Chapter Text
cover by arcee
Knowing what Apollo knows about prosecutors, he fully expects for his one, awkward conversation with Klavier to be his last—he can’t imagine that Prosecutor Gavin would be able to leisurely take cases with the press at his heels, a re-convicted brother, and a newly convicted band member. Vera had let him know she’d received a greeting card in the mail from him—a specialty Gramarye designed gift shop card from before the murder, and then she’d gone very quiet and added that there was a note attached which said that the card had been tested for atroquinine and other trace poisons, because you could never be too careful.
“Do you think Prosecutor Gavin would let me draw him?” Vera had asked, gripping the card tightly in her hands. Her nails gleamed a sheer cerulean—she’d borrowed the polish from Trucy and was experimenting with other colors, nowadays.
“I don’t know,” Apollo had answered, because he had barely attended one Gavinners concert and worked three cases with Klavier Gavin, which meant that he really didn’t know what to say about him.
“Someday,” Vera had sighed, and that was that.
From what Apollo had heard from Phoenix, prosecutors disappear on extended leave for months or years on end, until they make a flashy comeback that makes you want to smack them until they behave like normal humans. Apollo chose to ignore that Phoenix’s definition of normal had been skewed beyond repair, but it was right that Prosecutor Edgeworth was an infrequent presence in the area.
Apollo had seen Prosecutor Edgeworth exactly once in the Wright Anything Agency, looking foolishly out of place in the haphazard layout and design of the place, but once Phoenix had come out to greet him his face had softened and it had seemed like he belonged here more than anywhere else in the world. And then Apollo had made himself scarce because Miles Edgeworth was one of the most famous prosecutors to ever live and he wasn’t sure if he could manage a single word in front of him.
Now that Prosecutor Gavin’s standing in front of him, though, looking abnormally like a wet cat in the rain, Apollo realizes that basing his knowledge of prosecutors off of a sample size of essentially one and the vague sense of guilt that was inevitable when you looked inside yourself and found that, apart from the actual murderers themselves, you happened to be the main cause of destroying the foundations of the last seven years, maybe more, of someone’s life, wasn’t necessarily a solid method to judge someone else.
“Ah—Herr Forehead,” Klavier says. “Would you mind letting me in and out of this rain? It’s dreadful enough that even your horns would be destroyed by the downpour.”
Apollo rolls his eyes, but he swings the door open wider, and Klavier shuffles in, glancing around the entrance.
“Nice place.”
“It’s not mine,” Apollo mutters. “Doesn’t look anything like an office.”
Klavier shrugs off his coat, and when he realizes the Wright Anything Agency doesn’t bother with things such as coat racks, he gently drapes it across the arm of a sofa and settles down. “Indeed, it seems like Fraulein Magician manages this space.”
Apollo slumps down on the sofa across from him. In the light, he sees Klavier more clearly, and it paints a surprisingly unpretty picture—crumpled paper held close to his chest, rain dotting and bleeding the ink, and smudged makeup that makes him look more like a raccoon than anything sexy.
Klavier’s eyes dart towards the manila folder on the table, and then the clock, which is firmly stuck at 3:45, on account of it being broken.
“It’s 10:00 PM,” Apollo offers. “In case you were wondering.”
“Danke.” After a pause, Klavier asks, “What’s keeping you up so late, Herr Forehead?”
Apollo’s eye twitches. Well, you for one, he thinks about saying, but he would’ve stayed up anyways. “Just case work,” he says. “They won’t open the scene of the crime until a few days later, so I’m trying to narrow down a couple of other good places to search.”
Klavier lowers his eyes and smiles. “Admirable work,” he says. “I do apologize for interrupting you. Please carry on, if you would. I promise not to pass on any information towards the prosecutorial office.”
The annoying thing about Klavier is that whether he’s meeting his eyes or avoiding them, Apollo always, always feels like he’s being caught off guard. It’s not that he feels like Klavier’s lying to him all the time—Apollo doesn’t tend to look for tells unless he’s in the courtroom on account of how much it takes out of him, but he can pick up some level of dishonesty if it’s constant.
Instead of anything easy to define, it feels like Klavier Gavin always manages to unsettle him, some way or the other. As a prosecutor, as a rockstar, as an absolute asshole or someone he can trust, there’s something about him that’s so magnetic that it seems impossible to look away. Still, Apollo wonders: for all that looking, how many people are really seeing?
