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Apollo is at the Agency when he gets the email. It’s from the company managing his apartment complex, which is never good. It gets worse from there: he opens up the email and sees that possibly the entire apartment complex is cc’d, because apparently the bigwigs don’t know how to blind copy someone on an email.
Anyway. It continues to get worse from there, because the email is two whole sentences informing him that a pipe has burst in the complex and he’ll have to find someplace else to stay for the time being. You might ask: for how long? And their answer: who knows?
Apollo groans and puts his face in his hands. Trucy, ever gracious, calls from across the office: “Bad horoscope?”
“No,” Apollo mumbles into his hands, then lifts his head to look at Trucy. “A pipe burst in my apartment. They’re making us stay somewhere else while it’s fixed.”
“Well, that kind of defeats the purpose of an apartment, doesn’t it?” Apollo stares at her. “I would say you could stay with me and Daddy, but there’s not really enough room for us as it is…” She presses a finger to her chin, thoughtful. “Oh! What about Klavier?”
“What about Gavin.”
“Well, he’s loaded,” Trucy sniffs. “You know he’s got a spare room. Or two. Or three.”
“I am not asking Gavin.”
“What aren’t we asking me?” Gavin lilts as he sweeps into the Agency and comes to stand by Apollo’s desk. Apollo hadn’t even heard the door open. “I’m all ears, ja?”
“Nothing,” Apollo tells him.
At the same time, Trucy chimes, “Apollo needs someplace to stay!”
Gavin blinks. “Come again?”
Apollo huffs, mouth twisting. “A pipe burst in my apartment complex,” he says, already sick of explaining the whole thing. “So they need us out while they fix it, but we don’t get the privilege of knowing when we can be back. But I can figure it out, you don’t need to—”
“Ah, I know I don’t need to do anything, Herr Forehead.” Gavin brushes his hair out of his face, smiling all lopsided. “But my apartment is far too big for one person, ja? It’d be most unkind to not offer you refuge in your time of need.”
Apollo’s frown deepens. It’s far from the ideal option, but, also, it’s probably the only one he has. And it’ll be the nicest, by far. “I can pitch in on chores. And I’ll stay out of your way, and—”
Gavin holds up a hand. “You’ll do none of that. Now, we need to get your things, ja?”
“Uh, I guess?”
Gavin levels a look at him. A smirk slides onto his face. “Well, a pipe burst, nein? Your things are in mortal peril as we speak.”
Apollo glances at Trucy. It’s still technically the workday, and—Trucy just gives a fluid shrug. “Use some sick time for once, Polly. Geez. And tell me how many spare rooms Klavier has, yeah?”
Gavin tilts his head to the side. “Or you could just ask me.”
“Well, how many do you have?”
Gavin’s nose scrunches in thought. “Three,” he says. “Though I suppose it’s two, now, ja?” And he throws this cocky smile towards Apollo, something like fondness to it. Apollo looks away.
—
Thankfully, all of Apollo’s things are fine—though other parts of the complex look decidedly not fine. Gavin actually helps Apollo move out, insofar as he’s moving out, which is—nice. Not exactly what Apollo expected, but nice, and he didn’t even have to ask Gavin to help. He just did, and without a complaint, at that. He even helps get Mikeko into her carrier, devil that she is.
Gavin’s eyes shine with satisfaction when he latches the car trunk shut. His clothes are far worse for wear, hair a little frizzy, and he’s definitely going to feel it tomorrow morning; but he smiles, lopsided. It’s small, but there. And it stays even as they circle around and get into the car.
“Don’t you have things to do today?” Apollo asks, because that’s easier than thinking about whatever Gavin’s face is doing.
“Ah, Herr Edgeworth has been nagging me to use my sick time, too,” Gavin says with a vague wave of his hand. “But, nein, nothing urgent. Mostly documentation—which is why I came by the Agency, you know, because I can’t seem to find the record of your appointment to State v. Griffith.”
“Oh, that’s because it wasn’t originally my case. I’ll give you the documentation next time you’re at the Agency.”
