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keelywolfeTitle: Picture Window
By keelywolfe
Rating: PG (Yeah, I know, the world must be ending.)
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Summary: This is for a challenge on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
muncle, to write a short story inspired by this image. Here is what I came up with.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I make no money off my stories
Notes: I was unable to find any evidence supporting that Napoleon would have a Catholic grandmother. I was also unable to find any information that didn't support it, so I wrote it anyway. Sorry. :)
~~~*~~~
It was amazing how a certain smell could dredge up long-buried memories. Even walking into the church, Napoleon hadn't remembered until he'd inhaled the unusual concoction of candle wax and linseed oil. Barely old enough to be out of knee socks, his grandmother dragging him to church; it was enough to make Napoleon wince out of reflex, recalling a sufficient amount of cuffs to the ear that it was a wonder he wasn't still dizzy.
As strange and uncomfortable as it felt to be sitting in the shadowy depths of this old church, Napoleon had to admit there were worse places to wait for informants. The dozens of flicking candles casting yellowy shadows was inconvenient, true, but the slightest sound set off a barrage of echoes, so at least it would be hard for anyone to creep up on them.
The church was empty except for an old priest who was puttering around, sweeping at imaginary dust, though he'd done little more than give them a curious, welcoming look when he and Illya had settled in the pews to wait. He'd crossed himself almost absently, only realizing he'd done so when he saw Illya was staring at him. Old habits died hard, Napoleon thought ruefully, shrugged a little in answer to Illya's questioning look. Even habits he hadn't used in nearly twenty years.
He'd never thought he'd be spending the day again sitting on a hardwood bench and peering at stained glass windows. There were only a few, exquisitely crafted for so small a church and Napoleon admitted that while his knees didn't miss the early morning Sundays, his sense of aesthetics had always appreciated church windows. As a child, the strange, fractured light had fascinated him, boldly displaying its colors in the middle of the church, refusing to be tamed by either sermons or grandmothers and contained only by unyielding stone.
As an adult, well, it was something to look at, anyway, since Illya didn't seem eager to chat. He looked somewhat ill at ease, actually, which meant he looked completely normal except for a certain tightness around his mouth. It was starting to look like both of them would be happier when this affair was over.
Near the front was a low table of slender, white candles, a handful of them lit and there was a small basket sitting discreetly on the floor beneath it. An alms basket, his grandmother would have called it and a faint sense of something that might be called guilt tugged at him. Rolling his eyes heavenward, Napoleon could almost hear his grandmother ordering his ten year old self to put his money in the basket. Only sinners put their own needs before those of others.
Ignoring Illya's curious look, Napoleon walked to the front and lit a candle, for his grandmother. Not because he wanted to be trapped in religious mores that he didn't share, but because he knew it would have made her happy. Besides, the twenty in the basket would probably be a nice sweetener for the priest who was still watching them surreptitiously; it didn't hurt to butter up the clergy when they didn't know how long they'd be waiting.
That was plenty of guilt alleviated for one day, and Napoleon was turning to sit back in the pews, halfheartedly wishing he'd brought something to read aside from the hymnals lining the pews, when his eyes caught on Illya and he paused.
There was something about the way he was sitting, crossways across the pew with one knee drawn up, and he was looking up at the window closest to them, his expression of a sort of wonder Napoleon had never seen on his partner.
Illya was sitting completely within the shadows, force of habit, Napoleon assumed, but while he stood there, looking, it occurred to him that if Illya were to shift not two steps in either direction, he would be bathed in the fractured light. His hair, already pale, had been bleached nearly white from their last affair, spent almost completely outdoors and it would reflect any color that was cast over it, splinters of blue and green spilling over it like a river. From the other window it would be red, dark puddles of it soaking into that pale and Napoleon shied from that idea, focusing again on the cool, watered image of sea green.
He looked like something surreal and lovely, almost in the light and when he turned a little and looked at Napoleon, his eyes the same blue as that in Napoleon's mind, the urge to kiss him hit like a blow to the gut and made him gasp with the shock of it.
Thought-images were spilling across his eyes like water seeping through hands, and Napoleon thought of stepping over that ancient stone floor, kneeling at Illya's feet and simply kissing him and it wouldn't be a matter of Illya not allowing it; he knew suddenly, without a doubt that he would, and afterward he would look at Napoleon with startled but not angry eyes.
Illya would let him, and the priest would likely attack them, twenty dollars by no means enough to make him overlook that, and he knew with stunning, crystal clarity that with Illya, it would only be Illya, only ever him, and his chest tightened, trapped as easily by those eyes as the light was by these stone walls, utterly terrified by this knowledge and yet, and yet it was...
"Napoleon?"
Illya had shifted, leaning forward to stand and the light was bare inches from his hair. Please, don't, don't, just don't, Napoleon raised his hands in an inarticulate plea for Illya not to move, far too vulnerable and he'd knew he could never recover if he saw Illya like that just now, with light streaming from his hair and something unnamed in his eyes.
He didn't stand; instead Illya leaned back into the shadows, eying Napoleon warily and the moment passed. Napoleon surged back down the aisle, bumping clumsily into the pew and he skirted past Illya to sit on his other side, staying very carefully away from the light.
Illya still hadn't spoken, only gave him a traditional exasperated look before turning his attention back on their surroundings. He was actually trembling in his relief, Napoleon realized, the taste of it odd and metallic on the back of his tongue. Relief and something else, something he didn't want to examine too closely. Not today.
