Chapter Text
Illya clenched his hands into fists on his knees, one finger sneaking out of the bunch to tap-tap-tap on his knee cap. He used to scratch with his nails, but after one too many questions on why his hands and face were always clawed after an episode, he picked up the habit of tapping whenever agitated.
And he was agitated, especially now as his Uncle Oleg walked out of the doctor’s office with a frown of disappointment on his face. Disappointment, because Illya had become a burden instead of the son that Oleg never had. He shook his head at Illya and walked out to the car as Illya’s doctor knelt in front of him. He felt small, like a helpless child, and refused to look the man in the face.
“This is a prescription for Ativan,” Dr. Hoffman said, handing Illya a sheet of paper. “I milligram. You can take it as needed. It’ll help with the panic attacks, alright?” Illya finally looked up and took the sheet of paper, swallowing hard at the scratchy script across it. “Illya, I want you to take it when you need it. Don’t deprive yourself of feeling better for foolish reasons. I discussed this with your uncle. He has... made it clear that your medicating is up to you.”
“I’m already on medication,” Illya grunted out. He wished Dr. Hoffman spoke Russian so he could more comfortably express himself in his mother-tongue.
“Yes, for the depression, anxiety, BPD, and PTSD,” Dr. Hoffman conceded.
“And insomnia,” Illya grouched, and though several of his medications served more than one function, he was still on three separate prescriptions and hated to add a fourth. He was weak, wasn’t he?
“Those are by day. This is when you need it, alright? There’s nothing wrong with needling a little medical help, Illya. You’ve been through enough.” Illya flinched at the words. He should have never broken down in front of Dr. Hoffman. Not if it was going to be used against him. “Here’s another sheet,” Dr. Hoffman continued. His voice was hushed now. “This is the number of a friend of mine. A psychologist. She works with young adults.” Illya tensed up as Dr. Hoffman put the piece of paper onto his lap. “Give her a call. When you’re ready.”
And that was the problem, Illya thought as he practically ran out of the doctor’s office and to Oleg in the car. He would never be ready.
“You’re looking grumpier than usual.”
Illya grunted and stubbed out his cigarette before he turned to face Gaby. She was bundled in a peacoat with a navy blue nautical sailor-style dress underneath, with matching pearl earrings studded in her ears. She looked like a darling of the sixties or the fifties. Illya was a bit muddled this morning and his fashion history escaped him. Shit, maybe it was the forties style he was thinking…
“Illya!” Gaby said and he snapped out of his own head and looked at her.
“I am fine,” he responded, pushing past her and making his way into their large and underfunded school. God, he hated this place.
“That is what you said last time something happened with your uncle. And I only found out about it a week later when you refused to come out of the bathroom!” she squawked, following him in. Illya rolled his eyes and bent his head to look down at her. Her head barely brushed his shoulder, she was so small.
“This has nothing to do with Oleg,” Illya insisted. At her slit-eyed gaze, he sighed. “Mostly is doctor.”
“What happened with your doctor?” she asked, talking him by the wrist and dragging him into the seat next to her in their first class or the day. Ah, history. Maybe this would prompt the correct fashion era Illya had been trying to pinpoint in his mind.
“More medication,” he mumbled and the soft look of pity on Gaby’s face cut right through him. He knew she didn’t mean it the way he took it, but it still hurt. He should not be pitied. Illya hunkered down in his chair, trying to make himself look smaller than he was. He knew it looked foolish, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much. He just needed to be small. Just for right now.
“Was it because of Saturday?” Gaby asked, a gentle hand on his hunched shoulder. Illya didn’t want to think about Saturday, but images came unbidden into his mind. He clenched his teeth, thought about the Ativan in his backpack, the Ativan he was too afraid to take. There was a breathing exercise Dr. Hoffman had suggested to him and he did it now, breathing in for a count of three, holding his breath for a count of three, and then exhaling for a count of three. He did it three times before he could unclench his jaw and hands.
“Possibly Saturday,” Illya conceded. When he looked to the side, Gaby was sitting still at her desk, face oddly blank.
“Possibly, you say,” she responded with a snort. Her hand slid down his back and she finally took it back into her lap. “Illya, you need to accept the things that happen as they are. Do not ignore connections of things that bother you and how they affect you afterward. It helps no one.”
