Hey, folks. Sorry about the delay. I fell off a wall and broke my arm and had a concussion for three weeks. So that was fun. It was a bit hard to get back into writing after that, but hopefully you'll enjoy this effort anyway. Ta!

So, maybe there had been a better way to handle things, Scott had to concede after a week of silence. John was ignoring him in the way only John could—the politest cold-shoulder routine the world had ever witnessed, a technique embarked upon in childhood and refined through years of careful study. The sophisticated slow-burn. It wasn't a cessation of hostilities by any means, just a strange interlude of John wandering aimlessly around the no-man's land between the camps, lost or undecided on whether to finally bend the knee and accept Scott's unblemished judgment as older brother and arbiter of all good things. But maybe, possibly there was a slight chance this could all have been avoided if he'd approached it from a different angle. Not that Scott had been wrong—that was clearly John's department—but Scott might have made more headway without the theatrics.

There was no way Dad hadn't noticed the change—the sudden transmutation of his precious elder sons into strangers, civil neighbors greeting each other politely every morning over their shared picket fence with the trimmest of pleasantries. How are you? I'm fine. Nice weather we're having. Take care now, you hear?

Dad hadn't asked for an explanation yet, but he would if this little social experiment lasted longer than a week. If John lasted longer than a week. And he definitely would, given he wasn't the flaccid bundle of nerves that had crawled out of Harvard six months ago. And given that the family's joint efforts had put him a good way back on the road to being the lean, mean killing machine of yesteryear, this vow of silence might last indefinitely.

Scott had once misplaced one of John's hallowed trading cards. Scott had bent the deck showing off a magic trick to Brent, who'd come over on the promise of pizza and Gate Crushers 2, and somewhere between the bedroom and the den, the card had jumped ship, escaping the confines of its previous life of internment in the Ziploc bag in John's treasure box, inevitably destined for a security upgrade. But no big deal, right? John had, like, three Yuri Gagarin cards. Two Ronald McNairs. Who cared if another Hadfield had gone missing?

What's the point of having a card set if you're not going to play with it, John?

To look at, Scott. To have and to hold. To keep forever in mint condition and take out occasionally to admire. Obviously.

Yeah. Obviously.

I can't believe you touched my stuff.

Look, I said I was sorry.

You came into my room.

Our room.

My side of the room.

Whatever.

It's not whatever. You lost Peggy Whitson.

So?

John had been mortally offended, and it had taken Scott a while to realize somewhere in the lofty how dare yous and I would nevers, John had been quietly crushed to have his personal space so easily disregarded. Scott had crossed a line, violated the principles of a very principled little man; handled a holy relic for the amusement of the general populace. Bread and circuses. A little lowbrow comedy to hold them over until the pizza arrived.

Losing the card hadn't been a part of the plan. Scott had only meant to enjoy the illicit pleasure of taking something without permission, the kind of for-shits-and-giggles kick his fourteen-year-old brain had needed to function. He had expected repercussions, of course. If it had been any of the other brothers, there would've been a brawl or a lengthy negotiation or a creative list of insults. But a month of silence was something new entirely—Scott had been exiled to the coldest borderlands of familial connection, until he finally caved and spent his allowance on tracking down another Peggy Whitson card.

Oh, to have a simple remedy for the week. Whatever this week had been. John had trudged through his daily rituals with a joyless perseverance, grinding through breakfast in demonstratively ironed shirts, and off to work at seven o'clock on the dot and home by five thirty for a wholesome family dinner. Scott had volunteered his efforts more than usual, turning out meals that didn't require any subtlety. Mac and cheese. Sloppy Joes. Hotdogs. Neither Dad or John had made mention of the fact that they were apparently eating their way through the Coney Island summer menu, but then, that would entail John actually speaking, and to be fair, Dad was probably trying to figure out why his second son had been replaced with an automaton—the perfect, monosyllabic imposter in tan slacks and neatly combed hair.

