Chapter Text
Roger woke up with sand in his mouth and somebody crying. Not loud crying either. The kind people tried to hide. He stayed where he was for a minute, face half-buried in his arm, listening to the island breathe around him. Waves somewhere close. Leaves shifting overhead. Boys shouting in confused bursts farther down the beach.
He’s alive then. He survived the crash.
Shame. Roger pushed himself upright slowly, wincing at the ache in his shoulder. His choir uniform shirt clung damply to his skin, stained with seawater and dirt. There was dried blood along one shin where twisted metal had caught him during the crash, but it wasn’t serious.
Nothing serious enough.
The beach below was already crowded. Boys stumbling around asking questions nobody could answer. Some yelling for parents. Others trying very hard not to look scared.
Roger recognized nearly all of them from choir.
Jack Merridew stood near the shore already barking orders at the other choir boys, black robe half torn open and red hair sticking damply to his forehead. Maurice lingered nearby, trying to calm a pair of younger boys while glancing nervously toward Jack every few seconds. A larger boy sat heavily beneath a palm tree clutching his glasses with shaking hands, talking too fast about names and meetings and rules nobody seemed interested in listening to.
And a tan boy stood beside him, calm in the sort of careless way that made people trust him immediately. Roger disliked him on instinct, but not nearly as much as he disliked the ache in his chest when he spotted Simon. He noticed him immediately, which irritated him more than it should have.
Simon was crouched near the treeline helping one of the littluns wash blood from scraped hands with seawater. His sleeves were rolled unevenly to his elbows, curls hanging damply into his face while he murmured something soft Roger couldn’t hear, probably comforting him.
During choir, Simon always looked neater somehow.Hair slicked carefully to the side for Sunday mass. Collar crooked but still buttoned. Quiet. Such a gentle soul. Roger remembered watching Simon sing beneath stained glass windows, candlelight catching against his face while Latin hymns echoed through the chapel. Simon never sang loudly, but Roger always heard him anyway.
This version of him looked different. The island had ruined the careful appearance entirely. His curls twisted wild around his forehead now, dark with humidity and seawater. His choir clothes clung damply to him, sleeves loose, tie missing completely. Beautiful in a way that made something cruel shift awake inside Roger’s stomach. Like this, Simon didn’t look like he belonged in a chapel anymore.
Simon glanced up suddenly. Their eyes met across the beach. Most people looked away from Roger first, Simon never did. Never in choir practice. Never during prayer. Never when Roger lingered too close behind him after rehearsals just to watch him tense.
Roger felt that familiar ugly twist low in his stomach sharp and possessive and hungry all at once. The same feeling he got during confession.
"There is wickedness inside every boy," the priest used to say. Roger had always wondered if God made him wrong on purpose. A loud voice cut through the noise.
"We need an assembly!"
That tan boy. Already organizing everyone like he’d been born for it. Jack looked furious.
"We should keep together as a choir, Ralph" Jack snapped, shoving wet hair from his eyes. "We already have rules."
"You don’t get to decide that," the tan boy, who Roger now knew as Ralph shot back.
Roger barely listened. He kept watching Simon. Simon had always been strange back at home. Wandering off after rehearsals to sit alone behind the chapel. Looking at people too long, like he could see things they didn’t want noticed. Roger used to catch him staring during hymns sometimes. Not frightened staring. Interested staring, like Simon knew there was something rotten inside Roger and kept choosing to stay near him anyway. Roger hated it... Roger wanted more of it.
One of the younger boys suddenly burst into louder sobs nearby, panicked and shrill, Simon turned immediately. Of course he did. Roger watched Simon kneel beside the boy, touching his shoulder gently while whispering reassurance under his breath. Maybe prayer. Maybe comfort. Maybe both.
Possessive irritation crawled up Roger’s throat before he could stop it. Simon was too good with people, he was too willing to give pieces of himself away. Now they were trapped on an island with no adults, no chapel bells, no priests, no rules except the ones boys made for themselves. Roger already knew what would happen, they’d consume someone like Simon whole.
Jack would use him for comfort when leadership became too heavy. The littluns would follow him around like lost disciples.
And Simon would let them. The thought made Roger’s jaw tighten hard enough to hurt.
Before he realized he was moving, Roger started down the beach toward him. He took his place beside Jack, Simon two people down from him. He looked to his left and caught the boy's eye. Simon looked back at Roger with the same glare but softer. He remembered the times Roger would stay and listen to him sing and practice, thinking he went unnoticed. Simon always knew. How could he miss it? Roger was the subject of his sin. The one who made him unable to be pure and perfect as he outwardly felt. Simon would slick his hair to the side and slide his feelings away with it. On this island however, his hair was in shambles and so was his heart. No adults to tell him off. No priest to hear his confession.No one to stop him from the urges he felt. No one to remind him of the sin every boy carried. No one to put a damper on his lust.