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When he was younger, Klavier’s birthdays were a flurry of gifts from his parents, parties held in the Gavin mansion, cakes and balloons and oh the attention that he’s always secretly craved. Even with Kristoph sitting in the corner, keenly focused on some law textbook, making a show of tutting and tapping his foot every time the guests got too loud, Klavier had always considered his birthdays to be a happy event. As he got older, and his parents died, the days of pass-the-parcel and homemade buffets spread out across the lavish dining table weaned on into nights spent with Daryan, sharing the same straight vodka out of the bottle, cheers-ing to another year older, another year closer to the glory that they both craved. And still, he would only ever get a curt phone call from Kristoph’s office, his birthday wishes delivered more often than not by whatever intern Kristoph had employed to take care of the tasks he was too busy for —filing his completed cases, making tea, wishing happy birthday to his only brother.
Almost a year has passed since Kristoph Gavin’s second arrest.
And really, Klavier is fine with it. Justice was served, not by his own weak, easily-manipulated hand, but served nonetheless, and isn’t that what matters? Still, there was something sickeningly routine about getting a call from a Gavin Law Offices intern, smiling his way through “hmm”s and “ja”s until the awkward person on the other end hung up, and Klavier could breathe again.
Now, his birthday is just another day. And, honestly, it’s probably been that way since his parents died, but it feels now, more than ever, like getting older is just another Gavin curse that he has to bear.
At least he has court. He’s been prosecuting the trial of Herr Ivan Diddit for two days now, and as much as Apollo—his more-than-worthy adversary—has been holding his own, they both know at this point that Herr Diddit is guilty. Today is more a matter of formalities than it is about finding the truth, because the truth was found in the latter end of yesterday, but an extension was called due to a witness amending their testimony to include the possibility of new evidence. Which, although a monetary burden on the court for dragging the trial out a day longer than necessary, is a blessing in disguise for Klavier, who gets to spend his birthday in a place where he doesn’t have to (nor does he want to) be himself.
Being himself in court got Phoenix Wright disbarred.
Being himself in court clouded his rationality and almost got Kristoph sent free.
No—for now, he can turn off anything that makes him human, still somehow managing to smirk as he hits the wall and, for the final time, delivers a cutting Objection! to the defense.
Apollo concedes. Klavier loves him for that. A defense attorney who seeks harmony with the prosecution, not to win an egotistical game, but to find the honest and bare truth, laying it plain regardless of personal success or failure as a lawyer. That’s why Klavier became a prosecutor in the first place; not because of Kristoph, as many people assume or speculate, but because he has his father’s moral compass and his mother’s relentless fire, and—his therapist reassures him bi-weekly—he is nothing at all like his older brother.
As the trial concludes with a ‘guilty’ verdict, Klavier smiles a little. He’s done his job; he’s been useful. And Apollo is smiling too, even though he technically lost.
Oh. That’s not something Klavier wants to deal with right now. He shuffles through his case files, pretending to be wildly interested in the papers, packing them into his briefcase without looking up.
All he needs to do is make it out of the courthouse and into the underground car park. Once he’s in eyeshot of his motorbike, he hears a familiar voice behind him, and he turns around on instinct alone.
“Prosecutor Gavin!”
“Ach, Herr Forehead,” Klavier forces a smile.
“I just thought you might want to know that the courthouse is flooded with your fans—like, more than usual. They’re all around the entrance.”
“Danke,” Klavier smiles. “I’ll exit through the delivery area.”
“Hey, wait,” Apollo says, averting his eyes. “Did you drop a new album or something?”
“Ach, no. I’m still not releasing new music for the time being. It’s probably just some Twitter meetup or something.”
“You know how I can tell when witnesses are lying? I can do that with prosecutors, too. You turn your necklace over in your left hand when you’re nervous, like right now.”
Klavier shakes his head. “Really, do fangirls need an excuse to flock around a gorgeous celebrity after a stunning victory in court?”
“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but, y’know… I think we can call each other friends, right? If there’s something going on in your life, or something bothering you, well… the offer’s there. Especially today.”
“What do you mean, especially today? What offer?”
“To talk about it, you idiot,” Apollo huffs. He’s still not making eye contact. “If you need someone to lend an ear or whatever.”
“I appreciate it, Herr Forehead, but right now what I really need is to get my motorbike out of here peacefully, without mowing through the crowd.”
“Got it. One Apollo Justice brand diversion coming right up.”
“Wait, are you—”
“Sure am, Prosecutor Gavin. Now get on your bike and get ready to leave through the delivery area the moment I give you the signal.”
“What signal?”
“You won’t be able to miss it,” Apollo smirks. He walks towards the entrance and Klavier takes his helmet from the motorbike top box, jamming it firmly over his head; it’s better like this—he doesn’t have to fake a smile constantly if nobody can see his face. And, with Apollo’s generous offer of a distraction, he might actually be able to get home with relative ease, where the only things waiting for him are Vongole and last night’s leftovers.
As it should be.
