Chapter Text
“Napoleon, good to see you. It’s been a little while.”
It’s true. The hockey season has ramped up with both trainings, games and various events, certainly now that Illya decided to put his efforts into building a hockey-specific support group instead of burdening that responsibility himself. Raymond and his team have already made sure that the proceeds of Making Space will be allocated specifically to such projects, instead of going into the general pot.
Napoleon makes sure at least one of the other players tags along to these events. Both out of PR pressure to show their support, and because he knows that Illya doesn’t like to be alone with those things. Blake has been an absolute blessing with the younger queer kids they’ve met, and surprisingly Sergei seems one of the more eager volunteers.
Napoleon smiles at Sofia and sits down. “Yes, I haven’t had much free time lately.”
“This isn’t hindering you?” Sofia asks. “If scheduling is an issue we can look for a more flexible approach, I can free up space on other days or we can make a telephone appointment.”
“No, I haven’t had as much of a need,” Napoleon says honestly. “There have been developments.”
Napoleon gives her a quick run down of the last few weeks— from the surprising confession to the slow development of their relationship. And that’s what he can call it— a relationship. Illya Kuryakin is his boyfriend, and has been for the last three weeks.
“Gaby knows,” Napoleon tells Sofia before she can ask. “I’ve called Raymond about it too. He’s invited us all up to his place for Christmas. Gaby is joining too, now that her girlfriend is gone, so I hope that that lessens the pressure a little for Illya.”
“Do you feel like such an event is too soon?” Sofia asks. “You seem to imply so.”
Napoleon shrugs, and leans back into his chair. “I think some people might see it that way, but I don’t think so. Raymond is important to me but I don’t think it has the same cultural markers as meeting my parents would be, if they were alive. I’m just eager for them to meet, I guess.”
“That’s understandable,” Sofia says, and makes a note. “It has been quite the eventful time for you and I sense that you’ve been happy, but have you had any changes with the fear of losing such happiness? Last time we saw each other that was your major issue.”
Napoleon nods, and takes a moment to consider his words. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said. I talked about it with Illya too. We’ve had many conversations actually. I wanted to make sure we didn’t go in blind on all of this. Illya has been on the periphery of my recovery process for a long time but now that he’s actually involved with me, I think that it’s important he knows where I’m coming from.”
“That is a big step forward for you, Napoleon.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Napoleon says, he puts his hand to the back of his neck and lowers his eyes a little. A soft chuckle slips out of him, and he feels a blush blooming on his cheeks as he says, “ Just— I trust him. I trust him to understand or at least try to. I think that’s what I missed when I was worrying so much about being in love with him— the way he already was a partner to me, albeit in a more platonic context. We’d been growning closer together despite all my worries, almost without noticing. We joke about it, that we’ve been dating for an undefinable amount of months already but were just too stupid to put a word to it.”
Sofia laughs. “I’m glad to hear that. Where are your anxiety levels right now? What worries you most?”
“I think I’m always going to be afraid of doing something to sabotage the life I have now. But it’s background noise, something that doesn’t inhibit me much and when it does I know how to handle it. I think what made those fears flare up recently was the uncertainty— my mind could run away with me on catastrophically scenarios that only got worse and worse. The clarity I have now makes it easier to see those imaginations as false, and if I really aren’t sure I can check with Illya. Test my assumptions against the real thing, you know?”
Sofia nods. She seems, strangely proud, like he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear. “That sounds like really healthy communication. I believe it will help the both of you, not only because of your anxiety but just the relationship in general. There are a lot of couples in my personal circles that I wish learned the importance of talking out assumptions, instead of letting them fester.”
“Yeah, it’s been… pretty easy so far. I think that’s also something that scares me. On bad days I’m just waiting for it to explode in my face— but I talked to Illya about that too, and he said something I really like.” Napoleon smiles as he remembers the moment, the way Illya had looked at him so earnestly. “He said that we’re not made of dynamite. That if there is something going wrong it won’t just suddenly destroy all we have. We can notice it before it cripples us, address the injury before we have to be benched for months. “
Sofia raises her eyebrows, her lips twitch. “Oh I like that one, I might steal it from him some day.”
“He’ll be smug about that.”
“It’s truly a really good point,” Sofia says, nodding to herself. “People who deal with anxious thoughts tend to imagine potential coming situations as being completely out of their control. This can be a self fulfilling prophecy— where the anxious person notices a red flag but instead of addressing it, escalate the situation by remaining passive, or escaping the situation. It’s good that Illya picked up on this, and gave you a perspective that puts control back into your hands— for the both of you.”
“Yeah, I think that’s exactly why I liked it so much,” Napoleon says, the pieces falling together as he speaks. “It reminds me that things don’t just happen to me, but happen with me in some way. Either because of my actions or my inactions, I might not have complete control of any situation, but not having the total control doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”
“Yes, I agree,” Sofia says, her head tilting to the side as she lets a silence fall. Napoleon appreciates the pause. He’d been kind of running through all his thoughts at high speed, and only realises he needed a moment of quiet when she gave him one. A minute or so passes, and Napoleon takes a breath. By the time Sofia speaks up again, he’s ready to handle her gently asked question.
