Archive of Our Own

As the youngest, Alan was used to hand-me-downs.

It wasn’t as if their family couldn’t afford a shopping trip, but apparently Mom had insisted on making the most of what they already had to teach them the value of looking after their belongings and not taking certain luxuries for granted. After the funeral, Grandma adopted the same ideology, keeping the tradition alive so that Alan started most new semesters in sneakers pockmarked by rainbow fish stickers (Gordon), too-long jeans rolled up at the cuffs with stars inked on the beltloops (John) and an oversized Smokey Bear sweatshirt (Virgil) with a tatty navy backpack slung over his shoulder adorned by a Spitfire keyring (Scott).

Seriously, they’d practically set him up to be bullied – you couldn’t go to a super-duper fancy rich-kid school in clothes that had been through the wash more times than Alan could count. Actually, scratch that – he was great at counting. More times than Gordon could count – yeah, that sounded more like it. Anyway, that wasn’t the point. The point was that he didn’t like the hand-me-downs, so it took him a hot minute to realise their value – or, to be precise, the comfort they could provide.

But oh, how much comfort they brought once he figured it out. Because all at once the muted smell of aviation fuel and labdanum soap powder could transport him back through time to a cluttered kitchen filled with pancake-fuelled chaos and laughter. Suddenly, the holes worn by anxious thumbs through the cuffs of his purple sweater and the algebraic formulae scribbled on the insides of the sleeves in ink that refused to wash out – those details reminded him of John. The dumb neon yellow laces on his boots summoned a memory of sharing fries, perched on the hood of a beaten-up Chevy while sunset stained the sky salmon-pink after Gordon had finally passed his driving test and bought them both takeout to celebrate. The patchwork zip-up hoodie with a bar of Hershey’s cookies-n-cream tucked into the pocket proved how much his sister secretly cared, reminding him of one of Kayo’s rare hugs. The headphones he’d taken to wearing everywhere were freckled by acrylic paint; whenever he glimpsed those specks, it was as if Virgil was right there with him, even if just for a moment.

Did he still complain about the hand-me-downs? Absolutely. But if he secretly longed for them in the quiet, desolate hours when the sense of solitude grew too much to bear and all he wanted was to go home – but not necessarily to a place; rather to a point in time when everyone had been safe and happy and tucked under one roof in a house that always smelled of cinnamon cookies – he would tuck himself into the welcoming arms of his family’s clothes and pretend it was a hug from the people he missed rather than simple cotton blessed by their ghosts.

And in those moments – with his nose buried in the fabric; eyes screwed shut until the burning prickle behind them gave way to spots; hands twisted into claws on his knees ‘til the sting of his nails against his calves snapped him back to reality; trying to find any trace of home in the room around him and coming up empty handed save for the clothes on his back – it was slightly easier to imagine that one day, maybe, just maybe, they’d all be together again, and then Alan would no longer feel so cold.

It was raining again.

Alan couldn’t recall when he’d last seen the sun. The skies remained sullenly grey, groggy with thick cloud that refused to flee despite the biting wind that had driven southwards on the coattails of a cold snap that had frozen Grandma’s petunias into a mouldy, muddy clump. When he finally coaxed himself out of bed, his toes curled on the chilled floorboards; he hopscotched to the brief reprieve of the solar system rug between his bed and his dresser in search of fluffy socks.

None of his fluffy socks actually belonged to him; he'd curated his collection over years of careful theft from Virgil’s room. But he no longer needed to worry about being caught out as a Sock Goblin because Virgil was gone. He’d packed up his faithful green pickup truck and driven all the way to Denver, Colorado, and sure, Alan was proud of him or whatever, but that ember of warmth was far outdazzled by the blinding blaze of betrayal. It was just himself and Gordon now and it wasn’t as if Gordy was around much, too busy training for his Olympic dreams to bother with his kid brother.

The house buckled under the weight of silence; Alan couldn’t bear it. It grated on his bones, forcing its way into his joints until even the crack of his own knuckles was a welcome reprieve while he tiptoed around the house like a forgotten ghost. But at night, when the world settled under bedsheets and closed its eyes, he remained awake, staring at the ceiling until his brain made creatures out of whorls in the rafters and found constellations amid the white tac on the ceiling from the posters that had hung there when this room had been John’s. Downstairs, television would groan, interrupted by the chime of Dad’s cell, answering business calls beyond midnight. In the room below, Gordon’s hushed laughter accompanied old Vine compilations; he’d leave soon too and then Alan would be truly alone. Such was the fate of the youngest child – he’d always been destined to watch his siblings leave. It wouldn’t be so bad if his dad paid attention to him, but Jeff was Busy with a capital-B and Alan was too small to keep his focus for long.

Once upon a time, Scott used to drive Alan to kindergarten and patch his skinned knees with Spider-Man Band-Aids and pin his drawings to the fridge with alphabet magnets, but Scotty had left a long time ago now, only ever back from Yale on special occasions with his sights fixed solely on USAF fighter jets. At least that’s how it seemed to Alan, but then his big brother also mailed his favourite candy to him every month and never missed their Wednesday phone calls, so, you know, maybe life just got lonelier as you got older and Alan had to learn to not be so clingy. He’d tried to explain this to Virgil, who had fiercely disputed the claim, but then he’d shrugged on a Denver College sweatshirt and left the family home too, so Alan didn’t exactly believe his brothers’ promises anymore.

He wrapped his arms around his ribs as the winter chill that had frozen on windowpanes stole shivers from his skin. Gooseflesh prickled up his legs. The fluffy socks were too big on him, stretching as high as his knobbly knees only to slide down again with each step. He tiptoed out of his room and paused, head tilted like a puppy while he tuned his ears to the stillness in search of warmth.

Gordon’s music thrummed from the bathroom alongside steamy hisses of the shower, but Dad’s heavy footfall was missing and the air lacked the distinctive tang of fresh coffee, proof that he’d already left for work. Distantly, a radio presenter chirped about the third day of mass protests in Washington DC over the States’ lack of intervention into the civil war in Bereznik; the station soon switched to an ‘oldies but goldies’ frequency and Alan sensed that his grandmother’s mood had been sufficiently boosted by the music for him venture into the kitchen and ask for cereal rather than burned oatmeal.

It was still raining; the backyard had been alive with snails for the past week and the usual route to school had flooded. Alan’s dreams were filled with a soundtrack of pale drums as rain pounded on the roof in the waking world. He wandered through the kitchen to the sink to peer out of the window and discovered a juicy slug making its way up the pane. Its googly eyes seemed comical on their stalks. He watched raindrops glisten on its slimy skin. Virgil would have made a story out of that, he thought absently, then swatted the idea away as if it were nothing more than an unwanted fly. Loneliness twisted in his gut. Suddenly, he didn’t want to eat much of anything, not even the box of Lucky Charms that Dad had placed on the top shelf to keep out of Gordon’s greedy post-swim clutches.

Grandma’s arms draped around his shoulders as she tugged him into a backwards hug. Her breath tousled the hair on the crown of his head – those topmost blond strands refused to lie flat, always sticking up as if he were communicating with aliens – and he shivered. Her arms tightened. She pressed her cheek against his own as she bent down to see the world from his height.

“What’re we looking at, kid?” She raised an eyebrow, looking so much like John that Alan was struck by a sudden, terrifying desire to burst into tears. “Is this little guy a friend of yours?”

“He’s cool,” Alan mumbled, ducking his head.

Heat prickled up his neck and throbbed in the tips of his ears; he wasn’t sure why other kids laughed at him whenever he described weird bugs or pretty plants as his friends and so experienced a distinct sense of shame without any understanding as to what he was supposed to be ashamed of. There was something different about him that only his family liked, he thought, except now they rarely saw each other, so he was just alone and sad and ashamed to be himself but too young to understand the feeling.

Now, he rubbed his cold nose on his sleeve and continued in a small, uncertain voice that scraped in his throat, “I like his silly eyes.”

Grandma’s laughter huffed in his left ear. “So do I. He’s like a cartoon character, isn’t he?”

“Uh huh.” Alan twisted his thumbs in the hem of his shirt. “Can I have Lucky Charms?”

“What’s the magic word?”

His nose was dripping. He wiped it in the crook of his elbow.

“Please?”

Grandma’s gaze softened.

