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Chapter Text

2nd Piatigorsky Cup, July 1966
Santa Monica, California

It’s funny, how narrow the world gets in moments like this. Napoleon knows there is a large crowd gathered around them. He knows that countless eyes watch their every move, every twitch, every breath. Somewhere a short distance away, a low voice murmurs into a microphone as a radio announcer provides commentary on each move, but play has slowed, so there are long, pregnant silences in the broadcast. The occasional hiss of a whisper filters through, perhaps one of their former competitors, or someone else who thinks they know better.

They do not. There is a reason the crowd is so huge for such an early game in the tournament. The newly crowned World Chess Champion, facing off against the American hot shot who some say is the only one who has a chance of beating him; it is a rivalry that the chess media—hell, even the media media—has latched onto with gusto. A little Cold War, fought right here over this chess board. The two aren’t scheduled to play each other again in the double round-robin tournament until the very last round, and Napoleon can’t help but wonder if that was not an accident.

Deep within his consciousness, Napoleon knows that this environment surrounds him. He does not sense it, though. His world has been reduced to the deafening ticking of the clock to his left, to the scratch of a pencil on paper recording a move, to the smell of old wood and felt, to the brilliant, icy blue eyes that are fixated on him like he is the only thing in the world. Well, the only thing besides the chess set between them.

A single word breaks through to his awareness, someone close enough, speaking loud enough, to be audible. Trapped. Whoever said it is immediately shushed, but everyone heard it anyway. Every person in this room is staring at him, thinking the same thing. He is trapped.

He is not.

Is he in a bad place? Certainly. A large portion of the people in this room would concede at this point. Hell, they would have conceded five moves ago. But Napoleon is stubborn, and the game has not been played out. He knows this. His opponent knows this, though Napoleon has noticed the subtle shift in his posture. The surety and pride in his inevitable win that he works hard to conceal. Or perhaps not so hard; Napoleon’s eyes flick up from the board to see the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost imperceptibly.

That stupid, tempting mouth, with its stupid, plush lips.

Napoleon drops his eyes again. The time ticks down. It is now or never. He’s analyzed the board ad nauseam, and in the end he uses none of it. He follows his gut. There is an eruption of murmurs when he moves, noises of surprise and confusion. It’s unexpected, this move, which shouldn’t surprise anyone at this point. That’s what Napoleon does: the unexpected.

Across from him, a tiny wrinkle appears on his opponent’s brow, but quickly smooths away. He’s still confident, and he has every reason to be. The next move comes swiftly, capturing the bishop Napoleon had left undefended. It’s what any reasonable chess player would do, the obvious move. Almost impossible to do anything else, really.

Napoleon’s lips curl into a grin that bares his canines before he can stop them. He shouldn’t, he knows, poor sportsmanship and all that, but he can’t help himself.

Illya took the bait.

Six Months Earlier

1965/66 Hastings International Chess Congress
Hastings, England

“I’ve never seen someone play like this,” Kozlov mutters under his breath. “He’s a lunatic.”

They are standing far enough away that they won’t be overheard, just close enough to make out the display board behind the player’s heads. Play is moving fairly rapidly in the match between the two players: one of the French competitors that Illya has played a few times—a decent player, if a little unimaginative—and the man they came to see, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

Illya is not sure he has ever seen someone so American. He looks more like a Hollywood movie star than a top chess player, with his flashy suit, perfectly coifed dark hair, broad shoulders, and ridiculously chiseled jaw. Surely such a person cannot actually be real. And yet here he sits, playing a nearly incomprehensible but ruthless game against the Frenchman, who clearly doesn’t stand a chance.

Incomprehensible isn’t quite the right word. There is a method to his madness, though it is still madness. Illya watches the American’s moves closely, and though they are unorthodox to say the least, they are imminently successful at backing his opponent into a corner. It’s difficult to play someone like this—someone who doesn’t just not play the traditional patterns but actively thumbs his nose at them—but though they might have success in certain venues, such players typically pose no threat when they come up against an opponent they can’t just steamroll over.

When they come up against the Soviets.

“Coffeehouse play,” Illya says dismissively. “Cormier should have had him ten moves ago.”

“Maybe. But he did win the American championship last month by more than two points.”

Illya lets out a soft snort. “Yes, against Americans. He won’t make it into the top ten in an international tournament.”

“Care to make a wager?” Kozlov asks, eyebrows arcing skyward.

“You think he could do it? You are the one who said he is a lunatic.”

Kozlov shrugs. “I think he is a wild card.”

Illya watches the next few moves of the match; the American is wearing a small, confident smile now, almost smug. It is infuriating in a way he can’t fully articulate.

“He is nobody,” Illya grunts. “I will take that bet.”

A week later, Illya is beginning to regret his wager. The American has won four of his five games, including his match against Kozlov. Oleg had laid into him fiercely for carelessness, but when Illya had studied the board later he’d been hard pressed to say what he’d have done differently in Kozlov’s position. There were frustratingly few holes in the American’s gameplay, which shouldn’t have been possible given the types of strategies he was employing, but the results were incontrovertible.

Not only is Napoleon Solo headed rather easily to the top ten, but by most reckoning he looks to be a contender to take the entire championship.

Illya will have something to say about that. And if he starts to pay closer attention to Solo’s matches—if he starts attending every one he can, and studying past games that have been published—it is certainly not because he is worried. It pays to be prepared, is all, and the more he knows about how Solo plays, the better he’ll be able to shut him down as quickly as possible. There are holes in his gameplay, if one looks hard enough, and tricks he tends to rely on over and over again that work mainly because they are unexpected.

Also because they are clever, Illya has to grudgingly admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind. There is an underlying elegance to Solo’s strategy, one that’s not obvious at first but becomes more apparent the more one analyzes his games. It irritates Illya, and it fascinates him. He hates that he now wants to watch Solo’s games just to see what the man will do next. Because they are interesting.

Goddammit.

He is scowling through yet another of Solo’s matches (the easiest way to keep himself from looking accidentally impressed) when Kozlov sidles up to him, apparently having finished his own game. Illya knows he should have been watching Kozlov play, and he knows he’ll get chewed out later for missing it, but clearly it can’t have been much of a match if he’s finished already.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” Kozlov asks, smirking in a way that Illya does not care for at all. Illya makes a noncommittal sound as they watch Solo use a poisoned pawn strategy to take out his opponent’s kingside rook. “Still think he’s a coffeehouse player?”

No, Illya does not say. Napoleon Solo is something else entirely. Something unexpected and unexplainable. “You are just bitter because he beat you.”

“And you are bitter because you are losing our bet. Don’t underestimate him, Kuryakin. He has more talent than you think.”

In fact, underestimating Solo’s talent is not a problem that Illya has anymore, but it is better if Kozlov—and everyone else—does not know that. It is especially better if Solo himself does not know that. For one, if he doesn’t realize that Illya has studied his games, he’ll be more likely to use the same tricks that Illya now knows how to counter. But also, Illya has not even officially met the man and he is already completely insufferable. He cannot imagine how much worse it would be if Solo knew what Illya really thought of his strategies. 

“I’m headed to lunch. You coming?” Kozlov asks.

Illya shakes his head. “You go. I’ll catch up later.”

“You really want to stay to see Lopez get eviscerated? The match is almost over anyway.”

“Then I won’t be long, will I?” Illya says, a little stubbornly. He glances away from the game long enough to see Kozlov giving him an odd look, which he decides to ignore.

If he wants to spend his time watching the end of a rather lopsided game of chess, it is his business, and no one else’s.

The first thing Napoleon does when finishes his match against Belinsky is go looking for Gaby. He half expects to find her still playing her own match, but when he realizes just how late it has gotten he can’t be surprised that she’s curled up in an armchair in the hotel lobby, reading whatever book on chess theory she’d picked up most recently. She seems to practically inhale them, and lately Napoleon has taken to letting her blow through the new ones before he bothers picking them up. She’ll let him know if they’re worth reading.

Today she’s wearing a grey sweater he got for her the last time they were in Paris and a full wool skirt, which her stockinged legs are currently tucked up under against the English winter air, chilly even inside. A few locks of brown hair have come loose out of her bun and hang down in her face as she reads, softening her look just a touch. Just enough that it has apparently emboldened several hapless young men to try to grab her attention, but she’s so focused on the book that she completely misses the attempts. Gaby would only roll her eyes if she realized it was happening, but Napoleon can’t help a smile. 

It’s so nice to have her here. This is one of the few tournaments that allows women to compete alongside the men, and even so she is one of the few women there this year. Probably she’ll get another magazine cover out of it, which she loves to complain about even though he knows she secretly enjoys them. She has been doing well—not a surprise, most of these players have nothing on her—and will certainly come away with prize money. Shamefully, even the winnings from a lower place in this tournament are more than she’d get from taking the championship in a women’s tournament, and so she always takes the opportunity when she gets it, though few other women do.

(Secretly, one of Napoleon’s favorite pastimes at a tournament is watching as some unsuspecting, chauvinistic man makes a comment on men’s versus women’s chess to her. Listening to her tear someone to shreds is always exhilarating.)

Gaby doesn’t look up when Napoleon walks over to her, but he can see the corner of her mouth twitch upward. His stupid noisy shoes always tell her he’s coming, she would say, but that’s only because she doesn’t want to admit she knows the cadence of his steps.

“Please tell me you took that guy down a peg,” Napoleon says in lieu of a greeting.

Gaby looks up at him, then follows his line of sight to where Illya Kuryakin stands with the other Soviets. A frown plays across her fine features, but she doesn’t look that upset. “Sorry, Solo. I’m afraid he might be just as good as everyone says he is.”

“Well that’s disappointing,” he sighs. “Learn anything useful about his playstyle?”

“Only what we already knew,” she answers with a shrug, slipping a bookmark into place as she closes her book. “He’s conservative, but don’t let that fool you. Waits for his opponents to over-extend themselves on the attack, then darts right through any holes you left doing so.”

“But you never leave any holes, my dear,” Napoleon protests, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Gaby smirks at him. “He finds them anyway.”

“You think he can beat me?”

“Yes,” she answers flatly, pursing her lips against the look of mock outrage he puts on. “Don’t act surprised. They say he has a shot of taking the World Championship title from Belinsky this year.”

“Your lack of confidence wounds me,” he says, affecting an exaggerated pout.

Gaby only laughs at him as she shakes her head. Unfolding herself from the chair, she slips her feet back into her heels and accepts his hand to help her stand. “You seem very pleased with yourself today.”

Napoleon grins broadly. “I played Belinsky to a draw.”

“Ooh, well done you. I guess that explains that,” she says, nodding toward the Soviets. Belinsky has joined them now, as has a grizzled older man who appears to be tearing Napoleon’s unfortunate opponent a new one.

“Who’s the guy who looks like he ate an entire grapefruit?”

“That’s Oleg. He was World Champion thirty years ago, now he trains the Soviet players,” she explains. “There are rumors he retired from chess because he was recruited by the KGB, and everyone assumes he travels with the Soviet contingency now as a handler for the other agents along with keeping the players in line. Hates Americans. Really hates flashy Americans.”

As if on cue, Oleg and the rest of the Soviets look over at Napoleon and Gaby, and the glower on the older man’s face is positively murderous. In response, Napoleon sends them his widest, most ingratiating grin and waves cheerily.

“What are you doing?” Gaby hisses, her eyes going wide.

“Just being friendly.”

Gaby groans. “Ugh, you probably put yourself on some hit list, now.”

“If I turn up dead, you’ll know who did it,” Napoleon offers nonchalantly.

“Not funny,” she growls.

“Oh come on, like they care about one upstart chess player.”

It’s true that Napoleon is pretty full of himself—with good reason, he’ll point out—but he also knows that the Soviets are even more full of themselves when it comes to chess. That they would see him as a threat when he just recently made a name for himself is almost laughable. He knows that the Soviets probably should scare him, especially someone who works for the KGB, but he also really doubts that one annoying chess player is something that they’re really concerned about.

“One upstart American chess player. You beat Kozlov. For Christ’s sake, you played the reigning World Champion to a draw today, Solo. Believe me, they care.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon hums uncertainly. “What about you? You won your match against Kozlov, too.”

“I’m East German, darling, even if I play as an American now. I get a pass,” she says, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Come on, let’s go before they actually manage to set you on fire with their eyes.”

“So what else did you think of Kuryakin?” Napoleon asks casually as they walk to get their coats.

Gaby peers up at him, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Kind of unfair that someone that annoying could be that handsome.”

“Oh no you don’t,” she says, rounding on him and stopping them dead in the hallway.

Napoleon puts on his best and most convincing look of innocence. Gaby does not appear to buy it. “What? Just an observation.”

“Absolutely not. Hitting on a Soviet is actually going to get you killed,” she huffs, then turns on her heel and takes off again, leaving him to hurry after her. “What is going on with you? I thought you hated this guy?”

“Hate is such a strong word,” Napoleon muses. “Anyway I don’t have to like him to appreciate the… aesthetics.”

“Well appreciate silently. Or better yet, forget about it entirely.”

“Ok, ok. You’re right, of course.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips suspiciously. “You’re not going to leave it, are you? You never can.”

“C’mon, of course I can. I will, I promise,” he says, and he means it. He does. “I have some self-preservation instincts, you know.”

It’s just a stupid flight of fancy, anyway. Can he help it if the Russian is good-looking and fascinating? If the absurd amount of talent he apparently possesses is as attractive as it is irritating? Napoleon knows that the chance of his ever being on even vaguely friendly terms with Kuryakin are practically zero, but something draws him in nonetheless. Something unexplainable and unidentifiable. And really, something he’d rather not think about too much. In a few short days he will play a match against Kuryakin for the first time, and perhaps that will satisfy his always insatiable curiosity about these things.

Times like these, Napoleon realizes that Gaby knows him entirely too well. She stares at him skeptically, almost like she can read his thoughts. “Hmm,” she hums, “could have fooled me.”

Napoleon does not sleep well the night before the match. Or rather, it might be more accurate to say that he doesn’t get a lot of sleep; saying he didn’t sleep well implies that he fell asleep in the first place. It’s not like he intended to stay up most of the night, staring at the ceiling, but his mind had been buzzing with everything he knew about Kuryakin’s past games, thinking about potential attacks and counterattacks, playing through different permutations in his head.

He doesn’t really know why he let himself get so psyched up for this game in particular. The night before he played the current World Chess Champion he slept like a baby. Maybe it’s because they’re nearing the end of the tournament now—only three days of matches remain—and though Napoleon does not lack in confidence in his abilities, he’s outperformed even his own expectations for his first major international tournament. At this point he’s guaranteed to place in the top five, and given the matches he has yet to play, it seems likely he’ll end up in the top three. And if he could beat Kuryakin—

Well. Taking that point from the Russian could win him the entire tournament.

Add to all of that his strange and persistent fascination with Kuryakin. Brilliant, ruthless, aloof, mysterious: the man couldn’t have been more perfectly designed to attract Napoleon, which, as Gaby had so bluntly pointed out, is a problem. Napoleon had spent nearly as much time thinking about the man himself as his games. There isn't a lot of information out there on the personal lives of the Soviet chess players in the first place—they don't exactly go in for glossy magazine spreads like the Americans—but about Kuryakin there is next to nothing. Not that he has actually looked, honestly.

The wakeup call comes far too early that morning. By some miracle the grey English weather has given way to a bright, crisp winter day, which means that Napoleon is also assaulted by wholly unexpected sunlight streaming through the curtains that he hadn’t bothered closing the previous night. The upside is that he is quite thoroughly awake, even though he has zero desire to be. He blinks blearily at the clock and curses whoever scheduled the matches to start so early in the morning.

Breakfast with Gaby passes by mostly in a haze. He listens to her talk about how her match today should be a breeze, ignores her tutting at him about his current condition, and downs enough espresso that he almost feels human by the end of the meal. He’s played in worse shape and won handily, but those players weren’t Illya Kuryakin.

The Russian, of course, looks as composed and perfect as ever. Napoleon would have expected nothing less. The expression that Kuryakin regards him with reminds him of nothing so much as the cold, hard glare of a lion staring down its prey, which Napoleon guesses is supposed to be intimidating. Napoleon Solo is no one’s prey, though; no, he is another lion come to claim the carcass of this match (so the metaphor is getting a bit thin, he’s tired, ok?), and he plasters on his brightest, most self-assured smile as he takes the seat on the other side of the chess board.

“A pleasure to finally sit down with the Red Peril himself.”

Kuryakin frowns at the nickname, or perhaps just frowns at Napoleon in general. Hard to tell. “You seem confident.”

“Just excited to finally get to see what all the fuss is about for myself,” Napoleon quips lightly. “I do hope I’m not disappointed.”

“You will be disappointed in the outcome.”

“You think so?”

Kuryakin regards him for a moment, as if evaluating the answer to this question, even though they both know exactly what he thinks. “I think you should get back up on you horse, Cowboy, because this game is not going to go the way you expect.”

“Gentlemen?” the monitor interrupts before Napoleon can get in a rejoinder, which he feels is powerfully unfair. His mouth snaps shut, and Kuryakin looks entirely too smug for someone who’s face has barely twitched a muscle.

“You may begin.”

Chapter Text

Mar del Plata Tournament, March 1966
Argentina

It begins the very first day of the tournament.

Illya is standing over a chessboard from one of the matches that morning when someone approaches from behind him. At first he assumes it is one of the other Soviets, but the steps don’t quite sound right, and a moment later none other than Napoleon Solo appears in the edge of his peripheral vision. Illya ignores him. He’s not sure what the American wants, but whatever it is, he is not getting it from Illya.

“He never should have played the Marshall Defense,” Solo says conversationally, as if discussing chess was something they did frequently. “Really, of all the variations to choose. I feel like the Albin Countergambit is really underappreciated, don’t you?”

Illya can’t say he disagrees—at least not on the efficacy of the Marshall Defense—but he has no desire stand here and discuss variations on the Queen’s Gambit Declined opening with Napoleon fucking Solo. Unfortunately, Solo doesn’t seem to notice or care about Illya’s icy demeanor and keeps prattling away.

“Clearly he was trying to transpose into the Grünfeld Defense, but that’s quite risky. If I had to use the Marshall—”

“Can I help you?” Illya snaps, and Solo startles like he had hardly been aware that Illya was the one he was talking to. The surprise on his face flits away quickly, though, replaced by an insouciant shrug.

“Just making conversation.”

“You cannot make it with someone else?”

The mischievous grin on Solo’s face implies that he’s just managed to say something unintentionally suggestive, and Illya swears internally as he scowls at the other man.

“Oh, but I’d much rather make it with you, Peril,” Solo croons at him.

With a huff, Illya turns on his heel and begins walking off, wondering what he did to make the American think that he was interested in talking to him. He had assumed that things would go back to as they were in Hastings before their match, when everyone kept their distance and mostly ignored each other, but as Solo hurries after him he realizes that is apparently not the case.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” Solo offers, sounding not all that apologetic. “But you can’t tell me that you’d rather go talk about the same, tired strategies with the same people you always do. Wouldn’t it be better to discuss some fresh ideas for a change?”

“No, Cowboy, I don’t think so,” Illya says bluntly. “Now if you will excuse me.”

This time when Illya walks off, Solo doesn’t follow. But although he doesn’t realize it at first, the seed has been planted, deep in Illya’s mind. An idea that will germinate and grow until it becomes unignorable, and even when he becomes aware of it, he will be powerless to stop it.

It continues, a little bit every day, a constant onslaught on his defenses. Illya’s not even sure if Solo is intentionally doing it, at least not entirely. The man is so goddamn nonchalant about everything, and nearly impossible to read past his easy smiles that seem open when they are anything but.

On the fourth day he finds himself arguing back about strategy before he can stop himself. Solo’s face lights up when he does, as if getting Illya to argue about chess is his greatest accomplishment that day, rather than his win over the Hungarian who had been seeded rather highly in this tournament. Illya almost calls him on it, but then he decides he doesn’t actually want to know.

“Would be interesting to try out,” Solo suggests, after they sling a few moves back and forth, “you know, in an actual game.”

“We just did,” Illya replies, a little confused. “Nothing would change if we had a board.”

Solo just grins at him like he had planned for Illya to say that, though Illya cannot fathom why. “You don’t really think that. If you did, you’d just sit around playing chess in your head all day. A real game, on a real board: there is something special about it that you just can’t replicate.”

Illya hates that he has a point. He absolutely does not conceded it out loud. Instead he grunts noncomittally and leaves the conversation, and the exasperating American, behind once again.

“Your strategy would not work,” Illya tells him the next day. It is the first time he initiates a conversation, although Solo was the one who walked up to him.

“Oh?” the American says, cocking an eyebrow at him. “And how do you know?”

Illya lets out a small sigh, not really wanting to admit what he’s about to. “I played through it last night. On a real board.”

“When I said you needed a real game with a real board, I thought the third component was implicit.”

“What third component?”

Solo grins at him. “A real opponent, of course.”

“A real opponent is a necessary part of the equation, Peril,” Solo says the day after that, continuing their conversation like no time had passed.

They are ostensibly watching a match between an Englishman and a Spaniard, though the game itself is not very interesting. But everyone else is watching the match and not them, and they’ve also positioned themselves apart from the main gathering of spectators, so their sotto voce conversation goes unnoticed.

“I am more than capable of imagining an opponent’s possible moves,” Illya hisses back.

They are standing on either side of a large support column—a thin veneer of deniability that they are talking to each other—so Illya cannot see Solo’s face, and yet somehow he can feel the man’s eye roll. “Nothing against your imagination, but I doubt that very much. Not all of them.”

“All rational moves.”

“Well, then,” Solo replies, like Illya just made his point for him.

“Are you admitting that you are not rational, Cowboy?”

“Ha ha,” Solo says dryly. “What I’m saying is how can you truly get better unless you play against a real opponent? Someone who will make decisions you might not expect? Who will challenge you?”

Illya allows his lips to curl into a small, private smile, only because he knows that Solo cannot see it. “I do not need to get better. I am already the best.”

It strikes him after he says it that he is teasing the American. How did they get to this point? How did Solo become someone that he could joke with?

“Hold up there, my friend,” Solo scoffs, and that, combined with his prior realization, temporarily stops his brain. Is that what they are becoming? Friends? It sounds absurd, and yet Illya cannot deny that the tone of their conversations has radically shifted over the past week. But he cannot dwell on it too long, because Solo is still talking. “You haven’t won the World Championship yet. And anyway, I said play against someone who will challenge you.”

“You think that is you?” Illya manages, shoving the thoughts about friendship to the side. “You did not put up so much of a challenge in Hastings.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Solo replies, sounding a little wounded. “You’ve played me once. Hardly enough to make any kind of judgement.”

Illya refuses to feel bad about bringing up Solo’s loss at the tournament where they had first met. Anyway, Solo is the one who has been talking himself up so much. Ok, so the match had actually been a decent challenge, though the American’s game had seemed a little off somehow. Not that Illya knew it well enough to be able to tell that.

“The same could be said for you,” he mutters back.

“Well,” Solo says carefully, “I welcome the opportunity to be proven wrong. Or not. Do you?”

“How would we even play these matches? It is impossible.”

The words feel like they are dragged unwillingly from his throat. Because truly, Illya does not want to play illicit secret training matches with Napoleon Solo. The idea is preposterous. He’s just asking hypothetically.

“You’re probably right,” Solo says simply, catching Illya entirely by surprise. He glances up for a split second from the book he’s pretending to read when Illya doesn’t reply. “We couldn’t very well play them in public. I know what your lot would think of that. And you’ve always got that KGB escort. I couldn’t come to your room, and you couldn’t sneak out past them—”

“Of course I could,” Illya interrupts.

Solo blinks at him. “You think you can outsmart the KGB?”

“Is not so hard,” Illya shrugs. He nods subtly toward where a couple of KGB agents sit a ways away. They are there to keep an eye on Illya and the other Soviets who are currently relaxing in the lounge of the hotel, but they are mostly embroiled in a game of cards. Illya knows better than to underestimate them, but he also has the unfortunate benefit of having enough experience with the KGB to know that they are only human. Illya spent years sneaking past KGB agents in his youth to get in and out of his own house. Not that he is going to tell Solo this.

“Here, they don’t watch so carefully,” he explains. “And the agents they send resent being assigned to this job. It’s boring. They get sloppy.”

Solo appears to consider this for a moment, tipping his head slightly as he stares down at his book. “I guess it’s not so impossible after all.”

Illya cannot be too surprised when Oleg tells him to stay behind after their next strategy session. He knows, despite the efforts they have made, that his conversations with Solo have not gone unnoticed. At the beginning they were mostly ignored, but they are spending too much time around each other. He should have put a stop to it days ago, but he supposes that he had hoped, futilely, that the others might turn a blind eye. It’s not like he’s the only one that talks to other players in their downtime.

He is the only one who talks to an American.

“You have been frequently seen speaking with the American,” Oleg says.

There is no point in denying it, but he can at least shift the blame a bit. “He approaches me.”

“But you do not send him away.”

“I did not want to be rude.”

Oleg smiles at this, but it is a cruel, hard thing with no mirth in it. “Do not tell me that you are fraternizing with the enemy out of politeness,” he says venomously. Mercifully, he does not appear to want to hear a defense to this accusation. “I will assume this is a temporary lapse of judgement, Kuryakin, and nothing more, but this is the only warning you will get. You are allowing him to get too close. Put a stop to it. I don’t need to remind you what happens if you should fail to comply.”

“Yes, sir,” Illya answers, keeping his face a careful mask of contrition as an icy tendril of dread curls deep in his gut. Of course he knows. Better than any of the others, he knows. 

Illya’s feet carry him out of the room automatically when Oleg dismisses him with a wave. It is only when he is safely in his own hotel room that he lets out a long, shaky breath and manages to uncurl his hands from where they had been clenched into fists. He presses them flat to a table to stop the trembling, trying to ignore the bitter bile that wells up in the back of his throat. It is the old, familiar fear, he knows, but something else as well: a simmering fury at the injustice of the world, that he should be denied the chance at even casual acquaintance with someone because of who they are, that association with the wrong people could once again cost him everything.

That evening he is careful to avoid Solo. When the other man starts approaching him from across the lobby, he turns to leave. He sits with a table full of his countrymen in the lounge, even though he usually keeps to himself. The third time he flees at the sight of Solo, he catches the small frown and furrowed brow on the American’s face. The unmistakable disappointment written there tugs at something inside of Illya, something it decidedly should not be tugging at.

He is not going to be able to keep this up. There are a couple of options available to him, and although he knows that Oleg would probably prefer the one where he publicly tells Solo to fuck off, he also has little doubt as to which one he will ultimately choose. 

The knock on his door comes at the end of a long day. Napoleon had overslept, missed breakfast, barely won his match, and to top it all off, Illya had been quite clearly avoiding him. There could be myriad reasons, but somehow he can’t help but think he did something wrong.

He hadn’t exactly planned to slowly but resolutely become friends with Illya Kuryakin at the start of this tournament. But, well, Gaby had been right when she said he could never leave things like this, and unfortunately—or fortunately—for him, she’s not here to give him grief about it. The first day, when he’d seen Illya just standing by himself over the chess set, he’d approached without really thinking about it. He wanted to talk chess with someone, and who better than a man that insanely, unfairly talented? No one, or at least no one at this tournament.

It had been a bit of a rocky start, with lots of him staring at the back of Illya’s head as he walked away (ok, so maybe it was more accurate to say he’d been doing a lot of staring at Illya’s well-formed backside as he walked away), but slowly the Russian had warmed to him. He always tried to make sure their chats weren’t too long or too obvious, cognizant of the fact that they would be watched, but even so he guesses that he inadvertantly stepped over a line that he shouldn’t have. 

So when he opens the door and finds Illya standing on the other side, he’s honestly more relieved than surprised. He steps aside immediately and the Russian comes barreling in, clearly eager to get out of the hall. It is only once he’s standing in the middle of the room that he slows, turning in a circle and looking around like he can’t quite believe he’s in Napoleon’s hotel room. Which is fair, because Napoleon can’t believe he’s there either.

“You came,” Napoleon says dumbly, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Illya of course notices the chess board where Napoleon had been working through his match earlier that day, trying to figure out where he’d taken a wrong turn. He walks over to it and stares down at the arrangement of the pieces appraisingly, and Napoleon wants to ask him what he thinks, but he also has so many other questions about this sudden appearance.

“You cannot keep talking to me in public,” Illya says abruptly, not looking up from the board, before Napoleon can even ask one. “It raises too many questions.”

Napoleon blinks at him, trying to process this information. “Hold on a minute, let me get this straight,” he says slowly, “you got in trouble for talking to me about chess, but apparently you don’t actually want to stop talking to me, so instead of just telling me to fuck off, you snuck past your KGB handlers to come here?”

“Do not read too much into it,” Illya grumbles, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and Napoleon knows he should probably let it go but he just can’t.

“You’re aware of how insane that sounds, right? You could get in so much more trouble if they found out.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Illya hisses. He straightens up from the board and folds his arms across his chest. “You were the one who has been angling for me to come here.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would actually work,” Napoleon admits. “Kinda thought you were joking about the whole sneaking past the KGB thing.”

“Well I am here. Are we going to play?”

Right. Chess. That’s why he’s here, what Napoleon had been needling him into for a week, though the situation still seems a little unreal. Napoleon crosses over to the chess board and begins rearranging the pieces to their home positions, trying not to think about how he can practically feel Illya’s gaze on him as he does so.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, and isn’t exactly surprised when Illya gives a small shake of his head.

Illya is not there for socializing, and Napoleon would do well to remember it. Think chess thoughts, he tells himself, and not how absurd it is that Illya somehow feels like a larger presence in the enclosed space than he ever has before, or how close he is standing as Napoleon sets up the board. It’s only because he was already standing there and just didn’t move away when Napoleon walked over. Never mind that that is novel enough in its own right to make his heart race.

“Your game from today?” Illya asks, mercifully interrupting the runaway train of his thoughts.

Napoleon looks up to see that the Russian has finally uncrossed his arms again, and now that he’s not putting up a defensive wall he looks about as awkward about all of this as Napoleon feels. Which is reassuring, in some way.

“Yeah,” Napoleon confirms. “Not a great win.”

Illya hums thoughtfully. “You should have taken his bishop on d3. Would have lost that knight but it would have cut his attack off before he could get into position. Saved you maybe ten moves.”

Huh. He hadn’t thought of that. It seems kind of obvious, now that he can look at it from that perspective. “Thanks. That’s— that’s a lot more elegant than anything I’d come up with so far,” he says, and when he glances up at the other man he finds the ghost of a smile on his lips.

And, well, getting a smile from Illya Kuryakin was definitely not something he’d anticipated tonight. Or ever, really. It makes something warm expand in his chest, and he has to look back down at the board.

Chess thoughts, goddammit.

In the end, it’s a lot easier to stick to chess thoughts when they’re actually playing. It’s a little strained at first, given that they’ve only ever played one game before, and Napoleon isn’t entirely sure how the Soviets usually play their training matches. When he plays with Gaby they chatter through them—sometimes about the game, and sometimes about nothing in particular—but Napoleon doesn’t want to irritate the man he’s only just convinced to play him in the first place, so he holds his tongue even when he’s dying to ask about a move or make a comment. Maybe they’ll get there someday.

Illya pretty solidly trounces him in the first game. He’d like to blame it on his mostly shitty day, but he knows a not-insignificant part of his lack of focus has to do with Illya being in his hotel room, sitting across from him and looking him with an expression that’s somewhere between calculating and fascinated. Like Napoleon is the puzzle he is trying to figure out, and not the chess game between them. Napoleon has no idea what to make of that look.

“Another?” Napoleon asks almost immediately after they finish, because he’s not sure what else to to do and he desperately doesn't want the evening to end already.

Illya’s eyebrows arc up toward his hairline. “If this is the way Americans play training matches I am not so surprised that most of you cannot compete.”

“Wha—” Napoleon sputters, “how we— and just how do the Russians play training matches, Oh Mighty Peril?”

“You are not interested in why that strategy did not work for you?”

Napoleon huffs. “Of course I am. Though I have a pretty good idea on my own, thank you very much. I just— I didn’t know what you—”

“Relax, Cowboy. I don’t know what they tell you, but we are not chess robots.” Illya presses his lips together, obviously fighting back a smile, and Napoleon realizes that the Russian is silently laughing at him. Which quite honestly does a lot of complicated things to his insides.

“Coulda fooled me,” Napoleon mutters under his breath, allowing a small grin at his own expense. “So are you going to tell me what I did wrong, or just let me stew?”

“Maybe now I know it is an option—”

“Oh, screw you,” Napoleon laughs, flinging one of Illya’s captured pawns at him.

Illya ducks and leans over to retrieve it, and when he sits up again he’s openly laughing too, a broad smile on his handsome features, and oh, this is trouble. The worst kind of trouble. Napoleon feels breathless in the face of it; if he had thought the tiny smile he’d gotten earlier was warming, then this is like looking into the fucking sun.

“Ok, I’m gonna need a drink for this I think,” he says, which is the truth, although not quite for the obvious reasons. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”

Illya frowns in consideration for a moment, then his lips curl into sly grin. “I suppose I may also need a drink if I am going to teach you chess tonight.”

“Ouch,” Napoleon gasps, gaping at him theatrically, “you know, when I invited you here I didn’t expect to be roasted mercilessly.”

“We are all disappointed sometimes,” Illya says, still smirking, and Napoleon can only shake his head.

He pours a couple of fingers of whiskey into each tumbler and returns to his seat, sliding one across the table toward Illya. The Russian takes a careful sip, considering the board in front of them, and then proceeds to explain in excruciating detail Napoleon’s every mistake. Napoleon wasn’t lying earlier when he had said he had a good idea of where he’d gone wrong, but it’s nice to get his thoughts confirmed all the same. It’s almost surprising, how candid he is; Napoleon is his competition after all, and he had expected that Illya might be a little cagey about revealing his thought processes. But now, in this moment, they don’t feel like competitors at all. They are just two people discussing a chess game. One that Napoleon might have had a better shot at winning if he hadn’t overthought his moves and tried to be fancy.

“It is late,” Illya says when they finish going over the game. “I should go.” He doesn’t stand up, though, doesn’t actually make an effort to leave, and Napoleon has never been one to let an opportunity pass by when it’s presented to him.

“C’mon, just a quick game,” he presses as he resets the board, “you gotta give me a chance to regain a little of my shattered pride.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but fails to look all that put out by the suggestion. “Fine.”

This time Napoleon tries to stay out of his own head; just because it is Illya on the other side of the board isn’t a reason to start second guessing himself. It works—almost. The game is a lot closer, but the Russian still finds a way to out maneuver him in the end. He supposes he should be annoyed, it’s not like he enjoys losing, but he can’t feel anything but exhilarated by the game. By how it had felt to play against Illya again, like a shot of adrenaline directly into his veins. It might be late, but Napoleon’s not sure he’ll be able to fall asleep any time soon. He’s going to be thinking about these games, and craving more, for hours.

If it’s any consolation, it is that Illya seems reluctant to end their night as well. He rises slowly when they finally run out of things to say about second match, dragging a finger along the edge of the chess board as he moves past it and walks toward the door. 

“I’m not, by the way,” Napoleon says to his back, suddenly struck by a fit of too much honesty. Blame the whiskey, or the way he feels almost giddy after hours spent in the other man’s presence.

Illya pauses and turns to look at him, clearly confused. “Not what, Cowboy?”

“Disappointed that you came tonight.”

“Oh,” Illya replies with a look that says he does not know what to do with this confession. He glances down at the floor, and when he speaks again it is so quiet Napoleon almost does not hear it. “Me neither.”

And then he is gone, disappearing through the door before Napoleon can even ask when or if they will ever do this again.

Napoleon had not been waiting for the knock on his door the next night, certainly not. He certainly had not been staring absently at his chess board, not really seeing the pieces in front of him, thinking about how Illya had glared icily at him every time their paths brought them into any kind of proximity. Which seemed a little excessive, because Napoleon had done his best to keep away.

Napoleon also certainly does not leap to his feet when the knock comes, his heart off and racing like a shot, and he does not have an internal debate with himself about whether the embarrassment of answering the door too quickly is outweighed by the benefit of allowing Illya to get out of the hall before anyone sees him.

“I could start leaving the door unlocked when I’m here,” he offers, a little abruptly, when Illya comes in. And maybe that sounds a little forward, but he’s not really sure how to make it not sound forward, so he just hopes that the other man understands what he means.  

Illya blinks at him, then gives a small nod. “If you like.”

This time, when Illya comes in he takes a bit of a tour around the room, not touching anything, but looking more carefully than he had the night before. Napoleon’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he has a guess.

“The room isn’t bugged, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You check your room for bugs?” Illya asks, the surprise obvious in his voice.

“Of course I do, Peril. Everyone has heard the rumors about the KGB.” He doesn’t say that he only started checking after the last tournament, when Gaby had suggested that he might have made himself of interest to the Soviet government.

“The KGB are here to keep us from defecting, they do not bother with bugging mediocre American players.”

“Mediocre?” Napoleon gasps, summoning his outrage past the smile that wants to fight its way onto his face. (God, when did he start enjoying the teasing insults lobbed at him by this man?) “Well, I never. I’ve nearly beat you twice now.”

It is Illya’s turn to fight a smile, and he doesn’t fully succeed. “Not really, Cowboy.”

“What about good players, then?” Napoleon presses playfully.

“We do not need to spy to win games,” Illya sighs, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever found a bug?”

“Well, no.”

“There is your answer.”

“Hmph,” Napoleon huffs. “I’m still going to keep checking.”

Illya shakes his head, looking amused. “Whatever makes you feel better, Cowboy.”

“What were you doing when you came in, if you weren’t looking for bugs?”

“Huh?” Illya says, looking a little caught out. He clears his throat and looks off across the room, avoiding Napoleon’s gaze. “Oh, nothing. Drink?”

Napoleon decides to let it go, if only because it seems unlikely he’ll be able to get anything out of Illya at this point. Instead he leans back onto the edge of the table and crosses his arms over his chest, watching as Illya walks over to the bar. “Plying me with my own liquor, are you? It won’t help you win tonight, I’ll have you know.”

The liquor might not help him win, but it doesn’t help him lose either. They play only a single match that night, one that stretches on for ages because Napoleon keeps trying ridiculous strategies that catch Illya off guard, but somehow he can never pin the Russian down either. Eventually, when he takes Illya’s last bishop, there simply aren’t enough pieces left on the board for a checkmate to be possible. Illya frowns at the board for a long time, like he can’t quite believe he allowed this to happen.

“Cheer up, Peril,” Napoleon grins, clapping him on the shoulder before he can think better of it. Illya flinches away from the contact and scowls. “You put up a better fight than Belinsky.”

That manages to make the corner of Illya’s mouth twitch, only a fraction, but it is enough to bolster Napoleon’s dubious feeling of victory for the draw. Hey, a half point is a half point. Not that he’s keeping score.

Chapter Text

He manages a real victory the next night, not in the first game they play—which he loses outright—but in the second, where he finally finally catches the Russian off guard. Illya moves right into a trap and realizes immediately what he’s done, groaning, ‘that was a mistake,’ before Napoleon can even make his next move. The end of the match comes swiftly after that.

“Congratulations, Cowboy,” Illya grumbles reluctantly. “Do not expect that to become a common occurrence.”

“Oh no?” Napoleon replies, unable to control the smile that’s taken over his face. A win is a win, even if it is on a silly error he probably wouldn’t make normally.

Illya raises his half-empty tumbler and gives it a shake, rattling the ice around inside it. “No drinking during the tournament games.”

“And here I thought you were just distracted by my dazzling good looks.”

That, predictably, makes Illya roll his eyes, but Napoleon almost thinks he sees the tips of his ears flush red. “Did you become more good looking in the last game?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon answers, grinning roguishly as he crosses his arms on the table in front of him and leans forward. “You tell me.”

Somewhere in his head, he hears Gaby saying ‘hitting on a Soviet is actually going to get you killed.’ In public, maybe, but here, in private… well, he’s not so sure. For the most part, Illya seems to stoically weather his flirting without much of a reaction either way, but he certainly hasn’t appeared actually offended, so Napoleon figures there’s no harm done.

In any case, Illya’s face is blank when he deadpans, “No.”

“Maybe I just finally figured you out, hm?” Napoleon says as he sits back and begins resetting the board; there’s little use of talking about this particular game, when they both know exactly what happened.

“Unlikely.”

“Best two out of three?”

Illya looks at the clock, then back at the board, which Napoleon has just rotated to swap their sides. For a moment Napoleon thinks he’s going to refuse, but then he sighs and makes a ‘go on’ motion with his hand, so Napoleon decides on an opening and makes his first move.

The Russian had clearly not been happy about the loss, but he’d taken it rather well, so his reaction to losing the third game of that night comes as a complete surprise. Perhaps it is because this time he doesn’t seem to see where he makes his error, continuing somewhat blithely down a path that won’t do him any good in the long run. Napoleon still isn’t entirely sure what Illya’s opinions are on commentary during the match itself, so he keeps his mouth shut and just continues his game.

The point at which Illya does finally realize what has happened, when there isn’t really anything he can do about it, is pretty obvious. His face, which had been almost what one might call open after a couple of drinks, immediately shutters. He stares fixedly at the board for the rest of the game, never looking up at Napoleon, when usually he’d be watching as Napoleon considered his own moves. This time Napoleon’s face doesn’t fall into an easy grin when the match ends, even though he’s certainly thrilled by the result.

“Everything ok, Peril?” he asks hesitantly, his brow furrowed.

Illya almost startles, finally looking up from the board. His face is carefully blank, and though Napoleon can sense the storm of emotions underneath he can’t really discern them individually. “Fine,” Illya says sharply, “I’m fine. Was good game.”

Napoleon doesn’t entirely believe him, and his suspicion that something is wrong only deepens when Illya’s participation in the post-match discussion consists of only monosyllabic words and grunts. Clearly Illya hadn’t thought that Napoleon could actually beat him, not really, which isn’t great for Napoleon’s ego, but he supposes it makes sense. In tournaments the Soviets mostly lose to other Soviets, and the occasional other European, but very rarely to Americans. Until Napoleon, that is.

He’ll get used to it eventually, Napoleon reasons. You have to lose sometimes if you want to get better, after all, and though Illya had boasted that he was already the best, Napoleon was pretty sure it had been a joke.

Maybe he was wrong about that, though.

Illya doesn’t show up the next night. At first, as the hours tick on, Napoleon worries. Worries that maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so hard for a win (which is absurd), worries that he could have handled the afterward better (he doesn’t think so), even worries that Illya had gotten found out by the KGB (distinctly possible, but not something he wants to contemplate). Eventually he starts considering that maybe he was wrong about the Russian, in the end. If Illya couldn’t handle losing occasionally, then maybe he isn’t actually the person Napoleon thought he was. Had hoped he was.

And once Napoleon’s thoughts get onto this track, they start picking up steam as they roll thunderously downhill. What did Illya expect, that he could just waltz in here and win effortlessly? Did he really think that little of Napoleon? All that talk about wanting to discuss strategy, all that apparent openness: was it all a lie? Maybe he’d gone back to his fellow Soviets later and laughed about the stupid American who kept trying to beat him even though he didn’t have a chance. Well, who’s laughing now?

(In the back of his mind, Napoleon knows this last one is absurd; the last thing Illya would do is admit to anyone that he’d been playing secret matches against an American. It doesn’t stop him from thinking it, though.)

Napoleon drinks far too much whiskey and passes out absolutely furious. He wakes up in no better of a mood, and it doesn’t improve when he catches sight of Illya at the tournament. The Russian ignores him, as usual, and though Napoleon would like nothing better than to go chew him out, he resists. But that doesn’t stop Napoleon from glaring daggers at him all day.

By the time evening rolls around again, Napoleon is mostly angry at himself that he let Kuryakin get in his head like this, that he’s letting the asshole take up this much of his brainspace. But he’s also still plenty mad at Illya. So much so that when the soft knock comes he considers not answering it. He can’t help himself, though. Fuck.

Napoleon tears the door open and doesn’t wait before he turns around and stalks back into the room and straight to the bar, leaving Illya to follow behind him. Probably (definitely) he’s already had enough to drink tonight, and probably (definitely) more isn’t going to help anything, but he pours it anyway, if for no other reason than to have something to do that doesn’t involve looking at Illya.

“Look who deigned to show,” Napoleon says bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, did you decide you couldn’t bear the thought of letting me have the final win?”

“Cowboy,” Illya says hesitantly. “I could not get away last night.”

All at once, the righteous fury that Napoleon had been clinging to drains away like water through his fingers. Illya couldn’t come, not that he hadn’t wanted to. Slowly, he turns to look at the other man, who is standing rather awkwardly in the center of room. He wouldn’t have expected that the imposing Russian could appear sheepish, and yet that’s the only word he can think of to describe it.

“What happened?”

“Maybe you heard, Sorokin had a shouting match with someone yesterday,” Illya sighs. “The KGB were watching closely all night for trouble. Made it impossible to sneak out.”

Napoleon feels like an idiot. Of course it would be something that had nothing to do with him, in the end. And yes, maybe it should worry him how quickly he was willing to forgive Illya, but he’s honestly too relieved to care. He huffs, shaking his head. “God, I thought—”

“You thought I could not handle you winning and was not coming back,” Illya finishes, his lips tipping into a smirk. “I am not that sore a loser, Cowboy.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t that graceful about it that night,” Napoleon retorts, a little defensively.

At that, a bit of the sheepishness returns, and he shrugs. “Surprised me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Come on, I may not know you that well, but I know enough to be able to tell that something else is going on. Out with it,” Napoleon prompts.

Illya presses his lips together as if he’s not sure entirely how much to say, or how to say it. “Everybody loses sometimes. Bad matches, bad tournaments… the government, they understand that we will not always win. As long as you do not lose too much, they will continue to let you compete. But losing to an American, that is not so forgivable. And you are becoming—how do you say—thorn in our side. The Federation is not so interested in supporting players who cannot win against you.” He sighs again, looking frustrated. “It is all politics, should not have anything to do with chess.”

Napoleon stares at him for a long moment, letting this new information sink in. It appears that Gaby was right, after all: he’s on the Soviets’ radar, and not in a good way. Not that there is a good way for an American to be on the Soviets’ radar. But it’s also hard not to feel a little chuffed that they actually see him as a threat now.

“So what you’re telling me is that you’re worried, because it turns out that I can, in fact, beat the mighty Peril,” he says eventually, trying to inject a little levity despite the grimness of what Illya just told him.

Illya makes a face. “Not worried. You win matches here, ok. It is late, we are drinking. But in the tournament it is different.”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Napoleon grins.

“You should worry that I will learn all your tricks, Cowboy.”

“And what if I learn all of yours?”

Illya smirks at that. “Russians do not have tricks. We have only strategy.”

“What you have is an ego the size of Russia.”

“Says pot to kettle,” Illya huffs. “Now are we going to talk, or are we going to play?”

It seems absurd to say that they have a routine, and yet, as the tournament stretches on, that seems to be exactly what they have. Illya comes to Napoleon’s room almost every night, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, and on the days when he doesn’t show Napoleon no longer assumes the worst. Slowly but surely, the awkward tension of two rivals who didn’t really know each other smooths away, leaving an easy camaraderie in its place. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the way they talk about the game—sometimes subtle, nuanced discussions, sometimes heated arguments—changes too, bleeding into the matches themselves. Wins get traded back and forth without much comment, now, though neither of them will pass up the opportunity to tease the other for silly errors or ridiculous strategies.

In fact, the only thing that doesn’t change is the rush Napoleon gets from spending time with Illya. It’s a feeling that one could very easily become addicted to, if one wasn’t careful, and Napoleon isn’t too oblivious to realize that he might have already passed the point of no return. It doesn’t help that the Russian is so goddamn good looking—with those deep, glacial blue eyes that seem to bore right into his very soul, if you’ll excuse him for being a bit overwrought—and that he’s even more handsome when he’s laughing, or grinning triumphantly, or, lord help him, when he’s grudgingly impressed by something Napoleon has done.

Ok, so he has definitely passed the point of no return.

Napoleon isn’t an idiot. He knows the bourgeoning friendship between them is a fragile thing, that one wrong step could make the whole thing collapse like a house of cards. He also knows that even though Illya seems relatively unperturbed by his more flirtatious comments and innuendos, the chances of the Russian responding positively to any move Napoleon might make are actually less than zero. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting more, from wishing for a touch that lasts longer than the brush of fingers over a chess pieces or a passed tumbler of whiskey, or that Illya might some day let him beyond the careful walled garden of chess talk. And it certainly doesn’t stop the deep ache of that want from growing more ardent with every passing day.

For now he resolves to take what he is offered, which is far more than what he ever thought he’d get. Napoleon’s problem, though, is that he can never quite seem to leave well enough alone. Sometimes it’s a good thing: one of the reasons he’s been so successful in chess is his desire to push the boundaries and discover new ways to think about the game. But other times, that inherent curiosity gets him into a lot of trouble. His mother always used to tell him to count his lives, because he must surely be a cat with nine of them to have survived as long as he had.

It takes less than two weeks for it to get him into trouble this time.

To be fair, Napoleon thought it was a pretty innocuous question. The game before them is slow, almost aimless, and they’d been talking idly about some of the mistakes they’d been prone to when they first started playing. It seems natural, then, to ask something he’d been curious about for some time.

“Who taught you to play chess, Peril?”

Illya’s mouth tightens unexpectedly in response, and he’s silent for a moment as he stares down at the chessboard. “My father.”

“Were you very young?” Napoleon asks, despite the warning signs.

“You ask too many questions, Cowboy,” Illya growls. He draws himself up straighter, shoulders squaring, and his relaxed demeanor goes distinctly frigid.

Napoleon doesn’t really know why the mood in the room seemed to suddenly shift, but he makes a mental note to perhaps not pursue that line of questioning. Fathers are tricky things, after all, and despite how close they’ve grown over chess, their personal lives are a topic that they’ve never really strayed to. Except it’s not fifteen minutes later, when they’ve finally fallen back into a somewhat stilted conversation, that he can’t help but poke at the subject, just a little.

“Do you still play with your dad?”

Illya slams his hands down on the table and stands up abruptly, making the chess pieces hop on the board and nearly sending the chair clattering to the floor behind him. There is real fury in his eyes now, unlike anything Napoleon’s seen from him before, and Napoleon realizes too late that he has made a significant mistake.

“I told you. Not. To ask. Questions,” Illya grits out between clenched teeth.When he pulls back from the table his hands curl automatically into fists, and Napoleon raises his palms flat in front of himself. 

“Ok, ok, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, as placatingly as possible. Illya just stares at him, eyes hard, looking distinctly not placated. Napoleon makes a small gesture toward the board in front of him. “Can we just…?”

Illya’s eyes drop to the set, where their game sits unresolved, and frowns. “No, I don’t think so.”

Well, that was certainly not the answer he’d been hoping for. A moment later Illya is off, moving swiftly toward the door, and because Napoleon has never actually had that much of a sense of self-preservation, he makes a grab at the other man’s wrist as he attempts to blow past. Illya tries to yank his hand away but Napoleon holds firm, scared more of what will happen if he lets Illya leave like this than of what the Russian might do to him.

“Illya, just— wait a sec, would you?”

“Let go of me,” Illya replies, his voice low and dangerous.

Napoleon, like an idiot, ignores him and clings stubbornly. “Look, I really am sorry, and I promise not to bring it up again, ok?”

“This was a mistake,” Illya mutters, and because he’s resolutely not looking at Napoleon now, he doesn’t see him flinch at that. This time, when he tugs his wrist away, Napoleon is too distracted to hold firm.

“Wait— what do you mean, a mistake?” he calls out before Illya makes it to the door.

Illya pauses, spinning back toward him and fixing him with an accusing glare. “I should have known it was never just chess. What will you do with the information you gain, hmm? Take it back to your countrymen, use it to discover more about my— my weaknesses?”

“What? No! I’m not spying, for Christ’s sake, I was just curious! I just— just wanted to know more about you,” Napoleon says, his voice faltering at the end as he realizes how that sounds. And then, because he figures he might as well go all in at this point, he adds, “because I like you, Peril. Because I always want to know more about my friends. Terrible habit, I’m afraid, you can ask Gaby—”

“Goodbye, Solo,” Illya interrupts before he can keep digging himself farther into this hole.

Napoleon’s mouth is still hanging open when the door slams behind Illya, frozen in the face of that word. Goodbye. Not good night. Not see you in a couple of days when I cool down. There is a finality to that word that chills him to the bone, and he is left with a growing dread that his insatiable curiosity might have finally cost him something that really mattered.

“You weren’t at the afternoon strategy session,” Sorokin says when Illya answers the door to his hotel room.

Illya grunts noncommittally at this, leaving the door open as he turns to walk back inside. As expected, Sorokin follows him and heads straight to the bar, where he pours himself several fingers of whatever vodka the hotel stocked there. Illya hasn’t touched it, but he knows it’s unlikely that it’s any good.

“Did Oleg send you?” Illya asks.

Sorokin shakes his head, barely glancing at him. “No. I was just concerned.”

Concerned. Right. Illya is friendly enough with the other Soviet players, but he’s not friends with them, not really. Not enough that they check up on each other out of the goodness of their hearts. If Sorokin was concerned, it had more to do with whether Illya might finally let him win more of their games, which, unfortunately for him, is not likely. 

“I was not feeling well,” Illya offers when the other man has turned toward him again, which is as close to the truth as he is getting.

The truth, of course, is that Illya had been so upset after leaving Napoleon’s room—upset at the American, for pushing; upset at himself, for letting it get to that point—that he’d hardly slept the night before, and it was only luck that he didn’t have a match scheduled that day. The truth is that he’d only been able to stand being a spectator at the tournament that morning for a few hours before the weight of the tortured looks Napoleon was giving him had become too much and he’d fled back to the relative safety of his room. He certainly couldn’t handle the idea of sitting around and discussing that day’s games with the other Soviets, so he’d skipped the meeting, damn the consequences.

Although, apparently those consequences might be nothing more than Sorokin coming to interrogate him. The other man takes a seat at the table where Illya’s travel chess set is set up, crossing one leg over the other and staring critically down at the pieces.

“Huh,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Illya just suppresses a huff of exasperation. “What.”

“Either you’ve been playing through the same boring game repeatedly, or you haven’t moved these pieces in more than a week.”

“I’ve moved them,” Illya retorts defensively.

In response, the other man picks up a knight, revealing a neat circle of clean chessboard underneath, and arcs a single eyebrow at him. “Argentina is dusty.”

Illya snatches the piece out of his hand and drops it carelessly back on the board, leaving smears in the fine layer of dust that has accumulated there. “What I do—or do not do—in my free time is none of your business.”

“Just odd, is all,” Sorokin shrugs. He swirls his tumbler thoughtfully before taking a sip, then makes a face. “Fuck, this vodka is terrible. Haven’t you got anything better?”

“No,” Illya answers. Why should he bother stocking the liquor in his own room, when he does all of his drinking at Napoleon’s? “No one is forcing you to sit here and drink shitty vodka. You could go drink whatever you want in your own room.”

Sorokin’s brow furrows. “Trying to get rid of me, for what? So you can sit around by yourself and not play chess?” Illya opens his mouth to protest, but the other man holds up a hand before he can speak. “You know what? I don’t care. Forget I asked. Far be it for me to question why the man who wants to be the next World Champion is not practicing. You’re still stomping me in this tournament, so I guess whatever you are doing is working for you.” He pushes himself up, leaving the half-full tumbler of the maligned vodka on the table, and smooths a hand over the front of his suit.

“Sorokin, don’t—”

“I’m not going to tell on you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sorokin says dryly. “Not that there’s anything to tell. Oleg would hardly believe me anyway. Since when has anyone been able to pry a chess set out of your hands? I wouldn’t recommend skipping tomorrow’s session, though.”

“I was not planning to,” Illya grits out.

“Well, then, I suppose I will leave you to… whatever it is that you do in the evenings.”

Illya uses the excuse of him leaving to walk to the door and peek out into the hallway; sure enough, there is one KGB agent at the end of the hall, no doubt waiting to make sure Sorokin returns to his room. Which means that he won’t be watching Illya’s hallway for several minutes at least. It’s not the only chance Illya would have to leave—they don’t watch the doors for very long, because they know that the chess players are largely homebodies who will hole up in their rooms playing chess and go to sleep early—but if he does go now, he would get a few additional hours with Napoleon this evening.

Not that Illya should want that. He shouldn’t even be going at all, much less early. He should take his own advice from the previous night, when he told himself that the whole thing was a massively stupid mistake. Of course he’d realized right away that his knee-jerk reaction had been off base; even if people had been trying to use his father’s disgrace against him for so long it was second nature to expect it, the American clearly had no knowledge of his family history and no way of realizing what a sore spot he’d touched on. But that realization didn’t stop his late-night visits to Napoleon’s room from being a terrible idea. Worst one he’s ever had, certainly. He’d be much better off cutting off contact with the other man and severing whatever delicate bond had begun forming between them.

For better or worse, there is little chance of that. There is something about the American that draws him in, that makes it impossible to stay away, even when he knows he should. Being around Napoleon—talking to him, playing chess with him, hell, even losing to him, at least in their private games—makes Illya feel warm and alive and happy in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time. He can’t explain it, and he certainly can’t allow himself to name it, but it’s there all the same.

Napoleon’s door is unlocked, which in a way isn’t surprising, but Illya had half expected a repeat of the night when he’d reappeared after his first loss and found it bolted shut. The American looks up as Illya slips inside, his face lighting up with surprise that morphs quickly into delight before he can reign it in. Illya sees it, though, and it makes something twist, deep in his gut.

“You’re here early, Peril,” Napoleon says lightly, a careful smile on his face. He’d been relaxing in an armchair, reading a book, which he sets to the side as he rises and moves toward Illya, a little cautiously.

