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The agency is so quiet without Apollo.
Trucy finds herself standing in the empty office, staring at the bright red jacket that’s draped over the back of the couch for a very long time one sunny morning. They’ve been home for a full week now. Seven whole days without the sound of Polly’s Chords of Steel echoing through the halls of the little office and no one’s so much as touched the jacket yet.
Should they send it to him? Trucy can’t remember ever seeing him wear it before. There was a chance he might not want it. Khura’in is cold, he would have remembered to pack it if it was something he needed. Maybe she should keep it? It could be an upgrade for Mr. Hat, after all. Maybe, an even sillier part of her thinks, she should get on a plane back to Khura’in to return it to him in person? She could even stay for a little while and help him investigate all the cases he must be defending now, just like they used to.
But she has a show later in the week and, anyway, who would take care of Daddy if she left too?
Trucy leaves the jacket right where it is.
She turns the television on, so loud that Athena keeps shooting her concerned looks while her fingers fiddle absently with Widget. Even Daddy rolls his chair out of the back office to ask her to turn it down. She doesn’t, pretending not to hear him even when he suggests maybe taking a break from the office and heading to Kurain Village to visit Pearl. Sometimes even Trucy needs a break from pretending to smile.
To be perfectly honest, she doesn’t understand how they’re taking it so well. Trucy is happy that Apollo has his brother back again, really she is, but some small part of her feels sad too. Hadn’t they had their own family here? Trucy had thought so. Apollo had fit right in at the office, almost like he belonged there all along.
She tries her hardest not to frown.
An entertainment news program begins, its theme music crashing through the office. Trucy can see Athena wince out of the corner of her eye as the host saunters across the screen, already launching into a monologue about an actress and her ongoing, messy breakup with a baseball player Trucy has never heard of. The program continues on; a pop singer launches her own clothing line, a new movie replaces their puppy lead halfway through filming, an actor might just be cheating on his wife. Trucy passes a deck of cards through her fingers in a rough shuffle, barely paying attention. Even Athena has her gaze mostly focused on her paperwork.
“- back to the top story of the night! Prosecutor turned rock star announces hiatus of all prosecutorial activities to return to the music scene!”
Trucy pauses, her eyes glancing up to the small screen to meet the gaze of one Prosecutor Klavier Gavin. Of course, it’s not really Prosecutor Gavin, just a picture, but Trucy’s stomach does a little flip all the same. Old crushes really do die hard.
“Aw man!” Athena calls out next to her, slamming her fist into her palm and not even pretending to work anymore, “But I was looking forward to kicking his butt in court!”
Even Daddy pokes his head out of the office again, eyebrows raised as the television switches to what looks like a press conference. Prosecutor Gavin stands front and center, smiling wide as he addresses the crowd of reporters before him, “Ja, ja, the courtroom is my first love, but sometimes the music just calls.”
The smile he levels at the camera is dazzling.
The host’s voice cuts through the sound of several people scrambling to ask their questions all at once. “Gavin hasn’t revealed when the new album will be released, only that he intends to record it abroad over the next few months.”
“Writing a solo album is a spiritual experience, ja?” Klavier is saying when the camera cuts back to his face, ‘You can’t expect an authentic sound from sitting behind a desk. It will have to be far, I think. Somewhere with mountains to climb.”
“Whether Gavin means skiing the Alps of his homeland or Seven Years in Tibet, we’ll have to wait and see. Stay tuned, we’ll keep you updated on any developments--”
Trucy blinks at the screen for a full ten seconds after the story has moved on, brain whirling. New music from Klavier is exciting, but the timing of this seems a little too coincidental. It feels like something is up, and she certainly has her hunches as to what. Apollo had taken her out for ice cream at the parlor near Klavier’s apartment a few too many times to really be subtle; for someone who spends so much of their time figuring out other people’s tells in court, Apollo is almost too easy to read. Klavier has always been just a little more difficult- he flirts with everyone- but he’d always seemed a bit softer when Apollo was in the room. And with Klavier leaving now, a week after Apollo had decided to stay in Khura’in? A slow smile stretches across her face. “What dorks.”
“Hm?” Athena asks dragging her attention from the screen to turn her eyes on Trucy again, “Did you say something?”
“Oh, nothing!” Trucy replies, still grinning. Athena tilts her head to the side in response, her smile a little tentative and a whole lot confused. Trucy doesn’t think she could explain even if she tried. “Hey Athena, do you think you could give me a ride somewhere?”
Athena glances to Phoenix, who does nothing but shrug expressively, too used to Trucy's antics to be very concerned. “Where’d you have in mind?”
