Archive of Our Own

As with Gladness

Apollo's first Christmas in America is absolutely terrible.

He doesn't know any of the customs. He's still trying to learn the language. Though English is the common second language in Khura'in, spoken with all the tourists and to bridge gaps between wildly varying dialects from disparate regions, Apollo has spent most of his time with Datz, Dhurke, and Nahyuta. Dhurke and Nahyuta tend to speak a pretty, fluid version of Khura'inese that's common in the center of the country, near the capital, and though Datz speaks with a funny accent, he's more than capable of keeping up with them in it.

Now Apollo is the one speaking with a funny accent, trying desperately to keep up with children who chatter too fast in a slang he doesn't understand. Maybe it would have been better if he had an obviously foreign name and face; as it is everyone seems to make odd guesses about where he's from, and no one gets it right.

He's teased for being Mexican; he's punched for being a mulatto; he's mocked for being some kind of half-breed Asian mutt. The only thing everyone seems to agree on is that he doesn't belong, and Apollo agrees with them.

Unfortunately the legal system doesn't. Whatever Dhurke had done to get Apollo smuggled into the country, it has worked far too well.

“There weren't any lies or smuggling involved, Apollo.” The therapist who is supposed to work with Apollo, to help him adjust to life in the States and in the foster system, is a frazzled, ancient man whose eyes seem to perpetually droop with sadness. “You are a citizen of this country. You were lost as a child, and despite his... somewhat unsavory dealings, Sahdmadhi was only doing the right thing when he sent you back here.”

Apollo can't agree with that. Apollo belonged in Khura'in.

Well... that's not entirely true. He didn't really belong there, either. Dhurke had always made it clear that though he was like Apollo's father, Apollo's actual father was the man who had been named Justice, a friend of Dhurke's who loved Apollo very much.

A friend whose first name Dhurke doesn't know, a man that Apollo has absolutely no memories of, and Apollo had thought it didn't matter. For all intents and purposes Dhurke was his father.

Then Dhurke took a bullet in the arm during an information-gathering mission, and suddenly it wasn't safe for Apollo to be there anymore. Since Nahyuta is still there, Apollo thinks that's terribly unfair, but Dhurke had told him to be strong and fierce like a dragon, and Apollo doesn't like disappointing Dhurke.

It seems that Dhurke has no issues with disappointing Apollo, though.

The winter celebration at the foster home where Apollo finds himself for his first Christmas is a strained, confusing affair. There is a Christmas tree, and the people who are in charge of the seven children in the home—a middle-aged couple who seem uncertain whether they like or dislike having so many kids—have them place a cacophony of plastic ornaments on the branches. Many of the ornaments are old and scuffed, cartoon characters that Apollo sometimes recognizes and sometimes doesn't.

“You're such a weirdo.” Jason, the oldest boy in the house, sneers at Apollo as Apollo fiddles with one of the ornaments. “Don't you even know who Garfield is?”

Apollo doesn't bother shaking his head. He definitely doesn't say anything. If he speaks, his accent will be obvious, and he will just end up getting teased harder.

There are winter celebrations in Khura'in. They have nothing to do with the Christmas story that Apollo pieces together bit by strange, agonizing bit, though. There is no Jesus in Khura'in, no mysterious birth in a stable or angelic figures singing from heaven. Instead there is a celebration at the heart of winter, when the nights are long and the cold winds are starting to bite into everyone's spirit. There are candles and presents and little spicy cakes that Apollo loves, to help warm the blood and urge the sun and the Holy Mother to return to the land that needs them.

There are donuts at Apollo's first American Christmas, and he finds them too sweet. They are covered in powder that sticks to his fingers as much as it does to the donut, and he finds the taste too cloying and syrupy when it gets in his mouth.

“Everyone says you should go back where you came from.” Emilia is the one who tells him that flat-out, the girl standing with her thumb in her mouth—an action she is teased for almost daily, because everyone knows eight-year-olds don't suck their thumbs.

“This is where I came from.” Apollo speaks slowly, working hard to mask his accent, though he worries that the cadence makes him seem foolish and stupid.

“Not really.” Emilia whispers the words around her thumb. “They don't have yaks to milk around here, I don't think.”

Apollo's face burns with shame, and he regrets admitting that he's milked yaks. It had seemed like something to be proud of when everyone else was jostling to get a chance to see the cow at the county fair, but now it's clear it's just one more thing that separates him from the rest of the kids here.

There's a magic spirit that's supposed to go along with Christmas. He is a big, fat, strange man with a very white beard and a very red nose who trains reindeer to pull his sleigh and fly. Apollo wonders how much reindeer would act like the yaks back home, and wishes briefly that yaks could fly. If they could fly, maybe he would have been able to take one somewhere safe, but still be able to go back and see Dhurke and Nahyuta when he missed them.

The fat little Christmas spirit is supposed to bring gifts to everyone who asks. Apollo can't quite tell if this is a story for children—the teenagers in their home sneer and say that no one out of diapers should believe it—or something like the Holy Mother, that he's actually supposed to believe in. When his foster parents insist that he sit down and write a letter to the Santa spirit asking for whatever he wants for Christmas, Apollo decides it must be in the latter category.

He is careful and meticulous in his letter writing, making sure he uses only American words just in case Santa doesn't read Khura'inese. He keeps his list short and simple, deciding that it must be very hard for someone to give gifts to everyone and wanting to ensure that his most important request is the one that's fulfilled.

On Christmas Day there are presents under the plastic-coated tree, and Apollo searches frantically for his. He finds it in a large box, which isn't what he expected, and shakes it experimentally. Something rattles inside.

The whole group has to gather before their foster parents will let any of them open their gifts. Apollo chafes at the wait, wanting desperately to see if his request has been honored, but he knows better than to fight. Fighting will just get him reprimanded and moved to yet another home, his therapist spending a whole session telling him how he needs to be calm and grateful for the opportunity that he's been given by being sent back here.

When they're finally able to open their gifts, Apollo wastes no time ripping the wrapping paper off his in long, dangling shreds. He supposes the paper is pretty—it glitters and glints in the light, happy little dogs dancing through a silver background that looks like snow under the brightest Khura'inese sun—but it holds no appeal for him right now.

Right now, he just wants to see if the Santa spirit brought him letters from his family.

The box contains a sweater that is a size or two too big for Apollo. It also contains a puzzle, a pretty little one thousand piece watercolor of a landscape and farmyard animals that could almost be a place in Khura'in, if Apollo squints.

Digging through the brightly colored paper that had been used to stuff the rest of the box, Apollo continues to hope. If he was brought a game and clothes when he didn't even ask for them, then surely...

Except there's nothing else there. Nothing hidden beneath the wrapping paper on the front; nothing useful on the tag, just a happy little “From Santa!” and a smiley face that looks suspiciously like the ones his foster mother places on shopping lists and the like to make them look less depressing.

“Apollo?” His foster father looms above him, staring down at Apollo with a frown. “Is something the matter?”

“I ahsked for...” Apollo stops, his accent thick and clear to hear. “My letter to Santa said—”

A piece of bright red paper bounces off his head. Jason points and laughs when Apollo turns to glare at him. “You really believed there was a Santa? Even after we told you it was all kid's stuff? You're not just foreign, you're stupid .”

“That's enough, Jason.” Their foster father rumbles out the words in a low voice that would have done even Dhurke proud. “Apologize to Apollo.”

“Sorry.” It's clear from Jason's voice that he doesn't mean it, but at least the older boy turns away from him.

Kneeling down at Apollo's side, his foster father gathers up the scattered paper. “Sometimes we can't get what we ask for, Apollo. But we have to be grateful for what we do get, yeah? That's a really nice shirt that should last you a while, and the puzzle looks kind of like those pictures you draw.”

“Yes, sir.” Apollo nods. “I appreciate them.”

“Come on, now.” His foster father elbows Apollo lightly in the ribs. “I could barely hear that. What was it that you said?”

“I'm Apollo Justice, and my gifts were fine !” Apollo hollers out the words, trusting to volume and quavering emotion to hide his accent. He projects like Dhurke taught him to, his voice filling the whole living room and bringing the rest of the Christmas activities to a halt.

His father blinks at him, reaching out to pat awkwardly at Apollo's shoulder. “That's a good lad. Now, when everyone's done with their gifts, we're going to get ready for church and then have Christmas dinner. That sounds good, doesn't it?”

The food is good, Apollo has to admit. And church isn't terrible—the music is pretty, and everyone seems extra determined to tell Apollo and the rest of the orphans how nice they look and what good children they are today.

Having his head buried in a snowdrift by Jason isn't fun, but Apollo's used to the cold and the snow from Khura'in winters, and when he dares the others to walk barefoot through the snow with him he's the one who makes it the farthest by a long shot.

When he's tucked into bed that evening, Apollo makes two vows.

The first is that he's never going to ask for anything related to his family again.

The second is that he's never going to celebrate Christmas once he's out on his own and has a choice in the matter.

He fully intends to keep both vows, but one proves to be much harder than the other.

* * *

Apollo's first Christmas with Clay is a wonderful affair.

Apollo is in a new foster home by then, closer to the coast. No one seems interested in adopting him still despite the fact that he's managed to pretty much destroy all trace of his Khura'inese accent. He is the oldest child in this foster home, though, the couple that runs it preferring to take in younger children, and that means there is far less harassment.

Clay is enthusiastic about Christmas—far more than Apollo would have expected, given that the three months leading up to the holiday had seemed to mainly involve grief and frustration in between the burgeoning threads of their friendship.

“Mom used to love Christmas.” Clay makes the confession when December starts, grinning as their school bus drives past decked-out house after decked-out house. His smile falters a bit when he mentions his mother, but not enough for Apollo to worry. “She would always put out all these lights. And we'd spend hours making cookies. And if there was snow on the ground we went and made snow angels.”

Apollo looks out at the damp, green ground. It's hard for him to image it snowing here.

“And she would sing all the time. Even last year, when she was sick, she sang all the Christmas carols.” Clay gives a little laugh, hugging his backpack close. “It's weird. I don't know if she actually celebrated Christmas— it's not like we ever went to church for the holiday or anything—or if she just... really liked the season. But I really like it, too.”

“Okay.” Apollo's not going to tell someone that they shouldn't like it, and he's glad to see Clay happy and energetic about something other than space for once. “I don't mind if you like it. I was just saying that I don't get it.”

“That's because no one's helped you get it.” Clay forms his right hand into a fist and smacks it against his left palm. “But don't you worry! I am here to act as your Saint Nicholas, bringing the joys of Christmas to all and sundry!”

“Saint Nicholas is another name for Santa Claus, right?” Apollo fiddles with his bracelet, hidden beneath the cuff of his sweater.

Clay nods.

“I'm... not really fond of him, then.” Apollo scowls down at his bracelet.

“Oh.” Clay blinks, and there's a long, awkward silence between them. “Did... something happen?”

Apollo shrugs. “My foster parents last year made me write a letter to him. I only asked for one thing. It never came.”

“Ah.” Giving a sage nod, Clay puts his arm over Apollo's shoulders. “There's a couple possible reasons for that. It's kind of like quantum mechanics, too, in that they're all true. The first explanation is that Santa—” Clay looks around, apparently ensuring no little kids are sitting near them. Since it's only middle and high schoolers on the bus, and Apollo is by far the shortest, Apollo's not sure why he bothers. Hissing in a whisper into Apollo's ear, Clay speaks just loud enough to be heard over the carols belting out of the bus' speakers. “Santa isn't technically real. The gifts from Santa are actually gifts from parents and stuff like that.”

Apollo turns to give Clay an exasperated look. “I'm not as young as I look, remember? I figured that out.”

“But!” Clay holds up a finger, grinning far too cheerfully. “That's not the most important part. The most important part is that sometimes even if we really want something, it's not time for us to get it.”

There aren't words to describe his skepticism about this idea, but already Clay knows Apollo well enough for words not to be needed.

“I know, it sounds silly.” Clay holds up his hands. “Believe me, I know it sounds silly. But maybe what you asked for it something that'll do more good if it comes later.”

Apollo doesn't want to have this conversation here, not where other kids will see if he messes up—hear if his accent slips, notice if tears start to prick his eyes. “Later, all right?”

Clay knows him well, because he accepts the request without question, turning instead to discussion of their history class and the test that's happening tomorrow.

For the majority of the day Apollo thinks maybe that's all there will be to the conversation. He'll be happy enough if Clay enjoys his Christmas and leaves Apollo out of it. As soon as they're alone in their room that afternoon, though, Clay closes the door—something they're not supposed to do, but Clay has always been blithe about breaking the rules if he thinks there's good reason to.

“So.” Clay plops himself down on the edge of his own bed, leaving Apollo's bed free if Apollo wants to keep room between them. “What was it you asked for last year?”

Apollo shrugs, allowing his backpack to drop down onto the floor. After a few second's consideration he settles down next to Clay. “I asked for letters from my foster father and his son. My real... first ones, I guess.”

Clay frowns, and Apollo can see the moment he understands—a flash of pity that Apollo doesn't want. “The ones in Khura'in?”

Apollo nods. “I haven't heard from them since Dhurke sent me back here. I guess they're all done with me. So I suppose I should be done with them.”

“You know they never actually got your request for letters if you sent it to Santa...”

“Of course I know.” He does, usually, though there is still a sense of increased betrayal when he thinks about it. The one thing Apollo had wanted—the one thing he had asked for when finally given a chance to ask—and apparently he matters so little to Dhurke and Nahyuta that they couldn't even fulfill it.

“And you've been bounced around a lot.” Clay bites down on his bottom lip. “It might be hard for them to get a letter to you, between the situation in Khura'in and having no way of knowing exactly where you've ended up.”

“Yeah.” Apollo can hear the flatness in his own voice and tries to hide it. “I know.” His therapist had explained all of that to him again and again the first few months Apollo was in America, trying to urge Apollo to focus on his new life.

“Which doesn't make them any less jerks for not finding a way around it.”

Apollo's head jerks up, his eyes moving from his hands to Clay's face. “What?”

“If they're your family, they should find a way to keep in touch with you. To make sure you're okay.” Clay reaches out to take Apollo's hand. “I know things haven't always been easy for you, trying to adjust to life here. They're jerks, and you've got every right to be upset.”

Apollo shrugs, though his fingers hold tight to Clay. “It doesn't matter now. And it doesn't have anything to do with Christmas, not really.”

“Christmas is all about family.” Clay looks down at their linked hands. “It was my mom's favorite holiday, like I said. So it's been mine, too. And if it's all right with you... I'd like to show you what we did. What makes it so much fun.”

“I'm not going to stop you from doing any celebration stuff.” Apollo reaches out to give Clay's shoulder a shove with his free hand. “Just don't ehxpehct—expect—me to understand or enjoy it.”

