fame vs infamy (the price of writing fanfic out of spite)

Apollo’s cell phone buzzed, and, really, that was the last straw.

He looked up from the neatly-arranged documents on his desk to glare across the room at Trucy, who was sitting quietly on the couch, absorbed in her own phone, the picture of innocence. Or, at least, she would be—apart from the minute twitch at the corner of her lips, where she was clearly holding back a grin.

“Do you not have, I don’t know, magic tricks to practice?”

Trucy finally lost the battle against her own sadistic glee, and cackled maniacally as Apollo pointedly avoided checking his phone.

“How do you know that was me? It could’ve been anyone. Y’know, maybe Athena needs you to investigate with her, or Daddy needs help on a new case, or even Prosecutor Gavin—“

“That’s enough!” Apollo cut her off sharply, dropping his pen to the desk with a resigned finality. “Look, I know you think it’s funny to send me all those weird stories where you’re supposed to picture yourself as the main character who…got sold to the Gavinners or something, but you do know that I’ve got to face Prosecutor Gavin in court, right? There’s levels of professionalism, here—and besides,” he added in an undertone, “they’re completely unrealistic anyway.”

Trucy’s eyes lit up. “Wait, you mean you’ve read them? Polllly…” she whined. “Tell me your opinions! Give me the critique! The insider info! The world needs to know—what’s the real experience of being on the receiving end of Klavier Gavin’s flirting?

“What—he doesn’t—that’s not what I’m saying is unrealistic! All these stories—they’re based on the premise that he’d act, like, special and romantic towards the main character specifically, and that it means something, but—but Prosecutor Gavin’s just like that with everybody! Not to mention the fact that he’d never go around getting into relationships with teenage girls in the first place—he’s like 25, that’s a really weird age gap.”

“How do you know the main character’s supposed to be a teenage girl? Plenty of those stories are gender-neutral.” Trucy smirked, folding her legs primly beside her on the couch. Apollo raised an eyebrow.

“And just how many of them have you read? I thought you just found them and sent them to me as a joke.”

“I mean, at first I did…and then I thought they’d be useful for research.”

“What kind of…actually, nope, nope, I don’t want to know.” Apollo cut himself off, shaking his head and staring across the room incredulously. He would have been content to end the conversation there, but Trucy had other ideas.

“Anyway, Polly, it seems like you’ve got a lot of opinions on how these stories should go. Maybe you should write them down, see if you can get the fans to shut up for a while? Or at least,” she giggled, “make their stories more realistic?”

Apollo had gone back to furiously studying his case notes, and thus missed the angelic smile that Trucy shot in his direction—the expression he only ever saw right before his entire life was about to go straight to hell.

It was 10 PM on a Wednesday, and Apollo Justice was definitely not thinking about taking Trucy’s advice and writing Gavinners fanfiction.

…okay, yes, maybe he’d had a Word document open for the last half-hour, and maybe he’d managed to figure out his old login details for the fanfic site he definitely hadn’t frequented in high school (old, first-person fics about Naruto and FMA? Never. Existed. (no matter what the copies that had made their way onto his desktop implied—those were strictly for archival purposes)).

But none of that meant that he was going to go through with it! And—even if he did, it would be to prove a point. The world needed to know—they weren’t going to live out some teenage fantasy where an ostentatious celebrity former-rockstar fell madly in love with them, even if they did happen to run into him—and maybe he’d even be doing Prosecutor Gavin a favor, discouraging his honestly quite scary fanbase.

(Yeah, his brain supplied, and what do you want to get in return?)

Apollo groaned angrily and shoved his wheely chair away from his desk. No! He couldn’t think like that—he refused—he wasn’t some teenage fangirl! He was a professional, 23-year-old lawyer with a job and an apartment and he viewed Klavier Gavin in a strictly professional sense, thank you very much. He…

…slid his chair back towards the desk, and hovered his hands above the keys.

Okay. He was going to write this, if only out of spite. To prove a point. To highlight how unrealistic most people’s expectations of meeting Kla--Prosecutor Gavin were, and to remind himself that the man’s most basic form of conversation was via flirting. It didn’t mean anything more than that, at all. It couldn’t.

Apollo began:

It’s a sunny day in Los Angeles, and you’re a horrible goose

Okay, great start, make a reference to a game that came out more than half a decade ago. That’ll endear him to the fans. Apollo sighed and backspaced the last three words, replacing them with something decidedly less memetic.

on your way back from school, taking your usual diversion past the courthouse. Every day, you keep an eye out for a certain prosecutor’s garish eyesore of a motorcycle, just on the off-chance that you might have a fabled celebrity encounter and exploit that for Instagram clout. Every day, you’re disappointed.

Apollo considered whether he might be being slightly too mean about the Instagram thing, before remembering some of the stories Trucy had told him about the Drama of the Gavinners fandom. She was his most reliable source for all the weird gossip and feuds that seemed to pop up with alarming frequency—Prosecutor Gavin himself didn’t really acknowledge the online activities of his own fans. Apollo wished that he was less fascinated by the whole ordeal, but it was a little like watching a natural disaster unfold in real time—and so, he maintained an air of disinterest, while secretly enjoying the detailed recollections provided to him every so often by his partner-in-investigations.

So caught up in your own thoughts, you don’t notice the man standing in front of you on the sidewalk until after you’ve blundered into him, knocking you both off-balance. You think you’re going to tumble inelegantly to the pavement, but he reaches out and wraps his arm around your waist to stabilize you both, his hand warm against the small of your back.

“Ach, Fraulein! I was a million miles away,” he says, in a honeyed tone that you’d recognize anywhere. Is this it? Could today be the day? You realize that he’s probably waiting for a response, and gather your words into some semblance of a coherent sentence.

“No, no, my fault! I’m sorry—wasn’t looking where I was walking.”

The man smiles in apology, white teeth too straight to be anything but the product of thousands of dollars worth of expensive dental procedures, and ensures you’re steady on your feet with a firm clasp to your shoulder. He draws away, then, taking his warmth with him.

“Still, it was impolite of me to be standing in the middle of the walkway, ja? Let me make it up to you—where are you going? I’ll give you a ride.”

He gestures to the purple motorcycle a few meters away, and it confirms your suspicions as to his identity. “Ah, but I have not even gotten your name! Do tell me, or else I shall have to call you Fraulein Klutz for all eternity.”

