An opening statement is just that: not a question, and it is what, after ten minutes of an awful, weighted silence, Blackquill gives to Klavier.

"This is not the way to my flat."

"I don't know the way." Klavier means to sound firm, but knows he likely only sounds tired. Done. And he is.

"You needed only but to ask."

"I don't trust you to be alone, Blackquill. Not tonight." He doesn't trust himself either. Blackquill doesn't need to know that, but one glance tells Klavier he already might. "I can take you there tomorrow." Getting Blackquill home, making sure he's safe and still there in the morning—it means he'll have to stay alive until tomorrow. A sacrifice he's willing to make.

"You will not. Turn this vehicle around immediately, Gavin-dono."

"On the highway? Not possible, I'm afraid," Klavier manuevers his convertible into the upcoming exit lane. "And you should have said something sooner. We're almost to my place, and seeing as how I'm intoxicated, would you really want me to drive any more than necessary?"

Blackquill doesn't answer, which is confirmation enough. Instead, they veer off the highway, and into a veritable maze of side streets that Klavier still finds himself lost upon from time to time.

"You were not supposed to pick me up," Blackquill says as they approach a four-way intersection. They are the only car on the road, and Klavier comes to a full stop.

"You are the one who gave me as a contact." Klavier is not annoyed with Blackquill—he knows (now, anyway) the signs of manipulation all too well. Blackquill is trying to antagonize him, to change Klavier's mind about bringing him back to his condo.

"Yes, but you are busy, Gavin-dono. You have your friends. Your cases. Your... other mandatory appointments." Blackquill knows of Klavier's therapy sessions. They don't really talk about them, but Klavier likes that there is someone who he doesn't have to explain himself to. Someone who knows famed prosecutor and celebrity Klavier Gavin is in dire need of counseling and does not grill, interrogate or even judge him. Outwardly, anyway.

"Ja, Blackquill. I have my friends." It is tough to get the admission, that word, out and when he offers Blackquill a smile, a weak one is all he can manage. But it falls away immediately, and a chill settles into his bones when it is returned with an almost hateful glare.

"You were not supposed to pick me up," Blackquill repeats, harsher. Angrier.

They are having completely separate conversations, and there is a flare of anger inside of Klavier too. Not at Blackquill's tactics, but why can't Klavier just know things, figure them out himself? Why does the truth always need to be explained, or revealed to him? "Then you should have had Fräulein Cykes come get you; she is far more capable of handling your... shall we say, capricious behavior than I am, ja?"

"You will not bring Athena into this. She is at the movies with Miss Woods and I would not dare disrupt her evening for this. You are the only other person whose contact information I even have. That is, besides Edgeworth-san, and he will find out soon enough. I chose the least likely person to come and collect me; all that mattered is those wardens buggering off."

Is Blackquill meaning to insult him, to twist their conversation, or is he being honest? His fingers tap the steering wheel, a rhythm more fitting for drumsticks on a snare's skin. He doesn't say anything.

After what might be twenty seconds, Blackquill says, "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Gavin-dono."

"You didn't inconvenience me. If anything, it sounds the other way around."

"Quite. Now you understand your grievous error." Blackquill is verging away from the subject, taking advantage of Klavier's dulled senses to slip out of answering. And Klavier is powerless, can't stop Blackquill as he continues. "If you wish to atone for it, you can start by giving me the keys, and allowing me to drive us back to my flat. You are in no condition to."

This is different, an alteration of his previous request. Not for Klavier to drive him back to his apartment, but for he himself to take the wheel. The more Blackquill demands control, the less he truly has, and Klavier takes this to mean he is not at the complete disadvantage Blackquill would like him to think.

So, to prove he is absolutely capable of driving, Klavier eases his foot off the brake, lets the car inch forward a couple feet, slow, then presses the gas pedal. Blackquill's intense glare is on him; he can feel it, burning hotter than a spotlight. And he willfully ignores it, crossing another intersection before Blackquill speaks up once more.

"When you inevitably did not arrive, I wanted to have full command of my senses once the wardens decided to leave me be. But then you showed up, and in a state such as this, complicating it even further. You have foiled my plans and I... I despise you for it."