“I will not force enjoyment on you. But if you see me having fun and want me to fill you in on it...” Clay grins. “Also if there's anything you guys did over in Khura'in, any kind of winter celebration you want to do here—”

“No.” Apollo's voice is certain, icy. “I'm not Khura'inese. I don't see any reason to celebrate their holiday.”

Clay is quiet for a few seconds before giving a decisive nod. “'Kay. Then first things first. Have you ever made Christmas cookies? Gingerbread houses? Gingerbread men to dismember?”

Apollo shakes his head. If cookies had been made at his last foster home, Apollo hadn't been involved in it.

“That's where we're going to start, then.” Clay jumps to his feet, not letting go of Apollo's hand. “Let's—”

The door of their room swings open, and their foster mother frowns in at them. “Boys, you know what the rule is about closed doors.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Clay's voice is cheerful, though he slides his hand behind his back in such a way that Apollo can see the rude gesture he makes. It disappears after barely a second, Clay freeing both hands and taking a step towards the woman. “Ma'am, I was just talking with Apollo about the season, and was wondering... would it be all right for us to make some cookies?”

“Cookies?” The woman runs a hand through her hair.

Clay clasps his hands together in front of his chest, his shoulders hunching as he studies them. “I always used to make cookies with my mom. Sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies, and I'd really like...” Clay's voice cracks, and Apollo is instantly on his feet, recognizing real emotion, even if it's being used for intentional purposes.

Their foster mother relaxes, her face softening as she studies Clay. “I've already got dinner in the oven right now. But if you want to make cookies this weekend, I think that would be a fun activity for everyone. Plus it's about time we got Christmas decorations out... you boys behave and do your homework on time, pass that test you have tomorrow, and we'll see what we can do.”

The woman turns away, leaving their bedroom door open.

Clay turns to grin at Apollo, putting both arms up in a victory pose.

Apollo can't help returning his friend's grin. Maybe, with Clay here, things won't be quite so miserable this Christmas.

* * *

Apparently there is a lot more to making cookies than Apollo had initially thought.

First they have to get the right types of cookie cutters. Their foster mother has several different sets, but Clay isn't content with any of them, though he's polite enough when admiring what she presents. Apollo is learning how to read Clay, though, and he's not surprised when Clay drags him into a store to look for additional cookie cutters.

There are nine different holiday cookie cutter sets on display on the endcap. Apollo counts them, surprised and somewhat dismayed to see so many small variations. Clay takes only a few seconds to dismiss all of them, charging into the baking aisle proper.

“We need an angel, of course.” Clay bats aside another set that is, from the way he glares at it, obviously lacking in a fundamental way. “And a bell, and a tree, and a reindeer, and a star, and if we can find one that has a train, too, that would be perfect.”

Apollo begins rifling through sets. “Why're those shapes so important?”

“They each stand for something.” Clay is a one-person wrecking team, moving methodically down the aisle. “The bell stands for community, for coming together. The tree is the Christmas tree, which is also related to Yule and a whole bunch of other stuff. The reindeer is the one who pulls Santa's sleigh. And the star—oh, this looks... hmmm, it's almost right, but it doesn't have the train.”

Apollo comes to look down at the red and green metal pieces in Clay's hand. “Is the train also a part of the holiday celebration?”

“Kind of?” Clay scratches at the back of his neck. “It's from the Polar Express story. Haven't you seen the movie or read the book?”

“Haven't you heard about putting out candles for the Mother and the Lady Kee'ra, to ensure that your family's protected from bad influences and guided to the way of grace even in the darkest times?” Apollo scowls at Clay, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Right.” Clay looks sheepish for a moment before shrugging and grinning. “I'm sure there's a copy at the library. We'll have to check it out and read it together. Assuming you don't mind. But it's kind of a Christmas classic, so...”

Apollo can feel a smile tugging at his own mouth as he relaxes. “I don't mind. I told you to teach me about this whole Christmas thing if you wanted, didn't I?”

“And that's just what I'm going to do!” Clay grabs Apollo's hand, tugging him towards the frosting section. “Now, we're going to need red and green, obviously, and it never hurts to have a few extra colors...”

Apollo picks up a container of food dye. “Why not get white frosting and dye it any colors that you want?”

The way Clay looks at the food dye, it might very well be a poisonous serpent. “Huh. I guess that's an option.”

“A lot cheaper than getting a bunch of little tubes of colored stuff.” Now it's Apollo's turn to grin smugly. “And I believe we are working on a budget.”

“Yeah, I probably shouldn't spend all your Christmas present money on cookies. Though we would get to eat the cookies, and that makes a pretty good gift.” Clay grabs the biggest tub of white frosting on the shelf. “All right, partner. Let's get baking!”

It's two days before they're actually able to get to the cooking. They have a tub of sugar cookie dough that their foster mother had pulled from the freezer, surreptitiously checked the expiration date on, and then told them to use as quickly as possible. They have their cookie cutters, and the white frosting that has been whipped into a small rainbow of colors in separate little dishes.

They also have the two younger children that are currently living in the house. One has her thumb in her mouth; the other is clutching the rough wooden rolling pin as though it's the only thing preventing her from being kicked out of the kitchen.

“All right, now.” Clay has the three of them stand in a line in front of the counter. “How many of you have made Christmas cookies before?”

Nobody raises their hands, which makes Apollo feel slightly better.

Clay sighs. “I am surrounded by heathens. But that's all right. We're going to fix it. So, first things first—we're going to roll out the dough and cut out a whole bunch of cookies. Which are not going to be eaten until they've been baked. The goal is to use every last scrap of cookie dough we can find. Understand?”

Eliza, the youngest, raises one hand. “Why?”

“Because that gives us the most amount of cookies to color and eat.” Clay speaks patiently. “Now, let's get started.”

They make just under four dozen cookies. Clay is incredibly good at arranging the cookie cutters so that there's no wasted space, cutting cookies out and placing them on pans with steady precision. He allows everyone else to help, but it's clear this is something he's done before and something he loves.

The decorating Clay leaves up to each individual, though. It takes longer than Apollo would have thought—they have to cut out the cookies, have their foster mother bake them, and then wait for them to cool before they can even get started. And once Apollo has a pile of cookies in front of him, he finds himself a bit at a loss as to what to do with them.

Clay watches him, though when he speaks his words are ostensibly for the younger kids. “All right, guys. There's no real wrong way to decorate your cookies. Just choose a color you like and go at it.”

Clay doesn't do that, though. Clay is careful and meticulous, turning each of his cookies into an art piece. Apollo watches as angels develop white wings and multicolored garments, as the bell becomes a kaleidoscope of beautiful colors, as the tree turns green and then has dabs of ornament color splashed onto it.

His own cookies don't look nearly as good, though he likes to think he at least does as well as the girls.

“Those look great, 'Pollo.” Clay manages both to create better-looking cookies and do it faster, and his arms wrap around Apollo as Apollo finishes his last star.

“Yeah?” Apollo sets the cookie down carefully. “You like it?”

Clay's eyes rove over the whole table, taking in the mess and the colors and the plates of goodies. “I love it. All of it.” Clay's voice thickens. “Thank you.”

“You don't need to thank us.” Apollo snags one of his cookies, popping it into his mouth. “Now we get cookies, right?”

The words are barely comprehensible, but they make Clay laugh, and that's really all that Apollo wanted.

* * *

There are songs that go along with the holiday season. Apollo had started to notice last year, but he was so busy just trying to fit in and survive that he hadn't really paid any attention to the barely-understandable lyrics.

Now he listens. Now they are personal, not just blasted out of every radio he walks past but hummed by Clay as they work on homework.

“That's a really repetitive one.” Apollo rolls onto his side, facing Clay rather than his homework. “What is it?”

“Huh?” Clay pauses, blinking. “Oh. It's Do You Hear What I Hear.”

Apollo wrinkles his nose. “Shouldn't everyone be hearing the same thing if they're in the same place?”

“We both know that just because someone should hear and recognize something doesn't mean that they will.” Clay sighs. “It's kind of an ear-worm, but I like it. My mom and I... you can sing it as a, a whatchamacallit—a round, I think? And we would do that.”

“Huh.” Apollo doesn't dare say more. Talking about his mother is still difficult for Clay, and Apollo doesn't want to say the wrong thing.

“We'll have to sing some Christmas carols together. Get you caught up to speed on Rudolph and Frosty and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas.” Clay smiles, but there is pain in it as he turns his eyes back to his books. “Remind me later.”

Apollo nods, but he doesn't remind Clay, and he's not terribly surprised when Clay doesn't remember to teach him later.

* * *

The day before Christmas is actually really nice.

It has a special name. It's Christmas Eve, and their foster parents expect them to be giddy and excited. They aren't in school, and they spend the day playing outside before getting take-out for dinner, which they eat in front of the tree. Apollo gets to see one of the television specials that all the other children seem to know forwards and backwards all the way through for the first time.

He almost wishes he hadn't.

“Are you crying?” Eliza stops chewing on her fingernail long enough to ask the incredulous question.

Apollo swipes hard at his eyes, clearing his throat. “No. Of course not. I just...”

They found homes. The toys who had banded together, forming a country of their own when they found out they weren't wanted—when they were cast aside for faults that they hadn't even realized were there—found homes. And in finding those homes they sacrificed each other, separated forever, and Apollo doesn't even know why he's crying, just that he'll never be able to hear that Island of Misfit Toys song again without feeling a strange little pang in his chest.

“Eliza.” Their foster mother shoos her away from Apollo. “Come now, everyone. We're going to go scatter some special reindeer oats for Santa, all right?”

Apollo dutifully pulls on his coat and hat and shoes, following everyone else out into the yard. He's instructed to hold his hand out, and a collection of oatmeal and silver glitter is dumped into his waiting palm.

Apollo stares down at it, wondering what he's supposed to do. Eating glitter is frowned on, right? So he must be expected to put it somewhere. But where?

Clay's arm loops itself around his shoulder. “Scatter it so that Santa and the reindeer can see the glitter and find our house.”

Apollo narrows his eyes. “But we both know Santa and the reindeer—”

Clay elbows him, and Apollo shuts up. There's some sort of mystical cult revelation that's supposed to happen only when children have reached a certain level of maturity, where they're allowed in on the secret that there isn't a Santa. Eliza hasn't reached that age yet. Apollo has considered telling her anyway, because he thinks people deserve to know what's really happening, but for now he will hold his tongue.

“Come on, little wolverine.” Clay has them both take a step back. “Look up at that sky. So big and brave and endless. And imagine you're a little reindeer looking for somewhere safe to come down. Where should we mark our runway?”

Apollo follows Clay's instructions. The girls have already dumped their glitter oatmeal out and are busy chasing each other around. After another few moments of contemplation, Apollo finds an open stretch of ground and scatters his oats, Clay's glitter falling a moment later.

“Perfect.” Clay continues to look up at the sky. “Don't you think?”

Apollo shoves his hands in his pockets. The weather is quite pleasant, only a little bit of a nippy wind giving away that winter is coming. (Apollo should have gotten used to the milder weather here, but he still hasn't, and he doubts he ever will.) “It's a pretty sky.”

Clay sighs, and there is wistfulness in the exhalation, but the smile on his face is genuine as he turns to Apollo and they both head back to the house.

* * *

They leave out donuts and coffee for the nonexistent Santa, and then they are tucked into bed early.

Apollo doesn't have any trouble drifting off. He knows that he's supposed to be excited, but he already knows that what he really wants—what he will forever want—isn't something that can be put under a tree. He won't try to stop the others from getting excited, and he certainly won't say no to some good games and comics and books, but he's not going to lose sleep over it.

He wakes up sometime after midnight. He doesn't know the exact time, but he's been at his current home long enough now to know the feel of the night—when it's true dark, when it's gray, when the house is quiet and creaky and when it's filled with hushed life.

Someone is crying.

Apollo is aware of that before he's aware of anything else, and for a few seconds he is confused about who it might be. Has Nahyuta had a nightmare? Has something happened with the rebellion? Is Dhurke hurt again?

The one time he had heard Datz cry was when they brought Dhurke in, covered in blood, with an arm that looked like a tiger had been chewing on it. It isn't something Apollo ever wants to hear again.

It isn't something he will ever hear again, because they sent him away and forgot about him shortly after that, too caught up in whatever information Dhurke had managed to get with his blood, and Apollo abruptly remembers where he is.

Clay is crying.

They're not loud sobs. They're quiet, muffled, most probably buried in a pillow.

For a few seconds Apollo doesn't know what to do. Should he pretend that he's still asleep? Should he let Clay just cry himself out? Should he throw something at Clay to let him know he's been found out?

There is no one else awake. Apollo would practically bet money on it. Dhurke and Datz had taught him to be observant and wary, and he has kept those lessons close despite putting the rest of his Khura'inese heritage away. If Apollo stays silent, Clay won't ever know that anyone heard him.

Apollo has cried like that—silent, lost tears that fade away into the night.

He doesn't hesitate as he scoops up his pillow, rolls off the bed, and pads silently to Clay's. He can see better than most people in the dark—sometimes he thinks he can see better than most people, period—and he doesn't squish Clay at all as he clambers up in bed next to him.

Clay abruptly stops crying, a choking surcease of sound that can't be comfortable. His body is stiff and rigid next to Apollo, and Apollo abruptly doesn't know if he's done the right thing. “Do you... should I go back to my bed?”

“Did you... want to?” Clay's voice is still thick with tears, barely comprehensible between the quiet and the accent. Well, lack of accent, but Apollo still finds the way people speak English here odd. “I'm fine. Sorry if I... sorry to wake you.”

“It's okay.” Apollo hugs his pillow tight. “And I'll do whatever you want.”

“If you're sure...” Clay's hand reaches out, settles tentatively on Apollo's shoulder. “I'd... like you to stay for a bit.”

“Sure.” Apollo relaxes, allowing his body to slide closer to Clay. “Bad dreams?”

“Uh-uh.” Clay allows the silence to swallow them both for a few seconds. “I... did you hear them? Putting the presents out?”

Apollo gives his head a little negative shake, following it up with a verbal negation when Clay doesn't seem to see.

“They did it just fine. Checked on all of us to make sure we were asleep, but I'm good at faking it.” Clay pauses, his voice once more thick. “It's just... Mama never would have made a mistake like that. She always put out the presents at weird times. I'd try to stay up but never catch her, or get up to go to the bathroom and they were there as if by magic.”

“Oh.” Apollo tries to imagine what it would be like to have a mother who did things like that. Dhurke isn't particularly religious, and Datz isn't actually Khura'inese, despite how well he fits into the culture now.

“And it just...” Clay's words start tumbling out, a river looking for escape from the scraping rocks. “Making cookies was nice, but it wasn't the same. We didn't get to make a gingerbread house, and I'd really like to do that with you sometime. And we didn't do the right carols—they don't have the right CDs here, not the ones I grew up with. And there's this silly little donkey special we would watch every Christmas Eve, but if Rudolph made you cry that would be a bad idea, and—and—” Clay's breath is coming hard and fast, hot against Apollo's shoulder. “I miss her. I miss my mama.”