(Apollo might be just a little bitter about the nickname situation, if he was being honest with himself. If he was being even more honest with himself, he would have to admit that he wasn’t quite as bitter about it as he sometimes pretended, though.)

You find yourself indignant at his nickname, while secretly a little honored. Klavier Gavin, coming up with a special name for you? Nobody would ever believe you.

“I’m not that uncoordinated—and you can call me [Y/N],” you retort, and receive a wink in response. Klavier puts his arm around your shoulders, and steers you to the bike, before launching into a ten-minute lecture on vehicular safety and handing you a helmet.

Apollo went back and forth about using the “[Y/N]” format, before deciding that he should stick with the conventions of the fandom—and he hated that he’d had to actually give that as much thought as he had done.

“Now, where to, my lovely Fraulein [y/n]?” he asks, and once you give him your address, you’re off, clinging to his waist for dear life as you wind through the streets at the legal speed limit. He drops you off at your front door with a wave and a smile, and you realize you’ve forgotten to ask for an autograph, or a selfie.

Perhaps there will be a next time?

A weight landed abruptly on Apollo’s lap, and he jumped, startled, as his calico cat gazed up at him reproachfully. He blinked, noticing for the first time that the sky had grown dark and the room around him was cast into shadow, time having passed while he wrote. He groaned, annoyed that he’d let himself get goaded into something so absurd.

Ah well. He scratched idly behind his cat’s ears, and skimmed over what he’d written. It wasn’t the best, but…he wasn’t going to put more effort into it—not when the idea was ridiculous in the first place.

Still…he’d written it, and he might as well post it, right? At the very least, he might discourage some rabid Gavinners’ fans from getting their hopes up too much. As much as the man could get on his nerves sometimes, Klavier Gavin really wasn’t deserving of the vaguely stalker-ish behavior of some of his fangirls.

Apollo took five minutes to remember how to navigate the fanfiction website’s posting system, before copy-and-pasting his “masterpiece” into the text box and giving it the uninspired title of “A Realistic Encounter With Klavier Gavin.” He was nothing if not bluntly obvious with his motives—as he stated in the author’s note, he figured that all the fantastic notions expressed in other works needed debunking—but didn’t elaborate on his personal life beyond affirming that he’d written the “most likely” scenario for a stranger’s encounter with the famed rockstar prosecutor—and leaving out entirely that said scenario was highly based on his own experiences with Prosecutor Gavin offering him a ride on his ridiculous motorcycle at every opportunity.

Apollo clicked “Post,” shut his laptop, and headed to his kitchen to feed his whining cat, not giving the story another thought.

Of course, he should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

When Apollo woke up the next morning to 50 new emails in the inbox of his disused high-school Gmail account, he buried his face in his pillow and refused to open them, resolutely swapping his mail app’s focus from “All inboxes” to just his official, work-based, Professional Lawyer email address.

Apollo considered himself to be a master, at this point, of Avoiding His Problems.

Still, nothing could save him from a certain teenage magician, who began pestering him the second he walked through the door of the Agency that morning.

“Polly! PollyPollyPolly! Did you see? Did you read the fic?”

Apollo narrowed his eyes. “Trucy, didn’t I tell you to stop sending me those?”

The girl in question tilted her head to one side, giving Apollo her best kicked-puppy look. “But Pollyyyy, the whole Gavinners’ fandom is going nuts over this mystery author! They wrote this story that’s supposed to be a ‘realistic’ version of somebody meeting Klavier Gavin, but it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever read! If this person really did meet him, I’d bet my hat that he’s got the biggest crush on them!”

Apollo spluttered, then immediately tried to rearrange his face to look more skeptical than shocked and incredulous. “There’s—that can’t be right. I’m sure they’re just misinterpreting it, is all.”

“Why, do you know something I don’t?” Trucy grinned. “Because I’ll tell you, Polly, I’m subscribed to all the Gavinners’ fansites.”

“That’s still really weird when we know him in real life.”

“I can’t hear you, Polly.”

Apollo rolled his eyes and finally made his way over to his desk, dropping his laptop bag down at the side of it and blindly reaching out to find where he’d stashed his coffee cup the other day so it wouldn’t go missing in some impromptu office magic trick.

After obtaining some much-needed caffeine, he pushed open his laptop and determinedly tried to bury himself in work, ignoring the way his phone periodically buzzed with incoming emails.

Trucy, of course, noticed immediately.

“Somebody’s popular! Ooo, is it a secret admirer?”

“Why…would it be that?”

“You have no sense of drama or theatrics, do you?”

Apollo didn’t dignify that with a response.

And still, his phone buzzed.

He buried his face in his hands, groaned, and then grabbed his phone and shoved it to the bottom of his bag, effectively muffling the sound.

From across the room, Trucy eyed him appraisingly, before grinning and turning back to her own browsing on the ancient office computer.

(She, of course, knew exactly what was going on—but she’d let Apollo keep his secrets for a while longer)

It wasn’t until later that same night, in the 1AM darkness of his apartment and after a couple courage-bolstering drinks, that Apollo got up the nerve to check on the response to his literary masterpiece. Clearly, this had been a mistake. He needed to take the fic down, dispel the rumors, and pretend none of this had ever happened—especially since he’d inevitably have to face Prosecutor Gavin himself in court at some point. Mind made up, Apollo typed in his login details, to find—

Well. He’d never imagined that kind of response. Erasing this from the collective memory of the internet was going to be harder than he’d thought.

His inbox was packed with responses, from simple demands of “Update soon!” and “I need MORE!” to long, elaborate comments pointing out specific phrases that the commenters had identified with. A common theme, however, seemed to be—

fangirl66: omg is this supposed to be “realistic”?? it’s like something out of my wildest dreams!

futuremrsgavin: hey @fine-and-dandy are u sure you don’t actually know Klav in real life? you got the character details spot-on from what I remember from my VIP Gavinners’ experience!

loveloveguilty: ooo the intrigue! what’s next for our protagonist? (and, the author…?)

crescendon’t: this is the best gavinners fic i’ve read in literal years

Apollo felt himself turning red—he hadn’t been expecting for anyone to actually like his work. He suddenly found himself reminded of why he used to do this to begin with—the feedback of other people on the internet was an excellent remedy for any perceived inadequacies, and was invaluable back in high school. It just felt good to know that out there, somebody had read something he’d made, and enjoyed it.

