Apollo’s not sure where exactly down the line he decided that things are just going to happen and he’s just going to have to ignore them. Maybe somewhere between seventh Red Bull, the fourth monster of a case slipping into his backlog, and a week of moving from one crappy apartment to another. The specifics don’t matter, just the case in front of him.
Siren outside? Might as well not exist. Mikeko making I’m doing things I shouldn’t noises? She’s probably fine. Footsteps coming from a few feet in front of him? If it’s not the backlog of legal documents he’s filling out with officially licensed Trucy Wright blue glitter pens, it’s not real.
This is all to say that even when Apollo looks up from his scattered papers and akimbo laptop to see a shimmering, silvery man dressed like he just walked out of a period piece pacing around his living room, he can ignore him for a little bit.
He’s hallucinated worse, after all. Especially drinking what Clay so-lovingly dubbed his “nightmare cocktails.”
“‘—and took your hand in mine?’ No, more work, I think,” mutters the mystery man. His voice suits him. It’s warm and melodic, and it fits the—what, poetry?—the man seems to be reciting. He pauses a moment in his pacing, worrying a lip between his teeth and scribbling something on some paper before continuing to wear a hole in Apollo’s carpet.
“Can I help you?” Apollo asks, a little lost. The man’s wrapped up in whatever he’s doing enough that Apollo feels a little bad for interrupting the strange, ethereal intruder, but hey, if he’s going to hallucinate strange men in his house while he’s working, the least they can do is keep quiet.
The glimmerous man stops dead and whips his head around to stare at Apollo with wide, awe-struck eyes. He lets out a surprised laugh and brushes a moonlight lock from his face, though it falls directly back where he pushed it from. “I must say, I’m used to being inspected by the ladies, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt this way about a man.”
Apollo is about to say something back, something witty and charming like what? but before he gets the chance, the man is gone as quickly as he came. Apollo blinks twice and gives a wary glance to the mug next to him. “Next time, maybe just stick to coffee, Justice,” he mutters to himself and goes back to his paperwork.
The next time he sees the man, Apollo is cooking.
Cooking is a strong word; the next time Apollo sees the man, he’s burning a frozen chicken patty he really should have just let bake in the oven.
“Oh, it’s you again!” The man looks happy to see him, though Apollo can’t say he feels the same.
“So you weren’t a hallucination,” he murmurs to himself. A ghost then, maybe. Stranger things certainly had happened.
The man gives Apollo a broad, toothy smile that feels plastic and genuine all at once. “I guess that makes you not just a dream,” he says, “though you certainly look it.”
Apollo isn’t sure what exactly the veil between life and death has done to this ghost’s eyesight, but it’s definitely something because no one in their right mind would describe Apollo’s peeling and stained novelty apron as looking like a dream.
“What are you doing in my house?” he asks, but he’s barely gotten the first word out before the ghost is once again gone, and Apollo is once again alone. Absently, he wonders if his new apartment being haunted will increase or decrease the cost of his rent.
Mikeko is probably spoiled.
This is a fact Apollo has long since accepted. She only eats wet food and she insists on new toys regularly and if the door of a room is closed for too long, she stands in front of it and cries until someone lets her in. So when the man appears again while Apollo is feeding her, it's only natural she expects the royal treatment from him too.
“Ach, your cat is very…” the ghost trails off, eyes glued to his legs, where Mikeko is loudly meowing at him for affection while batting a paw through his incorporeal silvery legs.
“She wants you to pet her,” Apollo explains, taking pity on him.
The man frowns. “I do not think that is something I can do, fräuline,” he murmurs apologetically, squatting down and holding out a shimmering hand for the cat anyway.
Apollo has to suppress a laugh. “She’s not going to stop until you do.”
“Entschuldigen Sie, fräuline, I would pet you if I could—” The man freezes suddenly, and looks over at a distant point Apollo can’t see. He mutters a curse and closes his eyes, annoyed. “You have terrible timing, mein Bruder.”
Apollo scoops Mikeko off the floor and tilts his head. “You have a brother?”
The ghost nods and rolls his eyes. “Yes, and he—”
Whatever it is the man is about to say about his brother is cut off as he abruptly vanishes. Apollo sighs and scratches behind Mikeko’s ears. Well. There's always next time.
For as long as he can remember, Klavier Gavin has been obsessed with the sun.
Maybe it’s all the moving he and Kristoph have done, drifting from house to house, then all the way across the world to move house to house again. Maybe it was its consistency. The moon wanes, and the stars are ever-shifting, but the sun? The sun never changes.
Maybe it’s the warmth. Prussia used to get so cold, and when Klavier’s lungs felt brittle and his throat like sandpaper, memories of golden sunlight keep him from breaking.
Maybe it’s because of the illness that’s plagued him so long that he’s mythologized it; when every sunrise is unsure, you start to appreciate the ones you can see.
It’s part of the reason Klavier likes California. He likes the sunshine and the people. He likes the feeling of possibility, growth, and new futures. And he likes, despite his better judgment, the strange little man that appears in his house every now and then.
The man is strange. Strange, and the color of sunlight, soft and shimmering. He’s loud and cute and snippy, and the bags under his eyes give him the impression of a raccoon, or someone caught in a fight who certainly hadn’t won. And he’s dressed bizarrely, in clothes Klavier can’t even begin to place. And he slicks back his golden-brown hair—which only serves to further emphasize his enormous forehead—except for two prongs gelled straight up like rabbit ears. And he has a slightly pudgy calico cat. And he’s the color of sunlight. And Klavier can’t get him out of his head.
“Writing again?” Kristoph doesn’t bother to knock on Klavier’s door. He’s a sort of sun too, Kristoph. Powerful, imposing, his rare, fleeting smiles like parting storm clouds.
Klavier laughs. “What can I say? I have been inspired lately. It’s a beautiful country we have found ourselves in, Bruder.” America feels alive to Klavier. Alive enough that he feels alive too.
Kristoph just hums. “Yes. Well, I hope it will improve your health, Klavier.”
A reminder. As if Klavier could ever forget the reason they’re here in the first place. Why they’d had to leave Prussia in a rush because after three months of worsening Klavier had started to hack up blood. Why they’d barely had time to sell the house, Kristoph’s office, everything.
“I feel better already,” Klavier assures him, and smiles. Kristoph, for his part, is unreadable. He nods, once, and leaves Klavier to go back to his writing. The pen in Klavier’s hand is warm and familiar as he drags it across the slightly crumpled pages of his notebook, he thinks about cats and rabbits and the sun.
When the man appears again, his timing couldn’t be better.
Klavier sets down his pen and saddles his sunlight man with a dazzling smile. “You’re back!”
“You’re back,” he echoes, sourly. He’s seated and sorting through papers that flicker in and out of being as he picks them up and sets them back down again. “Great, just what I need right now.”
The man looking harried and annoyed is hardly new, though there’s a purse to his lips that is, and his eyes are huge and searching. He’s wearing something Klavier can identify as the waistcoat of a suit with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Klavier can’t help but let his eyes trace their way up those bare arms, hairy and muscled, with splatterings of long-healed burns snaking their way up past the exposed skin. The man’s grumbling shakes Klavier back to attention.
“Are you alright, Herr Forehead?”
The Herr in question grimaces. “Well, I am. In a sense. My client, on the other hand, is—” His laugh is hollow and dull.
“Client?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Forehead explains. He points to the little sunflower badge on his lapel. “Defense attorney.”
“Ah! Mien Bruder is one as well.”
Forehead seems genuinely and inexplicably baffled by this information. “Is he?”
“Ja, and quite a good one too. If my health allowed it, I would have gone into law as well, but alas…” Forehead frowns, his brow furrowing and head cocking every so slightly to the side. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but Klavier cuts him off with a smile. “It is no matter. I have my poetry, and I have you, Herr Forehead, and that is enough. Besides, it means I have far less paperwork to do, no?”
His change of subject and use of the nickname must have worked because the worry dissipates from Forehead and makes way for a groan. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I still have a stack and a half to fill out for my boss.”
“Does he give you the busy work?”
“Busy work, normal work, work lawyers shouldn’t normally have to do.” Absently, he starts loosening his tie. Klavier feels his face warm. “They don’t teach you how many times you have to clean the god-forsaken toilet in law school.”
“You are a delight, Herr Forehead,” laughs Klavier.
With a heavy thud, Forehead smacks down a pile of papers and gives Klavier an irritated look. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“That…name, the ‘Herr Forehead’ thing?”
“Well, you haven’t given me your name yet, Herr Forehead, and you have quite the enormous forehead. Not that it does not suit you!” he adds hastily, meaning it wholeheartedly. “In fact, I think it looks quite—”
Forehead cuts him off. “Apollo.”