Trucy only smiles wider. “You’ll see! We have a few stops to make.”
“Uh, sure thing? I guess?”
“Then it’s settled!”
Before Athena has the chance to ask further, Trucy grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards the door. She barely pauses long enough to grab Apollo’s jacket, tucking the red fabric over her arm as she bounds off determinedly.
*
The sun rises in Khura’in.
Apollo watches it creep over the summit of the mountain, spilling light over the city slowly, one illuminated house at a time.
He hasn’t been sleeping well. Between the events of the past month, the thirteen hour time difference between Khura’in and Los Angeles, and the staggering influx of new cases, Apollo feels like the only time he manages to close his eyes is when he nods off at his desk, face pressed against a pile of freshly printed paperwork. More than once, he’s startled awake and some time later with a string of official looking Khura'nese text neatly stamped across the skin of his cheek. Washing the ink off takes longer than he’d like to admit, so Apollo tries to adapt, forcing himself awake through meetings with client after client who needs his help overturning a quick and incomplete conviction. But more often than not, he is asleep long before the sun has set and wakes up to the pitch black and silent night. At least his window offers a decent view of the Himalayas; he’s seen the sunrise more in the past week than Apollo thinks he’s ever seen in his life.
By ten the light has made it to the Justice Law Office, pouring in through the open windows along with the rising heat that hints at the coming summer. It’s a different kind of warmth than he’d become used to in Los Angeles, where the breeze from the ocean carried away all but the worst of the heat waves away. Apollo had forgotten the way the humidity clings to the air here before the rainy season; even in May, he can feel it heavy and oppressive around him like a promise of the storms to come.
Ahlbi enters the office just as Apollo has finished brewing his second pot of coffee of the morning, the smell of the boiling grounds just barely obscuring the aroma of spirit buns and spices from the bags hanging from Ahlbi’s shoulder.
“There was someone looking for you in the market today,” he says, spilling a bag of fresh vegetables over the kitchen counter in a sort of haphazard presentation.
Apollo can’t help the sigh that escapes him. It’s not that he isn’t grateful for the opportunity to help overhaul an institution that had been floundering for decades- this is what he signed up for when he agreed to stay- but couldn’t they give him a break every once and awhile? “Did you give them a flyer?” he asks, “We’re pretty swamped right now, but I guess I could move some things around if it’s urgent.”
If Ahlbi notices the weary note to his tone, he doesn’t mention it. He skips about the little kitchen in a flurry of activity as he puts the groceries away, Shah’do chasing glued to his heels and waiting for some of the food in Ahlbi’s hands to fall to the floor. When nothing happens, he barks impatiently up at Apollo. Maybe it’s Shah’do’s huge, pleading eyes or maybe he’s just missing Mikeko, but Apollo picks up a carrot from the counter and passes it surreptitiously to the dog at his feet.
“I don’t think he was a client…” Ahlbi continues thoughtfully as Shah’do races out of sight, either not noticing or pretending not to see, “His Khura'nese was terrible.”
“Was it one of Mr. Wright’s friends?”
Ahlbi shakes his head, “No, he didn’t sound American either.”
Apollo frowns but doesn’t have time to dwell on the mystery for long. Ahlbi has just barely finished putting away his various purchases of the morning when there’s a knock on the door and the flood of cases for the day begins. Apollo spends the next two hours untangling conflicting testimonies on the disappearance of a local farmer’s goat, his bracelet jangling on his wrist with such irritation that Apollo is concerned it might leave a bruise.
By the time he’s decided whether he’ll be able to take the case, the mysterious not-client has long been forgotten.
*
Just after 4 pm, the steady stream of clients trickles to a resolute stop. Apollo glances out the window to watch the more devote residents of the city milling through the streets as they head towards the temple for the daily Dance of Devotion. He’s certain Nahyuta and Amara will be among them, beaming with only barely repressed pride as Rayfa dances.
If Apollo wanted, he could join them. Though he’d never met Queen Amara when he was a child, she’d still taken him in her arms with Rayfa and Nahyuta after the trial had ended, promising that they would be a family once more. Any son of Dhurke’s, she’d said, adopted or no, would be welcomed as a son of her’s as well. Apollo hadn’t felt any hesitancy or dishonesty as she spoke, but it was difficult not to doubt. It might be nice to have a family again, but he feels too much the cuckoo in the nest as they take their tentative steps towards happiness, regardless of what anyone says.
Apollo stays at his desk.