He glances down at the folder in front of him, and then sighs, packing the stray documents together and closing the folder with a decisive press.
“Prosecutor Gavin,” Apollo says. “Are you doing alright?”
Klavier’s mouth pulls up in a wry smile. “Should I be?” he asks.
Apollo shrugs. “I don’t think I can answer that,” he replies. “But… surely you must be here for something, yes?”
Klavier is staring at him. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but his eyes seem to glitter. “As always,” he murmurs, “you defy my expectations.”
He raises an eyebrow. “By acting like a normal person? Not everyone just shows up to someone else’s office randomly, do they?”
He earns a laugh at that. “True. Maybe my expectations are low enough that you always surpass them.”
“Well… Prosecutor Gavin, what are you here for?”
Klavier fiddles with one of his many rings. “I just felt… very tired,” he says. “And it’s rather quiet here.” He smiles. “Though the sound of your voice is rather pleasant,” he adds. “I don’t find it a disturbance at all.” He motions towards the papers left on the table. “Shouldn’t you get back to work on that?”
“I think most places are quiet this late at night,” Apollo huffs, but he doesn’t prod any further and just picks his folder back up, reclining on the couch and shuffling through possible investigation locations.
In the periphery of his vision, he sees Klavier do the same, and hears a soft sigh escape from him. Apollo doesn’t dare look up until an entire half hour later, when he’s greeted by the face of Klavier Gavin, eyes closed in light sleep, hands folded neatly on his lap. Then he looks down and continues his work for another half hour before glancing up to see Klavier in the same pose.
“Prosecutor Gavin?” he asks.
Klavier stirs but does not wake.
Apollo stands up. His shadow falls over Klavier’s sleeping body. He recalls that Klavier’s sigh earlier had sounded less like an indiscriminate breath of weariness and more like the phrase Not always. “Klavier?” he asks, a little louder.
Silence stretches between them, and then Klavier blinks awake, rubbing at his eyes.
“Herr Forehead?” he responds, voice still thick with sleep. His hand reaches for the blazer next to him, and it’s only then when his hand is on the cloth that he fully snaps awake.
“Uh,” Apollo says. If there was ever a moment to feel caught off guard, it would be this. The nature of that feeling means that he can't tell if it’s better or worse that he thinks Klavier is feeling the same.
“I—I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep,” Klavier stammers, rising quickly from the sofa with his blazer clutched in his hands. “Did I bother you?”
“No, it’s fine,” he says. “I got some work done, so I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. Sorry I didn’t wake you.”
“Like I said earlier, I was feeling tired,” Klavier says. “Any sleep is good for me. I should probably head home and get a proper night’s rest though, ja? You too.”
“…Yeah,” Apollo says. “You head home first. I need to lock up.”
“Will you get home safe?” Klavier asks.
“Huh?” Apollo blinks up at him. “What, because it’s late? I’ll be fine—it’s not the first time I’ve stayed late at the office.”
“Well,” Klavier says, biting his lip. “Be well, Apollo.” He ducks his head in a quick nod and exits the room as elegantly as someone can after having fallen asleep.
Apollo’s face blooms with heat.
A minute later, when his face has lost most of its scarlet color, he picks up the crumpled paper Klavier had left lying on the table. The ink is ruined beyond repair, but he can make out a few strings of words—evidentiary reasoning, andante moderato allegro, and acoustic?, the latter written once and then again with a conviction that’s been marred by rainwater. Then, after another minute of deliberation, Apollo smooths out the papers and tucks them into his folder, fingers lingering over the line that reads god of justice.
“Polly!” Trucy yells when they meet up the next morning. “The Gavinners are breaking up! It’s a national tragedy!”
Apollo furrows his brows. “…I know?” he says.
“What?” she asks. “How?”
“Prosecutor Gavin told me. Weeks ago.”
“And you didn’t let me know?”
“I… I figured if he was telling me, it probably meant everyone else knew already?” Apollo asks. “I don’t keep up with celebrities, you know that.”
Trucy thrusts a newspaper at his face. “Read this, then!”
“We’re supposed to be investigating,” he reminds her.
“The detention center isn’t even open yet!” she says. “Just read it!”
THE BIGGEST BOYBAND, BREAKING UP?
“This—this sounds like a very unofficial news source, Trucy,” Apollo says.
“It’s still a source! Plus, you just said they were correct, right?”
