He thinks about it once. While he’s falling asleep. He remembers that spirit channeling exists. The last of the information his brain was trying to hide. You can bring people back from the dead, and the idea consumes him.
To whom it may concern:
I. Boyfriend/Partner
“I have to talk to him. Like, actually talk to him.”
Klavier turns to Apollo so fast his ponytail hits his own forehead.
“What? No, you don’t.”
They were just having dinner. He thought it was best to bring it up like an Actual Issue To Be Discussed, but clearly, that hadn’t been the right approach.
His voice is so intense that it’s deadly. Apollo tries not to flinch, but he does. He’s been trying to work on desensitizing himself to harsh tones, but progress has been slow-moving.
“I…do. I need closure.”
“Apollo,” Klavier says with the most serious voice he’s ever heard from him, “No. You. Don’t.”
Apollo squeezes his eyes shut.
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me.”
He sighs in exasperation but obviously gets it. “Ja, ja, I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to get across that you can’t do that, Schatz. You can’t see him.”
He opens his eyes, but they’re staring at the tile of the kitchen suite’s floor. He doesn’t say anything.
“Have you brought this up with your therapist?”
“No, but I’m going to next session,” he says even though he has no intention of actually doing so.
“It’s a very, very bad idea. There’s no way anyone should talk to Kristoph, let alone someone with the history with him that you do.”
“How do you know what I need better than I do?” It should sound combative, but he sounds defeated. His eyes are glazed over. Maybe he is defeated in some way, knowing it’s definitely a bad idea and bringing it up anyway.
“Because I know him as my brother. I don’t like to think of him as heartless, but considering his actions, he has to be. He’s cruel and vindictive, and he hurt you far worse than anyone should be hurt.”
(Yeah, I know) he thinks to himself.
“I need to know why—”
“He won’t tell you.” His voice has grown dark again. “Trust me. I’ve tried. And, it went as badly as you think.”
(Yeah, I know) he thinks to himself.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about it.”
It sounds like he’s planning a suicide. He very well might be. But, he doesn’t really want to die anymore, not really, anyway. Only in theory.
“Please, for your sake, don’t.”
He nods, growing ever increasingly despondent.
“Yeah.”
He hates lying to Klavier, so he doesn’t say anything else.
II. Not-Boss/Not-Father
“Khura’in’s traditions center on spirit channeling.”
It’s a statement out of nowhere. Apollo and Wright had been looking over some case files—Apollo has still not been cleared to return to work yet—and he just said it. It’s as weird as it sounds.
“Huh?” He looks up from his papers and then back down. “Yeah, I saw a lot of it over there.”
“Yeah.” He flips to the next page in his packet, but he's not really reading it. “Bringing people back from the dead. It feels like it shouldn’t be possible.”
“Normally it isn’t, but some parts of life are weird.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause, and Phoenix looks up from his own packet and stares blankly at the wall for a moment before turning back to Apollo.
“Why?”
Mr. Wright has gotten serious like Klavier had. It makes him nervous.
“Hm—? Oh, no reason. I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”
Knowing what Mr. Wright knows about him, he says, “Who?”
“No. No one.” Apollo shakes his head. “Sorry I brought it up.”
“No, Apollo. Tell me who. Clay, Dhurke, or Kristoph?”
He should lie, he should lie, he should lie, he tells himself to lie, he should lie, he should lie—
“Mr. Gavin,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Wright breathes out sharply, shakes his head, breathes out sharply again.
“Apollo,” he keeps shaking his head. He probably doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, shrinking into himself like he used to do in front of Mr. Wright all those years ago. This must frighten him because he puts down the papers and rights himself in his chair to make eye contact with him, which is impossible because Apollo’s head is turned the other way.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s just—I know him. And, I know you. If you see him in any capacity, he is going to do whatever he can in those few minutes to mess with you. You know how he is. You know what he does.” He’s still shaking his head. “All your commitment and progress—he’ll rip it right from under you."
