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The navy blue sky is littered with stars.
Ralph, his crumpled and slightly damp uniform lazily thrown on, sits on the beach, face angled upwards. He sighs, breathing in the cooler air. While the heat is still very much present, it has significantly dulled since the sun has set, to the point where he almost wishes for a cover other than his loose uniform blazer.
A few hours before, the littler ones had taken Jack’s choir’s robes for a fantastical game of pretend, some continuation of that game still being heard now, in the form of yells and giggles from the other half of the sandy strip. He had instructed them strictly to stay away from the raging fire further up the island—a few hours ago, he and Simon had slightly kept the flames at bay using a few coconut shells and sand (“Sand smothers flames, right?” “Hell if I know.”), but for the most part, they did indeed have to simply let it burn out. No one doubts the obvious danger, and, as the newly christened chief, Ralph doesn’t want anybody to get wounded. He doesn't think that they can cobble together any decent medical assistance on this island, so it would be better to simply avoid those types of situations all together.
Some of the older children, none of them as close to age as Ralph or Jack, are sitting near to Ralph as well, laughing and chatting with each other—though he currently has no interest into the words they’re speaking to each other, instead choosing to lose himself in his own thoughts.
He looks up, seeing the sheer masses of stars lining the sky. Here, away from lights and man, the stars shine unobstructed and plentiful among the darkness. He wonders about rescue, and about his dad— is this the same sky he sees when he’s at sea?
Like the stars, the adrenaline-filled children, now uninhibited by an enforced bedtime, gleefully stay awake without a single thought of remorse. Strangely, Ralph wonders what time it is, maybe around midnight, if the sun had set at seven. It seems that no one has been fortunate enough to have brought a watch with them—the exact telling of time seems like an aspect of life that they will simply learn how to live without.
Ralph glances back, seeing curls of smoke rising from the forest, then quickly swallows and turns back to the sea. You got your small fire all right, someone inside of him says, and the hot guilt fills his chest. Of course, he's only been stuck on this island for a day, and he's already managed to mess things up. In an effort to find distraction, he thinks of the other children stranded— the one with the birthmark? —and tries to mentally recite their names.
Sam, Eric...Roger? Max. No, Maurice. And where is—
He turns, suddenly, eyes searching and unfruitful. Piggy, assuaged by the promise of shelters to be built in the morning, is lying asleep on the soft sand a few yards away—but Ralph’s eyes gloss right over him, looking for someone more important and not immediately present.
“What's wrong?”
Ralph unconsciously smiles at Jack’s voice, worry placed out of his mind for that moment. He looks back towards the other boy, who—at some point—had sat down on the sand next to him, a dark choir robe halfheartedly wrapped around his legs.
“Nothing,” he says, simply, and it was true. “Just thinking.”
They are both silent for a moment, and Ralph stares at the faint horizon line. The salt wind is cooling, and the world, for just this second, is at peace. Without the strange, heat-hazed mirages of the morning, his head is clearer— does anybody truly know we’re here? Will rescue even come at all? What will happen if somebody gets sick, or somebody gets hurt? This island doesn't exactly have an A&E—
“You're worried.” Jack states suddenly, scaring Ralph out of contemplation, brow furrowed as he scrutinizes Ralph's expression. Ralph blushes and fidgets, uncomfortable under the intense gaze. “Why? This isn't about the fire, is it? Because that wasn't your—any of our—”
Ralph's breath hitches, and he frantically shakes his head, stopping Jack before he can continue further. “No! No, not... that. Just…”
He gesticulates out, at a loss for words, towards the ever-rhythmic waves, towards life and all that they know. Above them, ahead of them, behind them, stars flicker and shine, burning with the light of ten million lightning bugs—Ralph, through the tired, idyllic lenses of misunderstanding and naivety, subconsciously begins to imagine a war going on in the sky, fighter planes and guns shooting, fathers becoming heroes and mothers smiling —
“...oh.” Jack says, simply, shortly, glancing away. He must know, Ralph thinks, blinking away the fatigue-induced apparitions, of course Jack Merridew would know.
