Chapter Text
When Apollo Justice stepped off the train in the dusty light of early evening, Klavier Gavin's heart soared from where it had been lurking in his stomach, quietly rattling about like pills taken dry, without food, first thing on an early, hungover morning. He was wearing The Suit with his short, hooded jacket, cellphone crammed between ear and shoulder. He cradled a shoebox against his chest with both hands like it was the most precious object in existence. His pants were wrinkled, his vest wasn't buttoned properly, his tie was both crooked and wrinkled, there were exhausted bags under his eyes, his hair gel was losing a battle against time and gravity so his bangs drooped at an odd angle while the hair on the back of his head spiked up, and the jacket, in addition to being ridiculous and objectively too young for a man of thirty-two, did not go with The Suit. He looked like shit and the beat of Klavier's heart, back in its rightful place, said I love him in the private morse code of blood and body.
"-- the reception is terrible. How about you haul your ass up to the peak of Poniponi, climb a flagpole, and see how much luck you have calling your girlfriend from there?" Apollo was half-snarling, eyes darting between his feet and the shoebox. He didn't bump into anyone only because the station was deserted. Klavier had the notion that most traffic up to the mountains and Kurain Village occurred on weekends; tourists, budget-conscious corporate retreat participants, and spiritualist types that he didn't understand but was growing increasingly respectful and cautious about the longer he knew Apollo Justice and the people around him.
Apollo Justice, who he loved, who kept a small shrine with incense in his office that he didn't invite comment on, who he loved, who swore by the Holy Mother and made small gestures with his fingers that Klavier didn't know the significance of but had memorized, who he loved, who had a monk for a brother, who he loved.
Also, Klavier loved him.
Maybe, at some point, Klavier would tell him.
"It's fine. The Feys had it in storage and no one's disturbed it in decades. The dust alone probably counts as protective armour." Apollo managed to sound irritated and vague, a tone familiar to Klavier from crime scenes and the courtroom. It was the tone of a particular man dancing around an outright lie and he loved that particular man and his beyond pathologic aversion to lies. For an instant, Apollo's eyes weren't on his feet or the shoebox and he spotted Klavier. His eyes crinkled and the angry lines between his eyebrows relaxed as he smiled one of his best smiles, the big one that showed his perfectly imperfect teeth, the one that was like the sun bursting from behind dark clouds at high noon on a brilliant summer day.
Klavier would tell him on this visit, before Apollo went back to the mountains of Khura'in and obligation.
"Gotta go, my ride's waiting for me," Apollo said, meeting Klavier's eyes before focusing again on the shoebox. He schooled his smile into something more subdued and a bit sarcastic, the smile he smiled when he was embarrassed by how happy he was; it was also one of his best smiles. He finished his phone conversation with something in Khura'inese. Klavier recognized a formal farewell, but there were two, maybe three, extra words. Probably swears.
God, Klavier loved him.
Apollo carefully transferred the shoebox to the crook of one arm, still cushioned against his chest, as he shoved his phone in a jacket pocket. "Gavin. Hey."
Klavier closed the distance between them and took Apollo's hand in his. "Prinz stirn," he said solemnly.
"If you kiss my hand, I'm kneeing you in the balls," Apollo said as he squeezed Klavier's fingers, thumb brushing against Klavier's palm.
The words were there, rising in his throat, sitting on his tongue. I love you. But Klavier couldn't say them. Not after Apollo had threatened him, voice tired and gruff. Not immediately after. It would sound flippant or like a joke, a bit of romanticism thrown into the battlefield of their banter, ridiculous for the juxtaposition of tone and content. Instead, Klavier said, "That might make things awkward later." He tipped his face so his sunglasses slid down his nose and Apollo had to look in his eyes without the barrier of dark prescription lenses.
Apollo snorted and released Klavier's hand. The tips of his ears were red. "Thanks for picking me up."
"I'd have met you at the airport if you'd told me the time." Klavier tried to keep his voice casual. If he failed, Apollo didn't let on.
Apollo's counter came like bullet points. "I got in at 2-fucking-AM. Trucy's schedule has her awake until at least 3 on weekdays. The drive from the airport to the train station gives me and Trucy time to catch up without an audience. Trucy brought me a bag of shitty midnight tacos from this 24-hour truck near her show venue."
