Archive of Our Own

I

At some point, Luke had simply gotten used to seeing less and less of his father.

Every time Luke would timidly sneak a glance into the study, his father’s face would be completely swallowed up by a monstrous stack of papers. Luke could narrowly make out furrowed brows and the weary crease of a forehead that peeked above it all. And that was alright. Luke understood that there were a great many responsibilities that came with becoming the sole mayor of a small town, so he never complained or made a fuss about it. Luke prided himself on being a remarkably mature boy. He could take care of himself. He was just fine keeping to himself.

And it wasn’t as if he were completely alone. Doland always made for nice company. He was exceptionally kind, and made certain that Luke knew he cared for him. Sometimes the neighboring kids would play with him too, like Finch, or even Brock. Arianna used to play with him as well; not anymore, but he digresses. 

Whenever he would make his way towards the crossroads of Misthallery, he could always expect to be greeted kindly by the friendly face of Jasmine, or eagerly clapped on the back by Bucky, who would then urge him to go for a joyride on the water. And above all else, on the days when the company of another human being just wasn’t cutting it for him, he could always seek companionship from the animals of Misthallery. He always knew they would understand him in a way the others just couldn’t.

Today was one of those days for Luke. The bright rays of afternoon sun caressed his face in greeting, but he felt the bitter chill of loneliness bone-deep despite it all, so he intended to see what Toppy was up to. Toppy was probably mingling with some of his other friends right about now, so if he finds one mouse, he’ll probably find Toppy too. Like how when you find one boat, you'll probably find Bucky too. It was like that.

 It couldn't be hard; mice ran rampant everywhere, hidden in the cracks of various buildings, or scampering along the bridges, or even nestled within the pipes. The police were always grumbling about Misthallery’s mouse problem. They raised huge fusses in their search for volunteers to catch them all, which Luke had almost gotten swept up in a couple times, but Luke liked the mice, felt some kind of a kinship with them, small and looked down upon, never quite given the time of day. 

In his search, Luke had just made it to the park up in North Ely when something in the very corner of his eye caught his attention. A small-but-not-too-small figure curled up on the park bench, with four little paws tucked in, and a long, fluffy tail that draped over the side of the seat, and white whiskers, and a little pink nose, and pointed ears.

A cat! 

It was a cat! 

Unable to suppress his delight, Luke gasped. Mice were plentiful in Misthallery, but cats were certainly not. He’d only need one hand to count the times he’s seen one with his own two eyes. He silently hopes Toppy will forgive him, because at once, Luke decided to abandon all previous plans for the sake of a far more exciting one: befriend the cat at all costs!

The cat, of course, was taking a very peaceful catnap, and so Luke would have to be mindful of his approach so as not to scare it. He crept up close, and in a hushed tone, he began to speak.

“Good morning! I’m Luke Trit–oh!” 

As it turns out, Luke's supposedly mindful greeting only flustered the cat from its slumber and caused it to scamper off in the other direction. 

“Oh, no! I’m very sorry! Please come back! I did not mean to startle you!” In a fit of determination, Luke clutched onto the strap of his bag and ran after the cat as fast as his short legs would take him. “Please!” He tries calling out again. “Please stop! I only want to be your friend! Just hear me out!”

Luke chased the cat three times all around the pond, and then he chased it to Great Ely street, and then all the way up to Mr. Browne’s hat shop, and then back to the park again. All of this running left him terribly winded, but that would not stop him. All the while, he kept pleading for the cat to listen, just for a moment, just once, but listen it would not.

The cat then made a sudden turn away from North Ely and towards the Warped Hill. For a moment, a twinge of doubt urged Luke to cut his losses and just give up here.

If there was one thing Luke knew, it was that the Warped Hill was no place for fooling around; he’d need at least 10 more hands to count the  amount of times he’s tripped down the incline. It made for an exceptional tourist-spot in how it curved every which way like a snake — an exceptional running-spot, though, not so much. But weren’t snakes known to tempt? 

Luke Triton was a clever boy who knew right from wrong and the proper way to behave. He knew which choices were the sensible choices to make, and he knew which choices were stupid. However, Luke was also nothing if not stubborn. Stubborn can often be synonymous with stupid. Luke silenced the voice in his head and continued the chase. He continued the chase down, arms outstretched, and he was so close, his heart jackrabbitted in his chest, he could feel the faint suggestion of fur at his fingertips, he almost had the cat in its arms, and then, unsurprisingly, he tripped. 

“Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” Luke shrieked and yelped the whole way down, tumbling along the twisting and turning path, rolling quite like one of the many apples Luke had watched spill out of a poor woman’s wagon just last week. “Owwwwwwwww!” 

When Luke reached the very bottom of the hill, he landed flat on his back with a resounding thud, and his arms and legs were spread about him as if he had been making snow angels. His fingers twitched and curled. 

Alright, he thinks, staring absently at the sky. That was stupid. 

A moment or two passed before he felt a sharp burning sensation stab through both his palms and knees. Then, all he knew was pain. He is not at all proud to admit it, but as he lay there sprawled out on the ground, too defeated and too battered to get back up again, he began to cry.

He cried, very noisily, and so it did not take long for someone to hear him and rush over in concern. He wasn’t sure who exactly it was who picked him up and guided him back home. They were taller, so probably an adult, because he was pressed up against their side as he cried. Their presence was comforting. And they had to be a local, because before he knew it, they were knocking at the Triton’s door. 

When the door opens, Luke is greeted by a vague and staticky silhouette. He heard the muffled sounds of someone calling out to him and of the person by his side responding in a hurry. It was hard to piece together anything comprehensible or distinct, but from the tone of their overlapping voices, he knew they were concerned.

In the far distance, among the persistent ringing that pierced through both his ears and the chatter of anxious adults, Luke could just barely make out the frantic thump of something approaching closer and closer yet. It thump, thump, thump, thumped through the halls, and down the stairs, and towards the open door, and it put a hand on either of his shoulders, and it looked him dead in the eyes. And instantaneously, everything came into focus. 

Deep, black, panicked eyes bore into his own. “What happened, Luke? Did you fall? Are you alright?”

