Chapter Text
Most days, as per the request of his therapist, Klavier makes a list.
What he can see: well, his ceiling is always the obvious choice. A smooth white surface, interesting by virtue of being as boring as possible, with only one tiny bump in the plaster next to the light fixture because it had been a work in progress when Klavier signed the contract and his landlord had told the contractor to hurry it up. The light fixture, then - a plain transparent dome, dim and useless in the rising seven o’clock sun. The glass has a slight texture to it, looking like sandpaper, and Klavier stupidly wants to touch it every time he notices. He turns his head, eyes still heavy but observing everything they can. His phone is on the nightstand, sitting silently, the alarm not needed when his body clock does a good enough job on its own. Beside it, a lamp with a garish purple shade decorated in gold accents. His brother Kristoph, sat in an office chair, painting his nails. In the corner is a pile of clean laundry from a few days ago that he never got around to putting away, and would now have to be ironed. A diary page. His phone charger plugged into the wall. A pen that must have rolled across the room. A book, arched open against the carpet, it’s pages bent.
He exhales quietly, feeling perfectly calm, because there’s no reason not to be. It’s disconcerting, his dreams bleeding into reality like this, while his brain scrambles to identify what is material and what isn’t, but he can handle it now. Remember what can be real, and what can’t. Ignore what you need to. Remember that you are in control.
Opening his eyes again and sitting upright, he thinks about what he can hear, which is much easier to keep track of. Faintly (and it is faint, because this is an expensive apartment) he can hear his downstairs neighbor blasting something pop or disco - ABBA, maybe? It’s definitely from the 70s - while they presumably get ready for the day. He’s high up enough that he can’t hear the sounds of cars outside, but he can hear the wind crawling through the gap where he’d left a window slightly open last night - and when he stands to close it, he hears his bed creak slightly at the loss of his weight. Quietest of all is the slight shuffling of his feet against the floor, the room reacting to Klavier, moving and shifting to accommodate him the best it can. Through years of carving, of hard work and slow mornings and days where the world beyond his door doesn’t seem to be worth it anymore, he has carved a safe nook for himself. Somewhere he can take care of himself. He is in control.
While he showers and dresses, he feels the sweat of the warm night fall away, soon replaced by the soft silk of a shirt so expensive that he knows Apollo would scrunch his nose up at it, if there was ever a circumstance where Apollo would care that much about Klavier’s clothes. He feels comfortable and warm, and as he applies his makeup, he only slightly winces at the weight of it all on his skin. As he’s perfecting his hair, he – ouch – burns his finger, but it doesn’t hurt for long enough to even phase him, because he knows he’s visiting the Wright Anything Agency today, and that’s giving him an excuse to think about Apollo.
He always waits for an excuse, nowadays. There’s far too much going on to think about him all the time.
The smell of the bakery around the corner from his complex is always refreshing, and at this point in the morning the list has always become less of a ‘list’ and more of a ‘running commentary’, so he doesn’t waste mental energy on trying to break the scent down into its individual parts. Besides, the sum itself is wonderful - all freshly baked and happy and warm, because happy and warm have always been smells to Klavier - and even if he tried to analyze it, there’s not much time to think when he’s in the Kitaki Family Bakery. Plum is always on him in a second, offering him discounted buns and croissants and “This muffin is lawyer-boy’s favorite, you’ll see him today, won’t’cha? It’s on the house, after all you two did for my boy.”
‘I tried to get him convicted for murder,’ Klavier thinks. ‘I tried to ruin his life.’ But then he remembers Apollo and him - Herr Forehead and Prosecutor Gavin - finding the truth together, because he was doing his job, and his job is to find the truth. He’s in control. He takes the muffin.
Klavier doesn’t think like this every day - some days, it’s like the last year of his life had never happened. He moves about his apartment and his city and eventually his office without a moment's doubt that he is where he needs to be, safe and happy and content. Those are his good days. These are his bad days, where he can still feel safe and happy and content, but he has to work for it. (His awful days are still awful. He still spends hours, sometimes, staring at himself in the mirror and barely seeing his own features, let alone the human being they collect to become. But those are his awful days, and those are different.)
He is fine. His bad days are hardly even bad anymore, because all he has to do is follow the steps, and remember his job, and remember the importance of the truth. He isn’t dying, and he isn’t killing anyone, either. No one is betraying him currently, and if anyone is planning on it, he knows what to do. Who to talk to.
Not that he really waits for an excuse to talk to Apollo anymore - just to think about him. Klavier is in control, but he has never claimed to be logical.
Forehead🐰
[8:46] hey you’ve got meetings all day today right
[8:46] mr wright told me the prosecutors office is super busy right now
[8:47] i’m not sure i’d say all day
[8:47] why the sudden interest? should i be making myself available? ;)
[8:49] you are so annoying
[8:49] stop using the winky face at me
[8:53] i was just checking that i wouldn't see you today because i have a report for you to check for me but it’s not important so it can wait until tomorrow
[8:53] so
[8:53] see you tomorrow
[8:54] :(
[8:54] see you tomorrow i guess!
Apollo always reacts one of two ways when Klavier shows up, and a while ago Klavier realized that the difference is fully dependent on whether he’s been warned or not. Months and months ago, there hadn’t been a difference at all - the prosecutor showing up anywhere would always warrant the same resigned exasperation, the same ‘oh, God, it’s you again’, as if Klavier shows up at crime scenes solely to annoy his rival instead of doing his job. (A sentiment that Klavier has always resented, because he likes to think it’s a healthy mix of both.) The thing about that, though, is that prolonged exposure to anyone’s eccentricities will numb your senses eventually, and after months of shared unpleasantness and hesitant-to-flourishing friendship, the ice seems to have thawed. Klavier knows that Apollo is never really unhappy to see him, anymore - it’s all just pretense.
The thing about that thing - the pretense - is that it takes time to construct. Which, in turn, requires warning.
When he knows Klavier is coming, or when he’s at a crime scene or the police station or a Starbucks, places Klavier is likely to be, Apollo is guarded. He sees a head of shining blonde hair and the glint of chains and already the scowl is on his face, before Klavier can so much as say hallo. They fall into a comfortable, well-worn rhythm, one of half-hearted jabs and flirtations without much heart behind them. Eventually it’ll come to an end when Trucy or Detective Skye or a particularly loud witness interrupts, and it’s immediately back to work. Herr Forehead and Prosecutor Gavin, investigating together, both of them fully aware that they shouldn’t be. A wholly welcome routine, but a routine nonetheless, and therefore prone to becoming stale.
When he has no idea that Klavier is coming, it’s a different story altogether. These times, when he sees the blondeness and the chains, Apollo’s eyes go wide and the tips of his ears go a bit pink and he smiles - really smiles - like he’s happy to see him. It will always take a second for Apollo to make eye contact, because first he’ll be preoccupied with staring at Klavier’s hair (and months ago Klavier would notice this and spiral, think oh God, no, I know it’s the same as his but it’s not, I’m not– ), and sometimes Klavier will even notice the man’s eyes catch on his hands, watching as they fiddle with the one tuft of hair that always tickles Klavier’s nose. After he’s had a moment, he’ll look down to Klavier’s eyes, which by this point will be crinkled slightly in amusement, enjoying the attention. Klavier spends a lot of time on his hair, so he’ll happily take the staring for the compliment that it is, especially when it comes from such a rare source.
When eye contact is made, though - that’s when Apollo comes back to himself, and Klavier watches the Oh Shit appear behind the man’s eyes as he realizes he’s been caught. This is his second favorite part, because he gets to see the blush travel down Apollo’s neck as he instinctively scrunches up his nose, forming the cutest bunch of wrinkles between his brows - rivers carved into his face from so many days in court when he hunches up his shoulders and pushes an index finger against it in frustration. In this circumstance, though, they pop up on their own as he averts eye contact and crosses his arms over his chest defensively.
