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The judge hasn't even finished his closing statement, and already, Simon's making bedroom eyes at Apollo across the courtroom.

Granted, Simon's version of "bedroom eyes" is what anyone else would call a death glare. His hard expression is every bit a match for Taka's, all sharp edges and sharp angles, and he scowls whenever the judge says Apollo's name.

(A few weeks ago, in the lobby during a recess, some guy from the gallery sidled up to Apollo to whisper, "That guy must really hate you," and Apollo had to choke back a laugh and mumble "yeah, maybe." God, if only they knew.)

So Simon's staring daggers across the room, and Apollo's steadfastly ignoring him, of course, because they're still in court. There's a time and place, Simon. And also, because it's fun to ignore him in favor of the judge, all the way through the verdict and the gavel-bang and the confetti-shower, then at last turn to see Simon fuming and furious and hungry on the other side of the room—and turn and walk the other way.

Apollo checks his phone, a few minutes after he's back in the office, tilting the screen so no one else can see. A flurry of new messages, all from Simon, as expected. It's series of lewd sword metaphors, involving a lot of thrusting and jabbing, which are honestly kind of cringey if Apollo thinks about them too hard, but which are kind of hot if he doesn't. So he lets his eyes skim, while he thinks back instead to last Saturday night—Simon blindfolded and begging on the tile floor, shivering at Apollo's every touch, shivering beautifully—and finally he texts back a single word: Later.

When he pockets his phone, Athena's giving him the raised-eyebrows look from across the room. He rolls his eyes; she smirks; he looks away. She knows, of course, but he doesn't think anyone else has caught on. Hopes to hell no one else has, really, but that's another thing he tries not to think about too hard.

Mostly, he and Simon meet in the courthouse basement, after hours, when no one else is around. Though there have been—exceptions. A janitor's closet, once. A motel, a different time. More exceptions as the months go on, which is—concerning, if Apollo lets himself think about it, but mostly he doesn't, because, again, that's not the point.

But when Apollo finishes work for the day, and heads back to the courthouse to pick up the pen he lost, and spots Simon on his way out—well, he decides, tonight will just have to be another exception. Simon's wearing that little smirk like always, the one that brings out his cheekbones. He's walking alone, footsteps echoing in that huge central corridor, no one else in sight, and the timing is just too perfect.

Simon spots him. Nods once, like he's going to pass Apollo on by. Apollo waits until he's close and, then, with one smooth motion, grabs Simon by the lapel with one hand, opens the closet door behind him with the other, and pulls both of them inside.

"On your knees," Apollo hisses, as soon as the door is locked.

Simon staggers, then leans against the supply shelf behind him, all feigned insouciance. He raises a brow. "A gentleman would buy me a drink first."

It's typical Simon smartassery. All part of the game they're playing. But there's a ripple in his voice, one that Apollo's never heard before—an undercurrent that says I'm-joking-but-what-if-I'm-not, that says ha-ha-but-would-you-really. This could be something more. And when Apollo meets his eyes, something pulls at him, a deepness there like undertow.

In the moment, Apollo doesn't hesitate. He just shoves Simon against the wall and into a kiss. Simon kisses back like it's a competition—he always does—and Apollo lets him, while his hand snakes around Simon's back and tangles itself into Simon's hair, which he uses to pull the other man inexorably down. By the time he's where Apollo wants him, Simon's practically panting, and there's no space left for thinking—just feeling and heat and this.

But hours afterward, when Apollo's at home, alone, staring at his ceiling, he can't get those words out of his mind: A gentleman would buy me a drink.

He could pretend he didn't hear it. Or, better, he could pretend he heard only the surface-level thing. He could show up next time with a can of Bud Light, and force Simon to drink down, or else pour it on his hair and tell him what a filthy mess he is, and—okay, that idea does something to his dick, he'll have to save it for later, duly noted—

But also: he had heard it. The other thing. That hint of invitation: This could be something more.

Typical Simon, refusing to just ask outright. Typical fucking Simon.

But it's there, and evidently that's the one thing Apollo can't help thinking about: buying a drink for Simon. Weird, infuriating, charming, ridiculous Simon. Meeting in daylight. Talking about whatever. It could be fine. It could be fun.

So why not, right? Why not go out for a drink with Simon Blackquill?

Because it's totally backwards, Apollo realizes, three days later, while he's sitting at the bar in the divey tavern across from work.

In the general progression of a relationship, "buy you a drink" is supposed to come before "furious fucking in the courthouse basement." Considerably before. And nevermind all those other steps in-between, the sloppy makeouts and cute dates at the art museum or wherever; those all got skipped entirely. There's probably some way to walk backwards from I'd like your mouth on my dick, back to get-to-know-you chitchat, but Apollo's sure never done it before.

But he's already paid for his own beer. So he sighs, takes out his phone, and ventures a text message, Would you like—

—and autocomplete rushes in with a suggestion, to fuck tonight? Which, okay, yes he's sent that one before but come on. Reflexively, he throws the lock screen on and slams the phone facedown against the counter.

The bartender gives him a funny look. "You waiting on somebody, man?"

"No," Apollo blurts. "Yes. Um."

It's backwards, and also—unprofessional, or something (notwithstanding the half-dozen prosecutor-defender couples he can name off the top of his head), and also what would they even talk about, and why go turning a good thing into something complicated, so much better not needing to think—

The bartender is nodding sympathetically.

He thinks I'm being stood up, Apollo realizes, and the thought of just how insanely lame it would be to be stood up for a date he never even tried to start is enough to compel him to pick up his phone again. This time, he types fast enough that autocomplete can't get a word in edgewise:

You off work yet? Want to come get a drink at Leny's?

Apollo watches while his phone does the blinking dot-dot-dot thing, Simon is typing a message. It blinks long enough that he starts to worry—he really didn't intend to prompt some novel-length Discourse on the Essence of Pure Sake in his texts, or whatever—but after some long minutes, it at last resolves into a terse Yes.

And not five minutes later, there Simon is—though Apollo almost misses him, for how quiet an entrance he makes. Normally, the guy's all slamming-doors-open tossing-his-hair look-how-tall-I-am; but here, he slips in the door and hovers awkwardly near the entrance, a little crouched.

Weird.

They meet eyes across the room. Apollo swigs his drink and tries to look casual, while Simon slides into the seat next to him with a faint air of derision: "So this is Leny's?"

Apollo shrugs. All bars are kind of the same to him, so long as there's beer and the music isn't too loud.

Simon snorts, and stares at the menu until the bartender starts tapping an impatient finger. "Whatever he's having," he says at last, with a jerked gesture toward Apollo's pint, and an edge in his voice that sets a prickling down Apollo's spine.

Apollo rubs his bracelet. It's not just the voice—it's Simon's posture, too, hunched like a caged animal, and there's a weird jumpy side-eye he gives whenever someone pushes back a chair.

Something wrong? Apollo wants to ask. Or—a guess—should we get a booth?, because maybe with a back against the wall he wouldn't be casting those hurried glances over his shoulder, or look if there's something on your mind—

But also, that seems like kind of heavy for their first drink ever. So he goes for a little ribbing instead: "I mean, if you'd rather be at that yuppie cocktail bar that opened up near the courthouse last week—"

Simon makes a gagging noise. "Hardly." There's a grin, now, thin but genuine. "Athena dragged me there opening day. I knew the establishment was named Rumba; I didn't realize that meant every single drink was made of rum."

Apollo laughs. "Yeah, you'd be more of a... whiskey guy?"

Simon eyes Apollo up and down. "Gin," he guesses, and when Apollo looks askance: "Fussy and straight-laced."

"Hey."

