Work Text:
Apollo pours the last dregs of machine-coffee into his reusable mug, taking his sweet time shaking out the drops just to annoy Athena, who is tapping her foot and has been ready to go for the past twenty minutes. He’s punctual, but she’s something else – it’s not even that she cares about being late, it’s just that she’s always so full of energy, rushing to go somewhere and do something. He much prefers taking things slowly, especially now that he’s older and more established in his career, having returned from Khura’in last year. Nowadays, when he’s not in court, he’s teaching – just a semester-long seminar course at Themis, but something he could definitely see himself doing more and more of.
“Seriously, Apollo,” Athena says, dragging out each syllable in an annoying little-sister way that she must have learned from Trucy. “Can we go?”
“Fine, fine,” he says. “We’re not even going to be late.”
“Yeah, but you and Klavier always talk for forever in the lobby and I’m just factoring that–”
“We do not,” Apollo scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Yes you so do.”
“Do not.”
“Do too!”
“Fine!” Apollo picks up the mug, gesturing towards the door. “Ladies first.”
The good thing about working with Athena, aside from the fact that she’s wicked-smart in court and actually a lot easier to deal with socially when she’s focused on a case, is that she’s got her own car. Granted, it’s bright yellow, and she uses it as an excuse to punch either him or Simon in the arm every time they get in, but it’s a vehicle nonetheless. And on days like today, when it’s just the two of them, he’s even allowed to sit in the front seat.
It’s only a short trip from the Agency to the courthouse – usually about ten minutes – but the traffic is backed up all the way from the centre of the city, and the little car barely crawls forwards a few metres before stopping in the line of red-lights and stressed-out drivers.
“There must have been an accident,” Athena says.
“I don’t see one,” Apollo cranes his neck, trying to see above the car in front of them. “I think the line’s starting to move a bit.”
It takes a while for the chain-reaction of vehicles moving to make its way back to Athena’s car, but when it does, they move forward enough to see that the road ahead is blocked off.
“I know a workaround,” Athena says. “Hold on.”
She veers the car onto the pavement, riding it down just enough to make a sharp turn into an alleyway that Apollo isn’t entirely convinced is a legal road. It’s cobbled, and the wheels of Athena’s tiny Citroen shake as it leads them up a hill onto a car park, which she crosses, emerging onto a one-way road at the back of the courthouse.
Apollo only lets go of his vice-grip on the door handle once Athena applies the handbrake and cheerily says, “Here!”
“Holy Mother,” he mutters. “Now I know why you’re always early.”
They walk into the courthouse, and Apollo notices that they are a bit late – although he won’t mention that to Athena, not wanting to prove her right. There’s nobody in the lobby, so Klavier and the defendant must have already gone inside, but given the state of the traffic he’s sure that word has made its way to the court by now about the delay.
When he pushes open the doors, he immediately thinks he must have gotten the wrong courtroom, because Simon Blackquill is behind the bench, but then he sees his defendant in the stand and suddenly Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth is pulling him to one side, and Athena is palms-open, shoulders-raised, just as confused as he is.
“Apollo,” Edgeworth says. “There’s been an accident.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why we were so late. Is everyone okay?”
“The latest information I have is that nobody is dead – that’s what I have to offer you before I begin to explain the rest. It’s important that you don’t panic; I am not telling you that anybody is dead.”
“Okay?” Apollo asks, considerably worried by now. He’s starting to put the pieces together in his head, but it isn’t real until Edgeworth says it aloud.
“Klavier was in the accident.”
“What?”
“He’s in the hospital right now. He called me on my personal phone to tell me that he wouldn’t make it to court, but that’s all I know. I’ve been waiting for you to get here because I have a favour to ask.”
“Yes,” Apollo says. “Yeah – Athena can handle this case. Simon’s taken over from Klavier, right?”
