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Jack situated himself comfortably against the thick trunk of a gnarled tree. Its rough bark scratched against his back. He tucked away neatly against the roots, his gangly, freckled legs knocking together. He glanced over at the mob of boys. He kept a strategic distance—not so far that he felt isolated, but just enough to maintain an air of independence that he cherished. After all, he had a reputation to uphold… and an ego that demanded it. Most importantly, he chose this spot so Simon could see him. Jack reached into his bag, moving slowly and deliberately.
Simon, on the other hand, was lost in his own world, carefully picking dirt off the skin of his mango. He leaned against a different tree, a little further away but still tethered to the group. Ralph, Piggy, and the others were all chattering loudly whilst eating, reinforcing shelters, or playing along the shore. Simon looked out, past the ocean. He licked his lips, then his eyes trailed up to the sun. He squinted, the warm rays prickling his skin. He looked at the sun longer than intended. His gaze was then stolen by a large tropical bird flying overhead. Simon followed until it dipped into the canopy. He shifted, digging his heels a little deeper into the sand. He settled in to eat, finally.
Jack watched Simon, cocking his head slightly, a smile creeping across his face as a wave of amusement washed over him. He felt silly for his fascination, the heat rising to his cheeks as he realized the intensity of his focus on the other boy. Simon was, to put it plainly, a bit peculiar. Simon was batty. Jack fished out a small, well-loved book from his bag; it was Simon’s diary. He glanced up. Simon still faced outward. Jack bit the inside of his cheek and swallowed dryly. He cleared his throat and flicked open the diary. He smirked to himself, not really having read anything yet, but just simply overjoyed with the ideas he thought Simon would write of, the myriad of odd dreams, bugs he found, choir, this and that. Jack, again, glanced in Simon’s direction. Still, he had not noticed. Jack furrowed his brows. He turned a page, just barely skimming. He found that he did not really care for what was written, just for the reaction he would get out of batty Simon Cambourne. Jack looked down at the page; his hands paused as he was met with his name on the paper. His ears prickled again, and he looked away. Simon had noticed now. Jack’s smirk reappeared, and he made sure to hold the diary upright so that Simon would see it in its entirety. Simon sat upright, his mango dropped in the sand. No one noticed. Jack raised his eyebrows at the boy, silently asking him to do something about it. Jack knew he wouldn’t—Jack knew he couldn’t. Simon knew it too. He stumbled forward, buckling ever so slightly, but Jack knew it was a futile game; Simon wouldn’t stand up to him.
Jack chuckled to himself. He licked his sandy fingers and flipped through a few more pages, the tension between them sweltering like the midday sun.
Every chance that followed, Jack made an effort to glance at the diary whenever Simon would see it, but Jack also found himself reading it when Simon wasn’t there.
It was cold one night, far colder than any other night on the island. Jack sat up, curled against a rock, separate from where his hunters were piled, still asleep. He tapped his long fingers against his pointy knees. His eyes scanned the page: December 26, Jack remains ill. Jack’s mind stopped, his brain fixed on the first sentence alone. He shifted, glancing over at the other boys to see if anyone had stirred. Maybe he hoped someone had, maybe he hoped that so he could stop reading the blasted journal, but no one had moved. Jack kept reading. I'm reading him “Huckleberry Finn.” There was a part where I started doing funny voices, and Jack really laughed, so I kept at it. Jack smiled; he remembered the voices; he did find it quite amusing. He probably wouldn’t have found it that funny if he hadn’t been so desperate for a distraction. He stayed cooped up in that hospital wing for what felt like ages. He was miserable and came down with Scarlet Fever. Simon was advised to stay away from Jack since Scarlet fever was highly contagious, but for some odd reason, Simon always snuck around or found other means of being by Jack’s side.
Again, he wiped his nose, shivers running through him as he recalled how helpless and wretched he had been, vulnerable and clammy, and yet Simon had chosen to stay at his side. The thought sent an unexpected laugh bubbling out of him, a bittersweet chuckle mingled with disbelief. Simon really was odd, sticking around through his moments of weakness—through the embarrassing confusion and helplessness of delirium. They've said to keep him cool, but then he complains about feeling cold, so I put the blankets on him. I'd rather he be comfortable. Jack’s face warmed. I have taken to leaving my curtains drawn so that if he needs me, I can be there for him. He does not need much, just a comforting word if he is frightened. Last night he accidentally called me mother, and we both laughed like drains. I lay with him until he slept. Jack snapped the diary shut, breathing heavily now, emotions swarming like bees in his chest. Frustration mingled with confusion, compelling him to rise abruptly to his feet, kicking a scuff of sand into the night. He forced the diary back into his bag, each moment feeling like a weight pressing down on him, an urgency propelling him away from this vulnerable confrontation with his own feelings.
