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antepenultimatefantasy · 7 years

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FFXII Zodiac Age Playthrough Part 4

Prison again, only this time in the sky

-Back in Rabanastre, the team disbands, Basch to be picked up by the #resistance, Fran and Balthier to drink cosmos and gossip about Amalia's outfit.

-Probably.

-Vaan asks if they want the stone that he stole from the palace, and they hard pass.

-Once they're gone, he heads to show it to Penelo. Only, she's not there. Kytes sends him to see Old Dalan.

-Dalan admires Vaan's stolen treasure and his having escaped prison.

-Dalan's kitty, on the other hand, is unimpressed.

-Dalan gives Vaan a Sword to give to someone names Azelas, and Vaan identifies is as a Sword of the Order.

-Of the phoenix?

-Vaan tells Dalan to find out where Penelo went and heads out.

-At Azelas' place, everyone's arguing about if they can trust Basch about him being a twin separated by his divorcing parents, each twin only have a torn picture of themselves with their custodial parent.

-Lindsey Lohan trusts him.

-Vossler is also there and says he won't trust him, but also won't turn him in?

-He also tosses Basch the sword.

-Is Basch Azelas?

-This part is so confusing.

-(Vossler is Azelas, we find out later)

-Basch requests Vaan take him to Balthier because he "needs wings."

-Red Bull has not yet been invented.

-Vaan tells Basch that his parents died of a plague, and he went to live with Penelo, but then the war happened.

-Also, he knows that Basch didn't kill Reks.

-Character development!

-At the bar, Migelo is chewing out Balthier because Penelo has been taken by Ba'Gamnan to Bhujerba, and he left a note saying it was because of Balthier.

-Balthier and Fran don't really want to go, but Vaan offers the stone if they do, and Basch will tag along as well to tend to some business.

-Balthier asks if this business is with the Marquis.

-Who dat?

-Anyway, the gang's all back together again (reluctantly again).

-Road trip!

-Actually, sky trip. Bhujerba is a floating city.

-Balthier's airship, The Strahl, is white, flirty, and ready for some fun.

-Like Balthier.

-As it takes off, we cut to Penelo locked up in a dungeon. Ba'Gamnan comes in and makes sure she's well fed because he needs Balthier's bait alive.

-When the team arrives, Balthier tells Basch to keep a low profile and not use his name.

-On their way to the mines where Penelo is held, a boy asks to join them, and Balthier mysteriously lets him with little protest.

-The boy says his name is Lamont.

-It's obviously not.

-Vaan says that he's in good hands. "Right, Basch?"

-Vaan.

-You had one job.

-One job.

-And you got it like a second ago.

-It matters little. The team is off to explore the sky city. If Rabanastre is Rome, then Bhujerba is sky Venice.

-With some Russian architectural influence.

-Lamont brattily tells the team that the Lhusu Mines, where Penelo is being held, are not under heavy imperial watch.

-Inside the mine, however, the team has to hide from a group of imperials including a judge and the Marquis Ondore of Bhujerba, who are talking about the purest magicite being produced in the mine making its way to Vayne.

-Apparently, Ondore oversaw the "peace" negotiations with Dalmasca, but now he's on the imperials' side, according to Lamont.

-Balthier is skeptical about how he could know that.

-Vaan's like, "whatever, let's find Penelo,"

-Lamont's like, "is that a new writing app?"

-Deeper in the cave, Lamont pulls out his own stone, nethicite, which has been created in a place called Draklor Laboratories (cue Balthier having a subtle reaction), and which absorbs energy unlike magicite.

-This game has very complex geopolitics/magic/geology/science

-Balthier is not having it and asks Lamont to fess up about who he is and how he knows what he knows.

-Before Lamont can, however, Ba'Gamnan and crew shows up to slice and dice. And Lamont bolts.

-The gang's supposed to run away, but some well-placed quickenings make the lizard crew easy work.

-At the mines entrance, Lamont joins up with the group of imperials from before, who comment on how he's been wandering alone.

-They call him Lord Larsa.

-Betrayal.

-Penelo's there too.

-The judge is harsh to Penelo but Larsa intercedes and gets a room for her at the Marquis' place. Sweet digs.

-Vaan has 0% idea what's going on.

-Balthier explains that Larsa is Vayne's brother. Fran says that he'll treat Penelo well.

-Balthier says that no one knows men like Fran.

-blinking_caucasian_man.gif

-Basch still wants to talk to the Marquis and Balthier suggests that they start with the organizations opposing the empire that the Marquis helps fund.

-For being the main character, Vaan is really not the main character.

-They need some clamor, so Vaan volunteers to wander around yelling that he's Basch (who's supposed to be dead).

-This whole scenario, with Vaan running around yelling "I'm Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca!" makes me have such secondhand embarrassment.

-After Vaan has embarrassed himself (and me) enough, he gets abducted by the Bhujerban FBI.

-Victory?

-The people who intercepted Vaan quickly realize that he's not Basch (who ain't no PBT).

-Balthier emerges and is like, "duh"

-Basch emerges and is like, "sup"

-At the palace, Larsa tells Penelo that he will talk with his brother about the Rabanastre police brutality. Penelo tells him that his brother is mad scary and so is the empire.

-Larsa is genuinely shocked that people would be afraid of the empire.

-Sweet summer child.

-Like is there ever any nation known as "The Empire" that isn't frightening and overly aggressive to the natives of foreign lands? Like isn't that the definition of empire?

-Larsa says he'll make sure no pain comes to her.

-Back in town, Basch gets a meeting with the Marquis.

-At this meeting, he asks for help rescuing Amalia. Vaan interrupts (he really has no social sense) and asks where Penelo is.

-She's going with Larsa back to Rabanastre.

-Meanwhile, a large imperial ship arrives and deploys smaller ships, for something.

-In the meeting, The Marquis says that the enemy's chains should be easy for Basch to bear. He draws his sword and the guards come and aprehend the group.

-I made Basch an archer, not a swordsman. Get your facts right.

-At the palace in Rabanastre, Vayne speaks with a judge about stamping out the #resistance. They also know that Ondore is funding the #resistance in Bhujerba.

-Also, he has a letter saying Basch has been captured and taken to Judge Ghis.

-The judge with Vayne, Gabbranth, says that Basch will die by his hand.

-Gabbranth is Basch's twin.

-That's cold.

-He leaves and a rambling Doctor Cid enters rambling about Nabudis. He tells Vayne that the Archadian senate is looking for ways to backstab him.

-On the Dreadnought Leviathan, our prisoner team reunites with Amalia, who promptly slaps Basch in the face. She says that he should be dead.

-She takes no shit and I love it.

-Judge Ghis introduces her as Princess Ashelia B'Nargen Dalmasca.

-Last we saw her as princess, she was rocking a sheer mourning outfit, the likes of which Cher would wear.

-Iconique.

-Unfortunately, she has no proof that she's princess.

-Luckily, Basch can prove it if he goes and finds a dusk shard.

-The Princess is none too pleased still because she would live in shame.

-Basch is like, "tough break"

-Vaan tells them to stop or everyone will get killed.

-"Don't interrupt," Ashelia responds.

-Love. Her.

-At that moment, Vaan's stone starts glowing. It happens to be the dusk shard. Convenient.

-He gives it to Ghis telling him he needs to promise no executions.

P-That's...not how the law works.

-They're taken away, but only briefly before Basch, Balthier, and Fran beat up their guards.

-Vossler is dressed as one of them and joins the party as a guest so they can save Ashe.

-Baschler reunited!

-Vossler tells the team not to cross the red lights because an alarm will go off, and then literally walks through it five seconds letter when he sees an enemy.

-Thanks, bro.

-Deep within the ship, the group reunites with Ashe, who really looks like she wants to slap Basch again.