Fans around the world will be heartbroken to know that The Gavinners, composed of frontman Klavier Gavin, guitarist Daryan Crescend, bassist Mikey Wave, keyboardist Chord Backstreet and drummer Tim Panico, have officially announced their split (The statement released on their official Twitter can be found here) While most find the split shocking and sudden, devoted fans in touch with the band have surely heard of the explosive (quite literally, with Klavier Gavin’s guitar catching on fire mid-setlist) concert that lead to the conviction of none other than bandmate Daryan Crescend for murder of the first degree.
One has to wonder if Gavin himself was aware of his bandmate’s criminal activities, seeing as he was the prosecution in the case that eventually led to Crescend’s indictment. Until now, The Gavinners have not formally condemned Crescend’s actions, and even the official statement is mild in acknowledging his crime, simply announcing that Crescend has split from the band.
The paper crumples from how hard he’s gripping it. “What’s wrong with these people?” Apollo asks. “How can they just be allowed to—to make baseless accusations like that!”
“That’s how the press is, Polly,” Trucy says, shaking her head. “That’s the real trouble when you’re famous, you know!”
On his personal twitter, after apologizing for the solemn news, Gavin stated, “[The band] spoke together and decided that there just wasn’t a way to continue forward. For those who’ve loved The Gavinners over the last seven years, I am eternally grateful. I hope from the bottom of my heart that you’ll support Mikey, Chord, and Tim in their future endeavors.”
No members have made any announcements about solo work so far, and while they have no doubt enjoyed tremendous success within the music industry, each of them do have solid careers within the field of law enforcement.
The band is currently making no plans for a farewell tour.
“This feels so weird,” Apollo says. “I don’t think I should be reading this?”
“Why not?” Trucy asks.
“Well, we know Prosecutor Gavin, for one,” he says. “Getting news about him like this… it feels wrong.”
Trucy looks at him strangely. “Most people get their news about him like this,” she says. “You getting it directly from the source is an exception.”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” Apollo says. “I just don’t like it.”
“Why?”
“I mean, I knew he was popular,” he says. “But not like this? Like fans, whatever, sure… but it feels weird talking about Prosecutor Gavin like he’s a rockstar.”
“He is a rockstar,” Trucy says. “You’ve seen his albums!”
“I know,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just—it’s not something I can explain. I just think it’s weird.”
“Well, not much you can do about it!” Trucy chirps. “The detention center’s probably opened up by now, hasn’t it?”
“Um, yeah,” Apollo replies. “We should go.”
“And, hey, maybe if Klavier decides to release solo music, you’ll be the first to know!” Trucy says. “Next time, if you’ve got an inside scoop like that, you’ve got to tell me.”
He thinks back to last night and musters up a vague hum that doesn’t necessarily constitute a maybe. Trucy has no trouble keeping secrets, but for right now, Apollo doesn’t want to tell anyone about Klavier showing up to the Wright Anything Agency, or the paper he’d left behind. Besides, it’s not like they talked about music, and Klavier made no mention of stopping by again, so in time it’ll just be a weird memory that Apollo won’t have to even think about.
Instead of nagging him to promise that he’ll tell her everything, Trucy just lets the subject hang and says, “It’s good that they didn’t report on… that other trial, at least.”
Apollo sighs in relief. “That’s true,” he says. “Now let’s go before our client thinks we’re irresponsible.”
“Eh? Isn’t that the reason why our client hired us?”
To appease Apollo’s guilt in keeping things from Trucy, Klavier doesn’t appear for the next three days at the Wright Anything Agency. He’s been crashing there as he often does during hectic cases, and this is definitely one of them. When it’s finally over, Apollo crashes at home, sweet home and sleeps for a blissful twelve hours before showing up to work.
A week after that, Klavier Gavin shows up at the front door again.
Apollo stares at him, dumbfounded. Then, because it’s not raining, he steps a little out the door, squinting at the shadowy dark. Klavier’s eye-searing excuse of a motorcycle is noticeably absent, but there is a car parked in front of the agency that by process of elimination has to be his.
Klavier doesn’t comment on what he’s doing but he does step back when Apollo steps out, and even in the dark Apollo can make out the odd half-smile that graces his face.
“My, Herr Forehead,” Klavier says. “Back on the case so quickly? Do you not take time to celebrate your victories?”
Apollo frowns at him. “What?”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be working so late after the case you just took,” he says. “The prosecutor’s office is abuzz with your brilliance!”