“What?”
“My name. Apollo,” he—Apollo—explains. “Apollo Justice.”
“It suits you.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” As a lawyer with a name like that Klavier doesn't doubt it. But Apollo—it seems a bit on the nose, doesn’t it? Of course his name is Apollo, his sunlight man. He is poetry and art and music and healing incarnate. Apollo. Klavier is so caught up in his thoughts he almost misses Apollo speaking to him again. “What about you?”
“Klavier Gavin.” Klavier smiles winningly, heart still racing. “I think it fits me well too, though not as well as yours does you, Herr Forehead.” He winks as Apollo starts sputtering.
“Hey!” Apollo shouts as he begins to fade, and Klavier just laughs. Apollo, he thinks. His name is Apollo.
“You’ve been leaving your paper scraps around the house again, Klavier.”
Klavier doesn’t look at him. He knows what he’ll see: Kristoph standing in his doorway, face ever neutral, the bony line of his finger tapping in perfect time against his suit jacket, a tinge of disappointment and concern behind his glasses.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been writing more than you used to, as well.” A creak as Kristoph leans against the new wood of his door frame. Klavier keeps his eyes on his work. “Did something happen?”
“I’ve simply found a new muse in this country, Bruder.”
“Have you now.” Not a question, but he’s interested. Of course he is, Kristoph is his brother, and brothers are interested in each other’s lives. Especially considering Kristoph sprung Klavier’s last muse from behind bars on murder and smuggling charges, though they’d had to leave Daryan behind in Prussia.
It’s strange to think of Daryan now, here in this place he so utterly does not fit. His dark clothes, his dark eyes, the dark glint of his smile. The mocking lilt of his voice as he called Klavier golden boy. He was perfect for the dark alleys and late nights of Prussia, but in the rolling, golden hills of California where strange men named for the sun appear at random to bring light to Klavier’s life, he can barely picture him anymore.
Kristoph clears his throat, waiting for a response, and Klavier is shaken from his musings.
“I won’t say more—I want it to be a surprise.” He finally looks at his brother and smiles. “I think it will be my masterwork.” Keats had his Endymion, but it would be nothing compared to this. Not that Kristoph needed to know about the specifics. Smart as his brother was, he had no head for odes.
“Hm. I’ll look forward to reading it then.” Kristoph turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “In the meantime, mind your garbage, Klavier.”
Klavier’s eyes are already on his paper again, fingers curled around his pen. “I will.”
It’s a quiet night in for Apollo, which means he’s laying out on his couch with a lawbook, a highlighter, and an untouched beer that there more to keep up the appearance of a respectable twenty-something who has hobbies and a life outside of his career than anything else. He’s at the tail end of highlighting a fascinating passage on vehicular homicide when the appears again.
“Hello again, Herr Forehead.”
Apollo resists the urge to throw his beer can at him and settles for a glare. “Klavier.”
“More busywork?” Klavier asks, nodding at the book in Apollo’s lap.
“No, no, this is for me. It’s not that important.” Apollo sighs and pushes his things to the side. “How’s the poetry going?”
“Wunderbar!” Klavier laughs and Apollo wonders, not for the first time, if the German he peppers in is a joke of some sort. “It is going to be my magnum opus. This will be the reason my name is remembered centuries after I am gone!”
“How would that work?”
“What do you mean?” Klavier quirks his head, brows furrowing. “My name being remembered?”
“No, I mean a ghost publishing poetry,” he clarifies. “Can that even happen?”
Klavier lets out a strange choking sound and looks at Apollo with wide, bewildered eyes. “I—a ghost?”
“Yes?” Apollo shifts in his seat. “You’re haunting me right now?”
Klavier looks around and lets out a small, polite cough. “I’m not?”
This certainly was not the conversation Apollo thought he would be having when he started his day. “Yes, you are! You’ve got this whole silvery ghostly apparition thing going on! You’re dressed like Mr. fucking Darcy!”
“If anything, you are the ghostly apparition haunting my home, Herr Forehead.”
Whatever it was Apollo had expected him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “What are you talking about?”
“I am in my house,” Klavier explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And you are too.”
Apollo opens and closes his mouth a few times. Then a few more times for good measure. Klavier wasn’t a ghost then, or if he was, he wasn’t like any ghost Apollo knew about from TV. He certainly wasn’t from now, that’s for sure. Klavier looked too comfortable in his too-authentic clothes for it to be some sort of costume.
And if he was just a strange man in costume, how was he appearing like this? Klavier’s appearances and disappearances seemed to be too random for him to be controlling them. Unless all of his clothes were period attire, there was no way he always happened to be wearing a costume when he showed up in Apollo’s apartment.
“What year is it for you?” Apollo asks Klavier slowly.
“1855,” he says. “I take it by your question that it’s not the same for you."
“No, no it is not.” Apollo lets out a small laugh and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s 2027 here.” Klavier sucks in a breath at the number, staring at him with wide eyes, and Apollo can’t blame him.
He’s not sure what’s going on or why any of this is happening. He doesn’t know why there’s a man from two hundred years ago in his living room, or why he’s glowing, or why he comes and goes at random. Apollo doesn’t know how it’s possible and he doesn't know why it’s happening to him, why it’s happening to Klavier. He just knows that it is and that he’s simply going to have to live with it.
“For what it’s worth, I believe you, Klavier. That you’re not a ghost. This is something…different.” An understatement, but it coaxes a wry smile from Klavier.
“Well. I don’t know what it is, but I am glad it has led me to meeting you, Apollo Justice.” Klavier smiles, always smiling, and Apollo can’t help but smile back.
Apollo doesn’t mind cleaning, not when it’s his own house and there’s no slacking-off boss there to heckle him with his teenage daughter. It’s almost meditative and in the tranquility of his apartment, Apollo lets himself quietly sing.
He doesn’t remember much about his past, but from what Datz and Durke had told him, Apollo’s infant years were filled with music. When Apollo was younger, he’d searched up his father’s name and listened to the few recordings he could of the musical stylings of Jangly Jove. Countless hours he’d spent listening until he could almost imagine his father’s voice singing him to sleep. It felt like the ghost of a memory, and if Apollo squeezes his eyes shut and focuses as hard as he can, it feels like home.
The bouncing beat and steady rhythm of his father’s music also made it fucking phenomenal to clean to. So of course, of course, it’s as Apollo makes his rounds, dusting, vacuuming, and singing his way around his tiny apartment, that Klavier appears again.
“You have a lovely voice.”
“Jesus Christ!” Apollo drops the duster he was holding and spins around. The tall, golden specter of Klavier stands behind him, hands on his hips, grin fixed in place and he leans down to right above Apollo’s eye level. Apollo takes a very deliberate breath. “Klavier. Right. Hello.”
“Hello again, Forehead! You have a lovely voice.”
“You already said that.”
“Mm, yes,” Klavier agrees, “But I wasn’t sure if you had heard me. Evidently, you did.”
“Right, yeah.” Apollo runs a hand through his hair and blinks. “Thank you.”
“Of course!” says Klavier cheerily. “I’ve never heard that song before, though I suppose that’s not really a surprise.”
Apollo lets out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it’s a little after your time. Still, I mean it’s not like it’s from anyone famous even if you were from now. My dad wrote it,” he says dismissively.
“Oh! A musician! A man after my own heart!” Klavier seems positively delighted.
“I thought you were a poet.”
“I am a man of many talents, Herr Forehead, and all poetry is music if done well. It’s just a question of picking the right chords.” He says it like it’s some sort of line, well-rehearsed and spoken again and again like a mantra. Apollo can almost see it emblazoned on some tacky poster in an office somewhere. In his office honestly, Mr. Wright would find it funny to put something so hokey by Apollo's little corner of the agency.
“What do you play?” Apollo asks, shaking himself from his musings. “Or are you more of a singer?”
“Guitar, though I sing as well,” Klavier says. “I can’t claim my voice is anywhere near as beautiful as yours.”
Apollo rolls his eyes. “Now you’re just mocking me.”
“I would never!” cries Klavier, scandalized.
“You call me ‘Herr Forehead’.”
“Not mockingly! I have told you before, you have an exceptionally exquisite forehead, Apollo, and I have been taken with your voice since the first time it graced my ear. And now that I have heard you sing, more so.”
“Laying it on a little thick, are we?” snarks Apollo, though his face is burning.
Klavier lets out a laugh like a windchime, the smug, flirty bastard. “Laying it on the correct amount, for a man such as yourself.” There’s a beat where Apollo could almost swear Klavier was fluttering his eyelashes at him if he didn’t know any better before Klaver stands ramrod straight. “Ah! A moment!”