Inevitably. Blackquill hadn't faith in him? Oh, hah, but who did? Blackquill had thought Klavier was going to abandon him; it was all he knew, after all. All he'd learned. Why wouldn't he emulate his brother? He certainly didn't know how to be himself.

How is he supposed to respond to this? The logical part of him, barely there through his alcoholic fog, argues that this is all Blackquill's carefully plotted internal script; he has innumerable replies, monologues, prepared for whatever Klavier has to say, all an attempt to avoid any true admission of what played out tonight. Which means Klavier should not take any of this to heart.

But the other part of Klavier—the part aching so terribly, wanting just to see his friend out of harm's way and resolving whatever it was that led to Blackquill being held in a cell, becoming so unruly that he was forced a sedative—is so much more powerful.

"As long as you are safe, Herr Schwarz, then you may despise me all you want. I'm no stranger to ill will."

"It is your own safety you should be most concerned about, Gavin-dono, should you continue to disobey me." Blackquill's voice twists into a sneer. "But then, you are no stranger to selecting rather unfavorable company, are you?"

A spark inside him hisses, crackles, explodes.

"Stop playing games with me!" Klavier slaps at the steering wheel, heel of his hand hitting the horn.

Beside him, Blackquill sits up a little straighter, looks more alert. Sharp, focused, like a bird of prey. Staring at Klavier.

Klavier stares back.

He did not mean to snap at Blackquill, but he'll never have the opportunity to direct it at who is rightfully deserving. Not without repercussions, not without being crazed or disturbed or anything except justified for doing so.

Blackquill's expression is something Klavier can't put a name to, but it hurts, is more painful than his words, because it tells Klavier just what he'd been seeking: the truth. It should be comforting—that Blackquill seems to have reached this understanding, of what Klavier is feeling, of his outburst being a product of absolutely nothing from this night. Blackquill has always been clever like that, but this can not be something he's derived by intuition alone.

And then, a word bubbles to the surface, a horribly exact description of the look on Blackquill's face, that matches Klavier's perpetual state. That explains what happened tonight.

Haunted, his brain says.

"Geist," his mouth says, not really to Blackquill even though he's still facing Blackquill. Blackquill's lips part, but he says nothing, only raises his eyebrows a fraction.

The car is still moving, or it must be, because in the next split-second, everything is moving. Blackquill's glance out the window, "Gavin!", Blackquill lunging at him, no, the steering wheel because he's not wearing his fucking seat belt and the swerve and Klavier mashing the brake as Blackquill's shoulder collides with his and the squealing and spinning and they're in the middle of the intersection facing the complete opposite direction.

The ignition is turned off—it must be Blackquill, because Klavier can't operate a single part of his body, except for his eyes. His gaze slides off to the sidewalk where a woman, no, a girl is standing with a small dog scooped in her arms.

Oh Gott, he's so sorry, he's so so sorry and he hates himself, please forgive him.

Is what he wants to say, wants even, to mouth but he can't, his body won't let him. She is in tears, he can tell by the shaking of her shoulders, and she buries her face into the dog's body, takes off down the sidewalk. Klavier sees her disappear around the next corner, where she undoubtedly must live.

Live.

He almost took an innocent life. Lives, even, as he could have hurt Simon. Simon, who'd been through so much already, let himself suffer for seven years—Klavier could have wiped that all away from him in the blink of an eye.

He is turning into Kristoph. He can fight against it, go to therapy and self-medicate in every way possible, but Kristoph's influence on him... it will never end. Even when Kristoph is executed, the blood they share will still run through Klavier, and blood can't be scrubbed out.

"Gavin..."

Ja, that's his name. Kristoph's name.

"Gavin," Blackquill repeats, this time setting his hand is on Klavier's shoulder. "You said... we are nearing your condo?"

Tears seep from Klavier's eyes. He swipes at them, and his hand comes away streaked with eyeliner. Right, he'd wanted to look nice for Ema tonight. It feels so long ago.

"Gavin?"

"Another block, down to the very end of the drive. Not even two minutes." He gestures forward, then, realizing they're turned around, motions behind them. He doesn't know why he needs to tell Blackquill this, but he does. "I'm tired. I'm... I'm so tired."

