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Apollo watched stonefaced as Kristoph Gavin, his hair loose and wild, was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs. Refusing to go silently, Kristoph cursed out Apollo, Klavier, the judge, the jury, and anyone else his manic eyes landed on as he was forced down the aisle. Not even Trucy escaped his ire, and she clung tightly onto Apollo’s arm as Kristoph took out every ounce of his seething hatred for Mr. Wright on her.
The ‘coolest defense in the west’ was no more, it seemed. Apollo couldn’t believe he had ever admired him for his grace under pressure.
When the doors slammed shut, Apollo turned to the other Gavin brother across the room. Behind the prosecutor’s bench, Klavier was unusually impassive. Whatever relief he might have felt for finally tying up his unanswered questions had faded away, and now exhaustion pressed down on him like a ten tonne weight.
It was strange not to see him smiling. Even one of his too-practised grins would have been a welcome sight right then.
As if sensing that Apollo was watching him, Klavier’s piercing gaze met his. His eyes were empty, hollow, and dead to the world – a phantom of their usual twinkle. Apollo wondered if Klavier saw a similar numbness in his own.
They didn’t say anything. Their expressions didn't change. They simply watched each other as the trial concluded around them, holding on to the small comfort that at least one other person took no joy in seeing Kristoph Gavin unravel beyond recognition – that at least one person saw this conclusion as both the tragedy and the necessity that it was.
They didn’t break away until His Honour’s gavel hit its block with a resounding thud.
It didn’t take long for paranoia to settle in.
Apollo saw it everywhere, the Atroquinine. It was in his coffee. It was in his takeout. It was on his cutlery, his toothbrush, his chapstick. Anytime he put anything anywhere near his mouth, he was hit with a tidal wave of doubt.
What if it was poisoned?
He couldn’t shake off the thought once it had embedded itself in his mind.
Kristoph certainly had ample reason to want him dead. The only things he had ever cared about was his career and his pride, and Apollo had destroyed both of them in the most high profile case the courts had seen in years. There was no coming back from something like that. Considering he had sought revenge for far pettier slights, Apollo was sure that, if there was a way Kristoph could kill him from prison, he would do it in a heartbeat.
The question was: could he?
Murder was not the kind of crime one could commit from prison without an accomplice, and, as far as Apollo knew, Kristoph had no one left he could rely on. He was not the kind person who had unconditional friends, and his only family was the same brother who had helped put him behind bars in the first place.
Apollo should have been able to discount the possibility on that point alone, but Kristoph had done it before, was the thing.
Drew Misham had died while he was in prison. Vera had almost died too. Who’s to say there wasn’t another contingency floating around Apollo’s apartment that hadn't been discovered yet? What if there was a mug Apollo just so happened to have left untouched since his days at his former job? A pen cap that he hadn’t yet chewed on? There could be a little drop of Atroquinine on any one of his belongings, and he wouldn’t know until it was too late.
And what if he was wrong about Kristoph’s lack of allies? What if he did have someone he could call on to apply that poison on his behalf? Any number of items in Apollo’s life could be tainted, and there was no way to know – not without one of Ema’s testing kits, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that Atroquinine was something he was worried about.
It was an illogical irrational fear, and yet it was eating at him from the inside out. He didn’t think the science-minded Ema would ever understand. He didn’t think anyone would.
This, like so many of his burdens, would be one he would have to shoulder alone.
It was over a month before Apollo saw Klavier again.
To his understanding, Klavier had disappeared from the public eye in an effort to avoid the relentless reporters hounding him for statements about his brother’s arrest – and the even more relentless paparazzi accusing him of being an accomplice – but he knew Klavier well enough to know that what he said was not necessarily what he felt, and so Apollo had to wonder if that was the real reason why he had taken a break. Regardless, it was only a matter of time before they found themselves working the same case.
Just before the trial started, while the defendant was still en route to the courthouse, Apollo slipped into the adjoining courtyard. He found a quiet corner in the designated smoking area, lit a cigarette, and took a long slow drag.
When his chords of steel failed to calm his nerves, this little vice always came to his rescue.
(There was often a moment when he worried his cigarettes were poisoned too, but his need to feed a once dormant addiction quieted that fear pretty quick. Smoking was probably going to kill him one day either way; Atroquinine would only speed up the process.)
He had hoped to have a few minutes alone, but a set of footsteps followed him out.
“Ah, Herr Forehead. I didn’t know you smoked.”