“Just don’t tell your brother; it can be our little secret.” She tore a piece of tissue off the roll on the countertop and handed it to him. “Blow your nose, Allie-gator. We don’t share germs, do we?”

The tissue rubbed his nose raw. He sniffed again. A foggy, heavy lump formed in his throat as his gaze landed on the photos stuck to the fridge, partially obscured by Grandma’s elbow as she scoured its contents for fresh milk. So many memories; blurry polaroids of summers long-gone; photobooth strips; smartphone snapshots printed onto glossy paper squares; proper, well-lit images taken on Mom’s camera that now bore Virgil’s fingerprints in the snow-capped peaks of Colorado. Alan wanted to go home, he realised in a rush, grinding his knuckles against his stinging eyes, but he was already home, so the longing didn’t make sense. At a loss, he slid onto a chair and stared into the depths of the stripey cereal bowl that Grandma placed in front of him alongside a spoon with a smiley face on its handle. He tried to copy its cheerful expression but the stretch of his forced smile pushed an ache into his cheeks that burned behind his eyes in the form of new tears. He took a bite of Lucky Charms. Swallowed. Sucked in a wet breath that snagged in his throat. Wished to go home. Kept eating.

The clang of his spoon against the sides of the bowl rang through the kitchen like the silvery song of windchimes on the front porch. If Alan closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that it was summer again, when he’d curled up on the rocking seat beneath those windchimes and listened to choruses of crickets while Virgil’s pencil worked steadily over the sketchbook tucked between the two of them. The house hadn’t seemed so lonely then; quieter, yes, because no place could be complete without Scott and John, who’d both had summer internships that kept them from returning to Kansas, but nowhere near as desolate as it seemed now. He scooped a soggy marshmallow out of the cereal slop and stared at it listlessly. It didn’t taste as good anymore; like everything, it had changed for the worse.

“Morning, Grandma!”

Gordon’s voice announced his arrival before his footsteps did. Everything about his presence was loud – both in volume and in visuals given his love of flamboyant patterns and tendency to wear neon crocs – but Alan would have followed him around like a lost puppy had his brother tolerated it. Instead, he kept his head down and chased the final grains of cereal around his bowl as Gordon swept into the kitchen wearing fluorescent green board shorts and a sunflower smile.

‘”Sup, Allie?” Gordon tousled his hair so forcefully that Alan bashed his elbow on the table in a last-ditch attempt to catch his balance. “What’s with the face? You look like a racoon shat in your cereal.”

“Language,” Grandma barked with a meaningful look that Alan was unable to translate but which had his brother sliding into the seat opposite with a distinctly kinder expression. “And I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve been feeding racoons on the porch again.”

Gordon propped his chin in his hands, widening his eyes.

“I would never do such a thing,” he declared, winking at Alan. “On a totally unrelated note, we might be out of the kibble that Virg used to feed stray cats with.”

Alan finally looked at him – looked at him properly, not just a brief glance up from his cereal but actual eye contact that revealed dark circles beneath Gordon’s lower lashes and how the chlorine-bleached tips of his hair curled around his ears. His brother lounged in his seat, effortlessly at home in his own skin. He always had been, never one to hunch his shoulders and try to make himself small unlike John, Virgil and Alan. But one vital detail caught Alan’s attention and held it taut; Gordon’s hands were engulfed by the too-long, tattered cuffs of a very familiar sweatshirt. Worn buttercup letters displayed Yellowstone in delicate cursive. A few faded stencils of brown bears, flowers and mountains perched above the words National Park

In Alan’s mind, the sweatshirt was synonymous with Virgil. It was one of his brother’s favourite items, remaining in regular rotation throughout all seasons. Be it a good day or a bad day, it had always been put on as soon as he got home from school. It had a permanent smell of cotton fabric softener, cinnamon and acrylic paint infused in its fibres and there were tiny holes worn into the cuffs from years of Virgil twisting his thumbs in the fabric. When Alan thought of his brother, the image that popped into his head was of Virgil in that same sweatshirt and paint-splashed jeans with watercolour freckles and a dripping brush held between his teeth as he surveyed a canvas.

Alan stared at Gordon, unable to blink, unable to breathe. Wrongness pulsed in his chest, slithering between his organs, slimy and scary as it dripped anger into his blood. His spoon clattered onto the floor. Foggily, as though underwater, Grandma’s voice echoed in a chastising remark.

Gordon leaned across the table and flicked Alan’s forehead.

“Yo, nerd. Where’d you go?” After several seconds of silence, his brow creased with concern. He shot an uncertain glance over his shoulder as if to seek out Grandma for backup. “Uh, Alan? You good?”

“That’s Virgil’s,” Alan choked out. His voice rasped, catching on the threat of tears that gathered in a thick lump. He clenched his fists. “You can’t wear it.”

Gordon blinked. “Um, okay? I mean, yeah, it’s Virg’s, but like…? What’s the big deal? He left it here.” Tension took root in his shoulders. He swallowed. Dropped his gaze. “I can wear it if I want.”

“No, you can’t.” Alan’s voice split open on the final word. His eyes burned. His wet cheeks felt cold in the winter chill that always permeated the kitchen. “It’s Virgil’s. You can’t wear it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not him!”

“Jesus, Alan, whatever. If Virg actually cared that much, he wouldn’t have left it behind.”

“He does care! He didn’t want to leave me behind!”

The usual awful silence returned. Gordon looked vaguely as if he’d been slapped; eyes wide, jaw slack, recoiled in his chair with his arms falling into place across his middle in a self-hug. Sadness flooded his eyes as realisation dawned on his face. When he opened his mouth, his voice was soft.

“Alan, that’s not…”

Alan scrambled from his chair. Its legs skittered over the tiled floor with a painful shriek, left adrift in the middle of the kitchen as he fled.

“Alan!” Grandma called, sounding so deeply distraught that it stung. “Sweetie, come back!”

His heart pounded in the base of his throat, leaping up into his mouth to flutter beneath his tongue where it stole every sob and squashed them into pitiful whimpers instead. He barrelled into bed, wriggling under the covers to curl up in a tight ball. His ribs ached and his face was sticky with snot and tears but still he stayed there, unmoving, longing for a hug from his big brother – one in particular; one who should have been wearing that sweatshirt; one who encouraged him when he tried to draw dragons and asked him about the worlds he’d made up for insects and birds in the garden.

Grandma tried to coax him out. After a while, she left him to calm down, sniffling into the damp crook of his elbow while the covers pressed down upon his skinny shoulders. He felt faintly sick, woozy with tears, longing to be held but scared to ask for it. Grandma was just downstairs; he could go to her and she would tuck him under her arm while she worked through her daily crossword. But he couldn’t bring himself to venture out from his blankets. It was safe in his sadness, even if lonely.

Eventually, he heard his bedroom door creak open again. Socked feet tiptoed uncertainly across the floor, hovering by his bedside. Gordon. A floorboard creaked as he rocked on his heels, probably twisting his shorts drawstrings around his thumb in his usual nervous habit. He coughed.

“Um, Alan?” A finger prodded the covers above Alan’s shoulder. “You, uh, you under there, buddy?”

Alan didn’t say anything. He held himself perfectly still. He couldn’t bear to see Gordon’s face in that moment – stupid Gordon with his dumb swimming and ability to just not care about most things, like people at school or his grades or the fact that their family kept getting smaller and smaller each year. Whatever. He’d leave soon too, off to chase glory and gold medals. What did Alan care about him?

“Okay,” Gordon sighed. “I’ll just… yeah. See you later.”

His footsteps paused beside the chest of drawers under the window on his way out. Alan lay very still and very quiet until he heard the distinctive thunder of his brother’s drumkit starting up in the music room – supposedly soundproofed but nowhere near as effective as the foam advertising had claimed. Curiosity itched at the back of his brain. He gingerly pulled the covers off his head and blinked to adjust his eyes in the lazy afternoon light. Most of the day had passed; he didn’t know how to feel about that. He also didn’t know how to feel about the green sweatshirt carefully folded and left on the drawers for him alongside a tall glass of apple juice and a Nutella sandwich cut into tiny triangles.