His arms are adorable, too, but in a different way. A stronger way.
Klavier dreads the day that Wright inevitably hires an honest-to-God mind reader.
This, he thinks, is something that can’t become stale. This will never become a routine because every time he gets an honest, blinding smile out of Apollo Justice, no matter how fleeting, he feels like he’s just passed the bar or topped the charts or finally picked the last piece of confetti off of his jacket. It’s a feeling of relief that takes him by surprise every time, and the second - the moment - he notices an opportunity to experience it again, he will grab it with both hands. He’s only human, after all.
“Hey you’ve got meetings all day today right,” Apollo had asked, and Klavier had never said yes. Maybe the rest of the office did - ever since Miles Edgeworth had been appointed Chief Prosecutor, there had been a lot of busy days like this, and today must be even busier because apparently Prosecutor Von Karma had flown in yesterday, and she doesn’t make visits lightly - but instead of dealing with any of that, Klavier had been given his own specific mission for the day. Apparently, there had been a mishap with the office's filing system for closed cases, and the documentation for trials from upwards of a decade ago had gone missing - many of them involving the defense work of the legendary Mia Fey. It was a simple glitch in the machine, he’d been told - nothing malicious, no foul play, just human error. There were many ways to go about remedying this, of course; a lot of the information was available publicly, and the innermost details hidden from the masses were probably salvageable through various scattered harddrives and binders and endless stacks of paper. This, however, would take a long time to put together, and would probably be a waste of manpower.
Klavier had helpfully supplied this argument during the meeting in which this issue was raised, followed by the fact that he didn’t have any active cases right now, and was on friendly terms with employees of the former Fey & Wight & Co. offices. He would be perfectly happy to make the trip over and ask for their help, really it would be no problem, Sir, he would be happy to help.
So he is seeing Apollo today, and he is going to surprise him.
It’s approaching ten o’clock by the time Klavier sets off towards the Wright Anything Agency, and the hour strikes as he dismounts his bike and removes his helmet as slowly and attractively as possible, on the off chance that anyone inside happens to be glancing out of the window. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledges how pathetic that may be, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t bring his case, opting to leave most of his belongings back at the office, where he would be returning in a few hours - on his person, he has a list of lost trials, his phone, his other phone (muted, because him and his manager don’t talk often these days), and a bag with a single muffin inside.
Either experience with previous visits or a lack of manners makes him try the handle before knocking, but it turns out to be the right choice either way when the front door swings open easily, barely making a sound. He grins to himself, giddy over nothing, as he steps inside.
The office is, somehow, empty - of people, that is, because the Wright Anything Agency is never empty. It seems that the volume of magical equipment has only tripled since his last visit, and his eyes catch on a pile of textbooks stacked up on the desk, all of which being books he remembers reading front to back when he had been studying for the bar exam. Next to them sits two empty mugs, and he cringes when he approaches them and sees that they’re both coffee stained on the inside. On Apollo’s usual workspace is what looks like a diary or a journal - glaringly red on the cover, lacking any decoration save for the ‘A.J.’ written on the top corner - and the man’s laptop, which is open and powered on. Which is strange, because Apollo isn’t here. He places the muffin down next to it.
He moves through the room, suddenly feeling extremely out of place. Maybe he should just… come back later? There was no point looking for the files by himself since he didn’t know Wright’s filing system, and suspects he’d be in for a Chords Of Steel earful if he somehow messed it up. Besides, the whole idea had been to spend time with Apollo - and Trucy, if she was here. Being here alone is just… boring.
Yeah, he could come back later. He had some work he could do back at the office in the meantime.
Just as he’s about to leave, though –
“Trucy!! Don’t just say things like that!”
The volume is - well, frankly, Klavier almost falls flat on his face from the sheer force of it, because Apollo’s screams are already bad enough when you’re prepared. He catches himself, though, and turns towards the side door leading to the tiny office kitchen, because the sound had disoriented him but that’s the only place it could’ve come from. The talking seems to fade back to a normal volume afterwards, but as Klavier approaches the closed door and tunes into it, he realizes that yes, Trucy and Apollo are in there, and they seem to have been deep in conversation for a while.
“Oh my – Apollo, come on, it can’t be that hard to talk about.”
“You don’t,” and there’s a pause, and a huff. “You don’t get it, okay? It’s not about that. I don’t… talk about that kind of thing, especially not with – it’s fine, okay? I can work it out.”
“Can you just explain it to me? What’s been bugging you? I can help, y’know?” Then, more silence, and it’s easy to imagine the large pleading eyes Trucy is employing here. She’s a master of them. “I get it, you’re serious about this. I’m done joking around, Polly. I want to help.”
Klavier hears Apollo let out a deep sigh, softening under Trucy’s genuine concern, and he realizes a second too late that he’s eavesdropping. He doesn’t move to change this.
“It’s like…” Apollo starts, his voice carrying a weight so ominous Klavier can almost feel it himself. “It’s not like any other - I never knew someone could be so sad. I look at him sometimes and it’s as if he’s barely keeping it together, like the world has ended and all he can do about it is come into work in the morning. It’s awful. Not - I mean, obviously it’s not all the time, there are good days, but – but it scares me. I’ve never been good with emotional stuff. For every easy day, there’s one where I just don’t know how to deal with it, but I want to. I wish I knew - I don’t know what to do about it. With everything that’s happened in the last year… there’s only so much one guy can carry, y’know? But what can you do to fix that when – “, and he stops again, as if collecting himself. Klavier is barely breathing. “When there’s nowhere else for the weight to go? When it’s - it’s glued to someone, or tied to them, or - you know what I mean. I suck at metaphors.”
“I get what you mean,” Trucy interjects quietly.
Klavier, however, doesn’t. Who could Apollo be talking about? Who is ‘he’?
Apollo speaks again, sounding like his throat is full. “Yeah. That’s - I mean, I don’t know how else to explain it. You really haven’t noticed?”
“Well, no,” Trucy immediately replies, her tone being very ‘duh, of course’, but gentle nonetheless. “You’d know better than me, obviously.”
“Yeah, I. I guess I would, huh.”
“How,” she hesitates, before continuing with, “how long have you… felt this way, Polly?”, and outside, by himself in the bigger room, surrounded by belongings that aren’t his and feeling too big for his body, Klavier lets out a breath and thinks oh, shit.
He’s never known Apollo to refer to himself in the third person before.
“Since the - well, I noticed basically immediately after the Misham trial. When I - when I saw that he – “
And suddenly, just like that, it’s too much. This is - eavesdropping like this, it’s ungentlemanly of him, impolite and rude and Apollo would be pissed if he knew that Klavier was intruding like that. He and Klavier are friends, obviously - Apollo is his best friend at this point, he knows him better than anyone - but that doesn’t change the fact that he isn’t meant to be hearing this.
This is Apollo pouring his heart out to someone that's practically his sister, one of his closest people, about his experiences with what sounds like depression, and Klavier is pushing his ear against the door like a creep from a 90s movie.
He recoils, trying to keep his footsteps light enough to not be heard (to not be discovered, because he is doing something very fucked up), and he crumples up the list of files in his pocket like it’s an old receipt, rapidly making his way back towards the front door. It’s still open a crack, because he hadn’t even thought to close it behind him, so luckily he doesn’t do anything stupid like yanking it open - he does, however, accidentally slam it shut behind him, and just as he’s powerwalking back towards his bike he hears a distinctly loud, confused voice - “Wait, did you hear that?”
As he’s driving back to the office - his office - he counts what he can see, what he can hear, what he can feel. He doesn’t think of much. He feels awful.