Edgeworth shakes his head, a small gesture which, when accompanied with the slight smile and even slighter huff, speaks to an intimate fondness beyond which Apollo can understand. “You defense attorneys always know what I’m going to say before I say it, these days.”
“I mean, I’m obviously going to go and check on him. He’s my be– friend. My friend.”
It’s true that Klavier is the best friend Apollo has – they’ve been close ever since his return from Khura’in, working together on cases more often than not. The one thing that remains certain is that whenever they are opposite one another in the courtroom, the truth comes out. Edgeworth knows this and pairs them together wherever possible. Some people would call it chemistry. Some star signs are compatible, et cetera, if you believe in that thing. But Apollo can’t quite call Klavier his best friend, because that’s a title always reserved for Clay, even in death.
Thinking about Clay is too much, though, because the idea of Klavier’s accident being just a little bit worse keeps bouncing around in Apollo’s mind. He still doesn’t know the severity of it – for all he knows, Klavier could have been on death’s door, and called into work to notify them of his absence instead of calling an ambulance… it would be like him to do that. Except, these days Klavier has been better; has been walking with a bit more spring in his step, a bit more life behind his eyes. It’s not just friendship that has blossomed between the two, but a mutual understanding, a Venn-diagram link between their complicated families that allows them to be there for each other in a way nobody else really can. Klavier’s brother; Apollo’s dad. Klavier’s best friend; Apollo’s best friend. The loss permeates everything except the little bubble that has been created, whenever they stop for lunch together, or go to happy hour after wrapping up a case. And now, with Klavier in hospital, the extent of his injuries unknown, Apollo is viscerally terrified of that bubble finally popping.
“I’m going now,” he says. “Athena, I’m taking your car.”
“Huh?” She says, pausing her conversation with Simon and walking over. Then, looking at Edgeworth, she puts two and two together. “Oh, yeah – of course you’re gonna go check on him. Yeah, take him.”
Taking the keys out of her pocket, she throws them to Apollo. He just about manages to catch them, his fingers clutching onto the keyring.
“He makes a bit of a weird whining sound if you do anything except accelerate, but it’s harmless. I just turn the music up.”
“Thanks,” Apollo says. “I, uh… good luck with the case.”
“It’s safe with me. Go – I can handle this.”
He nods at her and Edgeworth, turning on his heel to leave.
Athena’s car seems different in the driver’s seat – somehow it’s more spacious, and he has to pull the seat forwards for his feet to hit the pedals. He’s got his licence, sure, but it’s not like he’s actually driven anything since he hired a van to help him move into the city, and given the nature of Klavier’s accident, he’s more than considerably anxious. It doesn’t help that Athena’s car has a gear-stick, and he stalls it twice before finally managing to pull it out of the – admittedly impressive – parallel park.
The roads have cleared a little now, and Apollo balances the car at the speed limit, although he’d be more comfortable driving slower. He just wants to get there, to see Klavier, and even if he’s in terrible shape at least he’ll be alive and then Apollo can maybe start to think about how he can fix this. Because it’s his job, the one thing he couldn’t do for Clay. Because sometimes people leave of their own accord, and that hurts, but it is nothing compared to the pain of having someone ripped from you prematurely.
For some reason, his brain focuses with surprising clarity on just how cliché it is that when he runs through the hospital doors, they swing open dramatically on their hinges. Double doors, bursting open, like he’s about to guest star in an episode of a medical drama. And yet, he can’t stop himself; can’t force himself to be calm.
“Klavier,” he begs the receptionist. “Is he okay?”
He’s aware that he’s not being very proper or professional, but he can’t shake the images blaring obsessively in his mind: Klavier, pale with that horrible faint layer of static that Apollo has seen on the dead bodies of so many people he loves before. It’s worse, this stillness, than all the other images, the ones of him bloody and screaming, trapped in his car, the world on fire. Apollo knows that fire is survivable. In the heat of the moment, anything is survivable. But if it is already over, if he’s too late, if that gossamer-sickness has settled and Klavier’s body is cold; if his eyes are closed because, underneath, they are glassy, like wet glue over blindness; if he is dead-weight, limp, impossible to revive, like Clay was…
“Herr Forehead!”