-Rain check, because they need to escape ASAP.

-They're going to jack a ship to escape, but Ashe is not down to hang out with Basch, whom she still thinks is a traitor.

-"Too bad," says Vossler.

-The group runs into Larsa and Penelo.

-Penelo and Vaan hug and reunite.

-Larsa tells Vossler that they must get an airship before Ghis finds out, and then tells Ashe that the fact that she and Basch were made to seem dead is suspicious and that their actions will reveal what's really going on.

-It will be for the good of Dalmasca and the empire.

-Ashe really wants to say that she likes Vaan more than the empire, and she doesn't like Vaan at all, but she holds her tongue.

-Larsa gives Penelo his manufacted nethicite, and then leaves with Vossler.

-At bridge, the group runs into Ghis, who tries to kill them with a big magic attack, but it is absorbed by the nethicite Larsa just gave Penelo.

-Penelo's already pulling her weight and she's been with the group for like five minutes. What have you done, Vaan?

-Ghis compares Ashe to her father for not knowing when to surrender.

-Ashe takes off her earrings and shit goes down.

-After defeating Ghis, Vossler comes in to say that they've secured a ship that Balthier is none too happy about.

-"Not fitting for a leading man."

-They're literally trying to escape for their lives and he's worried that their escape ship isn't flashy enough. I love it.

-Fran stealth pilots them to safety, and Penelo makes fast friends with her and Balthier.

-Vaan's jeal.

-Back in Bhujerba, Vossler and Basch convince Ashe to speak to Ondore. Vossler also tells Ashe that Basch will be her bodyguard even though she mistrusts him.

-She knows he doesn't speak lightly so she agrees.

-The plot is really starting to pick up. That's it for this section!

#playthrough #ffxii the zodiac age #final fantasy #vaan #balthier #fran #basch #ashe #penelo

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ronsenburg · 2 months

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“I tried to run away to Sreng once,” Sylvain comments, without turning to face him. His eyes are fixed on the surface of the river, but Felix doesn’t think he’s seeing the rippling currents at all. “Did I ever tell you that?”

To Sylvain’s right, the lance shudders into the bark of a tree, a clear protest of its temporary abandonment. It sounds like a mouse scratching at the insides of a wall in the night. Felix frowns as he steps around it, moving to sit just above Sylvain on the dome of some large rock. The sun breaking through the canopy of trees has warmed the surface; its heat radiates up through the fabric encasing Felix’s legs.

He says, only, “no.”

“I was pretty young,” Sylvain begins, his tone all thoughtful reminiscence. “Nine, maybe. Do you remember that summer Miklan pushed me out of that tree by the lake? I was stuck with a sling for months when the healer wouldn’t set my collarbone with magic again.”

Felix doesn’t comment. He doesn’t remember, likely from some combination of his own youth and the fact that, back then, Sylvain with an injury wouldn’t exactly have been a notable occurrence. The thought is enough to tense the muscles in Felix’s jaw, his upper and lower molars meeting with an audible click.

Sylvain doesn’t notice.

“I really thought I was gonna go crazy, stuck alone inside that house all summer,” he continues. “But then Leif came from Sreng.”

A moment passes. Sylvain’s head falls back against Felix’s thigh with a soft thump, his auburn hair fanning out across the fabric, a fiery beacon against the dark teal. And Felix’s fingers move to toy with a strand. Reflexive, involuntary. Just like everything else when it came to Sylvain.

“He should have had even more reasons to hate me than Miklan did, you know? But he didn’t. It sounds pretty dramatic now, but back then, it felt like I was just as much a prisoner in that house as he was. Gave us something to bond over, I guess. So I helped him beat my dad at chess while he tried his best to teach me Srengi. And, eventually, when he told me he was planning on running away… I asked him to take me with.”

“That was stupid.” Felix’s fingers are still absently stroking at the edges of Sylvain’s hair, gentle despite the severity to his tone. “They would’ve killed you and sent your head back to the Margrave as a taunt.”

“Maybe,” Sylvain concedes with a laugh and a shrug that Felix can hear in the scratch of fabric against stone, rather than see. “Still might’ve been better than sticking around for what came later.”

#is this anything?#writing is hard man #wip friday????#I can’t believe his name is Leif #hfjwkehdjwirj #ALSO #still can’t believe they left Felix back at camp to play regent while his dad and besties rode off to protect the border #what the hell was that?#ALSO ALSO #can’t believe rodrigue says ‘you should apologize to your son’ and matthias is like ‘… yeah I guess’ and then the screen goes black and #OBTAINED LANCE OF RUIN #’maybe you’re not such an idiot after all here take the bloodthirst generational curse that only you can wield’ ????#great apology???#anyway #ronsenburg tries to write

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ronsenburg · 1 year

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The issue, as Apollo currently sees it, is not the lateness of the bus or the humidity of the ceaseless rain. No, the problem lies in the full color, 48” by 72” advertisement spanning the entire side of the bus stop.

The problem, put another way: the worst part of falling in love with someone is that you tend to find small reminders of them in even the most innocuous places—in songs on the radio, in phrases shouted across crowded cafes.

The worst part of falling in love with a celebrity, though, is that you literally find reminders of them everywhere, plastered across the city, lurking where you least expect it.

For the past ten minutes, Apollo has managed to avoid eye contact with the near life size photo of Klavier Gavin splayed beside him. But with each passing moment, the indifference becomes harder, until, whether due to boredom or curiosity, he finally looks.

The photo is an advertisement for an upcoming show, full of photoshopped swirls of color and bursts of light. Klavier is clearly the focus; Apollo is particularly annoyed to know that the photo has only been barely retouched for printing. Klavier’s eyes really are that bright, the edge of his jaw truly that defined. It should be impossible for someone to be so handsome and actually exist, and yet...

Once again, Apollo sighs.

“You a big fan?” a voice asks suddenly from his left.

To say Apollo jumps, then, would be an understatement. The feeling of being caught in doing something shameful is nearly overwhelming. He turns quickly, glancing back at the young woman who absolutely was not standing there just a moment before, with large eyes.

A loud, inarticulate noise that sounds vaguely like the word “what?” is all he can manage to produce.

“The way you’re looking at him,” She gestures to the picture with what can only be described as a knowing grin. “So what’s your favorite thing about Klavier?”

Apollo simply blinks. Aside from the horribly intrusive nature of the question, Apollo isn’t sure he could answer the question if he wanted to. What is his favorite part of Klavier Gavin? The only things that spring to mind are general annoyances—the way he flips his hair when they meet in the lobby of a courtroom, the way he deftly leads Apollo in circles of logic around an argument like a trap in court, the way he smiles when he is absolutely, truly happy, the way his eyes light up when they land on Apollo’s across a crowded street…

The woman continues to stare at him expectantly; Apollo frowns deeper.

“Uh…” he begins, very articulately. “I guess it’s the methodical way he approaches evidence differentiation and submission in court?”

She nods sagely. “I like his butt.”

#what is this and what is it doing in my drafts???#ronsenburg tries to write #i guess #hey everyone i opened google docs today!

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ronsenburg · 2 years

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The sound of the door slamming with the full force of Louis’ frustration is the only farewell given as he exits the townhouse. It reverberates about, eerily jingling the keys of the parlor piano while the plaster quakes appropriately behind thick, gilded wallpaper that blankets the room.

There is a foul taste lingering within Lestat’s mouth; he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth against the sensation, lips stretched into something of a grimace. It is the third time in so many days that a Louis has left in this manner, furious and resentful for reasons Lestat is no longer capable of fully understanding. What had they been arguing about this time? Money, the past, the height of the ceiling in the newly renovated study? The only thing Lestat can be truly certain of is his rapidly accelerating disdain for Louis’ equally prevalent melancholy.