Illya shrugs, hoping Napoleon can’t sense the tension still wound up in his posture. “I had a chance to get out, so I took it.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed. I— I wasn’t sure you’d be coming at all, actually.”

“I…” Illya begins, but his voice trails off, at a loss for words. Napoleon is staring up at him with those deep blue eyes—which his suit had so exquisitely complimented today, like he’d been trying to torture Illya—full of hope and concern and uncertainty that the American can’t fully hide, and it seems to erase every excuse he’d thought up for his behavior the previous night from his head.

Unfortunately, Napoleon seems to take his hesitation as a cue to fill up the silence. “Look, I am sorry, really, I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise—”

“No, Cowboy, I am the one who should apologize,” Illya makes himself say. “I am sorry for accusing you of spying. And for leaving so abruptly. It is only, the things you were asking… I cannot discuss them.”

“See, you say things like and it makes me think you’re actually a secret agent or something,” Napoleon teases, the small, cautious smile on his face making it clear he is trying to nudge them back to their usual joking banter.

Illya huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he stares off across the room. “Not an agent. It is not really secret, even. I just… can’t.”

“It’s ok, Peril. You don’t have to,” Napoleon says softly. He’s standing closer now, and he extends a hand like he wants to touch Illya on the shoulder, to offer a gesture of comfort, but at the last minute his hand halts in midair as he seems to think better of it.

Illya wishes he hadn’t. His body aches for Napoleon’s touch, and the realization of that slams into him with the force of a freight train. All at once he can hardly breathe, confronted as he is with the inescapable fact that he wants the man standing in front of him with a startling intensity. This desire isn’t new, he can see that now; it had been lurking there since those early days in Hastings, almost since he’d first started paying attention to the American. But it had been ignorable, easily written off as just a fascination with his chess game, and anyway not something that would have been even remotely conceivable.

It is terrifying. He wants to flee, because this is wrong and impossible and an aberration, but he can’t. He can’t do that to Napoleon, especially not after last night, even when he feels like now he’s here under false pretenses. Napoleon might flirt with him, sure, but that’s just how the American is. He’s always just trying to get a rise out of Illya, he doesn’t mean it, not really. He doesn’t mean it like Illya wants him to mean it, a raw, visceral hunger that feels like it might consume him entirely if left unchecked. So Illya does his best to shove the unwanted urges deep, deep down inside him, to force himself back to the present situation, and mercifully, though he feels like he’s been frozen here for minutes, only seconds appear to have passed.

Napoleon's hand curls up and pulls away. “The topic of fathers is off limits, I get it. Well, not entirely, I never knew my father, but I know enough people with… complex relationships with theirs.”

“I thought your father was a janitor?”

Too late, Illya realizes what he’s just admitted. Because Napoleon had not told him that, he’d read it in a magazine article he’d managed to get his hands on through a black market dealer in Moscow after the last tournament. (Not a chess journal, but some glossy American trash, in which the interviewer clearly had no idea what chess was all about and seemed more interested in where Napoleon got his suits. Illya had, embarrassingly, read every word, multiple times, which he couldn’t even excuse as research.)

Napoleon grins wickedly, cat-like, and takes the opportunity to pounce on this information. “Why Peril, you’ve been reading up on me. I’m flattered,” he says, eyes practically twinkling with mirth. Then he takes a sip of his drink, his expression sobering a bit, and gives a small nod. “Right, that is what I tell the press. He was basically the only father I ever had.”

“Oh,” Illya replies, unsure of what else to say. It’s not like he’s entitled to ask for any more, given his own unwillingness to talk about his family.

“But I won’t bore you with my sob story,” Napoleon continues dismissively, one of those easy, fake smiles that he likes to hide behind sliding onto his face again. “Safe to say that it’s not what gets printed. Americans love a story about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, but they love a nuclear family even more, so I tell them what they want to hear. No one wants the real Napoleon Solo.”

I do, a small voice, deep within Illya, says. It is a difficult thing to admit, even to himself. Perhaps especially to himself. Instead, he nods and quietly says, “I understand.”

He might not actually, since he has no idea what Napoleon’s real story is, but he can certainly understand the impulse to hide your past from the scrutinizing gaze of the public eye. The difference is that Illya doesn’t lie to the press; he just doesn’t talk to them at all.

“I could certainly use another drink,” Napoleon announces as he steps toward the bar. “You?”

Illya nods as he takes the excuse to wander over to the table where the chess set sits and realizes that none of the pieces have been moved since the previous night. Well, except Napoleon had picked up the knight that had toppled over when Illya had taken out his frustrations on the table. He barely remembers what had been happening in the game now, and it takes him a moment of study now to recall what his strategy had been.

“You didn’t reset the board,” he says, somewhere between an observation and a question, when Napoleon joins him and hands him a tumbler.

“I guess I hoped it was more of an adjournment. Unless you’d rather not finish this one…?”

“No,” Illya jumps in, shaking his head. “We can finish it. Though now that I look I am not so sure that my strategy was a good one.”

Napoleon tries—and fails—to fight back a smug grin at that, like he’d come to the same conclusion overnight but doesn’t want to let on he had. Once, that smile would have irritated Illya to no end, but now he’s just so goddamn relieved that it has replaced the phony smiles from earlier that he doesn’t even care it’s at his expense.

It’s fine. He’ll get the American in the next game, or the one after that. And if not, well, the night will hardly be a waste when he knows he’ll leave warmed through by how Napoleon’s smile will become loose and radiant the more he drinks and the more he wins, and when he somehow manages both of those things together. 

Fuck. He really is in a lot of trouble.

The final match of the tournament ends in a stalemate.

In a way, it is the first real test since their very first match against each other in Hastings. Sure, they’ve played quite a few games in the last month, but never with the focus and determination that a real tournament match brings out. Now there is no drinking, or chatting, or trying out unusual gambits, and they have both learned enough about each others’ games to anticipate their opponent’s moves quite accurately.

Illya is not entirely sure what to think, in the end. The draw makes them co-champions of this particular tournament, so the Federation can’t say that he lost to the American, but Illya cannot entirely claim victory, either. It’s unclear what, if any, consequences there might be, but that probably depends on his performance in the upcoming World Championship games. He feels surprisingly ok with it, although that might have something to do with how goddamn happy Napoleon clearly is when they finish the match. He is beaming like he won the tournament outright, and that absolutely should not make Illya want to grin back in response, but against all the odds, it does. It is only very careful, well-honed control that keeps his face neutral when he shakes Napoleon’s hand afterward.

There should be no reason for him to visit Napoleon that night; it is not as if either of them would be interested in playing more chess after expending that much mental energy on their final game that day, and ostensibly playing chess is the entire reason that Illya visits. Going without that excuse runs the risk of being a little too telling. Plus, Napoleon is probably out celebrating. There aren’t a lot of Americans at the tournament this year, and honestly Illya has no idea how many of them Napoleon is actually friends with, but surely he will be out drinking regardless. So really, there’s no harm in just… checking, because Illya will no doubt find his door locked and that will be the end of it.

Napoleon’s door is unlocked, though. And once Illya tries the handle, he has little choice but to go in, because the American will have heard him. He won’t stay long, he tells himself.

“Didn’t get enough chess today, Peril?” Napoleon asks when Illya pushes the door open.

He’s sitting in the armchair with his waistcoat still on and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, like Illya has often found him in the evenings during this tournament, although this time he’s reading the newspaper instead of a chess book. When Illya approaches he tosses the paper onto the side table next to him and rises, grabbing a nearly empty tumbler as he does so.

“I only came to give you my congratulations,” Illya lies, but it sounds unconvincing even to himself.

“Funny, I thought you did that after the match.”

Illya shrugs. “You are not out celebrating,” he says, almost accusatorially, in an attempt to turn the conversation around.

“I went to dinner with some of the others, but to be honest with you they don’t make for all that interesting company,” Napoleon replies nonchalantly.

“So you decided to come back and drink alone in your room.”

Napoleon quirks an eyebrow at him, then turns away to busy himself at the bar. “I suppose I might have been hoping for some better company,” he mutters.

Despite the fact that he had shown up tonight for similar reasons, Illya does not know what to do with this admission that Napoleon might want more from him than just chess. It is dangerous, this idea that they might be able to have such a thing, and one he should not allow to take root in his mind. They were born on two opposing sides of a conflict much bigger than them, and though it may be easy for them to forget when they are ensconced in a hotel room half the globe away from either of their countries, the world around them never does.

Maybe just for tonight, though, he can pretend it is not so.

Napoleon glances over at him, a cautious smile curving his lips, giving Illya the unmistakable but odd feeling that the American's thoughts had been following a similar thread. “Get you a drink?” he offers. “I’m afraid I might have killed what was left of the whiskey.”

“Gin, then,” Illya answers, pushing all of his misgivings to the back of his mind for now.

“You know, it was my understanding that you Russians were more partial to vodka.”

“This is not real vodka, Cowboy,” Illya scoffs. “Terrible. One day, when you come to Moscow, I will show you what vodka should be.”

Napoleon pauses, only for a second, as he’s pouring the gin, and the curl of his lips turns almost melancholy. “I doubt very much that you would actually be able to do that, Peril, but I would certainly look forward to it. If I ever get to Moscow.”

“When,” Illya repeats stubbornly. “You win too much not to be invited for a tournament sooner or later. And there is always the World Chess Championship.”

“Much as I would love to fly to Moscow in a couple of months, that is not going to happen.”

“Was talking about three years from now, actually, but have you considered it? Coming to Moscow for the championship games this year?”

Illya is not sure if Napoleon fully comprehends what he just implied—that in three years time, Napoleon himself might be playing in the finals of the championship, potentially against Illya, if he manages to win this year—because the other man just snorts. “My government is far less enthusiastic about chess than yours, I’m afraid. They’re not going to send me halfway around the world for a tournament I’m not even playing in, and I don’t have that kind of cash laying around. You’ll just have to compete without my moral support, Peril. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can manage it.”

“You are sure, are you?”

“Look, I obviously haven’t played Belinsky as many times as I’ve played you, but honestly, I don’t think he stands a chance.”

Illya hums uncertainly. “He beat me in the last Soviet tournament in Sochi.”

“Well, that was before you started training with me,” Napoleon grins.

“Training,” Illya deadpans, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Is that what we are doing, Cowboy?”

“What else would it be?”

That is the question, isn’t it? What have they been doing here, really, and what, if anything, is this nebulous thing that has grown between them? Illya trains with his Soviet teammates, he trains with retired players, and none of those training sessions feel like what he does with Napoleon. Never before has he spent training sessions drinking and laughing and talking over the match, and at the same time, rarely before has he come out of them feeling like he has pushed himself as a player. So no, Illya is not sure if he would call what they did in the evenings during this tournament training, but he also has no idea what to call it instead.

Illya shrugs as he accepts the tumbler of gin from Napoleon, and he does not think he imagines that the brush of their fingertips lingers longer than usual. “I suppose so,” he allows. But now Napoleon is staring at him, something heavy in his gaze, almost like he is holding back from saying what he wants to. Illya swallows, and casts about for something to break the tension. “But usually training sessions do not involve so many drinks.”

“Maybe not your training sessions,” Napoleon retorts as he takes a sip. Some of the intensity has left his expression now, and the rest fades as a mischievous smile begins to take over his face. “So what’s so special about Russian vodka, anyway? I thought the whole point was to not have any flavor. You know, to be as boring as possible.”

Napoleon is clearly trying to push the topic back onto firmer footing, which Illya appreciates, though the sheer audacity of that statement makes him sputter in indignation. “Boring? Clearly you have never had real vodka, Cowboy. Or else you have no taste.”

“Well that is not something I have ever been accused of before,” Napoleon laughs, light and open. “So I suppose I will have to bow to your vodka expertise and trust that you know what you are talking about.”

An answering smile curls onto Illya’s lips, unable to be suppressed even if he wanted to. “You will see, when you come to Moscow.”

“Well, I look forward to it, some day,” Napoleon murmurs, and this time, when he says it, it sounds like a promise.

Chapter Text

2nd Piatigorsky Cup, July 1966
Santa Monica, California

Napoleon isn’t expecting the knock that comes on his door late that night. He has half a mind to tell whoever it is to fuck off; he’s already half-asleep after far too much drinking in celebration of his victory. Not that it means much, on the second day of the tournament—so much could change, by the end—but on the other hand, it means a lot. He should have stopped hours ago, but people kept buying him drinks, and who was he to refuse them? He can’t help grinning when he thinks about that day’s game, and apparently he’s still grinning like an idiot when he opens the door to find a surly-looking Russian on the other side of it.

“Peril?!” he hisses, the grin sliding off his face as his eyes go wide. “What are you doing here?” He grabs Illya by the arm and hauls him bodily into the room, looking back down the hallway before he slams the door behind them.

His appearance now is all the more surprising because Napoleon hadn’t been sure that the Russian would be able to get away from his KGB handlers at all. During the first two days of the tournament Napoleon had seen them watching the Soviet players like hawks, much moreso than they had in Argentina. He supposes it’s not surprising, given that they’re on American soil; there’s always the threat of defection, even though to this point no Soviet player had ever attempted it, as far as he knew (the thought that perhaps one had attempted it, unsuccessfully, and was currently rotting away in a gulag, was not a pleasant one). It seemed likely that there would be little chance for Illya to escape their scrutiny, but apparently he had managed it.

And now he is standing in Napoleon’s hotel room, looking utterly put-together like he always does, despite the fact that it’s nearly three in the morning. His suit is still somehow perfectly pressed, as if wrinkles wouldn’t dare to mark him, which is in stark contrast to Napoleon’s current rumpled state; his shirt is half untucked and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, his hair thoroughly ruffled and escaping his pomade. There might be lipstick on his collar, and he definitely lost his tie at some point that night. He hopes, perhaps somewhat futilely, that Gaby has it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Illya mutters as he looks around the room. It takes Napoleon a moment to remember that he had asked a question. “You didn’t leave the door unlocked.”

“One, you might notice that it’s a little later than usual, and two, I didn’t know if you’d be able to sneak out. Or even if you still wanted to.”

Illya gives him a look that seems to say ‘of course I wanted to, idiot,’ and Napoleon doesn’t really know what to do with that, especially when it’s paired with the unmistakable tension in the Russian’s body and the fact that he is there in the middle of the goddamn night. He suspects, of course, that this visit has something to do with their match earlier that day, and that is pretty much confirmed when Illya gruffly asks, “Why were you smiling?”

Napoleon huffs at that and walks over to the bar cart, because although he certainly doesn’t need to drink more, he also certainly needs a drink for this. “Why do you think?”

“It is not the first time you’ve beaten me.”

“First time it’s counted for something,” Napoleon shrugs. “First time anyone knows.”

Illya scowls darkly. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, ok, but surely they’re not going to be angry about one game—”

The rest of whatever he was going to say is lost when Illya comes barreling toward him, pushing him backward against the wall, and Napoleon considers the possibility that this might be the moment of his death. He knows Illya has a temper, has heard the stories of his earlier days and has gotten hints of it in some of their earlier interactions, but he’s never actually seen it on full display until this moment. Illya fists his hand into the open front of his shirt, knuckles pressed against bare skin, and practically snarls at him.

“One game can make or break a championship. One game is the beginning of the end.”

“I think you’re maybe being a little dramatic,” Napoleon tries, aiming to lighten the mood and utterly failing.

Illya just growls. “You do not understand.”

“Ok, yeah, maybe I don’t, but c’mon. You’re the reigning World Champion! They can’t do anything to you for another three years at least.”

“Is this all a joke to you?” Illya demands, shoving his fist harder into Napoleon’s sternum. “Just some— some idle amusement?”

It is Napoleon’s turn to scowl, and he feels his cheeks flush with anger. “You know it’s not. This game is everything to me.”

He makes a grab at Illya’s wrist, trying to wrench his hand away, but he is too drunk and the Russian is too strong. All he succeeds in doing is making Illya press closer, and abruptly a completely different heat flares within him. His breath catches in his throat, and something changes in Illya’s demeanor, too; the thread of tension unravels out of his posture as his body almost melts against Napoleon’s, and his grip slackens, though Napoleon makes no move to pry his hand away now. Illya’s eyes travel unmistakably to his parted lips and then drop to his half-bared chest before they flick back up to meet his gaze, and Napoleon ceases to breathe entirely.

Suddenly Illya surges forward, capturing Napoleon’s mouth with his in a fierce, desperate kiss. It starts out closed-mouthed, hard and unyielding, but Napoleon slides his tongue along the seam of Illya’s lips and when they part to admit him Illya presses even closer, tipping his head to slot their mouths tightly together. Their tongues tangle and Illya’s teeth tug at his lip, and Napoleon finds himself moaning in an embarrassingly wanton manner.

“Fuck, Illya,” Napoleon gasps as the Russian mouths his way across his jaw and onto his neck, biting down hard on the column of muscle just below his ear and then tonguing over the mark he leaves behind. “That’s— that’s going to show.”

“I know,” Illya growls.

And fuck if that doesn’t make him ache with need even harder. His hand tightens in Illya’s hair, giving an experimental tug that draws a satisfying groan from his throat, and Illya grinds his hips forward in response, rubbing the hard line of his erection against Napoleon’s through the thin fabric of their suit pants.

Things seem to fall apart quickly, after that. In the space between one moment and the next his shirt is fully unbuttoned and his belt is undone, and Illya’s hands are sliding across the skin of his abdomen and dipping tantalizingly below his waistline. Napoleon hastily tugs Illya’s shirt from his pants, unbuckling his belt and thumbing the button of his trousers open so that he can slip his hand inside.

His fingers close around Illya’s cock, but he barely gets in a stroke before Illya is batting his hand away. He thinks, somewhat deliriously, that there must be some obscure line that he’s crossed, that even though it seemed like there could be no mistaking Illya’s intentions he had succeeded in doing so, but then Illya is shoving down their pants and pressing their cocks together and spitting into his palm before he wraps one large hand around them both—

And a wave of pleasure crashes through Napoleon, knocking the air from his lungs and making his head spin. Illya hisses against his skin where his face is buried in the crook of Napoleon’s neck as his hips buck forward, fucking up into his grip. There’s not enough slick and his movements are jerky, but it burns in the best way and Napoleon never wants it to end. He curls his own hand around Illya’s, interlacing their fingers, which makes Illya swear fiercely in Russian and pump his hips even harder against the pressure. Napoleon isn’t going to last, but it doesn’t really matter. A few moments later Illya comes with a shout, spilling hot and slick over their joined fists, and it is enough to send Napoleon over the edge as well.

“Oh god,” he wails, shuddering, as his orgasm burns through him with a searing intensity. It takes several minutes before he comes back to himself and realizes what they just did. Illya is still collapsed against him, his face buried against Napoleon’s neck as he heaves deep, unsteady breaths. Napoleon lets his head thunk back against the wall, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling. “Oh, god.”

The room where he is playing this morning is far too bright. There is large bank of windows along one entire wall, letting the relentless southern California sun flood into the space to reflect off the board and blind him. He doesn’t know why someone doesn’t pull the damned curtains, but then again no one looks as quite bothered by the sun as he does.

Fuck, his head is pounding.

It’s obvious his opponent can tell, too. Sorokin hasn’t been able to hide his smug smile since the moment he spotted the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble he’d hadn’t had the time to shave off this morning. And now, in his clearly compromised state, he’s played himself into a corner. Sorokin’s smile gets bigger with every move, and he wants to knock it off his weaselly face.

Staying up that late, drinking that much—before this match, especially—had very clearly been a mistake, and not the only one he’d made last night. The other chooses that moment to walk into the room, looking infuriatingly put-together. His suit is perfectly pressed, his hair carefully combed into place, and his jaw clean-shaven. In fact, the only sign of their previous activities is a dark, mouth-shaped bruise marking the pale column of his neck, just below his right ear.

Heat flares low in his gut at the memory, and blue eyes flick over to lock onto his, which certainly doesn’t help matters. For a moment he imagines that he can still smell the scent of his cologne on his skin, which is impossible.

“Kuryakin,” Sorokin prompts.

Illya startles, looking back down at the clock to find more than a minute has passed. Fuck. With Napoleon’s win in the second round, he needs to at least play this game to a draw if he’s going to have a hope of taking the title. Which he can certainly do, if he just concentrates. Sorokin is weakest in his endgame, he tends to get cocky and make little errors that are obvious if you know how to look for them. Illya will find them.

He can feel the weight of Napoleon’s gaze on him, can practically sense the American’s analysis of the board as he draws closer. Somehow—in a way he very much does not want to contemplate—that weight is comforting. Illya imagines that this is one of their evening games, even though neither of them would let the board get into such a state, normally. Their argument over strategy plays in his head: Napoleon would point out the weakness of the combined positions of Illya’s rook, bishop, and pawn, and Illya in turn would note that the apparent strength of his opponent’s knight actually makes him vulnerable to the right attack.

Of course. Why hadn’t he see it before? The corner of his mouth twitches upward as he makes his move, and he shoots a surreptitious glance toward Napoleon. He can see the moment of realization when the other man understands his strategy and his mouth curls into a knowing grin. Warmth blooms in Illya’s chest—the connection and camaraderie that he has never really experienced with anyone else, not like this—only to be replaced moments later by an icy spike of terror. As far as Illya can tell, no one else has figured out his strategy here, not even his countrymen, who should know his game better than anyone. That this American could be in his head like this, that Illya let him get there, is more than disconcerting.

Whatever they had started in Argentina had been a mistake, which was a conclusion he’d come to in the intervening months when he’d had the benefit of time and distance. A chance to step back with a clearer head and look critically at what had happened. He had been able to convince himself that it hadn’t really meant anything, that it had been nothing more than an amusing diversion, a curiosity that was now satisfied. After all, it had almost cost him that tournament, and clearly if he wasn’t careful it was going to cost him this one, too. And if all those terrifying feelings that he’d worked so hard to forget had come flooding back the moment he’d spotted Napoleon two days ago, then his liquor-fueled visit to Napoleon’s room last night more than proved that he needs to keep his head down and stay away from the infuriatingly alluring American. Surely it won’t be that hard, if he puts his mind to it.

Illya returns his attention to the game in front of him, doing his best to ignore their spectators. It takes another ten moves before Sorokin realizes what is happening, and only another five after that for him to concede the match. Illya shakes his hand, graciously accepts congratulations from a few members of the audience whose faces he barely notices, and avoids Napoleon’s gaze as lets himself be whisked away by his KGB handlers.

“C’mon, Illya should still be playing,” Napoleon says when he collects Gaby after his match.

It had been a short one, thank goodness; he’s in far from his best form this morning, for myriad reasons that he’s been trying not to dwell on too much. The young Russian who had been his opponent had used a pretty classic opening strategy, common enough among the Soviets, and had been easily thrown off by a few choice maneuvers on Napoleon’s part. After that, he could have played the rest of the game in his sleep.

Napoleon doesn’t mean to be cocky, but, well, it’s true.

Besides the fact that he’s certainly in no shape to be taking on one of the top competitors at this tournament, the shorter match also means he can make it to the end of Illya’s. Sorokin has consistently been on Illya’s heels as one of the top Soviet players, so there is a fair amount riding on this match, especially after Illya’s loss yesterday. Napoleon can’t imagine that Illya is in much better shape than him this morning, but he refuses to feel too bad about it, seeing as he was not the one who showed up at his hotel room in the middle of the night.

“Oh no you don’t,” Gaby tells him, tugging on his arm to halt his progress. “We aren’t going anywhere until you tell me where that came from.”

“What?” he asks absently. His mind is spinning, still too busy thinking about the game he just played and worrying about Illya’s match to pay her much attention.

“That,” she says, gesturing to the bruise on his neck. “It was definitely not present when we went off to our rooms last night.”

Napoleon gives her a frown of irritation. He had been doing his best all morning to not think about what had happened last night, so he does not really appreciate the interrogation now. He should have expected it, though. Usually Gaby has no interest in his love life, but she always did seem to have a sixth sense about these things, like she could somehow tell that this wasn’t one of his usual anonymous trysts. The thought is more than a little disconcerting.

“So I found some company,” he answers, not quite a lie. “What’s it to you? And can we discuss this while we’re walking?” He doesn’t wait for her assent before he takes off again, but she immediately catches up to him.

“We were headed to bed. You said you were going to sleep. You expect me to believe that you went back out? I don’t care what the rumors say, Solo, I know you. You don’t pick up partners the night before a match.”

“A match I knew was going to be a breeze,” he argues.

“Even then. What is going on?”

Napoleon pauses, sighing, because that is certainly a question he does not know the answer to. When he’d woken up that morning, the bruise on his neck had been the only thing that had convinced him that he hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted Illya pretty much since the first moment he’d laid eyes on the man, though there had certainly been plenty of conflicted feelings at the beginning, before he’d actually gotten to know him. The friendship they’d built in Argentina meant a lot to him, and he had thought it meant something to Illya, too, so when the Russian had resolutely ignored him the first few days they were here and made no sign that he was even trying to visit, it had stung more than a little. To say that he had not been expecting what had happened last night in a million years would be putting it mildly.

He can't even talk to Gaby about it, because he knows she wouldn’t approve of the secret matches and the sneaking around. She’s always been a little suspicious of the Soviets and the lengths they would go to to win, at least privately. He can hear the tirade already about how stupid it is to let on even a little of his strategy to them, how he’s only giving Kuryakin the ammunition he needs to destroy him. Add in this new… complication, and, well, he really doesn’t want to hear it.

“Nothing, ok?” he says. “Can you just… leave it? I’ve had enough of dealing with all of the raised eyebrows all morning, I don’t need your judgement too.”

“I’m not judging you, Napoleon,” she says, her voice gentling. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, I promise.”

Gaby does not look convinced, but she doesn’t offer an immediate argument, so he takes that as his cue to take off again. “You could have at least gotten some makeup from me to cover it,” she mutters as they walk.

“Yes, well, I didn’t really have time for cosmetics this morning. I barely made it on time to my match as it was.”

Her displeasure at the implications of this—that he’d overslept, that he’d rushed down here—is palpable, but he is saved from further questioning when they arrive at the small crowd that has formed around Illya’s match against Sorokin. Napoleon catches sight of the other Soviets, who shoot him disapproving glares before returning their attention to the game. When he does the same he finds Illya staring at him with a rather unreadable expression for a moment before Sorokin prompts him for his move.

The weight of those blue eyes on him makes his stride falter, a fact that does not go unnoticed by Gaby. Her eyes narrow as she looks from him to Illya and back again, like she can read the story of what happened between written across their faces. Napoleon prays fervently that she cannot.

“He’s played himself into a corner,” she murmurs to him, barely audible, as they get a little closer.

It’s true, the game is in quite a surprising state. Napoleon’s not sure how it got this way and wishes he could have seen the beginning. He stares at the projection of the board on the wall behind them, trying to ponder through the potential moves and figure out what he would do, and right about the time that he thinks he might see a way forward, Illya makes a move. Napoleon can’t suppress the grin that sneaks onto his face.

“He’ll be fine,” he murmurs back confidently.

“That game was a disaster,” Kozlov tells him later, when the Soviets have all gathered to discuss the day’s matches.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Illya retorts, glaring at him. “I won, didn’t I?”

Kozlov shrugs as if to say you get opinions whether you want them or not. It is the Soviet way, after all. Not even the reigning World Champion is immune to criticism, and for good reason. It makes them all better players. Illya expected this, especially coming on the heels of his loss to Napoleon, but today he is decidedly not in the mood. Really, it’s hardly fair that Illya is getting raked over the coals when Sorokin is the one who lost the game today, but he knows better than to try to argue that point. Oleg is clearly on the warpath, stalking around the room and glaring at each to them in turn.

“You let Solo get in your head,” the trainer growls darkly.

An icy finger of disquiet slides down Illya’s spine. Even though he himself had come to this conclusion earlier that day, they don’t know about the secret games, or Illya’s visit to Napoleon’s room last night. They can’t. If any of them suspected… well, he would have much bigger problems than losing the tournament. His eyes flick over to where the other KGB agents sit in the corner of the room, smoking and generally ignoring the chess talk. They certainly don’t look like they’re about to arrest him for collusion, or worse.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Illya grits out as he stares down at a board that is displays a key moment in some other game today, he’s not sure whose.

“Everyone saw how you looked at him when he came in,” Kozlov says, and Illya almost chokes on nothing. But fortunately, he continues, “you were rattled.”

Rattled, right. That’s… a word for it. One could certainly say that Napoleon Solo has a unique ability to rattle him. It should be annoying, this insistence that they talk about Solo, but right now Illya can’t feel anything other than relieved that his face didn’t give away anything more incriminating today.

“His win yesterday affected you,” Oleg accuses. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.” Minimally, and not for the reasons you think.

Sorokin himself sits forward then, his brow furrowed. “Where did that endgame come from, anyway? That strategy was very unlike you.”

“I don’t know,” Illya answers cagily, “I analyzed the board. It was the only chance to win.” He does not say, of course, how the strategy had come to him while he’d imagined talking through the game with Napoleon, and if they do not seem to notice how Illya’s game only improved when the American arrived, he is not going to point it out to them.

“Reminded me a bit of him, actually,” one of the younger players, Zaytsev, muses. No one has to ask who he means.

Someone snorts from the other side of the room, though Illya can’t tell who. “Did you see that hickey on his neck? He didn’t even try to hide it.”

“Just how was he going to hide it, up there? Whoever did that wanted it to be seen,” Kozlov scoffs, smirking. 

“It’s a disgrace,” Oleg snaps. “This is how he shows up to an international tournament? He demonstrates with his every act that he has no respect for this game.”

“Didn’t let his celebrations affect his game today,” Kozlov mutters under his breath, which draws a few chuckles out of the others.

“Can we talk about anything else?” Illya growls, scrubbing a hand over his face in a desperate attempt to hide the heat he feels building there. He gestures to the board in front of him. “Who’s is this?”

“Ah, mine,” Zaytsev admits.

Illya barely suppresses a groan. Zaytsev’s match that morning had been with Napoleon, who by all accounts had wiped the floor with him. The very last thing he wants to do right now is discuss Napoleon’s strategy and how much his celebrating did not affect it. He stands abruptly, clearly surprising the others.

“I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk,” he announces. He heads purposefully toward the door before anyone can object, pausing in the doorway only when one of the KGB agents makes to stand. “I don’t need an escort.”

He knows at least one of them will follow him anyway, but at least now they’ll hang back far enough that Illya can pretend he’s alone with his thoughts.

The midsummer sun is brutal out on the pier, keeping most of the crowds away at this time of the afternoon. Still, there are quite a few people laying out on the beach and surfers in the waves. Illya leans on the railing of the pier and stares out at the sparkling blue water, so unlike anything he’d known growing up. Sights like these have become almost commonplace, in the last few years, with all the traveling he gets to do now as an internationally renowned chess grandmaster. They’ve never stopped being utterly breathtaking to him.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back to let the sun beat down on his face, willing the heat to sear away the tumultuous feelings inside him and letting his other senses take over as he tries his best not to think about Napoleon Solo. A dog yips on the beach. A child squeals with laughter. The waves crash against the shore. The warm breeze that’s not nearly refreshing enough ruffles through his hair and blows its way past his collar and the tie he hasn’t bothered to loosen, and he feels, instead, Napoleon’s hot breath on his skin. A drop of sweat trails down the hollow of his back under his dress shirt, following a path that Napoleon’s nimble fingers took the previous night as they skimmed lightly across his body.

This isn’t working.

“Never would have pegged you for a beach-goer, Peril.”

It’s as if the man was summoned by his thoughts. Illya opens his eyes and turns toward the voice to see Napoleon standing next to him with his hands in his pockets. He’s still wearing his suit, like Illya is, but his jacket is slung over one arm, his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, and his tie has been pulled out into a loose loop so that the first two buttons of his shirt can be undone. He looks unaccountably at ease in this environment, far more than Illya even though they are dressed nearly identically, and abruptly Illya realizes he has no idea where Napoleon is from originally. He still knows so little about this man’s history, despite all of their late-night games.

It is startling to find that he desperately wants to know. He wants to learn about his life and his hopes and his dreams just as much as he wants to thread his fingers through the dark hair that the wind is ruffling and as much as he wants to lick the pool of sweat that glitters tantalizingly in the hollow at the base of his throat. He wants everything Napoleon Solo will give him.

And that is a truly disastrous thought.

Napoleon clears his throat, and Illya realizes he’s been staring rather fixedly at the collarbones that are peeking out of his shirt collar and the aforementioned hollow between them. He flushes hotly as he looks up and only hopes that it is masked by how red his face must be from standing in the heat of the afternoon. Illya half expects to find a smug, knowing expression on Napoleon’s face, something flirtatious and utterly maddening, but instead he finds the American looking as cautious and as uncertain as he feels.

“Not on the beach,” Illya grunts, tearing his eyes away to stare back out at the sunbathers and the surf.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Napoleon replies lightly as he turns to follow Illya’s gaze. “Bit more skin than you’re used to seeing, eh?”

Illya huffs a laugh at that. “Hardly. Russians have different attitude about ‘skin’, Cowboy. You Americans think you are so progressive with your ‘free love’ but you cannot get past your puritan roots.”

That was a mistake. Illya doesn’t know how Napoleon always manages to do this to him, to provoke him into saying things he should not.

“Is that so?” Napoleon says, his voice pitched low as he takes a step closer to Illya, so that their shoulders nearly brush. He tips his head to look up at Illya, unmistakable heat in his gaze. “And what do you know about free love, Peril?”

“Cowboy,” Illya growls, a warning. His gaze sweeps down the pier to the dark-suited KGB agent who lurks not-so-subtly behind a small shack selling ice cream.

Napoleon laughs, loose and open. “Relax. I know we’re being watched. And anyway, this isn’t San Francisco.”

Illya does not know what that means, and Napoleon apparently has no interest in explaining. They stand in silence for a little while longer, Illya’s stance as rigid as Napoleon’s is loose. He shouldn’t be standing here with the American—the KGB will certainly report this to Oleg—but he also can’t quite make himself move. Napoleon sways just a little, bumping their shoulders together so subtly that it would be imperceptible to anyone watching. Every brush winds Illya up further, until he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t punch him, or kiss him, or both.

“Did you come out here for a reason, Cowboy?” he grits out eventually.

Napoleon glances up at him. “I’d wager for the same reason you did. Needed some air. Time to think.”

Illya does not ask him what he wanted to think about. To do so feels like it would be inviting trouble. “You played well today,” he says instead. “So I hear.”

“Zaytsev needs to work on his middle game,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “But I’m sure you told him that.”

“I left before we discussed your game.”

“What about your game?”

Illya finally turns his head to look at the man next to him. “What about it?”

“Wasn’t sure you’d be able to get yourself out of that pickle,” Napoleon answers lightly.

“Hmm.”

“Wherever did you come up with that unorthodox endgame strategy?”

Illya’s jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth together. “You know where,” he mutters.

His hands grip the railing tightly in front of him, and Napoleon has placed one of his close enough that their fingers nearly touch. Now his pinkie begins to rub slowly, almost absently, against Illya’s, and Illya has to take a deep breath that is far more unsteady than it should be.

“Will I see you tonight?” Napoleon asks softly.

Illya snatches his hand away, curling it into a fist by his side. “I can’t do this, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is quiet for a moment, and then he bows his head and says, “Right. I suppose I expected that.”

The disappointment is obvious in his voice, and Illya wishes he had not heard it, wishes desperately had not seen the wounded look that had flashed across Napoleon’s face before he could cover it. This isn’t fair, that life should put such a man in his path. It’s not fair that his heart should ache like this.

“We don’t have to—” Napoleon starts, but he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I mean, we can just… play chess. Like we did before. If you want.”

He sounds so hopeful, and Illya wants so badly to say yes. It’s probably ridiculous to think that they can just go back to the way things were, but maybe… maybe if Napoleon is willing to try, Illya should give it a shot.

Maybe he is just making excuses for future bad decisions.

His earlier resolution to put an end to this, to stay away from the American, is crumbling in his hands, pouring through his fingers like the sand sparkling on the beach below them. It is true that the secret matches have made Napoleon’s game better—not even Napoleon would not argue with that—but if he is honest, they have made Illya’s game better as well. And if they have also made Napoleon a bigger threat to Illya in these tournaments, well, perhaps that is a good thing too. After all, how can anyone claim they are the best if they do not seek to push their limits?

(The voice that says this last part sounds suspiciously like Napoleon’s.)

“Ok,” Illya answers eventually. “Just chess.”

He cannot think about how Napoleon’s answering smile fills him with a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun beating down on him.

Chapter Text

Sneaking out to visit Napoleon was probably not the best idea tonight. Well, it’s not a good idea any night, but tonight he is bone tired from a day that was too long after a night that was too short. He should be going to bed early and catching up on his sleep. That’s not even taking into consideration the conversation he’d had with Oleg that afternoon, after he’d returned to the hotel; the trainer had unsurprisingly interrogated him about leaving the strategy session, and then about how he’d been seen talking to Napoleon on the pier. He approached me, Illya had said, which was true enough. He’s never been all that great at lying. I think he thinks we might be friends. The words had felt strange in his mouth. That was what they were, right? Friends.

It probably had not been the best thing to say. Oleg’s expression had grown sour, and for a moment Illya had thought the trainer could see right through him, not just to their friendship but to what had happened the previous night as well. But that was stupid. If Oleg knew anything, they wouldn’t be having a conversation at all. Luck had apparently been on Illya’s side that afternoon—payback for deserting him in the match against Napoleon, perhaps—because Oleg had been of a mind to blame Napoleon rather than Illya, and the most he’d been subjected to was a rant about American overfriendliness. In the end, Illya was still his star player, and the least likely of all the Soviets to be at risk of defecting, so Oleg had grumbled a warning to do better at keeping Solo away before dismissing him.

“Whatever you did in Argentina to discourage him, renew your efforts,” Oleg had told him. If only he realized that he’d just unwittingly encouraged Illya to take up his evening matches with the American again.

Still, Illya knows this is quite a risk. He could always call off their meeting tonight, or just not show up, but the lure of seeing Napoleon is too strong. After months apart, Illya longs to sit down over a chess board with him, to talk through old games and play without any stakes. To try out wild strategies and unusual combinations without anyone judging him.

Besides, he needs to reassure himself that things can, in fact, go back to the way they were. Illya should be glad that Napoleon is willing to let Illya’s deviancy go, to give him another chance at this friendship they had built in Argentina, before Illya showed up in the middle of the night and dashed it all to hell. And maybe it’s obvious that Napoleon is like him, wants him like Illya scarcely dared to dream he would, but that doesn’t make it right. For both of their sakes, they need to put what happened behind them.

Just one game tonight, he tells himself as he slips out of his hotel room after the KGB have left. Then he’ll sleep.

He finds Napoleon in his room looking much the same as he had that afternoon on the pier, with his sleeves of his white button-down rolled to his elbows and his collar open, though he’s lost the tie entirely now. Illya has to force himself to look away from muscular forearms and jutting collarbones and the hint of dark chest hair peeking out, and so he ends up staring into eyes so blue he feels like he’s drowning. It’s not really better.

“Can I get you a drink?” Napoleon offers.

Illya swallows against his dry throat and remembers the result of one drink too many the previous night, when he’d been drowning his sorrows. “Just water tonight, I think.”

“Probably a wise choice,” Napoleon replies with a grin.

He pours two tumblers of water from the bar and passes one to Illya, then gestures with a nod of his head to where there is a chess board set up on the bed. The tables in these hotel rooms are small and awkwardly positioned to sit two people, so it makes sense, but the setup does lend an added intimacy that is a little concerning. The pieces are already arranged mid-game, and it takes Illya a moment to recognize one of his World Championship matches. One he’d won, but barely.

“I’ve been dying to ask you about this one,” Napoleon admits.

“What about?”

It’s obvious that Napoleon had acquired the pamphlets published with all of the games, and that he’s read through them enough to set up the board apparently without consulting the diagrams. Illya has no doubt that he’s analyzed the match and has worked through Illya’s thought process during the game. Napoleon just smiles and perches himself on the edge of the bed, taking Illya’s position as black in the game.

“Well, after this you played bishop to c4, capturing his knight,” he explains. “But what if, instead, you tried this—” Napoleon says, playing a rapid-fire sequence of moves for both sides that ends in a check on white, then looks up at Illya expectantly.

The alternate combination would have put him in a much stronger position, and could have cut down the game by a sizable number of moves. Illya considers the board, trying to think about the game from Belinsky’s perspective. “But what if he played rook to c4 instead?”

Napoleon resets the board to where it had been before, then repeats the sequence while Illya supplies a few suggested countermoves, adjusting his own strategy in turn. He still manages to come out ahead.

“Not bad,” Illya says. He drains the rest of his water and leaves the tumbler on the dresser before he settles on the bed across from Napoleon. When he looks up from the board he finds the other man watching him with eyes that practically glitter with delight. “So did you find any other holes in my gameplay, or are you going to wait until I make same mistakes during our next tournament game?”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto them,” Napoleon muses, teasing. “But you could always play more matches with me to try to find out.”

Illya has to fight hard against the smile that wants to take over his face, and he doesn’t entirely succeed. He hadn’t fully understood just how much he missed this, and it feels so undeniably good to have it again. No pressure, no posturing, no politics, just two people and a chess board and a companionship he never would have believed could be this easy.

“I guess we should get started, then,” he says.

One game turns into two, turns into three. The first few go quickly, and they trade wins when one or the other tries a gambit that doesn’t pay off. Neither of them are drinking, but even so Illya feels his body loosening as if it were possible to get drunk on Napoleon himself, on the scent of his cologne and the sound of his laughter and the sight of his smile. It’s just the lack of sleep, he tells himself. He should take his leave and go to bed.

“Another?” Napoleon offers, already resetting the board.

“We both need to sleep, Cowboy.”

Napoleon waves him off. “Bah. Sleep when you’re dead, Peril. C’mon, just one more? We can make it a quick one.”

“One,” Illya hears himself say.

The game starts out quickly enough, but somewhere around the middle it slows as they both seem to start drawing out their moves. Illya tries not to read too much into it. They’re probably just sleepy. Nevermind that his heart feels like it’s thudding a hair too fast in his chest. Nevermind how Napoleon is watching him with too-bright eyes. Illya stares down at the board to avoid them, and the arrangement of the pieces suddenly brings to mind another chessboard he’d studied earlier that day. He makes a move, and Napoleon frowns. Another pair of traded moves later, the other man realizes what he’s doing.

“Wait wait wait, are you trying to play one of my own strategies against me?” Napoleon sputters in hyperbolic outrage.

Illya’s lips curl into a wry smirk. “What if I am?”

“You said you hadn’t looked at my game with Zaytsev today.”

“I hadn’t, then.”

“You wily bastard!” Napoleon accuses, laughing. He reaches across the board to curl a hand into Illya’s shirt in a mock threat, giving it a little shake. “Why I oughta… I oughta…” He trails off, his wide grin softening by degrees as he stares at Illya.

“Ought to what, Cowboy?”

Napoleon pulls him forward into a kiss, but it’s barely more than a press of the lips before he’s drawing back, his eyes gone wide. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean—”

Something snaps inside him. Without thinking, Illya surges across the bed at Napoleon, obliterating the game between them as chess pieces scatter wildly. All of his careful restraint, all of his intentions for propriety, it all falls away like shackles he didn’t even know he was wearing. He captures the other man’s mouth with his, pressing him back into the mattress, and Napoleon goes willingly, sliding a hand around his waist to flatten over his lower back and pull Illya’s body eagerly against his.

This is utterly wrong. This is unimaginably dangerous. Illya does not care anymore. He wants everything Napoleon Solo will give him, and right now Napoleon seems willing to give him everything.

Napoleon’s other hand pushes up behind Illya’s head, tangling in his hair and dragging his fingertips across his scalp as he urges Illya deeper into the kiss. It’s slow and unhurried, so unlike the desperation of the previous night. Their lips slide together, a constant give and take, move and countermove, a match that will only ever end in a draw.

Illya shifts, moving his attentions to Napoleon’s neck, and the other man tips his head back readily to allow him access. He’s just as vocal as he was the previous night, each moan going right to Illya’s cock and building inside him into a need so desperate that it threatens to choke him. It should not be possible to want another man like this. It should not be possible to want anyone this completely, and Illya feels utterly helpless in the face of it.

“I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from leaving visible marks this time,” Napoleon says as Illya mouths over the fading remnants of the bruise he’d left last night. “The dirty looks I got.”

“And this is new how?” Illya murmurs between kisses.

Napoleon huffs a laugh and swats his shoulder playfully. “Normally the dirty looks are—ah—just because they’re jealous I’m beating them all.”

“It is still jealousy,” Illya mumbles, his lips tilting into a small grin, “just different kind.”

Whatever Napoleon had been intending to retort, it is cut off by a throaty groan when Illya palms firmly over his erection. He makes quick work of the other man’s belt and the fly of his pants, drawing Napoleon’s cock out as he slides down his body to bend over him. Illya noses into the crease of his hip, inhaling deeply and letting the scent of Napoleon overwhelm him as he presses soft kisses to his thigh.

It is almost too much, even just this, Illya is already dizzyingly hard, but at the same time he wants so, so much more. He flattens his tongue and licks a long stripe up the underside of Napoleon’s cock where it curves up toward his abdomen, and the action makes all of Napoleon’s muscles tense at once, flexing under Illya’s palms. Illya tongues experimentally at the leaking head, and Napoleon gasps when he parts his lips to take him into his mouth. 

“Jesus, Peril,” he moans, twining his fingers into Illya’s hair. “You— I never thought—”

He does not finish that thought. Illya swallows him deeper, pushing the limits of his gag reflex when Napoleon’s cock hits the back of his throat. He sucks and licks, his movements ungraceful, but what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm, and it is enough to leave Napoleon squirming and desperate underneath him. Napoleon’s hands tighten in his hair, fingertips digging into his scalp, and the sensation pulls a low, guttural groan from Illya’s throat, which in turn makes Napoleon suck in a sharp breath and his hips buck up involuntarily. 

“Fuck, Illya, sorry, you don’t have to—” he bites out when Illya chokes a little on the movement, giving a small tug on Illya’s hair again as if to pull him back, but Illya just pushes himself further until Napoleon’s words devolve into unintelligible whimpers.

It is not long after that that Napoleon swears colorfully again, muscles clenching as he spurts salty and bitter across Illya’s tongue. It’s disgusting and wonderful all at the same time, and Illya licks up every bit while Napoleon gasps and twitches through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulls away, Illya presses a trail of kisses across Napoleon’s skin to the prominence his exposed hip bone and sucks a bruise there; he can acquiesce to a non-visible place, but the strange, possessive urge to leave his mark on the American is too strong to resist. Napoleon is not his, he should not think these things, and yet he cannot stop himself from doing so. After the tournament Napoleon will return to New York and to other lovers, and no doubt he will not think of Illya save perhaps in a memory of a pleasant diversion during the tournament. The thought makes Illya dig his teeth more firmly into the other man’s skin, and Napoleon only moans.

“C’mere,” Napoleon says, dragging Illya up by the collar of his shirt into a messy kiss. Illya groans when the position presses his aching cock into Napoleon’s thigh, hips grinding forward helplessly, and then Napoleon is hastily undoing Illya’s pants as he pushes him onto his back, muttering, “let me, let me—”

Illya would be embarrassed by how quickly Napoleon’s mouth on him brings him to the edge, if he had even a small corner of his mind to spare for embarrassment. As it is, the wet heat of Napoleon’s tongue swirling around the head of his cock blanks out his thoughts entirely. Urged on by Illya’s fingers clutching his hair, Napoleon swallows him down nearly to the base, and Illya can do no more that choke out his name in a moan before he comes. Darts of pleasure lance up his spine with every movement as Napoleon licks and sucks him through it until the sensation is almost unbearable. Illya is only dimly aware when Napoleon pulls away and collapses onto the bed next to him.

The room around Illya returns to him by degrees. There are chess pieces digging into his back. The hum of the air conditioner whirrs, not loud enough to drown out the harsh ticking of the bedside clock by his head nor the heavy breaths of the man lying beside him. Napoleon’s head just brushes the side of his hip, and it is all Illya can do not to weave his fingers through the curls that have been pulled loose from his pomade. Never mind that Illya’s hands were just buried in those curls; to do so now seems like too telling a show of tenderness.

He lets his head tip to the side to look at the clock. It’s late again, and they will both have matches too early in the morning. If Illya remembers correctly, neither are much to worry about, but they cannot keep doing this. Sooner or later it will end in disaster.

Somehow, the truth that they will, in fact, keep doing this seems inevitable.

Illya pushes himself up to sitting and tucks himself back into his pants, ignoring the look he can see Napoleon is giving him out of the corner of his eye. He needs to go. They both need to sleep. Something in him yearns to turn around and lean in to kiss Napoleon again, to take him in his arms and hold him close, but he shoves it down deep within him as he stands and walks toward the door.

“Hold on a sec, shouldn’t we—” Napoleon starts, yanking his pants closed as he stumbles out of the bed, “shouldn’t we talk about this?”

Probably they should. Probably it would be a good idea to discuss what is happening between them, to make sure there are no misunderstandings. But at the same time maybe it is better left unsaid; whatever this is, it feels fragile and volatile, like a land mine just waiting to be triggered. It is almost certainly better that the feelings that have taken firm root in his chest are not brought into the mix, which seems like an inevitable outcome of talking about this. Wanting Napoleon physically is horrifying enough. Wanting something else, something as impossible as what Illya wants— revealing that can only end in misery for everyone involved.

“Another time,” Illya says as he pauses in front of a mirror to run a smoothing hand through his hair and frown at how wrinkled his clothes are; at least he’s unlikely to run into anyone in the hallways at this hour. “It is late.”

“Right, yeah,” Napoleon replies, faltering a little where he stops next to Illya, like he’s unsure of how close he’s allowed get. “I’ll— I’ll see you around, then.”

Despite the tumultuous swirl of emotions in his chest—despite what it might give away—this time Illya cannot resist leaning in to softly kiss Napoleon again, cupping his jaw and stroking the pad of his thumb lightly across the stubble of his cheek. When he pulls back the furrow in Napoleon’s brow has smoothed and his lips are tipped into the ghost of a lopsided smile.

“Play well tomorrow, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs.

Napoleon seems momentarily struck speechless, but he finds his voice before Illya disappears through the door. “You too, Peril.”

Napoleon does not press him to talk about it again. Call it selfish, call it self-destructive, call it just plain stupid: he can’t bear the thought that doing so might cause Illya to draw away, that it might end not only whatever this new thing is between them but their tenuous friendship as well. So he will greedily take what is offered and try not to think about how it could all blow up in his face.

In some ways, it feels like not much has changed since Argentina. Illya visits his room nearly every evening to have a drink and play few matches. They argue over strategies and give each other a hard time about mistakes, but now, instead of those arguments fizzling out into nothing, they seem to ignite like dry tinder. More often than not they never finish playing the last game they start.

Their couplings are just impulsive enough, almost rushed at times, that he can believe that it’s nothing more than sex, nothing more than simple pleasure and comfort found between two people who should not be seeking such things from each other. But then there are times that Illya kisses him with so much care and tenderness that Napoleon feels like he might break apart completely, and it is in those moments that the vain, absurd hope of something more is kindled inside him.

Then comes the night before the final adjournment.

It is a day off before the final day of the tournament, and before Napoleon and Illya’s final match. It is no surprise that they have managed nearly a dead heat going into the final round of play, but that is only partially responsible for the the tension that seems to imbue the room when Illya arrives. Without any matches played the next day, there is little pressure to end their evening together early, and the uncertainty that brings hangs like an unanswered question between them.

“Plans for tomorrow, Peril?” Napoleon asks as he pours two substantial tumblers of whatever whiskey the hotel restocked in his bar, hoping it’s nothing too top shelf. At the rate they’ve been consuming his alcohol he’ll need to win the championship just to have the money to pay his hotel bill.

Illya shrugs and accepts the glass of liquor. “Strategy meetings in the morning. Nothing for the afternoon.”

“Too bad I can’t show you around. Can’t imagine your handlers would take kindly to that.”

“Are you from around here?” Illya asks, the curiosity obvious in his voice.

“Heavens no,” Napoleon laughs. “Native New Yorker myself. But I had an aunt who lived in the area for a time when I was little, so we visited a few times.”

Illya is silent for a moment, evaluating. Napoleon gets the feeling that he wants to ask more questions but is holding back, and he doesn’t know how to tell the Russian that he can have whatever he wants. Napoleon is an open book, where Illya is concerned. Which is a disastrous thought, and one he is certainly better off keeping to himself.

“Perhaps I’ll go to the beach again,” Illya muses, sipping his drink. He has yet to settle in front of the chess set, standing near the window though the curtains are quite thoroughly drawn against prying eyes, which is unusual. Napoleon’s not sure what to make of it.

“You brought a swimsuit with you?”

“Who says I need a suit?” Illya says, a wolfish grin flashing across his face.

In his mind’s eye he sees Illya naked on the beach, his long, lithe body reclining in the sun, and though Napoleon considers himself fairly unflappable in most circumstances the image makes him choke violently on his whiskey. “Ah, not that I wouldn’t pay to see that,” he manages, when he can speak again, “but puritan roots, remember?”

At the very least that draws a flush to Illya’s face, which Napoleon counts as a small victory. “Relax, Cowboy. It was joke. Only children go nude at the beach.”

“And how do you feel about going nude other times?” Napoleon hears himself ask. It feels kind of like a gambit that is bound to fail, because despite the fact that they’ve been together nearly every night of this tournament, neither of them has ever been fully naked in the presence of the other. It is a vulnerability that they have not allowed nor asked for, and to do so now seems more than a little dangerous.

The corner of Illya’s mouth quirks up in a faint smile, though. “With good reason.”

“What reasons are those?” Napoleon breathes.

Draining his whiskey, Illya sets his tumbler down on the dresser and crosses the room to stand in front of Napoleon. He pauses for only a moment before deft fingers move to the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt and begin carefully undoing them, one by one. The action is almost reverent, and Napoleon finds himself holding his breath without realizing it. When Illya finishes he slowly raises his hands back up to slip under the front of the shirt, dragging his palms across Napoleon’s skin as he pushes it off his shoulders. His fingertips slide down the outsides of Napoleon’s arms, raising goosebumps in their wake, and then pause near his elbows, waiting, which Napoleon takes as his cue to mirror his actions.

Once he has been divested of his own shirt, Illya closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath as Napoleon drags his fingers through the sandy curls covering his chest, like he’s wrestling internally with something. He dips his head and leans forward until Napoleon can feel his warm breath ghosting across his neck. “Napoleon,” he murmurs, lips brushing his skin, “I want… I want…”

“Anything.”

Illya’s eyes snap up to his, staring searchingly with an intensity that is almost alarming. “You can’t mean that—”

“I can, and do,” Napoleon insists, his voice surprisingly steady.

So much for keeping that to himself.

Illya releases a long, shaky breath, then brings their lips together in a kiss that is somehow both gentle and urgent at once. He presses forward, constantly seeking more as if he is testing Napoleon’s assertion, but Napoleon meets him move for move. It is intoxicating, this kiss, and Napoleon almost doesn’t notice the hands at his belt until it and the fly of his pants are already undone.

“I want you,” Illya murmurs against his lips as his hand slides below Napoleon’s waistband to take him in hand.

The moan that is drawn from Napoleon’s throat is as much from the words as the contact. “You have me.”

“No, Cowboy,” he says, adjusting his grip, “I want you.”

Napoleon’s heart feels like it stops, briefly, when Illya’s meaning sinks in. “Oh,” he manages, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Are you— are you sure?”

To say that they had not spoken about this thing between them was not entirely true. Once, as they lay panting in the afterglow of their traded pleasures, a fit of madness had overcome Napoleon and he’d asked if Illya had ever been with a man before him. Predictably, Illya’s expression had shuttered at the question, and though he’d answered it—with an equally predictable answer—he hadn’t lingered long in the bed. After that, Napoleon had renewed his vow to definitely avoid talking about this. He honestly had not anticipated that they would move beyond hands and mouths and bodies rubbing frantically against each other. It seemed obvious that anything more would be a step too far for the Russian, and he was fine with that, but now…

“I am sure,” Illya answers.

“Ok,” he breathes, reluctantly extracting himself from Illya’s hold, “just, give me a second.”

When Napoleon returns from the bathroom with a jar of petroleum jelly in hand, he finds that Illya has moved the chess set that he’d previously set up on the bed, which is certainly appreciates. He has spent more mornings than not during this tournament hunting for wayward pawns that have been scattered around the room. Before he can mention it, though, Illya grabs him by the waist and pushes him down onto the mattress, giving Napoleon’s pants an emphatic yank over his hips as he does. Napoleon kicks them the rest of the way off, and then he is completely bare before the other man.

For a moment Illya pauses, apparently drinking in every inch of Napoleon’s body with his gaze, and when eyes meet Napoleon’s again the naked hunger in them is devastating. Then he is in motion again, climbing onto the bed over Napoleon to capture his mouth in a kiss as his hands skim rapidly across Napoleon’s skin as if trying to touch every inch of him. Napoleon nearly laughs at his eagerness, or he would if the sensations weren’t utterly overwhelming. As it is he just manages to pull back enough and get his hands on Illya’s pants.

“These are going to have to come off too, you know,” he tries to quip, his fingers fumbling uncharacteristically with the clasp.

Illya grunts and his hands disappear from Napoleon's body for long enough to shove them unceremoniously down and off before he attempts to climb back on top of him. Napoleon has other ideas, though. Illya may have a few inches of height on him, but Napoleon has at least as much mass, and he uses it to flip them over so that he ends up straddling Illya’s thighs and pinning his shoulders to the bed. Then he takes his own chance to look, taking in the lean, elegant form stretched out beneath him.

“Dear god, Illya,” he breathes.

“What?”

