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There’s music in his sinews, on his tongue, in his pores, in the cooling sweat pooling into the grooves of his hips, and mein Gott that was a good show, the kind of show with its shaking bass and hysterical fans that reminds him why he still does this, why he’s still here. Klavier Gavin’s back in the game, baby. Platinum solo record, sold out world tour, a nod at the upcoming AMAs — it feels like there’s something fizzing carbonated in his blood, sweet and wild, a good thing after a very long time without.
Even here in sleepy, isolated, pious Khura’in they’d come out to see him play, and oh but Herr Forehead had enjoyed ribbing him about that, didn’t he? Hope your three fans don’t get stuck in traffic, he’d said in that deadpan way of his during their last phone call. Tonight Klavier had peeked onstage before the show, while the stadium was still filling up, to snap a photo. He’d sent it to Apollo with the text, My three fans say Guten Abend.
No answer to that, but it’s fine. He’s meeting Apollo in half an hour anyway, for drinks before he has to fly out tomorrow morning. He rather suspects that 11 p.m. on a Wednesday night is past Apollo’s bedtime — Justice is a warm milk and then brush your teeth kind of guy — but it’s not too often they’re in the same part of the world anymore, is it. It hadn’t been too hard to twist Apollo’s arm into agreeing to meet up.
Klavier’s very curious to see what passes for nightlife in Khura’in, though if he knows Apollo — and he knows Apollo — they’ll end up at a marketside stall eating magatah’man buns and drinking yak yogurt.
He’s looking forward to it, lost in thought peeling himself out of his leather pants and into cutoff denim shorts, brainstorming new and devastating nicknames to emphasize Herr Forehead’s well, extremely broad and visually arresting forehead, when Jonesy, his security guard on tour, knocks on the dressing room door and says, “A Mr. Justice to see you, sir.”
“Ach, Jonesy, how many times have I said already? You don’t need to call me sir,” Klavier says absently, before he registers what Jonesy actually said. He straightens, already smiling without realizing it. “Let him in.”
Here he comes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in all his prong-haired glory: Apollo Justice for your perusal. Short, baby-faced, knock-kneed, wild eyebrows, missed a spot while he was shaving, still wearing his fire engine courtroom getup even at a rock concert, and damn but Klavier’s missed him. Missed facing off against him in a trial, yes — because nobody makes his brain loop and turn tricks like Apollo and his brand of insanity — but missed him as a friend too.
They were getting there — friends — two years ago when Apollo decided to move back to Khura’in. They’ve been getting there still — phone calls when the time difference allows, emails, Skype chats, even a holiday card or two. Very little physical contact, though, when most days they’re continents apart. Klavier doesn’t let himself stop and parse out whether or not they should be awkward seeing each other again. He crosses the dressing room, grabs Apollo’s shoulders, and air-kisses him twice.
He can feel the shudder of Apollo’s breath against his cheek as he pulls away; the wildness in his blood calls out.
“Forgot how touchy-feely you are,” Apollo says. “Now that you’re no longer around to ambush me after trials. Thought I was safe.”
“Achtung, if it isn’t my favourite constantly disgruntled attorney,” Klavier says. “I thought we were going to meet at that place you mentioned?”
“Well, I thought about it,” Apollo says, lifting a plastic bag he’s been holding. Klavier can see the shape of at least one bottle inside. “Then I figured, you’re probably, uh, tired, right? Going out to eat, where your fans might see you, where there’s probably cameras — seems kind of exhausting.”
“My three Khura’inese fans,” Klavier agrees, taking the bag from him. Magatah’man buns. Called it. And a bottle of tequila.
“Herr Forehead,” he crows in delight. “Doesn’t this bring back memories.”
“You mean that time in Mexico?”
“I mean exactly that time in Mexico,” Klavier muses. “You, me, the crime scene across the border we were to investigate. Do you remember how that storm kept us in Tijuana and we got smashed on cheap tequila and tortas at the hotel?” He grins. “I think that was the first time you truly loosened up around me. You even took off your vest.”
“Yeah, yeah, it was hot,” says Apollo, like he’s being accused of something salacious. He points at the bottle. “Alcohol’s stupid expensive in Khura’in. They’re not heavy drinkers here. But Datz keeps an entire stash at the office, which either makes him the best or worst office assistant ever. I can’t decide.” He shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but Klavier can see the faint blush crop up on his cheeks. It’s delightfully charming and familiar, Apollo thrown off his game over nothing at all. Klavier busies himself looking for glasses to drink out of, but not before Apollo raises a hand to swipe hair out of his face — a nervous tic — and Klavier sees the bracelet.
