Author's Note: This was written for the prompt of Klavier/Apollo, Klavier is stabbed at one of his concerts.
With Songs of Sadness and of Mirth
Chapter One
"So, how do I look?"
Apollo continues to stare down at the book that he's reading, ignoring Klavier.
"Herr Forehead?" Klavier sets the eye liner in his hand down on the counter, finally satisfied with his appearance.
When Apollo doesn't answer again, Klavier sighs and walks to stand in front of his lover. Bending down, he waves a hand in front of Apollo's face.
"Huh?" Apollo jerks back, reaching up to remove an ear plug from his right ear. "Did you say something?"
"You know, Herr Forehead, the concert isn't supposed to start for another fifteen minutes." Klavier captures the hand with the ear plug in his.
"No, your part of the concert doesn't start for another fifteen minutes." Apollo's lips pull back in a grimace of distaste. "That horrific opening act has been on stage for five minutes already."
If Klavier strains his ears, he can maybe, possibly, hear the faintest sound of chords from the stage. "Apollo, at this rate, I'm going to think that you're just pretending not to like my type of music. This level of aversion cannot be anything but a game."
"No game, I promise. I really, truly despise this musical genre, and it despises my ears. And my sinuses. And basically my whole body." Apollo gives a mock shudder.
"And here I thought that it was Athena with the sensitive hearing." Klavier's fingers gently slide around Apollo's ear.
Apollo gives a snort, reaching up to bat at Klavier's hand. "You don't need extra-sensitive hearing to know when you don't like something."
"And yet here you are." Klavier dodges Apollo's strike before reaching out again, trailing his hand down the side of Apollo's cheek.
"Well... maybe there are some things here worth listening to. And watching." Apollo turns his head, his lips finding Klavier's palm and brushing gently against it.
Klavier leans down closer, feeling the strain in his lower back, not caring because Apollo's lips are beckoning. "Despite the fact that I will be singing many of the songs from my old discography?"
"There are some that I like. Like the one you did with Lamiroir. Some others in that vein." Apollo leans forward, closing the remaining distance between them and melding his lips to Klavier's.
Klavier closes his eyes, his free hand wrapping around Apollo's neck, pulling them as close together as he can.
It has not been an easy year for them—for Apollo especially. Constance Courte's murder, the uncovering of yet more deeply-set corruption in the system, had shaken Klavier; Clay Terran's death had been a devastating blow to Apollo, one that he still hasn't recovered from completely. Will maybe never recover from completely, depending on how one defines recovering, as Klavier will never truly be free from the shadow of Kristoph's betrayal. Some wounds change you irreparably, leave scars that will always be visible to those who knew you before.
Apollo smiles as he leans back, breaking off the kiss, and Klavier can't help grinning in return.
Stroking his thumb down Apollo's face again, Klavier presses a kiss to Apollo's forehead. "It is good to see you smile like that, Herr Justice."
Apollo squirms away from Klavier's hold, rolling his eyes as he does. The smile doesn't fade away, though. "Yeah, well, you've got a pretty good smile yourself. Though if you're not careful, you're going to smudge that ridiculous make-up, and you don't have the—" Apollo glances down at his watch. "—hour and five minutes needed to redo it."
Klavier touches a finger to his lips, glancing at Apollo's mouth and forehead, noting no transfer. "This is designed to stay on despite my sweating like I'm in a sauna under those lights. We would have to get a bit more... exuberant before it became a problem."
Shaking his head, Apollo places a hand over his eyes and groans. "No. Not here, not when you're due on stage in ten minutes. And if you don't stop laughing, I'm going to throw something at you. Or several somethings."
Klavier presses his lips together, making a zipping motion across his mouth with his right hand. "I would never dream of laughing at you, Herr Forehead."
Narrowing his eyes, Apollo taps the book's spine against his open palm. "Why did I decide to come with you again?"
Because Klavier had convinced Apollo, after much effort, that a break would do him good. Because Apollo is healing from his losses, is happy at his job, but he doesn't smile as much as he did before, and there is sadness behind it when he does, and Klavier thought maybe a vacation could help give him some time and distance without additional stress to speed his healing. Because Klavier is nervous, going back on stage, two of the four musicians at his back new people from the office—a young group of new musicians, and he has tried, so hard, to make sure that they are not part of the Dark Age of the Law, but if he's wrong...
All of which can be summed up very succinctly. "Because you love me."
A beat passes, and then Apollo sighs, settling down in his seat with another small smile. "Yeah. Despite my better instincts, I seem to have fallen into your trap."
"Trap?" Klavier arches an eyebrow. "What trap would that be?"
A faint blush touches Apollo's cheeks. "The trap where you're unfairly pretty, annoyingly intelligent and competent, and generally an all-around nice guy. Don't let all that go to your head though, all right?"
"How could I not, Herr Justice?" Klavier bends down again, kissing Apollo deeply. His breath hitches in his throat a bit as he thinks back over Apollo's litany of attributes. He finds it hard still, sometimes, to accept that he was not culpable for any of his involvement in creating the Dark Age of the Law. Not culpable for his brother's faults and failings, and his own inability to see them. Apollo never allows him to wallow in that guilt, though, throwing him unexpected compliments just when Klavier most needs them.
Apollo returns the kiss, though his hand pushes against Klavier's chest when Klavier moves to pull Apollo into a deeper embrace. "Uh-uh. Concert. Singing. We should be heading for the stage."
Giving a mock sigh of long-suffering distress, Klavier straightens back up. "I suppose. Though you still haven't answered my question."
Apollo's brow wrinkles as he lifts a finger to rest against his forehead, his classic thinking pose. It takes all Klavier's self-control not to grab the shorter man and spin his around in a circle. "Nope, don't remember. What question have I failed to answer?"
"The one I asked when you were ignoring me." Klavier spreads his arms out to the side, turning in a slow circle. "How do I look?"
"There are enough mirrors in here that you already know the answer to that. So stop fishing for compliments." Apollo takes Klavier's hand in his, and he's smiling again, perhaps the most that Klavier has seen him smile in one night in quite some time. Getting Apollo to agree to come with him had been a wonderful idea. "Come on, oh glimmerous one. Let's get you on stage before the fans start rioting."
XXX
Klavier leaves Apollo backstage with a kiss and a wave, joining his band-mates new and old as they tune instruments and prepare for the Gavinners' big return to stage.
