The concept of a gray world... it only existed in unoriginal, insipid romance novels that didn't quite fit an intellect like his. Never once in his life did his eyes see everything in monochrome, but rather red, whenever he was in a rage, whenever he reached that thin line between reason and insanity.
Hah.
Was that irony, he wondered.
To be trapped in what he had denied to be real with so much petulance, that is.
It hadn't been so bad when he had first arrived to that accursed asylum, barely avoiding jail as his defense argued temporary insanity: He couldn't be held responsible for his acts, and going to prison would only make his situation worse. Clive quietly listened to that obnoxious lawyer narrate his life story over and over again to gain the public's pity and couldn't care less: Whether he went to jail or a mental asylum didn't really matter.
All the boy needed was a cage in which he could atone for his crimes.
"What a beautiful garden."
Clive raised his eyebrows, to then flash that derogatory smirk of his.
"It does its job at hiding what this place truly is, I suppose. Like the nurses' fake smiles and hospitality."
"Now, now." Hershel Layton, standing right by his side fixed his hat, patting the boy's shoulder. "A gentleman must never look down on other people."
"I'm not exactly a 'gentleman', professor."
"... We all make mistakes, Clive." He bit his lower lip, both afraid and glad to know the professor perceived the hidden guilt in his words. "While the media may describe you as innocent, my boy, I know you don't believe so yourself. But dwelling into your mistake won't do you any better: The best way to fix your situation is to change your attitude and become a better man."
"Hah. You read me like a book. Am I another puzzle for you, I wonder?"
"You may be quite difficult, yes," He joked, "But you're more than just puzzle to me."
Clive smiled.
"You don't understand, professor. I'm not the one looking down on anyone." He brought a finger to his lower lip. "You see, it's very curious how the human mind works. For those at the asylum, I'm a person with a condition that keeps me from functioning normally. They pity me, because I'm inferior and weaker, and their constant pampering is just a way to mock and degrade—truly, they treat me as if I were mentally disabl—"
"The human mind is quite curious indeed." Interrupted Layton. "What you describe as pity and mockery, I take it as kindness and desire to help you adjust to society once again. I understand that you find it difficult to trust people, Clive, but you must stop believing the world is against you. Gentleness and kindness exist, yet it's easy to turn them into harmful intentions with your current mindset."
"Fine then…"
Hesitation.
"... Will you help me?"
Layton smiled and put a hand on his chest.
"I will do my best."
The archaeologist was the only man he could trust. Those little visits of his were always joyful for Clive, more than could be considered normal—yet could anyone blame him? He was trapped in a world of gray and white, and Layton would arrive with his kind smile and his puzzles to 'keep the mind active', painting everything of many colors that would fade away as soon as he left his side.
It was hard, to keep his hand from reaching for that jacket.
Like a lost child.
But he was a man, he repeated to himself, and quietly pretended to be alright with each departure.
The asylum was beautiful on the outside, but the inside was as dull as possible to keep the patients quiet and at peace. They had the opposite effect on him, though: Too used to a life full of excitement and movement, he despised those rooms, the walls, and the people that over time seemed to lose their colors as well, pale, dull, simple. Clive started looking down on those he once said would look down on him, because they were nothing but walking spirits, smiling politely to everyone that passed by them, just to go back to their business seconds later, indifferent.
How ironic, yes, so very ironic, that such a place, dedicated to fix a human being, seemed so intent on crushing their spirits instead.
"Oh my, what are you doing there?"
"It's a puzzle, miss Wellington."
The nurse let out a strange noise, and continued walking when he didn't show any interest in continuing the conversation.
It was his last attempt to break the routine. Clive desperately held onto that hobby he had learned to love as Luke Triton, as he could feel his sanity slowly slipping from his fingers to leave behind nothing but an empty husk. The boy withdrew to himself, losing what little contact he had with the nurses and the other patients, to not fade away with them, and he focused on Layton's weekly visits: creating puzzles to entertain his friend, nit-picking—is it too hard? Is it unsolvable? Should I add another clue…?
Then it was done.
