Prompt: "Flutter" by Averi
Character(s): Apollo Justice, implied Apollo/Trucy
Originally Written: 12.28.2008
"I've got your number in my pocket,
But I don't think I can call it, ever
I couldn't stand to start to frequent
These walks at the break of morning, if I did."
Apollo doesn't regret many things.
He's made a lot of blunders, but when he looks back on them, he realizes that they helped shape him into who is now. None of them were particularly dire or affected anyone other than himself. So he chooses to move on rather than dwell on things that can't be fixed.
But he realizes now that he's made an irreversible mistake, one that by no means could be erased. Things would never be the same between him and Trucy, no matter how much they wanted to put everything that happened behind them. They'd never be able to look at each other, they'd never be able to talk without feeling the weight of their actions.
Apollo would like to think that he's mature, but he will never forgive himself for being so irresponsible. It was strange how things had worked out. It would've made more sense for it to happen before Phoenix told them about their relationship, but for some reason or the next, it only made it more enticing to them. It was wrong in every sense of the word, but it had felt so inexplicably right.
It's five in the morning, and he doesn't know why he's choosing now to think about the possible—no, inevitable—repercussions of the things he's done. The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to be cornered, faced with the fact that the wrong he's done can't be fixed by a simple apology. If it could be fixed at all, that is.
It would be simple, he figures. All he could do was pick up the phone and apologize, because he ran like hell the last time they were together. It wasn't as though she'd be expecting it, either; she was under the impression that he wouldn't talk to her again. Then again, she hadn't taken the time to ask how he was, either. College was finally baring its teeth.
The word resonates within him, a bitter reminder of the years he used to spend there. He was almost four years out of college, and she was just starting. He almost cringes when he thinks about this. She's old enough to make her own decisions, but he still has painful flashbacks to three years before, when they were nothing more than friends. They were oblivious, maybe even innocent.
That was all gone, though.
He wants to call her. He aches to hear her voice, her reassurance that he hasn't done anything wrong. But he knows that if he does pick up that phone and wait for her to answer, he'll keep calling. He'll be in too deep before he knows it, and he'll be back on the same road that he's struggling to get off of.
The last thing Apollo wants to do is hurt her again. If he's going to do this, he can't run away anymore. If this is really what he wants, he needs to face the consequences.
Why couldn't he be normal? Was it so hard to fall for someone he wasn't related to?
He can easily answer that. It's because she permeates blood relations. She permeates every societal norm that was ever established. She is her own person, with her own sets of rules for living. He wishes so much he could be like her. He loves that she doesn't care about what people think of her, and that she thinks so highly of herself. He wants confidence like hers.
Just because she's everything Apollo isn't, though, doesn't mean he wants her only to illuminate his own qualities.
They just complement each other. There isn't any other way to put it, and that doesn't even begin to describe the way they meld together so easily. He doesn't know if she feels the same way, but that doesn't matter much anymore. This isn't comparable to a high school crush, where one's feelings relied on reciprocation.
Apollo had never been more sure of anything in his entire life—even more so than his decision to become a lawyer. It was a shame that this feeling was wrong. Yet, he couldn't help but feel that this was right—more just than anything he's done in his short life.
All he can do for now is hope that maybe things will turn out the way he wants them to.
Sleep had been impossible. It was better to mull over the things he had been cleverly dodging for one night than let them consume him. He's only twenty-five, though. He has his whole life to live.
What good was his life if it was condemned to misery?
He sighs dramatically, scrutinizing the piece of paper in his hand. The numbers are burned into his memory, and the only reason he's kept it until now is because it's her handwriting, the insane, rushed scribbling of almost incoherent numbers.
He looks at the river beneath him, and opens the palm of his hand, allowing the paper to flutter into the water.
It will never mean anything.