Jack laughs once, a strange hollow thing. His voice is forcibly casual, and incredibly hard to read. “Well, we’ll be rescued soon enough. And before that, we’re going to have fun. I’ll be...be able to stick a pig. So we’ll have meat. And there’s fresh water..so don’t worry.”
They both know very well that that was not what Ralph was referring to.
“I’m not worried about that.” Ralph swallows and mumbles, face burning at the admission. He takes a second to pause, and figure out how he should phrase his next statement. “I’m...worried about us. All us kids. I mean, we must be the eldests, and we’re both not even in the Upper School. Also, I’m... chief, you know, and...”
“—and I’m head boy. Of the... hunters, that is.” The word seems foreign to Jack’s vocabulary, yet is still uttered with reverence and underlying excitement. He looks back to Ralph, his eyes bright, an excited grin on his face. “And we’ll be able to keep all those littluns under control. No problem. Don't worry. We are going to have fun on this island— ”
Crunch. Crunch.
The sand behind Ralph shuffles, powdery grains moved by the immediate presence of a newcomer. Ralph swallows, annoyed for some unobvious reason, and turns his head, not sure what he’d find there.
Behind him, a dirty and slightly bloodied Simon lies on the ground, looking up, eyes tiredly dancing around the sky. It's obvious that he had gone exploring, and if Simon was a tad younger, didn't help him with the fire, and wasn't Jack’s friend, Ralph probably would have exerted his chiefly power to berate him for going to that side of the island.
After a beat, Simon seems to realize that they’re expecting him to say something. He rolls his head, sand getting caught in his dark locks. “Hi.”
“Hullo.” Ralph responds, with an almost-shrug, turning back to the ocean without a thought. Simon is strange, too quiet—still nice enough, he supposes, but he’s not the type of person Ralph would have been friends with back in England.
Not that England even exists anymore—
—Ralph shakes his head, naively clearing it of all misunderstanding.
He tunes back in to hear Jack whistle, sigh exaggeratedly, and amusedly throw a bit of sand at Simon. “Damn, Cambourne. Why are you so...” He waves a hand at Simon’s form and drifts off.
Oh—here is something he knows well, the friendly teasing of another. Ralph looks sideways and giggles, forcing Jack to finish. “What? ”
“...you know.” Jack, having been put on the spot, seems awkward. He seems to half-glare at Ralph before muttering, eloquently, “All...cut?”
Ralph resists the urge to laugh, and for a moment, the silence is awkward. Simon seems to be evaluating his options of response, and again, it seems like he is building up the courage to speak. Ralph gets the feeling that Simon doesn't usually talk all that much, for all his being in choir.
A younger child screams with glee, and the wind rustles the trees, green and untainted by human touch. Ralph hugs his arms, humor dissipating, suddenly feeling the unwelcome tendrils of dread come out of the silence, and searches for a grounding fact.
Then, a sudden sound of realization. Jack’s voice holds a strange, smothered undercurrent of jealousy. “Did you get a pig?”
Ralph grabs at the distraction and turns, scrutinizing Simon’s expression. Maybe he had misjudged the younger boy—there is fruit, and crabs, but a pig rationed well could likely last the group for days. “Well?”
Simon, inwardly retreating at the daunting expectations he is unable to fulfill, shakes his head and swallows. “Exploring. Forest.”
Jack, with maybe a hint of relief, nods sagely—all three of them understand very well the all-encompassing thrill of discovery. “Find anything good?”
Simon seems almost embarrassed, like he means to say something but stops at the last possible moment. “...nothing but more pigs. A-and I don't have a blade...so...” He adds a tacked on stammer, then a pause. When no one goes to speak over him, he continues, instilled by some newfound confidence. “Some of the creepers are really thick...we could...try to use them to make Piggy’s shelters.”
Jack rolls his eyes.
“Maybe,” Ralph hums contemplatively, glancing up at the dense, wild jungle. Its freedom is alluring, plants and animals free to live and grow as they wish. Without saying a word, he brushes off Simon’s suggestion almost immediately, and blinks multiple time in sequence, wondering if he should dare to ask. You got your small fire all right. “Was...was it easy to get... lost ?”