Clay starts crying again, deep, wrenching sobs this time, and Apollo reaches out to clumsily put an arm around him.

What's he supposed to say? How is he supposed to fix this—to give meaning to a holiday he's still just beginning to understand?

He falls back on what he knows. “Clay. It's okay. I know you miss her, but you're fine. We're fine. Everything's just—”

“Fine.” Clay's voice is a bare, strangled whisper. “I know. I get it, little volcano. I do. But please don't wake them. I'm fine, I'll be fine, but right now...” Clay's hands ball into fists in Apollo's shirt. “Just let me cry for my mom, all right?”

Apollo doesn't say anything. He just holds Clay a little tighter, and a moment later there are hot tears soaking into the shoulder of his shirt.

Clay doesn't cry for long. Two, maybe three minutes, and then he's asking Apollo if he wants a new shirt, if he wants to stay, if he's been having a good holiday.

Apollo doesn't stay in Clay's bed. They would get in trouble if they were found in the same bed, something Apollo thinks is utterly ridiculous. When Clay is as back to himself as Apollo thinks he's going to get, Apollo gives him one final hug and crawls back into his own bed.

“There are some bright stars out tonight.” Clay has opened the window by his bed a crack. “A nice winter sky.”

“That's good.” Stars tend to make Clay feel better, after all.

“It is.” Clay's voice is sleep-slurred. “Lots of good in the world. A good day. A day of new beginnings. Merry Christmas, Apollo.”

“Merry Christmas, Clay.” Apollo thinks it's the first time he's said the words and meant them with all his heart.

The girls wake them both early the next morning, and they have a remarkably pleasant Christmas day that makes Apollo think that maybe, just maybe, he could start to like this foreign holiday.

* * *

They change foster homes when they're eleven, again when they're twelve.

They develop their own traditions that they take with them from place to place. Always there are Christmas cookies; always there are carols; always there are hugs, in the dark of Christmas Eve, as they wait for their newest fake Santa to finish their work.

(There is another tradition. On the longest night of the year Clay lights candles in their room, even when they aren't supposed to have fire. He doesn't say it's for the Mother's Feast. He just says that during the darkest times is when light's needed the most, and sits with Apollo while Apollo studies the flames and studious avoids saying the prayers that his Khura'inese brother is undoubtedly reciting somewhere across the globe.)

When they're twelve the most exciting events happen after the holiday is over—a belated Christmas present from the universe. Though it started on Christmas, so maybe it isn't belated at all.

“What're you looking at?” Clay props his head on Apollo's shoulder, peeking at the newspaper Apollo managed to appropriate from the living room.

“Um...” Apollo can feel his face heating as he hastily sets the paper down.

Clay picks it up, skimming over the article and the accompanying picture. “This is that lawyer you've been following, right? The one who's made a big splash?”

“Y-yeah.” This is Clay. It's all right for Clay to know what Apollo cares about. “Phoenix Wright. He just won big.”

(He just did what Dhurke has been trying to do, proved that the system is corrupt, tore down one of the bricks of the establishment, and perhaps more will follow. Perhaps this is a sign that Dhurke will succeed, though Apollo tells himself he doesn't care.)

Clay whistles. It's an awkward sound, one Clay has never really been good at but that he insists on attempting anyway. “This guy's been working for forty years and no one noticed he was forging evidence and killing people until now?”

“Or no one was willing to risk pointing it out.” Apollo shrugs. “Or they tried and ended up like that Edgeworth guy.”

(He will not think of Dhurke in place of Gregory Edgeworth, gunned down by those who only care about power and control. Dhurke is gone, a lifetime and world away. It is high time Apollo found other people to follow and care about. And if Phoenix Wright shares some characteristics with Dhurke, it's just the things anyone decent should care about—justice, truth, fairness.)

Clay hands the paper back to Apollo. “I'm glad that your hero won.”

“He's not...” Apollo trails off, his face heating again. It would be an outright lie to say that Phoenix Wright isn't fast becoming Apollo's favorite hero—made better because he's real—and he makes it a point not to lie to Clay, just like Clay makes it a point not to lie to Apollo. “I think this is the best Christmas present anyone's ever given me.”

“I beg your pardon!” Clay immediately adopts his mock-affronted expression, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I will have you know I saved up for three months to get you that limited-edition manga collection.”

“And it's great, and I love it lots.” Apollo smiles at his friend. “But this—no one can take this away from us. And if we have to move, there's no chance it'll disappear. This... is something special.”

Clay's expression softens, and he comes to lean against Apollo's shoulder. “It shouldn't be special. People getting justice... the truth coming out... it should just be normal.”

“Should be, actually is...” Apollo shrugs.

“Yeah.” Clay is silent for a few seconds. “So does this mean you're even more likely to become a defense attorney than you were before? Threat of grievous bodily harm not withstanding?”

“The guy who wants to be an astronaut does not get to lecture me about work safety.” Apollo flicks the end of Clay's nose. “You want to be tossed by one of the most explosive concoctions known to man up into an environment where everything your body needs to survive is missing and any source of help is hours and millions of dollars worth of red tape away. For a living.”

“Yeah.” Clay gives a wistful sigh. “Doesn't it sound awesome?”

Apollo rolls his eyes. “Me... I don't know. I haven't said I want to be a defense attorney.”

“No, but you've acted like it.” Clay's voice loses the teasing edge as he sits up, facing Apollo. “When Innocente was in trouble, who was the one who charged out to find her a decent defense attorney?”

“That was different.” Apollo waves a hand. “That was trying to protect someone in the same situation we're in. She needed and deserved a defense attorney, and we found her one.”

“But you knew what we were looking for.” Clay pokes Apollo's left shoulder. “You were the one who said just trusting the court-appointed one wouldn't cut it. And you were the one who figured out where to interrupt in the trial to get to the truth.”

Apollo shakes his head. “I just did what I thought needed to be done. But maybe... I don't know. It is important to have good defense attorneys, you know? And if I could be a good one...”

(If he could follow in Phoenix Wright's footsteps, not Dhurke's; if he could make this something that he chose, for his own reasons, not something he does because he's chasing shadows he will never be able to catch or completely dispel...)

Clay reaches out, his fingers glancing across Apollo's little hair-horns. “If you become a defense attorney, promise you're going to be one of the heroic ones who doesn't get shot, all right?”

Apollo holds out his right hand, pinky extended. “I promise not to incur grievous bodily harm at work until after you've done the same, space-boy.”

The grin on Clay's face as he locks his pinky with Apollo's could light a small city. “Deal. We'll both be incredibly safe at our respective works.”

Apollo sighs. “I still don't see what's so exciting about space.”

“Apollo.” Clay's eyes widen. “That was a very, very foolish thing to say, you know. Did you see what it was that I got for Christmas?”

“Books...?” Apollo wonders if he missed something in the madness.

“Books on space. By super cool scientists.” Clay scrambles to his side of the room, rifling under his bed until he pulls out a thick book with a breathtaking image of a galaxy on the over. “Buckle up, wolverine. I'm going to educate you.”

Apollo sighs, but he is smiling as he settles down next to Clay, where he can see the pretty full-color images that undoubtedly made the book expensive. Unless it was bought on clearance—then you can find nice books that Clay will like in a reasonable price range.

He's not sure how much of the book he actually pays attention to, but it's nice to hear Clay chattering happily next to him, and Apollo thinks this might be the best Christmas he's had so far.

* * *

(Clay doesn't forget about the midwinter festival. They are forbidden to light candles in their room—to have matches or lighters or any source of fire period.

“Rules were made to be broken,” Clay cheerfully pronounces as he pulls out six mismatched candles and a box of matches. “And this is religious. It's important.”

It's not on the right night. Christmas and the solstice have both already come and gone, but their foster parents had been watching everyone closely, and Apollo still doesn't talk about Khura'in unless he has to. So Clay waits until the twenty-ninth, after everyone is asleep, to pull out the paraphernalia and set up his imitation of the Lady's feast.

They don't get in trouble that night, but Clay is scolded the next day for having matches, their foster father assuming that he must be sneaking cigarettes or something else into the house.

Both Apollo and Clay are moved to a new foster home three weeks later, and Apollo desperately hopes it wasn't because of what Clay did for him. He would rather burn all of Khura'in to ash than lose Clay, and if that makes him a bad person so be it.)

* * *

By the time they're thirteen and in yet another foster home Apollo is just doing everything in his power to make sure he and Clay stay together.

It shouldn't be this hard. There are other pairs that Apollo sees kept together. Sibling pairs, his therapist says, but why shouldn't Clay be his sibling? Why shouldn't Clay get to stay even if they're not?

(Blood bonds are all that matter. Blood bonds determine what country you belong to. Blood bonds determine if you can be left behind without a qualm. He has never had blood bonds, and doubts now that he will ever find any of them that belong to him, and yet the whole damn world runs on them. It makes Apollo furious when it doesn't make him cold, and he wonders how many other people have realized this fundamental truth of the universe.)

He and Clay manage to stay together, though, despite everything, and Apollo supposes that's his Christmas miracle when he's thirteen.

Clay has something a little bit bigger in store for them, though.

“Guess what!”

Apollo doesn't think he's seen Clay this happy in... well, possibly ever. “Uh... aliens have finally made contact?”

“No, but close!” For once Clay is actually being the louder of them, his whole body vibrating with his excitement. “You remember the space center? GYAXA?”

“I'm unlikely to forget the place you've been talking about for the last four months.” Apollo relaxes, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he realizes this is just Clay's space-mania. “Do they have a new exhibit going up?”

“No! Well, yes, and it's super cool, we are going to have to read all about meteors and meteorites and also possibly Russia, but that's not what's super neat.” Clay grabs Apollo's hand. “You remember the astronaut?”

“Mr. Starbuck?” Apollo perks up. “The one who noticed you'd been hanging out there all the time?”

Clay nods vigorously. “We've been talking more when he's not busy. He and some of the scientists—mainly this Aura lady, who seems really scary but actually isn't too bad if you're talking about math or robots or space—have been lending me books and giving me tips. And today...”

Apollo barely resists laughing. Clay is so ridiculously proud of himself. “Uh huh?”

“Today he invited me and you to the Christmas party at the Center!” Clay throws both hands up in the air, crowing out the words. “We're going to a Christmas party at the Space Center!”

Apollo smiles and nods. “That's nice.”

“No, it's great. Starbuck said that we can use the planetarium free of charge, that he'll turn it on for us. And we'll get to meet lots of other people—the director's going to be there, and I can talk to him about me being an astronaut later. And some other scientists, and maybe the other scientist's kid, Starbuck said he's not sure if she's coming or not but that we'll like her if she comes, and it's going to be amazing.” Clay shakes Apollo's hand up and down. “Yeah?”

Apollo summons a broader, happier smile, not wanting to dampen Clay's enthusiasm. “It sounds awesome.”

“And maybe, if I play my cards right...” Clay smiles shyly. “If I can use this opportunity to get in good with everyone at the Center, maybe it'll improve my chances of actually becoming an astronaut. I mean, it'll maybe kind of be that Nepalism thing you were talking about...”

Apollo frowns. “I think you mean nepotism? When people favor their friends and family members?”

“Yeah, that.” Clay chews on his bottom lip. “But I'll need every advantage I can get. We're both doing all right in school, but there's so much competition to be an astronaut...”

“You'll do fine.” Apollo squeezes his friend's hand. “Whether it's at GYAXA or NASA or somewhere else, I have no doubt in the world that you're going to get into space.”

Clay's grin returns. “You think so?”

Apollo returns the smile. “I know so. I'm gonna be a lawyer, and you're gonna be an astronaut.”

The grin somehow broadens, and Clay throws his arms around Apollo, hugging him tight. “But first, we're going to a Christmas party! Us! Because someone likes us!”

Apollo returns the hug, refraining from saying it's because someone likes Clay. Starbuck has been nice enough to Apollo those few times they've met, and if he's willing to bring them both to a party just because he can see how much Clay likes space, he must be a pretty decent guy.

* * *

Adult parties are surprisingly boring.

At least, it is once everyone gets settled down. There's a little bit of a kerfuffle at the beginning, when Starbuck walks in with Apollo and Clay trailing behind him like lost ducklings. Apparently he hadn't exactly cleared bringing Clay and Apollo with the rest of the GYAXA crew, and Apollo watches as he and the director have a quick, hushed back and forth.

Not hushed enough. He and Clay can hear parts of Starbuck's replies—kids, orphans, charity—and it bothers Apollo more than it probably should. Not that he wasn't aware of why adults with busy, important lives would deign to take an interest in them, but it hurts to have it put out in the open.

After two or three minutes the director evidently relents, and Starbuck returns to give them a brief tour of the party room and an introduction to all of the guests. There are more people than Apollo would have expected, scientists and receptionists and tour guides and administrative staff all mixed and mingled together, and he quickly loses track of who's who.

Clay seems to make it his mission to talk to everyone in between stealing plates full of food from the buffet table. For a while Apollo follows along behind him, glad to see that Clay is actually fitting in remarkably well, his enthusiasm for and knowledge about space clearly impressing the GYAXA employees.

Eventually Apollo tires of smiling and nodding through conversations that he only half-understands, and he drifts away from Clay's side, heading towards the planetarium. It's on, just as Starbuck promised it would be. The outer door has been propped open, preventing it from locking; the chairs are all leaning back, inviting anyone who wants to settle down and watch the stars dance across the curved roof to have a seat.

One of the shadows against the back wall moves, and Apollo makes a strangled eep, jumping a foot in the air and landing in a defensive stance.

“Peace, child.” The person who steps forward is dressed in white and black rather than the green and red that is predominating in everyone else's attire. He speaks in a soft voice, barely loud enough for Apollo to hear. “I have no intention of hurting you.”

Apollo swallows. “O-of course not. We're all just here to enjoy the party.”

The stranger cocks his head to the side. “The way you immediately move to defend yourself, though... you've had to do it, I take it?”

Apollo says nothing. He has no reason to tell this stranger anything about his life.

The man takes another step forward, holding out his hand. “Simon Blackquill. I'm Aura's younger brother.”

“Aura...” That name is familiar, sticking out of the morass that Apollo has heard over the last hour. “Oh, she's the one who's been lending Clay books.”

“Clay...” Blackquill continues to hold his hand out. “The boy who wants to be an astronaut, right?”

Apollo nods, finally taking Blackquill's hand and giving it a brief shake. “I'm Clay's best friend.”

Blackquill gives a small, grave nod, and if his expression changes—if he thinks it's silly to have a best friend, like many adults seem to—it doesn't show in the dim light. “I believe I've seen you with Mr. Terran, looking at the exhibits.”

“It's kind of Clay's favorite thing to do. I'm pretty sure if he wouldn't get kicked out he'd bring a sleeping bag here and just live out among the exhibits.” Apollo sighs.