He dozes and dreams of Dhurke
It’s not the first time he’s had the dream. Apollo is six again, playing rebels and soldiers by the river’s edge with Nahyuta. They move their little plastic men in a scramble of activity, alternating pushing their battalions forward and knocking the other’s down.
The soft sound of a woman singing drifts out from the kitchen windows of a small house that sits nearby, but when Apollo glances toward her, he is unable to see her face. It doesn’t seem to bother the Apollo in this dream, though. He turns his attention back to the game before him.
It’s his turn.
“Dragon’s roar!” Apollo shouts, sweeping an arm out and knocking down the majority of Nahyuta’s soldiers over with one blow. It’s harder than he means it to be. The soldiers scatter across the dirt ground, all Nahyuta’s carefully constructed formations destroyed. One soldier in particular, smaller than the rest and painted in a soft shade of pink, tumbles down the bank and falls right into the river. It sinks straight to the bottom, leaving only a small ripple on the surface to indicate it was ever there at all.
Nahyuta frowns. “That one was my favorite,” he says, and he and Apollo glance toward the river in unison.
“We’ll just get it back,” Apollo suggests, already climbing to his feet, “It’s not that deep.”
And it isn’t very deep, but the current is fast. Nahyuta has barely placed his feet into the water when the force of it sweeps him up, dragging him swiftly away from the bank. Apollo reaches out a hand to try and tow him in, but they are only children: it does nothing but drag Apollo into the river as well.
Things play out in much the same way as he remembers. The two of them struggle against the current, flailing their small limbs in vain as they try to make their way to the shore. But they tire quickly; Apollo’s head begins to bob under the surface of the water and it becomes harder and harder to hold his breath.
Just like in his memory, Dhurke arrives just in the nick of time. Apollo watches him dive into the water as he sputters and struggles to stay afloat. But the river is stronger than Apollo remembers. It has ripped Apollo’s fingers from Nahyuta’s grasp, dragging them roughly apart in the rapids. It seems obvious that Dhurke should reach Nahyuta first. Apollo can barely see the way their father scoops him under one arm from this distance. He watches as Nahyuta sobs and coughs in relief, his form growing smaller and smaller as the river pushes Apollo further downstream. Dhurke turns, eyes searching frantically about the riverbed. He’s yelling something, but it’s covered by the roar of the rushing river around him.
He’s looking for me, Apollo realizes suddenly. He’s looking for me and he can’t find me.
Panic sets in. Apollo tries to call out but sucks in a shaking and water-filled breath instead, his head still fighting to remain above the surface. And suddenly he is not a child in the Khura’nese river, but an adult once more, trapped in the cave at the base of Mt. Mitama. He feels the rough surface of the stone ceiling against the skin of his hands, solid and unmoving as he slams his fists into the rocks. The level of the water rises around him, inching higher and higher with each passing second until his face is pressed against the roof, fighting for whatever breath he can get.
In time, the water overtakes him and his lungs scream for air.
He’s not going to make it out.
He’s going to die trapped under a mountain in Kurain and no one will ever know what happened.
This time, Dhurke doesn’t come, and the world begins to fade to black.
There is someone knocking on the door.
The sound of it rips Apollo roughly from his dreams, and for a moment, he sits gasping against the imagined water that had been filling his lungs only moments before. He can’t help the shudder that shakes through his frame as the dream aligns with memory. It had felt very real, like he actually was back in that cave, resigning himself to an inevitable death.
I’m Apollo Justice and I’m fine, he tries to remind himself, Dhurke saved me.
But the thought seems to ring hollow.
Dhurke is gone now and... is he actually fine?
As if answering his thoughts, the knocking on the front door becomes more insistent.
“Just a minute!” he calls out in frustrated Khura’nese. It’s not a far walk to the front of the office, but it still seems to take a monumental amount of effort just for Apollo to stand. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, trying to smooth it back into its usual place, and stumbles his way to the door. He must have been asleep for quite some time. The light that streams through the windows near the door is weak and orange on the edge of the horizon.
Apollo opens the door and, for one long moment, he is certain he’s still dreaming.
“Guten tag, Herr Forehead. You are a surprisingly easy man to find.”
Klavier Gavin has always been handsome; Apollo asserts that it’s one of his most annoying qualities. Regardless of how infuriating his actions or how difficult he insists upon being at any given time, it’s impossible to ignore the sharp line of his jaw or perfect height of his cheekbones. Apollo has been thrown off balance by the way the corners of Klavier’s lips raise in a perfectly arrogant smirk, left tongue-tied by the silhouette of his broad shoulders in that slightly too large jacket too many times to count. Apollo doesn’t try to deny Klavier’s capacity to distract. But standing here on Apollo’s doorstep, golden hair set alight by the fading sunset and smiling down at Apollo with warm eyes, he is devastating.
