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Perhaps the only thing Apollo does slowly is wake up. His consciousness comes like a leaky faucet drips—drips—drips—above a sink. At some point, suddenly, the sink is full. It overflows, and—
Apollo stirs. The plush of the mattress presses pleasant against his skin. He curls his fist into the sheets, tugging them a little closer, and meets resistance. More than Mikeko would offer—he runs at the first sign of danger.
Oh, that’s right. He stayed over at Klavier’s last night. That explains why his bed is suddenly outside his pay grade. All the more reason to stay in bed as long as he can, right? It’s Sunday; the courts are closed; and…
And Apollo blinks, eyes heavy, vision blurry. Klavier is curled up by Apollo’s side, head half-falling off his pillow in favor of chasing Apollo’s shoulder. His hair is in a loose imitation of its usual twist, locks of it branching out over his chest, some retreating over his back. He breathes in a steady rhythm, and his left eye twitches once, and drool collects at the corner of his mouth, and his feet are icy against Apollo’s. Klavier must have kicked off his socks overnight.
Apollo swallows. Apollo reaches a tentative hand out to brush a strand of Klavier’s hair out of his face. Klavier mumbles something utterly incomprehensible in his sleep.
Klavier is always awake before Apollo. Rockstar lifestyle leading to a poor sleep schedule and all that. It’s more often than not that Klavier will wake up multiple times in a night, sometimes waking Apollo with him as he shifts around for comfort. Sometimes Klavier just gives up and gets out of bed at the crack of dawn, because he might as well do something productive instead of chasing sleep.
So this is the first time Apollo’s seen Klavier like this. Unguarded, vulnerable. At peace. Not that Klavier puts up a front with Apollo, because he doesn’t anymore, not really. But everyone has walls up for one thing or another, subconscious or not.
And that’s the thing about Klavier: he’s always protecting someone. Sometimes himself. More often, others. At least, he thinks he’s protecting them. Thinks that if he breaks that glamorous rockstar persona for even a second, he’ll be disappointing everyone.
Because nobody wants to see Klavier. Nobody wants to see Klavier struggle under the weight of all he did and didn't do; nobody wants to see Klavier still struggle to sleep for all his memories of Kristoph, years later.
Everyone wants Klavier Gavin. He doesn’t exist, not really, but Klavier is duty-bound to play the part.
So: this isn’t just Klavier sleeping. This is one of the few moments Klavier can be Klavier. And he trusts Apollo enough to share it.
In that moment, everything converges. It’s one of those seconds where everything is just so and you know it deep in your bones. You know it deep in your bones and you know, in some absurd cosmic way, that things have been leading up to this maybe forever.
I love you, Apollo realizes.
Klavier stirs, then, as though he heard Apollo. He opens his eyes like the weight of the world is holding them shut. And he looks at Apollo like maybe he doesn't believe Apollo is there.
“Good morning,” Apollo half-whispers.
Klavier makes some incomprehensible noise. “I think I dreamt that you cut your horns off because you wanted to donate them to me. You were so mad when I wouldn’t take them,” he mutters.
I love you, Apollo thinks again. Instead, he says: “I wouldn't give anyone my horns. Not even you.”
“Ach, what a terrible thing to say to someone first thing in the morning.” Klavier’s attempt at dramatics would have worked better if he hadn't yawned in the middle of his sentence.
“I love you,” Apollo says. Because third time's the charm, maybe. It comes out easier than he thought it would. A lot of things come easier than he thought they would, with Klavier.
Klavier’s eyes widen for just a second. He swallows. He shifts, lifts his head to rest it on Apollo’s chest. “I love you, too,” he breathes into Apollo's ribs.
Apollo puts his arm around Klavier and lets his heart beat quick, quick, quick. He feels Klavier smile against his chest, the tiniest movement, just so.