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“Ach, Fraulein Woods, you look like a vision.”
Juniper fiddles with the hem of the starry cloak between her thumb and forefinger, and she can hear a thick but exaggerated German voice calling her, but all she can do is breathe, in, two three four; hold, two, three, four, five, six, seven; out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…
“…Something wrong?” Klavier tries again, and she jumps.
“Um, I’m sorry. I— I didn’t catch that.” Taking a closer look at his face as she wrings her own hands in front of her, she sees it for just barely a second— worry. Pain.
Grief.
That camera-ready smile returns.
“Achtung, don’t you worry yourself! There will be no guitars set on fire this time, I assure you.” He steps behind her in the mirror, poking his head out so it’s visible to her right, like an attendant on a wedding dress reality show.
“I miss her,” she admits quietly, unable to stifle the thought any longer.
“Pardon?” His brows knit together.
“Professor Courte.”
His gaze falls, right along with his smile. “I do, too,” he murmurs, his voice completely lacking the singsong, confident color that was there before… well. Before. “She… she was the reason I had the courage to record my songs, all those years ago. I was going to meet with her to have her hear my latest.” She doesn’t have Athena’s hearing, but Juniper can tell he’s taking the loss just as hard as she is.
She takes a minute to choose her next words. “You’re making music again?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, the entire legal world and their grandmother heard you when you said your band was done for good…”
He gapes for just a moment before delivering a short huff of laughter, almost a teasing scoff. “Ach, there’s the ever-so-honest Student Council President!”
“I— I’m so sorry!” She raises two delicate hands to her mouth. “It’s just… after all that happened… I don’t know if I’d ever be able to perform again if I were you.”
Snapping lightly to a rhythm only he can hear, Klavier smiles, genuinely this time. “I wasn’t sure if I ever would again either, but you’d be surprised. Muses can be found in the most surprising of places.”
“M-muses?”
“Ja. It can give you that… hm.” He searches for the word. “That push. To create. To perform.”
“Really?” She cocks her head to the side. “So, you… found a new one?”
She can’t really tell, what with the strange lighting of the spare classroom used as a dressing room, but it looks like his tan skin gets a little redder around the cheeks. “I… I did. A while ago, actually. I was going to tell Professor Courte all about him.”
“Him?”
“Ach,” he chokes out in a conceding chuckle. “I trust you won’t tell. You seem to be as good at secrets as I am.” He looks down at his guitar. “Listen. I know the situation is… complicated… but keep things simple out there. Find your anchor. Something or someone that really inspires you. It makes it all easier.” And with that, he straightens up and walks out of the room, his dazzling smile plastered on his face once more.
When the stagehand comes to let her know it’s time, she’s already aware— she can feel the bass of the announcement over the PA system thumping at the walls. She’s led through the winding halls of the school from her dressing room— it’s symbolic, she thinks, of leaving everything that’s happened behind for just a moment.
Before she knows it, Klavier is gesturing to her on stage. She walks out from behind the curtain, cloak and dress billowing behind her, the ghost of Professor Courte watching backstage, never to be seen again after tonight. Juniper, on her opening breath, wonders how she’ll possibly manage to cope.
And as her eyes land on Athena in the crowd, she realizes that she doesn’t have an answer.
But she does have a muse.
“Daddy, c’mon! Since when have you ever turned down greasy food?”
“Truce, we’ve eaten our own weight in cotton candy and kettle corn already. And there’s no food or drink allowed in the art exhibit.”
“It’s a school gym.” Trucy rolls her eyes, smiling in a way that only thoroughly entertained daughters can.
Phoenix tilts his head back and forth, acquiescing, “Yeah, sure, but it’s got art in it, so it’s an exhibit. Your old man was majoring in art before he became a lawyer, y’know.”
“Oh, you only mention it every time you talk about how you changed the course of your whole life for—”
“Watch it, young lady.” He tries to hold a fatherly glare, but it quickly gives way to a laugh. “C’mon kiddo, let me be a cool art school dad. Just for now.” He opens the door to the gym, letting Trucy in.
“Alright, alright,” she giggles. “Hey, look at this one!”
Phoenix leans in, taking a closer gander at cobalt petals, the paint of which gives way to inky midnight indigoes. “Hm. I think this one’s inspired by O’Keeffe’s floral studies. Truce, come look at this, the close-up composition’s really well done—”
“Are you sure you just don’t like it because the blue matches your suit?”
He groans. “Can I ever catch a break?”
“Does Mr. Hat get a paycheck?” she chirps right back.
“Heyyy! Mr. Wright!” a new voice calls, and though Phoenix has only heard it a few times, it’s pretty easy to put a name to the booming yell as well as the paint-splattered apron protecting a red uniform. Robin runs over, waving her arms. “I was H-O-P-I-N-G you’d swing by!”
