Work Text:
Illya has never wanted to be more than a warrior.
He’s never longed for the rustle of silks, smooth on the skin, nor the awe in people’s eyes when they behold power. He has never wanted to be worshipped, nor made a martyr. And yes, people do fear him, but only those who find themselves opposite his blade. Only those who have reason to.
Problems are usually something he can solve with either a word or a weapon. They are something he can control. Has learned to control. Like his breathing, his skills. His body.
Usually, there’s no problem too serious.
Until now.
The problem is Lord Waverly’s Sand Sorcerer.
Napoleon Solo.
He’s beautiful, form accentuated by his fitted blue robes, so dark they are almost black. He is all velvet curls and ivory skin, wit sharp enough to slice.
And that devilish smile.
He moves like someone who is sure of their place in the world, who has had to fight for it and will not sit back and let it be taken away again.
The only strange thing about him, is what his kind call slasîl rūwh- The golden chains that run from the ring in his nose outward, to the hoops in his ears before coming down to loop in gleaming bands around his neck.
Gold for commoners. Silver for royals and the nobility. Bronze for warriors.
Illya has always considered it to look uncomfortable, but Solo bears it well enough. Besides, at least he is not a married man. Then there would be two sets of chains.
Even Solo admits that Sand Sorcerers have strange traditions, which makes Illya wonder if Solo just wears it for appearances’ sake. He knows they are only permitted to take the chains off when alone in private, but he’s not sure what they mean, nor why they wear them.
Perhaps he needs to ask Solo for the particulars.
... perhaps he needs to ask Solo a lot of things.
They’ve both been at Waverly’s court for six years, and he knows so little about the Sorcerer that it might as well be six days.
And then there’s the other, bigger, problem.
The fact that Illya has been in love with him for five of those six years.
“It’s a matter of principle,” says Solo, as he and Illya stroll through the gardens of Waverly’s estate. He sounds almost sarcastic. Wry. He had been only to happy to broaden Illya’s knowledge, despite being so sarcastic of his fellow Sorcerers. “We’re supposed to be an example to the world: standing for power and virtue, that kind of nonsence... I’m not sure what our dress code has to do with that. Some old bastard probably just liked the look of it.”
Illya can’t help a short laugh, enjoying the scent of the mist-roses on the cool evening air. They are far enough from the desert that they still have autumn and winter, even if the seasons in question are shorter than they would be elsewhere. “You sound more like a rebel than a Sorcerer, Cowboy.”
Solo grins, dangerous. “Perhaps I can be both.”
Illya allows that yes, he could. The fountain showers them both with a fine spray as they round it to reach the bench bu the lilac beds. Solo flops down with a groan, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“You cannot still be tired from the meeting,” says Illya, amused despite himself. It’s not really a light matter- the Lord and Lady of the nearby fiefdom seem to have a bone to pick with Waverly. Nothing that appears outright malicious- the older man is too close to the emperor for that. But enough that Illya is bound with a constant hum of unease.
“Fucking Vinceguerra,” mutters Solo, reaching up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He and his wife give me a headache.”
Illya gazes across the garden and the perfectly trimmed hedges. “Do you think they will attack?”
“No.” Solo lolls his head to the side, eyes open again and now watching Illya with a lazy gaze that makes his skin feel far too warm. The impulses he gets when he’s near Solo are... inconvenient. He aches to kiss the Sorcerer, for one. Has for years. “They might be cruel, but neither of them are stupid.”
Illya hums, aware that his neck might be redder than normal. He curses his body for it’s ability to blush and then sighs. “Da, you are probably right.”
“As usual,” teases Solo, before he sobers again, brow slightly furrowed. “They won’t risk war, not with the emperor on Waverly’s side. But whatever evil they do choose, it will be vile enough.”
Illya winces. That was what he had been afraid of.
And then his thought process derails in a split second, because Solo shifts closer and lets his head fall against Illya’s shoulder. The pressure is warm, achingly so, and Illya freezes, unsure of what to do.
But Solo doesn’t pull away, so the warrior cautiously drapes an arm about the other man’s shoulder.
They stay like that, as the sun dies and the heavens above bleed into a deep velvet blue, scattered with diamonds. The wind hisses, biting with a thousand little teeth, and Solo shivers against Illya’s side.
The warrior shakes himself, surprised to find that he had been dozing off. The heat of the man pressed against him is more effective than any herbal concoction he had ever taken, with the added pleasure of not tasting foul.
“Come,” says Illya, easing himself to his feet. Something cracks in his hip and he blows out a breath at the discomfort. Perhaps he should ask Waverly to furnish the bench with cushions... “It is getting too cold out here.”
“Amen to that.” Solo scrambles up, rubbing briskly at his arms. The chill has laced his cheeks with a faint tinge of pink, like a newborn wildflower. Illya swallows, unable to look away from this man who burns so brightly in his world that he might as well be the sun.
And then, because he is tired of hiding how he feels, he offers his arm.
A question.
He’s not sure if Sand Sorcerers lead or if they follow when escorting is involved... and wonders, distantly, if he has perhaps insulted the other man.
But Solo just smiles in answer, golden chains glinting in the light of the moon, and links his arm with Illya’s.
They leave the garden together.
“It’s about time,” says Waverly one night in the close air of his study, kindly face amused. “You two have been dancing around each other long enough.”
“Sir?” Illya had always thought he had hidden it. Clearly he was not as discreet in his longing as he had hoped. “You say that as if you saw it coming.”
“The whole estate saw it coming, Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly smiles, eyes twinkling. “Besides, I’ve been young. I know what pining looks like.”
Illya flushes a dark red and drops his gaze.
Oh.
He finally kisses Solo, after the Vinceguerras have been put back in their place.
The Sand Sorcerer had been the first casualty of the attempt at a silent takeover, stolen away by Victoria’s own mage, a man with eyes so dark that Illya can still feel them like spiders on his skin. It had been a good move on their part- remove Waverly’s magical aid, and then use their own to topple what was left.
They had underestimated Illya’s loyalty.
More fool them.
Solo is shaking with leftover electrical energy, his fingers like ice where they should be warm, and Illya frames his beautiful face with his calloused hands, the golden chains cold under his palms, and Solo tastes like...
He tastes like cloves and spice and something else, something warm and honeyed, and Illya never wants to let him go.
Solo seems to have the same thought, fingers twisted in the fabric of Illya’s shirt, pale and unwilling to move. Perhaps it is because they are still in the chamber where he had been tortured. Perhaps it’s something else.
“Illya,” he breathes, and he has eyes only for the warrior, those fathomless blue sapphires. Illya wants to drown in them. “How long?”
He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Illya swallows, and then says, voice hoarse, “Since the day you arrived.”
And Solo’s face splits into a smile brighter than the sun. Small blue sparks crackle at his fingers, his magic slowly returning, and he laughs a sound of relief, “Me too.”
This time, the kiss is chaste, sweet. It lingers like the taste of sugar on one’s lips, addictive and warm. Solo hums, pleasure a cadence to the tone, before he murmurs,
“Does this mean you’re going to court me properly?”
“Da,” says Illya, feeling raw and so very alive. “If you will have me.”
“I don’t see why not.” The mischief is back in the Sorcerer’s eyes, a little grin crooking the corner if his lips. “Right now, though, I think we best get back to Waverly and tell him it’s over, don’t you agree?”
Illya rolls his eyes, but inwardly, he is smiling. Solo is right, they should.
They will have time, later.
All the time in the world.