Hot for Justice

The sensible thing to do would be to take a leave of absence. 

After prosecuting back-to-back trials sending his best friend and his only family member to prison on murder charges, Klavier didn't doubt that everyone from the chief prosecutor to Fräulein Detective would sympathize. Who would want to be back in the courthouse that had stolen away the two closest people in his life? The headaches and mild panic attacks, the sleepless nights and drowsy days—they could all be explained away by stress. Professional anxiety. Personal matters.

A leave of absence meant running away again, though, and Klavier wasn't prepared to open himself up to attacks from the media. He'd done it once before, seventeen and unconvinced of his own suspicions of faulty evidence. The interviews that aired following State v. Enigmar—everyone from Will Powers and Max Galactica to the local detectives and prosecutors—illustrated a career of earnest faith in clients and hard work to uncover the truth. Hardly a forger's legacy.

Klavier flew off to Europe to tour with his band and didn't return to the courts for seven long years. Teen magazines showered him with admiration and praise for his music, but more serious publications for more serious readers reported inability to handle the politics of the legal world. To be expected from someone so young, they published. "Prodigy" became an insult in Franklin New Gothic and Times.

Even if he did take a break, there was no Gavinners to return to. With Daryan gone, the band members agreed it was best to bring their multi-platinum career to a close. The musicians went their separate ways—most back to Europe where they'd first met—and laughed about the idea of doing a reunion show one day. 

If Klavier wanted music to soothe his soul, he'd have to play it himself. A solo career hardly seemed like the appropriate course of action when most of his thoughts revolved around stress from his primary trade. Still, for much of Klavier's life, his guitar was a source of comfort during difficult spells. A trusted friend, even. Music and lyrics could keep his smile from stiffening too much.

So no, there would be no retreating from the legal system this time, no further blows to his legitimacy as a prosecutor. He was an adult. He could play this game. Smile for the camera, no comment. Were there any signs, Mr. Gavin? No comment, no comment. How does it feel to be blood-related to a killer? Ah, fräuleins, don't weep to think that the Guilty as Charged Tour was the Gavinners' last. There will always be How do you sleep at night knowing that you ruined the career of an innocent young lawyer, Mr. Gavin? music.

If only that music would come to him, though. Sleep evaded him night after night, and so Klavier would sit in bed with blank sheet music and a pencil at the ready, fingers poised over his guitar, the loudness of its unplucked strings ringing in his ears. His best friend and bandmate, his brother, and now music. All had abandoned him.

In place of a leave of absence, Klavier took on smaller cases. Easy wins: robbers caught on security cameras, brawls that took place in front of dozens of witnesses, that sort of thing. Starting his career from the bottom, working his way up. Building credibility. Having some wins to his name, not just helping the defense find the true killer. Avoiding Herr Forehead and his impossibly complicated trials at all costs.

Their paths did cross one day in the courthouse, of course. Klavier was coming off of his seventh consecutive victory of the month—car thieves with fingerprints, tire prints, and their faces captured on camera when they stopped for gas—child's play. Herr Forehead was staggering out of the courtroom across the hall for a recess in his latest murder trial. Herr Wright's daughter bounced after him on one side, a nervous man—presumably his client—on the other.

"Prosecutor Gavin." Despite working in the same district, the courthouse meeting seemed to surprise Herr Forehead as much as it did Klavier. "It's been a while. How are you?"

With all that hair gelled straight up and off his face, it was no wonder he couldn't keep his expressions hidden. Klavier would be able to spot those crooked eyebrows knitting with concern from a mile away. He flashed his most dazzling smile, the one that made the fräuleins scream and reach towards the stage. Herr Forehead's lips only pressed together more tightly, his hands finding their way to his hips.

"Ach, Herr Forehead, you worry too much. You'll get wrinkles." Klavier reached out and tapped his forehead with one finger the way he'd seen his courtroom rival do dozens of times when thinking over evidence. Herr Forehead squawked. "You must not be keeping up with the papers, or you'd know that I've been racking up victories for the prosecutor's office."

"I know that," Herr Forehead snapped. Herr Wright's daughter and the twitchy client slipped into the lobby behind him. "Art thief, drug dealer, parents throwing punches on a playground. All criminals who deserved to be caught. No match for you."

The compliment wrapping up that statement would have been what most people focused on, and Klavier wasn't going to complain that Herr Forehead had an uncharacteristically kind word for his courtroom performance. What caught him off guard was the admission that he'd been following the cases. He didn't even have time to respond before Herr Forehead was talking again.

"I wasn't asking about your trials. I just haven't seen you around any of my crime scenes lately. You just go from being on every case to none of them, so I can't even ask if you're okay about—stuff."

Ah, there was that speak-before-thinking-through-statement nature Klavier missed in his trials. The defense attorneys he'd faced hardly had any spark, maybe because they knew how guilty their clients were. Herr Forehead would get so wrapped up in having something to say that ferocity sometimes usurped logic as the primary motivation of his words. Klavier didn't realize he was laughing until he caught sight of Herr Forehead's blazing eyes.

"If you have time in your busy schedule, you can visit my office. The door is always open to you," Klavier said. "I am doing well, Forehead, and I appreciate the concern. Our cases will overlap sooner or later."

"Sooner would be better. Without you, I have to defend against Winston Payne." When Herr Forehead's shoulders slumped, his antennae seemed to droop. "His screechy objections make me want to shoot my ears off."

"Ah, the sound of a shrill, rasping objection at top volume. Can't imagine what that's like."

The glare was worth it. Klavier laughed again, interrupted only when the bailiff came by to announce that the recess was over. Bidding farewell and good luck to Herr Forehead, Klavier searched his pocket for his keys. Another victory. Maybe he should treat himself to lunch. Maybe he should wait and take Herr Forehead and the fräulein with him. Klavier hummed to himself. Fighting with his old rival over who would pick up the check, despite one party not even being able to afford it, sounded like a fun way to spend his afternoon.

Klavier's hand froze on the handle to the defendant lobby where he planned to wait, where Herr Forehead would retreat once the trial came to a close. The tune he'd been humming—what was it? Not a Gavinners' song, that was for certain, but nothing Klavier could place from his vast collection of music. He hummed the last part over again to himself. No, they were just notes he'd strung together.

New music.

Lunch with Herr Forehead would have to wait. Klavier practically sprinted to the parking lot to jump on his hog and hurry home, humming the bars over and over to himself so he didn't forget before he had a pencil in hand and clean sheet music in front of him. There was a new hit song to be written.

By the time he made it home, Klavier had two verses and a chorus to get on paper. He nearly forgot to take off his helmet in his search for fresh sheet music.

Somewhere along the line, the hums had become syllables. Herr. Fore. Head. Herr Fo-o-orehead. Klavier sang the nickname to himself in time with the melody as he marked notes and chords on the blank staves. The distaste Klavier imagined on Herr Forehead's face if he were to hear the song in its current incarnation only gave him a bigger reason to smile. He finished his verses and chorus and sat down to start planning out words.

"Have to put Herr Forehead out of my mind for now," he mumbled to himself, numbering the pages of his latest song. "Have to start thinking lyrics."

He tried thinking up a good theme for the piece—in keeping with the Gavinners' tradition, perhaps something courtroom-related?—but, naturally, the Gavinners had already covered all the good subjects. A prosecutor falling for a dishonest witness? "Love with No Chance for Parole," more like. The importance of a relationship between police and prosecution? "Gonna Lock U Up," all the way. 

Klavier's hand trembled as it hovered over the sheet music, fingers tightening around his pencil. Maybe he should consider edging away from the Gavinners' theme of prosecutorial tunage. This was music for him, after all, to calm his nerves and get back to normal after the insanity of this past year. He took a deep breath. Lyrics. Lyrics.

The minute Herr Forehead's face flew from his thoughts, the music had disappeared.

If his inspiration was going to insist on fleeing, Klavier would just have to woo her back to his side. He hummed the notes he'd penned and closed his eyes, waiting to see what images the melody elicited. Nature, wind, the ocean, the beach—anything could be inspiration for the words to match this song.

Nothing.

A dull ache pulled at Klavier's chest, a familiar sensation. He'd felt that pull many nights sitting in bed with his sheet music, calling no notes from his imagination. Now that notes were before him, would words be the latest criminals slipping through his fingers?

Klavier shook his head. No more negativity. Less than an hour before, he'd felt better than he had in months, bumping into Herr Forehead and teasing him like he had when things were normal. Those crooked eyebrows flashed across his mind.

Baby, don't worry about me.

Herr Forehead wouldn't have taken much to being called "baby," but those words had crossed Klavier's mind when his rival-of-sorts first expressed concern for him. His pencil seemed to glide across the sheet music on its own, committing the words to the opening notes of the first verse. A perfect fit.

What else would he have said to Herr Forehead if he'd been able to get it all out before the recess was finished? He was all right, the worst was behind him. Dwelling on the past wouldn't change his present. It meant a lot that Herr Forehead was actually worried about his well-being. Klavier's pencil scratching out as many of his thoughts as it could keep up with. "Knowing I'm on your mind makes me feel..." He paused and allowed himself a chuckle. "Fine."

The last time lyrics had came to him this easily was when he'd composed "The Guitar's Serenade" with Lamiroir. Even then, the words felt different. Writing that piece, Klavier had focused on threading together the most beautiful images, words that Lamiroir's voice would breathe life into. This song felt more like writing a letter to Herr Forehead. The more words Klavier matched up to notes, the more vibrant the mental image of his dark eyes and ridiculous hair became.

Herr Forehead didn't care for the Gavinners' music; he'd made that perfectly clear on more that one occasion, and right to Klavier's face. His lack of excitement for "Guilty Love" had stung when he and Herr Wright's daughter had come backstage after the first set of that concert. How could something so fun to write and sing not bring joy into Herr Forehead's life? Who came out of a concert with such a furrowed brow, lips pressed together in such disapproval? 

It wasn't until the trial that Klavier got to see Herr Forehead's reaction to "The Guitar's Serenade." Once soon after that, Herr Forehead's cell phone had gone off in front of him, and though he was quick to silence it, Klavier had already recognized the beginning notes of his ringtone. The wound inflicted when Herr Forehead dismissed his band's music healed with ease once it became clear that he was not so closed off to everything that came out of Klavier's music career. In fact, his appreciation for the song that meant the most to Klavier in his time with the Gavinners validated him.

This song would be a spiritual successor to "The Guitar's Serenade," Klavier decided. Perhaps it lacked Lamiroir's genius, but the piece calmed him the way only music had from the time he was a child. It reminded him of that warm Borginian night spent writing feverishly in Lamiroir's dressing room; of the high school car rides with Daryan and the others when they brainstormed new ideas; of a decades-younger Kristoph singing lullabies and rubbing his back while lightening split the German sky outside his bedroom window and illuminated his teddy bears and toy guitars.

Herr Forehead would like it. He might balk at being the subject of a song, but surely the soothing tone Klavier had tried to capture and the lyrical tribute to Herr Forehead's compassion would win him over. With the last word in place, Klavier sat back to admire his handiwork. Time to test out the lyrics.

Within a few words, Klavier knew that this song was the real deal. No bubblegum teen magazine would gush over its dance-worthy beat and bypass the song's message to focus on the boy band aspect instead. 

He sang it through twice, then went to get his favorite acoustic guitar to try it again. The lyrics felt so right he didn't even need to read them off the page anymore. They rolled off his tongue like a long-awaited confession of love.

Ah. Klavier had to give pause as that thought crept into his mind. Maybe sentimental lyrics to a ballad hadn't been the best way to go to win over Herr Forehead's taste in music. At face value, the words were a tribute to friendship in a world of cameras and headlines that sunk their teeth into preexisting wounds. Put together with the deliberate strums of his guitar, though, listeners might miss that. Crooning I think you saved me from myself wasn't the most platonic appeal to Herr Forehead's better nature.

Klavier's enthusiasm sank. He'd have to rework some things, then...but the song sounded so good and so right just the way it was. He sighed and pulled out his pencil for one last addition: the title of this back-burner hit song of his.

Just before his worn-down pencil tip pressed against the top of the first page, his cell phone beeped. A text message? Klavier checked it—speak of the devil, Herr Forehead himself.

We won.

A simple statement that lessened the impact of his own victory by including Herr Wright and his daughter. Understated, not even an exclamation point for victory. It must have been a long case.

Klavier responded right away. As I knew you would, HF. We should celebrate.

Herr Forehead had either upgraded to a phone with a proper keyboard, or else had become a master at navigating the number pad until he reached the proper letter. His answer was immediate: Did you just abbreviate Herr Forehead?

It wasn't hard to imagine his voice arcing over that question, agitation and disbelief mingling in each syllable. Klavier laughed. Herr Forehead wasn't getting out of that invitation so easily. Dinner at 7? I know a place.

There was a longer gap between question and answer for this round. Klavier spun his pencil around between his fingers waiting for Herr Forehead's response. OK, but is it OK if we eat earlier? I haven't had lunch b/c of the trial.

We'll have a late lunch instead, then, Klavier texted. I'll pick you up now.

Seconds later, OK popped into Klavier's inbox. Leaving his guitar on the couch and grabbing his keys, Klavier scribbled "Lunch at Three-Thirty" at the top of his sheet music before heading downstairs towards the hog Herr Forehead would undoubtedly be thrilled to see come pulling up to the courthouse.

Klavier could see the crease of disapproval in Herr Forehead's brow from a block away as he pulled up to the courthouse. By the time he'd brought his hog to a complete stop in front of his courtroom rival, hands were on hips and everything.

"You know, I half-expected this." The usual level of exasperation hovered in Herr Forehead's words.

"Excellent. Then you are prepared for a thrilling ride, ja?" Klavier produced a passenger helmet, which Herr Forehead evaluated for a long time before accepting with distaste.

"I'm not sure if it's better or worse that there's no sidecar," he muttered, swinging a leg over the back of the motorcycle with more expertise than Klavier expected. While Herr Forehead adjusted the passenger helmet, Klavier asked him where his lovely assistant had gone. "She had a show tonight. She was disappointed that she couldn't come." Herr Forehead paused and leaned forward, his eyes clear even through the tinted visor. "Lucky for you, Mr. Motorcycle, or you'd have to go back and get your car."

"Lucky indeed," Klavier conceded with a smile. Satisfied that he'd made his point—something he'd clearly had success with today—Herr Forehead sat properly behind Klavier. There was a moment of hesitation, then Klavier felt Herr Forehead's arms latch around his waist like a vice.

"If I end up on a magazine cover as your 'Motorcycle Mystery Man,' you only have yourself to blame." The idea clearly bothered Herr Forehead more than it did Klavier; even muffled by the helmet, he could hear how the warning was delivered through gritted teeth.

As always, laughter came easily with Herr Forehead as his company. "I know a place nearby," Klavier told him. "You won't be hungry long."

They arrived in about ten minutes, and Klavier pulled his motorcycle into the narrow parking lot behind the building. Once they'd stopped, Herr Forehead whipped the helmet right off but stayed half-sitting on the back of the motorcycle, one of his legs outstretched, foot planted on the ground to steady himself.

"Do you switch back and forth between helmets?" he asked. Klavier said he didn't. "It smells like your hair spray."

"Are you sure that it's my hair spray, Herr Forehead? Your horns are looking quite fetching after that ride."

Herr Forehead got off the motorcycle at that, circling the back of it anxiously as Klavier swung his leg over. While he was gathering the helmets, Klavier noticed Herr Forehead glancing at his reflection in the back window of the car parked beside them, touching the tips of his hair spikes carefully. 

Klavier would have teased normally, but something in his companion's face stayed him. His eyebrows were pulled together in that funny, crooked way that Klavier had never seen anyone else's brows do—almost angry, but worried, too. His eyes seemed a little darker, narrower. Self-conscious, Klavier decided. He'd made Herr Forehead self-conscious.

The expression Herr Forehead made as he failed to fix his hair discreetly sparked a twinge of warmth in Klavier, and he pretended to be checking his bike meticulously before leaving it to give the other time to fix his hair and make himself look as if he weren't fixing it. Once Herr Forehead had straightened behind him, Klavier turned around.

"Are you a fan of Chinese?" he asked. The facial reaction he received—eyebrows shooting up, lips pressed together—made it hard not to chuckle. Was that offense Klavier spied? Did Herr Forehead assume he was escorting him to a cheap takeout spot?

Herr Forehead looked over his shoulder at the back of the tall brick building. It looked more like downtown apartments than a restaurant, and not luxury apartments at that; unless Herr Forehead had been here before, Klavier was surprised at the lack of reaction.

"I like Chinese," he answered finally, hands drifting to his hips again. Were all of Herr Forehead's default poses so judgemental? Klavier was fond of the one-hand-in-his-pocket look, or its close relative, the thumb-hooked-through-his-belt-loop look. Both left a hand free to snap or run through his hair. With Herr Forehead, it was crossed arms, clenched fists, and hands on hips, even outside the courtroom.

"It's a hole in the wall," Klavier said, leading the way around to the front, "but the best Chinese in L.A., as far as I'm concerned. In my line of work, you get to know these nooks and crannies when you want to eat in peace."

"So you eat at nicer places when you want to be seen?" Herr Forehead asked. Klavier held the front door open but frowned at the comment.

"I said it is a hole in the wall, Herr Forehead, not that it isn't a nice restaurant."

Herr Forehead flinched. "Ah, no, I didn't mean it like that! I, uh..."

Of course he didn't. Klavier knew that. He knew that the man he'd stood across from in court had no filter; Herr Forehead had caught criminals with that thoughtless bluntness.

So he smiled. "I'm teasing, Herr Forehead. Go on in."

Herr Forehead gave him a funny look and rubbed his wrist, just below the gaudy bracelet he liked to blind the court with.

The hostess greeted Klavier by name and asked if he were early or late. "Lots of tables are open now," she said, as if he had chosen the best time to arrive regardless. They followed her to a table in the back of the restaurant, where she left them with menus and glasses of water.

"You're a regular here?" Herr Forehead asked, laying his menu flat on the table and propping his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, to look over it. Finally, Klavier thought to himself: casual body language. Even if it was a little rigid.

"I told you, best Chinese in L.A. You have to try the dumplings. I mean, you have to use utensils or it just ends up everywhere, but—" Herr Forehead hadn't moved, not even to tilt his head up, but his eyes shot from the menu to Klavier's face. "What?"

Herr Forehead put very little effort into trying to hide the smile tugging his mouth out of its usual serious line. "You sure are excited about these dumplings. Did you learn the hard way to use utensils when you eat?"

Was that a sense of humor? Klavier was so dumbfounded by the discovery that Herr Forehead had one of those that he almost answered a beat too late. "I ruined my favorite shirt the first time I came here. Bean paste all the way down the front."

The honesty clearly caught his company off guard. Herr Forehead's laugh was more like a bark than a joyful sound, all teeth and shaking shoulders. Once he'd composed himself and returned his attention to his menu, though, his arms seemed much less angular, his posture a bit more slouched.

Klavier ordered dumplings as an appetizer when their waiter came by. When they were alone again, he looked to see if his companion had finished scouring the menu and found him mouthing the names of noodle dishes.

"...What's even in that?" The question was clearly to himself, but Klavier answered anyway.

"What's in what? Can I help you find something?" He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, reading Herr Forehead's menu upside-down.

"Where's the sweet and sour chicken?" Herr Forehead asked, annoyance creeping into his voice. Klavier pressed his lips together to keep himself from smiling, and Herr Forehead shot him a look. Klavier had forgotten how perceptive to twitches he could be.

"Ah, so that's the kind of Chinese you like. They have a few dishes like that in the back." Klavier flipped the menu over to show him. "I'd recommend the stuff in the middle, though. Very authentic."

"'American Chinese'?" Herr Forehead read off the back of the menu. Even his hair spikes seemed to bristle. "Wow, way to make first-timers feel welcome."

Their waiter returned with the dumplings and took their dinner order. With no more menu to focus on, Herr Forehead took to sipping his water and not initiating conversation. Not that Klavier couldn't handle that.

"So, how did the trial finish up?"

Herr Forehead started slowly, Klavier pulling details from him like a dentist extracts teeth. He'd explain details of the crime as simply as possible, then talk about the evidence he presented to disprove the prosecution's case—but without the excitement a murder trial retelling warranted. It was as if Herr Forehead had never bragged about his accomplishments before. Klavier had seen enough of his swagger at the height of a case in the defense's favor to know that couldn't be true.

In the meantime, the dumplings cooled. They split them, a smile finally appearing on Herr Forehead's lips as Klavier cut into his with care. A few bites in, Herr Forehead broke the new silence to say, "I've never had dumplings this sweet before."

Between the two of them, the plate was empty in only a few minutes. Herr Forehead seemed more embarrassed about this than Klavier, and the more-or-less comfortable silence threatened to stretch into awkwardness as they waited for their food.

So Klavier egged him on, asking about a witness whose testimony had been beyond ridiculous and evidence that was absurd even in context. It was like hearing about one of their own trials, a classic Herr Forehead case that Klavier had gone out of his way to avoid. Klavier hoped that their courtroom duels had been more interesting for Herr Forehead, though; even talking about this trial seemed to tire him out.

"I hate defending against Payne," Herr Forehead finally said, the first outright complaint of his retelling. "He's the worst. He treats me like a little kid, even though he's never beaten me. Always telling me how I'll understand when I'm older. And he's not—" Herr Forehead cut himself off, but not quickly enough.

"He's not what?" Klavier prompted.

Herr Forehead hesitated. "A challenge. He's not...a challenge. Going up against him always feels like a tutorial on how to cross-examine and present evidence."

That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. It looked suspiciously like a compliment, too, the way Herr Forehead was staring at him. 

Herr Forehead had told him earlier that day that he'd like to face off in court again soon. Subtlety clearly wasn't one of Herr Forehead's virtues, and yet Klavier felt his shoulders straightening, flattery bubbling inside him. Herr Forehead missed him—and, despite not always enjoying the insanity of the cases he brought with him, Klavier would be lying if he said he didn't miss Herr Forehead, too.

He was about to say as much, be as cheeky as possible, see if he couldn't get a blush out of his company, when Herr Forehead's eyes drifted from his face and fixed on something behind him. The expression that overtook his face then usually accompanied the hands-on-hips pose.

"Is that a picture of you?" he asked. Klavier looked over his shoulder. By the register, a lone framed glossy of Klavier, signed in his trademark edgy script, hung on the wall.

"Yes," he said, turning back to Herr Forehead's default state of contempt. "I come here often enough that I thought I might gift the restaurant owners with an autographed photo. Many establishments have them to showcase celebrity guests."

If Herr Forehead rolled his eyes any harder, he was going to injure himself. "Are you even a real person?" he asked.

Their dinners arrived, and Klavier couldn't help inhaling deeply, taking in the aroma of veggies, chicken, and noodles, seasoned and ladled with authentic sauces. Looking across the table, he saw his company taking an equally appreciative breath.

A comfortable and delicious silence overtook their table, disrupted only by the sounds of Klavier's chopsticks and Herr Forehead's fork and knife against the plates. Klavier could tell from the little hums of approval and the way he scraped as much sauce in with his veggies and rice that Herr Forehead was enjoying his lunch.

"Well," Klavier said, "even if you aren't in the best of prosecutorial company, congratulations on your victory."

Herr Forehead struggled to swallow quickly to respond. "Thanks. Congratulations to you on your trial, too."

"Not as exciting. Open-and-shut case." Klavier waved his hand with dismissal. "Yours was a much more elaborate case. If anyone else were defending, I would've said it was an easy win for the prosecutor."

"Yeah, right." His voice gave away that he was pleased with the compliment. "If the client's innocent, the client's innocent. You just have to find the proof. Evidence is everything."

The second the phrase was out of his mouth, Herr Forehead froze, his full fork hovering between his plate and his lips. Unconsciously, Klavier's chopsticks had paused against his plate, the faint click of wood against porcelain echoing only to their table.

It went without saying that they both knew the origin of that mantra. Klavier had heard his brother say it from the time he was a child, and his brother had gone on to mentor Herr Forehead as a defense attorney. The two of them, sitting at this table right now, had put him behind bars in their last trial together.

"True," Klavier said finally, his chopsticks reaching for broccoli. Herr Forehead speared chicken drizzled with sweet-and-sour sauce on his fork. The silence resumed.

"It's not bad advice or anything," Herr Forehead said. Klavier chewed more slowly, listening. "I mean, I go back to it all the time when I'm in court. It's the truth. If you don't have evidence, you can't make a case. Everything you say has to be backed up by the facts. That's important. I..." Klavier smiled, but Herr Forehead wasn't looking at him. "He wasn't a bad teacher."

The childish statement touched Klavier the way past offerings of sympathy had not. The image of Herr Forehead staring at his plate and pushing his vegetables around with his fork blurred, and Klavier had to reach out for his water to gulp back his composure.

When he replaced the glass, Herr Forehead was looking at him.

"He wasn't a bad brother, either," Klavier said, something he couldn't tell most people. It was a truth that didn't align with what they knew to be fact. All of the evidence was in Klavier's memories, and his testimony would be inadmissible in court, judgment clouded by nostalgia and sentiment.

The silence turned thoughtful, and it occurred to Klavier that this was the first time he and Herr Forehead were really talking about that case. It didn't seem at all the time or place.

"How is it?" he asked, gesturing to Herr Forehead's nearly empty lunch plate. To make the question less generic he added, "Your American Chinese food?"

The affectionate taunt hit its mark. "It's delicious," Herr Forehead yelled, so busy countering the tease that he forgot to form a proper comeback.

Klavier really did miss him.

Once the plates had been cleared away, Herr Forehead asked about takeout options.

"We've only just eaten, and you're looking for another dinner?" Klavier asked, resisting the urge to pat his stomach, full and happy with dumplings and stir-fry.

"I thought I'd bring something back for Trucy," he said. "And Mr. Wright, I guess." Klavier grinned at the audible drop in enthusiasm.

"Spoiling Herr Wright is less fun than spoiling the fräulein. I understand, Herr Forehead, believe me."

Herr Forehead rolled his eyes and ordered two takeout dinners. The waiter left and returned momentarily with fortune cookies and the bill, saying the takeout would be ready in a few minutes.

Herr Forehead snapped open his cookie and smoothed out the slip of paper inside, reading his fortune. "'You never know who you're inspiring.' It should be 'whom,'" he corrected, his voice grumpy. 

Klavier stared at him and was grateful for Herr Forehead's distracted attention. Usually his fortunes were silly, but count on Herr Forehead to get one genuinely prophetic.