If someone had asked Klavier if he would do this six months ago, he probably would have told them no. If pressed as to why, he would have found a hard time articulating anything. He would have fallen back on the standard platitudes about needing to focus on his prosecuting, about the legal system needing all of his attention during a difficult time.
Constance Courte hadn't believed the platitudes.
She didn't press him for more information, though. She just sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder.
You look so sad, Klavier. Her voice was gentle, her own smile sad as she stared up into his eyes. It had been so strange, being taller than her, her having to reach up to pat him on the back rather than down. I won't make you talk about it. I've been watching the news. But... remember that you being sad and miserable doesn't help make anything better. And I've got some good kids who would really love to see you sing and play.
He hadn't given her his answer about the concert then. He had told her he would happily teach the prosecutor's course, but he had hedged about the rest until the next day. Until he went home and picked up a guitar, for the first time in seven months, and found his fingers falling easily onto the old chords, and his voice was rusty where it echoed back to him from his empty house, but the music still felt right.
Just as he thinks it will feel right tonight. He can already sense it in his gut, the tight knot of mingled excitement and anxiety that he always feels before going on stage. He loves performing, from the bottom of his heart—loves singing the songs that he wrote, hearing and feeling the audience response, and it is even better than winning in court, when he is singing well and they are giving themselves to him and the music takes them all somewhere else. Somewhere better, where love wins out, and emotions make sense, and it is a heady, wondrous, powerful feeling like nothing else in the world.
As long as he is doing well, of course. As long as his band is playing well, as long as the lyrics flow off his tongue instead of tripping, as long as he doesn't bungle something. He knows how much each ticket costs, how precious an event this is for most of those who come, and he wants to do it well. He wants to give them the best that he can possibly offer, but it isn't humanly feasible to always be at his peak, and so along with the excitement and joy there is always anxiety.
Never enough to qualify as stage fright, never anything that he will show to the audience, but he is sometimes gruff in his orders to his band-mates, persistent to the point of annoyance with his manager and the theatre staff about having everything as perfect as he can make it.
It will be worth it, he thinks as the curtain rises on a sold-out audience.
If he can give himself and Apollo a chance to smile, a chance to step outside the roles that have hurt them so badly for a few days and find a bit of peace, it will be more than worth it.
The band launches into the first song before the cheering has even begun to die down, because Klavier knows the music will be more effective than anything he could possibly say at quieting the audience. It is a new song, off the album that he has been working on for the last few months—the album that Apollo has been subjected to, along with Athena, Trucy, Ema, and the rest of the friends who have come to fill his too-empty house since he began reaching out to them. No one in the audience sings along, since they have at best heard pirated beta versions, but when the song is over they scream for more.
Klavier can feel himself grinning, his feet barely seeming to touch the stage as he stalks from one side to the other, intentionally riling up his fans as he asks what songs they want—what parts of him they want, the old or the new, and though the clamor for the old is louder, there are enough begging for new content to make it feel balanced.
And they will have both, will hear him singing the songs he wrote before he knew exactly how badly the world was broken as well as the ones he has written since. They will hear joy and they will hear longing and they will hear peace, if he is achieving even a fraction of what he wants with his new songs—a hard-won peace, an acceptance of a world not yet perfect underwritten by a desire and willingness to change it for the better.
But first, he will repay their kindness, their loyalty, their faith, and give them a bit of what he was before.
The lights beat down, and he had forgotten how hot they can be, how it can make it seem as though his skin is on fire. Not that he cares—heat outside just matches the heat inside, and at the end of the set he will have Apollo and a bottle of ice-cold water to cool him off.
Well, have a bottle of ice-cold water to cool him off, because Apollo is usually anything but cool and calming.
Klavier's lips pull back from his teeth, a grin and a challenge as his voice soars easily over the notes. It had taken him two months to get his voice back into a reasonable shape, but he likes it, likes the way it has strengthened and deepened since he first debuted. He looses more and more of a German accent on the words, and the crowd screams in approval, an eager mass that he can only kind-of see through the glare of the follow spots.
That's all right. He will sign exorbitantly priced autographs after the concert, smile at girls and young men who will look away as though his gaze is scalding though he is the one laid bare and made vulnerable in his music. Then he will need to see them as individuals; now it is best to view them like the gallery, not single people but a fluctuating mass and his job is to keep them thinking in the direction that he—
Klavier's hands both slide across his guitar, creating a discordant thred-oom that shatters the mood and music. "Daryan?"
It can't be.
It isn't possible.
Daryan is in prison, is awaiting execution for killing a fellow officer of the law. The man standing before Klavier can't possibly be Daryan.
It isn't Daryan, he realizes an eternity later, and the relief is so great that he almost collapses right where he is. Almost, but not quite, instead standing staring at the man. The hair has been styled to look like Daryan's; the clothes are an exact replica of Daryan's stage outfit; the expression when Klavier had first seen the interloper on his stage, full of disdain, had been very close to the one Daryan Crescend wore when he last agreed to speak with Klavier. The line of the jaw is wrong, though, and the way this man moves, a sort of shifting, fluid grace, is very unlike Daryan's forceful actions.
Not Daryan, then. Not a nightmare somehow come to pass, the darkness rising up from the music as it has from every other aspect of his life, and Klavier breathes out a sigh of relief.
He must have blinked, because he doesn't see the man move. One moment he has appeared on the stage four feet from Klavier's position, turned so that the audience can see his costume well; the next he has Klavier by the collar with his left hand, has punched Klavier in the gut with his right.
"Traitor." The man-who-isn't-Daryan whispers the name that Daryan calls him in Klavier's ear, his eyes wide and feral. "Murderer! Turncoat! They gave you everything, made you who you are today, and as soon as it was convenient you threw them away! We won't stand for it! We won't—"
And then the man is gone, torn away from Klavier by the furious howling mass of Cymbeline Bass. The drummer is snarling out curses in three or four languages as she bears not-Daryan down to the ground, pounding his head into the stage floor once, twice, three times.
Klavier should probably stop that. He doesn't want Cymb to get in trouble on his account.
