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Rated: 13+ · Assignment · Fanfiction · #1857789
Jack and Roger have a little disagreement when they go to experiment with the face paint.
         Jack was standing under a tree about ten yards away. When roger opened his eyes and saw him , a darker shadow crept beneath the swarthiness of his skin; but Jack noticed nothing. He was eager, impatient, beckoning, so that Roger went to him.”
         - Lord of the Flies, William Golding. (chapter 4, page 65)

         ‘Don’t be hitting any o’ them littluns.’ Jack said quickly, ‘If they go a-tattlin’ to Ralph-‘
         ‘Sucks to all ‘em wimps.’ Roger said under his breath. His head was down, making his mane of shaggy hair fall into his eyes. However, his voice was icy and razor-sharp.
         ‘Why’re you so ‘fraid of Ralph? Eh, Merridew?’ Jack’s lips twitch in pride at his self-appointed name. ‘Ain’t ‘cause he’s older… or ‘cause he’s taller…’
         Now Jack was frowning.
         ‘All right, Roger?’ His sun-bleached locks fell low to cover his furrowed brows. ‘You sound bloody batty… batty as that nut, Simon!’ Jack’s attempt at laughter hung heavily in the air.
         Roger cocked his head to one side and smiled; Jack shivered in response.
         ‘I reckon…’ Roger murmured as his grin grew. ‘that you’re scared.’
         Jack sputtered angrily like a boiling teakettle.
         ‘A-Am not! What hunter gets scared of that prat?’
         ‘What hunter, indeed…’ A queer expression swept over Roger’s face, stretching his already unnatural grin far enough that it cleaved his face in two like the scar of their plane arrival. When laughter boiled up out of his thin throat, Jack found the sound warped in the jungle heat.
         ‘Wotcher, Roger,’ Jack snarled, ‘I’ll do you like I did that pig!’
         Roger kept laughing.
         ‘Oh, will you now?’ he cackled, sneering at the ginger-haired hunter with contempt. ‘Our brave hunter! Scared of that wanker, Ra-‘ Jack rushed at Roger, his knife in hand, and raised it high as if to plunge it through the furtive, mocking boy’s heart. Roger caught his wrist and the recoil of his own strength jerked Jack to a halt. In a sudden and brutal twist, his extended arm was behind him and Jack found himself pressed face-first against the rough bark of a tree. His blade, warm from his body and the sun, brushed against his exposed throat with the deadly intent of it’s new master.
         ‘You wotcher, Jack Merridew,’ Roger threatened hotly in his ear. ‘I’ll box your ears right proper, ‘cause I’m brassed off with the way you fanny about like you own the place.’ Roger lifted the edge of the knife with a tilt of his wrist, forcing Jack to stand on his tip-toes to avoid cutting himself. ‘I may not be “King of the Hill”, but I had you fagging for me back at school, and you know what I do to blokes who get too big for their britches. Don’t you, Jackie?’
         Jack nodded and hissed in surprise as the tip of the knife scratched his chin ever so lightly, pulled away by the other boy. Jack spun and tried to knock Roger away with his backhand, never actually hitting the dark-haired boy as he stepped back. Roger let his grip on the knife go slack until it slid slowly from his left hand and fell to the turf with a dull ‘thunk’. It stuck tip-down, shaking slightly from the collision with the earth, and Jack quickly sheathed it in his belt.
         ‘As long as we understand each other…’ Roger said, smiling still as he held his arms out at his sides and gave Jack a little mock bow. ‘no one needs to have... accidents.’
         ‘Good.” Jack swallowed, acting as if he’d planned it all along. ‘Then come with me. I’ve got something to show you…’

         “There was a pool at the end of the river, a tiny mere dammed back by sand and full of white water-lilies and needle-like reeds. Here Sam and Eric were waiting, and Bill. Jack, concealed from the sun, knelt by the pool and opened the two large leaves he carried. One of them contained white clay, and the other red. By them lay a stick of charcoal brought down from the fire.”
         - Lord of the Flies, William Golding. (chapter 4, page 65)

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