And despite the worry in his voice, despite the way Luke was being poked at and prodded at and rattled about throughout the frantic inspection, despite the searing pain of split skin and bloody knees, Luke felt suddenly very delighted. A flower of warmth bloomed rather inappropriately in his chest, and it burned at his core with much more fervor than the gashes in either of his palms. It was a childish and embarrassing, and stupid kind of delight, but he just couldn’t swallow the feeling down. 

After all, he couldn’t recall how long it’d been since he looked into his father’s eyes like this. He’d almost forgotten they could form this kind of shape when they weren’t furrowed and squinted in weary frustration. 

Above all else, Luke was delighted.

II

“Well! He was no help at all, was he, Professor?” Luke huffs indignantly. “You were nothing but polite! What gives him the right to treat you like that?”

“Now, Luke. This is… something of a tragedy. Of which the town and its citizens are still feeling the profound loss of. We cannot blame him for not being in much of a mood to talk,” the Professor gently explains. “In any case, he’s only just one of the many inhabitants of Hazewell. We should simply redirect our energy elsewhere.” 

“...I suppose so.” The tension in Luke’s shoulders eases as he relents. He glances behind to watch the disappearing back of the unpleasant man skittering off in the opposite direction.

The Professor was called into Hazewell by a letter detailing a series of mysterious disappearances within the town; all of which being adult men, both young and old. The sender seemed to believe in a particular rumor about supposed ‘woodland witches’ that was popular in Hazewell gossip-chains. These witches, somehow, in some way, were luring these men deep into the woods — to do what? To eat them, maybe? That’s what Luke thinks, even if the thought scares him just a bit.

At any rate, it was of course too enthralling a mystery for the Professor to pass up on. They’d intended to kickstart the investigation by questioning the locals, but they were unlucky enough to have started off with a man most unpleasant. He was a skittish and cagey fellow, and the way he answered the Professor’s questions was suspicious at best and downright hostile at worst.

But no matter the situation, Professor Layton was the type to always maintain a level head. He extended grace to even the most frustrating individuals, and Luke aspired to follow his example. Naturally, petty gossip and snide remarks were beneath the gentlemanly Professor. Even if Luke was entirely justified in feeling the way he did, and even if Luke sometimes wished the Professor would more often indulge him, just a little bit. 

No, that was a silly thought. That was a very childish thought. He was wrong for thinking that, and he apologizes.

“Oh, look. These flower buds are just beginning to open up.” In the middle of their walk, Professor Layton kneels down at the edge of the pathway where a patch of small blue flowers were blossoming. He cradles a bud in his hand. “It’s quite a bit late into spring, but I suppose we all go at our own pace.” 

Luke leans over the Professor’s shoulder to get a better look. 

“Those are cornflowers, aren’t they?” Luke says. He remembers them from the botanical book his mother had bought him a couple years back. “I think they’re more sensitive to the temperature. Usually they blossom in the middle of the Summer.”

“Well, that puts things into perspective.” The Professor smiles, twisting the bud slightly between his pointer finger and thumb as he further observes it. “How presumptuous of me.”

Luke smiles as well. Like the budding cornflowers, pride always flowers deep within Luke’s chest when he tells a new fun-fact to the Professor. If he works hard, little by little, to make himself useful with mature commentary much like this, then the Professor will turn a blind eye to his other slip-ups. He’s done well to balance out his earlier blunder, he thinks. If the Professor had any thoughts at all of Luke being too emotionally reactive to tag along for future adventures, then they’ve definitely all gone away by now.

“That reminds me. I believe there are certain people who enjoy adding cornflower petals to their tea," the Professor muses as he pushes himself back up to his feet and continues along the path. “Not for the taste, rather, for the aesthetics alone. Isn’t that curious?”

 Luke follows close behind. “Very much so, Professor!”

The deeper the two ventured into town, the less Luke felt sure of himself. A nagging thought kept shoving its way into the forefront of his mind: was the Professor avoiding his gaze? Surely not. 

“Does the rumor of the woodland witches sound familiar to you?” The Professor asks a well-dressed elderly woman they crossed paths with. 

“Witches? Goodness, I do think I recall hearing about something or other like that… I must warn you, my memory is just not what it once was…” The old woman laughs, cupping her cheek with one hand. “But, perhaps if you solve this puzzle for me, it would ease up my mind!”

The Professor did not ask Luke if he wanted to try his hand at it. Which was fine, because surely the Professor was just as eager to solve something new as Luke was. And either way, Luke quite liked to observe the thoughtful, focused look that found its way to the Professor’s face whenever he deliberated over the answer, so it wasn’t as if he minded. Still, it made Luke think: when was the last time the Professor had offered Luke a puzzle to solve?

Professor Layton usually found puzzles in everything. It was magnificent to Luke how even common household objects could transform into a novelty to solve by the Professor’s brilliant mind. The Professor probably could have found a puzzle in those cornflowers if he really wanted to. Why didn’t he?

The question nearly made Luke ill. Why didn't he? Surely it wasn’t because the Professor thought less of him now, right? Did the Professor suddenly doubt his puzzle-solving abilities? Did he not think it was worth even trying to offer one to Luke? No, the Professor was far too kind for that. What is he thinking? The Professor believed in him. The Professor always believed in him when nobody else would. Still, Luke felt ill. 

Naturally, the Professor solves the puzzle in record time.

“Brilliant work, Professor!” Luke says, to flatter him.

“Thank you, Luke.” The Professor smiles, his gaze still fixed on the old woman. 

Luke's stomach twists into a million different knots.

Silently, Luke chides himself. He’s reading too deep into this and he knows it. The Professor is actively conversing with the woman, so of course she would be the forefront of his attention. Luke knows that. His rational mind knows that. The Professor always urges him to keep a rational mind, can’t Luke manage even that?

“Thank you, dear.” The old woman smiles kindly at the Professor. “Yes, now it is coming to me. Just the other day, I overheard a few children mention a… What was it? Oh, yes, an abandoned home in the woods. The lot of them were absolutely certain it belonged to one of those witches you mentioned. They were treating it as something of a game, daring one another to break in…” 

“Yes, well… Children certainly have a penchant for such mischief.” The Professor chuckles.

