A/N: Hello again! So I suppose there's a first time for everything (although I must say Professor Layton was actually the first fandom that I wrote for. Let's just say all that fanfiction has been thrown into the deep dark abyss of nothing.) Anyways, I'm going to say this right now but trigger warnings for self harm. Please skip over this fanfic if that bothers you. Anyways, thank you for reading!
Hershel was seventeen when it first happened.
At that time, his life was a mess. He had failed everything and everyone he loved when it really mattered.
Randall was dead- wait no, that wasn't what Sir Ascot called it. Randall was missing. Missing as in lost and drowning in a bottomless, pitch black ravine after he fell down and-
Hershel let him.
Sleep no longer came easily for Hershel. As he stared long and hard at himself in the mirror, in the sanctuary of home and away from the ruins, he noticed the purple bruises that sagged beneath his eyes. His skin was sallow from weeks without sunlight and his pajamas, which once fitted him like a glove, now hung loosely around his frame.
When Hershel closed his eyes now, all he could see was Randall in his final moments. The shock was written all over his best friend's face as he sunk further and further into the ravine. His last words and many others' would echo in Hershel ears, giving Hershel no repose from the nightmares of the accursed Akbadain Ruins.
"I'm counting on you Hershel. Keep him safe."
"No risk, no glory."
It should've been you.
His eyes snapped open and he gasped, his heart racing. He looked around. There was a toilet and a cast iron sink to the side. A medicine cabinet was drilled into the wall next to the sink mirror. He stood in his bathroom, in his home. Sanctuary.
And even then, Hershel knew no peace.
He gritted his teeth. Randall was still gone. He was gone and good as dead, considering how far he must have fallen. And though he wanted to cry and scream out in anguish, Hershel, despite all the pent up rage and sadness, found himself unable to. He was lying though. He didn't even have any pent up tears. All he could feel was numb, a void of thought and feelings and purpose.
Was he even alive at this point?
Sharp nails dug into the skin of his palms. On impulse, he rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found his father's razor. Shutting the cabinet door and then the bathroom door, he unrolled his sleeves, revealing unblemished skin. The razor blade glinted in the light and for a long moment he stared at the blade and then at his arm. Could he really do this?
"I'm sorry Hershel, I let you down-"
"What aren't you with Randall? WHY?"
He clenched the razor.
The first cut stung. The second one throbbed. The third one burned.
And yet as a trickle of blood flowed down his hand onto the sink, a heavy weight lifted from his chest. His arm burned in searing pain and though he wanted to cry out, he only grimaced.
He was alive again, if only for a moment.
The heat burned its way from spring into the summer. As the flowers became leaves on the trees, time oozed like molasses, cradling Hershel in a space void of purpose.
It was only when summer finally became autumn, chlorophyll breaking down from greed to red, yellow, and orange, did time for Hershel speed up again. With the onset of autumn came his first semester at university in the busy city of London. In the blink of an eye, between the classes and cram sessions, the parties and the social mixers, time flew by like sand free falling in an hourglass.
With so much to do and so little time to spare, Hershel cut back on his…habit. But it never left, as did the nightmares completely. There was nothing to be done about it. All he could truly do was keep them at the back of his mind and keep moving forward in memory of Randall.
As such, no one ever knew about his secret either. With the arrival of a new place and a new life came new people and new faces and new connections. And while a found a strong camaraderie with Clark Triton and many others, none would ever matched up to Randall. Hershel knew it was wrong to compare his university friends to Randall, but how could he not? The friendship he and Randall shared was special, precious. Hershel could never expect anyone to match up either.
And then in his fifth year at Gressenheller, he met Claire.
She reminded him so much of Randall- both were redheads with burning passions for their work and yet she was different from Randall and Hershel loved her for that even so. With her brilliant smile and contagious energy, she pulled Hershel out of his shell, out of his alcove, out of the ruins and into the light he forgot he craved so badly.