He should say something to the audience, and Klavier blows out a sharp breath into his microphone. His body is shaking, his hands jittery on his guitar, his fingers not quite seeming able to hold anything tightly. Security is busy trying to keep the half-panicked crowd in place, and Klavier squints out past the stagelights, rainbows seeming to flash before his eyes. "Everyone, if you could please stay calm, we'll have this sorted out in a minute. Then we can—"
Ryan, his bassist, is suddenly at Klavier's side, fumbling with the strap to Klavier's guitar. His face is pale, and his fingers aren't shaking quite as badly as Klavier's, but they're definitely unsteady. "It's okay, Gavin. Ambulance is on its way."
Klavier blinks. "Ambulance? I don't..."
Then Ryan pulls Klavier's guitar away, sets it gently down on the stage, and Klavier sees that there is blood staining Ryan's hands, staining the back of the guitar.
"Cymb, stop hitting the guy, he's down." Ryan gives the command sharply.
"But he—" Cymbeline raises her head, and there are tears in her eyes though her teeth are bared.
"It's okay." Someone cuts the mics after Ryan says that, and Klavier has to strain to make out the next words, though Ryan is standing right next to him. Has an arm around Klavier's shoulders, the other gripping Klavier's arm tightly, and is guiding Klavier slowly step by step toward the wings. "You've been stabbed, Klavier, but it's going to be just fine."
Klavier nods. "Ja, of course."
It—he—had better be just fine.
If he's not, Apollo's going to kill him.
XXX
Klavier was stabbed, and Apollo didn't notice.
Continued to read his book, only vaguely aware that the last song was maybe a little short, and he should have looked up, he should have gone out to the wings to see what was happening, he should have noticed, but he didn't.
Not until two of the other four Gavinners members deposit Klavier in front of him, a knife protruding from Klavier's left side like some kind of horrific costume adornment, and Apollo's smile of greeting freezes on his face.
"Don't let him touch it." It's the woman who snaps out the command, and Apollo should recognize her. Klavier had introduced Apollo to all of the other band members earlier in the evening, and Apollo has a vague idea that this is one of the other original Gavinners members but he's not sure.
"Paramedics should be here in about two minutes, they were on stand-by already due to the sold-out concert." A man with blood on his hands presses Klavier closer to Apollo. "Don't move, Gavin. The less you move, the less damage there'll be."
"You going to be all right watching him?" The woman frowns at Apollo.
"I'll be fine." Apollo takes Klavier's hands, squeezing them tightly. "We'll both be fine, right, Klavier?"
"Ja." Klavier reaches up to cup the side of Apollo's face, one of his ridiculous I-love-you grins in place. His pupils are dilated, and his hand is just a bit unsteady, but overall, considering what's happened, he seems remarkably calm and coherent. "One cannot help but be fine around Apollo Justice. He exudes it like a fragrance."
"No." Apollo shakes his head. "I'm going to attribute that ludicrous statement to blood loss. I've got Klavier, though. You guys go do whatever it is you need to do."
"You—" Apollo can see the quick calculations happening in the man's mind as he changes tactics. "Do you want to meet the paramedics or go help deal with our criminal, Cymb?"
The woman sighs. "Paramedics. I don't trust myself not to hit him again, and there's no way I'm letting him get off the hook for this because they call police brutality from a detective."
"You caught the... whoever did this?" Apollo's hands tighten on Klavier's, and breathing is suddenly much harder as he realizes that, of course, this was no accident. Someone stabbed Klavier. During the middle of one of his performances. While Apollo was a few dozen yards away, and didn't notice anything.
Cymb has already charged off, through the sprawling labyrinth of corridors that connects the backstage area to the rest of the world. The man, whose name Apollo also seems to have forgotten, pauses long enough to nod. He gives Apollo a reassuring smile that is just a bit too toothy as he walks away. "If two detectives, a forensics guy, and an assistant in the prosecutor's office can't catch someone who stabbed one of their own in front of them, we don't deserve our jobs."
Then he is gone, too, and Apollo finds himself alone with Klavier, the background din of thousands of strangers that they can't see echoing off the walls around them.
Klavier's gaze has wandered away from Apollo, toward the stage where his band-mate disappeared.
"Klavier." Apollo squeezes his boyfriend's hands, and Klavier turns languidly toward him. "Why don't you keep talking to me, okay? Until the paramedics get here."
"Anything for you, Herr Justice." Klavier reaches up to stroke Apollo's cheek again, his skin warm and dry. Though blood has begun to spread out in a red-black stain from where the knife protrudes, Klavier has managed not to touch any of it. "Entschuldigung. Though... this would perhaps require a bit more familiarity. Ich bitte Sie um Verzeihung."
"If you really want to apologize, don't do it in a language I can't understand." Apollo taps his finger against Klavier's nose, as though this were any other night, the motion feeling surreal—the whole conversation feeling surreal, and if he keeps his eyes up, doesn't look at the knife, he can almost believe that Klavier is fine.
"But you will not learn to understand it if I do not teach you by example, Herr Zaubermaus."
"Uh-uh, nothing with maus in it gets to be a nickname. I am not a mouse."
Klavier laughs, though the sound trails off too quickly, and he sways a bit on his feet. "Not even a magic mouse? And here maus seems so appropriate, given your size—"
"Do you want me to stab you, too?" Apollo can't tell if he's about to cry or about to laugh, and he's certain he looks ridiculous, but Klavier's smile is still genuine as he carefully leans down to kiss the top of Apollo's head.
"Nein." Klavier seems to be leaning a bit more heavily against Apollo, and his skin has taken on a dusky gray look beneath his golden complexion. "I would not put Mr. Wright and Ms. Cykes in that position. Though if you wanted to stab me with something other than a sword, at—at the..."
"Steady there." Apollo braces his feet, watching carefully to ensure that if Klavier collapses completely Apollo will be able to make certain it isn't onto the knife.
"Ich liebe dich, Barchen." Klavier's lips are still red, his stage make-up giving him a parody of a healthy complexion where it stubbornly stays on. His tongue and gums are becoming steadily paler, taking on more of a blue hue, and Apollo tightens his hold. "Little bear—better than a mouse, yes? Fierce and strong and determined, just as you are. One of the best things to ever happen to me, Apollo."
"Yeah? You've been one of the best for me, too, despite how everything started." Apollo tightens his hold on Klavier again, spasmodically, desperately, trying not to think back to other pictures of knives in people very dear to him. Klavier was walking two minutes ago; he is still talking to Apollo, even if his speech seems to become more stuttered with every sentence; the paramedics will be here in seconds, and everything will be fine. "But you'll have lots more chances to tell me about it, right? Lots more chances to write silly ridiculous songs."