With that, Klavier walks right through Apollo’s sofa, then the wall of his apartment, apparently undeterred. When he comes back, he’s holding a guitar. “What are the chords?” he asks.
“What?”
“For your father’s song?” Klavier looks suddenly sheepish. “Unless that’s too personal, then I am quite fine playing something else with you.”
“No, it’s fine, I—what?”
“I want to make music with you, Apollo,” Klavier says, and Apollo would swear he was being mocked if not for the earnestness in his eyes. “It has been too long since I’ve played, and longer still since I’ve had a partner as talented as you.”
His face is definitely burning now. “Right! I—you need a capo on third. Has that been invented yet?”
“It has, though getting one was not the easiest thing in the world.” Klavier holds one up, looking incredibly proud of himself.
“Great, uh, the strum pattern is down two, up one.”
Klavier nods, strumming down two and up one, then looking back up at Apollo and nodding again eagerly. “And the chords?”
“Just C, then G, then D, then Em, and reverse for the verses,” Apollo says. Klavier just nods again, strumming through the chords a few times, getting a feel for them.
“When you’re ready, Apollo.” Klavier’s fingers dance across the strings like they were made for it. Apollo can play the guitar, passably even—another holdover from a boyhood desire to connect with his late father—but Klavier is something else entirely. He’s a born musician.
The chorus is simple like the rest of the song—short and repetitive, full of easy lines and catchy rhythms, and by the second chorus, Klavier has caught on and starts singing them along with Apollo.
It’s there that Apollo learns two things.
One, Klavier is a liar. His voice is unlike anything Apollo has ever heard. It’s as beautiful as he is. Comparing it to Apollo’s own seems almost farcical.
Two, he could spend eternity like this, singing along with a golden man from the 1800s in his half-cleaned apartment. There is a reality, Apollo is sure, where Klavier is born two hundred years later and sells out stadiums with thousands of adoring fans cheering his name. Apollo certainly would, if he played like this.
When the song ends, Klavier looks wretched with disappointment, and Apollo feels much the same.
“It’s a wonderful song,” he says, expression at odds with his words.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“How could I not? It is a piece of you.”
Apollo is red again, he can feel it. Is he doing this on purpose? He has to be. “I don’t know the chords for any of his other songs off the top of my head,” Apollo admits.
“A shame. Is there any other music you like, Herr Forehead?” Klavier scoots forward on his chair, eager. “If this is any indication, the music of the future is something extraordinary.”
Nodding, Apollo holds out a finger and pulls out his phone. “Hold on, let me…”
“What is that?” Klavier asks as Apollo pulls up Spotify, craning his neck and staring at the phone with a look of utter fascination.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you concisely but for right now, it’ll play some music for us. I’ll just put my playlist on shuffle, I guess.” He knows as soon as the words leave his lips that that will only bring up more questions, but frankly Apollo doesn’t know how to explain any of the technology that goes into making a phone work, let alone how to succinctly explain two hundred years of technological advancement. “Just, uh, lay back and listen.”
The first song that crackles its way through Apollo’s phone speakers is something poppy and vapid, the sort of thing Apollo feels horrifically embarrassed about listening to in public, like he should be listening to something smarter, more underground. But there’s something about playing it for Klavier that feels different somehow. Maybe it’s because he lacks the cultural knowledge of what the sort of music is and the people who supposedly listen to it. Maybe it’s the fact that somehow, inexplicably, Klavier seems like that kind of guy to listen to Best Of mixes of Britney Spears at full volume despite the fact there’s no way in hell Klavier even knows who Britney Spears is.
Maybe it’s the fact that even if Klavier did have the cultural knowledge and didn’t seem like a Britney guy, he wouldn’t mock Apollo for it. Tease? Yes, that was his whole thing. But at the end of the day, if it was important to Apollo, it would be important to Klavier too.
It amazes Apollo to think that he trusts this strange, spectral man this much, but as Apollo glances over at Klavier, all smiles and enthusiasm he can’t feel like that trust is misplaced.
Klavier, for his part, looks over the moon. “This is incredible!”
There’s a movie Apollo watches with Trucy on movie nights, Stardust, where a woman who is a star shines when she’s happy. The happier she is, the brighter she shines. The look on Klavier’s face is nearly blinding. “How do you dance to it?”
Apollo blinks. “What?”
“Every song has a dance to it,” Klavier explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Though I’m afraid everything I know would be terribly old-fashioned.”
“I’m not sure.” Apollo scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
Klavier looks scandalized. “Not a dancer? Herr Forehead, how can you listen to something this magnificent and stay still?”
“Alright,” laughs Apollo. He likes the song, sure, though magnificent seems a little like a stretch. “How do you think you’d dance to it?”
This is clearly a question Klavier takes incredibly seriously because he stands, wordlessly setting his guitar to the side with his eyes closed, body forcibly relaxed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he begins to sway in time with the music, picking up speed until he opens his eyes and bows at Apollo like an invitation. Apollo can’t help but bow back.
Together, with Klavier in the lead, the pair of them commence a comically anachronistic dance to an obnoxious early 2000s pop hit. Their choreography is a strange combination of Pride and Prejudice and Titanic. (Maybe Apollo has been having too many movie nights with Trucy if he keeps thinking in terms of period romance movies).
Klavier grins that megawatt smile of his, twirling and gesturing for Apollo to follow along with him in their strange dance around Apollo’s apartment. They meet in the middle, and Klavier reaches out a hand to grasp Apollo’s and twirl him. Apollo laughs again—it’s ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. He’s dancing with a not-ghost in the half-cleaned mess of his shitty little apartment to whatever random nonsense pops onto his phone, but damn does he not feel alive. When’s the last time he danced like this? Laughed this much?
They go through song after song like that, Klavier changing their routine to match the tone of whatever song pops on. Something explosively fast for the ska song Apollo knows Clay put on his phone but Apollo likes a little too much to remove. Something slow for the old love ballads that remind him of home. Something bouncy and energetic for one of Trucy’s boy bands that gets stuck in Apollo’s head. Klavier never wavers, just grins and redirects, and Apollo can’t do anything but follow his lead.
Finally, when an ad interrupts them, Apollo collapses on his couch.
“Oh my god, give me a sec,” he pleads. Apollo’s chest burns but he’s laughing again.
“That was…” For once, Klavier seems at a loss for words. He’s glowing again. “I had no idea music could even sound like that! How do you not listen to it all the time? I mean, with that little box you don’t even need a band or, or anything! We have to do this again.”
Apollo turns to respond, but by the time he looks over his shoulder, Klavier is gone again.
“Any time,” he says to no one.
Belatedly, as music once again starts to play, Apollo realizes that he and Klavier had never touched before. Honestly, Apollo hadn’t even realized he could. But he can. Apparently.
A part of him, the part that tells Apollo his fingers and sides and palms burn from the fading memory of contact, thinks he would like to touch him again.
Two weeks later and Apollo doesn’t seem to have noticed he’s appeared in Klavier’s house again.
That strange, wonderful device is sitting on his lap, ignored. Apollo is staring at something absently, holding another strange black thing loosely in his hand, arm draped over the ledge of something Klavier can’t see. The box, the first one, is unattended and ignored.
From the moment Apollo had vanished those two weeks prior, Klavier couldn’t get the music out of his head. He was always singing it, tapping it, playing the chords of Apollo’s father’s song over and over until Kristoph appeared and reminded Klavier some people in the house had to work to support their sick little brother and to please give it a rest.
And there was more in that little box, Klavier knew it. This was it. The moment. Apollo was distracted. Who knew if there would be another opportunity like this?
With trembling fingers, Klavier reaches out. His fingers brush the smudged black glass he doesn’t reflect in and then everything goes to shit.
Sparks, a fountain of them, erupt from the device and Klavier flinches back. The wonderful little box makes a horrible noise that sounds like a death rattle. It’s enough to finally get Apollo’s attention.
“What the hell?” Apollo picks up the device and gives it an annoyed look before turning around. “Klavier?”
“Ach, hello Forehead!” Klavier kicks himself. Now is not the time for nicknames. "Funny seeing you here!”
“Did you do this?” Apollo holds up the poor little box, still making its pained metallic screams.
“Ja. Yes, and I am truly sorry—”
Apollo just looks bemused. “No, no it’s fine, really. I didn’t even know you could do that.”
“Neither did I,” Klavier promises. “Apologies again.”
“It’s okay. It’s probably fixable, and if it’s not, well, I needed a new phone anyway.” He must notice the hangdog look on Klavier's face because he laughs and shakes his head. “It’s alright, really! Why were you trying to use my phone in the first place?”