Not the “fear into the heart of your enemies” bracelet. Another one, thin and made of blue paper, the kind they were handing out at the stadium doors.
Klavier’s starting to smirk. “Don’t tell me you…”
Apollo notices where he’s staring and claps a hand over his wrist. He turns even redder. “No, it’s not — they wouldn’t let me in without one — I didn’t—”
“—came to my show,” Klavier cackles.
“No!” Apollo sputters, nearly shouts it into Klavier’s face. Klavier continues to smile at him, smug and patient, until Apollo groans and clutches his face in his hands. “I dunno, maybe! One of my junior associates had tickets she couldn’t use tonight. They were going to waste anyway, so I thought— never mind!” He knocks Klavier out of the way and finds the clean glasses on the vanity before Klavier does. “Stop moving so slowly!”
“So frantic,” Klavier complains. He pokes the vein in Apollo’s temple. “You keep being this stressed about everything, you’re going to stroke out before you’re thirty.”
“We can’t all be cool cucumbers like you,” Apollo says, opening up the tequila and sloshing a fair bit into each glass.
“Nein?” Klavier asks, accepting the glass Apollo practically throws at him. He pretends he can feel the warmth of Apollo’s thumbprint under his own thumb. He leans against the vanity and crosses his legs, glad he went with the decision to wear cutoffs. The A/C’s on in the dressing room but it’s a humid Khura’inese night outside in the capital if the sweat beading Apollo’s collar, sticking his hair to the nape of his neck, is anything to go by. How he can stand to wear his two-piece suit and tie in this weather is beyond Klavier’s understanding.
“Nein what?” Apollo asks suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” Klavier says cheerfully. “What I do know is that you came to my show, so tell me, what did you think about the music? Have you listened to my new album? Did you—”
“It’s all noise to me, okay?” Apollo says, scowling into his glass. Klavier hides his smile. “You know I’m not into, like, music. And stuff.”
“You are the most uncultured person of my acquaintance.”
“Thanks.”
“No, truly,” Klavier says. “And you, the son of two musicians. Ich glaub mich knutscht ein Elch! When you told me, I could hardly believe it.”
“Music’s a frivolous hobby and I don’t have the time,” Apollo mutters.
Klavier, who balances two full-time careers with international celebrity, laughs gently at him. Apollo, to his credit, merely rolls his eyes. There’s nowhere to sit in the dressing room — Khura’inese entertainment venues evidently not believing in couches — so they sit on the floor, Apollo cross-legged and formal, Klavier in a graceless sprawl. It has the feeling of two kids at a sleepover getting ready to play Truth or Dare, he thinks, and takes a sip of the tequila.
“Bottoms up,” Apollo says, knocking their glasses together.
“Zum Wohl,” Klavier replies. “So,” he says with a laugh, as if they still see each other all the time instead of the two long years it’s been, “how was your day?”
“Ugh,” Apollo says. “Is it possible to feel ancient at twenty-six?” He doesn’t wait for Klavier’s response. “It’s totally possible, when you’re trying to train junior associates who are all eighteen and clueless.”
“Mm,” Klavier says, rolling the tequila around in his mouth, savouring the burn of it. “I’m sure it doesn’t help that Khura’in until recently had that charming little practice of — oh, I don’t remember, you’ll have to jog my memory, executing its lawyers.”
“Not all of them were executed,” Apollo, ever the hopeless pedant, says. “Some were imprisoned. But yeah. It doesn’t help.” He snorts. “Even if the DC Act’s been repelled, there’s still only a certain type of person willing to become a criminal defense attorney in Khura’in. And by certain type I mean reckless and harebrained.”
“Apollo Justice, calling someone else reckless. Can I have this on record?”
A truly impressive glare is leveled his way.
You laughed in the face of public execution defending your adoptive father, Klavier thinks. But he has no desire to test Apollo’s mood by bringing up Dhurke, or to remind them of the time Apollo nearly died, so he says, airily, “I swear I only need to turn around for a single second and you’re running off with your neck in hot water.”
“Look, it’s not my fault I get the craziest clients—”
“Oh, but isn’t it exactly your fault? No one else would say yes to their cases.”
“If they’re innocent and no one is gonna take them on, then what else am I supposed to do?” Apollo says, exasperated.
