The world's spinning around him, eyes squeezed shut to the light that's too loud. Of course, he'll make no move to turn off the lamp always lit by his bedside. He'd rather suffer the headache that comes with it, than the suffocating darkness with it off. Ralph presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, letting himself breathe while sweat cools on his skin.

At 6:25, ten minutes later, he pulls himself from bed like every other morning. Pulls out his school uniform at 6:27, and is in the shower by 6:30. And working efficiently, he's out by 6:43. Eating breakfast at exactly 7:00. A cup of milk poured into a bowl of Kellogg's with one scoop of sugar. All the while waiting for his mother to come in from her morning walk. She always walks through the door at 7:12, so he'll wait patiently at the kitchen table, staring at the salt shaker in the mean time. Thoughts purposefully blank, or on the weather (Nice today, isn't it? Maybe a little overcast, but Mother's gardens need the rain anyway. Of course, that means I should grab an umbrella before leaving. Wouldn't want my uniform getting wet…) or any other boring thing.

At 7:18, his schedule is off. Ralph shifts uncomfortably in the wooden chair, craning his head towards the living room where the front door remains closed. Pathway silent without footsteps. The boy frowns, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. It makes him antsy, this change in routine. Before… before last year, he wouldn't have minded. Maybe he would've rolled out of bed ten minutes before school and ran a comb through his hair, grabbing an orange on his way out. But now, the ticking clock reminds him how much time has gone by since 7:12 and it feels wrong.

A sigh of relief escapes his lips when the door opens, his mother shuffling in with knitted brows and a letter held between dainty porcelain fingers. The letter's already been opened, he can tell as she gets closer. Her hand's shaking slightly. Wordlessly, she sets the letter on the table in front of him before disappearing up the stairs, to her and Father's room. This too, is out of the ordinary, and it makes Ralph itch.

The letter's lying face down, jagged edges of the ripped paper staring up at him while nerves twist in his stomach. Whatever it is, it's for him. And if he opens it, if he reads it, he will have disrupted his pattern. Then again, it's already been thrown off. No more having the same conversation (How did you sleep, Mother? That's good. Oh, I slept great. No, no nightmares.) or washing the dishes. No, there's a letter in front of him. His breathing's stuttering slightly, over something so simple. His mum's not one to react so visibly, not to silly little things like letters. And Ralph, well. He never gets letters.

Cautiously, the blond boy reaches out for the letter, turning it over fast and dropping it just as quickly, as if it were on fire. Messy scrawl he doesn't recognize stares back at him, and if he were capable of thinking at the moment, he might think he's stopped breathing entirely.

At the top, scratched out a few times in pen before getting it right, reads a single address that shatters the structure he's been carefully building for the past year:

Jack R. Merridew

48 Sussex Drive

Chatham, Medway ME5 0NP, UK

It's no wonder his mother had read it first, afraid whatever's inside might upset him. But even the mere name, the reminder of the past, is enough to make him want to throw up his breakfast. He just stares at the letter, mouth agape and chest twisting into a tight knot.

Not being one to procrastinate, Ralph reaches forward again after a moment. Maybe by instinct, autopilot, because he certainly doesn't want to read whatever's inside. He's barely thinking in the first place. Can't find it in himself to be reacting the way he should.

The terribly folded piece of paper flutters down onto the table, marks of previous misfoldings and torn edges evident on the lined paper. Closing his eyes a moment, he takes a deep breath. Whatever's inside, it won't change anything, he determines. You'll still be you, you'll still be here. You'll still be safe. Y'know, you don't even have to let it bother you. Say it's another Jack Merridew, who got the wrong address.

Still, his hands shake when he unfolds it, eyes scanning over the barely legible handwriting. But it's no longer than a few lines, anyhow.

Ralph,

My doctor said to write to you. I guess. I don't have anything to say.

