This was meant to be the beginning of a longer piece, but I think it can be a vignette for now.
I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.
All Virgil had wanted was to ask John a question, but when he had entered his older brother's room and observed the scene being played out on the balcony, he had quickly decided that his question could wait. He had grabbed some paper and a pencil from John's desk, then sat down on the edge of John's bed and began sketching.
Almost without a conscious decision, he'd roughly outlined a series of squares across the paper, like a comic strip. In the center of every square, John stood in exactly the same position, still and serene, leaning forward against the balcony railing as he surveyed the distant horizon.
Along the outer edges of each square, though, a lithe, liquid, dynamic figure danced – Gordon, his movements the picture of persuasion. Sometimes Gordon's cartoon self wouldn't even stay in the penciled-in boxes on the page.
It was a case of Gordon's waves of passionate fanaticism crashing against John's stolid wall of inexorability, and it was anyone's guess as to who would win.
"Waves" was a good word to describe Gordon's arguments, Virgil reflected – his younger brother's words had a certain rhythm to them not unlike the distant crashing of the ocean's rollers on the beach. Gordon was basically saying the same thing over and over, simply couching the facts in slightly different terms each time he charged in with his cyclical argument.
Perhaps erosion was Gordon's technique, then, Virgil mused – no matter how strong the wall, enough waves will eventually break it down.
As if in confirmation of this theory, John chose that moment to straighten from his position at the railing where he'd been leaning for the past ten minutes. He turned toward Gordon. His expression stayed the same, but there was a twinkle in his eyes somewhere between amusement and annoyance.
"Gordon," he said calmly. "No matter how many different ways you phrase it, you are never going to convince me that the ocean is friendly."
Gordon sputtered indignantly and opened his mouth.
John forestalled the renewal of the one-sided argument by raising a hand. "But," he said, "I will consent to go snorkeling with you." He quirked an eyebrow at Gordon. "That's all you really want from me, right?"
Gordon grinned sheepishly. "Um, yes?"
John let out a long sigh. "Next time, I'd rather you just asked me directly," he said. "All right, let's get this over with. Virg, you coming?"
Virgil looked up from his sketches. "I'll sit in the boat," he said.
John paused next to Virgil and glanced down at the cartoonish illustrations. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Can I have that?" he asked.
Virgil slid the paper off the top of the stack in his hand and let it waft down onto John's bed. "All yours," he said.
Gordon danced impatiently near the door, practically vibrating with excited energy as he bounced up on the balls of his feet. "You're gonna love this, Johnny!" he exclaimed.
John rolled his eyes. "This isn't my first time going swimming in the ocean, Gordon," he muttered. He fished through his dresser and finally found a pair of swimming trunks shoved all the way in the back of the bottom drawer. "And don't call me Johnny."