"I don't think you should be allowed to retroactively add surprise tacos to your opening argument."
"It wasn't my opening argument; it was my defense and counter-argument. You opened." Apollo smirked.
Klavier would have to invent new words to express how much he loved Apollo Justice.
Apollo noticed the helmet hanging casually from Klavier's hand. His smile vanished and his eyebrows drew down. Then, further down. "You brought your motorcycle? Klavier."
At some point, their relationship had progressed to the point that while Apollo often used Klavier's first name, he consistently used it when he was angry. Not panicked. Not stressed. Angry. His voice, normally loud, went low, deep, a surprising stormy bass that made Klavier's spine shiver and the marrow in his bones turn to ice.
Klavier found it incredibly hot.
For a few steps, Klavier remained silent, the only sound their footfalls and Apollo's teeth grinding. When he could see his car clearly past the curve of the train, he grinned and pointed. "Nein, Forehead. Only the most luxurious shuttle service for you."
"You're not as funny as you think, Gavin."
Klavier hummed, unlocking the car and running his fingers over the sleek, warm roof, a deep purple slope down to the windshield, before opening the passenger side door. "So, what hotel will I be dropping you at?"
Apollo sat and narrowed his eyes. The shoebox was nestled with care in his lap, both hands bracing the sides protectively. "I hate you."
"I know," Klavier said, laughing. He kissed Apollo's ear, quickly, softly, fondly, knowing Apollo couldn't smack him without risking the shoebox, which looked like it had been unearthed from a century of dust and cobwebs. He was going to tell him. Tomorrow. After Apollo had recovered from the flight.
Tomorrow Klavier Gavin would tell Apollo Justice he loved him.
Klavier's condo looked the same as it had the last time Apollo had seen it: professionally cleaned, modern, expensive, and with an old sectional covered in pillows, blankets, and dog hair. One corner had been lovingly chewed on, but the culprit had long since outgrown such behaviour. Vongole lifted her head at the sound of Klavier hanging his keys on the hook by the door. Her tail thumped and she looked at them both with expectant, rheumy eyes.
"Hello, old dog," Apollo said, shucking off his jacket. Vongole's tail wagged harder.
Klavier made a fussy, disapproving little noise and grabbed Apollo's jacket before it could hit the floor. "She has a name, Forehead."
"Pretty sure I told you the same thing about me for at least a year," Apollo called over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen. The Artifact (it had a name, a long one, heavy with adjectives, that both Nahyuta and Rayfa had repeated to Apollo at least a dozen times -- Rayfa had made some kind of custom sticker on her phone of the whole convoluted thing, [all sparkles and butterflies and impact font,] that she had spammed him with repeatedly before he'd even left Khura'in) had to be taken care of before he could in good conscience direct his attention to anything else. He removed the lid from the shoebox (note to self: get literally anything else to put it in before Nahyuta and Rayfa saw the Fey approach to storing ancient/holy/mystical artifacts and got embarrassingly monarchial about the whole situation) and confirmed the Artifact was still intact after the train and the ride in Klavier's needlessly flashy car.
Bubble wrap was an amazing invention. Everyone needed to take more time out of their busy lives to appreciate it.
Fuck, he was tired. Apollo closed his eyes. He'd dozed on the train going to Kurain Village but returning with the Artifact in his lap he'd been too aware of what Nahyuta and Rayfa would do if he lost it (or broke it, shit) to close his eyes beyond blinking, in case exhaustion took him unwillingly into sleep. How long had he been awake? He could barely grasp time zones when he was daisy fresh; he didn't have a hope doing math when he was this tired. It was calculus-level shit. Imaginary numbers algebra hours of wakefulness.
"What is this very valuable item that could not be trusted to international post?" Klavier asked, peering over Apollo's shoulder. At his other side, he could feel the press of Vongole's nose on the back of his knee, just slightly cold and just slightly damp through the fabric of his pants.
