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The first time Klavier finds himself daydreaming about proposing to Apollo Justice is almost inappropriately early in their acquaintance; not even three months after they’d met outside of People Park. It’s been even less time since the final, disastrous Gavinners concert—and maybe that’s the cause, the reason for the aching loneliness in his chest, because as Klavier sits at his desk, twirling his pen idly and staring out the window—he thinks of this:
They’re somewhere bright, secluded. Quiet, because from the way Apollo had reacted at the concert he’s realized the man isn’t fond of crowded venues or fast-paced music. A park, perhaps? They’re holding hands and looking at the flowers as they walk beside a pond filled with lilypads and jewel-toned koi fish, and Apollo is strong and steady beside him. An anchor, a rock.
Klavier’s had the ring in his pocket for less than a week and he’s burning with the desire to ask, to secure that stability for himself and keep Apollo with him forever; to move to a cottage out in the countryside and retire from public appearances. So when they reach a curve in the path, a viewing point perfect for photos and admiring the rippling water, he untwines his fingers from Apollo’s and drops to one knee, drawing the blue box out of his pocket as he goes.
When Apollo says yes, it’s with big, surprised brown eyes and a gentle, half-smile.
Three hours later, Ema Skye bursts into his office, semi-crumpled paperwork in her hands and expression more exasperated than he thinks he’s ever seen her. Klavier places his acoustic guitar (not nearly as lovely as the one he’d lost to fire, to Daryan’s scheming) aside, leaning it up against the nearby filing cabinet, and raises an eyebrow at her.
“Fop. I thought you were just playing around, flirting with Wright’s defense attorney? I didn’t know you were serious about it.”
"What leads you to say that, Fräulein?” Klavier really can’t see why she’d bring this up now , or why she seems so annoyed about it.
In response, Ema holds up the papers she’s been clutching since she walked in, and Klavier leans forward to read them. They’re case reports, ones he’d filled out earlier.
He begins to reply, “How are these related to…” before his eyes land on his own signature and he understands.
Lost in thoughts and wistful dreaming, he’d signed the forms in a neat, practiced cursive that spells out “ Klavier Justice,” clear as day.
It’s almost a year later before it happens again—and Klavier’s just blinked his eyes open for the first time in what feels like eternity, pulling back even as he wants to chase the sensation of Apollo’s lips against his own, breathless and giddy. They’re standing under the amber glow of the light outside Apollo’s tiny studio apartment, moths flying in circles around them, and the only thing in Klavier’s head is that Apollo just kissed him.
And—it’s all a flash, an instant, because he’s staring at Apollo in wonder, half-convinced he’s not even real—but Klavier thinks forward to another occasion, another doorstep goodbye, where just before he turns to walk away he sinks to the pavement and takes the shorter man’s hand, looks up and meets his eyes and says “Marry me," in the kind of romantic desperation he’s seen in movies and stage plays.
This time, Apollo can’t even get the words out around his happy tears, but he nods and throws his arms around Klavier all the same.
“...Klavier?” asks Apollo, crashing the man back into the present with all the efficiency of a five-car pileup on the highway leading into work. “Was that...are you…”
“Ach! Oh—Herr Fo—Apollo. That’s—this is…” Klavier doesn’t often find himself lost for words, but he’s never been one for giving up. Instead of relying on his voice, he skims his hands up Apollo’s arms, cups his jaw, slides his fingers through the short brown hair at the nape of his neck and leans his forehead down, exhaling against Apollo’s cheek. It’s quiet, for a moment.
And then Apollo must get the hint, because he leans in again, tentatively, and this time Klavier meets him halfway.
Klavier’s living room is dark, the only illumination provided by the oversized flatscreen and the flickering candle on the coffee table. He’s sprawled out across his large, expensive leather couch—and Apollo is curled up against him, a warm blanket over them both.
The movie they’re watching is only half keeping his interest at this point, as Klavier finds himself increasingly distracted by the way Apollo breathes and the texture of his well-worn T-shirt under his fingers. He tightens his grip on his boyfriend’s shoulder and Apollo makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a sleepy hmm as he turns his face more fully into Klavier’s chest.
And it’s early, too early, but Klavier wants to pull him closer and whisper in his ear, to say damn the consequences and ask if Apollo will stay with him for the rest of his life, forever. This isn’t any kind of showy venue, isn’t the kind of place Klavier had ever considered himself choosing for a proposal, but as they sit in the dark with the long-forgotten background noise of the film surrounding them, he realizes that he wants this for always.