“At least charge them more for your services,” Klavier says, waving his hand. “A defense attorney of your calibre shouldn’t still be eating instant noodles for lunch.”
“I like instant noodles!” Apollo yells. “They’re delicious! Plus it’s a lawyer’s duty to be their client’s first and last defense!” And with that he’s plunging back into criticizing his proteges’ bad habits.
“—trying to break them of only relying on Divination Seances and not trying to gather other types of evidence too. They just don’t think! A contradiction in testimony is sitting in front of them and they can’t even see it! It could be dressed up in a hot dog suit and they’d still manage to ignore it. These children make me want to cry.” He looks up with a wry smile. “But I mean, you know that already.”
“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” Klavier says, thinking of their many, many phone conversations that have devolved into Apollo’s furious ranting about the neophytes of the Justice Law Offices. It’s a joy to be able to see it in person again, the wrecking ball that is Apollo’s righteous anger. Klavier’s never met anyone so exquisitely responsive to everything. It makes him now, as it did the day they first met, want to needle Apollo mercilessly in order to see that lovely red flush up his neck, the sharpening of his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth. Somewhere in his phone’s photoroll there may be a collection of Anguished Faces Apollo Justice Makes When Affronted, even if there hasn’t been a new one in a while.
Apollo launches into the latest case his office has taken on, and Klavier remembers already hearing about this when Apollo phoned him last week, catching Klavier right before his show in Istanbul. But it’s one thing to hear Apollo narrate his life thousands of miles away, and another to hear it in surround-sound, Apollo smacking his fist against his palm as he talks, his voice getting louder and louder.
Then he stops. “Oh,” he says sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to make this all about me. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Klavier says, leaning back on his elbows. He’s set his tequila on the floor beside him, kicking out his mostly bare legs. Apollo glances at him and then quickly glances away. “I — enjoy it. Listening to you.”
“Why?” Apollo asks, baffled. “Even Trucy would get tired of hearing me talk about this stuff.”
Trucy hasn’t gone to sleep thinking about your hands before, Klavier does not say.
“Fräulein Wright may not be interested in the details of running your law office,” he says, “but for you and me, this is what gets us going, ja? If I did not have you to talk about, as you so eloquently put it, this stuff, who would I talk to?” He grins ruefully. “Not a lot of goodwill and friendship in the L.A prosecutor’s office, I’m afraid.”
Apollo grunts. “I bet.”
“And not many confidantes for the man who’s overturned the entire Khura’inese government either.”
“Well,” Apollo says, blank-faced, “there’s always Nahyuta.”
“Ah yes,” Klavier replies, “the infamously talkative Prosecutor Sadmadhi. I suppose I ought to be flattered that you’d rather call me than him for these little chats.”
“Hey, when it comes to people back home, you can afford the long distance charges,” Apollo says. “The Wright Anything Agency can’t.” But his blank face is revealing itself for a smirk as he says it, the same self-satisfied smirk he gets when he’s bluffing in court or knows when he’s made a good joke, and Klavier lets himself think of the two of them: unlikely compatriots, even more unlikely friends. But he can’t be the only one who feels it, the gravitational momentum when they’re challenging each other with their cases, egging one another on. And the other thing that binds them together, quiet and painful since the day Kristoph said to him, I’ve hired a new lawyer for my office, he’s quite promising; they’ve seen each other through more personal tragedies than they can count.
“These chats of ours… you don’t have to constantly indulge me,” Apollo says, eyes on him, and there’s a certain thrill to be the sole focus of Apollo’s attention, to have all that unwavering, unblinking intensity swing onto you. “You don’t have to be so nice.” Klavier makes a noncommittal sound. ”Sometimes I think you might actually be too nice for the prosecutor’s office.”
Klavier chokes. “Me? Too nice?”
“Yeah.” Apollo rolls his glass between his palms. “You’re not like the rest of them. Sure, you’ve got your obnoxious habits—”
“Autsch!”
“ —if I see you air-guitar one more time, I swear to god,” Apollo says. “But I mean, like, you’re kind to people. Even the opposing counsel. You make yourself available to anyone who needs you, you offer hints and advice, you genuinely want to find the truth and you—” He bites his lip. “I can always tell what you’re thinking. It’s your face. It’s so open.”
“It’s not that open, Forehead,” Klavier says, “or every gossip rag in town would be onto something.”
“It’s open to me,” Apollo says. “I may not be a psychoanalyst expert like Athena but I can always—” he shrugs. “I can always tell what you’re thinking.”