"Yes. Then allow me to drive us there." Blackquill doesn't wait for any answer, and opens the passenger door, exits. When he opens the driver's side, Klavier still hasn't moved and Blackquill reaches down to unclip the seatbelt. "Come, Gavin-dono. If you are so tired, the sooner we arrive at your place, the better."

Klavier puts one foot out of the car, then stops, looking up at Blackquill. This might be his only opportunity to really ask him, but the words won't come out. All he can say is a pathetic, choked-off plea. "Tell me, what you... why I was not supposed to pick you up. I don't even understand what you mean. I don't understand... anything. Please, Blackquill."

"Your condo will be a far more appropriate setting in which to discuss this matter. Out." Blackquill takes him by the arm.

Without struggle or protest, Klavier allows himself to be helped to his feet. He rounds to the passenger side, climbs in. Blackquill's case file is gathered into his lap, and Klavier busies himself with smoothing them into the folio as Blackquill starts the car up.

As Klavier estimated, they arrive in the parking garage attached to his condo in less than two minutes. They don't speak as Klavier trades Blackquill the folio for his keys, as they take the elevator to the fifteenth floor, or as they walk along a hallway far too brightly lit for Klavier's liking. If he were to sneak a peek over at Blackquill, surely he'd be able to see the misery staring back at him as though he were looking in a mirror. What would Blackquill see? Or, he must see it already, as he did after Klavier's outburst. But it betrays his actions, his insistence to stay, to comply to Klavier's command.

Unless... it's he who is now following Blackquill's command. Yes, that's it. This is just an extension of the ability that serves him so well in court, lulling Klavier into an emotional complacency with all his suggestions. Klavier can already foresee how the next morning will transpire: he will awaken and Blackquill will be gone, without a word or note.

The only thing Klavier will have to show for this night is a headache and another hole in his heart, another piece he gave away that poisoned the recipient.

Poisoning them. Just like Kristoph.

"Wilkommen," he tells Blackquill, unlocking his condo's door. They enter, and he tosses his keys onto the island counter in the kitchen. Blackquill does the same with his folio. The living room and its large suede-blend couches are in plain view, and Klavier indicates it with a vague motion. "Make yourself at home."

Blackquill studies the living room as if it contains evidence he is searching for. He starts towards the sectional couch, but stops, turns to Klavier. "And where will you be sleeping?"

He hasn't thought this through. "I take it you'd like some privacy after so many hours of being monitored tonight. So, I will be in my room. I trust you to not do anything rash."

"But I can not say the same about you. As such, you shall not leave my sight. So no, you will not be sleeping in your room, unless I am as well."

Is he offended? Nein, after the almost-collision, Blackquill has every right to be observe him so closely. Klavier has learned to pick his battles, and this won't be one of them. They'll be rid of each other in the morning, anyway. The sooner they get to sleep, the sooner it'll be over—this night, and this friendship. "Then I can take the loveseat, ja? Does that satisfy you?"

The loveseat is just barely long enough to fit Klavier, all stretched out, but he can't imagine it being more uncomfortable than anything else he's felt tonight.

"Yes."

Klavier nods. "I'll go grab some pillows."

"And I'll assist you." Blackquill follows Klavier down the hall, but stops when Klavier detours into bathroom before reaching his bedroom. From the hallway, Blackquill asks, "You keep your pillows in your bathroom, Gavin-dono?"

"No, but I keep the toilet there. A moment, bitte?" Klavier shuts the door behind him—or, he means to, but it doesn't close. Blackquill's foot jams between it and the frame.

"I think not." He folds his fingers around the door, inches it open enough to poke his head in. Klavier's own hand is at his fly and Blackquill clearly couldn't care less as he all but spits at him, "You will not close this door."

His presumption that Klavier might take drastic measures is wrong in this instance, but it is not unwise of Blackquill. There's been many other nights where Blackquill would have been right, to do this. Where Klavier hasn't even opened his medicine cabinet to grab mouthwash or face cream, lest he be tempted by the rows of various pills.

