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i.
The first time Maurice came to the dorm, he'd been preparing all sorts of sweets imaginable, as his mother said he should make good friends and kids like sweets. His father agreed, because it's good to have a good connection in a place where the wealthy are.
His roommate is the blondest boy Maurice ever met. His hair was a pale, almost startling gold, and he stood already in full uniform, neat to the point of severity. The corridor beyond teemed with parents lingering in embraces and farewells, yet this boy stood alone. His belongings, such as they were, scarcely filled the room.
Maurice was dimly aware of his parents speaking behind him, but their voices dulled and faded as he found himself fixed beneath a pair of eyes as blue and bright as open water. Still, he makes up the courage to stroll the room.
“Hello,” He said, a little awkward. “I’m Maurice, what's your name?”
The boy looked at him and his parents at the door back and forth before answering, “Merridew.”
Maurice waits and when Merridew doesn't say anything again about his first name he nods, digs into his pocket and pulls out a variant bar of chocolates.
“Would you like one?”
Merridew regarded him again with that same clear, measuring look, flicking once more toward the adults beyond the door. He seems to be thinking a bit, and when Maurice thought to pull in the chocolates back, the blond finally reached out to grab a bar.
“Thank you.”
Maurice is delightful.
ii.
It comes to no surprise that his roommate, Merridew, is some kind of rising star here in school. He's tall, and has a nice face. (Second only to Maurice, of course.)
The kids in the choir swarmed around him like flies. It was as everyone expected that he became head boy in no time, too. Since he can sing C sharp and all. Maurice is impressed.
Merridew feels like a distant, bright star. Even with their beds set no more than a few paces apart, Maurice often felt as though he observed him from a considerable distance, as if the space between them were larger than it ought to be.
Or so he thought.
That bright, blinding star is now sitting on top of his side of a bed, blue eyes piercing at him with a look a little too intimidating to Maurice liking, and he's thinking what small offence he might have committed to earn such attention.
“Aren’t you going to open that book anytime soon?”
Merridew gestured toward Hammond’s World Atlas––for their geography assignment––on Maurice's lap.
Maurice blinked. Unsure of what approach Merridew is making, because for all his brilliance, Merridew remained difficult to read.
“Mauri, are you listening?” Merridew urges and Maurice pretends his stomach didn't do something funny upon hearing the unusual name.
“Yes, of course. Would you— should we look at it together?”
Merridew didn't answer but he scoots closer and lets Maurice flip through the pages.
iii.
Merridew was among the first to return after the long vacs, along with a boy Maurice dimly recognised but could not name. A peculiar one.
He promised Merridew he would bring back a lot of bread and cookies, so he emptied the whole of it onto Merridew’s bed, scattering loaves and bunch of cookies, much to the other boy’s displeasure.
“Do you know you could feed ten families with this much food?”
“I mean to share it with the others later,” He said, proud of himself. “And you, Merridew, may take what you please, however much you like. That is a privilege I extend only to you.”
Merridew gave a short scoff, though there was a glimmer of amusement beneath it. Something rare enough that Maurice could not help but notice.
“How very generous, Maurice Evans,” he said lightly. “Shall I swear my undying devotion at once?”
He ignores the last bit. “No, but I would appreciate to know if I could write to you in the next vacs? My mother has asked after you rather often.”
At that, Merridew’s hand stilled among the biscuits. His blue eyes turned sidelong, sharp again, and something in his expression closed off, almost displeased. It put Maurice in mind, faintly, of that first meeting, when Merridew had hesitated so long before accepting the offered chocolate.
“Don’t bother.”
Maurice did not ask again.
iv.
“Should I ask Roger, do you think?”
“What for?”
“The group assignment. Doesn't that require two people?”
Merridew lay back again, stretching himself upon the bed, his damp fair hair fanned across the pillow. For a while he said nothing. Then, slowly, he turned his head once more, meeting Maurice’s gaze.
“If you wanted it to be Roger so bad, then ask him.”
There was an edge, almost bitter, that made Maurice frown. He could not place it, nor understand its cause. Merridew held his gaze a moment longer before turning away again. The dormitory lay dim in the late hour, yet Maurice could still picture those blue, wide, distant, and difficult to read gaze upon him.
What is that? What is that Merridew offers him, that he shall decipher?
“Have you found a partner?” Maurice asked after a moment.
“Not that it concerns you.”
Maurice shifted upon his bed, suddenly conscious of himself, awkward and ill-judged. It was obvious, really. Just as Henry had chosen Robert without a second thought, roommate and all, wouldn't it have been the natural arrangement for Maurice and Merridew to do the same?