“Oh, yes they do. But I can only hope nobody actually lives there!” The woman frets. “I would feel just awful for its poor inhabitant. So much needless trouble…" 

“Most definitely, madam. As can I.” The Professor nods, adjusting his tophat. “Thank you very much for your time. This has been most helpful.” 

“It was no trouble at all!” The woman waves him off. “You take care, now!” 

Ready to carry on with the investigation, Professor Layton finally turns to glance at Luke, but he would not find Luke, for Luke had already ventured far away while the Professor’s attention was fixed elsewhere.

If Luke was not already of use to the Professor, then Luke would make himself useful. That was the singular motive that drove him, with tunnel-vision, all the way to the dark woods of Hazewell. The vague allusion to a house in there was all he needed to go off; he’d find that little house, he’d bravely take a peek inside all by himself, he’d gather useful information on the supposed witches that dwelled within, and he’d earn himself that warm gaze of approval. 

The spindly branches at the entrance of the forest unfurled to greet Luke with millions of open arms. When he peered inside, it was cold and dark and overall foreboding. Even in the bright of day, the overhead canopy of trees blanketed the path in black. 

Embarrassingly, Luke already began to miss that tall and protective presence by his side. He imagined the Professor would offer to hold his hand if he were here, and naturally Luke would refuse, because he was not scared at all. Luke ultimately suppressed the thought. To miss and to yearn was a childish longing. The Professor would never look his way at this rate. 

Luke drew in a sharp breath, steeled himself, and bravely marched inside.

As Luke trekked along the path, he took note of the silence. It was not the pleasant kind of silence; usually, he would expect to hear scuffling among the foliage or the flutter of birds. But there was nothing. Maybe silence was the wrong word. Silence was the absence of noise, and it was hardly fit to call this an absence, because there never had been anything in the first place. Luke was the only boy who existed in this pocket of space. The only boy stubborn enough to venture within. That’s what it felt like. Left-behind litter and personal mementos scattered on the ground were the only reminder that there did once exist human life outside of him. Empty bottles, cigarettes, shoes. Luke’s arms curled tightly around himself for warmth. 

Luke looked every which way for a house or anything that even vaguely resembled one, but all he saw were trees and trees and more trees and it was all starting to blur in one. A house out here should be fairly easy to spot, especially one that fits the foreboding image in his mind of a witch's house. The thought dawns on him that maybe he should have been leaving some kind of trail for himself to fall back on for when he returns, like tying fabric to a tree or even leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, but it is too late now. Maybe there is no house after all. Maybe there is no witch. Maybe it was all nothing but rumor and hearsay. He feels a bit stupid.

No, there must be a house. There has to be a house. He cannot and will not return empty-handed. He marches onward with intention and resolve — until he no longer can.

It is not declining morale that stops Luke in his tracks. It is a barrier; again, not a mental one, but an actual, physical barrier of thorns and tangles and teeth. 

“Blackberries!” Luke gasps aloud to nobody in particular, since there was nobody in particular there to hear it. Overgrown shrubs and arching stems towered over Luke, with clusters of either little white flowers or blackberries that had already begun to develop. The blackberries didn’t look all too tasty just yet. They weren’t even black at all, blooming in bright green and sometimes even red colors. Perhaps it was not their season just yet. Regardless, that wasn’t the most pressing matter at hand. 

With blackberry brambles came thorns. Many, many thorns. 

Luke’s skin prickled anxiously just imagining having to maneuver through them all, but there was no way around it; the brambles completely barricaded the path, and yet he couldn’t very well just turn around. If he came back with nothing to show for it, then he would be as good as dead anyways. 

He would be as good as dead. Small fists clenched and unclenched and clenched again as Luke gathered his resolve. He decided he would proceed with caution, just like the Professor always reminded him to. As long as he kept a level head and moved with careful intention, then he would be fine. 

His first step was safe. A breath of relief huffed out of him. So far so good. 

He steadied himself and took another step. Also safe. 

With newfound confidence, he took a third step, and he felt a snag.

“Oh!” A thorn had gotten caught in his sleeve. No good! This sweater is his favorite, and displeasure cuts through him just as sharply at the idea that he might’ve ruined it, but it was fine. Really, it was fine. Nothing a needle and thread can’t fix later on, he reminds himself. Luke will remain calm. Ever-so-slightly, he twists around to try and free his arm. 

‘Try’ being the key word here. In directing all focus to his arms, he had neglected his legs. As he turned, a thorn hooked onto his ankle.

“Ouch!” Luke cried out. It hooked onto his ankle. They were hooks, Luke would soon come to realize, hooks that curled inward to catch their prey and secure it in place and reel it back in. When Luke’s limbs flailed around in a panic to break out, the hooks wasted no time in pulling him backward to the ground.

“Ow! No!” Now, this really was a mess. It is difficult to remain calm when one is in such a mess. There were thorns in his arms and his thighs and his ankles and his sweater and his socks and in his hair, too. They grabbed greedy fistfuls of him with no intention of ever letting go. A spiderweb of prickly vines looped their way around him in tangles, and they pinched and pricked unforgivingly.

“Stop it!” Luke yelps out in annoyance as if the brambles could understand him. It would be nice if he only had a way with plants like he did with animals. The thorns dug their claws into him and dragged down his flesh, leaving cat scratches whenever he squirmed in protest. “Ouch! Stop it now! Stop it, I say! Let me go!” 

There was blood. He hated the sight of blood. Nausea overtook him, and in a fit of desperation, he swallowed enough of his pride in order to cry out:

“Professor!” 

Nobody answers, because naturally nobody exists in this pocket of space. Nobody but Luke. Still, Luke tries again.

“Professor, help! Somebody! Anybody!” The bridge of Luke’s nose stung in shameful warning for tears to come. “Please, help me!” 

Stupid boy. Or, clever brambles. Who's to say.

Luke tried calling for a lot of people. He called for the Professor, he called for strangers, and he called for even his mother at some point. Luke called until it hurt to call anymore.

