PW, "The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop: VII," Apollo/Klavier, PG
Let it be known that I'm not really all that happy with this chapter, but it's a necessary chapter so please read it anyway, with the promise that there will be a better chapter next and posted up soon, honest.
Because really, today has just been a downright damned depressing day, I really wish UNC would just bloody hire me, I don't like the fact that OU didn't hire me and didn't even fucking bother to interview me, which means they had someone in mind when they posted the fucking job (which is posted as being open 'til 7/2, by the way, even though they filled it today) and if the same happens at UNC, I'm going to be really sorely disappointed and PISSED. I am PERFECT for that job and rant-rant-rant-rant-rant.
Aw, fuck, I'm about 200 80 (I went through and edited :D) words short of my usual minimum with this chapter, but here it is anyway. Leave me some love on it? ;_;
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop
Part VII
by mistr3ss Quickly
Before Mr. Wright, there had been Mr. Gavin.
Mr. Gavin was intelligent, refined, cultured; everything Apollo-then fresh out of law school-had wanted so desperately to be. Taller and older and wiser, he'd taken Apollo under his wing, taught him everything he needed to know about actively practicing law. Taught him how to prepare, how to present. How to carry himself outside the courtroom, presenting the world with an assured, powerful smile, even on days when things weren't going their way.
Apollo had admired him. Adored him. Hung on his every word, be they words of advice, words of reprimand, or words spinning stories of the past. Professional stories. Personal stories. Stories about his younger brother, a man set apart from his colleagues by prosecuting honestly. Fairly.
Apollo had never once wondered why his mentor laughed, when speaking of Klavier's ethics and virtue.
Not until it was too late.
~*~*~*~
Then, there was Mr. Wright.
Lazy, sloppy, unkempt; nothing like the man Apollo had read about as an undergraduate, the man Apollo had admired and sought to emulate, some day. Quiet and wistful and easy-going, he'd taken Apollo in when Apollo needed him, kept Apollo long before Apollo himself realized just how much he needed the older man's guidance and presence, how much comfort he found in Mr. Wright's quiet smile, Mr. Wright's easy laugh.
Mr. Wright had pushed him. Pointed out his professional weaknesses. Called him on his more irritating personality traits. Groomed him into not a suave lawyer, but a successful lawyer. And when Apollo's talk of his courtroom rival turned from professional to personal, Mr. Wright had laughed through Apollo's stuttered denial until Apollo found within himself the bravery to ask Klavier Gavin out for coffee, engaging the man in conversation beyond the realm of the courtroom, of their shared profession.
Should probably keep this a bit more private, Mr. Wright had said, the first time he caught Apollo kissing Klavier goodbye in the hall outside their flat. Never good for an attorney if the world knows he's seeing another attorney outside the courtroom.
Apollo never once doubted his mentor's words, on that or any other topic. Figured the man was probably right.
~*~*~*~
The dreams start when Klavier stops coming to bed when Apollo lies down to sleep for the night.
In the dream, he's naked. Standing in the courtroom, his nakedness concealed from the eyes of the prosecution, judge, and onlookers only by the wooden bench given the defense. Beside him, Mr. Gavin chuckles and says something Apollo can't quite catch, even though they're standing close enough that he can smell the other man's cologne, delicate and expensive.
He blinks, in the dream. Looks around.
I can see.
He knows that he shouldn't be able to see and that he's defending a client, even though no one ever tells him and he can never see quite well enough to read the papers stacked neatly before him. His client matters terribly to him, and even though he's never sure who his client is, he knows the man isn't guilty, knows the man can't be guilty, because Mr. Gavin said so, or maybe is saying so; it's so hard to tell. Hard to breathe, even, to keep his eyes open. He's so tired, and it's so bright.
He's almost got his tongue working when he realizes that the judge is speaking but Apollo can't quite understand him. He's sure whatever the judge is saying has something to do with his attire, or lack thereof, maybe has something to do with how unprepared Apollo is or how apparently flustered he is because of his own lack of preparation. Apollo tries to turn, tries to force his eyes open so he can at least try to read the judge's lips, but it hurts, trying to move, and the judge is so bright, he can't quite see him, can't get his eyes to focus ...
Careful, Apollo, you'll hurt yourself, doing that, Mr. Wright says, voice coming out of nowhere. Apollo turns, trying to find his mentor, but all he manages to do is bump into Kristoph, the blonde's chuckle warm against his ear, expensive Italian suit rubbing him raw where it touches his shoulder and arm and back.