He drank the juice in sloppy gulps that dripped onto his chin, then ate the sandwich in small, swift bites as he watched more dark clouds gather above the trees at the end of the backyard. Light from the kitchen and living room spilled out onto the grass. A wet crow pecked at an empty snail shell on the path that led to the back gate. The rope swing hung listlessly. It all looked oh-so-very desolate, pulling at a place in his chest that him feel uneasy and alone. He bundled up Virgil’s old sweatshirt in his arms and pushed his face into the fabric. His lower lip wobbled. He slipped the sweatshirt over his head and let it fall into place around him like a blanket, hanging as low as his knees, exposing his collarbones to the gathering chill, so long on his arms that his hands were nowhere to be seen.

It swamped him. But it was warm and soft and it smelt like the home he’d used to have – the family he’d used to trust in. He stumbled over the edge of the rug as he retreated back to bed, catching himself with one sleeve when he tripped onto the mattress. Tucked into the corner, he drew his knees to his chest, hooked the sweatshirt over his nose and chin and hugged the excess fabric to his chest like a teddy bear. Muted cinnamon ached in his stuffy sinuses. When he glanced down, he spotted dried flecks of silver paint. His eyes burned– for what seemed like the hundredth time, yanking a pang of shame from his heart – but the sadness retreated slightly. If he focussed on the soft, velvety interior of the sweatshirt and its oh-so-familiar scent, then it was almost like Virgil was right there to hug him.

Something crinkled in the front pocket. He fumbled to roll his sleeves up so he could use his hands and pulled a piece of paper into the light. Torn from a notebook, its tatty corners were matched by Gordon’s spidery handwriting as if his thoughts had raced by too quickly for his pen to keep up.

You should keep this.

Then, in tiny writing below: I miss him too.

Curled into the arms of Virgil’s sweatshirt, Alan closed his eyes and finally, briefly, felt warm again.

The first sign that something was very wrong – not just a minor mishap but a red alert, brace for impact event – was when John came home. Alan had kept in touch with him – of course he had; this was his Johnny, the person who’d taught him the constellations, who’d made him hot chocolate with a dollop of cinnamon cream for added comfort and read to him after nightmares in an effortlessly calm voice until he fell back asleep.

But the thing was – John didn’t come home anymore. He appeared on Thanksgiving, Christmas and Grandma’s birthday, but anything short of a full-blown crisis couldn’t drag him away from NASA. So, when he lugged a suitcase into the house – proof that he was here for a while – and slipped into Dad’s office with a grim expression reminiscent of that time Virgil had landed himself in hospital with a ruptured appendix, Alan knew that the world had just flipped upside down but was unsure as to how.

His family were hiding something. That much was obvious. Alan might have been a kid – and a small kid at that, both in stature and in age – but he was smarter than his peers and could read Virgil’s old fantasy books from middle school – several grades above his actual level – without too much of a headache. He also happened to be perceptive, a trait that he shared with Gordon who had taught him how to utilise this skill. Emotions were as clear as music – sometimes faint, sometimes loud, ebbing and flowing throughout the house like electrical currents – and it wasn’t difficult to listen out for them. Alan had been able to tell his grandma’s mood without needing to ask for as long as he could remember, so despite her supposed good spirits, he was painfully aware of the grief that cloaked her.

Grief was a scary concept.

In theory, Alan and grief were well-acquainted.

In reality, he could only remember its shadow.

Mom, he’d once whispered into the mirror, just to taste the word, to feel how it weighed on his tongue and floated on the air. He’d tapped the freckles he’d inherited from her and wondered, Mom? But even that was a very long time ago. So, grief? Grief was an unknown entity; all he knew was to fear it.

Dad vanished; Alan didn’t see him for two weeks. He listened from the stairs, crouched outside the office door with his ears pricked. Grandma wandered around the house like a ghost, plastering a smile on her face whenever she spotted Alan only to let it fall as soon as she thought he wasn’t looking. She alternated between watching reruns of TV shows from her youth – staring with glassy eyes that didn’t actually process anything on screen – or staying as busy as possible, baking and burning goodies for her colleagues at the surgery or deciding to deep clean the washing machine in which she discovered an entire wad of hairbands stuck behind the filter leftover from Gordon’s mullet phase.

Meanwhile, John spent his time on his computer with a furrow between his ‘brows so deep that it rivalled the Grand Canyon. If he ate or slept, then Alan wasn’t aware. When his phone rang, he answered in sharp snaps, except for when Virgil called, which was frequently and always about whether he should fly home. No one spoke of Gordon or Scott – it didn’t take a genius to realise that whatever was wrong, one or both of them were involved. Just thinking about it made Alan’s chest tight.

He tried to eavesdrop outside of the office again. In fluffy socks and loose, oversized clothes, he barely made a sound as he slunk across the landing and tucked himself into the shadowy alcove beside the doorframe. From there, he could press his ear to the door whilst still keeping watch over the staircase from which someone might emerge and catch him red-handed. He slid into a crouch, then tucked his feet beneath him, criss-cross-apple-sauce style, shivering as the January chill bled through his PJ pants. He tucked his hands into the toasty warmth of his bent knees and strained his ears.

“Christ, Val,” Jeff was saying. His low tone sounded sandpapery. “I can’t… What use is money if it can’t keep my kids safe?”

Aunt Val, Alan guessed. He liked her, but she was a bit scary sometimes – only when she needed to be though. She also brought him silly pens and glow-in-the-dark puzzle sets and had chased him around the garden with a hose last summer. Plus, it was a well-known fact that Valerie Casey made the best spiced apple fudge in the world and she always let him lick the mixing spoon while she washed up.

“It’s been nearly two weeks.” Jeff took a moment. “Don’t. Don’t quote regs at me. You and I both know the statistics. MIA with no proof of-” His voice cracked. “That’s my little boy out there. He’s not supposed to be- I can’t do it again, Val. I can’t plan another funeral. There must be some way to...”

“Alan?”

Alan nearly smacked his head on the doorframe. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed John’s approach despite his brother being over six feet with a habit of walking into walls with not-so-insignificant thuds. John had his arms crossed – not sternly but defensively as if he were the one in trouble – and in the dappled light he looked more like a ghost than a man. He’d always been skinny, but now he seemed sharp. In Kindergarten, Alan had made a painting out of thumbprints; the dark circles under John’s eyes looked as if he’d dipped his fingers in bruised paint and smeared them beneath his lashes. His hair hung limp and lank across his forehead, drooping as deeply as his shoulders. He ran a hand down his face.

“Alan,” he repeated tiredly, “What’re you doing?”

“Um.” Alan took a cautious step away from the door. Inside, Dad’s voice rose and fell, not with volume but with barely restrained emotion. “I…” He hesitated. “Johnny, what does MIA mean?”

John’s face did a funny thing as if he’d bitten into a sour lemon whilst being slapped with a wet fish and also maybe being faced with a ghost at the same time. The vein in his temple leapt as he worked his jaw, opening and closing his mouth several times without saying anything. His fingers curled around his biceps, twisting in his navy sweater until his knuckles paled. He swallowed. Blinked a lot. Took three shallow breaths followed by a cough. His eyes were very shiny.

“Where, um…” He paused. Swallowed again. Cleared his throat. “Where did you hear that word?”

Alan tilted his head. “Is it a bad word?”

“No,” John replied slowly, “But it’s, uh, it’s a bit of a sad word.” He bit his lower lip with an unreadable glance at the door. “Hey, why don’t we make some hot chocolate?”

Still curious about whatever MIA meant but sensing it was best not to ask again so soon, Alan scampered from his listening outpost and tucked himself beneath John’s waiting arm. The temptation of hot chocolate was too great – especially Johnny’s hot chocolate with its whipped cream and chocolate shavings and a dash of mixed spice – and it also seemed like his best chance at finding some answers, such as what had happened to Scott and Gordon and why neither of them had rung.

In the kitchen, John dragged one of the nice chairs – Grandma’s antique oaks with their quilted seats that you could sink into – up to the counter and Alan hopped onto it to watch his brother work on their drinks. He tucked his bare feet up, wiggling his toes beneath his crossed calves in an attempt to reignite some feeling in them. The rich smell of sweet milk and honeyed chocolate filled the air as the saucepan sent up little wisps of steam that burst against the ceiling. When he licked his lips, he could already taste marshmallow foam and vanilla cream; everything instantly felt better.

