They touch down in LA at the end of the week, as the sight of the stars fades from the sky, gives way to the new dawn. They get a cab from the airport, they take it to their father's office. John's the only one who needs to talk to their father. Gordon and Virgil are along for moral support.

It had taken wheedling, it had taken convincing, in the end it had taken the outright admission that Gordon and Virgil really were worried about him, for John to admit that he can't beat this alone. That he needs help. That he needs the sort of discreet, private help their father will be able to arrange.

It's the last day of March and the last day of spring break. Dad's office is fifty stories in the air, and the waiting room outside it is sleek, architectural, and empty of anyone but his three middle sons, sharing a long, low bench in front of some hunk of monolithic modern art. The far wall is all windows, the floor is poured concrete. Through frosted glass behind them, a workshop hums and bustles, but none of this life or movement touches the room outside their father's office. The place is, in a word, bleak.

The bench is just a pain in the ass.

It's narrow. It's uncomfortable, there's no backrest to lean against. Gordon's not entirely sure it's not another piece of art. Jeff Tracy is uninterested in the comfort of the people he keeps waiting, and, further, he likes to set the mood of the people who come to see him. It's cruel, unusual, and effective.

It's probably the last thing in the world John needs right now, and he's got his face in his hands again, pale and more visibly anxious than either Gordon or Virgil have ever seen him.

So the bench isn't helping, but the pacing had been worse, so it's Gordon, Virgil, with John in the middle. Gordon's got a hand on his older brother's shoulder, Virgil's trying to make himself comfortable, and squinting at the slab of brushed aluminum in the middle of the room.

"I think," Virgil muses, possibly trying to break the mood, though you never can tell with art students, "it's about the decline of the textile industry."

"I think that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say in my entire life. That is amazing," Gordon marvels, and squints at the strange metal structure. "Wow. Yeah. No, that makes no goddamn sense. Johnny, back me up? What d'you think?"

"I think I'm gonna throw up and then I think I'm gonna die."

Gordon rubs his brother's shoulders, like he's a teammate next up for a race and needs to be psyched up. "It's gonna be okay," he promises. "Honest John, it'll work out. You got a lot going for you, c'mon. You didn't even have to be frogmarched in here by Scott and Virgil. Came entirely of your own accord. That'll count for a lot."

"Why's he making me wait?"

Virgil cuts the pretension, pretended or not, and adds, "Because he's just—Dad's a busy guy. He's not torturing you, it's not a test, J. You don't need to be paranoid about it. Not much longer, and we'll just get it over with."

"Yeah," Gordon agrees. "We're gonna get through this just fine."

It's the we that helps, that has the redhead taking a few deep, steadying breaths and nodding. There's a bottle of not-aspirin in his pocket, but only one tablet in the bottle. One single pill, the last of a stash he'd had hidden in his closet, the one he'd broken down and nearly broken into, before Gordon and Virgil had made him stop. The rest had been thrown away, but he'd kept one on Gordon's advice.

"Every day you don't take it is one day closer," Gordon tells him again, as his brother turns the bottle over and over in his long, nervous fingers. "As long as there's a pill in that bottle, you're beating this thing."

"I don't feel like I'm winning."

Gordon, possibly the only one of his brothers who really and truly knows what winning feels like, gives John a crooked grin. "That's the funny thing about winning. Everything leading up to it is just really damn hard work. And I know you've got that in you, Johnny. One of these days, you'll know when you've won."

The door of their father's office opens, and all three of them are on their feet. John looks ready to bolt for the elevator; Virgil catches him by the collar before he can move and then it's a rough, bullying bear hug. "You'll be okay, John."

Gordon's next, once Virgil finishes breaking John's ribs, and it's a tight, brief embrace, with another squeeze of John's shoulder. "Dad won't hate you," he promises. "And on the million to one chance he does, we won't. He can't throw you out of the family, John. I promise you'll always have us."

