for his mile-long popularity, clive wonders if the professor is even aware of it. if so he did not embrace this pseudocelebrity status―he looks as unassuming as ever when clive’s gaze snags onto the familiar top hat. and while the article itself is his lasting trademark, always gracing a room five minutes before the rest of him; clive finds in his presence something abstract, but even greater, to hold onto. it is something he is less willing to share with others, even if it is something he had mangled out of the farragoes of idolatry. tired eyes quiver, drink in the rest of the professor and the reality that they are both there. it unwinds a small part of him yet exacerbates another. it is all he can do to pick up the pieces of his composure. a smile forms, catlike and lax, as if to glaze over his internal fit just one door ago.
“… professor,” he mutters, thinning fingers twiddling the rim of his cap―a gesture of greeting, however sluggish. worn leather soles amble down an aisle and tango down a railed couplet of steps. his hands, feeling uncomfortably exposed, slink back into the pockets of his shorts. the linen is a small comfort, however incomparable to silk it may be. out of charismatic habit he tries to volley back something sharp. he finds that he cannot, still reeling from spade-shaped remnants of his turmoil. “i did,” he replies, regaining his projection. “you almost seem surprised.”
their distance is shorter than from when he had first entered. clive, however, does not close it; turning a mahogany corner after he is able to tear his gaze from that smile. what the room offers is standard. the seating is not so quaint, but far from grander amphitheaters; it offered neat rows rather than disjointed desks. he finds his place, characteristically impersonal, at the distant edge of one. he had come with no hidden tricks up his sleeves―only the note-taking utensils he dutifully pulls from his messenger bag. the leather journal is aged, but well-kept, and prickly on the sides with various colored tabs. it is the same book he brings to all of layton’s lectures, unbeknownst to the man himself. clive cocks his head with a huff of a laugh, tosses a smirk over his shoulder for the professor, then seats himself with grace. bit by bit his ego is returning to him. a leg crosses over the other as he props his airs on a loose fist. his eyes, half-lidded and twice as dark as the other’s, smolder hershel then with something sinisterly inviting.
“you could say that this is the earliest i’ve come. i do hope that’s alright, professor…” his simper stays tight to his lip. “but watching you in your preparations for once is oddly thrilling, too. please, consider me a fly on the wall. we can always catch up after class.”
This is not a fever dream. It is reality. And a calming one at that. Though he knows that if it were not for his kind, gentle demeanor, and his patience, there would be disdain imminent in regards to seeing Clive. Especially after their conversation prior, especially with their previous interaction. But there is none, only a calming sensation to know that the man who had entered the lecture hall is here, very much so, and it warms the professor to see it. That is reality.
He could never hallucinate a scene such as this, not that he'd want to since it's much better in person. To see the young man tip the brim of his cap, a kind gesture in greeting that's always accepted. Such an action only gets the smile to widen on the professor's face, his eyes closing for a moment as a hand reaches up to tip his hat just the same (even if he'd already nodded his head at his arrival).
"Surprised? I suppose you may say that," The professor answers him, lips still curved as a chuckle escapes his throat. Surprise...yes that was one way to put it. He wasn't alarmed by any chance, no but surprised might be the better word here. Still he can't help himself and he has to bring a hand up to cough, to clear his throat before continuing any further in speech.
His attention is caught elsewhere, from focusing on talking to merely watching the man as he walks down those steps further, turns and continues on. Hershel watches as the young man pulls necessities from his bag, throws him a smirk- not a smile- and takes his seat accordingly at the furthest of the row. Now, what could that smirk have been about? And that look in his eyes? It's something the professor ponders on for a moment as he keeps his gaze on Clive, hand staying in place in front of his mouth. Puzzling, he thinks but if it's something to be solved, the professor doesn't mind.
"Being early is never a bad thing," He wants to chuckle again, dropping his hand from his mouth to grip at the wooden podium once more, "It bothers me none, Clive," Comfort in speaking his name, as if it was one to be spoken casually, spoken so familiarly despite his notoriety, "Nonsense. Today you are one of my students," He's always been one of his students. "You've a point, my dear boy. I only hope you get as much as you can out of this lecture. But yes, afterwards, I'll see you."
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