Chapter Text
The air in the local arena’s VIP lounge was thick with the scent of polished wood and lingering stage fog, a mix that clung to the back of Apollo’s throat.
The VIP pass around his wrist was starting to chafe, its plastic edge digging into his skin. He’d already twisted it around three times, each adjustment more irritated than the last, and he was seriously considering just yanking it off. The bassline of the Gavinners’ final song pulsed faintly through the concrete walls, muffled like a heartbeat underwater. It was loud enough to remind him where he was but not enough to drown out Trucy’s excited chatter.
“Polly, you okay?” Trucy asked, her voice a mix of concern and barely contained glee. She was adjusting her skirt again, smoothing it down like it was the key to making this moment perfect.
Apollo glanced at her, his thumb still hovering over his phone screen. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, not because it was true but because he didn’t want to deal with her worrying. “You sure you’re not gonna pass out from all this excitement?”
Trucy grinned, her eyes sparkling under the lounge’s dim lighting. “I’m fine. Are you sure my hair looks okay? It’s not, like, sticking up weird, is it?”
He sighed, reaching over to tug gently at her ponytail. “You look fine, Tru. You’re meeting a rock star, not auditioning for his band.”
She swatted his hand away, laughing. “You never know! Maybe he’ll hear my magic act and beg me to join the Gavinners.”
“Yeah, sure,” Apollo muttered, his lips twitching despite himself. “You juggling flaming torches while he sings about heartbreak. Perfect fit.”
“Exactly!” She nudged him with her elbow, her grin widening. “You, though? You’re gonna have to smile when we meet him. No grumpy face.”
“I don’t have a grumpy face,” he said, even though he knew exactly what she meant. His jaw tightened when he was annoyed, and his eyebrows did this thing that Clay always said made him look like he was about to argue with a vending machine.
Trucy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Just… don’t scare him off, okay? Klavier Gavin is cool. Like, world tour cool. Literally, actually.”
Apollo snorted softly, his eyes drifting back to his phone. A text from Clay popped up: u surviving the concert? He typed back a quick barely and hit send, his fingers moving on autopilot. He wasn’t here for the glamor or the music. He was here because Trucy had begged, and he couldn’t say no to her when she got that look in her eyes—the one that made him feel like he was failing some kind of big-brother test if he didn’t come through.
The door to the lounge opened with a soft hiss, and a handler in a black headset stepped in, clutching a clipboard like it was a lifeline. “Alright, you two,” she said, her voice clipped and professional. “Mr. Gavin’s wrapping up with press. You’ll get five minutes, one photo. Don’t touch the instruments, and don’t wander off.”
“Got it!” Trucy chirped, practically saluting. She turned to Apollo, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Smile. Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not weird,” he grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He followed her through the doorway, the faint thump of post-show chaos growing louder as they stepped into the dressing room.
The room smelled like stage fog and leather, with a faint undercurrent of something sharp—maybe hairspray. A rack of jackets lined one wall, all studded and shiny, like they’d been designed to catch every spotlight. The lighting was low, warm, and clearly meant to make everyone look better than they had any right to. A sleek black table held glass bottles of water, their labels pristine, and a couple of monitors flickered with muted footage of the concert’s closing moments. Apollo’s eyes flicked over the setup, cataloging it the way he did any other room: quick, thorough, no attachment.
Then Klavier Gavin turned around.
He was taller than Apollo had pictured, though maybe it was the boots. His blond hair was a mess, damp from the stage lights, and his shirt collar was tugged open, revealing a glimpse of collarbone and the faint sheen of sweat. The eyeliner under his eyes was smudged but sharp, like he’d planned it that way. Everything about him screamed deliberate—the kind of beauty that took work, not just luck. Apollo’s first thought was that this guy probably spent more time in front of a mirror than Trucy did before a magic show.
“Fräulein Wright, ja?” Klavier said, his voice smooth, with just enough of an accent to make it noticeable. His smile was wide, practiced, the kind that sold out arenas. “You made it.”
Trucy stepped forward like she’d been born for this moment, her nerves vanishing under a flood of enthusiasm. “Hi! Yes! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it—thank you! You were amazing out there. Like, that last song? I thought the whole stadium was gonna collapse from everyone screaming.”
Klavier laughed, a low, easy sound, and Apollo had to admit it didn’t sound fake. “You’re too kind, Fräulein. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Apollo hung back, his hands still in his pockets, his phone a comforting weight against his fingers. He could feel Klavier’s presence like a spotlight, even from across the room. The guy had a way of filling space without moving, like he was used to being the center of everything.
Klavier’s eyes shifted to him then, and Apollo felt the weight of that gaze—blue, sharp, not quite as casual as the smile suggested. “And you must be…” Klavier paused, his tone shifting, not warmer or cooler, just different. “...Not a fan, I’m guessing.”
