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Court begins at 10am today, which means that Apollo will have to aim to be there by 9am to account for traffic, which means that he’ll have to be ready by 8am if he wants to have a proper breakfast before leaving, which means that he’ll have to wake up at 7am, which means that his alarm needs to be set —at the latest—for 6:45am so that he can have fifteen extra minutes in bed before getting up.
As it happens, today is one of the very rare mornings in which almost everything, save for the weather, goes smoothly.
Of course, for Apollo Justice, smoothly presents problems in and of itself;
One —He is absolutely, head to toe, soaking. Of course the one thing that didn’t run perfectly this morning was the weather: the traffic was minimal, Mikeko didn’t smack his coffee off the counter and smash the cup, his suit was neat and didn’t need ironing, et cetera et cetera. But the skies decided to open and pour down torrential rain halfway through his bike journey, which would have made it just as useless to turn around, get an umbrella, and call a cab, as it would be to just push on through it.
And two —He is an hour and a half early for court, with absolutely nothing to do about it.
It’s not like he can even go and prepare, because Athena is acting as his co-counsel today, and since she’s been taking the lead more and more recently, she’s the one who has all the files. And sure, she’ll be on time, probably even fifteen minutes early, but that doesn’t exactly leave Apollo with much of a solution to kill time for the remaining hour and fifteen minutes.
He can’t even wait inside the courthouse.
The design of the building is such that the main doors only open at 9am, but there’s keycard access from the underground parking lot, leading up into the areas of the court generally inaccessible to regular members of the public. And, since Apollo is having one of those mornings where most things go smoothly except the things he really needs to, he doesn’t have a keycard with him.
Prosecutors have them all the time, but defense attorneys usually get them allocated the morning of the first day of court—which is this morning. In over an hour.
Still, the underground parking lot seems a better bet than just resigning himself to standing out in the rain, and he doesn’t need a keycard to get into that, he would only need one to follow it upwards to the courthouse, so he’ll be fine just waiting in there as long as he doesn’t chain his bike up in the Chief Prosecutor’s parking space.
There are hardly any cars here, just a few black SUVs and sports cars, evidently belonging to the higher ranking members of the courthouse staff and Prosecutor’s Office; Apollo can’t imagine that Prosecutor Payne makes enough to afford a sleek model of vehicle like this. And they’re all probably empty, considering that it’s early and anyone who would own a fancy car would surely also own a keycard and would therefore have no reason to wait in the parking lot and—
He catches a glimpse of his appearance in the shiny exterior of one of the cars. He can’t show up to court like this; his suit is waterlogged, his shoes squeak with rain, and his hair—oh, Holy Mother, his hair. Bending down so that he’s at eye-level with the driver’s side mirror, Apollo tries to slick his hair back up into its usual spikes, his hands dripping water and failing at what is normally such a simple task.
And the tinted window rolls down.
Shit.
Apollo doesn’t even need to look up to know who it is; the context clues of the interior of the car spilling out purple LED light and the sound of rock music, as well as the slight cough before the ever familiar greeting of Herr Forehead, tell him everything he needs to know.
“Get caught in the rain?” Klavier smirks.
“No,” Apollo deadpans. “I’m trying out the new wet look.”
“Interesting. Can’t say I’ve never thought about that before. The look, I mean.”
Now, why is Apollo blushing?
“Why are you here so early?” Apollo asks.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“But I asked first.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that. Call it a pre-trial ritual. I get here an hour early, go over the case in my car; I find that I have new insight when I review anything somewhere new. Things tend to click here in a way that they don’t back at my office or my house. And you?”
“Well,” Apollo laughs a little. “Do you ever have too good time management?”
“Ach, the perpetual problem of an overthinker. Do you at least want to dry off in my car? I have heated seats and a portable hair dryer.”
Far too tired to even question why Klavier has a portable hair dryer in his car, Apollo just smiles politely and walks round to the passenger side, where Klavier is already leaning over the seat and opening the door for him. There are a million comments that he could make about it being an unnecessary gesture, that he’s perfectly capable of opening a car door himself, but that would just be needlessly rude in the face of what appears—according to his bracelet, at least—to be genuine kindness.
