Becalmed

“Well, what do you think?” Napoleon Solo asked with some pride as he lowered his canvas duffle to the deck.

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin slung his knapsack off one shoulder slowly, looking around, as if reluctant to settle down too quickly. “It’s very nice.” He shuffled his feet slightly, as if testing the sway of the deck beneath him. Still tied to the dock, the boat didn’t sway much, but he wasn’t fooled that the condition would last.

Solo snorted. “Did you take that Dramamine?”

“Yes,” Kuryakin lied smoothly. He found Dramamine made him sleepy and he had no intention of taking it unless absolutely necessary, in spite of the fact he knew it needed time to work.

They stowed their gear, and the provisions they’d brought along, and Solo checked over the boat. Most of what he was doing was unfamiliar to Kuryakin. He watched as Solo checked equipment, shook out sails and tested rigging, finally pronouncing the boat seaworthy.

“Do we set sail now?” Kuryakin asked, looking wistfully at the only too solid dock they were about to relinquish.

“We use a motor to get away from the marina and out of harbor,” Solo explained. “It’s too difficult to maneuver otherwise. Once we’re in the bay, we’ll make sail.”

“I’ve seen pictures of people sailing right up to a dock,” Kuryakin argued, fixing on the discrepancy to distract himself from his feelings of unease.

Solo merely looked amused. “I’m sure you have, but that’s movies, not real life, Illya. Or the people doing it had a private dock, in a relatively open area. In other words, rich. And maybe a little foolish. Taking a boat under sail, even one this size, straight up to dock or marina can be a risky thing to do. In tight quarters we us a motor to maneuver.”

“I don’t know much about sailboats,” Kuryakin admitted, pushing his hair out of his eyes and fumbling for his sunglasses. The rays of light glinting off the water made them almost a necessity. Solo had warned him to bring them. His partner already had his on.

“You’ll learn,” Solo promised and laughed as Kuryakin gave him a jaundiced look. “You’ll like it, Illya. ‘There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, so much worth doing as simply fooling around in boats’.”

“That’s a quote,” Kuryakin accused, sure of that, even if he couldn’t identify the source.

Solo laughed again. “Come on, time is flying. Let’s get under way.”

Kuryakin was nervous about the prospect, waiting for seasickness to rise up and claim him. The boat’s motion was bad in the harbor, choppy with cross-currents, but he felt more the anticipation of seasickness than seasickness itself and managed to keep his stomach where it belonged.

Illya asked why he had set himself up for this as he settled in the co-pilot’s chair, watching as Solo started the ship’s — no, the boat’s — engines and got the Pursang gently under way. Kuryakin helped untie the boat. Cast off, as Solo said, but that was the sum of his duties at the time.

Solo had told him all the things required to get a boat such as this ready for sail, from maintenance to simple provisioning, a long, tiresome and grubby-sounding list. Kuryakin had expected to be in for more than his fair share of the donkeywork. Then Solo had wickedly and belatedly informed him he’d had a service crew do all that.

“At a ridiculous price,” Solo added. “But I don’t have time to maintain a boat properly by myself. We’d never had finished half the work, would never have gotten out of harbor at all this weekend, if I hadn’t.”

“Why not just rent a boat for the few weekends that you are free?” Kuryakin argued, sure this hobby had to be prohibitively expensive.

Solo made a face. “I don’t want to rent some old rust-bucket when I want to sail. I want my own boat. The Pursang might not be the biggest boat under sail, or the most lavishly appointed, but she’s clean, tight and sound. And all mine.”

“Capitalist.” Kuryakin accused.

“Guilty,” Solo said. “You’re just jealous.”

Kuryakin shuddered. “Not at all. If the sea is what you want, you are welcome to it.”

“I’ll make a sailor of you yet, my friend.”

“I doubt it,” Kuryakin muttered, but sotto-voice.