"So," said a voice, somewhere outside of Scott's periphery, "how do you feel about a broad-breasted Philadelphia white for Thanksgiving?"

It took a moment to register that it was Gordon's voice, not disembodied through a speaker, but present, in the same room, before Scott looked up from his book and found Gordon standing above the sunken couch—Santa Barbara personified: tan and blond and puka-shelled, wearing board shorts and a pink tank top with the words Douches Wild! across the front in neon letters.

"Gordon? You're here?"

Gordon dropped his duffel bag on the floor, gesturing with his other hand, the great orator undisturbed by the query. "Because I'm thinking we need to step up our game a little. If we're going to be honest with ourselves, the last big family vacay didn't exactly live up to that Norman Rockwell level shit. So this time I've done my research, and as far as I'm concerned, it's the broad-breasted Philadelphia white or bust."

"Is this your way of saying you're bringing a girlfriend?"

"Turkey, Scott," Gordon corrected. "The Rolls-Royce of domesticated fowl. And I'm having it delivered."

Scott wasn't even going to attempt for more of an explanation. "You came all the way from Santa Barbara to tell me that?"

"No. I'm here for the party. Duh." Without dwelling too long on an explanation, Gordon about-faced and headed down the hall. "I'm starving. Do we have anything to eat?"

"Party?"

Scott waited a few seconds before getting off the couch, feeling suddenly ancient in the face of this airy, college-age detachment from consequence. He found Gordon in the kitchen, a silhouette in the light from the open refrigerator, taking condiments out and lining them up on the counter: mustard, mayonnaise, relish, dried onion. The possibilities were endless.

Scott leaned against the doorframe, watching him work through the other jars in the fridge. "What party, Gordon?"

"Tomorrow night." Gordon weighed the jar of mayonnaise in his hand. "Did you forget it's Halloween, Scott? The Big Spook. America's greatest cultural export. Not to celebrate would be un-patriotic."

"Halloween's on Tuesday."

"Yeah," Gordon twisted the lid off the jar and looked inside, wrinkling his nose, "but this way I figured I'd get in an LA party before the one back at school. Which reminds me, whatever you've got going on—I'm gonna need you to stow it for a few hours, 'cause I can't have you bumming out my guests."

"Your guests?" Scott frowned at him. "The party's here?"

"Yup."

"And Dad's okay with this?"

"Oh, he will be." Gordon shut one eye and aimed the mayonnaise jar at him. "Once I tell him."

"You haven't told him?"

"Well, better to ask forgiveness than permission," Gordon decided against the mayonnaise and put the jar back into the fridge, "and Dad knows 'to err is human, to forgive divine'."

Full of platitudes, wasn't he? "This isn't a good time, Gordon."

"It's just a small get-together, Scotty. Of like, maybe a hundred or so close, personal friends."

That might have been a joke, but Scott didn't care. "You can't be serious."

"Seriously ready to party."

Scott could feel the entire week clamoring hotly in his head—the last seven days of John's passive aggressive silence bristling in the air, and now Gordon, unannounced—un-fucking-announced—as always, arriving to make assumptions about the way things were, or should be, and everyone else could just move the fuck over. "There's not going to be a party."

Clearly, Gordon thought he was joking. "Right. And since when do you turn down the chance to get down and dirty with—"

"I said," Scott cut him off, the irritation leaking through, "not a good time, Gordon."

Gordon's eyebrows shot up. Direct orders didn't usually work on him, unless they came from Dad, and coming from anyone else they had the opposite effect. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I said so."

The sarcasm was palpable. "Because you said so?"

"Because it's been a shitty week, all right? And you don't need to be making it any worse."

Gordon looked insulted. "I'm not making it worse."

"Yeah, and I'm sure Dad will be thrilled to know you're planning to trash the penthouse again."

"Excuse me?"

"We don't need that kind of attention."

"Hold on." Gordon put his hands up in mock-defense. "Back the fuck up. Attention? So my private party is somehow worse than you draping Robin Locke over your shoulders and wearing him for the cameras? That was, what, a minor oversight?"

