He lies on top of his neatly made bed, aware of the sharp springs digging into his lower back, but not really paying attention to them. The ticking clock that sits on the small, wooden bedside table tells him that it's 2:16 am. If he were in any different situation, his body would be screaming at him to go to sleep because he has work in less than six hours. But he doesn't dare close his eyes, because the images that are tattooed on the backs of his eyelids will come to life and terrorise him, even more than they do now.

Instead, he remembers. Not the bad things, of course, but the day they were rescued. He supposes he ought to have been relieved, but he just felt hollow inside. He would have to return home, a thought that had been his top priority at first, but had slowly faded away as fear crept in, consuming his mind with beasts. As well as that, he would have to pretend that everything was alright, that he was a normal twelve, or was it thirteen, year old boy because he couldn't let anyone know of the creatures that plagued his mind. They'd think he was batty, like... He shakes his head.

Once they'd all been piled on the boat, he waited anxiously to be given a cabin, chewing on his lip and frantically flicking his eyes everywhere to distract himself from the fact that he was so close to them. As soon as he was given somewhere to stay, he locked himself in and lay face down on the bed, waiting for the tears to come, but none came. After what seemed like hours, he gradually became aware of the grime covering his body, the dirt that had been a part of his body over the months. He had never really been aware of it on the island, but now that he was lying in this pristine, white room, he suddenly felt filthy and self-conscious of his bedraggled appearance. The small room had a sink and a mirror. When he stood in front of it, the mirror showed lank, tangled, long hair on top of a skinny, muddy body clothed in the remnants of perfect, grey school uniform. The reflection scared him. Was this what he really looked like? He looked almost as bad as him. Running the warm water, he picked up the bar of cream-coloured soap lying by the tap, a luxury he nearly forgot existed. He began to scrub at his face and body, after peeling his rags away, and when he was vaguely satisfied with his appearance, he saw that the stub of soap was close to black in colour. Drying himself with the soft towel, he picked up the clothes that the crew had lent him to replace the strips of cloth that once covered him. The shirt and trousers were much too big, but that didn't bother him.

He decided that he would only leave his cabin for necessities, such as food and using the toilet. The trouble with getting food was that all of them ate together, seeing as meals were served at set times. Although he never really felt like eating, he knew he should do it to prevent his body wasting away. Whilst sitting around the large table used for dining, he never made eye contact with any of the other boys, if you could call them that. To him, they were still the savages that had tried to cut off his head and stick it on a spike as a gift to the Beast, but their masks of red, white, and black had been replaced with masks of clean, civilised British schoolboys, almost the same as when they had first dropped in. Almost. If he did, on the rare occasion, make the mistake of looking up, he saw that most of them wore slightly pained expressions, expressions that weren't there before, as though they were being crushed by a large load that was hard to bear. And then there was him. Jack. He accidentally caught Jack's eye a few times, pale green meeting bright blue. Every time, he looked away rapidly, face burning with hatred and heart quickening with fear and hands sweating and shaking, away from the face that regarded him with the faintest sign of contempt.

Eventually, the orange rays of morning seep into his room as the clock ticks over to 5 am. He decides to get up because that way he doesn't have to worry about falling asleep any more. After dressing himself and with the automatic response of a monotonous routine, he pours himself some water and, with the same motion, pours milk over the cereal that he had put into a bowl. Mechanically spooning the lumpy mess into his mouth, he doesn't taste the cereal, just chews and swallows like he does every morning of every day. He takes no pleasure in it; it's just part of his schedule. His mind begins to wander.

The ghost of hope of seeing his father again emerged as they got closer to the dock, even though he was expecting the inevitable. Upon seeing only his mother nervously waiting for him at the harbour, his expectations were confirmed, yet he didn't cry as he might have done before, in a different life. He'd had to grow up so fast during those terrible months in that terrible place, so he supposed he had conditioned himself not to cry any more, or perhaps the island had broken him so much that he simply learned to suppress any emotion. Even now, seven years later, he doesn't shed any tears. When they were back at his house, a place that felt unfamiliar when he returned, his mother fussed over him like he was five, and begged him to tell her what had happened when she saw his stony silence; all he said was:

"We crashed on an island. Bad things happened." She had urged him to speak to her and not bottle his emotions up, even signed him up for counselling, for she believed that talking about it would help him, but he stayed silent all the while. He knew that if he were to share the horrors with anyone, they would never understand what he went through, and while they nodded sympathetically, he would be forced to relive the terrors of that awful island.

