Chapter Text
Maurice barely got the bathroom door shut before he gagged violently.
His shoulder slammed against the sink as another retch tore through him, sharp enough to leave his ribs aching. Nothing came up at first, just spit and the awful burning tightness clawing up his throat.
He coughed again, his eyes watering instantly.
“Christ—”
Something suddenly caught in the back of his throat, causing Maurice to freeze.
For one terrible second he thought he was choking. He bent over the sink hard, gripping at the porcelain and coughing violently as panic flared hot through his chest. The feeling refused to go away, soft and wrong somewhere deep inside him.
Then it finally came loose. Something small landed into the sink basin with a wet sound. Maurice stared down at it.
A white flower petal. A faint streak of blood stained one edge of it pink.
The bathroom light buzzed quietly overhead as rain tapped against the window beside him. Maurice blinked hard at the petal like it might suddenly turn into something normal if he looked long enough.
“What the fuck…?” His voice came out thin and breathless, bewildered.
Another cough seized through him before he could think further. Pain tore sharply through his chest this time, deep enough to make him fold over the sink again. Two more petals slipped from his mouth. Maurice jerked backward instantly, pulse hammering.
No.
No, no, no.
With shaking fingers, he picked one up. It felt real. Soft against his skin.
Flower petals. He was coughing up flower petals.
A cold wave of panic crawled down his spine. His eyes darted to the mirror. Pale face. Exhausted eyes. Sweat dampening his hairline. He had already looked half-dead after the island, but this was something else. Something wrong.
Another tight ache twisted through his ribs and Maurice slapped a hand over his mouth as another cough escaped him. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, a small fleck of blood had stained his palm. His breathing turned shallow immediately. The petals remained scattered in the sink beneath the harsh yellow light while fear settled heavy and cold in Maurice’s chest.
The door handle rattled sharply, breaking the tense silence of the bathroom. A heavy thump hit the wood, followed by Roger’s familiar voice from the corridor outside.
“Maurice? You in there? You’ve been ages.”
The rattling came again, more insistent. Maurice could picture him leaning against the doorframe, impatient.
“Hurry up, will you? Jack’s waiting. He wants to talk about… you know. The memorial thing.”
Maurice moved fast.
“Just a minute!” he called, moving over to grab a piece of toilet tissue to gather all the petals in.
His fingers shook as he gathered the damp fragments from the sink, crumpling them into a tight wad before forcing them deep into his trouser pocket. A faint pink smear clung to the porcelain basin. He wiped at it quickly with his sleeve, heart pounding in his chest, not unlike the way Roger was knocking on the door.
As if mocking him, the door rattled again, harder this time.
“Maurice,” Roger’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Open the bloody door. Jack’s pacing. You know how he gets.”
“I’m coming,” Maurice said quickly, dragging his sleeve across his mouth and turning the tap on just long enough to cover up the way his breath sounded. He opened the door before Roger could rattle it again.
Roger stood in the frame, broad shoulders filling most of the hallway light. His eyes flicked over Maurice once, sharp and assessing, then past him into the bathroom. They paused on the sink.
“Yeah,” Roger muttered, stepping back. “Pull yourself together. He’s in a state. Kept muttering about Simon.” Roger looked behind him quickly before looking back at Maurice. “He’s been asking for you. Specifically.”
Maurice swallowed.
“Right,” he said. “Well… we should go then.”
Another petal scratched faintly at the back of his throat. He forced it down with a swallow. Roger turned without replying and started down the corridor. Their footsteps creaked along the hallway. Ahead of them, pacing echoed faintly from the sitting room, uneven and restless. He knew that it was Jack. Maurice’s chest tightened with every step closer.
Roger stopped at the doorway and glanced back.
“Just… watch what you say,” he muttered. “He’s not right today.”
Inside, Jack Merridew stood against the grimy window, rain streaking the glass behind him in slow lines. He turned the moment they entered, eyes locked onto Maurice immediately. He had been chewing his thumbnail again, skin raw at the edges, a habit that had started on the island and never left him.
“Where were you?” Jack asked sharply. “I’ve been waiting.”
Roger didn’t move from the doorway.
“He was in the lav,” he said flatly. “Told you.”
Maurice hesitated.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
The word felt wrong the second it left his mouth. Maurice's stomach twisted the second Jack looked at him. Not fear entirely. Something warmer. Sharper. The sort of feeling that settled low beneath his ribs and refused to leave no matter how hard he tried to crush it down.
