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Chapter Text

one.

There is perfect silence in the courtroom as the judge announces the jurors’ verdict. His voice does not waver under the weight of his words. No, he speaks clearly, and with perhaps a hint of pride: innocent, by unanimous decision.

It is not a condemnation of Kristoph, not exactly. Not legally, in any case. But still Kristoph laughs, and laughs, and laughs. It rings in Klavier’s ears, down the courtroom halls; and a condemnation it may as well be.

There are words crawling up the back of Klavier’s throat. They are words like how, and why, and I thought we were better than this. Maybe even I thought you loved me, in your own way. And maybe Klavier could say some, or all, of these things as Kristoph is escorted out of the courtroom, as he’s escorted past Klavier’s bench. But Klavier can’t even bring himself to look in Kristoph’s direction.

(If he spoke, would he start laughing, too? Would it sound just the same?)

In the end, this trial is nothing more than the first run of the Jurist System. And so it comes with paperwork upon paperwork for both him and Apollo. It’s easier to stay in the courthouse and do it, Klavier tells himself. That way, he’ll have access to all the precedent texts and anything else he could ever need.

Well, almost anything. That one thing is a lost cause, though, or so he thinks until Apollo falls in step beside him as he heads down to the courthouse library. Klavier startles at Apollo suddenly being there, throwing him a confused look.

“Hi?” Apollo says, half-questioning. He’s not doing a great job of explaining why he’s here.

“Hello,” Klavier returns. There’s an awkward pause. Klavier bites the bullet: “I assume there’s a reason you’re following me, ja? You know the bathrooms are the other way.”

“Stop that.” Apollo heaves a sigh. The sheer exhaustion—and that undercurrent of disappointment—in his voice is somehow more chastening than any reprimand. “You’re going to do the paperwork down in the library, aren’t you?”

“Ja.”

“Well, I’m coming with you,” Apollo tells him, as though it’s the most natural conclusion in the world. As Klavier furrows his eyebrows, Apollo continues, “You… shouldn’t be alone after that.” I noticed, he doesn’t say. Klavier hears it.

Klavier bites his tongue against saying something frivolous. Something stupid. Something like ach, some would die to be in your shoes right now. Because it is neither the time nor place; and that’s not really what he wants to say.

The words crawl up the back of Klavier’s throat: “Thank you.”

two.

Klavier’s next few cases aren’t against Apollo. It’s a blessing in disguise. Apollo has this way of piercing straight to the heart of things, of peeling back layer upon carefully crafted layer. Not indelicately, but with purpose. Like an archaeological dig, he knows something’s there. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t find it, but whatever he does find is treated with care.

It’s something Klavier doesn’t need at the moment. Not that it’s a disappointment when his next case crosses his desk with Apollo listed as the opposing counsel. It’s just that it would be—easier, if it wasn't Apollo. Then again, Apollo’s involvement can only mean this case will be needlessly complicated. Maybe this is just the puzzle to throw himself at for the next few days.

It is evident from the moment Klavier arrives on the scene that, yes, this case will be needlessly complicated. A bloody weapon that doesn’t match the fatal wound; blood spatter that doesn’t match where the body was found; and then some.

His investigation doesn’t make much ground, even—especially after Ema and Apollo begin theirs, what with Ema’s eye for forensics and Apollo’s eye for bullshit.

“The body couldn’t have been transported down those stairs,” Apollo retorts. “One, they creak when anyone steps on them, which means someone would have heard the murder happening. Two, just look at them. You really think one of those steps can hold the weight of two people?”

Klavier tilts his head. Apollo’s got a point. “Well, what about the trellis—”

“That thing?” Apollo crosses his arms. “It’s falling apart as we speak. It’d be in pieces if someone tried to use it.”

Another point. “They had to use something—”

“Yes, they did,” Apollo interrupts him. “And we can figure that out in court tomorrow.”

“This isn’t a case I can bring to court,” Klavier mutters, staring at the blood spatter across the room. As if he can prosecute someone when he has no concept of how the murder was committed or where. Dark age of the law indeed—

“Klavier.” Klavier’s head jerks up to meet Apollo’s gaze. Is this the first time Apollo’s used his given name? “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Klavier answers, surprising even himself with how quickly he speaks. He doesn’t have all too much trust left to give nowadays. Is this where most of it went?

