"Get that stupid thing out of your mouth."
"What are you gonna do, take it from me? Probably need another few inches before you can reach."
"Drop dead, John."
The older of the two is leaned up against the hood of a car—beauty of a thing. Sleek and silver and damn fast. It's always been one of Gordon's favorites. John's got the keys dangling from one hand and a cigarette hanging from the other, a puff of smoke slipping through that shit eating smile that all big brothers seem to master. It's as if he doesn't notice the warnings plastered across the packaging. As if he wasn't a bona fide, inhaler-carrying asthmatic until age thirteen. As if cigarettes don't have the power to rob a person of every last clean breath they can ever hope to take.
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the pond today," says John, giving a tick between his fingers. Embers fall towards tar, red fading to grey. "What's the matter, Ugly Duckling? Did all the kids in class make fun of your crooked beak?"
"My beak's not crooked," he snaps back. Then, a pause. "I mean my nose. My nose is not—just get in the car wouldya?"
"Definitely not doing that." John's got these quick moments. These little bursts of energy. He's so much harder to read than everyone else, but sometimes Gordon catches a shift of the eyes. A squint. A thought. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Get in the car."
"Did somebody say something to you?"
"Nobody saidanything."
"Gordon. Brother to brother. Do I need to kick someone's ass?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," says Gordon. "Yeah, you do. Maybe you know him. Red hair, way too fucking tall, addicted to nicotine even though it'll probably kill him. Slowly and painfully, by the way, with a pretty significant cost to his family."
"You want me to kick my own ass?"
"Probably the only person you could take."
"… I deserve that. Point for you, that was a good one." John drops the cigarette, twists it under the ball of his foot. There's a jerk of his head towards the passenger seat before he says, "Get in the car."
"Oh gee, can I?"
"Just get in the car."
Gordon does as he's told. John follows soon after, a smooth glide into a leather seat. With the doors closed and the car off, John doesn't look at Gordon. Instead, he looks out the windshield, waiting. "Now do you want to tell me what happened in there?"
Gordon doesn't look at John either. The two of them face forward, watching the breath and blood of the towering YMCA building as those inside go about their business. He wonders what it would feel like, to walk into the Y and not be burdened by possibility. "I'll say it one more time, because I know sometimes it's hard for you to grasp big concepts, but listen to me, John. Nothing. Happened."
"Did you fail your test?"
"Of course I didn't fucking fail my test. Would you just drive?"
"Good. That's good. So you're certified, now? Actual lifeguard? CPR and everything?"
"Look, can we skip whatever faux-friendly thing you're trying to do here?" says Gordon. The car's starting to get hot. Why won't John just put the key in the ignition? "Yeah, I'm certified. Whoo hoo. Just drive me home so I can go to sleep. It's been a long two weeks."
"Not going home," John says. "Dad wants you to run sims with me this evening. See how well we fly together."
"I don't want to fly together. We can't even sit in a car together—and would you turn the fucking air on?"
"Why are you so pissy today, huh?" says John. "I'll turn the air on when you tell me what's got your feathers so ruffled."
"Forget it," Gordon says. "It's not like you'd understand anyways."
"Would you quit being a moody fourteen-year-old for one second and just tell me what's going on?"
John looks at him now, blue eyes cold against the hot interior. Gordon doesn't meet his gaze. "It's nothing."
"Gordon."
"It's nothing."
"I swear to—"
"I don't want to be a doctor, okay?" It's a strange cross between a mumble and a yell, grumbly and angry. It's a thought that's been brewing for a while. Letting it out is like taking the lid off of a steaming pot. "Are you happy? Are you done? Can you turn on the air now before we both pass out and die?"
"You seem very concerned about my death today."
"You seem very unconcerned about your death today," says Gordon. "Seriously, John. The A/C. S'ninety degrees out."
"What do you mean you don't want to be a doctor?" he says instead, and Gordon swears he's going to punch a hole through the window if he spends one more second in this heat. "No one's making you be a doctor."
"Yeah right," says Gordon. "Now that I'm doing all this CPR stuff, Dad won't stop talking about how I should go into medicine—surgery. That's where the real esteem is, apparently."
"And you don't want to be a doctor?"
"Why would I want to be a doctor?" Gordon asks, and he means it. The only time a doctor sees a patient, they're slow and sore and guarded. They're just looking for a way out of the office—a prescription to fill, yoga to do, a surgery to get. Patients are boring. Doctors are even more boring. Gordon would shrivel up. "No. No way."
"Okay," says John, and there's a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "So what do you want to do?"
Gordon's eyes flicker back to the Y, down to his bag where his CPR certification now sits, tucked into a waterproof pocket. "I dunno."
"Gordon—"
"Paramedic, maybe. Maybe. I dunno."
Except he does know. Because paramedic patients are raw and immediate and they could go at any moment. It's a high-risk, high-reward kind of profession. Gordon lives off of those highs. He could help people with those highs. He's the kind of person who can handle the job, so doesn't he have a duty to perform it? "I dunno," he says again. "Dad wants me to be a surgeon."
John nods, turns, sticks the key in the ignition and starts the car. The fans blow icy air onto Gordon's skin. "Tell you what," John says, and there's understanding in his voice that can only belong to one of Jeff Tracy's sons. "You come run sims with me, and maybe we can convince Dad to let you become a helicopter paramedic sometime down the road."
It takes all of Gordon's effort to restrain smile. "Whatever."
John shows no effort in trying to restrain an eye roll. "You're exhausting, you know that?" he says. Then, with a laugh. "I swear to god, Gordon. You will be the death of me."
And then, windows rolled down, John pulls another cigarette from the box with the Surgeon General's warning, and he lights it.
