Author's Note: You might've seen this story posted on LiveJournal under the name "secret untold," a.k.a. one of my five million other pennames. Don't be alarmed. It really is me.

Author's Note #2: THIS STORY IS SLASH. If you dislike slash or find the idea offensive, I politely thank you in advance for reading something else.

Remember When

by Ever A Mystery

I try not to think too much about the past. When I do, it hurts too much and only makes me angry. And since I know I don't have a future, I don't think about that either if I can avoid it. Better to focus on the present and make due with what I have.

But there is one memory I let creep up on me once in awhile. It's one moment -- no, one person -- that always makes me smile.

His codename was Ocelot. His real name was Adamska. When I met him, he was barely twenty and already a major, and he was the commander of an elite unit in Spetznaz. He was too handsome for his own good (I know it fed his oversized ego), and he seemed to care more about showing off than getting the job done. But he was also bright, ambitious, and gifted with more raw talent than any solider I'd ever seen. And he just had this "something" about him... innocence of youth, I guess... that made him more likable than he had a right to be.

The last time I saw that kid, we were fighting on a WIG. Eva (that's one name I'd like to forget) was piloting the thing, and Adamska had caught up with us. He challenged me to one last showdown, pistol against pistol. That was just his style. Two guns; one bullet; six shots each. Winner lives; loser dies. Or at least that was the idea. You see, I picked the loaded gun, but I didn't shoot it.

"Looks like your luck beat mine again," Adamska had told me, smirking at his pistol. Then, he looked at me and asked, "Why didn't you shoot me?"

All I gave him was a smile, and he answered the same way. Then, he jumped right out of the WIG and got away without a scratch.

Thirty-one years have passed since then. I haven't seen Adamska since, though I have heard his name. No surprise there; he was too good not to make one for himself, though I don't feel that great about the way he's done it. Apparently, he ended up with Volgin's taste for sadism and has a special knack for "extracting information."

"There's someone here to see you, Sir. He says he's an old friend."

I looked up from the file I'd been reading, which was on a new recruit named David who happened to share my face. My secretary Kate was standing in the door. I asked, "Does this old friend have a name?"

"He says his name is Adamska, Sir."

It took me awhile to find my voice. "All right," I said quietly, "send him in." I closed the file and put it aside.

Kate nodded once. "Yes, Sir." She left. Then, my visitor walked in and closed the door behind him.

"It's been a long time," Adamska said. Slight Russian accent; voice roughened by time. "Do you remember me?"

I stood up, chuckled and asked, "How could I forget?" I touched the patch over my right eye and added, "You left behind quite an impression." We walked up to each other, laughed and hugged.

Adamska was still handsome now, though not in the same "Who the hell LOOKS like that?" sense as when he was a kid. Last I'd seen, he was clean-shaven, if he'd had to shave at all. Now, he had a mustache. His hair was blond and short before. Now, it was pure white and came past his shoulders. His features were more drawn; no surprise since mine were, too. But the biggest change was in how he carried himself. That brash, carefree cockiness had become cool confidence. No... not cool. He was ice cold, like there was nothing human left inside of him. I didn't know what to make of it.

Despite that, though, it was something familiar that really caught me off-guard. I hadn't noticed it before, but it was unmistakable now: he had The Boss' eyes. I wondered if he'd ever found out that she was his mother. I also wondered what she would've thought if she'd known her little boy would grow up to be a sociopath.

"You've made quite a name for yourself," I said, tearing my gaze away from his face. "I hear you're a mercenary now -- 'Revolver Ocelot.' Or is it 'Shalashaska?'"

Adamska smirked. "News travels fast. But I didn't come here to catch up on old times. I'm here to join FOXHOUND."

"What? Why?"

"I have my own reasons."

"I would like to hear them."

"I'm here to join your organization," Adamska said again. "That's all you need to know." This time, he was the one who wouldn't look at me.

I had suspected it some time ago, but now, I really wondered. Was it possible that still... even after all these years... Curious, I did something then I'd wanted to a long time ago. I reached out and touched his cheek, feeling a trace of stubble.

"Did you know how I felt about you?" Adamska asked me quietly. He still wouldn't let his gaze meet mine, like a shy child.

I smiled and admitted, "It took me awhile to figure it out. But, yeah, I did. I'm just surprised you're still--"

"Don't say it." He turned his back to me and crossed his arms. "Looks like some things never change. Thirty years, and you're still making a fool out of me."

"Would you say that if I told you I felt the same?"

"Don't make yourself a liar."

"I'm telling the truth." I took a deep breath. "The world was a different place back then. I'd never really thought of men being involved with each other that way, and I do like women. But I did know that I cared about you. I just didn't know what it meant."

"But that doesn't mean you were attr--"

"I thought about making love to you." When I said the words, I felt a burden lifted from my shoulders. "Even while I was with Eva, I wondered... about you."

Silence. Then, soft laughter. "To think we've wasted all this time."

Even with what I knew about him and everything he'd done, I wanted more than anything to put my arms around him. Maybe I was still seeing the boy who I had loved so long ago instead of the man he had become. Just the same, I placed my hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to turn around. I felt him relax the moment I held him; he knew I was serious. He finally looked at me. Then, I kissed his lips.

It felt... it felt incredible. He seemed surprised at first, but then, he was so eager, as if he'd been saving up his emotions for over half a lifetime. He was trembling when he touched me. I could feel his need as strongly as my own, as new and just as powerful, as surely as I felt the warmth of his body against mine.

I don't think I've ever had a kiss that real before. I know I never will again.

Adamska murmured, "That felt good. So good it makes me wish that we could go back thirty years."

And that was when I realized that we had to stop.

"What's wrong?" Adamska asked.

"We can't go back," I replied. I let go of him. "Trying would be stupid. I think we should just forget about this, and I think you should go."

"John..."

"I mean it. You're not the same. I'm not the same. We're totally different people now." I walked over to the picture window behind my desk and laid my hand on the pane. It looked like the sun would be setting pretty soon. "I'm not the same idealistic young solider that I was back then, and you..."

"Yes?"

"I've heard about everything you've done. You've turned into Volgin."

Silence again. From it, I heard the rage rising in him after I'd said those words. But he still didn't say anything, and I wasn't finished.

"That kid I liked so much back then," I said, "I thought there was hope for him, and I thought there was hope for me, too. But guess what? I'm going to die just like The Boss. They've already sent the Reaper." I closed my good eye for longer than a blink. "And you, well... I'm sorry. The 'you' I met in Russia is already dead, so whatever I get now can't possibly be him." I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to be met with anger. All I found was pain.

Adamska said, "Fine. Have it your way." He turned on his heel.

Right then, he'd sounded like that kid who I remembered. His stubborn streak was still the same; the tears in his eyes were new.

"Adamska," I called, "wait!" But he'd already slammed the door.

I sat down in my chair with a sigh and buried my face in my hands. It's hard enough to mourn the dead. Mourning the living is that much worse.

The End.

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