Infiltrating the MSF base was a joke, which only proves how much he needs to be here to keep an eye out for Zero’s own agents infiltrating the ranks of Snake’s brand new army while the KGB and Zero himself are still convinced, of course, that he is there to gather precious informations for the Soviets. Ocelot sighs, wiping sweat away from his brow with his bare forearm. It’s easy to keep a low profile, pretending he is nothing more than a decent soldier, scoring average results when he is being evaluated, easily hiding the fact that he is a better shot than the top snipers they have on the field and that he could lead the intel team far more functionally than it is managed now. Nobody expects much from a young and boyish soldier like him.
If John had asked Adam to follow him in South America and build a mercenary army with him, they would have already won the war. But, alas, he never did and Ocelot has to pose as a simple soldier, keeping a low profile so that John won’t even know he’s here. Sure enough, his tasks as a new recruit are pathetically tedious, everything made infinitely worse by weather that growing up in deadly cold winters never prepared him for. However, he was ready to deal with these sorts of inconveniences. All of them except one thing.
“Hey, kid, still keeping watch out here? Your turn was over 20 minutes ago already.”
Ocelot quickly puts away the radio he uses to communicate with his spetsnaz unit, rolling his eyes before turning on his feet to face Kazuhira Miller, subcommander of the MSF and Ocelot’s latest, most obnoxious, least subtle admirer. Avoiding drawing attention to yourself while one of the base’s highest ranking members cannot stop finding excuses to be in your close proximity is an unexpected nuisance.
“Just wanted to be thorough, sir.”
“C’mon now, I told you already to just call me Kaz.”
Ocelot gives him a condescending look.
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir .”
Miller squints at him from behind his aviators. His bright smile doesn't falter in the slightest.
“You like to play games, Ocelot, don’t you?”
Oh, he has no idea.
“I’ll take my leave before I miss my ration.” he cuts him short.
“I was going to invite you to join me for lunch today.”
That is almost appalling enough to earn him a laugh but Ocelot is a professional, keeps his face neutral.
“No thanks, Kaz.” he says with a straight face, shutting him down and leaving without waiting for the commander’s reaction.
Off duty, Ocelot sits under the shadow of a palm tree, even if it does very little to ease the scorching heat of the summer that he desperately needs to protect his pale skin from. He flexes his arms tentatively, wincing when the stinging pain of the sunburn settles on his shoulders and biceps. He swears under his breath. He hates the Caribbean. He passes a hand through the short crop of his hair, studying the way his red leather glove gets damp with the sweat it catches there. Despite all logic, he hasn’t given up the cowboy boots and the leather gloves. He’s grown more attached to his peculiar looks than he is willing to reflect on. He wonders if John would understand he’s here if rumors of a stupid white kid with cowboy boots running errands for the MSF started to spread across the base. Ocelot sighs. It doesn’t matter. Whether John knows he’s here or not, he needs to remain focused on finding a lead on Cipher’s agents and leave as soon as he’s completed his mission.
He hates to admit it, but Miller is indeed making it hard to steal intel unseen. It almost feels like the handsome commander is breathing down his neck every single moment of the day. He reminds Ocelot of a big playful dog that will not calm down until he obtains what he loudly barks for. Obviously enough, what the puppy wants is Ocelot’s attention and possibly to get in his pants, as it generally seems to be one of Commander Miller’s main interests when he is not busy leading an expedition in the jungle or making deals with local low criminals.
If Ocelot is being honest with himself, he almost finds his attention amusing, if it weren’t for the fact that having Miller’s eyes glued on his ass means he can’t sneak into his office to gather intel without raising suspects. He watches the blond dog in question stride toward him, uniform jacket tied to his waist. He’s holding a canteen full of fresh water, knowing he won’t say no to it, and he waves at him from afar.
It’s not like he hasn’t considered to just spread his legs and let Miller get what he wants, conscious that it would be all it takes to make him move on to his next crush and leave him free to roam but some petty, prideful part of him prevents him from giving in just like that. Not with Kazuhira Miller.
The subcommander sleeps around. A lot. No special analysis skills are required to notice it. He’s casual about it and tries to keep it as professional as it is possible (with some occasional slips). Ocelot doesn’t really give a fuck about the other man’s sexual life. Really, he doesn’t. There’s just one fact, one simple rumor that bugs Adam way more than he’d ever admit, even under torture. Thing is though, it appears Miller shares bed with the MSF boss quite often. Of course, he and John never made any promises of fidelity, there’s never been exclusivity to begin with but, just as it was with Eva, thinking about John fucking someone else gets him feeling some sort of way that he only partly manages to suppress and ignore.
When Miller is close enough to the palm tree, he tosses the canteen to Ocelot, who gracefully catches it midair. He wastes no time uncapping it and gulping it down, uncaring for the water spilling past his lips and dripping down his chin. He empties the rest of the flask on his head, basking in the coolness of the water on his heated skin.
“You know, taking off leather from your outfit would improve dealing with the heat.” he stands at the edge of the tree shadow, gracing Ocelot with one of his confident, handsome smiles.
Ocelot shakes his head from side to side to get rid of the water dripping into his eyes.
“I am aware. But I like it.” If commander Miller wants him to pick up a more fitting uniform he will have to file an official complaint.
He laughs instead, and it has such a sweet and happy sound to it that Ocelot can’t help but look up to him, despite having to fight the sun that makes him squint his light blue eyes.
“A costa rican cowboy; not something I was ever prepared to see.”