“Then we can figure it out in court tomorrow,” Apollo shrugs. “You think I’m gonna let you steamroll me and my client on this flimsy of an argument?”

“I would never presume such a thing.” There’s the vestige of a smile at the edge of Klavier’s lips. Because if he was going up against anyone else, yeah, he’d put in a motion to push the trial to a later date. He doesn’t trust the system enough to go to trial like this. Doesn’t trust any other defense attorney to not drop the ball. Doesn’t trust himself.

Apollo, though—he feels his trust cling to Apollo, now, like a child clings onto their mother’s leg on the first day of kindergarten. It’s that kind of pure, whole trust that Klavier had lost for good.

Or maybe he hasn’t.

three.

Apollo has never hesitated to push back when Klavier provokes him. Not when they happen to run into each other while out and about, not when they’re in the middle of a trial, and especially not in the aftermath of Kristoph’s second trial.

Even in that disaster of a trial, no, Apollo didn’t let Klavier steamroll him. There are times when Klavier’s words come razor-sharp, uncalled for, and he knows it. Apollo knows it, too; knows the words come from somewhere ugly and full of fear; and he levels Klavier with a look that says, you know you’re better than that. It’s reprimand enough.

So it’s no surprise that the judge delivers a not guilty verdict. What’s more surprising is the relief that swells in Klavier’s chest once it’s all over. Because Apollo never hesitates to push back; because Apollo won’t let him fail another innocent person.

Klavier takes his time leaving the courtroom. Apollo is talking to his co-counsel—a new member of the Wright Anything Agency, shadowing for now, if Klavier has it right—as Klavier enters the vestibule of the courthouse.

“His emotions were off the charts, Apollo, you wouldn’t believe it—”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” Apollo returns. “Many times.” His arms are crossed, looking anywhere but his co-counsel—he just needs to be tapping his foot to complete the picture. His gaze lands on Klavier as Klavier passes them, which is when he jumps to attention. “Hey, Gavin—”

Klavier stops a touch too quickly. “Ja?”

“I’m not yelling at you across the courthouse,” Apollo says in the same dry tone of voice he’s been talking to his co-counsel in. “Come here.” When Klavier gets reasonably close to them, he continues, “You want to come to Eldoon’s with the Agency tonight?”

Klavier blinks. “To what do I owe this invitation?”

“Don’t you know it’s Agency tradition to celebrate our wins with salt poisoning?”

“Ja, I’ve heard of this from Fräulein Wright. I’m more curious about why we’re inviting the opposing counsel.”

Apollo rolls his eyes. “You make it sound so scandalous. I just thought it’d be nice for you to get to know Athena—” He makes a vague gesture in his co-counsel’s direction. “—since she’ll be taking on cases soon.”

“Sureeee, buddy,” a tinny voice chirps from somewhere near them.

Apollo’s co-counsel—Athena—slaps her hands over her necklace. “This is the first I’m hearing of this,” Athena half-shouts. Does she do Chords of Steel, too? Is it an Agency thing more than it is an Apollo thing? Hands still firmly over her necklace, she continues at a normal volume, albeit more of a sickly-sweet tone: “I’m always a fan of networking!”

“Oh, don’t get him started,” Apollo mutters under his breath. Klavier still hears it. Probably because Apollo intended him to.

“I’ll be sure to bring my business cards, then, ja?” Klavier smiles as he moves to leave, then calls over his shoulder, “Just text me the time and place, Herr Forehead.”

“You already know the place,” Apollo calls after him.

Klavier doesn’t dignify him with a reply. But as he’s leaving, he thinks he hears Athena’s not-so-indoor voice again, saying something suspiciously like, “you made him so happy, Apollo.”

The weird thing is that she’s right. She knew before he did.

four.

Apollo picks up on the second ring. “Gavin, you know normal people are asleep at this hour—”

“Ach, and somehow I knew you weren’t normal, either,” Klavier sing-songs. “Do you have your case files handy? I have a question about the Banks case.”

“This couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning, really? Apollo grumbles, but Klavier can hear him rustling through papers. Is he still at his desk? “Got it. What’s your question?”

“Did the defendant mention anything about a sibling when you spoke with him?”

“Klavier, I don’t need my case files to remember verbal conversations I’ve had with people, believe it or not. But yes. He mentioned a sister—Robin, I think? Around the same age as him.”

