gallya - warm please :)
“Just try them on.”
“Gaby, I already have—”
“Yes, for work,” Gaby says, pushing them into his chest. “These are for you.”
Illya turns the gloves over, and over again. The palms are black leather, the top a thick grey wool. Four risen seams stretch subtly from knuckle to cuff. A classic cut, inoffensive. Practical. He imagines how they would pair with his black winter coat, and the ushanka she insists he wears with even the slightest wind chill. He hasn’t yet decided whether she really likes that hat or if she’s only making fun of him.
“Go on,” she urges, peering up at him. “Or don’t you like them?”
He can’t fathom what he has done to deserve a gift, always feels uncomfortable accepting them, but clearly it matters to her that he at least puts them on.
Illya slips the first over his left hand, wriggles his fingers. The cuff sits comfortably on top of his watch, the wool protecting the glass face. It’s as if he has worn them in for months, as snug and as tailored a fit as he could pick for himself.
“I didn’t know your size,” she hurries, as if having heard him. “I just asked for the biggest they had. They thought I was joking.”
Illya’s lips quirk with the slightest smile. “Your kidskin gloves, Milan,” he remembers, and wonders if she does too. “I asked for the smallest.”
Gaby either pretends not to hear or isn’t really listening at all. She has already taken the second glove from him and is tugging it onto his right hand. Illya straightens his fingers, lets her pat around the cuff and pinch at his palm until it sits properly.
“You would never have bought them for yourself,” she goes on, avoiding his eye. “And your hands are always so cold. You said you were going to Moscow again soon. So. I think you should take them with you. Keep you warm.”
When she finally finishes prodding at him, Illya grasps her hand before she can drop it. The glove moulds effortlessly, the leather of the palms soft enough to feel the shape of her fingers. He imagines the warmth. “Thank you. It is — thoughtful.”
“Yes, well,” Gaby begins, with a dismissive huff of a laugh, but she tapers off as soon as her eyes meet his. Something she sees makes up her mind; she slows, and she gentles. Carefully, Gaby turns his gloved hand in hers. She pushes her fingertips down his wrist and under the cuff, runs them softly over the calloused heel of his palm.
Illya peers quizzically down at her, something too strong surging in his chest.