Apollo almost didn’t recognise Klavier at first. He had come to expect a certain level of glamour from the (ex-)rockstar, but instead was met with a dull imitation – a celebrity headshot in a salon window bleached of its colour. Klavier’s gaudy necklace had been replaced by a simple chain, his suit jacket was such a dark purple it was almost black, and most startling of all, his hair had been cut short and dyed an auburn brown. If it weren’t for his cool blue eyes and that dazzling smile, Apollo might have mistaken him for a stranger.
Apollo shrugged, and exhaled away from Klavier. “Only for the last month. I technically started in law school, but I quit when I passed the bar. I only started again recently when–….”
He cut himself off before he could voice it, and took another drag.
It didn’t matter that he didn’t finish his sentence. Klavier was too smart not to predict what he was going to say anyway.
That dazzling smile tightened. “I see.”
“Do you want one?”
Klavier shook his head. “Best not. I wouldn’t be much of a singer with shallow lungs, ja?”
Apollo was tempted to argue that he wasn’t much of a singer at all now that the Gavinners had disbanded, but he kept that comment to himself. The atmosphere between them was a tad too delicate for that type of banter.
There were a lot of other things he should be saying, however – ‘How are you?’ being the big one – but asking that felt too close to asking Klavier how he was coping, and perhaps it was best to leave that particular elephant unaddressed for now.
Still, Apollo couldn’t help but comment on his new look. “Your hair’s different.”
Klavier flicked his bangs out of his face. “Ah, the trends, Herr Forehead! They’re as everchanging as the seasons. It is a full-time job trying to keep up with them. I know the old look was a staple of my image, but… well, we all need a change, ja? And I do hate to be out-of-style.”
Apollo’s bracelet tightened around his wrist, and his gaze was drawn to the twitch at the corner of Klavier’s mouth, and the vein bulging in one of his hands. He wondered how Klavier would react if he knew he had the same tells as his brother. “Right.”
“Ach, but your precious little bunny ears are charming in their own way! Even the most unfashionable among us can be stylish with a look as iconic as yours, don’t fret.” Klavier flicked at Apollo’s hair, and Apollo smacked his hand away.
“I wasn’t.”
Klavier chuckled. “Ja, I suppose you wouldn’t be you if you cared about such things.”
Apollo assumed the teasing was Klavier’s way of forcing the conversation away from the true reason behind his new haircut, but then he twirled a lock around his finger, almost nervous.
“Do you like it?” He fussed with his bangs. “I know it’s different, but….”
That was a question loaded with meaning.
“...I think you should wear it however you want to, regardless of what anyone else might think when they see it.”
Klavier didn’t respond. He looked away, an unreadable expression on his face. Apollo couldn’t tell if he had liked his answer.
The truth was: Apollo didn’t think Klavier looked that much like his brother. Their personalities were more similar than anyone (least of all Klavier) wanted to admit, but there was one key difference between them that altered how they moved through the world so drastically that even with the same haircut and bone structure, Apollo could easily tell them apart.
Years of living in the public eye had conditioned Klavier into pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Everything about him was constructed, from his loose shoulders and easy smiles, to that little forward lean he would do as if you were the only person in the world who mattered; every minute movement was calculated to sell himself as someone carefree and easygoing. A laugh here, a hair flick there, and you would never know how much of a controlling perfectionist he could be behind the scenes.
It was a defense mechanism. If everyone thought he was cool, then he never had to worry about being disliked.
However, while Klavier wore his facade like a shield, Kristoph wielded his like a weapon.
Kristoph Gavin walked through life with the poise and grace of someone who had taken etiquette lessons even though Apollo was reasonably sure he hadn’t. His posture was perfect, his handshake was firm but not tight, and even after months of fetching him coffee, Apollo had never seen him spill a drop. He presented himself as polite but down-to-earth – someone you could trust with your every problem, someone who cared about what you had to say, someone whose praise made you feel like you were worth something.
Too late, Apollo learned how little his kind words meant. Kristoph was a master of saying exactly what you needed to hear to believe he was on your side, and not a syllable more. All of his relationships were transactional; he only invested time in the ones that benefited him, and he disregarded the ones that didn’t. His interest in people began and ended with what they could do for him. He had carefully crafted the persona of a kind, mild-mannered man in order to gain just enough trust that his puppets would do exactly what he wanted without question.
That was where the brothers differed. If Klavier was kind to you, it was because he wanted to be liked; if Kristoph was kind, it was because he decided you were useful.
