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Illya is driving. The night sky is inky blue, dotted with the random star and his watch is showing just after midnight. As the car ploughs through the night, he realises he rather enjoys the quiet and calm, no noise, no distractions or demands from the outside world like he is always used to. He wishes he could go on forever like that when suddenly a head drops onto his shoulder and dark hair brushes against his cheek.

So much for his moment of tranquillity.

“Cowboy, please, I am trying to drive here,” he grumbles, somewhat irritated by the interruption in his reverie.

Napoleon jerks awake at Illya’s annoyed voice and sits up at once. He presses his head deep into his headrest, shuts his eyes and moans softly. Illya glances across at him.

“You are drunk,” he mutters, slightly amused at his partner’s state.

“Hmm, I didn’t notice,” comes Napoleon’s sarcastic retort. Illya only grins hearing his answer. When he checks on Napoleon again, the American is looking at him out of one partially-opened eye.

“What are you so happy for?” he asks Illya sullenly.

“I do not remember seeing you this drunk before. Either that or maybe I have never really noticed.”

Illya is apparently enjoying Napoleon’s predicament.

“Maybe I had too much to drink at dinner. But then people kept shoving the drinks at me. I figured it’d be kind of rude to say no to the host.”

“I’d told you to stop, but of course, as usual, you never listen to me.”

Napoleon remembers it vaguely, the party they had attended just at the outskirts of London in a private mansion owned by a successful businessman named Harry Lawrence. The event, a monthly hush-hush swinger’s party of sort, had been Lawrence’s cover for his underground drug activities and Napoleon and Illya had gone in undercover as a pair of lovers. It had totally amused Napoleon at seeing Illya’s horrified look when the Russian had realised what they had to do for their latest UNCLE assignment.

“Why isn’t it Gaby and Solo? Or Gaby and me?”

“Because Lawrence is also known for his homosexual tendencies. So sending the both of you would be more appealing to his taste.”

Waverly’s answer to his argument had not helped Illya at all but thankfully for him, they need not do much to convince their host to let them in and had gotten the information they needed, which was a list of Lawrence’s business partners and their drug dens, by the time the party had ended. Napoleon had been enlisted to get the information from Lawrence however way that he could and Illya had not been too pleased when Napoleon had been promptly groped and kissed in front of his very own eyes by the over eager host, who, to Illya’s irritation, had immediately taken a fancy of his partner as soon as he had laid eyes on him. He had gawked at the man, a tall attractive brunette, and it had taken all of Illya’s willpower not to punch the man in the face. While Napoleon was playing his part rather too convincingly for Illya’s liking, he had been approached as well by two sets of couples, apparently shy first-timers as they were, but Illya had politely declined them. When they finally left him alone, Illya had never been more relieved.

“Do you remember what Lawrence told you? About his business dealings?” Illya says after a while, tries to erase the image of Napoleon and the vile man who had his hands all over the American.

Napoleon hums. “Yes, drunk as I may be, my brain still functions perfectly well. Don’t worry about that.”

“Well, it better because we do not want to miss anything when we update Waverly,” Illya reminds Napoleon. When he stays silent, Illya gives him a side glance again.

“Solo, are you all right?”

“I think someone spiked the drink,” Napoleon mutters and this ring alarm bells in Illya’s head.

“Are you sure? How are you feeling?” he asks, concerned.

“My head feels heavy. Or maybe, nobody spiked my drink and I’m just exaggerating. That is another possibility.”

Illya rolls his eyes. That is certainly nothing new. Napoleon does tend to do that when he wants his attention. But he still worries nevertheless.

“Just rest, Cowboy, we’ll arrive at your apartment soon.”

They drive along in silence towards the city for a few minutes after that. But when he hears Napoleon groaning, Illya warns him not to throw up in the car if he is going to get sick. “Make sure you do that out the window if you have to, Cowboy. Gaby will not be happy if we mess up her car.”

That from Illya earns him a dirty look from his partner. And apparently, Napoleon being drunk also means he has some kind of mood swings every five minutes or so because soon he starts to talk rather excessively, not that he doesn’t on his normal days.

“Do you remember, Istanbul, Illya?” he asks brightly.

“Istanbul?” Illya asks. That had been a lifetime ago.

Napoleon grins and nods. “Yes, Istanbul. The one after Rome. You remember that?”

“Of course, I remember.”

“Remember what happened after our very successful mission?”

Illya frowns and wonders where Napoleon is going with the conversation.

“What are you trying to say, Cowboy?”

“We kissed. Do you remember that? Do you remember the kiss?”

‘Oh damn. Why is Cowboy talking about this now? Maybe I should just ignore it. After all, he is drunk.’

