It takes seven years for a person to go from "missing" to "legally dead." Klavier Gavin knows that all too well, thanks to his all too intimate involvement with State vs. Gramarye. He has plenty of time to resurface before it becomes a problem.
...Except it already is a problem, because he's an international celebrity. Because nothing is easy.
There is exactly one person on the planet who knows where Klavier is at this exact second, and her name is Charlotte Gavin. The idea of completely vanishing into the mist has been calling to him for the past several years, but he'd be damned if he abandoned his one living family member.
Because that's another thing. Kristoph is dead. Executed by the state of California on the counts of premeditated murder via poisoning, attempted murder, and second degree murder. And god knows what else.
His shoulders heave, and he exhales smoke from the lit cigarette held lackadaisically in his fingers. He can already hear the chastisement from his band mates, his agent, his vocal coach, his brother, about how it'll ruin his singing voice.
Whatever. He quit music for a reason. Even the idea of playing the guitar these days makes him sick.
Klavier tears a hand through his hair, and only frowns a little bit as he realizes yet again that he chopped most of it off last night. It helps somewhat, not looking like a murderer, but part of him feels like it's some kind of betrayal. As though he's the one who failed, and not his brother. Not his brother who was a beacon of toxic waste and agony.
His phone vibrates. It's a new one - a cheap model he picked up for emergencies - because he didn't feel safe fucking off with the one attached to his name. It's another text from Charlotte, asking if he's getting enough to eat. Klavier doesn't think about how much his body hurts as he taps out a quick reply. She responds just as he finishes typing.
[I'm really worried about you, Klavi. Every other article online is about your disappearance. I know you're devastated about Kris, I am too, but is that all that's eating you alive?]
Klavier turns off his phone and puts it in his pocket. He doesn't have the energy to go through this again. It's about Kristoph, about Daryan, about Courte, about every single fucking thing in his life that's gone wrong.
Because it never gets any goddamn easier.
The phone vibrates again. Klavier pulls it out with the intent of shutting off the setting and moving on, but the sight of his sister's highlighted text gives him pause.
[I got a call from a friend of yours. Apollo, I think he said his name was? He and his sister are desperately searching for you. I know you begged me to keep quiet, but can I least tell him you're okay?]
He curses softly. If Apollo managed to dig up Charlotte's existence and relation to him, considering how hidden from the public eye she's always been, then it won't be long before he's knocking on the door of the shitty flat he rented in Malta.
Better to bite the bullet.
[Es tut mir Leid, Lottie.]
Klavier still knows Apollo's number by heart, even though he shouldn't. And it's eleven o'clock at night in Los Angeles, so he doubts he'll get an answer, but it doesn't stop him from dialing. What the hell, right? Her certainly doesn't expect Apollo to pick up on the second ring.
"You've reached Apollo Justice, attorney at law."
It's practically painful to hear his voice, tinny and distorted as it is. What does he say? How does he begin to say, "Sorry for spending the past year and a half in a tiny European country without telling anyone; I'm having an extended psychological breakdown!"
Apollo sounds both exhausted and pissed as he says, "Okay, if this is a scam call, can you feed me the line so I can yell at you and hang up? International calls aren't cheap."
"Scheiße," Klavier mutters, having forgotten how much it must be costing Apollo to listen to the ambient noise in the flat. That's another thing to add to the list of things he's fucked up.
Apollo splutters, as though he's choking on his saliva, and then shouts, "Klavier?!"
A miserable, treacherous smile pokes onto his face at the sound of his name in such a startled, relieved tone. "Guten tag, Forehead. I missed you."