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Hershel always found shopping to be a less than pleasant experience. Suit shopping even moreso.
Everything seemed to take forever, and he couldn’t simply leave. It wouldn’t be polite.
The professor had already picked out his suit, had it laid carefully over his arm. Randall however…
“What about this one, Hersh?” His best friend holds up another white suit.
“Is there a difference from this and the other?”
“Of course there is.” With a flair, he picks another off the rack that he’d been considering and holds them side by side. “This one is cream, and this is eggshell. The lapels are different, too. Shawl and notch aren’t the same, my friend.”
Admittedly, Hershel was starting to lose a bit of his cool. Randall had been humming and hawing over a few different suits that had virtually no differences for nearly an hour.
This was worse than going with his mother back in university to get one for Clark and Brenda’s wedding. At least she’d been fine if he took one that almost fit and then got out, if not a bit fussy when they went to the tailor.
The professor groans internally to the thought of going to the tailor again.
His old suit fit perfectly fine, if not a bit awkwardly around his stomach. But when he’d brought up the idea to his friend, Randall had laughed at the very thought.
It wouldn’t do to just wear any suit. This was a high class event and Hershel needed to look the part. Then he tutted when the professor tried to evade with the cost of it all. Of course Randall insisted on paying for both their suits, and any necessary alterations.
“It’s only fair, considering I’m dragging you to this thing in the first place.”
He had quickly but politely shut the man down when he joked about buying Hershel a new top hat.
All things considered, today was not the best day for such a task. Randall had springed the whole thing on him over a call the previous evening. Out of the blue as Hershel had been preparing to turn in for the night, he’d received a call from the redhead that he’d been invited to some event in Monte D’or and wanted Hershel as a plus one.
“Please?” He had whined.
“What about Angela?”
“Her and Henry are going together. They’re still a couple in the public eye.”
“I see. And what about Dalston?”
“He’s already invited. Please, Hersh? I won’t know anyone else there…”
“I just named three people that you know.”
“They don’t count.”
And so Hershel, half-asleep, had agreed. The party was a few weeks out, and it was on a weekend, so theoretically Hershel would be free to aid Randall in his time of need.
What he didn’t agree to was Randall coming to London the next day to take him back to Monte D’or to find a suitable outfit. The man had simply said the plan rushedly before hanging up with a final enthusiastic expression of gratitude. Hershel hadn’t had the chance to argue.
Luckily, Hershel had the day free. It was the first day in weeks where he had nothing planned, and the day would have been ideally spent catching up on a few books and enjoying the warm weather.
The professor wasn’t one for spontaneity. He preferred meticulous planning, down to the minute, and while Randall was quite the opposite, he would have liked to have more than a night’s notice of their plan.
He was not prepared to see Randall, much less Henry or Angela or Dalston, if any of them were to tag along. Seeing any of his childhood friends required some measure of mental preparation. Though he and Randall called semi-frequently, they’d only seen each other twice in person since the incident with the Masked Gentleman.
Despite being half-asleep before, the call had returned him to full consciousness, and the dread began to creep its tendrils into his mind. No amount of fluffing his pillow or pulling the blanket to his chin would slow the whirring cogs in his mind.
What sleep he received was fitful and full of images of hands and ruins and white suits. Horses galloped and children screamed on roller coasters and little boys under his care were hooked to ropes far too high for safety. The golden glittering mask taunted him with its smirk.
By the time his alarm went off, he was less than well rested, if one could imagine. Not exactly ideal.
His tiredness was amplified by the four hour drive through the desert with one very chatty Ascot, not mentioning that the man had only recently gotten his license and still hadn’t quite gotten a handle of safety.
Safety hadn’t ever been the ginger’s priority anyways.
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, they went straight to the suit shop without any detours. Lucky because it meant he didn’t have to prepare for the minefield that was interacting with his childhood friends. Unlucky because Hershel had no time to calm himself down after being subjected to half an hour of his best friend singing loudly to the songs on the radio.
And now they’re here.
As Randall sets the suits back on the rack and goes back to browsing, Hershel’s mind begins to wander. It was a matter of time before his train of thought drifted to puzzles to entertain himself.
A man is buying a expensive suit, and while he’s at it, a few accessories of a pricier nature. His watch costs 200 pounds. If his suit is 6 times that amount, and-
“Hershel, what about this?”
“Hm?”
“Hello, earth to Hershel Layton.” Randall snaps his fingers, and the puzzle he’d been formulating crumbles like sand. “What about this one?”
“It’s nice.”
“You are no help, you know that?”
“Terribly sorry.”
Hershel can’t keep a bit of sarcasm from leaking into his voice.
“Cmon, don’t be such a wet blanket!”
“Wouldn’t Henry be more suited for something like this? I’m fairly certain some of the suits here cost more than my salary.”
Randall blows a raspberry and sets the suit down again. “I couldn’t ask Henry, he’s too busy with work. Besides, you’re my plus one, so we need to be color-coordinated. We haven’t even decided an accent color. You’ve got a black suit, and I was thinking of an off-white, so our options are pretty open.”