The professor's sharp eyes would brighten up with every new puzzle, and the warmth that enthusiasm would bring Clive was enough for him to survive every week.
He could live like this, he thought.
As long as he had his friend... he didn't need much more.
"Bravo, professor."
He smiled, a bit proud of himself: That puzzle had taken Layton longer than usual.
"I guess I can never catch you off guard, but I am getting better, aren't I?"
"Hm."
His cheerful words fell on deaf ears, the professor's shoulders stiff and eyes fixed on one point of the room, deep in thought. Clive tapped the table between them with his fingers to catch his attention.
"Is... everything alright? You seem quieter than usual."
"Ah, yes..."
Then a sigh, as if to give himself courage.
"I... need to have a word with you." Clive raised an eyebrow and then snickered.
"You're being rather overdramatic. Did something happen to little Luke or Flora—?"
"No. This is about you, Clive"
"Me?"
"Listen... the doctors believe that the time we spend together may be halting your progress…"
"What?"
Clive's posture had stiffened when he heard the word 'doctors'—yet that wasn't as shocking as the change in his features with his last few words.
"You spoke to them?"
"They approached me, yes." Layton raised his hand before his friend could speak again. "Listen to me. They believe that my visits may be... over stimulating you…"
"Oh please."He barked.
"... and they may also be crippling your social skills—"
"You must be joking."
"... I agree with them."
His eyes widened, anger temporarily pushed aside by confusion.
"You... do?"
"Tell me. When was the last time you spoke to anyone but me?" Yet Layton knew all too well when Clive was about to lie, an ability he had gained after all those weekly visits. The professor raised his hand before the boy could even find his voice: "I've talked to the nurses already."
Clive tsked and rolled his eyes.
"I see. So you're monitoring me now?"
"I am not, but please understand. You're my friend, and what the doctors said worried me. You're slowly isolating yourself, Clive."
"I'm isolating myself?" He raised his voice, indignant. "Professor, if you haven't noticed, it's this place the one that isolates you from the rest of the world and each other…!"
"Review your actions before speaking like that. You refuse to talk to the people around you, you barely try to answer to the doctors' questions—This place is trying to reach out for you, Clive, yet you keep slapping the helping hands away."
Clive pressed his lips together in a thin line.
"That's..."
"Do you really believe yourself superior to the people around you, Clive? Smarter than them?" His apologetic expression disappeared, and he gained some of his old arrogance back.
"That's not it and you know it. It is not their smarts what I judge people by."
"I suppose so. I remember the nice fellows you worked with in your scheme, after all, and although they weren't the brightest in London, you managed to bond with them quite well."
"I... I trusted a few of them, yes."
"Then why not try and bond with the people here, just like you did back then?"
"No, I..."
Layton sighed once again, shaking his head from side to side.
"This is why the doctors need me to stay away from you. You depend too much on me. Your mental stability depends too much on me."
"Professor—No." Something flashed in his eyes. Panic. "You're the only one I can trust. You're all I have left."
"Do you realize what you're saying? I'm honored to be someone so trustworthy for you, and believe me when I say that the feeling is mutual. But you cannot cling to me forever. You're my precious friend and this is why I must let you go."
"So you'll just leave me behind?" He had managed a perfectly calm stance until then, but his voice finally betrayed him with a shaky note. "After you promised you'd help me?"
"I am helping you. And I will not abandon you. My visits will become monthly now."
"Monthly?"
Two passing nurses suddenly raised their heads, and Layton frowned.
"You might want to lower your tone of voice, unless you wish for that time to be longer."
Clive sighed and shook his head, struggling to hide his anger behind his usual cool facade.
"And you think this is the right thing to do...?"
"What I think doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
Layton hesitated.
"Although I agree with the fact that you need to become less dependent on me for your own good... I also believe the doctors may be exaggerating. There are less shocking ways to get you out of your shell."
"..."
His shell.
That blasted place was his shell.
"I... see."
"I'm sorry."
And he had enough of it.
He would break out of that shell, he would break it before it completely broke him—
... Ah, maybe it already had.
Hah.
