Chapter Five

"Trucy?" Phoenix pushes his way through the curtain into Apollo's hospital room, blinking bleary eyes as he looks for his daughter.

Trucy is curled up on Apollo's bed, her fingers touching his chest just above where the bandages protect the incisions delineating where Miles' specialist worked hard to put all the remaining pieces back together into a functional whole. When Phoenix walks into the room, Trucy immediately sits up, face contorted in shame and guilt as she scrambles off the bed. The expression is quickly hidden away behind her usual gentle smile, but it slices through Phoenix's heart all the same.

(Does she realize this? Would she have let her true feelings show if it had been anyone else, or would she have flawlessly played the part of confused and contrite relative when the nurse inevitably yelled at her? Phoenix doesn't know. His daughter has learned misdirection and expectation management from too many people, himself included, and has excelled in all those lessons.)

"Trucy..." Phoenix sighs as he repeats her name, waiting for her to straighten her clothes.

"I was careful, Daddy." Trucy smooths her skirt, coming over and wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug. "Don't worry. I made sure I wasn't going to hurt anything."

Phoenix pulls her back in when Trucy would have moved away, wanting to hold her, to provide some comfort even if he knows it's going to be precious little. "I trust you not to hurt anything. But you aren't supposed to be here right now. You're supposed to be sleeping."

Trucy's jaw sets, a look of stubborn determination that she learned from... well, the list is far too long. Himself? Miles? Ema? Apollo? "Why? It's not like you're going to make me go to school tomorrow."

"No, I am not going to make you go to school tomorrow." He can only imagine the phone calls that would result from such a stupid action. "But if you don't sleep, you're going to get sick. And that's not something that's going to help anyone."

"I'm not going to get sick." Trucy's tone is more sulky than determined now.

Phoenix leans down so he and Trucy are closer to eye level. "Look, Edgeworth went to the trouble of getting us the rooms. We should actually use them for a little bit, yeah?"

Trucy shakes her head. "I don't want to leave them alone. Ema's got to watch the doorway, Gumshoe's sleeping like a rock, 'Thena was up until two and pretty much asleep on her feet when I sent her back to the rooms. Kay's out doing... stuff, Prosecutor DeBeste and Prosecutor Blackquill went to sleep in their own beds 'cause they've got case stuff to work on tomorrow, Uncle Miles is still out working..." Trucy throws her hands up in the air, having apparently gotten sick of counting off people. "That means I need to stay with them."

"You haven't slept at all." Phoenix rubs a hand over his eyes. "I've gotten a few hours. You go back to the rooms. Sleep for at least three hours. Then, if you want, you can come back and I'll go get us breakfast."

Trucy hesitates, and Phoenix studies his daughter with an expression of mock indignation. "What? Don't you think I'm as good at keeping people company as Gumshoe is?"

Trucy doesn't hesitate before shaking her head and smiling. "He's better company, but I guess it'll be okay if you watch them. You're at least more likely to talk than Uncle Miles."

"That is very true." Phoenix takes his daughter's hands in his. "So does this mean you'll go get some sleep?"

Trucy draws in a deep breath and heaves out an even deeper sigh. "I guess so. Though you promise you'll stay? And talk to them? And let them know we're here waiting?"

Phoenix nods. "I promise."

"And you won't leave them alone, and if something happens you'll call me right away and I'll be here before you can say race you." Trucy pulls away, moving back to Apollo's bed. "Here that, Polly? Soon as you're awake, I'm gonna be right here." Darting across the room, she wraps Klavier's hand in both hers and squeezes tight. "If you guys need us, we're all going to be right here."

Stepping reluctantly away from the bed, Trucy allows Klavier's hand to slide free of hers. His fingers fall limply to the sheets, still and lifeless.

Phoenix puts a hand on Trucy's shoulder as she walks by. "It's going to be all right, Trucy. I promise."

"I know, Daddy." Trucy offers him a tired smile, her eyes bloodshot and swollen as she looks up at him. "Things are going to be just fine."

She hugs him as she whispers Apollo's catch-phrase, making it hard for Phoenix to tell if there was bitterness in her voice or just exhaustion.

Then she's gone, ducking out through the curtain, and Phoenix sighs, eyes moving from one side of the room to the other.

There's really no question where he'll start, though.

There is a chair pulled up next to Apollo's bed, and Phoenix settles himself into it, feeling older than his years. "Hi there, Apollo. It's, ah... it's been a day."

Apollo's breathing seems to be faster and harsher than it was earlier in the evening—well, yesterday. Yesterday by several hours now, and Phoenix rubs a hand over his eyes again. There aren't any alarms going off, though, and the nurses haven't said anything about there being a problem, so probably it's all right? Hopefully it's all right. "You know, if you wanted a salary renegotiation or some days off, we could have talked about it. Actually, no, you probably would have spent all day chasing me around while I dodged the issue, but..."