On the mantle across the room, the music box lilts it’s ever repeating tune where Louis had left the lid half ajar. The song is artificially slowed as the motor reaches the end of its winding, drawing the notes out into something overall discordant. The figure within pivots in encumbered time, bathed in the flickering light of the flames in the grate beneath.

It is the song and his mood, nothing more, that is required to bring recollections of another argument to the forefront of Lestat’s thoughts. Another flat, another beautiful boy, another barrage of accusations hurdled across the light of another roaring hearth.

Armand had said he danced in the flames that had consumed him.

“This is what becomes of those you love, Lestat,” a voice mocks sweetly, a phantom of memory within Lestat’s mind. Not the voice from the nights languished away beneath the roof of that old inn, but the one that had replaced it later. Full of madness and latent despair. “This will be your legacy, nothing but bitterness and hatred.”

In the space of time quicker than the blink of a human eye, Lestat has crossed the room, slamming the lid with enough force that the lacquered box goes skidding along the surface of the mantle and over the far edge. It falls to the floor and against the mercifully plush carpet with a dull thud.

#alexa play the devil’s trill #that music box overwhelmed me #idk man I am both too old and too young to be writing lestat fic #ronsenburg tries to write #wip

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ronsenburg · 6 months

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what I wrote on my one hour nap break today 🙃

There was a Betazoid on Bajor.

More importantly, there was a Betazoid on Bajor that was willing to be seated in the same room as Rodrigue long enough to hear the specifics of Felix’s problem. Maybe she’d been away from the homeworld long enough that she hadn’t heard all the sordid details that went along with the story of their exile. More likely, though, was that so many years in the service of the Bajoran prophets had softened her heart in ways that Felix’s kin couldn’t possibly claim.

It doesn’t matter. Rodrigue brought him the news with a lavender-pale pulse of hope, intermingled with so much residual despair that Felix knew that this would likely be his only chance. Will you go? Felix had scoffed and rolled his eyes at the triviality of the question. What was the choice, exactly? Go, and Felix would leave behind everything he’d ever known here on the station. Or he could stay, doomed to spend the rest of whatever life he had left cloistered away from anyone and anything sentient while his mind slowly festered into chaos. It wasn’t actually a choice at all. Felix had packed his bag the same afternoon, ready to leave without so much as a second thought.

Sylvain comes to him that evening, though, two hours before the transport ship is set to depart.

At seventeen, Sylvain is a good head taller than Felix and already losing the boyish quality to the smile he pins Felix with from the doorway. The sight of it, newly sharpened and defined, makes Felix’s stomach squirm in a way that leaves him unable to do much but scowl. Felix tells himself it’s the abrupt influx of Sylvain’s emotions that makes him avert his eyes just then—the feeling has already begun bearing down against his mind like a hammer, pounding out a particularly sharp headache into his temples—and not the fact that the Sylvain who greets him these days has started to resemble the boy who he’d played with on the promenade as children less and less. The man Sylvain is becoming is nearly as unrecognizable to Felix as the feelings that come bubbling up to the surface of his thoughts when they’re together. Those feelings, new and settled uncomfortably warm into his chest, Felix can’t bear to try and name.

From the doorway, Sylvain clears his throat. Whatever he’s here for has made him anxious, Felix can tell by the erratic way the colors of Sylvain’s emotions pulse across his vision. It’s so unlike the typical, languid swell that Felix is used to that he nearly allows an apprehension of his own to swallow him up. Instead, he glances up, eyebrows raised sharply in question.

“So you’re headed to my neck of the quadrant, huh?” Sylvain says, letting a shoulder fall against the door frame beside him with a soft thud, the perfect picture of feigned nonchalance. Idiot, Felix thinks, rolling his eyes. Just come inside.

But he doesn’t voice the words, because there’s a ship to catch and, anyway, Felix has never been good at the expected displays of emotional vulnerability that usually accompany goodbyes. It’s why he hadn’t told Sylvain he was leaving in the first place, for all the good that did. Felix snorts what should pass as an affirmative and returns to the task of organizing the contents of the duffle bag before him. He’s packed and repacked the thing three times now, attempting to prepare for an excursion to a place he only knows from classroom maps, to last him for an amount of time no one could possibly predict. The sheer number of unknowns surrounding the situation cause Felix more anxiety than he’d ever like to admit.

But Sylvain isn’t actually here for one of Felix’s shitty goodbyes. That becomes obvious when he shifts his weight in the doorway again, allowing the pack slung over his left shoulder to fall into the circle of light emitting from the bedside table lamp. Felix glances up again at the sound, to the sight of Sylvain’s crooked, apprehensive smile. It’s so genuine that Felix has to blink. “Thought maybe I’d come with you. Honor the ancestors, pray to a few orbs. Stuff like that.”

“You don’t believe in the prophets,” Felix frowns, forming his words slowly. It’s embarrassing, the way his heart skips at the suggestion, the way he wants to latch onto Sylvain like the little kid he used to be and never let him go. “What about your academy application.”

Sylvain only shrugs. “Pretty sure starfleet will still be around when we get back. And, hey, now we can be in the same class.”

#picking up steammmmm #the way I’m planning to write zero about the academy ❤️#literally writing this for betazoid on bajor mercie at this point ❤️#I love her #you know what I don’t even know all the sordid details of their exile #should probably work on that #ronsenburg tries to write #tactility: a primer

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ronsenburg · 6 months

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Guess I’m rewriting this from Sylvain’s POV.

#how can it be something that never happened to sylvain if it’s from felix’s pov?#but mostly I wrote myself into a wall with those stupid colors #hmmm #tone is a little too glib but I’ll get there #time to go watch d s 9 again I guess #ronsenburg tries to write #I need a new tag #I suddenly feel guilty about dumping my shit into the main ff//xii character tag #I wonder how many people have me blocked #oops #I’d block me too

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ronsenburg · 6 months

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I’m at that point in my “trying to convince myself to write again” journey where I’m probably going to start posting little snippets here and there of what I’m working on as… motivation or something.

as always, if you’re not into that, block my writing tag “ronsenburg tries to write” ❤️

#none of its going to be polished or anything #I’m so rusty and my old style is feeling constricting #so I’m messing around I guess #feels good #shut up krissy

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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OKAY SO I COULDNT CHOOSE BETWEEN THESE TWO SO KLAPOLLO FOR (KISSES PROMPTS) 15 OR (I LOVE YOU PROMPTS) 29 MAYBE???? 👀👀👀

Falling in love is easy, it is saying something about it that seems to be the problem.

It’s something Klavier and Apollo apparently excel at; they talk in circles around the feeling without ever voicing the words, their sentences falling away abruptly as they veer too close to the sentiment.

Apollo should say it.

He means to. Every time Klavier laughs he can feel the words bubbling to his lips, threatening to spill over into the air around them.

He wants to say it, too. So badly that there are times when it is the only thought in his mind, playing over and over like a skipping record.

Every time Klavier smirks at him in court or reaches for his hand in public or answers his front door wearing his hair pulled back or refers to Apollo by one of the countless nicknames he’s bestowed.

But he doesn’t.

In the beginning he’d held his tongue for the simple reason that Klavier was Klavier; what if Apollo was fooling himself, thinking someone like that would want something more from someone like him? But as time passed and the looks between them began to linger too long and their eyes seemed to say the words that their mouths apparently couldn’t, the reason changed. If Klavier felt the way Apollo thought he did about him, why hadn’t he said it? He’d stared right back into Klavier’s perfect face and silently urged him to be the one to break the stalemate.

But he didn’t.

They were reaching a point where it was becoming completely unbearable. Apollo was sure that Klavier was writing songs about it, he could hear Klavier humming an evolving melody under his breath whenever his attention was otherwise occupied. The urge to ask about it was so strong that it made it difficult for Apollo to focus on anything except the soft notes floating in the air between them.