Scott could hear how he sounded like Dad. "I'm not discussing this with you."

"Oh, great. That'll be a change of pace. People not discussing things with me."

Scott suddenly felt infinitely tired, trying to hold all the pieces of this week together. Tired in a way that a night's rest or a hot shower or a cold beer at a baseball game couldn't fix. Maybe he needed a vacation somewhere nice. Maybe go back to Kansas to see Grandma and take his irritation out on the woodpile. And none of that had anything to do with Gordon and everything to do with John being more of an idiot than he usually was. "Look—"

"How the hell am I supposed to know it's a bad time when no one tells me a goddamn thing these days?" Gordon wasn't about to let this slide. "You think I enjoy the radio silence? You think I like imagining scenarios of finding John in a cardboard box on Skid Row?"

"That's—" what? "You're being dramatic."

"Oh, I'm being dramatic? I wouldn't have to be if someone filled me in once in a while on what the fuck is wrong with this family."

"Gordon—"

"John's barely said two words to me this week."

Well, shit. "He's not talking to you either?"

"Oh, he spent an hour explaining the Walstad Method to me. The Ecology of the Planted Aquarium, Scott. A Practical Manual and Scientific Treatise for the Home Aquarist, Scott. That's not talking." Gordon's jaw worked against itself. "What the hell happened?"

Yeah, Scott. What the hell? Was yelling at John the dry-run to yelling at Gordon? Gordon, his little brother, who had every right to be standing in the kitchen making a sandwich and talking about a party. You know, like any other twenty-year-old living his best life. Scott sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, and it was almost a relief to feel less than okay. "It's been a bad week. Honestly, the last few weeks haven't been that great. But John's fine. Or he will be." He held up a hand before Gordon could interrupt. "And I really mean that."

"You're kinda freaking me out."

"Okay, so you know how we ran into Robin?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, we tried to help the guy out, and he thanked us by talking to the press about John. Brought his own pap to the party and everything."

"What?

"After The Buzz, I guess there was blood in the water. People had a taste for rich, white boy, so we should have been expecting it." The news cycle, the feeding frenzy. "I should have been expecting it. Robin's always been a dick." Scott grimaced. "I had a chance to cut John off at the pass, and I didn't take it."

"But…how did Robin know about Harvard?"

"John told him."

Gordon blinked at him. "Beg pardon?"

"Yeah, I don't know either. You'll have to ask John about that one."

Gordon nodded once, slowly, then turned back to the row of condiments and absently picked up the jar of relish.

"That's why things have been a bit weird, Gordon. But it's not your fault. It's not even John's. It's mine."

Gordon didn't say anything.

"Kyrano's dealt with it," Scott added, in case there was any doubt. "It's been settled. So you don't need to worry. John will be fine. He just needs some time. And distance."

"Time and distance."

"Gordon?"

"John told Robin about Harvard?"

"Yeah."

"That doesn't sound like John."

"No, it doesn't. But then, hanging out with Robin is a bit of a mind-fuck."

"I think I went to one of his parties."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Back in the day."

That was also a mind-fuck. "Speaking of, is there really a party here tomorrow or was that just a ruse?"

Gordon shrugged. "There can be." His lips pinched together, as if he was deciding something. "You're right. It's a bad idea."

Scott shook his head. "No, it isn't actually. John's not the only person in this family. I feel like we've kinda been acting like he is. And that's not fair to you. Or anyone else."

"That's okay." Gordon finally looked up at him. "I wasn't thinking of it that way."

"I know." Scott resisted the urge to ruffle his hair. "How about I talk to Dad for you?"

"You'd do that?"

"Yeah. I've gotta start being a big brother again sometime, don't I? And who can say no to their firstborn?"

(By the way, I have commissioned two illustrations to go with the story, which you can see on easioniaduring. tumblr. com, in case you're interested.)