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“Hello, Layton.”
Hershel hadn’t expected to find Sycamore when the bell rang. He had known that the man survived the happenings in the Azran Sanctuary (he’d collected pertinent newspaper clippings of his adventures around the world when Desmond Sycamore’s or Jean Descole’s names were mentioned, both of them used interchangeably, along with a number of others that he was sure were aliases). He’d written a letter or two, with no reply – not that he’d been expecting any, to be frank. Hershel couldn’t blame the man for choosing to stay away from that past altogether, the memories.
“Professor Sycamore?”
The man carefully levelled his gaze, meeting Hershel’s eyes. He looked simultaneously older and younger than he did the last time he saw him, the lines on his face deeper but the heavy gaze he bore before almost completely gone. Almost.
“Aah, do not mind me. I only came to deliver you this…” Sycamore rummaged through the interior of his coat. He took a small package from his coat’s inner pocket. Although covered in cloth, Hershel could recognise the form as a dreidel. The other Professor hunched over almost imperceptibly, averting his eyes from his brother’s face. “We used to play with this one, when we were children, on Hannukah,” he said, his voice low and careful, “Our mo- Rachel Bronev, she made it – we didn’t have much money and we were the only Jewish family around. And it’s past the time anyways, but I thought- I thought perhaps you would like to have it back. As a reminder.”
Hershel didn’t really recall much from his life before the Laytons – some part trauma, some part his own youth when adopted, he was sure. He’d celebrated far more Christmases than Jewish holidays, even if it’d felt weird to him as a small child, but he’d become used to it. But he still reached out, hesitantly, to the dreidel. Taking it from Professor Sycamore, he uncovered it. He took a while to inspect the markings, trying to make sense of them.
“Ah, you must not remember,” Sycamore pointed to side facing up, and his face looked kind. “The letters are in Yiddish. They serve as a mnemonic.”
“Nes gadól hayá sham,” Hershel muttered, absorbed in a vague feeling of warmth and joy. Sycamore had a small smile, his eyes on the dreidel. He brought his hand up to the small item, the warmth of the other hand especially noticeable in his frigid, ungloved one.
The smile faded slowly, and he pulled the coat closer to his body, exhaling quickly with his mouth. “Well,” he took a quick step back, away from the open door. It was windy, and the coat flapped around his legs. “I better be going. Merry Christmas, Layton.”
Hershel raised his arm in hesitation, a ghost of a memory running in front of him – a pair of hands slowly disappearing from his own, the warmth gone just as quickly as it’d been there. He found himself stumbling across his words, not quite sure of what to say.
“Wait-”
Sycamore wasn’t quite turned around yet. Hershel’s voice made him meet his brother’s eyes, finding the dark and confused. Something affectionate stirred in him.
“Please… Stay.” Hershel hadn’t known that he’d meant to say that until he did. He’d forgotten much, that was true – it wasn’t something he could ever fault himself for, it’d always been out of his control – but now he had something back, something from a past he had loved at some point. They hadn’t parted well, had never had the chance to start over, not without conflicting interests and dangerous situations. But now… “We still have much of Christmas Day left, and my mother definitely made too much food.”
Sycamore chuckled. “Mrs Layton did always seem the sort to make a happy home like that. I remember she gave me a cake when- when they adopted you.” Hershel winced slightly at the tremor in Sycamore’s voice, the insecurity – he knew then he couldn’t show doubt, not if he truly wanted his brother to stay with him. He raised a hand, firm and decisive, an unspoken offer and plea. Sycamore glanced at it – a decision being made that very instant.
He took Hershel’s extended hand, the difference in temperature no longer seeming so dramatic. The dreidel had been passed to Hershel’s other hand, the cloth hanging from his closed fingers. Sycamore thought of teaching the rules to his brother, as he wasn’t quite sure of how well he remembered them. He wished to be able to play it with him again – the younger man had always been lucky has a child, often getting all the treats in the pot, and if his life as of late was any sign, Sycamore was sure he’d still be lucky.
They crossed the threshold into the warmth of the house, hand in hand, like two children eager for Hannukah.
Perhaps next year, next year they’ll be able to celebrate it again after being apart for so long.