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John wasn’t sure which life choices had led him to this moment. He’d spent approximately fifteen minutes thinking back over the decisions he’d made throughout the last week-and-a-bit but overlapping rescues had made both timelines and his memory vague, hazy in the manner of dusk after a hot day, so the only thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t want to be here.
Here was, of course, some miscellaneous business convention – aeronautical department perhaps? – that had been deemed important enough that Scott couldn’t wriggle out of it which meant John had to put in appearance too or face his brother’s sarcastic little digs for the next month or however long Scott felt like holding a grudge. It had seemed simpler to just come down from Five for the weekend. Now, John was regretting that decision. He could’ve been safely away from his current hell but oh no, he’d agreed to this. Like an idiot. What worth were degrees without common sense?
The convention was taking place in a hotel in a relatively large town with delusions of city-status; it was coastal which was a point in its favour but the beach was a stubby, rocky expanse of rough pebbles and kelp-choked water that didn’t support tourism but did encourage businesses to rent conference rooms with cheap rates in rundown hotels. As far as events were concerned, this one ranked poorly – the open bar was the only redeeming factor; he appreciated the packets of salted peanuts that were free for taking – and compared with other glamourous settings that Tracy Industries had dragged him to in the past, this convention was destined to be a letdown from the very start.
The conference hall was a large, rectangular space which had initially been two rooms, converted into one area by the destruction of a wall that had had left a strange, shadowy line across the ceiling where the paint shades of each original room weren’t a perfect match. A large oval table had been moved to the rear of the space to allow people to mingle. The décor was outdated – faded wallpaper made presentable by the glow of lamps and purposefully positioned houseplants – but scuffmarks on resin-coated floorboards promised that this space had once been the hotel’s beating heart. Now, a sense of melancholia had engrained itself in everything like the faint smell of damp and spilled wine and stale perfume. The most modern part was the bar with its brighter lights and newly upholstered seats and a selection of drinks that could’ve put a cruise ship to shame. John liked to imagine that this modernity was what had drawn him to his perch on a bar stool at the very end where no one would bother him, but he was very aware that reality was different; from here, he could people-watch… and feel sorry for himself too.
He wasn’t sure why he was here. Not literally. He’d cursed himself for the chain of thoughts which had led him here multiple times already. But he couldn’t figure out why he’d been asked to attend in the first place. His presence wasn’t required nor did he seem even to be wanted. He’d tucked himself away in the dark alcove between the end of the bar and the towering heights of a potted tree nearly forty minutes ago and no one had noticed. No one had so much as glanced at him, let alone taken a second look to wonder whether he was okay.
Okay. It was a stupid, childish whimsy. What did it matter? Being okay was unimportant. He swiped a finger across the bar; the sticky residue of past drinks had congealed to a paste that clung to his skin and invited a fierce spike of nausea that throbbed behind his eyes, a violent reminder of the headache that he’d been unable to shake for the past forty-eight hours.
Voices fell into one another; unwelcome background thunder that flared dark purple when he pushed his knuckles against his closed eyes and reminded himself to breathe. The air tasted sweet and sickly.
He crushed a peanut under his thumb and tried to focus on the way it crumbled, gave into the pressure, reduced to mere dust. His chest was tight again. His suit was perfectly tailored yet felt similar – stretched across his shoulders when he hunched over the bar – pressing too close, too rough at the seams. He held up two fingers for another drink, then cradled the glass between his palms when it arrived: patterned crystal, lined base like the mouth of a cowrie shell back home.
Laughter cut through his fogged senses. Most of it was jarring – jagged sounds that tightened his grip on the glass until the decorative ridges threatened to leave bruises – but one of those laughs was familiar and he clung to it like a life-raft whilst simultaneously seething because how was Scott so good at this? At the small talk? The tiny social cues that could make or break a situation? Reading between the lines to discover hidden meanings? Charming the room, weaving new partnerships with other corporations, making it all seem so effortless?
Technically, Tracy Industries wasn’t the biggest company present, but an observer wouldn’t have known it based off the dynamics. Other people were talking, milling amongst the crowd, but Scott was like the damn sun; everyone was drawn to him and those who weren’t close enough to talk to him directly were still caught in his orbit, waiting for their chance to slip into the conversation.