But even if Illya is trying his best to ignore Napoleon, of course, he remembers it. Not only does he remember it, but he savours the very thought of it. He is sure that memory is stored in some tiny, obscure place in his mind, reserved for the most special things, in which he likes to take out and relive when he has had a really bad day or when his thoughts are just consumed with the idea of Napoleon’s lips perched on his.

They had had too much to drink that day but Illya’s mind had been totally clear when he had let Napoleon kissed him. It might have been more than just a chaste kiss, because Illya had reciprocated it in kind, but every single time he thinks about it, it always makes him pretty aroused. And now that Napoleon has mentioned it, Illya is finding it a bit hard to concentrate and he is sure the temperature has gone up a few notches. He wonders if Napoleon is doing this on purpose, of if he is just slurring out words in his drunken stupor. Illya finally decides it is the latter.

Illya’s spoken reply to Napoleon’s question, however, is automatic and totally removed from what he really feels.

“Cowboy, we have talked about this. We agreed we made mistake. It was a heat of the moment. I didn’t know what I was doing. And if I remember correctly, you didn’t either. But if it made you uncomfortable then, I am sorry.”

Napoleon is still looking light and happy and Illya wishes that he had a few more drinks so he could be just as calm about this as well.

“Aww, Peril, you don’t have to be sorry at all. That was the best thing ever, Istanbul.”

Illya’s eyebrows go way up and he swallows nervously. Napoleon cannot be possibly talking about the kiss.

“You are talking about our successful mission.”

“No, no. Not Istanbul, the mission. Am talking about Istanbul, the kiss.”

When Illya glances at Napoleon, he has a little mischievous smile on his face and he is looking intently at Illya, making the Russian’s body shudder.

“Solo, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You are drunk. Your head is not straight. In the morning, you will forget about this, yes? I think…”

Illya stops mid-sentence, as suddenly, Napoleon leans over and kisses his neck. Illya freezes, still staring straight ahead, his hands now tensed on the wheel. Napoleon starts kissing every part of his neck and jaw he could reach and whispers something into his ear, something Illya cannot quite comprehend but is pretty certain is dirty.

“Solo, please,” Illya says in a strained voice, “If you keep doing that, I cannot concentrate. I am driving.”

Napoleon smiles playfully and just to tease Illya further, he kisses the corner of Illya’s mouth and lets his tongue wander. And the little breathless whimpers and moans from him are the final straw for Illya that are just too much for him to handle.

The Russian immediately pulls over to the side of the road and kills the engine. He sits still for a minute, tries to catch his breath. Napoleon has backed off now but he is looking at his partner longingly. Illya catches a glance of him, the American spy with his dishevelled hair and blue eyes and those lips, cherry red and parted. Ah, fuck it!, Illya laments. Leaving all thoughts and reasons behind, Illya pulls Napoleon back towards him by his shirt collar and presses their lips together desperately. Napoleon submits and wraps his arms around Illya’s neck and soon they are entangled in a mesh of tongues and limbs and the passion swirling all around them. Illya suddenly feels drunk himself from the pure ecstasy of it. For the first time ever, he listens to his heart instead of his mind, even if he is feeling slightly guilty for taking advantage of Napoleon in his obvious delirious state, but he has been waiting for this for so long, ever since Istanbul and that kiss.

And now, Illya knows he cannot run away. Not anymore.

***

Illya wakes up with a start and groans. A realisation hits him. He had crossed the line last night and now he has to put things right, whatever the hell that means. There is a fleeting desire in him to just flee but he doesn’t. He can’t. He has to be brave.

Surprisingly the memories of last night are blurred, distorted even, like it did not really happen at all, or maybe, it had been just his imagination That is easily ruled out because he is definitely in Napoleon’s apartment, in his bedroom. There is his distinct scent on the pillows, and the room, in all its order, reads only of Napoleon. But while the memory of what he had done is far away, the feelings are what remain very close. That intimate sensation of kissing Napoleon’s lips, of their skin touching, of his fingertips grazing against Napoleon’s neck, back and up and down his sides, the comfort Illya feels as he falls asleep in Napoleon’s arms and the joy waking up knowing it all had really happened.

Sighing, he pulls on his shirt and leaves the room. His father’s watch shows nine in the morning. Thank goodness they only have to report to Waverly the next day, Illya thinks. As he enters the darkened living room, because the curtains are drawn and all the lights are off, he sees Napoleon sprawled on the sofa.

“Cowboy.”

Napoleon quirks his lips as he looks up at Illya.

“Peril.”

“Are you all right?” Illya asks. His eyes dart around the dark room.

“I’m fine, just don’t turn on the lights or make any noise.”

“Maybe you should get something for your headache,” Illya suggests calmly as if this conversation is not causing him some kind of mental anguish.

