Work Text:
Klavier notices a lot about Apollo.
He likes his shirts a little on the looser side so that he can roll his sleeves to his elbows easier. Apollo also likes his coffee sweet enough to make Klavier's teeth ache in sympathy, and he likes to spin his bracelet when he's thinking, and he likes to walk in circles when he’s onto something good. Sometimes Klavier will watch him, pacing around his office as he tries to keep hold of a stack of papers and also flip through his tablet at the same time, mumbling to himself as though there’s nobody else in the room.
Oh, and the other thing about Apollo. He never takes off his gloves.
Ever.
Really. Klavier’s going on two years of knowing Apollo, and he can’t think of a single time he’s actually seen his hands. And maybe that’s a weird thing to notice, but once he did, Klavier found that he couldn’t stop noticing it. Apollo eats, and drinks, and writes, and taps away at his phone, and picks through evidence, and the gloves stay firmly on.
And that’s where he’s been ever since. It does occur to him that he could just ask—you know, like a regular person would—but Klavier thinks it’s been too long. Thinks that he should have picked up on it sooner and made a point to ask about it before he considered them to be friends, back when it’d have been more understandable. He’s too far in now.
So here he sits. Watching Apollo Justice pick at a croissant, sitting across from him in a café that’s far too quiet for his obtrusively loud thoughts, making his way through another shot of espresso and wondering how he never stains them when he eats. Seriously, how? By all means, the butter should be seeping into them and leaving a nice little oily splotch, but they stay pristine as always.
Klavier tilts his head back a little as he takes another sip and tries not to stare too hard, which he’s sure he’s already done. Well, either Apollo’s too polite to say anything about it, or the autopsy report is something for the Louvre.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Apollo finally says, rubbing one hand over his eyes before raking his fingers through his hair.
Oh, damn him. Klavier looks down at his tablet to avoid following the motion with his eyes. “Nein?”
“No. He was shot in the back of the head, but the blood spatter goes the opposite direction that it should based on how he landed.”
Klavier hums. “Moved postmortem?”
“He wouldn’t be particularly easy to move,” Apollo muses. “The victim wasn’t a small man.”
“Big fish, bigger fish, Herr Forehead.”
“True.”
Letting out a long sigh, Apollo sets his tablet down and puts it to sleep and, sure enough, his hands go back to his plate. The street just beyond the café has suddenly become much more interesting. Rain patters against the windows, trailing down in little rivulets as the storm grows heavier, and it seems that they will not be going anywhere anytime soon.
And that's fine by him.
══════════════════
"Congratulations!"
Apollo startles as though he'd been caught doing something utterly terrible, nearly dropping the stack of files in his arms, and Klavier laughs good-naturedly, clasping him on the shoulder.
"Sorry! I thought you heard me coming," he says apologetically. "You did very well today."
"Thanks," Apollo responds, awkward as ever when it comes to praise, but it doesn't bother Klavier. He knows it's genuine.
At least, he really hopes so.
"Of course. You know what I think we need?"
Apollo tilts his head at him, inquisitive.
Giving his collar a light squeeze, he exclaims, "A drink! It's been a long week."
He hums thoughtfully, mulling it over, and Klavier is absolutely not sweating. He is not.
"That is a good idea, Prosecutor Gavin," he decides.
Letting out a breath, Klavier grins at him. "Let's head off, then."
══════════════════
Another thing he learns Apollo likes—whiskey on the rocks. It's a little jarring, he will admit, given his sugary taste in coffee and even sweeter pastries and hard pocket candies. But, sure enough, he downs half of it in one sip and Klavier watches as a shiver works its way down his spine in the wake of it. He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how dry his mouth goes and fumbles for his own drink. It’s not much more than ice at this point.
Setting his glass down with a loud tap, Apollo sighs and says, “This was a better idea than I thought.”
“I have my moments.”
He snorts. “Yes, you do. You have a lot of them.”
“As do you,” Klavier counters. “The trial’s outcome wasn’t an accident.”
“Yeah, well, it just didn’t make sense. He was shorter than me. How was he supposed to move the victim?”
“A good observation. It was overlooked the first time.”
Apollo fiddles with the hem of his gloves for a moment, eyes cast downward, and Klavier’s gaze follows a little too easily. His hands are strong, maybe from always juggling too many things between his fingers. Still, it’s difficult to tear his eyes away when Apollo rolls his shoulders back, head tilted as he stares up at the fan lazily stirring up the air in the bar.
It’s decently quiet, quiet enough that Klavier can hear the shushing of Apollo’s thumb smoothing over the back of his hand. The music is hardly loud enough to register and, frankly, the loudest thing is the muted clanging of glasses as the bartender shuffles her displays around idly. She perks up when Klavier politely raises his hand slightly, wandering over as she tucks her rag through her belt loop.