“You do not know,” Illya struggled to say. She didn’t know how he hadn’t been able to sleep for days at a time back in Russia due to night terrors about his parents. She didn’t know how Oleg ignored him if he was acting off, had made it clear that if Illya couldn’t control himself and his outbursts of anger and emotion there would be consequences to pay. She didn’t know what it was like to lose control of your body, to have gaps in your memory, to go so numb that you start to fear you can’t feel anything so you hack away at yourself and –
“Illya?”
“Fine. I am fine,” he grated out. “Talk. About anything. Please,” he asked. Anything to distract him.
Gaby knew what was happening and obliged him. “So, my foster dad’s sister just moved to town with her new husband and her son from her previous marriage,” she started and Illya bit back a mix between sob and laughter at how much of a soap opera her life sometimes sounded. “So, I got a foster cousin and dad got to see his sister after almost a decade of talking every week on the phone or Skype.” She shrugged and Illya started to match his breathing to hers, calming himself inch by painstaking inch. “I’ve talked to her son a few times over the years before this. He’s funny. Bit of a flirter, if you know what I mean. But he’s pretty.”
That caught Illya’s attention. “Pretty?” He wondered if she could hear the disbelief in his voice.
“Yes, pretty,” Gaby laughed. “His face is all angles and he’s pasty white with inky black hair. Big blue eyes pop, like this.” She patted his arm so he would look at her, and then framed her eyes with her hands like binoculars, before opening her eyes as wide as possible and then fanning her fingers out from the sides of her head in a mock firework explosion. “Beautiful.” She giggled.
“I doubt he is that attractive, Gaby,” Illya said with a frown.
“Er ist sehr schön. Ich verspreche es dir,” Gaby said with another laugh.
“What does this matter to me?” Illya grumbled.
“Why does this matter to me,” Gaby corrected casually. “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it does. You can meet him and tell me.” She nudged him and winked. “Party this weekend at the Vinciguerra’s. You know how great Alexander’s parties are.”
“And you know his girlfriend will kill you if she sees you with him. Again,” Illya reminded her, feeling better. He could breathe now and he saw that Gaby realized he was doing better as well.
“Victoria can try, but she’s no match for my own Russian bodyguard, now is she?” Gaby said playfully, poking Illya in the side, where she knew he was particularly ticklish. Instead of laughing like a normal human being, Illya growled and twisted away from her.
“I don’t know what bodyguard is this, but he has my condolences,” Illya responded.
“Oh Illya, don’t put up that front. You’re going and you know you would not let her do anything to me,” Gaby goaded and wasn’t that the truth? Illya remembered, back in his first year in this school and this country, meeting Gaby. She had been just as small as she was now, but thinner and awkwardly claiming her teenage body with all the grace of a newborn foal walking in its first iron shoes. He had still thought her beautiful. For one month they had become friends, German the only language they shared as he learned English over Russian and she helped, her British guardian teaching her the language when she went into his care at the age of six. For a month after that, they briefly dated, awkward kisses as he bent down and she stood on her tip-toes, hushed endearments exchanged in German in dark corners of the school. For a month after that, they broke up and avoided each other like the plague, both having personal issues that were getting in the way of what they could be. The month after, they had collided in school and Gaby had made a show of dragging Illya into one of the gender neutral restrooms for a stern talking to. When they emerged hours later at the end of the day, they were thick as thieves and once again the best of friends, putting their past to bed and finding piece in the choices they had made.
Now, Illya was sure she was his best friend. He would rather have no one else by his side as he bitched and complained about the world they lived in.
Thinking she had won her argument, Gaby smiled and rolled her eyes as their teacher finally walked in, beginning the lesson without a look to the students, fumbling his first words and mixing up dates as they pertained to the history of the Cold War. Illya and Gaby shared a look and she ducked her head to hide her laughter.
“This man cannot teach,” Illya said with a shake of his head. “And I have already learned this in Russian schools.” He frowned as he looked at what was being written on the board. “That is not Russian way.”
“Welcome to America, comrade,” Gaby teased and Illya was finally able to breathe easy. Today would be a good day.