He sighed, and switched tabs on his laptop. Maybe he shouldn’t keep this up…but nobody knew who was behind the fanfic, and—who was he kidding, it was nice to be appreciated for once.

Apollo set his fingers to the keys once more, and began the follow-up to his “one-off” Gavinners’ fanfic.

It had been long enough since the incident outside the courthouse that you were beginning to think it had entirely been imaginary—after all, you hadn’t gotten a photo, or even an autograph.

But every so often, your mind wanders back to the wind blowing through your hair, the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, and you remember—three weeks ago, you’d made a fool of yourself bumping into Klavier Gavin, and he’d given you a ride home.

Here, Apollo paused. He didn’t, realistically, know what sorts of places Prosecutor Gavin frequented outside of work (despite the other man’s insistence that he should join him for dinner sometime, Apollo had never actually taken him up on the offer). And he wouldn’t want to write that in anyway—the last thing he intended was to unleash hordes of teen fangirls on the unsuspecting prosecutor at his favorite coffee shop.

How did Apollo usually run into Gavin? Well, that was straightforward enough—generally, somebody had been murdered.

—no, that wouldn’t do at all. First of all, he couldn’t write too much about the legal processes that were part of his daily life—client confidentiality was one concern, as was the fear that somebody would connect the legal situations in the fic with lawyers who regularly faced Gavin in court. And second, a crime scene wasn’t usually considered as the kind of place one would meet the supposed love of their life, despite what the prosecutor in question had written romantic songs about. But then…

Maybe the protagonist watched a trial from the gallery? That was plausible enough—they were open to the public, and case transcripts were part of the public record. Anyone could have access to those.

You find yourself a spectator at the courthouse, perched in the well-worn gallery seats, with the verdict just about to be announced. Throughout the trial, your eyes had hardly left Prosecutor Gavin’s eye-searingly purple jacket, watching the way the lights reflected off of his golden hair, and his rings sent glints of silver flashing through the courtroom every time he felt the need to air-guitar to prove a point. If it had been anyone else, you’re sure it would have looked ridiculous—but this was Klavier Gavin, and so it managed to come out looking cool.

The judge lifts his gavel, and the courtroom holds its breath. Will the verdict be…?

Apollo hesitated. Realistically, he didn’t think he’d had a trial against Gavin that the prosecutor hadn’t lost. But this was fiction, and besides…the guy probably deserved something good for once, didn’t he? Apollo recalled with a wince that two of his victories over the rockstar prosecutor had ended with the man’s brother and best friend taken into custody on suspicion of murder. Maybe this could be a…highly inadequate, anonymous means of making it up to him?

“Guilty!” calls the judge, slamming his gavel down. The courtroom erupted into murmurs and cheers, and you notice that Klavier has a glint in his eye. As if summoned by your observation, he glances up at the gallery, and his blue eyes widen as they meet yours.

Does he…remember? you wonder, before being swept away in the rush of people leaving their seats. You’re carried along in a rush of people, out of the courtroom, past the defendant lobby, past the vending machines, past the—

An arm reaches out and grasps your wrist, pulling you from the crowd and through the heavy wooden doors of the prosecution lobby. You don’t get a moment to wonder what’s happened, because just as you look up—

“Ah, it is you! Lovely Fraulein, I was wondering if you’d grace me with your presence at a trial!”

And, of course, it’s Klavier Gavin, in the flesh, looking flawless as ever despite the slight wrinkles in his jacket and the golden hairs escaping from his twisted ponytail. You flush red, but remember yourself and manage to uphold your end of the conversation:

“Well, I’m interested in law, you see, and—congratulations, by the way! A well-deserved victory—the defense never saw it coming.”

“An aspiring law student? It’s always lovely to hear from such multitalented fans—but, Fraulein,” and he puts his hands on his hips, leaning forward with a serious expression. “It is not about the winning and the losing in court, ja? The only thing that matters is that the truth comes out. The victor is inconsequential.”

You feel vaguely chastised, and look away in embarrassment. He seems to notice, and straightens again, patting the top of your head.

“Ah, but not to worry. It all turned out well in the end—and so what do you say to dinner? I am sure you must have many questions about the legal system, and I have many contacts with whom I can share your information if you intend to look into law schools.”

You find the tonal whiplash a bit jarring, but nod anyway—you would have to be a complete idiot to turn down dinner with your idol!

…as long as he paid, of course.

Apollo figured that he would leave it at that—he didn’t have any form of reference for what Gavin would be like to eat with, or even what food he liked. He supposed the cliffhanger was good for interest, anyway—although he still put up a token protest against wanting the fic to gain notoriety.

He posted the chapter, and did a double-take at the clock. Wonderful, he had work in…six hours? And had to be up well before that. He shoved the laptop aside with a groan, and fumbled around to set his alarm. Knowing his luck, he’d get a murder case to investigate tomorrow, on his abysmal amount of sleep.

“Pardon the bluntness, Herr Forehead, but you look terrible. Did you not sleep?”

Apollo cursed under his breath, and looked up from his examination of the blood splatters to meet the vaguely concerned gaze of the prosecutor who had been at the forefront of his mind for the past few days.

This was absolutely just his luck—not only did he have a murder suspect to defend, but of course Gavin would be the prosecutor assigned to the case. Honestly, Apollo thought that if he’d written this into his story, the readers would think it too contrived a coincidence.

“I’m fine, Prosecutor Gavin. Just had a few too many things to take care of to get very much rest. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.” That, at least, wasn’t too much of a lie.

Klavier frowned, like he wanted to comment further, but seemed to take the hint and dropped the subject.

“Well, we still can’t have you dozing off in the middle of the investigation, ja? Come, this way, there’s a coffee shop a few doors down that does excellent lattes.”

Apollo rolled his eyes. “I really don’t think we have the time—and anyway, I don’t get paid for another week.”

“Nein, you can’t give up that easily! I will pay, for both of our benefit. You will get coffee out of it, and I will get a defense attorney who will not make oversights in his investigation due to lack of sleep, ja?”

“Ja—I mean, yeah, okay, sure. You’ve convinced me.” In truth, Apollo was too tired to argue. So Klavier wanted to buy him coffee? Fine—he’d get some much-needed caffeine, and he may as well reap some sort of benefit from the constant meaningless flirting.