Apollo’s yes is murmured into the curve of Klavier’s shoulder, quiet and sleepy, a private revelation.
But when Klavier’s eyes refocus on the scene before him, he feels the rhythmic motion of Apollo’s chest and finds that he’s dozed off somewhere in the interim, long eyelashes casting shadows down his cheeks. The movie is winding down, caught in the falling action before the credits where everything’s been resolved and there are no more startling plot twists, no final heroics.
He can’t be bothered to turn it off, the remote having done as its kind often do and disappeared off to who-knows-where. Instead, Klavier sighs, closes his own eyes, and lets himself surrender to sleep.
The album is coming along nicely, and Klavier’s been almost run off his feet with the amount of work he’s had to do. He’d forgotten, somehow, the way that zigzagging between the courthouse and the recording studio leaves hardly any time in the day for eating or sleeping—and god forbid socializing.
It’s a good thing he and Apollo share an apartment, else he’d never see his boyfriend apart from across the courtroom.
Even so, often it’s so late by the time Klavier gets home that Apollo’s already gone to bed, leaving him to slide silently between the sheets and curl his arms around the shorter man, who he wouldn’t be able to wake from slumber if he tried. It’s almost funny—but he finds himself sorely missing the hours where he and Apollo just... exist, together. Putting together an album still carries the exhilaration of creativity, but it’s not quite the same as when he was younger.
This time, he knows what it’s like to have someone waiting for him to get home.
He’s never been particularly subtle in his work, and so it’s an open secret that most of the songs he’s written are about Apollo in some way or another. But the track he’s working on tonight, with the studio window cracked to let in the cool past-midnight air, is more obvious than most. It’s something he’s writing because he can’t just say it; a bonus track that he doesn’t know if he really wants to put on the standard edition of the album.
As Klavier runs through chords, fusses over lyrics, he tries to sum up all of his feelings into one cohesive narrative—and hopes that he can get the message across, using the one language he’s most comfortable with. Proposing via personalized song isn’t too cheesy, right? Especially not if he only adds it to one version of the album; an innocuous-looking CD he’ll hand off to Apollo while he tries not to show how his heart’s beating fast and anxious in his chest; not sure if he wants to stick around and make him listen to it or leave it as a surprise for later.
When Apollo says yes this time, it’s over text message—a series of comedically exasperated messages about how surely he’s not that scary and that he still doesn’t like Klavier’s music that much and that he really hopes that Klavier didn’t put the song on every single version of the album—
—but that yes, you overly-dramatic diva, I’ll marry you anyway
Klavier gets all the way through recording the song on guitar and halfway through trying to figure out a piano section before he glances over at the clock on the wall, its hands at an obtuse angle to display an hour later than he’s used to being at the studio at, even with his chaotic schedule. And suddenly all he wants is home , to have Apollo in his arms and to not be sequestered away in an empty, soundproof room. No matter that he’s been thinking of him this whole time—what good are hypotheticals and reflections when he could be right beside the man who he wants to spend his life with, could be pressed against his back in the big, comfy bed they share?
He closes the lid of the piano and yawns, blinking as though seeing the room for the first time. After a pause, Klavier stands up in one fluid motion, grabbing his backpack and his keys from the tiny sofa in the studio and shutting off the lights, closing the door firmly behind him.
As he rides his motorcycle towards home, towards Apollo, he realizes he never saved the recording.
This is it. This has to be it. Klavier’s actually making it a reality—he’s got a ring in his pocket, a nice restaurant booked for the evening, and a moonlit walk home by the river under the stars.
He is going to ask Apollo to marry him, tonight.
And everything’s going well—the food is wonderful, the atmosphere is just right. Apollo’s just won his most recent trial, so Klavier has the plausible deniability of saying that they’re celebrating that, to avoid any suspicions that might be raised by the nicer-than-usual dinner venue.
They finish up, pay the bill, and head out, shrouded in jackets against the early autumn air. The night itself is clear, crisp, and the path they take back towards their apartment is quiet and empty. Around them, the chirping of nocturnal insects and other creatures echo off of the serene water, and the occasional firefly illuminates the dark.
