Chapter Text
Jack sometimes felt all too familiar with nightmares. Wayyy too familiar. It made him feel an unwanted fear of something he couldn’t even remember. A false memory that faded from his thoughts. Strangely, the heavy feelings—the implications of that thing—lingered. It made him have to get up in the middle of a cold night to go to the bathroom, to wash it all away.
But the memory of this very dream is different. It lingered in his mind far too long; he couldn’t even make it fade away with a quick splash of water. Jack felt a chill creeping across his face. The sleeves of his pyjamas were wet because he wasn’t careful. His reflection in the mirror looked petrified, his breaths uneven, and he couldn’t calm himself down. Memories, false memories, flashed across his mind. Plane crash, the island, the fire, the hunt. Chief elections, he remembers. Face paint. Simon.
He shuddered at the thought. Simon.
He wasted not even a second to bolt out of his room in the dark. Maurice woke up because of the noise, but decided to pay no mind to it because the night sky hadn’t even changed colour at all. Jack, rationally speaking, didn’t know why he was running either. Barefoot. He’d even left the room without closing the door. He went up to the second floor where the lower-year students were. In his usual, normal, idiotic mind, he’d never do this unless they were on a long holiday—which wouldn’t be for at least four days. And yet, here he was.
Most students in the lower grades don't have a roommate; Simon, for various reasons, doesn't have one either. The door handle felt cold, just as this night felt unsettling. Jack’s hands were trembling. His heart was racing. He wanted to go back to his room, sleep under his warm woolen blanket, and forget all of this. But he couldn’t forget. Perhaps that was what was holding him back and driving him here. The thing that made him consciously break every rule he knew to check on Simon. To confirm with his own eyes that the pool of blood, or the stab wounds on his body, or the sea that had carried him and the whole damned island along with its contents, did not exist at all.
So, with a heavy heart and a weird urge, Jack went in.
He slipped in carefully, then closed the door carefully. Simon’s room was cold, but it smelled sweet. Cold tea, fresh and soft laundry, and Simon. The boy had a habit of leaving half his window open to let the moonlight in—but also the unforgiving autumn wind. Perhaps that was why Simon was sleeping in his current position. Curled up under the duvet with his face towards the window, as if he were seeking hope from the moon goddess or something. Only his face, from the nose upwards, remained exposed. He liked to sleep in a position that made him comfortable but hated situations where he couldn’t breathe.
Jack drew a heavy breath at the thought. No one would appreciate their own friend encouraging other friends to stab them to death on a damned uninhabited island. Simon loves comfort. It must have been very uncomforting, floating on those ocean waters. Jack hates the feeling of it, as if it were all a real incident.
He crouched in front of that younger face. Trying to breathe more slowly. Simon really is here, isn’t he? He really isn’t dead. No blood, no stab wounds, none of the bloody island or the ocean. His Simon is safe. He didn’t kill him.
The dream is just a false memory.
Closing his eyes, Jack rested his head on the edge of Simon’s bed. Close to the dark-haired boy’s dangling fingers. He stared at it for a moment before closing his eyes again. Simon didn’t sleep noisily like Roger, and certainly not like Maurice. He often slept in silly positions. The boy’s gentle rising and falling breaths rippled softly in Jack’s ear. Almost indistinguishable, masked by the sounds from outside the room—insects and the howls of nocturnal animals. Yet Jack could feel Simon’s very real presence, alive and well, right there before him.
"Jack?"
The blonde jolted up, reflexively flinching back. "S-Simon. I—"
"I know those curls were really you." Simon wasn’t smiling. His eyes were still half-closed, and he rubbed them faintly to shake off the drowsiness. "What are you doing here?"
Jack swallowed lightly. "I uh... I just wanted to check on you. I mean—! To see if you’ve packed your things yet."
Simon was still trying to make his surroundings clearer. He sat up, staring in confusion at Jack, who stood awkwardly in place. "Well, I’m not going home, just like the last Christmas. What about you?"
Jack stammered. He quickly stood up from his hunched position, towering over the dark-haired boy. "N-No. No, I’m not either."
Simon shrugged, preparing himself to go back to sleep. "Alright. I suppose you want to, umm... go back to your room and sleep. I’m afraid you’d have problems with your friends if they saw you leaving my room in broad daylight later."