"A bowl," Apollo said, replacing the lid and flipping open Klavier's cupboards until he found one with enough space to accommodate the box and free of anything that looked like it might topple over in an earthquake and imperil the Artifact. No one could knock it over in the middle of the night or blearily jostle it in the morning before coffee there. Vongole, even if she weren't old and arthritic, wouldn't have been able to jump that high and open the cupboard.
"They sent the Minister of Justice across the ocean for a bowl?" Klavier raised his eyebrows. "Or are you here in your capacity as Khura'inese prince? Diplomatic envoy? It must be a very important bowl."
Apollo flicked Klavier between the eyes. "I'm here in my capacity as 'guy who has to do all the bullshit work'." I'm here in my capacity as 'idiot who volunteered so someone else would cover the cost of a plane ticket to see his boyfriend'. He was the guy who did all the bullshit work in their confusing quasi-familial government triad, or so it seemed, especially when he was existing in some kind of blackhole of sleeplessness, but it wasn't really any of Klavier's business. It was confidential behind closed doors government strategizing. Telling Klavier could possibly be some kind of treason; generally, he did not engage in treason.
Anymore.
"I'm very happy to be hosting you, then, Herr Guy-who-has-to-do-all-the-bullshit-work," Klavier smiled, straightening from the obnoxious lean he regularly affected when talking to Apollo.
Apollo grabbed the chain of Klavier's necklace and pulled him back down, pressing his lips against Klavier's with all the accumulated frustration of the two months (52 days [but who was counting?]) they'd been apart. Klavier made a surprised noise and Apollo wound metal links more firmly around his fingers; with his other hand he removed Klavier's sunglasses (he took the time to place his keys carefully, hang up his jacket and Apollo's, but he was still wearing his sunglasses inside? [dork]), letting them clatter on the counter.
Klavier laughed. "I can't see, Forehead."
"I don't care," Apollo said, grabbing Klavier's mouth once more, biting the other man's lip, hungry and impatient and tired (and, yes, maybe slightly horny).
Vongole bumped herself against and between their legs before letting out a huge dog sigh, returning to the couch.
"Apollo," Klavier said, breathless as Apollo pushed him back against the counter. He braced a restraining hand against Apollo's chest, fingers brushing Apollo's tie. He licked his lip where Apollo, in his enthusiasm, may have drawn a bit of blood but, in Apollo's defense, Klavier had very soft lips. The glass cannon of lips.
Holy Mother, Apollo was tired.
Klavier scrambled in a shirt pocket and removed his glasses (his backup backup glasses, the ones with the old prescription and the purple and white plastic frames where one lens was slightly scratched). He put them on one-handed and Apollo had to kiss him again, letting go of the necklace to hold his face. He wanted to kiss Klavier until they both ran out of oxygen, but Klavier broke the kiss again. He gasped Apollo's name, one hand grasping Apollo's tie, the other braced on the counter. He ducked his head down, lips wet and hot next to Apollo's ear.
"When did you last eat?"
Apollo froze. He narrowed his eyes. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Prosecutor Sahdmadhi --"
"You've been talking to my brother?"
Klavier did not look guilty. "I have the dubious honour of being in receipt of a text from his highness --"
"His Holiness the Reverend Prince," Apollo corrected automatically, shutting his eyes and thumping his forehead on Klavier's chest.
"He says you have poor self-care and maintenance routines," Klavier said into Apollo's hair.
Apollo grunted, refusing to dignify the comment with a response.
"He worries about you, ja?"
"He regularly fasts, you know. He's a hypocrite," Apollo mumbled into Klavier's shirt. It was soft. Warm. It smelled expensive.
"I worry about you," Klavier said. He kissed the top of Apollo's head. The tip of an ear. He straightened them both and kissed Apollo's forehead. Between his eyebrows. A cheek. The bridge of his nose. The line of his jaw. The corner of his mouth. "Let me order us some food, ja? Something disgustingly American."
"Nothing healthy," Apollo said, turning his head so Klavier's tender kiss became something proper.
"Minimal healthiness," Klavier countered against Apollo's lips.
