Archive of Our Own

- 1 -

His father has been gone for a month. A whole month. A month has never been so long, so miserable, so terrible before. Illya thought waiting for his birthday or their yearly drives to the mountains was long, but this is far, far worse and infinitely more unbearable.

His racing feet carry him through the endless forest surrounding his house. He loses himself to the sea of trees, running for his life so that he might escape this terrible reality. Soft earth supports him as leaves and branches crack underfoot. He forces wiry bushes out of his way. Tears roll down his cheeks and flick off into the breeze, another remnant of the present Illya is happy to be rid of.

Birds chitter and sing above him, making conversation he doesn’t understand. They sound like gossiping schoolmates, just out of sight on their perches, sneering down at him. His best friend, Pavel, won’t even look at him anymore. His favorite teacher, Mrs. Kuzmin, has stopped ruffling his hair. He has to eat lunch alone because no one will sit with him. It’s miserable. The weight of his father’s mistake settles on his shoulders like an oversized coat he can’t claw his way out of. It took one day – one day – to ruin everything he's ever known.

His foot catches a gnarled root, and gravity drags Illya down to the forest floor with a violent thud. His small body continues tumbling, rolling down a small, root-marked hill before colliding into a bramble bush. The thorns scratch his face and hands, leaving stinging trails. Illya pulls himself loose, but something tugs at his sweater.

His eyes snap open, and he realizes the bush has hooked its thorns into his woolen sweater, his favorite sweater, the one Papa got for him not even a week before everything went terrible. Illya’s heart catches in his throat, and he tries to sit up and pull the brambles loose, but it only pulls the yarn loose in small loops.

Illya takes small, fast, gulping breaths as his shaking hands pry the thorns and branches free, but he’s only barely successful. The brambles scratch at his palms and wrists further, leaving behind small rivulets of blood that slide down his hand as he tries and tries to limit the damage done to his favorite sweater.

It feels pointless, though. He can’t fix any of the loose yarn, and worse, even when he tries to be slow and gentle, more just keeps unraveling. His favorite sweater is ruined, isn’t it? He’s ruining his sweater. He’s ruining Papa’s sweater. A hiccup catches in his throat, and his hands can’t stop shaking.

It takes so long, and he has to be more precise than he thought possible, but he’s finally free of that evil bramble bush. He slowly stands on unsure feet – but then he feels a tug at his back and hears the sound of a branch snapping. Illya’s head whips around and finds a long strand of unraveled yarn dangling from his sweater, and the end of a thorny branch hanging at the end, its gnarled claws firmly wrapped around his sweater.

He quickly wipes his bloody palms against his trousers and fights his sweater off to see the damage just done. It pops over his head, and the cold bite of autumn stings his skin, but he barely notices when his sweater is ruined. The pattern is warped, dotted with loops of unraveled yarn, and the back is a nightmare with that strand torn in two and pulled out several centimeters.

No, no, no. Papa’s sweater is ruined, and it’s all his fault. There’s no way it can be fixed. What would his father think? What will his mother say? A dam’s worth of tears blur his vision, and rapid breaths turn into small, hiccupping sobs. His knees can’t withstand the sudden wash of misery that overtakes him, and they buckle. He falls to the forest floor, shaking hands crumbling the sweater into a ball he holds tight to his chest, and something about the ground suddenly being so close spurns his sobbing to turn loud and violent, making his whole body shake from the weight of his pain.

The world collapses in around Illya, and finally, he collapses, too, curled up on his side in as tight a ball as he can manage. The birds mock him in their singsong tones, and he cries louder to drown out the noise, burying his face into his sweater. An unknowably deep sorrow blankets his being. There is only him, the forest, and the crushing weight of a reality he didn’t know could exist.

Some time later, the sobs trail off. His body stills, and his hands no longer dig into the sweater with such ferocity that his now-relaxed knuckles ache. Illya doesn’t know how long he’s been crying here, but the sun is still bright, so Mama won’t be mad.

He takes a steady, shuddering breath and pulls himself from the floor. He rights himself on wobbly feet and brushes dirt & detritus from him, letting it fall in a cloud of flakes; crying in the forest makes you filthy, apparently. He may get home at a decent time, but his mama will surely tan his hide for this.

His sweater, despite its pitiful state, didn’t get dirty at least. Illya’s arms are indented with the marks of a hundred small rocks and stems, but it was enough to protect it, at least. He sniffles as another wave of sadness bubbles within because he couldn’t protect it from that stupid bush.

He doesn’t feel much better after crying for so long. He’s tired and hungry, and his skin aches from where the brambles attacked him. His favorite sweater is still ruined, and the familiar, heavy blanket of misery still weighs on his small shoulders. His hands haven’t stopped trembling; will they shake forever? Can they shake forever? What will happen if they do? He heard one girl ate an apple seed, and a tree tried to grow in her belly, so this isn’t impossible.

He swallows thickly, and a new wave of fresh tears prick his eyes. He can’t have that happen, too, on top of everything else. He can’t take it.

The air is still sharp and cold, so with no other choice, Illya pulls his sweater back on and hiccups weakly as he feels every hole and tear that he caused. He pokes a trembling finger in one hole, realizes it is still shaking, and stuffs his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t have to acknowledge them any longer.

Leaves crunch underfoot as he traces back the familiar path home. Deer pace around him, heard more than seen. His head buzzes with angry, terrified thoughts, a thick stone of pain that settles in the center of his skull. He sways as he walks, only a tad, because he just wants to lay down. He’ll clean up and do whatever Mama asks, but all he wants to do is curl under a blanket with his stuffed pony (that he needs to stop sleeping with since he’s grown now. Maybe, he’ll put Pony away today. He doesn’t need it anymore. He doesn’t.)

His wandering feet know the landscape better than Illya does in his shaken state, and before he realizes it, he’s nearly home. The sight of his house materializes past the crowd of tall pine, and the closeness reminds him that his body aches. He still stings from the brambles, and the tumble was fiercer than he last thought, or maybe, he’s just weak.

He pauses, brushing off as much dirt as he can so his mother doesn’t get too mad, and he pushes himself out towards the edge of the tree line. However, just as he crosses the threshold, he hesitates. The house looms over him, and it doesn’t incite warmth or comfort. He doesn’t want to go back in, yet. Everything’s been… different, and it’s worst at home.

His father no longer lounges in his favorite chair with his pipe. There are no more fun, fleeting games they play when he gets home from work. His mother doesn’t sing when she cooks. She has not touched Illya, much less held him, in many days.

It’s different, and it’s awful. Illya is so tired of different. The forest was supposed to be the same, but the different followed him out there, too – probably because it lives with Illya in a hollowed-out crevice in his chest. He feels it with every breath, and he hates it.

The back door creaks open, and Mama slips into view with a load of fresh laundry in hand, ready to be hung to dry. The sight of her pushes Illya to move towards the house, and that catches her attention. She turns her gaze away from the laundry and towards Illya. His heart thumps loudly, full of fear about the state of his clothes and getting a well-deserved earful.