“Danke.” And they lapse into an easy silence that continues even as they move everything into Gavin’s too-big apartment, interrupted only by questions of where this or that thing should go.
Apollo stands awkwardly in the living room after they’ve squared away all his essentials. Gavin’s poking around in the kitchen for something or another. “If you’re hungry, you can come get something to eat, ja?” he calls. So Apollo walks into the kitchen and stands there awkwardly instead. It’s a change of scenery, at least.
Gavin throws him a look. “You don’t have to be so tense, Herr Forehead. Make yourself at home.”
“Not everyone has a home like this,” Apollo retorts. It’s harsher than he intends.
“Well, now you do,” Gavin says, unoffended, like it’s that easy.
And Gavin genuinely seems to think it is. He doesn’t care if Apollo chooses to eat dinner with him or not, or if Apollo fucks up where the dishes go, or if Apollo wakes him up too early in the morning. But none of that is disinterest. He always checks if Apollo needs a ride to the Agency if it’s raining, if Apollo wants to order takeout alongside him, and if Apollo stays up too late working, falling asleep on the couch, Apollo always wakes up with a blanket on top of him.
And that’s the issue, really. Because there’s Gavin as he presents to the world: foppish, flirtatious, flippant, you name it. And then there’s this Gavin—the Gavin who lets Apollo into his home, the Gavin who takes the time and energy and attention to make Apollo feel welcomed, the Gavin who cares.
They’re incongruent. That’s fine and dandy. Gavin can be whoever he wants whenever he wants. Except now it’s so much more obvious to Apollo when Gavin puts on a mask—he plays with his hair if he thinks someone is being naive. Or he’ll spin his rings if he’s impatient and would rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t do these things with Apollo, not anymore.
And then there’s the blanket. It’s such a small thing. Gavin keeps his blankets neatly folded in some side closet in an entirely different room than the couch. It’s a conscious effort to give one to Apollo. And it’s a thankless gesture at best. But Gavin still does it. And it’s not like Gavin has ever given any indication that he cared, that he would bother—at least, not before Apollo started staying with him.
It’s this cruel little thing. The what if has always been in the back of his mind—what if Gavin wanted that with him? Ha. As if. But there’s the domesticism of living together—of figuring out one another’s habits and schedules and, God, Gavin knows his usual takeout orders, now. It’s the intimacy Apollo’s mind has always played at, but without its center.
And the blanket? The blanket is the cherry on top. And, yeah, maybe Apollo falls asleep on the couch more often than he needs to. Because it’s nice, isn’t it? To feel cared for. To feel like it might be real.
And then there’s the night when Apollo’s half-asleep on the couch, and Gavin rests the blanket over him, and—and then something warm and soft brushes his forehead. “Goodnight,” Gavin murmurs, and the light flicks off.
And Apollo jolts wide awake, because that—because that was real. That wasn’t Gavin brushing Apollo’s hair out of his face, no matter how much Apollo tries to convince himself that it was. No, that was Gavin kissing his forehead. The warmth lingers, and all Apollo can think is, I want him to do it again. It’s a cruel little thing.
The next morning, Gavin huffs out a laugh as Apollo stumbles off the couch. “Guten Morgen,” he calls from the kitchen. Apollo makes some incomprehensible noise of acknowledgment. “Welcome to the land of the living.”
It’s all normal. Painfully so. Gavin looks at him over the rim of his coffee mug; Apollo stares back. Gavin winks, because of course he does. But that’s the thing—it’s all normal. Like Gavin didn’t do anything weird last night.
And that’s when it hits Apollo: maybe he didn’t. Maybe that wasn’t the first time. Maybe Apollo’s just been dead to the world every other time. “You know you don’t always have to make a point with the blanket.”
Gavin, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs. “It gets cold in the living room, nein?”
Not really. But Gavin thinks he’s doing something nice. That accentuates the whole thing, doesn’t it. “It’s my own fault if I fall asleep there.”
