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“do you ever miss home?”
jack looked at ralph like he was crazy. “are you seriously asking me that? of course I miss home. i’m not crazy.” he kicks ralph’s leg, but the other boy doesn’t acknowledge him. ralph looks out at the shoreline from their spot on the beach, sand infecting every crevice of their body.
“i just thought you might like hunting pigs on the island more than singing with your choir back in england.” ralph offers after a moment. his eyes slide from the ocean to jack’s face.
jack lets out an exasperated sigh. “i’m just trying to get us meat. don’t you miss it? aren’t you tired of just eating berries?”
“the littluns seem pleased eating the berries.” ralph absentmindedly drags his finger through the sand, making small curves. jack follows his movements. he notices how the blond’s hand shakes slightly.
“they’re kids. they don’t know what they want. but they’ll want meat eventually. you will, too.”
there’s a beat. then ralph whispers. “boys armed with sticks.”
jack tenses.
“what was that?” he asks, not quite angry. not quite calm, either.
ralph’s voice is low. “i think i liked you better when you were head chorister.”
jack frowns, feeling the sand brush over his buried legs. “i’m sorry that i’m not sitting around doing nothing, aimlessly waiting for help.”
ralph doesn’t flinch. “no, you just play war, instead.”
the pale moonlight casts a strange, shadowy glow over the island, painting ralph’s face with quiet sorrow.
the two stare at each other, unable to say anything else. jack looks away first. ralph stretches, leaning back until his back reaches the cold sand. his chest rises and falls steadily, eyes on the stars, counting them.
jack shifts; their legs bump slightly, but neither pull away. they listen to the soft sounds of the ocean, eyes closed, thinking of home.
and for a brief second, the island seemed a little less cruel.