As Apollo opens up the shutters to his little office, he sees a letter on his doormat addressed in the neat cursive that he’s come to know over these past seven months as belonging to Miles Edgeworth. He smiles, picking up the envelope and taking a seat at his desk, where he logs onto his work laptop and opens the mail, noticing that it’s written on the new embossed stationery paper that he bought as a congratulations to the happy couple, and as a thank you for employing him for his wedding planning services.
Dear Mr. Justice,
Phoenix and I wanted to express our most sincere thanks for your services in the lead-up to our wedding. As of writing this letter, we are currently on our honeymoon, enjoying a moment’s brief bliss as the epilogue to the stress of wedding planning —however, without your thorough assistance, I doubt that things would have gone quite as smoothly.
Thank you once again for the wonderful gift. We will be recommending your services to any and all of our friends who wish, too, for their weddings to be everything they have ever dreamed of.
Warm regards,
Miles Edgeworth-Wright
Apollo files the letter in his drawer dedicated to happy couples; every time he receives a letter of thanks, it reminds him exactly why he went into this career in the first place. It certainly wasn’t because of the thankless hours, or the uncertain salary, but for the simple fact that—as much as he would vehemently deny this to anyone who questioned it—Apollo Justice loves love. He fixes the roses on his desk, straightening up his stationery and opening the window behind him to let the fresh, spring air fill the room.
The Edgeworth-Wright wedding had been his priority for seven months, and he was paid handsomely for his services, and now that it’s over and done with, he finds himself with more free time than he’s used to. It isn’t that he struggles for clientele, it’s just that his services are very personal and involved; he likes to really get to know the couple so that he can help make their day as wonderful as it deserves to be, which often means working late hours and spending his free time researching exactly the right florists and caterers.
He’s in luck, though. Only two hours into his office workday, the little silver bell above his door chimes, and a couple walk in, hand in hand. One of the men looks less like husband-material and more like he’s stepped straight off the set of an Axe body spray commercial, with his strangely styled pompadour and leather jacket, but the other looks—well, Apollo tries not to make a point of commenting on the attractiveness of his clients, but this man is undeniably handsome. And dressed for the occasion, no less, in a casual suit, with his blonde hair in a twist over his shoulder.
“This is the Justice Wedding Planning Offices, ja?” His accent is slightly German, and his voice is soft with a musical, almost songbird-like lilt.
“Indeed it is,” Apollo replies. “Would you like to take a seat?”
“Nah, we have plenty of chairs at home,” the other man laughs, and Apollo forces a smile and a short exhale.
“Daryan,” the other man says. “I’m sure he’s heard all your jokes before. Remember what we said about being serious?”
“Ah, man,” Daryan responds. “Lighten up, Klavier. We’re getting married.”
At this statement, Klavier’s face softens, and he holds Daryan’s arm, looking at him with bright eyes and a smile on his face that betrays the fact that he’s drunk with love. Apollo has seen it all before, but this is the first time it makes him uneasy.
They sit opposite Apollo, and Klavier reaches his hand out for Apollo to shake.
“I’m Klavier Gavin and this is my fiancé, Daryan Crescend.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Apollo says. “You’ve come to the right place.”
“Ach, I’m so glad. The GPS took us all over town, I was worried we would never find you! You see, you come highly recommended by one of my friends, and I’m sure you can understand why we need our wedding to be perfect.”
“Oh, naturally,” Apollo replies. “It’s the happiest day of your lives, after all.”
“He ain’t talking about that,” Daryan says. “It’s just gonna be, like, heavily televised.”
“Televised?”
“You really don’t know who we are?” Klavier questions, to which Apollo shakes his head. “Klavier Gavin? The Gavinners? Ring any bells?”
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t. I’m not very… caught up on what’s trending at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Ach, you’re refreshing. We’re very famous, you see. So this wedding has to be perfect, or it’ll be morning news before we’ve even set off on our honeymoon.”
“Well, you can leave that in my capable hands. Shall we start immediately? We can draft up a contract and discuss what kind of ideas you’re looking for.”
It only takes Apollo a moment on autopilot to draft up a contract in which they agree to payment for his services, which means that the boring part (but, importantly, the part that pays his bills) is out of the way, and he can start on the rest of it—the bits that he genuinely enjoys.
“I’d like to get to know a little about you both, first, if that’s okay? That way, I can get a clearer picture in my head of how your wedding is going to best represent you as both individuals and as a couple. Would you be alright with me asking you a couple of questions?”
“Sure,” Daryan says. “As long as it’s not, like, a test or an exam or nothing.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just an opportunity to talk about the person you love, which I think is a wonderful thing.”
Apollo notices the very slight shift of Klavier’s eyes, taking in Apollo’s appearance, stopping to linger for a moment on his bare ring finger.
“Right,” Apollo says. “Klavier, what’s Daryan’s favourite colour?”
“Dark blue. Sort of like midnight, but on those kinds of nights where all the stars are out, a really deep blue with silver accents.”
Daryan nods. “Yeah, that’s the one, Klav.”
“And you?” Apollo turns to Daryan. “What about Klavier?”
“Purple, I think?”
“R-Right,” Apollo continues. “How did you two meet?”
“Band stuff,” Daryan says.
“We met in high school,” Klavier finishes for him. “And that’s when we started the band; it was just the two of us at first, but we branched out in college and found our full lineup. With touring and everything, we pretty much spend days on end together.”
The conversation doesn’t lull per se, but Daryan’s answers are just as monotonous, and Klavier has to fill in a lot of the details that he doesn’t give—they’ve just come back off a world tour, on the final night of which, Daryan got on one knee on stage and proposed to Klavier in front of the audience; Klavier wants something that toes a fine line between their brand as a band and the sophistication of a white wedding, whereas Daryan seems not to mind as long as there’s an open bar and plenty of cameras; Daryan wants a summer wedding, but Klavier wants to get married in winter. Dutifully, Apollo notes everything they say down in a fresh notebook, and makes a telephone appointment with them for next week once he’s compiled a list of potential venues that will work for the autumn date they finally agreed on.
Once he closes up his office for the day, he hangs around for an hour, researching vendors and venues. Eventually, he finds himself with the Wikipedia page for The Gavinners open, scrolling through the sections on the formation of the band that comply with everything Klavier had told him; out of complete, unprofessional curiosity, he clicks on the link that takes him to Klavier’s personal Wikipedia page.
There’s the usual section on his personal life, through which Apollo learns that he was born in LA but spent most of his early childhood in Germany, that he’s openly bisexual, and that he cites his personal influences for learning guitar as Naoko Yamano and Kurt Cobain. It paints a very clinical picture of Klavier Gavin’s life, and Apollo almost clicks away, before a section titled Controversy catches his eye.
Controversy? What kind of controversy?
He shouldn’t look—really, he’s not here to pry, nor is he going to suddenly become some kind of Klavier Gavin fanboy, but this is public information, it’s not like he’s exactly breaking any kind of confidentiality simply by looking.