She brushes a wisp of blonde hair from her face, a piece that has easily escaped from her loose braid, and she smiles at Illya as he walks up, a man headed for the gallows. She tries to exude warmth, but it fails since the smile just doesn’t reach her eyes; it tries, it really does, but it just can’t make it. However, as Illya draws nearer, it falters. A few different emotions flicker across her face as she gets a better look at her son, and Illya glances away because he doesn’t want to see her mad.

“Ilyushenka,” she calls out, voice thick with worry – not anger, like Illya feared. He looks back up at her, and she’s left the laundry basket by the back door, so she can meet him halfway in the yard. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Illya sniffles, and he looks his mama in the eye. There is only sincere worry – not anger, disappointment, or even frustration. Just earnest worry. It wrings Illya’s heart tight, like a wringing a tear-soaked towel dry. A new jolt of sorrow bursts out from his heart, and Illya cannot contain the oncoming onslaught of tears (despite his very, very best efforts.) He hiccups, “I-I fell down a hill, a-and, and I ruined Pa-apa’s sweater.”

Any other words are muffled by a loud sob that rips out of his chest, and a new wave of tears pours down his cheeks. He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, and his mother makes a noise meant to be a comforting coo, but it sounds so pained, as if her heart can feel every warp and wrinkle of Illya’s sadness. She rushes over to him and kneels in front of him.

For the first time in too long, Mama wraps her long arms around Illya and pulls him into her chest, seemingly not caring about how dirty he is. She presses him tight against her body, and Illya curls his head into her neck, letting her bosom press comfortingly across his torso. One of her hands curls into his hair, and the other holds him against her with unwavering tenderness.

She doesn’t smell like her favorite perfume. Her body is warm and solid. His mother’s steady presence is the greatest tonic of all, and it forces the last sobs free from Illya’s chest as he cries into her shoulder. She coos sweet nothings into the crown of his head and rubs soothing circles into his back.

“Oh, dove,” she murmurs, voice harboring a hundred emotions, most of all love. “It’s going to be okay, Ilyushenka. I’m here. It’s going to be okay.”

Illya cries and cries, trying to leech out all his sadness and replace it with the feeling of being held and loved. He wants to soak up every ounce of Mama’s care and warmth, let it soothe all his aching wounds – physical and emotional. He never wants to leave her arms and face the cruel world waiting for him outside.

He knows it’s not going to be fine. He doesn’t think anything can be fine ever again, but if Mama keeps holding him like this, if she doesn’t curl back into herself by dawn like he fears, then maybe, he can pretend they’ll be okay.

- 2 -

The examination table is cold. It seeps up through Illya’s fatigues, chilling his legs. He leans onto his knees, braced up by his forearms as his hands hang between his knees. His cheek and nose throb with his heartbeat from where Kuznetsov punched him, and his knuckles burn with the kiss of cold air from where Illya pummeled him back. He takes one hand in the other, massaging aching tendons. They’re both streaked with his comrade’s blood. Maybe if he rubs long enough, he’ll remember exactly what he did to the man after that cloud of red throttled his vision.

He knows of what he did. His conversation with his CO minutes prior loops endlessly in his mind, and no matter how hard Illya tries, he cannot escape the memory (and he can’t find the memory of breaking Kuznetsov’s face, either.)

“You broke his jaw, Kuryakin,” his CO hissed as he paced the room in agitated circles. “He’ll be eating through a straw for months if he’s lucky! When you joined the military, you gave your life to the Motherland. I don’t care how young or new you are, remember that. If you can’t learn to control yourself when someone says something you don’t like, the world will eat you alive, and no one will be there to save you.”

Shame wells at the base of his core, and Illya presses into his raw knuckles, sucking air in through his teeth at the rush of steadying, stinging pain. His CO is right – Illya can’t control himself. He tries and tries, but when his emotions grow that large and untenable, they strangle his higher thinking, and animal instinct takes over, instead. He didn’t want to hospitalize Kuznetsov. He didn’t want to cause any problems, but he wouldn’t shut up about his father, and then, he brought up his mother-.

Illya lowers his head and places his forehead in his hands, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths. His fingers press against his buzzcut, and he taps his index fingers onto the top of his head, as if knocking on his skull to remind his brain to calm down like a neighbor complaining about the noise. It probably won’t help because his brain isn’t in charge of these outbursts.

The room he’s in is quiet and isolated, not at all like the muted bustle of the on-base clinic surrounding him. He feels like a child sent to his room to think about what’s done, and a hollow pit forms in his chest. (It doesn’t form. It’s been there for years. It’s only grown larger and larger since the day his father left, and Illya became an outcast to all of society.) He knows what he did was wrong. He knows he needs to learn better control. He just… He doesn’t know how.

He hoped the army would help. He liked the prospect of making good money to help Mama pay the bills, but more than that, he hoped they’d teach him how to get a grip on himself. After he got expelled for his fight with Yasha Lubinsky, he had the harsh wake-up that he needs to get a grip. (Although, fight is an understatement. It implies Yasha had a chance. It implies Illya wasn’t ready to slaughter him.)

The army’s of no help, though – not yet, at least. He’s been here for barely a few months, and he’s already broken someone else’s face. What’s wrong with him? Why is he like this? Why can’t he just be… different? Calmer? Smarter? Why is he such a damn animal? Why can’t he control himself when he gets the slightest bit angry or offended?

The heels of his palms slip over his closed eyes, and he presses hard. His eyeballs ache like two underripe grapes threatening to pop, and white dots & lines paint across the insides of his eyelids in response to the firm pressure. He sucks in air through his nose, flooding his lungs with the scent of antiseptic, tangy blood, and disease.

The door to the room creaks open, and noise floods in from the outside. He lifts his head up, his vision spotty from the sudden release of pressure, and a lovely, young nurse materializes as she clicks the door shut behind her. Her dress is modest, as are all the nurses’, but it cannot hide the lines of her curves or her long, slender legs. She smiles gently, almost cautiously, at him, (and he ignores the guilt tearing into chest like barbed wire,) and his heart skips a few beats under the scrutiny of her delicate gaze.

“Private Kuryakin?” she clarifies, and Illya nods once, settling himself upright. She’s not that much older than him, at least a few years but not many more, which means she’s one of the younger nurses. Illya’s the youngest of his section – really, too young to even enlist, but he’s strong enough pummel a classmate with ease, on track to hit 2 meters tall, and sturdy as a log. The military was happy to ignore a few formalities and bring Illya under its wing. If she’s a little older than him, then she’s still very young.

Her heels click as she approaches, her smile softening as Illya tries to quell his racing heart. “I’m Nurse Irina, I’ll be taking care of you. Now, I heard you got into a fight, so let’s see the damage. Where does it hurt?”

She looks him over with a careful, scrutinizing gaze, and Illya does his best not to squirm. Is he blushing? He hopes not. Mama says he blushes terribly. He’s not at all suave or charming, and while he doesn’t plan on wooing this girl, he doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her.

Illya swallows thickly and begs his voice to control itself. If it cracks now, he may just desert the army and live in the mountains. He’d be a decent lumberman. He answers, “He got me on the cheek and nose, and my knuckles are banged up. That’s it, though.”

“Here, let me see your nose,” she says, and one of her soft hands grabs his jaw without asking, and the other gently brushes and prods at his nose.

