Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s Christmas Eve.

It’s Christmas Eve and Klavier is being hauled into the emergency room by a pack of exhausted-looking nurses.

Trust me, he thinks, I don’t want to be here either.

Why oh why is amazingly cool rockstar Klavier Gavin in the ER on Christmas Eve?

In a word, alcohol.

Loopy Klavier is fun Klavier, and fun Klavier is dangerous Klavier.

He was invited to an old college friend’s Christmas party. It was a holly, jolly good time, with lots of eggnog and mistletoe. 

Lots of idiotic dares, including breakdancing.

Breakdancing. Of all the ways to break his foot, it’s breakdancing.

Probably break his foot, anyway, since the shooting pain was strong enough that he was thrust into total sobriety and began yelling a fit of curses.

He explains this to his drained nurse drivers with an apologetic smile. They exchange disappointed-but-too-tired-to-complain expressions.

Only one nurse stays, and she drags him into the x-ray room; her eye-bags practically droop to the floor as she prepares the machine.

“I’m, uh,” he coughs, “sorry about this. It must stink to work on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s fine. Please remove any metal on your person.” He follows his orders, and she works her medical magic. The hospital heating system whirrs quietly. 

“Please wait here as I develop the negatives.”

“Okay.”

His toe was not broken but cracked , as it turned out. The nurse politely helped him through the paperwork as he scheduled a follow-up appointment for his poor, poor foot, now bound in a medical boot.

Well, now what the hell is he supposed to do?

He feels rather awkward, now, shunned from the receptionist desk with a crutch tucked under his armpit and no way of driving home. He’s still in his sweatpants and reindeer-patterned sweater and isn’t sure what to do with himself.

His eyes wander to the clock. He wonders if Lyft is available at midnight and then stops himself. He’s in the heart of L.A., of course, Lyft is available at midnight.

Time to wait. He hobbles his way towards the appropriately named waiting room, half-pulling out his phone and half struggling with his new crutch.

The hospital is eerily quiet. 

A puzzle-piece patterned carpet stained with juice and other dark liquids is spread on the floor, and Klavier ponders whether he’s been driven to a pediatric center. A sad water dispenser bubbles next to a fridge of juice pouches and a coffee machine, all lined against the wall like victims of a firing squad. He gains a single-minded focus as he momentarily abandons his quest for a Lyft to make it to the battered coffee machine.

The thing is a veteran, slightly dented, with faded colored stains implying a creative child’s beating. He takes a styrofoam cup and pulls the coffee handle. Steaming caffeine flows out and the smell sends shivers through his body. His stirring stick moves along to a hummed carol.

He barely finishes sealing the lid when he nearly drops the cup.

He’s not alone in the waiting room.

Apollo Justice.

Of all people.

He looks ready to collapse. His head is tilted onto the chair, his eyes fluttering open and closed in a state of barely aware consciousness. He’s bundled in a dense, hideous pile of red wool and jingle bells that jangle as he repeatedly snaps awake.

Klavier wonders if he should even bother waking the attorney. 

The attorney decides for himself, snorting slightly as he awakens. “Gavin?”

“Hi.” The painkillers must be doing something loopy for him to give such a tame greeting. Mentally, he slaps his cheeks. “Normally I would say it’s good to see you, but today? I’ve had better.” He continues his hobble to the seat next to Apollo. 

Apollo half-smiles. “Agreed. Why are you here?”

He groans in response. “I had an… accident,” he motions to his foot, “and my friends panicked. He takes a dry sip of his coffee and nearly chokes. “… I didn’t add enough sugar, shit.” Vainly, he attempts to rise again and Apollo gently presses him down.

“I’ll get it.” 

“Ah, danke.” His words vanish as he is mesmerized by the many bells viciously ringing along to the attorney’s every step. The musical sweater falls to his knees in a shirt dress style utterly unbefitting of the man’s typical style; whatever bottoms he may have are obscured by fleece. His legs are… “Erm. What brings you to the hospital? I thought you said you were binging Christmas movies.”

Apollo waves his hand and jingles. “I was. I’m here because Mr. Wright got hit by a train.” He flops down with a handful of sugar packets for Klavier and a plastic cup of water for himself (and a cacophony of bells).

“Again? Wait, a train ?!”

“Yeah. He seemed weirdly fine, actually, but obviously, we’re here. Trucy’s in there with him. He insisted on not calling an ambulance, so I was their getaway driver.”

“Mein Gott. That man never fails to surprise me.”

“I wasn’t even there for it, you know, I was minding my own business.” His eyebrows raise as he clarifies, “I was watching bad Hallmark movies when I suddenly got a call from Trucy. She was panicking pretty bad, so I sped over and I saw her standing by Mr. Wright near the train tracks, and he looks like he just exploded so obviously I’m panicking too. She tells me, clean as a whistle, ‘please drive Daddy to the hospital. We can’t afford an ambulance.’”

Klavier coughs as he laughs. “Incredible. That girl has nearly unbreakable composure. It’s no wonder she got into performance at such a young age.”