Simon’s eyes are fixed on Jack again. He doesn’t smile; he seems confused, but somehow Jack feels the tenderness in his gaze drifting naturally towards him. Strangely enough, Simon has never once been angry with him. He has been so gentle, so caring, and so loving towards him that it makes him feel sick with the sheer amount of it. The sheer amount of unconditional love Jack receives without having to ask for it, perform for it, or prove himself. He simply had to be there, and Simon would stroke his hair or read him Huckleberry Finn with such profound meaning in his voice.
Jack’s legs reluctantly move away from where they were, slowly heading towards the door. At some point during his lazy, sluggish pace, Simon has stopped looking. Jack stops in his tracks. His mind goes hazy.
And what if he didn’t want to go back to his room? And what if he wanted to stay here, stay with Simon, join him under that seemingly cozy blanket, hugging and embracing the warmth he’d always sought every school day, all day long? God knows how much he wanted to overcome his fear to be by Simon’s side all those times. His cowardly behaviour made him suffer. He doesn’t want to be the laughing stock of Roger or Maurice. Simon is the batty one. Being with him would make him look like a fool to them. And yet Simon is the only thing that makes him genuinely comfortable, knowing that all that love is real and undoubtedly his.
Memories flashed. And panic set in again. It was terrifying to see Simon’s body—Simon’s lifeless body—drifting out to sea. Jack smacked his temple, trying to put that thought out of his mind.
He couldn’t. It brought the panic back.
“Jack?” Simon was now sitting fully upright on the bed. “What’s wrong? Do you need help with something?”
Jack got up, again. He didn’t even realise when he’d started crouching on the floor of Simon’s bedroom again. He wiped his cheek, which was covered in tears. Jack hadn’t even realised he was crying.
“Are you crying? What’s wrong—”
“Stay there.” Jack gave the instruction as Simon was about to get up from the bed.
Alright. He made up his mind.
Jack walked slowly to the side of the bed. He moved stiffly, awkwardly, lifting the duvet with the utmost care. He tried. First, one knee onto the bed. Simon said nothing, just stared at him in confusion.
Jack made himself as small as possible as he climbed fully onto Simon’s bed. He let his body fall further away from the dark-haired boy, pressing himself against the edge of the mattress. His head was turned away from Simon’s gaze because he didn’t dare to meet his eyes. Simon sighed. He wrapped the blanket around Jack’s entire body—or at least, he tried to. Jack hadn’t moved much. His eyes were closed. One hand instinctively grabbed Simon’s pinky finger as a sort of… grasp. A sign that Simon is—probably—fine with this, when he doesn’t pull his finger back from Jack’s grip.
“Come closer, Jack.” Simon’s voice was very soft. Like a whisper, yet louder and gentler at the same time. “You don’t want to fall from there. The children below will be disturbed by the noise and I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
For a moment, Jack fell silent at those words.
But he eventually inched forward, clasping Simon’s much smaller palm in his own. A wild, challenging thought crossed his mind when Simon’s collarbone was right in front of him—a huge mistake from the very start. Simon’s hand rested on top of Jack’s curly locks, stroking them with light, gentle touches.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Jack hummed in agreement. It took him at least ten seconds before he finally replied. "I had a nightmare."
"Mmm, what sort of nightmare? If you don’t mind telling me, of course."
"Someone died."
Simon paused the stroking for a moment. Then he continued at his usual pace. "I’m sorry to hear that."
"But it’s not real." Jack felt his voice growing quieter. Wonder why.
"It’s still devastating. Death is like that for people. Even if you’ve only experienced it in a dream, it’s still… cruel. Shattering." Simon’s voice also grew softer. Jack began to feel guilty for disturbing him in the middle of the night like this. "It got you visiting me at 2 in the morning before the long holiday has even begun. Don’t fall asleep here; you’ll be late by the time you wake up again, and people will see you—"
"I don’t care, Simon." Jack looked up, meeting Simon’s gaze—his face clearly showing his genuine surprise.
Jack broke eye contact. He shifted closer, now one hand encircling Simon’s waist and back. Their legs were tangled under the sheets. Simon could feel the blonde locks scratching his jaw and his cheek. Jack continued to nuzzle against him.
"I don’t care." Jack has made up his mind.