Apollo wakes up to his phone buzzing, Klavier’s hair in his face, and a cat managing to step squarely on his bladder as he walks across the bed. All in all, he’s had worse mornings.

He still has to deal with these things, though, so he manages to shift enough under the covers to dislodge the cat, shake away the long blond strands covering his vision, and reach out to grab the phone off of his bedside table, fumbling his way around the unlock mechanism for long enough that he just gives up and types in his passcode.

And oh, that’s a lot of notifications. Text messages from half the people he knows, a good twenty more emails than he’s used to seeing, and a red bubble at the corner of the Twitter app that displays a number higher than it’s been since--

Oh, goddamnit.

A sleepy grumble breaks the silence of the morning—and then, cold arms wrap around his waist. Apollo yelps, startled, but acquiesces to Klavier’s silent demands and burrows back down under the blankets, pressing closer.

“I see you’re awake,” he observes wryly, as Klavier continues to do a halfhearted job of trying to postpone the inevitable. “C’mon, mornings aren’t that bad.”

“Mnrghhh,” Klavier responds, eloquently. Apollo can’t help the way his lips curl into a smile, the warmth that blooms in his chest as he looks down at Klavier’s face, buried against the pillows.

“...early,” he manages after another minute, and Apollo actually laughs at that.

“It’s ten AM. You’d be at the office by now if this wasn’t a Saturday.”

“But it’s the weekend,” Klavier whines, and finally turns to crack one blue eye open to look at Apollo. He appears to be going for “righteous indignation” with his facial expression. Apollo only gets “adorably sleepy prosecutor.”

“You’re the worst. I love you so much,” Apollo replies, before his phone buzzes once more in his hand, drawing his attention back to the chaos unfolding outside of their cozy bubble. “Unfortunately, the tabloids never sleep...and, uh, I think this might be getting a little out of hand already.”

Klavier plucks the phone from Apollo’s grasp, narrowing his eyes to a squint as he holds the screen no more than four inches from his face in order to read what’s being displayed. Apollo reaches over and grabs Klavier’s glasses from their bedside table, carefully unfolding them and sliding them onto his nose, resulting in the prosecutor blinking his eyes open to a more normal state and relaxing somewhat.

“Ach, it seems we’re really in it now.”

“They couldn’t have even picked something that’s true, though. I can’t believe you used to live under this degree of scrutiny constantly. Actually--” Apollo half-laughs, awkwardly. “I can’t believe I used to contribute to putting you under this degree of scrutiny.”

Klavier frowns. “Now, now, you weren’t that bad. It was mostly funny, actually. You were so angry about finding me attractive.”

Apollo splutters. “I--! Can you blame me? You made the worst music, and yet you looked like that.”

“Ja, I am well aware of what I look like. It’s hard not to be.” Klavier’s smug grin infuriates Apollo, still, after all this time. He leans in and kisses Klavier, just so he doesn’t have to look at it.

Unfortunately, when he pulls away, Klavier looks, impossibly, even more pleased with himself.

“So. The tabloids are saying we’re engaged, now?”

Apollo shrugs. “I guess. It would explain why I’ve got about eight thousand texts from everyone I know.” He chances opening his message app.

“This is….maybe going a little too far,” Apollo remarks, and sits up fully in bed, pushing the duvet down to his waist. “I’m going to have to clear this up, aren’t I?”

Klavier steals the excess coverings, and pulls them up to his chin as he also sits up, looking over at Apollo with inquisitive eyes. “You’d normally just ignore it, though, schatz. Why engage?”

“Because they decided from one photo of you that we were getting married, with absolutely no evidence! You wore a new ring and it became international news! My sister thinks she’s going to be involved with wedding planning!”

Apollo turns and grabs his laptop from its place on a nearby desk, and therefore misses the way that Klavier frowns slightly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and spinning the gold ring on his left hand around, and around, and around.

After all, he’s far too preoccupied with writing up a rebuttal to pay attention to the finer details.