But seasickness and donkeywork aside, he was glad he’d come, at least as much as he could be given their mode of transportation. The invitation was unexpected. His partner usually took a girl along on these trips. But they’d been through some harrowing cases lately.

He was still suffering from a strained knee, and courtesy of a damp Thrush cell, Solo had suffered from a lingering cough that he’d just barely gotten over. The senior agent had promised a long weekend in the sun would be good for them both.

So he had come, more out of curiosity than desire. He’d heard of Solo’s passion for sailing. It had even come in to be useful on a mission, once or twice. But he’d never seen Solo’s Pursang except in pictures. He had to admit that the photograph he’d seen on Solo’s desk didn’t do it justice. It seemed bigger than he’d thought it would be. And once he been on it a few hours, it seemed smaller. Then, after a while, just the right size. He could see the charm of the gleaming boat, as perfect as a jewel. Could understand Solo’s infatuation with it. They were both, each in their way, thoroughbreds.

He struggled with his seasickness for the better part of the morning. By noon or so, his body finally adjusted, but he ate only the lightest of lunches, careful not to upset his precarious internal equilibrium. Solo tactfully didn’t comment on his lack of appetite.

The wind died that afternoon. In the flat calm, Solo stated his intention of shortening sail and doing some serious sun-bathing. Kuryakin followed suit. After carefully slathering his skin with lotion, he curled up with a book and let the sun toast him. It did feel good, baking out the memories of dank cells and old injuries. But the day was too bright for much reading, even with dark glasses, the combination of bright light reflecting off the water and small print threatened to give him a headache. At his side, Napoleon was drowsing, his skin gleaming from suntan oil, tanning rapidly in the sunshine. Kuryakin put his book aside and napped instead.

They both roused instantly at the sound of a motorboat. Solo reached for his weapon, just in case, and Kuryakin scrambled to his feet, stumbling a little as the deck rocked beneath him. The wake from the motorboats slapped against the hull, and Kuryakin wondered how he could possibly aim on board such a rocking deck.

Solo didn’t seem too concerned about that, or his sea legs; the senior agent adjusted easily to the sway of the deck, his weapon clutched at his side. Kuryakin compromised by kneeling by the rail, using it for both cover and support. The two motorboats approaching were each towing a couple of water skiers, couple being the operative word.

The skiers were experienced, crossing and recrossing each other’s path, all of them young, healthy and judging by their boats and skis, very well-to-do. The girls were attractive blonds; their boyfriends were barely of college age. The drivers of the motorboats swerved when they saw the relatively becalmed sailboat, giving it a wide berth. Solo lost his worried look as the skiers raced away, smiled as he looked after them.

Solo’s eyes lingered on the water-skiers. “Pretty girls.”

“Huh? Oh, yes.” Kuryakin rose from the railing, his knee cramped.

Solo turned his lazy gaze on him. “You didn’t notice.”

“What’s the point?” Kuryakin said with some asperity. “They were already with someone.”

“No harm in enjoying the view,” Solo replied.

Kuryakin just shrugged and put his Walther away, close to hand.

Solo set aside his own weapon, and settled back down on the deck. The senior agent watched thoughtfully as his partner lay back, one arm thrown over his eyes. Solo looked him up and down, before speaking again.

“Are you gay, Illya?”

Kuryakin turned over so quickly his legs flailed about on the deck and a needle-thin splinter embedded itself in his foot. He grabbed it, hand tight to ease the pain, pulling it out hastily. “What?”

“Are you gay?” Solo’s eyes lingered on him, mildly curious. “And how you can manage to find a splinter on my deck I don’t know.” He plucked the shard of wood from Kuryakin’s hand and disappeared down the cabin stairs. When he reappeared he had a bottle of antiseptic in his hand and a towel. He offered it, and when Kuryakin simply stared at him, he held the towel under the Soviet agent’s foot and poured with a generous hand, the towel catching the overflow from marring the varnished deck. Kuryakin hissed as the pain drew him out of his shocked silence.