This gets a wordless nod and an answering clasp of Gordon's arm, and then John straightens up and slips the pill bottle into his pocket. He doesn't look back as he crosses the waiting room, and disappears into the door of their father's office.

John hasn't been out to the coast since he'd been summoned for an intervention on Gordon's behalf. Jeff hasn't risen from behind his desk as John slips in the door. The distance stretching across his father's office seems further than he can manage. But there's no going back now, and his hand tightens on the little white bottle as he crosses the room and stops at his father's desk. "Hello, Dad."

Jeff's not the sort of man who leads a conversation with "hello", so John's not surprised when his father's eyes pass over him, and there's a critical quirk of his expression. "I hope you plan on getting some sun while you're out here, John. You're looking a bit peaked."

John wonders if the understatement is deliberate, because he knows he looks terrible. He knows he's pale, knows his eyes are dark and his face has gotten a little gaunt, a little drawn from stress and the slow, interminable crawl through three days without anything stronger than caffeine in his system. He has to swallow and wet his lips before he can answer, and it doesn't sound like his voice when he says, "Spring Break ends tomorrow. I don't think I'll have time for much sun."

"Mm. Poor time management. What's got you booking my eight-thirty slot, John? And what merits a flight all the way across the country?"

John's so nervous he feels sick. Gordon had been here, in their father's high court, and Gordon had been angry. It's the thing that had earned the younger brother most of John's contempt, so many years ago, the fact that he'd been too arrogant to admit he was wrong. That sat in front of their father, hungover and disheveled, he'd still been defiant. John's not defiant, he's deeply, profoundly ashamed, and anxious to the point that he's almost lightheaded. He pulls the little bottle out of his pocket and puts it on the sleek glass top of his father's desk. His legs nearly go out from under him as it leaves his hand, and he has to sit down.

His father's eyebrow arches and he takes the aspirin bottle, gives it a shake. That single pill hits the side of the bottle the way John's heart feels like it's hitting his ribs, and his father spins the lid off, tips a tiny golden circle into his palm. "What's this?"

"Adderall."

And for a moment there's confusion on Jeff's features. "Since when do you need Adderall?" A pause. "Virgil's supposed to be the one taking something for...what, it's depression, isn't it? Is he still doing that? What's this about, John?"

"It's not prescription." John's pretty sure his throat's actually closed up, so he's not sure where the words are coming from. "I've got an...I. I mean, I—I've got a problem."

His father processes this. The pill gets tipped back into the bottle, the lid goes back on. Jeff gets up and goes to the window, turns his back on his second son. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and terrifies John, but then, pretty much anything would have, at this point. "Does anyone know?"

John shakes his head vehemently and then remembers that it's not quite no one. Not anymore. If it were no one, he'd have seen his brothers off and gone right back to what he was doing before they'd dropped into the middle of his life and turned it upside down. "Virgil. Uh, a-and Gordon. Gordon's the one who...who found out. I didn't—I m-mean, I don't think anyone else knows. Not that I can tell. No one I go to school with."

"Who gave you this? Is this from a doctor?"

"Not my doctor. I don't...I was careful. I've been really careful, I've never met the guy. Not in person, he doesn't know who I am. It's just, it was a drop off system. A locker at the gym on campus." It's surreal to tell his father this. "I was careful, Dad. I swear no one knows."

Jeff turns and his eyes flash and John's cold all over, frozen. "That's not my concern. You might've been given anything. You might've been poisoned. What in the world possessed you to do something so stupid?" There's a pause and Jeff knows exactly what to say to shame his second son. "This is the sort of nonsense I expected from Gordon over spring break. Club drugs, John, honestly. I understand your college years are meant to be a certain amount of fun, but it's really not in your character to—"

His father's jumped to the wrong conclusion, and John has a terrible problem with correcting people. His father's not a man who's used to being interrupted, let alone interrupted to be told that he's wrong. "It's not spring break. It's not just spring break, it's...i-it's been a year. Year and a half."