Apollo shrugged, his shoulders tight. “Just here for her.”
Klavier’s smile didn’t budge, but there was a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or amusement. “The supportive older brother, then.”
“Something like that,” Apollo said, his voice flat. He wasn’t here to make friends with a rock star. He just wanted to get the photo, get Trucy’s moment, and get out.
Trucy, oblivious to the undercurrent, jumped in. “This is Apollo! He’s not into bands. Or fun, apparently.”
Apollo shot her a look, but she just grinned wider. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, his tone drier than he meant it to be.
Klavier’s brow lifted, just slightly, like he’d caught something worth noting. “Fair enough,” he said. “But you must like something. Music? Or are you one of those types who only listens to… what, podcasts?”
Apollo’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I listen to music. Just not this kind.”
“Oh?” Klavier leaned forward a fraction, his elbows resting on the back of a chair. “What kind, then? Indulge me, Herr Justice.”
Apollo hesitated. He wasn’t about to admit he could pick out a decent chord progression on a guitar or that he’d spent too many nights singing along to Clay’s terrible karaoke picks in their dorm room. “I don’t know. Stuff that doesn’t need a stadium to sound good.”
Trucy groaned. “Polly, you’re so boring.”
Klavier laughed again, and this time it sounded a little less polished, a little more real. “A man of taste, I see. Keine Sorge, I’ll figure you out.”
Apollo didn’t know what keine Sorge meant, but he wasn’t about to ask. Instead, he pulled out his phone, eager to move things along. “She wanted a picture. Her phone’s dead, so I’ve got mine.”
Klavier tilted his head, studying the phone like it was some kind of artifact. “Of course,” he said. “Let’s give her a proper one.”
Trucy practically squealed, bouncing into place beside Klavier. Apollo stood off to the side, holding the phone up, his thumb hovering over the button. Trucy threw up a peace sign, her grin so wide it looked like it might split her face. Klavier leaned in just slightly, one hand on his belt, his posture relaxed but calculated. He knew exactly how to angle himself for the camera, which side of his face caught the light best. Apollo snapped the picture, then tapped the screen to check it. The exposure was fine—Trucy looked ecstatic, and Klavier looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine.
“I’ll send it to you,” Apollo said absent-mindly, more out of habit than anything. He figured Trucy would want a copy for her scrapbook or whatever she was doing with her fan obsession these days.
Klavier’s brow lifted again, and there was something in his expression that Apollo couldn’t quite read. “Will you?”
“Yeah,” Apollo said, a little thrown by the question. “Don’t you want a copy for… I don’t know, your PR people or something?”
Trucy glanced between them, her brow furrowing slightly, like she was trying to figure out what was going on. Apollo didn’t blame her—he wasn’t entirely sure himself.
Klavier stepped forward, just enough that Apollo caught the faint scent of sweat and something sharper, like expensive cologne. “Why not?” Klavier said, his voice smooth as glass. “Here.”
He held out his hand, and Apollo blinked, confused for a second before realizing Klavier meant for the phone. He unlocked it and handed it over, his fingers brushing Klavier’s for a split second. The guy’s hands were warm, callused in a way that surprised Apollo—guitar strings, he noted, not just the polished pretty boy star image.
Klavier typed quickly, his fingers moving with the same ease he probably used on a fretboard. “There,” he said, handing the phone back. “That’s my number. For the photo, natürlich.”
Apollo took the phone, his eyes flicking to the screen. The contact read: K.G ♡. He almost rolled his eyes but caught himself. “Natürlich?” he asked, his tone dry. “What’s that mean?”
Klavier’s smile faltered for half a second, like he hadn’t expected the question. “Naturally,” he said, recovering quickly. “You don’t speak German?”
“Nope,” Apollo said, pocketing the phone. “Spanish, a little. Not that it comes up much.”
“Interesting,” Klavier murmured, and there was that look again—sharp, like he was filing something away for later. “Well, Herr Justice, maybe I’ll teach you a word or two.”
Apollo didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, his jaw tight, and turned toward Trucy. “You good?”
“Yeah!” she said, still beaming. “Thank you so much, Mr. Gavin!”
“Call me Klavier,” he said, his smile back to its full wattage. “And thank you for coming, Fräulein.”
A staffer poked their head in, her voice sharp. “Sorry, time’s up. Mr. Gavin has another group waiting.”
Trucy sighed, her shoulders slumping dramatically. “Already?”
Klavier spread his hands, the picture of charm. “The show must go on, ja? But it was a pleasure, Trucy. And Apollo.”