Illya looks confused, like he doesn’t understand Napoleon’s reaction, like he doesn’t understand how breathtaking he is like this. Napoleon is, in fact, sure that he does not. He knows what it is like to be constantly told that what you want is wrong, to have it beaten into you—sometimes literally—that this is ugly and shameful.

“You’re beautiful,” Napoleon says, not trying to keep the awe from his voice.

He’s not really surprised when the words seem to make the Russian uncomfortable, but he’s not going to hold back. Illya deserves to hear them, deserves to know it doesn’t have to be the way he’s always been told. Even if it makes him frown and look away, unable to meet Napoleon’s gaze. Napoleon reaches up to cup his cheek, gently turning his face back and leaning in to kiss him again.

Something seems to break within Illya, then, the snap of a thread of tension that Napoleon had not even realized was there, and he melts so completely into the kiss that Napoleon feels consumed by it. They press closer, hips rocking together almost of their own accord as their bodies begin chasing pleasure, and Napoleon has to remind himself that there were other plans for this evening.

“Peril,” he murmurs as his lips brush the shell of Illya’s ear, “do you still—”

“Yes,” Illya groans, cutting him off, and Napoleon’s next exhale is a little shaky.

He grabs the jar of vaseline from where it lays on the bed as he drops down to crouch between Illya’s legs, nudging his thighs farther apart. Slicking his fingers, he presses gently against Illya’s rim, and the touch makes Illya suck in a sharp breath and all of his muscles clench.

“Ok?” Napoleon asks, though he doesn’t pull his fingers away just yet. Illya gives a sharp nod, still staring up at the ceiling, and Napoleon feels him make an effort to relax. Which is encouraging, but not enough. Sliding his other hand up the bed, Napoleon grabs one of Illya’s and laces their fingers together. “Illya,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thigh, “I need you to say it.”

Illya looks down at him then, his expression an odd mix of determination, desire, and trepidation. It’s not the first time Napoleon has seen that look on another man’s face. “Yes,” he croaks out. “It’s ok.”

“I know— I know we don’t usually discuss these things,” Napoleon manages to get out, because god, it’s difficult, but this is not something they can refuse to talk about, at least in the moment, “but it’s important. If you don’t like any of it, at any point, you have to tell me, alright?”

Illya nods again, but then he remembers. “Ok,” he agrees.

Here goes nothing, Napoleon thinks, then takes Illya’s cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head as he pushes one finger past the tight band of muscle. Illya lets out a surprised, “Oh,” but he doesn’t tense up; if anything, his thighs fall further apart. Their hands are still tangled together on the bed near Illya’s hip, and when Illya squeezes Napoleon’s fingers it manages to be encouraging.

Napoleon takes his time, working Illya open slowly until he’s satisfied, or at least until as far as he can get before he feels Illya’s patience wearing thin. By the end Illya is pushing against him, chasing after Napoleon's fingers even as he hisses curses in Russian through his teeth.

“Do you intend on torturing me all night,” Illya grits out, though Napoleon can see the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he does. Well, if he can manage to be put together enough to give Napoleon a hard time… Napoleon curls his fingers just so, and the smirk falls off Illya’s face as he gasps. “Fuck. I need you, Cowboy,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I need you.”

“Ok,” Napoleon breathes, his own voice shaking slightly, “ok. Let me—”

He has barely withdrawn his fingers before Illya is clutching at his shoulders, trying to pull Napoleon on top of him, and Napoleon only just manages fight off his iron grip long enough to slick himself up. Illya’s legs wrap around him, heels digging into Napoleon’s back and urging him forward as he slowly sinks into the tight, wet heat of the Russian’s body.

It feels unerringly like all of the air is being squeezed from his lungs, and when he finally bottoms out he has to force himself to take a deep, shuddery breath. And yes, it’s been a little while since he’s done this, but he knows it is the fact that it is Illya writhing beneath him—eyes screwed shut and making little punched-out whimpers that set his skin aflame as he tries to push himself harder onto Napoleon’s cock—that makes it almost too much, that threatens to nudge him too quickly toward the edge.

“You can— I want— move, please,” Illya pants in broken off sentences, mistaking the reasons for Napoleon’s stillness, but Napoleon obeys nonetheless, beginning to rock into him in small, slow strokes.

He rolls his hips smoothly, holding back as much for himself as for Illya, who seems to want none of his restraint. Illya’s heels urge him onward toward a frantic pace as he drags Napoleon down into a bruising, desperate kiss, rocking his hips sharply upward to meet each thrust. The pace is too hard, too fast, and Napoleon can feel himself trembling as the pressure builds steadily within him, a spring coiling ever tighter deep within his gut. He wants to hold back, to make it last, but between Illya’s relentless assault on his self-control and his own blinding desire, he knows he won’t last. Shifting his support onto one hand, he slips the other between their bodies to get a hand on Illya’s cock, and it does not take long before Illya is arching off the bed against him.

“Oh, oh,” Illya gasps as he comes, “Napoleon,” and the sound of his name on Illya’s lips is enough to push him to the brink.

Illya’s body tightens around him, his fingers digging so fiercely in to Napoleon’s shoulders that they are sure to leave bruises, and Napoleon gives up on all pretense of control. His thrusts turn shallow and erratic as the wave of pleasure crests over him, and he buries his face in the crook of Illya’s neck against a sudden surge of emotion that threatens to choke him. Napoleon wants to say it’s just hormones, that he’s not slowly losing himself in each passing moment, but deep down he knows better. He knows it’s never quite felt like this before.

Napoleon is not exactly sure what he expected in the aftermath, but it wasn’t for Illya to clutch him so close he can barely move, for him to drag their mouths together into a deep, probing kiss that seems to suck all the breath from his body. When they do break apart he is left dizzy and gasping for air, wrung out in a way that feels wholly unfamiliar.

They lay side-by-side in the quiet hum of the room for long enough that Napoleon’s eyelids begin to droop, and he knows he should go get a washcloth to clean them up, but it feels uncomfortably like moving will break the spell that binds them together. He gets up anyway, refusing to be an inconsiderate partner, and sure enough when he has returned Illya is pushing himself up to sitting. Napoleon passes him the washcloth as he climbs back into the bed, even though what he really wants to do is use the warm, damp cloth himself to carefully clean up Illya.

It would be too much, he thinks, which seems a little absurd given what they just did, but there it is nonetheless.

“You could stay here tonight,” Napoleon hears himself say, his voice low and raw.

Illya turns a small, wry smile on him, and the softness in it makes Napoleon’s chest ache. “You know that is not true. If KGB did not find me in my room tomorrow morning…” He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid. They are silent for a moment while Illya finishes his task, and then he leans over to give him a gentle kiss. “I wish I could,” he whispers against Napoleon’s lips, like a confession, and it is so quiet Napoleon isn’t sure he didn’t imagine it.

Then he climbs out of the bed, pulling on his pants and buttoning up his shirt, and Napoleon is left feeling abruptly cold and exposed in his absence.

“I think maybe we should not meet tomorrow night,” Illya says matter-of-factly. “We have important game the next day.”

It’s true, of course. They play each other for the championship, and the last thing either of them needs is to stay up too late tomorrow night. But the soft smile that is curving Illya’s lips doesn’t stop it from feeling like a rejection, especially while Napoleon is still sitting naked in the middle of the bed.

“Right, of course,” he manages as he climbs out again and grabs a robe. Napoleon is not usually one to be shy, but in this moment he feels desperate for something to cover himself. “Need to get a good night’s sleep.”

Illya has finished dressing by now, and he crosses the room once more before he goes. “Mm, yes,” he hums as he leans in to kiss Napoleon. “Try not to get into any trouble tomorrow.”

“What trouble could I possibly get into, Peril?” Napoleon scoffs.

“I’m sure you could find some.”

Napoleon wants to say that Illya is the only trouble he’s managed to find lately, thank you very much, but he’s uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “Well, I should say the same to you. Try not— try not to get sunburned at the beach,” he finishes lamely.

Illya chuckles at that, which unfairly makes warmth bloom in Napoleon’s chest, and kisses him again. “Ok, Cowboy. I will try.”

Chapter Text

Someone is pounding on his door.

At first Napoleon tries to drown out the sound with a pillow pressed tightly over his head, but it’s no use. Whoever it is doesn’t seem interested in giving up; every time it seems like maybe they’ve left, moments later there is more pounding.

“It’s adjournment day!” he yells eventually in a vain hope that they might leave him alone. Really, he has no obligations or plans today, so whoever it is can just fuck right off.

“It’s almost NOON!” a familiar voice yells back.

Napoleon groans and, after a few more moments of screwing his eyes shut and wishing he could still be asleep, finally climbs out of bed. He pulls on a robe over his pajamas and pads groggily to the door, wrenching it open with a frown.

“It’s adjournment day,” he repeats accusingly before he turns around and walks back into the room.

“And your plan was to sleep the day away?” Gaby asks as she follows him.

She looks, as usual, effortlessly chic in a blue-and-white-striped sheath dress paired with white strappy sandals and a pair of gigantic sunglasses perched on her head, and Napoleon tries to remember if they had made plans that he’d forgotten about. He’s pretty sure they had not.

“Maybe,” he grumbles.

“Ugh, Solo, what—” she starts, but her words falter when she takes in the state of his room.

Two used tumblers sit on the table, Napoleon’s clothes from the previous day are strewn wildly around, the jar of vaseline is still open on the bedside table, and the room definitely stinks of sex. Fuck. He never should have let her in.

Gaby folds her arms across her chest and narrows her eyes at him, mouth pressed into a hard, disapproving line. “Napoleon. What is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he insists as he digs around for some aspirin.

“Look, I didn’t push you about it after the hickey, even though it was clear that something was up. I haven’t pressed you, even though you’ve been acting odd all tournament. I gave you space, figuring you’d tell me when you were ready, but I can’t let this go any longer. You may think you can keep whatever this is a secret, but I’m your best friend, asshole. You can’t hide this shit from me.”

Napoleon flinches, but she’s right. And, well, maybe he could stand to have someone to talk to about it. She’s certainly the only one he could trust. “This has to stay a secret, I’m serious, if anyone found out—” he starts anyway, if only to impress upon her the gravity of the situation.

“Who do you take me for?” she says, offended by his implication.

“It’s— it’s Illya,” he admits.

Gaby looks utterly thunderstruck, and is apparently wrought speechless by this information. Her mouth hangs open slightly as she blinks at him, and Napoleon finds himself explaining just to fill the awkward silence.

“It’s just— look, it doesn’t mean anything, really. It just kind of happened by accident, and well, it kept happening, and we haven’t actually talked about it, but it hasn’t affected our games, that much is clear based on how this tournament has gone. It’s just— just a bit of fun.”

“How?” is the only thing she can apparently say to this.

Napoleon tries not to fidget under her eviscerating gaze, wishing he had something to drink, even though he just woke up. Well, it is almost noon. “I guess it started at Mar del Plata—”

“You’ve been fucking him since Argentina?!”

“No!” Napoleon protests quickly. “No, we started playing secret matches at night during that tournament. He’d sneak away to my room, and we’d play some games and talk strategy, and it was just so amazing. You know how it is, how it feels to have someone to really talk to about the game.” Gaby hums her agreement at this, but her eyes are still narrowed suspiciously. “And that’s all it was, honestly, until— until the second night of this tournament.”

Gaby mulls this information over for a bit. “I suspected there was something going on between you two,” she says eventually, “but I thought it was just some dumb rivalry shit. I never expected this.”

“Yeah, well, you and me both.”

“This is dangerous, Solo,” she warns.

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says, waving her off, “but we’re careful. The KGB don’t know he’s sneaking out, and you know I always check my room for bugs.”

Gaby sighs. “That’s not what I was talking about, but yes, fucking a man who has a KGB escort whenever he travels outside of the Soviet Union is particularly stupid.”

“If that’s not—” he starts, confused.

“Why do you think I have a rule against dating chess players? He’s your competition, idiot, and not just in this tournament. You say it’s not affecting your game, but what if it starts to? What if things get messy? This is what you do, Solo, chess is your life, and you’re willing to put all that on the line for some fun? Which, by the way, I don’t believe for a minute. You could have fun with anyone, and you choose the absolute most difficult person possible? There’s something else going on here, no matter what you’re telling yourselves.”

Napoleon doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like he hasn’t asked himself the same questions, and he never likes the answers he comes up with. He shakes his head stubbornly. “There’s not, I swear,” he insists. “I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm,” she hums skeptically. “Says the man who slept until noon. Get dressed, you can’t hole up in here all day. We’re going to get lunch. I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

“As long as it’s somewhere that serves booze,” he grumbles at her back as she walks across the room.

Gaby pauses at the door and turns back to give him a long-suffering look before she leaves. “Oh believe me, I certainly need a drink after this.”

Twenty minutes later he enters the hotel lobby to find her thoroughly embroiled in a game of chess with Zaytsev, of all people. It’s not quite speed chess, but it’s going rather quickly all the same, in part because she appears to be destroying him. Napoleon can’t say he’s surprised, she sometimes plays an attack game so aggressive it will make your head spin, and she’s only too happy to take advantage of opponents who underestimate her. Which, she likes to point out, is nearly every man she comes across. Napoleon—and the regulars at The Queen’s Pawn—excepted, of course.

They’ve attracted a decent crowd, mostly made up of other tournament participants given that there are few of the usual public spectators around today. The Soviets are all clustered together behind Zaytsev, unsurprisingly, and Napoleon doesn’t exactly try to catch Illya’s eye when he slips between some of the other players to try to get closer, but it happens nonetheless. He gives a small, polite nod of acknowledgement, because suddenly everyone in the crowd is looking at the two of them like they expect something to happen. A fight, verbal sparring, some mild taunting, who knows. Napoleon is certainly not interested in giving them anything, though, and apparently neither is Illya because his expression is utterly unreadable.

Napoleon kind of hates that he’s so good at that. For a moment he can almost believe that last night was all a dream, but he has the fingertip-shaped bruises on his shoulders that prove it wasn’t.

Fortunately the crowd’s attention is quickly drawn back to the match. There is a low undercurrent of murmured Russian that he can’t quite make out from where he’s standing as they watch Gaby make her moves. Occasionally Illya will throw a comment in, and Napoleon finds himself rather annoyed that he is not the one Illya is discussing strategy with. Which is ridiculous. He spends the time half watching the game and half watching the Soviets, so he doesn’t miss it when Illya’s eyes occasionally flick over to him. It doesn’t mean anything, but that knowledge doesn’t prevent the little rush he gets whenever it happens.

A few moves later, Zaytsev laughs and knocks down his own king, shaking his head as he offers his hand to Gaby.

“Good game,” she says as she shakes it, but before she can withdraw her hand, the young Russian stands and bends at the hip, bringing it up to his lips for a chivalrous kiss.

“I am afraid I have made a poor showing, but I would be delighted to get the chance to try again,” Zaytsev says earnestly, looking completely besotted.

Also entirely unsurprising. Gaby likes to joke that the fastest way to a Russian’s heart is to beat him in a chess game, and she has the love letters sent from all over the USSR to prove it (I file the grandmasters at the front, she had told him once with a wink as he had watched her place a recently received letter in the overflowing box).

“If you’re ever in New York, you simply must come by The Queen’s Pawn,” she tells him. “It’s a private chess club I run in the Village. I’m there every night, if I’m not at a tournament, that is. First round of drinks are on me.”

The rest of the crowd has wandered away by now, leaving Gaby partly surrounded by the Soviet contingency, all of whom are hanging on her every word with rapt attention. All but one, that is. Napoleon can practically feel Illya’s eyes on him, and he sees the moment that Gaby notices Illya’s apparent distraction.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” she says, grinning wickedly as she turns toward Napoleon. “Get your beauty sleep, darling?”

Napoleon does not quite resist glaring at her. “It is adjournment day, after all,” he replies, forcing insouciance into his voice. “No reason not to be well rested.”

“Late night last night, Solo?” Kozlov asks.

“Ah, a little,” Napoleon answers, certainly not glancing at Illya. “Just taking the chance to relax.” Illya actually snorts at this, and then Napoleon can’t help but look at him. “Something funny, Kuryakin?”

“You are confident of a win tomorrow, then?” Illya challenges, the bare hint of a smirk on his lips.

The carefully combative tone of this exchange is familiar. They don’t talk much in public, but when they do it is always like this, like they can’t stand each other. They haven’t discussed it—of course they haven’t—but Napoleon recognizes it for what it is: a cover, a show for everyone else, because it is what is expected of them. (He also refuses to admit that it maybe sorta turns him on. Kinda. A little, ok?)

“I find it best not to overthink things,” Napoleon says, giving Illya his best shit-eating grin. “Maybe you should try it sometime, Peril. Might help loosen you up.”

Illya’s lips tighten into a hard line. “Not all of us can afford to stay up all night partying, Cowboy,” he retorts, which is rich coming from him. Not that anyone else knows it.

“Now now, boys, save it for the match,” Gaby cuts in, grabbing Napoleon’s arm and steering him away from the group. “Come on, darling, we have a lunch date, remember?” She twists around briefly to send a little wave back to the gathered Soviets. “До свидания, comrades!”

“You’re making friends, I see,” Napoleon grumbles as they walk away. “But did you have to throw me under a bus?”

Gaby just grins at him. “I was testing something.”

“Huh? Testing what?”

“It's worse than I thought,” she says, nonsensically.

Napoleon is starting to think maybe he missed something major. Like, a few minutes worth of conversation. He is awake, right? “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“The two of you,” she says, like that explains anything. “This is a mess.”

“I really do not understand—”

Gaby huffs a sigh at him, looking thoroughly exasperated. “I saw him making eyes at you as soon as you showed up. So much for subtle.”

“Making eyes?” he scoffs. “Were we watching the same person? He might as well have been carved from granite.”

“And that little act you have might fool the others, but it sounded entirely too much like foreplay to me,” she says, as if she didn’t hear him. Then she adds, under her breath, “I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before, honestly.”

And well, fuck, that is not good. He tries to console himself that Gaby knows him better than pretty much anyone else, and she also has the benefit of knowing something is up in the first place. Still, he can’t help but think they should minimize the time they spend together in public even more than they already do. “I don’t see that at all,” he lies, on principle.

“Hmm, must be a woman’s intuition, then,” she shrugs.

“Well, keep your intuition to yourself, will you?”

“So you don’t want me to say that it’s quite obvious that you’re in love with him?”

“What? I certainly am not—” he sputters.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” she interrupts lightly.

Napoleon is silent for a moment, his head practically spinning. She has to be joking. Ok, there might be some inconvenient feelings lurking around, but he’s been doing fine at ignoring them, thank you very much, and certainly nothing he did just now could have shown his hand. “How could you possibly—”

“No, no,” she says in an infuriatingly smug tone, “I’m keeping my intuition to myself.”

Well. He supposes he deserved that.

The final match takes almost all day, broken up only by a brief adjournment for lunch. It feels almost odd, playing a game this long against Napoleon, and one with far less impulsivity than typically characterize their late-night matches. Which is not to say that it is absent; it never is, in Napoleon’s game, and that is part of what makes him such a formidable opponent. The American attacks aggressively in the opening and sets lots of traps as he goes, but unfortunately for him Illya knows his many tricks by now, and he is not lured into them. He sometimes gets the sense that he isn’t meant to be, anyway, like Napoleon is winking at him via chess moves. A private language of past games that they alone speak.

Illya has also played enough games against the other man that he can feel how badly Napoleon wants to win. No one wants to lose, of course, but Illya knows Napoleon feels like he has something to prove, even if he would never admit it. He lacks something fundamental, though, something that Illya has in spades today: desperation. Failure is not an option for him, not against an American, and not against this American in particular.

Late in the afternoon, Napoleon offers him a draw. It makes sense, based on the state of the board, but even so, he doesn’t really know why Napoleon thinks he’d take it. They haven’t yet reached a stalemate in the match, and Illya has nothing to gain and everything to lose from accepting it. Going into the final round, the point totals were such that a draw would give Napoleon the championship title, whereas Illya needs win the match outright. There would be no co-champions this time, so Illya might as well see it to the end, win or lose.

That end comes an hour later, when Illya finally boxes Napoleon into an inescapable checkmate in four. Napoleon stares at the board for a long moment before he slowly nods and looks up at Illya, his face the careful mask of a graceful loser. He offers a small smile along with his surrender, and Illya wishes he wouldn’t. It feels more damning than if he’d stormed off in a rage.

Illya wanted this win. Illya needed this win, and the rush of relief and joy at achieving it is immense. He does not regret—he cannot, the notion is utterly absurd—but even so, there is something that lingers within him, tarnishing the edges of his shiny victory. The feeling is entirely novel and decidedly uncomfortable.

His countrymen surround him afterwards, shaking his hand and patting him on the back in congratulations, and by the time they part again Napoleon is gone. Of course he is. Why would he stick around? It would make no sense. Illya lets himself be swept off to a celebratory dinner and spends the rest of the night trying desperately not to think about the bitter disappointment he’d seen in Napoleon’s eyes.

He does not entirely succeed.

Somehow, Zaytsev and Kozlov convince him to go to the hotel bar for drinks. Illya doesn’t particularly feel like drinking right now, but he also knows that it will be a little suspicious if he begs off, so he goes. They buy a bottle of vodka, which they complain about vociferously, and tuck themselves into an out-of-the-way corner. Fortunately, Zaytsev and Kozlov seem more than willing to demolish the bottle almost entirely on their own, save the few glasses they pass to the KGB that accompanied them and the one they press into Illya’s hand.

There are a few other clusters of people in the bar, including a group of American chess players at the far end who are being rather typically loud and obnoxious. Napoleon, Illya cannot help but notice, is not among them, but when some of the others shift he sees that his friend Gaby is.

Illya does not have a good reason for what he does next, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Excuse me,” he says to the others, then stands and walks toward the Americans. Their conversation dies as he approaches, but he ignores the confused—and frankly hostile—looks and walks right to Gaby.

“Can I help you?” she says coldly, barely glancing at him.

The shift in her demeanor from the previous day—when she’d been so friendly to all of the Soviets—is stark, and Illya winces involuntarily. “Can we talk? Alone?” he asks with a nod to the side, away from the others, and hopes that despite her clear distaste she might humor him.

Gaby frowns but walks across the space, out of earshot of both the Americans she’d been drinking with and the collection of Soviets at the other end of the bar. Kozlov catches his eye and grins at him as he follows her; it’s clear that they think Illya is making use of his new title as champion to hit on her, which is a misconception he’s only too happy to exploit. Even better, they know her family is originally from East Germany, and the KGB would be thrilled if he could get her to defect, so they’ll leave him be.

“You’re friends with Solo,” he says carefully. He’s not sure how much she knows, if anything, about him and Napoleon. The look she gives him for this observation is decidedly unimpressed, so Illya steels himself and asks what he intended to. “Is he… ok?”

“What do you think?” she snaps sarcastically, which is entirely fair. It was a stupid question. She doesn’t really seem surprised by it, though, and Illya can’t decide whether that makes him feel better or worse. Something of his regret must show on his face, because after a moment her expression softens and she sighs. “His ego’s a bit bruised, but he’ll get over it,” she offers. “He always does.”

Illya nods, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. “Thank you. I— it was a good game. He should be proud,” he says with a short nod, not quite able to look at her in the eye. He turns to go, she catches him by the arm before he can leave.

“You should tell him yourself,” she says, almost a sigh, looking up at him with an entirely too knowing expression. She watches as he glances over at the KGB handlers and quite accurately discerns his thoughts. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

Then, to his surprise, she puts on a wide smile and giggles loudly, drawing the attention of the entire bar. Illya feels his face flush hotly as she takes one of his hands in hers and all but drags him away, and it only gets worse when someone wolf-whistles behind them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters to her once they’re alone and the elevator doors have closed behind them. His face still feels absurdly warm.

Gaby shrugs, smirking at him. “It was worth it just to see you turn that color. And anyway, rumors that I’ve bedded the World Champion can’t hurt my business. Maybe I’ll let slip that I managed to seduce you into giving up some of your secrets.”

Illya can’t help but huff a laugh at that, shaking his head. It’s becoming rapidly obvious why she and Napoleon are such good friends, and it makes him wonder about their history. “You don’t have to answer, but were you and Solo…”

“Were we ever lovers?” Gaby guesses, then laughs softly when he nods. “No. He’s always been the annoying older brother I never had. Don’t worry,” she adds with a wink, “he’s all yours.”

It’s just a turn of phrase, he tells himself. She’s not being literal, and she can’t know how much he wishes it could be true, even as he knows it’s not. His first impulse is to protest that they don’t have that kind of relationship, but if he says that then he might be expected to explain just what kind of relationship they do have, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t know, and he’s too much of a coward to take the risk of confirming that this isn’t what he wants it to be. Instead he stares at the ornately patterned floor of the elevator and pretends she’s not watching his reaction.

They ride the rest of the way to Napoleon’s floor in silence, and it is only when the elevator doors open that he finds his voice again. “I don’t know how to properly thank you.”

“You owe me several drinks,” she points out. “I can’t go back down to the bar now.”

“Next time we are at the same tournament, I promise,” Illya says before he walks out into the hall.

“Oh, and Kuryakin?” Gaby calls before the elevator doors close again, and he turns back to look at her. “Break his heart and you’ll regret it.”

Illya is honestly not sure what to make of that. He wants her to explain this frankly absurd warning—if anyone’s heart is going to get broken in this scenario, it is almost certainly his—but the elevator is already gone, leaving him off-kilter and uncertain in the deserted hallway. He stands there for a moment, wondering if he’s missing something, until he can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

Something about the way that Napoleon answers the door reminds him of the second night of the tournament, when Illya had found himself drawn inexorably to the American’s door despite—or perhaps because of—his foul mood. Napoleon is in a much less disheveled state than he had been that night, but the look of surprise on his face is nearly identical. He hadn’t expected Illya to come, and briefly Illya wonders if this was a mistake.

“I would have thought that even you Soviets would do a better job at celebrating than turning in at,” he checks his watch, “ten o’clock.”

“You weren’t at the bar.”

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at that as he steps back to let Illya into the room. “Wasn’t really feeling it tonight,” he smirks. “Why, were you worried about me, Peril?

Yes, Illya cannot bring himself to admit. He glances somewhat absently around the room, even though by now he knows it better than his own, because it’s easier than looking at Napoleon. It’s easier than watching him pretend he’s ok, like Illya doesn’t know him better by now.

“Gaby brought me up,” Illya says eventually, though it’s not really an answer. “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me tonight.”

There’s a soft puff of laughter from right behind him, and it finally makes him turn toward the other man. Napoleon hands him a tumbler of whiskey, shaking his head. “What, like how you clearly didn’t want to see me after the second round?”

“That was different. It was only one match, not the entire—”

“Tournament, I know,” Napoleon finishes. “Just because you crush my dreams doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you,” he quips. Illya flinches as much as the forced lightheartedness as he does the words. Napoleon just rolls his eyes. “Kidding, Peril. Look, am I disappointed? Yeah, of course. But I can’t be mad at you for being who you are. For being the person I— I admire,” he says, faltering a little at the end.

Illya stares at him, trying to determine if this is yet another mask, but Napoleon seems to be sincere. It’s a remarkably different perspective than the one Illya had held on that second night, and granted things had changed between them more than a little since then, but he’s still not sure he’d be able to be so magnanimous in defeat. “I think you are a better person than I am, Cowboy.”

“Just more used to losing, maybe,” Napoleon shrugs, smirking again.

Illya doesn’t think that’s true; Napoleon has hardly done more losing than Illya, save perhaps in the games they play against each other. “I’m sorry I could not accept the draw,” he offers.

“Oh come on,” Napoleon scoffs at him. “That was a last ditch effort by someone who could see where things were headed and you know it. You would have been stupid to accept. But you can’t fault me for trying.”

Napoleon smiles at him, a real smile this time, and Illya feels an answering one pulling at the corners of his mouth. The last thread of the tension between them finally unravels, replaced by a frankly startling amount of relief on Illya’s part, and that inescapable magnetism that draws them unerringly together. Depositing his glass on the table, Napoleon slowly but assuredly crosses the room to stand in front of him, and his smile slips towards mischievous as he reaches up to tug on the knot of Illya’s tie.

“I’ve never quite seen you play like that, Peril.”

“I was determined.”

“You were desperate,” Napoleon laughs.

The whiskey he has drunk, combined with the vodka from earlier, must be going to his head, because Illya has no excuse for what comes out of his mouth next. “You always make me desperate, Cowboy,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed downwards.

Napoleon’s hands still where they had been working the buttons of his shirt loose, and a moment later one comes up to gently cup the side of Illya’s face. When Illya looks up, there is a strange expression in the other man's eyes: surprise, certainly, and something that could almost be wonder, and Illya does not know what to make of it. It’s almost uncomfortable, that look, because it pokes at the terrifying thing buried within his chest, something much better left slumbering, so Illya does the only thing he can think of to stop it. He leans in to kiss Napoleon, and doesn’t stop until they both laying side-by-side in the bed, naked and breathless and aching in the most satisfying way.

(The thing in his chest is not satisfied; no, it is insatiable, and the scraps that it gets fed only seem to make its hunger more acute.)

A little while later, Napoleon rolls onto his side so that his body is only inches from Illya’s, and Illya only just resists rolling in turn to face him. He wants to draw Napoleon into is arms, to press tender kisses to every part of him, to not let him go tonight, or tomorrow, or ever.

He does none of these things. It is far safer to remain on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Early flight tomorrow, Peril?” Napoleon asks as his hand traces a wandering path over the skin of Illya’s shoulder.

Illya hums an affirmative. “We fly to New York first, and then on to Moscow.”

“Maybe we’ll be on the same flight.”

“I’m not sitting next to you, Cowboy,” Illya says, letting one corner of his mouth up tick up into a smirk.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Napoleon teases. “Just think of all the chess we could play.”

“I have a feeling Zaytsev has plans to monopolize my time.”

“That’s not very communist of him.”

Illya snorts softly. “I suppose not.”

“I’ll see you in Havana in a couple of months?” Napoleon asks, undeniable hope in his voice.

“Of course.”

They fall into silence again and Napoleon drops his hand back down to the bed, leaving Illya nearly aching in its absence. Several minutes tick away, but neither of them moves to get up, both apparently unwilling to end their final night together just yet. Illya fights hard to keep himself from reading too much into it, as he always does.

“Hey Peril?” Napoleon says. Illya turns his head to the side and finds his brows knit together in a thoughtful, serious expression. 

“Hmm?”

“Never apologize for doing what you need to win. You play the game you want to play, always, ok? Promise me you’ll never hold yourself back.”

The return to their previous conversation is unexpected; Illya hadn’t realized Napoleon was still dwelling on it. Or rather, apparently dwelling on Illya’s unexpected reaction to the win, something that Illya would very much like to not dwell on at all. It is obvious that Napoleon is talking about chess, about future tournaments where they will inevitably meet to determine the outcome of a championship, but right now, as he stares into those ocean blue eyes, Illya could almost believe there is some other, deeper meaning in the words.

He thinks that all he knows how to do is hold himself back, and it is only when he is with Napoleon that he does not. He thinks that he never played the game he wants until he met this maddening, infuriating, wonderful American. He thinks, astoundingly, that what he needs to do to win and what he needs might not be the same thing.

What he says is: “Ok, Cowboy. I promise.”

Chapter Text

17th Chess Olympiad, October 1966
Havana, Cuba

Stepping off the plane in Havana is like rewinding several months and returning to summer. The tropical breeze that greets him is warm and humid, but today, when the sky is a shade of blue that is rivaled only by the turquoise of the water, the moderating affects of the sea keep it from being oppressive. Even so, Napoleon almost immediately itches to trade his suit for the light linen fashions favored by the locals; something about the Caribbean air seems to demand it. Perhaps when he gets a free day he might be able to do some shopping, although he doesn’t know how realistic that is. His days promise to be much busier than normal, what with the fact that for the first time he’s part of a team.

Napoleon is not used to traveling with anyone, save Gaby. He’s certainly not used to traveling with a group of five other men he only knows by competitive acquaintance and an escort of two government agents insisted upon by the US State Department. He supposes it’s a small price to pay for being able to go to Cuba at all; it was only a year previously that they had forbidden American players from attending the Capablanca Memorial Tournament.

Fortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that the agents accompanying them are far less interested in paying attention to the chess players than they are doing whatever else they came here to do. Napoleon strongly suspects that their presence as “security” is entirely for show, and this seems to be confirmed when he spots the one in charge—a short, scowling, disagreeable man by the name of Sanders—meeting with some rather shady looking characters at a cafe down the block from the hotel on their very first afternoon in the city. With luck, Illya’s KGB escort will be similarly distracted by Cuban politics, and Napoleon will get to spend some quality time with the Russian.

He would deny that the prospect of seeing his… his… Peril again has been making his heart skip a beat whenever he thinks of it for the past week at least. And he certainly disagrees with Gaby’s oft-repeated lament that she has had to listen to him pining for the last two months, because that is absurd. One is allowed to miss someone without it being pining. He’s just excited to see the man, is all. A completely normal, appropriate level of excitement for seeing a close friend… with some additional benefits.

Ok, so he knows it is, in fact, not at all an appropriate amount of excitement given their nebulous relationship. He knows he has been teetering on the edge of something vast and dangerous, something he absolutely refuses to give a name to, because he also knows that if he allows himself to fall it will inevitably ruin him. There are certain things that he cannot have, and not only because of outside forces. Despite what they’ve shared, Illya still undeniably keeps him at arms length when it comes to anything more, and so he forces himself to stay there as well.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It is enough. Soon he’ll get to see Illya, and that will help him get rid of some of the pent-up tension that comes from spending two months pining—fuck—for someone and building them up in your mind far beyond the reality of the actual person. There are boundaries in their relationship that exist for a multitude of reasons, though admittedly sometimes he cannot remember what they are. He just needs a little reminder, is all. A reality check, Gaby would say. He had promised her, before he left, that he would be careful, that he wouldn’t let things get out of hand, and he intends to keep it.

Truly, he does.

In the end, it is not the KGB nor the (likely) CIA that keeps them frustratingly apart for the first few days of the tournament. On the evening that they all arrive, the day before the tournament officially begins, he only just catches sight of Illya from across the hotel lobby. The Soviets are on their way out of the hotel, perhaps for dinner, and they barely spare a glance at the American team as they go. For a moment, faced with a stony glare that barely allows even a glimmer of recognition, Napoleon is struck with the sudden fear that all of the ground they had gained would be lost. That, just like in those first few days in California, Illya will have decided in the intervening months that their association was a mistake. It had taken him by surprise, then, but surely that can’t be the case again. Surely not.

When he returns to his room later that evening and finds a minute piece of paper slipped under the door, his relief far outweighs his disappointment. The note unsigned, but he immediately recognizes Illya’s cramped handwriting:

Team obligations. Will not make it tonight.

Understandable. Illya is the captain of the Soviet team for the Olympiad, just as Solo is the captain of the American team, which promises to put additional demands on their time beyond what would be expected at a normal tournament. And no matter what he might feel for Illya, Napoleon is determined that the US is going to give the Soviets a run for their money this year. Their sixth-place finish in 1964 was downright embarrassing, if you ask him, but, well, they hadn’t had him on the team, had they? Even so, he’s not arrogant enough to think that his presence on the team alone will be enough to bolster them into medal contention. As captain, he’d taken a page out of the Soviets’ book and told his team they’d be having more post-game and adjournment discussions—an oddity for the fiercely independent American players.

It turns out that there is a downside to making the Americans more of an actual team, though, because they apparently expect to do team things now. Like go out on the town after the first day of matches and drag Napoleon along with them, instead of allowing him to retreat to his room and, with luck, the arms of a particular Russian. Which is fine. There’s no reason why he can’t wait another day for the sake of some team-building.

Instead, luck puts them on a collision course with most of the Soviets on their way out of the hotel that night. Napoleon is surprised to see that they don’t seem to have a KGB escort this time, but perhaps he’d been right about the agents being distracted while in the country, or at least not so worried about defection in another communist state.

“Slipped your leash tonight, boys?” Napoleon queries, letting lips curl into a wide, mocking grin, never able to resist the opportunity for some friendly taunting.

Illya scowls at him, and oh, but it is a beautiful scowl. “It seems to me that you are the ones with a leash this time.” He nods across the lobby to where the agent who is not Sanders—Jones, perhaps? Napoleon can’t remember—sits, somewhat conspicuously reading a newspaper. 

“Just for show, I can assure you,” Napoleon replies easily. “I’m surprised to find you headed out at this late hour. Don’t you lot usually go in for early nights? Get your beauty rest?”

“Preliminaries are child’s play,” Illya snorts dismissively.

Napoleon arcs an eyebrow at him. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts. Because when the finals come, you’ll be lying awake all night wondering how we managed to take so many points from you.”

The Soviets all laugh derisively at that; more than a few of them might be afraid of Napoleon, at this point, but they certainly do not share the same view of the other Americans.

“I wish you luck with that fantasy,” Sorokin puts in, “but there can be no doubt who will walk away with gold this year. Now if you will excuse us, we have better things to do than waste our time on a team that will not even medal.”

“Hey!” one of Napoleon’s teammates exclaims, a tall, wiry man with curly dark hair and severe features named Hansen. “Watch it!” He takes a step forward, as if he means to actually fight Sorokin, and Napoleon puts a hand on his shoulder to halt him. A little verbal sparring is all well and good, but you don’t have to be a genius to know that physical altercations would be a beyond terrible idea.

“It’s ok, Hansen, let them talk,” Napoleon says. “Talk is all they’ll have in two weeks anyway. Enjoy your evening, fellas,” he adds with a nod to the Soviets, only a little sarcastically.

Fortunately, that seems to diffuse the situation, and the two teams let themselves be pulled in opposite directions by their captains. By the time they get to a club not too far from the hotel, though, Napoleon is hardly in the mood. At least it’s easy to direct the other Americans’ thoughts away from the Soviets when they are being lured onto the dance floor by Cuban ladies clad in flamboyant dresses that cling to their every voluptuous curve.

Watching the scene around him, Napoleon can’t help but wonder if the Soviets have found themselves in a similar club, and whether even now Illya is flirting with any number of lithesome girls with large, brown eyes and sultry, full lips. At first the idea is almost absurd, but how much does he know about the Russian, really? He’s never actually seen him in any kind of social context like a club. Maybe he is flirting, and maybe he’ll take one of those girls back to the hotel for the night. Lord knows he’d have his pick, with his looks.

The thought darkens Napoleon’s mood further, though he knows it has no right to. They’ve never claimed to be exclusive. Hell, for all he knows Illya has a girlfriend back in Moscow.

“You need to take your own advice, Cap,” Hansen yells over the music, suddenly very close to Napoleon. He claps him on the back and pushes a drink into his hand. “Forget about the Soviets and come have some fun. I’m pretty sure that girl over there has been eyeing you all night.”

He nods across the club toward a statuesque woman with long, wavy hair pulled up on one side by a red flower and a devastatingly curvaceous body that looks like it’s been practically poured into her burgundy dress. She is, undoubtedly, staring at them as she sips on her drink, her expression dark and so smouldering it should raise the temperature of the room by several degrees.

Napoleon manages a weak grin at the other man. “I’m fine, promise. Just tired. Jetlag,” he says, even though there’s no reason to be jetlagged from a flight from New York to Havana. “But you should definitely go talk to her.”

With that, he ushers Hansen away and watches as he approaches the woman. She shoots a glance back at Napoleon, who does not miss the disappointment in her gaze, but then seems happy enough to let Hansen lead her out onto the dance floor. For his part, Napoleon nurses his drink as the night wears on, because he might as well, and does his absolute best to not think about Illya.

Blessedly, the rest of the Americans seem to be drained enough by their evening out on the town that they do not suggest going out again the next night. After dinner, Napoleon retires to his room and can almost feel the tension draining from his body now that he’s finally alone. He’s always been a people person, but he never really realized how much he’d come to enjoy the quiet nights during the tournaments.

Which is not to say that he’d prefer to remain alone. He leaves the door unlocked, though he doesn’t know if tonight is a night that Illya will be able to get away, or whether the Russian might be still wrapped up with team obligations. Illya had wanted to come the first night, he reminds himself as he sets methodically sets up his chess set on the table. He’d been so busy he hadn’t even had a chance to do that, and this small ritual also helps to center him.

His door opens earlier than he expected it might, early enough that it doesn’t seem possible that his visitor could be Illya, but no one else would just come in without knocking. It reminds Napoleon of how the Soviets hadn’t had a KGB escort the previous night, and the thought that they really might have a little more freedom during this tournament makes his heart pick up speed. But that is nothing on what it does when he sees how Illya’s face breaks into a wide grin the minute he walks in and sees Napoleon. The expression doesn’t last long before Illya is trying to school it back down into a more controlled, cautious smile, but Napoleon sees it anyway.

“Cowboy,” Illya greets with nod and a failing attempt at nonchalance as he tries to walk casually over to him.

Napoleon, on the other hand, does not fight the (no doubt) idiotic grin splitting his face. Fuck it. He spends enough time hiding the way he wants to look at Illya all day, he’s not going to do it now that they’re finally alone together.

“Peril.”

Illya stops close enough that Napoleon has to tip his head up to look at him in the eye, but he does stop. The proximity is nearly torture; Napoleon aches to reach out and draw him into his arms and kiss him until they both can’t breathe any longer, but he stops himself. Forces himself to wait. He may not care that Illya knows just how happy he is to see him, but there are certainly other things that are best left unknown.

“No clubbing tonight?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Unexpectedly, Illya winces at that, frowning. “Mikhailov. Last night he apparently danced with the wrong woman. A very large and very angry Cuban man broke a bottle over his head.”

“Ouch. He’s ok?”

“Yes,” Illya sighs. “We went to hospital last night, he got stitches. He cannot play for few days, but he will be fine.”

Illya is still standing so tantalizingly close, fidgeting like he’s not entirely sure what to do with his hands, and Napoleon would be lying if he’d said he had hoped they might be beyond this kind of awkwardness by now. Apparently not. Cautiously, he reaches out to run a hand lightly up Illya’s arm to just above his elbow, giving him a small squeeze.

“KGB can’t have been happy about that.”

Illya snorts, shaking his head. “Hardly. But I think they hope this will teach us to stay out of trouble.”

“And?” Napoleon ventures, meeting Illya’s piercing blue gaze. “Did it?”

“Perhaps not,” Illya answers, the corner of his mouth quirking up on one side.

His hands have stopped fidgeting now, and one of them comes to rest on Napoleon’s hip as the other slips behind his neck. Fingertips dig into the hair at the base of Napoleon’s skull, scratching lightly at his scalp, and the sensation makes Napoleon draw in a deep breath as his eyelids threaten to flutter shut. The kiss, when it comes, is light, almost hesitant at first, but as soon as Napoleon leans in to return it enthusiastically the restraint Illya had been holding onto seems to shatter. He pulls Napoleon closer, the hand at his hip sliding around to palm his ass, and within a few minutes there can be no mistaking what his intentions for the evening are.

“No chess tonight?” Napoleon teases, smirking when Illya pulls back for air. Though, to be fair, chess was also the lesser of their potential activities that he had been excited about.

“It’s been two months, Cowboy,” Illya rumbles as he mouths across Napoleon’s jaw. “I need you.”

And, well, who is Napoleon to argue with that? “Fair enough,” he sighs, sliding his arms around Illya’s waist to pull their bodies more firmly together.

Illya returns his attentions to Napoleon’s mouth, then, kissing him long and deep and filthy, and Napoleon had not forgotten what it was like to be with this man, as if he ever could, but apparently he hadn’t fully remembered either. His heart is racing and his head is spinning with a swirl of emotions that are better not teased apart, and he lets out a choked whimper when Illya grinds their hips together.

“What—ah—were you thinking of?” Napoleon manages to gasp as Illya begins unbuttoning his shirt.

He doesn’t get an answer to that question. Illya has only made it halfway down when there is a sharp knock on Napoleon’s door, and then, instead of waiting for an answer, whoever it is tries the handle. Which is unlocked, because they hadn’t bothered with it after Illya had come charging in, because who just goes around walking into other people’s hotel rooms?

Illya pulls back, looking at him with eyes gone as wide as saucers, before scrambling away when Napoleon mouths ‘closet’ and pushes him toward the door that still hangs partly open. He disappears behind it as Napoleon combs his fingers through his tousled hair and hopes, perhaps in vain, that it doesn’t look like he was just getting kissed within an inch of his life.

“Solo? Are you—” one of his teammates says as he pushes the door open and steps tentatively inside.

It’s one of the younger players, a thin, red-haired kid no more than twenty, and it takes Napoleon a moment to remember his name. George Robertson: promising player, needs a little more confidence in his endgame. Robertson glances around the hotel room and back to Napoleon, who realizes a little late that his shirt is still unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Working as quickly and as nonchalantly as he can manage it, Napoleon does up the placket again as if there were nothing odd about this scenario.

“Sorry, I thought I heard voices,” Robertson says, looking confused.

“Ah, I was on the phone,” Napoleon lies. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we might be able to talk through some strategies tonight? My first match is tomorrow and, well, I’m a little nervous.”

It is all Napoleon can do not to sigh, though he can’t quite stop the way his shoulders fall a little. Of course, as the team captain it’s his duty to help out his teammates—even when Robertson should have nothing to worry about tomorrow; the seeding of the preliminaries meant that they wouldn’t see much competition until the finals—but he when he agreed to the role he never expected that this would be the result.

“Right, of course. Why don’t you take a seat,” he says, guiding Robertson to the chair facing away from the door to the room—and the closet. “Can I get you a drink?”

Robertson looks a little flustered in response to this question. “I’m not— I mean, I shouldn’t—”

Jesus, what on Earth did he sign up for? Napoleon puts on his best encouraging smile and pours a few fingers of rum into two tumblers. “It’ll help you relax,” he tells the kid as he walks over to take a seat opposite him. He passes over one of the tumblers, and Robertson takes a sip then, perhaps predictably, coughs at burn of the straight liquor. “Now, tell me about your opening strategy.”

Napoleon glances up the closet as his teammate talks and sees the door swing open just enough for Illya to peek out. Fortunately, Robertson is so focused on the chessboard he doesn’t notice Napoleon’s inattention, nor does he notice as the Russian slips out and tiptoes toward the door of the room. Napoleon sends an apologetic look Illya’s direction, and though he’s obviously frustrated—as Napoleon is—there is a begrudging look of understanding on his face as well. He certainly knows that a captain can’t just send away a member of his team without a very good reason, and getting laid by another team’s captain probably doesn’t count.

Illya closes the door to the room silently behind him, while Napoleon tries his best to pay attention to the kid sitting across the table. He bites back a sigh and takes a drink to cover it; it’s going to be a long night.

Never in his life did Napoleon think he’d actually be annoyed at being expected to socialize. Less than a year ago he’d been complaining to Gaby about how boring most of the evenings are at chess tournaments, because everyone wants to turn in early and hole up in their rooms studying. Now he finds himself wishing that this one was maybe a little more boring, thank you very much. Early in the tournament, though, everyone is a still relaxed and more interested in staying out late at the poolside bar, drinking Cuba libres and mojitos and enjoying the attentions of the stunning Cuban women who frequent the hotel. Napoleon doesn’t know if they’re actually paid by the hotel to be there or just on the lookout for wealthy foreigners to con, but their apparent interest in a bunch of chess players would make him suspicious even if he wasn’t already completely disinterested.

The thing is, Napoleon has a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, so begging off when his teammates want to drag him out once again, like they had after the first night of the tournament, would no doubt look suspicious. After all, the Napoleon Solo from a year ago would have spent every night of the preliminaries drinking and flirting with beautiful, bronzed women, occasionally taking one back to his hotel room for the evening. There’s only one person that turns his head anymore, though, and it is to his surprise that Napoleon finds him already drinking at the poolside bar with the rest of the Soviets when the Americans arrive.

Napoleon and his teammates take over a corner of the bar that is pretty much as far from the Soviets as they can get, but it makes no difference: he can feel Illya’s eyes on him almost the entire night. Glowering at him, like it’s Napoleon’s fault that they’re both apparently stuck here instead of fucking each other senseless back in his hotel room. Or maybe Illya is just glowering at the fact that Napoleon is playing the part that he is expected to play. He smiles broadly at the women who are practically hanging off of him, flirting enough to be believable while his teammates wink encouragingly. If only he could somehow send a message to Illya, perhaps they could both slip away.

Unfortunately, that seems unlikely. The night stretches on, more liquor is drunk, and the women draping themselves across him get friendlier until Napoleon has to forcibly disentangle himself as he dodges a kiss from one of them.

“Pardon me, I really must use the gentlemen’s,” he begs off, a little stiffly, and tries to ignore the confused looks that follow him as he walks to the cabana bathrooms at the other side of the pool.

Napoleon has only barely made it through the door when he hears it open behind him again and slam closed, and then the distinct sound of the lock engaging. He’s not exactly sure what he’s expecting when he turns around, but it’s not for Illya to grab him by his lapels and slam him backwards against the somewhat flimsy walls of the bathroom, which rattle loudly under him.

“Peril, what—” is all he gets out before Illya crushes their lips together, hard and desperate. For a moment he gives into it, tasting the mint and rum on Illya’s tongue as he licks past his teeth, but then reality slips in and reminds him what a terrible idea this is. “What are you doing?” he pants as he pushes Illya off of him and into the middle of the bathroom.

“I cannot take this anymore,” Illya growls, lunging forward again.

This time Napoleon meets him halfway, forcing him sideways and sending them both careening into another wall. He presses against Illya to try to pin him to the wall, which, if had been more sober, he would have realized was a mistake. Illya is already half hard, and when he takes the opportunity to reach between them to palm Napoleon’s cock through his pants, Napoleon realizes that he is rapidly stiffening as well. Fuck. He bites off a groan and glares at Illya, but he doesn’t pull away. He is drunk, and clearly Illya is drunk, and this is perhaps the stupidest thing they could possibly do, but Napoleon just wants him so badly—

“This is insane,” Napoleon hisses, and then he is kissing Illya, just as fierce and desperate as the other man had been.

Illya takes the opportunity of the slack in his posture to push him back again, into the sinks this time, and Napoleon’s back crashes into one of the mirrors hard enough to shatter it, sending a rain of glittering glass slivers down to the floor around them. None of it seems to matter. Illya is already drawing out Napoleon’s aching cock and curling his fist around it, thumbing over the head to collect the precome before he drags his hand down the shaft. His other hand slides behind Napoleon’s neck, gripping hard and pulling him into another searing kiss.

“Seeing you over there,” Illya hisses in his ear, his accent heavy, as his hand moves in firm, rhythmic strokes, “with those women hanging on you, I could not— I—”

His voice clips off with a growl, but Napoleon gets the idea. He reaches between them, making short work of Illya’s belt and fly before he pushes his own hand into Illya’s briefs. The Russian grunts and shudders forward against him, and for a brief second Napoleon wonders if this suit is going to be utterly ruined by the broken glass at his back, but the thought is pushed from his mind because Illya is gasping as Napoleon works him, his movements growing jerky and frantic.

“You know—” Napoleon forces out brokenly, barely audible, as the pressure builds rapidly within him and threatens to blank out his thoughts entirely, “you know it’s just for show. I could never—” he gasps, “I’m yours— I’m yours, Illya.”

Illya comes with a bitten off curse, grinding his teeth together so hard in his attempt to stay quiet that Napoleon is surprised he doesn’t hear them crack. And then almost immediately he pulls away, leaving Napoleon momentarily confused until he drops to his knees. Glass crunches under them, which cannot be comfortable and is really wholly unnecessary, but before he can voice his objections Illya is swallowing him down and he has to bite his lower lip viciously to keep from shouting. Napoleon was already so close that the sudden wet heat of Illya’s mouth is utterly overwhelming. His knuckles go white where his hands grip onto the porcelain basin of the sink underneath him as Illya sucks him off, and it is not long before he comes, every muscle in his body tensing in a desperate, desperate attempt to keep himself silent.

“You’re bleeding,” Illya murmurs, some unknown amount of time later.

Napoleon blinks as the world rematerializes around him, thinking the wound must be the from the broken mirror, but apparently not: he managed to bite into the side of his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he only just now realizes he can taste copper on his tongue. Illya swipes a thumb, achingly gentle, across the edge of his lip to collect a bit that had pooled there. For a moment, as Napoleon stares up into brilliant blue eyes, there is nothing but the two of them, and it is easy to forget they are in a cabana bathroom in Havana with half the tournament’s competitors just outside. Then that moment is quite abruptly shattered when someone pounds loudly on the door, making it rattle in the frame.

“Solo! Are you ok in there?”

Napoleon has to choke back a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “Probably think you beat the snot out of me,” he mutters, smirking up at Illya, who presses his lips together in attempt to fight off his own smile.

“You do look like hell, Cowboy.”

“You should talk,” Napoleon scoffs, gesturing down to the blood stains on Illya’s knees from where the glass had dug into them. “That suit is ruined now.”

Illya’s lips split into a grin, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Worth it.”

“Ugh, Peril, you can’t say things like that,” Napoleon groans as he slumps forward to press his forehead to Illya’s chest.

The pounding comes again, followed by multiple different voices, including some speaking Russian. “Solo! Solo?!” — “Kuryakin?” — “Hey, back off, wouldya?” — “Что происходит?”

“Oh shit,” Napoleon breathes, then calls loudly, “I’m all right! Just— hold on!”

They both do up their pants and buckle their belts in a hurry, but don’t bother with the rest; if the others assume that they’ve been in here fighting, the rumpled clothes will only sell it. And though people thinking they’ve come to blows is not necessarily a good thing, it is far, far better than the truth. Napoleon only catches a glimpse of the scowl that Illya pulls onto his features before he storms toward the door, but damn, the man can certainly sell being furious. He tears the door open and pushes through the crowd of people that have gathered there, looking so murderous that not even the other Soviets dare to stop him.

A couple of Napoleon’s teammates peer a little hesitantly into the open bathroom, gaping at the sight of Napoleon standing amidst a sea of broken glass. With a swipe of the back of his hand over his busted lip, Napoleon carefully buttons the front of his crumpled suit jacket and strolls nonchalantly toward the door.

“We worked it out,” he tells them as he steps outside again, the crowd parting around him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need another drink.”

If someone had asked Napoleon what he might be doing after his match the next morning, he might have guessed perhaps taking in some of the sights, or more likely trying to sleep off the remnants of his hangover in his room. Sitting in a dingy hotel conference room getting chewed out by Sanders would not have been high on that list.

“You are not here to get in brawls with the fucking Ruskies,” Sanders snarls, his face turning successively deeper shades of red. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I—” Napoleon starts, but apparently that was a rhetorical question, because Sanders keeps going.

“I’m not going to have a goddamn international incident on my hands because of a bunch of nerds, you hear me?” he yells, spinning around to the rest of the players. “All of you. Do. Not. Engage. With the Soviets. And you, Solo,” he rounds back toward Napoleon, “you watch yourself, and stay away from Kuryakin. If you so much as sniff in his direction I will have you back on the first flight to Miami. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s not much else to say, really. Sanders storms out of the room, leaving the chess players staring at each other with wide eyes. Most of them avoid looking at Napoleon, which is fine. Whatever. They don’t have to be friends, they just have to win chess games. He could use a friend, though; not for the first time, he desperately wishes Gaby was here.

There’s a whispered discussion among the his teammates that doesn’t include him but is quite clearly about him, and then Hansen steps away from the rest toward him. “Hey, no matter what Sanders says, if you have any more trouble with Kuryakin, just let us know. We’ve got your back.”

“Uh, thanks,” Napoleon says. “But I’m sure it will be fine.”

By now the rest are wandering over, regarding him with a not insubstantial amount of curiosity. “What happened in there, anyway?” Shaw asks. “You left, and the next thing we knew he was on the warpath going after you.”

“Nothing, really,” Napoleon insists. “We, ah, had a discussion.”

“Some discussion,” someone mutters.

“Do they really think they can get away with doing shit like that? He’s not even getting any sanctions!” Hansen huffs.

“No one’s getting away anything,” Napoleon replies, a little desperately. This situation is rapidly getting out of hand. He certainly never expected that his teammates would be so protective, but then again half the time it seemed like the two factions were just looking for an excuse to have it out. “If they sanctioned him they’d have to sanction me, too. Look, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but listen to Sanders. Just leave it. We’ll make sure to make them pay in the finals, ok? The right way. Taking away the gold will hurt them so much more than a few bruises.”

Several of them are nodding now, apparently in agreement with this proposal, which is a relief. The last thing Napoleon needs is his team stirring up trouble with Illya’s over a completely fictional fight. In reality, Napoleon thinks their chance at team gold is exceedingly low, but if the idea will fire them up for the matches and redirect their aggressions, he’ll take it.

“The offer still stands,” Shaw says gruffly, his arms folded across his chest. He’s the only one of the others that actually looks like he could hold his own in a fight, and also the only one who looks like he’s still itching for one. “Kuryakin lays a hand on you, you tell us.”

“Yeah, of course. I will,” Napoleon tells him.

He certainly will not.

Chapter Text

Oleg says nothing to him about the “fight”, which, Illya has to admit, he was not expecting. Perhaps he tacitly approves of such a thing, which is not something that Illya cares to consider. The reputation of his youth is the very last thing he wants to return to, not after he’s spent so many years trying to leave it behind.

In any case, he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. This is not Illya’s first Olympiad, but it is his first as captain, and he did not fully understand how the demands on his time would change. Even during the preliminaries, where most of the matches in their group are all but forgone conclusions, the sheer volume of matches that are crammed into a two-week period is dizzying to keep track of. If he had thought things might settle after the first few days and that he and Napoleon might find more time to be together, he is chagrined to find that he had been sorely mistaken.

Which is not to say that they do not make time, when they can. The KGB’s watch over him, even during the day, is greatly relaxed, and he finds that he can slip away at odd hours, at least for brief periods. It’s only two days after the bathroom incident that he manages to lure Napoleon away from the sessions, though it’s fairly difficult to get his meaning across until he presses the other man into the elevator.