“Oh?” Klavier says, and his hands are shaking. “What a fine party trick.”
“It’s why I can crush you so easily in court,” Apollo says matter-of-factly.
“Ach,” Klavier says, “and here I thought we were having a sensitive moment, but you had to go and ruin it.”
“I’m not done yet!” Apollo insists. Klavier raises his eyebrows. “I had a point to all this. I was going to say—”
“—well, then come out and say it.”
“I was going to say,” Apollo insists, “that before I moved, I knew you were going to. Um. Ask me out. Or something like that.” His face is borscht red and it’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“I see,” Klavier says slowly. “Did you want me to deny it? Because ja, it’s true. I thought, two years ago, we were,” he offers his own fluid shrug, “heading down a certain direction. But then things changed, as they often do. You came here, and I stayed in L.A., so that was that.” He picks up his tequila and finishes it off, adding with sudden mischief, “Was this your plan all along? Get me drunk and chitchat about our love lives?”
“W-what?” Apollo says. “Don’t be preposterous. And we’re not drunk. We’ve barely had anything.”
“Strapping young attorney,” Klavier intones while Apollo continues to sputter. “Bright. Ambitious. Successful. The oversized forehead is a shame but one must overlook these things. You mean to tell me you don’t have a handsome Khurai’nese boyfriend?” He remembers Apollo telling him that too-bright night in Tijuana that ended with them pouring drinks in the ocean for Clay, about where his preferences lay. It’d sparked Klavier’s hopes.
“What, no!” Apollo shouts, then moderates his voice before Jonesy comes rushing into the dressing room. “God, no. I don’t have a — a boyfriend of any kind! Who has time to — to date?”
“True, true,” Klavier says, singsong, trying to keep his voice light when his blood is starting to thud thickly in time with his pulse. That Apollo knew about his feelings and is bringing it up now feels significant. It’s not Apollo knowing that surprises him — Klavier has never been subtle when he wants something — but he always figured Apollo’s careful, studied ignorance was his way of saying no. He had made his peace with it; contrary to what certain Snackoo-loving detectives might think, he does not expect everyone to fall at his feet. Yet here Apollo is sitting before him, eyes darting everywhere, toying with his empty glass and trying, unsuccessfully, to clear his throat, and Klavier hopes again.
How eagerly he opens himself up to disappointment, to hurt. Kristoph always did laugh at Klavier’s soft pincushion heart.
It is clear to see how uncomfortable Apollo is, so Klavier makes it easy for him, guides the talk back to safe waters. “Are you visiting L.A for Christmas this year?” he asks. “Fräulein Cykes seems to think you will. She talks of little else.”
“Oh, um—” throat clearing “—yeah!” Apollo continues to turn his glass in his hands over and over. “I think Athena and Trucy would actually kill me if I didn’t. They’ve never forgiven me for missing Christmas last year.”
“They were both crestfallen. Tears may have been shed. Fists may have been shaken.”
“My caseload here was way too heavy,” Apollo says defensively. “Also do you know expensive flights are to L.A. during the holidays, and how, uh, little fledgling law offices make in this country? It’s ridiculous.” He pulls a face. “But this year, yeah. Should be able to make it work.” He winces. “Will you be there in December?”
“Why the long face?” Klavier says. “Is my presence so intolerable? Ja, I will be there.”
“Okay,” Apollo nods. “Good. Do you — do you want more tequila?” His voice gets louder and louder.
Klavier smiles amiably. “If you’re offering.”
Apollo trips over his feet getting up. Klavier reaches out a hand to steady him, which seems to fluster Apollo even more. Apollo traipses to the vanity and brings back the mostly full bottle. Klavier holds his glass out helpfully, still sprawled out on the floor. Apollo looks down at him and shudders. Sets the bottle on the ground.
“No tequila then?” Klavier asks.
“Shit,” Apollo says, and something inside Klavier wakes up because for all that Apollo is a tiny stress machine, he rarely ever curses. “I’m just — I’m gonna go for it. Stop me if I’m way off-base, okay?”
“Herr Forehead, what do you—” But Apollo is grabbing Klavier by the collar, yanking him up, and kissing him. And this is how Klavier learns what Apollo Justice kisses like: like a train coming down the tracks, like roaring down the Autobahn with your engine cranked high, like a goddamn force of nature. Klavier’s always thought of kissing as a nice, pleasant thing, an introduction to a new person, a testing of the waters.