“So, now that you know you are at least partly responsible for your upcoming situations, how does that make you feel?”
“I think it stresses me out less than I thought it would. We’ve had a good start. There isn’t something I feel ashamed about, something I need to hide. This responsibility doesn’t feel like something I’ll inevitably fail at— it feels the same as when I realised that it was my own responsibility to push myself out of my depression,” Napoleon tells her. His mind flashes through all the conversations Illya and him have had, including the first disastrous one at the bar, and finally sees how far they’ve come. How far he has come.
“It’s my own responsibility to take care of myself,” he continues, “to make myself as happy as I can, and this relationship is now just a part of that. Something I have to work on, something that could fail but doesn’t have to— and more importantly, something that could be recovered if it does.”
Sofia smiles wider than she usually does. “That’s such a good statement, and indicative on how much you have grown these last years.”
Napoleon laughs a little, “I think I just realised that. Been a long time coming. There are still things I need to work on, but yeah, I’ve been doing much better.”
Sofia hums in agreement. “One the stressors with Illya was the idea that he holds so much of your happiness. This happiness has expanded, so has this worsens the power you think he has over you as well?”
Napoleon gives himself a pause this time, considering the question in all perspectives. He doesn’t know how long he takes to think but Sofia doesn’t push him. At some point he just opens his mouth and it all comes streaming out in one go.
“No, I don’t think so. Of course the idea of this relationship ending at any point in the future will be a huge blow to me, but I think that if the worst happened, I’d be able to deal with it better than I thought.
I was scared of losing the progress I had, and I kind of put Illya unfairly on the pedestal for all that happiness. I’m happy because of Illya, but I’m also just happy because of myself. I listen to myself better, I know my own boundaries better. I let myself be honest to the people around me. Breaking up will certainly rock my stability for some time, but I’ve dragged myself back to shore once, I think I can do it again.”
Napoleon takes a deep breath at the end— he feels strangely light somehow. He reflects on everything he’d said and realises he believes every single word of it. A wave of emotion crashes over him and he smiles.
He notices Sofia watching him patiently and he nods at her. “You can continue, it was good to get all that out, but I know you still have some questions.”
Sofia nods back, “On the risk of sounding repetitive, you’ve again shown a lot of progress by saying all that. We might get back to it later, but I don’t have much to add. So, to continue: I assume you’ve spoken about the issue of publicising the relationship?”
“Yeah, for now we’ve decided to keep it to close friends until Christmas at least. I don’t like keeping it from the team, but it does give us some breathing space during hockey. I love the guys but them knowing would probably make me hyper aware of our interactions on ice.”
“Secrecy doesn’t?”
“No, not anymore. We decided that if it leaks it leaks, we’re going to try to keep it between us until we’re ready for it, but you can never predict when a paparazzi pops up at the wrong moment. We find dealing with that fall out preferable than devolving into paranoia about how close we’re allowed to stand.”
Sofia sets her notebook aside and stands to grab a mug, she sends Napoleon a questioning look and he nods. She goes through the motions of making tea for them both, and Napoleon realises that this might be her way to breathe space into her thoughts. Something physical to do while her mind gets everything in line.
“I’ve only handled cases where the secrecy of a relationship is for an interpersonal reason,” she begins once the boiler turns off again. “ a disapproving parent, for example. But I think secret relationships for any reason tend to fail because of that paranoia— the fear of being found out overshadows the positive relationship. But you’ve communicated that the reveal isn’t the end of the world. And you’ve already got a mental map of your relationship together with the unexpected reveal, many couples try not to think about the worst case scenario until it happens, leaving them completely unprepared when it does.”
She reaches towards him with the mug and Napoleon carefully takes it between his hands. He smiles at her in thanks.
“Yeah we’ve talked about it. I talked it through with Raymond too. There aren’t any rules against us being in a relationship— either because they forgot that that was an option or because they don’t care, we don’t know. But that doesn’t mean they won’t push against us.” Napoleon pauses to take a sip of the tea, the water almost burning his tongue. “But— Illya’s coming out is a boon in this respect: it would look really bad on management not to support the first open relationship of the NHL, certainly of the player they’ve been flaunting about to prove how accepting they are.”
Sofia sits back down again. “So where lies the potential problem?”
“The only thing that might cause issues is my captaincy,” Napoleon says honestly. “But if worst comes to worst I’ll step down.”
Sofia raises an eyebrow. “You’ll step down from being a captain?”
“Yes. I don’t think they want that to happen, so it might shock them back to their senses and I might not even need to go through with it. But if it happens, I’ll be prepared for it. I’ve realised some things lately.”
Sofia nods encouragingly.
“I don’t need captaincy to enjoy hockey,” Napoleon says in a rush. “It was pushed on me in circumstances and I accepted because it was something people seemed to expect from me. It’s been important as a motivation, but I don’t need it as much as I did. Stepping down would give me more free time. I’ll still have hockey. I’ll still have the team. I’ll still have Gaby. I’ll have Illya. It wouldn’t feel like a failure, to give it up.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
Napoleon chuckles. “You’ve taught me that having mental options can lessen anxiety about events.”