Ocelot shrugs, but the cocky smile about to bloom on his lips falls apart when the pain of the sunburn hits his nerves, making him flinch.
“Sunburnt?” Miller finally steps in closer, crouching down to be face to face with him. “Your skin is so delicate and…” he casually states, but cuts himself off before he says something more incriminating. “I mean, you’re so damn pale you could get mistaken for a Soviet.” he laughs at his own joke and, this time, it does get a dry laugh out of Ocelot too.
“I’ve been told.”
“I’ve got something that can help you.” Kaz announces while he takes a small lotion bottle out his chest pocket. “Let me-” Ocelot snatches the soothing cream for his skin before Miller can even suggest letting him spread it on his shoulders.
“Thanks.” He uses the same momentum he used to grab the lotion to get up from his sitting position. “I’ll go get this on.”
Once again he leaves without giving the other man much space to do anything about it. Kaz just watches him walk away, mildly disappointed, but still amused at the sight of the cowboy recruit struggling to maintain his elegant feline stride while walking with cowboy boots on the thin white sand.
As days pass, Ocelot finds himself subjected to Miller’s prying eyes somehow more often than before. With distaste, he notices he doesn’t mind his interest as much. He begins showing off at times seeing as his superior’s attention is so obvious that he finds it goes beyond being irritating; instead, becoming a stupid game Ocelot starts to love being the center of. He tries to catch himself, every time his mind wanders, producing absolutely unacceptable scenarios in which he decides to get his fun with Miller, knowing that indulging in such fantasies will do him no good. He doesn’t need to bed the horny commander to do his job. He is collecting enough data about the moles hiding in the MSF ranks without access to Miller’s files. All is good. Hooking up with him would be nothing but a waste of time and a probable investment into getting some nasty STD. The sex is probably not even that good anyway, barrack rumours are as reliable as fairy tales.
It’s difficult, though, to not get distracted; not when he’s training with the other soldiers, skin glistening with sweat and wetness of the jungle heat, shirt soaked and sticking to his skin and all he can concentrate on is Miller’s eyes following him between the men without ever losing sight of him. He can tell he’s looking at him as if he was posing on a playboy cover even from behind his glasses if the absolutely indecent grin he flashes at him when he catches Ocelot looking back at him is any indicator. He trades his CQC training time with latrine duties because he doesn’t want to find out how it’d feel to spar with commander Miller, let him touch and guide him and learn if his tanned skin feels as hot and smooth as it looks.
Snake is safely back on mother base and the situation at the outpost they are defending is so still and tranquil that Kaz actually joins Cécile and Paz sunbathing on the beach under the afternoon sun on a few occasions and, of course, Ocelot is the unlucky recruit chosen to be the commander’s delivery guy. His breath halts for a moment when his eyes fall on Miller’s toned, oiled body, naked for the exception of the sluttiest swimwear Ocelot’s eyes have ever been granted with. You don’t see this sort of things in the Russian special forces.
“Thanks, soldier.” He says as he takes the clipboard from Ocelot’s hands. His expensive Rolex catches the sunlight when he signs the papers he’s been handed. He hesitates on some authorization form, tapping the pen to his bottom lip and Ocelot bites his own tongue at the sight of those soft lips parting open just so slightly and, frankly, this is verging on humiliating now. He blames it on the equatorial heat getting to his head.
“Aren’t you hot with all those clothes on, soldat?” Ocelot’s frown only deepens listening to the unrestrained french accent. “I would loosen the scarf at least.” Cécile giggles, getting a light snicker from Paz too, who is observing them from under the beach umbrella as she pretends she’s busy reading a girly magazine. As if she and Ocelot hadn’t mutually figured out they’re both spies five minutes in their first encounter.
“It’s fine.” He says through gritted teeth. He’s not fine. He’s sweating like a pig under his uniform, his face and neck so heated he’s more than sure his complexion must be shining bright red right now. It doesn’t help that Miller is stretching out leisurely on the deckchair, showing off his defined abs and the sharp cut of his hipbones—
Cécile turns to Kaz, politely hiding her mouth behind her hand as she speaks, as if Ocelot wasn’t standing right there. “He looks so adorable.” more giggling ”He’s blushing.”
Ocelot gloves creak when he clenches his fists, the scorching sun driving his patience really thin. Miller, fucking bastard , pushes his shades up to give him a proper once-over to confirm the french bitch’s words. He smiles in the most irritating way when he fixes his glasses back on the bridge of his pretty nose, saying nothing.
Cécile innocently bats her eyelashes, looking at him now, and very innocently claims, in french this time, that she has some ideas about how to make him feel better, which she mentions. Graphically. He stops himself from groaning in disgust mostly because he doesn’t want to explain how an American country boy got to learn French. Blond sluts seem to be the bane of his existence ever since the Sixties.
“I am on duty, sir, so if you’re done signing those papers, I should get going.”
“Wait, soldat, I need some help with this suncream.” Cécile sits up, a lotion bottle readily in her hands. As she stirs up, the unlaced straps of her bikini fall off her shoulders, effectively leaving her topless. Under the shadow, Paz gasps softly. “Oh mon Dieu, how clumsy I am.” she smiles at Ocelot, not a hint of shame on her face.
“Cut it out Cécile, can’t you see the boy’s not interested?” Finally, finally , Miller offers the clipboard back to him. “His tastes lay elsewhere, right?” He looks up at Ocelot from the rim of his sunglasses, winking .
Ocelot snatches the signed papers from the commander’s outstretched hand so fast he almost sends the whole clipboard flying in the sand. He goes back to his guarding post without even attempting a proper salute.