For a moment the tension lifts, barely. Then:

"Blackquill," a deep voice calls, from across the room. "Is that you?"

Apollo turns toward the voice—and Simon elbows him, ow, so he turns away. Simon tosses his hair so that most of it falls across his face, obscuring his profile, and also giving him a 2000's emo band look; Apollo stifles a snicker.

But Simon's already been spotted. The guy crosses the room—shaved head, all muscle—and elbows his way in, wedging himself in the space between Simon and the wall. "Simon freaking Blackquill. I'll be damned."

Simon offers his best condescending smile. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

Muscle Guy tilts his head. "Huh?"

"I am saying," Simon says, as though explaining to a child, "that I do not recall having made your acquaintance."

"Bullshit, man, of course you remember me—"

"It is as I said," Simon repeats, with a curt nod and a ring of finality. "If you'll excuse me."

Simon turns his back. Which sets Muscle Guy off—he grabs Simon by the shoulder, jerks him back around, and leans right into his face, sputtering, "What, all those years in the clink and you're saying you don't remember—"

Simon's expression is preternaturally still. "Stand down," he hisses, one low warning.

Muscle Guy scowls and squints, looks Simon over, and then over again—he's considering it. But not fast enough, apparently, because in the space between one breath and the next, Simon's hand darts out, grabs the handle of his pint glass, and smashes the thing against the counter's edge.

It shatters instantly. Beer and bits of glass everywhere. "Holy shit," Apollo blurts.

There's tiny flecks of blood all over Simon's hand, but he doesn't seem to notice, just brandishes the jagged edge of the half-stein in front of him, level with Muscle Guy's throat. "I. Don't. Know. You." Every word clipped.

Heads all around the room have turned to stare. Muscle Guy's gawping. A few guys at a far booth are standing up—walking toward them, Apollo realizes, his heartbeat rushing into his head, if they're the backup muscle then they're fucked—

But at last Muscle Guy gathers his wits, spits a "Fuck you too, man," and lumbers off.

The other guys sit down. Some nervous chatter resumes. The bartender's giving them a glare that says hey asshole get out of my bar—

But Simon doesn't even give him the chance to say it. "Apologies for the mess," he says, tossing a huge handful of bills onto the counter and stealing straight out the door.

It's all over so fast that Apollo would wonder if that had really happened, if it weren't for the glass glittering all over the counter. "Sorry," Apollo adds, throwing out his own random assortment of bills and rushing after Simon.

Who is moving fast. Apollo doesn't manage to catch up until two crosswalks later, where Simon's staring down the Do Not Walk light: "What the hell, dude."

Simon glowers down at him: "Justice." There's something in his voice that's either a shake or a rumble. He jerks his chin toward Leny's: "A rubbish establishment with rubbish clientele. Don't ask me there again."

Like this is his fault. He snaps, "You're the one who agreed to it—"

And that's the wrong thing to say; Simon looks more pissed than he was at Muscle Guy, pissed enough that for a moment Apollo wonders if the problem really is him, if he was never supposed to send that stupid text, never supposed to call Simon's little bluff, if the joke was only ever supposed to be a joke—

And then the light changes, and Simon storms off, and Apollo stays put.

That's that for date one. And God, he wishes he were still in Leny's. He could use that drink right about now.

Apollo's not expecting a date two, after that. He's maybe not expecting to see Simon again at all. He's had the good ol' Tinder ghosting before; he knows sometimes sex is just sex, and when it's over it's over. It's fine. He's fine.

But then, of course, Athena brings the guy along to Sunday brunch.

Apollo's holding a spot in the out-the-door line at the cutesy new place that Athena's been dying to try, and he spots the two of them getting out of her car from afar. Athena waves, while he and Simon exchange a meaningful look over the top of her head—you?—and, yeah, neither of them were expecting the other.

Apollo thinks they're managing to be normal—they say hi to each other and everything—but, after they're seated, Athena only gets halfway through her mimosa before she finally slams the glass down and gives the pair of them a level stare.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but the discord when you two talk is absolutely killing my ears." She shoves her seat away from the table. "I am going to go to the restroom, and when I come back, you two are going to be normal. Kapeesh?"

She marches off. Apollo scratches the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. "She's sure, uh—"

"I apologize for my conduct on Wednesday. It was unworthy of me."

O... kay. Apollo hasn't got Athena's super-hearing, but even he can tell something's off, for all Simon's posture is pitch-perfect penitent samurai. It's the same voice he uses when he's sucking up to the judge. "Apologizing for what?" Apollo asks after a moment.

An annoyed twitch in the corner of Simon's eye. "For causing the disturbance at the bar. I have endeavored to keep such men at a remove, and my own instincts... tempered. I won't err again."

"But I don't care about that." A blink of confusion from Simon. "I mean, sure, I didn't exactly love the whole Fight Club routine, but—that guy was some asshole from prison, right? If he's trying to bother you, it's not like I expect you to do nothing."

Simon's eyebrows knit together. "Yet you seemed perturbed," he presses, with an air of bafflement.

"Yeah, when you bailed on me afterwards." Apollo laughs. "Maybe don't do that?"

A complicated look passes over Simon's face. He opens his mouth, closes it, and Apollo can't tell if he's annoyed or just confused—

But then Athena's back, plunked into her chair. "How are the beignets?" she asks, reaching out for their entirely-untouched appetizer. Apollo and Simon hurry to grab their own bites. And whatever just happened, Athena's not wincing anymore.

"So," Athena asks Simon, eyes glittering, "are you gonna spill the beans on those new judicial reforms the DA's been working on?" Apollo realizes oh that's why she invited the both of them—it's a full-court press, Wright Anything Agency versus Simon—and together, they push through multiple protests of "Edgeworth-dono commands the utmost discretion" and "to speak of such matters would be to betray my honor" from Simon, and manage to extract some choice frieNDA'd details right as the check arrives.

Once the bill's paid, Simon gives Athena a meaningful look: "Cykes-dono. To Venice Beach?"

"Oh, shoot, is that today? Simon, I'm sorry, I already told Junie I'd help her move this afternoon—"

"What's in Venice?" Apollo asks.

Simon tilts his head. "A purveyor of fine hawk feed. Taka eats only the best." On his shoulder, Taka rouses happily.

Athena gives Apollo her best hey-bestie-can-you-do-me-a-favor look. And he knows Simon still doesn't have a car. Which is kind of annoying, really, it's been nearly a year since his exoneration and who doesn't have a car in Los Angeles, but—he stifles a sigh, and answers with a sense of inevitability: "Yeah, sure, I can take you."

Simon nods and dips into the restroom. And while the Apollo and Athena are alone, Athena asks, "You are good now, right?" with a faint undertone of menace.

God forbid they ever break up. (Nevermind that they aren't even together yet.)

"Yeah, we're good," Apollo says, and hopes he's not lying.

Apollo already knew that Simon wore his whole office-samurai getup all the time, but somehow, he didn't actually think that meant all the time.

"That jacket really isn't bothering you?" Apollo asks, for the third time in twice as many minutes, while they're crossing another street on their way toward the boardwalk. In court, sure, the jacket makes sense; the AC in there is always jacked up to eleven. But at the beach? in summer? with like a hundred people jostling around them?

"Not at all," Simon smirks. And the guy isn't even sweating; it's unfair, actually, when Apollo knows he's already sweated through the armpits of his own shirt.

Simon gives Apollo a considering look. "Though if you are uncomfortable, you are of course welcome to remove your shirt. It's a beach, after all." He licks his lips.

Apollo rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm good."