“I wanted to hear more music,” admits Klavier.
Apollo smiles, and Klavier feels his heart stutter at the sight of it. “Right. Well, if you promise not to touch my phone again, I’ll put something on when you come by again.”
“You’d do that?” he breathes.
Apollo squirms a little under the weight of Klavier’s gaze and shrugs. “Yeah, it’s no big deal.” He means it too. To him, it’s nothing.
But the smile on his face, the pink tinge of his cheeks, the way his eyes dart away when they meet Klavier’s for a second too long haunt Klavier for weeks like the ghost of chords against his fingers and the memory of music.
When Klavier sees Apollo next, he’s sleeping.
It’s funny; Klavier thinks about him all the time. He thinks of him in the dust swirling in sunbeams, in the distant rustle of papers that mean Kristoph has finished a case, in the twang of guitar strings as a D becomes an A. When a stray cat moves in behind the patio Klavier thinks of him, and when he hums under his breath as he does the dishes he thinks of him, and when the sun has gone down and the moon has taken its place and Klavier is alone in a large house in a country that is still not really his own, he thinks of him.
Apollo Justice is always on his mind, but when Apollo appears again, curled up and wrapped up in a twisted, blandly adult sheet, Klavier doesn’t notice him at first and almost slams into him. Somehow this must not wake Apollo up because he doesn’t do anything more than snuffle softly in his sleep.
All told, Klavier should be asleep too. It’s late—beyond late, but there is an itch in him that yearns to walk the long, lonely halls of his house, and so Klavier does so. And then there he is.
Klavier doesn’t understand how the whole projection across time thing works. As far as he can tell, there aren’t any hard rules. Sometimes, Apollo will be sitting on a couch that glows just like he does. Sometimes he’ll be sitting on one of Klavier’s chairs, and sometimes nothing at all. He can touch Apollo, dance with him, feel the phantom heat of his broad, warm hands, but Klavier couldn’t touch Mikeko or anything else from Apollo’s time. Sometimes Apollo will be holding something—a pen, a cup, or he’ll pluck something out of thin air. And sometimes, nothing.
Even still, Klavier is just grateful for the gift of seeing him at all.
Apollo is laying on Klavier’s fainting couch and he’s sleeping. He’s snoring, just a little, and the seemingly permanent furrow in his brow has smoothed in sleep. Apollo looks younger like this—softer, less weary, and wary of the world. His bed clothes are loose and baggy, which gives Klavier an excellent view of his collarbone.
Apollo lets out a noise and Klavier sighs, sitting next to him. It’s been a long day. A long week—a long who-knows-how-long. But sitting here next to his sunlight muse, Klavier feels at ease for the first time in a long time. I could spend eternity like this, he thinks, sitting by Apollo’s side.
And then he thinks, oh, and, that explains some things.
Apollo shifts in his sleep and vanishes, and Klavier feels his absence like a missing limb. Oh, he thinks. Then oh again.
The highlight of Apollo’s month, every month, is Trucy’s sleepovers.
Every month—save for when she and her fathers go abroad—Trucy spends a night in Apollo’s apartment for “sibling bonding.” Sibling bonding tends to mean watching two or three movies, eating some god-awful junk food that makes Apollo feel like he’s a million years old, and passing out way too late for pickup time.
Mr. Wright will show up (oddly on time despite him being late for work every single day), and then Trucy and Apollo will rush to get all of Trucy’s things in order just in time for them to harass Mr. Wright into getting them IHOP for breakfast. Apollo should probably feel bad for making his boss buy him breakfast once a month, but frankly, after all the shit he goes through in that office, Apollo has earned some goddamn Funny Face pancakes.
It’s sleepover day, finally, and Trucy is already in her unofficial sleepover uniform (i.e. an old painting shirt of her dad’s and a pair of Apollo’s sweatpants she pretends she didn’t steal). She’s sprawled out on Apollo’s couch picking a movie and pretending he’s not going to sit on her legs until she moves when it’s time to actually watch her selection.
Apollo is in the kitchen picking a takeout place for dinner. He's not sure how on earth he managed to get so many takeout menus, but they’re engulfing his kitchen countertop and then some. He’s trying to decide between three incredibly similar Italian restaurants when Trucy scrambles like a spooked cat into the kitchen, sliding a little on the cheap tile in her socked feet.
“Polly?”
Apollo looks up from his paper menu empire and frowns. “Did something happen? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Trucy looks shaken, and her eyes are enormous. It’s almost like she’s seen a— “Just—I know you’re not going to believe me but I think you have a ghost in your living room.”
Ah. Right. He knew he’d forgotten something.
“Klavier isn’t a ghost,” sighs Apollo. “Did he touch your phone? He knows he messes with electronics and he can just ask to listen to ABBA, and besides, he doesn’t even know how to use a phone even if he didn’t break them.”
Whatever Trucy thought he was going to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “What?”
“He’s fascinated by modern music and doubly so since he heard Super Trooper.” Apollo rolls his eyes and absently tosses a menu aside.
Trucy glares petulantly at him, hands on her hips. “I meant about the whole ‘not a ghost thing,’ Polly. Because there’s still a see-through man in your living room. And he’s literally glowing.”
“Oh right.” Apollo scratches his chin and shrugs. “He just sort of shows up sometimes. He’s an 1800s poet. I apparently also show up in his house glowing. He can see some things like Mik and, uh, did he see you?"
Trucy giggles at that. “Yeah, he stumbled through your ottoman when he did.”
“He’s nice, though. And funny.”
“And he’s pretty too,” says Trucy innocently.
“Also annoying, so I’m sure you’ll get along.” Trucy sticks her tongue out at him for that. “Want to meet him?”
“I sort of already did.”
“Meet him properly then.”
She beams. “I’d love to.”
A nervous-looking Klavier is still in the living room when Apollo arrives, Trucy in tow. He lights up when he sees Apollo, though, as is his way.
“Herr Forehead!” Apollo pointedly ignores Trucy mouthing Herr Forehead at him. “So you are still here! I was worried. Not that it isn’t a delight to meet you, fräuline.” He shoots Trucy a winning smile.
“Klavier, this is Trucy, my sister. Trucy, this is Klavier my—” What is Klavier to him exactly? Ghost? Dance partner? On again-off again roommate? ”—friend.” Apollo finishes lamely. It seems too small a word, but Klavier looks delighted by it all the same.
Trucy, on the other hand, shakes her head theatrically (is there any other way she does anything?), and extends a hand. “That’s no introduction, Polly! Trucy Wright, magician extraordinaire! Usually, I’d do some magic for you, but Polly says I’m not allowed to bring my doves or Mr. Hat into his apartment anymore. Not even cards after that little mishap two months ago.”
There are fifty-two cards in an average deck. Trucy Wright, card afficianoto and master magician, had brought her usual fourteen decks to Apollo’s apartment to show him the latest trick she’d developed. Fourteen times fifty-two equals seven hundred and forty-eight cards exploding everywhere when Mikeko had decided suddenly to interrupt.
Apollo still finds cards in his cushions.
He stands by the card ban.
Klavier, on the other hand, seems scandalized by it. “Forehead! How could you! Depriving a professional of the tools of her trade!” He shakes his head scornfully at Apollo, who rolls his eyes. Recently, Klavier has taken to shortening his little nickname, making it more intimate. It’s almost endearing. Almost. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trucy.” Klavier tries to kiss Trucy’s extended hand but ends up phasing through her, but she still seems endeared by the attempt. “You are far more charming than your brother,” he tells her.
Apollo lets out a sound of indignation at that, but Trucy ignores him. “We were just about to start our family movie night movie! Well, partial family, Papa and Aunt Franzy are in Europe right now and are bad at sitting still even when they are here, and Daddy’s banned from picking movies because he always picks the same ones, and Aunt Maya and Pearly are always busy running their village. So it’s usually just me and Polly. But now you’re here! Wanna join us?” Trucy asks Klavier, bouncing on her feet and giving him her most winning smile. Ever the salesman, ever the showman.
Klavier gives her a smile in return. “I’m not entirely sure what a movie is,” he admits, “but I would be honored.”
“Great!” Trucy claps her hands together and then grins conspiratorially at Klavier. “Polly says you’re a fan of ABBA?”
Two hours of music, tears, and three people trying to figure out the logistics of streaming Mamma Mia! across time, and Klavier Gavin is a changed man.
There’s only one day of trial left and Apollo can’t see a way out.
He’s tried everything. He’s turned his thinking around three times. He’s looked at it from every angle. He’s asked for Trucy’s help, and Mr. Wright, and, in a moment of weakness, the office plant. He’s started chewing through pens in his anxiety. He’s hit a wall and there’s still only one day left. If he fucks it up, someone’s freedom is taken away.