Opening the section, he begins to read.
Klavier Gavin fell under public scrutiny in April of 2026 when his brother, Kristoph Gavin, was arrested for the murder of Zak Gramarye. Some news publications [citation needed] speculated upon Klavier’s prior knowledge of Kristoph’s actions.
That’s it. The rest has been either redacted or edited out for not being objective. So, Apollo thinks, it’s not so much controversy as it is that Klavier Gavin has an asshole brother and the media is being a dick about it.
Still, he feels like he shouldn’t have looked. He doesn’t understand how celebrities do it—how they allow their personal lives, their hopes and fears and everything that hurts them—to be a matter of public opinion; and to do all of that with a smile? While you have a fiancé who can barely remember your favourite colour?
It must be hard.
The next time he sees Klavier in person, he’s no different than he was last time. It’s been just under two weeks since he first walked into his office, and now he and Apollo are standing outside one of Apollo’s favourite (and most trusted) florists' shops, waiting for Daryan, who’s running five minutes late.
“He’s never been very good with timing things,” Klavier laughs. “He misses cues all the time when we’re practicing. I’m sorry about him.”
“It’s fine,” Apollo replies. “I don’t have any other commitments today, and I’m sure the florist will still see us if we’re a little late for our appointment. What do you think of the ideas we talked about?”
“The flowers you sent me photos of are beautiful, I hope the florist can do them.”
“The galaxy blue dendrobium orchids?”
“Is that what they were called? I forgot the name,” Klavier smiles. “But I really like them. It’s like you got it completely, you know? The purple fading into blue is such a pretty complimentary style.”
“I thought it matched both of your favourite colours quite well. I’m glad you think so, too.”
Klavier looks at him for a moment, his eyes wide and searching for something across Apollo’s face. “And what’s your favourite colour?”
“Red.”
“Makes sense. The roses on your desk were very nice to look at. Sort of a classic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Apollo says. “But that’s not why I like red.”
“Oh? Why do you like red?”
“It’s bold. And it’s sort of, well, I love the idea of love, and I think—”
He never gets to finish that thought, because Daryan rounds the corner and puts his arm around Klavier, flashing a smile and a peace sign to the paparazzi he’s brought with him. Apollo brushes off his waistcoat and greets him professionally, before he pushes open the door to the florist and locks it behind him so that the cameras won’t be too intrusive.
The florist has already made up some arrangements according to Apollo’s instructions; they’re all a combination of blue and purple, but Klavier was right—the dendrobium orchids are the most impressive of all the bouquets on display.
Daryan mutters something about them all being nice, but Klavier’s comments are more nuanced and intricate. He asks the florist questions about whether they could incorporate elements of multiple bouquets into one, and he touches the petals of the flowers so gently, like he understands that they’re alive and wants to treat them as such, with a soft kind of care.
“Daryan,” he says. “What do you think? If we put these—oh, what were they called again, Herr Justice?”
“Dendrobium orchids,” Apollo supplies.
“Ja, those. If we put a few of the gypsophila with those, it could be a really nice way to accent the colours, don’t you think?”
“Klav, if it makes you happy, it’s good enough for me,” Daryan says. He glances at the paparazzi outside, then puts his hand on Klavier’s back and kisses him in full view of the windows.
Apollo makes idle conversation with the florist, while the air is punctuated by Daryan’s wet kissing sounds and Klavier’s gentle hum of appreciation. Once the sickening show is over, and the cameras are satisfied, they pull apart and Daryan leans against the counter; he slides his hand into Klavier’s jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet, tossing it to the florist.
“Put it all on there, doll,” he says. “We’ll take the ones Klav likes.”
Daryan steps outside to answer some of the paparazzi’s questions, while Klavier hangs back a little, occasionally tossing them a wave through the windows from inside the shop.
“You have lovely taste,” Klavier says. “I’m glad we chose you as our wedding planner.”
“It’s my job. I’m happy I can help.”
“It’s a big thing, isn’t it? A wedding?”
“Yeah,” Apollo says. “Even little intimate affairs have so much to sort out, I can’t imagine the stress that you’re under, what with having a celebrity wedding and all.”
“Can I tell you something? Honestly?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t want all the glitz and glamour. I hate the idea of the cameras taking pictures of something that’s supposed to be personal and private, just so they can splash them over the morning news like my life is a commodity to be enjoyed when it’s fun, and shunned when it’s not. Ach, I’m sorry. That’s… really oversharing.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, Klavier,” Apollo says, offering him a gentle smile. “Weddings really bring out a lot of stress. Yours, especially. But… you have Daryan, and that’s what you should focus on. The flowers and the venue and the suits are important, sure, but if you’d be happy marrying him in a registry office wearing your pyjamas, then that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Everything else is immaterial.”
“That’s the thing, though, I don’t know if I… never mind. Thank you for today, Herr Justice.”
Klavier shakes a camera-ready smile onto his face and waves a casual goodbye to Apollo as he joins Daryan outside; they link arms, and then walk away down the street. Apollo finishes up at the florist’s counter, making sure the payment went through, and giving the florist his card so that he can contact them with the concrete date once they book a venue for mid-autumn.
His notebook for Klavier and Daryan’s wedding is getting thicker by the day. Every time he gets an idea, or makes a booking, he emails it over to Klavier, who had been pretty insistent that all wedding planning emails go to his personal email address—something about Daryan having over ten thousand unread messages already.
The next thing on his agenda is the venue. He’s booked a few viewings for places that he knows will be positively lovely in the September-October season, and they’re all varied, since Klavier and Daryan were pretty vague about what kind of venue they actually wanted, only that they didn’t want a traditional church. Apollo has picked out everything, from a vintage ballroom to a vineyard, and they have their series of viewings booked in for a consecutive three-day period; Klavier had preferred it that way. He’d said that the memory of each place would be fresh in their minds as they made their decision, which, Apollo thinks, is quite a smart idea, if a little on the overworking yourself side, but he’s had that vibe from Klavier since the beginning.
The vintage ballroom is classy, but Apollo can tell from the moment that Klavier and Daryan walk in that it’s not for them; Daryan seems uninterested as usual, draping himself across one of the chaise longues and taking the free champagne offered to him. Klavier, on the other hand, walks around the venue with Apollo, and it’s clear that while he’s pretending to have an open mind, he had decided against this place from the moment he stepped inside.
“It’s classy, ja?”
“Yeah, but it’s not for everyone.”
“It reminds me of… it doesn’t matter.”
“If you don’t like it, we can leave now. We don’t have to stay if your mind is made up.”
“Nein, Daryan is enjoying the champagne and I don’t want to be rude to our kind hosts. It’s just a little too… oh, how do I describe it? It’s the kind of place you’d go for tea with people who don’t actually care about you, you understand?”
“I think so,” Apollo says. “Are you looking for something more personal? Something where you can be yourself and have fun?”
