it.”

When he puts the phone down, he paces the room; it used to feel so big when he was younger, but now it’s claustrophobic and stifling. 

As an afterthought, he fires off a text to an old coworker of his, Simon Blackquill, knowing that he can make it to Datz’ house a little way out from the lake house via his helicopter (which, Apollo will never understand why he named) faster than by car. It’s not like needs backup, but he’ll put his pride aside if it means that there are more hands on deck to protect Klavier.

He flicks on the light switch and sees Klavier’s eyes flutter at the light, opening calmly, like he’s himself again for a brief moment before the memory of everything floods back into him and he covers his face with his hands.

“Oh, Gott,” Klavier says. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Apollo replies. “I think they’ve gone. We’re gonna stay down here a little longer while my uncle comes over and makes sure it’s safe for us to leave.”

“Apollo,” Klavier says. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Your dad… was he a bodyguard?”

“Which one?” Apollo says, trying to make a joke out of a situation he would really, really rather not talk about right now. But there’s something about Klavier’s honest eyes, the way he gently searches for an answer in Apollo’s face, that makes Apollo want to trust him, tell him everything; he hasn’t been this vulnerable in, well, forever.

“Either.”

“Biological one, no. Adoptive, yes.”

“What did your biological dad do?” Klavier says. “Or do you not know?”

“He was actually… a singer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t have enough memories with him because he died when I was nine, but… I’m still glad for the ones I have. And I’m happy that I remember what his voice used to sound like.”

“I’m sorry,” Klavier says. Apollo sits back down on the mattress next to him, and Klavier holds his hand.

“You know, you’re the first person not to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“About the scars I have. I know you saw them.”

“What scars?” Klavier asks.

“You might be an amazingly talented singer, but you are a terrible liar, Klavier Gavin. Besides, it’s not like I’m ashamed or anything.”

“Okay, okay, yeah. I saw. But it’s not like you owe that information to anyone, and it’d be downright rude to ask.”

“See, this is what I mean about you being a good person. Most people think that their curiosity matters more than anyone else’s feelings. But with you… I guess I kind of want to tell you the story.”

“I’m listening,” Klavier says.

“When I was nine, my dad travelled a lot for his shows. I came along with him because my mom got into an accident after I was born and she had to go for some specialist treatment that her family paid for and then she basically dropped off the grid, so it was just me and my dad for a while. He used to… when I’d get upset or whatever, and I’d cry, he used to sit there next to me and hand me a little kids’ drum set and tell me to scream instead and make it into music. But yeah… sorry, that bit wasn’t really relevant to the story. Anyway… he used to perform, not like you do, on huge stages, mainly little bar shows, and even when I was a baby he’d always have me either on stage with him or sitting close to the front.”

Klavier nods along to the story; he looks like he’s genuinely listening, not like most people who just look like they want him to get to ‘the good part’, the dramatic part, the part where Apollo Justice lost a father in the worst way possible. Apollo tries to brace himself with the courage to continue, and Klavier, noticing this, gently rubs his thumb over Apollo’s hand.

“Take your time, schatzi,” he says.

“It’s okay. It’s just a little hard to tell, but I can do it.”

“You don’t need to if you don’t want to.”

“It’s… fine. I’m fine. There was a show one night, and, uh… the building… it wasn’t very safe. There was a fire… everyone got out, except… one of the ceiling beams fell on me and my dad, and we were trapped there.”

“Oh my god,” Klavier says, softly. 

“Dhurke—my adoptive dad—was there. He was a bodyguard but he wasn’t, like, on a job or anything. And he ran back in to see if anyone didn’t make it out and my dad, he… he… told Dhurke to take me and go. And when we got out, before I passed out, the, uh… the building collapsed.”

Klavier takes Apollo’s face in his hands and looks at him so deeply, so earnestly. “Apollo Justice,” he says. “You are the bravest man I know and I can see exactly where you get it from.”

Oh. Oh. There are those tears he’s been holding back.

Klavier pulls him into a hug and Apollo, either unwilling or unable to maintain his cool, stoic persona, holds him right back.

He can’t be vulnerable for much longer, though. Composing himself, he puts on his best smile.

“But yeah. That’s how I got the scars. And after that, Dhurke took me in and raised me until he died, too. Then I was sent to an orphanage.”

“Is that why you became a bodyguard? Because of him?”

“Yeah. He had this client, I think they were royalty, but he never told his kids much about the jobs he took. When he was working, Datz, my uncle, looked after us. But his client died, and we all knew it was an inside job from the royal family, but Dhurke—he had to take the fall. That’s when we had to go on the run, when we lived here for a year before… well, before they found him and killed him to tie up a loose end.”

“You mean…?”

“Dhurke was killed in this lake house? Yeah. But it hasn’t been used since then so I thought it would be safe.”