And, to be honest, Klavier’s car is exactly as comfortable as he’d expect the fancy sports car of an international rockstar to be, so much so that he can even forgive the gaudy purple LEDs and the fluffy seat-covers—because, right now, all that matters is the heated seat he’s sitting on.
“Why don’t you take your waistcoat off?” Klavier says. “If you lie it on the back seat, the heated seats will dry it before court.”
“Uh, sure,” Apollo responds, awkwardly shuffling his way out of the waistcoat and then, looking back at Klavier for reassurance that it truly is okay to use his expensive car as a glorified dryer, he sets it on the seat.
“Perfect. Here you go.”
Klavier hands him a small hair dryer; what it lacks in size, though, it makes up for in efficiency. He blasts the hot air against his head, occasionally looking over to see Klavier, nonchalantly sipping his iced tea and reading through one of his case files.
Apollo feels better once his hair is no longer dripping water onto his shoulders, but with the distinct lack of hair gel, it’s a lot longer than his usual style—which doesn’t mean he’s exactly uncomfortable with it, it’s just… unusual.
Still, he’s not entirely unprepared. He always has a hair-tie on his wrist for this exact reason, and he uses it to grip his hair in a loose, low ponytail; when he looks over at Klavier, though, he appears to be having some sort of iced-tea-related-disaster, in that he’s somehow missed his mouth with the cup and dribbled a mouthful of his drink down his chin, which he’s now hastily cleaning up before it wets his shirt. And he’s staring at Apollo.
“Uh, Prosecutor Gavin?”
“J-Ja,” Klavier says, stumbling over the simple word.
“You good?”
“Ja… I’m good.”
Apollo looks at his watch, realising that the courthouse doors will be opening any minute now.
“Thanks,” he says. “For letting me dry off.”
“It’s nothing. Although… your shirt and pants are still soaking.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s just nice to have dry hair. And thanks for letting me dry out my waistcoat, too.”
“Hold on,” Klavier says, getting out of the car and opening the trunk. Apollo watches him go through it for a moment, before he returns, holding out some clothes. “I always keep spares in my car.”
“Are you sure? I mean… you’re about five inches taller than me.”
“Six. Not that I’m counting. But anyway, you can always roll the trousers up and tuck the shirt in—which is still a lot better than dripping water all over the evidence.”
Apollo hates that he’s right.
“And,” Klavier continues. “You already know my car has tinted windows, so it’s not like anyone would see you getting changed. I’ll stand outside.”
“Fine,” Apollo says, and then hastily adds a quick, “Thanks.”
Klavier leaves the car, and Apollo turns the pile of clothes over in his hands—it’s a black button up shirt and some trousers that would probably be a lot tighter and form-fitting on Klavier than they would on himself, which is a blessing. He strips down to just his binder and his boxers, noticing when he buttons up Klavier’s shirt that it smells of expensive cologne. The trousers aren’t too bad, either, they’re just a little long, but it’s nothing that can’t be solved by cuffing the bottoms of them—all in all, once he pairs everything with his waistcoat, he can definitely still pass as himself.
The only problem is that Klavier isn’t exactly known for wearing ties, and as such, the collars of his shirts aren’t built for them; they’re open, exposed, and although Apollo’s binder hides a lot of his upper chest, his neck and collarbones are still far more visible than he’d like them to be. But he can’t exactly afford to be picky, not when Klavier is being so hospitable. And it’s only one day in court, it’s not like he’s going to have to wear this outfit forever, is it?
As he exits the car, he catches Klavier off-guard, causing another iced-tea-related-incident, in which Klavier drops his cup straight onto the floor.
“Ach, Herr Forehead,” he says, bending down to pick it up and put it in the trash. “You startled me.”
“Sorry,” Apollo replies. “And, uh, thanks. For the clothes.”
“If I’d known you’d look this good in my clothes, I would have let you borrow them a lot sooner.”
“I-I’ll have them, uh, laundered and back to you, t-tomorrow!”
“No rush, no rush,” Klavier waves his hand. “I have plenty. In fact, they suit you so much, I’m tempted to tell you to keep them.”
“I’ll get them back to you tomorrow. I suppose I’ll see you after court? Good luck,” Apollo says, about to walk out of the parking lot, towards the main entrance of the courthouse, before Klavier holds his wrist to pull him back.