Apollo continues to breathe, a steady, determined movement of his chest.

"I, uh..." Phoenix looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I don't think I've been very fair to you. When we first met, I... wasn't in the best place in the world. I kind of fucked up. A lot. But you always just... rolled with it. When I needed you—when justice needed you—you've never backed down. You were a little rough around the edges, but you had the fire. The drive. The smarts. And maybe I took some of that for granted. Maybe I haven't told you how amazing your work is, and how much I appreciate everything you've done for me and for Trucy. If I did, I'm sorry. I never...

"There are some things I haven't told you. Things you really deserve to know." Phoenix reaches out slowly, allowing his fingertips to rest against Apollo's wrist. "I promise, if you wake up, I'm going to tell you. I'm not going to keep secrets anymore, for both our sakes."

Apollo just continues to breathe, and is that a little frown of concentration on his face? A little wrinkle on his brow like when he's desperately thinking in court? Or is that just wishful thinking?

"If I've never said it, let me say it now." Phoenix shifts his hand, his fingers brushing over Apollo's forehead—over where the surgical staff washed out the gel holding his horns up, so that the hair sits flat and soft against his head. "You're the best and brightest protege I ever could have asked for, Apollo. And Trucy and Athena and I are going to be waiting for as long as it takes to get you back."

Apollo's eyes move under their lids, a definite twitch up and then to the side. Is he dreaming? If he is, hopefully it's a good dream. (If he is, does it mean that there has been no brain damage due to poor oxygenation, as the thoracic surgeon had worried there might be?)

When there's no further movement after sixty seconds, Phoenix sighs and turns away, to the other bed.

"Gavin." Phoenix's steps are heavy as he walks to Klavier's side, his chest feeling too tight. "I have never, ever wanted this, you know. Even after..."

Phoenix has to stop, to close his eyes and give himself a moment to breathe, even though every breath tastes of hospital sterility.

He and Klavier have talked since... everything. He and Klavier have had some decent times, even. The last Christmas party was... not a disaster. (Given that the Phantom case had ended not two weeks before Christmas, asking it to not be a disaster when Apollo was grieving, Athena still recovering, was about as much as they could hope for.) Klavier has apologized, and Phoenix has forgiven him.

Forgiven him for helping his brother. Forgiven him for loving his brother, even after all Kristoph had done. And though thinking of the days right after he lost his badge still hurts—will never not hurt—Phoenix would desperately like for them to both put it behind them.

"I don't want you to die like this, Klavier Gavin. I've never wanted you to die, not really. You've been trying your hardest in a system that seems to be brutally efficient at breaking down any sense of morality a person has. You care about finding the right culprit. About keeping people safe. About seeing justice. And this..." Phoenix waves a hand bitterly. "We can't let them win. We can't let them just eliminate everyone who's trying to stand in their way."

He is breathing heavily again, remembering how Miles has looked all day—distant, angry, hurt.

Klavier's fingers are still pointing upward, and Phoenix places his hand over them, holding tight as Trucy had. "So please. For Trucy. For Edgeworth. For Apollo. For me. Fight your way through this."

There is a definite twitch of Klavier's fingers against his, and Klavier's breath stutters in his throat—an attempt at speaking?

If it is, it's not repeated, and after a few seconds Phoenix lets go.

Moving the chair into the center of the room, between the two beds, Phoenix pulls out his phone. "So, since Trucy wants me to keep talking for a few hours and I am not that interesting a speaker, we're going to see what I can find. Or see if I can actually find anything to read to you. Trucy swears that I can get onto the Internet via this thing—though I guess I'm not supposed to with all the medical equipment. Oh, well. Edgeworth says that he put books on it through some kind of Swindle app, but last time I tried to find either the internet or the books Athena had to save my phone. It took me an hour to convince her to give it back. So you might just end up listening to me talk about how I'm trying to find the things that might actually be interesting..."

XXX

Apollo climbs his way out of the darkness, and for a moment he thinks he's made it out of the labyrinth. He can taste something in his throat, a dry, tingling feeling that reminds him of both times he was hospitalized during the Phantom case. He can feel something sitting over his face. His chest burns, each breath aching, throbbing lines seeming to bisect his upper body.

But when he lifts a hand to his face, there is nothing actually there; when he blinks his vision into focus against the glare of the lights, it isn't a hospital that he can see.

He's standing in court, poised behind the defense's bench.

And across from him is Klavier Gavin, looking just as confused and disoriented and pained as Apollo feels.

Apollo doesn't think before acting. He simply launches himself towards Klavier, first attempting to scramble over the bench and then, when that proves to be a terrible idea, running around it.

Klavier's eyes focus on him, track his movement, and before Apollo has gone more than three steps Klavier is moving, too, coming to meet him.

