"Did you think I'd only want you once? Oh, my, you are more naïve than I thought. Why would I go through so much trouble for a mere tryst? Does a man ride a stallion but one time before condemning it to the abattoir?"

- Nenia Campbell, Terrorscape

Warning: Smut, not explicit and not that detailed, and PTSD trigger.
..

You see him again in a bar, fifteen years after what has happened on the island.

Your brain constantly yells out to you that it's not him. There are many men who look like that all over Great Britain, so it's not necessarily him. Despite that, your body keeps tensing up and your palms are suddenly drenched in sweat. Maybe you're just being paranoid, you tell yourself.

He doesn't seem to notice you, however. All he does is talk to another man while holding a glass of something resembling Scotch on the rocks. That relieves you just a tiny bit. But your body stiffens up again. You think he's just glanced pass you.

Trying to cast all your thoughts aside, you turn back to the counter and ask for a drink, or two, or three, anything heavy enough for you to forget about the whole ordeal. The bartender returns with a suspicious-looking liquid in a tall glass, but you take it anyway. You know you will take anything to forget about that ever so haunting red hair and those light blue eyes. After emptying the glass into your stomach, your head has already been spinning around. You ask for one more glass of the alcohol, maybe you'll drink until you have blacked out, because you don't seem to have forgotten about that man standing just a few feet away from you. Maybe you'll dream about him, younger, with his body and face painted and a spear in his hand, and small children, also painted, and an island on fire. Your body shakes relentlessly at the sudden recall. Maybe it'll take you more than alcohol to ease the feeling.

You empty the second glass in no time. By this point, your eyes are blurred and you can't even navigate. You think you see him approaching you as you turn around to face the dance floor. You're not so sure. The alcohol is probably causing you to hallucinate. But then, you think he is coming at you for real, since the red hair and pale blue eyes keep getting closer and closer to you. You think you might pass out or throw up on the floor, or just call for help. Maybe you want to be at your damned apartment even more than here. You consider going out less as your eyes try to refocus on the figure in front of you, hoping, desperately, that it's not him.

But no, it has to be him.

His face now still resembles his younger self, with freckles scattering across his face and bony features. The light blue eyes still emit that eerie light that freezes the opposite person to their very death. The red and curly hair is now falling in front of his eyes, but don't cover them, at least not completely. The only difference is, well, he is grown up now. He looks brawnier than he did before, and his face is even more angular now. At least he has gained himself some weight, unlike you.

Your only hope now is that this is just another product of your overly active imagination. This is not him, you whisper to yourself, not Jack Merridew.

"Hello, I'm Jack Merridew. Did we meet before? You seem familiar."

The name stabs you a million times in the chest. You want nothing more than to pass out at this instance, but you don't, because people just happen to have to live through one of these awkward moments that they'd surely rather die instead.

"No, I think you've mistaken me for someone else." For once, your drunken brain makes the right decision. You avoid looking at him in the face. Maybe he just won't recognize you. Maybe, just maybe, because you now look more like a walking, talking skeleton than a blond, athletically-built boy, he won't think you're his used-to-be rival on that island.

"I guess so."

Maybe life is standing on your side now. You sigh in relief and are about to turn back when he speaks again.

"Maybe you'll want to go home. You're dead drunk." He says, still staring at you. Clearly, he looks worried, a look you swear to have never seen on his face.

"No," You take forever to spit your reply, "I'm fine." Maybe you should really go home.

"Are you here alone or with friends?" He doesn't seem to have given up on talking to you. You decide to just play along and maybe, after this, you will be able to get rid of his images from your head. Maybe you'll realize that he won't, one day, suddenly bust into your apartment holding a spear to your throat and silence you for the rest of your life.

"Alone. You?" Your body still hitches as he moves closer. Your legs and arms shake as if you're in the South Pole. Maybe if he does have a sense of personal space, you won't react like this. You order another glass of the alcohol before turning back to him. You know you should be running away by now, back to your apartment, where his face will continue to haunt you until your final breath, but you choose to stay here.

"I'm alone, too."

You are actually glad to know that he isn't with Harold, or Maurice, or Bill, or Robert, or Roger. Roger's the worst. He murdered Piggy, and he would murder, or help in murdering you, too, if he were here. You shrug as you try not to remember the cracked-open skull or the broken shell, or the look on the boy's aunt when you gathered the courage to tell her why her nephew didn't come home. You receive the glass from the bartender and chuck it all down your throat. Your eyes are even more blurry now, and your head is literally spinning. You hear Jack asking you to go to the dance floor with him, and, foolishly, you nod in agreement. You don't know what's happening to yourself anymore. All you see is the blurred light in your eyes and a redhead blocking your entire vision. Music booms in your ears, and you can swear that he is alarmingly close to you now. He can stab you with a knife discreetly, or strangle you, or–

His arms suddenly wrap around your body. They travel upwards, to your face. The sides of your face are held firmly in his sturdy hands, and his lips crash into yours like it's the end of the world.

Or he can do that.

You try to resist it, but the alcohol now gives you zero strength. Your body is mushy and you can't even move away from him. You let him take you, even though it's wrong and you shouldn't be doing this. His tongue delves inside your mouth. You can practically taste the Scotch in his mouth as you reciprocate him, not knowing entirely the reason to your sinful behaviors. You tell yourself you're not of the queer kind, but you're not so sure. Maybe the alcohol has something to do with it, because you're now making out with your worst nightmare.

All you know is that, after the dance floor, you are on a bed, naked, with him on top of you, also with his clothes off. His red hair is a mess and it tickles your neck as he leans down to bite it. The alcohol you have taken in is probably messing around with your mind, or maybe you're purely queer, or maybe this is just a very goodbad dream. Whatever it is, something makes you accept what he has in store for you. He kisses you again. His lips trails down from yours to your neck, and your chest, and downwards, and that is when his whispers echo in your ears, his voice so low and husky it makes your toes curl.

"I know it is you all along, Ralph."

You grasp at the bedsheets as he pushes himself inside you. Maybe you will later realize how bad of a situation it is, but, for now, what you know is that the sensations you are experiencing are intoxicating.

Maybe you won't hate him as much afterwards.

"And I will now claim you mine. Forever."