As he’s parking up once again, pulling his helmet off much less gracefully this time, he returns to himself and the feeling almost doubles him over - because oh God, he’s so worried.
Trucy cradles her coffee in her gloved hands, the white material gathering at her knuckles as she taps at the sides of it carefully, with a measured rhythm. Apollo has always thought of Trucy as small - while they aren’t too different in height, she’s still a young girl, a teenager - but her hand completely engulfs the mug, hiding the ‘there’s a rabbit in here’ typography decorating the side. Weirdly, it reminds him that she’s his boss, technically - she probably checked the kitchen stock this morning, probably refilled the cupboard with coffee before Apollo had even arrived at the office. Trucy is small, smaller than him, but still larger than he ever was at her age. Larger than she should have to be.
“How long have you… felt this way, Polly?”
She’s looking at him like she wants to take care of him, and he wishes that this was the right time to tell her she doesn’t have to. But it isn’t, so instead he digs his hands further into his pockets, probably creasing the material of his suit pants, and he lets out a sigh so deep his soul must be going with it. “Since the - well, I noticed basically immediately after the Misham trial. When I - when I saw that he – he was a wreck, Truce. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was.”
She frowns at him, her head tilting to the side curiously, which he’s heard is a habit she’d picked up from Maya Fey, who he’s yet to meet. “Didn’t he leave as soon as the trial ended? How do you know?” And before he can do anything about it, her eyes narrow, and she adds, “Did you go after him?”
Instantly, Apollo feels himself flush, because of course he does. He really needs to work on that. Talking about the man, or seeing him or thinking about him or anything, always makes Apollo feel like he needs to drink a whole water bottle and stick his head in a fridge. ‘You’re as red as your suit, Herr Forehead,’ he hears somewhere in his mind, and ugh, Klavier Gavin can go to hell.
Except, not really. Because that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Klavier deserving better.
“I, uhm,” he starts, pushing his sweaty palms against the inside of his pocket. God, why did he always have to sweat so much? “Yeah. Yes, okay? It didn’t feel right not to? I mean, come on, it was his brother. He seemed pretty collected in the courtroom, but there was no way I was letting him walk away without saying anything.” When he looks up from the floor, Trucy’s expression hasn’t changed, still pinning him with the same exposed concern and understanding. It’s unnerving, and he stays silent for a moment to see if it goes away, but it doesn’t. “You – what. What is it.”
“It’s nothing,” she says, removing a hand from her mug and waving it dismissively. Her gaze doesn’t waver.
There’s a bang from outside that makes him jump, but Trucy doesn’t even seem to hear it. Looking around slightly wildly, he almost wonders if it’s a gunshot, but no, that’s his paranoia talking. He knows what gunshots sound like. “Wait, did you hear that?”
“That’s probably also nothing. Go on, tell me what happened after the trial. Did you go to his office? His apartment?”
Apollo splutters. “What? No. That’s personal, I’m not telling you any details. It’s bad enough that I told you he was upset at all - he hates people knowing that stuff. Klavier’s more of a closed book than I am.”
Finally, Trucy’s mug is free, placed roughly on the counter so that her hands are available to rest in fists against her sides. There it is, that teenage indignation, the pout and the huff huff. “C’mon, Polly, we’ve come this far! How can I help if you don’t tell me these things? I’m his friend, too!”
“How does knowing where I talked to him help you at all!?”
“I don’t know, it might!”
Grumbling, Apollo starts to turn towards the door. “This conversation is over if you’re gonna be so pushy about it. Besides, that noise was probably Mr Wright coming back. I should get back to work.” He yanks the door open, and just as he steps through the frame he feels a large half wrap around his wrist. He rolls his eyes and keeps moving, simply dragging her behind him. “Trucy. Let go.”
Trucy honest-to-God whines. Like she’s five. “Daddy isn’t back, he’s meeting with that new hire he’s interested in. Besides, he doesn’t pay you, I do, and I say your job today is to tell me all about your deep emotional bond with the hottest guy in the world.”
Apollo sits down on the couch, and Trucy flops down next to him, immediately latching onto his side like she's a koala and he’s the only eucalyptus tree left in the world. He rolls his eyes in the hopes that she takes the hint, as if Trucy has ever taken a hint in her short life. “Please don’t call him that. He is so much older than you.”
“Hey, that’s normal!” She pouts, and if anything, her grip gets tighter. “Lots of teenagers get crushes on singers. It’s fine because they’re unattainable, or something. You’re just uncomfortable because you think he’s hot and you don’t like the idea of us having the same crush. It makes you feel like a weirdo.”
“Alright, first of all,” and he shifts so that he can look her in the face (not the eye, because eugh, eye contact). He lets her keep her hold on his arm. It’s kinda nice, honestly - he feels safe. Grounded. “They don’t count as ‘unattainable’ if you have their number in your phone. Secondly, are you really using that against me right now? I’m genuinely worried about the guy’s wellbeing, and you’re bringing up my feelings for him?”
Trucy blinks.
“You’re not denying it?”
Apollo frowns right back, because what? How emotionally repressed do people think he is? “Of course not? It’s like you said, Klavier is hot. Everyone knows that. There’s no point pretending he’s not.”
“But you said - you didn’t say you’re attracted to him. You said ‘feelings’.”
Did - did he say that?
Oh, oh God, that’s a sly grin if he’s ever seen one - creeping across her face slowly, right at home alongside the spark of pure delight in her eyes. He feels heat scratching at his cheeks and neck and shoulders and ears, and oh no, oh shit. “Well - I. Feelings of attraction, I meant.”
Trucy looks like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
When she doesn’t reply immediately, seemingly too happy to form words yet, he groans and shoves a hand against her cheek lightly, finally getting her to detach from his body. He stands up again - because God forbid he gets to sit down in peace for five minutes in this office - and makes his way towards his laptop, deeply regretting asking Trucy for advice in the first place. “I’m not talking to you about this. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Hey, did you get me this muffin?”
“Polly, you li-i-ike him,” she sing-songs, swaying side to side and holding her ankles where they’re crossed, and ugh.
“I am never doing anything for you ever again.”
“What if I told you to kiss Klavier? Would you do that for me?”
He looks back at her, shoulders hunched, bright red, appalled, and she falls backwards laughing at him. “Oh my God, Polly!”
“Shut up!” He hisses, hiding his face behind his hands. “I hate you. Can you just - please help me with this? I don’t need to think about - about that right now!”
Trucy shoots up to her feet and strides towards him for a few steps, pointing at him like she’s winning a cross-examination, which just makes him feel even smaller. “But you will think about it later, right? We’ll talk about this later? Right, right?”
He mumbles something into his palm.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Mmmffmghfm.” Apollo moves his hands, only slightly. “Fine. Sure, yeah. Fine.”
“Yes!” Trucy exclaims, and she actually pumps her fist before holding up her palms in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m normal now. I’m calm. I can be calm about this.”
He glares.
“I’m serious! Completely, totally serious right now. This is business Trucy, ready to give real, adult advice.” He just groans again in response, and she moves to wrap an arm around his shoulder, patting his head like he’s a child. He hates it, but lets it slide. Trucy is one of the only people who can touch him like this and get away with it. “Shhh, sweet, little Apollo. We’ll work it out. You think he needs help?”
“I know he does,” He corrects, willing himself to calm down from whatever tangent the conversation had just gone on. “He’s doing a lot better now, but he still spends all of his time working, and I don’t think he’s even picked up a guitar since his band broke up.” Apollo slumps in his chair slightly, and Trucy comes down with him. “He loves his guitars.”
Trucy hums. “Well. Maybe he forgot.”
Apollo creases his brow, craning his neck around to look up at her, but from this angle he can mainly just see her chin. “Forgot what?”
