Work Text:
Apollo told himself this was not a date.
Klavier’s hands were on the steering wheel. The playlist was Top 40 pop drivel. The scenery outside was rock faces dotted with shrubs, occasionally breaking to reveal houses on the other side of the rock, houses and buildings as far as the eye could see. They were driving down to San Diego. Klavier had showed up at the Wright Anything Agency last month on a Friday evening to drive Trucy to one of her shows, and when he discovered Apollo was still working, he declared they were going on a vacation together during the next long weekend.
“We’re almost there,” Klavier sang to the tune of some repetitive pop ditty Apollo was hearing everywhere around town.
“Where are we?” Apollo asked. Despite having lived in LA for a long time, he hadn’t been to San Diego before. He rarely touched his PTO, and he had to admit that Klavier was right that he was a bit of a workaholic.
“Just trust me,” Klavier said, finally talking like a normal human instead of trying to sing everything like he was in a nineteenth century German opera.
Klavier took the exit. H Mart was to their right. Klavier pulled into a parking lot with his purple convertible. They had to wait for a few minutes for a spot to open up. Their destination was a Vietnamese restaurant. The pho was top-tier, Apollo concluded, and he had been to quite a few pho places.
“This isn’t all we’re doing down here in San Diego, are we?”
“Nein, nein, I promised a relaxing holiday weekend, did I not?” Klavier said. He was out of his prosecutor outfit, instead his sunglasses rested on top of his head and his outfit cost more than Apollo made in a month. “You’re going to need Botox soon, Herr Forehead, if work stress keeps getting to you. Work hard, play hard is how we should roll?”
“Right,” Apollo said.
He didn’t mind spending more time with Klavier, whose coping mechanism of choice after Kristoph’s conviction was drowning himself with extra prosecutorial work and neglecting his music career. Klavier was a hypocrite when it came to being a workaholic. Apollo told himself that this vacation was as much for Klavier as it was for him. He ignored the highly unprofessional feelings that seeing Klavier slurp up noodles with a cute expression made him feel.
#
Klavier knew he was allowed to feel things, stepping out of Kristoph’s trial. He knew he was entitled to the full gauntlet of emotions: triumph, regret, grief, that aching pressure at the base of his throat that everything could have been different, if only Klavier had been a bit more diligent about the evidence, if only he had reached out a little further to his brother. There could have been understanding. There did not need to be a dead man and a comatose girl. He still had confetti in his hair.
He had lost the trial. He did not know if he felt like it.
“Go ahead, Trucy.”
Klavier heard the voice behind him, and forced himself not to whip around immediately. There was Apollo striding from the courtroom; Apollo walking toward Klavier with an assuredness he certainly had not possessed a mere few months ago, the nervous rookie trying to pry apart Wesley Stickler. He was not a newcomer to the courtroom any longer.
How strange. In that moment, Klavier hated Apollo; in that moment, he wanted to crush the attorney to him, say that was a wonderful trial, you were wonderful, I never could have stood up to my brother without you, and never let go. He would never have to return to his empty home and sort out the media and the paperwork and every contradiction snarling inside him.
“I’m going to go check on Vera Misham,” Apollo said. “Do you want to come?”
Vera Misham. The girl Kristoph had poisoned.
“You saw how she looked at me, when she testified,” Klavier said. He put on a smile. “I’d scare her back into a coma, no?”
Apollo twisted his bracelet. “I just don’t want you to be alone.”
Klavier shook his head. “You should go. Perhaps she will draw something on that forehead? There is so much real estate there.”
Apollo looked at him. Klavier was relatively certain he could see through him, but he had the decency not to call it out. Or perhaps not; perhaps the roiling tangle inside Klavier was too much for even the defense attorney who could see through Kristoph Gavin to want to unpack.
“If you ever want to talk–”
“What have we been doing in the courtroom besides talk–”
“You have my number, Prosecutor Gavin. Klavier.”
Klavier winked at him. Apollo put his hand on Klavier’s shoulder, and Klavier suddenly felt very fragile.
#
The movie theater was packed for the premiere of the latest Steel Samurai movie. Apollo had expected the average age of people in the audience to be twelve. Instead, there were a bunch of college kids dressed up as different characters from the franchise. Klavier had taken a selfie with a Pink Princess when they were in line for popcorn, who had squealed upon seeing him. Apollo was not jealous, no, Klavier’s insinuations were silly. What was there to be jealous of? He and Klavier were settled.
“It’s the Steel Samurai Sushi Slash again,” Klavier said.