“Ach, exactly! Herr Forehead, you know me so well.”
“Herr what now?”
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier laughs, poking his index finger lightly against Apollo’s head. “It’s a nickname. Get it?”
“Because my forehead is big? So I’ve been told.”
“It’s a compliment, I swear. They look for big foreheads in models these days. God knows how many times I’ve been turned away from a Vogue shoot because my eyebrows are a little too close to my hairline.”
“Well, I never knew that.”
“And now you do,” Klavier smiles. “And isn’t your life just so much better with the knowledge that even international superstar Klavier Gavin would die for a head like yours?”
Apollo laughs a little. For some reason, he finds it very easy to relax around Klavier when he’s alone with him; less so around Daryan, but he has absolutely no time to unpack whatever that is. He’s a professional, after all. So, when Daryan approaches them, Klavier softly shakes his head.
“Man, I thought so too. Bit pretentious, right? Where are we off next, Sleeves?” Daryan says, setting his champagne glass down on one of the tables.
Somehow, he likes that nickname a lot less than Herr Forehead.
Apollo drives them to the vineyard next. The woman who owns the place has kind eyes, and she welcomes them all with a rich glass of red wine, which Apollo politely declines, but which Klavier and Daryan accept. They walk through the canopy of leaves, which Apollo is already imagining how he could turn into an altar, and from the excited, happy look on Klavier’s face, he feels like he might just have found the one. The venue, he means. The venue.
Even Daryan expresses some emotion other than boredom when the host shows them the variety of wines and the grapes from which they’re produced; there’s an offer of a custom bottle of wine to celebrate the happy couple on their wedding day, which only sweetens the deal in Apollo’s eyes.
Klavier takes Daryan’s hands, almost jumping up and down with excitement, as he begs his fiancé to let them have this venue. Daryan smiles, baring his teeth, and tells Klavier that he likes this one too—so it’s settled. They sit down with the host to discuss dates, settling on a Saturday in late September, before payment is made and they leave, satisfied.
That night, Apollo fires off a quick email to Klavier about potential suit fittings. He doesn’t expect to get a response until morning, considering the fact that he sent it off at 10pm, but to his surprise, Klavier replies almost at midnight.
< to klavier@gavinners.com >
Hey Klavier,
I’ve attached a list of potential suit shops. I know you probably don’t want to go with Daryan, so that you don’t spoil the surprise of your wedding day, so if you could just let me know how many people you have as your groomsmen, I can book you some fittings with them.
Best,
Apollo Justice │ Wedding Planner │ Justice Wedding Planning Offices │ he/him
…
< to apollojustice@justiceweddingplanning.com >
Herr Forehead!
I actually don’t have anyone in my wedding party. Daryan wanted the band members to be in his party so I was planning on standing alone and just regrouping with them at the afterparty. Could I be so bold as to ask you to accompany me to my suit fitting? I fear if I go alone I’ll pick something terribly tacky.
Yours,
Klavier Gavin.
…
< to klavier@gavinners.com >
Hey Klavier,
That’s no problem at all. How does 11am the day after tomorrow sound for you?
Best,
Apollo Justice │ Wedding Planner │ Justice Wedding Planning Offices │ he/him
…
< to apollojustice@justiceweddingplanning.com >
Achtung bestie you are a lifesaver. I’ll see you outside at 10:55.
Yours,
Klavier Gavin.
As Apollo stands outside the wedding suit shop, half an hour early, he doesn’t expect Klavier to already be there. He’s standing outside, wearing a casual Gavinners t-shirt and a pair of loose fitting pants with chains, leaning against the wall and looking almost nervously around.
“Good morning,” Apollo says. Klavier jumps a little.
“Ach, I didn’t expect you to be here so early.”
“I could say the same. Would you like to go inside? Even if they won’t see us until eleven, they’ll have coffee or something while we wait.”
“That sounds perfect,” Klavier smiles. “Let’s go.”
They walk inside together and take a seat in the waiting area; as Apollo suspected, there’s another fitting going on, so they aren’t escorted into the dressing rooms just yet, but there is a large metal vat of pour-it-yourself coffee, which he walks over to and takes two cups from.
“Danke,” Klavier says. “For… the coffee. And for everything else.”
“It’s just my job,” Apollo replies.
“Well, ja, but this is above and beyond. I mean, coming to my suit fitting with me?”
“As if I’d let you ruin my beautiful wedding portfolio by turning up to your own wedding in a purple Gavinners branded suit with silver sparkles all over.”
“I’m that predictable, huh?”
“Just a little,” Apollo laughs, taking a sip of his coffee; it’s lukewarm at best, but it’ll do.
“So you’ve seen my performances, then?”
“N-No!”
“Ach, you can admit it. I’d find it hard to name a person who hasn’t either known me before they met me, or googled me immediately afterwards.”
“Okay, okay,” Apollo throws his hands up in the air in mock defeat. “So I checked out your Wikipedia. And maybe a few of your videos on YouTube.”
“Now we’re talking,” Klavier smirks. “Tell me, you’ve seen the music video for My Boyfriend is the Prosecution’s Witness, ja?”
“Is that the one with the… certain outfit?”
“The almost-naked fishnets and booty shorts? Ja, ja. A personal favourite of mine.”
Apollo almost chokes on his coffee; he inhales it, and it comes back out through his nose in a shameful display of awkward embarrassment.
“Ja,” Klavier continues. “That’s usually the reaction I get to that. Glad you liked it, Herr Forehead.”
Apollo has never been more thankful for an interruption to a conversation, as the stylist peeks his head from behind the dressing room curtain and calls them both in.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says. “How wonderful to have you. You’re here to be fitted for a wedding suit, yes?”
“Ja,” Klavier responds with a smile.
“Just perfect!” The stylist continues. “It just so happens that we have a range of new styles that came in just yesterday. Tell me—what kind of thing are you looking for? Classic? Stylish? Avant-garde?”
“Can I say all? I want something that isn’t tacky, but I like to maintain my brand, you see. Just a simple black suit would work, as long as I don’t have to wear a tie.”
“You’d rather not wear a tie?”
“Nein. It feels too much like… like I’m being choked. Open collar only, bitte.”
“We can work with that,” the stylist says, taking some suits off the rack and handing them to Apollo, who holds them in his arms as Klavier absentmindedly runs his hands over some of the fabric.
“Ach, I like the feeling of this one,” Klavier says, but it seems like he’s talking less to the stylist and more to Apollo himself. “What do you think?”
“I think you should try it on,” Apollo responds. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“Who am I to refuse such a simple request from such a beautiful man?” Klavier flashes him a smile, taking the suit out of Apollo’s arms and walking behind the curtain to get changed. The stylist follows him in, presumably to make some notes and help with the fitting, which leaves Apollo sitting alone on one of the expensive sofas, wondering how the hell someone as nice as Klavier would ever say yes to a proposal from Daryan.