Blackquill's foot disappears from between the door and frame, his steps echoing down the hallway. Once certain that Blackquill isn't listening, Klavier hurries, doesn't even towel his hands off after washing them. He's shaking them dry as he turns the corner to his bedroom, and yelps out a curse as he nearly bumps straight into Blackquill, who is leaning against the threshold.

Blackquill doesn't apologize for startling Klavier, and neither does he move. And when Klavier mutters "Excuse me," and tries to slip into his room, Blackquill blocks him off.

"I owe it to you to explain myself, Gavin-dono." There is nothing hesitant about his tone, but Blackquill's expression says otherwise. Klavier is so close to him; closer, maybe, than anyone who isn't an officer of the law or Athena Cykes has been in months. There's a heat bristling around him, but when Blackquill speaks, it's so cold and steely. Like a blade. "You deserve to know why I did not wish for you to come and pick me up tonight. I apologize for burdening you, by being so evasive. I took advantage of your good nature, and used your own sword against you. It was wrong of me."

Klavier wants to accept it. Not necessarily believe Blackquill, but verbally accept his apology so he can get to his room, his pillows. Through another sleepless night and to the next date on the calendar, that he can X off. Or maybe, he'll circle it, as a reminder: the day Simon Blackquill leaves his life. Hell, even without scribbling onto a calender, he'll remember it, though he doubts Blackquill will.

"I don't... I don't care now," he says, not meaning it exactly the way Blackquill appears to take it, with how he blinks. "When they said there was an incident between you and an inmate... it was Geist, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I... I don't remember it happening, but..." Blackquill stretches his arm out, flexes his fingers into and out of a tight fist. "My body remembers. My hand still aches. I am not a violent person, Gavin-dono. I am not...I am not...!"

"Enough, Blackquill. I can't imagine you want to relive it, especially so soon, by explaining it to..." A friend, Klavier almost says, but amends, "...to me. I would hate for you to have to expend any more time and energy on yet another person you... what was it? Despise?"

Blackquill frowns, and it is actually sad. "It is called projection, Gavin-dono. Where one takes their feelings about their own person and wields them, often quite violently, at any nearby target. They are hardly ever true. In this case, they are lies; absolute slanderous lies. I do not despise you, I despise that specter who dares to walk among humanity as if he is one of us, and most of all, I despise myself. Not... not you. I could never."

Klavier's heart leaps, more than he thought it could anymore. "Er... thank you, Blackquill. I wish you didn't hold such an opinion of yourself, but... thank you."

"Yes. And because of that, I can not in good conscience allow you to leave my sight until the morrow, at the very least. Nor should you want me to leave yours." Blackquill takes the smallest step backward, into Klavier's room, swallowed enough by the darkness that his face is obscured. "That is what I meant when I said you foiled my plans. If you hadn't made an appearance, I..."

Blackquill pauses, and in that gap of silence, Klavier knows what is next. He starts to say, "Don't..." but Blackquill is already finishing it.

"I would have killed myself."

Blackquill doesn't even wait for Klavier's response, and turns, disappears into the bedroom. Entering after him, Klavier finds Blackquill laying down with his legs off the edge of the bed, bent at the knees. He's still talking.

"I wanted them to think I was incapacitated by the sedatives. When they came to check on me again, I would have sprung an attack on them, fought one of their guns away—likely the younger one, Bray. He's plainly still skittish and would have been ill-prepared to fight me off. But I would have done the deed there. Executed it swiftly, cleanly." Blackquill laughs, or what Klavier assumes is a laugh; it's entirely void of any humor. "Or, I suppose as clean as it could possibly be."

There are a hundred questions dangling in Klavier's mind, some more within reach than others. He decides it's useless to press Blackquill further on this subject, because what ultimately matters is: "Do you... still feel the need to...?"

Because it does grow so strong, that it becomes more than an urge; a need. And the only thing more agonizing than the idea of how much it would hurt to commit such an act, is the life that continues because of being unable to do so.