Once you knew what to look for, their personalities bled through in their mannerisms. Everything about their physical appearances could be the same, and Apollo would still be able to identify them simply from the way they smiled at him, or stood behind the bench in court. He didn’t think the drastic haircut was necessary to set Klavier apart from his brother for he was already different in all the ways that mattered.
But, then again, if he had seen the face of the man who manipulated him every time he looked in the mirror, then Apollo might have changed his look too. He wondered how long Klavier lasted before he made the salon appointment. He wondered if he had grabbed the scissors himself.
Klavier stood with him in a silence that was not uncomfortable, but not quite comfortable either until Apollo finished his cigarette. If he had followed him out to the courtyard for a reason, he never said, and Apollo didn't ask. It was just nice not to be alone.
“I should go meet with my client.” Apollo flicked his cigarette butt into the designated receptacle. “I’m going to prove her innocent, by the way.”
Klavier let out a small laugh. “Herr Forehead, you have the confidence of a man twice your height. I can’t wait to see how you plan on doing that, given her fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
“On what you think is the murder weapon.”
“Ach, don’t spoil the show before the premiere! Where’s your sense of showmanship?”
“I think you have enough of that for the both of us.”
Klavier laughed again, and Apollo felt some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. Work banter he could handle. It was safe. Easy. Familiar.
With any luck, maybe the two of them would be able to get through the day unscathed after all.
The trial was the balm of normalcy that Apollo had desperately needed. He had always been the sort to bury himself in work when he needed a distraction, and this was no exception. For the few hours that he stood in court, he could think about something other than Atroquinine, and vengeful ex-bosses, and why a certain prosecutor might have drastically altered his look. If he focused on the here and now, then he could forget about the what-ifs and the what-might-have-happeneds. He could just… live his life.
Apollo had forgotten what that felt like. Even with the usual stress of a case, it had been weeks since he had felt this relaxed.
Facing Klavier in court had helped break the ice between them, and it was almost like old times again. Klavier poked holes in his arguments with his usual over-the-top presentation, sprinkling in gentle teases and softening them with a smile, and in response, Apollo would roll his eyes, and correct his course. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed this push-and-pull between them until they were in the thick of it. Apollo would have bantered with him in that courtroom forever if he could.
Proving his client’s innocence was a relatively simple endeavour, and in a rare bout of luck, he managed to secure the not guilty verdict by the end of the first day of trial. Afterwards, Klavier invited him back to his office to retrieve a file in a blatantly contrived excuse for them to hang out a little while longer. Apollo readily agreed – anything to prolong the blissful twilight of a friendship without baggage.
It didn't take long for the bubble to burst.
When they arrived at Klavier’s office, Ema Skye was perched on the speaker-desk with a half-empty box of chocolates in her lap. “You know,” she said with her mouth full, “if I knew one of the perks of being a lawyer was free snacks, I might have gone to law school too.”
Klavier froze. His eyes widened, and his body tensed up so suddenly that it caused Apollo’s bracelet to clasp painfully around his wrist.
It was an odd reaction, but Apollo wasn’t given the chance to ask what was wrong. Just as Ema was about to reach for another chocolate, Klavier lurched forward and smacked the box out of her hands, sending the rest of the chocolates flying across the floor.
“Hey!” Ema cut him a glare. “What gives?!”
“Don’t touch those!” The sharp emotion in his voice was startling, but Apollo couldn’t quite place what it was. Klavier sounded scared, almost, but why would he be scared? “How many of those have you eaten?!”
“I don’t know, like… five?” Ema shrugged. “What does it matter? You’ve never complained about me eating your snacks before.”
“Because you don’t know where those have come from, Fraulëin! Do you eat every piece of food you see lying around?!”
“But it wasn’t lying around! It was on your stupid speaker-desk-thing! There was literally a note from your secretary on it!”
“That’s not the point! Anyone could have written that note! For all you know, they could be–.... They could’ve been–....”
And then it hit him.
Klavier thought the chocolates were poisoned.
It made a twisted sort of sense. If Apollo was paranoid about Atroquinine, then of course Klavier would be too. He had already spent so many years feeling paranoid over what his brother may or may not have done, and that mindset didn’t disappear overnight.
The brief glances Apollo had into their relationship hadn’t painted the prettiest of pictures either. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kristoph had reacted negatively to Klavier rebelling against him in the past. He had never taken insubordination well, and prosecuting him was a betrayal of the highest calibre.
