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Do you know what it’s like to run on zero hours of sleep? For those unaware, it is, first of all, painful. So painful. Sleep weighs down your eyelids and burns at your eyes, making a home for itself in your joints, forcing aches out of your knees and elbows and fingers. Sleep deprivation is a special kind of hell that Apollo wouldn’t wish on anybody.
Anybody, that is, except for himself, it seemed.
Apollo was essentially comatose -- his body weight seventy percent coffee -- and sat on the edge of the Themis High stage, script hanging from one hand and head nestled in the other. Klavier, who sat beside him, ignored his acting partner’s defeated state, and rattled off his auditioning lines.
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, this gentle fine is this; My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
Apollo’s stomach lurched as Klavier spoke, likely a result of consuming three billion fucking gallons of coffee. Definitely not because Klavier was talking about passionately kissing the character that Apollo was playing — correlation doesn't equal causation and all that.
Ignoring his stomach, Apollo, albeit sluggishly, responded.
“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”
He marked his final sentence with a yawn; one that Klavier seemed to ignore, too caught up in his acting to be concerned with his friend’s well-being.
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
Apollo cocked an eyebrow at this, forcing himself to fall, not into sleep, but into the temporary role of Juliet. It may have only been audition practice, but that didn’t give Apollo an excuse to slack off.
“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”
Klavier chuckled, voice dripping with something that Apollo couldn’t quite place his finger on. Whatever it was, it made him feel dizzy.
“Oh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pra—“
The door slammed open, revealing a frazzled and frantic Mr. Wright followed by a non-frazzled or frantic Trucy Wright. The former was carrying various papers in his arms, notably ones that were not at all straightened. Apollo’s fingertips itched at the sight. All he wanted to do was take the papers, carefully align them, and then place them back into the man's arms. But, out of respect for authority, he didn’t do that, instead simply watched as Mr. Wright cleared his throat and addressed the sparse crowd.
“So, uh, non-freshman may have noticed, but,” he cleared his throat again, “we don’t have enough people this year.”
Apollo could feel Klavier tense next to him, and he noticed his heart drop. If there weren’t enough people… did that mean—
“But!” Mr. Wright bounced on the balls of his feet to emphasize his point. “But, if some of the techies audition, we should have just enough people to make this play run smoothly.”
The man winced in preparation for the response.
The auditorium went silent. Apollo looked around, trying to meet the eyes of the other techies, but everybody seemed to find interest in the floor. He knew they were torn between their desire to put on a good show and their desire to stay on the sidelines. Apollo bit his lip nervously, waiting for somebody, ANYBODY, to say something.
However, he was very quickly going to wish that the auditorium had just stayed silent.
“Apollo volunteers!” Klavier’s thick German accent rang out in the auditorium, projection skills apparent. He quickly wrapped his hand around Apollo’s wrist and pulled the boy’s arm up. “He can audition.”
Mr. Wright gave Klavier, not Apollo, a grateful smile as the other techies began to speak up and volunteer. ‘Apollo’s’ sacrifice seemed to be the catalyst for the rest of the technicians to volunteer too. Instead of focusing on the fact that Klavier had just unwillingly signed him up for the play, Apollo, dumbstruck, stared at his hand. And then he stared at Klavier’s hand. And then at the less than an inch of space between his hand and Klavier’s hand. Then he blacked out.
——
Apollo woke up three days later, eyes boring into a piece of paper hung up on the wall in front of him. “... Where am I?” It’s important to note here that he didn’t ask; no, he begged.
In response, he got what seemed to be a friendly slap on the back, along with a hearty, recognizable chuckle. Clay Terran’s chuckle, to be exact. “What do you mean ‘where am I’?”
“Where am I.”
Apollo’s tone had shifted from begging to deadpan as he tuned his surroundings out, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. There were two options. He had either time traveled or suffered a long-lasting out-of-body experience brought on by sleep deprivation. The latter was more likely, but he genuinely considered the former for a second there.
Clay’s tone, meanwhile, shifted from lighthearted to deeply concerned. He talked slowly, as if Apollo was concussed — a possible third explanation. “You’re at school. It’s Thursday, around noon. We’re looking at the cast list. We’re part of the play cast now because—“
“Because there weren’t enough regular auditioners.”