Not that he’s jealous. He’s just seen his fair share of marriages, and this one is destined to end in an explosive divorce. Which makes him an accomplice in its destruction, does it not? Since he’s not getting paid to voice his personal opinion, only to do his job; and as professionally well as he’s doing that, right now, there’s something nagging in his chest, something that strangely takes the form of morality.
Is he really comfortable letting Klavier walk headfirst into a broken heart?
It’s none of his business, really, though, is it? As much as a subconscious part of his mind might want it to be his business.
When Klavier emerges from behind the curtain, Apollo can barely contain the gasp that hitches in his throat. He looks… amazing. The suit is a rich black, with a little purple handkerchief folded neatly into the top pocket, and the shirt underneath is open enough to display his collarbones and the beginnings of his chest. The pants accentuate his long legs, and the shoes—provided as a placeholder by the stylist—are fashionable and classy, like the kind of thing Apollo has always wished he could afford or have reason to wear.
“What do you think, Herr Forehead?”
“I think it’s perfect, Klavier. Of all people, of course you’re the one to find the perfect suit on your first try.”
“Ach, you really think so?”
“I love it. But it’s your opinion that matters.”
“My opinion is that any suit that makes you smile that wide is the perfect suit for me,” Klavier says. He sounds… sincere. Genuine. “Shall we call this the one?”
“If you like it, then I think so.”
Klavier grins at the stylist before he goes back behind the curtain to take it off. When he comes back out again, he’s in his regular clothes, and he’s making sweet small talk to the stylist as he hands over his credit card. The suit is bagged up, and Klavier takes it with a smile, linking his arm into Apollo’s as they leave the shop.
“Do you have other clients to see today?” Klavier asks.
“Nope. Just you.”
“Then may I bother you to ask you to get some coffee with me? There are some details I want to discuss about the wedding and I just know that Daryan would get bored at the mere mention of tablecloths and wedding favours.”
Apollo wants to say, “Are you sure you’re marrying the right guy?”
Apollo actually says, “Of course. Attention to detail is necessary, after all.”
The little coffee shop that Klavier picks out is a quiet café tucked away in the backstreets of LA; it seems like the kind of place a person wouldn’t just stumble upon by accident—there are enough almost-dead-ends and tight squeezes between alleyways in order to reach it that the only people who must actually make it to the front door are regular patrons. And, as they walk inside, Apollo can see why; it’s a nice place, and it being so small only adds to the homely charm. The smell of fresh, warm curry dances in the air alongside the aromas of deep coffee blends, and as Klavier places an order for two cups of Blue Mountain, Apollo gets them a booth right at the back of the café.
Klavier walks over with the coffee and sets it down on the table. “Danke for spending some time with me,” he says. “I thought maybe we could make some notes on the finer details of the day? Stuff that I know Daryan won’t have even considered. He calls me meticulous, but it has to be perfect, ja?”
“Usually at least one thing goes wrong on the actual day,” Apollo says, watching as Klavier’s eyes widen in horror. “But that’s to be expected! I mean, that’s what I’m there for. The happy couple shouldn’t even know of anything that isn’t going to plan, because it’s my job to fix it before anyone else notices.”
“You mean you’re not just going to… enjoy the wedding?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, I’ll just still be working. I can’t slack off once the day comes, you know? It’s the final performance of everything we’ve done so far.”
“Performance…” Klavier muses. “Ja, I suppose it is.”
“N-Not that you’ll be getting married for the cameras, or anything, I wasn’t implying—”
“Herr Forehead, it’s fine. I’m not stupid. I know that at least fifty percent of the reason Daryan is doing this is for band publicity, I just have to hope that the other fifty percent is because he genuinely loves me.”
“That’s… not how engaged couples normally talk about one another. In my experience, at least.”
Klavier laughs bitterly. “Maybe we just skipped the honeymoon phase and went straight to being an old married couple.”
“Aren’t old married couples supposed to be sweet?”
“I don’t know, have you never read Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
Now, it’s Apollo’s turn to laugh bitterly. Of all the places his job could take him, sitting in a quaint, off-the-beaten-path café with an international rockstar referencing 1960s literature was not where he imagined wedding planning would lead. Not that he’s complaining or anything, it’s just that, well… he somehow feels complicit in Klavier Gavin’s unhappiness by helping him pick out the perfect colour of wedding bouquet for his marriage to a man who has openly proclaimed that he doesn’t care about Klavier’s dream ceremony.
“Don’t you think you should talk to Daryan about splitting your band members between the two of you? If only so that the groomsmen don’t look unbalanced at the altar.”
“I tried that, but he said it’s not his fault that the guy I would have had as my best man… well, let’s just say there are a lot of skeletons in my family closet. Not that that’s a secret. You don’t get the privilege of those when you’re famous. You’ve probably already heard about it.”
“Only a little,” Apollo says. “I’m sorry.”
“Ach, don’t be,” Klavier replies, waving his hand in dismissal. “I’d be curious too, if I were you. It’s not like you read my diary or anything. Although—I do hope you didn’t read any of those horrible articles implicating me in my brother’s crime?”
“Oh, god no. I would never. I don’t think anyone can be responsible for the actions of others.”
“Well then, I won’t blame you for your natural curiosity into my life. Can I pry into yours, in return?”
“Go ahead,” Apollo says. “It’s not like you’ll find anything interesting.”
“Why did you choose wedding planning as a career?”
“I love the idea of love. And I want to help show that on the most special day of a couple’s life.”
“Are you married?”
“Me? As if. I don’t have time.”
“A girlfriend, then?” Klavier muses. “Or boyfriend.”
“For the record, it would be a boyfriend, but no, I don’t have one of those either.”
“That’s a shame. You’re nice. You deserve someone who makes you happy.”
“So do you.”
“Implying what?”
“N-Nothing!” Apollo stutters. Oh, god, if he’s going to get fired in public by a celebrity, let him die on the spot right now.
“Daryan and I are happy, all things considered,” Klavier scowls into his coffee.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Nein,” Klavier takes a deep breath and a large sip of coffee. “It’s me who should be apologising. I shouldn’t have gotten angry over nothing. I’m a little stressed these days.”
“It’s to be expected. You’re planning a wedding, after all.”
“No, Herr Forehead, you’re planning a wedding. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Is that how you really feel? About your own wedding?”
Klavier stares deeply into his coffee for a moment, tilting the cup from side to side, making thin waves with the dregs of the liquid in the cup. “Ja, I suppose I do.”
Meeting with caterers is Apollo’s favourite part of the wedding planning process, if only because most times, the couple wants his opinion, which means that gets comfortably full on free samples and doesn’t have to cook dinner when he gets home.
As usual, Klavier is waiting for him ahead of their appointment time. He looks like he’s on the phone, and his face is screwed up in frustration; he’s holding the bridge of his nose and his shoulders are tense.
