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The smell of salt and burning fuel hangs heavy over the concrete courtyard of Rockford Island. December’s humid Pacific air clings to Chris Redfield’s skin like a wet shroud. He steps over the rubble, his hand tight on the grip of his weapon, every muscle in his twenty-five-year-old frame coiled for a threat he can’t quite name.
Then, the shadows shift. A figure steps into the pale sweep of the emergency lights. Slicked-back blonde hair, a tailored tactical uniform that looks entirely too pristine for this warzone, and those unmistakable, pitch-black sunglasses. Chris freezes, his heart slamming against his ribs. His brain struggles to process the image, fighting against the memory of the Spencer Mansion, of a giant tyrant claw sinking into a chest that should now be rotting in the Arklay forest.
"Wesker," Chris breathes, his voice a mix of disbelief and a strange, sudden jolt of adrenaline that isn't entirely fear. "You're... you're alive."
"Slightly more than alive, Chris," Wesker replies, his voice a smooth, low baritone that sends an involuntary shiver down Chris’s spine.
Before Chris can even raise his rifle, Wesker moves with a speed that defies human biology. He is a blur of motion, a shadow stretching across the concrete. A gloved hand wraps around Chris’s throat, lifting him off his feet with terrifying ease and slamming him hard against the cold, corrugated metal wall of the facility. Chris gasps, his fingers instantly dropping his weapon to claw at the vice-like grip around his neck. His boots dangle inches from the ground. Even under the crushing pressure, he looks into that cold, aristocratic face. With a desperate, coordinated swing of his right arm, Chris doesn't strike for Wesker's jaw—he aims higher, his knuckles catching the edge of those dark frames.
The sunglasses clatter to the concrete.
Chris’s breath hitches, and it isn't from the lack of oxygen. Looking back at him are not the eyes of the Captain he once knew, but something fiercely, mesmerizingly beautiful. The sclera is a faint, bruised gold, and the pupils are slit into sharp, vertical lines—the unmistakable gaze of a predator, burning with a soft, bioluminescent amber. They are snake-like. They are entirely inhuman. And Chris finds them absolutely breathtaking. Wesker’s grip tightens slightly, his head tilting as he registers the lack of terror in his former subordinate's eyes.
"Still so eager to play the hero, and yet so hopelessly outmatched," Wesker sneers, his breath warm against Chris's face. "But I suppose you'll want to know about your sister. Claire is no longer on this island, Chris. She has been transported to our facility in Antarctica. And I'm afraid she is in very delicate company. Alexia Ashford has awakened."
The pressure on Chris’s windpipe is immense, but instead of struggling to break free, instead of plotting an escape route or reaching for the combat knife at his vest, Chris relaxes his posture. He lets his arms hang loose at his sides, his chest rising and falling in shallow, deliberate breaths.
"Antarctica," Chris croaks out, his voice raspy but steady. He looks directly into those burning, slit-pupil eyes. "Then... you let her go. Again."
Wesker’s brow twitches, a micro-expression of confusion flitting across his otherwise mask-like features. "I merely left her to her detours. She is of no consequence to my objectives."
"That's twice now," Chris whispers, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Back at the mansion, and now here. You could have ended her, but you didn't. So... thank you, Albert."
The use of his first name, spoken with such quiet sincerity, acts like a physical jolt. Wesker’s fingers instinctively loosen. Chris’s boots touch the damp ground again, though Wesker keeps his palm pressed firmly against the center of Chris’s chest, pinning him in place.
Chris leans into the touch of that gloved hand, tilting his head up. "You know," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, "those glasses do you a massive disservice. Those eyes are... incredible. Seriously. I can't look away."
Wesker stares at him, utterly motionless. For a man who prides himself on anticipating every variable, on calculating every human reaction down to the decimal, Chris Redfield’s utter lack of survival instinct is a glaring, chaotic anomaly.
"Are you concussed, Redfield?" Wesker asks, his voice dangerously quiet, though he doesn't pull his hand away.
"Never felt clearer," Chris says, his gaze dropping to Wesker’s mouth before rising back to those golden irises. "You've killed a lot of people I know. I should hate you. But sitting here looking at you like this... I think I'm just incredibly glad you're not dead."
Unnerved by the sheer absurdity of the confession, Wesker takes a deliberate step backward. Yet, as if anchored by some inexplicable gravity, his hand remains flat against Chris’s chest, feeling the rapid, rhythmic thudding of the younger man's heart.
This is a biological response, Wesker reasons rapidly within the sterile confines of his own mind. A coping mechanism. The trauma of near-death experiences often triggers a frantic search for attachment, a misfiring of neurotransmitters. Dopamine and norepinephrine flooding his system, mistaking terror for arousal. It is a pathetic, human frailty. Wesker tightens his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he looks at the flush rising on Chris's cheeks. And my own heart rate? A mere elevation in adrenaline due to the unexpected nature of the stimulus. Nothing more. I am a god among these insects. I have transcended the petty chemical impulses of the flesh.