“What he loves!” she says simply, a gentle smile on her face. She’s stopped petting him, now, just resting her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe he got so busy dealing with all that goofiness,” she does a vague wave of her hand as Apollo splutters out ‘Goofiness?! Trucy, people died —’, but she pushes on regardless, “that he lost track of the things that make life good instead of just fine. Because yeah, now that you say it, I can kinda see how he’s been going through a rough time, but he really does seem like he’s doing okay. At least recently. But what you’re saying is ‘fine’ isn’t ‘happy’, and you’re worried about making him happy.”
“Well, yeah, duh,” he agrees dumbly. “Isn’t that what I’ve been saying this whole time?”
Abruptly, she secures her hold on his shoulders and spins him 180 degrees in his office chair, so she can look him in the face. His eyes dart up to the ceiling instinctively. “No, listen to me. You want to make him happy. You want to be the one that does that.”
Apollo’s collar suddenly feels too tight, and he has to stop himself from reaching up and loosening his tie, because that’d be a bit too obvious. “I – I guess? I guess so. It doesn’t have to be me. It’d be nice if I could - y’know, but as long as the end result is the same, it’s fine, right?”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Look, Polly,” Trucy exhales like she’s taking on some herculean task, which he resents on principle. “You don’t get it. You need to make an effort. Y’know all those cheesy movies you pretend to hate? Think about those. People in those movies, they, like, buy people flowers and fancy chocolates and take them to a nice dinner and clean their apartment for them and learn to slow dance and stuff. It’s all effort. That’s what you need to do for Klavier.”
“Effort,” Apollo adds distantly, absorbing her words. It…makes sense. Obviously, Apollo doesn’t know the ins-and-outs of Klavier’s social life, but as far as he can tell there really isn’t anyone doing that for him right now. Klavier spends most of his time in this office or at home, and he seemingly texts Apollo at all hours of the day, never being too busy to reply. From where he’s standing, the prosecutor’s life seems like one of give with no take - he’s putting all the effort in, and getting none back.
Apollo thinks about it. Effort. Yeah, he can do that. He nods, once, twice, and he thinks about it some more, and then colors bright red all the way down to his toes. “Wait, Trucy, you’re talking about romcoms–”
She gives him a decisive pat on the shoulder and starts walking away, picking up her hat from the cough armrest as she goes. “Well, I gotta go, I have plans with Jinxie. She wants to go see this new horror movie and I need to hold her hand when it makes her cry.” Just as she reaches for the doorknob, she turns and points at him, holding eye contact for a brief second. “Remember what I said, okay? Effort,”, and without another word, she shoots out of the door, slamming it behind her. It makes a deafening bang, like a gunshot. Someday soon someone is gonna break that thing.
He gapes at where she’d been standing, mouth opening and closing a few times, processing. Whatever conclusion Trucy seems to think they’d come to, he’d completely missed it. Did she want him to - what, to woo him? Was that supposed to make him happy? There was no - no evidence of Klavier even being open to –
He sighs, letting his head fall into his hands again. Okay, well, if there was anyone Apollo knew that would be receptive to a boombox outside his window, it’d be Klavier. So maybe it wasn’t that crazy of an idea, now that he’s sitting with it.
And.
And, and, and. Maybe Apollo would enjoy doing - some of those cheesy old cliches. It’d be nice, he thinks, to indulge his old romantic impulse that he’s spent the majority of his life violently stomping down. The last time he remembers doing anything like that was when he would write love letters back in high school, which is mortifying to look back on (thinking about what he wrote in those things sends shivers down his spine), but now, it could be a really nice release of his feelings. And it’s not like doing these things for Klavier would be confessing or anything. Buying someone flowers doesn’t mean you’re asking them out, necessarily - friends do that too. All the time, even.
He focuses on his breathing, willing himself to slow down. This is about Klavier, not you. Think about how he feels.
He drifts back to the night of the Misham trial again, because while he wouldn’t tell anyone else the details if they paid him, the memory has repeated so many times in the safety of his own mind that it’s almost become an old friend. Eyes closed, he can see himself on Klavier’s couch, uncomfortable and unsure how to position himself in the then-unfamiliar environment. He sees his bracelet loose around his wrist as Klavier rolls his neck to look back at him, eyes shining in a way that could be tears or a trick of the light. He remembers feeling too much like a stranger to ask.
“Do you think he cared about me?” Klavier had asked, voice smaller than Apollo had ever heard it. “In his own way. As much as he - as he was capable of caring.”
Why are you asking me, Apollo wanted to say. What do I have to offer you.
And then, willing himself to hold Klavier’s gaze, he realized Klavier might not have anyone else to ask.
His reply had come out clumsy, awkward, too loud for the stillness that had settled around them, but Klavier hadn’t flinched. Apollo stupidly wished he could turn some music on. “He – he must have. He was - is your brother. He wasn’t born a killer.”
For a few moments, all Klavier did was smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that just made him look tired. Then he had turned away again, focusing on a dent in the plush carpet. “He must have,” he’d said, and for the first time that night, Apollo’s bracelet had tightened.
This is about Klavier, he thinks again, back in the present with his elbows digging into his desk and his palms sweating. Think about what he would want. Make an effort for him. He deserves it.
Rising from his seat, he starts to repeat his mantra to himself, but he stops when he remembers ‘fine’ isn’t ‘happy’. He simply squares his shoulders instead, grabbing his satchel with single-minded determination.
Okay. Effort. Sure. How hard could it be?
Not too far across the city, sat in what barely qualifies as an office, is Klavier Gavin. And he’s fine.
As fine as anyone could be, considering the… general circumstances. It may be the understatement of the century to say that not many people could go through what he has in the last year and come out of the other end unscathed. Losing his brother the first time, when it happened to him, had felt like the worst thing that could ever happen to someone. The day that he got the call from his mother explaining it all, hearing her sobbing into the phone about her boy, oh, Klavier, they showed me the footage, I – I hardly recognised him, that can’t have been our Kris – that day had been permanently seared into his brain, and he probably won’t ever be able to do anything about it. He had stayed in his apartment for days on end, shrugging off his work, skipping recording sessions and meetings with his managers, barely eating or sleeping or showering. It had taken two weeks for Daryan to show up at his door unannounced with a mountain of takeout and an ancient pro-shoot of the Legally Blonde musical, even though he hated musicals, barging past Klavier with a simple “You look like shit, dude. Where are your plates?”
And then, later, Daryan – well.
He hadn’t let himself think about it, that time. That time, he took all of the shock and betrayal, the confusion and pure jagged hurt, and stuffed it somewhere that he wouldn’t have to look at it. He put it in his hands, in his ears, in the gaps between his ribs, and he’d let it slowly suffocate him as he got on with his life. His (ex)bandmates didn’t text him. His managers didn’t call him. He sold the guitars that Daryan had bought him.
He sat at home, alone, his knees pulled up towards his chest, and he missed his brother.
Then, when he lost Kristoph the second time, Apollo Justice had knocked on the door of his apartment for the first time, and he’d said ‘he was - is your brother’, and then ‘he wasn’t born a killer’, and Klavier somehow managed not to cry.
He started therapy shortly afterwards. Sheepishly, he would admit to himself that he should have looked into it far earlier, but the problem with being gripped by grief for the people closest to him (even though they were still alive in a detention center somewhere) is that it had the power to absolutely paralyze him. He hadn’t been capable of asking for help, back then, because needing help hadn’t even occurred to him. It had been hard to think of how much better his life could be when he’d already thought he was living the good life, and it had all come crumbling down around him at the drop of a hat. Recovery hadn’t been a concept he’d been ready for. He probably wouldn’t be ready, still, if it wasn’t for –
‘He – he must have. He was - is your brother. He wasn’t born a killer.’