John poured the drinks into their usual mugs – John’s Houston I have so many problems one with the orange handle and Alan’s alien one with a tiny spaceship glued to the interior that was revealed once it was empty, To Alan’s surprise, John didn’t lead them into the lounge or outside to sit on the porch swing seat, but instead carried the mugs upstairs, veering left to enter Scott’s room. Alan hesitated; as a general rule, he wasn’t allowed to enter his brothers’ rooms while they were away. But John gave him a soft smile and patted the bed, so Alan cautiously crept inside and slid onto the mattress too.

“Here.” John pressed the mug into his hands. “Careful, Allie, it’s hot.”

Alan licked whipped cream from the rim. “I’m okay.”

“Hmm.”

John placed his own mug onto the bedside table, balancing it on a neatly stacked pile of Aviation Today magazines. He stood up and went over to the desk that looked out over the backyard, watching the trees at the end of the garden toss their willowy heads in the breeze. Something about the set of his shoulders struck Alan as sad. He tucked his mug against his chest to let the rising steam warm his chin while John picked up the USAF hoodie that Scott had left on the back of his desk chair before he’d shipped out to Bereznik. No one had tried to tidy it away; Scott’s room was a little like a shrine in that moving anything felt as if it might erase the space he had once held in their home. After a silent minute or so, John turned back to Alan, still cradling Scott’s hoodie as if it were a wounded animal.

“How much did you hear?” he asked, sinking onto the bed beside Alan. He worried the hoodie between his hands, running his thumb over the embroidered S.C.T. “I know you eavesdropped.”

“Nuh uh.” Alan shook his head vigorously. “I wasn’t listening to Dad.”

“That’s funny,” John replied dryly, “Because I never mentioned Dad.”

Alan faltered; there was no point in trying to lie when he’d already been caught out.

“He said someone’s missing, And then he said the MIA thingy.”

“And that’s all you heard?”

“Uh huh.” He hooked his little finger around John’s and tugged. “See? Pinky promise.”

John ducked his head to hide a tiny smile. He smoothed Scott’s hoodie over his lap, staring at it with a lonely, haunted light in his eyes, then wrapped it around Alan so that its arms hung over his shoulders like a hug. It still smelled like Scotty – that distinct blend of woody aftershave and aviation fuel – and Alan instinctively sank into it. When he glanced up, John’s jaw was clenched and his lashes were wet.

“MIA,” John began carefully, “Stands for missing in action. It means that, um, someone doing a dangerous job has gotten… lost. Whilst doing that job. And, um… See, the thing is that, uh, we got a bit of bad news – as a family, I mean – and we’ve been trying to keep it a secret from you and from Gordon so you guys don’t get sad or worried, because really, we don’t even know that there is anything to worry about. It’s just… You know how Scott flies planes into dangerous places?”

Alan sucked in a thready gasp. “What’s happened to Scotty?”

“His plane is missing.” John caught Alan’s chin and raised it with two fingers before Alan could hide his tears. “But we don’t need to worry because he’s going to be alright. He just needs to find a phone so he can give us a call and let us know when he’ll be coming home, okay? You don’t need to be sad.”

Scott was like Super-Man or Captain America or someone. He was Alan’s biggest brother. He was clever and fast and strong and he never gave up on anything or anyone. He would come home. Not just because he had to, but because he could overcome anything, so Alan wasn’t too scared, not really.

Even so, he pulled the hoodie closer as he curled into John’s side. His brother’s arm settled around his shoulders, hugging him close. After a moment, Alan felt a feather-light kiss on the crown of his head.

“Johnny?” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” John’s voice sounded thick. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”

“I know he’s going to be okay.” Alan swallowed the lump in his throat. “But I still really miss him.”

Eleven months, five days, three hours and four minutes ago, Alan had lost his dad. Ten months, twenty-two days, ten hours and two minutes ago, Alan had watched his big brother climb into a red rocket and launch into Space to be dropped off on his satellite from which it seemed like he would never return. Since that day, Alan had only seen him via blue-tinted holos and hollow text messages.

The island had never really felt like an island until now. It was just… home. An escape from the terrors of boarding school that left him jumpy whenever anyone spoke too loudly or moved too swiftly; Gordon had pushed him into the pool on the first day of Spring Break and Alan had been grateful for the precious seconds he spent underwater as it gave him time to school his expression before resurfacing. But Whartons was long-gone now, a distance memory left to a troubled childhood; Grandma, after a brief discussion with Scott, had pulled him from the mainland for a life of home education. In many ways, he felt more connected with the outside world than when he’d been in dorms, but now, nearly a year on from his dad’s accident, he found the endless sea and sky lonely.

They’d entered a tentative new normal in which they ran rescues, attended their jobs and educations, lived around one another rather than with each other, and tried their best to avoid any reference to their father’s absence. Since the memorial service, it was as if his name had become a curse – speak it and witness someone fall apart. The wound was too raw, too violent, too devastating to bear talking about. For John, it seemed too much to even exist on the same planet where Dad had once lived, as though the grief was already so heavy that adding gravity would render it fatal.

The first few months after tragedy were always foggy in Alan’s head. He’d been too young to retain any memories of Mom’s accident, but even Scott’s time as MIA, Virgil’s near-deadly car crash in college and Tanusha’s grief after her own mother’s funeral were all cloudy. He couldn’t remember most details if any. It was as if his brain erased them to protect him from the sadness that had rooted itself in his bones a very, very long time ago – sometimes he wondered if he’d been born with it – and occasionally flared up out of nowhere; Grandma had once suggested to him that there were people whose deaths went unnoticed, so that grief was passed on to kind souls who would mourn even a stranger, and that it was a dreadful but beautiful burden to bear and that she was very proud of him.

This time was different though.

This time, he could barely remember any of the past year. It was a struggle to recall even what he’d done last week. Scott and Grandma had enrolled him with a childhood grief counsellor; every Thursday, Scott flew him to the mainland to Dr. Shelly’s cosy little office where he would play with Lego for an hour whilst occasionally answering questions. She liked it when he drew, but his pictures often looked as sad as he felt, so he didn’t want to make art anymore – unlike Virgil who could be found in his studio whenever he wasn’t on a rescue.

This mental cloud made it difficult to remember even really important thing. Alan was absolutely terrified of forgetting Dad but the worst part was that he was already losing details about John, like how his hugs felt or the smell of his shampoo or the exact shade of blue of his real irises.

Today, Alan had woken up hopeful. Because today wasn’t just any old day – it was his birthday and he might not have reached double figures yet but it was still a big deal to be an entire year older! He didn’t even consider the possibility that John wouldn’t come down, because Johnny knew how much Alan looked forward to the birthday cakes he made – and really, John was a birthday cake champion, ‘cause he’d inherited Mom’s knack for cooking and knew all of her secret tips and tricks such as putting extra vanilla in the filling and how to get air bubbles out of the batter.

But also… Alan missed him. He really, really missed him. He missed him so much that sometimes it felt as if a physical part of him had been carved out – perhaps a less important organ or a rib or two – and all he could do was lie in bed and wait for the painful longing to subside into a background ache.

And John knew. He had to know, because Alan always texted him miss you and told him as much on their calls and he’d overheard Grandma, Scott, Virgil and even Tanusha say it to John when they tried to convince him to come down from orbit. Gordon had given up trying a long time ago, choosing to visit John in person instead – Alan wasn’t allowed because Space was too dangerous and apparently he had to be careful for a while because of something to do with custody or whatever and looking good for some very official people – but he always made Alan draw something beforehand to take up with him, so maybe he was using Alan to guilt-trip Johnny too. It all just seemed… pointless.

But not today. Today, Alan was sure – he was going to see his brother again.

Except when he woke up, there wasn’t any immediate sign of John. The house didn’t smell of freshly baked birthday cake. There was no star added to the glowing collection on his ceiling to mark how many years old he was like John had been doing on every birthday that Alan could remember. For a minute, he sat in bed, hunched against the headboard with his blankets drooped around his shoulders, feeling very lost and very sad and not at all birthday-like. He knew John wasn’t home – could just sense his absence like a change in temperature – but told himself that maybe there’d been a rescue and John was super busy but would return from Five as soon as he could, so Alan just had to be patient.

Admittedly, the birthday celebrations were subdued, but his family tried their best.

