For Clive Dove, everything had to be perfect. He had to have perfect shoes, perfect hair, perfect teeth, a perfect house, a perfect underground replica of the city of London, and, of course, the perfect proposal. That's why he was polishing his best china teacups instead of his maid; he had to make sure everything was perfect for the afternoon, because this was the afternoon he would propose to the love of his life, Desmond Sycamore.
It didn't matter to Clive that he and Sycamore hadn't even dated. Clive didn't think you needed to date a person to be able to marry them. As long as they didn't tell you not to destroy London, they were good.
Clive had met Sycamore long ago at the My Real Name Is A Huge Spoiler club, which they attended along with Claire, the Masked Gentleman (who refused to admit he was actually Randal Ascot), Janice Quatlane, the Mysterious Girl from the Curious Village (who was just Flora with a dishcloth on her head) and even, occasionally, Professor Hershel Layton himself. Clive knew he and Sycamore hit it off right away; after all, they were both misunderstood "villains" with artistic souls. Of course, Clive had much nicer hair than Sycamore, but he excused that because Sycamore had a much more tragic backstory.
Clive didn't know when he had fallen in love with Sycamore. Maybe it was right then on Day One. Maybe it was the day before this story takes place. Whenever it was, the love he felt was real and deep and passionate. That was why he was going to propose. He had no other choice.
The doorbell rang just as he laid the teapot on his table. He'd decorated the parlour lavishly in order to impress Sycamore, who had never visited his home. Clive wanted to make it very clear from the start that he was rich, very rich, impossibly rich, rich enough to build a fake London underneath the real one and turn it into a giant robot. So he had the maid answer the door, and he sat himself down in the most seductive pose he could muster, biting a rose between his teeth, and waited.
However, Sycamore's first words weren't admiration, they were a confused, "What the fuck Clive?"
Clive tried to respond, but with the rose in his mouth, that was incredibly difficult. "Hmffph ghhuh?" he asked, shrugging.
Sycamore just continued to look at him in a mixture of confusion and disgust. "What the fuck?" he repeated.
Rolling his eyes, Clive removed the rose from his mouth, stood up, and presented it to Sycamore with a flourish. "For you, my love."
"No homo though, right?" Sycamore asked, taking the rose from him and sitting down in the chair that had been provided for him.
"Well," Clive smiled, something which he really shouldn't do, because it was awfully similar to the incredibly unattractive smile he had worn when he thought he was going to destroy London, "that's what I invited you here to discuss."
Sycamore looked intrigued. He raised an eyebrow, but kept his gaze on the scone he was buttering. Clive had provided an entire cake stand of scones, tea cakes, and cupcakes, which the Professor was extremely excited to eat. He didn't even care about the tea. He just came for the scones. He didn't even like scones. He just liked butter and jam. Sycamore had come to Clive's house so he could eat all of Clive's butter and jam. "So, what, is this like, you coming out to me or something?"
Clive slipped into the chair opposite Sycamore, and his creepily long fingers crept towards Sycamore's hands. "More like coming on to you," he chuckled. "As in I'm hitting on you. As in flirting with you. As in yes I am gay and I gave you that rose in a very homo way because I want you to marry me."
Sycamore laughed. Then he stopped buttering his scone. Then he put the entire scone in his mouth and swallowed it whole. Clive watched in admiration. Truly this was the greatest man on Earth. His affections were in completely the right place.
He stood from his seat, and kneeled in front of Sycamore. "Professor," he said. "I love you. I love you with all of my heart. I want to kiss you more than I want to destroy London." From his pocket, Clive pulled out a box. "Will you marry me?"
The Professor chewed his bottom lip. He did not want to marry Clive. He didn't want to marry anyone, except maybe Wheatley from Portal 2. Hot damn, that robot was fucking rad. He loved Wheatley.
However, Sycamore wasn't a complete idiot. Clive was obviously rich. Very rich. Very, very rich. Rich enough to build a giant replica of London under the real London. Sycamore could do a lot with that kind of money.