And so Apollo keeps looking. He looks harder, again and again until the words start to blur. The seemingly never-ending rain outside beats against his windows in tandem with the pounding of his head. He’ll find something. He has to.
“Apollo!” Klavier’s voice is cheery and musical and the last thing Apollo needs right now. “It’s a delight to see you again! I think I’d like to listen to U2 again today, or maybe that excellent Taylor Swift! Her lyrics speak to me.”
“Hey Klav, no music right now. I’ve got a case, and if I don’t figure out the real culprit soon, an innocent man is going to prison.”
“Can I help?” Klavier sits primly next to him on the couch and Apollo wonders what it is he’s actually sitting on in his time. “Mien Bruder, Kristoph, is a defense attorney, and if I could I would be a lawyer as well—”
“You’ve said, and while I’m sure you’d make an incredible lawyer, your legal knowledge is a little out of date. And your knowledge of the future is limited mostly to music.”
“You remembered,” breathes Klavier, seemingly ignoring the rest of Apollo’s words.
“Of course.” Apollo shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance. There’s a look that Klavier gets sometimes that makes Apollo’s insides twist into knots. “We’re friends, right? Friends remember stuff about each other.”
“And they help each other. Let me help you! Think of it as a…thank you for the music.”
“That’s an ABBA lyric, Klavier.”
Klavier looks aghast. “It’s more than a lyric, Forehead, it is a masterwork! Our story put to words! It’s us, Apollo!” He shakes his head and collects himself. “But I’m serious. I can help. Please.”
There’s a programmer’s technique Apollo heard about once where to find the problem in their code, a programmer would explain the code thus far to a rubber duck. Apollo doesn’t know if that’s true, but he figures talking it out can’t hurt, right? It’s not like he can be more stuck. Besides, Klavier is a damn sight smarter than a rubber duck. Maybe he really can offer some insight that blows the whole case open.
He sighs. “Okay, fine. But I can’t promise you won’t be lost. I mean, is meteorology even a thing then?”
“I have no idea!” Klavier replies cheerily.
“Whatever. My client, Hale Fogg, is accused of killing his long-time meteorological rival Jet Stream live on the air. The video is clear as day, and honestly, it’s a miracle that I’ve managed to last as long as I have. But there’s got to be something because I know Hale is innocent.” He frowns at Klavier. “What are you grinning about?”
“Your belief in your clients is admirable.”
“Yeah, well it’s kind of our agency's whole thing," Apollo grumbles, waving him off. “And the look in Hale’s eyes…he didn’t do this. I trust him.”
“And I trust you, so if you think he’s innocent, he must be.”
“Now we just need to convince the judge that,” sighs Apollo.
“Are there any witnesses?”
“One, Jet’s PA, Ella Umber. She was the only other person in the studio when he was killed. The studio was short-staffed so she was manning the camera when Hale allegedly broke in and stabbed Jet. The camera caught everything. It seems pretty open and shut, but no cases ever are.”
Klavier is quiet for a moment, gnawing his bottom lip contemplatively. “Could I see the video?”
“Of course, I’ll pull it up.” The video is just as damning as it ever was. There’s Jet, tall and flashy, giving a faux-energetic forecast for another shining sunny day. Then Hale bursting into the studio. Then there’s nothing but blood.
“That’s…”
“Yeah,” agrees Apollo.
There’s a beat. “Why does your Herr Fogg hate the dearly departed so much?”
“Some weird rivalry thing,” Apollo grumbles into his hands. “It’s almost a joke at this point that weathermen are never correct, but for whatever reason Hale seemed to take it really personally. I mean, he even gave me his predictions for the week to compare with Jet’s just to show how wrong he is.” Apollo rustles through his evidence and shows Klavier Hale’s forecast. “And then there was this whole meteorology award thing, and they were up against each other. Jet won.”
Klavier snorts at that, eyes still scanning the defendant’s predictions. “Has it been raining for you?” he finally asks.
“Every day."
“I suppose Hale was right then.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s been raining all week. Herr Stream predicted suddenly sunny skies in his video.”
“He did, didn’t he?” says Apollo slowly. He sets Hale’s predictions down and pulls back up the video, and sure enough, there’s Jet's prediction for another shining sunny day.
“It seems odd they would give such a poor weatherman an award.”
“It does seem like an oversight. A pretty big one, in fact.”
Klavier laughs. “There is a gleam in your eyes, Forehead.”
“What if the video wasn’t recorded live?” Apollo can’t keep the smile from his face. “What if it was a recording from the week before?”
“That would mean Fräulein Umber is a liar. It was her video, no?”
“Yeah, it would. And it means I have a fighting chance tomorrow.” God, Apollo could kiss Klavier for this. He settles for pulling him into a hug. Klavier feels warm, like a summer’s day, and Apollo feels so very, very real. “Thank you,” he whispers into Klavier’s hair. “Thank you.”
“Well, I’m not just a pretty face.” Klavier’s breath ghosts against his neck, and Apollo shivers. Klavier rests a hand on the small of his back. “Anytime, Apollo.”
And Apollo doesn’t want to let go.
Here’s the thing: Apollo’s not really a poetry guy. Like, he doesn’t hate it or anything, and there’s been the occasional poem he’s actually enjoyed. But he doesn’t really get it. It’s fine.
Which is all to say when Klavier appears next, utterly wrapped up in his poetry writing, reading a few lines aloud then making a noise in reaction and writing furiously once again, it’s not the poetry itself that moves Apollo. He’s not a moved-by-poetry guy.
It’s just…
It’s just his dedication. The quirk of his brow, the tilt of his head, the way he absently chews the end of his feather pen. The way Klavier speaks his verse like he’s performing at the Sunshine Center, getting a feel for each line, making sure it hits just right.
It’s the way he hasn’t noticed Apollo watching him yet, hasn’t looked up from his page except to stare into the middle distance like it holds all of the answers. The curve of his lips as they twist into almost imperceptible smiles or frowns, the way his tongue darts out just a little when he’s got something really special.
The way his hair cascades down his back, rippling like a wave with each small turn of Klavier’s head. The length of his fingers tapping an invisible writing desk one by one.
“‘And to the Sun I reach my hand, his fingers brushing mine; and from his lips, I pull a smile, so gentle, soft, and fine,’” murmurs Klavier to himself. He frowns, shakes his head, and scratches at his paper. “No, no, divine should be the rhyming word,” he says. “Divine!”
Apollo doesn’t say anything and thinks of silver Cupid’s bows.
It’s been the longest day of Klavier’s life.
Kristoph had been icy for days, his trial going steadily poorer and his mood with it. He doesn't snap, not at Klavier, but there’s an anger bubbling within him that makes the whole house feel like it’s under a heavy, oppressive fog.
And then there’s the illness. Months of improvement, months of hard-fought and hard-won progress, gone in an instant. Klavier feels like his lungs are burning and his throat is staging a coup. Things had been better, finally better, and now Klavier is just as sickly as he’d ever been home in Europe.
There were little things too. Klavier had run out of his good ink the day before and then forgotten about it, leaving him only with the cheap stuff that stains his desk. He’d been so distracted his lunch had burned but not enough to justify throwing it out and starting again. He’d discovered his favorite jacket had a hole in it. He’d tried to strum his growing despair out as he so often did and then a guitar string had snapped while he was tuning like he was a goddamn overzealous rookie and not a borderline professional.
It built and built and built until Klavier finally let himself just cry. No bright smiles or cute jokes or flirty winks. Just Klavier, on the floor of his room, sobbing to himself.
And then Apollo appears because it seems the universe wants him to suffer, and Klavier just sobs harder.
When Klavier feels the hand on his back, he flinches. The hand is warm and broad, and when Klavier leans back into the touch it starts rubbing circles into Klavier’s back. He doesn’t say anything. Not when Klavier’s crying gets ugly, not when he starts rambling about his day, not when he curls into him instead of himself. Apollo says nothing and understands, and Klavier wants to kiss him. He’s kind, and warm, and handsome, and he understands and Klavier knows suddenly, his face covered in snot and tear tracks, that he loves Apollo.
That he’s done so for some time.
Klavier cries and cries and is in love, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else but the strange glowing man from the future’s arms.
They have this routine now, Apollo and Klavier, for when one of them appears and neither of them is busy and Klavier is feeling well enough.
First, Klavier will get his play flirting out of the way, and Apollo will roll his eyes and ignore how red his face is.