Jack stood against the rain-streaked window like a storm cloud given shape, tense shoulders outlined by grey afternoon light. His pale fingers hovered near his mouth, the skin around his cuticles raw and angry. Maurice recalled noticing the state of them one night, when they were seated at the fire together. Back then, he never could have mentioned it to him without Jack clamming up. He found himself still unwilling to mention it now.
Maurice hated how immediately he noticed Jack’s quirks lately.
The relief that flashed briefly across Jack's face at seeing him made something sickeningly soft curl inside Maurice's chest. Lately it happened constantly, every glance lingering too long. An accidental touch in crowded hallways. Every quiet moment where Maurice caught himself remembering Jack wrong. Not the shouting, or the blood.
Instead Maurice remembered stupid things, like Jack pressing fruit into his hands without a word, sitting too close to him beside the fire at night, gripping his shoulder hard after nightmares neither of them ever acknowledged afterward. The feelings festered inside him like something alive… growing. Like a weed.
His chest suddenly ached.
Maurice swallowed hard against the nausea rising in his throat, panic flickering hot beneath his skin. For one terrible moment he could almost feel the softness of petals caught somewhere deep inside his lungs again.
Somehow, horrifyingly, every thought seemed to lead back to Jack.
The silence in the room stretched uncomfortably, thick enough to feel tangible. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, a soft, endless rhythm filling the spaces nobody else seemed willing to. The sitting room had gone dim beneath the grey afternoon sky, weak light filtering through the glass and casting long shadows across the carpet. It was a perfect setting for such a gloomy subject.
Jack hadn’t sat down once since Maurice had come in. He had been watching him without really realizing he was doing it, his eyes following the repetitive movement across the room. Jack’s shoes whispered against the carpet while nervous energy seemed to pour off him in waves. His hair had fallen untidily into his eyes from shoving his hands through it repeatedly. Back then, Jack had never seemed nervous about anything. Now he looked like a wire that was pulled too tight, a bowstring ready to snap.
Roger leaned against the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, strangely quiet, watching Jack with unreadable eyes. Suddenly Jack stopped, lifting his head. His eyes locked onto Maurice.
“We need to talk about the memorial.” His voice cut through the room sharply enough that Maurice straightened automatically.
“The headmaster wants a… statement. From me.”
Jack swallowed.
“About what happened. About Simon.”
The name settled over the room heavily, causing Maurice to shift uncomfortably where he stood. Nobody really said Simon’s name anymore. Teachers avoided it, boys at school lowered their voices around it. Conversations always seemed to twist around him instead of through him. Even Maurice found himself avoiding it because hearing Simon’s name still made something cold tighten inside his chest.
“Just…” Maurice rubbed damp palms against his trousers, “tell them it was an accident, Jack. That’s what it was.”
Jack stared at him for a moment, then something changed in his expression so suddenly Maurice nearly recoiled like he’d been struck.
“An accident?” Jack repeated quietly. His hand dropped from his mouth, fingers curling tightly into a fist. “Is that what you’d call it?”
He shook his head sharply.
“They were chanting, Maurice.” His voice cracked around the words.
“We were all chanting.” His eyes stayed fixed on Maurice. “You were there.”
Maurice flinched.
“I know!” The words escaped from his mouth too quickly. “But, really… the families…” He trailed off. Jack stared at him for another second, then he laughed. A small, sharp, awful sound, not because anything was funny.
“The families?” he repeated softly.
Rain rattled harder against the windows.
“You think I care about what the families want to hear?”
Something about him had changed. Maurice noticed it immediately. Jack’s breathing came out in short, uneven, shaky breaths.
“They want something neat. A tragedy.” Jack looked toward the rain-streaked glass. “They don’t want to know what it was really like.”
His voice lowered.
“What we…” His throat moved. “What I…”
Maurice stepped forward before thinking.
“You’re right, Jack,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Jack froze. He didn’t pull away, but his body went rigid beneath the touch all the same.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said quietly.
Then his eyes lifted back toward Maurice.
“Just don’t lie to me.”
The room fell quiet again. Roger shifted against the doorway. “They’re going to want an answer, Jack,” he said finally, his voice low and flat. “You can’t just ignore the headmaster.”
“I know that!”
Jack spun around so suddenly Maurice jumped.
His face had gone pale.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” he snapped.
Roger didn’t react. Jack dragged a hand violently through his hair again.