“And that’s all I needed to know,” Klavier responds. “Danke, Apollo. I hope I didn’t disturb you—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not tired.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“…Something like that,” Apollo says. “But don’t think that means I’ll be easy pickings tomorrow. I’ve done trials on less sleep.”

“I don’t think anyone would ever dare call you easy pickings, Herr Forehead.”

“Yeah, well, I also didn’t think anyone would ever dare call me Mr. Forehead, but look where we are,” Apollo retorts. There’s no heat to it, though. It’s light. Friendly, even. Are they friends?

“Ach, I am the daring sort, aren’t I?” Even Klavier hears the smile in his voice.

“It can be hard to tell the difference between daring and stupid,” Apollo says sagely.

“You wound me—”

And they… talk. They talk, just like that, into the wee hours of the night. It’s all mundane, if not inane, conversation. They talk about Trucy’s magic shows and how she’s been dreaming of Klavier being her assistant (“Doesn’t she know I’d say yes?” “Yeah, but I think she’s planning a, like, promposal—don’t tell her I told you that!”); about that horrible Chinese place near the Prosecutor’s Office that gave everyone there food poisoning (“More than once, because innocent until proven guilty, ja?”); and maybe everything else under the sun.

It’s around 2am when Apollo’s replies grow sluggish, then stop altogether.

He snores. Klavier should’ve known.

five.

There is a knock on Klavier’s apartment door at exactly 6pm on Tuesday. Klavier’s only just gotten home and settled in—a rare early night for him. Mostly due to the Chief Prosecutor threatening to lock him in the office all night if he didn’t leave with everyone else, even though he had no reason to not finish his work at the office. That’s where the bulk of his case files are. It makes sense.

Anyway, that’s all to say that, no, he’s not expecting a visitor. He’s certainly not expecting to open the door to see Apollo Justice standing there, a large paper bag in his hand.

“Look, this isn’t me being weird,” Apollo says before Klavier can even open his mouth. “It’s on your Wikipedia page. And Trucy wouldn’t stop talking about it today. Okay?”

“There’s a lot of things on my Wikipedia page, Herr Forehead, you’ll have to be more specific—” Apollo shoves the paper bag into his chest. Klavier really has no choice but to take it. There’s a sheet cake inside, probably store-bought, edges decorated with intertwining balloons. “Apollo, I don’t—”

“I—after everything—I didn’t know that you had anyone to celebrate with.”

“Oh,” Klavier says, because what can he say to that? Because, yeah, Apollo’s right. He hadn’t even been planning to celebrate. There’s something ugly that curls up inside him at the thought of confirming that, though. And thank you seems too trite. “This is—”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just… nobody deserves to be alone on their birthday.” He says it like he knows what it’s like. And doesn’t that just feel even uglier?

“Thank you,” Klavier manages anyway. “This is… very kind.”

“Yeah,” Apollo returns, pointedly not looking at him, face red. “Do you want a buddy or should I go?”

“If you’re offering, I’d love a buddy,” Klavier says lightly, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” Apollo says, and steps into Klavier’s apartment. It’s like he belongs there.

Chapter Text

six.

It’s the tail-end of March, and the weather just can’t make up its mind. One day, it’ll be blustery and cold enough to masquerade as January. Then, the next day, it might as well be June. Apollo has been trapped for weeks in this horrible cycle of putting away his winter clothes only to take them back out the next day. He doesn’t have enough room in his dresser for both seasons.

So, yeah, Apollo’s not in the best of moods. He’s sick of his ratty old scarf scratching up his neck, sick of how he has to take off his mittens every time Athena texts him about something ‘urgent,’ and, in the end, sick of this carousel everyone’s calling weather.

Klavier is lingering outside the courthouse, pretending to check his phone, when Apollo arrives. He glances up at every passerby, then immediately returns to his phone. Apollo knows before he approaches Klavier that Klavier’s attention will stay on him.

And it does.

This thing between them is still new and curious. “Good morning,” Klavier greets him, bright and quiet, with undertones of something more.

This thing between them is still unfamiliar and hopeful. “Morning.” They haven’t spoken about it, not really. Not about what work will look like. Especially not about what dancing around one another on a case will look like.