They hit the boardwalk, and street performers start to crowd in on all sides. Simon stares overlong at a guy with a whole menagerie of animals you can pose with for a photo, iguanas and cockatoos and parrots and ferrets, and Apollo starts to wonder if this is, improbably, the special birdseed guy, but then Simon snorts and mutters "amateur" under his breath, reaching toward his shoulder to give Taka a little scritch.

Then, a couple minutes later, someone calls out from the crowd: "Simon? Simon, is that you?"

Simon stiffens, a deer missing its chance to bound from the headlights.

"Simon Blackquill, wow! I can't believe it."

At least Simon hasn't got a stein in hand this time, Apollo thinks, then feels bad for thinking it.

Then he pinpoints where the guy is pushing through the crowd, and honestly, compared to Muscle Guy, he's pretty harmless-looking. Mid-thirties, with a too-clean Abercrombie model look and mirrored sunglasses and salmon shorts and an expensive watch. If this guy's been to prison at all, it's the cosseted white-collar kind.

The guy is smiling hugely. "How are things, man?"

Simon just stares, long enough that the guy looks sorry that he asked, long enough that Apollo can't stand the awkwardness, so he blurts out: "Hi. I'm Apollo."

"Hey man. I'm Alan. Nice to meet you." Alan gives Apollo a strong-business-guy handshake, and relaxes his shoulders, even though Simon's still taut. "So, wow, gee, where to start. I hear you're prosecuting again, right? Well, I'm still at Schulster & Schulster, and—"

"Uncle Alan!" A couple of little girls run up to the man, hugging one leg apiece.

"Hey, kiddos." Then to Simon, sotto voice: "My sister's in town; we're taking her kids around."

"Bully for you," Simon says flatly.

The little girls start to chorus: "Hurry up, mommy says we need to hurry—"

"Shh, just a second, okay girls?" He casts Simon a sheepish grin. "So I'd better run, but..." He snaps his fingers. "I know. I'm having a barbeque next weekend. You should definitely come. Both of you," he adds, with a nod toward Apollo. "Viv and Risa and Nick will all be there, and Casey's even in town from New York. It'll be like a mini-reunion, yeah? Like old times."

"I'll consider it," Simon says, but he's already turned to walk away.

"Hey, man!" Alan calls, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Hold up, you'll need my new address. You got a phone or something?"

For a second Apollo thinks he'll refuse. And maybe it'd be for the best. He doesn't know what's going on between these two but it's seriously weirding him out. But then Simon gets out his phone, opens a notes app, and hands it over. Alan punches in something and hands it back: "There. That's the address. Five PM this Saturday. Can't wait to see you, man."

They watch Alan and the girls until they disappear again into the crowd. Then Simon makes a noise like hmph, and walks away. And walks, and walks, back toward where they parked, actually, and—

"Um, Simon?" Apollo calls. "Do you still need that weird birdseed or whatever?"

Simon blinks, as if from too much sun. Then: "Feed, Justice, not seed. Taka's no pigeon."

He's looking haughty again. Thank God. Simon doesn't make sense when he's not being haughty.

So Apollo trails behind as Simon turns toward the beach, where there's a little encampment a block away. The place is a tangle, a half-dozen uneven rows of tents, with bikes and backpacks strewn everywhere. But Simon seems to know where he's going, so all Apollo has to do is follow.

In the center, they find him: a bearded old man sitting in a fold-out camping chair, with a falcon perched neatly on each shoulder.

Simon bows hugely. "Savell-dono, long have I yearned to meet you in person."

Apollo hovers awkwardly to the side. "Should I, uh..."

"No need," the man says, at the very same moment Simon fixes Apollo with a glare and hisses, "Show some respect." Apollo opts for an awkward little half-bow, which mollifies Simon, and earns a chuckle from "Savell-dono."

Simon pulls out a stack of bills; the hawk guy pulls out an opaque satchel; they trade, and suddenly Apollo realizes just how much this looks like a drug deal to literally anyone passing by. He can't help it; he bursts out laughing, doubles over with it. "It's nothing," Apollo says, when the other two stare at him, and wheezes out "it's fine, it's nothing" when a few questioning faces poke out from tents.

Simon smiles. "My friend, he's a little..." He makes the cuckoo gesture.

Apollo punches him in the arm: "Hey." Simon smirks. Hawk Guy blinks, then goes on like he'd never been interrupted, lecturing on the remarkable properties of this latest formula, and also on proper calcium-phosphorus ratios and sour crop risks and rangle, and Simon's nodding reverently the whole time, as though listening to some international grandmaster. And maybe the guy is some kind of grandmaster. It's not like Apollo knows anything about the status hierarchy in the falconry enthusiast world. Maybe the Garry Kasparov of falconry lives in a tent by a boardwalk in southern California. Weirder things have happened.

When they leave at last, Simon won't shut up about the guy. It's actually kind of (a word he does not ordinarily associate with Simon) cute. "And the conformation of that gyrfalcon," Simon is babbling, with absolute reverence, gesturing hugely. "Have you ever seen a finer specimen?"

"Er. Which one was the gyrfalcon?"

Simon clutches his chest. "The one on the left, Justice. Surely you noticed? She was quite unmistakable. Not a feather out of place, fine talons, perfectly in yarak, she'll be a fierce hunter for sure—"

"You keep talking about the falcon that way," Apollo says with a little grin, "and you'll make me jealous."

Simon blinks. Oh, this feels weird. So weird. It's another backwards thing: lighthearted flirting is supposed to come before, say, "you eager little slut," or "those lips would look nice on my dick," or any of the other indecent things he's said during sex—

But then Simon smiles back, so, at least it's not bad. It's good-weird. New-weird. Good-new.

On a whim, Apollo decides he's leaning into it. He dips into the cutesy ice cream shop by the pier because what the hell. (Simon insists he doesn't want anything, until Apollo forces him to try just a bite—and then naturally Simon steals and devours the whole cone.) Then he drags Simon down Abbot Kinney, because it's fun to watch him both scoff and marvel at the ultra-trendy shops there. (Simon declares both the ramen burger place and the sushirrito place to be "unseemly abominations", and he claims something similar about the liquid-nitrogen ice cream place, but he stares through the window until Apollo has to drag him away.)

And it occurs to Apollo, as he drops Simon off at home a few hours before sunset, that maybe that counts as date two.

On Monday at work, Apollo's trying to focus when Taka shows up.

The first time, Apollo misses him. Just hears a thunderous thwack at the window, jerks his head up, and whatever it was has already disappeared.

The second time, he's fast enough to see the parting flurry of feathers, and he rolls his eyes, because, of course.

The third time, Taka lands on a tree branch by the window and starts shrieking.

Apollo stares at him a moment, then sighs and crosses the room to open the window. "Athena's out today, buddy." Taka blinks and tilts his head. "Go back to Simon."

Does Taka speak English? Unclear. But the bird flies off, either way.

...and then comes back, fifteen minutes later, to start shrieking again.

Apollo rakes a tired hand through his hair and checks his phone. Of course Simon hasn't sent a text. I don't speak hawk, he considers sending, but then glances at the hour. It's still early. Might as well just walk the few blocks to tell him in person.

The DA's building, as always, is too shiny and too much—bright lights, too-loud footsteps echoing under too-high ceilings, everything polished spotlessly clean—and the lady at the front desk gives him some serious side-eye.

He's expecting Simon's personal office, at least, to offer some contrast—he seems like he'd be a knickknack kind of guy, or a wall scroll kind of guy—but when he pokes his head around the already-open door at the end of the hall, it's nearly as bare as the lobby. Just Simon hunched over his desk, a few neat piles of paper to his side, a single lounge chair, and a samurai sword on the far wall.

Apollo knocks on the doorframe.

"Yes?" Simon doesn't look up.