Apollo nodded along with Clay’s explanation, piecing together his final thoughts. It seemed he had been running on auto-pilot since late afternoon Friday — a defense mechanism, perhaps, activated by a lack of sleep and sensory overload — and only now had his body decided to give back his autonomy. Apollo coughed, signaling to Clay that whatever was wrong was fine now, and the conversation should probably move on. Clay took the hint.
“Alright.” He slapped both hands on the cast list, covering up the names. “Big reveal time. You ready, ‘Pollo?”
Apollo could only sigh at the dramatics. It’s a wonder why it took Clay so long to become an actor. “Move your hands.”
Clay did not move his hands. At least, he didn’t move them the way Apollo wanted him to, choosing instead to gradually slide them down the sheet. Revealing the names one by one, he announced each name and role as loudly as possible. Sometimes, Clay gave Apollo a run for his money in terms of Chords of Steel.
About halfway through this, Apollo glared at Clay and tore his hands off the cast list to read it in silence. Clay pouted, but ultimately made no further objections, allowing Apollo to bask in his boringness.
The list was pretty typical.
Klavier got Romeo and Apollo Juliet, Ema got Mercutio, Sebastian got Paris, Pearl got the Nurse.
Wait. He got Juliet? And… Klavier got Romeo?
Hm.
Fuck.
——
Having spent a good half of the day concerned about what the role assignments meant for Klavier and their friendship, Apollo arrived at rehearsals a complete and utter wreck. At least, moreso of a wreck than usual.
He was in a cold sweat as he stood in front of the auditorium doors, concerned about every move he could possibly make. If he entered the room in his current state, Klavier would notice. And then Klavier would assume that Apollo was nervous because Apollo had a crush on him (WHICH HE DID NOT). If he entered the room with false confidence, Klavier would notice something was wrong and assume that it’s because Apollo had a crush on him (AGAIN, HE DID NOT). But, if he refused to enter at all, Klavier would assume that Apollo got cold feet because he had a crush on him, and was terrified that acting out a romance onstage would completely reveal said crush, and unravel the elaborate lies that it took to keep that crush hidden. But, remember from the parentheses: Apollo did not have a crush on Klavier.
At some point, during this completely accurate analysis of possible events, Apollo found himself sunk to the floor, palms at his temples.
“Man, if this is how you act on read-through day, you’re fucked.” Was Ema’s — who had shown up god knows how long ago, Apollo hadn’t been paying attention to the fact that this was a public hallway that he was breaking down in — response to the situation.
He barked out a dry laugh while she lazily shoved her hand in front of Apollo’s face, tapping her foot as she did so to silently say, ‘If you don’t let me help you up right this second, I’m going to let you die here.’ He took her hand, joints howling in pain as he got up. Apollo winced, causing Ema to visibly bite back a laugh. He knew she was thinking something about his ‘crotchety old man bones’.
Apollo very quickly found himself right back where he started. With a shaky hand hovering over the door handle, sweaty palms, and thoughts that adamantly refuted the idea of crushes. Except this time around, he had Ema, who was there to ungracefully shove him through the doors, ultimately putting a stop to entrance related instances of overthinking. Nobody could put an end to Apollo’s overthinking overall, but having a little bit gone was better than nothing at all.
“Polly, Ema, you’re here!” Mr. Wright furrowed his brows, silently counting the people in the room. “... Great, we can finally begin.”
Apollo stumbled over what sounded like a strangled ‘cool’ as he rushed over to the stage, joining the sitting circle. Head down, he couldn’t see who he sat by; his only goal in that moment to get:
A. the fuck down, and
B. through rehearsal.
The scent of cologne (specifically ‘parfum’, but at the end of the day, if it smelled nice and chemically, it was cologne) hit him just as soon as the regret did. Not any explicit regret, just some general grievances: regret over showing up, regret over meeting Klavier, regret over being born, etc.
“Herr Forehead! I was worried you might bail!” Klavier bounced happily as he spoke, which was amazing considering that he was sitting down; a position that Apollo figured one could not bounce in.