And, yeah, maybe Klavier kind-of-conspicuously waiting outside the courthouse for his opposing counsel isn’t the smartest idea. But it’s like a good stretch after a long drive—the most pleasant realization of, oh, this is what it could be like. This is how it could feel all the time. It goosebumps across Apollo’s skin. New and curious, unfamiliar and hopeful.

“That scarf brings out your eyes, ja?” Klavier murmurs as they walk into the courthouse, maybe a little too close to one another. Any other time, any other person, and Apollo would brush it off as a joke. He’s brushed off almost that exact comment from Klavier before.

But this time—this time, it both settles and doesn’t quite settle in his chest. Because, God, Klavier really, truly thinks this shitty scarf from high school, frayed and one good breeze away from falling apart, looks good on him.

It’s the most pleasant realization of, oh, this is what it could be like. This is how it could feel all the time.

seven.

It comes out harsher than Apollo intends it to: “I’m not a charity case, you know.” It’s both not quite the tone he feels and not quite the words he means. It’s been a chain of things leading up to this, yes, from Klavier insisting on paying for their meal to insisting on driving Apollo home now that it’s evening.

The thing is that it makes sense. Because, yeah, Klavier could probably have bought that whole restaurant they were eating in and have money left to burn. And, yeah, it’s probably safer to let Klavier drive him home than walk miles across LA in the dark.

The other thing is that Apollo knows it’s because Klavier cares. It shows in the careful neutrality on Klavier’s face, how Apollo can only tell that Klavier is hurt by the way he digs his fingernails into his palms. It’s a practiced pain. “Ja, you’re not,” Klavier says slowly.

“I meant—” Apollo heaves a sigh. “I meant that you don’t have to—do all this.” Apollo gestures at Klavier’s motorcycle, the leftovers he insisted that Apollo have. “I don’t need to be taken care of. I don’t need you to prove you can take care of me.”

“What if,” Klavier starts, gaze softening, “it’s not about proving anything? What if it’s about me wanting to?”

“Then that’s—” Not possible, Apollo doesn’t say. Something that hurts just as much. “That’s different,” Apollo finishes lamely. He recovers quickly enough to tack on: “But I still don’t want you buying the whole meal, and driving me home, and this, and that, and—”

“Alright, alright,” Klavier laughs under his breath. “Heard very loud and clear. Let me ask you this, then: what do you want?”

It’s unfamiliar and hopeful and it hurts. It hurts in a sudden, raw way, like a bruise Apollo didn't know he had. “I want you to meet me halfway,” Apollo manages. “Like you do in court. You don't come out and tell me where the contradiction is. You trust me to figure it out myself.”

And Klavier says, “Okay,” like it's as simple as that. He doesn't make some snarky comment about how it always circles back around to court, ja? or point out how different the situations are. He just half-smiles at Apollo, swings his leg over his bike, and says, “Text me when you get home?”

And Apollo says, “Okay.” It’s as simple as that.

eight.

Apollo has never considered himself particularly unbalanced. He’s not quite easy to read, but not inscrutable; not quite self-conscious, but not unaware; that kind of thing. As far as he’s concerned, he’s as run-of-the-mill as you can get. Even if Athena insists that it’s weird to have “recycle your plastics day” and similar holidays as events in his work calendar.

Whatever. The point being—Apollo is a generic brand, if you will. And then there’s Klavier, who’s anything but. And because Klavier is just so used to being anything but, he expects everyone else to be top shelf merchandise. You know, God forbid someone miss a single cue in a two-hour concert. That kind of rigid perfectionism defines Klavier.

But there’s a gentler side to it. It comes out most often when it’s just the two of them. Like, say, one of their first stay-at-home dates after an exhausting series of cases on Apollo’s end. They’re watching a comedy special on Netflix, Apollo half-leaning against Klavier’s chest, half-wanting to lean in more. Klavier’s arm is thrown around his shoulder. The comedian cracks a joke that Apollo doesn’t remember two seconds after it’s made, because he starts laughing, this ugly, tired, loud little thing, and Klavier—

“I like your laugh,” Klavier tells him. And he says it with such sincerity, such ease. Because he expects perfection, so he sees it. So Apollo leans into Klavier’s chest that tiniest bit more, and the next time he laughs, it’s against Klavier’s chest, and, God, Klavier’s heart pitter-patters in time.

nine.