Part of him is glad for how awkward Apollo can be, because if Apollo had ever followed up on their conversation from that night, Klavier would be embarrassed to admit that it had pretty much changed his entire perspective on his life at the time. It hadn’t even been anything specific that had said - it was just the fact that he’d been there. Apollo had no reason to worry about him, really, when Klavier had never contacted him outside of work, and for the majority of their knowing each other Klavier had just been focused on seeing how much he could rile him up. They hadn’t even been friends, not back then, but suddenly Apollo was at his door and he looked so genuinely concerned that Klavier had let him in without a second thought.
It had been such a novelty to have someone care about him for no reason.
So he’d sought help, because someone cared, and suddenly recovery had felt a lot more realistic. Ghosts of people he used to love still seep out of his sleep sometimes, but now he makes a list and remembers what’s real, and more often than not, they go away. Nothing was perfect, nothing ever would be; he still overworks himself, he still has as many restless nights as peaceful, and he still hasn’t written a new song since it all. But he’s okay. He’s fine. Largely thanks to the intervention of Apollo Justice.
Which is why Klavier is currently freaking the fuck out.
All this time, focusing on himself and his own problems, letting Apollo waste precious energy on making sure Klavier is okay, and he hadn’t even thought to ask how Apollo was dealing with everything. How did he forget that Kristoph had been Apollo’s mentor? Of course he was suffering - watching someone you idolize like that fall so far from grace would shake even the strongest person, and Apollo is plenty strong. What was it that he’d said? ‘I never knew someone could be so sad.’
God, he hadn’t even noticed. Apollo deserved better.
He runs a hand through his hair, a habit that he would be conscious of if any member of the WAA had been around, and he grunts thoughtfully. The situation is… inideal, to say the least, but he’s been in bad situations before, and there was always something he could do to fix it. He just needs to think about it, and a solution will present itself.
Except, well. He’s never been the best at comforting people. Back when he had a large social circle, in his late teens when music had really taken off for him, he had maybe been the most callous, insensitive version of himself - he didn’t comfort his friends. He bought them something from their wishlist and didn’t text them for a week. The only exception had been his bandmates, and they’d rarely needed comfort because they were in the same headspace that he was; I’m famous, so I’m happy, and if I’m not happy, I need to sell more records. Klavier winces. He really should have gone to therapy sooner.
He’s a better person now, and while he has his colleagues and… what could loosely be described as a friendship circle, he still didn’t have the most experience with comfort.
Alright, that’s an identified problem. Now what are his options?
Well, he could ask Trucy Wright for help. She had been the one that Apollo had willingly confided in, after all, and she seems to know him better than any of their other mutual acquaintances. The two almost seem like family, at times, with how in sync they are. She would also definitely be on board with a scheme - hiding things from Apollo was practically a hobby of hers, and maybe taking advantage of that impulse for a noble cause would be a good use of her energy. But then again, if he asked her for help, he would have to admit to eavesdropping in the first place, and he’s still too ashamed to even think about that. So. Swing and a miss.
That rules out asking anyone, actually. So his options are even more limited than he thought.
Klavier exhales - less of a sigh, more of an exorcism - and he turns to look out of his windows, tracing the city skyline with his eyes, and he thinks fuck. What do you do, in a situation like this? How do you comfort someone who means the world to you without falling flat on your face and making everything worse? Maybe anything he tries will just remind Apollo of what’s wrong and he’ll take two steps backwards. Maybe the more he sees Klavier, the more he sees Klavier’s face, the more he’ll see Kristoph instead. Maybe there’s nothing Klavier can do at all. Putting a finger against his forehead, he thinks, ugh, it’s gonna be a long session this week.
He doesn’t know how much time he wastes just sitting there, eyes squeezed shut, thinking hard enough for his head to fall off, but eventually he’s broken out of his spiral by two sharp knocks on his door.
There’s not many people it could be, so his mind instantly jumps to Detective Skye, which means pulling himself together somewhat. Consciously relaxing his posture, he gently rubs at the space between his eyes, as if trying to discard any evidence of the crisis he’s been having. When he’s sufficiently masked the issue, he puts a smile in his voice and calls, “Come in!”
Muffled, he hears: “Uh, can you get the door for me?”
He’s on his feet and crossing the room before he can even think. Apollo? Why was Apollo here? Why now? He’s not even remotely ready to see him. Looking around his office, he cringes again.. Apollo seems like the kind of person to hate mess, right? He hadn’t minded the last few times, but they’d been so preoccupied by case work back then. Oh God. “Uh - Ja, of course, give me a minute!”
Papers all go into a drawer, piles of binders get hidden behind the speaker near the door - Klavier mourns his complete lack of sense for not buying a desk. He considers it for a moment, before grabbing a second glass from a side cupboard and placing it next to his pitcher of water, in the probably delusional hope that Apollo will stick around for a while and it’ll come in handy. He clears his throat, fixes his jacket, and opens the door.
Apollo is there, disheveled enough that he doesn’t seem to notice when Klavier takes a moment to just stare at him. He’s red in the face - not his usual embarrassed, violent flush, but a faint rosy glow across his cheeks, like he’s been running. Sweat collects across his brow and his breathing is just the slightest bit erratic. His bunny ears are slightly droopy, hanging over his forehead pathetically, making the man himself look deflated. Despite this, his expression is bursting with energy - a mix of fear and determination, like there’s an electrical current running through his veins and he needs to find something to connect with to pass it through.
Apollo doesn’t look sad. He looks nervous, yes, but excited, and he looks good, because he always does. No matter how much effort Apollo seems to put into his outward professionalism, he always has such a grounded, human quality to him, which makes him more attractive, which kinda makes Klavier want to run away and live in a field for the rest of his life.
Instead, he leans closer. His doorway smells floral.
“Herr Forehead,” he starts, the nickname feeling heavy in his mouth, and he forces himself not to wince, because really? That’s what he’s doing? “Are you here with that report, after all?”
“Report… ?” Apollo stares up at him wide-eyed for a moment, either struggling to comprehend the question or busy making sense of the way that Klavier is crowding him in the doorway. Cursing his own habits, Klavier leans back to make the other man more comfortable, and it must work because the confusion quickly blinks away. “Oh, the one I - no, no, this isn’t about that. I kinda forgot about that, honestly.”
“Oh,” Klavier starts, and “Uh,” which is embarrassing, because for a second that’s all he can say. It’s always a surprise when they see each other outside of work, especially when it’s on purpose, no matter how common it’s become. Apollo is staring up at him with searching eyes, large and keenly perceptive, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Why does Apollo smell so nice today? What is that? “Well, would you like to come in and tell me what this is about?”
Apollo nods, so Klavier retreats into the room, expecting him to follow. A SLAM starles him as soon he takes a seat on the stool by his (stupid, stupid) speaker, and he turns to see it was the sound of Apollo kicking the door shut behind him without looking. It’s then that he realizes he hasn’t yet seen Apollo’s hands, and Apollo seems resistant to turning away from the room at all. Klavier blinks. “What are you hiding?”
Apollo jolts like he’s been hit with an electrical current. “Uh – huh? What?”
“Ach, behind your back?” He says, offering a comforting smile, feeling like he needs a peace offering for scaring him, somehow. “You’re holding something.”
“I – I am,” is the only response he gets. Apollo’s usual demeanor is still there - his own specific brand of ‘I’m normal I swear I am the most normal guy ever’ that makes Klavier’s chest burst with how fond he is - but there’s a strong undercurrent of anxiety filling the room with an almost unbearable tension. Klavier tilts his head forward, gesturing with his hand for Apollo to go on, and he does. “It’s - well. Okay. I’m gonna give you this and you can’t laugh, okay? And don’t say anything yet, you need to let me speak.”
Klavier makes the motion of locking his mouth and throwing away the key, which earns him a wry smile.