“Yup. Uh-huh. I’m here. Me. Apollo Jus—“
CLAP.
Interrupted-slash-saved by the noise, thundering and echoing through the auditorium, Apollo sighed and directed his attention to Mr. Wright, who was no doubt the source.
“Alright! Welcome to rehearsals, especially the… few new people that we have.” His tone and expression grew distant for a minute, but he quickly regained composure. “Uh, yeah, anyway! Today is the table read! We should be able to get through most of the script with what time we have, but whatever we don’t get through, we can finish tomorrow.
“For those who don’t know, a table read is where we all sit and read our lines. No physical acting necessary, just getting a feel for your character and what you’ll be expected to do. Sound good?” He paused, waited for everybody to nod, and continued. “Let’s get this show on the road, then!”
Apollo tuned out after this point, allowing himself to get lost in his worries. His first lines didn’t come up for a little while, and as a technician, he used to do this a lot; zone out during the read-through, get the vague gist of what’s going on, think of possible lighting and stage setups, and go home. Surely being an actor can’t be too different, right?
Surprise: it could. It could be very different.
He missed his first cue. And his second. By his third, he was paying full attention to what was going on, but that didn’t stop a particularly terrifying sophomore from glaring at him, likely excited for Apollo’s downfall. At his fourth cue, the sophomore and Apollo were in a glaring match (one that he was intent on winning).
… And by his fifth cue, he was too caught up in the match and missed it.
“To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss,” Klavier crooned.
“...” was apparently the wrong response.
Everyone looked expectantly at Apollo, who was busy glaring at the sophomore, who had a shit-eating grin spread on his face. A grin Apollo didn’t even bother to question until Klavier poked him in the shoulder.
“Oh shhhhhoot. Shoot.” Apollo cleared his throat, desperately trying to bury the shame that this whole experience had brought upon him.
“Good pilgrim,” he began, “You do wrong your hand too much.” A practiced expression, one of feigned disinterest, fell on his face as he recognized the lines as the same scene Klavier and he practiced during pre-auditions. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”
Apollo winced as he ended and spared a glance at Mr. Wright, who looked, somehow, proud. He had this weird Father Figure Smile on his face, something that incited happiness to bubble up in the back of Apollo’s throat, his fingers tapping against his leg in excitement. Peppy wasn’t usually a word to describe Apollo, but currently he was, yes, peppy.
He looked back to Klavier, who seemed a lot closer than before.
“Have not saint’s lips, and holy palmers too?” Klavier smiled and arched an eyebrow as he looked at Apollo, showing off how much of a dork he was by getting too in-character.
“Ay, pilgrim,” he rolled his eyes. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”
“O, then, dear saint,” Klavier’s voice, so full of love and adoration that it made Apollo’s stomach churn, face hot with second-hand embarrassment. He couldn’t explain why his knees grew weak.
Klavier continued, blind to how stupid he looked and how his stupidness affected Apollo. “Let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn into despair.”
Apollo wanted to vomit. His knees were even weaker, palms covered in sweat. Klavier was so dumb and stupid and awful and pretty.
Pretty stupid.
For the first time since rehearsals began, Mr. Wright piped up. “Right about here is where you two would pretend to kiss, but again, this is a read-through,” he gestured to the script he held in his hand, “so we don’t need to do that.” He paused. “… Not, y’know, now, at least.”
——
It was honestly incredible how much Apollo’s self-confidence relied on the approval of parental figures. Ever since Mr. Wright gave him that smile of approval, he had been riding on a confidence high. Clay was sick of it, Apollo could tell, but he just couldn’t shake how good he felt about himself.
They were at the point in their rehearsals where blocking was instated; with today being the first fully blocked rehearsal. While normally Apollo would be freaking the fuck out, he was instead full of faith in his abilities, striding down the hallway that lead to the auditorium with ease, with a less-than-enthused Clay on his right and a giddy Klavier on his left.
“I’m excited to see how it all looks together!” Klavier ended his sentence with a clap, emphasizing his point.
Clay rolled his eyes. “We know, Klav.”