But even in the light, a shadow remained stagnant over Hershel. A secret, a memory, a thought he kept to himself. He knew it and he suspected Claire did too. But as long as she was there, everything would be alright.
When she discovered his secret, nothing made him surer of this.
It was an accident that she found. It had been that time of year (when Randall died- when Hershel killed him). Like any other university student, he was swamped with papers and exams and of course that didn't make him feel much better (though he welcomed the distraction from the nightmares and the memories). Tea only helped him so much as did puzzles and so stress piled on the trauma and-
Well, everyone has a breaking point.
She caught him in the bathroom of their shared apartment with his razor pressed against his forearm. He had time only to utter her name in complete shock before she charged forward, a firestorm brewing.
The razor, knocked out of his hand, crashed to the floor with a metallic clink and his face met her pale hand in an open-hand slap. His vision shook, his brain empty of any thoughts for once as she gripped both of his wrists, scars be damned. With strength he never realized she was capable of, she slammed him against the bathroom wall.
"What in the world Hershel?!" Claire cried out, glaring up at him. He spluttered for a coherent thought before she silenced him with another deadly look.
She was so beautiful, even then.
"What do you think you're doing?! What are you doing this? Have you been cutting yourself, this entire time?!"
It was only then when he realized she was crying and a pang of guilt pierced his heart. A gentleman never went out of his way to upset a lady.
They both sunk to their knees and she released him from the vice grip supported by trembling hands. His own also shuddered, tracing the path of a lady's tears. As ragged breaths returned to normal and as their hearts slowed from the adrenaline, he told her about Randall. He told her about the ruins and Randall and how he had let go, killing him and about the nightmares and how the memories that would probably plague him for the rest of his life.
When he was finished, he felt empty and exhausted. There was no crying and no muffled sobs on his part and against his gentlemanly vows, he cursed at himself for not feeling anything but numbness. He was an empty husk and now she knew.
She did not say anything at first. Eyes averted, she gingerly reached for one of his arms. Fingers brushed against the skin beneath his sleeves. He took a sharp breath and she paused. She looked up at him, waiting for permission.
A leap of faith now. He nodded.
Carefully, she peeled his sleeves back to reveal forearms littered with line. Most had faded with time, fraying at the edges, but there were others that were fresh and still in scabs. Her fingers traced over those scars first before the others. Her face betrayed no emotion and yet a storm of conflicting emotions brewed in those beautiful eyes. She brought his arm closer.
There was no pity, no anger, on her part now. Only an odd mixture of sadness and compassion remained. A small breath tickled his arm and she kissed the scars, one by one as she were filling his cracks with her love. And when she was finished, she looked up with a smile and reached for his face.
He could've sworn he cried right there and then.
The one thing that stopped him from falling completely back into the darkness was the top hat: the hat she gave him.
Claire's final gift.
He rubbed its brim lovingly, careful not to ruin the fabric before returning to his fruitless investigation.
It was the least he could do. For her.
(But Claire was gone now. Who would keep him from falling now?)
"Professor?" Luke blinked in confusion. He pointed to the fade lines that covered the Professor's forearm. "What are those?"
Just as any true gentleman would, the Professor answered as evenly as possible. He could only hope for two things now. One, that Luke wouldn't catch the slight tension in his voice..
It was more than just a social obligation that the Professor liked layering his clothing. The lines may had been drawn years ago, but the memories of Randall and Claire remained fresh like wet ink on paper.
And then there was the second reason: that Luke wouldn't press any further. Either way, it would not be very gentlemanly to lie to his apprentice.
"Old scars from a very long time ago, Luke."
The Professor's apprentice squinted for a very long moment and the Professor could feel the years weighing down on him. And then the child backed down with a deep breath, his curiosity still not sated.
"Oh, okay. How did you get them?"
His apprentice was growing up, the professor, who was also getting older, realized. And just as the professor could not keep the memory of Randall from Luke forever, and perhaps on day, of Claire, the story of these scars would not remain in the grave forever.