It feels strange to be standing in the center of the courtroom, where no one is supposed to go. The whole day has been a series of strange events, though, and if this is really Klavier...

"He..." Klavier trails off after the first muttered syllable, his right hand moving to his head.

"Hey." Apollo isn't sure exactly what Klavier had been intending to say—was that the start of an annoying Herr Forehead, a more formal Herr Justice, an attempt at the personal pronoun he? "Is this, uh... this..." Speaking is surprisingly hard when your chest doesn't seem to want to work well, but Apollo's going to manage it. "Really you?"

Klavier nods, and his hand reaches out, crosses the invisible barrier separating the defense's half of the court from the prosecution's.

Apollo reaches out, too, half-expecting to feel resistance, some kind of invisible force-field, but his hand is able to easily grasp Klavier's. "Are you... okay?"

Klavier hesitates and then gives his head a shake. He points hesitantly at Apollo.

Apollo's right hand rises to touch his chest. "I think... I'm going to... regret waking up. For a while. But I'll... be fine."

A small, fond smile turns the corners of Klavier's mouth up.

"That's a..." Apollo finds himself swaying on his feet, and adjusts his stance. Trying to deepen his breathing just makes his chest hurt more, and he finds himself leaning forward, using a hold on Klavier's new trench-coat to keep himself upright. "Nice... jacket."

"Da... nks." Klavier shifts, taking a better hold of Apollo with his right hand. When he seems certain Apollo is stable, he reaches up with his left hand to touch the brim of Apollo's borrowed hat. "Wunder..."

"Yeah." Apollo reaches up to touch the brim, smiling as he does. "This whole thing has been... really weird and I can't wait... for it to be done, but... some parts... were nice."

"Ver... zei... hung." Klavier speaks slowly, as though each syllable costs him.

Apollo frowns. "I still don't speak German."

Klavier's eyes widen, and Apollo tightens his grip on the other man, watching in confusion as Klavier's whole expression seems to crumple in frustration and fear.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. It's fine." Apollo's not sure exactly what he's saying is fine, but whatever it is, they will make it fine.

"I'm... sorry." Klavier lifts a hand to his temple again, pressing hard. His whole body is shaking with the effort of... what? Speaking? "You're... hurt."

And maybe Apollo shouldn't be so surprised that speaking can be hard, because his own voice seems to want to get lost in the fight for breath. "Not... your fault."

Klavier opens his mouth, stutters out a few syllables that don't seem to actually form words in either of his languages, and then just pulls Apollo into a full-body hug.

Apollo stiffens, temporarily at a loss for what to do—for how to react.

Then he feels Klavier trembling, a tiny but unmistakable shiver, and he hugs him back just as tightly. "We're close. We'll go... together. Follow... the threads. We'll be... just fine."

Klavier doesn't try to speak, just nods, holding Apollo a little tighter before breaking the embrace and stepping back. He doesn't let go of Apollo, though, providing him the support that he needs to stay stable.

Someone begins clapping, a slow, mocking echo of sound throughout the courtroom.

Apollo whirls to face the judge's bench, one hand pressed hard to his chest as pain flares brighter. He doesn't recognize the man sitting with his legs up on the bench. The new enemy is wearing red leathers, but there are prosecutors' badges pinned to the left breast of his jacket.

The left side of the man's face is a mess of blood and gore, his eye no longer sitting quite right in the socket. The clapping man doesn't seem to notice as he smiles down at them indulgently.

"Such a pretty show." The man shifts, allowing his legs to drop down beneath the judge's bench, leaning both elbows on the wood. "So touching. Brings a tear to my eye." Lifting his right hand to his good eye, the man flicks away a drop of liquid.

Klavier recognizes the man. Apollo can tell from the way he watches him, wary but also resigned.

They're so close. They're so damn close, and Apollo isn't going to let anyone stand in their way. He tries to listen for the next thread even as he watches their enemy with minute attention, waiting for the muscle tick that will give away impending attack. Drawing as deep a breath as he can, gagging on the taste of blood and the flare of fire through his chest, Apollo snarls out his response in as loud a voice as he can manage. (It isn't loud or impressive, but he tried, and he'll work with what he has.) "Who... the fuck... are you?"

The man seems to contemplate his answer for two, perhaps three seconds. Then he smiles. "Your death and damnation."

That's all the warning he gives before attacking. His right thumb flips down, the motion of someone fiddling with a lighter. Apollo starts to move, Klavier following his lead a millisecond later.

Fire blooms out from the man's hand, and Apollo watches it come, already knowing they're too late. They weren't fast enough. They're too hampered by their connection to their bodies, by the injuries they've taken. They're going to get burned.

A jangling series of notes fills the air, and suddenly there is someone between the fire and them.