The sound of paper being pushed through the letterbox snaps him out of his memories. Expressionless, he walks over to the door, like he does every day, and shuffles the letters like a deck of cards, seeing only bills. He stops when he sees an envelope with his name and address scrawled across it with black ink, the trace of surprise showing on his face. This never happens. When he moved to the city, his mother hardly bothered to contact him, only phoning him once in a while. Perhaps she believed a fresh start without too many disturbances would be good for him. Curiously, he opens the letter and, upon seeing the name and signature at the bottom of the page, drops it as if it has burned his hand, his mouth wide open in shock.

The letter reads:

'Dear Ralph,

I'm sorry.

Jack Merridew.'

He wonders, with fear stabbing at his heart, how Jack could have possibly found him, but the bottom of the page reads:

'p.s. I like your ad in the Yellow Pages.' Of course. He has a small business, which he advertises in the local phonebook in order for customers to find him. After years of trying to avoid Jack, he has found him through something as obvious as this. If Jack has the same Yellow Pages as him, it can only mean... He must live within the area. Ralph begins to tremble, once again feeling like the vulnerable prey that Jack once tried to smoke out and kill.

He reads the letter over and over, getting angrier each time his eyes sweep over the ridiculously short sentence. 'I'm sorry.' ? He killed two of his friends and nearly killed him, and all he can say is 'Sorry' ? 'Sorry', that empty, meaningless word, the word you use for accidentally bumping into someone or saying something you weren't supposed to, doesn't quite cover the fact that Jack initiated that, that dance, causing them to brutally murder Simon, or the fact that he didn't bother to stop Roger when he pushed a boulder and crushed Piggy in front of Ralph, causing his nightmares to consist of blood and crumpled bodies and fire. Piggy. Ralph still feels guilty. He was the one that got the group to call him by that cruel nickname in the first place, the one that he had been called even before the island, where he might have been able to reintroduce himself using his real name, the name that Ralph never got to know. Even in death, he was still known as the name with which he had been taunted with for most of his life, the name that sounded like the animals Jack hunted.

He notices something else at the bottom of the page; a phone number. He tells himself that he's not going to phone Jack, because he never wants to hear that voice again, the voice that cried that horrible chant, the voice that whispered promises of death. Glancing at the clock, he puts the letter face down so he doesn't have to look at it when he gets back, and leaves the house for work, grabbing his briefcase on the way.

He returns from work, determined to ignore the phone number written at the bottom of the letter. However, the curiosity to dial it into the telephone was tapping at the back of his brain for the whole day, a change from the usual blank mindset that told him to just get on with his work. He thinks that if Jack Merridew, of all people, can have the decency to apologise, even if it is just a frustratingly short sentence scribbled on a piece of cheap, rough paper, he could respond. He could just write back, saving himself the trouble of hearing that haunting voice again, but something draws him to the phone, something he might have felt many years ago, when everything was alright, something that is slowly emerging now. The old ghosts of his fear of Jack soon replace that feeling, making him apprehend his choice. Maybe someone told him to write it. Maybe he was bored and wanted to hear his prey's voice again. Maybe he gave him a fake number as a joke. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But maybe he really does mean it, and it's that thought that Ralph draws courage from, like air into his lungs, to pick up the phone and dial Jack's number. After twisting the dial, he puts the phone to his ear. The echoey sound of the phone ringing on the other end makes him feel light-headed with nerves as he imagines Jack getting up to answer it. The wait between each ring seems like years.

"Hello?" The unmistakeable voice renders Ralph cold and shaking; he's sure he won't be able to form any coherent words. It's definitely Jack's voice, the voice that plays in his nightmares, albeit much deeper. It never really occurred to him what he would say if Jack picked up. Part of him hoped that he wouldn't. Even if he had thought of anything to say, he wouldn't know how to start or where to begin.

"Jack." His voice has a slight tremor to it, and he mentally kicks himself for showing Jack his weak side.

"You got my letter then?" He doesn't know what he expected Jack to say. Perhaps he thought he would torment him with the encounters on the island.

