Work Text:
"You're paranoid, Justice. When have I ever done anything to harm you, hmm?"
Dropping. Vera Misham, ensanguined, dying - no, dead already - a husk. So vivid, her lifeless corpse crawling into the memory, seeping like the poison laced in her nails into his conscious. Nails. She's scratching at him. Out of the memory, please, she's screaming, melting into him, becoming the soft tears on his cheek. Why is everything so loud? Why can't he hear the words pouring out of his mouth? Where is he?
"Sir, I remember it, it feels so real, it-"
Klavier. He's here, somehow, part of him lingers in the small touch on his shoulder, a silent embrace that's too far away, much too far compared to what he yearns for. Cold winter nights spent with that lingering, gentle touch on his shoulder. Like he's fragile, going to run, all too familiar. It's so Gavin. A soft smile, steely blue eyes and a drill of blonde hair. He's here, in him, and right now he needs that. Gavin. He's sold his soul to that name, and he's not even sure if he regrets it.
"Apollo."
Zak Gramarye. Trucy. Oh God, Trucy. She's untouchable, sent by the Holy Mother or something, he can't think of her while he's this high on this memory. The way he says his name. Not Justice. Apollo. The name he chose for himself. It's the first time he truly feels like a man. Trucy doesn't deserve to be irradiated by him or this feeling. She needs to stay very far away.
"S... Sir? I'm sorry for crying, I know it's pathetic. I just-"
"Hush, now."
He swore he could remember it. But Mr. Gavin would tell him if it wasn't all just a terrible dream made up by his delusional, awful mind. He's surprised he hasn't abandoned him like everybody else. He's surprised Mr. Gavin, as smart as he can be, is around someone like him. At least that's what the memory tells him was surging through his head at that moment. Who knows what the truth was? Not him, for sure. Mr. Gavin always let him know when he'd misremembered events. Without him, he can't trust his memory. He supposes he trusts Klavier for that now.
The truth has killed him. He is nothing but prey to it, scarred, bloody heaving chunks bitten out of his decomposing mind as a result of its looming fangs. No matter how hard he tries, he can't let go. Everything is good for him now. Yet, he still can't stop thinking. He remains, parasitic and powerful, constricting his thought process and never letting him breathe.
Mr. Gavin said he must be very talented indeed to have done what he did. And he must be, considering how he has to know the effect he's had on him. He has to have seen the Court Record, of when he quoted his exact words, mimicking his great mentor perfectly. If Apollo could actually do that, though, mimic him, he might have been worth something. Mr. Gavin might have told him he was proud of him.
He can't think about that now.
Present Day
-
Apollo can feel the pull of the deep end, the enticing nothingness of drowning. Full lungs, full ears, full everything. Whole. Thumps echoing across his whole body.
There are few times he has felt alive and whole, all triggered by that sweet sensation of submerging himself in the deep end. He realises he needs to do that again. He can't go on feeling this hollow, the thoughts plaguing him: ruminating and infecting his psyche, ego-dystonic leeches, his therapist called them. Kristoph is the embodiment of his thoughts. A tempting relapse. He is nothing but a slave to his own voice repeating words into his feeble mind.
Taunting him to come back, to kill the part of Kristoph living inside him. Then, he promises himself, he can be good.
The words are all the same, the thoughts are nothing new. The sentences are simple, irrational and short. The way he likes them. Too complex, and that's Kristoph's territory. He likes to feel like prey to those thoughts, running forever against a backdrop of turmoil. It's better than the darkness of control.
Control feels suffocatingly like him, it makes him powerful, it makes him real. Apollo thinks of bandages and desperate accusations and knows he cannot be in control.
The truth is he'd rather die by Kristoph's words, or hands, than do that again.
Taking in his surroundings, he's starting to realise his mind meant that literally. It's sort of funny that this is the one time it's him misunderstanding his literal mind, and not anybody else. He doesn't remember, just like back then, how he got here: an odd wave of comfort washes over him.
Cold, grey, melancholy. The stench of suffering.
A dead bee stretches out underneath his snowy boots, no chance for survival in this cruel, apathetic winter weather. Rough bark in the form of spindly thin fingers reach down to the dying soil like they're drawing their last breath, dry ridges jutting out in their mournful, terminal serenity. Sorrow rings out through a bell perfectly timed to grasp him from his wandering mind.
It's a familiar place. Clients, innocent ones, he meets them here. There's something much more sinister about knowing the person you're visiting definitely did it, and you're the reason he's in here.