As long as he somehow got Gaby to forget about that stupid party.
Which, of course, didn’t actually happen.
Friday came around and there Gaby was at his front door with a large smile on her face as he tried not to groan. He had been playing a game of chess, on his own, when the doorbell had rung and he had been ordered by Oleg to check who was at their house this late at night. Illya had learned not to refuse his uncle, so he had gone. But this…
“Go home, Little Chop Shop Girl,” Illya growled, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“I tell you about my summer job as a mechanic once and the nick-name sticks,” she griped, crossing her arms on her chest. Her bracelets dangled and caused Illya to look up and take her outfit into account. Her dress was short and bright orange trimmed in white, her bangles and earrings fitting it all perfectly. The small white hat on her head brought the entire out fit together and matched her shoes. Illya sometimes was a bit jealous of her sense of style. He had given her pointers once or twice when they first met, but by the time they were back in the best friend stage of their relationship, she had far surpassed him in terms of fashion sense. He liked to think he contributed a bit, but whenever he suggested it, she laughed in his face.
“Yes, but you also mention that you want to be mechanic as adult job. Is not lucrative business,” Illya said in response.
“I’ll make it lucrative,” she insisted. “Now, let’s go. You’re not going out like that.”
“I’m not going out. At all,” Illya said, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Says who?” Gaby snapped.
“Oleg,” Illya said with a shrug, secretly happy that he didn’t even ask but knew it was a strong enough argument as opposed to his actual, truthful I don’t want to go excuse.
“You actually asked Oleg?” Gaby said in surprise. And there went his excuse.
“Ah, well, not technically. But – but I don’t have to! I know what he will say.”
“What who will say about what, Kuryakin?” Illya cringed at the voice of his uncle behind him. Fuck.
“I was asking Illya to accompany me to student function,” Gaby began, lying through her teeth so perfectly and sweetly that Illya was surprised her foster father let her leave the house in the morning. “Our conservative group at school is arguing that the liberals in town have taken us down, mainly through the use of the rising capitalistic market.” She looked at Illya with wide eyes. “I don’t want to go alone. Who knows what they’ll do to an unarmed, innocent woman in the crowd?” Illya resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not only could Gaby fire a gun perfectly, but she was also a black belt in Shatokan Karate. What a liar.
“Illya,” Oleg snapped. “You would leave a smart, young woman alone to that?”
“Well, sir, she-”
“And for such a noble cause? You could do well to learn something from these anti-liberal groups at your school. Get changed. Go.” And with that, he pointed a hand up the stairs to where Illya’s room was. Illya wanted to argue, but Oleg had that look on his face, the one that actually scared Illya to bits, so he nodded and did as he was bid. He threw on a black turtle neck with grey pants and black boots. As a second thought, he put his hat on and adjusted his father’s watch strap around his wrist. He refused to go anywhere without it. With one last turn of regret around his room, Illya snatched his brown coat off his desk where he had been planning to read The Brothers Karamazov in its original Russian form for fun tonight when he had been planning on going to bed. Never mind that now.
By the time he made it downstairs, Gaby had charmed Oleg with her native German speech, Oleg responding in kind. He looked up to where Illya was coming down the stairs and nodded in satisfaction.
“Die Kinder der Zukunft,” he said with a hint of pride. God, Illya thought. He was acting like they were baby communists in the making. Just the thought made Illya feel wrong and gross, so with a smile and a polite word or two, he dismissed both himself and Gaby, and practically ran them both outside to his car.
“Ich hasse dich,” he hissed as they got into the car. He grit his teeth and stomped on the gas pedal as he pulled out of the driveway.
Beside him, Gaby laughed without a care in the world and clapped her hands. “I should be a spy!”
With a groan, Illya rolled his eyes, his irritation subsiding. “You do that.”
This was why he hated parties. It was just a bunch of under-21s getting drunk off of cheap booze and alternately vomiting and having sex in weird places. On the wall beside him, two people fitting this description were currently in the latter stage, dry humping each other as hard as they could with red solo cups full of whatever cheap shit Vinciguerra had bought this time spilling out. Illya vacated the space before someone spilled something on his coat and he punched them in the throat.
