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“I want you to mark me.” He says like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “Would you?”
Like Otacon isn’t asking him something huge; At first, Snake laughs because Otacon can’t be asking him that. Otacon asks him a lot of weird things, but of all things, he can’t be asking him that.
“What’s so funny?”
“You stubbed your toe the other day.” Snake supplies, tilting his bottle of natty lite toward him, “You complained about it for 20 minutes.”
“It hurt!”
“And now you’re asking me to give you a tattoo.” Snake quirks an eyebrow, “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.” Otacon tilts his chin up, his eyes trained on Snake’s. Unwavering. Determined. A little hazy due to the alcohol.
It’s been one of those nights. There’s only so much one furnace can do, after all, and the Alaskan cold tends to creep in when the sun sets. It made sense that when the chores were done and the dogs were settled down for the night, they would break out the beers to keep themselves warm. Otacon may not have had Snake’s iron liver, but he keeps up in his own way.
So, bellies full of booze, they talk. And they drink and they talk more. As it turned out, Snake could be quite the chatterbox, when he wanted, when he trusted the other person.
Which felt…pretty nice. He hadn’t felt that level of trust in another person for quite some time. He missed it.
Snake also had to admit that he was curious as to what triggered this particular line of questioning. It's not like his line of work gives him much room for much body modification, but he’s no stranger to tattoos. There’s a paw print just on the side of his left thigh, and a pair of fangs on the right side of his pelvis. They’re tinny, easy to conceal - for his eyes only.
He was honestly surprised Otacon had even seen them…
Ah…well…okay, so, they were showering together, so maybe that tracked (but really, that was just to conserve hot water).
“Besides, I can’t draw.” Snake takes a swig of his beer.
“Yes, you can.” Otacon moves to sit beside him, swaying slightly, “I’ve seen your sketches. You’re pretty talented.”
Snake clears his throat, looking away quickly, “I got rid of my tattoo gun.”
“You’re a terrible liar. Didn’t I see it on your dresser?”
“What would you even want, anyway?”
Otacon shrugs, leaning his shoulder against Snake’s, “I ‘unno. I didn’t think that far.”
“Brilliant.” Snake makes a face, “That’s a great start to a tattoo right there.”
“Don’t be a smartass.” Otacon chuckles sweetly, “I guess…I guess what I mean is that I’d want you to design it.”
“I design it and I tattoo it and you just get to model it. Sounds like a lot of work with no reward, Otacon.”
“I mean sure.” Otacon shrugs, reaching over and plucking another bottle from the pack. He turns it cap first towards Snake, who opens it easily, “But It’d be yours.”
Snake tilts his head as Otacon takes a long sip, “How do you mean?”
Otacon's quiet for a moment, pressing the bottle to his chest. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, probably to steady himself. And then he leans forward, resting his head on his hand and his elbow on his knee. Snake wonders if he's dizzy; Just as he's about to ask Otacon if he needs water, Otacon breathes, “I love this smell.”
“...the smell of beer?”
“No.” Otacon shakes his head slowly, “This cabin. The wood in the furnace, the snow outside…I keep meaning to tell you how nice it is. You don’t really get smells like this in the city, you know? Everything just kinda smells like piss.”
Snake sits up, putting his beer aside. He’s only seen this a handful of times - Otacon tends to wax poetic when he gets tipsy.
It’s an odd sight. But welcome - like catching a glimpse of an albatross crossing overhead.
“Is that so?” He supplies, spurning Otacon on.
“Yeah. But everything smells just…good here. Like home.” Otacon’s eyes open slowly, swiveling to glance at Snake with a soft grin, “Like you.”
Snake feels…something. Hot and squirming, settled at the edge of his chest, crawling up his throat.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Otacon tilts his head back, draining the bottle. He sets it on the table with the others, “Maybe that’s why I want you to tattoo me.”
“...because I smell good?”
“Noo, I know you’re not that obtuse.” Otacon giggles this time, “I guess…I mean, if we’re going to do this…if we’re going to do business with one another, I want something that tells you I’m yours.”
Oh.
Snake’s mouth starts to go dry.
“I was thinking about it earlier,” Otacon continues as if he’s not hearing himself. “Liquid looked so much like you…you mentioned that people aren’t going to like what we’re doing. They’re going to find ways to get to both of us.”
Snake’s eyes narrow at the mention of Liquid. It was true, he had said something of that ilk - but he doesn't understand where Liquid plays into any of this.
“How easy would it be for them to make another clone? Or-or make someone look like me, to trick you!” Otacon frowns, “If someone’s determined enough, plastic surgery isn’t outside of the realm of possibility. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays!”
“I guess…”
“So! So…” Otacon leans against him once more, “If you put your mark on me, a tattoo you made yourself, you could always tell it was me. Not some clone, not an imposter.”
Snake gives a weak laugh, “Oh really? And how are you going to tell me apart from an imposter?”
“Easy!” Otacon exclaims, tucking his knees to his chest. He’s full against Snake this time, arms slung around him like a koala, “You smell good. You smell like home - no one else can recplicate that.”
“Well. That’s sweet…I guess.”
•••
They fell asleep like that.
Well. Otacon did, clinging to Snake, breathing his scent.
It took much longer for Snake. He sat, awake, watching the embers die down, and mulled over his thoughts.
Otacon forgot their conversation that morning, rinsing it away with a handful of ibuprofen and a cup of water, whinging all the while about his head and “I told you not to let me drink like that, Snakkkeee!”
But Snake remembered. And the more they worked, the more they showered together, the closer they grew, Snake thought.
How would he mark Hal?
How would he make Hal his own? At night, in bed, he would shape his marks, settled just under his collarbone. In the groove of his hip, the small of his back. In the day, watching Hal type with a zealous energy, the marks would settle on his wrists. The jut of his shoulder, the back of his calves.