“I’m not bothered about it being safe, Apollo. You came here to protect me even though you must have such horrible memories of this place. I… Thank you. Truly.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this for me,” Klavier says. “When this is all over, let me take you to dinner?”

“Alright,” Apollo smiles. “You’re on.”

They sit in the basement for a little longer, not saying anything. There’s not really any conversation topic that can suitably follow the heaviness of everything they’ve been through this past night, but in some unfamiliar way, it isn’t awkward; it just is. And, if they were sitting like this in any other life, it could even be nice.

The fact still remains that they’re waiting to go to another safe house because somebody—most likely Kristoph Gavin—wants to kill what, Apollo thinks, could possibly be the most beautiful soul in the world.

When he gets the call from Datz telling him that the house has obviously been broken into, but that there’s nobody lurking around at least the immediate perimeter, Apollo pushes all thoughts of his childhood and of holy fuck, did Klavier Gavin just ask me on a date? out of his mind, shifting completely into work-mode, where he cannot be a human with emotions and feelings, and instead needs to be a pawn.

“Are you ready?” Apollo says. Klavier nods, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

He draws his gun and ascends the stairs up to the hatch, with Klavier behind him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he reassures, before pushing it open.

Datz is waiting for them in the kitchen, and god, it’s been so long. Apollo feels so small, so guilty, so sorry, but he just couldn’t —he couldn’t pretend like he was fine and maintain contact after he was sent away to an orphanage. And even though Datz hugs him like no time has passed at all, Apollo just wants this whole, horrible situation to be over as fast as it possibly can.

“Pleasure to meet you, Klavi,” Datz says.

“Likewise,” Klavier smiles, holding out his hand for Datz to shake. “Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Eh, it’s all good. A little excitement never hurts!”

Apollo looks at Datz with a face full of complete disappointment, biting back a remark about him being as insensitive as ever.

But he says nothing.

As they walk through to the living room, Apollo notices that the log of firewood he used as a doorstop last night is lying, splintered, on the floor; his eyes track upwards, and the door is hanging off its hinges. God, someone wanted to get in here badly.

He just hopes that it’s enough that they were completely hidden. Maybe the assassin thought that they’d already run off?

“Here’s the plan, gang,” Datz says. “We’re going to hightail it through the forest as fast as we can until we get to the car and my bike, and then you guys can go ahead to my house—Apollo knows the way—and I’ll follow behind and act as backup in case we get followed. Deal?”

“Deal,” Apollo says, looking at Klavier. “You good with that?”

“Ja, perfectly.”

Datz draws his gun and Apollo does the same, as they sandwich Klavier between them and leave the house.

Outside, the air is still, and the lake looks colder than ever. The stones that they skipped yesterday, when the world was good and the strawberries tasted sweet, are in the murky thickness at the bottom of the lake, drowning in the anxiety of water.

Klavier squeezes his hand. “I trust you,” he says.

Apollo keeps his gun in his hand as they make their way through the forest, relying on his instincts and perception, raising his weapon at every slight noise. Klavier, to his credit, doesn’t get in the way, but he stays close to Apollo and Datz, silent as he walks. His expression is… well, Apollo doesn’t want to unpack how he feels about it, but looking at him from a completely professional standpoint, Klavier looks concentrated and trusting, with a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows, his eyes looking at Apollo intently.

They’re almost at the car. Almost to safety.

Not now, Justice.

But he’s so beautiful.

You’re supposed to be protecting him.

It’s heartbreaking that he needs protecting in the first place. Who could be so cruel that they would want to hurt him?

Ah, the sunlight looks so beautiful against his hair.

Is he smiling at you?

“A.J, heads up!” Datz shouts. Apollo whips round and sees a sickeningly bright red dot shaking its way around Klavier’s chest. He can’t see the shooter, can’t aim his gun and fire back at them; all he can do is the one thing he’s been prepared to do from the moment Klavier Gavin made that stupid comment about his forehead and smiled at him like he already trusted him.

And he pushes Klavier aside.

He doesn’t see the red dot against his own shirt, but he doesn’t need to; he feels the burning pain in his shoulder and it’s all he can do to stay standing. Without even aiming, he shoots blindly into the forest, until he hears Datz shout that they have to keep going.

And suddenly, he’s not in pain any more. Well, he is, but the sheer adrenaline running through his body makes him grab Klavier’s hand and bolt through the forest fast enough that he hopes any gunman wouldn’t be able to lock onto a target long enough to actually make a good shot at Klavier. They break through into the clearing where the car is parked, and Apollo fumbles for his keys, unlocking the driver’s side before Datz manages to wrestle the keys off him and order him into the back seat.

“For fuck’s sake,” Apollo hisses, opening the door for Klavier before he actually gets in the car himself. Klavier, however, pushes him in first and then sits next to him as Datz starts the engine and they speed back out through the forest.

“Apollo,” Klavier says, and for the first time since he was shot, he actually gets a good look at Klavier’s face.

