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The paint currently dripping down the door caught Desmond’s attention first. The bright red color seemed to have been haphazardly splashed onto the surface in a hurry, since there was no apparent pattern to it upon a glance. Desmond parked alongside the road, having driven himself so as to avoid the questions Raymond would inevitably ask.
“You just visited him a few weeks ago, Master.”
“Yes, but this is different.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“...”
“Then nothing is different.”
Shaking the imagined conversation from his head, he exited the car and made his way towards the offending door. The familiar shape of Roland Layton had obscured it from the road, but upon a closer look, Desmond felt certain that the paint had once spelled out the word “murderer.”
They’re calling little Theodore a killer?
Desmond remembered playing pretend with him, a lifetime ago. They’d shared a toy wooden sword and shield, remnants from one of his Halloween costumes. Desmond always wanted to play with the sword, taking on the role of a powerful knight who was fighting for justice. Theo never complained, accepting the shield he was left with, and declaring he would help his brother in whatever way he could.
He had been so small back then. They both had been.
His stomach rolling with disgust, he approached Roland.
“Mr. Layton.”
“Ah! Desmond!” Roland turned. “Lucille told me you were considering stopping by again.”
“Yes… I’m sorry for intruding, I know I was just here, but-” Desmond trailed off, unwilling to voice what his reasoning was. Best to pretend that this was simply a normal check-in on his brother.
Best to pretend that his brother hadn’t just lost his best friend in Azran ruins, of all places .
It was that particular detail that made his blood boil. What was Theodore thinking, going in a place like that? He might not have known better about Targent, but he had thought that his brother would be smarter than to explore ruins as an amateur archeologist in general.
“You don’t have to apologize, my boy.” Roland called him that from time to time. It always made Desmond imagine an alternate world, one where he was Hershel Layton. He could never tell Roland how it made his skin crawl to picture. He couldn’t be their boy because if he was, then Theo would’ve…
“These are difficult circumstances.” It took Desmond a second to remember that Roland was referring to the incident with Theodore’s friend, and not to the trick he pulled all those years ago. “Hershel could use some cheering up, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate the reassurance of seeing him.”
“Oh, I really don’t need to see him, I just wanted to-”
“Either way, feel free to head inside. I’ll be done here in a bit, but I want to be sure I finish before school gets out. Best if Hershel doesn’t see.”
Desmond swallowed thickly.
“Do you need any hel-”
“I’ve only got one rag, so unless you feel like never wearing that tie again…” Desmond’s hand reached for the object in question, toying with it.
“Ah, nevermind then.”
“Attaboy, now go and let my wife give you some biscuits.”
“Doctor Sycamore! So good to see you again.” Lucille Layton currently donned an apron, a sheet of balled out biscuit dough in her hands. She slid them into the oven as Desmond hung his coat.
“Mrs. Layton, you know I don’t have my doctorate yet.” She clicked her tongue in protest.
“You know that you’ll have it in no time. And when you do get it, I’ll have to adjust to calling you that, so I might as well practice now.”
Desmond chuckled. He supposed that made enough sense.
“Now, come help me shape biscuits and tell me everything that you’ve been up to since your last visit.”
Desmond and Lucille got to work in the kitchen, exchanging short stories and commentary as they waited for Roland to return. He was right that his work did not take much longer, as he was inside by the time Lucille was pulling the first sheet of biscuits out of the oven. Roland passed Desmond on his way to the sink, scrubbing away flakes of red and the scent of paint.
“I really think you should tell him.” Desmond froze. Of course he knew that Roland and Lucille wanted him to inform his brother of their relation, but it was rare for Roland to say it so plainly, and with no preamble.
“I can’t-”
“I know, I know. You can’t upheave his life. You don’t want to invalidate the life he has here. You don’t want to resurface memories of what happened to your parents. You’ve played out all of those excuses with us, Desmond.”
His hands curled into fists in his lap. He thought the conversation might dip in this direction, but he hadn’t expected it so abruptly.
“I know all of your reasons, Desmond. I know you want to keep your distance, that you think he’s better off not remembering you.” He hung his head, unable to chance making eye contact. Those excuses had always been thinly veiled, but Roland had never pointed it out before.
“...But he’s really hurting right now.”
Desmond bit his tongue, telling himself that his statement was nothing more than confirmation of what he already knew to be true.
“He could use an older brother,” Lucille cut in, “He could use you .” Desmond fought the cocktail of emotions telling him to devise some excuse, any excuse , to not tell him. But he knew that if he tried debating them on this, he would lose. So he bit his tongue again.
Lucille clicked her tongue in dissatisfaction when Desmond refused to make eye contact.
“Alright. Tell me about that woman you’re seeing, you were thinking of asking her to marry you, right?”
Desmond felt tension bleed from his body. He noticed his nails had cut into the skin of his palms.
“Ah, yes. Actually, I decided to start ring shopping next month, since I’ll be distracted by my dissertation after that.” Lucille smiled, and Desmond mentally thanked her for the change in subject. Their conversation was cut short by the abrupt sound of the door opening, followed by the sound of shuffling. Roland gave Desmond a glance that he couldn’t quite decipher before he headed towards the entryway.
“Hershel, why don’t you come in here? Your mother’s made biscuits, and we have a guest you might be interested in meeting.”
Desmond froze.
He wasn’t ready for this.
His brother was looking at him. They locked eyes. Desmond hadn’t seen those eyes in person since that awful day on their doorstep when he became a nameless boy without any family left. Theodore held his gaze for a moment. He looked so much like their mother.