No, not one person—two. One is someone Apollo hasn't met yet, a man with his hair tied up in a strange little queue at the back. He is wearing a grey suit jacket, and the remnants of a half-charred scarf dangle from around his neck. Half-charred is a good description of the whole man, actually, clothing and skin both looking like they've been through a bonfire. He catches the ball of fire that the crazy prosecutor has tossed at them, deflecting it to the left, where it consumes the defense's bench in cheery orange flames.

The other man who appears is the musician Apollo met—the one who told him to bring a message to his mother. He smiles at Apollo and tilts his head down, hat shading his features as he continues to play. Blood stains his shirt in several places. Apparently his battle with Daryan wasn't as simple a victory as Apollo had hoped.

"Byrne." Red-leather is standing at the prosecutor's bench, hatred shining from his good eye. "Get out of the way."

"Never." Byrne turns just enough to give Apollo and Klavier a wink. "Carry on, boys. Ignore us over here."

Apollo wants to protest. He wants to turn to the musician and demand a name, an explanation.

But he needs to get home.

He needs to live.

So he accepts the assistance they're offering him. He turns away from the battle, eyes scanning frantically for their next thread. He allows the music that is playing to drown out the sounds of burning, the screech of a giant bird, and he listens—

—stupid thing seems to think I have a password—

Apollo grins. That is most definitely his boss, the frustrated, quick patter of words an indication that he's fighting with something mechanical. He turns to the sound, and finds himself facing the courtroom doors.

Klavier turns with him, continues to offer him support as Apollo's breath rattles and wheezes in his throat.

Together they head for the exit.

—ah, here we go. We have a scintillating choice of "Remedial Trial Law", "Les Miserables", and "Crime and Punishment". Jesus, Edgeworth—

The words get louder the closer they get to the door, but the pain also intensifies, and Apollo finds himself clutching at his chest, just barely resisting the urge to claw at his clothes in an attempt to make the pain stop.

Klavier begins to sway, just a little, his steps no longer quite so certain. His eyes have lost their focus, his attention drifting from the door to the other combatants that have appeared in the room. Apollo digs his fingernails into Klavier's shoulder when the man tries to stop, transfixed by Daryan once more dueling musically with Apollo's stranger.

They're close. They're going to make it, even if it means punching every damned evil ghost here in the face.

They don't have to, though. All they have to do is keep walking, because Metis Cykes is directing an army of flower-robots against Aristotle Means; Constance Courte is having some kind of light versus lightning duel with Manfred von Karma; Clay is grinning and waving him forward, and—

They're so close. Just three or four steps, but Dahlia Hawthorne is suddenly occupying that space, her face transformed into a demonic visage that makes Apollo wish he had one of Jinxie's charms. She reaches out, hair and hands in tandem.

Klavier shoves Apollo to the side—shoves him forward, around Dahlia, so that his shoulder slams painfully against the closed door, the spike of pain making him forget how to breathe.

—Apollo?—

Mr. Wright's voice is a thunderclap, filling the space around them, drawing Apollo's attention unerringly to the door.

—Apollo, can you hear me? If you can hear me—

He can hear.

He can feel, the weight of a hand against his cheek, the cold rush of pure oxygen past his nose and mouth.

He can hear, the beeps and blips of medical equipment still far too familiar from the Phantom case.

He doesn't have to open the door. It opens on its own, swinging away from him, and Apollo tumbles forward into darkness.

Into his own body, disoriented and damaged, but that's not going to stop him from doing what he needs to do.

XXX

"Apollo?" Phoenix slides his phone into his pocket, moving over to Apollo's bedside. Apollo's breathing his become steadily less... well, steady. There still aren't any alarms going off, but Phoenix can see and hear the difference in the ragged breathing. Apollo's eyes move frantically under his eyelids, and Phoenix reaches out slowly to touch his protege's face. "Apollo, can you hear me? If you can hear me—"

Apollo's eyes fly open, and he gasps in a sharp, ragged breath that quickly becomes the most painful, debilitating attempt at coughing Phoenix has ever seen. Alarms start blaring, and Phoenix glances frantically around at the medical equipment, not sure which ones are going off.

Athena ducks through the curtain and into the room. "What happened? Ema's making sure the nurses are coming, but—"

"K—" Apollo's fingers twitch towards Phoenix, his eyes frantic even as tears stream down his face and each breath seems like a paroxysm. His lips continue to move, but Phoenix can't hear anything more.

"Klavier?" Athena clearly can, and her eyes flick from Apollo to Klavier. "He's right here, 'Pollo. He's—"

A second set of alarms begins blaring, from the other side of the room, and Phoenix takes a step back, already pressing himself against the wall and out of the way.

Nurses begin pouring into the room—one, two, three, four—each looking harried.