Virgil had painted a birthday banner that hung across the kitchen and Tanusha had filled transparent helium balloons with neon glitter. Gordon cooked a batch of rainbow sprinkle pancakes. Brains had stacked the gifts in a perfectly balanced rocket shape. Scott made extra special hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows and chunks of brownie and Grandma just smiled, saying her rule about no sugar before midday didn’t count on birthdays.

They stuffed themselves full of food, then settled in to watch a movie while they waited for the forecasted sun to displace dreary rain. Tucked under fluffy blankets in the conversation pit while John joined via holo, everyone watched as Alan opened his cards and gifts and hugged each person in turn, only then he came to John and was overcome by angry tears. He stared at John, unable to find his voice, because why wasn’t John here?

“Alan?” John’s smile dimmed. His eyes were green – bright, alien green – and Alan didn’t recognise him anymore. This wasn’t his big brother. This was a man lost in so much grief that it had made him into a stranger. “What’s wrong? Do you…. Do you not like your gift?”

Alan didn’t say anything. He just dropped John’s present on the table and fled as fast as he could run without slipping head-over-heels on the polished floorboards. A chorus of concerned voices followed him, but no one actually got up and chased; they knew him too well for that. He let his feet carry him without conscious thought, vision too blurred by tears to see where he was actually going. When he finally looked up, he was stood in front of John’s bedroom door. He wiped his wet nose with his sleeve, took a shaky breath, then pushed his way inside.

John’s room seemed holy these days. Dad’s old bedroom was strictly off-limits, more like a tomb than a sanctuary, but John’s had been perfectly upkept by cleaning bots and Grandma as if they expected his return any day. The result was an uncanny sense of being stuck in time; while the rest of the world had kept living, John’s room held the memory of the memorial service as if it had never ended. Alan found it both spooky and comforting, because it felt haunted but it also felt like a place in which the version of John he knew and missed might still exist.

He sat on the fluffy blue rug in the centre of the room and craned his neck to glimpse the stars painted on the ceiling in perfect replicas of the constellations beyond. The sparkly birthday badge pinned to his t-shirt seemed heavy, dragging his shoulders down and his spirit along with it. He unhooked it from his shirt and let it drop onto the floor. Rain tip-tip-tapped against the balcony doors like tears.

Bitterness tasted sharp on his tongue, acidic like freshly squeezed lemon juice. But it was only surface level – true emotions burned deep in his throat, coating each breath with betrayed sadness. He’d been so certain that John would be there and the worst part was that there wasn’t any rescue to keep him from visiting, so the only conclusion was that he simply didn’t want to see Alan or didn’t care enough to make the effort. Maybe Alan was the problem; maybe that was why the people around him kept leaving. Not that dying was intentionally leaving, but hey. The principle was the same – he still ended up being left behind. He just couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. He’d always been John’s little shadow, soaking up his every word and trying to impress him with facts and rocket drawings. But now, John was disinterested. Even video calls seemed forced; his laughs weren’t real.

It hurt, like a calculated punch to his tummy. He was angry and sad but mostly just filled with a full-body ache of longing, because he missed John and he missed Dad and maybe a part of him had always missed the mother he’d never known too. He missed Waffle Wednesdays when Scott and Virgil would team up to cook breakfast while Grandma and Dad squeezed fresh oranges into flamingo-patterned jugs and Tanusha and Gordon diced fresh fruit for toppings and Alan helped Johnny to set the table.

Alan just…

He just wanted to go home.

But there was no rewinding time.

He staggered upright, drawing a sticky breath through his clogged nose. John’s journals were stacked neatly on the desk and he ran his thumb across their covers. The closet door was slightly ajar; he caught it with his fingertips and eased it open to be met with a flood of familiar scents. The metallic, gunpowder smell of Space had unnerved him at first but over the years he’d become used to the way it clung to his brother. Now, its mere association with John made it welcome. With a sneaky glance over his shoulder as if he were stealing, Alan tugged a cashmere sweater – gifted to Johnny by Penny during their Oxford days – off its hangar and wriggled into it. It hung off him like an ill-fitted dress, but when he held the floppy sleeves to his nose, it carried him back to golden days long ago.

Around five minutes later, when Scott knocked on the door, Alan had crawled onto the bed and curled around John’s childhood teddy, a mouse in a little starry purple sweater, lovingly named Apollo. He traced the seam on the mouse’s head where the fur had worn away from years of kisses, keeping his back to Scott even as he sank onto the edge of the mattress and gripped Alan’s ankle.

Scott’s weary sigh sounded defeated. “Talk to me, bud.”

Alan blinked wetness from his lashes.

“How’d you know where I was?” he asked in a tiny, brittle voice.

“Not that hard to guess.” Scott shifted to sit fully on the bed, propped against the headboard with his legs stretched out across the blankets. “I’m sorry, Allie-gator. We all wanted today to be fun for you, but I guess…” He ran a hand down his face. “Today was never going to be perfect without Dad.”

Alan rolled over to face him. “I really miss him, Scotty.”

“I know.” Scott paused to steady his voice. “So do I.”

“I miss John too.”

“I know you do. We all do. And I know that John misses you just as much if not more.”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“Alan…”

“Dad can’t be here, but John just doesn’t want to be and it’s not fair!”

Alan’s voice splintered – split open and bled into his glistening eyes just as his heart had done for the long months when he couldn’t comprehend that he would never see his dad again. He pressed his face against Scott’s hip to hide his dripping lashes. Tears trickled down his face, gluing stray blond strands to his cheeks. He choked down a strangled breath, trying desperately to bite back the lonely whimper trapped within his ribcage, but it was no use because he was only small and oh-so-sad and it was his birthday but he couldn’t stop crying and Scott knew him too well to let him lie about things like grief.

“Allie,” Scott whispered, carding his hand through tangled blond hair. He tugged Alan into his lap, cradling him against his chest as if Alan were all of four years old again. “John loves you. That’s the important part. I know everything hurts right now, but that’s something you can always believe in.”

Alan tucked his face into the crook of Scott’s shoulder. His brother’s pulse pounded against his palms, flattened above Scott’s heart – strong and steady and another thing to believe in. He smelt faintly of sugar, chlorine and birthday candle smoke. His hands were calloused but gentle, broad enough to cover Alan’s entire back. He was sad too – it clung to him like a shadow; Alan could see it in his eyes whenever his big brother thought no one was looking at him – but he was here and he was trying and Alan loved him so much that it scared him. He’d never learnt how to love in half-measures – only ever plunging in whole-heartedly – and sometimes he wondered whether it would be safer to never care for anyone again given his track record of losing loved ones. But Scotty? It was safe to love him.

“I brought John’s gift with me,” Scott ventured. “I’m not sure you got to have a proper look at it.”

At first glance – back in the conversation pit, surrounded by wrapping paper and heartbreak – Alan had glimpsed a NASA hoodie. Now, wiping crusted tears from the corners of his eyes and nose, he recognised the hoodie to be far more meaningful than a standard piece of gift shop clothing. The details were all very familiar; faded ink stain on the left sleeve; the smell of coffee and pencil shavings; bedraggled drawstrings that had been chewed in many times of stress; thumbholes worn through the cuffs; tiny silver stars embroidered on the front pocket in Grandma’s careful stitching.

This was John’s favourite hoodie. It was one of his most-treasured possessions full stop, actually. He never let anyone borrow it with the exception of Tanusha, just once, the day her mom died. It was an heirloom from his first week at NASA, young and skittish and eager to prove himself. He called it his good luck charm. He wore it whenever he was sad or stressed or just wanted to feel safe for a while.

“Am I really allowed to have this?” Alan asked breathlessly.

Scott nodded. “John gifted it to you. He wants you to have it.”

“But he loves this thing.”

“He does.”

“Then why…?”

“Because he loves you more.”

Alan was no stranger to anxiety. He was particularly well-acquainted with worrying about his siblings given their jobs involved putting their lives on the line on a daily if not hourly basis. But you never got used to fear like that, especially not when you’d already known people who hadn’t come home; knowing how capable his sister was did not make him feel any better when she was on a solo rescue.

