Virgil

Virgil doesn't do space. There's something about the vastness of the expanse of nothing that sets his teeth on edge. Of course, John would argue that it's not full of nothing. At best, it's filled with the swirling ice of comet trails, with dust and neutrinos and radiation. At worst, even a cubic metre of vacuum has a few hydrogen and helium atoms floating around in it. But that's John-speak. To Virgil, if it looks like nothing, then it is nothing. And that is a terrifying thought.

Never being one to take unnecessary risks, Virgil avoids space at all costs. It's not fear; it's logic. You don't go to dangerous places unless you have to. And if course, he won't hesitate if he has to. If there's a life in danger, he'll set aside his worries. They no longer matter. They pale like fading photographs beside the red hot risk to life. In those moments, Virgil fears nothing but his own inaction.

And so, one Wednesday, around 3pm, he calls down the space elevator. Because it's come to that. His brother's being stubborn and thus, it's time to act.

The elevator's whiteness is empty. His thick-soled boots clank on the deck plating as he steps in. The restraints are tight around his broad shoulders, since they're normally reserved for his slight redhead sibling. Too slight. Too thin. Too pale. Not enough real food and real sunshine.

Not enough sense.

So Virgil puts away his thoughts about the unending expanse of solitary death around him and ascends. Up to the heavens. Then beyond. Out into John's empty realm.

The vibrations unnerve Virgil more than he'd ever admit. They shudder and jolt him to his core, setting his stomach at an angle. It's not sickness. It's not fear. It's a lopsided unease, a sensation that man isn't supposed to trust his life to nanofiber cable and artificial atmosphere. As he rides the thin thread, climbing up through the blue to the navy to the black, Virgil wonders what their father would say to that. The man who spent more time on the moon than on Earth for so many months of so many years.

Virgil has always been more of his mother's son. He favours her colouring, sable hair and eyes of darkest brown. He has her long pianist's fingers. He has her gentleness of touch. Her sweetness. Her joy.

John is very much cut from the cloth of their father. He's a workaholic, revelling when his roots are deep in reports and comms. chatter. He loves to ask questions. Why? Why not? Those are his favourites. They were Jeff's favourites, too.

But Virgil has enough of their father in his makeup. He has Jeff Tracy's uncanny knack of knowing when someone needs a good knock to the head to let sense reign again. That's why he's doing this. That's why he's here. And when he docks, he lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The exhale is long, controlled. And then he heads into Five.

John isn't waiting for him. Because John's doing fifteen thousand things at once. And that's the problem, as not one of those things is related to looking after his own health. Virgil sees flashes of medical readouts, information gathered from the fingerprints of bio-circuitry on John's body. He grits his teeth. It's not good.

Virgil finds his quarry in the galley, a digital report in one hand and a space-safe container of dehydrated fruit in the other (dust removed, of course).

"Virgil," John says. "What can I do for you?"

There's no surprise in his tone. You can't sneak onto Five. Not from the elevator, anyway. Still, Virgil expected at least an eyebrow raise at his presence. At this moment, he's barely getting a glance. It's not rudeness. It's just John and the conundrum of his one-track mind and multiple focus - all of which is on work and none on himself.

Virgil feels sweat bead on his brow. It's not heat. It can't be. Five is always steady, its artificial air held at sixty seven Fahrenheit exactly. No, it's not heat. It's worry. Not about what he's about to say. Rather, about what the reaction to his words might be.

He breathes in again, slow and controlled. He reaches out and pushes the tablet computer down with those pianist's fingers - fingers just like their mother's.

"John," he says. He catches his brother's eyes now. "It's time to come home."

Blinking, John sets down the container. Its parched contents rattle.

"Why?" he asks.

Of course he does. It's one of his favourite questions. Just like their dad.

Virgil comes back with a gentle truth because that's what their mother taught him to do.

"You've fallen below sixty-three kilos again," he says. "I've been keeping tabs. It's time to come home."

John blinks at the news as if it has stunned him. His hands, now bereft of the comfort of work, go to his stomach. His fingers settle on the blue fabric of his suit. They trace a hesitant path around the pattern of hexagons.

"Really?" he asks, pointed red brows pulling together. "I hadn't noticed."

Nodding, Virgil reaches out. He plants a hand on his brother's shoulder. He can't feel John's bones but he knows they're there, covered by a meagre film of paper skin.

Of course he hadn't realised. Virgil can't even tell now. John's suit has swaddled him in shadow. It's padded in some places. It's thickened by biometrics in others. From his swan neck to his sinewed fingers and toes, John's covered up.

But Virgil knows what's under there: pneumatized bones and atrophied muscles. John's not just lacking in fat. He's lacking in density. It's times like this that when his feet hit the ground, his face follows soon after. At least, it does if Virgil's not there.

Of course, Virgil is there. He's standing amidst the great expanse of nothing that isn't nothing. He's facing a brother who's fine but not fine.

John blinks again. He swallows. Then he nods.

"Okay," he says.

Virgil doesn't grin. There's no cause for celebration yet. He won't declare victory for another twenty-seven pounds.

But he does smile when John starts the reroute procedure. He's sending control of comms. to the island but, more crucially for Virgil, he's preparing himself for Earth.

And it will be a bumpy landing. It always is.