4U

Khura’in is a nice place, Apollo thinks to himself.

He honestly believes it, too. Considering the revolution and its violence had died down long ago, he’s able to go about his business with relative ease. It’s simpler here. People genuinely take time out of their day to admire their surroundings, their environment, themselves. The air is cleaner and fresher. He’s never as nervous as he usually is. He can leisurely take his bike from the office for lunch, and people greet him with a smile that actually means something past its face value.

It’s refreshing.

Of course, he misses LA and everyone at the agency, but he was always getting into horrible incidents back there—honestly, he was glad he made it out of there before he got accused of murder. It was only a matter of time, considering the agency’s luck with that sort of thing.

So, Khura’in is where he’s found his groove, and it feels right.

He makes it to the noodle stand. It’s a nice place because the food is good and the folks are nice and they put on the Khura’in radio, which he’s finally able to understand with fluency. It’s not that they don’t speak English, but if you speak the native language, they accept you as one of their own, and considering he is Khura’inian, it’s a fulfilling feeling that gives him peace he’s probably never felt.

He leans his bike against a shop and says, “The Number Two, thanks,” in Khura’inese. In a few minutes, a bowl is placed in front of him. It’s salty (not Eldoon’s salty, though) and hot and feels like a warm hug.

There’s nothing that can ruin this.

“This is the hottest song in America—no, the world, right now!”

Other than the obvious.

The radio is louder than Apollo remembers it ever being. It feels like its a sharp tone that’s drilling holes into his ears, giving him a headache.

“It’s ‘Anywhere You Go’ by Klavier here on—”

“What?!”

Apollo stands up in his seat and smacks his hands onto the counter, his fresh noodle bowl falling to the ground, some of it maybe burning him, but he can’t even feel it.

It starts out slow, just a few beats and some vocals that have been chopped up and distorted.

It’s also not rock. Like, not rock at all. It’s…something Apollo doesn’t have words to describe, but it’s much easier to listen to than blaring guitars and pounding drums.

He talks about being stranded and lonely where he is, people smiling at him even though it doesn’t mean anything. It sounds like how he remembers songs on the radio being in LA except its an achingly dark narrative woven into something catchy and electronic sounding.

(This isn’t home for me, this isn’t home…)

It’s such a sad song. Much sadder than he’d think a number one hit would be.

But, it picks up, asking someone to stay with him and how much better he feels when they’re with them. He can hear his guitar strumming under layered vocals.

(I’ll follow anywhere you go…)

As soon as the song reaches its chorus, he’s thrown back to life, and the song is not blaring like he thought it was. He’s just standing there, soup on his suit, with a lot of people staring at him.

“Sorry, sorry—I’m fine. I’ll leave.”

And, he does. He rides his bike all the way to his office, his head spinning the entire time.

Nahyuta looks up from his paperwork to see Apollo flying into their agency. He has one eyebrow raised.

“Did you cause another crisis?” he asks, leaning an elbow on top of his paperwork in a bored sort of way.

“Apparently.”

He rushes into his office, and the door slams behind him.

Okay. Be sensible. It can’t possibly be as bad as he thinks it is.

He searches his name, but apparently, he went from The Gavinners to just the simple uncapitalized moniker “klavier.”

He clicks the “news” tab and articles practically spill out of his computer screen.

It’s true. Klavier has the most famous song in America right now, which means it’s probably the most famous in the world. It’s called “anywhere u go.” It's just as pretentious as he’d expect from him. Still, he reads more.

His EP is called “4U.” The tracklist is given to him on the side of the search-engine page.

mistakes.
on the low.
come undone.
stay over.
arrival.
say my name.
anywhere u go.

Number one song. Number one album. But, it’s only seven tracks! That’s a rip-off.

Okay, nevermind. It’s called an “Extended Play,” and it's not supposed to be a full album. But, still. How did seven songs go to #1 on the Hot 100?

He checks his notes to make sure that’s the album chart. No, that’s the singles chart. Yes, he’s #1 on that, too, but he meant the Hot 200, so that’s embarrassing. Ugh, he’s never understood art, and that’s seriously not helping him right now.

There’s dozens of the same sort of article talking about how amazing it is that klavier’s comeback is so strong. It’s not informative. But, he does come across a fan forum, which he knows from experience might have more details.

“klavierDaily”

The icon is a reversed ‘k’ connected to a ‘D.’ It’s pretty cool, Apollo admits.

He scrolls through the site until he comes across “Album Discussion.” Exactly what he’s looking for. He selects the “4U Discussion” subforum, and not even half-way down the page is a post with the subject line, “apollo…”

Apollo knew this would happen, but seeing it first hand is far worse than anything he could ever imagine.

>apollo…

   >he’s not even trying to pretend this album isn’t about him lmaooooo  

>>i know right??????? god it’s so great, i love them so much

>>Wait who’s Apollo? I just got into klavier so I don’t know about all that

>>OP is referring to Apollo Justice, a defense attorney who has been a colleague of klavier since 2026. A lot of us have been following klavier’s court proceedings because he became a prosecutor around the same time he started The Gavinners. Basically, they were always super flirty during court so a bunch of people ship them.

Here’s some links to court proceedings: (x) (x) (x)

Here’s some paparazzi shots from around this time: (x) (x) (x)

They were seen together every so often for the next few years (you can check the gallery section if you want more pics, there’s tons of threads), but two years ago Apollo stopped appearing in court. We don’t really know what happened, but he either stopped being a lawyer, or he moved.

There’s more info out there, this is just what I know off the top of my head, so you could probably find out more if you do a little digging.

>>if anywhere u go. is anything to go by, he definitely moved from LA

>>oh and in arrival. he says “baby stay over/LA’s cold in October” that’s absolutely about him moving away

>>yeah, im pretty sure he moved because apollo used to be part of the wright anything agency, and their number is stupid easy to find. depending on who picks up the phone, they either hang up or say he’s not working for them.

>>also also also klavier has been subtweeting about ~someone~ who is obviously him for about two years so like….it lines up

>>oh no 4U is definitely about him

>>yeah our king has it bad

>>god what i would give for klavier to make an album about me

>>seems like apollo is the only one who doesn’t want him to hahahahahahaha

Uh, wow, this is horrifying!

Apollo hits the back button and selects a different post. It’s titled, “MusikCore Interview 11.28.2030.” There’s a video. He presses play.

A woman sits in the corner of the shot, barely visible. Klavier, however, looks—ah, er—well, beautiful. His hair is down and cascading over his shoulders. He’s wearing a loose-fitting long sleeve shirt and an expression of dissonance.

“Would you like to explain anything about this particular release compared to your others?”

He crosses his legs and smiles in a way Apollo knows is forced.

“I wanted to change my sound, ja?” Klavier says in his heavy German accent. “The rock ’n roll schtick was overplayed. I didn’t feel the need to do that anymore.”

The interviewer asks, “So, what genre would you classify this album as?”

“The record is…hm, how you say, electronic pop? Instead of a band, I produced the songs with synthesizers and my computer. I start on my guitar or a piano to get the melody, or the words, or whatever I’m working on, and then I start programming sounds. You know—I hear sounds in my head when I write.” He taps his head. “And, the thing about electronic music is you can basically make anything you want. Traditional instruments can be somewhat limiting, ja?”

“When people hear pop, they think overly saccharin, energetic music, but this is a little on the darker side.”

“Ja, I think it’s a reflection of the past few years and the sadness of everything that’s happened…”

“Such as your bandmate and brother being arrested?”

“There are lots of things to reflect on when your world is turned on its head. Some of them are happy and some of them are very melancholy. That’s what I was trying to say.”

“You seem to be talking to a very specific person—a lover?”

“Hmm, that’s personal, ja?”

“Not even a hint?”

“People come in and out of our lives. This is a story about one of them. That’s all."

It’s about him. Oh, Holy Mother, his album is about him.

How could he let this happen? How could it come to this? Okay, well…there are some explanations.

Maybe he was using his relocation to ignore everything that actually hurt in his life. Here, he could do anything he wanted, and it wouldn’t backfire spectacularly like his previous actions had.

Hm.

Instead of looking for information about Klavier, he clicks to another site.

Good thing plane tickets to Los Angeles aren’t too expensive this time of year.

There’s a magazine in one of the kiosks at the airport. It’s one of those limited edition fan ones that are supposed to extort an extra few dollars out of people because they like “klavier.”

But, when he picks it up and he looks back at him through the photograph, something in Apollo twists and turns.

‘Who is his album about?’ a sub-headline on the cover asks.

Is he the only one who knows? Besides the stans, of course.

Apollo buys an iced tea, a bag of chips, and the klavier magazine.

“Oh my God! It’s him!”

Apollo freezes up. It’s one thing to meet an old comrade, but it’s another to be greeted by that comrade’s fanbase without his permission. He sort of thought this would happen, considering the level of attention his fans give him, but it still blows his mind to think that people would take time out of their day to stalk someone because they like their music and stand outside their literal home.

They’re taking pictures of him. Good thing he did his hair before coming here, but it isn’t going to hide his obvious mortification. He knows he’s confirming what everyone already thought, but he has to talk to him.

He covers his eyes and pushes through the crowd, quickly typing the code to his apartment that he’d memorized way back when.

“Apollo!!”

“You’re so cute!”

“How is he in bed?”

The door beeps and he gets inside faster than he’s ever done anything in his life. The fans press up against the door, taking photos and screaming, and Apollo has to physically stop himself from having a panic attack. He turns and runs up the stairs.

He knocks, but the door is open, so he lets himself in.

“Klavier?”

His apartment is cool. It’s almost like a studio in that the kitchen, living room, and bedroom have no separation. Although, there are other rooms off the main one, so it’s that much cooler.

Apollo creeps in, nervous, but sees Klavier sitting on his bed, doing something on his laptop.

“Hello?”

Klavier leaps up, eyes blown wide.

Besides looking absolutely beside himself with shock, he also just looks completely different. For one thing, he’s very thin. Of course, Klavier has always been thin—he’s a celebrity, and people are sort of weird about weight in those circles—but, he’s thinner than that. His face is sharper than he remembers it being. His pronounced jaw is framed by strands of blonde hair that have fallen from his ponytail.

The ponytail is nice. It’s decidedly unlike Kristoph, which is probably the intention. And, instead of the “rock and roll” leather getup, his fashion is much more subdued. He’s wearing a dark purple turtleneck sweater that looks like it’s glued to his skin with how thin the material is. Kinda defeats the purpose of a sweater, Apollo thinks, but to each their own. Around his neck and over the shirt are a few tasteful, thin gold necklaces.

He’s wearing black pants, but they’re a higher rise and they flare a bit at the bottom. His socks just barely peek out from under the material.

Oh, and he’s wearing huge circular glasses. He looks like a nerd. But, a cool nerd.

When he’s done gawking, he struggles to get out, “Ah…Herr Justice.”

No Herr Forehead? He must really be surprised.

“Klavier.”

He doesn’t mean to sound so cold, but he’s pretty angry (even if the sight of him dims it somewhat).

Klavier closes his laptop and comes over from his place on his bed. Before he can figure out what’s happening, Apollo’s being pulled into a hug. It’s way too tight, but it’s comfortable. And, he smells nice.

Okay, enough of that.

Apollo wrestles out of his grip and steps backward. He’s trying to look stern, but having him be so close to him is choking the feelings and words out of him.

“Heard you released more music.”

Klavier giggles inappropriately.

“They even play me in Kuh-ra-ien, ja?”

“Apparently, you’re pretty famous right now. I almost got mauled by your fangirls on the way here.”

His expression dims a little, his mouth twisted up, but it only lasts a split second. Then, he turns around and heads towards his kitchen suite.

“Want anything to drink, Herr Forehead?”

There—he’s back.

“Uh, water, I guess.”

He pours a glass of water with a giant ball of ice. Klavier’s drink has a similarly huge ice cube (ice ball?), but he pours what looks to him as whiskey over it.

Apollo has already wandered over to the kitchen island, taking in his surroundings. His apartment is beautiful, of course. High ceilings, huge windows, spacious rooms—expensive even by LA’s standards. But, there’s something empty about it. It’s a little messy. There are things strewn about. He could hire someone to clean up after him, but he didn’t. Clothes are tossed around his bed, crumpled and forgotten. There aren’t many dishes in the sink, but the ones that are in there look old. He’s got a lot of empty glasses on his bedside table.

(It’s all just a little bit sad.)

He’s handed a glass, and Klavier is inside his personal bubble again. Not like he’s being weird or anything. He just has to be near him to receive the water he asked for, but also Klavier is always so much prettier up close, and it’s been so long that it’s shocking.

Klavier’s smile is small and kind when he pulls out a chair.

“I sense you’d like to talk.”

Apollo has forgotten how useless he can be around him.

“Okay.”

Once he sits, Klavier walks past him and pulls out his own chair. Of course, instead of sitting like a normal person, he straddles the chair, arms crossed over the back.

(He came here with a fire in his chest, but the longer he looks at him, the more he’s beginning to wonder if his music was a cry out to him rather than a flex of ego or to fuck with him specifically.)

He places his chin on his folded arms.

“What brings you around, Schatz?”

“Right, ah—“

He’s forgotten how to make words. It’s hard to formulate even though he’s been thinking about it constantly. But, Klavier doesn’t make a jab at him or poke fun. He’s patient. He’s just…not like Klavier usually is at all.

Apollo shakes his head.

“Sorry, uh, I just—God, I sound stupid—the album it’s—it’s about—”

“About you? Ja.”

Apollo freezes, body tense. Klavier takes a drink of his whiskey.

“You knew that I knew? Why—?”

“I figured you’d find out sooner or later. I didn’t particularly cover my tracks.” He looks off to the side as if contemplating something. “It’s not to spite you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, I just—they know who I am. People know me from when we were in court together, and they know the Wright Agency, and they know you’re talking about me, and—”

“Word spreads quickly, Herr Forehead,” he says softly, a smile indicating that he’s just teasing. “I don’t condone the actions of my fans. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of it.”

(Maybe he is sorry?)

Apollo shakes his head both towards Klavier’s words and his mind’s.

“But, you did this! You didn’t have to talk about me, even anonymously. Why did you?”

Klavier’s face devolves into something more blank than Apollo’s ever seen it. He’s holding his glass in his hand, and he doesn’t snap back to life until his ball of ice cracks.

(He doesn’t seem okay.)

“Klavier?”

“Ach, es tut mir leid.” He sets down his drink and rubs his eyes. “I’ve not been sleeping well.”

Apollo came here to confront Klavier about his music, but now, he’s feeling like he has to talk to him about something else.

“Are you okay?”

He laughs, takes a drink, sets it down again.

“Natürlich. I’ve been caught up in promotions and interviews and everything else.”

“Are you stressed out?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting across the marble kitchen island.

“What about you, Herr Forehead?” He looks back at him. “How is Kuh-ra-ien?”

It sounds funny in his German accent, especially since he’s been in Khura’in so long that the mispronunciation is especially endearing. Apollo smiles to cover up his natural inclination to laugh.

“It’s nice. It’s simple compared to LA. I like that.”

“I’m sure that’s better for you, ja?”

“I’m certainly not as nervous, that’s for sure.”

For a split second, Klavier looks like he might burst into tears, but he regains his composure instantly with a small laugh.

“I understand. LA is a bit of a horrible place. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” When he takes another drink, his eyes lose focus.

Apollo, at this point, is growing concerned. He doesn’t want to be, but he is.

“Klavier. Are you okay?” he asks for the second time in only a few minutes.

“Hm?” The glass is still pressed to his lips. “Ja, mir geht es gut.”

(He’s lapsing into German a lot, he thinks to himself.)

Apollo thinks of anything to lighten the conversation.

“I think it’s interesting that when you sing, you lose your accent.”

He laughs and sets his drink down again. He’d brought him back to life. “It’s because of how you use your mouth to make vocal sounds while singing. It turns your English more proper than I can quite manage normally. I always wondered how mein Bruder could talk like he was always in America.” He touches his fingers to his mouth for a second. “It’s very difficult.”

The mention of Kristoph makes Apollo bristle just slightly but not enough to alert Klavier.

(No, no, don’t think about that. Think about literally anything else.)

“I don’t know, I like your accent.”

Klavier smiles in such a genuine way that Apollo’s heart flops in his chest.

“Danke, Herr Justice.”

The conversation lapses, and they both look at different corners of the room. Everything is so weird. He knew that it would be, but he thought it would be a bad weird, and everything is a good weird. That might be worse.

Eventually, Klavier stands and goes over to a cabinet more near the bedroom side of the apartment. He opens the door and fishes around in a box for a bit before he grabs what he’s looking for and comes back over.

“Do you want a copy?” he asks, extending his hand. It’s a classic jewel case, which probably means something to Klavier, but it doesn’t much to him.

Apollo takes it without much consideration. The cover is purple—or, Klavier is at least. His hair is whipped and smattered all over with purple light shining on him. He flips it over, and he’s laying on the purple ground, clutching a heart pillow, silver glitter all over him and under the tracklist.

He looks up, and Klavier looks melancholy. Why does he look so sad? His bracelet isn’t constricting, so he’s not hiding anything, but this behavior is just so…odd.

“You can have it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ja, natürlich.”

Apollo opens the case. The CD is the same shade of purple as on the cover, but it has a small “4U” in silver on the right side. The left side has a nice design, but he doesn’t exactly have the words to describe it accurately. It's pretty, though.

“Take out the insert.”

He looks up at Klavier and then back down.

As he flips open the booklet, the first page says ‘4U.’ But, he’s signed it in black Sharpie.

From Klavier

4U

Herr Justice

Apollo looks at the page and looks up to Klavier.

“What?”

Klavier’s smile is so sad. It’s like he’s saying goodbye, or he’s leaving something behind.

“It’s for you, Apollo. I’ve been waiting to give it to you.”

He remembers the comments on the thread and realizes just how right they were. How did complete strangers know more about his friend than he does?

(His fans pay way more attention to Klavier than Apollo does.)

Apollo flinches with guilt. He’d never considered that running away from his life might have negative effects on the people he left behind.

“I-I don’t really know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Klavier grins. “Anyway, want to hear a song?”

Apollo fidgets nervously.

“Uhh, sure I guess.”

He walks over to the other side of the room, past his bed, and picks up the guitar that’s resting on a desk. Apollo notices that there’s also a big machine with lots of knobs and dials but doesn’t know what it’s called. It’s probably a music thing he’s too technologically illiterate to understand.

He leans back against the desk, foot propped up on the chair, and plays a few chords, presumably to warm up a little.

“Have you listened to the record?”

“Uh, no, I heard the…single. And, one of the other ones. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Klavier smiles. “It’s alright,”

“It just feels weird that you’d write music about me—for me? Uh—and I never listened to it.”

Klavier waves downward to say ‘come here.’ It’s funny because only people who have spent time in Japan call people over like that. Touring must be more than it’s cracked up to be.

Apollo walks over and sits on the bed that’s positioned next to the desk Klavier is using.

He smiles.

“What are you gonna play for me?”

“Do you want something fun?”

“Sure,” Apollo laughs.

Klavier’s smile comes and goes, putting a hand to his mouth. It looks like he’s covering up his smile, but Apollo knows he’s pretending like he’s not affected by his presence even though he is. And, he’s also probably covering a smile.

“If you insist.”

He strums some more.

“The first track on the record.” Another few cords. “It’s one of the first ones I wrote. Right after we met?” He laughs quietly. “I hope it’s not objectionable.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Apollo half-smiles.

Klavier smiles back. “Okay.”

He strums his guitar in a cool way that Apollo doesn’t have the words to describe, but it’s like the undercurrent of the song. He knows that even though he hasn’t actually heard it before.

"I should probably leave, right?
You got me buzzin' like a street light
And I've been trying to put it behind
But can't deny we got a real vibe
You doing something I can't explain now
Putting pictures on my brain now
But really I should get some me-time
Before I do something I can't rewind

"Oh baby, gimme highs and lows
Wanna get close, no clothes
I don't feel like going home now
Got me all up in the zone now
Oh baby, gimme highs and lows
Wanna get close, no clothes
Probably better if I go now"

He stops playing his guitar and looks directly at him.

"You make me, you make me
You make me wanna make mistakes
Love how bittersweet it tastes
He-he-hey"

He does that thing where he plays a few cords and emulates a beat by hitting the guitar. It’s pretty cool, and it makes it easier to envision the song’s studio version. He looks like he’s having fun, but maybe it’s because he’s wanted to play this for him for a while.

"You make me, you make me
You make me wanna make mistakes
Bend my heart until it breaks
He-he-hey"

It’s cool to watch. He really loves making art—even if it’s about him. That’s—that’s cool, right?

“You make me, you make me, you make me want to make Mistakes. Hey-he-hey.”

Apollo fidgets on the bed.

“You—You’re good at this.”

Klavier laughs wholeheartedly.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says, placing his guitar back down on the desk. “But, there’s always ways to improve, ja?” He flashes a smile, and Apollo breathes in suddenly.

“Yeah…I’m sure.”

He sits beside him and lays back, hands behind his head.

“How are you doing?” Klavier asks as he rolls to his side and looks up to meet Apollo’s nervous gaze.

“Fine.”

Klavier flinches at the harsh answer, and so Apollo feels like it’s his duty to continue to conversation.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. I actually am fine.”

“You always say that.”

“But, I’m not lying.”

Klavier sighs heavily in a way he never did when they were colleagues. He clearly feels like he’s being jerked around.

“I’m not lying,” Apollo repeats.

“Of course.”

Okay, fine. He’s going to go there too then.

“What’s your issue?”

“Hm? I don’t have an issue. Unless you mean a magazine?”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean—what’s wrong? You’re acting so weird. Did I do something wrong?”

The other man sits up. He looks flabbergasted, maybe even ashamed.

“No, of course not.”

“Then, what’s up?” Apollo frowns. “I’m not here for no reason. I want to try to talk things out.”

Klavier stays silent for a few more moments, gaze fixed something on the other side of the room. But, then he asks, “Aren’t you bothered by my music?”

“I admit, I came here originally because I was mad, and I felt like my privacy had been invaded, but you’re right that it’s not your fault that some people are crazy.” He shrugs. “I was jumping to conclusions, and I’m sorry about that, but you’re scaring me, Klavier. This isn’t like you at all.”

He pauses but doesn’t look at him.

“I just miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“But, wasn’t going to Khura’in a way to get away from me?”

Apollo sputters, “Of course not! It was purely professional.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, yeah, I wanted to get away from LA, but that was for personal reasons, not because of you.”

“How can I know that?” Finally, he makes eye contact. His eyes are glassy. “I think I was clear about how I felt about you back then. But, you became so distant. And, then you just leave?”

It isn’t an untrue observation, but it’s so much more complicated than that.

“I…had a good friend die. I couldn’t talk about it back then.”

Klavier’s face is still one of defeat even though Apollo is opening up the way he wants him to.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was too hard at the time.”

“So, you did run from me.”

“No! Klavier, you aren’t listening to me,” Apollo says, exasperated. He shuffles closer to him on the bed, but it’s a little closer than he intended. “It’s not all about you, okay?  I don’t mean that in a bad way. It's just that when Clay died, it was like my whole world fell apart. I had to grieve, and part of it was being away from LA for a while. I promise it’s not you. You have to believe me.”

He thinks about this for a second.

“Were you and Clay close?”

“Very.”

Klavier nods.

“I understand. I felt similar when Daryan got arrested. But, my impulse was to focus on someone else. I guess that was unfair to you. But, it’s been hard for me, I won’t lie.”

“I know. I’m sorry that it seemed like I didn’t care. I do.”

They stare at each other, a silence that doesn’t feel real filling the room.

“Can I give you a hug?” Apollo asks. “You look really sad.”

He wipes a stray tear from his cheek but nods, reaching out and pulling him into his arms. Apollo is surprised at first but clutches him tight after a few moments. Apollo feels the way he tries to hold back sobs but then eventually gives up, crying into the crook of his shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.

(Klavier is so familiar and comfortable even though he’s never seen him emote so openly before. But, he understands his pain. It’s been a long time to be left alone with all that Klavier’s gone through, and Apollo feels bad about it—he really does. But, he can’t apologize completely for his absence. He can apologize a little though.)

“I should have reached out more. But, you know you can call me, right? I’ll always pick up.”

Apollo can’t help but squeak when Klavier’s arms tighten even harder around him. He threads his fingers through blonde hair and sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re so stupid, Herr Forehead.”

He laughs.

“You’re not wrong.”

When he pulls away, they stare at each other again. Klavier looks almost sick—he's pale and his eyes are unfocused. He knows something else is going on, but it doesn't seem like the right time to bring it up.

Apollo decides to smile in a silly way.

"You don't need to write a world-famous song to get me to stay over."

Klavier laughs even though he's still wiping away tears.

"Maybe say that next time, and I won't have to."

"Fair enough."

His lips are just as soft and familiar as he remembers.

People always talk about fireworks, but to Apollo, the kisses he’s been given always make his head buzz pleasantly, a bit of giddy dizziness bleeding into his thoughts.

Apollo can’t help but lean into him, hands pressed to Klavier's chest. Klavier’s one hand is threaded through Apollo’s hair, messing up the styling (but Klavier always loves when Apollo’s hair is messy so it doesn’t really matter). The other hand is placed on Apollo’s waist, which always feels good and comfortable. When Klavier’s hand drifts slightly upward, Apollo can’t help but make a surprised sound.

There’s also something to say about how Klavier is good at these things, way better than Apollo has ever been. He doesn’t really know how to properly kiss, considering Clay and him never really were official regardless of the tiny pecks they exchanged on occasion. But, he lets Klavier take the lead, and it’s fun and electric just like he is.

And, anyway, no part of Apollo could be considered dominant, so it’s kinda the way he likes it.

He’s on his back all of a sudden, and Klavier’s above him, but he just stares at Apollo.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“I missed your face.”

Apollo laughs. “That’s weird.”

“So you didn’t miss my face?”

“I missed you, stupid.”

Klavier laughs this time, but he also kisses him again, so he kind of laughs into Apollo’s mouth, which is an interesting experience. Although, Apollo gently pushes him away.

“I think I want to stop, though.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m just…not used to this, yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was it too much?”

“No, no. That’s why I’m telling you now. So, it isn’t too much.”

Klavier flops down beside him, making the bed bounce. “Do you have any objections to cuddling?” He holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers, which is just so absurd to Apollo that he’s trying not to laugh at him.

Well, he giggles a little bit. “I have objections to whatever you’re doing right now.”

They both laugh at that, and Klavier pulls Apollo into him. He holds him like he’s the most delicate treasure, and Apollo is immediately subdued by the heartbeat he can hear through his chest. His shirt is soft and warm, and his arms are familiar like his kiss was.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Klavier murmurs.

“I’m happy you’re here, too.”

It’s also a realization of how touch starved he’s been. He’s usually so avoidant of physical contact that just the inherent closeness is relieving on some level. Klavier is really the only person in the world who can hold him like this.

Honestly, he’d missed how nice it felt to fall asleep in someone’s arms.

He’s looking down at his hand, but it’s cast in green light. It’s hard to see, though, because it’s dark. Something tells him that he shouldn’t relax, that he should be on edge. It feels like this has already happened.

He turns around and crashes into something solid. After stumbling backward and catching his bearings, he looks up.

“Did I hurt you, son?”

Apollo gasps so hard that it makes his lungs burn. He backs up, otherwise frozen, scared to death of the specter in front of him. But, he takes one too many steps, and he falls down, down, down.

He’s swallowed completely by freezing cold water.

The shock forces all of the air out of him, and he realizes that he’s sinking faster than he can push against. He can’t swim, he can’t breathe, and the bit of green light from the surface is slowly fading. He tries to call out, but the water chokes him.

(It chokes him as if Kristoph’s fingers are still around his throat.)

He wants to cry, but it’d be useless to cry underwater. As he keeps sinking, he realizes Clay’s jacket is still around his shoulders, and he wonders if he’s even taken it off since it happened. It begins to float away from him, but he can’t catch it because he’s already too weak to move.

This water is reminding him of every horrible thing he’s experienced, reminding him that part of himself is still stuck in that god-forsaken cave and that he can’t run from it forever.

As the last of the green light disappears, the edges of his vision dim. His chest constricts, trying to resist the urge to breathe in water, but eventually, he chokes and the lake is inside his body, claiming him as its own.

When he opens his eyes, his face is still smashed into That Pillow—

“—Apollo!”

He gasps, and to his shock, he can breathe. In fact, he’s panting and he feels light-headed. Klavier is looming over him, and he looks terrified. His hand goes to Apollo’s face as if caressing his cheek but it’s far more frantic, far more uncertain.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Apollo sits up and realizes he’s slicked with sweat that makes him feel very cold. He puts a hand to his forehead and blinks.

“What happened…?” He sounds groggy.

“I think you were having nightmares. You were mumbling and—ah—making noises, and shaking, and—are you okay?”

He blinks again, trying to recall the specifics of the dream. He thought he remembered it when he first opened his eyes, but it has already disappeared, poofed into smoke (or filed away in the part of his brain he can’t access).

“Uh—yeah, I think so. I don’t remember what I…”

Klavier pulls him into his arms and squeezed around his waist, head pressing against Apollo’s shoulder.

“Ach, Schatz, don’t scare me like that.” Klavier gently rocks him, but Apollo’s sure that he’s doing it for himself, trying to calm himself down after feeling panicked. He doesn’t even mind that he’s so sweaty, which is endearing considering how fastidious Klavier can be sometimes.

Apollo puts his hand on his back and leans into him. He smells nice even in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

Klavier breathes in deeply and his exhale is shaky. He pulls away from him and places his hand on Apollo’s cheek, but this time, it’s melodramatically compassionate. He swears that his eyes are glassy.

“No, no, Apollo, I’m so sorry Kristoph hurt you so deeply.”

His breath hitches.

(Mentions of That Man causes an instinctual response, a gasp that he can’t prevent himself from taking.)

“Oh, I—”

“It’s so horrible to see you like that.”

What had he said in his sleep? Apollo doesn’t even want to know.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. It’s not your fault.”

Klavier rubs at his own face, taking a breath that is annoyed and exasperated.

“I just hate him so much for everything. I forgot how angry I still am.” He looks back to Apollo. “You don’t deserve the way life treats you.”

Apollo is not sure how to respond. He had put that event behind him—or, more accurately, he had filed it away so he didn’t have to think about it.

(All of his trauma episodes involved remembering things he wouldn’t let himself think, his body so horrified by the memories that he spirals out of control, flying off the handle, reacting in horrible ways. There are still things he’s hidden from himself, but he can’t know what they are until they return to him again.)

“Klavier, please don’t feel bad. I’m sorry bad things have happened to you, too.”

Once again, he looks like he’s about to cry, so he reaches out and hugs him again.

He hears Klavier whisper, “I wish I could kill him myself.”

Apollo feels a beam of light cast over him. He groans, turning over and pulling the covers over his head. The bed shifts a little.

Oh, yeah. He’s at Klavier’s place.

He peaks out from under the covers. Klavier is sitting more towards the foot of the bed, cross-legged with his laptop. Apollo doesn’t know what time it is, but it is Too Early if the sun just came up. Also, he forgot to take into consideration the time zones between LA and Khura’in, so he’s majorly jet-lagged. It’s a 14 hour time difference! Morning in California is the middle of the night over there.

Okay, that’s probably unnecessarily detailed, but the point Apollo is trying to make is that he’s really tired. And, Klavier’s up really early, which is strange when they went to bed late and woke up in the middle of the night, too.

“…Klavier…?”

He turns around, surprised. But, his expression softens after a moment.

“Ah, guten Morgen, Herr Forehead. Sleep well?”

Apollo lets out a long, drawn-out, pathetic groan. Klavier smiles so fondly back at him that his heart skips a beat. He puts down his laptop on the floor and crawls over to where he’s laying down and peels back the covers so his whole face is showing.

“Du bist so mürrisch, Knuddelbärchen.”

“I can’t understand you,” Apollo grumbles.

“Ich kenne.” Klavier leans forward and kisses his forehead. “Are you tired?”

“Jet-lag.”

“Ahh, ich sehe.”

Apollo can figure that one out.

“Why are you up so early?” Apollo asks. “Could you not sleep or something?”

“I slept fine. I just like to get started early when I want to write. Lots of e-mails, ja?”

“Hm.”

“Anyway, you can sleep for as long as you like.” His words are so soft that his voice doesn’t quite sound like his. “I love having you in my bed.”

As he blushes, he yanks the blankets up to right under his eyes.

“Why are you like this?”

“I’ve told you before. It’s so fun to get you riled up because it’s so easy.” Klavier lays down on top of the covers and runs his finger over one of Apollo’s horns. “You underestimate how cute you are.”

Apollo pulls down the covers again.

“It’s not really kosher to call yourself cute.”

Klavier hums melodically. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“Good to know,” he says before turning over and covering his entire head again.

He hears Klavier chuckle and get off the bed, and then Apollo falls asleep again.

He can only sleep for another few hours. His mind is restless, and he doesn’t know why. He keeps tossing and turning. Malaise isn’t the right word, and pain isn’t right either. It’s like the brain extra activity is taxing, and it makes him upset.

He doesn’t want to be upset around Klavier, but he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to hide it since he’s still tired. He throws off the covers and sits up, crossing his legs and staring down at the bed.

(Something is definitely not right with him. He gets dizzy easier now. He has spells where he feels weak. He knows it’s nothing physical. He knows it’s because he’s pretending like he’s fine and nothing bad has ever happened to him.)

But, he’s fine!

Apollo is snapped out of his thoughts by a mug being shoved in his face.

“Coffee?”

He looks up, and Klavier’s smile is way more playful than it was that morning. He’s doing him a favor rather than doting on him romantically.

“Sure.”

He kneels down, propping his elbows on the bed and placing his chin in his hands.

“You look down, Schatz. Something wrong?”

Apollo shakes his head but he doesn’t look up from the steam rising from his cup.

“No. Just tired.”

Klavier gives him a little pat on the knee and stands back up, stretching and turning towards the other side of the room. Apollo watches as he goes over to a spot on the floor that has stuff spread all over the place. His laptop, a guitar, and lots and lots of paper scattered in the general vicinity. Apollo watches him as he crouches, trying to clean up and organize everything.

“Klavier?”

He looks up, papers in hand, with a mildly surprised expression.

“Yes?”

“I know I shouldn’t pry, but you look really thin.”

Klavier stands, looking down at himself as if he hadn’t noticed before this moment.

“Hmm…” He puts the stack next to that big machine. “Well, this lifestyle can be…taxing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He looks away, which is—weird. He almost never lacks confidence.

“Honestly, you’ll probably not like the answer.”

“That explains nothing.”

Klavier gives a large sigh, but he doesn’t look upset, just tired. “It means I’m very busy, and sometimes I forget to do other things.”

“Like eat?”

“Ja. I get caught up in projects and don’t remember anything else. Very focused.”

“Klavier, you look sick. There has to be something going on.”

“I’m not sick, I promise,” he smiles in that charming way he does. Apollo doesn’t believe him, and his bracelet tightens, but he can’t find the energy to keep arguing.

Once he puts away his guitar and computer, he wanders over to the kitchen. He grabs a bottle—the whiskey from yesterday—and he pops off the top. It’s not even noon, and he’s pouring himself a drink.

“Day drinking?”

“Why not? I already completed today’s duties, and I’m not scheduled to do any promo for a bit. I might go to a party tonight. You can be my plus-one, if you’d like.”

A Hollywood-celebrity party? Apollo doesn’t even like low-key parties let alone actual legitimate rich people parties. But, he feels like he at least owes it to him to hang around for a little while, just to make sure he actually is okay. Nahyuta can handle the agency by himself for a few days.

“I’ve heard of pre-gaming for a party, but this is a little ridiculous.”

“I know you’ve been living the lawyer life, but when your life is a party—ah, what’s the line? ‘When you party every day, ain't nothing but a party,’” he laughs.

Apollo doesn’t get the reference.

“Aren’t you going to be too messed up by the time it rolls around? Just, like, from a medical standpoint.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m a professional.” He winks before taking a large sip. He hisses when he sets the glass on the counter. Liquor on the rocks must be a strong wakeup call this early in the day.

Regardless, he recovers quickly.

He walks over and gives Apollo a kiss. Klavier tastes like alcohol, but because he’s so familiar, it almost doesn’t set off alarm bells in his head.

“Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back.”

Instead of alarm bells, he feels that low humming in his brain. It’s been so long since he’d been around someone he sorta, kinda likes that he’s forgotten how powerful the hit of endorphins can be. His whole face feels like it’s going to burn off his skull, and his lips tingle from either the alcohol, the kiss, or both.

“Okay.”

He pulls away and winks again before disappearing into a small hallway.

Apollo is finally left by himself, left with his own thoughts. His first impulse is to snoop, as if he’s on a crime scene, but that’s totally an invasion of privacy, especially knowing Klavier, he’d open up about whatever if Apollo asked more directly.

But…maybe having some evidence wouldn’t hurt? He tells himself this is fine even though he knows it’s not.

When he opens his fridge, it’s not well stocked. He has a few half-empty bottles of wine stashed in the door, and there’s a lonely pizza box that looks and smells like it’s been there for way too long. It looks like a college student’s kitchen, honestly. He has, like, one box of cereal, but it’s some German brand he can’t decipher the name of. It also looks old.

(He gets a picture of Klavier sitting on the ground stuffing handfuls of German cereal into his mouth after he’s been drinking all day, too incapacitated to order food. It’s not something he would do, but he does think that maybe he’s devolved enough in the past two years that he can’t stand to take care of himself anymore. Apollo gets it, but it still makes him sad.)

The rest of the kitchen cupboards are barren. He wanders over to the cabinet in the living room/bedroom and opens those doors. It’s mostly miscellaneous objects that don’t belong out on a table but also aren’t meant to be thrown away.

Lots of copies of his various albums. They’re all mixed in a box. It’s almost like he doesn’t care about them and just tossed them together. Some of them are even cracked—did he legit throw them in there? Weird.

There’s an unlocked lock box with documents and receipts in it. Hand-written notes, too. A few ‘IOU’s that have no documented reasons, just names and prices. The rest of it is just hung up clothes, nice stuff that Apollo could never afford in his wildest dreams.

Disappointed with his lack of findings, he closes the doors and wanders over to the desk with his instruments. On closer inspection, the device on his desk has to be some sort of synthesizer, like the ones he was talking about in that interview. He’s afraid to touch it because of the overwhelming amount of inputs on it. He doesn’t want to mess up his music stuff, so he just sits back on the bed and listens to the sound of the shower running.

The only thing he can gather is that Klavier is majorly depressed, which—yeah, Apollo doesn’t blame him. First, Daryan. Then, he lost the band. He realized he got Phoenix’s badge taken away with forged evidence that Kristoph planted. Kristoph was convicted of several counts of first-degree murder, forgery, and attempted murder.

(Then, he left, too.)

Apollo feels guilty again. But, to be fair, Klavier never made an attempt to contact him. Neither did Apollo, but at least it was mutual. Like that’s an excuse or something.

“I can’t wear this.”

Apollo sulks in front of a huge full-length mirror. He isn’t really into fashion, but he usually tries to look nice, at least to his standards.

“But, you look so good, Herr Forehead.”

“I don’t think so.”

He’s been stuffed in a white button-up with a bright red embroidered sweatshirt over it. It’s reminiscent of his regular outfit, but it’s too casual. He looks like he’s 17 again. The black skinny jeans and red sneakers are pretty cool—but the point is he feels completely ridiculous, especially because Klavier wouldn’t let him gel his hair.

“Is this really what passes for cool these days?”

“No offense to you, but I don’t think you ever knew what was cool.”

Apollo can’t be mad because he knows Klavier is right.

Although, Klavier also looks ridiculous in his opinion. It’s literally just a white shirt and black ripped jeans, but he’s wearing this giant black…cardigan…thing. It’s “cool,” but Apollo never really understood the appeal of wearing cool clothes just to be cool.

Or, maybe he just really like ties. Whatever.

“Achtung! We look so good.”

Klavier leans his arm on Apollo’s shoulder and poses as if he’s taking a picture. He has to admit that Klavier has a natural charisma that he lacks. He can just move in a way that makes him look famous. Maybe that’s how he can get away with wearing big ridiculous clothing. Apollo just stands there, feeling awkward. He doesn’t think he looks good.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Apollo,” Klavier turns to him and becomes stern. “I will not let you go to a party in a suit and tie.”

“But, I like that outfit,” he pouts.

Klavier leans down and kisses his forehead.

“I know you do, Süsse.”

It’s not a famous people party. Klavier drives his motorcycle to a neighborhood that’s a lot less nice than the one he lives in. The apartment complex is a little dingy, too. Apollo is suddenly nervous about where Klavier is taking him.

“Where are we?”

“Ach, it’s just my old friend’s place.”

“How old?”

“Since before I started law.”

“Oh, wow, that is an old friend.”

He turns off his bike and helps Apollo off, which is nice because he is very fond of how his hands feel on his waist. Klavier takes his hand and gives him a warm smile before leading him into the complex.

It’s not a bad place. It sort of looks like where he used to live before he moved. The hallways are brightly light and carpeted. It reminds Apollo of a hotel. It’s definitely not as nice as Klavier’s apartment, but Apollo can’t even imagine how much money he must have.

Klavier knocks on a door, and it has to be the right one because there is audible music from the other side. The door swings open, but there doesn’t seem to be someone greeting anybody because the person who opened the door remains to be seen.

The apartment is surprisingly big, considering the outside is relatively modest. Although, the apartment itself isn’t much to look at. Furniture has been pushed toward the perimeter of the living room, and people mingle about with plastic cups in their hands, shouting as they’re trying to be heard over the music.