Now that he was in training for International Rescue – reluctantly permitted by Grandma and Scott who had conceded that if Alan was going to sneak into the Thunderbirds anyway, he might as well know how to properly operate them so he couldn’t get himself into danger or damage anything – he was allowed to access the hangars provided that someone else was in there. The maintenance logs revealed that Virgil was due to overhaul TB2’s VTOLs while Brains upgraded the nav system to connect with Five’s updated unit. In other words, two people meant Alan was definitely allowed entry.

Mostly, he just wanted to hang out. Scott was elbow-deep in meetings and had only emerged from the Roundhouse office briefly to refill his coffee and grab a croissant from the bag Penny had sent them as a souvenir from her charity gala in Paris. John was focussed on the rescue that Kayo had been sent on and also happened to, you know, not even be on the planet. Grandma had flown to the mainland to meet with some of her friends. School was over for the summer. Alan was bored and lonely and had decided that he was tired even of video games and YouTube binges, so here he was seeking company.

The hangars had always held an air of mystery that had been enticing to him ever since International Rescue had first launched. That novelty had not yet worn off and, as he stood on the viewing platform overlooking Two’s green bulk, he doubted it ever would. Everything about the place called to him; the smell of aviation fuel; the artificial sunshine that reflected off rivets in Two’s hull; the blue glow bouncing off the walls from holograms that floated together like jellyfish adrift in an ocean current.

Brains and Virgil were discussing an incredibly complicated blueprint displayed above the projector on the workbench. The radio at their feet spat out overseas political gossip before returning to its usual setlist of classical pieces intermixed with a few indie anthems which had MAX attempting to dance, spinning around Brains’ feet like an agitated cat whilst clutching a spanner as a microphone. As soon as Alan reached the last step, the little robot spotted him and dropped the spanner in his excitement to rush over. Brains startled at the clatter, nearly sloshing piping hot coffee over his overalls; Virgil reflexively shot out a hand to steady the mug.

“Hey, Al,” he called, pushing the cup back into Brains’ hands. “I thought you were going for a swim?”

Alan gave MAX’s hull a final pat. “That was this morning.”

“Bored, huh?” Virgil’s knowing look softened into a fond smile as he exchanged a glance with Brains, tilting his head slightly in question towards Two. At Brains’ nod, he asked, “Want to lend us a hand?”

Anything beat another hour of listlessly wandering between rooms, unable to focus on any of the hobbies that usually interested him while the near-constant worry burned a hole in his stomach.

“Sure,” Alan said brightly.

“Great!” Virgil sounded suspiciously relieved. “You can clear out the lockers in case Gordon and Kayo have left anything edible in there again. Last time I practically had to fumigate the cockpit.”

Mercifully, the lockers were food-free. The worst things Alan uncovered were Gordon’s old socks and Kayo’s empty packet of Cheetos that had left red dust on the aforementioned socks so that they looked as if they’d been used to mop up in the aftermath of a murder. He dumped them both in the trash, then flopped in the pilot’s seat, making the most of his opportunity to prop his feet on the steering column whilst Virgil wasn’t around to tell him off for it. When he closed his eyes, he could hear faint clamour from the engines and light-hearted shouts from Virgil as he asked Brains to change the radio back to the classics station.

Unease coiled at the base of his throat. He massaged it away, tossing an arm across his face with a weary sigh that echoed around the cockpit. The Thunderbird seemed odd without her engines running or anyone else on board as if her heart had stopped; he found it vaguely unsettling. He kicked his work boots – a requirement for entering the hangar – onto the floor, then placed his feet on the dash again. His purple socks were a shock of colour against the controls; he wiggled his toes to activate the motion sensor beside the holoprojector, swiping through the display ‘til he located the live rescues map. Again, he reminded himself there was no reason to worry. Again, he didn’t feel better.

As Thunderbird One’s backup pilot, Kayo had stepped in when Scott’s weekly flight hours had maxed out – much to his chagrin. She’d answered the SOS call from a group of rookie climbers who’d gotten in over their heads in the Alps; it would have been a simple grab-n-drop kinda mission if it weren’t for the storm that rolled in. With crosswinds too turbulent for One to perform a safe retrieval, Kayo had ditched the aircraft on a suitably secure perch and grappled down to wait out the winds in a nice toasty IR-issued tent while the climbers huddled around her like bedraggled penguins, scarfing down the food and water she’d brought them and greedily snatching at shock blankets. Kayo had radioed in every half-hour on the dot as per regs, but Alan still felt sick to his stomach at the idea of her trapped in the mountains. Maybe that was the problem – mountains. Those rescues never sat well with his family and while he didn’t remember his mom’s accident, his siblings’ fear had rubbed off on him.

Thunderbird One’s icon was still on the same ridge as she had been sat for the past five hours. Kayo’s symbol marked her as alive and well in the tent while Thunderbird Five’s icon proved she was on the comm to John. Alan briefly listened in, but there was no information to be gained, just Kayo secretly complaining in Malay about the climbers so they wouldn’t understand her sarcastic commentary while John openly laughed and tried to cover it up with a stern cough to recover his professionalism.

After a couple of minutes, Alan switched off the radio, toed his boots back on, and moved to scoop up the bag of trash he’d collected. His elbow brushed the black-and-purple patchwork hoodie that Kayo had left hooked over the co-pilot’s seat in her rush to beat Gordon upstairs after yesterday’s rescue. He hesitated, then shrugged it on, struck by a surge of prickly self-consciousness that he couldn’t shake.

Virgil’s gaze flickered over him as he lugged the trash bag down Two’s ramp. He dropped the bag at his brother’s feet and straightened up, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he crossed his arms. It should probably have bothered him that his sister was not only taller than him but also more muscular.

“Is that Kayo’s?”

“So what?”

“Nothing.” Virgil swung the trash bag over his shoulder and headed towards the chute on the far side of the hangar; Alan trailed after him. “You know it’s okay to admit you’re worried about her, right?”

“I’m not,” Alan snapped, then let his shoulders slump. “It’s just… it’s whatever, y’know?” He rubbed his hands against his worn jeans, picking at threads. “I know she’s capable, so it’s dumb to worry.”

The trash clattered down the chute. Virgil stuck his hands under the automatic sanitizer dispenser, then turned to face Alan with an oddly sad light in his eyes that offset his knowing smile.

“Knowing someone is capable is how we trust them enough to let them go in the first place.” He raked a hand through his hair, leaving damp streaks of sanitizer that glittered in the light. “Worrying is always the trickier part. You never fully shake it no matter how many times they prove themself because there’s never a guarantee.” He tore his gaze away from One’s empty stand. “But she’ll come home – of course she will. All I’m trying to tell you is that it’s understandable to be worried, Allie.”

Alan ducked his head to stare at the raven-hued oil marks on his boots.

“I guess,” he mumbled.

“And you’ve got her hoodie to make you feel better.” Virgil’s voice turned teasing as he reached out to flip the hood over Alan’s head. “C’mon, sprout. I need you to hold a flashlight for me.”

Alan stayed still for a moment. The hood slipped partially over his eyes and the darkness felt warm and inviting, like a door through time to a movie night. An undeniable wave of fondness washed over him as he caught a whiff of Kayo’s usual perfume. He took a breath, held it, then let it go in a rush.

“Alan,” Virgil called over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” he shouted back, jogging to catch up. “Right behind you!”

His brother was dying.

As Alan slid down an expressionless white wall, the thought pounded against the insides of his skull on repeat like a drumbeat. Panic scorched his fingertips; sparked under his skin; surged up his throat to pool as bitter saliva under his tongue until he folded over his knees to dry heave into his own lap. The day’s events played on loop in his brain and on every news channel as the GDF’s mandatory Chaos Crew alert drew the world’s attention to the yellow wreckage that had begun washing up; when Alan crushed his knuckles against his eyes, Gordon’s broken body floated in the darkness, stained onto his retinas like the ghost of every other near-miss that would never leave their family well alone.

Gordon was dying.

The only thing worse than his family trying to protect him from the truth, Alan thought, was when the situation was so dire that they couldn’t even try to find a kinder lie. And when Gordon was in an induced coma with more bones broken than not, most of his organs bruised and battered, and an indeterminable stay in the ICU in his foreseeable future, there wasn’t really any way to sugarcoat it.

Sometimes, Alan wished their dad had never founded International Rescue.

Other times – when he held lives in his hands; when a heartbeat fluttered under his fingertips; when he saw the fresh hope in wide, fearful eyes – he hated himself for ever entertaining such a thought.