Apollo didn’t respond, just gave a curt nod and turned toward the door. Trucy was already chattering about the photo, about how she was going to print it out and frame it, but Apollo’s mind was elsewhere. He could still feel the weight of Klavier’s gaze, like a spotlight lingering too long.
As they stepped into the hallway, he glanced back, just once. Klavier was still standing there, one hand on the back of a chair, his eyes locked on Apollo. The look wasn’t smug or performative—it was something else, something Apollo couldn’t name but felt in his chest like a missed note.
He turned away quickly, his fingers tightening around his phone.
Klavier leaned against the dressing room table, the faint hum of the arena still buzzing in his bones. The show had been good—great, even—but his mind wasn’t on the setlist or the crowd. It was on the guy who’d just walked out.
Apollo Justice.
Klavier didn’t believe in fate, not really. He believed in timing, in the way certain moments hit harder than others. And this? This was a moment. He’d felt it the second Apollo’s eyes met his—not starry-eyed or fawning, but sharp, like he was sizing Klavier up and finding him… lacking. It was new. It was interesting.
Most people wanted something from him. A photo, a signature, a story to tell their friends. They’d lean in, their eyes bright with that hungry edge, and Klavier knew how to give them just enough to keep them dazzled. It was a game he’d mastered years ago. But Apollo hadn’t played along. He’d stood there, tan skin dusted with freckles, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking away like Klavier was just another guy in a room.
And those calluses on his fingertips—Klavier had felt them when he took the phone. Guitar strings, maybe. The kind that came from playing in a bedroom at three a.m., not for an audience but for yourself. Klavier wanted to know what Apollo sounded like when he wasn’t holding back, when he wasn’t biting the inside of his cheek like he’d been doing the whole time they talked.
“Verdammt,” Klavier muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at the mirror, catching his own reflection. The eyeliner was smudged, his face still flushed from the stage—and maybe something else. He wiped at the makeup, but it didn’t help. His pulse was up, and it wasn’t from the encore.
He pulled out his phone, thumbing to the new contact he’d saved. Apollo Justice. No emoji, no flair—just the name, plain and sharp, like the guy himself. Klavier’s finger hovered over the screen. He could text now, make some quip about the photo, keep the conversation going. But that felt too easy, too expected.
Instead, he set the phone down and leaned back, his mind replaying that last glance Apollo had thrown over his shoulder. It wasn’t admiration or awe. It was… something else. A challenge, maybe. Or just curiosity, unguarded for half a second.
Klavier smirked to himself. “Justice,” he said aloud, testing the weight of the name. It felt like a chord he hadn’t learned yet—tricky, but worth figuring out.
He’d hear more of it soon. He’d make sure of it.
Back in the hallway, Apollo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for now, his focus on Trucy as she practically skipped beside him, still talking about Klavier’s stage presence, his voice, his everything. “Did you see how he looked at the camera?” she said, clutching her VIP pass like a trophy. “He’s, like, made for this.”
“Yeah,” Apollo said, his voice distracted. He could still feel the faint warmth of Klavier’s hand against his when he’d handed over the phone. It was stupid to notice something like that, but his brain wouldn’t let it go.
“You’re not even listening,” Trucy accused, poking his arm.
“I am,” he lied, then sighed. “Fine, what’d you say?”
“I said you could’ve been nicer. He was totally trying to talk to you, and you were all… grumpy face.”
“I wasn’t grumpy,” Apollo said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He’d been on edge, not because of Klavier exactly, but because the whole scene—the lights, the leather, the effortless charm—felt like a world he didn’t belong in. He was a homebody, not a groupie. His life was his apartment and wherever Clay and Trucy drag him to, not backstage passes and rock stars.
Trucy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You’re sending me that picture, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, pulling out his phone. He opened the photo, and there it was: Trucy, beaming like she’d just won the lottery, and Klavier, all sharp angles and practiced charisma. Apollo’s thumb lingered over the screen, his eyes catching on Klavier’s face for a moment longer than he meant to.
“Polly,” Trucy said, her voice teasing now. “You’re staring.”
“Am not,” he snapped, shoving the phone back in his pocket. His face felt warm, and he hoped the hallway’s dim lighting hid it. “Let’s just get out of here.”
As they pushed through the arena’s exit, the night air hit Apollo’s skin, cool and sharp after the stuffy lounge. Trucy was still talking, but Apollo’s mind was elsewhere, replaying that last moment—the way Klavier had watched him, like he was a puzzle to be solved. It was unsettling, but not entirely in a bad way.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he checked it. A new text from Clay: so did u meet the rockstar himself or what?
Apollo typed back, his fingers quick: Met him. He’s… something.
He hit send, then hesitated. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled K.G ♡. He didn’t open it. Not yet.
But he didn’t delete it, either.