"What's yours?" Herr Forehead asked, popping a piece of cookie into his mouth and reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Klavier snatched the bill away with one hand and cracked open his cookie with the other. Herr Forehead protested, but Klavier read his fortune over the insistance that they split the bill.

"'Love can be found in the most unexpected places,'" Klavier read. He frowned. After Herr Forehead's omniscient cookie, he'd been hoping for a scary-accurate fortune of his own. With a sigh, he pulled out his own wallet and flagged down the waiter returning with Herr Forehead's takeout.

The battle that followed wasn't as fun as Klavier had imagined, what with Herr Forehead disrupting the whole restaurant and trying to throw his bank card at Klavier. In the end, though, Klavier managed to be victorious and pay for all four dinners. Herr Forehead grabbed the takeout bag venomously and stalked out of the restaurant without waiting for Klavier to get his receipt.

If Klavier thought Herr Forehead would be waiting for him at the motorcycle, he was wrong; by the time he got his receipt and left the restaurant, he could see his company's bright red slacks a few blocks down striding back towards the courthouse. He was a power walker. Of course. No other gait would suit him.

Klavier hurried to get on his hog and catch up, pulling over a little ahead of where Herr Forehead was walking.

"I can give you a ride, you know," Klavier said. Herr Forehead glared at him.

"I can't balance the takeout bag and hold onto you at the same time. I'll walk."

"I told you I'd treat you—"

"You said we'd eat, not that you were paying for me!" Herr Forehead finally stopped walking and whirled on Klavier. "I'm not poor, Prosecutor Gavin. I can buy my own dinner."

'Prosecutor Gavin' stung more than it should have. Herr Forehead didn't usually call him by any name outside of court, but Klavier had been hoping for something a little less formal.

Beyond that, he hadn't realized how his paying for lunch might have come across. Herr Forehead had brought music back into his life. Klavier had only thought of repaying the unknown favor, not of offending his company somehow.

"I didn't mean it that way," he said, doing his best to keep the guilt out of his voice. "It's been a while since I've seen you, and today has been one good thing after another. I wanted to treat you." 

Herr Forehead shifted the bag from one arm to the other. Yelling and getting the anger out seemed to calm him down. "It's not that I don't appreciate it," he said slowly. "I just..."

He fidgeted again, and Klavier could see that, as per usual, Herr Forehead had not thought too far past his emotional outburst.

"I've safely transported takeout back to my place before on this," Klavier said, tapping the grips on his handlebars with the palms of his hands. "I think I can get you over to Herr Wright's in one piece."

The Wright office was miles from here, Klavier knew, and it was getting darker and colder. When Herr Forehead relented, Klavier didn't say anything, just smiled and handed over the helmet. They were at their destination in minutes, but when Herr Forehead jumped off the back of the motorcycle, the circle around Klavier's waist where his arms had been felt cold.

"Thank you," Herr Forehead said, taking off the helmet. He pulled it off more slowly than he had when the arrived at the restaurant, and Klavier saw him trying to fix his hair and make it look like he was just removing the helmet. Klavier didn't press it.

"My pleasure. Thank you for joining me."

"So, what was the other good thing?" Herr Forehead handed Klavier the passenger helmet, and Klavier exchanged it for the takeout bag. Klavier's confusion must have been evident on his face, because he elaborated. "You said today was one good thing after another. You won a trial, I won a trial...but the way you phrased it made it sound like there was something else."

Herr Forehead's perception was working overtime today, it seemed. Klavier would have to make himself a little note on his phone: Herr Forehead notices things. As if he hadn't seen it enough times in court.

"I...wrote a song," Klavier said. Herr Forehead raised his eyebrows. "It's been a long time since I wrote. This morning, I did."

"Another chart-topper?" Herr Forehead's tone wouldn't let Klavier forget that he wasn't the biggest fan of the Gavinners. "Are you guys getting back together?"

He was more delicate about this topic. Klavier didn't feel the need to dwell on it, though. "No, this is solo material. I don't even know if it's something I'd put on the radio. It's just for me. Something different, nothing like what I wrote for the Gavinners."

"Then it should be great," Herr Forehead said.

Klavier hummed "Lunch at Three-Thirty" the whole ride home.

Afternoon lunches became routine. Though none of their trials coincided--Klavier would have to start requesting more outlandish murder cases to improve his odds--he and Herr Forehead always seemed to be at the courthouse at the same time. With victory after victory on each side, justifying celebratory lunches wasn't hard. Klavier took Herr Forehead to all his favorite restaurants--at least, the ones with "American" options on the menu. While Herr Forehead ordered fish tacos, spaghetti with marinara sauce, and pad thai, Klavier urged him to try bites of his pozole, eggplant parmigiana, and squid pad ki mao.

"Your taste in food is so...diverse," Herr Forehead said, batting away Klavier's fork as he offered him a piece of squid. The comment was so Herr Forehead, its delivery somehow both awed and condescending, that Klavier burst into laughter and accidentally dropped the squid in Herr Forehead's Coke.

They always split the bill, and Klavier was proud to say that Herr Forehead wasn't the only perceptive one. The little crinkle between his brows and the way he mouthed the numbers he read off the receipt didn't go unnoticed. Herr Forehead had said he wasn't poor, but Klavier knew he wasn't rich enough to eat out so often, either.

"Herr Forehead," he said, adjusting his helmet in the parking lot of his favorite Cajun spot. "I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?" The familiar warmth of Herr Forehead's arms wrapped around Klavier's waist as he started up his hog.

"I've been taking you to low-key spots, but people still notice when a celebrity goes out all the time. Maybe we could have lunch every two or three weeks instead? Make it a monthly thing?"

The relief in Herr Forehead's voice was palpable when he sighed, "Sure. Yeah, no problem."

"Besides," Klavier added with a grin, "it will make these dates more special, ja?"

Herr Forehead flushed darker than his favorite trial suit and told Klavier he could eat by himself in Hell.

It had been a longer day in court than usual, and a longer lunch, too. Klavier had talked about the sights he'd seen while touring in Europe all those years. Herr Forehead had been entranced, listening to him describe the Globe Theater and the Louvre.

"I'm jealous," he admitted, his chin propped up in his hands, his jambalaya going cold and unnoticed in front of him. "You've gotten to see such amazing things."

"You'd like to travel someday?" Klavier knew he hadn't yet and spared him the question of whether he'd gone anywhere.

"Maybe someday."

Klavier had long since grown used to Herr Forehead's triumphant smirks, but the thoughtful almost-smile that whispered across his lips as he said this was entirely new.

Now here Klavier was on his hog, realizing belatedly that it was past office hours, getting into dinnertime, and he wasn't sure where to take Herr Forehead. He pulled over by People Park and flipped up his visor has he looked over his shoulder. Herr Forehead blinked at him through his own visor.

"Ach, Herr Forehead, I didn't even ask where you were going," Klavier said. If the reaction were any indication, it hadn't occurred to Herr Forehead either.

"Oh! I, um..." He struggled with his visor until Klavier helped him flip it up.

"Your place?" Klavier asked. Herr Forehead's eyes widened.

"No! Uh...no." A look Klavier had managed to avoid the past few weeks crossed Herr Forehead's face then: embarrassment. Klavier wondered what apartment in Los Angeles Herr Forehead could afford on his own. He wouldn't push it, of course, especially with his company so distraught.

"My place?" he purred, waggling his eyebrows. It was an easy opening, and Herr Forehead took it without even realizing it, smacking Klavier's arm and glaring at the chuckle it inspired.

"No!" he said again, this time in his usual aggressive shout. Klavier turned away for a moment to hide his smile. Huffing, Herr Forehead added, "Here is actually fine. I have to go to my other job anyway."

Another job was news to Klavier. "Oh? Are you in a band, too, Herr Forehead?"

"Har, har, you're hilarious." Herr Forehead was already removing his helmet, the move quick and practiced. His hair remained unscathed. "No, I work in town. I don't get enough trials to be a full-time lawyer yet, since I've only been working for a little while."

Something coiled in Klavier's chest. He wanted to point out that it had been almost a year since Herr Forehead passed the bar and that he was the only attorney in his office. The need to compliment Herr Forehead, to tell him that he was a good lawyer, burned in his throat.

That flash of embarrassment just moments before stayed him. "Where do you work? What do you do?"

"My shift starts at six, I've really got to go," Herr Forehead yelled, shoving his helmet into Klavier's arms and leaping off the back of his hog. "See you later! Thanks for dinner!"

Before Klavier could respond, Herr Forehead had shot off across the park, a streak of red among the trees. Klavier watched until he'd disappeared around the corner.

It took a moment for the oddity of Herr Forehead's parting statement to sink in. Thanks for dinner. Klavier hadn't paid. They'd split the bill as usual.

So his company had enjoyed himself. He was thanking Klavier just for going out to eat with him.

Klavier's fingers itched for a pen and paper as he hummed his way home.

Not to brag or anything, but Klavier wrote a damn catchy tune. The kind one would belt in the shower, using a hairbrush for a microphone.

Klavier could say this from experience.

"Take me with you wherever you go," he sang as he toweled off his hair. His second future hit was interrupted by his phone, the ringtone reserved for Fraulein Manager. Klavier stood dripping in the bathroom, his cell to his ear, a camera-ready smile hiding his exhaustion even though his manager couldn't see him.

"Been thinking about your career lately?" she asked once greetings had been exchanged. Klavier bit back a reply that, yes, prosecuting was going quite well; he knew she didn't mean any harm. The Gavinners had catapulted her career, and Machi Tobayae's trial had crashed i. Her calls to Klavier about a possible solo career had become more frequent since then.

"Actually, I have been working on some new material." Klavier put his phone on speaker and left it on the sink while he finished drying off and got dressed.

"Really?" Fraulein Manager's voice registered more shock than excitement. Klavier supposed his previous responses had been unenthusiastic enough to hurt her optimism. "That's fantastic, Klav! How many?"

"Two songs, for now." Klavier paused, choosing his next words carefully. "I've found a new source of inspiration."

"Good, good!" He heard her rustling through paperwork as he carried his phone with him to the kitchen. "Well, you'll need another eight or ten songs for an album, so we can figure out a timeline, and I'll book the recording studio--ah, we'll have to talk about a band--and a photoshoot for the cover--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Fraulein Manager! Listen, I don't know about releasing these songs."

All sounds of writing, typing, and rustling through papers came to a halt on the other end of the phone.

"But you have to! It's been months since..." She still couldn't say it. Sometimes Klavier couldn't, either. The pause lasted a split second before Fraulein Manager recovered. "The fans miss you, Klav. They want to know where you went."

Klavier poured himself a bowl of cereal. "Back to where I came from--the courtroom."

Twenty-four hours after making the official statement, Klavier had been inundated with fan mail begging him to come back to music. As touching as it was, he hadn't been ready for it. He still wasn't sure if he was.

"These songs are just kind of personal," he continued. "I don't know if I want to record them." Even if they were hits, releasing them meant sharing Herr Forehead with the world. Not exactly Klavier's first choice.

"Are you crazy? Fans love personal! Personal sells!" The exasperation in Fraulein Manager's voice dulled Klavier's annoyance at a behind-the-scenes person trivializing a celebrity's right to privacy.

"I'll think about it." He took a quick bite of cereal before his phone beeped. "Ach, I have another call. We'll talk soon?"

"You really should consider recording, Klav."

When he hung up, Klavier ate another few spoonfuls of cereal before checking on the caller he owed big time for saving him from that conversation.Missed Call from Herr Forehead

Klavier left the rest of his cereal to drown in milk and called his voicemail.

"Um, hi." It wasn't until Prosecutor Gavin had stung him that Klavier realized Herr Forehead never called him anything. "Listen, I'm, ah, working on a new case. The trial starts tomorrow, and I thought you should, um. That you should prosecute. Um."

Eloquent as always. Klavier smiled, stirring his soggy cereal idly while Herr Forehead stuttered and huffed on his voicemail.

"I just..." Herr Forehead made an annoyed sound and dropped his voice. "I don't trust my client."

Klavier's fingers froze on his spoon.

"So, um, call me. Or. Ah. Whatever." The click of Herr Forehead's hanging up echoed in Klavier's ear.

He called immediately.

By the time Klavier arrived at the mom-and-pop coffee shop, Herr Forehead had already claimed a table for two in the back and covered it with paperwork. He was so consumed, hunching over his work, that he didn't notice Klavier until he'd ordered a cappuccino and sat down across from him.

"Working hard?" the whole ride over, Klavier had debated whether to make a serious or lighthearted entrance. Herr Forehead had sounded so distraught on the phone, Klavier opted for lighthearted, but sympathy leaked into his words.

"Yeah." Herr Forehead blew a little air out of the side of his mouth. "Thanks for coming." What looked like a half-drunk cup of tea sat on the table in front of him. Herr Forehead shuffled all his papers together to clear the table. "You, uh, got here faster than I thought."

Klavier was about to reply when a teenager girl in an apron came by and placed a slice of cake and a fork in front of Herr Forehead. "Here you go!"

It was only about nine in the morning, when most people might order a doughnut or a muffin. The idea of Herr Forehead seeking a slice of comfort food in place of breakfast was...

"I'll have one, too," Klavier told the waitress, who skittered off to the display case where the baked goods were kept. When he looked back, Herr Forehead was evaluating him with raised eyebrows. "It looks delicious."

Klavier gestured to the cake and took his first real look at it. Three layers of rich chocolate cake with a white whipped filling and frosting, syrupy red cherries bursting from between layers and topping the slice, with shaved chocolate as the final garnish. Klavier was glad he'd ordered some for himself.

"Black forest cake," he said. "A favorite of mine."

"I figured," Herr Forehead said, propping his chin in his hand. His tone was much more sure than it usually was when claiming knowledge, and at Klavier's questioning glance, he elaborated, "Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte."

Whether the fact that Herr Forehead knew the original name of the dessert or the fact that his pronunciation was dead-on surprised him more, Klavier couldn't say. He was saved the embarrassment of gaping at Herr Forehead for too long--that courtroom smirk was beginning to curl on his lips--when a large, bearded man wearing an apron came to their table and put a second slice of cake in front of him.

Klavier thanked him, glad to have a distraction from the satisfaction in Herr Forehead's eyes--he knew he'd caught Klavier off-guard; of this, Klavier was certain--and the man hovered a moment longer.

"Gavinners?" he asked in a heavily accented voice, adding a little air guitar.

Klavier smiled and nodded. With a satisfied straightening of his shoulders, the man pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, looking as if he were ready to take an order. It wasn't until the man held the pen and paper out to Klavier that he noticed the flour and smeared frosting on his hands. The pastry chef.

Klavier took the pen and paper, and the chef jerked his head towards the display case where the waitress who had served Herr Forehead was hovering, ringing her hands. "Angelica," the chef said, miming writing with his hands.

"Angelica," Klavier repeated, personalizing the autograph. When he finished, he went to hand the pad back, and the chef rocked on his feet a little and mimed flipping to the next page.

"Antonio," he said, pointing to himself almost shyly. Klavier penned the second autograph.

Herr Forehead watched the chef lumber off towards the waitress and shook his head. "I can't take you anywhere."

Klavier laughed. "Well, I'm happy if my fans are happy."

"They're probably not happy that you left the music business." Herr Forehead sliced off a forkful of cake. "I kind of expected you to go solo. You really seem to love performing. At least, you did when I saw you."

The wince that came with Herr Forehead's echo of his manager's words gave way to a flush of pride. Here Herr Forehead sat, oblivious to his own kindness, enjoying a piece of cake and thinking nothing of the fact that he was making Klavier want to take to the stage again.

"Tell me about this case," he said instead, taking a less aggressive forkful of cake than his company.

Herr Forehead tapped the prongs of his fork against his bottom lip, the metal tips leaving a light indent. Klavier swallowed his mouthful of cake.

"My client didn't kill anyone himself. Of that I'm certain. But...I can't say that he's completely innocent, either. He's hiding something from me, I know it."

Herr Forehead pushed his stack of papers across the table for Klavier to look at: the accused's profile, the victim's profile and autopsy report, and a list of evidence the police had uncovered thus far. All standard materials. Klavier wondered if Herr Forehead had any odd findings from his own investigation.

"You think he's involved somehow? Like an accomplice?"

"More like a client." Herr Forehead pulled out his phone and showed it to Klavier. On the screen was a slightly blurry picture of a card with a blue insignia on it. Klavier dropped the autopsy report back onto the stack and reached for the phone. "Ema and I found that when we were spraying Luminol, so it hasn't been added to the list of evidence yet."

"The victim was a toy store owner," Klavier observed, eyes flicking from the phone to the victim profile. "No one would think twice about a loose card if they didn't recognize the symbol. DeKiller II."

"I knew about the original hitman from Mr. Wright, and Ema knew from Mr. Edgeworth. Luckily this copycat doesn't have deKiller's extreme loyalty to his clients..."

So Herr Forehead hadn't been coerced or threatened. Klavier exhaled. "Okay, so you have a lead that may point to your client. Why betray his trust and come to a prosecutor?"

"He betrayed my trust first," Herr Forehead said. The viciousness of his next bite of cake told Klavier all he needed to know about Herr Forehead's distaste for betrayal. "He came to me for help and swore up and down that he was innocent, but his own testimony doesn't hold up against itself, and when I showed him the card, he got so twitchy I could barely concentrate on his excuse."

Ah, Herr Forehead's sensitivity to nervous tics. That convinced Klavier as much as hard evidence; he'd never seen Herr Forehead's penchant for perception steer a case wrong.

"All right, then, the million-dollar question, Herr Forehead." Klavier put his fork down on his now-empty plate. "Why bring this trial to me?"

"I want innocent people to go free and guilty people to be sentenced, and my client is guilty." Herr Forehead leaned closer, and Klavier struggled not to go cross-eyed meeting his gaze. "I know the truth. I just haven't figured out how to get from here to there yet. Or how to catch the real killer. You can help me."

"I can help you lose your case."

"This is a trial worth losing. My client can't go free." Herr Forehead's voice was starting to climb. Klavier shushed him before any other patrons listened in. "If I have to lose, I want it to be to you."

Ach, that lack of filter. Did Forehead ever think before he spoke, or have any idea what he'd just said? Still, Klavier could feel his heart racing at the thought---another outrageous trial against Herr Forehead, with no risk that the killer might be someone close to home.

"Sounds like fun," he said.

Winston Payne was already in the Chief Prosecutor's office when Klavier knocked on the door. Herr Edgeworth gave Klavier the tiniest of smiles, but his eyes drooped with tiredness.

"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Gavin," Payne said. "It's not like I was in a meeting with Mr. Edgeworth, or anything."

Klavier resisted the urge to wince. A forty-plus-year career in the courtroom hadn't done Payne's screeching voice any favors. Poor Herr Forehead, being subjected to that condescending shrillness trial after trial.

"My apologies, Herr Payne. I was just dropping off the papers to request a case." Klavier waved the paper-clipped forms in his hand for emphasis. Payne grumbled.

"Requesting a trial, Gavin? It's been a while since I didn't just assign them to you." Herr Edgeworth held his hand out for the forms without looking at Payne. "It's nice to see you regaining your confidence."

It was hard not to swell with pride when Herr Edgeworth gave you a compliment, Klavier thought. The Chief Prosecutor flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the standard information, his pen already in hand.

"A murder trial. A complicated one, at that, and against Wright's subordinate." Herr Edgeworth raised his eyebrows with approval, peering over his reading glasses at Klavier.

"Herr Forehead, yes."

"Ha! A challenge, that rookie?" Payne squawked, tossing his hair over his shoulder. "I've faced him a dozen times."

"Without a single victory to show for it," Klavier said cheerfully. Payne lurched as if struck by the comment.

"Chief Prosecutor, do you hear this insolence?" Klavier didn't fail to notice Payne's sudden switch to Herr Edgeworth's proper title.

"Hm? What? Sorry, Payne, I was carefully reviewing Gavin's request." There was a distinct chord of insincerity in Herr Edgeworth's voice as he apologized. Klavier swore he saw the Chief Prosecutor wink at him. "Let's see...trial starts tomorrow, ten a.m. sharp, in courtroom number three." Herr Edgeworth clicked his pen and signed with a flourish. "It's all yours, Gavin."

"My thanks, Herr Edgeworth."

"Hold on," Payne said. "That rookie lawyer, tomorrow at ten a.m. in courtroom three...that's my trial!"

"Yes, and it is most generous of Gavin to take it off your plate when you have such an exhausting schedule," Herr Edgeworth drawled, "as you were just telling me, Payne."

As much as Klavier wanted to see Payne's reaction, he couldn't stand around gawking with a trial in less than twenty-four hours. He hit the crime scene first, chatting up Fraulein Detective for information and getting yelled at for being the second clueless prosecutor to waste her time. 

He hummed to himself as he investigated what the police and Herr Forehead had combed over already. His imagination alternated between seeing Herr Forehead at the bench across from him in court and seeing him from the stage when the lights swept the VIP fans in the front row. The Herr Forehead of each thought wore the same expression, the confident smile that accompanied crossed arms and the slightest pop of his left hip.

By the time he was leaving his apartment for the trial after a sleepless night, Klavier had composed another song.

The courthouse was a zoo of cameras and sound equipment when Klavier pulled in on his hog. The second his helmet was off, he was surrounded by reporters. This trial was a big one on its own, Klavier realized, but it was also his professional reunion with Herr Forehead.

He deflected the media with ease, even sneaking information out of a reporter by flashing a smile and asking if he were the first to arrive.

"Yes, Mr. Justice isn't here yet," the reporter confirmed. "How do you like your odds, Mr. Gavin?"

Klavier stalled until Herr Forehead pulled up on his bicycle. The bling and celebrity status would keep the media occupied while Klavier scouted for that bright red suit. As soon as Herr Forehead arrived, Klavier was ready and waiting for him.

Herr Forehead looked downright scared at the swarm of reporters. None of his trials had received this kind of attention before, Klavier knew. He waved and called out to him.

"Mr. Justice!"

The name felt as foreign on his lips as it seemed to sound to Herr Forehead, but relief washed over his expression when he saw Klavier. They made their way inside together, Klavier smiling his no comments and leading by example. He could hear Herr Forehead not commenting behind him. The guards at the front of the courthouse blocked for them while they hurried in the front doors.

"How do you do it?" The trial hadn't even started yet and Herr Forehead's voice was cracking. "That's a nightmare."

"That's been my life since I was seventeen," Klavier said. Herr Forehead's usually transparent face was unreadable. "This is our reunion, Herr Forehead. It takes a high profile case that much higher."

"I hadn't thought of that."

Obviously. Klavier chuckled. "You'll be fine, Herr Forehead. The cameras can't come into the courtroom. When you leave, smile and say no comment if they ask anything unrelated to the case, even if they goad you." Especially if they goad you, he thought. "They're looking for stories. Don't give them anything to write about."

Herr Forehead nodded. "R-Ready for this trial?"

"Ja, baby."

The pet name was enough to snap Herr Forehead out of the last of his paparazzi-induced nerves. He rolled his eyes and strode ahead of Klavier towards courtroom number three.

If Klavier didn’t know better, he’d say Herr Forehead had tricked him.

It had been a long time since he’d faced an opponent so fired up at the defense bench. Herr Forehead rose to every challenge he brought against the defendant—the criminal, Klavier thought—from alibi to murder weapon to witness believability. Not only that, but all of his points gave Herr Judge enough reasonable doubt to continue the trial.

The one good thing was that Klavier hadn’t forgotten how easy it was to throw Herr Forehead for a loop. He always threw himself headlong into his defense, pushing forward, so the slightest swerve in topic, anything to keep him from getting on a roll, would fluster him enough to give Klavier a split second to recover. And here I thought I was improving, he thought with a chuckle to himself. Prosecuting easy cases is no better than not prosecuting at all, it seems.

Finally, the calling card came into the case. Herr Forehead must have been bracing himself for its appearance all day; he pounded his fists on the defense bench harder than he had at any point before in the trial and challenged Klavier to make the connection between the card and his client.

It was the first moment since arriving in court that Klavier felt like they were on the same side. The spark in Herr Forehead’s eyes wasn’t its usual defiance but a silent plea for Klavier to fill in the missing pieces. Help me find the truth.

Luckily, Klavier hadn’t slept since being assigned the case. It made for more time to investigate and work out a logical conclusion. “With pleasure, Herr Forehead. Would you mind reminding the court of your client’s alibi?”

Herr Forehead’s answer was measured. His fists wouldn’t uncurl, couldn’t relax, the whole time he was speaking. His client sitting behind him nodded along to every point.

Klavier remembered when Herr Forehead would stammer his way through any statement that wasn’t made in the heat of debate. Once the courtroom’s eyes were upon him, Herr Forehead had almost seemed to shrink. That wasn’t the case now. His voice didn’t shake, he didn’t swallow incessantly, and his eyes stayed on Klavier instead of darting from evidence to the desk to a random point on the wall and back. How many of Herr Forehead’s trials had Klavier missed that his rival was so composed speaking in front of the court?

When Herr Forehead paused—for effect, and very nicely done, Klavier noted—he licked his lips and turned to gesture to his client. Herr Forehead’s greatest virtue was his earnest, Klavier thought. Every word out of his lips sounded as if he’d read it in a hundred books and had no reason to believe anything to the contrary. Herr Forehead finished his recap, and his client nodded in agreement, his eyes flickering to the spectators and Herr Judge.

Klavier slipped his hands into his pockets as Herr Forehead turned back to face him. There it was again—that challenge from his partner-in-fighting-crime.  Herr Forehead’s brow was creased, and he reached over delicately to rub his wrist, just above the golden bangle he never came to court without.

It wasn’t the first time Klavier had seen Herr Forehead rub his wrist. If the bangle was bothering him, he really just take it off. The motion seemed different now, though. Less agitated. Klavier inhaled slowly, letting a smile spread across his face so that Herr Judge—and Herr Forehead—would know he had an answer. All the while, his eyes stayed transfixed  on Herr Forehead’s thumb gently rubbing circles against the edge of his bracelet.

“If I could ask the accused to take the stand, please, regarding that last bit of information?” Klavier asked.

“Testify again?” Herr Judge seemed surprised. “We’ve been over the alibi at least twice now, Prosecutor Gavin.”

“We’ve been over the alibi to discuss how the accused couldn’t have killed.” Klavier leaned forward, flashing a smile at Herr Forehead. I’m right here, and I have an idea…help me find your answer, Herr Forehead. “We haven’t been over the alibi to discuss how the accused couldn’t have been involved in the killing.”

