Chapter Text
Virgil called it.
Of course, that wasn’t especially difficult, given the predictable nature of the average fourteen-year-old boy’s sense of humour…and their family Fish’s in particular.
It didn’t happen immediately; not least because the youngest two spent the rest of the afternoon having a screechingly loud water fight in and around the pool. It may have been a couple of storeys below them, and on the other side of the villa; but the rock ricocheted the sounds upwards, in through the balcony doors. The same doors that Scott had insisted be opened to ‘air the place out’ while they talked. (Words that may have come from the mouth of a twenty-two-year-old man; yet it was the voice of a seventy-something grandmother, loud and clear. Even the pilot himself half-blushed as he realised what he’d said. And as his brothers sniggered at his expense.)
When they could hear themselves think for the shrieks and splooshes drifting in from outside, the three dry brothers kept the tone light after a stone-heavy conversation that they all knew they’d be revisiting sooner rather than later. Over the dregs of sweet, grounding cocoa – and while John unpacked what (to Virgil’s eye) was a rather meagre collection of possessions he’d returned with - they threw around the first scraps of ideas for how to get the redhead back on track. Maybe he could get a regular grocery order delivered; or splash out on one of those bespoke meal services? It was hardly as though they couldn’t afford it. Ultimately, though, nothing was fully decided or finalised: Christmas Eve-eve wasn’t the time for heavy problem solving; that could wait until after the festivities. Probably once the Tinies had worn themselves and their curiosity out, and slipped into the inevitable sugar coma.
There was a wholesomeness, a rightness to it that Virgil had missed, and he was certain from the mellowing softness in their eyes that the others had too…but it couldn’t last forever. Eventually, visibly exhausted, their little brother declared that he couldn’t people any longer: needed some head peace before dinner. It wasn’t so much a true hint, in that it was brutally devoid of subtlety, so even Scott managed to catch it; vanishing off towards the kitchen with three cocoa-stained mugs and leaving behind a threat that John had better come down for the meal…and it freed Virgil up to finally go take that shower.
Which. Was. Bliss.
Hot water at the perfect pressure; his shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, razor - everything precisely where (and as full as) he’d left them. No small-creature’s-worth of someone else’s hair in the plughole; no-one trying to barge into the room to pee (‘Aw, c’mon dude: I’m desperate!’), or worse (‘Remind me not to go so heavy on the hot sauce next time, Virg!’). Having the freedom, the luxury, to simply stand for a few moments once the water shut off, savouring the soft tickle of droplets chasing down your back…it was practically paradise. As much as renting an apartment with friends could be fun, there was a lot more to be said for having your own space. Especially your own bathroom. Perhaps John had the right idea after all, in refusing to share? Regardless, it was refreshing to have no-one’s towels but your own to scoop off the floor; and to know your stash of clean clothes was going to go un-raided. Underwear included.
Except for younger brothers appropriating hoodies, of course.
No opportunity arose that evening, either. Dinner was uneventful. Well…uneventful for them, anyway: there was just a small skirmish over pineapple versus anchovies, with only the one dollop of tomato purée ending up in the Sprout’s hair. The ‘real’ adults were all still away on the mainland, and Tanusha had opted to stay in England for the holiday (there seemed to be some odd, secret thing going on there; but Virgil didn’t have the stamina for that kind of discussion when it reared its head), so it was just the five boys. In a stroke of pure genius, Scott had mustered the Terrible Two into making enough pizza to feed the Mars colony; and they’d all decamped to the couches to stuff their faces in front of Grandma's collection of seasonal movies, each several orders of magnitude cheesier than the pizza (which was saying something, considering that Gordon had been in charge of that aspect of the toppings). As the time wore on and the popcorn came out, and despite the sugary snacks, Alan finally fell asleep; head pillowed on Gordon’s back, drooling into the lurid orange shirt where they’d sprawled on a mound of cushions.
By breakfast, Virgil had begun to doubt his own predictions; perhaps because – as the night before – John had once again buried himself in the depths of a vast hoodie. His own, this time: the Houston Space Centre logo beginning to fade from so many washings, and the long sleeves hiding the doodled noodle arm. There was ribbing, of course, as there is over just about any meal where siblings are involved; but not all of it was directed at the two-tone ginger. Plenty, sure, but not all: Virgil himself came in for a fair bit of it. Who would’ve thought that building muscle would be so amusing to younger siblings? Or at least it was until he held them both upside-down by their ankles. The resultant squeals were what dragged their astrophysicist out of the bleary slump of jetlag, and into pointing out who would be clearing up the barf that would be near-inevitable after the speed at which they’d bolted their pancakes.
Deduct five ‘The Sensible One’ points from Virgil.
Ah well, everyone’s allowed an off-day now and then.