“And has it?”
“Yes. It has. It took a bit to convince Illya I wouldn’t be sacrificing anything for him, but I think he understands now. I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be lingering guilt.”
“I’m becoming unnecessary here,” Sofia jokes, smiling. “You’re telling me how you already solved a problem before you even needed to mention it here.”
“Like I said,” Napoleon says with a smile of his own. “It’s been easier lately.”
“Due to Illya?”
“No— or… not directly. I just have mental space to think through my actions because I’m not stressing out about other things so much. I think I didn’t realise how much my stress about keeping secrets was using up my mental capacities. I might have resolved it much earlier, if I’d known that beforehand.”
“It’s a good lesson to remember.”
“I will.”
Sofia puts her mug away and smiles. “We’re reaching the end of this session. I’d advice not to stop cold turkey, I have a certain list of things I want to tick off before letting a patient go, and gradually lessening appointments is a part of this process.”
Napoleon stills, and then frowns. “You really think I’m ready to finish therapy?”
“I think that you’ve demonstrated you have a very good grip on the tools you’ve learned with me, and your expectations of yourself are very realistic. I think it’s a good idea to consider using these tools independently.” Sofia smiles and adds gently. “You’ve done well, Napoleon. I have complete trust in you.”
Napoleon shakes his head a little— not disagreeing, just, disbelieving. “Wow.”
“I’ll send you a more specific schedule of different dates by email, but I would estimate our last appointment could be about four months from now, with a two month break before it. So you have an opportunity to try out your skill set while knowing you’ll not completely on your own yet.
“That sounds good actually. Gives me some time to get used to the idea.” Napoleon chuckles and takes a breath. “The recovery seemed so endless that I’ve never really envisioned stopping completely.”
“Yes, definitely give yourself some time to process.” Sofia pauses for a moment, not hesitating— just, weighing her words very carefully: “I never had doubts that the state you were in when you met me, was temporary. It could have been another year and I still would have believed that. The progress you make is noticeable despite what the world throws at you. Of course, if there is ever a mental dip you have trouble coming out of yourself, you’re always welcome to make another appointment. Both for only once or another longer tract. Remember that asking for help is never a failure, and that strength is not found in isolation.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Good,” Sofia says warmly, “Then until next time.”
“Thank you.”
—————
It’s not that they hide it—but they do keep it to themselves, at least for a little while.
Napoleon likes the quiet. He likes the idea that they can build themselves up together without anyone poking their nose in. It’s not like people notice any changes, they’ve been close for months now, coming in together for training and leaving together at the end of the day. The team is used to it. It isn’t their business if Illya happens to stay over in the night.
But Napoleon knows that someday soon, some paparazzi will catch them in a park, or exiting the house together. Though they’re both prepared for that if it happens, Napoleon's still rather have the whole thing come out their initiative. They’ve been lucky, ironically, that the hockey media has been busy with a scandal Young had been cooking up— something about drunken brawls and an aggressive encounter with an ex-girlfriend… Napoleon doesn’t feel the need to keep up with Young’s bullshit.
It won’t last though. Eventually the media will realise that the player they’ve been speculating wildly about his sexuality, is rarely seen without the only out NHL player in the league. It shouldn’t be hard to connect the dots.
They’ve talked about it a little, here and there, both conscious of a ‘some day’ but neither sure exactly when that will be. It’s easy to fall back into their own little routine, the outside world a vague concept while huddled together in love-built comfort. Illya has expressed that he doesn’t mind holding back the details of their relationship, but that eventually the team should know. Napoleon agrees with that whole heartedly, and has been mulling over how to bring the news. It would also be his coming out, which is why Illya encourages him to make the decisions in this.
The opportunity comes in twofold:
First, Raymond reiterates his invitation to Christmas to Napoleon, this time including Illya. Napoleon asks Illya, a little hesitantly, but receives nothing but a smile and an embrace, which he easily assumes means ‘yes, of course I’ll meet your Hockey-Parent and the man who’s more a father figure than your dad ever was’, or something along those lines.
Second, both Napoleon and Illya are invited to the Captain’s Rush event. Not as players, this time, but as red carpet guests.
In the soft Sunday evening they find themselves together once more, Napoleon finally finds the words to his tumbling thoughts. He knows how he wants to do this.
And once more, Illya does nothing more than smile, and embrace him.
Which means, he agrees.
—————
The limousine slows down as they enter a street bordered with fences. Crowds of people stand behind them, bulging the advertisement-filled metal plates under the weight of their enthusiasm.
“Gaby, is everything set?”
Gaby snorts— the shaky reception in the area making the noise static and choppy. “I’ve got her number open on my phone and the message copy pasted, and yes— I’ve checked.”
Napoleon takes a breath and nods to himself, anxiety and excitement climbing up his throat with vengeance. “Good… good.”
There is a pause. “You know you can back out still, right?” Gaby says, a little slowly. “Illya won’t mind.”
“No, no—“ Napoleon says. “I want to do this, and besides the team won’t be able to keep their mouth shut for longer than 24 hours.”