-Jack

Ralph can only blink down at the letter, turning it over to see if there's anything more. There isn't. Jack sent him a letter, all the way to America, for three sentences. None of them saying I'm sorry. His fists clench at his sides, a scowl crossing his features. He hasn't felt angry since the first week being off the island. He hasn't felt much of anything at all. Of course, Jack would be the one to bring out something in him. He was always so good at that. Good at making the anger curl in the pit of his stomach to rot away at him.

He could tear the letter to shreds, forget it ever happened. He could make up for the time lost, and get back on routine tomorrow and pretend like there'd never been a letter at all. The post had nothing for them. He could do all of that, and he'd probably feel better for it.

Instead, the blond shoves from the kitchen table, letter crumpling in his fist while the envelope remains untouched. Trumping upstairs, he flings the door to his room open, tossing the ball into the corner before rifling around in his things for a piece of paper. He doesn't want to waste his good school paper on Jack.

Once he finds an old, torn up notebook of yellow paper he'd gotten at a shop when he was six, he goes back downstairs. Pulling a pencil from his book bag before sitting back down at the table to write, not bothering to cross out or edit his thoughts before it's shoved into one of his mother's envelopes and put in the mailbox, adorned in stamps and addresses.

Jack's sprawled out on the living room floor, picking through a deck of cards absently. Home alone, and bored. And it's not like he can sleep away the boredom, not without seeing things. So he's entertaining himself with cards, doodling little mustaches on the queens and rather inappropriate things on their chests and the men's groins. The piano in the corner is gathering dust, sheets of music sticking haphazardly out of the bench.

His bare feet are swinging in the air when he hears a knock on the door before footsteps retreat. With a small groan, he lifts himself from the carpet. Cracking his joints before opening the door, seeing the disappearing back of the mailman. On his steps lie a stack of letters. Most of them bills, he supposes.

Slamming the front door, he flops down onto the couch to flip through the post. He wouldn't, if he weren't bored. He won't admit he's been checking for the last week. Halfway through the stack, and he pauses. Dread running through his veins. A part of him (most of him) had hoped Ralph wouldn't write back. He'd only written to the boy to get his therapist off his arse about it.

The rest of the post gets tossed on the floor, papers fluttering here and there while he grips his letter in between roughened fingers. In a moment, it's ripped open and the contents yanked out, the envelope thrown to the side with the rest while he reads through with a growing annoyance.

Jack,

Nothing to say? Alright, I'll give you a few suggestions:

-"I'm sorry," that's always a good starter.

-Nothing at all, since I don't want to talk to you and you don't want to talk to me.

-Why'd you do it? Remember killing Simon? Piggy? You tried to kill me too. I'm just curious, Jack.

Me, I've been good. Thanks for asking.

Ralph

It's just like Ralph, blaming everyone for his problems. As if it were all about him, as if it were so much easier on Jack. And this, this was why he hadn't written to him in the first place. If he'd said sorry, he'd get, "I don't believe you. Here's a list of what you did, like you don't think about it every day. I'm going to be a total prick about it and ignore your apology." Okay, maybe not that exactly. But that's nearly what it would be. So he'd been short, quick to the point. Thinking Ralph would just ignore it. Kind of hoping he wouldn't.

In annoyance, he writes back. Pushing aside the guilt that rises in his throat and burns at his eyes. Ignoring it is almost second nature by now.

A/N: a few notes on the fic:

-I've never written anything for this fandom, so bear with the characterization. But I've been in love with this book for years.

-Ralph lives in America because a) the war and b) his parents thought it would be best if he got a fresh start. His father is still in the military, so he's still gone most of the time, especially as he wouldn't be an official US citizen.

-Jack does feel extremely guilty. He's not unaffected, as that would be ridiculous and impossible. He just deals with things differently. He'd rather forget any of it happened and return to the childhood he lost. But he'll deal with that later in this fic.

-Ralph, too, deals in things with his own way. I imagine that he'd cling to society, because losing that is what destroyed them and he never wants to go back to that.

-This fic will go through years. I'm not sure how often I'll skip like that, but it will. And there won't be anything romantic until they're older. At this point, they're still only thirteen. And they aren't exactly friends. So, that definitely won't be happening right away.