If someone didn’t say something soon, Apollo might actually go insane.

So, Apollo should say it. He imagines the conversations they might have leading up to it, the words that he will say other than just blurting the obvious at the first sight of Klavier’s smiling face. This is what he will say if Klavier seems surprised, if Klavier isn’t ready to say it back, if Klavier doesn’t actually feel the same way.

But, though there are hundreds of possible scenarios Apollo has run through in his head, the way it actually goes is not one of them.

It happens like this:

Dusk is falling on an early summer evening. The sun has disappeared below the horizon, but the last hints of its rays linger in the sky; the stars and moon above are set in a sea of nautical blue.

They are running late for a dinner reservation.

It’s never a problem, not really, not when the table is saved for the Klavier Gavin. But Apollo doesn’t like being late, doesn’t like taking advantage of privileges that are not his, that are only offered because he happens to be dating a celebrity.

The words sound just as ridiculous in his thoughts as they do out loud.

“I can’t believe you had to straighten your hair again,” Apollo says, the pace of his steps on the concrete sidewalk mildly accelerated, “it looks exactly the same as it did this afternoon. How did that take an hour?”

This is a conversation that they have had, verbatim, at least six times now. Klavier is very clearly trying not to laugh. “Schatzilein, you knew what you were getting into when you agreed to date me. You cannot complain about the process when you seem to enjoy the results so much, ja?”

An exasperated sigh is the extent of Apollo’s immediate response.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he says a handful of moments later. “From now on, I’m telling you our reservations are half an hour earlier than they actually are.”

Klavier doesn’t reply.

Three steps later, Apollo turns, ready to verify that yes, those are the lengths he is willing to go to to ensure they are on time to a dinner reservation for once and, no, no amount of smooth smiles and seductively whispered words over dinner will change his mind on the matter.

But Klavier isn’t beside him anymore.

He’s stopped, five steps behind Apollo, and staring with very wide, very blue eyes.

Apollo has no choice but to stop as well. “You okay?”

“Warte, was hast du gesagt?” Klavier mutters, and then, when Apollo only stares back with a blank face, “what you just said, nicht wahr? Repeat it, please.”

It seems like an overreaction to a statement Apollo was only half serious about, in the end. “I’m going to tell you our reservations are earlier than they actually are?”

Klavier shakes his head firmly, pieces of hair falling from his carefully reconstructed twist. “Nein, before that.”

A few moments of confusion pass before Apollo understands. Then, the realization dawns on him with enough panic that Apollo can feel the blood rapidly draining from his face only to be immediately replaced by a spectacular blush. “Oh.”

If this is not a scenario that Apollo had considered when debating how to profess his feelings, Klavier’s reaction now is just as, if not more, unanticipated.

“Do you mean that, Schatzi?” he asks, still wide eyed and voice wavering as though this is an anomaly, as though there aren’t millions of people on this earth in love with him at that exact moment in time.

And that realization, that someone annoyingly famous and stunningly handsome and irritatingly suave—someone like that could look at someone like Apollo and ask if Apollo meant what he had accidentally let slip? How could he pretend that it was just a turn of phrase, a saying that didn’t mean anything, when Klavier was looking at him like his love was something too good to be true, too much to wish for?

The implications of a look like that takes Apollo’s breath away.

“Of course I do,” he murmurs in a quasi-embarrassed reply, giving up and diving in. “It’s not really how I wanted to say it, but, well, yeah. It’s fine if you don’t want to say it back, I didn’t mean to spring it on you in the middle of—“

But then Klavier is walking towards him with urgent steps, the distance between them dwindling down to just a handful of inches before he stops. Apollo has to look just up to continue to meet his eyes.

“Say it again,” Klavier requests, “bitte.”

“You’re lucky I love you?” Apollo repeats obediently, although his tone is all the more embarrassed for their public proximity. “You are, you know.”

“And you are impossible, Liebling,” Klavier laughs, but it sounds more astonished than amused. He reaches out his hands to place them on either side of Apollo’s still-flushed face, his thumb tenderly stroking the edge of Apollo’s jaw. “Just the last part, if you please.”

“But, why?” Apollo asks in response, just as astonished. He doesn’t really mean ‘why do you want me to say it again’, though it’s what the question implies. That’s easy enough to guess. What he means is, ‘why do you want me to love you’?

Klavier’s gaze softens in response.

“Because I love you, Apollo Justice,” he replies, quiet enough that anyone listening beyond their single square of concrete would not be able to make out the words, “and I would like to hear it, ja?”

Like they have been given a cue, the streetlights that flank the road blink their way to life above them. Apollo can only barely see them; with his face still cradled between Klavier’s hands and his gaze fixed on Klavier’s blue eyes, there is little else in his field of vision or on his mind.

“Oh,” Apollo breathes, “okay.”

The fact that the words are little more than a whisper has nothing to do with embarrassment, this time.

“Ja, okay,” Klavier laughs a moment later when Apollo hasn’t managed to exhale the breath he’s been holding, let alone actually saying something. Klavier is still grinning as he leans in to kiss Apollo, the press of his lips a gentle encouragement that does much of the opposite of its intention. As he pulls back, still so close that Apollo could count the faint freckles hiding beneath the layer of foundation Klavier insists on wearing in public, the look of adoration in his eyes leaves Apollo positively tongue tied. “Whenever you are ready, Schatzilein.”

“You’re the worst, did you know that?” Apollo replies, though his voice is far too soft to actually mean it. “But I love you anyway.”

Klavier’s smile, then, is dazzling. “I think I will have to accept that one, ja?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

When Klavier kisses him again, standing there below the streetlights of the boulevard for anyone to see, Apollo finally stops worrying about the kind of people they seem to be. Whether he has earned the love of someone like Klavier or if Klavier deserves better than someone like him ceases to be important, if it ever really was to begin with.

The only thing that matters, then, is the warmth of the arms that are reaching out to pull Apollo closer. Anything beyond that—including the dinner reservation they most certainly will have lost by now—will need to wait; Apollo’s heart is too full.

#this doesn't mean you're off the hook for making us late you know #<-- apollo #HI MY NAME IS KRISSY AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT A DRABBLE IS #29 is gonna be in another one~#valentines day kiss prompts #klapollo #honestly i need about 3k more words to actually make the point i am trying to make here #sorry if it seems all over the place #i was trying to keep it short!!!!!#anyway #THANKS ANON ILU #ronsenburg tries to write

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin/Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice Characters: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin, Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice, Houzuki Akane | Ema Skye, Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma, Yuugami Jin | Simon Blackquill, Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth Additional Tags: Gyakuten Saiban 6 | Spirit of Justice Spoilers, Long-Distance Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Break Up, Alcohol, Hotel Sex, Phone Calls & Telephones, Airplanes, German Klavier Gavin, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise Summary:

Everything about the situation is wrong, from the suitcase in Apollo’s arms to the blaring of car horns from the cars waiting behind him. It doesn’t matter. “I have been thinking-” he starts, voice faltering. It is very unlike him to be at such a loss for words, but he has never found himself in a situation quite like this before. “Ach, wondering, really-”

Apollo raises his brow, glancing at the digital clock on the dash and back into Klavier’s eyes in quick succession. “Klavier, my flight-”

“-Marry me?” The words come out in a rushed and poorly articulated interruption. Apollo blinks, his mouth falling slightly open in surprise. “When you come back, ja? Marry me.”

A Post-Spirit of Justice Proposal fic.