“Ach, we all have our flaws,” Gavin quips. “Come, your coffee will get cold if you leave it for much longer.” He gestures towards it, like Apollo can’t see that Gavin’s made a mug for him, yet another stupid, kind little thing Gavin does when he doesn’t have to.
The coffee is perfect. Just how Apollo likes it. They stand beside one another in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring out the living room windows. And that’s all it is. That’s all it needs to be.
It feels real. But that’s the thing—it isn’t. It isn’t, not outside the apartment. It hasn’t been. But of course the kiss sparks this fledgling hope, this maybe, this what if.
It’s dashed when Gavin comes by the Agency the next day, sweeping through the doors with all the usual pomp and circumstance, and comes to lean on Apollo’s desk. He’s got that lazy smile on his face, the precursor to one of his lines. Apollo levels an unimpressed look at him. “It’s about time you came back for the State v. Griffith files. Didn’t you need them, like, a week ago?”
“Maybe he was hoping you’d bring them home to him,” Trucy sing-songs from across the office. And Gavin’s smile falters. Just for a second—Gavin patches it back up quickly. But the cracks are obvious—at least to Apollo. “You don’t need to play so hard to get, Polly, gosh.”
“You make it sound so scandalous, Fräulein.” Gavin huffs out a laugh. “I assure you, everything’s above bar, ja?” And there it is again—his grip against the corner of Apollo’s desk tightens, because the very idea that there’s anything romantic about this makes him uncomfortable. Even as a joke.
Apollo pushes his chair back from his desk—maybe with a bit too much force, because Gavin’s head jerks in his direction in surprise. Apollo ignores him and goes to rifle through the file cabinet for the State v. Griffith folder. The record Gavin is looking for is right where it should be, and he slides it across his desk towards Gavin. “Here. Make a copy and bring it back when you can.”
Gavin blinks down at the paper. “Ja, of course,” he says, a bit stilted. He slides it into his file folder, straightening up, and there’s a beat of silence. He looks like he wants to say something. All it ends up being is a “danke” as he exits the office, bell on the door dinging as he leaves.
Trucy is staring at Apollo. It’s one more second of silence before she’s marching up to the desk, hands on her hips, a whole five feet of terror. “What was that?”
“What was what,” Apollo returns, scooting his chair back up to his desk.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Trucy drawls. “That whole temper tantrum just now?”
“You might get little sister privileges, Truce, but that doesn’t mean you need to manage my life,” Apollo sighs. “I’m fine.”
“Polly,” Trucy groans. “Little sister privileges mean I get to manage your life whether you want it or not, yeah? How else would I show you that I love you?” She moves her hands behind her back, rocking on her feet, and doesn’t wait for a reply: “C’mon, spill.”
Sure, Apollo could lie. But by now, Trucy knows all his tells, and probably already knows what’s going on in the first place. Apollo sighs again. “It’s—he just… He didn’t like your joke.”
“My joke?” Trucy stops mid-rock and settles. “What, about you being hard to get? That wasn’t a joke, Polly, you really are—”
“He was uncomfortable,” Apollo cuts in, “is my point. At—us being seen like that.”
“Or, you know,” Trucy lets the words hang in the air, “he could be uncomfortable for literally any other reason. Like that he got called out for coming to the Agency to see you even though you live together?”
“That’s—” Apollo sputters. “He needed the paperwork.”
“Seriously, he could’ve just asked you to bring it home.” Trucy rolls her eyes. “But, no, he made this whole excuse to come by and see you during work hours—”
“He was uncomfortable,” Apollo insists. “I think it’s reasonable to assume it’s because you insinuated that we were together when we’re on opposite sides of the aisle—”
“Is that your issue?” Trucy frowns. “That you think he doesn’t want to be with you?”
Apollo stares at her. What’s he supposed to say? No? Sure, he could, and then Trucy would just call him out on it.
Trucy stares back. “I mean, if you act like that when someone comments on how lovey-dovey you two are, then, no, I don’t think he’ll want to be with you, Polly.” Apollo frowns. “You’re not exactly coming off as interested.”