“I mean, you’ve got a point there,” Gaby allows.
Napoleon’s phone buzzes in his hand. He checks the message quickly and— “Oh, Illya is half way there. I got to go.”
“Good luck Solo,” Gaby says, “Don’t be too dramatic.”
Napoleon laughs, hearing the tease for what it is— encouragement. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”
He takes a breath, wraps his hand around the door handle, and nods to himself. He’s got this.
The moment the door is open, the noise of hundreds of people washes over him like a tsunami— they’re yelling his name in a cacophony of different voices. Most of them in the high pitched tones of fans, both young and old, but others in the professionally snappish commands of photographers. Napoleon straightens his jacket and poses for a few pictures— less than he normally does, he hears their disgruntlement behind him— and walks over to the fans. He tries not to discriminate, but he finds himself drawn towards the ones holding up the signs that have shown up at their games time and time again.
#thankyouIllya.
One kid, not older than 13, is wearing his teams jersey and proudly shows off his number, the same as Illya’s only printed in rainbow colours. “All of the numbers are like this,” he yells, smiling from ear to ear. “To make people like him feel at home—“ He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip and lowering his eyes, and Napoleon knows that he’s taking too much time here but he can’t leave now.
“To make people like me, feel at home too,” the kid says, eventually, barely audible over the crowds around him. But in that single moment, nothing matters to Napoleon. All the remaining spiralling thoughts about coming out fall away, and he reaches out, takes his hand and says, “That makes me feel at home too, you know.”
The kid gapes, realisation coming over him within seconds, and then Napoleon is called back to the carpet— it is time.
A woman, skin tight dress and bright red lipstick, grabs Napoleon by the wrist and drags him in front of a camera. He would’ve been annoyed, but the tendrils of excitement cover the usual frustration that comes with demanding press.
“We’re live here at the red carpet of the Captain’s Rush, with Napoleon Solo,” the woman says to the camera, and then turns towards Napoleon with a hungry smile. “Napoleon, the past months have been quite a splash for you and your team. There are still many questions unanswered about your speech after Illya Kuryakin’s coming out. Do you have more insight to give the thousands of fans watching this charity event?”
It is clever, Napoleon must admit, to poise such a personal question without actually asking it, while reminding the viewers that this is all for a good cause, which means it would be rude for Napoleon to deflect. Luckily, Napoleon doesn’t really play those games anymore.
“It has certainly been an experience,” Napoleon says warmly, “I’ve learned much about our community, the way the hockey world responded was, let's say, educational. We’ve enjoyed the supporters, and given the detractors as much attention as they deserve. I’ve learned a lot about myself too.”
His phone buzzes against his thigh. Napoleon smiles without meaning to, he knows what that means.
“What did you learn?” The woman says, leaning forward a bit. The glint in her eyes tells Napoleon that she thinks she’s on the edge of something— just about to break him and get the quote that will make her career. She isn’t wrong, persee, it just won’t go her way.
“Excuse me,” Napoleon says, pulling out the phone. “I think that is my boyfriend. He’s a bit late.”
He turns, but slow enough to catch her jaw falling open. The cameraman almost stumbles over a cord, the camera swinging away from Napoleon.
“Keep on him,” the woman hisses, pulled out of her trance as Napoleon walks back toward the beginning of the carpet.
A black limousine pulls up at the curb and Illya steps out.
“Ah, there he is,” Napoleon says loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. He holds up a hand and waves. “Peril! Over here.”
Illya steps out of the limousine, his deep red suit contrasting beautifully with the dark grey tie Napoleon picked out for him. He looks up, eyes meeting Napoleon’s, and for a moment he shakes his head longsufferingly, but he can’t keep up the farse for too long. The moment Napoleon reaches out to give him a casual kiss, he’s smiling.
A hush goes over the crowd at first, but within a split second the tides turn and a roar of noise builds up. Napoleon doesn’t listen to any of it. He doesn’t give a shit.
“You just broke brain of whole nation,” Illya murmurs as they release the embrace.
“Hush,” Napoleon says, “Let me have my moment.”
He puts his hand to the small of Illya’s back and leads him to the camera man. The woman’s hands are shaking and she takes a second too long to get herself together, because once she tries, Napoleon cuts her off.
“I think that answers all your questions,” he says, and gives her and the camera a chilling smile. “Don’t ask them again.”
He lets the moment hang for a little bit, and then softens his expression, allowing his amusement on the whole ridiculousness of the situation to show. “Now, I’m afraid we’re a bit late to the party, so we must go.”
“Who fault is that,” Illya says.
“The way I see it, Peril, you arrived…” Napoleon checks his watch. “A whole five minutes over time.”
Illya rolls his eyes and bumps their shoulders together. “It was your idea.”
“You went with it,” Napoleon argues. “You’re supposed to be the one who keeps me in check.”
“I did not sign that contract.”
Napoleon is completely aware of the camera still following them, and he’s at once spitefully glad to know that those thousands of people are watching this— a normal fucking couple, bickering, flirting, saying nothing at all of interest. They wanted scandal. They wanted another month of content, filled with speculation, blurry photos and drama. But now they can’t. Because it’s all here, right in front of their faces when they weren’t prepared for it.