If Apollo were in Klavier’s position, and he had stumbled upon Trucy eating something of his that he didn’t know the origin of, he probably would have freaked out too.
“Could’ve been what?” Ema asked, and Apollo quickly stepped in before this escalated into a full blown argument.
“Klavier, if the chocolates are from your secretary, then they’re probably safe. She wouldn’t give you something that was laced with Atroquinine, right?”
Ema’s face fell once she realised what was going on. “Oh, fuck.”
Klavier flexed and unflexed his hands, unable to keep them still. “...Not knowingly….”
“But why would she give you chocolates – ostensibly from her – if she didn’t know where they came from?”
“I–.... But–....”
When he was unable to find an angle that refuted Apollo’s logic, Klavier sighed, dropped onto his massage chair, and buried his face into his hands. “No, you’re right. They’re… they’re just chocolates.”
The room filled with a tense silence as the weight of Klavier’s fears pressed down on each of them. Apollo wished there was something he could do to alleviate his paranoia, but he knew from personal experience that rational reasoning did not always kill irrational thoughts. How was he supposed to convince Klavier that Kristoph wasn’t trying to kill him when he couldn’t even convince himself?
Still, he had to try something. Klavier couldn’t keep going on like this – they both couldn’t. Something had to change.
“Ema, could you give us a minute?” Apollo asked.
Ema eyed Klavier as if reluctant to leave him when he was so obviously struggling, but nodded. “Yeah. I only came by to drop off the autopsy report for Thursday’s trial anyway. I should probably head back to Criminal Affairs.”
After a quick round of goodbyes, Ema all but fled out of the room, leaving Apollo and Klavier alone. The tense atmosphere felt even thicker now that it was just the two of them.
Apollo scrambled for something to say that would make this better, but as usual, his mouth worked faster than his brain. “I stopped going to my favourite coffee shop because I was worried there might be Atroquinine in the coffee,” he blurted out.
Klavier’s head snapped up. “What?”
Apollo swallowed. He hadn’t planned on admitting this to anyone, but….
“The coffee shop I always go to was the same one Mr. Gavin–... Kristoph used to send me to every morning back when I was an intern. I kept going there out of habit when the firm dissolved, but now, after that last trial…. I don’t know. I just can’t stop thinking about the Atroquinine, and how meticulously he had planned out Drew Misham’s murder, and how Mr. Misham had died while Kristoph was still in prison. I know that logically there’s no way he paid off one of the employees to poison my order, but… I still can’t shake off the fear that he did. I mean, he knows I would get myself coffee there too, so it’s not impossible. Ditching coffee shops was all I could do to make the fear go away. The only coffee I drink now is whatever I can make for myself in that shitty machine Mr. Wright keeps in our office. Anything else just feels… tainted.”
The look in Klavier’s eye softened into sympathy, and Apollo knew before he had said anything that Klavier was all too familiar with that specific fear.
“Ja, I understand,” he said softly. “I can’t stop thinking about Herr Misham either.”
“Yeah?”
Klavier nodded solemnly. “Kristoph had poisoned them to cover his tracks for the forgery, but the Mishams weren’t the only puppets whose strings he pulled. I keep asking myself, ‘if he poisoned them, then why didn’t he poison me?’, and over time, that thought transformed into ‘well, how can I be certain he didn’t try?’ I made poor Fraulëin Detective do a test on everything in my apartment and in my office in an attempt to assuage my worries, and yet, the fear continues to plague me – as your eagle eyes have certainly noticed.”
Apollo eyed the chocolates still scattered across the floor. Between those and the drastic haircut, it would have been hard not to.
“I know it’s stupid, but….”
“It’s not stupid,” Apollo was quick to reassure him. “I threw out every pen I own because I couldn’t remember which ones I used to bring to Mr. Gavin’s office, and he had no reason to want me dead back then. That’s stupid.”
Klavier smiled, weak and sad. “I stopped painting my nails because of what happened to Fraulëin Misham, and I’ve never been one to bite them. Perhaps we’re both a little stupid, ja?”
Maybe, but they were acting stupid about the same terrible thing, and that point of connection was a lifeline he would cling to for all its worth.
Apollo looked around – at the fallen chocolates, at Klavier’s haircut and unpainted nails – and was struck by how unfair all of this was. They had changed so much about their lives in fear of a man who probably couldn’t hurt them, and who wouldn’t deserve the amount of consideration they were giving him even if he could. It physically hurt to look at Klavier, and see how much of his personality – which usually shone so brightly in his appearance – had been stripped away in service of protecting himself against the monster in the mirror.