"Your bird's flown by like eight times today. What's the deal?"

Simon swivels his chair and cocks an eyebrow. Then he stands, crosses the room in three strides, gets right up in Apollo's face, whispers—

"I require your assistance in a personal matter."

—and pulls Apollo, by the lapels, into his office.

In the next second, Simon closes the door with his foot, whirls around, and shoves Apollo into the lounge chair. And in the second after that, Apollo starts freaking out, because as oddly alluring as it is to have a large and irritatingly attractive man looming over him, it took some months to convince himself that fucking Blackquill was an okay idea at all, let alone in the DA's office, during office hours, when literally anyone could walk by or, God forbid, walk in, Edgeworth is right down the hall—

Then Simon shoves a phone into his face. "This Facebook profile. What do you see?"

Apollo blinks and stares at the screen. "Oh, it's that guy." Alan what's-his-face, the guy from Venice Beach.

Simon shoots Apollo a glare, as though it's somehow gauche to remember a face without permission. "Yes. It is 'that guy.' I am friends with him, yes?"

Apollo's confused, and he's about to ask well how exactly do you define what friendship means to you, but then Simon jabs a sharp finger at the corner of the screen, where there is, indeed, a little blue icon that reads FRIEND. "Oh." Apollo squints. "Yeah, that's what it looks like. You're friends. What about it?"

"There's nothing posted on there since law school graduation."

Apollo scrolls a bit. "Yeah. And?"

"And that was years and years ago, so there must be something missing. Is there some other level of access that is required? Some sort of—close friends feature, or such frippery? some page I'm missing?"

"I... maybe?" Apollo clicks around a bit; the newest app update has made the layout of everything all wonky. "But he probably just hasn't posted anything lately. People kind of... stopped using Facebook, mostly, in the past few years...?" The years you were behind bars goes unsaid.

Blackquill snorts as though this is some inconvenient detail. He grabs his phone back, types something in, and brandishes the screen once more: "Vivien Li. I know she used to be on here. I can't find her. Does that mean she's... 'blocked' me?"

If this is what Simon sent his bird over for... "How am I supposed to know, Simon?"

"You can check, Justice." He gestures impatiently at Apollo's pocket. "See if you can find her."

Apollo sighs, and dutifully punches the name into his own phone. Simon hovers over his shoulder, scowling as Apollo scrolls through the candidates, every other Vivien Li in the universe: No, no, no.

Then they're at the bottom of the screen. "That's all of them," Apollo says. "I don't think she's on here."

It's a simple fact, but Simon's still got the gall to look offended. "Then where the devil is she?"

"She might've deleted her account," Apollo says. "A lot of people were doing that, for a while. Moving on to other apps."

"How am I to find her, then?"

"I mean." The answer seems too obvious to say. "You could go to that barbeque and ask."

Again with that over-the-top-offended look. What? Apollo's right, he knows he is, and ordinarily that's the kind of thing Simon gets, but—

"That is all I require." Simon's all smooth-glass-exterior again. "You may go now."

Oh come on, Apollo's wants to shout. He almost does. He's already met this Alan guy, however briefly, and it'd hardly kill Simon to spill three sentences on what the hell the deal is, here—

But also, Apollo's still got five motions to file by end-of-day, and Simon's already hunched over his desk again, and maybe this is all just too hopelessly backwards anyway. So, fine. He leaves, and closes the door behind him on his way out.

That night, Apollo creeps on Simon's Facebook. Of course he does. Anyone would.

Simon hasn't posted anything on there since he went to prison, which makes sense. Apollo is pretty sure that "Exonerated from murder" isn't the kind of thing you drop as a life event on the timeline. Though there are a couple clueless posts on his wall from some middle-aged lady about "praying Every day for your Eternal Soul", who on further investigation seems to have been one of his elementary school teachers.

Nothing else in that seven-year span. No family listed other than Aura.

Scrolling down further, Apollo finds the first photo: a group shot, with Simon tagged in the middle. For a second, Apollo's sure it's been mistagged; that person doesn't look anything like Simon. But he zooms in, and—yes, that's Simon alright: short-haired, bright-eyed, in a varsity hoodie and posed between a gaggle of coeds, outside of some brick building with ivy on the walls.

It's the posture that throws him, Apollo decides after a moment. This Simon stands upright, head tilted upward, with a smile so free of irony it looks like it belongs on a youth pastor. A far cry from his present-day predatory crouch.

And he's so young, Apollo thinks, scanning the other faces. Younger than his classmates by a couple years, probably—he spots young-Alan to Simon's left.

Apollo tries, for a second, to imagine a Simon who spent his twenties with these people. A Simon who didn't go to prison. Simon with a tan, and sensible shoes, and salmon shorts, and—wow, that breaks something in his brain; he winces.

Another photo: Simon, sitting on a blanket in the quad with Vivien and laughing. Simon making a goofy face in front of a pile of legal books. Apollo only makes it a few more photos in before he starts to feel creepy, and quietly logs out.

Then, two days later, at work, there's a question from Athena: "Has Simon been acting weird lately?"

Apollo looks up. She's already perched herself on his desk, her standard gossip-session-battlestation, but he's really trying to finish reviewing these contracts. He pulls his pile of papers closer to him. "I don't know," he says. "Isn't 'being weird' kind of Simon's whole thing?"

She thwaps him with a pencil. "You know what I mean. Weirder than normal."

"I don't know why you're asking me. We're not really... you know..."

She gives him a look that says You're not? really?, all bright skepticism, and now Apollo's wondering if she knows something he doesn't, or if maybe she's told Simon something, and that's what makes him finally shove the pile of contracts out of the way. "I mean. Your guess is as good as mine, but, maybe it has something to do with that Alan guy...?"

Her eyebrows lift. "What Alan guy?"

"Um. Alan from law school...?"

Athena's face is a blank. Which means Athena hasn't even heard of this guy. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to Apollo that there was anything he could know about Simon that Athena wouldn't, that she wouldn't have already known forever ago. She's the one who saved his life, after all, she's the one who uprooted her whole everything to go after him, and he's just the... um....

He feels a lurch, like falling through a missing stair.

He says—something, to ward Athena off, says he doesn't know what he's talking about, says he probably just got Alan confused with someone else, and she doesn't look convinced but she doesn't keep pushing, either. Maybe she felt it, too, that stairstep-lurch.

No court cases that week. So he doesn't see Simon at all. He keeps looking at his text message history with him, wonders if he should say something, but he thinks about that icy you may go now glare and always decides against it.

Then, on Friday, finally, there's a 5pm text: Been a while since our last duel.

Which is Simon's way of saying let's hook up, and after the week Apollo's had, yeah, he could go for some good filthy fun. He texts back: Basement?

Occupied. Office?

Apollo considers. Phoenix has already left for the day, and told him to lock up for the weekend. So they'd be alone. It could work. Yours? or mine? he taps out at last.

Yours. See you in ten.

When Simon bursts through the agency's door, right on time, the first thing he does is slam the door behind him. And the second thing he does is grab Apollo by the collar, haul him out of his chair, and pin him to the wall.

That's not strange. Not on its own. They play rough, always have.

And Apollo can give as good as he gets. He twists Simon's arm and then twists himself free, pulling them both onto the floor in the process. (That judo class in college was good for something.)

Simon reaches out and paws at his chest, grabbing buttons at random, nearly tearing Apollo's vest with the force of it—

Apollo smacks the hands away. "Don't get greedy, now." It's a standard reprimand, the kind of thing that usually earns Apollo a sneer or some cutting retort. But Simon doesn't answer, just glares at Apollo with mute annoyance.

Weird.

