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The rain, not yet a proper storm, chases him mockingly up the walkway as Ocelot’s boots scrape and sing across the wet boards of a small cabin porch. Making a racket as he staggers, he sees a tall shadow flicker past the curtained window’s dim glow.
Good, he’s home.
Coughing, he slumps against the door, forcing it open and letting the night wind pour in with him.
He stumbles over the lip of the doorway, pulls the door closed with soaked gloves, and raises his eyes calmly to meet the barrel of a gun held five meters from him. The man’s familiar low stance is silhouetted only by a yellow stove light as he aims defensively from his kitchen. Suddenly he lifts his head, pistol still trained between his intruder’s eyes.
“...Ocelot?”
A flood of nausea seeps upward through Ocelot. “Where is your… water closet?” he gasps.
“Huh?” Snake actually tilts his head in confusion.
Ocelot rolls his eyes, clutching his mouth as a threat and cursing his Philosopher-taught English slang. “Toilet."
Snake jerks his head at the hallway, gun still half-raised. Ocelot lurches past it, heavy legs too sluggish to spare the hall rug from a splatter of his watery vomit.
He spills a trail of it to the toilet, retching three times against the porcelain. The rain drums loudly on the roof, its sound ricocheting between the bare, narrow walls.
Snake is behind him, still standing tensed on the balls of his socked feet, gun now held loosely at his side.
“Adam. What the hell are you doing here? How did you even find this address?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Ocelot spits out bile and shudders, waving a gloved hand that appears dull orange in the weak incandescent light.
Snake makes a noise of apprehension, or possibly distaste at the state of his floor.
Ocelot sighs, scraping his chin with a wad of tissue and pulling the toilet handle, wincing with disgust as only half of his vomit disappears down the old plumbing system.
“I was in the country. Thought I’d drop by.”
“Big place,” Snake grunts.
“It’s nice to see you, too, John.”
Snake looms, waiting for an explanation he knows will not come.
Pressing on the linoleum, Ocelot tries to lift himself, but finds his head weighs at least fifty pounds and is diving straight toward the splatter of sick beside his knees.
A vice grips him beneath the shoulder and holds him in the air, thanks to Snake’s lightning reflexes.
“Come on,” the retired agent growls impatiently, stretching out and guiding him forcefully over the mess at their feet. His iron grasp bites into Ocelot’s side annoyingly, but their faces are now mere inches apart. Ocelot tries to force his feet to keep up, but it feels like treading against an icy ocean tide. Exhausting. Numb…
“Thanks,” he says curtly, shaking off his rival and lifting himself enough to lean against the wall on his own. Beads of cold sweat trail down his temple, slithering beneath his collar. He swears the lines of wood grain on the walls are shimmering.
A single blue eye and a furrowed brow replaces them in his vision. “You must have been at one hell of a party, kid.”
“You bet,” Ocelot flashes a practiced grin. “American whiskey… ’s good stuff. Can’t get it so easily back home, you know.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We should go out for some again one of these days. Different place than last time. My treat,” he pats Snake’s shoulder, trying not to recall their brief encounters since Tselinoyarsk where Ocelot had failed to lure John any closer to his affections. The two of them remain ever stalemated across the strange tension between them.
He sways again, throws a leg forward to catch himself this time. Running one hand against the wall, Ocelot shambles forward, spurs chiming in a grotesque non-rhythm until he reaches the bedroom.
“ Hey ,” Snake protests, but Ocelot has already stretched himself weakly along the mattress, kicking off his boots and loosening his neckerchief. He flops back with a thud, smacking his skull on the wooden headboard and groaning. His head was already splitting, and this pain sends another pang of nausea down his gut. He grips the worn quilt beneath him weakly. It smells, predictably, of John. He drinks in the stale scent, holds it to his lips, pinches his brow as he savors it.
“I’m right here, you know,” Snake complains.
“Why don’t you join me?” Ocelot mumbles into the fabric, patting the space beside him. “There’s room for two.”
Snake turns and walks out with a scoff. “You wish.”
He exhales a long sigh. “Perhaps I do, John…”
Vertigo takes a fierce hold while he is horizontal. His head rolls in place like a marble caught in the spout of a fountain. Time begins to skip beats. He flutters his eyes open, not remembering having closed them. The air becomes thin, until Ocelot forces himself to gasp, fighting off the sinister numbness that creeps up his chest. For the first time, a flicker of fear ignites in his gut like a match strike. But it fades just as quickly when an irresistible drowsiness dims his thoughts.
Ocelot is jolted awake by the squeak of springs as his body rolls toward a deep slope in the mattress. Snake is seated beside him, pulling him in by the force of his own gravity. The bearded man leans over him, examining him curiously. The husky sounds of his breathing pool in Ocelot’s ears, lulling him into a trance. His thick, warm scent—clinging to his hair, his arms, his sweater—floods Ocelot’s senses. A broad, calloused palm presses against his forehead, making him start feebly.
“What’s that… what are you doing?” he asks, wary of the foreign gesture.