Illya loses the ability to breathe as he gets lost in the warm sensation of hands on skin. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him like this before, and the realization makes his stomach bubble with tense excitement. The hand holding his jaw – two of her fingers touch his neck, two more where his jaw meets his skull, and her thumb brushes his cheek softly, unintentionally. Her handprint sears into his skin, a memory to cling to and cherish in the quiet hours of the night, and it makes him dizzy.

The nurse’s eyebrows knit together. She continues softly feeling his nose, and while it hurts, Illya ignores the pain and focuses instead on the way Irina’s eyebrows curve together. She asks, “Nowhere else hurts? Just here on your face and hands?”

She’s seen Kuznetsov, then, or at least heard about the miserable state he’s now in. Shame trickles back into his belly. Still as a statue, as though even a flinch would send her running, Illya clears his throat and answers, “Yes. He didn’t… throw many punches.”

“Does it hurt when I press here? Any difficulty breathing?” she asks, pressing her finger in the tender cartilage. Illya inhales sharply at the flux of pain, catching a hint of her vanilla perfume, but the pain isn’t bad. He’s had a broken nose before, and his nose is merely bruised, not broken – but he’s not going to tell her that and let her drift away.

“Breathing is fine. Barely hurts.” Her hands are so soft and small. Her clipped nails scrape his cheeks. Then, she pulls her hands away, and Illya’s body leans towards her, chasing the gentle sensation for just a moment. He realizes and quickly pulls himself together, instead pretending he’s simply shifting on the table, but given the pleased smile on Irina’s lips, he doesn’t think she buys it.

Her mouth cracks into a toothy grin. “Well, Private, I don’t think it’s broken. I don’t see any cuts on your face, so let me disinfect your knuckles, and I’ll send you on your way… if you’d like.”

Illya’s heart leaps. “If I’d like?” he repeats, a gentle smirk worming itself on his face as Irina collects a few supplies and wanders her way back over.

Irina douses a cotton ball in the disinfectant, holding it with forceps. “Well,” she begins with a quirk of the lips, “I heard Egorov chewed you out, and I doubt that’s the end of it, so you can hide in here with me for at least a few more minutes.”

She looks up at him through her lashes, two bright blue eyes playing coy, and Illya’s stomach melts into a puddle of nerves and butterflies. So, this is what it’s like to be flirted at. No wonder girls love it so much. As smoothly as he can, he says, “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you better, Irina.”

She takes his hand in her own, a small, soft thing cradling his blood-stained monstrosity. She cradles it gently as the sting of antiseptic hits raw skin, and Illya swallows the sharp inhale he’d like to make and puffs out his chest.

A beat of silence stretches between them. It allows Illya to appreciate the fact she’s standing so close, the hem of her dress brushing his pantleg. If he nudged his boot out ever so slightly, he’d touch her white, uniform heels. Her hair is a long, lovely doe brown, and her cheeks are painted red with the loveliest rouge – or simply a blush caused by Illya. What a dizzying thought.

Irina breaks the tentative silence. “I have to ask: what did Kuznetsov do to warrant… well, what you did?”

She can’t quite say “breaking half the bones in his face,” but then again, neither can Illya. His stomach curdles, and he can feel their wonderful, shared moment become stained with reality. He refuses to let her interest go to waste, so he pulls on what little coolness he has and answers, “He insulted my mother.”

Another coy smile slips across Irina’s face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Her thumb brushes across the back of Illya’s hand, and he thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. “Well then,” she starts, slowly and thoroughly rubbing one knuckle, as if to ensure this moment won’t end, “he’ll learn to think twice about what he says, next time. I like a man who knows how to defend a woman.”

Illya can’t school his face. He’s trying oh so hard, but against his will, a dopey grin spreads across his cheeks, and he wants to grab her waist and pull her close, press the warmth of her body into his as she giggles in delight. He tucks away the perfection of her smile and her warm hand into his memories, to hold and to cherish for as long as he can.

- 3 -

Swaths of soldiers and policeman swarm a rotting warehouse. Illya staggers among them, exhaustion settling into every crevice of his body and seeping into his bones. Cases of black-market weaponry are carried out by pairs of men, and under other, less exhausted circumstances, Illya would be right proud of himself for all but singlehandedly tracking down the end of this lead. It took countless, countless hours of work, but he did it.

However, any good soldier knows hard work is repaid with stacks of paperwork to fill. He pushes himself forward, one step at a time, and stumbles outside. The air is cold and dry, and night throttles the sky, smearing out the stars in a swath of black. He thinks Oleg may be near one of the armored vans, and with slow precision, he reorients and begins his search.

It seems even the universe is impressed by his weeks of hard work, and Oleg is where Illya suspects, talking amongst a group of officers and soldiers. Illya hopes that when he stops moving, he doesn’t collapse into a pile by Oleg’s feet.

Oleg notices Illya’s approach, and while he doesn’t smile, per se, his cold eyes are warm, pleased even. “Gentleman, this is Agent Kuryakin,” Oleg announces to the men encircling him. “He’s to thank for these weapons being taken off the streets. Well done, Kuryakin; I didn’t think you had it in you.”

The simple praise of “well done” is nearly enough to knock Illya off his feet. He blinks rapidly as he comes to a standstill, and he fights against his weary mind to keep his face neutral instead of going bug-eyed with shock or breaking into a stupid grin. He nods and answers, “Thank you. It needed to be done.”

“Yes, but in less than a month? You’ve done the impossible,” says one of the men, most certainly a soldier of some sort (and he cannot source the name or rank of the man to save his life, which worries him immensely.) He appreciates the kind words, he truly does, but he is still digesting that little “well done” from Oleg. Oleg. The man as cold the tundra itself who rations kindness like there’s a famine. A year’s salary would pale in comparison to words of encouragement from his handler.

Then, in a mind-boggling turn of events, Oleg smiles, and he adds, “Well, he isn’t our youngest agent just for his good looks.”

Just for his good looks. The group bursts into laughter, and Illya would join them if he wasn’t reeling. He’s most certainly staring at Oleg with utter disbelief, and while he hopes he isn’t, he’s most certainly too exhausted to properly mask his shock. A smile? Praise for something beyond his work? Laughter and comradery? A warmth spills out of Illya’s chest and washes away the worst of the exhaustion, filling him with pride and joy.

Before Oleg can do something else that defies reality, Illya digs through his scrambled mind and asks, “Do you have any of the paperwork? The sooner I get started-.”

“Paperwork?” one policeman barks with harsh, bright laughter. “Oleg, get him a stiff drink, not a report.”

Oleg shakes his head fondly, and he looks to Illya – and he touches him. He pats a warm, solid hand on Illya’s arm. One, two, three pats, firm and steady, and in a flash, his hand retracts back to his side, like suddenly remembering there are witnesses to the display of affection.

Illya’s arm tingles with the memory of the touch, and the outlines of Oleg’s palm are all but etched into his skin, now. Coherent thought disappears from his mind as quickly as an extinguished candle flame. All Illya can do is grapple with the realization that Oleg has touched him – willingly, fondly, the first time since they shook hands on Illya’s first day as a KGB agent.

