It starts with a headache. It’s just a headache. That’s all it is.
“Oh, yes, I have some medicine in the other room.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.”
“No, it’s no trouble at all.”
How had he forgotten to take his medicine at home? It dawns on him that he’d been running late, and the rush had him halfway to work before he remembered how bad his head had been bothering him.
“Hurts,” he says to himself, putting his hand against the side of his cheek.
But, Gavin comes back and gives him medicine, placing it gently in his right palm.
Apollo smiles sweetly, at least, he hopes he does—he doesn’t really consider himself sweet in any way, but he tries his best. Except, he finds that it’s difficult, and it makes his head hurt worse. He flinches but still grabs the cup of water being handed to him.
The pills go down easily. He breathes a sigh of relief because the idea of not being in pain within twenty minutes or so makes him substantially calmer.
But, as time goes by and he tries to concentrate on the screen in front of him, the more he realizes how tired he is. Very, very tired. He’s never had issues with falling asleep at work. He usually sleeps alright, and even when he doesn’t, the constant buzz of anxiety in the back of his brain keeps him alert.
So, when his vision starts blurring and eyes start closing, he finds it odd. He does his best to snap out of it, but it becomes more and more difficult to fight against the feeling.
And, eventually, he falls asleep.
He can imagine Mr. Gavin and how he turns his head when he hears the thwump! of a body hitting the floor, imagine how he sees Apollo limp and unconscious and goes back to organizing his filing cabinet.
Wait, had he been doing that before? Apollo guesses he forgot to announce that part of the scene. He’s in the same room because he’s working on putting his case files in a different order. Chronological versus alphabetical.
And, maybe it becomes a bit too long for a subordinate of his to be splayed out on his firm’s carpet. He’s strong, so he can pick him up like a pretty princess and place him on one of the couches.
Does he watch him lie there? Or, does he go back to his business? He clearly knows what he did, and he is not concerned. If he sits on the arm of the couch and watches him, he’ll realize sooner that Apollo is not actually unconscious, just immobilized.
It would be a good opportunity to invade his mind, wouldn’t it?
Whatever he’s taken makes him feel strange, like his mind is whirling inside his skull. It doesn’t feel amazing but it doesn’t feel horrible. It feels disarming. He feels like he can’t move, can’t open his eyes, can’t speak. He is totally and utterly helpless.
It feels good.
He feels his hand on the top of his head, and he hears a soft whisper.
“Are you doing alright?”
Apollo knows he shouldn’t let himself do it, but the noise he makes sounds like a full-on moan. The feeling of a large palm on him feels good. Why does whatever he’s given him make every-little-thing feel so good?
“Oh, it’s really kicked in, hasn’t it?” A small laugh punctuates his words. “Does it feel nice?”
He nods. Even the feeling of his hair rustling against a pillow is relaxing. It’s impossible for him not to collapse under the weight of his own mind. That idea technically means nothing and makes no sense, and yet, a stabbing flash of pleasure bolts through him, and he gasps. Or, was that because his hand slipped down to his cheek? Or, was it because his hand was so much cooler than his skin?
Gavin makes a sad sound.
“Did I hurt you?”
He shakes his head.
“Can I sit next to you?”
He nods.
Apollo feels the cushion by his head dip, but the movement flips his stomach, and he makes a weird sound again. A hand squeezes his shoulder, and he makes a weird sound again. These weird sounds are much more pained than the previous ones.
“Are you okay?”
“Dizzy,” is all he can get out. Even though that is his own word, he wonders how he can be dizzy when his eyes are closed.
“Yes, this type of medication can be quite disorienting. I hope it’s not too much.”
As if Kristoph ever cared if anything was too much. He would be disgusted if he could feel any negative emotion in the present moment.
“I wondered if you should be given something less strong, but I didn’t want to chance that you’d be miserable.”
The idea that Kristoph would care about him chokes him up, but tears won’t come. Instead, he coughs out a blubbering noise. It’s very childish and very pathetic. Caring is so hard, both for himself and for others towards him. He wishes that Kristoph could actually care for him, but he knows he can’t. It’s why all this is so confusing. It’s why he wants to open his eyes and see for himself—see if Kristoph’s face really is soft and genuinely kind like he’s always wanted.