"Mm." He pauses, forcing bravery. "It wasn't much of a letter. Could have said a bit more, you know, after what happened."

Jack sighs on the other end and waits for what seems like hours. "It's been seven years, Ralph. You can't really put all of that into one letter." His voice doesn't give away any signs of sneering or mocking or hatred. He just sounds tired. Exhausted. Ralph can't believe that Jack is capable of feeling... well, he couldn't say what he heard in Jack's voice but it definitely wasn't spiteful.

"I know." He wants to say more, to scream at Jack for making his life hell even after the island, for causing mostly sleepless nights and for paralysing nightmares. He's shocked at what comes out of his mouth next. He wasn't planning on saying it, the thought never even came to him, but he says it all the same. "Meet me. Here. You know my address. I want to see and hear you say it in person. What you wrote on the letter." He doesn't know why he said it. Maybe some part of his brain thought it would make things easier.

"Uhh- ok. Right. I'll see you tomorrow, then, same time. I live a few miles away." says Jack, and then there's a clicking sound and just empty space, leaving Ralph alone with his thoughts. He puts the phone back, not realising how dry his mouth is and how fast his heart is beating. Half of him was hoping Jack would decline. The last sentence caused Ralph's nerves to jump about even more than they already were, because there was a very slight edge to Jack's voice. Maybe Ralph imagined it because he expected it, but it makes him uncomfortable and chills his body.

The next evening, or rather, 24 hours of waiting later, for once again, Ralph spent the night with his eyes wide open, there's a hard knock at the door. Almost frozen to his chair in fear, Ralph stares at the door, as if staring at it will make the situation go away. The knock comes again, dissolving Ralph's hope that he'll leave. Slowly, he gets up and opens the door.

Jack's always been taller than Ralph. The young man at the door towers above him, making him feel intimidated. His eyes gradually rake up the other's body, taking in the jeans and white shirt, covered with a dark blue jumper. He quickly darts over the pale face that contrasts heavily with the fiery mess of curls resting on his head. Gathering his audacity, he finally lowers his gaze to study Jack's face. Apart from losing the childish roundness, his face hasn't changed that much. Brown freckles that stand out against his white skin are still scattered all over his face. His cheeks are still ruddy and his eyes are the same light blue that they've always been. They stare back at Ralph now, searching, taking everything in as he had. His eyes contain no malice or cruelty, just curiosity and a hint of nostalgia. Ralph wonders if his eyes gave anything away, too. Their stares meet, bringing back memories of the last day and their 'rescue'. Ralph shudders at the thoughts, as well as the ice-blue eyes that are locked with his own. He quickly averts his attention, away from those eyes, feeling uneasy.

This time, he's the first to speak. "Hello." He knows he should lash out at him, make him pay for everything he did, but his voice is oddly calm and controlled, despite the writhing feeling in his stomach and the shaking of his hands.

Jack nods at him, replying with "Hi." They don't smile at each other. They don't frown at each other. They just look.

Ralph walks into the kitchen of his little flat and Jack follows. They sit opposite each other at the wooden table on matching wooden chairs. In that moment, Ralph wonders why he has two chairs. It's a stupid, irrelevant thought, but he has never had any visitors before Jack, so two chairs were always unnecessary. He suspects he's just distracting himself from the situation at hand, so he tries to focus on the conversation they're about to have. He can barely look Jack in the eye, though, because he's afraid of seeing the look that used to come into his eyes when he wanted to kill something.

"Ralph." The red-haired boy says, stuttering a little as if unsure of where to begin. "I really have changed. It's been so long, and I've had a chance to look back on my actions and I..." He takes a deep breath. "I regret them."

"I believe you have more to say." Ralph mutters, daring to look up. Jack's face matches the sincerity of his voice. He's either an impressive actor, or he actually does mean it. However, Ralph's too wary to easily believe the latter, so he scrutinises Jack as he begins to say more. His face strains ever so slightly as he mumbles "Sorry", as if apologising is somewhat painful to say, and Ralph, both hoping for a more long-winded apology and struck with the memory of that day by the ashes of the signal fire, finally snaps and unleashes all seven years of pent-up anxiety, rage, and sadness.