Yes, probably. But, he can take it now. He’s doing better. He can stand him. He really thinks he can. Maybe. Sort of.
(The pit in his stomach makes it obvious he’s lying to himself.)
“I promise, Mr. Wright. I don’t have the intention to—”
“You know as well as I do that you’re starting to think of a plan.” It sounds like Mr. Wright is insinuating that he’s constructing a plan to kill himself. Maybe he is. He’s not sure. “The intention can come later, and that’s what scares me.”
“I don’t actually…” His vision is blurry, and he feels dizzy all of a sudden. “I’m not actually…”
“I think you should go home and get some rest, Apollo.” Phoenix Wright sounds very, very concerned. “Talk to Klavier about it.” He stares blankly at him because he’s already done that. “Take a nap. Watch a movie. Take care of yourself.”
Apollo has no intention of actually taking care of himself even though he’s trying to convince himself that he is.
He hates lying to Mr. Wright so he doesn’t say anything else.
III. Therapist
The office is really small. He wonders how clients who have claustrophobia can stand it. Maybe they can’t. Or, maybe it’s exposure therapy. It's not worth thinking about, regardless.
His name is Mr. Haito Thomas. He’s a small Japanese man with a little bit of an accent, but it’s barely noticeable. He took his husband’s last name. Apollo had wondered if he would take Klavier’s name or if they’d both hyphenate. If they get married. Getting gay-married is legal in the states now. It brings him as much hope as it brings him dread.
“How are you doing today, Apollo?”
He squirms in his place on the couch.
“Fine.”
Mr. Thomas knows that Apollo is never fine. He’d made it clear on the first day, so he lets it slide.
“Ah, good. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
“No.” The word comes out forcefully. It makes Mr. Thomas jump a little. “I mean—actually yes.” He talks very fast and things blend together a bit. “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Gavin and I’m not sure if I’m triggered because it feels different and there’s no compulsions this time and I don’t know if I’m doing better or worse or—”
“Whoa, there. Slow down.”
Why is he breathing heavily? He doesn’t feel nervous. Not really, anyway.
“On the subject of being triggered, do you really not know the answer to that?”
“I don’t know. I’m usually so messed up I can barely walk, but this time I feel…calm, I guess.”
“Apollo, what are you feeling in your body right now?”
He has to stop and think. Usually, his body is an amorphous entity that he has no intention of acknowledging or interacting with, but in these moments where he’s forced to check-in, he realizes how severe the disconnect is. He can only tell that his heart is beating weird in his chest.
“Uh…not really anything? A little anxious I guess, but I’m always like that.”
“In observing you, I think it looks like you are very agitated. You seem tense.”
“I-I don’t feel tense.”
“You have the tendency to dissociate, right? Not acknowledging bodily sensations is a form of dissociation.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So, if you are showing the psychological signs of a PTSD-episode, I think it’s safe to say that you might be having one.”
“Oh.”
The idea is literally terrifying. The last time he had a PTSD-episode, he nearly killed himself.
Mr. Thomas breaks in again. “Which is alright because there will always be the potential to have one, especially this early in recovery. What is important is you take care of yourself and communicate with your friends and family about how you’re feeling so they can give you support. And, if you become unsafe, there is always IP.”
“I don't wanna go inpatient again.”
“I know. No one does. But, it’s for your own safety.”
He’s starting to hate that phrase. “For his own safety.” Doing things for his own safety sucks. Sometimes he wants to do unsafe things, and what’s the big deal? Everyone self-destructs a little bit. As long as he’s not crying all the time and thinking about slashing his wrists open, he’s fine.
(I’d honestly rather die) he thinks.
“Remember the soothing techniques we were trying out before?”
“Yeah, sorta.”
When he steps out the door of the terrifyingly small office, he doesn’t think about therapy at all for the rest of the week. It’s not like he’s trying to do that, though. It’s just because the filing system in his head is so good at putting memories and thoughts and ideas away, it gets shuffled away before he can even consciously realize it. The next session, he often has a hard time remembering what they even talked about. But, that’s probably normal and fine.