(Songs that Apollo will listen to when it is Klavier strumming and singing alone, but he hates most of the final arrangements, and he wasn't paying attention when Klavier was stabbed, he didn't notice just like he didn't notice that Clay was dead, didn't know what he'd lost until Mr. Starbuck contacted him, and isn't there supposed to be some sense that tells you when those near to you are hurt? Why does he not know a part of his heart is in mortal danger until someone else tells him? Why—)
"Ah. Sanitater." Klavier smiles over Apollo's shoulder. Apollo can't tell anymore if he's slipping between the two languages because he enjoys doing it to tease Apollo or if Klavier simply can't tell what language he's using anymore. Klavier shifts in Apollo's hold, taking a step forward.
All of his weight comes down on Apollo a moment later, but Apollo is prepared, and he keeps Klavier from collapsing until one of the paramedics can help him gently lower Klavier down onto a gurney.
XXX
Apollo stands just outside the doors that finally separated him from Klavier, his skin cold except for where the tips of his fingers tingle with the fading warmth from Klavier's body.
Klavier had stayed conscious, though with a steadily decreasing level of coherence, for about three-quarters of the ride to the hospital. Apollo had managed to stay at his side, tucked up at the very head of the ambulance, out of the way of the paramedics who were busy shoving fluids and blood and medications that Apollo couldn't even pronounce into both Klavier's arms. They had cut the soft fabric of Klavier's shirt away from the knife, packed gauze around it, and then left it alone, one calling ahead to the hospital to have the operating room team prepped for immediate emergency abdominal surgery. There had also been a list of numbers, including heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygenation, that Apollo couldn't understand, as well as an off-hand comment about possibly spleen, possibly liver that Apollo was fairly certain didn't bode well, from the way the man's face turned grim when he said it.
Apollo hadn't asked any questions. It had taken a great deal of fast talking and the fabrication of several laws related to visitation rights as well as Klavier's stubborn insistence that Apollo be allowed to come to gain him access to the ambulance. Given that Apollo might already be in trouble if the paramedics are smart enough to remember some of the numbers he rattled off and look up the actual laws, he wanted to stay quiet and unobtrusive.
So he just sat in his small corner, scrunched up, his fingers smoothing through Klavier's long blond hair, and tried to make sense of what Klavier was saying.
Decided that it was a very good thing he hadn't seen the man who attacked Klavier, after Apollo reassured Klavier for the third time that Daryan Crescend was still in prison, that Klavier hadn't done anything to betray Daryan but rather that Klavier had stayed true to himself.
How could someone call themselves a Gavinners fan and not know what Klavier went through with Daryan?
They were four minutes and twenty-eight seconds from the hospital when Klavier's blue eyes finally closed, rolling up under eyelids that were far too pale under the make-up that covered them. Apollo knows the time because the paramedics kept calling numbers to each other, including the time, and counting the time was the only thing keeping Apollo from screaming.
Now there are no numbers, though. There is no skin warm under his fingertips, and he thinks—hopes—Klavier was aware enough to know that Apollo was there. Thinks he must have been, since pet names in German tripped off Klavier's tongue until he stopped talking completely. Engel. Liebling. Schatzi. Falke, said with a sly smile that makes Apollo suspect what the word means, and he presses the heels of his hands to his burning eyes and takes deep breaths.
(He had no pet names to give back to Klavier, and for the first time since their tentative relationship started Apollo regretted that he always played the straight man. Though Klavier didn't seem to care, smiling every time Apollo said Klavier or Klav, staying still when Apollo asked him to, so trusting, always so trusting even after everything and—)
"Are you Mr. Justice?"
Apollo lowers his hands, drawing deep breaths, forcing his voice to be quieter than usual. He doesn't want to scare anyone else, and he's certain there are other people here facing nightmares just like he is. "Yeah? I mean, yes. That's me."
The woman in green scrubs inclines her head. Her hair is tied up in a neat bun, and a bundle of papers attached to a clipboard is in her right hand. Gesturing toward a row of chairs on the right side of the room, she offers Apollo a sympathetic smile. "Is it true you have power of attorney for Mr. Gavin?"
Apollo nods, drawing a shallow breath of the hospital air, trying not to wince at the clean, dry scent.
"Then there are some things I need to ask you and some papers I need you to fill out." The woman settles into a chair next to him, maneuvering the stack of papers onto Apollo's lap. "First off, does Mr. Gavin have any medical conditions we should be aware of?"
Apollo blinks, trying to process the question. "He's twenty-six. And keeps himself in ridiculously good shape."
"I'll take that as you not being aware of anything." The woman nods. "And is Mr. Gavin currently taking any medications? Prescription or... recreational?"
"Are you asking me if Klavier's doing drugs?" Apollo's voice is flat, betraying only a hint of the rage starting to build in his chest.
"We wouldn't report anything. We just need to know anything he might be on that could interact with anesthetics—"
"He's unconscious from blood loss from a stab wound." Each word is louder than the last, and Apollo can see others starting to raise their heads, to glance in his direction.
"Mr. Justice, I understand why you're upset. We're just trying to get as much information as we can." The woman's hands move in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry if you find the questions offensive. I'm going to leave you here to fill out as much as you can on these papers, all right? When you're done, bring them to the desk over there."
Following her pointing finger, Apollo swallows any other angry remarks and gives a jerky nod.
The woman stands, but her expression is still pensive. "One more question I need to know the answer to now though, Mr. Justice."
She pauses, clearly trying to gauge how he's going to react, and Apollo forces himself to take a deep breath, to calm down as much as he can. She's just doing her job. She's not like the paparazzi who harass Klavier, throwing around unfounded accusations to sell papers, constantly revisiting the losses he has suffered and acting as though he should be grateful they are rubbing salt in open oozing wounds. Apollo's voice is more tired than angry when he asks, "What else?"
"If the worst should happen... do you want us to resuscitate Mr. Gavin or not?"