Napoleon took the mystery away from them, and the only thing left is the usual; the boring irritating normal: two people, in love, finding themselves way more interesting than anyone else ever will.
The way it fuckng should be.
“Are you sure?” Napoleon asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Illya groans, shaking his head. “Why do I like you. You are annoying.”
“Because you love me,” Napoleon informs him— informs the world.
“Yes,” Illya says begrudgingly, but Napoleon senses the fond truth underneath it. “That is it. Trouble.”
“That’s what I aspire to be.”
On the way to the entrance, his phone buzzes again.
Sent the Crow your message. Prepare for an avalanche.
Napoleon chuckles and sends back:
Put my phone on mute, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.
—————
They’re planning to be at the airport a few hours early as precaution— a snow storm seems to be growing and they wanted to get ahead of any delays that might come from it— but the extra time turns out to be just enough to make it, the hustle and bustle of Christmas traffic, the meeting of an unfortunate accident on the highway.
Illya and Napoleon drag all their luggage with them while Gaby sprints forward to ensure the plane won’t leave without them. She goes around the corner almost tripping over a toddler in the process, who seems too surprised to cry about it.
Once Napoleon and Illya catch up to her, they hear a gentle voice over the intercom call out their plane number, and inform passengers that there will be a delay of another ten minutes for the worst of the winds to pass.
Napoleon catches his breath, slowing down to a normal pace at the last hundred feet to their gate and sees Gaby walking back to them, an annoyed look on her face.
“Turns out I did all that running for nothi—“ she cuts off, her eyes going wide, looking at something behind Napoleon. Napoleon can only see a flash of red before a figure rushes past him— directly to Gaby.
The woman— and Napoleon can now see she’s a woman with a reddish bob cut, black skinny jeans and a leather jacket — glides into a standstill with dancers grace, and then kisses the ever living shit out of Gaby.
Gaby kisses back for a moment but then seems to regain her bearings, pushing against the woman with a flush blotting her cheeks. “Nat,” she hisses. “What the fuck.”
“I’ve got a week in Majorca for you, if you want it,” says the woman— Nat? “But we gotta go before they notice I’ve taken a detour.”
That seems to give Gaby pause, and she gives the woman an intense, searching look.
Some of the confidence seems to spill out of the woman’s body language, but she doesn’t step away.
“Is it dangerous?” Gaby asks.
“I’ll keep you safe,” the woman says, without hesitation.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“You’ll get them, alright. You’ll get them, I promise,” the woman says, but there is something vulnerable about them, like it’s about more than just this one question. “Just not here.”
Gaby is quiet for a moment. Illya takes a step towards Napoleon, watching curiously, and the movement makes Gaby’s head snap up. For a split second, she seems to be confused to see them— like she’d forgotten they were even there.
Her eyes flicker between them and the woman, her jaw twitching, but then her face sets in that determined edge she has when dealing with stubborn clients.
“Sorry Solo,” Gaby says. “I’m going to shout at my stupid gf for a week.”
The stupid girlfriend in question turns around in that moment and gives them a friendly, if not distant smile. Napoleon gets the sense she isn’t one to show her true emotions, but if he’d had to guess what is behind that perfectly polite mask, it would be that she’s almost falling apart in relief.
“Natasha,” the woman says, “A pleasure to make acquaintance.”
She doesn’t offer a hand to shake.
Illya is the first to break the following silence. “Have… fun?”
Something sharp glints in Gaby’s eyes and she grabs Natasha by the wrist. “Oh yes,” she says, dangerously. “Very.” She tugs at Natasha’s wrist and raises her eyebrows. “Now, don’t we have a plane to catch?”
Natasha flicks her wrist and Napoleon catches something that looks like a watch but seems to high tech to be one. “Yes, we have three minutes to get to the other side of the airport.”
“Race you,” Gaby says, and then she’s off.
Natasha follows without another word.
There is a moment of silence between Napoleon and Illya, broken up by the background noise of the people waiting for their flights, and the echoing footsteps of two women running full speed through an open hall. Natasha darts around the crowds like they’re made of liquid, somehow seeming to be at the exact right moment in the exact right time. Napoleon guesses that Gaby’s lead is not going to last long, with whatever training Natasha has had.
Something clicks in Napoleon’s mind— the way the woman had held herself, the strange fit of her leather jacket. “Did she have a gun under there?”
“Gaby went with gun woman,” Illya says slowly, by way of confirmation. “Alone.”
“Yup,” Napoleon says.
“Should worry?”
Napoleon shrugs. “It’s Gaby. If anyone can handle a woman with a gun, it’s her.”
“Point.”
—————
This is weird, Napoleon concludes, as he watches the all too familiar clock tick down the minutes of the last therapy session. To think that he’s sat here, what must be dozens and dozens of times, wishing he was everywhere but here, hating the slow turning hands of the clock with all the passion his numbed brain could muster, as if the universe was punishing him by stretching the torturous hour into something that felt like an age.