Mr. Thomas looks at his notes for a moment. “You said you resonated with the 'Light Stream’ the most.”
The Light Stream is a technique in which a patient imagines some sort of light passing over them (a sun ray, a magical beam, ect.) and tries to think about the pleasant feelings that arise from such ideation. Often times, the patient will also associate this with a person that inspires similar feelings. It can be used to dull unpleasant emotions.
Apollo uses Klavier as the person and the sun as the beam because of his lyric (“They say be one with the city/so I’m standing in the sun all day”). It’s a private joke that he doesn’t say out loud.
“Yeah, I guess.” It’s not like he remembers.
“Do you want to practice for a bit? We can add in the headset too, if you’re comfortable.”
They’ve started doing EMDR, which stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s a PTSD-treatment technique where the clinician leads a patient through a therapeutic session regarding previous trauma with some sort of stimulus that activates the right and left lobes of the brain in repeated succession. It’s one of the most effective ways of relieving post-traumatic stress, he’s been told.
Sometimes the idea frightens him, though.
(Can’t think/can’t think/but I have to think/I have to think/why is it so hard to think?)
“Sure.” He can’t find it in himself to argue.
He takes the headphones and puts them on. He closes his eyes.
“Concentrate on the feelings in your body. If these feelings have a shape, what would they be?”
“I dunno. A triangle?”
This feels silly, but he’s not going to argue with someone that knows better than him.
“And if it had a size, what would it be?”
“Uhh…small. Like I could hold it in one hand.”
“And, what emotion does it feel like?”
“Anxiety.”
“Alright. Bring that shape into the light with you. As you’re concentrating on the stream, notice if your body, the shape, or the emotion feels different in any way.”
Whatever any of that means.
“Okay.”
Beeps begin to come from the headset. Right, left, right, left, and so forth. When he’s thinking about it, he can feel his eyes move with the beeps automatically, but it’s distracting so he tries not to.
The light stream does feel good and warm, and he has his anxiety triangle with him, but something feels off this time. It’s less good and warm. Maybe, he realizes, it’s because Klavier isn’t with him, so it’s just him and this dumb panic shape and a beam of light that isn’t even real.
(Where did Klavier go?)
The triangle feels sharper all of a sudden, and there’s a jab of pain in his chest.
The beeping stops. He opens his eyes.
“Was there any change you noticed?”
Apollo’s voice sounds strange to him when he says, “My person isn’t there anymore.”
“Oh, interesting. Do you usually have to ask them to come, or do they just appear?”
“Usually, I don’t have to think about it, and he’s just there.”
“Maybe try to bring him around in this set. How did it feel?”
“Different. Sharp.”
“Concentrate on your person and that feeling.”
He closes his eyes. The beeping continues.
This time, he calls out to him.
(Klavier. Where are you? I don’t want to be alone.)
There’s nothing. The shape is suddenly too big for him to hold and it drops to the floor. There’s something menacing about it. He doesn’t want to be near it. He tries to kick it away from his happy therapy sunray—thank you very much—but it’s heavy and can't be moved.
Impenetrable. Distant. Shocking.
Cold.
Apollo’s eyes shoot open, and he yanks off the headphones.
“I can’t do it anymore.”
“What happened?” Mr. Thomas looks as surprised as he does concerned.
“The shape, like—I don’t know—did something. I can’t explain it. I felt afraid of it. Klavier must have been afraid of it, too, because he never showed up.”
Mr. Thomas writes this down as if it makes any fucking sense.
“I see. I apologize, Apollo. I didn’t mean to cause you distress.”
“N-No,” he laughs nervously. “It’s not your fault.”
(It’s your fault.)
