Attention! There is actually one last chapter before this epilogue. However, I wasn't sure it would fly by the site's rating system, so you can find the last chapter on my Ao3 account, under the same username, Neriede.

Klavier blinked away the halos of light from his vision, brought on by watering eyes that had opened too soon upon waking. He half-heartedly slid one leg against the other, the smooth caress of sheets and cool air comforting, as he was oft to do in the mornings. This particular morning was made all the sweeter, as there was also the soft touch of foreign skin, of Apollo's calf brushing against his, and Klavier simply smiled.

There was a small noise, barely a breath, and Apollo stirred in his sleep, turned into the curve of Klavier's body, grabbed at him and pulled close with the automatic motions of someone who has clutched their pillows at night their whole life, because it was better than the alternative of nothing. He wasn't even really awake, just skirting that edge of consciousness without really crossing it—Klavier felt like he was witnessing something private, something honest and for his eyes only, something in the way Apollo held him without reservation or even literally thinking about it.

He murmured gently, "Let's make breakfast together."

Apollo hummed out a reply, "Okay, sounds good."

He said it with the tone of someone not really there, who had just enough brain cells awake to register reality bleeding into their dreams, just enough to spit out what was maaaybe an appropriate and matching response.

"Jam and butter on toast, maybe some soft boiled eggs. We can grind the coffee beans fresh…"

"Mmmm."

He doubted Apollo would even remember this exchange in an hour.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this content and important.

He knew Kristoph would definitely have not approved.

It had been bad enough when he had begun his law career and made his big debut—on the other side of the court. Klavier hadn't heard the end of it, Kristoph berating him for not thinking how the press the would react to two brothers, to family opposing each other, for not thinking of all the effort and (how much work I put into mentoring you, you're so selfish, do you hate me so much you'd rather throw that all back in my face and fight against me in court?)

Klavier could almost hear Kristoph's voice ringing in his ear, like a ghost looking down and surveying their happy little moment, (I don't approve of the bed you've made, but at least sleep in it, for god sake, don't sleep with the enemy).

Klavier had to stop himself from shooting back with, (I am sleeping in my bed—he's here with me), because one, holy shit Klavier, (He's not actually here, he's miles away in his jail cell, you have no business letting him get inside your head).

And two, that sort of thinking was dangerous, for reasons other than being depressing. Apollo was not his to possess—he was here with Klavier only because he wanted to be, because he chose to be here. He was not a bargaining chip with which to play against the fleeting, empty shell of a man he used to respect.

Kristoph was now only a happy memory, so many memories, all of them ruined.

He was the memory of Klavier sitting at a piano, plunking a shoddy child's attempt at Claire de Lune, of big brother's arms encircling him and showing him, (that's not right, here's how it goes), and how many times, how many times had he looked back on moments like these and thought them endearing, protective, how often had he not seen them for what they truly were—controlling.

That's all Kristoph was now—an image of a smile whispering helpful secrets about the defense, twisted and spoiled by hindsight, cracked open to reveal a hollowness where there should've been the man he'd spent his entire life trying to make proud.

There was a slight shuffling noise as Apollo adjusted himself against him, still barely conscious. He felt their legs entwine and the brush of Apollo's cheek on his chest, and suddenly his heart felt a little calmer. Klavier breathed in, the scent of the sunlight, the musk of morning, of Apollo and the memory of the previous night, and wrapped his arm around him a little tighter.

That's right.

It was Apollo's arms around him now, and that was all that mattered. This was the man who had dragged all of this out of him in the first place, the only man who could possibly understand him, because this was the man, he realized, who had taken his place at Kristoph's side when he'd walked away from that partnership, who he'd unwittingly let Kristoph sink his claws in to in his stead.

What had Kristoph looked like to Apollo, to someone who had only ever watched everyone he might've considered family eventually leave? He could imagine Kristoph uttering sweet words of praise to an all too eager to please apprentice, words he too had once been all too familiar with—did they echo just as sourly for Apollo now, as well?

They were the same—Kristoph had been family to them both, and now they'd been left to pick up the pieces of each other—only it wasn't the same. For Apollo, Kristoph was only the worst in an already long line of goodbyes.

"I will not leave you."

It came out as barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a roar.

"I—and so many others now—we are not going anywhere," he cradled the back of Apollo's head with his hand, "Is that enough?"

Something—perhaps the way Apollo's arm tightened against his waist—told him it was.

The suit didn't bunch up around his shoulders, not the way his old one did. He reminded himself to thank Miles later.

"You look good, chief!"

Phoenix laughed, "Chief? That's a new one."

Apollo flashed him a shit-eating grin, "Well it's true, isn't it? Especially now that you actually look the part."

Something swelled up in Phoenix's chest, something akin to pride, or maybe…guilt?

(Chief, huh?)

"Well, whatever," Apollo tapped the stack of papers he was holding against the desk, "Congratulations on passing the bar, Mr. Wright!"

Phoenix managed a small smile, surprised himself with how it didn't come as naturally as it should've, with how much less in comparison he had to think about it before he found himself picking up the picture frame off his desk. For a moment it was Phoenix's face reflected in the glass, but it only took a moment for him to tilt it and reveal a smile kinder and more genuine than his was at the moment.

"…Mr. Wright?"

Phoenix absent-mindedly brushed his thumb against the frame before it occurred to him to respond, "Sorry, just thinking."

Curious, Apollo circled his way to Phoenix's side of the desk before settling just behind his boss' chair.

He peeked over Phoenix's shoulder, "Oh. Your old mentor…right?"

Phoenix nodded, a feeling of nostalgia taking over him, "The original 'Chief.' This used to be her desk, actually."

"She must've been a really extraordinary person. I wish I could've met her."

"Ha! Then you really wouldn't be calling me Chief," Phoenix leaned back in his chair, sentimental, "Even now, I've still got nothing on her."

Phoenix could see it, the way Apollo's eyes flickered down to follow the way his thumb pressed in to the frame, could tell he was making his protégé feel like he should suddenly be cautious, something Mia would never have done.

He felt the pretense of the smile on his face slip down into something more honest, "…I haven't been the best mentor to you, have I?"

