"My boy," Wrongway said gently, placing a kind hand atop Gilligan's, "this is your home."
And for just a few seconds, Gilligan could not hide the crestfallen expression that overcame his features. Time seemed to slow, encased in molasses, and for a moment he forgot Wrongway's unexpected return, forgot the bewildered castaways around him, forgot even the airplane he was currently holding onto.
This is your home.
It struck him with more force than he had felt in a long time. That thought… that was a new one. Sure, they had all been stranded on the island for quite a while now, and of course some days were harder than others. Some days were more hopeless than others. Some days the prospect of escape or rescue seemed very far off indeed. But never had it seemed downright impossible. Not until right now, in this very moment.
This is your home.
The certainty with which Wrongway had said it was probably what cut the most. What caused Gilligan to stare, mouth agape, in disappointment. To sit stunned for a few seconds, like the words had been a slap in the face. Wrongway had sounded, for once, entirely confident. Of course the island was their home now. Of course they would never be rescued. Of course they would never escape. Of course they would never leave.
And so Gilligan sat, unable to keep the crestfallen expression off his face, unable to bring himself to raise his grinning mask. For the first time, he considered it. That this would be their home. That this was their home. That he could never return to the place he had once considered home. The people he remembered would only ever be memories. The places he had once known intimately would be inaccessible forever. Maybe they were doomed to walk these sands until their dying day.
He almost felt like crying.
Until he suddenly caught up with time again, and realized with vague surprise that Wrongway and the others were already headed back towards camp. All except for the Skipper, who remained behind and was watching Gilligan sadly, carefully.
"You alright, little buddy?" he asked, voice kind and caring and warm. Gilligan almost pasted a grin on his face and answered with a "sure, Skipper". But something in the Skipper's eyes stopped him. He looked down the path, watched the others retreat out of sight. He looked back at the Skipper, his big buddy, the man who cared for him no matter how much he messed up, the man who loved him no matter what he did. So for once, the first mate didn't bother to put his guard back up.
"I miss home," he managed thickly. In response, the Skipper sighed a heavy sigh, then walked over to the wing of the plane. He reached up in wordless communication, and Gilligan slid down to his captain, who lifted him easily off of the wing and onto the sandy shore. But he did not let go right away; instead, the big man pulled the skinny sailor into a great big hug.
"Me, too," the Skipper admitted roughly. A sudden rush of affection for the older man welled within the sailor as they pulled apart and began to head in the direction of the camp. And suddenly, Gilligan was struck with another thought - something he had been told many times, by multiple loved ones.
Home is where the heart is.
And just like that, the notorious grin crossed his face, and it wasn't a front - not this time. The island sun seemed suddenly warmer, the breeze gentler, and the jungle trees just a touch more lively. Because there were things here that Gilligan loved. The sand between his toes. The rush of the ocean waves. The golden sunrises and the starry nights. The people. His friends - no, his family. And if there were things that he loved here, well, then his heart was here, too. And if his heart was here, maybe, just maybe… this was home.