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Apollo is halfway through his breakfast bagel when Klavier’s cell phone rings.
“It’s Luisa!” Klavier says cheerfully. He’s been staring at the phone since they sat down to eat.
Before Apollo can get a word in, Klavier kisses his cheek and speeds out of earshot, abandoning the oat milk next to his cereal. Apollo continues poring over his court documents; he keeps one ear on the living room, but he catches zilch.
When his fiancé returns, he’s fidgeting with his bangs, and his lips twitch up into an eager smile. He’s always been one of those people whose face is easy to read.
“What is it, Klav?” Apollo asks before wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Artist’s Hour wants to interview me!” Klavier announces, throwing his hands in the air. “They want me on the cover!”
Apollo rubs his chin, deep in imaginary thought. “Artist’s Hour…Artist’s Hour…nope, doesn’t ring a bell,” he says. Before the crease between Klavier’s eyebrows can even begin to form, he leaps up from his chair and throws his arms around him. “Hey, didn’t I say it’d happen eventually? That’s great!”
“Ja, took them long enough!” Klavier says, cupping Apollo’s face in his hands and kissing him again and again. Excitement dances in his eyes. “They’re aiming to shoot next week…Saturday? Do we have anything going on, schatz?”
Apollo shakes his head. “Nope.” Another kiss. “Just this.”
“Wunderbar!” he says. They break apart only so Apollo can collect his files and Klavier can attempt to make a dent in his soggy cereal. As he organizes his briefcase, he listens to Klavier talk about everything he plans to talk about. His hands move animatedly through the air; his spoon sinks a little further into the bowl. It’s the cutest thing ever, seeing him like this.
“I’m so happy for you,” Apollo says, resting his chin in his hand.
“Danke, liebling,” Klavier says, grinning wide. “Finally. Finally! Ah, we’ll have to get a frame for it, ja? Where should it go?”
And then he’s up again, pacing all around the penthouse to find the right place. Apollo double-checks his suit for errant globs of cream cheese before following him into the living room. Klavier is standing directly in front of the flatscreen TV, staring like he wants it to vaporize into thin air.
“This is harder than I thought,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
“How about over here, front and center? Just like you’ll be.” Stepping behind him, Apollo pilots Klavier towards a blank spot on the northern wall, then wraps his arms around his waist, smiling up at him.
Klavier grins back. “Perfect,” he says, and places his hands over Apollo’s.
Apollo is stuck investigating a robbery on the day of the photoshoot, but their parallel days go on as normal. Klavier sends him a selfie from the makeup chair that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, brightening what would’ve otherwise been an exceptionally draining day at the Detention Center.
Over dinner (Greek, Klav’s choice), he stays pretty tight-lipped about his day on set, but he’s in good spirits. When Apollo falls asleep next to him that night, he’s happy. They both are.
The magazine issue releases on a Friday. Athena’s diligent line of questioning unearths a loophole in the case, securing her and Apollo an extra day in court. He’s barely three steps out of the courtroom when he goes to check his phone. There’s a slew of calls from Klavier. The first one was 37 minutes ago. No messages.
Throwing a flurry of apologies in Athena’s direction, he ducks into a less people-y corridor and presses the phone to his ear, frenetically tapping his fingers against his thigh.
“Klav? Everything OK?” he says, his voice coming out reedier than intended.
“They took my burn scars out,” Klavier says flatly.
“What? Wait— Artist’s Hour?” His mind races.
“Ja. Edited them out of all the photos.”
“What the hell? Why?” He shakes his head. “I’m coming to see you.”
“I’m not at the office,” Klavier says. “I went home early.”
Apollo’s chest tightens. “Okay, then I’ll see you at home. Court’s adjourned—maybe Athena can drop me off. I’ll be home soon, okay? I love you.”
“Love you,” Klavier mumbles before hanging up.
Apollo flexes his hand; a perfect storm brews in his head. His first interview in a long time, and it has to go wrong. Of course it does. He doesn’t deserve this. Why can’t Klavier catch a break? Without thinking—or maybe he’s thinking too much— Apollo slams his fist against the wall and storms out of the courthouse.
He’s hunched over on the couch, still in his work clothes. His feet are flat on the floor, his elbows are digging into his knees, and he’s wringing his hands. Apollo sits beside him, pressing them flush together shoulder to knee.
“I’m here,” he says. He wraps one hand over Klavier’s shoulders and cups the other around his face, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“Hey,” Klavier sniffs. His eye makeup is smudged, but only barely—he’s been buying waterproof since he was fifteen.
