Chapter Text
Dawn
Her hand swipes the curtain aside. There’s a soft, peachy mist behind the brick buildings. Everything is still quiet and calm, before the world turns back on. Gaby wraps the thin dressing gown tighter around her. The floor board are cold and her skin is covered with goosebumps. It was warm and cozy under the covers, and now the air feels chilly.
There is moistness on the bottom of the window. She touches the glass with the tip of her finger. Cold and wet, like the drink on her hand last night. She writes her name on the glass like a child. The g looks like a lazy spiral.
Her finger stops, she bites her lower lip, carefully glancing the bed behind her. The sun paints Illya’s back soft and orange. He’s still asleep.
Gaby turns back towards the peach mist, squints her eyes at the rising sun. She writes Illya’s name next to her own and then quickly wipes it all away with her palm. Illya doesn’t have too see her acting like a silly schoolgirl, even if the dawn sees it.
Devotion, imagination, whiskey
The mission needs Illya to focus. There is a million things he needs to concentrate. And yet his mind wanders, imagination runs wild. Parts of Illya wants to blame Gaby. It's her fault he can’t concentrate. It’s her his head is full of.
Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists Illya decides he doesn’t really even like her, so there is no need to be thinking about her.
There is a lot of her that is easy to dislike. She is so stubborn and strong, shows her devoting by annoyingly soft little touches. And she isn’t even that pretty. There is next to no shape in her, just a wisp of a thing, easy to carry to bed. Her bangs make her cheeks look chubby, like little apples. Her eyes are stupid; big, sharp things, coloured like expensive whiskey. And little pouting lips. She looks like a china doll, built to look like she is waiting to be kissed all the time.
Illya huffs out of frustration, he gets nothing done with her inside of his head. She is so ugly he can’t concentrate.
Shatter, flame, hands
The fire build up quickly. It lick the ceiling before anybody noticed it. And by then it was too late. There was no getting out. The smoke was thick and black when the foam rubber from the cheap couch burned. It was an inferno even before the gas stove exploded. Windows shattered, flames bursting out. It was quick and violent, nothing survived but cutlery and bones. It took time before they could safely identify the bodies.
Even before that Gaby always wondered were they really alive anymore. There was so much weighing them down. She felt like she was already dead. She ate, slept when she could, loved Illya, but there was emptiness in her. Something had hollowed her out a long time ago. Illya had probably died not long after his mother. So the fire destroyed the apartment but they were really already dead before that.
It was caused by a faulty electric wire. Their names were written in death certificates. It felt weird, especially when it wasn't their bones.
It took time before Gaby’s hollow inside started to fill up again. She didn’t feel like a dead girl anymore. Officially she was just that. But it wasn't so bad being dead, not when Illya’s hands hugged her from behind, when he nuzzled her neck and kissed her. With time he would stop feeling dead too.
Photograph, youth (1/2)
The place looks like a cheap hotel room, not somebody's home. Though Gaby isn’t sure is it his home. She isn’t going to ask does he really even have a home. There is a chance he will say no and that would break her heart. So she doesn’t ask, just lets him make the tea in the kitchen nook.
She glances the books on his shelves, pulls out the ones with spines too worn-out to read the titles. The last one isn’t a book. She know it’s a photo album even before opening it. She hesitates but opens it without permission.
There isn’t many pictures, but the few there still make her lips curl up. Serious boy, skinny and tall. More from his childhood than his youth. Then only empty pages, black matte surfaces without memories.
She immediately closes the album when Illya comes, hands it over before he can ask for it. “Sorry,” she says.
But he doesn’t demand it back. “It’s fine,” he promises, sitting on the couch, setting the cups down. “There isn’t that many photographs.”
With that Gaby sits next to him and opens the album, turns it over so he can see and taps a picture. “In that case I need to know did you want that haircut or were you forced into it?” She is sure the corners of his lips curl up even when he sighs and shakes his head.
Home (2/2)
When Gaby is there, it’s home. So it feels. She makes the muted tones turn into bright colours. The curtains are yellow, the carpet so blue it feels like walking on a ocean. The worn-out books on the shelves look like jewels and the wallpaper blooms big flowers.
But Illya’s time is running low. Soon she has looked everything the small place has to offer. She has forgotten about her tea while flipping through his photo album, teasing him. She says she is looking, but her delicate fingers are touching everything. When she sits again next to him Illya pushes the teacup closer so it doesn’t get cold before she remembers to drink it.
Illya enjoys the feeling of home she brings. It's in every hotel room they share, in very safe house. There isn’t a place she can’t paint with bright colours when she is there with him. Gaby is his home, not any apartment.
When she gets up from the couch, the carpet start to loose it’s shade. The flowers wither on the walls. Her tea is finished, it’s late, there is no reason for her to stay. It stops being home when she pulls her jacket on.
Just before she steps out he moves, grabs the sleeve of her jacket, pulls her back in. When he kisses her there is flowers on the walls again. They bloom out of the sockets and faucets, straight out of his heart, too.
Ring, life, box
“I have something for you,” Illya says from the kitchen door.
Gaby sighs at the sight of the content of the refrigerator. “Is it milk?” she asks. “I really hope it’s milk.”