"And how did Gordon happen to catch you at this?"

"I...I overdid it. I just, I slipped up a little, I was...we went to a party and...it got so Virgil thought something was wrong. Gordon...I dunno. I don't know if he suspected or i-if it was just luck he found out. I didn't want to tell you. Gordon and Virgil have...I mean, they've been...around...over the week." He manages to lift his gaze for a moment and meet his father's dark, furious eyes. "I wouldn't have told you if they hadn't...if... Gordon told me. To tell you. I need help. I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so sorry."

"You might've killed yourself."

John just nods. It's been made clear. Jeff's silent stare seems worse than anything he could say. John's being weighed in some balance, and his father's eyes seem to be seeing him for the first time since he sat down. He leaves the window and sits back down. "You look ill," he notes, and it's an accusation.

John nods again, swallows. "Withdrawal."

"Withdrawal." Jeff's jaw has tightened and he reaches for the tablet on his desk, hits a button. "You're in withdrawal from an amphetamine addiction, and you're here. Telling me about it. My god, John. Have you seen a doctor?"

John shakes his head and manages to take a deep breath. "Gordon wanted to call an ambulance, but it would've gone to the campus hospital and...I knew I couldn't—I mean, I didn't want anyone to find out. I did my best to keep it private. It's not like what he did. No one knows, Dad, I swear I—"

"That is not the issue." There's the roll of thunder in his voice, the one Virgil echoes without meaning to. "A year and a half, someone should have known far sooner. Not another word, John Glenn Tracy. My afternoon's been cleared. I'll have my personal physician here in an hour to have a look at you. You will waive your right to confidentiality and I'll have a full report about your condition. I'll decide what's to be done with you once your health isn't in question. Is that clear?"

Permitted to say anything or not, John's not sure his voice would hold out. He manages the barest nod and stares at the floor.

Jeff stands and John's reminded that his father's not taller than he is. He still feels impossibly small in his chair in front of the broad glass desk. "You'll wait here. I need a word with your brothers."

"I would've taken off if they'd tried to tell you. It's not their fault it took this long, I just, I didn't—"

"Not another word, John."

And that silences him. The sound of his father's footsteps towards the door behind him fade, and as it closes, John slumps in his chair and tries to decide if it's gone better or worse than he'd expected.

There's a locked door between John and Gordon again, but things are different now. There's no secrets this time.

Gordon knows at his core everything will be fine, but it's not going to be easy. John has a history of being definitively not fine when it comes to Dad's big voice, and Gordon can hear that distinct not-yell through the walls. When they were kids, this would have been the time when Gordon took over—rambled on about how mean the librarian who kicked them out had been or how they really shouldn't lay out a bunch of free samples if they only want you to take one. This is the part when Gordon smooth talks the two of them out of this mess, except Gordon's on the wrong side of the door.

And then, just like that, he's not.

There's something horribly determined about the way Jeff Tracy walks that makes you believe he founded a Fortune 500 business at his dining room table. There's a power in his step, a flame in his eye, and a definite fear in whoever stands opposed to him. "Boys."

Virgil's up in the time it takes for Dad's voice to fill the room. Gordon had already been standing and Dad looks directly at him when he'd addressed both of them. This is a frequent habit of their father's, as if he knows who the brunt of the blame belongs to and has no interest in hiding it.

Gordon doesn't know that his father secretly admires the way his second youngest son stands tall, despite being the only one who will grow up to be shorter than him. Gordon doesn't know about his father's pride when it comes to the huff in his chest or the set in his jaw, but it's there, piled beneath mountains of rage and tempers and How Dare Hes. It's there.

Gordon doesn't see it. Gordon never will.

"Your brother has just told me the situation."

"Yes, sir."

Gordon feels his father's eyes as they scan him up and down. "Must feel good, getting one up on John after all these years."

"He needs help, Dad," Gordon tells him. "I didn't one-up him—he's sick."