Ema had to check them out, make sure they were okay. Phoenix's stomach seems to twist on itself.

The doctor on duty follows the nurses. She isn't one of Miles' specialists, and she looks about as tired as Phoenix feels. Her eyes flick over the readings surrounding Apollo. "Catherine, get him to calm down and stop coughing. Sedate if you need to."

Then she turns her full attention to Klavier's bed, her lips pursing. "I need mannitol and atropine stat, and get our visiting neurologist on the line."

Athena turns ghost-white, her hands moving to cover her ears.

The doctor turns at Athena's gesture. "Visitors out. Now."

Apollo has managed to lift his hand to his face, is pawing ineffectually at the oxygen mask while one of the nurses attempts to sit on him without compacting his chest.

Athena's eyes move to Apollo, her lips turning down into a frown. "Klavier? Call Klavier? He's right here, Apollo. He's safe. He's..."

Athena's words trail off, her pale face somehow becoming even paler. (They can't say either of them is fine, not right now, though the word lingers there on the edge of awareness.)

Apollo's frantic pawing at his mask had stilled when Athena said Klavier's name, his eyes staring in Athena's direction, though Phoenix is fairly certain Apollo can't actually see much around the nurses swarming over him. When Athena says Klavier's right here, Apollo's head moves in a limp, pained shake, and he begins fighting with the mask again. His lips continue to move, blue and soundless, his chest heaving with the effort of each breath.

"Klavier needs..." Athena shakes her head, tears filling her eyes again. "Apollo, you're confused, just let—"

The nurses who aren't fighting with Apollo begin converging on Phoenix and Athena, herding them towards the door. There isn't much time left to act—to try to make Apollo relax.

Drawing in a deep breath, Phoenix projects his voice as though they were in court, as though this were his final decisive piece of evidence. "Klavier Gavin, if you have any say in whether you survive this or not, then you keep breathing. You come back to us. For Trucy. For Miles. And Apollo. And for me."

(If only one of them is going to make it, Phoenix would choose Apollo a thousand times over Klavier Gavin. The knowledge is there like a hot weight in his chest, but it doesn't change what he would do.)

"Klavier, please." Athena's voice cracks, and there are tears starting to stream down her face. "Please, you have so many people here waiting for you—"

Then a nurse who might as well have been a linebacker is standing in front of them, one firm hand on Phoenix's shoulder, one on Athena's. They don't fight as they're steered out through the curtain, deposited next to a rigid, stone-faced Ema.

Disturbing the doctors at work isn't going to help either of their patients, so Phoenix puts an arm around Athena's shoulder, holds out a hand for Ema to take, and hopes with all his heart that they've done enough.

XXX

Hands reach for his throat, squeezing tight; hair wraps around his wrists, slashing and binding.

Klavier doesn't fight. He's not sure he could if he wanted to, his sense of the world feeling distant, off-kilter.

He's done what he needed to do. He's seen Apollo home. Whatever happens next doesn't matter.

"That's it?" Dahlia leans forward, her breath a cold hiss against his face. "No more struggling?"

Does she expect him to reply in words? If so, she's going to be waiting a long time, because words seem to have escaped him completely. He hums out a few notes for her, smiling benignly. If she expects him to be afraid, she's going to be sorely disappointed.

"Coward. Faithless, feckless man." Dahlia's hands tighten, her hair wrenching his arms out to the side.

And Clay Terran punches her square in the jaw.

If Dahlia feels any pain, it doesn't show on her face as she turns to the astronaut, mouth opening impossibly wide to bring forth a torrent of ear-rending sound. Clay falters, his right foot sliding back, his fist lowering just slightly.

A dark red tie loops itself around Dahlia's neck from behind, instantly pulling taut.

Dahlia's hands release Klavier's neck, moving to claw at the garrote around her own throat. The material of the tie seems unnaturally sharp and stiff, digging into Dahlia's flesh with grim persistence as Gregory Edgeworth pulls on the ends. "Let. Him. Go."

Another shriek of outrage echoes out from Dahlia, drowning out the sound of Daryan and another unknown musician. "Mine. He's mine. I will devour his soul and sing in his voice in Phoenix's dreams and wait for his friends and—"

A sword of fire slices through the hair entwining Klavier's right wrist. Mia Fey looks somewhat the worse for wear, her hair hanging in limp strands around her face, her suit torn and bloodied.

Dahlia screams again, and this time there is pain in the sound.

"Cousin." Mia snarls out the family relationship. "Dearest cousin. You are not going to win here today. Not even if I have to cut you limb from limb, a task I think I would enjoy."

Another slice of the sword burning in Mia's hands, and the hair entangling Klavier's left wrist is also severed. It continues to stick to him, writhing, attempting to slide its way up under the sleeve of Gregory's jacket.