Klavier ignored Clay, instead beginning what seemed like it would be a long harangue, and Apollo was ready to dutifully listen to every word. Before Klavier could begin, however, they arrived at the auditorium’s double doors; their arrival marking the end of their conversation.
Apollo thrust the doors open and marched inside. Nothing was going to ruin his mood.
As he waited for the rest of the cast to file in, he plopped down in the seat next to Vera. Not looking up from her sketchbook, she murmured a quick, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Am I normally not in a good mood?”
Vera quickly drew up a face crying from laughter. “No.”
Apollo decided then that he should never sit next to Vera again. It… was for the best.
Luckily for him, by the end of that ‘conversation’, rehearsal was ready to begin, and he had no more obligation to interact with Vera (not that he didn’t like her, she was just too blunt for his already frail ego to handle).
Mr. Wright was raring to go the minute he entered, barking orders left and right. Orders that Apollo was happy to follow, eager to gain even a sliver of the director’s approval. Clay shot more than a couple of looks at Apollo that translated to “Apollo. You dumb fucking teacher’s pet.”
Apollo ignored those looks.
Rehearsal ran smoothly for the most part, thus, it didn’t take them long to get to the scene that Apollo regarded as the Dreaded Ballroom Scene. But he was ready. He had prepared himself, and there was no way that anything could go badly, something that had been happening just about every time they ran through the scene. For example, last week, Apollo just barely avoided vomiting the second Klavier was told to get close. But again, this time around, Apollo was ready.
“Ay pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.” The words fell out of Apollo’s mouth with ease. At this point, most of the time during the play, he was running on autopilot. Long gone were the days of staring contests and missed cues.
Klavier inched closer to Apollo, a smirk etched into his face. “O then dear saint,” he gently grabbed hold of Apollo’s hands, going slow, allowing ample time for Apollo to express discomfort or annoyance with the acting choice. “Let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
Before this scene continues, let’s circle back to ‘Long gone were the days of staring contests and missed cues’. What failed to be mentioned in that sentence were things that were not long gone. Namely, Apollo’s massive definitely-not-a-crush on one Klavier Gavin (the same Klavier Gavin that currently held his face about an inch away from Apollo’s and was staring at Apollo with a look of ‘love’ that must’ve taken weeks of practice to seem so real) and the effects that this not-crush had on him. These things were not gone.
Klavier pulled his left hand away from Apollo’s, and slowly reached for Apollo’s cheek, aiming to cup it in his hand. And as soon as that left hand hit his cheek, Apollo tensed, shouted a quick, “MR. WRIGHT I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM,” and then ran directly out of the auditorium, jumping off the stage and stumbling his way towards the doors.
He didn’t stop there, at the doors. It would’ve been stupid to stop there, so he ran further. Turned the corner, past rooms B104, B105, B106, past the cafeteria. He ran until he hit the bathrooms, ran into the first stall he laid his eyes on.
Yeah. This’ll do for a good self-deprecation-on-the-floor session. Well. Maybe not on the floor — it was a bathroom, after all.
This’ll do for a good self-deprecation-standing-up session.
With a groan of “I can’t fucking believe I did that,” Apollo leaned against the toilet paper dispenser, head in his hands. How. How did he let Klavier, of all people, get to him? He shouldn’t be making an idiot of himself over a guy who was 60 percent glitter (Ema had always put it best: Klavier was a glimmerous fop).
It was stupid for Apollo to think that he would receive privacy in a public bathroom. Almost as soon as he entered and got himself situated, ready to wallow, the door swung open and somebody stomped in. Judging by the weight of the footsteps and the pitch of the heaving breaths, it was Clay. Hoping that this was the case so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself for the second time that day, Apollo called out.
“Clay?”
A pause. Shit. Was this the wrong person? Did he look like an idiot now? Well, leave it to Apollo to—
“Oh, thank god you’re here. You turned the corner and then I lost track of you and it was like, damn, what happened? It was like in Scooby Doo when—“
“Clay.”
“Yeah?”
“Leave me alone.”
“…No.”
Apollo sighed. Really, what did he expect from somebody like Clay? A non-stubborn response?