There was no recognition in those eyes.
Theodore made his way over to the platter of biscuits, seated (unhelpfully) in front of Desmond.
“Dear,” Lucille began, “This is a friend of ours, Doctor Sycamore.” Desmond struggled to swallow.
“Still not a doctor, Mrs. Layton.”
“Simply a matter of time, Desmond.”
His brother sat next to him. Desmond couldn’t move. He wanted to turn and stare. He couldn’t speak. Theodore was beside him for the first time in so long and he had never been further away.
Desmond had recognized his brother’s eyes, but he had also recognized the look in them. Apathy hung over him like a grim cloud. He held none of the excitement or lively energy of the Theodore he once knew.
Well, what did he expect, that was a lifetime ago. Did some part of him really think that his little brother would still be a toddler when he saw him again?
Roland coughed, sensing the strange energy caused by the Bronev siblings inhabiting the same space.
It’s like oil and water, everyone knows that you’ll be disappointed if you want to see them mix.
“Hershel, Desmond here could be a lovely reference for college applications.”
Desmond turned towards his brother, he’d completely forgotten that this whole mess was during his senior year.
“Where are you thinking of applying?” Desmond asked, praying the break in his voice wasn’t obvious. Lucille offered him a discreet thumbs up for his efforts.
“Gressenheller. I’m going into archeology.”
Desmond couldn’t even allow himself to rejoice over hearing his brother’s voice again, because his heart sank in his chest.
Archeology? After everything I did to push you away from our family, you’re going to put yourself on a collision course with Targent?
“Desmond himself is an archeology student.” Roland helpfully added. Theodore nodded in response, his eyes never leaving the table in front of them.
Desmond tried to think of something to keep the conversation going. This was his first time talking to his little brother in so long, shouldn’t he ask him something profound? Shouldn’t he have anything to say at all?
“Can I go to my room now?” Lucille and Roland traded worried looks, both trying to hide the way their eyes trailed over to Desmond afterwards.
“But, dear, it’s still so early and-”
“I have a lot of homework today, Ma.” Lucille bit her tongue.
“Alright, but-”
Theodore was already gone.
Desmond sat in shock, his hand hovering over the space his brother had just occupied. Roland cleared his throat somewhere in the background.
“I’m sorry, Desmond. That was rather cruel of me.”
Desmond stood abruptly, feeling as though he was out of control of his body. His legs carried him up the stairs, past walls full of his brother’s childhood. Pictures and art projects he had studied thousands of times on various visits over the years watched while his feet continued to climb up, up, up . His hand hovered over the handle to Theodore’s room. He couldn’t just intrude in his brother’s space. Not after all this time.
He knocked instead.
“Come in,” echoed in Desmond’s brain as he pushed the door open.
His brother was sitting at a desk, facing away from him, a book open in front of him. But whether or not he had actually been able to focus, Desmond had no idea. He cleared his throat, and was met with those eyes again.
Those eyes that looked so sad.
“I’m…” Your older brother. And I’ve missed you so much, Theodore. Do you remember the way you begged to stay with me? “...going to be heading off, now. I didn’t mean to stay out so late, and I have to drive back to London.”
“Right, yes.”
Those eyes that held no recognition in them.
He watched in horror as his brother’s back turned again. It felt like he was slipping away all over again. Desmond felt pain in his palms, and allowed himself to wonder if it was the skin he’d broken earlier or the phantom feeling of his brother’s hand slipping from his that hurt more.
He blinked tears out of his eyes and told himself to turn around.
“Are you happy?”
“Excuse me?”
Well, that had certainly caught his attention. He cursed his tongue for acting without his approval.
“I- uhm…” Those eyes bared into him. “I’m doing a research project on adoptees, for a psychology class.” Please don’t realize that it makes no sense for me to be in a psychology class as an archeology major . “And, I was wondering if you could talk a bit about your experience.”
His brother nodded, having seemingly accepted his cover story.
“I… Currently, I can’t call myself happy.” His brother’s gaze drifted aimlessly, as if he was looking for something or someone who wasn’t there. He shook his head, before looking at Desmond once more. “But that isn’t their fault. They’ve… handled it - me - quite well actually.”
Desmond nodded.
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re the only family I’ve ever had.”
Desmond’s lungs refused to inhale. As if holding his breath could make those words be unsaid. Make that sentiment unfelt.
“I have little to no interest in finding my biological family, they’re all I’ve ever known and they’ve always treated me as their own.”
Desmond stared at the floor.
“Is that all?”
Desmond shot to attention at the question. No, it isn’t. Of course it isn’t, I have over ten years of catching up to do with you. He gave a large smile and nodded as enthusiastically as he could.
“Yes, of course, thank you for your participation. Goodbye.”
Desmond turned and fled. Another moment there and he might sink to the floor, or say something stupid again, or just break entirely.
He stopped for only a moment in the kitchen, accepting the biscuits Lucille had packaged for him, offering her a quiet “he doesn’t remember at all” before escaping the Layton household.
He made it to the car before falling apart, biscuits beside him. He allowed himself to wait only until his hands stopped shaking before placing the key in the ignition and starting the long drive back. His hands held the steering wheel in a vice grip, leaving smears of blood from his palms.
As far as I’m concerned, they’re the only family I’ve ever had.
For the first time in his life, he cursed that trick he pulled. It worked too well.