Is he… crying?

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Oh my god, Apollo, I’m so sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t shoot me,” Apollo just about manages a somewhat pissed-off smile.

“Why did you do that?” Klavier says. He sounds angry. “You idiot… you’re fucking insane. It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

“Rather me than you.”

“Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare.”

“I knew this was a possibility when I signed up for it. It’s not like I’m dying or anything. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you ever think of yourself?!”

“It’s my job to protect you with my life!”

“What would your dad think?!”

Apollo can’t respond. He doesn’t know whether Klavier is talking about Jove or Dhurke, but it hurts just as much either way; either he threw away the life that Jove sacrificed for him, or he learned nothing from Dhurke’s mistakes, and Nahyuta was right to be disappointed enough in him to cut contact. Instead, he just closes his eyes and turns away from Klavier, staring out of the window as the trees fly past.

“I’m sorry,” Klavier says.

“It’s fine,” Apollo bites back.

“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it is what it is. You did say it.”

Klavier falls silent. And Datz drives. And Apollo wishes he’d just pass out already.

The sound of bullets missing the wheels of the car shakes Apollo away from his pathetic angst and into action; he grabs his gun and tries to push himself up to see through the back window of the car, but his arm is pretty much useless with the bullet wound, and he can’t turn himself around and hold the gun all at once.

“Datz!” He says, panicked. “Drive faster.”

He’s still fumbling with the gun when he feels Klavier’s hand over his own. Taking the gun.

“Do you trust me, Apollo?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

Klavier holds the gun in one hand and pushes open the sunroof of the car with the other. Apollo, now, is able to turn himself around to look out of the back window, and he sees a car following them at a distance; obviously, the shooter is experienced enough to drive and aim at the same time. 

But, god, he must be the world’s worst bodyguard to let his client stand with his upper body completely exposed above the car, shooting at his own assassin. The part of his brain that is completely unrelated to his job thinks that, if this were an action movie starring Klavier Gavin, he could even find it strangely attractive that his hair is flying in the wind and he’s putting on a complete display of confidence in his own abilities despite having obviously never shot a gun before. But that part of his brain is supposed to be completely turned off.

Datz swerves the car to avoid the bullets, and Klavier has to hold onto the roof of the car with one hand to keep himself even remotely steady. Apollo tries to drag him back down into the car, but Klavier is having another one of his stupid-idea-moments and he fires again.

“I did it!” Klavier shouts as the tyre on the car behind them blows out and it veers off the road, through the trees, crashing its way into a ditch. It all happens so fast, and all Apollo can think of is how glad he is that Klavier is back in the relative safety of the car.

“You stupid fuck,” Apollo says.

“Oh, so now putting ourselves in the line of fire is stupid? Someone call Apollo Justice and let him know,” Klavier smirks.

“You could have got yourself killed.”

“You nearly did get yourself killed!”

“Because that’s what I’m supposed to do! If it comes down to it, I have to put you before myself! I wouldn’t be in this job if I wasn’t prepared for that!”

“Then quit,” Klavier says. And, oh, it sounds like he’s genuinely asking. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Klavier, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. If it’s money you’re worried about, I’ll give you whatever you need to live a normal life. And if it’s pride, then you’ve already proven yourself a thousand times over. Let yourself live. The world would be a worse place without you, and that’s not a world I’d want to live in.”

Apollo just closes his eyes. The combination of being shot in the shoulder and Datz’s driving is making him nauseous, and he leans back in his seat for a moment. 

But then Klavier is softly shaking him. “Don’t go to sleep,” he begs. “I’ve seen that happen in movies and then the person dies.”

“You watch too much TV,” Apollo laughs. He presses his hand against the bullet wound, though, finally self-aware enough to even think about attempting to stop the bleeding.

“Let me,” Klavier says. He grabs Apollo’s suit jacket from the floor of the car and balls it up, pressing it hard against the wound; in response, Apollo hisses in pain and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, using his free hand to cup Apollo’s face. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I know. I’m not worried about that.”

“I am.”

“You’re an idiot. And you’ve watched too many sad movies.”

“I’ve acted in them, too,” Klavier smirks.

“Insufferable. Absolutely insufferable. I hate you.”

“I know, schatzi, I know.”

A little while later, they pull up outside Datz’s house; it’s just like the lake house, except one of the windows is slightly smashed and the plants outside are a little less overgrown. The engine stops humming as Datz gets out and opens the back door of the car, pulling Apollo out and carrying him inside, despite Apollo’s many protests.

As they go through into the kitchen, and Datz places Apollo down on the long table in the middle of the room, Apollo looks up to see a familiar face in the doorway.

Simon Blackquill looks as irritated as ever, standing with his arms folded and an expression on his face that practically screams, You got shot? Pathetic.