“Well, neither is he.”
“Well, I think he is,” Trucy retorts. “And I’ve already presented my evidence, yeah? Where’s yours?”
“Well, earlier—”
“I’ve already given you an alternative hypothesis for that!” A beat, then: “Or whatever you call it.” When Apollo doesn’t fire back immediately, she smirks and continues, “I’m just saying, I think it warrants further investigation! And, who knows, maybe you’ll discover a boyfriend at the end of it—”
Apollo huffs out a laugh. Trucy’s enthusiasm is infectious, if nothing else. And she’s so certain. It’s hard not to feel hopeful in the face of it. “I’ll get you Eldoon’s if you end up being right. If.”
“Oh, Polly,” Trucy sing-songs. “It’s a matter of when, not if. And you know you’ll get me Eldoon’s anyway.”
She’s right about one thing, at least.
—
“So, theoretically speaking,” Apollo starts, tracing the rim of his glass, staring down at it. “What are the steps to conducting a good, objective scientific experiment?”
Ema has just lifted her glass to take a sip of her drink—she drinks deeply from it, quirking an eyebrow at Apollo, before she sets it down with finality. “I knew this day would come.” She tries for deadpan, but fails to hide the undercurrent of excitement in her voice. “Though, really, that you even have to ask means you’ve never listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Or just that I want to make sure I’m doing it right?” Apollo offers sheepishly, running his hand through his hair.
“Yeah, sure, buster,” Ema rolls her eyes. “Well, you’ve got to start with a question—that’ll be one of your w’s, like when or where. Or it can also be how. Like, for example, how does Apollo still not know what the scientific method is?”
“Hey—”
“And then you’re gonna make your hypothesis,” Ema continues, undeterred. “Which is gonna be an if, then statement predicting how things will work. It needs to be testable, so, say, for example—if I talk about the scientific method, then Apollo will not remember anything I say. Then you’re gonna draft up an experiment to see if your hypothesis holds up. Experiments are these fickle little things—you need to only change one thing at a time to make sure that you’re really testing that one thing and not something else, yeah? And you need to do it multiple times to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. So, say—hey, Apollo, what does the scientific method start with?”
“A question starting with a w word, like who or when,” Apollo mutters, a little petulantly.
“So, see, there’s a point against my hypothesis,” Ema smirks. “So, speaking of—what’s a hypothesis?”
“A testable if, then statement meant to answer your starting question.”
“See, there we go,” Ema crows. “My hypothesis is pretty unlikely to be true at this point. It’s just like that, yeah? Obviously any real experiment would be more in-depth and you’d need to do background research and all that, but that’s the gist of it.” Ema’s eyes glint. “So. What’s converting you?”
“Uh.” Apollo feels the heat rise to his face. “No reason.”
“So I teach you the scientific method out of the goodness of my heart and get nothing in return? Really?”
“You wanted to talk about it—” “Doesn’t matter, it took my time and energy—”
“Fine,” Apollo retorts, though his mouth is twitching into a smile. “Look, it’s just—it’s just—I know someone, right, who’s acting kind of weird around me, and I don’t know if he’s trying to flirt or if he’s just… being nice?”
“Uh huh.” Ema looks thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m not complicit in this just because I taught you the scientific method. FYI.” Apollo blinks at her. “Like, I don’t want any part of you and the fop canoodling.”
“I never said it was Gavin—”
“And you didn’t have to,” Ema cuts in. “I hate to see science used in this way, but I suppose it’s for the greater good,” she sighs, resting her chin in her hand. “Or whatever.”
Or whatever, indeed.
—
Romantic attraction, as it happens, is a moving target. Not very appropriate or measurable for a scientific experiment. But the framework, for what it is, is helpful. Isn’t it interesting? If Apollo shifts this one little thing, like waking up before Gavin and having his coffee ready, for once, things do change. Little cracks in Gavin’s front—a stutter here, a suspicious glance away there.