"Not at this moment, no." Blackquill is still laying down, talking up towards the ceiling, even as Klavier carefully lowers to sit down beside him. "It's... peculiar, I think, because if I'm speaking honestly, I really do feel this way—suicidal, that is—nearly all the time. But it's not... active, you understand? Such as, when you almost struck that girl with your vehicle, my instinct was to save myself, save you. Some part of me... I want to live; I've been given the chance to, where others have not. But it... the thoughts, I would say they return, but they never completely leave—haven't for years, since I was in the clink. I was sentenced to death, and I never thought it would be so much more difficult to, instead, be given life."

Klavier wants to say something, that is maybe profound or not utterly trite and insulting. The best he can come up with is what he's told his therapist, and no one else.

"It's like having a song stuck in your head." Such a comical way to describe it, but he hasn't found anything more fitting.

Blackquill shifts beside him. "Oh?"

"You're going about your day, ja? And it's not there, or, you think it isn't. But then it is, the same line or tune over and over. And maybe you haven't even heard the song for weeks, but... there it is, and it just plays on a loop." Klavier flops back onto the bed, joining Blackquill, and laces his fingers across his chest. After a few seconds, he tells Blackquill, "You know, I always wonder why they say people who kill themselves are selfish. I've always thought I'd be unburdening those who know me, which... I imagine you think of it in the same way."

"I believe it comes from people trying to absolve themselves of having any involvement in the decedent's decision. The victim was, clearly, so selfish that nothing they could have done or said would have been of benefit. That is not to say they are responsible for it, but it... it is easier to accept one's suicide if you can convince yourself they would have done it, regardless. Now, if you were to take your own life, I would in no way think you selfish."

Klavier glances over to Blackquill; his dark eyes glint, but it couldn't possibly be moisture, from tears... could it? "What would you think then, Herr Schwarz? About me?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know if I'd think much at all. I..." Blackquill inhales a deep breath; it sounds sticky, wet. "Simply, I would miss you. So terribly."

It's so brutal, Blackquill's honesty—which is what encourages Klavier to return the favor. If he doesn't tell the truth now, when else will he get the opportunity? "Don't get me wrong, I enjoy our weekly get-togethers, but...we've led such different lives, Blackquill. I don't see how anything we talk about is so important to you that you would allegedly 'miss me terribly'. Although, I am touched; I mean that. Just, shocked."

"But that's what I mean; we don't talk about anything important, Gavin-dono. It is tiresome, to always be discussing such topics. Or, even, be assuming others are expecting me to be troubled by them day-in and day-out, as if there can not be an hour or two where I have what might be considered a normal life. I would miss that, and... I have to remind myself of it, yes, but I believe you and I are alike, in this aspect."

Blackquill is so right, and it's mildly irritating. His precision with words is comparable to a surgeon, and if Klavier wasn't someone who knew how Simon Blackquill operated, he would feel emboldened. Which would allow Blackquill, too, to feel victorious; he's gotten the last word in, soothed Klavier's rattled nerves to an acceptable degree. Brought the subject to a close, that there is no reason for Klavier to pry for the truth any further.

And maybe, a year ago, Klavier would have been fine with this. Even, a couple months ago, before Justice bowed out of his life, and now Ema. Before the visits to Daryan became shorter, and the silences between them grew longer.

Blackquill has still not acknowledged the gravity of what he did. Placing his fate in Klavier's hands—allowing Klavier, and to a degree, Ema, to be responsible for whether or not he survived the night. His actions contradict the affection he wants to heap on Klavier and their burgeoning friendship. He does his best to keep his tone void of any accusation, as if he's questioning a witness on the stand. "Did you think about how much I would miss it when you were busy plotting to ambush the wardens, and turn their pistol around on yourself?"

For once, Blackquill is speechless, lacking an immediate response. His formidable armor of suggestions and articulation suffers a debilitating blow.

"I forget how good you are, Gavin-dono; I should not underestimate you. My apologies, it's second nature for me to be so... avoidant, when it comes to my own troubles." Still, he is fishing for Klavier to protest, that no, it's alright! He needn't peel away the protective shell around his wounded soul, if it would hurt too much!

"Answer me, Blackquill. When you said you owe me the truth—that is not some sort of one-time deal. We both owe each other the truth, if this is to... to continue."