Ocelot wanders to the shooting range. It’s not a proper one, they have set it up on camp as a makeshift way to keep the soldiers trained, and yet he finds himself snooping around it from time to time, a certain itch to have his finger on a trigger becoming more pressing every day he has to spend guarding some uneventful guard post. His interest only grows when he spots a man with Aviators and obnoxiously blond hair standing between a handful of new recruits. He’s giving out advice, fixing stances, patting shoulders and smiling reassuringly like a good leader should. Ocelot waits, watches Miller help out the recruits for a while longer, until the platform of the shooting range gets mostly empty. Only then he decides to make his entrance, preceded by the jingle of his spurs.
Miller seems mildly surprised to see him there but tries his best to hide his excitement about it.
“Those recruits needed too many pointers. I see you can’t afford to be picky with enlistment requests.” the young man states, flatly.
“Are you asking for an additional lesson too?”
The way Adamska laughs betrays how young he still is. “Hardly anything you could teach me.”
“Uh?” Kazuhira’s own cocky smile is well rooted on his face, not at all disturbed by Ocelot’s insubordination. “I'm a good shot and a good instructor.”
“I’m the best shot and I don’t need any instructor.”
He moves fast, like a deadly predator, reaching for Miller’s gun holster and disarming him with confidence and practiced ease. The older man reacts on instinct, lunging for his handgun now in Ocelot’s right hand. Before he can reach for it though, the young recruit throws it in the air and it spins wildly but following a perfectly calculated arc, dropping in his left hand, that he keeps behind his back, secured away from the commander’s grasp. Kaz would swear or say something but the sound of gunshots freezes him.
He looks in Ocelot’s light blue eyes and he stares right back into the lenses of his Aviators. Their faces are alarmingly close. The pause between each shot is minimal and even. He counts half of the magazine going off, then Ocelot juggles the gun again, grabs it with his other hand, unloads the rest of the ammo. Never breaks eye contact with him.
After the last bullet is shot, they keep staring at each other for a handful of seconds too long, then Miller’s curiosity has the best of him and he turns toward the targets. He’s hit the mark, next to perfect, which each shot. He’s never seen anything like this before.
“I’m ambidextrous.” he casually mentions, spinning Kazuhira’s gun on his gloved finger before politely offering it back to its owner.
Miller takes it back, automatically pressing on the magazine release button to verify that what he’s just witnessed has actually happened.
“Fuck.” it comes out a little breathy. He’s excited. “Who taught you to shoot like that?”
Ocelot shrugs. “Long story. Should see me with revolvers.”
“Like that fancy one of yours? With the engravings?” He is almost startled by the intensity of Ocelot’s eyes, wide and unreadable, when he turns to look at him now. If he had to guess, he’d almost say he looks vulnerable. “Saw you polishing it. I haven’t placed any revolvers order so I figured it was part of your personal effects. I mean, you know, because of the” he gestures at him “cowboy theme.”
Ocelot looks at the dusty ground, at the targets displayed in front of him at the range. He grabs one of the semi automatic guns they use for training and fires a headshot on the target. “It reminds me of someone I really care about.”
Kaz nods, doesn’t press the matter any further. He folds his arms against his chest, observing him without saying much, as he often does when he studies the newer recruits.
A peaceful silence settles between them, shouting of the men training on the field is a distant and familiar background between the gunshots of Ocelot’s pistol. The edge of the sky begins to fade to soft shades of pink as the sun lowers toward the horizon. Ocelot stops firing his gun.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask, commander, but I can’t tell if it is my place to.”
Miller squares him up and down, his stance stoic but his expression, to Ocelot’s trained eyes, intrigued.
“Can’t promise I’ll answer, but ask away.”
“You’re mixed right?”
Kazuhira raises an eyebrow at him, taken aback by the question, coming out of the blue. He waits and watches the other man lower the gun, get it back in its holster.
“Grew up in Japan.” he replies in a breath. He doesn’t talk about this very often, though, he must admit, not many people have asked with genuine intent.
The kid shoulders tense up just a fraction, then relax. He’s got so good at mimicking the little physical tells of emotions he doesn’t feel.
“I am, too.” he glances at Miller, to check his reaction. “You were right after all, I’m half slav.” he takes another long pause, fumbling with his hands as if he was unsure about whether to keep talking or drop it. Kaz lets him take his time, not wanting to press him on but silently being intrigued by finally learning something about the kid. So Ocelot does the thing he excels at.
“My father was a Soviet. A medic of some sort I’ve been told. He went back to the Motherland before I was even born.” he grips the railing in front of him, tight enough that the leather of his gloves creaks with the strain. “Never met him. My mother… she- she was a true soldier, giving me the best life she could offer no matter how hard it was to raise a bastard son in a little town in the south. Bet you can imagine how it went with the rumors about the commie spy.” he spits out those words in a self deprecatory way, a mark branded on his skin that he's never learnt to accept.
And Kazuhira does get it. He’s never heard the kid stutter like this before and he can't even process it properly as he’s overcome by a specific type of hot blooded fury that he recognizes so intimately, only, this time, it is directed at the injustices that Ocelot has had to face growing up. He understands all too well and he doesn't need to ask how he's ended up as a member of the MSF anymore, he knows where pride and rage and a need for honor and recognition can bring you.
“The revolver… Did your mom give it to you?”
Ocelot awkwardly taps the gun hostereld at his hip, observing Miller before deciding what to say.
