PW, "The Slow Ascent after the Sharpest Drop: VIII," Apollo/Klavier, PG
... I'm sure I had something TOTALLY important so say about this chapter, but then I didn't get a chance to put it here because we had to go to church this morning, so now my brain whatever I was going to say is gone.
I'm rather pleased with this section. For all the trouble it gave me, I think it turned out fairly well. Now to see if I can pull off something good with the next chapter ... *fail*
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 VIII
by mistr3ss Quickly
Apollo sits beside his lover on the sofa, listening attentively to the man's explanation, and wonders if, perhaps, he should be more surprised.
Granted, he tells himself, it's early, still, which could be dulling his emotional reactions. He didn't sleep terribly well the night before. He turned down Klavier's offer of strong pain medication in favor of the weaker, over-the-counter pills he used to take for headaches. Even at that, the residual dullness from the prescription drugs is probably still lingering in his system. And he's not yet had anything to eat, which means he's probably low on calories. Not that it ever really affected his ability to function, before, but things have changed, so maybe ...
He swallows a sigh. Who am I kidding? he doesn't say, aloud.
"Which is, of course, a terrible idea," Mr. Wright says.
Beside Apollo, Klavier tenses, swearing under his breath in German. A word Apollo knows, for once. His lover used it on a rude driver, once, back when he and Apollo were still in the awkward grey-area between very intimate friends and full-on lovers. It means shit-head, but sounds angrier to Apollo's ears in German than it does in English.
It's not something he wants anyone to call his mentor. Ever. Especially if they mean it.
"I wish you'd told me," he says, facing Klavier.
Klavier's hand touches him on the knee, fingertips rubbing him below the kneecap. "I did not want to raise your hopes until I had something certain to tell you, baby," he says. "As it is, we are still discussing possibilities. There is no need for such alarm."
He turns his voice towards Mr. Wright for the last bit of his statement. Mr. Wright snorts. Probably rolls his eyes, like he does when Trucy is in one of her petulant moods.
"Still," says Apollo, before Mr. Wright has a chance to voice a comeback, "I wish I'd known. And I'd like to know his terms, please." He touches Klavier's hand, which has gone still on his knee. "Just for discussion. No need for alarm."
Klavier sighs through his nose. Apollo waits.
"Very well," his lover says, finally. "Since you and Herr Wright are both so insistent upon knowing."
"Apollo is family to myself and my daughter," Mr. Wright says, in a tone more predatory than any Apollo has ever heard come out of his mouth, before. "As his friend and mentor, I have the right to know."
"This affects my life," Apollo says, gently. "I need to know about it. And Mr. Wright's my friend. I'd like to hear his thoughts on it."
Klavier snorts and says something in German. Mr. Wright chuckles.
"Yes, but you love him for it," he says.
Apollo doesn't bother to ask either of them for a translation.
~*~*~*~
Good behavior can earn a man a lot, in prison, Apollo learned early on in his career, following his professional mentor into the echoing concrete of prisons and detention centers, trying his best not to show how intimidated he felt by the mere architecture. More than the general public might guess or feel comfortable with, he'd thought, watching the system work, were the general public aware.
But as he became more comfortable with his profession, with the inner-workings of the legal system of the United States, Apollo came to care less and less about the comfort of the general public (he'd forsaken care for his own comfort long ago), instead focusing on the benefits of the system. The leverage given him by the promise of rewards for good behavior.
~*~*~*~
Klavier assures his lover, as they ride through the maze of city streets to the prison where Kristoph Gavin is serving his sentence on death row, that for all his older brother's good behavior, there has been no benefit. No special favors, no special privileges. No nail polish, he says, the words all but growled between his teeth.
Kristoph passes his day in confinement, wearing an orange jumpsuit. His hair has been cut short. He has no visitors.
Other than you, Apollo says, when his bracelet vibrates against the bones of his wrist.
Klavier swallows audibly, even in the noise of the cab, the noise of the traffic around them.
Yes, he says. Other than me.