“I just…” His voice faltered. “I can’t…”
The anger seemed to leave him as quickly as it had arrived. He looked exhausted suddenly. His eyes drifted back toward Maurice again, lingering there with a strange sort of desperation that made Maurice’s chest tighten. Maurice shoved his hands into his pockets awkwardly.
“You won’t be alone.”
Jack blinked.
“I’ll be there,” Maurice said quietly. “And Roger, too.”
Jack stared at him. The frantic edge in his eyes seemed to soften slightly, giving way to something older. Something worn down and aching.
“Will you?” he asked after a moment.
His voice had gone quiet, almost a whisper.
“You’ll stand there while I…” He swallowed. “While I tell them it was an accident?”
Maurice nodded immediately.
“I’ll be right next to you.”
The softness in his own voice startled him a little. For a long moment Jack just looked at him. Outside, the rain softened against the windows, fading into a quieter patter. Some of the tension slowly drained from Jack’s shoulders, just enough to make him suddenly look younger, smaller somehow.
“Alright,” he said quietly.
His eyes never left Maurice.
“Alright, then.”
For a moment, Maurice forgot about the rain. Forgot about Roger leaning by the doorway, forgot about the memorial waiting for them, forgot all about the strange heaviness that had settled over all of their lives since coming home.
Jack was looking at him differently, not like a “chief” trying to hold himself together. Not like the boy who barked orders across beaches and forests.
Just Jack.
Just a frightened boy with tired eyes and bitten-down fingernails and shoulders that suddenly looked too heavy beneath his school jumper.
Something warm twisted low in Maurice's chest. The feeling is dangerously soft, because Jack almost never looked at him like that anymore. Maurice hated the way he wanted him to keep looking. The feeling barely had time to settle before pain suddenly scraped down the inside of his throat.
Maurice's expression faltered. It was sharper this time. Nothing like the dull ache from earlier, the strange tickle he'd tried to ignore in the bathroom. This felt like something dragging tiny thorns up the inside of his chest. His breath caught.
A wet little sound escaped him before he could stop it, almost a gurgle, and he quickly dropped his head, curling his shoulders inward. His hand moved instinctively toward his throat. The sensation shifted again.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Like petals brushing against the inside of his ribs, trying to climb their way higher. Maurice swallowed so hard that it hurt. Please not now. Not here.
Not in front of Jack.
Maurice turned away too quickly, as if the room itself had started to press too close around his ribs. He cleared his throat, but the sound came out wrong, thin and scraped. His eyes found Roger’s almost by accident, and he held them there because it was easier than looking back at Jack.
“Let’s just go then, yeah?” Maurice said, forcing something steadier into his voice. “Best not keep the headmaster waiting.”
Roger’s gaze sharpened, flicking over Maurice’s face, then past him to Jack still standing near the window like he’d been nailed there. That stare Jack had fixed on Maurice still hadn’t fully broken, all raw edges and exhaustion and something almost pleading that didn’t belong on him at all.
Roger pushed off the doorframe with a quiet exhale. “Right. Let’s go. Before he changes his mind.”
For a moment, Jack didn’t move. Rain slid down the window behind him in uneven trails, warping his reflection into something pale and unsteady. Then, slowly, he broke the stare. His attention drifted back to the glass as if it could offer him instructions the room refused to give. His fingers brushed once against his mouth, then fell away again, his hand curling tightly at his side.
He took a breath that seemed to catch halfway, like it didn’t know where to settle.
When they moved, it was without coordination or conversation, just the soft inevitability of three bodies leaving a room that had already changed shape around them. Roger walked first, shoulders squared out of habit more than confidence, footsteps heavy against the corridor floorboards. Jack followed a pace behind him, but not really with him, head slightly bowed now, hands buried deep in his pockets like he was holding himself together in there. Maurice trailed last, quieter still, his own steps careful in a way that felt almost apologetic.
The corridor felt longer than it should have, stretched thin by silence. Every few seconds Maurice became aware of his own breathing, the faint tightness gathering in his throat again, not pain exactly, but something unfamiliar enough to make him keep swallowing it down.
Up ahead, Roger glanced back once, just briefly, like he was checking they were still all attached to the same moment. Jack didn’t look up. Maurice didn’t either. And yet, between them, something stayed behind in that room.
Something unspoken, still warm, still trembling, like it hadn’t decided whether to break or become something else entirely.