Of course, it was of no use. Luke was the only one there. 

To begin with, Luke was the only one who was ever there.

III

The circle of life was always a concept that saddened Luke in theory. 

Childishly, it upset him to think of animals having to hurt and hunt and tear each other apart. If it were up to him, he’d want them all to get along and to never have to suffer at all. But he knows that without this circle, all life as he knew it would cease to be. It was something of a puzzle where all the components had to be just right to balance each other out. He knew that just as much as the sheep were doing their best to stay alive, the wolves were, too, so it wasn't right to blame a wolf when it killed an innocent sheep. It was only in its nature. Luke would feel just as sad if a wolf died hungry.

And Luke would be a hypocrite anyways, since he's eaten more than his fair share of his mother's roast lamb and didn't plan to stop anytime soon. He just couldn't help himself, much like the wolves couldn't help themselves either.

He wondered if the brambles weren't all that different from wolves. He wondered if the brambles were a kind of carnivorous plant. Carnivorous plants do exist, he knows, like Venus flytraps, which were also in his botanical book. Venus flytraps secrete sweet nectar and have bright red linings on their leaves in order to lure the nearby insects and entrap them in their jaws. Oh yes, it was a trap. Once the insect has made contact by landing in its jaws, it is already too late, because in less than a second, the plant will snap shut. 

The insect will naturally try and struggle anyways. For as long as they have the strength to do it, all living creatures will kick and fight and scream with all they’ve got, just to live a little longer, just for one more day. But it is futile, because the more the insect struggles, the tighter the plant's jaws clamp down. It takes up to ten days for the plant to digest its prey, and once there is nothing left to eat, it will spit out the exoskeleton, and that’s that.

Maybe the brambles weren't all that different from Venus Flytraps, except instead of nectar and colorful leaves, they have unripe blackberries, and instead of attracting flies, they attract stupidly stubborn boys who should know right from wrong but nonetheless knowingly pick the wrong option anyways. Because they are stubborn. And stupid. Since the two words are synonymous, perhaps that is redundant to say. 

Luke is smart enough to recognize the futility in struggling against the hooks that only draw him deeper into their thorny embrace. Maybe the brambles weren’t all that different from Luke, in the sense that they too get lonely and yearn to hold tightly and never let go. In any case, Luke has come to terms with the fact that he is going to die.

When the Professor finds him, if the Professor finds him at all, he will be reduced to small bones and fertilizer. His decaying remains will provide sustenance for the brambles. A ripe new blackberry will blossom. Selfishly Luke hopes the Professor will find him, because he hates the thought of dying here all alone, even though he knows stupid boys don’t deserve to be found. 

Luke feels a dull satisfaction at the thought that he might finally be of some use when he returns to the Earth. The wolves and the sheep and the flies all have their uses, and so does Luke. Luke will bravely turn the cog to the circle of life. The brambles will be fed for years and years to come. He's always wanted to make himself useful. Is he useful, Professor? Thank you! You're welcome, brambles! He forgives you, and he's sorry too.

“Luke?” A voice called out.

Luke begs the woods not to tease him, because he already knows it is not possible. Luke is the only boy who exists in this pocket of space. There is nobody coming to save him.

“Luke, are you there?” the voice tries again. 

It is just plain cruel. Not even a Venus Flytrap would try and trick the fly with false hope. Not even a wolf would pretend that a farmer is coming to pry the sheep out of its jaws.

“Luke? Luke! My boy, can you hear me?”

But perhaps Luke is a fool. Perhaps the Professor's boy really is a remarkably stupid one, because even though he knew better, he still hoped to live. With his throat bloodied and raw, Luke dared to call out one more time.

“P…Professor?” 

“Luke! Where are you?”

“I'm here, Professor! I'm here!”

At the rapidly approaching rustle of foliage and the steady thump of shoes on the ground, Luke’s heart fluttered hopefully against his ribs, and before he knew it, he was looking at the Professor, and the Professor was looking at him.

“Professor!” Luke jolts up in exhilaration, only to wince as the brambles yank him right back down.

“My word.” The Professor looks upon him in awe. “Just what happened here?”

“I got stuck.” Luke helpfully explains.

“Well, yes, I can most certainly see that.”

“I don’t think I can get out on my own.”

“Yes, quite.” 

The Professor’s gaze flickers all about the brambles and then back to Luke again. That thoughtful and focused look came about his expression. This, too, was a puzzle to solve.

“Please wait just a moment, Luke.” The Professor finally says, turning back to the direction in which he came from.

“Where are you going?” Luke cries, struggling to detach his arm from the thorns and reach out. The hooks pull him further in.

“Don’t move!” The Professor orders. 

Luke obediently freezes in place. 

With more composure, the Professor repeats: “Don’t move, Luke. The more that you struggle, the more tangled up you’ll become. It is imperative that you stay calm here. Can you do that?”

“Okay, Professor.” Luke mumbles, even though he knew that already. 

“To go about this efficiently, I will need tools to cut through the brambles. I don’t have any such tool on me, so I must head back to town to find someone who does.” Professor Layton continues calmly. “I promise I will be back shortly. You must trust that I will come back for you, Luke. Do you trust me?”

Luke really did not intend to cry again, but the tears spilled out anyways. “I—I do, Professor!”

“Alright,” the Professor exhales. “I will try not to be long. I know it will be difficult, but please try to keep your movement to a minimum.” 

Luke can’t recall ever having seen the Professor run so fast before. Despite himself, he cracks a very shy and very minute smile. 

As promised, not much time passes before the Professor returns in a hurry, sets his suitcase down, and wields his newfound loppers with controlled confidence. 

“This may take a while,” the Professor says. “So please sit tight. I will do my best to release you from the brambles before the sun sets.” 

“Alright, Professor.” Luke says. Then, encouragingly, he adds: “I believe in you.” 

Professor Layton only huffs out a single breath at that and begins to cut.

The Professor prunes his way through the brambles with precision, taking extra care when dealing with the vines closest to Luke’s skin. A gentle concentration comes about his expression. Luke studies it all.