#good morning everyone ♥#happy valentines day #have an epilogue as a gift #because i love you all #klapollo #Klavier Gavin #apollo justice #ace attorney #ronsenburg tries to write

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Klavier reaches up to remove his sunglasses before giving the other a slow and exaggerated once over, returned only by the rolling of dark eyes. “Forehead, if you keep insisting on calling me that outside of court, I’ll start to think you don’t want to be friends.”

“Of course we do!” Trucy replies for him, bouncing on the balls of her feet in earnest before Apollo can manage to open his mouth, “In fact, we’re on our way to get ice cream. Do you want to come with? That’s something friends do!”

Klavier doesn’t miss look that Apollo shoots in her direction, or the way she smiles widely back. He replies, “You know I would never miss the opportunity to spend time with you, Fräulein. But I’ve already committed to another date at present. Next time, maybe.”

“It’s two thirty in the afternoon,” Apollo points out, incredulous, “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I meant the dog,” Klavier replies, tone flat, “We were headed to the park when we found you. Her name is Vongole, by the way.”

And, as if just noticing her for the first time, Trucy’s eyes fall on the dog sitting near his feet. Vongole’s ears perk up at exactly the same time Trucy gives a shout of delight, falling to her knees as the dog surges forward and into her arms. Klavier drops the leash to avoiding being pulled over. “What a silly name for a dog!” she exclaims, bunching up the fur behind Vongole’s ears with both hands. Vongole looks delighted. “You’re way too cute for that, huh, Vonvon? Don’t you think so, Polly?”

“Hello, Clams,” Apollo replies, patting her on the head gently when he steps forward. She licks his hand profusely in response, as if returning the greeting, and Klavier raises a curious eyebrow. Apollo only shrugs as he steps back, wiping his hand on his bright red pants in the process, adding, “We’ve already met.”

And that is an interesting revelation, though one he should probably not be so surprised to hear.

#i should finish this #ronsenburg tries to write #vongole

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Chapters: 4/5 Fandom: 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin/Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice Characters: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin, Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice, Houzuki Akane | Ema Skye, Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma, Yuugami Jin | Simon Blackquill, Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth Additional Tags: Gyakuten Saiban 6 | Spirit of Justice Spoilers, Long-Distance Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Break Up, Alcohol, Hotel Sex, Phone Calls & Telephones, Airplanes, German Klavier Gavin, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise Summary:

Apollo raises his brow, glancing at the digital clock on the dash and back into Klavier’s eyes in quick succession. “Klavier, my flight-”

“-Marry me?” The words come out in a rushed and poorly articulated interruption. Apollo blinks, his mouth falling slightly open in surprise. “When you come back, ja? Marry me.”

A Post-Spirit of Justice Proposal fic.

#I LIED THIS WASNT AN EPILOGUE #drop that last chapter on Valentine’s Day #call it a present #this part is about 80% happy and 20% please communicate better you dummies #klapollo #ace attorney #klavier gavin #apollo justice #ronsenburg tries to write #the condo Klavier lives in just sold for 4.3mil #the monthly hoa is 2k #his property tax would be more than i make a year #dhdudigkfmtkfcuu

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Since you mentioned you were looking for drabble requests, if you haven't moved on from AA already, could I request something where Apollo or Klavier is struggling against pride/feeling that his problem isn't a big deal/some kind of internal roadblock to seek comfort from the other? Maybe they lost a case they don't think they should have lost, or it's the anniversary of something sad, or they just feel crappy physically or emotionally. Any reason is fine. Thanks for considering my request ^^

vorher:

It’s nearly six pm by the time Franziska finds him, tucked into a chair in the corner of some pretentious and probably ephemeral bar downtown.

It isn’t one of his usual haunts, but the staff seem to know who he is well enough, anyway. Though he is just barely twenty-three and his tab has been approaching the four figure mark for the past hour and a half, no one has bothered to card him or attempt cutting him off yet. Of course, that may have had more to do with the sizable tips slid to whatever staff member is closest in proximity rather than his rather notorious celebrity status, but Klavier’s ego has been rapidly ceasing to care about such things in recent months. What matters to him at this very moment is less the thrill of universal adoration and more the ability to nurse his wounded pride in pseudo-solitude with a vastly overpriced drink.

That solitude is shattered, however, by the arrival of Prosecutor Franziska Von Karma. The sound of her heels clicking firmly against the highly lacquered floors crescendos over whatever smooth jazz cover they’re piping through the hidden speakers as she makes her way directly over to him.

“Are you finished with your tantrum yet?” she asks, removing her dark sunglasses and placing them onto the surface of the bar beside him without any sort of invitation.

It takes a moment for the words to process; Klavier has spent so long playing the role of the ostentatious expat that his alcohol muddled brain can barely grasp the crisp and nearly foreign sounding syllables of her German.

By then, she has already removed her long leather gloves and cape, handing them off to an employee that floats near her elbow like a well trained dog on a leash. When she slides into the chair beside him and signals for the bartender, the scotch she orders for herself is nearly as expensive as Klavier’s own. If he weren’t so chagrined by her sudden interruption, he would likely be impressed.

“Since when is enjoying a drink after work considered a tantrum?” Klavier returns, finally, and also in German. He attempts to fire off one of his charming smiles as he speaks, but the words feel so clumsy and out of practice on his lips that the gesture falls short and sounds far more like the kind of sulk that directly proves the point she has made.

Franziska raises a perfectly arched eyebrow in reaction, though whether it is a response meant specifically for his faltering pronunciations or juvenile tone, Klavier can’t be at all sure. “Since someone recently made a complete fool of himself in a court of law.”

The words strike out like the lash of a whip; Klavier winces despite himself. Franziska is only two years older than him, but when she glances away with an air of disinterested disdain to take a sip from the tumbler placed in front of her, the gap seems far wider.

“You heard?”

“I saw,” she replies, glancing over to him again just long enough to offer a small, disparaging smirk. “It was quite the performance. Do people actually pay you money to see such foolishness on stage?”

The shame he’d been attempting to shove away for the past five hours flares up just below the surface of his thoughts then, hot and bright enough that he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

“You are just as charming as they say, Fraulein,” Klavier smiles; the sarcasm tastes false and bitter on his tongue.

In truth, he had made a fool of himself.

Klavier has always prided himself on being meticulous in his pursuit of the truth, in perfectly balancing the demands of both his prosecutorial career and his life as a musician. And, most of the time, he’d succeeded so brilliantly that it had blinded him to the subtly advancing and yet still discreet signs that he might have been slipping.

There had been issues with the band’s latest album.

With the ink long since dried on the studio’s contract and their chosen title already heavily marketed, the pressure to produce something of value had been mounting. Every song he’d written since then had seemed increasingly vapid, words that fit a theme but lacked any sort of meaning, chords that sounded deliberately catchy but were devoid of anything new and surprising. They were going through the motions, but those motions were long since stale. There was nothing of the artistic fire that had skyrocketed them to success in their early years and that alone drained any last bit of excitement he might have derived from the process.

It was driving a neat wedge through the center of the band; Daryan called him a diva, so used to having things his own way that he fell to pieces at the idea of ever being told what to do. Take the money, release an album that was shallow but on brand. They could always switch it up next time when time was on their side. You’re the lawyer, he'd mocked, you should know exactly how much of our asses are on the line here.

Their arguments on the subject had become more and more frequent as the days passed, spilling from band practice to crime scenes and, finally, to the kitchen of Klavier’s apartment. This time, it was Daryan who had packed what few belongings he’d scattered throughout Klavier’s various shelves and drawers into an old duffle bag and left, slamming the door shut behind him with finality as he’d gone.

As Klavier’s luck would dictate, Daryan had been the lead detective on this last case. While they were both professional enough not to ignore each other completely during the proceedings, the type of communication necessary for a successful indictment had been… difficult, to say the least.