“Okay,” Apollo starts, shaking out his shoulders slightly. The light from the windows is hitting him strangely; it highlights his cheekbones, giving his eyes an almost unnatural gleam, and reflecting around his hair. The man almost glows. It’s a struggle to sit still when all Klavier wants to do is grab him by the face and tell him how handsome he looks, but he manages, holding onto his own hands to stop them from ruining this for him. “I know you don’t like talking about stuff like this, and you prefer to just get on with things, and I totally respect that. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But - but I, I care about you, and I wanted to… remind you? That I care. Because we’re friends.” He puffs out his chest slightly, as if taking up more space in the crowded office will bolster his confidence. “We’re friends, and you deserve someone to make an effort for you. Because you’re worth the effort, more than worth it, and everyone knows that, but I don’t know if you know that? So.”
Klavier loses control of his face. He swallows roughly. “What are you –”
His mouth clicks shut at the sharp glare Apollo sends him. Right. No Talking.
“I’m not good with things like this, alright? I don’t… show my emotions well, or, uh, I’m not good with words, and I don’t know what actions to replace them with. So, full disclosure, this was half Trucy’s idea, because she knows a lot more about feelings than I do even though she’s basically twelve. But she didn’t buy them or anything, I did all of the, uh, picking and stuff. I’m – I’m gonna stop stalling now. Don’t laugh?”
Klavier nods.
Then, Apollo does the following things.
He squares his shoulders a few times. He pins his gaze to the space between Klavier’s earlobe and his shoulder. He storms forward a few steps, effectively closing the gap between them. And finally, he pulls his arms forward, and he presents Klavier with –
Klavier’s nose scrunches up instinctively, adjusting to the sudden overwhelming smell, and he looks down to see - lavender? A whole bouquet? Of lavender and violets?
“It - the woman I got them from, she tried to explain what they mean. Something about balance and caution and - devotion? But I wasn’t really thinking about that, and she might have just been making it up to get me to buy them faster, because I’d been there a while. I just know that you like purple. And I think you wore lavender perfume the other day, right? So you like it? I don’t know if that was weird for me to notice, pretend I never said that –”
“Apollo…” Klavier slowly rises to his feet and takes the bouquet with one hand, gently stroking the petals with the other, almost reverently. Once the surprise passes, the smell settles around him like a blanket. He feels himself breaking out into a smile - small and private. “What are these for… ?”
“Nothing. Or, no, not nothing. It’s. Look, I just – “, Apollo says, interrupting himself to glance down at the floor and fiddle with his hands. Klavier reaches forward to… comfort him, maybe? He’s not sure, and he doesn’t get a chance to find out, because as quickly as he’d looked away, Apollo is looking back again and grabbing one of Klavier’s hands between both of his own. The eye contact and easy touch almost blows Klavier away, because Apollo hates both of those things, but here he is, initiating them, and holding them like his life depends on it without a hint of hesitation or regret. For Klavier, of all people. “I need you to know, okay? I’m here for you. I - I’ll protect you. You don’t have to worry about anything. I care about you, and I want to help. Okay?”
Instantly, somehow, Klavier feels heat behind his eyes, and has to will himself not to cry. He doesn’t know what Apollo’s talking about. His breathing feels weird. “I…”
Apollo doesn’t relent, leaning even closer, holding Klavier’s fingers in a death grip. Somewhere in the back of Klavier’s stupid, gay brain, it reminds him how strong Apollo is, and he bats that thought away with a broom. “You’re hearing me, right? You’re hearing what I’m saying? You need to let people take care of you. I want to take care of you.” And the way he says it is so beautifully honest, so simple in a way that Klavier admires more than anything, that all he can think is oh my God I love him and he deserves the world, he deserves better.
“Yeah, I. Yes,” Klavier hears himself agree, his own voice rattling around his skull like a cave echo. He doesn’t know what's going on. “I hear you. I.” He glances around, feeling jittery all over, not sure what to do with Apollo’s undivided attention. Was he always this intense about everything in his life? How far did this man’s single-minded determination go? “Ach, wow, you’ve rendered me speechless. Thank you, Apollo.”
Apollo nods, and Klavier has to remind himself not to resist when the other man lets go of his hand, taking a single step backwards. “Good. You’re welcome. I mean all of it, y’know?” Then he squints, suddenly skeptical, and it makes Klavier realize how sweaty and red he must look, just like Apollo had been at the doorway. “Are you okay? You… have been given flowers before, right? You’re a rockstar.”
Has he? He can’t remember. It doesn’t feel important anymore.
Klavier clears his throat, but to his dismay, his voice still comes out cracked. “Ja, of course. But this is still… special. Thank you, Apollo.” Pausing, he pulls the flowers a bit closer to his chest and looks back at Apollo, equally curious. “Although, I really don’t understand what the occasion is.”
And this - this seems to frustrate Apollo. He scrunches up his brow and crosses his arms, looking at Klavier as if he’s already answered that question and Klavier just isn’t getting it. “I don’t need an ‘occasion’ to remind you that I - that there are, y’know, people who care about you. You deserve honesty and… something simple, so I’m… here’s something simple. It’s normal, okay? And - I mean, anyway, I can do nice things whenever I want. I’m not a complete asshole.”
It’s just so sweet, how he says it. His face looks pinched, like he’s in physical pain, but the look in his eyes is so genuine that it leaves no room to doubt anything he says. With his arms bunched up like this, his sleeves pull slightly against his muscles, and Klavier bites back a grin because how can such a big guy always look so cute? He’s Klavier's favorite person on the planet.
With startling clarity, Klavier realizes he needs to reign himself in a little, because he’s dangerously close to saying something he’ll regret.
He takes a deep breath. No, he’s allowed this. There’s a lot of time Klavier spends away from the defense attorney where he starts willing his own feelings away, wishing he could be as detached as he’s always been towards every other courtroom ‘rival’ he’s faced over the last seven-almost-eight years, but in the face of Apollo’s kindness and unconditional friendship, it feels silly. Irresponsible, even, because this is the happiest he’s been all week. What kind of idiot would he be to dismiss that?
“Of course you’re not,” he chuckles, sounding lovesick to his own ears. “You can be nice to me as much as you like. I certainly won’t complain.”
Apollo looks back at him, cautious, content, his face a whole melting pot of conflicting emotion. There’s something to be said about how Apollo’s distaste for lies seems to circle back round against himself, because as much as the man refuses to use his words a lot of the time, you could chart his emotional state just by looking at him half-blind from a mile away. Klavier turns and places the flowers down gently on his speaker, smiling down at it. Apollo’s posture is relaxed, and he looks satisfied. As if he’s looking at Klavier and finding something he’s been searching for.
Klavier trips over the thought. What has he been searching for?
Apollo lets him fuss over the flowers for a moment, allowing them both time to process and right themselves. Staring out at the city, Klavier pretends he’s alone for just a moment - enough to calm down the rattling in his chest.
“So,” Apollo hedges, and Klavier immediately glances back to find Apollo hasn’t looked away from him, not once. He notices Apollo’s hand unsubtly moving to his bracelet, and looks away again. “You’ve been doing… well? Handling everything?”
His back being turned suddenly becomes a blessing, and he suddenly feels acutely aware of the sweat drying on his neck. “... Handling everything, Herr Forehead?”
“Yeah, um,” Apollo adds, his voice small, as if approaching a wild animal. The air around them shifts, just a little. “I know we haven’t talked about it since the day it happened, but… I don’t know. I wanted to check if you're okay? As long as I’m not overstepping.”
Abruptly, Klavier feels short on air, because oh - oh shit.
(There’s only so much one guy can carry, y’know? But what can you do to fix that when–)
It feels moronic, suddenly, that Apollo feeling guilty wasn’t an angle that he’d considered yet.