“Kuryakin,” Oleg starts, voice dancing between a cold seriousness and pure, unnamable gentleness, “the paperwork will be there tomorrow. Go home. Rest. You’ve earned it.”

A command. Illya can follow a command, even a ridiculous one that implies Illya can earn more than just punishment and a month’s cleaning duties. Still, it’s so kind – and Illya does not earn kindness, especially from his handler who has, in the same few minutes, smiled at and touched Illya. Is the man drunk? Unlikely, but somehow less so than Oleg simply being this complimentary.

“Did you hear him, comrade? Run before someone asks you something!” the solider jokes, and a police officer laughs in response. Illya, still shell-shocked, looks to his handler for guidance, and Oleg simply nods while a hint of a smile crosses his features. It’s a bizarre look on Oleg – but not a bad one.

Illya nods at the group and wishes them a good night while he tries to digest the past few minutes’ events. His handler has never, never looked at him with so much pride. The most Illya has earned is shock, a raised pair of eyebrows, or a pleased nod – but a smile? Blatant, complimentary praise? It’s unbelievable.

Maybe, just maybe, he has finally done a job so well that Oleg – and maybe even the rest of the world – can see Illya as more than just a disappointment running from his family’s sins. Maybe, Illya can finally earn back acceptance. He does not know how many more sleepless weeks and hours of fervent decoding he needs to endure, but if it means another hint of a warm smile that leeches with pride – then, Illya will find a way to make do.

- 4 -

The boiling hot streets of Ankara remind Illya why he stays in Russia as often as possible. The heat bears down on him in an oppressive sheet, pressing into his body and willing it to collapse in a heap on the ground. His heart beats rapidly as he drags himself up a narrow set of stairs to the safehouse. His loose, cotton button down clings to his back with a drying sheet of sweat, and his hair sticks together in clumps.

As he stumbles up to the door, he wipes his pounding forehead, but the back of his hand comes back bone dry, not slick with fresh sweat. He pants weakly as he does his damnedest to remember where in the world he’s put his keys, and his vision turns white & spotty as his body finally stops moving and remembers all at once all the work it’s done this morning. Finally, he finds the key, its metal lukewarm under his fingers; on swaying feet and with clumsy hands, he opens the door as fast as his body will let him, and he pushes inside.

Air – cooler than the streets but still uncomfortably warm – envelops him, and Illya sighs with pure relief. The work is done, and he no longer has to melt under the light of the sun, and he thanks god or whoever else for that. Before his knees can give out, Illya collapses onto a small couch, and he deflates as he sinks into its under stuffed cushions. He can’t even find the energy to sit up, and even if he had it, the curdling of his stomach warns him against moving too much.

He shuts his eyes and lets his lungs deflate, but a shadow falls over him, only barely noticeable past his closed eyelids. Illya cracks an eye open and finds Gaby standing over him, her long, brown pulled into a bun off her neck. She squints down at him with… Anger? Confusion? Both? Probably both. “Illya? Did you hear me?” she asks, and he’s still not sure if she’s mad or not. He weakly shakes his head in response, and Gaby huffs, “You really aren’t built for this weather, are you?”

“Nyet,” he breathes out, talking taking too much out of him. “Did- Did tail target to warehouse. Intel is good. We can break in tonight.”

His head floats in a body of water, and every time Illya tries to sit up or move, another wave washes over it and sends him struggling to stay afloat. His skin burns like it’ll broil off. Illya paws at the buttons of his shirt, but he can’t hook his fingers around the buttons right, and he grumbles with irritation.

Gaby brushes his hand away and leans down to unbutton it for him. “Are you feeling alright?” she asks with strange gentleness, and once his shirt is undone a few buttons, she places a cool hand to his bone-dry cheek. Illya leans into the blissful sensation, soaking as much as he can from her before she pulls away. “You are flushed. I’m surprised you’re not… Schiess, Illya, don’t tell me you have sun stroke.”

“Maybe. It is… It is very hot,” Illya pants guiltily. He… He definitely got overheated, and if Gaby would just place her cold hand on his face, maybe across his throbbing forehead, he’d be very grateful. The flush of air from his partially undone shirt already feels much better, so if she could just do that…

Gaby hastily unbuttons the rest of his shirt. “I told you to be careful out there. Do you listen to me? No,” she complains, more so to herself. Illya can feel the occasional brush of her fingers across his undershirt over his stomach, which is tacky with dried sweat. “You’re a professional. You should know how dangerous the heat is. If I have to drag you to a hospital, I’m making you fill out the paperwork.”

He does not answer her because she’s not really talking to him – and because his brain is too scrambled to put together any other words. Between the heat and how close she is, he couldn’t string along a sentence to save his life, right now.

“Take that off,” Gaby demands before leaving, and Illya obeys. He pulls himself up from the sofa, head swimming from the movement (even as he takes it slowly), and the overshirt slips over his shoulders and off his arms. He hangs it over the back of the sofa and untucks his undershirt. The skin of his lower back is dry and warm, practically radiating heat, and he notes it as worrisome in the back of his head.

He leans down towards his feet. After taking a long moment to rest his head between his knees, blood rushing to his face and heating it tenfold (but giving him some form of rest,) Illya begins the brutal fight off pulling off his shoes.

“Sit up,” Gaby interrupts, and Illya sits up, leaning on his knees for support. She has a large glass of water in hand, and she offers it to him. The sight of water makes Illya realize his mouth is dry as dust, and he sits up fully to snatch it from her.

However, when he goes to take it, his weak grasp nearly sends the glass plunging to the floor, and it splashes its content across Gaby’s bare feet. Gaby is quick to catch the glass, and she sighs, “Come here, dummkopf. Let me help.”

She puts the glass in his grasp and puts a hand atop his to help hold it. His hand dwarfs hers, but it’s Gaby who holds him together, guides the glass towards his face, and encourages him to drink slowly (not that he needs much reminding with his queasy stomach.) “Nice and slow,” she assures, and her free hand brushes a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his forehead. “You should be grateful I brushed up on my heat exhaustion training before we left. I had a feeling you or Napoleon would push yourself too hard.”

Cold, refreshing water. It’s pure bliss. If not for his uneasy stomach, he would’ve swallowed the entire glass already; in fact, he’s still very tempted to do so. Accompanied by her gentle words and cool touch, Illya suddenly finds his overheated state more bearable. He pulls the glass away from his face and pants for more air. He answers her, “Is important mission. Can’t- Can’t let THRUSH plant politicians.”

Gaby smiles warmly and pulls her hand away from Illya’s. He mourns the loss of her calloused hand guiding his immediately. However, he sips more water as he mourns, and Gaby says, “Always a man of the people, putting the needs of others first.”

“Is our job, da?” he asks between sips. “If we fail, is for nothing. We can’t let them down.”

“You’re not wrong.” Gaby plucks the empty glass from Illya’s hands, and Illya feels better – not remotely close to being well but better. She adds, “Next time, remember you can’t help if you die from heat stroke.”

She slips away towards the kitchen, and Illya hovers in his upright position. He wants to argue it’s not heatstroke, but he nearly passed out on the walk back, and he stopped sweating ages ago. It’s a miracle he even made it to the warehouses, but he refuses to let their work in Istanbul and Turkey’s new constitution mean nothing.