The crowd reacted as Klavier expected, the accused looking around the courtroom like a startled animal, Herr Judge banging his gavel. Not once did Herr Forehead’s eyes leave his. Not once did his thumb’s slow cycle against his wrist stop.

A wild courtroom, an absurd trial, and Herr Forehead’s attention all to himself. It felt like coming home.

The defendant cracked on the stand ten minutes into Klavier’s questioning. After Herr Forehead’s valiant battling all morning, Klavier imagined that the horror on his rival’s face wasn’t an exaggeration. His client admitted to being involved in hiring de Killer’s successor but argued that he had been coerced into it by a few shady characters. When Herr Forehead pounced on the lead, though, the criminal fumbled with his excuses, digging himself deeper.

With the evidence aligned, the judge brought the case to a close, sending the police off to add what they’d gleaned from the trial to their next-generation de Killer investigation. Herr Forehead’s face was pale as he and his assistant stumbled out of the courtroom.

The buzz of the media camped outside was already rising through the windows. Mentally running through his checklist of sound bites--Our hardworking detectives have my gratitude; The evidence just didn’t add up--Klavier made his way to the defense lobby where Herr Forehead had retreated.

The mood wasn’t as dark as he expected.

“I can’t believe that jerk lied right to our faces!” Herr Wright’s daughter was saying, hands on her hips. Her rage seemed directed at Herr Forehead, who held up his hands and matched her glare with tired eyes.

“All that matters is that we got down to the truth, Trucy.” Herr Wright was standing behind them, looking a little more polished in slacks and a button-down shirt. Ever since Vera’s trial, he’d really cleaned up, Klavier thought, a wave of relief suddenly coming over him. With a thoughtful sigh, Herr Wright rubbed his chin. “You still gave a great defense, even if you didn’t get an acquittal, Apollo.”

Herr Forehead perked up at that. Klavier pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Really, Mr. Wright?”

“Yeah. Don’t let what the media says to you when you leave the courthouse get to you, all right?” Herr Wright laughed, and Herr Forehead’s hair antennae seemed to droop. Ach, that would put him in a bad mood; Herr Forehead hated it when his hair wasn’t sharp enough to be used as a murder weapon.

“Good advice in any situation, really,” Klavier said, slipping his hands into his pockets as he approached the group. “Those rag writers ask the wildest questions.”

“P-Prosecutor Gavin.” Klavier wished Apollo would stop calling him that. And that he’d look happier to see him. “Congratulations on the trial.”

“Thank you. It was a good trial, wasn’t it?” Klavier leaned forward to flash Herr Forehead a smile. Herr Forehead recoiled.

Klavier felt the corners of his mouth tense just the slightest bit, his eyes flickering to the floor for a second before coming back to Herr Forehead’s face. It seemed his courtroom rival was determined to have wrinkles by his twenty-fifth birthday; the creases in his impressive forehead were practically permanent tenants.

“Well, I don’t want to get caught up in too much media frenzy, so I’m going to head out,” Herr Wright said, beckoning towards Trucy. “Come on, baby girl, we’ll go out the back way.”

“And get noodles!” she supplied, following her father out of the lobby. Herr Forehead called out a hasty goodbye as the door swung behind them.

“Jeez, those Wrights know how to make an exit,” he muttered to himself, fidgeting with his rolled-up sleeves. Klavier sat on the couch beside him, but Herr Forehead didn’t move. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong? I’m still on my courtroom victory high.” Klavier spread his arms across the back of the couch and reclined to emphasize his point.

Herr Forehead pursed his lips. “You want to talk about something.”

“Are we a mind-reader now?” Klavier joked, though it was true that he had something he wanted to say. He let his arms drop again, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning in towards Herr Forehead, who didn’t jerk away as if Klavier were a poisonous snake this time. “Herr Forehead, I’m glad that a criminal was brought to justice, and I’m glad to have won.”

“But?” Herr Forehead prompted.

“But you were reckless in this case. Do you really understand the meaning of that badge you love showing everybody?” Klavier chuckled to let Herr Forehead know it was a joke. His hand still went up to the attorney’s badge on his lapel. “You conspired against your own client. You could have lost your badge if anyone found out. You could still lose it, if I ever mentioned you’d given me a lead.”

“You won’t.”

Klavier spun the silver ring on his thumb, pleased at the immediacy of Herr Forehead’s counter. “Awfully trusting of you.”

At first, it was almost as if Herr Forehead hadn’t heard him; he made no indication that he had, not even his usual little glance or nod of conversation. Then, in a quick motion that was in no way fluid, Herr Forehead sat beside Klavier on the couch. The movement was precise, almost angular, like an arrow falling short of its target to pierce the ground instead. “A question for you, Prosecutor Gavin.”

“An answer for you, Herr Forehead.”

“Why did you have Daryan Crescend kept out of the Machi Tobayae case? As a cop, I mean. Why didn’t you let him investigate?”

Klavier’s stomach turned to ice. It had been a long time since anyone outside of the media had spoken that name to him. Yet somehow he wasn’t surprised at the pointed look Herr Forehead was giving him; only his courtroom rival would be so endearingly callous.

“Why?” Klavier echoed.

“Because you knew.” Herr Forehead had the decency to look away then, embarrassed. “You knew something was wrong with that trial, that something wasn’t adding up. You knew long before I did that he was a suspect.”

Klavier said nothing. He kept his eyes on Herr Forehead’s hands, his fingers bunching in the fabric of his outrageous red slacks.

“Tell me, Prosecutor Gavin, what would have happened to your badge if someone felt you hadn’t given Machi Tobayae your best offense?” Ah, and his eyes were on Klavier again. “You sought the truth and found it. You pursued a truth that wasn’t in your best interests. How is that any different from what I did?”

Herr Forehead noticed things. Klavier had meant to put a reminder in his phone.

“Tell me, Herr Forehead…” Klavier’s voice faded against his will. He smiled down at Herr Forehead’s trembling hands and took a quick breath to bring it back. “Why are you still calling me ‘Prosecutor Gavin’?”

Anything to redirect his attention. Herr Forehead sputtered. “That doesn’t answer my question!” If they were in court, he’d be banging his fists on the desk by now. Klavier shook his head.

“That doesn’t answer mine, either. You are right, though, Herr Forehead. It’s not different.”

The glow of triumph in Herr Forehead’s eyes was immediate. “You see! I was just returning the favor.”

Returning the favor. Klavier liked that.

“That doesn’t make it any less reckless. You forget how much more courtroom experience I have than you.” Klavier pressed his index finger to his companion’s wide forehead, earning a squawk of disapproval. “I knew how to integrate my suspicions into a case without damaging my reputation.” Too badly. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Klavier wondered if the whorls of his fingerprint would press lasting lines into Herr Forehead’s forehead if he left his finger there long enough. For his open displeasure at the action, Herr Forehead didn’t seem to be shaking him right off, either. He glared cross-eyed at Klavier from either side of the offending finger.

“You can’t get out of everything with some cool response, Prosecutor Gavin.”

Klavier pushed him harder, and Herr Forehead finally smacked his hand away.

“We should have lunch. Or dinner. What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock. And this is the worst possible day for us to be seen together,” Herr Forehead said, rubbing his forehead and squinting up at his hand, as if he could see the red fingerprint fading away. Klavier hadn’t held on long enough.

“...Fair enough.”

“Some other time,” Herr Forehead continued, his fingers inching towards his hairline. Klavier could see them itching to fix the spikes that had gone the tiniest bit flat.

“Some other time,” he agreed, standing and brushing off his pants. He liked the sound of that, too.

“Some other time” ended up being about three hours later.

“Herr Forehead, I may faint if I don’t eat,” Klavier said, holding his cell phone up against his ear with his shoulder. On the other end of the line, he could hear a sigh.

“Then eat.”

“Come with me,” Klavier clarified. “It took you almost an hour to get out of the courthouse. You must not be in any hurry to cook a meal for yourself.”

“You were still there when I escaped! Are you just getting home?”

“Yes, which is why the plan is to eat out.” He’d been home almost an hour, but if Herr Forehead wanted to worry, he was going to worry anyway. Klavier chuckled and reached up to switch his phone from one ear to the other. “Any preference?”

“Not leaving my apartment is my preference.” Another sigh. “Don’t you have someone better to bother?”

“There’s no one better than you, Herr Forehead.” Klavier smiled, practically able to hear Herr Forehead squirming on the other end of the phone. “I can bring takeout.”

“Don’t do that!” Ah, again with the distress. The last time he’d asked Herr Forehead about his apartment, it had ended similarly, and that had been weeks and weeks ago. “Anyway, I’ve already got dinner on the stove.”

“Ach, what terrible timing.” Klavier got up to wander into his kitchen, opening cabinets to look at food he didn’t want to eat. He would never be so presumptuous as to invite himself over when Herr Forehead was cooking for one. Opening the fridge, Klavier leaned his forehead against the bottom of the freezer, letting his eyes move lazily from one unwanted meal to the next. “What are you having?”

“...Pasta.”

Instant noodles. Somehow, Klavier could hear it. He resented his too-late phone call even more. “Hmm, maybe I’ll have pasta, too. It’ll be like we’re having dinner together.”

“How exactly is eating the same kind of food like eating together?”

“You have no imagination, Herr Forehead. You’ll eat your pasta, I’ll eat mine, and we’ll be chatting...just like at a restaurant, but from our apartments.”

“You’re not going to hang up to cook?” The whine in Herr Forehead’s voice didn’t offend Klavier the way it might have if it had been more genuine. “You’re just going to keep talking while I slurp noodles?”

Klavier knew it. He started talking right away to keep Herr Forehead from realizing his slip-up. “This may come as a surprise to you, Herr Forehead, but I enjoy your company. Even when you aren’t here.”

“Don’t say things like that!” Klavier had to hold the phone at arm’s length away from his ears. Too easy. He laughed, pulling pasta from one of his cabinets and going off in search of a pot to boil water. Probably to himself, Herr Forehead added, “Who says things like that?”

“Tell me about your day.” Pot full of water, stove on, pasta ready to go as soon as the water boiled. Did he have sauce?

“I had a trial today against a really obnoxious prosecutor.”

“Ah, but wasn’t he the handsomest man you’ve ever seen?”

“I was too distracted by his garish air-guitaring to notice.”

An indirect answer, but not a denial. Klavier took it as a compliment. “Tell me more about this prosecutor. An improvement over that Payne fellow whose presence you so enjoy in trial?”

“Yeah. But that’s not saying much!”

While the pasta cooked, Klavier continued to goad Herr Forehead into unintentionally complimenting him. The half-grudging praise had him humming as he stirred his pasta to keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pot. Before he was finished, he could hear Herr Forehead slurping as promised while Klavier talked, recounting how he’d stolen the trial from Payne.

“Herr Edgeworth was most accommodating.”

“Mr. Wright says he’s a good guy. They used to have a lot of trials together, I think,” Apollo said. Klavier could hear him blowing on his noodles.

“Oh, a famous rivalry, Herr Forehead. Short-lived, but famous.” He spooned pasta onto his plate and went to the fridge in search of parmesan. “A sophisticated prosecutor, a rookie defense attorney…”

“If you’re trying to get me to admit that you’re sophisticated, it’s not happening.”

It just did, Klavier smiled.

It was almost eleven before he hung up.

The sun had gone down and come up again a long time ago. When Herr Forehead finally yawned his goodbye on the phone, Klavier realized that he was wide awake. He made himself another pot of spaghetti and pulled out his guitar. In an hour he had chords. In two, he had lyrics. Somewhere around three-and-a-half, he had a song.

Returning the Favor, he wrote at the top of his sheet music.

Once his burst of creativity had passed, Klavier was sure that he’d pass out and sleep the night away, but he ended up playing the song to himself, tweaking and testing and imagining the look on Herr Forehead’s face if he ever knew.

Klavier wondered why it was exactly that Herr Forehead’s presence hadn’t inspired his music from the very beginning. When they’d first met on that absurd Kitaki case, Klavier was ashamed to admit he hadn’t taken his loud rookie of an opponent particularly seriously. It was hard to do when he kept fidgeting with his hair and pulling panties out of his back pocket.

When he’d moved from his bed to his couch to the floor and back and couldn’t sleep anywhere, Klavier gave up and went on the internet. He pulled up his favorite online radio site for background music and opened a search engine up in a second window, typing in whatever popped into his mind. Spaghetti sauce recipes. Bad pickup lines. Synonyms for “shiny,” “blinding,” and “wide.” Finally, figuring why not, he typed “Apollo” into his search bar.

A part of him was actually surprised when Herr Forehead wasn’t the first search result to pop up. He scrolled through links on Greek mythology and arbitrarily clicked on a university website with links to scholarly articles. Mythology wasn’t one of Klavier’s interests, but he remembered bits and pieces from his school days. He scrolled down to a table that gave a basic breakdown of Apollo.

Twin of Artemis, god of the sun, justice--Ah, Klavier chuckled, that was more like it.--and music.

At that, Klavier’s hand froze on his mouse. So in mythology, Apollo was the overseer of all things musical? The muse of music? How ironic.

Justice and the sun, now those were Herr Forehead’s domains, what with his stubbornness in seemingly hopeless cases against innocent underdogs, and that suit. Then again. Klavier ran a hand through his bangs. Justice and sunshine could be his elements, too; it wasn’t a hard argument to make. He was a pretty upstanding prosecutor--or just a pretty prosecutor, if the magazine covers, screaming fans, and personal stylists had anything to say about it. Add in music, and Apollo might as well have been Klavier’s patron god.

The sudden image of Herr Forehead in a toga, disgruntled and carrying a lyre, made Klavier burst into laughter. He opted not to tell Herr Forehead about it the next time they went to dinner or something.

Or something. Maybe they should do something other than eat. Klavier’s thought of his courtroom rival in costume shifted into one of said-costumed Herr Forehead bowling, and he nearly fell off his seat laughing.

He should stay up until 5 in the morning more often.

The Greek god Apollo appeared to have his own problems. The girl he loved turned into a tree. His best friend was killed playing ancient frisbee. Bad thing after bad thing. On the plus side, according to one of the earliest known Greek plays, Apollo was a co-founder of the court, along with his sister Athena, and the original defense attorney to boot. He won a ridiculous trial he had no business winning, appealing to the first-ever jury.

Skimming articles at sunrise had been a plan to lull him to sleep, but Klavier found that Herr Forehead’s namesake had led an interesting (fictional) life. A part of Klavier envied that his name wasn’t as apt as Herr Forehead’s. Singing and guitar, sure, but piano. An instrument his parents favored, infused with his mother’s intense German pride. Klavier could still remember the piano that stood in their living room, his brother sitting at the bench, fingers skating across the keys. His earliest memory--

“Klavier,” Kristoph said, smiling over the rims of his glasses. “Come play with me.” And while Kristoph, a teen already, brought the Turkish March to life with deft fingers, toddler Klavier sat in his lap and banged his pudgy child hands against the keys directly in front of him.

--Klavier pulled up a video of some famous European pianist playing Mozart. Then another pianist, less famous. Orchestras. Students. None of them eased the ache that had curled up in his chest. Their Marches lacked a certain air of precision that came with ease to every move his brother made.

Whose control am I spinning out of? Mine...or yours? The question had felt so cool at the time, finally a victory against his brother’s impenetrable eyes. Now Klavier sat in front of his computer on a Saturday at an hour when the ambitious part of the world might be getting up to go for a run or finish laundry, looking up videos of amateur musicians and begrudging that they lacked Kristoph’s control.

Exhaustion flooded him.

Powering down his computer and dragging himself back to bed, Klavier wondered if he shouldn’t call Herr Forehead again this afternoon. With the de Killer trial behind them--but only just--maybe they could go to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, somewhere towards the Valley, maybe? A lot of his favorite hot spots were closer to downtown, but Klavier could think of a restaurant or two where the paparazzi was less apt to frequent.

His phone went off then, jolting him from his near-sleeping state. Disoriented, Klavier sat bolt upright in bed and fumbled for his phone. Fraulein Manager.

“Hello?” he answered, unable to hide the sleepy slur of his voice.

“Good morning,” she said, not missing a beat. “Listen, I don’t want to push you into anything--”

Lie, Klavier thought.

“--but I want to talk more about your music.” She was all business today. Klavier glanced over at his digital clock. 7:01 a.m. She’d probably been up staring at her phone until the clock turned 7, an acceptable hour to call (was it, though?). “We should meet up today to touch base. I’m free both lunch and dinner. My treat. What do you say?”

Klavier’s eyelids drooped. He couldn’t decide if it were too early or too late for this, and he rubbed his eyes. If he got right to sleep, he’d be up in eight or nine hours. Meeting with his manager without sleeping seemed like a bad idea and a two-album contract waiting to happen. “Dinner,” he grumbled, knowing already that not-yet-solidified plans with Herr Forehead wouldn’t keep Fraulein Manager at bay when she was wound up like this. “Seven, you pick the place.”

“Oh. Great!” She probably wasn’t expecting him to comply so easily. Klavier felt a stab of annoyance; any time he turned down one of her publicity proposals, he was always a perfect gentleman about it. She didn’t have to act like he never agreed to anything. “This new place opened downtown recently. It’s been getting rave reviews. Umm, what’s it called…”

She named a high-profile restaurant--Klavier mentally factored in showering and getting ready for a paparazzi hot spot--and Klavier hummed agreement. As she hung up, the restaurant’s name brought a memory to the surface in Klavier’s mind: his proposing the same restaurant to Herr Forehead and an adamant refusal.

The hazy thought was almost enough to keep Klavier from drifting back off to sleep.

What felt like five minutes later, his phone rang again, and like before, Klavier jerked out of an unsound sleep. 9:40, his clock read. No, Klavier corrected mentally. It’s 7:26, and I literally just hung up with--

Herr Forehead, his phone flashed the name above a pixellated envelope. Klavier sat up and opened his text message.

Are you busy today?

Klavier texted back immediately. Not at all. What did you have in mind?

The next twenty minutes consisted of Herr Forehead sending awkward texts after long pauses, clearly not having planned any follow-up for his initial text. Klavier resisted the urge to ask if he liked bowling.

Finally Herr Forehead texted, I was just going out for a walk and figured I’d ask if you wanted to go.

They met at People Park at 10:30. Klavier had taken the fastest shower of his life, resisted all product, and put on his favorite pair of jeans and his baggiest crew-neck sweatshirt. He tied up his hair and pulled on a Dodgers cap. Taking the bus served as a test run, and no one noticed him at all. A good sign.

Herr Forehead was sitting on a park bench and noticed him immediately, standing as soon as he caught sight of him. “What are you wearing?” he asked, eyeing Klavier’s baggy sweatshirt.

“Good morning to you, too, Herr Forehead.” Klavier stifled a yawn, and Herr Forehead’s brown eyes were on his face in an instant.

“Did you not sleep well?”

“More importantly, what are you wearing?” Klavier asked, dodging the question. Herr Forehead pursed his lips, looking down at himself. The white jersey and faded jeans weren’t anything special, but the bright red hooded jacket with the sleeves rolled up was something few would wear in public, Klavier thought.

“Street clothes?” Herr Forehead’s expression was more defiant than his tone. “Don’t you smirk at me! This is stylish.”

The fact that Herr Forehead was telling a famous rock star about style was hilarious enough that Klavier had to turn away to compose himself. The irritation on Herr Forehead’s face when he turned back almost overpowered the blush of embarrassment.

“Sorry, Herr Forehead, I didn’t mean to laugh.” The wave of guilt that came over Klavier seemed disproportionate to the situation, but he couldn’t have Herr Forehead making that face. Even if he were the only one around to see it. “I’m dressed down so no one will recognize me.”

“I can see that.” Ah, yes, Herr Forehead got meaner when he was embarrassed. Louder, too, to Klavier’s dismay. A passing dog walker glanced over.

“Where did you want to go?” Klavier asked, putting his hands into his pockets. Herr Forehead crossed his arms and looked around.

“I don’t know, just the park? It’s nice out, so I didn’t want to be cooped up inside all day.”

“Just the park,” Klavier repeated, lips quirking. “Herr Forehead, did you really call me out here just to loop around a neighborhood park?”

“Nobody made you come, you know,” Herr Forehead said, the bite still in his voice. Klavier shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Let’s go that way,” he said, pointing in an arbitrary direction.

“Where are we going?” Herr Forehead asked, already moving in that direction. Klavier fell in step beside him. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Herr Forehead’s pace was fast. He’d seen him storm around enough times.

“Don’t know,” Klavier said. “Let’s just go.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Right next to him like this, Herr Forehead had to tilt his head up to look at Klavier.

“Fear not, Herr Forehead. I would never let any harm come to you.” Klavier tipped his cap to punctuate his sentence.

Instead of just looking away, Herr Forehead had to duck his head down to hide his embarrassment. Klavier could still see redness creeping up over the curve of his ears and on the back of his neck. “Who says stuff like that?” Herr Forehead muttered.

“Seriously, though, Herr Forehead. We’re fine. This neighborhood is my backyard. Let’s just wander.”

So they did. They wandered past a stationery shop that seemed to interest Herr Forehead and a punk rock vinyl store that didn’t. Herr Forehead haltingly told a fairly funny story about his landlord, and Klavier laughed heartily to encourage him. Klavier told him--in the vaguest terms--about looking up Apollo.

“I was looking up inspiration for music, and who better to turn to than the god of music?” he said, taking in his companion’s bug-eyed expression. “Did you know, Herr Forehead?”

“I knew Apollo was the god of lawfulness.” Carefully avoiding the word justice, Klavier thought.

“Think about it, Herr Forehead. Law and music--your namesake is keeping an eye out for me.”

“...It’d be nice if he kept an eye out for me every once in a while.”

Klavier frowned. Herr Forehead wasn’t responding as cutely as he’d imagined. Then again, when Klavier thought about his reaction to gentle teasing, he always seemed to forget how angry Herr Forehead could get.

They stopped at a hot dog stand for lunch, which Herr Forehead also seemed to balk at. He didn’t take a bite of his hot dog until Klavier took a bite of his.

“You’re not from here originally, are you?” Klavier asked. “The city, I mean.”

“I grew up in the suburbs,” Herr Forehead answered. When he didn’t elaborate, Klavier hummed knowingly. “What?”

“You suburb mice.” Klavier smiled into his next bite of hot dog. “You don’t trust street vendors for safe food.”

“I eat street food plenty! Mr. Wright and Trucy practically live at Eldoon’s…” Herr Forehead wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “Not the best example, but, uh.” He took a quick bite, chewed, swallowed. Smiled to himself, like a secret. “This is good.”

...Ah, that’s right, Klavier thought, his mind foggy with the sleep he didn’t get last night. Apollo was also the god of the sun, wasn’t he?

The Gavinners’ former manager would be a beautiful woman if she didn’t look ready to cry every time Klavier saw her. He spread his arms when we walked up to her in front of the restaurant she’d picked. “Fraulein Manager, why so glum?”

Soon after Herr Forehead had headed off to his other job--the details of which he still refused to divulge to Klavier--he’d weighed his options about what to do with the sliver of afternoon he still had to himself before he had to meet with his former representation. Despite the few hours sleep he’d had, a nap seemed out of the question now that he’d been out in the fresh air with Herr Forehead. In the end, he’d taken the bus back to his apartment, taken a proper shower, fixed his hair with product, and combed his wardrobe for his most relaxed-professional attire.

So here he was--clean designer jeans, smokey-grey button-down, black jacket--and there she was--cream skirt and blazer, coral cotton shirt--both looking like they were there to meet someone completely different from their actual company. Her hair frizzed out of its workplace-looking bun while she adjusted an overstuffed messenger bag.

“Oh, you know, busy day,” she said. “No rest for the weary.”

“And yet you’re trying to get the Gavinners back together for a tour?” Klavier teased.

“I put the reservation under your name so we’d get in,” she said in place of an answer. With a laugh, she added, “They sometimes have no recollection of reservations for Commoner McNo-Name.”

Klavier followed her inside, catching a camera flash out of the corner of his eye. This place was pretty high-profile, a shiny new restaurant with the price tag to match. No doubt that his manager was hoping to stir up buzz about him again, get the fans riled up over a potential Gavinners revival, let the fan mail do her work for her.

He turned on his camera-ready smile, just in case.

The hostess seated them right away, staring at Klavier while his manager reached for the wine list. Klavier mentally reminded himself not to slouch, though his tiredness washed over him at the familiar knitting of his manager’s brows.

“I think I should start,” he said. She looked up from the menu she was perusing.

“Start?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about my career the past few weeks and what direction I’d like to take.” Klavier steeled himself, taking a quick breath before continuing. “I’d like to commit myself full-time to my work as a prosecutor.”

The wine menu in her hand fluttered, but she didn’t drop it. “What do you--I thought you were writing new music.”

“I am, but it’s really not music to share. I wrote it for myself.” Klavier put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers, and rested his chin on them. “Music is a part of my life. An important part. But the Gavinners aren’t getting back together, and I have no interest in doing the rock star tour by myself right now.”

The menu had been shoved aside at this point. “But you’re writing music! Don’t you think the fans deserve that? They were deprived of so much when the Gavinners split up--”

“The fans weren’t the only ones left reeling from the split,” Klavier said, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. Though there were plenty of full tables at this time of night, camouflaging their conversation with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, he didn’t want his manager’s anxiety to draw any attention. She pressed her lips together, and he could tell she was about to launch into part two of the speech she’d started, so he continued quickly. “Am I saying I never want to release music again? No. I’m just saying that now might not be the best time.”

“At least an EP,” she said, and Klavier lowered his arms, crossing them against the edge of the table. A wave of frustration ran through him, another side effect of his lack of sleep. He wished it were Herr Forehead across from him instead.

“You’ve been an indispensable person for as long as I’ve been in the industry,” he said, partly to placate her and partly to remind himself. “You’ve been a supportive and reliable manager, fantastic to work with. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

She gave him a shrewd smile. “So what you’re saying is, it’s not me, it’s you?”

Klavier was about to reply when he sensed their waiter coming up behind him. “Good evening folks, and welcome to--”

At the sound of their waiter’s voice, Klavier’s stomach dropped. He looked up slowly to see Herr Forehead standing over their table, wearing a telltale tie and vest, a crisp pressed shirt. His usual spikes were gone, his hair mussed over his forehead. The restaurant was too high-end for name tags, but the pen and pad of paper in Herr Forehead’s hands were a dead giveaway.