“Would you mind being my partner then?”
Merridew did not look at him. “Aren’t you going to ask Roger?”
Maurice felt, absurdly, as though he might prefer to swallow dirt. “No—I believe he’s already taken. With Bill, I think.”
After that, there was nothing. Silence settled between them. Maurice called his name once, some minutes later, but received no answer, and at last resigned himself to seeking another partner come morning.
When he woke up, it was to the faint rustle of paper before his eyes. Merridew stood there, holding a sheet for him to see. Written neatly across it were their names: uninhabited islands and the laws that govern them by Jack Merridew & Maurice Evans.
v.
“I would take the window seat” Jack had said one week before their supposed departure.
Maurice did not ask what he meant. There seemed little point in it. There was an ease in letting Jack decide such things.
He allowed himself to be led about, Jack hauling their case and thrusting it into the boot. At breakfast, Maurice let him shift the vegetables from one plate to another, and listened while Jack spoke at length of the snacks Maurice meant to bring along. He let Jack wait by the roadside while he himself made some small adjustments in the car.
There were many such things. Maurice did not question them. It was simpler this way. Simpler, too, when the plane gave a sudden tremor that set his nerves on edge, to let Jack take his hand without remark, and to hear his voice easing him through it.
vi.
Jack was not crowned chief.
It made little sense. However one looked at it, Jack was the proper choice. Maurice caught Roger’s eye and saw the same thought.
Still, Jack doesn't say anything so as there's an unspoken rule between them, Maurice just follows him, one step behind.
Even when the fire took hold and ran wild, when the heat pressed close and the dry branches cracked beneath his feet as he stumbled down the hill, Maurice kept that distance. One step behind. So that if Jack should turn,
“There you are.”
Maurice grinned, though soot had begun to mark his bare chest in dark smudges. Jack let out a breath, his blond hair more disordered than Maurice had ever seen it, yet his eyes remained bright, startlingly so, even in the shifting light of the flames. It seemed almost a talent.
“Find Roger and make sure the choirs are all here.” Maurice didn't need to be told twice to bolt right away. See, an appropriate chief, he is.
vii.
“Come hunting with me.”
Maurice looked up from where he sat peeling mangoes. He nudged Roger beside him, who at once made to rise, but Jack frowned and lifted the newly sharpened spear in Maurice’s direction.
“I asked you, did I not?”
He and Roger exchange glances, both confused, knowing that for work like hunting, it was plainly Roger who was best suited. Maurice did not think himself unfit, exactly, but Roger was fitter. They all knew it. Still, Maurice got to his feet and caught the spear Jack tossed to him.
“I am not suited for it, if you’d rather—”
“Who decides that?” Jack cut in, already a pace ahead, his fair hair swept back in a way Maurice found familiar.
“You,” Maurice answered simply. Chief or not.
“Then get on with it.”
Maurice followed him into the trees without further protest. There seemed no use in questioning. If Jack had decided he was fit for it, then he must try to be so. It was easier, in any case.
They caught no pig that day. Their luck did not run that way. Jack said nothing of it.
“Don't pout like that,” Jack said as they made their way back to the camp. “The pig is fast, that's it. But we have you, aren't we, mr. perfect A in geography? Just memorize the pig escape route, and save that brain of yours until our next raid, Mauri.”
Maurice had an earnest laugh after a long time.
viii.
There was something almost majestic in it, the way that, despite the red that covered him, splashed across his skin and darkened his fair hair Jack’s eyes remained clear. Blue still, and bright, like something untouched beneath it all.
His heart was still beating fast, whether from the kill or something less certain, he could not say. They had taken the life of a sow and marked themselves with it. There ought to have been only a sense of it. A weight, perhaps, a kind of shame. Yet Maurice felt instead that strange tightness at his throat, and did not know whether it came from guilt, or from the way Jack’s eyes caught the sudden rain and seemed to shine all the more for it.
“I agreed with Mauri.” Jack’s glance found him and Maurice felt his stomach drop further still. He looked away at once, turning instead toward unsatisfied Roger.
They moved on after that, the sow slung between them as Maurice had suggested. The’re chanting, calling out, until it seemed that the island itself belonged to them. Or rather, to Jack. And they in turn felt themselves freed in a way they had not been before, until they flung themselves into the water as though it were some earned reward.
Maurice found a grey-brown furred vest and tossed it to Jack, keeping its pair, a scarf, for himself. Jack did not hesitate. He pulled it on at once over his bare shoulders and went on ahead, while Maurice wrapped the other about his neck.
If that same strange awkwardness came again, catching faintly in his throat, Maurice said nothing of it.
ix.