He pays the driver when the car stops, puts his hand on Apollo's upper arm as the younger man climbs out into the warmth of the mid-morning sunlight. The sidewalk is a bit cracked, he warns, when Apollo touches the tip of his cane to the cement. Keeps his hand on Apollo's arm as they walk to the front door. Releases it only when they are asked to walk through the metal detectors just inside the front doors, one at a time.
"You're here early," one of the security guards comments, his voice facing away from Apollo, loud and deep amidst the jangle of Klavier reassembling himself with his belt and necklace and rings. "Gonna have to wait a few, boys have to have some time to get Gavin dolled up for company."
"Yes, I know," Klavier says, finishing with the last of his accouterments, his voice moving closer to Apollo, the heat of his body apparent even through the cotton of Apollo's shirt. "We are in no hurry."
Laughter. Jingling keys. The squeak of a door.
"All right. Wait here then, please. We'll let you know when he's ready."
Apollo follows the sound of his lover's footsteps, finds the edges of the door-frame with the tip of his cane and steps through.
It's a familiar room, one Apollo has been in countless times, waiting to speak with clients and witnesses. The lights-fluorescent-buzz overhead. The floor squeaks under his shoes, its mirror shine shaming the condition of his footwear. The chairs are plastic, moulded to fit a larger backside and longer legs than Apollo's. The door he's just come through is unlocked. He's free to go at any time. The door leading out, into the area where visitors may speak with inmates, is locked. On the wall beside it, there is a panic button. Big and red.
Apollo's never touched it.
Klavier touches him on the arm, guides him over to sit in one of the plastic chairs by the wall. Sits beside at Apollo's left, his legs crossed, the right bouncing atop the left. Above them, the lights buzz.
The room feels different. Apollo fiddles with the wrist-strap on his cane and tries not to think about it.
His backside has started to go numb when a security officer-different from the one who showed them in, probably larger, from the sound of his footsteps-comes to collect them, to walk them through the double security doors, past the panic button, down the long hallway to the quietly echoing room where lawyers speak with prisoners. Apollo walks first, the tip of his cane trailing lightly across the floor, Klavier walking behind him, close enough that Apollo can hear him breathing.
"All right guys, there you go," the guard says, over the squeak of the door. "We'll be posted outside, full surveillance is in place, you know how this works."
Apollo nods. Klavier says yes, thank you, behind him.
Kristoph is in the room already-the prisoner is always brought in first, Apollo knows that, both from training and experience-but all the same it startles the young attorney when the older man laughs softly, handcuffs clicking against the metal surface of the tabletop, slippers whispering against the concrete floor.
"Ah, so you came after all," he says. "Dear blind Justice." Another laugh. "Mmm. Your name is so appropriate, is it not?"
His voice is deeper than his brother's, and less heavily accented, although Apollo can still detect a fold to his words, a smoothness one might mistake for an English accent. He's smiling, voice deceptively light with amusement. Laughter that Apollo knows has nothing to do with joy.
"Very clever, Mr. Gavin," he says, as Klavier guides him to one of the chairs at the table, touching him very little as he sits down.
"I thought so," says Kristoph. He shifts, cuffs rattling as Klavier sits down, chair scraping against the floor inches from Apollo's feet. Keeps quiet long enough for Apollo to twitch, nervous. "At least not everything about you has changed."
"Kristoph," Klavier interrupts. "You said you wanted to speak with Apollo in person. He is here. Tell us what you know."
Kristoph chuckles. "Easy, Brother," he says. "Blind Justice is a big boy. Can he not ask me himself?"
Klavier moves, nothing more than a shift of clothing. When he speaks, his voice is low, venomous. "Do not call him that."
"Ah, so sorry," Kristoph says. "Perhaps instead I should call him Herr Forehead, then? Or shall I call him baby?"
"No," Apollo says, quickly, his stomach twisting. "Those are your brother's, um, names for me." He swallows. "And I don't like them, so don't use them. Please."
Kristoph laughs, the sound cut off with a hmm? followed by a quick exchange in German between brothers. Kristoph snorts at whatever his brother says and Klavier snarls, moving to place his hand over Apollo's where it rests on the younger man's knee.