He pushed open the door on the stall, walking out and over to Clay, who was standing right in front of the doors, arms crossed.
They stood like that for a second, before Apollo sagged his shoulders and wrapped Clay in a hug. “I’m an idiot,” he muttered.
Clay patted him gently on the back, not saying anything. He didn’t need to. Apollo didn’t need somebody to tell him he wasn’t stupid or some other bullshit reassurance, because Apollo was stupid, in this situation. He was acting stupid. And he didn’t want somebody to tell him otherwise.
“I yelled that I needed to piss, essentially.” Apollo leaned into the hug further. “He got close to me and I just broke down and it’s so stupid because I’m acting like a ten year old.”
“Yeah, you are.” Clay continued to pat for a second before pulling back. “But it’s not the end of the world.”
It was now Apollo’s turn to stay silent.
“You embarrassed yourself in front of some guy. So what? Klavier doesn’t care. I mean, he’s probably worried, but y’know.” He shrugged. “I cannot stress this enough, ‘Pollo. It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does.”
“Oh? Really? Interesting, please elaborate.”
“It. I. Well.”
“Incredible. Wow. That’s a great argument.”
“Shut up.” Apollo thought for a second. Why did it matter? Why did he care so much about Klavier’s opinion of him? Maybe his not-crush was a not-not-crush. But that would be stupid. Right?
“Maybeit’sbecauseIcareaboutKlavier’sopinion.”
“Yeah. No shit.”
“No, I mean. I think I.” Apollo couldn’t say the words out loud. But Clay got the gist of things, nodding silently.
“I’m not here to be your therapist. But I will say this. If he’s worth caring about, he won’t care if you ’embarrassed’ yourself. Like I said, he’s just gonna be worried.” Clay put his hand on Apollo’s shoulder and gently nudged him out the door. Apollo complied.
Apollo wasn’t sure if he believed Clay. He wasn’t sure if he believed himself, honestly, specifically vis-a-vis Klavier. But he couldn’t wallow forever; he had to leave the bathroom at some point and face the music (literally, Klavier’s name meant ‘piano’, a fun fact that Ema never let him live down.)
The walk back to the auditorium was longer than Apollo remembered it... probably because he wasn’t running like his life depended on it.
As soon as they got back to the auditorium, with Clay shoving the doors open to enter and Apollo sheepishly following behind him. Klavier,meanwhile, raced off the stage (unlike Apollo, he used the stairs) and up to Apollo, eyebrows furrowed together in worry.
“Apollo!”
Apollo. Coming out of Klavier’s mouth, it sounded like a fucking symphony, like Apollo’s namesake came to earth and blessed the word.
“Apollo, are you okay?”
“Mm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Apollo was not fine. Apollo was dazed from not being referred to as ‘Forehead’.
Klavier frowned, disbelief apparent. “…Okay.”
Before Apollo had a chance to say sorry to Mr. Wright for disrupting the performance, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he noticed it was Klavier’s hand. His expression must’ve looked accusatory, because the hand was immediately dropped.
“Do you want to practice with me? Like, after-school.”
When Apollo said nothing, Klavier elaborated. “I’ve noticed you seem uncomfortable with this scene and pretty much every scene we’re together in, and I figured practicing more would help.” He didn’t waste a second in adding, “You don’t have to though, of course.”
Apollo, still a bit shell-shocked, not only from hearing his name said like that but also from the hand to shoulder contact - the final nail in the ‘I definitely like Klavier more than I should’ coffin, because if he didn’t care about Clay doing it, why was Klavier different? - nodded. “Yeah. Great! Uh-huh. Sounds good.”
Apollo Justice was an idiot.
——
Klavier was gesticulating wildly as he spoke, a wide smile on his face, but Apollo wasn’t listening. He was too busy thinking about how utterly fucked he was.
The two were walking home from rehearsal, en route to Apollo’s house for their first ever after school practice. Klavier was talking about… something that Apollo didn’t quite catch, too busy considering, again, how fucking fucked he was. Sure, he had spent time with Klavier alone before but that was pre-self awareness. Before he could put a finger on that weird feeling he got when Klavier smiled. Before they were forced to kiss in a school play. God, Apollo missed the before.