Only a few moments later, Klavier spots a few friends and calls out to them. He turns to Apollo and says, “I’ll be back in a moment. Feel free to grab a drink.”

Great. Ten seconds after getting there and Klavier’s already ditched him. He guesses that this is a great excuse to drink. In the kitchen, there are various kinds of liquor and mixers, beer, other drinks that Apollo hasn’t heard of. He’s not much of a drinker, besides the occasional glass of “grape juice,” so he’s not really sure what to pick. Athena drinks screwdrivers, which is vodka and orange juice. That’s fairly easy to make.

Apollo isn’t sure he’s made his own mixed drink…well…ever? He takes a cup and pours what he thinks is probably a good amount of liquor and then adds the orange juice. It smells bad. The drink isn’t bad, though. Tastes like orange juice. Whatever.

Wandering out of the room, he looks around. The people here are pretty average, but some have a hardened image—punks or whatever? Some of the girls look like they’ve just stepped off the runway. He assumes those are the wealthy ones. It’s a weird mix of people in a weird place, but it's certainly better than going to a party with tons of famous people. Apollo doesn’t totally stick out like a sore thumb.

He wonders where exactly Klavier went. He’s not in the living room, and looking in people’s bedrooms at a party sounds like the worst idea possible. He decides he’ll stay in the kitchen and wait for Klavier to come find him, instead.

Apollo counts his drinks.

One screwdriver. One mixed drink that someone made for him because he didn’t know what to do. A beer. No, wait, two beers. Now he’s drinking another screwdriver.

So, basically he’s feeling pretty buzzed. He looks at his watch. He’s been there for like an hour, but Klavier is still missing, and he’s bored and nervous. It’s kind of ridiculous that Klavier took him here only to abandon him.

Annoyed, Apollo decides to go to the bathroom.

It’s around the corner and the door is closed with the light on. But, it’s not locked. Huh. He decides to take the risk that someone’s in there already.

And, he finds Klavier.

He walks into the bathroom to see him and a bunch of his friends doing lines off a mirror. They make eye contact, and Klavier can’t help but sniff in surprise.

Apollo is too drunk to respond appropriately to this so he just backs up and closes the door. Not even two seconds later, Klavier emerges and closes the door behind him.

“Schatz.”

“Thanks for abandoning me. To do drugs.”

“I’m so sorry, Apollo,” he says almost a little frantically, hands-on Apollo’s shoulders. “I lost track of time. I haven’t seen some of these acquaintances in a while, and we got carried away.”

“Yeah, by doing coke?”

“Please forgive me. I will come join you in a little bit.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

Klavier kisses his forehead and then disappears back into the bathroom again.

Huh, who would have guessed that he’s not just an alcoholic, but he’s into drugs, too! It’s not like Apollo minds, but it makes him nervous. He decides not to think about it. Instead, he tops off his drink with more vodka and sits down on a couch on the other side of the living room.

People watching isn’t that bad, especially now that people are drunk. Watching drunk people is funny. But, it's not quite the entertainment he needs right now. After a moment, he spaces out, eyes unfocused, mind blank.

He’s not sure how much time has passed but the next thing he realizes is that a girl has appeared in front of him. She’s gorgeous—long black hair that fades into white at the ends, perfectly done makeup, an expensive-looking manicure, and an expensive-looking outfit, too. She looks like a straight-up movie star, and maybe she is.

“Is anyone sitting here?” She points to the spot next to Apollo.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Great.” She flashes a smile and flops down on the couch. “Phew, some party, huh?”

“I guess. I’m not really a party person.” He takes a sip of his drink in defiance.

“That’s a shame. Why did you come, then?”

“Klavier dragged me here.”

Her eyes light up.

“Ohhh, so you’re the boy he’s been lovesick over.” She looks him up and down. “Didn’t know twinks were his thing.”

His face turns a deep shade of red. “Rude.”

“No, no, I don’t mean it in a bad way. You’re cute.”

This conversation is too personal and too embarrassing. Apollo regrets letting her sit next to him.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re talking to him again. He’s been wilding out.”

Apollo quirks an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, you know. Tons of partying. And, when he’s not partying, he’s a workaholic. He just put out a few songs, but he says he has dozens and dozens that he hasn’t released.”

“Huh,” Apollo frowned, feeling the familiar guilt rise up in him again. “I have noticed he drinks a lot. Well, a lot more than he used to.”

“I mean, in this business, pretty much everyone has some vice. Alcohol, drugs, shopping, sex—whatever. It’s hard to cope when everyone knows your name, but no one actually cares about you.”

“It sounds like you know from experience.”

“Who knows?” She shrugs. “Speaking of that mess, where’s Klavier?”

“The last time I saw him, he was doing coke in the bathroom.”

She laughs before having another drink. “That checks out.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, no. He does a lot of coke. Like a lot of coke. Can’t blame him, though. The guy’s been through a lot. You know what they say—money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy drugs.”

Do people actually say that? Apollo wonders.

“Is he doing okay?”

The girl shrugs again. “Eh, I dunno. You would know better than I would. He’s probably not, but are any of us?”

That’s true. Apollo has enough self-awareness to know that he’s been running from his problems, too. He’s blocked out everything since he started working in Khura’in and for good reason.

“I guess that’s why he’s lost weight.”

“Probably.” She leans a little closer to him. Apollo can’t help but stare at her makeup. It’s so sparkly that it’s distracting. “So, what about you? What are you up to in these parts?”

“Uh, well, I-I’m a lawyer, but I’ve been working in a different country for a while for, uh, reasons. But, I used to live here, so I came for a visit.”

She leans back and crosses her arms like she has everything figured out.“Ah, right, you’re the kid he used to battle in court. It’s all coming back to me.”

Okay, now he’s curious. Who is this person?

“How do you know Klavier?”

“We’re old friends. Got into music around the same time. Actually, my brother was in his band.”

“What?!”

“Yep, the infamous Daryan Crescend. After he got arrested, we started talking more because we had to rant about how he’s a huge piece of shit.”

Apollo is so shocked, he almost can’t talk. “That’s crazy! I worked on that case.”

“Yeah, I know. As soon as you said you’re a lawyer, it clicked.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Tamary Crescend. Nice to meetcha.”

She holds out her hand and he shakes it.

“I’m Apollo Justice and likewise.”

“We’ll all have to hang out sometime. I’m sure Klavier would like that. Well, maybe. He holes himself up in his apartment and only leaves when he’s going out, y’know?”

That doesn’t surprise him. He’d been around him for two days and already came to a similar conclusion.

“I can probably convince him to do whatever.”

“Yeah. I don’t know if you know this, but he’s so fucking into you, bro. Like, wrapped around your finger level.”

“…I gathered? I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t like him, it’s just that I’m always dealing with stuff, and it makes me feel bad to make people suffer through that.”

“You could probably kick him in the face, and he’d thank you.”

Apollo groans and uses his drink as an excuse not to respond to that.

“How were your bathroom escapades?”

Klavier looks embarrassed. He shrugs and gives him a hesitant smile. “Do you…want any?”

“Uh, no.”

He’s never done coke, but he’s been on Adderall before because doctors thought he had ADHD when he was just a depressed, anxious, traumatized mess. Apparently they’re similar. But, he’s so high strung already, and Apollo’s anxiety wouldn’t let him do it anyway.

“Ah, well, Herr Forehead, I will not leave your side for the rest of the night. I’m sorry.” He leans forward and steals a kiss, and Apollo squeaks in surprise. When he pulls away, he can tell that Klavier is highly amused. “Ah, you taste like vodka.”

Apollo is bright red again. He scratches the back of his head nervously. “Uh, yeah, heh. I ran into your friend Tamary, and we took a shot.”

His eyes brighten, and he grabs Apollo’s arm playfully for a second “Fräulein Tamary! What a lovely lady. I’m so glad you hit it off with her.”

“Yeah, I didn’t realize that Daryan had a sister.”

Klavier looks to the side a bit. “Ach, ja. If he’s the moon, she’s the sun. But, yes, she loves taking shots. To each their own.” He shrugs before looking back and putting his hand on his hip, leaning forward slightly. “Are you having fun, Schatz?”

“Sure. It’s not as bad as I thought it was it was going to be.”

“You doubted me? I’m hurt.” He presses a hand to his chest and pouts.

“No, Klavier, stop it.” He smacks his hand down. “I’m just, uh, well you know me. I don’t exactly party a lot. So, I was just surprised.”

“This is a good crowd, ja? Only a few people here are stars. They’re mostly friends from the scene I started out in.”

“What scene did you start in?"

“Underground music. A little pop. A little rock. Sometimes both.”

“You were underground at some point?”

“You don’t get famous on day one. Sometimes you have to grind before people put your songs on the radio.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” he says, mulling over the new information to add to his notes about how the music industry works. He shrugs and goes to take another drink, but his cup is empty. “Oh.”

“Out?” He holds out a plastic cup that smells like straight liquor. “Want to try this?”

“Um. What is it? Expensive German Liquor or something?”

“Nein, it’s Jameson. It’s smooth.”

He blinks at it for a second but takes the cup and takes a very small sip. It actually isn’t bad. It definitely beats vodka which tastes like liquid death. Also, he’s thoroughly intoxicated, and that never hurts.

“Huh. That’s not bad.”

“Yes, it’s my usual. It’s nice to have one thing that never changes.”

Apollo flinches involuntarily. Was that a dig at him? Thankfully, Klavier either didn’t notice or is polite enough not to mention it. Instead, he decides to be silly, taking the cup back and taking a drink himself.

“In-direct-kiss.” He closes his eyes and smiles bigger than Apollo’s seen him.

It’s very cute.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not, dear,” he says, putting his arms around Apollo’s shoulders. “I am cherishing your presence.” He sways a bit to emulate dancing, closing his eyes again and humming a tune.

Apollo can’t help but take the moment to admire how absolutely gorgeous he is.

His hair is so long and so blonde, and he always makes it look voluminous somehow, knowing that his previous signature hair twist condensed it all so tightly. With his head tipping slightly to the side, the dim lights of the apartment catch his cheekbone and he…literally sparkles?

“Klavier. Why is your face sparkly?”

His eyes are open again.

“It’s natural,” he winks, but when Apollo frowns, he laughs and says, “Kidding! It’s makeup. Highlighter.”

“You wear makeup?”

Klavier is so tickled by this question that he takes his arms back and practically doubles over, laughing way too hard for it to be unauthentic.

Once he has calmed himself down and stands up, he looks at him with bright eyes. “You’re so charming. Do I look the same now as this morning?”

Apollo blinks. “Uh, you look—like you?” He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

He bursts into laughter again. At this point, it is clear that Klavier is—uh, drunk? High? Both?

“What are we going to do with you?” He reaches out with his free hand and squishes Apollo’s cheeks. “Du bist so süß. Ach, Ich bin der glücklichste Mann der Welt.”

He smacks his hand away again. “You say things in German so I can’t understand you on purpose, don’t you?”

“Ja.”

Apollo pokes Klavier in the chest. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“A compliment! You never say nice things to me.”

That one catches Apollo off guard. He doesn’t say nice things? But, he never means to be mean or anything. It’s just hard to be affectionate. He spent so much time giving his feelings to people who either betrayed him or straight-up died that it’s so scary to be invested, to admit to himself that he cares.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Am I…awful towards you?”

Klavier’s gives him a bewildered look, halfway between confused and being very entertained.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I want to compliment you.”

“Äh…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Nevermind.” Apollo looks off to the side, obviously dejected. “I’m gonna get another drink.”

As he turns and walks away, Klavier calls out, “Schatz! What did I say?” He catches up to him and leans down in an attempt to catch his line of sight. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. It’s me.”

“Are you being truthful?”

“Yes. It’s really not you. I just feel bad.”

“Hm?” Klavier raises his eyebrows.

But, they’re already at the kitchen counter where the bottles are at. Apollo turns to him and says, “Wanna do a shot?”

“Sure.” Klavier shrugs but there is a little worry or skepticism or…something in his eyes.

Apollo takes (used-by-someone-else) shot glasses and grabs the closest liquor and pours the shots.

When Klavier is handed the shot, he says, “Cheers,” and they tap their glasses before throwing them back. Apollo shutters at the taste, but the burning doesn’t really bother him. It’s almost relieving that it hurt. They put the glasses back on the counter for another unfortunate soul to use.

Klavier doesn't remember to pick up his drink, and instead, drapes an arm around Apollo’s shoulder. “Walk with me, talk with me.”

They don’t talk while they walk. But, he does lead him to a balcony of some sort. There are a few people outside. They’re all smoking.

Apparently, that’s the point. When they sit on a little bench, Klavier takes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He takes out one of the pack and offers it to him, but Apollo shakes his head, so he lights the one for himself.

“You smoke?”

“Hm?” He glances towards Apollo but aims his smoke away from him. That’s considerate. “When I party, ja.”

“Oh. I guess I get that.”

Klavier closes his eyes and lets his arms prop on his knees. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before opening them again.

“You okay?” Apollo asks him.

“Yes, I just breathe too shallow sometimes. I only noticed because—” he holds up his cigarette, “—got dizzy.”

“Oh, that makes sense. I’ve been getting dizzy, too. It might be that. I’m not sure.”

Klavier’s eyebrows pull together. Apollo knows that its because the words he usually doesn’t say are falling out of his mouth.

“You worry me sometimes, Herr Forehead.” Klavier takes Apollo’s hand, lacing his fingers between his. Usually, he’d protest, but with the alcohol in his system, he can admit to himself how much the tiny gesture means to him, how it strikes him in the chest.

“About what?”

“You are…oh, well…hm…”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

Klavier laughs in that way he does when he is actually laughing. “You are so funny!”

Apollo feels himself growing warmer, but he also feels genuinely embarrassed. He gets more embarrassed because he feels like he might cry and for no reason, too. He closes his eyes and looks down to stop himself from doing so.

“Hey, hey—what did I say?” Klavier immediately drops the cigarette and stomps it out so he can use his other hand to lift his chin and turn it to him. When Apollo opens his eyes, a few stray tears run down his cheeks. “Liebling, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m bad,” he says.

“What?” There’s genuine fear in the way he says that word to him.

“I feel like a bad person.”

“Why?” Klavier takes his hand away but squeezes the one that still has Apollo’s.

He shakes his head. “I can’t say it.”

For the first time all night, Klavier’s expression turns very serious, searching his face as if he’ll find the answers to everything if he does.

“Apollo…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Ach.” He swings his arms around him and pulls him close. “You can be sad. It doesn’t make me think less of you.”

“Okay.”

Klavier starts swaying and then starts humming and then, starts singing something softly.

“Cause you and me
We’re too damn good to let it be
And, I don’t want to keep it on the low
Yeah, you and I
We’re too damn good and I can’t lie
I don’t want to keep it on the low”

Apollo giggles despite himself.

“You do realize that it makes you a nerd to sing the songs you wrote about me to my face, right?”

Klavier loosens his grip on him so he can lean down and finally meet his eyes.

“Lock me up in nerd jail, Herr Justice.”

He lets go of him, and Apollo bangs his imaginary gavel, “Guilty!”

“You are very good at that Judge impression.”

“Years of study.”

They both laugh, and things don’t seem so bad anymore, at least for now.

“So, do you want to stay? We can leave if you want.”

Apollo shakes his head. “I’m having fun. Sometimes I just—do that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, so do I. You’ll catch me some time, too.” Klavier stands and stretches, taking a deep breath. “Ach, I forgot my drink inside. I’ll be back in a moment.” He begins walking to the door.

“Can you get me a drink, too?”

“Natürlich!” he says in a sing-song voice before flashing him a smile and disappearing back inside.

And, now, he’s alone. He said he wouldn’t leave his side again, but there he is.

Loneliness crawls into his chest so easily. It feels like a test, just one more bad feeling to withstand, a resistance to the temptation of truly emoting. And, every time, he eventually breaks and turns into the worst part of himself.

“No…”

Apollo has the impulse to melt to the ground and sob until he dies of dehydration.

Even after he swore he wasn’t going to show Klavier the sad side of himself, he still let it slip out anyway.

(So disgusting.)

Why couldn’t he just not cry? Why does emotion express itself regardless of conscious will?

This hopelessness feels like it’s seeping from him. Even though there are no physical constraints on him, he feels trapped. If he walked too far across California, would he run into a glass wall eventually? Or, is it his brain that’s being constrained inside its own glass coffin?

He lets his eyes lose focus, and the lights of the city turn round and blurred. It’s pretty. It reminds him of Christmas lights. He misses celebrating Christmas.

Ugh, his mind is wandering. He needs a change of scenery.

He gets up and walks into the party again.

It seems more crowded than he remembers. There are bodies, and the music is too loud. Even with the lights dimmed, they hurt his eyes. He looks around, but the room doesn’t feel familiar anymore.

Usually, he would freak out over feeling so disconnected, but maybe because of the alcohol, he feels okay floating into the crowd like a phantom, somehow drifting between people and never really bumping into anything. It feels like a different dimension, and maybe, parties are a different dimension. No one’s proven they aren’t.

What had Klavier said? If every day’s a party…something something party. Now, he sort of understands the sentiment.

However, he’s jinxed himself. He runs square into someone because he’s too busy thinking of song lyrics he doesn’t even know.

“Whoa!”

Apollo stumbles back and into someone else. He says sorry, but they apparently can’t hear, so he gets shoved in return, and he’s too intoxicated to catch his balance, so he slams to the ground.

There’s a very long second where his head swims, and he can’t think of anything. He just lays there before he can even find the energy to think about getting up.

Although, he comes to when he’s being poked in the shoulder by the toe of a very expensive looking highheel.

“Oh, hey, Apollo. Partying hard?”

He looks up to see the pretty girl with black and white hair. She looks pleasantly surprised to see him even though he’s sprawled out on linoleum, half-conscious.

“Need a hand?” she smiles.

Apollo nods, unable to make words because he’s still reeling from being knocked over. He feels dazed when she pulls him up to standing, so he must look dazed, too. His head tilts too far to the side and he stumbles, which causes him to hiss in pain. But, he’s not in pain?

“Whoa, hey, Justice. Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head. “No, sorry. I just got the wind knocked out of me.”

“Oh, bro, that sucks,” Tamary leans into her hip and moves some of her hair behind her ear. “Is it something a shot will cure?”

Apollo breaks out into laughter. He's laughing way too loudly. “You know, probably!”

“That’s the spirit. You’re really a fun guy,” she turns and waves for him to follow her, but she looks over her shoulder to add, “No wonder Klavier has it out for you.” And, she winks.

Apollo would usually have blushed, but the fact that Klavier likes him rolls off his skin this time.

“Honestly, I’m just a dumbass. Why do I have to act like I don’t like him? It’s annoying to me, so it must be horrible for him.”

They stop in front of the liquor counter, and Tamary looks at him like she is simultaneously embarrassed by him but also genuinely impressed at the self-realization.

“I mean, hey. Shit’s hard when you’re in love.”

(Love.)

It sounds like such a beautiful word to him in that moment. Then, she shoves a shot in his face.

“It’s tall,” he says when he takes it.

“It’s a double.”

“Oh, that’s neat. It’s a Klavier shot.”

“What?!” she cackles, trying not to spill her drink.

“It’s because he’s taller than me—no, stop laughing…” he says through a pout.

“No! It’s hilarious! I think you’re funny,” Tamary beams, and somehow, Apollo can tell she’s being honest, so he cracks a smile as well.

“To that fucking idiot, Klavier.” She holds up her shot.

“To that fucking idiot.”

And, they toss it back.

“Apollo!”

He turns around, and the world feels soft and fuzzy and like it can twist and turn as the universe sees fit.

“Oh, Klavier.”

Klavier runs over to him and looks at him like he’s genuinely frightened.

“Are you okay, Schatz? You disappeared. I was worried.”

“I’m so great…fine…” He stumbles into Klavier’s chest. He’s warm and his skin is soft. He smells so nice. 

“Oh, dear.”

“Klavier…” His words are slurred. His head drops forward but then picks up again. He can’t focus his eyes. His face looks blurry.

“How many drinks have you had?”

A lot, apparently.

He remembers shots. One after the other. He didn’t even remember why he took them, but being intoxicated in this way is making him feel out of his body. It makes him sound and feel dumb, but unlike when he’s sober, he has a reason for it.

“I dunno. Tamarya…Tramy…Tamary—yeah that’s it. We did some more shots, and we talked about how tall you are.”

“Ah…I am not sure I understand.”

“There are two, and you’re so tall.”

“Apollo.” He’s suddenly stern. He bends down and puts his hands on Apollo’s arms, but the grip is much more tight than usual. “I need you to focus. Are you honestly alright?”

Klavier seems so concerned for some reason. Apollo giggles because he doesn’t understand why, but he also doesn’t know how to express that, so he just kind of laughs, stumbling around until Klavier steadies him again.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m confused.”

Klavier dips his head, takes a moment, and then, stands up straight, placing his hands on his hips.

“Ach, I’m sorry. I just get worried about my Mäuschen.”

Apollo grins. “What does that mean?”

“It means, you are a small, very cute mouse.”

“That doesn’t sound complimentary.”

“It is, I promise. I’ll take you to Germany one day and shower you with all the pet-names and everyone will love it.”

“Sounds like a plan, asshole.”

Klavier hides his smile behind his hand. He must really like him because he's been doing that a lot lately.

Okay, so maybe he drank too much.

It’s not like he meant to. He was just feeling a little off and so he tried to patch it up with some liquid courage, but it turns out that if you overdo it, you get even sadder.

At first, he just gets sick.

Nausea is one of the worst physical sensations, in Apollo’s opinion. It’s like a rolling pain that wants your body to do something it doesn’t ordinarily do. That’s not to mention he hates getting sick in general. It’s disgusting, and Apollo really doesn’t need to be reminded how disgusting he is.

Regardless, he barely makes it in through the door before he runs to the bathroom and vomits in the toilet. He can hear Klavier making a sad sound in the other room. It sounds sympathetic, but Apollo is worried it’s because he really is as pitiful as he thinks he is.

When Klavier appears in the doorway and leans against the frame, he looks sad.

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says, head practically in the toilet bowl. “I didn’t mean to get sick.”

He wretches again, but it’s all just liquid, and it’s not necessarily painful, but it is unpleasant.

“You drank a lot, Schatz.”

“No shit,” he grumbles under his breath to which Klavier stifles a laugh.

“Aww, mein mürrischer Junge.” He walks over and sits down on the floor beside him, placing a hand softly on his back.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

Apollo groans again but finally sits up straight. “Even in sickness, you make fun of me.”

“Oh, then what would you like from me?”

He just makes a disgruntled noise, pausing to make sure he’s not going to gag. But, his body seems to be done, so he gets off the floor and rinses his mouth out.

When Klavier stands back up as well, he snakes his arms around Apollo, nestling his head in the crook of his neck.

“Klavier, what—”

Klavier makes a humming noise and then turns his head so he can place a little kiss on Apollo’s neck. Apollo gasps, hands halfway up to stop him, but the trial of pecks up his neck and along his jawbone has him immobilized, overwhelmed by how good it felt. Well, it felt good, but also it was rare that he was given physical attention that wasn’t supposed to reinforce the negatives about him.

A soft whisper comes from just behind his ear.

“I love having you in my arms.”

Apollo shutters and peaks his eyes open. Klavier is giving him a soft smile through the mirror. Apollo, however, looks silly—flushed cheeks and a weird, twisted up face.

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh? I am? Why?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that without becoming further embarrassed.

“Is it because you like it?”

Too much. He can’t take it.

Apollo wrestles out of his arms and stomps away, pretending like he’s mad instead of slightly mortified.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Herr Forehead,” he calls back to him, following him out a moment later.

Apollo is face down in a pillow because he can tell by how hot his skin is that he’s probably the shade of his sweatshirt. Stupid alcohol and it’s stupid vasodilating properties. He already has an issue with flushing easily, but he so rarely got drunk that he forgot how much worse it becomes.

“Aw. Your ears are so red.”

He sits up but covers his face with his hand.

“You’re impossible.”

“And, you’re so cute, I might actually die.”

Apollo groans, burying his face in both hands now, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m just kidding.” Klavier climbs onto the bed and sits crosslegged. “I’m sorry, Apollo. Are you so bothered by me?”

He knows he’s still red, but it’s probably not going to go away any time soon, so he just gives up and lets his hands fall into his lap.

“Not by you. I just…feel gross when I have to think…that you’re—touching—me…”

Klavier gives him a questioning look, the one he gets when he honestly can’t decipher the meaning of what Apollo’s saying because it’s not very clear what he means, even in English.

He scratches his head, trying to figure out a more coherent way of saying what he means. “It’s just embarrassing that you like me? And want to…uh…”

“Do you not like affection?”

To be honest, Apollo isn’t sure if he does. Even though he hates being put in bad situations, he’s more used to it than he’s used to someone wanting him for anything other than the power. It is very difficult to accept that he isn’t supposed to feel worse after someone’s given him attention.

“It’s difficult to accept,” is what he goes with.

Klavier still doesn’t seem to grasp what he’s saying. Maybe he’s never wrestled with the idea of hating things about himself.

“I know I’m not making sense,” he pouts. “I don’t quite know what I’m trying to say either. I guess, a more blunt way of putting it is it reminds me of how disgusting I feel.”

This really sparks a reaction in Klavier. He leans forward and moves his face closer. He looks at him with despair.

“No, Schatz, you’re not—ach—you’re so wonderful. Why would you…?”

Apollo closes his eyes and tries not to remember all the things that prove over and over again that he’s lesser than other people and that he’s not allowed to have choice over his desires. He lets out a shaky breath. There’s no way to explain to Klavier what that sort of thing feels like—to be manipulated to the point where you’re nothing more than an object to another person.

Because objects can’t say no.

The thought makes him shiver. He tries to file it away, but he must have broken the device that does so while drinking because it stays there, and it haunts the front of his mind. He feels like he’s not anywhere anymore. Can’t be allowed to think. Can’t think. Can’t…

It takes until Klavier is literally shaking his shoulder before he snaps back into the real world.

“Apollo?”

He puts a hand to his cheek. It’s wet. When did he…?

His arms cross tightly, shoulders to his ears, eyes clenched shut. This is why he can’t talk about the things that bother him. He just turns off.

But, with a sigh, he lets himself go slack, too tired to hold the tense pose. When he looks at Klavier, he’s surprised to see a flicker of understanding behind his eyes, but it’s only for a split second.

“Okay. I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay, ja?”

They had this discussion before a long, long time ago. It’s been so long since then, though, so maybe Klavier isn’t sure what normal boundaries still aren’t normal for him.

Apollo nods, but he also inches forward and flops down, head in his lap. Klavier looks down at him with a small smile.

“I’m sorry you’re having a time.” He places a hand on Apollo’s head, softly petting him. Like a cat. It’s silly because he’s not a cat.

“I like you, Klavier.”

He didn’t know he was going to say that, but it feels right. He can’t say it sober, so he might as well say it now.

“I like you, too, Schatz.”

The humming feeling in his head is intense, and he’s so tired. Klavier’s lap is warm, and he feels dizzy. His eyes close.

“I’m sleepy,” he mumbles.

“You can rest if you’d like.”

“Mm-hmm…”

And, that’s the last thing he remembers that night.

Apollo is woken up by the ringing of his phone.

He curses humanity for ruining his sleep and curses himself for the enormous hangover that is no one’s fault but his own. Reality buzzes unpleasantly, his head aches miserably, and he’s so thirsty that he feels nauseous again.

Fishing around on the bedside table, he eventually finds it and presses it to his face.

His voice sounds hoarse and small when he says, “…Hello?”

“Hey, Apollo! It’s Athena!”

Her voice is too loud, and it makes his ears ring.

“Hi, Athena.”

“You don’t sound good. Are you sick? Or, too much vocal training?”

“Just tired,” he lies.

“Oh, well, that’s good. Just a quick question, though. Are you back in LA?”

“Erm—yes, I am. How did you know that?”

“Yeah, about that. You’re…on the news?”

He shoots up from bed, panic overriding his other symptoms.

“What?! Why?”

“I think some paparazzi got photos of you with Klavier. At least, that’s what it looks like. They’re not very good pictures, but I can tell because I know what you look like. Very cute outfit, by the way! Did he pick it out for you?”

Apollo is having a very hard time processing all of the things being said to him. Photos of him and Klavier? Where? When? He doesn’t remember being photographed or anyone with a camera at the party last night.

“What…are we doing in the pictures?”

“It’s kind of hard to tell, but it looks like he’s hugging you or something? I mean, the whole thing is about how you guys seem to be cozy with each other.”

Oh, Holy Mother.

It’s one thing for Klavier and him to rekindle a relationship between the two of them, but Apollo is not psychologically prepared to have it blasted to everyone in the world. He feels stupid because he should have expected something like this. If the klavier stans could figure out who he is, the mass media can’t be too far behind.

“It’s nice to see the two of you hanging out again. And, as always, congratulations on the catch, you sly devil.”

“Athena, please shut up.”

She giggles on the other end of the line. “You should come over to the Agency and visit! All of us miss you. Maybe we can have a reunion dinner or something. Klavier’s invited, too, if he wants to come.”

Apollo looks around. It’s the first time that he’s woken up without Klavier being around. Maybe he has things to do?

“I think he’s out right now.”

There’s a distant, “Hey, Polly!!!” in the background

“Ah, well, the offer stands. Also, Trucy says hi.”

“Hey, Trucy.”

“Let me know when you’re passing by. I’ll let the others know, too.”

“Okay. Thanks for giving me the heads up.”

“No problem. See you later, Apollo!”

“Bye.”

When he hits the end button, his soul leaves his body. This is not what he signed up for.

His next thought is, Where’s Klavier?

He doesn’t necessarily want to text him because he might be busy or in a meeting or something. What do pop stars do? Apollo curses his ignorance of art once again.

Fortunately, he doesn’t actually have to guess because there’s a note on the kitchen counter. It has a credit card laying on top of it. Apollo recognizes the handwriting from seeing it in court documents so much.

Schatz—

I am recording today among other activities, so I won’t be back until later. Feel free to order something nice. Hope you feel okay today.

Klavier

There’s a little smiley face that has Apollo’s horns sticking off its head. The resemblance is uncanny.

Okay, so no Klavier today. But, getting food sounds awesome. He’s starving, especially since he didn’t really eat much yesterday and then barfed his guts out, so he’s probably running on below empty at this point.

He takes out his phone again to text Athena, but there are several messages from a number he doesn’t recognize.

[+1-213-529-1546: hey it’s tamary i got your number from klavier]

[+1-213-529-1546: i thought i’d pass these along since uhhhh yeah]

Ah. She sent the paparazzi photos. Great.

There’s a few of them from when they were sitting out on the balcony. Athena’s right that they really don’t show much. The only way to know it's him is if you can recognize his horns. And, the only one that looks affectionate is the one where Klavier’s hugging him because he’s trying not to cry. You can’t see that level of detail, but it is pretty clear that it shows “klavier” with “someone.”

The other shots must have been taken after the party because he’s slumped against Klavier’s back while they’re on his motorcycle, but because his face is also pressed into his back, it’s impossible to identify him.

Apollo lets out a sigh of relief. He was worried that they were going to be crazy high definition photos or something. But, no, there’s just enough detail to get the rumor mill going. However, he’s sure klavierDaily is going to have a field day with this considering they already suspected him in the first place. Should he really care, though? The fangirls that saw him come into his apartment most definitely posted those pictures, too.

He sighs and shakes his head. This is all such stupid nonsense that Klavier has to put up with. Apollo has to wonder how he copes with it.

Well, he knows the answer to that. He doesn’t really. He drinks almost constantly, and who knows when he’s high? Klavier seems to be trying to hide it from him because the only reason he found out at all was from accidentally walking in on him in the midst of the act. Does Klavier think that Apollo will think less of him because of it?

He doesn’t really have an opinion, honestly. He personally doesn’t see the appeal, but there are definitely worse substances he could be using. Not like that should be the bar or anything, but Apollo is far more concerned about what’s making Klavier abuse substances rather than the substances themselves. And, in that way, he doesn’t want him to hide it. He wants to know because things could be far, far worse than he’s letting on right now.

Besides the drugs and alcohol, Klavier doesn’t seem to be struggling too much, but Apollo knows from experience that it’s just a farce—the same way he hides his demons inside him until they burst out and destroy his carefully constructed facade.

However, Apollo has gotten progressively worse at hiding his emotions. They slip out far too often now. He feels like being back in LA has been triggering for him, in a way. Khura’in feels like a blindfold, soft black fabric that keeps him from self-reflecting. He’s always so busy, he doesn’t have time to think about the past. But, here, away from his job, he feels like the darker parts of his brain are starting to wake up and rattle around his head.

Bah, he shouldn’t be standing around thinking about this. He needs to text Athena. Seeing the old crowd will probably be distraction enough.

Probably.

He is almost run over by a horde of girls. More girls that there used to be.

Athena and Trucy are obviously the first ones to tackle him.

“Polly!”

“Apollo!”

They hug him so tight that he thinks he might be sick. He almost forgot he was so hungover.

“Hey, guys. How’ve you been?”

Behind them are Maya and Pearl Fey. They wave at him sweetly because Trucy and Athena won’t let go of him. Phoenix appears from his office, having heard the commotion.

“Apollo! It feels like it’s been forever.”

They each take turns hugging him before they retreat to the couches so they can catch up.

“How are you doing?” Athena asks, genuinely charmed to have him back. She clasps her hands and holds them close to her face.

“Oh, you know. I’m fine.”

She laughs. “You always say that, don’t you?”

(Something in Apollo’s brain snaps. He doesn’t know why, and he’s in other’s company, so he doesn’t pay attention to the feeling.)

“What are you doing in LA?” Phoenix asks. “I thought you were still working in Khura’in.”

Apollo tries desperately not to flush, but it’s really embarrassing to admit his motive to his old boss.

“Well, I-I am still working in Khura’in, but—”

Trucy butts in, “Polly is seeing Klavier because they’re in love!”

“Trucy!” Apollo snaps, now unable to stop himself from turning as red as his suit. “We’re not even dating let alone—”

Phoenix just blinks, surprised by the outburst from the two.

“Calm down everyone,” Athena sighs before turning to Apollo and flashing a smile. “You may not be dating, but you’re close enough to show up in paparazzi shots. I think that’s something.”

“It’s, like, just a hair under dating,” Trucy says, illustrating by sliding her one hand under the other, the slimmest gap between them.

If Apollo had known that this was what was waiting for him, he wouldn’t have come.

“I would rather not talk about my personal life.”

“What’s it like dating a pop star?” Pearl butts in, always excited to hear about her friends' love life. Her eyes shine at the fantasy. “Is it fun and exciting?”

He shoots a look to Phoenix that says, ‘Please help me,’ but Phoenix doesn't do anything besides give him an amused shrug.

“I’m not dating him. But, I think it’s probably harder than something more normal. People want to know about you and stuff, and they’re always harassing him. I think it’s getting to him.”

“Aw, that's sad,” Trucy frowns.

Maya decides to pick up the conversation. She smiles and claps happily. “I love his song, though! It’s so catchy. I hear it on the radio everywhere.”

“We’re so proud of you,” Athena says. “Little Polly’s growing up!”

“Yeah, I think you nabbed the hottest guy in the universe. Good job, Polly.” Trucy turns and whispers to Athena, “I’ve been shipping it since forever.” Athena nods, indicating that she, too, ships it.

Apollo sinks farther into the couch, mortified.

“Okay, guys. That’s enough. Stop teasing, Apollo,” Phoenix says before focusing his attention back on Apollo. “How has it been going in Khura’in? Still taking on heavy caseloads?”

He takes a deep breath and recovers from his previous embarrassment.

“No, things have calmed down a lot. Nahyuta and I only take on one or two cases each now. It was the first year that was really tough because we had such backlog.”

“Do you want to stay there, or do you think you’ll ever return to LA and work for us again?”

Apollo has to stop and think. What did he want to do? He loves Khura’in and feels more at home there, but…he has so many friends in LA. And, now that he and Klavier have reconnected, it’s that much more of a difficult decision.

“Um…I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I’d have to talk to Nahyuta, too. But, maybe.”

“It would be so nice to have you back!” Athena exclaims.

“Yeah, I really missed you, Polly!”

The Feys nod, but since they’re not as close, they let Athena and Trucy speak for them.

“I miss you guys, too,” Apollo smiles sadly.

There is something terribly nostalgic about being back here. Apollo almost hadn’t noticed how lonely he’s actually been in Khura’in. Sometimes he would get a hug from Rayfa, but she’s just as busy as he is, so they rarely run into each other. Besides that, there’s no one that gives him affection. Nahyuta is nice but he’s not much of a conversationalist.

Maybe it would be good to have a change of scenery.

“We should get food. It’s on me,” Apollo says, standing from his place on the couch and stretching.

“Nonsense.” Phoenix also stands. “I’ve already—”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the heaviest credit card he’s ever held in his life. “Klavier’s treating us tonight.”

The girls burst into happy hysterics.

“I’m gonna get so lit!”

“No, Maya, please."

When he opens the door to the apartment, there’s the sound of something shattering and a sharp “Scheiß—“ followed by what sounds like a thump. Apollo immediately becomes worried, so he rushes in, and when he gets around the kitchen island—

Klavier is sitting on the floor, a broken glass and whiskey in front of him. He’s trying to pick up the pieces with his bare hands when Apollo appears from the entryway. His hair is thrown up in a messy bun on top of his head, and he’s wearing those giant glasses again.

“Klavier, what the hell are you doing?”

He shows the glass in his hands, gestures to the glass on the floor.

“Dropped glass.”

“You can’t just—ugh—you can’t just pick up shattered glass with your hands!”

He shrugs, continuing to pick up pieces.

“I do it all the time.”

Apollo growls in frustration and begins searching the apartment for a cabinet or closet that might contain cleaning supplies.

“Do you even have a broom?”

“Ich weiß es nicht.”

He hollers back from the other room, “I can’t understand you when you speak German!”

“I don’t know!” he hollers back.

They’re not actually yelling at each other, but Apollo can’t help but be a little angry at Klavier’s flagrant disregard for his own safety. Maybe the substance abuse should have spelled out to him that he doesn’t care about himself, but ugh. Just ugh.

Apollo swings open a closet in the hallway, and sure enough, there’s a broom and a dustpan. He also grabs some washcloths to clean up the liquor.

He rounds the corner and speed walks to get around the kitchen island, but he isn’t prepared to see bright red.

He gasps, dropping the broom on the floor. Klavier’s bleeding from a cut (multiple cuts?) on his hand, yet he still won’t stop picking up the pieces. It drips onto the floor and mingles with the whiskey.

“Klavier, what the fuck—”

Klavier manages to stand after stumbling a bit and throws the glass in the trashcan.

“Sehen? Es geht mir gut.”

Apollo is beginning to suss out some of the phrases that Klavier uses frequently—not well but enough.

“You are not good! Your hands are bleeding!”

Klavier looks down and makes a disinterested sound. “Ach, I guess they are.”

Apollo stomps over and grabs him by the wrists, pulling him to the sink and turning on the hot water. Klavier hisses at either the temperature or the pain, he’s not sure.

Turning off the water, it’s clear that there are multiple nicks in his fingers and palms. They aren’t big at all, but he bleeds faster than Apollo thinks is normal. He, then, drags Klavier to a chair at the table and sits him down. He grabs the rags that hadn’t already fallen into the alcohol and puts them in Klavier’s hands.

He goes to look for some sort of first aid something-or-other. In the bathroom, he pulls out draws, looks through cupboards. He does manage to find a kit, but he also opens a drawer and finds a little glass container with—er, The Goods.

Apollo is just angry at everything. He slams the drawer shut.

When he comes back over, Klavier’s zoned out, staring in the direction of the windows that still have their curtains drawn. Apollo is trying very hard not to look angry, but he’s never been good at covering up his emotions. He sets the kit on the table and begins to take things out.

“When did you start drinking today?” He keeps his tone low and his voice steady while he cleans his hands with the little anti-bacterial wipes that come in the individual packages.

“Morning,” Klavier says distantly.

“And, the coke?”

“Morning.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Nein.”

Apollo sighs heavily, air pushing through his nose. He takes out bandaids and medical tape.

“You’re self-destructing, Klavier.”

“Ja, I know.”

“And, you’re just going to keep doing it?”

“I don’t have anything else to do.”

He keeps wrapping the tape around various places on his fingers.

“You can’t be worried about me and then deliberately hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t feel the glass.”

“No, Klavier. That’s not what I mean.” Apollo makes eye-contact with him for the first time since he came in the door. “Self-harm isn’t just cutting. You know that right?”

He shrugs.

“You’re not concerned about this?”

He shrugs.

“I’m concerned about this.”

Something in Klavier’s eyes changes. It’s a familiar look, one Apollo has seen on himself.

(Hopelessness.)

“It helps me. Otherwise, I can’t…”

Apollo wants to argue with him, but he knows exactly what he means. Whatever coping mechanism someone subscribes to—it feels like the only thing there is. And, to not have it feels like death. You feel like death. And, you want it. You’re trying your best not to get sucked down to the place where you plan it and think about carrying it out. So you keep going. Apollo doesn’t blame him, but it feels so awful when you’re watching it happen to someone else.

“I know. I know. I—I get it, okay? But, the way you worry about me, I worry about you.”

His eyes have grown glassy again, but he doesn’t say anything.

“And, like, I understand how things hurt, y’know? We have different stuff, but in the end, it’s all the same. I’ve talked to Athena about this a lot. Trauma is trauma is trauma. It’s not your fault. But, I also don’t want to see you whittle yourself down to nothing. There’s so much I want to say to you and so many things I want to do with you, and something really bad might happen if you—”

Klavier makes a horrible noise, a cross between a groan of pain and choking back a sob.