Jack had only just lulled himself to sleep when a shuffle broke the stillness of the night. Jack remained motionless, heart racing as he strained to peer through the shadows of the shelter. His eyes darted between unfamiliar shapes as he tried to get his bearings and find the source of the sound. No one else seemed aware; every boy was still asleep, peacefully. Jack sat up, slowly, feeling around for his pocket knife. He curled his fingers around the hilt, feeling the cool sand around his skinny fingers. He twisted, careful not to wake the others, not until he was sure he needed them. The thought of slaying the beast single-handedly while everyone was sleeping was awfully appealing to Jack. He’d be a real hero and would really put Ralph to shame. Jack would be chief; everyone would see just how grand he was! Jack was ripped out of his thoughts as he saw a slim arm slip between the jungle leaves. Jack peered, watching intently as the leaves were drawn back. Jack lowered his stalky frame, still holding the pocket knife. Simon’s hollow face peeked through, the moonlight just showing enough to illuminate how gaunt his face had become.
Simon hadn’t noticed Jack, not just yet. He quietly pulled his body forward. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes landing on Jack. Simon watched his chest slowly rise and fall. Jack kept his eyes squinted; it was too dark for Simon to see he was only pretending to sleep. Simon reached for Jack’s bag, his dark fingers gently grasping the spine of the book. Simon exhaled uneasily. Jack sprang up, seizing Simon’s hand and knocking the book away. The two tumbled out of the shelter. Simon made a sound of terror as Jack rolled on top of him. He shut up quickly when Jack flipped out the blade.
“Quiet now, unless you’d prefer the whole lot came out here,” Jack whispered harshly at the smaller boy. Simon shook his head and obeyed silently.
Jack’s face paint made him look utterly terrifying. The white clay made it hard to see what really went on in Jack Merridew’s head. The red was harsh and biting; it made Jack look monstrous, like he wouldn’t hesitate to use that blade on Simon—or anyone in the moment. There was blood on his face from a previous fight with Ralph. Simon had seen how Ralph slammed his elbow into Jack’s nose to get him to let off. The red ran down his face so fast you would’ve thought each individual droplet was racing another. Jack had stormed off, shouting something unintelligent.
The two turned their faces back to the shelter where the other hunters slept. Jack felt Simon tremble underneath him, and he pulled back.
“What were you doing?” Jack asked, almost accusatory. “Shouldn’t you be on Ralph’s half of the island, kissing up to him?”
Simon exhaled shakily, but found his voice. “I came for my journal.” He stated.
Jack laughed. “You filthy, batty, little thief! You came to steal! How noble, Simon.” Jack’s face twisted with sick amusement.
Simon squirmed away. Jack let him; he knew he wouldn’t do anything.
“It wasn’t yours to take, Jack.”
Jack shrugged, “If it were mine, I wouldn’t need to take it.”
Simon furrowed his brows. He extended an arm. “Just… Just give it back.”
Jack pretended to think about it, brushing himself off as he did so. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Simon slapped his arm down to his side. His face knit together in frustration. “Please, Jack, I don’t even remember what I wrote,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Jack paused, putting away his blade. He looked up at the other boy. “You don’t?” He asked, not really meaning to. Jack’s voice almost sounded hurt.
Simon shook his head. “No, I don’t…”
Jack looked at his shoes for a moment before picking his head up again. “You’re batty, Simon.”
“Please… Just give it back.”
Jack chewed the inside of his cheek. Begrudgingly, he scooped up the bag and tossed Simon the diary. Simon caught it with flimsy hands. Jack looked him up and down, swallowing harshly.
Simon was always a small boy, skinnier than the rest. But after this long on the island, Jack really noticed how terrible he looked. His face was gaunt, and his ribs looked like you could use them as a ladder. His socks had started falling down where his calves would usually fill them out. Jack looked back up at his face. Simon had gotten darker now too; he had always had a darker hue to his skin than Jack, something Jack had always envied, but now he looked golden, even in the pale moonlight. All Jack had gotten under the island sun was a blistering sunburn.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. Simon looked over at him.
