Maybe it's because I can kind of see the end of this fic coming over the horizon (not too close, but it's coming), but I'm feeling all sentimental again.

Thank you, to everyone who has read and/or left a review. I'd especially like to say how much I appreciate the people who left me constructive criticism. I've always known what direction I wanted this story to go, how I wanted to characterize everybody, and how I want it to end, and while I'm confident this story is still completely my own uncompromised vision, I have taken all criticism to heart and consideration, and I can honestly say that this story is a different (and better) read because of it.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart—I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride. :)

"How about dinner tonight?"

Apollo balanced his phone between his cheek and shoulder, careful not to accidently push any buttons that might terminate the call, something that was admittedly a common occurrence during his more…enthusiastic moods.

"I don't know…" he replied in between filling his briefcase with the day's files and paperwork, "It's not like I don't want to, but…we just had dinner last week, and I'm kind of…um, short on cash…"

There was the sound of an intake of breath on the other side, which Apollo immediately cut off, "And no, you are not paying for me again."

"Oh! Oh!" Trucy's voice suddenly carried over from the corner where she was busy giving Mr. Charley "his" daily dose of water, "Is that Klavier?!"

"…Trucy says hi."

Klavier chuckled softly, "You know I don't mind treating you, Mein Forehead."

Apollo snapped his briefcase shut, "But if you keep doing it, then I'll start feeling bad, and then I won't be able to enjoy our nights out."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" the prosecutor mused good-naturedly.

Maybe it was Apollo's imagination, but he couldn't help but feel like Klavier was beaming him a smile through the phone.

He traced circles in the wood of his desk in a distracted sort of manner, hoping he wasn't coming off as prissy or over-sensitive, "…sorry."

"Mmm," was all he got in response, a deep murmur of the throat that Apollo had come to recognize as a sign that the prosecutor was thinking.

After a bit of silence, Klavier said, "Well then, what were your dinner plans for tonight?"

Apollo thought about it, "I was probably just going to grab some take out."

"Sounds perfect," there was the sound of rustling, and Apollo could picture Klavier leaning back into the leather of his chair, "Your place or mine?"

It took a moment for the offer to register itself in Apollo's mind, but then it hit him like a ton of bricks and his voice was small, "I—w-wait…you're letting me choose?"

A slight surge of panic shot through Apollo.

Klavier's place was…unfamiliar territory, a huge, looming metaphorical ball of possibilities and unknown implications.

But bringing his boyfriend (a term he still felt shy in using to refer to the prosecutor, even in his own mind) over to his small, cramped apartment felt somehow even more private and personal than the alternative.

He steadied his voice, "I guess…your place is good."

Apollo snapped his head in the direction of a very audible squeak. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Trucy pressing both hands firmly across a grin, looking like she might explode from all the comments she was holding in. She bit down on her lip, still smiling, and made a zipping motion across her mouth with two fingers.

When she resolutely held up three fingers, Apollo rolled his eyes, (Like you were ever a scout).

All the same, he appreciated the sentiment.

He turned his attention back to Klavier, picking up a pencil and notepad, once again balancing the phone between his head and shoulder, "I brought my bike to work today, so you can just give me directions."

He tried to keep the blood levels in his face normal as Klavier dictated through the phone.

"Then once you're past the second intersection, make a left and you should see the building straight up ahead. I'm on the fifth floor, number 52."

Apollo jerked and pressed his ear closer to the receiver in surprise, "You're what?!"

A loud beep informed him that he had accidently hit the call cancel button.

"Dammit."

Apollo stepped off the pedals of his bike and took the opportunity to stare up at the building, hands steadying the bicycle by the handlebars. It thoroughly surprised him that Klavier—rock star and prosecutor extraordinaire—lived in an apartment complex. It was hard to imagine him sitting down to breakfast, sorting out the rent.

It seemed too benign, too domestic.

Didn't all rock stars supposedly live in hill-top mansions? Or was that just an image hyped up by press and pop culture?

The building's intercom was uninteresting enough—at least the building had an intercom/lock system, unlike the ancient edifice he rented his apartment from—but it didn't exactly scream 'penthouse' either.