“It's a good person who helps their friends to achieve their dreams.” A small smile flits across Blackquill's face as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Especially if they don't share them.”

Apollo shrugs. “He's helping me become an attorney, so it's not that big a deal.”

“An attorney, eh?” Blackquill rubs a hand across his chin, and a smile toys at the edges of his mouth again. “I'm not sure you and I can be friendly, then. I should be sitting the bar in a year, a year and a half, and I intend to be the best prosecutor in the state.”

A muscle twitches in Apollo's cheek as he glares up at the man. “Why should that keep us from being friends? You going to be a corrupt prosecutor like Von Karma? In league with people like Damon Gant?”

Blackquill's hands fall to his side, and he kneels down, putting him and Apollo on more of an even height. “You've been doing your homework.”

“I'm going to help make things better.” Apollo's hands clasp into fists. “I'm going to be like Phoenix Wright, and be an amazing attorney who keeps people from abusing the system and making innocent people suffer.”

“A worthy goal. One that more people should be pursuing right now.” All trace of teasing or jest has faded from voice and stance as Blackquill studies Apollo's eyes. Blackquill's features are slabs of dark shadow punctuated by pale skin as the star show continues to play above them, making him a strange match for his clothes. “I was merely jesting when I said that we would be enemies, Apollo-dono. I intend to find the guilty; you intend to fight for the innocent. I see no reason we couldn't be allies.”

Apollo nods, looking away from Blackquill, ashamed at his outburst. He doesn't want to make enemies here, especially not ones who are relatives of people helping Clay. “Well. That's good then.”

Blackquill smiles, mouth opening, but before he says anything a small, barely-audible female voice whispers through the quiet. “Simon?”

Apollo turns to see the strangest thing he's ever witnessed in his life. Human eyes seem to be emerging from one of the chairs, antenna sticking up like rabbit ears above them. After blinking and shaking his head, Apollo realizes it's a girl—a young girl, only the top of her head and some kind of strange headgear poking up above the back of the seat.

Blackquill holds a finger to his lips as he looks at Apollo, and then straightens, moving to the girl's side. Apollo follows along behind him, making as little noise as possible.

“Yes, Athena?” Simon settles into one of the chairs next to the girl, facing her with the same gravity as he had faced Apollo. “Can I help you with something?”

Athena looks past Simon towards Apollo, and then points at him.

Simon reaches out, stroking a hand through her hair, tucking stray strands more securely behind the funny rabbit-ear headphones. His voice is very quiet when he speaks. “Use your words, if you can.”

Athena draws in a deep breath and nods. “Who's... he? He sounds...” Athena puts her hands up over her headphones.

Simon strokes a hand over Athena's hair again. “He's a friend of Mr. Terran's. You know the boy you've seen in the exhibits lots?”

Athena nods, watching Apollo with frank interest.

Simon smiles. “Would it be all right if he sat with us for a little bit? I suspect he's a bit tired of the crowds, too.”

Athena considers for a few seconds and then shakes her head.

Simon sighs. “Words, Athena. Unless you absolutely can't...”

Athena's eyes fall away from Apollo, and she speaks to him in a quiet whisper. “You can stay. If you want. But be careful with your hurt-voice, please. It makes my ears ache.”

Apollo looks to Simon for explanation or translation.

Simon strokes Athena's hair once more. “Ms. Athena has incredibly sensitive hearing. Crowds quickly become overwhelming for her. Hence why we're here.”

“Right.” Apollo's hands both form into fists. “Don't you worry. I'll be—”

Apollo stops, realizing that Athena is wincing more with every word he says, her head drooping down.

Dropping his voice to the quietest whisper he can manage, Apollo finishes his sentence. “Quiet.”

He spends a half hour or so in the planetarium with Simon and Athena, until Clay comes charging in to claim him. Starbuck has some special pieces he wants them to see, items that likely won't be going on exhibit. Apollo waves a silent goodbye to Simon and the quiet girl, and follows Clay happily.

When Starbuck brings them back to their foster home late that evening—apparently later than he was supposed to be, if the strange half-scolding half-simpering tone their foster mother takes with him is any indication—Apollo and Clay stumble to their room and into their beds.

“That...” Clay sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “Was amazing.”

Apollo smiles, hugging his pillow. “It was pretty good.”

He's not surprised when a stuffed hippopotamus comes catapulting onto his bed from Clay's.

Apollo laughs, hugging the hippo close along with his pillow. “Good night, Clay. And Merry Christmas.”

“Good night, Apollo.” Clay's voice drips utter contentment. “And Merry Christmas to the best friend in the whole world.”

* * *

They attend community college together when they're eighteen.

They don't have foster parents anymore. They don't have social workers. They just have each other and what they can make of themselves.

They live together, splitting the rent on a tiny one-bedroom apartment. They've been sharing a room for most of their childhood; continuing to do so doesn't bother either of them. It's not like either of them has a vibrant romantic life, anyway. Clay has dated some, and Apollo had ended up with a date to their senior prom despite himself, but for the most part they're both focused on somehow convincing the universe to let them follow their dreams despite their situation.

They both work. They both have scholarships. They take full course loads—Apollo's loaded down with humanities and law classes, Clay's with the math and biology classes he'll need to be considered a viable candidate as an astronaut. Starbuck has been mentoring Clay, helping him pick the most important classes, talking with Clay's guidance counselors to insure he doesn't end up taking anything frivolous. (“Not that I would mind taking a basket-weaving class or a class on the history of pidgin languages. They actually sound really fascinating.” Clay had sighed as he looked at the pages of paper that contained his life plan for the next six years. “But they would be more fascinating if I didn't have to pay for them.”)

Apollo doesn't have mentorship like that. He has some—Raymond Shields helps when he isn't too busy being morose about the unsalvageable state of the legal system—but there's no-one who can guide him like Starbuck guides Clay.

That's all right. Apollo's always been good at guiding himself.

He does well in all his classes. He doesn't ace them all—he could, he thinks, if he had more time to dedicate just to studying—but he does well enough. He will be glad when finals are over, though, and he and Clay have two weeks with just work, rather than work and class.

He's completely unprepared when he comes home on the 21^st, after his second to last final, and finds their apartment lights off and the kitchen covered in candles.

“What the...” Apollo drops his bag by the door, removing his shoes. “Clay?”

Clay appears from the dimness as though by magic, grinning like the cat that ate all the canaries. “What do you think, 'Pollo? How did I do?”

Apollo moves closer to the kitchen, taking in the arrangement of the candles—big white candles arranged in a circle, with a smaller half-moon of red candles inside. It's something he hasn't seen in almost a decade... something he hasn't seen since he was last in Khura'in.

“I tried to find some of the music, too, but there's no good streaming tracks of it on-line and I didn't think of it fast enough to order a CD.” Clay's voice is sheepish. “And none of the food is Khura'inese—”

Apollo glances at the kitchen counters, noticing that they're covered in bowls and plates.

“Because I wanted it to actually be edible, but...” Clay shrugs. “I tried.”

Apollo turns to face his friend, his chest tight, not certain if he's thrilled or furious. “Why?”

Clay shrugs. “Because it's our place, and no one can tell us not to.”

Apollo can tell from Clay's tone that he still hasn't forgotten or forgiven the lecture on smoking. As if Clay would risk his physical health and his chances of being an astronaut over something like a little nicotine.

Coming over to Apollo's side, Clay reaches out slowly to take his hand. “Because it's been a long semester and my last final was today, and I felt like lighting some candles. Because cooking makes me feel better, and eating's something you need to do even though you usually seem too busy to do it.” Clay shrugs. “Because on the darkest night of the year, it's nice to have a little bit of extra light.”

Apollo closes his eyes, huffing out a breath, most of the tension draining out of his chest. He's not sure he would have done this on his own (he knows that he wouldn't, that he has put Khura'in as far behind him as he can manage), but somehow Clay doing it makes it better. “It's never bad to have a little extra light. Or good food. What'd you make?”

Clay's smile is brighter than all the candles put together as he walks Apollo through their dinner options. There are cookies—sugar cookies, cut with their old cutters and frosted in interesting ways—and hot dogs and hamburgers and salsa and guacamole and spaghetti, and Apollo knows they're going to have leftovers for days to come.

As he eats his impromptu feast, Apollo looks around their apartment. They don't have any Christmas decorations up. Clay has been playing Christmas music and singing along—always careful to switch albums before Apollo gets thoroughly sick of one—but there aren't any lights or garlands or a tree. None of the things that Apollo has come to associate with the holiday... the holiday that Clay loves and associates with his mother.

Watching Clay scarf down a hamburger, Apollo thinks back through his finances and decides he's going to do something about that.

* * *

It's surprisingly hard to find a Christmas tree the Thursday before the actual holiday.

Apollo doesn't let that stop him. He also doesn't accept any of the sickly or decrepit trees that people are trying to foist off on him at a discount. This is going to be Clay's first Christmas tree as an independent person, and Apollo's going to make it a nice one.

It ends up being kind of a short one, a little bit round and stumpy, but hey. Clay likes short things.

Finding ornaments isn't quite as difficult, though finding ones that really fit, that will makes Clay smile that brilliant grin of his, makes it a harder task.

Getting the tree back to the apartment on public transportation is a little bit trickier, and eventually hinges on the rest of the passengers on the bus feeling sorry for him and begging the driver to show a little Christmas spirit.

None of them have enough Christmas spirit to help Apollo lug the sucker from the bus stop to his apartment and up the stairs, but hey, he doesn't expect that much from people.

He means to knock on the door and present Clay with the tree. Instead he loses control of the bushy monstrosity and it falls forward, making a horrifying din and scattering needles along the hallway as it scratches across their door.

A door that Clay opens a moment later, his expression changing from worried to bemused to utter ecstasy in moments. “A tree? Apollo, you got us a tree?”

Apollo nods, struggling to right the steadily less green tree. Are they supposed to shed needles like this? Maybe he didn't do such a good job finding a nice one after all.

Clay doesn't say anything else before stepping out into the hallway and helping Apollo finish manhandling the tree into the apartment.

“There.” Apollo runs his wrist across his forehead, wiping away sweat as he looks at the tree lying on its side in the living room. “Success.”

“I don't—how—why—” Clay puts both hands on his head, looking between the tree and Apollo. “You are wonderful and amazing.”

Apollo grins. “Sometimes I manage.”

“But I do have to ask...” Clay looks genuinely apologetic. “Do you have a stand for the tree in that backpack of yours?”

All the blood rushes away from Apollo's head, though it starts trying to pool in his cheeks a moment later. “Tree stand?”

“Yeah.” Clay winces. “The thing the tree goes in so that it stays upright and has water and doesn't die quite so fast?”

Apollo's silence is apparently answer enough.

“That's okay!” Clay's right hand forms a fist, which he punches into his open left palm. “I'm an astronaut. Making things up with tools that aren't designed for it is my jam. Just give me a few minutes.”

It only takes Clay eight minutes to improvise a tree stand from things they have around the house—mainly the bucket that they usually use when one of them has a stomach bug, all the screwdrivers they own, and the remaining twine from a physics project that Clay had to do as a final project for one of his classes. It's not the prettiest tree stand in the world, but it does keep the tree upright.

“There.” Clay beams with pride. “What do you think?”

“Almost perfect.” Grabbing his backpack from where he left it on the couch, Apollo tosses it to Clay. “There's a few finishing touches in here.”

Clay doesn't waste any time ripping open the bag, and Apollo watches with growing pleasure as Clay pulls out the ornament set Apollo put together, making a higher-pitched squeak with every find.

The best is buried at the bottom, underneath a slightly tacky light-up star for the top of the tree. It had been on clearance for a fifth of the cost of any of the others, and Apollo figured Clay would like it anyway.

“Oh god.” Clay holds the ninth and final ornament reverently. “This is—Apollo, you are absolutely amazing.”

Apollo doesn't even try to suppress his grin. “I know that scientific you understands the reasons for Pluto's demotion while ten-year-old you still feels it was a terrible injustice, so...”

“Universe's Cutest Planetoid.” Clay reads off the inscription on the base of the Pluto ornament, turning it so Apollo can see the craggy sphere with its first-place ribbon pinned to it and a blue ribbon to hang it on the tree coming out of the top. “I think I see a cuter planetoid right here in this room, though.”

“Are you calling me a planetoid?” Apollo narrows his eyes. “Because I'm pretty sure those are fighting words.”

“I'm...” Clay leaps forward, wrapping Apollo in a tight hug. “I'm so happy right now.”

“I know.” Apollo hugs Clay in return, burying his head against Clay's chest. “I'm glad.”

“You are the best, most amazing...” Clay somehow manages to spin them both in a half-circle, lifting Apollo's feet briefly off the floor. Apparently his astronaut-in-training routine is working decently. “Thank you, Apollo. So much.”

“You're welcome.” Apollo's voice is husky, and he clears his throat. “Sorry I didn't think about it sooner. Just finals and work and everything...”

“I don't care.” Clay holds Apollo out at arm's length, still grinning. “We have this now, and that's what matters, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Apollo returns the smile. “Now that we've got a tree... does this mean presents are supposed to go under it?”

“Of course.” Clay darts off toward their bedroom. “Just give me a minute!”

Apollo waits for Clay to fish his gifts out of whatever hiding place he stored them in, and then closes the door to keep Clay from seeing his own hiding spots.

When they're done they have a tree with nine ornaments, no lights except for the star on the top that is using an orange extension cord to light up, and a stand that looks like something out of a Christmas comedy. There are four presents under the tree, wrapped in everything but Christmas paper.

Clay puts his arms around Apollo's shoulders. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

Leaning his head against Clay, Apollo nods in silent agreement.

* * *

They fall into a holiday routine that isn't broken by their graduations—Clay a year ahead of Apollo, his classes carefully streamlined to dump him back into GYAXA's arms as soon as possible. On the Solstice, they light candles and have a nice meal together. It's not really the Mother's holiday—they don't sing the songs or say any of the prayers. Apollo doesn't teach Clay any Khura'inese (Apollo's not sure how much Khura'inese he actually remembers anymore). It's something nice, though, a chance to eat good food in good company.

It's something he desperately needs the year he joins the Wright Anything Agency.

He and Clay both have a glass of red wine in hand. The candles—still arranged in the Khura'inese tradition, still the proper colors—burn merrily on the living room table of their apartment. It's a nicer apartment than the first one they had, two bedrooms, a bathroom with an actual tub for those rare occasions they get a chance to soak.

“Chief Prosecutor, huh?” Clay takes a sip from his glass. He is sitting curled up against Apollo, his eyes half-closed as they watch the candles dance. Their Christmas tree, properly festooned with lights, is off for the evening. Or at least until the candles are blown out. Given Clay's love of the tree, it'll probably be turned back on as soon as their darkest-night vigil is done.

“Yeah. Mr. Wright seems really pleased about it.” Apollo looks down at his own half-full wine glass.