Once again, Klavier is utterly befuddling. Apollo sighs and resolves that if they speak for any longer, he’s going to have to get used to things not making sense. “I wouldn’t call it that,” he sighs. “Not that I want admirers like yours.”
Klavier’s pleasant cheer doesn’t drop at that. “That’s very you,” he agrees. “If you’re planning to stay up late, would you mind the company? I’ve brought some of my own work, so I’ll be quiet. I’ve been told I snore when I sleep.”
“You don’t snore,” Apollo says automatically, and then he winces. “I… was actually planning on heading home in a few minutes,” he admits. “You just caught me in the middle of tidying.”
Klavier’s pleasant cheer does drop at that. “Ah,” he says, tugging at an errant strand of his hair. For all that Klavier is confusing, his nervous ticks are almost too obvious. “Well, I suppose I can’t fault you for not giving me a warning? Do have a good night, Herr Forehead.”
There’s a certain warmth to Klavier’s voice that makes Apollo feel suddenly, acutely miserable when staring up at him. He blinks and the sensation fades, but without thinking he says, “If you want some company, you could… come over to my place?” He’s surprised to find that he means it, even after he’s had enough time to register the words coming out of his mouth.
Klavier looks at him, wide-eyed. He clears his throat. “Aren’t you going to sleep as soon as you head home?”
Apollo shakes his head. “Weekend night. I don’t have an active case, so I was planning on relaxing and sleeping in.”
“Well, if I wouldn’t be imposing—”
“You wouldn’t.” It’s kind of a lie, because Klavier makes him feel off-centered and nervous, but that doesn’t mean Apollo doesn’t want him there.
“Well,” Klavier huffs. “Where do you live?”
Apollo rattles off his address, and Klavier types out the directions on his phone with a careful touch. It’s one of the models that feels almost comically big for a phone, the case the same rich purple as Klavier’s jacket. Underneath his fingers Apollo can see glimpses of the Gavinners logo in a glittery silver. Klavier pockets it and says, “You mentioned you were tidying, right? Should I give you a few minutes?”
“Oh, you can head over,” Apollo says. “I’ll catch up.”
Klavier raises an eyebrow. “Herr Forehead,” he drawls. “You cannot be under the impression that I would let you take your bike back? It’s not far, but my car has more than enough space.”
Feeling bold or incredibly stupid, Apollo blurts out, “I thought you’d murder me if it touched the backseat.”
“You’ll notice my car is perfectly ordinary,” Klavier points out. “My bike, now… that I would have complaints. But I doubt I could fit your bike on mine.”
He thinks that calling his bike and Klavier’s bike the same word is as flattering as it is a straight up lie. But apart from that, Klavier genuinely doesn’t seem bothered.
Klavier raises an eyebrow at him, and Apollo makes his decision. “Just—give me a minute to grab my stuff and lock up. Could you load my bike into your car?
Klavier beams at him and heads over to where Apollo’s left his bicycle. Apollo has to take an extra minute inside to recover from how startling it is to see the essence of happiness, sketched out so clearly in the lines of Klavier’s face. He buries his head in his hands. He is definitely going to have to tell Trucy something.
Apollo comes back outside to see Klavier squinting at a video on his phone, before bending down to unhitch the front wheel of his bicycle and stow it in the backseat of the car. He grins at Apollo when he sees him, teeth flashing pearly white.
Apollo raises a weak hand to wave at him and then awkwardly ducks into the passenger seat. “…Hey.”
Klavier mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Achtung, baby, let’s roll,” when he gets into his seat and starts the car.
Apollo braces himself for the worst car ride he’s ever had in his life, but Klavier drives so normally that he has nothing to say. Since there’s nothing to say about Klavier treating his car like his courthouse guitar solos, it’s definitely not the worst car ride he’s been in, but it takes the prize for the most awkward one.
“Shall I turn on the radio?” Klavier asks, once they’re out on a main road.
“Oh, uh, sure.”
With a soft press of a few buttons, the radio comes to life in a low, mellow volume. “And now, to discuss the recent news regarding The Gavinners and their split—Carmen, what do you have to say about the possible solo prospects of—”
With a much harder click, Klavier mutes the radio.
“…I think radio may not be the best idea,” Klavier says. His finger taps on the steering wheel every time they hit the spotlight. Another nervous tick.