Apollo blinks, momentarily at a loss for words.
“What are you doing here?”
“As loud as ever, I see.” Klavier’s grin widens as he teases, but the bangle around Apollo’s wrist gives a sharp jump. He reaches for it instinctively, running a hand over the skin of his wrist. Is Klavier nervous? It’s hard to tell at a glance, especially when Apollo is barely awake and still gaping himself. “Ja, it’s very nice to see you too.”
“Of course it’s good to see you,” Apollo waves a dismissive hand, “But why are you here?”
It’s not as though Klavier had been in the neighborhood. It takes nearly a full day of flying and quite a few hours in an all-terrain jeep to reach the city from the nearest airport. If Klavier is here, then there must be some sort of reason.
“Writing my solo album,” Klavier explains, “Or at least that’s the official statement I gave my label. You have a decent studio here in Khura’in, did you know?”
“And unofficially?” Apollo presses, ignoring the second part of his statement altogether.
Once again, Apollo’s bracelet vibrates gently against his wrist. Not much, just enough for Apollo to feel a slight tremor against his skin as Klavier reaches up a hand to push the hair from his eyes. “Reforming a country’s legal system sounds like a big job, ja? I thought you might need the help. I’ve never played backup in court before, it could be fun.”
“You’re a prosecutor.”
“And Fräulein Wright was a magician,” Klavier shrugs one shoulder, “This seems like a strange time to-“
“But why?”
Klavier pauses. “You should know the answer to that by now, Apollo.”
Klavier calls him by his first name so rarely that it catches Apollo off-guard. He’s become used to Herr Justice, Forehead, and any number of German epithets he’s never bothered to look up; the name sounds surprisingly more intimate, somehow. Klavier says it softly, so low that he doubts anyone outside the doorstep could hear, and whatever response Apollo could have made to his statement suddenly falls away.
For a moment silence stretches between them, heavy with an emotion that Apollo can’t quite put into words. Klavier’s gaze is unreadable, searching and almost self-conscious at the same time. It’s a strange emotion to see on the other’s face.
Apollo glances away first. “I should have called.”
“You should have,” Klavier agrees, his tone mild.
“I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to assume-”
“That I might want to help?” Klavier offers with a raised eyebrow, and Apollo nods once. His eyes are still cast to the side, and he can feel the flush he’s sure has colored his face. Klavier sighs. “Oh, Liebling. Is it so difficult for you to believe you are important to someone?”
“I don’t-” Apollo starts, but trails off, frowning. Important to someone? It’s almost impossible to consider without becoming bitter. Had he been important to the mother who never tried to find him after he was left in Khura’in? To Dhurke, who sent him to Los Angeles all on his own at the age of nine? To Nahyuta, the brother who never once tried to contact him after he’d gone? They’d all had their reasons, he can see that now, but it was far too late to change the fact that Apollo had grown up with very few people to rely on but himself. It had made him critical and sarcastic, so good at keeping others at arm's length that he rarely had to worry about letting people in. The few he had trusted were gone now, either dead or behind bars in a maximum security prison.
“I have a gift,” Klavier interrupts a moment later, dragging him from his thoughts. “Delivered to me personally with strict instructions not to wrinkle it. Fräulein Wright sends her regrets at not being able to offer it in person- did you know she does not have a passport?- but will accept a thank you gift when you visit for her birthday.”
Apollo tilts his head to the side, confused, and Klavier holds out a garment bag. He hadn’t even noticed Klavier was carrying it. Whatever he’s expecting to find when he pulls the zipper, it isn’t his own jacket, recently pressed and smelling of dry cleaning.
He runs the fingers of his free hand over the red lapel gently. He’d been so proud of this suit; it was the first thing he’d bought after passing the bar. It’s a little old now and slightly out of style, still too big in the shoulders where he’d never quite been able to afford to have it taken in. But it had always been his.
Apollo’s eyes are drawn to the breast pocket, where Trucy’s brooch has been inexplicably pinned. The dark green stone catches what little sun remains suspended above the street, reflecting the light off the many facets and back into Apollo’s eyes. But it isn’t the only unexpected addition to the coat. There is a photo, he finds, carefully placed inside one of the pockets.