Apollo turns to the voice like a faithless man turning back to God. Inevitable. A lifeboat.
And Klavier is there – his arm in a cast, but there. Standing. His face half-covered in gauze, but there. Standing. One of his teeth missing as he smiles, but there. Standing.
Apollo walks towards him as if he’s in a trance, caught in the mirage of something miraculous. All previous experience be damned, Klavier is alive, and Apollo won’t believe that he’s broken the streak of his bad-charm bad-luck until he can touch him and confirm. So he does. It’s an awkward hug – he’s cautious of Klavier’s arm, but the moment his face hits Klavier’s chest and the reality of the situation sinks in, he draws his arms up and holds him close. Underneath the clean, sterile hospital smell, there’s the warmth that Apollo is so fond of, the human nature of Klavier: his perfume, the laundry powder of his shirt, the familiarity of it heightened by the fact that his face is still buried in the hug.
“What a welcome,” Klavier laughs. “I was just about to call you. I need a ride to court – my bike is wrecked.”
“You’re not going to court. Klavier, what happened?”
Apollo guides him to one of the seats in the waiting area, feeling better now that he knows what he’s dealing with. He keeps his hands firmly grasping Klavier’s uninjured hand while he prompts him again to talk.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Klavier says. “The woman in front of me. They say she’s broken both of her legs. Her kids – my god, they’re so young, they weren’t injured but… how is she going to cope? What if she doesn’t have anyone to help her?”
“Klavier,” Apollo squeezes his hand. “It isn’t your fault either.”
“I-I know.” Klavier says. “Ja. I know. It happened in front of me – the red car just came out of nowhere – and I swerved and I think I hit the pavement? And then I was halfway down the street and it was all so far away, like I’d been walking towards it and just tripped or something.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“It’s just a broken wrist and a concussion. The rest is just scrapes from where I slid across the pavement. It’s a good thing I was wearing my helmet and jacket.”
“And your tooth?”
“Oh,” Klavier’s un-bandaged hand comes to his mouth. “Ja. I lost a tooth. Pretty cool, no?”
He flashes a smile, and for a moment, Apollo almost falls for the pretty boy act, but then there’s the eye contact, and the grip of Klavier’s hand as it comes back down, and it’s all so obvious. He knows, in the way that friends know. Like how he woke up one morning and Clay was dead, and he knew before he knew.
“I was so scared,” he admits. “When Edgeworth told me. I thought you’d died.”
“I’m sorry,” Klavier says.
“No – please don’t apologise.”
“It does seem a bit strange now, in hindsight. Phoning in sick while I watched them all get out of the cars. Just talking to Edgeworth while I counted them, and they stopped being bodies in cars and started being people on the street. But everyone got out… except that woman. God, they had to cut the car and pull her out and she was so far in the distance but I could see her…”
Klavier closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Apollo gently rubs his thumb over the back of his palm; he’s so clearly in shock. Barely holding it together.
“I don’t know why I did it. One minute, I’m swerving to avoid the car crash, and the next the ambulances are already everywhere and I’m on the phone with Edgeworth.”
“And then what happened? How did you get here?”
“I came here in the back of an ambulance – not one of the emergency ones or anything, surely. They’ve got bigger fish to fry, but they checked me out, put this–” he holds up his bandaged arm “–on, and then told me they couldn’t discharge me until I called someone to come and get me. So I stepped out to call you, and there you already were. My knight in shining armour.”
As if on cue, a nurse steps out from one of the rooms and joins them. “Ah, that was quick,” she comments, smiling towards Apollo before turning to Klavier and handing him a small paper bag of medication. “Here you go. Just take one at first whenever it hurts, and if you find that it’s not enough, try taking two – but never more than two, okay? And don’t take more than six per day.”