His head drips forward because he’s crying now, and Apollo has only seen Klavier cry once before. It’s still shocking.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean anything bad, I just—”

“No, you’re right.”

He looks up, and Apollo’s breath actually hitches because Klavier looks like he’s never felt so much anguish in his entire life.

“Klavier…”

He really is fucked up. He stands up and immediately falls to his knees, hands gripping the fabric of Apollo’s pant legs.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I can’t—hah—I can’t think about all of it. It’s too much. I can’t just be okay with all of it. If I think, I’ll go crazy.”

“I’m not asking you to be okay right now. I’m not okay right now. But, you’re obviously in so much pain, and I’m scared for you, y’know?”

He sobs so hard that Apollo doesn’t even know what to do. He just cries and cries, and even when Apollo places a hand on his head, he doesn’t respond. He just cries and cries.

At a certain point, he grows worried.

Apollo gets off his chair and kneels in front of him.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, and I’m so sorry, but if you’re fucked up and I’m fucked up, then we can at least…try?”

Klavier’s expression is so heart-wrenching. How long has he kept this to himself? How much pain, and hurt, and blame has he piled onto himself for years, only to internalize it and want to destroy himself because he doesn’t believe he deserves to feel okay?

Wow, okay. That’s way too relatable.

Apollo, for one of the first times since they reunited, is the one to pull him into an embrace, and Klavier cries and cries and cries.

“Klavier, I know it probably doesn’t mean much to say this now, but I’m so, so sorry for leaving you when you needed me most. I—I couldn’t think straight. Things happened—and I—”

“No, Schatz, no…please.” He tries to force a smile, but it’s so painful because tears run down his face. “I never blamed you. Never. Not one day. I pretended like I was mad because I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to talk about this. You were—ach—I didn’t know the specifics, but you were so sad. I knew something wasn’t right…so I couldn't actually blame you...”

“But, you suffered, too. Please, Klavier. Don’t—don’t—”

Okay, now he’s crying, too. This is embarrassing. But, Klavier reciprocates the hug, and they cry and cry until they both start laughing because everything is just so painful and ridiculous that the only thing they can do is laugh through tears.

Klavier sways a bit, and Apollo doesn’t have enough balance to stop them from falling over. They’re splayed out on linoleum, laughing like this is all the funniest joke in the whole entire world.

After they calm down a little, still laying on the kitchen floor, Apollo decides he should at least try.

He sits up. “You can tell me whatever. I’m not going to freak out on you.”

“Are you sure?” Klavier looks at him from his place lying on his back.

“Yeah, of course. I want you to be able to get stuff off your chest.”

He looks nervous when he says, “Ach...okay, I guess.”

He closes the door to his office and immediately doubles over.

Daryan. Daryan. Daryan—why?

He didn’t love him, but he did love him. It’s so horrible to think that he was subdued by pretty words and lies, by hands and lips and promises. Especially, when he thought that if anyone would do it, it would be Klavier himself.

He’d never felt betrayal like this. Not since Kristoph, at least. And, Kristoph—he hasn’t begun to process that. No way. He can’t. Not right now.

Why hadn’t Daryan told him, at least? Why did he have to foster this completely ridiculous, convoluted plan—why did he have to kill a man? Why, Daryan. Daryan…

Klavier can’t even cry. He’s too shocked. He’d known him for years. Sure, he could be an asshole—but a murderer?

His best friend. His brother. Murderers. Klavier is the common denominator. Is he easy to fool? Or, is he just as bad as they are? Does he attract criminals? No, he can’t help that Kristoph is his brother. And, he’s known Daryan since he moved to the US. It can’t be him. Right?

He doesn’t remember how he even made it over to his desk, but he had taken out the whiskey from a drawer and is drinking straight from the bottle. Everything just needs to slow down. Slow down. Stop for one moment.

Klavier’s world has crashed down in what feels like 30 seconds flat. Everything he knows his life to be was either a lie or has been ripped out from under him. It’s so hard to conceptualize, so he just doesn’t.

He shuts his mind off. He drinks until he can’t remember anything anymore.

He doesn’t want to do this, but he knows he has to. He has to know.

Of course, his cell is cushy. Of course. He looks up from his book and smiles pleasantly. Like nothing ever happened. Like he hasn’t killed a man.

“What a pleasant surprise. How’ve you been, Klavier?”

He’s so angry, he switches to German.

“How dare you, Kristoph—acting like nothing's happened. How can you feel no remorse? How could you do this?”

Kristoph does not lapse into his native tongue.

“And, here I thought you wanted to catch up. Shouting at me isn’t going to make you feel better.”

“What do you expect me to do? Forgive you? Are you delusional?”

“I never asked for forgiveness.”

“You can’t even apologize?”

“Apologize for what?”

“For deceiving me! For lying to me! For lying to everyone! For killing a man!”

“I never lied to you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Lying by omission is different than actively deceiving you. What would you like me to say? Oh, dear brother, I hit a man over the head with a wine bottle—how are you doing today?”

He’s so angry. So, so angry. He doesn’t know what to say. He stares at the floor, seething.

“At least tell me you had a good reason.”

Kristoph sits there, legs crossed, arms crossed, expression neutral if not contented.

“Kristoph.”

He remains silent.

“You’re just not going to say anything?”

“Will any explanation really please you? No matter what I say, a man is still dead, and I am still here.”

“You’re a monster.”

“How rude. I’m your brother.”

“Not anymore.”

“Hm. Truly a shame.”

Klavier storms out, holding back tears. He punches the nearest wall that’s out of Kristoph’s line of sight.

Oh, God. Oh no. It couldn’t be.

(He was manipulated by his brother into falsely accusing Phoenix Wright of forgery. It was a plant. It was a mistake. It cost him his badge and seven years of turmoil.)

Kristoph, why? Why? Why?

The next time Klavier sees Phoenix at the courthouse, he’s cleaned himself up. He's in a suit, shaved, no beanie. He’s here to watch Apollo, but Klavier needs to get this off his chest. He’s ached with betrayal and regret for so, so long, and it’s driving him mad.

Literally. He hasn’t slept well in months. He’s drinking a lot, crying a lot. To get himself together enough to appear in court, he usually has to…uh, medicate. It makes him really good on the stand, but it’s shameful that he needs to do that kind of thing to be functional.

“Excuse me, Herr Wright?”

Phoenix turns to him, looking a little surprised and a little confused.

“Ah, Klavier. How are you?”

Klavier does not answer that question.

“I…wanted to formally apologize to you for everything. I feel horrible about it. If I had known back then, I wouldn’t have—”

“Klavier, it’s not your fault. Kristoph manipulated you. It’s his fault, not yours.”

He can’t help but sound exasperated. “But, seven years—”

“Don’t worry about it. I appealed and got my badge reinstated, anyway. We can put everything behind us and become amicable colleagues again.” He smiles in a genuine way. He actually believes his own words.

“You are truly a forgiving man, Herr Wright.”

Phoenix holds out his hand, and Klavier takes it.

“And, you are compassionate. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” he says, shaking his hand.

“Ah…”

“I’ll see you in court, Mr. Gavin,” he smiles once again before he walks away.

Klavier quits the day after.

He doesn’t want to see anybody, not people from work, not fans, not friends, not anyone. He’s so deeply disturbed by the last year that he doesn’t even want to look at himself.

With no job, it doesn’t matter what he does. He drinks until the feelings of despair subside. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes he blacks out before he feels any better.

He considers hurting himself, but he can’t do anything that would leave marks. Too risky for a celebrity. He considers killing himself. The thought is temporarily relieving. No one would have to have their life ruined because of him. No one would see him. He wouldn’t have to see anybody.

He’s not actually serious about it, though. He can’t think of it beyond the theoretical. The idea of forming a plan is too taxing and too real. He doesn’t actually want to die, he just needs these emotions to go away.

Stimulants help a little bit. At least, when he’s high, he doesn’t feel so much shame that he feels like people shouldn’t look at him. He can sometimes think about leaving his apartment. He can sometimes think about starting to write lyrics again.

Oh, that’s right. He’s a musician. He’d almost forgotten.

And, this realization spirals into obsessive and compulsive work. When he’s writing, he doesn’t think about everything the same way. The narrative takes on its own life once it's on paper, which makes it feel like he’s talking about someone else’s feelings even though he's really talking about himself.

At first, his songs are way too dark, talking about the feelings of wanting to die and the hopelessness of being dependent on substances to be anything but consumed by grief and sorrow and depression. That grows old after a while. It’s not actually him, it’s the one that’s been born out of tragedy. The Klavier from the Gavinners has a bouncy, carefree, wistful view of love and justice. But, that doesn’t feel like him anymore either.

Klavier begins to realize he isn’t composing rock songs anymore. He no longer hears guitars and bass and drums. Instead, he hears kicks and beats and distortions. He likes the word ‘distortion’ because it describes the feeling inside him. The Klavier he once was has been distorted into something else. He feels like a lower-case klavier and not the punctuated, capitalized Klavier.

He listens to a lot of hip-hop, a lot of electronic, a lot of pop. Other artists are moving away from traditional instrumentation and creating sounds through machines. Electronic music. Electropop.

The thought strikes him, I need a synth. So, he buys a synth, among other things.

And, thus, klavier is born.

He stares at Apollo’s name in his phone. He desperately wants to talk to him, to call him, to get one word from him, but he can’t. Even when he’s cranked out of his mind, there’s always an invisible wall stopping him.

(The idea that Apollo could understand his plight better than anyone is horrifying. Klavier would have to actually deal with everything, and that seems completely overwhelming at this point. They’d had a little fling during and slightly after the case, and they’d sometimes talk, but Apollo began to drift away, and so Klavier drifted away as well. At some point, Klavier’s self-hatred became too intense, and he retreated back into his apartment, and now, he doesn’t talk to anybody.)

He’s still ashamed. About what, even Klavier isn’t sure. Nothing was actually his fault. But, that belief that he’s to blame has morphed into being a descriptor of his person. He has taken on shame as a personality trait, and it is definitely the driver of his despondency.

So, instead of talking to Apollo, he starts writing songs about him.

He writes upbeat songs that are flirty like they had been when they first met. It’s fun. He feels a spark of purpose he hasn’t felt in so long. Reflecting on Apollo is somehow easier than reflecting on the rest of his life. Maybe it’s because thoughts of Apollo make him feel warm and happy, something he doesn’t often feel.

Well, it starts out that way. The longer he thinks about him, the more it becomes clear.

Klavier Gavin is hopelessly in love with Apollo Justice.

The realization hits him hard. Of course, he’d said it to him before, way back when, but that was when they were still seeing each other. Now, they haven’t spoken in nearly two years. Whatever confession he’d made feels obsolete now.

Happiness turns into sorrow. The warmth turns cold. He cries more than he has been. He becomes unbearably lonely. He drinks more. He lays on the floor and tries to will his feelings away.

But, inevitably, he copes the only way he knows how. He writes a song.

The words come first. He focuses on the feeling of pining—the empty, heart-wrenching, sickening feeling of craving something you can’t have.

I plan my future with you, but it’s all in my head
What if you don’t feel the same?
Try to make it feel safe, but don’t know where you stand
Am I the only one to blame?

Ouch. As much as it feels relieving to get it on paper, actually putting words to the experience is painful, like pulling off a bandaid. It’s actually more simple, though, so he strips it down for the pre-chorus.

Do you love me? You don’t love me.
I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, heart is beating too fast
Why I gotta love you like that?

It’s so confusing how one person could affect him so deeply. What is it about him? He’s silly, and loud, and kind of annoying sometimes, but that’s what he likes about him. And, he treats him like a person because his fame and status don’t mean anything to him. Apollo is real, and it’s very hard to find anyone real when you’re one of the most successful artists in the world.

What is it bout you?
What is it bout you that makes me come undone now?
What is it bout you?
What is it bout you that makes me come undone now?
I lay in the fire, cry and I cry
I’m tryin, I’m tryin
I lay in the fire, cry and I cry over nothing
I make a monsoon, and it’s about you
What is it bout you that makes me come undone?

Achtung, that’s good.

He secures the melody on his guitar, writes down the cords, and then records the most basic of demos on his computer just in case he forgets something.

Putting together the song is probably his favorite part. It’s fun to create something from nothing. And, with electronic music, it’s a different sort of creative process. Instead of writing a drum section, he can layer different beats and claps, and while Klavier can’t personally play drums, he knows what sounds right just from being in the band for so long.

And, with his synth, he can make the sounds he hears when he writes just by programming the synthesizer and using a keyboard for input. He also loves vocal distortion so he does some of that—nothing crazy because that’s not really his style but just enough so it sounds dissonant in a way.

It’s so different than the sound he had been going with. His other songs about Apollo were fun, but this sound is dark. It feels like heartache to him. It sounds to him like purples and blues.

The concept is beginning to come together.

Klavier knew that his return to music after the disbandment of the Gavinners was going to be a pretty big deal. Their band was very successful. But, he had no idea how things were going to blow up.

He chooses ‘anywhere you go.’ as the lead single because of course he does. It’s a bop and the most GP-assessable. It’s fun and contains all the elements of his new style. The execs like that one too, but he doesn’t really care what they think. He's just glad they don't fight him on it.

He feels more low-key, so he only releases an EP—seven songs. He’s testing the waters. It’s probably going to meet moderate success.

Nope. Nuh-uh. Nein. The song explodes immediately.

That’s something that he should be happy about, but it doesn’t make him happy. In fact, having to do the whole 'release week promo circuit' is exhausting. He starts using uppers again to keep up. And, the thing about amphetamines is that it releases all your dopamine at once, and after a while, you can’t release dopamine without it.

So, naturally, Klavier feels even worse. He honestly feels like he needs to be constantly fucked up to feel anything, and it’s kind of true.

But, then, Apollo arrives in his living room. His call out to him worked.

And, now he’s laying on the floor, Apollo holding him as he cries into his chest, and it’s the catharsis he never thought he’d have the chance to experience.

He’s probably a pretty lucky guy after all. Relatively, at least.

“Apollo.”

He sinks to his knees, head bowed, hands gripped into fists so hard they’re shaking.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to, I—”

“I don’t care about excuses, Justice. You should know that by now.”

“I didn’t know you were in a meeting—I’m sorry!”

He’s angry now.

“You’re best off staying quiet.”

He tries so hard to keep his tears back. He clenches his eyes shut. It’ll be worse if he cries. But, his body reacts regardless of his wishes.

His fingers thread through his hair, and he grips hard, yanking his head up. He knows his eyes are bleary. A tear slips down his cheek.

He feels the pain before he hears the smack!

It makes him feel awful that he’s used to this now. He just knows to shut up and take it because it’ll only get worse if he doesn’t.

Another hit. He tries to keep quiet but the force of the blow pushes out a sound. He cringes. He likes it when he does that. 

It makes it worse for him, too.

One more. He involuntarily gasps because he’s already been hit on both cheeks, and it hurts worse. He’s so bad at keeping silent. He curses his loud voice, but he can’t help it. He’s just loud.

“Make it up to me, Justice,” he says.

He leans against his leg, gripping the fabric on his pant leg, nuzzling the inside of his knee like a cat asking to be pet.

“Yes, sir.”

He can tell that he’s getting off on this. Of course. He always does. It’s the same thing every time, but the severity can change. He might not just be on his knees. He might be shoved into the pillow, among other things.

He tries not to think about that or anything else as he reaches up, and—

Apollo’s eyes shoot open. Nothing can get out but a gasp.

He’s frozen solid. He feels paralyzed.

(A new memory. He hasn’t had a new memory since the first time he started remembering.)

Why now? Why that? Why him?

He instantly feels disgusting. His skin crawls. His mouth goes dry and gets a horrible taste in it. He knows from experience that he’s scared, but he doesn’t actually feel the fear. It hums in the back of his brain and coats the inside of his skull with a film of paranoia.

As quietly as he can manage, he slips out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. Everything feels distant and fuzzy. He flips up the toilet seat and vomits. He turns on the shower but only the hot water. He stands under the stream and lets it wash away his mind. Maybe, if he stands there for long enough, his memories will melt out of his ears and wash down the drain.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the wall, but it suddenly dawns on him that it’s hot. Excruciatingly so. The air is heavy and thick with steam. It feels like he’s breathing water.

(The water fills up the entire cave, and Apollo knows he’s going to drown. Dhurke’s dead. There’s no one here to save him.)

He gasps, falling to his knees, hands at his throat. He tries to take another breath in, but he can’t. There’s something blocking him from breathing. He’s dying in that cave, and there’s no one to save him. 

The water is scalding. How had he been standing there for so long? 

He spots the knob, and he reaches up and he—

“No!”

No, no, no—

Everything loops back around to him. Everything is about him. He haunts his mind constantly. He haunts his dreams. His brain has to block out those years because he’s still so terrified of him that, if he’s allowed to remember, it tears him apart.

He couldn’t breathe before, but now his breaths are short and fast. He needs to do something—he needs to get out of there—he needs to—

The next thing he remembers, he’s slumped against the sink’s counter, his right cheek pressed against it. It’s cool against his skin. He’s dressed. He’s damp, but not soaking wet. The whole room is unbearably hot, and the air is even thicker. He’s positive that he’s suffocating.

(Maybe Kristoph had never stopped choking the life out of him, and he’s still there, in that office, haunting him and stealing his will to stay conscious.)

Kristoph.

“Kristoph.”

He can say his name again.

And, then, there’s a rush of cold, and he’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Apollo.”

“Yes, sir?” he says, drowsy, eyes closing.

“Sir?”

“Hmmm. I’m sorry…I’m…”

He’s back there again, sobbing on the floor next to his desk. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but he feels absolutely heartbroken, like a piece of garbage thrown to the side. He’s in dozens of pieces, and he feels inconsolable for no clearly identifiable reason. All he knows is that everyone’s left. Everyone left him. He doesn’t know how he can go on. The only person in his life is Kristoph, and his affection is so precarious. He feels trapped and alone.

He doesn't matter to anyone. He knows it’s true, but to remember how alone he is hurts more deeply than anything else. His cheek presses to the polished wood, and it feels strange against it.

The idea of having to go on another day feels impossible. He wishes he could sleep forever. He wants to get out of all of this, but he can’t. He feels paralyzed.

(Deep down inside himself, he knows that if he quit and ran away, Kristoph would find him and kill him.)

“Justice?”

He looks up and whimpers. Kristoph looks impossibly tall standing in front of him. His body tells him to brace himself, but his brain is too busy feeling helpless to comply.

He takes a short, shallow breath.

“Y-Yes, sir?”

“Why are you crying?”

His eyes look genuinely confused. Curious, even. It’s a genuine emotion, not one he’s faking to earn someone’s trust.

Apollo feels like he’s shivering even though he’s dying of the heat. Everything is so heavy on him. His presence is stifling. His bottom lip quivers like an upset child when he opens his mouth to respond.

“I-I don’t know—I don’t know.”

The look that crosses his face is strangely sympathetic. He crouches and sits next to him.

“Oh,” he sighs, a soft touch of his hand to his free cheek. His palm is so cool compared to his skin. He becomes aware of how hard he’s breathing. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t really know, but he nods anyway.

Kristoph makes a sad, doting sound.

“I think you’re panicking. Try to take some deep breaths.”

He leans forward and their foreheads touch. He smells like mint and woman’s perfume. It’s intoxicating. But, when he goes to breathe, it stutters like his ribs are constricting his lungs and the air can’t get through his trachea.

He feels really dizzy. He feels himself sway.

“Justice? Are you still with me?”

He feels like he can’t breathe.

“Hah—I-I’m gonna pass out.”

Something indecipherable crosses his face.

“I’ll take care of you if you do. But, until then, I’m going to ask you to follow my breathing pace.”

His eyes float up to meet his crystal blue ones. Usually, they are sharp and uncaring, but in this moment, he feels as though he might care. Inside of ice and glass is a flicker of sun, and Apollo, for once, lets his guard down. He falls into his chest and arms surround him. It’s so warm—so stiflingly warm. 

But, as much as he’s trying to breathe at the same rate as him, he can’t. He can’t. He can’t breathe—!

“I’m—I’m sorry, Kristoph, I can’t—I can’t—”

"Kristoph?"

The sharp sound of his name throws him back into reality. He’s still there in the bathroom, leaning on the sink cupboard, steam choking him. The water has been shut off, but it’s still so hot. He feels lethargic. He feels like death.

His eyes float up again.

Eyes—not crystal blue but sky blue. Kind. But, these kind sky blue eyes are very scared and confused.

“Apollo, what in the world are you talking about?”

He blinks at Klavier’s sudden presence in front of him. He feels like he’s being tossed between the past and the future.

“What is…going…” A groan cuts off his words.

“Can I take you back to bed? I’ll get you an ice pack.”

Apollo can’t form words, can barely focus his eyes. Klavier takes his silence as a reluctant yes. He helps him stand up, and Apollo sways, head swimming. They stagger into the main room. When Apollo hits the mattress, he realizes that he can pull air into his lungs again. The cold air feels relieving. 

He’s not in that office anymore.

Klavier comes over a moment later with a cool washcloth, putting it on his forehead. Water runs over his temples and drips on his pillow.

“Schatz…” Klavier is next to him on the bed in what seems like no time at all. “What’s going on?”

He shuts his eyes.

“I can’t say it.”

“Apollo.” He’s more stern this time. “You’re scaring me.”

He shakes his head. 

“You can’t let me help?”

If he tells Klavier now, he’ll surely rip into pieces, and no one will be able to patch him back together. He needs to get away from here, but he’s so tired. He wouldn’t be able to make it anywhere, but he needs to not be here.

Apollo opens his eyes.

“Nightmares.” His voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like his voice. “Really bad.”

Klavier gives him that look, the one where his eyes desperately search his face for any answer, for anything to soothe his fear. It happens every time he uses the word ‘bad’ to describe himself. He’s probably figured out that whatever is ‘bad’ about him isn’t something Apollo can consciously control.

“Is it…getting worse?” His voice is quiet and careful, but it also sounds exasperated in a way.

“…Maybe.” He doesn’t even know himself. Things had been bad like this before, but he was fine and then he was bad. There is no in-between. Zero to one-hundred.

The look on his face told Apollo that Klavier knew he wasn’t going to get anything from him. There is a dark sorrow behind his soft expression, and it only really comes out when he is cornered.

“Ah, well, maybe we should just try to sleep, ja?”

Apollo would rather do anything else than talk about his feelings, so he nods.

Thankfully, he doesn’t dream of him this time.

When Apollo wakes up in the morning, he is surprised to see that Klavier has already left, but he had left a note again.

Süsse—

I had to go a little farther for a show today, so I had to leave early in the morning. I’ll be back tonight. Sorry, I really wanted to talk, but duty calls, ja?

Klavier

His name is signed next to a doodle of some hearts. It’s cute.

If Klavier is gone, it means he’s alone. Maybe it’s a good thing. Klavier may want to talk, but Apollo sure as hell doesn’t.

Speaking of which, what was that last night? He doesn’t want to think about it because it’s scary to think about, but his mind keeps looping back around. It’s been so long since he thought about Kristoph that his brain wants to fixate on him.

Apollo is usually not a fan of that.

He tries to distract himself with his phone so he can’t think, but the moment he’s back in the real world, he’s there.

That thought sends a shiver through his body. The idea that he is actually in the room is not as distressing as it should be, though. It almost feels familiar.

Kristoph. He hasn’t said his name for so long.

“Kristoph.”

Kristoph.

It’s been so long since he was close to him. 

When he was close to him, he smelled of expensive perfume and expensive breath mints. When he wasn’t wearing any, or it had worn off from working all-nighters, he smelled different. It’s indescribable, but he smelled like him. That memory makes him feel warm and calm.

But, when he was distant, it was possible to notice the coldness inside him. 

He remembers the stares he would give him. The ones that would give him an icy feeling, a chill that would shoot up his spine. The ones that spurred so much uncertainty that it would force him to look over his shoulder. 

Then, they would meet each other’s eyes, and he would smile so sweetly and so softly that Apollo would flush and look away. He can’t imagine what ideas that gave him. But, it wasn’t like they were completely off base. Kristoph was achingly gorgeous, like a beautifully cut precious gem behind glass. Impenetrable. Distant. Shocking. 

Cold. 

Apollo desperately craved attention, any attention at all, even though he was quiet and meek and barely spoke up. But, once Kristoph had cracked him, he started acting unlike himself. Being at work made him feel weird. Kristoph being anywhere near him made his body ache. He started advancing instead of waiting for Kristoph to do so. At the time, he felt like he wanted it, but in retrospect, it's horrifying to think how he’d been so easily manipulated. 

Although, the closeness—he’d always enjoyed that. Arms around him, breath against his neck, words of praise filling the emptiness in his heart. That Closeness was the closest he got to affection, and so he began to associate it with affection. When he’s not in that mindset, he’s so afraid of everything. But, when he’s thrown back into that feeling, he’s trapped in the time where positive feelings are bodies, and lips, and the flickers of pain between the pleasure. 

There's something to be said about how Kristoph clearly knew what he was doing. It was nothing like when it was just himself, and the perversity of being with his boss made it feel different, too. 

(The hushes Kristoph gave him when he called out, consumed by the immensity of it all. 'They will hear you, Justice.' And, of course, that would draw out more noise from him. That was usually when he found himself pressed into a pillow. Or, something would be shoved in his mouth. Or, he’d give him something else to focus on.)

This always happens. Why does this always happen?

A surge of want comes over him. He wants Kristoph again, and it feels so good to think about him in the moment. Pure basal need. It blinds him, and he desperately wants him here, desperately wants him to be jerking him off instead of himself. 

It's so bad and so fucked up, but when he’s bombarded by all the memories and all the heat they bring to him, he feels compelled to give in. He has no choice. He’s a slave to it—

Just like he was a slave to him. 

Usually, such a thought would make him dissociate out of fear, but the rising feeling in his body causes a moan to fall out his mouth. In this state, it’s all he wants—to be completely subservient to another person, to be dominated by another person, to be used by another person—

He chokes on That Man’s name, and everything goes blank. 

Apollo wishes dearly that these acts would make it all go away, but they don’t. They never do. He’s just completely fucked up, isn’t he?

“Hello?”

Apollo can’t help but sound strained.

“Hey. It’s Apollo.”

“Oh, hey, Apollo. What’s up? ”

“This is going to sound really weird, but can you…um…do one of your therapy things on me.”

“Oh, um. It’s not really a good idea to conduct therapy on people you know. Conflict of interest and all that— ”

“Athena, please.” He knows he sounds desperate. He is desperate. “I’m not worried about that.”

There’s a pause on the other line.

“…What’s wrong?”

He’s antsy. He begins to pace around the room, but he’s also dizzy. He does his best to keep his voice even.

“I'm—I’m having issues. I…remembered something new. And, the last time I felt like this, I did really bad things. I just need to at least try something to make it go away. I don’t want to mess up with Klavier. It’ll be bad, and I—”

Her voice is serious. “Where are you right now? Are you safe?”

“Y-Yeah, I’m just at a hotel.”

“Does Klavier know where you are?”

“No. I don’t want him to. I need to keep myself away from him until I stop feeling like this.”

This must all sound so suspicious, but it’s true. He doesn’t know what else to say. He already feels sick again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach.

“Okay. Text me the address. I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks, Athena.”

When they hang up, he leans against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the ground.

He left the stopper in the door so he wouldn’t have to answer it, so when Athena arrives, she hesitantly peeks into the room.

“…Apollo?”

Without waiting for him to answer, she comes in and sees him sitting against the wall on the other side of the room. She must notice how upset he looks, and so, she runs over and crouches beside him.

“Hey, Apollo, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Sorry, I feel—so weird.”

Athena looks at him like she’s gathering evidence from his expression, his body language, the way he’s breathing too hard. She puts the back of her hand to his forehead.

“You're feverish.”

“I’m not. It’s just—I think it’s anxiety. This’s happened before.”

“Okay.” She looks unsure. “Can I get you in a chair?”

He nods.

Slowly, she gets him to stand. He feels dizzy, but her arm around him makes it easy to get to the corner of the room. Athena pulls his chair so she can sit on the bed and they can be in front of each other.

“Can you explain what happened?”

“I’ll try.”

He breathes in, but the crushing of his lungs is lingering in his chest. Panic tastes metallic like blood, or maybe he bit the inside of his cheek when he wasn’t paying attention.

Apollo shuts his eyes.

(How could he go from fantasizing about him to so afraid to talk about him that it forces him into catatonia?)

It’s so frightening to open his mouth that he thinks he might actually throw up. He’s shaking. He jumps when Athena puts a hand on his knee.

“Apollo, are you still with me?”

“Y-Yeah, it’s just—I’m scared.”

“You can say as little or as much as you want.”

Okay. Okay. He doesn’t have to say what happened, just sort of what happened.

He breathes in again, but this time, he opens his eyes.

“He was…violent. I forgot until a few years ago. It was bad back then, but I managed. But, last night I had a dream. A really bad dream. About him—”

“About who?”

“Uh…I…I can’t—”

“If it’s too much, we can use a different name. Something to stand in for them.”

The words come out before he can stop them.

“That Man.”

“Okay. That works. You had a dream about That Man. You don’t have to describe the events exactly, but I want you to give as much information as you’re comfortable so that Widget can give me a basic image.”

His breathing picks up, but he knows that he has to try. He wants it to go away. He has to. Even if it hurts. 

“I did something wrong. It was an accident, but he never cared about that. If I did something wrong, he would punish me. At first, it was just verbally, but as time went on, he started to…he…”

He pauses so he can catch his breath.

“…hit me. And worse.”

Athena’s expression tells him that she’s trying not to look horrified. She keeps herself at mildly sympathetic.

“Worse?” she can’t help but ask.

“You can probably fill in the blanks.”

She sighs.

“Ah, alright. So, that was the scene you saw?”

“Yeah. Basically.”

“Okay.” She takes a breath and fires up Widget. After it initializes, the holographic panel begins to chime like it does when the emotions of the person on the stand are registered. He looks away because he doesn’t want to see the illustrations that appear on the translucent monitor.

“So, throughout the testimony—urk!—I mean, your statements, you feel intense fear and sadness. However, I do detect a tiny bit of joy.”

That is what Apollo has been worrying about.

Athena looks hesitant to say anything, especially since Apollo looks so miserable.

“Is this causing you distress?” Her voice is soft and steady. It’s obvious that she’s trying her best to remain professional, especially considering her usual bombastic personality.

“Y-Yeah.”

“Do you think you know why you might be feeling minor joy in this sort of situation?”

“Not that situation specifically. It was just how it was. There’s something nice about someone giving you attention. That’s all I can say about it.”

“Okay, let me put that in real quick.”

The scenario updates, but she doesn’t talk about the results. Instead, she asks a new question.

“What was it that you were afraid of concerning Klavier?”

“…I—I tend to act badly when I feel like this.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what behaviors are you labeling ‘bad?’”

“I tend to act…compulsively. I can’t help myself. I feel out of control. I’ve messed stuff up in the past because of it.”

Athena smiles sadly.

“Well, the good news is that being able to recognize harmful behavior is super helpful in moving forward. I obviously can’t give you extensive trauma therapy, but I can help you through a few exercises that might make you more able to pinpoint your triggers more specifically. We can, then, think of some ways to soothe obsessive thoughts, okay?”

“Okay.”

“In the times that this has happened, are you aware of any specific events which triggered this thing you’re feeling right now.”

Apollo thinks back to the very first time. Everything had been fine, and then…Phoenix called him ‘Mr. Justice.’ And, then he remembered.

“Someone calling me Mr. Justice is one of the ones.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah. And, something about—oh, I don’t remember.” His hand goes up to his face in exasperation. “Something Dhurke said, I—”

Athena can’t help but connect The Last Time and This Time. Apollo can see it in her widening eyes.

“Oh—God…did he…?”

“No! No, never. He—he never—it was all my—”

He can’t stop himself from crying. It’s coming back again. Kristoph and Dhurke and Klavier—no! Not Klavier—no, he’s done nothing—he can’t think of him that way, he can’t.

“I don’t think we should continue, Apollo. These things are outside of my ability to treat. I don’t want to make things worse, and I’m afraid I might be.”

“No. You’re not. It’s me—it’s always been me—”

Athena is trying very hard not to cry herself.

“We should chill out. Is that okay?”

He wipes away his tears and nods.

“Yeah, I’m more than okay with that.”

They lay across the bed diagonally, faces buried in either a pillow or the comforter. They’re enjoying each other's company.

(This is therapy on its own—friends just being in the same room. Doing nothing is sometimes doing something, and Apollo feels infinitely grateful for this stillness.)

But, it’s the first time they’ve been alone together in a while, so Athena can’t stop herself from chatting.

“Have you listened to the whole album?” she asks, rubbing her face on the pillow.

"Huh?"

"Klavier's album."

“Oh, yeah, no.”

“It’s a lot, ja?”

Apollo lifts his head from the comforter.

“Don’t say that.”

Athena cracks up.

“Sorry! But, no, no, I get it. It’s weird to know that it’s about a friend. I don’t know how I’d feel if it was about me.”

“It’s weird, but not as weird as you’d think. I thought I’d be really mad, but he’s so honest with me—how could I be mad at him?”

“The album’s a bop, to be fair.”

“So I’ve heard,” he sighs. “I think I haven’t listened to it because it would be too intense, and like, really embarrassing. He sings to me sometimes, though, which is nice. It’s cute.”

Athena sits up and beams. “Polly’s gotta boyfriend, Polly’s gotta boyfriend.”

Apollo sits up, too, so he can snap at her. “Stop that. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You keep saying that, but aren’t you guys like living together?”

“I’m staying at his place while I’m visiting LA! That’s not living together.”

“I assume you sleep in the same bed.”

He frowns, shooting her a glare that will not stop her from teasing him whatsoever.

“And, you go to parties together, and you wear his clothes, and you get all cozy with each other—”

“Athena.”

“What? It’s true!”

He groans, pulling his knees into his chest, burying his head in them.

“Why are you so upset about it? You’ve got a drop-dead-gorgeous, rich, rock star boyfriend. That’s awesome!”

Apollo groans into his knees again. He doesn’t actually know why he’s embarrassed. It’s the same scary feeling he gets when he feels hands on him. The fact that he might be in a situation where he has to completely let down his guard is mortifying.

(No one can know who he truly is because that person is disgusting and bad. No one will love him if they know the truth. That person doesn’t deserve love. That person is better off being left alone to suffer in peace. If he’s alone, he can’t hurt anyone ever again.)

He hadn’t realized he had tears in his eyes until he let his legs go slack.

“Oh, no, Apollo, what did I say?” 

He wipes away a tear, and he’s thankful the rest don’t fall.

“I don’t know. I’m just scared, I guess. There are so many things that could go wrong, and Klavier doesn’t deserve that.”

(I don't deserve him.)

“Well, yeah, relationships of any kind are like that. It’s the Hedgehog’s Dilemma: the closer you get to a person, the easier it is to hurt each other. That’s just life. It would be a shame to not do what you want to do just because it might go badly. What if it goes great? You don’t know what will happen.”

“Hm.”

“It’s called catastrophizing, and it will make you feel worse if you just decide everything’s going to be bad.”

But, Apollo honestly believes there’s no way for it to work out. It’s not catastrophizing if he knows it’s true.

“I think you should go. I want to go to bed.”

Athena looks concerned again.

“Apollo, I don’t think you should stay here alone.”

Does she think he’s going to harm himself? Or, does she just want to keep an eye on him?

“Sorry that you already paid for a room, but I want to take you back to the office. You can stay there for a while.”

Apollo can’t find it in himself to argue. Money doesn’t mean much to him anyway.

Phoenix opens the door to the agency to see two of his wayward adopted attorneys. One is supporting the other, arms around his shoulders and across his waist. The other looks weak and tired. 

“Apollo?”

He lifts his head up, and he looks absolutely miserable.

“Can I stay over? On the couches I mean.”

“I just didn’t want him to have to be alone. Is that okay, Boss?”

One thousand things fly through his mind. He’s worried about how weak Apollo is. He’s worried about how Athena is panicked and worn. He can identify the look—she’s tried everything she can. The only reason they’re here is because they’ve run out of options.

“Of course. Are you okay?”

He shakes his head.

“No. Things are bad.”

Phoenix knew from The Last Time that ‘bad’ meant some very bad things. And, the way Apollo looked at him…ugh. He’s suffering.

He kneels so he’s closer to eye level.

“Hey, this place is always open to you. I would let you stay here for as long as you need. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

Apollo adverts his eyes.

“I just want to go to sleep.”

“Of course. Be my guest.”

He flops on the couch and immediately passes out.

Athena paces back and forth in front of Phoenix’s desk.

“I don’t know what to do, Boss. I tried to help, but this isn’t something I feel comfortable dealing with, I don’t think.”

“I’m not a therapist, but the fact that you are aware of that is good for the both of you.”

She pauses, nods, and then keeps pacing.

“He’s having a PTSD episode. A very severe one. He’s afraid of hurting Klavier.”

“Hurting him?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there in silence, not sure what each other knows. Athena goes first.

“He told me about Dhurke—sort of.”

“Really?”

Athena stops pacing, crossing her arms, looking at him disapprovingly.

“So, the other one is Kristoph.”

Phoenix tries his best not to react, but he probably does anyway. Actually, he knows he didn’t hide it well enough because Athena’s expression becomes more intense.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

He averts his eyes.

“Yes.”

“I knew it.” She sits in the chair in front of his desk and pounds a fist on it. “It’s bad, Boss. I’m genuinely scared for him, but I can’t do anything.” She shakes her head solemnly.

“This is much bigger than the both of us. I think we’re both aware of that.”

“Yeah. Both as a psychologist and as a friend.”

They look down at the ground and sigh heavily. There’s a tension in the room that makes silence unbearable. Athena decides to speak up first because of course she does.

“He’s as awful as his court records say, isn’t he?”

Phoenix can’t help but let his eyes lose focus.

“Worse.”

There are no words that could describe what it feels like to be completely demoralized by another person. You try, and you can do it to a certain extent because you have to get it out. You have to tell someone, anyone because the pain of keeping it to yourself is killing you. Someone needs to know how you feel, or you’ll lose your connection to reality.

But, feelings can never be accurately described. Not completely, anyway.

(Rate your depression—one through ten, one being no distress, ten being the worst distress you’ve ever felt. Can you rate a feeling with a number?)

To be fair, it’s no one’s fault. Everyone is just trying to make logical sense of illogical feelings. That, in itself, makes sense. It’s just not how it works in practice.

How do you put into words the feeling of being hurt so badly that it renders you unable to function? And, it’s even worse when you know for a fact that the person who caused all your pain and suffering doesn’t care. You’re nothing but a blip on their radar while they control your entire life.

Even back then, when he was still alive, he had no remorse.

“Gavin.”

He looked up from the novel he was reading but said nothing.

Phoenix stood there, a glare of contempt aimed down at the man sitting in his very fine and expensive chair.

“What did you do to Apollo?”

Kristoph closed the book and put it down in his lap.

“Not even a simple ‘hello?’” He smiled in the sweet way that always sucked the warmth out of the room. “I know you’ve never been one for manners, Phoenix, but you really have hurt my feelings.”

“Cut the shit, Gavin.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. You aren’t playing along anymore, are you?”

Phoenix’s hands clutched in his hoodie pockets.

“Answer the question. What did you do?”

“To Justice?” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I merely trained him to be the best defense attorney he could be.”

“You trained him? Does training a disciple usually traumatize them?”

He placed his book on the side table.

“Heavens, no. But, Justice always did have a rather…weak constitution. I guess it couldn’t be helped.”

“He thought I was going to hit him, Kristoph.” Phoenix's voice was a legitimate growl.

Kristoph stared at him but didn’t respond. He stared at him like he knew he was bluffing.

“He jumps basically any time I speak. He says sorry constantly and for absolutely no reason. He obviously has some sort of anxiety problem, but the way he flinched when I reached for him was absolutely a trauma response. I should know.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the tales of your ex-girlfriend.”

“Then, you know what I was like at that time. Scared. Overly eager to please. In love. And you dare do that to someone working under you. ”

Only one part of what he’d said caught Kristoph’s ear. A smile bloomed on his face.

“So, you’re implying that he’s still in love with me, yes?”

(Fucking narcissist.)

“I don’t think he realizes it, but he is abnormally preoccupied with you. He won’t talk to me about it, but it’s not my first rodeo.”

Kristoph pushed up his glasses, the dim light of the prison cell flashing across his lenses. But, he couldn’t respond quickly enough because Phoenix interjected.

“He is getting over you, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been seeing Klavier.”

“Oh? Justice is seeing my dear brother? It seems like he has a type.”

It took all of Wright’s willpower to not literally strangle them right there.

“You’re disgusting. How can you talk about kids like that?”

“Apollo is an adult who can make his own choices.”

“Yes, because I, an adult, obviously made all my own choices.”

This actually made Kristoph angry. It wasn’t hard to do so, but it was surprising that it took so little time. His eyes narrowed.

“What do you want to hear, Wright? That I fucked him?”

Phoenix visibly bristled.

“What?”

“I don’t intend to withhold the truth.” He got up and began to pace around the room, never breaking eye contact. “What is it you want to know? About how I got him drunk off of spiked drinks? About how he collapsed and I forced myself upon him? About how I strangled him until he passed out and then fucked him —”

“Kristoph, what the fuck! Stop!”

“You asked. You wanted this. Feels like old times, doesn’t it? You ask for me to do so many things to you, and then, you blame me when you asked me to do it.”