Blackquill exhales something half-groan, half-sigh. "I... Fine, yes. I did think of it. It was wrong, and manipulative, and I was not in my right mind. As I've said, I want to get better, but after what I let that foul creature accomplish... not just over these past several years, but tonight, I couldn't believe anymore that it's something I could do. So, after having created evidence of my own proving how incapable I was of being the honorable warrior Metis Cykes trained me to be, and the one Athena deserves, I made a sick bargain with myself. That if you showed up, it would be evidence of the contrary. It was a..."

Blackquill trails off—what he wants to finish with, Klavier knows sounds so cliche. Corny.

And true.

"A cry for help." Like Klavier's own—busying himself with appointments and visits, forcing a life onto himself yet spending so much of it idealizing the alternative, of dying. And hoping someone sees how forced it's all been. No one has.

Except...

"Yes," Blackquill whispers into the darkness of Klavier's room.

Klavier nods slowly, the best he can while laying down. Maybe it's still the alcohol, but he feels so... light. Like he's floating above, around the bedroom. He can see himself closing his eyes, can see Blackquill shifting beside him, up into a sitting position. It's the same suspension he used to feel while rocking out at a concert, but this is less... intense. Not something that he crashes down from, just... like he's kind of stuck there with no control of whether or not he can escape from it. Ja, what did the therapist call this? Disassociation...? Anything with a description he takes to mean as something he needs to "work on", or "learn to cope with", but this... it's not so bad.

"I thought we were grabbing pillows," Blackquill says, bringing Klavier back to this plane, to being Klavier Gavin. It's rather abrupt but not painful in any sense.

Klavier peeks one eye open. It, and his whole face, feels sticky from the smeared mix of makeup and dried tears. "Mm, ja, that was the plan," Klavier says, though not moving an inch. "But as tonight has so brilliantly illustrated, plans change. I... I trust for you to sleep on the couch without my supervision. It's actually much more comfortable than my bed. The throw blanket on the sectional is cashmere, too."

Blackquill chuckles, but then glides into a quiet seriousness. "I was instead going to suggest that... if you would like to sleep here for the night, I can stay with you. Or, I would feel... better, if I could do so, you understand? I still want to ensure your well-being, Gavin-dono."

There's no point in arguing anymore; Blackquill will do as he sees fit, and Klavier can not blame him, even after their discussion, for wanting to monitor him. "Ja, that's fair. Do what you feel needs to be done."

"I should inform you, however: I do not often sleep, myself, but I can try. As it is, I will likely lay here through the night."

"And watch me? I've had that happen twice..." Klavier pauses. "No, wait, there was that hausfrau during our Love and Other Felonies tour who climbed the scaffolding outside our hotel and staked us out all night. So, three times. And all resulted in restraining orders. And I warn you, Herr Schwarz, I have no issue filing the paperwork to make you number four."

Klavier no longer has to grab for any pillows as Blackquill swats one down on him. "Sleep. For if you don't, how will you then awaken to a new day?"

And for the first time in what feels like forever to Klavier, such a prospect is not heart-crushingly unappealing.

Or, it isn't, until it's two AM and Klavier finds himself unable to shut his eyes for more than a couple minutes without the night's memories—the songwriting and the booze; Nina, the not-flirting waitress; the phone calls,both phone calls; the girl he almost killed and the friend who almost killed himself—worming their way into his exhausted mind.

Blackquill is still laying beside him, on his side and facing away from Klavier. He is stretched out in one long line, stiffer than Daryan's hair on concert nights.

It's a wonder Blackquill can spend hours unoccupied, simply laying there, nothing to stimulate his thoughts or senses. But then, wasn't that what prison had been like? Blackquill must have acclimated himself to it, unlike Daryan. It was what he complained about the most, still does—how there was nothing to fucking do except go stir crazy, alone with your own thoughts.

Not that someone had to experience life in a literal prison, to suffer such punishment.

Deciding to stage his own temporary jailbreak, Klavier nudges Blackquill and tells him that he is going to the bathroom again, this time for a shower. A very long one, he makes sure to mention lest Blackquill grow concerned about his prolonged absence.

