diamondpearl876
Well-Known Member
This is a side project I've worked on very late at night over the last few weeks. 
I'd been wanting to write Ace Attorney for a while, so I figured why not? Also, there's Klavier/Apollo shipping. I don't think I've written anything shipping-focused in a long time, either.
This is basically a fanfic of a fanfic of a movie. “Dirty Sympathy” by ideny is a “Strangers on a Train” version of AA4, so this too is an AU. Plot related comments are references to said fic.
WARNING for mentions of domestic violence, plus some swearing.
The car stops, and in that moment you feel like you might very well die. You’re on the run, goddamn it, you don’t have time for this, to be on the run you have to be moving. But you’re not moving, so you’re going to get caught and all that’ll be left for you is one last, awful surge of breath, then nothing…
It takes a few more agonizingly slow moments for the car to press on and for you to relax against the passenger seat once more. You slouch and rest your knees up on the dashboard, the best sleeping position you can manage in an unfavorably cramped place like this. You wonder for a moment if it’s worth mentioning anything to your driver because not only is he your driver, he’s your lover and your savior and all sorts of other wondrous things, too.
Yes, you decide, he’d probably appreciate hearing about you being upset instead of learning you bottled it up later. Again.
So you mumble something quick to Apollo Justice about how you can’t wait to pass the border out of California, but he just clenches his fist around the steering wheel so tight you can see with the help of the high-mast lighting above how the veins in his knuckles bulge. A growl forms at the back of his throat, and you promptly turn your head away to end the conversation before it begins.
You should’ve pretended you’d just been jolted awake by the car coming to a sudden stop instead of another nightmare. The former, of course, wouldn’t have been any consolation to the man giving his all to get you somewhere safe, but still. He’s trying, and that’s more than anyone else could ever say. What would your fans think of you, Klavier Gavin, if they knew you could be scared out of your wits so easily? They wouldn’t question why. They’d immediately resolve to quit buying your band’s merchandise and tickets to concerts. Not everyone is as understanding as the man beside you.
You sigh. At this angle, the most you can see are the silhouettes of birds against the darkened sky as they perch motionlessly on the tops of telephone poles. The occasional cloud blots out the light cresting the edges of the sun as it begins to reveal itself and announce a new day.
And on one hand, for you that’s a kind of reassurance, because you’re alive when one night not long ago you suspected that that wouldn’t be the case anymore. That night at the concert—your last performance with the Gavinners, the last straw for Daryan Crescend—you had little choice but to accept that somewhere along the line you screwed up bad and in order to fix things you’d have to screw up even worse. It would’ve been one hell of a show to see Klavier Gavin, renowned singer and guitarist, die at the hands of one of his own stage props. Whoever’s idea it was to literally put you in chains just to emphasize the whole cop theme the band had going on, well, fuck ‘em. Fuck ’em all.
Your ex-lover, since shot dead at the hands of your new lover, still managed to accomplish what he always wanted to do. He wanted to leave his mark. The proof’s hidden, but it’s there. Daryan really never was that bright, and in hindsight, that may be the only reason you’re alive today.
It’s nauseating, how you once adored the shocked look on his face when something obvious to others finally clicked in his head. And if you’re being honest, you still give Daryan credit sometimes, when your mind betrays you and you remember how he’d lie in bed next to you for hours, just letting you play with his hair after he’d showered and it wasn’t bogged down with gel. The passion in his voice as he rambled on about wild cop stories captivated you. It never occurred to you then that your life with him would eventually resemble a neurotic script written for those lame but popular crime shows.
You slide lower into the leather passenger seat of your Cadillac, hoping that if you try hard enough, you’ll fold in on yourself like some complicated origami puzzle no one will ever care enough to unfold. You’d be totally okay with disappearing, never to be found again.
Unsurprisingly, no such thing happens.
The whishing of the road passing you by drones on. The car shakes whenever you pass over a pothole, each time jolting you into feeling alert all over again. You wish you were able to keep yourself from dozing off, but the nightmares, they’ve just been too much lately. You’d insist on driving if you thought you could handle it. After all the sacrifices Apollo Justice has made for you, it’d only be fair to drive his ass out of town and toward somewhere safe. Instead, all you can do is sit there in the near silence, suspended in a jaded stupor.