He doesn’t hear voices anymore, but his inner monologue still sounds like him sometimes, or at least, it has the same intonation. He tries not to let it get to him. As Mr. Thomas always jokes about, they’re still very early in the process of crossing the beams in his head.
It makes sense to him, but he doesn’t get the reference. He just hopes peace comes sooner rather than later.
He hates lying to his therapist, so he doesn’t say anything else.
IV. Co-Worker/Best Friend
“I’m…having a bad time.”
“What’s wrong?”
She’s eyeing him cautiously. She’s nervous, rightly so, as Apollo having a bad time can end up explosive and dangerous very quickly.
“I—don’t know. I don’t feel right.”
He leaves out the part about spirit channeling this time, seeing as how it didn’t go very well the first two times.
“Oh. Geez. Um, is there anything I can do to help?”
Athena doesn’t use her Mood Matrix on friends anymore. Not since the last time she used it on Apollo, anyway.
“No. I just wanted to get it out there because my therapist said that keeping friends and family informed is going to help me.”
She nods, “That’s true. Making sure your support network is on the same page as you is essential.”
He says, “Yeah,” as if he’s not omitting the biggest issue he’s struggling with. It makes him feel guilty. He decides to go about talking about it in a different way. Without signaling a plan or intent.
“I've just been missing all the people who’ve died. Because I can’t ignore how upset it makes me anymore, it’s been really hard.”
She makes a sad sound. “Oh, Apollo, I’m sorry. I get it, though. Some days, missing my mom feels absolutely unbearable.”
Yes. That’s the word for it. Unbearable. Thinking is unbearable, and it hurts every day/hour/minute/second. He doesn’t want to think.
“Sorry about your mom, too.”
“It’s no worries.” She smiles and becomes more animated. “I’m doing a lot better, don’cha know!” She flashes a peace sign and her smile grows into an enthusiastic grin.
He wishes he could say the same. He desperately wishes he could say the same.
He hates lying to Athena, so he doesn’t say anything else.
V. Half-Sister
“Let’s go get lunch, Polly! I’m starving and Daddy’s out of string cheese again, so I can’t wait.”
She puffs air out of her mouth, frustrated about the Agency's lack of snacks.
(“Our talents need to fuel themselves for maximum performance!”) she always says. She’s not entirely wrong. He just doesn’t care.
“I’m not hungry, Truce.”
“Polly~eee~eee, you haven’t been eating again! Come with us!”
He distantly wonders who the other part of “us” is, but he also doesn’t care.
She’s right, though, and with her powers of observation, she can probably tell he’s lost half a pound this month, but she hasn’t brought it up. Well, now that he’s thinking about it, she’s probably going to bring it up. That’s just how Trucy is.
“I’m eating fine,” he lies.
“You’ve lost at least half a pound this month.”
There it is.
“I think I know my own weight better than you, thanks.”
She squints at him.
“If you don’t come get lunch with me, I’ll tell Daddy you’re not eating.”
His stomach drops. His eyes open wider. A tiny breath escapes from him.
“Okay, okay. Fine, I’ll go. But, don’t tell Mr. Wright.” He mutters to himself, “He already thinks I’m a nut job.”
Trucy still hears him, though.
“He does not think you’re a nut job, Polly. You’re so negative. He loves you!”
“I’m sure he does,” Apollo says sarcastically as he zones out, eyes unfocusing, resolve waning.
“Okay, hurry up, though. Maya’s probably eaten her whole burger already. Or, she's going to be mad because she's hangry.”
Maya…
“You get lunch with Maya?”
“She’s Daddy’s best friend,” she says as if that answers every question he could possibly have.
Maya, the Spirit Channeler.
“Right.”
Oh, Holy Mother.
He feels the rest of his resolve slip through his grasp.
VI. Acquaintance/Mr. Wright’s Best Friend/Master Spirit Channeler
When they’ve eaten and are ready to go, he says, “Hey, Maya—can I grab you for a second?”
Maya turns and looks at him, a bit surprised but happy to talk nonetheless.