“What’s the point of going out there and getting wet all over again? Just come up with me,” Klavier flashes his keycard.
Why not? It makes logical sense.
What doesn’t make logical sense—and hasn’t made logical sense for a while now—is the way Apollo’s heart drops in sadness the moment Klavier lets go of his wrist.
Not everything can be explained with logic. Apollo banishes the thought.
He’s doing that a lot, these days.
He brushes off Athena’s comments about his clothes, choosing to respond to her smirk when she says, “Late night at Klavier’s, huh?” with nothing but a slight blush and a comment on the case.
She leads the case pretty much by herself, relying on Apollo only to affirm evidence she’s a little unsure about; he perceives two of the witnesses with his bracelet, but it’s only to confirm what Athena’s strange little necklace and therapy sessions had already told her. Truthfully, she absolutely could have handled this case alone—it’s not a matter of skill, it’s confidence, and he makes a mental note to tell her that later at Eldoon’s.
Even against Prosecutor Blackquill, she holds her own. He feels proud of her in the same way that he does of Trucy after a successful show—it’s the same pride he felt even for Phoenix Wright when he got his badge back. Is this family?
He thinks this is family.
Smiling, Apollo congratulates Athena on their Not Guilty verdict, and they leave the courtroom.
Outside, he bumps into Prosecutor Payne, who’s lording something over Klavier with an insufferable, smug smile.
“Really, that should have been an easy case. If I’d have been assigned it, I’d be done before midday,” Payne gloats. “Maybe you should request some time off, since you evidently can’t handle courtroom politics in the aftermath of—”
“Save it, Payne,” Klavier seethes. “The defendant was guilty; I won the case fairly. That’s all I’m supposed to do, right?”
“Fumbling over your evidence like your mind was a million miles away is pathetic.”
“Hey,” Apollo says, breaking up the conversation. “You won? Nice one, Prosecutor Gavin.”
Klavier winces at the name.
“So, uh,” Apollo continues. “Me and Athena sort of have a post-trial ritual of our own. We get noodles at this little place—you probably remember it from our first trial together? And I have coupons that expire tomorrow so it’d be a waste if you didn’t come, really.”
“Are you… inviting me?”
“Yeah. Sorry, should have made that clear. I mean, if you don’t want to come that’s also cool, I just thought—”
“Apollo. Do you want me to come?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d love to.”
Apollo, Athena, and Klavier arrive at Eldoon’s first, but they’re joined not long after by Prosecutor Blackquill, and later by Phoenix and Trucy. Their usual table is already reserved, and Mr. Eldoon sets an extra bowl of noodles down for Klavier, who takes a bite that’s a little too enthusiastic, causing him to sputter out a surprised, “Ach, that’s salty!”
“You get used to it,” Phoenix laughs. “It’s the charm of this place.”
“Yeah, you do,” Athena continues. “Which means you’ll just have to come with us for post-trial noodles more often, Klavgav! Our little group needs more prosecutors, anyway. I think Simon’s been getting lonely.”
“Nonsense,” Blackquill adds. “I have enough friends.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be great to count the number of friends you have on two hands?” Athena jokes.
“So it’s settled then,” Trucy says. “Klavier is the newest addition to the Wright Anything Agency Noodle Club!”
Klavier’s eyes flick from Apollo, to Phoenix, and then stare deeply into his food. Apollo notices it instantly, and he doesn’t even need his bracelet to pick up on the discomfort.
“Eh,” he says. “Maybe me and Klavier will branch off into our own little sub-group and get food that won’t raise our blood pressure after a trial?”
It’s not exactly a sincere offer, even if he wouldn’t mind following through on it, but it does its job: Klavier smiles.
Once the bowls are cleared away, Trucy pulls Athena to the side, trying to rope her into being the assistant for one of her new tricks; initially upon joining the agency, Athena had leapt at the chance to be involved in magic, but after one too many close calls with fire and swords (and, just once, a real life helicopter, which Phoenix was not pleased about), the enthusiasm has dimmed. Still, she’s dragged along, and Prosecutor Blackquill follows, muttering something about this being impossible to miss.
So, it’s just Apollo, Klavier, and Phoenix.