Apollo's body freezes, his mind refusing to process the words into anything sensical. Klavier said he would be fine. Klavier said everything would be fine, and he isn't going to die like Clay died, he isn't, and Apollo isn't going to make this decision. They've never talked about this, never considered that it might be something they needed to talk about, the grim patina of grief and regret that had forged the trading of medical power of attorney before they began dating not quite dark enough to let them imagine this. Just because Klavier realized he didn't want Kristoph making medical decisions for him around the same time Apollo realized with Clay gone he no longer had someone to make medical decisions for him didn't mean they were thinking about dying, about DNR orders and life support and all the myriad potential complications of—
"Mr. Justice?" The nurse tentatively touches his shoulder, and it is sympathy on her face again. Or perhaps pity, and that snaps Apollo back to himself a bit, because he will never allow himself to be pitied.
"Yes." Apollo gives a jerky nod. "Resuscitate if it's needed. Don't... don't let him die without doing absolutely everything you can to save him."
The nurse walks away, and Apollo turns determinedly to the paperwork filling his lap.
He will not cry until it's done.
He will not grieve until they tell him he has reason to.
He will not have reason to cry.
Everything will be fine.
It doesn't make the burning in his eyes go away, but it keeps him from crying onto the documents as he skims the legalese with the easy speed of familiarity, signing away as much culpability for the hospital as they can resaonably ask in between filling out what he knows of Klavier's personal and family medical history.
Not that he would sue the hospital, anyway. He will know who is to blame if Klavier dies.
The tip of the pen breaks off, and there is a hole punched six sheets deep in the stack of papers, a blot of ink darker than blood clots at the base.
Standing stiffly, Apollo moves to the desk and asks for another pen.
At least the paperwork gives him something to do other than watch the seconds slowly tick away.
XXX
Apollo doesn't know exactly how much time has passed before Trucy throws herself into his arms.
He could figure it out, probably, by looking at the clock. He remembers exactly when they wheeled Klavier into surgery. But time has seemed to expand and contract around him as he waits for news in the room they guided him to once he was done with paperwork. Sometimes it seems as though time is moving like sap in the winter, thick and slow; sometimes it is whishing by like the rapids of a waterfall, dragging him along faster than he can process.
"Apollo!" Trucy hugs him tightly, her arms around his neck. Only after she's done that does she pull away and study his face, one hand on either cheek, holding him in place. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." Apollo smiles at his friend and partner, though the expression—the words—feel more forced than usual. "I wasn't on stage. I didn't even know anything happened until... until I saw Klavier."
Athena and Mr. Wright have also gathered around him, and Apollo blinks up at them blurrily, grateful for their presence and also feeling guilty, somehow, that they're here on his behalf. Athena has her hands on her hips, is staring at him with that knowing little frown that says she hears something in his voice she doesn't like.
"I really am fine." Apollo focuses on the relief that he feels, having these people here, fixes his mind on it until it nearly blots out any other feeling. "And... thank you guys. For coming."
"This isn't the kind of thing anyone should have to sit through alone." Phoenix settles into the chair next to Apollo. He is in street clothes, his hair hidden, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. He apparently didn't shave before coming, stubble standing out dark against his skin.
"We want to be here for Klavier, too." Trucy releases Apollo's face, straightening to look towards the operating room, as though her eyes could pierce through concrete and metal and show her how Klavier is doing. "How... there wasn't..."
"Mr. Edgeworth wasn't able to tell us much about Klavier's status." Athena wraps an arm around Trucy's shoulders, pulling the smaller girl into a half-hug.
"I think that's because no one knows much." Apollo glances up at the clock, then frowns as he forces his brain to do calculations it wouldn't normally appreciate after midnight, and especially not a midnight like this. "He's been in surgery for over three hours now. They haven't... they haven't told me anything."
"That's probably good." Phoenix's hand pats at Apollo's shoulder, the motion awkward. "That means they're just focusing on their work."
It means Klavier isn't dead yet, at least. Apollo draws a slow, shallow breath through his nose and nods. Then he frowns, thinking back on what Athena said. "How does Edgeworth factor into this? He wasn't... he didn't go to the Gavinners' concert, did he?"
Phoenix's snort of laughter answers that.
Athena smiles down at Trucy. "Help me get all the steps here straight. I don't remember all the Gavinner's members."
"I do. Well, most of them. I'm still getting used to the new guys." Trucy draws a deep breath. "Mr. Ryan N. Blues, ace bassist, is a member of the Gavinners as well as a forensics expert. He began collecting evidence at the crime scene while Ms. Cymbeline Bass, one of the detective member of the Gavinners, arrested the criminal."
Apollo nods. "I'm pretty sure I met them both at the conc—at the crime scene."
"Right." Trucy reaches out, taking Apollo's hand in hers and holding it tightly. "Well, apparently it was decided once the perpetrator was at the detention center and asking for a lawyer that Mr. Edgeworth should be contacted."
Athena picks up the thread. "Because it's important to choose the right prosecutor for a case that involves one of their own being hurt—someone who's going to be thorough but fair, determined but not do anything that the defense can say was... um..."
Trucy chimes back in. "Someone who's not going to cheat, even if it's tempting and the son of a bitch deserves it. Someone who'll nail the bastard to the wall but do it all legally."
Someone like Klavier, Apollo can hear most of them thinking. Or maybe that is just his own thoughts, echoing too loudly as he tries not to think about if Klavier will be able to stand in court again.
Trucy glances at her father. "Sorry, Daddy. I know I'm not supposed to say words like that, even though I'm practically an adult."
"I think, in situations like this, I can't really blame you." Phoenix smiles at his daughter. "Though you may want to be careful what insults you choose. Calling this nutjob a bastard is an insult to bastards everywhere."
Athena places her free hand on her hip. "Well, calling him a nutjob's an insult to the mentally ill. If he does have some kind of mental illness, that's not what let him empathize more with Daryan than Klavier. The amount of selfishness needed to do that—ugh, it makes my skin crawl."
Apollo doesn't want to talk about the man who stabbed Klavier. If they do he might decide he wants to do something incredibly foolish, like acquire a knife of his own and head down to the detention center and do to the man what he did to Klavier. Klavier would not appreciate that, though—would likely frown at Apollo quite severely and tell him he was being an idiot. So instead Apollo switches the conversation back to its original track. "That's how Mr. Edgeworth got involved, and then he called you?"