Klavier's voice came crackling over the tiny speaker, "That you, Forehead?"

It vaguely crossed Apollo's mind how this moniker had somehow taken on affectionate undertones, "Yeah, it's me."

"Alright, I'll buzz you in."

(He seems cheerful enough.)

Apollo couldn't help but wish he could detect at least a little bit of nervousness in Klavier's voice, but the prosecutor sounded as composed as usual.

He wasn't sure what to expect when he finally knocked on the door. Klavier greeted him with a smile, but Apollo couldn't help focusing his view to the sides of him.

Klavier caught him peeking into the apartment, "Anxious to see inside?"

Apollo nodded nervously and stepped carefully over the threshold, heartbeat just a little quicker than before.

It was certainly…neat, for lack of a better word. He would have used "empty," but this seemed like such an inappropriate word to apply to Klavier.

The door opened up immediately to the main room, which was adorned simply with a two-seater couch and an unremarkable coffee table. The walls were bare, and the only source of light came from the fixture installed in the ceiling.

"Unfortunately it's not very lived in," Klavier brushed the hair out of his eyes as he observed Apollo taking in the surroundings—or lack thereof, "The family home is back in Germany—the band and I mostly used this place to crash whenever we were touring in the area."

Apollo noted the small kitchen further off to the right, and counted three doors besides the entrance. For a two-bedroom apartment, it was rather decently sized, something he himself definitely couldn't afford. It was large and spacious, enough room for two, possibly even three people to live in and share comfortably.

It was entirely too big for one person.

Apollo hung his head a bit and gazed solemnly at the box of Chinese take-out in his hands, "It's…roomy."

"I've been meaning to get new furniture, now that I'm more permanently settled. Make it seem less vacant, ja?"

Apollo idly thumbed the box as his chest squeezed, because he knew better—Klavier had said vacant, but what he'd meant was lonely.

"Or maybe," he wet his lips, eyes still downcast, "Maybe I could come over more often."

He felt warm hands over his own and lifted his head up to see Klavier giving him a soft look of appreciation.

He swallowed as the prosecutor pressed a kiss to his temple, his breathe tickling the top of his ear, "You certainly know how to fill a room with your presence."

"You've got to be kidding me."

Klavier looked over to the window where Herr Forehead was pressing his namesake and hands against the window.

"Looks like it's raining," Klavier moved over next to the attorney's side and gazed out at the fat drops of water plastering themselves to the glass.

Apollo reached into his pocket and flipped his phone open to read the time on the display—11:40 pm. He blushed slightly at the thought of how late it was, how he had been enjoying the evening so much that this much time had just slipped him by.

A thought hit him, "The buses don't run this late."

"You could call a cab."

"…I don't really think I have enough to cover the distance."

Apollo looked guiltily at the prosecutor—he could see the ghost of an offer on the tip of his tongue, one he could see was being respectively held back.

Klavier moved his gaze towards the ceiling, towards some alternative idea, "…You could always…stay the night."

His eyes shifted in Apollo's direction, who immediately looked at the floor instinctively. The defense attorney, heart racing, steadied himself before he said anything.

He paused to make sure his eyes met back with Klavier's, "I wouldn't…want to put you out or anything…"

Klavier leaned forward but took no steps, did nothing that was even remotely suggestive—the warmth of his expression still managed to travel across the distance though.

"It is a two-room apartment."

And Apollo found himself appreciating both nuances of this statement, the one that was obvious and on the surface, clearly a direct answer to his statement—and the one hidden underneath the subtext. It made his nerves calm down a bit.

He quietly said, "Alright then."

Five minutes later, when Klavier rummaged through some drawers and managed to fish out some sheets for what was clearly a bed that hadn't been used in awhile, Apollo insisted on helping him cover the mattress and with spreading the duvet.

When Klavier offered him a pair of pajamas to borrow, Apollo furiously shook his head and didn't even bother trying to hide the blush, because (Oh my god, I can't sleep in my boyfriend's clothes.)

And when he'd turned out the lights and crawled under the covers still dressed in his work clothes, tie and all (he hadn't even realized how tired he was), he was a little surprised to hear the door creak open again, but pleasantly so when he felt Klavier kiss him gently on the forehead.