He wasn’t thinking. He went over and punched Kristoph harder than he’d punched anything in his life.

Kristoph slammed to the ground, jarred for a few moments. 

When he finally collected his bearings, he looked up at Phoenix, making eye contact while wiping the blood off his lips.

“You really do love pushing your luck, don’t you, Wright?”

“You’re a monster.”

He stood and straightened out his suit, brushing some dust away.

“Ah, but you knew that already. Aren’t you also somewhat guilty, considering you turned a blind eye?”

“I didn’t know Apollo at the time.”

“But, you knew me. And, you knew he was my protégé.”

(He wasn’t his protégé. He was his toy, his plaything—his victim.)

Phoenix just glared.

“As I said, Justice is an adult. He was an adult back then, too. He is not a child.”

“Being an adult doesn’t mean you can consent to abuse."

The same dance as always. Phoenix knew he was right, but Kristoph has an unnatural ability to shift blame onto anyone but himself.

Kristoph continued, clearly amused.

“Your definition of abuse is a bit lax. He consented eventually. Just like you did.” He crossed his arms, taking a few steps closer. “But, unlike him, you didn’t need to be guided. I know you, Wright. You’re just as depraved, and yet, you still think yourself better than me.”

He couldn’t help but let out another growl of anger.

“You’re a filthy, disgusting piece of shit.”

“Ah, yes, but it certainly does take one to know one.” 

Kristoph smiled sweetly, closed his eyes, and tilted his head slightly. 

“Doesn’t it?"

Phoenix left the jail cell determined to destroy that motherfucker’s entire life, even if it killed him. It was the least he could do for Apollo, after all.

They never really spent time together outside of work. There just wasn’t anything that a studious person like Kristoph and a goofy kid like Apollo had in common. But, one night after winning a particularly difficult case, Kristoph invited Apollo to dinner. 

Like a real dinner. A fancy wine-and-dine dinner.

Having lived the first decade or so of his life in Khura’in, Apollo was something of a country bumpkin. He’d never been what anyone would consider wealthy or well off, but that kind of stuff didn’t matter much to him. To Apollo, money was just another fact of life, a material need that required a constant struggle to earn.

That’s not to say that he didn’t want money. He would like enough to at least be financially stable, but only a few years out of school, he barely had a penny to his name.

So, it was shocking that the place Kristoph took him was so nice. He hadn’t seen anything like it before. Everything about it was refined and all the silverware looked expensive and the lighting was dim. If you wanted Apollo’s opinion, he thought the whole thing to be a little garish, a little exorbitant. It made him feel uncomfortable to be in a place he didn’t belong. He could just tell that the patrons were wealthier than he’d ever be.

The wait staff were familiar with Kristoph as they greeted him and welcomed him back.

“And, who is this charming young lad accompanying you this evening?”

Kristoph’s eyes turned to him, and under his gaze, Apollo felt like he wasn’t exactly a person but an accessory, maybe. Kristoph wore a ‘charming young lad’ that he could place beside himself, and people could admire him like a painting or a jewel behind glass. He felt his face get hot as he was scanned up and down by the two men.

“He’s my assistant at the firm. We’re out having a little celebration.”

(He had this way of talking that made it sound like he didn’t mean the words he just said. Maybe it was the way his voice was soft and delicate and his smile was charming and soothing, but he was also a very frightening man when he wanted to be. The way he spoke was the same way. “Celebration” might have been a euphemism for getting fucked in the backseat of his car later, for all he knew. Or, he was being earnest, and Apollo had learned not to trust him.)

“Another win?”

“Yes. It was a challenging case, but with help from Mr. Justice, we were able to reach a fortunate outcome.”

His chest filled with itchy butterfly wings and bees hummed inside his head. Kristoph was almost certainly buttering him up for something, but it wasn’t like it wasn’t working.

“A rising star, then.”

“Of course.”

When they were led to his table, it dawned on Apollo that he might not be able to take this extra attention. That short conversation had already used up his allotted embarrassment for the day, and they had only just been seated. Once they were, though, Apollo had another realization.

This is the kind of place where you’d take someone on a date.

There was something inherently romantic about the glow of the candlelight, the soft music in the background, the classiness of the decor. Kristoph’s face was softly illuminated by the candle, and it somehow made him look soft when he was always sharp and fastidious. He was looking at him in admiration, as if he adored him more than anything else in the world.

Apollo couldn’t stop his heart from wedging itself in his throat. Kristoph must have noticed him tense because he smiled his soft, kind smile.

“Are you nervous, Justice?”

“Uh—uh, no, not really. It’s just, uh, this place is so nice. It must be expensive.”

He could tell by the look in his eyes that Kristoph didn’t buy a single word. Maybe he could actually read his mind.

“As I said, we’re celebrating. And, it’s not as if I’m struggling financially.”

Apollo opened the menu and said, “I don’t know, some of these dishes sound like they cost more than what’s in my bank account.” The prices weren’t listed. It must have been a ‘if you have to ask, you can’t afford it’ situation.

“Then, I’ll just have to spoil you rotten, won’t I?”

His heart skipped a beat. Wow, oh buddy, ole pal—that was flirty as fuck. He was never like this in the office. Although they had some type of arrangement, he wasn’t known for his affectionate behavior. It somehow felt more exciting than some of the other situations they’d been in.

“O-Oh—thank you.”

When the waiter came around, Kristoph ordered wine. By the sound of it, it must have been bougie. Some French name or something. Apollo couldn’t remember the last time he’d had wine. The wine was poured for them, and he didn’t know what to say or do because it was so awkward.

When he walked away again, Kristoph raised his glass, indicating that Apollo should do the same.

“Cheers to another successful case. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t had your help.”

That was technically a lie because Apollo knew that Kristoph would be successful with or without him. It was nice to hear, even if it wasn’t the truth, and he knew it was on purpose.

“Cheers.”

The wine was red and dry. Apollo gravitated toward sweeter drinks, so he involuntarily made a face at his first sip.

“Is it not to your taste?”

“N-No, that’s not it. It just surprised me, that’s all. It’s dry. I’m not used to it.”

“Cabernet Sauvignon is my personal favorite, but I could order you something else?”

“No, it’s fine. I like it.” He smiled to prove it.

Then, it was time to order. Kristoph ordered for him. It was weird. Apollo wanted to ask, but he was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer.

Kristoph? Doing a powerplay? Nah.

But, in a way, it was kind of nice to just be taken care of like this. He never really had anyone to do things for him—not in America, at least. He’d been on his own for so long, he almost forgot how it felt to be doted on. It was warm and felt good.

Or, that could have been the wine. He wasn’t much of a drinker and getting wine drunk feels different than other kinds of drunk. It makes the world soft and warm, and everything about the night was crawling into his chest. The food was amazing, and the conversation was nice, and being tipsy was always appreciated.

By the end of the meal, he definitely felt stunted, like he couldn’t move as fast as he wanted. He’d estimated that he’d had almost a whole bottle of wine because, when they ran out the first time, Kristoph ordered a Riesling because they’re sweet.

So, he was kinda trashed.

Apollo knew this was probably part of some fucked up plan to take advantage of him somehow. He was sure Kristoph wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. But, anyway, it wasn’t like it was much different from what they usually did, so Apollo couldn’t bring himself to care.

As the restaurant was closing down, Kristoph stood up and put out his hand, smiling like he does. 

“I think it’s time we left. Is that alright, Justice?”

He blinked at him, and he blinked at the extended hand.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” 

He couldn’t believe that Kristoph actually wanted to take him by the hand, so he hesitated, looking at him wearily. He was scared he’d mess something up, and then Kristoph would be angry, and then he wouldn’t aim nice words at him anymore.

However, he seemed to anticipate this.

“You can take my hand. I’d like it if you did.”

Apollo opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He simply could not believe this was happening.

Slowly and carefully, he placed his hand into Kristoph’s, and he helped him up, which was good because Apollo stumbled from the change in position. He couldn’t fully meet his eyes because he was so embarrassed. But, it was embarrassment in a good way, like when you can’t look at someone because you like them.

Oh.

They walked together, Kristoph holding his hand as if he was a princess of a foreign land, and he was a duke who was courting her. It was way too dramatic, but Apollo kind of liked it.

Kristoph stopped outside of the restaurant, which caused Apollo to stop, too. He looked up so he could see what was wrong, but he didn’t look upset. In fact, he maintained the same demeanor that he’d put on the entire night. Apollo couldn’t help but gape at him because of how loving his expression was.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Apollo.”

He called him by his name.

“I-I did, too, sir.”

His smile got an edge to it due to Apollo’s politeness.

“I’m afraid this is where we part for tonight.”

Panic slammed him in the chest.

“What?”

“I have to be up early tomorrow for an engagement. But, I’ll be at the office on time, so I will see you then.” 

Apollo felt like his heart broke in his chest. This felt like rejection, and it especially stung after he’d been pampered all night.

(He felt stupid for thinking that he was getting him drunk so he could be with him. God, why did he think that highly of himself in the first place? Apollo had the urge to either run away in the other direction or give up and crawl out of his skin.)

“Did I—did I do something wrong?”

He could already feel his eyes start to sting.

“Oh, no, not at all.” Kristoph looked hurt, shaking his head and putting a hand on his shoulder. His hurt was obviously fake, but Apollo wanted to believe it wasn’t. “In fact, you were perfect. I loved every moment.”

Apollo knew he shouldn’t want Kristoph to have sex with him in this state, but—he did want it. He knew he was getting praise and attention and care, but without the final piece, it didn’t feel real. Kristoph always took his chances, and now, he’s backing off?

“W-Why…? I thought you...I thought that, I—”

Kristoph’s fake sadness turned into actual pity. He made a clucking sound, but he didn't say anything. He just wrapped one arm around his waist and the other was placed on Apollo’s cheek. Then, he kissed him.

It was such a loving, intense kiss that Apollo made a small sound. This wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it was a part of That Closeness, and it felt like that high.

(He melted into his arms, and even that small spark ignited him, and he felt alive and not unsure and not scared, and he was never like this any other time, and he wanted it to last forever.)

Kristoph could be passionate when he wanted to be. Apollo wasn’t deluded enough to not notice that he changed his behavior to get the reaction he wanted. He just didn’t care. He wanted what Kristoph gave him, even if it was all one big lie. It was only the front of his mind that pretended he cared. The rest of his mind knew he didn’t. 

But, he just wanted to have this. At that moment, at least.

They broke off their kiss, but they stayed in each other’s arms, for a moment. Apollo let his head fall to Kristoph’s chest.

“I love you.”

Kristoph raked his fingers through Apollo’s hair.

“You are the sweetest boy I've ever met.”

Something sparked in his brain, and he sighed. He was visibly relieved.

(He knew he didn’t love him back, but he didn’t care.)

They parted ways a few minutes later. Apollo turned and walked in the opposite direction Kristoph was even though he had to go that way to get home. He just couldn’t let him know that he was so deeply affected by him. Kristoph already knew, but he still felt the need to hide it. He could only be so vulnerable while his entire sense of self was crumbling around him.

Apollo wakes up crying.

He wasn’t just crying in his dream, huh? Sucks. Embarrassing. Luckily, it seems to be early in the morning, so no one’s at the office yet.

His phone is on the table in front of the couch, and it lights up and dims again. It lights up and dims again.

It’s Klavier. He’s left dozens of text messages. They start from last night.

[Klavier: Hey, did you go somewhere?]

[Klavier: Ahh, I’m sorry if I upset you last night but I’m worried]

[Klavier: I know I can be overbearing sometimes but I don’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry]

[Klavier: Apollo please respond, i don’t know where you are]

[Klavier: i know i shouldnt bother you but]

[Klavier: apollo plesae where are you??]

The messages go on like this for a while, and then, they stop at about four in the morning.

There’s only two recent messages.

[Klavier: Apollo please]

[Klavier: I’m worried about you]

Everything feels crushing. He gets that familiar sensation of wanting to check out of life. It feels like he can’t handle it, and he wants to crawl out of his skin.

He owes him a response.

[Apollo: I’m so sorry, Klavier, I’ve been feeling bad lately, I had to take some time for myself, but it’s not you, I promise. Things are just bad.]

He doesn’t bother to wait for a response. He drops his phone to the ground and falls asleep again.

Mr. Wright wakes him up. He opens the door and is unintentionally too loud.

“Hey, Apollo. You doing alright?”

He feels disoriented, forgetting where he’d fallen asleep. He shoots up, obviously not fully awake.

“Oh, huh…?”

“Whoops, I didn’t realize you were still sleeping.”

Apollo rubs at his eyes.

“What...time is it?”

“A little after two. We don’t have a case right now, but I wanted to check up on you.” He wanders over to the couch across from the one he’s been on. “You were in pretty bad shape yesterday.”

“Yeah…” He leans against the arm of the couch. He feels like he’s hungover, but all he’s done is mope around. 

“As always, I’m open to talking, but you don’t have to, obviously.”

“I don’t know, I think I want to. Maybe it’ll help.”

Phoenix nods. He’s trying his best to look serious and compassionate at the same time.

“It’s just like back then in Khura’in. I’m messed up. I keep thinking about...”

He can’t say it.

“Him?”

“Yeah.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, I just started remembering again. I’ve been having nightmares like the last time. But, I didn’t know they were real before. Now, I know they're definitely real.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just weird because some of it is awful and...some of it is nice. He wasn’t totally awful to me.”

Phoenix pales. He obviously knows something Apollo doesn’t, but he doesn’t really care. Let Mr. Wright keep his secrets. He wishes his mind kept his.

“But, the compulsions are back, too. That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want to mess up with Klavier, and I know I’m going to. Athena said I need help, but how am I supposed to do that right now? I don’t live here anymore. I don’t have anywhere to stay besides Klavier’s, and I know I’m going to be messed up the moment I go back.”

Phoenix looks genuinely crushed. He must really care about Apollo to look so hurt. It’s not like how Kristoph used to look at him. Even his most genuine emotions looked forced.

“I don’t know how to help. Athena knows more than me about this particular topic, and she doesn’t know what to do either. I think we’re all out of our depth.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The room is silent for a few moments, but Apollo eventually says, “I guess I’m just going to have to talk to him, anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s the only advice I have.”

Apollo nods, but he can’t help but let his face fall. He looks up at Wright, and his face has fallen, too.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” he lies.

Phoenix smiles, obviously lying, too.

When Klavier opens the door to his apartment, Apollo’s eyes are blown wide, as if he hadn’t expected him to be there.

He’s very flushed, and he squirms where he stands. Is he drunk? He doesn’t smell like alcohol. If he didn’t know any better, Klavier would get the impression that being around him is making Apollo feel uncomfortable.

His name is a breath.

“Klavier.”

“Oh, Schatz,” he hugs Apollo, and they stumble inside. Klavier kicks the door shut. “I’m so happy that you’re safe.”

Apollo squeaks in a way that sounds painful, but after his shock, he returns the hug with just as much vigor. He buries his face in Klavier’s sweater and breathes in deeply. Time drags and turns thick. Apollo groans into the fabric and squeezes him tighter.

After a while, Klavier lets go of him. Apollo stands there, looking lost.

“Hey,” Klavier says with a smile, “let’s have a seat.” He laces his fingers with Apollo’s and leads him over to the kitchen island and the chairs that accompany it.

“Can I have a drink?” Apollo asks.

“Ah...sure.”

As he sits down, Klavier looks at his face, his body language. He’s strangely absent, like he doesn’t know where he is. His body is tense but not enough to be alarming. His face is still very red.

“Are you sick?” Klavier tilts his head sympathetically.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Well, maybe a little. I think a drink would do me good, though. I can’t stop clenching my jaw.” He rubs at his cheeks, frowning.

Something in Klavier’s conscience tells him that maybe he should just put him right to bed. But, Apollo is an adult and can make his own decisions. It’s not really his place to decide whether he should or should not partake. He decides he should at least suggest it.

“If you’re feeling ill, maybe we should call it a night.”

“No. I don’t want to go to sleep. I can’t stop having those dreams.”

Okay. Worrying. 

“Ah, alright. If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Klavier walks over to the counter and pulls out his bottle, but his mind is too busy trying to figure out what’s going on. Apollo rarely changes demeanor, and he never seems distracted. And, wanting to drink? Not like him at all.

He smiles as he gives the glass to Apollo, and Apollo looks back at him like he’s just been shown the ultimate act of kindness. He looks like he might cry from happiness.

“Thank you,” he smiles.

“Ach, bitte.”

Apollo’s distant behavior turns into heavy sighs and wide smiles and leaning too heavily on the marble beside him. He giggles when Klavier talks to him, and he’s barely touched his drink when he starts tripping on words.

He’s not drunk, he’s…

Klavier curses his inability to think of specific words he knows in English when he wants to use them.

The best he can describe it is ‘messed up.’ Apollo’s messed up, but not from substances. He’s just messed up.

Eventually, he puts his head down on the table. He’s obviously distressed.

“I don’t feel good.”

“No?”

“I’ve been throwing up a lot.”

“So, you are sick?”

"No, I'm not. Not physically anyway."

"What does that mean?" He's honestly asking. He doesn't understand the meaning of Apollo's choice of words.

He rolls his head to the side and peeks up at him.

“God, I’m so sorry.”

(Something's wrong.)

“Huh? You didn’t do anything.”

Something in his eyes change. He becomes even more upset.

“I really don’t feel good. I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

He gets up from the chair and stumbles. He’s acting drunk, but he’s had the equivalent of a shot maybe. Even a lightweight like him wouldn’t be fucked up from a single drink.

Apollo is leaning on the kitchen island, breathing heavily, stare unfocused, face red. It’s almost like he’s not present like his body is. Klavier gets up and puts a hand on his back.

“Schatz, are you alright?”

When he turns his head to look at Klavier, Apollo is visibly frightened. He closes his eyes and lets out another pained sound. It looks like he’s about to faint. Klavier puts his other hand on his cheek, but (he doesn’t notice how Apollo tenses when they’re in each other’s arms again.)

“Let’s go to bed. I can dote on you. Will that make you feel better?”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds scared, like he expects Klavier to admonish him for some reason. “What did I do?”

“Nothing! You just said you weren’t feeling well, and I want you to feel better. That’s all.”

Apollo’s staring at him wearily, eyes shifting around, taking in his entire expression. It looks like he’s calculating a million things at once. But, that only lasts for a few moments because Apollo leans forward and kisses him.

It’s surprising because Apollo rarely initiates, but it’s also weird because he’s obviously acting—well—weird. He kisses him desperately, like he thinks he’s never going to see him again. He moans into his mouth and trembles in his arms, pressing into him so hard that Klavier has to back up to catch his balance.

(Something’s wrong.)

Klavier maneuvers his head away and slips out of his grip, having to catch his breath. Apollo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What’s gotten into you, Schatz?” Klavier manages to say.

Apollo shudders, and by the way he flinches after, it’s involuntary. 

“I’m sorry. I knew this would happen. I’m sorry.”

Klavier waits for him to continue or to explain, but he doesn’t.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But, I do. I really am sorry.”

“Why are you…?”

“I…I’ve done…bad things.”

“Bad things?”

Klavier has heard something similar from him before. At the party. In text messages. He called himself bad. What had he done? What is bad?

“But, I hope you can forgive me because—because I—because I love you, Klavier.”

His breath hitches.

(Klavier hadn’t even said it. Why would Apollo? It makes him feel guilty, like he’d somehow pressured him, like he had given him the impression that he had to be forthcoming to be accepted. He never wants to become as horrible as his brother. )

“Oh, Apollo, you don’t have to say that. I’ll be here for you no matter what. You don’t have to say things you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I’ve always wanted to say it. I missed you so much. I never want to leave you again.”

Klavier goes from concerned to frightened.

“I don’t think it is the right time for this.”

Apollo looks absolutely beside himself with sadness or fear or something way more deep-seated than that.

“I just—I just want you to love me back.”

“I already do. Why would you think that I didn’t?”

“Please.” His eyes are bleary. He’s practically already crying. “I just want to—” he sniffs, “—want to be better for you.”

“You’re perfect to me, Süsse.”

“Please…”

(Something’s wrong.)

“What’s going on? You aren’t acting right.” 

“How am I supposed to act?”

Klavier, for not the first time since Apollo’s been back, feels viscerally alarmed.

(Apollo crying out in his sleep, telling Someone to ‘stop’ is so horrifying, but—this is somehow worse. Klavier still doesn’t have any words to describe it except ‘messed up.’)

His eyes are lost again, but not a moment later, he knows what he’s ‘supposed’ to do. He leans in to kiss him, and it feels so wrong. Klavier never thought he would do this to Apollo, but he backs up, turns away, and puts a hand up to block his face.

“I’m not doing this right now. You’re not like you. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Why?” he whines. “Don’t you love me? Why don’t you—?”

“You know how I feel about you, which is why I’m saying no. You have told me you feel uncomfortable being touched, and then, you just want to jump into everything? It’s not the right time.”

Apollo gives up. He drops to his knees in front of him, and Klavier jumps. He’s looking at him, eyes pleading so deeply for something.

Klavier doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s tried to give him all the love and acceptance he could muster, but this isn’t the Apollo he knows. It’s almost like he swung from being scared of intimacy to resorting to it.

Apollo inches closer.

“I want you to like me.”

“I already do.”

He leans against Klavier's leg, gripping the fabric of his pant leg, nuzzling the inside of his knee like a cat asking to be pet.

“Then, why?”

“I don’t know what he said to you, but you don’t need to prove how you feel by—” He doesn’t even want to think of the image of Apollo groveling at his brother’s feet, begging to let him suck him off just so he doesn’t face some sort of retribution. The idea is so sickening that Klavier has to shut his eyes and breathe to keep himself level-headed.

He can’t bear to say it out loud.

Apollo lets go of his leg and bows his head again. He looks like he’s a dog who has been caught doing something wrong.

“Please,” he repeats, peeking upward.

“I don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Apollo’s face is tangled up with different emotions. He’s been close to tears through the whole interaction, and his mouth is struggling to keep up a small smile, but his eyes are calling out for—Klavier recognizes it now. He’s pleading for help.

(His conscious self is wrapped up in the past, switching back into a panicked state to protect himself. But, that panicked state is unhealthy and destructive and only hurts him more. It's a cycle of retraumatization. His subconscious knows he doesn’t want this, and it’s begging Klavier to please help him.)

“I want you. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’ve been so…cautious, and I realized it was stupid because I do like you, and being so avoidant is stupid, too, and—”

“Apollo. You’re not being avoidant. You’re hurt. It’s okay to set your own boundaries.”

He looks away.

Klavier continues, “I’m in no rush. You don’t have to push yourself.”

“N-No…I want to…I do…I can’t wait…I—”

“But, you can. I’ll always be here. No rush, ja?”

“I’m not, I want to…I…”

Apollo looks beside himself, like Klavier’s kind acceptance is hurtful to him. His ghost of a smile falls away. 

“I'm sorry.”

He reaches up, and—

Klavier jumps backward. “Whoa! Was zum Teufel—?” 

Did Apollo just try to do what he thinks he did? What in the hell? He hopes he doesn’t look as horrified as he feels.

Well, he’s not horrified for his own sake. He’s horrified by how strange he’s acting. He’s not Apollo right now. It’s like someone is using his body, and there’s a different person inside him. It’s horrifying to watch.

Apollo sits there on his knees, vacantly looking at him, eyes glazed over. It’s similar to that lost look he’s been getting lately, but he also looks all too miserable.

His words are mumbles under his breath. Klavier has to struggle to hear them.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m bad that I want these things. It scares me all the time. I tried so hard not to fall into this again, but I did it again, and—Oh, God—”

He doubles over, arms clutching his stomach. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

Klavier cautiously takes a few steps forward and kneels in front of him. He leans down to try to catch his gaze.

“Hey.”

“Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

He straightens up a bit, but his head is still bowed. His words turn back into a mumble.

“I can’t believe I...why can’t I...it’s so bad...why…”

“Why do you keep saying that you’re bad, Schatz?”

He shakes his head, taking an uneven breath.

“I can’t say it.”

“Apollo, can’t you see how sad you are? I just want to help.”

“But, it’s so bad.”

“I won’t judge you.”

“Yes, you will. You’re going to hate me.”

Klavier feels those words strike him. Along with the current circumstances, he also believes that Klavier could...hate him? What? Why? What on Earth is Apollo hiding?

“I could never hate you. Why would you say that?”

He looks up finally, and Apollo’s eyes are full of terror. He chokes out, “I—I don’t know how to explain it without sounding so horrible.”

“I promise I won’t get mad.”

“It’s just so bad. I don’t know if I can even say it out loud.”

Bad. He’s bad. He does bad things. Klavier is getting more and more concerned. He sounds like he’s about to confess to murder.

“What…?”

“I...I—” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Kristoph—h-he—I…I slept with him. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“But, that time wasn’t—”

“I’m not talking about that. I slept with him. A lot.”

“Oh.”

Maybe he’d rather have Apollo confess to murder.

He knows about the time Kristoph assaulted him, but he had no idea that there were “other times.” And, the way he phrased it—slept with him—it sounds consensual. But, why would Apollo have sex with someone who he’s so scared of? And, after he forced himself on him? It sounds crazy to Klavier’s ears.

Apollo looks like he’s going to snap in half. His eyes are open, and they’re blown wide, and his hands are shaking in his lap.

“It wasn’t like that at first, but he would get so close to me and touch me all the time, and—y’know—it’s hard for it not to cross your mind. And, like, he’s pretty, and I—ugh, this sounds all wrong.” Apollo buries his head in his hands and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have let him. I knew it was wrong, but I…”

Klavier doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure if he can say anything.

“After the first time it happened, I just felt so weird all the time, but it would get better when I was with him, and then, it totally spiraled out of control. I got to the point where…I didn’t mind it. I sometimes instigated it. I…let him.” He pauses for a moment, presumably so he can find his voice again. His voice still cracks, though, when he continues. “I’m just so gross. I feel so disgusting and fucked up.”

Klavier leans forward and takes his shoulders, hushing him like he’s trying to console a crying baby. He has to make a concerted effort to hide the blistering anger that hurts his chest.

(How could his brother be so evil?)

“Hey, hey, hey. None of that talk. You realize that he is to blame for all this, ja? You were manipulated—”

“Sure, he manipulated me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I kept letting it happen. Until he was arrested, at least.”

“He attacked you, Apollo. You’re not at fault.”

“That was only the one time, though. I was scared at first, but it didn’t seem bad after a while. And, I thought he loved me. I mean, I knew he didn’t, but I wished he did. I didn’t have anyone else.”

The same thought comes back to him: how could his brother be so evil?

Assaulting him is horrible enough, but he groomed Apollo into ‘consenting.’ It makes him sick, and it should make any normal person sick, but Kristoph obviously was proud of his actions. He could feel it. Klavier always thought it was because he was good at his job and enjoyed his reputation as a lawyer. He never ever in a million years would have guessed that one of the things he was proud of was that he got his disciple to fuck him.

No, Apollo wasn’t his disciple. Apollo was his victim. Countless victims. His brother pursued countless victims. Apollo is only one of them.

(A young man pushed down far too many times, resorting to turn to abuse for attention because there was no one else around to show him what love really felt like. And, there is no doubt in Klavier’s mind that Kristoph instantly saw Apollo for who he really was: a lonely, abandoned, mistreated kid who needed anyone to latch onto.)

Klavier has to close his eyes and breathe. He’s so angry, and heartbroken, and devastated. He doesn’t know if he’s going to punch a wall or burst into tears.

“I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like I get trapped back in time. It doesn’t feel bad anymore. It’s all I can think about. I shouldn’t, but it makes me want…”

Klavier is forced into silence once again. 

When Apollo has a trauma episode, he…wants…his brother. He wants Kristoph.

He gets nauseous again. It feels like someone yanked his heart out of his chest.

He can’t be mad at Apollo because he’s seen how horrified he is about his past. He’s seen him cry, and almost pass out, and have night terrors, and flinch away, and degrade himself because of Kristoph’s actions towards him. This isn’t ‘desire.’ This is illness. Apollo is very sick.

(Oh. That was what he meant earlier.)

If it’s so gut-wrenching to him, he can’t begin to imagine how Apollo feels.

“It makes me feel horrible, but I can’t find a way to stop it. I tried to get Athena to help me, but the second I came here, I was thrown back again.”

(I still look too much like him.)

He’d grown out his hair, grown out his bangs, changed his style, changed the way he looks at the world, but Apollo still can’t help but associate him with Kristoph.

“Ah, I see. My appearance is upsetting to you.”

“No! No. It's not. It’s other things. Things people say to me. Things he said to me. Things that make me think of him. But, not you. It’s not you. I promise.”

Klavier clearly doesn’t believe him.

“Look, I’ll tell you what it was, okay?” he says quickly because now Apollo is trying to calm down the crying baby. He's bordering on sounding hysterical. “It was a dream! It was a memory. I only got thrown back in because this is the place where I had the dream, and I like you and everything, and—”

To appease him, Klavier nods. “I understand.”

“And, I’m sorry I’m acting like this around you. I’ve done some bad stuff—some really bad stuff. I don’t understand what comes over me, but it’s like I can’t stop myself, and that sounds really horrible, but I promise, I try to stop it every time, but it doesn’t go away until something bad happens.”

Oh, God. Maybe Apollo can’t see it, but Klavier can. He’s replicating his abuse, and the only thing that makes it stop is when he...when Kristoph would...

Fuck, it makes him so angry and sick knowing that he could do something like that to Apollo of all people. He’s such a kind person. But, that’s exactly why he picked him. Too naïve. Too trusting. Too honest. Too innocent.

He wasn’t like Kristoph. Kristoph was evil. He didn’t care that people around him suffered, and he’s getting the sense that he might have actually enjoyed it. The thought makes his skin crawl. How could he be related to such a monster?

“No, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“But, ach, he’s my brother, and that’s just like so sick that someone could do that to you, and—”

“You’re not your brother, Klavier. You never have been,” Apollo looks genuinely saddened that he feels any sort of fault in the situation. “I can see it in your eyes. Wow, that sounded stupid and weird, ugh. What I mean is, your eyes are kind, and they always are. But, he was always...so cold. And, he would stare at me—just like stare. There was always something insidious about him, I just let myself get too caught up in everything.”

He knows that there’s nothing he could say to relieve Apollo of his misplaced blame, but he wishes he could make it all go away. He wishes he could erase every part of Kristoph’s life off the face of the Earth. Who knows how many people would still be alive? Who knows how many lives wouldn't have been ruined?

“You asked last night if it’s getting worse.”

Klavier blinks, being pulled out of his thoughts.

“Ja?”

“They are. This is the third time, and I think it’s been the worst.”

“Do you know the reason?”

“I think it’s because there are more memories now. They’re more specific. And, the more I know about, the more I realize how long it went on, how many times we were inappropriate with each other. It’s…” Apollo clutches the fabric of his own shirt, shaking his head, “It feels crushing. I’m so afraid I’m going to do something unspeakable to someone else.”

Klaver tilts his head and tries to look sympathetic.

“Do you think you should move back here just to deal with this?”

“M-Maybe. I-I don’t know. It’s too much to think about right now.”

“Well, if you find yourself without a job, I will pay for whatever you need. I have more money than I know what to do with, honestly.”

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just a moment of pause. 

“Hey, Herr Forehead?”

He looks up and makes eye contact with him.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want a hug, or do you want to be left alone?”

Apollo smiles softly, his eyes growing glassy again.

“I would love a hug, to be honest.”

He can tell by the way Apollo sighs and relaxes in his arms that he’s calmer in this moment than he’s been for the past week.

“I’m sorry,” Apollo says quietly. It’s just a whisper but their proximity makes it audible.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah...but, thanks for everything. I was so scared you would hate me, and...”

“I know. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Thank you, thank you…I’m here, too. Finally.”

Klavier rounds the corner to see Apollo standing in the middle of the suite, head dipped, duffle bag on the floor. It’s packed.

“You’re leaving?”

Apollo gasps, turning around. He looks fearful.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He turns away, shoulders slouching.

"I have to go back to Khura’in,” Apollo says.

“Oh?”

Klavier walks to him, leaning down to try to catch his line of sight, but Apollo turns his head more. It’s a bit concerning.

Well, everything has been a bit concerning. Apollo has been acting very detached. His eyes have been distant lately, ever since that night. They don’t focus all the way. They won’t make eye contact with him. He looks like he’s in pain, but it’s probably just because he’s upset. Or, at least, that's what Klavier hopes.

“I have to talk to Nahyuta. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the agency. I don’t think one person can run it, but I…”

Klavier tilts his head sympathetically to indicate that he’s listening.

"Everything feels so messed up," Apollo continues, rubbing his hand over his face. "I wish it didn't have to be an either/or thing, but I can't work right now. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

"It's alright," Klavier offers a smile, but he knows his smiles have been dimmer lately. It’s hard not to feel sad when you’re watching someone you care so much for fall apart at the seams. He puts a caring hand on Apollo's shoulder, but he flinches, and—ugh. “Sorry."

He shakes his head. "No, no, I’m sorry, I—"

"It's okay. I understand. I have to be more careful.”

Apollo groans, tears forming. He scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head.

"I hate that I'm like this."

It's so sad to see him this way. He's been cursing Kristoph's spirit constantly since Apollo told him the truth. The anger he feels is probably unhealthy, but he doesn't know what else to do. How can you cope with something so awful in a healthy way?

Klavier sure as hell doesn't know.

“No, no, no—ach. You’re just hurt. It’s okay.”

Apollo’s expression tells him that it’s clearly not okay.

“I just mean that I think you can get better. I think we both can.” He tries to smile, but it’s clearly way too melancholy to be earnest. “I’ll wait for you no matter what. And, if you decide you don’t want to be involved…”

“Stop it.” He sniffs, wiping away a few stray tears. “You’re making me cry.”

“Oh, Schatz…” Klavier sighs miserably. “Can I…give you a hug?”

He nods but doesn’t wait for Klavier, launching himself in his arms and squeezing him so tight that he almost makes a surprised sound. It only takes a second for Klavier to relax into his embrace and squeeze him back with the same force. Apollo buries his head in the crook of his shoulder and pretends like he’s not audibly crying.

Apollo’s proximity is instantly calming, even if he is in such distress. There’s a lull in the moment, and Klavier shuts his eyes, appreciating how he’s warm and—real. He hushes him softly, not in an admonishing way, but because it’s pulled out of him naturally. They gently sway, and he rubs Apollo’s back, leans his head against the side of his.

Oh, yeah. He loves this boy. It wasn’t like he forgot, but the way he feels when they’re close is like nothing else. He smells sweet, like a kitten or freshly plucked flower. The world falls away, and it’s just the two of them in the entire world.

Klavier places a soft kiss on the crown of his head.

“I love you so much, Apollo.”

He doesn’t respond with words because he can’t, but Apollo nods through tears. It’s too hard to say right now. It’s too overwhelming with everything else weighing down on them. Klavier can’t blame him in the slightest. He had always been okay with waiting for him, and he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon.

Apollo’s voice is very small when he says, “I’m scared, Klavier.”

“I know. I know. You’re very strong.”

“It doesn’t feel like that.” He rubs his face against Klavier’s shirt, but he doesn’t care, even if it’s a little gross. “It feels like everything’s out of control.”

“I know the feeling.”

He pulls away and wipes the tears from his cheeks, taking a breath to calm himself down.

“I’m sorry that I have to leave like this.”

“No, I understand. I want you to be free to do what you need to do.”

Apollo finally meets Klavier’s eyes. They’re still misty, but there’s another expression in them now.

“Klavier, you’re just, like, unbelievably nice to me.”

“Ah…” He feels his eyebrows tense. “I would sure hope so.”

“No, I mean, how can you be so self-sacrificing for me? I don’t get it.”

“I care about you. It would make me feel awful if I made you upset. I want to do things for you, and I want to give you compassion.”

He rubs one of his eyes and forces out a breath of exasperation.

“It just feels so weird.”

Klavier doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t, like, stop being nice to Apollo, but he also doesn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. He honestly has never been in this situation before, and it’s nerve-racking to feel as though kindness could be harmful.

“Well, it probably means you need more space.”

“I don’t want space.”

Once again, Klavier doesn’t know how to reply. He also looks off to the side. Thankfully, Apollo speaks up.

“I have to get to the airport soon. Again, sorry about the short notice.”

“No, you’re fine.”

Their eyes met once more, and whatever is in Apollo’s says, ‘I’m not fine.’

“If I work everything out with Nahyuta, I’ll come back soon.”

Klavier gives him a weak smile and pulls him into another hug, but this one is brief. They pull away, and Apollo turns towards the door.

“Bye, Klavier.”

“I’ll see you soon, Herr Forehead.”

Apollo giggles a bit before he picks up his duffle bag, waves, and leaves the apartment.

Klavier’s smile devolves into an angry frown.

He takes out the rolled one hundred dollar bill that is exclusively used for doing coke.

It’s fun symbolism—(I’m so rich, and everything is so fun, let’s party, ja?)—but the fact that he has to do this so often is a testament to how not-fun it actually is. Especially after the tumultuous past few days, Klavier’s been running on empty. Everything has been crushingly sad, crushingly awful, crushing, crushing, crushing, crushing—

Maybe these lines are fatter than normal, but y’know, warum nicht? It’s not like he can function without it, and everything is bad right now.

Apollo, Apollo, Apollo, Apollo.

Fuck Kristoph. Fuck him. Klavier doesn’t have the words to insult him enough to portray his anger—his betrayal. He doesn’t often feel violent, but he feels violent. He wants to maim Kristoph in the worst ways possible, but no. That evil, disgusting, motherfucking, abusive piece of shit is already dead.

He hasn’t even done any lines yet, so there’s no excuse, but he yells something incomprehensible, and he feels like he needs to rip everything out of him, to leave him in a pile of body parts on the floor. Fucking fucking fucking Kristoph—Fuck!

This is too much.

He snorts the lines and leaves the bathroom. He grabs the whole handle from where it rests in the kitchen and drinks from the bottle before slamming it back down.

It’s horrible to know that he raped him, but he fucking—ugh! He can’t help but think about it because the disturbing nature is too frightening to completely ignore, but it’s so fucking disgusting that it only makes him feel worse.

How could he do that? How could he? It’s so much more evil than just murdering someone. It’s borderline torture. Kristoph tortured Apollo. For years.

He grabs a dirty, abandoned glass and throws it to the floor. The noise of the glass shattering isn’t nearly as relieving as he hoped it would be. He wants to just—destroy things—because there’s no way to get out these emotions. He could cry, he could scream, he could hurt himself but—no. It won’t work. It’s too much.

Out of all the horrible stuff that’s happened in the last few years, this is absolutely the worst.

There’s another glass on the counter. He smashes that one, too. A shard may have nicked his cheek, but who the fuck cares?

Klavier never used to have anger issues like this. Never. The worst thing he’d done was yell at Daryan for missing his cue and punch a few walls after the whole Kristoph situation, but right now, he feels un-fucking-hinged.

Nothing is worth it when he feels like this. It’s so painful. He wants to kill himself just to get it to stop, and he wants it so bad that his heart is pounding in his chest—or no, it’s probably the speed, but fuck.

“How could this happen…?”

It’s blown his mind ever since. How? How? How? Literally, how?

Daryan was one thing. It was horrible, but there’s only so much you can do when it’s just a friend. But, his brother? Fuck.

He’s frightened because it makes him feel like evil runs through his veins. Is he evil? Is that why the people around him keep committing murders? He had talked himself down from that conclusion before, but now, it feels undeniable.

“I can’t take this,” he chokes out.

He takes another long drink from his whiskey bottle before he sinks to his knees and presses his forehead to the counter’s cupboard. He’s hot from anger and stress and drugs and alcohol. The world is spinning just a bit. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but his head swims and his lungs feel like they’re being crushed.

Okay, maybe he’s going a little too hard.

He’s spiraling, but he has been for some time now. It’s just too hard to keep this all inside him. It’s tearing him apart.

Who can he tell, though? Not Fräu Tamary—telling his hardships to someone who is a relative stranger to Apollo wouldn’t be appropriate. Herr Wright? No, why would he even think of that? He couldn’t confide in him. Ridiculous.

Fräulein Athena?

Actually, Athena might be a good person to talk to. They’d always had a bit of camaraderie because she also knows German, and sure, they aren’t that close, but she’s close enough with Apollo that he wouldn’t feel that guilty telling her all that he’s learned.

(He just needs to get this off his chest. The knowledge is like a weight on him. Apollo had only given him a fraction of his pain, but it feels unbearable. How does Apollo survive with this hurt?)

Maybe if he was in a different mental state, he would have thought to text Athena, but Klavier just wants to go over to the Agency. With a shower and a brush of his teeth, he will be totally presentable.

He’s fine, as Apollo would say, and right then, Klavier realizes how many times he’d lied directly to his face.

He lifts his head and takes a deep breath only to let his forehead hit the cupboard again.

“Fuck.”

He hadn't heard the front door open, so he’s surprised when he hears someone call out from the other room.

"Hallo?"

A German accent. There’s only one person he knows that has an accent that thick.

But, why would he come here of all places? Phoenix had been under the impression that he hated him. Or, at the very least, didn’t want to interact.

He gets up from his desk and opens his office door a little bit to see an unfamiliar face. He thought he knew who he was going to see, but he’s…

“Yes?”

Oh. It is who he thought it was.

He pauses for a moment, making eye contact with him. He blinks and stands up straight, opening the door more. “Klavier?"

"Ah...Herr Wright,” he says, looking away. “I was looking for Fräulein Cykes, but she seems to be out."

Athena? He didn’t know they were close. Maybe Klavier and Athena bonded while Phoenix wasn’t looking.