Apollo's eyes widened a bit, surprised, "You—um…"

He rubbed at the back of his neck, clearly at a loss for something appropriate to say.

"You…have a pretty off sense of humor sometimes, if that's what you mean?"

He sounded confused, like he was trying to figure out just how serious Phoenix had meant for that statement to be, whether this was part of a joke, or meant as some light self-deprecating humor, or if Phoenix really was inviting him to tear him a new one.

Phoenix didn't feel like it was quite his place to say anything yet, just looked Apollo firmly in the eye and implored him to think harder.

"If you're looking for me to say you're employer of the year, I'm not going to."

Phoenix was surprised at how little Apollo's usual bluntness stung. Perhaps he even felt a little…relieved?

"I mean, I don't really think I can, given your track record. Passing the bar and the nice suit today aside, if this past year has been any indication, you're not exactly what anyone would call professional," Apollo rubbed at the skin above his bracelet, "But you know, that doesn't…that's not necessarily the same thing as being a bad employer."

Phoenix just looked at him, "I basically got you fired from your last job."

There was the tiniest of twitches, just enough for Apollo's entire countenance to change, enough to set his spine on fire, and he said immediately, "You're better than Kristoph."

"I…" Phoenix didn't know what to say.

(Am I really, though?)

Seven years of bitterly chasing at loose threads, and it was all over now. He got his badge back, and Kristoph was safely behind bars, and yet it all felt flat, like the fizzle of a war story, not so much a victory as the inevitable end brought about by tired soldiers no longer willing to fight. Now what? Why had he gotten this badge in the first place, the first time around? Because Mia had believed in him—because there had been people he needed to believe in and protect as well.

Faith and belief—those were not the driving forces of the man who'd spent seven years obsessing over taking back his redemption.

It had been years since he'd first stood in this office, so nervous about his first case, but he knew he had felt safe under Mia's wing. Mia had looked at him like he was someone who would make her proud.

He'd looked at Apollo like he was someone who would make his case.

And yes, there was no doubting that he now genuinely cared for Apollo, but that wasn't how it had started, not really. Not purely, at any rate. He had finally gotten his badge back, but somehow he didn't feel like he was quite deserving of Mia's pride right now.

"I'm sorry, Apollo. For getting you mixed up in all of this."

"What are you talking about, Mr. Wright?"

"Getting you fired, the Jurist System, never asking for your say in any of this, just doing whatever I wanted and never telling you anything."

Apollo didn't say anything in response to that, not right away. He looked off in to the distance for a moment, as if considering something. Maybe the case files lined neatly on the bookshelf.

"You know, this year has been pretty crazy. I have to admit, this isn't at all how I imagined practicing law would be like."

"Not as clear-cut as you thought it was going to be?" Phoenix tried once more to crack a smile.

Apollo shook his head, "Naw, I think on some level I expected this line of work to be unpredictable. I was inspired by your cases after all."

Phoenix tried not to show that that hurt more than it should've, especially given that it was technically flattery.

"It's more…you can't be alone in this line of work. I think working with you has taught me that. Even if you kept me in the dark about a lot of things—which I'll never stop being angry at you for, don't get me wrong—it still feels good knowing I was part of something good. The Jurist System is a good thing, I think."

He hoisted himself on to the desk, hands in his lap, "I've met lots of people this year. I found my mother, got a sister, a little brother, I even…" Apollo's face pinked over, not really the type of person to say such exposed things as (fell in love) out loud, but it was written all over his face.

"And I got to meet you. I know you're not exactly the kind of person I thought you would be, but I've…," he stared at his lap, face getting redder, "I've always admired you."

Phoenix's chest seemed to balloon.

"I really am proud of you for getting your badge back, Mr. Wright."

He felt like crying.

"What have I ever even done for you that wasn't somehow for my own benefit?"

Apollo shrugged, "I can clean a toilet pretty damn well now."

Phoenix blinked. Then he was laughing, actually did start crying, just a little at the corners of his eyes, "You're right, I guess I have taught you well, huh?"

Apollo beamed at him, proud of himself, and hopped off the desk, "The worst of times are when lawyers have to force their biggest smiles, right?"

For the first time, he smiled genuinely down at the picture frame, "How could I forget?"

Mia smiled back at him.

Machi looked up at the length of the Wright Anything Agency building, feeling very small, in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

(They are so nice to you. So much nicer than you deserve.)

Machi shivered in the shadow of the office, rubbed his arms and gripped his shoulders, shoulders so small it only made sense that it had been so easy for Daryan to take hold of them and make him think himself important.

Daryan had been nice too, he remembered.

(You're a hero, kid. This cocoon's gonna save somebody's life, you know that?)

He could feel his whole body heating up with embarrassment, even in the privacy of just the memory of it. They had given him a light sentence considering he was a minor, but that had only made it worse, had made him feel even more incompetent, (So stupid, stupid, stupid, how could you let him persuade you like that, this is why they all treat you like a child).

"Machi?"

Startled, he jerked his head towards the entrance to see Apollo standing there, a worried look on his face.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I am…thinking."

"Well, come think inside, it's getting cold."

Machi silently began marching back in to the building. It did not escape his notice that Apollo made no attempts to ask him if anything was wrong.

"Um…Mr. Yoostis?"

"I told you, 'Apollo' is fine, Machi," Apollo said gently as he shut the door after him.

Machi pulled at his sleeves, "In Borginia, is rude to call older sibling so simply."

Apollo crossed his arms, brow furrowed, "Do you call all your older siblings by their surname in Borginia?"

"I…have no siblings in Borginia. I am being orphan there."

Apollo looked embarrassed, "No, I didn't mean…what do they call them in Borginia?"

"Is no version of this word in your language. Just Borginian term of respect," Machi looked at the floor, "I never have need to use before."

"You can it use on me, if you want."

Machi's head snapped up, eyes wide, "Really?"

Apollo shot him a smile that was all teeth, "If it makes you feel more at home, sure!"

He found himself smiling back. He reminded himself that Apollo liked it when he smiled.

"In Borginia we say—," and Machi watched the way Apollo listened as he told him, his mother language like something home-made in his mouth after a year of stale bread.

Apollo tried repeating it and was somewhat successful after a few attempts. Machi bit back the urge to mention how coarse his accent sounded. He was too loud, too forceful, but points for trying, he guessed?