The jacket sleeves constrict down tight against Klavier's skin, leaving no entrance for the grasping strands—ejecting those pieces that have managed to worm their way up.

Klavier looks down at his bloody wrists, at the hair now twining itself into knots on the courtroom floor. How did he come to be sitting down here? What's he supposed to do now?

"Come on." Clay's voice is strong, sturdy, certain—reminds Klavier immediately of Apollo as Clay loops a hand under Klavier's shoulder and tugs. "Where's your door home?"

"Home..." Klavier hesitates, then reaches for the door that Apollo stumbled through minutes before. All Apollo had done was touch it, and he disappeared in a flash of light, tumbling out of reach.

When Klavier touches the door, nothing happens.

"You have to want it, son." Gregory still has his tie wrapped around Dahlia's neck, is hanging on for dear life as Dahlia and Mia duel.

Mia's cheek is bleeding, and her sword drips some kind of green-black ichor onto the ground from where she has injured Dahlia. "Reach for your threads, Gavin. You know how to do this."

Klavier closes his eyes, but all he can hear is the crescendoing battles surrounding him. Those notes are Daryan's—he would recognize them anywhere. That laugh is Manfred von Karma. That crackle is something burning because Sebastian was right, the monsters never really go away—

"Klavier." Clay has a hand on each of Klavier's shoulders. "He told me about you. About how one thing he has to admire is how you don't run away from a situation, even when it's terrible. Even when it's going to be hard or it's going to hurt."

Klavier moves his hands so that they cover Clay's, the astronaut's skin feeling far too real.

"You won't be alone." Gregory's voice is still calm, somehow. "You're both taking a bit of us with you."

"And we'll be there when you need us." Courte turns away from von Karma, a shield of red burning at her back as she faces Klavier.

"So go on, rock star." Clay hugs him tight, an unexpected embrace. "Find your way home."

This time when Klavier closes his eyes, he is able to reach past the clash and clutter of the battle. He is able to feel his heart, beating too slow in his chest; see a flash of light, a glimpse of faces far away.

—Come back to us—

—So many people here waiting for you—

This time when he reaches out to touch the door, it swings open under his hand, and Klavier falls forward into all-encompassing darkness, hoping that those he's leaving behind will hear the silent thank you inherent in his actions.

XXX

Apollo forces himself to sit still while the nurse takes his temperature, asks how his pain threshold is, changes his IV bag, and assesses the bandages over his chest incisions for what feels like the six thousandth time.

(They don't change his bandages this time. He is grateful for that. He doesn't like to see the mess of sutures and surgical staples that are holding him together.)

When the nurse has left, Apollo spends about five minutes sorting out all the lines that are leading to him. Some he will have to take with him—thankfully both the fluids and the pain medication are on the same pole (finally they have found one that doesn't make him violently nauseous and disoriented). Some of the machines he will have to switch off, but he's gotten fairly familiar with them all over the last forty-eight hours, and he thinks he'll be able to manage without hurting anything.

Sitting up in bed, he carefully swings his legs over the side. Reaching out with his right hand, he grimaces and has to spend about three minutes just breathing while the pain in his chest spikes and diminishes again. Once he's certain he can reach out without crying, he does so, pulling the curtain that has been used to provide him some privacy open.

Of course I got the half of the room without a window. Apollo carefully, slowly, settles his weight onto his feet. Once he's standing, he has to pull the supplemental oxygen mask on for about two minutes before he feels confident in his ability to make it to his destination.

Eight feet.

He just wants to cross eight feet and open two freaking curtains, and it's going to take him a half hour and probably all of his stamina for the day.

That's all right. He's going to do this, and do it today.

Every step is agony. Every breath is torture, rocks grating together in his chest, and by the time he is pulling the curtain open around Klavier's bed he's light-headed.

There is a window on Klavier's side of the room. It had been kept shaded and closed until this morning, but apparently Prosecutor Edgeworth thinks the likelihood of them getting shot again has gone down to the point where a little natural sunlight is permissible. Of course that sunlight doesn't actually reach Apollo on his little side of their island, but hey, it's nice to know it's there.

It's nicer to actually see it, and if he weren't in danger of collapsing he would stand for a few minutes just soaking it in. As it is, he spares a happy glance at the window, gasps in another few ragged breaths, and heaves himself up onto the side of Klavier's bed.

It's a good thing that Klavier moves over, because Apollo would be sitting on the floor if he hadn't.

For several seconds all Apollo can do is tilt his head back, opening his airway as much as possible, and gasp in atmosphere that feels very, very oxygen-poor right now. While he's busy doing this Klavier's hand moves to the call button on the side of the bed, and Apollo has to mewl out a negation because he can't move his head enough to shake it without risk of passing out.

Klavier listens to him, at least. He doesn't actually put the button down, but he also doesn't press it, and after a minute or so Apollo is able to breathe well enough to relax into a more normal position.