“I’m so sorry.”
Klavier avoids his eyes. “I already know how stupid it is that I left work over this,” he says.
“It’s not stupid.”
“People’s lives are on the line, and I’m upset over a magazine.”
“It’s not stupid, Klavier. You’re… allowed to be upset. This meant a lot to you.” He rubs Klavier’s back with the flat of his hand, rhythmic and grounding. “And it’s hard to get any work done when you’re not focused. You’ll feel better when you go back on Monday. I know you will.”
“Ja, I hope so,” Klavier mumbles, massaging his temple. “Luisa said she’d call as soon as she can.” He grabs his phone off the coffee table and puts it down again without so much as unlocking it.
“Okay, so we’ll see what she says. I’m sure she’s handling it.”
“I don’t understand how this happened. I really don’t,” Klavier says, steepling his fingers. He stares straight ahead. “I may not like how they look, but that doesn’t mean I wanted them taken out. Luisa told them I didn’t want them removed. I told them I didn’t want them removed. We approved the photos beforehand…Mein Gott, did they seriously think I wouldn’t notice? It’s only one of the biggest magazines in the world!”
He paces back and forth, a dark cloud coloring his features. Apollo tracks him with his eyes; he’s going to wear a hole in the floor if he keeps it up. Right when Apollo stands to meet him, Klavier stops in his tracks.
“What if…what if people think that I told the magazine to do that?” he says, his hands curling into fists.
This is how it starts: the what-if spiral is piling up in his head. Apollo tries fruitlessly to dig Klavier’s fingers out of their furl. “Klav, no. Your true fans would never think that. Let the magazine figure out how to fix this, okay? It’s on them.”
“It’s not that simple,” Klavier says sharply, turning away before he can register the hurt that flashes across Apollo’s face. He claws his fingers through his fine blond hair. The perfect waves he left home with this morning hang limply at his shoulders. A halo of frizz is starting to form.
“I-It’s everywhere, and people are going to talk, and…and an official correction will come too late! And it’s in print, too—that makes it worse. I-I need to say something now, so nobody gets the wrong idea.” He snatches his phone up and anxiously scrolls through it, eyes darting frantically all over the little screen. Apollo reaches for him again, lightly kneading his thumbs on the insides of Klavier’s wrists. He read somewhere that it’s supposed to help with anxiety.
“Klavier,” Apollo says firmly. “Look at me. Breathe.”
Klavier’s eyes meet his. He breathes, but he’s far away. Unmoored.
“You don’t need to do that right now,” Apollo tells him, giving him a curt head shake. He puts the phone facedown on the table.
“I know how they look,” Klavier says quietly. His eyes are wet. “I don’t need anyone to remind me.”
Apollo’s breath catches. “Klavier, you—”
“The doctors did what they could. I know that. This—this is just how it is now,” he says, trapped in his own head. “I thought people had finally stopped caring about it so much.”
It would be so easy to say, Klavier, don’t worry about what anyone else thinks, or Klavier, don’t worry so much about how you look, but it would also be meaningless. His public-facing persona may be someone who lets people’s opinions roll off his back, but the real Klavier cares immensely, too much for his own good. Apollo wishes he could shut that perfectionist, people-pleasing part of Klavier’s brain off, just so the man he loves could experience peace.
“If that’s all someone cares about when they see you, they’re focused on the wrong things,” he says, infusing his voice with reassurance. Is it enough? Is he doing enough? He massages Klavier’s wrists again. When he looks down, there’s a tinted smudge of… something on his right hand. Foundation? Concealer? Apollo squints at it, letting go of Klavier to flip his hands back and forth.
“Are you wearing makeup on your hands?” he says, lifting his eyes.
Klavier stares at his bracelet for a second too long. “Ja, a little.”
Apollo blinks. “Wh…you never do that.”
“Sometimes I do,” Klavier says, crossing his arms.
"And I'm learning this... now?" His mind swims. "How often is 'sometimes?'"
"I started doing it before we were even together, Apollo. It's really not that important, and I don't want to talk about it right now."
His bracelet squeezes tight. Apollo replays their morning routine in his head. As he flits around getting ready, he catches glimpses of Klavier styling his hair, or doing his makeup, or lint-rolling his clothes, or quadruple-checking his briefcase. They eat breakfast together; when time allows, Apollo makes use of the stove. Most days, Klavier drives him to work. Could he really be that oblivious? No way. Maybe he waits until he’s at the Prosecutor’s Office. But he knows Klavier—knows him well enough to be marrying him in six weeks. Would he really go to such lengths to hide this? Apollo’s head is starting to hurt.