Apollo was soaked in sweat by the time they made it to his driveway. If Klavier had noticed, he, thankfully, didn’t say anything.
“Let’s. Go in.” Apollo blurted out, as if they weren’t in the process of doing so. Saying it a third time is probably a bit redundant, but let’s do it anyway. Apollo. Justice. Was. Fucked.
Klavier offered a small laugh in response, one that only served to worsen Apollo’s current state. Why did his second (Clay always came first) best friend have to own the best fucking smile in the universe? Why? Seriously, why?
Lips stretched thin into a half-grimace, Apollo lead the way up to his bedroom, as if Klavier hadn’t been there a million times before. Once he reached his door, he expected the tension in his shoulders to lessen, for a breath to be let out that he absolutely did know that he was holding. But he was still as tight as ever as he pushed through the door and slumped on his computer chair, digging his script out of his backpack. Klavier did the same — opting to sit on Apollo’s bed — except, y’know, without the weight of ‘I’m in love with my second best friend’ on his shoulders.
“So,” Apollo coughed and followed it up with a wince. Why did he clear his throat? To clear the air? That’s. That’s not how that works.
…Fuck, he was stupid.
“Should we just. Get right. Uh. Into it?”
Klavier nodded with another smile that melted Apollo’s brain. “Ja! Let’s rock n’ roll.”
As they flipped through their scripts, getting to their first interaction together, silence filled the room, one that was unbearable for Apollo, but likely comfortable for Klavier. With Klavier’s interests in mind, he didn’t interrupt the quiet, waiting until Klavier spoke first to even consider doing the same.
“Alright, let’s just skip to the part you’ve been having trouble with, because, honestly, you’ve got the rest of the scene down.”
Apollo mumbled something akin to agreement, panic seeping in and rendering his mouth near useless, and Klavier took that as a signal to just get right into it.
“O then dear saint,” he called dramatically, likely overplaying it to make the task seem less stuffy and daunting. It didn’t work. “Let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” He got off the bed, walking closer and leaning on the desk. “Here’s where we would kis—“
Apollo practically jumped out of his chair. “You know what? We’ve been at this for a while; let’s play Wii. I would love to play Wii. I love the Wii. You know who I could kiss right now.” He forced a laugh, unaware of how badly he was digging his own grave. “Not you. I could kiss Shigeru Miyamoto right now.” Clapping his hands together, he finished his digging. “Wii. Now. Fun. Let’s go.”
If Apollo had just waited a second or two before bolting out of his room, he would’ve seen the flash of disappointment that crossed Klavier’s face. But he didn’t wait. All Apollo noticed was the strained tone of his voice when he said, “Ja. Ja, let’s take a break.”
And even that could’ve been imagined.
Apollo clicked on the Wii with one hand and pushed in the disc with another, the entire motion done with practiced ease (not that it was an Olympic feat to begin with). Sparing a glance behind him, he forced a smile at Klavier, who made his way from the foot of the stairs to the couch, sitting a comfortable space away from Apollo. By a ‘comfortable space’, it was, of course, meant they were sitting at complete opposite sides of the couch. That was comfortable for Apollo.
He threw a controller over to Klavier as he clicked through the menu screen, eventually getting to character selection.
“Mario Kart,” Apollo pointed out, making sure Klavier knew what was going on.
Klavier, in turn, smiled, nodding as if ‘Mario Kart’ wasn’t obvious. Fucking of course it was Mario Kart. It said it on the title screen. Hell, Mario himself said it in the opening cutscene.
But Klavier never mentioned how dumb it was for Apollo to say that. He was nice like that. It made Apollo sick.
Characters (Bowser for Apollo and Princess Peach for Klavier), karts, and stages (Mario Circuit, Coconut Mall, DK Summit, and Wario’s Gold Mine) chosen; the game finally began. His jaw clenched. It wasn't the game’s fault. Apollo knew these courses like he knew the back of his hand; that wasn’t the problem here. The problem was that there was something in the air.
A tension.