John didn’t get it. He was also slightly irritated by it. Every scrap of sensory input was like nails on a chalkboard; he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours; his headache was drilling behind his eyes; he was only here to support Scott who very obviously didn’t need him. He ran a thumb around the rim of his glass and stared into the depths of strong amber that he didn’t intend on drinking. Maybe he felt a little resentful, although cheated might be a better word.
More laughter unrolled behind him and it sounded purposeful, sardonic, closer to a taunt. God, he wanted to leave. He would’ve done so if only he’d been able to bring himself to get up from his chair. Or do anything, actually; anything other than wonder when the ice in his drink had melted and why he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs despite purposefully taking deep, even breaths.
Someone tugged the tumbler from his hand. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was. Even without the telltale familiarities – that particular brand of cologne; the ease with which the glass was stolen; an accompanying sense of home as tangible as sunlight – there was only one person in the room who would think to come and check up on him. Without the glass, he folded his arms and buried his face in them without a care for the tacky surface that was doubtlessly ruining his suit jacket. The room buzzed around him like the low-level electrical hum from household appliances, pressing closer, evoking memories of hot, insect-filled summers.
“Hey.” Scott sounded relaxed but the cheer was as fake as his press smile, intended to fool eavesdroppers, and it was threaded with thinly disguised concern. “Done with this?”
John mumbled past his sleeve, “This event or the drink?”
“Both, I guess.”
He sensed rather than saw Scott’s shrug; a slight disturbance in the air and a hint of bitterness in his reply that shifted John’s perspective of the situation. He considered the possibility that Scott wasn’t enjoying the conference after all; a theory which seemed obvious in hindsight and would have occurred to him a lot sooner had he not been preoccupied with the way that every detail of the universe seemed to be scraping at the interior of his skull.
Scott tilted the tumbler as he stared into its depths, expression suddenly shuttered and unreadable. After a moment’s consideration, he drained the glass in one gulp and dropped it back onto the bar. The dull thud ran through the woodwork like aftershocks, oddly ominous in the brightly lit setting. Another round of forcibly upbeat laughter rang out behind them.
“That was my drink,” John protested half-heartedly.
Scott’s grin looked convincing at first glance, but it didn’t reach his eyes. When John peered closer - searched for the tiny tells that betrayed his brother’s mask - Scott just looked tired.
“Yeah, it was your drink.” Scott cast him a knowing look. “You weren’t gonna finish it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point. And since when do you drink scotch?”
John pushed himself to sit upright. “It’s the principle. That was my drink and you can’t just-”
“Uh huh, great, whatever.” Scott snatched up his jacket; a sharp, decisive gesture that had John automatically standing to leave too. “Let’s get outta here.”
“Wait.” It took several seconds for John to process what Scott had said. He instinctively followed anyway – and nearly tripped over his own shoelaces in his haste to flee the curious stares and disappointed whispers. “Wait, what? We can’t just leave. Scott. Scott. The PR team-”
“-can handle the fallout.” Scott wove through the crowd with an easy smile and casual handshakes for anyone who tried to stop him. “It’s fine. I’ve spoken to enough people. The important ones, anyway.” He held the door ajar, one foot over the threshold; John got the distinct impression that Scott would only leave if he went with him. “Unless you want to stay here…?”
“No.”
The word escaped as a thready little gasp. The nausea had returned alongside a threateningly claustrophobic sensation as if the walls were closing in. There were eyes on his back and his name coursing along the river of rumours and he needed to get out. He stumbled into the corridor and wrapped his arms tightly around his middle. Silence descended as the door swung shut, but everything was still too much; oppressive dark wallpaper; a flicker of fluorescent ceiling lights; constrictive cotton of his shirt; the acrid burn of liquor fumes at the back of his throat. He braced himself against the wall and tried to take a deep breath, but it tasted stale, damp and unpleasantly warm, and he felt disorientated as if he were trapped in a nightmare.
“D’you feel like taking a walk?” Scott didn’t give him chance to argue. He didn’t sling an arm around John’s shoulders, sensing that physical contact would be a step too far at current, but stepped close enough for their shoulders to brush. His voice softened to a gentle tone usually reserved for post-nightmare comfort or the aftermath of rescues that had turned into recovery missions. “Let’s take a walk. C’mon, Johnny. You’ll feel better outside.”
