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Dappled Shadows
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( IV : To Your Heart's Content )
Brash and brutal; outspoken and detemined; confident and capable. These were the words that came to mind when Simon thought of Jack. Though even in England, when they were both in the choir, he had seen the darker side to the school's brilliant and well-bound leader, he had felt neither fear nor repulsion to the older boy's fundamental illness.
Of course, back then, Jack was not the 'problem' - in fact, 'nature' wasn't even the problem. The problem was old Mr. Sutters, with his beady eyes and sweating palms; he was the teacher that was always reaching, reaching, reaching. Simon saw, he heard, and he did not do anything. At night, he had laid awake, wondered why he did not act, wondered if he was destined for hell because of this.
And then it became clear, all so clear.
He had always been reserved, had always stayed clear of company and stretching, wandering, weaving hands. Had tried, at least. And it was no different now; he simply retreated further into the corners of his consciousness, refusing to look, much less make eye contact, with whichever fellow choir-member attempted to chat up with him.
It was Jack that didn't ask 'what's wrong?' and it was Jack who staged the untimely retirement of the old Mr. Sutters. Simon does not hear of any of this until after the incident, after Jack is smiling and laughing and pushing him against the wall, forcing his to drink a whole cup of the foul red liquid that he had known to be blood.
'Don't look so bloody miserable all the time,' Jack had said, ruffling his hair before continuing down the hall, as if he did not just practice something that would have earned even the highest Knight a hanging.
Simon had not been grateful, persay, but he hadn't done anything against it either.
"You're pale," Jack notes, feeling Simon's forehead with the back of his hand. Simon feels groggy, reaches out, and sees that he is positioned half-leaning against one of the taller trees. Jack mutters something about the 'damned heat' and 'forsaken mosquitoes' before retracting his hand. Something sticky, but instead of opening his eyes, he instinctively feels for his forehead.
Simon does not need to put it near his nose to know the substance to be blood.
Ever so slowly, he cracks open his eyes, only to see a look of pure panic flash across Jack's blood-and-mud smeared face (and did the forest always look so green and gold?) before he cannot open his eyes at all.
"Jack...?" He whispers, more for reassurance than anything else.
"Don't look," the other replies. A pause, a beat, and Simon would will himself to relax, except he is already at ease. "Don't look," Jack repeats, with something more-like-fervor this time. Simon's lashes, thick and unfit for the ordinary farmboy, flutter behind the head boy's outstretched palm. "I don't want you to see me like this," Jack confesses.
"I won't," Simon promises - the best that he can, anyways.
He can feel Jack leaning closer, can feel it when the other's fingers tighten just that bit about his head. He cannot move and he is frozen to the spot, and he can taste the blood (once of a mouse, then of a pig, later-?), disgusting and retching and addicting all at once. It ends, much like that one moment in school, and it is all Simon can do not reach out.
Jack only releases his hold once he is sure Simon will make no move to open his eyes.
"Why did you protect me?" Simon asks, though he already knows.
It comes, the vision. A fire, a huge fire. The whole troop of boys living in the deserted pile of rocks, the makeshift cave; and the holler of savages and scoundrels, runaways from the law, as opposed to civilized school-boys. He hears Jack speaking, saying something, but he cannot catch anything over the roar of the waves and the trees which are falling, toppling - dying - because of the flames. And throughout the whole of the experience, there is one thing he notices immediately.
He does not see himself there.
Simon is down on the ground, knees and hands, gasping and coughing and choking on air, sweet air. His eyes are still tightly shut, and he's heaving, panting, chest rising and falling and finger twitching. Jack reaches forth a hand, and Simon knocks it away, instinctively, with a force neither of them knew him to possess.
The reaction is immediate: Jack seizes both of his hands, manages to pull a near-hysterical boy out of a vision-induced insanity, and through it all, Simon's eyes remain clenched tight.
Like all other attacks, this one subsides as well, eventually.
"Golly," Jack breathes out, ruffling Simon's hair in what would be an affectionate manner, if his hand weren't firmly placed about the younger one's throat. "I almost thought I smelled rebellion, you know?" And there's a pitch to his voice that makes it a little higher, a little bit more forced, than before. Simon's eyes stay closed. "But you wouldn't do that, right? You're a good boy, Simon; not like all those other wankers," Jack spits out, a sneer upon his lips.
He tastes the coppery tange of blood, and realizes - with dawning horror - that he is beginning to like it.
And like that, Jack's mood and manner changes completely once more. "Good Simon, the fairest choir-boy of them all," he commends, voice rich and sweet, and just that little bit of deep. "You'll let me keep you, right? All to myself..."
The laugh that echoes through the blowing leaves is not one that Simon knows.
(He sees the branches falling, he sees the island burning; he sees all of life being extinguished by the flame.)
"What do you want?" Jack asks, painting a perfect 'J' in-blood on Simon's cheek. His face is strangely devoid of the dirt and wear which has become clothing for all the other stranded boys.
"I want to sing Ave Maria in front of the Harcourt crowd," Simon professed.
"Your voice will never be deep enough, you know?" And Jack laughs, clear - and wild, just as he should, "When we go back to England, I'll request that you get to go to the Harcourt Manor, and then you'll be able to sing to them 'till your heart gives out." And he sighs, softly, wondering why Simon still smells of church and flowers and soap, even when he's just been painted with pig's blood. No matter; they live now, and he wraps his arms about the younger boy.
Simon does not open his eyes.
'I'm scared,' Simon wants to disclose, wants to say that he knows he'll enver be able to hit that 'G' of Ave Maria, but that he does not need to anymore, because this island will serve as his grave. 'I'm scared of dying, of watching the island go up in flames, and of everyone turning into monsters,' Simon thinks, because he cannot say. 'I want to go home and sing a song - any song, so long as I can stand by your side and-'
He doesn't finish that thought-cannot finish that thought.
Old gray hands make their way about his throat, only that is a thought of the past, and Jack is still holding him close.
'We'll be off this island soon,' he hears Jack whisper into the messy black strands of loose hair.
It will never be soon enough.
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Er, yeah. I'm a sucker for nice people who sweetly ask/suggest, so Happy Valentines' Day to you, Canadino (did I spell that right-?) and I hope you enjoy! It's not that I'm not still totally in love with the idea of JackxSimon, simply that I'm random like that, and when I write, I write.