"Oh, yeah, she's with Trucy doing some investigating. Is there something I can help you with?"

Klavier swallows and shakes his head.

“I don’t think so, it’s private.”

There’s a reason Phoenix can barely recognize him. This is not the Klavier he’d grown used to. This Klavier is so thin, so pale, so…sad.

His hair is done nicely, but it does nothing to prop up the rest of him. His clothes are visibly too big. The black shirt he’s wearing looks like it’s supposed to be tight, but it gapes at the neck and around his waist. He wears dark blue jeans. They’re belted halfway between his hips and his middle. The flair at the bottom makes his thighs look small comparatively. He’s holding a black jacket in one arm.

Young Klavier makes this person look like a ghost. That confidence is gone. There’s only what must be left—a body, a heartbeat, a mind. The things that make Klavier “Klavier” aren’t present anymore. He looks like he’s drifting along and not really engaging with his surroundings. He’s clearly miserable, and he can tell that just by looking at him.

(Something isn’t right.)

“Oh, that’s fair. But, um, even if you don’t want to talk, if you need anything, I’m around.”

He looks surprised. Actually surprised. He blinks at him as if he’s not sure if he heard him correctly.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Phoenix steps out of the doorway, closing the office door behind him and walking closer to him. Now that Phoenix focuses on him, he’s shaking just slightly, but not in a nervous sort of way. It’s like when he’s been at the office all night and he’s had a whole pot of coffee.

He also has a gash on his cheek. By the look of it, it’s relatively fresh. With his demeanor, it makes him look rugged—another descriptor that Phoenix normally would have never used for him.

“You look troubled,” is what he decides to go with.

Klavier takes a deep breath and shrugs.

“I supposed I am.”

He uses the opportunity to close the distance between them. He places a hand on his shoulder and tries not to think about how sharp it is. His scent is also sharp—minty and floral—toothpaste and perfume. Strong, like he’s trying to cover something up.

“Do you want anything? Coffee, tea?”

He shakes his head, avoiding eye contact again.

“Well, at least have a seat. You look a little pale.”

Klavier doesn’t argue when Phoenix leads him over to one of the couches. It’s as if he’s on autopilot and not making his own conscious decisions. Phoenix sits on the other couch across from him and gives him a sympathetic look.

“It’s been a difficult few years, hasn’t it?”

Klavier does not say anything. He stares absently at the plastic model of floating spaghetti.

“When you stopped showing up in court, I got worried.”

He meets his gaze once again, but instead of looking blank, he looks like he wants to get up, run away, slam the door, and never come back. This is clearly the one topic that he doesn’t want to discuss.

“It’s not your burden to bear.”

Uh. What? When had Klavier become sage? Sage is the wrong word. Wise? Empathetic? Self-aware? Self-sacrificing? It’s none of that, really. It’s far more self-defeating than any of that.

“I wouldn’t ask if it was too much of a burden.”

He’s growing increasingly despondent. Phoenix’s kindness is upsetting to him rather than comforting. However, he does try to give a better response.

“I found that law no longer suited me.”

Oof. Now that’s depressing, especially for him. Klavier usually would go headlong into anything he wanted to do, but he’s retreated from a profession he used to be so passionate about.

“No longer…suited you?”

“I don't want to be in control of anyone’s future anymore. At least with music, if I fail, only my record does poorly.”

(And, no one dies.)

“You’re a good prosecutor, Klavier. You haven’t flubbed any rulings, as far as I’m aware.”

“I have. Don’t you remember? I wouldn’t have thought you’d forget so easily.”

Oh. It’s still about that, huh?

“Klavier, I already told you that it wasn’t your fault.”

He shakes his head sadly but doesn’t respond.

After all these years, he still hasn’t forgiven himself for something so much bigger than just a “mistake.” It was a manipulative plan set in motion by a vindictive man, and Klavier was simply a pawn.

Of course, his actions had harmed his career and reputation, but he was only trying to do what he thought was right. Kristoph had tipped him off, and at the time, he had no reason to suspect that the whole thing was a setup. Why would he? There was nothing to tell him that he should distrust his older brother.

Maybe that’s what had disturbed Klavier so deeply. Not only was he being controlled in order to harm other people, but it’d been his own flesh and blood that caused him to do so. Phoenix could imagine that it was horrifying to realize. It probably broke all of his confidence the moment Vera confirmed his fears.

“If I blamed you for anything, or if I was angry at you, I would tell you. I’m not going to lie to spare your feelings. I have no reason to. But, it sounds like you’ve been doing your share of beating yourself up over it.”

“It’s only fair,” he murmurs.

Phoenix sighs.

“Did you quit because of this?”

“I quit because I’m unfit to prosecute anymore. I’d been unfit the moment I stepped foot in that courtroom.”

“That’s untrue.”

He shakes his head again. “No, it’s not. I realized it the last time we spoke. Nothing is going to make it okay. It’s only fair that I remove myself from the legal system, so it can never happen again.”

The longer he talks with him, the more he becomes concerned. This isn’t the appropriate response to something that wasn’t intentional. In fact, it’s alarming how self-deprecating he’s being. His shame is practically palpable.

“Klavier…are you doing alright?”

He simply raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft, “Hm?”

“I know you’ve been busy with your music, but you’re acting strange.”

“Strange…”

“You’re not like you usually are.”

The look in his eyes told him that Klavier couldn’t remember how he used to act. Maybe his sadness had taken him over. Maybe he doesn’t even want to be like he used to. Maybe this new way of acting is protecting him from having to face how horrible everything has become in the last few years.

Klavier doesn’t have anything to say. He shrugs, shakes his head, looks like he’s trying to hold back his actual emotions.

“We’ve all been worried about you, y’know? Me, Prosecutor Edgeworth, Trucy, Athena…and I’m sure Apollo has been too.”

The sound of Apollo’s name makes him visibly flinch.

“I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

“You can’t completely isolate yourself without people becoming worried.”

He sighs.

“I assure you, there is nothing to be worried about.”

The moment those words left his mouth, Phoenix’s world paused, colors inverting and then turning dark as chains spanned his vision, four red locks slamming into place around Klavier’s features.

It always takes him by surprise, so it’s no wonder that he’s being given a strange look.

“Herr Wright?”

The Psyche-Locks fade, and he shakes his head.

“Ah, erm, sorry. It’s just that…”

Phoenix thinks about it for a second. Maybe being honest here would be better than trying to force the truth out of him. Klavier seems dead-set on keeping his troubles to himself. It’s a new approach, considering he usually only breaks the locks of people he doesn’t know very well.

“How to explain this…” Phoenix taps his chin thoughtfully, mulling over the various ways he could go about this.

Klavier looks halfway between nervous and concerned. “Yes?”

“Well…” He adjusts where he’s sitting, crossing his arms and aiming his gaze to the ceiling. Once he figures out what he’s going to say, he looks back to Klavier. “Have you noticed how Apollo can get a really intense look on his face in court, like he’s staring at someone really hard?”

He can’t hold back a small smile. “You mean when his eyes get all big?” He forces open his eyes with his fingers, making them as big as he think Apollo’s are. It’s very silly. “Ja, it’s funny.”

“Exactly. So, that’s because he has a certain—talent. He’s very good at picking up uncertainty in people because he mirrors the uncertainty in his own body. And, he has his bracelet—” Phoenix gestures to his left wrist as if he were the one wearing it, “—which can change size depending on body temperature. So, if you ever see him fiddling with his wrist, it usually means that he can tell something is wrong.”

“Ah. That’s interesting.”

“I’m only telling you this now because I want to talk about my talent. Well, it’s not my talent, per say, but—anyway, you’ll see.” He pulls his magatama out of his pocket and says, “Think fast.”

Surprisingly, he does, and Klavier catches the talisman when it’s thrown at him. At first, he looks very confused, turning over the charm in his fingers, watching its glow ebb and flow.

“What is this small thing?”

“It’s called a magatama. It’s a tool spirit mediums use to detect when someone is being dishonest with them.”

“Oh?” He looks at it even closer and more intently. “How does it work?”

“It’s already been given a spiritual charge, so all that I need to show you is to lie.”

Klavier looks back up at him with raised eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s see here. A good lie—oh! I know.” Phoenix clears his throat and says, “I know nothing about the Steel Samurai and it’s extended universe, and I definitely don’t know every lore inconsistency across the various iterations in excruciating detail.”

For a moment, Klavier just stares at him like he’s crazy, but then, he jumps where he’s sitting and gasps, pressing his back against the couch and freezing.

“Was zum Teufel?” he murmurs under his breath.

Klavier’s eyes flit around, taking in the abnormal sight in front of him.

“What do you see?”

“Chains.”

“What else?”

“A red lock.”

“Okay. Now ask me if I’m telling the truth.”

“Are you…Herr Wright, are you a Steel Samurai fan?”

“No, but my boyfriend is.”

Klavier jumps again, presumably as the lock shatters and the chains pull away.

“What on Earth…?”

“That is what a magatama does. And, I’m telling you this because when you said that there’s nothing to worry about, I saw four of those red locks telling me that you’re being untruthful.”

“Ah…” He hands the magatama back to Phoenix, looking stunned. “I didn’t realize you dealt in magic, Herr Wright.”

He chuckles, amused.

“Actually, I’m one of the only people working at the Agency who isn’t magic.”

Klavier blinks at him, even more confused.

“But, anyway, the lock that you saw break indicates that you’ve figured out what I was hiding.”

“That sounds…invasive.”

“Maybe. I’ve thought about it before, and I’m still undecided on whether it’s ethical to use on friends. But, I only try to break Psyche-Locks when I think it’s absolutely necessary. They pop up more than you’d think.”

It’s obvious that Klavier is not a fan of this idea, but generally, he looks pale and absent, so it’s a bit difficult to tell. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments before responding.

“Ach. I suppose I can’t stop you.”

That isn’t a resounding yes, but he hasn’t stood up and left yet, so…

“The locks appeared when you said that there’s nothing to worry about, which would mean there is something to worry about?”

“You could say that.”

“About you or Apollo?”

He hesitates.

“Both.”

“Which one do you think is weighing on you more?”

“Ah…I would have to say—Apollo, probably. He’s going through a lot.”

“Yeah.” Phoenix scratches the back of his head. “He came to the office the other day looking pretty bad. All he did was sleep on the couch, but I haven’t seen him look that way in a long time.”

“This has happened before?”

(Phoenix knows by the way the muscles in Klavier’s face tense that he already knows the answer to this question, but Klavier is also probing for answers the same way Phoenix is probing him.)

“Yes.”

“With who?”

Talking about Dhurke is off-limits. If anyone is allowed to talk about it, it’s Apollo and no one else. He’s seen him freak out and break down about it, and it feels too gutturally disturbing to turn around and betray his trust in that way.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Personal?”

“Incredibly.”

“I see.”

It isn’t like Klavier looks disappointed, but he does look more outwardly concerned. Maybe he thought that knowing more information would have made him feel better, but Phoenix can assure him that the answer is undesirable for everyone involved.

“Anyway, I understand. He’s not in a good place. I’m upset about it as well.”

There is a moment of silence. No lock has been broken. This must be more complex than Phoenix had originally anticipated.

“But, it’s something more specific, isn’t it?”

“Offenbar.”

Phoenix doesn’t know German, but the exasperated look on his face gives off an ‘obviously,’ vibe.

He thinks back what Apollo had been saying that night, what Athena had told him he’d said. (Things are bad—He’s afraid of hurting Klavier—He told me about Dhurke—So the other one is Kristoph—)

There’s a good chance something happened, but he can’t just come right out and ask about it. Honestly, Phoenix doesn’t really want to know about Apollo and Klavier’s…personal life, but he has a feeling that one of the locks has to do with that. He’ll just have to go a different direction with it until he inevitably loops back around.

He does know enough that he can hit Klavier where it hurts. At least, Phoenix isn’t being too cruel because it hurts him, too.

“I’m sorry if this is a little too personal on your end, but your worries…they wouldn’t have to do with your brother, would they?”

Klavier tenses up before he can stop himself. Instead of just being surprised, his eyes are edging on terror.

“How…?”

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I also am privy to some—er, unfortunate information. I’m sure you’re aware that I was involved with Kristoph in one way or another.”

Maybe he hadn’t. He looks confused, eyes shifting around as he thinks about the implications of those words.

“Involved, you say?”

“We were friends after—well, y’know. Of course, I always suspected him, but I had no idea how far the rabbit hole went at first. Um, what I mean by that is, I understand on a surface level how disturbing it can be to realize someone close to you is a monster. But, I can’t imagine how it feels to have that person be your family.”

Klavier looks like he’s trying to hold back an explosive emotion, whether it be sadness, fear, or anger.

“And, of course, you don’t have to talk to me about it, but it might help.”

“I’d rather not.” His eyes are distant. Phoenix isn’t sure if he’s going to continue, but he suddenly and quickly forces out, “I can talk about Daryan, though.”

“Oh. Okay.” He can’t help but feel surprised. Not the path he thought they were going, but he can work with it. “What about him?”

“He was further proof that everything I knew was wrong.”

“I—I see.”

“I couldn’t even think about Kristoph, and then…” He sighs, a hand going over his eyes. He isn’t crying, but he seems unable to continue speaking.

He doesn’t know if he should keep up with this, but eventually, Klavier continues.

“I’d never put so much trust in someone before. And, he…he wasn’t anything like the person I thought. He lied to me for so long. When did he change? Has he always been this way? Or, am I that easy to fool?”

“Klavier, no one knew about Daryan.”

He takes the hand over his eyes and pats his chest with it for emphasis. “But, I should have. A murderer? My best friend was a murderer? My brother was a murderer? How?” He shakes his head and frowns hard. “Is it me? Do I attract evil? Is it my fault for being naïve? What did I do wrong?”

Phoenix is surprised when the first lock breaks because he isn’t expecting it. He doesn’t quite understand why it broke in the first place. He couldn’t have done anything wrong…that wasn’t what had happened…

“No, no—that’s—that’s not how anything works. The number one thing to keep in mind is that only you are responsible for your actions. You couldn’t have made Daryan do the things he did. You couldn’t have made Kristoph do the things he did—”

“I know, but…it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like everything’s been a lie. It feels like I’ve been left with nothing.”

“Not even your career?”

“Ach, I don’t care about my career. I was making music for me. I didn’t want it to blow up as it did. It’s too…difficult.”

“Difficult as in stressful?”

“Ja…stressig…”

He closes his eyes, and his head lulls to the side slightly. He looks like he might fall over, but his head rolls to the front, and he straightens himself up.

“I wish I didn’t have to do anything,” he slurs.

It clicks, then. Klavier is fucked up. Phoenix’s love affair with grape juice made him no stranger to the phenomenon. He knew something was up, but he hadn’t thought he’d be the kind of guy to rely on such things.

(Although, the most put-together people can fall so hard with tragedy. He should know…not that he’d ever been particularly put together.)

Klavier opens his eyes and continues. His diction has suddenly gotten better, as if that moment had been outside his conscious memory, as if nothing had happened at all.

“I wish I could take pride in my work like I used to, but now, I only really write to get thoughts out. Doing the promo circuit again reminded me that I’m not in it anymore. I don’t have the energy.”

Phoenix breathes in to steady himself, to pretend that he didn’t see what he just did.

“Sounds like depression.”

“Oh, of course.” He leans forward with the smile like he used give, but it’s clearly forced. “I’d have to be completely blind to not know that. It’s been this way since it happened, ja? Not much I can do about it.”

Learned helplessness—a phenomenon found in most chronic bouts of depression.

When you feel trapped, when nothing seems to get better, when living in any other way seems too painful, it feels comforting to think that this is the only way. It’s not on purpose—it’s how hopelessness presents in the long term. It takes something either in oneself or someone else to remind you just how possible it is for things to change.

“Ah, I see. You feel like there’s no way out.”

“Hm?” Klavier cocks his head. “Out of what?”

“This,” Phoenix gestures to him, to the way he’s only a fraction of his formal self in more ways than one. “You’re afraid that things will always be like this and always this painful.”

Depressing, certainly, but it isn’t enough for another lock to break. He must know this about himself already, so he isn’t even trying to hide it.

“Ja, I suppose so. It’s not as if I believe it. It’s more like I don’t have the energy to improve anything about myself. I don’t have the energy to do the things I need to do.” He sighs again, raking a hand through his hair. “So tired…”

He was right before: Klavier is certainly way more self-aware than he used to be, but self-awareness isn’t always conducive to healing, especially if trapped in a repetitive cycle of destruction.

He knew. He knew all of it. It’s so hard to get out of a cycle you know you deserve.

(I know it’s bad, but I can’t stop. Or—I can stop, but I don’t want to. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive. That and…)

Phoenix isn’t qualified to judge, considering he’s probably done all that Klavier has and worse.

(There’s nothing worse than giving into Kristoph Gavin.)

“Okay, I’ll level with you.” When he says this, Klavier wakes out of his daze. “I’m not sure if it’ll make you feel better, but I can tell you what it felt like after my badge was taken away. I’m reminded of myself when I look at you.”

“Oh…? Ah…”

“Yeah, that was probably a weird thing to say, but it’s true.”

“Talk about what you have to, Herr Wright.” He smiles sadly. “It’s not like I have much else to do.”

He met icy blue eyes that stared at him—no—stared through him.

“In a unanimous 7-8 decision, we find Phoenix Wright guilty of fabrication of evidence.”

One person didn’t implicate him. One. And, if the chill filling his chest was telling him anything, he might have an idea of who it was.

“It is only fitting that you shall be disbarred. We are sending a message to our law system. Fabrication of evidence is unacceptable. If you are found to be guilty, you will be punished in no uncertain terms."

(Disbarred…for an accident…)

It didn’t seem worth speaking up. They wouldn’t believe him, anyway. And, the sentence had already been passed down. There wasn’t much he could do. An appeal would result in further stress, pain, and embarrassment.

He looked at the ground and closed his eyes. The reality of the situation hadn’t settled in on him, yet. It felt like a weight on his shoulders and not like dread squeezing his heart and lungs.

(God, I need a drink.)

He sat on a bench outside of the conference room, elbows propped up on knees, head hung from his shoulders. He felt so exhausted. Everything was exhausting.

“Phoenix Wright, I presume.”

He looked up to see the man who’d been staring at him during the trial. Long blonde hair twisted over his shoulder, icy blue eyes, an air of disinterested interest. He was frighteningly beautiful.

“How’d you guess?” he joked, standing to meet his extended hand. “Haven’t had enough of my whining?”

The man took Phoenix’s hand and smiled sweetly, his eyes closing, his head tilting to the side.

“Ah, there’s that wit I’ve heard so much about.” His eyes opened again when he said, “I’m Kristoph Gavin, and I’m sorry about the unfortunate decision.”

Ah. Gavin? Now that he thought about it, he did bear a resemblance to Prosecutor Gavin, but he was far more dignified—longer hair, regular prescription glasses instead of obnoxious sunglasses. His accent was different, too. British instead of German. Phoenix guessed that he had studied in the UK at some point. They must have been brothers. He was visibly too young to have a child, probably not much older than himself.

“It wasn’t like I thought I was going to get off easy.”

Kristoph raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“No, but the punishment was…rather harsh for a first infraction, not to mention the suspect circumstances. I find it strange that the rest of the committee was so quick to indict you.”

Phoenix scratched the back of his head, trying to play off that his sympathy was making him feel slightly bashful.

“You really think I didn’t do it?”

He shrugged, shaking his head.

“The only thing we know for certain is the evidence was forged. For what? By whom? There was no investigation. It’s strange. That is all.”

“I see.”

He didn’t know why he thought this, but something felt off about this conversation. Why would someone on the ethics committee fraternize with someone they just subjected to disbarment? At the very least, it was inappropriate. At the most, it was a punishable conflict of interest.

But, as much as Phoenix felt immediately suspicious, there was no reason for him to be cautious, not when his entire career had been ripped out from underneath him.

(And, he wasn’t going to admit this out loud, but the soft looks he was giving him made him want to throw all caution to the wind. This man was pretty and seemingly kind. It was obviously a surface level kindness, a veneer to cover something much more complex. But, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he flirted with danger.)

“Anyway,” Phoenix said, “would you like to join me for a drink? I really need something to kill my mind right now.”

Kristoph laughed quietly to himself, as if whatever he’d just said was very funny. His body language was very fluid, almost effeminate, and the glint of a smile behind his hand was striking, even if he could barely see it.

“I do not blame you, Mr. Wright. It’s certainly been a long day.”

“Please, call me Phoenix.”

“Ah. It’s Kristoph, then,” he said, giving him that charming smile.

It was only a few drinks in that Phoenix realized just how hard Kristoph was flirting with him.

The proximity between the two seats at the bar was far closer than just a friendly distance. The dim light made him look soft, even though the feeling in his gut told him to not let his guard down.

He was going to regardless just because it sounded more fun that way.

He’d bought his drinks. Nice drinks. Expensive liquor. Phoenix was good with whatever was the well, but no, too basic for Mr. Gavin. God, even his name was obnoxious. Kristoph. So German. But, not more German than Klavier. Who names their kid ‘piano?’

“Are you alright, Phoenix?”

The way his name sounded when spoken by this man was as calculated and aloof as his demeanor was. It was almost creepy how someone’s inflection could sound affectionate and yet still hide something cold underneath it.

“Sure. I’m having a ball,” he said, throwing back a shot. He wasn’t used to nice vodka. It didn’t burn so badly. Kinda dangerous when he was feeling like shit. He couldn’t help but think that it was probably on purpose. “Unfortunately, I’m still much too sober to forget that my life has fallen apart.”

Kristoph watched him talk over his glass of bourbon. Even though the alcohol was making him feel a little fuzzy, he still noticed that he was watching him. Staring. Like he had been during the ruling. Icy. Cold. Calculating.

When he set the glass down, he smiled once again. “We’re just going to have to remedy that, won’t we?”

(A shiver ran down his spine. It was neither a good or a bad sensation. It just was.)

“Oh. Okay.”

It was rare that he was completely caught off guard by someone’s advances, but it was also rare that someone who looked so reserved and refined was so bold. He hadn’t exactly expected this to turn into a hookup situation, but it was becoming clear that it was what Kristoph was expecting.

Not that Phoenix necessarily minded. As he’d been lamenting, he was attractive, and there was an allure in someone so cryptic and so…eager? It’d been a long time since he’d felt wanted by another person.

But, as the night went on, he found himself becoming much drunker than he had intended—much more out of sorts than he’d been in a long, long time.

It didn’t seem like he’d had that much to drink. It wasn’t like Phoenix Wright couldn’t hold his liquor. In fact, he might have been going out a little more lately when work was getting under his skin. So, it struck him strange when he was having trouble keeping his eyes focused.

A hand was placed delicately on his back. For a second, he forgot that he wasn’t alone.

“Uh—Kristoph—?”

“Ah…you looked a bit unsteady there.”

Phoenix turned to meet those blue eyes. His expression was concerned but his gaze lacked the appropriate empathy to pull it all together. Even with his addled mind, he was beginning to wonder if he’d just made a horrible mistake.

“I guess I…went a little harder than I was…intending.” He put a hand to his head and stumbled a bit before placing his hand on the wall. A brick wall…

They were outside the bar. When had that happened?

“Do you need help getting back to your place?”

He suddenly realized that he'd reached an impasse. If he said no, he’d risk never making it back altogether. If he was already starting to brown out, who knew if he was going to pass out on the street or get himself in a dangerous situation. But, if he let Kristoph lead him to his home, he couldn’t defend himself if he…tried something.

(He didn’t know why his gut instinct was to think he might, but the staring—no, the leering—the overtly flirtatious behavior, the suspect circumstances in which their meeting occurred, the fact that Klavier Gavin’s brother was the only person to believe him innocent and use that fact to butter him up—)

Oh, God. All of this was absolutely planned. It’d been calculated with precision to the point where he’d fallen effortlessly into every trap. This might not have been the plan, but even when trashed, Phoenix realized that Kristoph had somehow organized a plot to frame him—to disgrace him. He’d planted the forgery—he warned Klavier about it—he voted him innocent.

It was then that he turned and threw up in the street. He wasn’t sure if it was from the realization or whatever he’d swallowed to bring him to such a state.

Kristoph made a tsk, tsk sound.

“Oh, dear…”

There was no doubt about it. Kristoph had thoroughly trapped him. Phoenix had let his guard down for one moment, and just like in the courtroom, he neglected to take all the red flags seriously, only to be blind-sighted by them.

But, in the end, there wasn’t much he could do about it, now. He’d become ensnared in Kristoph’s story, and it would be a hell of a lot of effort to get out. If that were the case, he might as well go along for the ride.

You know what they say.

“Yeah, I guess I need a little help, huh?”

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Being constantly trapped in a cat and mouse game was exhausting enough without the crushing shame of being publicly disgraced in front of the entire world.

Kristoph was just as he’d guessed in the first moments he’d met his cold stare.

Phoenix knew that Kristoph knew that Phoenix knew that he was a son of a bitch. It never changed anything. Whether Phoenix suspected him or not was apparently never a factor in his treatment towards him. He was always cloyingly sweet even though every word, every glance, every action was meticulously chosen to create a fake personality that covered up something so much darker.

And, Phoenix…well, Phoenix fell into what most people would call depression.

It was hard not to when all the things he held dear were suddenly gone. Although, he had gained a few things, too. An evil boyfriend for one and a magic daughter for another. He had one more newfound love—an affair with alcohol.

Alcoholic was too strong a word. It wasn’t like he needed to drink, there was just no reason not to. Trucy turned out to be more responsible than Phoenix had ever been. She mostly took care of herself, booked her own gigs, earned her own money…it made Phoenix sad that a girl at the tender age of eight was so self-sufficient. Did Zak or Thalassa ever take care of her?

Of course, he wouldn’t let himself be straight up negligent with a child—he’d neglect a child over his dead body—but when he wasn’t out shopping with her or taking her to her shows, Trucy just didn’t need that much help. In fact, she spent a lot of time cheering him up with her driven and ecstatic personality. It was nice to have someone in his life that was so optimistic.

The number of times he’d laid on the couch and stared at the ceiling, replaying that trial over and over and over, drowning himself in bottles of wine—it was hard to be optimistic. For the first time in his life, he had no goals driving him, no ambitions keeping his soul alive. Now, he felt like a flickering candle threatening to burn out if the wind blew too hard.

He wasn’t going to kill himself or anything. He couldn’t, not now that he had a daughter. To leave Trucy alone with no one seemed like a fate worse than death.

So, he coasted. He had Trucy, and he had the underlying mystery of what the hell happened that fateful day.

And, of course, he had Kristoph.

Drinking made him feel better about the whole thing. He could pretend that it was all a game and not a twisted misfortune he’d stumbled upon. Being slightly drunk all the time made it feel better to fall into the arms of the devil, to sink under the surface of evil. He could admit to himself that it sometimes felt good to indulge in the bad things that life dealt him, whether it be cards or blonde German defense attorneys.

In retrospect, it makes sense to him how Apollo could fall under his spell. Although, Phoenix was jaded. He’d already had a run in with an evil lover, a lover who desperately wanted him dead. Apollo was so young and so alone, so abandoned and so sad. He has no doubt that he knew how truly awful Kristoph was, but just like Phoenix’s penchant for self-destruction, he turned a blind eye to get what he wanted, only to end up in his clutches.

And, to be fair, Kristoph never did anything to Phoenix comparable to what he did to Apollo. That much he knows. It’s horrible. It still weighs on his mind that a child could be so terribly torn down, so twisted and mixed up with fear and mistrust and yearning for someone to protect him.

Kristoph may have killed a countless amount of people, but there is nothing more cruel than taking advantage of a young boy who had already been knocked down by the world.

Phoenix is sure of that.

“I’m…sorry, Mr. Wright.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. I’m saying that I empathize with you. I know what it feels like to be trapped in a cycle. Depression is hard. And, when you have your coping mechanisms, it feels impossible to get out of them unless something changes.”

Klavier looks hurt, like all of the things he’s learning are pulling him down farther than he’d already been. His eyes are glassy, but most of all, he looks exhausted. Worn down. Ready to give up.

Phoenix decides he only needs to push a little bit more. He clenches his fist around his magatama once more. His chains and locks reappear with a clang only audible to himself.

“Klavier…are you…” He isn’t quite sure how to ask this. “Are you sober right now?”

His face falls, eyes falling to the table in front of him. He looks like he’s looking at the scattered papers, but his eyes look past them. His brother’s eyes looked past people because he could see through anyone, but Klavier’s eyes see through things distantly, like he’s not actually there.

“Would you judge me if I wasn’t?”

“I didn’t tell you all of that for my health. When I said I’d level with you, I meant it. I know what it’s like to feel like there’s barely anything keeping you holding on. It doesn’t have to be just one thing. Grape juice and Trucy were my reasons, and yours…?”

“Apollo, of course. For one.”

“Of course.”

“And, ahh…” He looks up again and smiles broadly. “…You know. ‘When you party every day, ain't nothing but a party.’”

Finally, another broken lock. For some reason. Phoenix doesn’t get the reference, so he isn’t sure what he means.

Klavier is turning out to be quite a challenge to break. Er, his locks, he means.

“Um…I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

He laughs. Klavier has moved back into ‘Rock-Boy’ mode to protect himself.

“Drugs. Alcohol. What else does money buy? Everyone knows it can’t buy love.”

It’s slightly disturbing to Phoenix that Klavier has to put up a front to talk about this kind of thing. He doesn’t blame them, though. For all he knows, Klavier would rather do anything else than talk to him about the weather, not to mention this is probably something he never talks to anyone about.

“Are you…safe?”

“Safe?” His eyebrows raise but his smile doesn’t fade. “I don’t care about being safe. There’s nothing safe about living in this world, Herr Wright. The day that I’m meant to leave it—well, that will be the day.”

Oh.

Phoenix hadn’t felt this specific type of chest tightness in so long. It’s that kind of horror that sets in when you realize that someone is much worse off than you’d previously thought.

To be fair, Klavier had never been Phoenix’s responsibility. He’d been his problem since he met him, but knowing Kristoph, it was clear from the beginning that he was just a pawn in his plan. He never harbored ill will, not really anyway. Sure, he was an asshole, but he was seventeen! He was a child, and Kristoph knew exactly what he was doing.

And, now, Klavier Gavin sits across from him, holding back tears, practically bursting into laughter at the idea of his own death.

Tired…lost…broken…

Oh, Klavier.

Phoenix sighs heavily.

“Please don’t proselytize me, Herr Wright. I’m aware of how it sounds. I’m not delusional.”

“You’re very hurt. I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t need your pity, either.”

“It’s not pity, Klavier,”

“It might as well be.”

He sighs again. It appears that Klavier’s self-blame is far more deep-seated than it ever was for him.

“Why don’t you feel as though your problems are worth concern?”

“There’s nothing I can change. There’s no use making this a bigger deal than it already is—when there’s so much worse…”

That is when his face finally drops from its manic happiness.

“You know that isn’t how trauma works, right?”

“Who cares?”

“I…have a feeling you feel this way due to what happened to Apollo.”

Klavier gasps but in a way that sounds like he’s in pain.

“No—how do you…? He didn’t…”

“No. He didn’t tell me.” One more heavy breath, one more pause before it all comes out. “Kristoph did.”

Phoenix jumps as a lock breaks violently. Klavier visibly flinches, almost like he’s in pain.

“Kristoph. I can’t believe him.” His voice dips lower and gets quieter. It seems like he doesn’t want Phoenix to hear him. “He’s such a horrible person. I wish he was alive so I could kill him myself.”

All Phoenix could do was look at him sadly. He can’t imagine how much pain he’s in right now. Phoenix had always known Kristoph was suspicious, but Klavier clearly loved his brother.

“Is one of the things that drives the pain around your brother related to his treatment towards Apollo?”

He’d never seen Klavier angry before, but this makes Klavier angry.

“Of course,” he snaps. “How can I not be so angry? It’s so horrible. He tortured Apollo. He did unthinkable things to him. I can’t describe how angry that makes me.”

“Tortured…?”

Phoenix is reminded of what Kristoph had once told him.

(“He consented eventually. Just like you did.”)

The sentence makes him shiver.

“Oh…I see…”

“The cruelest torture imaginable—to someone like Apollo! It makes me sick. It’s even sicker because it’s my brother. My brother did that to him. And, Apollo thinks it's his fault! I don’t know how to even begin to—”

Klavier makes a sound that’s close to a growl. It’s as out of character as him being so absent. Depression can manifest in both sadness and anger. It’s very clear that he really is hurting.

“I…don’t have anything to say that could remedy that. It really is awful. You have every right to be upset.”

This time, tears do begin to well up in Klavier’s eyes. One falls quickly over his cheek, but he rubs the trail away a second later.

“I may be overstepping my bounds, but did something happen? Between the two of you?”

His face twists up. He rubs the tears out of his eyes.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Okay. I won’t make you.” He places his magatama back in his pocket and the one unbroken lock fades. To rip that one off seems unnecessarily cruel, especially considering the nature of Apollo’s abuse and the way his trauma manifests.

(But, he has a pretty good idea what happened anyway.)

Klavier lets out a shaky breath. “Danke, Herr Wright.”

“Yeah, no problem. Sorry for making you talk, but I hope it helped.”

“I’m not sure if it did.”

They both jump when Klavier’s phone goes off.

“Ach. Sorry.”

He takes it out, and his expression immediately crumbles.

“What’s wrong?”

Klavier looks up and immediately steels himself again.

“I have to go, Herr Wright.” He stands up and picks up his jacket from the arm of the couch. “I will see you.”

Phoenix watches as Klavier rushes to the door while tapping on his phone, pressing it to his ear and hurriedly asking, “Schatz, what’s wrong?” The door shuts behind him.

He sighs.

“I guess Apollo’s still not okay,” Phoenix says to the empty room.

Maybe traveling on his own wasn’t the best idea in the world.

Usually, when he felt out of control, he’d snap out of it once everything started going wrong. Although, now he knows it’s because he would repress everything so hard that he literally couldn’t think about what had been upsetting him. Then, he’d sink back into being ‘Fine,’ and everything would be fine.

But, like the very first time, it’s impossible to forget now that he’s letting himself think about it.

Apollo squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his forehead. His head is ringing so loudly, and his whole body aches as if he has a fever. Maybe he really does have a fever. He had chalked it up to anxiety, but he hasn’t stopped feeling overheated since he found himself trapped in the steam of Klavier’s shower.

“Sir?”

His head snaps up, and he meets the worried eyes of a poor, overworked employee. He flinches at the pain that shoots up his arm.

“Your…passport, if you would, sir?” The lady smiles, but Apollo knows by the tightening of his bracelet that she’s unnerved. To be fair, she has every right to be. He’s unnerved himself. It isn’t often that he spaces out so completely when he’s supposed to be doing other things.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He reaches into his bag to pull it out, but he drops the booklet onto the floor. “Oh—” He tries to lean down, but then the bag strap slides off his shoulder, and it lands directly on his passport. He’s scrambling to pick everything back up when someone bends down to help him, but he’s so shocked by the presence of another person so close to him that he accidentally falls back on his ass, body frozen.

The person asks if he’s alright, but he can’t get words out, and so he ends up grabbing all of his things, babbling apologies while fast-walking away towards the bathroom.

He shuts a stall door behind him, drops his bag and passport to the floor, and bursts into tears. His back hits door, and he buries his head in his hands and cries and cries over nothing. It’s either about something or nothing. Nothing might be worse because it means he can’t figure out how to make it stop.

(Can’t make it stop/Can’t make it stop/Can’t make it stop/Why can’t I make it stop/I’m so sorry—I can’t even apologize to Dhurke, but I’m sorry Dhurke—but Klavier, please, I’m sorry, please forgive me—)

He’s not sure if can do this.

What can’t he do? Talk to a receptionist at an airport? Hold a passport? What can’t he do?

Everything is so fucked up. He shakes his head before dropping his hands and pulling out his phone.

[Apollo: Klavier…I don’t know what’s wrong with me]

[Apollo: I can’t even check in without freaking out]

[Apollo: I don’t understand, I feel like I can’t do anything]

[Apollo: What’s wrong with me?]

It’s only a few seconds later that his phone begins to ring. ‘Guitar’s Serenade’ fills up the bathroom and echos around him. God. He’s so fucking pathetic.

“Hello?” His voice sounds small and miserable through sniffs and stuttered breaths.

“Schatz, what’s wrong?”

He starts crying hard again.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” he chokes out. “I just—I just dropped my passport, and I got overwhelmed, and there were people, and I freaked out, and I—”

“Apollo—Apollo, shhh…I can barely understand you.”

He knows he’s talking too fast and crying too much, but he feels alone and vulnerable, as if bad things are bound to happen to him. Skin crawling, heart thrumming, breaths fast and stunted.

“Hey…Apollo, please. I want to help…”

“I-I’m sorry—there’s literally nothing wrong. I’m just—having issues. I feel so—stupid because there’s literally nothing wrong—”

“I think you’re panicking. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

The question forces him into silence. He’d heard it the other day. But, it was Kristoph who had said it to him—no, that’s literally impossible. It’d been Klavier who was trying to help him calm down in the bathroom. He hadn’t been in that office. He’d been babbling incoherent nonsense in a dissociative panic.

(Disgusting.)

“—pollo? Apollo?”

His head won’t stay on straight. Kristoph’s name makes his head spin in the worst ways. Being asked of anything, being close to anyone is torture right now. He even feels gross letting Klavier know he’s freaking out.

(Such a burden. On everyone.)

His panic deflates as his anxiety gains a depressive tinge to it.

“Apollo? Are you there?”

“Y-Yeah. I…I…” He forces himself to take a deep breath so he can get ahold of his voice again. “I’m sorry, I’m actually fine. My head is just all over the place. I’m sorry for making you worried.”

It’s Klavier’s turn to be silent.

“Klavier?”

“…Are you sure? You don’t sound fine.”

“Y-Yeah. I don’t know why I’m swinging back and forth like this.” He breathes out, but he accidentally makes pathetic sound, like a stifled whimper. It makes him feel stupid.

“You’re hurt, Apollo. It’s going to be hard for a while. You need to do what you can and try not be too hard on yourself.”

Apollo wonders if that’s even possible for him. It feels like the entire world is crushing him against the floor. His anxiety hasn’t been this bad in so long. He once again wishes that he could disappear, close his eyes and drift away, turn the faucet on hot and melt down the drain.

The only thing he can think to say is, “I miss you.” His eyes water again hearing his own words come out of his mouth.

“I miss you, too, Süsse. I hope you’re back soon.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, ja? You can text me until the plane takes off. Or, when it lands. Whatever.”

“Okay.”

“Later, Herr Forehead.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He closes his phone and puts it back in his pocket. His head falls back, and it makes a small clunk when it hits the door. With one more deep sigh, he picks up his bag and passport and makes his way to the attendant counter once again.

[Incoming Call from Trucy (Cell)]

Ugh, now Trucy? Why is everyone calling him?

He looks up at the glass ceiling that shows a beautiful blue LA sky. Not a cloud in sight. He breathes in deeply, the smell of LAX—(cleaning supplies, food courts, people, chatter)—feels distinctly at home. Even though he is not calm, he is calm. It’s nice. There’s peace in this moment, so he hoists up his bag so it doesn’t fall off his shoulder and hits the ‘Accept’ button.

“Apollo! Are you leaving LA?”

He resumes walking towards his gate, looking at the people on either side of him. Some are rushing, some are strolling leisurely.

“Um…yes?”

“Awww, Polly! We barely got to hang out,” her voice dips into a soft whisper when she says, “…although it was pretty fun to see Maya chug all that beer, I guess…”

He pretends like he can’t hear her last comment and says, “I’m coming back soon, Truce. I have to make sure the agency is going to be alright.…And, Nahyuta…and Rayfa…”

“So, you are coming back to ours?!”

“Uh…not exactly,” he checks his watch, but he still has time to waste. “I need to take some time off. I’ve been feeling under the weather lately, and there’s not really anywhere for me to go except home.”

“Oh.” She sounds downtrodden all of a sudden. “But, you’re still going to be around to visit, right?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. I guess that makes it a little better.”

There’s silence on her end, and Apollo doesn’t know what to say. He’s managed to control his anxiety for the moment, but he still feels on edge, still feels like one shift of his insides might snap him in half.

As if Trucy can read his mind, she says, “Daddy’s worried about you.”

“Oh.”

“And, I’m worried about you, too. He won’t tell me what’s going on. And, Daddy’s been thinking about Klavier lately. I don’t know why, though. He wouldn’t say anything about that either.”

Klavier…

There is no good reason for Phoenix to be mentioning Klavier to anyone, and yet, he’s bringing him up to Trucy? As far as Apollo knows, they haven’t spoken in years. Is he on the news or something?

“What about Klavier?”

“Oh, I guess he’s having his own issues. People talk about it on the forums a lot. He isn’t really promoting as hard as he used to, and there’s a lot of speculation about how he’s doing considering the album and how he seems to have changed. They talk about you, too, Polly! It’s mostly nice. The shippers think you’re cute, and the antis are just jealous.”

“Trucy, I would like to talk about literally anything else.”

“I’m just answering your question.” She huffs.

“Okay, okay, sorry.”

Another pause.

“Klavier hasn’t been doing well, has he?”

“Uh…I don’t think it’s my place to say anything.”

“Did something happen? Did you guys get in a fight?”

A flash of terror shoots through him as his brain lurches back to that night. It’s only a few still frames, but having to relive that night/relive that night/relive that night convinces his body that he’s in danger.

“N-No, no, no. No fights. I mean, the last conversation I had with him wasn’t great. It wasn’t bad or anything. It was just…difficult.”