"Jacket off," Apollo says, and Simon does. Apollo undoes Simon's tie himself, then whispers, "Shirt, too," and when that's done, Apollo can't help it—he jumps the guy, pins him by the wrists straightaway, slides his knees around him and kisses him into the floor.

When he pauses to breathe, Simon strains upward, licking Apollo's neck and sort of wriggling his hips. Typically weird Simon shit. But when Apollo looks down, Simon isn't wearing that hooked smile he's expecting, just a matte stare.

Maybe he needs some enticing. Apollo can entice. He pulls his own vest off, then, the shirt, and finally there's a flutter of something behind Simon's eyes—but it's gone quick as it appears, a dull spark on damp kindling.

Apollo almost backs off, then, but even though Simon's eyes are dull, he keeps pushing—strains against Apollo pinning his wrists, writhes to press a biting kiss into Apollo's chest, bucks his hips with something like a snarl, working his way into a proper frenzy.

"Want something, Simon?" Apollo tries, and when there's no answer: "Cat got your tongue?"

A flat stare is the only reply, that and a sudden lunge—they wrestle a moment, and Simon nearly knocks Apollo over, slams his back against the desk behind him—but after they twist around a few times, Apollo's on top again.

Simon's undeterred, purring into Apollo's neck, grinding the beginnings of a hard-on against Apollo's thigh. It should be hot, should be great, but something's off. It's the difference between bedding someone wolfish and an actual wolf, the difference between a proper duel and some anonymous mugging: brute and cold and soulless. It's weird. And it's bad, Apollo decides all at once. He leans back, eases his grip—

—and Simon checks his strength, too, but the way a stallion at a full gallop will stop if you pull hard enough on the reins: furious, stomping, straining at the bit. "This hesitation is new, Justice," he says, voice low, eyes narrowed and menacing. "Don't tell me you've left your blade to rust."

It takes a moment to place the thing that's bothering him, then another to put it into words. "That twitch in the corner of your eye," he says at last. "I only ever see that when you're pissed at a defendant, or a witness is lying or something, never during this." Apollo's eyes narrow. "What's going on?"

For a moment Simon looks gobsmacked. Then he scowls and glares at Apollo's wrist: "That damned bracelet. Do you never remove it?"

Apollo rolls his eyes, grabs the bracelet, and tosses it across the room. "There. And you didn't answer my question."

Simon's glaring. His jaw's working.

Apollo presses: "Are you—pissed at me, or something, for meeting that Alan guy?

Wrong question. Simon's fingers dig into Apollo's thighs like claws. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"You've been weird since we ran into him in Venice, and I've figured it out as much as you went to school together, but you all looked happy enough back then, and—"

"And how did you learn that?" Simon asks, suddenly sharp. "I didn't give you permission to pry into my affairs."

Apollo rolls his eyes. "Turns out, if you hang out with someone, they may want to learn even one thing about you, Simon, and since you won't just talk—"

"The idea, Justice," Simon snarls, "is to not talk. The idea—" and an eerie note of urgency creeps in "—is to not think."

Which was fair enough, two months ago. But: "That was before you decided to try and make this a thing, Simon—"

And that's the step too far, that's the thing you shouldn't say. Before Simon was open, if pissed and mulish—and now he's closed off again, all ice-cold remove, staring down at Apollo as if from some mountain. "You presume too much, Justice-dono," he says, every word clipped.

And Apollo isn't wrong, he knows he's not, but he's not going to argue with a wall.

As if suddenly remembering himself, Simon shrugs hugely, shaking Apollo off. He dresses himself, stands upright, and though his eyes are still glittering with hunger, the rest of him is all cool poise.

On his way out, he kicks Apollo's vest toward him with a disgusted sneer: "Cover yourself. You're indecent." Then he slams the door behind him so hard it rattles the hinges.

Apollo's staring at his phone the next day when the call comes. He's been expecting it, waiting for it, even though he still isn't sure whether he wants it or not. When the ring finally comes, the gut check says no.

But he answers it anyway.

"Justice," Simon says, brusque, from someplace windy. "I require the use of a car."

Of course he does. The barbeque is at five o'clock. He remembers Alan's words clear as day. "Okay." Apollo picks at a hangnail. "What's that got to do with me?"

A long silence. Then, slightly muffled: "You were correct."

"Hm?"

Every word sounds like it's being hacked up: "You were correct. I have been behaving—erratically. I shall endeavor to explain in due time, but—"

Apollo changes his mind. He doesn't want Simon to talk after all—doesn't want Simon to talk like this, at least, contrite and desperate; it's somehow even worse than the whole steely remove thing. "Yeah," Apollo interrupts, to make it stop, "just—yeah, I'll give you a ride. Whatever. See you in ten."

When Simon gets into the car, he doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at Apollo, just gets in the seat and tosses him a little scrap of paper. Apollo unfolds it, punches the address into his phone GPS, and then senses something missing: "Where's Taka?"

Simon's already staring out the window, head firmly turned away. "Alan and the others are unused to her presence. So it would be impolitic to introduce her at this time."

That's good news for Apollo's upholstery—he's seen the state of the seats in Athena's car. But Apollo's not sure that Simon's ever held Taka back on anyone's account.

For the first time since Apollo's been doing—whatever this is—with Simon, a cold, familiar prickling creeps into Apollo's chest. Alan seemed nice enough. Harmless. At least, compared to that Leny's guy.

So why is Simon staring out the window the way you'd stare into a firing squad?

Apollo had a whole speech in mind. Something along the lines of make up your mind and don't jerk me around and whatever other self-righteous zingers. And he doesn't drop it, exactly—he's still pretty pissed—but. He decides it can wait a few hours.

When they hit the interstate, Simon murmurs, just barely loud enough to be heard above the engine: "Alan seems to be under the apprehension that you are my boyfriend."

Um. "Okay?"

"I am disinclined to dispel him of this notion at present."

Oh. Apollo's not just the ride, he realizes. He's the plus one.

He waits for something else, anything else. Then he remembers how cringey that phone conversation was earlier, and opts for bravado instead: "Yeah, sure," he says. "Why not. Arm candy boyfriend, right here. Anything else I should know?"

Simon manages a thin, wry smile. "Do try to look pretty."

The address is in Pasadena. Which is ordinary enough, until the GPS turns them north and the hills start climbing around them, and the houses climb too, taller and taller, until the mansion they're parked in front of is three stories high and looming over a view of the whole valley.

"Wow." Apollo cuts the engine. "Did this Alan guy, uh, come from money or something?"

Simon doesn't answer. There's a sign out front that says COME AROUND BACK, so they do, ambling over an awkward path of stepping-stones, until a retriever mutt jumps out of nowhere and starts barking.

(Jumps out of nowhere—and nearly makes Apollo jump out of his skin. He's never exactly been a dog person.)

"Hey!" a voice calls, presumably Alan. "Hey, you guys, check out who's here!"

Simon steps through the side gate. Some three dozen faces, scattered all around the yard and the pool and the grill and the badminton field, turn at once, and their stunned stares make one thing abundantly clear: Alan didn't tell them Simon was coming.

What kind of guy wouldn't tell them, Apollo thinks, a defensive jolt stiffening his spine. You don't just drop that on people, why make it any weirder for Simon than it already is, come on—Apollo can't help himself; he shoots Alan a level glare.

But Alan probably doesn't notice it, in all the commotion: after a beat, everyone's smiling and waving and saying hey, including a few people who clearly don't recognize Simon at all. One woman—Vivien, from the Facebook photo—rushes out of the crowd and actually hugs Simon. (Simon stiffens at the touch—even a decade ago, it's hard to imagine him ever being a huggy kind of guy.) "Oh my God," she gasps in a watery voice, muffled by his shoulder, "I can't believe it's you, oh my God."