Datz speaks to Simon quietly for a moment, before turning back to Apollo and Klavier. “I’m going to drive back out to where that car crashed, just to see if I need to finish off the job. Apollo, you sure you trust this emo guy?”

“With my life. Literally,” Apollo says. Simon rolls his eyes.

As Datz hands a first-aid kit to Simon and leaves the room, Simon moves to sit on the chair at the kitchen table next to where Apollo is lying.

“A bullet in the shoulder, Justice?” Simon scoffs. “Amateur.”

“Like you haven’t been shot before, loser,” Apollo rebuffs.

“If you’ll recall, bestie, I took the bullet out myself.”

“Nice flex, asshole.”

Simon rolls his eyes and pulls out a bottle of sterile alcohol from the first aid kit. “You already know this is going to hurt,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah, get it over with. Please.”

He soaks a cloth with alcohol and pushes it onto the bullet wound, and god, Apollo has to try his hardest not to cry; he scrunches his eyes shut and hisses in pain, but then there’s a familiarity at his other side, and he manages to open one eye to see that Klavier is holding his hand.

“You’re doing so well,” Klavier soothes. “You can do this.”

“I’ve… fucking… got to… do it…” Apollo says through gritted teeth.

In response, Klavier brushes Apollo’s hair out of his face and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. His hand lingers on Apollo’s cheek for a moment, and it’s almost enough to distract him from the pain of Simon digging the bullet out with some surgical instrument.

“Fuck, Simon,” Apollo seethes. “You couldn’t be a bit less heavy handed?”

“It’s a bullet, Justice. It’s going to hurt.”

“Just look at me,” Klavier says. “Try your best, okay?”

“Fine,” Apollo breathes. “Distract me.”

Simon begins to dig the bullet out again and Apollo almost passes out with pain. Klavier is saying something to him, but he may as well be underwater, because he can’t hear any of it; it’s just pain, multiplied over and over again, burning, he remembers the feeling intimately— fire, pain, loss.

“Distract me,” he begs. “Please, Klavier. Distract me.”

And Klavier kisses him.

On the mouth.

Klavier Gavin kisses him on the mouth.

And Apollo Justice kisses back.

Klavier’s hands are soft against his cheeks, and his lips are desperate and so, so warm. Apollo leans upwards as best he can, and Klavier aches into the kiss; it feels like safety, like strength, like everything he’s secretly craved for so long.

They stay like this for what feels like an eternity, and it isn’t long enough for Apollo at all. He wants more. He wants this forever.

It’s heartbreaking when Klavier pulls away.

“The bullet is out, idiot,” Simon tells him. “I’m nearly done stitching you up, too.”

“Put it back in,” Apollo mumbles, almost deliriously. “I want Klavier to kiss me again.”

“You’re stupid,” Klavier breathes, his breath warm against Apollo’s cheek. “I’d kiss you a million times anyway.”

“Shut up,” Apollo replies. “Or I might just fall for you.”

“Like I haven’t been hoping for that from the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re perfect.”

“Just kiss me again. Please.”

“Anything for you, love.”

Klavier kisses Apollo on the cheek, and then on the lips. The pain in Apollo’s shoulder is impossibly great, but he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now; he tries his hardest to sit up, but Klavier gently pushes him back into a lying-down position, whispering to him about rest and recovery.

“Here, you sicken me,” Simon says, but Apollo knows he isn’t serious. “Codeine. For the pain. And at least wait until I’m out of the room before you break your stitches.”

“Thanks, Simon,” Apollo takes the pills offered to him.

“Yeah, well, can’t have you dying on me. I don’t fancy reducing my number of friends from one to zero.”

It doesn’t take too long for the medication to kick in. At some point, Klavier helps him off the kitchen table and onto one of the sofas in the next room, where he sits next to him and holds him like he’s scared that Apollo will fall apart.

When Datz returns, slightly blood-stained but smiling, informing them that he didn’t even need to finish the job; the car crash killed the assassin stone dead, Apollo breathes a sigh of relief.

“Klav,” he says. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Klavier thinks for a moment. “I still need you, though. Not as my bodyguard. But as you. I need you, Apollo Justice.”

Apollo smiles. He can rest. He’s safe.

His shoulder burns, and he’s so tired, and there’s so much going on in his head that he can’t even begin to think of breaking the dam and letting the flood begin.

But Klavier is humming to him, so, so softly. It’s easy enough to fall asleep despite the pain.

Chapter Text

—Two Weeks Later—

Klavier has found a range of excuses to keep Apollo around, ranging from silly (“I need someone to watch Legally Blonde with me because every time I watch it alone I end up nearly applying to law school”) to genuine (“I’m still scared and I really don’t want to be alone with the knowledge that I killed a man”). Every time, Apollo says yes, but it still feels like Klavier is trying to justify to Apollo why he should stay, instead of admitting to himself that Apollo stays because of one simple fact: because he wants to.