Hell, Snake almost brings it up - he digs out his tattoo gun (hidden away in one of their many, many storage sheds), and sketches on napkins (before quickly shoving them into his pockets).
And then the tanker happens.
And doesn’t that just take the wind out of his sails?
Snake leaves. Spitting angry and hurt. Betrayed again, by someone he trusted, someone he lov-
Someone he trusted.
But he comes back. Eventually. It’s another story for another time, but they come back together and enter hiding hand in hand. Jump at shadows and circumvent notice together. Trust, after licking it’s wounds, comes back too. Limping and bruised, but there, ready to nestle in Hal’s arms.
Times change. Things change - they change.
They change a lot, Dave thinks, as Hal pulls him close, chest to chest, skin to skin. Montana in the winter is a bear, but they're warm in their little hideaway safehouse, beneath thick covers on this rickety bed that smells of dust.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Now?” Dave asks between a mouthful of his collarbone. He pushes himself to rut against Hal’s thigh, “Like right now?”
“Do you remember,” Hal breathes, his glasses tossed aside. He sits up and yanks his shirt off - Dave’s hands settle in the little dip of his sides, “When we talked about you marking me?”
“Yes,” Dave says instantly, stunned that Hal remembers.
“Would you still do it?”
Dave pulls away, laying back on his elbows. Hal's straddled over his hips, shirtless, panting, sweat-slick hair stuck to his face. Even in the dark, Dave can see a peach blush spreading across his cheeks, down his neck. It dots his chest, across that delicious collarbone and Dave takes it all in. There’s a strange kind of beauty to Hal, he thinks, one that’s hard to describe. Like the beauty of the wind dancing through curtains on a moonlit night.
"I thought you'd forgotten," Dave admits, lifting one hand to cup Hal's cheek.
"I hadn't." Hal leans into that hand, grasping it like Dave’s about to yank it back, "I just...I felt so stupid, saying it like that. I tried to pretend I hadn't said anything..."
“Where would you want it?” Dave asks, breathless.
Hal tilts his lips into Dave’s palm as if thinking.
“On my thigh.” he concludes, pressing a kiss to the inside of Dave’s wrist, “where only you’d be able to see it.”
Dave’s mouth goes dry. And then he nods.
“Thank you.” Hal says, pushing Dave back down.
In the afterglow, they plan for the following day. Dave braves the cold and goes into town, finding fresh needles and ink. Hal spends the day in quiet contemplation and shaves his skin clean.
That night, Dave shows Hal a few sketches - minimal, black-and-white pieces, and Hal picks one easily.
“That one,” he says, tapping the sketch in Dave's moleskin.
“You sure?”
“Of course.” Hal nods, “I wouldn’t want anything else.”
It’s of a snake, a rabbit nestled in its loving coils, a tiny, one-eyed planet above them.
“This will hurt,” Dave warns, as he leans down to press the needle onto Hal’s skin.
Hal smiles back at him, moon-grey eyes as warm as the sun, “It’s worth it.”
Blood blooms from the first shot. Hal hisses, and twists his face, pressing it into the pillow below him. This isn't sanitary, Dave thinks, and it's barely sane.
"Don't stop." Hal says through grit teeth, biting down on his lip, "Please don’t stop."
Hal does surprisingly well. Cries a little, but that’s normal for him. Dave cleans it and wraps it tightly in an adhesive bandage. And then he changes the sheets and bundles Hal back into bed.
“It’ll take a few days to heal.” Dave supplies when he slips behind Hal, “And it’ll be sore, but you’ll live. I’ll help you keep it clean.”
“Mmm. Solid Snake gets to wash my wound - aren’t I lucky?” Otacon snuggles back, pressing a chaste kiss to Dave’s chin.
“‘nough of that.” Dave chuckles, “Can’t get frisky until it’s healed, so don’t start.”
“Oh that’s disappointing.”
“Yep. Two weeks-”
“Two?!”
“And you call me the one with the hyperactive libido.”
Hal laughs as Dave rubs his stubble against his neck, “Stop! That tickles!”
There’s something nice about just laying in bed. Hal can’t stop himself from touching his thigh, wincing slightly every time - Dave eventually takes his hand and threads their fingers together, holding them to Hal’s chest. He closes his eyes and listens to Hal breathe, feeling his heartbeat flutter against his chest.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Mm?” Hal looks up at David, “What’s up?”
“...why a tattoo?”
They untangle from each other to get a better look at one another. There’s a pensive look on Dave’s face - Hal frowns.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…they hurt. Why would you want a tattoo?”
Hal’s frown melts away and he smiles, shaking his head, “Love hurts, Dave. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to think about it all the time. I told you - I want something that makes me yours, that you can look at every time and know that I belong to you. And now we have it. ”
He snorts at the blush that spreads over Dave’s nose.
“Besides - you can’t be the only one with ink.” Hal taps Dave’s thigh, to the paw print, “That’s just unfair.”
“Ah. I guess.” Dave pulls him close, nestling his nose in Hal’s curls.
“Did you give this to yourself?”
“Nah. Someone else gave them to me. Both of them, actually.”
“Oh?” Hal loops his arms around Dave’s hips, “Tell me about ‘em.”
Dave blinks, “You sure you want to know?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hal snorts again, pressing his nose against David’s, “Don’t be silly.It’s a dog’s paw, right?”
“Kind of. A fox’s paw.”
“Why a fox?”
“Well…”
And they talk. Bellies without booze, nestled in their little Montana hideaway, they talk and they talk, until they both fell fast asleep, breathing each other’s air and listening to each other’s heartbeat flutter.