“The what slash?” Apollo had not been paying close attention to the movie.
“His finishing move. Were you not watching? The Steel Samurai Sushi Slash.”
Apollo huffed. This time, the movie had been his idea. Klavier was knee-deep in another case that had been taking most of his time. He was busier and busier, and running into him in the courtroom had become a pleasant but occasional surprise, like how he had shown up during the Courte murder. Apollo saw him much more outside of work now. He suggested going to the movies last week, and Klavier had wiggled his eyebrows as asked, “Is Herr Forehead taking me out on a hot date?”
Apollo grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bucket. He wasn’t a Steel Samurai fan. He chose it because of Klavier, who was a Steel Samurai fan. He saw a flash of a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, someone going to the restroom.
Apollo elbowed Klavier. “Is that Miles Edgeworth?”
“What?” Klavier turned his head. “Herr Edgeworth?” He was scanning the rows of people in front of them, and he pointed at someone next to an empty seat. “Look, it’s Herr Wright.”
“What? Are we on a double date with them? You’ve got to be kidding. Ugh. I don’t want him to know we’re here.”
“We have to go to say hi afterwards,” Klavier said, and Apollo resigned himself to his fate. He apparently liked Klavier enough to go on double dates with his boss to action movies with nonsensical plots.
#
Klavier only knew where Apollo lived incidentally, because he’d had to drop off a case file the other needed by the next day, and Apollo had given him the address easily. Klavier would not have given his own address so easily. He was loose with his hookups until he’d had to hire security for the men in dark clothes who’d stand around the sidewalk outside his house. It is prudent to be careful what parts of himself he gives to others.
All this to say–it was incredibly ironic that whenever Klavier was around Apollo’s neighborhood, his hands moved of their own accord, turning the steering wheel to bring him past the attorney’s plain apartment. Apollo didn’t even have a window facing the street. It was pure compulsion. The knowledge that perhaps, somewhere behind white plaster, Apollo was pacing with his finger to his forehead, or whatever, practicing his chords of justice.
The stalked has become the stalker Klavier thought glumly, before pressing down on the gas and making a rude gesture at the cars who honked at him.
Always, Klavier toyed with the dream of picking up his phone, texting Apollo I’m in the area, do you want to get drinks? or are you free for lunch sometime? we could go during a slow day. And perhaps one thing would lead to another, perhaps they’d find themselves stumbling back into this very apartment at midnight, or perhaps Klavier would pay the tab and they’d smile at each other and go their separate ways and Klavier would throw himself into his own bed and drift off to sleep with his lips still curved into a smile. The point was the asking. The initial state change from object in rest to object in motion.
But there was a green light ahead urging him onward, and Klavier drove away from the offending apartment. Apollo was probably busy anyway. He had Phoenix and Trucy and many other friends besides.
The streetlights and strip malls were adequate company for Klavier tonight. He’d be brave tomorrow.
#
A quirk of the legal system: a sentencing comes after determination of guilt. In other words, a different judge determined Kristoph’s punishment for his crimes.
The sentencing came months after the end of the day Kristoph was declared guilty. For Apollo, it was an ordinary day. He went to work like any other day and met with his latest client. However, lunchtime brought an unexpected guest.
“Prosecutor Gavin is out sick today,” Miles Edgeworth noted when he was visiting the Wright Anything Agency during his lunch break. Miles Edgeworth cleared his throat, as if to make this obvious. “Mr. Justice, I assume you might find this useful.”
Apollo texted Klavier after work. It was the first time he used the number. He declared he was going to pay Klavier a visit, and if he didn’t give up his address himself, he’d get it from Miles Edgeworth. Sure enough, Klavier replied within minutes with his address. He must have been off today. Normally, he would have teased Apollo.
Apollo found Klavier on the couch watching old documentaries. Klavier was in his pajamas, a half-finished beer on the coffee table.
“You okay?” Apollo asked.
Klavier nodded. He didn’t say anything. Klavier normally was gregarious and chatty.
“I’m going to see Trucy in a few hours, but I can stay until then,” Apollo said.
“I appreciate it, Herr Forehead,” Klavier said. “You know, about the trial. You and Trucy…” He trailed off. “Never mind, it’s not important. How about we watch more Planet Earth?”
#
“Who keeps texting you?” Klavier said, as the two were getting dinner at the Thai place down the block from Apollo’s apartment, as was their Thursday ritual. Thursday Thai. Klavier insisted on pronouncing the two Ths the same, mostly because it annoyed Apollo.