Snake raises the brow over his eyepatch. “Checking for fever.”
Ocelot swallows dryly. “Right. Obviously.” His eyelids flutter again. The warmth from Snake’s hand seeps over his eyes, soothing the ache behind them. He craves feeling those rough palms against every inch of his body.
Leaning oppressively nearer, Snake pulls down the bottom lid of one of Ocelot’s eyes with his thumb to examine his pupils. Ocelot startles, swatting him away, wary that Snake may find what he is looking for.
“I’m not your science project,” he huffs, words running a little too close together.
“Hmm.”
Grabbing his wrist and prying it away, Snake’s other hand pinches Ocelot’s chin to maneuver his face for a better angle. He peers at him suspiciously, and Ocelot puts on a sour enough face to hide his utter exhaustion. Snake’s thumb strokes the sandpapery shadow at the edge of his jaw.
“So you can grow facial hair, kid.”
This truly wakes him, enough to shoot daggers at the man holding his face, who chuckles.
Snake rises from the bed, snatching one of the blankets for himself, and turns to leave.
“Heh,” he goads. “Not much, though.”
clickCRACK
When the spout of smoke fades, Snake glances over his shoulder, unflinching, at the newly splintered hole in his floor, four inches diagonal to his foot.
“All you’re getting for breakfast is a tub of wood filler to patch that with”
Ocelot lowers his Single Action Army and slips it back over his hip, fumbling the muzzle slightly before it sinks into the leather cradle. He stretches casually, then rolls onto his side.
“There’s no need to be chivalrous. It’ll be lonesome on that couch, John,” he simpers. His breaths are already slow, eyelids falling.
“Good,” grunts the distant voice from the hall. It sounds small. Worlds away.
The rain hammering the roof grows louder than a swarm of hornets.
- - -
There is so much water. Roaring dimly in his ears. Pushing down on all his limbs. Filling every chamber of his lungs. It covers him like a lead curtain.
A weak voice bleats at him, all vowels, choked through the dark waters.
It cries out again. And again. Almost in rhythm. He strains to hear.
Adam
Oh, to hear that American say his name. He waits, hoping it will call him again.
Adam!
He tries to smile, but the muscles won’t move. Suddenly pain shoots through his hand, wrenching him to consciousness.
“ -ake up! Breathe, damn it!”
A sharp sting across his face.
“АДАМСКА! ДЫШИ!”
He gasps, tilting his head back to breach the surface. Except there is no water. There is only Snakes’ frantic eye inches away, and his hands gripping Ocelot’s head.
“HEY. You weren’t breathing. You ok, kid?”
Ocelot groans, his skull still feels swollen with heavy water, desperate to split itself open for relief. He tries to lift an arm to push Snake away, but it merely stirs.
“Say something. Just talk to me and I’ll let up. Tell me to fuck off if you want.”
He tries.
“Vvug-nnnh…”
The eerie, pathetically slurred sound turns his stomach to ice—the cable between his tongue and his mind has been severed completely.
“Shit.” Snake lurches to his feet. A jostling of keys. “Hospital. Now .”
Ocelot commands his legs to move, bears down with all his willpower. Only when they ignore him does he sense the thick numbness swallowing him, creeping up his body and back inside his lungs. He forces those, at least, to respond.
“You’d better have one of your fake ID’s on you.”
He glances to his coat draped over the foot of the bed in response. Snake plunges his hand in one of the pockets and fishes out a thin wallet, stuffing it in his own jacket.
“Let’s go.”
Snake’s arms hook beneath Ocelot and whisk him from the bed with embarrassing ease, carrying his limp body down the hall and out the door into the pouring rain.
The night is pitch now, the storm fully matured. A small brown truck wobbles into view. Unforgiving hands shove him into the passenger seat, belt him down and slam him upright when he tries to collapse. Grunting, Snake reaches into the truck bed with one arm, fishing out a wet nylon rope and lashing Ocelot’s shoulder to the seat with it.
Ignition turning, straining—soft swearing—engine roaring. They peel out onto the gravel road, frail windshield wipers flapping against the downpour while they make for the highway. Ocelot’s chin bobs against his chest, his teeth clacking each time. The mountain roads twist and curve. Normally he would be able to mark his surroundings and track his own location from within a vehicle even while blindfolded, but right now he can barely remember why he is here… or why he cannot raise his head to see the road. Beside him, Snake is singularly focused, stone-faced.
Suddenly he is being hoisted out of the seat, his legs unfolding onto wet pavement. He barely registers being dragged inside, but finds his arm is around Snake’s shoulder, who is speaking to a nurse.
“Patient name?”
“Uh…” Snake glances at him for help. Ocelot cannot remember what identity he borrowed last.
The nurse recoils “...Sir?”
“One minute…” Snake digs the thin wallet from his jacket and holds it open in front of him. He pulls a face at what he reads, which is the last thing Ocelot sees before he feels himself falling, smacking into something cold and hard, and sinking back beneath the heavy waters.
- - -
When he wakes, he has been buried alive.