Second, Apollo will go through the songs he’s compiled since the last time Klavier appeared and let Klavier listen. There are always new songs. Apollo can’t listen to the radio anymore without thinking Klavier would like this one, and all of his case notes have song titles scribbled in the margins. Klavier will listen to them all with rapt attention. He notes down his favorites, and Apollo is sure Klavier’s poetry is in the same condition as his case notes.
Third, they go through old favorites. Klavier will lean in close and say Forehead, I am thinking Fräulein Lavine tonight and smile, and Apollo will dutifully pull up whatever he asks and watch as Klavier lets the music carry him around the apartment.
Sometimes, he’ll pull Apollo up from the couch and they’ll dance like they did the first night, though never the same choreography twice. Sometimes Klavier will even get Apollo to sing with him.
Tonight is not that kind of night, however, because Klavier is listening to something Trucy recommended that’s much too vapid and much too loud for Apollo to get anything out of it other than a headache. It’s pure noise, some gimmicky boy band that makes songs for mass appeal that mean nothing. Every time Apollo has heard it on the radio he’s physically cringed and turned it off, even if it means listening to commercials, even if it means listening to silence.
But when Klavier sings it, it’s something else, and Apollo can’t put his finger on why.
Maybe it’s the way he looks, his clothes so anachronistic compared to the song. Maybe it’s the way he sings, so full of real passion for the music Apollo has never felt from the original singers in the times he’s been forced to listen to it before. Maybe it’s the air around him, around them, as Klavier struts and kicks around the room. The crackle of electricity as he circles him. The glint in his eyes. The way Apollo laughs when Klavier winks on the more suggestive lines. Apollo hates this song, but when Klavier sings it, he could listen to it for the rest of his life.
And that’s it, isn’t it? That it’s Klavier singing it. That it’s Klavier at all. Because even when singing the song Apollo has fled grocery stores to avoid, it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard. Because Apollo wants the winks and play flirting to mean something. He wants Klavier to never leave, wants to hold him, kiss him, let him dance to every stupid song on the radio because it makes him smile.
Because, damn it all, Apollo might be just a little bit in love with Klavier.
Klavier fades, still dancing, and Apollo wishes he could fade to the past with him.
“Thanks again for agreeing to help, Polly.” Over the phone, Trucy’s voice sounds tinny but genuine. “I know you’re busy but…”
Apollo knows the situation. Trucy has an English assignment, one about poetry. Two days ago when Trucy had called him in a panic, she had made it very clear he was the only person who could help him.
“Papa and Aunt Franzy are busy with Interpol stuff and their timezone is always just too late,” she’d said, audibly pacing. “Aunt Maya and Pearly’s internet connection is way too spotty because of the mountains, which sucks because we’re doing romantic poetry and Pearly would love it. And you know Daddy has no head for poetry! Please, Polly? Please?”
Apollo had agreed because she’s his little sister and he can’t say no to her. Besides, poetry is certainly something he’s familiar with nowadays.
“It’s no problem, Truce.” Apollo leans against his kitchen counter and sighs. “So what’s the assignment?
“Just reading and annotating some dumb poem,” Trucy grumbles. “And then reading about the author and then reading the whole thing over again to see how knowing about the author changes how you see the work. It’s not that hard, it’s just some of these poems are really old and hard to understand.”
“Gotcha. Read it to me and we can work through it together.”
Trucy starts reading, and Apollo closes his eyes. Maybe it’s because Klavier is a romantic poet, and maybe it’s because his poetry is similar enough in style, but it feels...familiar somehow. Maybe it’s just because everything reminds Apollo of him lately. He sees him in the steam curling from his coffee cups and in the margins of lawbooks. He hears him in street musicians and the swirling of leaves.
He’s got it bad. It’s a little embarrassing.
Apollo likes the poem, which is surprising. It’s as romantic as the genre suggests, a retelling of the story of Icarus where Icarus soars to the heavens out of love, not bravado. It’s still portrayed as a foolish act in the poem, foolish for Icarus to think the Sun would ever love him the way he loves it, but it doesn’t feel foolish to Apollo. Icarus is so desperate to reach the Sun it's like being away from it is a fate worse than death.
Maybe it strikes a few chords with Apollo. He’s feeling vulnerable. Sue him.
It’s not until Trucy reaches the line, And to the Sun I reach my hand, his fingers brushing mine; And from his lips, I pull a smile, his countenance divine that it hits him.
Apollo sits bolt upright and readjusts his hold on his phone. “Trucy, who wrote this poem?”
“We’re supposed to wait until we finish our first readthrough for that, Polly,” she reminds him, annoyed.
“Trucy, please.” There’s a quaver in his voice.
The sound of a paper being flipped over and Trucy's absent humming as she reads reverberating through the phone line. “It says ‘Klavier Gavin’—oh my God wait, you don’t think—”
“It’s him. I heard him composing part of it.” So he really is remembered for centuries. He’d have to tell Klavier next time he visited. He can practically see the smile on his face already, the crinkle of his eyes…
Though if it was written by Klavier it did recontextualize some things. Apollo feels heat in his cheeks. Was it about him? Was it presumptuous to think so? He wants it to be. A little desperately, he realizes. Because if it is about him, if he’s the Sun, that means—
“Did he sound close to finishing it?” Trucy cuts off Apollo’s train of thought. She sounds alarmed.
“What?” Apollo blinks. “I mean, I guess. Why?”
There’s the sound of rustling paper again from the other line. “Because this is his last poem. He died shortly after writing it and his brother published it posthumously.”
Apollo pales. He did say his illness was getting worse, didn’t he? Apollo’s legs threaten to buckle. “Oh. How did he—”
“It says he was poisoned,” Trucy says quietly. “Long exposure to atroquinine. What are we going to do, Apollo?”
“We have to warn him. I don’t—it probably won’t do anything but—”
“But it can’t hurt to try.” Apollo would recognize Trucy’s performance voice anywhere. She’s keeping it together for him.
Deep breaths, Apollo. “Do we know who killed him?”
“It doesn't say.”
“Clearly, it’s someone he knows if it’s long exposure,” he reasons. “Atroquinine isn’t used in any wallpapers or plates, so it has to have been something deliberate.” Apollo pulls himself together, bit by bit. It will be fine. He can fix this.
“Didn’t he just move to California from pre-Germany kinda recently?”
“Yeah, he did. And he didn’t keep in contact with anyone he knew from Prussia either, so—” Oh no.
“So it would have to be the one person who he knew in both Europe and California,” Trucy finishes. She sighs. “Poor Klavier.”
Yes, Apollo thinks miserably. Poor Klavier.
Apollo looks grim when Klavier sees him next, but Klavier’s head has felt like it’s going to explode for hours and his chest has felt like there’s a mountain on it, so he can’t imagine he looks much better.
He manages a smile. “Herr Forehead, it is so good to see you—”
Apollo wastes no time. “Klavier, you’re in danger.”
“What?”
“You’re in danger,” he repeats. “You’re being poisoned.”
“Apollo, what are you talking about?”
“Trucy had this school project. About poetry. She was assigned your poem for class.”
“They teach my poems in schools?” The room spins, just a bit at that. Two hundred years and Klavier hasn’t been forgotten. He feels so happy he could sing. Not just remembered, revered.
Apollo keeps talking, though he looks at Klavier’s giddiness with a bittersweet expression. “There was a biography about you on the back. It said it was your last poem before you died from long exposure to atroquinine. And I overheard you writing that poem. You’re going to die and soon.”
That brings Klavier back. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t leave the house.” He can barely leave his bed. Kristoph is concerned, he can see it in his brother’s face and it only makes him feel worse. Kristoph has more important things to worry about than him. He’s working on the biggest trial of his career and Klavier knows is all uphill. The prosecutor is relentless, the witnesses are unhelpful, and the evidence is against him.
And now this. If Klavier really is going to die soon, what would that do to Kristoph? He can’t leave him alone in this country. He can’t leave him alone at all.
Apollo clears his throat. He looks determined, and Klavier almost smiles. “If you’re in the house you can talk to me, and—and we’ll figure something out. I’m not going to let you die.”
There’s a sob building in Klavier’s throat. “Who?”
“Who…?”
“Kills me.” Apollo looks away hurriedly. He knows then. “Apollo.”
There’s a look on Apollo’s face that Klavier has never seen before and never wants to see again. It’s mournful. Apologetic. Sure. He looks like an executioner before the swing. “It’s your brother,” he says, and blood roars in Klavier’s ears.
Apollo is talking, Klavier can see his mouth moving in the periphery, and if he really focuses, he can hear him. It’s your brother. Kristoph, Klavier’s rock. His constant companion, his keeper, his friend, sein älterer Bruder. It’s your brother. It can’t be. Anyone but him. Kristoph wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It’s your brother.