Careful whose advice you take, Justice, Kristoph murmurs to him, so soft he can barely hear it, although he understands without straining to catch the words. Play with fire and you'll get burned.
And then there's darkness and pain and brightness and Apollo can't breathe, gasping breath as he wakes, shaking as his mind slowly realizes that it's a dream. Nothing but a dream.
~*~*~*~
It's nothing but a dream for the second time in a row, Wednesday night. Apollo wakes from it with his heart pounding, the burns around his right eye stinging horribly as he sits up too quickly, his eyes stretched wide, brain too heavy with sleep to register properly without visual input that he's in his lover's bedroom, that he's safe.
That he's blind. Burned. Having a nightmare. Reliving the trauma.
It's normal, for this to happen. Natural. Part of the healing process, just as much as the itching and stinging, the nausea and headaches.
It doesn't make him hurt less. Doesn't slow the rapid thump of his heart, beating against his ribs.
The sound of his lover, beside him, moving, rustling the sheets, makes his ears prick up. He turns towards the sound of Klavier's quiet sigh, the soft scrub of blond hair against the pillowcase, probably pulling the shorter strands free from the braid Klavier always puts his hair in before going to bed. Klavier makes a sound in the back of his throat, almost a whimper. Doesn't wake.
But it's enough, and sound and smell and closeness of his lover familiar enough that Apollo's heart-rate finally begins to slow, leaving him to shiver, his skin aching as the remnants of adrenaline pulses beneath it.
He swallows. Takes a deep breath.
"Klavier?" he says, feeling for his lover, finding the back of the singer's hand with the tips of his fingers.
"Ngh."
The bed shakes a little, Klavier wiggling closer to Apollo, one knee bumping gently against Apollo's calf, clumsily navigating the tangle of sheets before resting heavy atop the younger man's leg. He's shirtless, his shoulder bare and a little cool where the covers have slipped from it, goosebumps rising under Apollo's fingertips when he reaches out to touch. He shivers a little, burrows closer to Apollo's warmth.
Apollo sighs and lies back, pulls his lover's hand over to rest on his chest, warm through his t-shirt. It's only been two days since his lover stopped coming to bed with him, kissing him goodnight and falling asleep beside him, but it seems like more. Seems like ages.
"I love you," Apollo says softly, into what he imagines to be darkness even his lover could see.
Klavier's slowly exhaled breath is all the answer he gets. All the answer, he thinks as he drifts back to sleep, that he needs.
~*~*~*~
Klavier once said that being blind didn't improve one's hearing, it simply took away the distraction of sight, allowing the other senses-hearing especially-to take higher priority in the brain. To receive more focus. Which, he said, would probably give the impression that the remaining senses were sharpened, heightened. Even if that was no truly the case.
He'd then sighed several disparaging remarks about little divas pretending to be blind, pushing his glasses up his nose like the diva he truly was.
Apollo had laughed, that day. Told his companion-close friend, then, not yet his lover-that he should be more compassionate. That people do what they feel they have to do, that they do what they do for a reason, and that's enough to earn them some sympathy, at least. Perhaps some understanding. Some leeway, if their motives are justifiable.
~*~*~*~
On Thursday, he wakes alone, dragged from a drug-heavy sleep by the click of the bedroom door closing. Sits up and listens to the thump of footsteps in the hall. Yawns and scratches carefully at one of the burns on his jaw, straining to make out the words coming from the sitting room.
-still asleep, Klavier says.
-things to discuss, Mr. Wright answers.
The bedroom window is closed, but Apollo can hear through it, still, the noise of traffic outside. Too much for very early in the morning; Klavier has stayed in, then, not gone out to do whatever it is he's been doing the past two days. Didn't bother to tell Mr. Wright, though, and so Mr. Wright has come over anyway, just as soon as Trucy was off to school for the day, and now they're-
Apollo finds himself suddenly very awake, his mind tumbling over itself as he fumbles with the blankets covering him and climbs out of bed, hurrying into briefs and trousers and undershirt and shirt.
That is ridiculous, Herr Wright, and we both know it, Klavier is saying in an angry, forced-quiet tone when Apollo opens the bedroom door, ignoring the pressure of his bladder, not yet emptied that morning, and feels his way down the hall. I am a professional, any judge will surely recognize that.
You're also young and in love and feeling violated, Mr. Wright says. I won't let that stand in the way of-
"Ah. Good morning, Apollo."
