A few months later and Virgil takes his older brother out to dinner, the same way he had intended to, when he'd flown out to Boston for spring break. This time he's flown out to LA, and the occasion is the six month anniversary of his brother's sobriety.
From amphetamines, anyway. The pair of them have had a rich, luxuriant five course meal at one of the best restaurants in the city, and in the afterward they've adjourned to the bar, though so far the night's total is just one drink apiece. John has a vodka tonic sitting half finished at his elbow. Virgil's accidentally ordered a bourbon, just out of habit, though with what present company makes him consider, this feels a little bit awkward. He directs his attention to his brother, and hopes the fact that he's ignoring his drink goes ignored.
The past six months have been good to John. It's enough time that that the last of the drug that had ravaged his system is long since gone. With Gordon's strict and occasionally overbearing instruction, he's also regained about twenty-odd pounds. He's still relatively slender for his height, but no longer dangerously underweight. Under their father's watchful eye he's been folded into an internship at Tracy Industries, and by all accounts is thriving in an appropriately challenging environment, now that he's gotten past the rocky beginnings of his recovery. John's no longer highly-strung and edgy, less obviously anxious or uneasy in social settings. Conversation with him is easy and casual; and though his sense of humour has gained a darker cast to it than it ever had previously, it's still possible to make him smile. Virgil's thrilled to see his brother seeming so much like his old self, and he goes on to say so.
"It's good to have you back, Jaybird. Happy six months." Virgil pauses a moment, lifts his glass and taps it lightly against the rim of his brother's, making a toast he knows John wouldn't accept of his own accord. Knowing the way John can get about effusive displays of emotion, he's very careful to keep his tone casual as he carefully tacks on what he came out to tell his brother, "I'm really proud of you, John. I mean it."
"Thanks." Predictably, John sidesteps the sentiment with the bare minimum of acknowledgment, and deliberately pulls his glass away before Virgil can attempt another gesture. Perhaps as a point of concession, he does take a drink, and Virgil is forced to do the same, because it's bad luck not to.
It's a decent glass of whiskey, but the aroma of it is still the wrong kind of familiar. Without meaning it to, a drink to his brother turns into a drink to the memory of his grandfather. Virgil clears his throat and pushes past it. "Six months is nothing to shake a stick at, though, J. I feel like I should've gotten you a present. Is it like wedding anniversaries? First month, paper; second month, wood; third month, pottery…"
That's the sort of thing that catches at the slightly morbid edge of what John finds funny these days, and it gets him to chuckle lightly, and banter right back, "Oh, no, that doesn't sound right. First month, crippling depression; second month, high anxiety to the point of literal panic; third month, abject self-loathing—are there greeting cards for that, you think?"
"I'm pretty sure Hallmark would've had me covered."
"Sure. In between 'Sorry For Your Loss' and 'Happy Sixth Birthday', there's 'Maybe Try to Spend Less Time Blankly Disassociating in the Shower'."
Virgil grins. "So I should've gone with flowers, is what you're saying."
John shakes his head. "Maybe someday someone will manage to convey to me how to correctly react to receiving flowers, but no one's done it yet."
"Box of chocolates."
"I don't like chocolate."
"Fruit basket."
"I'm on strike from fruit."
Virgil blinks. "Why the hell…?"
"Gordon's had me drinking a twenty-four ounce smoothie every morning for the past six months, he ruined fruit. Fruit is bad now."
Virgil shakes his head, takes another drink before he remembers he'd decided not to. "Jeez. You know what, maybe I'm glad I didn't send anything, this is starting to sound like a goddamn minefield. I just thought you might want to mark the occasion. Six months and all. You should have something."
"Well, it's not like I don't have anything." Appropriate to the occasion, though perhaps not the venue, John dips a hand into the pocket of his dark grey slacks, and fishes out a medallion, bronze and deep dark blue enamel. He lays it on the bar top for his brother to see, and adds, a little sheepishly, "Uncle Lee keeps sending them. Twenty-sixth of every month, like clockwork."
John's placed the token so that 6 MONTHS faces upward, bounded in on three sides by the words UNITY, SERVICE, and RECOVERY. It's a nice gesture. Totems are important, even to John, because as sure as there's an old AA coin laid atop the bar, there's also certain to be an almost-empty aspirin bottle in his pocket. Virgil helpfully states the obvious, "Well, Uncle Lee's really proud of you. So's everyone else."
"Everyone keeps saying so," John concedes, a base acknowledgment of the facts instead of anything like a graceful thank you. He downs about half his remaining drink in lieu of having to say anything further, then picks his coin back up, starts to turn it over and over again between his fingertips. Virgil knows him well enough by now to know that long silences are a good indicator of the fact that there's something John wants to talk about. Six months ago, he hadn't known how to listen.
"Aren't you proud of yourself?" Virgil prompts, after a long minute of silence.
John shrugs. "I have a lot to be proud of," is his eventual answer, though the hesitance with which he offers it is proof that he doesn't really feel it. "It's good that I've made it this far."
For the length of time John spent actively living a lie, in the process of recovering from his addiction, he's completely and utterly lost any natural aptitude he had for deception. It's helpful to Virgil that, instead, John tends to stick to carefully formatted versions of the truth. Meticulously crafted statements that he can make sincerely, because they're functionally true. People who don't know what they're listening to will hear what they want to hear. People who know him well will listen carefully to what was actually said. Or in this case, what wasn't.
"But you don't feel proud."
If there's one thing Virgil's missed about his brother, it's his essential thoughtfulness. In the earliest months of his recovery John had been numb and dull and diminished, muted and reticent and deeply reluctant to talk about anything as far as his own internal state was considered. Difficult questions would invariably leave him blank and helpless, lost in the absence of an answer. Virgil's consultations with his own therapist had been full of reassurances that this was normal, and that John was in the process of putting himself back together, and that eventually Virgil's patience with him would be rewarded.
And it has been. It's taken months, almost the entire half a year, but it's paid off. Virgil calls his brother every other day, and though it's taken a long time, he's finally managed to coax John into trusting him enough to occasionally share his thoughts and feelings, even if doing so doesn't come naturally to him.
He thinks about his answer for a long time before he offers it, quiet and honest, "I don't see why I should be proud of something I still hate about myself."
It's a bleak enough sort of sentiment that Virgil winces—but at the same time, he's had the inside track to John's thoughts and feelings for long enough to recognize progress. He's come far enough in six months that his addiction is something he hates about himself, rather than the reason he hates himself. It's a subtle difference, but it still counts. And even though it's probably not the right moment to say so, Virgil's still proud of his brother, for that.
He's not sure what to say, but he's had time to learn that sometimes there's nothing John wants to hear. Instead, he reaches out to put a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, just to let him know he's being listened to. Virgil knows him well enough by now to know that long silences are a good indicator of the fact that there's something John wants to talk about. Half a year ago, before this had all started, he hadn't known how to listen. For now, he orders them each another drink, and waits patiently for John to figure out what he needs to say.