He tastes the grit beneath his tongue, sour mud in his throat. More sand seeps into his eyes with every blink. The dirt is packed down so tightly over his limbs that they will not budge.
Slowly, a gray ceiling comes into focus. To his surprise, he looks down to find a clean, beige blanket draped neatly over him. There is no dirt in sight.
He practices an inhale, relieved to find his body remembers how to continue on its own.
The stale purple wash of fluorescent light obliterates any sense for the time of day. He squints as it bores into his pupils, jabbing at the ferocious ache behind his eyes. He lifts a hand to cradle his forehead, flinches only to find it tethered down. He jerks instinctively to free it, instantly regretting the motion when he feels the sickening slip of a thick needle buried in the crook of his elbow. Bolting upright, he twists around to learn what is being pumped inside him, left hand lunging pointlessly for his revolver.
Saline bag. Electrocardiograph.
Empty waiting chair.
Ocelot slumps back against the hospital bed, head pounding more brutally than ever.
He reconstructs the night from blunted memories, like trying to make out images on overexposed film. The inciting incident of yesterday’s failure floats to the surface. He sets his jaw, shuts his eyes, and ignores the nurse who sweeps him over, disappearing as methodically as she arrived.
He ticks the minutes away blindly, planning a swift exit as soon as he has an opening, when the rattle of curtain hooks pulls his gaze.
“You look worse than when I left you.”
Snake steps inside, wearing a wool-collared jacket and carrying a small paper bag. He leans his elbows on the back of the waiting chair.
Ocelot tugs the thin blanket higher up his chest, noticing his own clothes hanging on the wall.
“You left?” he tries to sound offended, but it comes out mumbled. His mouth is drier than cotton.
“They wouldn’t let me back there with you. I took a drive.” He smells like at least two cigars.
“Heard you were drinking some crazy stuff,” he continues wryly.
“All the kids are into it now, you wouldn’t know.” Ocelot’s sarcasm is as weak as he feels. The pale blue eye does not leave his face, and he relents far too quickly for someone with his interrogative reputation.
“My contact played me. A friendly. Knew him ten years, too. He probably turned only recently. No excuse for carelessness, though.” He fidgets with the IV tube, clenching and unclenching a first, itching for his gloves. “He slipped me something nasty. I’ve never run across this particular cocktail before.”
“Uh-huh. So you dropped by my place for a visit and then… lied?”
“You’re not going to believe me, but I was already planning to come see you. Just on more… elegant terms.”
Snake snorts, taking a seat in the padded chair. He is still wearing faded sweatpants.
“If I hadn’t found you not breathing, like some fish in a bucket, you wouldn’t have even made it to this hospital bed.”
Ocelot shrugs, grins smugly. “Then what was it that possessed you to check on me in the middle of the night?”
Snake studies his face, tilts his head as if realizing something. He seems to finally suspect the real reason Ocelot had harangued him to share a bed.
“You were too shit of a shot. Knew something was bad for you to be that far off your mark . It was eating at me.”
Ocelot’s ears burn, a flush sweeping quietly over his chest.
Frowning, Snake rises and leans forward, lifting Ocelot’s bangs and pressing a palm to his forehead once again.
“Don’t go taking the easy way out on me, kid.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, fighting to keep his breath steady.
The hand is cool and inviting, his skin begs for more. As if in answer, Snake’s fingers slide down his sharp cheek, gathering at his throat and tightening beautifully.
“And don’t you lie to me again.”
“Never,” Ocelot lies, breathless. Ecstatic.
Snake glares down at him, weighing the answer, thumb caressing the carotid artery. He frowns, seeming to decide that the truth of it does not matter.
Gathering himself upright, he shrugs one shoulder to adjust his coat, fingers loosening their grip. Ocelot blinks, about to sit up, when suddenly the fingers hold his head in place and Snake presses a kiss to his lips. The room turns upside down. Ocelot’s stomach slides out and underneath him like he has been cut in half. His chest aches and blooms.
Snake pulls back, observing. The vitals monitor registers that Ocelot’s heart resumes beating. Snake gives a gentle, cocky laugh and turns toward the exit.
It is agony, an utterly unfair taunt against an already prone opponent. His first kiss from John while his mouth was still dry and foul from the drug, his reflexes shot, no chance to retaliate. A tingling sensation dances over his lips like glowing embers. He presses his fingertips to his mouth to trap it there, then drags them downward along his throat in ecstasy.
“John—” he blurts, reaching after him.
Snake turns back, pulls a thin wallet out of his pocket and tosses it into Ocelot’s lap.
“Ivan? Really?”
Ocelot smirks. “Plain name. To remind me of someone.”
Snake shakes his head in disbelief, yanking back the curtain.
“Just gonna leave me stranded here?” Ocelot pouts.
Snake shoves his fists in his pockets, calls over his shoulder as he leaves.
“You know where to find me.”
Ocelot grins, the ghost of the kiss still skating over his lips. Raising his hands in a well-worn gesture, he points his trigger fingers at Snake’s disappearing back.
“Next time, John, I won’t miss.”