Klavier swears softly and moves, standing and crossing the sitting room in three steps, the thump of his footsteps muted against the carpeting. He greets Apollo softly in German, slipping one arm around the younger man's waist, his other hand touching Apollo on the elbow just above his cast, as he guides his lover over to sit with him on the sofa.
"Did we wake you, baby?" he says, when Apollo yawns behind his good hand. "Ah, and we need to put some medicine on your injuries, ja? Let me go and-"
"What were you talking about?"
Klavier stops moving. "Baby?"
Apollo turns his face towards the sound of his lover's voice. "Before I came in," he says. "What were you talking about?"
There's a pause, quiet save for the movement of fabric, a sigh from Mr. Wright's side of the room. Apollo frowns, the expression pulling at his burns, and pushes himself away from his lover.
"Stop that," he says. "Tell me what you were talking about. It had something to do with me, didn't it? That means I have a right to know what it was."
"It's complicated, Apollo," Mr. Wright says.
Apollo turns towards the tired sound of his mentor's voice. "I'm an attorney, Mr. Wright," he says. "'Complicated' is what I've been doing since college."
Mr. Wright chuckles. Klavier sighs.
"It is nothing more than a battle of egos between myself and Herr Wright, baby," he says. "Nothing to worry about, I promise." He catches Apollo off-guard well enough to kiss the uninjured portion of the younger man's forehead. "Now. Let me see to your injuries. They are looking better this morning, but a bit dry, probably stinging a bit, ja?"
"They're fine, I want to know what's going on," Apollo tells him, blandly. He turns towards the sound of his mentor's laughter, tightens his good hand into a fist. "Please."
Mr. Wright stops laughing. "Apollo-"
"Stop," Apollo says. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it. Not if it's going to be another lie." He turns to his lover, the man unusually silent, then back to his mentor. "Tell me what's going on, or I'll call Trucy's school and have her come here and help me drag the truth out of you."
"That's playing dirty, Apollo," Mr. Wright says.
"Keeping a blind man in the dark about his own situation is worse."
Klavier snorts. "What a truly horrible metaphor."
"It's what you're doing, though."
"Mmm. I suppose." A sigh. "Very well. Herr Wright, would you care to enlighten our dear Herr Insistent, or shall I?"
A pause. Silence.
Mr. Wright shifts. "Go get the salve for his burns," he says. "We'll talk about it once they're taken care of."
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Because really, today has just been a downright damned depressing day, I really wish UNC would just bloody hire me, I don't like the fact that OU didn't hire me and didn't even fucking bother to interview me, which means they had someone in mind when they posted the fucking job (which is posted as being open 'til 7/2, by the way, even though they filled it today) and if the same happens at UNC, I'm going to be really sorely disappointed and PISSED. I am PERFECT for that job and rant-rant-rant-rant-rant.
Aw, fuck, I'm about 200 80 (I went through and edited :D) words short of my usual minimum with this chapter, but here it is anyway. Leave me some love on it? ;_;
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop
Part VII
by mistr3ss Quickly
Before Mr. Wright, there had been Mr. Gavin.
Mr. Gavin was intelligent, refined, cultured; everything Apollo-then fresh out of law school-had wanted so desperately to be. Taller and older and wiser, he'd taken Apollo under his wing, taught him everything he needed to know about actively practicing law. Taught him how to prepare, how to present. How to carry himself outside the courtroom, presenting the world with an assured, powerful smile, even on days when things weren't going their way.
Apollo had admired him. Adored him. Hung on his every word, be they words of advice, words of reprimand, or words spinning stories of the past. Professional stories. Personal stories. Stories about his younger brother, a man set apart from his colleagues by prosecuting honestly. Fairly.
Apollo had never once wondered why his mentor laughed, when speaking of Klavier's ethics and virtue.
Not until it was too late.
~*~*~*~
Then, there was Mr. Wright.
Lazy, sloppy, unkempt; nothing like the man Apollo had read about as an undergraduate, the man Apollo had admired and sought to emulate, some day. Quiet and wistful and easy-going, he'd taken Apollo in when Apollo needed him, kept Apollo long before Apollo himself realized just how much he needed the older man's guidance and presence, how much comfort he found in Mr. Wright's quiet smile, Mr. Wright's easy laugh.
Mr. Wright had pushed him. Pointed out his professional weaknesses. Called him on his more irritating personality traits. Groomed him into not a suave lawyer, but a successful lawyer. And when Apollo's talk of his courtroom rival turned from professional to personal, Mr. Wright had laughed through Apollo's stuttered denial until Apollo found within himself the bravery to ask Klavier Gavin out for coffee, engaging the man in conversation beyond the realm of the courtroom, of their shared profession.
