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He's only 20. Maybe.
You doubt that he's ever actually seen a movie that wasn't a western.
You doubt very much that he knows how to feed himself properly instead of turning everything down, or trying everything on your plate out of some misplaced sense of- whatever it is he feels about you. You let him sip your beer once. He found the taste so off-putting you were sure you were going to see him puke. But he dealt with it, and that made you kind of- feel better about his constitution. You swear you can see him sniff his food before he eats it- like a stuck-up house cat.
He ate your very last chocolate bar. You said nothing, because you felt that he'd earned it. He seemed to look happy to get away with something, which was amusing. This is the kind of kid you could have easily beaten up, taken his food, and left him out in the wilderness to die- the kid that threw your favorite gun out of the back of an aircraft- the kid that had the nerve to put a gun to your face- and he was oh so pleased with himself for having taken your candy bar, too.
You find it weird that you feel anything at all when he does shit like this, but it's hard to look into his eyes without seeing her looking back at you, and it twists up in your stomach until you feel sick. He has her eyes, and her cheeks, and if you'd ventured a guess, you'd probably see that his lips are the same as well.
He's strange for you to look at. So you don't, really. Not as much as he looks at you. You can tell he's watching- he might as well be taking notes. Sometimes you feel like doing really bizarre shit so he'll get confused, but you don't really care about it enough to try.
One time, you feel him looking at you more intently than usual. You feel like he's trying to see through your skin. Maybe you're finally letting him unsettle you.
"What do you want, Ocelot?"
You see him fidgeting with that damn holster of his, running his fingers over the thick leather. His other hand is clutching something towards his chest. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something- but instead, he falls short, which is strange to you, because all the kid does is talk. About you. About guns. About movies. About how he wonders what the American West is actually like. You like to talk about guns, but when Ocelot talks about guns he ventures sometimes into things you'd rather not talk about. You've seen the way he eyes those torture devices.
"Nothing. Just- thinking." he nods, and takes his eyes from you, casting his gaze to the dirt. It only takes a minute- you stop paying attention, and then you're very, very warm and you notice his arms are around your neck- and if he's trying to strangle you, he's doing it so wrong- but he's not- he just says your name, hot in your ear- "Snake."
And just like that- you hear him kiss your cheek before you even feel his lips leaving your skin, and when you turn to look at him, all you see is her. His eyes are hooded, his face flushed- but all you can see are her eyes, and her lips, and maybe you really do want to kiss them, but instead, you feel a surge of rage through your blood, and he's on the ground before you even realize what you've done to him. He is not her. She loved you. He had the gall to touch you with her lips and look at you with her eyes- like that- and like he is now, terrified of you and flat on his back.
His lips are bleeding, bitten through by his own teeth, he is her only son and when he bleeds by your hand all it does is call back to memory the moment that you died.
"I'm- sorry." he's trembling with tears welling in his eyes because he does not understand- he must think you hate him now, and you can't stand it. You hurt her, and now you've hurt him, and it leaves you with a pain that does not go away.
You hope he doesn't love you like she loved you.
You hope he doesn't love you like you loved her.
It's a shame when he does, riding to your rescue on a white horse.