He hears a voice that can truly only belong to one person—it’s loud, and although he can’t make out the words through the muffle of his motorbike helmet, he distinctly hears the crowd cheer and rush away from the courthouse. Whatever Apollo came up with, it must have worked.
Klavier smiles. What a gift.
The roads are fairly clear, and he doesn’t break the speed limit, but he gets pretty damn close; it’s not intentional, he’d never break the law so recklessly, but even with his eyes on the blur of concrete, he’s not really focusing on driving. All he can think of is Kristoph’s trial, of Daryan’s trial, of Kristoph’s trial again. Of how his bandmates had, one by one, dropped out of contact with him—some kindly, feigning that they were too busy to talk, and some had just blocked him straight away without even allowing him to explain. Now, not only will this be his first birthday without the regular Gavin Law Offices phone call, it’ll be his first one actually alone —nobody to harmonise with on potential new album songs or call him an old man already.
Vongole, though, seems to know that something is up from the moment he walks in the door, shaking his hair loose from his helmet. He doesn’t even bother taking off his jacket and gloves before leaning down to let her jump into his lap, and things are okay. It doesn’t matter that he’s 25 now, and the only well-wishes he’s received are from people online in a parasocial relationship with him, with his face as their icon.
It’s fine just being another day.
As he heats up last night’s leftovers, he hums along to the background noise of the microwave and gets changed. The pile of old Gavinners t-shirts is still tucked away in the darkness of his closet; it was only after the dissolution of his band that he realised just how obnoxious most of his clothes were. He can almost hear Kristoph’s voice now.
“Self-promoting your silly little music in a place as sacred as the courtroom? You really haven’t grown, have you?”
The beeping of the microwave shakes him out of what could have become a full blown flashback, and he grabs the first plain t-shirt he can find, shaking off his chains and pants, leaving him in smudged eyeshadow and novelty boxers, and a t-shirt completely devoid of any design.
Suddenly, the food doesn’t seem as appetising. He’s been hungry all day in court, but he’s not as good as he pretends he is at shaking off the voices of those who have hurt him, and whom he’s convinced he’s hurt in return. Still, he tries to take the plate, but there’s a little chip in the edge of the ceramic and, as his thumb glazes over it, the sharp shock is enough to startle him, and he drops it all over the counter.
At least none of the debris went on the floor, so he doesn’t have to worry about Vongole hurting herself.
There’s no motivation within him to clean up just yet. Bitterly, he reminds himself that it’s not like he’s actually expecting guests.
He just slides down the half-wall in his kitchen until he’s sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he cries.
He’s Klavier Gavin. 25 years old. With nobody in the world who cares about him.
Which is why, when there’s a knock at his door, he’s surprised. He can’t imagine who’d be coming to visit him, let alone at 7pm. All he can possibly think of is that it’s his manager, or even worse, that somehow his address has been leaked and there’s a gaggle of fans outside waiting for an autograph or a photo, neither of which he’s particularly in the mood to give.
The knocking continues, though, and Klavier hates that, since he skyrocketed into fame eight years ago, he can’t even have the peace to have a panic attack alone.
Blearily, he wipes his tired, crying eyes and pushes himself up into a standing position, trudging his way over to the front door; through the peephole, he’s expecting to see anyone except the man who’s actually standing there.
Apollo Justice.
Apollo Justice?
For some reason, Klavier finds himself actually opening the door, even if he only cracks it open a little. It’s enough, though, for Apollo to reach his hand into the gap, his bracelet tapping against the frame, and he opens the door further—always doing the things that Klavier never has the courage to.
“Oh, thank god,” Apollo says. “I was worried about you for a second th—wait, are you crying?”
“Chopping onions,” Klavier responds.
“For your birthday dinner?”
“How did you…?”
“Let’s just say I’ve known for a while. That’s why all your fans were at the courthouse,” Apollo continues. “They had gifts and everything. I had to make up some bullshit excuse about you having already left to go celebrate at a restaurant. I bet I got Mr. Eldoon a fuck-ton of business tonight.”
“Danke,” Klavier says. “That was kind of you.”
“Well, nobody deserves to be harrassed on their birthday. Or any day. Do you, uh, have plans tonight?”
“Does watching The Bachelorette with Vongole count as plans?”
“Absolutely, only if watching Cutthroat Kitchen with Mikeko also counts as plans. Otherwise I’d have to admit that I was some kind of loser.”
Klavier laughs. Of course Apollo hangs out with his cat like a best friend. It’s endearing.
“You may be a loser, Herr Forehead, but I’ve never seen someone make ‘being a loser’ work quite as well as you do.”
“Shut up. Anyway, you got room for another on your sofa? I brought you cake.”
“You… brought me cake?”
“That is what people traditionally do on birthdays, isn’t it?”
“Ja… I suppose. I haven’t really… thought it through.”
Apollo walks down Klavier’s hallway and sets the little cake box on the kitchen counter, pausing for a moment as he takes in the mess of smashed ceramic and spilled food. “What happened there?” He jokes.
“Oh, you know. A real kitchen nightmare.”
“You’re hopeless,” Apollo smiles. “I’ll order us some takeout.”
“Why?” Klavier asks.