He was not, however, expecting the arm draped around his shoulders, guiding him gently but firmly away from the crime scene. Klavier led him to the doors of the shop that had (until last night) been a peaceful supplier of overpriced knickknacks, and turned onto the broad pavement. Apollo tried to squirm away from his grasp, but Klavier refused to release him.

“For your own safety, ja?” he said with a smile, and Apollo could have sworn he saw a glint in his eye. “Can’t have you walking into traffic because you’re too tired to look both ways.”

“You do realize that I’m just a little short on sleep, not...drunk or incapacitated, right?”

Klavier’s smile froze almost imperceptibly for just a second, before his bright, airy demeanor returned.

“There is a reason they tell you not to drive sleep-deprived, Forehead, and I would hate for you to become the latest casualty of an inattentive mind.” Apollo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. While his golden bracelet remained dormant on his wrist, he could swear that Klavier wasn’t telling him everything.

He was saved from having to press further, however, by the abrupt disentangling of Klavier’s arm from his shoulders as the prosecutor opened the door to a small coffee shop that Apollo had never before noticed, despite riding his bicycle down this street at least twice per day. As they entered, the smell of coffee washed over him, and Apollo closed his eyes in appreciation.

He promptly opened them again upon realizing that the action had caused him to sway on his feet.

Klavier laughed brightly, and let the door swing shut behind them. He pushed Apollo down into a seat, ignoring the shorter man’s protests, and headed to the counter to, presumably, order coffee for them both. Apollo took the opportunity of a brief reprieve to cradle his head in one hand, letting the ambient noise of the shop around him lull him into a calm state of—

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and the strong scent of coffee wafted under his nose. With a shout, Apollo’s eyes flew open, and he was greeted by the sight of a very amused Klavier Gavin holding two takeaway coffee cups and grinning like an idiot.

“What was that you said earlier about being “fine,” Herr Forehead?” he asked, barely holding back a laugh. In the morning light coming through the coffee shop window, his hair gleamed like fine strands of gold. Apollo scowled and grabbed the proffered coffee cup from Klavier’s outstretched hand.

“Maybe I’ll be more fine once I’ve had this,” he replied, and took a long drink. He’d been expecting some sort of basic Americano, or the house roast, and was surprised to find that the drink was, in fact, the best cappuccino he’d ever tasted. The smooth taste of the coffee lingered even after he’d swallowed his mouthful, and he quirked an eyebrow in Klavier’s direction. The prosecutor offered him a grin.

“Double-shout of espresso, I thought you might need the extra caffeine. And did you really think I was going to give you subpar coffee? Please, Herr Forehead, give me some credit.”

Apollo took another sip of his coffee, trying to balance his desire to down the whole thing in two seconds with his desire to savor the taste. “I didn’t say anything. But hey—thanks. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Ach, it was no trouble. As I said, I’d rather you be able to concentrate on the matter at hand—there is no challenge in besting an unprepared opponent.”

Klavier took a mouthful of his own drink, and extended a hand to Apollo, looking almost regretful. “But on that note, we do have a crime scene to get back to, do we not? Much as I would love to stay here and catch up over our respective excellent drinks, duty beckons! But,” he paused, and Apollo could swear that Klavier almost looked...nervous? “Perhaps some other time?”

Was he actually asking Apollo out on a coffee date? No, that couldn’t be right. Apollo forcefully shoved down the vague sense of hope that had bloomed in his chest and did his best to seem professional. There was no point in getting excited—Klavier definitely just wanted to catch up as colleagues, nothing more. Not that he wanted—

Apollo realized that he’d been standing, speechless, for perhaps a bit too long. A worried crease had appeared between Klavier’s eyebrows, and he hastily replied to the proposed question—“Yeah, that sounds...nice, there’s a lot of cases we should talk about, and coffee is...good.”

Klavier’s expression took on a bit of a wooden quality, but the flash of emotion was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Ah, yes, cases. Those are certainly made more bearable over coffee, ja?”

Apollo’s bracelet tightened infinitesimally against his wrist, and he was drawn out of the moment, concerned. Was everything...okay? Maybe there was an issue with some case Klavier was working on.

Remembering their original purpose, again Apollo finally took Klavier’s hand and rose from his chair. Goodbye, comfort, he thought, giving the plush armchair a longing look as Klavier once again pushed him in the direction of the door.

Their return to the crime scene was heralded with little acknowledgement, other than Ema Skye’s raised eyebrows in Apollo’s direction, followed by a skeptical glance towards Klavier. Apollo could almost imagine the scathing remarks she was trying to convey—“Really, Apollo? Him? When did you turn into a sixteen-year-old?”

He fired back a shrug and a grimace, receiving a deadpan stare and a disbelieving scowl in reply. Apollo couldn’t think of any response to that that wouldn’t entirely incriminate him—Ema clearly had her mind made up about what was going on.

Instead, he turned towards where Klavier was crouched next to the unfortunate victim of the crime, a shopkeeper who had, seemingly, been run through with one of his own products—a large, ornamental sword.

“Any info yet? Besides the obvious, that is.” Apollo eyed the sword. It had a large, red gem inset into the end of the hilt, and looked vaguely impractical to have been used as a piercing weapon—more suited to slashing, he thought.

...okay, maybe Apollo had done a lot of research on swords for some of his old high-school fanfics. So what? It came in handy!

Klavier was, thankfully, not privy to Apollo’s internal sword musings.

“Ja, this is—or was—Beau Tique. He was 44, and had opened the shop two years ago. They specialized in slightly esoteric home décor—including our murder weapon here.” He placed a hand on Apollo’s shoulder, leaning closer, so that his breath tickled the shell of Apollo’s ear.

“But, between you and me, I don’t think that’s all that’s going on here. You see the sword? It certainly seems like it caused his death—but it would take a lot of force to run somebody through with that—and, as I’m sure you’re aware, our accused suspect—the only one on camera entering and leaving the shop at the time of the murder—is the owner’s 17-year-old daughter.”

Apollo shivered, both at the proximity and at the insinuation that this was going to be yet another needlessly complex case. “So what you’re saying is...either somebody else did it, or the sword isn’t the real murder weapon?”

“Ja. Or both, perhaps. But that’s all you’re getting out of me, schatzi. Can’t have any rumors getting out of the prosecution consorting with the defense.” Klavier winked, and Apollo spluttered.

“Wha—but—you offered the information!”