Security personnel were floating around the hotel like ghosts. There were at least three separate details situated in the lobby; too many rich people in one space were practically an open invitation for trouble. John suspected that the choice of location was an attempt to reduce this risk; grand city hotels were obvious targets but a smaller, rundown complex in a relatively unknown town attracted less attention. It also made it easier for them to escape their own security, which Kayo would doubtlessly give them hell for when she tracked them down later.
They took the stairwell rather than the elevators. It led to a firedoor at the rear of the hotel. Scott’s grin was genuine this time, bright with adrenaline as he stepped aside to let John disable the alarm so they could escape through the door without alerting the front desk.
They found themselves in a small car lot, lit by a stream of red light from security cameras, slightly slippery underfoot due to a thin layer of iridescent grease that had spilled over the tarmac from garbage cans outside the backdoor to the kitchen. The lot was filled with gleaming vehicles – high-end leather upholstery; top-of-the-range; enough horsepower to shatter speed limits within seconds – which looked jarringly out-of-place in the grimy space. Their own vehicle was parked towards the front of the lot, but Scott ignored it, making a break for the main road.
It wasn’t fully dark yet. Dusk was dragging its coattails across the horizon; generous dabs of lilac and deep rose that faded into a dark indigo if John looked up to search for the first stars. Fall had brought cooler temperatures, but it was still humid, just fresh enough to warrant his blazer. He slid his hands into his pockets and focussed on breathing. The air had a bite to it; the tang of salt found in every coastal town. Distantly – two, maybe three roads over – waves crashed against the rocky shoreline and seagulls crooned to the final fading rays of sunlight.
There were no cars around, so he walked down the centre of the road. There was something exciting about the lack of consequences and he was reminded of his childhood, of sneaking back into his room, slithering over tiles with stars still stamped on the backs of his eyelids, knowing that he’d gotten away with it and wouldn’t get in trouble for being on the roof again.
He dragged a hand through his hair and grimaced when he discovered damp strands at the back, curling at the nape of his neck like a ducktail. He hadn’t been aware that he’d been sweating. Or that his heartrate had been rapid enough to leave him light-headed. Maybe he’d been freaking out more than he’d realised, which explained why Scott had dragged him out of the conference.
Scott, who was currently jogging down the street like a little kid let loose in the park after a long day of school. He’d shed his jacket which was now hooked over his shoulder and flapped in the light breeze like a pair of black wings. His laces were undone again. He’d abandoned his common sense several hours ago; if he’d ever had any to begin with. The difference in his body language since leaving the conference was such a stark contrast that John had to question how he’d ever believed that his brother had been enjoying the event. In retrospect, all of Scott’s smiles had been forced and he’d gritted out small talk as if being held at gunpoint.
“Better?” Scott called to him, turning to walk backwards along the road.
It was a long, flat avenue lined with conifer trees and manicured front lawns bordered by red-bricked houses; evidently this was an affluent part of town which could afford to maintain their roads, so there was no fear of tripping over potholes or cracks in the tarmac. Not that it would’ve made a difference; Scott had an uncanny ability to remain upright even during earthquakes, as sure-footed as a darn mountain goat as if he’d stolen all of the good-sense-of-balance genetics and left none for John. Come to think of it, that theory made a lot of sense.
“Your laces are undone,” John observed, unwilling to admit that Scott was right because yes, he did feel a lot better, but his brother didn’t have to sound so smug about it. “You’re going to trip.”
“I never trip,” Scott shot back, spreading his arms grandly, although he turned around to walk like a normal person again. He slowed to let John catch up to him.
Dusk made details hazy, but, as the distance between them closed, it grew easier to see tiny signs. John couldn’t tell if the redness in Scott’s eyes was from the salt air or tiredness, but he knew for a fact that the cautious concern on his brother’s face was his own fault. There was a bitter irony in that somewhere because he hated it when people worried about him - he spent half of his time wishing he could fade unnoticed into the background - yet hated the flipside; the desolation of going unseen, being forgotten, just as he had been for much of the conference.
Guilt tasted as bitter as ash. He swallowed. His own eyes were burning. He twisted his hands together and focussed on the tiny slither of raised scar tissue on his palm leftover from his first maintenance check up on Five. Tension ached between his shoulders. He wanted to run but also wanted to stop; to just sit down right there on the sun-worn tarmac and never move again.
