Archive of Our Own ^beta

The past couple of days have been a kind of personal hell for Illya, and that was before he was facing the prospect of having to kiss his least favorite coworker.

A three day mandatory team-building retreat in the mountains was not Illya’s idea of a good time, to put it mildly. He’d intended on being strategically sick during the event, but Solo had made some snide comment about him always avoiding everyone and not being a team player, so then Illya had to go just to prove him wrong. Sure, the scenery is gorgeous, but he’s much rather be out here on his own, enjoying the blissful solitude. Certainly not doing trust and communication exercises and spending all of his time with people he doesn’t care for that much.

Some of them are fine. Gaby’s a sarcastic, foul-mouthed delight, and he enjoys spending time with her. But every minute he spends with Napoleon Solo is one too many. 

Breathtakingly beautiful with the arrogance to go with it, Solo is flashy and obnoxious and thinks he’s better than everyone. Or at least he thinks he’s better than Illya, which certainly isn’t true. He’s constantly trying to butt in on Illya’s projects and “help out”, when Illya doesn’t need any help, thank you. He acts friendly, but it’s all fake. And yet somehow, the rest of his coworkers don’t see it. Everyone likes Solo, including Gaby, and Illya is annoyed by that too. 

They were all having a party that evening, because Solo had smuggled in some illicit alcohol like they were teenagers. That at least meant Illya had been looking forward to spending the evening with his book and some quiet while everyone else was crammed in the biggest cabin—Solo’s, of course. Somehow he’d manage to finagle that, too, the greedy bastard. But Gaby had been on Illya’s case to come, and then Solo had made a comment about Illya being antisocial again, so he’d ended up at the party anyway. To his unending misery.

At first, it hadn’t been as bad as he feared—at least Solo had good taste in liquor—until the idea of playing a kissing game took hold. Illya had sensibly pointed out that it would be an HR nightmare and in direct violation of their sexual harassment training, which most seemed to think was immaterial and that he was being a wet blanket.

“No, no, it’s ok, he can sit it out,” Solo had said, with a shit eating grin on his face that inevitably spelled disaster. “After all, not all guys are secure enough in their masculinity to play a game like this.”

Which of course meant Illya had to play. He’s bisexual, for fuck’s sake, he just doesn’t go rubbing his personal life in other people’s faces.

His life would be a lot easier if he stopped letting Napoleon Solo goad him into things. 

The game involved all of them standing in a tight circle with one person in the middle, blindfolded and armed with a Nerf gun. They’d spin around, then stop, and whoever got hit by the dart was the person they were to kiss. Simple enough in theory, but in execution most people were so drunk that the darts flew wildly off into the room without hitting anyone. Illya had been concerned he might be an easy target, large as he is, but no one had come close to hitting him. 

No one until Solo spun around, stopped right in front of Illya, and shot him right in the chest.

Illya can do nothing but wait with dread building in his gut as Solo is ushered toward him by others in the group, still blindfolded and oblivious to what he’s done. Illya might have expected Solo to make some kind of quip, but he’s silent as he approaches. He draws his lower lip between his teeth almost nervously, but that doesn’t make any sense—Napoleon Solo is never nervous. Certainly he hadn’t shown any hesitation when April had darted him. Then he reaches out like he knows where Illya is, sliding a hand behind Illya’s neck, and pulls him down into a kiss. 

There’s no way he doesn’t know who he’s kissing—Illya is the only one here taller than him. But although all the proceeding kisses had been quick pecks, this one isn’t brief. He lingers, moving his lips against Illya’s, parting them so his tongue might slip out. And Illya, to his own shock and probably everyone else’s, kisses him back. Feels something warm spark in his gut and only barely holds himself back from reaching out for him.

Eventually Solo pulls back and lifts the blindfold, smirking as he does. But this time it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at Illya. He looks pleased in a way Illya can’t parse. Then he leans forward again, and it’s intolerable how disappointed Illya feels when he veers to the side.

“I cheated,” he whispers in Illya’s ear, punctuating it by lightly squeezing the back of Illya’s neck before he finally lets go and steps away.

Illya is dumbfounded, but he doesn’t have a chance to try to figure it out before he’s being ushered into the middle for his turn. Once there, he discovers that you can quite easily see everyone’s shoes from underneath he blindfold. Spots Solo’s stupid shiny loafers—who brings shoes like that to the mountains?—immediately.

When it comes time to spin for his turn, Illya cheats too.