But now it feels like they’ve barely started talking and the time is already up, and Napoleon wishes that the seconds wouldn’t disappear so quickly. He’d thought he’d had more time.
Illya is waiting for him in the waiting room. The thought calms Napoleon enough that when Sofia closes her notebook, he can smile without regret.
Sofia smiles back and stands up, holding out a hand.
Napoleon meets her in the middle of the room and shakes it.
“It has been a pleasure, Napoleon,” Sofia says warmly. “Which I know is strange to say, but your growth over the years has often given me a great reminder of why I do this work.”
Napoleon nods, and takes a breath as she steps away to open the door for him. “Let me ask a strange request then… “ He begins, hesitating for a second but then he rolls his eyes at himself, if he can’t say what he thinks to her, what was the purpose of all this. “Can I hug you?”
Sofia lets out a soft chuckle, but there is no hint of mocking in it. “Of course.”
They embrace, and Napoleon feels something well up inside him— to know that this woman has saved him in so many ways is all at once too overwhelming to process. But he has time to do that. He doesn’t have to do it all at once. “Last strange request, I promise,” Napoleon says, as he releases her, “But if— by chance, a wedding invitation would come your way in somewhere in the coming years, would you be inclined to accept it? You know you’ve been integral in making this possible, and it would mean a lot to me.”
Sofia puts a hand to his shoulder and squeezes. “I shall free my schedule, when it is time.”
And then, it is over. Illya meets him in the hallway and leads him outside in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, just gently guides him back to the car and begins to drive. When Napoleon feels something wet start to gather on his cheeks, a few blocks away from home, Illya doesn’t remark on it. He just takes Napoleon’s hand and holds it until they reach home.
“Thank you,” Napoleon says, eventually, late that evening when the words come back.
“All the space…” Illya murmurs sleepily, trailing off in a snore.
“All the space I need,” Napoleon finishes for him, “Yeah. I know.”
—————
“It would be too much of a fairytale, that’s the general consensus on Twitter. It seems Chimera has positioned itself to be the all time favourite of this season’s final, but at the same time no one expects them to win— or no one wants to expect it, like having too much hope would jinx the whole thing.”
“But honestly, Michael, it’s already been a fairytale, a dozen times over. Not only is Chimera the first team to have an out player, but also the first team to have an out couple. This in and of itself would be remarkable—“
“Sorry to interrupt, but I have to remind the viewers that this is only accurate for the NHL. The women’s league has had out players and married players long before Kuryakin. I saw some really nice Instagram pictures of a few of the hockey couples going out for dinner, I would recommend checking them out Napoleon’s account, TheSolo.”
“Of course, we shouldn’t forget that. But the NHL has been forced to make progress in leaps and bounds by the very public reveal of Kuryakin’s and Solo’s relationship, and though detractors let up another roar, we haven’t seen any of that in the results.”
“We haven’t indeed, and that is where this fairytale narrative comes in. Wouldn’t it be too good, too perfect, for this team to win the cup now, despite it all? To go against homophobia, both institutional and social, and show the world not only that we belong on the ice, but that it is a privilege to have us there.”
“I understand that this would seem as too much to hope for, but the numbers don’t lie. Napoleon Solo has already been heralded as the highest scoring player this season, because it would be virtually impossible to catch up to his 11 point lead over the other players. Illya Kuryakin is creating a whole new series of records and analysis, where we’ve heard from various sources that his support-focused tactical gameplay will be implemented in training programs next season. The two of them are clearly partners on the ice, innovative and completely trusting, and this spreads to the rest of the team too. We have never seen a more stable performance from them.”
“I believe that this proves an often overlooked aspect of team sport— that the atmosphere between players matters so much to performance. According to sources inside Chimera, injuries have gone down and both staff and players report higher levels of job fulfilment and lower levels of stress. This is likely in connection to Napoleon Solo’s public efforts to integrate therapy and mental health more prominently in team structure. He’s written a few articles for AMC media, about his own struggles with depression in recent years, and how therapy helped him get through it.”
“I definitely see the correlation and I hope the rest of the league sees it as well. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin have proven themselves to be impactful figures off and on the ice, and tonight we will see if their legendary status will be set in stone, by a well-earned victory tonight.”
—————
Napoleon never thought it would be this easy. He’d prepared for a grinding fight; a lucky break in the last second, relief a higher note than euphoria.
But the moment the whistle blows, Illya locks eyes with him, his face open, determined and so god damn happy, and Napoleon thinks— we’re going to do this. We’re going to win.
And they do.
It’s a blur of movement, but nothing aches. It’s a thunderstorm of sound, but Napoleon doesn’t hear it. It’s the team, clicking into place and loving it. They’ve never laughed this much on the ice before. Embraces, encouragements, enjoyment. Napoleon feels like he’s flying.
The only thing he worries about is getting Illya to score one fucking goal. They’re in the lead. They’ve been in the lead for ages. It’s as if the light that glows from the team makes the opponent smaller— they cower away from it, wavering. The only weakness they find is their own.
Napoleon would almost pity them, if they even mattered at all.