For a long moment, not a single word is exchanged between the two, and there are only snip, snip, snips that cut through the silence before the Professor speaks up again.

“When I asked around the town,” the Professor starts as he snips through a loop. “I had several people mention having seen a young boy wander into the woods all by himself. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

Luke remains so still and so quiet it was as if he weren't even there. His steady gaze never leaves the Professor.

The Professor continues on to ask, not to be cruel, but with sincerity: “Just what was going through your head?” 

It was simple enough for Luke to answer. “I wanted to find the witch’s house.”

“You know better than to go off on your own.”

The tone of Professor Layton’s voice was gentler than his father's typically was when Luke received a scolding. The Professor was not angry with him. 

“I’m sorry, Professor.” Luke mumbles.

“It’s quite alright. I believe your experience here has been lesson enough.” The Professor then looks up from his work to glance at Luke’s face. Tenderly, he adds: “I apologize. It must hurt.” 

“Not really,” Luke sniffles. “I’m alright.”

With a soft exhale, Professor Layton resumes trimming. Another bramble cut, another loop undone. Slowly but surely the constriction becomes less oppressive, yet Luke stubbornly holds his breath and keeps still all the same.

“I was fortunate enough to borrow these from a farmer not far from here.” Professor Layton says to fill another gap of silence. The loppers make another pointed cut as he continues on.

“Apparently, it is somewhat of a phenomenon in which the sheep wander off and get trapped in the brambles. Their wool, you see, has a tendency to snag.” The Professor smiles. “So, at the very least, you can find solace in the fact that you are not the first.”

“So they are carnivorous.” Luke mumbles.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Professor.” 

It must have taken at least an hour for the Professor to finish up. In all honesty, he wasn’t exactly finished in the full sense of the word; Professor Layton had prioritized the primary vines that rendered Luke immobilized, and so the less-threatening-but-still-quite-painful-littler-thorns were still sprinkled about and wedged within him. Nevertheless Luke finds himself so pleased to finally be free that it takes everything in him not to spring up and down to express it. The Professor adamantly cautions him against making any sudden movements until they’re absolutely, most certainly out of the brambles. 

“Stay close to me,” Professor Layton instructs, and Luke follows suit without complaint as the Professor clears a path for the two of them. 

“Phew,” Luke stumbles out delightedly into the clearing. “I can’t believe it! Take that, you stupid, awful brambles!”

“Listen, Luke. We don’t have much daylight left,” The Professor explains. “So I have no choice but to take the rest of the thorns out once we return to the room. Will you be alright to hold out until then?”

“Oh, yes! I sure will! Thank you, Professor!”

Through the rush of gratitude and relief that billows over Luke, he moves to pounce at Professor Layton for embrace. The Professor, however, holds out a cautious hand.

“Careful,” Professor Layton warns.

Ah, right. Of course. The thorns. In shameful realization, Luke retreats and hangs his head. That would have been childish of him anyhow. 

After a moment of deliberation, the Professor decides he can at the very least extend that hand for Luke to hold. Luke did not hesitate to accept the gesture. When the Professor gave Luke’s hand a light squeeze, a thorn dug deep and painful into Luke's palm, but Luke didn't mind at all. Professor Layton smiled down at Luke, and Luke smiled back. 

That night marked the first time Luke had gotten injured in the little town of Hazewell.

IV

The Professor and Luke made it back safely to the room that night. It took yet another hour for Professor Layton to rid Luke of the thorns completely, not to mention to treat all the cuts that went hand-in-hand. This wasn’t to say that Luke was complaining, of course, since the Professor took his time out of kindness. But grateful or not, by the time it was all over, the delayed exhaustion crashed over Luke with such intensity that he was more than ready to call it a night right then and there. Professor Layton gently urged Luke to be more careful from now on. Luke swore he would, and the two went to bed with quiet anticipation to carry on the investigation the next morning. That really should have been it.

However, to dub something as ‘the first’ leaves the implication that there was a second, or perhaps even a third time. And, yes. There was. There were also a great many more. Despite it all, the desire to make himself useful had not properly left the young boy’s heart. With how disastrously the last attempt ended, perhaps it had even strengthened tenfold. The other incidents are as follows:

The second time Luke had gotten injured took place the very next morning. He was giving chase to a suspicious figure that he could only assume was one of the witches from the rumors. Catching the witch herself would be a lot better than catching only the house. He chased her right into a street lamp, and as it turned out, his witch was none other than a sweet young lady in an extravagant hat who presumed she was seconds away from being attacked or mugged. The Professor apologized profusely on Luke's behalf, then rushed over to pinch Luke’s bleeding nose and angle his head forward. After ten minutes had passed, the Professor wiped it all up with a cotton ball, tutting his tongue and commenting lightly on the mess. Thankfully, Professor Layton had the foresight to cram his suitcase to the brim with medical supplies after the events of yesterday.

The third time Luke had gotten injured, he can admit he was being a little stupid. He has a tendency to curiously poke and prod at everything he sees even if it sometimes gives the Professor a heart attack. When you see a bright red button, you just have to press it, you know? Or if you’re at an excavation site and you see a sinister-looking dark pump with a skull drawn over it, you just have to give it a go. There’s really no two ways about it. You never know what it could do. Well, this time, there were no buttons or pumps involved, but an electrical box by a derelict house. He flicked the switches on and off just a couple times, just because, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised by the jolt that ran from his finger all the way down to his feet. The Professor bolted over with a very long stick to separate Luke from a distance and disconnect the power. The Professor then asked him: 1, if he was alright, and 2, what on Earth he was thinking. Luke only had an answer for the first, which was yes, naturally. His sweater, not so much. He’s loath to admit it caught fire. 

The fourth time Luke had gotten injured wasn't even really an injury at all, and it wasn’t even really him trying to be helpful, but it did hurt enough for him to count it as one. There was a (thornless) berry bush along the path, the likes of which he'd never seen, and his curiosity had gotten the best of him yet again. He reached out and picked a few and popped them right in his mouth without second thought. Luke then spent the better part of an hour vomiting into the bushes with the Professor kneeled right beside him, tentatively rubbing and patting his back. 