See, Klavier asking “Can I kiss you?” is not as straightforward as it may seem. Yes, it always means he wants to kiss Apollo. And, yes, part of it is genuinely asking for permission. But another part of it—maybe even the majority of it, at this point—is Klavier playing coy.

It’s Klavier playing coy, and Apollo knows it. Apollo knows it because Klavier always gets this look on his face, this smug little half-smile, as he leans down to meet Apollo’s height. He gets so close that Apollo could count his eyelashes. And then he murmurs, “Can I kiss you?” like he knows what the answer is.

And he does! He does, because Apollo reacts before Klavier’s even gotten the question out. Apollo’s pulse starts stuttering, cheeks flushing beet red, the second Klavier leans down. They both know where this is going. And Apollo has to cling to a shred of his pride: “You know the answer, Gavin.”

The phantom of a dimple appears on Klavier’s cheek when he smiles wider. “Do I?”

Mischief dances in his eyes, and, God, Apollo wants nothing more than to kiss the smirk off Klavier’s face. To feel Klavier smile and laugh and sigh against his mouth. And that’s usually how it goes—Apollo will pull Klavier in closer by his neck and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

Sometimes Klavier’s lips are a little swollen afterwards. Sometimes Klavier is blushing as hard as Apollo afterwards.

“You could’ve just used your words,” Klavier has said.

And sometimes Apollo returns, “It’s more fun this way.” Other times, “Someone needed to take your ego down a peg.”

But one thing always happens, and that’s how Klavier smiles—wide, with teeth—after the exchange. And Apollo’s heart beats against his ribcage like it wants out of his chest, into Klavier’s waiting hands.

ten.

It’s not quite texting and driving if he’s calling someone while on his bike, right? That’s Apollo’s rationale, anyway, as he fumbles with his phone in that exact situation.

Klavier picks up immediately. “Hallo, liebling,” he says in that horrible, delighted tone that makes Apollo’s heart prickle. That Apollo still can’t believe is reserved for him.

“Hey,” Apollo returns in nowhere near as cool or sweet of a way. “Um, I’m so sorry about this, I know you were looking forward to tonight, I just—”

“Apollo.” Klavier’s voice betrays none of the hurt or disappointment that Apollo had expected. There’s not even a tremor to his voice. “Slow down. What’s going on?”

“Um—” Apollo almost misses his turn. “So Trucy has a show tonight, and Athena was supposed to be her assistant, right? But Athena’s been feeling like shit all week, and now she’s starting to have vertigo, so Trucy asked me to come in as backup, which means we can’t hang out—” Apollo cringes at his own words. Hang out? God, they’re in their twenties. “— like we had planned. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Klavier says, still completely fine. Does he not understand? “Where’s her show?”

“Wonder Bar?” It’s half a question, because why does that matter? “I’m on my way there now. I’m sor—”

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

“Huh?”

“Seeing you perform is just as good as having dinner with you, ja?” Klavier’s smile is evident in his voice. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense, because—

“But I’m canceling on you.”

“Apollo,” Klavier says for maybe the fiftieth time. Now it’s getting a little worn around the edges. Is he starting to get it? “Being there for Trucy is important to you.” When Apollo doesn’t reply, he prompts: “Right?”

“Right.”

“So it’s important to me, too,” Klavier finishes, like it’s that simple.

“Oh.” There’s a long pause, interrupted only by the sounds of LA traffic and bordering on awkward, before Apollo manages: “Thank you.”

“Anytime, liebling,” Klavier tells him in that awful, tender way, the one that sends goosebumps skittering across Apollo’s skin.

Chapter Text

eleven.

It’s not that they’re trying to hide their relationship. By now, they’re equally as deep, maybe. Equally certain this will last.

But they’re still bound by decorum. It wouldn’t do for the defense and prosecution to be seen just before court together at that mom-and-pop café just down the way from the courthouse. It wouldn’t do for the defense and prosecution to be seen smiling and laughing like schoolchildren over their drinks, bumping legs under the table. It wouldn’t do for the defense and prosecution to be seen holding hands as they walk back to the courthouse. To say nothing about the paparazzi that circle back to Klavier every now and then.

So he and Apollo make do. The first couple times are an exercise in futility. Apollo forgets to specify oat milk for Klavier’s cappuccino; they mix up whose day it is to buy drinks and end up with no coffee at all.