“W-Why would you ask such a thing?” Kuryakin nearly stuttered.

“You just don’t seem too interested in girls,” Solo commented, capping the bottle of antiseptic.

“Just because I don’t have your track record--”

“Illya. You didn’t look. We’re not on assignment, you don’t have your nose in a book, or some other distraction, you had a picture before you prettier than any pin-up, and you didn’t even look.”

“You’ve seen me with women.”

“Not very enthusiastically. It’s all right, you know,” Solo said easily. “It doesn’t matter, either way.”

Kuryakin looked at him, speechless. He’d heard the whispered rumor about him, had even suffered a few improper questions. He’d always ignored the questioner, removing himself from the person or the situation as soon as he could. But that was impossible here. He was suddenly very conscious of his position on an isolated sailboat miles from shore. He could hardly remove himself from his questioner or get away. Short of knocking Solo out and trying to sail the boat back to dock himself, he had to say something. Do something. And even that extreme act was impossible; he wasn’t sure how to handle the sails or the motor. Then a thought occurred to him. “Is this trip why you are asking me this now?”

“Hmmmn?” Solo was wiping his hands on the towel. The sharp smell of the antiseptic filled the air, even overpowering the scent of suntan lotion.

“Did you want to ask me this, in a setting where I couldn’t escape?” Kuryakin accused.

Solo looked put out, even offended. “I’m not holding a gun to your head. Don’t answer, if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll think you have an answer anyway,” Kuryakin challenged.

“It may not be any of my business,” Solo said calmly, “but we’re friends, Illya. Close friends, or so I thought. If you are gay, or bi, you don’t have to conceal it from me.”

“And what if I am not?”

“Then I would suggest we tie up tonight at the marina on Fire Island. They have a club there where we might find some congenial companions for a romantic dinner.”

Kuryakin looked away. “And if I am?”

“Then we won’t.” Solo said.

Kuryakin looked away, not saying anything. Not sure what Napoleon meant by that last remark, and afraid to ask. After a few moments, the senior agent turned away, and disappeared back down into the cabin. When he appeared again, minus towel and bottle, he squinted up at the rigging.

“The wind is shifting a point or two,” Solo said. “I’m going to adjust the sails.”

Solo busied himself with the his task, and soon the Pursang glided over the water ever farther away from shore. Kuryakin didn’t know what to make of Solo’s question. If he raised a fuss about what Solo had done, insisted on going home, started an argument... If he didn’t... He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Questions about his sexuality from strangers he always treated with a cold silence. Napoleon was no stranger, but he couldn’t seem to break his silent habits. And Napoleon seemed to have gone past the issue anyway. He settled for saying nothing.

They settled into a wordless companionship that might have been as comfortable and congenial as what they had often shared in the past, except for Kuryakin’s vague unease. It seemed incongruous that he feel that way; Napoleon appeared to have forgotten the incident. The beautiful setting of spray and waves, the warm sun, cooling breeze, the sunlight glancing off ripples of water and gleaming brass work and varnished wood, the sharp smell of the water, the slap of the waves against the hull and wind in the sails did their best to distract him. He tried to forget the incident and enjoy the vacation. He settled on the deck, sunbathing, glad that at least his pretense of napping let him avoid conversation.

He actually did fall asleep, only rousing when Solo called him to dinner. Although a small boat, it still had enough power to start the engine, power a few emergency lights and to heat water and food. They ate only by the light of an oil lamp, conserving electricity, but the food was warm and the coffee, hot. He ate and drank and listened to Napoleon talk about inconsequential things. Neither mentioned Solo question of the afternoon.

Later, he was standing at the railing, staring at the silver slipper of the new moon. Solo had kicked him out of the tiny galley while he cleaned up the debris of their meal, saying it was too small for even one person. Kuryakin had gone willingly. He was poor at cooking, and worse at cleanup, and he suspected if Solo had left it to him, he would have wasted all their fresh water trying to accomplish it. Clearly housekeeping on a boat required some experience to do well.