“But—what? Why are you doing it? Because you want to? Or because you feel like you have to?” he asks.
“I don’t know! Both! Does it really matter?” Klavier snaps, storming off into the bedroom. Apollo’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest.
“Yes, it does! You don’t need any of that!” he says, right on his heels. When Klavier turns around, his expression is impenetrable. Apollo bites down hard on his bottom lip so he won’t cry. “...Don’t do that to me, Klavier. Please. I’m trying to understand.”
“I’m sorry,” Klavier says, sighing shakily as he takes Apollo’s hand. He sits on the bed like he’s afraid to put a wrinkle in it. “How do I…the makeup…it comes off, Apollo. But the scars are always going to be there, ja?” His softened expression briefly morphs into something bitter. He swallows, jaw set tight. “Sometimes it makes me feel better when I’m having a bad day. It… helps me focus less on them. That’s all. Isn’t that a good thing?”
Apollo nods. “...Yes, I think so. But you should feel confident with or without the makeup. You shouldn’t rely on it.”
“Well, that’s a work in progress,” Klavier says stiffly.
“Okay, I get that. And I’ll support you, always,” Apollo says. If he talks too quickly, something’s bound to come out wrong, so he takes a deep breath. “...Klavier, that whole case was a nightmare…I know those memories will never just go away. Sometimes I still see Mr. LeTouse in my head, and I think about finding my mother after she was attacked, and…it’s hard. I know I shouldn’t tell you how to feel, but I really hate seeing you so torn up, and I don’t want you to be so… consumed by this that you let life pass you by.”
Klavier blinks fast; air hisses past his teeth in short bursts. He swipes at his eye with the heel of his hand. “I-I'm trying. To move forward.”
“I know you are.” He wants to wipe every shred of that stupid magazine off the face of the earth.
“People don’t know how bad it was.” Klavier’s voice teeters on the edge of a sob. His mouth pulls into a thin, pinched line. “That damn igniter could’ve blown my face off!”
Apollo’s breath dies in his throat as Klavier crumples into himself and a strangled, desolate cry is wrested out of him. He pulls him close as his vision blurs with tears, nestling Klavier under his chin. For a deeply regrettable moment, Apollo pictures Daryan, who has never bothered to give Klavier anything even remotely close to the closure he absolutely knows he wants; anger floods his chest, clamps his jaw shut. Hot tears seep into his clothes, and he holds Klavier there like he’ll slip through his fingers.
“I didn’t—I didn’t know if I’d be able to play again,” Klavier cries. “It hurt so much.”
“Oh, Klavier, I’m so sorry,” Apollo murmurs, smoothing his hair back in gentle, even strokes. He rests his lips on the crown of his head. Not quite a kiss, but almost.
“I only thought about putting t-the fire out. I didn’t care about anything else.”
His entire body goes rigid.
Klavier likens his anxiety to static or just plain noise. It drowns out his rational thoughts, and there’s no way for him to turn it off completely, like crackling on a scratched-up record. For Apollo, it’s kindling smoldering quietly in the pit of his stomach, ready to flare up at the first spark of danger. When Courtroom No. 4 was bombed, Apollo’s one-track mind nearly got him killed twice over. And the fire raged on indiscriminately.
He wills his voice not to tremble. “…I understand,” he says, staring at Klavier’s glasses on the nightstand.
It’s taken him a long time to get to this point, where the mere thought of Clay’s senseless murder doesn’t make his mouth and hands go numb. He clings to Klavier. Or maybe it’s the other way around. It doesn’t really matter.
“I’m sorry,” Klavier says hoarsely. “I didn't want to hurt you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Apollo slowly peels himself off of Klavier and gives him a long look.
“Because I have scars, too?” he asks, point-blank. Klavier’s eyes fall on the cuff of Apollo’s dress shirt, and that tells him everything he needs to know. “It's okay. I get self-conscious about mine— we’ve talked about this. You know how awkward it is for me to catch people staring when it’s hot as shit outside.”
“Ja, I know…ach, remember that lady at Gatewater Land? You gave her a death glare that could rival Herr Chief’s,” Klavier says, chuckling through the last of his tears. Apollo laughs too, and it feels good.
“Ugh, she totally deserved it,” he says, sniffling quietly. He gently swipes his thumb over Klavier’s cheek. “Klav, we can talk about anything. I want us to talk about anything.”