Hearing that, of course, surprises Phoenix a bit— “Oh, hey, Robin. Really?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding her head as she works on what looks like a ceramic piece. “You know, when I first heard you were coming here, my first thought was: ‘Dude. He has to see my work!’ Especially now that I’ve decided to pursue art and law,” she adds, wagging a finger. “Since you studied both, I figured you’d be the one to A-S-K about it!”
“I, uh, didn’t think too many people knew about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
Robin throws the wet clay in her hands to the floor; it lands with something between a thud and a splat. “Are you kidding? Everyone knows about how you changed your career to help the Chief Prosecutor overcome his inner demons.” Out of nowhere, she pulls out a shoe. “Oh, to have someone care about me that much! It’s a girl’s dream!”
Trucy smirks at him, saying nothing and everything at the same time.
He lets out a long, exasperated sigh, allowing his body to sag downwards. “Glad the new generation can see me as an inspiration.”
“Oh, but enough of that!” Robin says, clasping her hands behind her back. “So, what do you think?”
He straightens back up. “Is this one yours? I was just telling Trucy I really liked the composition here. Really great use of this one leaf on the left-hand side that creates a line of action that draws the eye to the center of the flower in the lower right-hand corner.”
“That… that was Professor Courte’s,” Robin says, her eyes casting downward. “She wanted to do a staff and student art showcase, but it wasn’t all planned out before she…”
“Ah.”
“So… I decided to get a bunch of members of the art club together to put everything in here so we could at least make her proud, you know?” For all her usual enthusiasm, her smile now is watered with sadness.
“I’m sure she would be,” Phoenix says. “All of this really does look great.”
She looks up. “You really think so?”
“I know so. And I know Trucy would—” he stops short, then sighs for a very, very long time.
“Robin, I hate to ask, but did you see my daughter leave…?”
“Ach, if it isn’t the sweet little morsel herself!”
“Prosecutor Gavin! Long time, no see!”
Klavier beams with his usual smile, but his gaze narrows minutely under the backstage lights as he packs up the last of the stage equipment. “I thought you were with your father?”
Trucy just bounces on the tips of her toes, smiling.
He huffs a laugh. “Alright, where did you leave him?”
“In the art room,” she answers, far cheerier than warranted.
He smirks a bit. “Well, if you’re on the run, I happen to know where Herr Forehead is. Care to bother him instead?”
“Ssstep right up! Newspaper Club fundraiser right here!” Myriam’s voice muffles through the box behind the booth.
“Please,” Hugh says, adjusting his glasses. “Everyone knows this game is rigged, or at the very least, you have to have some inhuman talent for archery. Even I’m not good at this one.”
“You sure about that?” Apollo asks, walking up with crossed arms and a smirk. “I’ve seen a couple people win big tonight.” He pulls a wrinkled five from his wallet. “Free newspapers for a year if I get a bullseye— does that include the funnies?”
Myriam giggles again from under her box, opening a flap at the top. “Of courssse. Money goes here and gets you seven tries.”
“Herr Forehead! Look who I found!” By the time Apollo turns around, Trucy, Klavier, and the gaggle of students that have been following him around since the concert have formed a bit of a crowd.
Hugh smirks and slaps a bill of own on the table. “Fine, then. Care to make this interesting, Mr. Justice?”
Apollo’s best kept secret is his childhood in Khura’in, but his second best kept is easily his competitive streak. When Mr. Wright challenged him to a poker game a few months back, he couldn’t refuse, and when Clay had bet him that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with a GYAXA training regimen for a week straight, he’d put in extra hours in his apartment complex’s makeshift gym just to make sure he would win and save his pride.
So, when Hugh raises a cocky eyebrow and slings his bow off his shoulder, and when Klavier gives him a supportive wink next to an excited Trucy among the rest of the crowd, he gently pats the bill into Myriam’s box, Hugh following suit.
Of course, Apollo’s been watching patiently from the sidelines as long as Hugh’s been chastising Myriam— he can see the slight, rigged shaking of the moving targets, and he’s managed to figure out the pattern; now all he has to do is get his aim to cooperate. He rolls up his sleeves a little further and rolls his shoulders to give himself some extra room as he takes the bow from the counter and nocks the first of the seven arrows laid out in front of him.
He misses. So does Hugh.
“C’mon Polly! You’ve got this!” Trucy cheers, her voice ringing clear above the murmurs in the crowd.
He shoots again, and so does Hugh. They both miss a couple more times.
“Two tries left, Herr Forehead! Pull back a bit more; added pressure on the shaft isn’t a bad thing!”
The crowd roars with laughter, but Apollo just rolls his eyes— he does take the advice, though, and draws the arrow back to his cheek.
He misses.
Hugh squints, adjusting his posture, and shoots again.
His arrow lands right at the edge of an outer ring.
