Young Illya Kuryakin was a tall, skinny boy with shaggy blond hair and a quiet disposition. He was in High School, his first year there. He was nervous, just like everyone else. He had no idea what to do with the rest of his life. He had no clue what career he wanted. He was an exceptionally bright student. He didn't participate in class much, but his focus was remarkable and his memory was practically photographic.
He would have been doing well in High School, if there wasn't a huge, glaring problem. The girls in his school were beautiful and flirty. Quite a few of them had a preference for tall, intelligent boys. They flirted with him and he flirted back, and he felt nothing. They were kind and pretty and he enjoyed the attention, but there was something missing.
He got himself a girlfriend. She was smart and funny and she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Her curly blonde hair and dimples could charm any man. He enjoyed time with her and she certainly enjoyed her time with him. He kissed her and her lips were warm and inviting… and empty. He kept dating her, kept kissing her, and still the kiss was nothing more than a warm press of lips on his. The most he ever felt was the rush of adrenaline with taking a risk, not knowing if she'd kiss him back. He broke her heart after a year. The flattery had died out. Just being happy someone had chosen him wasn't enough, he wanted to feel more. He wanted to be in love like his classmates. He waited too long, he thought, he didn't get up the courage to break up with her until he'd spent a few weeks avoiding her every call… not wanting to spend a single moment with this beautiful girl.
After the breakup, he felt a hole in his life. She had been perfect. Why had he not fallen in love? That's what teenage boys did. They chased girls. He should do the same. He tried so hard. He flirted with every girl in the school and dated quite a few of them. It wasn't long until he had a reputation for being a womanizer. He'd flirt, he'd kiss, and he'd break their hearts. And he still felt nothing. Another year passed and he couldn't take it anymore. He cut himself off from everyone. If he couldn't fall in love, what was the point of human interaction? Friendship was nice, but love was the be-all-end-all. It was the happy ending. What was life worth if he couldn't have a happy ending?
With nothing left to turn to, he threw himself into his studies. His work at school was not enough so he started spending his evenings in the library learning about everything. Languages, strategy, and literature. He even took up fighting classes. Beating a punching bag made the empty feeling go away for a little while. It was in his studies that he found a collection of old English stories. Sherlock Holmes was a fascinating read. Every case was compelling and at the end it was all tied up in a neat bow. It made sense, and he found it enjoyable to try to solve the case before the end. He loved a good mystery. He came for the stories… but he soon found something much more important.
Sherlock Holmes was a bachelor. He was married to his work and he didn't seem to care that he had not and would never find love. Most importantly, he seemed to have all that he desired in his best friend. John Watson was loyal, friendly, and… married? Illya was shocked. The fact that someone would look for friendship and adventure /after/ their happy ending had never occurred to him. In the pages of those books Illya found hope. Sherlock Holmes showed him that not every meaningful relationship was romantic. Friendship, a true friendship between very different people could be as fulfilling as a marriage.
There was no other option for him. He had to become a consulting detective. The only one in the world. His studies continued to be his obsession, but he started socializing again. He made friendships, and although he never found that best friend he was looking for, he kept hoping. He just had to be patient.
He was in his first years at university when U.N.C.L.E. found him. Illya was thrown. This wasn't what he had planned. He was going to be a detective, a lone wolf with just a close circle of friends… but the life of a spy seemed so exciting. He had to give it a try. Just for a little while.
It was more than he'd ever dreamt of. A few missions here and there gradually evolved into a constant barrage of jobs to do. He loved the excitement, the challenges. He learned so much. He loved his life with U.N.C.L.E. so entirely that when they told him to move to New York City he did so without question. It was there that he met Napoleon.
Napoleon Solo was a terminal womanizer. His constant flirting made Illya roll his eyes so often he was sure they were going to fall out of his skull. But the man was brilliant. He was charismatic, intelligent, and a damn good agent. Someone Illya really looked up to, although Solo had only been an agent for two years longer than he.
The surprise came when Solo first put a hand on his shoulder. Illya couldn't remember what he had done to make Napoleon proud or happy… but he remembered the feeling of that hand on his shoulder. It was warm and Solo squeezed his shoulder a little too hard… but Illya felt a surge of fondness like he never had before, and his wide smile was genuine. He started going out of his way to help Solo around Headquarters. He did little things like help with research or join him in sparring. They talked about all sorts of subjects and Illya would go home in the evening with his face sore from smiling.
They went on their first mission together and it was like they shared the same mind. They worked like they'd been going on missions together for years. There was an understanding between them that neither could explain. They started spending time together outside of work. They would drive into Headquarters together and they would go on walks. Napoleon started cooking Illya dinner because the younger agent was a disaster in the kitchen.
They went on vacation together for the first time after a particularly rough mission and Illya bought himself a souvenir. He got a gold ring and put it on the ring finger of his left hand. Napoleon teased him mercilessly, telling him he was never going to find a lady; all the good ones would be chased away thinking he was married. Illya smiled and he laughed and he said not to worry. He was married to his work, and he'd finally found his Watson.