The fifth time Luke has gotten injured, he was balancing precariously on three crates to reach a hint coin that he could've sworn he saw glistening atop the roof of a house. The Professor warned him wearily that they did not look stable, but Luke assured him it'd be fine. When the crates gave in, he landed right on his ankle, and it swelled up like a pufferfish. The Professor was kind enough not to say ‘I told you so’ as he wrapped up Luke's leg.

By the time Luke needed two hands to count all the incidents, the townspeople started giving him and the Professor strange looks whenever they passed by. The Professor didn't usually pay mind to how he was perceived by strangers, but his lips were now pressed into a paper-thin line as he marched on. Luke, suppressing his limp, worked diligently to match the Professor's pace.

After they both traveled a decent distance, Luke glances suspiciously at their surroundings and then asks: “Where are we headed?”

“Back to the hotel.” The Professor answers, simply. 

“Already? But why? We’ve barely started.”

“You misunderstand,” the Professor says, collected and composed. “I am dropping you off so that you can get some rest, Luke. I will carry out the investigation on my own.”

At this revelation, Luke loses his footing and furiously pinwheels his arms to regain balance.

“What!? You can’t! Why?” Luke cries out.

The Professor stops in place and turns to face him. “Because, Luke, in your current state, you can hardly stand on your own two feet,” he explains sternly. “It would be completely irresponsible of me to entertain this any longer than I already have. You need time to recuperate. That is all.”

“I don’t!” Luke insists. “I am just fine!”

“Please come along.” The Professor continues walking onwards as if he hadn’t even heard him. Luke trails after.

“I promise I’ll be extra careful! Please, Professor! You can’t!” Luke begs, to which the Professor only offers a sigh. 

“You are not in trouble, Luke.” The Professor gently assured

“Then why does it feel as if I am?” 

“I apologize that you feel that way. I'm only concerned for you.” 

“Liar.” Luke accuses through gritted teeth, and the Professor stops again.

“I beg your pardon?” 

Luke does not repeat himself. He doesn’t feel that he needs to, because it’s really very obvious. Very clever, Professor! Painting this as nothing but concern. That’s clever. Well, Luke is much smarter than the Professor gives him credit for. He’s smart enough to know that’s complete rubbish. He knows the real reason the Professor is leaving him behind. 

“What’s all this about, Luke?” The Professor continues on to ask in slight exasperation. “Will you speak to me?”

“I’m not going back to the hotel,” is all Luke says in reply.

“You’re better than this,” the Professor says, and Luke feels a pressure build up behind his eyes.

“I’m not going!” He reiterates like a child. “I refuse to go!” 

“You’re making a scene, Luke.” 

So what! Who cares? Not Luke, that’s for sure. Screw scenes, screw witches, screw gentlemen, and screw the Professor, too. When the Professor begins walking again, Luke cuts him off by jumping in front with arms outstretched on either side to block the path.

The Professor looks upon him in earnest dismay and asks: “Luke, really, what on Earth has gotten into you?”

At least Luke is being looked upon at all. He shoots a defiant look back at the Professor and offers a challenge. “If you intend to take me back to the hotel, then you will have to catch me first.”

“Just what are you, oh—!” The Professor gasps as Luke bolts off suddenly in the other direction. “Luke! Listen here! Come back straightaway!” 

From the panting that follows after him, Luke knows that the Professor has taken him up on the challenge. Even with his faulty leg, Luke still believes he has the advantage over Professor Layton on account of being young and spry. All he has to do is shift his position and it hardly hurts at all. This wouldn’t be the first time Luke has outran him.

“You are going to do irreparable damage to your leg!” The Professor warns.

“I don’t care!” 

“Well, you earnestly should!”

Ignoring him, Luke makes a sharp turn into the town plaza. Sandwiched between two buildings was a grand staircase that stretched a decent way downwards. Would the Professor chase him down here too? The pain shooting up his leg pleads with him to stop running, but a flower of inappropriate delight blooms once more. Perhaps it is simply their season. Thorns accompanied every rose.

“Luke, be reasonable! This is no place to fool around! You’re going to hurt yourself!” The Professor urges. 

Luke pays him no mind and bolts right towards the stairs. A noise of clear disapproval emits from behind him.

“Luke! I can’t imagine— haah—just what it is you’re trying to prove here,” the Professor says breathlessly. “But it’s not worth it!”

But it is, Luke thinks. It is worth it. Didn’t the Professor understand? He had to prove himself. All of this was to prove himself. All of this was done purely to be of some use. Wasn’t it?

The brief hesitation was all Luke needed to lose momentum. From the top of the stairs, Luke glances behind him, and he can see it as clear as day: Professor Layton’s eyes fixed entirely on him. Time is suddenly a pebble that skips across the water, and just as suddenly there’s no ground beneath Luke’s feet.

Unsurprisingly, he tripped.

V

Protect the head was Hershel Layton’s mantra.

When Luke, or anyone for that matter, was in danger, he chanted it over and over again, protect the head, protect the head, protect the head. The head housed the brain. A strike to the head was invitation to cognitive issues, to memory loss, and in the worst case, to death.

So tell him why it was that despite it all, he heard quite vividly the resounding thunk that accompanied Luke hitting the stairs. 

At the very least, Luke no longer protested when Layton carried him in a hurry all throughout the town. Isn’t it amusing how things tend to work out in these unexpected ways? 

Hazewell was a small and rudimentary town, and so the only proper hospital was within two hours of distance. Layton could not afford to wait that long. With the boy in his arms, he asked around every which way for a doctor. Each time he repeated the question, he found the amplifying distress that seeped into his tone to be unbecoming. He reminds himself that he could not afford to lose his head. Luke had already lost his head quite enough for the both of them.

By what must have been the 20th time he asked, he finally found his doctor; a timid, middle-aged man who was on his off-day, but still kindly obliged to accompany him in a rush to the room.

The doctor pulled out a chair, a notebook, and a pen, and he began to perform a series of tests on Luke, who was tucked neatly into bed after getting all cleaned up. Memory tests, such as repeating a sequence of numbers backwards, and physical tests, such as the doctor asking Luke to follow the pen with his eyes.