Klavier should have expected this, he thinks. After all, he’s known Apollo for long enough that he’s well aware of his preference for clear, objective statements of fact when it comes to the details of their relationship. Apollo isn’t a fan of ambiguity in the way that Klavier, who pens songs rich in metaphor and who perfected the celebrity double-speak terrifyingly early in life, is.

Usually it’s something Klavier admires about him. He never has to wonder if Apollo’s upset at him or if he’s expecting something—Apollo will just tell him these things. It’s something that takes a lot of the stress out of being in a relationship, he’s found.

Unfortunately, Klavier considers as he spins the new golden ring around his finger, having his boyfriend vehemently deny that they might be thinking of marriage is really putting a damper on Klavier’s plans to propose to him.

“Apollo, there’s some mail for you,” Phoenix Wright says, depositing a stack of letters on the rickety structure the attorney calls a desk. He looks up, brows furrowed.

“There’s what?” Apollo doesn’t get mail—at least, not here. Even his official mailing address redirects to a P.O. box, in an attempt to keep the location of the apartment he shares with Klavier as quiet as possible.

“I don’t control who sends you stuff. But could you maybe ask them to use better envelopes? I swear one of those had glitter in it, and I’ll never get it out of the mailbox.”

Apollo groans. “I told you last week, that was one of Trucy’s mail-order magic props.”

“I don’t remember anything about that,” Phoenix responds, a lazy grin on his face. Apollo doesn’t even need a strange, semi-magic bracelet to tell him that he’s lying about that one.

Irritating bosses aside, he’s got mystery mail to open. Apollo grabs the first envelope off of the pile and slides a thumb under the flap to break the adhesive.

It’s...not exactly promising, as far as letters go.

Apollo Justice--

This is a NOTICE!! if you do anything to hurt Klavier (including breaking his heart—he’s OBVIOUSLY in love with you and you DON’T DESERVE HIM) we know where you work. We will make you pay. There isn’t enough hair gel in the world to save you. You’ve been warned.

--the KLAVGAV FAN CLUB REGIONAL GROUP #86524

PS: do you think you can get him to sign the enclosed items? Thx in advance xxxx

Apollo frowns and turns the large manilla envelope upside down, shaking it onto his desk. An old CD, a glossy Polaroid photo, and a crop-top T-shirt fall out.

“What have I done to deserve this,” he remarks dryly, staring at the several other letters still awaiting opening.

“Your fans are terrifying,” Apollo says, walking into the apartment he shares with Klavier to find the international superstar trying (and failing) to persuade their cat to take interest in a toy fish. The interruption causes Klavier to startle and overbalance, sprawling across the plush sofa in an undignified heap.

Apollo does not think he still looks attractive like this.

“Ach, schatz—you scared me! What’s this about the fans?”

“Look what came in the mail today,” Apollo explains, extending the stack of papers he’d extracted from his briefcase while Klavier was distracted. The prosecutor takes them and skims the contents, eyebrows furrowing and lips tightening into a frown.

“Is this...have you received these before?”

“No, this is the first time. I guess the idea that we’d get married really set them all off...even though it’s still not true.”

Something strange happens to Klavier’s facial expression, at that remark—a flash of tension, a brief moment of uncertainty. Apollo wouldn’t have noticed, except for the faint tightening of his bracelet on his wrist.

He debates whether he should say anything, but this is important. If this situation is making Klavier doubt any aspect of their relationship...well, it’s best to get that conversation out of the way sooner rather than later.

“Klav…?” he asks, reaching out to gently touch his boyfriend’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

Klavier shakes his head, opens his mouth, and seems to consider the merits of just ending the conversation here. But Apollo’s hand against his skin convinces him otherwise, and he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“It’s just...you’re so adamant about that. That us getting married wouldn’t happen. Is that really what you think? That our relationship isn’t the kind that’s going to last?”