Antiseptic snapped like a rubber band at the back of his throat. The burn spread through his sinuses, itching in his bloodstream; hospitals always made his skin crawl. Through the thunder rushing in his ears, he could hear the turmoil of bleating machinery and fast-paced, urgent voices. When he pressed his thumbs into the sides of his knees, bruises formed under his grip – proof that this wasn’t just a nightmare but sharp, bitter reality. He gulped down a lungful of stale air, held it until his ribs ached, then let it rush out over his knuckles; the sound was wet and sticky like the tears on his face. Terror clawed at his bones, writhing and thrashing in its desperation to consume him entirely. He clenched his jaw. Inhaled. Held it. Exhaled. Fixed his gaze on the purple soles of his brand-new sneakers. They had little starfish on the heel – Gordon had helped him pick them last time they visited the mainland. Alan had been indecisive; Gordon had said it was a blend of space and the sea and could only be fate.

Time always twisted itself into knots after tragedy. God knew Alan had been through enough disasters to know that much. It stretched, then bunched together, then looped until days bled into hours into seconds into weeks. Nothing could be trusted, not medical promises or prayers or even one’s own stubborn denial. So, hunched in a little shaking heap on the floor, Alan couldn’t tell how long it had been since he’d fled the waiting room. All he knew was that he wanted to see Gordon, but that he was also absolutely petrified of seeing Gordon, and that he really, really wanted to go home and hide.

He's going to be okay, his heart assured him with every fierce pulse in his throat.

He’s going to die, his anxiety hissed as it coiled around his windpipe.

He’s Gordon frickin’ Tracy, his mind declared, loud enough to temporarily drown out the other two voices. He’s hurt real’ bad, but he’s gonna be fine because the odds don’t apply to him and never have.

“Alan.”

Kayo’s voice sliced through his thoughts. They scattered, then fled into the foggy recesses of his overtired brain. He stretched his legs as sensations trickled back to him. His knees ached with fresh bruises. His mouth tasted dry and acidic from the energy drink he’d downed hours ago. Grease stuck his bangs to his forehead. His lashes were crusted with dried tears. A headache snarled at his temples, shoving against the backs of his eyes and sinking its claws into his neck. When Kayo pressed a bottle of water into his hands – still cold from a vending machine – he cracked its cap and drank greedily.

“Any…?” His voice cracked. He wiped stray water droplets from his chin, swallowed, then tried again. Emotion made his throat tight, strangling his voice into a pitiful creature. “Any news?”

“Nothing yet.” Kayo sat on the floor beside him and neatly folded her legs to let a harried nurse bustle past. She tipped her head back against the wall. “But that’s a good thing given he’s still in surgery.”

Alan dug his thumbnail under the edge of the label on the bottle and tugged at it. Plastic crinkled into brutal creases; he thought about mountain ridges as seen from Three’s cockpit and something in his stomach clenched. He tilted his head slightly to catch a secretive glimpse of Kayo. On any other day, she’d have called him out on it – she was too damn good at her job to not notice his eyes on her – but today she was wrung out both emotionally and physically and it was evident in the way her mask was down. Her hair swung loosely around her face, untamed from its usual tail. Her shoulders slumped. There was a spot of blood on her lip where she’d been chewing it. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot.

“Sorry,” Alan whispered.

Kayo let out a quiet sigh. “Don’t be. I didn’t want to be in that waiting area anymore either.”

“Hospitals.”

She licked the blood from her lip. “Yeah. Hospitals.”

Alan took another sip of water. Shivers burst across his shoulders and travelled down his spine. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. Restlessness seethed under his skin. He partly wanted to go for a run and partly wanted to bang on the doors of the operating theatre until someone answered. The bottle crunched under his ghost-knuckled fingers. He took a longer gulp and focussed on the chill as it slipped down his throat to settle in his stomach. His body hurt. Anticipatory grief ached in his bones.

“Alan,” Kayo said in a soft, coaxing sort of tone that implied she’d called his name more than once. She’d pushed herself back to her feet and the light behind her head gave her a halo. Alan kinda wanted to laugh but also wanted to cry; Gordon would’ve made a great joke about that one. “Hey.”

He ground his knuckles against his eyes. “Sorry, yeah. I mean, what?”

“I said,” Kayo repeated in that same unnervingly gentle voice, “I’m taking you home.”

Alarm slashed through his chest. He wanted to go home, sure, but he wanted to be close to Gordon more. He scrambled up and braced himself against the wall as his vision spun. Kayo steadied him.

“What ‘bout Gordon?” He stifled a whimper. “I can’t- can’t just leave. What if something happens?”

“He’s going to be in surgery until the morning,” Kayo pointed out in a remarkably steady voice given the uncharacteristic sheen in her eyes. “We won’t know anything until then. Right now, the best thing you can do for him is to come with me, John and Virgil. Grandma, Scott, Penny and Parker will be here. If there’s even the slightest change, they’ll call us immediately. We’re taking One, so we can be back in under fifteen minutes." Her composure wobbled. “Trust me, Allie, I know how you feel. But we won’t be any help here. All we’ll do is give Grandma and Scott more people to worry about.”

Alan stared at her. She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. His chest ached as fiercely as when he’d fallen from a rock-climbing range and knocked all of the air from his lungs.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Kayo sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Kayo?”

“Mm?”

He stumbled into her, flinging his arms around her middle as he tucked his face into the crook of her shoulder. Her hair tickled his cheek, but he only tightened his grip, curling his fingers in her shirt until she hugged him back. After a moment, she relaxed, holding back just as fiercely. Then, she shoved him away and roughly tousled his hair. When he brushed it out of his eyes, he glimpsed a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth; he followed without protest when she walked away.

The flight home was silent. Time blurred again. Alan was aware of Virgil’s and Kayo’s hushed voices at points – and it was difficult not to notice John’s trembling shoulders when his brother was sat in front of him – but he registered these details as if from afar. When they landed, he took himself off to the bathroom and ran the shower without stepping into it until the room filled with steam and he no longer had to worry about spying his reflection. He stripped off his clothes as if they were shackles, bundling them into the hamper like they’d scorched him. Under the showerhead, he propped himself against the tiles and let the water pound on his head until he couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore.

When he emerged from the bathroom, all he could smell was coconut bodywash rather than antiseptic. His PJs were soft and warm from a heated rail and cradled the scent of soap powder. Too exhausted to even contemplate talking to anyone, he made a beeline for his room where he found some buttered toast and a mug of sweetened cinnamon milk with a spoonful of Nutella swirled in. Mentally reminding himself to thank Virgil in the morning, he cocooned himself in his blankets and ate the toast in swift bites, forcing himself to get it down before his grief-induced nausea could return. The drink was easier; he let it warm his palms and the underside of his chin while he took slow sips.

Despite his anxiety, sleep came easily. It was long, deep and dreamless. When he woke, his jaw was tight and his knuckles ached with residual tension. It was early – nearly too early to be considered morning – and he already knew without needing to check that they wouldn’t have received any update from the mainland yet. In the dull grey light of pre-dawn, he located some fluffy socks and let his feet carry him along the corridor. In the back of his mind, he entertained the thought that he might hide in Three’s cockpit for a while, but instead he found himself in the doorway to Gordon’s bedroom.

John’s room sometimes felt a bit like a shrine; you could tell that it was rarely used. But Gordon’s room seemed to brim with life. There were hallmarks of his personality everywhere from the save the whales poster that had lived in every bedroom he’d ever had to the ukelele perched on the windowsill. There was a fluffy orange rug on the floor in the shape of an octopus. Battered yellow Converse with embroidered dolphins swung loosely from where they were hooked over the door handle. Three large aquariums spread marble patterns over the floor as sunlight began to shine through them. Alan gave each tank a pinch of food, then dipped his fingertips in the final tank for a few moments to let the Endler guppies say hello. While the fish ate, he sat on the octopus rug and watched through blurry vision as they span dazzling spirals around one another.

Grief crept up on him slowly. It was a dull bruise between the lower vertebrae of his spine; it was a muscle cramp in his stomach; it was a laceration across his ribs; it was a gaping wound above his heart and he was bleeding out, leaking tears and memories all over his brother’s beloved octopus rug.