Apollo hangs back for a moment, giving him some space to finish his call, but the moment Klavier notices him, he puts the phone down, plasters a fake smile across his face, and waves Apollo over. Reluctantly, feeling like he’s interrupted something very important, Apollo goes to Klavier, gesturing at the phone with an expression that says, as best as he can without being intrusive, Daryan again?
“Ach, I think he overslept. I’ve tried ringing and leaving voicemails but no dice. Quite the pickle, considering our appointment starts in ten minutes.”
“Maybe he’s on his way?”
“I doubt it, somehow. He gets more and more frustrating every day, but isn’t that what marriage is about? Loving someone despite their flaws?”
“Marriage is what you make it, I think,” Apollo says, wary of overstepping a professional boundary. “Besides, you know him well enough to make a good call on what food he’ll want at the wedding even if he isn’t here to taste it.”
“I suppose. It sort of ruins the experience a little, though, doesn’t it? Isn’t half the fun supposed to be planning it with your partner? At least—that’s what I always dreamed of, ever since I was a kid.”
“If it means so much to you, we can reschedule.”
“Ach, I wouldn’t dream of it! After you drove all this way and got us an appointment, we will have to make do, ja?”
When their appointment time comes around, they’re ushered into the small, intimate tasting chamber just off from the kitchen. The waiters sit them down on the same side of the table, and as the chef brings out the first tasting dish, he makes a remark about them being such a lovely couple.
“Oh, we’re n—” Apollo begins, but Klavier rests his hand over Apollo’s.
“Danke,” he says, and the chef leaves to give them some privacy to eat the small sample of food.
“I’m sorry,” Klavier continues. “I know it’s awkward, but I don’t want to admit that my own fiancé bailed on me. Can we just pretend? Just for an hour, I’ll pay you extra, I just… I want to feel like a normal guy getting married to someone who genuinely loves him.”
Apollo’s words catch in his throat. But he nods, linking his fingers into Klavier’s; it’s not exactly in the job description, but if he has to pretend that his name is Daryan Crescend in order to make Klavier happy, then… well, he’s always been an overachiever at his job.
Besides, the soup that they’re tasting as a potential starter is delicious, a gentle mix of tomato and basil that they’re sharing from one bowl, with two spoons. Klavier hums in agreement, but when their second option—a selection of caprese skewers—is handed to them, he drapes his hand across his face dramatically and sighs.
“Ach, schatzi, I can’t choose. Everything is so nice, and we haven’t even gotten to the entrées yet!”
“You don’t have to make your mind up straight away. Half the fun of tasting sessions is just getting free food.”
“Ah, now I see the appeal of being a wedding planner.”
“It has its perks,” Apollo smiles. “But I’m not technically a wedding planner today, am I? I’m Daryan Crescend, guitarist and fiancé of—” Apollo puts on his most dramatically sickening performance yet for the delivery of his next line, over-emphasising that it’s definitely a joke. “— the most beautiful man in the world.”
Klavier responds with equal drama, but his eyes are soft and kind. “Nonsense, liebling, the most beautiful man in the world is sitting right next to me, with a little tomato soup on his cheek.” He reaches his hand out and brushes Apollo’s cheek, putting his thumb in his mouth with a comment about it being delicious.
The soup. He means the soup.
So why is Apollo blushing?
For the entrée, they have to choose between a delicate filet mignon, grilled lobster, ratatouille, or some kind of spinach soufflé; Klavier sighs as the dishes are brought out.
“See, this is why I need you to be Daryan,” he laments. “I don’t eat meat. Can I trust your judgement on this one?”
“I mean, we could always just taste the vegetarian ones and pick something that, you know, the groom can actually eat.”
“I think Daryan—the real one, anyway—would murder me in cold blood if I made him so much as look at a vegetable on his wedding day. We’ll just have to choose a few options, ja? But for now,” Klavier picks up a piece of the steak on a fork and holds it to Apollo’s mouth. “Be my taste buds for me?”
Apollo avoids eye contact as he opens his mouth slightly, feeling somewhere between awkward and… something else, which he’s definitely not going to address over a fake-dating dinner date with the man whose wedding he’s currently planning. But the steak does taste nice, and he murmurs a note of approval, busying himself with writing something in his notebook about the flavour profile so he doesn’t have to glance up, don’t glance up, don’t see that Klavier has his chin in his hands and is smiling like he’s in a dream.
Just don’t, Justice.
Klavier enjoys trying the vegetable dishes, too, occasionally making comments that Apollo needs to try whatever he’s holding out on his spoon, and then, the gut punch:
“You know, I keep forgetting I’m not actually marrying you,” Klavier laughs.
“I-I guess I’m just good at my job, huh?”
“Ach, you’re excellent. Who else would go this far just for a client? I really struck gold when I walked into your office.”
Eventually, they settle on a menu with a few options to cater to the varying dietary needs of the expansive guest list, and it’s almost sad when they pack up their things and leave. Apollo wishes Klavier luck, and hands him a copy of the tentative menu to show to Daryan, but instead of going back to his apartment, he heads to the Justice Wedding Planning Offices, planning on filing away the latest developments in the Gavin-Crescend wedding drawer.
It’s a shame, really. He’ll be glad to see the back of that drawer, but less so to see the back of Klavier himself once the wedding goes ahead in just over a month and a half.
He’s just about to get ready to leave for the night when the little silver bell chimes again, and Klavier walks into his office. He looks… dreadful, actually—a far cry from how well-put-together he normally appears, and he’s obviously been crying.
“Herr Justice, I’m so sorry,” he explains.
“What for?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“I’ve been working, so no. Why? What happened?”
Klavier shows him his phone, already open to the trending topics page of Twitter, where…
Oh, shit.
Oh, fuck.
There’s a candid paparazzi photograph of Apollo and Klavier at the catering tasting session earlier today, one that was snapped exactly at the wrong time; it’s one of those little moments that Apollo had thought were private, a happy memory that he could romanticise once the wedding was finished with and he had time to unpack everything he’s been repressing for the months in which he’s known Klavier. With Klavier holding out some food on his fork, and Apollo taking it in his own mouth—he’ll admit it, they do look like a couple, but they were acting! At least, Klavier was.
“Oh my god,” Apollo says.
“I know. All the headlines are talking about whether I’m cheating on Daryan.”
“Can’t you just clear things up? Send a tweet or something, explain that I’m your wedding planner? You could say that Daryan was sick so I was standing in for the tasting session.”
“I’ve tried, but everything I’m saying is getting drowned out by the media. They’re all over this. Oh, scheisse, what am I going to do? Daryan won’t answer his phone.”
As it turns out, Daryan Crescend would much rather talk in person.
He storms through the door of the Justice Wedding Planning Offices and grabs Apollo by the collar, dragging him up from his desk so he’s standing up. “What the fuck, dude?”
“It’s really n-not how it looks,” Apollo explains, holding his hands up. “Really.”
“Oh yeah? Because it looks like you’re getting all up close and personal with my fucking fiancé!”