Klavier only smirked, and stood up, wandering over towards the shop’s entrance to consult with one of the officers standing there. Apollo made a valiant effort to keep himself from staring at the man’s figure, silhouetted against the brightness of the window, light glinting erratically off of the silver rings adorning his fingers as he gesticulated around the room.

Ugh! He wasn’t going to fall for this! No matter how Klavier acted, it was all part of his character—a performance, that was all. And Apollo definitely didn’t want it to be anything different—right?

Right?

...oh, shit.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

Apollo paced back and forth in the empty office, his worn dress shoes tracing new tracks on the even-more-worn carpet. He’d concluded his investigation of the crime scene as quickly as he could, and shook off Klavier’s offer of a ride when he had moved to leave with a semi-frantic declaration that he was allergic to motorcycle oil (which...probably wasn’t convincing, but seemed to confuse Klavier for long enough to let Apollo slip away). He didn’t think he could have stood to be in the former rockstar’s presence for a moment longer, not when…

When…

With a groan of frustration, Apollo sank into the ancient sofa cushions and buried his face in his hands.

This wasn’t fair! He was supposed to be immune to the flirting, having recognized it for what it was—part of a persona, nothing more. What worked on masses of teenage fangirls wasn’t supposed to have any effect on him, and yet…

And yet.

But it wasn’t the flirting, not really. Apollo was sure that if it was just Klavier’s smooth remarks, his unnecessary physical contact, his offers of drinks and dinners, he wouldn’t have been in his current situation. Even all that paired with the man’s unfairly good looks wouldn’t have done it.

No, Apollo thought. In the end, his unfortunate feelings were down to who Klavier was beneath all that. Even today, Apollo could tell that the impromptu coffee excursion was down to his dedication to making sure the truth behind every case was found, and that he could be sure that, in the end, the verdict was a just one.

And wasn’t that just ironic—in order to maintain his ideals, Klavier had had to help Apollo, maintain a professional demeanor, while the truth that the two of them unraveled had implicated first his best friend, then his brother (for a second time!) in murder and conspiracy.

No wonder he’d been so worried earlier—why he’d been so concerned that something would happen to Apollo. He was forced to wonder—how many friendly faces did Klavier have left to lose?

But, of course, Apollo’s feelings, his emotions, his Big Gay Crush on Klavier Gavin (because, let’s not mince words and split hairs, that’s what this was), weren’t out of pity. Apollo had seen Klavier at his lowest, but he had also seen the way the man hadn’t let that break him, had dug his heels in and held his head high, had disbanded his band and distanced himself from his brother’s legacy, and thrown himself into his prosecuting and made a name for himself on that basis as well. As much as the weight of his personal tragedies could have broken him, Klavier had managed to succeed regardless, and come out the other side as his own person, still.

And, despite Klavier still being the most ridiculous person Apollo had ever met, nobody could deny that, in everything he did, he really cared.

Apollo had never stood a chance.

He sighed and flopped sideways on the couch, slipping his phone from his pocket and swiping through his email notifications, finding that he’d gotten yet another slew of comments on his stupid fanfiction. The messages served as a stark reminder—no matter how deep and complicated Apollo’s feelings for Klavier were, it didn’t change the fact that Klavier himself definitely didn’t hold any deeper intent in his daily flirting. Wasn’t that the entire point of Apollo’s little side-hobby of writing? No, his feelings had to be one-sided—no matter how much the revelation was anticipated, it still made Apollo’s chest ache.

A link in one of the comments caught his attention—what was happening? What were people even talking about in the comments of his writing? Tapping on the email, he read the whole comment:

Xx_legal_shenanigavins_xX: omg have any of you seen this post about how the author of this fic might actually know KlavGav IRL? http://www.G4vinnersoffic1al.tumblr.com/post/SO-by-this-point-everyones I wasn’t convinced at first but they’ve got some good points! (and hey, author, if you’re reading this—just ask him out already!)

Apollo flushed at the parenthetical comment, and then shook himself. He glanced around the office to confirm that he was alone—Trucy had a habit of sneaking in without making a sound—steeled himself, and clicked on the link.

At the length of the post, his face paled, and he considered exiting the page, pretending he’d never heard of the theory, and deleting his browser history.

But curiosity got the better of him, and so Apollo read through the extensively-detailed Tumblr post and its replies:

With shaky hands, Apollo closed the app, and locked his phone for good measure. This was it. They’d gotten him. The ruse was over—even if they didn’t know exactly that the mystery author was him, he was sure they’d find out soon enough.

A shadow fell across his vision, and Apollo jumped as he realized that, once again, Trucy Wright had managed to sneak up on him.

“Hey Polly! What’cha looking at on your phone? You didn’t seem very happy about it, whatever it was.”

Apollo held a hand to his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. Working in this office, he was sure that the impromptu jumpscares would give him a heart attack before he was thirty.

“It wasn’t anything—important, really. Just—boring legal stuff! Nothing to worry about.”

Trucy narrowed her eyes, and Apollo remembered, several seconds too late, that she shared his ability to be uncannily aware about when people were lying.

Luckily, she didn’t come out and call him on the untruth, instead going for a more “concerned mentor” approach. Apollo tried not to feel too patronized to.

“You know that you shouldn’t just worry about stuff all alone, right? Come on, what’s up? At least, the general outline. Let me give you Life Advice!”

“Again, I’m seven years older than you—if anything, I should be giving you life advice.”

Trucy frowned. “What’s seven extra years if you haven’t even lived in the extra time you’ve had? C’mon, Polly, I’ve seen librarians with more of a social life than you have!”

“My social life is plenty exciting, thank you very much! Don’t insult the librarians like that. But okay, fine. Give me a second—I have to think of how to phrase this.”

Trucy grinned triumphantly, and Apollo spent a minute lost in thought, pensively running his fingertips along the edge of his bracelet. Finally, he spoke up.

“Okay. So, let’s say, hypothetically...that someone was trying to prove a point to a group of people, but the people instead started to think that this person was wrong about the point they were trying to prove?” He exhaled sharply, frustrated. “Hang on, that doesn’t make sense, does it? What I’m trying to say is—”

“No, don’t worry about it! I think I get it.” Trucy smiled brightly.

“You...do?” Apollo was skeptical.

“Yeah! You think that these people are misinterpreting your argument, but at the same time you’re worried that they might have a point in the way they’re portraying things. But, Apollo,” she paused and looked him right in the eye. “When has that ever stopped you? Isn’t arguing back and forth literally your entire job?”

