Christmas Island--- @lotf-secret-santa Gift For @mmeqkoi!!

Christmas Island--- @lotf-secret-santa gift for @mmeqkoi!!

(A/N: Ach, I usually draw something for this but I ran rather low on time :(. This took longer than a short little fic blurb should have, haha. Ralph and Roger is such a slept-on dynamic. Kinda tweaked the timeline for the dates to match up, don't come for me lol. Anyway, Merry Christmas!)

Christmas Island (984 words)

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The boys had been on the island for three months before Ralph and Roger had a proper conversation alone. It was one of those lazy days— all the shelters had been built and rebuilt, a sizable collection of fruit lay gathered on the platform, and the hunters had already returned from today’s campaign (Empty-handed, as per usual). The peace sent a twinge of unease through Ralph; there was always something to do, someone to talk to about hygiene or shelters or some other rot like that. He felt it was impossible to lounge about the beach like all the other boys, so he contented himself with strolling up and down the stretch of coast within view of the encampment.

It gave him a start when he came across Roger, alone in the harsh sun, forcefully digging his fingers in the sand and hurling the grainy clumps into the gentle waves. The boy’s furrowed brow and curled lip showed no indication of want for conversation; Ralph, however, mustered up the courage to approach him. “Hullo. Hunt went alright?”

Roger tossed a few more handfuls of sand before answering. “It’s Christmas. Did you know that?”

Ralph blinked. “What— you mean today’s Christmas day?”

“Yeah. Well, depends. November has thirty-one days, right?”

“Just thirty, I think.”

“Damn. Well, it’s boxing day, then.”

Noticing a sudden, uncharacteristic slump in Roger’s shoulders, Ralph lowered himself onto the sand next to him. “You’ve… been keeping track of the days?”

“Didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. But I always had to take my pills every ten days, so—” Roger drew in a sharp breath through his teeth and dug his fists deep in the sand. 

“What’d you ask Father Christmas for this year?” Ralph joked, unwilling to point out Roger’s slip of the tongue.

“I hate Father Christmas. Haven’t asked him for anything since I was nine.”

“God, what has Saint Nick ever done to you?” Ralph chuckled.

Roger screwed his face into a scowl. He had uncovered a natural cache of rocks and was starting to hurl them into the ocean. “He hardly brought me any gifts in the first place. Just stupid coal in my stupid sock on the stupid radiator. And the years he did bring me things were rotten years anyway.”

Roger curled further into himself and clenched his fist around a jagged rock. Ralph thought he saw a trickle of blood run down his arm, but Roger didn’t show any signs of pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but Roger beat him to the punch. 

“I got a butterfly net when I was five. My mom took it away when I started pasting the bugs I caught to the walls. I got a tin racer when I was seven. My stupid little brother smashed it flat the next day.” With each new memory, Roger threw the rocks from his pile with more and more rage. “Broke a kid’s nose on the playground when I was eight, so I didn’t get anything that year. Year after that, I got a cat for Christmas. God, I—” His voice broke and his aim faltered. “That was a good cat. But once it bit me deep as hell so I threw it at a wall. Broke its goddamn neck. And if it wasn’t for those good for nothing pills, I—”

“Roger, stop,” Ralph cried, snatching the other boy’s wrist. Roger looked up. In his reminiscing, he neglected to notice three littluns that had wandered into a surf a few yards in front of them. Clutched in his hand was a stone the size of an orange; if Ralph hadn’t stopped him, he would have hurled it right at the kids’ heads. The rock fell to the sand with a soft beat.

Roger’s mouth felt dry. When he spoke again, his voice came out low and hoarse. “I’ve never told anyone that.” He grabbed Ralph’s shoulder and dug his nails into the fair skin. “If you ever tell anyone I said that, I swear to God, I—”

“Roger. It’s okay. I…” Ralph sent him a bashful smile. “They gave me pills for a while, too. Jitters. Made it hard to play the flute.” He mimed moving his fingers along the holes of the instrument. When Roger gave no reaction, he cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, if you ever need any… if you want any— I guess I’m just saying—”

“I don’t need another shrink,” Roger shot back. “But… maybe sometimes, I… well I suppose what I’m trying to say is.”

“You’re welcome.” Ralph stood and beat the sand off his shorts. “Well. Have a good sleep.” He began to stroll back to the camp.

“Hey, Ralph.” The chief turned back around. “What’d you ask Father Christmas for?”

Ralph couldn’t keep the beginnings of tears from his eyes. He pushed his ragged hair out of his face and tried his best to smile. “Isn’t it obvious? I want to go home.”

The next day, Roger found something new wrapped around his spear— a small, pink shell with a messy hole punched through its center, through which ran a poorly-braided cord of dry grass. No note— not that there was any method of leaving one. Roger took it, but held it close to his body so the other biguns couldn’t see. During an hour of respite, he sat in the shade and inspected his newly acquired possession. The shell was the same sort of pearly translucent material as the conch. Roger’s mind immediately darted to Ralph. He scoffed at the gesture. Idealist. He reared back his arm to throw it into the forest, but stopped short. He contemplated the shell for a moment, then strung the braided cord around his wrist and carried it to the platform.

He placed it upon a rock and crushed it with the butt of his spear to thicken his face paint for the next day’s hunt.