Klavier sees it, then—his perfect plan’s resolution. The way he’ll stop Apollo with a hand to his forearm, halting his forward momentum. The way he’ll smile, softly, and say he wants to ask him something, if Apollo wouldn’t mind—that it’ll only take a moment. He pictures himself in his mind’s eye, lowering himself carefully to the ground and not even caring about the damp leaves that he’s kneeling on. He only has the ability to look at Apollo, to watch his expression turn from confused to shocked, from worried to that kind of crinkly, soft joy he only gets to see on the rarest of occasions.
And Klavier will ask him, then, hushed and low, in a tone of voice only for them—and when Apollo says yes, he’ll take his hand and slip the red-and-gold band over his finger, and hold it the whole way home.
They’re nearly there, at the spot halfway home where Klavier had planned to ask, and his heart is pounding in his ears and the blood is rushing through his veins and he’d never expected it to be this hard, in all of his daydreams. And—and—
They’ve walked past it, Apollo striding on ahead, surprisingly fast despite his short legs. And Klavier knows that he could still save the moment, could call him back, should just do it anyway, but…
He’d planned on that spot, at that time. And he can’t just improvise , not here, not with the most important question he’s going to ask anybody, ever. And so he stumbles forward, following Apollo, leaving the innocuous spot on the leafy pathway behind and knowing that nobody else will ever know what he’d planned to do that night.
The apartment is as it always is; spacious but cozy, quiet but not echoey. They stand in the doorway, stripping off coats and boots and breathing in the comforting scent of home , well-fed and content. Klavier places both pairs of shoes on the rack by the door, and Apollo surprises him by slipping an arm around his waist, pulling him down into a slow, lazy kiss.
“Schatz? ” Klavier asks, when they part, because Apollo looks as though he’s about to say something, has that look in his eyes he always gets when he’s on the precipice of conversation.
Apollo looks at him—really, truly looks at him, and Klavier’s starting to worry, now. They’re still just inside the apartment, haven’t made a move more than three feet away from the door, and—
He brings his attention back to the present just in time to see Apollo slip to the floor, resting one knee on the hardwood and reaching into the pocket of his khaki slacks.
“I don’t have a speech, or, uh— anything, really, but—I look at you, sometimes. And even right from the start, when I look at you I think: I don’t want to see a future where this man isn’t in my life. Because you are just...so good, you know? You put all of yourself into everything you do. You’re showy and extravagant and at first I hated it, because I thought you were just doing it all for the attention. But it’s...more than that, because even when you were using all your glitz and glamour as a shield for your true emotions, you were drawing on a genuine aspect of yourself. And—
‘--this is getting really long, and I should get to the point, I guess. So—here it is: the point.”
Klavier’s been frozen, this whole time. Is this really happening? Is this really happening right next to their muddy shoes? But he wouldn’t protest anything, not for the world, because—
“Klavier Gavin—you are the person who I want to wake up next to for the rest of my life, the person I’d spend forever with. So...will you marry me?”
And Apollo’s got a ring, nestled in a little black velvet box that he’s holding out—and he’s usually the practical one but this must have cost him at least a couple months’ paychecks, and Klavier can see the way he’s biting the inside of his lip, the way he’s still so terrified even though Klavier thought that his own feelings were obvious—
When Klavier says yes, it’s in a big rush of air, a frenzied exhalation that sends him crashing to his knees to meet Apollo on the floor. He drapes himself over Apollo, all the tension falling from his body, as he clutches at the other man with relief, desperation, overwhelming love . And he presses kisses to Apollo’s forehead, his cheek, his jaw, repeating over and over— yes, yes, yes.
Later on, Klavier curls up against Apollo beneath the duvet of their big, warm bed, and murmurs in his ear: “I had a ring too, you know.”
“I know.”
“You—why didn’t you…?”
“I guess I’m just impulsive. And tired of watching you get so close, so many times, only to not follow through at the last second.”
Klavier laughs, running his fingers along the lines of Apollo’s shoulder in the dark. He’s still getting used to the new sensation of the ring, silver-banded and inlaid with small rectangles of onyx.
“I suppose I wasn’t as subtle as I’d imagined, nein?”
Apollo shakes his head, the edges of his lips curved up in a smile. “Not even close.”
And, just after they’ve settled back into comfortable silence, he follows it up with:
“Don’t worry about it being a waste, though. We’ll just save it for the wedding.”
He promptly turns over and falls asleep, leaving Klavier to lie in the dark, eyes wide, because somehow it’s only just hit him right now this second:
He’s going to marry Apollo Justice.