Because, as he ran through the gray, gray streets of London with nothing but his pajamas to protect his body from the unrelenting rain, Clive realized that once again he had lost control of everything—everything.
Hah... ha...
You fool...
Although the boy resisted the urge to laugh, he couldn't contain a broken smile.
He was alone, cold and pathetic...
But at least he was free...
...
Was he?
... Why... would he even doubt that?
He was out of that place... wasn't he?
So why? Why was everything so gray?
"... Clive..."
He had never heard the man's voice so lacking of life. Face pale and body so weak that the wind menaced to steal his umbrella away, Layton stood before him, dismayed—And Clive knew exactly what he was thinking as well:
'Why?'
"Professor." A bright smile contrasted against his raspy voice. "I thought you were already home: It's so late, after all. To be honest I wasn't sure if it was alright to bother you at this time…"
That was a lie, of course. Where else could he have gone to?
It didn't matter anyway: The professor hadn't heard a single word the younger man said and ran towards him, hurriedly opening the door to his house and pushing his friend in.
Talking to Layton in that state was useless, so Clive stood in the middle of the living room and watched the man run from one place to another, silent—too silent.
Was he angry?
No.
Worried was the word.
So terribly worried.
"Dry yourself."
"Ah, thank you..."
Only then Clive noticed that he was shivering, and how the professor's silence felt heavier and heavier on his shoulders with each second that passed. He finally gathered enough courage to speak up when the man dragged him to his own room, a neatly folded set of dry clothes on his bed.
"Professor, won't you...?"
"Ask about what made you even consider this to be a good idea?" There was some repressed frustration underneath his words and Clive looked away with a weak smile. "Yes, but only after I've made sure you're back where you belong."
"... And where is this, exactly?"
"The asylum, of course."
He stopped drying his hair and looked up at him.
"You are joking. There is no way I will go back to that accursed place."
"Clive." The professor walked two steps forward, as if to strengthen his words. "Do you realize what will happen to you if you're caught? You won't only be sent to another asylum, your sentence will…!" Clive's laughter interrupted him.
"And what makes you think I will let myself be caught? I bet that even now, those fools are completely clueless—hah, they must believe I'm peacefully sleeping in my bed...!"
"Exactly. And we will take advantage of that. We will return you to the asylum before they can notice: If you managed to find a safe escape route then you can use it to return to your bed just as easily."
"... Well this is unheard of." He crossed his arms on his chest, grinning. "Hershel Layton, helping a criminal hide his wrongdoings?"
"If I believed you a criminal, then I would've never let you in my house in the first place."
"..."
Clive dropped his shoulders.
"From where I see it you're just a victim of unfortunate circumstances."
"You were under those very same circumstances, yet I don't see you trying to murder millions, Professor."
"Because I was old enough to handle them. You, on the other hand, were just a child. A child that never learned to let go, because no one noticed nor did you ever ask for help. And for some reason you still are the only one unable to grasp that the events of future London cannot—must not—be completely blamed on you."
"... That is too convenient, don't you think?"
"Is that so? Yet the newspapers and the public seem to agree with me. Haven't you considered the possibility that, perhaps, you're being too hard on yourself?"
"No. What I did has no excuse, which is why..."
Which is why I don't deserve to be free.
"Well then" Hershel sighed and walked towards a phone nearby. "If you truly believe yourself to be guilty of everything that happened, then properly pay for your 'crime' and return to the asylum."
"No!"
Ah...
He didn't think himself deserving of freedom, yet he refused to return to his cage?
Funny.
What is it that you want, Clive Dove?
"I... I cannot..."
Go back to that world...
Ah, but he was out of it now... wasn't he?
And everything was still in monochrome. Nothing had changed.
... Maybe the professor was right?
Maybe the asylum wasn't the shell he was supposed to break out of after all.
...
No.
"I've seen... I've seen what that place does to them."
"You mean the people in the asylum?"
"Professor, those aren't people. They're nothing but remains—And I do not want to become—!"
"Clive! It's time you stop blaming the place and understand that the patients are the ones that refuse to save themselves! If only they wouldn't give up on their own cause, like you did, then...!"