"It depends," he told Clive nonchalantly, reaching for his teaspoon and then scooping up butter from the tub in order to put it straight in his mouth. Clive just watched him eat this butter like yoghurt in a strange combination of horror and arousal. Sycamore continued, "Because you're younger than me, if we get married, you have to call me "Daddy"."
Clive's eyes went wide. "I don't know if I can give a blow job to someone I'm calling "daddy"," he admitted.
"What the fuck?" Sycamore slammed down the butter tub in horror. "Why the fuck not?"
"Um," Clive looked down. "Well. I don't know if you ever considered this-"
Sycamore snorted loudly, like a pig. "Get on with it," he spat.
"I have daddy issues," Clive admitted. "Really big ones. I mean, did you miss the part where I destroyed all of London to avenge my daddy? Did you-"
But Sycamore cut him off again. "Don't pretend you did that because you have daddy issues. We all know you did that because-"
THUMP.
The two men looked towards the window.
"What the fuck was that?" Sycamore asked.
THUMP.
"There it is again!" Clive cried, getting off of his knees and standing up.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
These three thumps were matched with streaks of yellow and white splatting on the window of Clive's parlour.
"What the-" Clive muttered, walking over to his window and opening it.
As soon as the window was opened, Clive and Sycamore realised they were under attack.
A horrific battle cry tore through the air, and two blurs leapt in through the window, screaming. Limbs were flailing and eggs, dozens upon dozens of eggs, cracked and broke and shattered all over the room. Clive screamed. His perfect parlour. His perfect proposal. It was all ruined.
But that was what the suspicious individuals, who continued throwing eggs, almost as if they had a never ending supply of eggs. Clive's clothes were ruined. There were bits of yolk in Sycamore's hair, and he had to removed his glasses, which were covered in a gooey orange film.
"Ahahahaha!" cackled the taller of the Suspicious Individuals as they climbed onto Clive's table and began kicking his tea set off of it. Soon, not only were there eggs everywhere, there were also scones, jam, sugar, milk, tea, broken china, and tears. The smaller of the two through their final egg and then kicked Clive in the balls.
"Another victory for the Azran Empire!" cried the taller from Clive's table.
"Another victory for London!" replied the smaller as they watched Clive writhe in pain.
No. This wasn't happening. This was not allowed to happen. Not to Clive Dove. Not on the day he proposed.
The smaller of the two turned the blue cap they were wearing the other way round. "What should we do now, Emissary Aurora?"
"Well," Aurora replied, "our mission here was to make the Professor admit eggs are better than bread."
"Never!" screamed Sycamore. "Heck off you egg loving fucks!"
"Luke," Aurora's tone was cold. "Kick Clive in the balls again."
"What the fuck?!" Clive whined. "Why me?! I'm not even the antagonist in the same fucking game as yoOW!"
Luke's kick was quick and brutal. Clive began to sob loudly.
"So, Sycamore, my old enemy!" Aurora yelled triumphantly. "Will you admit defeat now, or continue to watch your loved one suffer?"
Sycamore laughed. Then he regained his composure. "Kick him in the balls again, Luke," he asked, polishing his glasses.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Clive screamed, finally resorting to caps lock. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Aurora opened her mouth to say something, but Clive had had enough. "THAT'S IT! EVERYONE OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Sycamore shrugged. "Okay," he said. He grabbed the tub of butter (or what was left of it) and was on his way. Aurora and Luke really had no reason to stay without Sycamore, so they followed him, begging him to admit eggs were better than bread.
Clive pulled himself up, leaning against his eggstained table. He wiped tears from his eyes.
This wasn't what he wanted to happen. He sat down. He placed his head in his hands.
"What the fuck?" he whispered to himself. "What the fuck?"
Clive stood up. He shook the egg off of him. And he got ready to do what he always did when he felt like shit.
It was time to destroy London.