“I’m sorry, Commander. I shouldn't hav- Forget I said anything.” he waves him off, getting ready to storm off once again but, this time, Kazuhira reaches him in time, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from leaving. So he stays, tall and lanky in a way that Kaz could only describe as boyish.
“My father was an American soldier. He left too.” Ocelot expects him to say more but he doesn't. He squeezes his shoulder again instead. “I get it, kid, how life gets. Your mom is proud of you for being here, for believing in this future.”
For a moment, Ocelot thinks about her, blond hair and stern eyes. The memory fades in a flutter of white petals before it can really reach his heart. Few things can. He wonders if that is what Miller tells himself, that his mother cares about any of this. Considering the soap opera worthy content in the files he’s read about his past, his way of coping with this isn’t that surprising. Unlike Adam, he needs to make sense of his past to dampen the crippling pain of regret and self doubt. Ocelot has no strings tying him to his past, he’s personally built every thread of the spiderweb he lives on; he catches his prey, he never gets involved. He’s learning to master the art of painting the right expression on his face, even if he is an empty shell with no empathy. Miller drinks up his fake innocent eyes like it’s a shot of tequila after a successful business deal.
“Thank you, Commander. It feels good to share this with someone.” he looks down at the points of his boots as he delivers the last line, feigning shyness.
Kaz’s voice is very warm as he responds “Yeah, yeah it does.”
Vic Boss came back successful from a risky mission, the whole camp is jubilant. An unspoken tension had worked its way in the ranks whilst Snake was MIA for seventy-six hours and now it blew up in the best possible way. They organise a party on the beach, there is alcohol and bonfires and the sort of atmosphere that brings Ocelot’s thoughts back to the East, when he celebrated victories with his comrades and he felt a sense of belonging like never before. He feels weirdly nostalgic. If he starts to think about John, now that he’s so close, he’s going to do something stupid.
So he thinks about Miller, instead. After the fake sweet heart to heart conversation they’ve had at the shooting range, he’s been acting somewhat different around him. Nicer, perhaps. The tension between them has shifted a little but it hasn’t moved away. Ocelot has studied Miller closely in the last couple of days, his jaw set all the time, arms crossed, eyes wandering to the edge of the jungle whenever he got distracted, worried sick for their boss. Yet, he put all that worry to the side when it came to cheer up the spirits of the soldiers, be it with a nice pep talk or by ordering extra physical work to blow off some steam. His shoulders dropped when Snake contacted him again, bringing nothing but good news with him, and he swept Cécile off her feet and theatrically kissed her on the lips, right there in the radio command room, before announcing Snake was back and they were having a party.
Happiness is a good look on Kazuhira Miller and Ocelot takes it in anxiously, aware it will not last forever. He’s unable to stop looking at him while the fire burns and music and cheers fill the beach, doesn’t even care if he gets caught staring. Tonight he won’t care about many things. John is safe, he’ll allow himself one night to breathe.
The subcommander is at the centre of the attention, as he often is, playing the guitar and patting men on the shoulder. When Cécile asks him to dance he initially refuses, but gives up when the soldiers jeer at him and she pouts and pretends to be offended. He empties the beer he's holding and grabs Cécile by the waist, making her squirm. So they dance. They’re hardly coordinated but they are young and happy and beautiful. He spins her around and her delighted laughs are almost louder than the men’s whistles and naughty encouragement.
Ocelot downs half the bottle of his beer. It’s getting warmer by now and he doesn’t particularly like beer to begin with. They’d be such a perfect couple, Cécile and Miller. Like Eva and John. Miller and John. He grimaces. Ocelot is a perfect fit for anyone who needs him and he doesn’t fit anywhere at the same time. So does it matter if he feels a sly pang of jealousy as he watches the happy duo dance around the fire? Does it matter if being jealous of Miller distracts him from missing John? Nobody is going to know anyway, he can watch, appreciate how broad his shoulders are, how sure of himself he looks even as if he messes up his moves. Nobody is going to know if he imagines how it would be like to stand up and take the girl’s place, put his hands on Miller’s shoulders and dance with him, look at his handsome face from up close.
And Kazuhira– Kaz is a very handsome man indeed. Something about the way he moves, the bravado pouring from all of his actions, has heads turning toward him everywhere he goes. The moment passes, Ocelot keeps drinking on a log close to the flames, so hot it’s uncomfortable. The commander chivalrously lets his girl dance with another good looking, although scarred, suitor and takes his seat again, surrounded by more whistles and applause.
He talks to Ocelot and the other men around them with ease, his smile so welcoming and the smell of the cologne he drenches himself with almost inebriating in the fresh, pleasant air of the coast at night. Adam watches the commander gesticulate as he speaks, liquor bottle and the joint they've been passing between the men around the bonfire both held in his right hand. Ocelot can't get his eyes off it, wonders how it would feel to have Miller’s hands holding him instead, or to close his own hands around his wrists, push down and feel his strong muscles fight back. He takes a gulp from the bottle in his own hands and guesses that Miller would fight back if he ever tried to overpower him. The hair on his nape rises up at the thought that probably, if Ocelot toyed with him right, he would not fight back at all. Maybe, he’d beg for it even.
“Still quiet, uh, cowboy?”
He blinks, focusing on the present again. He got distracted and lost awareness of his surroundings, of time passing. He can't blame it on the alcohol nor on the marijuana, not with his specific substance resistance training. Something else seems to have gotten to him. A recruit, younger than Ocelot is, has passed out on the bench. Everyone else has drifted to other corners of the beach.
“You should loosen up, partying is allowed only for special occasions, enjoy it while it lasts.”