But he’s never kissed someone he’s waited so long for, and the way Apollo kisses him — fists bunched in Klavier’s Helmut Lang shirt, mouth hot and wet, breath nervous — Klavier’s never been kissed like this. He’s kissed a lot of people, but never Apollo, and it’s so good his spine melts into nothing and he groans in his throat.
Apollo pulls back from him as abruptly as he’d gone in for the kill. His cheeks are flushed ruddy pink. His hair’s coming undone from its gel. He’s the most beautiful thing Klavier’s ever seen. “Was that — alright? You didn’t mind, did you?”
“I will only mind if you don’t do it again,” Klavier says honestly, and Apollo wipes the back of his mouth anxiously before leaning in and kissing Klavier a second time. Klavier makes low, encouraging noises, trying to get Apollo to relax. It takes some time, but finally it seems like Apollo’s shoulders go down from where they’re hunched, and he tips over into Klavier’s lap, curling his fingers on Klavier’s shoulders and then up in his hair. Klavier runs his tongue over the seam of Apollo’s lips, asking for permission. Apollo opens his mouth more fully and Klavier deepens the kiss.
Because this is something he never thought he would have the chance to learn: what Apollo tastes like — tequila, sticky sweet bun filling, a faint trace of peppermint gum. Or what Apollo feels like in his arms — solid, warm, laundry-starchy. If you’d asked Klavier earlier today what he thought he and Apollo would get up to tonight, he would’ve guessed trading war stories and wandering around tourist sites. Not this. Not making out on the floor of Klavier’s dressing room after his concert, and Apollo whimpering into his mouth, heating his blood to a simmer.
Apollo’s more than halfway on his lap now, and Klavier’s back aches with the pressure of sitting up straight and holding Apollo steady, but it’s a wonderful sort of pain. Apollo buries his fingers in Klavier’s hair, undoing the braid. Klavier helps him take down his hair, and then Apollo takes his hands and kisses each knuckle, so unbearably slow and shy that Klavier gasps.
He pulls Apollo closer to him, or Apollo shifts forward, or they both do at the same time. Klavier doesn’t know, only that they are kissing until they have to come up for air, and then falling into each other and kissing again.
This too is something he would’ve never imagined: Apollo’s hands wandering down Klavier’s body, sliding up his t-shirt, stroking his abs. Or Apollo’s hands on the button-fly of his cutoffs, hesitating.
“We don’t have to do that, Forehead,” Klavier says, though he’s boning up in his shorts right on schedule. “Just kissing is fine. We’ll take this however fast you want to.”
“Klavier,” Apollo says, and that’s a delicious, forbidden thrill too because Apollo almost never calls him by name, withholds it sometimes like a disciplinarian with a treat. “When someone wants to suck you off, you shouldn’t argue with them.”
“Gott,” Klavier says, hips squirming. “Did you, by any chance, come here with the intent to seduce me?” He means to sound teasing but when he hears his own voice, he knows he sounds like a man gutted open and wanting.
“I thought,” Apollo says, eyes dark and huge in his face, “it might be my only chance.”
Only chance. Klavier’s chest squeezes hard at that. It’s true, isn’t it. Klavier only has one night in Khura’in and then they won’t see each other until December, and even then they will be constantly surrounded by friends and family and obligation. It will not be like this, alone in a room with the smell of Apollo’s skin making his head dizzy, making his mouth dry. Klavier unbuttons his shorts and kicks them off, pulls down his briefs too. Apollo sits back on his heels and watches him. Klavier is not one to feel self-conscious about his own body, so he lets Apollo stare while he waits.
“Can you—”
“Ja, ja, what do you want—”
“Lean against the vanity?”
Klavier would lean against a wall of knives for him; forcing his watery legs to move to the vanity is simple enough. When he turns around, he’s greeted by a sight that’ll never stop haunting him: Apollo dropping awkwardly to his knees and grabbing Klavier by the hips, pulling him in. Klavier’s dick sways in the air mere inches from Apollo’s face, its blood-engorged skin so sensitive he chafes.
“Aggressive,” Klavier hums, and Apollo, who has been scarlet this entire time, gets impossibly redder. But he doesn’t falter, doesn’t let his hands betray the nervous hitch of his breathing, the hitch that Klavier’s certain is in his own breathing as well, uneven and gun-shy, but anticipatory also, waiting for whatever Apollo is willing to give him.