"That's it?! That's all you have to say?" he screams, standing up abruptly. "How about sorry for starting that bloody dance that caused us to kill Simon? And what about sorry for not stopping Roger from killing my only friend on that wretched island? You were always Roger's chief, you knew that, so you could have stopped him! Oh, and then you nearly tried to kill me. You set the entire fucking island on fire, so I nearly died from being burned alive or being decapitated and having my head placed on a stick like a pig's. And then we got 'saved'", he laughs bitterly, "but thanks to you, and I am so very grateful, I have spent the last seven years with severe sleep deprivation and memories that haunt me when I'm really, really trying to live my life. God, it's not even a life when all I do is eat, work and sleep, trying not to let any memory of you," he spits the last word, "Get in my way, even though that fucking island is always at the back of my mind. It never goes away and I can never function like a normal human being thanks to you. Fuck you, Jack. You haven't changed a bit. Rot in Hell." Pushing his blonde hair back from his face, which is burning red with anger, he says in a low voice: "Get out of my house. Now."

Face lowered in what seems to be shame and without saying a word, Jack pushes his chair back, scraping the floor, and begins to walk out the door. He turns his head and glares at Ralph, before walking out and shutting the door loudly behind him. Ralph just stands there, recovering from his fit. He's never been this angry in his life. But it wasn't just the single word that Jack uttered, triggering Ralph's sudden, unusual bout of anger. It was the look in Jack's eyes just before he managed to choke out an apology. His eyes flickered with the old flame of madness and it scared Ralph and, not knowing how to deal with it, caused the fear to manifest itself as anger. He hopes with all of his heart that he never has to see Jack again.

For the first time in years, the very last cord breaks inside of Ralph, and a salty stream courses down his face as his body is racked with crippling, throaty sobs.

One month later, he's tried to push all thoughts of Jack out of his mind, even more so than usual. A heavy knock at the door sounds as he sits alone at his kitchen table, quietly sipping coffee to get him through the day. He gets up cautiously and, upon reaching the door, stares through the peephole and recoils as he sees a pair of blue eyes, lost in the midst of freckles, staring back at him. His perseverance to not think of Jack at all fails in that moment, and he gasps, running into the living room, trying to make his breaths even. He mentally races through all the things that Jack could do if he let him in. He could pin him to the wall by the throat, making Ralph's death silent so that no one could hear him or help him. He could grab one of the knives in the kitchen to complete the task he set himself so many years ago. He's so preoccupied with the notion that Jack is going to kill him that he almost doesn't hear when Jack says "I know you're there, Ralph." And Ralph, with a sigh, walks back to the door and opens it, letting Jack in, because the voice that once said those words in a devilish, mocking tone now just sounds exasperated more than anything. Despite the fact that he had harshly ordered Jack out of his house the last time they met, he never told him he didn't want to see him again. He foolishly left room for another chance to at least try and resolve things, and he can't ignore it.

As they stand in the doorway, Jack opens his mouth. "I meant it. Although it's been hard, I really have changed since...anyway. I know our last meeting didn't go very well, and you got... angry. You must understand that I've always found it hard to express how I feel with words. No matter how hard I've tried to move on from my old self, that's unfortunately the one thing that hasn't changed about me." Ralph considers the familiar words, the situation quickly becoming a déjà vu. He thinks about the look in Jack's eyes last month, and shivers. Presently, he looks genuine and pretty sheepish. Perhaps the spirit of the old Jack is fading away, and he is actually telling the truth.

Jack places his hand on Ralph's shoulder, the slight pressure being the only giveaway of his previous personality. He tenses up, aghast, afraid that Jack, being bigger and probably stronger, could easily shove him against the wall and fulfill his duty from the last few days on the island. Instead, he just looks at him sadly and says: "I just wanted you to know."

And with that, he lets go of Ralph, turns back on himself and marches out of the door, leaving Ralph to stare after his rapidly disappearing form, stunned. Ralph knows that he shouldn't make the mistake of trusting Jack again but the sincerity that he heard in his voice makes him reconsider. Jack's serious tone always had some sort of malice lurking under the surface, but this time he had sounded like he really meant it. Ralph's thoughts whirl, confusing him. He's not sure what to feel any more. He's past feeling angry. The fear's still there, but when is it not? Something, a tiny, blink-and-you'll-miss-it spark, rises up in him and it scares him because he wants to hate Jack Merridew, but at the moment, that feeling is nowhere to be found.