Occasionally you catch yourself fingering your ear, the one still not healed from when Daryan ripped your silver stud clean off and let you know you’d be growing your hair out again, no questions asked. An image you’d been dead set on evicting from your memory threatens to surge to the surface, and your breath hitches when a sudden, dull pain courses through your foot. You try not to tip off Apollo, try not to add to his worries, because it’s okay, really. You have a mutilated toe thanks to your ex-lover. That shit happens sometimes. You would’ve gone to a doctor for it ages ago, but you didn’t know how to explain the incident away without attracting suspicion, so here you are, dealing with the repercussions of neglect brought on by fear.
You turn your head to the side, chancing a glance at Apollo as the two of you continue on toward god knows where. Seeing him makes you smile, of course it does, because he’s the only one in the world who has any clue how to. Which is funny, kind of. Half the time he doesn’t even have to try. How does that work?
Still. You do have to admit right now, how downright eerie Apollo’s determined stare would look to anyone else out of context. His eyes don’t even seem to blink. To you it just means he won’t abandon you, won’t hurt you on purpose like everyone else in your life, but you pity anyone who would dare get in his way. You pity yourself most of all, knowing full well that you don’t deserve him and he doesn’t deserve the hell you’re unwittingly putting him through. It’s ironic and pathetic, how the sacrifices he made for you brought on a whole slew of issues for himself that no lawyer would be able to argue against in the court of law.
Now, every day from here on out will be different. With no home to return to (safely, that is) and no real belongings to your name aside from the used first-aid kits you’ve collected and stashed away at the back of your Cadillac’s glove compartment, it’s all free reign from here. It’s not what you expected—Daryan hardly believed in freedom, despite his profession—but it’ll have to do.
Maybe you jumped the gun. Maybe you're gonna regret it one, five, ten years from now, because maybe, just maybe, all you had to do was bare your teeth at your slick shark of a boyfriend one more time to break free of him for good without having to run.
Then again, maybe not. You had spent years trying to break him before he broke you. Yet every time you move you swear you hear your knees creak, loud as a gunshot, no matter how deliberate your movements are, no matter how diligent you are about trying to hide the fact that you’re reduced to a quivering mannequin, incapable of functioning.
When the car’s stopped again on the shoulder of the highway, it's five o'clock in the morning and the sun's deciding to show itself, to share its light with you and Apollo. The light is red, goddamn it, such an impossible shade of red that reminds you too much of blood. You shield your eyes, resort to closing them, but the light quickly grows too bright for you to simply ignore it. A wave of apprehension washes over you, and you accept then and there that you failed in your goal to not be broken by Daryan or anyone else long ago. The proof? You should be celebrating your escape, but you're not. You’re dwelling on it more than you ever have before, allowing the weight of it to threaten to snap you in two.
Next to you, Apollo sighs deeply. The prominent rise and fall of his chest comforts you, if only because it reminds you that he’s alive and breathing, together with you.
“Klavier, I…”
How earnest he sounds, how sweet and vehement, even when he’s shaking.
You adore him so, so terribly.
Apollo opens the car door. Motions for you to do the same. A quizzical look crosses your face, and you’re certain that he can sense your nervousness despite the soft smile you give him as you traipse to the hood of your Cadillac and lean against it. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you just close enough for your shoulders to touch.
You wait for him to finish his sentence, maybe say your name again because you love it when he does, but he stays silent.
“If you have anything you want to say, I’d like to hear it.” You pause, turning to him. “And I do mean anything, Apollo.”
“Anything,” he repeats, sighing. He gazes straight ahead, frowning. “Yeah, but where would I start? I still haven’t figured out where things went wrong.”
“I’ll apologize as many times as I have to for not pushing Kristoph to his doom during our vacation to the Alps.”
Kristoph…
The name rolls off your tongue, then sends a pang of guilt through you. You’d nearly forgotten about him in your tired reverie. Kristoph, your older brother who went beyond the law to get his way whenever possible. Kristoph, who took advantage of Apollo however he saw fit when they ran their own law firm together. Kristoph, who Apollo always argues was never as dangerous as Daryan but you never believed him because Apollo—sweet, dear and innocent Apollo—simply hadn’t pushed enough of Kristoph’s buttons to make him want to appear dangerous.
“And I could apologize, too,” Apollo says, “for not realizing earlier what a scumbag Daryan is.”