His hands, first of all. His beautiful hands, big compared to the rest of his body, with his sturdy thumbs and his ragged nails. The slight crook of the pinkie on his right hand that broke during a childhood fall and never healed properly. Klavier feels pinned in place by Apollo’s hands, by the weight of Apollo’s thumbs against his hips.
“Haven’t done this much,” Apollo admits. “Bit out of practice.”
“I’ve got you,” Klavier promises.
Apollo’s mouth. “Fuck,” says Klavier as Apollo’s breath ghosts over his cock. He tries not to buck forward even though that’s what his body wants to do, wants to shove itself down Apollo’s gorgeous throat and fuck out an orgasm there. But Apollo’s eyeing him uncertainly; he has that expression on his face that he gets in courtrooms, where he’s planning out his method of attack. Then, ah! that look in his eye, that fierce gleam. Apollo’s decided what to do. He wraps one hand around Klavier’s cock and sucks a kiss on the head with his mouth.
Klavier, for lack of a better word, loses his mind.
“Ahhh,” he breathes as Apollo starts tonguing him. “Mein Gott, fuuuuck.” His brain feels wiped out into a low whining thrum, or maybe that’s just the sound coming out of him as Apollo licks his cock, first with shallow curious lapping and then with more confidence. Stroking him with his tongue, following the big vein up to the crown where he slides his tongue in Klavier’s slit, and Klavier forgets how to breathe.
If this all turns to be a tequila-fuelled late night wet dream, a fevered production of his lonely imagination, he would say that it’s been more than enough. To have Apollo’s lips on him, to be taken in Apollo’s hand, to get his cock slick-wet with Apollo’s spit. But then Apollo, never one to do fine when he can do great, opens his mouth and guides Klavier in, lips pulled back carefully over his teeth. Klavier’s hands fly behind him and clutch the edge of the vanity, his legs trembling too hard to be of any use.
Apollo groans when he has Klavier huge in his mouth. The sound he makes soaks through Klavier’s skin, it’s so hungry. He sets himself on Klavier’s dick with clumsy enthusiasm, and Klavier can only watch, too turned on to speak, as Apollo bobs on him, as inch after inch of his cock disappears between those kiss-swollen lips.
Fuck, when Klavier thinks about what Apollo’s lips will look like tomorrow when he’s through with him, what the entire world will know Apollo’s been up to — he keens. Loud enough that if Jonesy doesn’t realize what they’re doing by now, he will, but Klavier doesn’t have time to be embarrassed. Jonesy will understand. Jonesy probably understood that first week on tour when he asked Klavier who he was phoning all the time, and Klavier had said my friend Apollo and smiled like he was letting him in on a secret.
“Apollo—” Klavier’s gasping, arching to bare the lines of his throat. Bottles of hairspray and cologne are digging into his back. He doesn’t care. “Apollo — I’m gonna come, Jesus, any minute.”
Apollo releases Klavier’s cock with a wet pop. “Do you—” he looks wild, “do you wanna do me?”
“Jesus,” Klavier says again.
“Sorry, too blunt, I know,” Apollo says, when not ten seconds ago he had Klavier’s dick in his mouth. This man will drive him crazy one day.
“Ja, yes, I want,” he says, and tries not to choke when Apollo nods fervently and turns out a condom and a small packet of lube from his pockets.
“You came prepared, did you,” Klavier manages to say.
Apollo ducks behind his dishevelled bangs and says, “I thought maybe — tonight is finally the night I can be—” he struggles for words. “Be the sort of person who goes out to get laid by Klavier Gavin. I wasn’t ready, back then.”
Klavier takes the lube from him; flicks the cap open to wet a dollop on his fingers. He catches Apollo’s stare meaningfully, holds it and doesn’t let go. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Apollo says. He watches Klavier lube up his fingers. “You don’t need to do that? Probably?”
Klavier lets out a guttural laugh. “Trust me, I do. I’m no porn star but I’m not small either.” But you already know that, don’t you, he thinks, looking at Apollo’s reddened mouth.
“No, I mean.” Apollo’s cheeks flame. “I did that already? Um. Before I came here.”
“You. What.”
“Like I said.” Apollo’s chin juts up. “I had goals.”
Klavier’s heart beats a Dionysian chorus against the bells of his ribs. He reels Apollo in and kisses him, hard, tasting the bitterness of his own precome on Apollo’s lips. Apollo yanks at Klavier’s shirt and pulls him slowly to the floor. With Klavier trapped safely between his knees, he starts removing his own clothes briskly, until Klavier’s hands come to rest on his. Their fingers fit together. “Let me,” he says. “Bitte,” and he sounds desperate, overwhelmed. Apollo nods.