There’s a pause, a lull, and then Klavier speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Both Apollo and Phoenix say nothing.
“They told me yesterday… his execution date has been set.”
“Klavier, I’m—” Apollo starts, but surprisingly, it’s Phoenix’s voice that’s louder and more confident.
“You don’t have to visit him just because now there’s a deadline to do so,” he says. Apollo watches as Klavier looks up, surprised, and raises one eyebrow in confusion at Phoenix.
“I thought…” Klavier trails off, evidently not thinking anything at all. “I just wanted to apologise. For everything he did and… and… everything I did.”
Phoenix smiles at him. There’s sadness in it, and age, but above all there’s a mellow kind of understanding that Apollo didn’t recognise when he first met his hero.
“I don’t blame you,” Phoenix says.
“But—”
“I don’t. Never did.”
“But I… I got you disbarred… I called Mr. Misham to the stand and I…”
“Let me ask you this, Klavier, did you think it was right? At the time? Did you believe you were doing the right thing?”
“Of course I did. Kristoph, he… I thought he was… looking out for me. I thought he wanted a fair trial as much as I did.”
“Then how could I ever blame you? Klavier, you wanted the truth. You were willing to ruin your career in your first trial by accusing a defense attorney known for bluffing and getting last-minute wins. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone; that’s what matters.”
“Surely you… I mean… you must have blamed me at some point? Kristoph was the only one who voted in your favour at the Bar Association meeting… surely you can’t have suspected him then?”
“That’s when I knew it was him, actually,” Phoenix says. “He knew his vote wouldn’t change anything, but he voted in my favour thinking it would convince me that he was on my side. And then he could manipulate me, the way he manipulated everyone else around him. And… yeah, there were moments in those seven years where I almost considered him a friend, even knowing everything he did, just because I wanted someone to be on my side—but it was always a front with him, and I knew that, deep down. I think… I’ve never told anyone this, but I think if I didn’t have Trucy to look after, I might have even fallen for it. But I think the part of me that was a father before it was a lawyer knew—it was the only part of me I could trust at those times—and I think that part knew he wasn’t someone I wanted in her life as an extension of mine. That gut instinct saved me.”
Phoenix glances over at Trucy, who’s proudly brandishing a card to Athena; even Blackquill is smiling and congratulating her on her ‘splendid sleight-of-hand’.
“But,” he continues. “I never, for a second, thought that you would have had that same influence on my life. You were a naïve kid who trusted his brother and made a mistake. That’s all.”
“You… really think so?” Klavier says.
“I do. And I know it’s not always easy to forgive yourself on your own so, if you need permission or whatever, take it. It’s not your burden to bear. Never was. You can let Kristoph go, alright? I have.”
Apollo’s bracelet tightens at those last two words, but he doesn’t bring it up.
With a bright smile and a reassuring fatherly hand on Klavier’s shoulder, Phoenix gets up to join Trucy; a small crowd has gathered to watch her perform now.
“I…” Klavier starts. “I needed to hear that.”
“He’s right,” Apollo says. “Nobody here blames you for it.”
“I do.”
“Even still?”
“Kind of. Less so now I’ve been absolved but… with the execution and everything…”
“Is that why Prosecutor Payne was giving you a hard time earlier?”
“Ja. He’s right, though. That case should have been easy, but my mind was elsewhere. That’s… why I was at court early this morning, too. I’m sorry I lied about my reasons, I just couldn’t stand to be at home.”
“Why?”
“I thought I… got rid of every trace of him. Photographs, letters, everything. But I couldn’t sleep since I got the call yesterday about the execution date, and I was restlessly re-organising my house to try and pass the time, and I found a box in the wardrobe…” Klavier trails off, tears welling in his eyes. He balls his fist against the table, his knuckles trembling.
Before Klavier can even attempt to apologise for having feelings, Apollo rests his hand over his fist, feeling the cool metal of his rings; the shaking stops, slightly.
“It’s okay,” Apollo says. “Take your time.”