“If you fall,” he said eventually, after the silence seemed to become heavy and Scott looked worried enough to start asking unwanted questions, “I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
Scott shrugged. “I never fall.”
“Now you’re tempting fate.”
“You don’t believe in fate.”
“I believe in gravity and the laws of probability, both of which state that you’ll trip one day.”
There was a law for almost everything in the known universe. John found that reassuring. Rules; guidelines; laws; they all had guaranteed outcomes for which he could plan accordingly. He pressed his thumbnail against the ridge of scar tissue to anchor himself in the present. The horizon had deepened to a rich copper which stained the scattered clouds above it. The avenue sloped down to intersect with the main road; from the top of the hill, the town seemed to glitter.
“I’m not going to fall,” Scott repeated quietly. He stole a sideways glance at John with a hint of amusement in his eyes, although his voice remained serious. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I never worry.”
“And I never fall.”
John repressed a sigh. “Are we done lying?”
Scott rolled his shoulders. The action seemed uncharacteristically self-conscious, especially as he ran a hand through his hair, dismantling his carefully gelled style into loose strands. He stifled a yawn behind his wrist as he studied the faded sunset with deliberate concentration.
“Depends,” he ventured, craning his neck to glimpse contrails laced across the sky; vivid lines of gold that stitched together newly emerging stars. “Are we still pretending this is about shoelaces?”
“Isn’t it?”
Scott just looked at him. John stared back. He knew they weren’t talking about untied laces anymore – and perhaps never had been – but he also wasn’t certain as to the real subject. He knitted his fingers, pulling them taut. The temperature was falling. He tried not to shiver.
“Here. Catch!”
A metallic flash snagged his attention; as brief as the blink of an eye; silver; small. It carved an arc through the air and he reached up to catch the object reflexively. The pair of cufflinks were Spitfires – because Scotty was a damn nerd no matter what he claimed to the contrary – perfectly polished with the distinctive mark on each wing. John curled his fist around them, partly impressed by the fact he’d successfully caught them but mostly just confused.
“Why are you giving me your cufflinks?”
Scott stuffed his hands into his pockets and feigned nonchalance.
“Gives you something to fidget with.”
John tightened his grip on the planes. “I’m fine.”
“’Course you are. But take them anyway because otherwise you’ll keep cracking your knuckles and then you’ll complain about them aching when you’re back in orbit and I’ll have to listen.”
“I don’t do that,” John protested, then thought about it. “Do I do that?”
Scott didn’t even try to repress his laughter. “Oh yeah, big time.”
The town seemed different now. The transition from dusk to dark deserved its own distinction on the clock; it was a specific shade of light that treated everything kindly, softening sharp edges. It acted as a balm, soothing scruffy storefronts and straggly trees that had dropped their leaves too early in the season, wiping away faded graffiti and casting the streets in a mysterious, indigo hue that had an enticing quality, inviting adventure. It was interspersed by curious streetlamps and the glow from the windows of surrounding houses and LED-illuminated apartment blocks. Telegraph poles stood tall and proud, silhouetted against the darkening sky, decorated by strings of roosting pigeons. The distant thump of music filtered from a house at the end of the row. A dog bark carried further in the night air. The sea smelled stronger, pure salt, the snap of seaweed on the breeze mixing with the smell of cheap takeout and faint car fumes.
John wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking. The hotel was reduced to a faint blot on the horizon, a dark mass that protruded from the low-slung houses which surrounded it. He could breathe more easily out here. The seams of his shirt against his skin didn’t seem quite so offensive. Goosebumps had risen along his arms, but he didn’t mind the chill. It was refreshing, up until it made him shiver. He hugged his suit jacket closer, still rotating the cufflinks, running them across his knuckles like a coin trick, identifying the curves of the tiny wings and tails.
“Carry this,” Scott demanded, tossing his own blazer at John without waiting for a response. His shoulders were loose, grin as electric as the streetlamps that buzzed around them. He was perfectly at home in his own skin and John envied him for it. “Or wear it if that’s easier.”
“You’re not subtle,” John grumbled, although he shrugged on the jacket over his own as best he could. The fabric was warm and he tried not to noticeably sink into it. He pointedly ignored Scott’s smile. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.” He tucked the cufflinks into his pocket. “Where are we going?”