And so he’d been distracted in his investigation, enough that he’d overlooked a piece of evidence so decisive in the opposition’s favor that when it had been presented, he’d been left gaping in uncharacteristic surprise from his place at the bench.

Yes, he’d been slipping, unable to see the progression of his descent until he had been standing firmly at the bottom of a tall slope.

He was only lucky, he supposed, that this was not a murder trial.

Back at the bar, Klavier rolls his eyes softly, more an aversion of his gaze than a gesture for dramatic display. Franziska doesn’t seem to be paying him enough attention to notice such things, anyway.

“Well, you can consider me scolded. Your work is done.”

“And yet, that’s not why I’m here,” Franziska returns. Ignoring the eyebrow he raises toward her in obvious question, she instead tilts the tumbler back, swallowing the last centimeter of the amber drink. “I would not waste my time and energy searching the city to scold a fool who seems to be doing an admirable job of berating himself. No, despite your recent failures, there are people in this city who seem to care about your well being. It would be a shame if you were to drown in a pool of your own vomit.”

He cannot help his rather obvious flinch at her words, no matter how quickly he endeavors to mask it. “How very touching, ja? I was expecting more anger.”

Franziska pauses in the midst of extracting a matte black card from the small handbag she carries. When her steel grey eyes meet his, Klavier suddenly understands the fear the von Karma name had once inspired in courtrooms across the world.

“Oh, I am angry,” she smiles, wagging her finger in such a way that it is clear she is mocking him. “You allowed a criminal to walk free today. But he is guilty, I am certain of that. And now he will be cocky.”

Klavier is so stunned by her words that he barely registers that she has slid her card across the surface of the wooden bar, let alone has the presence of mind to argue.

“There will be more evidence to find and new charges to file,” she continues, unperturbed by his gaping. “I will assume that next time you will have your priorities in the correct order.”

With that, she stands and turns to the attendant who is still waiting nearby, ready to help her back into the dark, cashmere folds of her cloak. When the complex ritual of donning her long gloves and sunglasses is complete, she turns once again to face him.

“I will be driving you home. You may choose, now, whether you would like to accompany me willingly or if you will require Detective Gumshoe’s escort. You have until I reach the door to decide.”

It feels as though a whirlwind has swept through the room, appearing out of nowhere to disrupt his wallowing completely before disappearing as suddenly as she had come. Klavier is not stupid enough to doubt Franziska’s words, despite the fact that he is twenty-three and more than a bit inebriated. He wavers only slightly as he finds his own feet and follows her out onto the sun soaked sidewalk beyond the bar.

If she is smiling when she looks back towards him, it is the small, private smirk of victory. Klavier finds that he is too preoccupied with the act of placing one foot in front of the other along the uneven slabs of concrete to care. He stumbles gracelessly into the backseat of the car Franziska indicates, through a door held open by a man that Klavier can only assume is the Detective she had mentioned inside.

“Huh,” he comments before closing the door. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller, pal.”

A sharp stab of pain somewhere behind his left temple resonates brightly in response.

This is something he will certainly regret tomorrow.

nachher:

“Okay, spill,” Apollo demands, crossing his arms in a visible display of stubborn obstination that, at any other time, Klavier might find endlessly adorable.

Tonight, however, he has reached a new level of exhaustion, one that leaves him blinking back at Apollo in baffled surprise as he attempts to pivot his thoughts from their previous trajectory in order to make sense of the other’s sudden words. “Spill was?”

As his words indicate, the intended course adjustment doesn’t go very well at all.

“Whatever’s going on with you,” Apollo replies, huffing out a sigh of what sounds nearly like frustration. “You’ve been working late, you don’t eat, you haven’t been sleeping. Something’s up; I think you should tell me what it is.”

Though Apollo’s words and posture are combative, it is all for show. There is an uncertainty in his eyes and concern exposed in the way he bites at the inside of his lip in silence, waiting for Klavier to speak. The fact that Klavier has learned to recognize this expression through repeatedly causing it is a painful enough thing to shoulder; to admit to the reason behind his behavior when it will only bring them both all the more strife, however, would be far worse. Not because he doubts the limits of Apollo’s strength; it is his own resilience that is threatened by the thought of divulging the extent of his insecurities.

Klavier runs a hand through the strands of hair that have escaped the hasty braid he had tied earlier that evening and attempts an apologetic smile. “Ach, Liebling, there is nothing to tell. It is just work.”

“You’re lying.”

It is stated as a fact, nothing more. But while there is nothing accusatory in Apollo’s tone and his face is perfectly even as he says it, Klavier still feels the words as though they are the sting of an attack.

“Ja?” he responds. “And you promised there would be no bracelet inside the house, did you not?”

What he intends is for the words to sound facetious, a nod to the same kind of fond banter they had indulged in long before the intimacy of a romantic relationship. But Klavier is lying; it is not an offense often committed between them and certainly not one he has reveled in or perpetuated out of malice, now. Still, to be seen through so shifted his smile without meaning to. Klavier can feel it teetering on the edge of a sneer that feels both unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

What follows, then, is a long pause.

A lifted arm, a proffered bare wrist, is Apollo’s only response.

That gesture feels more devastating than the aftermath of an actual, physical fight. Klavier can feel the air exit his lungs in a sharp hiss of remorse, his posture on the plush sofa of their study crumbling as he leans forward to place his head into his waiting hands.

“That was uncalled for,” Klavier begins, though his voice is muffled by the skin of his palms pressed firmly against his speaking mouth. “I am sorry, Schatz, I—“

But his words are interrupted by the sudden creak of sofa springs, the cushions on either side of Klavier dipping under the newly applied weight of Apollo’s knees. There is the feeling of Apollo’s warm fingers wrapping around the skin of his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face.

“I know you, Klavier,” Apollo says softly; his voice is so uncharacteristically gentle that the words sound less like a statement and more the sweetest declaration of love. Maybe they are. After all, Klavier has been loved before. But being actually, truly known? He glances up into Apollo’s brown eyes, warm with determination and affection. “I don’t need the bracelet to see when you’re upset. If you don’t want to talk about it right now, I understand, but you don’t have to go around pretending everything is okay when it isn’t.”

“Bold words for someone who insists upon always being fine, ja?” Klavier murmurs, another half hearted attempt at humor that falls flat in what little space exists between them.

Apollo still lifts the edge of his lips in a small, humored smile of concession. “In court, maybe. But not with you. We all need to be vulnerable, sometimes.”

The breath that Klavier exhales wavers under the strain of unspoken emotions, his eyes fluttering closed just as Apollo leans forward to place a featherlight kiss against the center of his forehead, against his cheekbone, against the corner of his downturned mouth.

“You can trust me, Klavier,” he concludes. “I’ll always be here, whenever you’re ready, okay?”

Klavier finds he does not have the words to respond, then, even as the sound of fabric rustling against fabric fills the air and the hands holding Klavier’s wrists retreat. Their absence is felt immediately in the lack of warmth as Apollo slides back off the couch and onto his feet.

“Apollo?”

Apollo’s footsteps stall halfway through the door.

Klavier still finds he needs to clear his throat before he can continue to speak, swallowing back the sentiments that have collected there that he is otherwise unable to express. “Could you stay? Bitte. Just for a moment.”

This is a weakness Klavier should not afford himself. It is selfish to ask Apollo to comfort him when Klavier cannot even bring himself to explain precisely why he requires it. But Apollo’s eyes are soft when they find Klavier’s gaze once again, inexplicably fully of acceptance and, beyond that, what Klavier knows is love.

“Yeah,” he nods, “of course.”

Apollo stays far longer than a moment, his fingers combing through the strands of Klavier’s loose hair under the fading light that filters in though the slightly open window. They don’t speak, but the steady rhythm of Apollo’s breath in the otherwise silent room, the gentle pressure of his fingers, is enough to distract him from the tumultuous cascade of his own thoughts.