“It was… a time capsule… we made when we were kids. I don’t… I don’t know how I didn’t catch it when I did the first Kristoph Purge of 2026 but it must have slipped by me and… and I opened it… and there were just… so many photos… so many stupid things I’d forgotten about like t-the friendship bracelet I made for him and the fridge magnets our parents would bring back from their vacations abroad and I… Apollo, I… I just can’t…”
Something comes over him—a surge of courage, maybe? No, not that. It’s not boldness, it’s softness. It’s care.
It’s…
Apollo Justice’s heart hurts for Klavier Gavin in a way that goes far beyond his regular empathy.
He puts his arm around Klavier and, since he’s shorter, rests his head softly on his shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispers. “I know it.”
And, quite honestly, he’s never been a fan of PDA, but this? This is nice.
“Y-You really think so?” Klavier asks.
“I do. But it’s alright if you’re not fine now, you know?”
“Stop the press—is Apollo Justice saying it’s okay to not be fine?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Look, if this is too forward, then no worries, but—if you don’t want to go back to your place just yet, I have a spare bedroom at mine. It’s…” Apollo takes a deep breath. He probably needed a few more months to come to terms with this, but mourning the dead at the expense of the living is a path he should never stray too far down. “It’s Clay’s old bedroom.”
“That’s… I mean, I’d love to, but… is that okay? I know he was—”
“Klavier, if Clay Terran knew you were sleeping in his bed, he’d rise from the grave himself to give me a high-five.”
Klavier lets out a slight laugh. “Well, if you’re sure, then I’d be honoured to be your guest for the night.”
The moment Apollo reaches his apartment complex, a wave of self-consciousness passes through his body. This is Klavier Gavin, and as much as he considers him a friend, he’s sure that his rival prosecutor lives in a fancy mansion with his sports car and motorcycle parked outside, whereas Apollo’s apartment is…
Well, what’s the best way to describe an eighth-floor apartment with a leak in the bathroom and one bedroom belonging to a dead astronaut, the other belonging to a cat who so graciously allows her owner to share it?
To his surprise, though, he’s barely able to shut the door before Klavier gasps a little, and says, “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” Apollo echoes. “You really think so? Christ, you’d get on with my landlord.”
“It’s so… you.”
“Well, I guess I’ll give you the official tour, then,” Apollo smiles.
He shows Klavier the kitchen— (“And here’s the crack on the granite worktop that we had to fill in with sharpie last year,”) —the living room— (“That’s Mikeko’s chair, if you sit on it she will scratch you, be warned!”) —his bedroom— (“Don’t laugh, I know it’s a Murphy Bed, it came with the apartment,”) —and, finally—
“This is Clay’s—your—bedroom for the night,” he opens the door. Braving this room is always hard.
The week after Clay died, his father came round to help Apollo go through his things. Most of his clothes and belongings were taken away, leaving Apollo with only a few of his t-shirts (which he wears on the nights when it’s a little too much for him to sleep through the tears) and their old scrapbooks from their school days. So, sure, it’s still Clay’s bedroom, but there’s less of the clutter in it that made it Clay’s bedroom.
Even the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling have lost their shine.
Dutifully, Apollo puts fresh bed sheets on the bed and, once he’s done, he leads Klavier back into the living room, having had his daily fill of remembering Clay without crying.
He has to be strong for Klavier, right now.
“Do you want some pyjamas?”
“Ja, bitte,” Klavier says.
It’s a good excuse for Apollo to stand in his bedroom, alone for a moment, and let out a silent sob. He’s been doing a lot better these days, coping with Clay’s death, but sometimes—like now—it hits him and it feels like his world is exploding all over again.
Taking a deep breath, he wipes his eyes, gets changed into a t-shirt and shorts, and pulls out a pair of his nicest pyjamas, composing himself further before he goes back out to the living room and hands them to Klavier.
When he sees Klavier, though, suddenly he’s no longer mourning Clay and instead, he’s feeling his best friend’s presence clapping him on the back and shouting, “Score, Pollo!” with his trademark huge grin on his face. Because Klavier is on his sofa, with Mikeko in his lap, making kissy noises at the purring cat and scratching under her chin, a gesture that, so far, she’s only let Apollo and Trucy perform.
“Wow, betrayal,” Apollo smirks. “My own cat isn’t immune to the rockstar charm. Here: pyjamas.”