“Oh.”

He realizes he’s walked to his gate when the next silence blares over the phone.

“Not to cut this short, but I really should get going. My flight takes off in a bit, and I think they might start boarding soon.”

“Okay, Polly. Take it easy. Daddy says hello.”

He laughs, “Hi, Mr. Wright.”

“Text me when you get into Khura’in so we know you didn’t die.”

“Okay, I will. Bye, Trucy.”

“Bye, Polly!”

He sighs deeply after his phone closes. He’s made it to his first destination. So many more to go.

He stands and looks at the screen from underneath the gate number sign. They’re flying to Japan to connect to a flight that goes to Khura’in. The whole trip is so long…over two days of travel. Being alone with his thoughts for that long makes him feel nauseous.

There are a few seats open near the windows overlooking the runways, so he sits there, dropping his bag and flopping down in the seat. He’s exhausted already, and he’s only begun his journey back. Maybe he should have called Nahyuta instead of going to visit him directly, but his stuff is all in Khura’in and so is Calico…

Ugh…everything is a mess. It’s all overwhelming. Just living has been an unfathomable chore lately. All he wants to do is curl up in Klavier’s bed and have him hold him and tell him that everything is going to be fine even though he knows it's a lie.

Speaking of lies, his wrist has been bothering him lately. He looks down at it, but his bracelet looks the same as always. He wiggles it with his other hand, and he’s surprised to notice that it is tight, much tighter than usual. There’s not even a little give, not even enough space to get a finger between the metal and his skin. It’s not like he’s in actual pain, but it’s enough to be uncomfortable.

No use getting worked up about it—more so than he is already. There are bigger things to worry about.

Like how, within the next half hour, his flight is delayed.

Apparently, there is bad weather somewhere over the Pacific. This does not help with his anxiety.

He wishes he had anti-anxiety medication only to remember that they sell Benadryl in airport gift shops for people who have flight anxiety. Apollo doesn’t have flight anxiety, he has the general kind where literally everything feels like nails on a chalkboard.

(Oh, God, is he going to miss his transfer in Japan? What is he going to do then? The layover at Narita is already insane (seventeen hours!), but if he has to spend a whole day at a foreign airport, he might actually kill himself, and God—)

“Sir? It’ll be fifteen dollars.”

Oh. He spaced out again. Like the last time, his head buzzes with angry bumblebees and his hands shake as he gets out his wallet and gives the cashier a twenty. When he gets back to his seat at the gate, he takes a few pills, hoping that it’ll take the edge off.

The flight is delayed again. His heart pounds in his chest and in his ears, so he takes a few more.

By the time his mind is starting to think about things he doesn’t want to think about, Apollo feels like he might fall over, but instead of texting Klavier, he takes a few more.

By the time they’re boarding, Apollo is still breathing hard so he decides that the dosage isn’t high enough, so he takes more.

By the time they’re in the air for an hour or so, Apollo’s decided that he would like to be asleep right that second, so in the small airplane bathroom, he pops a bunch of pills out of the packaging into his shaky hands. He doesn’t quite remember how many, but it’s enough to make him gag as he swallows.

By the time he gets back and buckles his seatbelt, Apollo’s feeling a little dizzy. He lays his head against the headrest and keeps going, disappearing, tumbling down into itchy fabric pulled over polyurethane foam.

His sleep is light but it also straps his body to the seat. When he opens his eyes for a few moments, the ringing in his head is unbearably loud, but he just falls back into the static because he can’t fight against the lethargy.

There’s turbulence at some point, but it comes in waves that feel somewhat like nausea—a nebulous ebb and flow that flips his stomach. The dropping of his insides when the plane dips jolts him awake. His vision is blurry and his limbs feel like lead. This time, however, the inability to move is comforting. It’s a weighted blanket that pushes him against the seat and tells him that he’ll be fine, that all he has to do is let go and nothing bad will happen to him.

Noises reach him at points. They’re whispers that are too close to his ears. Hot and heavy words that give him goosebumps and threaten to pull him away from the grayish darkness. They are voices he recognizes, but there are no distinguishable words. Maybe he’s dreaming.

He can also hear the low chimes that ring out when someone requests a flight attendant. Sometimes the muffled sound of the pilot’s announcements float by. He’s awake in some capacity, but not awake enough to know if anything he’s experiencing is real. That’s what makes it kind of frightening. He can “see” even when his eyes are closed.

(In those moments, he knows who is so close to him, who is whispering to him, but it’s not bad. It’s only him in this moment, and maybe he does want to fall back into time and feel like how it used to, back into a time where all he had to do was not think, and it’d all be fine.)

He can distantly hear Klavier, too. His voice is instantly calming. His ‘Herr Foreheads’ are hurting his chest right now.

(He’s so nice) Apollo thinks. His thoughts are sharp and rapid. They feel like words he is speaking out loud, but he can’t get any part of himself to move, let alone his mouth. His words are real behind his eyelids. (So nice. He makes me feel nice. It’s weird. I don’t know if I deserve that.)

Maybe that’s why he falls back into Kristoph’s arms, even in his mind. It feels good to be treated badly. He doesn’t know why, but being treated nicely feels dirty, makes him feel dirty. At least, if he’s being degraded, if he’s in pain, it will align with how he feels about himself.

Apollo knows they’re standing there in front of him.

“Schatz, you don’t want to go back to that, do you?” he asks quietly, but he’s actually pleading with him. “I’ve seen how much pain he causes you, so why…?”

He doesn’t know why. He wishes he knew why.

“Oh, Brother, you’re so predictable. Always looking for the best in everybody. Maybe Apollo wants this. It’s his choice.”

“It’s not his choice. It’s your choice. You did this to him.”

“Oh? And, so Apollo can be alleviated of all blame because he’s involved with me? That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“Yes. You forced him into things he didn’t want to do, and in order to cope with that he—”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.”

“I assure you that I do.”

“On the contrary, Klavier, I know him much better and in ways you can’t even imagine. He’s very eager when you know what he likes.”

Apollo feels his body become warm—warmer than he was before which doesn’t seem possible.

“Please stop,” he whispers.

Klavier’s words become a low growl, like when he wishes to kill him himself. “You are so horrible. You only get to know people so you can hurt them in the worst possible ways.”

“Aw, I’m blushing.”

“Stop fighting,” Apollo forces out. “It’s my fault, okay? So, please stop.”

“It’s not your fault.”/“It is your fault.”

Apollo opens his eyes, and he’s staring dazedly at the seat in front of him. The airplane looks grainy, and he can see things that look like bugs or dots moving around, but maybe this is because of the medication…?

“Of course, Justice.” His smiles were always comforting before, but he feels like he can’t move, and that makes him very nervous. “Did you know that diphenhydramine is a deliriant hallucinogen? If you take too much, you’ll see things that aren’t there. You took at least a few hundred milligrams when you should only take around twenty-five for fifty.”

Oh. His pain is his own fault once again. Of course.

“I didn’t mean to. I was scared.”

“I know.”

“You never helped.”

“No, I didn’t. I liked that about you. It was refreshing to see someone who was so affected by the world. Your innocence is cute.”

“I don’t have that anymore because of you.”

“Oh, no, no, no. That’s where you’re wrong. You’ll never be able to escape it because it’s how you are.” His smile is sweet, but his eyes are vindictive. It’s very familiar. “You may become disenchanted by the things that happen to you, but you will always fall back into naïveté. That’s just how you are.”

“…Really? But, I’m…I’m disgusting…I want bad things…”

“I find it charming—darkness underneath the innocence.”

“I-I don’t—I don’t like it—”

“You should know by now, Justice. I like what you offer me, and I have never been interested in what you want.”

Apollo feels his heart pounding in his chest, but he’s not sure if it’s because Kristoph is really there next to him, leaning in to kiss him, or if he’s going to die from taking too much medication.

He opens his eyes and gasps because he’s standing in the bathroom, no memory of how he got there. He’s staring at his reflection in the mirror, but his reflection shakes in his vision no matter how much he rubs his eyes.

“Is this real?” He reaches out and touches the smooth cold surface.

“What do you think, Schatz?” Klavier asks, his voice too close to his ear. He’s also reflected in the mirror, and Apollo watches as his arms slip around his waist, and he plants a kiss on his neck. Maybe it would have been too much before, but if he closes his eyes, he doesn’t have to watch as he loses himself to another person.

(It reminds him of that night after the party, but instead of feeling humiliated, he desperately wants to give into Klavier, to be with someone who loves him and will cherish him. He gets that thought again that he’s been so stupid to be avoidant, even with the memory of being rejected still fresh in his mind.)

He can’t hold back a sound as Klavier’s kisses his jawbone, nips lightly at his ear. He feels like his legs are weak, like his knees going to buckle and fall against the body pressed to him.

However, just as he feels like he might not be able to take it, he opens his eyes.

He swears that he was actually in the bathroom, but he’s glued to his chair once again.

That had to…that had to have happened. It was too vivid for it to not have. Why is this happening to him?

“I think mein Bruder explained that a bit ago.”

“But, I…I can’t tell what’s…”

“It’s okay, Schatz. It’s okay to sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Are you actually…?”

“I might be,” he smiles. “Relax, and I’ll take care of you.”

He swears he can feel his breath, feel his lips so close to his own. Or, maybe he’s only dreaming. Either way, he appreciates the way he feels when they kiss.

Apollo closes his eyes.

Apollo opens his eyes, and the plane is landing in Japan.

“Huh…?”

He files out of the plane, finding it difficult to orient himself or walk because gravity feels like it’s pulling him down. However, the layover is so long that it doesn’t matter if he collapses into a seat the moment he gets close to a chair.

His phones goes off in his pocket.

Apollo jumps out of his haze, unsure where he is or what’s going on. Was he sleeping? Is he still in LA? When he tries to think back to what happened after he got off the plane, there’s nothing.

Slowly, sounds come back to him, like the melodic words of a language he doesn’t understand and the bustle of an airport that feels different than LAX.

He’s dizzy, but the worst part is that he feels like shit. His body feels weak and heavy, and his mind is twisted and fuzzy. He’s nauseous, but in a way that’s painful. His stomach burns like its eating itself. It’s like the worst hangover he’s ever had times ten.

Slowly, he sits up straight and takes out his phone, trying to adjust his eyes to read the text.

[Klavier: How’s the trip, darling?]

Oh…yeah…Klavier…

(He remembers wisps of lips and blonde hair, arms around his waist, fear and longing…)

He doesn’t want to think about it. He’s afraid that if he focuses too much on those images that he’ll get lost in the past again, and he isn’t sure he can stand that right now without literally having a complete breakdown.

[Apollo: It’s going]

It only takes a few minutes to get a response.

[Klavier: Is that good?]

[Apollo: Its…been rough]

[Klavier: Do you want to talk?]

[Apollo: No]

The lag between messages portrays Klavier’s worry.

[Klavier: Did something happen?]

He feels bad when he considers lying. It wouldn’t help to lie.

[Apollo: I got nervous and took some medication and it was too much so I don’t feel very good right now]

[Klavier: Medication? What are you using?]

Apollo bites his thumbnail, eyebrows tensing as he tries to figure out how to explain himself without sounding super fucked up.

[Apollo: It’s that allergy pill that makes you tired, I slept through the whole thing, but now I’m really groggy.]

Not a lie. Just an omission. He’s okay with that.

[Klavier: Ah, yes, I understand. Those can be strong.]

Apollo lets out a sigh. He can’t let him know about—

(I have never been interested in what you want.)

He shivers like he’s cold, but he knows that this is trauma gripping his brain. He doesn’t want to think about it, and so it's all he can think about.

For some reason, he can still hear his voice in his head.

(“Yes, it’s the ironic process theory, more colloquially known as the ‘White Bear Problem.’ If you’re told not to think about a white bear, you will think about the white bear more frequently. It just so happens that it isn’t a white bear you’re telling yourself not to think about.”)

His phone shakes in his hands. He is super not okay, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to fake it all the way back to Khura’in, and then, back to LA again? Oh, God.

He feels like his world crumbling around him, he feels like he’s going to panic, he feels like he’s going to hyperventilate, he feels like he’s going to die on the floor of this airport and never see anyone again—not Athena, not Trucy, not Mr. Wright, not Klavier—Klavier, no—

(I’m so sorry, Klavier, I—)

“You’re back.”

Apollo opens his eyes only to realize he is standing in the doorway of his agency. All the way in Khura’in. He closes his eyes again, hoping that this is all a fantasy conjured up by a tired and battered mind.

“Apollo?”

But, that's Nahyuta’s voice. He’s actually here. His eyes open again.

“I…”

(He doesn’t remember any of the rest of the trip. How had he made it here himself…?)

He drops his bag to the floor, which feels unbearably heavy all of a sudden.

“Oh, yeah, I…needed to talk to you…about things.”

Nahyuta is in front of him, and he jumps, unsure when he’d gotten there. Even for all his stoicism, he looks concerned. It reminds him of when they were young, when they could still talk about their problems because nothing was complicated. Now, Nahyuta’s eyebrows are slightly tensed as are the muscles around his jaw are pulled tight.

“Things, you say?”

“Yeah. I have to…go back to America. For a long time. I—there’s—there’s something wrong with me…I think.”

Nahyuta does the same thing that Klavier does—searching his face for answers left unspoken. Or, maybe he’s observing his body language, which probably looks like garbage considering that’s how he feels.

“Are you sick?”

“It’s not physical. It’s a lot of stuff that I haven’t dealt with. And, I don’t think I can keep working right now.”

“For something that’s not physical, you are very sickly looking.”

He might be sick. He might be completely falling apart. The thought makes him very sad.

A thought that he’d had many times before flits through his mind.

(“Is this what I am now?”)

Images—standing in the bathroom, looking at how completely destroyed he looks, hair out of place, the beginning of bruises forming on his neck.

And, sensations—exhausted, cold, clammy, sticky, ashamed.

At the time, he couldn’t think about it, but Apollo realizes now that those moments when he was trying to reconnect his mind with his body—those were the worst moments of his life. Absolute rock bottom.

The connection between his body and mind had never been healed, and so, now he’s fractured, ripped in half, frightened that at any time, he’ll be back in that position of being nothing, being no one, being nobody.

(Apollo hates everything about all of this. He feels desperate—just get him out of this horrible twister of shame and despair—just someone please help him—)

“Hah—yeah, I guess it’s been a crazy few days. And, the trip was long and…”

He sniffs in order to try to hold back the flood of emotions that is pounding against his body, that begs him to be let out, that has been making him feel so awful for so long.

Before he can do anything else, he chokes and dips his head.

(He only can keep himself together when he’s completely alone and numb. The second he has to act like a real person, he completely breaks down and loses himself in horrible, horrible thoughts.)

“Apollo...?”

“I’m sorry,” he rubs his tears away with his right wrist despite the fact that he’s inconsolable and they keep falling. “Everything’s bad—everything’s so bad, I’m sorry, Nahyuta.”

His brother knows what it’s like to hold everything in, but he can imagine that seeing Apollo of “I’m Fine” infamy being a total mess must be shocking.

“Why are you apologizing to me?”

Apollo looks up at him, and his eyes reflect his pain. He knows for a fact that Nahyuta is empathetic when it comes to similar things he’s going through.

They’re on the couch now, the ones that are intentionally similar to the ones at the anything agency, but Nahyuta doesn’t mind sitting next to him.

He cries into his hands, trying to find the voice to explain any inkling of what he’s feeling.

“It’s a breaking point, correct?”

Apollo nods without taking his hands away.

“I-I wish I could do anything to s-stop it—I feel so terrible—I feel like the worst—I—”

There’s a small pause, and Nahyuta says in a level and calm voice, “Did something happen to you?”

He doesn’t ask for specifics, which he’s thankful for. Apollo nods again.

“And, it’s very painful to think about?”

“Yeah…” he says quietly. “It’s…so much…”

“Yes. I know that I don’t know what this is about, but I do know the feeling.”

He finally lets his hands fall in his lap.

“I know. I know. I think…that’s another thing that makes me feel bad—everyone has issues and problems. Why do I get to—to monopolize people’s time—when it’s my fault—?”

“I know for absolute certainty that it is not your fault.”

“But, you don’t know—you don’t know—it was me—it’s always been me…”

“No one enacts this sort of sorrow on themselves without someone acting on them first.”

Apollo’s hands grasp at the fabric of his tie and shirt. His chest feels tight. It feels like his heart might actually explode inside him. The ache is unbearable. Talking about it out loud is making it feel worse.

“That’s why I deserve it—because it was me—”

“Apollo. Please hear what I’m saying.”

He sniffs and sniffs again but finally lets go of his shirt. He knows Nayhuta is trying to help, and he’s falling into self-deprecative pity.

“Sorry.”

Nahyuta doesn’t bother to tell him not to apologize again. Maybe he thinks it’s a waste of breath.

“The only advice I have is to not focus on blame. If you blame yourself, nothing will ever change. Let it go and move on.”

Apollo pouts. “You know that I hate when you say that.”

“Yes, but it is helpful when you cannot handle thinking about the current circumstances. Misfortune is part of life. Dwelling on it is a choice. That’s what that phrase means to me.”

Apollo twists the words in his mind to be, (Being like this is a choice), and it makes him feel very small.

“Oh…”

“I am supportive of whatever it is you must do. I can look over the agency while you’re gone.”

“It’s not going to be—” he sniffs again, “—too hard on you?”

“Of course not. And, even if it was, the challenge would drive me.”

A sad and tired chuckle falls out of Apollo’s mouth.

“You’re a good person, Nahyuta.”

“As are you.” He offers a small, soft smile.

Apollo sighs. It’s unfortunate that he doesn’t believe him, but Nahyuta probably isn’t expecting him to.

Thankfully, Apollo’s apartment is above the agency. He only has to lug his bag up a flight of stairs before he’s unlocking the door.

A cat’s chirp greets him as soon as he drops his bag.

“Aw, Calico,” he coos, crouching down and taking her into his arms. “Did you miss me?”

Apparently so, as she begins to lick Apollo’s finger, purring loudly. Her fur is so soft and fluffy and warm. He’d almost forgotten how much her presence calmed him.

“I missed you, too.”

She begins to wrestle against him, so Apollo puts her down and chuckles at her loud meow.

“Okay, let’s get you something to eat.”

It’s nice to be back. It smells like home, something he never really experienced before, at least not as an adult. Going back to America already feels bittersweet, and he hasn’t even left yet.

Bittersweet…like the reminder of mortality when her food is poured into the bowl. Apollo loves Calico, but every day is a day closer to when he won’t be feeding her anymore, when she won’t be around anymore. He enjoys every moment with her, but it looms over him that he’s going to be left alone again someday.

If he hadn’t just made a fool of himself in front of Nahyuta, maybe he would have cried, but he’s too tired.

His stomach hurts. When was the last time he ate? He closes his eyes and tries to think, but there are so many holes in his memory that it may have been a week ago or yesterday. There’s nothing to eat in his apartment. Cereal maybe, but it’s definitely stale. He usually eats lunch at the noodle stand, and he’s not really hungry in the evenings, and…

For the first time in the entire two years he’s lived there, Apollo realizes how empty his life has become.

It’s not like he decorates. He doesn’t have any posters of things he likes because…what does he like? Law? Work? No, that’s not a hobby. He’s stopped reading manga and the funnies. He’d even stopped looking up horoscopes and following astrology altogether.

He doesn’t have any interests. He doesn’t have any friends. He only interacts with Nahyuta, and if he’s busy with other duties and there aren’t any clients, he doesn’t see anyone at all, unless you count the guy who works at the noodle stand…

Apollo knows he has the propensity to busy himself with work, but he hadn’t realized it had become excessive. Without anyone looking out for him, he had made his life so small. He honestly thought he was “fine,” but he’d become obsessive. Once again, he’d started compulsively working until there was nothing else, and then he wouldn’t have to think about anything else.

(Can’t think/Can’t think/Can’t think)

His head hurts.

“I don’t want to…do anything…”

(How could things end up like this?)

He gives up on finding something to eat and wanders into the bedroom. He flops on his bed face down. When Calico finishes eating, she trots in and leaps onto the bed with a questioning trill. She pokes her wet nose into his hand, asking for pets, and Apollo tries his best. She accepts a few strokes, but then, runs into the other room to expend all her energy.

Now that he’s completely alone, he takes his pillow and screams into it, just so none of the neighbors think he’s being killed or something. Once he’s done that, he clutches the pillow to his chest so hard that he’s afraid he might rip the fabric of his pillowcase.

Pretending his pillow is a person has never done him any good. He knows what it feels like to be held and swallowed up completely by another person. Closeness. He knows too much about closeness, and so, being alone is impossible to rectify if he is, in fact, alone.

But, he does know a way to bring people around. It’s okay if he keeps himself company, right?

He rummages through his duffle bag until he feels the sharp corners of the cardboard. With a shake, he can hear that he still has Benadryl left. He turns the box, looking at its back and sides.

Why don’t they tell you that it has the ability to make you hallucinate? Seems like a pretty important thing to point out when nervous people take it and are predisposed to wanting to get rid of their anxiety by any means possible. Maybe they want to hide it because it might encourage people to take too much.

Kind of like how he wants to now.

It’s not like he’s one to use substances. They usually make him sick. But, there’s something about seeing them and the medicine making him helpless—well, that sounds bad, and it probably is bad, but considering Apollo already thinks he’s bad, what’s wrong with doing bad things?

(“I find it charming—darkness underneath the innocence.”)

He shivers where he kneels on the floor. His voice sounds so real. Apollo doesn’t necessarily believe that Kristoph is in his head. It’s not actually him, but he sounded so confident about information he had no idea about, so…what does that mean?

Maybe there is actually something wrong with him, something worse than what he’s already aware of. But, he’d rather not think about that.

He looks at what’s left of the pills on the first sheet. There’s a decent amount. Actually, he doesn’t even know what constitutes a decent amount. He has no idea what he’s doing.

Search engines tell him that 500mg or over could be dangerous, so he could go below that and be fine. They warn that the hallucinations aren’t fun, but Apollo didn’t necessarily dislike his first experience. It was weird, but not unpleasant. And, he wishes that Klavier was here.

(And, he wishes that Kristoph was here.)

He pops the pills out on his bed.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.)

That’s what’s left on the first sheet. 200mg, a little less than half of the “recommended” dose. There’s another sheet though.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.)

400.

(Paranoia sits on him again. This is bad, and he’s doing bad things. He might damage himself in some way. It’s not good to put things in your body that shouldn’t be there.)

Okay, everything about this is messed up, but it could be worse, right? Klavier does way more than abuse some allergy meds, so this is all normal and fine…normal and fine…he’s normal and fine…

He can’t think too hard about it. He picks up the pills off the comforter and throws them back. The water barely helps. He has to cover his mouth to stop himself from throwing them up on the bed.

(He’d forgotten how not to gag over the last few years, and that realization makes him feel so disgusting—he covers his mouth again so he doesn’t throw up for another reason.)

As soon as it hits him that he’s actually taken all that medicine, a flare of anxiety blares through his chest.

He flops back down on the bed, fingers in his hair.

“Why am I doing this?”

In a way, he understands Klavier much more now. Altering his mind is so much more attractive than being in constant pain day in and day out. If he can put himself in some other mindset…well…

He’s not going to pass it up.

Everything in him is telling him that this is bad, but he already knows what it feels like, and as long as he doesn’t completely freak out, this should be fine.

He tries to open his mouth to say it to himself out loud, but the idea of talking feels too exhausting. The day swallows him up before the medicine can even take effect.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and sleep through it all, and then, he won’t have to challenge the part of himself that thinks this is a good idea. And, he can tell himself that he’s fine. He’s fine.

Yes. Apollo Justice is fine.

He opens his eyes.

His fingertips buzz when they twitch on his blankets. He’s laying on his stomach, and like the last time, he’s being pressed against the bed by the gravity of the Earth. It feels good to him, being constricted. It feels safe, even if it threatens to crush him.

Even his legs are a bit jittery. The medicine should make him tired, but it’s stimulating at the same time as it’s exhausting.

He stares at a wall, which looks sort of like it’s crawling, similar to how an accordion folds in on itself. Out of the corner of his eye, a book changes color, but when he looks at it, its cover is blue like it normally is.

His skin is becoming abnormally hot. His bracelet squeezes even tighter than it has been, making him hiss as it threatens to cut off the circulation to his hand.

Gotta do something about that.

He gets off his bed only to stumble around for a second, not realizing how much feeling heavier would affect his balance. But, he quickly gets his bearings and goes to the kitchen.

It’s still light out. The light coming from the window is too bright, and the beams look solid. It’s weird, but he can’t say he doesn’t like it.

He opens up the freezer and sticks his left hand in. The cold feels like heat, but it still accomplishes his goal, which is to get his bracelet to stop squeezing so much. Carefully, he slips it off his hand, flexing and contracting his hand to make sure it still works. It feels tingly now, too.

He closes the freezer door and he’s back in bed, his bracelet placed next to his phone. He’s getting sleepy. His eyelids feel heavy. The pillow feels good on his skin. The plaid pattern on his comforter wiggles. It’s funny.

He should stay up to see if he starts seeing things, but he feels…weird…tired…

Like before, he feels whispers that are indistinguishable but familiar. The fact that they’re so close to his ears makes his heart leap and his skin get goosebumps.

He feels something crawling on him, but when he twists his head to see what it is, there’s nothing except a blurry leg. Just to make sure, he sits up and slaps his leg, but it only makes his skin sting.

His body is so heavy that he falls back again, head missing the pillow. He can’t find the energy to fix it.

But, he hisses when the pain in his wrist comes back. He opens his eyes and brings his hand by his face, and his bracelet is still there.

With a frustrated sigh, he gets up again and wanders in the kitchen again. He goes to open the freezer door, but his hand can’t grab the handle. It misses every time. This makes Apollo very disorientated.

He opens his eyes. He’s still in bed.

He sits up and dangles his legs over the side of the bed. He can’t keep his foot still. It taps against his other foot. His carpet looks a million miles a way.

That’s when he notices that there’s a shirt on the floor, which is weird because he hasn’t changed yet. He gets up and picks it up, but it disappears the second he would have touched it. Which is weird.

But, since he’s up, he might as well try to open the freezer again.

In the kitchen, Calico looks up at him and meows, but her meow is tinny, like she’s talking through a tin can and a string. He smiles at her, and she twists around his legs, rubbing her cheeks against his ankles.

“Hello, Calico,” he giggles, shooing her with a soft push of his foot.

This time, when he opens the door, his bracelet is still in the freezer.

“Huh…?”

He looks at his wrist. It’s gone now. He looks in the freezer again. It’s not there either.

He closes the door and sees something out of the corner of his eye. It’s definitely Calico, he tells himself because what else could it be, but when he turns to look, there’s something huddled in the kitchen corner.

Apollo gasps and scrambles to get away, but he’s too woozy, so he falls and has to come eye to eye with a little girl with blue hair, eyes large and misty.

What the fuck?

“V-Vera?”

She looks at him like he’s Kristoph. It’s horrifying to see her, horrifying to have her look at him like that. He closes his eyes, rubs them, pinches himself, but she’s still there, unmoving.

He has to get ahold of himself. He has to get out of this room—now. He scrambles to get to his feet and runs back to his bedroom and jumps onto his bed, putting his pillow over his head.

How had Vera gotten into his house? Only Nahyuta has a key other than himself.

His past is crawling out the cracks in the walls. The smell of dust and blood mix with something sour. Poisonous. He’d never smelled a bottle of atroquinine before, but he knows what Kristoph’s nail polish smells like. It’s fruit mixed with antiseptic cleaner and the sharp bite of rubbing alcohol.

Is he near? It smells like it.

He takes the pillow off his head and turns over to make sure he isn’t, but instead, he spots something crawling in the corner of his ceiling. He looks, and he’s not sure what it is, but it’s creepy and big. This had happened on the plane, too. Is it a giant spider?

He stares at it. Maybe it’ll go away if he stares at it.

He opens his eyes.

He’s in the ceiling corner now, looking down at his own body. He looks bad—sick. Pale yet still somehow flushed, wrinkled clothes because he hasn’t bothered to change. Somehow, he meets eyes with himself, and it should freak him out, but it doesn’t really.

Maybe he’ll go away if he stares at himself.

He opens his eyes.

The big spider is gone, but he’s still here. So is that smell.

“Are you here?” he asks the empty room.

There’s no response.

The whispers are gone, but things are getting too heavy, crushingly heavy. Much heavier than before. It crushes his lungs and his ribs, crushes what’s left of his mind into the mattress.

It feels familiar. It feels like this has happened before. It feels like he—like he can’t breathe, like, like—

Something clutching his neck.

He can’t see him, but those hands, that grip…

(He’d never forget how it feels to have thumbs pressing into his trachea.)

The fact that he can let out a pained, anguished sound tells him that this is not real because when you’re actually being choked, you can’t get anything out because you haven’t the breath.

But, he had gotten used to it at some point back then. It made his head too warm and his skin more sensitive and his vision blurred and his clothes too tight.

(Why is this happening?)

His hands go to his neck, but there still isn’t anything there. Is this a panic attack? Panic attacks don’t feel like hands on his throat, but it’s possible that it feels like him because he’s thinking about him.

But, he’s still not there.

His breath comes back to him, as does some rational part of his mind.

(I should text Klavier.)

He rolls over and grabs his phone.

[Apollo: hey]

He puts it back down on the side table.

Even after several minutes, he doesn’t get a response. He picks up his phone again.

He did not send that message.

[Apollo: hey]

He puts it back down on the side table.

Even after several minutes, he doesn’t get a response. He picks up his phone again.

He did not send that message.

[Apollo: hey]

He puts it back down on the side table.

Even after several minutes, he doesn’t get a response. He picks up his phone again.

He did not send that message.

What’s happening to him? He swears that he’s doing it every time, but it never happens. The only thing he can think to do is call him.

He presses his name and puts the phone to his ear. It rings and rings and rings but never connects. When he pulls his hand away, it’s just that, his hand. His phone is still there on the table.

Apollo blinks at his hand. He swore that he was holding it.

He stares at his phone, not letting his eyes off it until he picks it up, fumbles through a few of the menus, and presses his name, for real this time.

It rings once, twice, three times—

There’s a knock at the front door. He looks up instinctually, already nervous about who could be wanting to see him.

Then, he hears a voice.

“Apollo?”

Oh, it has to be Nahyuta. There’s no one else who frequents the agency enough to call him by his first name.

“Nahyuta? Is that you?”

He gets up and walks to the door. He unlocks it, but when it opens, there’s no one there. There’s only a long shadow that lays on the landing and trickles down the stairs—a dark essence of a person with the consistency of water.

He tilts his head.

“Nahyuta…? What is…?”

The shadows gently creeps forward, as if it’s wanting to come in.

Apollo gasps as fear seizes him.

He slams the door, hoping that it can’t crawl under the gap between it and the floor. He grabs a towel from the bathroom and stuffs it in the crack—y’know—just to be sure. That should keep it out. But, if it doesn’t, he’s going to shut himself in the bathroom with another towel wedged under that door, too.

It should be fine. Fine, yes, fine. Right.

Apollo accidentally steals a glance in the mirror, but it looks like there are too many people in the reflection, so he looks away, deciding to take a seat on the floor.

He feels uncomfortable being stuck here, though. He keeps getting thrown back into that night.

The shower isn’t on, but he feels so hot. And, he knows he’s not here, but it feels like he is. And, he feels slightly sick because of everything going on around him.

“Aw, Apollo. Can you chill out?”

He looks up to see Mr. Phoenix Wright chilling in the bathtub—beanie, hoodie, grape juice and all.

“Chill out? You really think it's that easy?”

Phoenix shrugs and offers the bottle to him, but Apollo shakes his head.

“I’m too tired to deal with any of this anymore. It’s so much. It keeps getting worse.”

“Yeah, that’s usually what happens when you repress a lifetime of trauma.”

Apollo glares at him, as if to say, no shit.

“But, it’s not fair. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Unfortunately, kid, life’s not fair.” He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink. “And, Kristoph, well, he does that kind of thing. Doesn’t make it right, but it’s not you specifically.”

That makes him feel worse. If Kristoph did this to him for a reason, it would still prop up the little piece of his mind that whispered, (I’m special to someone), the little piece that felt thankful for the attention.

If he was just in the right place at the right time—all that suffering was for nothing.

“Oh, Apollo, don’t cry. What’d I say?”

He pulls his knees up to his chest and shakes his head. “Why can’t I make anyone care about me? I’m always being used, and they always leave, and I—”

“You shouldn’t base your experiences about human interaction on Gavin, that’s for sure.”

“But what if Klavier is using me, too? Or, is he going to leave as soon as I let my guard down?”

“I dunno about Klavier, but he’s way nicer than your boss.”

“He’s not my boss anymore.”

“Oh, yeah. Keep forgetting.” He shrugs before taking another drink.

Apollo’s voice is small and strained when he says, “Do you care about me, Mr. Wright?”

Phoenix coughs on his grape juice.

“Uhh…you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.” He eyes Apollo wearily. “In what way?”

“I don’t know,” he pouts. “In any way. At all.”

“Um, I mean…I think you’re a good lawyer…?”

That’s not what he wants to hear. He chokes on a new wave of tears.

“D-Do you not c-care at all?”

Phoenix’s face falls and gets that look that he aims at Apollo far too often. Pity.

“Apollo, come on—of course I care, but I’m your boss. I…try not to encroach too much. I don’t want to overstep, especially because, well, you know. But, I don’t like to see abandoned kids running around, so I do feel a certain responsibility…”

“I wish there was anybody who would care about me no matter what. I’ve never known that. The only time I had parents was back in Khura’in, but I was abandoned again. I know no one wants to deal with me, but it’s not my fault that I’m here. I didn’t ask to be here. If I’m not supposed to be here then—”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that.” He puts his bottle down on the bathroom floor, crossing his arms on the edge of the tub, and leans his chin on them. “No one chooses to be born, so you’re not alone in that. But, I promise there are people out there that care. There always is, even if we don’t know it.”

Phoenix’s smile is small and pained, like Apollo’s tears hurt him, too.

“It’s so painful…I don’t want to deal with it anymore…”

“Maybe I’m not the right person to talk to you about this.”

His eyes blow wide. His crying stops. “No, Mr. Wright—don’t go!”

It’s too late. He’s gone. Just like everyone else.

Maybe he’s destined to be alone, and he’s fighting a losing fight.

(You know the person who will always take you back.)

He puts his hands on his ears and shakes his head, clenching his eyes shut.

“He can’t. He’s dead. I don’t want to see him.”

(That’s a lie.)

“No, I don’t want to. Please stop—”

Apollo opens his eyes.

He’s standing in front of the mirror. He doesn’t think he looks much like himself. His eyes feel wrong, and it’s not just because things are moving in every corner of his vision. His face and eyes are red from crying. His cheeks shine in the bathroom light from drying tears.

Looking in the mirror is dangerous. He sees other people in the reflection.

Kristoph wouldn’t appear in front of him, but he’s here now. If it’s a memory or really him, he can’t tell. All he knows is that there are arms around him. It’s similar to how Klavier holds him, but so much more possessive, so much more of a threat than an act of affection.

“Go away.”

This Kristoph does not speak, does not move. He’s standing there, staring. Staring like how he used to. It scares him.

“You remind me of the part of myself that I hate,” Apollo snarls.

He hates that he has a part of himself that’s uncontrollable, that was born out of incredible fear and helplessness. It was the only thing he could do to survive, but now, it claws into his skin and rips his sense away, makes him want horrible things—makes him disgusting and bad.

“Please let go of me.” He closes his eyes and wrestles against his grip, but his strength is failing quickly. He’s learned that when it comes to him, there’s no use fighting. It’s better just to go with it…just do what he says and…maybe it’ll be okay.

Those are the good times—the closeness—the flood of endorphins and adrenaline numbing the hurt for a few minutes or hours, maybe.

Then, when it’s over, everything drops away, and he’s so ashamed of himself, of the things he lets him do, the things he asks for, the things he forces him into. But, just one more time—just one more hit—just something to make him feel anything other than horrible anxiety.

“Let go!”

And, like that, he’s free. He’s gone. His body lurches forward, knees buckling. He grabs the sink, clutching it like it’s the last thing keeping him in reality.

He cries and watches his tears flood his cheeks, flood the bathroom, flood him.

Drowning, drowning, drowning—maybe he should have let him drown. Maybe he should have died a long, long time ago.

He sinks to the ground and holds his middle because he feels panicked and sick.

(The tiles look like they’re distorted through rising water.)

He cries out. “Dad—Dad, please, I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…please help me—”

“Still can’t swim, huh?”

It’s Dhurke, now. He’s too close to him. So close. Instead of arms wrapped around his middle, he lays in Dhurke’s arms like after he’d saved him, like a powerless princess with an unbreakable curse.

“I wouldn’t be a very good father if I let you drown.”

Apollo reaches up and places his hands on either side of his cheeks.

“Dhurke, please…please save me…I don’t want you to leave.” Tears slip into his ears. “Why did you have to leave? I’m all alone now…”

“You’re not alone, Son. There are so many people who love you.” He looks very sad when he says, “Why do you push them away?”

Is the room growing darker, or is he actually in that cave? Is this the past or the future? Is he forever cursed to relive this moment over and over and—

“I’m scared of them…I’m scared they’ll hurt me, and that—that they’ll tell me they love me, and then leave. I’ve always wanted someone who could love me no matter what, but they all leave.”

“You can’t let that fear control you.”

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he sobs, shaking his head

“Oh, Apollo,” he sighs. “I hope one day, you can learn. I hope you can heal.”

He sounds absolutely miserable when he says, “I love you, Dad.”

Unlike what actually happened in real life, Dhurke leans down and meets his lips, and he’s soft and caring and his big hand slides up his chest and around his neck so it can support his head. Apollo’s tears run over his cheeks as he cries into Dhurke’s kiss.

Apollo opens his eyes.

He’s still laying on the bathroom floor, but there’s no water to drown him himself in. There’s no one here at all. Like it always has been and always will.

Sooner or later, the pills catch up with him.

He gasps, sitting up so suddenly that he falls right back down to the bathroom floor, head spinning. He curls to the side as fire rises within him. The decision to not eat is coming back to bite him. It tears at his insides. Burning, burning, burning

If he thought his stomach hurt earlier, this is so much worse. It’s so unbelievably painful that all he can do is slowly crawl to the toilet. He’s not even nauseous, it burns. The porcelain feels good on his head, on his cheek. He’s so hot. His heart is beating fast, and the pain makes him sweat.

Before, his vision had only wavered slightly, seeing things move that weren’t actually moving, but now, he can’t see straight. He thinks he’s shaking, but it might be that his head is buzzing so loud that his eyes are vibrating.

If he throws up, will it stop? But, there’s nothing in his stomach, probably not even water.

(His life is falling into pieces—or, his life had been falling to pieces ever since he walked into that Law Office, but right now, there’s barely anything left.)

He dry heaves, and it hurts, but nothing comes up. When it happens again, all he can get up is bile. It tastes so horrible. His entire body hurts—burns.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry for whatever I did to deserve this.”

And, that’s the last thing he remembers about that night.

Nahyuta wakes up to his phone ringing.

He looks at his clock. It’s very early in the morning. A little past four. No one in their right mind would call him at this hour. He considers letting it go to voicemail just to be petty, but when he looks over, the caller ID is The Wright Anything Agency.

Hm.

He picks up his phone and accepts the call.

“Mr. Wright, are you aware that it’s the middle of the night here in Khura’in?”

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line.

“Hello—?”

“I’m sorry, Nahyuta, but it’s sort of urgent.”

It’s not Wright. It’s a young girl’s voice.

“May I ask who’s speaking?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Trucy Wright, Mr. Wright’s daughter.”

Obviously, if her last name is Wright, she is Wright’s daughter. He rolls his eyes.

“What is so urgent, Miss Wright?”

She sounds hesitant as she says, “…Have you run into Apollo?”

Even if she can’t see it, his eyebrows furrow.

“Yes. He returned last night.”

“Have you talked to him since?”

Nahyuta pauses.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Um…he called a friend of his a few hours ago, but when he picked up, there was no answer. It’s weird for him, and I’m worried.”

This seems like a strange thing to take so seriously. Apollo is a Big Boy and can take care of himself without having to be babied.

“Maybe it was an accident?”

“I…I don’t know. Before he left LA, I told him to get back to me when he got to Khura’in, and his friend did too, and Apollo just—didn’t.”

The context of all of this has been strange. Apollo isn’t unreliable, but he wouldn’t describe him as reliable either. Although, considering Apollo’s behavior when he arrived at the office, there may be a reason to worry.

“You’re absolutely positive this is necessary right this moment?” he asks again, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He’s been unable to keep up his sleep schedule in the past few weeks. It’s not Apollo’s fault, but it may have been a little easier to manage his time if he had some sort of assistant.

“I really think so. He’s not been acting like himself lately.” She makes a small sigh. “Haven’t you noticed?”

The way he burst into tears yesterday was unlike him, true. Nahyuta tries to think about the last time he’s seen him cry since they were children, and he can’t come up with anything (not that they had been close during their teenage years).

“I see. I will go check on him if you’re really that concerned.”

“Thank you so much, Nahyuta! Sorry for waking you up!”

“Mm-hmm.”

He ends the call and groans. If this trip is unnecessary, he might consider billing Phoenix Wright for his time.

His door is unlocked, but it is difficult to open. There is a towel stuck under it. He kicks it to the side in frustration once it gives way.

His freezer has been left ajar. Water from melted ice cubes has been dripping on the floor for at least a few hours.