Apollo smiles, and you look away, suddenly self-conscious about your dyed black hair and fake colored contacts you’d adopted as part of the escape plan. Can he still see a resemblance between you and your brother? How is it that your presence never seems to be downright nauseating for him?
You take a deep breath. “Well, we’re out now, aren’t we? Let’s just… make the most of it,” you say, except your voice falters and comes out more like a stutter by the end. Even you find it hard to have faith in your own words more often than not. You can’t expect Apollo to do the same.
Still you hear Apollo say, “You’re right.” His hand slides down the small of your back before he moves away from you to open the driver side door. “Sunrises are nice and all, but we can relax and party all night or whatever else later. Maybe we’ll even drop by Rite Aid at some point for old time’s sake.”
You blink, stupidly wondering for a moment if he’s actually serious. That night you bumped into each other in the painkiller aisle… It was a coincidence, no doubt. But it was also a crucial, decisive moment in both of your lives in which Apollo kissed you because he couldn’t think of a better way to let you know he understood your sadness very, very well.
“Mm, I’d rather not. Surely you understand,” you say, grinning for good measure. He knows you’re faking it, so why you’re bothering with the charade, you don’t know. “How long ago did we cross into Arizona, by the way?”
Apollo cocks his head, twisting the bracelet on his left arm as he speaks. “I don’t know exactly, but we’re not there anymore, either. We’re in—”
You hold up a hand to stop him and shake your head. Fuck it. The charade is over. “Shows how much I’ve been paying attention, eh? No doubt you feel like you’ve been driving for an eternity now. I’m sorry.”
“We’re far, far away, and we’re only getting farther. That’s what matters right now,” he says, shrugging. The conversation appears to be over as he opens the car door and leans inside, rummaging through the center console for something.
A gust of wind picks up, and you hug yourself to keep your body from shivering and teeth from chattering. The highway’s deserted, but the morning traffic will pick up soon, so Apollo’s right. It’d be best to move on, even if none of this strikes you as real still. You’ve been going nowhere at full speed for so long now that the idea of finally having made it out alive seems absurd, much like a sick prank someone’s playing on you.
You have to trust Apollo. And you do trust Apollo, honest. More than anyone you’ve ever met, and more than anyone you’ll ever meet—not least because if he breaks you, the pieces of you won’t have a chance of fitting back together again so it’s best to prolong the process for as long as possible if, you know, it has to happen.
Your eyes now adjusted to the sunlight, you stare down the road before both of you. There’s some tire skid marks not far ahead, which you can’t say is the most promising sign. The mountain road soon dips downward and to the left, where clusters of trees block your view of anything else.
Your gaze slowly makes its way back to where you are now. It’d be all too easy on this highway to go careening into a ditch where no one would find you two. Really, it would have been easier to not be rescued at all. To not know what it’s like to feel whole. To not wonder if he’ll rip your happiness out from underneath your feet.
You flinch as you feel Apollo tap you on the arm with his pinky finger. When did he step away from the car again? In his hand he’s holding a white box. You recognize it instantly, but you’re skeptical of the gesture.
“What happened to those chords of steel you’re always on about, now?” you ask, taking the first-aid kit from him. It feels lighter than you’d expect. That’s what happens when you actually use shit like this, you suppose. It’s not a guaranteed endless supply, hence your familiarity with almost every drug store in California.
“You don’t have the most spacious car. Thought I’d make some room in there,” Apollo says, smiling sadly. He holds up his other hand, revealing two tubes of antiseptic cream, all obviously empty and squeezed until the last drop.
You look down the mountain road again and can’t help but laugh. “Is this my chance to finally push Kristoph off the cliff, metaphorically speaking?”
“Exactly.”
You laugh again. Laughing is something you thought you’d forgotten how to do until you met Apollo, so you don’t force yourself to stop, even if nothing about your plight is particularly funny, even if you’re worrying the man beside you in the process.
And for a moment, it’s all right, standing there, just the two of you. For once, there’s no rush to keep moving forward. There’s no pressure to do anything but exist or be anyone besides yourself.
You were so close to giving up, before Apollo. So close to going nowhere, and so close to accepting your dead end life. You’re still not sure what’s gonna happen from here, but you’re so close to finding out that you can’t bear the thought of missing it. Can’t bear the thought of constantly questioning him, doubting him, when he’s unlike anyone else you’ve ever known.
