Chapter Text
Moscow was especially alive tonight despite the overcast sky. Illya knew it was risky to be prowling around the city square on a weekend, but more tourists meant more potential customers. He seemed to be off his game this particular evening, however. He sat on a fountain's bench as people bustled past, grasping their shopping bags from the GUM close and hastening their children into parked cars. It was interesting how consumerism drove their supposedly selfless economy even still, Illya mused; it was interesting that he had to sell himself for a meal under a government that had promised him so much more.
His mother had done the same. Granted, times were different, then, twenty years ago in the midst of the war; things were desolate. He remembered living in so many different places, looking after his younger brother and sisters, relying on "доброта незнакомцев;" as she would say. The kindness of strangers. Illya thought, as he looked upon the faces of his comrades and took in their tendency to jostle one another as they passed, that surely kindness wasn't valued by Russians anymore, certainly not to the extent his mother had brought him up to think it would be. “Illyusha,” she would address sternly, as though she were preparing him to enter battle, “you will see. Europe will grow tired of this war, will solve their differences, will forgive, will heal.” As much as he yearned for this to be true, he found the possibility very unlikely.
Upon maturing, he had found himself in a world that was surely as hard, and as unforgiving, as the shaded version of his mother's world he had been presented as a child. She moved with such caution, he could remember, her paranoia ever-present. It was the same for him, nowadays. He was afraid, and ashamed of it, constantly looking over his shoulder. At least he didn't have a family to support – that, he wasn't sure how his mother had managed. And he had a little flat, a place he had furnished to his liking and called his own, so he didn't have to move aroaund. He never brought dates there; he made them pay for hotels. They were always willing, of course, didn't even think to ask otherwise. It never occurred to them that someone with his job was a real person, full of thoughts and passions and with responsibilities other than to lie still and endure the stink of their breath and the weight of their gut for ten minutes.
Rain had started to drizzle from the clouds looming in the sky, half-lit by a bright moon hovering against the horizon. Illya heard the sound of drops hitting the water behind him, and then registered the sensation of them hitting his hair and shoulders. He was without a jacket, and the walk home was longer than was entirely pleasant in a storm, but he found that tonight he didn't mind much. He didn't feel like working anymore, anyhow, not after letting his mind drift in such a way. But just as he rose to start toward the path home, an American accent stopped him short.
“Want some company?” said a stranger, voice resonating off the stone of the fountain's side. The voice was beautiful, husky and confident. A voice full of fine, aged whisky, of decadence and all the things Illya found sinful. Turning to face the man, he realised that they were practically alone in the Square – all others had retired inside, and the moon sat high in the sky now, illuminated the ribbons of rain as they fell. If Illya were inclined to such descriptions, he would have called the moment almost romantic.
The American was a little shorter and a little older than himself, with dark hair slicked back and piercing eyes of ice blue. He was dressed sharply – decidedly Western, thought Illya – in a navy trench Illya could tell was Laroche and shoes of fine, tanned leather. At least Illya could appreciate the craftsmanship. He scowled. He did not like Americans.
“Your shoes will get ruined, Cowboy. Go back to plush hotel, let Russians be Russians in peace.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way,” the American said without missing a beat, skipping sideways to block Illya's path as he tried to move away. Illya realised he had come from the Tretyakov Gallery. Art collector. Not flamboyant enough, and too richly groomed, to be an artist. That explained what he was doing in the country. Likely trading in disgusting Nazi paraphernalia. Illya had heard that Hitler wanted to be a painter but was too untalented to attract any attention from the major art schools. He wondered who the market was for that kind of thing, who paid money so hard-earned for a mass murderer's early, failed creativity. Maybe it was a reminder for them that everyone has their calling?
The Cowboy cleared his throat. Illya sighed. “What is it you want? You are very intent on delaying me, rich boy.”
“You don't have to field such immature names at me. I'm simply curious about you. What brings you out in the rain?”
“Maybe I like the rain. What does American care?” Illya turned again, starting to hustle toward the Square's exit that was actually opposite the direction he needed to go in. His real path was past the gallery, and this man was really starting to grind his nerves. But his face swam again in his vision as rainwater was splashed onto the ankles of his wool trousers, the older man cutting him off once again with his body. Illya was really irritated now, staring at the American's infuriatingly enduring grin and sparkling white teeth.
“Cowboy, I am really not good at controlling temper. Get out of my way,” Illya warned, hoping to God his bluff wouldn't be called. Of course, it was.
“Were you not hoping someone with just my inclination would wander out to you this evening? I saw you sitting on the fountain for an hour from up there in the offices.” He pointed up at the lit windows in the top floors of the gallery, behind Illya now. “You're open for business,” the American concluded, nodding triumphantly, his hands on his hips, his stance confident and infuriating.
“Closed now. Goodnight.” Illya shoved past him, bumping shoulders, he hoped painfully.
“I can pay really good money,” the older man cooed, seemingly very dedicated. Illya turned on his heel, the slick cobblestone sliding him easily around. He could feel his trouser legs sticking at the bottom where they had gotten wet in the American's carelessness.
“How good?”
“I have 500 rubles on me, but if that won't do...” The man looked almost sheepish, now; when Illya really looked, he could see that past the grin, there was tiredness, and a few crow's feet creeping at his eyes. But he was charming, Illya would concede that, and apparently was a serious customer, knowing just what he was looking for and willing to pay for it. “Just let me know what you need. I'm exhausted and away from home and... lonely.” He offered another smile, this one more friendly, less predatory; a request for permission.
Illya hesitated. This was a ridiculous amount of money for one night's work – the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he had a split-second tinge of the feeling that came with an offer too good to be true. He'd had his share of near misses in the years since his late teens that he'd been doing this, brutish, sweaty men only keen on hurting him and women with strange husbands who wanted to watch, then decided midway through that they'd be better off chasing him out with a gun. But none of them had had eyes as kind as this man's, and in retrospect, he had to admit to himself that there had been tells in each of those cases – feelings he'd had, before agreeing to the terms, that things would end badly. All things considered, this situation gave off no warning siren of ill intent.
“Two now,” he said slowly, still a good five feet away, watching the faded light from the street lamps and buildings illuminate the stranger's chiseled jaw. He watched him toss his hands up, palms out. “Whatever you say, boss. This is your show, I'm just here for the ride.” He smirked. Illya was incensed.
“Need to teach you how to conduct business transaction. American slime, with pretty coat and shoes, come waltzing into Red Square thinking they own the place. When in Rome,” Illya muttered.
He nodded curtly and turned away again, heading toward Kitay-gorod and the Savoy behind it. “You get room. Leave me key at desk,” he said to the air ahead, but behind him, the American smiled.