“Do you know,” Napoleon gasps as Illya practically attacks his neck on the seemingly interminable trip up to Napoleon’s 28th-floor room, “my team told me that I should tell them if you laid a hand on me. It’s almost cute, how protective they are.”

Illya pulls back to look at him, allowing a wolfish smile to curl his lips. He deliberately removes his hands from where they had been clutching Napoleon’s hips, and presses them against the elevator wall on either side of Napoleon’s head as he leans close. “So then if I use only my mouth, you are in the clear?”

Napoleon gulps and his eyes go wide even as they darken with lust. “Y–yeah, that works,” he manages, nodding eagerly.

When they finally tumble into Napoleon’s room, Illya is true to his word and sucks him off without laying a hand on him, which has no business being as hot as it is. Napoleon, bearing no such restrictions, is all hands, seemingly intent on making up for the lost contact by attempting to touch every inch of Illya during the limited time they have. When they both return to the sessions—staggering their entrances, of course—Illya has to consider that the idea had been both amazing and also terrible, because now he has to somehow critically observe chess matches without giving away how well-fucked he feels. Letting the sex slip out of the safety of the late night hours seems like a recipe for disaster.

So of course, they do it again. They don’t mean to, at first, not really, but then after days of not being able to get away at night, they both come to some kind of breaking point again, and again, and again. They develop a series of subtle signals to use during the day, their eyes unerringly finding each other across the massive ballroom full of tables where the matches take place. The sheer number of people milling about provides the unforeseen benefit of a crowd to get lost in and mask their movements, and if any of his teammates notice when he goes missing for an hour here or there, they don’t say anything. Anyway, there’s lots of reasons people duck out of the circus that is the prelims. Illya would hardly be the first captain to need a break from it all.

The Olympiad makes him long for the relative tranquility of a smaller tournament like Mar del Plata, and all the hours he and Napoleon had together in the evenings then. It’s not even just the sex; he misses the long, leisurely games they’d play, and the discussions they’d have. He takes not a small amount of comfort in the fact that less than a month after the Olympiad ends, they are both scheduled to compete in the Palma de Mallorca tournament; even in late November, the mediterranean island promised to be idyllic, and all the moreso because the relaxed schedule of matches should allow them to spend a lot more time together.

He just has to make it through the next three weeks.

On a bright and sunny afternoon toward the end of the second week of the tournament, Illya somewhat unexpectedly finds himself at loose ends. The Soviets’ matches against Monaco and Uruguay had been early and hardly worth discussing, so Oleg had dismissed them early and told them to enjoy the break before preparation for the finals would begin in earnest. The others had scattered—Belinsky, who had brought his wife and young son with him, went to the zoo, Sorokin out shopping, Zaytsev and Kozlov to the beach—and the KGB had followed them, leaving Illya completely alone back at the hotel. He doesn’t quite believe it at first, but he can find no trace of them anywhere, and he is not about to look at the teeth of a gift horse.

A quick glance at the match schedule suggests that Napoleon’s afternoon might be similarly free, though Illya doesn’t really expect that the American will be sitting around in his hotel room on such a beautiful day. Still, there’s a chance Illya might catch him, and that they might spend the entire afternoon together, which would be unheard of. It’s just about lunch time, so he runs out to grab a couple of pressed Cuban sandwiches and cold beers from a street vendor before he heads up to Napoleon’s room; if Napoleon isn’t there or already ate, Illya is quite sure that he’ll have no trouble devouring the leftovers some other time.

But Napoleon is in his room, after all, and his expression of surprise and delight when he opens the door to find Illya on the other side, trying to juggle the beers and sandwiches, makes Illya’s lips want to tug into an answering grin.

“Peril? What—? How—? What’s all this?” Napoleon asks, clearly overwhelmed by questions.

Illya shrugs as nonchalantly as he can manage, glancing down at his offerings. “Thought you might want some lunch?”

“Absolutely,” Napoleon enthuses, stepping back to let him in. “But how—? Where are the KGB?”

“Not watching me today,” Illya tells him as he crosses the room to deposit the food and drinks on the table. “The others, they went out, so the KGB followed them. Left me alone because they think I won’t get into trouble at the hotel.”

Napoleon’s grin widens. “Little do they know.” He comes close to Illya, then, placing a hand on his hip and drawing him into a brief, chaste kiss that nonetheless still has the ability to make Illya’s heart pick up speed. “Mm, I’m starving. What’s for lunch?”

“Just sandwiches from the vendor down the block,” Illya says. He passes Napoleon one of the wrapped packages and tries not to be disappointed when he steps away and settles into one of the chairs; they have the entire afternoon, after all, which feels like an absurdly indulgent amount of time to spend together.

Napoleon must have been telling the truth about being hungry, because he tucks into the sandwich with abandon, letting out a moan that Illya usually hears under much different circumstances as he does. “Christ, this is fantastic. I swear, if I don’t leave this country twenty pounds heavier it will be a miracle.”

It’s not until this moment that Illya realizes that this is the first meal they’ve ever shared. Not that this is surprising; even before the madness of this tournament, their situation typically constrained their interactions to the late evenings, which effectively eliminated most of the simple day-to-day activities he might expect to share with a friend. He hadn’t really thought about it when he decided to get lunch for them, but now he wonders if it was a good idea. Because now that he has seen Napoleon eat—now that he’s listened to the passion with which Napoleon waxes rhapsodical about a simple sandwich of pork and mustard and pickles, though Illya has to admit it is a really good sandwich—he knows how much of Napoleon he is still missing. How much he does not get to see, not because Napoleon is hiding it from him, but just because they don’t get to have these little moments that one typically takes for granted in any relationship.

“You care a lot about food, Cowboy,” Illya ventures when Napoleon finally runs out of praise for the sandwich.

Something glimmers in Napoleon’s eye as he grins. “You could say that.” He sits back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and clasping his hands over his stomach as he stares off into the distance, almost wistful. “If only I could cook for you, Peril, then you’d really see. Much as I enjoy eating good food, I enjoy cooking it even more. And there’s nothing quite like cooking for someone you l—” he falters, “well, cooking for a friend.”

“Sounds… nice,” Illya tries, though the words are wholly insufficient for the feelings that are twisting in his chest right now.

“Yeah.”

They both fall silent for several minutes, until Napoleon seems to shake off whatever pensive mood had settled over him. He takes a long sip of his beer, then glances over at Illya.

“So how long do I have you all to myself today?”

“I’ll be expected at dinner,” Illya says.

“Excellent. Shall I grab the board, or did you have other things in mind?”

A couple of hours—and one mostly-finished chess game—later finds them naked and spent in the bed, the warmth of the afternoon threatening to lull Illya to sleep. He is lying stretched out on his stomach, his head tilted just enough to look out of the corner of his eye at where Napoleon’s head is pillowed in the dip of his lower back. As the sweat dries his hair is curling into charming ringlets that he seldom allows, and Illya thinks perhaps he should let it grow a bit, embrace the curls and let them fall across his forehead. Then again, Illya is not sure how he would manage to keep his hands out of it in that case.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter what Illya thinks. Napoleon might have gasped out those impossible, terrifying, wonderful words in the bathroom—words that still ring in his head nearly on loop: I’m yours—but Illya’s not stupid enough to try to hold Napoleon to things he might say in the heat of passion. He can’t let himself hold onto them, can’t let himself be convinced that he is more to Napoleon than a friend with some unusual benefits. He knows it’s not the truth, anyway. Someone as vibrant and as beautiful as Napoleon could never be tied down to a single person, especially not someone like Illya. Even if—if—Napoleon felt even a fraction of what Illya knows is buried in his own heart, it wouldn’t matter. Two men, an American and a Russian on top of that fact: they could never have a life together, never anything more than what little they already have. If this doesn’t actually mean anything, then what they have is enough, but if it does… well, what they have now will never be enough, and that fact will inevitably destroy them both. So he clings stubbornly to his denial, even as his resolve is constantly assaulted as he slips further and further into a yawning abyss.

He wonders if similar thoughts have occurred to Napoleon, or whether his own brand of ridiculous American optimism buoys him beyond the reality of their situation. Sometimes it seems that way, and though it might be annoying, Illya cannot blame him for it. Of course, the more likely alternative is that these thoughts don’t trouble Napoleon because this was never meant to be more than casual arrangement. It was never meant to mean anything in the first place. In any case, the matter doesn’t seem to be in his thoughts now; he is staring up at the ceiling, a minute furrow of concentration between his brows as one of his hands traces out a seemingly random but deliberate pattern on the bed next to him.

“What are you doing?” Illya murmurs after he has watched him for a little while.

Napoleon smiles, his brow smoothing out, and tips his head a bit to glance up at Illya. “Just playing through a match from earlier today.”

“We could get the board, if you like.”

“Nah,” Napoleon says, “it wasn’t a particularly interesting one. I’m perfectly content like this. Unless you want to get up?”

Illya frowns and gives his head a small shake. “Not yet.” Not ever, but that is better left unpacked.

“What’s it like to have this much freedom?” Napoleon asks, returning his gaze to the ceiling. He’s joking, mostly, the side of his mouth tilted up in a smirk, but for Illya, the question strikes a nerve.

“Unbelievable,” he answers seriously.

Napoleon’s smirk slides away. “Do they ever start, I don’t know, trusting you? When you’ve proved you’re not going to run?”

“They do, to an extent,” Illya allows. “It is one of the reasons they do not watch me so closely this tournament.”

“What are the others?”

Illya pauses, on the edge of a precipice. He has never willingly opened up to anyone about his family, and all of the messy past that inevitably comes with it. Which is not to say that others do not know; plenty of them do, far more than he would like, but they do not know because Illya has told them. That night in Argentina, when Napoleon had unwittingly pressed all of his buttons, surfaces in his memories, and he wants to say he doesn’t know what has changed, but that is so absurd a lie that it is incomprehensible. Everything has changed. Illya has changed, irrevocably.

“I have family in Moscow,” he admits. He feels Napoleon tense, and wonders what the other man is thinking. If he worries that this is a topic he’s not allowed to know about, and if it will make Illya storm out like it did all those months ago.

“Oh?” Napoleon asks, tightness in his voice, like he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“My mother. If I were to defect, they would use her as leverage. Make things go… poorly for her. Even more than they already have. I could never—” Illya’s voice clips off, throat closing at even the idea. He swallows hard. “I could never. And the KGB knows it. That is the price of this illusion of freedom.”

Silence settles over them. They had left the window open, and the hushed, rhythmic crash of the waves on the shore drifts into the room along with muted sounds of activity on the street in the late afternoon, far below them. Illya could almost believe Napoleon had drifted to sleep, except he can see that his eyes are open and bright as they stare up at the ceiling, apparently processing this information. Perhaps Napoleon is uncovering the same twisted paradox that Illya has often considered: that they have these stolen moments together only because his mother is no better than a hostage in her own country. That he is only “free” here because he is not free at all.

“She must be very proud of you,” Napoleon says eventually, almost a whisper.

It is not what Illya expected, nor did he expect the deep, unmistakable melancholy that colors Napoleon’s tone. Without really thinking about it, he pushes up on his elbows, twisting his upper body more fully to get a better look at him. “She is.” He allows another beat of silence, and then: “And your mother, Cowboy?”

Napoleon’s head finally tips toward him, and though there is a half smile on his lips, his eyes are a miasma of sorrow and wistfulness and resignation. “I like to think she would be.”

“Sorry, I did not mean—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Napoleon interrupts, shaking his head a little against Illya’s back. “I lost her a long time ago.”

Illya wants to say that those two things do not always follow, wants to say that he lost his father a long time ago and it is not anywhere close to fine. He doesn’t, although this time it is not because he doesn’t want to share that part of himself. It is merely not the right thing to say in this moment, not the right time, but that conclusion inherently implies that there would be a right time. All at once, he is filled with a shocking assuredness that he will tell Napoleon, one day, because there is no part of him that does not already belong to the American. He stares, speechless, suddenly lost in a sea of his own emotions.

Napoleon rolls onto his side and pushes himself up onto one elbow, and the loss of contact between them only seems to set Illya further adrift. Nothing feels entirely real. The late afternoon sun filtering through the gauzy curtains has painted Napoleon's naked form in a warm, golden light, transforming him effortlessly into a Greek god; Apollo, perhaps, or Helios, the sun himself. Illya turns over and sits up slowly, drawn to the other man like Icarus, and it feels unerringly like if he were to reach forward to touch him the illusion—this room, this bed, this moment—would shatter. But Napoleon is the one who reaches across the space between them, tangling their fingers together and pulling him back to shore.

“That’s the story behind the janitor thing, you know,” he says softly.

The statement so out of nowhere that it takes Illya a moment to place it: what Napoleon had said about his father, before, though he still can’t make heads or tails of it. “What?”

“She died when I was 11,” Napoleon tells him. He’s not looking at Illya, staring instead at their hands as he twines them together and apart again, warm fingers playing across Illya’s palm. “Cancer. My dad was never in the picture. Mom always told me he was a soldier, and died in the war, but I think it’s just as likely he was a deadbeat. Or never knew about me in the first place.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have much in the way of family left, so they sent me to an orphanage, and, well, no one wants to adopt an 11-year-old boy. That’s where I learned to play chess.”

“They taught you chess in the orphanage?”

“Oh no, definitely not,” Napoleon chuckles, shaking his head. “Didn’t get much of an education that wasn’t the word of god, to be honest with you. But there was a janitor there, Mr. Bennett. He played, by himself mostly, and I saw him at it once. Shoulda been another case of my curiosity getting me into trouble, but he taught me the game instead.” He glances up at Illya through his dark lashes, lips curling into a mischievous smile. “I guess I have a bit of a history with sneaking off to play secret chess matches.”

“Except I am doing all the sneaking now, Cowboy,” Illya points out. 

“Fair enough, Peril.”

For a moment Napoleon is silent again, but the story doesn’t really feel complete. Illya curls his hand around Napoleon’s, and when he gives it a squeeze the other man finally looks up at him fully. “He was important to you.”

“He is,” Napoleon confirms. “Like I said, the only father figure I ever had. I was such a terror before I learned to play chess. He gave me direction, something meaningful to do with my life. Everything I have, everything I’ve become… it’s all thanks to him.”

“Is he…?” Illya starts before he realizes he doesn’t really want to ask that question. Hell, he already accidentally asked Napoleon about his dead mother. This time he gets a reprieve, though.

Napoleon smiles. “He’s still around. The orphanage is upstate, so I don’t get up there that often to visit, but we write lots of letters. Still play chess, though the correspondance games take a lot longer, especially with all the traveling I do now.” He’s quite for a moment. “I wish you could meet him, Peril. He’d like you.”

“I wish I could meet him, too,” Illya hears himself murmur.

“Maybe some day.”

It’s a nice sentiment, even though such a thing would be nigh impossible. It is unlikely he will be allowed to return to the States any time soon; the Russian Chess Federation rarely deigned to acknowledge most American tournaments, considering them neither prestigious enough nor worth the risk of defection. Not to mention that social calls with random Americans would certainly never be allowed.

The smile that Napoleon is giving him is too soft, and oddly self-deprecating. “So what do you think?” he asks.

“Of what, Cowboy?”

“The real Napoleon Solo.”

Illya’s breath catches in his throat. I love him, he cannot say. I love you. As impossible as it is, the realization isn’t sudden or unexpected. It’s as if the truth was always there, hidden away deep inside him, and every moment of this afternoon—every moment of this tournament, every moment he has spent with Napoleon since the day they met—has peeled away another layer that had been concealing it. Then, in the face of this silent admission, he can’t breathe at all. That is not what this is; Illya has crossed an unspoken, invisible line, but it is a line that exists all the same. The infernal gravity of the abyss drags him ever downward, and he knows with crushing certainty that the little they have now will never, ever be enough.

“Too much?” Napoleon says when he doesn’t respond, the smirk playing on his lips doing little to hide the sudden aching vulnerability in his deep blue eyes. “For most people it’s too much.”

Illya pulls him forward, lifting his free hand to cradle Napoleon’s jaw and tip his face up. “Never,” Illya whispers against his lips.

Napoleon whimpers into the kiss, like he can feel the words that Illya did not say, and Illya can only clutch him tighter. It is too much, far too much, but not in the way that Napoleon thinks. They kiss for minutes, hours, days—he can no longer tell—until eventually the vise around Illya’s heart eases its relentless pressure and the tension finally bleeds from Napoleon’s shoulders. The weight that had settled over the room seems to lift, and once again Illya finds something like solid ground beneath his feet. He can do this. He can be what Napoleon needs him to be, and no more. Napoleon scoots closer, moving by centimeters, and then Illya feels Napoleon’s hand start to slide suggestively up the inside of his thigh.

“I will have to go to dinner soon,” Illya scolds, smiling despite himself into the kiss.

Napoleon’s fingers are decidedly undeterred by this warning, and Illya can feel the blood rushing to his groin as his cock stirs with interest. “Not for couple of hours at least,” Napoleon argues, smirking. His hand teases along Illya’s stiffening length, brushing lightly over the head in a kind of exquisite torture. “Someone agrees with me.”

“You’re wrong about something, Cowboy,” Illya groans, tipping his head back as Napoleon mouths his way along the taut muscle of his neck.

Napoleon pulls back slightly, just enough to cock an eyebrow at him. “What’s that?”

“You are still a terror.”

A wide, wicked grin splits Napoleon’s mouth at that and he surges forward, pinning him to the bed. Illya laughs as he goes, pulling the other man with him just as much as he is pushed, and then Napoleon is kissing him again, unhurried in a sinfully indulgent way. Eventually he breaks away, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of Illya’s ear.

“I want you to fuck me,” he murmurs, voice pitched so low Illya feels the vibrations more than he hears the words. Illya’s thoughts stutter to a stop at that, sure that he did not in fact hear them correctly, but then Napoleon pulls back again and fixes Illya with his steely blue gaze. “I want to feel you inside me.”

Illya cannot say that he has not thought of it before, that he has not wondered what it would feel like to have Napoleon’s body clenching around him, but he generally tried to forestall such fantasies during the months they had been apart. For one, because he didn’t know if Napoleon would be interested in such a thing, but also because the way that those fantasies made him feel terrified him. They spoke to the hungry, possessive thing in his chest, the thing that made him want to believe Napoleon could ever truly be his. If he was going to keep this thing between them from going too far, if he was going to keep them both from ruin, he had to keep that part of himself tightly locked away.

But now… now, in the space of two weeks, Napoleon has made such just a claim himself, and has opened up about his past and made Illya want to open up in turn, and is currently straddling him asking to be fucked… and it is too much for Illya to fight anymore. This afternoon has stripped every last shred of his restraint away, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. He might as well say the words he held back earlier, because if they do this then Napoleon will know, he will see them written all over Illya’s face, and that will be the end.

Napoleon doesn’t see his face, though. No, he flips himself onto his stomach and says he wants Illya to plow him into the mattress, like it’s nothing. Illya supposes it should be, at this point, given everything else they’ve done. Why should this one act mean anything more? It’s not Napoleon’s fault that Illya has gone and let himself fall in love, like an idiot. But at least this time he doesn’t have to guard his expressions— not like he would have been able to, with Napoleon moaning under him, hot and tight and so much more overwhelming than he could have ever imagined. Napoleon’s demands of harder, faster, more are like a fire licking up his spine, and he can’t quite stop himself from silently pressing the words into the sweat-slicked skin of Napoleon’s back while he is too wrecked by Illya pounding into him to notice. The abyss swallows Illya whole, and just for today, he does not fight it. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, he will be stronger, but today he gives in and lets the emotion expand in his chest until it feels like his ribcage is going to burst.

I love you, he thinks after, when Napoleon holds him close and tangles their bodies together so that he loses track of where one of them ends and the other begins. I love you, again and again, on loop, like maybe if he says it in his head enough times he can get it out of his system. Who knows? Illya has never felt like this before. Maybe he can.

Most of his team are already standing around in a circle and chatting loudly when Illya makes his way to the lobby that evening. Despite the bleak tone of his earlier thoughts, he feels a little like he’s floating; a side effect of spending that much time with Napoleon, no matter if he’d spent a decent chunk of it contemplating how doomed his own heart is. Zaytsev, his face flushed red from the sun, is in the middle of telling a story about their time at the beach, and Illya tries his best to slip in between Sorokin and Mikhailov unnoticed. It apparently doesn’t work.

“Someone put his afternoon to good use,” Kozlov quips when Zaytsev finishes.

There can be no mistake that his smirk is directed at Illya, but Illya glances to either side of him for good measure, because there is no way that they can possibly know what he’s been up to. “Me?” he asks, when the others shake their heads. “I stayed here.”

“And had a better time than all the rest of us, it seems,” Kozlov says. “Who is she?”

Illya’s blood runs cold. “Who?”

“Whoever you’ve been slipping off to fuck all tournament,” Sorokin elaborates. 

And now, now Illya is pretty sure there is actual ice in his veins. All of his thoughts come to a grinding halt, and he gapes at them stupidly for a second before he manages to find his voice again. “I don’t know what—”

Kozlov’s snort interrupts him. “Oh, come off it. You disappear for an hour and you come back all smiley. Well, smiley for you, which is how most people look at a funeral. You all but skipped across the lobby tonight. You’re clearly getting laid, so the only question is how you’ve managed to hide her so well.”

“And why you’re bothering,” Zaytsev adds. “Unless— she doesn’t have a husband, does she? Did you learn nothing from Mikhailov?”

“Hey!” Mikhailov says, one hand coming up instinctively to brush at the bandage still covering his head wound from the first night. “She wanted to dance with me.”

“Maybe she’s actually hideous, and that’s why he’s hiding her,” Sorokin muses.

Kozlov laughs. “Right. The man who turns down three times as many beautiful women as the rest of us is going to choose a dog.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Oh!” Zaytsev chirps. “Maybe it’s that Chilean woman in the tournament. Belinda, was it? She’s pretty cute.” Some of the others nod, like this makes sense, as the younger Russian turns to Illya. “You know, I’m pretty sure it’s not actually against the rules to sleep with a player from another team.”

“Something tells me Oleg wouldn’t agree,” Mikhailov says.

“Oleg can go pound sand,” Kozlov scoffs, but he pitches his voice low enough not to carry even though there’s no sign of the KGB around them. “It’s bad enough they schedule the women’s olympiad in another city, and then Kuryakin goes and scoops up the only woman in this one.”

“I’m not sleeping with her,” Illya grinds out between clenched teeth before they can keep going. “I am not sleeping with anyone.”

Sorokin smirks. “Of course you’re not. Can’t sleep if she can’t actually stay the night.”

“Who cannot stay the night?” a new voice asks, and Illya nearly jumps out of his skin. But it’s only Belinsky.

“Whatever hot Cuban—”

“Or Chilean,” Zaytsev interjects.

“—or Chilean tail Kuryakin has been getting lately,” Kozlov finishes. Belinsky frowns disapprovingly.

“I am not—” Illya seethes, fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails will soon draw blood. He presses his lips tightly shut when Belinsky’s wife and kid join them, though, more than happy to take the excuse of an eight-year-old’s presence to end the conversation. He glares daggers at the rest of them. “I think I am not so hungry tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon Kuryakin,” Kozlov says, catching his arm before he can depart. “We’re just giving you a hard time. We didn’t mean to upset you.” He looks a little chagrinned, like he regrets bringing it up in the first place. “At least one of us is getting la—” his eyes drop to Belinsky’s son, “er, some companionship these days. If you want to keep whoever she is a secret, that’s your business.”

The others nod in agreement, and though Illya still yanks his arm out of Kozlov’s grasp, he doesn’t storm off like he’d been planning to. He is actually hungry, despite his protests, and not going to dinner with the rest of them will raise more questions with the KGB than he cares for. “Fine,” he grunts, glaring at them all in turn, “let’s go.”

He does not look back to see if they are following him, but he can hear a low murmur of conversation pick up behind him. No doubt it’s about him, which he very much does not appreciate, but he ignores it all the same. They haven’t gotten far when Zaytsev unexpectedly appears at his elbow. Illya had figured that they would all give him a wide berth for a little while.

“I can’t really speak for all of the others,” the younger man begins, a little tentatively, “but you needn’t be so concerned. We’re not going to report on you to Oleg, or the KGB, or whatever you’re worried about. I’d even run interference for you, you know, if you ever needed it.”

“Do you promise?” Illya blurts before he really thinks about it. It’s as much a tacit admission that something is going on as he’s given thus far.

The question seems to catch Zaytsev off guard. “Promise what?”

“You wouldn’t report me?”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Zaytsev replies incredulously. “I swear.”

“Ok,” Illya says a few moments later, and then adds a quiet, “thank you.”

It doesn’t really make him feel better, not like he might have thought. Zaytsev seems to be an honorable man, but Illya has no illusions about what that promise would be worth if he really knew what Illya was doing. Certainly any of the others would report him without a moment’s hesitation.

The topic is not brought up again that evening, although Illya can’t tell if that’s for his sake or just in deference to the presence of Belinsky’s family. Illya, however, spends the entire dinner dwelling on the fact that he’d been so easily read by his teammates. And if they could read him, who else could? How much do the KGB really know? He’d been living in a dream world, thinking they could get away with this. The real question is: is he going to be able to make himself wake up?

Chapter Text

Napoleon is studying one of their older games when the door to his hotel room swings open. Leaving it unlocked had become a force of habit, but he certainly hadn’t expected any visits tonight. After the afternoon he’d spent with Illya, he was rather looking forward to a quiet evening, alone with his thoughts.

Not that it hadn’t been amazing. That was, in fact, entirely the problem. Between Illya thoughtfully bringing him lunch, the unexpectedly open talk of their families, and, well, their other activities, Napoleon had been left more than a little overwhelmed by it all. He never really intended to spill his whole life story, but it had just kind of come pouring out. Only a few people knew all of it, and he long since stopped trying to explain even parts to anyone else. Illya seemed to draw it out of him, though, listening with earnest interest, and then he hadn’t immediately run off in the opposite direction because “no one needs that kind of drama in their life”—an actual quote from one of Napoleon’s exes, never mind that it’s Napoleon’s life in the first place—but had instead held him close and kissed him tenderly… well, if Napoleon hadn’t already been stupidly in love with the Russian, he certainly is now.

He had been, though. In love with him. In a rather unfortunately unequivocal manner. Seeing Illya again absolutely had not put things into perspective, had not reminded him of the good reasons for boundaries on their relationship, and had certainly not convinced him that he’d built up Illya more in his mind than he deserved in the intervening months. Every stolen moment with him just tipped Napoleon further and further over the edge, but after this afternoon he was well and truly a goner.

Which brings us back to the problem. Ok, so Illya hadn’t listed a girlfriend when discussing the ties in Moscow preventing him from defecting, but that doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean that he thinks of Napoleon as anything more than a fuck buddy, and for good reason. Why would he even consider such a thing? They both know they can’t have anything more than what they do now—not with the way the world is, not realistically—and Napoleon knows that Illya is nothing if not a realist. He’d showed as much that afternoon, when he so clearly laid out why he could never defect, quite thoroughly extinguishing that one tiny glimmer of hope Napoleon hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto. So in the end all this afternoon had done was cement that Napoleon is going to get his heart absolutely crushed when this all ends, like it inevitably will some day.

Most people, when faced with such a realization, might try to pull back, to end things before they got any worse. It’s the reasonable thing to do. Hell, Napoleon himself would have done just such a thing—probably had done, sometime in the past, though usually he never let anyone get close enough for it to be an issue—but he knows with an unerring certainty that he’ll never be strong enough to pull away from Illya. This fact is all but confirmed by the way his heart lurches, actually lurches, for Christ’s sake, when Illya walks into his room that evening, a concerned frown etched deep into his face.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Napoleon says as he slips behind a carefully constructed façade of playful insouciance. “And I though my libido was active. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be ready for round three just yet, Peril. I, for one, can hardly walk this evening.”

He might have expected an eye roll and a look of exasperation, or, if he was lucky, a flush of red dusting those lovely cheekbones and some mumbled protests about shamelessness. He does not expect Illya’s frown to deepen, the sight of which sends a knife of panic sliding easily through his ribs.

“Cowboy,” Illya says, his voice flat. “We need to talk.”

“Ok,” Napoleon answers carefully. “Drink?”

Illya shakes his head as he walks over to the window, which is still open to allow the the quiet melodies of a street busker, strumming out ballads on his guitar, to drift in on the warm nighttime breeze. Illya stands there, staring into the night in silence despite his stated desire for a conversation, and Napoleon wonders if maybe he should be getting himself a drink. For now he just waits, though.

“My team have noticed something is different with me,” Illya says eventually.

“What kind of something?”

There is another beat of silence before he answers. “They think I am getting laid.”

This is definitely not the answer Napoleon was anticipating. To be honest he thought it was only a matter of time before the Soviets noticed that Illya’s strategy had shifted subtly, and perhaps that Napoleon’s game had changed as well. But perhaps he was giving them too much credit, and at the same time not enough.

“Well,” Napoleon says. “You are.”

Illya glances at him just long enough to shoot him a withering glare before turning back to stare out the window. “This is not good, Cowboy.”

“Ok, yeah, I can see that,” Napoleon allows, “but clearly they haven’t noticed who you’re getting laid by, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation, right?” At that, Illya only grunts in confirmation. “They’re grasping at straws,” Napoleon reasons. “Are they going to dig to figure it out?”

“No,” Illya admits after considering this for a moment. “I do not think my teammates will. KGB, however… they will dig, if they suspect.” He pauses to take a deep breath, closing his eyes as if trying to collect himself, and when he speaks again it is barely a whisper. “This is too dangerous.”

Napoleon doesn’t want to hear that. He can’t accept it, even if it’s the truth. Because accepting it means the end of whatever this is, for good, and the idea makes a cold lump of dread form in the pit of his stomach. “So we’re more careful going forward, then.”

“Cowboy—” Illya begins to protest, but Napoleon cuts him off before he can get any further.

“No one noticed all of the Piatigorsky Cup,” he points out, hoping he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. “It was only when we started meeting during the day. We can go back to nights only.”

Illya doesn’t reply, but Napoleon can see the muscle of his jaw clenching as he thinks. He hasn’t said no yet, at least. It’s something. Sensing the cracks in the wall Illya is trying to construct between them, Napoleon rises and joins him in front of the window. He risks reaching out despite Illya’s posture, arms crossed defensively over his chest, placing his hands lightly on Illya’s shoulders and then letting them slide down to rest at his elbows.

“Illya, please,” Napoleon murmurs, and if he sounds a little desperate now, well, so be it. He is desperate. “This— this is important to me,” he manages. That’s not too revealing, right? In any case, Illya doesn’t seem more perturbed by this statement than he already was, though that isn’t saying much. He still won’t meet Napoleon’s eyes, which is more than a little concerning, and his posture hasn’t relaxed at all. “And if I’m not mistaken, I think it’s important to you, too. Can we— can we at least try?”

The silence stretches on long enough that Napoleon feels his heart plummeting to somewhere in the region of his ankles. Illya might not have said no, but he hasn’t said yes either, and it’s starting to feel like he’s just trying to find a way to let Napoleon down easier. But then, finally, he closes his eyes again, presses his lips together, and jerks his head in a way that can only be described as a nod.

“Ok,” Illya says. “We can try. But,” he adds sharply, glaring at the smile that Napoleon cannot fight back, “if anything goes wrong, if there is any sign that someone is trying to find out more, we cannot see each other anymore.”

“Yes, of course,” Napoleon agrees too quickly, without really thinking. At this point, he would agree to anything to keep Illya with him. The urge to pull him into his arms is almost overwhelming, but he resists, because despite the fact that Illya agreed, his posture is still rigid and foreboding. “So, ah, who do they think you’re sleeping with, then?” he ventures. He’s not entirely sure that it’s the right thing to ask to lighten the mood, but it seems to have the desired effect because Illya’s shoulders drop a little as he huffs out a soft laugh.

“Belinda Reyes,” he answers wryly.

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at that. “The woman on the Chilean team?” Illya nods, and Napoleon shrugs. “Well, you could do worse.”

“Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, half a sigh, as the rest of the tension bleeds out of his body, but Napoleon stops him with a finger laid lightly on his lips.

“Shh. It’ll be ok,” he promises, despite the fact that he really shouldn’t. He knows better than that. But it doesn’t stop him from pulling Illya into a kiss and losing himself in the way Illya melts into his embrace.

The thing is, it is ok, for a while. Now that the finals are upon them, people are spending the evenings in their hotel rooms rather than out at clubs, which means that Napoleon and Illya can spend most nights together again. Apparently Illya’s teammates have kept to their word that they wouldn’t pry, and anyway everyone is too preoccupied worrying about the final matches to pay attention to them. For a little while Napoleon can forget that this is doomed and about the feelings that make everything so much more complicated, and instead just enjoy the pleasure of Illya’s company. Things are good. Great, even.

Which is how he should have known that it was never going to last.

In his defense, he was only on that floor in the first place because he’d been looking for a working ice maker.

It’s much later than he usually stays up when Nikolai finds himself wandering the halls of the hotel on floors he’s never ventured to before. Normally he’d be asleep by now, especially before a match like his one tomorrow, but it’s that precise thing that’s keeping him up now. He very much would not like to admit how nervous he is for his match against that arrogant American asshole, Napoleon Solo, but the way that his mind absolutely refuses to rest speaks rather strongly to that point. He’d thought maybe he’d have a drink to calm himself, but if there’s one thing Nikolai cannot abide it’s warm liquor, and thus: the search for ice.

It turns out that his is not the only floor cursed with a non-functional ice maker; he’s not sure how many of them he checks before he finally finds one that’s working on the 28th floor. He hums softly as he fills the bucket and does his best to not think about the match tomorrow. Having successfully acquired more ice than he’ll ever use tonight, Nikolai begins winding his way back to the elevators through the deserted hallways.

Well, mostly deserted. He’s just about to turn the corner when he hears the sound of a door opening, and then a very familiar laugh echoes down the next corridor. Perhaps he shouldn’t say very familiar: he’s heard that laugh fewer times than he can count on one hand, but he does recognize it. Nikolai pauses just shy of the corner, uncertain, before deciding to peek his head around just to be sure.

His ears did not deceive him. Kuryakin comes almost stumbling out of a room down the hall, grinning more broadly than Nikolai has ever seen him, even after he won the World Championship. The Soviet captain’s suit is rumpled, his necktie slung untied around the collar of his shirt, and his hair has been quite thoroughly ruffled. Nikolai holds back a chuckle. So his secret lover must be the Chilean, Belinda, because there are far too many teams competing for anyone not part of the tournament to have a room in this hotel. Nikolai withdraws quickly behind the corner as Kuryakin glances up and down the hall, but he must not have been spotted, because Kuryakin apparently turns back to say something to whoever is still in the room. He’s too far down the corridor and speaking too quietly for Nikolai to actually make out what he’s saying, but Nikolai catches a word here and there and realizes that Kuryakin is speaking in English, which he supposes makes sense. Kuryakin doesn’t speak Spanish, and surely Belinda doesn’t speak Russian. Idly, he wonders how the two of them even met in the first place. 

Nikolai is just starting to wonder if he can find a stairwell back the other way to slip down and leave Kuryakin to his semi-illicit affairs, when the person in the room replies, and the sound freezes him in place. Because that is certainly not the voice of a Chilean woman— no, that is definitely a man’s voice. Kuryakin had looked rather disheveled, but Nikolai thinks perhaps there are other explanations for what he might have been up to, or perhaps he stopped by someone else’s room after visiting Belinda, even as he somehow knows that’s not the case. Peering cautiously around the corner again, Nikolai finds Kuryakin looking back into the open door of the room he emerged from, still grinning with his hands tucked into his pockets. Without meaning to, Nikolai creeps further around the corner, straining to try to hear their conversation.

“You should get rest,” Kuryakin is saying. “He’s been training hard these past months. I think you will find him not so much a pushover this time.”

“Is that so?” comes the answer, just audible. “Have you been giving away my secrets, then?”

Is that an American accent? Nikolai almost thinks he recognizes the voice, but it’s difficult to tell from this distance. None of this makes any sense. Why would Kuryakin visit one of the Americans in the middle of the night, in his current state no less? Why would he be talking about the matches with someone on an opposing team? He can’t believe Kuryakin is a traitor, but this is highly irregular.

“No,” Kuryakin replies. “Have you been giving away mine?”

“Never,” the man in the room says, finally appearing the the doorway. “I keep them all for myself.”

Nikolai blinks, then rubs a hand over his eyes and blinks again for good measure, because what he is seeing cannot be real. Napoleon Solo comes sauntering up to Kuryakin with a grin on his face and a strange, soft look in his eyes. He is barefoot and his shirt is completely unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal his bare chest and stomach, but neither he nor Kuryakin seem especially bothered by this. Instead, he walks right into Kuryakin’s personal space and grabs the loose ends of his tie, smirking up at the Russian.

“I’d like to say Shaw will give you a run for your money, but I’m afraid that probably won’t be the case,” Solo tells him.

“Maybe my match will end early and I can come watch yours.”

“Mm, stand behind me, would you?” Solo says, tugging Kuryakin slightly closer. “I just get so distracted when you stand there brooding in my line of sight.”

Kuryakin frowns at him, but makes no move to withdraw. “I do not brood.”

That makes Solo laugh, then he gives the ends of the tie another yank and pulls Kuryakin down into a kiss. Nikolai’s eyes go impossibly wide, and he waits for Kuryakin to pull away and punch the other man for daring such an offense, but that’s not what happens. Instead Kuryakin smiles—he actually smiles into the kiss—and slides his hands out of his pockets to wrap around Solo’s waist, pulling him close as he kisses the other man back with increasing ardor.

Nikolai is so stunned by the scene in front of him that he doesn’t notice the ice bucket slipping out of his hands until it hits the ground with a crash, sending the sparkling ice cubes skittering across the carpeted hallway. Solo and Kuryakin leap apart, both whirling toward the sound with unmistakable, identical expressions of terror on their faces. A rush of shame at being caught spying on them floods through Nikolai, which is absurd, because he was not the one kissing another man, the American team captain, no less. Still, Kuryakin is his captain, and has a history of volatility, so Nikolai does the only thing he can think of doing in that moment: he runs.

“Zaytsev, wait!” Kuryakin calls after him, but Nikolai doesn’t stop. He keeps running until he’s safely behind his locked door, then he collapses onto his bed, breathing heavily, and wonders how the hell he is going to ever fall asleep now.

Illya winces at the way the sound of Zaytsev’s door slamming echoes down the hall, hoping that neither his other teammates nor the KGB will come out to see what the commotion is about. It would be just his luck tonight, but miraculously all of the doors on the hallway stay closed. He pauses when he reaches Zaytsev’s room, because now that he’s here he’s not quite sure what to do. When he’d taken off after Zaytsev he didn’t really have a plan, and he still doesn’t, nor does he know if there’s any point. The odds that anything he says will change the outcome of tonight seem small, but he still has to try.

Unsurprisingly, his knocking goes unanswered. “Zaytsev,” he calls, close to the door, loud enough he’s sure that the other man will hear him, but quiet enough that hopefully no one else will. “Nikolai. We need to— I mean— I just want to talk. Please.”

There’s no reply. Illya waits, but with each passing minute it seems less and less likely that Zaytsev will hear him out. He listens carefully for any sign of movement within the room; at first there is nothing, but then he almost thinks he hears the sound of soft, slow footfalls. The door opens a crack, and Zaytsev peers out at him warily.

“I don’t think—”

“Please,” Illya interrupts, nudging a toe in the door before the other man can shut it again. “Just talking, I swear.”

Zaytsev stares at him, evaluating, and Illya can’t imagine how he must look right now, disheveled and frantic, but something about it must convince Zaytsev to trust him because a moment later the door swings further open. Illya hurries inside, shutting it behind him, and then follows Zaytsev into the room to stand awkwardly in the middle of it.

“Zaytsev—” Illya begins, but then immediately falters. Now that he’s here, he’s at a loss for what to say. It’s not what it looks like. A complete lie. He doesn’t know how much Zaytsev saw, but it was certainly enough. I can explain. Illya is not sure he can, actually. I need your help. True enough, but that seems unlikely to accomplish anything.

In the end, Zaytsev finds his voice first. “Your secret… it’s him.”

It’s not entirely a question, but Illya nods even though confirmation of that fact hardly seems necessary at this point. “Yes.”

“How could you?” the younger man asks, and his tone shocks Illya because it’s not disgusted or appalled so much as it is betrayed. “Are you helping him against us? Telling him our strategies? Is that why he wins all the time?”

“No!” Illya protests, horrified. “I would never betray my team. We play matches, yes, but we do not talk about our teammates. He does not tell me about the American players, and I do not tell him about you. I swear it. He wins…” Illya hesitates, but it isn’t as if he really needs to hide what he thinks of Napoleon anymore, “he wins because he is a brilliant player.”

Zaytsev scoffs at that, staring at him incredulously. “Of all the people. That arrogant, pompous, egotistical asshole—”

“He is not the man you think he is,” Illya retorts, bristling despite himself.

“He is the enemy, Kuryakin!”

“He is not my enemy!” Illya snaps. “The Americans, they are not our enemies. Oleg, KGB, the government, they want us to believe that this is our fight, but it is not. I am not a soldier. I am not a spy. I am not fighting this war. I am here to play chess.”

Zaytsev furrows his brow, frowning at him as he considers Illya’s words. It would not be a popular position to take, among most of his team, but if anyone was going to be open to the idea it would be Zaytsev. It did not escape Illya how much the younger man enjoyed their time in California during the previous tournament. But Napoleon’s nationality is not the only thing is at issue here, and probably not even the most significant.

“That did not look like chess,” Zaytsev says eventually.

Illya feels himself flush hotly in shame and looks away, unable to meet the other man’s gaze. What can he even say to that? Denying it would be pointless, and yet admitting it is entirely impossible. Unbidden, Zaytsev’s earnest words from the day the team had teased him about his secret lover float to the surface of his memory, and he swallows hard. “You promised.”

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t report me. You swore. Did you mean it?”

Zaytsev looks momentarily surprised to be reminded of this, but then he nods. “You’re right, I promised. And I meant it. If you say you are not helping him win against us, I trust you. The rest of it…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable. “I might not understand it, but I still believe it is none of their business. But, Kuryakin, the consequences if anyone else were to find out…”

“You think I don’t know what they are?” Illya grits out in frustration. “How dangerous this is?”

“Then how can you take that risk?”

“I don’t know!” Illya almost yells, the words seemingly torn out of him. His hands are clenched tightly into fists, but even that does nothing to subdue the tremors shaking through his body. 

Zaytsev is silent for a moment, and then his face softens into something like pity. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says quietly.

Illya hates that look. He doesn’t want or need anyone’s pity, and certainly not about this. This is a mess of his own making, and it can’t be allowed to go on any longer. It was stupid, and doomed from the start, and the fact that he’s in love doesn’t change that. If anything, it just makes the whole thing that much more idiotic. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“It doesn’t matter. I am ending it.”

“Because of me?” Zaytsev asks.

Illya turns away again, walking across the room to stare down at Zaytsev’s chess set, for want of anything else to fixate on. “Because of all of it. People are noticing, asking questions. I can’t live like this, in constant fear of discovery. It isn’t worth this.”

The room is silent for a minute, and then Zaytsev cautiously ventures, “are you sure?”

It’s not a question he had expected, and it throws him for a bit of a loop. He is sure, and he isn’t. Illya is sure that he needs to do this, sure that it is the right thing to do even though he knows it will be indescribably painful. He is sure that they will both be better off, eventually, or at least he tells himself he is sure about that. Napoleon will be, in any case; he can find someone that’s better for him, someone who isn’t damaged and impossible like Illya is. Someone he can actually have a life with, who can give him everything he deserves.

But Illya is not sure, deep down, that it isn’t worth it, and most of all, he’s not sure he’ll actually be able to do what needs to be done.

Napoleon hadn’t really been expecting Illya to come back to his room after he’d taken off after his teammate, but he hadn’t really realized that he’d been holding a tiny bit of hope that he might. That maybe, by some unlikely turn of events, this could all be brushed off and it wouldn’t mean the end of something that has come to mean more to him than he could ever imagine. Because Napoleon remembers what he agreed to that night when Illya had come to him, upset that his team had noticed he was happy, of all things. He knows that he agreed they wouldn’t see each other anymore, which is kind of absurd when he thinks about it, because even if they stop sleeping together they will always, always see each other at tournaments. They will always meet and play matches against each other in an endless, mocking reminder of what they once had.

Just because he hadn’t expected Illya to come back doesn’t mean he slept, though. He might have dozed off a few times, but he was never asleep long before he’d be jolted back awake by icy spikes of dread when he thought about what could be happening, and how he was powerless to do anything about it. What if Illya was being arrested even now? What if they didn’t ever see each other again because he’d already been whisked away, put on a flight back to Russia to be tried for treason and sent to a gulag? Would he even have a trial? Napoleon didn’t know, but both scenarios kept him up, all the same.

He knows he looks like hell when he stumbles down to the ballroom for the morning matches, which is immediately confirmed when Hansen sees him and he says, with a low whistle, “Jesus, what happened to you?”

“Don’t feel well,” Napoleon mumbles, pushing a hand through his messy hair. That, at least, is true enough; his gut has tied itself into an elaborate series of knots, and shows no sign of untangling anytime soon. “Something I ate, maybe.”

“Shit, sorry man. I can see if they’ll postpone the match? Though the Soviets rarely agree to things like that.”

Napoleon stops dead in his tracks, because in all of his anxiety he’d completely forgotten who he was playing this morning. Of all the people… he looks across the hall to the board he’d been assigned and finds Zaytsev already standing there, staring at Napoleon with eyes so wide they seem ready to bulge out of their sockets. It’s not unlike the look he’d sported the previous night, before he’d fled. At least he also looks like he didn’t sleep, though the thought gives Napoleon little satisfaction. Did he run right to the KGB, or that bastard of a trainer, Oleg? Was he awake all night giving testimony against Illya about what he’d seen?

“Solo?” Hansen prompts, jolting Napoleon back to the present.

“No,” Napoleon answers, shaking his head. “I just want to get this over with.”

Zaytsev looks even worse up close, and his grip is cold and clammy when they shake hands before taking their seats. It’s not clear if the expression in his eyes is disgust, or fear, or something else entirely, but whatever it is, the young Russian schools it away as he stares down at the board. Napoleon distantly registers that the moderator has announced the beginning of the match, but it is only when Zaytsev reaches forward to start his clock that he realizes that he needs to make the first move.

The game is a disaster, on both their parts. Standard openings quickly give way to erratic, incomprehensible combinations, and before long they draw a crowd, no doubt because no one can figure out what the fuck is going on. Napoleon can’t figure it out, and he’s the one playing the game. If either one of them had been even a little lucid, the match would have been over in minutes, but as it is, it drags on and on, until Napoleon can hardly see straight through the splitting headache that has built behind his eyes. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he sees Zaytsev’s attention abruptly jerk up to some point behind him, and, despite himself, he can only think Illya. He can’t exactly turn his head to confirm this, though, because that would be a fucking weird and frankly suspicious thing to do in the middle of a match. It’s almost funny: he is the one who told Illya to stay out of his line of sight, but now he’d give almost anything to know that Illya is safe and watching him play, like nothing had happened.

Mercifully, the match ends not too long after that, in a stalemate that somehow leaves far too many pieces on the board. Napoleon hasn’t played a game this terrible since he was 11, and all he wants to do is disappear back into his hotel room and not come out for the next four days until the tournament is over. He stands to shake Zaytsev’s hand again, but he doesn’t expect the other man to hold on for just a little too long and squeeze just a little harder than is proper.

He’s certainly not expecting Zaytsev to lean in and whisper, unmistakably, “I didn’t tell anyone,” then turn on his heel and take off like all the hounds of hell are after him.

Napoleon doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what he can do with that. Is Zaytsev attempting to reassure him—odd and unlikely as that would be—or merely trying to cover his own ass? What happened after Illya left last night is still a mystery to him, and this morning has yet to provide any answers. He whirls around, remembering that someone had drawn Zaytsev’s attention during the match, but there is no sign of the achingly familiar figure he is searching for in the crowd.

“You should try to get some rest, Cap,” Hansen says, at his side once again. “We need you on top of your game for these last matches.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon agrees absently as he lets himself be ushered out of the ballroom and toward the elevators. Rest. He certainly can’t deny that he needs it, but he also can’t guarantee that he’ll get any at all any time soon.

Illya isn’t around the rest of the day, never with the other Soviets when Napoleon looks for him, and by the time the sun sinks below the horizon, Napoleon is convinced that the worst has happened. Maybe Zaytsev lied. Maybe the KGB found out anyway. All that he knows is that the Soviet team captain is decidedly missing, and that is more than suspicious. He wonders how crazy he would look if he sought out Zaytsev tomorrow and demanded to know what happened to him, and if the younger Russian would even know. Probably pretty crazy. He’s probably going to do it anyway.

There is a sizable dent in the remaining whiskey in the bar in his room, but sleep still seems far away. It’s hard to believe that 24 hours ago he and Illya were laughing over a chess game, completely oblivious that it would likely be their last night together. Would he have done anything differently? Let his caresses linger longer, drawn out their kisses, held Illya more tightly? Or was it better that that night was like any other, with no sense of the doom to come marring their pleasure?

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the click of the latch before the door swings open, and then all thought abandons him because Illya is standing there like nothing happened at all. Napoleon is on his feet and crossing the room before he even realizes he’s moving, reaching up with trembling hands to cradle Illya’s face and draw him into a desperate kiss. It is really far too emotional, but he too damned relieved to care, because Illya is ok, Illya is here and in his room and in his arms like Napoleon thought he never would be again.

“Christ, Peril,” he huffs between kisses, his voice just this side of frantic, “all day— all day, I don’t see you— I had no idea if you were ok, or, or—”

“Hey,” Illya says as his hands gently encircle Napoleon’s wrists. He pulls Napoleon’s hands down as he takes a small step back, putting space between them, but in the moment Napoleon is too overwhelmed by his presence to take heed of his odd body language. “I am ok. See? Fine. I just… thought it would be best to lay low, today.”

“That’s all fine and well for you, but I had no idea what happened last night, and sure, Zaytsev said he didn’t tell anyone, but it’s not like I knew if he was telling the truth—”

“Zaytsev said what?” Illya interrupts his rambling, blinking at him in surprise.

“After our match,” Napoleon explains, peering at him uncertainly. “He told me he didn’t tell anyone, and then he took off. But it seems like he wasn’t lying, if you’re here. Did you talk to him last night?”

Illya nods, but he doesn’t look nearly as pleased by this news as he should, by Napoleon’s reckoning. It is only then that Napoleon notices the way that Illya is standing, tense and uncomfortable. Illya drops his wrists and takes another step away, now doing his best to look at anything in the room other than Napoleon.

“Peril. What’s wrong?” Napoleon asks. He already knows he doesn’t actually want the answer, because Illya grimaces and then swallows hard.

“I came—” he says, his voice faltering, “I came to say goodbye.”

No, Napoleon thinks, that single syllable taking over his rational mind, no no no no no. This can’t be happening. It can’t. “What are you talking about?” he protests, the strain thick in his voice. “If Zaytsev isn’t going to tell anyone, then we’re fine. Everything is fine.”

“No, Cowboy. Everything is not fine,” Illya replies forcefully. He stares at Napoleon, his gaze searching, before he presses his lips together into a hard line. “You remember what we agreed to?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“We got lucky this time. It will not happen again.”

“C’mon, Peril, we can be careful,” Napoleon tries. He takes a step forward, reaching out for Illya, but the other man retreats again just out of his grasp.

“You say that like it is the answer, but it is not. You know it is not,” Illya says accusingly. “This thing… it makes us not careful. It makes us take risks.”

Frustration wells up within Napoleon, fraying at the edges of his self control. “Sometimes risks are worth taking.”

“Not this time.”

Napoleon recoils at the words. “What do you mean, ‘not this time’? This isn’t worth anything to you?” he demands as his voice rises.

“It is not worth our lives,” Illya retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe not for you!”

Illya stares at him incredulously for this, and it is only then that Napoleon realizes what he just said, and how the look on Illya’s face is all the answer he needs. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Illya is the best chess player in the world. He has a mother who loves him and a world championship title and what must be a comfortable life back in Moscow. Why should he put all of that on the line for Napoleon?

“You are being ridiculous,” Illya scoffs. “You do not understand—”

“Right, of course,” Napoleon breaks in, unable to contain the bitter sarcasm now lacing his words. “How could I forget? I’m the ridiculous American. I couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to have everything taken from me. Certainly I have nothing to lose in this scenario.”

“That is not what—” Illya growls, his words cutting off in frustration. He glares at Napoleon, not bothering to hide the fury now roiling within him. “Why are you doing this? You could have anyone. Go back to the others who warm your bed and leave me alone.”

Napoleon is momentarily flabbergasted by this statement. Does Illya think he’s been sleeping with other people, all this time? The idea is absurd, but it’s obvious that that is exactly what Illya thinks, or at least that if this ended that Napoleon would just move easily onto the next person with hardly a backwards glance. Apparently he’s done entirely too good a job at keeping his feelings hidden, if Illya thinks he means that little to him.

“What are you talking about?” Napoleon manages. “There are no others, Peril. There haven’t been, not since before California, and there’s not going to be. I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

The surprise that passes over Illya’s face is unmistakable, but he turns away before Napoleon can read anything more in his expression. His fists clench more tightly as he takes a deep breath, clearly wrestling with something. For a brief, fleeting moment, Napoleon feels a burst of hope that he’ll change his mind, but when Illya turns back the only thing on his face is stony determination.

“We are all disappointed sometimes,” he says flatly, biting through the words like it is taking every ounce of his willpower to say them. “Goodbye, Napoleon.”

That’s it, then. Napoleon stares numbly at Illya’s back as the other man walks to the door, ignoring the voice inside him that is screaming to keep fighting, to not give up on this. Tell him you love him, the voice demands, but Napoleon silences it. It wouldn’t matter. Obviously Illya doesn’t love him, so such a confession would serve no purpose other than making Napoleon look more pathetic than he already does.

He tries to tell himself he knew that this was coming, that it always had an expiration date, that it wasn’t meant to be anything real. He even tries to tell himself that it’s better that it ends now, and not with one or both of them locked up in an institution or prison.

None of that makes it hurt any less.

Chapter Text

Moscow, USSR, November 1966

There are two reasons why Illya goes directly to his mother’s apartment after his plane touches down in Moscow: 1) because she insists that she only hear the results of his tournaments direct from him, so she gets annoyed if the papers report on them before she knows; and 2) because right now, the thought of returning to his own empty apartment is unbearable. It’s a nice apartment, granted to him by virtue of his status as a chess grandmaster and his consistent success; not huge, certainly, but well-kept and comfortable, and not too far from his mother’s place. Normally he doesn’t mind his relatively solitary life, but tonight the idea of sitting alone, with only his phonograph to break the silence, crawls uncomfortably beneath his skin. His mother will be delighted to see him, though, and maybe that will help keep the persistent ache in his chest at bay, at least for a little while.

“Let’s see them, then,” his mother says when she answers the door, in lieu of a greeting.

Illya huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “How do you know I have medals to show?”

“Because I know you, Illyusha. No one beats my boy.”

He follows behind her as she moves back into the apartment, automatically putting a kettle on and rummaging in the fridge for food. Illya ate on the plane not long ago, but he knows it’s no use trying to discourage her. She’ll end up fixing an entire meal just for him, and he will eat every scrap because he cannot resist her home cooking, especially after being away for a month. As she bustles around the small kitchen, he takes a seat on a stool and digs into his bag to pull out the two medals, which he loops over the top of a wine bottle sitting on the counter. 

“Only two?” she tuts when sees them, though the teasing is undermined by the way she beams at him proudly.

“There are only two I could get, mama. Team and individual.” He holds them up in turn, and she pauses in her preparations to come over and admire them. The gold glints softly in the warm light as she turns them over, running her fingertips over the sculptured surface.

“They are beautiful,” she says fondly before kissing him soundly on the cheek. “You had a good time?”

Illya only hesitates a moment before he nods, but of course she sees it. He could never hide anything from her. His attempts at avoiding her narrowed gaze by dipping his head and staring at the countertop are quickly thwarted when she raises her hand to lift his chin, pursing her lips at him as she looks searchingly into his face.

“Illyusha. What is wrong, котенок?”

“It’s nothing, mama. I promise.”

“You are a terrible liar,” she tells him, but she releases his chin and goes back to her cooking. “It is your friend? The American?” she asks, almost offhandedly.

Illya startles at her uncanny ability to seemingly read his mind. He knows he has mentioned Napoleon before, but not often; the first time after Argentina, when they’d been co-champions, and perhaps occasionally a few times since then when telling her about the American tournament. But he knows he has never said anything to imply that the other man was anything more than another competitor. Certainly not that he was a friend. Certainly not whatever his mother is currently thinking as she stares at him entirely too shrewdly.

“How could you—” he starts, but he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “No,” he answers instead. “Yes. Maybe.”

“You beat him again,” she guesses.

“Yes and no. The Americans took team silver, but Solo and I, we did not play against each other in the tournament. We were assigned to different boards in the finals. He also won individual gold, on his board.”

She pauses in her work to pull out a handkerchief, and for a moment she is overcome with coughs that wrack her small frame. Illya frowns. The cough has been persistent for months, and she steadfastly refuses to see a doctor about it. It’s never been this bad, though. 

“You are getting worse,” Illya says, more accusatorially than he means to.

His mother waves him off as she tucks the handkerchief away again. “And you worry too much. It is only the weather.” They have had this argument before, but somehow he never gets very far, and the look on her face now says she is done discussing it. They are not, apparently, done discussing the tournament, however. “So are you going to tell me about what happened with your American friend?”

“Mama, we are not friends.”