“That's... good?” Clay speaks hesitantly. “I assume. Unless we're in a wanting-to-punch-the-boss kind of mood still.”

“No, it's good.” A smile tugs at Apollo's lips. “He seems like a good guy. Mr. Edgeworth, I mean. Prosecutor Gavin's glad that he was chosen.”

Klavier's quote had been included in most of the papers, and Apollo had been able to find nothing but frank enthusiasm and relief that someone generally considered to be incorruptible these days will have the important job. It hadn't stopped some of the reporters from speculating about what Klavier's true emotions might be.

“Anyone come and asked your opinion?” Clay bumps his shoulder against Apollo's, grinning.

“No.” Rolling his eyes, Apollo takes another sip of his drink. “Why should they?”

“Because you're a celebrity!” Clay rolls his eyes in return. “There were two months or so there where it seemed like every other time I opened a newspaper you were in it.”

“That's because we changed the entire legal system and exposed another big streak of corruption.” Apollo fixes his eyes on the liquid in his drink. “Or at least Mr. Wright did.”

“With your help.” Clay's shoulder bumps Apollo's again. “Actually I'd say it was more you than him, but you'd just accuse me of being biased. What're you being so morose about tonight?”

“I'm not being morose, I'm just...” Apollo sighs. “A lot's changed in this last year. With me, with you... you might not even be here next year for this.”

“Do you want me to bring a candle up into space with me?” Clay gestures at the table. “Because I will. But I need to tell them now so they can adjust the oxygen requirements. But if it will make you feel better for me to have a candle—”

“In space, on a fragile rocket that is all that's supporting your life—”

“On this night that has religious significance for us.” Clay's eyes narrow. “Then I will have a damn candle.”

Apollo meets Clay's eyes, and his chest burns with emotion before a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “You know what would happen if you actually told them you want to bring a candle into space?”

Clay thinks furiously for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“They would give you one of those plastic ones with the lightbulb. The battery-operated ones.” Apollo shapes a candle with his hands. “And tell you to turn it on as needed.”

Hanging his head, Clay groans. “You're right. Though I can't decide if it would be Starbuck or Aura who would give it to me.”

“Possibly Starbuck after he got it from Aura. Or Aura would chuck it at your head.” Apollo slips his arm around Clay's shoulder. “So tell them you want a candle in space. We can take bets on who gets it to you and when.”

“Will do.” Clay leans into the embrace. “Is that the only thing eating at you? My going up into space?”

“No.” Apollo smiles at his friend. “I mean, I've know that's what you were going to do for over a decade now. And I'll miss you, but I'm glad things are on track for you to succeed in your dream. More just... being uncertain about my own life, I guess. I mean... last year we were all 'you're almost a lawyer!' And this year...”

“It's been a year.” Clay's arm slides around behind Apollo, hugging him tight. “But I think the last few months have been pretty good, yeah?”

“Things've been... better, yeah.” Apollo sighs. “He actually, uh... Mr. Wright invited me to have Christmas dinner with him and Trucy. If I didn't have anywhere else to go.”

“Really?” Clay sits up, pulling away from Apollo. “That's awesome!”

“It would've been cooler if he gave me a plus one in the invitation.” Apollo shrugs. “I don't want to leave you alone for the holiday.”

“You planning on not being here Christmas Eve?” Clay studies Apollo with wide eyes. (Christmas Eve is still sometimes rough. There has never been a repeat of the crying fit Clay had their first Christmas together, but if Clay is going to be morose for the holidays, that's the day it will hit.)

Apollo shakes his head. “It would be Christmas day.”

“Well, then.” Clay shrugs. “I'll either torture a turkey on my own here or go have dinner with Starbuck and some of the other GYAXA guys. No big deal. We'll do presents either in the morning or when we're both back.”

“If you're sure...” Apollo sets his glass down. “You don't think it'd be weird? Celebrating the holiday with my boss?”

“It's your boss, so it's probably going to be weird.” Clay grins, giving Apollo's shoulder a little punch. “But not because it's the holiday. I'm glad they invited you. And hey, maybe next year I'll get an invitation too!”

“Next year you will probably be in space.” Apollo rolls his eyes. “Also... they'd kind of have to know about you to invite you.”

“Apollo.” Clay places a hand to his heart. “After all this time, they still don't know about me?”

“We've had other things on our plates!” Apollo downs the rest of his wine in a few deep gulps. “It never seems like the right time to bring you up.”

Clay closes his eyes and sighs. “Heaven save us from your weird bouts of politeness and shyness.” Opening his eyes, he smiles again at Apollo. “But yeah. Go. Have fun. And we'll celebrate together when you get back.”

Apollo smiles, pulling Clay back to rest against him as they finish watching the candles burn down. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

When Apollo gets back to their apartment on Christmas, he's pleasantly surprised to find Clay also back.

“Hey!” Clay greets him with a wave, not bothering to stand up from the couch. “How'd it go? I would come greet you and offer to help, but I am stuffed like a turkey and you have nothing in your hands.”

“I'm fine.” Apollo slips out of his shoes, coming over to the couch and kicking Clay's feet off so he has a place to sit. “I see you also survived.”

“I did. It was a close call, but I defeated the bird.” Clay slithers up into a sitting position. “What about you? Any close calls?”

“Well...” Apollo thinks back over the chaos of the last few days. “Mainly just thinking I should have brought you along. Everyone else seemed to bring people without asking.”

Clay arches an eyebrow. “I thought it was going to be you, your boss, and your mini-boss?”

“So did I. But apparently it was also the Chief Prosecutor, Prosecutor Gavin, Detective Skye, Mr. Shields, a whole bunch of insane individuals that I don't think I'm going to be able to do justice to in describing them...” Apollo shakes his head. “It was madness.”

“But you're smiling.” Clay grins in return. “So it was good madness?”

“I...” Apollo hesitates, feeling his smile growing wider. “Yeah. I think it was good madness.”

“Good.” Clay hugs him tight. “That's the only type of madness you should be exposed to.”

“I don't know, I think it fits you better.” Apollo hugs Clay in return. “If you're not in space next year, I'll try to introduce you to it.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Clay yawns out the last word, resting his head on Apollo's shoulder.

“Clay.” Apollo gives his friend a little shake. “You can't sleep on me.”

“But you're comfy,” Clay whines.

Apollo sighs, allowing Clay to rest against him for a few seconds more before rearranging him on the couch so that his head is instead pillowed in Apollo's lap.

This was a good Christmas.

And if things keep going the way they have been... well, maybe there'll be a whole lot more in the future.

* * *

The solstice comes three days before Christmas this time.

Apollo doesn't light any candles.

It's never been his job to light the candles. To buy the candles, or arrange them, or put that little flickering barrier up against the dark.

Should he have done it anyway? Would Clay have wanted him to do it?

If Clay were in space he probably would have. If Clay were in space, he would have taken the little fake candle that Aura bought him and told him to shove someplace uncomfortable. He probably would have left instructions for Apollo to light candles, and they would have done it together—separated by thousands of miles and a planet's atmosphere, but together.

Apollo should have realized something was wrong. He should have seen that Clay was distracted. He should have seen that Clay didn't really think he was going to space. It was all right there in the way Clay acted—in the way he laughed but not really, in the way he changed the subject so often. It wasn't nerves. It was lying without ever actually saying untrue words, because he knew Apollo would see right through him if he did.

As Apollo should have seen through the holiday preparations to the problems underlying.

We'll each have our presents. Clay had smiled as he packed the gifts Apollo wrapped for him. And we'll open them on Christmas, at the same time.

A lie that wasn't a lie that became a lie, because Clay is dead and won't be opening anything on Christmas.

Apollo hugs Clay's jacket tighter around himself. The night continues to deepen, and he can't see much of anything, the house reduced to shadows and deeper shadows.

If Clay had known he wouldn't be here for the Solstice, he would have packed his candle and he would have left Apollo with instructions on what to do.

But he thought he would be here. He thought he'd be setting everything up just like normal.

Instead Clay's rotting in a grave, and Apollo is sitting in the dark in his best friend's uniform.

The jacket isn't bloody, at least. It was carefully cleaned and the sleeves hastily altered so Apollo could wear it to Clay's funeral, and though it hasn't been washed since Apollo doesn't care. (He wouldn't have cleaned it if he didn't need to wear it to the funeral. It had smelled like Clay, even under the gunpowder smell of the bomb and the slight tang of Apollo's blood, and he hadn't wanted to lose that smell. He wanted to be an embarrassment at Clay's funeral even less, though.)

“I'm being silly.” Apollo's voice sounds too loud in the darkness, too raw and fragile. What time is it now? Late, he knows, but nothing else. There aren't any digital alarm clocks glowing in this room, and he hasn't turned the tree on to shed any light.

He should be heading to bed, probably. But he doesn't want to.

What does he want to do? Stare at the black absence of something he's come to depend on?

You know what you need to do, little wolverine. He can practically hear Clay's voice in his head, urging him to stop being silly and keep fighting, like they always have.

Apollo doesn't want to keep fighting. He has fought and fought and fought, and all he's earned is his best friend dying stupidly and tearing apart his work and—

He doesn't mean to start crying. He has been crying far too much these last few days, though he has at least managed to keep from bawling in front of other people. (Except at Clay's funeral. Trucy hugged him and that was it—Apollo couldn't keep from crying. But everyone cries at funerals, so that's probably all right.)

When he's done crying, Apollo spends a few more minutes staring into the dark, Clay's jacket held tight around him.

Then he forces himself to stand, walks slowly and carefully through the darkened apartment to Clay's room. He knows where his target is, and he finds it by touch, cradling it close as he carries it back to the living room.

Setting the plastic candle down on the table, Apollo flips the button on the base. It doesn't flicker, springing immediately to pale yellow life.

“There should always be light...” Apollo settles back down on the ground, Clay's jacket draped around his shoulders as a blanket. “At the darkest time of the year.”

He wants to hear Clay tell him that's right, but all that he hears is the quiet hiss of the heating unit turning on, forcing warm air up into his apartment.

He falls asleep on the floor in front of the battery-operated plastic candle. When he wakes up in the morning his neck is stiff and the candle is dark, the battery having died sometime in the night.

Light pours in through the living room window, though, bathing everything in a soft pink-white glow, and Apollo thinks Clay would have approved of this, too.

* * *

“I went to the party.”

Apollo sits in front of their Christmas tree, Clay's jacket wrapped around him. “Mr. Wright's Christmas party. I went again. It was... nice.”

For definitions of nice that include having a panic attack in front of the Chief Prosecutor, but... well...

“Everyone's been... really nice.” He shouldn't keep using that word. He's a lawyer. Using words is part of his job description. “Supportive. Kind. F-friendly.”

Apollo has to stop talking for a few minutes, keeping his eyes focused on the Christmas tree with its sharp little needles and small, pretty lights. He's absolutely done crying.

“Trucy...” Apollo breathes slowly and evenly. This is silly. It's not even like he's at Clay's grave. He's just talking to the tree. (The last tree he and Clay will put up together. Possibly the last tree Apollo will have, period. What is the point of holiday decorations and celebrations when you're alone?) “Trucy went and got you a present. To go with mine. We, uh... we kind of opened them. Which I hope you don't mind. But unless you're planning on coming back as a zombie, you're not going to be able to, so—”

Apollo cuts off his rambling and takes the presents out of the nearly-empty box he had carted home. Clay's present had looked normal sandwiched in between gifts for the Wrights and Ema and Prosecutor Gavin; they had managed to look normal when slipped in between presents for Apollo on the way back home, and Apollo doesn't know if that's good or bad.

They just look sad laid out on their own under the tree, and Apollo stares at them for several seconds before scrambling to his feet and heading into his room. It doesn't take him long to gather some of his own gifts, and he puts them next to Clay's under the tree. Slightly better.

“Trucy got you a mobile of the planets. Because of the whole you loving space and being an astronaut thing. And I got you that space calendar again. The one you said gets cooler every year.” Apollo hugs his arms across his chest, rocking back and forth, weight shifting toes to knees, knees to toes. “Trucy thought of putting the mobile on your grave, but I think we'll donate it. To a class or some other space-loving kid or another orphan or... something like that. Maybe I'll let GYAXA raffle it off for funds. It'll go to someone who loves space, though, I promise.”

Does Clay hear him? In Khura'in they believe that spirits exist forever, surrounding the living, though not necessarily aware of what's happening on this small mortal plane. At various foster houses Apollo has heard about heaven, hell, reincarnation...

Spirit channeling exists, though. He knows it exists, because he's seen it show up in trial records and Mr. Wright's case history. So something of Clay still exists out there.

And hopefully that something likes the way Apollo has celebrated this Christmas.

Wiping a hand across tearing eyes, Apollo keeps the bitter promise that this will be his last Christmas locked behind his teeth.

Saying something like that is a surefire way to make the universe prove him wrong.

Besides, it would make Clay sad.

And if there's any possibility Clay is still out, still able to listen, then Apollo doesn't want to make him sad.

* * *

“Ahhhh, man.” Datz throws his hands up in the air, and Apollo thinks for one horrified moment that the man has just tossed all his paperwork up. Then he sees that it's just two pieces of paper that are fluttering, one held firmly in each of Datz's hands, and is able to breathe again. “I cannot wait for this to be done and it to be the holiday.”

“You always can't wait for the work day to be done.” Apollo turns back to his own paperwork, cross-referencing the case he's working on with one from three months ago, making sure they're setting up a consistent system of precedent for Khura'in to use once Apollo's gone.

Assuming Apollo ever gets to go home. The longer he spends here, the more cases are dumped in his lap, the less he thinks he's ever going to be free. What had Dhurke intended to do when the revolution succeeded? Single-handedly defend every case that went before the court? He must have had a plan in place, but whatever it was, Apollo hasn't been able to figure it out.

No matter. If this is where he's needed, this is where Apollo will stay.

(It's not like home is really home, anyway. Sure, there's Trucy, and Athena and Mr. Wright and the others. But they're doing just fine without Apollo. Only Trucy has been diligent and determined in keeping in touch with him, not put off by Apollo's inability to respond in a timely manner, and Apollo doubts that's going to last forever.)

“Hey, Apollo.” Datz has replaced his paperwork on his desk and is sitting with his chin supported by his fists, studying Apollo. “We are taking the holiday off, right?”

“What, Christmas?” Apollo shrugs. “If you want, sure. I'll probably come in and work, but—”

“Not Christmas.” Datz waves a hand. “Though we can celebrate that, too, if you want. Man, it's been a long time since I had a proper Christmas celebration! We could get a little tree for the office, and decorate it with popcorn and lizards, and—”

“Datz.” Apollo has learned that it's best just to speak over the other man when he's going off on a tangent. “Whatever you want to do for whatever holiday's fine. I don't care.”

“Yeah.” Datz mutters out the word, but it doesn't take Athena's special hearing to pick up on Datz's words unless he's being extra careful. “That's what I'm worried about.”