“Sure, what’s up?”
He looks past her. Trucy is in the park next to the burger stand. She's distracted because she’s trying to catch a squirrel so she can make it disappear.
“I—” He focuses back on Maya. He gets nervous and his bracelet tightens. He hates himself for it. “If I were trying to schedule a spirit channeling session…how would I go about that?”
Because Maya thinks about it for a few moments, he feels the need to continue even though it probably makes him look more suspicious.
“I’ve just had so many people in my life die, and it’s been so hard for me. I need the closure. Just one last time—”
“Whoa, whoa.” She makes a spinning motion with her hand as if she’s telling him to rewind a movie reel. “No need for the speech. I heard you the first time.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Just shoot me a text. I’d be happy to do it.”
He pulls out his flip phone, but before he can do anything else, she takes it from his hands.
“I’ll just put in my number.” She wrestles with the keyboard for a few seconds. “Half a Holy Mother, how old is this thing?”
Apollo frowns. He likes his cellphone.
“Okay, there,” Maya hands it back to him and smiles cheerfully. “Let me know when you’re available, and I’ll give you instructions from there.”
He asks sheepishly, “So, how much is it?”
“Don’t worry, you definitely fall under the “‘Friends and Family, So I Don’t Give A Shit’ Package.”
“Is that something you actually have?”
Maya bursts out laughing. “No! I thought it sounded better than just saying ‘I’m doing Nick a favor.’”
“Oh.” Apollo flushes. That was a very elaborately set up backhanded compliment. Well, backhanded to him and complimentary to Mr. Wright.
She flashes him that look he’s been given throughout his life. She thinks he’s cute. Apollo can’t relate.
“Alright, alright. I’ll take a free burger as payment. Happy?” She laughs. “Just kidding! Keep me updated, okay, Apollo?”
“Okay.”
“Bye!” she waves and turns around so she can shout over to the park. “Bye, Trucy!”
Trucy waves but loses her magic squirrel in the process.
Apollo feels his eyes become unfocused again.
Writing and sending the text to Maya feels like he’s signing a suicide note. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t know why.
He’s very good at lying to himself, but at a certain point, it just becomes absurd, and he knows it.
The room is dim. It’s red with hues of orange and yellow. Apollo is unsure if it's because of the candles or if that’s how the room looks. It’s all reminiscent of Khura’inese decor, but not quite. It’s just enough to feel familiar and foreign at the same time.
Maya looks serious and professional with all of her traditional garb on. Breaking the charade, she flops down and crosses her legs in an exaggerated way, almost like she’s still a teenager.
“Alright. Why don’t you tell me who we’re wakin’ up.”
Apollo swallows. His mouth goes dry. He wonders if he even has the nerve to speak his name.
Somehow, he manages.
“K-Kristoph Gavin.”
Maya’s face goes from shock to skepticism to contemplative to grim, all the way back to shock again.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Apollo wonders why he can’t react, but maybe it’s because he expected this reaction.
“Yeah.”
She practically laughs in his face, but it’s out of frustration and exasperation rather than how people laugh at him.
“I am not doing that. The guy’s a sociopath!”
“I know. It’s for my own peace of mind, though,” he lies. “The closure I need,” he lies. “If I don’t talk to him again, I’ll—”
He’ll what? Apollo doesn’t have any idea what’s going to happen after this moment, so he doesn’t bother finishing the statement.
“Y’know, when you asked me, I thought you were talking about your Space Boyfriend or your dad, not your serial killer ex-boss. Geez.”
“I know I was intentionally vague. I’m sorry. If you feel uncomfortable doing it, I don’t want you to. But, I really, really, really need to see him. I need to know why all this happened, why it was me and Mr. Wright and Trucy, why he did it all the way he did.” His head is between his hands, both pressed flat against the floor. He didn’t know he was going to do that until he did. He can’t really be that desperate, can he? To beg. To grovel. He can’t even tell if he’s lying anymore. He honestly doesn't know. “I’ll forever be in your debt. I’ll do anything—I’ll say anything—please—I’m so miserable, and maybe—maybe it’ll help—anything to help—please—I’ll—”
“Stop.”