Ocelot says nothing. He plants the glass bottle he's holding in the sand at his feet. The party has died down by now. Not everyone is going to be off duty tomorrow, tasks will still need to be completed. Other men found quieter ways to spend the rest of the night off, some are too drunk to do anything but dozing off on the beach or contemplating the dark waves of the sea. Cécile has left with her handsome scarred knight.
Kaz is sitting next to him, so close that Adam only needs to raise his arm to reach for his face, running his thumb on the commander’s shiny lips and almost sighing when he gets the confirmation they feel just as soft and silky as they look. Kazuhira wraps his fingers around Ocelot’s wrist, very gently. He doesn’t drag his hand away.
“Are you drunk right now, kid?” the low sound of his laugh rumbles through his chest.
Ocelot kisses him. He’s never been good at first kisses. Too shy ortoo much , he’s never been trained for this sort of thing. Now, he just presses his lips against Miller’s, feather-like touch, breathes in the overpowering smell of his cologne, of the hair grease he combs his hair with. He parts his lips just a breath away from the other man’s mouth and feels his tongue promptly caressing his upper lip. Then Miller is kissing him, right and proper, and he seems to be good at first kisses, easily getting Adamska to cooperate. Ocelot shakes his hand free from his hold on his wrist, tying both his hands behind his neck, tugging the longer strands of his hair, not to pull him away but to feel him react and kiss him deeper.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He has no good reason to. He pushes Kaz’s Aviators up on his brow, tilts his own head to the side in an open invitation and makes himself stop thinking. When he feels Miller groan in his mouth and wrap his arms around his waist, a shiver runs through him and he feels good. Light. And he doesn’t want it to stop.
They part for a moment, breathing over each other’s lips. They are not short-breathed but there’s some hesitation between them, weirdly mixed to electricity and want, neither of them really daring to say a word. Adam moves first, his fingers tracing the strong line of Kaz’s jaw, taking in the warmth of his skin even through the leather of his gloves. He blinks then, as Kazuhira kisses him not a moment later, his hands reaching for Ocelot’s hips, grabbing him with redundant force and dragging him closer to him, getting the younger man’s breath to hitch, making him lose the rhythm of the kiss. Kaz doesn’t mind, keeps kissing him messily, his sticky lips moving to his chin and his jaw, the hint of teeth catching on Ocelot’s skin brings him so close to push him back and straddle his lap, let him grope him all over as he’s very much trying to already.
There’s a loud crash of glass bottles shattering, laughter. Ocelot pushes himself upright, abruptly shoving Miller in the sand in the process. He makes a surprised noise, confused, sunglasses skewed on his nose and the front of his fatigues straining against his growing erection. Ocelot swallows, staring, then winces realizing how much he wants it. He offers Miller a hand, helps him get back on his feet.
“What’s wrong?” Kaz hands are gentle on Ocelot’s nape, massaging the short crop of his hair and pulling him close. He glances at the men pissing in the sea, laughing loudly and shoving at each other. Kaz follows his line of sight. “They won’t even remember seeing us here.” He runs his thumb on Ocelot’s spit soaked lips. They look obscenely red compared to his white skin. “Come to my room? We can have some privacy.”
He checks himself before he can give in and lap at the calloused thumb casually pushing past his lips and bites it instead. Hard. Miller yelps and steps back, confusion back on his face.
“I don’t get you!” he says, his voice frustrated, lost between exasperation and undeniable want.
For some reason, it makes Ocelot mad too because he doesn’t get himself either. He opens his mouth and points his forefinger at Kaz. “Fuck you Miller!”
He leaves hurriedly, kicking sand like a pissy child on his way back to the barracks and muttering a string of swears against himself, Miller, Costa Rica and John too. He spends the rest of the night turning restless in his bunk bed without getting any sleep, getting yelled at by his drunk roommates and bitterly having to face the truth he’s more annoyed about having missed a chance than anything else because, yes, fine, he wants Miller more than he wants to win the fight with his own pride.
Big Boss is staying at the outpost for a couple of days, getting ready for deployment in yet another special operation soon. Ocelot is not supposed to know the details about it, but he gathered them anyway. Sort of regrets it, really, he should try to distance himself from John and knowing all of his moves doesn’t help. They haven’t been this close in the same place in so long that Adam’s skin feels electric.
He and Miller have been avoiding each other. Well, Ocelot has been keeping himself busy as far away from the command area as possible, while Miller was occupied in playing the part of John’s drooly lap dog, so they wouldn’t have had much of a chance to run into each other even if they wanted to.
Ocelot is taking care of his unit’s guns, mostly because the mechanical movements of taking the guns apart and reassembling them keep his mind active, help him focus and stay uninvolved from his feelings. He is unnerved though, and as his fingers nimbly work on the rifle, he distractedly chews on his bottom lip in such blatant display of nervosism that it would have him get whipped on the back of his legs by his caretakers if he was still a child under the Philosophers’ control. He’s on borrowed time and has already started planning his trip back to Moscow. He doesn’t like how the idea of leaving the MSF camp is making him feel.
He sees Kazuhira coming from a mile away but he does nothing to avoid him. He simply gets up and begins to store away the rifles.
“I saw you were alone, I wanted to talk about that night.”
Adamska’s thought about their kiss. Of course he has. He doesn’t have the time to bed as many people as the blond toyboy, even fewer he’s shared a kiss with and, yes, Miller was a really good kisser, but he’s not going to act all dreamy and queasy about it as if he was his stupid girlfriend.
“No need. I’ll forget about it, sir.”