But not Gordon. The Squid was absolutely on form when they made it out to the pool; and it had been at least five minutes since he’d last stirred up some trouble, so he was probably overdue a little chaos.
A swim wasn’t on John’s agenda: that much was glaringly obvious from the knee-length cut-off denims and (in deference to the heat) short-sleeved NASA T-shirt rather than water gear. Perhaps an even bigger clue was the honest-to-goodness paperback he was origami-ed around on the lounger he’d dragged into the shade; the pages fluttering softly in the light breeze in sympathy with the leaves above them - almost as though they held some memory of the trees they’d been made from…
Woah! Virgil squinted at his beer. Perhaps the stuff had more of a kick than he’d realised if it was having such a fanciful effect on him so early in the day?
Nowhere near as strong as Dad’s second-best whiskey that Scott had dipped into last night: the eldest’s sunglasses were firmly stationed on his nose for more reasons than merely the midsummer sun. He’d waited until the kids had gone to bed, of course; both of them carried there (a spark-out Alan scooped into Scott’s arms, the slightly more vocal Gordon slung over Virgil’s shoulder). Whilst nowhere near fully drunk, he’d relaxed enough to veer into introspection, replaying the day and offering John a full and contrite apology for the harassment. It was a conversation Virgil would actually have liked to listen in on, but he made himself semi-scarce, tinkering quietly at the piano with ‘Taking Flight’; far enough away to give them space, but close enough to intervene again should it become necessary. It didn’t. From his spot, he could tell that John’s verbal input was minimal, but the initial defensive body language dissolved quickly. It ended with the typically undemonstrative redhead wrapping their big brother in a spontaneous hug…which was enough of a surprise that Virgil’s fingers almost slipped on the keys, nearly crashing a tell-tale chord. Rather abruptly after that, the sixteen-hour time difference in his body clock had defeated the space nut, and he’d followed the younger ones upstairs.
He was still – for John – slightly woolly-headed that morning, and a tad unsteady on his feet from the lingering adjustment. Head buried and attention absorbed so completely in his reading, he was utterly oblivious in a way he only managed when his guard was down, and something had fully captured his interest: a trait that had started the whole misadventure in the first place. Away at college, the behaviour would need modifying; here on the island, he was safe to lose himself.
Okay…maybe not safe; because while John might not have been planning on taking a dip, the Tinies evidently had other ideas.
The plotting was…less subtle than they probably intended it to be: exaggerated whispers and giggling at the shallow end, coupled with extended, assessing, ‘don’t-look-now’ glances at each of the eldest three in turn. Scott matched the one aimed in his direction with blue lasers over lowered shades, one eyebrow raised in an unmistakable Don’t even think about it. Virgil was already wet; floating happily in one of the giant rings, beer in hand, feet and lower legs trailing, so the challenge wasn’t there…but the spaceman? Nope. His mind was firmly in orbit, probably blissfully unaware of their presence, despite the noise.
He may as well have painted a target on the back of that faded tee.
Virgil gave several measured kicks to propel himself a little further out of the potential danger zone, watching with casual amusement as the mission began. At the twin swooshes of bodies leaving the water, Scott’s head perked up from where it had been pillowed on his arms, so they watched the chaos unfold together, exchanging the odd raised brow. John had hunkered down on his left side, scrunched up to fit under the shadow where the parasol could shield him from the sun. The alarmingly conspicuous ridge of his spine pointed at the villa, exposed skin slathered in so much SPF 200 that there were visible white streaks on the backs of his calves where it hadn’t quite fully rubbed in.
Neither measure would protect him from the gremlins.
For two kids dripping gallons onto the smooth slabs and trying hard not to giggle, Gordon and Alan moved impressively silently up behind their unwitting sibling. In one slick move, they each seized a foot-end corner of the lounger, heaving to tip it onto the small wheels near the head, and dragging the whole thing – squawking ginger and all – towards the pool. John had mentally been so many miles off-planet that re-entry took enough seconds to leave him with no option but make an instinctive grab at the bioplastic beside his head, and hang on for dear life. Fortunately, he had the wits to drop his book to the ground: those old things never weathered a soaking terribly well. Once they reached the water, the lounger’s momentum and Gordon’s swimmer’s muscle combined to slide the leading edge over the brink, upending its hapless occupant. John tried to hold on, to save himself; but his old enemies of the sun and gravity combined to thwart him. The latter pulled, and the sheer amount of cream he’d plastered on to guard against the former made him slick, sliding off into the breeze-stirred ripples with a minimum of friction. And a second undignified yelp.