Apollo freezes at the words, at Klavier’s tone. “I…” he begins, and lets the sentence trail off. He takes the moment to sit down, to look Klavier in the eyes.

“I didn’t know that it was bothering you this much,” he settles on, in the end. “Of course I don’t think we’re not going to last, Klavier, I just—I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I was too angry that anyone would speculate about your life—our lives—and didn’t…” He sighs. “I’d marry you tomorrow, if that was something you wanted. If that was something that would matter to you. I just...I didn’t want to push it, if you didn’t want to.”

Klavier reaches out, clasps his hand. “Schatz, I was so worried that all this time you didn’t want any of this—but you can’t believe I’d let you get away with a courthouse wedding, nein? Obviously we’d have to go all out.”

“All—no, Klavier, we can’t make a public spectacle out of our wedding! That’s just giving in!”

“But it’s expected...and fun,” Klavier laughs, before his expression turns serious again. “So...should I take that as a yes, Apollo?”

Apollo pauses, raising an eyebrow. He follows the motion of Klavier’s free hand as he slips a ring off of one of his fingers and holds it out to him.

It’s the one from the photo. The one that started this whole thing.

“Wait—so that really wasn’t just a random new accessory?”

“Nein”

“You—this whole time?”

“Ja”
“Will you stop with the exaggerated German? I’m trying to accept your proposal here!”

Klavier doesn’t stop, but he does finally catch Apollo’s flailing hand and slide the ring onto the appropriate finger, where it fits perfectly and feels warm and solid and right.

Apollo Justice refuses to check his phone in the middle of a trial. Nope, not happening, not at all. Even though the thing’s been buzzing so fiercely he’s worried it’ll wear a hole in his pocket, he insists on retaining enough professionalism to not look at it.

...okay, maybe one glance wouldn’t hurt?

Fuck.

It seems as though everyone around Apollo is much more invested in the wedding planning than he is. As far as Apollo’s concerned, he wouldn’t mind if he married Klavier in their living room wearing pyjamas—it’s not the ceremony that’s the important part, it’s the rest of their lives. But Klavier’s having fun researching bakeries and venues and floral designers. He stops to run ideas by Apollo, and it’s sweet, but there’s not a great way to tell your fiancé that you’re truly going to be happy with whatever he chooses.

It also doesn’t help that every single time they venture out somewhere, they seem to make the headlines—even on non-wedding-related business, and even though they still haven’t officially confirmed their engagement yet. None of this seems to matter to the tabloids, who have seemingly just decided to run with the so-called ‘Klapollo Engagement’ story.

Gavin and Justice spotted taste-testing wedding cakes! Here’s our top 10 bakeries in Los Angeles as rated by our readers.

Next-Generation Legal Power Couple Tour People Park: Klavier Gavin’s Wedding Venue Search Continues

Grocery-Store Run for Gavin: What’s The Former Gavinners Frontman Cooking This Week?

“That last one’s really worrying,” Klavier comments, reading over Apollo’s shoulder as he stares down the glossy magazine covers at the newsstand on the corner by the courthouse. “I think they went in and asked for a copy of my receipt.”

“They what?” Apollo asks, before deciding that he’s already getting a headache and he doesn’t want to make it worse. Klavier kindly pulls a tiny bottle of Advil out of his pocket and offers it to him.

Apollo doesn’t know how this isn’t the Klavier Gavin that the tabloids focus on—the real, genuinely kind man behind all the glitzy exterior.

He takes the painkillers and leans back against the wall of the nearby bank, staring out at the ebb and flow of pedestrians along the pavement. “It’s just—the little things that they focus on are so asinine. Wedding venues and outfit changes and grocery shopping. The tabloids never actually take the time to get to know you, beyond all that.”

Klavier shifts his weight. “If they did that, they wouldn’t be tabloids, ja? The point of them is to continue the cycle of fame—to report on every little thing celebrities do until their names are beaten into the public consciousness, even if the public doesn’t recognize why they’re famous at all.”