“We can’t keep living like this,” Apollo said to himself.
Klavier sighed. “Ja, but I fear this is one of those wounds that only time can heal. What is there to do but wait it out?”
Even though Apollo knew he was right, he couldn’t accept it. They needed a plan, and at this point, he was willing to try pretty much anything.
An old forgotten memory suddenly resurfaced. What was it Clay had said that day he had dragged him to the pet store to look at tarantulas in an attempt to overcome his arachnophobia?
“Exposure therapy.”
Klavier blinked at Apollo’s sudden suggestion. “Exposure therapy?”
Apollo nodded. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. “Running away from your problems never solves anything. We have to face this head on – prove to ourselves that Kristoph isn’t trying to poison us by doing one of the things we’ve been too paranoid to do.”
“Like what? Paint our nails?”
Apollo lit up. “Yes! Yes, exactly! Let’s paint our nails!”
“Ach, I was joking!”
“I’m not!” Apollo fired back. “Think about it: it’s something we both associate with Kristoph, something we know he’s poisoned in the past, and something you’ve already admitted you don’t like doing anymore because of him. We should absolutely paint our nails.”
Klavier huffed a breath, and ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. It spoke to how rattled he was that he was struggling so much to agree to something so simple, but it only reinforced Apollo’s belief that this was something they needed to do.
“It’s not going to kill you, Klavier,” Apollo stressed. “We’ll even go to the drug store right now and buy a fresh bottle so we can be sure it’s safe. We can’t keep avoiding everything that reminds us of him for the rest of our lives. We just can’t.”
“Okay! Okay.” Klavier sighed and covered his face. “Just stop looking at me like that! You have a very intense gaze, Herr Forehead.”
Apollo rolled his eyes, but he would take the victory where he could get it. “Good. Now grab your wallet. We need to leave right now if we want to get to the drug store before it closes.”
Apollo politely pretended he didn’t hear Klavier call him bossy under his breath.
One shopping trip later, and they soon found themselves back in Klavier’s office sitting around his speaker-desk with a bottle of nail polish and other assorted nail art items perched ominously on top. Klavier had put on some rock music Apollo didn’t particularly like just to fill the silence, but if it brought Klavier some comfort, then he was willing to tolerate screechy vocals and too loud guitar for one evening.
Apollo picked up the nail polish, and examined the bottle. “Why red? I thought you would have gone for purple or something.”
“Other colours deserve their time in the spotlight as well, Herr Forehead,” Klavier’s teasing tone was at odds with the rigidity of his shoulders. “And red… it calms me.”
“Red calms you?”
Klavier shrugged, and didn’t elaborate.
The colour choice still confused Apollo – he had never seen Klavier wear red before – but he let it go. What colour they used didn’t matter as long as they were both wearing it at the end of this little exercise.
“Have you ever painted your nails before?” Klavier asked him.
“Nope.” He opened the bottle. “Give me your hand.”
Klavier let out an undignified noise, and snatched the bottle away from him. “Not a chance. If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it right. I will paint yours first, and you can learn from watching me.”
“It can’t be that hard, can it? Besides, for our purposes, it really only needs to be functional. It doesn’t have to look good.”
Klavier shot him a look so disgusted that it killed any further argument Apollo had thought of making. If he had known Klavier was going to be such a perfectionist about this – and in hindsight, he really should have known he was going to be – then he would’ve suggested they get coffee instead.
Klavier wet a cotton bud with nail polish remover, scrubbed Apollo’s nails (which seemed kind of pointless to him when there wasn’t any nail polish to remove, but whatever), and then quickly cleaned his own. When that was done, he picked up the bottle of clear polish, twisted open the lid, and hesitated.
“It’s not going to be poisoned, Klavier,” Apollo gently reminded him. “We bought it thirty minutes ago. Nobody has touched it but us. It’ll be okay.”
Klavier took a deep, calming breath. “Ja, of course.” He opened the bottle. “Lay your hand flat, and don’t so much as twitch a finger. All the dramatic pointing and forehead prodding that you love so much can wait until we’re done.”
Apollo rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.
Despite his own reassurances, Apollo’s breath still hitched once the brush made contact. If Klavier noticed him tense, he didn’t say anything. He simply laid one hand on top of Apollo’s, and carefully ran the brush over his nails.