“Thank you,” Klavier smiles at her. “You’ve been wonderful.”
Now, the nurse addresses Apollo. “It’s recommended that you stay with him for twelve hours, but I’d probably suggest closer to twenty-four in this case – it’s always better to be safe when we’re talking about a head injury. I’m not personally a huge fan of motorbikes, but if you’re going to drive one–” she turns to Klavier with a smile “–you’re doing it right; that helmet saved your life. How are you two getting home?”
“I’m driving,” Apollo says. “My coworker let me borrow her car to come here. I’m a safe driver, I promise – I’ll go slowly all the way home.”
“Good,” the nurse says. “Get some rest, Klavier.”
As she walks away, Klavier turns to Apollo. “What’s going on with the case? Have they postponed it?”
“It’s fine,” Apollo says. They start walking towards the doors, which are no longer swinging with the dramatics of Apollo’s entrance. “Athena took over from me and Simon took over from you. It’s pretty much theirs now.”
“Oh. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to lose you your client.”
“I don’t care about that. I think he’s guilty anyway, so it’ll be Athena’s loss. I’m more worried about you.”
“Me?” Klavier says. He opens the passenger door of the car and gets in, but struggles to buckle the seatbelt with only one hand.
Apollo reaches over and, wordlessly, does it for him. “Yes, you,” he smiles. “Is that so hard to believe?”
He starts the engine and begins to drive. Klavier rests his head on the window, but Apollo only risks one glance at him before planting his eyes firmly on the road while he talks.
“You’re my friend.” He explains. “That’s a big deal to me. So of course I’m going to worry when things like this happen, and I’m definitely not going to let you brush it off and show up to work tomorrow because I know you too well to know that you’d–”
“Yeah,” Klavier laughs, already admitting it. “Okay, I was thinking about going into work tomorrow. But I suppose I don’t need to now that I don’t have a case any more.”
“Even if you did have a case,” Apollo insists. “You’d be taking a fucking break. I’m making you. Simple as that.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that. Yes sir.”
Apollo rolls his eyes, but he’s relieved. Not only is Klavier alive, but he’s well enough to be taken home already, and it’s a huge bonus that he’s not going to put up a fight about Apollo looking after him. That’s measurable progress. That’s something to believe in. That’s something that would make Clay proud.
They arrive at the apartment, taking the elevator all the way up to the top floor, using a special card from Klavier’s wallet to access the penthouse. The lift doors open immediately to the hallway of Klavier’s home, and they walk through – Apollo knows the layout by this point – to the main living room.
“I’m going to shower,” Klavier says. “I hate the way hospitals… linger. But I won’t get my cast wet, I promise.”
“Okay,” Apollo smiles. “I’ll put the kettle on – you want one of your fruity herbal teas?”
“Ja, please!”
The sound of the boiler turning on, sending hot water through the pipes of the apartment, is not unfamiliar to Apollo. He’s been over at Klavier’s place so many times. Recently, he’s been coming round to do little DIY jobs that Klavier can’t figure out himself, and it’s not unusual for Klavier to hop in the shower for twenty minutes so Apollo can work uninterrupted. That’s why it feels strange, hearing the boiler without immediately hearing the shower-singing after it, but he supposes that Klavier isn’t much in the mood for singing right now.
Busying himself with the kettle, he sets it to boil and takes out Klavier’s favourite mug, using two teabags and two spoonfuls of sweetener, just how he likes it. There’s not much in the fridge, but the fruit bowl is full, and Apollo remembers Klavier once telling him how he always buys fruit with the best of intentions, but will usually forget about eating it unless he buys it pre-chopped in the little plastic packets. Smiling, Apollo rolls his sleeves up, takes a knife from the cutlery drawer and a chopping board from behind the microwave, and starts to select fruits based on ripeness. Mango, pineapple, melon – all fresh and perfect, just waiting to be prepared. It’s easy for him, handling the knife, separating the fruit, cutting it cleanly to save all the juice inside the flesh, even easier when it holds the weight of all the things he wants to say to Klavier. Sweet, ripe pineapple sealed in an old tupperware; I’m so glad you survived. Honeydew melon, curved like the crescent moon; I want to make sure you’re okay. Diced mango, thick and rich and sunset-yellow; I love you, this is how I’m showing you.