“Ja, me too,” he says. His breathing is evening out.
“So let me ask you this: do you think my scars are ugly?”
“Wha—nein! Of course not!” Klavier says, recoiling in offense.
Apollo pushes up his right sleeve without another word. Webs of scars climb up his arm, and his skin is mottled. Some marks are raised. They’re as healed as they’re going to be. It’s nothing Klavier hasn’t seen before, touched before, kissed before. But he needs him to see them again.
“...of course not,” Klavier echoes, quieter but no less emphatic. He sets his hand on Apollo’s arm. “Your scars are an inextricable part of you, and you are so very beautiful, liebling. I love you so much.”
His bracelet stays perfectly still, not that he had any doubts. He tightens his grip on his sleeve.
“This is probably going to sound silly,” he says, “but turn that around. Speak to yourself the way you’d speak to me. I know it won't magically solve everything, and it’s probably going to feel weird at first, but really, try it."
He tilts his head. "It doesn’t sound so silly to me. I’ll do it for you, schatz.”
“Not for me,” Apollo insists, tapping his finger over Klavier’s heart. “For you.”
“Okay,” Klavier says. “I’ll try.”
"Good. You know, sometimes you tell me some very nice things."
Klavier snorts. “Sometimes?”
“Like, ninety-five percent of the time.”
“Ach! Sounds like I could do better, then.”
He holds Klavier’s face in his hands and smiles at him. A faint streak of makeup extends past his right eye, and his concealer is patchy from the dried-up tears. He looks drained. But he smiles back.
“I guess simply telling you how amazing you are isn’t going to cut it anymore. Maybe you need to jump inside my head and read all my thoughts yourself, hot off the press,” Apollo says, pressing their heads together.
This is enough to make Klavier laugh, at least a little. The light, bubbly sound makes warmth bloom in Apollo’s chest.
“All your thoughts?” Klavier says. “Sounds like a dangerous game, schatzi.”
“You’re right. Only some, then.”
“How about…ninety-five percent?”
“Perfect.” He gives Klavier a soft kiss on the lips. Then he peppers kisses onto his hands, his rings, his knuckles. When he speaks again, his voice comes out shakier than he wants it to. “Klav, I love you. All of you. We have so much to look forward to…I mean, we’re getting married!...and when you look back on our wedding day, I always want you to think about how much fun it was, and how much we love each other. You shouldn’t spend it worrying about any of this.”
Klavier smiles faintly. “Liebling, when that day comes, how could I be anything but the happiest man alive?” he says, his eyes shining softly.
Apollo’s heart does a somersault. Klavier kisses his cheek before getting up. “I’m going to wash my face, schatz. Lay down with me?”
“Throw me some clothes,” Apollo says, lounging on his side of the bed. He squints at the alarm clock; it’s only 4:15, but he’s exhausted. He grins lazily when Klavier tosses him a pair of Gavinners-printed pajama pants and a crewneck sweater from his side of the dresser. He grabs a complementary set for himself and closes the curtains.
When he returns, neither of them say anything for some time. The sheets gently rustle beneath them as they curl up together. Apollo mindlessly combs his fingers through his hair, nearly lulled to sleep by the soft sounds of their mingled breathing.
“Believe it or not, I was actually most excited about the interview,” Klavier blurts out, draping his hand over Apollo’s hip.
“I know you were,” Apollo says. “What’d you talk about?”
“I talked about us, of course, and the wedding— don’t worry, I didn’t say too much. Hm, what else? My brand deals, my solo album…managing my anxiety, working with LA Pride. There’s more, but…ach, well. It doesn’t matter. It’s all going to be overshadowed by this bullshit.” He chuckles humorlessly. “This will all make great fodder for my next therapy session, ja?”
“Klavier.”
“I’m serious! Gott, she’s going to have a field day with this,” Klavier sighs.
“Don’t say that it doesn’t matter, because it does,” Apollo says, impassioned. “You put yourself out there, and no matter what happens, you know people are going to read it. I’m sure there’s at least one person who connects with what you said.”
“Ja, I suppose so.” Klavier replies wistfully. He stares into space, spinning one of his rings around his finger. “That’s all I wanted, really.”