Even better: if Gavin tosses one of those canned lines at him, his whole face turns pink if Apollo tosses one right back. It’s a lovely sight, to say nothing of how drunk on power Apollo feels every time it happens. Because it is an every time situation—because Gavin, despite his ruffled feathers, doesn’t shy away. No, if anything, there’s an uptick in all the little teases and flirts.
He’s enjoying it. And so is Apollo. What a heady feeling—dancing right on the edge of the cliff, never knowing if—when—Gavin might break.
But, you know, there’s only so much tension that can build before something outright snaps. So it’s purposeful when Apollo quote-unquote falls asleep on the couch that night; Gavin falls for it. Or—and isn’t this delicious—maybe he knows.
It’s business as usual, at first. Apollo’s on his back on the couch, eyes closed. Fights to keep his breathing steady despite his hammering heart. He hears movement at the edge of the room—that small noise of acknowledgement Gavin makes when, presumably, he sees Apollo there. The fading footsteps, the closet door, the footsteps returning. The plush warmth of a blanket over him.
This, though, is different: Klavier’s thumb—warm, soft, calloused—trailing across Apollo’s cheek. Lingering. It just barely misses the corner of Apollo’s mouth. Then there’s the tickle of Klavier’s hair against his skin as Klavier leans in—presses a kiss to Apollo’s cheek. So, so close to the edge of Apollo’s mouth. The pure want that seizes Apollo is startling.
“Goodnight,” Klavier murmurs again, like nothing has changed at all.
Apollo peeks at Klavier from under his eyelashes. Klavier’s turning to go. It worms its way out of Apollo’s throat: “Aren’t you going to do it properly?”
Klavier visibly startles, head jerking to look at Apollo. In any other situation, his face would be amusing—but that’s not what matters right now. “I thought you were asleep,” he mumbles.
“Not an excuse.”
Klavier’s face colors in the dim moonlight. “Ja, I suppose not,” he returns. There’s a tremor underneath his voice as he kneels beside the couch. A moment of hesitation—then his hand is coming to cradle Apollo’s cheek, and he’s leaning in. He’s leaning in.
The angle is, objectively, awful. But the dry warmth of Klavier’s mouth against his—the nervousness trembling through Klavier’s hand—the pounding of Apollo’s heart—oh, it’s lovely.
“Like that?” Klavier asks when he pulls back, voice soft.
“Like that.”
—
“You’ve got all winter for another pipe to burst, ja?” Klavier quips as he helps move Apollo back into his apartment.
“Please don’t wish doom on my apartment complex.” It is a little disappointing that the whole affair is over. Somehow.
“Ach, I’m just saying that my couch isn’t going anywhere.”
Apollo glances over and quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’re not going to take the chance to get me in your bed?”
Klavier sputters—almost trips on the next step of the stairs, somehow managing to keep a hold on the things he’s carrying. “I’m a gentleman,” he sniffs in faux-offense.
“Yes, your outfit screams modesty,” Apollo returns wryly. Lovely to look at, though.
“My outfit is carefully cultivated based on current fashion trends, danke.” Klavier’s voice is haughty, but there’s a laugh running underneath it. “Hours and hours of preparation, you could not begin to understand—”
“I don’t think I want to.”
Klavier’s mouth twists in the way it always does when he’s holding back a laugh. They make it up to Apollo’s room, then. Klavier sets down the last bit of Apollo’s things in the corner—stands up, stretches his back. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay and help?”
“I’ll be okay.”
Klavier makes a noise of acknowledgement. He reaches for Apollo’s hand and squeezes it. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”
It’s kind of silly—Apollo literally just moving out and Klavier already wanting to make plans. More than that, though, it’s sweet. “I’m taking Trucy to Eldoon’s. Lost a bet.”
“About what, pray tell?” Klavier’s eyebrows raise.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Apollo tells him. “She wants you to come, by the way.”
Klavier’s smile is almost shy. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing the Fräulein.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”