“Uh…” Scott paused, scouring the street ahead for inspiration. Neon signs winked, dotted along the sidewalk, enticing pedestrians with promises of cheap food and good music. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. What d’you feel like? I kinda want fries. Maybe a burger. Hey, that place looks good. Okay, not good, but it doesn’t look like it’ll give us food poisoning, so I call it a win.”
“You set the bar so low.”
Scott bounded on ahead. His gleeful shout carried back to John on the breeze.
“It’s part of the fun, Johnny.”
“Do not call me- And he’s gone. Great.”
The burger joint was a classic cheap takeout store; display unit covered in greasy fingerprints which would never fade no matter how much Windex was sprayed on the glass; rows of fizzy drinks lined up for inspection; peeling flyers in the window; a thick smell of salt and hot oil and floral air freshener from an automatic dispenser that attempted to cover up the first two. Pop music blared from a radio in the kitchen out back. A fat tabby cat lounged on the counter, purring loudly enough to rival Virgil’s snoring. It eyed Scott with baleful yellow eyes, but relaxed in John’s presence, permitting him to pet her while he scanned the menu pinned beneath her.
“Cats never like me,” Scott sulked, sounding genuinely offended by this realisation. He pushed fallen strands of hair out of his eyes with a petulant sigh better suited to a teenager.
“They can tell you’re a dog person.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.” The cat flicked its tail as if in agreement. “See?”
“Whatever,” Scott muttered, and reached over to ring the bell for service.
Their orders were taken in swift succession and John returned his attention to the cat. His focus was presently drawn back to the till when his Idiot Sense warned him that Scott was doing something stupid. Sure enough, his brother was paying with the black card, as if they hadn’t already drawn enough attention to themselves by wandering into a cheap takeout store whilst dressed in obviously expensive suits. To be fair, Scott had made himself less of a target by stripping down to his blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and messing up his hair, but still.
John seized his brother’s wrist and tugged him out of earshot of the cashier.
“What are you doing?”
Scott raised a brow. “Paying?”
“With that card?”
“I don’t carry cash, John.”
“Are you serious right now?” John hissed. He snatched the bottle of cola from his brother and whacked him lightly on the head with it. “Do you have even a grain of street sense in there? This isn’t a nice part of town, Scott. This is how you get us robbed. Or murdered. Or both.”
“Relax.”
“Don’t tell me to relax.”
Scott looked delighted by this turn of events and repeated in a pitched voice that was probably supposed to be an imitation of John’s irritated tone, “Relax.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
Scott elbowed him aside, tapped the card on the reader, then shoved his wallet into his back pocket just to prove John’s point that his eldest brother was, in fact, an idiot. How had this guy graduated from Yale? It was baffling.
In Scott’s defence, the cashier didn’t bat an eye. They were earning minimum wage on a Tuesday night and definitely had their mind on other, better things; they weren’t being paid enough to care about whoever wandered through the doors. John gave the cat a final pat, then took the paper bag of fries that Scott shoved at him and trailed after his brother like a little kid. The bag was a welcome beacon of warmth and he cradled it close to his chest in the face of the night.
Apparently, he was hungrier than he’d realised because his stomach kept growling. He stole a handful and tried to surreptitiously eat them without Scott seeing.
Scott held out a hand without looking back at him. “Gimme some.”
“How do you do that?” John tipped several fries into his brother’s palm. “Seriously. It’s like you have eyes in the back of your head.”
“Nope, just four brothers.”
“Valid point.”
Scott navigated the streets, making a beeline for the seafront. The promenade was lit by cheerful lights strung between lampposts and the pier was a colourful lodestar, reflecting neon rainbows across the inky water below. The tide was on the turn, high enough to lap at the top of the beach. It was colder by the exposed ocean and John was grateful for the extra blazer. He glanced over at Scott, trying to gauge whether his brother was cold, but Scott was frustratingly good at masking any hint of discomfort around his family, so it was impossible to tell.
The breeze had picked up, whipping grains of damp sand into a frenzy that stung skin and made eyes water. John silently hoped for Scott to suggest taking their food literally anywhere else. As if he’d read John’s mind – a prospect which seemed concerningly plausible – Scott turned left and cut across the cycle path to head onto the pier. They kept walking – past shuttered candy outlets; coin-activated binocular stands; empty benches with bronze dedication plaques; locked-up arcade; out-of-season ice cream stores – until they reached the end. There was a second section set much lower so that tall waves splashed up through the grated floor, designed for fishermen and out-of-bounds to the general public as stated on the signed gate.
