Disclaimer: According to everyone I've ever asked, I don't own these boys. Though I cry in my sleep knowing that.

Note: I know what you all are thinking. I should really finish my other stories before I post new ones. Well, you know what I have to say to you... I know... you're right, but unfortunately I have this defect in my brain which is unable to keep me from having new ideas. I promise that the others will be a priority also, but until I can get anything else on them up why don't you take some time and read this one. I hope you like it.

Chapter I

Jack Merridew looked out over the ocean from on top of the cliff. The setting sun played reds and oranges across a normally deep blue sea. The waves crashed loudly against the jagged rocks surrounding the island. Their noisy journeys making themselves known only to him. However, they were wasting their time. It wasn't the sound of water scraping rock he was so aptly listening for, but something else entirely.

His burning blue eyes searched the sky for any sign of life, though he knew that to find something there was close to impossible. Nothing would be around today. His own presence known by the rest of the creatures on the island at this time would make sure they hid well. They would not disturb him. Not yet, at least.

He was beginning to give up hope. His thoughts wandered to the possibility that his journey was in vain. Maybe, he should go back now and forget about everything he was supposed to be doing. He could curl up under the shelter of the cave and go back to sleep. Go back to where he belonged.

But where was that? Where did he belong if it wasn't with the rest of them? He had never been one to be a loner, always traveled in a pack. Sometimes he would lead the rest of them and they'd treat him as their leader. Would he have followers this time? Or would everyone turn their backs on him now that he had been labeled a murderer?

Did they really see him that way? Was he really the one who had instigated the entire thing? He hadn't thought he would be able to bear thinking about it any longer, not after he'd woken up that very morning with blood stained hands and the thought of wide frightened eyes looking back at him. Yet, here he was, thinking of another way to finally wash the blame away from his conscience.

He held back tears of a frightened child. He was no longer a child at all. The events that had taken place the night before caused the innocence he thought had still lurked in his body to cease to exist. All innocence was lost.

And yet.

This pain, this sorrow he was feeling, was it really for those frightened eyes and trembling lips that had so desperately pleaded for his help the night before? Or was for his own sake? Was everything he was feeling for no one but himself? He found he wasn't able to answer the question and the tears ran freely down his cheeks.

He hadn't cried in such a long time. Not since he was still living in boarding school back in Britain. He vaguely remembered that incident. All of his memories seemed to blur together anymore.

Something about his father, he was sure of that. Every time he had let any sign of weakness by way of tears show was because of his father.

Alcoholism stood foremost in his mind. The millions of times he would come home on holiday to a broken house. All because his father had been drinking and decided he would rather use any sort of violence to show how much he hated his son. It wasn't long until the disease had gone too far. A loud gun shot would be remembered for years on end. Maybe one day destined to be forgotten with the rest of the memories.

God, he hoped so.

With a trembling hand he held a small pocket knife. A gift from his father. Something to 'show the ladies who was in charge', or that was what he'd been told.

In itself it held more memories of the night before than anything. The lock of black hair cut by it was still intertwined in the blade. The blood that was still dried on his hands was on the sharp metal too; the tool having been used on one of the arms of their victim. The red on silver made it almost impossible for him to leave it at his side and not touch it to one of his own limbs. To watch his own life source drain away would be a sort of release. A release he needed.

With that thought he turned on his heel, deciding to jump down from the cliff he had only just recently claimed as his own. He would come back later, perhaps when he was little less emotional. Perhaps he wouldn't come back at all.

He tucked the knife away in his pocket and kept a steady pace through the forest. He wouldn't be going back to the cave. Not now.

No, now he would go find someone who could tell him, or rather reassure him, that he was not alone. That he was still valued on the island, that he was still needed.

The question was, where would he find such a person? Surely everyone was frightened of him now. Surely they would all leave him alone to die the way he was supposed to. No one would be thinking twice on following him anymore. They would all return to the safety of their previous leader. The safety of someone who wasn't a murderer.

He arrived at the shore a few moments later. The sound of the waves now being heard by him. He almost jumped in the cold water, but stopped before he was completely soaked through. Tossing his clothes to the side, he dived into the sea. The water tingling on his oversensitive skin. The pins and needles feeling spread over his body. He could feel every limb cry in protest as he made himself stay afloat, everything was going numb. It was a nice contrast to the overwhelming feelings he had become used to. Everything, he knew, would soon dissolve from reality.

From the temperature of the ocean he considered the fact that things would eventually freeze around the island. During the summer, when everyone was still new to this part of the world, they had thought the island to be tropical and that it would stay warm. No one would be prepared for winter.

