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There is a tree on Apollo’s desk.
Well, tree may be too strong of a word. It’s more of a sapling, really. But that’s missing the point. The point is that there is a potted plant on Apollo’s desk, and it was most certainly not there when he left the office yesterday. And, sure, sometimes his desk does get messed with overnight—Mr. Wright leaves a case file on his desk for him to look at in the morning, Trucy steals his entire container of gum, what have you.
It’s little things, though. Certainly never a tree. And what’s weirder is the decorations abound on the leaves. Red ribbons are strewn across with an attempt at whimsy, but look—none of the ribbons are tangled with one another, and the sides are perfectly balanced. No—there was effort put into this.
And for what? Because—
“Oooh, look at you!” Athena squeals from beside him, clasping her hands. Apollo startles—how long has she been there? She looks positively starstruck as she continues: “So? Are you gonna spill? What’s this all about?”
Apollo blinks. “Am I supposed to know?”
There’s a beat, then: “You don’t?” Athena asks, strangely sober.
“I don’t know why someone would break into the office just to leave a tree on my desk, no.” Because, clearly, it’s not Athena. Mr. Wright has to save the single potted plant in the office from the brink of death every week. And Trucy—well, the absurdity of it all points to her, but nothing else does.
Oh, he’s got a secret admirer! Widget sing-songs, flushed bright pink. Athena’s face quickly turns to match it as she slaps a hand over him. She sputters a moment, only for Apollo to interrupt—“What, is this the new trend? Confessing love through a tree?”
“It’s not a new trend!” Athena huffs, indignant. “It’s tradition, rooted in centuries and centuries of—”
“Yeah, well, so is just walking up to someone and asking them out.”
Athena sniffs. “You’re no fun.”
“Uh-huh.” Apollo pushes the tree to the side of his desk and sits down, unzipping his laptop case.
“What? What? Aren’t you gonna—aren’t you gonna try to figure out who it is?”
Apollo quirks an eyebrow at her. “Well, one, clearly they don’t want me to.” He gestures at the utter lack of note or anything else identifiable near the tree. “And, two, if they aren’t serious enough to confess without using a tree, I don’t think they’re serious enough to commit to.”
“That’s kinda sad, Apollo.”
What’s sadder, really, is that Apollo does try to figure out who it is. Vaguely. Because there is something trembling in the corner of his heart—this stricken, stupid hope. Because there’s something odd to all this:
1. Whoever did this has a flair for the dramatics.
2. Whoever did this has something to lose by revealing their identity.
3. Whoever did this can reasonably get access to the office after-hours.
And, maybe this is Apollo reading into it too much, but:
4. Whoever did this is a perfectionist.
And, really—all signs point to one person. Don’t they? Then again, it could just as easily be some weird confirmation bias. God knows how long Apollo’s been nursing this pitiful little crush.
But this all makes it worse, see. Because when he Googles tree romantic tradition, a lot of it is irrelevant—college traditions and all—but right before he’s about to close out the tab, there it is. Five results down:
And of course Apollo’s own heart betrays him—catching on Germany. Even worse when he clicks on the site and it kindly informs him that the trees are given out on May 1st. Well, guess what day it is.
It’s all a coincidence. Surely it has to be. Because there’s no way Klavier could—would—see him like that. Go through all the effort—because as simple as it seems, there was a lot to this, wasn’t there? Ordering the tree, decorating it, making sure it survived travel, making sure Apollo would be gone before depositing the tree in the office, getting into the office in the first place—it’s a whole orchestration. Neatly planned.
Apollo swallows. Closes the tab. Clears his history for good measure, even though he was already in incognito.
Saddest of all, maybe, is that Apollo keeps the tree right on the corner of his desk. So of course Trucy notices when she bounds into the office after-school that day. Oh, she tries to be casual about it as she settles into the couch by Apollo’s desk. Her voice is perfectly casual as she asks, “Are you growing a green thumb, Polly?”
But, see, she’s betrayed by that little twitch at the corner of her lips. “We both know you don’t think that,” Apollo returns, sliding his gaze back towards his computer.
Still, he can hear the pout in Trucy’s voice: “It’s a genuine question.”
“You’re really telling me you don’t know anything about this.”
“No,” Trucy lilts, drawing out the word. Mischief colors her tone, then: “Or maybe I’m bound to secrecy! Not that I can confirm or deny, of course, but—”
“How about this,” Apollo cuts in. “I’m gonna drive a hard bargain with you, okay, Truce? How about I say what I think, and you tell me if I’m right?”