"Yeah. As soon as he realized it was Klavier who was hurt, he called me." Mr. Wright's hand again pats awkwardly at Apollo's shoulder. "I woke up Trucy—"
"I was already awake, Daddy, I don't go to bed that early anymore."
Phoenix ignores his daughter. "And then I called Athena, and we all decided to come see how things were going."
Athena settles into the chair on the other side of Apollo, taking his free hand between hers. Her fingers are so warm they feel like brands against his skin, and Apollo realizes exactly how cold he is again. "We were worried about Klavier. And about you."
"I'm..." Apollo glances up at Athena, and realizes that he doesn't have it in him to drown out all the discord that will appear in his voice. Better not to lie than to be caught in one. "I'll be fine. Whatever happens... I'll be fine."
Before Apollo quite knows what's happening Trucy has launched herself at him again, enveloping him in a fierce hug; Athena's arms join Trucy's a moment later, and that heavy weight can only be Mr. Wright's arm, settling across Apollo's shoulders.
"You will be, Polly." Trucy's voice shakes, is barely intelligible, her head buried against his chest. "I promise, you will be."
Stroking the girl's hair, Apollo doesn't say anything, just sinking into the embrace of his friends and allowing their warmth to penetrate the cold that is trying to encase him.
XXX
An hour later Phoenix is sleeping, Trucy curled in the chair next to him like a gangly puppy, her head resting on her father's shoulder. There has still been no word about Klavier.
Apollo paces from one end of the waiting room to the other, glancing between the door and the telephone. They would call, if Klavier crashed during surgery, right? They would let him know? They wouldn't just leave him here waiting, wondering—
"Apollo."
Apollo blinks, raising his head to see that Athena has planted herself in his pacing path. "Huh?"
"That's the fifty-eighth time you've walked the same path. My feet are starting to get tired watching you." Athena's hand moves to her earring, toying with it as she studies him. "I just... did you need to talk about anything?"
"Is it my friend or the psychologist asking?" The words are meant to be a joke, but Apollo can hear the hard undercurrent to them, watches as Athena flinches back slightly.
"Both, always." Athena's head tilts as she gives an apologetic shrug. "But the friend is always going to take precedence. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." Apollo scrubs a hand across his face, his eyes feeling gritty as he blinks. "I do. I'm sorry. I'm just tired and... really worried."
"I know the feeling." Athena reaches out slowly, taking Apollo's hand in hers. "I know he's not my boyfriend, but I like Klavier a lot, and I really do understand how scared you are because I'm pretty scared too."
"I know." Giving her hand a squeeze, Apollo allows his gaze to drift up, away from Athena's eyes. "I'm sorry." It seems he has been saying that phrase a lot lately.
"No need to be." Athena swings their linked hands, back and forth, back and forth, drawing Apollo's eyes back down. "Though if you don't mind my being nosy..."
Apollo shakes his head. "Nose away."
"When we came in and you said you didn't notice right away that Klavier had been hurt..." Athena's hand covers Widget, though the small robot has been relatively silent, glowing a soft, sad purple for the last hour. "You were hurting, so much, but you were also... was that guilt that I heard?"
Apollo thinks about not answering. If he doesn't say anything, Athena will leave him alone, though she will continue to watch him, wary and anxious until he deals with his problems. So instead, though it goes against all the instincts he learned growing up, he shrugs and answers truthfully. "Seeing Klavier like that... it's awful enough on its own, but it's also making me think about Clay. How I couldn't do anything. How I didn't even know he had died, for... for way too long. I wasn't watching Klavier's concert. I was backstage, and I didn't notice. He could have died, right there, and I would just have kept reading—"
He has to stop, because if he doesn't stop he will start crying, and that is completely unacceptable.
Athena's arms wrap around him, and her voice is husky with unshed tears. "You were supposed to be doing something like reading, Apollo. He wanted the tour to be a vacation for you. For you to watch him or ignore him and do whatever you needed to do to feel good. He wouldn't want you to feel guilty about this."
Nodding, the motion jerky and unsteady as his breathing, Apollo returns Athena's embrace with equal enthusiasm, glad that she and Trucy (and Klavier, and Clay, but he isn't going to think about them right now) have no trouble initiating physical contact when Apollo needs it. "I know. But I just... it's too soon. I can't... it's making me think... terrible things. About myself. About... I wished it was someone else in the band who got hurt. They protected Klavier, they caught the guy who hurt him, and I just wished it was one of them who got stabbed. Which would have hurt Klavier, and he doesn't need this, either, and I... I don't know if I can handle this, 'Thena, I really don't."
The last words are a whisper, and Apollo finds that he is shaking badly, his teeth chattering together as though they were in a freezer.
"You can." Athena releases him, taking both his hands instead and meeting his eyes with a fire-bright blue gaze that reminds him of Klavier's. "Whatever happens, we're all here for you, and you're one of the toughest guys I've ever met, Apollo. We'll be all right, even if... even if he dies."
A strangled, piteous noise that sounds more like a dying kitten than a person ever should slips out of Apollo's mouth, and something hot and liquid starts rolling down his cheeks, tears that don't stop even when he squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can.
"But he won't. He shouldn't." Athena pulls him in for another hug, her hand rubbing in circles between his shoulder blades. "It was a traumatic injury. If he was going to die from that it should have been quick, yeah? So take the no news as good news."
Nodding, Apollo scrubs at his eyes, trying to erase the signs of tears. "I know. That's what I keep telling myself. I just..."
"You're tired and you're hurting. And I know we're not going to be able to help either of those until we hear from the surgeon. So." Athena takes his hands again, and Apollo is grateful to see that her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks moist too. "Instead of you pacing yourself into exhaustion, why don't we do a jigsaw puzzle? It doesn't require any thinking—just pattern recognition and determination. I think we're both pretty good at those."
"Okay." Apollo follows where Athena tugs him, toward the tables that are lined up against the back wall, their tops pretty blue-and-green patterns that Apollo suspects are designed to be soothing.
They spend the next hour putting together a picture of frolicking dolphins, until a woman in blue scrubs comes into the room and Apollo embarrasses himself by crying again, though this time they are tears of relief and utter exhaustion.
XXX
Klavier dreams, and the dreams are nightmares.
Daryan follows him, alternating between looking perfectly normal and looking like a corpse that has been decomposing at a crime scene for several days before being found. Klavier runs from him, but his steps are heavy and slow, as though something else were dragging at him, holding him down.