“No,” he says, cutting Apollo off. He doesn’t care. “You have to be wrong.”
“Klav…”
“Don’t ‘Klav’ me, my brother wouldn’t poison me.”
“He’s the only person! Long exposure means—”
“I know what it means!” Klavier snaps.
“He’s the only one!” cries Apollo. He’s sorry, truly sorry. “It couldn’t have been anyone else!”
“It couldn’t have been him! He’s my brother, he practically raised me! He wouldn’t poison anyone, and he certainly wouldn’t poison me. He wouldn’t…” Klavier squeezes his eyes shut. Because Kristoph wouldn’t poison Klavier, but…
But would he poison someone else?
They had left Prussia because Klavier had taken a turn for the worse. It had been a rush, a few days of boxes and selling everything that they couldn’t fit on the boat and then Europe was no more than a memory.
There had been more thought, there had to have been. Because Klavier had been sick before and they hadn’t had to flee like that. And Kristoph’s trial had taken a turn for the strange. People had been dying, witnesses, jury members, and even the prosecutor had had to be replaced. One day they had been fine, and then the next…
That was when Klavier had gotten sicker too. When people started dying. And before—death was common and expected, but it always seemed to follow Kristoph’s nastier cases. Kristoph’s mood would sour, then Klavier would get sick, and then people would die.
It was happening again, too. Kristoph’s case was tough, his mood was poor, and Klavier was sick.
Was that the real reason they left Europe? They were run out?
The sob Klavier had been fighting bursts from his lips. “Oh, mein Bruder, what have you done?”
“Klavier?”
“It’s an accident,” Klavier murmurs. “I don’t even think he knows that’s why I’m sick. Kristoph…I—I think you’re right.” He runs a hand over his face, recomposing himself. He can cry later. He will cry later. His brother is a monster and he’s going to die. But there’s no need to break down now. “What do we do?”
“We’ll figure something out. Like I said, I’m not going to let you die.”
It’s a reflex at this point. The smile, the wink. His heart isn’t in it. The name slips out. “Don’t want to lose me, Forehead? Or do you just not want an actual ghost haunting your apartment?”
“I don’t want to lose you,” Apollo says quietly. The honesty of it sends a shock through Klavier’s system and he flushes.
“Ah. Right, of course.” A nervous hand flits to his braid and he fiddles with it. “Of course,” he repeats. “I don’t want to lose you either, Apollo.”
There’s a beat. “I liked your poem.”
“Hm?”
“The one that started this mess. Trucy read it to me. I liked it. The um, the imagery was…yeah. It was good. And the message of, like the theme? It resonated. With me.”
Fuck. Right. The poem. There’s only one poem that Apollo could have possibly overheard Klavier write, and gratifying though it is that his best work is his best remembered, there’s still the little problem that it’s sort of…
Gott oben. Does he even know? Does Klavier want him to know?
Klavier coughs. “Resonated?”
“Yeah. I think I get it. The reaching for someone brighter.” Apollo swallows. “I get it.”
“Ah,” Klavier manages, his face burning. Even if he doesn’t, that’s certainly a confirmation of something, right? For the first time, Klavier gives serious consideration that Apollo might like him back. He gives his braid another tug. Well. Only one way to know. Klavier looks at Apollo searchingly. “Do you?”
Apollo doesn’t look away. His eyes are golden brown. “I think I do.”
Apollo should really stop being surprised by Trucy’s family at this point.
Learning he had a sister had been one of the best days of his life, and even if she drives him up a wall sometimes, Apollo loves her with everything that he is.
Learning her dad was the Phoenix Wright had been one of the best days of his life too. Had been. Past tense. Never meet your heroes, and certainly never work for them. Lesson learned. Mr. Wright was fine.
Learning Trucy’s other dad was the goddamn Cheif Prosecutor for the state of California had been indescribable. Mostly because no one had thought to tell Apollo until Apollo was in his house.
Apollo had met Trucy’s “Aunt Franzy” during the most stressful game night Apollo has ever been a part of. He's not sure why he had been put on a Trivial Pursuit team with her, but all he knew was they had won because the alternative was disappointing the whip-wielding prosecutorial prodigy of Germany, Franziska von motherfucking Karma, and Apollo chose life.
Somehow, Apollo has never met Trucy’s Aunt Maya until now, and Apollo’s just glad she isn't armed.
When Trucy mentioned her aunt was a master of the occult, Apollo had thought she was just into tarot or something. Master of the Kurain Channeling technique was close enough, he supposes as Maya Fey scarfs down her payment for the house call. Besides, she even gave him a family discount, which was nice. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with all the burger wrappers after this, but it’s still nice.
“So where does he usually appear?” Maya asks, unwrapping another burger. She’s eating them with a terrifying speed.
“Anywhere, really.”
“Hm. And he glows silver, right?”
“Right. Apparently, to him, I glow gold.”
“He’s not dead yet,” she muses, more to herself than Apollo. “And can touch you but not cats or magicians…” She nibbles a fry thoughtfully. “He can see some things, right? Things that are here?”
“Only sometimes, and seemingly at random. It’s the same for me.”
“Well Mr. Justice, I think I have just the thing for you. Can I move this?” She nods to his coffee table and brushes burger crumbs off her ceremonial robes.
“If you need to.”
“Great!” Maya starts to drag the table towards the wall before stopping suddenly. “Would you say your landlord is pro or anti summoning circle? I only ask because the last time I made a house call I set off too many smoke detectors and the building got evacuated.”
Apollo doesn’t know what to say to that. “I can just turn off the smoke detectors, I guess?”
“Perfect! See, this is why Nick keeps you around! Very clever, Polly, step around the whole possibility of getting yelled at by a landlord.” Apollo decides not to comment on the sudden name change as Maya starts grabbing chalk and candles from the most beat-up-looking Jansport Apollo has ever seen.
A few minutes of circle drawing and candle lighting later, Apollo’s living room has been outfitted with a brand new summoning circle. Maya hums contentedly at her work and fishes a strangely shaped rock and a pair of sunglasses from the backpack. The glasses are glittery purple and the lenses are shaped like stars, and she shoots Apollo a wink before she puts them on.
“I know you’re going to want to watch the magic happen,” Maya says, rubbing the weird little rock until it starts to glow, “but you may want to avert your eyes.”
Apollo frowns. “What do you mea—”
Maya doesn’t wait for him to finish before she throws the rock into the circle. The second the rock hits the ground, the room erupts into blinding light, and Apollo really wishes he had listened to Maya.
When the light fades and the spots disappear from his eyes, the first thing Apollo sees is Klavier.
“Apollo? Where am I?" Klavier looks beyond confused. And also like he’s going to fall down.
“Ha!” Maya whoops, pumping her fist in the air. “Me!”
Apollo ignores her and stumbles forward. “Klavier? Can you see my apartment?
“Yes,” he says slowly, eyes wide. “I—” Klavier stops suddenly as he walks to the edge of the summoning circle. Maya winces.
“Right! For now, you’re confined to the borders of the circle,” she explains, a little sheepishly. Klavier gives her a blank look. “I'm Master Maya Fey, by the way, of the Kurain channeling technique. I’m also Trucy’s aunt. Don’t mind me!” She waves enthusiastically, and Klavier waves back, still a little confused.
For whatever reason, that’s what pushes Apollo over the edge. “You’re here,” he breathes, and he can’t fight the smile that overtakes his face.
“I’m here,” Klavier agrees. “I’m not quite sure how, but I’m here.”
There’s a beat, then Apollo clears his throat. “I figured we could brainstorm ways to keep you alive.”
“Right.” Klavier smiles sadly. “If I am honest Apollo, I’m not sure what there is to do. I can’t exactly go up to my brother and tell him his poisoning is killing me.”
“You could always try?”
Klavier just shakes his head. “You don’t know Kristoph. He’s not one for loose ends. He loves me, but I know what he is capable of. Now more than ever. He is not trying to kill me now, but I don't know. If I confront him…” A pained look crosses Klavier’s face. “I want to think he wouldn’t kill me, but I wanted to think he wouldn’t kill anyone. Now I’m less sure when it comes to him. It's foolish, really. He wouldn't, I know he wouldn't, but there is still a part of me now that knows he is killing me and who knows who else. He is my brother and I'm still afraid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There is no reason to apologize.” Klavier waves his hand dismissively, collecting himself. “It’s not like you are the one who made my brother murder people.”
“Still.”
He smiles sadly. “Still.”
“Could you move? It’s proximity to your brother’s poison that’s killing you, right?”