Apollo bit Klavier's lip again but pushed away from the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. But then --"
"Ja," Klavier agreed, cheeks turning photoshoot pink. A makeup artist created blush, not the furiously blotchy red of the average (Apollo) human. He took out his phone and diverted his attention from Apollo to the screen, scrolling through delivery options. "You can take Vongole for her walk."
"Were you not worried I was going to pass out from starvation a minute ago?"
"Somehow I don't think walking an elderly retriever around the block will be quite as physically demanding of you." Klavier didn't look up from his phone. "I certainly hope what you had in mind was at least slightly more energetic than that."
It was like someone had set fire to Apollo's face. "I really hate you sometimes, Gavin."
"Hate isn't one of your better skills, is it, Herr Forehead?"
Klavier woke up to Apollo and Vongole performing a snore duet for his exclusive pleasure. The only light was from something left on in the kitchen and the grey glow of the tv. Farley Granger and Robert Walker were only now fighting on the carousel; Klavier hadn't been asleep that long. Neither of them had taken the time to turn the movie down. While he doubted the sound would penetrate Apollo's sleep, he pressed mute anyway once he found the remote.
Careful not to disturb Apollo, Klavier got up. Forget not finishing the movie; they hadn't even made it to the bedroom. He felt a pang of disappointment as he did up his pants, immediately followed by guilt. Apollo had been beyond tired but when Klavier had gotten himself a beer to go with their terrible chicken, terrible fries, terrible faux-salad, and existent green beans, Apollo had insisted on a highball of whiskey for himself from the bottle Klavier only kept for Apollo. It was vile stuff that burned and tasted of smoke and bogs.
"I'll feel like I'm the only underage guy at a party if I'm not drinking," Apollo had said as he poured himself a sloppy measure without ice, getting ahead of any objection Klavier might raise. He wouldn't have raised any; Apollo was a grown man and Klavier wasn't going to tell him he couldn't have a drink after an impossibly long day.
Apollo still had his pants on, his shirt fully unbuttoned with one sleeve unrolled to flop over his wrist, his vest still on by the slim technicality of its hanging from the crook of one elbow. Klavier could see Apollo's belt on the floor, but it took him an embarrassing minute to realize the missing tie was wrapped around his own wrist. Apollo's mouth hung open, drool gathering in one corner with grease and crumbs from their meal. Klavier gently slid a pillow between Apollo's head and the couch, easing the awkward angle of his neck, and brushed a finger over the mess of Apollo's hair, still crusty with the remains of gel. It felt horrible.
Klavier loved him and pushed down guilt and disappointment, because long distance relationships were hard and loving Apollo Justice was as hard as it was easy. Showing a willingness to commit without being needy, without making his desires explicit, without asking for more than Apollo could give when everything else in his life asked for so much time, so much energy, so much work, work, work ...
Klavier had thought he was a workaholic until he'd seen Apollo in Khura'in. It turned out, Klavier was just someone who was passionate about the law and cared about his job.
So, Klavier could let Apollo sleep, messy and awkward on the couch, even though he wanted to be dragged to the bedroom so they could fit in everything they hadn't had for, by Klavier's embarrassing tally, a 52-day long eternity. He hadn't been this bad as teenager, he was sure.
Klavier let his thumb graze Apollo's cheek before gathering himself and turning off the tv. He stopped on the way to the kitchen to look at Vongole, sleeping on her back with one leg flopping loosely in the air, her chest vibrating with wheezing dog snores. He gently put his foot against her stomach and rubbed with just enough force to move her up and down the carpet. Her mouth opened in a doggy smile, tongue hanging to the side, and she blinked hazy eyes at him, before farting and flopping onto her side. He suspected it was the dog equivalent of a joke.
Had Vongole done that in her youth, living with Kristoph?
The image of asking Kristoph about his dog's history with flatulence during one of the regular prison visits flashed unbidden in Klavier's mind.
Klavier grinned and felt the tug of the cut on his lip where Apollo had bitten him. He touched the spot and felt a surge of warmth and love that even he could recognize as ridiculous sentimentality. He kept a catalogue in his heart of everything he noticed, knew, felt about Apollo, like the evidence file of a life-or-death case. He'd memorized Apollo's smiles with his eyes. He'd memorized the feel of them with his mouth and tongue, including the barely visible gaps and unevenness in his teeth, the chip on an incisor and the canine that protruded slightly, the point uneven and jagged, the one that could draw blood when Apollo worried his own lip with anxiety or got intimate and intense when pressed to Klavier's skin.