The night was clear, and the sky hung above them like an inverted bowl, the horizon stretching unobstructed in every direction. Living in New York City, it wasn’t something he often had a chance to see. He had once enjoyed astronomy, learning all the constellations, charting their courses in the night sky. He’d learned the constellations in Russian, he wasn’t sure of all their English names, and he looked at them one by one, trying to see if he knew both. But his eyes kept being drawn to the moon.

In African cultures, such a moon was likened to a young maiden lying on her back, waiting for her lover. The full moon that would come later was the same maiden, pregnant and ripe with child. He stared at the moon, thinking of the maiden, thinking of how, to so many people, perhaps even to most, sex was such a dominating force in their lives.

Unlike in his own. As Solo had so often innocently teased him, he practiced celibacy very well. He had mixed feelings about that. He wouldn’t want to be plagued with the driving needs that forced his partner to chase every skirt they passed. Just the thought made him weary.

But he did feel empty at times. When that happened, he reminded himself sternly he didn’t care for Napoleon’s revolving door approach. That, as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, he was forbidden having one concentrated object. Denied one option and repulsed by another, he had settled for what he could have. Nothing at all.

Napoleon came up from righting the galley. Illya felt him pause behind him, both staring up at the same moon.

“Pretty night,” Solo said.

“Shouldn’t we be getting under way?” Kuryakin asked. Napoleon had taken in the sails while they had eaten.

Solo shrugged. Kuryakin could feel the movement behind him, even without turning to look.

“The wind seems to have left us,” Solo answered.

Kuryakin couldn’t deny that. “We have the motor,” he offered.

“I don’t like to use it except for emergencies,” Solo said in his easy voice. “No reason we can’t stay hove-to here. I’ve been listening to the weather reports on the wireless down below. Nothing is brewing, weatherwise. It should be calm. We’ll be safe enough here, this far out from land. The wind will pick up after dawn. We can head into shore then.”

Solo’s voice held the briefest note of question at the last statement, as if he were asking Kuryakin’s consensus. Odd, because Kuryakin knew less than nothing about boats, and cared little where this particular boat was. He himself would have preferred to be closer to land. He chafed at the immobility at being trapped on a boat in the middle of a sea too large to easily swim to any shore. But he knew, conversely, that Solo found the same situation liberating, liked to see water filling every horizon. Sea room to spread his sails, as he put it. Even with no wind now to fill them.

But when he had accepted Napoleon’s invitation, he’d known, without being told, that they wouldn’t be hugging the shore. He wasn’t sanguine about it, but he had no intention of forcing his own preferences on Napoleon, particularly when they were so at odds with the purpose of the vacation.

“You don’t mind, do you Illya?” Solo’s soft voice prodded him.

He had been quiet too long. “No.”

His partner sighed. He could hear the soft outpouring of breath, the relaxation of muscles in his partner’s body. In the quiet, he could hear water lapping gently against the hull, the creak of the rigging. The deck rocked every so slightly in counterpoint to the waves, but his body had adjusted. His stomach no longer felt queasy at the motion. Just a gentle rocking.

He closed his eyes, feeling the boat move under him, the light touch of cool air on his cheek. Yes, he could understand why his sensual partner would like the sea. And why he, so asexual, would resist its questionable lures.

The sea was tempting, when calm, just as love was sweet when it was new. But there were inevitable storms in both. He’d never likened the storms to be worth the calm.

“Illya.”

Solo had moved up behind him, almost touching. He could feel the warmth of his body in the cooler air.

“Are you star-gazing?” Solo asked.

Kuryakin shrugged.

“I don’t mind gazing at a few stars myself,” he said, coming even nearer. His voice was close to his ear, his breath brushing the fringes of his hair. Close. Too close.

