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In truth, Illya hadn’t thought it would be this easy. It had felt like something bigger, more dangerous. As if it would score his throat with a telltale sign, words like needles. He’d thought it would seem bigger somehow. Like an earthquake, leaving aftershocks shuddering through the ground under his feet.
But the truth is remarkably easy, as long as he doesn’t think too hard about it. He hadn’t known that all he would have to do is open his mouth and say, quietly in the close air of the kitchen, “I am in love with you.”
It shouldn’t roll off his tongue so easily, like burnt sugar and honey. Like the sharp bite of Solo’s scotch and the woodsmoke of his cologne. It shouldn’t feel like a truth, like something he can’t fight. It shouldn’t be real. It shouldn’t have happened… it’s only been a few months-
It shouldn’t feel like anything other than treason.
Silence. Illya stands there, laid bare to Solo’s inspection, the sunset’s glow casting shimmers from the stained glass onto the kitchen walls. They ripple, like an arcane sea. A moment out of time, words that suddenly turn to ash on his tongue.
Bozhe moi, what had he been thinking?
Illya feels the panic starting to creep in as the quiet remains. The realization that he has given Solo something that could be used to destroy him. To grind him into the dirt under the heel of scorn. Of ridicule. Something that could get him killed if the wrong people heard.
If his motherland heard. If she knew…
“How long?” says Solo at last. And Illya can’t breathe, because this isn’t easy for him either. His whole world is crashing down around him, everything he thought he knew… thought he had killed off all those years ago. And Solo still isn’t looking at him.
Der’mo, he really has done it now, hasn’t he?
“I don’t know.” It sounds like a lie. Hoarse and jagged at the edges.
Solo’s shoulders move as he drags in a breath, tense like a bowstring. “Does Gaby know?”
“Da.” It comes out small, soft. Illya has never been a lover of weakness, whether in himself or others. Weakness is like a weed, like cancer. It grows and digs its thorns deep into flesh. Breeds cowardice. Wrests control.
Solo finally turns, face an unreadable mask. His sapphire eyes are the color of the Turkish sea under the sunlight, the brown fleck in the left like an island. He flicks his gaze over the Russian, mouth a hard line. “What did she say?”
“She…” Illya swallows, ducks his head.
Love isn’t something we can control, liebling, Gaby had murmured, the night quiet around them, the springs of Illya’s bed creaking, and he had known that she was a rarity amongst many. She’d been tracing patterns over his bare chest. Had ducked to press a kiss to one of his silvery scars. Just… if you and Solo want this, you know it won’t be easy?
And yebat’ he knows. He knows of all the secrecy that will follow. Of a love scorned, shunned by the world. An act his country would hate him for. Something he wants to hate himself for.
Solo hums, tucks his hands into his pockets. He looks so different like this, hair loose and curly, apron smudged with flour. He looks… more approachable, for one thing. Instead of his suits and pomade, worn like armor, blocking those who dare try and get close.
Illya rocks on his heels, ignores how the silence makes his skin itch. And somewhere, deep down, he knows. He knowsthat Solo won’t feel the same way. After all, the man is always flirting with women, flashing that smile. Whereas he’s different with Illya and Gaby. Casual, as if he finally trusts them enough to let his guard down. As if they’re friends. Maybe even family.
And Illya doesn’t want to lose that.
Perhaps he already has.
“So why now?” asks Solo, crossing his arms across his chest. And… Illya might be reading into it a little too much, but it looks defensive instead of irritated. As if he’s just as scared as Illya. Just as worried about the future after this outburst.
“Honesty,” says the Russian. His shoulders roll in a shrug, mouth dry. “I… I trust you. And Gaby. I could not lie to myself anymore. To either of you.”
That, somehow, after years of obedience, strength and pain, he’s found the two people he wants to fight for.
Solo nods.
It’s starting to make Illya uneasy, the flat look. And then, shockingly, it breaks, and Solo suddenly looks so tired that Illya wants to go to him. To help him. In any way he is able. He’s frozen to the spot before he can when the American says, “We can’t.”
What?
Illya can’t help but stare, confused. “Cowboy?”
Solo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters. Then drags in a breath and says, “We can’t. It would put you in danger, and I’m not…”
Not what? Illya wants to ask. Not safe? Not worth it?
And then he realizes what Solo is saying. That he wants it too.
Solo smiles, but it’s crooked in all the wrong ways, a cracked kind of emotion lurking behind the curve. “I’m sorry, Peril.”
“Solo-“
“Illya, I can’t!” This time there is anger, and the Russian flinches back, even though it’s not aimed at him. His name on the American’s tongue is like gunfire and glory, sharp and cutting, slicing him open. Solo’s hands have dropped to his side, fisted, trembling. “I can’t,” he says for the third time, softer. “Sanders… if he found out… he’d use you to hurt me. Again. And that’s only if he doesn’t throw me back into prison for it.”
Self-preservation, thinks Illya dizzily. It’s straight reasoning, but why does it then have to hurt so much? He never meant to fall for Solo. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. That the American was a magnet, growing in strength the closer and closer the Russian drifted to him. That Solo and Gaby are the sun, and he’s revolving around them.
“Let’s…” Solo looks a little lost, but when Illya lifts a hand, he steps back, away, and that is like a punch to the gut. The mask is back. Cool. Calm. Polite. And it is killing him, slowly. “Let’s just finish this mission, and then… then we’ll see.”
“Are we…” Illya swallows, throat like sandpaper, he can hear it rasp in his ears. Fear is choking him, because he has not realized just how much he has grown to care for his partners in such a short span of time. He doesn’t want to lose them. Not because he couldn’t just keep his worthless feelings to himself. “Are we still friends?”
Solo doesn’t answer right away, and Illya’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.
He’ll stay, Gaby had said that night. Firm, as if she really had believed. He’ll stay. He won’t run.
He will, Illya had murmured in reply, sick at the thought. He was the one compromising the mission for the rotting emotions growing up in his heart like weeds. Weakness had let them in, he knows. He will run.
Perhaps Solo had been right, that morning in Rome. Perhaps he really was going soft.
No, Gaby had said. And her eyes had been dark, like the night outside as she had leaned up to kiss him. He won’t.
Now, Illya waits, finger itching to start drumming against his thigh, like a metronome. He feels unstable, shaken. Because this isn’t how he had expected it to go. He should have known. He’s seen Solo’s skill at overlaying masks. Seen the way his handler had stood back while he was getting choked in that small green bathroom all those months ago. Seen the silvery scars on the American’s skin-
“I don’t know,” says Solo at last, and it comes out soft. Like an admission of guilt.
This, thinks Illya. This is where he runs. Ya gotov…
But Solo stays. He hesitates a moment longer, hands shaking by his sides, before he turns back to the kitchen counter, as if he’s dismissing Illya, broad shoulders tense once again. Silent.
He stays.
He doesn’t run.