Yet, even as the cold, scientific monologue runs its course, Wesker's thumb twitches, brushing almost imperceptibly against the rough canvas of Chris's tactical vest, feeling the warmth radiating beneath it. He finds himself tracking the line of Chris's jaw, the damp curl of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
A useless distraction, Wesker thinks, though his hand doesn't drop. He is a specimen. A remarkably resilient specimen who has survived encounters that should have reduced him to ash. It is merely... evolutionary curiosity.
But the lie tastes ash-dry in his mouth. He is altogether too aware of the space between them, too aware of the way Chris is looking at him—not with the horror he deserves, but with an intense, raw hunger.
"Are you quite finished with your internal thesis?" Chris asks softly.
A genuine, breathless blush has crept up his neck, dusting his cheekbones. He reaches up, his hand surprisingly steady, and places it directly over Wesker’s gloved hand on his chest. He doesn't push it away; he presses it firmer against his heart.
"Can we kiss?" Chris asks, his voice devoid of any mockery, entirely earnest.
Wesker blinks, the sheer, unadulterated shock of the request throwing him completely off balance. For a fraction of a second, the god-complex slips, leaving only the stunned silence of a man who has forgotten how to handle genuine, human intimacy.
"I have just informed you," Wesker says, his voice tighter, more clipped than usual, "that your sister is in Antarctica. At the mercy of a mutated aristocrat. You should be running for your plane, Redfield."
Chris nods slowly, his hand still resting over Wesker's. "I am going. I'm going to save her. But first..." He steps closer, closing the small gap Wesker had created. "Just one kiss. Come on, Albert."
Wesker’s eyes dart toward the security monitors mounted on the concrete pillar nearby. The flickering screens show the chaotic perimeter of the facility. If Alexia’s surveillance systems are still active, if her reach extends even to these feed loops, she could see them. The thought of the Ashford heir witnessing him engaged in something so thoroughly, weakly human grates against his pride. Without a word, Wesker reaches out, his fingers bunching into the fabric of Chris’s green tactical shirt. He yanks Chris forward, not with violence, but with a sudden, commanding urgency, and drags him down the narrow, shadowed corridor toward a heavy, reinforced steel door.
He punches the override code with his free hand, shoving Chris inside the dark, quiet security anteroom and letting the heavy door hiss shut behind them, locking out the rest of the burning island. The room is pitch black save for the amber glow of a single standby console. Chris stumbles slightly as he's pulled inside, but he quickly finds his footing, a quiet laugh escaping his throat.
"Well, this is cozy," Chris banters, leaning his lower back against a metal desk. He looks up at the shadow of Wesker standing over him. "Did you change your mind? Or am I about to meet a quiet, tragic end in a dark closet?"
"Do not mistake my tolerance for weakness, Chris," Wesker says, his voice cutting through the dark like a blade. He steps closer, the faint amber light catching the sharp angles of his face and the eerie glow of his eyes. "I am entirely devoid of the sentimentality you are projecting onto me. I feel nothing for you. You are a relic of a past life I have long since discarded."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that," Chris says, his voice soft, teasing, and entirely lacking in fear. "You've had a dozen chances to kill me. You had me by the throat out there. If you're so emotionless, so beyond all of this, why am I still breathing? Why are we in this room?"
"Because you are an annoyance I have yet to properly catalog," Wesker snaps, though the anger in his voice is laced with something far heavier, a rising tension he can no longer intellectualize away.
"You're a liar, Albert," Chris whispers, stepping off the desk and closing the final inch between them. "And you're a terrible actor."
Wesker’s patience snaps. He grabs Chris by the shoulders, pinning him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the metal clipboards hanging nearby. But before Chris can even take a breath to speak, Wesker leans down and takes his mouth. The kiss is harsh, possessive, and thick with a desperation that contradicts every cold word Wesker has ever spoken. It is the collision of two men who have spent years on opposite sides of a bloody, horrific war, suddenly stripped of their armor. Wesker’s lips are firm, his tongue demanding entry with a dominant, bruising pressure that Chris welcomes with an eager, breathless gasp.
Chris wraps his arms tightly around Wesker’s neck, his fingers burying themselves in the neatly styled blonde hair, messing it up without a care. He pulls Wesker closer, matching the intensity of the kiss, his heart hammering wildly against Wesker's chest. The taste of salt, iron, and a cold, clinical mint fills his senses, and Chris leans into it, utterly consumed by the heat of the older man.
For all of Wesker's talk of transcendence and superior biology, his hands are remarkably warm as they slide down to grip Chris’s waist, holding him so tightly it borders on painful. When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing heavily, the silence of the dark room filled only with the sound of their ragged respiration. Wesker rests his forehead against Chris’s for a single, fleeting second, his golden eyes glowing fiercely in the dark, looking thoroughly, beautifully defeated.
"Go to Antarctica, Chris," Wesker murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly promise as he slowly steps back into the shadows. "And pray you survive long enough for me to find you again."