Chapter Text
Napoleon. What a silly name for an American.
Illya snorted as he listened to the roll call. He was 12 and already bored of this exchange. Illya wasn't sure what his father wanted to accomplish by sending him to this quaint little boarding school in New York. Illya hadn't even perfected his English yet. Illya continued his musings until the teacher called his name. Glancing up he spots the teacher, Mrs. Moore, beckoning him to the front of the class. With a restrained sigh, he enters the classroom and scowl as all eyes zero in on him.
"Now class," Mrs. Moore starts, "this is our new exchange student prince Illya Kuryakin. He's from Russia and..."
"Tsarevich."
"Pardon me?"
"Russia has no prince. My title is Tsarevich."
"Ah, yes. Well," she looks a bit flustered, rather than continue to address him, she continues her previous statement. "Illya will be with us until the end of the term. Now please, everyone, let's give our new classmate a warm welcome."
The class calls out various greetings and Illya stands there stiffly. When they finally settle down the teacher turns to him again and asks, "Now, who would you like to sit beside?"
What a terrible question. Illya frowns. This will just have them disliking me purely based on my selection.
"Anywhere is fine ma'am."
She seems pleased.
"Well isn't that wonderful! How about you sit over there next to Napoleon? He'll make sure you know how to get to your other classes."
Illya's gaze sweeps the class before landing on, whom he presumes is "Napoleon," for he is the only boy grinning broadly up at him. His black hair is a little wavy and his dark blue eyes seem to sparkle with mischief. Illya allows a small grin to appear. This is going to be fun.
He makes his way over to his new desk mate, nodding and waving occasionally at the faces he passes. Once he nears the back of the class where Napoleon sits, the raven-haired boy pulls out the chair next to him with a flourish.
"Your seat my liege."
Illya snorts and takes the offered seat. The teacher nods, seemingly satisfied with his placement and begins the history lesson.
"I look forward to being of service oh high and mighty one."
The whispered declaration has Illya staring the boy down with a raised brow. Napoleon seems serious for all of 2 seconds before grinning once again. He grins a lot.
"I am not here for servant. Am here for...diplomacy."
"Diplomacy huh?" Napoleon's grin widens. "Does that mean you're here to make friends?"
"I suppose. Father states that I could use some. Make good personal guard."
"Excellent, I'm not one to serve the snooty upper class, but I think we'll be best friends. Don't you?"
Illya ponders this for a moment. Napoleon, despite knowing him for all of 5 minutes, seems the reliable sort. Comforting, in a way Illya hasn't felt since stepping foot in America.
Illya nods.
"Perhaps we will."