At the thought he took in a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. He’d find Gaby and check in with her, see how much longer she wanted to stay here or if she had a ride back. Didn’t she say her cousin was coming?
He found her sitting on the stairs with Alexander Vinciguerra’s mouth on her neck. With a roll of his eyes in frustration that had Illya thinking his eyes would get stuck like that someday with the amount of rolling they did, he yanked the boy off of his best friend and dropped him to the side of the stairs. Vinciguerra spluttered in irritation and Gaby looked at him with vindication. Illya shrugged.
“When do you want to leave?” he asked, unbothered by the severe wave of Italian swearing behind him.
“We’ve been here an hour,” she complained, worrying at the hickey on her neck with her fingers. Illya brushed her hand away and shook his head. She pouted. “And anyways, my cousin is here already. I can leave with him.”
“I have not seen him,” Illya said with a frown.
“I have not introduced you,” Gaby pointed out. “Now,” she said, standing and making her way around Illya to Alexander. “Go away. My cousin has wandered somewhere on the second floor. They’re playing… party games, ich weiβ es nicht. Aber, geh einfach!” She shoved Illya away, apologizing to Alexander before waving Illya off. He huffed in annoyance but followed her directions, trudging up the stairs with a scowl on his face that sent several making-out couples running. Good, he thought. He mostly wanted to see this boy for Gaby’s sake and then leave. He had no desire to be here in the first place.
Illya found them by literally walking in on several couples having sex, one group of boys fishbowling in a bedroom, and then finally refusing to knock as he busted into the last room only to find several people sitting in a circle talking with a soda bottle in the middle of them. Right as he was noticed, two girls fell out of the closet everyone was sitting in front of, giggling with their lipstick smeared across their lips and cheeks, skirts askew, and hair in tangled nests. Everyone started cheering and Illya’s stomach dropped. This was bad. He needed to leave, he needed to –
“Look, another player to join the game! Make room for him,” someone said. Another person scooted over and still another person got up and shoved Illya in, slamming the door shut behind him. “You know how to play?” the random kid said and Illya shook his head. This was bad. His heart was hammering in his chest and he was sweating though to his coat in fear and apprehension. “We spin the bottle. Whoever the ends land on gets locked in the closet for seven minutes. Hence the name-”
“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” the room screamed in unison, most of the participants too drunk to care how loud they were being. The noise hurt Illya’s ears and he felt his stomach lurch. Maybe he should just leave; this really wasn’t his scene. But everyone had already sat down and closed the circle around him, and someone turned up the obnoxious music so no one would hear him trying to excuse himself, so he stayed seated, his large body scrunched up in the small space he was given. All he had to do was wait for the damn bottle to stop spinning and when the two unlucky people got up, he’d dash out as new space was made and everyone else’s attention was diverted.
It was a sound plan, he thought. It really was. That is, until the bottle stopped spinning and the lip of it was facing Illya. He closed his eyes and sighed in defeat. Of course it was.
The room erupted into drunken laughter and Illya looked up to see who his closet-mate would be, but the other teenager was already being propelled by a group into the closet and in second, another group was doing the same to him. Illya fisted his hands and kept them close to his body as not to hit anyone on impulse and break an unassuming nose. God, this was all types of terrible.
Illya braces himself for his landing among shoes and fallen clothes, colliding with another warm body. Definitely male, his mind supplied as his face was pressed up against a flat chest. Then again, it could be a particularly flat chested girl. Or maybe they were androgynous? Illya’s mind spun before he heard a soft, deep voice by his ear.
“You alright there, Peril?”
Definitely a boy, he decided.
“Do not call me that,” Illya snarled, pulling away and scrubbing at his neck where the other boy’s breath had been blowing across his skin. “What is the point of this? I see nothing.” It was true; Illya could only see a vague outline of the boy in the darkness. A coat brushed his head and Illya jumped, his back hitting the wall with a thud. Shit. The closet was far too small for his tastes. The last time he had been in something this small, he had been hiding and thought his next breath was going to be his last…
“Hey, Peril, you alright there? It’s just a game. I’m not going to do anything that you don’t want me to,” the annoying boy continued and Illya just needed a second of silence, for the boy to get away from him before Illya accidentally hurt him because the scent of his cologne was so comforting and it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. He was shaking. “Peril?”