"For sweet dreams," he said.

Apollo didn't dare move or open his eyes the whole time and deliberately kept his breathing even and steady, even though he was pretty sure that Klavier didn't buy the act.

But when Klavier crept quietly out and shut the door behind him, Apollo pulled the covers over his head, curled into himself, and smiled.

Apollo knows he is dreaming.

There's that sort of weightlessness that comes with that minimum of lucidness, the barest of tethers connecting consciousness to a body that he knows is his, even though it's not, because this isn't really real. He lifts his hand up to his face to examine it, but it feels slow, like it's just a nano-second too late, like he's not just watching his hand move, but the whole of himself, from an outside view.

And then the ground is gone and he's falling, but that feels slow too, and the blackness makes it feel less like falling and more like sinking. He goes past nothing, just darkness, more blackness than should be possible, and everything feels muted, even the silence, soft and unfocused.

He doesn't remember touching ground—in that smooth, jerky way that dreams often operate, he suddenly finds himself upright, but it feels okay, natural, like he's just watching a movie and the film has cut to a different scene.

There's a ringing in his ears, pleasant, structured, vaguely musical if he listens hard enough (and as this is a dream, his attention is harder to focus and he only half recognizes it, like snatches of a forgotten lullaby). It echoes in his head, but he turns his head towards the empty space, as if the sound is also permeating throughout the emptiness, and he tries to follow it back to the source. He sees a figure in the distance, a thin, dark silhouette, black on black. He knows this doesn't visually make sense, that he shouldn't see anything, but this is a dream, so he figures the regular rules don't apply.

A sense of longing and nostalgia overtakes him and he feels his legs moving, starts running towards the figure; the sound gets louder, starts becoming more distinguishable as a voice and he thinks, (Maybe it is a lullaby), and he tries to run harder, but he feels a fatigue in his leg muscles, the kind you only get in dreams, where it feels like this should come naturally, but instead it feels like he's a ghost trying to move inside a foreign body (and in some respects, that's exactly what it is).

Each step pounds loudly in the emptiness, but he doesn't seem to be getting any closer to the figure—if anything, it only seems to be growing farther and farther away.

The outline of them is androgynous, just inky blackness, no discernible features, and yet Apollo can't help but feel some sort of attachment, some memory stirring within him, forgotten recollections of soft blankets and warm, reassuring vocals—a woman's perhaps?

Why is this so important?

And then the figure starts moving, begins turning and something hopeful lurches through his chest before everything starts turning to shit.

The figure turns and suddenly Apollo stops stone-cold, and he fearfully takes a step back because the figure is inexplicably too close now, and it's no longer an indiscernible shadow, it's Kristoph Gavin, and he's stepped back into his old office, his old workplace, the blackness is gone, it's all white now, the white, sterile walls of Mr. Gavin's office, and everything starts going too fast and he can't keep up.

"Did you finish those reports Justice?"

Kristoph gives him a smile, sweet and sugary and sick, and it's all Apollo can see, it fills his awareness, almost swallows the dream whole.

"I—sorry sir, the what?"

The smile is gone and Kristoph looks at him condescendingly, "The reports, Justice."

He gulps, "Sir, I've been writing reports all day, can't I take a break?"

Kristoph leans threateningly over the desk and Apollo doesn't even question that he suddenly finds himself sitting behind it, papers spread before him, pen in hand, because this is a dream, so screw the rules of reality. As far as he's concerned, he's been sitting at this desk since morning, and his hand feels cramped, because dammit, he's been writing reports all day.

"I'm tired, sir."

"I do not tolerate slackers, Justice."

Apollo tries to make light of this unbearably uncomfortable situation, laughs nervously and tries to make a joke, "Come on Mr. Gavin—even God rested once."

Kristoph doesn't even bat an eye lid, "That's because he knew it was the only day of rest he was going to get—you can rest when you're dead."

And then there's a loud bang, and Apollo realizes it's the sound of the back of his head hitting the floor, and there are hands wrapped around his throat.

The desk is gone, there's nothing separating Kristoph from lunging forward to press Apollo into the ground.