A tension that Apollo created by not just going through with the damn kiss. Or maybe, god forbid, just saying no like a normal person.
Now, was it probably just his brain creating problems? Ye—
“Apollo, are you uncomfortable with me?”
No. No, it was not his brain creating problems. For once, the issue was real.
…That made things worse, actually.
Apollo scrambled to pause the game, ending up in twelfth place by taking so long to do so. He whipped his head around, facing Klavier with an incredulous expression. “What?”
Klavier looked away as soon as he met Apollo’s eyes. His voice was notably quieter as he repeated, “Are you uncomfortable with me?”
“No!” Meanwhile, Apollo’s voice reached a near-shriek. “No, of course not! You’re one of my best friends, man, why would you think I was uncomfortable with you?”
Klavier seemed taken aback by this. He considered his words for a second. “You… just get really tense around me in rehearsal whenever I get close. I thought it was because I was making you uncomfortable.”
Apollo put his controller down, feeling like holding it was making this emotional and important conversation decidedly less emotional and important. “No. No, no, it’s not you. It’s me.” He winced at how stupid he sounded. “The kiss is just freaking me out.”
“Is it because—“
“NO! No! Nononononono, wrong idea there. I love gay people. I am gay people! Gay rights! Lesbian rights!” Apollo threw his hands up in the air. “Woohoo! No. Wait, fuck just. Pretend I never.” Apollo groaned, extraordinarily aware of how badly he was fucking this whole thing up.
“No, I didn’t mean that. Gott,” he grinned, “you’re like a pole vaulter the way you jump to conclusions. What I meant to say was: is it because it’s your first kiss?”
Apollo had two choices here. He could lie. Or he could tell the truth. The whole truth. “…Yes. That’s exactly why.”
He chose lies.
Klavier nodded his head in understanding. “The kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Yeah, you’re r—“
You know how in That’s So Raven, before Raven gets a vision, she makes That Face. Yeah. That was the face Apollo made when he noticed just exactly what Klavier said.
‘Doesn’t have to’.
It ‘doesn’t have to mean anything’.
Not ‘it won’t mean anything’. Not ‘the kiss doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Doesn’t have to mean anything’.
This sent Apollo into a spiral; his thoughts an endless echo chamber of pointless questions. Questions that, subconsciously, he knew the answer to.
These types of thoughts were becoming common practice at this point.
He dissociated, watching his body push Klavier outside with the excuse of ‘Hey Klavier, I just found out I’m sick. With the flu. So you need to leave.’ (Were all of his excuses that bad? Looking back… yes. The answer is yes.) He watched his body slam the door the minute Klavier stepped outside. He watched it as it ran upstairs and buried itself in the sheets. He watched it ignore Mikeko’s cries for attention. And he watched it sleep. Tossing and turning, occasionally groaning like an old man haunted by his past.
Eventually, Apollo slept too. It wasn’t in his physical body, but it was sleep nonetheless.
——
Apollo hadn’t realized how quickly the day of reckoning (the play’s opening night) was approaching, and before he knew it, there he was, all costumed up, almost barely saving himself from a panic attack in the wings. The ball scene was about to begin. He had been doing fine so far, but those were easy scenes. However, this, this scene was the hard part.
He hoped his mic was off because FUCK was he breathing loudly.
The freshman playing the second servant ended the servant scene, cuing Apollo’s entrance. And Clay’s, Vera’s, Trucy’s and Pearl’s… but let’s be honest. Apollo’s entrance was the most important, not just to him, but to the entire audience. Again, let’s be real.
Apollo sat still, looking pretty while Clay launched into his speech, barely reminiscent of himself as he commanded the room and stood tall, not a joke or ounce of sarcasm in sight. He bit back a smile that would’ve been, if shown, most unladylike. And Apollo needed to be ladylike as shit right now.
He wandered around, silently interacting with the ‘guests’ of the party as Clay, Klavier, unnamed freshmen, and Trucy did the scene setup. It was all just preparation for the big event. Hopefully, Apollo was just as prepared as the scene.
Probably not.
Klavier approached him, a gentle but coy smile on his face. Apollo was ready to throw up.