"Is there a word for younger brothers too?"

Machi shook his head, "No, is okay to just say simply," he paused as he regarded Apollo with a guarded expression, "…May I ask question?"

Apollo nodded.

"Is okay for me to be here?"

Machi watched the frown on his face form and felt a little guilty, "In the lobby? Or…?"

"Here. As worker."

He could feel Apollo looking at him, could feel the kindness, and it was almost too much.

"Well, technically, given your age, you need certain special permissions from your legal guardians to work at the Borsht Bowl, but Mr. Wright and your mom have already handled that for you. Now, if you don't want to work, that's an entirely different matter…"

"Not that! I am not meaning that!" there was a tone of desperation in his voice, and this time it was Apollo who was startled, "Am I not…embarrassment?"

If Machi regretted asking it, it was only because Apollo looked so distressed and upset upon hearing it.

"Machi, why would we think you're an embarrassment to the Agency?"

"You are lawyer."

Apollo didn't say anything, obviously still confused, and he went on, "I am criminal."

The ensuing silence was almost palpable. Machi gripped at his arm and looked at the floor, just like he always did when his anxiety started building. Maybe it had never occurred to anyone else how odd it was for a person who'd just barely avoided juvie to be working so closely with a law firm. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

(I ruined it, way to go Machi, now he'll never be nice to you again.)

He chanced a glance back up to see if Apollo had reacted yet. He was met with the sight of the defense attorney, fingertip pressed between his brow, a look of deep concentration on his face. The tension in his shoulders released, but only a little, only to be replaced with curious caution.

After a while, Apollo sighed, "Look, I get it."

Machi had no words—no words he knew how to express in English, anyway. He just stood and listened, tried not to cry when Apollo's hand covered the top of his head, so warm and soft.

"You know, I grew up in an orphanage."

Machi felt the rest of the fear melt away, and he looked up at Apollo, "You did?"

He nodded, "And I watched all the other kids get adopted before I did."

When he laughed it didn't sound bitter, but Machi couldn't help but feel like he detected at least a little bit of sadness in it.

"Nobody wants the kid who isn't so pretty—you don't pick the kid with bandages on his face. Nobody takes home the kid who picks fights and has a police record."

Apollo Justice in trouble with the law?

Machi shook his head vigorously, "No, you is joking."

"I'm serious. If one of my matrons hadn't come along before I turned 18, I probably wouldn't have shaped up in time and been able to expunge my juvenile records. I'm only a lawyer now because of her."

Machi tried to imagine Apollo sitting in a police station, scowling at the officers, and felt almost bad when it wasn't actually all that hard to do.

"Did…did they make with your fingerprints?" he whispered reverently.

"No, no, it was never anything that serious," Apollo waved his hands in front of him, and when he noticed Machi looking sadly down at his own fingertips quickly added, "But the point is, none of that matters if you have the right people supporting you."

Machi could feel his eyes watering, "You are believing in me?"

Apollo nodded, "Now listen. No more of this feeling sorry for yourself business, alright?"

Machi bit his lip, "I…can try."

"Repeat after me—I'm Machi Tobaye, and I'm fine."

His eyes went wide, "What?"

"I'm Machi Toabye and I'm fine!"

Machi's hands both automatically went to his mouth as he let out a timid reiteration, "I am…Machi Tobaye, and I am f-fine."

Apollo pulled his fists in at his sides, cheering him on, "Again, louder!"

His hands moved instinctively to his chest, fists mirroring Apollo's, and he squeezed his eyes closed, "I am Machi Tobaye and I am fine!"

Shaking, he felt Apollo's hand on his head again, and it was enough to calm the tremors, "There, you see? I actually believed you that time."

His speechlessness, for once, had nothing to do with not knowing the right words to say, and everything to do with finally feeling as if nothing else needed to be said.

"Look, look! Say hi to Daddy, Polly!"

"Trucy, that is a photo."

Apollo was, she decided, no fun, no fun at all.

She was currently in the main lobby, stomach draped over the back of the couch, her phone shoved in Apollo's face.

"Mr. Edgeworth doesn't look so good," he commented on the pale man sitting next to Phoenix, fiddling with his seat belt, "…he doesn't really strike me as the type to fly economy."

"Daddy can't afford first class. Miles offered to cover it for him, but you know how Daddy is," Trucy kicked her legs behind her in succession, back and forth, one after the other, "Look, there's a caption at the bottom! 'Gonna go study some foreign legal systems! Be good, kids!' Like he doesn't trust us to be good."

Apollo squinted at the screen, "…doesn't your dad still have that old flip phone? How is he posting this picture when he's still on the plane?"

"This is Miles' profile! He's probably getting too motion sick while they take off to notice Daddy posting this," Trucy let both her feet fall down against the couch with a thunk, "Isn't this exciting?! God, what I wouldn't give to be going to Europe with them!"

She could see it forming on the tip of his tongue, he was so predictable, "Yeah, yeah, school is important, bla bla bla, Daddy already gave me that spiel."

"How is your homework coming along, by the way?"

Trucy pushed herself up off the couch before propelling herself over it and landing right next to Apollo, "It's too bad you didn't get to go, but I guess somebody's gotta stay and look after law clients."

"Trucy…"

Ugh. Apollo was taking his role as the de facto boss while her dad was away way too seriously. Trucy just drew her legs up to her chest and stared at her phone, smiled so big it hurt a little, but she didn't care.

"Look how happy he is," she held the pad of her finger against the picture, one, two, three seconds before the option to save the image popped up, "I'm keeping this."

She giggled quietly to herself. She hadn't seen her dad this excited about something in…well, not since before he'd first taken her in, to be honest.

She pulled on Apollo's sleeve, "We should take a picture too! They'll see it later when they land!"

He let out a big sigh, but otherwise made no movement to resist as Trucy pulled them close enough to fit inside the screen. She positioned her phone above them, only pressing the shutter when she felt Apollo's antennae spikes were fully well within the shot.

She curled up and leaned against his arm afterwards, "Help me pick a filter!"

"It looks fine as is…although that's one pretty nice, I suppose."