Apollo's fingers tighten around the paper in his hand, and he forces them to relax, not wanting to damage it. “I'm sorry I'm not a very festive person.”

“You used to be, AJ.” There's a wistful note to Datz's voice as he sets his desk chair twirling in a circle. “When you and Yuty were little, you used to get so excited about the Mother's Feast. I remember making the little cakes, and you wouldn't keep your fingers out of the bowl. Dhurke had to take the two of you out hunting despite it being so cold even the yak didn't want to do anything so that I could actually get some decent cakes made.”

Apollo doesn't remember. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't say anything. Let Datz keep his happy memories.

“Speaking of Yuty...” Datz's tone changes, becoming conspiratorial. “You're going to Feast with him and our little queen, I assume?”

Apollo shrugs. “Don't know. He hasn't mentioned it.”

“But it's tomorrow!” Datz sounds positively scandalized. “Unless you're doing something for yourself? Planning your own little party?”

Apollo shrugs, trying not to remember a cheap plastic candle in the dark. “I'm not actually Khura'inese. I don't believe in the Holy Mother.”

“AJ.” Datz wheels his chair out from behind his desk, scooting it towards Apollo's desk. “AJ.”

“Yes, Datz.” Apollo puts down the paperwork he's been looking at, placing a fist at either temple. If he doesn't let Datz have his say, he's never going to be able to finish this.

“You cannot just work forever. Even Dhurke wouldn't have wanted this.” Datz looks down at his hands, his voice roughening. “We always celebrated the Feast. The Defiant Dragons. Those who couldn't stay at home for one reason or another, Dhurke would gather them up here or at another of the safe houses. He would light the candles, and we'd eat the best feast we could manage. Sometimes that was just some dip to go with the lizards, but it was still... it was nice.”

“Good.” Apollo tries to keep his tone neutral. “I'm glad you guys were able to have a good time even while running a rebellion.”

Datz sighs, scrubbing both hands over his face. “You've been really weird and stressed out the last few weeks. Did something happen, Apollo? Something I should know about?”

My best friend died a year ago. Over a year ago, now, and Apollo was alone for the anniversary of Clay's death. He slept on the couch with Clay's jacket, something he hasn't done in months, and then forced himself up extra early the next morning to come into the office.

To do his job. To fulfill his dream—no, Dhurke's dream. Nahyuta's dream. Because Apollo doesn't think his shoulders can take the weight of too many more unfulfilled dreams. The one he's already carrying sometimes feels like it's going to snap him in two.

“I'm fine.” Apollo smiles for Datz and then picks up another file, hoping Datz will take the hint and go away.

For once in his life Datz actually does as Apollo asks, rolling his chair back to his desk and returning to his paperwork for the twenty minutes left before the end of the day.

Apollo should have known it meant he was up to something.

* * *

“Mr. Justice.”

Apollo tries to walk a little faster, hoping that maybe if he makes it to his office door the man following him will realize how busy Apollo already is and leave him alone.

“Apollo.” Nahyuta's voice is desperate on the name.

Sighing, his breath a puff of steam in the cold winter air, Apollo turns to face his foster-brother. “I physically cannot take any more cases right now, Nahyuta. If you've got something that you think needs a top attorney, either try someone else or put it on the back burner for at least a week.”

Nahyuta's eyebrows draw together. “I wasn't... I apologize if you feel that the only times I'm coming to contact you are with more cases.”

Apollo just studies the taller man, not bothering to answer with words.

Nahyuta's eyes drop to the ground, his cheeks reddening. “I didn't come about work. The prosecutor's office is closed today and tomorrow. Because of the holiday.”

Most of Khura'in is closed and will be until later afternoon tomorrow, the Mother's Feast a national holiday. It hasn't affected Apollo much. Years of frugal living with Clay has held him in good stead here, too, and he has a small apartment stockpiled with easy to make food that he could probably subsist on through an apocalypse.

“I was led to believe...” Nahyuta's head rises, though his eyes still don't meet Apollo's, staring off to the right instead. “You aren't celebrating the holiday?”

Apollo shrugs.

After a long enough pause Nahyuta clears his throat and continues on. “If it's because of your own religious preferences... I know living outside Khura'in for so long probably changed your opinions on various truths. I have received many lectures from Ms. Skye about science, rationalism, and, as she has dubbed it, 'the freedom to believe whatever stupid thing you wish provided you understand how reality actually works'.”

A smile breaks across Apollo's face despite his best efforts. It's far too easy to imagine Ema saying something like that, and nice to hear that she's comfortable enough now telling Nahyuta off to give him one of her science lectures. “I don't have a religious objection to celebrating the Mother's Feast. I'm just not going to go out of my way to find some stupid candles and make a bunch of food when it's just me.”

“If you had asked, I'm sure Mr. Are'bal would have been very happy to attend a Feast day with you.” Nahyuta crosses his arms in front of his chest. “He indicated as much to me when he invited both himself and you to my own celebration.”

“Oh.” Apollo's smile vanishes. “Don't worry about it. I won't be attending.”

“That wasn't...” Nahyuta sighs. “You've been morose and pricklier than a porcupine for this last month, Apollo. What's going on?”

“Nothing.” Apollo turns away from Nahyuta. If Nahyuta insists on having this conversation, he can literally chase Apollo down for it. “Everything's fine. I'm doing exactly what you want, right? Fixing your justice system?”

“It's not—” Nahyuta's steps are slower than Apollo's, his longer legs giving him an unfair advantage as he follows Apollo towards the office door. “I thought it was something you were invested in, too. Making sure our father's legacy comes to fruition.”

“Your father's legacy.” The words burn in Apollo's mouth, and he has to stop, his hand on the office doorknob. “No. I'm sorry. I'm just tired and—and really done with this conversation, all right? I'm going to go work. You're going to go make sure Rayfa doesn't burn down the palace during the feast. And that's going to be that, all right?”

Nahyuta's hand covers his, and Apollo takes a hasty step back, pulling himself free with more force than is strictly necessary.

Nahyuta stares down at his empty hand, then fixes Apollo with a quizzical, hurt expression.

Apollo's jaw tightens, shame and a sourceless anger twining together in his chest. “If you'd excuse me, Mr. Sahdmadhi. I have work to do.”

Pulling his hand back to his chest, Nahyuta studies Apollo with cold, wary eyes.

Apollo reaches for the doorknob again, turning it with more vicious force than is probably strictly necessary. He's so ready for the day to be done, and it's barely started.

“Apollo.” Nahyuta hovers just outside the door, waiting for Apollo to turn and see him before continuing. Once he has Apollo's attention, Nahyuta bows low. “If you don't have any plans this evening, it would greatly please your brother and sister if you would attend their Mother's Feast celebration with them. The candles will be lit at approximately six thirty, with a meal likely to follow at seven, given Rayfa's usual level of patience. No offense will be taken if you choose not to attend, though.” Straightening, Nahyuta stares hard into Apollo's eyes. “I don't know what's hurt you, brother, but please do whatever you need to do to heal it.”

You don't know because you never asked. The words are a shout locked inside his head, because they're not fair or true. Both Datz and Nahyuta have asked him what's wrong, but how is he supposed to summarize what they should already know?

You abandoned me for fifteen years. Dhurke abandoned me for fifteen years. Apollo's breath catches in his throat. I met someone, and he knew everything about me, and he loved me despite it all. Loved me enough to celebrate a holiday I didn't know if I wanted to celebrate or not, and now he's dead and you act as though it doesn't matter.

Because they don't know. Because Nahyuta and Datz and Dhurke were busy fighting a revolution that claimed Dhurke's life, and they didn't have time to notice that Apollo's life was falling apart.

Apollo's life doesn't matter, after all. He's just one person, and not one of the ones who matters. Not Wright or Dhurke, someone with the hopes of a nation resting on his shoulders.

Nahyuta is already walking away, leaving Apollo's office door open.

“Nahyuta!” Apollo pokes his head back out.

Nahyuta turns, expression expectant.

“Won't there be...” Apollo shrugs. “Isn't Rayfa doing something, like... political? It's one of the big holidays, after all.”

“Her mother Amara has declared that she will handle matters of state for the duration of the feast.” A slight smile touches Nahyuta's lips. “I believe she wishes for Rayfa to have at least one more Feast day where she is allowed to be... less royal. So the attendees will be limited to myself, her, Datz, and perhaps a few others she has invited.”

“Right.” Apollo hesitates. “I-I'll think about it.”

Nahyuta inclines his head. “That's all I ask.”

Apollo watches Nahyuta walk away, the cold of the winter morning sinking deeper and deeper into his bones. Only when his brother's shadow is gone does Apollo finally close the door, moving to his desk and the mountain of paperwork that still awaits him there.

* * *

Apollo arrives at the royal residence at 6:35, his old backpack stuffed with hastily scraped together gifts. This is a mistake. He doesn't even know who's going to be here. What if he doesn't have gifts for someone he should? He didn't get anything for the queen. What do you even get a queen?

If it becomes a problem he'll point out that he's giving her back her country and a functioning legal system. That's a good gift, right?

The gate guards don't question him. They actually treat him with a surprising amount of respect, offering to take his bag and then quietly escorting him through the palace when Apollo refuses.

The room that they lead him to looks almost... cozy. It's smaller than any of the audience chambers he's seen to date, feeling almost crowded with the five people present.

“Horn Head!” Rayfa leaps to her feet, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You're late.”

“My apologies, princess.” Apollo tries not to bristle too much. “I was busy working.”

“No one is to work on the day of the Mother's Feast.” Rayfa stretches out her hand. “I declare it to be so. This is a day of celebration and reflection.” Her hand falls to her side. “Also I couldn't start lighting the candles until everyone was here, so dinner will be delayed.”

“I didn't even say I was definitely going to come—” Apollo stops abruptly as he realizes he's being ignored, Rayfa turning away from him to face the low table with the properly arranged candles.

Ema makes her way to Apollo's side, giving him a pat on the shoulder before she reaches into her bag for her Snackoos. She offers him one before speaking. “Don't worry. I think she's mainly just hungry. Makes her cranky.”

“I am not being cranky.” Rayfa turns to glare at them. “I just like having things done in a timely manner. Now, if everyone will adopt their prayer pose.”

Nahyuta immediately settles down on the ground in a pose Apollo's pretty sure he couldn't imitate without snapping several small bones. Datz sits down cross-legged, smiling like an eager child. Ahlbi, the actual child in the room, looks far too grim and serious as he attempts to imitate Nahyuta.

Ema and Apollo sit down together at the back, their legs tucked under them.

Rayfa uses a lighter to set fire to a little stick, and then turns the lights in the room off with a black clicker, leaving only the illumination from her flickering flame.

She doesn't say the prayers in English, her tongue lilting prettily over the Khura'inese words. This isn't a prayer for tourists, after all. It's for family and friends, those who are celebrating the return of the light and the end of the dark with those they love.

Apollo understands it all clearly. Though it had taken him a few months, he has his Khura'inese fluency back.

He's not sure he wants to understand it. He's not sure he wants to hear Rayfa exhorting the Mother to grant them grace and wisdom, Lady Kee'ra to fend off all evil influences. He doesn't want to see Rayfa's careful, meticulous lighting of the candles, because it reminds him of too many things.

How old was he the last time he saw this ceremony properly performed? Nine? And yet he can still imagine Dhurke's voice on the Khura'inese syllables, thinks he sees Dhurke smiling at him when Rayfa turns and the flickering candles cast shadows across her face.

It has only been two years since he last watched Clay set up his improvised display in the living room, lighting the candles in an improper order—doing the inner ones first and then spiraling to the outer, rather than doing Lady Kee'ra's followed by the Mother's. Clay had smiled, too, and—

Apollo's vision wavers, the flame of the closest candle snapping into intense focus and then becoming a blurry haze again and again.

He's having a panic attack. Again. Just like last year.

He can't do this. Not here, not with these people. These people depend on him, and they're in the middle of an important ceremony, and—

And he can't breathe. The fire is eating up all the oxygen, something is pressing down on his chest, and he can't breathe, he can't see, he can't—

“Justice?” Ema's voice is a quiet whisper as her fingers touch his arm.

Apollo leaps away from her, shaking his head, not trusting himself to say anything. They're not supposed to speak during the ceremony. Dhurke has always been very clear on that. They're supposed to be quiet and still, and once the ceremony is done then they can have presents and cakes.

Dhurke is dead. Apollo watched his body burn, watched Nahyuta take away the ancestor tablet that's supposed to keep Dhurke tethered to him. (Apollo gets nothing, as per usual. A photograph that Nahyuta had to bend the rules of evidence processing to return to him is all Apollo has ever been given from his father, and there is a part of him that wonders if Dhurke found it for Apollo or for the case, and—)

“Apollo?” Ema's voice is louder, more concerned. “Hey, put the lights back on, I think—”

Apollo shakes his head, struggling to control his breathing enough to speak. “No. Fine. I'm fine. I—”

He needs to get out of here. He shouldn't have come. He doesn't belong.

Fumbling his way to the door, Apollo slips out, staggering a dozen steps or so before his faltering vision sends him crashing to the ground.

He needs to stand up. He needs to get away. He needs to tell anyone who catches up to him that he's fine.

He can't even seem to breathe properly, and he curls up, knees to his chest, eyes burning until he squeezes them shut.

“AJ!” Datz's voice echoes in the hallway, and footsteps hurry up to him.

Datz doesn't touch him, though. There is the sound of someone settling down on the floor next to him, but no contact, nothing to make Apollo flinch or scream.

“No, Rayfa, go finish the ceremony.” Datz's voice is surprisingly calm. “We'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?”

Apollo can't make out Rayfa's response, but he hears a door click shut.

“It's okay, AJ. It's okay.” Datz sounds absolutely confident, his voice sing-songing up and down on the words in a way that's strangely comforting. “You just calm down. Figure out how to breathe. In, and out. In, and out.”

There's the sounds of guard's footsteps, loud in the hall, but Datz waves them away, barely a break in the steady patter of soothing words as he does.

After a few minutes Apollo's chest and throat feel less tight, and he forces himself to uncurl, squints his eyes open to see if his vision has corrected itself. When it seems that it has, he slowly sits up, staring down at his hands rather than looking over at Datz.

“There we go.” Datz's voice returns to its usual cheerful volume and cadence. “Feeling better?”

Apollo sighs. “I'm—”

“Fine.” Datz says the word in tandem with him. “So you keep saying. Does it mean something different in America now?”

Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest, scowling into the middle distance. “I'm going home. Coming here was a mistake.”

“If that's what you want, I'll walk you home.” Datz sighs. “But I think it'd make everyone here happy if you'd stay.”

“Because that's what matters. Making everyone here happy.” There is so much bitterness in the words Apollo thinks he will choke on it, though shame follows shortly after. He didn't ever mean to say that out loud.

“AJ...” Datz looks as though Apollo just punched him. “We want you to be happy, too. What the hell's happened?”