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
Physically, Apollo laughed and quirked his eyebrows. Mentally, Apollo was curled up in a puddle of his own tears, face covered in snot. “Good pilgrim,” he began, “you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.” His tone was light and amused, the kind of tone one would adopt when joking around with a friend.
Klavier inched closer, and combining that with leaning forward, his nose was about one centimeter away from Apollo’s face. “Ah, have not saints lips and holy palmers too?”
Apollo turned his head away, placing a hand on his chest, pushing Klavier away but, y’know, not really. “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”
With a smirk, Klavier responded with a dramatic, “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.” He stood taller. Klavier still towered over him. “Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.” Klavier gently put his hand under Apollo’s chin, pushing it up so that the two were better aligned for kissing.
Apollo offered a small grin. Much quieter with this line, he said, “Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”
And here it comes. The moment where Apollo disappoints Mr. Wright and the audience by ruining the scene with his stupid, stupid feelings. The moment where Apollo disappoints Klavier, who stupidly nominated him for this stupid play. Stupid.
Klavier leaned forward, pulling Apollo with him. And before Apollo had a chance to start crying, or running, or yelling, or something stupid, his lips were on Klavier’s. And god, why hadn’t he done this sooner?
Apollo knew how cliche this was, but he thought the kiss was fucking magical. The world fell away, and it was just him and Klavier. Was this what a stage kiss was supposed to feel like? Did this happen every single time an actor kissed their co-actor onstage? For the sake of his sanity, let’s say yes.
And as soon as it started, it was over. The scene moved on. The world moved on; except for Apollo, who was ready to get married to Klavier right then and there.
“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again,” Klavier spoke, as giddy as a child on their birthday. Damn was he good at acting.
Apollo was ready to lean in and start the kiss back up again, but a directing choice made by Mr. Wright ruined the possibility of that. To avoid as many breakdowns as possible, every kiss had been removed, except for one (it was unavoidable, that one). So instead of being desperate, Apollo gave a short laugh and continued doing his best to ignore how wild his brain was going. It was like an infinite keysmash up there. “You kiss by the book.”
Pearl spouted out her lines, and the kiss scene, the dreaded kiss scene, was officially over.
Apollo only had to make it to intermission, and then he could scream into a pillow or blanket or whatever the prop department had available.
——
As the audience and cast spilled out into the halls, Apollo filed away the most strenuous months of his life. All of it was over.
Apollo got many congratulations and some magic flowers from Trucy (where she had been hiding those, Apollo had no idea), but it was all white noise. Static. He was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to complain or be excited or congratulate. He just wanted to go home and sleep. No dinner or whatever. Just sleep, please, thank you.
Then Klavier walked up to him. Shook his hand, gave celebratory remarks. Apollo couldn’t have cared less, to be entirely honest, but when Klavier pulled him into the empty auditorium with an uncharacteristically tense look on his face, that piqued his interest.
Apollo was expecting one of two things:
1. For Klavier to say that he never wanted to be friends with Apollo ever again because the kiss made things weird, or
2. For Klavier to apologize for the kiss and make Apollo swear to never bring it up, ever.
He didn't expect mysterious option three, where Klavier politely asks “Can I kiss you again?” like an employee would ask his boss for a raise.
And what he certainly didn’t expect was to say yes and end up making out with Klavier in the school auditorium.
But just because it was unexpected didn’t mean it was bad.
——
“And that is how we got together. Not whatever Pearl was saying. No offense, Pearl.”
Pearl frowned, but shrugged. “None taken, I guess?”
Ema, meanwhile, rubbed her temples and groaned. “Yes, Apollo, we know that’s how you got together because WE WERE FUCKING THERE. Surprise! You didn’t close the auditorium door behind you, fop, so we got first row tickets to the Apolvier show.”
“I don’t remember that.” Klavier tilted his head to the side, squinting as he tried to remember what had happened.
“Ohoho, well I do. I vividly remember. I specifically remember because earlier that day, you were making fun of me for holding my girlfriend’s hand and now there you were, battling it out with Polly’s tongue.”
Apollo winced. “Please don’t phrase it like that.”