Trucy studied her brother's choice of a washed out, sepia-toned effect, "You only like that one because it makes the red in your suit stand out even more."

She hit save anyway.

A comfortable silence passed between them as she tapped at her phone, adding captions and posting the photo to her profile. It was only a minute before a comment popped up underneath.

'Up to no good, ja? ;)'

She snuck a glance beside her—Apollo had taken out his own phone and was busily pressing at the keys, oblivious. Texting the boyfriend, no doubt.

Trucy quickly commented back, 'You would know. :p'

Klavier Gavin likes this.

She grinned to herself, like there were secrets tucked away in the curl of her smile—which was well said and all, given that if there was anything magicians were good at, it was keeping their own secrets. There was a whole world within her that never saw the light of day—magicians were also very good at putting on a show, after all.

There were certain things she never talked about out loud, not because they were painful (although they certainly were sometimes), but because hearing them echo in the privacy of her mind was cathartic conversation enough. Trucy wasn't afraid to speak her mind—she was just very selective about the things she didn't feel like talking about, that was all.

Trucy Wright was not stupid.

She looked at the picture of her dad on the plane and understood that this was a face she'd seen before—both in photos of him pre-disbarment, and for perhaps a year after he'd adopted her, one year of watching that optimism intertwine with defensive steel and cynical iron. She knew it wasn't her fault, but that didn't stop it from feeling like her fault.

Phoenix had cleaned up, taken to standing up straight again, and was now actively very conscious of his role as Apollo's mentor. That was nice.

He still had trouble keeping the pens stocked, drank grape juice straight from the bottle, and laughed at her jokes about Apollo's massive forehead. That was nice too.

Her dad was many things, and in this way, she was very much her father's daughter.

Trucy Wright was, again, not stupid.

Trucy Enigmar however, was a mystery.

Trucy Enigmar was wrapped up in the sorrows of a mother and father who had left her, an eight year old girl not buried so much as the foundation that the person she was now was built on, layers and layers of magic shows and the bright optimism that her father had almost lost to seven years. She accepted this—that was the secret to the curl of her smile.

The secret to a good show, after all, was authenticity.

The smiles she gave to people were—even if they weren't the whole story—real. Trucy had her sorrows, but she was also genuinely happy for her life, as well as grateful. She was grateful to Phoenix for taking her in, and she was grateful to be sitting next to the person largely responsible for his renewed spirit. She was grateful that they weren't alone anymore.

Trucy relaxed a bit more against Apollo's arm, could feel him sympathizing with her, slipping—consciously or not—in to a shared sense of peace. That's what it meant to share Gramarye heritage.

"Hey Polly," she swiped at her phone, "You're happy, right?"

There was a bit of a pause, and then, "Uh, yeah…? Relatively."

"Hey Polly?" she repeated.

He actually stopped pushing the buttons on his phone and looked at her, "You okay?"

The corners of her lips went wide, "Be in my magic show next week!"

Apollo's features slipped seamlessly from concern to a grimace, "I—Do I have to?"

"Come oooon, you totally fell through on the last time I managed to get you to agree to be my assistant," she puffed her cheeks and pushed roughly at his shoulder.

He looked away, his expression progressing into a scowl as if he were remembering something painful.

She knew immediately what he was thinking about, "Yes, you absolutely have to wear that costume I made for you. It'd be such a waste otherwise, pleaaaase."

Trucy did not have the advantage of Apollo's bracelet to tell her when to look for distressing tells, but she could sense him growing slightly tense. Was that…the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks?

She smirked, "I'm sure Klavier won't laugh, you big dummy," when Apollo's head snapped back to look at her and he opened his mouth, she cut him off before he could so much as squawk a rebuttal, "You'll look positively charming, I promise! He'll think you're cute."

Apollo stared at her indignantly, "That's not what I—that's—you don't know that."

She rolled her eyes at him, amused, "Polly, he always thinks you're cute."

"…You're not going to try and split me in half, are you?"

"Relax, I won't try that again until I've perfected it."

"That wasn't a yes or no."

She jumped up from the couch, half because she was deliberately avoiding answering that, and half because she was getting excited, "Mom and Machi can be in it too! And then Machi could play piano afterwards, and mom could sing. Hey, hey, you could sing too, if you wanted! You can sing with mom, Klavier would be so impressed."

To her surprise, Apollo looked like he was seriously considering it, "That doesn't sound so bad, to be honest..."

She bounced in place, "Then you'll do it?!"

"Only—only if it's like you said, with all of us. The whole family on board," he smiled softly, arms crossed.

Trucy squealed, jumped back on the couch and hugged him around the shoulders, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

She only said it three times, but she wished she could convey so much more gratitude than could be expressed in two small words.

(Thank you for daddy. Thank you for mom and Machi. Thank you for saving my family.)

Even later, when they were walking aimlessly through the park and he bought her an ice-cream from one of the vendors, told her not to let it drip on to her gloves, was such a nag about how he hoped she was helping Lamiroir out with the laundry and chores and things back at home, and it was only a dollar, but she was still so appreciative.

(Thank you for being my family.)

Even later, when the light of her phone illuminated the dark quiet of her room, and she checked her notifications before going to bed, tucked safely under the safety of her blankets. She looked fondly on the photo of her and Polly, feeling as much nostalgia as one could feel for something that had only just happened earlier that day, at the way he frowned up at the lens, charming in its own way next to her eternally inscrutable grin.

She scrolled down, noticing that Apollo had commented.

'You look like you know something I don't.'

Trucy Wright likes this.

Apollo fiddled with his bracelet.

Lamiroir could not see this, but she could feel his nervousness all the same.

"H-how's your recovery going?" he asked quietly.

The buzz at her wrist was unnecessary. Lamiroir was 40 years old—she had more than twenty years on Apollo of having lived with the family curse (that was what her father had always called it, anyway). Her bracelet had long since outgrown its purpose, and she knew right away that there was something weighing on her son's mind.

That was not the question he'd wanted to ask.

"It shouldn't be too long before the bandages can come off," she kindly humored him.

She could hear his feet shuffling under the table—in the next room over she could hear snatches of Trucy and Machi conversing (arguing?) about the fitting of the costume she was sewing for him. The noise of her children made her feel more anchored in space than the feeling of the table under her resting forearms did.