Calico trots over and chirps at him, knowing that Uncle Yuty only comes to visit when it’s time to eat, and Apollo’s not around.

But, Apollo is around, right? Or, at least he should be. Where else would he go?

Maybe she can sense that he’s nervous because she rubs at his ankles and purrs. Nahyuta bends down and gives her a scritch.

“Where’s your dad?”

She seems to know what he’s asking. His mother has always been good with animals, so maybe he is as well.

She walks into the bedroom and hops up on his bed, which is a mess. He only looks at it for a second because he notices the sound of the humming of a bathroom fan, but there’s no light coming from under the closed door.

He knocks. “Apollo?”

No answer.

As much as Nahyuta doesn’t want to barge in on him if he is in there, he has the right to be suspicious.

Just like the front door, it’s unlocked but difficult to open. He assumes that it also has a towel wedged underneath it. Why? That’s usually something people do when they’re trying to keep out noise—or keep in smoke. But, none of that really makes sense, especially for him.

“Apollo?” he tries one more time, but there’s only silence. He figures he’ll apologize for breaking in later.

When he forces open the door, Nahyuta can’t help but be forced into stillness.

Apollo is crumpled on the bathroom floor next to the toilet. He is clearly unconscious. If he looked sick when he’d arrived the day before, he looks a step closer to death now.

Moving into the bathroom and kneeling down next to him, he can hear him breathing when he lowers his ear to his chest. His breaths are short and fast. The two fingers pressed to his pulse tell him that his heartbeat is elevated as well. But, at least, he’s alive.

Shaking his shoulder doesn’t wake him. Nahyuta scoops him up to take him to his bed, and it’s the first time he’s actively noticed how small he is. He’s short, but he’s also thin—thinner even than when he left to visit the States. He frowns.

When he sets him on the bed, he notices the bedside table and the box of medicine beside his bracelet. He picks it up. It’s just an antihistamine, but the box is empty. The plastic sheets, which previously housed pills, are bent out of shape and left abandoned on the floor, like how Apollo had been.

The first thing his mind jumps to is that Apollo tried to overdose—but, with allergy medication? He surely would have thrown them up, right? Or, maybe not by the looks of it.

He tries to wake him one more time by placing a hand on his forehead. He’s sweating. His forehead is hot. Nahyuta positions his other hand in a prayer position and mutters an incantation.

Apollo lets out a little gasp, but otherwise, nothing.

Nahyuta spots his cellphone on the floor slightly under his bed. It’s open, as if it had been dropped or knocked off a surface. He picks it up and sits on the bed.

Scrolling through the notifications, he can see that many people have called and texted him. Trucy, the Agency, Athena, and Klavier—the pop star who’s interested in him, yes?

Hm.

He goes to the main menu and dials a number.

“Yes, may I request emergency services to the Justice Law Offices? I fear someone may be in trouble.”

His eyes can barely open, but he can make out the blur over his head to be fluttering hands. His breathing sounds loud in his ears. It’s too fast, like he can’t catch it.

(“‘Pollo, why didn’t you take the warnings more seriously? You can get an arrhythmia from that stuff, especially if you knock it back with nothing else.”)

Ah, he hasn’t heard that voice in a while.

“—are—awake—?”

He doesn’t know himself. Probably not fully.

(“You taught me to be fine, we said we were always fine—and you’re giving up just like that?”)

(I’m anything but fine.)

(“I know…I just wish you were. I’m upset. I’m sorry.”)

(You don’t have the right to be upset when you’re gone, and I’m still here.)

(“You don’t have the right to do this when I’m gone, and you’re still here.”)

(I hate you.)

(“You know that’s not true.”)

“—push 30 CCs of—get heart rate under 100—”

(I know.)

He feels like he gets shoved into whatever surface he’s on, breath suddenly heavy and slow instead of light and fast.

Whatever consciousness he has fades, and he feels strapped to the Earth by gravity once again.

Suicide is not exactly frowned upon in Khura’in, but to rush to the Holy Mother is seen as uncouth, to put it lightly.

Drug use in the western sense is different, but usually, when altering mental states, medicinal herbs and teas are what are used by the locals. Something like “allergy pills” are very rare, and they are not used in this fashion. He has to explain very carefully to the emergency services what may have happened.

He’s the prince—he can do anything—so he walks along with the gurney at a fast pace, but he never lets any part of himself look rushed or concerned. If he did that then it’d be too real, and this doesn’t feel real right now.

People who think little of traditional cultures might think that they have underdeveloped medical systems, but that’s not true at all. Universal medical knowledge is observed like any other hospital, but there are remedies that Khura’inians find superior to many western pharmaceuticals, especially the addictive ones. They don’t use benzodiazepines or opioids because—frankly—they’re poison to more than just the body.

They’ve stabbed an IV into his arm and put a mask on his face—his O2 stats are abnormal from having been breathing fast for so long. They can’t use charcoal or a stomach pump for the medication because it’s all been digested by now, so they can only mitigate the symptoms.

Nahyuta tries to tell himself its not that bad, but also—this seems pretty bad.

He’d read a few journal articles from the internet on the ride there, so he knows that maybe he would have been fine by the morning, but obviously, no one who cares about him wants to take that risk.

The doctors talk about other things: blood glucose extremely low, electrolytes extremely irregular. He hasn’t been taking care of himself. Hasn’t been eating, has probably thrown up a few times, has been dehydrated for several days.

Oh, Holy Mother, for why has she forsaken his brother?

Nahyuta knows hurt, too. He knows physical abuse and emotional coercion, but he’d never thought of taking his life. It makes him sick to think about. Even if Apollo hadn’t intended for that to happen, he had to know he was doing something dangerous.

He turns away once they’ve wheeled him into the ER. He doesn’t need to stare misfortune in the face for longer than necessary.

Apollo’s eyes open, but he can’t see very well. Everything is blurry, and no matter how much he blinks, nothing becomes clear. Is it from crying? Or, is he so disoriented that his eyes can’t focus?

He reaches up to wipe away tears, but there are none.

All of his body aches in a weird way that he doesn’t know how to describe. He feels so heavy that he can’t sit up even if he wanted to. Even the blankets feel heavy on him, and his clothes, and…

He looks down to see that he’s wearing...not his clothes. Even through his blurry vision, he can tell that they’re traditional Khura’in robes, the ones he used to wear to bed as a child. And, it’s not just his mind making him think his blanket feels heavier. The blankets he’s under are handmade Khura’in quilts, which would smell like home if they didn’t smell like soap.

What’s going on?

A wave of nausea pushes the thought from his mind, but like when he was crying on the bathroom floor, there is nothing to throw up. It's worse than actually throwing up. If he could throw up, then there would be relief, then there would be…

It’s the same as everything else. No relief can’t stop can’t stop (why can’t I make it stop?!)

His anguish is only expressed by a small groan, a hand on his stomach, his head sinking deeper into a pillow.

He’s too tired. Rest is too inviting. He closes his eyes and falls asleep too easily.

Apollo looks too small and sickly to be Apollo—to be his brother.

Without his hyperventilation and fever, he looks normal, but he’s not normal if he’s coiled up in blankets, pale as a ghost.

The thought rolls around in his head.

(What happened to you?)

And, truly, he doesn’t want to know the answer. The answer will make everything that much worse, but it is maddening to see things happening around him that he doesn’t understand.

As much as Apollo thought that Nahyuta had changed when they first reunited, he didn’t have the gall to say the same thing back to him. They were once so strong and steadfast. They were once both Dragons. But, they had retracted back into themselves.

Nahyuta knows he lashes out. He is guessing that Apollo lashes in.

(“—it was me—it’s always been me—”)

It’s disgusting, honestly, that he was so flippant with him. He was flippant. Apollo was hurting, and he was flippant. Has he forgotten how to be compassionate after all these years? Had Ga’ran changed him that much?

It’s not productive to think about, so he pushes it down. He takes the chair from the wall and pulls it closer to the bed before sitting down. He puts his head in his hands but only for a moment. He looks up at the monitor that shows all the indices of Apollo’s vitality.

They’re all totally normal. He’s healthy. But, he’s not. He’s very sick. Just not physically.

It’s then that Apollo makes a sound. It’s that sound that people make when you wake them up in the morning for school, and it’s cold and no one wants to get out of bed but you have to, and…

He groans again, blinking to clear his vision. He looks lost.

“Apollo—you’re awake.”

His voice in hoarse and small. His speech is stunted and wrong.

“Nah—yu—ta…”

“How are you feeling?” It’s the only thing he can think to ask.

Apollo lets out another groan.

“Horrible.”

“I can imagine.”

He looks around, but he still seems dazed and glossed over.

“Where…am I…?”

“You’re in the hospital.”

He blinks.

“The…hospital?”

Nahyuta is trying not to sound grim, but there’s really no way not to.

“You were unresponsive. I couldn’t wake you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“How did you…?”

“Trucy. You called someone last night, and they contacted her.”

He reaches into his pocket and holds the phone out to him. When Apollo goes to grab it, he misses multiple times. Nahyuta leans closer to him. His eyes really are unfocused. They don't focus on him, they don't focus on his phone. They’re almost reflected inwards. He still can’t sit up, let alone hold an object in his hands.

Finally, he gives up, and his arm flops down beside him as if it weighs a million pounds.

“Can you…look and see…who…?”

“Klavier. That’s the friend you flew to meet, correct?”

He puts a hand to his forehead.

“Wh’did I say?”

“Nothing, apparently, according to Miss Wright.”

Apollo groans again.

“I’m so…stupid…”

“And, what is it, exactly, that you did?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a noise for a long time.

“I can’t do…anything right…” His words waver with tears. “I try so hard…and then, I mess it all up…this always happens…”

He rolls to his side so his back is to Nahyuta. He grips his arms so tight that he trembles. His fingernails will leave indents in his skin if he keeps that up.

“Apollo.”

“Please don’t make me talk about it.”

“I only want to know if you’re putting yourself in dangerous situations intentionally.”

He doesn’t respond. He somehow clutches his arms tighter. Silence might be the only confirmation Nahyuta is going to get.

“When you’re discharged, are you going to try again? If so, I’d rather you stay at the palace where someone could at least take care of you—”

This is when he flips back over and actually makes it to sitting up this time.

“I didn’t try anything—I’m not going to kill myself, Nahyuta.”

Well. That certainly is more on the nose than he had expected from him. He isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“…Of course, but there are no facilities here that function as therapy or psychiatry in the way it’s done in the west—”

“I’m not dead.” He’s angry. It’s strange because Nahyuta's only trying to be kind, and he’s never seen him angry-angry since he was a kid. “You can leave now.”

Apollo’s words are hurtful to him. Even though their past has been tumultuous, he feels like they had repaired at least a part of their relationship. But, he’s acting spiteful towards him even though he may have saved his life.

“Alright. But, please remind your Anything Agency friends to be more considerate of the time difference. I also need my rest.”

Apollo lays back down, pulling the patterned blankets up over his head.

No sense in trying to calm him down any. Nahyuta knows from when they were kids that Apollo’s temper could be hard to extinguish once it was ignited. And, anyway, he should get back to work if he doesn’t need his help.

It truly saddens him that Apollo is so close to…whatever this ends with. But, after so many years of ‘letting go and moving on,’ it’s much more difficult to be emotionally available with other people, especially in the presence of anger.

And, if Apollo doesn’t want his help, Nahyuta isn’t going to force him to take it.

Apollo rarely lapses into his darkest of thoughts—not intentionally anyway—but the shame of doing yet another bad thing, worrying Klavier and Trucy once again, embarrassing himself in front of Nahyuta once again—getting locked up in a hospital for an accident—

(I’m bad/I’m bad/I’m bad/I’m bad)

His skin crawls with the hatred he gets for himself at times like this. He wants to hurt himself/rip his skin off/bleed out alone and forgotten—just like he deserves.

The voice in his head that sounds like him says, (“Yes, you do deserve that.”)

Ah, yes, if he were still alive, he’d hurt him in all the most degrading ways, crush any part of him that doesn’t fall completely in line, confirm once and for all that being controlled and stripped of pride is the natural order of things.

And, when there’s no one to do that to him, he does it to himself.

It wasn’t like he was intending to hurt himself, but when he’s not sitting at rock bottom, he pulls himself back down so he is. In the moment, it feels good—relieving even. But, then, there’s nothing left but despair, and self-hatred, and shame.

(Make it stop/Make it stop/Why can’t I make it stop?!)

He clutches his head, trying to block out the sound of his own inner monologue screaming at him.

He has the impulse to find the closest sharp object and slash his skin open. Then, he could die and never suffer another wrong action, or wrong word, or wrong thought—never mess up ever again.

He steals a glance at his phone on the table. He knows he needs to call back all the people who had messaged him in the last two days or so, but he doesn’t want to be seen or heard by anyone. Maybe instead of going back to America, he’ll sulk in this hospital bed for the rest of his days, let time drift away until there’s isn’t any of it left.

And, anyway, he’s still so tired. He’s dizzy and so thirsty that his eyes feel dry, even though he has an IV in his arm to remedy exactly that. Sleep isn’t even a reprieve because everything haunts him there, too.

Nowhere is safe. Every moment is a nightmare.

Being in new clothes is relieving, but it also reminds him of how sweaty he’d become during his night of horrors. His hair feels gross, too. There’s probably a shower or something in the bathroom connected to the room, but when he thinks about it, he thinks about how water chokes him—how he chokes him—how Dhurke is dead and there’s no one left to save him from drowning.

(Please save me. Please, I’m sorry. I just need someone to save me.)

His skin won’t stop crawling. He digs his nails into his arms and shivers. The momentary pain eases some of the distress but just barely. He wants to cry, but no tears come. He’s probably too dehydrated, or he’s too numbed out from whatever medication they’d given him.

Apollo is woken out of his self-deprecative daydream by a nurse entering his room with a menu.

“Your blood glucose was much too low,” the lady says in Khura’inese. “You must eat.”

He knows, but he feels too weak to do so.

“If you don’t,” she continues, “we’ll have to remedy it in other ways.”

The way the language is spoken is like a passive-aggressive version of English. No one says exactly what they mean when you think about it like an American, but if you think about it like a Khura’inian, it’s actually pretty harsh.

“Remedy in other ways” must mean something like nutritional supplements—or worse, a feeding tube. He’s not so gone to need something so invasive, but the idea of putting food in his mouth makes his stomach turn.

He tells the nurse to bring him “whatever is best,” which is how Khura’inians say, “I don’t care.”

They bring him a typical breakfast—rice with an egg, soup, fish, tea. It doesn’t taste much like anything when he forces small bites into his mouth. It’s difficult. He’s nauseous and thirsty. He shouldn’t be thirsty with the saline drip. Maybe he’s mistaking the damage he’s done to his body with thirst.

The doctors ask him questions that he doesn’t want to answer.

“Have you had thoughts of harming yourself or others?”

“No,” he lies.

“Hearing or seeing things that aren’t real?”

“No,” he lies.

He wonders if they can tell he’s lying. Apollo’s never been very good at hiding the truth, but it’s easy to pretend like there’s nothing wrong when all you have to do is lie.

He’s on the phone with Mr. Wright.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles into the receiver of a chunky landline.

“Apollo, you could have died.”

“But, I didn’t. It was an accident. I didn’t ask Nahyuta to—”

“No, Trucy did.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like how you’re taking all this so lightly.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he repeats. “It could have been worse.”

“That’s not the point. You’ve been struggling for a long time, and you said yourself you need help. I’ve talked to Nahyuta and Edgeworth, and they agree that you should come home as soon as possible so we can get things sorted out.”

The inside of his mind cries, (I can’t handle it! I can’t go home and deal with everything! It’s too much! Let me stay here so I don’t have to face myself!)

He holds back tears in real life, too. He hates to think how far this has gone, how he messed up so bad, and he hasn’t even messed up bad enough to warrant this reaction. He could have done so much worse, and this is what he gets in trouble for?

Pathetic.

(“Yes, what a pathetic boy you are.”)

(Please don’t.)

(“You’ve had worse things inside you and been fine.”)

He clenches his eyes shut and rubs them. The voices haven’t gone away since he made it to Narita. If it was anyone else’s voice, it would have been fine, but because it’s his, it pulls him out of reality just to try to get it to stop.

(But, I guess it never stops.)

“Apollo? Are you still there—?”

“Why can’t I stay here?”

“Because that’s—that’s not what we’ve agreed on. Nahyuta told me they don’t treat trauma and mental illness in the way you need in Khura’in because the cultures are so different,” he sounds like he’s getting exasperated. “And what about Klavier? You can’t—”

“Don’t bring him up. Please.”

Phoenix pauses.

“Did you two fight?”

“No, I—he—ugh…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Apollo…”

“I hate being around him when I’m like this. I feel terrible for being this way.”

“And, you don’t think he feels similarly about what he’s going through?”

He’s reminded of his phone call with Trucy in the airport.

“How do you know about that?”

“…We talked.”

Apparently, that’s all Phoenix is going to say. Apollo sighs.

“I mean, of course, he’s got his own issues, but I—I—I’m the one who’s bad, and I’m always the one to mess everything up, and I—”

“Even if any of that were true, I’m sure he misses you.”

Of course, he would miss him. It isn’t Klavier who is pulling away.

“If you get ahold of him, tell him I’m alright. But, nothing else.”

He can’t admit out loud that he’s much too ashamed of his behavior to let anyone know but the people who already do.

Phoenix sighs.

“You two should talk soon, but I won’t pressure you, okay?”

It sounds like pressure to him.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll call you back in a few hours with more information about flying home.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Talk to you soon, Apollo.”

“Bye.”

Klavier stares at the blank screen at the front of the boardroom. No presentations today. Why would they need one? He knows the drill.

“We would like you to start touring within the next month.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Men in suits. Men who don’t care about anything but money. Men who don’t care about him, considering he’s very fucked up right now, and they’re talking about shipping him off to who-knows-where. He’s been under their thumb for over a decade now.

“A world tour would be best, although, you would need to release more songs before then, considering the legal issues surrounding your previous band.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you listening?”

“Of course.” He forces a smile. He was not listening.

“You do know we’re asking you to perform for a year and a half at least?”

“Sure.”

They gather up papers, straighten out the stack by tapping it on the table.

“We’ll be in contact soon with the final contract. In the meantime, please try to put together a proper album.”

They grin at him because they know he’s money walking.

Klavier isn’t sure how he continues to walk, but he smiles back anyway.

“Natürlich.”

When he walks out of the boardroom, he turns his phone off silent and checks his messages.

Apollo still hasn’t contacted him. All he’s heard is a [He’s fine] from Trucy, but if he’s so fine, why is he being distant like this? Something tells him that Apollo is anything but fine, and that only makes him more worried.

He said he’d text him. He said he would. And, then, that call? How can he call and not say anything? What does that mean?

(A ring of his cellphone. An eerie silence on the other end. The sound of it clattering to the ground. The line going dead.)

He takes the flask out of the pocket in his jacket and takes a swig just to feel the comfort of the sting on his lips and the warmth in his chest.

Trucy also mentioned that her father and his partner are flying out to Khura’in to help him move back, but why? Apollo can’t accomplish the task by himself? He shuts his eyes and sighs heavily.

Considering the immensity of Apollo’s circumstances, Klavier feels selfish for blaming him. If he’d been treated the way he had been, maybe Klavier would also be acting the same way.

(Treated that way by the evil in his blood.)

He takes another drink before stuffing the flask back in his jacket and pressing the elevator’s down button.

How many lines and how many drinks? Doesn’t matter, don’t care, it’s not as important as you think—

“Ach, that doesn’t even rhyme.”

His head thunks against the desk.

More songs? He has a hundred, but they’re not right—they’re too forward—too honest—too Klavier and barely any klavier. He doesn’t even really feel lowercase anymore. He doesn’t feel like much of anything anymore.

But, anyway, how many lines and how many drinks?

Who cares? Who cares? Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. He has to keep going. He has to tour, he has to write more, he has to has to has to. There’s nothing else left of him.

Not even the best coke money can buy can keep him oriented right now. He keeps falling asleep every time his head thunks against the desk.

Gotta keep going, gotta keep going, gotta keep going.

Scheiß, if Apollo could see him now.

He won’t let him see it, though. He’ll fake it until he can’t anymore. He’ll get extra energy around him, he knows it.

It would be better if he didn’t see him at all, though. He doesn’t want anyone, let alone Apollo, to see him. But, he knows that he’s being dramatic. He wants to see Apollo so bad. He just doesn’t want him to see him blasted out of his mind.

“Ich bin so müde.”

How can he be so tired?

He wants it to stop. So, he goes to bed.

He can sleep on amphetamines. How funny. But, not a ‘haha’ funny.

Edgeworth volunteers his private jet, considering he had used it multiple times to go between Khura’in and Los Angeles back in the day.

Of course, Mr. Wright is coming, too, but—

“You don’t have to pack so light,” he says.

Apollo looks up at Phoenix and then down to his duffle bag. It’s about as packed as it was the first time.

“I only really need Calico.”

She meows unhappily from her cat carrier.

“None of your mementos?” He holds out pictures of dead parents—Thalassa, Jove, Dhurke with himself and Nahyuta.

Apollo shakes his head, unable to feign any other reaction at all. He’s sad, but even sadness is too much to express right now.

(“Psychotic symptoms can be positive or negative—hallucinations or catatonia and agitation.”)

“No.”

Edgeworth mentions quietly to Phoenix that they should pick up a litter box because he’s not taking one on his plane.

Apollo is standing and staring at his hands—one holding the lax strap of his duffle bag and the other holding his bracelet.

He can tell by both Wright and Edgeworth’s expression that they want to know why he took it off, but Apollo isn’t going to offer up the information voluntarily. He doesn’t really understand it himself.

“Are you ready, then?”

Apollo puts his bracelet on his wrist, and it is magically his size again.

“Yeah.”

Klavier opens the door to see Apollo, and he’s ready to give him a big smile and a hug, but then he sees his expression, and then he sees Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth and their expressions.

Apollo looks absolutely miserable, like he can’t be bothered to smile or even let the light of the apartment catch his eyes. He somehow looks worse than when he left, and he didn’t think that was possible.

He tries to make his voice soft and comforting when he says, “Hey, Herr Forehead.” He would usually accompany the greeting with a pat on the head or his cheek or his shoulder, but Klavier’s afraid of upsetting him.

“Hey.” There’s a meow from behind him, and Klavier tilts his head questioningly. “Oh…that’s Calico. You don’t mind having a cat around, do you?” His face falls slightly more, like he’s asking for something that will be an enormous burden.

“No, not at all.” The only reason he couldn’t keep Volgel was because he was touring so much at the time. And, yes, he has to eventually go on tour again, but if Apollo is here, that’s not an issue.

“Okay.”

Phoenix smiles, and Edgeworth puts a hand lightly on Apollo’s back to encourage him inside. He doesn’t flinch. Klavier can’t help but feel spooked and confused.

Regardless, he moves to the side and lets the three of them in. Edgeworth is carrying his duffle bag and a box, which he places down by the table. Apollo sits on the bed and stares into space.

“Hey, Klavier, can I borrow you for a sec?”

Klavier jumps. He turns to Phoenix, who is still wearing that smile. But, on further inspection, it’s not very earnest because his eyes are sad.

“Oh, ja.”

As Phoenix leads him around the corner, he peeks over his shoulder. Edgeworth is crouched in front of Apollo, talking to him so quietly that Klavier can’t hear what he’s saying.

“So—”

Phoenix’s face is grim, now.

“What’s going on?” He can’t help but sound anxious.

“Well, normally I’d let Apollo talk to you about it, but he asked me to, so…”

The last time Klavier felt this nervous was when Apollo tried to unzip his pants.

“…he took pills. He says it was an accident, but he had to go to the hospital. Well, maybe he didn’t have to, but Nahyuta found him unconscious, and he wouldn’t wake up.”

Oh, God.

The text messages. He’d said that to him.

[—took some medicine and it was too much—]

Why didn’t he press further? Why didn’t he ask how much he’d taken? He only said he was groggy—he acted like it wasn’t a big deal—he thought it was a normal too much, not a ‘too much’ too much.

“Allergy medication,” Klavier says before he can stop himself.

Phoenix looks taken aback.

“You knew?”

“No, I—when we were texting he said he took some on the plane, but I didn’t think—I didn’t think it was—”

His hand is large on his shoulder. It kind of hurts.

“You can’t blame yourself. In fact, telling Athena and Trucy that you were worried about him was what got Nahyuta in his apartment. You did all you could.”

It doesn’t feel like that. It feels so horrible to know that he could have potentially stopped him if he had asked the right questions.

“Anyway, I know you’ve been having your own troubles, but if you could possibly not do substances in front of him, I think that’d be for the best. They say that the first few months after an attempt is when you’re most likely to try again, and I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

Klavier’s heart felt like it was breaking apart in his chest. Did he take too much because of him? Because of his problem?

“Yeah.”

“Miles and I are making calls. We want to get him into some sort of treatment as soon as possible, but he’s been hesitant, which is understandable. Sorry for rambling. What I mean is, we don’t want him to be alone for long periods of time. If you have to go somewhere for longer than a few hours, let us know first, and someone will come over.”

Phoenix Wright truly is a compassionate man. He’s like the father—or the brother—he never had.

“Yeah.”

He thinks he should cry, but he’s in too much shock.

It’s then that Edgeworth comes over. He’s holding something in his hand that looks like a white paper bag that a prescription comes in, but it’s much smaller and labeled in handwriting with a language he doesn’t understand.

“I’m going to leave this with you two.”

“What is it?”

“The doctors said it’s something like a sedative, but it’s not abusable. It’s best brewed into tea. It’s for panic, I’m assuming. Apollo said that he’ll tell you when he needs some.”

“Ah, I see.”

Klavier looks around the corner. Apollo is on the floor playing with his cat, but he still is expressionless.

“I know this is a big burden to put on you right now, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay,” Wright frowns.

“Oh, that’s no problem. I said that he’s welcome to stay here any time he needs to.”

They both give him an appreciative smile.

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

“Right.”

And, with another few hushed words with Apollo, they leave.

Calico wanders over when Klavier appears from around the corner again. She sniffs him for a second before losing interest and jumping up on the bed, making herself comfortable. He turns his attention to Apollo.

“Hey.”

Apollo looks up from his place on the floor. His shoulders are hunched forward. He looks scared, so Klavier quickly joins him on the ground.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Are you alright?”

He shrugs. His miserable expression confirms he’s anything but.

“Can I give you a hug?”

Apollo nods. Klavier reaches out and pulls him into his arms. Apollo seems thinner than he remembers. He’s shivering, although he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or the fear.

“I missed you,” Apollo whispers.

“I missed you, too.”

Apollo takes a deep breath in and nuzzles against his chest.

“I’m sorry for all of…everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…I messed up again, and I was too embarrassed to say anything.” His fingers grip Klavier’s shirt. “That’s why I was ignoring you. I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” Klavier asks softly and in a tone that hopefully sounds comforting and nonjudgemental. Apollo looks as though he’s trying to hide in his embrace.

“Everything was too much, I…felt like I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want to be alone, but I…but I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, I promise. I hate being stuck with only my thoughts. It feels impossible to stand.”

Klavier rubs Apollo’s back, which he hopes is comforting.

“I know the feeling.”

He laughs a little, “Yeah, you smell like whiskey.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Apollo shakes his head and pulls away so he can look at him.

“It’s okay. We did show up unannounced. And, everything’s really hard, so I can’t blame you.”

Klavier feels his face fall. He’s just as guilty of escaping reality, except he has the art down to a science while Apollo doesn’t have the experience to know when to stop.

“I think I’m going to try not to drink for a while.”

“Because of me?”

“Yeah. It feels irresponsible, doesn’t it?”

Apollo tilts his head. “But, it—it was an accident. It wasn’t you.”

“Ach, I know. But, it doesn’t seem very fair for you to try to get better and for me not to.”

The sentiment makes Apollo tense up, fear entering his eyes.

“I’m really scared.” He leans forward again and Klavier gladly takes him back in his arms. “I know I can’t stay like this, but I…I’m scared of how it might feel to really remember everything again.”

“The point is that you’re in a safe place while you do. And, it can’t be any worse than it feels now, ja?”

Apollo makes a strangled noise and sniffs. It’s clear that he’s trying to act more put together than he actually is.

“I’m s-so mad at myself,” he sniffs again. “I can’t believe I messed up so bad.”

Klavier places a kiss on the crown of his head. “Don’t blame yourself, Schatz.”

“I don’t know how not to.” Tears silently run down his face and soak into Klavier’s shirt. “It really does all feel like my fault. All the bad things that happened…I shouldn’t have let them…happen…”

He starts to cry harder. It’s the saddest sound in the world. The weight of his sorrows can be heard in the way his sobs break. There’s nothing to say to help him, not now, not when he’s been stripped of all veneer, completely vulnerable.

Apollo lifts his head up, and his expression is heartbreaking, completely overwrought with despair. Still, even as he cries, he asks, “Klavier, can I kiss you?”

He can’t help but feel awed for some reason. He’s forced into silence until he can find his words again.

“…If you want to.”

“I do.”

“Okay.”

Apollo tilts his head up and their lips meet. He reaches up and places his hands on Klavier’s cheeks, pulling him closer.

Somehow, in this moment of sadness, a sweet, innocent type of need comes through in his kiss. It’s nothing like the fearful desperation of that one night. Klavier is sure that this truly is Apollo, the part of himself that he desperately tries to hide. But, too many layers of himself have been ripped away. There’s nothing left to cover the truth.

He wants and needs like everyone else, but it’s never safe enough for him to do so—except right at this moment when he has nothing else.

He pulls away and smiles at Klavier with his cheeks wet and his face red. Klavier clasps Apollo’s hand that still rests on his face.

“Thank you for sticking with me.”

“Of course.”

“It feels impossible that you would, considering everything and how much baggage I have and—”

“Hey, no talking like that. I will tell you over and over that I’ll wait for you.”

“I know. There’s so much telling me that you’ll leave, I…” He closes his eyes and drops his hand to his lap, but Klavier keeps ahold of it, giving it a squeeze. “I can’t handle someone else leaving.”

“I won’t leave if I can help it.”

He opens his eyes.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Apollo knew he would have trouble adjusting to how he feels about himself after accidentally overdosing, but he hadn’t expected he’d have to get used to Klavier sans drugs and alcohol.

The morning of the first day, he walks into the bathroom to see him disheveled—hair tossed up in a messy bun, big round glasses next to him on the floor. He’s kneeling in front of the toilet.

(It reminds him of when he was in that exact position.)

Apollo sounds panicked and worried because he is.

“Klavier, what’s wrong?”

Klavier looks up at him, and Apollo can’t help his surprise at seeing just how sick he looks. He’s pale and flushed at the same time, and he looks like he’s in pain.

He groans before spitting in the toilet.

“…Detox…” He wipes his sweaty forehead.

“From not drinking? But, it's barely been a day.”

Klavier looks at him and gives the smallest, saddest smile. Apollo instantly realizes that he’s being naïve again.

“It’s what happens. You can get sick very easily after stopping.”

(“50% of people experience symptoms of alcohol detoxification.”)

Apollo flinches at the sound of his voice. However, he can’t think about himself right now because Klavier is clearly in much more distress. He kneels beside him as he imagined Klavier did for him when he was having that panic attack, but since he doesn’t remember what really happened, he’s just guessing.

“Do you need me to do anything for you?”

He shakes his head. He looks miserable.

“There’s nothing that can be done.”

Apollo places a kind hand on his shoulder, and Klavier looks surprised, probably because Apollo touching him first is rare besides some hugs and some trauma responses.

“I can make you some of the tea I have. It makes you feel slow but not…drunk. It just tones you down.”

He takes in a breath like he’s just lost it.

“I’ll take anything at this point."

“Okay,” he smiles. Apollo’s mother hen is coming out. It always does when someone around him is hurting.

(I just want to help you instead of helping myself.)

He stands in front of the microwave, listening to the droning sound of it heating the water for their tea, eyes closed, mind still.

Neither Apollo or Klavier are panicking, but Apollo does prefer to be held just under the surface of feeling normal. The stuff doesn’t taste great, but it lulls his whole body without feeling like he’s strapped against the mattress.

But, having a moment of stillness is making him nervous. Thoughts start to creep into his mind, and he has to open his eyes and stare at the timer as it counts down—

(Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—)

The microwave dings. He pours the water over the strainer and whatever herbal concoction the doctors gave him. Apollo doesn’t know anything about Khura’inian medical science, but he does know that it tastes sort of like dirty leaves and mint. The warmth is nice, though. Like a bowl of soup when it’s cold outside.

But, as he presses the mug to his lips, he can’t tell if it’s blistering hot or freezing cold. He can’t taste dirty leaf tea. There’s nothing, just completely nothing. It’s then that he realizes that he feels like he’s not attached to his body.

He knows this feeling. It’s the feeling he gets when he stares too long in the mirror and his mind automatically asks—(Is this what I am now?)—and he’s back at the beginning all over again.

(No, no, no—stop going back there—stop it—)

Athena’s talked about being numb before. She said that’s why she self-harms, or used to, anyway. He remembers how she looked that one night—just completely beside herself with grief and shame. He gets it now. When there’s nothing else left to do, there’s always pain.

His eyes flick toward the knife rack, but they flick away just as fast because he can’t do that. Klavier needs him, and as much as his chest aches, it would be even worse if anyone found him out. Everyone would be disappointed in him, and he’d just get even worse.

(But, the idea is attractive. The only thing that hasn’t been done to him is being threatened with a knife. Threatened like Clay was—a stab in the heart—dead like everyone else.)

He shakes his head, and his mind goes blank again.

Apollo sets one of the mugs next to Klavier’s glasses and sits down on the floor with his own.

“…Thank you…” Klavier’s voice is just barely above a whisper. He takes it in his hands and tries a bit of it and makes a face. “Ach, that’s horrible.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Klavier hums as if to say, (I’m pretty sure it’s bad) but he doesn’t set it down. He dazedly looks past the steam rising from the mug. He really doesn’t look good.

“Is this why you haven’t quit before?”

“I haven’t tried.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Klavier continues.

“It’s been five years since I’ve gone a day completely sober.”

In his naïve innocence, Apollo can’t help but feel shocked. “That’s so long.”

“It could be worse,” he shrugs, taking another drink regardless of its taste. “I think all the circumstances are worse.”

Apollo flinches because Klavier doesn’t usually sound so flat, so downtrodden. He almost sounds annoyed, and Apollo can’t help but wonder if it’s his fault.

“I’m sorry.”

Klavier looks up and meets his eyes.

“For?”

“I-I don’t know. You just sound upset.”

“I’m sick, Herr Forehead.”

It sounds like another jab, and Apollo feels a low buzz of static start to creep into his head. Of course, he had to go around making everything about him. Stupid. Pathetic.

(“Yes, but that’s why you’re so wonderful, Apollo.”)

A wave of dizziness comes over him, and for a second, he feels like he can’t breathe, but the front of mind clears quickly.

A few words slip out of his mouth.

“I gotta…"

He drinks his tea down fast and gets up. He can’t be hearing voices around other people—especially not his, especially not in front of him. He walks over to the counter with the microwave above it and fills the glass measuring cup he found with more water. The effect of the tea doesn’t get more intense the more he drinks, but he needs something, anything right now.

He punches in three minutes and tries to forget himself. It doesn’t work very well.

(“Does it upset you that I find your weaknesses charming? I only mean it as a compliment.”)

He grips the edge of the counter. Why the voices, why? It’s not like it’s schizophrenia or anything because, otherwise, he’d be far more disoriented. So, why?

(“PTSD can present with visual and auditory hallucinations in some cases, as does bipolar. But, to be fair, I do like to poke fun from time to time.")

The microwave dings. He opens it and takes the water out.

(No. You’re not real. You’re just my fucked up brain. You can’t really be here.)

(“Oh? And, you know this for a fact, do you?”)

He pours the water into the cup.

(You’re dead.)

(“With arts such as spirit channeling existing, how do you know if a soul can or can’t exist in another body?”)

A pit opens in his stomach. It feels like a black hole sucking in all of his organs.

(That’s not…it doesn’t…that can’t…)

Apollo’s mind grinds to a halt as a crushing migraine sets in on him. It’s so painful, it makes him gasp.

(“I thought you liked pain?”)

“Leave me alone,” he says. “Please—just shut up—”

He presses the heels of his hands into his forehead and hisses. It feels like his brain is trying to force its way out of his skull. He whimpers against the agony, against the idea he’s trying to convince him of. It can’t be real/can’t be real/can’t be real/can’t be real/can’t be—

Suddenly, he’s flipped around and face-to-face with Klavier. His glasses are on. He looks very alarmed.

“Apollo—what’s wrong?!”

He blinks, and things come back into focus.

“Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?”

He looks down. The mug he was using is shattered on the ground. There’s hot tea all over the floor, and they’re both standing in it. Now that he sees it, he feels the water that’s soaked into his socks. Surprisingly, it’s not hot enough to actually feel painful.

Klavier shakes his shoulders gently as to not hurt him.

“Hey, look at me.”

He looks up.

“…Apollo…?”

He doesn’t even remember what had happened. There was just then and now. He shakes his head, mouth opening but nothing coming out, lost for words.

“Say something, Schatz…please.”

He sucks in a breath.

“…I…I don’t remember. I think I…” He rubs his eyes as if the answer will come to him if he can see better. “I must have blanked out.”

Klavier’s eyebrows pull together, and he does that thing where he looks at all the parts of Apollo’s face.

“I heard you say something. You sounded hurt. And, then the mug—”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

Klavier sighs.

“Maybe we should just go back to bed. We can get up later and hopefully both of us will feel better, and then we can clean all this up.”

“…Yeah…”

When he lays down next to Klavier, he nestles up against him, the sound of his heartbeat pressed against his ear. Klavier hums and puts an arm over him. Even Calico jumps up and makes herself comfortable.

The tea finally feels like it’s starting to work. It makes his head float. It feels good. He doesn’t have to think right now, just sleep.

They wake up in the evening, clean up the mess, and order a pizza. Klavier throws it up.

The second day, something is noticeably off.

Unlike the previous day, Klavier is still in bed. He has a big bundle of blankets cocooned around him. Apollo can only see the top of his head and some blonde hair sticking out.

He’s probably still sick. And, anyway, if he needs to rest, Apollo shouldn’t disturb him.

He gets up, makes that tea, eats a granola bar. Once the tea starts setting in, he usually goes back to bed, but as he’s slipping under the covers, he notices that Klavier is shaking. Like, almost tremor-like shaking.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning down, lifting a bit of the covers and placing a hand on the top of his head.

Even just through his hair, he can tell that he has a high fever.

“Oh, man. You’re burning up.”

Klavier sounds like he’s in pain when he says, “It’s cold.”

Apollo assumes he means that he needs the blanket to be put back down, so that’s what he does.

“Do you need anything?”

“No,” he moans.

It makes him feel awkward to do nothing when someone is in obvious distress. It’s in his nature to try to solve every problem because then no one can get mad at him, and he can prove that he’s useful so he won’t get mad at himself.

“I can get you Advil if you need? It might help the fever—”

He flips over. His eyes are glazed over and dim. He’s used to dark eyes but not from him.

“Apollo,” he snaps. “I said, I don’t need anything. Please. I’m trying to sleep.”

He flips back over and pulls the blankets back into their cocoon.

Apollo slips off the bed and sits on the floor, leaning against the base of the bed. He’s never felt unwelcome in Klavier’s apartment before, but he does at this moment. Shame pricks at his skin again. It’s becoming a daily occurrence now, although nothing is as bad as when he woke up in the hospital.

It’s just that everything feels like it’s falling into the same formula—someone showers him with praise and forgiveness only to rip it away when he lets his guard down. He knows it’s not Klavier’s fault because he’s ill, and Apollo knows he’s especially sensitive to people being harsh with him. Knowing doesn’t help matters, though. His logical brain knows that there’s nothing actually bad about the situation, knows that nothing bad is going to happen to him, but his chest screams that he’s in danger and that it’s his fault.

He pulls his legs up to his chest and sinks his nails into the bare skin, head placed against his knees.

(Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why do I always do this?)

He needs to cry so he slips into the bathroom and locks the door like he always does when he needs to freak out with disturbing people.

Instead of the hot water (because we all know how well that worked out last time), he turns the cold water on full blast, takes off his shorts and t-shirt, and sits in the shower like he used to do back then. But, back then, he didn’t panic in the steam, so it’s more empty than burning himself. It’s just cold.

Fortunately, when it’s cold, he can’t tell what are tears and what is the shower running down his face. He wraps his arms around his middle as if it will give him comfort—a hug from himself—but it’s the same the same the same alone alone alone.

It’s funny to him that people make memes about dissociating in the shower because it’s so true, probably because the repetitive sensation and temperature facilitates being numbed out, and then, time just slips away and it’s like being asleep while being awake.

Except, after some unknown amount of time, there’s a knock on the door. There’s no use keeping him out, so he gets out to unlock it and jumps back in the shower. He listens to the sounds of Klavier walking in, lifting up the toilet seat and gagging, but it’s a bit difficult to tell if he actually throws up when he’s shivering so hard that he can barely hear anything over the chattering of his teeth.

Unlike the last time, Klavier gives up after a few minutes and lumbers out the door, shutting it with too much force. The sound makes Apollo jump.

He lets himself slip away again, but Klavier comes back in and Apollo has to wonder how long he’s been in there.

Klavier has the same question.

“Schatz…?” His harsh tone from earlier is gone, but his voice is still hoarse. “How long have you been in there?”

Klavier doesn’t peak in for obvious reasons, but he hands him a towel through the shower curtain after Apollo shuts the water off. He wraps it around his waist and stepping out onto the bathroom mat. The air is so cold that Apollo wonders if he’s going to freeze to death.