“No,” John said before Scott had chance to speak. “Absolutely not.”
“Coward,” Scott taunted with a wicked grin. He swung one leg over the gate. “Come on. I dare you.”
John took a contemplative bite of a fry. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“Oh, I’m the worst,” Scott agreed cheerfully. He swung his other leg over the gate and jumped down onto the fishing platform. The grated floor gave a disconcerting rattle under his weight but held firm as he wandered over to the edge, peering into the dark depths below. White horses splashed at the toes of his shoes. He let out an exhilarated laugh. “Are you coming?”
“I hate you,” John muttered, tossing him the bag of fries. He wedged a foot halfway up the gate and scrabbled to haul himself over the top. Scott steadied him as he landed, keeping a hand on John’s shoulder for several seconds longer than necessary; clearly he’d been more worried than he’d let on throughout the evening. “Why do you always get me into these stupid situations?”
“You’ve gotta take risks in life.”
“Says the adrenaline junkie.”
“You say that as if I’m not proud of the title.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Scott patted him on the back. “Too late for that.”
They sat on the very edge of the platform. John kept his legs drawn up, both jackets draped around him like a cloak, paper bag nestled in his lap to protect it from being blown into the sea.
In contrast, Scott looked as if he might tip over the edge at any second. He had his legs hooked over the grate, leant back against his elbows, tossing fries into the air to catch them like some sort of circus trick. He’d already eaten his burger and had used the spray from the sea to clean his hands. As the night developed, he kept shuffling closer, waiting for John to tell him to move away each time; a rebuke which never arrived, so now they were sat together, sharing warmth.
“Huh,” Scott remarked as notifications popped up on his watch. “Our security team officially hate me.” He grinned. “I’ll have to give them a bonus.”
“They deserve one for putting up with you.”
“Okay, ouch.”
The crash of waves filled the silence. Scott polished off the final fry, crumpled the bag into a ball, then tucked it into his pocket. John was conscious of his brother’s gaze, weighing heavily on him, searching for answers to unspoken questions. He hadn’t meant to snap at Scott, not with such venom. But he couldn’t stop feeling crushed and it all stemmed from that ridiculous conference which he hadn’t even needed to attend and Scott had basically ignored him and-
“Are you angry with me?”
Scott lowered his gaze to the dark ocean. His shoulders were hunched, voice strained with the effort to conceal his hurt tone.
John repressed a sigh. “A little, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you make it look so- so easy. And I don’t get it.”
He curled his hands into fists and watched his knuckles pale, ghostly in the dim moonlight. The greasy aftertaste of the fries had made him slightly nauseous again, but he couldn’t tell if it was anxiety-induced or if he was genuinely going to be sick. He couldn’t unhear the uncharacteristic nervousness in Scott’s voice and it hurt, because it wasn’t Scott’s fault, not really.
“It all comes so naturally to you. You know exactly what to say and how to act.”
“Well, yeah,” Scott replied softly, “But only because I know you’re there. If I didn’t know you were there, that someone in the room had my back and wasn’t constantly waiting for me to slip up, then it would be a lot harder. It’s all an act, John, you know that.”
“You didn’t need me there tonight.”
“Of course I did. I didn’t leave early purely for your benefit.”
“Mostly for my benefit though.”
“Mostly,” Scott admitted. “But I wanted to get outta there almost as soon as we arrived. They were like damn sharks. I’ve had less stressful rescues. So, I’m sorry if it seemed like I ditched you. But that doesn’t mean- God, you have no idea how badly I need you around, do you?”
John discovered that his grasp on words had fled. He fumbled for something to say and came up empty handed. Instead, he pressed his shoulder against Scott’s and tried to translate the warm feeling in his chest through physical contact.
“I know you hate these events,” Scott ground out as if each word were scraping in his lungs. He swallowed, screwing his eyes shut as he continued in a rush, “But I couldn’t do them – couldn’t do any of this shit – without you. Which is selfish. I get that. But my point is that I don’t need you to be frickin’ networking or brokering deals; I just need you to be there. So… thanks.”