But, if he tries to open his eyes, everything is so blurry. He sees colors and shapes but nothing else.
“Oh…Apollo…”
Oh. He’s crying. Now that words are aimed towards him once again, he can feel hot and sticky tears running over his temples. They find his ears and sit there unpleasantly. Although, he’s forgotten why he’s supposed to be sad.
“I—don’t know why…I’m—crying.”
There’s a hum in his ear and a breath against his cheek. He can’t breathe correctly as a result. And, he’s still very, very dizzy. He whimpers involuntarily at the many mixed sensations.
“Shhh…it’s okay. It won’t last forever. Maybe you should try to sleep.”
“I’m…not…asleep?”
“I don’t think so. You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”
He supposes that Kristoph has a point.
“If I leave you alone, will it feel better?”
Apollo has no idea what ‘feel better’ is supposed to mean. If it’s what his brain thinks it is, then—it’s—going—to feel—better.
“No…please…stay…”
(But, make it feel better.)
“Alright. I’ll stay here.”
As shameful as it is, the idea that he’d be watched over by Mr. Gavin during this period of total helplessness simultaneously makes him feel euphoric while also helps to steal his consciousness away from him.
And, it does feel better.
It feels really good.
There’s nothing specific, just the rising of a sensation, a rousing of awareness.
“O-Oh…”
It feels like Closeness, but it’s ambiguous closeness. It’s undefined. It doesn’t feel physical. It feels…made up? That doesn’t make sense. It has to be something.
But, whatever that ‘something’ is—it never comes. Not like he’s about to.
“No…”
As much as this strange, he understands it. He knows it. He knows what it is. He’s gonna come—he’s gonna come—he’s gonna come—he’s gonna—
He wakes with a start, and before he even is aware of what’s happening, he thinks that he hopes he didn’t make the horrible sound that he thinks he made out loud, or at the very least, not in the presence of anyone.
The first thing he notices is that it’s light out. It’s not night. Why was he asleep?
The second thing he notices is that his pants are wet. He frowns, staring at the ceiling with a pout. God, when was the last time he had a wet dream? He can’t even remember.
And…it was about Mr. Gavin. Sort of. Maybe? It’s all very, very murky. He doesn’t quite understand. Regardless, it’s been a while.
He throws off the covers, sits up, and turns to dangle his feet off the bed in one motion, but it's all too fast, apparently, because his vision doubles and he sways where he sits. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward to meet his chest.
He feels…weird.
When he steadies himself again, he opens his eyes, and he’s staring at the darkened spot on his sweatpants.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. The word is too big for his mouth, and it sounds wrong. Who cares? What's distressing is how he'd forgotten about it so quickly.
Well, maybe it’s because every movement he makes disorients him. He stands only to stumble, and he walks forward to the dresser next to the closet only to run into it. Still, his first priority is to change his clothes, and he’ll figure out why he’s so fucked up later.
Speaking of changing clothes, he swears that he’s trying to get out of a spider web. It's hard to lift his leg enough that he can get out of these disgusting fucking sweatpants. He doesn’t know what clothes are his. He grabs the first pair of shorts and underwear he can find, puts them on, and crumples his soiled sweatpants before crushing them protectively against his chest.
No one can know. Because if they know. They’ll know how bad he is.
No, his therapist told him something to combat that thought. Something. But it’s not—he can’t—he can't...
The bathroom suddenly gets quieter. He hadn’t even realized it was so loud. He bolts from where he stands and bursts into the laundry room.
Gotta clean, he hums a tune to himself as he opens the top of the washer. It’ll be fine, he thinks as he throws in the pants. This probably isn’t happening, he tries to convince himself as he pours in way too much detergent. Everything is fine.
He slams the top of the washer down and smacks his hand against the start button. It hurts a lot, surprisingly. He hisses because it pinched the skin of his palm a little, and how did he manage that?
“Fuck,” he moans, but it’s a moan of pain, and he hopes that the moan didn’t alert the Holy Mother about how disgusting he is.
No, he can’t call himself disgusting anymore. He knows it’s bad now. But…what was he supposed to do instead? What had his therapist been telling him about times like this? He should—something about grounding—uhh, thinking about…something…
He can’t remember. Why can’t he remember?