Face flushed darker than Klavier had ever seen it, Herr Forehead was wearing that expression again. Words--any words, say something--caught in Klavier’s throat. Coming to this restaurant after Herr Forehead told him not to had been a mistake.

His manager at least was frazzled enough not to realize that Klavier and their waiter were staring at each other. She ordered white wine and water with lemon, which Herr Forehead scribbled down on his pad.

“And you, sir?” He wouldn’t even make eye contact, still staring down at his pen and paper. The blush hadn’t subsided at all.

“Just water,” Klavier said, barely pausing between words. He forced himself not to look down at the table like an awkward high schooler. Why hadn’t this thought ever crossed his mind, that Herr Forehead’s second job might be waiting tables? It certainly explained why he didn’t want to come to this restaurant with Klavier.

Herr Forehead nodded. “I’ll get those for you,” he said, turning on his heel.

“Uh--waiter!” Klavier’s manager flapped her hand at him, and Klavier felt the urge to crawl under the table. “Excuse me, aren’t you going to tell us the specials?”

Herr Forehead returned with hunched shoulders. “O-Of course. Sorry, ma’am. Tonight’s specials are…” He rattled off a list of extravagant dishes featuring lamb and swordfish, meals Klavier knew Herr Forehead didn’t regularly eat himself. When he’d finished, Klavier’s manager nodded and shooed him off. Herr Forehead scurried away at the first opportunity.

Instinctively, Klavier reached out and snatched his manager’s hand, pulling it back down to the table from its dismissive wave in midair.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Klavier said. She tugged her hand away from him, the look on her face somewhere between confusion and abashment. “He’s an employee of the restaurant, not a dog.”

“I wasn’t...what are you getting so bent out of shape over?” Her voice hitched on the question, and Klavier wondered fleetingly if the shooing gesture had been as noticeable to Herr Forehead as it was to him, or if his manager had just been talking with her hands, as she was wont to do, when thanking him for the specials. He pulled his hand back. “He seems kind of out of it. The waiter, I mean. What did he say his name was?”

He hadn’t, in his obvious distress at encountering Klavier. “Apollo,” Klavier answered.

“Apollo. That’s unusual.” A smile reappeared on his manager’s face, to Klavier’s immense relief. “How appropriate--the god of music.”

“And law.” Their drinks hadn’t even arrived yet and Klavier was ready for this meeting to be over. He had half a mind to suggest they just make it drinks and go their separate ways, but it wouldn’t be right to walk out on his manager. His music was her job, of course she--

“Sorry for the wait, folks.” A new voice interrupted Klavier’s thoughts, and a girl who barely looked old enough to drink herself placed a tall flute in front of his manager and poured half a glass’s worth of white wine into it. “And two waters.” She set the glasses, clinking with ice, lemon notched somehow elegantly on the rims, in front of them. “Now, can I get you any appetizers, or--”

Apollo passed by a few rows of tables away with drinks for another group of guests. Even without his antennae and signature red clothing, Klavier could pick him out of a crowd--or in this case, a crowded restaurant. There was a brashness to his movements, even in a high-end restaurant like this, with such a simple action as transferring glasses from tray to table.

From here, of course, Klavier couldn’t hear what was happening over there, but as he kept his eye on Apollo’s back, he imagined him listing the specials for this table with more confidence. Apollo wrote down orders as each member of his new table spoke, took their menus, and strode off towards the kitchen without so much as a glance in Klavier’s direction.

Klavier’s manager and their waitress were staring at him, and he turned on his most charming smile. “That sounds great, I’ll have that.”

The waitress giggled and looked at her pad of paper. “So, that’s two house salads with egg and balsamic dressing and two eggplant zucchini gratin?”

Thank goodness that had been what they were talking about. And that his manager had ordered first. And that she had ordered something he liked. Klavier caught himself midway through a sigh of relief and hoped it sounded more like a sigh of delight at the sound of food to come. “Sounds perfect.”

“Great, I’ll have that right out for you.” The waitress smiled and took their menus.

Once she’d flitted off, Klavier’s manager chuckled. “She must be a fan. She was smiling at you the whole time.”

“The...waitress?” Klavier asked, trying to focus on his manager’s face and not his peripheral vision. Even though Apollo clearly didn’t want to see him here, knowing that they were in the same restaurant and not knowing where Apollo was was maddening. He noted waiters and waitresses bustling around other tables but dismissed them immediately when he recognized they weren’t the one he was looking for.

“Of course the waitress. I’ll bet she asked that other waiter if they could switch tables so she could talk to you.” She tapped her chin with her finger. “But you know, I thought maybe he recognized you, too, and that’s why he was so awkward. I was half expecting that waiter to ask for your autograph!”

It was, naturally, at this moment that Apollo walked by. Even a row of tables away from them, Klavier could see how Apollo’s stride hesitated, how he swallowed as he walked past them. Your manager is a good person who cares about you and your career, Klavier reminded himself, folding his hands in his lap to avoid burying his face in them. How was he going to face Apollo after this?

To steer the conversation away from his music, the law, or any waiters or waitresses, Klavier asked about a few other bands he knew his manager had been working with since around the same time as the Gavinners. She was so delighted to be asked that Klavier could feel his stress unwinding as she talked about a single that had gone viral through social media after a movie star blogged about wanting to be in the music video.

Listening to his manager tell stories about old industry friends and watching out for Apollo, who never so much as glanced over at Klavier as he waited on tables around them, Klavier was surprised when his salad was placed in front of him. Partly because it hadn’t felt like that long since he placed the order, and partly because he recognized the golden bangle on his server’s wrist.

“Eggplant should be out soon,” Apollo said stiffly, retreating from the table as quickly as he’d come.

The salad was objectively average for such a high-profile restaurant, but Apollo’s return to his table, albeit unenthused, sweetened the dressing and livened the tomatoes and onion. When he returned ten minutes later with the main course, Klavier even managed to catch his eye for a split second. He smiled, wanting to make it count, but Apollo’s eyes had already turned to his manager.

“Enjoy,” Apollo said, clearing the empty salad bowls as he left.

“I wonder where that waitress went,” Klavier’s manager mused. Since the salad had arrived, she’d quieted, evaluating Klavier over her bowl, and the only thing that had changed now was that she was looking at him over her plate. “You seem to have relaxed, Klavier. Were we feeling a little hangry when we arrived?”

Klavier laughed aloud at the faux-grumpy voice his manager used for her question. “No, I had a nice lunch.” Munching on street vendor hot dogs with Apollo had been pleasant enough that Klavier wished the two of them were back on that park bench now.

“Hmm.” There was something in her expression that told Klavier she wanted to talk about something, but instead she looked down to blow on the steaming forkful of eggplant.

“I do appreciate your concern, you know,” Klavier said quietly, turning to his own dinner. He sensed his manager’s attention on him. “If I change my mind in a year or two, decide to come back and do the album thing--I’ll be sure to call you.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” his manager said, and Klavier looked up. She smiled, and there it was again--a watery crinkle in the corners of her eyes that made her look like she was going to lose it when he knew she wasn’t. “You always used to say that when you and Daryan were working on new songs. Have you got a hit single yet, I’d ask, and you’d say, ‘No, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.’” She twirled her fork through zucchini and eggplant slices, not picking up any food along the way. “I won’t be the first person you tell the next time you have a hit.”

The prediction had such an air of finality to it in his manager’s suddenly-soft voice that Klavier put his fork down altogether. “What do you mean? You don’t think I’d leave the manager who’s been with me my whole career?”

“No, no, I’ll be the first person in the industry to know.” She took a triumphant bite of zucchini, chewed, swallowed. “I think I’ve finally figured out what’s bothering you, Klavier.”

She continued to eat, and Klavier frowned. What was “bothering him”? What did she mean by that? Why he wasn’t releasing music? He wondered if his warming back up to his manager had been misguided, if she wasn’t listening to him after all.

They finished their dinner without revisiting the topic, hardly speaking at all in favor of the delicious meal in front of them. Apollo never came by to ask how everything was. In fact, he didn’t resurface until Klavier and his manager had visibly eaten all they could, both pushing their plates aside. He cleared their plates and returned with their bill. Klavier held up a hand when his manager reached for her purse.

“It’s a business dinner,” she said. “The agency’s got it covered.”

“No business here,” Klavier said. “Just old friends. Let me get it.”

Barely glancing at the total, Klavier left a few bills in the little leather-bound folder, and he and his manager made their way towards the front of the restaurant. It was starting to get busier, and Klavier could see himself attracting some attention from other patrons.

As he turned the corner around a long booth, headed towards the door, Klavier caught a storm of motion moving his way. He put a hand on his manager’s shoulder. “Could I meet you out front?” he asked, and, squinting in puzzlement, she nodded and went ahead.

Klavier turned just as Apollo came upon him, the leather-bound folder from their table in his hand. “Listen, just because I’m working multiple jobs doesn’t mean I need charity,” Apollo hissed, and Klavier was grateful that his normally loud companion had also recognized that Klavier was attracting attention from the next wave of customers. “This tip is outrageous.”

“We had two employees at our table, so it would hardly be fair for me to leave nothing for the lovely fraulein who brought us our drinks, now would it?”

Apollo’s eyes were practically sparking. “I. Didn’t want you to know. That I work here.”

Klavier hoped his expression didn’t give away how surprised he was at the abrupt shift in topic. He put his hands in his pockets and lowered his voice. “There’s no shame in work, you know, no matter what it is, waiting tables or defending in court. You could have told me.”

Apollo pressed his lips together. “I’m not ashamed to work. I’m...nobody wants to wait on…”

He gestured to Klavier with both hands, but Klavier wasn’t sure what he meant. Nobody wants to wait on someone they know? A colleague from their primary job?

“I didn’t mean to be a weirdo while you were on your date,” Apollo said finally, crossing his arms. Klavier all but barked with laughter in response.

“Ah, that wasn’t a date, I’m afraid. That’s my manager.” Klavier decided not to refer to his old second job directly, and Apollo didn’t seem to react to it. If anything, his whole body seemed to relax, from his pursed lips to his rigid shoulders, everything loosening.

“I see.” His voice was even softer. Was Apollo always so antsy around women? Klavier wasn’t sure. “Are you thinking about getting back into music?”

Even with his attention on Apollo--naive, innocent Apollo, who asked questions with no ulterior motive--Klavier could sense everyone at the tables closest to them quieting and leaning in to hear his response. He smiled. “What do you think?”

Apollo seemed to consider his question. “I think if you want to, you should.”

“And if I don’t want to?” Klavier prompted.

“Then you shouldn’t.” The look Apollo gave him said what had been left out of that answer: Obviously, idiot.

Klavier laughed. “Thank you, as always, for your stellar advice.” He waved his goodbye and hurried outside to meet his manager before Apollo remembered the original reason he’d come storming after him.

His manager was checking her phone when he walked up beside her and offered to drive her home. She accepted, and a few minutes later, the valet pulled Klavier’s car around. The sun had been down for a while now, but the streets of Los Angeles were rarely dark. Remembering the route from business dinners past--Klavier was the only member of the Gavinners ever to offer a ride to their manager, who traveled primarily by subway--he practically turned down side streets on autopilot.

A mile or so away from the restaurant, once they’d made their way into a more residential area, his manager turned down the radio.

“Justice,” she said. Klavier glanced at her before slowing at a stop light. She looked over. “Apollo Justice. That’s that defense attorney you have all those cases against. This may surprise you, Klavier, but I do pay attention to your career outside of music.”

She settled back into the passenger’s seat. They drove along in near-silence for a few minutes, the radio barely coming out of the speakers. Klavier didn’t move to change it.

“That’s right,” he said finally. “I was surprised to see him there.”

“Entranced is the word I would use.”

This time Klavier’s sideways glance lasted a little longer, and he had to brake harder than intended to stop at the next set of lights.

“Klavier, can I ask you something? These songs you’ve been writing.” She paused. “Are you writing love songs for our waiter?”

Klavier put on his blinker and pulled over in front of her apartment building. Once he was stopped, he turned to face his manager. “Am I what?”

She didn’t shy away from the question. “Writing love songs for our waiter. Lawyer. Whatever he is.”

“They’re not love songs.” Klavier realized belatedly that this argument was basically the same as admitting that Apollo was his muse--something he hadn’t done aloud yet. You’ll be the first to know, he thought. His manager closed her eyes and smiled, tilting her head back onto the headrest. “What?”

“Just thinking,” she said, unclicking her seatbelt and opening her door. “If this were the good old days, your next album would be called something like Hot for Justice.”

It was a far bigger relief than Klavier expected when Apollo texted back that he was free to hang out.

Even though Apollo certainly didn’t seem as upset when they parted at the restaurant, Klavier had still been worried that his text might go ignored, that Apollo might not want to see him. When Klavier was still touring with the band, he remembered Daryan once saying something like, “Wait at least three days after getting a number to call. That way, you don’t seem desperate.” As soon as Daryan announced he was going to the bathroom and left the room, their manager let out a soft sigh.

“Call right away,” she mumbled to herself, looking down into her soda can. Klavier wasn’t even sure she realized he was listening. “Always call right away.”

Klavier figured that advice applied here as well and texted Apollo as soon as he got home from driving his manager to her apartment. Are you busy tomorrow?

Hours in the prosecutor’s office were pretty flexible these days. As long as all the paperwork checked out and people were ready for their trials, there wasn’t an issue. Klavier usually got to his office before eight in the morning and left somewhere around eight at night. He figured Herr Edgeworth wouldn’t mind if he took a longer-than-usual lunch break. From the few gripes Apollo had let slip about how little work he had, he wouldn’t be much missed at his office, either.

Apollo’s response didn’t come in for a few hours, though it immediately explained itself: Just finished my shift. Busy when?

Lunch. 1? I’ll pick you up.

Immediately, Please don’t. I’m not giving the Wrights any ammo.

Ah, Herr Wright and his daughter. They did seem to enjoy teasing Apollo. Klavier clicked his tongue. Ammo? Do they not know you are a pro at getting on and off the back of a motorcycle?

Not that Klavier himself had any issue with teasing.

Where do you want me to meet you?

Klavier couldn’t complain about his question being ignored when his ultimate goal was being achieved. He suggested the park, and Apollo agreed.

I’ll bring lunch.

The urge to treat Apollo grew with every text. If nothing else, Klavier supposed, at least Apollo’s budget kept his waistline in check. The last thing he needed was to draw the paparazzi’s attention; they were sensitive to anything that might signal a scoop was coming.

When the time came to head out to lunch—Herr Edgeworth even half-smiled when Klavier waved passing his office—Klavier was glad he’d brought his own from home, though. The weather was beautiful, and he didn’t want to spend a minute of it indoors if he didn’t have to. Apollo, an apple in one hand and an open book he was reading in the other, was waiting for him on a bench when he walked up. It took a moment for him to realize Klavier had arrived.

“You could say something, you know,” Apollo muttered, putting in a bookmark and dropping his book into his briefcase.

“Reading anything good?” Klavier asked, sitting beside him and pulling out his lunch.

Apollo shook his head. “Nah. Some bestseller from the library. I’m trying to read more to keep my brain active, but then I take book recommendations from Mr. Wright.” Apollo side-eyed Klavier. “I’ve read some weird stuff in the last six months.”

Klavier laughed. Apollo punctuated his sentence with a bite of his apple. “You could have waited for me to get here to eat, you know. Rather cruel of you.”

“Your own fault for being late.” Another bite.

Klavier sat beside him on the bench and tilted his head back, closing his eyes and taking an appreciative deep breath. The weather was just about perfect. People who preferred four seasons to year-long California weather had to be just plain stubborn. “I didn’t know that you worked at that restaurant when I came in,” he said.

Apollo seemed to search his face, but without his usual courtroom intensity. “I know that.”

Again, disproportionate relief washed over Klavier.

“You’re just good at unintentional stalking, I guess.”

It took Klavier a second to realize that Apollo was making a joke. His companion certainly was studying his apple with an odd amount of interest. Self-conscious, Klavier wondered; still unused to being in Klavier’s casual company? Klavier gave an indulgent chuckle.

“Well, just to make future rendezvous easier, are there any other jobs I should know about?” he teased.

Apollo sipped from his can of soda, crossing one leg over the other. Klavier dusted sandwich crumbs from his lap after taking an unattractively large bite.

“Just odd jobs, really,” Apollo said. “Nothing you’d run into me doing, I don’t think. Tutoring some kids in my apartment building. Dog-walking. Closer to where I live than to People Park, so.”

“Ach, and what do you do for fun, then?” Klavier made his voice as light as possible, but he hadn’t realized how many jobs Apollo was juggling. The thought of it made his chest hurt.

The question seemed to puzzle Apollo a little. “Go out with my friends?” It hadn’t been a question until the very last second when his voice tipped up. Then, more decidedly: “Drink.”

Klavier’s laughter couldn’t be contained. “Hear, hear!”

Finished with his lunch, Apollo scrunched up his brown paper bag in his hand and rested his elbows on his knees. “In all seriousness, I don’t mind it. Early twenties are a time for work, so that by our late twenties, we’ve got a foundation. A stepping stone to the next stage in life.”

“A poignant thought, but a sad one. Early twenties are for goofing off and making mistakes that will make great stories when we’re in our late twenties.”

“Not if you can’t afford it.” The barb seemed automatic, and Apollo flinched away from his own words. “I guess…I don’t mind the jobs because I’d like to think that one day I won’t need them.” He heaved a slow sigh. “Though, I wouldn’t need them already if I were still working for Mr. Gavin.”

Klavier willed himself not to tense up, but Apollo’s eyes were on him in a flash anyway. For once, he didn’t seem particularly apologetic for something he’d said to Klavier. Perhaps he noticed that Klavier’s reactions came more from the fact that he had grown so unused to hearing his brother’s name in casual conversation than anything else.

“We always had a steady stream of clients coming into the office, and Mr. Gavin let me help with a lot of research,” Apollo continued. “It was actually a great learning experience. You know he mentored me when I was in school?”

“Did he?” Klavier suddenly regretted touring around Europe at that time. He tried to imagine Apollo as a law student, watering Kristoph’s plants and brewing his rooibos tea.

“That’s how I got my badge so young,” Apollo said, tugging his lapel so Klavier could see his badge. Klavier bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile. “Normally more schooling is required, but under the direct supervision of a practicing attorney, I was on an accelerated track. It’s a good thing, too…I’d be in even more debt otherwise.”

“Why choose such an expensive major?” Klavier asked. “What made law your passion?”

Apollo recoiled from the question, and Klavier inwardly cursed himself. He just had to go and encourage conversation, as if he were talking to someone naturally forthcoming with information about himself. He couldn’t just recognize that Apollo’s talking about himself was an achievement in and of itself.

After a pause that extended a half-second too long, before Klavier could follow up with some awkward question to redirect the conversation, Apollo answered. “I was bullied as a kid.”

“What?” Klavier wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Apparently he had, though, because Apollo repeated, “I was bullied as a kid.” His expression was still guarded, but Klavier got the sense that Apollo was telling him something very, very few people in the world knew. He swallowed and mentally reminded himself to be quiet. “I got…moved around a few times. To different families. Foster families.”

He was watching Klavier for a reaction, which was taking Klavier every fiber of willpower not to give. Instead, he settled on a slight nod, encouraging Apollo to continue.

“I had some foster families who weren’t that great. The kind you hear about in the movies, who just want the money and don’t really care about the kid.” Apollo traced the design on his bracelet with his finger absently. “Then I had families that were nice, but by then, I wasn’t really. Picked a lot of fights, broke a lot of rules, became too much trouble for the good foster parents. Got sent back the other way.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine Apollo picking fights, but Klavier was surprised anyway. At the worst, he would have assumed Apollo to be a child who couldn’t be quiet in assemblies, not one who was a disciplinary problem. There was a long pause before Apollo continued.

“I don’t really want to talk about that,” he said finally.

“You don’t have to,” Klavier said. A part of him itched to know, though. If Apollo was starting fights…

Apollo’s expression turned wry. “You’re wondering how someone who starts fights ends up on the other side of them.”

“No.” Apollo’s fingers moved from tracing the edge of his bracelet to rubbing his wrist beneath it. “…Yes.”

“I picked a fight with someone a lot bigger than I was. That was the last fight I picked, but not the last one I ended up in.”

It was a logical conclusion to the story. Klavier nodded. Apparently past the part of the story he didn’t want to talk about, Apollo brightened.

“That’s when I met my best friend, back in school. I didn’t know he was going to be my best friend yet, but…he stuck up for me, you know? We hung out all the time, and we’d watch the Steel Samurai together, and, um…”

Embarrassment overtook Apollo’s expression, his face flooding. Klavier knew enough to fill in the blanks and perked up. “Ah, and then Herr Powers was arrested on false charges. I remember hearing about that trial from my brother. He was still fairly green back then…one of Herr Wright’s earliest triumphs.”

“The Steel Samurai was all about justice, sticking up for the good people and fighting off villains. I mean, I was in junior high at the time, and it was a kiddie show, but…he was still kind of my hero.” Apollo toyed with his hair spikes a bit, not meeting Klavier’s eyes. “As a kid, you kind of blur the lines between character and actor. I couldn’t accept that the ‘Steel Samurai’ was a killer, and he wasn’t. Mr. Wright was like…my hero’s hero, you know?” He leaned back on the park bench and looked up at the sky. “I followed that trial in all the papers, and I just kept thinking, ‘I want to do that.’”

“Does Herr Wright know this story?” Klavier asked.

“Are you kidding?” Apollo let his head roll onto his shoulder to give Klavier a dull look. “He’d probably just laugh at me.”

“I don’t think he would,” Klavier started to say, but Apollo cut him off in a cynical voice slightly deeper than his usual one.

“’Well, you turned out just like me, Apollo, including the fancy paycheck and high respect from your colleagues. Har, har! Clean the toilet.’”

Klavier was about to interject, but paused at the last part. “Clean the toilet?”

“My break’s almost over. Got to get back to the office and hope that someone in need is willing to take on a rookie attorney and wanders into an…anything agency.” Apollo stretched, his arms straight over his head, his legs lifting off the ground with the movement. Instead of sinking back onto the bench, he used the stretch as momentum to jump up to his feet. His hands were on his hips immediately. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Klavier said automatically. As Apollo was picking up his things from the bench, Klavier added, “You know, if money is ever tight—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Apollo said, not unkindly, and gently bonked Klavier on the head with the spine of the bestseller Herr Wright had recommended. “I’m doing just fine. I believe hard work leads to a better life. I’m good at saving money. I do not need a free meal, a loan, or a roommate.” He lifted the book, holding it with its edge against his shoulder. “I appreciate it, Klavier, really, but I don’t need your help.”

“Well.” There wasn’t anything to say in response to that. “If you ever do.”

“I know.” Apollo waved. “See you around.”

Even after that garishly red suit was out of sight, Klavier stayed on the bench. He had been privy to a side of Apollo very few people, if anyone else, knew. He intended to guard that knowledge jealously.

Apparently, his music was now predicting the future. As soon as he’d set his pencil down, his latest song composed (“Working Man”), Klavier’s workload just about doubled. The de Killer trial had been the final push to get him back where he belonged in the esteem of his colleagues, featured heavily in news articles and blog sites. Klavier had worried that his gain was at Apollo’s expense, but he was hardly mentioned at all in any of the articles praising Klavier’s prosecution.

If anything, that was worse.

As Klavier’s workload kept him on the job earlier and later—even Herr Edgeworth had left earlier than he had a few nights that week, popping his head into Klavier’s office with a furrowed brow and a reminder not to work too hard—he saw less of Apollo. With each new murder trial Klavier took on, he hoped to see his rival smirking at him from the defense bench, but it never was. Their conversations were essentially phone tag.

Why am I getting e-mails from your office at one in the morning? Apollo texted, and Klavier could practically hear the irritation oozing from the pixelated letters.

I can access my work e-mail from home, you know. The magic of technology! he replied. Must have forgotten to switch over to my personal.

I doubt that.

If it weren’t so endearing, Klavier would curse Apollo’s perceptiveness. It was hard to be annoyed with an argumentative text when it was basically a compliment trying to camouflage itself as standoffishness.

Your faith in me always cheers me up, he wrote instead, imagining Apollo squawking in protest on the other end of the message. Though it had been a while since he’d gotten Apollo properly riled up over a teasing comment. These days he just seemed to roll with whatever Klavier said to him. Maybe Apollo was getting to understand him a little better.

Weeks went by without crossing paths with Apollo. Klavier missed their lunches. In fact, Klavier missed lunch. Some days he would get home and realize he hadn’t eaten since leaving his apartment, his stomach rumbling at his neglect. Other days he tossed food in his mouth at his desk and didn’t even register the taste. Once while waiting for some paperwork to print, he’d gotten woozy.

Are you feeling OK? Maybe you’re getting sick. You shouldn’t be at the office right now.

He’d made the mistake of relaying this story to Apollo. Trying to spin his anecdote a little differently—You’re getting too worked up over this! I’m just being dramatic.—Klavier shook his head. Maybe the whole “spots before my eyes” story wasn’t so funny after all. As nice as it was to have Apollo fussing over him, the quick succession of distraught texts that followed him that afternoon made it not so worth it.

When five o’clock rolled around, Klavier still had hours’ worth of paperwork to complete when the Chief Prosecutor stepped into his office.

“Gavin, Phoenix Wright called me to tell you to go home at a decent hour, not take any work home with you, eat a healthy dinner, and go to bed. Any idea why?”

It was a monumental moment in their relationship, Apollo getting Klavier to flush with embarrassment, and he wasn’t even there to see the payoff of his work. Shame, really.

“Well, I happen to agree with him. How Wright is aware that you’re pushing the seventy-hour-week mark is beyond me, but then, I’ve never been quite sure how he knows half of what he does. I want you out of here in a timely fashion tonight.”

“Will do, chef.” It was just as easy to say the English ‘chief,’ but Klavier liked a little accent every now and then, and the corners of Herr Edgeworth’s eyes crinkled a bit with his smile.

“Anything that can’t wait until tomorrow?” he asked, and Klavier hesitated. That was all the indication Herr Edgeworth seemed to need. “Pack up, then. We can take head out together.”

It was then that Klavier noticed the raincoat folded over Herr Edgeworth’s arm, the briefcase at his feet. His fingers twitched against the barrel of his pen. “Do you not trust me to leave on time if you don’t supervise me?” He made sure to keep his tone light, cheeky even, and it didn’t appear that he had offended his boss. Herr Edgeworth’s smile remained.

