A/N: This story was originally written for Elsa Jay as a thank-you for posting the 100th review to my story, Last to Know. That story wil not be making a re-appearance, just this one, In Memoriam and the song parody I Wish I Was Tin-Tin. Eventually I'm hoping for a retun to actually managing to write more stuff, but for now just the stories that have remained closest to my heart will be coming back. I'm proud of these few, and this story in particular is especially precious to me because of a beautiful review from Thunderbird5 the first time I posted it. I really hope you enjoy it - although I admit I'm not a drama writer by any stretch of the imagination!
Disclaimer: I still don't own the Tracys. Gutted. Although in this instance I'm borrowing Virgil. I don't ruffle him too much, I promise.
Sunrise
He would stop painting when he could perfectly capture a sunrise.
Virgil Tracy's love of the arts was legend. Brains was forever calling him a complex guy. He could sit at a piano and improvise a plaintive melody that would bring tears to your eyes, or bash out a jazzy riff that would have you up and dancing before your brain had chance to register that your feet were moving.
He also loved painting. He liked pushing himself artistically, trying to paint in varying styles, just to see if he could do it. He would happily while away the hours sketching a landscape, or occasionally drawing cartoons of his brothers in varying poses. Scott's personal favourite was one of Alan in his white monogrammed jumpsuit, sweating profusely, his face red, his lower lip jutting out in the most spectacular brat pout, and clouds of steam emanating from his ears. It made Scott laugh every time he looked at it, no matter what mood he was in.
If anyone asked him, Virgil would say that he loved painting every bit as much as he loved playing the piano. He could never choose between the two. Deep down, however, he knew that he would happily give up playing the piano if it meant he could paint. He could play; he was so proficient he could play professionally if he so desired. Playing made him happy - but painting was the thing that made him get up in the morning. He still had something special that he needed to achieve. He would never stop trying until he'd perfected it.
He would stop painting when he could perfectly capture a sunrise.
Virgil had the sleeping habits of a cat. A big cat, like a lion. He would happily sleep for the best part of twenty-two hours a day and only wake up for meals. This habit had started in his early teenage years, when he went through an unprecedented growth spurt that saw him grow from five foot two to five foot ten in less than six months. His grandmother and father, for once, agreed with each other - all that growing up must have taken it out of him. He eventually reached a plateau in height at just over six feet, but his love of sleep never left him. Except, of course, at sunrise.
In the late summer, when the sun decided to rise after six o'clock, Virgil could often be found, sat cross-legged on the seashore, sketchbook in hand, as he tried to figure out which colours were in a sunrise. After all, he told himself, getting up in the early summer to paint a sunrise was for a far more dedicated art student than he would ever be.
No two sunrises were ever the same. That's what Virgil most loved about them. He wondered every morning which sunrise he would be greeted with. Sometimes they were the blue and yellow sunrises, where the contrast between the colours seemed so vibrant and yet still the skill in the blending together of the blues, yellows, reds and oranges confounded him. He had strived for years to try and blend red and blue together for his sunsets without getting purple, and had failed miserably every time. The sunrise blended those colours perfectly by itself, morning after morning, with no effort. It intrigued, mystified and frustrated him all at the same time.
Photography was too instant for his liking, yet he had to admit that photography managed to capture the colours of the sunrise better than his paintbrush could. Although, as he sat on the beach, watching as the colours swirled and moved continuously, almost imperceptibly, he knew that not even a photograph could capture the emotion, the wonder, the magic of witnessing a sunrise. That was why he painted. There was only so much feeling you could pass on through the click of a button - if he wanted people to feel something of the emotion he felt when he saw the sunrise, he knew he had to put in the time and the effort. Much like writing a good story, he reflected. He was sure that none of the books he had ever read just happened by chance. Not even the little ones. Sometimes he felt that perhaps the shorter stories were the ones that took more work, more fine-tuning, more pruning to get to the bones and marrow of the tale.
His favourite sunrises were the purple and silver ones. They looked like a girl's birthday cake, all delicate, wistful and romantic, with sugary swirls of cloud rippling through the colour scheme, adding texture to the scene, dappling the sky, shielding his vision from the radiant white light that dazzled from behind the cloud. The colour changes from lilac to silver to white were more subtle than the yellow and blue sunrises, but nonetheless frustratingly technical and so delicately blended that a human touch could never get the balance right. He understood completely why so many artists over the centuries had lost their minds over attempting to replicate the perfection in nature.
Virgil wasn't a religious man. He had never been brought up to believe or disbelieve in a God, or a Supreme Force, or Higher Intelligence, or anything like that. He was brought up by the widowed astronaut son of a Kansan farmer, a man who could no longer believe in a God. Virgil had, not long after his mother had died, once seen his father sat by an open window one night, glaring up at the stars with venomous hatred.
"If you were really there, she'd still be here. What kind of a heartless sonofabitch takes a mother from her children?" he had growled. Virgil's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He thought the only person in his family who ever swore was Scott. He had quietly tiptoed towards his father and slipped his hand through his, squeezing it gently.
"Who are you talking to, Dad?" he asked. Jeff looked down at him and released his hand from Virgil's grasp just long enough to scoop him up into his strong, safe arms.
"Nobody, son. Nobody," he replied, sadly.
That was the last time a God of any description was mentioned in the Tracy household.
Privately, although Virgil didn't know what he believed in - if anything - his frequent pauses to marvel over the beauty of a sunrise convinced him more and more that there had to be some sort of Something out there. Those sunrises didn't just happen. Someone had to put them there. They were perfect in their own beautiful and unique way. As individual and beautiful as a snowflake or a fingerprint.
Somehow, the unreachable transience of the sunrises made him feel closer to his mother. As though she waited for him every morning, for a few precious minutes together, just the two of them. He would see the benign, gentle beauty that he remembered so clearly in her face, reflected in the perfect, immeasurable blending of the colours around the sun itself. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the rising sun signalled that the whole world was coming to life - just as it did when she used to smile at him. His heart and soul basked in the love of the warm and gentle rays of sunshine that tenderly caressed his skin, the same way that he felt when his mother wrapped him in her arms and cuddled him. The beauty and perfection, the gradual yet overwhelming assault on all his senses never failed to bring a tear to his eyes.
It was the only time he felt he was so close to her he could almost touch her again. So, although he knew that the day would never come when he would ever manage to paint the perfect sunrise, he didn't care. He would always have those precious minutes, alone with his art, his memories and his unyielding love for his mother. He would never give up painting a sunrise. If he did, he was afraid that he would lose her forever.
THE END