“Nothing.” Apollo hugs his arms tighter to his chest, hating that his voice wavers with the threat of tears. It's true. Absolutely nothing terrible has happened for the last few months—at least not to him. Sure, he's had an endless procession of cases to deal with, murder, rape, theft, but at least with his bracelet he's usually able to get to the truth, and he should be fine.

He needs to be fine.

Datz sighs again, looking down at his own hands clasped in front of his knees rather than at Apollo. “Did you know I've been in the military since I was seventeen? Special dispensation because of where my birthday fell, so I didn't have to wait an extra year to start training.”

Against his better judgment Apollo finds himself studying his assistant—his father's friend. “You never said before.”

Datz shrugs. “Usually it doesn't matter. It's kind of become who I am, y'know? I'm Datz, the fighter. The only thing that's changed is who I'm fighting for and how much I believe in their cause. When you've been a soldier for a long time, in a lotta different places, you see things, though. Good things, bad things... human things.”

Apollo sighs but doesn't say anything. What is there to say?

“And what you just had... that was a full-blown PTSD panic attack if I ever saw one.” Datz reaches out slowly, his hand settling on Apollo's shoulder. “If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know what caused it.”

There's no point trying to deny it now, so Apollo just buries his head in his arms and spits out the answer. “My best friend died last year. Right around this time. He was murdered—nasty mess, bad case. He used to... when I didn't hear from anyone in Khura'in, I stopped doing any of the ceremonies. But every year Clay would make sure we celebrated the Mother's Feast and Christmas, our own special holiday set, and...”

And it's something that's never going to happen again, though they should have had another forty, fifty, sixty years of celebrations. Clay should be up in space with Starbuck, or still stuck in America, coaxing Apollo into talking about how Khura'in has changed and how it's stayed the same.

Clay is rotting in a box in the ground, and Apollo is alone in a country where no one noticed Clay's life or his death.

“AJ... I'm so sorry.” Datz's hand settles on Apollo's shoulder. “I didn't know.”

“I know.” Apollo snaps out the words, anger surging up again, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. He and Athena spent so long working on controlling the anger—Apollo's not going to let a little panic-attack in the royal palace mess that all up. “It doesn't matter now. I'm sorry I messed up the ceremony.”

“The ceremony doesn't—” Datz runs a hand over his face. “No one's going to care about the stupid ceremony as long as you're all right.”

A smile twitches at the corners of Apollo's mouth. “May not want to say that quite so loudly when Rayfa, Ahlbi and Nahyuta are so close. They're kind of attached to their religion.”

“They're more attached to you, I'd wager.” Datz stands up, holding out his hand to assist Apollo.

Apollo stands without taking the help. “I should just go home. I'm not good company right now, and you guys deserve to have a nice celebration.”

Datz allows his hand to fall to his side. “I think it'll be nicer with you. Like I said, if you want to go home, I'll walk you there. But if you want me to see what the others think about you staying...”

Sighing, Apollo leans back against the wall. “I need my backpack, anyway.”

“Right.” Datz grins. “You just wait here, AJ. I'll be back in a jiffy!”

It isn't Datz who emerges from the room less than a minute later, though. It's Rayfa, Apollo's backpack clutched tight to her chest.

Well, then. That probably means they want him to go. Apollo schools his expression to impassivity and holds out his hand for his bag.

Rayfa narrows her eyes at him, tightening her hold on the bag. “Horn Head... no. That isn't the proper address for this. Apollo.” Rayfa's face flushes, her eyes falling away from his. “B-brother. We have been informed about the... incident last year. About Mr. Terran. My deepest sympathies on your loss.”

Apollo swallows hard. There's no way Datz got through any kind of explanation in the short amount of time that's passed, so Ema must have told the rest. Meaning Ema remembers, even though she hasn't said anything, and somehow that makes things a little bit better.

“If you don't wish to hold the vigil, I'll see you escorted home.” Rayfa continues to hug Apollo's bag. “But I was very much hoping our whole f-family could be together tonight.”

The word family is a red-hot brand across Apollo's thoughts, and for a moment he can't move, can't think, can't breathe. He doesn't have family. Not really.

But there is a girl standing in front of him who just called him brother, when she still hesitates to call Nahyuta that, and... and he should probably say something. He's the adult in this situation, after all.

Reaching out, Apollo gently takes the top handle of his bag. Rayfa lets it go, her face falling before she schools it into indifferent irritation.

“If you want me to stay...” Apollo slings his bag onto his back. “I might not be... very nice to be around.”

“I hear frequently that I'm difficult to be around.” Rayfa raises her chin and crosses her arms imperiously in front of her chest. “That hasn't stopped me from going where I wish to go.”

“I...” Apollo decides it's not worth listing all the ways the situation isn't the same. “You're sure that's what you all want?”

Rayfa nods. “And the sooner you come, the sooner I shall be able to order dinner to be served.”

“Well. I wouldn't want to be responsible for dinner being late.” Apollo nods towards the door. “Shall we?”

As he follows Rayfa back into the party, Apollo hopes he's not making a terrible mistake.

* * *

When Apollo gets back to his house early the next morning, the first thing he does is rifle through his things until he finds the silly little plastic candle from Clay. He sets it up on his nightstand, flicking the switch. When it doesn't turn on, Apollo sighs. “Of course you're broken.”

That's all right. It's not really the light that he wants right now.

“That was actually...” Apollo curls up on his bed, his shoes kicked off somewhere near the door. He doesn't feel up to changing the rest of his clothes, just snuggling down into the blanket. “It was actually really nice, Clay.”

No one had made a big deal out of his return. The candles had already been lit and were burning cheerfully. Ema was busy grilling Nahyuta on some of the finer points of Khura'inese spirituality, clearly getting more and more frustrated with each answer. Ahlbi was feeding his murder-dog one of the traditional spice cakes. Datz was shouting into an intercom that it was time for food.

The lights had been turned back up, leaving the candles as a pretty but easily ignorable display, and Apollo had proceeded to do just that.

“Rayfa really likes Steel Samurai stuff.” Apollo mumbles the words towards the candle. “And Nahyuta actually liked the stone—the one that looks like the rocks we'd collect for Datz. Ema was happy with the chocolates, and Datz probably would have been just as thrilled if I gave him a lizard. The eating kind, not the pet kind. But the popcorn's probably better for him. Maybe.”

Apollo is so tired. He's pretty sure he's not making any sense. But it's... a nicer tired than when he woke up yesterday morning. A tired that he thinks he can live with. “Which is good. 'Cause I've still got a whole lot of living left to do. Gotta do enough living for the both of us.”

Apollo's eyes start drifting closed after that, but he's awake enough to notice the faint flush of sunlight coming in through his bedroom window, and the flicker of light that turns into a cheery yellow blaze as the candle starts working again.

He falls asleep after that, and his dreams for once are pleasant.

* * *

When Apollo comes into the office in the afternoon, Datz is already there.

So is an enormous Christmas tree, the monster's bulk filling a good third of the available space. It has been covered in strings of popcorn, lizards, and Khura'inese fruit, and a grinning Datz is perched at the top, trying to form a star out of crinkly silver paper.

“Datz.” Apollo freezes in the doorway, afraid that if he moves further into the office he'll disturb the carefully balanced step-ladder that is currently keeping Datz suspended near the ceiling. “What is going on?”

“AJ!” Datz waves, almost overbalancing himself, and then hugs the tree tight. Probably to keep himself from falling and breaking his neck, but Apollo also wouldn't be surprised if it was just something he'd been doing with the tree. “Isn't she a beauty?”

“Why is she in the office?” Apollo tries a careful shuffle to the right, hoping he can make it to his desk without disaster striking.

“You said that I can celebrate whatever holiday I want in whatever way I want!” Datz huffs out a breath, beginning to torture the silver paper again as he uses tape to attempt to form it into a vaguely star-like shape atop the tree. “And I had a sudden hankerin' for a Christmas tree. It's been almost two decades since I had a Christmas tree! Can you imagine?”

“And now you all of a sudden felt the need to get one.” Apollo puts his right hand over his eyes. Nothing that Datz has said has been a lie, but he's certain it's also not the whole truth. “A Christmas tree with lizards hanging from it.”

Datz leans precariously away from his star to look down at the lizard garland. “What's wrong with the lizards? They're just like popcorn, right? Prettier than popcorn, actually. If you watch the way the sunlight plays off their little scales, see—”

“I see!” Apollo leaps forward, visions of Datz with a snapped neck crowding out his horror at small reptiles decorating the Christmas tree.

“And just like the popcorn, we can eat 'em when we're done with the holiday.” Datz grins as though he's said something especially intelligent.

“I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to eat the garlands when you're done. But... whatever.” Apollo sighs as he studies the tree and the star. “Are you done with the decorating now?”

“Do you think that the tree looks good?” Datz at least returns to his perch on the top of the ladder. “Have the right sparkle and flare? The feelin' of magic and mystery?”

“It's the most mysterious Christmas tree I've ever seen.” Apollo can do the lying without telling the whole truth thing, too. “If you'd like to come down from there without killing yourself, maybe we can get some work done, too?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Datz scurries down the ladder with the fearless grace that only an insane man who throws himself out of airplanes for decades can manage.

“Good.” Apollo settles down at his desk, hoping to get everything prepared for court tomorrow despite having slept in a good deal longer than he intended to.

“Though I also have to deliver an invitation to ya.” Datz rummages around on his desk. “Ah, here we go! Gist of it is that Her Majesty our lovely little Rayfa has gotten it into her head t' celebrate this Christmas holiday she sees on TV so much, and she requests—read expects or demands, whichever ya prefer—your presence on the evenin' of the 25^th of December.”

Apollo groans. “If this is because of what I said yesterday—”

Datz slams the invitation down on Apollo's desk. “You really want t' make your little sister and future queen sad?”

“But it's silly. People in Khura'in don't celebrate Christmas. This is going to be—” Apollo points at the Christmas tree, adopting an objection pose without meaning to. “This is going to be a Christmas tree with lizards, but on a grand scale that can cause international damage.”

“AJ.” Datz kneels down on the floor next to Apollo's chair, staring up into Apollo's eyes with surprising sincerity. “We want t' celebrate your holiday with you. Okay? Yours. And if ya really don't want to, well, we're not gonna tie you down and force you. Well, Rayfa might be tempted to.”

Apollo rolls his eyes. “I am so glad I can return to my slightly less insane democracy at some point.”

“I've been t' your democracy. It's only less insane on the good days.” Datz grins. “What was I sayin'? Oh, right. We're not gonna force you t' celebrate. But if you want to...”

It is Clay's holiday.

It is his holiday, the inescapable monster that devours all of December and is sprawling out into more and more of November with every year.

“All right. Fine.” Apollo takes the invitation, scanning it for RSVP information and finding that his attendance has already been assumed. That almost makes him decide to skip the event, but a quick glance at Datz's eyes convinces him it's not worth it. He'll find other ways to show Rayfa and Nahyuta that he's not their puppet.

“Yes!” Datz leaps to his feet and a good foot and a half into the air, hands clasped into victory fists. “We're gonna have ourselves a real Christmas! White and cold, too, just like it's supposed t' be.”

“Just like every winter in Khura'in.” And some summers, depending on how high up into the mountains you go. Apollo shakes his head, returning to his work.

Datz meanders his way back to his desk. “Deck the halls w' strings of lizards, fa la la la la, la la la la. Burn Queen Ga'ran, end her malice, fa la la la la, la la la la.”

Apollo sighs, suppressing a smile. He suspects he's going to be in for a lot of modified and mis-remembered Christmas carols over the next two days.

He thinks Clay would have liked it, and for the first time in a while, that makes him pleased instead of furious or hurt.

Perhaps letting the others know what's been going on wasn't such a terrible idea after all.

* * *

Apollo spends Christmas day in court.

It's what he expected. Christmas isn't a proper holiday in this country, and he's needed to keep their fledgling legal system in a semi-functioning state. It's part of the reason he hasn't been able to go home—there's so much to do here, so much that rides on him, that he hasn't been comfortable taking a holiday.

It means there isn't much time for him to prepare for the Christmas party at the palace, but perhaps that's for the best. Trying to figure out what to wear is always a problem when going to visit Rayfa or Nahyuta at their home, but his suit is both classy and in a Christmas color. It'll do.

It isn't the guards who greet him at the gate. They're present, looking somewhat chilled and very put out, but the small figure that charges forward and grabs him by the arm is none other than Rayfa Padma Khura'in, ruler and, in some strange roundabout way, his foster-sister.

Her hands are cold. Her cheeks are flushed, and Apollo has a hard time telling if it's all from the chill of winter or if she's also blushing. “Horn Head! I am very glad you came.”

“You didn't really leave me much choice, Rayfa.” Apollo holds her fingers between his, trying to warm them even as she leads them into the palace grounds.

“It would have been most inconvenient if you decided not to come. Not that I wouldn't have found a way around it, but still. It's much nicer that you attended under your own power.” Rayfa studies him from the corners of her eyes. “I would have felt like a nincompoop having to send the royal guard to fetch you.”

“Wow.” Apollo's eyebrows arch up. “You're taking this whole celebrating Christmas thing really seriously, huh?”

“I take all of my actions seriously. If one is to be queen, one must be aware of how each action could be analyzed and interpreted by those both friendly to and antithetical to oneself.” Rayfa looks very pleased at the use of the word antithetical, so Apollo doesn't point out that it's maybe not quite the one she was going for. “Besides. This surprise wouldn't have worked nearly as well if you were dragged into it kicking and screaming. Or bound hand and foot.”

Apollo plants his feet, though it's already too late—they're in front of the doors for one of the larger audience chambers. “What kind of surprise—”

At a surprisingly gentle push from Rayfa, the double doors swing open, revealing a Christmas display that practically takes Apollo's breath away. Glass ornaments dangle from every surface; a tree glitters with candles and more glass, seeming to refract all the light in the room into little rainbow shimmers.

At first he doesn't believe his eyes with regards to who is standing amidst the glitter and glam. They don't belong here. This isn't the type of gathering he sees in Khura'in.

Then one of the figures detaches herself from the crowd, cannon-balling towards him with unerring accuracy and breakneck speed. Arms wrap around his chest, holding him tight. “Polly.”

“Trucy?” Apollo's hand settles on her head. “What—how—”

“It's Christmas, silly.” Trucy beams up at him. “And Christmas is the time that you get to spend with your family.”

The words are somehow a sword through his chest and a warm salve against the wound in the same breath, and Apollo closes his eyes, not trusting himself either to speak or to keep from crying if he doesn't. Wrapping his arms around Trucy, he holds her tight.

