Light behind your eyes

Summary: In which Roger suffers great loss. TW: Suicide

Disclaimer: I do not own the song Light Behind Your Eyes by My Chemical Romance, nor do I own Lord of the Flies.

Warnings: Feelings. Lots and lots of painful feelings.

A/N: I'm sorry that I haven't updated in nearly two weeks, I promise I am working on the next chapter for SIP, I'm just a little weighed down by the school work that I am procrastinating on. So, until I post the next chapter (probably by the end of this week) enjoy this!

The day was cold, though Roger didn't seem to feel it. He'd sat beside that window for days now, staring out of it listlessly, not bothering to even acknowledge that he heard any disturbances in the room, though there clearly were. They were frequent and blatant, something that would have easily stirred a lesser man. His arms, now empty, ached with loneliness as he longed for a familiar comfort that he knew he could never get back. The creaking of the door didn't even merit a batting of his lashes as Jack stepped into the room, sighing heavily as he looked over to Roger. Anyone else would have crumbled, spiraled, even, and turned to substances, distractions... Anything to ease the pain of remembering, of loss. Roger wouldn't, of course, he wouldn't let himself slip into such weakness. Even now, having lost everything, he was far to proud to admit defeat, and instead sat in silence, simply refusing to feel anything. It was something of an art for him, which had come through years of practice.

"Roger..." Jack said gently, crossing the room quietly. He knew that he wouldn't get a response, and he hadn't expected to, nor did he suspect that he would ever get one again. He knew that there was nothing in this world that would be able to ease his suffering if he gave up his stony facade, and so he let him stay hidden away in the safe spaces of his mind. "Roger, it's time... We'll go see them, alright? Then you can come sit here again." Jack promised. Roger processed the words sluggishly, his limbs even slower to follow as he hauled himself up, ignoring the creaks and pops of his bones as he stood. It had been about three days since he'd last moved... Not that he could feel any particular way about it. Nothing mattered to him anymore.

Outside it poured and Roger was only vaguely aware of the sound of the rain pounding relentlessly against the roof of the church, dead eyes staring listlessly at the caskets set before him. He could hear sounds of sorrow about him, could feel arms around him, tugging at his sleeves, clutching at his hands. The figures around him couldn't seem to stop apologizing, though this had little to do with them. It was hardly the fault of anyone of them, but let them be sorry if they wanted, it wasn't as if he could tell them not to.

However, sorry wasn't going to bring Ralph back. Sorry wasn't going to fill the house with Percival's laughter again.

The service was all a blur to Roger, and as the people filled out slowly, he sat there and stared at the caskets silently. Why couldn't he feel something? Say something? He wished more than anything that he could have done something to show just how much had loved them - still loved them - but he just felt cold. Glancing at his hands, his eyes roamed over the ragged cuts, red and angry against his pallid skin. That had been where the shards of the windshield had cut first, insignificant to him as he'd tried his best to shield both Ralph and Percival from the impact. There had been so much blood... Percival had been so frightened, Ralph as well, and Roger had found himself in the midst of violent flashbacks to the only other car crash he'd been in. He'd survived that one as well, though he'd dearly wished he hadn't at the time. He felt this now as well as he stood, walking over to Percival's casket.

He looked so peaceful, as if he were dreaming, and for a moment it all felt as if this were some horrible nightmare that he would wake from soon. He could hear the small, frightened screams, could hear Percival calling for him, begging him to do something, to make all of the blood stop... Ralph had been severely injured, pinned between the dashboard and the front of the car that had hit them. By the time that they had managed to get him out, he'd bled to death, and Percival wasn't far off. Roger had cradled him in his arms in the hospital bed and sang him to sleep for the last time as he'd slipped away from him. Shaking, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, rubbing his cheek before closing the casket lid gently, pausing for a moment before walking over to Ralph.

In an odd way, he looked similar to Percival, though more as if he was pretending to be asleep, like he would if he were trying to fool Roger into letting him sleep for just a little longer. Swallowing hard, Roger stared at him for a moment, let his gaze roam over his calm, quiet features, and he couldn't help the sob that tore its way from his throat. Didn't he understand how much he needed him? He couldn't handle this! He couldn't carry on like this... Or, rather, didn't want to. Ralph would have known what to do, to say, to make all of this seem bearable, but death was not something that was meant to be bearable. It wasn't something to cope with, or handle, it was something to suffer and that was why it was so bitterly unfair and hurt so much. Because, one way or another, he would have to deal with it, no matter how much he wanted to run from it, to hide, to feel nothing at all...

Roger pressed his forehead against Ralph's still chest, sobbing as he cradled one of his small, frigid hands, his pain and heartbreak echoing in the large, empty room for only him to hear.

It was several hours later that Roger closed Ralph's casket, bidding his final farewell, looking far worse than he had before. The loss has finally taken its toll, and it had left him a barren shell, brittle in the face of such daunting reality. For days, he continued to lay still, unmoving as he felt and thought and remembered, offering no response when spoken to. Jack and Simon tried their best to care for him, to distract him at least a little from the pain that plagued him, but it was all for naught. Still, they tried their best, and Simon suspected that, in some small way, Roger appreciated it, though he would never say it. it carried on like this for a long time, until weeks turned to months, and months finally into a year. Roger had, in that time, managed to will himself to get up and carry out simple tasks about the house, though he remained silent, and Simon and Jack found that actions spoke louder than words, particularly when one chose not to use them.

Which was partly why they were so surprised to come home one night to a very still, very bloody bathroom. For weeks, Roger had been so much better, offering tentative smiles as he scuttled about the house, seeming even a little happy. Jack had dashed off to phone the hospital, leaving Simon to take in the pools of blood that stretched across the bathroom floor, the knife still clutched tightly in Roger's hand, and the elegantly folded piece of paper that he held in his other. A flower. He could see Roger's neat script scrawled within the folds and he took it gently, opening it up. 'If home is where the heart is, then I have to go home.' Simon hadn't realized that he'd been sobbing when he felt Jack's arms wrap around him, crumbling against him as they sank to the floor. That was the most Roger had said to him since he'd had his world ripped away from him... Hugging Jack tight, however, he understood why he did it. He was home as long as he had Jack, but Roger had been homeless for far too long. He knew that some how, someway, Ralph and Percival were waiting patiently for him to come home, because they still needed him.

A/N: That's all for now, leave me a review and let me know how what you thought!