“Not. Not-my my name,” Illya growled, trying to stop his shaking. Oh god it was so small in here, oh god they were going to come for him like they came for his father and not even Oleg could keep them away.
“I got that, but I don’t know you’re actual name and you’re shaking like a leaf. A giant, very large leaf, but a leaf nonetheless. The bigness and the Russian accent are the Peril part, not the leaf. Just to clarify.” A gentle hand went to his back and rubbed softly. It helped. The boy started taking deep breaths. Illya instinctively matched up his breathing to the other boy’s. “There we go, Peril. There we go. Gosh, didn’t think I’d ever be playing this stupid game again. But drunk high school seniors are full of stupid surprises, huh?” He was talking, Illya realized, talking to take his mind off of the panic. “It was obviously the worst idea to come here. But no one listens to me.”
“Me too,” Illya agreed, his breaths shuddering into something normal. The tightness in his chest is dissipating. Thank God.
“Time’s almost up, by the way,” the boy said and was that something suggestive in his voice?
“Hold horses, Cowboy,” Illya muttered, starting to pull away from the once-comforting hand.
“Hey, hey. I wasn’t suggesting anything like that,” Cowboy said and Illya rolled his eyes in the dark, doubting it completely. “Though I do wonder why you’re here at the party if you agreed that coming was a mistake.”
“Best friend dragged me,” Illya admitted as the loud and drunken teenagers started the countdown from ten outside the closet doors.
“Ah. I know that feeling,” Cowboy laughed and it sounded gorgeous all of a sudden, against the drunken yells and loud pop music, the breaking glasses and stupid giggles, this boy’s laugh was charming and honest.
The doors opened and the light hit him in the face. Illya squinted into it and took the proffered hand from his left, letting Cowboy yank him to his feet. He still couldn’t see the boy’s face, but he followed him out of the line of clothes and shoes into the hot bedroom where those same fools that dragged him in were hooting and hollering. Illya imagined how they looked: clothes rumpled from grasping at each other in fear and comfort, not the explicit sexual actions these people probably assumed.
“Details!” someone yelled. Illya barred his teeth at the room at large.
“Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” Cowboy responded, and before anyone could squeeze the details out of them, he dragged Illya to the door and down the stairs until they hit the kitchen. Illya let out a sigh of relief about to turn the boy in front of him around for a good look at the face that matched that beautiful voice when he heard a snicker behind him and felt his hand start to shake. Shit. Had he taken all of his medication yet today?
“Look at the couple of faggots. Don’t get why Alex lets them come to these,” a voice said from behind them. Illya let go of Cowboy’s hand and turned to face Lippi, Alexander Vinciguerra’s rich, spoiled cousin. He was high out of his mind, his eyes blood shot and glazed over. Behind him, two of his friends giggled to themselves uncontrollably. Illya saw red.
“Uh, Peril?” came a voice from behind him. “Maybe not the best course of action and oh, look at that, your fist is swinging anyway. Shit.” The last part was said as Lippi hit the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor, painting the delicate patterns with red.
“Puta!” one of his friends yelled and ran bodily into Illya, both boys yelling. Illya got a fist to the eye and then the other friend came and grabbed him by the wrist to yank him away. But he was too close to Illya’s father’s watch and the boy must have seen something in Illya’s face because he looked at the watch and yanked it from Illya’s wrist with a smile. Illya lost it. The boy on top of him flew into the counter and the one with his watch ran in fear, hand tightened around the strap as he disappeared around a corner. Illya made to run after him, but a hand to his forearm restrained him.
