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Phoenix opens the door to a hospital room filled with flowers; arrangements and bouquets of every type imaginable cover every surface, and the air is lush and fragrant. In the center of it all is a stark hospital bed, in which rests a small young man, covered in bandages. He’s hooked up to an IV and an array of monitors, all beeping steadily. Alive. He’s alive. Asleep, but alive. Phoenix tries to not imagine the extent of the damage beneath the layers of gauze, and turns to the man sitting at Apollo’s bedside.
“How is he?” Klavier Gavin tosses his head and shrugs, setting his purple smartphone down for a moment.
“Doctors say he’ll definitely live. No brain damage. And that’s the bottom line of it.” Phoenix exhales in relief and leans on the metal side of the bed, looking for a sign of life flickering behind his former protégé’s one good eye, closed in sleep. The other is covered by bandages. His face is mostly clear, save for a few lacerations and stitches, but the skin creeping out from underneath bandages is red and angry and oozing. Klavier sighs and gently brushes Apollo’s hand with a finger, like he’s fragile, made of porcelain, going to break. The young attorney’s hands are bound in gauze, even down to the tips of his fingers, like he’s wearing delicate cotton mittens.
“Thank God,” Phoenix murmurs, pulling up a chair on the other side of the hospital bed. He has to pay his respects to this boy he loves almost like a son. At first he’d felt strange about not bringing flowers, but after seeing the excess he doesn’t feel quite so lacking.
“He suffered patches of 2nd and 3rd degree burns from the neck down,” Klavier says, his voice husky and quiet, like he’s willing himself to be strong. “He lost an eye from the rubble. The doctors say he’ll never regain full use of his hands, but hey, he was never a concert pianist, right?” He coughs and turns away, rubbing his eyes, tears pricking in the corners. For a moment there’s an awkward silence, but then Phoenix imagines Miles lying in the same bed and has to quell the urge to kill whatever feckless, irredeemable coward had bombed the courthouse. Why did Apollo have to be a casualty – kind, brave Apollo who had suffered this in another act of selfless justice? He’d been ushering people out through back hallways in the building when he’d been caught in an aftershock explosion. He’d saved children, for Christsakes.
“Right now he’s in an induced coma,” Klavier continues explaining after he’s regained his composure, a tissue crumpled in his palm. “Burns are one of the most awful things to recover from, so right now they’re making him sleep till he’ll be able to deal with it.” He sighs. “It’s hard for us to just sit around, but I can’t stand the thought of him in pain.” Phoenix nods, running a hand through his spiky hair.
“It’s good of you to sit up with him, even if he doesn’t know you’re here,” the attorney says. Klavier fixes him with one of those frighteningly intense ice-blue Gavin stares, the kind where if you’re on the wrong end, then you’re fucked.
“Justice is my world,” he says quietly. “It would be very wrong for me to be anywhere else.”
“Aren’t you on tour, though?” Phoenix asks. Klavier shakes his head, platinum tresses coiling into a perfect drill.
“Fangirls can wait. Forehead can’t. I need to be here for him.” Phoenix nods aimlessly and looks around the room again. A small window, half-closed by a slatted shade, overlooks a parking lot and some maple saplings in a newly-landscaped garden. There’s a slight breeze drifting through that smells like spring.
“And the flowers?” Phoenix gestures at the explosion of flora around the room, as well cards, candy, balloons and a few giant stuffed animals. Klavier has piled several baskets of fresh fruit at his feet and is picking out all the mangoes and oranges. A laptop rests on the bedside table, and empty bottles of Icelandic springwater spill out of the trash can. The rock star and rock star prosecutor has been here a while. Phoenix notices that Klavier has kicked off his leather motorcycle boots and he’s just wearing socks.
“Fans,” Klavier says simply. “When you fight for justice, people tend to adore you.” Phoenix stands, stretches, tucks in his white dress shirt again.
“I hate visit for such a short time, but I gotta get back to work. I’ll send Trucy over later, okay?” Klavier crosses his legs and leans back in the stiff hospital-issue chair. Oh god, he’s got a guitar resting up against the wall next to him. Probably composing in between visitors.
“Ah, yes, the fraulein. Excellent. It’s good to see you, Herr Wright.” Klavier stands and shakes his former courtroom opponent’s hand. It’s funny how time, and your former proving grounds being blown to smithereens, can quietly erode years of resentment and false impressions.
“You too, Gavin. Take care.” Phoenix ruffles what’s left of Apollo’s hair. “You too, Justice.” Then he inclines his head to Klavier, turns on his heel, and walks out of the hospital room.