Should probably keep this a bit more private, Mr. Wright had said, the first time he caught Apollo kissing Klavier goodbye in the hall outside their flat. Never good for an attorney if the world knows he's seeing another attorney outside the courtroom.
Apollo never once doubted his mentor's words, on that or any other topic. Figured the man was probably right.
~*~*~*~
The dreams start when Klavier stops coming to bed when Apollo lies down to sleep for the night.
In the dream, he's naked. Standing in the courtroom, his nakedness concealed from the eyes of the prosecution, judge, and onlookers only by the wooden bench given the defense. Beside him, Mr. Gavin chuckles and says something Apollo can't quite catch, even though they're standing close enough that he can smell the other man's cologne, delicate and expensive.
He blinks, in the dream. Looks around.
I can see.
He knows that he shouldn't be able to see and that he's defending a client, even though no one ever tells him and he can never see quite well enough to read the papers stacked neatly before him. His client matters terribly to him, and even though he's never sure who his client is, he knows the man isn't guilty, knows the man can't be guilty, because Mr. Gavin said so, or maybe is saying so; it's so hard to tell. Hard to breathe, even, to keep his eyes open. He's so tired, and it's so bright.
He's almost got his tongue working when he realizes that the judge is speaking but Apollo can't quite understand him. He's sure whatever the judge is saying has something to do with his attire, or lack thereof, maybe has something to do with how unprepared Apollo is or how apparently flustered he is because of his own lack of preparation. Apollo tries to turn, tries to force his eyes open so he can at least try to read the judge's lips, but it hurts, trying to move, and the judge is so bright, he can't quite see him, can't get his eyes to focus ...
Careful, Apollo, you'll hurt yourself, doing that, Mr. Wright says, voice coming out of nowhere. Apollo turns, trying to find his mentor, but all he manages to do is bump into Kristoph, the blonde's chuckle warm against his ear, expensive Italian suit rubbing him raw where it touches his shoulder and arm and back.
Careful whose advice you take, Justice, Kristoph murmurs to him, so soft he can barely hear it, although he understands without straining to catch the words. Play with fire and you'll get burned.
And then there's darkness and pain and brightness and Apollo can't breathe, gasping breath as he wakes, shaking as his mind slowly realizes that it's a dream. Nothing but a dream.
~*~*~*~
It's nothing but a dream for the second time in a row, Wednesday night. Apollo wakes from it with his heart pounding, the burns around his right eye stinging horribly as he sits up too quickly, his eyes stretched wide, brain too heavy with sleep to register properly without visual input that he's in his lover's bedroom, that he's safe.
That he's blind. Burned. Having a nightmare. Reliving the trauma.
It's normal, for this to happen. Natural. Part of the healing process, just as much as the itching and stinging, the nausea and headaches.
It doesn't make him hurt less. Doesn't slow the rapid thump of his heart, beating against his ribs.
The sound of his lover, beside him, moving, rustling the sheets, makes his ears prick up. He turns towards the sound of Klavier's quiet sigh, the soft scrub of blond hair against the pillowcase, probably pulling the shorter strands free from the braid Klavier always puts his hair in before going to bed. Klavier makes a sound in the back of his throat, almost a whimper. Doesn't wake.
But it's enough, and sound and smell and closeness of his lover familiar enough that Apollo's heart-rate finally begins to slow, leaving him to shiver, his skin aching as the remnants of adrenaline pulses beneath it.
He swallows. Takes a deep breath.
"Klavier?" he says, feeling for his lover, finding the back of the singer's hand with the tips of his fingers.
"Ngh."
The bed shakes a little, Klavier wiggling closer to Apollo, one knee bumping gently against Apollo's calf, clumsily navigating the tangle of sheets before resting heavy atop the younger man's leg. He's shirtless, his shoulder bare and a little cool where the covers have slipped from it, goosebumps rising under Apollo's fingertips when he reaches out to touch. He shivers a little, burrows closer to Apollo's warmth.
Apollo sighs and lies back, pulls his lover's hand over to rest on his chest, warm through his t-shirt. It's only been two days since his lover stopped coming to bed with him, kissing him goodnight and falling asleep beside him, but it seems like more. Seems like ages.
"I love you," Apollo says softly, into what he imagines to be darkness even his lover could see.