“Nobody,” Apollo muttered, stabbing a fork into his Pad See Ew. Then, immediately after, the words spilling out: “An old friend from college. I’ll block him if you want.”
Klavier perked up. “Friend?”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him today. Probably wants something.”
A smile played on Klavier’s lips; Apollo looked more flustered than he ever had in court, and he resisted the urge to laugh. He took a sip of his drink. “Does he know you have a boyfriend?”
Apollo scrunched his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I like where you’re going.”
Klavier sighed happily, kicking his feet. “My boyfriend,” he said dreamily. “The most wanted man in town.”
“Most wanted means something very different in our line of work.”
“Right,” Klavier said, trying for seriousness and immediately failing. “Were you popular in college?”
“There is no popular in college.”
Right. Klavier had not had a normal trajectory to law. Sometimes he wondered if he would be more…normal if he was, before concluding that it was no longer something he could, or was interested in changing.
He stole one of Apollo’s Chinese broccolis. “But were you a hit with the boys?”
To his surprise, Apollo didn’t get more flustered, seeming to make up his mind on something and giving Klavier a slow smile. “What does it matter to you, Gavin?”
The way he said Gavin did things for Klavier. “I am only curious.”
Apollo leaned his cheek on his hand. “You sound jealous.”
“Do you want me to be?” Klavier murmured, smiling back, always happy to play these games. They were lawyers; all they ever did was play language games–albeit, with much more fun consequences here.
“Maybe,” Apollo said. “Talk me through it.”
“Here?”
“Do you have somewhere better in mind?”
Klavier closed the lid of his curry. “Maybe.”
#
The plan was that they were driving back to Los Angeles the next day. San Diego’s drivers were garbage compared to those in LA, but Klavier, an expert in defensive driving, had been giving them a good run for their money. Klavier and Apollo had gone to the zoo, the beach, and a variety of different parks the last few days. Apollo learned sea lions smelled, and not in a good way.
Klavier told him that he always came down here when LA felt like too much. San Diego was close yet far enough that he could forget about his problems. Apollo wondered if he used work to do the same.
The final item on the itinerary was karaoke. Klavier had picked his favorite spot in town inside a Korean restaurant, and he was belting a power ballad that Apollo hadn’t recognized into the mic, hitting every note. Even with no stage lighting and stage makeup, Klavier had a je ne sais quois, the combination of stage presence and charisma that drew people to him.
The song ended. Klavier handed the mic to Apollo.
“Herr Forehead,” he said, “it’s your turn now.”
“I’m good.” Apollo hadn’t been aware that he was supposed to be participating. He had assumed that Klavier would be doing all the singing.
“It’d help you train your vocal chords. I know you have chords of steel,” Klavier said.
Apollo huffed. “You’re a professional. It’s embarrassing.”
“You don’t even like my music.”
“I don’t like your songs. But you can sing.”
Klavier took a huge chug from his water bottle. Filler beats played in the background. The lights were on low. Apollo wondered where the tension in the air was coming from.
“Got you,” Klavier said. “You admitted I’m not a talentless hack.”
“Ugh.” Apollo flipped through the binder of available songs. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t completely stupid. When he got back to Los Angeles, he was going to have to figure out what to do about Klavier. In the meantime, he’d let himself have this evening to relax. “Fine. I’ll pick one.”
#
After a perfectly healthy period of internet activity that may or may not be considered stalking in some circles that are more puritanical about this type of thing, Klavier concluded he was emphatically not Apollo’s type. Apollo’s exes were all normal looking people—if Klavier was more uncharitable, which he was not, he would call them boring—and Klavier, was of course, not very normal.
Which was fine! He didn’t need to be Apollo’s type. They were friends. They had great rapport (chemistry, even) in the courtroom. They went for lunch on Wednesdays. Klavier spent an unconcerning amount of time thinking about the shape of Apollo’s mouth. They probably wouldn’t even work out anyway, they’re too different. This wasn’t killing him at all. It was all fine!
God, he thought, dramatically passing his hand over his eyes. I even sound like him now.
But then Apollo knocked on his door—it was Wednesday, and they were having lunch, which was unfortunately the highlight of Klavier’s week, God he’s so pathetic—and Klavier straightened, brushed the invisible flecks of dust from his jacket, and checked his appearance in the mirror concealed in a hidden panel on the wall one last time before putting on a smile and sauntering to the door. Time for another normal interaction between them.