Everything is just so wrong. He leans forward and his head hits the top of the washer.
Fuck, his mind says, but it’s not a moan. It’s exasperation. It’s confusion. It’s—It’s—It’s—
“Schatz?”
The sound of a voice makes him shoot up and freeze but only for a second. After the moment of paralyzation wears off, he flips around, his lower back hitting the washing machine as his only means of support.
“What are you doing?”
His mind screams—(Oh, only putting my come-stained pants in the fucking washer—what the hell does it look like?!)
On the outside, he doesn’t do anything but stare.
“Schatz…?” he tries again. “Are you okay? What are you doing up?”
He shakes his head as he says, “I’m…not supposed to be up?”
“No, you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Oh.”
That makes a certain amount of sense. Regardless, he’s not sure what he should do about the whole thing. Especially because nothing is really clicking in his brain. Everything feels so off and he doesn’t know how to fix it and—he can’t control where his head lulls. He keeps trying to pick it back up, but it’s heeeaavvvyyy…
“Apollo!”
His knees hit the ground. Then his forehead squishes into the plush of the carpet. His arms are discarded somewhere around his head.
“Mmphh…”
His upper body has to be manually lifted up by someone’s arms. But, then he’s leaning against the washing machine, and he can’t help but be distracted by how it vibrates and whirls against his back.
“Hey, Apollo. Apollo. Look at me.”
He does. He lifts his head, and Klavier—it’s Klavier…he’s looking at him imploringly. Apollo isn’t sure how he should respond. He’s very, very confused. Why is he seeing both the Gavins?
But, he knows one thing. His eyes—his eyes are so incredibly sky blue.
(So beautiful...so beautiful. Holy Mother, how is someone so beautiful with him right now?)
“Apollo.”
“Yes, sir?”
As soon as he says it, he claps his hands over his mouth. Even in his state, he knows he said the absolute worst thing he could have ever said.
He takes a few uneven and desperate breaths before he drops his hands and all the words spill out—
“No, I—I didn’t mean—I…no, please don’t hate me—I’m so sorry—I…Why is this happening? Why is this—”
A hand is placed on his back, and it rubs softly against the tension.
“Shhh…it’s okay. It’s okay.”
He breathes very heavily for a moment, but the panic slowly dulls, and the terror that had been possessing him drops away. He’s there on this floor, but he knows he’s safe now. Somehow.
Klavier continues. His words are slow, methodical, and kind.
“You’re on medication. You had dental work done, and because it was rather invasive, you had to be prescribed strong pain medication. I didn’t want them to give you something like that, especially because…I know you’ve had trouble with hallucinations, and I’ve had friends who like opioids, and I…”
Apollo can’t help but chirp, “Huh?”
Klavier’s sky blue eyes are so sad.
“I knew it was going to make you feel bad, but the doctors, I…I didn’t know how to explain it, and I didn’t want you to be in pain, and—”
Apollo blinks a few times. He doesn’t understand.
Klavier smiles and holds his hand out like he’s the prince he’s always been waiting for.
“Can I take you back to bed?”
His mouth opens before he has an answer. “Yeah.”
Everything is so heavy when he stands. How did he get all the way to the laundry room by himself?
“Oh—whoa—hey.”
He pitches forward and almost biffs it, but he is saved by strong and steady arms. Or, maybe he’s just so fucked up that anyone would be able to catch him and prevent him from crumpling to the ground.
It only takes millennia or five seconds, but he’s in a nice plush bed under warm covers in the arms of someone he trusts.
Even so, squeaks out, “I’m sorry for making everything weird…I didn’t want to do that…”
Klavier giggles.
“I’m sorry that you’re really high, Schatz.”
“Oh…I’m high…?”
“Ja, lots of drugs. But, your mouth doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No. I feel…good.”
“I’m so glad. You deserve to feel good.”
Apollo crumples up in Klavier’s embrace, sort of like a piece of paper. He looks up and only sees sky blue.
“I—love you.”
And, the sky is so loving.
“I love you, too, Schatz.”
Apollo can’t convince himself that he’s not being loved by the whole entire universe.
Or, maybe he’s just really high.