“Because I’m starving, and I’m assuming you are too. Birthday treat.”
“No, but… why are you being so nice to me?”
“Klavier—can I call you Klavier? We’re friends, aren’t we? And,” he lowers his voice to just a little louder than an awkward mumble. “I don’t like the idea of you spending your birthday alone.”
Klavier sits on the sofa, looking over the half-wall into the kitchen, to where Apollo—sweet, kind Apollo, who couldn’t possibly understand the depth of how much Klavier feels like a bad person who deserves to be alone —is clearing up the mess on the counter. And he can’t speak. He can’t say anything that would matter, but when he looks at Apollo, humming to himself as he works, he feels like the worst person in the world, simply for the crime of inflicting such a broken, awful man on someone as brilliant as Apollo.
Scheisse. Klavier had forgotten how perceptive Apollo was. And, when Apollo looks up, his eyebrows furrowed with concern, he knows that he can’t lie to him.
“What’s really up, Klavier?” Apollo says, sitting on the sofa next to him. “God, you’re tense. I can practically see the strain on your shoulders.”
“Ach, I’ve been meaning to book a massage.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I suppose I am. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to pull the truth out of you,” Apollo says, without a hint of malice or hatred. Just… like it’s a simple fact. A task that he has to complete. “Because I can make a pretty good guess as to what this is about already.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s your first birthday since… everything happened. That’s got to hurt.”
“It’s not like anything is really different. I used to just get drunk with Daryan and the band, but it’s not like we really needed a special occasion to do that.”
“Kristoph didn’t used to wish you happy birthday himself, did he?” Apollo asks.
“How do you…?”
“Your 21st birthday. You were touring at the time, I think. And I was working an internship while I did my final preparations for the bar exam.”
“You mean… you were the one who gave me the annual birthday call?”
“Just for that year. After that, he had people lower down than me on the Gavin Law Offices hierarchy chain to delegate to, but yeah. I suppose today isn’t the first time I’ve wished you a happy birthday. It’s why I had to pretend I didn’t know why your fans were here after court. I thought you might think I was a crazy fanboy or something. But then when you left, my bracelet was going to cut my wrist off, and I knew something was up so… that’s why I’m here. Sorry, I guess I never could leave well enough alone.”
“Still… that was four years ago. You really remembered?”
“Of course I did. You… were actually pretty nice on the phone.”
“You weren’t expecting me to be?”
“Well, Kristoph… he said you’d probably just talk about your music for a bit and that I should cap the conversation at five minutes, max. But you asked me what interning for your brother was like, and I told you about getting ready for the bar exam, and you gave me some really good advice. I still remember it. You said you could tell I’d be a great lawyer one day, and you said… well, you said you hoped you got to face off against me in the courtroom one day when you returned to prosecuting.”
“Oh, mein gott, I remember now,” Klavier says. How could he forget? The one birthday where he’d actually had a genuine conversation with someone whom he felt actually wanted to talk to him. “That was you? I really appreciated that phone call.”
“Yeah, that was me. So, I guess it’s only fair that I can wish you a happy birthday again this year, right?”
“Ja,” Klavier says. “Danke.”
Apollo was right—he is tense. Even the mention of Kristoph has him clenching his teeth, feeling sick deep into the pit of his stomach. But… oh, Apollo’s hand is on his jawline.
“Relax, Klav,” Apollo says. His voice is comforting, soft, gentle. “You’re so tense.”
Klavier makes a conscious effort to relax his jaw, but he’s now hyper-aware that his shoulders and back are rippling with pain from how hard he’s tensing his muscles. Apollo shifts around so he’s sitting behind him, hovering his hands above Klavier’s shoulders.
“May I?” He asks. “I’m pretty good at massages.”
Klavier nods. It takes all of his pride to push down the ‘please’ that almost escapes his lips. But Apollo’s hands are so strong, and he evidently knows what he’s doing—the tension in his muscles is already dissipating with each deep push of Apollo’s thumb. It’s been a while—how long? forever?—since he’s been treated so gently, by someone who’s equal parts fixing him and handling him as if he’s so fragile that he won’t be able to handle breaking again.
“There,” Apollo says. “Better?”
Klavier’s heart is working overtime, and the butterflies in his stomach are nothing short of a young-adult romance novel cliché. “Ja,” he says. “Perfect, actually.”
“Good. You look more relaxed, anyhow. I’ll go and get you some cake.”
“Wait,” Klavier holds Apollo’s wrist as he gets up. “Not yet. Let’s just sit here for a while?”
“Sure.”
Apollo never gave Klavier the aura of someone who appreciates physical affection at all, but it seems like the most natural thing in the world when he rests his head on Klavier’s shoulder, even more so when Klavier brings his own arm around Apollo’s shoulders and holds him close. The television remote is just a little out of his reach, but sitting like this in silence doesn’t make anything awkward, at least not for now—maybe in court, they won’t be able to make eye contact, or maybe they’ll never mention this again, but for now, it’s intimate.
“Happy birthday, Klav,” Apollo murmurs.
“Danke,” Klavier responds. “Really. Thank you… Apollo.”