There’s no way that Klavier will eat it all right now, but that’s not the point. Apollo seals it all carefully to preserve the freshness and stacks it in the fridge, leaving a little selection of fruits out on a plate next to the cup of tea, which he prepares with hot water from the boiled kettle and takes over to the living room. He’s just in time – as he sets the plate and cup down on the table next to the couch, he sees Klavier walking down the hallway in his dressing gown. The bandages are gone from his face, showing a vicious red road-pattern of scratches all the way from his eyebrow to his chin, already bruising around his left eye.
Acknowledging the tea and the fruit, Klavier practically falls onto the couch, his danke becoming mumbled as his legs give way and he slumps against the plush fabric. Apollo joins him, sitting by his side, and the moment he does so, Klavier leans into him, soft dressing gown and all.
Like this, he feels so… protective. Like Klavier, warm and indistinguishable from the fluffy purple robe, is something he would die before he allowed the world to harm again. He can’t help himself from putting an arm around him, being mindful of his broken wrist while still pulling him close. Now, they’re reversed from how they were in the hospital waiting room; Klavier’s head is on Apollo’s chest, and he’s breathing steadily, but he is so small. Like a wounded animal – a raw, vulnerable thing. The emotions that influence Apollo’s heart are inevitable, the messy concept of faith colliding with the atom of belief that remains in him, singing through his veins like prayer. He is grateful; he is open. When Klavier, having been on pause since the accident, finally breaks through and begins to sob, Apollo holds him, supporting the weight of the back of his head, his physical touch a desperate thing that aims only to take away some of Klavier’s pain, even if it makes it his own. Here, he has purpose. He understands every boy in every story who has ever stood up to something indomitable; David to Goliath, et cetera.
“I love you,” he says, and it would be a lie to say that the words spill out of him. They are intentional. They have meaning. He supposes that they have always been there, so saying them makes no difference. It isn’t a hard thing to say, in fact, it leaves him refreshed upon saying it. Like he has fulfilled a great promise, not that he has made one.
And in response, Klavier says: “My mouth hurts.” And it makes Apollo laugh, especially when he immediately corrects himself and says that he loves Apollo too, which is wonderful, but somehow not as great as the first thing. Because – and this is where his concept of love is quite strange, and why he has always struggled to believe anyone would ever quite fit it – as much as Klavier’s mouth hurting sucks, it is real. It is an observation; a simple piece of evidence. And for Klavier to say that in response to Apollo’s declaration of love automatically placed them both on the same level: evidence for evidence, a fact for a fact. The blatant acceptance of Apollo’s love without question is exactly what he craves – someone who will accept his love on a bleak Tuesday morning, or with a sore mouth, or when there are so many better options available.
But what also endears him to Klavier is the way he insists, afterwards, upon responding to the I love you with an I love you too – like that matters. Like he hasn’t been showing it in every little thing he does already, like it hasn’t long since been established between them. Perhaps he needed Apollo to say the words aloud, and perhaps this moment has some grandiose meaning to him, but to Apollo it is exactly what it was always going to be: beyond a reasonable doubt.
So, he gives Klavier one of the little pills from the hospital, and holds the mug to his mouth for him to wash it down. He runs his hands through Klavier’s hair, separating the wet upper parts out to dry and detangling the mess left by the attempted ponytail. Having learned well over the past few years by doing Trucy’s hair for school some mornings at the Agency, Apollo braids it to keep it away from Klavier’s face and then, in the quiet that returns after the little, meaningful words, he plants a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. And the world after the accident, still turning, offers a moment of grace.