“Daryan,” Klavier says, pulling Daryan’s hands away from Apollo’s collar and holding them down. “I’m serious. We were just sorting out the menu. We couldn’t afford to reschedule for another appointment, what with the wedding being as close as it is. It was purely professional.”
“It sure as fuck didn’t look purely professional.”
“I promise you! It was.”
“Actually,” Apollo brushes himself off, somehow emboldened. “It wouldn’t have even been an issue at all if you’d turned up like you were supposed to.”
“You stay out of this!” Daryan yells. “I’m not paying you to give some kind of fucked up relationship counselling. In fact, I’ve got a good mind not to pay you at all!”
“Well, considering the fact that everything is on my credit card,” Klavier says. “I think we should just let a stupid little miscommunication be, ja? Now you know it was nothing romantic, can’t we put this whole thing behind us?”
“Fine, but I’m keeping an eye on you two.”
Daryan takes Klavier’s hand and walks out of the office, giving Klavier barely enough time to trace a sad, mournful wave back in Apollo’s direction. Instead of watching them walk down the hallway, Apollo turns his attention to the window, through which he sees the swarm of cameras just waiting for Daryan and Klavier to emerge; when they do, Daryan lifts Klavier bridal-style into the air and kisses him, a gesture which is met with the flash of a thousand cameras and a cacophony of cheers.
Apollo looks away, focusing intently on a speck of dirt on his desk.
Although Klavier doesn’t drop by the office anymore, he’s found himself a new habit of phoning Apollo, opening the conversation with something trivial about the wedding before he trails off into talking about the latest episode of Desperate Housewives that he’s watched, or the new song that he’s in the process of writing. Apollo has learned to expect these calls around 9pm every night, and although he’s wary of Daryan’s anger, he can’t lie to himself and say that he doesn’t enjoy the routine of telling Klavier about his day and talking about meaningless television with him.
It’s during one of their nightly phone calls that Apollo dares to broach the subject of Daryan again.
“Won’t he get mad that we’re talking so frequently?” He tests the waters, unsure of how Klavier will respond to an abrupt question about his fiancé.
“How would he know?”
“Don’t you two live together?”
Klavier chuckles. “Nein. He prefers his own space. Everything past 7pm is my time exclusively for Desperate Housewives and, now, you.”
“I’m honoured to occupy the same amount of space in your mind as Bree Van de Kamp.”
“So you do listen to me. I’m honoured.”
“How are you feeling about it all? The wedding being next week, and everything.”
“Hard to pinpoint. I read somewhere that excitement and anxiety feel the same physically, so it’s one of those.”
“Might be both?” Apollo suggests. “They’re both normal feelings to have before your wedding.”
“I suppose you’d know. Tell me, are we the most irritating couple you’ve ever dealt with?”
“Yes,” Apollo says instantly. “But, like, affectionately. My job is to make you happy.”
(Ignoring that I could do that in a totally non-professional setting, if you wanted me to.)
As planned, on the day of the wedding, Apollo turns up at Klavier’s apartment. While he knows that Daryan will have the rest of his band helping him get ready, Klavier has nobody, and had thus requested—embarrassed and awkward—that Apollo assist him on the morning of his wedding.
How could Apollo say no? Even with a broken heart, he’s always fine.
When Klavier answers the door at 6am, he’s in his pyjamas with his hair in a bun.
“Mornin’,” he says. His voice is thicker than usual, like honey, and he runs a hand through his hair before the situation dawns on him and he shakes himself awake. “Scheisse, did I oversleep?”
“It’s only 6am. You asked me to come this early, remember?”
“Oh, thank god. You’re a lifesaver, Herr Forehead. So what’s the plan?”
“The stylists will be here at 7:30 for your hair and makeup, which will probably take about two hours, and then we have the car booked to take you to the venue so you’ll arrive just before the ceremony starts. And in the meantime, stop stressing out, I brought you breakfast.”
Apollo holds up a little takeout bag; he’d called ahead to Klavier’s favourite café last night and asked if they could prepare some breakfast—the owner, a kind man behind the slight scowl and goatee, had agreed, if only as his way of a wedding gift to one of his best customers.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re amazing?” Klavier says, taking the breakfast and coffee from Apollo and setting the food out on two plates; Apollo is about to protest that the whole thing was supposed to be for Klavier, but he looks so happy as he offers a plate to Apollo, he can’t not take it.
“So, big day, huh?” Apollo says. “You excited?”
“Apprehensive. I’m excited to see how everything you put together goes ahead, but part of me just wants to get this whole thing over with.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The paparazzi are going to be brutal if anything goes wrong.”
“Which it won’t,” Apollo reassures. “That’s what I’ll be there for.”
“The car you’ve booked to take me to the venue—will you be coming in it, too?”
“I don’t, usually. I take my own car.”
“Ach, I see.”
“Why, would you prefer riding with someone?”
“Sort of,” Klavier says. “I always imagined that, when I got married, I’d be driving there with my ma and pa and Kris, but the former are dead and, well, you know about the latter. It’s not that it’s a big deal, I just… isn’t it a bit pathetic to turn up to your own wedding alone?”
Apollo thinks it might be a little more pathetic to turn up with your wedding planner as your chaperone, but he doesn’t say that. It’s not like it’s Klavier’s fault, anyway.
“Then I’ll come in the fancy car with you.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if it ruins your schedule or anything—”
“We’re travelling to the same place. Think of the carbon footprint,” Apollo jokes. “Klavier Gavin, saving the planet on his own wedding day.”
Klavier laughs. Genuinely. Wholly. It comes from his stomach and out of his mouth in waves, and at some point, he snorts—he actually snorts. Apollo can’t help himself from breaking out into a smile, too, and even when his face muscles relax, the ghost of the memory lingers at the back of his mind as the morning wears on. It’s a blur of stylists and hairspray and light lip-gloss and, all the while, Apollo is just watching Klavier Gavin get ready to become someone else at the altar.
By the time his appearance is finished, he looks more like the version of himself that the rest of the world sees; the magazine-cover-ready international superstar, airbrushed and pinched into something palatable for people who don’t even know him. The stylists leave, and Klavier takes his suit off the back of the door, walking into his bedroom, leaving Apollo alone in the living room.
Which, right now, is the last thing Apollo needs—to be alone with his thoughts in Klavier Gavin’s apartment.
Is it a blessing or a curse that Klavier calls his name from the bedroom? It means he has something to do, to make himself useful, but on the other hand he feels like if he spends any longer playing faux-domestic with a soon to be married man, he’ll crack completely.
Walking in on a half-naked Klavier Gavin does not help the situation.
And… he’s crying? He’s sat on the edge of his bed, his suit shirt only half buttoned, with his pants around his ankles and the most obnoxious pair of purple silk boxers coming down to the top of his thighs; when he sees Apollo, he stands up and tries to pull the pants up to their full height, letting out a frustrated sigh as he proclaims, “Call the whole thing off! They don’t fit any more!”