"Luke." He kneeled and placed both hands on his beloved apprentice's shoulders. "You will know where they come from one day. But that time is not now and I can only hope you will think no less of me when that day comes."
He dangled over the edge, the night Claire died (again).
The Layton household was shrouded in the night as London rested. Whether that peace was comfortable or not did not matter. A rest was a rest.
In front of the bathroom mirror, the professor held the razor blade against his forearm. Luke and Flora were fast asleep in their beds, blissfully ignorant to the disaster that had almost torn London apart.
They were also unconscious to what darkness their beloved professor was sinking into.
And yet just as he pressed the blade harder, breaking skin, the professor looked up.
At his hat.
At himself.
"I know you, Hershel. I know you'll stay strong. After all, that's what a gentleman does."
The blade fell to his side. Staring into the mirror at first, he then rubbed the brim of his hat.
He sighed.
Much like with Luke, Hershel did not mean for Randall to see the scars. Those scars no long hurt, but rather became a source of shame. A reminder of his not-so-gentlemanly times now. A reminder of his weakness.
But Randall did, as he always did when it came to Hershel Layton. Randall needed no locksmith to unlock the secrets of Hershel Layton.
He already had the key.
And much like with Claire, it was a complete accident that Randall found out. Just as Hershel lifted his tea cup from the table in his study room, Randall seized his wrist in a vice grip. The porcelain cup shattered into a thousand pieces as tea stained the hardwood floor.
The Professor barely noticed that though.
"Hersh," Randall furrowed his brow in confusion. Fear gripped Hershel's stomach; he dreaded the next question. "Where did you get these?"
Hershel frowned, familiar memories returning and his stomach doing backflips. He swore he had finally made peace with those memories. He had finally laid that darkness to sleep, a secret he would take to the grave.
And still he hesitated at the thought of telling Randall the truth. How could he say it? He was the one responsible for killing Randall, eighteen years ago, responsible for ripping his best friend away from eighteen years worth of family, friendship, love, archology, and happiness.
This was one less burden Randall needed to know.
"Hersh?" Alarm replaced the confusion. Randall had released him. "Are you alright?"
Snapping out of his trance, the Professor smiled thinly. "Yes, I'm alright."
His best friend was not satisfied with that answer and narrowed his eyes, uncharacteristically suspicious. "Are you sure? Because I think you're lying."
"And exactly why would I do that?"
Randall looked Hershel straight in the eye solemnly. "Because we have a lot of catching up to do and I don't know about you, but I've had enough secrets and lies to last me a life time. Also, whatever happened to 'no risk, no glory'?"
Hershel crossed his arms and snorted. "I'm not quite sure that applies to this…situation."
Randall chuckled, a reaction Hershel couldn't help mirroring. "Try me. Anything can be turned into a situation of all-or-nothing." His eyes turned solemn. "But in all seriousness, Hersh. Please. Tell me the truth."
Hershel closed his eyes in resignation. "All right."
A familiar numbness sunk in as Hershel told Randall about the scars and their origins, about his self-hatred, about Claire and how he lost not once but twice, and then about he's coexisted with this darkness for the last two decades of his life. There was no fear that clawed at him this time around. Only shame stayed in the aftermath and now Hershel could barely look at Randall.
Randall said nothing at first. His bushel of bright red hair covered his eyes as he slid back the sleeves of Hershel's turtleneck. The Professor tensed, breath hitching first when Randall's callused fingers glided along the length of his wrist. And then some more when Randall kissed the scars almost desperately as if he wanted to will the darkness and the memories away. Each shallow breath tickled the scarred tissue, but Hershel dared not to laugh.
And when Randall was finished, he looked at Hershel.
Hershel blinked.
Randall was crying.
"I'm…so sorry…!"
He tackled Hershel into a tight hug. And despite the tears and the exhaustion that overtook Hershel, Hershel couldn't help but smile albeit weakly. He rubbed the brim of his hat and hugged Randall back.
"Thank you, Randall."
Everything would be alright now.
Fin.