#this continues the trend of people asking me for one thing and me willfully misunderstanding the nature of the prompt!#and writing something entirely different!#just trying to subvert everyone's expectations jadshfskjdfhks #okay but literally that first anon is from like two years ago #SORRY DUDE #valentines day kiss prompts #ronsenburg tries to write #klapollo

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Chapters: 4/? Fandom: 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin/Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice Characters: Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice, Aoi Daichi | Clay Terran, Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin, Garyuu Kirihito | Kristoph Gavin, Houzuki Akane | Ema Skye, Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth, Ichijou Mikumo | Kay Faraday Additional Tags: best friends make terrible wingmen, apollo needs to get it together, how are they so emotionally dense, Pre-Relationship, klavier is actually german and also a giant dork, clay is alive and nothing hurts, does it count as a slow burn if the author takes a year to update in between chapters?, yatagarasTWO!!!! Summary:

Apollo realizes he's in love with Klavier Gavin during a post-trial lunch one afternoon. Clay tries his best to help, but things don’t always go as planned.

#CHAPTER 4!!!!!!!#real post for next day #klapollo #ronsenburg tries to write

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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Chapters: 2/4

Fandom: 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Garyuu Kyouya | Klavier Gavin/Odoroki Housuke | Apollo Justice

Additional Tags: Gyakuten Saiban 6 | Spirit of Justice Spoilers, Long-Distance Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Break Up, Alcohol, Hotel Sex, Phone Calls & Telephones, Airplanes, German Klavier Gavin, Angst with a Happy Ending, I promise

Summary:

Everything about the situation is wrong, from the suitcase in Apollo’s arm to the blaring of car horns from the cars waiting behind him. It doesn’t matter. “I have been thinking-” he starts, voice faltering. It is very unlike him to be at such a loss for words, but he has never found himself in a situation quite like this before. “Ach, wondering, really-”

Apollo raises his brow, glancing at the digital clock on the dash and back into Klavier’s eyes in quick succession. “Klavier, my flight-”

“-Marry me?” The words come out in a rushed and poorly articulated interruption. Apollo blinks, his mouth falling slightly open in surprise. “When you come back, ja? Marry me.”

A Post-Spirit of Justice Proposal fic.

#klapollo #ace attorney #ronsenburg tries to write #WHATS UP DUDES I'M POSTING!!!!!!!#its in four parts my bad #kind of crying about how nice the comments are already #ilu all

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ronsenburg · 3 years

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This one is for @reinmeka~♥

The sun shone brightly the day Apollo first met the summoner.

It’s a pointless detail to cling to—most days in Spira had been sunny, so far—but the state of the weather that day is ingrained into his memory all the same. Maybe it had something to do with the way the beams of light reflected off the surface of the ocean as their boat cut a path to Luca, throwing waves that glinted silver in their wake, looking more like rippled metal than water. Maybe it was the feel of the warm wooden deck, solid and steady under the palms of his hands.

It had been a peaceful ride, until then.

Until the spires of Luca’s stadium began to shift from a blur of color jutting from the darker tones of the surrounding cliffside into distinct details, until the wind that filled their sails began to carry the sounds of screaming across the water. Among those very human wails another sound arose, this cry piercing and bestial, the sorrow and pain expressed in that roar echoing down through Apollo and raising goosebumps along the skin of his arms.

“Sounds like we’re missing the show,” Phoenix commented. With his arms crossed and one shoulder leaned against the mast, he sounded unperturbed by the sounds of chaos, but Apollo could see the tightness in his expression as he gazed on. It was the look that gave him away.

“Is it—“

But Phoenix cut him off with a definitive shake of his head, his eyes never leaving the shoreline. “You’d know if it was. Doesn’t mean it isn’t bad though.”

Trucy appeared to his left, then, twisting the pompom antenna of the doll in her arms with an anxious energy that was nearly palatable. “The captain says it’ll take half an hour, at least, to get to the port. If they’ll still let us dock, that is.”

“It’ll be over by then,” Phoenix sighed. “For good or for bad. All we can do is hope the kid’s okay.”

Apollo couldn’t bring himself to ask who exactly Phoenix was referring to, then.

It took two hours, in actuality, for the authorities of Luca to clear their ship to dock.

Phoenix paced the deck for the majority of it, patience waning as time visibly slipped past with the subtle movement of the still blazing sun. What was bothering him was hard to discern—the screaming had stopped nearly an hour ago, replaced by the sounds of uproarious applause and cheers. Whatever had happened here seemed to be resolved, and yet, Phoenix had continued to wear a line into the already worn wood of the ship's deck.

Eventually, they were cleared to disembark; a gangway was lowered, swaying only slightly as Apollo took the tentative—and grateful—steps off the boat and onto the mosaic laden ground below. Only Trucy seemed to notice his discomfort; the deckhands were busy preparing to unload the cargo they carried and Phoenix was already occupied in conversation with an unfamiliar man who appeared to have been waiting for their arrival at the docks.

And though he still bowed before speaking, Phoenix’s tone could only be described as brusque. “How’d they get past the barrier?”

If the man he was addressing was bothered by the manner of address, he didn’t show it. He only smiled pleasantly, inclining his head enough that the coil of pale-blond hair that was collected in a cuff of embroidered fabric fell over the robes of his left shoulder. “Come now, Sir Wright. It’s been nearly seven years since the last time we met. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Though it was nearly imperceptible, Apollo was certain he saw the muscles of Phoenix’s jaw constrict as he set his teeth. “There’s a time and a place, Maester. Right now I’m more concerned about the people of Luca.”

The man gave a dismissive wave of his robed arm, indicating the general structure around them. “As you can see, everything is perfectly under control. The fiends have been dispatched with minimal casualties, the tournament will resume tomorrow. All without your assistance, might I add.”

“And the summoner?” Phoenix pressed, apparently relentless.

Something like displeasure flashed across the other man’s eyes, so quickly that Apollo could not be sure he hadn’t imagined it, before it was carefully smoothed back into the same affable smile from earlier. “Klavier is uninjured, but resting. If you wish to see him, I would ask that you wait until after this evening’s Sending.” And, as though sensing that Phoenix was still unconvinced, he added, “There’s no need to worry. Sir Edgeworth is with him. That should appease you, no?”

Oddly enough, it did. The hostility that had emerged in the lines of Phoenix’s jaw seemed to fade away, though it was only somewhat, carried off on the wings of a soft sigh released as he shrugged in apparent admission.

The other man simply nodded.

“As I thought. Now that’s settled, I must insist you join me for refreshments; it’s been a trying morning for us all and—“ he paused, his mismatched eyes sliding from Phoenix’s face to meet Apollo’s eyes directly, “—we are so very curious to meet your newest companion.”

With that, he bowed deeply.

“I am Maester Kristoph of Bevelle; I must say that I am delighted at the prospect of making your acquaintance.”

In a series of artfully levied whispers as the party made their way through the teeming streets, Trucy managed to outline the basics of what had occurred since they’d first set eyes on Luca’s shores that morning.

They were as followed:

The man who had introduced himself as Maester Kristoph was a priest of Yevon, in Luca with his brother, a summoner, to lend Bevelle’s support to the tournament. He and Phoenix had met years ago when serving as guardians for different summoners on their pilgrimage to defeat Sin. There should have been wards enacted within the walls of the stadium to keep fiends from entering, but they had been damaged in Sin’s last attack and, as a result, the monsters had gotten through. Though the Maester and his brother had promptly managed to dispatch the fiends, there had still been injuries and a handful of deaths within the stadium. A ceremony would be performed that evening for the dead.