Klavier was methodical and meticulous in his painting, and approached this task with the same care and passion he brought to court. His brushstrokes were precise and even, and his touch light and delicate. His hands were surprisingly soft, Apollo absently noticed, but he occasionally felt a rough callous when Klavier’s long guitarist’s fingers brushed against his own.
It only took a handful of minutes to apply the bottom coat, and then Klavier put the brush back into the bottle. “And now we wait five minutes before the next layer.”
“I can do yours while we’re waiting.”
Klavier raised a perfect brow. “Can you do it without smudging the nails I worked so hard to make pretty for you?”
“...Probably?”
Klavier set the bottle down with a definitive thud. “Five minutes.”
“And you say I’m bossy,” Apollo mumbled under his breath. “Where did you learn how to do all this stuff anyway?”
Klavier looked away, and twisted his rings. Apollo instantly knew that he had accidentally hit upon a sensitive topic, and it wasn’t difficult to guess why.
“Kristoph taught me.”
“Oh.”
“He was very cleanly, as I’m sure you remember – and a worse perfectionist than I ever was. He took excellent care of his nails, and… you know how siblings are, Herr Forehead. Everything he did, I did.” Klavier smiled wryly. “Well, almost everything.”
Apollo winced at the dark attempt at a joke, but he did understand what he meant. He had never idolised Nahyuta like that, but their age difference was negligible, and not conducive to that sort of relationship. Klavier was a full seven years younger than Kristoph. Apollo could vividly picture him with stars in his eyes for his older brother, demanding he paint his nails too so he could be just like him.
He wondered how old Klavier was when that idolisation faded away. Something told him that the illusion shattered more recently than either of them would like.
“He did keep a nail file in his desk drawer,” Apollo recalled.
Klavier chuckled. “He always had. He was very fond of his french manicures, and liked to keep them perfectly neat. He didn’t care for the bold colours as much, but… I liked them, so he would do them for me.” He picked up the bottle of red polish, and inspected it so he wouldn’t have to meet Apollo’s eyes. “Kristoph wasn’t always cruel. He was very good to me once upon a time,” he said softly.
“I believe you.” Apollo matched his tone. “He was very good to me once upon a time too.”
“Ja?”
“Yeah.” Apollo shrugged. “He was a good mentor, and a good boss. Paid me well even when I was just an intern. Rarely expected me to work through lunch. Always gave me time off when I asked for it – not that I asked for it more than twice, but still. I had liked working for him until… you know.”
Klavier pressed his lips into a thin line. “Ja. I know.”
They sat in heavy silence until the remainder of the five minutes had passed, and it was Apollo’s turn to paint Klavier’s nails.
It wasn’t quite as easy as Apollo thought it would be. He had a steady enough hand, but it was difficult keeping the paint even and thin when Klavier was trembling from nerves. Apollo had to pin his wrist to the speaker-desk to keep him still, and even then, he struggled to stay within the lines. It wasn’t bad for a first attempt, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Klavier ended up redoing his nails himself once he got back to his apartment.
“We don’t have to keep going,” Apollo pointed out when he was done, offering Klavier an out. “One layer is enough to prove to ourselves it’s not poisoned.”
“Technically, we would need to ingest it to definitively prove that.”
Before he could second guess himself, Apollo licked one of his nails with the tip of his tongue. It didn’t taste great, but he didn’t taste Atroquinine either – or at least, what he had imagined Atroquinine might taste like.
Klavier startled. “What are you doing?!”
“Proving it isn’t poisoned. If I don’t die in fifteen minutes, then we’ll know it’s good,” Apollo said with more nonchalance than what he felt.
“You could have borrowed one of the Fraulëin’s testing kits for that, Herr Forehead!”
“That’s going to take too long. This is quicker. Besides, I wouldn’t have done it if there was actually a good reason to think it would kill me.”
Klavier stared at him, mouth agape, and then shook his head, exasperated. “You… are something else. Let’s put on the next layer. Perhaps you'll be less inclined to unnecessary recklessness if your hands are preoccupied.”
Klavier had done this enough times before to be confident that he could paint Apollo’s nails without smudging his own, and so opted to begin applying the first layer of red without waiting for his to dry. Neither of them spoke again until he was done.
“What was it like working for Kristoph?” Klavier asked as they waited. “We… didn’t talk much after that ill-fated trial, so you are the only employee of his I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
Apollo was surprised that Klavier was initiating a conversation about his brother, but he supposed he would be curious too if the shoe was on the other foot. “At the time, I thought I was really lucky. He was a great lawyer with a great reputation, and I was learning so much from him on top of him being such a good boss.”