Apollo sharpens his crimson blade, seeping with his last betrayal, his debut, just in case; but the only wound remaining on the either of them exposes itself; unequivocally leaving his gushing organs raw and bare.
Kristoph isn't even wounded by it. Only he is.
He thanks the guard for letting him in on short notice, and begs to slip himself through the all too strong bars and apologise. Repent for what he's done. Another unwanted thought.
Kristoph Gavin at first doesn't look behind him to see who has rudely interrupted his rehearsal of a piece on violin. Apollo recognises this one. It was originally a cello solo piece, he was told, notes glaringly familiar to something from the Sound of Music, but not quite there. Maybe his mind was too simple to know what it was.
Either way, it's comforting to him. Mr. Gavin still indulges in the past - just like him - the scent of the coffee he used to make and the solace of routine enticing him back in.
-
"Justice. I'm entrusting you with this: I have a special order. As you can see, I'm occupied, and can't pick it up. So - it's Millant-Deroux rosin and a silver mounted Swiss violin bow. The maker is of the name Fischer. Tell them my name, give them this, and return as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
He even remembers the shop itself, refined with a slight intimidating air. Much like Mr. Gavin himself.
That day, upon his arrival, Mr. Gavin left the door open a crack as he smoothly, masterfully, manipulated the instrument. All while using the rosin Apollo had collected for him. He didn't know why his chest somersaulted at that, the thought eliciting a deep sigh.
-
"Enjoying the show, Justice? Or perhaps you're here for something else?"
The voice slices through the memory. It's all too quick, how Mr. Gavin can cut down his delusions with some simple, tired words. He's not even fazed by him visiting. It's all so... recognisable, all so easy to lunge into despite everything that's happened since then.
"I don't think that highly of you anymore, S-Kristoph." Apollo inhales, his left shoulder twitching at his own disloyal words, shivering his body into a ball of nervous yet excited energy. The urge to call back to those days crowds his mind.
-
"Et tu, Justice?"
-
Already, he's addicted to it. The feeling of being stabbed in the heart, murdered, but the knife never leaves your body. There's a sweet pain to it all. The word 'atroquinine' intrusively enters his psyche, and he's not even afraid of that anymore. Vera dies somewhere in that old memory, clamoring for her escape, nails shattering and eyes wet.
It's ingested, running through his bloodstream. He's gladly poisoned himself by stepping into this rigid environment. It's control once again; nothing is misplaced. Predatory enough to consume him whole.
"Really. Well, you surely came here for a reason?" Close. Kristoph's so close, his intimate head tilt and smile pushing Apollo off that steep ledge once again.
"No. I-" Droplets of anxiety seep down his neck.
"Oh? You're here... for me, I assume, then. I'm afraid I'm occupied at the moment, as you can see." No. He can't. He came here for a reason, he-
He can't make him feel this way for nothing. A hand reached out to halt his fall from grace.
He doesn't grab it. Apollo willingly dies.
"I remember it well, sir. It was originally a cello solo..." He doesn't know what he's saying or why. Floating above a landing strip of pure death and nothingness. The black locks at the bottom of that void will not break his fall. Is any of this real?
"Ah, I'm flattered you remembered my favourite piece so well, Apollo. I'm aware you've blossomed much more since... the last time we met?" Kristoph pushes up his glasses and waits. Ticking from the clock in the confined cell slows. He's not really sure if he's in the office or a prison anymore.
"Yeah... well," his sheepish nature arrives in the form of a blush and a sudden urge to rub his neck, "I had the best opportunities."
"That you did."
"..."
"Justice, if you have nothing to say, I must request that you leave. I have much more important things to attend to."
A classic he recognises - the bait hangs in front of him - luring him to his demise. The door to Kristoph's office remains open a tad.
"No, I- I just need to know. Do you know you're doing it? Ruining me, I mean. You're in my head, and it's so awful, you won't stop telling me what I'm really like, I mean, that it was my fault that Clay - that I'm destined to be you and that's why you chose me, I'm special, that I'm ruined, I'm fated for just pain, that-"
"I suggest that you discuss this with me when you're not in hysterics. It does little for either of us. Now, I've got business to attend to, yes? You may leave."
He runs, because he can't tell whether the past Kristoph or the present one said it, tears running down his face and pain coursing through his body, snivelling, but he can't feel it. It's not real. It has to be a dream, a simulation, a-
Apollo collapses.