“Not one bit,” he confirmed in a similar light voice. They both chuckled.

“I do have one more e-mail that has to go out tonight,” Klavier hedged.

“I’ll wait.”

With the chief prosecutor hovering in his doorway, Klavier shuffled his paperwork into orderly piles on his desk and turned to his computer. He saved and closed out everything he’d been working on, scratching at his jaw a little bit. As much as he liked his boss, the Chief Prosecutor still held all the intimidation his job title might suggest, and Klavier couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable under his gaze.  Seeming to sense this, Herr Edgeworth looked away, inspecting the classic guitars and album covers on display around Klavier’s office.

Being careful to use his personal account, Klavier e-mailed Apollo. You got me this time. I admit defeat. Chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, he added the suggestion that they get together sooner rather than later. He had some vacation time. Quite a bit, actually, since he’d refused to take off time since coming back to the prosecutor’s office full-time. Rather than fuel Apollo’s anxiety over his work habits further, Klavier opted for the more ambiguous I’ve been planning to take off some time lately. We’ll have to catch up then; takeout for one is entirely too sad.

After a moment of deliberation, he opted to leave out the point-blank statement “I miss you.” Too needy. Too reminiscent of Fraulein Manager’s suggestion that the numbers he’d been penning over the past few months were love songs.

Once he’d sent the message, he powered down his computer and packed up his things. He didn’t include any homework for his cases, sensing that Herr Edgeworth’s watchful eye had fixated on him again. Within a few minutes, they were in the stairwell. It was still light out. Klavier didn’t remember the last time he’d gone home in daylight.

At the door to the parking garage, he and Herr Edgeworth parted ways with cordial “good nights.” Klavier obediently went to his motorcycle. Just as he had swung his leg over it, his cell phone trilled in his pocket. He fished it out one-handedly, the other hand balancing his helmet, and saw Apollo lit up on the screen.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Oh. Um. Hi. I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Again, Klavier noted the absence of his name. Then again, he thought with a start, how long had it been since he’d called Apollo anything in return?

“Have I ever ignored your calls, Herr Forehead?” he asked, making a silent point to himself. The nickname felt foreign on his tongue.

“Huh. You haven’t called me that in a while.” Perceptive even without sight. Klavier shook his head. “A-Anyway. I just got your e-mail. Figured out how to send personal e-mails from the office, have you?”

An engine on the other side of the parking garage roared to life, and a moment later, Klavier watched the sharpest red sports car in the lot scream past him for the exit. The Chief Prosecutor may be a little intense, but he had style.

“Was that a car?” Apollo asked on the other end of the phone. Klavier grinned. “Are you actually leaving your office?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Herr Forehead.” Still foreign, still not what he wanted to call him. It would be strange to say Apollo, though, wouldn’t it? Had he ever said Apollo’s actual name aloud before? “Were you calling in to check up on me?”

“I guess. Yeah.” The unexpected agreement warmed Klavier somehow. “You’re not taking work home with you, are you?”

“I’m not, no. Doktor’s orders.”

“Why don’t you just admit that you only know four words in German, and they’re all basically English words with accents?”

Klavier laughed. How long had it been since he’d spoken with Apollo? It felt like forever since his voice had come through anything but text messages.

“You wouldn’t happen to be on your way home now, too, would you?” he asked. Apollo made a noncommittal sound.

“I have some work to do tonight.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of egregious hypocrisy.” Klavier leaned forward, resting his elbows on the handlebars of his bike.

“Not office work,” Apollo argued, his voice raising. Klavier chuckled. “Other…other work.”

It clicked immediately in Klavier’s mind that Apollo was talking about one of his odd jobs. It also occurred to him that the Wrights might still be in earshot if Apollo wasn’t getting into the specifics. Could they still not know?

“That’s too bad,” Klavier said. “I was hoping to go out for something nice to eat tonight.”

The sound of a door closing came from Apollo’s end of the conversation. He must have been leaving the office just then as well. “You can still go out to eat.”

There was something in Apollo’s tone that caught Klavier’s attention. It wasn’t a guilt trip, he knew, or bitterness, but there was definitely something in Apollo’s voice that told him the correct response was…

“It wouldn’t be any fun without you.”

The truth.

Apollo scoffed practically before the reply was out of Klavier’s mouth. “Who says stuff like that?”

Klavier swore he could hear his smile.

“Tomorrow, then?” he pushed.

“You’re planning to leave on time two days in a row? Wow,” Apollo deadpanned. Klavier hummed. “Well, I have plans tomorrow, since it’s. You know. Friday.”

A date? The thought came, unwanted, to Klavier’s mind.

“I’m hanging out with a friend of mine. Actually, though, he’d probably like to meet you. If you. Wanted to come.”

Klavier perked up. Apollo didn’t talk much about his other friends, and certainly hadn’t had anything further to say about his family and home life since that lunch they’d shared on the park bench. To be invited out meant that Klavier was crossing a barrier, moving from Apollo’s professional life into his personal.

“I don’t want to disrupt your plans,” he said. It had never been harder to be polite.

“You’re not. Seriously, Clay’s been bugging me forever to introduce you. Uh. But I don’t want him to bother you or anything—”

“Don’t be silly, Herr Forehead, it doesn’t bother me at all.” The fact that this was even a concern for Apollo surprised Klavier. He wouldn’t have even thought of it.

“If you say so.” He only sounded partially convinced. He gave Klavier the name of a bar he didn’t recognize and directions. “We’ll probably meet up there about six tomorrow.”

“That’s a little far for you, isn’t it?” Klavier tried to follow Apollo’s directions in his imagination.

“It’s near Clay. He works at the Cosmos Space Center. They’ve got him running tests and things, so he usually gets out of work later than I do. We’ll get there at the same time if he’s closer to the place.”

“Space Center?” A few more cars passed Klavier in the parking lot. “Tests?”

“He’s in training to be an astronaut,” Apollo said, voice brimming with pride. “You can ask him about it when you meet him…he talks kind of fast, though, and kind of a lot, so. You’ll get the full description of his job and the Space Center.” Klavier opened his mouth to respond when Apollo cut him off. “Oh, uh—there’s my bus. I should go.”

“Me too, if I want this to count as going home early,” Klavier teased. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting Clay.”

“Me too, bye, Klavier,” Apollo said, nearly drowned out by the sound of the bus on his end.

A quick internet search told Klavier that the bar they were going to was a little neighborhood spot that had recently added two new pool tables to the one it boasted before. A picture alongside this announcement showcased a very seventies-looking dive.

Klavier decided to leave work early to get ready, which he found a little hilarious since he was going to be dressing down. The prosecutor’s office was in a pretty congested part of town, so he’d be recognized in a heartbeat if he tried bringing casual clothes and changing after work. The only option was to hit his apartment to trade his suit for jeans and hair spray for his Dodgers cap, then make a stealthy escape from there.

He made a point of waving auf wiedersehen to Herr Edgeworth as he passed his office on the way out around three-thirty in the afternoon.

In Friday’s subdued traffic, Klavier made it back to his place in about twenty minutes. He washed the product out of his hair and let it air dry as he swapped out his office clothes for black jeans and a distressed gray hoodie. It might have been a dive, but he couldn’t look too bad, in case he did get recognized. He pulled back his hair into a ponytail and jammed his cap down over his head. It took him fifteen minutes to find his sunglasses before it occurred to him that he would be indoors or outside at night for this outing and would look like a tool if he wore shades.

The drive out took nearly an hour, between the distance and rush hour traffic. Klavier wondered if he should have offered Apollo a ride and resolved to offer for the trip home. By the time he pulled into the parking lot—a bit empty, but then, it was early for the Friday bar crowd—it was nearly six. He caught sight of that red hooded jacket of Apollo’s outside the door and made his way over.

Apollo recognized him right away, but he was expecting him, so Klavier figured his disguise was still good. He grinned as he made his way towards him and only remembered that a third person was joining them when he heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Get out, it’s really him.”

Right beside Apollo was a dark-haired man wearing a visor and a bandage over his nose. He towered over Apollo but was about eye-to-eye with Klavier. Though his clothes were even more casual than Klavier’s and Apollo’s—his jeans were ratty, his tee shirt faded with age—his blue-and-white jacket gleamed with newness. Klavier assumed the insignia on it was that of the Cosmos Space Center.

“You must be Clay. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Klavier grinned and held out his hand to shake. Clay swore with delight, and Apollo put a hand to his forehead in exasperation.

“You’re really here, shut up,” Clay said, grabbing Klavier’s hand and pumping it with almost frantic energy. “I thought Apollo was kidding when he said you were coming. I’ve been trying to get him to invite you for, like, ever. Dude. Dude.” In the midst of his motor-mouth introduction, Clay whipped out a CD Klavier recognized immediately as the Gavinners’ fourth album and a permanent marker. “Will you sign this?”

Apollo groaned, but Klavier spread his arms wide. “Of course. Thank you for supporting the band.”

“Yeah, man, I couldn’t believe it when Apollo said he got to go to a concert and go backstage and all that, and he didn’t even tell me. You know how I found out about you? I went to one of Apollo’s trials to cheer him on, and I was like, wait a second, isn’t that Klavier Gavin? And Apollo’s all, oh, yeah, whatever, man, I went to his last show ever, we hang out sometimes at crime scenes, and I was like, whaaaaaaat?”

Apollo had covered his face with both hands at this point. Keeping a straight face wasn’t generally hard for Klavier, but Clay’s speedy talking had him biting his tongue to keep from chuckling. Even though he’d referenced Klavier’s least favorite concert in his musical career multiple times, Klavier didn’t get any sense of pity or malice, emotions too often connected with that show. Clay must have been a very good friend for Apollo.

“There you go.” Klavier handed back the CD and marker, and Clay beamed down at the album.

“Apollo, Apollo, looklooklook, look, he signed it ‘to my dear friend, Clay.’ His dear friend.” Clay’s arm ricocheted back and forth against Apollo’s shoulder as he smacked him with excitement, holding out the CD for him to see.

Apollo gave the album a dismissive look before turning his eyes to Klavier. “You’ve only made tonight harder on yourself, just so you know.”

“That’s no way to speak to my dear friend Klavier Gavin, Apollo. Jeez. Rude.” In a flash, the CD in Clay’s hand was replaced with a cell phone. “Can I take a selfie with you?”

“Please stop,” Apollo said, horror splashed across his face. Klavier did laugh this time; it really had been too long since he’d seen Apollo flustered.

“Of course,” he said again. Clay bounced on the balls of his feet and slid over to Klavier’s side, throwing one arm around his shoulders like they were old pals and holding his phone up in the air at arm’s length. Apollo crossed his arms.

“Sure, I’ll just wait while you two take pictures in a parking lot.”

Clay’s eyes flickered to Apollo, who gave his wrist a self-conscious rub. That bracelet went everywhere with him, Klavier noticed. The pause was so quick Klavier almost thought he imagined it, because then Clay was grinning. “Aw, don’t be jelly, Apollo! It’s not personal, just optimum selfie positioning. Tall people only.”

A stifled gurgle managed its way through Apollo’s pursed lips while Clay took his picture, and Klavier snickered again. He liked the way Clay operated.

“You can stand on our feet if you’d like to get in the shot, Herr Forehead. We can boost you another inch or two.”

Clay roared with laughter, and Apollo punched his arm. “Can we just go inside already?” he muttered, glaring at Klavier with all the intensity of a tiny bird.

The dive looked much as it had online, if darker and dirtier. Klavier supposed they had cleaned up a bit for the pictures. They ordered drinks at the bar and brought them to a small orange booth, Apollo and Clay sliding in on one side and Klavier the other. The light that hung over the booth had a stained-glass shade that looked right out of some campy movie from decades before. Klavier looked around to take in the bar’s paneled walls and peeling paint, though it was clear that this was a typical haunt for the other two. They sipped their beers and slumped in their side of the booth.

“What’s ‘Herr Forehead’?” Clay asked, bringing Klavier’s attention back to the table. Apollo bristled.

“Ach, it’s a little pet name I have for my favorite defense attorney,” Klavier said with a laugh. Apollo took a long drink from his glass of beer, and Klavier soon felt a foot smack decidedly into his shin. The kick didn’t hurt, but he gave an indulgent cough and reached for his own glass.

Clay seemed awed by this information. “Klavier Gavin has a special nickname for you?” he asked Apollo, who grunted in response.

“Keep your voice down. If Klavier wanted people to know he was here, he wouldn’t have dressed like a normal person.”

If Klavier didn’t know Apollo better, he’d take his bluntness as an insult. As it was, he held his glass to his lips a second longer than necessary to push down the little smile at Apollo’s using his first name. “It’s true. I’m hoping to be low-key tonight.”

If Clay heard him, he made no indication, leaning back in his seat and giving Apollo an incredulous look. “I still can’t believe you’re on a first-name basis with Klavier Gavin. Like, you don’t even sound weird saying it. Klavier.” After a beat, Clay added, “Gavin” very quietly, as if the first and last names couldn’t be separated. Klavier took another gulp of beer, which had good taste for such a sketchy-looking establishment. His rings clinked against the glass.

Apollo’s eyes remained fixed on the table. “It would be weird to hang out with someone you didn’t feel comfortable calling by name, wouldn’t it?”

“Or a nickname,” Klavier added brightly. Apollo tried to scoff, but it came out as a small laugh.

“Hmm.” If Clay hadn’t made a quiet sound of agreement, Klavier might not have glanced over and noticed that, again, his wide smile had dimmed into thoughtfulness. Fan or not, Klavier was sure that Clay was evaluating him. From what Apollo had said about Clay, they’d been thick as thieves since childhood. With all the gossip tabloids building up the selfish, untrustworthy nature of uber-celebs, it made sense that Clay would be protective of his friend getting involved with one.

Being friends with one, rather.

“So, Apollo told me you’re in training to be an astronaut,” Klavier said. That was all the encouragement Clay needed; his eyes lit up, and then he was off, talking a hundred words a minute and gushing about his job and his childhood hero that he got to work with and space. He was particularly excited about space.

All the while, as Clay made grand gestures with his hands and laughed at his own jokes—at least, Klavier thought he was making jokes, he was speaking a little too quickly to be sure—Apollo smiled and made himself comfortable. He had one hand propping up his head, his elbow and upper arm against the table, the other hand on his beer. Absently, his index finger traced the rim of the glass, occasionally inspiring a soft ringing sound as the liquid went down with each sip. Klavier suspected he didn’t even realize the music he was creating.

Clay talked for at least twenty minutes uninterrupted, aside from Klavier’s encouraging prompts of “that’s pretty cool” and “oh, really?” He didn’t stop until Apollo jabbed an unapologetic elbow into his ribs.

“Can you let me out?” he asked, voice slightly slurred. Klavier noted that his glass was about empty. “Bathroom.”

“Herr Forehead, are you alright?” Keeping his tone light was no simple task as Clay slid out of the booth to let Apollo by.

“Of course I am.” His voice was less muddled this time, and he strode off towards the back of the bar without stumbling.

“The drawbacks of being short are that you can’t take selfies ever and are, biologically speaking, a lightweight,” Clay said, sliding back into the booth. His and Klavier’s beers were also down to the last gulp or two, though Klavier couldn’t say he even felt a buzz yet. “To be fair, these are effing huge glasses.” Clay put his hand flat against the table beside his glass and lifted it up to mimic measuring the glass; if Klavier had to estimate, he’d put it at about eight inches. “He wouldn’t get drunk so fast if we went to a place that has regular-sized ones.”

“To be fair,” Klavier conceded.

He expected Clay to pick up where he’d left off talking about the space station, but he didn’t. A comfortable silence overtook their table; more people were coming into the bar, though it was nothing like the scene in downtown L.A. Klavier quite preferred it.

“Not as mesmerizing when I do it, is it?” Clay asked lightly, and at first Klavier had no idea what he was talking about. With a wry look, Clay lifted his chin in the direction of his glass. Klavier could see him running his finger around the rim of it, but couldn’t hear a sound.

“Pardon?” Klavier asked, not quite sure how else to respond. Clay’s finger hesitated on the rim of the glass, and then he crossed his arms and rested them on the table, leaning in. All joking was gone from his expression, though it hadn’t been replaced by any more threatening emotion. There was a straightforwardness in how he held himself that made Klavier think, deliriously, He and Apollo are a lot alike.

“You seem to be pretty fond of…” Clay hesitated, his eyes darting around. Klavier knew instinctively that he was checking for eavesdroppers or a sign that another patron had recognized Klavier. “…Red velvet cake,” he decided finally. He went to tilt his head towards the side of the booth where Apollo had been sitting, but he didn’t need to; Klavier knew a code word when he heard one.

“I am,” he agreed in a tone not quite light enough to match the subject of pastry. Again, he found himself fighting a smile; was Clay giving him some kind of talk?

“Yeah, I know. I know you…work with red velvet cake a lot.” Clay wrinkled his nose, obviously unsatisfied with his chosen metaphor. “And that you…uh…eat it outside of work, too?”

At that, Klavier allowed his lips to twitch upwards. Clay huffed.

“And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were into red velvet cake. Like, you want more than friendship.”

Klavier froze. This was the second person in a row who, after seeing Klavier and Apollo interact for less than an hour, had decided that their relationship wasn’t so platonic. It was common knowledge—or, at least, well-circulated in the magazines—that Klavier’s personality was naturally flirtatious. It was all part of the rock star persona he’d cultivated for himself. Well, that and getting to see the little thrill it gave his fans to feel special and noticed. He never teased to lead anyone on.

Fraulein Manager knew him pretty well, probably better than anyone else in the industry now, and she knew him offstage and off the record. Clay knew Apollo better than anyone in the world, from the sound of it. These weren’t opinions Klavier could brush off easily.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, spinning one of his rings around his finger with his thumb.

Clay tipped up his visor. “The way you look at…red velvet cake. Like there’s no other cake in the bakery.” He leaned back in the booth. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s. Well, it’s nice to see it, actually. Red velvet cake…um…talks about you a lot. I was all ready to come here tonight and set you straight, but, hey, you’re into red velvet cake. Cool.”

Klavier thought for a minute that he should protest that he was not “into red velvet cake,” but first he had to think about quashing the desire to press for details on the “talks about you a lot” point.

A goofy grin had found its way back onto Clay’s face. “Wow, are you screwed. Look at your face.” He laughed, and Klavier took the last gulp of his beer. “But, seriously, I’m glad to see that…you know, that you appreciate him. Cake. That you’re not playing around.” With a dismissive shrug, he drained his glass as well and said, “As long as you know how lucky you are, it’s all right by me.”

“Are you giving me some kind of blessing?”

Clay lifted his empty glass in salute. “Let them eat cake.”

Apollo appeared at the end of the booth with three more beers carefully held to his chest. He had to bend his knees to lower them onto the table. “It didn’t occur to me until I ordered that you guys might want something different. I just got what we had the first time.”

“Fine by me,” Klavier said, pulling his glass towards himself. Clay let Apollo back into the booth.

“So, what did you guys talk about while I was gone?” The question wasn’t nearly as subtle as Klavier was sure Apollo hoped it was. The light flush on his cheeks couldn’t solely be from the alcohol.

Klavier’s stomach dropped. Maybe Fraulein Manager and Clay had picked up on something he hadn’t seen himself. Or hadn’t wanted to see. Or admit he saw.

Because it was true, wasn’t it? That he liked spending time with Apollo and making him feel special. That he thought about Apollo all the time outside of court. That he was writing songs for Apollo to chronicle the time they spent together, just the two of them.

“What’s wrong?” Apollo’s eyes searched his face. Klavier’s mouth had suddenly run dry, and he took a gulp of his drink.

“Wrong?” he echoed.

Apollo held up his hand and swiped his thumb across the base of his index finger. When Klavier looked down at his hand on the table, he saw that he was, in fact, spinning his ring again. “You do it when you’re nervous.” When Klavier looked up again, Apollo was even redder. “At least, I think it’s when you’re nervous. Or…anticipating something…?”

“Ach, well, I was telling Clay about my music. Trade secrets.”

“Oh, that new music you’re writing.” Apollo sprawled out on the booth a bit, bumping into Clay, and took another drink. It had to be dulling his senses, because Klavier was sure he was sending out all kinds of signals that he was lying. “Planning an album release?”

Clay’s head snapped in his direction. “An album?” he breathed. “Like, solo work? Klavier Gavin, post-Gavinners?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his eyes swept the room. Klavier looked around as well, but none of the other patrons were paying attention to them. In fact, from Klavier’s appraisal, it looked like they were the youngest people here by at least fifteen years. Perhaps another reason he’d never heard of this bar.

“It’s really just a side project. I’m not planning anything yet, just getting back in the groove of writing songs. Right now I’m pretty committed to the law.”

“Aw.” Clay lifted his glass to his lips.

“What do you write, anyway?” Apollo asked. “Like, what are your songs about?”

Fraulein Manager’s knowing smile flashed before Klavier’s eyes.

“How badly I want to eat red velvet cake,” he answered. Clay choked on his beer.

Apollo wasn’t in nearly as bad shape as Klavier had feared. A loud person on a typical day, he was somehow lighter and softer when drunk. He swayed and smiled on his way out to Clay’s beat-up box of a car. At least Klavier didn’t have to worry about his getting home. They’d all stopped after the second beer, but Clay was right; Apollo’s size made his much more susceptible to the liquor.

“You’re okay to drive?” he asked Clay anyway.

“Definitely. I didn’t drink anything too strong.” Clay gave him a cheeky salute. “Don’t worry, I know. Precious cargo.” Klavier ducked his head in embarrassment. He was still trying to process Clay’s input from earlier that night, and the quiet teasing over Apollo’s head wasn’t helping.

“If he were too bombed, we wouldn’t drive.” Apollo hummed. “Mr. Starbuck has come to get us before. He’s a good guy.”

“Well, let me know you guys got home.” Klavier shook Clay’s hand. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“We should hang out again soon,” Clay said.

“You’re much less sturstrack now,” Apollo said, dropping into the passenger’s seat in Clay’s car. “Star…starstrack. Starstr…str…” He laughed, a funny sound that spiraled upwards, nothing like his usual bark. Klavier caught himself smiling as Clay buckled Apollo’s seatbelt and had to mask it before Clay turned around.

The drive home was even longer than the ride out; rush hour had nothing on the real party crowd that was in its glory now that it was nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night. It didn’t bother Klavier. In fact, the traffic gave him much-needed time to think. The radio, which was always blasting in his car, stayed off for the whole ride. In the back of his mind, he could still hear the soft ringing of Apollo’s glass as he ran his fingers around its rim.

What startled Klavier most was that the idea of having that kind of relationship with Apollo didn’t startle him at all. In fact, the thought was kind of nice. Holding hands under the table at a restaurant, driving home together, nodding off on the couch while watching a movie in their sweatpants. The desire for that domesticity struck Klavier so intensely that his fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Clay had given him his blessing of sorts. Was it possible that Apollo was feeling this way, too? If so, Klavier was certain that he was oblivious to it. Maybe Apollo had just talked about their friendship or the places they went for lunch, and Clay took it as something more. Klavier knew Apollo kept a pretty small circle of friends, so he was something new and shiny, someone to inspect under a microscope. Nothing he wasn’t used to.

Still, now that he’d imagined Apollo curled up against him in his pj’s, an empty popcorn bowl slipping off his lap, Klavier knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to how their relationship was before. It was an innate decision, one he barely even registered that he was making, the logical next step in this relationship. Klavier didn’t have to send embarrassingly large flower arrangements to Apollo’s office, and they didn’t have to do the lovey-dovey in public. In fact, with the media still nosing around Klavier’s business, it was probably best that they didn’t. Apollo wouldn’t have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with.

Maybe Apollo should have some say in this, Klavier thought wryly. He wasn’t even positive that Apollo was interested, and if he wasn’t, that was that. Klavier put on his turn signal and took a right off of the main highway, hoping to get home faster by taking a shortcut through a few sleepy neighborhoods.

And what would he do if Apollo weren’t interested? He would have to go back then. They would have to stay friends. There was nothing wrong with friendship, Klavier reasoned; wasn’t that what they’d had all this time anyway? So nothing would change at all. Their lunches wouldn’t be dates, they wouldn’t be holding hands, and Apollo wouldn’t be staying at his apartment.

Klavier’s face burned at the thought.

Lucky for him none of his fans were around to see his suave rock star persona falling to pieces over an aggressive young man who didn’t even care that he was a rock star. Hated his music. The band’s music, he corrected himself, recalling Apollo’s ringtone. He wondered what Apollo would think of the songs he was writing now, if he would somehow know that he was their muse. That Klavier’s music spoke louder truths than Klavier himself ever did.

Could they go back? If Klavier approached Apollo and Clay had been mistaken, could he honestly say, “That’s okay, we can still be friends”? Would Apollo accept it?

He wouldn’t, Klavier realized as he approached the downtown area again from a new angle. Klavier had definitely saved himself time getting home. The thought didn’t please him like he thought it would; he remained too fixated on the image in his mind of Apollo’s face if he rejected him. He’d overthink everything Klavier said and did, and, in all fairness, how Klavier would treat him would inevitably be different. Careful and guarded. Trying to prove that being friends was all right. Everything would be awkward, and Apollo would start avoiding him altogether.

That couldn’t happen.

His phone chirped with a text message from a number he didn’t recognize. Hey its clay. Apollo gave me ur #. Hes home n so am i. L8r!!!

Klavier pulled into his garage finally and took the elevator up to his apartment. He would have to wait and see. Clay had given him a kind of hint—that Apollo talked about him a lot—so maybe now he could see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears, decide if there was a chance. Figure out what to do then.

If Apollo’s hyper-perceptiveness didn’t figure him out first.

The weekend went by with little fanfare. Klavier penned a new song—“Red Velvet”—and called Apollo mid-morning on Saturday to see how he’d held up.

“Hey, what’s up?” The casual way Apollo answered his phone sounded as though he and Klavier had just been in conversation and he was picking it up right where they left off. Klavier tugged on the edge of his sleeve with his fingertips.

“Nothing, just wanted to see how you were doing. No hangover, huh?”

“After two beers? Please.” Apollo actually scoffed. “Did Clay tell you I was a lightweight? He’s tried to convince himself that just because he’s a mutant, he has better drinking stamina than I do.”

“Mutant? He and I are the same height.”

“Of course you’re tall, you’re a rock star. You couldn’t blind people properly if you were normal height.”

“I would still be a full head and shoulders over you, though, fortunately. That is my goal in life, you know.”

