Disclaimer: Still don't own Lost. Don't rub it in. The Beatles own all of their songs that I mentioned;Gloomy Sunday was originally by Rezso Seress. This originally contained lyrics from Round Here by the Counting Crows and Yellow Submarine by the Beatles, but by guidelines, these were removed from the body of the fic. :(

Please note that although I encorporate Shannon and Boone's backstory, this still takes place before the episode Hearts and Minds.

Gloomy Sunday

Chapter Three

Charlie went to sleep again after finishing his song, but Hurley found he couldn't. He'd had problems with insomnia before, but they were mild ones. He'd go downstairs to the computer and talk to other sleepless people online until he tired himself out. But this was different; this was… bigger. The lyrics from Charlie's song were spinning through his head relentlessly, untamable.

It was no use. Clumsy in the dark that was broken only very slightly by the halfmoon, Hurley stood up, stretched his legs, and began to pace. It harked back to these strange bursts of energy he used to get as a child, these random little panics that made him want to stand up and go somewhere. These moments were the only time in his life that his laid-back nature failed him, and this was one of those moments. He couldn't stay there; he just had too much on his mind.

Hurley kicked at the sand. Very, very rarely did things 'get' to him. But this was most definitely getting to him.

Charlie's not going to just wake up, he reasoned with himself. There was no harm in a ten-minute walk. Good exercise, anyway.

Hurley walked away.

Jack walked rather aimlessly down the beach. The moon cast enough light for him to see by, but nothing more than vague shapes. He was tempted to lie down right there, by the water's edge, and sleep, but that made no sense. Chances were he'd be rudely awakened by the tide at some wee hour of the night.

He wasn't really sure where to go, though. It was going to be at least six hours before he could head back to the caves, but he had no where to stay in the meantime. Most of the people he could have considered his friends had left the beach a while ago. Sayid and Kate were the only ones that sometimes slept at the beach, but even those two spent most of their time at the caves…

But not tonight, Jack realized. Kate hadn't been at the caves all day, which meant she was probably still down here, on the beach. Jack normally wasn't one to intrude, but he thought it was a fairly safe guess that Kate wasn't asleep yet, either.

He found her little space, off a little ways, between some trees. This was where she spent her time while at the beach, he guess. Some blue plastic tarp served as a tent strung on some low-hanging branches. Clothes, a bottle of water and some guavas were tossed about. On top of a shirt that almost served as a throne, was a small blue airplane.

"Jack?" Kate's head came into view as she climbed out of the tent. "What are you doing here?"

He answered honestly. "I came to find some of Ryan's friends, to see how we should bury him." Jack realized suddenly that he didn't know if Kate was aware of the situation up at the caves. "Have you heard about that?"

Kate nodded. "News travels fast."

"Yeah. It does."

"How's Charlie doing? I heard he found the body."

"Not great. Hurley's with him." By 'with him', they both knew that Jack meant 'making sure he doesn't do anything stupid.'

Kate sat down in the sand, and Jack took it as an invitation for him to do the same.

"How are you doing?" The moonlight glinted off Kate's intense eyes as she glanced over at him.

"I'm fine," Jack replied instantly.

"What was the last time you got some sleep?"

"You don't have to worry about me, Kate," Jack said bluntly.

"You don't have to worry about everyone, Jack, but you do," Kate retorted.

"And we see how well that works," Jack muttered quietly.

"What?"

"Kate, I should have seen it coming." Jack's voice was dull, masking his disbelief at himself opening up like this. "I should have realized that something was wrong with Ryan Winthrop."

"He lived at the beach. I mean, had you even seen him before today?"

"Not really. Vaguely. I think he may have been sitting behind me on the plane." Jack ran a hand through hair that was a month's longer than he usually let it grow.

Kate looked away and straight ahead, where the ocean waves were clumsily reflecting the moonlight. "You can't be everyone's dad, Jack."

Jack's heart stopped, it seemed, for a slip second. Just like that, his throat was closed, his eyes burning. Was that it? Was he making up for… no. he promised himself a long time that he wouldn't psychoanalyze himself. Things like that only made it worse. You can't be everyone's father…

He jumped at the touch of Kate's hand on his arm. "Get some sleep, Jack. I'll be awake. I'll be right here. I'll wake you up at dawn, all right?"

Kate's eyes, locked on his, were gentle and sincere, and Jack realized, with a small amount of horror, that his throat was too tight to speak. But as he nodded, he knew that Kate understood.

He lay down on the sand, a bit awkwardly. Kate kept her promise, unmoving, until a moment later when she leaned down over him. For one wild second, Jack was sure she was going to kiss him, and he couldn't say he would have minded. Then, wordlessly, she lifted a hand and wiped away a tear from his cheek, one that Jack hadn't realized had fallen. And it was almost insane, but in that instant, Jack felt the safest he had in a long time. Not just in the last month, but the safest he had for years and years.

He didn't fight when his eyes began to close. Kate's silhouette was the last thing he saw.