He begins to ramble once again about color combinations, and try as Hershel might to focus, he cannot. Randall’s words are turning to static and washing over him like a soft wave.
It reminds him of a puzzle, actually.
A magnet collector is trying to buy a perfect new TV for his wife. He saves up all his money and buys the best one on the market. Upon bringing it home, however, he discovers that the display is discolored! So he returns it for a new one, but-
A hand on the brim of his hat once again snaps him back to himself, and he grabs Randall’s wrist.
“Your reaction time is quick as ever, huh? Even when you’re spacing out.” His friend’s smile fades a little. “Are you alright?”
“Of course.” Hershel releases Randalls wrist, feeling his cheeks flush a bit with embarrassment. A bit of an overreaction on his part there. His arm is tired of soldering the suit so he transfers it to the other.
“Is this an ‘I’m alright because I don’t want to talk about it’ alright? Or a serious alright.’
“I’m just a bit tired. It’s nothing.”
Randall raises an eyebrow, “Have you been falling asleep at work again?”
“What? Of course not.”
“...” The professor’s best friend levels him with an unimpressed look.
What on earth was wrong with Hershel today? Clearly, he had answered too quickly, and his lack of focus was surely suspicious.
“I’m alright, Randall. I promise.”
“You have a tell, you know. I know when you’re lying to me.” The ginger boops Hershel on the nose, and he instinctively bats away the hand. How childish.
“Pray tell.”
“Nope!” Randall sticks out his tongue. “You’ve had it since you were 14, though. Good to know some things haven’t changed.”
Hershel scoffs lightly.
Perhaps he should say something to appease his friend. Randall is aware of his bouts of insomnia. He could play it off, as he does with Rosa, that he simply was engrossed in his work.
“I stayed up researching. That is all.”
“Your pants are in flames, Hershel.” The phrase is accompanied with a not-exactly-soft smack to Hershel’s posterior.
“Randall!”
If he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly was now. Hershel looks around to ensure that the store clerk hadn’t seen his friend’s untoward behavior.
“C’mon, Hersh,” The taller man leans in with a cheeky smirk. “Lighten up.”
“That was entirely uncalled for.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Frustration pricks at his tone. “The only thing ‘wrong’ is that we’ve been here for nearly an hour and you haven’t even tried a suit on.”
He needs to stop. Hershel’s careful lid on his emotions is starting to come undone.
“These things are important, Hershel. You don’t understand, because you’re-”
“I’m what? A commoner? A countryman that couldn’t possibly understand high society?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s laughing at the irony of it all. Hershel Layton, the standard of emotional control, is blowing up at Randall Ascot of all people.
But the pot has bubbled over, and a the buzzing in his mind is beginning to barb his words.
“You spend so much time worrying about what other people are thinking of you. Aren’t you tired of it all by now? For as much as you complain that Angela and Henry put you in a box, you aren’t trying very hard to escape it.”
A sick part of him revels in the flash of hurt he sees in Randall’s eyes. Hershel knows he’s poking the bear, he just doesn’t care. It’s ungentlemanly to dredge up one’s past affairs, especially in an argument, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind right now.
He hasn’t felt a hurricane of emotions this strong in nearly a decade. His heart pounds, and the blood rushes in his ears. Hershel feels almost like he’s floating. It’s wonderful and terrible and he’s letting all these awful little pieces of himself fling out like shrapnel.
The hurt fades from Randall’s eyes, replaced with growing fury. Good.
He needs to be reminded why he cannot allow himself to act in this manner. He needs Randall to put him in his place.
“What is wrong with you?” Randall hisses, “You know damn well it’s not like that. I need to- they’re-”
Randall makes a hand gesture. “I owe this to them. To be what they want.”
One more push. Randall is balling his fists now.
He always was easy to rile up. Push him further and he’ll forgot that he was meant to be concerned. Hershel doesn’t deserve concern.
“You like this, don’t you? You like the attention.” Hershel tilts his head, “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don’t you?”
And he finally gets what he wants, because the taller man is grabbing him by his coat with a white-knuckled grip.
“What the hell is your problem, Hersh?” The professor is shaken back and forth, then brought very close to Randall’s face. Then he’s released.
Then Randall pushes him, and his hand accidentally strays just above Hershel’s shirt collar and onto his neck. Something odd happens then.
The world sharpens into clarity for a brief moment, and then fizzles out into a blurry mass. Whatever thought that had caught his mind and possessed him had left, and Hershel felt cold. Flattened.
He breaks out in goosebumps as he takes a step back from the threat. Hershel is feeling rather boneless now. As if any moment his legs will give out because he can’t quite feel them. And his heartbeat has only gotten louder, the noise of it drowning out Randall’s angry words. Or maybe he isn’t speaking.
When did he stop breathing correctly? The air catches in his throat. It feels like he’s choking.
He gasps for air. It’s not enough.
His arms are empty which means sometime he let go of the suit he picked out. A pity. It was quite expensive, and he’d hate to get it dirty.