“What about music?” Apollo asks.
“As long as it’s not anything I’ve sung, by all means,” Klavier says. “You can connect to the aux cord and play whatever you’d like.”
Apollo connects his phone and scrolls through his playlists for a moment before selecting his jazz playlist. Mellow brass floats through the speakers as Klavier keeps his eyes on the road. Apollo slumps in his seat. When Klavier is waiting at a red light, he says, “You know, Trucy showed me a newspaper article about you, a few days ago.”
The finger on the steering wheel begins to tap in double time. “Ah well, you know how the gossip magazines are,” Klavier says airily. “It was to be expected.”
“I’d never read one until today,” Apollo replies. “They’re kind of… mean.”
“Of course you would think that,” Klavier says. “From an outsider’s perspective, their comments aren’t unfounded, you know?” He’s keeping his staunch commitment to traffic safety and staring straight ahead.
Apollo, as someone who got his driver’s license the one time and then never owned a car, turns to stare at him instead. Highlighted by the red of a traffic light and the nearby headlights of other cars on the road, Klavier’s tension is magnified, bleeding into the edges of the steering wheel and the car, but perfectly contained within it. Like this he almost hurts to look at.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“With—well, with Daryan,” Klavier says. “And Kristoph, of course. My track record… has not gone swimmingly as of late, ja?” The light is still red, so he flashes a quick, uncertain smile towards Apollo before turning back to the wheel. “It’s not as if they are lying, Herr Forehead.”
His bracelet tightens. But you are, Apollo thinks. “Truth is—complicated, though,” Apollo mumbles lamely.
“I didn’t realize it had bothered you so much,” he says after a moment. The light has finally turned green, and Klavier accelerates at a steady pace. “But I doubt your forehead will be appearing in the gossip magazines anytime soon, if that’s your concern.”
“Uh… thank you?”
“No publicity is bad publicity,” Klavier quotes, oddly amused. “I assume you appreciate the quiet? But if you feel otherwise, I can get that forehead of yours plastered on every sign in the city.”
Apollo groans. “Don’t you even dare.”
They drive for a few more minutes in silence before Apollo asks, “You said you brought your own work with you, right?”
“I did say that,” Klavier affirms.
“Is it case work? I thought you weren’t taking cases for a bit.”
“Ah, it’s… music work,” he replies.
“A solo album?”
Klavier raises an eyebrow. “Ah,” he says. “I suppose you really did read the papers.”
“I hadn’t realized,” Apollo began, and then faltered as Klavier turned into his street. “That one—there, at the right,” he tells him.
Klavier dutifully pulls up to the side of the street and parks in front of Apollo’s apartment complex. He doesn’t make any move to get out of the car, though, and instead stares at Apollo. “You were saying,” he prompts, though he sounds the opposite of curious.
“I just—I hadn’t realized,” Apollo repeats lamely, “That I was the only one who knew. About you guys splitting up. Until recently.”
“Ah,” Klavier says.
“I mean,” Apollo continues, fumbling over his words and twisting his fingers in worry, “Why was that? Like, I thought it was because—I don’t pay attention to the news usually, so that’s why you wanted to let me know, but a couple of days ago Trucy came barreling into the agency and that’s when I realized that she didn’t know until just then—was I supposed to tell her? Actually, should I be telling her anything—you didn’t announce any solo work so I should probably keep quiet, right? But—” He breaks his line of thought when he finally notices the stunned expression on Klavier’s face. “I mean,” Apollo says. “I’m just… confused.”
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier sighs. “I had wondered if you were that loud in only trials, but it seems like your mind runs triple-time even on its days off.”
“Triple twisted up, more like,” he laughs. “I feel like I’m barely thinking during trials.”
“It does seem that way,”
“Hey!”
Klavier smiles, soft and subtle and real. “Why do you think I’m here, Herr Forehead? Put that deductive reasoning of yours to task.”
“My brain’s unavailable this late in the day,” Apollo replies, but then he thinks for a minute and says, “Peace and quiet, probably. You don’t want to listen to the radio talking about your career, and I’m the person who cares the least about your band. But I don’t know why you’re here instead of at your fancy office.”
“Do you find peace and quiet in your office?” Klavier asks, clearly bemused. He answers his own question before Apollo can even speak up. “You don’t even have an office, do you?”
If this had been when they first met, he’d think Klavier was making fun of him, but now Apollo just snorts and amends, “Not a fancy office. Fancy… apartment. Wherever you live.”