“Do not,”—another cough interrupts her scolding—“do not try to lie to me, Illyusha. I have seen the look on your face when you speak of him.”

“And what look is that,” Illya grumbles under his breath. He doesn’t really intend for her to hear it, but he should have known better.

His mother sighs, looking exasperated as she walks over to him and smushes his face between her hands. “My brilliant boy. How can you be so smart and so stupid at the same time?”

“You don’t understand,” he protests, pulling away from her grasp.

“Because you will not tell me. I know, I know,” she adds, before he can say anything, “none of your poor old mother’s business. But I have eyes, Illyusha, and I know you. Whenever I have seen you with a real smile these past months, most of the time you are speaking about this American. He means something to you. And now you show up here with so much sadness in your eyes it hurts me. If you do not want to tell me what happened, fine. But do not hide the truth from yourself as well.”

Illya wants to keep protesting. He wants to say that she’s wrong, that she has misread him, that of course he’s not sad, he’s just tired from all the travel. He wants to explain that it had to be this way, and that she wouldn’t say these things if she knew that what Napoleon and him had was more than friendship.

He is sad, though, in a way that is completely inadequately contained by the word sad. Of course she can read it on him now, when he no longer has the energy and willpower to keep up the pretense of being totally fine, like he’s been doing for the past four days. Here—in this little apartment that his mother refuses to move from even though he could get her a better one, because it’s the only thing the two of them had for so many years, in the only place he can really call home—his resolve is swiftly crumbling, and when she wraps him up tightly in her arms, the dam that held back all of those emotions finally bursts.

Illya has not felt this lost since his father was taken from them, all those years ago. It is as if a piece of him is missing, and the worst part is that this time it is entirely his fault. He was terrified of these feelings—is still terrified of them, and how vulnerable they make him—and he let that terror control him in a way he thought he had long since overcome. It’s as if he’s that same 10-year-old boy all over again, clinging to his mother for support as his world is completely upended.

“It is not so simple,” he tries to explain, fighting the way that his throat wants to close up around the words. “I cannot just be friends with an American. The risk of someone finding out…”

“You think I am unaware of the state of the world?” his mother asks, a little wryly, patting the side of his head. “Sometimes risks are worth taking, Illyusha.”

The echo of Napoleon’s words nearly makes him flinch. “How do you know? That something is worth the risk?”

“Oh, котенок. You just know. You know it in here,” she tells him, tapping a finger on his chest. “What does your heart tell you?”

Illya lets the silence draw out for several long minutes before he can admit it to himself, much less to anyone else, even his mother. “I think I made a terrible mistake, mama.”

“It happens to the best of us, I’m afraid,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What do I do?”

“What else can you do? You have to apologize, and hope that he will forgive you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

His mother’s arms tighten around him, no doubt in response to the despair he can’t quite keep from his voice. “Then so be it. But if this friendship is important to you, you owe it to the both of you to try.”

II Torneo Internacional de Palma de Mallorca, November 1966
Palma, Mallorca, Spain

“What do you mean, he isn’t here?” Illya demands, his voice ringing out far too loudly in the lobby of the hotel.

The young woman working the registration desk for the tournament eyes him warily before glancing down at the papers in front of her again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. Napoleon Solo isn’t on our list of competitors.”

“Look again. He has been registered for months.” Illya knows this because he remembers Napoleon asking him about the tournament, back in Santa Monica, as they played a lazy game of chess sprawled out on Napoleon’s bed.

Will you compete? Illya had asked.

If you’ll be there, Peril, Napoleon answered, grinning coyly at him over the board.

Illya had smiled. I would not miss it. It is a nice tournament. Small. Palma is beautiful.

It’s settled, then. Sounds delightful.

“Just a moment, sir,” the woman says, jolting him out of the memory that is twisting painfully in his chest. She steps to the side to speak with a severe man in an ill-fitting suit who frowns as he glances over at Illya, no doubt wondering why a Russian is so interested. After a moment she nods and approaches him again. “It appears that Mr. Solo withdrew his registration recently. Another American, Mr. Hansen, took his place. Now, if that will be all…?”

“Thank you,” Illya manages to mutter before he turns away, stumbling numbly across the lobby.

Napoleon isn’t here. Illya tries to tell himself that there are lots of reasons why he might have had to withdraw his registration. Maybe he had an emergency come up, or maybe he lost funding to come, or maybe he decided he needed to rest before the US Championship tournament next month.

Or maybe he didn’t come because he knew Illya would be here.

Palma is a small tournament, with only sixteen slots, so it does not take Illya long to hunt down and corner Hansen. He recognizes the American as the man who had wanted to punch Sorokin on the first night of the Olympiad, which Illya can honestly hardly blame him for. Sorokin seems to readily invite such a sentiment. Hansen is glancing through his schedule book and doesn’t notice Illya coming at him, which makes it all the easier to grab him by the arm and haul him off down a deserted hallway without anyone else seeing them.

“What the—?!” Hansen yelps as he twists in Illya’s grasp. He’s nearly as tall as Illya, but much more slender, so his squirming is pretty ineffectual.

“Why did Solo withdraw from the tournament?” Illya demands, and he does not miss the way Hansen’s brown eyes widen in surprise.

“How should I know?” Hansen snaps back, finally tugging his arm away. He brushes the wrinkles out of his sleeve and tugs his jacket back into place, regarding Illya warily.

“You must know something.”

Hansen furrows his brows, clearly confused at Illya’s persistence on this issue. “Look, all I know is that he called me up and said he wasn’t going, and would I like his spot. When I asked why he just mumbled something about stepping away from the game for personal reasons.”

“‘Stepping away’? What does that mean?” Illya asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows. But that can’t be right. Napoleon would never quit chess. The game means too much to him, as it does to Illya.

“I don’t know, man, sounds to me like he’s not going to compete anymore, god knows why or for how long. I didn’t pry, ok? It’s not like we’re great friends or anything. I barely know the guy. Why do you care, anyway?”

Illya just grunts, turning away from the other man to walk off. He’s certainly not going to answer that question, even with an attempt at a lie. Fortunately Hansen doesn’t seem interested in pursuing him, because Illya knows he’s not going to be able to hold back the feeling of horror that is slowly but surely overwhelming him for much longer. He manages to make it to an out of the way lounge area before his legs feel like they’re going to give out under him. It’s little more than a couple of chairs and a table near a bank of windows that overlook a beautiful vista of the island, though Illya hardly notices the view as he drops hard into one of the chairs and buries his face in his hands.

He did this. Not only did he quite definitively end one of the few relationships in his life that has ever mattered to him, but he also apparently forced a truly great player away from the game. Illya is not sure which is more nauseating.

“Kuryakin?”

Illya startles at the unexpected voice, pulling his face out of his hands to see Zaytsev hovering nearby, looking more than a little concerned.

“Are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It’s tempting to deny it, or to lash out and close himself off, but Zaytsev one of the only people in the world who actually has some idea of what is going on. Illya doesn’t know that he can fully trust him, but he doesn’t know that he can’t, either. Zaytsev might be disgusted by Illya’s actions, on multiple levels, but so far he has proved to be a man of his word, which is something.

“Solo quit the game,” Illya tells him, closing his eyes as he does. “Or, he’s not competing, anyway. I’m not really sure.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Illya mutters miserably. It’s a lie, and Zaytsev probably knows it is, but he doesn’t call Illya on it.

“Huh,” he says instead. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Illya when risks a glance at him he finds the other man looking cautious and uncertain.

“You can say it,” Illya sighs. “Whatever it is.”

“It’s just— that’s probably a good thing, right? Not seeing him around, I mean, after what happened. Less… awkward, at least.”

Illya should agree with this. As far as Zaytsev knows, Illya is supposed to be getting over Napoleon. He’s supposed to be putting everything that happened in the past. He’s certainly not supposed to have been hoping that he would find Napoleon here so that he could apologize and beg the American to forgive him.

“Right. You’re probably right,” he makes himself say.

“Not to mention he was pretty much your biggest competition,” Zaytsev continues, emboldened. “Can you imagine what might have happened had he made it all the way to the World Championship in a couple of years?”

“He would have,” Illya mutters, unable to completely stop himself from wincing.

Zaytsev hesitates. “What?”

“He would have made it to the championship,” Illya says hollowly as he stares at the floor in front of him. “He might have won, even.”

“Surely you don’t think—”

“I don’t have to think. I know.”

That was probably too much to admit, if Zaytsev’s silence is anything to go by. It stretches to to just shy of uncomfortable before he speaks again, his voice tentative. “You weren’t hoping to see him again… were you?”

“Of course not,” Illya answers, too quickly. He glances over at Zaytsev and finds the other man looking entirely unconvinced.

“Hmm,” Zaytsev hums thoughtfully.

Illya waits for him to say something, but it appears that effort is going to be fruitless. The other man is just staring at him, like he’s working something out in his head, and it feels uncomfortably like Illya is being examined under a microscope. “What?” he growls eventually, unable to take the scrutiny anymore.

Zaytsev almost startles, as if he hadn’t been aware of what he was doing, and looks vaguely sheepish. “Sorry, nothing. Just, er, thinking. I should go.” With that he turns, but before he gets more than a couple of steps away he pauses, glancing back at Illya. “If you need anything. Someone to talk to. Just… let me know,” he says, a little uncertainly.

“Ok,” Illya agrees, though the prospect seems unlikely to him. Zaytsev doesn’t understand, not really, and Illya is pretty sure he never will. The idea of falling in love with another man would be at best unfathomable and at worst deplorable to him, like it would be to just about everyone else.

Illya is alone, in this as in so many things, and with Napoleon gone from his life it seems likely he’ll stay that way.

Every day, Illya thinks that it will be the day when he can push thoughts of Napoleon out of his head and lose himself in the game. Every day he is wrong. Chess has always been an escape for him, something to focus his mind and help him forget about everything else going on in his life, so to have that taken away now only adds insult to injury. Napoleon has become so tightly woven into his game that extricating him from it is nigh impossible. In all of the fatalistic scenarios that Illya had imagined about the end—and he thought he’d thoroughly exhausted all of the worst possible cases—he never came close to guessing how destructive, both personally and professionally, it would be.

The ten days of the tournament pass in a fog. Illya barely pays attention to the games he plays, and it is only the fact that chess is practically baked into his DNA at this point that he comes through it. He’d managed to focus during the final days in Havana through sheer force of will and determination, and because he hadn’t allowed the reality of the situation to sink into his consciousness, but that is a luxury he no longer possesses. His distraction doesn’t go unnoticed. He hears the whispers that get traded around the tournament hotel among the other players, the suggestions of burnout and needing a break, about how perhaps the captaincy of the Soviet team in the Olympiad was too much for him. Sometimes Zaytsev is near enough to overhear the comments and shoots Illya sympathetic looks, but these are less comforting than he probably intends.

Maybe they’re right, even if they are wrong about the underlying reasons. Maybe Illya should have taken time off. Maybe he should have withdrawn from the tournament, after everything that had happened. Maybe Napoleon had the right of it, and the two of them need more time apart. Once everything isn’t so raw and fresh, Napoleon would come back to the game. Things would go back to the way they were before.

Illya had just about convinced himself of this when one day, near the end of the tournament, he overhears Hansen making a call in the hotel lobby. He hadn’t really meant to eavesdrop, but his attention is caught when he realizes that the American is discussing the US Chess Championships next month. Hansen had been idly chatting about the hotel and the schedule when something that the person on the other end of the line says makes him suck in a breath of surprise.

“Really?” Hansen asks. “I mean, I know what he said, but I didn’t think— yeah, right, but still— I don’t get it. He played so well in Havana, came away with individual gold and everything. Why would he just quit?” 

There is a long pause while whoever Hansen is talking to no doubt voices their opinion on the matter, and Illya desperately wishes he could hear the other side of this conversation. Because they are clearly talking about Napoleon, and that is a question that Illya longs to know the answer to.

“Have you heard anything about the Interzonals?” Hansen asks. “Yeah, I guess it’s still early.” After another pause, he snorts derisively. “Right, I’m sure Shaw would love to take his spot, but let’s be real, Solo is the only one who has a chance at taking down that bastard.”

Right after he says this, Hansen’s eyes sweep across the lobby and land squarely on Illya, who looks quickly down at his newspaper and tries to pretend he hadn’t just been listening. But really, it’s hardly his fault that Hansen had been been speaking in his typically loud American manner. Illya had already been sitting here when he’d arrived, anyway, minding his own business and trying to avoid thinking about Napoleon. Of course, that’s all shot to hell now; his mind is reeling, and he doesn’t hear the end of Hansen’s conversation.

It’s one thing that Napoleon withdrew from a tournament that he knew Illya was planning on attending. Illya could hardly blame him for not wanting to compete under those circumstances, especially so soon after Havana. Withdrawing from a tournament that Illya would certainly not be part of, though… that implied that Napoleon was serious about quitting the game. Though perhaps Illya cannot blame him for that, either. His own performance here, at a tournament that Napoleon isn’t competing in, is testament enough to the difficulties at divorcing chess from their shattered relationship.

It is what this implies about said relationship that shakes Illya to his core. He had initially assumed that their trysts were merely that: nothing more than a diversion for Napoleon during the tournaments, and that if the other man had seemed to give more of himself as time progressed, it was only his American openness asserting itself. Even when Illya had acknowledged that their connection had grown far beyond the bounds of what was typical, even though he knew Napoleon cared for him in some not-quite-identifiable way, he had never guessed that the other man would be so profoundly affected. He had not let himself hear the truth in Napoleon’s words from that terrible night, because it had been easier to tell himself that Napoleon would say anything to get him to stay. Far easier than accepting something that he had convinced himself could never be.

A couple of days later, the championship of the tournament is snatched up by Sorokin, which makes him even more insufferable than usual. Illya, on the other hand, barely manages a fifth place finish, the lowest he’s placed in any tournament in years. He can’t even muster much disappointment about it. The worst part, he thinks, will be telling his mother. Not because she will be disappointed—at least, she won’t show it—but because she’ll probably discern the reason behind it without him even saying anything.

On the flight back to Moscow, Illya spends most of the trip trying to distract himself with a novel, but as in so many things lately, he can’t find the will to focus. His thoughts are drawn inevitably to the ache in his chest, and he wonders how long the pain will linger. How long it will be before he can look at a chessboard without being reminded of Napoleon’s graceful hands or his blue eyes or his warm laugh. In his bleaker moments, he thinks it will never be so, and in those same moments, Napoleon’s reasons for leaving behind the game that meant so much to him are not so opaque anymore.

Moscow, USSR, December 1966

Illya has been back home perhaps a week when he gets a visitor. That in and of itself is unusual; he leads a largely solitary life, save the time he spends with his mother, and she would certainly not be coming to visit him. It is late in the afternoon and the weak winter sun has already dropped below the horizon, taking its leave earlier each day as they creep toward the solstice. The dark, lonely days suit Illya’s mood of late, and he spends most of them sleeping anyway. When he is not, he has taken to writing long letters to Napoleon, pouring all of his pent up feelings out onto the pages like maybe if he gets them out they will stop tormenting him. It helps that he knows he can never send the letters—any correspondance from Russia to the US would be opened and read at both ends—so there is no reason to hold back. He’s not sure it is at all helpful, but it’s cathartic at least.

He is in the middle of one such letter when the knock comes at his door. At first he ignores it; surely whoever it is just has the wrong apartment, and will leave off when he doesn’t answer. But that hope proves futile as the visitor continues knocking, as if he somehow knows that Illya is inside. With a sigh, Illya carefully tucks away his papers in his desk, sparing a glance at the chess set that has remained untouched since he returned, and shuffles over to the door.

“What,” Illya snaps as he yanks open the door, throwing the person on the other side momentarily off balance. He is surprised to find Zaytsev standing on his doorstep and then more than a little confused, because the younger man looks just as surprised to see Illya even though he had been the one knocking on his door.

“Sorry,” Zaytsev gulps uncertainly. “I didn’t know if you would be home.”

“You certainly did not lack for persistence,” Illya grumbles, but he takes a step back. “Come in.”

Zaytsev mutters his thanks as he steps into the apartment, looking with obvious curiosity around the relatively spartan space. There are few personal touches here: a few shelves full of books on chess and a small collection of novels, a blanket his mother had crocheted him years ago on the sofa, a single framed photo of him and his parents from no more than a year before everything had been upended. The picture sits next to the small, humble chess set on the desk, and Illya does not miss how Zaytsev’s eyes linger over both items.

“Can I help you with something?” Illya asks, a little more curtly than he intends. He isn’t really in the mood for company, but Zaytsev has been more than supportive since Havana, so Illya owes him some courtesy at the very least.

Zaytsev does not appear to notice his tone. “I just came by to see how you were doing,” he says, as if this was to be expected. “You know, after… everything.”

“I am fine.”

Oddly, Zaytsev seems distracted. He makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, but he’s still peering around the apartment until finally his eyes land on a pile of mail that Illya had been ignoring. Then, to Illya’s shock, he crosses over to it and plucks out a rather fancy white envelope, holding it up. “You should open this.”

Illya blinks at him. “What?”

“It could be important,” Zaytsev tells him in a way that makes Illya think that the other man knows precisely what is contained within it.

Slowly, Illya walks over to him and takes the proffered envelope, looking at it in earnest for the first time. The paper is high quality, far beyond what even official correspondance in the Soviet Union is usually sent on, and Illya’s name and address are written across the front in a looping, decidedly non-slavic hand. This is perhaps not surprising, given the line of American flag stamps in one corner and the return address in the other: listed only as USCF, with an address in New York. As could be expected, it is clear that the envelope has been opened previously and resealed; the flap pops free easily when Illya slides his finger under it. It is a little uncomfortable, opening the letter with someone watching him expectantly, but he forges on, not sure of what else to do. The paper inside is as fine as the envelope, with a shiny embossed seal on the top that is at once familiar to him.

Dear Grandmaster Kuryakin,

In the spirit of international cooperation and friendship, the United States Chess Federation would like to cordially invite you…

“What is this?” Illya demands, breaking off reading to look up at Zaytsev.

“I think you’ll find the answer if you continue reading,” Zaytsev replies cryptically. His expression is carefully guarded, and Illya finds himself with little recourse other than to oblige.

The letter is full of flowery language about building a relationship between nations and setting aside differences for love of the game of chess, most of which says nothing at all, nor was it designed to. But the text also contains a surprising proposal: that, as the current World Chess Champion, Illya come to New York to speak at the closing of the US Chess Championships at the end of the month.

“What is this?” Illya repeats, but then thinks better of it. “How did you know about this letter?”

Zaytsev shrugs, looking, for the first time, a little uncomfortable. “It’s possible, that after the rumored strife in Cuba, the US Chess Federation was receptive to the idea of, ah, improving relations going forward.”

“You did this? How?”

“I might have contacted them, anonymously of course, as a young player concerned about politics getting in the way of the game,” Zaytsev explains. “And suggested that inviting the current world champion to give a public lecture in the US might be the first step to fostering better relations between players.”

For a moment Illya is struck speechless in disbelief, and by the sheer number of questions fighting in his mind. “Why would you think I would ever want to do something like this?” he manages to choke out. “What good could this meddling possibly do?”

The younger man flinches slightly at the harsh reproach in Illya’s tone, but instead of backing down he sets his shoulders a little more squarely and tips his chin up defiantly. “Solo lives in New York, does he not?”

“You…” Illya trails off as words fail him entirely.

“Look, you don’t have to accept,” Zaytsev says, softening a touch. “Tear it up the invitation if you like. But I think you should consider going. This may be your only opportunity to see him again. Assuming that is something you want.”

The whole idea is incredible and absurd and likely to cause more problems than it would fix, and yet all Illya can think of is how he wants nothing more. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. There are so many reasons why it would never work, and even though part of him is nearly shouting at him to pursue this chance without delay, another part is still looking for excuses why he cannot.

“He won’t be at the championships,” Illya hears himself say. “I don’t know how I would find him.”

A small smile tips onto Zaytsev’s lips. “The Queen’s Pawn,” he says, then elaborates when Illya looks at him blankly: “Teller’s chess club, in Greenwich Village. She will know where he is, no?”

She would certainly know, but Illya is far from certain that she would help him. Still, there is a chance… He glances down at the paper in his hands, now crumpled at the edges where he has been gripping it tightly.

“This is three weeks from now,” Illya protests. “The Federation would never approve it in time, if they would approve it at all. I do not think they care about improving relations.”

“Considering they almost certainly already know about the contents of the letter, I’d say you have nothing to lose by asking. You might be surprised.”

When Illya runs out of excuses, he asks the other question that he can’t quite fathom. “Why would you do all of this for me?”

Zaytsev glances down as he fidgets uncomfortably with his hands, and his mouth opens and closes once before he actually speaks. “I don’t know if you know this, but you have always been my hero, Kuryakin. When I was little, my parents always told me about the chess tournaments, about who was playing and about the matches. And when you started competing, I just… I thought you were the best of them. I knew, even then.” He looks up then, his expression so, so earnest as he takes in whatever Illya’s face is doing as he stands there, stunned. “I saw you play, you know, early on, in Moscow. One of your first national tournaments. I was only six years old, but my parents took me because I begged them. You won that tournament. It was quite the upset.”

“I— I remember,” Illya stammers, his voice hoarse. “You have been following my career, all this time?”

The ghost of a smile plays on the edges of Zaytsev’s mouth. “I have,” he confirms. Then he pauses, considering. “You started these… matches with Solo, when? Argentina?”

“Yes,” Illya gulps.

“I didn’t notice, before. I should have seen it so much earlier, honestly,” Zaytsev says, huffing a small laugh as he looks away and shakes his head. “You know, I went back and studied all your games, over the last year. Once I knew what I was looking for, it was obvious. His fingerprints are there, in all of them, starting with Mar del Plata. Even the World Championship games. You probably don’t even fully realize it.”

Illya doesn’t know what to say to this. He expected that the influence would be noticeable in some way in his more recent games, of course, but so early on? Would he have even won the World Championship, if he hadn't started playing training matches with Napoleon? It was impossible to say, and he doesn’t really want to contemplate it.

“But that’s beside the point,” Zaytsev says with a sigh. “Most of my life, I’ve wanted to be just like you. I wanted to be you, Kuryakin. I— I still do,” he admits. “I mean, not in the— I don’t— that’s not—” His face twists, like he’s wrestling with something. Illya thinks he knows what. “I believe you are a good man,” he manages eventually. “All through Palma, you were so miserable, and watching you like that… I couldn’t stop thinking that it was all my fault.”

“That is not—”

Zaytsev waves off his protests. “I don’t care what the reasons are. All I know is that you are the best chess player in the world, and I could not live with the guilt if you withdrew from the game because of something I triggered, purposefully or not.”

And, well, that is certainly something Illya can understand. He swallows hard. “I don’t know how I could repay you.”

“You don’t have to repay me. But,” Zaytsev adds, and Illya is surprised to see a bright red blush bloom across his cheeks, “if you do see Gaby, would you tell her I said hello?”

It’s almost enough to startle a laugh out of him, but Illya manages to nod seriously instead. “Of course.”

Zaytsev grins for a moment before he schools his expression back to neutral, then gives a quick nod and looks toward the door. “I should be going. But I hope you will contact the Federation soon about this.”

“I will,” Illya tells him, which Zaytsev takes as his cue to depart. Illya stares at the letter again as he goes, still half not believing it is real. “And Nikolai?” he says, making the man pause in the door to glance back at him. “Thank you.”

To Illya’s surprise, when he visits the offices of the Russian Chess Federation he finds that not only would they approve his trip to the States, but they had already started planning it. It appeared that Zaytsev was right that they knew, either from reading Illya’s letter, which had arrived almost a week before he had bothered to open it, or possibly from their own correspondance with the USCF. In a way it was typical: the Federation did what they wanted with their players, when they wanted, so it shouldn’t have been a shock that they would plan this for him before even asking him if he would be willing. They knew that he would be willing if they said he would be.

In any case, they have already booked Illya a flight and a hotel room, and are partway through a draft of Illya’s lecture. Because there is no world in which Illya would be able to write his own speech, or even contribute to it; no, every one of his words will be chosen for him, designed to carefully say nothing at all while making him look as impressive as possible. Illya himself has never experienced such an event, given that it has been less than a year since he became the new World Champion, but he has heard enough to know how it works. In truth, the prospect sounds entirely miserable in every way, but there is much that he would endure for the chance to see Napoleon once again.

As the trip draws nearer, though, doubts begin to make their way back to the forefront of his mind. Illya could not cancel the trip, save perhaps if he were to become deathly ill, but that does not mean he has to go through with his plan to try to find Napoleon. He begins to wonder if his burning desire to see the American again and apologize, regardless of Napoleon will forgive him, is nothing more than selfish. There is a good chance that such an interaction will only bring them both fresh pain. Clearly Napoleon does not want to see him. Perhaps Illya should leave him be and let him move on.

He must be letting too much of his wallowing show on the surface lately, because when he visits his mother for dinner one night a couple of days before he’s scheduled to leave, she brings up Napoleon again. They have not hardly spoken about the American since before Palma, even though Illya has told her all about his upcoming trip and what he would be doing. He spends enough time thinking about Napoleon as it is, and the last thing he needs is for his mother to divine more about their relationship than she already has.

They are in the kitchen, as they usually are, with Illya perched on his stool and his mother kneading some kind of dough. Illya rarely asks what she is making ahead of time, preferring instead to watch her work and try to guess it from the different steps. Pierogi tonight, perhaps. Her work is occasionally interrupted by coughing, and Illya catalogs these as well, making mental notes of frequency and severity. He does not like the data he has collected, but his mother remains stubbornly insistent that it is nothing every time he tries to talk to her about it. In fact, whenever he brings it up she takes the opportunity to pry into something that Illya would rather not talk about, which is clearly her way of trying to discourage him. No doubt it is how Napoleon comes up tonight.

“Do you remember when the coughing started?” Worryingly, Illya does not; it seemed to come up on her insidiously, with no single precipitating event.

His mother shoots him a disapproving glance before looking down at her dough. “No,” she answers tersely, then springs her own trap. “Have you planned what you are going to say to him?”

“Mama—”

“Illyusha,” she says warningly.

Illya sighs. He will not get far unless he humors her. “Yes.”

“Good.” She turns toward him and plants her hands on her hips for emphasis, heedless of the floury smears she leaves across her dress where the apron does not quite cover. “Now throw it all away and speak from your heart.”

As if it would ever be that easy. Illya is not good with words, and certainly not on the spot. Besides, it’s not as if he can stop himself from constantly thinking about what he’s going to say if he actually gets the opportunity. Which he might not even take, in the end. “I do not even know if I am going to see him,” he says instead.

“Of course you will,” his mother scoffs. “Do not be absurd. That is the entire point of this trip, is it not?”

Illya cannot help but huff in amusement at that. “Not according to the Federation.”

“Bah,” she says, waving him off. “What do they know. That nice young boy”—she had been delighted to hear about Zaytsev’s role, and had even insisted that Illya invite him over for dinner one night—“went to all this trouble, and you will squander it?”

“Maybe he does not want to see me,” he protests, absolutely not pouting even a little.

“Do not presume you know what he wants. Isn’t that how all of this trouble started?”

Illya boggles at her. How could she possibly know that? Forget the KGB, sometimes he thinks his mother must have him bugged.

“You must do this, Illyusha. Promise me.”

“I will promise if you will agree to let me take you to a doctor when I return,” Illya tells her. Turnabout is fair play, after all. “I do not like this cough, and it only gets worse with each passing week.”

A look of surprise passes over his mothers face, followed by a sly smile. “Oh, you want to make deals now, do you? Very well. If you need to use your mother as an excuse, you have my word. But it is nothing, котенок. You will see.”

Chapter Text

New York, USA, December 1966
(US Chess Championships)

“Did you see this?” Gaby asks.

Napoleon looks up from where he’s sitting in his favorite armchair in her studio apartment above the chess club, trying to lose himself in the latest Fleming novel and not entirely succeeding. She’s holding up a copy of the Times, a recent one with coverage of the ongoing championship, which he has decidedly not looked at. It’s absurd that he can’t even bring himself to read about a tournament that Illya has no part in, but the wounds are still too fresh. At least, that’s what he tells himself, nearly two months on. He shakes his head, so Gaby gets up from where she was sitting at the tiny kitchen table and crosses the room to drop the paper in his lap.

Illya’s face looks back at him underneath the headline: World Chess Champion GM Illya Kuryakin To Give Keynote At USCC Closing Ceremonies.

Napoleon stares at it a long time, the words of the article blurring together, before looking back up at her. “This is a joke, right? Somehow you got this printed up and slipped it in here?”

“Honestly, Napoleon, is that what you think of me?” she asks, quirking her eyebrows at him. But then she adds, “As if I would go to that much trouble to cause you pain when you are quite adept at torturing yourself.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly. Quite unwillingly, his eyes are drawn back down to the paper in front of him. The photo is familiar—an official one that the Russian Chess Federation always uses, in which Illya is glaring somewhat sullenly at the camera—and even though it’s in black and white Napoleon can almost feel the intensity of Illya’s blue eyes piercing into him. His thoughts are a tumultuous swirl of a million questions all fighting to get out, and the one that wins is: “Why the fuck would he agree to this?”

Illya is a deeply private person, and certainly not one for showy lectures or putting himself in the public eye. Napoleon knows how much he hated all of the press that followed his World Championship win. The idea of him getting up to speak in front of the entire US Chess Championship is ludicrous.

“You know it’s just a PR move by the Russian Federation,” Gaby says dismissively. “Sending their champion to the biggest US tournament in the name of ‘international cooperation’ when really they just want to rub in everyone’s faces how none of these poor bastards have a chance in hell of beating them.”

“I know why the Russian Federation would send him,” Napoleon says, although in truth it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would be their idea to start with. “I don’t know why he would agree to come. To this event. To this city.”

Gaby shrugs. “Probably didn’t have a choice.”

She has a point. If the Federation told him he was going, then he was going, or else risk them not letting him compete in future tournaments. Napoleon knows he has a little sway in his position as World Champion, a bit more agency than most of the other players, but not much. 

“Then again, maybe he has other reasons for wanting to come to New York,” she adds, looking at him archly.

Napoleon frowns at her. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking,” she insists. “The timing on this is extremely suspicious. It’s not like you’ve made it easy for him to speak to you.”

“That’s absurd, Gaby. For one, he is the one who doesn't want to see me anymore, and two, I’m supposed to believe that he would come all the way here and agree to a public lecture—which he hates—for what? The off chance that he might find me at the tournament? Because he wants to talk some more about how we can never be together? Rub some more salt in those wounds? Give me a break.”

It comes off as a bit of a rant, and Gaby weathers it with an expression of mixed annoyance and amusement. “Are you finished?”

“Yes,” Napoleon huffs.

“Are you going to go to the lecture?”

“Hell no. Weren’t you the one who was just saying I torture myself enough?”

“Don’t you think you should find out if he did come here to see you?” she asks.

“No, I don’t,” he retorts stubbornly as he gets up, dropping the newspaper back on the table. “He was quite clear that what we had didn’t mean all that much to him, and I’m not interested in trying to be friends, or whatever he thinks could possibly come out of this.”

“In that case, do you want me to go break his kneecaps?” She’s grinning now, obviously not serious, but even so Napoleon knows better than to tempt her.

“No! You wouldn’t make it past the KGB, anyway. I’m sure they’ll be watching him like hawks.”

Gaby shrugs. “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I should let you get ready to open,” Napoleon says, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice. Before, he would have stuck around to ‘help’, although Gaby always used to complain that most of the time he was more of a hindrance. Somehow he gets the feeling she might not object, even facetiously, if he were to stay now.

“Will you be by the club later?” she asks, like she still does almost every night, even though she knows already what his answer will be.

“Not tonight.”

They fall silent as he gathers his coat and bag, the well-trod argument lying unspoken between them. Maybe someday, he would tell her, like he has already countless times. After all, it’s not like he’s happy that he can’t seem to think about the game without feeling like he’s taking a knife to the heart. He wishes it could be different, that he could spend all night laughing and arguing over a chess board without thinking about him. But he can’t. Not yet.

“Take care of yourself, darling,” she tells him, stretching up on her toes kiss his cheek. “Do not go drown yourself in a bottle of Scotch.”

Napoleon huffs, glancing down at the photo of Illya in the newspaper still lying open on the table. “No promises.”

Gaby yawns as she wipes down the bar in the empty club, more than a little exhausted after another busy evening. The tournament has certainly been good for business, but she won’t be sad that tomorrow is the final day. Thanks to the press she’s gotten lately from winning tournaments and generally being outspoken about the game, the club is a poorly-kept secret at this point. Every night has seen quite a few of the tournament’s competitors, both her regulars and people from all over the country, stopping by to have a drink and talk about the day’s matches over more chess, of course. Gaby loves the game but some of these people really don’t know how to turn off.

It has been odd, not having Napoleon around. She still sees him nearly every day, of course, but not here. Not in his usual chair, which all of her regulars know not to even try to occupy. Before the tournament it had remained empty every night, but now more often than not some out-of-towner will take it up. It’s irrationally irritating to her, seeing someone else where he should be, but she doesn’t have a good reason to make them move. She would have thought that after almost two months he would have gotten over the Russian, or at least would have returned to the game that she knows means so much to him, but apparently not. It troubles her more than she lets him see.

An unexpected knock at the door jolts her out of her thoughts. It’s well after closing time, and anyway most of her customers had left early. The final matches of the tournament are tomorrow, after all, and everyone had been a little more high-strung than usual.

“We’re closed!” she yells, but whoever it is either didn’t hear her or doesn’t care, because the knocking comes again, a little more forcefully.

With a huff, Gaby drops the rag onto the bar and pushes a stray lock of hair out of her face before she walks to the door, ready to give her late visitor a piece of her mind. She’s already got a frown fixed on her face when she wrenches open the door, but instead her mouth falls open in surprise when she sees who is on the other side.

“You!” she gasps. “What are you doing here?”

Illya Kuryakin flinches at the steel in her voice, his shoulders curling inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. It’s such a stark contrast from the usual haughty, confident way he carries himself at tournaments that she has to convince herself that she isn’t looking at a particularly uncanny doppelgänger. Then she remembers the way he’d looked when he approached her at the end of the Piatigorsky Cup, clearly—if bafflingly—conflicted over his win. It was the first, and only, time she’d gotten a glimpse of what Napoleon apparently saw in him, of the man behind the carefully constructed image of Soviet excellence.

Illya glances nervously down the street behind him before turning back to her. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Gaby says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Please, Gaby?” he pleads, and fuck if he doesn’t look pitiful with those kicked-puppy eyes he’s giving her. Gaby might not be very pleased to see him given the circumstances, but she’s not heartless. She huffs a sigh and steps back.

“Come on then.”

Illya walks past her into the main room of the club as she closes the door behind him, looking around the small space with clear interest. It’s long and narrow, like so many storefronts in the Village, with a modest bar to the left under a sign that reads What Good Is A King Without A Queen? On the other side of the space, a long bench upholstered in rich oxblood leather extends along the entire right wall with a line of special tables arrayed in front of it. Each has a chessboard inlayed directly into the wood on its top and a collection of associated pieces that are, at this point of the night, in various states of disarray. Tucked next to the bar, half in an alcove by the front window, is another table that has a couple of nice armchairs set up on either side. Napoleon’s table. She watches as Illya’s gaze lingers on it for longer than the rest, as if he can somehow sense its import.

“So?” she prompts. “Why are you here, Kuryakin?”

Illya turns his attention to back to her, frowning. “Why do you think?” he asks. “I need to see him.”

“And what if he doesn’t want to see you?”

“Then I respect his wishes,” he says, sounding utterly miserable. “But I would ask that you might tell him that I hoped I could speak to him. I have no right to your help, I know, but I had to try.”

Gaby stares at the Russian for a long moment, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes. He looks just about as bad off as Napoleon, and maybe moreso by the way that the guilt practically radiates off of him. “This whole trip. It’s all for him, isn’t it?”

“To me, yes,” he answers with a small nod.

“You broke his heart, you know.”

Illya’s head dips toward the floor as he nods again, not meeting her gaze. “I know,” he murmurs. “You were right.”

“What?”

“What you said, in the elevator. I do regret it. More than anything.”

Gaby sighs. “Give me a minute.”

She leaves him standing where he is and disappears behind the bar to go find the club’s phone, dialing Napoleon’s home number automatically. It’s reasonably late, but not past the point where he would normally be asleep. As the line rings she watches Illya shuffle over to one of the chess sets, peering at it absently and quite obviously trying to look like he’s not listening in.

Napoleon picks up on the third ring and sounds entirely alert, if a little confused to be getting a call at this hour. “Hello?”

“Solo, it’s me. Can you come down to the club?”

“Is everything ok? Are you all right?” he asks immediately, a note of worry unmistakable in his voice. Gaby would pretty much never call him like this, so no doubt he’s assuming that she’s hurt or in some kind of trouble.

“Everything’s fine, I’m just closing up,” she reassures him. She hesitates a moment, then pitches her voice a little lower even though Illya will no doubt still be able to hear her in the quiet space. “He’s here, Napoleon.”

There is a long pause on the line, long enough that she wonders if she should say something else. But then, finally, Napoleon quietly says, “No.”

“What?”

“No, I can’t come.”

“Napoleon—”

“I told you, I don’t want to see him.”

“Well I don’t care,” she hisses into the receiver. “I know you’re still hurting, and I know you’re still mad, but he came to New York for you. He snuck out tonight—god knows how—for you. That has to mean something.”

“Does it?” Napoleon shoots back, but it comes out more earnest than he no doubt intends.

“Yes. Just hear him out, ok?”

“Since when are you on his side?”

Gaby glances across the room to where Illya is idly pushing chess pieces around on a board. “Since I’m pretty sure he’s on your side, too,” she mutters. “Now get your ass over here before I give him your address and my spare key.”

She hangs up after he grumbles his assent, grabbing a pair of tumblers off a shelf and pouring a few fingers of vodka into them before she makes her way over to where Illya is waiting. Wordlessly, she passes him one of the glasses and for a moment she thinks he’s going to refuse it, but instead he accepts it with a small, grateful smile.

“He’s coming,” she tells him, even though she’s pretty sure he knows already. Then she nods down to the table next to them. “Want to play while we wait?”

Illya blinks at her like he’s not quite sure he heard her right, and Gaby just shrugs. There’s a good chance Napoleon will waste a lot of time fretting before he even manages to leave his apartment, and they might as well not be bored.

“Ok,” he finally agrees as he settles carefully into the chair. “I must warn you that I have not been at my best lately.”

Gaby offers him a small smile as she slides into the booth opposite him and begins arranging the pieces. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t go easy on you. Not really in my nature.”

At that, the corner of Illya’s mouth ticks upward for the first time since he arrived. “I would not want you to.”

Napoleon is not sure what he expected to find when he arrives at The Queen’s Pawn, but it was certainly not to find Illya and Gaby deeply embroiled in a game of chess. He spots them through the front window before he even makes it to the door, and the sight stops him in his tracks. All at once he is hit by a feeling of intense loss and longing for what was once such a huge part of him, but that sorrow is quickly overwhelmed by a surge of irritation. How dare Illya show up here and sit in his club (nevermind that it isn’t actually Napoleon’s club) playing chess with his friend? How is it possible that he can seemingly fall back into the game without a second thought (nevermind that Napoleon heard about the results from Palma), that he can laugh at whatever Gaby says as she takes his last bishop?

It’s almost enough to make Napoleon turn around and walk away, but just as he’s about to do so Illya looks up from the board and catches sight of him through the window. The smile falls off his face so fast it would comical under any other circumstances. It’s only then that Napoleon sees the dark circles under his eyes and the worry lines creased into his forehead. Napoleon refuses to let himself feel even a little bit of sympathy for him. If he’s had a bad time the last two months, well, that was of his own making.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Napoleon pushes the door open and steps inside. Illya is already standing, his game with Gaby forgotten, though at a quick glance it seems he wasn’t in much danger of winning. For her part, Gaby is giving Napoleon some kind of undecipherable look that might mean don’t fuck this up but also might mean don’t let this go too far, so it’s all a wash in the end. She crosses over to him on her way toward the back staircase to her studio, giving his forearm a supportive squeeze as she goes.

“I’ll be upstairs,” she murmurs. “Lock up when you leave?”

Napoleon nods, and then she’s gone, leaving the two men in a kind of standoff. Neither seems that interested in breaking the pregnant silence that settles over them, or perhaps it is only that now that they are standing here, alone again, words seem entirely insufficient.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in giving public lectures, Peril,” Napoleon says eventually, forcing a tight smile onto his face and no small amount of false levity into his voice.

“I’m not,” Illya replies. “Was not my idea.”

“That I could have guessed.”

Illya drops his gaze to the floor, hesitating. “Cowboy, I—”

“Look, you should probably just say what you came here to say,” Napoleon says curtly, speaking over top of him. The last thing he needs tonight is to stand here in some kind of terrible limbo for who knows how long.

“Why did you quit the game?”

That is certainly not what Napoleon had been expecting. He blinks at the other man, who has now set his jaw in something like determination. It’s tempting not to answer, to evade the question, because what does he really owe Illya? But in the end, playing that game won’t help anything. “Why do you think?”

“You told me once this game is everything to you,” Illya answers doggedly. “How can you just… let it go?”

“Yeah, well it turns out I lied,” Napoleon huffs, fighting the urge to turn away from the Russian’s eviscerating gaze. If they’re going to do this, he might as well put everything on the table. “This game isn’t everything to me. You are.”

The look Illya gives him is entirely befuddled. “What? Then why…?”

“Because the thought of seeing you at tournaments, competing against you, going back to the way things were at the beginning—our own separate worlds, barely speaking to each other—after everything we’ve been through? After everything we’ve shared? It’s excruciating, Peril. I couldn’t bear it. Even the idea of playing in tournaments without you is impossible. I’d rather stop playing entirely.”

“It was unbearable,” Illya says softly after a moment, like he didn’t quite mean to say it.

“What?”

“The tournament at Palma, without you there. Was… terrible.”

Napoleon scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ruin your tournament by not showing up? Can’t play as well without a relaxing fuck in the evenings?”

“You know that is not—” Illya starts, gritting it out through clenched teeth.

“Then what, Illya?” Napoleon demands sharply, frustration heating his face. “What exactly was the problem?”

“I love you, Napoleon!” Illya nearly shouts, the words ringing loudly in quiet of the club, and the silence that follows is only broken by Illya’s ragged breaths as Napoleon stares at him in shock. Illya closes his eyes, as if trying to steady himself, and when he opens them again the raw vulnerability in them is startling. “I love you,” he says again, with something like resignation in his voice, “and when they told me you quit I thought I would never see you again, and— and that was not something I could bear.”

Words have always been Napoleon’s close companions. He wields them expertly almost without thinking about it, whether in service of getting what he wants, or protecting himself, or, on rarer occasions, expressing his honest feelings. They completely fail him now. He stands there, gaping like a fish after his fury has all drained away like a plug pulled out of a bath, trying desperately to make some kind of sense out of this, but every time he runs up against those three little, impossible words his brain just stops. The silence stretches on too long, and Illya huffs out a bitter-sounding laugh, finally turning away from Napoleon. He scrubs his hands over his face, letting them drag across his chin as he shakes his head.

“This is not how this was supposed to go,” he mutters, more to the room than to Napoleon.

“Oh?” Napoleon manages.

“I came here—” Illya starts, pausing to draw a deep breath, “I came here to apologize.” There is another pause, but Napoleon gets the impression he isn’t done, so he waits as Illya turns back toward him and takes a tentative step closer. “I have been in love with you for months. From the beginning, maybe. I don’t know. The way I feel about you… I have never felt like that about anyone, and it terrified me. I know that is no excuse for how I treated you. I am sorry I did not see it earlier, that I did not hear what you tried to tell me that night, because I was too stubborn to listen.”

“Illya—”

“Please,” Illya says desperately before Napoleon can get anything else out, “let me… I need to say this. I did not come here expecting that you will forgive me. I came because I need you to know. I love you, and I am willing to risk everything for this. For you. And maybe I am too late, or maybe the damage is too much, but I had to try, because I think you love me too. Or did love me, once.”

Napoleon closes the remaining distance between them, reaching forward to take one of Illya’s hands in his. He’s still wearing his gloves against the late December chill outside, but he laces their fingers together anyway, savoring the fit that he thought he had lost forever. “Oh, Illya,” he sighs as he lifts his other hand to cup Illya’s cheek, “I still do. I never stopped.”

Napoleon stretches up, bringing their lips together in a kiss that is more hesitant than any they have ever shared before, like neither of them can quite believe they’re being allowed it. He feels Illya’s lip tremble before he pushes forward, slotting their mouths more tightly together, and then, finally, the dam bursts. Illya’s hand slips around his waist to draw him closer as their movements become more and more desperate, a slick slide of lips and tongues and teeth. It is achingly familiar and brand new all at once, because while they have kissed like this more than a few times, they have never kissed like this, each offering his heart so completely to the other.

“Come home with me,” Napoleon breathes when they part, his fingertips pressing under Illya’s collar as he pulls the Russian’s forehead against his own. “My apartment, it’s not far.”

Illya hesitates for a bare moment, but Napoleon catches it anyway. He doesn’t mean for the invitation to be a challenge, but it is a risk. They are far from the tournament hotel, down here in the Village, but the longer Illya stays away the more difficult it will be for him to sneak back in without being noticed. Napoleon considers taking it back—they don’t need to sleep together tonight, they can just have this time together, short as it might be—but before he can Illya nods.

“Ok,” he murmurs. “Yes. I’d like that.”

They disentangle for long enough for Illya to put his coat on, though Napoleon cannot resist stealing another kiss before they depart. Illya smiles into it enthusiastically, and Napoleon ends up laughing as he forcibly removes himself from the Russian’s grasp and pushes him bodily out the door. After he locks up the club behind them, they fall into step next to each other, their shoulders brushing as they both take up a reasonably quick pace. Napoleon does not miss how Illya keeps on glancing over at him, a ridiculously smitten grin on his face, and eventually he can’t take it anymore. He grabs onto Illya’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and holds tight.

“We’re in Greenwich Village,” Napoleon explains when Illya looks at him in surprise. “It’s not, er, an unusual sight.”

“Really?”

“One of the most notorious gay bars in the country is quite literally around the corner from Gaby’s place, and there are a lot more in the area that fly under the radar. These days, unless you’re making out in the street, the police usually leave you alone.”

Illya is clearly quite astounded by this, but he accepts the explanation without further question. All at once, the sheer level of trust that the Russian is putting in him strikes Napoleon like a physical blow. His declaration that he was willing to risk it all wasn’t just pretty words, he meant it completely, and the magnitude of that is staggering.

“I owe you an apology, too,” Napoleon says abruptly.

Illya frowns at him. “Cowboy, you don’t—”

“I do,” Napoleon insists. “The consequences of getting found out were always more dire for you than they were for me. I knew that, and I pushed anyway. That wasn’t fair to you. You don’t owe it to me—to anyone—to risk everything, and I never should have asked it. Even for love.”

Illya squeezes his hand in response, apparently unable to find words just now. Napoleon suspects that he still wants to argue but is too polite to refuse an apology, so instead they lapse into silence again as they walk down the nearly-empty streets.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Illya asks eventually.

Napoleon doesn’t have to ask what he means. It is one thing to fall back into each other’s arms, to say they will give anything, even to be so completely in love. It is another thing entirely to actually be together in this world. To survive, against all odds. “I have to believe it is,” he says. “I know it won’t be easy. It never has been. But whatever we have to do to make it work, to minimize the risks… this is worth it.”

“It is,” Illya agrees, offering him a small smile.

“So how in the world did you set this up, Peril?” Napoleon asks when they finally turn down his street. He has to admit, he’s insanely curious about the logistics of this whole trip.

“I didn’t,” Illya says, smirking at Napoleon’s puzzled expression. “I told you, this was not my idea.”

“Then who’s was it?”

Illya’s smile broadens, and he looks like he’s laughing silently at a private joke. “Zaytsev.”

“Zaytsev?” Napoleon boggles. “Zaytsev, the person who caught us in the first place?”

“The same.”

“Wh— how? Why?”

“He sent anonymous letter to the US Chess Federation with some suggestions about fostering better relations between players,” Illya answers with a smirk. Napoleon seriously doubts that these were the type of relations the younger Russian had been imagining, but Illya continues. “As for why, he was worried about me. Said he felt guilty.”

“Well that is unexpected,” Napoleon says, blinking as he tries to reconcile this new information with what little he knew of the other man. “So he’s ok with… this?” he asks, a little skeptically, giving Illya’s hand a squeeze for emphasis.

Illya shrugs. “I don’t think he is ok with it. Not really. But I think he is trying to be.”

“Huh. Still, it’s more than I would have dared hope for. I guess I really owe him one.”

“Yes,” Illya agrees. “We both do.”

Napoleon pulls them to a stop outside his building, an unremarkable brownstone on Charles Street. “This is me,” he announces, relucantly letting go of Illya’s hand so that he can fish out his keys. “It’s not much. Tournament winnings only go so far here. Fifth-floor walk-up, sorry to say, but at least it stays warm in the winter.”

“It is wonderful, because it is yours,” Illya says with an almost distressing amount of earnestness as Napoleon lets them in and they begin climbing the stairs. “I never thought I would be here.”

“Me neither, Peril.”

Napoleon pauses on the second landing while Illya is still a step below him, turning and using his newfound height advantage to make Illya tip his head up for a kiss for once. He can’t help but grin with satisfaction into the kiss, and Illya nips playfully at his lips in turn before he continues up the steps, pushing Napoleon backward further into the landing. It’s only when Illya makes to start in on his neck that Napoleon squirms away.

“You can’t wait three more flights?” he teases.

“No,” Illya replies, his gaze darkening with lust. “You started this, Cowboy.”

‘This’ turns out to be a mad dash up the rest of the stairs, both of them dissolving into laughter as it quickly becomes impossible to tell who is chasing whom. They variously catch each other and pull away, kissing and groping and probably making entirely too much noise given the current hour. When they finally make it to Napoleon’s door he fumbles with his keys while Illya practically attacks him from behind, wrapping his arms around Napoleon’s waist and sucking eagerly on his neck. Then he rocks his hips forward against Napoleon’s, pressing his already substantial erection against his ass, and Napoleon nearly drops his keys entirely.

“Christ, Peril,” Napoleon moans, and then he finally, finally gets the door open.

They leave a trail of clothing behind them on the way to the bedroom, barely bothering with partially unbuttoning their shirts before yanking them over their heads and discarding them haphazardly. By the time Napoleon pushes Illya backward onto the bed and climbs on top of him to straddle his hips they are both completely, gloriously naked. Although Napoleon could probably spend hours just drinking in the sight of Illya’s body, he allows himself only a brief glance before he leans down to capture Illya’s mouth again, because as much as he enjoys looking, the prospect of actually feeling how their bodies fit perfectly together is too much to resist.

Illya’s skin is warm and smooth and flushed an appealing shade of pink under his palms, and the Russian gasps when Napoleon rocks their hips together. It’s obvious that both of them are wound far too tightly—too desperate for release after everything that happened between them—to be able to pull apart long enough for any kind of preparation, but Napoleon manages to fish a bottle of massage oil out of the bedside table. He pours a generous amount in his hand and uses it to slick up their cocks and bellies and thighs, relishing the way that Illya hisses and moans under his ministrations. The final twist of his wrist as he drags his palm across the head of his cock draws a growl out of Illya’s throat, and then he is being pulled down into a bruising kiss as Illya begins to thrust upward against him.

Neither of them lasts very long. The slide of his cock against Illya’s and against the crease of his hip quickly overwhelms Napoleon, and he is reduced to little gasps at the jolts of pleasure coursing through him as the pressure of his orgasm builds. Underneath him, Illya has his eyes screwed shut and his head thrown back, his mouth hanging open as he pants heavily, one hand gripping Napoleon’s hip and the other his shoulder.

“Illya, look at me,” Napoleon manages, because he is so, so close and all he wants to do is let himself drown in the blue of Illya’s gaze.

Illya’s eyes snap open, pupils blown so wide they seem to swallow him up, but it is the pure, unconcealed emotion in them that stops Napoleon’s heart. “I love you, Napoleon,” he breathes.

“Oh god, Illya,” Napoleon groans against his lips as Illya drags their mouths together again. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says between every kiss.

Napoleon’s hips stutter forward in jerky thrusts as the wave of pleasure finally crashes over him, and it’s all he can do not to collapse entirely. He spills hot and sticky between them, which only serves to slicken their movements further, and a few moments later Illya comes with shout as he digs his fingers into Napoleon’s hip hard enough to bruise.

Napoleon does collapse then, at least a little bit, pulling himself up enough to plant his elbows on either side of Illya’s head so he can dip his own down to capture Illya’s mouth with slow, drugging kisses. Their bodies are sticking together with drying sweat and come, and the weight of his exhaustion is crashing down onto him, but right now Napoleon doesn’t care, because Illya is here in his apartment and in his bed and in his arms. 

“Stay with me,” he murmurs before he even knows he’s saying it. “Here, in New York. Don’t go back to Moscow.” He leans his forehead down against Illya’s, closing his eyes because the answer is a foregone conclusion but he still can’t bear to watch Illya’s reaction.

“Cowboy,” Illya sighs, and Napoleon forces himself to pull his head back again and look at him. He looks more sad than anything else. “You know that I cannot. I love my country. And my mother…”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Napoleon says, mentally kicking himself for even bringing it up. “I just… wish things could be different. The idea of letting you go again—” He breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut against the emotions that threaten to choke him.

Illya’s arms tighten around his waist, and then soft lips brush his again. “There is Monte Carlo in a few months. We will see each other.”

“You’re right, you’re right. It’s just— I want all of you. Not just the stolen moments,” Napoleon sighs, failing to keep a note of petulance from his voice.

“I know. So do I.”

Eventually Napoleon finds it within him to peel himself away from the Russian and grab a towel to clean them off, but he does not resist sliding back into bed to curl up against Illya’s side. He expects to be met with protests that Illya needs to get back to the tournament hotel, but they don’t come. Instead Illya wraps his arms around Napoleon and holds him close, twining his fingers into his hair almost idly.

“You love my hair,” Napoleon grins against his chest.

Illya’s hand pauses, but then he must decide that he’s allowed, because he resumes playing with the curling strands a moment later. “I love all of you, Cowboy.”

“Yeah, but you really love my hair.”

“You should let the curls go sometimes,” Illya suggests, audibly smug.

“Mm, I don’t know if you could handle it,” Napoleon smirks.

“Maybe not.”

When Napoleon tips his head up to look at him, he finds Illya with a ridiculously fond expression on his face. If someone had told him a year ago, when he had all but won the US championship title and was about to make his international debut at Hastings, that this is where he would be, he would have laughed in their face. In this moment, though, he can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be. He lets Illya drag him up into a soft, tender kiss, and knows unerringly that they will make this work. Maybe they can’t have everything, but right now they can have this, and it is enough.

Illya wakes up in Napoleon’s bed.

At first it is much like waking up in any one of many unfamiliar rooms, something he has become accustomed to over the years, but rapidly he becomes aware that he’s not alone. There is a heavy weight draped over half of him, and when he takes a deep breath his nose is filled with the lingering scent of sweat and sex and Napoleon. Without exactly meaning to, Illya sits up abruptly, dislodging the man sleeping on top of him. Napoleon groans and rubs at his eyes as he rolls onto his back, still mostly asleep and blissfully unaware of what has happened.

“What time is it?” Illya croaks out.

There is light forcing its way through the cracks in the blinds; not a lot, but still far too much of it to be from the streetlamps or lit signs outside. He casts about for a clock and finds one laying on its face on the bedside table. A little before six in the morning. Fuck.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon mumbles through a yawn.

“It’s morning, Cowboy,” Illya tells him as he scrambles frantically out of the bed and begins hunting for his discarded clothes.

This seems to finally jolt Napoleon out of is slumber for good. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, eyes going impossibly wide. “What?”

“Morning,” Illya repeats, even though by now Napoleon has made a grab for the clock and confirmed that fact for himself. “We fell asleep. I have to— I can’t—” He breaks off, pausing for a second, bent over with his pants half on, as the panic fully overwhelms him. His heart is beating nearly out of his chest and his throat is threatening to close off entirely. “I don’t know how I’m going to get back into the hotel.”

In the space of his next breath, Napoleon is out of the bed and at his side. “Hey, it’s ok, it’s ok,” he says as he takes Illya’s face in his hands and forces him to look up into his eyes. “We’ll figure it out.”

“How?” Illya chokes out past the despair welling up in his chest. He just got this back, and now he’s going to lose it all again.

Something seems to occur to Napoleon then. He drops Illya’s face and rushes back across the room to pull on a pair of pajama pants. “Hotel Roosevelt, right?” he asks. Illya nods. “I know a guy who works in the kitchens there. He owes me a favor. Just, gimme a sec.” Then he’s gone, almost running out of the room to presumably wherever he keeps his phone.

Illya doesn’t let himself think about the possible ways that Napoleon might know this other man, and for what reasons he might owe him a favor. It doesn’t matter. Right now he needs all the help he can get, and the past is the past. Instead Illya chooses to remember how it felt to hold Napoleon close last night and tell him he loves him, openly and without fear for the first time. It can’t be the last. He won’t let it.

When he emerges from the bedroom to find the rest of his clothing he hears Napoleon speaking rapidly on the phone, clearly making some kind of arrangements, and by the time Illya is dressed again Napoleon is hanging up. He hurries over to Illya and presses a slip of paper with an address on it into his hand.

“Take a cab to this address, it’s a staff entrance to the hotel,” Napoleon explains. “He’ll meet you there take you in the back way and up the service elevator. It’s still early. Hopefully the KGB won’t be looking for you yet.”