"That's good," Apollo was still quiet.

She waited patiently and comfortably.

"...Hey, so…," ah, here it was, "I was wondering something."

She smiled, as much for her own benefit as his, "I'm an open book."

An open book that was currently having pages shuffled around and some blank ones rewritten, but she didn't like to dwell on these things for more than was necessary. She was sure Apollo would have the sense to know she would only do her best with what little memory she was slowly rebuilding.

"Your bracelet…it's just like mine."

"It is," she traced the patterns in the metal with the tip of her finger, felt the air shift as his breath hitched in hesitation, "In more ways than just design."

Apollo sat up straighter, "So it can do what mine does, too?"

He was still being careful with his words—from what Phoenix had told her, this wasn't something to be expected. She made a small noise of acknowledgement, and was surprised when she actually felt him stiffen even more, could tell he was restless with all of the implications that this raised.

"You're wondering why you're the only one who can use it to sense other's intentions."

It wasn't a question.

For the first time, she managed to chip away at the tension within him a bit, "Yeah, more or less…Trucy can do it too, actually. That's why I…when Mr. Wright told us you were both our mother, that's when I thought that maybe…it runs in the family?"

Her chest swelled with both pride and remorse, and she reached out in what she knew to be Apollo's general direction.

Her hand found its way until it settled softly on top of his, "I am so sorry I wasn't there when you were young. You've grown to be a very smart man."

There was a restrained warmth radiating off of him, and she smiled as he gave a hearty laugh.

"I'm used to hearing that as a preface to 'smartass,'" he coughed, "I mean, uh…haha…"

She found herself giggling, thought it was endearing that he felt embarrassed to swear in front of her, "I've spent a bit of time with Mr. Wright. Believe me, I've heard worse. Although I have noticed a certain…brightness about him these days. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, did you?"

(Of course you did), she thought when she heard him scratching bashfully at the crown of his head, (That's my boy.)

She bit her lip. Did she really deserve to call him that?

"I'm not really as amazing as all that. Um…so," he deflected the conversation back on track, "these bracelets."

She nodded solemnly, "They've been passed down the Gramarye line for as long as we can remember. They're meant to guide the wearer and help them hone their ability."

Apollo shifted and palmed his wrist, bracelet and all, "So they're basically like training wheels? As in, I might not need it some day?"

"…I suppose you could say that, yes. It takes a significant amount of time for most Gramarye to attune themselves to become that self-aware. Some never achieve it, even."

There was silence as Apollo considered this, and then, "This ability. What exactly is it?"

"Empathy. We can sense when others are tense, to the point of becoming tense ourselves."

The ensuing quietness was unexpected.

The laughter that followed even more so.

She frowned, "How is that funny?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," but he was still chuckling a bit, the table moving as he gripped it to support himself, "People are always telling me I have no tact at all, and now you're telling me I'm an empath? Are you sure you've got the right guy?"

She squeezed his arm suddenly, "You are my son. I am sure of it."

The air went still once again, and then Apollo's hand covered her own, "I...I know. It's just the last thing I would've guessed."

They stayed that way for a bit, before Lamiroir pulled away, "I'm sorry. I have no right to call you that."

"What?! No, no, it's okay," his hands were on hers again, encasing them protectively, "It's fine, I'm fine."

This was how he had held her at their reunion too, with both hands.

This was always how he had held her, she remembered—how he had grasped her the first time after birth with hands so small, so small they only wrapped around her finger—and how he had reached out for her, tiny fingers clasped against her wrist as it slipped away for what she had thought would be the last time.

The gentle hum of Apollo's bracelet, just barely grazing her skin, told her that there was no point in trying to hide how her heart was breaking from him.

"I don't blame you," he said cleanly, no hint of entitlement or self-righteousness whatsoever.

Her voice shook, "You don't even know what it is you're not blaming me for."

There was no way he'd done the math yet, not with how kind he was being, no way he'd realized that she had only been 18, just barely, when she'd had him. He definitely didn't know that at 17 she had run away from home and married her controlling boyfriend, a coward's way of escaping her even more controlling father, only to return home just shy of her 19th birthday with her head hung low and her arms bereft of either husband or son.

She could tell him that a young girl, not even 20, scared and without a penny to her name, had left him on the doorstep of that orphanage for his own good, and this would not have been a lie. Thalassa Gramarye had had no means to take care of a child by herself—she was merely the daughter of the man who had sparked the golden age of magic, after all.

Magnifi Gramarye the Great had had all the fame and fortune he might've needed to support his daughter and her newborn son.

He had also unfortunately been a petty man who did not wish to harbor the child of a rivaling magician's troupe, a man who in his eyes had stolen the star attraction of his show away.

No, it would not have been a lie to say that she had wanted to keep him far, far away from this twisted world of hers.

(But I was a coward for not leaving that world behind with you)

"Were you happy, at least?" it came out chocked, and it scared her that she didn't know which answer she was hoping for.

She heard Apollo breathe out through his noise, contemplative, reserved, "…Most of the time I was angry, actually."

"I should've been there for you."

The air swished as he shook his head, "It had nothing to do with that. That's just the kind of kid I was, I think. …Maybe it's good you missed out on my childhood, aha. I wasn't exactly a model child."

He laughed weakly, before realizing he had left his mother with no tactful responses to such a statement as that and continued, "I think I just…everything always made me so mad, you know? The orphanage you dropped me off at wasn't the most well-off place—we had trouble just keeping the lights on sometimes. I would try to cheer up the others with some chords of steel, and they'd smile for a while, sure, but it just…it got hard sometimes for those smiles to feel real."

"You always knew when something was wrong, didn't you?" she whispered, making the connections faster than her son did.

"And I never took any shit from anybody. You ever have the mayor come around and try to sweet talk you and the matrons in to thinking he cares about your little hole in the ground? They give a little charity when the media's watching and then disappear after elections are over. I always hated authority figures, they were the worst. Never bought their lies for a…" he trailed off, the dots in his head slowly connecting, "second."

Apollo suddenly inhaled sharply. Lamiroir felt her breath stop in sympathy with his, but she didn't say anything.