"Tell us what you know, Kristoph," he says, in English. "We do not have to abide by your wishes. There are other ways to gain what we want from you."
"Ha! Don't lie, Brother," Kristoph says as Apollo's bracelet hums, tight around the younger man's wrist. "I am a man sitting in wait of nothing but my own demise, there is nothing others could say to me that would sway me. Not like my own dear brother's words can, or perhaps the sweetly stuttered wishes of my dear protégé."
Klavier's fingers twitch, tensing against Apollo's hand. Apollo turns his hand over, wraps his fingers around his lover's hand.
"Please tell us what your terms are, Mr. Gavin," he says. "I was told you had an idea of, um, what you might like to get, in exchange for what you, uh, know."
"Mmm, indeed," Kristoph says, slowly. "But are you sure that's what you want to be asking for first, Apollo?" His chair creaks, cuffs scraping against the table. He chuckles, the sound closer to Apollo than before. "Shouldn't you get what you want, first?"
Apollo swallows, resisting the urge to recoil. "I will get what I want," he says. "I just asked to hear what you want."
Kristoph laughs, the sound moving away as he throws his head back. "Oh, I see!" he says. "My, you've grown over the years, Apollo. Bantering with a cold-hearted killer as if it were nothing, I'm so proud of you."
Klavier's hand tightens around Apollo's. Apollo squeezes back.
"It's easier when I can't, um. When I can't see you."
Kristoph's laughter quiets. "Ah," he says. "I see. Then perhaps we should be discussing terms of leniency for Mr.-ah. Hmm. Oops. Shouldn't tell you that, should I?" A chuckle. "At least, not yet."
"You should," Apollo says, quickly, "because whoever did this is guilty of a crime and should be brought to justice."
"And would you like him brought to you on a silver platter, Justice?" Kristoph teases.
Apollo sighs. "Please stop making jokes about my name," he says. "And I don't care what you tell us first, your terms or what you know. We'll find the truth, with or without your help, and we don't have to ... that is, we can't promise-"
"You really must learn to relax when you're speaking with hardened criminals, Apollo," Kristoph says, smoothly. "You sound so vulnerable and ... childish, when you stammer like that. Hmm. Small no wonder you've got pedophiles chasing after your cute little tush, I suppose." A pause, Klavier's hand tightening on Apollo's, hard enough to hurt. "And isn't it funny that my dear baby brother isn't the only ... flaming, shall we say? pedophile interested in nailing you." Laughter. "Just a pity you finally crossed one too many and got burned."
Klavier's chair hits the floor with a clatter, noisy in the echoing room, Apollo's burns straining painfully as the older man pulls him to his feet and drags him out of the room. Apollo stutters in confusion and grabs for his cane, the rubber tip dragging uselessly against concrete as the door closes on Kristoph's dark, rich laughter.
~*~*~*~
"It was not as successful as we had perhaps hoped," Klavier says through clenched teeth when Mr. Wright opens the door for him and asks how the meeting went. "Which is of course not much of a surprise, but perhaps a bit of a disappointment."
He stomps past Apollo before Mr. Wright has a chance to answer him or ask any questions. Storms down the hall and slams the bathroom door, the hiss of the shower covering his muffled curses, the sound of his clothes being tossed against the door.
Mr. Wright sighs. "Well," he says. "At least you tried."
Apollo nods and braces himself one-handed against the wall, toeing off his shoes. "It wasn't all that bad," he says. "I'm sure it'll go better next time."
Mr. Wright laughs. "Don't say that around the diva," he says. "Don't think he'd take it too well right now."
"Yeah. Probably not." Apollo straightens, fingers busy with the buttons of his vest. Mr. Wright pats him gently on the shoulder.
"It's about time for your next ibuprofen," he says. "Go lie down, I'll bring it to you."
Apollo shrugs out of his vest and reaches for his cane. "Okay," he says. "Thanks."
But as he undresses and climbs into bed, the familiar scent of the sheets almost covering the lingering smell of the prison, his mind is awhir with ideas, with strategies.
