A few months ago, when Apollo was lying in the dark and ruminating on his poor life choices, he'd thought about how he wanted to die.

Was it serious? At the time, he would've denied it. Just a morbid way to ease the nerves. Besides, most of the ideas deterred him.

Drowning was a no go. Poison…definitely not. Car accidents seemed gruesome. Hanging was a long shot. He'd read a poem like that, once—Clay had shown it to him a week before the bar exam. Suffice it to say, he wasn't in the best state then.

Except…had he ever felt truly happy?

Everyone always said that life was a series of ups and downs. "It gets better!" was chimed in, from people whose stars were perfectly aligned. A cheerful sentiment. Annoyingly enthusiastic.

Still, he tried to believe it. After all, he only had two options:

1. Admit things were hopeless.

2. Pretend he was fine.

And so he soldiered on, convincing himself that yes, it would all improve. Yes, he'd receive some cosmic retribution for the pain and no, he wouldn't regret each decision he made. At the very least, he'd stop spiraling after every fucking betrayal—

"Ah. You've arrived."

The memory dissipated. Kristoph was expecting him.

Apollo inched forward, afraid to look anywhere besides the wall. It felt wrong. There was a certain arrogance to staring down at a bedridden man, planning to make demands. Besides that, he had no idea what he'd be facing. Brain damage, feeding tubes, crushed organs…each brought forth a visceral reality.

"Look at me."

It would be cruel not to oblige.

His eyes flicked to the center of the room. A plethora of machines blinked at him, their wires crossing over each other. Some of them fed into a slim, IV-laden arm. The remainder vanished under the sheets, along with the rest of the casts and dressings he'd been expecting to see.

An illusion of recovery. Clever until the end, it seemed.

He slid into the visitor's seat, resting his head on the side of the bed. For a moment, he was an exhausted intern again. All that had changed was that he was collapsed over a stretcher instead of a desk.

W̴͌e̵̛͚l̴̒c̶͇̓o̵̩͐m̴̻͘ĕ̸̗ ̴b̵̹̈́a̴͇͗c̴̹̓ķ̴̚.

It was strange to see Kristoph without a twisted braid. Golden hair fell freely over the propped-up pillows, bleached gray by the dim hospital lights. In a way, it was more striking than the pallid skin and hints of bandages—a sudden, severe loss of the self, leaving a stranger in its wake.

"Surprised?" Kristoph asked. His voice had a slight, sickly rasp. "Perhaps you were expecting an invalid."

Yes, he was. It'd be rude to nod, though.

He hadn't said a word yet.

"Why are you here, Justice?"

Where do I begin?

There were too many complexities to pick apart. Ironically, this might've been easier in the past…if Kristoph had been close to death back then, he'd only have to deal with fear and shame. Now, though…

"I care about you," he said.

A brief pause. It was broken by a faint, strained laugh.

"Endearing, aren't you?" Kristoph said. With an unfathomable amount of effort, the man reached towards him. "Risking your health for that."

Kristoph swept the top of his head, as if petting a stray kitten. Apollo sighed. He knew he was being trivialized, but decided not to shift away.

"Mr. Wright gave me this," he said, bringing forth the letter. Kristoph made no move to pluck it out of his fingers. "It says—"

"I remember it." The man continued to brush through his hair. Apollo waited with as much tolerance as he could muster. "I suppose you'd like to know whether it was true. Unfortunately, Justice, I did employ such tactics on you—"

"I thought so."

The interruption caught Kristoph off guard. His hand stilled, then retracted at last.

"I see. You must be thinking of Wright's motives."

"No, actually." Apollo straightened up, relieved that he'd been released from the man's hold. He waved the paper in the air. "Klavier thinks I'm here to solve this."

"Yet you are not."

Good. Kristoph's condition hadn't affected his sharp judgement. Which was impressive, honestly, considering those heavy medications.

"I already know that this letter is true," Apollo said. He set it on the floor, wrought with hesitation. The cursive text glared up at him.