“Maybe,” Trucy says in that same lilting tone. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Well, I think you know who left this here.”
Trucy breaks out in a full grin, then. It’s obvious that she does before she even says, “Well, I think I can give you that much… Hmm… Yep!”
“Okay,” Apollo says, ignoring the rapid pitter-patter of his heart. “I think you helped them leave it here, then.”
“Two for two,” Trucy sing-songs. “Not that he really needed my help, mind you. It was nice that he recognized my expertise, though!”
He. Someone Trucy knows. Someone who Trucy is fond of, at that. Apollo swallows thickly. He so desperately wants to go for the jugular—suggest it’s Klavier, isn’t it, but the words dry up on his tongue. “And I think this isn’t the last thing they’ll do.”
“Nope! But that’s all you’re getting from me on that front, buster. You’ll just have to be patient.” A beat, then: “I know that’s hard for you.”
“Pot, meet kettle?”
“Not in this situation,” Trucy shrugs, completely blasé. “I’m like a VIP in this whole thing, yeah?”
“A VIP,” Apollo repeats in disbelief.
“Yeah, ‘cause I have all the insider info, and you’re in the dark—”
“I know, Truce.” Apollo bites back a smile despite himself. “I know.”
So it’s a little off-kilter the next time he sees Klavier. His bracelet clings to his wrist—but who’s to say if that’s because of his own nervousness or Klavier’s? Hell, maybe both of them are on-edge. It’s hard not to be when Apollo can’t tell if Klavier’s hand on the small of his back really is pressed a little firmer against him, really is lingering those few seconds more.
But nothing comes of it. Apollo thinks it might, for a second, when Klavier declares that he needs to whisk away back to the Prosecutor’s Office—no rest for the wicked, ja? But he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, Klavier’s gaze holds soft on Apollo for a second too long. Give it a moment more—maybe it’ll dip lower and rest on Apollo’s mouth. Maybe here, now, is when Klavier will tilt Apollo’s chin up—
Klavier tilts his head, smiles, and turns on his heel. He does no such thing. Still Apollo’s bracelet holds fast to his wrist. As though the thought occurred to them both.
As it happens, nothing really changes. The days trickle by—the tension grows—but nothing bears fruit. Maybe it was all some off-color joke—maybe it is all in Apollo’s head. Who knows?
Then comes May 31st. Another office day for Apollo—no clients, but plenty of documentation to catch up on. Same old. The bell on the door jingles—and in comes Klavier.
Apollo quirks an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?” They haven’t had a case together since the beginning of the month. Long since settled and closed away.
“Ja,” Klavier says easily. Apollo’s bracelet snaps to his wrist. Klavier strides over to Apollo’s desk and leans on it like it belongs to him. His eyes fall on the tree. His voice plays towards casual, but there’s a tremor to it when he continues, “I’ve come to collect this.”
Apollo’s heart sticks in his throat. “The tree.”
“Der Maibaum,” Klavier corrects him.
“You left this here?” It’s a stupid question. Of course Klavier did. Of course Klavier did, but it’s not quite settling. Not quite real. Not yet.
“So it would seem.” Klavier’s smile is tight at the edges.
There’s a beat of horrible, horrible silence. They stare at one another. Then it climbs out of Apollo’s throat: “I Googled what it means.”
Klavier’s fingers twitch against Apollo’s desk. “Did you, now?” There’s another pause, then, almost shyly, he asks, “What did you think?”
“Um.” Apollo tries very hard not to let his eyes fall to Klavier’s mouth. He fails. Klavier notices, of course; his smile softens. There’s something genuine, there. Something hopeful. “Well. I didn’t think you—meant it. Like that.”
Klavier’s smile falters. “And why is that, pray tell?”
There are a thousand things Apollo could say. Because you didn’t follow through. Because I thought it was wishful thinking. Or, more accurately: Because it's you. Because it’s me. Instead: “It’s a bit antiquated, isn’t it? Like—maybe it means something different. In Germany. I don't know.”
“I wanted to do it right.” Klavier's voice curls—a little bashful.
“Oh.”
His free hand plays with a lock of stray hair, then. He doesn't look at Apollo when he asks, “Did I?”
There’s a part of Apollo that aches for familiarity—that needs to poke and prod and push at Klavier’s buttons. Like always.
This is different, though. “Yeah. You did.”