Chapter Text
A fly buzzed lazily around the ceiling’s light fixture. Jack watched it loop in and out, over and under, futilely searching for the guidance of the sun. It was a lost, aimless thing, and Jack thought he felt a thread of kinship with it as he waited outside the door.
The school grounds had been transformed into a makeshift hospital amid the war, and as it was the closest to the port that the naval ship had harbored in, he and the rest of the boys were deposited here. It was smaller than Picton, and not as beautiful, perhaps, but they were met with more medical attention than the ship’s doctor could provide, and warm showers, beds, and food.
Jack was patched up in the various places where branches and rocks had scraped him, but he was in overall good health: no infections, no gaping wounds, no broken bones. A little thin and malnourished was all, and that was easily remedied. Already he had grown stronger on the porridges and broths brought to their bedsides, but he left any rations of meat untouched, as its slimy flesh garnered a sudden sickness in him.
He was given a room to share with the other older boys: Roger, Maurice, Ralph, the twins, and a few other hunters—choristers—but two private, specialized rooms were given to Piggy—Nicky—and Simon. They had both undergone surgical procedures and while it was deemed a miracle that they had clung to life until rescue came, they were both stable and expected to recover.
Jack wondered what would become of them all when the patients fully regained their consciousness. All was mum at the moment, with Ralph being the only real threat to their freedom, but he stayed far on his side of the room, and had affected the nervous air of a prey animal. Sam and Eric seemed the next likely to spill, but there was a shared sense among all the boys that the blame would be split evenly among them, any punishment collective.
The story went, as Maurice cleverly supplied to any questioning authority, that Simon had fainted atop a cliff and had fallen on the pointed sticks of the shelters below. The bites were weakly explained, with Maurice proclaiming that he had read somewhere that those suffering from syncope could be roused quickly if bitten. This was met with skeptical glances from medical staff, but they were not questioned further. It was a boy’s foolish misrememberance of facts. Nicky’s condition was simpler to explain: a large rock had simply come loose at the wrong time.
Jack was sure, at least for the moment, that they were all safe.
He lifted his head from the brick wall as the door beside him opened with a creak. Ralph stepped out and closed it quietly. When he noticed Jack he started, brown eyes wide, then narrowing with distrust.
“What are you doing out here?”
“That’s none of your business, is it?” Jack replied.
Ralph scrutinized him. “You’re going to see Simon, aren’t you? After what you did to him?” He shook his head slowly. “It’s your fault that he’s in there in the first place. What, going in there to finish what you’ve started?”
Anger and fear came to Jack quickly, but he affected coolness and authority as he said, “You’ll shut that blabbing mouth of yours if you know what’s best for you. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Ralph gave him one last, hard look before giving up and leaving him at Simon’s doorstep.
Jack snorted, feeling some satisfaction at having scared off the other boy after jealousy rose in his throat when he saw Ralph enter Simon’s room first. Now his own hand rested on the metal doorknob, and he hesitated. The nurse had told them all that Simon was awake more often and improving, though he might benefit from company if any of his “friends” wished to see him. Jack looked to the left and right of him before entering.
The room was small, but there was an open window that let in soft light and a summer breeze, and the side table beneath it held a pitcher of cool water and an empty glass. The bed was no more than a raggedy mattress on a rickety bedframe, but it was better, Jack supposed, than rough sand and scratchy palm fronds.
As he approached the bed, he saw Simon lying under white linen sheets, his head resting on a meager pillow. He wore no shirt or gown, but his torso was wrapped with bandages, and some blood seeped through in places. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes brushing his freckled cheeks. He looked clean, for the most part, but his dark hair was sweaty and unkempt, and there was a sickly scent about him like an injured animal.
Jack collapsed onto the bedside stool and stared solemnly at the boy he had nearly lost for good. His fingers twitched as he thought of taking Simon’s slender hand in his, and he did so tentatively. He stroked the bruised knuckles there before delicately, as if it were made of glass, daring to raise it to his lips.
Simon’s eyes fluttered open and he looked hazily from the ceiling to his hand at Jack’s mouth. Jack’s heart hammered and he lowered Simon’s hand, but he did not let go. He cleared his throat. “Hi,” he said lamely, and his voice cracked.
Those eyes of Simon’s, once so wide and seemingly full of the depth of all understanding, regarded him blearily. “Jack…?” he croaked.
“Simon, yes, it’s Jack,” Jack said softly. He squeezed Simon’s hand in both of his. It suddenly occurred to him that they had not really seen each other since that night. “You’re okay. We’re back home. Well, not exactly home, but… we’re not on the island any longer.”
“I know,” Simon replied distantly.
“Oh. Well, good.” When he had pictured this moment in his mind, Simon appeared a lot more talkative, a lot more excited to see him, relieved at Jack’s words that he was safe. He wondered if Ralph had beaten him to it. Now Jack looked around the room, trying to identify a change of topic. His eyes landed on the water pitcher. “Are you thirsty?”
Simon was quiet for a moment as he stared back up at the ceiling, considering. “A little,” he said.
Jack released his hand reluctantly, laying it gently upon the bed. He poured the water into the glass and passed it to Simon, who sat up and took it unsteadily in both hands and sipped.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Jack went on stiltedly. “Having fresh water like this again.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” His voice still had that far-away, musing tone, as if he were half-listening, half-dreaming, not quite sure of what was being said or heard.
“Simon,” Jack started. Now that he was really here, alone with Simon again, he wasn’t sure of what he had meant to say, if he had meant to say anything at all. An apology felt appropriate, but terribly flimsy no matter how his brain tried to piece one together. How does one apologize for such a thing, such an act of total brutality?
Simon looked at him expectantly, but seemed to feel that Jack was not going to follow the utterance of his name up with anything else. He sighed. “I’m awfully tired still. I think I shall sleep some more. Thank you for visiting, Jack.”
The simple words of gratitude made Jack’s heart sink even lower, as they were a clear dismissal. He stood, feeling numb throughout his body and unsure if his legs were really beneath him. “Of course…” was the only thing he could manage to push out, and he departed the room with a heaviness in his chest and a sinking feeling that there was no one in the entire world who could make it lighter.