I created you

Lonely

You are nothing without my approval

Y̵̼̕o̶͜͠u̸͎̒ ̷̑a̵͈̓r̴̰͛e̴̯̔ ̷͑n̶̖̓o̶̩͂t̸̩͠h̸̜͑i̷̩̇ṅ̷̺g̵̼͐ ̷͇̇ť̶o̶̰̿ ̵͆ṁ̵͎e̸̮͛

"Go on," Kristoph said.

There was still a dense haze lingering in Apollo's mind. He had to be careful not to get lost in it, lest he forfeit his sanity.

"You made me who I am," he said. "In your image, I guess."

Although it had never been stated outright, the parallels were clear. Every trait that Kristoph had listed—paranoid, withdrawn, anxious, apprehensive—was reflected back in some capacity.

"Unintentionally. I used to deny the similarity," the man conceded. Apollo latched onto the statement.

"Not anymore?"

"Of course not."

Said as a matter of fact. The confirmation made Apollo grasp his wrist. He traced the carved insets of his bracelet, wishing he could rip it off his arm.

Without ambiguity, the truth hit harder.

"Is this all that's left for me, too?" he asked.

Kristoph's gaze was unreadable. Apollo continued before the man could speak, already dreading the response.

"You admitted we're the same. Then, you tried to kill yourself," Apollo explained. He spoke too fast to let the words settle, and struggled to compose himself. "I'm sorry. I mean…do you see what I mean?"

"Justice…" Kristoph warned. Apollo averted his eyes, ignoring the stern undertone.

"I just want to know." He took a shuddering breath, tracing the tubes on the floor. "I need to know." The beeping of the machines dug into his brain. "I…can't live like this." A needle drove between Kristoph's knuckles. "I can't watch you—"

He couldn't finish his sentence. Everything was so…fragile. He buried his face in his hands, unable to bear the sight.

"You must endure."

There was a gentleness to Kristoph's words. Apollo rejected them regardless.

"I don't want to," he said.

Pointless and petulant. What a vapid existence.

I'm done.

A tremulous nudge to his elbow. Despite his reluctance, he looked up.

"There's a habit within you," Kristoph said. "You focus on your flaws."

The man dropped his outstretched arm, presumably lacking the strength for continued reassurance. Apollo bit his tongue. It'd be foolish to protest—not after that much energy had been spent on him.

Kristoph continued on.

"Your behavior contrasted my own nature. By which…I would disregard issues." Genuine regret crept into the man's tone. His gaze wandered to Apollo's torn palm. "Now, I recognize them as well."

Just like I do.

"That's what you meant," Apollo concluded. "When you said…"

"Yes."

Mistakes consumed them. One would obsess. The other would be dismissive. That was how it had been for years.

Today, they were on the same page.

It was quite melancholy, really. The past had come to light and those gnawing faults had been acknowledged, but Apollo felt emptier than ever before. Where was he supposed to go?

"The future remains, however," Kristoph noted.

The future…

What an ambitious train of thought. Apollo couldn't hold on to it for long. "How does that matter?"

"You will change."

C̵̭̎ ̵̖͐h̸̯̀ ̵͂ͅa̸̞͛ ̵̲̀n̴̲͂ ̵̳́ğ̴͉ ̵̧̛e̷͔̐

"Stop it," he snapped. "I don't need my own advice."

Kristoph, calm as ever, cast him a knowing look. "Would you prefer mine?"

"I…"

Too slow. Frustration had sapped his patience dry, yet he couldn't come up with a single retort.

"Give yourself time to grow," Kristoph said. Apollo scoffed.

"Grow?"

"Past my shadow."

Silence swallowed them whole.

Ambient noise filled the space between them, seeming to get louder and louder with each moment. Monitors whirred. Fluids rushed through silicone lines. Delusions were collapsing with every sound, and Apollo wanted nothing more than to escape.

The pressure was deafening.

You're dying.

Nothing could hide it anymore.

You weren't supposed to leave.

This was his legacy.