It will go better next time, he doesn't say, when Mr. Wright brings him pills and a glass of water.
Because next time, I'll be going alone.
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Next >>
I'm rather pleased with this section. For all the trouble it gave me, I think it turned out fairly well. Now to see if I can pull off something good with the next chapter ... *fail*
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 VIII
by mistr3ss Quickly
Apollo sits beside his lover on the sofa, listening attentively to the man's explanation, and wonders if, perhaps, he should be more surprised.
Granted, he tells himself, it's early, still, which could be dulling his emotional reactions. He didn't sleep terribly well the night before. He turned down Klavier's offer of strong pain medication in favor of the weaker, over-the-counter pills he used to take for headaches. Even at that, the residual dullness from the prescription drugs is probably still lingering in his system. And he's not yet had anything to eat, which means he's probably low on calories. Not that it ever really affected his ability to function, before, but things have changed, so maybe ...
He swallows a sigh. Who am I kidding? he doesn't say, aloud.
"Which is, of course, a terrible idea," Mr. Wright says.
Beside Apollo, Klavier tenses, swearing under his breath in German. A word Apollo knows, for once. His lover used it on a rude driver, once, back when he and Apollo were still in the awkward grey-area between very intimate friends and full-on lovers. It means shit-head, but sounds angrier to Apollo's ears in German than it does in English.
It's not something he wants anyone to call his mentor. Ever. Especially if they mean it.
"I wish you'd told me," he says, facing Klavier.
Klavier's hand touches him on the knee, fingertips rubbing him below the kneecap. "I did not want to raise your hopes until I had something certain to tell you, baby," he says. "As it is, we are still discussing possibilities. There is no need for such alarm."
He turns his voice towards Mr. Wright for the last bit of his statement. Mr. Wright snorts. Probably rolls his eyes, like he does when Trucy is in one of her petulant moods.
"Still," says Apollo, before Mr. Wright has a chance to voice a comeback, "I wish I'd known. And I'd like to know his terms, please." He touches Klavier's hand, which has gone still on his knee. "Just for discussion. No need for alarm."
Klavier sighs through his nose. Apollo waits.
"Very well," his lover says, finally. "Since you and Herr Wright are both so insistent upon knowing."
"Apollo is family to myself and my daughter," Mr. Wright says, in a tone more predatory than any Apollo has ever heard come out of his mouth, before. "As his friend and mentor, I have the right to know."
"This affects my life," Apollo says, gently. "I need to know about it. And Mr. Wright's my friend. I'd like to hear his thoughts on it."
Klavier snorts and says something in German. Mr. Wright chuckles.
"Yes, but you love him for it," he says.
Apollo doesn't bother to ask either of them for a translation.
~*~*~*~
Good behavior can earn a man a lot, in prison, Apollo learned early on in his career, following his professional mentor into the echoing concrete of prisons and detention centers, trying his best not to show how intimidated he felt by the mere architecture. More than the general public might guess or feel comfortable with, he'd thought, watching the system work, were the general public aware.
But as he became more comfortable with his profession, with the inner-workings of the legal system of the United States, Apollo came to care less and less about the comfort of the general public (he'd forsaken care for his own comfort long ago), instead focusing on the benefits of the system. The leverage given him by the promise of rewards for good behavior.
~*~*~*~
Klavier assures his lover, as they ride through the maze of city streets to the prison where Kristoph Gavin is serving his sentence on death row, that for all his older brother's good behavior, there has been no benefit. No special favors, no special privileges. No nail polish, he says, the words all but growled between his teeth.
Kristoph passes his day in confinement, wearing an orange jumpsuit. His hair has been cut short. He has no visitors.
Other than you, Apollo says, when his bracelet vibrates against the bones of his wrist.
Klavier swallows audibly, even in the noise of the cab, the noise of the traffic around them.
Yes, he says. Other than me.
He pays the driver when the car stops, puts his hand on Apollo's upper arm as the younger man climbs out into the warmth of the mid-morning sunlight. The sidewalk is a bit cracked, he warns, when Apollo touches the tip of his cane to the cement. Keeps his hand on Apollo's arm as they walk to the front door. Releases it only when they are asked to walk through the metal detectors just inside the front doors, one at a time.