But by now, it’s second nature. On even-numbered days, Apollo will get their drinks from that mom-and-pop café. He doesn’t have to text Klavier to double-check how many shots? anymore. On odd-numbered days, Klavier makes the trip. Klavier has perfected the art of slipping into the defendant’s lobby unseen and leaving Apollo’s drink on that little side table near the courtroom door, right where Apollo waits for his clients.

And, yeah, they don’t get to kick legs under the table. Klavier doesn’t get to laugh at the face Apollo makes when he takes that first sip of his drink and it’s way too hot. But Apollo always gives him this glance—a smug smile in his eyes—as he places his cup down on the defense bench.

It’s their little secret. Who needs to kick legs under the table when they have that?

twelve.

Apollo hums along whenever Klavier plays his guitar. It’s under his breath, like Apollo himself doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and never quite in-sync with the direction Klavier is taking. It’s maybe the most beautiful thing Klavier has ever heard.

“Are you starting to write again?” Apollo asks as Klavier puts his guitar down. It’s not an invasive question, or a difficult one, really. But with the two of them alone in Klavier’s cluttered little soundproofed music room, Apollo sitting in the corner, apparently paying far more attention than Klavier had thought—there’s an intimacy to it.

“My manager and I have been discussing going solo,” Klavier tells him. “And one look at Twitter tells you how much my fans miss the Gavinners, ja? A solo album is the best I can give them.”

Apollo rubs at his wrist, tilting his head to the side. “Is that what you want to do?”

This question isn’t invasive, either. Or difficult. Or it wouldn’t be, if it was anyone but Apollo asking—anyone who would buy that signature half-smile and shrug as Klavier returns, how can I deny my adoring fans?

But Apollo isn’t anyone, and only Apollo would ask that question and want to know the answer. It’s still too much of a gut reaction to reply, “Ja, of course,” though.

Apollo frowns. It’s the slightest little downturn to his lips and it speaks volumes. “Stop that.”

“You know it’s not as easy as what I want.”

“And you know you’re worth more than what you give to other people.” Apollo says it slowly, quietly, choosing his words carefully. He’s not a bull in a china shop for once. It’d be easier to play it off like Apollo doesn’t know what he’s talking about, if he was.

It’s a moment before Klavier can say, “I’m still learning.”

“I know.”

thirteen.

“Herr Forehead, what a surprise,” Klavier grins ear-to-ear as he opens his office door to see Apollo standing there. “To what do I owe this visit? I don’t believe we have any cases together lined up, unless this is my—”

Apollo rolls his eyes as he steps past Klavier into the office. He barely squeezes past with all the baggage he’s brought with him—laptop case, file folder, and who knows what else is in that third bag. He’s packed like he’s—“Working here today,” Apollo says, as if that makes any sense.

Klavier blinks. “Is something wrong at the Agency?”

“Nope,” Apollo says, popping the p. It’s a very helpful explanation.

“Then why—”

“Klavier,” Apollo sighs as he places his things on the ground by Klavier’s desk. “We all know it’s the 8th. I—”

Apollo continues speaking, but it’s from somewhere far away. It’s not that Klavier had forgotten that it was the anniversary of Kristoph’s second trial, because how could he, but more that he had hoped everyone else would. It would be easier that way. He doesn’t need the pitying stares and gentle words that rub raw against his skin—

“—Klavier,” Apollo’s voice brings him back to reality. He’s close, suddenly. Reaches for Klavier’s hand, squeezes it. Apollo’s hand is warm. “Hey. Are you okay?” There’s a beat, then: “Nevermind. Don’t know why I asked that. Come on, sit down with me.”

There’s not really anywhere for them to sit, but Apollo leads him over to the wall with the bookcases. Apollo tugs Klavier’s arm as he sits down; Klavier follows his lead; and then Apollo loops his arm around Klavier, pulling him close.

It’s such a stupid, pathetic, silly gesture. They’re sitting in Klavier’s high-rise office, criss-cross applesauce against Klavier’s bookcases, in front of those awful, huge windows. It shouldn’t make Klavier feel better. But it does.