The bark of his own laughter echoing back to Virgil from the huge windows was tempered with a pinch of concern at how easily the Terrible Two had been able to shift their older brother’s weight: at how little of that weight there was to shift. Gordon was strong for his size, sure, and Allie was starting to fill out, plus the loungers themselves were designed to be easy to move…still, the fact remained that it should have been harder. He would have been lying if he’d claimed not to have surreptitiously checked on how much the Space Case had eaten since their big chat. Healthy portions of both pizza and pancakes had disappeared without prompting; enough to paint a coating of reassurance over Virgil’s concerns. Perhaps the problem truly was a lack of time to eat, and not an aversion after all? Either way, their resident redhead still managed to create a satisfying splash as he hit the surface in a tangle of gangly limbs.
He re-emerged considerably more gracefully, folding pale arms across the tiles and hanging in the water, glowering at the guilty heaps of giggles collapsed just out of reach. The wetness darkened both true and false hair colours into more subtle tones, and Virgil’s mental camera took a snapshot to sketch later: rude and unsettling though the dunk had been, John looked relaxed; as though the water had washed several layers of stress off him.
“Yeah, yeah – laugh it up.” One slim hand flicked a few futile drops in the blonds’ direction. “But you two had better watch your backs; that’s all I’m going to say. Especially you, Blobfish!”
Floating lazily, Virgil was at the wrong angle to see his middle brother’s face; yet he could hear the grin, and it provoked one of his own. As Scott offered a hand to pull John from the water, Gordon’s face creased even further.
“Ooooh, I am soooo scaaaared! You’re such a wimp you can’t even get yourself out of the pool!”
“I can - Scott’s just being a good brother.” One shove with his free arm, a pull from the eldest, and John rose out of the water…if not to the bait. “Besides, revenge won’t necessarily be physical.”
“Hah! Bring it on, you noodle.” The two youngest missed the widening of Scott’s eyes at how the water made John’s clothes cling to his near-skeletal frame, ribs clearly visible as undulations in the fabric, hip bones sharp. Fortunately (probably), their attention was drawn elsewhere: the Squid freezing, and gawping at the thin arm suddenly exposed. “What the he…”
“Gordon!” Scott’s tone was saturated with at least two flavours of warning.
“Whaaaaat?” Pure whine. “I was gonna say ‘heck’!”
“Sure you were.”
“I was. Stop trying to change the subject when Johnny’s got…”
“A tattoo!” Alan’s eager little face lit up as he edged closer, cornflower eyes skipping over John’s artwork. “Of the solar system? Can I see?” A small, pool-wrinkled finger reverently stroked the mini-Earth; John patient and tolerant of the touch from his fellow stargazer. “That is awesome!”
“No,” Gordon snorted hard enough that it must have been painful, “it’s full-on nerdy. And Dad’s gonna pitch a fit!”
“Nah,” Allie had moved on to Saturn’s rings, his enraptured gaze never leaving those planets. “He won’t even notice. He hasn’t spotted that broken door yet.”
Virgil felt a pang almost sharp enough to puncture his inflatable at the indifference in the Sprout’s reaction. How had a nine-year-old gotten so used to parental apathy? And wh…
Wait one second: broken door?! What have those two been getting up to? Do I actually want to know?
Scott scrubbed a hand down his face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Uh…yeah, totally joking, obviously.” Gordon’s nonchalance was entirely unconvincing, amber eyes darting. “Hahaha?”
It would appear that he was needed on land, so Virgil steadily kicked himself towards the steps to save his dignity. Why do I get the impression that this is going to end up being my problem to solve?
“It’s okay, though,” Alan had reached Neptune, right over his brother’s median cubital vein. “Vee can fix it. He’s an engineer, right?”
Aaand, there we go.
“Anyway,” the Fish took a tactical few steps back, “it’s Johnny’s bathroom door…”
“Hold on! That was you? I thought I must’ve been sleepwalking and tripped again…”
“…so Dad’ll probably never see it…”
“…and what were you even doing in my room, anyway?”
“...there’s no way he won’t spot that…” a nail coated in chipped olive pointed accusatorily at the fake tattoo “…eventually.”
Alan’s chlorine-wild hair tilted in concentration, peering more closely. “It’s not a proper one, though, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” Gordon risked the retribution to get a better look. “Hah! It isn’t! Oh my days, Jay: you drew on yourself? You’ve really lost the plot, dude!”
“Shut it, Flotsam, or I’ll tell Dad about my door.”
“And draw attention to that monstrosity? I don’t think so.”
“Ever heard of long sleeves? Or even just actually wearing clothes?”
Gordon waved dismissive fingers, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth; and even from the distance of the metal ladder, Virgil caught the sharp glint they all knew far too well, could hear the cogs turning. He wasn’t going to be disappointed. The Squid was warming up for the main event: the pun he’d known was coming since yesterday.
“Face it, Johnny Boy: you’re waaaayyyy too geeky to survive out in the real world…”
Brace for impact.
“…you can’t even tell Uranus from your elbow!”