He doesn't want to look and see what it is. He just wants to get away, escape the steady, inexorable approach of the laughing man who used to be his friend.
"Can't run from me, Klavier." Daryan's voice alternates with his appearance, sometimes normal, sometimes gravelly and harsh. "Can't run from any of it."
Klavier doesn't want to watch what is holding him back, but he stumbles, falling into something soft and yielding and fleshy.
Blond strands of hair are wrapped around his feet, his ankles, his thighs, snake up to cover his fingers, his wrists, his arms as he yowls and pulls back in terror. Blue eyes cold with hatred and disdain appear and disappear in the writhing mass of hair, and Daryan has caught up to him.
Fingers that are half-skeletal stroke Klavier's hair away from his eyes. "You forgot about me, didn't you? Got so caught up in your mirror-image's trial that you forgot all about your old friend. Forgot about what you did to me. What you did to our fans."
Follow spots and stage lights flare into life, blinding, painful in their intensity, and Klavier blinks away tears, struggles to see through the glare to the audience that he can suddenly hear chanting beyond the light.
"Listen to them." Daryan's arms wrap around Klavier, a parody of an embrace, and Klavier can smell the stench of rot mingled with the deodorant that Daryan always used during concerts. "So eager to drink our blood, Klavier. Whether it's on the stage or in the courtroom or in the news, there's nothing they like more than fresh-spilled blood. A species of vampires, that's what humanity is."
The chanting becomes more comprehensible, though the lights are still blinding, Klavier only able to make out a hulking sense of darkness moving beyond them. His skin feels too hot, too tight, and he would lower his gaze but he doesn't want to see the stage made of Kristoph's skin/his skin/both of them, it doesn't matter which, it is terrible no matter what choice he makes.
"Though sometimes they ask for things other than blood, yeah?" Daryan leans closer, a smile that is anything but kind on his face. "Remember when we found those stories? Reading them together with the band?"
Closer, closer, and Klavier tries to scream, tries to reel away, but he can't, hair that cuts like wire and is being stained red with his blood holds him in place, and Daryan's lips are somehow both cold and burning as they close on Klavier's, Daryan's fingers hurt as they dig into Klavier's shoulders, and the audience is cheering, cheering, encore and—
With a shiver and a start Klavier wrenches his way from the dream into consciousness, panting for a few seconds as he blinks against the darkness.
Where is he?
What's happened?
Why does he hurt, a deep, visceral pain in his abdomen?
Something beeps in the dark, and there is the green glow of monitors.
Someone warm is pressed against his side, and Klavier wills his head to turn, his body to shift so that he can see who the welcome heat source is.
"Klavier?" Apollo's voice is sleep-slurred, his eyes blinking furiously in the dark. Then he is sitting up abruptly, pulling the blanket and sheet off them both, and Klavier frowns as cold air immediately strives to steal away all of Apollo's warmth. "Klavier? You're awake?"
"Ja." The word sticks in his mouth, taking four attempts to say, and Klavier adds an incredibly sore throat to his growing lists of aches and pains.
"Klavier?" Trucy's voice is also sleep-slurred, though that doesn't stop the girl from appearing to hover over Klavier a moment later, her hair sticking up every which way. "You're awake! You're okay! You're—"
"Probably wishing people would stop screaming his name and instead offer him some water." Phoenix Wright's voice comes from somewhere far beyond Klavier's feet, and Klavier doesn't think it's worth the effort to attempt to sit up or raise his head and see where the man is.
"Right, water." Trucy disappears, reappearing a moment later with a water glass.
Klavier takes a handful of sips, glad to find that it makes his mouth and throat feel better, though there's still an itchy, scratchy, raw feeling to his throat. "Danke, Fraulein."
"Bitte." Trucy reaches out a hand to tentatively move some strands of hair away from Klavier's eyes. Then her gaze flicks to Klavier's other side, towards Apollo, and she takes a step away from the bed.
Klavier turns, moving slowly, in minute increments that don't make the aching pain in his gut worse. He tries to raise his right hand to touch Apollo's cheek, but that arm seems to be attached to a small army of tubes and monitors, so he instead raises his left hand. "Guten Morgen, Liebling."
The ghost of a smile flickers on Apollo's face, though he still looks shell-shocked, his eyes studying Klavier as though he expects Klavier to disappear at any moment. His voice is a bare whisper, far softer than anything Klavier has heard from him before. "It's night."
Klavier allows his gaze to roam around what is clearly a hospital room. "Right. That would be why it's dark."
"Yeah." Apollo's voice gains some of its usual volume as he chuckles, running a hand across his face. "That would be the reason. Do you remember what happened?"
He does, unfortunately, if he thinks back. A man who wanted to be Daryan. A punch that held steel Klavier hadn't seen, too distracted by the emotional blow. Trying to reassure Apollo as the world became steadily fuzzier around the edges.
Nightmares populated by the living dead, the death row prisoners who own a part of his past.
The heat of the stage and the roar of a crowd that doesn't care if it's his life-blood they get so long as the blood is warm and available at their demand.
No.
No, that's the nightmare, the people in the audience screaming and scared when they realized he was hurt, not euphoric, and he needs to keep the two straight. "I remember, Herr Justice. I'm sorry if I frightened you."
"Why would I be scared?" Apollo's voice cracks just a bit. "You were just unconscious for sixteen hours after a five-hour surgery. Nothing to be scared about."
Klavier glances at the collection of monitors and IV poles by his bed. "I am conscious now though, ja?"
"You are." Again Apollo runs a hand across his eyes, and Klavier realizes belatedly that the man is fighting back tears. Taking Apollo's hand in his, he holds it as firmly as he can, hoping that it will be comforting. Apollo draws a shaky breath, though it steadies towards the end. "You're awake and you're going to be just fine."
"Ah." Klavier smiles at the familiar phrase. "Is that the doctor's prognosis, or Apollo Justice's? I am quite happy with either."
"Both." Apollo relaxes back down onto the bed, pressing a kiss to Klavier's forehead. "The doc said as long as you avoided infection and woke up within twenty-four hours or so with your memory intact, you'll be just fine after five or six weeks of recovery."