It suddenly struck him like a thunderbolt. The unexpected vacation, their isolation on a boat far from land, the lack of wind to take them away. “You planned this,” he blurted. “The boat, the course, the wind.” He hesitated a moment. “Your question.”

Solo didn’t say anything for a moment. “I calculated it,” he said quietly. “I hoped nature would play along. And it has.”

“Why?” Kuryakin asked, too distraught to be fully aware of the note of anguish in his voice.

“I didn’t want you running, if I was wrong,” Solo said. “At least, here, I’ll have time to work it out. I don’t want you to leave me, Illya. No matter what happens, you’re still my partner.”

Kuryakin’s hands clenched on the deck rail, looking out at the wide blue sea, at the moon maiden lying on her back for her lover. He did feel more than a little trapped. His eyes went automatically to the horizon, but no land was in sight, the shore too far to swim away from this. Any other option, like trying to start the engines and head for shore, or calling for a pickup by communicator, would take too long, not to mention the embarrassment should he try the latter.

He said nothing, not wanting to deal with this, wondering at Napoleon’s presumption. That Napoleon thought he might want this, that he might want him. But then, Napoleon was always bold. And things usually went his way. He pondered that, realizing what that meant in this situation. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, and he knew it was not from seasickness.

“Illya,” Solo said and took that final step, one arm on the rail beside him, half closing him in, but the other still at his side. Leaving him an out, an option. A place to step out of the near embrace.

Even so, Illya felt the lightest touch of panic at the suggestion of restraint, of confinement, as if the air had lost most of his oxygen. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, struggling for calm. He reminded himself that he could take that one step away and stop his partner. Napoleon had never forced himself on anyone in his life. He wouldn’t force him. He could stop all this, by simply taking that one step.

But he didn’t seem able to move his feet. His rubber-soled canvas shoes clung to the deck as if nailed there. He curled his toes inside them, feeling the moment slipping away.

“Illya.” As if his stillness had been a decision communicated, Solo’s free hand closed on his far arm, turning him, wordlessly urging him. He’d felt those hands a hundred times in his career, pulling him, pushing him toward one safety or another, away from some evil. He went with the hand, found his face inches from Solo’s, their eyes meeting. He drew breath to say something, to stop him, to correct his partner’s mistaken assumption. But then Solo’s face came down and he felt his mouth taken in a kiss.

The kiss was so very much like Napoleon, it felt familiar. In spite of the strangeness of the gesture, the incongruity of the act between them, he felt at home with it. Comfortable. Napoleon took his mouth with a practiced ease, very smooth, very suave. For a moment he felt as if it were nothing between them, no different than a handshake, less emotional than the hug of relief they sometimes exchanged.

But then he felt the velvet warmth of Napoleon’s tongue brush against his, sensual, stirring, promising. His world suddenly turned upside down with dizzying speed. The heavens spun, the moon maiden lay back for her lover, and he drew a sharp breath against the mouth pressed to his, tensing in Solo’s lightly encompassing arms.

Napoleon didn’t take a step back, or release his hold, but he drew his mouth away, tongue sliding against his in sensual leave-taking, moving his head just enough to allow them to speak, their breath still mingling. Illya was panting, trying to get oxygen into his lungs. Whatever air he was breathing seemed strangely devoid of it.

“Illya?”

Solo’s eyes, no trace of amusement in them now. They looked pensive, filled with longing.

For me, Kuryakin thought. How can this have happened?

“You’re not scared?” Solo asked. “You couldn’t possibly be afraid of me, could you?”

Kuryakin shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“Your heart is racing,” Solo said in explanation. “I’d never hurt you, Illya,” he added. “You know that?”

“Yes,” Kuryakin acknowledged. It had never occurred to him otherwise. But now that Napoleon mentioned it, he could feel his heart, pounding in his chest, his throat, his respiration rapid and shallow. No wonder he could hardly catch his breath, he was hyperventilating. He tried to force himself to calm, to breathe deeply.