“There’s still some pig by the fire,” Jack stated. Simon looked at him, his eyes darting slightly in confusion. Jack took a step closer to Simon. “You should have some.”
Simon shook his head after a moment. “That’s alright, I’ve eaten—”
Jack cut him off with a sharp laugh. “That’s a laugh, you and I both know you don’t eat!” He remarked, looking Simon up and down, before striding away.
Simon twinged with annoyance; Jack wasn’t just talking about being on the island.
Simon looked down at the diary in his hands. He twisted it around, assessing the damage. He let out a shuddering breath as he peeled back a few pages, using the string attached to the top to open to a random page. It was about Jack’s time ill, when he had Scarlet Fever. Simon mumbled to himself, flushing with embarrassment.
Jack turned around. “Are you coming, Cambourne?” He barked.
Simon jerked, closing the book. He nodded, looking back hesitantly at the camp of sleeping hunters as he jogged onward to keep up with Merridew.
Jack ate a large piece of pork with his hands, wiping fatty juice off his cheeks with the underside of his wrist. Simon played with his portion, uneasily rotating the meat in his hands. He looked down at his shoelaces as if they were far more interesting than anything else in the moment. Jack licked his fingers clean, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. He looked up at Simon, who had his head down between his knees. Jack glared.
“What’s the matter with it?” He asked, straightening up.
Simon looked up, watching Jack’s face through the bright, crackling flames of the fire. He looked tremendous. His orange hair seemed to blend with the flames, and his now-illuminated face looked even more frightening with the face paint. Simon dropped his shoulders, staring for just a moment too long.
“What’s the matter with you?” Jack restated his previous question.
Simon shook his head, knocking himself out of his thoughts. He lowered his head again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Nothing’s wrong with the meat… I’m just not hungry—”
“You’re starving, but you won’t eat. Why?” Jack pointed across the fire at Simon. Simon lifted his head again; he looked to the side.
Jack took in the other boy’s appearance yet again. His golden-brown skin looked simply ethereal in the warm light. When Simon looked back across at Jack, his deep brown eyes seemed to swim in the night. Simon looked so kind, yet so frightened with his down-turned eyes. The reflection of the sparks and flames captivated Jack. It reminded him of a story he once heard about a woman with giant eyes, eyes that could hypnotize any man. But Simon Cambourne was not a woman.
Jack waved his hand to disrupt his thoughts. Simon didn’t seem to notice; he just picked at some bark on the log he was seated on.
“I just—can’t,” Simon admitted.
Jack scoffed, “You can’t? What a lousy answer!”
Simon frowned. “I know… It’s only that… sometimes I just can’t bring myself to. It feels too heavy, I guess…” Simon set the piece aside, and he rested his chin on the heel of his palm, waiting for Jack’s teasing.
Jack shifted momentarily. He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. “What—what d’ya mean it’s too heavy?”
Simon didn’t look over; he just shrugged. “I dunno, it just feels as though I’ve got lead weights tied to me, like it’s too much work.”
Jack drew lines in the sand with a stick he picked up during the conversation. “My father makes dinners feel like a test sometimes…” Jack remained looking down. “I’m not sure about a lead weight, but I feel a sort of pressure around meals.” Simon watched the ginger across from him. Jack drew in a heavy breath. “Father says—he says that I’m not made like a real man. A real man’s collarbone doesn’t stick out like you could hang something off of it, or a real man’s legs aren’t so stringy that it looks like his kneecaps will pop out at any given moment, or a real man’s elbows aren’t so pointy that they’d take an eye out!” Jack stabbed the stick into the sand. “Father says I ought to eat more meat, that it’d help me fill out. But even when I’m not hungry anymore—even when I clear a plate of food, I never fill out.” Jack was silent for a moment. Gradually, his voice quivered. “It just takes time, Father says, but there’s never enough time for him! Always too busy for plain Jack! But here there’s as much time as I want! And I’ll eat as much as I want with no formalities!” Jack was shaking now, in anger. Simon sat back on his log, watching Jack’s face twist. With the help of the fire, Simon swore he saw Jack Merridew wipe a tear off his cheek. Jack composed himself again, picking his stick back up. He spoke dryly. “So what’s the matter with you?” He repeated.