“Klavier,” Apollo crosses the room and undoes the zipper that was keeping the pants from opening to their full length. “They’re fine. Try pulling them up now.”
Klavier does so, and they fit him as perfectly as they did at the tailor’s shop. Still, he slumps down on the edge of his bed, his shirt still undone, his head in his hands.
“Ach, what am I doing?”
“Ruining your makeup,” Apollo tries to lighten the mood. “Here.”
He takes a handkerchief from his own pocket and gently dabs it under Klavier’s eyes, wiping away the tears without smudging all of the hard work of the stylist—he’ll need a little touch-up, for sure, but it’s nothing Apollo hasn’t handled before.
“It’s going to be okay, Klavier,” he says. “Everyone gets pre-wedding nerves.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s more common than you’d think. I sometimes feel like I should employ an office therapist specifically to deal with the morning of the big day.”
“Danke, Apollo.”
“Since when did you start calling me Apollo?”
“Since now, I guess.”
He takes Klavier’s personal makeup collection and reapplies the soft blush which has streaked lightly against the apples of his cheeks, doing his best to emulate the gentle lilac eyeshadow that the stylist had applied; with a flick of mascara, it’s almost as good as it was when it was freshly applied by a professional, but Apollo thinks that Klavier Gavin could look good in anything.
Only—Klavier goes and ruins his lipgloss when he kisses Apollo on the cheek. It’s hardly romantic, if anything, it’s a little too chaste, but nonetheless it feels like one of those moments where a defining crossroads of life appears, and Apollo has two options. He could do the smart thing and realise that this is just the casual intimacy of a celebrity, and it means nothing, or he could let his emotions run wild for the first time in his life and he could tell Klavier that he deserves so much better than Daryan, that even if his own affections aren’t reciprocated, Klavier deserves someone who will truly see him.
He’s not quite that bold. Or reckless. And, as much as his heart feels like it’s pumping overtime, he values the integrity of his job.
But he could. Couldn’t he? Doesn’t everyone have to take a risk every once in a while? He could just… grab Klavier’s hands and look him deep in the eyes and—
“Danke, Apollo.”
And there goes the moment. Goodbye, forever.
When the car arrives to pick them up, Apollo sits in the back with Klavier. The driver already knows where to go, so there’s nothing to be said between fiancé and completely professional wedding planner other than the awkward snippets of half-conversations, with so much unsaid and the thick haze of unease in the air. At one point, Klavier reaches over and holds Apollo’s hand, to which Apollo responds first by experiencing a minor short-circuit of the cardiovascular variety, and secondly by giving Klavier’s hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance and nothing more.
The vineyard is as beautiful as it was when they viewed it a while ago, even more so now that it’s been decked out with small purple and blue lights that illuminate a path beneath the leaves towards a beautiful altar. All of the sketches and ideas Apollo had sent over to the design team and the staff at the vineyard have been brought perfectly to life, and Klavier stares fondly out of the car window, a little gasp escaping from beneath his slightly parted lips.
“Apollo… it’s beautiful,” he says. “Let’s not get out of the car just yet. I want to commit this bit to memory.”
And so they stay, frozen in the half-melted glass of a moment.
Until the little scheduled alarm on Apollo’s watch beeps, and they shake themselves back to reality in order to stay on schedule. Apollo opens the car door on his side and gets out, looking back inside to see that Klavier hasn’t moved an inch.
“Come on,” he says.
“Nein. Isn’t my chaperone supposed to open my door for me?” Klavier smirks.
“Oh, you are insufferable sometimes.”
“Danke schön, Herr Forehead.”
Apollo walks around the car and reluctantly opens Klavier’s car door, holding out his arm for Klavier to hold onto as he gets out and stands on the ground.
“What’s next?” Apollo mutters, sarcastically. “You want me to bridal-carry you over the threshold of your apartment before Desperate Housewives comes on TV tonight?”
“Ja, actually. You seem like you have the arms for it.”
“Stop flirting on your damn wedding day.”
“Maybe it’s my last opportunity to cross swords with my strikingly beautiful wedding planner,” Klavier bats his eyelashes comically, seemingly completely unaware of what he’s currently doing to Apollo.
Klavier looks like he belongs at the altar; the autumn sun shines on his hair, illuminating its slight golden waves—his suit accentuates his figure, and the bouquet that he’s holding was definitely the right choice in both colour and blossom. Apollo only wishes that he weren’t standing there for the simple reason that, within the hour, he’ll be legally wed to a man who hasn’t even turned up yet to his own wedding. He doesn’t tend to make a habit of disliking or even judging his clients, but there’s something about Daryan Crescend that makes his blood boil.
If he were more in tune with the part of his brain that he’s trained so keenly in repression, he’d openly call it jealousy.
When Daryan does turn up, he practically stumbles down the aisle to join Klavier at the altar. The wedding march begins, and Daryan is grinning comically at his fiancé; he doesn’t even wait for the officiant to begin before he sends off a lazy wave to the crowd of reporters and paparazzi at the back of the crowd, and dips Klavier into a kiss.
Apollo can feel all of the tension between the pair, and from his spot in the front row, he can even hear what they’re saying.
“Are you drunk?” Klavier hisses.
“Stag night went on for a while,” Daryan slurs. “Haven’t slept yet, babes.”
Klavier pushes Daryan away and looks desperately at the officiant, who takes the hint and starts the ceremony. He’s instructed to read his vows, to which he takes a small piece of paper out of his inner jacket pocket and reads in a rehearsed, yet musical voice.
“Daryan,” he says. “It is my honour to stand here and call you my future husband. You complete me as an artist, and as a man. I swear that for the rest of our lives, I will pick up all of your missed cues, if you pick up mine—on the rare occasion that they happen,” he winks at the audience. “I love you, Daryan Crescend, and I want the world to know it.”
Daryan reaches into his own jacket and fumbles around for a while. Apollo can easily perceive the slight panic on his face as he comes up empty, but he plays it off by starting his vows anyway.
“Uh, Klavier, you’re really cool. Like, cool. And uh… shit, can I start over? I didn’t realise we had to personalise this shit? I thought we’d just blah blah ‘till death do us part.”
Klavier’s face falls. It’s like everything he’s been trying his hardest not to realise has suddenly hit him with the force of a thousand heartbreaks and a million depressions. He carefully folds his own paper of vows back up, putting it safely in his jacket, and then he takes Daryan’s hands.
“I can’t do this,” he says. “I’m sorry, Daryan. But I just can’t.”
“What?”
“I love you… I loved you. But I think you and I both know that we’re not the men we were when we met any more. I’ve tried… god, I’ve tried, but I can’t commit myself to someone who doesn’t love me for who I am, not who I can be for the press.”
“Don’t do this right now, Klavier.”
“I have to, because if I don’t do it now, then I’ll say ‘I do’ and I’ll never be able to go back on that.”
“Then say it… we can always get divorced if you don’t like it.”