Eventually Vivien lets go and gives him a chance to breathe. A few guys tip their beers from afar, while a sporty-looking couple ambles over to exchange some perfectly decent pleasantries with Simon: How've you been? How was the drive? You've been working out, huh?

Maybe this is fine, Apollo thinks at length. Maybe this prickly, crawling feeling is just Apollo's anxiety feeding off of all the weirdness of this week. It's just a party. It's fine. They'll laugh about it later.

Then one of the partygoers swivel-turns toward Apollo, a tall thin blonde: "So what do you do?"

"I'm a defense attorney," Apollo says, with that little touch of pride that he's never been good at hiding.

"A defense attorney!" She beams. "That's so good of you. Someone's got to stand up for the little guy." Her smile, Apollo notes, has too many teeth. "You know, I do some pro bono work at my firm. You might've heard of us, Drollinger and Dunn—?" and yeah, Apollo's heard of Drollinger & Dunn; everyone with half a law degree's heard of them; their client list is like a Who's Who of corrupt megacorps trying to "reform" their image "—so I know how thankless that kind of work can be."

Oh. It's one of these types. Apollo dares a fleeting glance at Simon, hoping to see that little crinkle in the corner of his eye that translates to something like what utter codswallop—but there's no such thing, just his lips pressed into a thin uncertain line.

Luckily, right then the dog shows up, barking her head off, cutting the conversation short. Unluckily, it's a dog, geez; Apollo backpedals and nearly trips from trying to keep the slobber off of him. "Sorry about Hilda, my man," Alan calls from across the yard, "she just loves new people."

They keep coming, one little meet-and-greet after another, and soon Apollo notices they fall into a rhythm, predictable as a metronome. Hey Simon, how are you, how's prosecuting, can't believe I haven't seen you since graduation huh, and then: thunk. A silence, huge and awkward, where those seven years in prison go.

Weird how no one just says it. Maybe it's a sore spot, sure. But isn't it weirder to not mention it?

And each time, Simon waits, and waits, and when that thunk becomes too loud, he at last pulls Apollo in, his wonderfully convenient change of subject: "Have you made the acquaintance of my paramour?"

(Which is not the same thing as "boyfriend", by the way, my God Simon just use normal words, but now's not the time to litigate that.)

And there's a rhythm to that bit, too. If Apollo says he's a defense attorney, he gets the oh-how-noble treatment. If he gets specific, names the Wright Anything Agency in particular, they say, "Oh, that's interesting," in the way you'd describe some unpalatable-yet-exotic food as interesting, or a child's unsettlingly-gory drawing as interesting.

Once, for spice, Apollo answers, "Well, I'm just at a small firm right now, kind of in-between things, but before that, I was at Gavin Law Offices." Just as a little test.

And that catches this polo-shirt-guy's attention, all wow, I wanted to work there before, you know, and he shrugs like the whole double-murder thing was some embarrassing gaffe. "I mean. Just legendary, right? Kristoph really was one of the best."

He can feel Simon bristle at that one—half-expects him to sneer a question, best poisoner or best assailant?—but when Apollo looks over at him, his only expression is a sort of mute sheepishness, and his only reply is some muttered change of subject.

Apollo's never seen Simon suffer a fool in his life, until now. What are these people, to him? That prickly feeling is crawling into his stomach again.

Then Alan grabs Simon away, insisting he needs a partner for cornhole—and it's a smart pick. Apollo knows Simon won't quit until he wins. Which leaves Apollo on his own, hovering on the sidelines, beer in hand, hoping he doesn't look too weird standing here—

"So how long have you known Simon?" someone calls from behind him.

And there's Vivien. Who's the closest thing to a familiar face here, so Apollo smiles back. "Not as long as you. You knew him in law school, right? What was he like back then?"

Vivien's eyes glitter. "Simon here," she whispers conspiratorially, "he was so much smarter than the rest of us. Always off with that psychology lady or with his nose in some huge book that wasn't even assigned." She giggles. "It was cute, you know?"

Apollo doesn't like the way she says cute. But he nods along anyway.

"He was the youngest guy in our class, you know. Some kind of prodigy." She glances over to the game, just as Simon knocks an opponent's beanbag out of the way with a flourish and a fist-pump. "He is so lucky he had us looking out for him."

Apollo arches a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, like." She shrugs. "People stuff. And he helped me not flunk contracts, so."

Apollo takes a huge swig of his drink, to keep from saying which of those sounds luckier.

"I can't believe how long it's been since then. He seems to be doing well, though."

Apollo can hear the question just beneath her voice—anything I can help with? And Apollo understands, he thinks. Simon Blackquill is out of prison, and he's been exonerated with full fanfare, and he's every bit as sharp a prosecutor as he was before his sentencing. Hell, give it a few years, and if Edgeworth heads back to Europe, he may well be D.A. someday. He's a powerful guy. Vivien sees that.

It's like law school again, Apollo thinks. All that endless clawing and jostling for law review, for clerkships, for top grades and approval from the right professors in high places, and hardly anyone talking about anything else.

Apollo hated law school.

"He's great," Apollo says flatly. Vivien's eyes narrow, like she knows she's been insulted but can't quite figure out how. Good.

Then there's a holler of triumph, from the other side of the field—Simon's crushed the game, of course. Alan and Simon high-five, then bow out to make room for the next team—

—and as soon as Simon's off the playing field, Viv sidles up to him. Apollo's still within earshot. He takes a sip of his beer and tries to look casual, like he's just really engrossed in the next game, and definitely not eavesdropping.

"You know," Vivien says to Simon, voice low, "I meant to visit you in prison. Just, I was all the way in New York, and then by the time I moved back here with Brad things were so crazy trying to find a house, and—"

She natters on, and with slow horror, Apollo realizes that she's going to end this little schpeel with, Forgive me? Explain away seven entire years with a bat of her eyelashes. Apollo wishes Taka were there to peck her eyes out. Wishes Taka were here at all.

But Simon cuts her off before she can ask: "I understand," he purrs, smooth as silk, and he even sounds like he means it. But Apollo feels his bracelet pulse, hard enough that he nearly drops his drink. And when Apollo sidles up to Simon, grabs his hand, and whispers hey are you good to go, Simon's nod is firm and grateful.

As soon as Apollo shuts the car door, he breathes a sigh of relief. Simon relaxes, too, sprawling across his seat and running a jerky hand through the front of his hair.

"So that sucked," Apollo says.

He's expecting Simon to bark a laugh. Expecting him to say verily, and then they'll laugh together, and say good riddance, and never drive to fucking Pasadena ever again. Instead, Simon tenses at once: "Apologies that my friends were not to your taste."

What the hell, Apollo almost says, and also, You can't tell me you liked that, and also You know that's not what I meant. But he manages to clench his jaw in time.

"Next time I can of course procure my own ride."

Apollo keeps quiet.

And sure enough, once the silence stretches close to snapping, Simon at last mutters: "You don't understand them."

Apollo's pretty sure he does, actually. But he waits for more. And when nothing comes, he asks, as levelly as he can manage: "So how many times did that Alan guy visit you in prison?"

"Alan," Simon says, with the smooth detached measuredness of a courtroom argument, "has always possessed roughly the same sense of object permanence as that mutt of his." A flicker of a sardonic smile. "His virtues are his enthusiasm and openness, not any particular attentiveness. I will not begrudge him that lack."

"Okay," Apollo says. It's not, but—okay. "And Vivien?"

"I'm told biglaw is quite all-consuming. I wouldn't know myself, would I? So I shall have to take her at her word."