Simon picked at dirt and sand that clung to his thighs. He opened his mouth, but did not say a word. Jack scoffed, chucking his stick off into the distance. He rested his forehead in his hands.
Simon bristled. “My father says I’m too thin. It’s the most common thing I hear from him, that and I’m batty.”
Jack looked up. He and Simon were always friendly when no one else was there, but family was never a subject much desired to talk about.
Simon scrunched his nose, and his sad eyes seemed to become damp.
“He tells me to eat more—bigger servings. I do. But it’s not enough.” Simon withdrew a little. “It never matters how much I eat, what I eat; I’m still too little for him. So… I gave up. I figured there was not much of a point anymore if he would be rough on me anyway.” Simon licked his cracked lips. “There’s nothing to enjoy about eating anymore if I’ll only get reprimanded later anyway.”
Jack looked over his shoulder at Simon. He pulled his knees up.
“Now, my mother tried to reason with him once,” Simon hesitated, “but Father pulled her up by her hair and shouted, said he knew what was best for me.”
Jack didn’t say much. He didn’t say anything at all.
The pair sat silently for a while.
Simon watched the embers in the sand, only looking up when he saw Jack’s shoes come into view. He carried two pieces of meat.
“Our fathers aren’t here.” He mumbled, extending a cut to Simon.
Simon looked Jack up and down, half wondering if this was genuine. Gently, Simon took the piece, smiling at the taller boy. Jack didn’t smile back, but he did take a seat next to Simon Cambourne on the log.
The two sat facing the ocean. Simon had tucked his diary into the waistline of his pants to keep it safe. Jack watched silently, sharpening his spear with his pocket knife. Simon stared blankly off beyond the water, not at anything particular; he was just looking at what was beyond. Jack turned his head; the night breeze felt good against his charred shoulders. He took in every little detail of Simon’s face. The curve of his nose, his sunken eyes, his high cheekbones, the way his hair curled against his forehead, the way his lips rested so gently together, so pink and—Simon turned to face Jack. Jack quickly went back to sharpening, convincing himself that the burning on his cheeks and ears was because of his sunburns.
Simon didn’t speak. He watched Jack; he liked seeing him work. He liked the way his brows furrowed when he was thinking hard or was focused; he liked the way Jack flexed his hands when something was difficult; he liked the way Jack’s ears would shift ever so slightly when he figured something out, and he liked the way that Jack’s eyes danced around, scanning information and taking in every little detail of his task. Simon most often admired Jack’s freckles. They covered his face, most severely under his eyes and on his cheeks. They ran down his pale arms, and stubbornly collected at his lower thighs—just above the knee—where they then died down where his socks rested. Simon remembered how pale Jack had gotten when he was ill; his freckles stood out like black sheep against his ghostly skin. Simon subconsciously placed a hand on his diary.
Jack glanced at Simon again, who was still admiring. Before he could think, Simon spoke up.
“How much did you read?” He asked plainly.
Jack was taken aback. He flushed, pausing his work. “I… skipped around a lot. I didn’t read very much… Most of it was stuff I knew.”
Simon looked away, embarrassed.
“You wrote about me a lot.” Jack acknowledged.
Simon just nodded. “I didn’t have anyone else worth writing about.”
Jack chuckled. “Of course you did. Maurice is always a hoot.”
Simon smiled, digging a tiny hole with his finger in the sand. “I suppose.”
Jack draped his arms over his legs as he pulled them to his chest. He rested a sharp chin against prominent knees. “You wrote about when I was ill.”
Simone tensed. “Oh.”
Both boys continued looking outward. They listened to the rough waves crashing ashore.
“I did like the voices,” Jack murmured, almost inaudible. “You always did a smashing voice for Tom Sawyer.” He admitted with his chin held high, but Simon knew he was bashful about it.
Jack’s face fell out of a smile slowly. “I wasn’t frightened, though. You’re wrong.” Simon looked over. He didn’t respond. Jack’s brows twisted. “I wasn’t frightened. And—and what you said about me acting around the others, that simply isn’t fair! You know how they are. If they– If I–” Jack grumbled, struggling to find his words. Still, Simon didn’t make a peep; he just retreated inside himself a little. “I can’t say what I say to you around them. You know that.”
Simon nodded.