“That’s surprisingly cynical of you,” Apollo remarks.

“It’s why I make a point of paying them no mind. I never did, after the novelty of seeing my face on the cover wore off. The only reason I knew about your writing was because enough people got my attention through other means.”

“Hmm.” Apollo turns his attention back down to the magazine in his hands, and then contemplates the contact details still stored in his email. He’d been meaning to write an official redaction to his adamant denial of their engagement anyway...who’s to say he can’t kill two birds with one stone, here?

There’s fewer paparazzi photos, after that. Apollo’s relieved that he seems to have scared them off, at least for a little while—and in the meantime, he’s able to get on with the intricacies of wedding planning—or rather, Klavier is able to deal with the planning, while Apollo gives him a supportive smile and nod from time to time.

It works. It’s a balanced relationship. Klavier drags him halfway across LA in pursuit of the perfect flowers, the perfect venue, the perfect cake. And Apollo’s thrilled that Klavier’s having fun—but he meant what he’d said about being willing to marry Klavier anywhere—in their living room, in the park, literally in an airport bathroom.

It’s not the event so much as what comes after (the rest of their lives).

But somehow, four months pass in the blink of an eye, and everything’s been arranged—or so he hears. Apollo’s been pulled along so many different places across the past weeks that he can’t even keep where they’ve actually decided to hold the event straight.

Asking Klavier is also out of the question—his fiancé is already on his way to the venue, for once up earlier than Apollo. He’d pressed a kiss to Apollo’s forehead, smiling when Apollo had absently reached up to scratch at his ears as though he was their cat.

“I’m heading out, schatz, but don’t worry—just get ready, ja? I’ll have someone come pick you up at eleven.”

When Apollo’s alarm had gone off at 8:30, he’d been convinced the encounter had been a dream—until he’d reached out to where Klavier was supposed to be lying next to him and been met with nothing but empty, cold sheets.

Apollo gets as ready as he can when he knows next to no details about where he’s going. He’s got a suit, at least, traditional black hung up by the wardrobe. Thank God for Klavier being so on top of this, because otherwise Apollo would arrive at his own wedding in his best trial attire.

...He’s still half-tempted to do that anyway, actually. It’d at least show Klavier the versatility of an appropriate semi-formal outfit.

(Except if Klavier suddenly started wearing a proper jacket to court, Apollo knows he’d miss the exposed triangle of stomach that’s been captivating him since well before they first met).

Hair, socks, shoes, tie...what’s he missing? It feels like he’s missing something. Surely getting ready for your own wedding should be more distinct, should involve Special Wedding Things instead of the same toothpaste and deodorant that he uses every single day. Apollo heads once more to the mirror, poking at his hair and frowning at his reflection. It’s only quarter to ten. Should he be taking longer? Shouldn’t he have something else to do?

He’s pulled from the beginnings of an anxious spiral by rapid-paced knocking on his front door. Klavier had told him he’d have someone pick him up...but it’s far too early, so who’s there?

When Apollo swings the door open, he discovers that the answer is Trucy Wright and Clay Terran, who bundle themselves into the house with all the enthusiasm of a high-energy Golden Retriever.

(Vongole, for reference, is snoozing on the couch and barely bats an eye at the mayhem)

“Polly!! It’s your big day!” Trucy shouts in Apollo’s ear, causing him to lean away and wince in response. Clay claps his hand down on his shoulder and nearly throws Apollo off-balance. Apollo takes a moment to remember why, exactly, he’s often avoided situations that might put these two in the same room at the same time.

“Oh, thank God, you’re in a normal suit,” Clay says. Apollo scowls.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing, really!” Clay waves his hands defensively through the air. “It’s just that, y’know, your court outfit is a little...bright.”

“Red’s a great color,” Apollo replies, a little petulantly.

“Yeah, for stop signs.”

“Okay, okay, break it up!” Trucy inserts herself between the two men, brandishing an assortment of brushes, styling tools, and sprays. Apollo backs away a couple steps.