His hands, tangled in Napoleon’s clothes, on his arms, were clenched, caught between the desire to push him away, and the desire to pull him closer. He struggled to catch his breath, to deal with this.

Solo bent his head down and kissed him again. He felt his whole body surge in response, shattering his carefully contrived constraints against feeling. Still fully clothed, he felt as if Solo had stripped him naked, taken him there on the deck. He reminded himself it was only a kiss, just a kiss.

This is sex, he thought as Napoleon lifted his head, letting him breathe. No wonder everyone pursues it, longs for it, writes stories celebrating it, dreams about it. He’d never known a feeling this intense. He realized he was trembling.

“Illya?” Solo was looking down at him questioningly, still holding him lightly. Gently, as if he were afraid he would shatter. Break. Run.

Choose, Kuryakin thought. Walk into this with your eyes open. You know it can’t last. A storm always follows a calm. Nothing in life, not even sex, is always this simple, or will remain this simple.

The thought that this would irrevocably change his relationship with Napoleon hovered at the back of his mind. But at the forefront was the sight of his partner, eyes gleaming in the darkness, the scent of his partner, suntan lotion and clean sweat and the faintest hint of musk rising between their bodies, the feel of Napoleon against him, strong and yet gentle, the memory of the taste of his mouth, the touch of his velvet tongue lingering against his, the liquid warmth of their kisses.

Napoleon held back. He’d made his move, and now he was clearly waiting for Illya to make his, to come to him.

It would be so much easier to be taken, Kuryakin thought ruefully, dissolving himself of responsibility, a mere victim of Solo’s encompassing technique. He’d seen it happen time and time again with women. But Napoleon apparently wouldn’t give him that. He was holding back, waiting for Illya.

Choose, Illya Nickovetch, he scolded himself. He thought of negatives, of Napoleon, his deceptive and shrewd partner, cleverly bringing him out here on this boat so far from anywhere, of his Soviet superiors’ reaction should they ever discover this, of Waverly’s displeasure, of his own pain the first time he watched Solo pursue another, of his own aching loneliness, a loneliness from which long familiarity had largely insulated him, magnified anew by this loss if and when Solo inevitably moved on.

It was daunting. Had he been home, had he a place to go, he probably would have taken the coward’s way out, pulled away from Napoleon, fled. But here there was no place to flee. Even should he demand it of Solo, it would be hours before they reached any landfall. And he could not maintain a false pretense for so long. With Napoleon’s eyes on him, hopeful, heart-filled, knowing him better than he knew himself, he could not maintain it even for minutes.

I would have only needed a few moments to flee, he thought regretfully. You planned this too well, Napoleon. Then he raised his face to his partner’s, lips seeking.

Solo’s mouth came down to claim his, his body a warm canopy, enfolding him. He moaned softly in his throat as the last vestiges of his own emotional insulation were burned away, leaving his feelings raw and naked. He pressed against his partner, seeking his presence as cover.

And Napoleon did cover him, somehow. Even as his hands lightly stripped him, with each button undone, each sliding away of cloth and zipper, each piece of clothing removed, he covered him, with strong arms, warm tongue, close embrace. And then, finally naked, covering him with his body. Holding him, rocking them as the deck swayed gently below them.

The stars swung in their courses, the moon maiden spread herself beneath her lover, and he and Napoleon consummated their relationship on the Pursang’s hard deck, their own small firework display trying to rival the dazzling bowl of stars that hung over them.

Afterwards he lay awkwardly in Napoleon’s arms. The cool air tickled him wherever he and Napoleon weren’t touching. Where they were touching he was shocked at the burning warmth of Solo’s skin. He could turn into that warmth so easily. Be consumed by it. He turned his head away a little, afraid of that fact.