"Six weeks?" Klavier frowns, shaking his head, trying to sit up and then immediately deciding that was a very poor decision as pain and nausea spike. "Nein. I am not going to be someone's lap dog for six weeks. Two or three, maybe." Klavier tenses his abdomen again and revises his estimate. "Perhaps four. But not six."
"Even if you're being my and Polly's pampered lap dog?" Trucy runs a hand over his hair again, leading Klavier to believe that it's likely become a tangled, unmanageable mess around his head.
"Well..." Moving his gaze from Apollo to Trucy and back, Klavier gives a soft sigh. "I suppose there might be some exceptions that can be made. But my work at court—"
"Uh uh." Phoenix paces into view, a day's growth of beard on his face. "If Edgeworth tries to give you any trouble, I'm trusting these two to tell me and I'll personally make him regret it. There's a few phrases I can bring up with regards to vacations that will make him see reason."
Klavier licks at dry lips. "The rest of the concert tour—"
"Don't worry." Trucy smiles as she pats him on the head. "The other Gavinners already have the tour indefinitely post-poned. People will either be refunded their ticket prices or get the chance to hold on to them if you decide you're up for doing it later."
Apollo's fingers are like a vice-grip around Klavier's. "All you have to do is focus on getting better."
"When you put it that way..." Klavier gives a mock sigh of suffering. "I suppose I have little choice."
"No choice." Trucy's pat is a bit more forceful this time, and she casts a meaningful glance at Apollo. "You're going to get back to one hundred percent—no, a hundred and ten percent before you even think of going back to any kind of work. Now, Daddy and I have a bunch of phone calls to make. Athena and Ema and Mr. Edgeworth and the rest of the band's all been by over the last twenty-four hours, and we've got strict orders to let them know as soon as you're awake."
Phoenix presses a button on his watch, causing it to glow green for a second. "I'm not sure they meant they wanted to be called at one in the morning—"
"I'm sure they did." Trucy grabs her father's hand, hauling him toward the door. "Come on, let's get calling. Polly, you make sure he stays still and gets water and anything else he needs."
There is a flash of brighter light from the hallway, and then Trucy and Phoenix are gone, leaving only Klavier and Apollo in the dim room.
Klavier turns his head to Apollo, smiling in amusement. "Did Trucy just haul her father out of here so that we could kiss?"
"Probably." Apollo gives a breathless laugh. "Once she decided it was all right for me to date you, she became a really good asset."
"She was already a good asset. She is a lovely and brilliant young woman. Though this does make me like her even a bit more." Klavier lifts his head as far as he can without his abdomen protesting and then settles back down with a grimace. "I am afraid you will have to kiss me, though. I seem to be doing a rather good imitation of a turtle right now."
Apollo laughs again, the same half-hysterical sound. "I don't know how you manage this—making me go from terrified for you to wanting to hit you for bad jokes in the space of a few minutes."
"Talent." Klavier grins. "Pure skill. Though perhaps it is failing, since I don't seem to be earning my—mmph."
Klavier closes his eyes, melting into the feel of Apollo's mouth against his. Apollo's lips are slightly chapped, uneven, but fierce and strong, and they seem to burn with the same fire that flows through the rest of the small defense attorney.
(Not rotting, not invasive, nothing like the dream, and Klavier pushes it as far from his mind as he can.)
The kiss is over far too soon, Apollo pulling back when Klavier tries to deepen it. "Sorry, Klav. Not until the doctors okay it. I'm not even supposed to be sleeping next to you yet."
Klavier raises one eyebrow. "Because I might become too aroused by your disheveled clothes that you've been in for what must be forty-eight hours if I'm doing my math right, and somehow hurt myself?"
"Because you've got an eight-inch incision in your stomach and more stitches and dissolvable goo than I care to think about inside you, making sure you don't start bleeding again." Apollo's touch is feather-light as it strokes across Klavier's forehead, though his body curls back down into the space it had occupied before, tucked up tight on Klavier's left side.
"Ah." Klavier doesn't really want to think about that, either, at least not right now. "Well, I'm fine."
Apollo gives a snort of laughter into Klavier's shoulder.
"Yeah..." Klavier chuckles briefly, too, stopping because it hurts. "I suppose for various definitions of fine. But I will be fine. And I am happy to have you by my side. You are warm."
"So are you." Apollo's left hand closes in the stiff, crinkly material of the hospital gown that's covering Klavier. "It's... really nice. I'm glad Mr. Wright's really good at making up laws."
Klavier raises his eyebrows.
"Technically it's past visiting hours and we're not supposed to be here." Apollo presses closer to Klavier's side. "And I'm really not supposed to be next to you like this, like I said. But Mr. Wright's a very fast talker when he needs to be, and he makes up laws and reasonable-sounding law numbers about a hundred times better than I did. By the way, if a paramedic calls and asks the prosecutor's office about a visitation law titled VL-98, it's a new international establishment of the rights of significant others to ride with their loved ones in an emergency, even if they're not married or in any kind of civil union."
"Apollo..." Klavier kisses the top of Apollo's head, because it's the only thing he can easily reach. "There are some things you probably shouldn't admit to your prosecutor boyfriend. Like the fact that you and your boss have been committing some kind of perjury for the last twenty-four hours."
"There were no oaths involved, and I wasn't giving legal testimony." Apollo's voice sounds better—calmer, less strained, and his warmth is seeping into Klavier, driving away the chill of the hospital. "You're sure you wouldn't cover for me?"
"I stick to the law, even when my very cute boyfriend asks me to do otherwise." Klavier presses another kiss to Apollo's hair, hoping Apollo can hear the teasing in his voice. "Sorry, schatzi."
"Nah, that's about what I figured." Apollo raises his head, giving Klavier a brief kiss on the cheek before returning to his position. "I'll deal with it if anything happens. I do happen to know a few decent defense attorneys. I'm just... really, incredibly glad that you're alive, Klavier."
"Me, too." Klavier maneuvers his left arm until he can snag Apollo's fingers again. "And I am sorry. I—"
"Have nothing to be sorry for." Apollo speaks firmly. "You were the victim, Klavier, that's all. But we're going to get you fixed up, back in the courtroom, and out on stage. Yeah?"
"Ja." Klavier squirms until Apollo's body is settled as comfortably as he can manage against him, Apollo's head on his shoulder. "I will be fine, Herr Forehead."
Klavier owes Apollo that much, at least, for ruining his vacation before it even really started.