“Har har, don’t be a jerk.”

Klavier found himself wishing they were having this conversation in the same room, that Apollo was sitting at his kitchen counter right now, resting his toes on the metal circle that connected the three legs of the bar stool to disguise the fact that his feet didn’t touch the ground when he sat on them. Klavier could offer him pancakes or an omelet, which they could eat while watching old reruns of Steel Samurai on television. He imagined Apollo with gel-less hair, how soft it would be without any product in it, how it would feel to bury his nose in it—he bet Apollo used shampoo that didn’t smell like anything—to let his lips rest there and press into a lazy kiss on the top of his head.

He nearly dropped his cell phone at the thought and heard Apollo asking if he was all right. The call sounded a million miles away.

Monday morning came too quickly, Monday night not fast enough.

“Out, Gavin,” Herr Edgeworth said, rapping his knuckles against Klavier’s open door on his way out at six. Klavier laughed, said (lied, that was the word he was looking for) he wouldn’t be much longer, and he continued working until the lights in the office automatically shut off.

Klavier’s cell phone pulled him away from his computer screen hours later. He’d long since changed his ringtone to one of the generic tones, totally unrelated to the Gavinners, but he’d decided to keep “The Guitar’s Serenade” for Apollo. When he looked at the screen of his phone, he saw that it was one in the morning and picked up immediately.

“Apollo? Are you all right?”

“Uh—y-yeah, I’m fine.” He did sound fine, if a little taken aback. Klavier must have sounded more distraught than he intended. “Sorry, I know it’s late. Doesn’t sound like I woke you up, at least.”

“Nein, not at all,” Klavier said, trying to compose himself back to coolness. He laughed for effect. “A rock star in bed before midnight? Unheard of. A defense attorney, on the other hand…”

“I had to pick up the closing shift tonight for someone who couldn’t make it, but the buses aren’t running anymore.” Apollo huffed. “I’m sorry to bother you, I know it’s late, but can you pick me—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” So much for coolness. Apollo stuttered an “OK,” and Klavier powered down his computer with one hand.

Thank goodness he’d driven in today instead of taking the hog. Klavier made sure to turn on the heated seats as soon as he turned on the engine. True enough, California had it better than most of the world when it came to winter and early spring, but it was still unusually chilly out.

He pulled up in front of the restaurant even faster than expected. No one was out on the roads this late on a Monday, or, Klavier supposed, this early on a Tuesday. Apollo was waiting outside in that same red hooded jacket, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His hands were jammed in his pockets, though he waved when he saw Klavier’s car pull up.

Apollo sighed into a smile as soon as he was in the passenger’s seat. “It feels good in here.” He rolled his head onto his shoulder to look at Klavier. “Eight minutes. I’m impressed. You either live very close by or just came from the office.” His eyes dropped to Klavier’s suit jacket and slacks. Klavier fought down the color he could feel rising to his cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” he teased. It had the desired effect; Apollo blushed first.

“Th-thank you for coming to get me,” he said. He eased back into his seat and clicked in his seatbelt.

“Any time.”

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

“You didn’t. When was I worried?” Klavier slowed at a red light.

“When I first called. You were kind of panicky. ‘Apollo? Are you all right?’” He pitched his voice up and made it sound almost frantic. Klavier burst into laughter.

“I didn’t sound that bad. You exaggerate.”

“Maybe a little,” Apollo said, snuggling back into the heated seat. “I figured you had to be really upset, though, since you said ‘Apollo.’”

Klavier swallowed. “I wasn’t thinking. My apologies, Herr Forehead.”

“‘Apollo’ is better.”

For a split second, Klavier hesitated, and he prayed—in vain, he was sure—that Apollo wouldn’t notice. “So, where am I taking you? GPS is in the glove compartment if you don’t want to give directions.”

Apollo plugged in the GPS and typed in his address. Klavier didn’t recognize the street name that the disembodied voice of the GPS spelled out. He frowned as he followed the first instructions the GPS gave. “Where is that? What part of town?”

“You don’t have to drive me all the way there,” Apollo said quickly. “Really, you could just drop me off near Gourd Lake.”

“Gourd Lake?” Klavier’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Are you north or south of there?”

“Uh…” Apollo had his eyes closed and was huddled in his jacket. “I’m not so good with directions. Near the gas station?”

“North.” The answer to the unasked question came out more clipped than he meant it to. Klavier flipped on his signal and took a u-turn back the way they’d come. Apollo’s eyes flew open.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s your problem?”

“North of Gourd Lake is not a good area,” Klavier said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t realize that was where you were living.”

“It’s cheap,” Apollo argued.

“And you commute there by yourself at night?” Klavier had to keep an eye on the speedometer, aware that he was going a little faster than he wanted. He eased up on the gas. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not a big deal, Klavier, geez! So, what, you don’t like the neighborhood, so you’re not going to take me home?”

“I’m not,” Klavier agreed. “You can crash with me tonight.”

Apollo had gone very still beside him. “What are you thinking? I don’t have any clothes at your place. I don’t even have a toothbrush. I have to go to work in the morning. What, you’re worried about somebody keying your car?”

“I’m worried about you. If I were thinking, I wouldn’t let you go back to that apartment again unless you were picking up your things to move out.” Klavier raked a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s where you live?”

“It’s not really any of your business.”

“Have you ever been robbed or attacked?” The words felt thick on Klavier’s tongue.

“No, I haven’t been attacked. Somebody broke into my apartment once, but they didn’t take anything. Nothing of value was in there. I was out when it happened.”

The fact that some thug had been in Apollo’s apartment turned Klavier’s insides to ice. He didn’t miss the fact that Apollo’s voice got a little smaller, even though he was trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Why don’t you live with Clay? You could afford something nicer”—safer—“together.”

“He lives near the space center, I live near the agency. Los Angeles is kind of a big city.” Apollo spoke as if to an idiot.

“So live in the middle together!”

“Klavier, butt out already! It’s none of your damn business where I live.” When Klavier glanced over, Apollo was glaring at him. His face was red. Ah. Maybe Klavier should have stopped pushing a little sooner. This clearly wouldn’t be Apollo’s first choice for living situation, and he and Clay being roommates must have come up somewhere in conversation.

“Sorry. Sorry, you’re right.” Klavier blew a little air out of the side of his mouth and brushed his hair back with his hand again. He had to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. “It’s not my business, but…I don’t like the idea of you being in an area like that. Especially alone at night.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Can you just crash with me for tonight? I’ll feel a lot better.”

“Oh? And how about what I feel?” There was still an edge in Apollo’s voice, but Klavier knew his main opponent was Herr Forehead’s stubborn pride.

“I imagine you’ll feel better, too,” he said quietly. “If it’s late or anything…you’re always welcome at my place. I can make you a key—”

“OK, slow down there.” Apollo put a hand up. “I appreciate the ride, and…since we’re obviously closer to your place than to mine, I-I can stay tonight, I guess. But this isn’t a permanent thing. I’m not moving in with you or anything.”

“You could if you wanted to.” Bad idea. Terrible idea. Klavier’s imagination was already getting the better of him, and that was when Apollo was miles away.

Apollo snorted his laughter, and Klavier counted his blessings that he had both hands on the wheel—no subconscious ring-spinning—and that Apollo wasn’t looking at him. He had a sixth sense. Klavier was convinced.

It wasn’t until they parked in the private garage and met the doorman who let them into the lobby that it occurred to Klavier that his apartment might overwhelm Apollo. When he glanced over his shoulder, Klavier saw Apollo looking around the lobby with his lips parted slightly, wonder in his eyes. Klavier suddenly wished he lived somewhere that smelled less like money.

He and Apollo took the elevator up to his apartment, and when the door swung open, Apollo wandered in and stared. It certainly wasn’t how Klavier had pictured bringing Apollo to his apartment for the first time, especially lately. He’d never seen Apollo so quiet. He just looked around his living room, a wide open space with a squishy leather sofa and recliner, flat screen TV on the wall, and half a dozen instruments and speakers littered around the floor. On either side of the picture window, Klavier had organized his album collection in one bookshelf and his book collection in another.

 “No wonder you were so freaked about where I live,” Apollo said, bitterness streaking his voice. Klavier exhaled, and Apollo’s eyes were on him. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Klavier flashed a smile at Apollo, who didn’t budge. “Just let me put clean sheets on the bed.”

“Clean…?” That got his attention. “I’m not going to take your bed.”

“I’m not putting my guest on the couch. As superfluous as my living situation is, I don’t have a guest room.” Klavier half-expected Apollo to follow him when he went to get linens and was disappointed when he didn’t. 

Once clean sheets were on the bed, Klavier returned to the living room. Apollo was standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was rude.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Klavier pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You can borrow pajamas if you want. I left out towels for you if you want to shower. Bathroom’s across from my room.”

Apollo mumbled his thanks and disappeared into Klavier’s room. Klavier kicked off his shoes when Apollo’s muffled voice reached him.

“Where are you pajamas?”

“In there somewhere,” Klavier called back.

“But which drawer? I don’t want to open the wrong one.”

“There…is no wrong one?” Klavier couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice. “What kind of mischief do you think I’m up to in my spare time? Find what looks like pj’s and help yourself.”

Apollo grumbled but must have acquiesced. The next thing Klavier knew, he could hear him padding into the bathroom and starting up the shower. Klavier ducked into his room to change into lounge pants and a long-sleeved tee while Apollo was out. At least his room wasn't as flashy as the living room, with simple cream walls and black furniture: a dresser, a desk, and the headboard of his king-sized bed. Fine, it was a little flashy, but not as bad as it could be.

“Admiring your own room?”

Klavier jumped when Apollo appeared behind him, toweling his hair. He was wearing a pair of Klavier’s sweatpants, rolled at least five times at the ankle and presumably a few times at the waist as well, though Klavier couldn’t see under the Gavinners’ Atroquinine, My Love tour tee that was swallowing him up.

“Shut up,” Apollo muttered, and Klavier bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile. “Hey, what’s that other room?”

“Other room?”

“You said you didn’t have a guest room, but there’s another room next to the bathroom. With the big black door.”

“Ach, that would be my recording room.”

Apollo stopped toweling his hair for a second to look up at Klavier. “You have a recording room?”

In place of the snarky tone Klavier had come to know when his music was involved, Apollo sounded genuinely curious. His eyes also looked huge peering out from under that towel. Klavier shrugged, hoping he appeared nonchalant.

“Sure. I used to record demos here sometimes to pitch to the band if inspiration struck in the middle of the night.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you want to see it?”

“Okay.”

The quick response was encouraging. Klavier led Apollo back out into the hall and into the recording room. He had to flip the light switch; there were no windows here to let in the city lights from outside. The room was painted black and padded for soundproofing any street noise or neighbors’ vacuuming while putting down a new track. The mixing equipment and Klavier’s music laptop were hooked up on one side of the room while the microphone and a stool were set up on the other. It was a small room—even the bathroom was bigger—but not claustrophobic. At least, not to Klavier. He glanced over at Apollo, who was actually smiling at the recording room. He’d let his towel slip down to hang around his neck, and his gel-less hair was indeed fluffy and uneven, as if he cut it himself.

“This is...pretty cool. Have you been recording lately? Some of that new music you were talking about?”

“Some.” The room had obviously been in use recently.

Apollo fidgeted with his towel and stepped a little further in to check out the microphone. “Hey, can you play one of them?” he asked, a little too loudly and directed at the wall opposite Klavier.

“Hm?” Klavier raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“One of your new songs. This red velvet cake stuff you’re writing.” Apollo laughed, though his voice quivered. “Can I hear one of them?”

Of course Klavier said yes. Another reason why inviting Apollo to live with him was a horrible idea.

So Klavier went out to the living room to retrieve his acoustic guitar. Apollo followed him without making a sound. Maybe it was the quiet making Klavier so nervous. He dropped onto his couch and tucked one leg up underneath himself, tuning even though he knew the guitar was as ready to go now as it had been twenty-four hours earlier when he was polishing off his latest track.

Apollo sat at the other end of the couch and pulled his knees up to his chin. From under the rolled-up bottoms of Klavier’s sweatpants, his toes wriggled against the leather. The middle cushion was an ocean between them, and Klavier couldn’t help noticing how small Apollo could fold himself up to be. He wouldn’t have expected it; Apollo seemed the type to take up more space.

“So, finally coming around to my music, are you, now?” Klavier teased when he couldn’t tune anymore. Apollo crossed his arms over his kneecaps and rested his chin on them.

“Your sellout boy band noise, you mean?”

The retort was as conversational as any of Apollo’s other barbs these days, but Klavier’s stomach clenched. “I wrote some of those songs, too, you know. For the rock band I was part of.”

Apollo gave him a funny look, like that wasn’t the response he’d expected. And why would it be, Klavier thought to himself, when Klavier laughed off the rest of his jabs or came back with one of his own just as quickly? He opened his mouth to backtrack—mea culpa—when Apollo replied, “I mean, you were a teenager and all.”

Klavier lowered the guitar in his lap. “So then why do you want to hear me play now? Because I’m not writing teen songs anymore?” He could hear the irritation in his voice, though he was genuinely curious. The Gavinners had been his life for seven years, after all. Sure, the content of his earlier lyrics was younger, but so were his fans! Apollo’s griping about a band that wasn’t his taste was one thing, but a direct insult about Klavier’s music…

“I’ve heard what you can do when your work isn’t dictated by teenage girls.”

It was hard to maintain eye contact. Some part of his mind knew that this was Apollo’s plain-yet-roundabout way of talking again, an almost-compliment shrouded in barbed wire. An overwhelming part flared at the suggestion that he wasn’t proud of every track he attached his name to. Still another, a tiny part deep down, folded in on itself to think that the past few months’ worth of music would be garbage in Apollo’s ears.

Apollo swallowed a few times, his eyes darting all over the place. Flickering across Klavier's face, dropping to his guitar, looking away. “Wh-what?” Apollo snapped finally. “Look, I get that you’re not used to people who aren’t falling all over Mr. Rock Star, but—”

“I’m plenty used to it, actually.” Klavier leaned back against the couch’s arm. “There are always critics in the industry, blog posts and groups and social media buzz scoffing at my work and anyone who likes it. People who think popular music can’t be good music, that it has to be generic to connect to that many people. And there isn’t a single person in the Prosecutor’s Office throwing roses at my feet for my other career.”

To be honest, Klavier impressed himself by keeping his voice steady. He liked to think he was an easygoing person, but not when it came to the integrity of his work.

Across the couch from him, Apollo’s eyes were bright. How was that, exactly, that such dark eyes could light like that? “Ah. That’s more like you. I forgot what a diva you can be over this stuff.”

“What?” Klavier sputtered. Apollo tilted his head.

“You got all bent out of shape at the concert, too, remember? It was a huge relief to see that you could get mad, actually, since you’re always so cool in court.”

Cool-tempered, Klavier forced himself to correct in his mind. ‘Cool’ as in ‘composed.’

“I shouldn’t attack your character for it,” Apollo continued. “That’s on me. But your band sounded exactly like what a Top 40 group of the past decade would sound like. The only time I ever thought you did something innovative was your performance with Lamiroir. For all I know, that could just be her influence.”

“Nice apology,” Klavier said. Apollo frowned.

“I’m sorry for suggesting that you have a rock star ego. You’re not that bad.”

“Implying that I have a rock star ego at all?”

“You definitely do.” That brutal honesty again. It gave Klavier agita. “But you’re not that bad, really.”

“And my music?” Klavier slipped the guitar strap over his head and ran his fingers up the neck of the instrument.

“On probation. Prove me wrong.” Apollo crossed his arms and leaned back, stretching into the rest of his cushion but leaving the one between them conspicuously empty.

They were moving back into safe territory. Klavier could feel it. Don’t get so touchy, he chided himself. As an afterthought he included, But don’t let him get away with anything, either. For Apollo to apologize for his abrasive way of speaking was a kind of success.

So Klavier whipped out his rock star grin for good measure. “A simple challenge, Herr Forehead.”

At that, Apollo’s eyes sparked. “You’re back to calling me that?”

“When wasn’t I?” When was Klavier going to get it together, more like. He'd edged away from the nickname because he’d rather be calling Apollo something closer and warmer but hadn't made it yet. He wished Apollo didn’t pay such close attention. He wished Apollo paid more attention.

“So, what do you call this number?” Apollo’s voice had frosted over. Hadn’t he told Klavier in the car Apollo is better? But how was he supposed to call Apollo by name and not give himself away? ‘Herr Forehead’ was safe territory, and that’s where they were now, Klavier reminded himself. Tried not to read more into it, seeking out confirmation for a truth he needed to exist at the core of this pit in his stomach.

“Track One,” Klavier said, tossing his hair back over his shoulder and positioning his fingers for the chords of “Working Man,” familiar after hours composing just the right sound. Apollo rolled his eyes.

“Original, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, what was that? I seem to recall someone in the courtroom psyching himself up with ‘Here comes Justice’ a few weeks ago.” Even if they hadn’t been facing off against each other, spying Apollo in the lobby was always a highlight. “Herr Pot, are you naming me the Kettle?”

Apollo’s cheeks puffed out with indignation. Klavier strummed the first note.

No lyrics. If he ever planned to sing “Working Man” in front of another human being, the words would have to change. It was too obvious, too clear. He name-dropped all of the part-time jobs Apollo told him about, referenced a red suit, begged a waiter to sit at the table across from him and be his date instead. At this point, Klavier had gone into his songwriting with the understanding that the music was for him only. Subtlety didn’t matter.

Klavier’s fingers moved up and down the strings of his guitar, threading together chords faster and faster. The song was a whirlwind, the way Apollo was in court, the way he imagined Apollo was in most aspects of his life. Unrelenting, unapologetic.

Had the Gavinners’ music really been so autotuned? Clay certainly hadn’t thought so, and by and large the critics had at least seen each new album as better than the last. Not to mention the thousands of screaming fans at concerts and public appearances. The Gavinners’ music had been as fun to play as it was to write. He didn’t regret that part of his life.

When Klavier looked up again, Apollo had his eyes closed. He hadn’t stirred from where he’d curled up at the other end of the couch, but the muscles in his face were relaxed. Klavier finished playing the song, and a long silence followed. Klavier didn’t move, and Apollo didn’t open his eyes.

Just as Klavier was working up the nerve to ask—like an idiot—“So, what’d you think?”, Apollo dropped his head forward onto his crossed arms. His hair flopped forward, a fluffy mess.

“Well, there you have it,” he said, his voice muffled in the sleeves of Klavier’s tee shirt. “You were wasted on that awful band.”

Laughter bubbled to Klavier’s lips despite his irritation at the continued dismissal of the Gavinners. That was a battle for another day. Apollo didn’t hate what Klavier wrote for him. His fingers twitched to cover his mouth; the confession was right there. This is for you.

“I’m glad I have your approval, Herr Forehead. My musical career has reached its zenith tonight.”

Apollo looked up. “I’m not going to tell you again. ‘Apollo’ is better.”

A glass of water would be appreciated right about now. He hadn’t even been singing, but his mouth was so dry. “You don’t want me to call you by a special pet name?”

Any attempt at brushing off the conversation as a joke didn’t reach Apollo’s ears. He held Klavier’s stare. English and German profanity cycled through Klavier’s mind.

“Apollo,” he said finally. The name was foreign, his teeth and tongue getting in their own way. “Apollo,” he tried again, softer.

Slowly, Apollo lowered his chin to his crossed arms again, but his knees obstructed his nose and mouth from view. All Klavier could see were Apollo’s eyes, huge and bright, looking back at him from beneath the fringe of his bangs.

Klavier awoke to the sound of gentle rustling coming from his kitchen. He cracked one eye open and caught a blurry red shape tiptoeing past him on the couch.

“Never thought I’d see the day when someone tried to sneak out on me in the morning,” he said, reaching over to the coffee table and pawing around his sheet music in search of his phone. Apollo froze a few feet from the door. Belatedly, Klavier regretted his choice of words; he’d gone for “someone” over “you” to avoid implying that he’d thought about Apollo spending the night at his apartment, but now it just sounded like he had a revolving door of overnight guests.

Klavier found his phone; five-thirty in the morning. He winced audibly and looked up at his guest, who had shuffled back over to him. Apollo had his shoes in his hands, which inspired a sleep-deprived smile on Klavier’s part.

“Sorry,” Apollo said. If he’d found Klavier’s hair products—which were literally everywhere, so ‘found’ was a bit of a stretch—he hadn’t swiped any gel. His bangs still hung in his face, fluffy and soft. Like a little bird, Klavier thought, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t want to wake you up, but I figured I should get home and change before I go to work.”

“Not feeling the ‘walk of shame’ look, huh?” Good grief, was Klavier always so foot-in-mouth first thing in the morning? It wasn’t like anything had happened, why did he have to say that? Apollo stared at him in horror, so he sat up quickly and pushed back his hair. “I’ll drive you.”

“There’s a bus stop nearby.”

“No, there’s a bus stop a dozen blocks from here.” Klavier got to his feet. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll drive you.”

“You can do your hair in ten minutes?” Apollo seemed to realize as he was taking his shot that it was a bit hypocritical, and he rubbed the back of his head, failing to smooth the hair that puffed out there.

“I can even get dressed. Time me.” Before Apollo could respond, Klavier headed into his room for clothes. Dress slacks, shirt, jacket. Klavier could have picked his outfit in the dark and the odds were in his favor that he’d choose clothes that coordinated. What could he say, he liked certain colors.

It could have been dangerous leaving Apollo alone in the living room—the door was right there, he could walk out whenever he wanted—but Klavier wasn’t surprised to see him still standing in the foyer when he went from his room to the bathroom.  True enough, Klavier usually spent more than ten minutes on his hair, but it wasn’t in bad shape. He braided it and gave it a spritz of hairspray for good measure, then headed back out into the living room. Apollo checked his phone twice, brow furrowed in disbelief.

“Nine minutes,” he said.

“A new record.” Klavier grabbed his keys and his briefcase. “Ready to go?”

“Are you going to work now?” Apollo pulled on his shoes, old brown loafers with worn soles, while still standing. He awkwardly lifted each leg like a lawn flamingo, tugging and wiggling each shoe over toe and heel while wobbling on one foot. By the time Klavier thought to suggest he sit down, he’d already been staring too long, and Apollo had both shoes on.

“Why not? Maybe I’ll take off early.”

“So you’ll leave around, what, eight? Nine?”

Thank goodness Apollo’s sarcasm was a knee-jerk reaction. Klavier felt his shoulders relax.

Sharing a song Klavier had written for Apollo hadn’t been as intimidating as he’d feared, especially once Apollo had praised his composition. The fixation in Apollo’s expression after that was another matter. Calling him by name to his face was another matter on top of that. Klavier had been quick to point out that it was getting late, and Apollo had taken the hint and gone to bed. Leaving Klavier to lie on his couch wide awake, kicking off his throw blanket and staring at the ceiling.

At this point, going to the office on four hours of sleep was at least a once-a-week event for Klavier. He’d make up the extra hours on the weekend. Apollo seemed less used to it, yawning and rubbing his eyes in the passenger seat.

“So,” Apollo said, half the word coming out as another yawn. “You’re really not going to release that music?”

Klavier smiled. “It’s really just for me. Are you so tired you’re asking about my music to keep yourself awake?”

“Yep. It just sounded really polished. What you played last night. When you said it was just for you, I was expecting it to sound a little more…I don’t know the word you’d use. Freestyle? Relaxed?” Apollo pointed out a turn, and Klavier threw on his signal. The buildings were getting more and more rundown as they drove. “That sounded like you’d been working on it for a while.”

Klavier puffed out his chest, unable to resist. “That’s actually the newest one. I’d only finished writing it a day or so ago.”

“You’re kidding.” Apollo cracked one eye open to look at him. “Oh, jeez, I’m just inflating your ego, aren’t I? I take it back, that song was a hot mess.”

“Too late, He—” Before the rest of the nickname could come out, Klavier transitioned into a theatrical laugh. “You already complimented my talent.”

Apollo snorted and tilted his neck, cracking it expertly. Klavier winced.

“My manager suggested putting out a new album,” he said, “but at best, I think I’ve got an EP on my hands.”

“EPs are like those…mini-albums with two or three songs on them, right?”

Klavier made a sound of agreement. “There’s usually less fanfare around their releases. That’s how a lot of indies get started.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Apollo said. He pointed out another street. “This is me. The brick building down there.” Klavier pulled in front of what might have been a mid-to-low-class apartment building twenty years ago. Now it was in shambles, ancient and peeling. He parked and killed the engine. “You don’t have to wait.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do. I want to get back into my routine, if you don’t mind.” Apollo gathered up his things and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride. And letting me stay with you, I guess.” He gave Klavier a level look. “If you want to release your music, release it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem torn. Like, you want to put your music out there. I can tell from the way you keep talking about it and the way you played. Whatever you’re doing right now, you’re excited about it, and you want to share it. But it’s different from what you used to do, and your old band’s breakup was messy, and actually a lot of things are messy, and now you’re throwing yourself headlong into prosecuting, and that’s making you miss music even more.” Apollo’s eyebrows knitted. “Am I on the right track?”

Why didn’t Klavier ever leave himself that note in his phone? Apollo notices things.

“Yes and no. What else have you got?” he asked, hoping his tone was sufficiently cheeky.

“What did I get wrong?”

“Just finish your theory.”

Apollo huffed. Klavier pressed his lips together to hold in a laugh. “I think that even though you trust your manager, a part of you hesitates because her job is tied to your music. Of course she wants you to release it. And maybe you want to release it, too, and you want someone who doesn’t benefit to tell you it’s okay. To validate you.”

“…Is that what you’re telling me, then? That it’s okay to release new music?”

“I’m telling you to think for yourself,” Apollo said, opening the door and swinging his legs out. “And do for yourself. If you’ve got something to say, say it, something to do, do it. Just…decide.”

Eloquent as always, and honest as always, too. Apollo gave him a half-wave as he let himself into his apartment, and Klavier turned his engine back on and headed out. This neighborhood still bothered him, even though it seemed pretty quiet right now. Maybe that was because it was so early.

Apollo’s bluntness hovered in Klavier’s mind all day. He opened the office, managed his paperwork, and succeeded in negotiating a few cases without having to go to court. He ate a salad without registering the taste as he cleaned out his inbox. By two o’clock, the beat in his head was too strong. He was tapping his pen along to it, bobbing his head, humming bars.

A moment later, he was at the Chief Prosecutor’s door.