“Hey,” Apollo said. He looked so good today. Had his eyes always been that shade of warm brown? “Where were you thinking for today?”
“I like you, but I’m afraid I’m not your type,” Klavier blurted out.
Apollo blinked. “What?”
“And that is perfectly fine, I am not so needy that everything must be romantic, I value your friendship greatly, and—”
“Wait.” Apollo put a hand on Klavier’s arm. Klavier thought he’s going to pass out. “Who said you’re not my type?”
“Um.” Your digital footprint probably wasn’t the correct option here. “Your general taste for normalcy. I’m sorry Herr Forehead, this probably wasn’t how you wanted your Wednesday to go. I can stop.”
Apollo’s grip tightened, just slightly. His gaze was steady. Oh God, was Klavier spiraling? Was he obviously spiraling? Visibly spiraling? Was that a pity smile? “I just think you might be making a lot of tenuous assumptions here. Much like you do in the courtroom.”
“I don’t make tenuous assumptions.”
“Yes, you do,” Apollo said. “You thought Clive Farrow was the murderer based on one incriminating article—”
“That incriminating article being a gun—”
“Yes, well, here’s the thing,” Apollo said, stepping closer. “You probably should’ve asked what my type is.”
Klavier was dreaming. He was dreaming. “And what is it?”
Apollo snaked a hand around Klavier’s neck. “Let’s find out.”
#
Dating a public figure came with a set of complications Apollo expected. He expected his privacy to be invaded, fans to dissect every aspect of his existence. These expectations did not come to fruition. Klavier was serious when he said he was committing to the law full-time, and he respected Apollo’s wishes to keep their relationship off social media and not to announce it to the world. Of course, Klavier had the occasional PR events, award ceremonies, and galas he had to attend, but Apollo had little interest in socializing with esteemed members of the entertainment industry.
Which was why he was surprised Klavier was skipping the Grammy awards to drink red wine on Apollo’s threadbare couch, TV on, watching the red carpet. Apollo placed the groceries in the fridge before joining Klavier on the couch.
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier said, in lieu of a greeting.
Apollo snatched the remote from Klavier’s hands. “Turn this off.”
Klavier was almost certainly spiraling, mired in nostalgia and sadness for how the Gavinners ended.
“How aggressive,” Klavier said. He reached for Apollo, but Apollo wasn’t in the mood to be propositioned.
“Get in the car,” Apollo said, poking Klavier’s side to get him to head towards the door. “Forget about this. Let’s get ice cream and head to your place.” Klavier’s apartment had the bigger TV, and they were going to need it for a romcom marathon.
“Fine, fine,” Klavier said. But he was already grabbing his wallet, and he was giggling. He must have had more wine than Apollo assumed. “Hey Apollo, am I your type now?”
“You’re drunk, Klavier.”
“Brilliant observation as always, Herr Forehead.”
“Let’s get you home. You wouldn’t want to miss ice cream and Bridget Jones’s Diary, wouldn’t you?”
“Not for the world,” Klavier said.
#
Before Apollo, there had been the music, and the lights, and the weightlessness, exhilaration fizzing in Klavier’s blood like a shaken bottle of champagne. Afternoon shoots in New York City with the band, and they’d be back in Los Angeles by the night; stumbling from club to club with progressively looser gaits, baring their teeth for the paparazzi and sprawling across VIP section velvet, arms slung around each other.
“What is this?” Klavier drawled, taking the credit card Daryan handed to him. The club lights strobed too violently for him to discern its surface. The air was warm and sticky. It was exactly why they had come.
Daryan gave a signature devil-may-care shrug. His hand was creeping up the thigh of the brunette beside him. “Wouldn’t you rather find out for yourself?”
The music rose, and they had to shout to be heard. It was a waste of both of their voices.
Klavier looked at Daryan’s girl, giving her a lazy once-over. She was wearing three different colors of leather—Klavier hadn’t known leather could even be twisted like that. He gestured with the card, making sure to keep it level “Is it yours?”
Daryan angled himself to block Klavier’s view. His dark eyes reflected every shift in the lights. “You’re so fucking uptight. It’ll make you feel good.”
Klavier leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”
“Just like your brother. Hey, does he know you’re in the city tonight?”
Not yet, but he would. That was half the point of the photos. There was a fight guaranteed in the morning, when Kristoph let himself into Klavier’s apartment at an hour he knew Klavier’s hangover would still be hammering into his skull. Klavier looked forward to it and dreaded it. It would be quiet, not like here, the roaring music, the screaming moshers. Kristoph would speak levelly and Klavier would pour himself some hair of the dog and Kristoph would list off every facet of Klavier’s reputation he was jeopardizing with this lifestyle, which was the closest he ever got to talking about the trial Klavier was supposed to prosecute against him.