Exasperation. “Ralph, I told you—”
“I didn't go very far.” Simon cuts in, suddenly. He doesn't seem to notice anything about Jack’s tone, instead furtively standing up and looking towards the littluns across the strip. In this moonlight, his dark hair shines and reflects outwardly, creating a sort of halo wrung about his features—with a succinct glance at the other older boys sitting a bit further away, Ralph notes that Simon is the only one to be gifted with this strange phenomenon, and wonders how that has come to be.
Ralph hears Jack’s robe crinkle, and then a sharp, confused voice. “Where’re you going?”
“May I—” Simon says, on instinct, then snaps to attention. “...are you still head boy here, Merridew?”
“Yes!” Jack barks, and Ralph flinches. Unlike the leader of the hunters, Ralph wasn't ever the one in leadership positions, but he calls onto dim memories of loving fathers, and swim lessons, and a childhood spent at home, and a life before the war; Jack’s type—the loud, choir-prefect type—were usually the ones that Ralph tended to avoid when he first ended up at boarding school a few years ago, but, looking at the dim red hair of another who knows his own mind, he is quickly questioning his motives in that regard.
“I’m chief,” he says simply, but it is enough.
Jack falters at Ralph’s succinct response. He is silent, with a guarded expression, as if he is trying to silently figure out something that the two other boys are not privy to.
Simon shuffles the sand.
“...I suppose not, then, Simon— ” The name feels out of place on Jack’s tongue, as he tries out the new label for the younger boy. “...you can go.”
They stare at each other for a moment, and Ralph tilts his head, trying to decipher the strange nonverbal communication between the two others. He hadn’t noticed this—this almost-tenseness—during that first exploration, but there was also a very likely chance that he was more-than-a-little distracted with all the rocks and all the happiness. A smile unwittingly comes to his lips at the fresh and free memory.
“Thanks... Jack.” Simon says, questioningly, as a way of response. He seems to have a thought, then dismisses it, and begins to stalk towards the littluns. Over the years, the soft sand has been weathered into disproportionate mounds on the strip, causing the younger boy to nearly trip as he tries to quickly make his way down the beach.
Ralph watches him go, eyes struggling to follow his blurry shape in the darkness. Behind him, much closer to the crackling jungle, he hears someone (Robert? Maurice?) start to laugh, talking about last week’s rugby game—which Ralph’s school had totally crushed, by the way—
“He’s weird .” Jack mutters, and it takes Ralph a moment to realize that he’s talking about Simon and not about Bedford or Harrow.
He pauses, and with all the tact of someone who’s grown up with brute respect, dodges Jack’s statement. “How long have you known him, anyway?”
Jack doesn’t notice the change sudden change in topic, saying flippantly, “A couple years now. Maybe more, except I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the choir until I became chapter chorister—“
“Oh.” Ralph cuts in, not exactly wanting to hear about Jack’s personal opinions of his choir right now. “And he fainted during…”
“All of it.” Jack makes a grand gesticulation, eyes lost in memories. “Everywhere. All. The headmaster started to expect it, too, and he would always blame me when Simon fainted, which you can probably tell is so irrational—”
“He seems nice.” Ralph says, with an air of finality, and Jack looks left and awkwardly falls silent.
With no further desire to continue the conversation, he seeks a respite in the waters. The moon is shining bright, light glimmering off the waves—look further, and there is that endless expanse, the miles of division, and—
“Are you cold?” Jack’s voice holds a twinge of concern.
At his words, Ralph jerks himself out of his strange vision, noticing how he has begun to shiver and hug himself again. That endless pit of despair, accentuated with the quick, nervous beating of his heart, makes him feel empty and hopeless—and he breathes deeply, attempting to calm himself down.
In. Out. With the waves.
“No,” he says, eventually, and it is true.
(Ralph finds that certain things change when he's around Jack, not his ability or tendency to lie, per say, but something unexplainable, something different entirely.)