“Not milk,” Illya says.
Gaby nudges the fridge door shut with her hips and crosses her arms. She looks at Illya like she is challenging him, eyebrows high. “I will take eggs too,” she says. “Or bread. Anything really. Was it your turn to get the groceries?”
“Your turn,” Illya assures.
“Well whoever it was supposed to be didn’t do very good job,” Gaby sighs like she had nothing to do with it.
“Still you,” Illya mutters, amused when she is trying to to wiggle her way out of it.
Gaby pushes herself away from the fridge, lazily walking to Illya, arms still crossed, tilting her chin up to held his gaze when she gets closer. “So what is it?” she asks. She lets her arms drop, shrugs and sets them on her hips. “If it’s some body part I don't have time for that, I’m afraid.” She grabs Illya’s wrist, twists it so she can see the time from his watch. “The shop is closing soon and if you don’t want to eat mustard on mustard, I need to go.”
Her tiny sarcastic grin dies when Illya hands her a small brown box, made of sturdy cardboard. It sits on his palm, looking important. Gaby swallows slowly, staring the thing. Suddenly her heart races in her chest. There can be only one thing in that box and she isn’t ready for anything that big. She is perfectly happy the way things are now. She is happy with bickering about whose turn it was to buy the groceries, she is happy that they are not really even living together. But ring will turn this to serious. She can’t marry him and say she will spend the rest of her life with him. Not yet at least.
“Are you going to take it?” Illya asks when Gaby keeps staring at the box.
She turns her gaze to Illya, her eyes wide, stares at him without blinking, lower lip slowly pulling under the top one. “Yes,” she finally says, eyes dropping back to the box. She grabs it, yanks it quickly open like ripping a plaster off, and looks the little piece of shiny metal.
“It’s for the bathroom faucet,” Illya points out. “You didn’t have the right part for fixing it.”
She is relieved. But when she turns back to look at him she realizes she is also disappointed and angry. How dare he not to propose to her, they are practically living together? “Thank you,” she manages to force out.
Illya estimates the expression on her face. She still looks like she is going to ran away but not like she is going to throw up like she still did last month. He isn’t going to give her the actual ring until the idea of it at least makes her look like she could accept it, if the mood is right, the planets in line, and there is milk in the fridge.
Hands
Gaby closes her eyes, leans back towards his chest. It’s warm and his hands are calmingly cool, like always, before her skin warms them up. Slowly he smooths his hands up on her thighs, his breath on her neck makes chills run down her spine.
She lets her head bent back until it rests on his shoulder. When she tilts it she reaches to kiss his neck.
His hands travel up. Gaby feels the coarse texture on her skin. She lets out a pleased sigh when his hands move over her belly, rising still higher. She inhales his scent, and adjusts herself better between his legs. She can hear Illya’s quiet hum, he is probably smiling at her.
Illya is slow, almost lazy, there’s no rush for a change. Tomorrow can be a whole other thing so she enjoys the tenderness now.
She bites her lower lip, fingers burrowing into his thighs, his muscles tensing up under her touch. His hands are warm now, moving still up, cupping her breasts. Her exhale trembles.
Storm, disease, trapped
Illya’s weight pulls Gaby down with him. His knee hits the floor. Gaby grunts, trying to keep him up. He is sure she hurts herself when he practically collapses on top of her. His vision is so blurred he can hardly see.
“We need to keep moving,” Gaby says sternly, getting back on her feet, trying to pull Illya up. She staggers when the storm rocks the ship, grabbing the railing bolted on the wall. When she has balance she grabs Illya instead, trying to pull him up. “Work with me!”
Illya’s body doesn’t feel like his. It’s something else that is controlling it. He isn’t sure what they gave him, but it feels like a disease. It aches inside of him, his mouth is dry, swallowing impossible. All his muscles are sore, pulse thump in his chest, faster and faster.
Trapped and tired Gaby lets go of him, collapsing onto her knees. Her fingers squeeze his collar, other hand cups his face. “Illya,” she breathes out his name. “Please, you need to get up. I can’t leave you here.” The last words made her voice crack and she takes a sharp inhale to control herself.
It hurts. Not like any injury he can’t suffer through with just pure stubbornness. It hurts so that Illya wants to cry. He want’s to give up. And he would if it was just him. But Gaby has pulled herself up and her hands are clenching onto his numb arm again.
He has no choice but to get himself back up, he can’t leave her there alone.
Crimson, shadows, home
“Do you need to leave already?” Gaby asks, quietly and unsure.
“Soon,” Illya admits. “I don’t know when -”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Gaby stops him. She snuggles closer, rests against him. The maple outside of her window is red, almost crimson when it’s getting dark. Maybe there is already snow in Russia. She rubs her cheek onto his collar bones.
“Is it for long?” she asks, despite just saying she didn’t want to talk.
“I don’t know,” Illya murmurs. He strokes her bare back, hand moving onto her neck, fingers disappearing into her hair.
Gaby tilts her head up. “Come back, okay?” Come back home is what she wants to say.
Illya hums, pulls his hand from her mussed hair, touches her cheek and chin, slides his thumb along her lips. The light on the nightstand casts shadows on Gaby’s walls. “I always do.”