Klavier must see this because he places another towel around his shoulders and wraps his arms around him.

“You’re so cold,” he whispers, putting his head on his shoulder.

“Y-You’re s-so hot.”

He looks up and into the mirror, and they both look horrible in their own respects. Klavier is bright red and sweaty, his hair mussed up from sleeping, and Apollo is pale as a ghost, shivering, hair and horns stuck all over his face.

“Heh, thanks.”

“N-Not like t-that.”

“I know.”

They stand like that for a while, but even with the warmth of Klavier’s fever, Apollo still is freezing.

“C-Can I get dressed? P-Please?”

“Oh. Ja.” He looks away. “I was just going to shower. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Sorry for taking so long. I get distracted in the shower.”

Klavier should be the one apologizing, but Apollo’s too lost in the past to stand up for himself.

Apollo clears his throat and continues, “I’ll just change out there.” He grabs his clothes and rushes out.

Everything feels wrong. Their dynamic is all over the place. He already felt unstable, but without the consistency of Klavier being his rock, he’s floundering. Even after he dresses, he doesn’t feel comfortable going back to bed, but he’s so cold that he gets in bed anyway and hopes that he passes out before Klavier gets back.

He does.

Apollo wakes up with hands on his shoulders.

It’s the third day.

It’s not the sudden contact that shakes him, it’s that he’s being pushed into the bed, immobilized, and that makes him feel like he’s about to be hurt.

When his eyes open, he yells and grabs the arms of who’s on top of him, but the hands double down, and he gasps because he doesn’t know how long he’ll have access to air and—

“Apollo—are they going to come for us?”

He blinks away tears, and when they clear, he sees Klavier. His hair is mussed up, his eyes are wide, and he looks totally out of his mind.

He sniffs, “What?”

To his credit, Klavier is totally terrified. More terrified than he’s ever seen him, and that’s saying something.

“I think that—die Toten können zurückkommen. Es passiert vielleicht.”

“Huh…? Klavier, I don’t—I don’t speak German.”

“Do the dead come back to life? I feel as though they might.”

Apollo stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Um…excuse me…?”

“Maybe I’m the one who’s evil. I can’t convince myself I’m not.”

“Klavier—what are—? You’re scaring me. Can you let go?”

“But, what if you leave?”

“I-I won’t—I’m not—please, just—just let go of me.”

Thankfully, he does, but when he climbs off him and the bed, he begins pacing around the room.

“I’m not sure what the difference is between the two, but I’m nervous that there is no difference—that I’m him and he’s me—but that doesn’t seem right. I feel like I can’t think. But, the idea of death being infinite doesn’t make sense to me.”

He sits up in bed and watches him. It’s almost like he’s forgotten Apollo is even in the room.

“Does it make sense to you?” Klavier asks earnestly. He doesn’t seem to realize that his speech is totally incoherent.

“No…nothing you’re saying makes any sense.”

“Hm.”

He’s not wearing his glasses. They’re on the bedside table. And, his high bun has slumped into a small lump of hair hanging near his shoulder. His eyes are wild. His cheeks are flushed. Maybe his fever is making him delirious?

But, then, he grasps at his chest and kneels to the ground, gasping in what Apollo can only assume is pain. He scrambles off the bed and crouches next to him. They’ve been spending a lot of time on the ground it seems like.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

He can only get out, “Hurts.”

Apollo puts the back of his hand on his forehead, and God, he’s so feverish. Burning up. It scares him more than his terrifying behavior.

“You’re still so sick. We should go to the hospital or at least a doctor.”

He shakes his head.

“No—they’ll take everything away, they’ll take you away…”

“It’s just the hospital, Klavier. I was in the hospital, too, and they didn’t hurt me.” He’s trying to sound calm, but it’s difficult when he’s acting like this. “If your chest hurts, it might be more serious than just a fever. I want you to be okay.”

He shakes his head again. The last of his bun is shaken out, and the hair tie falls to the floor.

“But, if they find out about everything, they’ll hurt me. And, they might hurt you, too.”

“No one’s going to hurt you, Klavier. Hospitals are for helping people, not hurting them.”

He gets the strangest look on his face, as if he’s seeing Apollo transform in front of his eyes. He starts to scoot himself away from him very slowly. He’s scared.

“I-I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie about something like this?”

“Because you want to take me away, too.”

“No, no way. I only want what’s best for you. Where would I even take you?” He can’t suppress a nervous, self-deprecating chuckle. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“B-But, I’m scared.”

He looks heartbreakingly sad. Apollo isn’t quite sure what he means.

“Scared of what?”

His eyes get very wide.

“Seeing the dead.”

Something about those words rips everything away. In an instant, he detaches from his body because—(There’s no way he’s hearing him, too, right?)—and the things that he has been trying to convince him of feel irrefutably true.

He needs to get ahold of himself because Klavier’s clearly going through something right now, but it’s so difficult when he now is also afraid of seeing the dead.

“What—what do you mean…?”

Klavier doesn’t seem to know himself. Apollo tells himself that he’s just babbling nonsense, but that doesn’t dull the fear that he hasn’t just been hearing voices—maybe it actually is…

“I don’t know…es ist schwer zu artikulieren.”

Apollo rubs his eyes in an attempt to focus.

“Klavier, please let me take you to the hospital—”

“No.” He stands, and he is impossibly tall. “I won’t let you.”

His voice is harsh and mean. It makes him jump as his own streak of fear hits him in the chest.

Klavier turns and stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. He gasps against the feeling, but it only makes his lungs burn. He tries to stand himself, but his vision blurs, and he can’t find the energy to fight against the feeling, so he plops back down.

Everything is too much. He can’t handle Klavier’s deterioration on top of his own. It’s all too much.

It’s then that he hears the sound of his phone notifying him of a text message. He secretly hopes it’s Mr. Wright so he can stop things from spiraling out of control. Fortunately, that hope alone gives him the energy to get over to the bedside table.

It’s not Mr. Wright.

[Tamary: hey kid, klavier hasn’t been answering his phone for a few days, what’s up?]

Oh. Tamary. Huh. He hadn’t really heard anything from her since the party, but he guesses that she talks to Klavier pretty frequently.

Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe she can help.

[Apollo: Tamary…it’s really bad, he’s so sick.]

He feels tears come to his eyes. They sting way worse than they normally do.

[Tamary: what????? how sick?]

He chokes in his effort to not start crying.

[Apollo: Fever, throwing up, he’s delirious and talking about things that don't make sense…]

[Apollo: Ever since he stopped drinking, he’s just been getting sicker]

[Apollo: I’ve been trying to get him to go to the hospital but he won’t go, he thinks I’m trying to kidnap him or something]

Her response is instantaneous.

[Tamary: HE WHAT]

[Tamary: WHEN DID HE DO THAT]

That’s—um—a strong reaction. She really is a lot, isn’t she?

[Apollo: uhhhh a few days ago, why?]

[Tamary: I’m going to kick that mans ass]

He stares at the last message in confusion.

[Apollo: What?]

She doesn’t respond to that message.

The helplessness sets in on him again. He looks toward the bathroom door. He’s got to at least try.

Apollo knocks.

“Klavier? Please come out. I won’t do anything.”

“Go away.” His words are muffled by the door.

“Please. You’re scaring me…” He hates how weak and small he sounds in the face of aggression. His old instincts to give up are creeping into the edge of his mind. His eyes are stinging again.

“You want to hurt me, too.”

He sniffs, trying to keep his composure but ultimately failing. He hangs his head and silently lets tears fall.

“I—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t…”

“I don’t trust you.”

He can’t handle such sentiments coming from one of the only tethers he has to this world. He does give up. He throws himself on the bed and shoves his face into the pillow.

As selfish as it is, he thinks, (It’s not fair, it just isn’t fair) because this always happens, something always goes wrong. He should never have let himself feel hope because it keeps getting crushed under the heels of pretty men’s shoes. It doesn’t feel like too much to ask to be treated well, but it’s clear that the universe thinks it is.

He feels delirious himself from the whiplash of emotion, and the ringing in his ears and buzzing in his head makes him almost unable to hear the sound of someone else knocking on a door. He peeks up from the fabric, but the sound isn’t coming from the direction of the bathroom.

It happens again. Louder this time.

Apollo doesn’t want to waste the energy getting over to the front door, but despite himself, a similar flicker of hope gets him on his feet. He desperately wants someone to help him. Someone. Anyone.

He opens the door to reveal a very annoyed-looking Tamary Crescend. He sniffs.

Unlike the night at the party, she’s not all glammed up. In fact, she’s very much dressed down, hair in a ponytail, jeans and a t-shirt, a light jacket, sunglasses that she whips off as soon as she sees him.

“Where is he?”

The question throws him off because of the speed in which it’s said.

“Huh?”

She glares.

“Where’s Klavier?”

He rubs at his cheek nervously, suddenly self-conscious about looking like he’s been sobbing for an unknown but potentially large chunk of time.

“Um…well, h-he’s locked himself in the bathroom, but—”

She barges in, pushing past him, making a bee-line for said bathroom. He stumbles in surprise but eventually steadies himself and peaks around the corner. Tamary knocks and loudly says, “Klavier, stop being a dumbass!”

“Go away…” he groans. It sounds like he’s in pain again.

“No. Get out here right now.”

“He’s going to take me away…I don’t want to…”

“Get—out—here—now!” She punctuates each word with a kick of the door.

There’s silence, but after a few seconds tick by, the lock clicks, and Klavier’s standing there looking whacked out. He’s sweaty and breathing hard and he shakes where he stands.

“What do you want?”

He’s angry. Klavier is never angry.

“Where do you get off hiding from me that you quit drinking all of a sudden? Do you know what that does to people?” She stabs her pointer finger into his chest. “This. DTs are dangerous. You’re going to the hospital.”

He grabs her finger and growls, “Don’t touch me.”

“I can take you in a fight, idiot. You’re a twig.” She looks him up and down. “And, delirious.”

It’s true. Tamary is taller than the both of them. Also, Klavier looks like he’s a few seconds from falling over.

He lets her go but continues to glare.

“I’m not going.”

“I’ll drag you kicking and screaming if I have to. I’m sure those candids will be cute.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let's go.”

When she yanks his arm, he stumbles and makes a horrible groaning noise.

“I’m going to throw up on you if you keep doing that.”

Tamary doesn’t respond. She tugs him harder this time. She’s had enough.

While forcing Klavier out the door, she hollers back, “I’ll keep you updated, Apollo. Sorry for the commotion!”

And, now, he’s alone. Like he’s always been and always will be.

His chest is tight like it always is before trial.

“I’m fine,” he mutters to himself. “I’m Apollo Justice, and I’m fine.”

The lobby is empty. He doesn’t know where his client is. He isn’t even really sure if he has an assistant this time. He’s having trouble remembering things. His shoulder hurts.

When he touches it, he realizes he’s wrapped in bandages. Instinctively, his fingers go to his right eye. Bandages cover it too.

(Is Clay dead?)

If that’s true he should be defending Juniper. Athena should be beside him.

There’s a sharp pain in his side. He grabs his stomach. Stitches. He really shouldn’t be out of bed, but he needs to help Juniper, and he has to know what happened to Clay.

“The trial will be starting soon,” says a Bailiff.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He opens his eyes. He’s in the courtroom, but something feels wrong, other than his head and side and shoulder hurting.

“The trial will begin for the murder of Clay Terran.”

It dawns on him that the reason things look weird is that he’s behind the witness stand. Then, who’s on the defense? He doesn’t want to look because he’s afraid of who he might see.

“You think I…?” It hurts to speak. He holds his side to keep his body from splitting open. “I wouldn’t hurt Clay. I…”

“Herr Justice—”

God, no, not him. Not on Clay’s case. Please.

“—you were the only one in the room when he died.”

“No…I don’t remember that…”

“There were signs of a struggle. Also, the murder weapon had not only the victim’s blood on it, but yours as well.”

“You mean—that’s why—”

He feels like he can’t catch his breath because every time he does, there’s another flash of pain.

“Klavier, you know that Justice was the first person to find the body. However, if he has no memory of the encounter, it’s possible there was another perpetrator.”

He doesn’t want to look at him. Either of them.

“There’s no evidence of a third person.”

“There is some circumstantial evidence.”

“Oh?”

“Justice.”

He feels his eyes on him. That icy stare. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Yes, sir?”

“Will you describe the injuries you incurred for the court?”

“I don’t—I don’t remember. My side hurts, but that’s all I know.”

Apollo hears the sound of his shoes clicking on the floor. His shoes. Getting closer to him. He looks up just in time for him to invade his personal space. He wants to scream, but he’s not sure he could even if he wasn’t in court.

Then, there are hands on him.

“What are you—”

“Since you can’t remember, we’ll have to perform a body check for injuries.”

Before he can protest, he places a hand on that side, which forces a strangled yelp out of him.

“That’s where you said you were injured, eh?”

“—Stop—”

“What about here?”

The hand moves up to his head where it’s placed gingerly. However, as he palms at his hair, he finds another injury—a gash that’s covered by the bandages around his head. He pushes two fingers against the breached flesh, and it hurts so bad that Apollo’s vision flashes white.

“That one’s tender, isn’t it?”

Then, his shoulder. He can feel now that he’s wearing a brace that holds his arm stable. What had happened to him?

“A dislocated shoulder.”

“My side—hurts.”

He looks down. Blood drips onto the floor.

“Oh my. It looks like you ripped your stitches.”

Even though it hurts, there’s something unreal about it. The blood is hot on his fingers, and he feels dizzy.

“Did Clay stab you there? Or was it someone else?”

He can’t breathe. It hurts too much to breathe.

“I—don’t—remember—”

“If you don’t tell the court, they’ll just say you fell from loss of blood,” he whispers to him. “I can try to prove that someone hit you over the head, but without your word, they can easily dismiss it.”

He’s tired. But, he forces out, “I didn’t—kill—Clay—”

“Oh?”

Suddenly, he’s pushed forward, and he collapses on the floor. It’s not a courtroom anymore. It’s a dark void with no clear source of light.

But, that doesn’t stop him from appearing.

“Is that true, Apollo?”

He looks up. It’s not him, it’s—

“—Clay—”

“You don’t remember. It could have been you.”

“No, no—I wouldn’t—I loved—”

Clay is beside him. He lifts his foot and steps on his injured side. His vision flashes white again, and he doesn’t hear it, but he can tell by how hard he screamed from how his throat hurts.

“Well, I never loved you.”

He laughs. It’s distinctively Clay’s.

“I hope you have fun dying alone.”

He gasps against the nonexistent floor. It’s all he can do as his vision finally starts to fade.

His laugh tumbles around in his head until he can’t hear it anymore—

Apollo gasps and shoots up in his bed, clutching his side. It takes several moments to realize that none of those events actually happened.

The pain radiating from his side is real, though.

He takes his hand away. There’s blood.

“What?”

He rushes to the bathroom, and in the mirror, he sees just how much blood his shirt has soaked up. It makes him start shivering. He slowly lifts up his shirt. There’s a cut between two ribs on his right side, and blood is smeared all over. Tugging the article of clothing off, he uses it to wipe the blood away.

It burns and aches, and he thinks to himself, (Did I do that?)

He keeps the shirt pressed to the wound as he creeps out of the bathroom and peaks into the kitchen. There’s a knife on the counter, blood on the floor.

“Oh, God—“

Apollo gasps and opens his eyes, shooting up to sitting.

He grabs his side. It doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s in Klavier’s apartment and not his in Khura’in.

And, he remembers that he’s alone. Again.

Calico is there, so he calls her, but she’s sleeping on a discarded shirt and can’t be bothered.

He feels cold. He shivers even though he still has a comforter covering his legs. He feels completely disoriented, a complete mess. Fear still pumps through his veins, and it’s difficult to tell what version of reality he’s in.

He knows that having Klavier act like that towards him is extremely triggering. It’s not his fault if he’s sick—well, it might be—but Apollo feels more on edge at this moment than he has since LAX.

Apollo lays back down and hikes the plush comforter up to his chin and ears and snuggles into the fabric. It smells like Klavier, but Klavier isn’t here.

He doesn’t want to keep thinking about it because he knows it’s not anyone’s fault, but he just wishes that he could rewind and make everything right again. Maybe even rewind all the way back before he went to law school so he would have a better life, and no one would ever get hurt because of him and his messed up brain, and he wouldn’t be constantly haunted by the past, afraid to defend himself against any transgression.

Anything would be better than this. He’s anxious and worried and filled up with dread. He’s paranoid and scared, and what if the dead can be brought back to life, and Kristoph is really living in his head?

(“Would that really be so bad?”)

It would be the worst fate imaginable.

(Can’t get away, can’t get away, can never get away, can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop—please, God, please—stop—)

He’s sobbing into his pillow again. It feels like that’s all he’s been doing. Sleeping, waking up, crying, nightmares, daydreams. Can’t get away, can’t stop, constant constant constant—

(Can’t take it can’t take it can’t take it)

He wishes again and again that things could be different. He wishes that he could pull himself out of his own misery—his own pity party—but everything feels so heavy on him. Just so heavy. It’s paralyzing. He wants everything to stop, but it never stops.

(“There are easy solutions to that, you know.”)

He shakes his head, hiccuping from the force of his tears.

(“The human body is so fragile. But, not as fragile as the mind. To think that it took so little to break you down into a sniveling child. Perhaps, that’s all you ever were.”)

He gets out of bed and stands there in a daze. Nothing about any of this feels real, but he knows it is. As much as he shakes his head, he doesn’t snap out of it.

(“It really is a shame that I never got the chance to completely destroy you. It would have been so much fun, but I guess, I’m making up for lost time now.”)

He claps his hands over his ears and shouts something incomprehensible.

(“Now, now, Apollo. No need to throw a tantrum. You’re a big, strong boy, now. You can take this into your own hands.”)

He feels like he’s separating from himself even further. There’s not much left of him anymore.

(“All I want to do is give you a little…push.”)

And, suddenly—finally—everything stops.

It plays like a film reel, pictures being played in a row, speed too fast to be still but too slow to be fluid.

One moment he’s on one side of the room and one moment he’s standing with the knife in his hand and it happens so fast he doesn’t even remember doing it and now there’s blood so much blood just getting everywhere running over his wrists as he stares at the wrong hand still holding the knife and the knife falls and clatters on the ground and Oh God—

His phone shakes in his hands and he’s got blood on it too but he has to call someone anyone because there’s so much blood it’s just everywhere but somehow he selects a contact and puts it on speaker and he doesn’t even know who he called or how he did that because his hands are numb and bloody and—

“This is the Wright Anything Agency, how may we help you today?”

“M-Mr. Wright…”

He’s too shocked to even cry, but his body is shaking so hard that his teeth chatter, and—

“Apollo? What’s wrong?”

“I—I messed up—I didn’t even mean to I—”

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

“Ye—Yeah, it’s really bad—”

“Where’s Klavier?”

“Not here—he went to the hospital yesterday, and—”

“Shit.”

There’s a bunch of clattering, and he can hear Phoenix shout in the background—“Someone call Edgeworth!”—and then there’s more clattering and he says to Apollo, “Do you think you can call 911?”

He looks down at his hands held out in front of him. His fingers twitch slightly, but he can barely feel anything but the pain of the wounds.

“M-My hands—it’s hard to move them—it hurts…”

“Okay, don’t worry about it, then. We’ll be right there.”

“There’s just…so much…”

He thought about bleeding all over the place so many times, but it isn’t anything like he thought it’d be. It’s so disorienting. Even if he could operate his hands, he isn’t sure if he could remember how to make a phone call.

“Just hang on, Apollo, okay? I’ll call you back on my cell, just hang on.”

He hangs up.

And, he’s alone. Dying. Just like he always wanted.

It doesn’t feel real. He feels like the pain is happening to someone else.

(“You’re dissociating because the reality of the situation is intolerable to you.”)

Is it? But, he hasn’t been shying away from it. The pain is bad, though. That might be what’s making his head feel weird.

Maybe it’s better to die, to get this voice out of his head, to finally be at peace. It just seems like such a waste to take his life because someone mistreated him. He almost wants to stay alive out of spite, but also, the emotional burden of every trauma, every death, every abandonment, every betrayal—it’s so much. How is he supposed to bear it?

His phone rings again, and it’s definitely Mr. Wright, but reaching out and accepting the call feels impossible. It plays the Guitar’s Serenade, and it fills him with even deeper shame.

He’s cold. He can’t tell if he’s shivering from the pain or the fear or the chill of the kitchen tiles. He really wishes he was wrapped up in a blanket right now, Klavier’s arms around him. But, Klavier tried to better himself for Apollo and ended up worse. And, then, Apollo snapped. If only he could be normal, maybe none of this would be happening, and he and Klavier would already be officially together and maybe even really serious, but no, he’s bleeding out on the floor without the energy or will to do anything about it.

(“Why don’t you just relax? Close your eyes and relax…”)

His eyelids do feel heavy. He’s trying very hard to keep them open, but every time he opens his eyes, the next moment later, they’re closed again. And, his head keeps drooping and snapping back up.

It’s bad that he’s tired, right? It means he’s bleeding too much too fast. But, there’s so little of himself that cares. He’d always thought that he’d regret hurting himself, but there’s a surprising relief now that the alarm bells in his head are calming down into a dull buzz. It’s not anxiety. It feels somewhere between good and bad. His brain must be doing weird things in response to his body being cut open.

He hears himself make a noise, a gasp intermingled with a moan, and he doesn’t know why he does that, but his eyelids flutter and he leans his head against the wall of the counter, and—

—“Oh, God.”

The next thing he hears is the sound of him being found out.

He feels like he can barely open his eyes, but he manages. Phoenix Wright is crouched in front of him. That’s all he can get before his head starts to lull forward again.

“Hey. Stay with me.”

“S—rry…”

The word feels too big for his mouth, which is why it slurs the way it does. Even so, he doesn’t have the strength to pick his head back up, but it doesn’t matter because he’s being hoisted up into strong arms, and for a second, he catches a glimpse of the state of the kitchen, and God, it looks worse than some crime scenes he’s seen.

It feels surprisingly good to be carried, surprisingly warm against someone’s chest. He’s really cold, but when he tries to say it out loud, it’s garbled by the ringing in his head and the heartbeat pounding in his chest and the inability to articulate sounds correctly. It kind of sounds like “colth.”

“Apollo—why would you—?”

It’s Phoenix’s voice, but it's distorted with intense emotion.

His words jingle around like a pocket full of change.

“Just wanted—to make it—stop…”

The rest of his memories dull into a buzz of static, clicking to a channel that has no signal.

There are no memories. There’s only hazy darkness until he wakes up.

It’s the second time he’s been put in the hospital, whether he realizes it or not.

Apollo feels similarly disoriented but also a bit delusional, like he can’t form words. It’s weird, but it also feels good. He can’t think and can’t feel pain, and that’s probably a good thing because he doesn’t want to remember why he’s here. Again.

He tries to sit up, but his vision warps, and a wave of nausea pulls him right back down. The bed is hard, and the room spins just enough to make him feel even sicker. Something’s definitely wrong with him. His mind is too slow, and his body is heavy, and he can’t feel much of anything, especially not…

(I don’t want to think about it.)

Someone walks into the room. Apollo isn’t sure he recognizes them.

“Oh, you’re awake already.”

His head rolls on the pillow, and he has to close his eyes because things feel overwhelming all of a sudden.

“Mmmnn…”

“Ah, yeah. It makes sense that you’d be a bit out of it.”

He opens his eyes again. For the most part, things are white and blurry. He feels fucked up.

“Where’s my bracelet?” he asks, holding up his left hand. His wrist is wrapped up in bandages. Well, so is the right one, but it doesn’t normally have jewelry on it.

“Don't know. You weren’t wearing it when we came over.”

Despite how hard he’s trying to think, he can’t remember taking it off for the life of him. But, also, that might be because he’s fucked up. Drugged. Like it felt The First Time.

“Did they…drug me…?”

The person sits in the chair on the side of the room. He looks at his phone quickly and then puts it away.

“They had to do some surgery. The injuries were…pretty bad, so I bet they have you on morphine or something.”

“Oh…I’m sorry…” he murmurs, although he’s not sure what he did or why he’s saying that.

“I know I always tell you this, but really, Apollo, you don’t need to apologize for everything.”

He has to be talking to Phoenix. He’s the only person who consistently has to tell him that things aren’t his fault. Something in his mind tells him that it still is, though.

The drugs must be strong because he starts babbling.

“He’s been in my head—that’s why I…ugh. I don’t want to think about it. It’s stupid. I should have been able to do something, but it was too hard—too hard, I—”

Phoenix frowns.

“You don’t need to defend yourself to me.”

“…But, it’s embarrassing…”

“You’re sick, Apollo. I hold some of the blame for not acting fast enough. And…” He pauses and sighs. “And, I should have interfered back when you worked with Gavin. It just never crossed my mind that he would—”

Apollo groans, a hand going to his face. “I don’t wanna…”

“Yeah, you’re right. We shouldn’t talk about this right now.”

He groans again. Nauseous. Like he might throw up. When was the last time he hadn’t felt nauseated? When was the last time either of them were healthy and normal?

“…Klavier…”

“He’s fine. Just asleep. They use medication so he won’t feel the withdrawal symptoms.”

He places his hand on his stomach, closing his eyes, trying to not give in to the sick feeling.

“Wish they would…put me to sleep…”

Phoenix makes a sad sound, but Apollo only means he wants to not be conscious.

“It’ll get better. Give it time. I know that’s easy for me to say, but there’s stuff they can do for you, like put you on medication and give you referrals. Trauma therapy has advanced so much in the last few decades. You might not get back to work for a while, but it won’t be forever.”

Most of what he’s saying goes over his head. He blinks at him, unable to form a coherent response.

“Sorry, you’re probably not in the headspace to hear about this, huh?”

“I’m tired.”

“I can imagine. Do you want me to leave so you can get some rest?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Okay. I’ll sit here with you.”

He closes his eyes, and it doesn’t matter if Phoenix stays or not because he falls into empty sleep soon after.

It’s much worse when he’s being weaned off the medication. The crushing shame comes back in full force, especially because, now, he can feel the throbbing ache of his torn open wrists.

It’s comical to him in a way. Apollo Justice is the stereotype of the depressed, suicidal teenager who slashed his arms open because he was sad. Boohoo. Grow up.

To be fair to himself, he hadn’t exactly been in his right mind, and it was an impulsive act rather than a conscious decision. It wasn’t like he wrote a note or anything. He didn’t even really know what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking about anything except (Make It Stop).

“You should yell at me.”

Phoenix looks heartbroken—sad and heartbroken.

“Why would I do that?”

He looks down at his bandaged wrists.

“I did this, and it was so stupid, and I feel so horrible about it. I—I don’t even—I-I feel like I need someone to yell at me.”

Wright and Edgeworth share a look.

“Apollo, I’m not going to yell at you.”

His instincts are telling him that he needs to be put in his place, kicked while he’s down, punished to the fullest extent. If he’d done something like this under Kristoph’s watch, he’d probably already be on his knees, pleading for the life that he doesn’t even particularly want anymore.

But, his current mentor is actually a good person, so he frowns and insists that none of this is his fault. Of course, it’s his fault. No one forced him to hurt himself.

He’s too tired to cry about it.

“I’ve talked to the doctors,” Phoenix says. “They’re going to transfer you to the psychiatric ward after you’re completely off the pain medication.”

“Joy,” he mutters to himself.

“I think it’ll be a more helpful environment for you. It’s a very good hospital.”

Is this supposed to make him feel better? It doesn’t. He feels ridiculous. He feels like a broken failure. He’s been trying to resist the urge to scratch his skin open again, and they’re over here talking about how great the mental ward is. It’s ridiculous.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“Well…” Phoenix looks over at Miles again, who is stoically uncomfortable. “The thing is, you don’t really have a choice. It’s a…”

“It’s an involuntary sanction,” Miles jumps in. “It means that, by the state of California, you are legally required to be hospitalized for at least three days.”

This information hits him like a ton of bricks. His face falls despite himself.

Seeing this, Phoenix adds, “It’s only to make sure you’re safe.”

So he can’t try again.

Apollo actively hates himself more than he has in his entire life. What a fucking idiot. He can’t help but wish Kristoph was there to be mean to him.

(“You want me to be mean? There’s no fun in it if you want me to do it.”)

(I guess that’s true.)

He lets his chin connect with his chest, defeated. Even his hallucinations have given up, which would be impressive if it wasn’t so sad.

They’re nice enough to bring him his duffle bag of clothes, which is immediately seized from him the second he’s transferred. They have to search all of his things to make sure he’s not sneaking in objects he could potentially harm himself or others with.

Considering he isn’t the one who packed it, the extra caution feels excessive.

He is informed that he will not be allowed to have his hair gel because it has alcohol in it, and he could potentially try to drink it, which is interesting and surprising since it had never crossed his mind. No shoelaces either because he could hang himself with them. He can get his shoes back laceless, though, if he wants. Apollo is fine with just the turquoise bootie-socks they give everyone. Relacing his shoes later would be a pain in the ass.

There must be some people that are really determined to off themselves out there. Apollo can’t be bothered now that he’s locked up. After all, he’s disappointed anyone who still cares about him. There’s not much else to do now.

A nurse weighs him, takes his blood pressure, takes his temperature, takes his medical history. There’s nothing about him that stands out except that he’s lost a little weight and that he may have, sort of, accidentally overdosed two weeks ago.

He catches a glimpse of the papers she’s writing on. He is classified as “high risk.” Whatever that means.

They lead him onto the unit afterward. It’s a giant room with couches and chairs and a TV. Right in the middle is a nurse’s station. There’s a room at the far end lined with windows, but all the doors are closed. It looks like they’re holding a class in there. People are milling about or reading or generally keeping themselves occupied. Most of them don’t even look up, but some glance at him for a second and then away. It’s probably common to see people come and go.

For some reason, no one explains what he’s supposed to do. After he’s been given a little caddy of supplies, a few towels, and the clothes from his bag, they tell him which room he’s been assigned, and he’s left alone. Again.

The room is alright. It’s like a hotel without the charm of it actually being a hotel and all the clinical aspects of a hospital room. He has a roommate, but he’s an older man who is still asleep even in the middle of the day, so he just creeps by him to get to his bed.

He should probably get dressed and ask someone what he’s supposed to do, but Apollo is already overwhelmed, so he pulls back the covers and buries himself in the scratchy sheets, and hopefully, he’ll forget he ever existed for long enough to get some sleep.

The fire alarm goes off.

Apollo shoots up in bed and shouts. His roommate does not. He slips out of bed and out the door like he’s a living ghost.

He remembers where he is, and the events of the past few days slam into him too hard.

He hates himself so much for winding up in this position. He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone, even if the people he’s being seen by are also in the psych ward. He sits there on the bed until a nurse comes and tells him to get moving. Or, whatever she is. It says PCA in big letters on her badge.

Slowly, he creeps into the main room and shuffles out the door to the outside. He feels very self-conscious because he’s still in a bright blue hospital robe with barely anything on underneath, and now he has to have so many eyes on him.

Los Angeles is always warm, even in the winter, so it’s not like it’s cold. Still, he sits on one of the benches and shivers. He’s beginning to realize that his shivering doesn’t have anything to do with the temperature. He must look miserable because a girl plops down next to him.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He finds this absolutely ridiculous. Of course, he’s not okay. He’s in the psychiatric hospital, for the Holy Mother’s sake.

“Yeah,” he squeaks out, but it doesn’t make him sound okay. The girl half-smiles awkwardly because Apollo is making this awkward.

“You’re new, right? So, you probably feel like shit, right?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“I promise it isn’t that bad.”

Her awkward smile turns into a real, reassuring smile, and Apollo wonders how she can have such a positive attitude in such bleak circumstances.

“Thanks.”

A guy who’s standing in front of them turns around and laughs.

“Are you bothering him, Alice?” He looks at Apollo. “Are you bothered?”

“No, no,” he waves his hands in front of his face. “She’s being nice. I’m the one who’s being weird.”

“No, you’re not,” Alice says, tilting her head. “You looked nervous, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t freaking out.”

How does this complete stranger have more compassion for him than almost anyone he’s ever had in his life?

He doesn’t know where the words come from when he says, “I’m just scared.” Thankfully, she’s not put off by the sentiment.

“Oh, totally. It’s scary the first time, but to tell you the truth, it’s mostly boring.”

Apollo wonders how many times she’s been here, but he’s not going to ask that out loud, even though something tells him that she would answer the question if he posed it.

“It’s like prison but people are nicer to you here,” the guy says. It sounds like he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s not helpful," she frowns.

He shrugs and turns his attention to the two nurses who are saying how this is a fire drill, and they’re all going back inside. Apollo and Alice stand from the bench. She clasps her hands behind her back. It strikes him as too polite a gesture for her personality. Nevertheless, she’s smiling brightly.

“If you need someone to talk to, Devin and I are around. We won’t bite.”

Devin shoots him a thumbs up from over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Apollo mutters, trying and failing to maintain eye contact.

“Don’t feel bad that you’re in here. It happens. I get that it feels like a big deal right now, but it’s not in the grand scheme of things.”

He wishes the sentiment made him feel better, but it doesn’t.

Regardless of the random kindness he’s been shown, once they all get inside, Apollo slips back into his new, uncomfortable bed and falls asleep again.

He’s woken up to be informed that it will be dinner in twenty minutes, and if he needs to get cleaned up or whatever, he should do it now.

Just as before, his roommate slips out of bed and floats out of the room. Apollo looks at his series of cubbies where his packed clothes, towels, and toiletry caddy have been stashed away. Now that he thinks about it, it’s been an obscene amount of time since he showered. The day before he was hospitalized. He sat in the shower for what seemed like fifteen minutes but was probably hours.

It’s one of those moments where it hits him. He’s really messed up. And not just in the ways he always thinks about. It’s like when he was in Khura’in, standing in the middle of his kitchen, realizing how hollow he’d made himself so he didn’t have to confront his past. But, now, he’s staring at his meager belongings in this dark pseudo-hotel-dorm-hospital room and realizing that he showers mostly to hide away from the world and his pain and not for hygienic purposes.

In fact, the thought of showering frightens him. He’s afraid of choking, drowning—hot steam, cold lake—Dhurke’s dead—no one to save him. Apollo hates to think about it, but he’s let his PTSD get so bad that he can’t even think about bathing without losing himself in memories and fear.

Instead of dwelling on it anymore, he picks out something comfier than the awkwardly oversized hospital robe. Gym shorts, a t-shirt, an oversized cardigan that isn’t his. It must be Klavier’s. It smells like him.

That little bit of comfort steels him enough to go collect his meal card (standard diet) and get in line with the others.

The food is predictably bland. It’s standard cafeteria food, some kind of casserole, a dinner roll, a little salad in a little bowl, a carton of milk, a cookie.

It reminds him of school. He feels unbearably lonely.

As he’s walking by and looking for somewhere to sit, Alice and Devin wave over to him. The fact that they’re so nice is off-putting, but he sits next to them anyway.

Apollo doesn’t engage in whatever they’re talking about. The table they’re at is basically full. Everyone seems to want to converse with each other. Apollo doesn’t. He stays silent. Instead, he watches how Alice opens packets and packets of hot sauce and dumps it on all of her food only to ignore it and pick at her salad with no dressing. Everyone carries on like they don’t notice or it's normal.

How sad.

The second day is fragmented—little bits and pieces of wakefulness between extreme fatigue.

He is one of the first people up because he’s informed that he will see the psychiatrist before breakfast, and apparently that requires him to be woken up at five-thirty in the morning.

The PCA notices that he shivers when he gets up.

“You can take your blanket with you if you want.”

“Thanks,” he says through chattering teeth.

“Y’know, normally people say the rooms are too hot, but I guess everyone’s different,” she says as he follows her out of the room. He doesn’t want to offer up the information that he shivers regardless of how hot or cold he is, so he nods in agreement instead.

There are a few people up already who are reading and keeping to themselves. They’re mostly older, but there is a girl sitting on one of the chairs, knees hiked up to her chest, staring into space. He’d heard in the cafeteria yesterday that she keeps having dramatic meltdowns because she wants attention. He can’t blame her. The only thing keeping him from throwing a tantrum is shame.

Apollo’s brought back to the conversation by the PCA’s loud voice. He thinks how it’s still quiet hours, and she should probably know to keep herself, y’know, quiet. It annoys him.

“So, there’s coffee and tea here, except it’s decaf because—well, you can get caffeinated coffee at breakfast. We don’t want people drinking it all day. And, here’s today’s schedule,” she hands him a brightly colored sheet that indicates the daily therapy sessions, the food breaks, the menu. “It’ll be here on this counter every morning, so make sure to pick one up each day.”

He nods, feeling increasingly despondent as she talks so animatedly so early.

“Anyway, you can have a seat and someone will be out to get you in a bit.”

So, he does. He picks a chair and wraps his blanket tighter over his shoulders.

The place smells weird. He can’t place it. It’s not a bad smell per se, and it’s not antiseptic like the regular hospital. It smells like boredom mixed with a nursing home. It feels like a different dimension. It’s a similar feeling to when he goes to parties, except at the complete opposite end of the spectrum. He’s been removed from his entire life and put in a place where time moves differently, where everything is dictated by laws and regulations, by pieces of paper—where the norm is being messed up. So strange.

Eventually, he begins to doze as he waits for the doctor to come to see him. It’s way too early for this.

“Apollo?”

The sound of his name shocks him awake and makes him whip around.

Standing slightly behind his chair is a doctor. She’s a middle-aged woman with straight blonde hair, the kind of blonde hair you dye yourself with bleach at 2 am. That sounds like it would look bad, but she somehow pulls it off. Her outfit is nondescript in comparison, which helps.

His hands grip the blanket.

“Yes?”

“I’m Nora Penephoren. I’m one of the psychiatrists on the unit.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You as well. Would you come with me? I want to ask you some questions.”

He stands. Normally, this is when someone would touch his shoulder or his back to be “inviting,” but she doesn’t, and it's relieving. It’s the first time he’s felt that way since he arrived.

They walk down to where there are various offices with names he doesn’t recognize. Nora’s office is the second to the last from the end of the hall. It’s a very small office. There are a few personal artifacts on her desk and the walls, but they’re so boring and nondescript that nothing about it looks authentic or personal.

He sits in a chair in front of her desk. His blanket feels like his only lifeline.

“So, Apollo, how have you been doing?”

She’s trying to be cordial, but he’s annoyed and tired.

“Not great.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a given.” She’s taking out folders and binders and sheets of paper. One of the sheets, she hands to him.

It's a diagnostic survey.

“I’d like you to fill these out for me, just so I can get an idea of how you’re struggling.”

It's one of those self-report forms that ask about symptoms. He’s done various quizzes on the internet to verify that he wasn’t just being stupid, but this is an official form made by the hospital’s psychiatry department.

“Mood Self-Assessment

Q1. In the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by feeling down, depressed, or hopeless?

• Not at all
• Several days
• More than half days
• Nearly every day”

Apollo isn’t really sure how to answer that. He never feels great, but “depressed” isn’t a word he would generally use to describe himself. He’s more of an anxious mess, but he has been crying a lot lately. Maybe he’s a little depressed. And, anyway, ‘hopeless’ is how he would describe his personality.

He marks, “several days.”

“Q2. How often have you had little interest or pleasure in doing things?”

That one’s easier. He hasn’t felt like doing anything but sleeping since he started remembering again.

He marks, “nearly every day.”

It asks about sleep (he sleeps way too much), energy (he’s always tired), appetite (he's been having a lot of trouble eating lately).

“Q6. How often have you been bothered by feeling bad about yourself, that you are a failure, or have let yourself or your family down?”

This question hits him squarely in the chest.

(Every aspect of his life and himself is a failure. He feels bad about himself because he deserves to. He’s broken, he’s bad, he’s disgusting. And, a family? Pfft. They’re all dead. He can’t even try to disappoint them because there isn't anyone left.)

He has to hold back the tears that prick at his eyes.

He marks, “nearly every day.”

It asks if he’s ever had a panic attack, which is a big “yes” from him. Basically all of the questions about anxiety, he has to mark “nearly every day.” Bothered by feeling anxious? Yes. Bothered by being unable to control his worrying? Yes. Bothered by being unable to relax? Yes. Bothered by becoming easily annoyed or irritable? Yes. Bothered by feeling afraid that something bad might happen? Constantly.

“Q18. If this questionnaire has highlighted any problems, how difficult have these problems made it for you to do your work, take care of things at home, or get along with other people?”

There’s no way to skirt around it now.

He marks, “extremely difficult.”

It’s only a piece of paper, and yet, he feels totally drained from checking eighteen boxes. He looks away when handing it back to the doctor. She looks it over for a moment or two, writes something on the bottom, and slips it in a binder marked with his name.

“I’d like to ask some more specific questions, if that’s alright.”

Apollo doesn’t have the strength to refuse.

“Okay.”

“Per the questionnaire, it sounds like you suffer most from anxious symptoms.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever been previously diagnosed with anything?”

“No.”

“Have you ever faced any kind of abuse?”

The only other time someone had asked that question to him, it had been Phoenix Wright. He’d said no, that he had no idea what he was talking about. But, five years later, he’s violently aware of how wrong he’d been.

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I ask what kind?”

Apollo laughs.

“All of them. My old boss was…not a good person.”

“I see.”

“I don’t remember a lot of it, and when I do, I completely freak out, which is, um—you know—why I’m here.” He laughs again. He’s very nervous.

Nora gives him a kind and sympathetic look.

“How long did it go on for?”

He squints as if it’s hard to see the answer.