Klavier's slowly exhaled breath is all the answer he gets. All the answer, he thinks as he drifts back to sleep, that he needs.
~*~*~*~
Klavier once said that being blind didn't improve one's hearing, it simply took away the distraction of sight, allowing the other senses-hearing especially-to take higher priority in the brain. To receive more focus. Which, he said, would probably give the impression that the remaining senses were sharpened, heightened. Even if that was no truly the case.
He'd then sighed several disparaging remarks about little divas pretending to be blind, pushing his glasses up his nose like the diva he truly was.
Apollo had laughed, that day. Told his companion-close friend, then, not yet his lover-that he should be more compassionate. That people do what they feel they have to do, that they do what they do for a reason, and that's enough to earn them some sympathy, at least. Perhaps some understanding. Some leeway, if their motives are justifiable.
~*~*~*~
On Thursday, he wakes alone, dragged from a drug-heavy sleep by the click of the bedroom door closing. Sits up and listens to the thump of footsteps in the hall. Yawns and scratches carefully at one of the burns on his jaw, straining to make out the words coming from the sitting room.
-still asleep, Klavier says.
-things to discuss, Mr. Wright answers.
The bedroom window is closed, but Apollo can hear through it, still, the noise of traffic outside. Too much for very early in the morning; Klavier has stayed in, then, not gone out to do whatever it is he's been doing the past two days. Didn't bother to tell Mr. Wright, though, and so Mr. Wright has come over anyway, just as soon as Trucy was off to school for the day, and now they're-
Apollo finds himself suddenly very awake, his mind tumbling over itself as he fumbles with the blankets covering him and climbs out of bed, hurrying into briefs and trousers and undershirt and shirt.
That is ridiculous, Herr Wright, and we both know it, Klavier is saying in an angry, forced-quiet tone when Apollo opens the bedroom door, ignoring the pressure of his bladder, not yet emptied that morning, and feels his way down the hall. I am a professional, any judge will surely recognize that.
You're also young and in love and feeling violated, Mr. Wright says. I won't let that stand in the way of-
"Ah. Good morning, Apollo."
Klavier swears softly and moves, standing and crossing the sitting room in three steps, the thump of his footsteps muted against the carpeting. He greets Apollo softly in German, slipping one arm around the younger man's waist, his other hand touching Apollo on the elbow just above his cast, as he guides his lover over to sit with him on the sofa.
"Did we wake you, baby?" he says, when Apollo yawns behind his good hand. "Ah, and we need to put some medicine on your injuries, ja? Let me go and-"
"What were you talking about?"
Klavier stops moving. "Baby?"
Apollo turns his face towards the sound of his lover's voice. "Before I came in," he says. "What were you talking about?"
There's a pause, quiet save for the movement of fabric, a sigh from Mr. Wright's side of the room. Apollo frowns, the expression pulling at his burns, and pushes himself away from his lover.
"Stop that," he says. "Tell me what you were talking about. It had something to do with me, didn't it? That means I have a right to know what it was."
"It's complicated, Apollo," Mr. Wright says.
Apollo turns towards the tired sound of his mentor's voice. "I'm an attorney, Mr. Wright," he says. "'Complicated' is what I've been doing since college."
Mr. Wright chuckles. Klavier sighs.
"It is nothing more than a battle of egos between myself and Herr Wright, baby," he says. "Nothing to worry about, I promise." He catches Apollo off-guard well enough to kiss the uninjured portion of the younger man's forehead. "Now. Let me see to your injuries. They are looking better this morning, but a bit dry, probably stinging a bit, ja?"
"They're fine, I want to know what's going on," Apollo tells him, blandly. He turns towards the sound of his mentor's laughter, tightens his good hand into a fist. "Please."
Mr. Wright stops laughing. "Apollo-"
"Stop," Apollo says. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it. Not if it's going to be another lie." He turns to his lover, the man unusually silent, then back to his mentor. "Tell me what's going on, or I'll call Trucy's school and have her come here and help me drag the truth out of you."
"That's playing dirty, Apollo," Mr. Wright says.
"Keeping a blind man in the dark about his own situation is worse."
Klavier snorts. "What a truly horrible metaphor."
"It's what you're doing, though."
"Mmm. I suppose." A sigh. "Very well. Herr Wright, would you care to enlighten our dear Herr Insistent, or shall I?"
A pause. Silence.
Mr. Wright shifts. "Go get the salve for his burns," he says. "We'll talk about it once they're taken care of."
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