Apollo lets his silence say just what he thinks of that. Simon's looking unhappy.

"And Casey?" Silence. "Nick?" That prickly, crawling feeling rushes down Apollo's spine—he'd expected to strike out, sure, but not on all of them. "Anyone?" My God, Apollo realizes, I'm an asshole. "Seriously, there had to be someone—"

"There was Aura," Simon mutters, then more clearly: "Only Aura, and she—" and Simon's voice breaks, at that moment, into something so near a sob that both of them look away, a bare reflex. Thunk. Silence, huge. Apollo manages a sidelong glance; Simon couldn't look more shocked if snakes had fallen out of his mouth.

Only Aura, and she's in prison now.

"Why are we still sitting here, Justice?" Simon barks, a little hoarse. "Drive."

So Apollo does, hitting the gas, while Blackquill stares fixedly out the window. The inside of the car is absolutely silent. Not even the radio plays; it wasn't on when Apollo got in the car, and he's too nervous to even reach for the button now, afraid that even that little motion would detonate this massive thing in the middle of them, thunk. But God he'd love to have some music playing, or one of those stupid-loud car engines, or even that damn bird, squawking and tearing up the backseat. Anything, anything but this.

Two exits too early, Blackquill snaps, "Here. Get over here."

Which doesn't make sense. But maybe it's a route the GPS doesn't know about. Apollo exits, and then Simon barks a series of turns, left-right-left, until they've pulled into the parking lot of the dumpiest 7-11 Apollo's seen side of LA.

Simon's already opening the car door before Apollo's even pulled to a stop.

"Simon, wait," Apollo shouts, fumbling to park. It's not a real parking spot; the guy behind them lays on the horn, but whatever, he can go around. "Hey." Apollo stumbles out, then rushes over to Simon, who's already halfway across the parking lot. "Simon, come on, get back in the car—"

"And do what?" Whatever wavery note was present earlier is vanished, now, replaced with pure steel. "Perchance talk it out with the ignorant likes of you?" He snorts. "Good night, Justice-dono. Don't follow me."

So Apollo does as Simon asks. He goes home.

He's not going to play mother hen, not the way Athena would, fussing over every damn step Simon takes. He's an adult. He said what he wanted. He can take care of himself.

Back in his apartment, Apollo throws off his jacket, his tie, and nearly tears a button off his vest, from yanking it too quickly. He glares sidelong at the clock—eleven PM. Too late to go out, too early to sleep. So he flips on the TV, skims through a couple choices on Netflix, picks the new show with the thing everyone's talking about, tries to enjoy it for a few minutes—then turns it back off.

The TV stand. There's a little dust on it. He gets out a damp cloth, dusts the thing off, then the kitchen counter and the table and the bookshelves. When everything's dusted, he gets out the vacuum and has a go at the floors (nevermind the hour). He has to pause halfway through, to pick his jacket off the floor (probably he should do a load of laundry), and the vest, and—

He notices it then: there's a feather on the vest's inside collar. Faint, downy, but unmistakable.

He doesn't need to stare at it to figure out where it came from, though it does anyway. Faint brown barring, soft to the touch.

He stares at it some more. He can't remember the exact moment it got there—could've been so many times, this past week, he's been seeing Simon so much—which means he's in this, now, and he knows what comes next.

He stares a moment longer. Swears aloud.

Then he throws on the jacket, and kicks his shoes back on, and hopes like hell his first hunch is right, because otherwise, well—LA's an awfully big place.

Twelve-AM Leny's is a different crew than five o'clock Leny's. Apollo has to hold his breath through the huddle of smokers by the front door, and inside, the only decent lighting comes from the tacky neon beer signs in every window. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and another moment to spot Simon—in a back booth, all on his own, with a whiskey on the rocks in front of him.

Apollo slides in across from him.

Simon blinks like the light just changed. Then he spits, "Justice," with something between disgust and grudging respect. "I see you've ignored my one request. Certainly you took your time tailing me here."

Simon is talking very slowly and very clearly, in a way that suggests he's trying way too hard to speak slowly and clearly. Apollo glances at the drink: "How many of those have you had?"

Simon pauses to consider. "Enough." So, a lot. He chuckles at the raise of Apollo's eyebrows. "Don't begrudge me a little indulgence, Apollo. I've seven years' lost time to make up for."

There's a maudlin touch at the end of that. Not good. Simon doesn't do maudlin.

And the way Simon is watching him is... intense. Like being in a room with a tiger. Simon's eyes follow Apollo's hands as he folds them on the table, a predatory stare, one false move and he's ready to pounce. And he's looming over the whole booth, too tall a person in too small a space, broad-shouldered with glinting eyes.

Probably this should wait until morning.

But.

Apollo has something he came here to say.

So he ignores all that and comes out with it: "Look, Simon, your friends aren't really my kind of thing, but if you like them, that's fine, and I should've just kept my mouth shut—"

"Don't." Simon closes his eyes with a wince, as if in pain. "Your bullheaded sense of honesty is one of your finer virtues, Justice. Don't besmirch that on their account. They," he pronounces, eyes narrowing, "are a pack of petty, small-minded strivers who have abandoned the noble pursuit of truth for money-grubbing vapidity, and they are as far beneath your consideration as the skittering sewer rats of this city are beneath Taka."

"Um." Not quite the way he would've put it, but, probably not wrong. Still: "Is that... what you actually think?"

A solemn nod from Simon.

"Then... why did we go there, exactly...?"

"An excellent question, Justice." Simon leans back, glass in hand, smirking. "Why don't you tell me? Show off those deductive skills of yours."

"I mean." Apollo rubs his bracelet. "You... used to be friends, right?"

"I wonder," Simon says, with a little hm, watching the ice swirl in his glass.

"I mean—" Simon did say he wanted honesty "—no, not really, or at least they were shitty friends, it kind of sounds like they used you, but—"

"But of course one hopes one might be mistaken," Simon cuts in, uncharacteristically soft. A shadow creeps into his voice: "Prison is an excellent way to learn just how many ways people can use each other."

Apollo takes a quick breath. The picture comes together. Simon—young, naive, unbearably earnest. Vivien probably noticed he was smarter than three of her put together, did the whole love-bombing thing, brought him into their little study group and told him how funny and cool he was while she cheated off his outlines. And if they never called or texted him after graduation, well, everyone's busy the first couple years of their career, right? Simon included; he had Metis, had his work.

But of course they would try to come see him in prison, when they heard the news. They were his friends. He'd been sentenced to death. And Simon probably had a whole speech ready, tailored to each of them specifically, to warn them away from trying to help.

But he'd been naive, not stupid. It probably only took a couple weeks for Simon to figure out they weren't coming.

"You wanted me to talk, Justice, didn't you? See, I'm talking. Are you not satisfied?" There's a jeer in that, but Apollo doesn't rise to the bait, just stares back plainly. Simon makes a sweeping gesture, indicating the whole room: "An establishment such as this suits me far better, I think." He tilts his glass toward a man sitting by the window. "That fellow there? He was inside for beating his wife. I used to play chess with him in the afternoons." Another gesture, toward a man at the bar: "Armed robbery. I'm surprised he's out so soon, actually, I'm told he quite seriously injured the poor teller—"

Apollo hadn't clocked that this was the just-out-of-jail bar, actually. He'd only picked it because it was close to work. So that explains why Simon was so edgy their first time here.

Simon's words are starting to slur, slightly, even though he's flinging them out like little sword-jabs: "Shall I tell you about the murderer who worked in the prison library alongside me? how he told me all the little pieces he cut his victim into? How about the favors I traded to ensure my protection, the things the guards never saw—"

"I mean, you can if you want. But you're not going to scare me off." Apollo gives the empty glass in front of Simon an arch look: "And you might want to drink some water first."