“I’ll be going with Jack’s tribe.”
He spoke after the silence that followed Jack’s fierce declaration. Maurice felt a measure of guilt that he had not gone at once, without hesitation, and that he had allowed himself even a moment to wonder whether Jack had been wrong.
He offered Ralph a small, apologetic smile. “He has been trying very hard to manage it all, Ralph. Perhaps it is our fault—the hunters’ I mean—as much as his. It is not quite fair, putting him in that position when he’s done his best, is it?”
He did not wait long for an answer. Turning, he made his way down the slope, following the path Jack had taken, hoping he had not gone too far ahead. For all Jack’s confidence, Maurice knew well enough how much of it rested upon itself, and how easily it might falter.
He had to check himself from breaking into a run, from letting a creeping unease take hold when no sign of Jack appeared at once. It eased only when he caught sight of pale gold among the leaves.
Maurice approached, eyes peeking Jack’s reflection on the water and felt to kick himself upon seeing how his Chief (yes, he could say it now) seems like right now.
“I thought this was supposed to be the fun camp?” he said lightly.
Jack turned, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at the sight of him. Not long after, Roger came crashing through, swinging and dropping into the water with little care.
There you are.
Jack did not say it. But Maurice knew it anyway.
x.
Jack and Ralph returned with nothing of use, and Maurice could not help but feel that he bore a part of the fault. His gaze moved between them, uneasy, before drifting back to the rock on the mountain where he had led them in search of the beast.
“Ralph wanted me to reprimand Maurice,” Jack said, as he walked a step ahead of the hunters.
Ralph looked taken aback. “What? I did not say that!”
“But unfortunately for him,” Jack went on, “no one but me decides what is to be done with my hunters. We’ll carry on. You remember, Mauri, the place the twins spoke of?
“Ah, yes.” Maurice nodded. He cast Ralph one last glance, still puzzled, then stepped closer to Jack, lowering his voice to murmur the directions, who was too close, he thinks, regaining his grip on his own spears.
Jack hums and leads the way and Maurice faintly remembers how Jack too has been all over this island all by himself, surely getting to the place Samneric talked about is easy for him too.
xi.
Maurice volunteered, as he always did, almost without thought. There was something in him that yielded easily, an instinct to be carried along wherever Jack chose to lead.
They climbed toward higher ground, the sky dimming gradually above them. Maurice glanced back once, catching a murmur of doubt among the others, whether they ought to go on or turn back. It struck him as faintly absurd.
“I’m not tired, Jack. We can go on,” he said.
Jack gave a small, satisfied smile, casting a glance toward Ralph as though to make some quiet point of it: of Maurice, and Roger too, and their obedience towards him.
“Always eager to do as you wish, aren’t they? Like dogs.”
Roger, beside him, gave a short scoff. Maurice found himself laughing, just a little, at the remark. There was something almost amusing in it.
Was that how it appeared, then?
He did not care much to argue it. Being called Jack’s dog did not seem so very bad.
xii.
The storm has passed leaving tree trunks scattered around castlerock. The sow they had opened for last night's party was left gouged and damp, covered in flies all over the gut. Maurice felt himself waking up with a light head, vaguely dreaming about their lavish party last night, so high on adrenaline could do that to a person.
People didn't really talk about it, they really don't talk at all actually. Now and then, the littluns could be heard crying quietly, keeping out of Roger’s reach. He was always sharper, somehow, upon waking up.
Maurice wandered a little and found Jack sitting apart, smoking from the scraps Roger had gathered.
“We should preparing for hunting again.”
Maurice sat beside him on one of the fallen trunks. “It isn’t quite good to keep eating meat so often, is it, Jack? We might leave it for a while. Let the piglets grow a bit, for our sake.”
Jack gave a low grunt, drawing on the cigarette before passing it over. Maurice took it, despite he’s making clear to Roger he doesn't smoke but who is he to reject what Jack wants?
It tastes too bitter and a bit like blood, probably from Jack’s lip. Maurice did not dwell on it too long.
“We must,” Jack said after a moment. “If we don’t, how else do we keep the beast away? A sacrifice has to be made, Mauri.”
Jack is looking far away to the ocean now. Maurice wants to argue, aren't they drown the beast already, last night? Is it not over then, to give the beast to the sea?
“Take me with you then,” Maurice said, “To go hunting.”
Jack turned to him with a look that bordered on disbelief, as though the answer were too obvious to warrant the asking.
“Who else would I take?”
Maurice wants to say Roger but his grins spread wide first and he shrugs, smugly. Of course it is him.
xii.