Well, if he’s being honest, there’s that, plus the fact that he’s still recovering from a pretty nasty bullet wound and they’re not out of the woods yet in terms of finding out who ordered the hit on Klavier’s life.

These past two weeks have been quiet, though. No more letters have arrived, and when Apollo found out that Klavier had kept all of the previous ones, he took them off him—half to use as evidence, half because he’d found Klavier sitting up at 2am reading one of them over and over again. There haven’t been any texts, or gifts, or threats in any way, and it’s starting to seem like Klavier is getting back to what Apollo assumes is his old self; which is to say that he’s just as wonderful as ever, but there’s less of a darkness smouldering around his heart.

Seeing Klavier like this is nice. Having Klavier fuss over him like he’s a wounded puppy is… also nice, but Apollo will go to his grave before he admits that. Still, though, he’s not going to refuse the soup that Klavier keeps bringing him (because the limit of his cooking ability is heating up canned soup on the stove), and when he softly brings Apollo’s head onto his lap and runs his hand through his hair—well, Apollo could absolutely get used to this.

“Schatzi,” Klavier says. His fingertips are so light against Apollo’s forehead, and his hands slowly trace down Apollo’s face to hold his cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, Klav,” Apollo replies. “Brilliant, actually.”

“You’re such a liar. Do I need to call Simon?”

“No, I’m fine, really.”

“He said you’d need your stitches removing after two weeks anyway, my love.”

“Ugh, don’t wanna,” Apollo moans. “Can’t you just put Notting Hill on again and kiss me?”

“I can do that, too,” Klavier smiles, leaning down and planting his lips against Apollo’s head, kissing him all the way down his face in a way that’s simultaneously loving and so, so teasing, until he finally reaches Apollo’s lips and traces his thumb over them for a moment before kissing him deeply. “I’m so glad I can do that,” he murmurs, and then, like an afterthought spoken accidentally out loud, he adds, “My Apollo.”

“H-Hey, not fair! You can’t make me get all flustered.”

Klavier sits up and leans back against the sofa, smirking. “But when you get flushed and your eyebrows furrow and you smile ever so slightly underneath your blush… mein Gott, how can I resist the temptation?”

Apollo reaches up and pulls Klavier back down again by the collar, staring at him with the fierce intensity in his eyes that he’s been told, many times before, makes him look intimidating despite his height; but Klavier simply melts —his face softens and his eyes, lidded and loose, ache under the down-turn of his eyebrows. His lips are parted slightly, and he glances briefly from Apollo’s eyes to his mouth and back up again.

“Two can play that game,” Apollo says.

“Ach, Apollo, you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

“Then show me.” 

Apollo, still holding Klavier’s collar, kisses him again.

And that’s the exact moment that there’s a knock on the door. Rolling his eyes, Apollo gets up and trudges to the doorway with Klavier hanging onto his waist, his head resting on Apollo’s non-wounded shoulder; through the peephole, he sees that it’s Simon, and he opens the door.

“I’d tell you to get a room,” Simon huffs. “But I suppose I am the one intruding.”

“Welcome, Herr My-Chemical-Romance,” Klavier jokes.

“Well, well, I think we’ve just found the one thing Klavier Gavin isn’t good at. Comedy.”

“Apollo,” Klavier whines. “Are you just going to stand for that? And let him insult your dear precious boyfriend that way?”

“Yeah, I am,” Apollo deadpans.

“Apollo,” Simon counters. “Are you really not going to defend your boyfriend’s honour like a true gentleman? You disgust me.”

“Both of you are fucking insufferable.”

“Thank you. I come bearing news. One: it’s time to remove your stitches, so don’t get too comfortable. And two: we’ve got enough evidence now to bring this case to trial. Sit down, Apollo. Let’s get this over and done with.”

Apollo sits at Klavier’s dining room table and pulls the neck of his t-shirt down to reveal the gunshot wound; as Simon begins to pick apart the stitches, he talks.

“Datz pulled quite a bit out of the car wreck that killed the assassin. Communications, mainly, with the man who hired him, information about Klavier, that sort of thing. Tracing back the name that was used didn’t lead us to an actual person, but to a series of similar aliases adopted over the years for various crimes; forgeries, the purchase of poisons, et cetera. Using this, we could narrow it down to one person, and he’s actually already incarcerated at—”

“The name,” Klavier interrupts. “The fake name. What was it?”

“David Krisler.”

Klavier sadly, slowly closes his eyes. It’s obvious to Apollo that behind his eyelids, tears are welling up, and he pushes through the dull pain of having his stitches removed to reach up with his free hand and hold Klavier’s face with his thumb and index finger curled lightly under his chin.

“That’s Kristoph,” Klavier says. “That’s the name he used when…”

“Oh, Klav, darling,” Apollo replies.