Illya hopes this as well, but he doesn’t know how realistic it is. With any luck, the halls will still be empty when he gets to his floor. “Ok,” he says, nodding distractedly, his mind already reeling with potential outcomes. “Thank you.”

“Wait. Will I see you again before you leave New York?”

Illya hesitates. “Come to the lecture tonight. Maybe we will not get more than that, but it is something. And I will not be so nervous if I know you’re there,” he adds, letting a small smile curve his lips.

The smile that breaks over Napoleon’s face is not so reserved. “Yes, of course I’ll come. But you shouldn’t be nervous. You’ll be amazing.”

“You’ve never heard me speak to an audience.”

“I don’t have to,” Napoleon insists. “I know you.” He steps forward to draw Illya into his arms one last time before he leaves, tipping his head up to kiss him. For a moment Illya gives himself over to it, allowing his hands to skim over Napoleon’s still-bare torso. The seductive suggestion that he stay here with Napoleon flares up in his mind again, but he pushes it quickly away; it is impossible for so many reasons, and it will only hurt more if he lets the idea take root.

“I love you, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs when they finally part, rubbing a thumb over the stubble covering Illya’s cheek. 

“I love you, Cowboy,” Illya answers. It still seems impossible that he’s allowed to say the words out loud. He thinks he will never get tired of speaking them, nor will he ever tire of hearing them in Napoleon’s voice. “I will see you tonight.”

“Count on it.”

Luck seems to be with him, at least at the beginning of his journey. He catches a cab right away, and the hour is still early enough to avoid most of the traffic. When he arrives at the back entrance of the hotel he only waits a couple of minutes before a service door opens and a young man pops his head out to scan the alley. He looks to be maybe a couple of years younger than Illya and is wearing a white chef’s coat with a cap that doesn’t entirely cover floppy brown hair. He’s undoubtedly an attractive man, with full pink lips and bright hazel eyes, which stirs up a flash of jealousy in Illya before he can shove it away.

“You the Russian?” the man asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Illya nods. “Yes.”

He gestures back through the door with his head. “Come on.”

The other man doesn’t introduce himself as they move quickly through the staff areas of the hotel, so Illya doesn’t either. It’s probably better this way, but that doesn’t stop Illya from being insanely curious about him, especially when the man openly lets his gaze drag over Illya’s body in an unmistakably appreciative way once they reach the service elevator, then smirks to himself knowingly as if laughing at a private joke. The brazenness of it stuns him, even though they are alone, and Illya has to stop himself from making some kind of protest. Absurdly, he doesn’t entirely know if that protest would be a denial of what this man clearly thinks he is, or an assertion that Illya is in fact taken, thank you very much.

“Good luck,” the man offers when they reach Illya’s floor and he steps out. “Tell Solo I don’t want to ever get another call from him before six again.”

“Thank you,” Illya replies, and then the other man is gone, leaving him standing in the deserted hall with a lot more questions than answers.

Illya has his key in the door to his room when he hears the soft footfall behind him. He freezes immediately, hoping beyond hope that it is anyone else than the agent that had been assigned to watch him on the trip. Anyone other than the person to whom the voice that breaks the silence a moment later belongs.

“Kuryakin,” he says evenly, with only the bare hint of a question at the end.

Illya turns to see the KGB agent staring at him from a few feet away, a look on his face that invites an explanation for Illya’s presence in the hall at this hour in yesterday’s clothes. The man’s name is unknown to him; Illya is sure he was told at some point, but they rotate agents with every trip to prevent the agents and players from getting to know each other, so he doesn’t bother to learn who they are. Flinty grey eyes track over Illya’s form in a manner that is completely and utterly different than the way Napoleon’s acquaintance had looked at him, and Illya knows he is taking in his disheveled state and quite possibly an unknown number of mouth-shaped bruises that may or may not be visible on his neck.

“I…” Illya begins, but all of the excuses he had thought up seem to abandon him now. “I met a girl last night,” he blurts, which is not a story he had planned on. “At the bar downstairs. I went home with her, later.”

Illya knows the agent had been watching him, but there was also a decent stretch of time where he’d disappeared. Enough time that Illya could have been propositioned by a fictional woman who had left before the agent had returned. The story sounds a little weak, even to his ears, but to his surprise the corner of the other man’s mouth twitches upward.

“Might as well get something else out of this, I guess,” he says, half to himself. “Ok, I won’t put it in the report. But next time just bring her here. Safer for everyone that way.”

An intense wave of relief floods through Illya, even as he can’t quite believe what he is hearing. “Right,” he manages to get out, “of course.”

“Get changed,” the agent instructs, shaking his head a little. Clearly he’s one of the agents that doesn’t take these types of assignments—‘babysitting’ chess players on international trips—very seriously. “You’re supposed to be having breakfast with some American chess federation officials in half an hour.”

Illya nods, not trusting himself to speak further, and quickly disappears into his hotel room. Once the door is shut behind him he slumps bodily against it in relief and exhaustion. Still, he can’t quite resist the feeling that it was worth it; a wide, euphoric grin takes over his face at the memory of waking up with Napoleon curled on top of him. It is, without a doubt, a memory that will do much to sustain him during the lonely nights until Monte Carlo.

“We are actually going to be late if you don’t get out of there,” Gaby yells from the living room, where she is no doubt reading a magazine and drinking all of his vodka.

Napoleon doesn’t entirely know, because he hasn’t emerged from his bedroom since she arrived half an hour ago. He ignores her, because he has better things to worry about right now. Like which shirt and which tie to pair with this suit. After another few minutes she appears in the doorway to the room, leaning on the frame with, yes, a tumbler of vodka in her hand and a smirk on her lips.

“You do know he’s probably not going to be able to see you, right? All those bright lights up on stage mean the audience is usually just a sea of darkness.”

Napoleon screws up his lips and gives her a scorching look that hopefully conveys how little he cares about such details.

Gaby just sighs at him long-sufferingly. “Wear the grey shirt with the sapphire tie. He’ll see the blue of your eyes glowing all the way from Moscow. Now can we go? If you make a dramatic entrance everyone else is going to notice you too, and I don’t think you want that.”

Well, damn. She has a point about that. The last thing he needs is to draw attention to his arrival at a lecture given by his supposed arch-rival, particularly at the closing ceremonies of a tournament that he had already made news for not participating in. In fact, he’s starting to wonder if this really is the best idea after all, but he’d promised Illya he would go, and he does want to be a supportive boyfriend.

At that thought, his brain takes an abrupt left turn, even as the rest of him automatically continues getting dressed. His boyfriend. It’s not that he hasn’t had boyfriends before, because he’s had plenty, and girlfriends as well, of varying degrees of seriousness. This is the first time, though, that it feels like that fact is too important to contain. He wants to shout it from the rooftops, to gloat in how lucky he is, that Illya loves him, that by some insane miracle he chose Napoleon. Oh yes, he imagines saying to no one—because no one is precisely who he could tell—my boyfriend, the World Chess Champion, is giving the keynote tonight. Why yes, he’s every bit as brilliant as he seems.

And now his face must be doing something embarrassing, because Gaby is giving him a look. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” she asks, dragging him toward the door, then continues without waiting for an answer. “Jesus. I hope you can do better than that at not looking so moony-eyed during the lecture, because otherwise things are going to get awkward really fast,” she adds dryly.

Napoleon sticks his tongue out at her before schooling his expression back to a careful neutral as they flag down a taxi. He is going to have to watch himself, even while everyone else is watching Illya. “I’ll be fine.”

“You really think you can pull this off?” she asks after she tells the cabbie their destination, seriousness crept into her tone, and Napoleon can tell she’s not talking about only this evening’s events.

“It’s not really a matter of thinking. We will, because there’s no other alternative.”

“For how long?”

That is not a question that Napoleon has let himself consider, and he has no intention of doing so now. The future is vast and nebulous, and no one can say what it holds, so what is the point of planning? That’s always been his point of view, and he can see no reason to change it now.

“I don’t—” he starts, then cuts off, shaking his head. “What’s the point in even thinking about it? It doesn’t apply to people like me. Marriage? A house, a dog, 2.5 kids? That’s never been my future. You know that.”

“I’m not talking about marriage, Napoleon,” she says, frowning at him. “But there’s a lot between that and only seeing the person you love every few months. Just because you don’t want to live the cookie-cutter American dream doesn’t mean you don’t deserve happiness.”

“Exactly. And this is what makes me happy, ok? For however long. This is worth it.”

Chapter Text

Grand Prix International d'Echecs de Monaco, March 1967
Monte Carlo, Monaco

Illya is unpacking his clothes into the hotel’s dresser when the knock comes. At first he thinks it must be one of the other Soviets—along with Illya, Kozlov and Belinsky had been granted spots in this tournament by the Federation—though he can’t for the life of him think of a reason that either of them would be visiting him, especially so soon after they’d arrived. Maybe there’s a message from Oleg, or he’d forgotten something on the plane. When he walks to the door to his room and opens it, though, there’s no one on the other side. He stands there for a moment, frowning in confusion, and then he hears the knocking again. But it’s behind him.

There’s another door on one of the interior walls that connects to another, adjoining room. Such a setup isn’t that unusual in the hotels he typically stays in, but he’s never considered who might be on the other side. Surely most of the time it must be another of the Soviet players, but none of them have ever made use of it, and anyway he knows that’s not currently the case. He does know that it’s generally not good etiquette to go around knocking on strangers’ adjoining rooms for the hell of it. Nevertheless, he goes to the other door and opens it cautiously.

Never in a hundred years would he have guessed that the person he finds grinning at him behind it would be Napoleon.

“Cowboy?” Illya hisses, looking back into his own room nervously as if the KGB would pop out of thin air. “What are you doing here?”

Napoleon’s grin cannot physically get any wider, or more smug. “This is my room, Peril.”

“Wha— how did you know I was on the other side of the door?” Illya demands.

“Easy. I asked for this room.”

“You what?”

He was wrong: Napoleon’s smile somehow widens. “I called the hotel about a month ago and asked if the rooms could possibly be arranged thusly. They were happy to oblige.”

For a moment, Illya just stares at him in shock and disbelief. “Are you insane? What if KGB pulled the room list? Finds out you are here?”

“I didn’t book it under my name, Peril,” Napoleon answers, looking at him like Illya is the one that that is crazy. “As far as anyone knows, an East German named Erik Eisenhardt is staying in this room.”

“When they see you leaving the room they will know it is you,” Illya points out.

“Already considered that. I mean, how often do you see the other people staying in the rooms near you at a hotel, anyway? Not often. And I’ll know your schedule, so I’ll know when the KGB are likely to be around. And if they do catch me at some point, I’ll just act surprised and say there was a mix up with the rooms.”

He does have a point, and the potential for fallout seems pretty minimal. It’s not like Illya can control who the hotel puts in the room next to his, after all. Still, Illya finds it a little surprising that Napoleon thought it all up in the first place. “This from the same man who was convinced KGB were bugging his room.”

“Well, after a year perhaps you’ve finally convinced me they don’t care all that much about what I get up to,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “Anyway, I already checked this one.”

Illya cannot suppress the laugh that bubbles up out of his chest. The plan is so utterly absurd that it could work, and is made all the more amazing for that fact. “What am I going to do with you, Cowboy?”

“Kiss me?” Napoleon suggests, the smug grin returned to his face.

Frankly, Illya doesn’t know how he managed to go this long without doing so.

A gentle rap on Napoleon’s door rouses Illya from his slumber. He blinks, bleary-eyed, and twists his head to look at the clock on the bedside table. They’ve slept in a bit later than usual this morning; the knock will be Napoleon’s breakfast, left on a cart outside the room automatically. In a moment there will be a similar tapping on Illya’s door as well, though they attendants are always so quiet that he can’t hear that one from here. Illya takes a deep breath and stretches minutely in the bed, which only makes the arms and legs that encircle him tighten. 

It is the sixth consecutive morning that Illya has woken up with Napoleon wrapped around him like an overly friendly octopus. He has, without a doubt, never been happier in his life.

It’s not merely the waking up together, or the falling asleep in each other’s arms. Having adjoining rooms has changed everything about their typical tournament routine in the most astounding and wonderful ways. Illya doesn’t have to wait until late in the evenings to sneak to Napoleon’s; now, as soon as they return to their rooms they can come together to talk about the day’s games and play a few matches. They no longer have to stay up so late just to be together, so they both are getting a lot more sleep than they usually do, which is a fact that is certainly not benefitting their opponents in the tournament.

Then there are the evenings where Illya begs off of going out for dinner with his countrymen and they stay in together instead. Each of them orders room service to his own room, and after their meals are delivered Illya brings his plate over and they share the bottle of wine Napoleon’s ordered with his as they talk about anything and everything from recent movie releases to international politics. They disagree about as much as they agree on any given topic, but even the heated arguments somehow bring them closer together.

Illya stares up at the morning light dancing on the ceiling as his hand finds Napoleon’s hair, twisting the sleep-tousled curls idly around his fingers. He smirks when Napoleon finally wakes, burying his face stubbornly into Illya’s shoulder; not a morning person, as it turns out. It is wholly unbelievable and utterly wonderful that this is something Illya gets to know, now. He drops a gentle kiss onto the top of Napoleon’s head and is rewarded by a low groan.

“’S too early,” Napoleon mumbles, almost unintelligibly.

“Breakfast is already here.”

That earns him a surly grumble, but when Napoleon finally looks up at him there is a soft smile on his lips. Their faces are so close that Illya can see the fine details of Napoleon’s irises, and he takes an indulgent moment to map the flecks of brown that surround the larger chocolate splotch in the blue of his left eye. Looking at Napoleon in the bright light of the morning is something he will never tire of.

“Morning, Peril,” Napoleon rumbles eventually.

His gaze drops to Illya’s lips and he licks his own, slightly chapped from sleep but no less tempting for it. Illya tightens his arm around Napoleon’s waist as he gives into the impulse to kiss him.

“Good morning, Cowboy,” he answers when he pulls away.

Napoleon, however, does not seem interested in letting him go. He chases after Illya’s mouth, pressing their lips together eagerly again, and his hands begin to wander over Illya’s sleep-warmed skin, somehow heating it further. Nimble fingers thread through the curls on his chest and dance across his nipple, then follow the line of hair down to his navel and on toward Illya’s already half-interested cock. Illya catches his hand before it can reach its goal, which nets him a whine of disappointment.

“Breakfast first. Will get cold.”

Napoleon huffs, but he flops away onto his side of the bed, releasing Illya from his clutches. “Oh, you’re no fun anymore.”

Illya smirks in response as he swipes a pair of discarded pajama pants off the floor and pulls them on, then pads over to his own room to go collect his food. By the time he returns Napoleon has pulled on a robe and is yawning dramatically as he combs a hand through his hair, which only dishevels it further.

“What’s after breakfast, Peril?”

“Hmm?” Illya hums, lifting an eyebrow curiously at him.

“You said breakfast first. So what’s after?” Napoleon replies with a wicked grin.

Illya sets his plate and the mug of coffee that is so large it is practically a bowl down on the table where they share their meals, then takes the opportunity to stretch languidly, pulling his arms over his head and rising up on his toes for a moment. He’s still shirtless, and he watches as Napoleon’s eyes track hungrily over his body as if Illya is the only breakfast he plans on consuming.

“Shower?” Illya suggests casually, enjoying the way that Napoleon’s eyes widen.

The shower stalls are absurdly large in this hotel, certainly large enough for two sizable men to get up to all sorts of trouble, and they have made good use of that fact. That morning, after an admittedly quick breakfast, they make love slowly under the hot spray of water, Illya bent over with his head cradled in one forearm against the tile and his other hand reaching back to grip Napoleon’s hip. The white stretch of skin across the knuckles of his clenched fist is nearly the only sign that he’s being steadily undone by Napoleon rocking into him, at least until the American shifts his position. Napoleon folds himself forward to press a line of breathless kisses along Illya’s shoulders, and the change in angle presses just right inside him, pulling a long, low groan from deep in his chest. He can feel Napoleon’s lips quirk into a smile against his skin, but any chance at formulating a snarky retort is obliterated when Napoleon’s hand finds his cock right as he snaps his hips forward again.

Napoleon is going to be smug as hell all day, but Illya will pay him back for that smugness later.

The amazing thing about being so ridiculously happy—besides, well, the sheer wonder of it—is that Illya’s good mood is so omnipresent that it has apparently baffled the others. None of them seem to know entirely what to make of it, but none of them come anywhere close to guessing the real reason.

“Good to see you back in form,” Kozlov tells him one afternoon, a little over halfway through the tournament. Illya is leading the point totals, with Napoleon hot on his heels, and the rest of the field not particularly close behind them. “We were all a little worried about you, when we heard about Palma.”

Illya smiles at him. “That is kind of you to say, though I don’t think it is completely true.”

He cocks an eyebrow toward where Belinsky sits, deep in a match against a surprisingly good Danish player. The older man has never pretended to like Illya, and does not hide the fact that he intends to take back his World Championship title in two years by any means necessary.

“Ok, maybe not everyone,” Kozlov chuckles softly. “Regardless, it seems like Monaco agrees with you.”

“I suppose it does,” Illya allows, resisting the urge to let his gaze flit over to Napoleon, who is standing on the other side of the room and watching Belinsky’s game from a different angle. He is, however, still well within their line of sight, so Kozlov’s next choice of topic shouldn’t have been that surprising.

“So the rumors of his demise was greatly exaggerated,” Kozlov says. Illya frowns at him, confused, until he nods at the American. “You didn’t hear the talk that he’d quit the game for good?”

“Oh. Uh, I guess I did,” Illya answers, keeping his face carefully blank. Then, as dismissively as he can manage, he adds, “I try not to pay him much attention.”

Kozlov barks out a laugh at that, which draws disapproving glares from several people nearby. Lifting a hand in apology, he schools his expression back to appropriate seriousness. “Fair enough,” he murmurs. “Can’t say I blame you. You think he’ll place at the Interzonals?”

Just under eight months away, the Interzonal tournaments have not ceased to loom large in Illya’s mind because he is watching from the outside this time around. Part of that is, of course, Napoleon’s participation in the tournament, but even without that it’s hard not to pay close attention to what will be a competition full of the best of the best players from around the world, which will result in another knockout-style tournament of the best of those, all to determine the single person who will try to take the World Championship title from Illya. It had been one thing to take part during previous cycles, to hope he might make it past two dozen other men, but to be the one standing at the end of the line is an entirely different perspective.

“Probably,” Illya answers honestly. Well, the actual honest answer would be certainly—there’s no way Napoleon won’t make it into one of the top six spots at the Interzonals—but it’s close enough. “You?”

“Yeah. That guy’s a menace,” Kozlov says, the side of his mouth quirking upward into a smirk. “Hey, do you remember that bet we had at Hastings last year?” he asks abruptly.

How could he forget? Illya had bet that Napoleon would not even make the top ten in the tournament. It’s absurdly laughable, now. “I remember a chunk of my tournament winnings disappearing into your pocket.”

“Want to make another?”

Illya snorts softly. “No.”

“Ah well, worth a try,” Kozlov shrugs.

They lapse into silence again, watching Belinsky’s match, until eventually Illya’s curiosity gets the better of him. “How far?” he blurts. “How far were you going to wager he would go?”

Kozlov smirks again, glancing up at Illya before his gaze drags back over to Napoleon. “Honestly? Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I don’t think any of the rest of us have much of a chance against him. That bastard is going all the way to the finals.”

It’s been a long day. Napoleon’s match with the Dane, Jensen, had unexpectedly stretched on deep into the afternoon, and then even more unexpectedly Napoleon had lost at the end of it. Jensen had always been a strong and creative player, but this year he clearly has put some work into his game, and it is showing in the tournament results. When his match had finally finished, Napoleon had been surprised not to find Illya among the spectators, especially considering that most of the rest of the tournament’s players were watching them by that point.

As he slips back up to his room, Napoleon can’t help but wonder where his boyfriend is; it’s not like Illya to miss one of his matches, and the other Soviets were all downstairs. He’s not worried, per se, but the break from what has become almost a routine at this point in the tournament is a little disconcerting. What he’s certainly not expecting is to hear the low rumble of Illya’s voice from his room. Napoleon pauses for a moment just inside the door to listen, but the conversation seems to be one-sided, and anyway the adjoining door is still open, so he must be on the phone. Still a bit odd, though, especially in the middle of the afternoon.

Pulling off his jacket and tie, Napoleon takes the opportunity to pour himself a drink before dropping onto one end of the sofa in his room. His Russian is not quite conversational—though it has improved since he started spending time with Illya—but even so he tries not to eavesdrop. It’s hard not to notice that Illya doesn’t exactly sound happy, though. After a little while longer, Illya finishes his conversation and hangs up. He doesn’t immediately come into the room, though, so he must not realize that Napoleon has returned.

“Everything all right, Peril?” Napoleon calls.

Illya appears in the doorway, looking a little surprised. “Oh. You’re back. How did the match go?”

“Poorly.” Napoleon winces as he takes another sip of his drink. “Jensen has turned into quite the slippery competitor these days.”

“Sorry I could not watch the end. I had to make a call.”

“It’s ok. Kinda embarrassing, to be honest. I can tell you about it later.” Napoleon pauses to take in Illya’s unsettled posture and the distant look in his eyes, then asks again: “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Illya answers automatically, but stops himself. “Well, no.”

Napoleon reaches out to him, and Illya doesn’t hesitate before he joins him on the sofa. The large Russian seems to shrink as he crowds close to him, almost curling into his side when Napoleon wraps one arm around his shoulders, and the whole effect is definitely worrisome. Napoleon offers up his own drink, but Illya shakes his head, so he deposits it on the side table so he can run his fingers soothingly through Illya’s hair.

“My mother is sick,” Illya murmurs eventually.

Napoleon’s arm tightens instinctively around him, and he fights back a surge of long-buried emotion. “Is it… bad?”

“The doctors are still doing tests. They will not say, insist it is too premature. That’s why I called, because results were supposed to be back today. But she will not tell me now. Like that itself does not confirm the worst.” Illya’s voice sounds distant, as if he doesn’t quite understand the the words that are coming out of his own mouth, and Napoleon very much understands that.

“Oh Illya. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“When your mother… how long…” Illya can’t quite bring himself to say the words, but somehow Napoleon knows what he’s asking.

“How long did we know she was dying?”

Illya winces. “Sorry, you don’t have to—”

“It’s ok, Peril,” Napoleon interrupts soothingly. “I don’t mind talking about it. Not with you.”

“Then yes. That is my question.”

“Years,” Napoleon answers, and Illya makes a soft sound of surprise. “Oh, we didn’t know she was dying at the beginning of it. And I don’t entirely know how long she hid the diagnosis from me. She couldn’t, though, not when she had to start the chemotherapy. After that she had maybe another decent year. But the cancer came back. She fought so hard, but it wasn’t enough.” Napoleon closes his eyes for a moment. This is by far the most he’s talked about it, probably since it happened, and although he had thought all those wounds had long scarred over by now, it seems that a few haven’t quite knit completely together. “Watching her waste away like that… sometimes I wonder if wouldn’t have been kinder to the both of us if she hadn’t. God, that sounds awful.”

“No, it doesn’t. You were only a child,” Illya says firmly.

“Not by the end of it, I wasn’t.” Napoleon grabs his drink again to wash the bitterness out of his mouth. “I don’t think it matters. Fast or slow, nothing makes it any easier.”

“Should have made her go sooner,” Illya mumbles into Napoleon’s shoulder, so muffled he doesn’t entirely catch it at first.

“What was that?”

Illya raises his head then, frowning. “I should have made her go to the doctor sooner. She has been coughing for months, but she’s so stubborn sometimes.”

“You come by it honestly, then,” Napoleon teases gently, giving his shoulders a squeeze. The corners of Illya’s mouth twitch upwards, not exactly into a smile, but something less melancholic than before. “Hey, I know you’re imagining the worst right now, but nothing’s for certain. Maybe the doctors still don’t know, and she just didn’t want worry you.”

“Did not work,” Illya huffs. He drops his gaze again, resting his head on Napoleon’s shoulder, and murmurs, “She’s all I have left.”

Napoleon swallows, a question hanging on the tip of his tongue. It feels natural to ask in the moment, but at the same time he knows the topic must be fraught. He doesn’t need to know, not really, but at the same time he desperately wants to. Not for his own curiosity—ok, maybe a little for his own curiosity—but because he wants to know every part of Illya. Everything that made him the man he is today. They’ve come so far from Argentina, and Napoleon wants to believe that bringing it up won’t have the same result as it did last time, but he doesn’t know for sure.

“Illya,” he asks, his voice tight with caution, “what happened to your father?”

Illya’s eyes close, but he doesn’t pull away. For a while he just sits like that, and Napoleon doesn’t push. Illya will tell him, or he won’t, and either way will be ok.

“My father was an official in the Soviet government,” Illya begins eventually, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. “When I was ten he was arrested. Embezzling party funds, they said. But, it was a lie. They make him, how do you say… pasty?”

“Patsy,” Napoleon supplies, swallowing down the rising horror in his gut.

“Yes. Patsy. A scapegoat, because they no longer cared for his ideas on foreign policy. No better way to silence him than in a gulag. He died there, years later.”

The words I’m sorry have never felt so wildly insufficient. It’s just about all Napoleon can do to hold him tight, choking back the anger and disgust at the sheer injustice of it that have boiled up within him. He’s not naïve, he knows the world is ridiculously unfair, but the thought of Illya living nearly his whole life in the shadow of such a lie is devastating.

“How did you know?” he asks, when he can find his voice again. “About the setup, I mean. What really happened.”

“My parents shared everything. My father, he told my mother about his work, his hopes and his fears. When I was older, she explained to me that they had seen hints of what was coming, months before, but could do nothing to stop it.”

“How can you stand playing for them?” Napoleon blurts without thinking.

Illya pulls back a little, his brow furrowed. “What?”

Napoleon knows this is a mistake. He knows that nothing good will come of this line of questioning, but he can’t stop himself. A kind of righteous fury boils up within him, unable to be contained. “The government that did this to you. To your family. How do you not hate them?”

“Who says I do not?”

“Then how can you represent them at tournaments? Let them claim your accomplishments as if they have anything to do with it? You told me that you love your country. How can you have any allegiance to them?”

There’s a pause as Illya stares at him like he doesn’t quite understand what Napoleon is saying. Then he withdraws further away, toward the other side of the couch, and as much as he doesn’t want to, Napoleon lets him go.

“You can disagree with the government and still love your country, Cowboy. Surely you understand that,” Illya replies.

Napoleon should take the out. He should let it drop. “This is a little more than a disagreement, Peril.”

“It is not that simple.” Illya is visibly closing himself off now, his agitation obvious in the way his shoulders have tensed up and his fingers are twitching.

“I’m not sure it isn’t,” Napoleon insists. “If the American government did something like that to me and then had the gall to ask me—no, order me—to go out and win shit for their fucking glory, I would tell them exactly where to shove it.”

“I guess not all of us can have your strong moral fiber, Cowboy,” Illya sneers as he stands, pointing accusatorially at him. “This is why I did not tell you. You always think you know best. So confident in yourself and your ability to see right from wrong. Black and white, like chess. But the world is not like that, and sometimes it is not a matter of choosing right from wrong.”

“Look, I understand that your mother—”

“You understand nothing,” Illya snaps. Then he turns on his heel and heads directly for the door that connects their rooms.

“Peril, wait—” Napoleon calls, but it’s futile. The adjoining door slams firmly shut between them, and Napoleon’s knocking goes resolutely unanswered.

Napoleon returns to the couch and collapses heavily onto it with a heavy sigh of self-reproach. Now that the flush of argument has faded, he can quite clearly see what an idiot he’d been. More than that, the worst kind of asshole. Illya had finally, completely opened up to him, and instead of being quietly supportive he’d done the exact opposite. He’d been so full of righteous indignation on Illya’s behalf that he hadn’t stopped to consider that it had not been the time for such a debate, if there ever was one.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears the front door to Illya’s room open and close again. It must be nearly dinner, and he’ll be going out to eat with the other Soviets, KGB escort in tow. In at least one respect, Illya is definitely right: Napoleon cannot comprehend Illya’s apparent loyalty to a country that has treated him so poorly. But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s not exactly loyalty to that country, it’s loyalty to his family, and to the city he calls home, and to the idea of a better Russia for all of its citizens. And those are things that Napoleon certainly can understand.

For a little while, Napoleon tries to work through his game from earlier that day, then tries to read when that doesn’t work, but his concentration is shot. He can’t think about anything except Illya and what he should say to try to repair things between them. He certainly doesn’t intend to fall asleep on the couch, but after his exhausting match and the even more exhausting emotions that followed—and especially after the volume of Scotch he drank on an empty stomach—he drifts off where he sits as the light fades around him. One would think his sleep would be fitful, given the distinct lack of comfort of this particular couch and the awkward position of his neck, but he remains completely out until there’s suddenly a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Cowboy. C’mon, you cannot sleep here.”

“Illya?” Napoleon blinks blearily, just able to make out the sharp lines of Illya’s face in the soft glow of a single lamp. “‘zat you?”

“Of course it is me. Who else would it be?”

Napoleon is pretty sure he must be dreaming, because Illya is mad at him, and he wouldn’t be looking at him with concern and sliding a hand behind his neck to ease the powerful crick that has formed there and tugging him gently to his feet.

“I’m not carrying you. Very heavy. Why you need so many muscles for chess, I do not know,” Illya is muttering, sounding almost amused.

Definitely a dream. Well, he can practice his apology on dream-Illya, then. He does his best to rise to his feet, and if he ends up leaning heavily into the warm, strong arms holding him up, then surely dream-Illya will not mind. Dream-Illya isn’t mad at him, after all.

“‘M sorry,” Napoleon tries, but it’s not good enough because Illya isn’t listening. He’s still trying to drag Napoleon toward the bed, which, to be fair, looks super inviting, and maybe he can just lie down again for a bit… but no. He needs to do this. Napoleon plants his feet as best he can to stop them, and his abrupt resistance succeeds in getting Illya to pause.

“Cowboy, what are you—”

“Illya, I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, trying to put all his heart into it. “You were right, I was an ass, and I’m very sorry.”

It’s not everything he’d been planning on saying, but about halfway through he realizes he is, in fact, not dreaming. He’s awake and his neck aches something fierce and he’s hanging off a large Russian who should be mad at him, but somehow instead is looking at him with a fondly exasperated expression on his face.

“Ok,” Illya replies, then tries to pull Napoleon toward the bed again.

Napoleon blinks at him. “Ok? That’s it? Ok?”

“Yes, ok. You wanted more?”

“You were furious at me,” Napoleon says, powerfully confused. He is clearly not awake enough yet to fully comprehend what is going on here.

“I was,” Illya allows. “Then I had time to cool down, and I realized that the reason you were arguing so strongly is that you were so upset for me.”

“But… I was wrong. And I was a real asshole about it.”

One side of Illya’s mouth quirks upward. “Yes, that is true. But you are my asshole. And you are so sorry you are trying to apologize in your sleep, so I forgive you, ok?”

“Illya—” Napoleon starts, frowning.

“Are you going to argue with me about everything tonight? I love you, Napoleon. Now can we go to bed?”

Well, that is hard to argue with. Napoleon lets Illya steer him over to his side of the bed, his mind whirling sleepily as he tries to figure out what just happened. The conclusion he manages in his current state is that he absolutely is not good enough for Illya Kuryakin, but also that any attempts to voice such an assertion would be met with vehement disapproval. So instead he strips off the rest of his clothes and crawls under the covers, then curls himself against Illya’s side. Illya shifts just so, so that he can best wrap his arms around him, and then the last thing Napoleon is aware of before he drifts off again is the press of lips against his forehead.

The tournament is a double round-robin, which means Illya and Napoleon officially play each other twice over the course of the two weeks. Both times end in a draw, although Illya is pretty sure that one of those Napoleon would have been able to win. The offer of a draw had surprised him a little, but then again it isn’t uncommon for such a thing to happen among high-ranking grandmasters. The match in question is early enough that there’s no way that Napoleon could have known how the final point spread would fall out, but nevertheless that draw is the thing that makes them co-champions in the end, rather than giving Napoleon the overall win.

After, when Illya tries to ask him if he regrets the offer, even half-playfully, Napoleon pretends not to know what he’s talking about. This in turn makes Illya go back to study the game rather more thoroughly, until he’s convinced that yes, Napoleon could have won, and there’s no way Napoleon didn’t see it at the time. It’s not worth the argument he’s sure would result if he were to press the issue, but still, it weighs on Illya’s mind. It’s not like Napoleon to give up a win, even against Illya. Perhaps especially against Illya.

The last day of the tournament comes before they know it, and with it the final reception, which is being held at the Prince’s palace and being hosted by the Prince and Princess of Monaco themselves. Illya had expected as much; Prince Rainier had apparently taken quite an interest in chess, what with reinstating the tournament after more than sixty years, and had come by the tournament early on to chat with some of the grandmasters and watch matches. It isn’t as if either Illya or Napoleon could skip out on the event, not if they want their prize money, but Illya can’t help but resent being forced to give up hours out of his last afternoon with Napoleon.

Illya is sitting in his own room, leafing through an issue of Chess Life magazine that Napoleon had brought with him. The other Soviets will no doubt be by to collect him before too long, so he needs to stay nearby so he doesn’t miss the knock on his door when it comes. It’s also probably a good idea so that they both actually get ready to leave, instead of getting distracted by other, more appealing activities. Of course, Illya has been ready for a while now, but he’s learned that there is no rushing Napoleon Solo on some things. The soft sounds running water and rustling fabric filter in through the open door between their rooms, and Illya fights the urge to go investigate what he could possibly be spending that much time on. Finally, Napoleon appears in the doorway wearing an entirely new suit, sans jacket, that Illya hasn’t yet seen on him.

“How many suits did you bring, Cowboy?”

“As many as I needed,” Napoleon retorts, cocking an eyebrow at him as he fiddles with his cufflinks.

Setting the magazine to the side, Illya rises from his seat and approaches him, letting his gaze linger on the fine fabric. “You have not worn this one the entire tournament.”

“Of course not, Peril. This is my victory suit.”

“Victory suit,” Illya echoes dryly. “You needed special outfit, just for tonight?”

“Of course. How else am I going to catch Princess Grace’s eye?” Napoleon asks, all cheek. That earns him a scowl, and he laughs, archly adding, “One does not hobnob with royalty in just anything, you know.”

Illya looks down at his own unremarkable navy suit, which is perfectly serviceable, and probably worth less than a tenth of the flashy thing Napoleon is wearing. The blue and grey Glen plaid pattern of Napoleon’s suit, while classic, is still more ostentatious than anything Illya would ever think of owning, though he has to admit that the thin stripes manage to perfectly match Napoleon’s eyes. Then, right as Illya is considering a snide comment about American excess, one of Napoleon’s cufflinks escapes his grip and bounces off slightly behind him. Napoleon turns and bends down to pluck it off the floor, and suddenly all Illya can manage to think is that he will never say a bad word about that suit. Whoever cut those pants knew exactly what they were doing, and Illya doesn’t know whether to thank the tailor or curse him for putting the ass that is most definitely Illya’s on such striking display.

“Peril?”

Illya’s eyes snap up to Napoleon’s face, and it’s quite clear from the smirk that’s curling his lips that Napoleon also knows exactly what those pants are doing for him. Well. It’s not as if Illya isn’t allowed to look all he wants. Even so, he turns away and sets about to straightening his tie, not because it’s become skewed in the last five minutes, but because if he doesn’t they are liable to be late, and that suit is likely to get wrinkled in a way that Napoleon probably will not appreciate.

“You were so sure of victory that you brought an entire suit just the final ceremony?” he manages instead.

“You know what they say,” Napoleon grins, “dress for the championship you want. Or something like that.”

“I do not think that is the saying, Cowboy.”

“Close enough. Shall we?”

Illya looks at him askance. “Did you forget that we cannot arrive together?”

“Oh, right,” Napoleon says, looking like he did in fact forget this fact.

Right on cue, there’s a knock on Illya’s door. Instead of retreating into his room, though, Napoleon crosses over to him and slides a hand behind his neck to drag him into a brief kiss.

“See you there, darling,” Napoleon murmurs against his lips. Then he is walking away with a teasing swing of his hips, leaving Illya more annoyed about having to go to the stupid reception than ever.

He is even further annoyed when it seems that Napoleon does indeed catch the Princess’s eye. It’s nothing, of course—she’s apparently quite happily married, and to a prince, at that—but that doesn’t mean Illya enjoys having to watch it happen.

“She keeps staring at your ass,” he grinds out under his breath when they’re both lingering over the canapés, away from other ears.

Napoleon flashes him a grin. “You have something in common, then,” he murmurs cheekily. “Maybe you can bond over your appreciation of a well-tailored suit.” At that, Illya can only roll his eyes, and Napoleon shrugs. “What? I love you, but if Grace Kelly wants to check out my ass, I’m sorry, I’m not going to stop her.”

“Cowboy,” Illya hisses, because surely Napoleon didn’t just tell him that he loves him in the middle of a public reception, no matter how quietly he spoke.

Napoleon opens his mouth to reply, but—

“Oh, good, you’re both right here!” comes a voice from directly behind them.

They both jump and turn to find the Princess of Monaco looking extremely pleased to find them together. Illya had of course seen her from across the opulent reception hall, but up close he has to admit she’s every bit as stunning as she looks on the silver screen. Her blonde hair is swept back into a stylish bob, and she’s wearing a chic suit-style dress in a subtle polka-dot brocade fabric that brings out the rich blue-green of her eyes, which are sparkling with something like amusement. They have no way of knowing how long she has been standing there, but if the she overheard any of their previous conversation she makes no mention of it. No doubt she would be far too polite for that, anyway.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin,” she says with a nod at each of them in turn, “Rainier would so love a photo with the two of you, if you wouldn’t mind? And then we’ll have the awards ceremony.”

“Of course, Princess,” Illya says politely, inclining his head toward her. “We would be delighted.”

“Please, call me Grace,” she demurs with a brilliant grin. Then she turns slightly and gestures toward a bank of French doors leading out to an expansive outdoor space. “If you will? The light is much better out on the veranda.”

“Oh, so now you’re delighted,” Napoleon teases, sotto voce, as they follow her outside. Illya just glares at him in response.

Once out on the veranda they are greeted quite exuberantly by Prince Rainier, a genial man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thin pencil mustache topping his gleaming white smile. He shakes hands with both of them before they are all shepherded into position by the photographer. The Prince and Princess insist that Illya and Napoleon stand in between them, so the two men end up pressed shoulder to shoulder. Illya has to remember that he probably shouldn’t look that happy about it, but no one will be able to fault him for smiling for the sake of their hosts, at least.

“Could I get a copy of that photo, do you think?” Napoleon asks Ranier when they’re finished.

“Of course, of course!” Rainier says. “Leave your addresses with my chief of staff and we will make sure you both receive prints. I do hope you both enjoyed yourselves at our little tournament?”

“Oh yes,” Napoleon answers, flashing a glance up at Illya as he does, “very much so.”

Chapter Text

New York, USA, June 1967

“Should I play the Atlantic Open this year?” Napoleon asks, not glancing up from his chess board.

He’s been idly working through an older match, but the strategy that normally enthralls him is not really keeping his interest today. It’s been almost three months since Monte Carlo, and there’s a restless itch beneath his skin. The summer has been largely free of major international tournaments, which is a trend that will continue for several more months. It’s not even just the fact that he hasn’t gotten to see Illya, although that’s certainly a major part of his current ennui; Napoleon’s inherent wanderlust grates on him, as does the lack of the thrill that comes from competing at that level.

Gaby peers at him over the top of her book from where she sits across the table from him. They’re in the chess club today, though it isn’t open, because the space stays decidedly cooler than her second-floor studio apartment. “Isn’t that usually a little below your standards? The grand prize is only $600.”

“Yeah, but cash is cash,” he sighs, sitting back in his chair. “And it would give me something to do until the US Open.”

“You’re going to be bored,” she warns.

“I’m already bored.”

She shrugs as she drops a bookmark into place and sets the book aside. “Might as well I suppose. It is only a subway ride away. Does that mean you’re going to play the Metro Open, too?” she adds, grinning at him.

“$50 is definitely not worth my time,” he says, rolling his eyes at her.

Gaby nabs her drink from the table, but the Tom Collins is apparently empty, judging by the way that she frowns at the ice in the glass that’s still sweating in the summer heat. “Want anything?” she asks as she gets up and walks to the bar.

“Julep, if you have mint.”

He goes back to staring at the board in front of him while he listens to the soft sounds of her putting the cocktails together, but a few minutes later his concentration is interrupted by the rattling of the mail slot on the front door as several envelopes and a magazine are shoved through it. Abandoning the game, Napoleon grabs them and meanders back toward where Gaby is working. It’s all the usual stuff—the latest issue of Chess Life magazine, a bill, a few letters—but he freezes in shuffling through the stack when he gets to one particular letter.

“What is it?” Gaby asks when she notices his staring.

“This is Illya’s handwriting,” he says. It can’t be, but it’s incontrovertable: after spending so much time looking at Illya’s match notes, he would know the shape of those letters anywhere.

Her brow furrows. “Addressed to you? Here?”

“No.” That is, in fact, part of what’s causing his confusion. Before he knows what’s happening, though, the letter is plucked out of his hands and Gaby is inspecting it. “Hey, give it back!” he objects before he realizes he sounds like a five-year-old.

“It’s addressed to me,” she points out. “So it’s my letter.”

Grabbing a paring knife from behind the bar, she slits open the top of the envelope in one fluid motion. Then she pulls out a single, folded page, the handwritten text covering the front and the back, and immediately starts reading. Napoleon would really like to look over her shoulder, but there is a bar between them, and he might get an elbow to the gut if he tried, anyway. After a surprisingly short time she stops, though, and holds the paper out to him with a wry look on her face.

“It’s for you.”

“What?” he asks, no less confused. “How do you—”

“Just read it.”

She waggles the paper between them, gesturing for him to take it, which he finally does with only some reservations. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hear from Illya—he does, more than anything—but he can’t quite figure out how this could possibly be real. When Gaby turns back to their drinks, he flattens the sheet of paper out carefully onto the bar and stares down at it.

The letter itself is also addressed to Gaby, but Napoleon figures out pretty quickly why she didn’t think it was for her. It’s quite obviously a love letter, full of declarations of how much he has missed her and how he is counting the days until they can see each other again. Even if Napoleon wasn’t already sure that Illya wouldn’t suddenly and unexpectedly be professing love for his best friend, Illya was careful to weave a bunch of little, minute details into the text, moments that they shared in Monaco and before that would mean nothing to Gaby but everything to Napoleon.

He’s only halfway down the front side when he pauses and looks up to find Gaby watching him with interest as she sips on her Collins. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Why would he—”

“Oh come on, Napoleon. He could never send a letter like this to you. But I get letters like this all the time.”

“Are they really like this?” Napoleon asks in disbelief. He’d never actually read one of the letters, because they are hers, after all.

Gaby snorts softly. “Not exactly. Some come close, though.” She steps forward, peering down at the letter. “You know, for someone who claims he’s not good with words, he can be pretty poetic when he wants to be.”

Napoleon can’t disagree. Still half-stunned, he takes the letter back to his usual chair where he proceeds to read it at least three times before he comes up for air. The ice in the mint julep Gaby made for him is mostly melted, but he can’t bring himself to care, because Illya wrote to him.

“I need to write him back,” he blurts, staring at Gaby intently.

“Ok?”

“You don’t understand, it can’t be my handwriting.”

The look she fixes on him is distinctly unimpressed. “So type it. I’m not taking dictation, Napoleon, even for you. Besides, I don’t actually want to know what kind of disgustingly in-love stuff you’re going to write to each other in my name.”

Well, that’s fair. Napoleon looks down at the letter again, feeling lighter than he has in months. Then he carefully folds it before returning it to its envelope, tucks it into his inner jacket pocket, and stands to leave.

“Wait a minute, where are you going?” Gaby asks, clearly bewildered.

“To buy a typewriter.”

Moscow, USSR, August 1967

The scent of frying onions and garlic greets Illya when he lets himself into his mother’s apartment, heavy in the air despite the fact that the windows are all thrown open in deference to the warm summer day.

“Mama?” he calls.

“In the kitchen!” comes the quite unnecessary reply. He can just hear the steady rock of her knife against the cutting board over the sizzle of the pan.

Illya pulls his hat off and hangs it on a hook by the door before he shuffles through the apartment. His mother hardly spares him a glance when he enters the kitchen, busy as she is with her cooking. The small space is nearly stifling, but the heat doesn’t appear to bother her. A few tendrils of grey hair have escaped her low bun and cling to the fine sheen of sweat on her neck, but her eyes are bright and her breathing unlabored. It’s a good day, he thinks, but then again it’s been a good month. She’s been better even than she was before, now that she’s in treatment. Of course she had tried to refuse, saying there was little point of drawing out the inevitable, but he’d convinced her otherwise, thankfully. So they get these days, when he can almost forget the terrible diagnosis and the ticking clock the doctors placed on her life.

“How are you feeling, mama?” he asks as he bends to give her a kiss on the cheek, as always.

“Better than anyone my age has a right to,” she replies, as always. Illya rolls his eyes at her. “How is the tournament going?”

“Fine. I did not play today.” They are about halfway through the USSR People’s Games, conveniently being held in Moscow, so he can stay at home. It is nice not to have to stay in a hotel, and being at home means he can check in on his mother, or ‘pester’ her, as she puts it.

“I know, Illyusha,” she says, giving him an indulgent smile. “What have you got there?”

Illya glances down at the package tucked under his arm, pulling it out to set it on the counter. “It came the other day.”

His mother wipes her hands off on her apron as she approaches, eyeing it curiously. “And you have not opened it yet?”

“I know what it is,” Illya shrugs.

The truth is that he hasn’t yet been able to bring himself to. Some of his mail he tears open the minute it arrives—the letters from Napoleon, of course—but this… he is pretty certain he knows exactly what’s in this package, and for a while he hasn’t been sure he could handle the reminder. His mother will enjoy seeing it, though, and maybe that will help ease the sting. The flat, rectangular package is addressed in a looping, formal hand, with the very official seal of the Crown of Monaco stamped on almost every side. Oddly, it has no postage, but Illya supposes that when you’re royalty you hardly need to pay for stamps.

“Well?” his mother prompts. “I take it you brought it here for a reason. Open it, you silly boy!”

Illya carefully turns it over and unwraps the paper exterior, then breaks the seal on the seam of the box. Amazingly it seems that it hasn’t been previously opened, but perhaps that’s also a benefit of being sent something from a principality. There is a nest of fancy tissue paper inside, carefully cradling a photo in a solid silver frame that’s probably worth more than most of Illya’s belongings put together. He lifts it out of the box slowly, transfixed by the image inside; in it, Napoleon and Illya stand shoulder-to-shoulder, both of them beaming out at the camera. They are sandwiched between actual royalty, one of whom is the transcendentally beautiful Grace Kelly, but Illya has eyes for no one in the photo but Napoleon.

“Oh, котенок. Look how happy you are,” his mother says tenderly.

At that, he has to close his eyes for a moment, collecting himself against the pain spiking through his chest. He misses Napoleon so much, most days it’s a physical ache. This is the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other, and he’s honestly not sure what he would have done if Zaytsev hadn’t suggested writing to Gaby. The perfect way to get past the censors: Illya’s letters hardly stand out among the other ‘fan mail’ he knows she gets from all over the Soviet Union. He is very thankful that both Gaby and Napoleon seemed to have figured out the deception right away.

“This is from the tournament in Monte Carlo?”

Illya opens his eyes again and brings himself back to the present in the tiny, sweltering kitchen. “Yes.”

His mother glances at him, then taps a finger over Napoleon. “And this is your…”

“Yes,” he answers thickly, before she can say anything more. His ‘friend.’ His boyfriend. His love. His… Napoleon.

“Very handsome,” she murmurs, and Illya has to suppress a startled laugh.

He can’t help but wonder what Napoleon would say to that, if he were here. Probably he would grin that wide, winning smile of his and say something ridiculously charming that would succeed in making his redoubtable Russian mother giggle like a schoolgirl. For his part, Illya has no idea what to say, so he says nothing. Napoleon is breathtaking, in fact, in that stupid fancy suit.

A small envelope tucked into the space that was underneath the frame catches his eye, and he sets the photo to the side in order to pluck it out. Inside, there is a short note written on stationary embossed once again with the Crown’s seal.

Dear Mr. Kuryakin,

Please accept our sincere apologies for the delay in getting this photo to you. I hope you will look at it and remember our tournament fondly. We were delighted by your participation, and hope to see you again next year. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

Yours,
Grace

PS: The back can be replaced on the frame, should you wish; do look carefully and make sure it suits your purposes.

The note is pretty standard, save for the postscript. It’s an odd thing to say, except if she intended him to remove the back for some reason. The whole thing makes him wonder if even the Princess of Monaco thought her mail would be subject to being read before it reached him. Illya drops the note and grabs the photo again, turning it over and releasing the clasps on the back. It pops open to reveal several more photos, presumably taken by the photographer during the course of the reception. Most of them are extremely innocuous—him standing with Kozlov, or talking to Rainier—and he has to wonder why she went to the trouble of hiding them. But as he shuffles through he comes to another, and it freezes him.

It’s candid a photo of him and Napoleon, out on the veranda. It must have been taken in the period of time after the official photo had been taken; they’d been left alone for a few minutes, told to wait there while the others were gathered, and given the excuse to make what would pass for polite conversation to anyone observing them from a distance. He thinks, looking at the photo, that he didn’t quite succeed. The smile on his face is a little too broad, and the look in his eyes a little too telling. And then there’s Napoleon, smiling back at him with an expression that can only be described as ridiculously fond.

It had to have only been an instant—he distinctly remembers doing his best at being stony-faced during that time—the kind of subtle thing that would likely be missed in person, but captured on film, it’s incontrovertible. This photo: this is the reason she hid them. It should have never been developed, and certainly should never have been sent through the post, but he can’t find it within him to be upset by the Princess’s actions. She saw this photo and knew exactly what it meant, and what it would mean to him.

“Illyusha,” his mother says softly, curling one of her small hands around his much larger one. He belatedly realizes that he’d started trembling.

“Mama, I—”

“Shhh,” she shushes him as she pats his hand. There are no words. There doesn’t need to be. He can’t deny, or explain, or whatever his impulse is to do to protect himself. “Come here a moment,” she tells him, and he allows himself to be led out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“What about your cooking?”

She waves off his concern and pushes him down onto the couch, then sits down next to him. Carefully, she extracts the photos from his grip and sets them on the coffee table, then clasps both of his hands in hers. “It’ll keep. We need to talk.”

Illya eyes her warily. There is pretty much no direction this conversation can go in that could be considered good. They always speak of Napoleon rather euphemistically as his ‘friend,’ but Illya is sure she has figured out the truth. She must know now, at least. What he doesn’t know is if the avoidance is because she does not want to admit to herself that her son is like that, or if it is more complex. Perhaps she believes she is sparing him some discomfort, or perhaps it is merely good practice not to speak openly of such things, even in one’s own house.

“We both know that my weeks are numbered,” she starts, which is not at all what he was expecting. Definitely still very far from good, though.

“Do not say things like that,” Illya says quickly, before she can continue. “The treatments are going well. You are strong.”

She purses her lips at him, giving him an exasperated glare that is more than familiar. Just not in this particular context. He’s not wrong, this time. It is far to early to be speaking so fatalistically.

“The treatments delay the inevitable,” she insists. “Please do not tell yourself otherwise, Illyusha.”

“What is this about?” he asks, refusing to cede the point.

“You are young and talented. You could live anywhere in the world, could have a life that you cannot have in Russia. You play the loyal Soviet boy very well, but I know you only do it for my sake. I know I am the only thing keeping you here.” She pauses, apparently waiting for him to reply, but he doesn’t know what to say. What he could do is not really at issue, here. When it’s clear he’s not going to try to deny it, at least, she squeezes his hands, looks at him straight in the eye, and says, “you have to promise me if you have a chance to leave, a chance to be with him, you will take it.”

Illya stares at her, flabbergasted. She can’t have actually just said that, surely it was a joke, but she looks entirely serious. “Mama, I could never leave you—”

“No, Illyusha,” she cuts him off vehemently. “Listen to me. All I want, all I have ever wanted, is for you to be happy, and you will not find that here.” She reaches out to pick up the photo of him and Napoleon off the table, gazing down at it fondly. “You have a chance at real happiness. Most people do not get that chance, ever. You have to take it, for me.”

“It— it is not possible, they guard us—” he stammers, fishing wildly for a way to dismiss this crazy talk.

His mother snorts derisively. “You think I do not know how good you are at getting past them, when you want to? Did you think I didn’t know about your little escapades, during those years when they were watching us?”—actually, he did think that—“In two months, you will go to Canada for a tournament, yes? It could be the perfect opportunity.”

Well— it could. Not that he’s letting himself consider it. Unless— “You could come with me,” he says in a rush. “To the tournament. The Federation grants family to attend sometimes.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s impossible. He can’t even get her to leave this apartment, much less the country.

She smiles at him, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so. I am too old for such things. I should have liked to meet your friend, though. See if he is just as good looking in person as he is in the photos,” she adds, her eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth.

Illya feels his cheeks heat. “If you are not coming, we are not having this conversation,” he grumbles. “I cannot even think of such a thing—”

“I know. That is why I have thought of it. Besides, who will take care of you, after I’m gone?” she asks blithely, ignoring his consternation. Illya opens his mouth to protest the idea that he cannot take care of himself, but his mother doesn’t let him speak. “Your friend, does he cook?”

Illya’s mouth snaps shut, and he can’t help but think about Napoleon in Havana, talking about how much he loves cooking. It’s clear now, when he looks back on it, that Napoleon had been about to say for people he loves, before he stopped himself. God, how had Illya been such an idiot not to see it then?

“Yes,” he admits.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Mama, please,” he pleads. She’s trying to make light of it to put him at ease, but it does nothing of the sort. “Do not ask me to make this choice.”

“I am not asking,” she shoots back, giving him a measured look. “I’m dying, Illyusha, and you cannot refuse your mother’s dying wish.”

Illya sets his jaw defiantly, even as her words strike a nerve. “I’m not leaving you here,” he says stubbornly. “But maybe, when you are,” he gulps, and tries to force himself to say the words, “when you are…”

He doesn’t get the rest out, but she squeezes his hands and nods anyway. “Ok. Now that is enough of that talk. Come help me in the kitchen, котенок. It will take your mind off of things.”

With that she stands, pulling him to his feet, and begins dragging him back toward the kitchen. He glances down at the photo of him and Napoleon still lying on the coffee table and thinks that chances are very slim that whatever she has planned will be able to take his mind off any of this.

Canadian Centennial Grand Masters Chess Tournament, October 1967
Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

“Have you looked at the schedule yet?” Gaby asks when she finally descends from her room to find him in the lounge of the hotel.

Napoleon looks up at her from the newspaper he’d been reading as she settles into the chair next to him. “Not yet,” he tells her, cocking an eyebrow at her when she flags down a waiter. “Aren’t we going to dinner?”

“I just settled in, and I’m having a cocktail before we go out again,” she says definitively, then turns her attention to the waiter that appears at her side. “Dry martini with a twist.”

“Another Dalmore 15, neat,” Napoleon adds when the man looks inquiringly at him, lifting his nearly empty tumbler.

Gaby fixes him with a look when the waiter bustles away. “Don’t you need to plan?”

“Don’t I?”

“Someone’s feeling cocky.”

“I would say confident,” Napoleon counters, polishing off the Scotch and dropping the glass and his paper on the table in front of them. Gaby huffs a soft laugh and shakes her head. “You think I shouldn’t be?” he asks her honestly.

“I think it’s your first major international tournament without Illya since you two started playing together. You’re not going to have him to talk through games with in the evenings.”

As if she needs to remind him. Illya was supposed to be here, but a letter that came in a few weeks ago had broken the news that he would be sitting this tournament out. His mother’s health had declined, and understandably he wanted to stay near her. Even though he couldn’t blame Illya, the news had been devastating. It would be at least another month before they might see each other again, and even that wasn’t certain. Napoleon had been looking forward to this tournament for pretty much the entire summer, but it had lost a lot of its luster. Still, he is trying to make the best of it.

“I have you, darling. What more do I need?”

The look she gives him is unimpressed. “If you’re going to pretend I’m your second, then you need to actually listen to me occasionally.”

“I listen to you,” he protests. “I just really don’t think this field of competitors is all that daunting. Belinsky is the only one who might give me a run for my money. Maybe Jensen, but I’ve been studying his gameplay patterns. The rest?” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Don’t forget what happened the last time you played Zaytsev.”

Napoleon narrows his eyes at her. “Those were extenuating circumstances, and you know it. Maybe I’ll just keep you close during the match, though, since he apparently can’t keep his eyes off you.”

Gaby follows his gaze as he glances across the lounge to where the Soviets all sit in a tight circle. Zaytsev is positioned so that he has a view of them between Sorokin’s and Belinsky’s shoulders, and the young Russian proves Napoleon’s words by quickly looking away when they catch him staring.

“He has a bit of a crush on me, apparently,” she says with a wry smile.

“What else is new? This is the same man who kissed your hand after you beat the pants off him in Santa Monica.”

“I didn’t tell you? He sent a message with Illya to New York for me.”

Napoleon looks at her expectantly. “And? What was it?”

“‘Hello.’”

“Oh, very smooth.”

“Shut up,” she scolds, landing a solid punch on his upper arm. “I think it’s sweet.”

“So does that mean you’re gonna go make all his dreams come true?” he grins with a waggle of his brows for good measure.

Gaby frowns at him. “He’s barely more than a kid, Solo.”

“You’re only five years older,” he shrugs. “Give it a few more years and he might not seem so young anymore.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she huffs, but she doesn’t deny it. Interesting.

“If you’re going to talk to him, can take a message from me?”