What matters is the team, the fans, the smiles, the ever delighted disbelief. What matters is Simon with tears in his eyes, watching the game from the bench until he’s allowed to go in. What matters is Blake boasting in Russian, badgering the opponents to shoot and catching every single one.
“We have to give him a goal,” Napoleon tells Sergei, tells Simon, tells everyone he comes across. They all nod, determined, ever smiling.
We have to get him a goal.
It becomes their mission, and Illya catches on quickly— accepting their assists, taking risks, allowing himself to be the star for just this once.
He gets a head trick.
Napoleon is happier about that than he is about the fucking cup.
—————
NapoIlya Masterpost: They’re fucking engaged!
Post created by Hock-gay. 543 replies. 4524 likes
I know everyone has seen the tweet but Holy Shit. I can’t believe it’s been three years. Three years of following these idiots as they conquered the hockey world with beautiful rainbows. I’ve made a compilation of every iconic moment since this started, from the famous speech Napoleon gave when Illya came out, to the iconic ‘my boyfriend is late’ that still got me quaking.
For new fans, enjoy your ride! Keep in mind that some of the content can be trigger heavy, certainly the interviews Napoleon has done about his depression and his homophobic asshole of a father. He’s been so candid and open with us, and it’s changing so many lives.
If you want to read the legendary ThankyouIllya book Chrimeraaaaa made, you can download it here. It’s all public and free and all people in the book were asked before it was publicised. But if you want give Chrimeraaa some well deserved praise for it, you can message her here.
You Can Play also has printed copies that can be given to hockey clubs or schools, to spread more awareness about the impact and importance of representation. You can also get Making Space in bulk for heavy discounts, all the proceeds go directly to You Can Play and the Kuryakin-helpline.
(The latter one is also a cool organisation to check out if you need to talk about hockey-specific coming out and mental health issues. The initiative set up by Illya himself, sensing the need for it after his own coming out. It has a well-trained team of coaches and therapists available on call lines for free, who all have various connections to hockey. I called two times and the first time I got a hockey-mom who’s helped six kids get to a college scholarship, and the second time I got a retired NHL coach, how awesome is that.)
The book ThankyouNapoleon is still gathering stories! So if you have a story about how his open attitude towards mental health has impacted you, send it in through the website: ThankingSoloproject.com.
Napoleon and Illya have asked that if anyone has the incentive to send them gifts for their wedding, that that time and money would be used instead to donate or volunteer in local efforts to continue ice hockey’s steady progression towards more acceptance. The charities above might suit you, but feel free to be creative! Tweet out your actions using the hashtag #Chimeraweddingpresent
And now we start the Masterpost!!
Read more
Chimeraaaaaa replied:
This is amazing! Thank you for the mention and the link to my page. I’ve woken up to so many lovely messages because of this post. Y’all also had quite a few questions about the engagement, and it is true that I made a book for that too. It’s become a tradition I’m so privileged to be a part of, I cannot explain how happy it makes me. I won’t go into too much detail because it is a private moment, but this is what has been shared within Chimera, so it will probably come out in the news any moment:
Y’all were expecting Napoleon to propose on the ice after winning another cup, but that is even a bit too dramatic, even for him. Instead he went all sappy and proposed on another kind of ice— on the frozen pond where Illya had his very first skate.
According to him, Illya’s mother was watching them in the bushes, crying her eyes out. I’ve seen some pictures, it’s adorable.
The wedding invitations should be coming up soon! They want to do the wedding before the winter Olympics. How they’re going to manage that, I have no idea, because they have less than a month to make it happen lmao. Hopefully everyone invited is able to make it there!
—————
“Why are we doing this again?” Napoleon asks, breathless, after the seventh assistant-consultant-snouty person had waltzed through their living room, expressing a lot more distress about the exact shade of yellow incorporated into the flower pieces, than Napoleon thinks is warranted.
Illya brushes off the small heap of fabric testers that seem to have collected on his lap. He reaches over to draw Napoleon to the sofa, prodding until Napoleon rests against his chest.
“Because,” Illya says, looking down at him. “If I am not see you for long because of Olympics, I want husband to return home to.”
Napoleon swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat and flicks Illya’s cheek. “What is this assuming that I’ll be home before you? Do you think I’m going to lose in group stages? For all you know, we’ll be together the whole way.”
Illya tilts his head, considering. “Would you like that? Playing against each other for gold?”
“You are due a rematch,” Napoleon says. “It’s been a while since we both reached the finals, and depending on our health, this might be our last chance.”
“So, this time, we will,” Illya seems to decide with complete confidence.
“The way you say that, it sounds like we’re doing it more for each other than for our countries.”
Illya raises an eyebrow. “Are we not?”
Napoleon surges up and kisses him, because what else is he supposed to do with that.
—————
Not A Report of the Kuryakin-Solo Wedding
Written by Michael Tremblay
On a cold winter morning in a beautiful pinewood forest a couple of hours away from Boston, the sun shines upon a chaotic yet endearing wedding procession. The event tiptoes the line between formal and informal in charming ways, including and not excluding: two motorcycles featuring as the ring bearers while the whole team watches solemnly, dressed in tuxedos and fine Armani shoes, just like the dress code demanded.