“I don’t know if I can quite put it into words,” he says, turning to unbuckle his seatbelt. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
Apollo follows him out of the car, unloads his bike from the backseat, and leads him up into his apartment, but hesitates once Klavier has slipped off his shoes and stepped into his home. “You didn’t answer my first question, either.”
“Ach,” Klavier says. “You are correct. On that one… it was a silly reason.”
“That’s fine,” Apollo says. “I’m not expecting anything that big—I mean, it’s not like we’re even friends.”
After a long minute of hemming and hawing, Apollo finally gets a reply. “I wanted you to know… that I was still committed,” Klavier says. “To the law. To justice. I thought that if I were to disappear from court without a single warning… I feared unkind assumptions about my work ethic.”
“Oh,” Apollo says, dumbly.
“Mm,” Klavier says. “You’ve got a comfortable looking sofa there, Herr Forehead,” he adds, not a moment later. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Oh, um—go ahead,” Apollo says. “I could… get you a glass of water?”
At Klavier’s nod he goes to grab the nicest glass he has, shakily pouring water until it’s half full. It’s that same unsettling feeling he gets around Klavier, bubbling up the surface, throwing his nerves around like they’re pinballs. He hates himself for asking questions in the first place, but he hates even more the odd, choked expression that had risen to Klavier’s face when Apollo had said they weren’t even friends. It was true a minute ago and it was still true now, but saying out loud felt… mean, somehow. Like he was being rude to the possibility, even if it wasn’t something that was possible in the first place. Most of all, Apollo hates that he hadn’t been able to answer him back with the right words. It would sound insincere if he said them now, probably, but he still wants to march back over to his shitty sofa, pour the glass of water over Klavier’s head, and tell them that even if he thinks he looks stupid and sparkly and insincere that he’s one of the best prosecutors Apollo knows.
“Here,” Apollo says instead, pressing the glass against Klavier’s cheek and reveling in the way he startles at the chill.
Klavier’s hands curl around the glass like he’s drinking a warm cup of tea. He scoots over and lets Apollo take the left side of the sofa. “So, how do you go about your night on a usual Friday? Don’t let me stop you from relaxing.”
He’s not sure if he can feel necessarily relaxed with Klavier sitting next to him, still blinged up and in his work attire, but he shrugs off his jacket. “I watch movies sometimes,” he says.
“So you do know a thing or two about pop culture!” Klavier exclaims. “And yet no knowledge of the Gavinners…”
“Trucy didn’t recognize you either,” Apollo points out. “Is it that unreasonable to not know the existence of one boy band?”
“A triple platinum one,” Klavier laughs, but he acquiesces. “I suppose I’m used to people knowing everything about me before we even meet.”
“Through what? Gossip magazines?”
“Some of the publications that write about us are highly respected for their music journalism.” At Apollo’s stare, Klavier reluctantly adds, “Gossip magazines, too.”
“Does that even count as knowing, though?” he asks.
Klavier shrugs. “Perhaps not,” he says, “but the perception of knowing—that’s almost as important.
“…Why didn’t you say more about Daryan?” Apollo turns his head against the sofa so Klavier can’t see his expression. “I mean—they would have never declared Machi innocent without your help. Not condemning him—that’s bullshit, you’re literally the reason he got convicted in the first place, I don’t get why people can just say that—”
“Herr Forehead,” Klavier says, and then more insistently, “Herr Forehead, you really should not be reading these articles.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Apollo grumbles.
Klavier stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. “Well, don’t worry too much,” he says. “You’ll get wrinkles, though you’re well on your way to developing them with how often you furrow your brows.” He bites his lip. “Honestly, I just needed to say something about how we were going to split up, and when I was typing it out… I wanted that announcement to be over quickly. I didn’t want to think about Daryan more than I’d already thought about him. Our split wasn’t even something we really decided, it was just… consequence. But we had to announce it like it was a decision. It’s really—” He catches Apollo’s eye and his words trip in his tongue and stutter out entirely. “I’m rambling, aren’t I.”
Apollo gives a half-hearted shrug. “You’re answering my question, aren’t you?”
“It’s really annoying,” Klavier concludes. “For all that we are a rocking law-based band, I don’t think many of our fans are too concerned with the pursuit of justice? But they are just that—fans. Expecting more would be strange.”
“But it’s meaningful to you?”