He managed, somehow, to catch Jack’s hand amidst the high, broken cries of the hunters. Their howling set a tremor through him, as though he had woken into something unreal and could not quite find his footing.
“Jack! You see what Roger did to Piggy— all of them, Jack! The hunters, that night… it's not the beast, is it? It was—”
“Maurice Evans.” Jack did not pull away, yet Maurice felt the contact burn where his hand closed about Jack’s wrist. “What is it you’re trying to confess?”
The words caught in his throat. Jack’s grip did not loosen, he shifted then, taking Maurice’s hand to his instead, more firmly. There was blood still, running in thin lines from where he had fought Ralph, dripping down toward their feet. His sharp, blue eyes cold in a way that made Maurice think, fleetingly, of the deep sea.
“Do you think I am in the wrong?”
“No— Jack! That, what Roger did—”
“And that was by my order.” Jack said. “Would you reprimand me, then? For giving the wrong order?”
Maurice found he could not answer. Behind Jack, a few of the hunters had gathered, their spears angled forward. The sight of them struck him and he felt, for a moment, as though he stood where the sow once had.
“Am I your chief or am I not?” Jack tilted his head and something in Maurice gave way. He thought, dimly, of the dormitory, of its close, ordinary warmth, and nodded.
That seemed enough. Jack released him then, his hand lifting to brush, almost absently, through Maurice’s hair, still stiff with dried blood.
xiii.
Jack pulled off the covering from his face and pushed back his dirt-streaked fair hair. It was not as bright as Maurice remembered. The blue of his eyes seemed dulled, drained of something, as the flames had taken hold. There was something almost theatrical in it: a kind of terrible display, with Jack at its centre, though it was Ralph they hunted.
Maurice found himself pulling a crooked wooden mask over his entire face. Not having the courage to look any further into the blue.
They walk opposite. Jack with Roger, and Maurice wondering about the littluns within the now almost engulfed mountain and thoughts for once, should he gather all the choirs and make sure they're out of there then? But his Chief had not ordered so.
xiv.
“Come then, we’ll get you home.”
There was an oasis present itself in front of him, in the form of a two beds room, a bunch of small globes and maps scattered about, and a bunch of cookie scraps scrunched up around the foot of the bed.
Maurice steps his foot forwards excitedly, for his home is present in front of him, and the yearn to drown himself in the warmth of the soft bed pulls him far.
Yet there was something holding him, and he wondered what is, to look back, annoyed that it withheld him out of his home.
Blue eyes meet his and home is suddenly so far away on both of his sides.
xv.
Maurice held out the crumpled piece of chocolate, keeping it there longer than he meant to, as though uncertain whether to offer it at all.
“Would you like some chocolate?” he said at last. “The officer said it was good for us. It’s been a while since we’ve had any, hasn’t it?”
The fair curls at the boy’s temple were still damp. He had said very little since they boarded, keeping his head lowered. Even now there was space about him, as though left there on purpose, no one close, not even Roger.
Maurice’s arm began to ache, yet he did not withdraw it. He held on, stubbornly, until his hand trembled. Then, at last, the blond boy relented and took the chocolate from his palm.
Maurice watched for a moment. There was nothing but the quiet sound of chewing. He lowered himself beside him without invitation. The other boy cast him a brief, questioning look, but said nothing to send him away.
“We’re going home,” Maurice began, simply to fill the silence. “You’re glad of it, aren’t you?”
There was no reply. Still, he went on: speaking of small things. The cold of the water he had touched from the deck, the twins attempting some foolish trick with the littluns and being scolded for it, Roger asleep almost since they arrived, Ralph already on easy terms with one of the officers.
“Evans.” The voice was rough, worn thin with use. “What is it you want?”
What did he want?
“Come to my house for the long vacs.” he said, the words arriving before he had properly considered them.
There's a beat and Maurice has prepared himself for yet another rejection.
“Okay.”
He turned so quickly he felt the jolt of it through him.
“Okay?”
“Have you changed your mind?” came the answer, faintly edged. “Would you rather I said no?”
“No!” A few heads turned at the outburst. Maurice lowered his voice, glancing quickly aside before looking back again. There was a trace of something like amusement in Jack’s expression.
“So, do you still want me to come?”
Maurice nodded, too quickly perhaps, shifting a little closer. He was dimly aware of the dried blood still marking their skin, but it no longer seemed to matter, or if it ever had.
There would be time now. Time enough to prepare, to consider what it meant.
It occurred to him, faintly, that perhaps his kindness had never been as wide as he had believed. Perhaps it had always been drawn toward this one haven—now, at last, coming home with him.