“They wouldn’t get it.” Jack finished.
Simon turned his cheek to rest against his knees, so he was facing Jack.
Jack’s lip twitched. “I don’t get frightened—or scared! I’m not scared!”
“Alright,” Simon whispered in response.
“I don’t!” Jack snapped, his voice breaking slightly.
Simon sat there, feeling the weight of Jack’s vulnerability as he watched the walls built up around him fall apart slowly, piece by piece. Jack curled into himself, pulling his legs tight to his chest, forehead resting against his knees. The tension in his shoulders spoke volumes as he trembled. Simon looked back out at the ocean, up at the full, blue moon. He felt Jack tremble against him, gradually dissolving into ugly sobs. Simon didn’t break eye contact with the moon as he brushed his head against Jack’s shoulder. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt monumental, a promise that he was there, unwavering. His head settled comfortably in the crook of Jack’s neck. Simon breathed deeply, smelling the salt in the ocean air. He closed his eyes, relaxing into the embrace. Gradually, Jack did the same.
He hiccuped. “You won’t say—” he sniffed, “—a bloody thing!”
Simon nodded. “Not a thing.”
Jack trembled. “I’m not frightened…”
Ralph poked at the fire. Jack’s hunters were supposed to be watching it, but they were nowhere to be found this morning. Ralph mumbled to himself, adding more leaves to the fire. Piggy sat close by, watching with the conch in his small hands.
“If we add more greenery, it’ll produce more smoke, with all the moisture, y’know,” Piggy spoke matter-of-factly, pushing up his glasses.
Ralph exhaled heavily, holding back from rolling his eyes. “Yes, I do know, Piggy. But it’s Jack’s job, not mine!” He grumbled, throwing on another bundle of twigs.
Simon shuffled over; his eyes were heavy with sleep. He carried a small armful of mangos with him. He slumped next to Piggy, setting the fruit aside.
“Was that all there was?” Ralph asked, brushing away his sandy, blond hair that stuck to his forehead. It was awfully humid today.
Simon nodded. “I reckon the littuns ate some more last night. I tell them not to have so much but—”
“Where did you go last night?” Ralph asked, furrowing his eyebrows as he placed both hands on his hips.
Simon was startled. “I used the lavatory if that’s what you’re asking.” He drew in the sand with the toe of his shoe.
Ralph peered. “I heard you shuffle about.” He paused. “You were gone for some time.”
Simon flushed, retreating into himself. “I walked along the beach for a bit also. It was a blue moon. I wanted to see.”
Ralph sniggered. “You’re batty, Simon, creepin’ about at night will frighten the littluns more!”
Simon paused, batty. He exhaled through his nose, and he stopped dragging his foot.
“Sorry,” Simon turned on his heel and began walking off into the jungle.
Simon hoisted himself up the trunk of a large, sturdy tree. He hung from a branch for a moment, staring off to God knows where. Finally, he swung himself up to sit upon it. Simon let one leg dangle, while the other was resting along the branch. He reached into his back pocket to retrieve his makeshift knife. He took the mango he had been carrying in his mouth out and started cutting it into neater pieces, eating each one slowly.
Simon was lost in his own world for an uncertain amount of time. He didn’t really care how long it had been; he knew he wasn’t needed, he knew the others didn’t even notice his absence.
The rapid rustling of bushes and snapping of sticks jolted Simon out of his trance. Jack’s posse of hunters, well,l some of them, tumbled through the thick of the jungle. Simon realized that he must’ve gone further into the jungle than he paid attention to; the hunters only looked this worked up when they were mid-hunt, which was normally deep in the trees.
Simon just watched from the canopy; he didn’t want to make himself known. Jack stabbed his spear into the mud.
“You were supposed to be watching it! You let it go!” He snapped, jabbing Maurice in the chest with his index finger. Jack had a nasty snarl plastered on his face. It was only the kind of face he wore when the gears were twisting in his head to find a way to place the blame—to make himself seem less at fault.
Maurice frowned. “That’s rubbish, Jack! You were loads in front of me! How was I supposed to see it?”
Jack waved him off.
Roger bared his teeth. “Just do your job next time, Mauri.” He spat. Maurice’s shoulders dropped, but he tightened his grip on his spear and kept his head down. Simon cut another piece of fruit. He tried to suppress his disappointment, though he knew not to be surprised by now.