"I used to get headaches when I was younger," he spoke quietly, as if only realizing it for the first time, "One time…one time we were having dinner. Money was tight and we were rationing the food. Everybody was trying their best to deal with the hunger, but when I was sitting in the dining hall with everyone I…I just lost it."

Lamiroir felt her face paling, "How many were in the room with you?"

"I don't know," he swallowed, "Maybe ten? Twelve kids besides me, not including the matrons. That's my best guess. I was five, I think…"

"Apollo…"

"I ended up throwing my spoons against the wall…"

"Not the food?"

"I made them give it to someone else. I threw a fit about how I wasn't feeling well, and then went up to bed and felt better after that."

A sad moan curled up in her throat as she pressed her palms over her eyes. It didn't change anything—everything was still as dark as it ever was, but she still didn't want to feel the direct gaze of her son.

"If I had been there—if I had helped you understand what was going on, if you'd known about your ability—"

"It's okay!" she heard the panic in his voice rising, and it only served to make her feel worse, "I—I got through it alright. I used to just slap my hands over my ears and shout, 'I'm fine!' until it was true."

(It was anything but fine)

Apollo sighed, "Look, I'm not good at this sort of thing," there was the lightest of touches on her forearm and she slowly lowered them, lips trembling, "But I don't hate you. I don't regret growing up in that orphanage—it may have been hard, but at least we all had each other. The matrons were strict, but I knew they cared about me. I'm only who I am because of what I went through as a kid."

"Don't tell me leaving you behind was the best thing I could've done for you. I can't claim I'm the one who made you as strong as you are now."

"No, you can't," he said it honestly, but there was a softness, a kindness in it, all the same, "But you're here now."

She tried to breathe in and out, not because she thought she deserved his thoughtfulness, but because she knew it would be bad if she broke down here and they started feeding negative energy off of each other. There was a reason her father had called this the family curse. Their lineage had produced some of the strongest and closest family bonds—but also some of the most broken.

Apollo's hand on hers definitely helped though.

After a moment, she said, "…You're not going to ask?"

He shrugged, "Ask what?"

She breathed deeply one last time, tried to steady both shaking hands against each other, "Why I gave you up."

Apollo shifted, sat up straight at the thought, and she could sense his confusion, but her bracelet remained still against her wrist, telling her his confusion was purely that, no malice or hesitation.

(It hasn't occurred to him to ask at all)

She felt more and more undeserving of her son by the second.

"You know," he scratched at his head, "I don't think knowing would change anything. I'm sure you had your reasons."

Lamiroir thought of all the men in her life—her first husband, who had convinced her to uproot her whole life for him, her father, who had made her feel like her life was worth uprooting in the first place, even Zak and Valant, who had fought over her as if she'd had no say in the matter.

Even without her sight, she lowered her visage, "You are too kind."

"I get that from you then, I suppose."

If she had stopped herself from tears before, it was only because she hadn't wanted Apollo to feel her discomfort.

Tears of relief and solace, she figured, were fair game.

Iris held the check delicately between pinched fingers, outer most edges barely kissed by her skin.

She blinked at it, then slowly raised her gaze to meet Apollo's, "It's…this is more than usual."

Apollo had always done his best to give what little he could to help out the orphanage, and with a dozen or so mouths to feed, taking his charity had never dealt any blows to Iris' pride. This particular donation gave her moment to pause, however—if she had to guess, it was about the amount one would pay for monthly rent, if they weren't too hung up about living in the less than glamorous parts of town. She didn't think that last bit was worth mentioning, though.

"Did you perhaps…land a big case recently?" she asked hesitantly.

For some inexplicable reason, his eyes darted off to the side and he…blushed? Iris instead shot a confused, inquisitive look over to Pearl, whose smile seemed to be a bit too wide for someone who wouldn't know anything.

"He moved in with Mr. Klavier," she giggled, looking positively giddy as she bit her lip.

"Yeah—!" Apollo interjected suddenly, volume dangerously rising at a rate proportional to the rising blush on his face, "I wanted to help him with the rent on his place too, but he insisted."

Iris gave a subdued but genuine smile, doing her best to not immediately coo and fuss over this news, "I—thank you. This means so much right now."

Pearl had started accompanying Apollo on his trips to the orphanage, groceries for the next month were taken care of, Apollo was making good progress with his cute boyfriend—there were quite a few things to be happy about at the moment.

"So," Iris carefully folded the check in half, corner to corner, precise movements as sharp as the quiet elegance she naturally employed, "You and Prosecutor Gavin are getting pretty serious, I take it?"

Pearl gave several, smart claps in quick succession, doing absolutely nothing to conceal her enthusiasm, "Isn't it just the sweetest?!"

To her surprise, Apollo's shoulders relaxed, and he just stared at the floor, cheeks still glowing.

"I've got a key and everything," he said softly.

Something light and airy flooded her chest. He looked so…happy.

(I know that look.)

It was like looking in to a mirror, like seeing herself, but young, nineteen, and in love for the first time in her life. There was something else stirring in her as well—Iris imagined it was not unlike what fathers and mothers felt when looking upon their children, and for the first time suddenly seeing a whole and fully realized person. It was a feeling that took hold of the entire body, quiet, immediate, unforgiving and wholesome—time was marked and made tangible by feelings such as these. She thought briefly of years ago, of the skinny youth she'd carefully bandaged, both with compresses and stories, and to look at him now…

"I'm so…" her voice caught in her throat, "I'm so glad for you."

There was a rustling at her side, followed by the attachment of Pearl's arms around hers.

Iris blinked wordlessly at the girl as Pearl gently bounced a bit, surprised but not unpleasantly so, "They're going to be so happy together forever, don't you think?"

There was something about Pearl that made her feel at ease, impressed even—she was so lively and cheerful, so outspoken and sure of herself in the purest of ways, everything Iris had always wanted to be when she was younger. Certainly everything Dahlia wasn't.

She shot a knowing look at Apollo, "We're all hoping that, I think."

He just gave her a soft expression, "Well, I'm certainly not making plans to leave any time soon."

Iris' felt her eyes crinkle as she looked at him. She touched a hand to the ones Pearl had wrapped around her arm, held back a sniffle and then smiled, felt it press the tears at the corners of eyes until they spilled over and she finally just let it overwhelm her.