It was a lot to process, even more so when the information was volleyed in broken sentences and cut off words while they’d dodged groups of laughing teenagers and all sorts of chattering families. The atmosphere—joyous, possibly even celebratory—was difficult for Apollo to fathom. The animalistic roar that they had heard from the distance of their boat was still lodged in Apollo’s mind, repeatedly crying out its apparent agony. What kind of creature made a noise like that? Nothing that he had encountered back in Zanarkand, at any rate. And, more importantly, what kind of world was this where only hours after an event of death and pain, citizens could resume their gaiety as though nothing had happened? Street sweepers worked diligently astride the revelers, clearing large pieces of rubble and what looked like puddles of dried blood from the ground while the sound of laughter rose around them. It was completely discordant.

The longer Apollo spent in Spira, the less it seemed to make sense.

The less he liked it, too, though, by now, that seemed a given.

It wasn’t until the sun had almost set behind the mountains to the west that the mysterious summoner was finally set to appear.

They gathered on the south facing piers, along the stretch of road connecting the stadium to the city proper. Though Maester Kristoph had indicated only six citizens had been killed in the attack—their coffins of woven grass and brightly dyed fabric sat in waiting by the edge of the water—nearly half of the city seemed to join the party of mourners crowded along the water’s edge.

“Should’ve used the stadium,” Phoenix mumbled, rolling his eyes at the people moving around them, each individual vying for what they perceived to be the best spot.

Trucy elbowed him squarely in the stomach in response. “Daddy,” she hissed, “we talked about mocking Yevon in public!”

Phoenix may have cowed his head in apology, but it didn’t stop him from snorting when someone nearly shoved Apollo directly into the water as they tried to make their way past him and to the front. It was only the hand that reached out, gripping the fabric of Apollo’s hood long enough that he was able to regain his balance, that kept him from taking an untimely and unfortunate dive into the ocean below. That alone made it hard not to agree with any point Phoenix was attempting to make.

The actual atmosphere of the sending was difficult for Apollo to pin down with words. At the head of the crowd, near the newly constructed coffins of the departed, a small group of people had assembled. The sound of their gentle sobbing rose above the murmur of the crowd, their obvious grief invoking an air of solemn ceremony over all those assembled. But it was difficult, despite that grief, not to feel the slowly building tremor of excitement that was passing through the rest of the group as they stood in waiting. The sound of indistinct whispering rose and fell in waves, as though everyone present was holding single, collective breath in barely restrained anticipation. Even Apollo felt it, a wrenching of expectancy from somewhere deep within his stomach. It was like the feeling was contagious and, though Apollo had no idea what exactly he was waiting for, he had somehow caught it too.

“I don’t get it,” Apollo murmured a moment later, though his eyes were still casting about the crowd. “Is this a funeral or some kind of a performance?”

The chuckle that Phoenix offered in response was nothing if not cryptic. “A little bit of both, I’d say.”

“Summoners are kind of like celebrities in Spira,” Trucy elaborated. “There aren’t all that many, so most people don’t get a chance to see them unless something really bad happens. It makes them mysterious, I think.”

Apollo frowned, “So all these people are here just so they can say they saw the summoner? Isn’t that disrespectful?”

“No,” Phoenix corrected, not quite smiling, “they’re here to see him dance.”

Just as the final rays of the sun began to fade into the edges of the distant skyline, the whispers around them seemed to rise to something of a fever pitch. All along the water’s edge, torches seemed to spring into life seemingly out of nowhere, their orange and yellow flames dancing on a sudden gust of the ocean breeze. And along with it, almost as though they had converged into one single entity, every member of the crowd turned to their right to watch the procession that had begun filing toward them from the direction of the city.

The group itself wasn’t anything ostentatious, just a handful of torchbearers and members of what Apollo could only assume were the church based on their robes, all styled similarly to those of Maester Kristoph. But at the end of it, set just slightly apart from the rest of the group, walked what could only be the summoner they had been waiting for.

He looked enough like the Maester that, if Kristoph hadn’t been standing just beyond, Apollo might have mistaken them for the same person. But as the advancing procession passed, the summoner’s eyes meeting briefly with Apollo’s own slightly widened gaze, he realized just how wrong his initial assumption would have been.

In the light of the dancing flames, the summoner looked like something ethereal, not simply bathed in the light of the fire, but composed of it completely, as though he were burning fiercely from within. Though his robes stylistically resembled that of his brother’s, they were both far lighter in fabric and bolder in color, dyed the shades of the sunset sky that were still clinging to the horizon behind him. His hair, also light in color and collected at one shoulder by a nondescript dark cord, shone like molten gold.

The sight of him was so far from what Apollo had been expecting that it nearly stole his next breath directly from within his lungs.

It seemed he was far from the only one; a hush seemed to fall over the entire assembly as the procession reached their final position, the quiet ebbing so suddenly that you could hear the sound of each Maesters’ individual footfalls echoing with each step against the ground. It felt as though a spell had been flung over everyone present, culling the latent anticipation and, instead, lulling them into a dream of soft tranquility.

What followed then was a short ceremony, words mumbled over each of the coffins that Apollo could not clearly discern in the distance that separated them. When they finished with one, two of the torch bearers would step forward, lifting each side and stepping forward to slide the casket into the waves that lapped rhythmically against the pier. The water was dark and very clearly deep; each made little noise as they sunk below the surface, disappearing for a handful of moments before buoyancy took hold and they emerged above the waterline once again.

At the end of it, all six coffins bobbed just below the crests of the rolling ocean waves, drifting around each other in an invisible current as they moved beyond the pier and into the open sea.

No one was watching them any longer, though. Not when the summoner had moved forward to the edge of the pier, stepping deftly out of his shoes and handing the outer layer of his robes to an attendant who was waiting nearby. And, then, without any sort of hesitation or address to crowd, he stepped off the pier and into the ocean below.

Apollo could not help the gasp that escaped his lips, then, so certain he was about to see the man disappear below the water like the caskets had each done a mere handful of moments ago.

But the summoner didn’t sink.

The soles of his feet settled against the surface of the water as though it were just as solid as the road he had stepped from. Tiny ripples expanded rapidly outward from each point of contact, a reminder to those assembled that the surface was, in fact, liquid and flowing gently beneath the place where he stood.

By that time, the sun had set completely; aside from the torches that still flickered along the shore, the only other source of light came from the moon and stars in the twilight sky above. With each step that the summoner took away from the pier and toward the open water where the coffins gyred aimlessly, the fire slowly relinquished its hold. In the span of just a few feet, he became only visible as a dark silhouette against the far off sky.

That was, however, until he paused in his steps, until he lifted the staff in his right hand far above his head.

From the darkness, a host of tiny stars began to emerge all around him from beneath the surface of the ocean, each throwing their own soft, white light. It was though they were responding to a call; with each additional wave of the summoner’s staff, more appeared, until the air around him twinkled like he had pulled the sky down in a cloak settled firmly around his shoulders.

“Pyreflies,” Trucy murmured to Apollo’s left, her tone nearly as awed as Apollo felt. He didn’t bother to ask what she meant, somehow he knew.

It was only then, illuminated in both the glow of the distant stars and the spotlight cast by the pyreflies that surged through the air around him, that the summoner began to dance.

#aa au: wouldn't it be wonderful?#ronsenburg tries to write #wtf is the past tense i don't know her #anyway jett said summoner klavier and my heart said dead mom anima and things kind of spiraled away from there #do you guys still remember the first time you played ffx? and you watched yuna step out onto the beach at kilika and start to dance?#and then they cut back over to tidus's face and it was exactly the same one that you were making?????#i want to see Klavier's sending #I couldn't sleep at 2 am last night because I was thinking about this #whomp whomp #i took so many liberties with your au i'm so sorry remind me to actually write down my fever dream so i can tell you about it

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