“What?”
“The band. The music. It’s meaningful to you?”
“Not as meaningful as prosecution, but—” Klavier fiddles with a lock of his hair. “It is meaningful to me,” he agrees. “Even now, I thought…”
Apollo rolls his eyes. “I can’t say I adore your music, Prosecutor Gavin,” he says. “But you should finish your sentences. For what it’s worth, I did like ‘The Guitar’s Serenade.’”
Klavier cracks a smile. “I thought about releasing an album of my own, to clear up all this mess. ‘The Guitar’s Serenade’ premiered live at the concert, so we weren’t even able to release that without sorting through all this mess. That song, at least, deserves to be heard by as many people as possible.”
“Well, I’m sure Trucy would be overjoyed,” Apollo says. “As well as all your fans.”
“Yes, I’m sure she would,” Klavier says, though he seems rather apathetic.
A strange silence stretches between them before Apollo suddenly remembers that he still has Klavier’s paper in his bag. “You—you left a paper at the Wright Anything Agency,” he says. “Did you want it back? The rain kind of damaged it pretty badly, but I thought you’d want it…”
“You… saved it?” Klavier asks.
“…Was I not supposed to?”
“It’s been a week,” he says and then shakes his head. “I’m glad, but I didn’t think—never mind. Could I see it? I don’t know how much of it’s been ruined.”
Apollo rummages through his bag and gingerly hands the paper over, watching as the other scans through it with a careful eye. “These must have been a strange collection of words for you to read,” Klavier says, eyes still trained on the page. “You saved it even though there’s so little to be saved… I have to express my thanks for that.”
Klavier isn’t even looking directly at him, but Apollo shrugs under the phantom weight of his gaze. “It wasn’t that big of a deal,” he says. “That’s… for your music, right? Did anything important get ruined?”
“Quite the contrary,” Klavier replies. He’s clutching the paper so tightly Apollo is afraid it might rip. “This is… helpful, even like this. It helps me remember.”
“Remember what?”
He stares at Apollo with an unfathomable expression, and says, “It helps me remember… my reasons.” And without clarifying anything, he adds, “This has—this was nice, Herr Forehead, but I don’t think I should overstay my welcome.”
Apollo blinks up at him as he rises from the couch. “Why? It’s not that late, is it?” He checks his watch. It’s not that late, but it is later than he’d expected. He frowns. “Do you feel alright?”
There’s a strange expression on Klavier’s face. Apollo’s bracelet tenses around his wrist. “You have a very comfortable sofa,” he says. “I’ll be too sleepy to drive back to my place if I stay for longer.”
Apollo snorts. “My sofa isn’t that nice.”
“Well, maybe,” Klavier relents but doesn’t elaborate. He grabs his jacket, and then lowers his voice. “I had a nice time tonight,” he says.
“Oh,” Apollo says. “Me too.”
“I don’t mind if you tell Fraulein Magician things in advance, but this solo work—I’d rather not talk about it until I’m sure,” he adds. “Sleep well, ja?”
The door creaks open and then shuts softly. Apollo leans back on his not-that-comfortable sofa and thinks that even without saying Apollo, Klavier still manages to make him feel off-centered. His laptop is still on the table in front of him, so he pulls up Youtube, finds a recording of the concert premiere of “The Guitar’s Serenade,” and lets the sound filter slowly through his apartment as he gets ready for bed. It’ll probably sound even nicer in a professional recording.
Come to think of it, Apollo doesn’t think he’s heard a professionally recorded Gavinners’ song in his entire life—apart from “The Guitar’s Serenade,” he’s suffered through one embarrassing performance of “Guilty Love,” as well as the soundboard for the instrumental mixing of that. If he focuses, he can just almost hear that dissonant note Daryan played, but even now it still feels crazy that Klavier had picked that out so easily. Maybe that was the kind of thing Klavier felt almost instinctively, the way Apollo picked up on ticks.
Apollo hears the muffled sounds of Klavier trying and failing to stamp out the flames of his guitar, and smiles. By the time that he’s finished showering and changing into pajamas, the video has long ended, and autoplay has just started on the music video for “Atroquinine, My Love.” He winces, expecting to hear the kind of guitar solo that might scream the opposite of sleep, but instead something mellow and acoustic begins the track. And the lyrics are maybe… on the nose, considering Klavier spends a good portion of the song describing the effects of atroquinine, but they’re also morose and strangely reflecting and the kind of thing that makes Apollo really, really want to ask him what Kristoph was like when he wasn’t being a boss but a brother.