Not yet.
-finis-
By keelywolfe
Rating: PG (Yeah, I know, the world must be ending.)
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Summary: This is for a challenge on
muncle, to write a short story inspired by this image. Here is what I came up with.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I make no money off my stories
Notes: I was unable to find any evidence supporting that Napoleon would have a Catholic grandmother. I was also unable to find any information that didn't support it, so I wrote it anyway. Sorry. :)
~~~*~~~
It was amazing how a certain smell could dredge up long-buried memories. Even walking into the church, Napoleon hadn't remembered until he'd inhaled the unusual concoction of candle wax and linseed oil. Barely old enough to be out of knee socks, his grandmother dragging him to church; it was enough to make Napoleon wince out of reflex, recalling a sufficient amount of cuffs to the ear that it was a wonder he wasn't still dizzy.
As strange and uncomfortable as it felt to be sitting in the shadowy depths of this old church, Napoleon had to admit there were worse places to wait for informants. The dozens of flicking candles casting yellowy shadows was inconvenient, true, but the slightest sound set off a barrage of echoes, so at least it would be hard for anyone to creep up on them.
The church was empty except for an old priest who was puttering around, sweeping at imaginary dust, though he'd done little more than give them a curious, welcoming look when he and Illya had settled in the pews to wait. He'd crossed himself almost absently, only realizing he'd done so when he saw Illya was staring at him. Old habits died hard, Napoleon thought ruefully, shrugged a little in answer to Illya's questioning look. Even habits he hadn't used in nearly twenty years.
He'd never thought he'd be spending the day again sitting on a hardwood bench and peering at stained glass windows. There were only a few, exquisitely crafted for so small a church and Napoleon admitted that while his knees didn't miss the early morning Sundays, his sense of aesthetics had always appreciated church windows. As a child, the strange, fractured light had fascinated him, boldly displaying its colors in the middle of the church, refusing to be tamed by either sermons or grandmothers and contained only by unyielding stone.
As an adult, well, it was something to look at, anyway, since Illya didn't seem eager to chat. He looked somewhat ill at ease, actually, which meant he looked completely normal except for a certain tightness around his mouth. It was starting to look like both of them would be happier when this affair was over.
Near the front was a low table of slender, white candles, a handful of them lit and there was a small basket sitting discreetly on the floor beneath it. An alms basket, his grandmother would have called it and a faint sense of something that might be called guilt tugged at him. Rolling his eyes heavenward, Napoleon could almost hear his grandmother ordering his ten year old self to put his money in the basket. Only sinners put their own needs before those of others.
Ignoring Illya's curious look, Napoleon walked to the front and lit a candle, for his grandmother. Not because he wanted to be trapped in religious mores that he didn't share, but because he knew it would have made her happy. Besides, the twenty in the basket would probably be a nice sweetener for the priest who was still watching them surreptitiously; it didn't hurt to butter up the clergy when they didn't know how long they'd be waiting.
That was plenty of guilt alleviated for one day, and Napoleon was turning to sit back in the pews, halfheartedly wishing he'd brought something to read aside from the hymnals lining the pews, when his eyes caught on Illya and he paused.
There was something about the way he was sitting, crossways across the pew with one knee drawn up, and he was looking up at the window closest to them, his expression of a sort of wonder Napoleon had never seen on his partner.
Illya was sitting completely within the shadows, force of habit, Napoleon assumed, but while he stood there, looking, it occurred to him that if Illya were to shift not two steps in either direction, he would be bathed in the fractured light. His hair, already pale, had been bleached nearly white from their last affair, spent almost completely outdoors and it would reflect any color that was cast over it, splinters of blue and green spilling over it like a river. From the other window it would be red, dark puddles of it soaking into that pale and Napoleon shied from that idea, focusing again on the cool, watered image of sea green.
He looked like something surreal and lovely, almost in the light and when he turned a little and looked at Napoleon, his eyes the same blue as that in Napoleon's mind, the urge to kiss him hit like a blow to the gut and made him gasp with the shock of it.
Thought-images were spilling across his eyes like water seeping through hands, and Napoleon thought of stepping over that ancient stone floor, kneeling at Illya's feet and simply kissing him and it wouldn't be a matter of Illya not allowing it; he knew suddenly, without a doubt that he would, and afterward he would look at Napoleon with startled but not angry eyes.
Illya would let him, and the priest would likely attack them, twenty dollars by no means enough to make him overlook that, and he knew with stunning, crystal clarity that with Illya, it would only be Illya, only ever him, and his chest tightened, trapped as easily by those eyes as the light was by these stone walls, utterly terrified by this knowledge and yet, and yet it was...
"Napoleon?"
Illya had shifted, leaning forward to stand and the light was bare inches from his hair. Please, don't, don't, just don't, Napoleon raised his hands in an inarticulate plea for Illya not to move, far too vulnerable and he'd knew he could never recover if he saw Illya like that just now, with light streaming from his hair and something unnamed in his eyes.
He didn't stand; instead Illya leaned back into the shadows, eying Napoleon warily and the moment passed. Napoleon surged back down the aisle, bumping clumsily into the pew and he skirted past Illya to sit on his other side, staying very carefully away from the light.
Illya still hadn't spoken, only gave him a traditional exasperated look before turning his attention back on their surroundings. He was actually trembling in his relief, Napoleon realized, the taste of it odd and metallic on the back of his tongue. Relief and something else, something he didn't want to examine too closely. Not today.
Not yet.
-finis-