“I don’t have the money. And Kristoph would want to know why I suddenly want to move away. We have always lived together. I’ve never been truly well enough to go out on my own, especially not since I became old enough to live by myself.” Klavier grimaces at the implications of that. “And besides, would I still be able to see you?”
“Probably not!” Maya calls cheerily from the kitchen. “Proximity is making your whole soul bond thing manifest in you being visible to one another.”
A strangled sound rips itself from Apollo’s throat. “Soul bond?”
“Oh shit, did I not say?” There’s the sound of shuffling as Maya makes her way to the living room. “This isn’t exactly a normal occurrence.” She gestures between Apollo and Klavier. “It only happens when two people are just sort of…meant for each other. Cosmically. But sometimes time and space keep them apart. So when you two made the space thing not a problem, the universe filled in the gaps! Cool, right? You two are drawn to each other so much that the universe is trying to course correct its little ‘wrong time period’ mistake.”
Apollo opens and closes his mouth several times. “What?”
“It’s the only reason this whole summoning circle thing is working right now in the first place. I couldn’t draw a circle in Zheng Fa and summon Lang Zi, or go to England and summon Herlock Sholmes. This is happening because of you two. You’re really lucky to have found each other you know. Most people like this never get a chance.” There is a very long, very emotionally fraught beat. “Hm! Well, I’ll be in the kitchen if anyone needs me.” Maya all but runs away. The silence lingers.
Then Apollo starts laughing. And he’s not sure why, it just sort of happens. Quietly at first then it just sort of mutates and then Klavier is laughing too. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” He keeps laughing.
Klavier shakes his head and gives him an amused and bewildered look. “What?”
“I love you.”
“What?”
“I love you. Soul bond.” Apollo just laughs again. “I love you so much it’s making you physically manifest in my house. I love you so much we’ve been seeing each other across time because my fucking soul was so desperate for yours it ignored two hundred years of distance. And you know what? I’m not even surprised! Because you fill my life with music, Klav. You make me want to dance. And sing. And listen to things I hate because I know you’ll love them. And you’re smart, and you’re kind, and you fill my life with music. And I don’t know what we’re going to do but I can’t let you die.” Apollo slumps against the invisible barrier of the summoning circle and rests his head against it. “Because I like your poem. And your stupid nicknames. And I love you.”
Klavier sits down too and lets out a small, watery sound. “Are you sure you’re not the poet between us?" He rests his head against Apollo's and smiles. "I love you too, Apollo Justice. I love you too.”
“I wish there was a way to just…pull you into the future with me,” Apollo says. “So you’d be here and safe.”
“I’d like that. We could watch Mamma Mia 2 and you wouldn’t have to touch your television the whole time. You could sit next to me.”
“Trucy would have to be there.”
“Of course!” Klavier grins. “She could show me her magic.”
“Not in the house, there are rules for a reason—”
“I could hold Mikeko then," offers Klavier. “Keep her from the cards. Finally get to pet her.”
“She’d be so excited. She thinks it's so rude you don’t pet her.”
“Ach, a grievous slight I’ll work hard to make right.”
“I’ll show you an electric guitar. It'll blow your mind.”
“They make them electric?” Klavier’s eyes and smile are enormous.
Apollo snorts. “Oh yeah. And they come in any color you want.”
“You are opening the gates to something you can’t close, Herr Forehead.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Apollo sighs, suddenly somber. “Even if it is possible though, you’ve still got a life.”
“For who knows how much longer. Our brainstorming has not been the most productive.” Klavier frowns. “At this rate, the future might be my only out.”
“Your brother—”
“Is literally killing me, Apollo. I will miss him, but I do not want to die. Not when there is so much life to live.”
Apollo puts a hand on the barrier, and Klavier raises one of his own to meet it. Apollo laughs. “There it is then, we’ve figured it out! The way to save you! We’ll just summon you to the future. Easy peasy.”
“If only.”
“I can’t summon him to the future just yet,” shouts Maya. “I’d need Pearly’s help for that.”
Klavier whips his head around. “What?”
“Summoning you to the future? It’s a bit more complicated than drawing a little summoning circle. I’d need to be in Kurain. And I’d need Pearly too, like I said. She’s incredible.” There’s so much pride in her voice it nearly bowls Apollo over. “I’d need like a week or so? I need to recharge.”
“You mean you actually can?”
“Well yeah. It’s not super easy but I got you. And it’s on the house.” Maya winks at him again, and Apollo can’t help but smile.
It’s late. Klavier’s footsteps seem to reverberate through the house as he makes the long journey to his brother’s office. The moon follows him through the windows, and strangely that gives him comfort. It feels like an old friend.
“Come in.” Klavier hasn’t even raised his fist to knock yet. He pushes open the door and takes it all in.
Kristoph Gavin looks tired. His baby blue jacket is off and there are bags under his eyes. His braid is fraying slightly. His office is tidy as ever though, the mahogany bookshelves still orderly, the papers on his desk still stacked neatly. The only sign Kristoph is on edge other than his physical appearance is the violin sitting in his armchair. It was a gift from their parents a lifetime ago, and he only plays when he needs a release.
Kristoph doesn’t smile when Klavier enters, but then again, he rarely does.
“What do you need, Klavier? You should be in bed by now. You’re weak enough as is.” There’s concern in his voice, beneath it all. Klavier’s heart aches.
“There’s been another death. It was in the papers.”
Kristoph sighs. “God. This case is a disaster, Klavier. It’s not safe. I’m thinking of dropping out as Mr. Holder’s attorney.”
“Do you think it’s related?”
“What do you mean?”
“The deaths and my illness?” Klavier doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t make himself stop.
“Klavier, I don’t understand.” Kristoph seems almost annoyed, and Klavier just sighs.
“Maybe something is going around.”
“Maybe.” Kristoph frowns. “Was that all you wanted?”
“Yes. I should get to bed.” Klavier stands. “Gute Nacht, Bruder meins.”
“Gute Nacht, Klavier.” Kristoph has already looked back down at his paperwork. The conversation is over.
Klavier lingers at the door and takes him in. They’ve always looked so similar. And Klavier used to hate that. He went through a horrible phase where he cut his hair too short just to not look like he was part of a matched set. But then he got older, and he still looked like Kristoph, and Klavier found that he didn’t care. He loves his brother. Is proud of him and the life he built. Grateful for all he does. So Klavier grew out his hair again and embraced the similarities.
Even now, with Kristoph’s tired eyes and loose hair and his glasses askew, they still look alike. Klavier’s not sure how he feels about that. But he’s going to go. He’s going to live. He’s going to leave his brother behind. His brother is a monster but he’s still his brother, and there will always be a part of him that misses Kristoph.
Kristoph’s noticed Klavier is still at the door. “Was there something else you needed?”
“Be good, Kristoph.” Then, “I love you.” And quietly, “I’m sorry.”
If Kristoph has anything to say about Klavier’s strange behavior, Klavier is already in the hallway before he can say it. The wood of the floor is cold on Klavier’s feet as he makes his way back to his room again. The air is warm though, as the air in California so often is.
In the dark and the quiet, the moon is his only company.
Kurain is beautiful but Apollo doesn’t really see any of it. His leg is bouncing so much on the train ride over that Trucy has to hold it down and ask him if he’s okay. He is, he tells her, and he means it.
Kurain Village is beautiful and “Pearly” is incredibly sweet, but Apollo barely catches her name. The main house is large and imposing, and his eyes don’t leave it once it’s in sight. His stomach is in his throat, and he walks to the ceremony room on autopilot.
The ceremony room is beautiful, and Pearl and Maya are doing… something, that seems very cool and interesting, and if Apollo was in the headspace to think about anything other than his internal clock counting down the minutes he’s sure he’d be utterly fascinated by it. The room smells like incense and beeswax. Pearl hands him a pair of sunglasses—normal ones thankfully, her own are pink and heart-shaped—and tells him it won’t be too long now and that everything will be alright. She squeezes his shoulder but he doesn’t feel it.
The lights that fill the room are beautiful. Blinding and brilliant, Apollo can see them through his squeezed-shut eyes. The room is nothing but light and the sound of Apollo’s frantically beating heart pounding in his chest.
And then there he is. Klavier. And he looks strange. There’s no glow around him. His skin is bronze, and his hair is bleach blond, and his wide eyes are a deep chestnut brown. His jacket is purple, his pants black, his shirt and tie brilliant white. Not a single part of him is silver, and he’s beautiful.
Apollo barely has time to rip the sunglasses off his face before he’s running toward him, and Klavier the same, and Klavier is so real in Apollo’s arms he could weep. Maybe he does. All he knows is that he’s here, here and real, and as Klavier pulls him into a kiss, all Apollo can think is finally. Finally.