Klavier looks terrible. There's really no other way to put it. His face is swollen, fading bruises in an array of yellow and purple overriding his natural complexion. There isn't any hair on his head, though at least that fact's mostly covered by the white bandages that are still swathing where they cut his skull open.

He studies Apollo with open, worried frankness until he notices Apollo is studying him back. Then he looks away, his body turning so that Apollo can't see much more than hospital gown and bandages.

Apollo would sigh, but that would be painful and waste too much breath. Instead he reaches out and takes Klavier's left hand in his, being careful of all the medical lines coming off each of them. Giving Klavier's hand a little squeeze, he waits for the prosecutor to turn and look at him again.

It's a long wait, but Apollo is definitely not making the trek back to his own bed anytime soon. (He might not be able to make the trek to his own bed, and he hates the idea of having to wait here for one of the nurses to carry him back like a child. He is so helpless right now.)

Eventually Klavier turns to face him, offering a strained, slightly lopsided version of his normal smile.

"Hi..." Apollo gasps out the breathless whisper, and then spends a good ten seconds after he says it trying not to hyperventilate. If he hyperventilates, he will almost certainly pass out. (He can't talk. He can't walk. He can't do anything, and though Mr. Wright and Athena and Trucy keep telling him it's going to be all right, it's very hard to believe them right now.)

Klavier closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip. Then he lifts his right hand, forming a tentative thumb's up.

When Klavier opens his eyes Apollo returns the gesture. "Though you... should try... talking. Neurologist... said..."

Klavier turns away again, his eyes closing once more.

There is silence between them for twenty, thirty seconds, Apollo's rasping, pained breathing the only noise in the room.

"You're... right." Apollo allows his head to settle back on Klavier's pillow, since Klavier seems to be doing better at the whole sitting-up thing than he is right now. "Screw... them. Don't know... how hard..."

He can't do it. He can't keep talking. He's going to drown on dry land if he keeps trying, his body unable to handle basic life functions anymore.

Klavier is leaning over him, frowning in concern. He squeezes Apollo's hand once.

Apollo squeezes back twice, trying to convey that he's really quite fine and there's no need to bring in the cavalry. Apparently after fifteen or twenty seconds he starts looking more fine, because Klavier sighs and settles back to look out the window.

"Do you... remember..." Apparently there is something very broken in Apollo's self-preservation instincts, because he's definitely going to try talking again.

Klavier turns to him once more, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"There was..." Apollo pauses, and not just because the sound of his agonized voice and the pain in his chest have made speaking difficult. He has a lot of memories from the last three days that don't actually make sense, and he's not sure how to go about describing them. "Labyrinth...?"

The final word is a whisper so quiet Apollo doesn't think Klavier will have been able to understand it.

Except Klavier is sitting up ramrod straight, his eyes bright with emotion as he stares down at Apollo.

"I... thought..." Apollo hesitates, his voice cracking. There is one name that wants to come charging to the fore, but saying it seems unfair. "Was it... do you... remember?"

For a moment Apollo doesn't think Klavier understands—whether that's doesn't understand the words or doesn't understand what he's referring to, Apollo couldn't say, but both options are terrifying.

Then Klavier smiles again, a more honest smile, and reaches towards Apollo's head. He adjusts a hat that isn't actually there and makes an okay sign with his right hand.

Apollo lifts a hand to his head and smiles in return, though stupid tears are burning at his eyes. If Klavier remembers, then at least some of it was real, right? He really did see Clay.

And if that part was real, then maybe...

"I've..." Apollo has to be careful not to let emotion control his breathing if he wants to be able to talk, even using the broken, soft little voice that's been left to him by his injuries. "Been seeing... him. I think. In my... dreams."

Klavier hesitates and then gives a brief nod, adjusting the collar of a jacket that isn't there.

Apollo's hand clenches into a fist, but he keeps the word speak locked behind his teeth. Attempting to talk and communicate has been driving him crazy, and the only thing wrong with his words is the fact that his chest doesn't want to cooperate to form them. "You... too?"

Klavier nods, studying his hands.

"We're not..." Apollo forces his left hand to rise, swings his fingers in a circle by his shoulder since he can't quite get them up by his head head, though the motion still burns lines of pain through his chest.

Klavier points at himself and shakes his head; then he points at Apollo and spreads his hands in a clear who knows? gesture.

Apollo raises his hand to the pillow, fully intent on hitting Klavier with it. The gesture is aborted halfway through because attempting to raise his hand above his shoulder is a terrible idea, and he spends a half minute just forcing himself to breathe instead of whimper.

Klavier's fingers rub carefully at Apollo's shoulder, fingertips just barely grazing the skin. It would infuriate Apollo if it weren't about as much pressure as the sensitive skin of his chest can take, even so far removed from where the incisions criss-cross him like dark train tracks.