"No, no, no," Apollo said suddenly, affectionately, before sweeping her into his arms, "What is it with me this week, you're the second person I've made cry."

"I'm just so," she let out another sniffle, almost a hiccup, and Pearl squeezed her arm, "so proud of you."

She stepped back, as if to better take in the whole of him. Where was the scrawny, angry teen she'd once fretted over? It wasn't even that he was taller than her now (if only by a few inches). There was a largeness in the way he carried himself, the way he stood straight and proper, so sure of himself.

She thought back to what Apollo had just said, "...you made someone cry?"

"Oh," he pulled at one of the spikes on his head, "Just had a talk, sort of, with my mom. Nothing bad, just a little emotional."

"Oh," Iris echoed.

Without meaning to, she felt the happiness she'd been feeling crack ever so slightly, the faintest of tightenings in her chest.

(Jealousy is...normal, right?) she tried to reassure herself, (He's not going to replace you. It's not even the same thing—you're not his mother.)

It wasn't that much of a feeling to mean anything, really, but it was enough for Apollo to notice. He always noticed, after all.

He gave her a slight nod, a very sincere look, "You know, in a way, all of this is happening because of you."

"It's fine Apollo, really," she said, but even though it really was okay, she found herself not wanting him to actually stop.

"I wouldn't have met Trucy, Klavier, or my mom if I hadn't become a lawyer," he grinned and flashed the badge at his breast proudly, then softened again, very serious, "And I wouldn't have become a lawyer if it weren't for you."

"Wouldn't have met me and dragged me all the way down here either, if he'd never met Mr. Wright and Trucy!" Pearl added vigorously.

She chuckled, "That is true."

For all that she'd put up a fight initially, she really was appreciative of Apollo's stubbornness in getting the two to meet. It was painful to admit, but without his intervening she would've probably stayed content—

(Afraid), she corrected herself, of ever leaving the safety of seclusion.

Iris pulled softly on a strand of her hair and wondered, briefly, what valor looked like—did it take the shape of restraint, of selflessness? Was it brave to let people go before you could hurt them, or was all that just a pretense for protecting yourself from getting hurt? Her life before in the temple with Sister Bikini had been like this too—safe, predictable, within her control. Telling stories to children, providing them with all the things she'd felt had been robbed from her, the childhood that she had deserved but never been afforded—this had been her way of telling herself things were alright now.

Iris closed her eyes to a slightly bewildered Apollo and found, for the first time, that this was not enough.

"I don't think I'll be here next week."

"What? Why?" Apollo asked before she could articulate, and she smiled at the way he had always been so plainspoken, even now, even with just the little things.

She had always admired how something she'd had to work very hard at came so easily to him.

"There's a certain agency I'd like to visit," she said simply, and that was enough.

(More than enough—I'm done with enough)

Iris pulled at her hair again, like it was fourteen years ago, like she was still at Hazakura Temple. Even without her hood physically there, the motions of pulling at it were as soothing as always. The temple had been stowed away in the mountains, and Iris had never gotten any visitors other than the eternal eight inches of snow, but she'd had a roof over her head, three steady meals, and Sister Bikini had had enough kindness in her bones for the both of them—these were not things that people who had just been abandoned by their family got to complain about.

Twelve years ago, it hadn't mattered that she was in love with Phoenix—it hadn't even mattered that he hadn't known her real name. For once, someone had needed her; for once, her sister actually talked to her. Her identity had seemed like such a small price to pay at the time.

Five years later, this same price would buy her a jail cell.

Her whole life had been an exercise in being erased in to the background. Her father had hidden her away at Hazakura Temple, her sister had hidden her beneath the face they had shared, and now she was hiding herself away in this orphanage.

How she had managed to stand before Apollo until now, the most unrepentant and driven person she'd ever known, was a mystery to her. She watched the way his eyes studied her, so self-assured and full of the determination she'd instilled within him, and thought perhaps for once it was his turn to teach her a little something about going after what she wanted.

It was more than enough—it was what she deserved.

It wasn't until exactly one month, 30 days before the fact, that Klavier realized he was marking the days on his calendar leading up to Kristoph's execution.

It wasn't the way the time had snuck up on him that surprised him—it was that he realized, in some way, he was anticipating it. He wondered briefly (and then not so briefly) if this made him a bad person.

He wasn't looking forward to it, exactly. Manipulative and murderous tendencies aside, a life-time of adoration and familial love were not something that could be easily scrubbed from one's bones—Kristoph's death, he knew, was not what he wanted. What he wanted was closure—what he wanted was the opportunity, after all this time, to finally move on. He wanted to heal.

Did that make him a monster? He didn't know what he was, except tired.

So very, very tired.

"I'm making spaghetti!" Apollo called from the kitchen when he heard the door open.

At least he had this, right? A warm meal and a warm person to share it with—it didn't fix the way he felt, but he knew it wasn't supposed to. It was just a small comfort, but he knew later on it would make all the difference. It made him feel a little better, at least. Klavier kicked his shoes off, then meticulously set them out of the way, neat and side by side, a compulsion that he didn't really have the energy for but did anyway out of habit.

"You look like shit," Apollo sounded slightly closer this time, and when Klavier looked up he saw Apollo's head poking around the corner, wooden spoon in hand.

"Rough day," he lied.

More like rough year.

Apollo bit his lip, "…you okay?"

Klavier thought about how to answer this. He didn't think he had the words yet to talk about it—but he also didn't want to shut Apollo out.

"No," he said simply.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"…Eventually."

Apollo seemed to consider something, but didn't press the issue, "Okay. Go lie on the sofa. I'm almost done with dinner."

Klavier did as advised, laid his head on a cushion, and felt soreness flood his neck muscles in the sudden absence of the effort needed to hold his head up. It had been that kind of day, it seemed, where it didn't hit him how tense he was being until he actually, finally tried to relax. He ached—ached all over, ached in places that weren't quite physical, tiredness to the point of being unable to sleep. He breathed deep and turned his head towards the soft sounds of rustling in the kitchen.

For a moment, everything else was quiet and still.

It took the far off ringing of Apollo's phone, wasn't until Apollo was sticking his head out again and going, "Really?" that it registered with him that he'd somehow taken his phone out and dialed the first number on his speed dial.