He peeks upward and eventually sits up. Maya is quiet. She looks very frightening when her eyes and expression go dark—when she’s absolutely serious.
“Fine.” She holds up a pointed finger and jabs it into Apollo’s chest. “But, if he lays one of his disgusting fucking hands on you, I’m kicking him out. Got it?”
Apollo nods. He would have said anything to convince her and he's glad it took so little effort. It's certainly not the first time he groveled expressly for the attention of Kristoph Gavin.
(Knock-Knock! You’ve got a visitor! Ya fucking piece of shit.)
VII. Ex-Boss/Ex-Lover/Abuser
He’s so tall. Had he gotten taller in the Afterlife?
“My, now this is a surprise.” He smirks. He knows that he probably can’t help it. “Apollo Justice.”
The way he says his name feels like ice-cold fingers running down his spine.
“Sir.”
He’s instantly back in time, but that was already part of the plan—maybe. Subconsciously, anyway.
“I never actually thought I’d be brought back from the dead.” Kristoph looks down at his purple outfit. His hair tumbles over his shoulder, and it makes Apollo swallow thickly. “Hmm, not really my style, but considering the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.”
He’s charismatic. Sarcastic. Sardonic. Condescending. Conceded.
And, God, Apollo missed him so fucking much.
He wants to move, to say anything, but he is totally and utterly frozen. He cannot move. His fight or flight instincts automatically switch to ‘Give Up’ in his presence. His heart is pounding like a sledgehammer. His mind is spinning. Everything is too much.
He feels glaringly alive, and he hates himself for it.
Kristoph tilts his head. “Clarify one thing for me.”
Apollo nods dumbly.
“Why did you call me here today?”
It’s such a simple question, but the answer is mind-numbingly frightening.
Apollo can’t say anything. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with water. Drowning. Like in the cave. Dhurke’s dead. No one to save him. But, this time, he’s done it to himself.
Maybe this really is a suicide.
“Speak, Justice.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“Answer me, Justice.”
“I-I d-don’t know.”
“Oh, so you’ve done this on a whim, have you?” He rolls his eyes. “Do you take me for an idiot?”
“N-No, sir.”
“Why am I here?”
It doesn’t sound like a question.
“T-To see you.”
“And, do what, exactly?”
He’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter.
“S-See you,” he repeats.
“Am I talking to an answering machine, Justice?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, answer the damn question!” He punctuates his words with a stomp of his foot, if only to scare Apollo out of his mind. It works. He cries out and flinches away, but he quickly rights himself once he realizes he isn't actually being hit. Of course. Because he knows every little thing that works on Apollo Justice.
“I missed you.”
“And?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is there to talk about?”
He’s honestly wondering. Apollo can tell. He’s curious. And amused. The small flashes of anger are the emotions that are faked. He wants a reaction. Apollo knows this. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he didn’t know so he wouldn’t feel so bad about entertaining his manipulation on purpose.
“Why?”
“Why what?” There’s a few beats of silence. He taps his foot just twice. “Honestly, sometimes it’s like pulling teeth with you.”
Apollo swallows again.
“Why…it all…happened…”
“More specific, please.”
“Why you did it…to them and…to me…”
He took that answer to his grave, and he’ll take it beyond if he has to. He diverts the question.
“To you?”
Apollo wishes he didn’t notice. He entertains him anyway.
“Yeah. To me.”
“Because I wanted to.”
He’s not taking any of this seriously. Maybe if he appeals to his ego he'll get a different answer? He covers his face with his hand, and his breath catches.
“Do you want to now?"
Kristoph is trying very hard not to laugh.
“You really want to desecrate another person’s body just so you can get off? Just how disgusting are you, Justice?”
