Brimful.

 

He was brimful of this knowledge. It was so infused into his cells that he couldn’t not think about it. He even dreamed about it at night, waking up breathless and humping the mattress. He would curl up around his pillow then, eyes open, and imagine the future he wished for.

 

This agonized knowing, this revelation hadn’t popped up between one moment and another, it hadn’t occurred overnight; no, it had snuck up on him gradually. Like the aftertaste of that really excellent dark, Spanish wine they liked to order with their steaks.

 

It was the details that had made him see it. A smile. A sandwich on his desk after a missed lunch. A quick hug after a daring rescue. The raised eyebrow.

 

 He wanted to chalk it up to his seduction techniques, but knew deep down it was despite his plots and plans.

 

It should have made him satisfied and calm. It did. But the implications, the pitfalls darkening the future…they sometimes made him shiver during sleepless nights.

 

 But most of all, almost every day, he wanted to laugh. He was so scrutinizingly happy that he barely was able to keep it from showing. Sometimes it leaked out around the corners, making his suspicious partner going what, what is it now, are you ill?

 

Well, if love could be called an illness, he was.

 

Fatally.

 

 For him, it had happened that first day, when Waverly had introduced them, in his office. Waverly had held his speech, mentioning duty, open-mindedness, and acceptance. He had thought I’ll do it for free, I’m gay and yes, yes, yes.

 

Now, a year later, everyday and habit, the curses of marriage, had settled into their lives. His partner was serious, irritating and arrogant. And more desirable than ever. Also, something was itching away at his partner’s whole being. He just didn’t know what it was himself. But soon, he would discover what it was, Napoleon was sure of this.

 

Illya loved him.

 

Illya had loved him back, maybe since the day their eyes had met for the first time.