"Talk in to the phone, I want to pretend you're right next to me."

He half expected to be chastised for being silly, (I'm literally just in the other room you know), he pre-emptively heard Apollo's voice in his head, and then was a little sorry for putting words in the other man's mouth (even if just in the privacy of his thoughts) when Apollo really did flip his phone open and raised it to his ear.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, Mein Forehead."

"I really am almost done."

"Mmmmm," Klavier shut his eyes and let Apollo's voice become his whole world, "Don't mind me. How was your day?"

Sounds of water bubbling, Apollo tapping the wooden spoon against the rim of the pot, "Practiced a bit with Trucy, although it's really her and mom's show to be honest. I just move props around with Machi and then come out for a bit at the end to sing."

He genuinely laughed a little, "It's the assistant's job to be helpful and look pretty, isn't it? I think it suits you."

"I can't wait for you to see it!" Klavier could feel the warmth of Apollo's enthusiasm spread over him and it felt so good, "I'm really glad you helped me with my singing—mom was kind of impressed. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would've been to tell the Siren of the Ballad that her son was a screeching banshee?"

Even from across the apartment, Klavier could imagine the broad grin framed by flushed, excited cheeks, and he felt the urge to kiss his ever so endearing boyfriend rising, although it still didn't quite quell the hollow feeling it had to sift through on its way up. There was a sound of rushing water as Apollo drained the noodles, the hiss of steam somehow soothing—he liked the way an image of his boyfriend's face framed by mist and vapor sat in his mind. It was enough for the next couple of minutes to just listen and not speak; he just stared at the ceiling until he felt a soft nudge at his shoulder.

"You feeling up to eating, or am I going to have feed you?" Apollo set one of the plates on the coffee table with a clink, crouched down to speak closer.

Klavier didn't even need to look at his phone to hang up, just let it fall stiffly from his grip on to the couch beside him.

"Is that an offer?"

"You wish," Apollo scoffed, but the way he brushed Klavier's bangs aside was warm all the same.

Without ceremony, he shifted to sit down fully on the floor, knees up and balancing the plate of spaghetti he slurped from, "Still don't want to talk about it?"

They weren't quite eye level like this, but it still felt very personal and intimate enough, with Apollo's face so close to his.

He barely breathed, he was so tired, "Kristoph's execution is in a month."

The loud slurping stopped. Quietly, Apollo bit down on his noodles, set the fork down, and put the plate aside.

"I know."

His throat suddenly felt like it was closing up, and his breath grew shallow for a completely different reason, "I…"

Klavier Gavin did not cry. His eyes watered, he forced air in to his lungs with a gasp, and he covered his eyes with the back of his forearm, but he did not cry. There was a pressure on the back of his eyes, like going cross-eyed in the dark, and shit, shit, shit, not now, not here, not in front of Apollo, please, mein gott—

"Do you know if you want to be there or not?"

He swallowed, "Kristoph has refused his right to an audience."

"Would you have liked to be there?"

"What's less monstrous, that I want to watch a man be put to death, or that I want to leave my brother to die alone in his final moments?"

There was something clawing around in his chest, like steel wool all tangled and sharp, something nasty and confused and scared and spilling out of him in the form of words.

When the touch of Apollo's hand came, kind and unafraid, Klavier remembered to exhale.

He felt a little calmer, but only just so, "What I want…is for this to be over already. I don't want to have to make that decision—I shouldn't have to. It's better this way."

(What I want), he thought, (What I want is to go back and make myself not accept that stupid piece of forged evidence. I would've trusted myself better and not ignored the signs, I would've taken my brother and shaken him to his senses, I would've—)

"This is my fault."

Apollo, who had laid his head on the couch, sat up very straight, "It absolutely is not."

"I would rather it be my fault than accept that there was nothing I could've done to stop this."

Apollo stared at him.

"Then it's my fault too."

"No."

"It's my fault—"

"No."

"Listen you—you—you glimmerous fop," and then Apollo was hovering over him, hands on both sides of his face and looking at him as if daring him to look away, and Klavier had never felt so terrified or so loved, "If you're going to insist on taking the blame for this then don't be selfish, because my choices mattered too. I worked for him and I never saw him for what he was."

"But you did—you're the one who put him away."

"Only because Mr. Wright all but practically shoved the evidence for it in my face, and even then I didn't understand it all until the Misham case."

"You dragged that darkness out of me."

"And I couldn't have done it without you."

If getting hit with a ton of bricks felt good, Klavier imagined it might've felt the way he felt now, like the wind had gotten knocked in to him instead of out. The weight of Apollo as he pressed himself to Klavier's chest was almost just as heavy.

"The only case I ever won…is the only one that I wish I could take back. You have…Mr. Wright has every right to hate me."

"You were only seventeen," Apollo's voice echoed against his ribcage, "And Kristoph was a monster."

Klavier's hand found its way to the crown of his boyfriend's head, "I became a prosecutor for him and he hated me for it. I wanted so badly to stand across from him, as an equal, as a partner, and he never, not once—"

He felt Apollo's fingers clench around the fabric of his shirt, "You have me."

Apollo felt so small against him, curled around his chest, and yet somehow also larger than the sum of them both. Apollo was justice, and fire, and steel, all of these things wrapped around him like the eye of a protective storm. Klavier touched the backs of his fingers to Apollo's cheek, slow and deliberate.

There was a picture in the back of his mind, the first time he ever saw Apollo this close. The morning of Kristoph's first arrest, this was the face that had adorned the papers—this was the face of the man who had sparked his interest in returning to the courtroom. The photo the newspapers had ran had been grainy, zoomed in just beyond the camera's ability to capture him smoothly—it was nothing compared to the real thing in front of him now. This was the face that had signaled the rebirth of his law career, and the end of his relationship with Kristoph.

One month from now, that end would be final, but Apollo would still be here.

It wasn't quite the closure he yearned for, but he knew, looking at the way Apollo clung to him gently, that this was where it started.

"And to think, when all of this first started, I couldn't believe my luck. I thought I didn't deserve any of it," Apollo spoke quietly.

"And now?"

He just smiled softly, "I still don't."