The thing that stings - what really squirms through Klavier’s chest and pokes at his heart - is that it makes sense for Apollo to feel guilty over the whole thing, in some backwards way. Maybe, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Klavier had blamed him at first - after the first arrest, the first time he lost Kris, when he couldn’t decide between being grateful or angry at this previously unknown attorney who had taken his brother from him - but now, with the power of hindsight and a lot more clarity, he sees that emotion for what it was. It was fleeting, desperate and irrational. Apollo didn’t do anything wrong - quite the opposite. Apollo is one of the best things to ever happen to him.
He fights the urge to fiddle with his rings, feeling restless and annoyed. Haven’t they been through enough, already, without this? Did the events themselves not warrant some rest? What was it about these bags that they couldn’t just put them down and leave them behind? He is so sick of this.
Klavier desperately wills himself to breathe steadily, not allowing himself to fidget or twitch. This is… a lot of emotions for just a few minutes. The last thing he needs right now is Apollo picking up on his frustration and thinking it’s directed at him, as much as it is, in a sense. It passes as fast as it comes, anyway - he’s too tired. He wants to go back to a moment ago, before Apollo had asked. He wishes the last year of their lives never happened. He wants to reach into Apollo’s brain and fight away the shadows that have apparently settled there when Klavier wasn’t paying attention, because what’s the point of making it through the worst year of his life if the people he cares about still aren’t happy?
If he lets his silence drag for another minute or so, it doesn’t seem to matter - Apollo isn’t pressuring him for a response, instead choosing to let his eyes wander to the guitars on the wall.
He doesn’t even look back immediately when Klavier turns sharply to face him: it takes a moment or two for Apollo to return the movement, and it’s all casual kindness and care in his eyes when he does. Like nothing is wrong, like this is normal, like they talk about these things all the time. Distantly, Klavier realizes that they probably should.
“I’m fine, Apollo,” he manages, and Apollo reacts almost violently to that - his entire body tenses, and he grabs at his wrist like a lifeline. Hurriedly, Klavier adds, “More accurately, I will be fine. I’m better by the day, I promise,” which seems to do the trick. Once Apollo seems sufficiently relaxed, he continues. “Achtung, I’ll admit, I had no idea that you were worrying so much. If I’ve done anything specific to… concern you, then I’m sorry, but I –”
“No, you - Klavier,” Apollo interjects, sounding exasperated. “Come on. You know you don’t have to apologize. Stop it.”
Klavier is stepping forward before he can think about it, hand hovering over one of Apollo’s where it sits on the man’s elbow. Apollo glances at it, but doesn’t linger, seemingly trusting Klavier not to cross that boundary without permission. “Ach, you need to let me speak. You said your piece, so let me say mine, ja?”
Apollo nods. His face is completely shadowed by Klavier’s, because maybe standing this close will help Klavier to communicate the whirlpool of emotion he’s struggling to wrangle into coherent sentences. “I love the flowers. I really, really do - they’ll be put in a vase as soon as I can go buy one. I’ll get the most expensive, gaudy one I can find. You’ll hate it.” Pausing for a second to appreciate the grin Apollo gives to that, Klavier clears his throat. “I love them. But Apollo - bitte, trust me when I tell you they’re completely unnecessary. You’re about as subtle as a brick through a window, häschen - I know what these flowers mean.”
Apollo pouts, in a way that he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. “What do you –”
“My piece,” Klavier cuts him off, and Apollo clicks his mouth shut, not without a dirty look. “As I was saying, I see the intention behind these, and while I’m grateful, I can’t help but feel as if there’s a misunderstanding happening here.”
Apollo’s eyes go wide. “They’re not romantic,” he blurts out, which shocks a laugh out of Klavier.
In my dreams. “I know they’re not. Although I’d happily receive roses from you any time.”
“You - ugh. Shut up. Do your speech.”
Klavier grins. “Shut up, or speak? Which is it?”
Apollo simply glares, and Klavier lets his smile flicker into something softer. This isn’t a moment to be taken lightly - he needs to speak, and he needs Apollo to really hear him. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry, I’ll get to the point. I just have to make sure you aren’t misreading me. What I meant, Forehead, is that you seem to think I hold some kind of resentment towards you, and honestly, nothing could be further from the truth. As much mockery as this might open me up to, you’re one of the best people I have in my life. I don’t think I could hold a grudge against you if I tried.”
As he speaks, his hand tentatively brushes against Apollo’s fingers - a quiet word amongst a yell. A silent request, too, that Apollo seems to hear, because as the words tumble out, their hands tumble together. They hold onto each other clumsily, sitting awkwardly at this angle, but it anchors him nonetheless.
“I don’t need apology gifts from you, Apollo. For all of the emotional distress I’ve felt in that courtroom, I’ve never blamed you for any of it. You were doing your job, and you were doing it well. It’s all thanks to you that I’m no longer surrounded by murderers - the way I see it, I should be buying you flowers.”
Apollo, for his part, just seems lost, eyes darting between Klavier’s brow and their joined hands. “That’s… really kind, but I don’t - I’m confused. I’m not… apologizing?”
“You can tell me how you feel, really. I’d prefer it if you were upfront.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If it’s not an apology… Are you trying to make it up to me, then?”
“Make what up to you?!”
Oh, his prosecutor’s badge for a magical lie detector. He’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Alright,” Klavier relents, releasing Apollo’s hand and stepping back. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about that. I’m sorry for pushing you. I’ll stop.”
Rubbing at his arm stiltedly, Apollo is looking back at Klavier like he’s grown a second head. “You’re forgiven, I guess?”
“And really, Apollo,” Klavier says, then, eyes drifting to almost mournfully watch the blush slowly recede from Apollo’s face. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I care about you too, ja? I’d love to help you in any way I can.”
He’s not sure if his words are really sinking in, not in the way he wants them to, but Apollo seems to soften at that, at the very least no longer looking at him like he’s speaking another language. “... Yeah, of course. Thanks, Klavier.”
The tone - the intonation of his name, and the soft fondness behind it - is immediately a lot to deal with. Different shades of wooden floor boards, still mostly spotless from the janitor's rounds, stare back at him when Klavier drops his head, not sure where to go from here. There’s a police report that he’d dropped earlier this morning poking out from under the speaker, with a slight mark of it where he stepped on it during his rush back from the WAA. The atmosphere in the office now is - not unpleasant, not by a long shot, but definitely heavy. He feels wrong-footed under Apollo’s scrutiny, and God, he doesn’t even want to think about what the man might be seeing in him right now. If he lets himself wonder, he’s sure he won’t sleep for a week.
Panic mode, red alert, deflect, deflect. “Of course, all that aside, I would never deny a request from a fan. Even one as reluctant as yourself.”
Yeah, throw in a wink, too. Fuck it. Desperate times.
An excruciating silence hangs for a moment; he practically hears crickets. Apollo heaves a sigh, quickly looking Klavier in both eyes before turning for the door without ceremony. “Sure. Whatever, Gavin. I should head back.”
“Wh - “ Klavier stutters, the lack of reaction throwing him off for a moment, having expected the usual flustered denial, angry pouting, maybe a denial or two. He doesn’t let himself linger on the way Apollo had said Gavin, or the distance it instantly put between them. “Uh - Ja, of course. Always busy, aren’t you, Herr Forehead?”
“Stop calling me that, we’re not in court,” Apollo says, holding the door open for himself and looking at Klavier over his shoulder, and oh, he really was leaving, wasn’t he? Already? Discomfort scratches at Klavier’s palms, so he shoves them into his pockets protectively, going for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. Just how badly he’d fucked up that entire conversation is crashing into him all at once - the last thing he’d wanted was to scare Apollo away.