He undresses Apollo on the floor of his dressing room, under the fluorescent lights and the hum of his tour crew in the hallway. He can hear Jonesy murmuring in a low voice to one of the makeup artists. He’s busy, Jonesy says, and Klavier wants to laugh at the impossibility of it all. Klavier’s busy. Klavier has Apollo underneath him, shivering naked and lovely. Klavier’s bending down to kiss Apollo, stealing kisses from his mouth as Apollo squirms, trying to get closer.
No matter what Apollo’s done for prep, Klavier is going to be careful. He slicks up one finger and guides it in gently. He groans at how loose it feels and what little resistance there is. Apollo wasn’t lying. Klavier imagines him in the washroom during the show, Klavier’s songs piping in through the wall-mounted speakers as Apollo fucked himself on his fingers, thinking about this, about him.
“Come on,” Apollo orders. His voice dies on a whimper as Klavier stretches him out with another finger, and then another scissoring him open. Apollo tries to trap him again with his knees, but Klavier grabs them gently and spreads Apollo’s legs. Apollo squeezes his eyes shut, slurring as he breathes. “Klavier,” he says.
Klavier balls up Apollo’s shirt and pants and shoves them under Apollo’s hips as a makeshift pillow. He rips open the condom and slides it on, smoothing the rubber down as Apollo opens his eyes to watch. Klavier licks his lips. He grips one of Apollo’s legs for balance and wraps his other hand around his cock. Precome drips over his fingers as he scoots in closer until he’s bracing himself on top of Apollo lying supine on the floor. He pushes himself in.
The sound Apollo makes, it’s like he’s drunk. Klavier’s feeling light-headed himself, swaying on his knees, panting.
“This isn’t going to last long,” he warns.
“Don’t care,” Apollo says. “Do it.”
Apollo is maddeningly tight around his cock, the muscles of his neck corded with effort as he lifts his head up, searching for another kiss. Klavier kisses him helplessly, his tongue in Apollo’s mouth as he moves his hips, thrusting into Apollo with delicate strength, and then, as Apollo grinds into him, fingernails cutting into Klavier’s back — deeper, harder, less like Apollo is going to break and more like he’s someone Klavier wants to fuck into the floor, which he does, he is.
Klavier’s hair shines with sweat. He’s sweating onto Apollo, shaking as he holds himself in position. His knees are going to kill him, dug into the floor while Apollo bucks up, arching and fucking back like a wildcat, like something storm-driven and feral, rearing to bite Klavier’s collarbone. Klavier’s thought about what it might be like to screw Apollo, it’s number one in his longstanding fantasies. But this — he didn’t know, he wasn’t prepared, he must’ve done something very, very good in his life to deserve this. Locked between Apollo’s soft thighs, sunk into the heat of Apollo’s body, this is the most alive he’s felt in years.
He hisses out his truth as he thrusts into Apollo brutally. “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.” He folds his fingers around Apollo’s cock, and Apollo cries out.
It doesn’t take long after that. He brings Apollo off with his hand as he drives into him, finding that one spot inside him that makes Apollo jerk and hitting it with every heavy, languorous push. Apollo grits out a strangled noise as he comes, reaching up to bury his face in Klavier’s damp hair, moaning. The feel of him squeezing down on Klavier’s cock is too much, too good, and Klavier comes with an open-mouthed whine, hips rocking senselessly as he rides out his orgasm, filling the condom with wet.
He rolls over when he gathers the strength to do so, lying beside Apollo as they pant on the floor. They’re a sweaty, sticky mess, and Klavier wants a cigarette more than anything. “Jesus Christ,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face. “Forehead. Apollo.”
Apollo blinks up at him, syrupy and slow. Fucked out, Klavier realizes with a shiver. But the sound of his name seems to rouse him and snap him out of it. His gaze sharpens. He gets up, searching for his clothes. He wrinkles his nose at his boxers but slides them on anyway, hopping on one leg and then the other. Klavier watches him move with a growing sense of dull sickness. He thinks of Apollo saying that he wants to be ‘the sort of person who goes out to get laid by Klavier Gavin.’
Maybe that’s all Apollo wanted tonight. A nice hard fuck from a pretty face. Klavier ties off the condom and tosses it into the wastebasket. He wishes he knew what else to do. His tongue’s a cold tundra weight, stuck gummy to the roof of his mouth. Apollo’s shimmying into his pants. He’s checking the time on his phone. He’s looking for his shirt. He’s not meeting Klavier’s eyes.