Apollo isn’t actually serious about it. Or, he doesn’t think he is, at least.
“I—I know. But, you know how I am. I am disgusting, and I do want bad things, and you’re supposed to want me to do those things…”
“Even I am above raping an innocent woman.”
The anger that explodes from in him is sudden and very loud.
“No, you’re not!” His hand flies away from his face. “You did it to me! You did it to Mr. Wright! Who knows who else you’ve done it to?! What, you’re above it just because you’re gay?”
He considers it, tilting his head, thinking about it like it’s something you’re supposed to actively consider.
“You’re not entirely wrong.”
Apollo makes a belligerent, unintelligible sound, something loud and piercing but not quite a scream.
“Why are you like this?! Why, Mr. Gavin?! Why do you do things like this—why did you do those things to me?”
“I answered that question already.”
“No! I want the real answer! Not the bullshit you always feed me!”
“You really want an honest answer?”
“Yes, for the Holy Mother, yes!”
He says matter-of-factly, “Because you’re attractive, and I knew you wouldn’t sleep with me unless I forced you to.”
“Ugh!” The answer hurts as much as he thought it would. “Why are you so fucking—God—why do you—!”
He’s completely beside himself. He can’t even talk correctly. He can’t cry or do anything but yell.
“I almost killed myself because of you!”
He does one of those laughs that’s barely a laugh, a little “hmph” like he’s so fucking pitiful that it’s all he deserves.
“I don’t see how I forced you to do that.”
“You were in my head! You were goading me to do it! I wouldn’t have even thought about doing it if you hadn’t—”
“Even you must hear how absolutely delusional you sound.”
“It was really you, wasn’t it?”
It’s a bluff, but he’s very good at dealing with bluffs, true or not.
“Justice, trust me, I am very bored in the Afterlife. If I could do something as complex as infiltrate someone’s mind, I would be much more entertained.”
Knowing for certain that it was just his fucked up brain and his own self-abuse that made him hallucinate hits him much harder that it should have. He sinks to his knees in despair. Kristoph follows him down if for no other reason but to maintain eye-level. He’s not trying to physically intimidate him, probably because he has no need to considering his presence suffices.
Apollo is crying now. He can’t help himself. Phoenix was right. He feels like his brain and all his guts have been ripped out. Everything ripped to shreds like tiny pieces of paper.
“I want you to love me.”
It’s the first honest thing he’s said to him this entire conversation.
“I do love you. In my own way, of course.”
“That’s obviously not what I mean,” he snarls.
“I’m aware. But, I’ve heard that you’re seeing my brother.” He smiles sweetly. “You seem to have a type.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he scoffs. “Like it’s not your fucking fault.”
“Language.”
“Fuck you.”
Kristoph rolls his eyes. Apollo remembers very distinctly how he hates childish behavior like crying, blubbering, groveling, and throwing fits, but Apollo can’t stop himself from being who he is—a goddamn fucking child.
“Dear Klavier must stand in so nicely for me, no?”
“He loves me. You never loved me. I don’t even really love you!”
“Yes, because that’s why you brought me back from the dead to preposition me so you can rape a woman you don’t know and clearly have no respect for because of your own selfish desires.”
“You forced me to love you!” He smacks the ground with open palms and forces the meanest glare he’s capable of. “I’m sick! You made me sick! It’s not my fault!”
“Even Wright would consider this your fault. You’re here, aren’t you?”
He drops his head and shakes it. “Stop it!”
“What in the world did you expect to happen, Justice? For me to right all my wrongs? To apologize? To make sweet, sweet love to you and magically heal all your emotional wounds? You have got to be joking.”
He smacks the ground again.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking! I don’t know what I thought would happen!” He cries and his tears paint the ground with tiny droplets. “I did this again, and I told myself I would never do this again!”
“As entertaining as watching you have a mental breakdown is, I’d rather not watch you throw a tantrum at the same time.”
“I came onto my dad! Because of you! I came onto Klavier! Because of you!”