You're abandoning me…

"Why, Kristoph?"

The question hung heavy in the air. Apollo curled a clawed hand over his knee, his bones pressed under his tense grip. He shouldn't have asked. Deep down, he didn't want to know.

Y̴̞̕o̶̘̊u̴̞̕ ̴͙̿á̸̹r̵͇͐ë̶͇́ ̵̓p̶͓̕e̶̖̒r̸͛ṕ̷e̵̫̒t̴͔͘ú̶̯ȃ̵l̴͚̈l̵̅y̷͖̍ ̴͒a̶͖͊l̵̺̋o̷̧̅n̷̛̺e̷̡̐.̸̨̈

"As long as I live, you will be caught in the past. Now, you can move on."

Kristoph spoke with the grace of a man already buried. Phantom kindness tempered the answer, as if hoping to ease its finality.

Apollo couldn't stand it.

"Please," he begged.

Kristoph shook his head. "There is nothing I can do."

"I wanted to help you. I—"

"You have. I am doing the same for you."

This was getting too real. Desperation churned in Apollo's mind, steadily turning into resentment.

"How? You…you broke our deal." An accusation sprang out of his agonizing thoughts. He narrowed his eyes. "There was nothing in that tea."

"I mixed a regular dose," Kristoph countered. "Far from poison."

Should he be relieved about that? It was obvious that the man had spared him—he'd woken up, after all. The details of the gesture were trivial. In fact, they only embittered him further.

"You lied, then. You didn't trust me—"

Kristoph tapped against the side of the bed, bringing the argument to a halt. IV lines scraped along the covers.

"Once you fell asleep, I was planning to leave for prison," the man clarified. A hint of contrition colored his words. "I believed it would be enough. I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

Kristoph's skeletal fingers drummed on the stretcher. Apollo glanced down. He noticed the needle bending within the delicate cannula, and leaned over to straighten it out.

Pure instinct. He thought nothing of it.

An unfamiliar expression crossed Kristoph's face.

"When you stood before me, I knew…you would not let go."

Thin veins flexed up. Kristoph's palm hovered near his cheek, as if expecting him to shatter with a single touch.

He froze.

I won't…

"I will," he lied. The promise tasted sour. "I swear, I'll move on—"

"Yet here you are."

Their connection fell short. The man's hand withdrew, drifting to one of the nearby machines instead. A thick envelope rested on top of the device.

"That's…" Apollo began. Kristoph gave it to him, letting him scan the front.

"A new letter for you. As well as Wright's daughter."

To Mr. Justice, the shaky handwriting read, right underneath the seal. Apollo traced the salutation, his fingertips trembling over the ink.

Trucy's letter. As promised, Kristoph had finished drafting it…probably in the hospital itself, based off the rough script.

"You actually did it," he whispered. Kristoph seemed pleased with his reaction.

"Naturally."

"I can't believe it."

"I simply kept my…my agreement."

For a second, Kristoph's voice faltered. Apollo glanced up, then ignored the document entirely.

The man was paler than ever before. Skin slick with a fine sheet of sweat. Eyes glazing over.

No no no

"Oh my god," he gasped. He stuffed the letter in his pocket, frantically scanning the vital signs flashing around them. "I'll get a nurse. Or a doctor, or…j-just hang on. You…you're…"

"Incurable, Justice," Kristoph stated. Apollo continued to panic.

"Don't say that," he pleaded. He held Kristoph's hand, noting the man's weak pulse. Overexertion. It had to be. "Try to survive. Just try…"

Kristoph laughed between shallow breaths.

"I have made my choice. You will thrive…on your own."

All alone.

Apollo's throat closed up. He felt the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but made no move to sweep them away. The warmth was draining from Kristoph's wrist. He didn't want to lose it.

Don't go…

"There was something…you used to tell me," Kristoph mentioned. "Before each case. A way…to say…that you were alright."

He finally understood.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Gavin."

Amidst the fading light, Kristoph's soft smile shone.

"Thank you, Apollo."