You’ll trust him until you have a reason not to.
I'd been wanting to write Ace Attorney for a while, so I figured why not? Also, there's Klavier/Apollo shipping. I don't think I've written anything shipping-focused in a long time, either.This is basically a fanfic of a fanfic of a movie. “Dirty Sympathy” by ideny is a “Strangers on a Train” version of AA4, so this too is an AU. Plot related comments are references to said fic.
WARNING for mentions of domestic violence, plus some swearing.
S • O
C • L • O • S • E
C • L • O • S • E
The car stops, and in that moment you feel like you might very well die. You’re on the run, goddamn it, you don’t have time for this, to be on the run you have to be moving. But you’re not moving, so you’re going to get caught and all that’ll be left for you is one last, awful surge of breath, then nothing…
It takes a few more agonizingly slow moments for the car to press on and for you to relax against the passenger seat once more. You slouch and rest your knees up on the dashboard, the best sleeping position you can manage in an unfavorably cramped place like this. You wonder for a moment if it’s worth mentioning anything to your driver because not only is he your driver, he’s your lover and your savior and all sorts of other wondrous things, too.
Yes, you decide, he’d probably appreciate hearing about you being upset instead of learning you bottled it up later. Again.
So you mumble something quick to Apollo Justice about how you can’t wait to pass the border out of California, but he just clenches his fist around the steering wheel so tight you can see with the help of the high-mast lighting above how the veins in his knuckles bulge. A growl forms at the back of his throat, and you promptly turn your head away to end the conversation before it begins.
You should’ve pretended you’d just been jolted awake by the car coming to a sudden stop instead of another nightmare. The former, of course, wouldn’t have been any consolation to the man giving his all to get you somewhere safe, but still. He’s trying, and that’s more than anyone else could ever say. What would your fans think of you, Klavier Gavin, if they knew you could be scared out of your wits so easily? They wouldn’t question why. They’d immediately resolve to quit buying your band’s merchandise and tickets to concerts. Not everyone is as understanding as the man beside you.
You sigh. At this angle, the most you can see are the silhouettes of birds against the darkened sky as they perch motionlessly on the tops of telephone poles. The occasional cloud blots out the light cresting the edges of the sun as it begins to reveal itself and announce a new day.
And on one hand, for you that’s a kind of reassurance, because you’re alive when one night not long ago you suspected that that wouldn’t be the case anymore. That night at the concert—your last performance with the Gavinners, the last straw for Daryan Crescend—you had little choice but to accept that somewhere along the line you screwed up bad and in order to fix things you’d have to screw up even worse. It would’ve been one hell of a show to see Klavier Gavin, renowned singer and guitarist, die at the hands of one of his own stage props. Whoever’s idea it was to literally put you in chains just to emphasize the whole cop theme the band had going on, well, fuck ‘em. Fuck ’em all.
Your ex-lover, since shot dead at the hands of your new lover, still managed to accomplish what he always wanted to do. He wanted to leave his mark. The proof’s hidden, but it’s there. Daryan really never was that bright, and in hindsight, that may be the only reason you’re alive today.
It’s nauseating, how you once adored the shocked look on his face when something obvious to others finally clicked in his head. And if you’re being honest, you still give Daryan credit sometimes, when your mind betrays you and you remember how he’d lie in bed next to you for hours, just letting you play with his hair after he’d showered and it wasn’t bogged down with gel. The passion in his voice as he rambled on about wild cop stories captivated you. It never occurred to you then that your life with him would eventually resemble a neurotic script written for those lame but popular crime shows.
You slide lower into the leather passenger seat of your Cadillac, hoping that if you try hard enough, you’ll fold in on yourself like some complicated origami puzzle no one will ever care enough to unfold. You’d be totally okay with disappearing, never to be found again.
Unsurprisingly, no such thing happens.
The whishing of the road passing you by drones on. The car shakes whenever you pass over a pothole, each time jolting you into feeling alert all over again. You wish you were able to keep yourself from dozing off, but the nightmares, they’ve just been too much lately. You’d insist on driving if you thought you could handle it. After all the sacrifices Apollo Justice has made for you, it’d only be fair to drive his ass out of town and toward somewhere safe. Instead, all you can do is sit there in the near silence, suspended in a jaded stupor.