“But…?”
“But… looking back, he was always so critical of everything I did. He held my work to these impossible standards that no human would have ever been able to meet. Even when he complimented me, there was still a backhanded edge to it – like he had no idea now to be nice to someone without insulting them at the same time. He made me feel like I couldn’t do anything right. There were a few bad days when I had honestly considered quitting law entirely because I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
He was glad he didn’t in retrospect, but he wondered sometimes how someone less determined to be a lawyer would have managed in that environment. If his skin had been a little thinner, then Kristoph could have easily broken him.
Klavier flashed a sardonic smile. “Ah, but the criticism made the praise all the more sweeter, ja?”
Apollo looked at him. “He did that to you too?”
“My entire life. I got good grades at Themis? He complained they weren’t higher. My music career took off? He complained that it was an unnecessary distraction from law. Nothing I ever did was good enough, but he sprinkled in just enough genuine pride that… ah….”
“It made you want to impress him,” Apollo finished. He knew that feeling all too well. As soul crushing as the constant criticism often was, the praise was euphoric. Like a dog begging for table scraps, he kept coming back for more.
Klavier nodded. “Ja. Exactly.”
Something stirred in Apollo’s chest.
It was strange. He had never wanted to talk about his experiences working for Kristoph before. Clay had tried time and time again to get him to open up after that first arrest – doubly so after the second – but Apollo would shrug him off, and bury himself in work precisely so he wouldn’t have to address it.
He didn’t think that anyone – not even his best friend – would have understood. All everyone else saw was the verdicts and the sentences. They didn’t know what it was like to be desperate for his approval, or how good it felt the rare times he managed to get it. They didn’t know what kind of person Kristoph Gavin actually was.
But, Klavier knew. He had been trapped in that vortex in all the same ways Apollo had been, and in ways Apollo couldn’t ever imagine. Klavier understood the kind of gravitational pull someone like him could have. He saw Kristoph for the black hole that he was – someone who drew you in further and further while breaking you down bit-by-bit. He didn’t only see Kristoph Gavin the murderer, but Kristoph Gavin the mentor too.
A little spark of connection flickered to life between them, and Apollo found himself admitting to things he never thought he would say aloud.
“I had looked up to him, you know.” Apollo turned in his seat to face Klavier directly. “He was the exact kind of lawyer I thought I wanted to be – smart, eloquent, someone who cared about truth, and justice, and helping people – but now that I know he’d fabricated evidence once, I can’t stop wondering how many times he might have done it before – if that lawyer I’d respected so much ever really existed to begin with.”
Klavier propped his chin up on his palm, his fingers splayed to keep the wet nails from touching his skin. “I believe it was a little from column A, a little from column B,” he mused. “He did care about truth and justice to a degree. He just cared about his reputation more.”
“Getting Mr. Wright disbarred wasn’t justice.”
“Not by our definition, no, but that word means something different to the vengeful, and Kristoph had always been a sore loser. To him, forging evidence was a lesser crime than Herr Wright receiving an opportunity he felt belonged to him.”
“It’s just…. That’s not who I thought he was. He was supposed to be this… paragon of justice I could aspire to, and then he framed Mr. Wright and killed people to cover it up. What does it say about me that I had tried to model myself after someone like that?”
“Whatever it is, the same must be said about me, given….” Klavier gestured to his new haircut.
Apollo had always wondered which of them had worn their hair in the signature twist first, and he was not surprised by the answer.
“He was your brother, Klavier. You, more than anyone, can be forgiven for trusting him.”
Klavier laughed humourlessly. “And I, more than anyone, should have known who he really was.”
“You, more than anyone, can be excused for not seeing it,” Apollo insisted. “We always see the best in the ones we love, right? Nobody would blame you for believing you could trust him. You were supposed to.”
“I’m sure Herr Wright would beg to differ.”
“I don’t think he does, actually – though, to be honest, I’ve given up on trying to understand what Mr. Wright thinks about anything. He’s so–....” Apollo shook his head. He was getting off track. “The point is… he wanted you to see the best in him, and so you did. He’s the one who should be ashamed for taking advantage of you like that. You did nothing wrong.”
“I suppose.” Klavier’s expression softened. “And I believe we agreed that we were in the same boat, ja? So if I shouldn’t be ashamed of trusting him, then, by your own rationale, neither should you.”
Apollo opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. He hadn’t intended to make that point, but now it seemed silly to be so embarrassed about looking up to a man who had deliberately positioned himself as someone to look up to. Could he really blame himself for that?
