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Illya is winter.
It seems quite the obvious statement, but the reasons for it are much deeper than what it appears.
Like the storm that sweeps everything in its path, wind blowing so strongly it’s impossible to do anything else but wait for it to calm down, or be swallowed by it.
Winter can be harsh and unforgiving to outsiders, the ice can be tricky and one false move can be the last one. The snow covers many traps, and makes what appears like a simple trail a fatal mistake. Winter cannot be underestimates. Winter is unforgiving.
Snow swirls and chips of ice cut at the skin like razorblades. It’s sudden, violent and deadly, but it all can end as fast as it started, leaving behind stillness. A moment that seems frozen in time.
Illya is winter.
Just like snow falling slowly and covering everything in a big white cloak.
Not a storm, but what follows. When everything has just stop for an instant, suspended, and holding its breath. The air is crisp, but not cutting at the lungs, just enough to rosy the cheeks and the tip of the nose. It’s when the feeling of nostalgia most commonly comes in.
Grey skies over a city that should feel like home but only holds bitter memories of lost and shame. Memories of a woman sharply dressed, always impeccable, a large fur collar enveloping her neck on her long black coat stands contrast on the white background, she turns and smiles. He will never see that fur trim after that night.
The large snowflakes falling lazily from the sky, twirling, dancing, waltzing like figures of distant memories. Flashes of colorful gowns and expensive suits, the smells of cigars and the taste of caviar, they all combine with the sound of a small orchestra and a voice telling him to stand straight. Figures have no faces anymore, long forgotten, except for that woman and a man standing next to her, one large warm hand on her waist, a simple but elegant watch at his wrist.
During those days, Illya could often be found staring outside the window of their hotel room. Chess set in front of him, he hasn’t moved one in over fifteen minutes now, his eyes clouded, not with red mist and rage, but simply far away. Crystal blue eyes tracing the intricate dance of snowflakes, but not really focusing on them, mind far away to another room, another home. Another time.
Illya is winter.
When the sun finally pierces through the grey clouds and shines down on the white snow, making it gleam and sparkle like millions of diamonds. When the sun comes out after days of monotone dullness, like a flower craving their ray of sunshine.
For a moment, nothing matters. It’s surprising, unexpected. Blinding. But after the initial shock, natural instinct would dictate to close your eyes and bask in its warmth, even if only for a moment. For it is a rare sight, gone too soon on winter days.
This is how Napoleon feels when Illya smiles.
It’s not a blazing sun, scorching the skin and blinding, but a discreet almost shy one, as if unsure after hidden for too long behind the stormy clouds. It’s genuine and pure, but even more so rare that it feels like a privilege to simply witness it. It’s mesmerizing, unexpected, but more than welcome. A reminder that winter isn’t only cold and harsh, but also fragile and full of beauty.
Illya like winter is the heart of a snowstorm hitting down. Deadly, cold and swift, killing men and women caught unaware like an efficient machine. But Illya is also the calm and beauty of winter. Graceful and fragile, a moment lost in its own world of memories and past that will never be again.
All of these are quite appropriate for the man, but what makes Illya winter to Napoleon’s eyes is ice, the cracks forming under and revealing another world of wonder, full of sun and life. Illya cares, with passion and fire in the eyes, he cares deeply. Too much at times. A discreet smiles, a soft comforting gesture, the touch of lips on lips… All signs he cares under all that ice and snow that built up over the years.
Illya is winter.
***
Napoleon is summer.
The complete opposite of winter in every possible way.
Summer is bright, vibrant with life, colors and sounds. It is loud and large in an overwhelming way sometimes. The flowers in full bloom, their delicate perfume in the air with the smell of fresh cut grass. Summer feels like a dream, so vibrant it blurs the vision.
Summer worms its way in, shedding layers of clothes whether ready for it or not. It bares you down to the thinnest layer, leaving you feeling vulnerable after so long hiding from the cold. It prickles at the skin, leaving it raw craving for more. Unlike winter, summer isn’t sudden. It slowly makes it way until one day it is there without anyone ever really noticing it.
Napoleon is summer.
Like a soft breeze that runs its fingers through hair and ruffles them, gentle and reassuring like a caress. An intimate touch left on heated skin like a brand, the feeling of it lingering even after the contact is long over.
Memory and fantasy blur together in the heat. Memories of Nice surfaces, French doors of their rented apartment open, white thin curtains softly moving in the breeze entering the room. There’s the smell of salt in the air from the sea, warm sun already creating patterns on the bed in the early morning. There is no rush; everything for a change feels exactly how it should be.
Wind chimes rings distantly, pushed into a melodic nonsense. The sheet silken against bare skin stretches like the drapery of a Greek statue, folds falling gracefully and covering the minimum in an attempt at false modesty.
Napoleon is summer.
Unapologetic. This is what summer is.
And this is how Illya feels about Napoleon.
The man is loud and vibrant, larger than life itself. Obnoxious, cocky and infuriating. He is everything he should hate and yet…
And yet.
He remembers their trip to Spain like a fevered dream.
Driving down the road to Seville just the two of them, the windows open as the soft breeze caressed their faces and ruffled their hair. He’d closed his eyes then, feeling content and at peace for what seemed like the first time in his life. He could hear Napoleon humming away to whatever was playing on the radio, something upbeat and light.
How fitting.
He lost track of time like that, getting lulled away by the rich honey tones of his voice. That is until the car hit the side of road, bumping along the dirt until it came to a full stop. He opened his eyes, frowning, but he didn’t have the time to ask anything as the other man was already out of the car.
He opened his door too and walked down the slope, squinting against the bright sunlight. He stopped a few feet away, watching Napeleon’s back as he was facing away from him. He opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing when the other man turned toward him.
Everything he was about to say died on his lips.
There, surrounded by the endless rows of sunflowers, a halo of sun crowning his head and the most unguarded and genuine smile he had ever seen, Napoleon had never been more beautiful, bright and ethereal.
“ Isn’t this amazing, Peril?”
At that moment, Illya understood how sunflowers felt.
Although it hurt and it burned, He couldn’t, wouldn’t, look away. Just like sunflowers, he needed the sun to survive. He was his sun.
Napoleon is Summer.