Remembering the issue at hand, Illya pitches forward and begins fighting his shoes. Clumsy hands make slow work of the laces, but he has one shoe off by the time he hears Gaby reapproaching. He rips off one sock, and his poor foot can finally breathe. He buries his toes in the rug, harsh fibers soaking up the trapped sweat.

A wet towel drapes across his neck and upper back, over his shoulders, and Illya tenses before melting. Cool water drips down his back and soaks into his flushed skin, and Illya sits up with a pleased sigh. A small troop of droplets traverse down his back, and the sensation is odd yet pleasurable. Gaby, two more towels in hand, chews her lip and presses another glass into his hand, which Illya drinks without question.

Cold and refreshing. Illya all but shudders with utter relief, and as his stomach has finally begun to settle, he dares to sip a little faster than before. Meanwhile, Gaby plucks the towel from his neck and replaces it with a fresh towel.

“If the towel isn’t enough, we can soak some of the spare linens. And don’t drink too fast!” she barks, pressing down the towel into his back, and his undershirt soaks up more cold water. Her voice is troubled, and guilt stabs a knife in his belly. He doesn’t regret pushing himself since it had to be done, but he doesn’t enjoy worrying Gaby, either.

Gaby, still chewing her lip, exasperates, “You only got one shoe off. Let me…” Then, she’s kneeling on the floor, unceremoniously yanking off his shoe. The knife of guilt twists, and Illya pauses mid-sip to mull over the thought that Gaby is well and truly worried.

Before her and Solo, he… he honestly can’t remember the last time someone worried over him like this. He’s no longer certain it’s just because they work together, and losing Illya would be a massive inconvenience. They know Illya is more than capable of patching himself up. They know he can survive anything THRUSH throws at him. They don’t have to bring him ice for his bruises or water for his heatstroke.

Maybe… God, it’s such a bizarre thought, but maybe, they worry because… they care. The mere thought sends his heart racing, pounding so loud he can hear it in his ears, but it’s a possibility, isn’t it? Maybe a strange, unlikely one, but he can pretend, can’t he? That their kindness is a reflection of how much they care for him?

Gaby continues to fuss at his towel, and Illya… Well, all he can do is stare at her and thank whoever is out there for overlooking how undeserving he is of such kindness and letting him have this with Gaby and Solo for as long as they’ll allow.

“I didn’t say stop drinking, dummkopf,” she hisses, and Illya quickly goes back to sipping, heart as warm as his sunburnt skin.

- 5 -

“You’re getting blood on the duvet,” Napoleon sighs as he towels his hair dry. Illya glares in his direction as he sprawls across one of the safehouse’s twin beds, shirtless and refusing to give his partner any verbal acknowledgement. He sighs softly and feels his ribs ache with the deflation of his chest before closing his eyes shut.

His body is a massive, aching thing. In the shower, he tried to count all his lacerations, but there were simply too many; same goes for his bruises, though he thinks he has twice as many. He should stitch himself up, bandage his ribs, and ice the worse marks, but he made a fatal mistake: he stopped moving and laid down. He does not care if he turns the sheets crimson red; he is not moving from this bed, and that is final.

Napoleon steps closer, evidenced by (admittedly feather-light) footsteps. “Hello? Still there, Kuryakin? Don’t tell me a car crash is what finally makes you croak.”

Illya groans involuntarily, nose wrinkling at the memory of being thrown through the car windshield and down that hill. That hill saved his life, but god, it’s not even been a few hours since he took that tumble, and he already looks like a human punching bag.

“Still responsive, even better. Wow, you look even worse close up. Are you sure you didn’t take a crowbar to the ribs?”

“Be quiet,” Illya snaps, eyes still shut tight. His joints are made of concrete and refuse to move. “I am fine, Cowboy. Let me sleep.”

“You’re fine? Really?” Napoleon laughs, and Illya opens his eyes just to glare up at him. “You have more gashes than flaws in most security systems, and I’m willing to bet your ribs are bruised to hell and back – well, if they aren’t broken.”

Solo’s hair is damp and full of loose, frizzy curls, and he’s smiling like he knows something Illya doesn’t. His bathrobe (that of course he brought) hangs just open enough for Illya to spy soft, dark chest hair. Illya flushes with anger. “When did you become doctor?”

“It doesn’t take a doctor to tell you’re bruised worse than a peach, and I like to think I know a thing or two after working this job for so long. I’m still not convinced you shouldn’t-,” Solo tries to say, but with every word he speaks, Illya’s patience grows thinner and thinner, and finally, it completely snaps.

“I am not going to hospital!” Illya barks, hissing in pain as he half-sits up, supported by his forearms. “I do not need a doctor for some bruises and cuts. I am tired, and I want to sleep. I can take care of this in morning.”

Napoleon does not so much as flinch or falter. He looks down at Illya with a blank, displeased stare and crossed arms. “No, it really ought to be stitched and cleaned tonight.”

“Well, fine, Cowboy,” Illya concedes through clenched teeth and another angry glare. He eases himself back onto the bed, arms at his side in the least painful position he can manage. “If you are so sure I need this done tonight, then you do it.”

Then, Napoleon does something Illya should’ve expected but quite honestly didn’t. “Fine. I will. I’ll be right back.”

Illya’s eyes snap wide open as Napoleon huffs away and turns on his heel in search of the first aid kit. Illya cranes his neck up to watch him leave, and the moment Napoleon dips out his sightline, Illya drops his head back onto the bed, staring at the wall instead now.

His heart thunders in his chest. Why is he shocked? He should’ve expected this from Solo. He’s as stubborn as Illya, and Illya just handed him a challenge on a silver platter.

Still, his heart pounds fervently beneath his aching ribs. He knows that to some degree, for some reason, Napoleon cares about Illya, at least in the way one cares for a pleasant coworker; he brings him extra ice for his achy knuckles, pours him a matching glass of scotch or whiskey (but never vodka) without asking, and has the decency to offer Illya aisle seats on long train rides or flights. They’re little decencies Illya appreciates, but they’re just that: little decencies. Easy, unobtrusive things.

Now, when life and limb are in danger, he also has the decency to ensure Illya will survive the night, much like Gaby. That normally begins and ends with carrying Illya out of danger, staunching any wayward bleeding, and maybe setting a few bones or fixing dislocated joints. Tonight… Tonight is entirely new can of worms (beetles?) (no, definitely worms) he doesn’t know how to make heads or tails of.

Illya doesn’t need this attended to. He doesn’t need this to be stitched tonight to make it until morning. Every other time Solo or Gaby have intervened, it was to ensure Illya didn’t die of mission-related complications, and he’s appreciative. It’s a far cry from the cursory glances Oleg would throw his way, and he doesn’t need more – so why would Solo offer to do this? It can’t surely just be his stubbornness, can it?

Before Illya can uncover any strange truths about his partner, Napoleon’s footsteps grow louder, and he reappears. “Sit up. That cut on your side needs stitching. Heaven knows what diseases are hiding in these mattresses.”

“They’re not that bad,” Illya lies. They’re actually rather lumpy, and he does not want to pull back the bedding and find out how many mysterious stains there are.