In silence, Simon plucks away at the stitches, and as much as it hurts, Apollo bites through the pain and keeps his face still and calm, looking at Klavier, telling him over and over that it’s okay, he’s going to be fine.

“I talked to Wright,” Simon says, pulling out the final stitch. “He pulled in a favour with Edgeworth at the Prosecutor’s Office, but Apollo… it’s Nahyuta’s case.”

“What? Was there really nobody else available?”

“Only Payne, and we actually want to win this, no?”

“Fine.”

“It’s going to trial tomorrow. Edgeworth handled a lot of the preparation alongside Nahyuta, and they’re pulling Kristoph out of jail to stand trial in the morning. And Klavier—you’ll have to testify, naturally. Will you be able to do that?”

“Ja,” Klavier responds. “I can.”

Once Simon leaves, there’s a little moment, like a pocket of air underwater, in which Klavier and Apollo can just breathe before the stress of everything threatens to crush them; in such a moment, it’s all they can do to hold one another, saying nothing, feeling everything, silent affirmations in the form of occasional kisses and hands brushed against one another.

Naturally, having a dog like Vongole helps with the bitter anxiety. It’s like she can sense the tension, and she won’t leave the two of them alone; her wagging tail hits Apollo in the face no less than five times.

Halfway through the cheesy romance movie they’re watching in their pyjamas, Klavier turns to Apollo. “Nahyuta… he’s your brother, isn’t he?”

Apollo nods.

“If you’d rather not see him, we can ask to postpone the trial until another prosecutor is available. It’s not like Kristoph is going anywhere, is it?”

“No, no,” Apollo replies. “I actually… I think an apology is long overdue. It was easy to cut him off, because having family hurt, and he disapproved of me following in Dhurke’s footsteps, but he’s a good guy, and I think it’s high time I let it go and moved on.”

Letting it go and moving on, Apollo realises as he stands in the lobby of the courthouse, is easier said than done. The trial is scheduled for 10am, but he was told to arrive two hours early so that Klavier can be briefed on the testimony he’ll give in the prosecution’s favour; it’s currently 7:45, and he’s got a styrofoam cup of shitty coffee in his hands as he waits, alongside Klavier, for Nahyuta’s arrival.

At exactly 8am, the door opens and Nahyuta walks in.

He looks older than Apollo remembers, but his hair is still long and his face is still stern, and he greets them both with a curt nod. 

“Mr. Gavin, I’m sorry we had to meet under such circumstances.”

“Ja, this isn’t exactly the normal way to meet your boyfriend’s family, but hallo anyway.”

“Boyfriend? Ah, you and Justice…?”

“Yeah,” Apollo says. 

“You have my many congratulations. As much as I disagree with my brother’s life choices, I can’t fault him for being happy.”

Klavier cocks his head to the side in confusion, looking a little offended, and Apollo pieces together what he’s thinking. “He’s not being homophobic, Klav, he means the bodyguard stuff.”

“Oh, my apologies for not clarifying,” Nahyuta says, calmly. “Shall we proceed to the discussion of your testimony?”

He takes Klavier into a separate room, leaving Apollo alone with only his cup of lukewarm coffee and the resurgence of his years of emotional repression.

When the trial begins, he’s forced to sit in the gallery, on the uncomfortable wooden bench, with the knowledge that Klavier is going to have to be a witness alone. He’s probably waiting in the lobby, his hands shaking with nerves, his whole body static with the knowledge that he’s going to have to testify about the fact that his own brother tried to kill him.

Yeah, Apollo is definitely going to apologise to Nahyuta after all this is over.

When they bring Kristoph to the stand, he’s already in handcuffs. Apollo notices that he could almost look like Klavier; they have the same hairstyle and similar heights, but the similarities end there. Where Klavier is soft and gentle, with kind eyes and a bright smile, Kristoph looks cold, like he’s been dead for years, clinging onto some semblance of a half-life, inhabiting a marionette-like, embalmed body.

The judge reads out the crime for which Kristoph is on trial—the hiring of an assassin—and Nahyuta wastes no time presenting the evidence seized by Datz from the crashed car. Kristoph says nothing in his own defense, he simply sits there, smirking, his eyes fixed on the door through which he no doubt knows that Klavier will emerge from once the time comes.

In fact, Apollo notices, the only time any real emotion crosses his face is when the door opens and Klavier, dressed in a simple, plain suit, takes the stand; a flash of anger between Kristoph’s eyebrows, the narrowing of his eyes, the twitch of his upper lip, pulling his face into a scowl.

“Would the witness please state his name and occupation?” Nahyuta asks.

“Klavier Gavin, and, uh, which one?”

“Your main occupation, please.”

“Singer.”

“And you are prepared to testify about the threats you received?”

“Yes,” Klavier says, taking a deep breath. “Should I just… go for it?”

“If you would.”