It was partially covered by his hand, but Apollo could see the barest hints of a smile poking out from between Klavier’s fingers. “You never fail to trip into the holes in your own logic, do you, Herr Forehead?”
Apollo’s face flushed. “We’re not in court! You’re not allowed to use my words against me like that!”
It was a pathetic attempt at defending himself, but it made Klavier laugh genuinely for the first time since before that awful trial, so he supposed it was worth it.
“I think… just because he was not the man we thought he was doesn’t mean the values we took from him can’t be important, ja?” Klavier said when he finally stopped laughing at him. “Only now he’s less of a guidebook, and more of a cautionary tale.”
Apollo nodded. “Right. He might not stand for real truth and justice, but we still can. We don’t need him to be a role model for us. We can put the faith we had for him in someone who actually deserves it.”
“...Your client?”
“No, dummy, I was talking about you. And you trust me, right?”
Klavier’s response was immediate. “Endlessly.”
“Then we’ll trust each other, and we’ll keep each other right, and we’ll fight for the truth. Together.”
Apollo laid his hand flat on the speaker-desk by Klavier’s – not quite touching, but close enough that the intent was there.
“Ja.” Klavier’s fingers twitched, but didn't move. “Together.”
Now that the dam had opened, they couldn’t stop talking about Kristoph. While they finished the other layers of nail polish, they traded stories back and forth – some positive, some negative; times he had earnestly guided them, and times that, in hindsight, should have been a sign of the depths of cruelty he was truly capable of.
There weren’t many people who were willing to talk about him in those terms. Apollo was glad he had found someone who was.
There was a time early on when Apollo didn’t like Klavier all that much. He had mistakenly believed he wasn’t taking court seriously, and had spent many a trial wishing that big personality came with an off button. Klavier flirted incessantly, teased mercilessly, and drove Apollo up the wall with his wanton winking, and perfect smiles, and did he have to lean that close when he talked?
Apollo knew better now. He had long seen past the cool facade to the clever, passionate man underneath, and talking with him tonight had led him to develop a new appreciation for his empathy and strength as well.
They were similar in ways Apollo was only now noticing – they had the same fears, the same hopes, the same insecurities – and he felt this pull towards him that wasn’t there before. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but he could feel something uncurling in the centre of his ribcage, a dormant bud about to bloom. If he dared believe in such a thing, he might even call it a little red string tying them together.
They were two bonded strays who had no one to rely on but each other. He didn’t know exactly how yet, but Apollo couldn’t help but feel that everything between them had changed.
“Well,” Apollo announced when that final layer of nail polish had finally dried, “I didn’t die.”
“You shouldn’t have licked the nail polish to begin with,” Klavier said sternly as he inspected Apollo’s nails, gently turning his hand this way and that, “but no, you did not.”
Klavier, unsurprisingly, had done a perfect job painting his nails, and Apollo couldn’t find a single fault in them. Apollo’s attempt at painting was far less neat and smooth, but Klavier seemed pleased enough, and that’s all that mattered to him.
“And do you feel… better?”
Klavier let go of Apollo’s hand, and smiled. He looked a little tired, but the stress lines from earlier had faded away. “Ja, I do. And you, Herr Forehead?”
His chest felt lighter, but he suspected that was less because of their nail polish experiment, and more from the catharsis of sharing his feelings with someone who had felt them too.
It turned out that talking about your pain felt better than bottling it up. Who knew?
“Yeah, me too.”
It wasn’t until then that they noticed what time it was. They had talked for so long that the sun had set outside, and the orange glow of the streetlights were bleeding through the blinds of the office windows. Apollo should probably head home and start today’s post-trial paperwork, but….
“Are you hungry?”
Klavier shrugged. “I could eat.”
“Do you want to get dinner after this?” And then, when that invitation felt a tad too intimate, added, “I mean, we should probably prove all our favourite restaurants aren’t poisoned too, right?”
It was a blatant excuse to spend more time together, but Klavier mercifully didn’t call him out on it.
“Ah, of course. The scientific method would not be complete without adjusting the variables.” Klavier nodded with faux seriousness, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “How do you feel about ramen?”
“As long as it isn’t Eldoon’s? Great.”
“Wunderbar!” Klavier stood up from his speaker-desk. “There is a lovely little place right around the corner, and you must allow me to treat you.”
Later that night, when they finally parted ways and Apollo slinked off to bed, he slept better than he had in weeks.