Something about the unwavering timbre of Napoleon’s voice and the intoxicating pull of his presence convinces Illya to move his unwilling body. His joints unlock, his spine lengthens, and he remembers all the different bruises he has as he sits up.

Illya valiantly swallows a soft groan (that he doesn’t need to swallow, he thinks, but some soft animal deep inside snaps up at the thought of making himself more vulnerable), and he shifts so his legs hang off the edge of the bed. Napoleon wordlessly pops open the metal medical kit, and he lays out everything he needs with practiced ease; they’ve both done this a hundred times over and will likely do it a hundred times again.

Napoleon’s hair is still damp, but as it dries, the curls become more defined. A few perfect curves form around his hairline, and it’s too late for Illya to realize he’s staring when Solo glances his way. He holds the American’s gaze for a moment too long and pulls his eyes away and towards a baseboard that’s been in need of a fresh coat of paint for maybe five or so years.

The tips of his ears burn, but not from being caught – from being caught and still wanting more. He wants to steal more wayward glances of his partner, here when he’s soft and so unlike himself. No suits of Valentino armor, no helmets made of pomade, no ornaments of cufflinks and ties and pocket squares. It’s just… Napoleon Solo, performing still (Illya realized early on he has never known and will likely never know the true soul of Solo) but less than what he does for the world.

Illya is greedy, selfish, and he wants to savor these moments as much as time will allow. He refuses to admit to himself why he craves it so desperately, but the truth does not allude him, regardless.

“Alright Peril, move your arm. If you’re a good boy, I’ll give you a lollipop,” Napoleon jests, and Illya feels his ears burn a few degrees brighter, but he obeys. “Now, let me clean this one last time, and I’ll start stitching you shut.”

Illya glances over at Napoleon as he announces his actions loud and clear. Illya does not take offense, and if anything, he is grateful; surprises are rarely good in their line of work, and they both react accordingly. Another a little decency from his partner. A little kindness. Another gentle oddity stacking up with the others.

He doesn’t have a chance to think of much else when Napoleon draws close, the fabric of his robe brushing against Illya’s arm, and he wipes the ghastly gash across Illya’s side clean. Illya can feel the press of fingertips beneath scratchy cloth clearly. Precise, gentle, cool only from the dampness of the cloth. They drag perfectly across his skin, and another thing Illya should have expected but didn’t hits him: he is going to be touched by Napoleon, skin against skin.

Napoleon withdraws his hand and focuses back on the needle, but Illya cannot pull his mind away from the prospect of hand on skin. The gentle tug of a thread pulled tight, the weight of the bed dipped so close to Illya’s body, the press of fingers holding the skin to allow the needle to glide through Illya with ease…

Illya has wanted a great many things of the world, but he knows they are not for him, so he has learned to stop dreaming and asking. However, right now, he is being given a taste of the impossible: Napoleon’s touch. Some would call it cruel of fate to dangle someone like Solo so close yet so far, never allowing Illya to feel him, but having him this close at all… Well, Illya cannot bear to complain and tempt fate to tear the man away from him.

Seconds continue to add up and pass by, and Solo has only just threaded the needle. He finishes his work, but he pauses as he takes in the length of Illya’s chest one last time. A smirk crosses his handsome face, and he comments, “I still don’t know how you didn’t break or sprain anything. You look like a punching bag after a boxing class.”

Fire ignites inside Illya’s chest, and it burns bright. Touch me already, his bursting heart screams. Stop stalling and press your hands against my skin. Touch me, touch me, touch me.

“Am Russian,” Illya answers cheekily, burying the incessant whine of his base instincts deep down where it cannot be heard. “We’re built to last.”

Napoleon laughs in response, and there’s a heat to his laugh and smile that Illya is certain he’s imagining – but he relishes in the fantasy, anyways. Let him delude himself with this easy lie; it beats many of the other delusions his psyche assaults him with.

Then, finally, Napoleon settles beside Illya and brings the needle to Illya’s side. His skin buzzes with anticipation, and sparks ignite as Napoleon places on hand to hold himself and Illya steady. His hand is warm and soft but not uncalloused. His fingertips settle precisely around the bruises dappled across Illya’s ribs.

Illya misses Napoleon’s response as the needle slides into irritated flesh, and the soft scrape of a fingernail brushes against him that is equal parts pain and pleasure. He stays iron still as Napoleon begins his work because even a breath out of place may shatter the perfection of this moment.

“I still think you should bandage your ribs. I don’t think you realize how bad it is,” Napoleon adds, and Illya almost instantly agrees. The words nearly burst from his mouth because how could he deny Solo this? How could he turn away the chance to share the same air as him for even longer?

It’s impossible to provide an answer as Napoleon works. Illya’s mind is consumed with pure sensation: the occasional puff of breath against his bare skin, the intoxicating scrape of Solo’s skilled yet deceivingly calloused hands, and the dizzying warmth that always comes from such close proximity. The words lodge in his throat as all his composure remains staunchly focused on presenting the cool, collected image he so desperately needs to convey.

Then, the touch is gone. The thread is tied. The air in his lungs turns bitter cold as Solo begins to draw away. His skin burns with phantom sensations.

If Illya were a smart man, he would not agree. He would turn Napoleon away with gratitude on his lips – but Illya is not smart. He is not the cool, collected image of composure like Solo. He is not the calm, rational strategist Gaby has grown into.

Illya is a man controlled by his base instincts. For all he tries to say and do, he struggles to contain the beast within that languishes in hot anger and soothing touches. That beast is selfish. It doesn’t care that asking for more than what has been given is tempting fate into doling out punishments. It takes beautiful, fragile moments like these and shatters them.

(Illya takes beautiful things and shatters them. He knows the beast is another, truer version of himself.)

Instead of doing the wise thing to protect himself and Solo, Illya answers, voice struggling to be convincingly nonchalant, “Bandage them if you want. I don’t care.”

His heart pounds in his chest. He can barely fool himself, but his words seem to have the desired effect. Napoleon, so close and so far, smiles at Illya. It’s all sharp teeth and self-satisfaction. “Isn’t it better when you just listen to me?”

A laugh uncoils itself out of Illya’s chest as he watches Napoleon clean the needle and pack it away. He prays saying that wasn’t a mistake. It likely was, and Illya will pay dearly for it later, but the temptation was too strong, and Illya is too weak to resist his animal impulses. The mere thought of the whole palm of Solo’s hand against his ribs makes him dizzy with excitement and trepidation.

Illya watches carefully as Napoleon withdraws the spool of bandages. His heart beats inside his throat. It is so strange to anticipate something so desperately. These moments of touch, of physical connection, seem to be so fleeting, and yet, here he is waiting with bated breath for Napoleon to tend to his battered ribs.

The feeling is as thrilling as it is dangerous and unknown.

“Arms up, Peril,” Solo says, and under the casual tone, Illya can hear something soft, tender even. Neither of them acknowledge it, but Illya knows he heard it. He captures the memory and holds it close to his chest as he raises his arms.

Illya winces as he obeys, but he does nothing else. His composure remains uncompromised, despite the deep ache in his muscles and deeper desire to throw himself into Napoleon’s arms like a tired child.