He wasn’t fearful of Napoleon, but he did need to guard against himself. Napoleon was experienced at this sort of thing. He was so new to it he knew he was in danger of being overwhelmed. As star-struck as any of Napoleon’s innocents, or starlets. He simply had to steel himself against behaving like a complete fool. He stared up at the stars, wondering at their indifference. Could this be the same sky he had looked at earlier this evening? Surely everything had changed, even the heavens? But that was the sort of thinking he had to guard against.

He felt Napoleon’s hand in his hair, carding it gently.

“Illya?”

“What now?” he found himself asking, struggling for a gruffness he didn’t feel.

Solo raised an eyebrow. “We clean up a little? Sleep together? I’d like to wake up with you beside me.”

“Napoleon,” he demurred. “We won’t always be on a otherwise empty boat in the middle of a becalmed sea. Maybe we should...” his voice trailed off.

Solo looked troubled. “I knew this,” he murmured. “Are you going to run away from me the minute we get back?”

“It’s not running,” Kuryakin protested. “It’s sensible.”

Solo shook his head. “What’s sensible is recognizing what we have. What you want.”

Kuryakin flushed, embarrassed. It had been a long time for him. Too long. In spite of the unlikely setting, the unfamiliarity of a male partner, he had responded strongly, surprising even himself. Solo on the other hand, had merely seemed pleased by his reaction. Even expectant. Perhaps Solo had become that way, perhaps all his lovers surpassed themselves once in his arms. “Don’t use that against me,” Kuryakin argued.

“Against you?” Solo raised himself up on one elbow. The cooler air, rushing in to replace his warmth felt icy. Kuryakin had to force himself not to move toward him, seeking that heat. “What are you thinking of, ‘against you’? I’m for you, Illya. For us. Both of us.”

“Us.” The word tasted strange in his mouth. “There can be no us, Napoleon. The U.N.C.L.E. charter forbids agents like us having any close relationship. I can imagine what the reaction would be if this came to Waverly’s attention.”

“We’ve been friends for years, Illya. Partners for longer. He knows that. Everyone knows that.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It isn’t so very different. I love you. I want to keep you safe. I want to sleep with you. I felt the first two long before the third, and they have far more potential affect on a mission than the latter. I haven’t crossed that line yet. Neither will you. No matter what we do on our own time.”

Kuryakin blinked, feeling dizzy, Solo’s statement, after the first few sentences, only a jumble in his head. “You love me?” the words sounded strange in his mouth. As many flirtations as he’d witnessed, he’d never heard Solo claim that.

Solo laughed softly and kissed him. “You mean you haven’t noticed?”

“Not particularly. Napoleon--”

But Solo was kissing him again, holding him, murmuring his love. After a few minutes Kuryakin couldn’t assert it was an easy thing to overlook. Or ignore. It would be easier to ignore a hurricane, he thought, as Solo’s passion swept over him, caught him up, lifted him, shattered him. He came down gently, nerveless in Solo’s arms, dazed and shivering.

Solo rose to his bare feet, gathered up their scattered clothes in one quick swoop, tugged him to his own feet. “I’d love to sleep on the deck tonight, but it’s getting a shade too cold. Let’s turn in, Illya.”

They went down to the single cabin, washed sparingly in the sparse hot water. The cabin held only one bunk, slightly wider than a twin bed, but not as large as a full. Solo obviously slept in that, he and his usual female guests. The other sleeping area was a harder, narrower space that also served as a couch and seating area during the day, on which Kuryakin had planned to sleep. Now, Solo turned down the bunk’s comforter and top sheet, and pushed him into it. Kuryakin drew up on his knees as Solo prepared to settle in beside him.

“Perhaps I should sleep--”

“Don’t be silly, Illya. That couch is miserable to sleep on. I planned it that way, if you must know. A good boat seats six, but only sleeps two with comfort. And if you’re worried about protecting your chastity, you’ve already lost it twice. There’s no sense losing a night’s sleep on top of it.”

He grew huffy. “I only thought this bunk might be too small for the both of us.”

Solo smiled. “Not if we sleep close together. I planned that too.”

