Because the subtext between Ralph and Piggy outweighs that of any other two characters in the book, and because there is not a single fic on this site devoted to them.

Long Hair

Samneric were asleep; their constant shifting would've leant doubt to the theory but their soft snoring reaffirmed it. Piggy wouldn't have done it otherwise. "Ralph," he muttered in an urgent whisper near the messy-haired blonde's ear. "Ralph."

It was the breath in his ear more than the words themselves that stirred Ralph into consciousness. He opened one weary eye, his other too bruised to open without aching. Piggy's shadowed face swam into view and he might have smiled if he were still capable of such a thing. "What is it?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, voice broken from shouting and general tiredness. "Can't you sleep?" Piggy shook his head; Ralph could feel his wispy hair – God, hadn't it grown any more than an inch? – against his cheek and in his half-consciousness it was a strange source of comfort.

"I been thinking," he started, shame heavy in his quiet voice. You're always thinking, thought Ralph, spent. "I been thinking maybe... maybe we won't get out of this."

Ralph's immediate impulse was to hit him, kick him, knock him clear off the platform because hell if anyone was going to say that when he was fighting so hard to convince himself – and any other half-sane boy left on the island, which was a discouraging few – to believe otherwise. But the memory of Piggy kicking about on the floor of the shelter struggling for breath haunted him, and he feared setting him off again. A low snarl was all he could force out of himself. "Don't say that," he hissed, fists clenching around bloody palms. "It's not true."

"But we don't..." He made some motion as if to touch his glasses, remembered in the darkness that they weren't there, and shuddered violently, presumably fighting down a sob. His hair brushed against Ralph's cheek again and in the pit of his stomach Ralph felt his intestines twist into themselves.

"We're gonna be fine," Ralph pressed on, clutching Piggy's heaving shoulders. "We're gonna get your specs back and we're gonna get our fire back and we're gonna get rescued."

"But Jack Merridew—"

"We're gonna get rescued," Ralph repeated definitively, the name Jack striking that same chord in his gut. "So shut up and go to sleep." Still shaking, Piggy nodded resignedly and curled into the only boy he'd ever believe the words from.

He wasn't sure what instinct it was that had his stiff arms wrapping around Piggy's thick body and burying his face into the soft crook of his neck; maybe he needed something to cling onto besides his slipping sanity, because what good would that be when all hope had receded and the final curtain had closed in his brain? It was an awkward acknowledgment, but maybe he needed Piggy as much as Piggy needed him... and at least Piggy had something real to be afraid of: something solid and tangible and covered in red paint and hair. All Ralph was fighting now was his own failing.

"Thanks."

A moment later he realized he had no idea which one of them had actually said it, but when Piggy's fingers dug desperately into the shredded remains of his shirt he realized that maybe it didn't really matter.