When he started feeling his lungs constrict within him, he knew he should probably get out of the water. It was getting harder and harder for him to breathe, and strangely enough, that was okay for him. He felt suddenly that maybe working to stay alive wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe, they should all work a little harder. They sure hadn't worked hard in taking someone else's life.

Willing his thoughts away from there, he swam back to the shore. His clothes stuck to him in odd places because there was no way for him to dry himself off. He didn't mind though. It wasn't like anyone of importance was going to see him in such a condition.

He looked down at his hands and saw that they were now free of the red stains that were only just present. A strange sadness filled him at the thought that every piece of the victim had been washed away from him. He clutched his pocket knife a little tighter.

His red hair was dripping from his head, the mass of tangles reaching past his eyes now. He shook it out of the way and blinked a few drops away from his inky lashes. The swim had been refreshing, even if it had left him a little devastated.

Now, he thought, he was ready. And he made his way back to his camp.

A fire that had burned all night and into the early hours of the morning had left a mess of ash and wood in a small pit at the camp. No one had bothered to clean up the night before, and due to his lack of participation in custodial duties, he wasn't angry with any one of them. He just calmly stepped over the large branches that lay in his way to the cave.

He noticed the many feet sticking out from leafy shelters. Some of the children seemed to be piled on top of one another. Though he didn't think it looked that comfortable, he left them to their sleep. He realized how truly exhausted he was then. Maybe getting up as early as he had was not the best choice he had made lately. Then again, he seemed to be full of wrong decisions recently.

He wasn't expecting a visitor in the cave as he walked through the entryway covered by a large pigskin. Yet as soon as he'd lifted the makeshift door he was staring into big brown eyes. He resisted the urge to roll his own blue ones.

"Where were you?" Roger asked coldly. He always asked the same thing when Jack wasn't in his cave in the morning.

"None of you fucking business," Jack answered in the same way he always had, "since when was I to ask you for permission?"

"Things are changing around here Jack," he spat the other teen's name out with venom, "someone needs to be with you at all times."

"And no one needs to keep tabs on you?" Jack was getting irritated quickly. He knew things were changing, but he didn't need a bodyguard. He wasn't five years old.

"I can take care of myself. Who knows who's out there to get you though." Roger answered proudly, but shrank away quickly when Jack turned to him with his pocket knife raised to his throat.

"What are you doing?" Roger asked shakily.

"Maybe I'm the one who is the only real threat here. Maybe I need protection from myself." Jack said and pressed harder against his own skin. He could feel it breaking, the blood dripping from a small scratch.

"Jack stop." Roger reached out and took hold of the knife that was currently being driven dangerously close to killing his chief. He jerked it away from the redhead only to have it snatched back from him. With a menacing stare, Jack folded the knife and placed it back in his pocket.

He ran a thumb across the cut on his throat, the blood clinging to the calloused finger. He moved closer to Roger who didn't step away now. With his thumb he wiped the blood off on Roger's bottom lip. He was glad to see Roger didn't respond to his maniacal behavior. That was exactly as he had thought it would go. If Jack showed the least bit of insanity, Roger got frightened. He wasn't used to being the one to keep everything under control. He was usually the one who needed to be calmed down. For him, this was a complete change of rolls.

Jack smirked widely. He would torture Roger with his insanity. It was good to feel in charge, and for once he felt he really was in charge. Every other time he had had to make a decision Roger had been there to back him up. Would the brunette agree with him now?

Not unlike he had imagined things would go, he pressed his cold lips to Roger's own heated ones. He knew that his first kiss, if you could call this a kiss, would be passionate and needy. He could taste his blood on Roger's bottom lip and took to sucking on it feverishly. He smirked again when he heard, or rather felt, Roger moan into his mouth. He was definitely in control.

"Things are changing my friend," Jack said after pulling away from the older boy and resting his forehead against Roger's, "and you might not be ready for everything. Watch your back, because I'll be there. Body guard or no."

With a gracefulness he knew only he possessed, Jack walked away from Roger. The brunette stared in awe as he reached into his pocket and retrieved the knife once more. He flicked it open and looked curiously at the mixture of colors now on the blade.

He picked out the color of dried blood, that had been from the night before. But now something else lingered. He smirked as he realized it was his own blood. His own blood mixed with the sinister blood of someone else. That blood now flowed through his veins as the blade was stained with it as he had cut into his own neck.

He stroked the now inflamed skin on his neck. The cut was healing already and the blood had stopped flowing. Even after Roger left and Jack lay on the ground again, his fingers would remain where he knew a little piece of Simon would always be.

Note: So, do you guys forgive me yet? I hope you liked this chapter. I know I liked reading it. I write for my fans so don't forget to review. love you all.

-Ayumi