"You're here early," one of the security guards comments, his voice facing away from Apollo, loud and deep amidst the jangle of Klavier reassembling himself with his belt and necklace and rings. "Gonna have to wait a few, boys have to have some time to get Gavin dolled up for company."
"Yes, I know," Klavier says, finishing with the last of his accouterments, his voice moving closer to Apollo, the heat of his body apparent even through the cotton of Apollo's shirt. "We are in no hurry."
Laughter. Jingling keys. The squeak of a door.
"All right. Wait here then, please. We'll let you know when he's ready."
Apollo follows the sound of his lover's footsteps, finds the edges of the door-frame with the tip of his cane and steps through.
It's a familiar room, one Apollo has been in countless times, waiting to speak with clients and witnesses. The lights-fluorescent-buzz overhead. The floor squeaks under his shoes, its mirror shine shaming the condition of his footwear. The chairs are plastic, moulded to fit a larger backside and longer legs than Apollo's. The door he's just come through is unlocked. He's free to go at any time. The door leading out, into the area where visitors may speak with inmates, is locked. On the wall beside it, there is a panic button. Big and red.
Apollo's never touched it.
Klavier touches him on the arm, guides him over to sit in one of the plastic chairs by the wall. Sits beside at Apollo's left, his legs crossed, the right bouncing atop the left. Above them, the lights buzz.
The room feels different. Apollo fiddles with the wrist-strap on his cane and tries not to think about it.
His backside has started to go numb when a security officer-different from the one who showed them in, probably larger, from the sound of his footsteps-comes to collect them, to walk them through the double security doors, past the panic button, down the long hallway to the quietly echoing room where lawyers speak with prisoners. Apollo walks first, the tip of his cane trailing lightly across the floor, Klavier walking behind him, close enough that Apollo can hear him breathing.
"All right guys, there you go," the guard says, over the squeak of the door. "We'll be posted outside, full surveillance is in place, you know how this works."
Apollo nods. Klavier says yes, thank you, behind him.
Kristoph is in the room already-the prisoner is always brought in first, Apollo knows that, both from training and experience-but all the same it startles the young attorney when the older man laughs softly, handcuffs clicking against the metal surface of the tabletop, slippers whispering against the concrete floor.
"Ah, so you came after all," he says. "Dear blind Justice." Another laugh. "Mmm. Your name is so appropriate, is it not?"
His voice is deeper than his brother's, and less heavily accented, although Apollo can still detect a fold to his words, a smoothness one might mistake for an English accent. He's smiling, voice deceptively light with amusement. Laughter that Apollo knows has nothing to do with joy.
"Very clever, Mr. Gavin," he says, as Klavier guides him to one of the chairs at the table, touching him very little as he sits down.
"I thought so," says Kristoph. He shifts, cuffs rattling as Klavier sits down, chair scraping against the floor inches from Apollo's feet. Keeps quiet long enough for Apollo to twitch, nervous. "At least not everything about you has changed."
"Kristoph," Klavier interrupts. "You said you wanted to speak with Apollo in person. He is here. Tell us what you know."
Kristoph chuckles. "Easy, Brother," he says. "Blind Justice is a big boy. Can he not ask me himself?"
Klavier moves, nothing more than a shift of clothing. When he speaks, his voice is low, venomous. "Do not call him that."
"Ah, so sorry," Kristoph says. "Perhaps instead I should call him Herr Forehead, then? Or shall I call him baby?"
"No," Apollo says, quickly, his stomach twisting. "Those are your brother's, um, names for me." He swallows. "And I don't like them, so don't use them. Please."
Kristoph laughs, the sound cut off with a hmm? followed by a quick exchange in German between brothers. Kristoph snorts at whatever his brother says and Klavier snarls, moving to place his hand over Apollo's where it rests on the younger man's knee.
"Tell us what you know, Kristoph," he says, in English. "We do not have to abide by your wishes. There are other ways to gain what we want from you."