He moves the box of guns around, storing it away and deliberately avoiding to meet the other man’s eyes. He feels tense, his jaw is clenched and the silk of the red scarf he obstinately decided to wear is damp with sweat. He feels naked now, he wonders if he’s shown too much of himself with that kiss. He isn’t used to this sensation. He can feel his heart beating faster as the silent pause stretches between them.
“I just meant to say, it was really inappropriate on my behalf. I get it, I’m just bothering you, I’ll step back.”
Ocelot actually stops fumbling with the safety deposit box and pays attention properly to the subcommander for the first time in days. He isn’t even looking his way. What is this? Snake’s anti workplace harassment rules reinforcement? Does John really think he can tame a bitch like Miller for himself-
A laughing fit raises in his chest but he aborts it. “That’s it, Commander? Really?” he breaches his personal space, carefully paying attention to not touching him in any way. He wishes Kaz would kiss him again.
Miller takes a step forward, cranes his neck to whisper in his ear as if he was worried his man could catch him. His hand hovers over Ocelot’s waist but it doesn’t even so much as brush against his shirt, as if he was still trying to be true to his previous statement. As if he hadn’t been willing to bend him over in public not longer than a week ago.
“No, it’s not. If you change your mind, my offer is still up.” he purrs. Now, this is the Kaz Adam knows about.
Something’s off though. He can’t smell that tacky cologne he always bathes himself in. Miller’s skin smells like cigars. Sweet and rich smell of cigars.
It’s just a moment, maybe less, but Ocelot’s eyes go wide. Then he forces them shut, as if he could save himself from the picture ofhim with his hands on Miller’s neck. He feels like his spine has been snapped in half, quick and painless.
His lips smash into Kazuhira’s at the same time as his hands close around the silky fabric of his yellow scarf, pulling him forward hungrily. The surprised gasp he feels against his lips tastes strangely like victory. Miller is kissing him back not a second too late, true to himself, heated and shameless, their boots kicking boxes in the cramped space under the armory gazebo. This kind of response is exactly what Ocelot needed and now he wants more, and more.
He’s not risking the commander’s quarters while Snake is still on base. And besides, the barracks are a lot closer anyway.
They’re somewhat discreet, by Miller’s standards, not by a KGB spy’s, but it will do. Miller pushes both of them inside the first door he reaches, shoving Ocelot to the wall, getting his hands all over him like a horny teenager. It’s not Adam’s room, but it has a door and beds and that’s all they need really. He presses on Miller’s shoulders until he gets the hint he’s being urged to the bunk bed. Sitting at the edge of the mattress, Miller passes a hand through his styled back hair – that Ocelot might have messed up on purpose – smirking hungrily while he spreads his legs and undoes his belt. It would be sexy perhaps, if they weren’t both in a hurry and panting, every interest in drawing things out vanished.
Ocelot sits next to him, teasing him with kisses that are more teeth than lips, stripping down to his tank top and removing only one boot, just what he needs to free one of his legs from his pants and underwear while the other pant leg is only shoved down to his knee. Miller is half chuckling at his obvious impatience, half salivating because of how hard it’s getting him and just plain making everything harder and messier than it needs to be by trying to get his greedy hands on every new bit of skin that Ocelot leaves bare.
“Get on with it.” he lays down on one side. Miller gets rid of his uniform jacket in record time and he’s down on the bed, chest to back with Ocelot, pressing the whole solid form of his body against him, letting him feel his muscles and the ridge of his hard dick digging against the small of his back.
“I wanted this for so long, I want to make you feel good.” he shoves his own underwear halfway down his thighs and the tip of his dick finds its way between Ocelot’s ass cheeks without needing much help. He sighs right in his ear “You really made me sweat for it.”
Ocelot’s dick is hard against his flat belly, stuck underneath the hem of his tank top. He runs a finger on the underside, the muscles of his legs jumping at the sensation, but he forces himself to wait it out. When he feels strong hands closing on his hips and the drag of Miller’s cock nudging at his rim, a drop of clear fluid wets the fabric of his shirt.
“Fuck my thighs.”
Miller inhales sharply and his hips jerk forward. When he lets go of Adam’s hip there are white and red handprints on his skin.
“I like that you get bossy, but I was thinking you would, you know…” he shifts his pelvis just so, nudging harder against Ocelot’s tight hole. He whimpers, terrified, when the sharp, jagged edge of a cowboy spur gets all close and personal with his nutsack.
Ocelot glances at him from over his shoulder, bent leg perfectly still and dangerously threatening, enough to freeze Kaz into complete stillness.
“Alright. You made your point.” he says after a short but very intense handful of seconds.
“Get on with it.” he says again, withdrawing his foot and bringing his knees together, arching his back invitingly.
To his credit, Miller is still hard and ready, rubbing lotion between Ocelot’s legs in a way that would be careful and pragmatic if he didn’t slow down to feel him up, squeezing his lean muscles while dragging his warm hands up and down the inside of his legs, kissing and licking him behind his ear, as if they’d had all the time in the world and weren’t both already rock hard. Ocelot wants to complain, but he moans when he opens his mouth, swearing in retaliation as his cheeks burn, bright red in the badly lit room.
“Yeah, you love it.”
He refrains from replying anything back this time to avoid moaning again. His breath hitches at the sensation of Miller’s dick sliding home between his thighs, hot and hard and so close to his own balls he could actually get inclined to beg for it, was he fucking anyone else. Lucky enough, he doesn’t need to wait any longer.