Gaby scoffs. “What am I, your errand girl? Tell him yourself.”

“Gaby, please. You know how Oleg feels about me talking to his precious players, like I’m going to corrupt them in an instant,” he complains.

“Well, based on your history, he’s not entirely wrong.”

Napoleon huffs a sigh of exasperation. “Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble, ok? Are you going to help me or not?”

“I’m not going to deliver messages for you,” she says, “but I will help you. We can both talk to him, and it will be less suspicious that way. The Soviets like me.”

“Lord knows why,” Napoleon grumbles. “It’s like they conveniently forget that you’re an American now.”

Gaby shrugs and sips her martini. “They just want me to defect. Think I’m still a nice communist girl at heart.”

“The most ridiculous part is that you could probably get any of them to defect for you. I can’t even convince one.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, and he regrets it immediately when Gaby’s eyebrows arc up toward the ceiling. Discussions of Illya defecting are strictly verboten after more than a few arguments between him and Gaby about the long-term prospects of his relationship. Gaby wants him to at least have an open discussion with Illya about defection—not in the emotionally charged afterglow of sex—while Napoleon simply refuses to allow himself to think about the possibility. Of course, that doesn’t entirely work; Napoleon thinks about it all the time, but putting voice to it is a step too far. Usually.

“Don’t,” he warns, before she can speak. “Just forget I said anything.”

She frowns at him but, miraculously, she doesn’t argue. They both know what she would say, anyway: that he hasn’t even tried to convince Illya, and that he deserves to know if it’s even something Illya wants (Napoleon wants to believe it is, but after their argument in Monte Carlo, he’s not so sure), putting aside whether it’s possible. Instead they sit in silence, nursing their drinks, until eventually a tiny smirk curls onto Gaby’s lips.

“Belinsky,” she says.

“What?”

“Belinsky wouldn’t defect for me.”

That manages to surprise a laugh out of Napoleon. “Well, yeah. He’s married.”

“Not always as big a deterrent as you might think,” she sing-songs.

“Wait, how many of the letters that you get are from married men?”

“A lady never tells,” she says primly.

Napoleon arcs an eyebrow at her. “You, my dear, are no lady.”

“Rude,” Gaby protests, grabbing his newspaper off the table to swat at his leg, but then she grins wickedly. “It’s a decent number.”

“See? The Soviets should definitely be more worried about you than they are about me.”

“That we can both agree on.”

Dearest Illyusha,

Well, the Canadian Centennial turned out to be quite the tournament. By which I mean that I crushed the rest of the competition and handily took the championship. Solo thought that not having you there to talk through games with might hurt me, and it did, but not in the way he thought. Turns out the Illya that lives in my head gives quite good advice at key points in the game. But I spent the entire tournament thinking you were going to show up around the next corner, or I’d spot you with the rest of the Soviets. Solo did his best to keep my spirits up, and I am forever grateful to him for that, but he doesn’t entirely understand what it’s like to not have you here. He took the Men’s division easily, of course; the Soviets didn’t put up much of a fight. I had a few dicey games, but managed to only lose two—that annoying Dane, and a Brit who surprised me. You would have laughed at the latter game. I pulled a lot of draws, which is fine, but I’m hoping to turn more of those into wins at the next tournament.

You may have already heard, but I spoke with our mutual friend to express my gratitude for all he has done to help us stay connected over the distance. I’m not sure he likes me very much, but you can’t win them all. Which is a funny saying, because you can certainly get close, or at least I can (if we’re talking about my future chess matches, of course). But I digress. He was very polite, of course—do they train that into you over there starting at birth? but then how do you explain S?—even though he seemed only too happy to escape my presence once the conversation was done. I’m glad his apparent skepticism of me hasn’t kept him from helping you, and I hope that you are in fact accepting that help? Things are difficult, and you could use a friend. It kills me that I can’t be there by your side, giving you the support you deserve.

I am crossing every finger that you will write back to me and give me good news about your mother. I am sure this is just a temporary lapse, and she’ll rebound quickly. And I’m not just saying that because I’m desperate to see you again. Have you heard from the RCF which tournaments they’ll be sending you to? I’m hoping you can at least give me something to count the days until, god willing. Until then I will have to satisfy myself with your words and the memory of your lips on mine. I know you’ll write back immediately, so I won’t even bother asking you to answer soon. You remain, always, my entire heart and my dearest desire.

With all my love,
Gaby

Chapter Text

FIDE Interzonal Tournament, November 1967
Sousse, Tunisia

Napoleon has gotten to travel to quite a few exotic locations for tournaments, but Tunisia? Tunisia is special. It’s only just the other side of the Mediterranean from Italy, but it feels indescribably different. From the medina district with its narrow stone streets and the bustling souk, to the forbidding walls of the Ribat fortress that dominates the city skyline, Sousse is like nowhere he’s ever been before. Even though the desert is miles and miles away to the south, its presence looms over everything, and when the wind is right Napoleon can feel it on his skin. He finds he doesn’t mind, though; it’s like he’s being scoured clean, the troubles of the rest of the world forgotten.

It turns out that Illya does not share his romantic view of the desert, or Sousse in general. He complains about the heat, and the dust, and the call to prayer that rings out ear-splittingly from the Grand Mosque every morning at sunrise. Napoleon is quite happy to listen to all of his complaints, though, because that just means he’s actually there, with Napoleon, after seven long months apart.

Illya is not competing, of course; this whole tournament is just the next step in finding out who will be his opponent in the World Championship itself. But, as it turns out, the Russian Chess Federation were very keen on having him attend the tournament as a coach for the other Soviets, taking part in adjournment discussions and generally making sure that the Soviet Union will unquestionably take the maximum three slots that any one country can claim in the Candidates Tournaments that are to follow. When Illya had written him to say that his mother’s health had improved and that he would be attending, Napoleon’s heart had felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest.

Unfortunately, the relatively sizable Soviet presence at the tournament—complete with Oleg doing his best to scowl every other player into submission—makes pulling off the adjoining-room trick impossible. On the plus side, though, the KGB don’t seem particularly concerned about defection, and the schedule is relatively relaxed, in as much as such an important tournament can be relaxed. It’s enough to give them decent stretches of time together in the evenings and occasionally the afternoons, and they wring every last moment out of their days to devote to each other.

It’s easy enough for Napoleon to claim that he’s holing up in his hotel room to prepare for the games so that the two other Americans in the tournament don’t pester him. Getting out of the usual Soviet get-togethers is a little trickier for Illya, but he has the benefit of never having been all that social in the first place. The other unexpected boon is Zaytsev, although Napoleon supposes his help shouldn’t have been that surprising in the end, after everything else he’s done for them.

“Zaytsev has been requesting private training matches with me, and then he lets me go,” Illya explains one afternoon as they play a match of their own after he’d shown up earlier than expected.

“The others don’t squawk about fairness?”

Illya shrugs and captures one of Napoleon’s wayward pawns. “I make sure to play with Kozlov regularly. Sorokin and Belinsky don’t like to accept my help.”

“You could actually bring him here every once in a while, you know,” Napoleon suggests. “For a game, I mean. We could both help him.”

“You would do that? Help your competition?”

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at him and gestures at the chessboard between them. “What do you call this?”

“You know what I mean,” Illya huffs.

“I owe him,” Napoleon replies. “A lot. And he’s a nice kid. It might be a little awkward at first, but we’d kick him out before things get frisky.”

“Obviously,” Illya says dryly. He considers it for a second, and then gives a small nod. “I’ll ask him if he’s interested.”

A few days later, Illya shows up in his room with a very nervous looking Zaytsev in tow. Napoleon more than half expected him to decline the invitation, given his usual unease around Napoleon and the significant fact that he’d be meeting alone with two men he knows are engaging in an illicit homosexual affair. Even the most understanding guys would be likely to balk at that. The lure of chess must have been enough, though, or he had underestimated Zaytsev yet again; whatever the reason, the young Russian is now standing in his hotel room, fidgeting as his eyes flit around the room like he’s not quite sure where to look.

“Can I get you a drink?” Napoleon offers.

Zaytsev stares at him for a moment before summoning the words. “Ah, no. Thank you. I am fine.”

“Ok,” Napoleon replies easily. It isn’t something he’s going to push under the circumstances. He does pour his own Scotch, though, and one for Illya.

He was wrong about one thing: it’s a lot awkward at first. But as they get deeper into the match—the two Russians against Napoleon, as if that’s fair—the younger man finally begins to relax. Illya and Zaytsev speak to each other throughout the game in rapid-fire Russian, quiet enough that Napoleon can’t quite follow, and perhaps predictably he finds himself falling behind in trying to outwit the both of them at once.

“Well I hope you two had fun,” Napoleon says good-naturedly when they finally put him in checkmate. After all, it’s hard to be sour about losing when Zaytsev has a hundred-megawatt smile on his face and Illya looks so ridiculously proud. “That was one hell of a game.”

Zaytsev flushes a little, dipping his head at the praise. “I could not have done it without Illya’s help.”

“Nonsense. It was mostly you,” Illya insists. “I just made a few suggestions.”

Predictably, this just makes the younger man blush a deeper red and stare at the floor. “Thank you, for letting me play.”

“Anytime,” Napoleon says, and he means it. Ok, it was kind of brutal playing two against one, but it made for one hell of a training match. “Maybe next time you and I can play against Peril.”

“Next time?” Zaytsev echoes, his eyes going wide as they snap back up to Napoleon.

“If you’d like.”

Zaytsev glances over at Illya, clearly looking for confirmation of this invitation, and gets a nod from the older Russian. “Then yes. I— I’d like that,” he says with a tentative smile. “I should get going. Get to sleep, for tomorrow. But, thank you again.”

The halls are fortunately empty as Zaytsev makes his departure, thanking them again and wishing Napoleon luck tomorrow in his game against Jensen. Once the door is shut and locked behind them, Illya turns back to Napoleon and immediately closes the small distance between them. He slides his arms around Napoleon’s waist, drawing him into a tender embrace, and stares down at him with a small, soft smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Illya murmurs sincerely.

“He’s making it possible for me to spend extra time with my boyfriend. It’s the least I could do.”

“Still. You were very good sport about the game.”

Napoleon shrugs. “It was fun. Kind of. I wasn’t kidding about teaming up against you next time.”

“That is fair,” Illya allows. He leans down to press a brief, gentle kiss to Napoleon’s lips before he pulls back again, looking thoughtful. “You did not have to do this, help another Soviet player. Someone who is trying to beat you. I think I was not wrong when I said you were a better man than me.”

Illya is, in fact, entirely wrong, but Napoleon doesn’t really feel like getting into that particular argument tonight. “And I wasn’t wrong when I said you can’t call yourself the best unless you earn it by playing people who challenge you,” he retorts instead. Then he smirks, tipping his head to the side. “So what if it took two of you Soviets to actually be a challenge for me?”

Illya laughs at that, one of the loose and open ones that Napoleon loves so much. “Is that what you think happened?”

“Of course, Peril. What did you think happened?”

“I think you—how do you say—got your ass handed to you.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon hums, letting a mischievous smile play on his face as his hands slide down to grab firmly onto Illya’s ass. “How’d you like it if I returned the favor?”

“I think,” Illya replies as his smile slowly widens, “I could be convinced.”

It’s late enough that the beach is only sparsely populated when Illya arrives. A few people are still swimming in the surf, making the most of the day’s lingering warmth, but most are in the small, semi-private lean-tos that dot the shore. Each is composed of three thatched walls that open up toward the ocean; loosely woven enough that you can tell it’s occupied, but obscured enough that you can’t tell by whom. Illya locates the one that Napoleon had indicated he’d be in easily enough and, with one last quick look around him, slips into the open front.

He finds Napoleon reclining on one of the two lounge chairs with some kind of ridiculous cocktail in one hand and a book in the other. He has traded his suit for loose linen slacks and a tunic in a bold blue-and-white geometric pattern; a pair of leather sandals lay half-buried in the sand next to him. His hair is curling into wayward ringlets, and it makes Illya wonder if he’d been swimming earlier. Today was a free day for him, so he’d been free to relax and explore the city; Illya, unfortunately, had been tied up in coaching sessions nearly the entire day.

Napoleon looks up when he enters the lean-to, and the way his entire face lights up to see him makes a burst of warmth flood through Illya. “You’re late,” he says, but his tone is light and teasing.

“Sorry,” Illya replies with a shrug as he walks over to stand next to Napoleon’s chair. “I had to make sure I was not followed.”

“Were you?”

“No.”

“Good,” Napoleon grins up at him, then his gaze drops downward. “Don’t you own any casual clothes, Peril?”

Illya frowns at him. “Of course I do. But there is no sense of bringing them to tournaments. We have to dress formally nearly every day.”

“Yes, but then you end up wearing a suit to the beach.”

“I’m fine,” Illya insists, although he does have to admit that Napoleon looks far more comfortable in his light clothing.

Napoleon chuckles, shaking his head, the reaches up to grab one of Illya’s hands. “Come on. Enjoy the sunset with me.”

“Sunset is behind us, Cowboy,” Illya says—because the beaches of Sousse all face East—but he lets himself be tugged down into the chair next to Napoleon.

The chairs are definitely not designed to hold two large men, but they squeeze together anyway; Napoleon shifts to one side as far as he can while Illya wedges himself in sideways, dropping his head to rest on Napoleon’s shoulder. The contact seems to drain all of the day’s tension out of Illya, and he allows himself to melt against his boyfriend in the anonymity of the lean-to.

“True, but the dust from the desert makes the sky beautiful this direction too,” Napoleon counters. He offers his drink, so Illya takes a sip and tastes sweet, creamy coconut with rum. Unexpected, for Napoleon, but not bad.

“You and the desert,” Illya huffs good-naturedly as he stares out at the admittedly gorgeous sky painted with oranges and purples.

“It has its charms.”

“I am not ever living in the desert, Cowboy.”

Illya doesn’t realize what he’s said until the words are out of his mouth, and they hang heavy in the air between them. He wonders if he should try to explain, to say that it’s of course all hypothetical, that he it’s not like he’s been planning anything… but the words don’t come. He keeps his gaze fixed out on the darkening sky, unable to summon the courage to look up at Napoleon and find out what might be written on his face.

“Good to know,” Napoleon says eventually, trying to mask the tightness of his voice. Silence stretches between them again, broken only by the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore. It’s almost dark by the time Napoleon speaks again. “I, uh. Well,” he stammers uncharacteristically, “I’m not tied to New York. I could live other places. Just— well, so you know, I guess.”

That is a lie; if there is anywhere Napoleon is tied to, it is New York. Illya knows how much he loves that city, and how much it would hurt him to leave it behind. Then again, Illya doesn’t doubt that he would, if Illya asked him to. It is an overwhelming thought. Under the cover of the gathering dusk, he turns his face into the crook of Napoleon’s neck and presses his lips to the still sun-warmed skin there. He feels Napoleon release a breath Illya hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the American’s arms tighten around him. Maybe there don’t need to be any words right now.

“Good to know,” Illya murmurs anyway, just in case.

It can be hard for Illya to keep a straight face during Napoleon’s matches, and it’s even more difficult when Napoleon wins in a rather spectacular fashion. Or, as is the case toward the end of this tournament, Napoleon beats Sorokin to make his fourth consecutive win. Such a winning streak is not unheard of, but it is impressive to completely avoid draws against such high-ranking competitors. After the match is over Illya has to excuse himself or else risk smiling involuntarily in front of the others; he allows himself a small moment of celebration in a side hallway before he has to go find the other Soviets for the inevitable post-match dissection of the game. Today’s promises to be plenty unpleasant, what with Sorokin’s bad mood following his defeat and Oleg’s unconcealed disappointment. As he walks back toward the ballroom where the tournament is taking place, he passes a few competitors who are all talking about Napoleon’s match with no small amount of awe, but he’s certainly not expecting to run into Kozlov chuckling to himself in the hallway.

“What are you so happy about?” Illya inquires, a little suspiciously, as he joins him in walking toward the suite they use for their meetings.

Kozlov does not seem perturbed by his scrutiny. He rubs his hands together and grins broadly. “I got Sorokin to take me up on the bet you declined.”

“What, about Solo?” Illya says, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Exactly. We wagered on points. He said Solo wouldn’t make 16, but with this win he’s at 16 and a half.”

“You should be careful, betting against Soviets,” Illya cautions. “I doubt Oleg would be happy to hear about it, and I would not trust Sorokin not to tell him.”

Just about everyone knows that Kozlov is the most openly rebellious player of the active Soviet grandmasters, though he would hardly be considered so if anyone knew about what Illya was up to. Often he toes the line with his comments or his behavior, but never to the point of being sanctioned. That might change if Oleg knew about the wagering, though.

“That’s why I wagered points,” Kozlov explains. “But, your point is well taken. Probably shouldn’t talk Sorokin into a bet on the Candidates Tournament. Unless of course you’ve changed your mind…”

Illya laughs at him, shaking his head. “Definitely not. I’m afraid you won’t find me betting against him any time soon.”

“And the final?”

“Are you asking if I would bet against myself in the championship matches?”

“Right, silly question,” Kozlov chuckles. Then his expression sobers a touch, and he shoots a sideways glance at Illya. “I wouldn’t, by the way. Bet against you.”

“I hope that you will not bet on the tournament at all,” Illya tells him.

Kozlov snorts softly. “I’d have to find someone willing to take it first.”

Illya does not say that, given Napoleon’s recent performance, that prospect might not be so far fetched before too long.

“Six,” Illya says, not bothering to try to keep the wonder and disbelief out of his voice, when he goes to Napoleon’s room that night.

He catches his boyfriend in the middle of pouring a drink, and Napoleon grabs another tumbler to fill without missing a beat. When he finishes, he saunters over to where Illya stands, though his attempt at nonchalance is belied by the almost too-broad grin that is stretched across his lips. It probably hasn’t budged since his match ended that afternoon; it had frankly been all Illya could do to not match it.

“Seven, tomorrow,” Napoleon replies as he raises his glass to clink against Illya’s.

“You think you can keep the streak going?”

Napoleon shrugs and sips his drink, like it’s nothing. Like seven straight wins against the top chess players in the world is a common occurrence. “Why not?”

“You’re already three points ahead of the next competitor,” Illya points out. “Maybe you would have some mercy on your final opponent.”

“Aw, c’mon. Where’s the fun in that?”

Illya laughs out loud at that, because the entire proposition should be absurd and somehow it’s not. He sets his own drink aside untouched and prizes Napoleon’s out of his grip, which Napoleon objects to until Illya sweeps him up in his arms and kisses him soundly. Napoleon gives into the kiss quite rapidly, then, his palms hot through the thin fabric of Illya’s dress shirt as he slips his hands under his jacket and around Illya’s waist.

“I have to admit,” Napoleon says between deep, probing kisses, “I was wondering… how what kind of reward I might get from you… if I could pull it off.”

Illya pulls back just enough to blink at him in disbelief. “What, during the match?”

“Maybe,” Napoleon answers, grinning wickedly. His hands drop to Illya’s belt. “Maybe I was so confident I was going to win that I spent the last part of the match imagining your hands on me,”—he leans in, lips brushing Illya’s ear as he whispers—“those long fingers inside me.”

Illya groans as his hand tightens on the back of Napoleon’s neck and he crushes their mouths together again. “Fuck, Cowboy, you can’t be serious,” he breathes into the narrow space between them when they break apart again.

“Or maybe not,” Napoleon pants, the strain in his voice undercutting his playful insouciance, “maybe that’s just what I’ve been thinking about since I got back here.”

With that he shoves his hand into Illya’s briefs, thumbing over the head of his already hard cock before dragging his palm down the shaft, and the contact draws a shudder up from deep within Illya. Determined to turn at least some of this around on him, Illya gets Napoleon’s pants open and slides one hand down his backside, fingers slipping into the cleft between his cheeks to rub teasingly along his rim.

“Is that all you wanted for your prize?” he purrs into Napoleon’s ear. “My fingers?”

Napoleon draws in a sharp breath and moans, pushing backward against him, but Illya keeps the pressure light. “God, no,” Napoleon manages to huff out, “I want to ride you.”

“Too many clothes,” Illya grunts as he bites at Napoleon’s neck, and Napoleon chuckles in agreement before he peels away to yank off his shoes.

They both strip quickly, then, leaving their suits in careless heaps on the floor and stumbling eagerly toward the bed. Napoleon pushes him backward onto the mattress and immediately makes to straddle his thighs, but Illya isn’t about to cede complete control just yet. He rolls them over and then flips Napoleon onto his stomach before he registers what is happening.

“Hey!” Napoleon protests as Illya climbs over top him, caging him against the bed. “What happened to my ride?”

“So impatient,” Illya mutters into the crook of his neck. “Did you forget you need to get ready?”

“Maybe I already did,” Napoleon shoots back, leering at him over his shoulder.

Illya bites back a groan at the thought of Napoleon in here after his match, working himself open in anticipation. “Hmm,” he manages, “we’ll see about that.”

He licks and bites and kisses his way down the line of Napoleon’s spine, his own desire keeping him from lingering overlong, until he gets to the top of Napoleon’s ass. Relishing in the way that the perfect, round cheeks fill his hands, Illya spreads him open and continues his path of kisses, allowing a satisfied smile at the way Napoleon hisses under his ministrations.

“Liar,” he murmurs, letting the vibrations of the word and the puff of breath that comes with it ghost over Napoleon’s still-tight hole, which makes the American jolt at the sensation. Then, ever-so-lightly, Illya drags the tip of his tongue around the edge.

“Christ, fuck, Illya—” Napoleon chokes out, his knuckles going white where he’s fisted his hands in the sheets.

Much as he would love to draw out the teasing, Illya has serious doubts about the extent of his own willpower tonight. After a few tantalizing strokes of his tongue that leave Napoleon whining and squirming, he attacks with gusto, licking and prodding until the tight ring of muscle has finally begun relaxing in earnest. Napoleon growls his displeasure when Illya pulls away to grab the lubricant, but that growl turns into a satisfied moan when Illya presses a finger inside him, a second following rapidly after.

“Oh god, I need you inside me, now,” Napoleon demands, pushing backward against Illya’s fingers.

Illya climbs back over him as he presses a third finger inside and keeps working them open, dropping wet kisses across his shoulders. He’s so focused that he doesn’t notice Napoleon’s fists flattening out against the mattress to give him better leverage until he is rolling them over again. In a single, smooth move, Napoleon pins him down, sitting his stomach and slowly pushing himself backward until Illya’s erection presses straight up into the cleft of his ass. Illya can feel the slickness of the lubricant against his previously-neglected cock as Napoleon rubs against him, and it is his turn to moan wantonly at the sudden burst of sensation.

“What do you say, Peril?” Napoleon murmurs wickedly, leaning close to his ear. “Am I ready?”

“Fuck, yes,” Illya grunts.

The pressure disappears for a moment as Napoleon grabs the lubricant and reaches back to slick up Illya’s cock, but he wastes no time before he begins gradually lowering himself down onto it. Despite all the prep Napoleon is still incredibly tight, and they both groan loudly as he finally seats himself fully. For a moment they just sit there, panting, until Napoleon bends down to kiss him and begins rocking his hips in a slow, steady rhythm.

Napoleon is a vision on top of him when he leans back again to change the angle, all dark hair and smooth, flushed skin covering hard planes of muscle. His face is contorted into a mask of pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open, and his hair is curling where locks of it have been pulled out of his pomade. Illya lets his palms slide across the sweat-slicked skin of his abdomen and around his hips to reach back and grab his ass again, enjoying the feel of the muscles clenching as Napoleon moves up and down on his cock. Spreading his legs for purchase, Illya tips his hips slightly before giving an experimental thrust upward. The action makes Napoleon’s eyes fly open in surprise and his rhythm falters, but before Illya can get too concerned an expression of pure delight takes over the American’s face.

“Do that again!” Napoleon demands, already in motion again.

“Bossy,” Illya chides as he complies with the request, but the grin he can’t keep off his lips completely undermines the ‘complaint’.

Napoleon knows him too well by now, anyway; he smirks at that and bends down to murmur, “you love it,” against his lips before kissing Illya soundly.

The new angle must be hitting Napoleon in all the right places, because Illya can feel him tightening up as his pace becomes more and more frantic. Illya matches it with thrusts as hard as his leverage will allow, feeling the tension of his own climax drawing tighter inside him, until it finally snaps and the release crashes over him. His rhythm falters, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Napoleon; he just fucks himself harder against Illya’s erratic thrusts and curls a hand around his cock to tug—once, twice—before he comes all over Illya’s chest and stomach.

In the aftermath Napoleon leans down and presses his forehead to Illya’s, stealing brief kisses as they both catch their breath. Illya knows that soon Napoleon will get up and go to get washcloths to clean them up, but for now he just enjoys the moment: the feel of Napoleon’s weight on top of him, the way that every little shift of over-sensitized skin against skin sends delicious tremors through both of them, and above all the simple closeness that feels as if he will be able to lose himself in it forever.

They set alarms now, because falling asleep in each others’ arms is too irresistible. So the clock in Napoleon’s hotel room has been perpetually set to ring at approximately three in the morning during the tournament in order to give Illya plenty of time to reluctantly extract himself in from the bed and make his way to his own room before anyone else could conceivably be moving around the hotel. This schedule is the entire reason that he finds the loud morning call to prayer so vexing, because it usually comes not too long after he has finally fallen asleep again. Usually Illya is a morning person, but not when his sleep comes in two chunks, neither of which is quite long enough.

This morning, though, Illya wakes before the alarm. In a couple more days they will part again, though—if fortune holds—it will only be another month before they see each other in Holland. His mind is whirling with thoughts of Napoleon, and the World Championship, and his mother, and he will be lucky if he gets back to sleep at all. Napoleon is of course wrapped around him, and Illya tries not to move too much so as not to disturb him until absolutely necessary. It’s unclear whether he doesn’t succeed or Napoleon just wakes up anyway, but he’s only been awake for a few minutes before Napoleon shifts, nuzzling at his chest with a soft hum before his eyes flutter open.

“’S it time?” he mumbles as he tips his head to look up at Illya.

“Not quite,” Illya answers, his own voice a low rumble, thick with sleep.

“Why’re you ’wake, then?”

Illya smirks at him. “Why are you?”

Napoleon shrugs and buries his face into Illya’s shoulder, muffling a yawn. “Dunno.”

“You should sleep, Cowboy. You have another game today.”

“Said yourself I don’t need to win it,” Napoleon retorts with a lazy grin.

“But you will.”

“Mm,” Napoleon agrees, kissing Illya’s chest. “Could go another round before you have to leave.”

Illya laughs at him, a low, gravelly rumble that comes up from deep in his chest. “Maybe not this morning.”

“You’re probably right,” Napoleon allows, but it’s accompanied by a huff of disappointment and a pout that’s almost enough to make Illya reconsider. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Lots of things. World Championship. Wonder where we will play. It has been a long time since it wasn’t held in Moscow.”

“You’re jumping ahead a bit, aren’t you?” Napoleon smirks at him. “Still have to get through all the Candidate games.”

“You will win. Easily.”

Napoleon laughs softly. “Well, I appreciate your confidence in my skills.”

“You think I do not know?” Illya replies, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Better than anyone?”

“’Course you do.”

“Where is this unusual modesty coming from, hmm? What did you do with my confident boyfriend who told me he would continue absurd winning streak?”

“Things look different in the middle of the night,” Napoleon murmurs as he burrows a little closer.

“Not to me.”

Napoleon falls silent, but Illya can feel the tension in his body now that he’s thinking about the tournament. He lets one of his hands twine through Napoleon’s hair, gently teasing the strands apart, while the other rubs small circles over the sleep-warm skin of his lower back. By this point Illya is quite familiar with the highs and lows of Napoleon’s moods, and the surprising uncertainty that lurks deep within the American. It took Illya a long time to realize it’s nearly always present, only buried so convincingly behind the swaggering exterior that Napoleon puts on so as to be entirely invisible. Illya thinks there are probably only two people in the world who know it is there, and it’s still a little overwhelming to realize that he is one of them.

“What happens if I win?” Napoleon asks, finally breaking the stillness of the room. 

There is a line of thought that Illya has not followed here, because he cannot be asking about the Candidates tournament. “Win what?”

“The World Championship.”

“That I am not so confident of,” Illya teases, giving him a small squeeze and wagering that the playful challenge will pull him out of his funk.

It seems to work; Napoleon grins up at him. “Is that so? You don’t think I can beat you?”

“We have only ever been co-champions,” Illya argues.

“I think I would have had you in Palma,” Napoleon says thoughtfully. “You know, if not for the…”

“Yes,” Illya says, mostly to fill the gap that comes when Napoleon’s voice fades. He doesn’t point out that Napoleon should have beaten him in Monaco, if only he hadn’t taken that draw early on.

“You never answered the question,” Napoleon says after another beat of silence.

“What question, Cowboy?”

“What happens if I win.”

“I do not entirely know,” Illya admits as he stares at the ceiling. “No one but a Soviet has won the championship for twenty years. I can guess.” He glances down to find Napoleon staring at him expectantly, though he must also have a guess based on what Illya has told him. “They will probably not prevent me from competing internationally entirely, but the opportunities will be less. Things will not go so well for me, losing to you.”

“This is so stupid,” Napoleon says vehemently, his expression darkening. “Even if I win, I lose. If they don’t let you compete as often, how can we see each other?”

Illya cannot pretend the same thing has not occurred to him—has not tormented him, frankly—but he has nothing reassuring to say. “I don’t know.”

Napoleon tenses subtly, like he’s steeling himself, and then: “You could defect.”

“Cowboy—”

“I’m serious, Peril,” he says, more forcefully now. “If I win, you defect. Come live with me in New York. We could— we could get your mother out too, somehow. It’s more than a year away. We’ll figure something out.”

Illya has not told Napoleon about the promise he made his mother. It’s not that he means to keep it from him, but he can’t bear to discuss it. He knows it will make Napoleon happy, which will then make him feel guilty, and Illya has too many conflicting emotions about all of it to deal with that right now. And it is probably a moot point, anyway: the doctors’ most recent estimates aren’t optimistic she’ll make it through the year. The fact that Napoleon is so emphatic about bringing Illya’s mother out of the Soviet Union touches him, though, and he forces the contemplation of his mother’s mortality to the back of his head, where it lingers constantly.

“I— maybe,” Illya manages. Suitably noncommittal. “What would I even do?”

Napoleon snorts. “I said defect, not give up chess. You can still compete. You think the US Chess Federation wouldn’t kill to put an American flag next to Illya Kuryakin’s name?”

“Hmm, maybe you are right,” Illya muses, letting a little smile play on his lips. “I heard the national champion did not even show up to this year’s tournament.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Napoleon gasps in mock indignation as he tries to push himself away, but Illya just laughs and tightens his grip. It turns into a bit of a tussle—Napoleon attempts to twist out of his grasp, but is thwarted when Illya pins his legs quite effectively—but then Napoleon surges up, kissing him deeply, and they both lose themselves to it for several minutes. When Napoleon finally pulls away, the look on his face is both cautious and hopeful, vulnerable and daring.

“So? What do you say?” he asks. “Will you think about it?”

Illya stares at him for a long moment. Maybe he should tell him. Maybe he should open up and trust that Napoleon will know what to do. Or maybe he should just take the out; it is easy to promise something he knows is inevitable, even if Napoleon does not. “Ok. I will consider it.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Napoleon settles back down, curling against Illya’s side and letting Illya’s shoulder pillow his head. Much of the tension has left his body; he, at least, seems to be satisfied with the outcome of the conversation. Something occurs to Illya, then, and he frowns.

“Cowboy?”

“Hmm?”

“What happens if I win?”

Napoleon’s hand stills where it had been tracing aimless patterns over Illya’s torso. He considers the question for no more than a moment before his shoulders twitch, not quite a shrug.

“I guess everything stays the same, Peril.”

Chapter Text

Grand Prix International d'Echecs de Monaco, March 1968
Monte Carlo, Monaco

“Congratulations again, Mr. Solo. I must say, your win this year was exceedingly impressive,” Rainier says, shaking his hand with no small amount of enthusiasm. “I suppose all of that training you’ve been doing for the upcoming Candidates tournaments is paying off.”

“Something like that,” Napoleon allows with a laugh. “Although to be honest it’s hard to feel too triumphant with my chief rival absent.”

It’s as close to the truth as he dares. Another tournament without Illya, made even worse by the memories of how amazing the previous year had been in this very same hotel. He almost didn’t come, but of course Illya wouldn’t hear of it. He’d made Napoleon promise to compete, even trying to convince him that he needed the practice before the Candidates tournaments. All of it indirect and partly coded via their letters, of course, which was complicated by the fact that his and Gaby’s tournament schedules don’t always line up.

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Rainier says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You earned this, and do not forget it. I have good feelings about you for the World Championship, my friend.”

“Well, I very much appreciate your confidence.”

They exchange a few more pleasantries before Rainier excuses himself, leaving Napoleon alone out on the veranda with his thoughts. He could go back inside and find one of the other players to chat with, but he needs a moment to not have to be ‘on’, to not have to pretend that his heart isn’t thousands of miles away. Illya is going through something that no one should have to endure alone, and he’s here eating fancy food and drinking champagne as if he hasn’t a care in the world. The fact that he is not allowed be there for Illya—in Moscow, by his side—does not make it any easier to bear.

“I was sorry to hear that Mr. Kuryakin would not be joining us this year,” comes a gentle voice from behind him, and then Princess Grace steps up to stand next to him at the balcony. “I hope he is well?”

At first he’s disconcerted by the fact that she’s asking him about Illya, like it’s a totally reasonable thing that he would know all about the Russian, but then it clicks. The reception last year, and the photo she had sent, of course. She is quite definitely the only person here that suspects something of the true nature of their relationship.

“Well enough,” Napoleon answers quietly. “He had to stay in Russia to attend to a family matter.”

Grace places a delicate hand over top of his where it rests on the balcony, her deep blue eyes glittering with understanding, as if she can see everything he’s hidden behind the façade of a happy champion. Who knows, maybe she can. One actor to another, so to speak. “And I hope you are holding up as well?”

A soft, melancholy laugh escapes him before he can stop it. “Am I really so transparent?” he asks, a little desperately.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean—” she starts, taken aback. Then she pauses to collect herself. “I apologize, that was out of line.”

“It’s fine. I am. Holding up, that is,” he reassures her. If it’s a half-truth, he’s sure she’ll forgive him.

At that she relaxes a bit, smiling again. “I am glad to hear it. And for what it’s worth, you needn’t worry. You’re not transparent. That’s on me, bit of a bad habit I’m afraid. I know a performance when I see one. Even a very good one.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon replies as he returns her smile. “I never got a chance to thank you for sending the photos, and for your discretion. It meant a lot to me. To both of us.”

“It was my pleasure. I’m only sorry I could not do more. I hope it is not too forward for me to say that I hope that there will come a day when you might not have need for such discretion.”

Napoleon smiles as he stares out at the sea before them, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. “Me, too, Princess. Me, too.”

Moscow, USSR, March 1968

“You should have gone to the tournament.”

Illya grits his teeth and bites back a sigh. “No, I should not have.”

He does not know how many times they have to have this argument. His mother cannot hardly get out of bed for more than a few minutes, and she thinks he will leave her alone? If he were not here she would not even eat. Still, she lobbied hard for him to go to Monaco, even going so far as to try to call the Federation and tell them he’d be attending the tournament. Unfortunately for her, Illya had caught on to what she’d been up to before she’d been able to actually pull it off. Now he is increasingly and distressingly suspicious that she has been trying to send him away so that he wouldn’t be here when she passes on. Too bad her stubbornness is only matched by his own.

Illya takes a seat at her bedside, placing the tea he’d made her on the table, but she ignores it in favor of glaring at him. “And when is the next chance you will see him again?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Depends on how the Candidates Tournaments go. Probably for the final round, though. The Federation will want to send me to support whoever makes it, and I am sure he will be playing opposite.”

“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied. “I hope he wins.”

Illya gives her a wry smile. “You do know that will mean that we will play each other for the World Championship, yes?”

“Of course I know, Illyusha.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “My one regret is that I will not be able to see it.”

“I might lose,” he tells her. “You would want to watch that?”

His mother smiles at him and reaches out to take one of his hands in hers, her grip still surprisingly strong. “I know that he is the only person you could lose to and be happier about it than if you would win,” she says shrewdly, and he feels himself flush under her gaze. She’s not wrong, and her assertion would be distressing if he hadn’t already long since given up trying to be logical about his feelings for Napoleon. “And in that case, yes, I would want to watch you lose. Besides,” she adds, her eyes sparkling with amusement, “if he does win that just proves he is the only person good enough for my boy.”

“Mama,” Illya sighs in exasperation.

“You remember what you promised me?” she asks suddenly, gripping his hand tightly again.

“Of course I do.” As if she would let him forget.

His mother searches his face with startling intensity, as if seeking some confirmation beyond his words. “Say it again. For me.”

“I will do it,” he swears. Illya may be as stubborn as she is, but in this moment he will deny her nothing. “I will go, I promise.”

Her face softens into a smile and she closes her eyes as she lays back against the pillow. “Then that is all I need. Now I can tell your father that you are happy, when I see him again.”

It is bright and sunny on the day that he buries her next to him, unlike that day all those years ago when he had stood next to her in the rain, clinging desperately to her hand and trying his best to be strong. It was only in deference to his father’s previous station that his body had been returned; his mother had called it a kindness, though he hadn’t seen it as such then. He does now. It’s possible that he might never be able to come visit them again, once he leaves, but they will be together, and that will have to be enough. After all, he has a promise to keep.

FIDE Candidates Tournament Quarterfinal, May 1968
Vancouver, BC, Canada

Napoleon jerks back in his seat as the chess board goes flying across the room, swept off the table in a single furious outburst by the livid Russian now towering over him.

“Mr. Sorokin! Control yourself!” the moderator barks.

Sorokin’s face has gone entirely red, and Napoleon is pretty sure he would have taken a swing at him if it weren’t for the two other Soviets that grab him to pull him away from the table. Once they’ve gone a little ways away, Sorokin yanks his arms out of their grasp and tugs his jacket back into place rather more violently than necessary. He’s still glaring bloody murder at Napoleon, who is frankly a little dazed where he still sits at the table. Then, without saying anything, he turns on his heel and storms out of the room.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Solo, this is highly irregular,” the moderator says, looking quite scandalized by the whole scene.

“It’s all right, I understand,” Napoleon says as he stands and buttons his own jacket. “I take it that goes in as a resignation?”

“Ah— well, yes. I suppose so.”

That makes five wins, then; he needs only one more to move on to the semifinals. Of course, the fact that he has five wins in five games more than explains Sorokin’s outburst. If he loses the next game, there is no telling what will happen to him, although Napoleon probably has a better idea than most outsiders. The Russian is a wounded wild animal, fighting for his life, and just as dangerous. It’s almost enough for Napoleon to feel sorry for him, or it would be if Sorokin hadn’t always been such a raging asshole to, well, everyone. Especially to Illya. 

“I am going to suggest that we take a few days adjournment before the final match,” the moderator tells him as he gathers his papers.

Napoleon looks around the room to where the remaining spectator are still abuzz with discussion of the unusual spectacle. They were originally scheduled to have the day off tomorrow already, but giving things time to calm down seems like a very prudent idea indeed. Perhaps he could use the time to get some news on how the other quarterfinal matches were going. The last he’d heard, Zaytsev had been leading Kozlov 3½–2½. Napoleon can’t help but feel a little proud of the younger Russian, though he acknowledges how weird that is.

“Of course,” he agrees magnanimously. “Please do let me know when Mr. Sorokin is feeling well enough to continue.”

FIDE Candidates Tournament Semifinal, July 1968
Moscow, USSR

The room is nearly as silent as a tomb, which only makes the whispers that begin spreading like wildfire through the assembled spectators seem all the louder. Illya didn’t seen where the whispers started, but before long more than half of the room is murmuring. At the center of it all, Belinsky lifts his head from the chess board in front of him to glower at those daring to interrupt his concentration, but unfortunately for him, everyone is too distracted. Whatever the news is, it must be something explosive to draw this much attention during a semifinal match.

“Silence!” Oleg snaps, and quiet settles over the hall once again.

Of course, the news hadn’t made it to Illya before its progress had been halted. He tries to ignore it, even as a few whispers pick back up at the outskirts of the crowd, but eventually his curiosity gets the better of him. A quick survey of the room reveals Kozlov standing near one of the exits with another man, their heads still bowed together in conversation. Then the other man leaves, and Illya makes his move. Ignoring the glares from Oleg, he walks directly to Kozlov and looks at him inquiringly.

“It’s Solo,” Kozlov whispers. “He’s gone 6–0. Again.”

“What?” Illya hisses, unable to keep his eyes from going impossibly wide. “But Jensen—”

“Didn’t have a chance, apparently,” Kozlov finishes. “You know, everyone said what happened with Sorokin was a freak occurrence, but now…”

A lot of excuses and theories had been bandied about over Napoleon’s 6–0 defeat of Sorokin in the quarterfinals, from assertions that Sorokin must have been ill (he hadn’t been) to psychic sabotage by the Americans (how do you keep from laughing out loud at that?) to karma and curses and plain bad luck. Almost no one believed the simplest explanation: that Napoleon was actually that good. Hell, Illya knows Napoleon is a chess genius and loves him dearly, and even he had a hard time wrapping his mind around a 13-game winning streak.

Now, though, a repeat performance against one of the few players who seemed to be able to get an upper hand on him lately—Jensen had given Napoleon his only loss in the Interzonals—is nothing short of stunning.

“Nineteen wins,” Illya breathes. “What is the longest streak?”

“Twenty-five, but that was almost a hundred years ago. In modern chess? Nothing comes close. Honestly I feel sorry for whoever wins this round,” Kozlov says, nodding toward where Zaytsev and Belinsky are still playing their match, though obviously distracted by the remaining whispers. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be any Soviet who loses to him, especially now,” he adds. A second later, he seems to realize to whom he’s speaking. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean— not that I think you should be worried—”

Illya presses his lips into a grim line. “Only an idiot would not be worried.”

FIDE Candidates Tournament Final, September 1968
Buenos Aires, Argentina

“Peril, am I reading this right?” Napoleon asks, dropping a Soviet newspaper onto the table in front of him and tapping one paragraph in an article about the Candidates Finals. “Did Belinsky really say that?”

Illya sighs, because he knows that whatever it is, he probably did. Anyway, Napoleon’s Russian is good enough that he doesn’t need Illya to translate, so Illya suspects this is just him getting riled up about the matches. His boyfriend has, perhaps understandably, been on edge since they both arrived in Argentina yesterday, although Illya thinks that Belinsky should really be the one who is pacing his room incessantly and scribbling frantic notes all over his books. After all, Belinsky went 5½–4½ in the semifinal against Zaytsev, and what’s more, Illya has heard that Zaytsev was ‘encouraged’ to let Belinsky win, because the Federation believes that Belinsky has a better chance at beating Napoleon. Illya can hardly fault Zaytsev for taking the deal, if it’s true; Kozlov was right that losing to Napoleon now would be devastating for his career.

He peers down at the paper and looks for the quote that Napoleon had indicated. “‘It might be possible that I win it earlier,’ Belinsky told reporters when asked if the finals would last the full twelve games,” he translates out loud. “‘Solo’s wins do not impress me. He is a great chess player but no genius.’” When he’s finished, Illya sits back in his chair and looks at Napoleon with a measured expression. “At least he called you a great chess player?”

“Hah!” Napoleon barks out a mirthless laugh.

“Where did you even get this paper, Cowboy?” Illya asks, turning it over.

Napoleon has already returned to his pacing, though, lost in thought. “Hm? Oh, Brighton Beach. Big Russian expat population there, you can get the Soviet papers at the bodegas if you know to ask.”

“But why would you want to? This is all propaganda anyway.”

“Because I want to know what they’re saying about me, Peril,” Napoleon answers, blinking at him like the answer is obvious. Maybe it is, to Napoleon, but Illya never wants to know what the papers—or anyone else, for that matter—are saying about him.

“And now you know,” Illya says dryly. “Do you feel any better?”

“Well, no.”

Illya rises from his seat to go intercept his pacing, drawing Napoleon into is arms. “Come here. Why are you so worked up, anyway? You are on the longest winning streak in a hundred years.”

“Funny thing about that,” Napoleon replies, not sounding very amused, “turns out when you do something that unprecedented there’s an immense amount of pressure to keep it going. I have this horrible feeling that something is going give way, and everything is going to come crumbling down around me.”

“Listen to me. Belinsky doesn’t have a chance. It does not matter if you lose a game, or take some draws. You will win this tournament.”

Napoleon’s expression is a little skeptical. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Because we have a deal, and you have to make it to the championship matches for us to keep it. Plus,” Illya adds, allowing a small smirk to pull up the side of his mouth, “if you make me play Belinsky again I will never forgive you. I would be so bored.”

That manages to make Napoleon laugh. “Ok,” he sighs. “You’ve convinced me.”

Then he leans forward to press their foreheads together, and the heat radiating off Napoleon’s skin shocks him. How had he not noticed it before? Illya pulls back and presses a palm to Napoleon’s forehead, frowning.

“Cowboy, do you have a fever?”

Three days later, when the second match of the round is supposed to be starting, he finds Napoleon sitting on the bed in his room and staring blankly into space. He’s essentially ready to go, fully dressed in a suit and tie, though that has to be one of the worst knots Illya has ever seen. Napoleon is certainly in no way well, however. Whatever flu he’d caught had been manageable when he played—and won—the first match, but his condition had been declining yesterday and Illya is distressed to find that it’s even worse this morning.

“Cowboy, what is wrong?” he asks, crossing the room quickly and dropping to his knees in front of him.

Napoleon startles and blinks several times before his eyes manage to focus. “Peril? What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you. You did not show up for the game.”

“You what? How? What if someone—”

Illya waves off his concern. “Everyone is downstairs waiting for the match, and I slipped away. Told the front desk I got locked out and they gave me the key to your room.” He presses a hand to the searing skin of Napoleon’s forehead for a moment before sliding it down to cradle his jaw. Napoleon’s eyes are far away again, and the only color in his pallid complexion are two spots of pink high on his cheekbones. “You look awful. You can’t play today.”

Napoleon coughs, wincing. “I have to. Belinsky will never give me a delay, and there’s no fucking way I’m forfeiting this game.”

“I will make him—”

“You won’t,” Napoleon interrupts sharply with a sudden, startling intensity. “What were you planning to do anyway? Just go back down and tell them all I’m too sick to play? Which you’d know, how? No way. I’m coming down. I’ll play the match. Now get out of here before someone notices you’re gone. Or better yet, let me go first. I am late, after all.”

Illya opens his mouth to protest but Napoleon is already struggling to his feet and stumbling toward the door. He stops in front of the mirror and cringes at the sight of himself, giving his tie an ineffectual tug before giving up and leaving it as is. Pushing to his feet, Illya goes to stand behind him and glares as disapprovingly as he can at him in the mirror, not that it will do much good.

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding,” Napoleon mutters as he runs a shaking hand through his hair. Then he meets Illya’s eyes in the mirror and smiles weakly. “Ah well, twenty is a nice round number for a streak, don’t you think?”

Illya sighs, his annoyance at Napoleon’s stubbornness slipping away, and he presses a kiss into his boyfriend’s hair. “You are ridiculous. But yes, twenty is good number. Now go lose this match quickly so you can go back to bed.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

18th Chess Olympiad, October 1968
Lugano, Switzerland

Napoleon looks extremely confused when Illya arrives in his hotel room late one night. Which is fair, because he’s hauling an armload of books with him.

“What’s all this, Peril?”

Illya dumps the books somewhat unceremoniously on the bed and wipes his hands together, trying to be as nonchalant about the whole thing as possible. He doesn’t know that he’s succeeding. Napoleon is still regarding him a little suspiciously as he comes over and picks up one of the volumes to flip through it.

“Just some older books I had,” Illya shrugs. “Was going to get rid of them and thought you might be interested.”

“Uh huh,” Napoleon replies, clearly unconvinced. “You just happen to be ‘getting rid of’ a bunch of rare, out-of-print chess books written by Russian grandmasters that are impossible to acquire outside of the Soviet Union. And that are full of your own notations.”

“Yes,” Illya lies.

Napoleon snaps the book he’s holding shut and drops it on the bed. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave my team a chance to grab some of them. You know, so I don't have as heavy a load to carry back to New York.”

Illya flinches, and Napoleon’s lips curl into a triumphant grin.

“You could not,” Illya points out in desperation. “They would want to know where you got them.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re trying to smuggle your chess library out of the country, Peril?”

“No reason,” Illya lies again. They have a deal, and part of that deal involves not discussing his possible defection, but in truth Illya doesn’t have the luxury of not planning ahead. If he waits to see what happens in the World Championship, it will be too late to do anything.

Napoleon eyes him for a long time, like he’s trying to work out what to make of this, before he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Ok, Peril. I’ll cart your books back to the States with me. But you do realize that, if this is the story you’re going with, they’re my books now, right?”

Illya can live with that. “Ok,” he confirms, nodding.

“Really? You’re just going to give me all of these before the World Championship matches? Full of all your Russian secrets?”

“I told you, we do not have secrets.”

“No, what you said is that you don’t have tricks. Which, by the way, is not entirely true. But you definitely have secrets,” Napoleon argues.

“In that case,” Illya says, allowing his lips to twist into a smirk, “you should probably read them.”

“Mmm, don’t go,” Napoleon mumbles groggily. His arms tighten around Illya’s waist even as the Russian is trying to extract himself from the bed, but it’s no use. When he cracks his eye open he sees the broad expanse of Illya’s bare back where he sits perched on the edge of the mattress before Illya twists back to look at him.

“Have to,” Illya rumbles back, bending down to press a kiss to Napoleon’s forehead. “We have early captain’s meeting this morning, you know.”

Napoleon groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Completely unnecessary.”

“Preliminaries are over. Don’t you want to see how they’re going to assign the boards this year?”

Well, yes. The mechanism by which players are assigned to different boards for the finals is ostensibly random, though sometimes it doesn’t seem that way. There’s a chance he and Illya could be on the same board this time, which would be the first time they’ve played against each other in public since the Hoogovens tournament in January. Considering the intense interest in their upcoming World Championship matchup, Napoleon isn’t sure whether the organizers of this tournament would be more or less likely to pit them against each other now.

“What’s unnecessary is the hour they insist on holding these things,” Napoleon says through a yawn, pushing himself up to a sitting position in the bed.

Illya hums his agreement as he buttons his shirt. “I almost did not have to deal with it this year.”

“What?”

“The Federation did not want to make me captain again,” Illya says with a sidelong glance.

Napoleon stares at him for a moment, affronted on his behalf. “Why the hell not? Was winning two years ago somehow not enough for them?”

“I have missed a lot of tournaments in the last year,” Illya answers quietly. His hands still on his last button as his face twists in pain for a moment before he tries to brush it away.

“What the fuck?” Napoleon climbs out of the bed, the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to a mind that is rapidly becoming filled with righteous indignation, which is probably not the best combo. “Jesus, are they actually human? I don’t think they are.”

“Cowboy—”

Napoleon holds up his hands in capitulation, because he is not going to drag them into this argument now. “Ok, I won’t go there, but really, Peril. They know what you’ve gone through this year. What do they want from you? Do they really expect you to be the emotionless chess robots everyone thinks you already are?”

“Yes,” Illya answers without any hint of irony. He finishes buttoning his shirt and tucks it somewhat untidily into his trousers before looking up at Napoleon again. “They were going to give it to Belinsky, but they had no choice after you beat him in the Candidates finals. I think they also tried Kozlov and he refused, but he won’t confirm that.”

“I just don’t get it,” Napoleon says as he wraps his arms around Illya’s waist, tipping his head to look up at him. “Why would they want anyone else to lead the team? You’re the best chess player in the world.”

“Is that so?”

Napoleon lets a playful grin slowly curl onto his lips. “Well. For a few more months, at least.”

New York, USA, March 1969

“I don’t care what’s usually done,” he snarls into the receiver. “You asked me who I wanted as my second and I told you. You may not be aware, but having a dick between your legs doesn’t actually make you a better chess player. Either you pay for her to go and be my second, or I’m not playing.”

Napoleon slams down the phone and turns, his face still flushed with anger as he stomps off to pour himself a drink. It’s rare that she sees him this upset, and it’s a little overwhelming that it seems to be at least partly on her behalf.

“Napoleon, you can’t—” she starts, but he waves her off.

“Oh, it’s a bluff, and they know it,” he says dismissively. He pours himself a significant amount of Scotch and throws half of it back in one go before he turns toward her. “But honestly, if it makes them worry even a little it’s worth it. I’m so tired of all this patriarchal bullshit. As if I would trust any of the idiots they want me to bring to actually give me good advice. If I can’t have you there, I’m not taking anyone. Worked out fine for me in the Candidates.”

Gaby sighs at him. “You know how I feel about the US Chess Federation and the chauvinistic assholes that run it, but still. You don’t need to do all this for me. You should have someone there to support you.”

“I will. They’ll fold, I promise you.”

“What would I even do with the club for two months? I can’t close it for that long, I’ll never be able to pay my lease.”

Napoleon considers this for a moment, swirling what is left of the amber liquor around in his tumbler. “You’ll get a stipend for the duration. What about hiring Lowe and Hughes to run it, just a few days a week?”

The idea has merit, though Gaby hates the idea of leaving her the club for that long. It’s her baby, and also the only thing that allows her to be independent. Trusting it to other people, even good friends, is daunting. “Maybe,” she allows. “I’ll think about it, if the USCF agrees to let me go. You better hope they’re shaking in their boots.”

Napoleon snorts. “As if anyone actually thinks I won’t play the championship.”

At the time she thinks he’s probably right, which doesn’t make things look good for her chances of actually going, but that’s before he shows up at the club a few days later looking a little thunderstruck.

“I just got a call from Henry Kissinger,” he tells her, sounding bewildered even as he says it.

Gaby boggles at him. “Henry Kissinger the National Security Advisor, Henry Kissinger??”

“Is there another?”

“Why the fuck is Kissinger calling you?”

“In his words, ‘to stress the importance of my participation in this tournament for the American people, and to guarantee that I would have everything I need to ensure my success in winning the championship.’”

“Holy shit.”

Napoleon finally sits down at the bar opposite her and she immediately pours him a healthy portion of whiskey. “You know, I’ve been so focused on the game, on getting to this point so I could go to the championship and it could just be Illya and me, I might have overlooked what a colossal international clusterfuck this is.” He’s clearly reeling from this realization, his gaze unfocused as he takes a sip of the liquor.

“You think?” Gaby scoffs, barking out a laugh. “They’ve been calling it ‘The Match of the Century’ since you came back from Argentina. The entire world is watching you. You’re not playing chess, Napoleon, you’re fighting a war. Against your boyfriend.”

Napoleon looks at her, his eyes wide, and in that moment she doesn’t see the chess superstar who just recently went on the most astounding winning streak in the history of the World Chess Championship. She doesn’t see the confident, self-assured man who dragged himself up from nothing to actually become a threat to the complete Soviet dominance of the game. No, what she sees is a guy who has just realized that he’s either going to humiliate the man he loves on an international stage, or be the disappointment who let his entire country down. There is pretty much nothing in between.

“Fuck,” Napoleon says, and downs the rest of his whiskey.

Chapter Text

FIDE World Chess Championship Matches, July–August 1969
Reykjavík, Iceland

Two months. Two months of endless, unrelenting pressure to be perfect. Two months of constant scrutiny. Two months of playing under the harsh glare of television cameras. Two months of everyone second-guessing your every move. Two months of seeing each other nearly every day and almost never getting a chance to actually see each other.

Turns out, it’s nearly impossible to find even a moment to be together when the entire world is watching the both of you. The separation is probably for the best, anyway; they usually spend tournament evenings discussing the day’s matches, and that’s hardly a reasonable thing to do now. They both get more than their fill of post-game dissection from their respective entourages, anyway, not to mention everyone else, should they happen to look at the news.

It feels strangely intimate, playing a series of games like this between just the two of them, like they’re inviting the entire world to watch their most private moments. Much has been made of their record against each other to this point—about how Napoleon has a winning record against Illya in individual games, but has failed to convert that to overall tournament wins—but the fact is, the public record of their games doesn’t come close to scratching the surface. They have met over a chessboard less than a dozen times in normal tournament play, but if any commentators pick up on how the familiarity of their games doesn’t quite match that story, they wisely keep their mouths shut. After all, who could believe that the two men playing the Match of the Century have more than the barest tolerance for each other?

Anything else would be preposterous.

Game 8: Kuryakin–Solo, 1–0 (English Symmetrical)
Running Score: 5–3 Kuryakin

They’re eight games into the tournament, and things could be going better. Napoleon eats dinner in his hotel room, which he hopes everyone takes as a sign that he’s not really in the mood for conversation today. Another loss after a string of draws, and he can just about hear the snide commentary from the news pundits who know nothing about chess and everything about Soviet-American politics, even though he certainly hasn’t turned on the TV or picked up a newspaper in the last two weeks. Even his desire to know what people are saying about him can’t overcome how much he very much does not want to hear about how much of a disappointment these first games have been. He knows ok?

Not everyone gets the message, though, and his habit of leaving his door unlocked at tournaments comes back to bite him in the ass when Gaby appears in his room. Not that she’s not welcome, normally, and they’ve certainly spent plenty of evenings together, but he was kind of banking in wallowing alone tonight, thank you very much. Oh well. Maybe she won’t bring up the game.

“So was that 15th move a blunder or an intentional sacrifice?” she asks, without fanfare, as she helps herself to his gin.

So much for that hope. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“I find it hard to believe you fought tooth and nail for me to be here as your second because you didn’t want my opinion on the matches.”

“Maybe I just wanted your support,” he huffs. 

Something in her expression softens at that. “Ok. We don’t have to talk about that game if you don’t want.”