“Same thing?” she asks.
“Please.”
Apollo’s phone buzzes. He pointedly ignores it, clicking the ringer down as he takes another swig of his drink. “I’ll take another, please.”
══════════════════
Klavier’s beginning to get a bit fuzzy on how many drinks he’s sucked down, minutes melting to hours as he watches Apollo keep pace without complaint. He swirls his whiskey around, watching the ice cubes bob back up to the surface, and his eyes catch on Klavier after a moment. His pupils are wide, blown, and Klavier begins to wonder just how long they’ve been sitting together.
Condensation rolls down Apollo’s glass and his eyes dart back over to the movement. His gloves stay dry as always and Klavier swallows thickly.
Oh, no. He can feel the stupid words at the back of his tongue and he bites down hard, forcing himself to take another sip to interrupt the slew that undoubtedly wants to let itself loose. Apollo looks back at him, as though he’s felt the eyes on him, and he follows Klavier’s gaze down to his hands.
No.
No, no. That did not just happen. Klavier quickly glances away.
“You can ask, you know.”
He contemplates pretending he did not hear that.
“I’d hate to be rude, Forehead,” is what he settles for.
“It’s not rude. I’d ask, too. Really, I’d call it pretentious.”
Klavier can’t hold in his snort at that. “Never. You are not pretentious, liebling.”
Oh, no. He pushes his drink away, glaring at it accusingly.
“I’ll pretend I know what that means.” Klavier ignores the relief that floods him as Apollo leans back in his chair a bit. Definitely not too far, though, for fear of taking a lovely fall to the tile. “I doubt you’ll believe me if I tell you.”
“I am sure I’ve heard less believable.”
Apollo rests his elbow on the bar and leans a little closer to him. Klavier tries very hard not to look at the curve of his lips.
“I can read emotions,” he says quietly. “Only with my hands.”
Oh.
Oh.
Staring wordlessly back at him, Klavier nearly forgets to actually hold onto his glass and narrowly avoids dropping it right between his knees. Apollo reaches out reflexively and catches the bottom of it. He can feel the heat of his hand against his own and he wonders if it’s scientifically possible to actually throw his heart up.
Klavier sets his drink back down on the bar and puts his hand on his forehead. It’s beautifully cold.
“Just emotions? Or thoughts, too?”
“Depends on the person.” Apollo’s lids look terribly heavy. “Mostly emotions.”
He breathes in sharply. He absolutely should not ask, but his tongue’s feeling looser than ever and it seems that Apollo is on the same page.
“Depends on the person?” he repeats.
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
Klavier can’t seem to look away from him. Stuck, staring into Apollo’s dark eyes.
“Would you?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.
Klavier puts his hand over the back of Apollo’s and, wow, he’s not really sure when he made that decision.
“I’m fairly sure I do, schatz.”
It feels as though everything’s narrowing down to the warmth bleeding through his palm, even with the glove. Apollo takes short breaths, he can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the way his eyes go unfocused. By sheer instinct, Klavier squeezes and Apollo’s stare returns full-force.
Giving him ample time to pull away, Klavier brings his fingers down to Apollo’s middle one, toying with the bit of loose fabric at his fingertip.
Apollo’s hand curls up beneath his and for a moment, Klavier’s heart sinks into the deepest pit of his belly. Then, he turns his wrist and slips his thumb beneath the hem of his glove and tugs upward, smooth white fabric folding over itself, and he gets it the rest of the way off pulling at the fingers.
His hand is every bit as soft as he definitely had not imagined.
“Last chance,” Apollo says. His voice sounds faraway.
“I’m waiting, Forehead.”
He presses his fingertips to Klavier’s palm and the shock of it is nothing short of electric.
Apollo’s presence is nearly overwhelming. It’s cool and warm and biting and sweet all at once and it almost makes him dizzy, he kind of wants to rest his head on the bar, if only for a moment, but he can’t move. He’s completely frozen, staring down at his own hand as he feels Apollo’s fire at the forefront of his mind.
It’s easier than anything he’s ever done to let him in.
Pulling away suddenly, Apollo’s eyes are like dinner plates on him and it makes him want to dissolve into giggles in the weirdest way possible.
“So, now you know.”
Apollo blinks at him. Then blinks again.
Grasping at his hand, Klavier leans into him a little and lets a bit of his laughter spill out. “Speak, Apollo, I’m getting worried.”
“I want to kiss you,” he says immediately.
Klavier pulls him in by his nape and Apollo melts under him.