He chokes, "Mr. Gavin—!"

His head is spinning, everything is a haze of white, although he can't tell if that's from the asphyxiation or because the office has disappeared and all that's left are white walls, towering masses of rising blankness, rising higher and higher like tidal waves.

He shuts his eyes and welcomes the darkness.

He tries screaming but his chords feel raw, his chest is burning, the fingers at his throat keep pressing.

"Breathe!"

(I can't!!)

And then natural instincts start kicking in and he begins thrashing, but it doesn't seem to work, he can still feel Kristoph's tight grip against his throat, sinking into his skin and twisting…

"Breathe, goddammit, please!!"

Only this time it sounds genuinely concerned, worried, laced with a desperate kindness, and that scares him more than anything, because that's not the Kristoph he knows, and so he opened his eyes and saw vague shapes, a blur of dark hues as his vision adjusted.

He could see a face, barely make out distinct features, just curtains of blonde hair.

He could still feel a body pressed up against him, someone struggling to hold him down as he thrashed about, but he found his throat miraculously free and inhaled sharply.

He cried out, "Mr. Gavin!"

"No!" the voice seemed conflicted, as if the speaker couldn't decided between feeling relieved or mortified, "It's me, it's me, I'm here."

Apollo felt strong arms pull him upright, and then (Oh god, it's Klavier, Klavier's here), and he melted into the embrace immediately.

He wrapped his arms across Klavier's shoulders and buried his face against his neck, breathing hitched and heavy, "It—bad dream—it was a bad dream."

Klavier hushed him with gentle caresses up and down his back, "Shhh…don't think about anything other than me."

Apollo felt safe as Klavier softly rocked him back and forth, felt secure in the way Klavier's body curved and fit with his, like a cocoon of warmth.

And then Klavier started humming.

"Don't," he said, before he could stop himself, "Don't sing, please."

The hands on his back stilled and he tightened his hold against Klavier in response, hoping the other would understand. He felt Klavier's hands move up to grasp the sides of his face before carefully placing a kiss on the corner of Apollo's mouth. Then lips travelled across his jawline and Apollo shivered a bit when Klavier got to the bit of skin at the end, right underneath that angle of bone and flesh.

He knew it shouldn't have scared him as much as it did when Klavier went on trailing kisses down his throat, knew that Klavier was only trying to comfort him, was only doing this out of kindness and consideration. When he found himself being lowered so carefully, an attentive arm draped across his back to steady his descent, he couldn't help but wonder if everyone else in Klavier's past relationships had been treated this tenderly.

Then the kisses were at the base of his neck, slightly more open-mouthed, and when Klavier began to lightly suck Apollo could barely suppress a sharp inhale of breath, one that he held for a moment before releasing it in staggered emissions, punctuated by small noises that refused to stay buried in his throat. Klavier's hands began roaming, and something like fire flared up in Apollo's chest. He felt the ghost of touches long after the hands had moved on, even through the fabric of his clothes.

Apollo was overtly aware that they were straddling the line of an invisible border, one that couldn't be uncrossed, and it terrified him. He had never imagined that he could feel this vulnerable, that his mind and body could be at such odds, because he was pretty sure that if he could've seen himself from an outsider's perspective it would have certainly seemed like he was enjoying himself, if the sounds he was emitting were anything to go by.

He hadn't even known certain spots could feel so sensitive, seemingly innocent places like the crook of his shoulder, or the spot right behind his ear, places that were in plain sight and that anyone could see in public. He had always taken them for granted, had never realized until now that these places were so sensitive because no other person had ever touched them before.

And then Klavier's hand was traveling slowly southward, and a warning bell went off in Apollo's head, telling him that his last chance of having any control over this situation was about to pass.

"Wait," he breathed out with some difficulty, and if his voice faltered it was only because Klavier's hand had stopped right where his thumb could brush against a particularly responsive spot, right above his belt line.

The prosecutor looked at him with wide eyes, so authentically surprised, and for a moment Apollo could swear he was looking into the past, seeing the same dazed and oblivious look that Klavier had given him all that time ago in the forensics lab, back when Apollo had finally managed to convey that he hadn't been interested in his advances.