“Not much to talk about,” Napoleon grumbles, sinking a little further into the sofa. He’d made a mistake and Illya capitalized on it, as he should have. End of story.

“But I think we need to talk about what’s going on with you lately. Why you keep making errors that you shouldn’t.”

He groans loudly, because if there’s anything he wants to talk about less than the game today, it’s that.

Gaby remains unmoved by his dramatics, fixing him with a measured look. “I’m serious, Napoleon. You’re going to lose this thing in less than twenty matches if something doesn’t change.”

“It’s just all the pressure. All the cameras and attention,” he tries. It doesn’t sound terribly convincing even to his own ears.

“Since when has that ever been a problem for you? You normally thrive on attention.”

“Well not this time, ok? This is far beyond any attention I’m used to.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” she says, her gaze evaluating. “I think you’re worried about what it means for him if you win. You’re subconsciously sabotaging your games to protect him.”

“That’s absurd,” he retorts, but her words find a raw nerve and press hard. She knows him too well, damn her.

Apparently satisfied with her conclusion, Gaby finally settles down onto the couch and leans into him as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. The interrogation is over, it seems. At least she brought him more Scotch. She hands him the tumbler and they sit together in comfortable silence for a little while, nursing their drinks and pretending like she hasn’t just caused him to have a devastating realization.

“You know, some of the press are saying you’re doing it purposefully. Lulling him into a false sense of security. Psychological warfare and all that.”

“Now that is absurd,” he replies dryly. “If I wanted to psych him out I wouldn’t do it by losing.” He takes another sip of his Scotch, and then, because he can’t help himself, asks, “and what are the rest of the press saying?”

A sly grin curls onto her lips as she tips her face up to look at him. “That he’s psyching you out somehow, though opinions differ on how he’s done it.”

“No one’s guessed by making me fall in love with him, then?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Well, that’s for the best.”

“He wouldn’t want this, you know,” she says after another pause, her expression serious again.

Napoleon sighs. “I know.” He doesn’t know what Illya thinks of his gameplay recently, and he’s honestly not sure he wants to know. The rest of the world can fuck right off for all he cares, but Napoleon can’t stand the idea that he’s disappointing his boyfriend.

“So you’re going to stop letting yourself make stupid blunders?”

“I’ll do my best.”

It feels, absurdly, like they’re passing messages in grade school. Even though the furor around them has calmed significantly since the first week, it’s still far too dangerous to attempt most of their usual forms of contact. Convenient, then, that they each have someone to draft into the role of go-between, if somewhat unwillingly. Granted the reasons for their reluctance were different—Gaby had been more annoyed at the presumption, and Zaytsev more worried about discovery—but they’d agreed to bear messages and, on a few occasions, ensure that no one noticed the two competitors meeting at times other than the ones scheduled to be televised.

The Saturday after their twelfth game turns out to be just such a time. The rest day has ironically left Illya feeling unaccountably restless, and he has a strong suspicion that the same could be said for Napoleon. Their previous game had stretched on far too long only to end in a rather unsatisfying draw, which would normally be ripe fodder for analysis, but Illya is tired of talking about it with the other Soviets. Frankly, having nearly all of his interactions limited to the same six people, some of whom he doesn’t like very much, is beyond wearing on him. He needs his boyfriend. So, with Zaytsev’s help, he tells the others he’s not to be disturbed this afternoon and slips out to go visit Napoleon in his suite on the other side of the hotel.

“Gaby mentioned you might be coming by this evening,” Napoleon says as a greeting, grinning broadly at Illya’s appearance in his room.

He wastes no time in rising from his chair and meeting Illya halfway, immediately reaching up to drag him down into a probing, demanding kiss. It’s always like this, the couple of times they’ve managed to get together over the past month, when all of the pent-up emotions and desires that have to remain so carefully hidden every day seem to come pouring out.

“She and Nikolai have been talking again, then,” Illya hums thoughtfully.

“Well, we did ask them to,” Napoleon reasons before he steals another kiss.

“It seems to me that they spend more time together than what they do on our behalfs.”

Napoleon’s brow furrows as he stares up at Illya, frowning. “Do you think that could be a problem?”

“Why would it be?” Illya asks. He hadn’t thought that Napoleon would have any reservations about the two of them getting to know each other; after all, he seems to like Zaytsev quite a bit.

“If the KGB thinks that you’re in a love affair with her, because of the letters, what’s it going to look like when they start hanging out together, just the two of them?”

“They are being discreet,” Illya replies, but it’s probably worth checking anyway. “They know that this is not a regular tournament. Our seconds should not be seen talking to each other, regardless.”

Napoleon nods. “You’re probably right. I’m worrying over nothing.”

“Not nothing, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, reaching a hand up to comb a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Caution has kept us safe so far.”

“If only it didn’t have to,” Napoleon says as he leans into Illya’s touch.

It is impossible to resist pulling him into a tight embrace, then, burying his face in Napoleon’s hair and breathing in the distinct aroma of his pomade and shampoo that has become so familiar and beloved to him.

“Soon,” he whispers, but if Napoleon hears it he doesn’t give any sign. Oh, he knows that they’ll always have to be cautious, with the world the way it is, but not like this. He draws back, brushing his thumb over the stubble of Napoleon’s cheek as he stares into ocean blue eyes. “How do you want me?”

“Forever,” Napoleon sighs, his lips tipping into a melancholy half-smile before they curl toward mischevious. “But tonight I’ll settle for making it feel that way. I’m going to take you apart slowly, bit by bit, until you’re begging me for release. How does that sound?”

Illya can’t help the shudder of anticipation that quakes through him, nor the sharp intake of breath at Napoleon’s words, though he does his best to regain some sense of self-possession. “Sounds like big talk, Cowboy,” he answers, cocking an eyebrow, which makes Napoleon laugh as he pushes him backward onto the bed.

In the end, Napoleon makes good on his promise, rending him to a raw, near primal state, trembling with pleasure under him, desperate for release and yet never wanting it to end. Eventually they end up on their sides, Napoleon curled around behind him with Illya’s leg hooked over his elbow, rocking slowly into him and rubbing maddeningly against his prostate with every thrust as he presses wet kisses to Illya’s neck and shoulder. Illya tips back enough to capture his mouth, digging one hand into Napoleon’s curls to deepen the kiss. His orgasm rolls through him like a wave, building with aching slowness until it breaks over him and he comes with a strangled, ragged moan. Napoleon swallows it with another kiss, his own restraint finally shattering, and fucks him through the ebbing tide of pleasure with abandon.

After, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, not asleep but resting silently in the quiet hours of the night. Illya’s mind is, inevitably, whirling with thoughts of their match the next day, and he would wager much that Napoleon is in the same position. He is proven right a little while later, when Napoleon finally breaks the stillness.

“I’m going to catch you tomorrow,” he murmurs where his face his half buried in Illya’s chest.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Think I might play QGD for fun.”

Illya snorts, letting one of Napoleon’s curls twine around his fingers. “You are not supposed to tell me your opening plans ahead of time, you know.”

“Thought it might make things more interesting,” Napoleon says, his lips curling into a smirk against Illya’s skin.

“Hmm.”

“Are you planning your defense now?” Napoleon ask after a beat.

“I would not tell you if I was.” In fact, at this moment Illya is reasoning that if Napoleon is actually serious, then he would obviously play the Tartakower Defense, though Napoleon must know that it is a line with which Illya has never lost.

Napoleon scoffs in mock outrage. “Well, that’s hardly fair.”

“I did not ask you to give away your strategy,” Illya points out.

“The opening I play is hardly my entire strategy, Peril,” Napoleon argues. He pushes himself up so that he is propped above Illya, curls flopping into his face as he stares down with eyes that practically sparkle. “I’ll catch you either way.”

Illya tugs him into a kiss, tugging on Napoleon’s plush lower lip and parting his lips in turn to admit the playful licks of Napoleon’s tongue. He lets himself get lost in the slide of their mouths, half ignoring the distant realization that at the moment he doesn’t actually care if Napoleon wins and takes them to a tie score.

“Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t,” Illya allows. “We will only know for sure tomorrow.”

Game 13: Solo–Kuryakin, 1–0 (Queen’s Gambit Declined Tartakower)
Running Score: 6½–6½

They have been here for hours upon hours. The room they are crammed into is really too small to host five men all crowded around a single chess board, but it is apparently one of the few that the KGB has given the all-clear as not able to be bugged in any way. Paranoia has hit a fever pitch over the last week, to Illya’s ever-increasing misery. If he has to listen to one more nutjob ‘theory’ about the Americans using electronic and chemical devices to control him, he’s going to flat out lose it. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

He also doesn’t know how much more of this adjournment strategy session he can take. It is nearly three in the morning, and he is feeling perhaps more drained than he ever has in his life. When they’d adjourned after move 42, Napoleon seemed to have an edge in the game, but there didn’t seem to be a clear path to a win for either side. Now, after endlessly analyzing the game, there still doesn’t. Illya mentally checked out hours ago, barely listening as Oleg, Belinsky, Zaytsev, and Kozlov argue over the positions and permutations. He needs sleep more than he needs to talk about this board.

Thankfully, they seem to have finally all come to the same conclusion. “We are in agreement, then,” Oleg says. “The game is unwinnable. A guaranteed draw.”

Everyone nods, and Illya almost groans in relief. He moves to push himself to his feet as everyone else begins shuffling toward the door, but a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, interrupting his progress.

“Not you,” Oleg growls, his voice icy cold. “We have more to discuss.”

Illya has no idea what they have left to talk about, but whatever it is, he is willing to bet that it is nothing good. He catches a concerned glance from Zaytsev before the younger man files out of the room and tries to send a reassuring smile his way even if he is in no place to reassure anyone. When the door finally closes behind the last of them, Illya turns his attention to the trainer who is now leaning with both hands on the table across from him.

“Sir?”

“Tell me, Kuryakin,” Oleg begins casually, though there is no mistaking the danger in his tone. “How is it that Solo seems to be able to anticipate your every move?”

“No doubt he has studied my past games,” Illya answers automatically. He expected something like this would happen eventually—honestly thought it would happen sooner—and knows the best thing to do is not to say too much. Simple denials will protect him far more than anything else at this point.

Oleg’s mouth predictably curls into a sneer. “No doubt. But this goes beyond study. I’ve had my suspicions about him for a while now. This tournament has all but confirmed it. How long have you been in correspondance with him?”

“I haven’t—”

“Of course you are not in contact with him directly,” Oleg continues, cutting him off. “We would have seen it immediately. But you are in contact. No doubt the information you provide him is encoded into those letters that you write his German girlfriend. I will admit, that was a clever ruse, but it is obvious that she is not your lover.”

Well, fuck. Illya stares at him, fighting to keep his face as blank as possible. Ok, they know about the letters. That was inevitable. He did not expect that they would pay close enough attention to see through his and Gaby’s fake relationship, though. Still, they don’t have anything. Oleg is just fishing. Illya just has to keep it together and not react to anything.

As he expected, when Illya doesn’t respond, Oleg continues to expound on the topic. He pushes away from the table and begins walking in a slow circle around Illya. “What I do not understand is your motive. What kind of Russian would help an American opponent? What kind of man would betray his people like that?” Oleg pauses, behind Illya now, and leans close to the side of his head. “A traitor, Kuryakin. That is what you are. Just like your father.”

Illya moves before he can stop himself, launching to his feet and curling his hands into fists. “My father was not a traitor,” he growls, now towering over the trainer. It is taking every last thread of his haggard self control not to lash out. “And neither am I.”

A cruel smile curls onto Oleg’s lips; he got the reaction he’d hoped to provoke. “Maybe I cannot prove it yet. But I will. Mark my words. Whatever you think you’ve hidden, I will find it,” he promises, and even though he has to look up to stare at Illya, the venom in his voice makes him the more threatening figure at the moment. “I don’t care if you are still the World Champion when this is done. You have made it possible for Solo to shame us, and for that, I will destroy you.”

“There is nothing to find, because I have done nothing wrong,” Illya grits out, forcing himself as close to a carefully controlled neutral as he can manage.

It is only half a lie. Illya could kiss his past self for having the presence of mind to start moving his important things while he wasn’t under investigation, or whatever this is going to be. They can tear his apartment apart, but they’ll find nothing. The photos, the letters, what records he has of his games with Napoleon that he shouldn’t have kept but couldn’t bear to throw away: all of it has been relocated, presumably to Napoleon’s New York apartment (the thought of which does funny things to Illya’s insides that he’d rather not examine too closely). Well, almost all of it. It occurs to Illya that he might want to make his final delivery sooner than later.

Oleg stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a hard line. “We will see about that.”

When they resume the game the next day, everything plays out much as they expected, to a point. At move 61 he traps Napoleon’s rook in a corner, which should spell a draw in a few more moves. Somehow, though, Napoleon keeps going until quite suddenly he manages to squeeze out a checkmate in two after move 74. He flashes Illya a quick, almost apologetic grin before they shake hands, but Illya is too stunned to even be anything like upset. The other Soviets crowd around the board after Napoleon leaves, pushing pieces this way and that to try to figure out what happened.

“How can you lose with the opponent’s only rook locked in completely at g8?” Kozlov asks. The question might as well be rhetorical, for all the answers anyone has for it.

Game 18: Kuryakin–Solo, 0–1 (Alekhine’s Defense)
Running Score: 10½–7½ Solo

“If you came by to berate me for letting that rook get trapped, I don’t want to hear it,” Napoleon calls out when he hears the door to his suite open. He’s already been over the game multiple times by now, so Gaby better not be there for any other reason than drinking.

“Why would I berate you for that move, Cowboy?” comes a completely different and unexpected voice. “You won, after all.”

Napoleon drops his magazine and looks up at his boyfriend with unrestrained delight. He hadn’t expected to see Illya outside of their matches ever since he’d heard from Zaytsev via Gaby that Oleg had been getting increasingly paranoid about the series of losses Illya had been taking recently. There had been nothing that out of the ordinary about those games, at least for them, but try telling that to an increasingly desperate Soviet trainer. Illya is here, though, one of his trademark tiny smiles bending his lips as he walks over to Napoleon and pulls him into his arms.

“You couldn’t wait two more weeks?” Napoleon teases. Then he frowns a little as he raises a hand to brush over Illya’s cheek. “Thought it was getting too risky for things like this?”

Illya shrugs. “Might not be two weeks. You could win in the next two games, Cowboy.”

“I mean, it’s possible, but it’s not likely.”

“Isn’t it?” Illya asks. The hint of playfulness has gone out of his voice, but he doesn’t seem upset, or worried, or resigned, or anything that he probably should be right now. He just looks… calm. “I need to give you something. Just to hold onto for me.”

Napoleon furrows his brow, confused by this request, and why it would be coming now. He’s certainly ‘held onto’ plenty of Illya’s things over the last year, to the point where Napoleon’s not sure how much is even left in his Moscow apartment. When he’d first brought the books home, he’d left them in a stack in an out-of-the-way corner, not daring to do something so forward shelving them, even temporarily. That quickly became untenable, though; Napoleon’s apartment isn’t that big, and before too long he had to find actual places for Illya’s things among his own or risk it become a cluttered mess. He can’t deny that it makes him ridiculously happy to come home and see their belongings intermingled, like Illya lives there and has just stepped out to pick up something from the corner bodega. Dangerously happy, in fact, considering that he has no real guarantee that this is going to turn out like he hopes it will. 

Illya steps back enough so that he can reach into his jacket and withdraws a small, rectangular box that is immediately recognizably as a chess set. Not one of Illya’s usual travel sets, which Napoleon has seen before, but something older and frankly shabbier. Unlike some of the other things Illya has brought him, this isn’t large or suspicious enough that it would necessitate a special delivery, and Napoleon’s confusion is certainly not diminished. Illya stares at it for a moment, his expression inscrutable, before he hands it to Napoleon. 

“I don’t understand, what set is this?”

“My father’s,” Illya answers softly. “It’s all I have left of him.”

Napoleon’s eyes go wide and he’s trying to hand the set back before he even knows what he’s doing. “Illya, I can’t take this, it’s too important.”

“That’s why you have to,” Illya says, placing a hand on the box and gently pushing it back toward his chest. “Please, Napoleon. I need to know it’s safe.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

That was clearly not a question that Illya had been expecting, because he looks uncomfortable for a second before he shakes his head. “Just— no reason. But I would feel better if it was with you.”

“If this is because you think you’re going to lose—” Napoleon begins.

“No,” Illya cuts him off. “Look, I can’t explain fully right now. Everything is going to become crazy, at the end, and I need to do this before it is too late.”

Napoleon stares at him, trying to search his face for some clue of what is going on. All this talk of ‘being safe’ and ‘too late’ is frankly more than a little terrifying, especially coming as it is at this point in the tournament. Illya’s face is a carefully-controlled mask, though, betraying nothing besides a kind of beseeching hope that Napoleon will do what he says.

“You’re worrying me, you know that?” Napoleon murmurs.

“Don’t be worried, Cowboy,” Illya says. He reaches up to comb his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, then pulls him into a kiss. “It will be all right.”

Napoleon lets himself be wrapped into a hug, burying his face against the warm skin of Illya’s neck. The move brings their bodies closer together again and further forces the chess set toward him until Napoleon has no choice but to clutch it against his chest. His hand tightens around the box, feeling the worn surface under his fingertips, and he knows that he’s not going to win this argument. He might feel completely powerless when it comes to the current situation, but Illya entrusted the set to him, so he will be damned if he’s going to let anything happen to it.

“Ok,” he says eventually, half mumbling into Illya’s shoulder, “I’ll keep it safe. But you have to promise me you’ll come get it back from me, when all of this is over.”

“I will,” Illya whispers and hugs him tighter, pressing a light kiss to the side of his head.

What ‘all of this’ entails is, of course, unspoken, like so many things between them these days. In any case, Napoleon is pretty sure he’ll be taking the set with him back to New York, after the championship itself is over; it is what comes after that still stretches unknown and uncertain before him.

Napoleon finds himself drawn to Illya’s chess set in a way he can’t quite explain. It’s nothing fancy, and that’s entirely why it’s so compelling. By his own account Illya’s father had been an important official in the Soviet government, so why does his chess set look like something you would buy off the street for the equivalent of a couple of dollars? Napoleon opens the set to look at the pieces, as he has done many times now, admiring their simple, utilitarian shapes that have been worn smooth in spots by heavy use. This time, though, when he opens the set something seems to shift inside it, behind the felt slots that hold the pieces. A thorough inspection eventually turns up a small catch on one side, and when he releases it the felt board pops forward to reveal a secret compartment containing what appears to be a sheaf of papers.

His first instinct is that he probably shouldn’t be snooping. This isn’t his chess set, Illya just asked him to hold onto it for him, not to dig into his secrets. So Napoleon closes the set back up and tells himself to ignore it. The thing is, though, his curiosity is insatiable, and the knowledge that the compartment exists torments him. He can’t even ask Illya about it, because there’s basically no chance to steal a moment alone with him. The Russian hadn’t been kidding about the final weeks of the tournament being insane. Between the increasing tension of the games and the adjournments and the analysis, he has little time for anything other than focusing on the matches. Besides contemplating the papers, that is. Napoleon makes it nearly a week before he can't take it anymore. He’ll just take a peek, and if it seems like something he shouldn’t have seen he’ll take the secret of his trespass to the grave.

It turns out there’s not just papers in there, though the many handwritten pages do make up the majority of the contents. Among them, Napoleon finds an old photo of a family: two adults with a young boy, perhaps ten years old, standing between them. Their identity is immediately obvious, because Illya apparently has his father’s eyes and his mother’s chin. The three of them are dressed up for some occasion, with Illya looking frankly adorable in a vest and what looks to be a miniature version of the flat cap that Napoleon has seen him doff on occasion. They look happy, even though Illya’s father is wearing a stern expression; there is a soft smile on his mother’s face, and Illya himself is grinning broadly.

Napoleon is captivated by the photo for so long that he nearly forgets about the papers, but that changes the moment he actually looks at them. They seem to be letters, and he recognizes Illya’s cramped handwriting even in the Cyrillic script. Although he’s pretty good at reading Russian, Russian handwriting is another story, and anyway it feels like trying to read them would be a step too far. That is, until he makes out his own name in the salutation. It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would Illya write him letters in Russian? Did he intend for Napoleon to find them when he gave him the set?

The first rays of sunlight are just beginning to lighten the sky when he finally finishes reading all of them. It had honestly been a struggle to get through the early ones, but deciphering Illya’s handwriting got easier as he went on, even if there were still words and sometimes whole phrases that he couldn’t make heads or tails of. He’d told himself he’d just look at the first one, and he certainly hadn’t intended to stay up all night reading them, but once he’d started he couldn’t stop. The letters are beautiful and heartrending, clearly written in the aftermath of the Havana Olympiad and Napoleon’s absence at the Palma de Mallorca tournament. The intensity of the emotion in them is overwhelming at times, because although he knows Illya loves him and knows at least something of the pain and regret that had tormented Illya during this time, he had not known that it was like this. Napoleon is frankly not sure he’s worthy of this kind of love, but he also certainly knows better than to try to argue that point.

When it comes down to it, it’s pretty clear that, when he wrote them at least, Illya had not intended for these letters to be read by anyone—even Napoleon, even though they’re addressed to him. Whether that changed at some point is the part Napoleon’s not sure of. Is it possible that he simply forgot he’d hidden them inside the chess set when he gave it to Napoleon? Or that he thought Napoleon would never find the hidden compartment? The latter seems unlikely, because Illya knows how much Napoleon enjoys puzzles, and surely he would have foreseen that anything concealed in such a compartment would not remain a secret for very long. In any case, Napoleon is going to have to tell him that he read them. There’s no way he’d be able to pretend he hasn’t, not knowing what he does now.

A night’s worth of exhaustion hits him all at once when he finally returns the letters and the photograph to the compartment and closes up the set. He really should try to get a little sleep, considering that they’re scheduled to play their 22nd game that day. Or rather, he realizes when he finally looks at a clock, they’re scheduled to play said game in a couple of hours. So much for sleep, then. A hot shower and an obscene amount of coffee will have to do.

“You look like hell,” Gaby tells him when she meets him in the lobby. “Are you feeling ok?”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Just didn’t sleep much. Please tell me there’s coffee somewhere already brewed.”

“Hotel cafe should have some, but you only have five minutes before the match is set to start, and it takes ten to get to the hall.”

Napoleon swears; he might have fallen asleep in the shower for an unknown amount of time, hence the fact that he is now running late. “Can you see if they’ll give you a thermos and meet me there? I’ll love you forever.”

“You already do,” she replies dryly, but sighs when he gives her his best puppy dog eyes. “Fine, but no promises.”

Illya—and everyone else—is waiting not-so-patiently for him at the sports hall when he arrives, and Napoleon has to suppress a wince when he thinks about how this is going to look during primetime as the TV cameras follow his approach. The clock is already running, no doubt started by the moderator, and Illya has already made his usual pawn to e4 opening move. 

“Cowboy, what is going on?” Illya hisses, leaning forward as Napoleon slips into the seat opposite. They shouldn’t really be speaking, but no one is close enough to hear their conversation. “You are entitled to a postponement if you are ill.”

“I’m not, actually,” Napoleon whispers back with a wry smirk on his lips. “Just an idiot, and they don’t give postponements for that.”

Illya glares at him and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest; their little pre-match discussion had not gone unnoticed by the spectators, many of whom are now having whispered conversations of their own. He probably could get away with requesting a postponement—they’re allowed three for medical reasons, and neither of them had needed to take one so far—but what he’d meant what he said to Illya. Just because he’d stayed up all night for no reason doesn't mean he’s owed a delay now, and he’s not about to win the championship by being anything less than completely honest.

Napoleon plays a Sicilian Defense against Illya’s opening just in time for Gaby to come bustling into the hall with, blessedly, a thermos of coffee. She shoves it into his hands—with a rather more disapproving expression than is really necessary, honestly—and retreats back to her reserved seat. Illya watches, entirely bemused, when Napoleon unscrews the cap and fills it with the rich, black brew, then takes a long sip as he settles back into his chair.

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t have another cup,” Napoleon says apologetically, grinning despite himself. “Sorry about that.”

Illya’s lips twitch as he clearly puts in a herculean effort to fight back a smile at his antics. “Just play your turn, Cowboy.”

Predictably, the first part of the match doesn’t go all that well for him, and equally predictably, Illya does not look pleased about that fact, though he hides it well enough. Still, Napoleon manages to dig himself into a reasonably well-defended position, and after 40 moves Illya calls for an adjournment for the day. He clearly has the upper hand offensively and could probably take the game in another ten moves, but Napoleon doesn’t have the energy to argue.

He manages to make it through a strategy session with Gaby before he passes out. There are a few ways he could still win this game, but he pretty much needs Illya to make an error. To her credit, Gaby doesn’t hound him about why he didn’t sleep the previous night, though that’s probably only because he must look pretty pitiful at this point. There is a very good chance he’ll hear about it later, but he can cross that bridge when he comes to it. Right now he’s going to get sleep, though, so he can have a chance at fighting his way back to at least a draw on this game.

Or, he could blunder his way into leaving his Queen undefended two moves in after the resumption of play the next day. Maybe he still needs more sleep.

Game 22: Kuryakin–Solo, 1–0 (Sicilian Najdorf)
Running Score: 11½–10½ Solo

In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. Well, maybe not this exactly—not Napoleon barreling into his hotel room late the night of the adjournment during their final game, that part is frankly insane—but the rest of it, yes. He should have known Napoleon would pick up on what he was doing in the game, and he should have known that his reaction would be less than enthusiastic. The fact is, though, that Illya did not expect his boyfriend to be as upset as he appears to be, and he certainly didn’t expect to be confronted by it.

The other Soviets had left maybe an hour ago, and though Illya knows he should sleep, his nerves are so unsettled that rest still seems a long way off. His seconds had spent the evening analyzing the game every which way, and never once did they suspect anything. Not that they should; the game is novel to them, and he’s had no cause to play a similar sequence in the years since he first played it in private. To them, there is no obvious path forward to win, even though the game doesn’t appear to be unwinnable. It’s a bit of a paradox, which is why he’d always liked this game. At the point at which Napoleon had called the adjournment, a win, loss, or draw were all almost equally likely. Or would be, if Illya wasn't playing a pre-determined outcome.

At first he’s not sure if it is a good or bad thing that his door is still unlocked, allowing Napoleon to burst into his room unannounced, his expression thunderous. The sight of him is so a bizarre and unexpected that Illya is momentarily too stunned to summon his own outrage for just how stupid it is for him to come here. Because it is monumentally idiotic for him to show up in Illya’s room on the final night of the tournament, to risk everything when they are so close to being done with it all. And for what? What reason could he possibly have for this stunt?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Napoleon demands almost before the door has fully closed behind him. 

“Cowboy, you cannot be here—” Illya tries, his voice somewhere between pleading and warning.

“The hell I can’t. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize the game? That I wouldn’t notice?”

Illya blinks at him, momentarily rendered speechless. In fact, he had thought that Napoleon wouldn’t notice. It had been three years since they first played this game in Argentina, and there is no reason that the American should recognize it from among their hundreds, if not thousands, of other matches. Illya looks away, briefly pressing his lips together. “It was a long time ago,” he says quietly.

The answer seems to do something to defuse Napoleon’s outrage; his shoulder slump forward, and he exhales heavily as he wipes a hand over his face. “Please tell me this is not what it looks like. Please tell me you’re not actually trying to lose this game.”

“And what if I am?” Illya shoots back.

“That— that doesn’t make any sense, Peril!” Napoleon replies, his voice rising again, though now there is more distress than anger in it. “Is this about our deal? You can still defect even if you win.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been planning how to leave for more than a year? I thought you understood, after I gave you the books in Lugano.”

“I did!” Napoleon insists, though he looks more uncertain than he should. “Or, I hoped I did.”

Illya sighs. “Cowboy, my defection… it was never about our deal.”

Napoleon blinks at him, his mouth opening and closing before he manages a slightly strangled, “what?”

This is not a conversation Illya thought he would be having tonight, and he’s honestly not entirely sure he’s ready for it. But if not now, when? Tomorrow they will finish the final game, and though he intends to try to visit Napoleon after everything is over and before they both leave Iceland, there’s no guarantee he will be able to. He needs to get this out now.

“Even if I were to retain the title, there is nothing for me anymore in Russia, and everything with you, in New York,” Illya explains. “When I agreed to the deal two years ago, the championship was no more than a convenient point in the future. Something I could aim for. Maybe I could have left earlier, but it is possible that the Federation would have tried to block my participation in the match.”

“But… two years ago, your mother was still alive. You’re telling me you were planning to defect even then?”

Illya closes his eyes for a moment, fighting back a swell of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him when he thinks of her, even more than a year later. “She made me promise her that I would. That if I had the chance to get out and be with you, I would take it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Peril?” Napoleon asks, sounding confused and unmistakably miserable.

“I— I couldn’t,” Illya says, not meeting his eye. “Not then. It was too painful, to think of her being gone. And later, well, there was the deal. It was easier to just let things play out.” He pauses as an unpleasant thought occurs to him, then looks up at Napoleon again. “Did you— did you think I did not want to be with you?”

It is Napoleon who looks away, now, frowning slightly. “I thought… it doesn’t matter what I thought.” He shakes his head, and though it’s not a confirmation, it’s near as good as one. The idea makes Illya’s stomach turn over, but before he can pursue the matter, Napoleon pulls the conversation off of that topic and back to where it started. “But, if this has nothing to do with the deal, why are you playing a losing game?”

“Because this whole system is stupid,” Illya huffs. He has spent a lot of time thinking about this, in the lead-up to the championship matches, and even more since it became clear that an even split was not only possible, but likely. “If I win this game, we are tied 12–12, but there are no more games. They will still call me the champion. It makes no sense.”

“No, I failed to beat you, so you keep your title,” Napoleon argues.

“But I also failed to beat you. Why is this the only tournament with no co-champions?”

“I don’t know, Peril, because it is! Because only one person can be the World Chess Champion.”

“And it should be you. You are the better player.”

Napoleon gapes at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Illya answers, leaving no doubt in his tone.

“I really don’t see how that follows.” Of course Napoleon finds room to argue anyway. “You said yourself I’ve never beaten you in a tournament.”

“You should have been the champion in Monte Carlo. You never should have taken that draw.”

That makes Napoleon roll his eyes dramatically. “How are you still hung up on that? People take draws they shouldn’t all the time.”

“I have watched you get stronger and stronger over the past couple of years. What you did in the Candidates Tournament? I could have never done that. These matches—the novelties you have played—have been nothing short of genius.”

“Did you forget the part where I’ve managed to squander a three-point lead in the last four games?” Napoleon retorts. “Face it, Peril, neither one of us can honestly claim to be better than the other. We’re too evenly matched, and the outcome of this tournament is going to come down to the flip of a coin.” 

Illya shakes his head stubbornly. “We should not even be playing today. You should have taken the postponement on game 22. I only won that game because you were sick.”

“For Christ’s sake, I wasn’t sick!” Napoleon nearly yells.

“Could have fooled me. You looked terrible.”

“I looked like shit because I didn’t sleep, and I didn’t sleep because I was up all night reading your letters.”

What? If that explanation is supposed to enlighten him, it falls far short. Illya can’t possibly see how looking at old letters he’d sent would have cause Napoleon to stay up all night. “What letters?” he asks, completely lost.

“The letters you hid in your father’s chess set,” Napoleon admits, grimacing, before he looks at the ceiling and huffs a sigh. “I found them, ok? And I know I shouldn’t have read them, but I did. So it was my own damn fault.”

Illya is momentarily stunned by this revelation, and the only thing that comes to his lips is the stupidly obvious, “you read them?”

“Yes. Look, I’m sorry. I just… I saw they were addressed to me, and I couldn’t help it,” Napoleon explains, his brows knit together with worry and guilt.

“Cowboy, you were never supposed to see those,” Illya says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. He has never felt so exposed, not even in all the moments he has stood before Napoleon completely bare.

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says. He paces a step away, then seems to think better of it and turns back toward Illya, closing the distance between them in a few steps, though he stops short of actually reaching out for him. “I understand why you wrote them, and I understand why you didn’t want anyone else to see them. But you don’t have to— to be embarrassed or ashamed or whatever you think you should be. I didn’t understand everything in them, but they’re still the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. And that you wrote them about me, it’s…”

“Too much?” Illya finishes, letting a wry smirk tip onto his lips.

“Never,” Napoleon insists, grabbing his arms and squeezing hard, as if the pressure will emphasize the sincerity of his answer. “Illya, what you wrote… I want to be the man who is worthy of that love, and I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life trying to prove that I am.”

Illya has no words suitable to respond to that kind of declaration. He hadn’t wanted Napoleon to read the letters because the emotion in them is too raw and unfiltered, the kind of stupidly intense feelings that should make most people want to run away and never look back. For him to say instead that he wants to be worthy of those feelings is entirely overwhelming. As if Napoleon could be anything but. Illya unfolds his arms and slides them around Napoleon’s waist, pulling him into a kiss that he hopes will convey what words cannot. 

“And that is why I can’t let you do this, Illya,” Napoleon sighs when they part again. “You promised me you wouldn’t. Do you remember? That last night in California?”

“Of course I remember.”

“You promised you would never hold yourself back.”

“I promised that I would always play the game I wanted to play, Napoleon,” Illya corrects. “And this is the game I want to play.”

A look of frustration contorts Napoleon’s face and he closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before he looks up into Illya’s eyes again. “Then… do it for me. Do it because I need this. I need to know that if they call me the World Champion, it’s not because you threw our final game. You have to understand what it means to me.”

“I do understand.” Of course he understands. How could he not?

“So you’ll do your damnedest to win? Fight like the entire championship depends on it?” Napoleon pleads.

“That’s because it does,” Illya answers dryly. He holds Napoleon’s gaze for a few long seconds, then sighs. “Fine, I will fight you. But you might regret asking,” he adds, letting a tiny smile quirk up the corners of his mouth.

Napoleon breaks into a grin so wide that one would think Illya had just guaranteed he would win, rather the opposite. “I won’t,” he promises. “I could never regret anything about this, no matter what the outcome.”

“Me neither, Cowboy,” Illya replies, and he knows with a complete and unwavering certainty that they are both speaking the truth.

Game 24: Kuryakin–Solo, ?–? (Sicilian Taimanov)
Final Score: ???

Chapter Text

The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, September 1969
New York, USA
(Transcript)

CARSON: I’m sure the entire world knows the name of Napoleon Solo by now after his remarkable performance in the recent World Chess Championship. You know, you read a lot of articles about Solo saying he’s ostentatious and a bit of a prima donna, but really, he only demanded to be in hair and makeup six hours before our show.

(audience laughter)

CARSON: Which is hardly anything compared to those Hollywood types. Would you welcome, please, Napoleon Solo!

(audience clapping and cheering; Solo smiles and waves as he walks on set and takes a seat next to Johnny’s desk)

CARSON: It is so nice to have you on the show, you’ve been really getting around in the press lately. I saw you on Bob Hope’s show the other night.

SOLO: Yes, it’s pretty overwhelming to be honest with you. I never expected this kind of attention.

CARSON: You’re telling me you didn’t used to have throngs of adoring fans following you wherever you go?

SOLO: (laughs) No, I’m afraid not, Johnny.

CARSON: Well if that’s true when you look like that, what hope do the rest of us have?

(audience laughter)

CARSON: Now look, you just did what no American—scratch that, what no one—has done in the last two decades, which is to hold your own against the Soviets at what has been their game. You were the first non-Soviet to compete in a final World Chess Championship match in that time, and what’s more you played the former champion, Illya Kuryakin, to a tie.

SOLO: Well he is still the champion, actually, because the rules say that if the match ends in a tie then he keeps the title.

CARSON: And here I thought the Soviets were all about sharing.

(uproarious audience laughter)

CARSON: But it’s not just about the championship matches, last year you went on a 20 game winning streak, which was the longest streak in professional chess in a hundred years.

SOLO: 93 years, in fact.

CARSON: Now, see, I would like to know where these rumors came from that you’re not modest, because all you’ve done tonight is correct me from overstating your accomplishments.

(audience chuckling; Solo laughs and shakes his head, flushing slightly)

SOLO: I think it comes from getting all this attention when you’ve lost the biggest match of your life. Now, if I had won…

(audience laughter)

CARSON: Come now, you know the American people are never going to accept that you lost. A tie game is not a loss.

SOLO: I appreciate that, Johnny.

CARSON: Those championship games, by the way, were thrilling, even if I didn’t understand half of what was going on in them. I never would have thought it, but watching the games, it’s like watching a sports match. What’s it like actually playing them?

SOLO: Well, as I’m sure you can imagine it’s really mentally demanding. You’re always trying to think five, ten moves ahead, guessing what your opponent will do and making a plan based on that. But the really interesting part is when someone does something unexpected. A lot of people think playing competitive chess is about memorizing all the same openings—the pattern of movements that have been tried and tested over the years—but it’s so much more than that.

CARSON: That’s what you’re known for, as I understand it: doing the unexpected.

SOLO: Yeah, I guess so. It’s really about being creative. I don’t have the same background as a lot of players, so I think that’s part of why I try moves that a lot of others don’t.

CARSON: You’ve said before that you came to the game late, relatively speaking.

SOLO: Right, I didn’t learn until I was about twelve. Whereas, most of these guys, the Soviets, they learn almost before they can talk.

CARSON: It obviously hasn’t hurt your game.

SOLO: Who knows, maybe I’d be the champion now, if I had.

(audience laughter)

CARSON: So what you’re saying is that there’s still a chance for me.

SOLO: Look, I firmly believe that there’s no such thing as too old for chess. Some of these grandmasters, the former champions, they’re still going. They’re still playing and winning. And anyone can play, can do well, you don’t have to be a genius. I mean, look at me. I was always a troublemaker, never did all that well in school, but then I found chess, and it just clicked.

CARSON: You’ve played against Illya Kuryakin in tournaments quite a few times by now. Was it different this time, in the championship?

SOLO: Well, yeah, there’s a lot more pressure, of course, and playing that many games in a row against a single player is unusual. Typically I might play him twice in a single tournament, and that’s it. But 24 games, it’s a lot.

CARSON: Do you kinda just get sick of looking at his face, after all that time?

SOLO: (slightly awkward chuckle) Oh, ah, well, I’m mostly looking down at the chess board, so…

CARSON: Now, you’re going to get another shot, right? A rematch at some point?

SOLO: The next championship matches will be played in three years, but I don’t have an automatic bid to the final. I still have to play the tournament before that.

CARSON: The one where you demolished two opponents, 6–0, this time around?

SOLO: Yeah, that’s the one.

CARSON: I think you’ll be fine.

(audience laughter and cheering)

CARSON: How do you keep on track during that time, do you keep on training? I mean, that may sound like a dumb, naïve question, but well, a fighter has to, you know, work out and keep himself in shape, how do you keep in shape? And who can you play that’s going to give you any kind of competition to keep you sharp? I mean, besides Kuryakin, I suppose, but I doubt you’ll be playing him.

SOLO: (short laugh) Right, yeah. Well, there are hundreds of magazines and books coming out every month with chess games in them, so there’s a tremendous amount of literature to study, which is part of how I keep up. And my good friend Gaby Teller, who was my second in Reykjavík, we play a lot. She’s a brilliant player, really keeps me on my toes.

CARSON: Lucky that you have someone like that. How long have you two been playing together?

SOLO: About six years, now. We met at one of the chess clubs in the city and really hit it off.

CARSON: And your relationship doesn’t go beyond the chess board?

SOLO: (laughs) We’re very good friends, but that’s it.

CARSON: ‘Cause I’ve heard you’ve gotten more than a few marriage proposals recently.

(someone in the audience wolf-whistles)

SOLO: (laughing again) It’s true, from all over. I got one from Australia the other day. It’s a little overwhelming. I don’t know how they get my address.

CARSON: So are you on the market, then? Considering any of them?

SOLO: I’m afraid not. I’m very taken, Johnny.

(loud ‘awwwww’s from the audience)

CARSON: And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sound of millions of hearts breaking all over the globe. Let’s take a break, and we’ll talk some more when we come back.

San Juan International Tournament, October 1969
San Juan, Puerto Rico

It feels wrong, being here without Napoleon. It’s not that he hasn’t competed in plenty of tournaments without him since they became friends, and then more, but the majority of those took place in the Soviet Union. Napoleon is the one who has had to deal with him not being present at the major internationals in the last couple of years, and this tournament is rapidly giving Illya a new appreciation for what he’s been through. He doesn’t exactly have a bad time, per se—not like Palma in ‘66, but then nothing was like Palma—just not as fulfilling or enjoyable.

Of course, part of that could be the tension that has wound its way through every vertebra of his spine, holding him in a state constant alertness and agitation that he has to spend an inordinate amount of time trying not to let be noticeable. He is counting the days until the tournament is over, and every one of them brings with it a previously-unimaginable new level of anxiety. Wait until the end, Napoleon had said. You might as well compete if you’re there. A nice idea, until one has to concentrate on chess matches instead of the plans for one’s impending defection.

They had decided it would be better if Napoleon didn’t attend the tournament, despite it being nearly in his back yard. One less moving part to deal with, and after Oleg’s spiraling paranoia and intense scrutiny, one less reason for him to be watching Illya all the time. It was also probably worth it to avoid the attention that Napoleon was still garnering; turns out managing a tied final score in the World Chess Championship was enough for the American media to declare something of a victory. The title was almost immaterial, in the end, at least to the general public. (Illya knows, no matter what he might say, that it means something to Napoleon, but that is a conversation for another day.)

Illya isn’t sure how he holds it together until the last day of the tournament, but he manages it, he thinks, without anyone being the wiser. He plays his final game against Jensen and loses, just as Kozlov is winning his final game against Lopez. It puts the two Russians in a tie and makes them co-champions, which is fortunate in a way. A decent amount of the attention he might have had to deflect is fixed firmly on Kozlov after the matches end and everyone is milling about the ballroom before the closing ceremony. He and Kozlov will be expected to check in with the KGB before then, so Illya only has a narrow window in which to make his move.

Finally he manages to slip out into the hallway, which is nearly deserted at this point. If he’s lucky, it will stay that way. He doesn’t have time to go back up to his room to get anything, nor is it worth the risk of being caught there. The clothes and travel chess set he brought with him will have to be a loss, but it won’t matter. Nothing matters except getting out. He makes it nearly to the service door he’d planned as his exit route before he hears someone else approaching from one of the intersecting hallways, but unfortunately he’s not quite close enough. Even less fortunately, the person who appears at the other end of the corridor isn’t a random player who he doesn’t really know.

“Hey Kuryakin, where are you going?” Kozlov calls down the hall, tilting his head at him in confusion. “We need to report in before the ceremony or they’ll come looking for us.”

Illya freezes, every muscle in his body wound tight and ready to snap. “I…” he says, casting about for some excuse and finding nothing suitable, “…can’t. I’m— not. Going. Not tonight. Not— ever.”

The realization of what Illya intends to do dawns slowly over Kozlov’s face, a stark expression of shock and disbelief. Probably Illya shouldn’t have said that. What if Kozlov goes to the KGB and tells them everything? What if they intercept him before he makes it to the station? But he has so few friends, and he always counted Kozlov among them. It feels like he owes the man at least the truth. Kozlov slowly walks toward him, one cautious step at a time, as if he’s afraid Illya will bolt at any moment. It’s probably not an unreasonable assumption.

“What about…” Kozlov starts, but trails off without finishing the sentence. Illya just shakes his head, which is answer enough for whatever he might have been asking. Kozlov looks him up and down like he’s seeing Illya for the first time. Or maybe the last. “I never thought it would be you,” he says quietly.

Illya doesn’t know what to say to that. He never thought it would be him, either, but here he is. He stares down at the floor, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually, not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. For the hell that will be unleashed when they discover he’s gone. For leaving friends behind. For betraying his people. All of it, and none of it.

Whatever else might pass between them is interrupted by the sound of voices approaching the corridor where they’re standing. Russian voices. The KGB, come to look for them, as Kozlov had predicted. A spike of fear shoots through Illya, and he startles, stumbling backwards.

“I have to go,” he manages.

Now is the moment of truth, when Kozlov will either let him go or turn him in. He blinks, then gives a sharp nod and steps forward to squeeze Illya’s shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

Illya flees through the service door, which he knows will put him into the bowels of the hotel and eventually out onto a street that the KGB hopefully won’t be watching. Just before it closes behind him, though, he pauses.

“Kuryakin? No, I haven’t seen him since the game ended,” he hears Kozlov tell them. “Think he wanted to go back to his room before the ceremony.” Now he owes Kozlov so much more than the truth; he owes him everything. Illya prays to someone that none of this will blow back on him.

None of the hotel employees spare him much of a glance as he steals through the kitchens and the laundry rooms. He pauses only to swipe a leather bomber jacket and a hat from a rack, shrugging on the extra layer despite the warmth of the Caribbean autumn and tugging the flat tweed cap low over his eyes. The back door dumps him out into a grimy, deserted alley behind the hotel, and he heads immediately to the main street to catch a cab.

He’s so close, close enough to taste freedom, but when he peeks out of the alley he sees one of the KGB agents standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, questioning a busker. Looking for him, undoubtedly. Illya turns away from him as the agent looks up, glancing down the street, and forces himself to walk calmly in the opposite direction. Whether or not he is followed, he doesn’t know; the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears is deafening, and he doesn’t dare glance over his shoulder. He hunches over, shoving his fists in his pockets, and his hand brushes against the gold ring that lies within. Forcing his fingers to unclench, he hooks the ring onto his pinky and twists it around the digit to rub his thumb across the flat, engraved face of it.

“Take it,” Napoleon had said as he pressed the signet ring into Illya’s palm on the night of the final adjournment. “Take it and bring it back to me.”

“Cowboy, I can’t—”

“Don’t try that with me. Consider it collateral, for your father’s chess set.”

“I don’t need collateral,” Illya had huffed.

“Then take it as a good luck charm,” Napoleon had pleaded. “Take it because I need some small part of me to be with you in Puerto Rico, even I can’t be there in person. Take it because then you have to get out so you can return it to me.”

“I have more important reasons for getting out.”

“Well, now you have one more.”

The ring slips fully onto his finger, and he leaves it there. Maybe it’s not the best idea to be wearing it, but he doesn’t care. The warm weight of the gold calms him, bleeds away some of the tension so that he can keep going until he finds a cabbie reading a newspaper as he leans against the hood of his car.

“I need to go to the police. The biggest station,” Illya tells him, hoping the man speaks English.

The cabbie gives him a confused look, but that appears to be more on Illya's choice of destination than his words because he gives a nod before he closes his newspaper and walks to the driver’s side. Illya hazards a glance behind him as he slips into the back of the car and, amazingly, finds the street clear. He slouches down in the seat anyway; he’s not out yet.

There’s an American flag hanging on the pole outside the police station, and the sight of it is a little surreal. What he is about to do will change everything, forever, and there is no going back. It is both terrifying and not, because at the other end of all of this is Napoleon. Nothing else matters. He takes a deep breath, his thumb absently rubbing over the ring again, then pushes the doors open and walks purposefully up to the front desk.

“My name is Illya Kuryakin,” he says in a surprisingly steady voice, “and I am here to request political asylum.”

When he steps off the plane at John F. Kennedy International Airport, Napoleon is waiting for him with the biggest grin on his face that Illya has ever seen.

What is also waiting for him is a massive crowd of press. Their presence isn’t exactly a surprise; it was inevitable that someone along the way would leak the news of his defection, and probably a good thing besides. The more public the whole thing is, the less chance the USSR has to try to make Illya disappear. The story, coming so hot on the heels of the national fascination with the World Chess Championship, will dominate the news cycle: the champion who narrowly held onto his title becomes the first Soviet grandmaster to defect, leaving the USSR for the very country he fought so fiercely against mere months before. Of course, most people won’t understand that Illya was never fighting against the USA or against Napoleon, but rather just trying to be the best version of himself, trying to play the best version of a game he loves.

There will be talk—on late night shows, on news programs, and in (nearly) every chess club in the country—about the revelation of his secret friendship with Napoleon Solo, and speculation as to whether the championship matches had been fixed (though no one can explain why they would fix them like that), but those rumors will eventually die off as their games are extensively analyzed by prominent grandmasters and chess theoreticians around the world. The Soviet news agency TASS will do their best to demonize Illya, painting him as an ungrateful, vain, difficult, and unstable player and suggesting that his successes were not earned or deserved. They will dig out the story of his father again to drag through the mud, but thankfully most of the American media won’t care about a disgraced Soviet diplomat. For the next couple of weeks, Illya will rarely venture beyond Napoleon’s—no, their—apartment or Gaby’s club, until the last of the news has moved on to covering the atrocities of the Vietnam War and the launch of the Apollo 12 mission and the Mets winning the World Series, and the most Illya will have to deal with is endless requests for interviews and articles from Chess Life magazine.

That is all to come, though. In this moment, he does his best to ignore the commotion around him and walks over to where Napoleon stands just inside the rickety barricades that hold the press at bay. Illya wants desperately to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and kiss him deeply, but although there are plenty of things that they no longer have to hide, that is certainly not one of them. Instead he sticks out his hand, which Napoleon takes… and uses to tug him into bone-crushing hug. Illya stiffens immediately in surprise as what seems like a thousand camera flashes all fire at once and the calls from reporters for comment reach a near-deafening pitch.

Napoleon doesn’t let go, though, and it takes Illya a moment to realize he’s murmuring something into his ear, over and over, like a litany: “You’re safe now, you’re here, you’re safe.”

Illya melts into the embrace, then, screw the press and whatever they might see on the part of his face that isn’t buried in Napoleon’s shoulder. The reality of where he is and what he has done hits him like a freight train, like a tsunami of relief smashing into him and then draining so rapidly away that he’s sure he would collapse if Napoleon wasn’t holding him up.

“Let’s go home,” Napoleon whispers, and it is all Illya can do to nod his head and let himself be led out of the airport and bundled into a taxi.

Home. The word rings in his head, unreal and impossible and wonderful all at once. He has lost so much in the past year and a half, his country and the comfortable life he used to lead and his mother, most of all. There is a constant ache inside him, a hole that will never be truly filled, nor could it be, but there is also something new: a joy that shines into the empty spaces he had not even realized were there, the warmth of contentment that suffuses through into his bones and hums the truth that of that word so that it vibrates to his very core.

He is home.

Epilogue
New York, USA, August 1970

Napoleon’s pen pauses mid-stroke as the front door of The Queen’s Pawn jingles softly with the sound of someone returning. Probably too soon to be Gaby, though she did just pop down to the corner liquor store for restocking, so it’s possible. He waits another moment, and then:

“Cowboy?”

The smile that immediately curls his lips is no less sincere for being reflexive. He sits back in his chair, stretching to peek out of the door to the cramped back office where he’s currently holed up. He’s been running the club’s monthly financials, which is how Gaby insists he earn his keep, or at least his liquor. She’ll fix near anything that might call for repairs, but ask her to balance the books and she pales at the notion.

“In the back,” he calls, then he caps his pen and leaves the books behind to go greet Illya in the club’s main room. “How were the kids?”

“Troublesome as usual,” Illya replies, but he’s smiling, so they must have only been the milder sort of troublesome.

The furor surrounding the championship and Illya’s subsequent defection had inspired quite the uptick of interest in chess, and before long Illya had been sought out by several ritzy grade schools the city to train their students in ‘the Russian way.’ Illya was fond of pointing out that they certainly did not know what they were truly asking for, but he took the jobs nonetheless. After his first sessions he’d returned to Napoleon horrified by the wealth that had been so casually displayed and, after a long rant about how chess was for everyone and not merely a pastime for the rich, immediately begun recruiting promising students from the poorer schools in the area to join an after-school club he ran on a volunteer basis. Over the summer he mostly only sees the students who are very driven, which is probably why they weren’t so bad today.

“Assign them some games to work on while we’re away for the Olympiad?”

“Yes,” Illya confirms as he flips through the pile of mail he’d brought in with him. He shoots a smirk up at Napoleon. “Told them to try to figure out what you did in game 18.”

“Oh well, that’s just mean,” Napoleon laughs. “Even I don’t fully know what happened in that game.”

Illya snorts softly. “You and me both, Cowboy.”

Napoleon wraps his arms around Illya’s waist and presses up against his side, peering down at the mail that he has spread out on the bar. There’s a large envelope, magazine-sized, perhaps, addressed to Illya. He gets his mail sent to the club because even though the ‘official’ public story is that they are best friends, and there is no reason why friends cannot live together, he is still skittish about them having the same address. Perhaps it’s just that he moved into Napoleon’s apartment; Napoleon has thought about suggesting they get a bigger, nicer place, somewhere with enough bedrooms that they could invite people over and pretend that they use more than one of them.

Grabbing the large envelope, Illya rips it open, and even before he pulls out the contents Napoleon gets a glimpse the telltale red border. “Must be advanced copy,” Illya mutters, then slides the magazine out onto the bar.

“Is one of us supposed to be Robin in this scenario?” Napoleon asks, frowning at the headline. Illya just stares at him, uncomprehending. “You know, Batman and Robin? The Dynamic Duo?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

“Ah well. We’ll have to catch a rerun sometime. You must experience the absurdity that is Adam West and Burt Ward at least once.”

Illya’s expression is decidedly bemused, but he shrugs good-naturedly. “Whatever you say, Cowboy.”

“That beard really did look good on you, Peril,” Napoleon says, turning his attention back to the magazine. They’re both clean-shaven now, mostly in deference to the sweltering New York summer, but the photo shoot had happened months ago when they’d sported full beards. Growing them had turned into a competition, of course, and Gaby had given them hell, saying they looked like a pair of lumberjacks and that she wasn’t sure if she could allow that kind of aesthetic in her club.

Illya hums and flips open the magazine to the article, the first interview they’d given to the major national press. Illya had still been reluctant, but Napoleon had seen it as an opportunity to exert some more control over the story painted about the two of them for the general public. Something to offer an explanation for their apparent closeness as merely that of good friends who live and work together. The photographer had come to the club and taken a bunch of shots of them playing along with a few moody portraits under the club’s low lights, several of which are scattered throughout the piece. Napoleon would not say they look like they are in love, per se, although maybe if you already knew… but then, so few people do.

The magazine ends up lying open to the two-page spread at the beginning of the article that features a photo of the two of them bent over a chess board. Napoleon is grinning broadly and Illya is wearing his typical tiny smile as he moves a bishop, and if any of the photos in the piece captures their true relationship, it is this one. The biggest one. Still, Napoleon doubts anyone will actually interpret it correctly. Apparently Illya’s thoughts are running in a similar direction as he stares down at the photo, one hand brushing lightly over the surface.

“Do you think anyone will ever know the truth?” he asks quietly. Napoleon can tell it isn’t a question borne of fear of discovery, though, but of a longing to do away with the last of the lies and secrets. 

“You mean, do I think the world will ever be ready for a pair of old, married chess grandmasters?”

Illya’s head jerks up, though Napoleon is too fixated on the photo to see the surprise on his face or hear the tremor in his voice. “Married?”

“Assuming such a thing would ever become legal, of course,” Napoleon says with a shrug.

It’s only then that he looks up and sees the effect that his words have had. He hadn’t really been thinking; rather, it’s something he’s thought about a lot, but never out loud. What would be the point? Like he’d told Gaby once, marriage was never something that was in the cards for him. And anyway, he didn’t think Illya really cared too much about the idea or the institution. Clearly, that assumption was mistaken. Illya is staring at him, all wide eyes that say he’s not sure he’s allowed to hope for this, and when he speaks his voice is just as hesitant.

“You would marry me?”

“Of course I would, Peril,” Napoleon answers, honestly and openly, and suddenly his arms are quite full of a very affectionate Russian. Illya kisses him breathless, like a drowning man drawing his air from Napoleon’s lungs, and when he pulls back again the joy in his face makes Napoleon’s heart feel like it’s going to crack in two from the sheer emotion of it. He tries a lopsided smile, hoping desperately that his next words will be steady. “Er, I suppose that means you would marry me, too?”

“Yes, you ridiculous man,” Illya huffs, laughing at him, and Napoleon feels his own eyes stinging with unshed tears that match those shining in brilliant blue ones.

It is like this that Gaby finds them only moments later, juggling several bottles of liquor as she pushes through the front door of the club. She’d started saying something when she came in—god knows what, Napoleon certainly wasn’t listening—but her voice dies quickly when she sees them. 

“What just happened?” she demands, staring at them with no small amount of confusion written on her face.

Napoleon manages to find his voice first. “I— I think we just got engaged.”

“What?!” she yelps. “I’m gone for five minutes— and what do you mean you think?”

“Cowboy accidentally proposed,” Illya answers, smirking, apparently recovered enough now to tease him, the bastard.

Gaby blinks at them. “How—?! You know what, never mind. It makes perfect sense. I suppose you’d like me to go dig a bottle of champagne out of the cooler, then?”

“Oh, would you?” Napoleon grins, which earns him an exasperated sigh that is nonetheless practically dripping with fondness.

“I will help you with the glasses,” Illya volunteers as he disentangles himself from Napoleon’s arms, giving them a both a moment to collect themselves. 

Napoleon watches as they disappear into the back of the club, Gaby insisting that Illya tell her exactly how this happened, and lets their voices fade into the background of his thoughts. The whole thing is unbelievable and a rush of practicalities threaten to overwhelm him—does this change anything, really, considering they can’t actually get married? should they get rings? or would that be too obvious? he kind of wants to wear a ring, but what would he tell people? maybe a matching watches instead?—but he forces all of it out of his mind right now. The only thing that matters is that Illya wants to spend the rest of his life with him.

Napoleon looks down at the photo of them and, in that moment, he knows with complete certainty that one day everyone will know the truth. One day they will tell the story of their partnership, of the Championship, and of everything that came before and after, whether the world is ready for it or not.