“That’s the thing, Daryan. You’re not in this because you love me, and I… I know that. I-I’ve known that for a while. I just can’t keep pretending any more. I’m sorry, but… I can’t marry you.”
As the cameras burst, volcanic, with flash after flash of searing light, Klavier looks like he’s trapped in the headlights of a car about to crash; he drops the bouquet onto the floor, and it’s like he knows—he knows that the intricacy of his intimate heartbreak is going to be headline news.
And what is Apollo here for if not damage control?
He darts up from his seat and shields Klavier as much as he can with his own body, taking off his suit jacket and telling Klavier to cover his face with it as he puts an arm around his shoulder and ushers him to where he knows there’s a little back room away from prying eyes. As he opens the door, he helps Klavier inside, following him before shutting the door and wedging it shut with a chair. He closes the curtains and prays that they were quick enough to throw off the paparazzi who have no doubt swarmed the main altar by now.
That’s not what he’s bothered about at the moment, though.
Klavier is sobbing, his grief and stress pushing its way out of his body in involuntary shakes, as he brings his knees up to his chest and balls Apollo’s jacket up in his hands, crying into it. While Apollo has always been great at fixing makeup and flower arrangements, he doesn’t pride himself on any sort of ability to address emotional vulnerability, and so he rolls up his sleeves like he’s quite literally getting ready to dig into unknown territory.
Strangely, though, it all comes naturally to him; the way he sits on the floor next to Klavier and wraps an arm around him, using his free hand to gently lift Klavier’s chin and look him earnestly in the eyes.
“You did the right thing,” he says.
“E-Everyone is going to hate me,” Klavier sobs. “I broke his heart.”
“Klav,” Apollo holds Klavier’s cheek and wipes his tears with his thumb. “You let him down gently. He broke your heart long before I ever met the both of you. You were just trying to be loved.”
“Where did I… where did I go wrong? We used to really get each other and now… all I wanted… it’s like he refuses to even know me.”
“You can’t blame yourself for the things that other people do.”
Klavier takes the rings out of his pocket; two silver bands, although you wouldn’t know it by looking at the price tag. “It’s just a ring now,” he says, turning the one that he was supposed to wear over and over in his palms. “I hope I didn’t hurt him too badly.”
“Klavier, he turned up drunk to your wedding. You don’t have to keep giving that asshole the benefit of the doubt.”
“But he’s usually so good…”
“Really? I’ve known you guys for months, and it was you who paid for everything, you who agreed on all the appointments and turned up on time, you who bothered to remember dates and names and colour schemes. Not once have I seen him do something actually nice for you.”
“But he… he tells me he loves me and he kisses me lots and—”
“Does he ever do that when there aren’t cameras around?”
“Oh. Oh my god… I knew it was mostly for publicity but… all of it? Was any of it real?”
“Probably at the beginning,” Apollo holds Klavier’s hand. “But people change, and that’s okay. You can still hold onto the good memories, and be glad that you don’t have to make any more bad ones.”
“What do I do now? Oh, god, what do I do, Apollo? Why couldn’t I have just married someone who actually loved me?”
“You’ll… find someone. I’m sure.”
“I mean, there are guys like you out there!”
Ouch. The implication that not only does Klavier not find him attractive, but that he’s actually using him as an example of someone worse than Daryan? That hurts.
“Why can’t I just have my own Apollo Justice?” Klavier finishes.
So, never mind about that whole ‘that hurts’ thing. This feels… entirely different. Scary, in all the ways that something new often is, and Apollo has never been one for risks, but he’s already lost one moment today, he can’t bear to let another one slip through his fingers, and his mouth is moving before his brain can even stop it, and—
“I’d marry you today if I could.”
Klavier gasps a little. Then, wiping his tears, he takes the ring from his palm and slots it onto Apollo’s finger. “I do,” he smiles.
“You know this isn’t official, right? Like you need an officiant and documents and—”
“Say it anyway?”
“I…” Apollo blushes. “I do?”
“There. Now I’m not heartbroken and you’re not single. A perfect solution, ja?”
Apollo pulls Klavier into a hug. “As much as I have had the most pathetically unprofessional crush on you these past few months, I know you’re still hurting. And I know that I can’t fix that.”
“I suppose not,” Klavier muses. “But you can stay here with me for a little bit while I cry over my failed Hollywood marriage, can’t you? And then maybe we can postpone the elopement until, ach, next month at least?”
“Fine by me,” Apollo smiles. “I never wanted a fancy wedding, anyway. An elopement would be good enough for me. Hypothetically.”
“Even though you plan fancy weddings for a living?”
“Exactly, I’ve had enough of them, thank you very much.”
“Well, it’s a good job that eloping works for me, too. Hypothetically.”
“You’ll have to take me on a date first,” Apollo jokes. “And I’ve seen your elaborate outfits and your pretentious apartment, I’ll accept nothing less than a five-star restaurant.”
“Ach, you’re pretty when you make demands. It’s a deal.”
They sit there for a moment, not forcing smiles, but comfortable just sitting next to each other. When Klavier rests his head on Apollo’s shoulder, Apollo reaches his arm around him and plays with his hair, undoing Klavier’s intricate braid by running his fingers through it.
“I’m not okay,” Klavier whispers. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it is.”
“I’m still going to hold you to the promise of a date, though.”
“I’m sure you will. And I’m sure you’ll sweep me off my feet and wear something so flashy and obnoxious that the only reason I stick around is because I’m stupidly in love with you already, and then we’ll fall in love and elope without all the pomp and circumstance of an overrated wedding. But until then, you can just… not be okay.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever told me I can do that before.”
“Then this is your Official Apollo Justice Permission to not be fine. And trust me, I don’t say that often.”
“What do you do?” Klavier asks. “When everything falls apart? What does Apollo Justice himself recommend?”
“Oh, I usually just scream.”
“Felt that.”
“I sort of… have this phrase? I practice it every morning, actually. I say… well, it’s a little bit stupid, but I can’t start my morning without it: I’m Apollo Justice, and I’m fine!”
“You could certainly convince me,” Klavier laughs. “Does it have to be that… loud?”
“Yes. You have to say it like you really, really mean it.”
“And what if the paparazzi hear?”
“Isn’t that what you want them to think, anyway? That you’re fine?”
“I suppose you make a fair point,” Klavier smiles, standing up to his full height and taking a deep breath in. “I’m Klavier Gavin, and I’m fine!”
“That’s it,” Apollo encourages. “A little quiet, though. You have to really belt it. Like… I’m Apollo Justice, and I’m fine!”
“I’m Klavier Gavin, and I’m fine!”
“Fuck yeah you are! Again!”
“I’m Klavier Gavin, and I’m fine!”
Exhaling, Klavier laughs and slumps down again onto the floor. Apollo sits with him, and they say nothing, and Klavier most definitely is not fine. But, for a moment, it really seems to Apollo like he could be.
Maybe they could even be fine together.