In an effort to show how okay he is, he makes a point to unclench his subconsciously tightened muscles.
Nevertheless, in a grand show of heroism, Jack unwraps his choir robe from his legs, somehow manages to scoot closer to Ralph, and gently drapes it over the both of them. He smiles at the dark cloth. “There.”
Ralph suddenly feels very warm, and, though he didn't ask for this unnecessary kindness, he smiles at Jack, as a gesture of thanks, and settles into this strange feeling comfortably.
“...you don't see a sky like that in England.” Jack says quietly.
Ralph sees Jack looking up, and, too, glances up to the sky with a questioning look. Again, the stars spilled about the sky. “I guess not. But it's there, isn't it? Always there—like the scientists say. Civilization and people and lights cover the stars up, but that doesn't mean they're not there.”
“True.” Jack hums contemplatively. “But out here, it all shines through, without being covered up. Is it...because of the island? Or because...” There is some deeper meaning to his voice, as he looks to the wide expanse of space, thinking out loud and drifting off.
“I dunno,” Ralph whispers, eyelids drooping, deciding that these complex truths can wait until the morning.
Again, there is silence. The other biguns seem to have tired somewhat, quieting down their conversations.
“It's going to be fine, Ralph,” Jack says, startling the other. However, he doesn't seem to notice, eyes glossed over in thought, facing the ocean. “The only thing we have to be scared of on this island is ourselves.”
Ourselves.
And for just this strange, blessed moment—Ralph suddenly gets the feeling that it will all turn out fine.
Their plane is crashed, their uniforms are dirty, they have no way of knowing if they will ever be rescued from this Icarus’s paradise. And none of that is okay.
But he, Ralph, is.
And even though the fear and smoke creeps out of the jungle and encroaches round his heart, he is sitting next to a friend—both of them now smiling, flushed, at each other, a choir robe shared between them, two quieted boys simply understanding the future they are forced to face together. The fire is burning and the waterfalls are falling. There are littluns playing on the beach, a dark-haired and haloed boy playing with them, too. There are other biguns sitting behind them, talking to each other, excited and decidedly not afraid. There is a kid with ass-mar and an early bedtime sleeping to their left, the conch lying next to him, glittering in the light of a thousand suns.
And maybe that is okay.
And if that is, maybe it all will be, too.
Ralph, unburdened with this newfound knowledge, laughs lightly and, in a moment of absentmindedness, softly rests his head on Jack’s shoulder. Jack, with a quiet noise, suddenly stiffens, then relaxes just as quickly, seeming to resign himself to his new fate with a sigh.
If you might’ve seen them both, on this day, on this hour, you would have guessed that they—with their eyes struggling to keep awake, trained intently towards the distance—were keeping lookout for a ship, or searching and waiting for an airplane to whisk them back home.
But, unfortunately, you would be mistaken.
The drumroll of the fire has quieted somewhat, the constant movement of ocean waves soothing the ear and relaxing the mind.
Just for this moment, unbeknownst to the horrors to come, they are just two children attempting to cling to what they didn’t know they needed, two children avoiding eye contact and sharing a school-issued choir robe as a blanket, two children trying to keep away the strange and sudden cold.
Just for this moment, they allow themselves to simply be.
“We’ll get back all right, won't we, Jack?” Ralph murmurs drowsily, fighting off the growing urge to sleep.
The littluns have started to sit down, courtesy of Simon, who is steering them closer to the rest of the group. Ralph closes his eyes against this new noise of stomping and complaining toddlers, devoting himself wholly to the boy next to him and that dark mystery they call the future.
“Of course.” Jack answers quietly, with a yawn, and Ralph smiles. He rolls his head up, and Jack, feeling the sudden shift in weight, looks towards the sky as well.
Two children. Two boys, playing games—but for now, they let themselves be.
Be. Being, not thinking, feeling, not worrying.
For this night, they simply trust, in the power of fate, in the power of each other—their eyes trained up, forever, watching the movement of the stars in the sky.
We’ll get back all right.