Author's note: Ah! my first ever published fanfiction! I must warn you that this story only follows the aftermath of Curious Village, and then trails off into my own assortment of LaytonLuke love. I've only finished the first game, about to get the second, so please spare me! Hehe, I'd like to comment that those of you who've only played the first, or even just know the characters could probably follow along this fanfic, because it is so far ahead timespan-wise. Eventually this will lead into something more interesting, I'm sure! so enjoy the Layton/Luke! Thank You! :)

P.s: Although it seems like a downer in the beginning, the later chapters will blossom into a storyline that's not all angsty. ;D

It's been years.

I left for school abroad in North America, the day after I was accepted into Harvard, and found Flora and the Professor busy shopping for an assortment of feminine clothing when I was to announce my acceptance. I figured they'd been together despite the age difference. I admit, I was jealous then. Almost as much as I am now, with photographs before me at the lobby of the Layton household, composed of no other face than Flora's or the Professor's or family. These pictures no longer exhibited my past's face. It made me cringe a bit, when I looked about.

"Flora dear, is that you?"

Oh dear God.

I was surprised by the fact that Layton and the girl hadn't changed the locks to the door, because the key I held with me all this time had no problem allowing me entrance. The weather outside was damp and dark, sort of gloomy for such an early time of day, so my coat and cap and hair were shades darker from the mist. I had just stepped off of the train moments before shimmying through crowds and winding up at the welcome mat of my former humble abode, breathless. I would've gone someplace to freshen up, but to be honest, I had no other place to go. With my parents passed, there I stood, in the man's mini foyer.

Whilst in America, I'd read dwarfed articles in the corner of my newspaper, of a mystery-solving professor with a blossoming young lady at his side, taking to interesting cases for the sake of a request for help. I figured these tidbits weren't printed at the front page simply because of Layton's 'request to keep Flora's life private', or because it was from another country. Either or, didn't matter to me.

I worked not as an apprentice there, but as a busboy and eventually a waiter. Hard to believe, I know. But I lived the life of an average young American, and the money became the coin for my everyday meals and entertainment. Layton paid for my schooling. Much back in time, when my father Clark was in great relations to the professor, a fund was initiated on my behalf of future schooling. And so, when my parents died, Layton took hold of that account and poured pounds into it on his own accord, and I was grateful for it. I had a fun time, when arriving alone at a university at eighteen, and now returning home at twenty-four. I feel that I've matured very much though, from little boy Luke, to Mr. Triton, the former apprentice to Professor Layton, and fledgling archaeologist.

But before me now was a staircase built to the left, and to my right, a hallway burrowing beneath the second floor, to a glass door that led to the kitchen and dining room. Now that I seem to tower, the small table I once thought tall was nothing but a few smidgens high, cluttered with old sepia pictures of the family not including me. And because it was gloomy outside too, a hue of grayed blues, the rooms directly to my left and right held no light of their own, but the faded sunshine filtered through the curtained windows. The only lights on in the house were the ones in the kitchen ahead, and the one chandelier dangling from the second floor ceiling above me.

"Flora?"

Again he called, his footsteps now audible, for his feet were clipping the wood that had been left unguarded by fine rug, and it echoed throughout the place. It was now that I tilted my head and caught sight of a dark silhouette to my left. It was maneuvering about the fine furniture of the den. I knew it was him.

I was caught in awe, and so was he. Caught mid-sentence.

Throughout the entire trek to this man's home, I had imagined what it might be like for him to envelop me in his embrace the moment he set eyes on me, calling out my name in a feathery coo. S-something. Anything.

But instead he stood there, half masked in the dark of the den just before the doorway's frame, silent with widened eyes.

I felt I had been rejected right there. Right on the spot.

Without hesitation, I snatched up my briefcase and turned to leave through the door that was now before me. As I reached for the knob, there seemed to be a slowed moment of chaos in which the professor attempted to hamper me from escaping. He just jumped at the chance to hold me back. His hands smacked the briefcase from my grasp, and ripped my sweaty palm from the door, leaving us both nervous, flustered, and heaving. I'm sure this left him with his brain racked and heart racing, as much as it did me. I stared at my palm in dismay. Forgive me, my thoughts were tremendously jumbled, so I stood motionless for a good few seconds in order to sort my thoughts.

"L-Luke."

I swallowed and kept sight of my palm.

"I..Came to drop off your key, but I'll be on my way.."

It was a lie, and he knew it well, but I didn't care. My voice now, was deeper and sort of rumbling, resonating on the dainty walls that I would be around, like I didn't know how to control my volume. But it isn't as deep as I'm making it out to be; a tad lighter than that. Brave sounding, I'd like to think.

"Luke .. My boy, come into the kitchen," he pleaded. Now more gathered, "please, it's the least I could do."

I really felt as if he were the sun. I couldn't bare to look him in the face, or he'd burn my eyes, and if he got too close to me, I felt like I'd melt. So damn bright, that man is. So slowly I nodded, removing my cap and coat, absentmindedly carrying my briefcase with me. Although I grew foot after foot since I was a boy, I still held myself but two inches shorter than the professor. I realized this as I followed him down the hall and into the kitchen, taking seat at the usual chair I sat at before I left.

Being a gentleman by nature, Layton drew me a cup of tea and set it onto the worn, rounded table with a wilted smile, being sure to catch my eyes and keep the contact, then he turned away to fix himself a cup. I deflated.

It was uncomfortable.