An hour of inner turmoil later, he finds himself standing by the phone and twisting the dial once again. Feeling as though wasps are swarming inside him, he bites down on the nails of his shaking hand as he waits for Jack to answer.

"Hello, Jack." This time he's the first one to speak on the phone. That's new.

"Oh. Hello, Ralph."

"Look, I think we should have a proper talk." Jack should know what he means. A conversation that doesn't involve shouting, or one that's painful, tense, and short. Maybe, just maybe, this talk will help settle things a little. Maybe it will ease the pain by a fraction of an amount.

"Yes. I agree." Although there's still enough time left for the talk to happen today, they arrange to meet tomorrow, this time at Jack's flat. Because neither of them can admit to the other one that they can't face seeing each other twice in one day, not after the first awkward conversation, for fear of breaking this odd truce, or whatever it is that they have between them.

The next day, having copied Jack's address down onto a piece of paper, Ralph finds that it is within walking distance. He still feels a pang of distress at the thought of Jack being so close to him, but fifteen minutes later, he is climbing the stairs to Jack's apartment and tapping the door with clammy hands. As he tries to calm his shaky breaths, Jack opens the door and even smiles a little. The smile touches the edges of his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Ralph, still tentative, doesn't return the smile, and steps into the house when Jack stands aside. Closing the door behind him and leading Ralph to the kitchen, Jack motions for him to sit down.

Ralph sits. And everything begins to spill out, all the thoughts and emotions he had pushed down into the deepest recesses of himself, all the terrors that keep him up at night. And Jack nods, because although he is only close to comprehending, he accepts that Ralph is hurting. So he opens up about how he progressively began to regret his actions, bit by bit, until the shame washed over him like a tidal wave, the sort that comes up behind you and forces you underwater when you're least expecting it. The shame of murdering innocent children, while he too was a child, just an ignorant child that thought it was simply a game, an adventure. And Ralph no longer sees the beast that has clung to himself for so long, he no longer sees the evil and madness that hangs in the air around Jack like a rancid cloud; the last wisps of that have disappeared. He just sees a regretful boy, carrying the weight of his guilt, just as he carries his own suffering. So he gives Jack a little, sad smile back; no need for any more words to be exchanged between them. They've said enough.

Two weeks later, and they've become regular visitors at each other's houses. The neighbours must find it strange, the reclusive young man finally leaving his flat and allowing someone else into his house after years of polite hellos if he happened to pass one of them in the corridor on his way to work. Ralph still hasn't forgiven Jack, of course he hasn't, and he knows he won't for many years to come, but each visit is making the burden he carries a little less heavier, as if he is giving a tiny bit to Jack each time, and Jack is passing over a small part of his in return. Jack can't quite empathise with him for what he faced, but then again, Ralph can't empathise with him for what he did.

Subtly, they're affecting each other, mending each other a fragment at a time. Jack's eyes are livening, glowing a little more each time they see each other, as if a light within is becoming increasingly brighter. Instead of shrinking back into his seat as though Jack repels him, Ralph has begun to lean forward bit by bit, until he now leans on the table towards the red-head. One day, he even cracks a smile, the unfamiliar muscles twitching ever so slightly as Jack reminds him of one of the better days on the island. That's all they really talk about. Never anything to do with the world that revolves outside the little flat they sit in, but the island. The idyllic paradise that overwhelmed their 12 year old senses, soon becoming a living nightmare. Ralph is always uncomfortable talking about the bad parts, though now he thinks about it, his mother was right. At first, it was extremely hard to release the monsters in his mind without tensing up and taking ragged breaths. But now that he has someone to share them with, someone who is at least near to understanding, the creatures are slowly but surely being tamed.

One day, Jack places his hand on Ralph's as the fair boy exhales deeply, having just spoken of one of the more difficult events. His hand is so cold, but Ralph doesn't mind, because it matches his own perpetually cool temperature. He feels the old twinge of fear, but this time it's laced with something different, something almost pleasant. Maybe there is hope for the future.

A/N: I hope you liked it! Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies; William Golding does.

Thanks to all the reviewers! Sadly I won't be adding any more to this but I'll probably write more fics in the future :)