“Oh?” Kristoph laughs at the absurdity of it all. “That is a bit more interesting.”
“And, I did it again…I did it again.”
Kristoph is clearly losing his patience. “Is this a conjugal visit or not, Justice? Please get to the point.”
He’s given up again. Like he always does. Just let him. Maybe it’ll be okay. If he just lets him.
“I don’t know.”
Maybe he was hoping he’d kill him and get it over with.
“You had no plan?” He scoffs again. “Very disappointing. But, that’s just like you. Disappointing.”
That one cuts like a knife. He would know.
“If you have nothing to say, I’m leaving—”
“No, no, please! Don’t go!” He scrambles forward and reaches to catch him, only to freeze before he actually makes contact.
Kristoph does not flinch.
“You are truly pathetic.”
“I know, I know, please…don’t leave…” He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t leave…”
He’s back in that position, the one with his forehead pressed to the ground. It’s almost like he does it automatically. Trained. Chained to a fence. Hit for something innocuous.
“Begging like a dog for a bone.”
He laughs at his own joke. Apollo doesn’t dare.
“Yes, sir.”
“All these years, and you’ve only become more of a shameful display. Tsk, tsk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get your face off the ground.” He does. “Look at me.” He does. “I will only ask this one more time.” His voice is deep, angry, and commanding. “What do you want?”
Apollo can feel his brain snap in half. He recognizes the feeling now. It happened every time he became bad.
It feels good.
“You, sir. You. I want you.”
His voice is so, so small.
A little piece of his rational mind sneaks up on him, and it cries, (What the fuck are you doing?! How can you do this to Maya? How can you do this to Mr. Wright? How can you do this to Klavier? How can you do this to yourself?!)
The part that remembers how it was Back Then screams much, much louder.
“Ah. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No, sir.”
He pauses, eyeing him. Staring. Calculating. Admiring.
Admiring his work. Admiring his creation. Admiring the thing he’d molded just for himself.
“After all this time…” he hums appreciatively.
The sound has Apollo feeling that sickeningly familiar feeling—like he needs to be closer to him. Too close. Never close enough. He wants to throw up.
“You’re still mine.”
Cut your hand. Singe your wings. All that and much worse.
He gets his wish, if nothing else.
“Which do you want me to be?” He grabs Apollo’s arm and pulls him close, so close that their noses are almost touching. “The Mr. Gavin trying to break you?” He releases him only to bring his hand up to brush the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip. Apollo involuntarily shutters. “Or, the Mr. Gavin who has already broken you down into teeny—tiny—little—pieces.”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He wants both. He wants neither. He wants to die. He wants to live. He wants to kill him. He wants him to come back to life. He wants everything and nothing at all, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare, and Kristoph leans forward and places the tiniest and softest kiss on his lips.
Ah.
That’s the one last hit he was looking for.
He instantly melts into a puddle and wraps his arms around his neck, and it’s just like it used to be—just like it used to be! He could cry at the feeling, the total rush—the high—the pleasure—the pain—the total and utter bliss as he puts his tongue in Kristoph’s mouth, and Kristoph compliantly accepts it, and it’s just like it used to be, just like it used to be, just like it used to—!
And, suddenly, he pulls away.
Apollo will never forget the disdain that mars his perfect features. Both the First Time and now.
“You are so fucking disgusting.”
And, he’s gone. He’s alone. There’s no one and nothing, and it’s just like it used to be.
Fear pierces his body and shame prickles his skin, and he realizes that he’s sweaty, and cold, and his lips have spit on them, and it’s just like it used to be.
His mind whirls at a million miles per hour, and he sits there in horror, staring at a lady with black hair and purple robes who isn't entirely conscious, and this is not like it used to be.
Apollo crashes back to reality so hard, he yells like he’s actually fallen from a cliff.
He scrambles backward, stands, and runs out of the room before Maya can even open her eyes.
It's not at all like it used to be.