"It's you the one that doesn't understand—You haven't been there, you haven't seen...!"
"Do you truly believe that during all those visits I didn't take my time to research and observe the procedures taking place at the asylum? You're looking for excuses that do not really exist!"
"..."
So the professor didn't understand, after all.
He could not rely on him either.
"What are you doing?"
"I will call certain friends that, you could say, owe me a few favors. I'm sure we can help you return to the asylum in less than an hour, if we hurry."
"... No, that's alright." Clive dropped the towel and turned around, ignoring the dry clothes on the bed. "I think it's better for me to leave now. Thanks for everything... and I'm sorry."
He walked—nearly ran towards the door.
Clive couldn't say he didn't expect the professor's hand firmly grabbing his wrist.
"I cannot let you run away."
"Please let me go."
"I won't let you do this to yourself."
"Let—Let me go...!" But the man made him walk towards the bed so he could reach the phone again. "I can't go back... Professor...!"
"Clive, lower your voice. You will wake Flora up."
"Then leave me be!"
Yet no matter how hard he swung his arm, he would not let go—He would drag him back to that place against his will—!
"Stay away!"
"...!"
He felt both guilty and satisfied to see the professor pull back with an alarmed look on his face as the letter opener on the night stand became his temporary weapon. That amazing feeling was reminiscent of the power he once had upon London, and the smile that twisted memory brought to his face nearly hurt.
"... Calm yourself."
"I will, once I'm far away from here. I was wrong to trust you—you don't understand anything after all." Clive raised his hand. "Now if you'd be so kind to let go of my wrist..."
"I won't."
"I do not want to hurt you."
Layton smiled.
"You won't."
And it was most probably a mistake: Frustration and rage, that had been bottled up inside him for who knows how long, seemed to surface with that smile he read as mockery:
"Don't underestimate me!"
Growling, stepping and then—
Clive saw a flash of red and panicked—yet there was no blood, no.
His hand trembled around the handle of the letter opener, now buried in the mattress right beside the professor's head. And panting, he looked into his friend's eyes, which were silently begging him to compose himself.
As if drawn by them, he leaned forward and let his forehead hit the man's, noses bumping.
Then two tears fell on Layton's cheeks.
"Clive."
"No..." He was like an agonizing child, twisting the sheets around them with his hands. "Forgive me—no… Please…"
"It's alright."
Clive slammed his fist against the mattress, both furious and glad to receive the professor's compassion.
"How can... it be fine... Are you a fool! ? I'm dangerous and yet you—"
"Anyone is dangerous in such a situation."
"That is... not... Professor."
He buried his face on his chest.
"Please... help me. Please don't leave me."
He clung to his friend for dear life and, entire body tense as those heart-wrenching sobs rang in his ears, Layton let his hands sneak around Clive.
"You were the one walking towards the door."
"Ah... I don't even know what should..." He muttered, voice muffled by the professor's shirt. "Ah, pathetic...?" The professor chuckled.
"Understandable."
"... I even attacked you..."
"You are desperate and confused, Clive. You just need a guiding hand to lead you until you find your own way."
"... You... make it sound too easy."
"Is that so?"
Clive rose up, frowning.
"I'm sick of your witty responses."
Layton chuckled again. Haughty as ever, even though he was wet, dirty and sniffed every two seconds.
He knew then that his friend had returned to his usual self.
... Curiously enough, the boy was smiling, too, eyes flickering as if he had discovered something new.
Clive had seen what he thought was a soft tone of blue before him, for a second.
"Hah... I really have no choice..."
"Oh?"
He stood up, ignoring the professor's confused look.
"I will listen to you. Maybe you can get me out of this monochrome hell I've confined myself into."
"We should keep you from dying of pneumonia before even thinking about doing so, don't you agree?"
"... Ah..."
That would be an interesting turn of events, wouldn't it?
Too bad the professor forced the towel on him again—it looked like that man was destined to save him over and over again.
Oh well.
Clive shrugged and hid a smile.
He didn't mind that too much, anyway.