“... I’ll see you soon?” Apollo asks, tilting his head consideringly.
Klavier clears his throat and says “Of course, text me,” and Apollo nods, and closes the door behind him. Klavier stares at it for a long time.
He drops his face into his palms and groans. What was that?
It was like the second he’d set eyes on Apollo, his brain just - shut off. Poof. Gone. You’re on your own for this one, I’ll see you later, let me know how it goes.
Earlier, in his small office kitchen with Trucy, Apollo had sounded hollow - sad enough to break Klavier’s heart, ‘I never knew someone could be so sad’ - but here, face to face with someone he’s less comfortable with, he had appeared as bright as always. A bright source of warmth that Klavier would happily bask in for hours, if that kind of thing would be welcomed, which it wouldn’t, which isn’t the point. Point is, Apollo seems to be a skilled actor, and that’s fine. It’s not as if Klavier was planning on picking and choosing times to be nice to him depending on how sad he is, and Apollo has every right to decide when he’s comfortable being vulnerable. But the complete normalcy had just highlighted how weird and off-putting Klavier had been, and with the foundations of their friendship being as unpleasant as they are, he can’t afford mistakes like that.
Okay, logically, the intensity had been a problem. That’s what had made it unbearably weird, he thinks. It was too much all at once. Klavier rubs at his mouth, feeling the frown deepening under his palm. Direct communication isn’t the way, apparently, but at least he knows that now. That’s just one option off the list.
Standing in the middle of the room holding onto his own face like a lifeline starts to feel a bit too pathetic after a while. God, what was he even planning on doing today? This can’t be the only thing swirling around in his head. Surely there was work to do.
He idles back to his personal phone and, after dismissing his many notifications (including three missed calls from his agent, which he would follow up later with a quick ‘I’m not ready yet, Gary, leave me alone’ text, like he always does), he starts looking for somewhere to order a multi-colored vase. He can’t dwell on this. Dwelling led to overthinking, and overthinking had led to intensity, and intensity had Apollo running away fast enough to leave a dust cloud. He needs to go the other way. Just be casually kind, as if it’s an impulse and not a decision. No sweeping speeches, no grand gestures. Plain ol’ simplicity.
He fiddles with his rings. It’ll be hard to be casual, he thinks, when in no time flat he’s gone from ‘I care about him a normal amount’ to ‘I have to be the best damn friend that man has ever had’.
He slumps into his chair, making a pathetic ‘guh’ sound as he does, and rolls his head to glance at the time, his eyes catching on the flowers as they go. This day has been a million years long, and it’s only just hit twelve. Fuck his life.
Forehead🐰
[12:34] hey trucy just texted me asking me to ask you something, which makes no sense because she has your number
[12:34] why am i being used as a middle man here
[12:35] ? :0
[12:35] i really have no idea!
[12:36] perhaps she’s shy? in which case you’ve just blown her cover
[12:36] VERY ungentlemanly of you
[12:36] what does she want to know?
[12:41] i told her i’d already left your office so she could ask you herself
[12:41] she isn’t replying so you can take it from here i guess
Trucy
[12:42] apollo says you have a question for me?
[12:42] ohhhh nvm nvm i didnt kno hed told you
[12:42] ignore that i changed my mind
[12:42] i hope ur having a good day btw!! :+)
[12:43] let me know if you change it again, i’m happy to help :)
[12:43] and the same to you, fräulein
Trucy 💞
[12:45] heyyyy polly
[12:46] ?
[12:47] i was gonna ask u to ask him if he’s from tennessee
[12:47] ‘bc ur the only ten i see’ u know the one
[12:47] i cant believe u ruined my bit
[12:47] >>:(((((
[12:47] so mad at you!!!!
[12:47] how do you type so fast
[12:47] i’ll tell daddy and he’ll let me dock ur pay
[12:47] ur a menace to society
[12:48] not even you could save you from jail time for this one BUDDY
[12:49] i’m turning my phone off
Swinging open the door to the WAA for the second time that day, Apollo’s eyes first land on a blue knitted hat sitting tossed onto the plate of plastic spaghetti. The implication of company is enough for him to yell “Mr Wright, how do you do it?” as the door clicks shut behind him (clicks, not slams, because unlike everyone else in this building, he has some sense).
He hears the clatter of a spoon hitting the sink come from the kitchen, followed by muttering. “What? Is that you, Apollo?” Running water, then, “How do I do what?”
Slumping in his chair, Apollo runs a hand over his face. “Help people. People who don’t want you to.”
“Have you been watching my old trial tapes again?”
Apollo grumbles. “Not recently. It’s not - you just have a knack for it.”
There’s a shuffling behind the door, before the kitchen door opens slowly, because Phoenix is nudging it with his foot. In his hands are two mugs of coffee, and Apollo takes one of them thankfully when it’s offered, although he eyes his boss suspiciously the entire time. The man looks - slightly more put together than usual, today. Instead of his usual hat-hair, he’s decorated with his old, iconic spikes. He’s out of his hoodie, simply sporting the usual black t-shirt that the hoodie usually hides, and he’s freshly shaven today, which has been a rarity for most of his adult life if video evidence is to be believed. Apollo squints. He doesn’t even shave his stubble to go see the Chief Prosecutor, and that had been the biggest deal ever. “Hey, why aren’t you…”
Phoenix grins, tucking his hands against his side, as if it was muscle memory from the hoodie and he only remembered at the last second that it’s not there. “A mess?” He offers, sounding amused.
“N - No, I just mean –” Apollo stutters out, even though that is what he meant.
Phoenix waves a hand through the air, like the thought was a cloud he could disperse. “Nah, you’re right. Weird to see me a bit more like a functioning human, huh? It’s been a while.”
“I…” Apollo has a horrible moment where he can’t decide if it’s a good idea to agree or not. “I mean, yeah, it has.”
“I thought Trucy would tell you, but I was out talking to a potential new hire today,” says Phoenix, sounding unbothered as always. “She hasn’t been back in the country long, but she’s young and enthusiastic, so I thought I’d at least try to match her energy, even if it’s not much.”
Apollo leans back in his chair, humming. “Yeah, she said something about that, earlier. I - hmm. Uh, Mr Wright?”
The man doesn’t look up, already moving across the room, preoccupied with something. “Hm?”
“Can we, uh… afford a new hire?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I know how much I get paid.”
Phoenix barks a laugh. “Well, then, no, not really.”
Apollo feels himself being pulled apart at the seams. “Then… then why?”
Finally looking up at him, Phoenix frowns, expression eerily innocent and unassuming for a built man in his 30s. “Well, more lawyers means more cases, which means more money. Right?”
“Sure,” Apollo grits out between his teeth, willing himself to breathe. “Shouldn’t this be Trucy’s decision?”
“She’s fine with it,” Phoenix says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. A grin is creeping back onto his face. “Hey, what were you asking me earlier, when you came in? It sounded important.”
Phoenix Wright has spent the last seven years of his life pretending to play the piano, bringing his small daughter to seedy bars to help him play poker, and taking random flights to Germany to meet with a man he’s been publicly obsessed with for over a decade but refuses to talk about unless he’s mentioned by name. Phoenix Wright had to convince Apollo that he has an apartment and doesn’t just sleep in the office every night. Phoenix Wright makes Apollo’s bracelet tighten half the times he opens his mouth, and makes his blood pressure rise the rest of them. Phoenix Wright just referred to shaving his stubble as ‘matching a young and enthusiastic energy’.
Apollo suddenly has no idea why he thought to ask him for advice.
“No…” he says slowly, turning away. “No, I think I’m good.”
“Suit yourself,” Phoenix shrugs, before pulling a bag of chips from his jeans pocket and popping five in his mouth at once. Apollo doesn’t look back at him for another hour.