"Ha! Don't lie, Brother," Kristoph says as Apollo's bracelet hums, tight around the younger man's wrist. "I am a man sitting in wait of nothing but my own demise, there is nothing others could say to me that would sway me. Not like my own dear brother's words can, or perhaps the sweetly stuttered wishes of my dear protégé."
Klavier's fingers twitch, tensing against Apollo's hand. Apollo turns his hand over, wraps his fingers around his lover's hand.
"Please tell us what your terms are, Mr. Gavin," he says. "I was told you had an idea of, um, what you might like to get, in exchange for what you, uh, know."
"Mmm, indeed," Kristoph says, slowly. "But are you sure that's what you want to be asking for first, Apollo?" His chair creaks, cuffs scraping against the table. He chuckles, the sound closer to Apollo than before. "Shouldn't you get what you want, first?"
Apollo swallows, resisting the urge to recoil. "I will get what I want," he says. "I just asked to hear what you want."
Kristoph laughs, the sound moving away as he throws his head back. "Oh, I see!" he says. "My, you've grown over the years, Apollo. Bantering with a cold-hearted killer as if it were nothing, I'm so proud of you."
Klavier's hand tightens around Apollo's. Apollo squeezes back.
"It's easier when I can't, um. When I can't see you."
Kristoph's laughter quiets. "Ah," he says. "I see. Then perhaps we should be discussing terms of leniency for Mr.-ah. Hmm. Oops. Shouldn't tell you that, should I?" A chuckle. "At least, not yet."
"You should," Apollo says, quickly, "because whoever did this is guilty of a crime and should be brought to justice."
"And would you like him brought to you on a silver platter, Justice?" Kristoph teases.
Apollo sighs. "Please stop making jokes about my name," he says. "And I don't care what you tell us first, your terms or what you know. We'll find the truth, with or without your help, and we don't have to ... that is, we can't promise-"
"You really must learn to relax when you're speaking with hardened criminals, Apollo," Kristoph says, smoothly. "You sound so vulnerable and ... childish, when you stammer like that. Hmm. Small no wonder you've got pedophiles chasing after your cute little tush, I suppose." A pause, Klavier's hand tightening on Apollo's, hard enough to hurt. "And isn't it funny that my dear baby brother isn't the only ... flaming, shall we say? pedophile interested in nailing you." Laughter. "Just a pity you finally crossed one too many and got burned."
Klavier's chair hits the floor with a clatter, noisy in the echoing room, Apollo's burns straining painfully as the older man pulls him to his feet and drags him out of the room. Apollo stutters in confusion and grabs for his cane, the rubber tip dragging uselessly against concrete as the door closes on Kristoph's dark, rich laughter.
~*~*~*~
"It was not as successful as we had perhaps hoped," Klavier says through clenched teeth when Mr. Wright opens the door for him and asks how the meeting went. "Which is of course not much of a surprise, but perhaps a bit of a disappointment."
He stomps past Apollo before Mr. Wright has a chance to answer him or ask any questions. Storms down the hall and slams the bathroom door, the hiss of the shower covering his muffled curses, the sound of his clothes being tossed against the door.
Mr. Wright sighs. "Well," he says. "At least you tried."
Apollo nods and braces himself one-handed against the wall, toeing off his shoes. "It wasn't all that bad," he says. "I'm sure it'll go better next time."
Mr. Wright laughs. "Don't say that around the diva," he says. "Don't think he'd take it too well right now."
"Yeah. Probably not." Apollo straightens, fingers busy with the buttons of his vest. Mr. Wright pats him gently on the shoulder.
"It's about time for your next ibuprofen," he says. "Go lie down, I'll bring it to you."
Apollo shrugs out of his vest and reaches for his cane. "Okay," he says. "Thanks."
But as he undresses and climbs into bed, the familiar scent of the sheets almost covering the lingering smell of the prison, his mind is awhir with ideas, with strategies.
It will go better next time, he doesn't say, when Mr. Wright brings him pills and a glass of water.
Because next time, I'll be going alone.
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