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It's no surprise when John lets go of the President's hand as soon as possible, when there are a few extra inches between him and the other colonels when he steps back, a new gleaming medal on his chest.

John doesn't like to be touched. David has always known this, has grown up seeing John shy away from people, relatives, friends, strangers who came too close.

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From the first time his little legs managed a walk, Johnny used to follow Dave around. Curious and wide-eyed, he would ask to be taken places, to be read a story, to be allowed to play. David remembers complaining, remembers being frustrated at never having a minute to himself. He knows that their father chided the little boy from time to time, but more than Johnny's confused anger he remembers being told, "This is what happens when you become a big brother." He remembers flinching whenever one of their mother's friends called them "cute".

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John doesn't like to be touched. David knows this, and if he's honest, he isn't that fond of touching people and being touched himself. He's too aware of the uncomfortable closeness it potentially entails, too conscious of what it might reveal.

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When they were barely ten and only just still seven, Dave was allowed to go to his first summer camp. For six weeks, he was free from familial obligations, and, in his father's and most of the instructors' words, "character building things". When he eventually joined his brother at their grandparents', it took a whole day before Johnny would even say "Hi," and ever since, he would insist on going on adventures all on his own.

Dave didn't think too much of it then, head still too full of all he had done and everything he wanted to tell his parents. School started, where it seemed that Johnny finally made some friends, and the house was big enough that they didn't have to run into each other, now that Johnny had stopped spending time tracking Dave down. He still recalls the relief he felt at the time, so much relief that John had finally stopped clinging.

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John doesn't like to be touched. David knows what it is like, understands having too many people want a piece of you, because you're Patrick Sheppard's son, because you're successful, smart, rich and beautiful.

It isn't until David sees the way Jeannie Miller simply grabs John by the scruff of his neck, and more importantly, sees John expecting it, that it occurs to him that it may not actually be true.

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Much as he doesn't like to think about it, David knows there must have been unpleasant things happening to John after he went to war. Their father never asked, and John certainly never told, but David knew the day he saw John become uncomfortable even with Nancy, leaning away from her even as they danced, only four months after their wedding.

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He can do no more than stand there as Rodney, so careful of the military officials present, lowers his head in the bone-deep conviction that John will follow suit and have his hair touch his. He can only take a step back as a little girl – Madison, he recalls – comes at John at a full run in the knowledge that he will swoop her up, hug her tight, exaggerate his groans as he throws her into the air. He can only watch, speechless, as Kaleb Miller grabs John's wrist and claps his shoulder in a brotherly shake, gape as John returns the gesture freely, uninhibited –

– completely unprepared for how much it hurts.