A baffled stare. "Are your quite deaf, Justice? These are my people. There's no place here for the likes of you—"

Apollo cuts in: "You have been drinking water, right?" He moves to get up. "Let me get you a glass—"

"I can get it myself," Simon snaps, slamming his palms on the table, standing up—and then his left leg collapses beneath him entirely.

Oh boy. Apollo rushes to his side. Simon tries to bat him away, but there's no force behind it—or maybe just no sense of aim—and after a moment, he lets Apollo haul him upright.

"How much do you drink normally?"

Simon shoots him a glare like fire. "I don't, Justice, did you not hear me? I'm making up for lost—" a little hiccup "—time."

Oh boy. Apollo shoots a glance at the bar. The bartender's giving them that get-more-sober-or-get-out look.

"Yeah," Apollo announces, "I'm cutting you off," and to his surprise Simon doesn't argue, just gives him a surly hunched look and mutters something under his breath. Thankfully the place sells bottled water; Apollo buys two while he's closing out the tab, and shoves one into Simon's hands.

Apollo's car is parked two blocks away, but one look at the color of Simon's face (deathly pale, a little sweaty) reminds him how much he doesn't want to clean vomit out of the seats tonight. Instead he opts for the metro stop two blocks the other way—they can still make the last ride of the night if they hurry.

On the subway car, Simon manages about thirty seconds of standing upright. A rickety turn sends him wobbling sideways, and grudgingly, he moves to sit next to Apollo. And after a few stops, it's more like he's slumping next to Apollo, and then slumping into Apollo—his head's starting to nod a bit—and by the time they're blowing by Pico, the guy's out like a light.

"Yeah, you get some rest," Apollo murmurs, threading a hand through Simon's hair. "I'll wake you when we get there."

When Simon wakes, there’s the usual lurch in his stomach at seeing a ceiling that’s not made of concrete. It's not concrete, which means it's not his prison cell, which means something’s gone wrong—execution day, or worse, they’ve traded him for Athena—and he nearly chokes on the panic before blessed memory, at last, rushes in.

Nearly a year out and he’s still doing this, every damn morning. It’s an irksome devil of a thing.

Then, there’s a second lurch, a different one, when he realizes that this isn’t his own ceiling, either. It’s too clean, too beige, and smells of overpriced new construction. He cranes his neck, looking for clues. There’s only the thin light through the blinds, but he can make out some playing cards, a clock, a glinting golden badge—

Apollo’s apartment. Of course.

He flushes at the realization, and at the memory of the night before. How many drunken fools had he seen thrown in the clink? How many times had he marveled at their audacity? And then he’d gone and become a drunken fool himself.

“Oh good," Apollo says, poking his head through the door. "you’re awake. Want some water?”

Simon blinks, sitting up a bit in the bed. Apollo tosses him a bottle, and that’s when he realizes what this awful raw ache in his throat must be: thirst. He does not screw off the plastic cap so much as he tears it off, and Apollo laughs. “Yeah, I thought so.”

While Simon’s guzzling, Apollo sits on the side of the bed, patiently watching. And when Simon’s finished drinking, Apollo looks him straight in the eyes and says, plain as anything: “Just because some of your friends turned out to be assholes doesn’t mean you’re some unlovable lowlife or whatever. It just means they’re assholes.”

Simon works his jaw, but somehow, he can’t think of a single thing to stay. It’s difficult to protest, when Apollo’s using that voice, when he’s looking at him that way, and when he’s—quite possibly—correct. That bullheaded honesty. Remarkable.

“And also,” Apollo adds, with a touch of sheepishness, “look, I don’t really know if you want to be a thing or not, but either way—you know I’m here for you, right? And Athena, too. That’s two people. That’s not nothing.”

Vastly more than nothing. And... if Simon heard that correctly...

“I do want that,” Simon says. “As it so happens. Being a thing, that is.” And when Apollo just stares, like this is some great shock, like it hasn’t been his obvious desire for ages now, he adds, “I suppose I could’ve lent you more clarity in the matter.”

“Yeah, you could've,” Apollo says with a laugh. “But, okay, great. That’s great.”

And then they just stare at each other. A single nervous chuckle from Apollo, then more staring. What comes after that?

“Hey,” Apollo says, with a sudden brightness in his eyes. “I won our last court case, right?”

Simon raises a brow. “We abandoned that wager, Justice. At your request, if I recall.”

“Okay, sure, but now I’m bringing it back." Apollo clambers onto the bed and sidles closer. "I win, I get to have my way with you—that’s how it went, right?”

Ordinarily Simon would protest on principle—altering the terms after the duel is done is utter chicanery, any way you look at it. But after their miserable effort on Friday, he’s desperately hungry for a second chance.

So he nods, straightening his back, flashing a sensuous smile. “How would you have me, Justice? I imagine your abode lacks the courthouse basement’s chains, but I’m sure there’s serviceable rope somewhere—“

“Actually,” Apollo interrupts. “I had something else in mind. Lean back.”

He does. Apollo’s pillows are luxury-hotel plush; Simon sinks into them. Then Apollo swings a leg over to straddle him, leans forward, and kisses him, full on the mouth.

And it’s nice, very nice; Simon's always loved the feel of Apollo's lips, and his tongue. But ordinarily, a kiss like this is a fleeting thing, one of the in-between moments that syncopate their bouts of rough passion: barked commands, torn clothes, and only the most urgent, animalistic sort of fucking.

Yet this kiss is lingering, incessant, appallingly sweet. It is tender. It is... strange.

Simon waits as long as patience will allow, then grabs Apollo’s hand and pulls it down toward his own crotch. But Apollo only laughs, says “Easy, tiger,” and places his hand firmly back on the bed.

Apollo’s other hand is ghosting up Simon’s neck and cheek, careful little touches here and here, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him. Which is nice, of course it’s nice, any touch feels nice. But they don’t do nice. They do savagery; they do passion. “Why this new sense of restraint, Justice?” he snaps at last. “I’m not made of glass—“

“I know,” Apollo says, in that patient, even voice that’s so impossible to argue with. “And we can go back to that stuff next time. I mean—“ he pauses to lick his lips “—I’ll insist on it, really, it’s way too much fun, but.” He points at Simon’s chest. “You had a shitty day. And as of five minutes ago, you’re now my boyfriend. And so what I’d like to do is make out with my new boyfriend, and hold him just like this—“ he runs a hand down Simon’s side, feather-light “—and tell him just how handsome and smart he is—because he is,” Apollo adds, a touch sharp, when Simon starts to roll his eyes. “And then after we have been completely, thoroughly schmoopy, maybe we’ll even manage to get some clothes off.” Apollo flashes a cheeky grin: “And I won, so. That’s what I’m going to get.”

Absurd. Simon even manages to choke the protest out, “Absurd,” but his voice sounds thin even to his own ears. Because absurd as it is, something starts to untwist inside him, when Apollo pulls him into the next kiss. It’s the focus of it, he thinks, that steady attention, so like the way Apollo looks at him when he’s speaking a simple truth. A simple rhythm, unwavering, and there’s nothing for Simon to do but enjoy, relax, ease into the bed, let all those dozens of little touches sink into his skin. And when Apollo finally, after what feels like ages, slides a hand under Simon’s shirt, presses a warm hand against his chest, and whispers you’re so good, Simon, anyone would be lucky to have you—well, Simon nearly mewls, as keenly as if Apollo had had him begging and naked and on his knees.

It’s backwards. Utterly, hopelessly backwards. And Simon wouldn’t have it any other way.