“A while back—I’m sorry, I can’t remember when, because it wasn’t as intense right off the bat—I started getting threats. Weird messages on my social media, telling me that I was in danger, my time was limited, stuff like that.”

“The prosecution would like to submit Klavier Gavin’s phone and social media records as evidence,” Nahyuta says.

“Accepted,” the judge responds.

“Please continue, Klavier.”

“It, uh, started to get pretty bad. There were letters, too. Some of them were long-winded, detailing exactly h-how this person was going to kill me, and some of them were just a few words long. My manager thought I should get a bodyguard, so that’s when I met Apollo. I carried on getting threats, though, and we had to go to a safe house, which is when the assassin broke in and ended up shooting Apollo. His, uh, his car crashed, though, and he… he died.”

“Thank you,” Nahyuta says. “And you have reason to believe that Kristoph Gavin is responsible for the hiring of this assassin?”

“Well, you have that evidence, right? The fake name. I know he used that name before because…” Klavier looks up at the very public gallery. “Because he killed someone when he was my manager and he used that name to buy the poison for it.”

Nahyuta submits the records of Kristoph Gavin’s alias, alongside documentation proving his communication with an assassin and a record of a payment for $100,000. 

Klavier’s testimony, while emotional and a little long, withstands cross examination from the defense. By the time he’s allowed to leave the witness stand, he’s white-knuckled; his fists are balled at his sides, but to his credit, he doesn’t cry.

And then, the defense attorney says something. “Your honour, the defense requests a brief recess. Kristoph Gavin would like to testify in his own defense.”

The judge allows a fifteen minute recess, and before his gavel even bangs, Apollo is speed-walking out of the gallery and into the lobby, where he sees Klavier sitting on the sofa, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Klav,” Apollo says, running to him and grabbing his hands. “You did amazing out there.”

“N-No I didn’t,” Klavier responds, his voice small and shaky. “I was pathetic. I don’t even know how to prepare for what he’s going to say in his defense.”

“Whatever it is, this case is pretty much won already. And you’re done testifying, you can come and sit in the gallery with me and it’ll be fine, I promise.”

Klavier just nods, like he’s trying to convince himself that he can believe Apollo.

As the trial resumes, Kristoph takes the witness stand with a calculated smile.

“State your name and occupation,” Nahyuta says.

“Kristoph Gavin. Former manager. Current inmate.”

“And you would like to testify in your own defense?”

Kristoph stares up at the gallery, directly at Klavier, his eyes burning cold. “No. I would like to confess. But I would like to state my reasoning.”

“Go ahead.”

“Up until two years ago, I was Klavier’s manager. He’s in a silly little band, you see, and he needed someone to sort his affairs out while he swanned off around the world performing for his, what would you call them… obsessive fans? The crime for which I was convicted two years ago was one born from a place of deep care; you see, poor Klavier had nothing until he had shallow fame, and I was perceptive enough to see that the foundations upon which his pedestal was built were crumbling with the rise of other, better artists. So I sacrificed my own morality, my own life, to make sure he could stay atop the shaky little fame he’d somehow managed for himself. And then, for years, I lived in paranoia that I would be found out, but I did it all because I wanted to help my little brother live the life that he, for some reason, wanted so badly. And then he found out, and instead of understanding why I did what I did, instead of being thankful, he turned me over to the police like a common traitor.”

“Is this you confessing to hiring an assassin as some form of revenge?” Nahyuta asks.

“Revenge? Oh, no, no. Nothing so petty. I simply wanted my brother to understand what I went through in his name. All that paranoia, all that fear, I wanted him to experience it firsthand. It’s only a shame that Mr. de Killer couldn’t follow through on the denouement of it all, but I can’t fault his following of orders: I told him to make Klavier live through a paranoid hell, and I see that I have been successful.”

“That’s enough.”

“Oh, and one last thing. All of my communication was done from prison. I have ways and means of achieving what I want. Where one assassin failed, another will be successful, I am sure.”

When Kristoph is taken away from the stand, he’s laughing.

Klavier, however, is staring blankly at the void left upon the witness stand, like he’s still plagued by the vision of Kristoph Gavin’s afterimage. 

“Hey, Klav,” Apollo pulls him into a hug. “It’s over.”

“No it isn’t. He’s never going to let me live.”

“I’m sticking around forever, okay? He’s all talk, I know his type. That’s why he took the stand. He wanted to make you scared. Don’t let him win, darling. Don’t you ever let him win.”

“But—”

“I won’t hear it,” Apollo says. “I’ll keep you safe, I swear.”

Most of the people in the courtroom file out through the double doors, leaving only Nahyuta standing at the bench, packing up his notes. Apollo, still holding Klavier’s hand, approaches him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hello, Justice,” Nahyuta responds.

“It’s nice to see you.”

“No it isn’t. I can tell you’d rather have had anyone else prosecuting this case.”