“It’s been a year,” Klavier manages after some time. “I shouldn’t still…”

“He was your brother longer than he was a murderer,” Apollo half-shrugs against him. When Klavier sneaks a glance at Apollo, Apollo’s not looking at him. He’s staring out the windows at nothing. “He was my mentor longer than he was a murderer, too.”

Sometimes Klavier forgets that Apollo was intertwined in all this, too. “What was he like as a boss?”

Apollo takes a moment to reply. “Strict. But you could tell he was only strict because he knew I could do better. Doesn’t mean he was never an ass about it, though.”

Despite everything, Klavier almost smiles. “He was a prick more often than not.”

“But that was just who he was. It didn’t… mean anything.” Apollo’s voice is a little more distant.

“It didn’t.” Klavier’s head falls against Apollo’s shoulder. Then he corrects himself: “It doesn’t.”

fourteen.

Even now, there are things that are new and curious between them. Unfamiliar and hopeful. Klavier wouldn’t have thought he could pine for someone while dating them; but as it turns out, he can.

It’s the worst when they’re taking a nap together on that rare shared day off. It’s the worst when Apollo’s body slots right against Klavier’s like a puzzle piece, warmth radiating off him, and Klavier’s face fits so nicely against Apollo’s neck. It’s the worst when Klavier wakes up first and witnesses Apollo’s sleep-flushed, drool-stricken face. It’s the worst when Apollo talks in his sleep, tossing and turning. It’s the worst when Apollo blinks open his eyes, sees Klavier, realizes where he is, and murmurs in that sleep-hoarse voice: “Morning.”

Because, see, the issue is that it’s never the morning. They haven’t stayed over at one another’s apartment yet. But all that is this awful glimpse into what it could be to wake up beside Apollo, to get ready together, to make and eat breakfast with one another and kick legs under the table. And Klavier wants. And he almost asks—he almost asks—every time Apollo comes over to his apartment, now; but the words never come.

In the end, it’s always Apollo. It’s always Apollo who takes that first step when Klavier can’t. They’re watching some romcom on Apollo’s dinky little couch in Apollo’s dinky little apartment and it’s maybe the best night Klavier’s ever had because Apollo is warm and half-asleep against his chest. And it’s Apollo who half-wakes up, squints at the clock, then squints up at Klavier. It’s Apollo who mumbles, “You should just stay over.”

Because it is that easy, isn’t it?

fifteen.

“We have court,” Klavier reminds Apollo for maybe the hundredth time, holding back a laugh.

“Don’t care,” Apollo mumbles into the pillow, clinging to Klavier’s arm. They’re facing each other on the bed, and all Klavier can see of Apollo’s face is his cheek, all rosy with sleep. “You’re warm.”

“Yes, so we’ve established.” Who would’ve thought that Apollo Justice, Chords of Steel and all, was not a morning person? “But I don’t think your client or the judge will take that as an affirmative defense, will they?” “They would if they were in m’shoes.”

“Well, they aren’t, liebling.” Klavier tries, gently, to extract his arm, but Apollo is having none of it.

“Five more minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Ugh,” Apollo moans into the pillow with all the petulance and sass of a thirteen-year-old, dropping Klavier’s arm altogether. “Fine. But we’re taking your motorcycle.”

“An interesting choice.”

“You’re warm,” Apollo repeats as though that’s an explanation. Maybe it is. Maybe all of Apollo’s complaining about the motorcycle—how he has to cling to Klavier’s back—is a show.

“Your coffee’s ready,” Klavier says instead, because if he thinks about that too much, he’ll want to ditch court, too.

“‘Kay,” Apollo says, and makes no effort to move. It would be frustrating if it was anyone else, but there’s something about this whole scene—sunbeams filtering across Apollo’s half-hidden face, the sleepiness to his voice, the clinginess, and everything else—that makes Klavier think that maybe it’s okay if they’re late. Just this once.

Chapter Text

sixteen.

“I’m not mad, you know,” Klavier tells Apollo. It’s Christmas, as much as it can be called Christmas with what happened to Clay and the resulting fallout. It’s Christmas, and they’re sitting stiff on Klavier’s couch, staring out the window at nothing.

Apollo’s bracelet doesn’t react. It should. It should. Of course Klavier is mad. Of course Klavier is upset, angry, furious, and every other synonym. Maybe he just doesn’t know it yet, or there’s some weird wordplay that’s getting around his bracelet, or…

“You should be,” Apollo mutters, because even he knows, in the end, that Klavier is telling the truth. The issue is more that it shouldn’t be the truth. Klavier should have more dignity, better boundaries, less—whatever this is.