A sense of panic filled him as he realized that this was probably the first time anyone had ever told Klavier to stop. Klavier was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, to say something, to elaborate on the reason for this suspension, and Apollo felt caught between feelings of hesitation and guilt.

There was a part of him that appreciated the sentiment, because it wasn't like Klavier was forcing him or anything—if anything, the complete and overall aura of tenderness and consideration that was exuding off of him just made this whole situation that much harder for Apollo.

He understood that Klavier wanted to comfort him, to make him feel good, and that this was probably just what he normally did in these situations, but this wasn't exactly what Apollo needed right now. He could see a sort of uncertainty in Klavier's eyes, asking him, (What is it? What do you want to say?)

This was a new development for him, and maybe Klavier had an idea of why Apollo had told him to stop, but he was all together in the dark as to what Apollo wanted from him at this point, and he was waiting for the other to direct him.

(Just say it. Just say you don't want to do it.)

But there was a feeling of deep fear beginning to root itself in his stomach, because he remembered all too well the last time this had happened—the last time he had opened up his goddamn mouth—and he'd sworn to himself, he'd promised he would never let Klavier's expression melt into that look of absolute hurt again.

The thought of somehow screwing up and saying the wrong thing in the wrong way literally left him too terrified to say anything.

He tried to start something, "I just—"

But Klavier just leaned in attentively, gave him a good-natured smile, and Apollo's resolve quickly withered away.

They stared at each for a good moment, and Apollo tried to think of anything and everything to make things progress away from this standstill.

(What if I…?)

His eyes involuntarily shifted downward to gaze at—

(No. That's a bad idea Justice, that doesn't solve anything.)

But his hands weren't listening to this inner voice of reason, because before he could reiterate that this was a bad idea, he was already leaning forwards and reaching for the buckle of Klavier's belt.

"Apollo…!"

But the words didn't reach him because he was too busy shaking badly and trying to focus on whatever the hell it was he was trying to prove, and he thought, (Stop it. Stop before you regret it), but his hands were trembling, and his heart was racing, and he wasn't stopping.

He could sense Klavier watching him with a sort of unbelieving, shocked bewilderment as he fumbled several times with the catch on the belt, but he kept his eyes unfocused, trained downwards. Amidst all the white noise and objections running through his head, a small voice was attempting to say, (It's okay, it's not that bad, this is just an understanding, it's a compromise, it's just for a little bit, you can't really stop now) and somehow during all of this he managed get the metal fastener unhooked. With bated breath he began to tug the strip of leather free of Klavier's belt loops.

When Klavier's hand caught around his wrist, he immediately looked up, unsure of whether the expression he was giving the prosecutor was one of absolute terror or gratitude.

Klavier simply looked across the distance before bracing Apollo's shoulders and kissing him gently—everything was soft, nothing more, and Apollo's heart thumped painfully as he let out a sigh of relief. Klavier thoughtfully touched at the knot of Apollo's tie, the one he had neglected to take off before going to bed, that had loosened itself during all of this, and slowly hiked it back up, left it loose enough to stay any reminiscence of his recent breathing troubles, just tight enough to make a show of things. He tucked the loop of fabric under his collar for good measure, smoothed the material down.

It was all Apollo needed to understand.

As soon as Klavier let go, it was like a well-spring of tension had been released, and maybe the earlier nightmare induced distress was factoring into it, maybe it was the feelings of inadequacy and the thoughts of wishing he wasn't so bad at this, that he was better for Klavier, but there was nothing he could do to stop it when the tears started falling.

"Oh, oh, shhh," and Klavier just swept him up in his arms, cradled his head in his shoulder, "Please don't—I'm not worth the tears."

"Shut up," said Apollo, letting the tears smear against Klavier's skin, "You're not special. I cried for Vera when I found out she was alive."

Apollo knew he shouldn't be so stubborn, shouldn't have reacted with such an insensitive response, but in a way it made things more bearable, because it was something normal he could cling to.

Klavier just threaded his fingers in Apollo's hair and laughed lightly, content, "Glad to know I make your list of miracles."