When my husband and I were invited to the wedding, it was my immediate understanding that I wasn’t being invited as a reporter, but as a friend. I’ve had the privilege to get to know the happy couple over the years, and have been involved in a few of their projects. There has been a lot said about both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, nothing that I could add onto without being repetitive and sounding cliché, so I have decided not to try. Instead I’ll attempt to show these two fine gentlemen not in my own words, but in a few anecdotes that I have gathered during the wedding.
Again, I did not come there as a reporter, but as a friend I will gladly take this opportunity and share heartwarming and/or hilarious stories about these two amazing human beings. (And, of course, embarrassing them by showing you the pictures as well.) So here they are, in no particular order:
A Stranger-Family
As I’ve said before, the whole team and quite a number of staff showed up for the impromptu wedding celebration, but they were not the only ones affiliated with the NHL. To preserve privacy, I won’t name any names, but in total, about half of the wedding’s guest list must have been professional or college hockey players, all drawn to something they never believed that could happen to one of their own. It felt like a strange reunion between people that have never met before, a family that has just been allowed to build. Illya explained that it started with a few of the players he’d talked to after his own coming out years before. They’d asked him all individually if they could come to the wedding, despite knowing that it was a strange question to ask.
“I just wanted to see one of us get a happy ending, you know?” One of the players told me, when I asked — it’s a habit, I am sorry — “I thought I’d be the only one to show up, but word spread and Napoleon and Illya welcomed all of us. I knew I wasn’t alone, but now I really believe it.”
That was truly the whole feel of the evening— the wedding itself was almost a side dish to the main event. A very important one, mind you, but the gathering of so many lgbtq folks, both from the men’s and women’s leagues, was an experience many of us didn’t know we needed. It truly showed our power in numbers, and the instrumental need for us to know each other better. I remember one younger guy, thanking everyone he came across, for ‘giving him hope.’ I think this is a truth for all of us there.
Wedding Shenanigans and Wedding Gifts
To refocus a little bit more on the wedding, there were other memorable moments. The vows, as beautiful as they were, were nothing compared to Illya’s reveal of a second outfit for the first dance. It was, inexplicably for everyone except Napoleon, a pirate costume. Safe to say that the dance was postponed for twenty minutes, as one half was too busy choking on their laughter.
Besides the lovely tweets of people doing some form of activism or volunteer work in the newlyweds’ name, some guests dared to give material gifts on the wedding. My husband and I were one of the few brave souls, gifting a copy of my great aunt’s recipe book— a collection of eastern European dishes she’d accumulated before moving with her husband to Canada.
The team pooled together to pressure the coaches, to give the couple an extra week off. The goalie Blake had promised with a hand to his heart that he would be an amazing replacement captain and that he will never let them eat cake, after the wedding of course. Napoleon made him vow not to return ‘hedgehog related injuries’, and only because I wasn’t a reporter that day, I didn’t try to figure that out, despite really wanting to.
A red haired woman, who did not introduce herself, gave the couple a set of knives that did not look like they were intended for the kitchen, complete with polishing supplies. I also did not ask questions in this instance.
Peculiar Guests
Two other guests stood out to me. One woman with long black hair and a severe expression, walked around with a glass of champagne poised in her hand, and had one glimmering tear on her cheek as the vows were read. She seemed very mournful when she dabbed the tear away and murmured, “and they didn’t even let me live stream, after all I’ve done for them,” to herself.
Besides her sat another woman who seemed thoroughly more drunk already, as she had been fast-lining wine throughout the evening, eyes perpetually wet. When I asked her if she was okay, she shook her head and said, “Those idiots. I can’t believe it. I’ve had to hear so much pining, for almost three years! And now they’re— I. Christ,” and had promptly left me with yet more unanswered questions.
This is all to say that the wedding was beautiful. It was a chaotic mess filled with love, shared by friends and soon to be friends, a mesh of strangers and family who will likely see each other again. I have never felt so connected to the people at a wedding before, and Napoleon and Illya have become masters at this exact thing: their constant efforts to connect people have been prevalent throughout the years, and this wedding is just another example of that.
So thank you. For opening your arms to all of us on such a special and personal day. It was the strangest wedding I’ve ever been to, but also, somehow, the most perfect.
—————
It’s in the eyes. It always is.
Illya stands before him, stick ready, mirrored, as they wait for the puck to drop. Two minutes on the clock. Tied. One last chance.
Their eyes meet, for just a moment. Napoleon knows them so well. Matching rings underneath contrasting jerseys, Napoleon sees the glint of Illya’s chain around his neck.
The ref blows the whistle. Illya smiles at him.
And just before the puck hits the ice, Illya says just loud enough for Napoleon to hear:
“I love you, Husband.”
Napoleon’s heart skips a beat, and Illya is gone with the puck.
“You bastard!” Napoleon shouts, grinning, and follows, but he’s too late.
Illya scores.
It costs him the gold, an entirely too smug Illya the rest of the year, and endless recountings of the story by Gaby, as Natasha cackles his embarrassment away.
Worth it.