“Hi there, Apollo.” Mr. Wright has apparently followed his daughter at a more sedate pace, and when Apollo opens his eyes he gives a little wave. He's wearing one of the ridiculous green-and-red Christmas sweaters that he's had on at the other Christmas parties—a sweater Apollo's a little surprised Mr. Edgeworth hasn't burned yet. “Khura'in looks really nice this time of year. In an I-don't-want-step-foot-outside, it's-only-better-than-a-burning-bridge-'cause-it'll-take-longer-to-kill-you kind of way, but still really pretty.”

Apollo smiles. “It is. I'm still just... why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

Mr. Wright shrugs. “It was kind of last minute. And Rayfa wanted it to be a surprise—her present for you, for both the Mother's Feast and Christmas.”

Apollo turns to see Rayfa alternating between proud beaming and a nervous twining of her hands together. “You arranged this?”

Rayfa raises her chin. “As queen, it is my duty to ensure good relations with other countries. I believe this falls under that purview.”

“Rayfa, this...” Apollo gropes to find words to describe what this is—what it means—and finds all of them inadequate.

“It's good to see you too, 'Pollo.” Athena comes to stand behind Trucy, who is still super-glued to Apollo's chest. The smile on Athena's face is gentle and knowing, and Apollo relaxes a little bit. If anyone really needs him to explain in words, Athena will be able to help.

“I thought...” Apollo looks from Athena to Mr. Wright to Trucy. “Is it... okay for you guys to be here?”

“We're not staying long.” Mr. Wright gestures back towards the surprisingly large congregation of people still prowling about the room—Apollo's going to have to do a quick head-count in a moment and see who's here. “Edgeworth can only be in town for a day, Chief Prosecutor duties and all, but I figured why waste the plane space?”

Athena leans in to whisper in Apollo's ear. “It's a common excuse. Don't believe it from any of them.”

“But...” Apollo looks down at the top of Trucy's head, hugging her a little tighter. It's good to have the physical contact—to have someone hugging him, someone he wants to be hugging him. Someone who knows him, all about him, and Trucy isn't Clay but they share some of the same traits that Apollo loves. “Everyone's letters...”

Mr. Wright's expression crumples. “You always seemed so stressed out in your responses—apologizing for not writing back sooner, talking about all the work you had to do. I thought maybe it would be easier on you not to have the distraction for a little bit.”

“Sometimes he's an idiot.” Ema comes up, tray of food from the buffet in hand. The food seems to be a strange mish-mash of American and Khura'inese fare. “But he's our idiot, and we love him anyway.”

Mr. Wright studies Ema with narrowed eyes. “I can't tell if you're describing Apollo or me.”

“Who says I'm not describing you both?” Ema's smile is wicked, and she holds out her tray to Apollo, offering him a snack. “This should be fun, Justice. I'm grateful to you for instigating it.”

“I didn't...” Apollo jumps as the double doors close with a soft crash, blocking their party off from the rest of the palace.

“This is your celebration, Horn Head.” Rayfa puts one hand on his shoulder, gesturing out with the other to include the entire ridiculous room. “I command you to go forth and enjoy it.”

Trucy finally relaxes her hold, taking a step back. Her eyes are suspiciously moist as she looks up at Apollo. “You really should make the rounds. Pretty much everyone who was at the party last year's here. Well, with the exception of Larry. Uncle Miles said that the plane was leaving at two on the dot, and anyone not in it would be left behind. I know Uncle Larry made it to the airport, but he must've gotten distracted by something. Probably a girl.”

“The woman of Khura'in breathe a sigh of relief.” Apollo allows Trucy to take him by the hand and lead him about the room.

There is a remarkably impressive buffet laid out against one of the shorter walls in the room—at least as impressive as the one they had for the Mother's Feast. The Christmas tree takes place of precedence in the center of the room, and spread around it are tables containing alcohol, candles, pretty crystal decorations, and a surprising number of games. Most are Khura'inese; some, like the chess set that has blue and red pieces, look suspiciously like games from the Chief Prosecutor's personal collection.

“Good evening, Mr. Justice.” The Chief Prosecutor raises his glass to Apollo, nodding at him. “It's good to see you looking well.”

“Uh... s-same to you.” Apollo offers a hesitant smile, not sure what to expect. Is Edgeworth going to mention anything about what happened at the Christmas party last year? Anything about Apollo's little breakdown at the Mother's Feast that almost certainly precipitated this?

Apparently not. He just turns back to the crystal wolf he had been studying. “A pity Agent Lang couldn't attend this. He would find this piece absolutely breathtaking, particularly the way the light seems to concentrate in the creature's chest.”

Trucy tugs on his hand, leading Apollo away.

“Hallo, Herr Justice!” Klavier greets him with a smile and a gesture that almost looks like he's trying to put his arm across Apollo's shoulders. When Apollo stiffens and leans back, Klavier stops, turning it into a brief wave. “Thank you for giving me an opportunity to travel again. Speaking with your sister about the music used in various celebrations has been quite a lot of fun.”

Apollo frowns. “You would immediately start trying to charm the teenage girls.”

Klavier puts a hand to his chest. “Your words wound me, but her pleasant singing will undoubtedly heal it.”

“You're impossible.” Apollo grins.

“Just like you like me.” Klavier returns the smile, though his is a little softer. “It's good to see you smiling. You haven't been doing nearly enough of that lately.”

“How—but—” Apollo sputters on the question.

“You are quite famous, you know. The defense attorney who is single-handedly saving a nation.” Klavier lifts his glass in toast. “It's been glorious to watch, but I do miss your smile.”

“Well...” Apollo gives Trucy's hand a little squeeze. They came here. They crossed half the world to come celebrate a holiday with him. “Maybe you'll be seeing a bit more of that in the future.”

“I hope so, Herr Forehead.” Klavier tilts his glass in brief salute. “I'd hate to have to become a defense attorney so I could come rescue you.”

“I do not need rescuing, and if I did I definitely wouldn't need it from someone like you.” Apollo lifts his chin in defiance.

Trucy is snickering quietly into her hand, which somewhat spoils the effect. Apollo breaking into a grin a moment later definitely spoils the effect, but since Klavier is smiling, too, Apollo decides he's happy with how the conversation turned out.

Edgeworth has brought a few other people from his office—the nervous little prosecutor Sebastian Debeste, the private investigator slash thief Kay Faraday, the strange cross between a dog and Edgeworth's shadow that is Detective Dick Gumshoe. Prosecutor Blackquill came along, likely because where Athena goes he goes. Apollo spots Lana talking to her sister, smiling at something Ema has said, and is glad he's not the only one who has been gifted with family today; Badd, the ancient secretary-slash-muscle from Kay's private investigator firm, is spotted hiding behind a pillar. The defense attorney Raymond Shields has also come along—Apollo's not sure if Shields counts as Edgeworth's or his, but it's good to spend a few minutes catching up with the man anyway.

It's good to speak English with people other than Ema, to hear it being spoken casually, with the slang that he's used to.

It's good to have so many friends, and friends of friends—to be part of something that feels like what Apollo imagines an extended family would feel like, even though he's never really had a chance to experience such a thing.

It takes Nahyuta about twenty minutes and four attempts to finally corner Apollo away from the others, falling in next to him at the buffet table. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here, Mr. Justice.”

Apollo raises both eyebrows. “You don't like surprises. Ever. They're all unpleasant to you.”

“That is untrue.” Nahyuta draws himself up, a feat somewhat ruined by him spooning what appear to be tiny hot dogs in some kind of amazing-smelling barbecue sauce onto his plate. “There are surprises that can expand the senses and enlighten the mind. The Mother says that one is never in complete control. One must learn to—”

“If you say let it go, I'm dumping the hot dogs on your head.”

“Right.” Nahyuta pauses. “You seem... happier.”

Apollo's eyes scan back over the gathered crowd. “This... is nice.” This is what he needed, though he doubts he would have been able to articulate it, knows he would never have had the courage to ask for it.

“I'm glad we could help heal a little bit of your hurt then, brother.” Nahyuta keeps his eyes fixed on his plate. “I know it's small enough repayment for all you've done. All you've sacrificed for us and our country.”

“I'm glad I've been able to help you. Glad I've been able to help Khura'in.” Apollo draws in a deep breath. “I'm Apollo Justice, and I'm at the best Christmas party ever, and I'm fine!”

Three-quarters of the room shouts the last word with him, and Apollo grins, feeling like he's home for the first time in a very long time.

* * *

“Horn Head.” Rayfa corners him about two hours later. “Apollo. Do you mind if I... ask you something?”

Since Apollo has just had his butt handed to him in a Khura'inese card game by first the Chief Prosecutor, then Klavier Gavin, and finally Trucy, Apollo is very glad for a distraction. “Sure. How can I help?”

“It's not...” Rayfa leads him to a quiet corner and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Hmm. I suppose it would be unfair to say that it is entirely a gift for you. It's something I wish to do for myself, as well. But... it's also something I would like to get your permission for.”

“Sure.” Apollo frowns, not certain where this is going.

“Has Prosecutor Sahdmadhi kept you informed of how my spiritual training is progressing?” Rayfa hugs herself a little tighter.

“No.” Apollo shakes his head. “He hasn't. Is there a problem? Do you need my help?”

“There's not a problem. Things are going quite well, actually. I'm...” Rayfa draws a deep breath. “I've progressed to the point where I should be able to channel spirits. And if it's all right with you, I thought perhaps...”

Rayfa fumbles a picture from her pocket, and Apollo freezes. Even with just a corner visible, he can recognize it. It's one of the pictures that appeared on the news for over a week last year, an image of Clay in his GYAXA uniform, grinning broadly for the camera and his fans.

“Would it be nice for you? If I were to channel him?” Rayfa peers anxiously up into Apollo's face. “If it wouldn't be, I'll desist. But I thought... if the holiday was a special time...”

Apollo runs his tongue over lips that suddenly feel far too dry. “Are you sure? Wouldn't you want to channel someone else? Like... Dhurke. Or...” Apollo doesn't say Inga Kharkul Khura'in. He knows that Rayfa loved the man, and still finds it difficult to correlate the doting father he had been to her with the vicious thug and murderer that he was to everyone else. It's actually something she and Klavier could probably have a good conversation about.

“I won't be able to interact with a spirit if I'm able to call them, anyway.” Rayfa continues to watch him. “If I wish to speak with Dhurke Sahdmadhi—if any of us do—my mother Amara can channel him for us. And perhaps that would be... a good idea. Or if you wish me to channel him so that you can introduce him to your companions...”

“No.” Apollo shakes his head. This isn't Dhurke's holiday. These aren't Dhurke's people. Though Apollo has a great deal still that he needs to talk to his foster father about—a great deal he needs to sort out emotionally—that's not who he wants right now. “If you think you can channel Clay, I'd... really appreciate it.”

Rayfa nods. Closing her eyes, she brings the fingers of both hands together in a complicated gesture. For a few seconds nothing happens. Then the magatama on her chest glows bright green. Her face begins to shift.

And the person standing in front of him is Clay Terran.

Clay blinks, looking around. Then he reaches up to touch the intricate hairstyle that seems to be Rayfa's preference. Then he looks down at the pink dress encasing him. “Well. I guess I have good fashion taste, still.”

It's Clay's voice. Apollo hadn't expected hearing that voice to hurt so much, but it does. Had he forgotten exactly what it sounded like? He'd definitely allowed the memories to become blurred.

One of the palace guards comes forward, holding out a white robe to Clay. Clay hesitates, then smiles and plucks the fluffy fabric from the man's hand, sliding into it.

Apollo rubs a hand across his face. He's not going to cry. He's not.

“Apollo.” Clay reaches out, looking much more him in the bathrobe. Never mind that they never used bathrobes—it was too much work, one extra bit of laundry, and Clay never seemed to care if he flopped down wet on the couch or his bed. “Hey there, little wolverine.”

“Clay.” Apollo hisses out the name. What is it that he's feeling? Anger? Sorrow? Ecstasy? How can someone feel all three at once, for the exact same person?

“I... owe you a lot of apologies.” Clay closes his eyes. “So many apologies. God, Apollo, I'm so sorry things ended up like this. I never meant—”

Clay's voice cracks, and Apollo's anger cracks with it. Or perhaps it's with the sight of Athena, hovering a few feet away from them, her eyes wide and her right hand hovering by her earring.

“You're dead.” The words are easier to say, now, though no less bitter in his mouth. “You know that?”

Clay nods. “Yeah.”

“You're being channeled by a girl who, in a roundabout way, is my foster sister. She's still new to this, so I don't know how much time we'll have.” More time than he would have had without Rayfa, and Apollo decides he's going to brave asking the Chief Prosecutor to talk about the Steel Samurai in order to get her more good merchandise. “So we'll have to keep this short.”

“I can keep it short.” Clay smiles, hugging his arms across his chest. “First, I'm sorry I lied to you. It was important but it was stupid and I wish I hadn't done it. Second, I'm sorry I'm dead. It was a stupid way to die and I really wish it hadn't happened. And third, I love you, and hope you're having a brilliant, wonderful, happy life even without me.”

Apollo draws in and holds a breath. He is not going to cry. He is Apollo Justice, and he's fine. “You stole my synopsis. Well, most of it. There's one more thing I have to do.”

“Oh?” Clay grins. “Please tell me it's not punching me in the face for my idiotic death and pain-inducing decisions. Remember this isn't actually my body, and your mysterious foster-sister would probably appreciate not having a black eyes or a split lip.”

“I'm not going to punch you.” Apollo rolls his eyes. Then he steps forward, pulling Clay into a strong, bone-crushing hug. “First I'm going to hug you. Because I've missed this.”

Clay hugs him back, just as tight and fierce. His voice is a bare whisper in Apollo's ear. “I've missed this, too.”

“And then.” Apollo straightens up. “I'm going to do something neither of us ever thought I'd get a chance to do. Clay Terran, if you would permit me, I'd like to introduce you to my... to my family.”

Clay blinks, and then breaks into the brightest, most honest grin Apollo's ever seen. Taking Apollo's hand in his, he gives it a brief squeeze. “I'd absolutely love that, little wolverine. Lead the way.”

There is music playing as Apollo leads Clay back into the center of the party—towards Trucy, first, since Trucy had been the one who asked the most about Clay last year, giving Apollo a chance to talk about him. It's an old Christmas carol, one of the ones that Clay first introduced Apollo to all those years ago. Clay begins singing along almost immediately, a soft counterpoint to the female singer.

Klavier will like hearing him sing, Apollo thinks.

Mr. Wright will probably like getting to see the person he's heard so much about.

Athena will be able to hear how important this is to both of them, and hopefully it will be a good thing rather than an overwhelming thing.

This isn't going to last forever. Rayfa is going to get tired, and Clay's spirit will return to wherever it is that ghosts rest.

But for now, for at least a little bit, Rayfa has given him the best present of all.

Apollo will get to spend one last Christmas with Clay—a Christmas with Clay and all the people who would have been a part of their family, in a nicer, fairer world where Clay lived.

He's going to cherish every second of it, now and until the day he dies, holding the memories of this night as a beacon against the dark for years to come.