“Herr Edgeworth, I know that there’s proper paperwork to fill out for requesting vacation time, but I—”

“You’re taking vacation?” Herr Edgeworth’s head snapped up from the paperwork he’d been focusing on, his eyebrows nearly to his hairline.

“Well, no, I was just thinking of taking the afternoon—”

“Marvelous! Get out of my office.” There was a twinkle in his eye when he said it, though. Klavier chuckled and gave a little wave, going to back out of the doorway.

“I’ll just fill out the vacation form and—”

“For goodness sake, Gavin, get out. I probably owe you two weeks’ more vacation time at this point. Go, be a young person.” Herr Edgeworth made a shooing gesture, returning his attention to his paperwork. “Go break Wright’s junior out of the office, too. I’m sure he’s not busy.”

Klavier nearly stumbled backing out of the Chief Prosecutor’s office. Herr Edgeworth hadn’t changed his tone or inflection—aside from that odd affection-distaste that seemed inevitable any time his old courtroom rival snuck into conversation—but even he was bringing up Apollo out of the blue?

Wow, are you screwed. Wasn’t that what Clay had said to him at the bar? Ach, a prosecutor should have a better poker face. Especially one so used to the public eye.

Apollo was undoubtedly free that afternoon, but dropping in and proposing an afternoon of fun was no way to impress him. He was too loyal to his 9-to-5 hours and too easily embarrassed in front of the Wrights. Besides, Klavier wasn’t leaving the office for pleasure.

He made it home in great time and changed into more comfortable clothes. Out of the law office zone, he hit his recording room and set everything up. He plugged his guitar into the amp, made a few adjustments on his laptop, and started recording.

Each track he played a few times, even though by  now the melodies were second nature. He’d made some recordings earlier of acoustic versions, but having his old electric guitar in his hands felt right. It created a sound that breathed new life into his tracks.

“Lunch at Three-Thirty” was first, of course, but it needed a new name. Later. Klavier played and played until he had multiple versions of all the songs he’d written thus far. Six was a respectable number. It still counted as an EP, right?

He listened to them. They weren’t as polished, but this wasn’t a studio cut. A little mixing, a little editing. Child’s play. It was like coming back to the courtroom all those months ago, chasing common criminals and handling small fries. Work your way up.

He’d fooled around with photography for a while in his last year with the Gavinners. Working with Lamiroir inspired him to capture beautiful colors and moments. Klavier clicked through his folder, finding the kinds of amateurish shots he’d thought artistic then—close-ups of reflective water, sunsets. Pictures he could find just as easily with a quick internet search. An accidental shot he’d taken of his guitar on the floor, his bare feet in the corner of the frame, caught his attention. That was the one. He opened it up in his photo editor, cropped it to the size of an album cover, and in a tiny, boxy text, added his name and the title: “Things to Say.”

Midnight had long since passed. More awake than ever, Klavier wrote a short acknowledgements paragraph, organized the files, and lined everything ready to upload onto his website.

A free EP, completely instrumental, not approved by any professionals, or anyone at all even. Just things he wanted to say to one person that he was going to broadcast to the world in the hopes that he’d hear it.

Klavier pulled out his phone and opened up his texts to Fraulein Manager. You’re the first to know, he typed.

Then he typed the last few commands into his computer and the EP went live.

Klavier sat bolt upright at the militant buzzing of his clock radio alarm. It had been years since he’d used it; his cell phone’s mellow tones nudged him awake on days where his inner clock didn’t have him up at dawn. Last night he’d put his phone on silent, though, not wanting to meet Fraulein Manager’s crazed texts and calls head-on.

He really should buy her dinner more often.

Once he’d figured out how to shut off the alarm, Klavier stretched his arms out above his head, a few satisfying pops rippling down his spine. The buzzing had certainly done its job banishing sleep from his mind, but he still opted to get up and make himself a cappuccino before checking his messages.

With his foamy mug in one hand and his phone in the other, Klavier powered up his cell. The little envelope notification on his lock screen indicated twenty-eight missed calls and texts, and below it, his e-mail notification was over three hundred.

Klavier nearly dropped his phone. That couldn’t be right. He’d been asleep for, what, five hours? Had he been hacked? He logged into his e-mail first, and a slew of download hits and notifications from news sources and bloggers greeted him. Oh, right, he’d set up those pingbacks for when his name popped up in reports. All throughout his career, he’d loved sharing fan blogs on the band’s social media pages, and on bad days, there was nothing like a notification that someone somewhere liked his music; in the aftermath of Vera Misham’s trial, he’d disabled it for a while, but now that the news was mostly over criticizing his prosecution, it didn’t seem as hazardous.

Deciding to save reading outsider opinions for later, Klavier scrolled to see if there were any e-mails from people he knew. Some spam, and a few e-mails from Fraulein Manager, already in a tizzy setting up interviews and public appearances. Klavier flinched, but it didn’t look as though she’d officially booked him for anything yet. You up for this? How does this sound? all of her e-mails read.

He really did need to treat her.

Next he checked his voicemail, four near-consecutive calls from his manager in the wee hours of the morning, ranging from inarticulate shock and excitement to a business plan for publicity and promotion. She’d also replied to his text immediately and followed up with half a dozen others, apparently one long text reply broken up into parts. His bandmates from the Gavinners had texted to congratulate him. Klavier was relieved that he’d remembered to text them the news before crashing the night before. There were also text congratulations from other performers and concert technicians Klavier had met throughout his career with the Gavinners, people they’d toured with, strange folks they’d met at networking events. It was a blast from the past, like when all the friends you didn’t hang out with anymore wished you a happy birthday on social media, their first contact since your last birthday.

Klavier replied to all of his texts with thanks and called Fraulein Manager, who picked up on the first ring. The first ten minutes of their conversation was mostly her blurting out a stream-of-consciousness hodgepodge of excitement, notes to self, and disjointed questions, and his reminding her to breathe. Once she’d settled down, a few more minutes went by of Klavier listening to her inhale and exhale deeply, and a part of him regretted not warning her in person.

“So,” she said finally, her voice warming up to its usual professionalism. “Give me the back story.”

“I’ve been working on some music and decided to release it. Nothing fancy, no profit. Just tying up a few loose ends.”

“Klavier, come on. You’ve got to give me more to work with to arrange a press release.” He could hear her blowing air out of the side of her mouth, that particular sideways puff to which he was so accustomed. Klavier suggested she use the blog text he’d put up along with the tracks, a list of thank-yous and a statement about how much music and his fans had meant to him over the past few months. He could hear her clacking away on her laptop. “Okay, so this is really casual. Really casual.”

“Yes.”

“Not for profit.”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. I’ll bold that.”

“That’s not why I put the content up for free, you know, to score points with promotions.” Klavier chuckled. “No need to get carried away, Fraulein Manager. This EP is about closure with the Gavinners.” His phone beeped in his ear that another message had come in. Fraulein Manager hummed thoughtfully.

“Do you want me to mention the Gavinners at all, or would you rather tiptoe around it? I don’t want it to sound like the Gavinners are no more.”

“The Gavinners are no more,” Klavier pointed out. “Even if the rest of us get together for reunions, we’re always going to be shy that one player.” He paused, and the clacking at the other end of the conversation stopped with him. “No. It’s probably best not to mention the Gavinners unless asked directly.”

“You’re still all friends,” Fraulein Manager decided, typing again. “You stay in touch. They were the first people you told?”

Klavier smiled at her search for confirmation. “Second.”

“Well, I don’t count. We’ll say they were first.”

“We’ll say that my Gavinners team were the first to know.”

The clacking hesitated again, and Fraulein Manager laughed softly. “Boy, you never change, Klavier.”

They discussed plans moving forward:  concerts and tours (none), merchandise (none), future albums (possible, but not committing to long-term contracts at this time), public appearances (some, local only).

“First and foremost, I’m a prosecutor,” Klavier said. “I can’t be galavanting around the country when the court needs me.”

“Galavanting? That prosecutor’s office is a bad influence on you.”

By the time their conversation was over, the sun was already high in the sky. Klavier didn’t have to be in the office anytime soon, and though he usually preferred to go in early, why not enjoy the rest of his notifications. Most e-mails were just notifications of tags in social media, fans expressing excitement and love for the new music in caps lock and emoticons. It was hard to keep a stupid smile off his face as he scrolled through them. A few pop culture sites had already reported the breaking news of his “mic drop” album, and Klavier imagined turning all the hyperbole into a drinking game.

He e-mailed Herr Edgeworth requesting to work from home. A reply came back immediately: Yes, when I had to open the office alone this morning, I assumed you might not be coming. Congratulations on your new album. I heard the young people in the parking garage discussing it.

‘Young people’? Herr Edgeworth was too old of a soul for a thirtysomething.

Klavier felt a pinprick of guilt for spending most of the morning reading blog posts and following his trending hashtag versus doing actual work, but he promised to make up for it when he returned to the office. A little ego boost never hurt anyone.

Apollo’s face flashed in his mind; Klavier could just picture him rolling his eyes and making some uncalled-for comment about his being a diva (which he certainly was not). Yes, his music was important to him, and he liked to put out a quality product, but that wasn’t behavior exclusive to him. He wondered if Apollo had seen the EP, and his phone was in his hand a second later. His fingers trembled. That wasn’t like him.

He had a series of missed texts again, all from when he’d been on the phone with Fraulein Manager. Most were replies from earlier chains, but one thread of texts was brand new.

The first: So, I woke up to a call from Trucy screaming  about your new album. Thanks for that.

Sent ten minutes later, Also, congratulations.

And an hour after that, Mr. Wright says thanks for making it free.

Catching his reflection in the mirror over his dresser, Klavier saw that his grin was wider and goofier than it had any business being. He would never be able to read Apollo’s texts in public, not with the media’s eyes on him post-EP. The rumor mill would go wild. In the privacy of his own home, though, Klavier could certainly text back, maybe call. It was about lunchtime, after all.

Apollo picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

Klavier felt his smile falter; usually Apollo launched right into a conversation as if they’d never hung up, but he sounded a bit more on edge now. Ach, of course, he was at the office. “Hello to you, too. You don’t have to sound so eager to talk to me, you know.”

“Sorry, hang on a minute.” Klavier could hear some rustling and the scrape of a chair being pushed either in or out from a desk, some background voices, and the click of a door. “How are you doing? Um. Big news today?”

“Did you just excuse yourself to talk to me in private? What kind of call do you think this is?” Klavier couldn’t help it. He flopped down onto the edge of his bed and chuckled at the immediate squawk, quickly stifled, and a hiss of protest.

“I really shouldn’t be taking personal calls at the office.”

“And yet you couldn’t bear the thought of my rolling over to voicemail. I’m touched.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, no, no, don’t do that!” Klavier laughed. “I’m sorry, Herr—Apollo. I just like to tease you. It’s so easy.” Sullen grumbling answered him. “I take my victories where I can, ja? It’s harder in court.”

Apollo’s mutters quieted. Klavier wasn’t the only one with an ego, after all.

“Do you think you’d be able to get away for lunch?” Klavier asked.

“Are you out of your mind? Now that the world’s eyes are on you?” Apollo huffed. There wasn’t any malice behind it, and Klavier could hear the concentrated effort to keep his voice down. The logic still stung a little.

“I suppose you’re right. Soon, though!” Klavier coughed. “I want to be sure you have plenty of time to compliment my latest work of genius, of course.”

“It’s a nice album. Much better than your band stuff.”

Klavier’s breath caught in his throat.

“Trucy’s been playing it all morning,” Apollo added quickly.

“As long as you like it.” The words slipped out before Klavier could help himself. Apollo made a small sound of surprise and started to say something when Klavier heard banging from the other end of the phone.

“Polly! Are you okay in there? Daddy says you’re responsible for whatever mess you make!”

Apollo groaned, and Klavier tried not to let his frustration seep into his voice when he asked, “Did you by chance duck into the bathroom to speak with me?”

“Can I call you back after work? Please?”

“Ja, of course. I look forward to it.”

From the minute his cell phone’s clock flipped over from 4:59 to 5:00, Klavier started checking it compulsively. Wondering if Apollo was working late, and then wondering where exactly texting to check in on him fell on the crazy/desperate scale, Klavier finally left his cell on the kitchen countertop and went about making himself a salad. He was just finishing grilling up chicken pieces to put in it when his apartment phone rang.

Klavier frowned, turning off the stovetop and guiding the chicken into his salad with a spatula before going to answer. It was pretty rare that the doorman called him; he’d made quite sure that screening was tight in this building. Of course, it could very well be Fraulein Manager, which wouldn’t do now that Klavier was expecting a call.

“Mr. Gavin?” Klavier could just picture his doorman’s eyes squinting with suspicion from the faint drawl in his voice. “You have a visitor, that friend of yours from the other night.”

Apollo had come to him? All his comments about Klavier staying too late at the office and he hadn’t even called first, though Klavier supposed it was a safe enough bet for Apollo to make that he wasn’t in the office today.

“Of course, please send him up.”

In the few minutes it took Apollo to come up in the elevator, Klavier split his large salad into two bowls and rooted around in his cabinets to see if he had anything else to supplement a meal. He knotted his hair into a sloppy bun just as Apollo knocked on the door.

“You make house calls now, who knew?” Klavier said as soon as he swung open the door. Apollo stood on the other side in a light jacket, holding a box tied up with candy cane-striped string. He looked slightly less annoyed than he did any other day.

“I thought it would be appropriate to bring a gift to congratulate you on your new album.” Apollo lifted the box in his hands. Klavier stepped back to let him into the apartment.

“A gift? What on earth did you bring me?” Klavier shut the door and leaned over Apollo’s shoulder to inspect the box, which appeared to be from a bakery. He caught a whiff of chocolate.

“I went to the same place you met me for that de Killer stuff. Had to make sure Trucy didn’t follow me, or she’d make me share. I think she knew I was getting food.”

Apollo set the box down on the countertop. Klavier tracked down a pair of scissors and cut it open immediately. The scent wafting up once he’d popped the lid open was heavenly. Black forest cake with fresh whipped cream and cherries.

“Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte,” Apollo said, and Klavier remembered being surprised the first time he’d heard Apollo pronounce the German name correctly. He looked up from the cake at Apollo’s face and noticed he was pursing his lips. After a short pause, Apollo added in a rush, “It was his treat. Mr. Gavin’s. Every time he won a case, even if everything was negotiated outside of court, he bought himself a slice of black forest cake. And one for me, too, when I came along, but that was only...but that’s what he did. He said Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte was the taste of victory, so that’s what he treated himself to when he won.” He hesitated again, and Klavier wondered what his expression looked like. “He won a lot,” Apollo added lamely, superfluously, and Klavier couldn’t help a little smirk from curling his lip.

“He did indeed,” he agreed. “Has this become the taste of victory for you as well?” The image of Apollo in that bakery eating cake for breakfast crossed his mind. Something like it must have popped into Apollo’s head as well, because he hummed thoughtfully, crossing his arms.

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s somewhere between comfort food and like a Pavlovian trigger for getting my head in the game. Sometimes when a case feels kind of hopeless and Mr. Wright isn’t helping, I get a piece of cake and think, ‘What would Mr. Gavin do?’ I’m...faking it ‘til I make it, I guess.” A funny look crossed Apollo’s face, and for a horrifying split second, Klavier thought he was going to cry. As quickly as the expression came, it went, though, like a bird touching its toes to a lamppost before flying off into the night.

“Are you all right?” The kinder thing probably would have been to ignore it, pretend he hadn’t seen, but Klavier couldn’t help asking. Apollo looked away, his eyes on the cake.

“It was an insensitive gift to bring. I’m sorry.”

“Ach, I didn’t mean it like that. You just…” Klavier mulled over what he wanted to say, but the words didn’t come. A heavy silence fell on them, and Apollo shut the lid of the bakery box.

“You should put this in the fridge,” he said. “I’m going to head home.”

Panic settled in the creases of Klavier’s composure. “You don’t have to go. Stay. I was just making dinner.”

“Nah, it’s a long ride. I left my bike with your doorman downstairs.” Apollo uncrossed his arms, then seemed to change his mind and crossed them again. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? Stay. No one will steal your bike, you know. Have dinner with me. Help me make this cake disappear in Fraulein Magician’s honor.”

That at least got a laugh out of Apollo, his stilted bark that always came out as though covered in mothballs, like he kept his joy locked in a trunk in the attic. “Eat it yourself so the media has something to give you grief over. ‘Glimmerous Fop Drops Chart-Topping Album and Self-Control, All in One Week!’” He put his hands together in front of his face, palms facing Klavier, and spread them apart in an arc to illustrate his headline, his voice dropping like a radio announcer’s. Klavier burst into laughter; Apollo was so rarely this animated that it had to be at least partially cover-up for his embarrassment, but for once his humor wasn’t so dry.

“‘Glimmerous Fop,’ Herr Forehead?” he teased back, figuring the nickname would be safe in a goofy voice. “You’ve been spending too much time with Fraulein Detective.”

“She says the same thing about you,” Apollo said, thumbs hooking into his pockets, a faint smile hinting around his face. “Apparently I’ve picked up some annoying habits.”

Klavier leaned forward, a tendril of hair prying loose from his bun and swishing against his cheek. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I really should head out, though. Congrats again on the album.” Apollo paused, uncomfortable again. “I wondered if you might have been thinking about him. That’s why I brought it up.”

Whom he meant by ‘him’ wasn’t lost on Klavier. “You think I’m missing Kristoph? What makes you say that?”

“I think you always miss him, like I do. Like there’s still a part of you that can’t align the man you knew and the man who was.” Perceptive again, and letting Klavier in for once. “But you still thanked him in your little blurb-y thing. On your website, with the download.” Apollo’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. Trying to remember. Klavier remembered that from a book on body language he’d studied after the Kitaki trial. “‘And lastly, my warmest gratitude to FM, MB, and HF, without whom there would be no music.’ MB is ‘my brother,’ right?”

Klavier’s stomach clenched. “Yes,” he croaked.

“FM is Fraulein something, I assume?”

“Fraulein Manager. She’s...been there for me my whole career. She’s the one I was with when I ran into you at your other job.”

“And HF.” Apollo shot him a pointed look. “Really? Herr Forehead, in your open letter to the world? I couldn’t be AJ?”

Klavier laughed. “Conceited to think it’s you, don’t you think?”

“It is me.” He wasn’t even embarrassed, just rolling his eyes at Klavier’s attempt at distraction. “What on earth did I do to inspire you? Telling you to put your stuff out there if you wanted to?”

“Yes, that was it,” Klavier said, and Apollo’s eyes were on him sharper than a blade. He reached for the cuff of his jacket sleeve, and Klavier knew he was going for that gaudy bangle he never seemed to take off. “Why do you always wear that bracelet?” he asked, hoping for a stronger diversion.

“It was my mother’s.” The quick answer seemed to surprise Apollo as much as it did Klavier. More quietly, he added, “I think. That’s what they told me, anyway.” He didn’t elaborate.

“Thank you for the cake,” Klavier said. “Stay with me, have a piece.”

The edge returned to Apollo’s unblinking gaze, and Klavier felt a pang of sympathy for witnesses taking the stand. “...No. I should go.”

As Klavier dumped the second salad back into the first, the echo of his fork against the bowl clanked in his apartment, too big and too empty for one person.

Apollo was definitely avoiding him.

When Klavier hadn’t heard back from him after a day or two, he just assumed that Herr Wright’s unorthodox office had finally drummed up some business, but after the third day and no news of Apollo’s activity at the courthouse, panic settled in.

He sent texts and left messages on Apollo’s voicemail like the unwilling dump-ee of a breakup, everything from Hey, how are you doing? to an especially weak Is everything OK?

Apollo had figured him out. Klavier was sure of it. So it didn’t matter now if he gave himself away with needy calls and open affection. Apollo knew how he felt and was rejecting him by freezing him out, and Klavier was going to throw up.

On the seventh day of radio silence, Klavier decided to actually get up from his desk at lunch and swing by the Wrights’ office. When he arrived, Frauelein Magician met him at the door.

“Prosecutor Gavin!” she squealed, clapping her hands. “I haven’t seen you in so long! How are you?”

Klavier whipped out his trademark stage smile. “Ready to rock, as always. And you, my favorite magician?”

She giggled. “Doing pretty well! I have three shows booked this week at the Wonder Bar. You should come, if you can!” Fraulein Magician pointed her index finger and waved it three times in front of Klavier, as if counting off one-two-three, and suddenly a flyer was in her hand. She gave it to him: an advertisement for her performances with showtimes listed.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he promised, slipping the flyer into his briefcase. “Fraulein, are you in the office alone?”

“Of course not, silly! Daddy’s here.”

Herr Wright himself appeared in the doorway at the back of the room, where Klavier assumed his personal office was. He wasn’t dressed in office attire, though, instead donning a sweatsuit, sandals, and a crocheted beanie that read Papa. Klavier wondered if Fraulein Magician had made it herself.

“How’re you doing, Gavin? Making sure to leave the office at a reasonable time and get your beauty sleep?” There was no venom in Herr Wright’s voice, but Klavier detected a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Klavier recalled Herr Edgeworth’s reminding him to do just as Herr Wright suggested after a call with his old courtroom rival. Concern that traced its way back to Apollo.

Klavier turned up the voltage in his smile and raked a hand through his hair. “Isn’t it obvious?”

It was just like being with Apollo. Fraulein Magician’s eyes steeled on him, her lips pursing so like Apollo’s that Klavier nearly did a double-take at the resemblance. Herr Wright’s expression had also lost all teasing humor, his eyes traveling around Klavier’s face, never making eye contact, seeming to linger as if something were hovering around Klavier’s shoulders. Klavier couldn’t help it; he glanced quickly at the nothingness around him.

“Come in, Gavin,” Herr Wright said, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Let’s chat a minute.”

Fraulein Magician stepped behind Klavier and shut the door, casually barricading his exit. He took a quick breath.

“Ja, of course.”

The office was a mess. Herr Edgeworth would have a fit if the prosecutors’ office weren’t neat as a pin, but this clearly wasn’t a priority to Herr Wright. His daughter’s props were strewn about the reception area, as were various articles of clothing (jackets, slippers, a familiar pair of bright blue panties) and books. Klavier recognized his own discography among the chaos, spying Gavinners CDs being used as coasters and bookends. In fact, only one piece of the room had any rhyme or reason to it: the desk by the window, where paperwork, pens, a stress ball, and Lamiroir’s album were piled neatly on top of it.

Klavier’s heart ached.

He took a seat on the couch. Fraulein Magician slid onto the cushion beside him, and Herr Wright ventured beyond the door to his own office and leaned his butt against Apollo’s desk, not quite sitting, facing Klavier. His hand stayed in his pocket.

“To what do we owe your visit?” Herr Wright asked. His voice was friendly enough, but something in his still posture told Klavier now was not the time to be giving cheeky answers.

“I had hoped to find A...Herr Forehead.” The answer was the truth, if grossly simplified. Herr Wright nodded.

“Why not call? Why pay a visit?” he pressed. Was this what Herr Wright had been like in court years ago, driving home to the truth? Klavier’s heart was swimming in stomach acid.

“I didn’t know if he’d take the call,” he answered carefully.

The reply seemed to annoy Herr Wright, his eyes again drifting around Klavier’s face. “Why wouldn’t he take your call?”

“Oh, you know how Herr Forehead can be,” Klavier said, sweating under Herr Wright’s stare. “He wouldn’t take personal calls in the office.”

“So you didn’t want to talk business?” Fraulein Magician asked beside him. She tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “I figured it was some case you were on.”

Klavier flinched. That had been sloppy. The Wrights’ borderline-intervention behavior was throwing him off his calm, cool, and collected game. At least Fraulein Magician seemed surprised that Klavier’s trip wasn’t business-related.

“You’re also wrong about Apollo taking personal calls,” Herr Wright said. “I’ve heard him talking on his cell phone in the past. In fact, just recently he locked himself in our bathroom trying to get some privacy. I assumed he’d been talking to you, actually.”

He tilted his head in the direction of another door beside the one leading into his office. Klavier paused.

“Ja, I suppose that is true,” he said, offering a sheepish smile. Herr Wright also smiled, but not at Klavier; his eyes were somewhere over his head, a glimmer of triumph sparking in them.

“One down,” he muttered. “So, you want to talk to Apollo. He’s been a little out of it lately, too, now that I think of it.”

That caught Klavier’s attention. “Out of it? How so?”

“I was the one who pointed it out to you, Daddy. You didn’t even notice.” Fraulein Magician puffed up her cheeks indignantly. Herr Wright chuckled.

“I suppose that’s true. Well, after Trucy pointed it out, I couldn’t help noticing it. He’s usually a little sour around the office, but lately he’s been…” Herr Wright searched for the word. “Skittish, maybe? He spends as little time here as possible, even when there’s nothing to investigate.”

“Oh! Ema! Ema might know what Polly’s been up to,” Fraulein Magician said. “They’ve been on a few cases together lately.”

Klavier could do one step better: Clay. He still had his number in his phone from the time the three of them went out together. Why hadn’t that been his first move, rather than coming here and facing the most cheerful interrogation of a lifetime? Granted, Klavier thought, Clay would be loyal to Apollo. If Apollo were upset—Klavier’s stomach clenched—or angry or never wanted to see him again—do not throw up on Herr Wright’s coffee table, do not, do not, do not—Clay was going to take his side over Klavier’s any day. Not that Klavier blamed him. In fact, he wished he had a friend like Clay in his corner right about now.

“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Gavin.” Herr Wright’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Apollo’s been out since this morning, so he may be back soon.”

“You think so?” Klavier was a guarded, twitchy mess. What was wrong with this office? Why was everyone who worked here a living lie detector?

Herr Wright laughed again, then reached for his wallet. “Baby girl, are you getting the lunchtime rumblies in your tumbly, too? Pretty sure I just heard a harmonica go by our window. I’m thinking noodles.”

There was a split-second hesitation, Klavier was sure of it, where father and daughter had a very serious telepathic conversation. He blinked, and Fraulein Magician was on her feet and grinning. “You got it, Daddy! Prosecutor Gavin, do you want noodles, too?”

“You’re paying for your own,” Herr Wright added.

“Er...ja, sounds good.” Klavier handed over a few bills. “My treat, for dropping in on your lunch break.”

“Daddy’s always on his lunch break,” Fraulein Magician said, but she took Klavier's money and pulled a disappearing act through the front door.

Herr Wright had gone totally still, both hands in his pockets now, eyes bright under the blue stitches of his beanie. Klavier couldn’t help it; he stammered a little at the total shift from daddy-o to former courtroom legend.