As predicted, Artist’s Hour releases a half-baked statement not long after that. It strings together all the right PR buzzwords for an apology with exactly none of the sincerity Klavier deserves. The right photos replace the wrong ones where possible. Naturally, the incident directs more traffic to Klavier’s social media; his DMs and comment sections are inundated. Fueled by a sense of morbid curiosity, Apollo locks himself in the bathroom at midnight on Sunday and scrolls through the comments. Most are supportive, thankfully. Some specifically praise the interview; his fiancé is an eloquent speaker, so this isn’t surprising in the slightest. Klavier can’t bring himself to look at any of it.
They lay low for the weekend and return to work on Monday. People move on to the next celebrity feud or faux pas, as they always do. When the wedding happens six weeks later, they’re shoved back into the spotlight, as is to be expected when the Klavier Gavin is getting married to the Apollo Justice. Privacy invasions aside, the extra attention doesn’t bother them as much as it could; there are more important things. Apollo’s family visits from Khura’in, Thalassa walks him down the aisle, and Mr. Wright ugly-cries into his husband’s monogrammed handkerchief all the way through the ceremony. Taka nearly makes off with the rings. Klavier’s old bandmates show up dressed to the nines, joking and jostling him around like old times. It’s a perfect day.
Slowly but surely, things go back to their version of normal. When Klavier returns to the Internet, his first post is a picture of Apollo browsing new releases at the comic book store (a stealthy shot, but he gives Klavier the go-ahead anyways).
Apollo’s putting a board game away in the closet when a crumpled plastic bag catches his eye. The picture frame inside still has the stock photo: a lighthouse. He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection. The sunburn from their honeymoon hasn’t quite faded from the high points of his cheeks yet.
He almost puts it back. Something stops him.
He sticks his head in their bedroom. “Hey, Klav?”
“Hm?” Klavier looks up from his crossword puzzle. He’s settled in bed with his legs crossed at the ankle. Flyaways escape from the bun piled loosely on top of his head, and he’s wearing his glasses. His husband—Holy Mother, his husband— is simply stunning.
“Um, that picture frame in the closet. Mind if I use it?”
“Huh? Oh…ja, sure! Go ahead.” He taps the sheathed tip of his ballpoint pen against the paper, deep in thought. “6-letter word often used to refer to a handsome man? Strangely, Apollo isn’t working.”
Apollo rolls his eyes affectionately. “Good one. You know we’re already married, right? You don’t have to try so hard anymore?” he says, giggling as he folds back the comforter.
“Ach, nonsense. I’ll never stop flirting with you, liebling.”
“Mhm.” Apollo curls up beside him and gives his husband a kiss. “Try Adonis,” he says when his eyes flutter open. It’s right, and he knows it; Klavier grins, and the crossword’s set aside, forgotten.
He lets his idea marinate long enough that Klavier doesn’t suspect anything’s afoot. Then, on a Friday as ordinary as any other, he executes a plan.
Right on time, Apollo hears him fumbling with his keys.
“Wait-wait-wait! Close your eyes! I have a surprise for you,” Apollo squawks as he cracks open the door. Klavier slides his headphones off his ears, wide-eyed.
“Hm? Oh, okay!” He does as he’s told, an eager smile spreading across his face. “Smells amazing in here, schatzi! You cooked?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the whole surprise,” he says, struggling to tamp down the rising nervousness in his voice. He steers him into the living room.
“Ooh, I wonder…” Klavier giggles, stumbling over the rug. His fingers wander clumsily over Apollo’s arm.
Apollo stops moving. He clears his throat; his stomach is in knots. “Okay, um. You can open.”
Klavier lets out a small gasp at the sight. “Oh,” he whispers, curling his fingers in front of his mouth.
He’s framed a candid moment from their wedding, just the two of them on the dance floor. He forgets what he was saying to Klavier—something about Vongole shirking her duty as ring bearer, maybe?— but their faces are lit up with matching mirthful grins. Klavier’s eyes are shut tight, mid-laugh. That he remembers: it’s the indelible kind of shriek-laugh Klavier rarely unleashes in public, so infectious that it makes Apollo howl with laughter until his stomach hurts and he can’t remember what was so funny in the first place. Their hands are woven together, facing the camera.
“Do… you like it?” Apollo asks hesitantly, searching Klavier’s face. He’s staring at the photo, motionless. Maybe this was a bad idea. Things have been going so well, but sometimes he can’t leave well enough alone.
“Oh, liebling, I love it so much,” Klavier says quietly. Tears spring to his eyes. “It’s perfect. It’s perfect.”
When Klavier rests his hands over Apollo’s this time, his wedding band catches the light. The photo travels from home to home with them for all the years to come, and it’s always front and center.