“Alright. Last ones!” Myriam chides. “Unless you’d like to pay for another seven triesss…”
Apollo tunes out the murmuring of the crowd, of Trucy’s cheering and Klavier’s completely unnecessary and unhelpful smirks that practically burn into the back of his brain. The targets are still shaking minutely in the same pattern before. All Apollo has to do is lead his shot, pull back with just enough tension and—
His arrow hits right in the middle of the target.
Hugh looks as if his Joker arc is only seconds away.
Before he knows it, he feels arms slinging over him and patting his back as if he’s just so bravely thrown back another drink at a bar. He pulls out his phone and takes a photo of the voucher that Myriam so reluctantly hands over and sends it to Clay before pocketing it again.
“Polly, I’ve got Daddy’s wallet. Funnel cake booth to celebrate, pronto!”
The last thing Apollo sees as he gets dragged off with a sugar hyped Trucy and a chuckling Klavier is Hugh pulling out another bill and gnashing his teeth.
“Junie! Junie!” Athena waves with both arms, running. “Junieee!”
“Oh, Thena!” She brings her hands to her chest, clasped. “Are you enjoying the festival?”
“It’s amazing! You really outdid yourself. What about you?”
Juniper smiles. “I’ve mostly been helping out at booths that need an extra hand. I haven’t really had much of a chance to relax since just before the performance.”
Athena gasps— probably on instinct, but Juniper gets it— the Junie that Athena used to know wasn’t the type to busy herself; she’d much prefer sitting back with half-finished scarf and knitting needles. Then again, she supposes, Athena’s changed too; she’s confident, brave, and her vibrance, previously confined to her meek voice, is something that quite literally changes the air around them. The look on her face, though, which has changed just as much as her demeanor over the years, is a bit inscrutable.
“Thena? Are you okay?”
Her brows knit down into sheer determination. “Juniper Woods, you are taking a break right now.”
“B-but—”
“No buts. C’mon, let’s go grab some of those pork buns I saw at the vendors’ stands!”
A few minutes later, they’re both holding much more than pork buns— a result of Athena’s impulses and promises of “I’m salaried now, Junie! Sort of!” After several paper wrappers emptied of their contents make their way to the nearest trash can, they walk from row to row, dress shoes and rubber boots padding against the pavement of the parking lot-turned staging ground.
“I… I want to thank you again,” Juniper says, clearing her throat as they pass under a string of Edison bulbs strung between posts. “For taking my case and defending me the way you did.”
“It was nothing, really.”
“It was everything to me. You trusted me when I couldn’t even trust myself. I felt like it was all my fault until you—” her words are cut off by a cough that she manages to swallow, “until you stood in court and exposed the truth. You saved my friends and my future, so… thank you.”
A long silence passes before Athena breaks it.
“Things sure have changed, huh?”
Juniper smiles again, but it’s much sadder. “They have.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I don’t think so.” They sit on a bench at an end cap, watching the dwindling crowds mill about.
“That’s perfectly fine,” Athena says. After another moment, she adds, “I missed you.” It’s a simple admission, and true through and through, but there’s a lot left unsaid, and they both know it.
Athena left.
Juniper was left behind.
Athena came back.
And now there’s so much to grapple with.
“I missed you, too.”
Eyes darting back and forth, Athena asks, “Are… are we still friends?”
The word shocks Juniper, especially with all the weight the word holds for her after everything that’s happened. “O-of course!” she says, but therein lies the question: Why wouldn’t we be? Is it the time apart? The grief?
Athena seems to hear it in her voice— the hesitation, the fear, the downright hesitation to continue into some unknown future, to confront so much like they did so many years ago— but her skepticism seems to leave as quickly as it came. “I’m glad,” she says, a grin of relief flooding her face. “You’re my best friend, you know.”
Juniper can’t help but ask— “Are you sure there’s not someone else you’ve forgotten?” She looks up at the stars as the question passes her lips; maybe if she directs it to the stars, it’ll hurt less.
The look on Athena’s face says that it still carries the weight of seven years past. “I haven’t forgotten, Junie. I couldn’t if I tried.” She pauses. “I guess that means you know why I came back.”
Taking Athena’s hand in her own, Juniper says, “You’re really brave, Thena. I know you can do it.”
Athena smiles. “Of course I can. I’ve got my best friend by my side.”
“Twelve, you’ve got a visitor.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Are you sure? It’s the same one that keeps coming by.”
“Did you not hear me clearly? I said no.”
The guard disappears again, only to return a few minutes later. “She wrote this. It’s been cleared for delivery. It’s all yours.”
The note falls through the bars— it’s written on what looks like a napkin. Oil splotches smear the ink, but it’s legible.
“Thanks for your help during Junie’s trial. If it weren’t for you fighting how you did, she’d be in a lot of trouble. It was because of you that I got to hang out with her for the first time in years.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten the promise I made you all those years ago. I’m gonna make good on it. I know you’re innocent.
“I’m gonna get you out of there.”
Simon crumples up the greasy napkin and climbs back into his cot.
Soon.