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When Jack had first started leading his savage tribe, it wasn’t long before Ralph and Piggy got overthrown and trampled by him and his hunters. Jack seemed like the most power-hungry and lunatic leader ever, losing all efforts of trying to be logical and sensible just to give into pure savagery. But the word of the beast was too strong: propaganda and scary stories spread like wildfire on an island with only so many boys to inhabit it. Jack loses with his hunters, as deep down they all were too scared to even go hunting—fearing whatever they deemed as the “beastie”.
With no pigs to hunt for food and meat, no specs for the warmth and comfort of a fire, and an unorganized tribe, Jack had to come crawling back to Ralph and the others; losing the barbarian act. It was the biggest humiliation ritual, and Jack hated doing it, but he has no choice. The answer was obvious when it came down to it at its core; suffer in embarrassment and defeat but survive another day on this shambling island, or die due to his insatiable pride?
Ralph and Piggy were refusing to accept Jack and his hunters because of what atrocities the tribe had committed. In their eyes; Jack was a mental psychopath beyond redemption alongside his hunters. The idea of grouping back together with them was repulsive, scandalous, and honestly a bit horrifying—even if nobody wanted to admit it. But Simon had convinced them to let Jack back in the group and give him a second chance to try and redeem himself… although done with major reluctance. Piggy and the others couldn’t understand how Simon could even think of giving Jack a second chance.
Jack now had to listen to Ralph and acknowledge him as chief and not let their rivalry or his egotistical tendencies get in the way, or he’d be kicked out for good this time. And Jack loathed that more than anything.
But Ralph has noticed over the couple days that Simon and Jack have been acting rather strangely together. Subtle, in a way that anybody could have missed it if they weren’t squinting, but there. He’d note how Simon would pat his head or praise Jack like some type of dog when he follows their rules— only speaking during assemblies when you’re holding the conch, no fights or violence…
It seemed far too intimate, which Jack honestly didn’t deserve for following basic camp rules; ones that everyone else did all alike. It was praise and affection for what? Not being outwardly violent for 5 minutes? Ralph finds it all so strange, so batty and queer. It reeked of betrayal; as if Simon was choosing Jack instead of the sensible Ralph.
*
A fatty pig was cooking over the fire; one that Jack and his hunters had caught for the entire group instead of just his own selfish tribe—based on Ralph’s commands. The meat slowly cooked, fur and flesh burning up from rawness to culinary perfection on the skewer. The fat dripped and sizzled on the flames, enlightening the boy's faces even in the morning daylight and revealing the dribbling that formed at the edges of their mouth from the promise of meat.
Each boy was starving, and would certainly get a massive share of the meat. But Ralph and Piggy had already decided on some form of punishment for Jack; he would not be given any portion of the pig, just like how he refused to give Piggy some meat when they first caught a pig and Simon had to share with Piggy instead. They let Jack's hunters eat; Roger, Maurice, and the other choir boys sinking their grinders in ravenously when it was given to them. It was to help Jack learn or teach him some obedience.
Jack slouched with a massive scowl on his face behind the layers of paint, obviously pissed since he hunted and did the work and couldn’t even get any meat while everyone else ate! He sharpened his spearhead with his pocketknife mindlessly, trying to ignore the smell of cooked pork around him and the sound of the boys surrounding him chewing. Tiny rolled-up wood shavings flew off the wooden stock he had sharpened into a spear from his pocketknife sharpening it, busying himself.
Simon finished up the chunk of the pig that he was given, wiping the fatty grease off his fingertips and cleaning his mouth with his shirt before eyeing Jack. “I’m going to go wash up,” Simon announces quietly, doubting that anybody would even notice his absence but deciding to speak up anyways. His eyes glance over Jack, watching him shave down his spear and listening to the scratching noise of it. He stands up from his seat on the log by the campfire, walking past a couple of boys before passing Jack; giving him a small but deliberately noticeable look.
