Chapter Text
The apartment above his is an apartment where parties happen. And before now, John's always disdained them, hated the way the noise felt like it disrupted his entire routine. It's Harvard, for god's sake. Virgil is visiting him, at Harvard, because it's spring break and John's a bit of a show-off. And Harvard is worth showing off.
Gordon's in town too. Because Virgil invited him, not because John did. Virgil's tendency to try and make nice between the older and younger halves of the family is challenging. John had nodded politely along over dinner, hearing the news about Gordon. Gordon's settled down. Gordon's swimming at the collegiate level and excelling, as he would. Gordon's got a 3.4 GPA, which is probably down to the fact that he's enrolled in some relatively nameless school out on the west coast.
Returning to John's apartment, Virgil had heard the party upstairs. John had apologized for the noise. His younger brother had rolled his eyes and smirked.
"Well, we're gonna crash it, J-bird," Virgil had explained patiently. "And we will take a picture and we will send it to Dad, because photographic evidence of you actually interacting with other human beings will probably get him off my case about how you're turning into a misanthropic hermit."
There'd been some elbowing, some coaxing, and after John had ducked into the bathroom and downed a pair of aspirin, finally he'd agreed.
And actually, it's not that bad an idea.
John's not much for parties, but once they're in the door, it turns out this one's not so bad. Virgil's at the center of a group of people arguing loudly about art, and John's found some students of the harder sciences. He feels sharp, wickedly clear and witty and clever, and these are people who laugh at the kind of jokes he finds funny, about engineers, physicists, and biochemists walking into bars. The glass in his hand empties and refills more times than he notices. It doesn't seem as though it matters.
Across the room, someone crossing behind him into the kitchen dangles an empty whiskey bottle by the neck and remarks to Virgil, "Man. Your brother sure can knock 'em back."
And that's Virgil's first warning, because it's absolutely untrue. John's a lightweight. John nurses a drink over the course of an evening, John drinks the sort of thing he has to savor, and it's one of the only things he has in common with their father. Looking at his brother across the room, animated and bright-eyed and with a glass that's too full of something amber with ice in it, Virgil gets his first, uneasy rumbling of anxiety.
"S'cuse me. This isn't a concession, by the way, because you're still completely and totally wrong about the Communist Manifesto and should be ashamed of yourself—but excuse me."
Virgil crosses the room to the little knot of physics students, who have been drawn together by the fifth fundamental force in the universe—the sort that attracts nerds to one another at parties. The ice in John's glass chimes softly against the sides and Virgil puts a hand on his brother's wrist, gentle restraint. His skin above the band of his watch is startlingly hot. "How many's that been, John?"
"Hmm? Dunno. Three. S'fine."
"Four," someone corrects, and Virgil's hit with a swooping rush of stomach-dropping panic, simultaneously grateful and horrified that someone's been counting. They haven't even been here more than an hour.
John laughs and it's unsettling and wrong. Virgil decides they're leaving, back to John's place.
"C'mon, John. Party's over."
Gordon's party is not like John's in that it is louder, brighter, and significantly more fun, as things without John often are. It's a familiar atmosphere for him, even if he is three thousand miles away from the place he now calls home, because everything's the same. There's a certain sort of smoggy stench that seeps into the walls and ceilings of all the most partied-out apartments. There's a certain sort of laughter that comes with bad drinks and a good time. Gordon's good at this. He understands this.
And he's got pocket aces.
Clouds clutch at light and Gordon's stopped trying to keep track of what everyone's smoking. He's not smoking any of it, which is really the most important part. The guys at the table all have beers within arms’ reach, but Gordon's got water, claiming to be the designated driver for a girl who doesn't exist. He could probably get away with one drink—maybe two—but once he starts, he doesn't stop. He's not like everyone else in that way. John, though. Now there's a guy who can't drink, and he'll be the first one to roll his eyes if Gordon decides to go back to the apartment tonight with liquor on his lips.
So it's pocket aces in the dining room instead of beer pong in the foyer. So it's water instead of alcohol. So it's a bunch of tight assed Harvard Law students who think they know what a poker face looks like, instead of the gorgeous blonde playing darts in the opposite corner.
And then it's his phone, buzzing away in his pocket.
When he stands from the table, the protests are plentiful, and Gordon just rolls his eyes. There's already an ace on the table. No way anyone's got a better hand, so he flips his cards over and watches as everyone moans. They're all taking a drink by the time Gordon answers the call.
It's Virgil on the other end, but Gordon can't hear him until he steps into a bathroom. Jesus Christ, does anyone under the age of twenty-five know how to clean an apartment? “Y'know, when I said I was going out for the night, I didn't think I'd have a babysitter checking up on—”
“Gordon,” Virgil says. Gordon's heard his own name plenty of times, sometimes as a call, usually as a warning, but never has he heard it as a plea. That, more than anything else, is Gordon's first warning. “You were taking a first aid class this semester, right?”
There's a pause on both ends—or, well. As much of a pause as there can be. The muffled music on Gordon's end suddenly seems entirely too loud and there's definitely something happening on the opposite end of the line. He takes a moment to swallow the heart in his throat before he asks, “Why?”
“I think I need some—” Another pause as Virgil pulls away. Gordon can't quite make out what he's saying, but he hears John's name, over and over and over, before Virgil turns back, more urgent than before. “Gordon, get over here. Now.”
“What's going—?”
“Shit. Gordon. I'm not screwing around, here—I need you.”
It's not very often Virgil shows his hand, but when he does, it's because he's completely given up on it being of any use to him. There's no game in the older brother's voice—no bluff—so Gordon hangs up, takes a jacket that isn't his from a hook in the doorway, and slips away from the party that's better than John's.