“Gavin, I’m going to ask you something...not very professional. Totally off the record.” It wasn’t asking for permission; Herr Wright was getting his question in whether Klavier liked it or not. “Don’t worry, I’m good about keeping secrets. I think I’ve proven that to you in court.” A flash of a smile before his face mellowed into some mix of seriousness and warmth. Fatherliness, Klavier recognized with some surprise. “Are you and Apollo in a romantic relationship?”

“Uh—!”

Herr Wright’s eyes hovered around Klavier’s face again and crinkled at the corners. “Or starting a relationship?”

“That...isn’t exactly…” Sweating bullets was not a hot look for a criminal prosecutor, even this far from the courthouse. It didn’t suit a rock star, either.

“Or…” Herr Wright pulled one hand out of his pocket to rub his chin thoughtfully. “You’re just friends like Apollo insists loud enough for the whole street to hear, except being just friends is hard when you love somebody, and hiding things from Apollo is even harder than that, and now you’re in trouble.”

“Herr Wright, I’m having chest pains.”

“You’re about to. Guy Eldoon doesn’t go easy on the salt.” It was definitely triumph on Herr Wright’s face. Flat-out smugness, if Klavier was reading his expression correctly. “There we go,” he added under his breath.

“There what goes?”

“I just figured you out. You can put up all the locks you want, Gavin, doesn’t matter if they’re easy to break.”

“Herr Wright, I’m not sure I follow.”

“Stop dodging.” Ah. Apollo’s predecessor was not as easy to divert. “You and Apollo have been acting different around each other for months. You were kind of right earlier...Apollo isn’t the type to take personal calls at the office. Now all of a sudden he is, and a during-work-hours texter, too. He’s lost all of his grumpiness when Trucy plays your music, that new stuff especially. Goes out to lunch more and brings back leftovers from places I’ve never seen him eat at, frets over your hours and your health. At first, I just thought you guys were hanging out and he was socially awkward. I don’t think he has many friends.”

Annoyance flared up in Klavier’s stomach at the casual callousness, but Herr Wright wasn’t finished.

“Then lately that stops, the texting, the take-out. And every time your music is on the radio, he shuts it off.” Herr Wright paused, something like guilt passing over his face. Klavier wondered how he looked to inspire that sympathetic glance. “Trucy pointed out the skittish behavior. So then I thought...ah. That’s the key.”

“You think...Apollo has been acting different because of me?” Klavier fought to keep his tone neutral, but something told him that Herr Wright—and probably Fraulein Magician, now that he thought of it—had noticed as quickly as Clay and Fraulein Manager.

“I do, and you’re even easier to read than he is. No ‘Herr Forehead’ today, huh?”

“Ah.”

Herr Wright rubbed his chin again. “You need to work on your poker face, Gavin. Indispensable for a prosecutor. Of course, you’re not used to being the piner, are you?”

“I’m not used to being the what, now?”

“You sound just like him, good grief. The piner, Gavin. It’s always the other person who likes you more than you like them, isn’t it?”

In three sentences, Herr Wright created a flurry of emotions—but of course it was the negative one that stuck. “You think I like Apollo more than he likes me?”

Herr Wright leaned back, crossing his arms and evaluating Klavier. “I think he’s as unused to being pursued as you are to pining.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but before Klavier could press, Fraulein Magician reappeared at the door balancing three bowls. Immediately, the scent of salty broth permeated the office. Herr Wright was bright-eyed and cheery, at his daughter’s side to help her juggle lunch, and Klavier knew that all of his fatherly attention was locked firmly on his daughter now. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but Klavier would have liked a few more minutes of guidance. It had been a long time since he’d had an older and wiser figure he could turn to for advice.

Especially one who held precious, secret knowledge of what Apollo might be feeling, and how it might not be the rejection Klavier feared.

“Ugh, you two are ridiculous. What is this, high school?” Fraulein Detective shooed Klavier away from her crime scene. “First I have to listen to Apollo telling me about his ‘friend,’”—she made air quotations with her fingers for emphasis—“who has a problem with another friend and doesn’t know how to talk about it, and now you come in with your tail between your legs looking for him. Keep your romantic snafus to yourselves, jeez.”

“A problem?” Klavier echoed. “He wanted to talk about a problem…?”

“Don’t step on that! Listen, go buy chocolate or roses or jewelry or whatever, grovel for the amount of time proportionate to whatever you did, have your make-up sex, and don’t step there, I’m taking shoe prints!”

Klavier’s face burned. “Make-up...we haven’t—” He stopped himself from finishing even kissed yet, because in actuality, he hadn’t even confessed yet, and he had no idea how Apollo felt yet, and perhaps Fraulein Detective was right about how ridiculous he was being.

He thanked her for her advice, she flipped him off (probably thinking he couldn’t see her, but then again, maybe not), and he side-stepped her print-preserving tarps on his way out.

Klavier had thought it a long shot making the call, but Clay picked up on the first ring. “Duuuude! I can’t believe Klavier Gavin is calling me and it’s not, like, a prank or a butt-dial or whatever. How have you been, man? We should totes hang out again soon.”

“That sounds great,” Klavier said, trying to keep the surprise from his voice. “I’m...not sure if that’s a good idea right now…?” What exactly was the best way of breaching this topic?

“Oh, yeah, dude, AJ’s totally on to you.” Well, at least Clay was straightforward. “I mean, I don’t know if you were going for buildup or what, but the whole writing an album of mushy songs and thanking him in front of the world and basically being like ‘I did it for you, boo,’ like, I totally saw what you were doing there, and then Apollo was all, ‘What do you know?’ and I was all, ‘I don’t know nothin.’ Then he did that thing where he’s like, you’re lying because your nose hairs are twitching or whatever—has he ever done that to you?—and I was all, ok, I know some stuff, but not like a lot, so it’s kind of like reading Cliff Notes instead of the actual book, you know what I’m saying?”

“I—I think so?” Clay’s motor-mouth was even harder to follow over cell phone. No lip-reading to catch up.

“So then he’s all, ‘Am I reading too much into this?’ and I’m all, ‘Nah, bruh, you guys would be hella cute together,’ and I can’t actually tell if that was what he wanted to hear or not because he got all pace-y and anxious, but also not like freaked out, like, mad freaked out or anything, so, like, I’m still rooting for you, you know?” Clay stopped for breath. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I should call him.”

“So, wait, catch me up here. Does...Apollo know…?”

“Oh, yeah, dude. He totally knows.”

Klavier swallowed. “And…?”

“Like I said, I don’t really know, man. He said some stuff about thinking your twitchy-twitchies meant you were all hot for him—I’m paraphrasing obviously, I mean, can you imagine Apollo using the term hot for me, because I can’t—and I, like, low-key confirmed it, and then he kinda spiraled out on why that couldn’t be right, and I’m like...AJ, why is your self-esteem that bad? And he’s all, ‘I’m plenty good enough for him!’ all loud and whatever, so, like, at least he’s not doing that bullshit thing where he thinks you’re out of his league. ‘Cause you’re totally not, even though you’re Klavier Gavin.”

“I certainly don’t think there’s any league discrepancy.” Anxiety swirled in Klavier’s stomach, but the familiar edge of protectiveness in Clay’s voice still made him smile.

“So, yeah. Maybe instead of asking me you should talk to him. I think the lack of communication is only going to make it more awkward, you know? Just tell him, like, hey, I love you. That’ll work.”

“Ah, love? I—”

“Come on, dude, don’t even.”

“Well, I’ve been texting and leaving messages, but he won’t reply to me.” Klavier heard Clay swear on the other end of the phone, but muffled and far away, like he’d tried to hide it.

“Aw, jeez, AJ, what’re you doing?”

Klavier added that he’d dropped by the office earlier that day, too, and Apollo had been out. He left out the part about the Wrights interrogating him. Clay hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, maybe you should drop in at his place. Trap him in his apartment! He can’t hide forever. Eventually he’ll need food, and when he tries to escape, bam! There you’ll be.” Klavier thought Clay was taking a little too much delight in this proposal. “Do you need his address?”

“I have it, actually.” A recent destination logged in his GPS.

“Oh, so you’ve seen his place? That’s good. It’d be a lousy time to get caught off guard, you know?”

“Caught off—?”

“Ah, it’s my turn in the simulator. Sorry, dude, gotta jet. Good luck!” A click later, Clay was gone. Klavier’s hand dropped from his ear, cell phone grasped loosely in his fingers, and as he lowered his arm, Klavier saw that he was shaking. So his time was up. Apollo knew, and he was definitely avoiding Klavier, but Herr Wright and Clay both seemed to think Klavier should pursue him anyway.

Unused to being the one pursued, Herr Wright had said.

Plenty good enough for him, Clay had said.

At the end of the work day, only six o’clock, not even unreasonable, Klavier took the stairs down to the parking garage with Herr Edgeworth and slid into his car. He sat there for a few minutes, then pulled out his GPS.

Apollo’s apartment building was as worn-down as Klavier remembered, seeming even more dilapidated with dusk descending upon it. Clay replied right away when he’d texted for the apartment number: 3B. The door into the building was unlocked, to Klavier’s horror, and didn’t appear to have any safety measures attached to it. Inside, green carpeting akin to that of a miniature golf course lined the hallways, fraying where it met the walls. Klavier climbed the stairs, carpeted in the same material and ripped everywhere. They probably hadn’t been replaced since 2015.

Apollo’s apartment was at the opposite end of the hallway, his door old and scratched, a tarnished metal 3B screwed onto it at eye level. The walls were thin; Klavier could hear the television going in another apartment, someone’s dog barking somewhere in the building.

He knocked on the door.

Further attempts to avoid him could have succeeded in a nicer building, but Klavier could hear footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, heard the muted “Gah!” when Apollo presumably looked through the peephole that winked at Klavier from underneath the 3B.

“Apollo?” Klavier kept his voice low, knowing it would carry through to the other side of the door but not wanting it to carry throughout the floor.

“What?” Panic decidedly streaked Apollo’s tone in the automatic response, also muffled through the door.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Just because vomit would blend with the hallway’s decor didn’t mean Klavier should do it. “Wh...why not?”

“I don’t want you to…” It could have been a complete sentence but for the way Apollo’s voice trailed off, upspeaking his last syllable. Klavier waited. “...see my apartment.”

“I don’t care about your apartment.” Lie. Klavier wanted Apollo out of this building that very night. “I want to talk to you. You won’t return my calls or texts...I couldn’t even catch you in your office.”

There was a long pause, but Klavier didn’t hear any footprints, strain his ears though he might. Apollo was right on the other side of the door. Klavier reached out his hand and gently laid it on his side of the door, starting with the pads of his fingers and rolling down to his palm.

“You still want to talk to me?” Apollo’s voice was so soft, yet carried through the door so clearly.

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“I have been led to believe,” Klavier answered slowly, “that you already know the answer to that.”

Another long pause.

“You’re really going to leave me out in the hallway?” Klavier asked, hoping there was a smile in his voice. Please let it be shyness, he thought. Please don’t let it be rejection.

“Yes.”

The answer was almost defiant. Klavier did smile then. “Is it okay if I keep talking?”

“...Well, you’re not going away, apparently.” Amidst the resignation, Klavier could hear some shuffling, a thump against the door. Was Apollo sitting against the door on his side? He supposed it was enough that Apollo was willing to listen to him talk.

Klavier sat down on his side of the door, too, resting his back against the thin barrier between himself and Apollo. A few months ago, if someone had told Klavier this would be the person who held the key to his happiness, he wouldn’t have believed it. Yet here he sat, finally talking, still not face-to-face, and praying to any god that would listen for a good outcome.

“Many others realized before I did,” he started, sensing somehow that Apollo was listening and wouldn’t interrupt. “I think at first I was just happy to have a friend. Spending time with you became a highlight in my week, and then it became the highlight that I looked forward to.” Klavier folded his hands in his lap. “You’re the first person in a long time I’ve been able to talk to about so many things, Apollo. Law, music, nonsense. It doesn’t matter. All of those conversations were time well spent.”

“Yeah.” The quietest agreement.

“You give very good advice, you know,” Klavier continued. “You’re honest to a fault and speak without thinking. How many cases have you won with those traits? As many as problems you’ve helped me through. I think I am more honest myself because of you.”

“You've always been honest,” Apollo said. “Mr. Wright’s told me horror stories about the prosecutors he went up against. Please.” Pause. “And if you’re so much more honest now, how come you never said anything to me before?”

“Fear of rejection.”

Apollo barked with laughter on the other side of the door.

Klavier laced his fingers, not sure if that reaction were good or bad. “And since honesty is your nature, why exactly are you avoiding me?”

A minute or two passed. Klavier would give Apollo however much time he needed. “Because this is weird. Not, like, bad weird, but...I don’t...know what to do.” He huffed. “The whole thing about it being cool that we could be friends, that I get. Then you started getting all…” Even though Klavier couldn’t see or hear it, he imagined Apollo gesturing the way his did when his words ran out. “Fidgety,” he finally decided.

“Ah, yes. You notice things. I keep meaning to remind myself.”

“I thought you didn’t like being around me at first,” Apollo said. Before Klavier could reply, he added, “Then it seemed like...maybe you didn’t like not being around me.” His voice brimmed with embarrassment.

“That one,” Klavier said. Apollo made some muttering noise. Klavier waited for him to continue, but he didn’t seem to have anything further to say. After a few minutes, he picked up the conversation, afraid to let the lull spiral into true silence. “You know, it seemed like everyone around me could tell how much I liked you. My manager knew the night she met you at that restaurant. Clay called me on it at the bar.”

“Clay did what, now?”

“You were in the bathroom. Ah, and when I went to your office, Herr Wright and his daughter saw through me as well. And, of course, I announced my feelings to the world, even if the world didn’t know it.” He turned his head to the side, cheek against the door, and lowered his voice even more. “I wrote those songs for you, you know.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door.

“After the Gavinners broke up, I couldn’t so much as string together a nursery rhyme, but then I started spending time with you, and it was like I couldn’t get the notes down on paper fast enough.” Klavier’s interlocked fingers searched each other, and he spun his right pinky ring with his left ring finger. These were details even the most astute of his companions hadn’t learned. “You quite lived up to your namesake.”

“The god of music,” Apollo mumbled.

“I mean this literally and figuratively,” Klavier said. “My life only has music when you’re in it.”

“Don’t say things like that! Who says things like that?” Flustered, distracted, easily as always. But not rebuffing or rejecting. Not turning Klavier away. He’d had a hundred chances to reject him during this visit, right from the first moment Klavier knocked on his door. Yet the conversation continued, bits and pieces of the truth weaving together. It was like being in court together, but softer, gentler.

Klavier leaned more of his weight against the door, imagining body heat coming from its other side. “I love you,” he murmured.

Immediate scuffling sounded inside—Apollo scrambling to his feet?—a click, a creak, and then the solidness of the door disappearing from behind Klavier, swinging backwards and bringing him falling in with it. Head against the floor, Klavier stared straight up to where Apollo, wide-eyed, was standing over him, hand still on the doorknob.

“You...what?”

It made sense that someone as good at reading other people as Apollo would also be good at masking his own emotions, though Klavier didn’t think it was intentional. He couldn’t tell if the shock on Apollo’s face was good or bad.

“I love you,” he repeated. Hey, he’d come this far. Why not stick to the honesty he praised moments ago?

Apollo let go of the doorknob and moved behind Klavier, still on his back on the floor. He grabbed under Klavier’s arms and dragged him into his apartment. Startled, Klavier sat up and scooted back. Once his feet were over the threshold, Apollo shut the door behind him. He kept his back to Klavier for a second, and Klavier could hear him taking a long, slow breath.

He glanced around Apollo’s apartment, one room he could cross in under a dozen strides, with a door leading to a small bathroom. The walls were taupe and held no decoration, the hardwood floors were scratched and barely hiden beneath a faded throw rug. There was a couch that must have pulled out, a coffee table, a kitchenette. Everything was clean, but so plain, like a placeholder.

He turned his attention back to Apollo, who finally turned around. It was then Klavier realized he was wearing red plaid pajama pants and an oversized distressed grey tee shirt. He resisted the urge to check the time on his phone.

“You love me?” Apollo’s face was as red as his usual suit, but he didn’t trip over his words. “I thought you just, you know, wanted to maybe try going on a date or something.”

Klavier wasn’t sure if he should stand or stay on the floor. He opted to get up and brush off his pants. “Yes to both.”

Apollo stared at him. Really stared, the way he did witnesses on the stand in court, his eyes darting everywhere. “Say it again,” he said, and not in a cutely shy way. It was a demand, like Apollo was testing him.

“I love you.”

More staring. Was Apollo waiting for him to start twitching, to tip him off? Klavier wondered if he should try to hide his amusement, but that would only be interpreted as a tic for Apollo to cross-examine. He allowed his smile to bloom in its own good time.

Finally, Apollo’s face flushed to a shade of red Klavier had never seen on a person before, and he leaned back, powering down the bug-eyed stare. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

Was it relief that spurred Klavier’s laughter? “Okay? That’s it?”

“Well!” Apollo crossed his arms and fixed his attention on the floor, puffing his cheeks up. “I thought you might be getting dramatic or something. Hyperbole. Y-You know?”

“And now that you’ve sized me up, you feel better?”

Apollo fidgeted. “I don’t think you’re lying,” he mumbled.

“I didn’t mean to put pressure on you. Though...how could ‘I love you’ not raise the stakes, ja?” Klavier brushed back his bangs, wishing Apollo would say one way or another what he thought of the confession. “I suppose just because you knew I was interested didn’t mean you know how far gone I was. There still isn’t any pressure, I promise. Trying a date is fine with me. If you want to stay friends, that’s okay, too.”

“Liar.” Apollo’s eyes fixed on Klavier’s fingers threading through his bangs, and Klavier realized belatedly that his hand was trembling.

“It might be hard at first,” Klavier conceded, “but I care how you feel and think. I’d respect whatever choice you make.”

Apollo huffed. He uncrossed his arms. He put his hands on his hips. Finally, finally, he lifted his eyes to meet Klavier’s. “If this doesn’t work, we’re not going to be able to be friends anymore.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right, well, what if it does work? What if we tried thinking positively? Maybe we don’t have to worry about not being friends anymore.”

“You have to be prepared for the worst,” Apollo shot back, and there was a tremor in his voice Klavier wasn’t sure he’d ever heard from him before. “You always have to be prepared for it not to work out.”

Somewhere in the corners of Klavier’s mind, he recalled a conversation with Apollo, that lunch they spent on a park bench months ago. His childhood moving from foster family to foster family. Klavier hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but was it any wonder that Apollo had his guard up so strongly? Here Klavier was making such a big deal about fearing his first rejection; what did it feel like after being rejected by families and homes before, knowing the true echo of being alone again in the aftermath?

“If you’re always preparing for the worst, you’re never going to find the best,” Klavier said quietly. “You’re never going to go for it if all you can think about is how it’ll fail.”

Apollo’s eyes were hard, and Klavier could practically see the wall he was putting up in front of him. “Pretty high opinion of yourself there, Mr. Best.”

“Apollo, would you mind telling me how you feel about this?” Divert, divert, divert. “I know what you think. That this is a bad idea and can only go wrong. But tell me, if thinking had nothing to do with it, and you were just going on instinct…” Klavier leaned forward to bring himself to Apollo’s eye level and close the three-foot gap between them, albeit only barely. A pause, a breath.

Apollo shifted, slightly, so slightly. Closing a little more of the gap. “Um…”

“You’re thinking,” Klavier teased. The indignant glare was worth it, his spirits were lifting, because that hesitation was a sign that just maybe…

“I’m not saying I love you,” Apollo said, pursing his lips. Ah, the wrinkles; for a moment, Klavier worried they wouldn’t make their customary appearance on his forehead. “B-because who says that before a first date?”

“Someone desperate and pathetic, undoubtedly.”

“...but...I guess...trying never hurt anybody.”

It was mumbled and rushed and stubborn as hell, but Klavier wouldn’t expect anything less of Apollo.

“You know,” Klavier said, reaching out tentatively. He wished Apollo didn’t have to gel his hair so much, that he had loose, fluffy strands for Klavier to brush away from his face. It left only the option of ghosting his knuckles against Apollo’s cheek, which seemed too intimate and too soon, but Apollo didn’t back away from his touch. It was embarrassing the way his heart pounded. “I don’t think it will be hard to adjust to dating. How many times have we gone out to eat together, just us? Spent time alone, just because?”

“Hanging out and dating are different,” Apollo insisted, his breath warm against Klavier’s wrist. “It feels totally different.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Klavier said, his fingers threading in the dark hair tucked behind Apollo’s ear, his thumb tracing his jawline. “I guess we’ll find out together, huh?”

Apollo eyed him with droll exasperation. “For someone who opened with ‘I love you,’ you sure are having a hard time admitting you want to kiss me right now.”

Klavier was certain he caught a flash of victory in Apollo’s face at his reaction; taken off guard once again, it seemed. Herr Wright may have been onto something about working on his poker face. “Ach, haven’t you ever heard of setting the mood? Or is this the Herr Forehead way of telling me to hurry up, because if you have to wait another minute to kiss the handsomest rock star prosecutor in the world, you’ll—”

For someone who opened with making Klavier stand outside in the hallway and talk through the door, Apollo sure didn’t have a hard time closing the gap between them now.

“You know, that may have been your most pathetic display yet, Prosecutor Gavin,” Apollo said, lacing his fingers and stretching his arms up over his head. A wide grin spread across his face.

“Well, I have been known to prioritize putting away criminals over maintaining a perfect record,” Klavier replied easily. “You’re not undefeated against me, you know.”

“That time I helped you win!”

“We’re not very good at our jobs, are we?”

It had been as mild a winter as any in California, but with spring upon them now, the temperature had risen considerably. The sun was shining when they exited the courthouse and rounded the side of the building to the parking lot in the back. Apollo groaned when he saw the hog.

“I thought you said we were getting lunch.”

“Come now, you didn’t want to go out in my boring old car, did you? I know how you’ve missed being my Motorcycle Mystery Man.”

“I hate you.” But he took the helmet and clicked it into place expertly while Klavier swung his leg over the motorcycle.

“Hmm, you know, I have a hard time believing that.” Klavier tugged at the part of the strap that hung down after Apollo had adjusted the helmet to his liking, and with an obligatory eye-roll, his boyfriend leaned down into a quick kiss.

“Are you ever going to get out of the new-couple PDA phase? It’s been like six months.”

“Are you ever going to experience the joy of being a young man? It’s been like twenty-three years.”

They went to the same Chinese food restaurant they’d gone to the day Klavier wrote “Lunch at Three-Thirty,” and the hostess welcomed Apollo with as much familiarity and fanfare as she did Klavier. He was pretty sure she knew what was between them, even though she never said anything in all the times they’d eaten here.

Apollo still didn’t want to go public about the relationship, what with the media still in a frenzy over Klavier’s EP, but the Wrights and his new colleague who’d just started at the agency were in the know, as was Herr Edgeworth, though Klavier didn’t recall officially telling him anything. Fraulein Detective acknowledged their relationship with the same lack of passion she did everything but science and snacking, though Klavier had the distinct impression that she and Apollo gossiped; sometimes she’d give him a wolfish grin that had no place on a lady’s face. Clay was ecstatic to the point that Apollo was still embarrassed, and even in larger groups, he always asked if it was okay for him to be their third wheel when they invited him out.

“Getting used to the new place?” Apollo asked, swirling his straw through the ice in his soda while they waited for dumplings.

“Somewhat. It’s nice being in a house instead of an apartment.” Klavier had opted to rent a townhouse in the suburbs, relinquishing his upscale apartment in favor of something a little homier. He and the owner had already discussed making some updates; Klavier had soundproofed the office for his personal recording studio and spent every other weekend painting or fixing things up. “Of course, it’s an awful lot of space for one person.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything! Just an observation.” The waitress delivered their dumplings, which they both cut into carefully. On their first official “date,” Apollo hadn’t believed Klavier’s story about the bean paste, claiming the dumplings were too well crafted for it to fall apart. Now he knew from experience. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you held onto an emergency key. In case I lock myself out or anything.”

“It’s really not appropriate for us to live together after six months,” Apollo said, catching himself before he speared his fork too hard into his dumpling.

“I’m just saying you’re always welcome to crash if it’s more convenient for getting to the office.” Klavier had only looked for properties in neighborhoods near the Wrights’ agency, and they both knew it. He still hated Apollo’s apartment, but that lease was almost up for renewal. “You can chip in on the rent if it’d make you feel better.” Klavier was going to buy the house as soon as Apollo moved in, and they both knew that, too.

Apollo did spear his next piece of dumpling a little too hard and jerked to the side to avoid the little spurt of bean paste. Klavier knew he wasn’t mad; that particular purse of his lips went with embarrassment. As did the subject-change that he introduced while wiping the dumpling filling off the table with his napkin. “So, writing any music lately?”

“Some.” Klavier hummed a few bars, tapping out a beat on the table with the heel of his hand. Apollo smiled. “That’s just for us, though.”

They ate, talked about Trucy’s new act; Herr Edgeworth’s new Steel Samurai figurine that only Klavier knew about because he’d been there first thing in the morning when Herr Edgeworth opened the office and tried to smuggle it in; the new lawyer at the agency and the incarcerated prosecutor (whom Klavier actually found a pleasant colleague, to Apollo’s dubiousness). Lunch passed by too quickly, as it always did, and they were soon in the parking lot again, then on the hog and headed for Apollo’s apartment. Klavier dropped him off with his usual reluctance.

“You’re too old-fashioned,” Klavier insisted once he’d killed the engine.

“You’re too forward,” Apollo shot back, getting off the back of the bike and turning over the spare helmet. Klavier pulled him closer, kissing his cheek.

“I love you.”

Apollo mumbled something against Klavier’s temple, and even though he couldn’t exactly make out the words, Klavier knew what he said. He didn’t ask Apollo to repeat it; Apollo knew he’d heard it, too.

Klavier ran his fingertips across the design etched into Apollo’s bracelet. “We should get married.”

Apollo pulled back. “Are you out of your mind?”

“A little.” Apollo didn’t come out and say ‘yes’ a lot, but it was pretty telling when he didn’t say ‘no,’ either, since that word he didn’t shy away from. “But only when I’m with you. I know, I know.” Klavier held up a hand to cut off Apollo’s response. “Nobody says that.”

“Nobody but you,” Apollo said.