Apollo felt, vaguely, as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “Trucy...when did you get so good at advice?”

The teenage magician in question grinned, her sunny expression revealing nothing.

“You know I can’t reveal my secrets, Polly! Besides, all I’m saying is that you can’t let one setback stop you from participating in the discussion. C’mon—I’m sure you’ve got some brilliant piece of evidence to turn the whole situation around!”

“I’m...not so sure about that part. But you’re right—this isn’t any worse than what I’ve faced before—and I guess if I lose this argument, at least nobody’s getting a prison sentence.”

(Though losing the argument probably wasn’t anything he had to worry about—that would require the rabid army of Gavinners’ fangirls to be right about Klavier having feelings for him, and while Apollo had begrudgingly accepted that his dumb crush was going nowhere fast, he refused to consider that his feelings could be returned—no matter what the Tumblr posts said, Apollo was certain that Klavier was, indeed, just Like That with everyone)

“That’s the spirit!” Trucy clapped a hand on Apollo’s shoulder in a move eerily reminiscent of Mr Wright. “Go on, Polly, go out and win your debate! What are you still doing here?”

“I do still have an actual job to do, you know.”

“Eh, it’s just a murder trial, those have got to be routine by now, right?”

Many hours later, after the requisite paperwork for the next day’s trial had been submitted and the evidence reviewed (and Apollo really needed to start going to sleep earlier, this was becoming a habit), the next installment in “A Realistic Encounter With Klavier Gavin” was beginning to take shape.

Apollo had decided to go all-out—if he had to prove to a horde of anonymous internet users that Klavier wasn’t in love with him, he may as well pull out all the stops. At the end of this, nobody would be able to argue that Apollo had any chance with the Rockstar Prosecutor!

...Wait, hang on, that was a depressing thought. Why did he want that, again?

Ugh. Clearly the late hour was getting to him. Apollo rolled his eyes and scrolled back up to the top of his open Word document, reviewing what he’d written so far:

You find yourself, improbably, at a restaurant that’s out of your price range while not being the sort of establishment that has six separate sets of utensils per place setting. At first, this surprised you—wasn’t part of the rockstar image going out to ultra-fancy establishments? But when you’d raised the question outside the restaurant, Klavier had thrown you a sunny smile and indicated that, while he enjoyed pricey food for its good quality, he wasn’t planning on subjecting you to the inevitable media attention that going to such a place would attract.

You are, honestly, surprised at his thoughtfulness.

So; dinner. He orders something you can’t pronounce, and you stick with a classic favorite. You hope he isn’t judging you too much, but a glance across the table reveals no disdain in his sky-blue eyes.

He’s the first to break the silence as you wait for your meals:

Apollo’s wandering hands found a pen on his desk and he began to chew on the end of it. What would his hypothetical protagonist even talk about on their not-a-date with Klavier? And, moreover, what topic of conversation would make it clear to an audience that the outing was, indeed, Not A Date? He began to wish he’d actually taken Klavier up on some of his offers to dine with him—at least then he’d be able to talk from experience, rather than making something up.

After all, wasn’t the point of this exercise, ultimately, to argue that Klavier was definitely not interested in dating him, Apollo Justice, and that his interactions with the man were just the same as what they’d be if he wasn’t the driving force behind all the worst moments of Klavier’s life in the past few months?

He shook his head and reached for the glass of water that sat next to his laptop. Most of his conversations with Klavier revolved around the law—and specific cases they were working on. Even when they didn’t have any cases in common, Klavier would often stop him in the courthouse hallways to ask his opinion on a witness’s testimony, or a piece of evidence that seemed just a little too convenient.

Hadn’t he written that the protagonist of these...pieces of writing...was interested in law? Maybe he wouldn’t have to entirely invent their conversational topics, then.

“So, [Y/N], what branch of law do you think you might pursue?”

You swirl the ice in your glass of water as you contemplate the answer.

“I’m not entirely sure—you certainly make prosecution look cool, but I’ve always been interested in protecting innocent defendants from false charges, so I might lean towards defense.”

(Apollo couldn’t help it—he saw a chance to promote his line of work, and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to take it)

“Ah, a future defense attorney! Perhaps we shall stand across from each other in court someday, ja?”

Klavier’s smile from the other side of the table is blindingly bright, and you feel surprised at his lack of animosity towards a potential future rival, a thought which you voice:

“Wouldn’t that make us opponents in our pursuit of justice?”

“Nein, Fraulein—a courtroom is not a battle. Think of it more as a concert, ja? The prosecution, defense, judge, and witnesses are all part of a specific harmony in pursuit of the truth—without all the parts, the song would be incomplete. Likewise, no one part takes precedent over another—they all come together to make the music.”

Apollo considered how oddly easily he’d been able to come up with that musical analogy—maybe he could stand to pay less attention when Klavier started to wax poetic about the law and music.

You consider his analogy for a moment, trying to fit it in with the attitudes of the other prosecutors you’ve seen on old trial recordings. Klavier catches sight of your expression, and something in the way you’re studying the tablecloth must have given you away.

“I realize that not all of my co-workers hold the same view as I do, but I believe that’s more of a detriment to them than me. I know all too well how it feels to be certain of the outcome going into a trial, and to then have the entire argument flipped on its head.”

You watch him fiddling with the ends of his hair, and decide, tactfully, not to ask him to elaborate on that point.

Before you can continue the conversation, your food arrives.

Before Apollo has to think up more conversational topics, is more like it, but he did sign up for this. Or just about, at least.

Klavier eats with a surprisingly refined table manner, his knife and fork dividing his meal into tidy mouthfuls. In your own hands, the utensils seem somewhat clumsy by comparison, and you chalk the information up as yet another mystery about the former rockstar.

(Apollo had noticed, one day, as he and Klavier had been forced to take a quick lunch break in the midst of an otherwise-hectic trial, that the prosecutor’s manner of eating was eerily reminiscent of his brother’s. Which made sense, considering that he’d mentioned that their parents had been the kinds of people who policed their children’s table manners, but that never ceased to strike Apollo as incongruous with the typically affected carelessness of every other aspect of Klavier’s persona)

As your meal comes to a close, you start worrying again—you’d joked earlier about how you expected Klavier to pick up the check, but maybe he would still expect you to pay for your own food? But as the waitress places the booklet down on the table, he slides a purple credit card out of a wallet that has no business being able to fit into the pocket on his unnecessarily-tight work pants, and sticks it in the fold of the faux-leather without even looking at the receipt.

