I'm Nir and this is my writing dump. I read and write lots of slash and femslash. Most of my posts will be fanfics, but there might be the occasional piece of original fiction, or even character profiles. Fics are tagged by characters, pairings, and fandoms, so check my tags page if you're looking for anything specific. Layout credits are in my profile.
vethrfolnir: (◆ i promise this won't be dull)
[personal profile] vethrfolnir
Title: Gentlemen
Fandom: Professor Layton
Characters: Professor Layton, Luke Triton, Claire, Randall Ascot
Pairings: Layton/Claire, one-sided Layton/Randall and vague Luke/OC
Notes: I wrote this fic ages ago and recently rediscovered it while cleaning out my hard drive. I meant to write a few more chapters for it, but maybe it's enough as is? This was my first time writing these characters, and I've never played a Professor Layton game beyond Layton vs Wright, so all my knowledge came from that and from wiki entries. Still, I remember having fun with this, and I hope it's not too OOC!

Luke is fourteen when he tells you he likes boys.

When he says it, he is sitting in his favorite chair, tea gone cold in his shaking hands. You let your cup clink gently against its saucer. Even that small noise seems to startle him, and his head jerks sharply towards you.

He hasn't told his parents yet.

You look at his face, his eyes wide and brimming over with trepidation, as though he's afraid this would somehow make you think less of him - or he's waiting, pleading for your reassurance that it won't. You want nothing more than to tell him so.

But his confession gives you pause. It takes you back to university, to a boy who made your heart stumble in unsteady leaps...

To feelings buried, shameful things that still hurt like old aches.

Luke is still looking at you, fingers curling until the blunt ends of his nails start to dig into his palms, and you cross the room to steady his hands in yours.

You never want him to feel that way.

His name was Randall, and he was your best friend.

You remember falling for him in fragments: when he brushed your hand, when he smiled at you, when you made him laugh...

He taught you about archaeology and the thrill of a good adventure. In university, he urged you to join the fencing club with him, and you found yourself looking forward to sparring with him, swords clanging as you danced about each other. It was a convenient excuse to get as close to him as you dared. There was a reason you lost more matches than you won, distracted as you were.

In third year, Randall started dating Angela, another one of your friends. They had always been close. The two of them made sense - and yet, you were devastated, and you were too scared to admit to yourself why.

You knew your history intimately - you spent nights devouring stories of ancient gods and warriors who had taken other men as lovers. But in your time, such relationships did not come without scrutiny, and more often, punishment.

You couldn't. That was simply not how things were done.

But when you met Claire, it was easy.

She was a scientist, as beautiful as she was brilliant. When you first saw her, she had smiled in a way that warmed you all over. It was that warmth you fell in love with, and her wit; you could talk with her for hours, and just as easily sit with her in comfortable silence. You trusted her good sense and taste.

Claire taught you how to be a proper gentleman. Maybe, that was what you wanted, needed to know more than anything: how to do things right. You felt safe in her love, and when you held her hand, her fingers laced between yours, you felt whole.

You loved her. You loved being with her, being open with her. You made so many plans together...

But you never forgot Randall.

You would hesitate to call what you felt for him love - because it wasn't, not the way it was with Claire - but maybe it could have been, if you had only let it.

If you had had more time, before you lost them both.

Years later, Luke leaves for America to continue his education. He nearly misses his flight, clinging for too long to your waist, head buried in your shoulder. It surprises you for a moment; not long ago, his head fit squarely against your chest. "I'll miss you, Professor," He sniffles. He's trying admirably to keep himself together, but you know Luke - he's a second away from wailing before you rest your palm atop his head.

Gathering himself, he smiles at you. "I... I'll say hello to Mr. Wright and Miss Maya for you! I'll write to you every day!"

He doesn't quite manage 'every day', but it's almost difficult to call this a goodbye when you see his letters in the post each week.

Almost. Your office is too quiet without him.

But you get by. You have Luke's stories to look forward to. His messy scrawl tumbles across several pages, and you can sometimes hear him read them to you over the phone, too breathless in his excitement to measure his words. That enthusiasm never quite goes away, even as his script and diction improve, even as he starts swapping his s's for z's and dropping his u's, and even as he sends you fruit-flavored teas and thickly-bound puzzles he's collected from his travels.

By the time he tells you about his first boyfriend, your thumb lingering on a photograph of two young, smiling men stapled to the top of the page, you've stopped thinking of Luke as your apprentice. You read his letters as though they've come from a dear friend. He's grown up, and you tell him so.

His last letter before he returns to London is addressed to "Hershel" instead of "Professor".
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