“Is there anything you haven’t planned?” Kuryakin complained, as Solo settled in beside him. The bed was too small unless they slept in each other’s arms. Pity he didn’t find that uncomfortable.

“Breakfast tomorrow. I’ll let you choose the menu.”

Kuryakin was too tired to fashion a retort. The whole day had been exhausting, the morning fighting sea-sickness, the afternoon of glaring sun on water, the puzzling, tension-filled evening, crowned by lovemaking. He especially wasn’t used to much of the latter, and two climaxes had left him tired and relaxed enough that he didn’t bother to try and match Solo’s wit. He closed his eyes, buried his face in his partner’s comforting shoulder, and went to sleep.

He woke up to the cry of shore birds. The bunk was empty, and so was the cabin. He supposed Napoleon was up on deck and went to the tiny head to clean up first, dressed in clean shorts and t-shirt.

His clothes from the day before, creased and dirty, Solo had stowed in a canvas bag, but his deck shoes were where Solo had dropped them the night before. He laced them, sitting on the couch where he’d meant to spend the night. The cushions were hard.

He thought of sleeping there tonight, chaste and virginal. He thought of sleeping in Napoleon’s bed. He thought of making love on the swaying deck. He thought of urging Napoleon to dock at some nearby town, slipping his notice and fleeing for New York. For Moscow. For anywhere where Napoleon was not.

He finished tying his shoes, and went over to the tiny mirror, ran a comb through his hair. Even in the dim light of the cabin, he could see the blush on his face. He turned away from it, went to make up the bunk. Stalling. If his face burned at the sight of the bunk, where he’d spent a chaste night, how was he going to face Solo and the deck where he and Napoleon had made love. In the light of day, the whole thing seemed so absurd. Unbelievable.

But he couldn’t skulk in the cabin all morning, and so he went up the narrow stairs to the deck. Napoleon was there, fussing with the sails, every stitch of canvas spread. The wind was humming in the rigging, he realized it must have risen in the night, just as Napoleon had predicted. The boat was racing along in the water, sunlight glancing over the waves, catching the bright brass work. It was dazzling, and so different from the quiet darkness of last night he almost didn’t recognize it.

Solo looked up at him. “I thought we’d make a run for Fire Island. For breakfast. I’m uncommonly hungry this morning,” he added. He slid his feet to the deck, came over. Kuryakin hesitated, holding still as Napoleon kissed him.

Solo pulled back, “Having second thoughts?”

“I never had time for first thoughts,” Kuryakin growled.

Solo didn’t seem put off. He bent his head down, kissed him hard, arms closing around him. Kuryakin fought his own nature a bit. A sane, cautious voice from deep within was telling him that this was madness. Then, as Solo parted his lips and kissed him deeply, his warm tongue taking possession of his mouth, he capitulated, opening himself to the kiss, pressing back against him, tongues intertwining.

Solo finished the kiss first, smiling slightly. “That’s my partner.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Kuryakin warned, not sure what he was warning against.

Solo only laughed. “Dare I trust you in Fire Island? Or are you going to excuse yourself to the men’s room and climb out the window?”

“Not until after breakfast,” Kuryakin qualified, “I’m hungry too.”

“Illya,” Solo chided. “Don’t make me worry about this. We should be enjoying the weekend,” he added, nuzzling the soft skin under Kuryakin’s ear. “This is our first time together. Let’s make it special. Don’t hang any clouds over us or make this hard when it doesn’t have to be. We can see this work. You know you want it.”

Kuryakin swallowed hard, not sure he could deny it. He lied well, but not easily, not to Napoleon. “But we won’t always be...” he hesitated, not sure how to express it in words.

“What?”

“Becalmed.” He took a step away from Solo’s distracting lips. “It won’t always be this easy. Something will come up. Just like this wind. What happens then?”

“Then we spread our canvas to it,” Solo said, drawing him close again, “and we fly.”

The End?

The Wind in the Willows