He remembers the day it was taken. It wasn’t the first show Trucy had invited him to after he’d joined the Wright Anything Agency, but it was the first one he’d been able to attend. He’d spent the whole afternoon staring at the stage with a level of awe and amazement he hadn’t anticipated; when Mr. Wright had told him that Trucy was a magician, he’d expected amateur card tricks and endless silk scarves. He hadn’t been expecting a full-on extravaganza of illusion. By the time Trucy had taken her final bow, even Apollo was charmed. She’d thrown her arms around his neck after the show, her cry of ‘Polly, you made it!’ loud enough to draw the attention of half the park, and Phoenix had snapped the photo in a moment of fatherly pride.
Apollo had never seen it printed.
He turns it over to where Trucy has scribbled a quick note on the back in bright blue gel pen.
Miss you already! Come back soon, okay?
A drawing of Mr. Hat is doodled below.
“She’s taking good care of Mikeko. And Vongole,” Klavier adds musingly a moment later, though they are both only barely paying attention to the words, “I wonder how Herr Wright feels about that.”
Exasperated, most likely. An image of Trucy tearing through the office after a startled Mikeko and an exuberant Vongole suddenly enters his mind. Athena is probably right alongside her, a cat toy dangling from one of her hands as she tries to coax the cat down from whatever high place Mikeko will inevitably hide on. They’re likely getting very little work done. Apollo wonders if Widget works on animals, and, more importantly, if Athena will actually try to psychoanalyze his cat.
The idea is so ridiculous that, for what feels like the first time in months, Apollo laughs.
“It’s going to have to be one hell of a gift,” he says.
“She deserves it, I think.”
Apollo glances from the photo in his hands to Klavier, who is still smiling at him gently. His hair has begun to unravel from its usual neat twist in the humidity, a growing collection of loose curls falling gently around his shoulders. Up close, Apollo can see the telltale signs of jet lag in the slouched way he holds his shoulders, in the hints of dark circles that concealer hasn’t quite managed to erase under his eyes. But he is here, across the world at the drop of a hat for no other reason than that Apollo might need him. It’s an absurd and illogical motion, but Apollo finds he is so grateful that he feels the relief like a physical tug somewhere deep in his chest.
“Hey, Klavier?” he asks suddenly, and Klavier raises inquisitive eyebrows, “Do you want to... to come inside?”
It seems like a simple question, the courteous thing to ask in a situation like this, but Apollo can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than that. And, if the way Klavier smiles back at him is any indication, he’s aware of it too. It’s a smile that makes Apollo nervous, like so many butterflies have started fluttering about in his stomach, trying to force their way out. He feels giddy and warm and nauseous all at once.
“I thought you would never ask,” Klavier says, and Apollo steps to the side to let him through.
Klavier’s gaze begins traveling around the room almost as soon as he enters. The office looks a considerable amount better now that it’s no longer being used as a rebel hideout- whenever Apollo wasn’t with clients or sleeping, he and Datz had spent their time tearing down the boards that separated the main office from the rest of the house, clearing the dust room by room until the place looked almost bright again. It still doesn’t look like much, a fact Apollo is aware he should probably feel more self-conscious about, but has an office of his own in the back and an apartment above it. More importantly, though, he has the legacy- Dhurke’s legacy- that comes with it.
Klavier crosses the room, his fingers running along the various surfaces thoughtfully until he reaches the far wall. Dhurke’s jacket is still hanging there, exactly where he had left it. Time and dust have dulled the fabric somewhat, but the bright blue and red embroidery still stand out sharp and vivid against the plaster wall. Klavier pauses in front of it, head cocked slightly to the side. Light catches the gold thread laced into the collar, and Klavier touches it almost reverently as if he’s considering it. Then, without speaking, he turns and takes the coat still dangling from Apollo’s fingers and hooks the hanger over a pipe in the ceiling, high enough up that Apollo would likely need a chair to take it down.
“There,” he says, stepping back to look at the two jackets now hanging side by side. “A bit more like home, ja?”
Apollo glances from the jackets and up to Klavier.
“Yeah,” he says gently, “it is.”
Klavier falls asleep on his couch less than an hour later, head lolled against the arm in what appears to be a truly uncomfortable position. Apollo only briefly considers waking him. He watches Klavier’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm until the light has faded from the sky and the only light in the room comes from the warm bulb in the stairwell.
From the seat beside him, Apollo can just barely see the photos that have been pinned up on the board near the window. Nahyuta and Dhurke smile from one, Trucy beams back at him from another. Even the photo of his father is there, placed carefully near the top.
The two jackets continue to sway in the warm breeze that drifts through the open window, the red sleeve of Apollo’s coat brushing the shoulder Dhurke’s coat gently. It makes a sound like a soft and content sigh each time.
Home, Klavier had said.
Apollo smiles.