Hurley returned half an hour later, out of breath and only slightly less restless. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a woman, sitting where he had been sitting, stroking Charlie's hair in a motherly way.

"Umm… hi?" Hurley walked closer. She was a kindly-looking woman, somewhere in her late 50's, he guessed, and she looked up as he approached. He remembered her from sometime before… Lavender, was it? No, wait, Rose. Well, it was as flower anyway.

"Uh, d­-" Hurley stopped, feeling like a schoolboy about to be told off for calling his teacher by their first name. This woman commanded a certain kind of respect. "Ma'am?" Hurley tried again, realizing he didn't know her last name. "Mrs. Rose? I'm Hugo Reyes, Charlie's friend. I was staying with him for the night, but I just got up, you see, for a walk… is everything all right?"

"Hello, Hugo," Rose said gently, looking up at him. "Charlie was just talking in his sleep a bit. I came over to make sure everything was all right." Rose stopped smoothing Charlie's hair and drew both her hands together, folded in her lap. "He is the one that found Ryan, isn't he?

"Yeah," Hurley agreed. His voice was low; he didn't know why he felt he should whisper, but he did it anyway.

"And how are you, Hugo?" Rose questioned calmly. Her dark eyes were probing him from top to bottom. "You found the body too."

"Me?" Hurley repeated. "I'm cool. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks. Why?"

Rose shook her head slowly. "Because Charlie's going to need you. I can't stay with him when he goes back to the caves. The other 'beachers' and I are starting to build a shelter near the wood's edge. I can't stay at the caves with him. Are you up for it? He needs someone."

Hurley felt himself nodding. "Yeah. It's cool. Did he say anything in particular? I mean, is there... anything I should know?"

"Not really," Rose said, rising tiredly. Hurley automatically stood and offered her his hand, which she took, pulling herself up the rest of the way. "He wasn't doing much talking," she went on. "Are you a religious man, Hugo?"

Hurley tilted his head to one side- that was what he did instead of raising his eyebrows; he could never get the 'Spock' thing to work. "I guess so. I'm not much of one, but I'm not... not one." That was pretty much the truth, anyway.

Rose nodded approvingly. "Good night, then." She turned and walked off in the direction of the main beach settlement.

Hurley stood for a minute, dumbfounded. Then he sat down next to Charlie and pulled the blanket up higher around the other man's shoulders before leaning back against the log himself and shutting his eyes. Charlie snuffled and shifted a bit more to his side, but didn't wake.

"Y'know, dude," Hurley whispered, conversationally, even though Charlie couldn't hear him. "That Rose reminds me a little of Locke. Locke, and my mom."

Kate roused him, like she had promised, as soon as the first few rays of pink sun were coming over the horizon. Jack felt guilty; she didn't look as though she had slept at all. She was wordless as she followed him to find Natalie and Adam. He didn't ask her to accompany him, but she did willingly. Jack had learned not to argue things like that.

Even after they found them, the silence remained. The four walked back to the caves without conversation, not even small talk. It was making Jack uncomfortable.

Ryan's body was laid out in a clearing, surrounded by twigs and leaves. The blood had been cleaned from him, but still, Jack fought off a sudden wave of nausea looking at him. He wondered suddenly, uncontrollably, if they should change plans at the last minute and bury him. Cremation now seemed somehow barbaric. Just like that he was fighting back tears again. It was funny, how much he'd been doing that lately. But this time Jack fought hard. There were people gathered around the clearing to pay their respects, and they were going to look to him for strength. There was something that none of them would ever know, though:

Kate's hand was on Jack's. Jack had no strength of his own in that moment; he was getting it all from her.

"Ryan Winthrop was twenty-two," Hurley said, as though this fact was the most vital, the most interesting bit of knowledge in the world. He had woken Charlie at sunrise and dragged them both here, only to be met by Michael asking him to deliver the eulogy. What was he supposed to say?

Charlie was beside him. Miraculously, almost, he seemed… okay. He seemed better. He was staring down at the body with eyes that were blank, but not dead. This had to be an improvement. Jack and Kate were there (holding hands, he noted) as well as Sayid, Michael, Walt, Shannon, Boone, and a bunch of other people he didn't know by name were standing around. More people than were expected had come; there was a crowd of at least twenty, he guessed. Rose was there, in the back. Two people were crying, Shannon and a brown-haired girl he didn't know.

"Ryan was born in Canada, and moved south to Vermont with his mother when he was young. He was studying art and came to Australia to do a series of paintings on the opera house. I didn't know him very well, but he seemed like a good guy. Um… yeah. I hope you… found peace, buddy." That was all he could think to say.

Sayid laid a torch down on the branches surrounding Ryan's body. Most of the crowd, Hurley included, turned away, but Charlie continued to stare at the flames, mesmerized.

"Dude…" Hurley tested cautiously. Charlie looked up at him, face still for a moment, then incredibly flashed a smile.

"Hurley? Will you help me for a minute? I'm going to write my song down now."