Gordon went through clothes quicker than anyone else, primarily because he was the biggest chaos gremlin out of all of them but also because he had a habit of forgetting things and therefore had donated many items to lost property boxes over the years. But his favourite hoodie – the aqua blue one with a sunny coral reef design embroidered on the back – had survived. From his position slumped on the rug, Alan could spy that hoodie, tossed over the end of the bed with one sleeve trailing off the edge. He snagged it in a shaking hand and hauled it close until he could crawl into it and yank the hood over his head as if it would shut out all of the world’s harsh realities ‘til his brother was safe.

For some reason, it made him cry harder. Humiliating, guttural sobs that sounded as if they’d been ripped straight out of his chest through bone and blood and skin. He curled in on himself, tipping onto his side to let his tears drain into the rug, matting the octopus’ fur. Gordon’s hoodie was unbearably soft on the inside. There was a faint pasta stain on the sleeve. It smelled of chlorine and lychee and orchid cologne with a hint of aviation fuel in the mix. The hem was slightly stiff with salt crystals. Alan gripped the loose fabric in his fists and let out a silent scream into the floorboards because none of this was fair. Just yesterday, he’d sat beside Gordon while his brother wore this exact hoodie. They’d shared pizza pockets and played video games together. Gordon had teased him about his celebrity crush on a YouTuber. He’d returned the favour by poking fun at his brother and Penelope.

Now? Devastation.

In the aftermath of an earthquake, everything looked flat. Just like some greater force had taken their thumb and smudged a place off the map. In many ways, this felt the same. Like his sense of reality and his feelings had just been smeared into an unrecognisable sea of rubble. He didn’t know what to think or say or do. He pushed his face into the neckline of the hoodie and let his grief escape in thin, strung-out keens until eventually familiar hands settled on his back and eased him into open arms.

“I know, Allie,” Kayo murmured into his hair.  “I know.”

If ever asked what his favourite moments were, Alan would always default to the same answer: being in Thunderbird Three at that moment when she broke through the atmosphere and he got to see the curvature of the Earth. Seeing all the stars laid out in front of him like a endless map of possibilities. How could anything compare to such wonder? It was an obvious answer. It was also a complete lie.

In reality, his favourite moments were far simpler – movie nights in the den with boxes of takeout, bowls of overly buttered popcorn and mugs of hot chocolate while the room was lit only by the strings of lights wrapped around the curtain rods and the flickering glow of the TV screen.

In those moments, he was safe. He was surrounded by all of the people he loved and they were safe too. The world was quiet. The TV was loud. The lights were soft. So were the blankets spread around the room. He could close his eyes and just let himself float. There’d be a hand on his ankles and in his hair. Gordon would laugh. Kayo would toss popcorn at him and tell him to shut up. Grandma would hush them both. Little rituals, you see?

Alan had these nights memorised right down to the tiniest detail like how Virgil wore his really fluffy socks with the cat ears on them and how Johnn drizzled chocolate on his popcorn. Details such as Scott’s secretive dash of whiskey in his hot chocolate and Penelope’s knack for stealing extra portions of fries from the takeout boxes without anyone noticing. Details such as Parker’s good-natured chuckle whenever MAX accidentally bumped into his calves or how Brains slowly relaxed onto the couch until Virgil could throw an arm around his shoulders and hug him fully.

Today’s movie night was no different.

That was the beauty of it.

It was reliable.

Stable.

Alan wasn’t used to either of those things. Movie nights were his constant. He treasured them more than anyone else. Sometimes, he suspected his family knew that and wondered if that was why they insisted on holding them at least once a month if not twice. Either way, he loved them for it.

In a weird way, it felt like coming home. Which made zero sense, because, like, he already was home. With the exception of an early morning rescue – a simple grab-n-drop mission in Two with Virgil in which they collected two trapped hikers and transported them to a nearby hospital – he’d been home all day. But there was something about settling into his usual spot on the couch – so familiar to him that even its creases instantly melted against his spine – that soothed his soul, like something settling into place. And, as he helped John keep an eye on the exploding popcorn kernels within a suspiciously smoking saucepan that they’d ushered Grandma away from, he knew today would be no different.

“What’s up, bitches?” Gordon hollered, bursting through the door that led down to the hangars. “I come bearing sustenance.” His grin looked slightly feral as he lofted a concerning number of pizza boxes above his head and swaggered over to the kitchen island. “I take thanks in the form of cash.”

Behind him, carrying boxes of doughballs and churros, Kayo rolled her eyes.

“Shut up, weirdo,” she sighed, elbowing him to make room to deposit her own boxes on the countertop. “Why’re you so hyper anyway? You’ve been like this all day.”

Gordon hopped up to sit on the counter. “’S’ just my natural brilliance.”

“And the fact you got your ankle brace off yesterday has nothing to do with it, I presume?” John asked dryly. He lifted the saucepan lid and slammed it down again as popcorn leapt at him. “This is worse than dodging meteor impacts on the moon.”

“Popcorn: International Rescue’s true nemesis,” Kayo deadpanned, earning a laugh from the conversation pit where Virgil was finishing up his latest rescue report for the GDF’s examination.

Alan tried to pry open one of the pizza boxes. “What toppings did you get?”

“All of them.” Gordon jabbed a finger at him and repeated in a low, serious voice, “All of them.”

“If you got anchovies, I’m moving out,” Brains muttered as he poured himself a new mug of tea.

Gordon wrinkled his nose. “Ew, no. I’m not a complete freak.”

“Debatable,” Kayo quipped as quick as a whip and slapped Gordon’s foot when he tried to kick her.

“You enjoy pineapple on pizza,” Scott called, glancing up from his holoscreens on Dad’s desk to grin at them, all faux innocence as if there wasn’t mischief in his tone, “That makes you a complete freak.”

“Nope,” Gordon shot back. “That makes me a man of taste. A man of culture.”

Midway through pouring the tea, Penelope didn’t even try to stifle her laughter.

“Hey!” Gordon cast her a wounded look. “Betrayal!”

“Gordon,” John interrupted with an evil gleam in his eyes, “What’s the art museum in Paris called?”

“The glass pyramid one?”

“Uh huh.”

“Um…” Gordon tilted his head. “Oh, right! Loov?”

Kayo snorted. “Oh yeah. Cultured. Totally.”

“Louvre, darling,” Penelope corrected with flawless pronunciation.

Gordon shrugged. “Close enough.”

Having successfully stolen and eaten a slice of pepperoni pizza, Alan made a hasty retreat to the Den to help Grandma choose a movie – in other words, trick her into picking his own choice even though it was her turn to decide – before anyone could realise his crime. It didn’t take long to convince her to ask for Wall-E; she always had a soft spot for films from her childhood. By the time the others joined them, he’d already set himself up on the couch with his favourite patchwork quilt.

“Wall-E?” Parker mused as he sank into an armchair. “I remember this ‘un.”

“Good choice,” John agreed.

Alan tried not to laugh when Grandma shared a conspiratorial look with him. At their feet, MAX buzzed happily. From John’s watch, EOS let out a delighted, silvery sound like a windchime.

The pizza didn’t last long. They set upon the boxes like a pride of ravenous lions, licking grease from fingers and snapping up fallen crumbs with zero concern for dignity. Sherbet pounced on any popcorn that fell on the floor despite Penelope’s half-hearted chastises. As the movie drew to a close and Virgil began searching through his list of arthouse films that he, Penny and John had been wanting to see for a while, Alan let residual tiredness from yesterday’s full-day rescue tug his eyes shut. He slid down to tuck his feet under the crooks of Virgil’s knees with a wide yawn, all pointy teeth and squinty like a sleepy cat. Gordon tossed another blanket at him and John carefully tucked it around his shoulders.

“Is your neck comfortable like that, Allie-gator?” Grandma called. “Do you need a pillow?”

“D’you want my hoodie?” Scott asked, making to shrug his sweatshirt over his head.

Alan shook his head, snuggling deeper into the embrace of the couch.

“Nah.” He tucked his head into the crook of Scott’s shoulder, draped his legs across John’s lap, kept his feet under Virgil’s knees, let Kayo clap a hand to his ankle while Gordon teasingly tousled his hair, and smiled as he drifted towards sleep. “I’m okay. Don’t need your hoodie. Already got you with me.”