The nod is slow. Considerate. "Of course, of course," he says. "I just mean that it must feel good, finally getting to marshal him up to my office. He was pretty righteous with you when he was on the other side of that desk."

Gordon doesn't know that John has told their father that he was the one to find out. He doesn't know that John has credited him as the vote for an ambulance, the vote to tell Dad, the vote to do things the correct way, and that John has taken the full blame for his actions. He doesn't know that his father is, somewhere deep down, grateful, because Gordon only knows one thing: John doesn't have time for the two of them to play games.

"To tell you the truth, it feels like shit," he says, and there's a gulp at the end of his sentence, like he's ten years old again and his father won't accept that kind of language.

Dad's not fond of it, but he can respect it.

"Look," Gordon says. "He screwed up—that much has been made clear and I'm pretty sure he'd have known it even if Virgil and I hadn't spent the week hammering it into his head."

"You did the hammering," Virgil corrects. "I just bought the kid some food and did some laundry."

"Either way," Gordon says, "he's already gotten plenty of flak from me, so with all due respect, sir, I don't think he needs any more from you."

The way Gordon speaks to his father is so vastly different from the last time they were in this building that both men take a moment to make sure they really are in the same place. When this is confirmed, Gordon continues. "He needs a dad. We've done what we can. He doesn't listen to me—never has—"

"Is that so?"

"You know it is."

"Do not tell me what I know, Gordon Cooper," he says, and that's Gordon's cue to stop talking. Once the middle names are out, it's all over. "You both lied to me or, at the very least, you deceived me, and that's unacceptable. I expected more from you, Virgil."

This manages to hit both boys particularly hard, Virgil having failed him in this regard and Gordon having failed him in every other.

"You will both be facing consequences for your actions," he informs them, "but at the moment I'm debating what I'm going to do with your brother."

Gordon doesn't know that his father has played him like a fiddle. He doesn't know that he's been identified as the captain of Team John and that his father's counting on Gordon to tell him exactly what John needs right now. "Jesus Christ, Dad. I mean seriously—god—he doesn't need consequences. He needs a break."

"You think so?"

"He didn't start that stuff because he wanted the high," Gordon spits out, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His father gives him a look that there will be no need for him to raise his voice again, but Gordon is too worked up to notice. "He's exhausted. He hates it there—have you seen his apartment? You'd think someone died in there, Dad, I swear to god. And he's got this damn bookshelf—"

"I think what Gordon's trying to say," Virgil says, ever the translator, "is that John's not happy where he is."

"No, what I'm trying to say is that John hates everything about Harvard, but he won't say so because he's too scared of what you'll think."

"Gordon—"

Virgil stops when his father holds up his hand to him. Gordon, due to his proximity to the definite gesture, chokes on his next sentence before he can even start. "I hear you," Dad says, and there's too much diplomacy in his words for either boy to feel as though he's being sincere. At least, until he says, "John's going to see a doctor, and we can discuss what to do while we're waiting. Sound doable?"

Gordon almost seems surprised by how doable that sounds. "Yessir."

Dad nods. "You can go talk to your brother now," he says. "He's going to want to see you more than he wants to see me."

Virgil doesn't wait for a second invitation. He's in Dad's office in the time it takes a heart to beat. Gordon's not far behind, but he stops when his father holds his hand out in front of his chest.

The moment is most definitely between two men, and not between father and son. "If John never listened to you, like you claim he doesn't," Dad says, "then he wouldn't be in my office right now and I wouldn't know he needed help."

Gordon doesn't respond, mostly because he's not sure how. He just looks at his father, who stares him down so intensely that Gordon fears there may be a hole burning straight through him. "You just remember that, clear?"

"Yes, sir."

There's a pat on Gordon's shoulder, a very clear dismissal, and then Gordon's off again, ready to toss a barf bag in John's direction and gather all of the information he needs in order to advocate for his big brother. There's the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the whoosh of wind as he steps into the office, and just like that, Gordon and John are finally on the same side of the door.