“We split up,” Roger announced, turning to face the group.
“There are four of us.” Jack scoffed. “If we split—”
“Well, clearly your plan of breaking into small groups fell through.” Roger bit back before Jack could even finish.
Jack furrowed his eyebrows. “My plan was going well until Maurice lost track of the bloody sow!”
Maurice rolled his eyes, just out of everyone else's view. Robert leaned against his spear, his lips forming a flat line as he watched the debate unfold.
Roger and Jack continued to bicker until Jack threw his hands up. “Fine! I’ll keep sweeping this way; Roger and Maurice will go towards The Scar, and Robert will head mountain-ward!” He fumed, “Jolly now, Roger?”
Roger chewed on his nails, glaring at the taller boy. He grabbed Maurice’s forearm, dragging him along toward the section of the island they dubbed The Scar. Jack shot Robert a glare before Robert trudged away toward the mountain. Simon thought it was silly, the whole thing really.
Jack watched until both groups left. He gave his surroundings one last look before sitting against the base of the tree Simon was perched in. Jack took off his choir cap, fiddling it around in his spidery hands. “Idiots,” he mumbled. He jumped slightly when a chunk of mango splatted against his shoulder. He made such a frightened sound that Simon had to stifle a laugh. Jack put his cap back on and wiped the sticky fruit off. He huffed, annoyed. He settled back against the tree. Everything was still for a long while. Jack leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He knocked his head against the trunk, mumbling something to himself. It wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he saw Simon watching him from above.
Jack pushed away from the tree, grabbing his spear. “Christ, Simon!”
Simon frowned slightly. “I’ve only been resting.” He answered innocently.
“Well—get down! Stop being so damn sneaky!”
Simon’s frown deepened, but for some odd reason, he obeyed. He pocketed his makeshift knife and straddled the tree back down.
“You’re silly, Simon, you know that?” Jack shook his head, a terrible poison in his voice.
Simon stared at him with big eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
Jack threw his empty hand up, chuckling. “Of course I do! You’re out on your own, climbing trees a mile deep from the beach! You’re loony.”
“We climbed The Tree of Destiny often; why is this so wrong?” Simon prodded.
Jack clicked his tongue, still refusing to look at the other boy. “The Tree of Destiny, what a silly name—”
“You named it, Jack, you said we were as gods—”
“I could see that for me, but I don’t know about you.” Jack grinned. “Simon Camboure, a god?” He barked.
Simon sighed heavily, his shoulders aching from each harsh word. “Why do you do this, Jack?” He spoke without meaning to.
Jack finally turned around, scoffing. “Do what?”
“Act as though you hate me.”
Jack’s face twisted for half a second upon seeing Simon’s near-crumpling face. The bits of sun coming through the trees made Simon’s dark eyes look deep with pain. Jack’s mouth went dry, but he instantly straightened out.
“I do hate you.” He said matter-of-factly.
Simon went stiff, just for a moment. “Did you hate me when you kissed me last Christmas?”
Jack clutched his spear so hard his knuckles went white. All the color drained from his face, until his cheeks suddenly ran bright red.
“You shut your mouth!” He shouted, snapping both arms to his sides. “Don’t say another word! Just don’t!” One warm tear slipped down his cheek. “I—I didn’t do such a thing! You did!” Jack’s breathing was quick as he paced around, shouting at Simon.
Simon kept his arms crossed, though his heart broke. “You’re lying to yourself, and you know it.” He remarked.
“Shut it!” Jack stabbed his spear down, pointing his finger at Simon as he did previously with Maurice. “I’m not like you!”
Simon just looked away, wiping his face on the bits that remained of his sleeve. Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek, angrily wiping his eyes.
Simon swallowed down a cry. “I know you, Jack, I know you’re a coward—”
“I’m not!” Jack lunged forward, fat tears regretfully spilling from his eyes. Simon tensed. “Then why do you only love me when we’re alone?”
Jack pulled at his hair. “Because—because—” he shouted. “I don’t know!”
Simon was furious for once in his life. “You don’t know? Jack, it’s killing me!” Simon pleaded. Jack had a wild look in his eyes as he made one great swoop over to the other boy. Simon jumped, bringing his shoulders up to his ears; Jack stabbed his pocket knife into the tree bark just beside Simon’s shoulder.
