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Hal was always stronger than everyone thought, even stronger than he knew himself. Snake sometimes forgot that Hal was a different man than the one he met at Shadow Moses. Sometimes Snake forgot that Hal was the only person he knew who never bailed on him when times got tough.
*
When Snake came to him late one night and tried to sacrifice himself for Hal’s greater good, Hal was too stunned to fight it. Snake insisted he was a train on the fast track to go over a cliff: Hal needed to get off now while he still could. He never looked up from the ground when he said Hal needed to move on, find happiness somewhere else . . . with someone else. Snake, whose hair was already half-way to all silver, his knees starting to crack with every bend; Snake, who Hal knew wanted only the best for him; Snake, who was a fucking idiot—Snake was no longer Hal’s to claim.
It was a strange transition from lovers to friends. Hal still loved Snake with every inch of his body, and Hal knew Snake still loved him—he could feel Snake’s gaze on his back, could see the caring in Snake’s cloudy eyes when he’d ask if Hal wanted any more to drink with dinner. He could see Snake’s fingers twitch at his side, aching to reach out and brush Hal’s hair or squeeze his hand. It was clear Snake was trying to ease Hal into a life without him, misguided as he was. Even though Hal felt like there was a knife in his throat every second of the day, he respected Snake’s wishes; he didn’t reach out to steady Snake’s shaking hand, didn’t scoot close to him, didn’t kiss his forehead before sleep.
So there they sat, deep in the belly of the Nomad, together but completely alone for month after month.
Hal made a habit of staying up late on the computer, working until he was so exhausted that he’d pass out. He couldn’t take lying in his empty cot, missing what was almost completely gone. Try as he might, that didn’t stop the dreams: he’d feel rough hands on his back, kisses on his collar bone, whispers against his neck. Then he’d wake up. Alone. It was too much.
After about a year, Hal resolved himself to moving on. He’d never truly stop loving Snake, he wasn’t so naïve, but if it was Snake’s wish for him to find happiness, then maybe he should. Maybe he deserved it. If it would stop the nauseous churning of his heart, take his mind off finding a solution to save Snake that didn’t exist—then maybe. Maybe.
But then Hal tried moving on, and though he felt about twenty-four hours’ worth of endorphin-driven relief, he wanted to punch his hand through a wall when he saw the way Snake tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard everything. Snake didn’t say a word, but he couldn’t look Hal directly in the eye, and Hal couldn’t look at Snake without wanting to throw up or scream or both.
They went into Snake’s final mission without any resolution. Hal was in denial—nothing on Earth could take down a determined Snake; Snake no longer cared whether he lived or died. He was driven to complete the mission, save the world again, but he was content that it would be his final act. Hal believed there was still more time.
Snake was an idiot. Hal was one, too.
*
All it really took was one gruff, “Hal.”
Snake was standing about three feet behind Hal’s computer set-up. Sunny was asleep upstairs. It was dark, but Hal could see Snake reflected in the edge of his screen.
“Mmmhm?” Hal answered, but didn’t turn around.
“Can we, uh, talk?” Snake stepped a little closer.
“What about?” Hal replied, putting his fingers back on the keys and typing a few more commands. They had made it through the destruction of GW, made it through the terror of the mutated Fox Die, but here Hal was, mortified of facing the man he loved. It would have been funny if he didn’t feel so sick.
There was a long pause, the clicking of Hal’s keyboard the only sound in the room. Then Snake said softly, “Us.”
Hal turned around, adjusting his glasses as he stared down at Snake’s shoes for what felt like an hour. When he looked up, he was met with a familiar warmth in Snake’s eyes; he hadn’t seen that look in well over a year. But there was something else Hal didn’t quite recognize.
Unsure of what to say, Hal waited for Snake to go on. Snake took a deep breath. “You know there is nothing I care about more than you, right?”
Hal nodded his head. He’d known for years, but Snake was rarely so straightforward where his feelings were concerned.
“And you know that I’ve been an idiot.” This was more statement than question, but again Hal nodded.
Snake gave a small shrug, looking a little exasperated at having to run the whole conversation. He wasn’t used to it. “Do you know what I’m trying to say here?”
At this, Hal shook his head. “No, I . . .” Hal’s brow furrowed, and he pushed his glasses farther up on his nose just for something to do with his hands. “I’m not sure.”
Snake’s eyes darted away for a second, but then he said firmly, “I’m sorry.” Snake rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, nervous. “I’m sorry for running from you. For running away and pretending like it was what was best for you instead of what was easier for me.”
It was the most Snake had said to Hal in months; He was speechless.
“I’m trying to say that . . .” Snake paused again, then reached out and cupped Hal’s shoulder in his hand. “That I never stopped loving you, Hal.”
Snake had never used that word before—no matter how Hal had felt it, no matter how often Snake showed it . . . it was never spoken. Not once.
“That I still love you.”
Hal’s mouth fell open slightly.
Not hearing a response, Snake pulled his hand away, and Hal could see a flicker of fear cross his face. Hal raised his eyebrows. Then he reached out and grabbed Snake’s hand, but still didn’t have any words.
Snake looked down at him, his lips a tight line. “That’s . . . what I’ve been trying to say.”
Hal stood up after a moment, threw his arms around Snake, put his face in the cigarette heat of his t-shirt. After everything they’d been through, he didn’t really have to say anything, though a hundred different phrases were flying through his mind—you idiot, I cannot believe you, I fucking love you, too, How could we screw things up so bad? Why did I let you? How long have we wasted? He felt Snake’s arms circle his back, then fingers press to the nape of his neck.
“Does that mean you feel the same way?” Snake asked, voice hoarse.
Hal pulled his face away from Snake’s chest. He licked his lips and nodded, giving a breathless, “Yeah.”
Snake smiled—that private smile only Hal got to see. Whatever time they had wasted seemed small compared to that moment.
Hal felt a grin bubbling up from deep inside. He cupped the side of Snake’s face, not caring about the scarred flesh or the wrinkles or what could have been. He knew deep down that this happiness couldn’t last, that Snake was a shooting star, but he never wanted anything more in his entire life.
Gently, Hal brushed Snake’s mustache with the side of his thumb. “You’re going to need to take care of this real quick.”
Snake groaned a little, rolling his eyes. Hal countered with, “You only grew it to keep me from kissing you. Is that how you want to continue things?”
*
Twenty minutes later, Hal traced along Snake’s upper lip with his fingertips, grinning. Snake tried to look nonplussed, but Hal could see the smile in his eyes. They were squeezed together on the one real bed in the Nomad’s lower level. It was hard to recall that they used to share it every night with how small it seemed now.
When they finally kissed, Snake was tentative, almost shy. He’d left his t-shirt on, same with his sweat pants. Hal reached under the shirt, slowly pulling it off, getting zero help from Snake along the way. As he tossed it aside, he looked at Snake hard, serious. He put his palm open across Snake’s heart, firmly saying, “Your body,” he paused, squeezing, “and your heart are all I want on this planet.”
“What about my mind?” Snake countered, deadpan.
“Only if you check this self-consciousness stuff at the door.”
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile came across Snake’s lips. And Hal smiled back. They were finally on the same page again.