Kissing Apollo Justice made Klavier realize how overrated corrective dental work was and that wasn't even the dumbest thought he'd had since meeting Apollo at a murder scene.
Klavier pressed his thumb to the raw spot once more before shaking his head at himself, since Apollo couldn't make a derisive comment or roll his eyes.
The light above the stove was on. Klavier wasn't sure why unless Apollo had flipped it inadvertently while looking for something. Or maybe while contemplating the matter of his important shoebox with the important Khura'inese bowl.
Curiosity picked at Klavier's mind like he was testing a guitar string.
The cupboard was opened, and the shoebox removed before Klavier could second guess himself. Apollo hadn't mentioned anything secret about it, he just wanted it out of the way to minimize the chance of accidental breakage.
Any glimpse Klavier could get of Khura'inese culture was like finding a piece of the puzzle that was Apollo in a way that even Apollo didn't seem to understand.
The bowl was metal, polished copper barely visible under the green of age and neglect. There was a lotus etched in the centre with an evolving butterfly motif on the inner rim, barely visible. Klavier could feel it under his careful touch. Caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly. As he traced the rim between his thumb and index finger, the bowl made a note of almost heartbreaking purity.
Vongole barked in her sleep.
There was a hitch in Apollo's snoring, a sharp inhale and snort, before his snoring resumed with a different rhythm.
A singing bowl. In Klavier's mind that was a different sort of thing than a bowl bowl, but it wasn't his relic. He tucked it back in its bubble wrap and replaced the box with the care Apollo had previously shown it. Turning off the stove light, Klavier went to bed.
They would both be well-rested tomorrow and Klavier Gavin would tell Apollo Justice he loved him.
Apollo woke with a clear head. Sun was streaming through the windows. It felt like he'd slept for a day. The texture of the couch was imprinted on one side of his face.
Vongole lifted her head hopefully when Apollo got up, stretching and rubbing the back of his neck. She lay sedately at the other end of the sectional, giving Apollo his space. "Lemme put coffee on first." He scratched the dog behind her ears and under the collar. Something in his tone must have communicated 'I'm not feeding you yet' in dog, because when he removed his hand she sighed hugely and thumped her head back down. She returned her attention to the toy by her head, a worn sheep, grey with the attention of a dog who was loving but too gentle to destroy her toys. For an instant, she rolled her eyes back to look at Apollo. See what you've driven me to?
"Drama queen," Apollo muttered fondly, removing crusted mucus from the corner of the dog's eye with a finger and wiping it clean on her back.
In the kitchen, Apollo found Klavier's coffee and started the percolator, bringing the sound of morning to the kitchen, whatever time it actually was (Apollo resolutely refused to look at the clock on the microwave or the stove, luxuriating in the experience of existing briefly, blissfully, outside time and responsibility). A quick check confirmed the Artifact was still safe in its bubble wrap nest. There was real food in the fridge: eggs and butter and, yes, vegetables in the crisper, only some of which Apollo could identify, and cheese (normal and fancy) and oranges and kiwis and grapefruit and worrying yoghurt (and not-real food: a carton of skim almond milk and a glass pitcher full of green with pulp) and bread in the breadbox (because Klavier Gavin had the kitchen space and was the kind of man who owned a bread box [it even said 'bread' on it]) and the bread was fresh enough that when Apollo pressed a knuckle against the top it was soft despite the thick, rough crust. He'd never asked if this was the normal state of Klavier's kitchen or something that only happened when he visited; the implication of either answer would be embarrassing.
In the cupboard with the coffee, Apollo found Klavier still had the box of tea from his last trip to Khura'in. He turned on the kettle and examined the box in his hands. Evidence. It was sealed, which wasn't a surprise. Apollo had made Klavier tea in the traditional way, with a hard knob of yak butter, during his first visit (before they'd figured out precisely [imprecisely] where they stood with each other). Klavier had been excited to try it (to try something Apollo made and the memory was enough to heat Apollo's face) and, though he'd hesitated when the cup was in his hand and the steam hit his nose, he'd still drunk deeply.
