#'Gordy' sounds like 'gaudy' and so on

[captainclickycat]

One small detail I quite liked about Kevin Can Fuck Himself is the acknowledgement of the fact that American accents (or some specific ones anyway) pronounce names like "Patty" and "Paddy" so they sound identical and that gets weirdly confusing at times.

I once spent ages not knowing what the gender of a particular podcast character was supposed to be in an audio sketch because I couldn't tell if their name was "Maddy" or "Matty"

[tracybirds]

So @squiddokiddo and I got to chatting about aroace Gords bc it's super fun to play with and thus a fic was born :D

This be fic no.2 to say happy birthday Gords and a big thank you to Squiddo for both reading over said fic and for making a wonderful piece of artwork that accompanies it <;3

Enjoy and hope you're having a lovely day celebrating Gords, celebrating your family and friends and however else you like to love those around you!

---

There was a certain irony to the day, Gordon knew that. People had expectations about your love life when you were born on Valentine’s Day after all and sometimes it felt like he’d never escape it. It grew tiring explaining over and over that romance had never really clicked for him, having to endure the same reassurances he’d never asked for again and again and again.

It was easier if he just treated it like the great joke of his life, eyes brimming over with mirth when he told people.

“Yeah, Valentine’s Day. I know right! But think about it – right? – the day was already stuffed to the brim with romance, they’d run out by the time it came to giving me some attraction, you know?”

Laughing about it, laughing at it gave him a certain power over the day and one he’d happily exploit.

It didn’t hurt that any new partner in romance that joined their family soon learnt that there was no such thing as Valentine’s Day in the Tracy household, his family binding around him to celebrate a much more important occasion in Gordon’s entirely unbiased opinion.

His birthday gave him a chance to focus on all the people in his life that he loved, no need to create a meaningless hierarchy of relationship.

Still, there was something about Valentine’s that appealed to Gordon, an expectant pause as the world held their breath and believed (just a little more than usual) in love.

He could get behind that at least, even if the whole romance thing didn’t really sit right.

Much more important, in his opinion, was the ever-enduring holiday tradition of making garish homemade cards for all his friends just in case they needed a Gordon Original to remind them of his love.

Gordy was the name and gaudy was the game.

He looked down at the stack of cards he’d made already – an explosion of reds and pinks and paper snowflakes cut into hearts – and narrowed his eyes.

The gold lettering had been a nice touch but really, he knew he needed more sparkle.

“Virgil!” he yelled, darting from the kitchen table and racing the steps two at a time.

His socks slid across the slick floor, sending him careening into the wall more that once before he burst into his brother’s studio.

“Virg, I need your glitter glue, it’s an emergency.”

“Would it kill you to knock,” grumbled Virgil good-naturedly, still poring over his own artwork, not sounding remotely surprised to see Gordon.

“The door was open,” said Gordon with a shrug. “That means you’re available.”

“Not for ‘glitter-glue’ emergencies, I’m not. You’ll have to wait.”

Virgil’s words began to trail off even as he spoke, a deep frown line evident between his brows.

Suddenly he looked up, frowning for a new reason.

“I’m sorry, ‘glitter-glue’?”

“For my valentine cards,” said Gordon impatiently. “Kayo said she and Grandma were flying to the mainland tomorrow morning so long as there weren’t any rescues going and…”

“And it’s already ten p.m. Gordon,” said Virgil with a groan.

“Virgil, please!” squeaked Gordon, hopping up and down on one foot. “I know I’ve left it late, but I didn’t mean to – there was that caving group in Mexico, then there were the seamount explorers last week, and that lab, what was going on there did we ever find out?”

“No, we did not,” said Virgil.

He stood and stretched, his joints cracking loudly as he yawned and peered around the dimly lit room.

“Alright, I’ll go find it, just don’t touch anything.”

“Red or pink if you’ve got it,” called Gordon, but Virgil had already disappeared into the towering storage that held his art supplies.

He looked around the room more out of habit than curiosity, taking in the neatly stacked canvases and the bright floral arrangement at the centre of the room. Virgil had clearly been working it into one of his larger pieces; scattered papers displayed pencil sketches of the bouquet from a variety of angles and now that Gordon was looking for them, he could see glimpses of the flowers all around the room.

Gently he tugged the thick card Virgil had been working on towards him and his eyes widened to see the delicate and crinkled petals of roses beautifully displayed before him in dreamy watercolour.

“I thought I said not to touch anything,” came Virgil’s voice from behind him and Gordon spun on his heel, trying not to look guilty.

Virgil looked more exasperated than angry however, as he handed the supplies over, and Gordon felt himself relax.

“Sorry,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a sheepish grin. “They’re beautiful. Almost alive.”

Virgil said nothing, only cocked his head to one side as he assessed the work himself.

“Almost,” he said at last. “But not quite.”

“Well the day your painting resurrects someone, let me know. I reckon we could make good money out of that.”

Virgil didn’t crack a smile, barely seeming to listen the Gordon.

He was beginning to feel awkward, glitter-glue in his hands – red and pink as he’d requested and more colours besides.

The urgency of his own task beckoned but still, he couldn’t help but linger.

“When did you pick up watercolour again?” he asked, trying to prod his brother into conversation.

“I’ve been taking some classes,” said Virgil, quietly. “Online, at your own pace.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun,” said Gordon. “Do they have live get-togethers at all?”

There was a beat of silence that stretched out just long enough for Gordon to sit up and pay attention.

The slight uptick in breathing, the distinct pink undertones to his skin, the way his brother’s eyes slid down and avoided his gaze.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Who are they?” said Gordon, only too delighted to have something to weasel out of him. “Go on, what’s their name? What have you talked about? Do they know you’re an internationally recognised hero who could sweep them off their feet?”

“It’s none of your business, Gordon,” groaned Virgil, burying his face in his hands.

“It is too my business,” he retorted. “We need a new relationship to root for, none of you’ve been dating anyone for months and I need something to gossip about with Grandma.”

“Well, you can keep your mouth shut for now, I’m not telling you anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to the guy.”

“Oh, so it’s a guy,” said Gordon, cackling in delight. “Someone artsy, likes working with his hands maybe, has a good appreciation for nature, perhaps?”

“Oh, yeah right, like you could know any of that.”

Gordon reached down and tapped the watercolour card.

“You’re painting him flowers Virg, and you clearly care that they’re the best you can do.”

He grinned suddenly. “Plus, I know your type.”

“And you can leave now," announced Virgil, his cheeks burning as he pushed Gordon out of the room. “Go make your friends their cards.”

“Thanks Virgil,” called Gordon, waving the glitter-glue as the door was promptly shut in his face.

He grinned and opened his comm.

“Hey, Grandma? Want to help me make my Valentines?”

“If that means you have dirt on your brothers, then say no more kid.”