Miller exhales through his nose as he retracts his hips, thrusting them back slow and languid. Ocelot bites his bottom lip. The way his thighs are getting fucked hard but sensual and the warm, wet breaths against the side of his neck make him tremble with pleasure and need at once. He closes his gloved fist on his cock, stroking himself loosely, matching the unhurried pace of the dick between his slick legs.
“Get them tighter, baby.”
He almost chokes on his spit, hand stilling on his dick.
“I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Miller. Don’t call me that.”
“Stop calling me Miller then. C’mon now, soldier.” he runs his palm up his leg, squeezing his meat while he fucks him steady. He shifts down on the mattress just a bit, changing the angle of his motion so that his dick pokes against Ocelot’s perineum, gliding under his balls on deeper strokes. Ocelot tenses up, head to toes, moaning again.
“Yeah, fuck, do that again.” Miller’s voice is all breathy, he fucks him harder while Ocelot crosses his ankles and keeps the muscles of his thighs clenched hard.
For a while, the only noises in the barracks room are the creaking of the bunk bed, the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin and their laboured breathing and held back whimpers. Millers got his hands under Ocelot’s shirt, forcefully holding him against his chest, keeping him plastered to his own body, hands under his tank top cupping his firm pecs and teasing his nipples. Adam feels himself melt in the heat of his embrace and the burst of excitement every time Miller’s cock rubs against his sensitive skin.
He’s drenched in sweat and very lost in his own head when he feels Miller’s hand reaching around and closing on his dick, swatting away his. He’s rutting so hard against him Ocelot has to brace an arm on the mattress so that he doesn’t get pushed face first into it. He hasn’t even realised he's been drooling open mouthed on the pillow and that there are obscene little nothings being uttered in his ear, but it seems Miller is getting himself incredibly riled up.
“Let me-” he grunts, sucks what is going to be a very evident hickey on Ocelot’s neck “let me put it in.”
Ocelot whines between clenched teeth. He’s too focused on holding himself together to speak so he just vigorously shakes his head into the pillow, getting it wet with sweat.
“Just the tip, baby, please… I’m so close.”
Maybe it’s entirely to blame on the way he flicks his wrist on the upstroke, thumb circling tantalizing around the slit of his dick, but Ocelot feels uncharacteristically magnanimous.
“Just the tip.” he pronounces every word slowly, as if he had to put actual thought into remembering how to speak in english. He gets kissed messily on the jaw as a reward.
“Fuck yeah baby you’re so good to me.”
Ocelot groans, annoyed more than anything else because, Christ, can Miller shut his filthy mouth already?
It’s a bit clumsy, Ocelot’s skin is way too slick and oily, but after missing the target the first couple of times, he gets his dick inside of him. Quickly, Adam curls a hand around his cock, to make sure he doesn’t slide any farther inside. Miller swears and, when he gets told to make it quick, he just dips in the tip of his dick again and again, Ocelot’s hand around him offering all the friction he is missing from properly fucking his ass. His begging for just a little deeper, just a little more is hopeless and empty and soon enough he pumps his load into him. Ocelot rolls his eyes at the sensation, but it’s easy to just focus on the hand stroking his own dick, too close to complain.
Miller is a good lay. Now that he’s finished, he shifts all his attention to Ocelot, leaving trails of hot kisses all over his shoulders and shoulder blades, licking up the sweat on his spine, asking if he wants to be stroked faster and, yes, yes he does . He kisses his jaw again and tells him he’s good and Ocelot just huffs because, really, he needs to drop the cheesy bed talk. He pulls out his softening cock, moaning quietly as if he had just put it in. Ocelot feels him sneak his free hand between his cheeks, trailing the come leaking out of him with his fingers and pushing it back in. He winces. Gross.
“Keep it in for me.”
It’s like hitting a raw nerve. Why is he speaking to him like that? He isn’t his.
His brain doesn’t even keep up with his body, primed and used to action, and within a second he’s got Miller pinned under him, straddling his chest. His sunglasses - did he still have them on? - hang skewed on his face. Neither of them says anything, breathing from their noses, suddenly quiet. Anger fades, or rather hides deeper inside him, as quickly as it shook him. He brings his hand to Miller’s face, not bothering to pet his pretty lips with his thumb in favor of shoving it inside his mouth, running it along the edge of his teeth, pushing hard enough that his incisors leave a mark etched on the leather of his gloves. He expects a bite that never comes.
Miller sits up a little, just to fit his head more comfortably against the headboard, and Ocelot lets him. His mouth is already open wide, tongue flat over his bottom lip, when Ocelot nudges his cock toward his face. He thrusts in deep, slow but not so much for it to be considerate or gentle. As his tip brushes the tight space of his throat, he withdraws his hips until the head of his cock rests shiny on Miller’s bottom lip. He’s looking up at him from over the rim of his costy shades, anticipation burning in his eyes. Miller inhales and Ocelot shoves his dick all the way inside his mouth, his throat, fast, until his lips are stretched around the base of his cock. And Miller just takes it, no problem at all, keeps looking up at him happily.
And he gets it. Oh, he gets it now, how truly good Kaz is. He fucks his mouth hard, his only goal to get off even if the way Miller manages to swallow every time his cock is down his throat makes him almost want to draw it out, if anything to take pleasure into seeing him fail and choke.
Ocelot braces his arm against the bed frame of the top bunk bed, his neck craned forward to fit in the uncomfortably cramped space. He uses his other hand to get rid of the sunglasses still dangling on Miller’s face and lets them fall on the pillow. He grabs his head then, forcing him close and still, forcing him to take every inch at his own brutal pace, to follow his own wants. Miller just moans, despite his mouth full of cock, as if Ocelot was giving him the best fuck of his life.
