Scott

…

I've dealt with some of my more urgent private transactions and it's time to take ten before I get to the real business of the day. And it's glorious day. Kyrano's laid out breakfast by the pool, God love him, meaning I can do two of my favorite things – eat and watch Gordon – at the same time.

"Good morning, Mr Scott," Kyrano says, pouring coffee.

Outsiders probably take it for a formality, the grudging respect of a paid retainer for his wealthy employer's rich-kid brat, but it's nothing of the sort; it's just an old family joke. Kyrano's known us since we were kids. I remember way back when Dad told us that Kyrano was coming to live with us he explained the Malaysian custom.

"Boys, you'll hear me call him Kyrano. That's his given name. But you should call him Mr Kyrano."

It cracked Johnny up for days; he was at that kind of age. "I guess that makes me Mister John. And Mister Scott and Mister Virgil and…"

Kyrano saw the joke. The habit stuck.

"Is it strong enough for you?"

I glance into the mug. It looks like I could stand the spoon up in it. It'll do. "I guess."

He looks at me sideways. I swear that man can read minds. "You did not sleep well?"

I shrug. "You know how it is."

I watch as Gordon executes a racing turn and powers away from us, freestyle. The sheer speed takes my breath away, every time I watch him. He tells me he's a lot slower than he used to be, but then I never saw him at his very fastest. You don't get the real deal on screen. I'd have given pretty much anything to be there. But I had to settle for watching it via a fuzzy satellite link in the middle of a desert sandstorm. None of the support team could figure out why I just had to see the hundred metre 'fly heats because one of the US team was some snot-nosed kid from my home town – we all operate under aliases so they didn't make the connection - yet they humored me anyhow. But it must have been infectious, because by the time it came to the final they were cheering him on like he was their brother.

The water's good for him. He still works out a lot, but he doesn't do as much weight training as he used to. His back and shoulder won't take it.

Kyrano sits beside me.

"You love to watch him, do you not?"

"Poetry in motion," I agree. "But don't tell him I said that."

Gordon I love with all my being. I always have, I can't help it. The guy can put me in a good mood at a hundred paces. The first time I picked him up he was just a few days old. He hurled all over me with surprising vigor for something so small then looked at me, affronted, like it was all my fault. I didn't care then and nothing he's done since has fazed me. Even when he crashed his 'foil I stayed positive; I couldn't let myself even begin to imagine life without him. I guess if something ever happened to him I'd have to keep going, because there'll always be people out there who need us. But the bit of me that cares about living, not just being, would die right along there with him.

At the far end of the pool he flips onto his back and starts a lazy length back toward us. Winding down for the morning.

He approaches Kyrano and me, pulls himself out of the water, shaking himself like a dog, in a deliberate attempt, I'm sure, to shower the both of us.

I throw him a towel. He rubs water out of his eyes.

"Hey, BB. Are those waffles?"

I grab the plate fast. "Nope. They're temptation. Waffles are not on your diet."

"Says who?"

The situation quickly deteriorates into a brief but bloody waffle war. Kyrano, sensibly, flees.

…