The possibility that Klavier is in the audience doesn't even cross Apollo's mind until later. In his defense, he's not thinking about a whole lot other than his own personal crisis at the time, falling back on his old training and the familiarity of oft-repeated phrases before he thinks through the original speaker of such. Even then, there's an insane comfort to the thought of Kristoph's face, the steady composure that the blond maintained, that Apollo catches and clings to like it's a rock in a storm.
It's better, after, when his head has cleared and the fog of distrust has been swept away. There's space, again, for thinking about people other than himself, people who are still living instead of those lost. And then there's Phoenix, and Athena, and Trucy all right there and catching his attention, so it is that he doesn't think about Klavier at all until he steps outside onto the deserted front steps of the courthouse for a breath of air.
It feels like he hasn't breathed in day, the air almost burning his lungs with how crisp it feels on his inhale, and when he sighs it's like all the weight on his shoulders lifts an inch with the motion. He's starting to smile to himself, turn to go back inside, when he sees the hunched shoulders of someone else on the far edge of the steps.
He doesn't know, later, how he recognizes the prosecutor. The ostentatious purple is nowhere to be seen, there's no silver jewelry or blaring sound; even Klavier's hair is different, pulled up into a ponytail so it's curling against his shoulders instead of lying smooth across his chest. Maybe it's the color, the white-gold of the blond that Apollo has only ever seen on two people, or maybe it's just that he recognizes some part of that position, some angle of the wrist or some tenor to the sigh. It doesn't matter how, exactly, he knows it's Klavier, just that he does, so when he approaches he walks quietly enough that he can sit down alongside the prosecutor before Klavier sees he's coming.
Apollo clears his throat without looking sideways. "Hey."
"Ah." There's a cough, the motion of a hand reaching up to fiddle with the yellow locks. "Herr Forehead."
That nickname lacks any fire at all. It's like a bad attempt at teasing without the affectionate bite to make it mean anything; to hear that from Klavier, of all people, pulls Apollo's gaze sideways, just for a moment.
It's enough. Klavier's looking at him, a lopsided smile on his face but with his eyes visibly red from tears, and Apollo looks away fast, suddenly entirely unsure he's ready for this conversation.
"I'm sorry," he says to the landscaping in front of him, voice cracking too high as he speaks. "For...the last time we spoke."
He can see Klavier's headshake in his periphery, the shift of the other's long hair as he moves. "You did nothing wrong, Herr Forehead. I am sorry for…" There's a pause; Klavier tips his head forward, looks down at his hands hanging limp and still in his lap. "I didn't know. I am sorry."
Apollo's throat closes up, and for a moment he can't breathe, much less speak. When he swallows the tears move up to his eyes, and he has to tip his head back to stare at the sky and wait for the emotion to pass. "Ah. I am too," he manages, speaking more about Clay than to Klavier.
There's a pause loaded with potential; Apollo can feel the hesitation in Klavier's shoulders without looking at him, without the assistance of the bracelet tight on his wrist. Then fingers brush his knee, very gently, comfort rather than suggestion.
"It's okay," Apollo says. When he brings his head down he can take a breath relatively steadily. "I'm fine," and he means it this time.
Klavier leaves his fingers where they are for a moment; then he retreats, as delicate about that as about the motion initially. Apollo watches his hand move away, follows the movement as Klavier carefully replaces it in his lap, and something about the uncharacteristic angle of the blond's wrist, like his fingers weigh too much to lift, reminds him of Klavier's uncharacteristic expression, of the odd sincerity of his current behavior.
"Klavier." Klavier doesn't look up, but his shoulders set more firmly so Apollo assumes he's listening. "Are you...are you okay?"
"Ah." Klavier's mouth twists into a humorless smile; his hands come up, like he's going to play with his hair, before he remembers it's up and drops them back to his lap. "I will be. It's nothing to worry about."
It's very hard to reach out to touch Klavier. Apollo has no idea how the blond did it so casually to him, when he feels like he has to shove himself through a wall in order to touch the other's shoulders even gently. It's worth it, for the way Klavier's steady expression shivers into sincerity for a moment, for the brief glimpse of the hurt Apollo sees as the blond's expression crumples into pain.
Klavier takes a breath, starts talking without any further prodding. "I was in the audience, watching you." He smiles again, this one edged with self-deprecation. "I wasn't sure you'd want me to be there so. I was undercover." He gestures at his hair, his casual clothes, and Apollo can't help but laugh for a moment before he collects his composure. Klavier glances at him, grins in echo of the attorney's amusement, then looks back at his hands and goes on. "I know you've been struggling, but I wasn't expecting -" He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath. "For a minute you looked...you sounded…"
Klavier tips his head forward, reaches up to pull idly at the end of his hair. "It was like Kristoph was back, for a moment," he says, so quietly Apollo can barely hear him. "Your pose, your eyes, your voice...even your face looked like his, for a moment, and it was just…" Apollo can hear his words choke off into silence, even when Klavier lifts a shaking hand to cover the tremble in his mouth and the tears collecting at his eyelashes.
Klavier doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't have to, Apollo can imagine what it must have been like well enough. Nostalgia and the impossible love of blood bonds running up against the horror of reality, the truth of Kristoph's existence crashing into the fantasy built out of long-kept secrets. It must have been like seeing Kristoph himself again, if such a thing we possible, and without any of the mental preparation such a meeting would need.
There's nothing Apollo can say, not really. So he looks away from the other's shaking hands over his face, tries to ignore the shudder of his sobs over the sound of his breathing and the shivery motion of tears in the other's shoulders, just shifts his hand very slightly over Klavier's shoulders, apology and sympathy pressing in against the other's unsteady back. It's the best he can offer, right now, even if it's not enough.