Chapter Text
Introduction
"Look, Luke, it's you!"
Flora's voice squeaks. Ordinarily, she'd be embarrassed, but she's so excited, she can't help herself; she can't stop her voice from climbing upwards, or keep from rising up on her toes, feeling the earth push her up into the sky, as if it understands how high her spirits have risen. She's meeting the Future Luke. She's in the Future.
Future Luke seems less than happy to see her.
He gapes, eyes wide, and Flora, for five seconds, is hurt. Did he forget about her? Is he mad that she's here? What did she do wrong?
Then he stutters. "O-oh, Flora, it's you!"
And she can't be (too) upset anymore; he's so awkward, so Luke, that she can't help but giggle.
"You didn't change much, I see," she grins. "Easily flustered, as always."
From the corner of her eye, she sees 'little' Luke make a face, and she watches the cogs in Future Luke's brain turn as he searches for an appropriate insult. "You're easily flustered yourself," he offers reluctantly. Then, more confidently, "But, I must admit, I'm glad to see you again."
He isn't mad at her after all.
She smiles, and hesitantly, he smiles back.
Breathe Again
She looks like she's going to cry.
Clive looks away, focusing on the train's floor. The least he can do is give her a bit of privacy.
Escaping from the chaos in the Towering Pagoda had seemed like the perfect opportunity to slip away and take care of some business, away from the professor's watchful eye. Of course, Clive couldn't go alone; Layton would sense something amiss. 'Protecting' Flora was a way to legitimize his escape. She was an innocuous travelling companion: trusting, and wholly believing in Future London.
He hadn't known leaving the professor would frighten her so badly.
When she'd fallen in the tunnel, unable to breathe from panic, he'd nearly panicked too; half-carrying her out of the dark, onto the train to the hotel.
He shouldn't have reacted like that. He's too far gone for fear, or guilt, isn't he?
"Do you think the professor's alright?"
Clive looks up at her voice. Flora's face is pale, her head lolling against the seat.
The Family wouldn't dare lay a finger on the professor. But he can't tell Flora that, even if it would reassure her. "I'm sure he is," he smiles, and ignores the guilt eating his insides.
Light
"It's nice out today."
"That's… good." Clive stares through her with vacant eyes. Silence falls once again, and Flora racks her brain for something else light and inoffensive to talk about; she can't stand the deathly quiet.
She can't talk about hobbies, because he says he has none. She can't ask about his family, because they're dead.
But really, it doesn't matter what she talks about. He only sits in silence, replying to her in monosyllables.
He said that he wants to atone, but he acts like he's already dead.
"Are you okay?"
Clive blinks, and Flora flushes; of course he isn't. She tries again. "I mean, are they nice to you? The workers here, I mean."
He looks away, above her, into the corner of the room behind her. "Yes, unfortunately." Then he's quiet again.
The silence is heavy, and awkward, and Flora doesn't know where to look. She wants to leave, but the professor wouldn't do that. Neither would a true lady.
"You can leave, if you want." Clive's voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "I know you don't want to be here."
He's hurting.
She can't just leave him.
She smiles brightly. "It sure is sunny today."
Creation
"I'm not good at music." Clive runs his fingers over the piano keys. "Miss Constance tried to teach me, but I improved so slowly, you'd never know how hard she tried. Music is so… arbitrary. The difference between a song played decently and a song played beautifully is impossible to measure. Machines are so much simpler. There's no points given for creativity with them."
"But machines can be creative too!" Flora's hands form fists, her eyes wide. "You can build them creatively… and they can have feelings, too, if you let them."
"Really?" Clive, hoping she'll elaborate, looks towards her, but she grows suddenly quiet, looking away shyly.
Clive coughs hesitantly, breaking the silence. "I suppose I'm just too absolutist for my own good. Anything less than perfection seems like a failure."
"You have to stop thinking that way! Even something simple can sound beautiful if you play it emotionally."
Her eagerness, despite himself, stirs a desire to try, at least.
Clive idly presses middle-C, then forms a C-major chord. He lets the sound ring out until it fades away—and with it, his confidence also fades. Flora watches expectantly, but he only sits, staring into the keys—black-and-white, like his thinking.
Seeking Solace
"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I know you understand."
Flora descends the stairs softly, and Clive follows, acutely aware of how heavy his own footfalls are, how out of place he is in this silent sanctuary.
The stairs lead into a small chamber. Flowers and grass lend colour to the room, despite the lack of light. A golden of ray light shines from above, enveloping a silver statue. The woman's face, smiling radiantly, glows softly in the light. "This is her," says Flora quietly. "My mum. I used to spend every day down here. I couldn't believe she was gone. I still can't. I… I can't believe that it's been twenty years now." She looks at him slowly, a melancholy smile on her lips. "I just kind of wanted you to see."
Clive doesn't know what to say. Should he tell her that she looks like her mother, that he would have liked to meet her? Should he talk about his own parents, how he still cries every night over them?
"Thank you for showing me,' he says, at a loss for more eloquent words. She smiles, and he knows that he answered correctly.