“Why couldn’t you be a girl?” It wasn’t really a question. “Then everything would make sense,” Jack muttered uneasily, his voice bubbling.
Simon’s eyes flickered back open, looking to his left. Jack’s forehead was pressed against the tree. His hand still held the handle of the blade. He twisted it and removed it; in the same motion, he wiped his eyes and stored it away. Simon watched Jack’s body heave as he wept. It was far from pretty, but it was raw and heavy. Simon brought his slender arms around Jack’s back, his warm brown a stark contrast to the red on Jack. The ginger’s head found its spot against the crook of Simon’s neck. Simon knew all too well what Jack meant when he asked why he couldn’t be a girl. The difference was that Simon didn’t mind being in love with Jack, being in love with a boy. Jack didn’t mind being in love with Simon; he just couldn’t be in love with a boy.
Simon blinked away his own tears and nuzzled his face against Jack’s shoulder. Jack shuddered still, mumbling the same thing over and over again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Simon just ran a hand up and down his back. Jack pulled back slightly, wiping his face on his arm. Simon fidgeted with his hands, still sniffling. Jack, with an unimaginable amount of gentleness, cupped the underside of Simon’s jaw, just under his ear, and kissed Simon’s cheek. Simon moved his head away hesitantly, still hurt, but sickeningly sympathetic. Jack’s fingertips slid down Simon’s arms, holding him just enough that if he wanted to move away, he could. Jack pressed tender kisses to Simon’s shoulder and collarbone. He lifted his head.
“I don’t know what I feel.” He whispered. “I just know that around you I can be honest. I can tell you things I can’t say to anyone else. I know that… That I love you, Simon Cambourne. But I also know that I shouldn’t.”
Simon nodded. Simon knew the same was true for himself, but people already knew he was queer; that’s what was different.
Simon focused his eyes on Jack’s. Neither of them said anything for a minute. Simon watched the other’s face, closing his eyes and brushing his nose against his. Jack followed, slipping his lips against Simon’s ever so gently. Both their cheeks were still damp, and a tear would slip out here and there, but it was hard to tell whose was whose. Jack’s hands glided up to the sides of Simon’s face, and Simon’s hands rested on top of Jack’s, delicately stroking every little feature of Jack’s hand. Their kissing stayed slow and soft, save for a few breaks where they needed air. Simon’s face felt warm, and he squeezed Jack’s hands. Simon exhaled shakily, feeling flushed. He pawed at the nape of Jack’s neck, while Jack’s hands ran along Simon’s sides, stopping at his hips. Jack’s thumbs pressed against Simon’s hip bones. The combination elicited a small snivel from Simon. He moved his hand to his mouth, muffling himself. Jack smiled, doing the same trick again. When the opportunity presented itself, Simon shifted his lips to Jack’s neck, keeping his hands just resting along his shoulders.
The moment lasted only a second before Jack ripped away to the sound of twigs snapping. He was still holding Simon’s hips when Roger and Maurice stumbled back through. Simon took his hands off Jack’s shoulders, and they landed on Jack’s wrists.
Maurice stopped, causing Roger to bump into him.
“Twat! What are you doing?” He hissed, just now noticing Jack and Simon.
Jack dropped his hands, quickly turning on his heel and yarding his spear out of the earth.
“Make sure you bring more of that up the mountain; it’ll burn well for the fire. That’ll make Ralph happy.” Jack murmured, cheeks still bright red.
Simon hesitated for less than a second before nodding and twisting sapling branches to feed the signal fire.
Roger peered at Simon. He pointed the sharpened end at him. “Why is batty Simon out where we make our pig runs?”
Jack chewed his cheek. “He’s not batty.”
Roger and Maurice looked stunned. Simon was too, but didn’t show it. Jack made eye contact with Simon. “He’s… helping. He’s choir after all.”
Simon smiled faintly at the ginger’s comment. Jack held his gaze for a moment before waving Simon off.
“Go on! Be useful… queer.” He mumbled under his breath, earning an uproar of laughter from the other two boys.
Simon’s smile dropped just as quickly as he put it up. He gathered materials, acting like he had been this whole time.
He didn’t know why he always acted as if Jack would change. He knew he never would. Jack would never be able to commit to Simon when there was anyone but the two of them around, yet Simon found himself drawn to the boy over and over again. He knew it would never change, no matter how much he hoped and prayed it would.