“Thank you,” you say, sincerely. He gives you a wink and a grin in response.

“Think nothing of it—it’s my pleasure to invest in the future of our legal system—even if only by making sure one of our future attorneys gets a nice meal every so often.”

You blush, wondering how he could have known about your typical diet of instant noodles and frozen pizza. Then again, he did have to go to law school at some point, right?

“So, remind me which part of town we’re in, again…?” you inquire as you walk out of the restaurant, trying to get your bearings. You’d taken a taxi to get here, but didn’t know if you had enough cash on you to cover a fare back home—and even if you did, you’d been planning on using the coins for your laundry, later tonight.

“No need, Fraulein,” Klavier says, and guides you towards his ostentatious motorcycle again. “I brought a spare helmet just in case.”

You’re not particularly thrilled about the prospect, but you take the helmet he offers anyway and settle in behind him, cursing the fact that this is Klavier Gavin’s preferred means of transport.

As the wind whips around you both, you dwell on the evening’s events—maybe, just maybe, you’re becoming something like friends with the prosecutor?

After all, despite the false flirting and attention-grabbing outfits, he’s pretty friendly.”

Apollo wasn’t entirely happy with his writing, but it was nearing 3AM and he did have a court case in the morning. He scanned over the text again—confirming that yes, he had written what he’d count as a friendly outing with his court rival. It wasn’t too dissimilar from his odd diversion to the coffee shop near the crime scene earlier that day—and wasn’t that a strange thought, that it was only that morning that Klavier had dragged him away from his investigation because he was worried that Apollo wouldn’t be able to function on as little sleep as he’d gotten. Nonetheless, Apollo was sure that the entire interaction could be written off as friendly concern.

...okay, fine, he wasn’t sure, but he had to at least pretend if he wanted to have even a ghost of a chance of winning this argument against half the Internet.

He copy-pasted the work into the “new chapter” box on the fanfiction website, decided against adding an author’s note so as to not further incriminate himself, clicked “post,” and slammed the laptop shut, resolving to not look at the reactions until well after he’d gotten his client for the next day’s trial declared solidly not guilty.

Of course, his vow lasted only until about 7:30 AM before he cracked and opened his email. So what, he was curious—sue him.

(Or don’t—you’d probably lose.)

But anyway, Apollo checked his email. He was a little more prepared, this time, for the influx of notifications. He hoped that he’d quashed the fangirls’ theories—surely they couldn’t deny that the “hypothetical” scenario he’d written about (hypothetical only in the sense that it hadn’t happened to him yet) was just a friendly, platonic interaction between two people with similar career trajectories.

...it seemed as though the Internet was out to disprove him utterly.

Comment from cavaliergavinners: so, this just proves everything everyone’s been saying, right? OP, are you really that oblivious?

Comment from totallyklaviergavin: this is sooooo cute I can’t even. you really captured klavi’s dorky law side!! the date was so soft and sweet

Comment from 13yrshardtimeforguiltylove: came here from @G4vinnersoffic1al’s updated tumblr post as soon as I heard and boy was I not disappointed! Hey @fine-and-dandy, pal, friend, buddy, you should just accept that your destiny is apparently to date Klav Gav. The lady(?) doth protest too much.

Apollo felt light-headed. The plan hadn’t worked at all! Not only had he failed to convince the Gavinners’ fanbase of his entirely platonic relationship with their idol, now they were giving him love advice?

Remembering the Tumblr post from the other day, he opened up the accursed website and searched for the blog that had been mentioned in one of the comments on the fic. It didn’t take too long to find—the autocomplete pointed him in the right direction after he’d typed the first three letters. That probably wasn’t a good sign.

After the blog loaded, Apollo found that his worries were correct: waiting for him was an intimidating wall of text, all focused, once again, on analyzing his writing.

Apollo threw his phone down onto the mattress beside him and buried his head in a pillow. This was it. He was done for. He’d poked the hornets’ nest, and this was his punishment.

How was he even supposed to go out in public again? Use the Internet at all? He didn’t have very many public social media profiles, but the ones he did have were work-related—how was he supposed to be taken seriously as a Professional Lawyer if his twitter was being constantly spammed by boyband fans demanding that he either date Klavier or stay the hell away from him?

(He was sure he’d encounter some of the latter kind of comments sooner or later—just because he hadn’t yet didn’t mean they weren’t out there)

Apollo let out a muffled scream into his pillow, and contemplated the merits of lying in bed until he melded with the mattress.

The beeping of his cell phone alarm shook him out of his stupor—shit, he had a court case! He couldn’t just hide away all day, as much as he desperately wanted to—there was somebody relying on him to provide them with his best defense, and, personal feelings and embarrassment aside, his responsibility to defending innocents in court would always come before anything else.

Even if, he realized slowly, that would mean facing Klavier across the courtroom, after he’d been found out as the author of several chapters of fanfiction written about the man.

The trial goes strangely smoothly, all things considered.

While at first, it had been a little awkward, what with the knowing looks from his co-counsel (and Apollo was going to fight Trucy, if he got through this without dying of embarrassment—she definitely knew what was going on the entire time and still let him continue! She encouraged him! He should have known better, really), once he and Klavier settled into their typical back-and-forth, everything was back to normal—or at least, as normal as things could have been, for one of Apollo’s trials.

The most unusual thing, it turned out, was the fact that it was over after only a few hours, the gavel swinging down as the defendant was declared Not Guilty, and leaving Apollo at loose ends for what he was supposed to be doing for the rest of the day.

His indecision was, however, resolved when the doors to the defense lobby swung open, and Klavier Gavin strode in, seemingly searching for someone. When his eyes met Apollo’s, he smiled in that very specific manner that usually seemed to precede some sort of flirtatious comment.

Apollo realized, suddenly, that Trucy had abandoned him, leaving him all alone to face the one person he’d been hoping to avoid outside of the courtroom today. Traitor.

Klavier came to a stop in front of him, and Apollo tried to look as though he wasn’t desperately considering whether jumping out the window would be worth the broken bones.

“Herr Forehead! Congratulations on the win today—I suppose I shall have to hold out hope that next time, the police will arrest the correct suspect, and leave me the victor for once, hmm?” He leaned closer, and Apollo’s breath caught in his throat.