Throughout the evaluation, Layton paced back and forth. His best thinking was usually done while he paced. When the doctor courteously asked him to settle down, however, he was forced to bring the circling to a halt. Perhaps for the best; he wouldn’t be surprised if he left imprints in the wooden floor. 

“Is he alright, Doctor?” Layton did not ask so much as he demanded.

“Extremely luckily for you two, he passed his tests; took his time on a few, but that’s to be expected. He seems to only be suffering from a Grade 1.” The doctor pushes in his glasses. “Which means his intellectual abilities should be back to normal before you know it. Still, you can always try practicing cognitive games with him to aid in his mental recovery.”

Layton jumped perhaps a bit too eagerly on the idea. He immediately shot a puzzle at Luke, a simple one, only worth 10 Picarats at most, but Luke only squinted his eyes at him and the doctor awkwardly cut him off.

“Er,” the doctor raises a hand. “I should have clarified: the games should come after a good few nights of rest. You’ll want to keep him away from any strenuous activities for at least a couple more days.”

“...Most certainly.” Layton clears his throat. 

The doctor clicks his pen and stands up to pocket it along with his notebook. He then turns to Layton with a polite smile.

“You know, it’s a common myth that a concussed patient needs to be woken up periodically; really, it’s the opposite. Sleeping soundly through the night can be crucial to his recovery.” The doctor explains. “Still, you can check in on him every once in a while to ensure he’s breathing properly. You can also have him sleep on his side in case he gets sick in the middle of the night.”

“Of course. You have my gratitude, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you on your break.” Layton says with a tip of his hat.

“Not at all, I’m only glad I could help.” The doctor nods. “Poor lad. It must have been quite the scare for the both of you.”

“...Indeed. He’s never behaved like this before,” Layton mutters, more to himself than anything, but the doctor offers a sympathetic smile.

“Kids, eh? My own son, even well-behaved as he is, can also be something of a troublemaker.” The doctor chuckles. “As if I don’t already have enough sleepless nights in this profession.”

“Oh, he isn’t…” Layton starts until he decides it is not worth the trouble to correct him. “Yes, quite.”

Layton and the doctor exchange their goodbyes, the doctor offers a few more pieces of advice regarding Luke’s recovery, and then he’s out the door. Layton then folds his arms and walks back to Luke’s bed.

“Well, you've heard the doctor. We will talk once you’ve gotten some sleep,” Layton says. He meant to say it in a collected manner.

Luke only offers him somewhat of a pathetic look in return, then obediently closes his eyes.

Layton stands over the bed until Luke’s expression has eased. He then goes right back to pacing. 

With the doctor came exceptionally good news, and yet Layton was restless. He knows it's pointless to dwell on what if’s, and yet he keeps wondering; if the situation was any worse, what would he have done?

What would Clark or Brenda have said if, God forbid, Layton returned with their little boy and the little boy in question could hardly remember his own name? Or if, God forbid… They would have had his head. Perhaps they should have his head. Any head but Luke’s head. 

Oh, this was no good. Not even pacing can make sense of his thoughts.

He soon had enough of pacing, and so he sat on the edge of the bed parallel to Luke and he stared so hard into his sleeping face he thought he might burn through the skin, flesh and bone with just his eyes. Layton wanted to figure it out. Layton wanted to unpack it all from beginning to end and pinpoint exactly where it all went wrong. He craved that Aha! moment in which he determined the precise moment and cause of the switch in Luke’s demeanor, and most importantly, in which he identified the solution. He wanted to wrap it all in a neat little bow, to call it a day, and to move onto the next. 

But the moment never came, and it made him itch all over. There was nothing more he despised than leaving a puzzle unsolved. His boy was never all too hard to figure out, or so he thought. What changed? What, what, what, what, what? It bothered him to not have a suitable answer. It bothered him to not have an answer at all.

But as seconds devolve to minutes, and as minutes devolve to hours, Layton pleasurably finds that he has effectively, thoroughly, and undoubtedly regained his composure. How glad he is to have it back. How favorable it is to think with a clear mind, absent of any buzz. His displeasure has decomposed into gentle acceptance. He watches the steady rise and fall of Luke’s chest with gentle acceptance, because Layton has solved the puzzle. There is really only one clear answer. Sometimes, the answer is staring you straight in the face, but you can’t see it until you’ve stepped back. 

At some point, Luke begins to shift and grumble in his sleep. Layton nearly goes to wake him, but Luke wakes on his own with a gasp. Once conscious, he rubs at his eyes furiously.

“Careful,” Layton warns, to which Luke’s eyes briefly widen.

“Oh. Good morning, Professor.” 

“Good… evening.” Layton nods. “Did you have an unpleasant dream?”

“Not really,” Luke says. 

"How is your head?"

"It's fine."

“Will you go back to sleep?”

“Not yet.”

“Then, are you ready to talk to me?”

Luke doesn’t have an answer for that. He carefully pulls the blanket down and swings his legs across the side of the bed so that he’s mirroring Layton. The two of them engage in a silent staring match.

“Alright. You don’t have to say anything just yet. But will you let me speak?” Layton gently asks.

Luke purses his lip. There is a small pause before he hangs his head in surrender. “That’s fine.”

“Very well, I’ll tell you what I think.” Layton folds his hands in his lap. “I think that you were only trying to prove your worth by being a value to the investigation. You did all sorts of reckless and dangerous things, but you did it all to... impress me. Am I correct in that assumption?”

“Um,” Luke grabs a fistful of the bedsheet and starts to swing his legs. “Well, kind of. That is true. But it’s not the whole truth, I think.”

“You think?” Layton blinks.

“Yes.”

“Then what is the whole truth?”

“It’s really quite stupid.”

“My boy,” Layton huffs out a sigh, not one of vexation, nothing so unkind. “You can tell me anything at all. Whatever it is, I will not judge.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

Luke stares all over Layton’s face for a quiet moment, gauging the sincerity of his words. Once Luke is satisfied with the answer, his gaze drops to his lap.