“Fuck.” he feels heat pool very low in his belly, his balls drawn up tight. Miller won’t stop making noises worthy of the top class whore at some fancy brothel, and he works his throat masterfully around his dick, even making himself choke a little for Ocelot’s pleasure, completely uncaring of the discomfort or of the spit dripping down his chin and neck. Ocelot closes his eyes, fists Miller’s hair with both of his hands. Alarmingly, selfishly, he thinks about John kissing Kaz and finding Adam’s own taste in his mouth and he can’t stop his orgasm from washing over him, spilling on the back of Miller’s tongue.
Mischievously, he lets go of his head with one hand to pinch his nostrils, taking sadistic pleasure into seeing Miller’s eyes open wide as he chokes on his dick, struggling and failing to swallow his come without getting any chance to breathe. He tries to get away but Adam is strong enough to keep him in place. It feels and looks so good that his orgasm goes on longer than he’d have anticipated. When he’s done, right when Kaz is about to attempt shoving him away, he lets go of his nose, pulling his dick out to admire the terrible mess that is now commander Miller.
He breathes hard, mouth wide open, coughing, spitting all over himself. He’s flushed dark, some wet strands of hair plastered to his sweaty temples. He’s got sperm mixed with thick saliva splattered from his nose - how’d it even got there - down to his chin, sticky string of it dangling between the underside of his chin and the hollow of his throat. He coughs, open mouthed, and only gets himself messier.
He’s smiling like a feral idiot as soon as he catches his breath. “Fucking asshole.” his voice hoarse but weirdly thrilled.
He retrieves his sunglasses and smugly puts them on, as if that could help him look somewhat more collected instead of making him look like a fool. Ocelot’s own, entirely too satisfied, smile dies on his lips as he witnesses Miller grab his red scarf from the tangled sheets and use it to vigorously wipe away the disgusting mix of body fluids covering him up. He snatches it back but it’s too late to salvage it. Annoyed, he sighs and starts to get himself dressed, minus the scarf. Kaz sits on the edge of the bed next to him, buttoning his pants and slipping on his t-shirt too, although way more leisurely than Ocelot, who looks eager to get back to his routine.
He really did just fuck with John’s boyfriend. Which is stupid and risky, the kind of decision that Eva would know how to manage, not him. The worst part is that he is sure he would do it again if he got the chance.
“Do I get another kiss?”
“I know you’re going to run away again now. Just wondering if I’m getting another kiss before you leave to go tell yourself you didn’t want to do this right from the start.”
Ocelot blinks. Puts on the ridiculous cowboy boot that has ended up under the bed. His very first instinct, the perfect result of years of psychological training, tells him to run for the door, say nothing, leave.
When he gets close and dips his head for a kiss, Kaz closes his eyes and waits for it. One second, two, ten. He smells like come and fresh sweat, the earthy scent of cigars gone. Miller waits. Ocelot never kisses him. It’s dangerous to want something this much. He gets up and away from him.
“No more kisses. No more anything.” You’re taken, his brain adds but the way guilt burns the back of his throat makes him feel like a terrible hypocrite.
Miller folds his arms behind his head, stretching his back and sighing heavily. Ocelot doesn't turn back to watch the big, too sure of himself, smile on his face.
“‘Till next time, then.”
He walks away. This time for good. He’s got the leads he was looking for, now he needs to report back. No time to see John. He feels too guilty for it anyway. He won’t ever come back to Costa Rica and that knowledge cheers up his spirit. He won’t ever see Kaz again.
On Mother Base, in the middle of the sea, the weather is pleasant, mild. Snake’s room is hot, the windows are closed and the air inside is getting stale but it’s nothing close to the oppressive wet heat of the jungle. Kaz doesn’t mind it, they have a tiny fan on the desk and he keeps his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, yellow scarf discarded and fresh bite marks shamelessly displayed on his neck.
“Say, Snake, where did you get that gun?”
Snake grunts inquisitively, glancing at his second in command from over his shoulder.
“There in your drawer, I saw a revolver.” Kaz stretches his back in Snake’s bed.
Snake’s personal effects can be counted on the fingers of one hand and they’re all neatly stored in the drawer of his desk. He opens it, picks up the engraved revolver, holding it in his hand to take in its weight as if he had forgotten about its existence until this very moment.
“Doesn’t seem much of your thing, if I have to be honest.”
White smoke raises in front of Snake’s face when he exhales.
“It was a gift. I suppose.”
Kaz takes his eyes off the intel report in the file he's holding on his lap, too pensive to keep on reading it now. He doesn’t press for more. Snake opens up about his past to Kaz and nobody else, but he does so at his own timing and his own wish.
“That’s strange. Saw one of ours polishing a very similar gun some months ago. Back then, I could not remember where I had already seen the same model.”
A surprised grunt this time. “Our soldier?”
“Yeah. Some southern american kid. It’s such an unique gun, Snake, it’s pretty weird to see two of them.”
Snake hums, taking a drag off the cigar. “It is.”
He takes the revolver by its grip, brushing his fingers on its engravings. He spins the gun on his finger just once before placing it back in the drawer.
“I haven’t seen that kid around since- I haven’t seen him around. I don’t think he’s died, he most likely deserted. He just disappeared on us.” he sounds properly worried as if that fact had been keeping up at night for a while.
Of course he has. “Forget about it, Kaz. It’s just some gun.”
Sitting behind him, Kaz can’t see the half smile on his lips.