(A/N: A few quick disclaimers!

-Originally posted on AO3 for the 2018 Layton Big Bang

-This is mostly a brotp fic between college-age Randall and Hershel

-There is some Rangela and Layclaire to fit with canon

-There is also some platonic Angela and Hershel/college trio stuff

-PLEASE do not leave any shipping comments about any of the platonic content! Ty!

-I have a lot of mixed feelings about Randall. I loved his younger self to the DEATH, and he could've easily been one of my favorite characters if it weren't for the fact that his adult self went and wasted all the brilliant potential he had for character development.

-On that note, I actually really strongly dislike canon Randall/Rangela/ect. Therefore, my Randall— while I don't want to call him OOC— is more of what I feel his character could've been instead of just what he was.

-Chapter one is pretty short, the others get longer.

I'll let you get on to the fic, then!)

"This was a mistake, this was a mistake, this was a mistake…"

On the green lawn outside the mostly-deserted Gressenheller campus, a very nervous-looking boy with a red vest and noticeably poofy hair paced in circles around the flowerbed. To the side, a redhead with a bright fashion statement of an orange bandana and purple jacket looked on in amusement.

"Hershel, if there's one puzzle in this world that I could never hope to solve, it's you. She said yes, you dolt."

Hershel stopped his pacing and looked up in a mix of anxiety and annoyance.

"I know she said yes, that's the problem. I'm not ready for this, I'm— I'm going to make a fool of myself. Maybe I should just cancel…"

The redhead gasped and put a hand over his heart in surprise as his friend began to pace again. "Cancel? You, Hershel Layton, cancel on a lady? I never thought I'd see the day…"

"No, I suppose you're right," Hershel sighed. "That wouldn't be polite or fair to Claire, but— still. Do you remember the wedding incident? When we were, oh, maybe ten or twelve years old?"

"Oh, you mean that farce of a wedding with old Mrs. Cratchet? I do remember that. I'd say we livened that dull evening up for everybody." There was a dangerous grin on the teen's face.

"No, Randall! That was a bad thing! That did not go well!"

"All right, all right. But you do have to admit it was fun," Randall insisted.

"It was not fun, and anyway, the point is that I can't dance. You remember that." Hershel sat down on the wall of the flowerbed and put his hands in his head with a sigh. "What was I even thinking? Inviting a lady to the Fall Formal knowing full well that I wouldn't be able to give her the evening she deserves. Not to mention making a fool of myself."

"You're doing that thing where you're beginning to repeat yourself," Randall noted as he sat next to his friend. He slung an arm around his shoulder. "But listen here. While you may have wasted the past couple years of your life, I've been learning the important things."

"Like archeology?" Hershel asked, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, like archeology. And how to dance." Randall gave a triumphant grin.

Hershel paused. "You know, as much as that wouldn't really surprise me, I have a feeling that whatever kind of dancing you might've learned without my knowing isn't the kind of dancing that will be expected at the Formal."

Randall seemed to actually consider that point for a moment, but then laughed and shook his head. "Hersh, you worry too much. I know for a fact that I'll be a master formal dancer by the time the dance comes around."

"Well, good for you," Hershel sighed, "but I really don't see how this helps me."

"Isn't it obvious?" Randall asked with a grin. "I'm going to teach you."

There was a pause as Hershel tried to ascertain whether his friend was joking or not. When Randall didn't burst out into laughter or make some snide comment as a follow-up, the poofy-haired boy groaned.

"Oh, yes, taking dancing lessons from someone who's still learning themselves is one of your best plans yet," he said, with a rare edge of sarcasm that was pretty much reserved for his best friend.

"I'm offended in your lack of faith in me," Randall gasped. He pushed up his fake glasses with his hand stretched across his mouth in a thinking position ("the scholarly way") and hummed in thought. After a few moments, he snapped his fingers.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "Meet me at Memory Knoll tomorrow night. It'll be the perfect practice spot; nobody will bother us."

"Tomorrow night?!" Hershel asked. "Are you quite certain you'll be qualified in that span of time, not only to properly formal dance, but to teach somebody else?"

"Well, I'll only have to know one dance to start with," Randall pointed out. "It's a matter of time management. But we'd best start as soon as possible, because the dance is only a couple weeks away. Now," he stood up and hopped off the ledge, taking on an authoritative tone that Hershel knew meant all argument was now futile, "tomorrow night, meet me at Memory Knoll at about… oh, nine o' clock should be fine, my father will be in bed by then. Come dressed as you are, although of course we'll have to get you a suit for the dance before it actually comes so you have time to practice in it. I'll be dancing the girl's part, obviously, since you need to practice as a guy, and—"

"Okay, I get it," Hershel sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I'll meet you tomorrow night."

Randall beamed. "Good! I'm glad we're on the same page. And you're welcome in advance." He patted him on the shoulder and took off running. "See you tomorrow!"

"Wait, where are you going?" Hershel called in confusion.

"To practice! Duh!" Randall called back, and disappeared around the bend. Hershel sighed. Randall's plans almost always went wrong in one way or another.

And he had a feeling this was going to be no exception.