“Um, well,” Apollo says. “I have to admit, I didn’t really think about this part. But it’s pretty late, and you’ve got an early flight tomorrow, right? So yeah, I, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I should get going.”
Ah, this. Klavier knows how to play along. He’s been let down by Apollo before. “Ja,” he says. “Your shirt is over there.”
“Thanks.” Apollo picks it up and starts buttoning it. He doesn’t bother with the vest on top. Klavier watches his throat working; his Adam’s apple travels up and down. There’s a mark on the soft skin that’s the shape of Klavier’s mouth. Klavier stares at it.
Apollo buttons his shirt wrong on the first go; he frowns and starts doing it again. His forehead furrows with the amount of concentration he’s doling out for this task, and Klavier wants to draw it out for hours, forever.
“It kills me to see you go,” he says hoarsely. There, he’s said it. Klavier Gavin’s soft pincushion heart.
Surprise moves through Apollo’s face like a shadow. Their eyes meet. “Even so,” Apollo says, just as quietly, “what can we do?”
“So that’s it?” Klavier asks angrily. “You don’t even want to try? Because there’s things we could do. If we wanted to.”
“I can’t leave Khura’in,” Apollo says, head bowed. “Not for — a few more years, at least.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Klavier says. “Nein, I would never — what makes you think I would ask that?” Apollo looks wretched. “But I have money. I could fly out at least once a month. It might be good even, a change of place to work on my next album.” He makes a sharp gesture. “Or I could consult here. Like how Von Karma is liaison in L.A even when her main work is in Germany, or how Sadmadhi used to split his time between Khura’in and elsewhere. There’s precedent for it. I could work in the Khura’inese courts a couple months of the year, and then maybe you could come and consult in L.A. in the other months. Take some of your rookie lawyers with you, teach them how other countries’ systems work. Or not.” He’s aware that he’s babbling, that Apollo’s staring at him. “We don’t have to do any of these things, only that they are — options. If we wanted to.”
“Like Persephone,” Apollo says.
“Ja, like that story,” Klavier says wearily. He can’t tell what Apollo’s thinking. Apollo might find him easy to read but he’s never mastered the knack of reading Apollo. But he suspects he already knows the answer.
“I take it back. I didn’t know,” Apollo says, playing with the bracelet on his wrist.
“Didn’t know what?”
“That you still wanted.” Apollo lifts his gaze and fidgets. “That you’d wait. That I could ask.”
“I want to, I will,” Klavier confesses, “and you can.”
“Oh.” Apollo smiles, a touch self-deprecatingly. He finally gives up on the mismatched buttoning of his shirt. “Help me out with this?” he says, sounding frustrated. Klavier swallows and steps in. He grabs the tail ends of the shirt and starts from the bottom, doing it up one at a time until he’s tucking in the last button at Apollo’s throat, and Apollo’s wrapping his arms around Klavier’s neck, standing on his toes to press his mouth against Klavier’s ear. “Then yeah,” he says, “I’m asking.”
:::
They have less than seven hours before Klavier’s flight. Klavier takes Apollo back to his hotel and fucks him a second time, spreading him out over the sheets and sliding into him until they’re both gasping. Then it’s Apollo pushing Klavier against the full-length mirror in the bathroom and getting on his knees again, making him beg. They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, Apollo with his head on Klavier’s chest.
Klavier’s playing his guitar when the sun is rising over the Himalayas. He can hear Apollo stir from behind him and scoot up the bed. Klavier looks over his shoulder, at the bite marks on the once-terra incognita of Apollo’s throat and jaw. He looks thoroughly debauched, and Klavier is viciously happy thinking of what the fresh-faced acolytes of the Justice Law Offices will say when they see their boss today.
“Is it dawn yet?” Apollo asks blearily.
“Just about,” Klavier says. “We have another hour before I have to check out, though. Go back to sleep.”
“Sure,” Apollo replies, and doesn’t. “Is this a new song of yours?”
“Why so curious, Herr Forehead?” Klavier says. “I thought you hated my music.”
“This song’s nice,” Apollo yawns. “Less noisy than your other songs. What’s it about?”
“Distant loves.” He strums a chord and listens to how it vibrates in the room between them, holding the note before it fades away. He tosses the guitar aside and cups Apollo’s face in his hands, smiling.
“Well, I’m right here,” says Apollo.