“I like it when you run after me when I’ve fallen.” Luke admits. 

Luke said it so softly that Layton nearly asks for him to repeat himself, but he can't will his tongue to move. 

“...I know that’s stupid, and selfish, and childish of me, but I like it.” Luke continues on. “And I like it when you ask me if I’m alright. I like how gentle your hands are when they treat the wounds. And it — I don’t really know. It reminds me that you care.” He says, simply, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Reminds him that he cares.

Layton does not respond for a good moment, simply allowing the words to repeat over and over and buzz around in his head like flies around a carcass. The entirety of his body has gone corpse-stiff

Certainly, their relationship was not the overly touchy-feely kind. Layton had always assumed Luke was content with subtler displays of affection — even preferred them, what with his insistence not to be babied unnecessarily. A pat on the shoulder, a quiet conversation, a congratulatory word after a job-well-done. Layton had always thought that was adequate. It was enough to show that he cared. Obviously, he cared. 

Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps he conflicted his own hesitance with Luke’s.

There were several ways in which Layton had justified it to himself: Luke has parents of his own to coddle him to their hearts content, so why should Luke seek that kind of affection from Layton? Or: he’s just not fit to indulge himself in the act of loving and being loved. Such emotional vulnerability isn’t something he can allow himself. Or particularly selfishly: not again, he can’t do it again, he just can’t.

It was a trick question. Layton had more than five hints and he still got it wrong. The thorns, a bloody nose, an electric shock, an upset stomach, a sprained ankle, a concussion for goodness sake.

Perhaps he had intentionally chosen to turn a blind eye. Perhaps he was simply cruel like that. He did nothing to solve the puzzle. There was nothing he could do to solve the puzzle. Wasn’t he cruel?

Something awful crawled beneath his skin. He warned himself to keep it together. 

Layton pushed himself off the bed and walked right up to Luke.

“You are so clever, Luke.” Layton managed as he lowered himself down onto his knee. Once Layton was at eye-level with the boy, he placed a hand on either one of his thin shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. In a tone that demanded full attention, Layton spoke. “You are such a clever, clever boy, so tell me: what drove you to do something so absurd? There is no universe in which you would ever need to put yourself in harm’s way just to get me to care.” 

Layton swallows. The next words linger on his tongue for a moment before he speaks them. “I already care for you, Luke. Do you understand?” 

A beat of silence. It did not take long for Luke’s once carefully managed expression to devolve into a reddened, scrunched-up, snotty mess. The dam that held back his tears burst suddenly and with no hope for repair. “I’m–ss—suh—sorry, Professor! I know that you care! I’m sorry!” He managed to blubber intelligibly between gasps that rattled his whole body. “I don’t know! I don’t know why—!”

“Shh, shh, shh…” Layton interjects, pushing himself off his knee and back to his feet. Luke leaps off the edge of the bed in tandem, arms outstretched towards him. Layton catches him soft, arms circling tightly around the boy. In return, Luke’s hands clutch greedily at the fabric on his back. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Luke sobbed into Layton’s shirt, making a mess of the fabric. “Please allow me to be your apprentice still!” 

“My dear boy,” Layton starts, a guilty pang piercing through his chest. “Nothing is wrong with you. Rather, I should apologize.” 

“For what!” The cry of protest came out muffled as Luke buried his face deeper into Layton’s shirt. “You didn’t do anything at all, Professor!”

“Well, my boy, I’d say that’s exactly it. I did nothing.” 

Luke sniffles, but doesn’t retort. Just barely, he pulls back to peer curiously at Layton.

Layton takes a moment to consider his words before he presses on. “I did not do my utmost in showing you just how much I cared. For that, I apologize.” 

As he speaks, he hesitantly lifts a hand. It lingers in the air for a moment before lowering to affectionately comb through Luke’s hair. Luke melts into the gesture, ravenous for contact. Seconds to minutes slip through Layton’s fingers as he threads through light brown hair, neatly partitioning it off to the side or tucking it behind the boy’s ear.

Layton presumed Luke was moments away from experiencing the proper crash that accompanied any rush. The longer Layton fussed with his hair, the more Luke’s hold on him was wearing out. He allowed himself to be moved and molded like clay beneath Layton’s hands. 

Still, drowsily, Luke pipes up again.

“But you do care,” Luke states, or asks, or both. He looks at Layton expectantly.

“I do.”

“How much?” Luke presses further, and Layton cannot help but huff out a single laugh, because for as clever as Luke is, he’s still only a boy.

“Well, if I may be so presumptuous to say,” Layton starts and pretends to think it over, all the while gently raking his fingers over the top of Luke’s head in something of a massage. “I’d say it comes third to only your own mother and father.” 

“That’s quite a lot, then.” Luke murmurs, his cheek pressing up tiredly against Layton.

“Yes, it is.” Layton affirms. “You had me terribly worried.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You won’t do something like this again?”

“I won’t.” Luke shakes his head against Layton’s chest.

“Do you really not know just how much you mean to me?” Layton wonders softly. It is more of a rhetorical question, but Luke only shrugs languidly in response. 

Luke looks up at Layton, and Layton looks back at him. Layton looks upon every scratch and cut and bandage and he exhales quietly through his nose.

“You should really get some more rest, Luke.” Layton is, gratefully, not met with protest as he guides Luke back to the bed.  “All this excitement can’t be good for the heart. Or the head, for that matter.”

“Don’t investigate without me,” Luke mumbles as he all but collapses into it. His hand is loosely connected to Layton’s sleeve. “I want to find the witch with you.”

“Most certainly. I will not.” Layton assures, which pulls a drowsy smile out of Luke. Once Luke has settled down and been tucked into bed, Layton carefully detaches Luke’s hand and sets it onto the boy's stomach. Layton keeps his own hand atop Luke’s and lingers for a moment longer until Luke’s breathing has evened. 

Naturally, a gentleman keeps his promises, so Layton will remain in the hotel room until Luke has recovered. He takes his spot back at his own bed, parallel to Luke’s, and he stares once again into Luke's sleeping face. His gaze does not leave until it is his own time to sleep.