Most of the people had left almost immediately after the fire was lit. Sayid couldn't blame them. It was a rather morbid sight. Now there were only four people left around the fire as the morning slowly became the afternoon: Shannon, Sayid himself, and a pair of Ryan's friends who had been introduced to him as Natalie and Adam. As Shannon and Sayid watched silently, Natalie knelt and collected most of the ashes into someone's clay pot. An urn it wasn't; it looked more ready to serve lemonade in than anything else. But they made due.

Nodding their goodbyes to the other two, Natalie and Adam walked off in the direction of the beach. The plan was to scatter the ashes in the ocean, and everyone agreed that something like that was personal enough that only Ryan's actual friends should be there. It seemed appropriate.

Sayid watched them go before turning back to Shannon. She was still crying gently, inconsolably, and his heart broke as he looked at her, like it had a habit of doing.

"What's wrong," he said quietly. It was less of a question and more of a prompt.

Shannon shrugged in a frustrated way. "I dunno," she replied tearfully. "Everything. It's stupid." She sniffed.

"I'm sure it's not," he soothed. "You can tell me. There's no one else here."

Shannon shook her head. "It's… Boone. I was just thinking about Boone."

"Your brother?" Sayid was confused. "Is he all right?"

"No," Shannon said bluntly. "He's not all right. He's… sick. He's sick, Sayid. And I don't know how to fix him."

For a moment that sentence hung in the air. Then Sayid said, gently, "If you want to tell me, go ahead. I understand if you don't."

Shannon sniffed again, louder. "You'll hate me, Sayid. But I kind of do want you to know. I think you deserve to know."

Sayid looked at her evenly, steadily. "All right."

There was a long pause in which the air itself seemed to stand still, waiting for Shannon to collect herself. Then, after a while, she spoke. "He… loves me." Her courage failed and she broke down crying again. "He's really my step-brother, so we're not related, but it's still sick. He's loved me for years, and it kills him." She choked. "When he was eighteen, he actually tried to kill himself. I asked him how to make him happy, so he wouldn't try again. And we… you know. And then again a few years later."

Sayid was not one to be shocked. Surprising news he just assimilated automatically. So when Shannon announced Boone's love for her, Sayid was not thrown off-rhythm. But this last statement shook him, if only slightly, as things fell into place. Boone had attempted suicide. It must have been impossible for Shannon to look at Ryan without remembering that. And remembering what had happened after.

"Don't you hate me?" Shannon asked miserably. "Don't you think I'm a little slut now?"

"No," Sayid responded honestly. "No, I don't." Shannon began to cry again.

Gingerly, as though doing something that he shouldn't have been, Sayid drew Shannon into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like seawater and eucalyptus, and some sort of bittersweet flower that the women had been crushing and mixing with water for a makeshift shampoo. He felt the warmth of her face against his neck and the wetness of her tears soaking into his shirt and running down the bare skin of his arm. Her weight, leaning against him, was almost insubstantial, but he felt her skin press against his vividly nonetheless. He tried not to think about it; it was Shannon that needed him now, not the other way around.

And yet, when they pulled apart and Shannon sniffed, wiped her eyes and smiled at him, Sayid felt like he was the one who had been comforted.

"I'm here," he whispered.

Charlie had written the melody amazingly fast, and was strumming it on his guitar as Hurley carefully recorded the words he remembered hearing the night before. They were sitting back at the caves, by the waterfall. Ryan's fire had been visible through the trees until just a little while ago; now it had gone out. Hurley wondered if Charlie felt the same way that he did; that only now, that the song had been recorded on paper, was the entire ordeal over. Even though the songhad been written for Claire and not for Ryan, it seemed as though Ryan could finally rest now that the song was complete.

"Here you go," Hurley mumbled, passing the paper and pen to Charlie.

"Thanks." He hit another chord then accepted the lyrics.

"Dude. That's cool. What else can you play on that thing?" Hurley himself had never been great with instruments. He was a vocalist through-and-through.

Charlie began to play a slow, morbid song.

"What is that?"

Charlie stopped. "Gloomy Sunday. Very old song, very good, though. Hungarian bloke wrote it originally, I think." He sang a line.

Hurley laughed without warning. "Dude, that's depressing. God. Play something else."

Charlie stopped again. "What should I play?"

Hurley shrugged. "I don't know. Something."

"Thanks for the guidance."

"Play the Beatles."

"Beatles!" Charlie grinned. "Ah, now you're speaking my language!"

"But nothing depressing," Hurley warned. "No Strawberry Fields. No Yesterday."

Charlie thought a moment, then began to play again. He sang along, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. Hurlye grinned as he recognized the first lines of Yellow Submarine.

"Chorus, Hurley!" Charlie cried, inviting Hurley to sing along.

Charlie had the stupidest grin on his face, and Hurley broke out laughing, hard, so hard his sides hurt.

What else was there to do, really? There was a rare moment of peace on the island, why let it go to waste?

Fic end! Hope you liked it. The ending was probably a bit rushed, but that's always where I have the most problems. Please, please review! I am officially begging :D