“Hey! The cops got called, we need to leave.” Illya made to go after Lippi’s friend. “Peril, let’s go!” God, this annoying boy was right. And yet… his father’s watch. God, how had he just let it go like that? Was he that worthless and incompetent? He didn’t even need Oleg to tell him that now. Fuck, fuck, fuck –
“Let’s go!” Cowboy yelled and Illya shook himself out of it, moved his grip to Cowboy’s wrist and dragged him in the direction of his car, past screaming, inebriated teens. He hoped Gaby would be okay; after all, she said her cousin had come with her, so she could just safely leave with him. He had his hands full with this boy who had blatantly lied to everyone in order to keep Illya’s freak out private and had warned him about the cops. He stopped by his car, yelled for the boy to go around, and then unlocked the doors. Illya practically threw himself inside, slammed his door and started the car. They were at the end of the street just as sirens and police lights lit up the neighborhood. Beside him, his tag-along whooped with joy and congratulated him on his driving skills. Illya was having none of it. They just needed to safely get away. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a fast-food restaurant parking lot and let out a sigh of relief. No one had followed them and now, Illya could really sit down and catch his breath, look at his naked wrist and try not to let his heart wrench itself out of his chest.
“Well that was a wild ride.” Illya’s head snapped up in surprise. He had almost forgotten his passenger. He turned to snap something rude at the boy but his tongue tied itself into knots and his stomach followed suit with nerves. He had the prettiest face Illya had ever seen, with sweeping eyelashes framing bright blue eyes, dark hair curling into a cowlick and falling into his eyes. When he smiled at Illya, it accentuated his cheekbones and the sharp line of his stubbled jaw. Oh no, Illya thought. He’s hot. “Alright there, Peril? You might catch flies.” Illya realized his mouth was hanging open and heard his teeth clack against each other as he snapped his mouth shut.
“Shut up, Cowboy,” Illya growled, no heat behind it. The boy laughed and his eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” Illya said stiltedly. “For heads up.”
“Well, I wasn’t about to get arrested either,” the boy said and Illya felt his chest constrict. So it had only been to save his own hide, huh? He shouldn’t be surprised. Americans. If it hadn’t been for the Russian government hating his family, Illya is sure Oleg would never have moved them here.
“Good to know that’s all it was,” Illya muttered and flinched when a hand appeared on his forearm.
“I also didn’t want someone as cute as you getting locked up. Though, it wouldn’t be so bad if I got locked up with you,” the boy said, batting those eyelashes. A serial flirter, great, Illya thought. He wondered how many people the boy had hit on that night. What number was Illya, thirty-seven?
“Can you get home from here? I need to go back and get my watch,” Illya said, moving on to what really mattered. He had to sneak back there and see if Lippi’s friend was still hanging around. Then he’d wring the boy’s neck and take his father’s watch back, putting it back on his wrist where it belonged.
“I’m sorry, what?” the boy said, wide eyes getting even wider.
“My watch. It was my father’s watch. He is dead. I want it back. Now,” Illya grunted, pointing to his bare wrist. “Little shit Italian boy took it.”
“Yes, I saw. But that place is crawling with cops and I’m pretty sure that slimy little shit got away with the rest of the Vinciguerra posse. Maybe we should forget about the watch for now. It’s just a watch.”
Illya grit his teeth and took in a deep breath. “My father’s watch,” Illya corrected.
“Regardless,” he started, but Illya cut him off.
“Out of my car, American. Now.” He leaned over Cowboy’s body and opened the door. “You can walk. I am wasting time with you.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly, as your people would say,” Illya responded trying to keep his temper in check. “Goodbye, Cowboy.”
“This… I can’t believe this,” he said but he did get out of the car. Illya shut the door and ignored the look of hurt on the face of a boy he barely knew and shouldn’t care about. But the way he had been gentle with Illya when he’d been panicking, on the border of a full blown attack, how he had gotten Illya out of that room before anyone could pressure them into talking, how he had respected Illya’s space and body…
“No,” Illya muttered to himself, putting his car into gear and resisting looking into the rearview mirror to where the boy was standing in a rumpled button down and khakis. It started to rain. Illya grit his teeth. He would be strong. He would not look back. He would drive back to the party and see if he could find Lippi’s gang and his father’s watch. That was what was important. Not some obnoxious American boy he was leaving in the rain.
Fuck.
By the time Illya had turned around and went back to the parking lot, Cowboy was gone. And by the time he had doubled back to the Vinciguerra household, no one was there. He’d lost the only good two things he’d had in a while in one night. Perfect.
He was never going to a party again.
“I am never going to party with you. Ever again,” were the first words out of Illya’s mouth when he saw Gaby at school on Monday.
“You too?” she griped. “Come on.”