Jack looked up, eyes catching Simon’s before slowly stopping his spear-sharpening. He paused, waiting for a moment that felt like a century as he watched Simon walk off towards the tropical jungle, likely with the intent to go wash his hands and face. Jack set down his spear on the ground by the fire, standing up himself when all the other boys were distracted with stuffing their chubby faces with meat. He made sure nobody was watching before sneaking off as well; even if Ralph’s rules for him directly stated he couldn’t just run off again.
Jack quickly found Simon—walking up the mountain through the seemingly-endless amount of tropical plants and trees—and began following beside him. A silence hung between them other than the sound of their synchronized steps, and it spoke volumes while saying nothing at all. Jack's previous hunger and rage was numbed by Simon’s presence, eyeballing the smaller boy as they walked their way through.
*
Simon wasn’t quite sure where he was leading Jack; just knowing that he wanted to drag him away from the others and have some privacy between the two of them. They eventually took a break from their hiking, stopping by the lagoon. Simon rinsed his hands and mouth in the water, cupping it and drinking some of the fresh water as well. In the meantime, Jack strips off the little clothes he had left on and jumped his way in the water.
Jack was covered in red and green paints, dirty grime, pigs blood… and god knows what else, making the water fog up a bit from the dirt and color. It was mind-boggling that Ralph still allowed him to be painted up like a tribal caveman and wear that funny head piece made of sticks and leaves; crowned like a king of May. As he swam and floated around, the water caused a stream of red and white trail down his scrawny body face from the paints that he previously smeared across himself.
Simon sat himself on the rock formations that crowded themselves and overhung the lagoon, spreading his skinny legs and playing with a bottle of shampoo from when they found some random luggage from the plane crash while exploring the island. Jack floated in the water, swimming just enough to keep himself afloat. Simon flipped the bottle in the hands—a rich floral and balsam fragrance, which was popular for their time period.
“Jack,” Simon called softly, looking at him swimming around and murking up the water like a greasy swamp. The silent and secretive intimacy they kept just for each other, taboo but unmistakable of their own feelings, hung over them like a fly in the corner of their eye. Jack’s head snapped up at the sound of Simon’s voice—soft, gentle, like always. The moment he saw him sitting there on the overhang of rock formation with that stupidly delicate face and those too-bright eyes looking at him… some heartstrings tug briefly inside him.
Jack didn’t answer right away. Just floated there, letting the water carry him slightly as it splashed against his shoulders and chest from how deep he was. The streaks of dried paint smeared across his face and torso like war markings were now mostly washed away, staining his skin with pigment. He eyed what Simon was holding, that cheap little bottle they’d found in a torn suitcase two days ago—the one the boys had been passing around since there was nothing else to wash the hair on their hair or pubes with.
"Yeah?" Jack finally grunted out, spitting out a bit of pigment-infused water that had entered his mouth from his wet face. His face softened just a fraction when he talked to Simon, especially when they were all alone and covered by the jungle environment like this.
“You’ve been… very good recently. You’ve been following Ralph’s orders like what is expected of you. You haven’t stolen Piggy’s specs again, brought meat for us all, haven’t… done anything gnarly.” Simon starts quietly, looking at the shampoo bottle like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. By gnarly, he likely meant when Jack brutally cut off a pigs head and stuck it up like he would a flag from England. Jack inwardly grimaces at the reminder, never being able to live it down it seemed.
“Good boy.” Simon simply says, not giving Jack a smile just yet but acknowledging his efforts. Simon looks over his appearance and the mess lathered on him going into the lagoon—painted up like a savage Indian. “Would you like your hair washed?” He asks softly, patting the space between his legs; expecting Jack to swim between them in the water.
Jack froze and stiffened up, not from anger. Not from disgust. Not from any negative emotion; never anger at Simon. His entire body locked up like a trap sprung, his breath hitching in the back of his throat at the praise he received but undoubtedly didn’t deserve. But nobody would refuse flattery and compliments, would they? “Why?”
“I think that when a person is given another chance, their soul opens up,” Simon poetically and dreamily responds, like he was writing a poem about Jack without a pen or paper. “And, your hair is quite grotty.”