“Sure, but that was absurd. Your father has literally been hit by a train and you were witness to it! At least, like, stutter!”

Klavier chuckles. The coffee is still shitty. A little bit less, at least. His eyes drift to Apollo’s hands, partially covered by scarlet wool.

“Tell me more about this accident, though. It has to be bad for the ER.”

“Um. Ja, it was dancing.”

“Dancing, like you were doing the salsa and someone stepped on your foot?”

“Let’s go with that.”

“You must have weird friends,” Apollo huffs, “if they call an ambulance for you but don’t go with you to the hospital.”

“Maybe. Most of them were still drunk, though, so I don’t blame them.”

“Next time, don’t salsa drunk.”

“Sage advice, Herr Forehead, danke schön.”

Apollo nods, his attention mostly drawn to his phone where his thumbs rapidly tap away. “Trucy says Mr. Wright will probably be okay.”

“That’s good.” He flutters his eyes and stares at the red (of course it’s red) rectangle in Apollo’s hand. Right, the Lyft. The Lyft, huh.

His eyes trail upward to Apollo’s pursed lips. Apollo’s own eyes are underlined by sleepiness and italicized by faint crow feet that appear as the whisp of an idea forms on his face at his texts.

“Well, um, did you want to…” His phone slips away and suddenly they’re staring each other in the eyes.

Klavier is used to this. His confident, if beaten, smile does not waver. “Hm?”

Neither does Apollo’s. “Do you want to come to my place?”

Klavier blinks. “Eh?”

“Do you want to come to my apartment. I mean, er, if you want to. I was binging Hallmark Christmas movies till I fall asleep until Trucy interrupted me. Usually, my only companion is Mikeko. I have instant hot chocolate too.”

He considers his options. Go back to the drunk house? No, they were probably all passed out or still partying and breakdancing. One cracked bone was enough. Go home? No way, he internally giggles at his stupidity, why was he partying with half-strangers in the first place?

Apollo’s confidence is slipping under the silence. 

“That sounds better than what I was originally planning for. Why not?” He pauses mid-sip. His coffee has run dry. “What about the Wrights?”

“Trucy is staying overnight.”

“Wait,” Klavier laughs and pretends to swirl his empty cup, “so you’ve been dawdling here just to chat with me? You’re a little Liebling.”

“Er, is that a compliment?”

He muses. “Sure. Liebling, when are we leaving?”

“I guess now. I think visiting hours are over, anyway,” he adds, pointing his hair horns to a very, very exhausted nurse glaring at the two of them.

Klavier gives her an extremely apologetic smile on their way out. 

He awkwardly descents into Apollo’s car after gently throwing his crutch to the backseat. Apollo backs out and they hit the road.

He wastes no time in brushing away any chance for awkward silence. “Were you at least having fun with your friends?”

“Not particularly,” Klavier admits, tilting his head, “and my side is clear.”

Apollo turns the steering wheel with a thoughtful grunt. “Why were you there then?”

“Um. You know everything that happened with Kris…”

“Obviously.”

“Um, well.” Klavier presses the back of his hand against his forehead. No fever. He’s just stupid. “My parents, Kris and I used to visit them at home every holiday season. I don’t think they are exactly fond of me for essentially imprisoning their darling child, ja? So I didn’t know what else to do…”

“That’s stupid.” Apollo’s face scrunches and he spares a glance at his abashed passenger. “Seriously. He’s a goddamn murderer. Can’t your parents see that?”

He sinks deeper into the seat, as far as his stupid clunky medical boot allows him. “I don’t know. I felt too ashamed to visit this year.”

“Ah.” Klavier is vaguely aware that Apollo’s stopped rubbing his wrist; when did it start? “Don’t be.” Apollo shrugs as well as he can while driving. “You did nothing wrong. Simple as that.”

“Maybe that’s how—“

“That is how I see it. Here’s the plan. You come home with me, you call your parents. Tell them that things came up for Christmas but you’ll definitely be stopping by for New Years' to make up for it. Then we binge Hallmark movies.”

Klavier wrings his hands. His foot itches. He wonders how a broken breakdancing toe could lead to this.

“Fine. Since you love that word so much… Liebling.”

“That’s fine. But I don’t like being called words that I don’t know the meaning of.”

“Okay, Liebling.”

“Would you stop-! We’re here, anyway.” Apollo parks and stares at his apartment building. It’s a basic yet attractive four-story complex with a rather terrifying set of stairs for a temporary lame duck. “I don’t think we have an elevator. I did not think this through.”

“What floor are you on?”

“The fourth.”

“Are you telling me you have to use the stairs every day to get to your fourth-floor apartment?!”

He shrugs as he exits the car. “Lawyers don’t get a lot of opportunities for exercise.” He hands the crutch to Klavier and they shuffle towards the stairs. “You’re dramatic. I hear Prosecutor Edgeworth would take eleven flights a day to avoid the elevator.”

“That man is more powerful than me.” Klavier shudders. 

“Consider it practice. You’ll be stuck with that thing for a while, may as well get used to it.” 