Judging by the view count, it doesn’t seem to be one of the songs that had instantly gone triple platinum or whatever Klavier had said, so Apollo hesitantly opens up another tab and searches for the song. It’s probably not… the nicest thing, to search up Klavier when the reason Klavier probably has been showing up so much in the first place is because he’s maybe one of the only people who’s not nosy enough to pry into his personal life. But he can’t shake this feeling of wondering—is someone else hearing what he does?
The first non-news site turns up an album review, so that's where Apollo starts.
Review: Premeditated Poisons (6.7)
When the Gavinners struck platinum with the now almost-infamous “13 Years Hard Time For Love,” and struck it again, this time with the support of their staunchly devoted fans, with “Gunna Lock U Up,” it was obvious that the Gavinners were more than a one-hit-wonder, if at the very least a serial one-hit-wonder. Though their albums prove far weaker than their singles as the law concept wears out over time, their fans seem to only grow in number. Fresh off an international tour, it would be no surprise if the band members took a break from the spotlight, but instead they’ve released an entire full album.
Premeditated Poisons hit the shelves just last week, but sales have been off the charts. While lead single “Atroquinine, My Love,” has failed to chart as astronomically high as their usual fare, the lack of a clear law-related theme and the overall shift in sound presents a dramatic change for the Gavinners band. The impetus for this change comes no further than the band’s frontman and the ‘Gavin’ behind the name, Klavier Gavin. In a recent interview before the album release, he went on record to say that out of all the albums they’ve released so far, this is perhaps the one he spent the most time working on.
This statement is even more powerful when considering that the Gavinners are a solo act in all but name—lead guitarist and lead vocalist and founder Klavier Gavin writes the majority of the lyrics for all their music, and it’s his boy-band, classic rock production that makes up the hallmarks of a Gavinners song—not to mention, of course, the egregious use of puns.
The introduction song, aptly named “Malpractice Melodies,” borrows the same naming scheme as the album. In it, drummer Tim Panico carries the driving force of the track while distorted whispers layer over the beats, ramping up into a guitar riff that abruptly peters out as “Atroquinine, My Love” sees Klavier abandon his trusty electric guitar for an acoustic intro. Atroquinine is a rare and extremely deadly poison that Klavier is no doubt familiar with, considering the intense description of the poison’s effects, but the song reads much more like a morose dictionary rather than any kind of love letter. For the band’s first foray into something unrelated to the law, it’s surprisingly mild. Tracks like “Unheard Confessional” continue the band’s exploration with lighter tracks, while the highlights of the album rest within the strong bassline and guitar riffs in “If Looks Could Kill,” performed by bassist Mikey Wave and second guitar, Daryan Crescend. Rather than the concluding statement song the Gavinners are so fond of, this album foregoes a conclusion all together and ends with an interestingly arranged, if unneeded remix of “Guilty Love” called “Love Love Guilty Mind (Mens Rea)” …
Apollo shuts the computer and climbs into bed. He can still hear “Atroquinine, My Love” in his head. Atroquinine, my love, is a rare and deadly poison, Klavier had sung. One touch from you, and I’d be undone. It sounds obvious out loud, but that was Klavier’s voice. It makes sense, of course—he’s always been showy in court, and his songs are showy, but it occurs to Apollo now that if Klavier isn’t showy outside of court… that voice he uses then, it’s here, too. It’s maybe neater than the one he knows, but it’s distinctly, obviously, Klavier.
He's spent the entire length of their acquaintance assuming that there was the Klavier who was a rockstar, the one that was Prosecutor Gavin, and the one that was also still Prosecutor Gavin but a little more vulnerable. He doesn’t think he’s wrong still, in the same way that he doesn’t think it’s wrong to prefer Klavier when they’re talking about the law instead of music, but the lines between each feel like they’re bleeding into each other.
Apollo turns around in his bed. It feels like he’s so close to some kind of conclusion. That if he spends five more minutes, he’ll shout “Objection!” and figure out what the contradiction he’s wrestling with is. But even before Klavier had waltzed into the Wright Anything Agency and waltzed out of his apartment, Apollo had been planning to relax and sleep. He refuses to lose any more sleep thinking about people who do nothing but confuse him. With any luck, everything will make sense in the morning.