“W-well, it was just, y’know, me doing my job, I guess. Like you said in there, it’s the truth that counts, right?” Apollo cursed his stuttering voice, and the fact that Klavier’s proximity to him was clearly frying his brain cells. Could he sue him for that? He really thought that should be a sue-able offense.

“Ja, the truth is the most important thing. Which is why I thought you might be able to help me with uncovering the truth behind some unfortunate rumors that have been circulating recently, in fact.”

Oh god, he knows. He totally knows. Apollo decided that playing dumb was his only course of action, here. “Rumors? I haven’t heard anything—what are people saying? And furthermore,” he continued, remembering a detail from a conversation they’d had a few weeks back, “don’t you usually just ignore them?”

Klavier smiled, but it was practiced, false. “Usually, I do, ja. But in this case, the rumors seem to attack my character—portraying me as a terrible flirt, with no genuine feelings behind my words.”

“You are a terrible flirt, though. That can’t be everything.”

The prosecutor put a hand to his heart in an over-exaggerated dramatic gesture. “Why, Herr Forehead, you wound me! Though—I suppose there is some truth in the allegation. I do have somewhat of a...reputation. But, that is not to say that I cannot also be genuine with my affections. There is a difference, you know, between a flirtatious persona and occasions when I actually...mean...what I say.”

Apollo looked at him quizzically. “Well, yeah. Of course I know that. You’re like, a completely different person when you’re not trying to impress your fans.” His emphasis on the last word contained more than a hint of disdain, his frustrations from the past few days coloring his speech.

Klavier seemed puzzled. “See, you do know the difference. I was worried that—well, I suppose—”

“Spit it out, Gavin, I don’t have all day.” Apollo was beginning to get frustrated by Klavier’s deliberate dancing around the topic of the fanfiction. Would the man not just do him the courtesy of admitting that he knew about it—and, by extension, knew about the Gavinners’ fandom’s (admittedly, correct) deductions of his feelings?

“Last-name basis? Ach, Herr Forehead—you and your impatience! Fine—what I was trying to say was that, despite what some of my fans may think, I am capable of genuine affection—which probably means that I’m lucky that the object of my affection is emphatically not a fan of my music.”

Apollo wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. “Hang on, what?”

Klavier winced. “Apollo...you cannot tell me that you haven’t yet noticed my feelings for you?”

Blood pounded in Apollo’s ears. The defense lobby seemed to spin around him. “Hang on—what?”

A hand clasped his upper arm—Klavier, anchoring him in reality. The taller man smiled, weakly—nervous, if Apollo had to put a name to it. The expression looked out-of-place on his face, as confident as he usually was in everything he did. “Apollo, you are the most oblivious, loud, wonderful man I have ever met.”

Apollo couldn’t form words. His mind was too caught up in thoughts—of what and how and why me? It felt as if he was trapped in some sort of dream, as though he had slipped and hit his head and been propelled into some wild fantasy based heavily in all the regrettable Gavinners’ fanfiction Trucy had sent him.

Klavier, sensing how overwhelmed he was, continued speaking.

“So, will you consider getting dinner with me? As a date? Romantically? I figured I should perhaps be as clear as possible, as anything more subtle seems to go over your head entirely.”

Apollo’s voice returned, in time for him to croak out “But...me? Really?” at a volume that was nowhere near his usual. Clay would have been ashamed of him, were he there to hear it.

Klavier frowned. “Do you not actually believe me?”

“You could have anyone, though. There’s people out there who would probably commit a crime just for a chance of having you prosecute their case.”

Klavier’s expression softened, and Apollo cursed how it made him look, somehow, more attractive than usual.

“I suppose...but out of everyone, I want you. And you still haven’t answered my question, Apollo. Dinner?”

Apollo blushed. “Uh. Well. Yes?” He cursed softly under his breath. Really? Klavier asks him out and all he can do is respond with a question? “I mean—yes. Definitely. Because I, uh, also have feelings for you. Romantically.”

His response caused Klavier’s eyes to light up, and his face to break into a stunning smile, entirely genuine, and a little lopsided. A true smile, not something he’d come up with to appease the paparazzi and celebrity photographers.

“That’s quite the relief—I was beginning to think you might accept out of pity.”

As overwhelmed as he still was, Apollo found the presence of mind to scoff. “In your dreams! If I really didn’t have the world’s biggest crush on you, I definitely wouldn’t just go out to dinner with you because I felt sorry for you! Although…” he laughed, breathless. “I’m still not quite sure this is actually happening. I mean, how can I be sure this isn’t some crazy dream?”

Klavier smirked, a hint of that familiar flirtatious attitude showing in the way his eyes twinkled. “I could prove it to you, if you’d like?”

Apollo rolled his eyes. This, he was accustomed to. “Are you trying to ask if you’re allowed to kiss me?”

“Well, I know I certainly have no objections to the idea.”

He groaned. “That was awful. I should refuse to even entertain the thought of kissing you just on principle for using such a terrible joke.”

“But…?”

Apollo sighed, trying to disguise the way his chest felt full to bursting with more emotion than he thought he’d ever experienced. “But...I guess it would at least be a good way to shut you up.”

They certainly didn’t do much talking for the next several minutes, once Apollo had thrown an arm around Klavier’s neck and pulled him down to meet his lips, kissing him with all the enthusiasm he had been restraining for the past few days, weeks, months since he’d realized, however begrudgingly, that he might not be entirely as aggravated by Klavier’s existence the way he pretended to be.

And, distracted as Apollo was, he still couldn’t help but overhear the muffled cheering coming from the direction of the door, where he would put money on the fact that a certain teenage magician with far too much time on her hands had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

A few days after the trial of State v. Tique, a final update was posted to a fic which had been recently considered the most popular in the Gavinners’ fandom:

A Realistic Encounter With Klavier Gavin: Chapter Four

You find yourself in a situation many would have dreamed of, and don’t quite know how to react. Your assumptions had been proven wrong, it seems—certain rockstars don’t actually engage exclusively in meaningless flirting. Just occasionally, it seems that it can be quite meaningful indeed—and in those cases, one might be forgiven for thinking otherwise in the past.

After all, somebody’s got to end up dating the famous prosecutor, right?

Comments:

legallyapiano: somebody will perhaps not be dating the famous prosecutor for very long if they don’t stop writing melodramatic fanfiction chapters and come help me with breakfast.