Occasionally you catch yourself fingering your ear, the one still not healed from when Daryan ripped your silver stud clean off and let you know you’d be growing your hair out again, no questions asked. An image you’d been dead set on evicting from your memory threatens to surge to the surface, and your breath hitches when a sudden, dull pain courses through your foot. You try not to tip off Apollo, try not to add to his worries, because it’s okay, really. You have a mutilated toe thanks to your ex-lover. That shit happens sometimes. You would’ve gone to a doctor for it ages ago, but you didn’t know how to explain the incident away without attracting suspicion, so here you are, dealing with the repercussions of neglect brought on by fear.
You turn your head to the side, chancing a glance at Apollo as the two of you continue on toward god knows where. Seeing him makes you smile, of course it does, because he’s the only one in the world who has any clue how to. Which is funny, kind of. Half the time he doesn’t even have to try. How does that work?
Still. You do have to admit right now, how downright eerie Apollo’s determined stare would look to anyone else out of context. His eyes don’t even seem to blink. To you it just means he won’t abandon you, won’t hurt you on purpose like everyone else in your life, but you pity anyone who would dare get in his way. You pity yourself most of all, knowing full well that you don’t deserve him and he doesn’t deserve the hell you’re unwittingly putting him through. It’s ironic and pathetic, how the sacrifices he made for you brought on a whole slew of issues for himself that no lawyer would be able to argue against in the court of law.
Now, every day from here on out will be different. With no home to return to (safely, that is) and no real belongings to your name aside from the used first-aid kits you’ve collected and stashed away at the back of your Cadillac’s glove compartment, it’s all free reign from here. It’s not what you expected—Daryan hardly believed in freedom, despite his profession—but it’ll have to do.
Maybe you jumped the gun. Maybe you're gonna regret it one, five, ten years from now, because maybe, just maybe, all you had to do was bare your teeth at your slick shark of a boyfriend one more time to break free of him for good without having to run.
Then again, maybe not. You had spent years trying to break him before he broke you. Yet every time you move you swear you hear your knees creak, loud as a gunshot, no matter how deliberate your movements are, no matter how diligent you are about trying to hide the fact that you’re reduced to a quivering mannequin, incapable of functioning.
When the car’s stopped again on the shoulder of the highway, it's five o'clock in the morning and the sun's deciding to show itself, to share its light with you and Apollo. The light is red, goddamn it, such an impossible shade of red that reminds you too much of blood. You shield your eyes, resort to closing them, but the light quickly grows too bright for you to simply ignore it. A wave of apprehension washes over you, and you accept then and there that you failed in your goal to not be broken by Daryan or anyone else long ago. The proof? You should be celebrating your escape, but you're not. You’re dwelling on it more than you ever have before, allowing the weight of it to threaten to snap you in two.
Next to you, Apollo sighs deeply. The prominent rise and fall of his chest comforts you, if only because it reminds you that he’s alive and breathing, together with you.
“Klavier, I…”
How earnest he sounds, how sweet and vehement, even when he’s shaking.
You adore him so, so terribly.
Apollo opens the car door. Motions for you to do the same. A quizzical look crosses your face, and you’re certain that he can sense your nervousness despite the soft smile you give him as you traipse to the hood of your Cadillac and lean against it. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you just close enough for your shoulders to touch.
You wait for him to finish his sentence, maybe say your name again because you love it when he does, but he stays silent.
“If you have anything you want to say, I’d like to hear it.” You pause, turning to him. “And I do mean anything, Apollo.”
“Anything,” he repeats, sighing. He gazes straight ahead, frowning. “Yeah, but where would I start? I still haven’t figured out where things went wrong.”
“I’ll apologize as many times as I have to for not pushing Kristoph to his doom during our vacation to the Alps.”
Kristoph…
The name rolls off your tongue, then sends a pang of guilt through you. You’d nearly forgotten about him in your tired reverie. Kristoph, your older brother who went beyond the law to get his way whenever possible. Kristoph, who took advantage of Apollo however he saw fit when they ran their own law firm together. Kristoph, who Apollo always argues was never as dangerous as Daryan but you never believed him because Apollo—sweet, dear and innocent Apollo—simply hadn’t pushed enough of Kristoph’s buttons to make him want to appear dangerous.
“And I could apologize, too,” Apollo says, “for not realizing earlier what a scumbag Daryan is.”