“Who else will not go? Is smart,” Illya said, sitting by her desk in their history class. Their teacher was late again, thank goodness.
“My cousin, Napoleon. He said he was hijacked into playing some stupid game, witnessed a fight and then got ditched when we all ran from the police,” she said with a shrug. “Sounds fun to me, but he was butt-hurt. I feel like something else happened but he won’t talk about it.”
“He is smart not to tell you. You would just laugh,” Illya said with a sigh. “It was horrible night. I was also playing stupid games against my want. I punched Lippi and got into fight with his puppies. One stole my father’s watch.”
Gaby gasped at that. “Oh, Illya…”
“I will get it back,” he snarled under his breath. “And then break the boy’s fingers.”
“That won’t help,” Gaby said even as she groaned a bit and put her head down. There were hickeys lacing her throat in a necklace and her eyes were bloodshot from her hangover. The weekend hadn’t helped her in the least. Illya grimaced. He didn’t envy her, not one bit. “Did you have any kind of fun?” she finally asked. Immediately, Cowboy popped into mind and before Illya could hide the spark in his eye at the thought, Gaby had latched on. “Oooh, you did. Who was it?”
“No one,” Illya grumbled. “Is no one. Stranger I will never see again. And nothing happened,” he insisted.
“Sure,” Gaby said slyly. “Nothing happened. You wouldn’t be so upset about it, if that was the case.”
“The case is that my father’s watch is gone,” Illya said with a huff. “That is what the case is.”
“You’ll get it back,” Gaby said with a pat to his arm. “I promise.”
“You promised your cousin would be pretty as well,” Illya reminded. “Look how that turned out. I didn't even meet him. And the party was terrible.”
“Oh hush.”
“No, I’m going to have to agree. That party was the worst. I’m sure Peril here would agree with me. Or has been, I think.” Illya froze at the sound of that voice coming from behind him. No. This wasn’t possible. It had just been a random boy he was supposed to never see again. That was why he had driven away, because they could never get to know each other anyway and his father’s watch was at stake. Right?
“Napoleon,” Gaby said. “You know Illya?” Illya turned around and there he was. Those big blue eyes and that hair, those cheekbones and that jaw. Shit. Illya was so fucked. And wait a minute, had Gaby just said that this was Napoleon? Her cousin Napoleon? Fuck.
“Oh, I do,” Napoleon said, straightening out the lapels of his blazer. He looked sharp and sleek, beautiful in a way that was dangerous. Illya felt his face heat at that beauty, at the help Napoleon had offered him the other night. “Long time no see, Peril. Looks like you got home in the rain alright.” His gaze flicked to Illya’s still-bare wrist. “No luck with the watch? Shame.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. An eyebrow went up and Napoleon looked none too pleased.
“Oh no,” Gaby said as it dawned on her and Illya cringed. “He’s the boy you played Seven Minutes In Heaven with? He’s the one who left you out in the rain?” She looked at Illya who was honestly trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Gaby smacked him in the arm. He looked at her in shock. “Illya! You left my cousin in a strange city alone in the middle of the night in the rain?” She sounded irked. And then she looked at the disgruntled Napoleon, who looked like he very much wanted to argue that he wasn’t a damsel in distress, and she burst out into laughter.
“Now hold on just a second,” Napoleon started, and Illya stood up with him to yell at Gaby some more, but just then, their teacher came in and started writing on the board without a care in the world. Napoleon and Illya shared a look of confusion as the man kept writing, regardless that two of his students looked hostile and were the only one’s standing.
“Gentlemen,” he said without looking behind him. “Is there a problem?” Before anyone could answer, he responded, “Because I don’t care. Now. Today we continue with the tensions between Britain, Russia, and the United States on page…”
Napoleon grumbled and fell in the seat to Illya’s other side, not making eye contact with him, a muscle jumping in his beautifully sculpted jaw. To Illya’s other side, Gaby sat and tried not to laugh too loudly.
"I told you he was pretty," Gaby whispered and Illya felt his neck heat. Shit. Just how much did Napoleon tell her?
Illya took in a deep breath, let it out, and dropped into his seat between the two of them. God, he hoped history wouldn’t drag today.