There are hands on him. They’re holding him up, he thinks. They’re not on his coat anymore, not aggressive. He can’t breathe. There’s no hands on his neck, nothing obstructing his airways, but his tongue feels far too thick and the lump in his throat is suffocating him.
He paws desperately at the hands. Hershel doesn’t want to be hurt again. Not again.
There’s someone talking to him. It’s all underwater. The shouting his stopped, he thinks, but he can’t hear it over the rain.
He can feel the water on his cheeks, so it must be raining. It was raining then, too. He hates the rain.
Not again.
The hands aren’t leaving, even as he claws at them. They’re firm and frighteningly warm, and they’re not letting him go. The alarms keep blaring in his mind, reducing any thoughts he’d been having to that of some small prey animal. Desperate to live. Desperate to escape.
Hershel doesn’t want to die. The hands aren’t leaving.
He’s going to die. He’s going to die here in the rain and no one will know.
Hershel claws at his throat, trying to get air.
Knees buckling, his weight sagging down to the ground. The hands try to hold him up, holding tight to his coat, but nonetheless he can feel his knees collide rather painfully with the ground.
There are noises somewhere, too dim to make out beneath the rain. His vision is blurry, spots dancing across his view, and she shuts them tight.
Something is shaking Hershel again, and on instinct he tries to curl in on himself. Protect your front. Protect the head, and the windpipe.
His hands return to his throat, fumbling for his ascot. Where was it? He needs it off. Anything around his throat was bad. Bad, bad, bad. No, this was all wrong. He’s too vulnerable to attack.
Where’s his ascot? He needs it off, so it can’t get used to choke him again.
“Hersh, you- … -hey, can- … -No, don’t-” There are hands on his wrists, yanking them away from his neck. No, no! He hunches to protect himself. It’s the best thing he can do if they try to pin him.
He gasps, trill trying to breathe. He needs air, needs to escape, needs to live. He can’t do this again. Not again.
Hershel is pulled up and against something warm and sturdy, and there are arms around his back. Not the floor. He’s not on the ground.
What?
“Just breathe.” There’s a voice by his ear, and it cuts through the static. He feels the rumble against his front. A chest. Hershel is pressed against someone’s chest.
A lone puzzle piece forms in his mind.
“I’ve got you, Hershel. Just breathe.”
He knows that timbre. That purring rhythm.
It’s not dangerous. Not the harsh, gleeful voices of a threat.
It’s a safe voice. A good one.
“H- wh-” Hershel coughs, chest spawning, and the hands shift from holding him to rubbing his back softly.
“Shhh… don’t speak.”
Hershel obeys, falling silent and trying to smooth the hitching of his breath. He doesn’t have anything to say either way. Nothing constructive. Nothing to explain himself.
His cheeks itch. He must’ve cried. How horribly embarrassing. Hershel buries his face on the shoulder of whoever is holding him, catching a faint whiff of cologne.
He knows what it is. He knows that cologne.
“Randall?” Hershel cringes at the croak in his voice as he sits up, and the ginger man looks back at him with a soft smile. The furrow in his brow gives away his concern.
“There you are. Are you alright?”
“Of course.”
“Er- sorry to interrupt.” The store clerk peeks his head around the rack, “but did you still want me to call an ambulance?”
“No, no. I think we’re fine now.”
“My apologies to the both of you.” He forces his voice to be still. Then, quieter, “why on earth were you going to phone emergency services?”
“In my defense, I panicked.” Randall lays a calloused hand on Hershel’s cheek and rubs the evidence of his tears away. “I’ve never seen you so… freaked out before.”
“My apologies. This was just a-” Hershel flounders for an explanation, “a blip. I’m alright.”
“We’re talking about this in the car.”
“No. We are not.”
Hershel gathers himself, patting the dust from his knees and grabbing the abandoned suit.
“Yes, we are.” Randall takes the suit from him. “C’mon, let’s check out. I can come back another day.”
“What, you aren’t going to try on 30 different white suits?”
Hershel tries to lighten the mood, but his tone comes off more sarcastic than he intended.
“I’d rather just get out of here. I think we both need to relax. Do you still like ice cream?”
Hershel debates internally about just asking Randall to take him back to London immediately. The whole ordeal has left him rather tired, not mention the wobbling in his knees or the scratches he can feel on his throat.
“Yes.”
“Vanilla?”
“Sure thing, Randall.”
They check out, and the store clerk eyes Hershel like the professor will collapse at any moment. It’s pretty silent, the air gravid with tension.
Hershel prepares for a fight as he enters the passenger side door. He made some inappropriate comments earlier, and Randall isn’t one to back down.
But Randall just sits in the car for a moment before tugging Hershel into a fierce hug.
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again, got it?”
“Of course, Randall. I’m sorry.” He tentatively lays his hands on the back of his best friends sweater.
“Quit apologizing. Not your fault.”
Hershel melts, just a little, and resigns himself to waiting until Randall feels ready to let him go. Honestly, it might take half an hour. But he doesn’t mind so much. It’s alright if it’s Randall.