Showering is... he's not in need of one, but it somehow feels entirely necessary, rinsing himself off. Mentally catalouging everything that had been discussed, what hadn't; it occurs to Klavier that he had at no point done or admitted anything as forthright as Blackquill, at least not tonight, that would merit Blackquill's hawk-like surveillance of him. All he can deduce is that, despite being only moderately intoxicated, it's the most far gone Blackquill's ever seen him, and he felt a certain accountability, to not leave Klavier, self-professed emotional drunk that he is, to his own devices.

A strange warmth rises in Klavier's chest, low and muddled but familiar enough that he knows, fears, what it could mean.

The fear lodges unpleasantly behind his sternum as Klavier hunts through his walk-in closet for something to sleep in. Usually, he sleeps in his boxer-briefs, if anything at all, but Klavier somehow guesses that Blackquill would not be very accommodating of that, regardless of how much they've emotionally bared themselves to each other. Throwing on plaid pajama pants and a clashing navy Wonder Bar t-shirt, he ties his damp hair up into a messy half-bun and crosses back to the bed.

He stops in his tracks at what he sees.

Blackquill is asleep. His breathing is slow, steady, and his body is no longer ramrod straight. He's on his back, arms loosely dropped to either side, both bent at the elbow in varying angles. Like wings. Even his face is relaxed, mouth parted slightly, a rhythmic rasp slipping from it every few seconds. Though still bound in a tail, his wild mane of hair can not be contained. It encroaches on what had been Klavier's spot on the king-sized bed. The warmth inside Klavier grows, as does the fear. He swallows, and is shocked it doesn't wake Blackquill, at how loud it is in his own head.

Blackquill is handsome. He'd always thought so, objectively, even those years ago. But it was always a matter of, well, he's not unattractive, therefore he must, in some sense, be good-looking. And that was that, nothing Klavier particularly cared about because there were many people he found attractive to some degree. He understands now, what Ema meant by glimmerous, even if it'd been hardly complimentary. It's how he sees Blackquill, so well-defined in the darkness of this room and this life of his. And he's thoroughly unsurprised at himself.

Ach, he's always been so easily drawn to others: Daryan, Forehead, Detective Skye, and now Blackquill? He curses himself for being so... predictable. Not just for falling—not fast, not hard, but falling nonetheless—but for being duped. Blackquill is tricking him, as he's so skilled at doing. He has trained himself to awaken at any moment, to be out of bed in an instant and whisk out of the condo swifter than the raptors he so adores. The shard of fear in Klavier's middle turns to ice, as Kristoph tuts his disappointment.

Why won't Klavier learn? Why won't a brother of his, the same flesh and blood and DNA, realize what he, Kristoph, mastered years ago: the art of not only surviving, but independently so? Is he that helpless, so incompetent in making his own mark that he has to use others—possible relationships with them—as a crutch, to see him through?

A crutch that always splinters apart and leaves him, deservedly, more broken than before. The company he chooses to keep—it is all a reflection of how weak Klavier is when his rock star persona is stripped away; they all choose to, in one way or another, leave him.

He is unnecessary, because he is unable to fashion himself into anything remotely useful. And tomorrow will be another reminder of it, when he awakens to an empty room.

But he... no! Klavier interrupts his distorted thoughts with a new, melodious chord, and climbs into bed, taking great care not to disrupt Blackquill.

Blackquill... he needed Klavier tonight. Not just anyone, but Klavier. And from all the consequences that will arise, it sounds like this need could extend beyond just tonight. At the office, yes, but also outside of it. Klavier can't make entirely sure of it, but...

Actually, there may be a way to, Klavier realizes as he arranges himself to avoid pinning down the ends of Blackquill's hair. It's a nebulous plan at best, and generates only more questions for Klavier, as it surely will from Blackquill tomorrow... or, it is tomorrow already. So, later. This new day Blackquill has spoken of.

The calm, consistent measure of Blackquill's breathing answers at least one of those questions, and at some point, with the weight and comfort of Blackquill beside him, Klavier drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Which he doesn't recall, but he must have, because when he opens his eyes again, his bedroom is streaming full of sunlight and that weight—Blackquill—is not there. Klavier rolls from his side to his back to find...

Blackquill, standing beside his bed, a grim smile crossing his face and a six-inch serrated knife tight in his grip.

"Good morning, Gavin-dono."