The thought startles him. The desire, potent and sudden, makes Illya inhale sharply. Still, he retains his composure, and he battles to keep that grasp steady as Solo winds the bandage around his ribs, and oh god, the breath escapes from his lungs as those hands, so skilled and world-weary, press into his skin.

Solo holds one of the ends of the bandage down with his palm, and Illya can feel the entire stretch of skin against his own. He is branded by the touch, scored to his core. Then, he alternates his grasp, swapping his hands as he winds the bandage further and further around Illya’s chest.

Illya fights to remain steady, knowing Solo can see every rasping breath and shaky inhale, but it is a battle he fails. His robe will occasionally brush against his skin, just a tease of fabric, and Solo himself has to lean so close just to properly bandage Illya. The smell of soap teases Illya’s nose, and even though it is no more than the base toiletries provided in every safehouse, Solo wears it like a silk dressing gown.

The bandages are thick and secure around him. Solo’s knowledge of field medicine is clear in the way he expertly balances the line between too-loose and too-tight. If Illya closes his eyes, he can almost mistake the steady hold of the bandages for the security of arms wrapping around his chest in a hug.

The moment the thought crosses his mind, he flushes and turns his head away from Napoleon. His greed seems to know no bounds. He wants and wants, and the wanting never stops once he allows even a moment’s indulgence. He should have never agreed, but he can’t find it within himself to regret his actions when Solo is so close, so gentle as he wraps, so solidly there in his presence.

When Illya realizes Solo has no need to continue holding the bandage in place but still chooses to keep his palm secure and steady against him, his pulse flutters sporadically. He doesn’t imagine there is any hope for returning to the way things were before Solo sauntered into the room.

He doesn’t know whether he should be mortified or thrilled. If the warm, wanting look in Solo’s roving eyes are any clue, then optimism may not be such an outlandish outlook on the future.

- +1 -

Sunlight streams in through a window, rousing Illya awake. His body aches pleasantly, and he purrs as he feels a warm, light weight atop him. Solo’s head is laid against his chest, and Illya doesn’t need to look to know where their bodies meet. The knowledge is seared into muscle and skin, an unforgettable luxury he will never take for granted.

Napoleon is still asleep, and though all Illya can see is the top of his mussed head, he knows the American looks handsome like this. The memories of the prior night flood his mind: Napoleon and himself wrapped around each other in carnal bliss, sweet euphoria they shared like a precious secret only meant for them, and the slide of sweat and skin that lit fires beneath his skin.

If Napoleon was not on his chest right now, Illya would think his memories were a delightful fantasy conjured by his mind, starving for more of Napoleon. Day after day, it has yearned and begged for more of the man: his cutting remarks, his laughter, the flourish of his hands, his easy companionship, his fire poker-hot touch.

Sometimes, Illya swore he had seen a longing want in Napoleon’s gaze that matched his own, but Illya never for a moment allowed himself to believe it could ever be more. The idea of more was a fantasy, and pursuing it was begging fate to remind Illya was he stayed humble and grateful for what he was provided.

Until the idea was no longer fantasy. The night, full of longing gazes and lingering touches, was thick with tension like humid air. It suffocated Illya and made him delirious for more of Napoleon in any way he could get it. He wishes he could say what exactly happened to make a man like Solo fall into Illya’s bed, but he can’t. After they drifted into each other’s orbit, the distance between them grew smaller and smaller until all Illya can remember is Solo’s soft lips and fingers clawing into his skin.

Illya swallows as he remembers everything they did, but nothing affects him quite like the memory of wrapping his arms around Napoleon – and Napoleon returning the favor. If Illya were a betting man, he’d wager those arms are marked onto his skin. He can pinpoint exactly where his fingertips brushed against his shoulder blades and how his elbows bracketed Illya’s ribs.

He wants last night to be a repeat experience, but he knows better than to hope. He knows he’s well surpassed his luck just by being here, blanketed by Napoleon’s warm, even weight that settles Illya better than any vice – or perhaps, it is a vice in and of itself.

The sunlight tiptoes its way across the bedsheets, and soon enough, it wakes Napoleon as well. The man hums with discontent and murmurs, “Can you turn that off?”

“Do not think I can turn off the sun,” Illya teases back as fondness quirks his lips into a soft smile. His hand moves of its own accord, and it lays itself across Napoleon’s back, rubbing small circles into the man’s shoulder blade with his thumb.

“You can rip apart a car but can’t let your handsome date sleep in,” Napoleon grumbles, but his tone is easy and light-hearted. A sigh drifts out of Napoleon’s mouth, and soon after, he’s rising off Illya’s chest to stretch tall.

A pang of loss reverberates through Illya, and he chases the touch – but only for a moment – before settling easily. Napoleon is a handsome sight, and Illya takes full advantage of the opportunity to drink in his muscular body, layered with dark hair that Illya wants nothing more than to roam his hands through ceaselessly.

Napoleon blocks the sun as he sits, and light halos around him. It paints the edges of his being a glowing white, and Illya is awestruck with the image of a man far too divine for this world. Solo is the image of hedonism and simple pleasures, chest spotted with teeth-shaped bruises and hair mussed from sleep.

Taking Napoleon in, Illya’s hands ache with the need to reach out, to touch. His body remembers the slide of skin-on-skin, the way the heat of Napoleon’s body seeped deep into Illya’s core and warmed him from the inside out. He is cold now, eager to lap up more of that warmth however he can afford.

Ever since meeting Napoleon, Illya has been sustaining himself on crumbs of the man: brushing against his shoulder, bandaging each other’s wounds, knees bumping into thighs on the train, bodies pressed tight together while lurking in shadows. He made those crumbs quell his hunger, but truly, it was never enough. All it ever did was spark a deep, predatory want for more.

Last night, Napoleon gave Illya a taste – a real, hunger-sating taste. It surpassed even the wildest of Illya’s dreams, and he expected it to fill the ache in his chest once and for all, but here he is, still greedy, still wanting more. All he can imagine is pulling Napoleon into his chest and pressing his nose against the man’s pulse point on his neck, inhaling the stale scent of sweat and sex and Napoleon.

“Take a picture,” Napoleon purrs, head cocked to the side and smirking like he’s ready to snap his fingers and make Illya come crawling. (To Illya’s horror, he thinks if Napoleon asked, he would.) “It’ll last longer.”

A painful pang reverberates through Illya, a reminder this moment will come to a close and his luck will force a disastrous end between them sooner or later. His hands nearly burn now with the need to capitalize on the opportunity he has. It’s too much to bear, but even as his hand inches away from his side and towards Napoleon’s thigh, he can’t find it within himself to close the distance.

He’s asking too much. He’s wanting too much. A starving man never knows he’s hungry until he learns what it is to be full, and then, he’s never satisfied again.

Illya lets his eyes roam over Napoleon, tracing all the places he craves to touch. He tracks a path down from his solid neck, across his broad chest, and back to that narrow waist his hands slot over so perfectly.

His fingertips brush against Napoleon’s thigh, draped in bed sheets, and it takes a herculean effort not to flinch away. His gaze stops roaming and locks onto where his fingers graze Napoleon’s body, imagining how it would feel to slip his hand beneath the duvet and lay his palm flat against the man’s warm muscle.