"Will you..." Apollo holds out his hand, not quite stupid enough to try reaching up to grab Klavier's hand.

After several seconds Klavier's fingers slide into Apollo's, holding on tight again.

"I know... you hate... trying to talk." Apollo squeezes Klavier's hand. "But would... you mind... trying my... name?"

A flash of visceral loathing passes across Klavier's face, and Apollo is afraid he's said something wrong. If he made Klavier upset, they're going to have a very long and awkward wait until someone comes to help Apollo back over to his bed. Or Apollo could try walking over, he supposes, and see how far he gets before collapsing in an ignominious heap that Klavier will have to call in assistance for.

Then Klavier moves his free hand, finger pointing from his throat up to his head and back to his throat.

"Yeah." Apollo nods. "I... noticed. Just like... I'm sure... you've heard... my pulmonologist."

After a few seconds Klavier gives a reluctant nod.

"I'll probably... never have... the same lung... capacity." Apollo can feel sweat dripping down his face, pooling under his neck as the effort of speaking and breathing catches up to him. "But I... won't stop... fighting. And neither... will you."

For a moment Apollo thinks Klavier is going to argue with him. Or possibly just pull his hand free and turn toward the window.

Instead Klavier closes his eyes, his face contorting with effort. "A... port..." He trails off, giving his head a little shake as he opens his eyes.

"Apollo." That wasn't the name that Apollo had thought Klavier would attempt, though maybe it makes sense. Herr Forehead includes too many syllables and languages. "Is that... what you're trying... to say?"

Klavier shrugs, looking away.

"I know... it's not... the same. But I..." Apollo has to stop, trying not to gasp like a landed fish. "I can't... speak well... either. And I... want us both... to get better. To get... back in court. So... please?"

Drawing in a long, slow breath, Klavier studies his hands. "A... poll..."

Apollo takes Klavier's hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze. The name is still garbled, the syllables a mushy mish-mash of two languages that Klavier seems to have no control over anymore. But it's clear enough what they are. "Yeah?"

Klavier shakes his head, mouth contorting with frustration as his free hand slashes down.

Apollo frowns. "You're not... happy?"

Klavier points at his neck, then his head, then Apollo's neck, before opening his hand in a gesture Apollo can't read.

"I'm sorry... I can't..."

He can't even say your name, little wolverine. Clay's voice is a whispered thread, drowned out by the sound of Apollo's harsh breathing. How do you think that makes him feel?

"I can't... walk across... a tiny room." Apollo's eyes burn again, his soft voice made hoarse and almost incomprehensible. "Or speak... above a... whisper."

Klavier's eyes bore into his, and there is anger and frustration in them, coating a burning despair.

"Not... the same. But... doctors say... we'll both get... better." Apollo squeezes Klavier's hand hard. "We won't... let them win. We won't... be silenced."

Gathering as much air into his lungs as he can—and it is a pitiable amount, his chest burning and aching as soon as he does anything—Apollo lets it out in a hoarse scream. The cry likely doesn't even reach the door, and it triggers a coughing fit that sees stars dancing before Apollo's eyes, tears running freely from them as he tries to remember how to breathe.

"Verdam." Klavier holds his shoulders, muttering out syllables that sometimes almost make words. "Pol-lo. Bre."

Apollo laughs, which is almost as bad as coughing, but smiling feels too good for him to stop. "That's... it. Yell... at me."

Klavier rolls his eyes, and his right hand slides across Apollo's forehead, pushing the loose strands of hair together into a semblance of their usual horns. "Fe?"

There are notes playing just on the edge of Apollo's hearing, a guitar that sounds nothing like Daryan's or Klavier's.

"That's right." Apollo reaches out to grasp the collar of Klavier's hospital gown. "We're gonna... be just... fine."

He thinks Klavier mutters something along with him, and maybe, just maybe, there are other voices just over the edge of hearing.

Klavier settles down next to him after that, and Apollo spends a few minutes just soaking in the sunlight and remembering how his lungs are supposed to work.

Then he starts making comments, goading as many answers out of Klavier as he can manage. It's probably the saddest, strangest, most incomprehensible conversation anyone's ever heard, but Apollo doesn't care.

They're alive.

The people who did this to them are likely going to regret ever being born by the time Edgeworth's done with them.

They have people who care about them. Athena and Trucy, Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth, Ema and Gumshoe, Kay and Sebastian—their little ward has seen what seems to be a near-constant stream of visitors. Apollo wouldn't have believed it, a week ago. (He still doesn't believe it, sometimes, but the evidence is there before his eyes, and slowly that is eroding away his certainty that their assistance must all be a dream.)

No matter how much time it takes them, they are both going to be fine, because Apollo's not going to settle for anything less.