John cleared his throat. “I may have overthought this evening.”
“Oh, really? You don’t say.”
“Shut up.”
Scott wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders. “Dumbass.”
“Excuse me, I was- Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Was that a cat?”
Scott’s questioning protest was stolen by the breeze and another thunderous wave. John scrambled to his feet and followed the high-pitched mewl. The sound led him back over the gate and onto the stable wooden planks of the pier; into the sheltered alcove behind the boarded-up ice cream outlet; behind a picnic bench where a ball of white-and-black fur slowly uncurled to sniff his outstretched hand. Green eyes blinked curiously at him. The cat emerged gingerly, then, deciding that he could be trusted, wrapped herself around his ankles.
“Aw,” Scott teased, propped against the wall of the ice cream outlet. “You found a friend.”
John ignored him. It was warmer here, away from the breeze and the exposed fury of the untamed ocean, so he sank onto the picnic bench and beckoned the cat into his lap. She curled up over his knees, a bulk of purring warmth, tail twitching against his elbow as he ran his hand along the length of her spine. The knot of tension in his chest finally unravelled.
“I can’t believe you heard her from all the way over there,” Scott commented, taking a seat beside him. He held out a hand and beamed when the cat allowed him to pet her.
John shrugged. “I told you I could hear a cat.”
Scott tickled the underside of the cat’s chin. “Maybe we should get you a cat.” He frowned. “Wait, no. That would play into too many stereotypes.”
John glanced up. “Which stereotypes?”
“Nothing,” Scott said quickly – too quickly.
“No, no, continue. You were saying?”
“Just… you know. Lonely genius lives alone with a cat...”
John elbowed him. “Don’t forget EOS.”
“And your weird pet virus, sure.”
“She’s not a virus! How many times have we been over this?”
Scott ducked his head, pretending to examine the minor pink scar across the cat’s cheek to hide his smile. His shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter; his relationship with EOS had developed into a tentative truce as of late, but the taunts would never die entirely. At this point, John suspected that the pair enjoyed insulting one another.
Scott’s watch lit up again. He winced.
“So, Kayo says she’s gonna come pick us up. Which means we’re both dead, but hey. Worth it.”
“We found a cat,” John pointed out with a healthy dose of childlike glee. “Definitely worth it.”
They ended up on their backs on the picnic bench; side-by-side; the cat draped over their stomachs, purring away as if her little heart depended on it; sharing Scott’s blazer and huddled together for warmth. John couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet and the splintered boards were digging into his spine through his suit, but he still felt lighter than he had done in a long while. He picked out familiar constellations; traced satellite paths; watched the moon rise. He closed his eyes, reassured by the cat’s purr and Scott’s regular breathing. It reminded him of childhood summers spent in the backyard, a campfire burned down to ashes and the night sky big and brilliant above them, filled with adventures relayed via their dad’s staticky video-calls.
“Hey, Scott?” he murmured, earning a curious hum. “Name a constellation for a secret.”
“It’s been a hot minute since we last did this.” Scott tilted his head; John could see his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, smile as earnest as the fondness in his voice. “Uh… Pegasus.”
“Point it out.”
“No, my hands are cold.” Scott tugged his hands out of his pockets with a groan. “There. Happy now?” He prodded John’s bicep. “Your turn. What’s the secret?”
John located his brother’s wrist and tapped in morse, LOVE YOU.
Scott let out a surprised laugh. “That’s not a secret, dumbass. C’mon, I feel cheated now.”
John traced patterns over the cat’s back, then tried not to laugh as he confessed, “You know the final slice of apple pie that you were saving?”
“The one that Gordon ate because he’s a brat?”
“It wasn’t Gordon.”
“…What?”
“But hey, you wouldn’t get mad at me about that, would you? Because I made such a great sacrifice, agreeing to attend tonight’s conference, even though I really hate those events…”
“John! You are so dead.”
“Shh.”
“Dead. By. Sunrise.” Scott grabbed John’s arm and hauled him closer. “But I’ll kill you later because it’s frickin’ freezing right now. And, uh…” He tapped the same morse code against John’s shoulder. “You know. There’s that. So, I guess I can forgive you.”
They fell back into a comfortable silence.
“Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“…Can I keep the cat?”
“Oh my god, Johnny.”