“I won’t break.” Napoleon’s voice is quiet, like he’s soothing a cornered predator into lowering its guard. Napoleon’s own hand drifts down and then hovers over Illya’s. The ache in Illya’s chest threatens to split him in two; it would take nothing to turn his palm up and intertwine their fingers. The suddenness of his want is so shameful, he nearly rolls over and puts his back to Napoleon.

He does not follow through on the impulse. It would be too cruel to Napoleon and this new, gentle dynamic growing between them to take more than what’s given. Instead, Illya holds his breath as he watches Napoleon lower his hand atop Illya’s, and bozhe moy, electric sparks shudder down his tendons and veins.

Napoleon’s fingers don’t just lay stop Illya’s; no, the calloused fingers wrap around his palm, and as if now coaxing the wild beast out of its hiding place, he brings Illya’s hand to lay across his covered thigh.

Illya’s chest glows bright, a feeling too warm and all-consuming to even begin describing.

He sees this for what it is: an invitation, unmistakable. A gentle proposition shared only in actions and veiled words that dance around a too-vulnerable subject.

Illya fights to conceal the tremor in his hands – but fears he fails to do so as his hand moves without his consent. It waltzes up Napoleon’s thigh, glancing over his hip and soft stomach before curling easily around that slender waist again. Two puzzles pieces slot together as his hand rests easily there, exactly where it belongs.

His fingers sink into the tender flesh, savoring and gentle but firm, so the weight of Napoleon against his skin is unforgettable. Just a little more force, and Illya could press bruises into the pale skin, another (albeit temporary) reminder that Napoleon gave him this. He refrains; even this feels to be too much, too wonderful, and he fears anything more would overwhelm him beyond words. He can barely breathe as is.

Beneath the bed sheets, Napoleon begins to move, and that brightness in his chest dulls into something hollow and cold. Illya tenses, the animal in him bracing for the worst. He wanted and took too much again. Illya’s greed will know no end, and he stole too much from Napoleon, taking advantage of the kind gesture shown. His hands pulls back, ready to resume its position at his side, and yet-

Napoleon freezes. His lithe, long fingers wrap around Illya’s wrist, and Illya goes wide-eyed. When is the last time he was touched here with such gentleness, rather than with the sharp bite of demanding violence?

Illya stares as he watches Napoleon return his hand to the man’s waist, and when his palm slides against warm skin once more, it feels even better than the first time he touched him there. What makes it so wonderful: being allowed to touch him there again at all, or the wonder of being told to touch him again?

Unbelievably enough, Napoleon doesn’t pull his hand away. He’s a steady presence on Illya’s wrist as he shifts under the covers, lowering himself flat atop Illya. The air rushes from Illya’s lungs as that familiar weight, now heavier and harder to forget, returns. His legs swing over Illya’s thighs, followed by the firm press of his hips into Illya’s, and that broad chest settles atop Illya’s in a soothing blanket, like a paperweight ensuring he doesn’t tumble into the wind.

Sunlight bathes them both in an easy, golden glow. The picture before Illya is beautiful in the way dreams are, and briefly, he wonders if he will awake again, if this is a vision that will be ripped from him like the dreams of his father walking down their driveway, home at last.

Illya tucks that painful memory away, and instead, he soaks in the myriad sensations he’s never allowed himself to indulge. Taking a risk, the hand on Napoleon’s waist slithers across the small of his back, and Illya’s arm tugs Napoleon impossibly further against him. His other hand snakes its way up Napoleon’s back, spanning across his tanned muscles and the notches of his spine as it crawls.

His hand only stops its explorations when it reaches the nape of Napoleon’s neck, and his fingers slide into short, dark hair – soft, a little slick with the glide of day-old pomade. As Illya’s fingers brush across the man’s scalp, he wonders when was the last time he was close enough to touch someone like this? When was the last time he buried his hands in their hair, not to create the sting of pain or force them to move – just to sit here and savor the closeness?

Napoleon’s head lies flat across Illya’s collarbone, nose poking into dip of his throat. That untamable beast takes further hold, and it directs Illya to press his own nose to the crown of Napoleon’s head, lips grazing his messy locks. This close, the pomade’s soft smell of vanilla and tobacco, mixed with oil and sweat, cuts clean through, and Illya’s eyes flutter shut as he soaks in the scent.

Deep in his gut, something writhes with discomfort. Why is Napoleon allowing him this? What need is there for this closeness? Is there something he can offer, here in this moment, to keep Napoleon from changing his mind and pulling away?

One answer – a repeat of last night’s activities – feels obvious, but Illya has no appetite for it. To do anything else would require them to disentangle, and the thought of pulling apart, even for a second, sits uneasy in his stomach.

Instead, Illya prays his luck won’t run dry, and he lays here, pinned by the indulgent warmth and weight of his lover while relishing in the hot, too-much, not-enough press of skin against his bare body.

The seconds tick by, and he waits. He waits for the inevitable he’s come to know. Napoleon will draw away, no longer needing to cater to Illya. He will become tired or bored of this, and he will leave. It is only a thought, and yet, it stings to think of. On reflex, Illya curls tighter around Napoleon, hoping that maybe if he holds him tight enough, he won’t leave and take this away from Illya.

Illya expects fidgeting or discomfort to follow his selfish, impulsive action, but it never comes. Instead, Napoleon sighs and sinks further against Illya. He rubs his head, barely a movement at all but there, into Illya’s chest, and he murmurs into Illya’s skin, “This is my favorite part, but people just… they never want to indulge.”

Indulgence. It’s the best word to describe what they’re doing, what Illya is doing. It’s the gluttonous enjoyment of base, animal pleasure, something Illya has learned he’s not allowed to have. He’s always supposed to be better, to be neither human nor animal but honed machine.

And yet, here with Napoleon in his arms, he cannot think to deny himself. This is what Napoleon does best, isn’t it? He is a creature of comforts and pleasure, and without even trying, he draws out that greed in those around him.

No… Greed is not the right word. Napoleon is not greedy. He simply knows what he wants and needs, and he takes it without asking or question. If he does not truly want to do something, he won’t. Maybe for a mission, but here, where there is no world extending beyond these four walls, where agencies and international borders don’t exist?

No, Napoleon is exactly where he wants to be. He wants this, and Illya cannot imagine him as greedy for it.

Illya opens his eyes. The sunbeam has stretched out further, a housecat lounging across their bed, and it catches on the metal bed frame, glinting in the light. Perhaps, if Napoleon wants to do this with Illya, does not want anything more than to just lay here and enjoy the hedonism of undisturbed touch, then…

“I think…” Illya starts, but the words die in his mouth. Admitting it out loud feels dangerous; loose lips sink ships, as the Americans say. “I think it is my favorite part, too.”

Napoleon’s head shifts, and a smile crosses his face. It is a rare sight: sincere and unperformative, seemingly reserved just for Illya. That glow in his chest returns, bright and joyous in a way he selfishly wants to feel every day when he looks at Napoleon.

Perhaps, he is allowed to call this his favorite part and ask for it again.