As politely as possible, Klavier had told Apollo that it tasted like a salty, greasy campfire had died in his mouth.
Then Klavier Gavin, genius prosecutor, rockstar (ex-rockstar? Apollo didn't understand the state of Klavier's music career [Clay, he was sure, would have called it 'quantumy']), and former teen idol threw up on himself and Apollo's office floor.
In retrospect, Apollo should have known things were bad when his first thought was: If I'd move into the palace like Nahyuta and Rayfa want, I'd probably have a bathroom with a spare toothbrush, and I'd be able to see what kissing him without a time constraint was like ASAP. It wasn't good if your immediate response to a man throwing up (because of something you'd made him, no less) was irritation about how it would delay getting your tongue in his mouth.
The sound of Klavier staggering to the bathroom (why did you need a bathroom attached to your bedroom when you lived alone? who did that?!) interrupted Apollo's embarrassed introspection. He set the tea down next to the kettle, breaking the seal with his thumbnail. He found the cupboard with Vongole's dog food and grabbed the dish from where a hungry, hopeful nose had pushed and flipped it into a corner, in case that made it magically refill. The rattle of kibble being poured into the dish was all that was needed to get Vongole off the couch and bring her into the kitchen, claws clicking on the tile as she approached. Apollo added slightly warm tap water to the kibble (making the worst cereal) and set it down.
In her enthusiasm for breakfast, Vongole trod on Apollo's foot. He sighed and pet her head anyway.
Just as the kettle was starting to boil, the sound of agonized vomiting broke through sleepy morning sounds. Dimly, Apollo recalled Klavier having one of his chewy German beers (or maybe two? all his memories after getting off the train near Kurain Village had the fuzzyhot tint of exhaustion, details sticking and blurring into each other) with their (very late) dinner (he hadn't asked if Klavier had eaten before he picked up Apollo from the train station; another question he couldn't ask in fear of the embarrassing answer) which wasn't enough to make Klavier hungover. If it had been the food (the chicken) they'd both be sick (or Apollo alone would be sick; he'd definitely eaten more than Klavier).
"Gavin? Everything okay?"
Silence, followed by more retching. Apollo shared (he thought) a concerned (probably) look with Vongole.
Apollo pulled the kettle away from the teapot, splashing water on the counter. "Klavier? That bread you call beer finally ruin your stomach?" He padded to the bedroom, shedding the vest hanging from his elbow. "Klav?" He nudged the bathroom door open, blinking at the familiar (no, there were new towels, cloud fluffy and pale grey with deep purple flowers embroidered at the ends) bathroom. Klavier was on his knees in front of the toilet, his hands braced on the rim.
Sharp knuckled hands, narrow shoulders, skinny skinny skinny, and Apollo's memories of the previous day would never be so fuzzy as to forget something like Klavier having cut his hair. At least not as extreme a haircut as this, the hair buzzed down at his temples and the back of his neck while his bangs flopped long in his face (there was a name for that haircut, Apollo was sure, as his mind began revving with the exertion of dragging thoughts from the mire of confusion, and he didn't care what it was).
"I feel like shit, Herr Forehead," Klavier mumbled but the voice was wrong, even for someone who'd just been puking like it was an Olympic sport. Too high through the dampening effect of stress and bile. He coughed, bracing himself over the toilet bowl again. When nothing more came out, he slumped and turned to Apollo, his face beaded with sweat and his cheeks flushed with fever. Soft cheeks hiding dangerously sharp, perfect cheekbones. He squinted the familiar early morning, no-glasses, no-coffee Klavier squint and pushed himself up, staggering slightly before catching himself on the towel bar. He looked at Apollo and up at Apollo, confusion furrowing his brow. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing. "Like shit," he repeated, shifting his jaw back and forth in case that was the source of his issues. There was a glint of metal and plastic in the mouth Klavier had that wasn't the mouth Apollo knew.
"I'm calling my brother," Apollo said, failing to find comfort in the familiar throb of a headache starting behind his eyes.