“Why would I be mad at you?” Klavier’s tone is even and gentle and infuriating.

“Because I—” Because I was supposed to be safe. Because I betrayed your trust. Because I was weak. Because I didn’t care that I was hurting you. But none of those words make it out of his mouth: “Because you didn’t deserve that.”

Klavier takes a moment. “No, I didn’t. Neither did you.”

“Huh?”

“Apollo,” and it tumbles out of Klavier’s mouth as a half-laugh, “you’ve said it yourself. He was a good mentor.” A pause, then: “He was a good brother, too.”

“But I shouldn’t have—”

“Kristoph feels safe to me, too, sometimes.” Klavier shrugs. “How can I be mad about that?”

seventeen.

Apollo has never been to a wedding before. He doesn’t even know the judge who’s getting married. She’s some lower-ranking one who usually deals with civil cases, but still invited the whole Prosecutor’s Office.

(Apollo is Klavier’s plus-one, of course.)

The wedding is—nice. Tasteful. Not too gaudy, but not too understated. Apollo’s bracelet has been quivering on his wrist with barely concealed joy the whole night. It’s a strange comfort, but so is Klavier’s guiding hand on the small of his back as Klavier leads him around the wedding. I’m here, you’re safe, it says, even as Apollo’s overwhelmed with the sheer amount of people Klavier knows—who also know Apollo through the grapevine, apparently.

They’ve just about finished their rounds when the music turns soft and slow. There’s a simultaneous exodus from and influx towards the dance floor. Klavier gets this glint in his eye as he angles his head towards Apollo, lifts Apollo’s hand, and murmurs, “May I have this dance?”

Apollo rolls his eyes and lets Klavier lead him to the dance floor. His heart thuds slow and heavy against his chest as Klavier rests a hand on his shoulder, pulling him close. It’s a different kind of intimacy, unpracticed and on display.

“Have you ever thought about getting married?” Klavier asks, voice hanging barely above the music. Not quiet or uncertain, but aimless and curious.

Yes, Apollo doesn’t say. All the time. “You can’t ask that at someone else’s wedding,” Apollo hisses.

“Can’t I?” Klavier smiles serenely, spinning Apollo around. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Well—yes,” Apollo manages. “Haven’t you?” Klavier’s hand is warm and firm on Apollo’s shoulder; Apollo needs to be impossibly closer to him.

“All the time,” Klavier returns without a hint of shame, holding eye contact with Apollo.

“Oh.” Then, in a fit of bravery, or maybe stupidity: “How come you haven't done anything about it?”

Klavier's smile turns dangerously impish, a dimple popping in his cheek. “Maybe I will,” he murmurs.

I hope you do, Apollo doesn’t say. He thinks Klavier knows.

eighteen.

It becomes a song and dance between them. Only they know the steps. If Apollo slows down a bit too much as they’re walking by a ring store, Klavier knows to squeeze Apollo’s hand and ‘accidentally’ brush his ring finger. If Apollo gets too stir-crazy and starts deep-cleaning the apartment, Klavier knows to lean down to his level and murmur, “You don’t know what you might find,” and Apollo will turn bright red.

Things like that. Apollo knows his steps, too. If Klavier asks too many specific questions about Apollo’s preference of color and style and whatever else, Apollo knows not to think about it too much.

And Apollo knows that if he wakes up to the artificial light of Klavier’s laptop screen as Klavier researches God-knows-what, Klavier will whisper, “I hope you like it.”

And Apollo whispers back, “You know I will.”

nineteen.

In the end, it is nothing special and it is perfect. In the end, Apollo doesn’t quite remember the words Klavier says, or the outfit he was wearing, or anything like that. What Apollo remembers is that stutter to Klavier’s voice, the tremor to his hands, and that dubiously hopeful glint in his eyes as he gets down on one knee.

As if Apollo could ever say no.

In the end, what Apollo remembers most is how Klavier slides the ring onto his finger—the ease of it all.

twenty.

Those are just some of the ways they say it.

Other times, it’s murmured into the other’s hair, or yelled across their apartment, or half-asleep and unintelligible. Sometimes, they say it like this: “I love you.”