Klavier Gavin, rockstar prosecutor. Klavier Gavin, a true thoroughbred in the history of the prosecutor's office. Klavier Gavin, the ruthless, the heartless, the ship without an anchor.
At least he’s right about something Klavier thought. He breathed in.
#
When the topic of Klavier’s dating history came up, Apollo was both surprised and not to learn about Daryan Crescend. He was not surprised that Daryan was forever etched in Klavier’s mind as his first love. The surprise was that Klavier visited Daryan in prison once in a while, around once or twice a year.
“What do you even talk about with Daryan?” Apollo asked. Klavier had made one of these visits last week. They were preparing to leave home for a proper brunch, a ritual they hadn’t undertaken for a while, when Klavier brought up that he had seen Daryan recently and that time and prison time had not been kind to his looks.
“Are you jealous?” Klavier asked. When Apollo didn’t answer, Klavier said, “Nothing much. I brought him his favorite brand of candies and coffee. There was a place in Pasadena he used to like the best—Jameson Brown, I think is the name? I buy a bag of their beans whenever I’m around.”
“You smuggle him expensive coffee?” Apollo was not jealous that Klavier brought Daryan food in prison, he just didn’t understand why Klavier went out of his way to go to the trouble of bringing candy and coffee that needed to be inspected by prison guards for Daryan, who was unlikely to be eligible for parole for another decade.
Klavier shrugged. “When I started the Gavinners, it was just me and Daryan. I’m sure you know what Kristoph thought of me starting a band.” He put on a pair of Ray-Bans that covered most of his face. “Forget about Daryan. I don’t want to talk about him. Let’s talk about Herr Wright and Herr Edgeworth’s party instead. I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s secretly an engagement party.”
“Ugh, the only person who doesn’t believe it’s an engagement party is Mr. Edgeworth. Trucy has hinted that a proposal’s coming, and he just doesn’t believe it.”
There had been enough tragedy in Klavier’s life that Apollo knew better than to pry. There were some things about Klavier that Apollo would never know the full extent of, and the same was true for Klavier. So he would let Klavier have his secrets.
#
“This is different,” Klavier said. “I am not sure I entirely like it.”
He was in the passenger seat for once. Apollo was driving. Apollo was a surprisingly bad driver–they had already run three red lights (maybe Apollo was partial to the red of them, and the associated thrill?).
“Well,” Apollo said breezily, nearly missing another exit and causing Klavier to sputter as he was thrown against the car door. “How do you think I feel when you manhandle me into the car and don’t tell me what we’re doing until we get there?”
“Grateful for the chance to experience my exquisite taste.”
“So put yourself in my shoes.”
Klavier gave him a hurt expression. “You would call it manhandling?”
“Not in the legal sense, I suppose.”
“Right. Because we are both lawyers.”
Apollo made an exasperated sound. Klavier found it very endearing. “Why are you saying that like we’re not both lawyers?”
Klavier winked, even though he knew Apollo could not be looking at him. “Because we leave the law in LA, baby.”
They were in San Diego again. Klavier was pretty sure Apollo wasn’t trying to replicate any of the excursions Klavier had already taken them on, which ruled out the San Diego Zoo (where they had gotten matching giraffe sunglasses), the Xi’an noodle place (where Apollo had complained that biang biang mian weren’t supposed to be so soy sauce based), and the karaoke place (where Klavier had gotten the opportunity to show off his unparalleled singing skills, and win the highest award of all: Apollo’s begrudging admiration).
As it turned out, Apollo couldn’t hide their true destination for too long. There was, after all, no good way to pretend they weren’t approaching the ocean, that great, endless swathe of blue. Klavier thought, privately, that the San Diego beaches were nicer than the LA ones.
It took several minutes, and a lot of colorful swearing from Apollo, for them to find parking. When they got out of the car, Apollo opened the trunk to reveal he’d prepared for this: there were towels, and an umbrella.
Against the sound of the sea, it was easy to just be: a happy couple, here to enjoy the sunshine and the sand; no sabotaging brothers or lost parents. It was just them.
Apollo’s gaze, when he looked at Klavier, was a touch anxious. “I hope I’m not being too basic.”
“No,” Klavier said, tipping his head back, a smile already beginning. “No, I like it very much.”