Those two sentences hit him like hot sunlight breaking through the jungle canopy—warm, sudden, washing away any displeasure he might’ve had. It wasn’t mockery or shame or pity like any of the other boys might’ve given him, treated him like a bug to be crushed under their shoe due to his past atrocities. Simon said it with that quiet sincerity that always made Jack feel like his insides were boiling and fluttering, but not from the sun. It was confusing, and Jack was even more humiliated.
He wanted to punch himself in the chest to make the feeling inside his heart finally cease.
He stared at Simon for a long second; the boy sitting there so patiently on the rock with those skinny legs parted just enough to make space between them, inviting him in like a sewn doll on a shelf. Jack's first, arrogant instinct was to scoff and say: "I ain't some damn girl" or swim away, But Simon had called him good and wanted to wash his filthy painted hair...
Something deep inside Jack, the part buried under savagery and pride and bloodlust, whimpered quietly before nodding once: stiff, almost imperceptible. He began paddling toward the overhang over the lagoon where Simon waited, placing himself between his spread legs and facing forward out towards the green-toned jungle.
Simon ran his small hands through the bush on Jack's head, carefully taking off his choir beret and the leaves and vines he’d placed there. He put them aside beside his hip before opening the dented shampoo bottle and squeezing out what little remained into his hands. He rubbed it into his palms for a moment before beginning to scrub the shampoo through Jack's blonde locks. Simon was remarkably careful as to not get any into Merridew’s eyes and accidentally sting him.
Jack floated there, occasionally thrashing his arms around but overall trying to be still for Simon as he lathered the shampoo into his hair; washing off some of the paint that covered his face and body as well. He unconsciously leaned back slightly into the touch, not even realizing he was doing it. He just naturally pushed his head further into Simon’s hands and lap, feeling comforted.
*
Jack dunked his head down, rinsing his hair and letting Simon cup some more water to pour over him. The process needed to be repeated, considering how matted and disgusting Jacks scalp and strands were. But as he was having his hair worked on, Jack noticed something particular floating around in the now-soapy and no longer crystal-clear water.
Some small, bumpy and shell-covered fruits were floating around like small buoys. Jack reached out when a couple of them floated close enough, feeling the spiky outer-shell in the palm of his hand. Simon looks over curiously, recognizing the fruit. “It’s a lychee, Jack,” he mumbles softly, precisely towards the back of his head.
Jack feels its weight in his hand, hearing Simon’s whisper. He reached towards the overhang, grabbing his survival knife from his shorts and dragging the blade around the crust covering the fruit. “Is it edible?” He asks, probably never trying the exotic fruit before. “I’ve never seen something like this in England.” Due to the climate that lychee needed to grow and thrive, it couldn’t grow in Britain much.
Simon glanced at the lychee in Jack’s hand one more time, looking almost alien. On the island they were used to mangoes and coconuts, but the chance of other exotic fruits were never zero. Jack was poking it with his knife like it was a nuclear bomb, which wasn’t that far off from the war that was going on in the world at the same time.
“Yes,” Simon murmured, scratching Jack's scalp and eliciting a moan from him that almost sounded vulnerable and pathetic. A sound that rarely left his throat. “It’s not poison, don’t worry. Lychee. It grows in Asia and places… that must mean we’re out in the pacific somewhere,” Simon notes, looking around unconsciously. “You eat the inside after peeling off that rough shell.”
Simon watched as Jack cautiously scraped more of the crust away with clumsy knife strokes and punctures, not having any sense of patience or skill after everything that has gone down over the past couple of days. Jack threw the scraps of the shell aside back into the water, having no respect for the inhabited island either. He held the white flesh that encapsulated that black seed in his hand, still flicking it with his knife.
Jack then places the sugary-sweet fruit in his mouth and chews the flesh off from around the seed. “So sweet…” he mutters under his breath, spitting out the seed into the water once he’s done. “Like sticky toffee,” he adds, reaching out to grasp a few more despite the mess he was making and making Simon stretch out further just to continue washing his biohazard of hair.
“Do you want one?” Jack asks, looking over his shoulder at Simon while already cutting open the shell of another handful of lychee.
“No, I already have something sweeter in front of me.”