“Ach, if only I could work my charm on certain defense attorneys instead of the world’s boy-band fans and calico cats,” Klavier responds, gently putting Mikeko down onto the floor and walking past Apollo, blowing a kiss as he does, to go and get changed.
Apollo bends down to the floor and Mikeko sits on his knees.
“What’dya think of him, Mik?”
Mikeko purrs, which Apollo knows means one of two things;
One — “He’s absolutely perfect, and you should stop hiding your feelings for him (because you’re terrible at it anyway), suck it up, and ask him out already because he’s obviously into you too.”
Or two — “I don’t care. Give me food.”
Deciding to go with the latter, Apollo makes his way into the kitchen and fills up her bowl with food, stopping by the fridge to get out two of the German beers he’d bought on a whim a few days ago.
“Klav, you want a beer?” He shouts through to the other room.
Deja vu. “Clay, you want a beer?” Pain.
“Ja, bitte,” Klavier’s voice cuts through the mess in Apollo’s head and gives him just enough clarity to shake himself out of the spiralling thoughts. He opens the two bottles and sets them down on the scratched coffee table, wondering whether he should be a good host and put out some snacks, too—then again, they did just eat—but then again, isn’t it better to have them and not need them than it is to need them and not have them?—but then again, what snacks does he even have in the house that Klavier would like?
He’s interrupted from his train of thought by Klavier taking one of the beers from the coffee table; as Apollo looks up, he smiles at him, raising his bottle in a distanced attempt at cheers.
Joining him on the sofa, they sit in silence for a moment, with Mikeko between them, until Klavier says, “Do you want to talk about Clay?”
“No,” Apollo replies, a sad smile on his face. “I suppose you don’t want to talk about—”
“Nein.”
“Well, I suppose we’re just going to have to talk about normal people things, then, like the weather.”
“Which was horrendous today, by the way,” Klavier bounces off him like this is improv. “But I must say, seeing a soaking wet Herr Forehead trying to fix his hair in my car mirror made me smile enough to knock me right out of a spiral about my brother.”
“I’m glad my terrible hair day had some good come out of it, I suppose.”
“You know, the low ponytail really works for you. Is that how you look in the mornings? Before court?”
“Yeah.”
“Ach, I’d like to see that.”
Apollo blushes, staring down into his bottle instead of meeting Klavier’s eyes. “Well, go on then,” he says. “What do you look like in the mornings?”
“I’ll show you,” Klavier says, and when Apollo looks up, he sees that he’s loosening his braid and shaking his hair out around his shoulders. He rubs his eyes, ruining his obviously carefully applied eyeliner, smudging it all around, and then he smiles with his teeth. “There. Not exactly Vogue- ready, ja?”
“Actually,” Apollo cocks his head to the side. “I think you look better like this.” Especially wearing my clothes.
“Really?”
“Mhm. It’s like you’re not pretending. You’re just Klavier.”
“People don’t tend to want just Klavier.”
“I do.”
He says it before he even realises he’s said it.
I do. I do.
Well, he does, it’s true, but that was going to be a carefully guarded secret that Apollo would bottle up until one day he would die. But no, the proverbial cat is out of the proverbial bag, and the real-life cat sitting between them is purring smugly, as if to say, “Finally you did it. There’s only room for one pussy around here.”
“Y-You… do?” Klavier says.
Oh, fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Yeah,” Apollo smiles at him. “I like the authentic you. And I think a lot of other people would if you showed them.”
“Would it be strange to say I don’t really care about what other people think? Your opinion means more to me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then…”
Say it, Pollo. Say it!
“…I think I like just Klavier an awful lot. Enough that I’d like to ask if he’s free for dinner this weekend.”
“Just Klavier likes you an awful lot too,” Klavier beams. “And would be honoured to take you up on your offer.”
Mikeko meows loudly.
“What’s she trying to say?” Klavier asks.
“I think I can translate, hold on,” Apollo picks her up and looks her dead in the eyes. “Yep. She said, ‘took you long enough, Apollo’.”
Klavier laughs. His face lights up, like there isn’t a single inch of him that’s sad, and—in this instant—Apollo decides to take back every bad thing he’s ever said about today.
Because today has been one of those butterfly-effect days where everything has gone smoothly, even if he hadn’t realised it until now.