“I already did my hair, Trucy. And everything else…”

“You think you’re showing up to your wedding with the same exact ‘half a tub of hair gel’ style you wear daily? Polly, someone could use your hair as a murder weapon, and after what happened at my dads’ wedding, I’m not risking it.”

“She has a point,” Clay interjects.

“Why are you even here again?” Apollo asks, as he finds himself shoved into a chair while Trucy commences her attack on his hair. Clay drapes a towel around his shoulders to protect his suit.

“Moral support, obviously! And I’m in charge of making sure you get this.” He holds up a small plastic box, which upon closer examination contains an elegant purple crocus with a pin fastening.

Despite his typical inclination towards cynicism, Apollo actually feels his breath catch in his throat. It’s funny that out of everything, the floral arrangements are what’s made him realize that this is really happening.

Trucy meticulously styles his hair, taking over half an hour before she proclaims that the style is perfect. When Apollo looks in the mirror, he struggles to see any difference whatsoever between her handiwork and the way he’d been wearing it before two of the most chaotic people in his life nearly broke down his front door—but he’d never admit that out loud.

The rest of the time passes in a whirlwind—Trucy gathers various ‘essentials’ from around the house that she insists might be needed in case of emergency, and Clay very carefully pins the crocus boutonniere to the lapel of Apollo’s suit. He meets Apollo’s eyes, smiling, and Apollo finds himself struggling not to tear up as, once again, the realization that everything culminates now hits him.

But there isn’t time for them to dwell on that as an alarm starts going off on Trucy’s phone and she herds them out of the doors, leaving Apollo to fret about whether he’s got his house keys on him and whether there’s enough food down for the animals. He’s bundled into a sleek black car, which Clay insists on driving, and before he knows it, they’re properly on the road to his wedding.

When Apollo steps out of the car, he’s tempted to ask whether there’s been a mistake, because instead of some fancy venue, Clay has brought them to...the courthouse.

“What are we--” he begins, before he’s cut off by Trucy grabbing his hand and dragging him forwards up the steps, Clay bringing up the rear.

The courthouse looks exactly the same as it does any other day—polished floors, weird vending machines, ominous artwork hung on the walls. There’s no decorations, no signage, nothing that would suggest that they’re anywhere that has anything remotely to do with a wedding.

That is, however, until Trucy and Clay push open the doors to Courtroom Number 4 and reveal Klavier Gavin standing in the middle of the courtroom, his stylish black suit standing out distinctively against the polished wood of the chamber. Pinned to his jacket is a bright red amaryllis, and Apollo feels himself breaking into a smile as he finally notes the detail in their contrasting floral accessories.

The gallery isn’t full, but the people occupying the seats represent some of the only people Apollo really cared about potentially coming to the event. Besides that, there’s still very minimal decoration—the courtroom is set up as it typically would be for a trial, not a wedding, even down to the grey-haired judge standing below his podium.

As Apollo walks towards Klavier, the taller man holds out his hand. Apollo twines his fingers into his grasp, leaning close to whisper, “What’s all this?”

Looking slightly abashed, Klavier runs his free hand through his hair. “Ach, after all the planning I’d done, and after seeing how disinterested you were in all of it...and especially after you wrote that article for the tabloids, I thought about how I would do this if there wasn’t the expectation of grandeur that comes with celebrity. And I came to the realization...that none of it mattered, as long as you were here. So I cancelled the elaborate plans I’d set up and kept this all secret from the press—just so we could come back to where I first saw you accomplishing your dream.”

Apollo’s almost too choked up to speak, swallowing hard. “Klavier…”

“Shh, schatz. I know. There’ll be time for proper discussion afterwards, ja? For now, I think we shouldn’t keep anybody waiting for too much longer.”

Apollo laughs. “Well, I’d hate to ruin the anticipation. It seems like this is all anyone’s been talking about for at least the last eight months or so.”

“Then we’re agreed? Let’s rock!”