Apollo smiles, and you look away, suddenly self-conscious about your dyed black hair and fake colored contacts you’d adopted as part of the escape plan. Can he still see a resemblance between you and your brother? How is it that your presence never seems to be downright nauseating for him?
You take a deep breath. “Well, we’re out now, aren’t we? Let’s just… make the most of it,” you say, except your voice falters and comes out more like a stutter by the end. Even you find it hard to have faith in your own words more often than not. You can’t expect Apollo to do the same.
Still you hear Apollo say, “You’re right.” His hand slides down the small of your back before he moves away from you to open the driver side door. “Sunrises are nice and all, but we can relax and party all night or whatever else later. Maybe we’ll even drop by Rite Aid at some point for old time’s sake.”
You blink, stupidly wondering for a moment if he’s actually serious. That night you bumped into each other in the painkiller aisle… It was a coincidence, no doubt. But it was also a crucial, decisive moment in both of your lives in which Apollo kissed you because he couldn’t think of a better way to let you know he understood your sadness very, very well.
“Mm, I’d rather not. Surely you understand,” you say, grinning for good measure. He knows you’re faking it, so why you’re bothering with the charade, you don’t know. “How long ago did we cross into Arizona, by the way?”
Apollo cocks his head, twisting the bracelet on his left arm as he speaks. “I don’t know exactly, but we’re not there anymore, either. We’re in—”
You hold up a hand to stop him and shake your head. Fuck it. The charade is over. “Shows how much I’ve been paying attention, eh? No doubt you feel like you’ve been driving for an eternity now. I’m sorry.”
“We’re far, far away, and we’re only getting farther. That’s what matters right now,” he says, shrugging. The conversation appears to be over as he opens the car door and leans inside, rummaging through the center console for something.
A gust of wind picks up, and you hug yourself to keep your body from shivering and teeth from chattering. The highway’s deserted, but the morning traffic will pick up soon, so Apollo’s right. It’d be best to move on, even if none of this strikes you as real still. You’ve been going nowhere at full speed for so long now that the idea of finally having made it out alive seems absurd, much like a sick prank someone’s playing on you.
You have to trust Apollo. And you do trust Apollo, honest. More than anyone you’ve ever met, and more than anyone you’ll ever meet—not least because if he breaks you, the pieces of you won’t have a chance of fitting back together again so it’s best to prolong the process for as long as possible if, you know, it has to happen.
Your eyes now adjusted to the sunlight, you stare down the road before both of you. There’s some tire skid marks not far ahead, which you can’t say is the most promising sign. The mountain road soon dips downward and to the left, where clusters of trees block your view of anything else.
Your gaze slowly makes its way back to where you are now. It’d be all too easy on this highway to go careening into a ditch where no one would find you two. Really, it would have been easier to not be rescued at all. To not know what it’s like to feel whole. To not wonder if he’ll rip your happiness out from underneath your feet.
You flinch as you feel Apollo tap you on the arm with his pinky finger. When did he step away from the car again? In his hand he’s holding a white box. You recognize it instantly, but you’re skeptical of the gesture.
“What happened to those chords of steel you’re always on about, now?” you ask, taking the first-aid kit from him. It feels lighter than you’d expect. That’s what happens when you actually use shit like this, you suppose. It’s not a guaranteed endless supply, hence your familiarity with almost every drug store in California.
“You don’t have the most spacious car. Thought I’d make some room in there,” Apollo says, smiling sadly. He holds up his other hand, revealing two tubes of antiseptic cream, all obviously empty and squeezed until the last drop.
You look down the mountain road again and can’t help but laugh. “Is this my chance to finally push Kristoph off the cliff, metaphorically speaking?”
“Exactly.”
You laugh again. Laughing is something you thought you’d forgotten how to do until you met Apollo, so you don’t force yourself to stop, even if nothing about your plight is particularly funny, even if you’re worrying the man beside you in the process.
And for a moment, it’s all right, standing there, just the two of you. For once, there’s no rush to keep moving forward. There’s no pressure to do anything but exist or be anyone besides yourself.
You were so close to giving up, before Apollo. So close to going nowhere, and so close to accepting your dead end life. You’re still not sure what’s gonna happen from here, but you’re so close to finding out that you can’t bear the thought of missing it. Can’t bear the thought of constantly questioning him, doubting him, when he’s unlike anyone else you’ve ever known.
You’ll trust him until you have a reason not to.
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