Klavier sighs his most dramatic, princess sigh possible and then hoofs it up the stairs like a cheetah on steroids.

“Holy shit-!” Apollo gasps between heaves of laughter as he follows behind. His sweater scream-jingles with him. “Why the hell were you complaining?” He unlocks his door and the princess finds his way to the couch instantly.

“It’s exhausting!” 

“Says the stranger who stole my couch the minute I opened the door!”

Klavier laughs and pats the blankets he graciously stole. “Come on. I see you rushed out of the house.” His burst of adrenaline fades as quickly as it comes.

“Hot chocolate first.”

He takes in Apollo’s apartment with heavy-lidded eyes. Across from the couch is a rather expensive-looking modern television. The living room is perpendicular to a modest kitchen; across the counter, he can see a door that he assumes is the bedroom.

The couch he’s sitting on sags under his weight. Behind him, Mikeko purrs quietly on the back of the couch. 

Meanwhile, Apollo quietly jingles along to his microwave’s hum. “Do you want another blanket?”

“This one’s huge enough.” Indeed, the blanket Apollo was using is a massive, cat-patterned pile of soft microfiber. 

“Alright.” Apollo grabs the remote before plopping down next to Klavier, jangling bells and hot chocolate and all. He passes the mug and flips to the Hallmark channel. The directory informs the two that the movie is “What If It’s Christmas?”

Christmas, huh? Klavier sips the hot chocolate, with its tiny marshmallows. Even though they’ve been dropped in the middle of the screenplay, he can already deduce the Christmas Loving Country Boy, there’s a dramatic reason why the woman hates Christmas, and that the Christmas-hating woman will of course fall head over heels for the country boy.

Klavier wonders if the synthetic fabric sprawled between his and Apollo’s laps is Christmas. 

He takes a sip of the hot chocolate and shudders, moving a smidge closer to Apollo and jingling his bells. “Either this sweater is too thin, or your heater isn’t very good.”

“I know, I’m getting it fixed as soon as the electrician is available.” Apollo shifts, his precise movements obscured by the blanket. He attempts to burrito-wrap Klavier, inadvertently exposing his legs once more.

“Y-you don’t need to do that,” Klavier stammers as he is burrito-wrapped, trying very hard to keep his eyes glued to Apollo’s eyes and not his completely bare legs, the baggy fleece pulled up to his thighs.  

“It’s fine. You’re the one who said it’s huge.”

“J-ja…” he mumbles and hides his face. 

“Uh, you know, if you hide your face you won’t be able to see the movie.”

“I know.” He slowly lowers his hands and pulls at the polyester reindeers of his sweater. “Maybe I’m too hot now.”

“Oh, make up your mind.”

“... unh, I’d rather be hot, I guess.” 

“Alright.” Apollo is either completely unaware of his very exposed legs or an evil schemer who brought Klavier here simply to torture him. “Oh, come on!” He flaps a jingling arm at the TV. “He’s not even that hot!” His arms cross in fury. “Shouldn’t the city boyfriend be at least, like, kind of attractive? This is supposed to be a conflict.”

Klavier forces his eyes to a rather unattractive man pacing on the screen, in the middle of a dramatic break-up phone call with the Christmas-hating main character. “Yeah, he’s a three. If city boyfriend isn’t a good person, he should at least be hot.”

“Exactly!” Apollo claps and the sound barrier breaks with the combined sound of his bells, his voice, and his hands. “You understand exactly.”

He slurps his hot chocolate angrily, and Klavier quirks an eyebrow. “You drink loudly, Herr Forehead.”

“I’m invested now, shh.” He presses a finger to his lips as the woman has her tears wiped by the country boy. “Is it rushed and not well thought out proposal time? I think it is.” The man got on his knee accordingly, and the Christmas-hating woman gasps as they are whisked away by Santa for a holiday honeymoon more contrived than the concept of The Gavinners.

Klavier eases slightly as the night passes on, becoming more and more invested in each iteration of “I hate Christmas” woman and “I love Christmas” man with the occasional “I love Christmas” woman and “I hate Christmas” man for that spicy mix-up. At first, Apollo’s aggressive passion seemed trivial, childish, but all those feelings are thrown aside as they root for the eighth woman of the night to break up with her hoity-toity boyfriend for her high school ex who retaught her the magic of Christmas. 

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and the excitement brought by too much hot chocolate and Hallmark movies only take them so far. 

Apollo leans against Klavier and whispers. “I hope you enjoyed spending your Christmas morning with me.”

He eyes the clock on the TV, his hands still firmly bound by Apollo’s blanket burrito. It was well past reasonable hours and into why-are-you-awake territory.  “I did, Apollo, danke.”

“You never called your parents.”

“I… I will. Not tonight, though. Later.”

“Okay. I hope you can reconnect with them. Losing your parents for stupid reasons is hard.”

“I understand. Now go to bed, you sound exhausted.”

“Okay. Merry Christmas, Klavier…”

He brushes the hair of the sleeping attorney in his lap. “Merry Christmas. It was a very special Christmas Eve thanks to you.”