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It’s not surprising that the parking lot is empty, given the ripe time of 12 AM. Two cars sit in the lot, a few spaces from Hal’s. Likely employees. Inside, the gas station lights project a harsh yellow glow out onto the pumps and parking spaces. Hal gets out of the car, locks it, pats his jeans pocket to check for his wallet, and heads inside. If it wasn’t for the sugar and caffeine already in his blood, the fluorescent lights would certainly be a key factor in keeping him awake. The gas station is full of noises for being practically empty—the squeak of his tennis shoes on tile, radio playing 90s hits overhead, and the whirring of a heater drowning it all out. He just needs a few things, and he can leave.
Can of Jolt Cola for him, cigarettes for Snake.
He wanders aimlessly for a minute, scanning the display fridges. He spots the red can among the energy drinks, not among the soda this time. It’s always in a unique spot, depending on what the sellers feel it is, soda, or an energy drink. As he walks away from the fridges, he passes through another aisle. It’s full of candy, chocolate, cards, all in reds, pinks, and purples. That's odd considering the station is so bland otherwise. Colored merchandise on their shelves is—
—Hal glances at his Casio. The date is 2-16. It’s two days after Valentine’s Day. That explains it better than “weird ass gas station aesthetic.” This is their seasonal, holiday aisle. They haven’t shifted to Saint Patrick’s Day yet. Management is marking the prices down of Valentine’s Day items to get rid of everything. So, the chocolate is going to be cheap. Marked down at an average of fifty percent off on most items.
Another treat wouldn’t hurt too much. Something nice for himself and Snake.
He scans the shelves for any sort of chocolate bar. Snake prefers milk chocolate, or at least, doesn’t care for dark chocolate. He selects two bars that are as “of quality” as he can get right now. Dark chocolate and milk chocolate, for him and Snake, respectively.
The teenage cashier is nodding off when he gets to the register. She tilts her head up when he approaches, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she takes the items from Hal as he sets them down. He asks for a pack of Lucky Strikes; she doesn't try to ID him. The exchange moves on silently. There was no small talk from her. It’s nearly 1 AM, too tiring for either of them to initiate. She hands back his stuff, not offering a bag as he pays.
He puts his wallet back into his pocket when she suddenly speaks up, urgent, as if she’s remembering something important.
“So sorry, forgot to mention, with Valentine’s day over-” she ducks out of Hal’s view, “-we have extra flowers we need to get rid of, two dollars for a rose. No tax. Artificials are a dollar fifty,”
When she pops back up from behind the counter, she’s holding onto a giant bouquet of roses. The smell overwhelms his sinuses. He has no chance to process what’s going on before he’s actually examining the bouquet. Roses, red and white, all misplaced throughout the display. It’s very easy to tell apart the real ones from the fake ones. Fabric petals have their distinct looks.
Then the cashier shifts the bouquet–a flash of blue deeper within it catches his attention, drawing his eyes in. It’s buried beneath a red rose, a real one that would need to be in a glass of water. He reaches into the bouquet to fumble for the stem, meeting a waxy plastic between his fingertips. He pulls it out from behind the other rose. It nearly slips onto the counter with his loose grip.
A blue rose. Soft fabric petals and a waxy, green plastic stem.
This is for Snake, he thinks for a moment.
A feeling not like butterflies, but more akin to a swarm of bees in his stomach and chest. He can feel the heat radiating off of his own face. His brain can’t make connections like this. Sure, he’s getting Snake cigarettes and chocolate, but he asked for the pack at least.
He didn’t ask for a chocolate bar. And definitely not an artificial flower.
“Did you want that one? Must’ve gotten lucky. I thought we ran out of those,”
Startled by her injection, Hal sputters. “Yeah–yes, this is good. Thank you,”
She smiles and bends down behind the counter to tuck away the enormous bouquet again. When she pops up again, he’s fumbling into his wallet for his change, mumbling his apologies under his breath. He quickly slams the cash onto the counter, then fumbles to collect the items he actually came here for. He only stops racing so he can delicately pick up the rose alongside the chocolate bars. He doesn’t want to bend the plastic or snap Snake’s chocolate.
Oh god, what the fuck. What the fuck is he doing?
He walks out to the parking lot, a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, a can of Jolt tucked under his arm, chocolate bars and a single blue rose tenderly clutched in his hand. Fuck.
Getting into the car takes a minute of dumping his buys into the passenger seat, the can into his cup holder, and finally resting the rose in the adjacent holder. He goes through the swift motions of shutting the car door, settling into the seat, and buckling in… Only to immediately rest his head on the steering wheel, letting out a quiet groan.
The drive to the house is longer going back than it was to the gas station.
Hal doesn’t turn on the radio. The anxiety bubbling in his stomach is too much to bear, music won’t be a decent distraction. At least, not right now. On days they have to road-trip through the states, music is a good way to avoid conversations they don’t want to have. About upcoming missions. About danger. About life. About themselves.
And those lack of conversations are building up. Accumulating in whatever the fuck this is. Bringing Snake a flower and chocolate, barely two days after Valentine’s day. He’s holding onto the steering wheel with a grip so tight he feels like he could have a heart attack.
He drives back to their safe house. While not the nicest place, he's learned to deal with it. He takes a few more minutes to work up the courage to get out of the car once he has parked. He ends up carrying his goods from his gas station venture with extra care as gets out, then shuts the car door. He locks it twice, just to be sure.
Snake gets the door before he can even knock; he must have heard the car. Standing tall, tired, dressed down from the day of work, he must have been getting ready for bed. And Otacon—not prepared for this, not ready for him to be opening the door, yelps and nearly drops his can.
“Sorry, are you okay?” Snake blinks, and takes a step back.
“Shit, uh,” Otacon laughs, “I'm fine, yeah.”
Otacon steps through the threshold of the door, into the living room-kitchen area, keeping his things hidden in his arm long enough to get to the counter space. He sets down his drink, Snake's pack of Lucky Strikes, then the chocolate he bought for himself. The rose and chocolate meant for Snake remain.
It takes a few deep breaths, as silent as he can make them, before he musters the courage to turn around. He shifts on his heel, only to be met with Snake right there, again!
Otacon clutches the gifts to his chest, backing up against the counter with another yelp. “You're scaring the shit out of me today,” He laughs shakily.
David gives him an apologetic look, somewhere in his eyes, before he glances at Otacon’s hands. “What's that?”
He swallows hard. “Um… Late gift,”
“Late gift?”
“Valentine’s Day was a few days ago… So, things were on sale—I got you something while I was out, on a whim,” Hal coughs out the clarification, offering out the flower and chocolate in his outstretched hands.
Dave tilts his head, cautiously plucking the flower from his hand, then the chocolate. He looks both of them over before he's twirling the flower around between his fingers. Waxy, fake, but regardless, holding its own kind of beauty.
Hal feels like he's going to die. He watches him turn the chocolate over, reading the description or maybe just the type of chocolate labeled on the wrapper, before a smile finds its way onto his face. A faint smile, but almost fond and Snake-like, nonetheless.
“Thanks, Otacon,” he sets the rose down on the counter, and with his free hand, squeezes Hal's shoulder in an endearing gesture.
Hal smiles back at him, leaning into the weight. “Of course. Happy late Valentine’s Day, Snake,”
“Happy late Valentine’s Day, Otacon.”