“I would have, up until this morning. But I’m done, Nahyuta. I’m done with holding grudges and running away from things.”

“Hm. I don’t suppose I understand why you do any of the things you do.”

“You’re talking about me following in Dhurke’s footsteps, aren’t you?”

“Naturally. I’m still angry.”

“Why?”

“Because you were all I had left. And you ran headfirst, blindly, into the same fate that our father suffered. I considered you selfish and cruel for that.”

“Considered? Past tense?”

“Well… I suppose if you hadn't taken up the torch, men like Kristoph Gavin would continue to get away with doing the things that they do. I still don’t agree, however.”

“Look—do you want to maybe get coffee or something soon? I think we could both use a little closure.”

“I suppose I can do that.”

…

—Epilogue, One Year Later—

The installation of a real stove and oven in the lake house is an occasion to be celebrated. Ever since Nahyuta legally transferred the rights over to Apollo, he and Klavier have been slowly chipping away at the bad memories and turning it into a home once more. Klavier’s awful taste in tacky purple interior design clashes with Apollo’s desire for more earthy tones, but if having a purple avant-garde art piece hanging directly above a pampered houseplant makes Klavier happy, Apollo could never deny him such a simple pleasure.

The newspaper that comes through the letterbox on the now-fixed front door bears an old picture of Klavier Gavin on the front page; it’s from one of his old photo shoots.

KLAVIER GAVIN: WHERE DID HE GO?

Klavier Gavin, frontman of The Gavinners’, has not appeared in public in one year. Following the shocking news that his brother and former manager, Kristoph Gavin, was arrested on murder charges three years ago, and after his re-arrest for the hiring of an assassin, the younger Gavin brother made a public statement disbanding his eponymous band and has since dropped completely off the grid.

Speculation ranges from Klavier Gavin’s involvement in his brother’s crimes, to the possibility that he is no longer alive.

Former second guitarist of The Gavinners’, Daryan Crescend, was quoted in an interview as saying, “Man, who cares? We can make our comeback without him.”

Attempts to reach out to other former members of the band have been unsuccessful.

“Absolute bullshit,” Apollo says, taking a lighter to the edge of the page and using it as kindling to spark a fire in the hearth. The warmth is welcome to Vongole, who sleeps on the rug, with Apollo’s cat Mikeko curled into her golden fur.

“It doesn’t bother me, you know,” Klavier replies, coming up behind Apollo and wrapping his hands around his waist, leaning down to rest his chin on Apollo’s shoulder. “I’m happy, and that’s what matters. Let them think whatever they want to think.”

“It’s still bullshit, though. Why are they so obsessed with you?”

“Look at me,” Klavier laughs. “Who wouldn’t be obsessed with me? You certainly are.”

“That’s different. We’re dating.”

“Speaking of, guess what came in the mail today?”

Klavier holds up a wedding invitation to Elias and Victor’s wedding, and Apollo breaks out into a huge smile. He’s only seen Klavier’s old bandmates—aside from Daryan, whom he hasn’t seen at all and he has no desire to change that fact—twice since he and Klavier moved out to the lake house permanently, but they’re good people, and if they’re happy, he’s happy.

“Good for them,” Apollo says.

“Mhm. I’m going to catch that bouquet so hard, just you wait.”

Apollo blushes, but he doesn’t question Klavier’s logic. Nothing has ever seemed so right before. 

There’s a knock on the lake house door, and Klavier goes over to open it while Apollo checks on the food that’s cooking away in the oven. Simon’s polite greetings carry all the way to the kitchen, and when Apollo emerges, he sees that he’s already making conversation with Klavier while Nahyuta walks over to shake Apollo’s hand.

“Thank you for inviting us for lunch,” Nahyuta says. “Do you need any assistance in the kitchen?”

“You can come chop some vegetables if you want.”

“Of course. I would be an awfully rude house guest should I refuse.”

While Apollo stirs the pot on the stove, Nahyuta rhythmically cuts carrots on the chopping board.

“So, Simon Blackquill, huh? How’s that going for you?”

“Quite wonderfully, all things considered. He’s actually going to law school these days.”

“So I heard,” Apollo says. “Good for him. Although god help the poor defense attorney who has to stand against him.”

Nahyuta laughs. “And you? How are things going with Klavier?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Apollo smiles. “I’m completely, embarrassingly in love.”

“Well,” Nahyuta says, with a small smile. “You deserve it. And I’m more than happy that you’ve given up your job.”

“Eh, me and Klav could never work a day in our lives and still live comfortably off the royalties he’s getting. His manager is great at making sure he gets paid without actually having to live that life again. But I’m not completely off-guard. It’s not like I put much stock into what Kristoph Gavin said, but I’d still lay down my life for Klavier in a heartbeat.”

“That isn’t because you’re his bodyguard, Apollo. That’s because you’re his boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Apollo smiles. “Yeah, you’re right.”