Everything seems way too normal, and Illya thinks about saying ‘aren’t we supposed to be awkward about this? about what had happened?’ or ‘maybe I really should just leave’. This strange composure is definitely not what he had bargained for. He had counted on some awkward utterances and thought that he would be out of the apartment within the next five minutes, maybe to never mention what had happened between them ever again.

“I’ll be fine, Peril,” Napoleon answers him eventually. And then silence.

“Cowboy?”

“Yes?”

Napoleon looks at Illya questioningly.

“Last night,” Illya starts helplessly, “That really happened, right?”

Napoleon is on his feet now and Illya starts to tense. Before he knows anything, Napoleon places one palm on Illya’s face and kisses him softly. The tension in Illya’s body dissipates, only just. He pulls away, their foreheads touch, their lips inches apart.

“That answers your question?” Napoleon murmurs a reply and Illya only nods dazedly against Napoleon’s forehead.

“Okay then,” Napoleon says gently before turning and heading towards the kitchen.

Illya follows after his partner after a second or two. He leans against the kitchen counter as Napoleon takes his aspirin, and Illya watches him, at the same time fidgeting nervously, running his hands through his hair, fiddling with his watch until Napoleon takes both his hands in his, puts them at his sides and whispers, “It’s fine, Peril,” and Illya calms down a little at Napoleon’s assuring words.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asks and Illya realises that his hands are still in Napoleon’s and he does not want him to let go.

“Yes,” he answers after willing his heart to stop pounding.

“All right. I’ll make you some.”

Later, they eat in silence. They gaze at each other between bites, Illya slightly worried still. This is too good to be true, too casual for his own liking. When they are done eating, Illya leans against the counter again.

“We only report to Waverly tomorrow morning,” he says to Napoleon, looking for some kind of direction from the American, for reassurance.

“Yes,” Napoleon says putting away the last plate before turning to face Illya. “It’s good that we have a day’s respite after last night.”

“I suppose,” Illya answers.

He wants to ask Illya whether he wants to leave but then knows that is something he does not want to see the Russian do.

“You want to go home?” he asks him anyway. When Illya shakes his head, Napoleon is relieved.

They end up on the sofa again, Napoleon switching on the television but truthfully, neither men could hardly concentrate on whatever programme that was being shown. Illya could have very well been looking right through the television set into empty space and he would not have known the difference. He knows that this, being there with Napoleon feels good, better than anything in fact. But there is still that nagging feeling in him that it is not right, and that they should not be doing this. They are spies, UNCLE agents. What will happen if their organisation finds out about them? What will Gaby say? What will Waverly do? Will either of them be transferred to different sections? Will he be reprimanded or will they take Napoleon away from him?

Fuck, Illya does not want that to ever happen. But the heat radiating from Napoleon’s body, so close to him, clouds his judgement. Illya wonders what he should do next, what he should say to his partner. He turns and sees Napoleon staring at him.

“You okay, Cowboy?”

Napoleon only hums and nods. “What about you?”

“I am okay too.”

“That’s good,” Napoleon says.

“Although,” Illya starts after a beat or two and then hesitates and Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him. Something is clearly disturbing him.

“Although what?” Napoleon asks.

“Although I keep thinking about that Lawrence man and how you let him kissed you last night. You did not have to play your character so well.”

Illya’s obvious feelings of jealousy almost always get the better of him and, this time, it is no different. Despite his own apprehensiveness about what currently is brewing between them, Illya still had the gall to talk about what Napoleon should not be doing.

“Of all the things you could say, you want to reprimand me on that?”

“You encouraged him.”

“You’re jealous,” Napoleon grins.

“I am only saying what is right,” Illya scoffs.

“But it was for the mission, Peril. Nothing else other than that.”

“I do not like it.”

“But, of course. You never like anything that I do.”

And that is when Illya shuts Napoleon up by kissing him. Again and again. Because no one else should be kissing Napoleon other than him. No one else should be touching him. And Illya finds the desire to do that is stronger than ever since he had a taste of him last night. Illya’s fingers find their way into Napoleon’s dark hair. He kisses his neck, along his jaw. He nips the tender skin underneath his earlobe. When Napoleon moans, Illya slips his hands underneath Napoleon’s shirt and runs his nails along his abdomen making him shiver. Napoleon sighs into a kiss of his own and then taking Illya by the hand, he leads him to the bedroom again.

***

They both take showers and change, Illya into the clothes he had been wearing from last night. Nothing of Napoleon’s really fits him and he smiles thinking about it. As Napoleon appears in the doorway, his hair still wet, dressed in a pair of casual pants and a loose fitting shirt, Illya is amazed as always at how good the American looks even when he is being totally casual. His messy hair falls into his eyes, his clear, confident blue eyes which are now narrowed inquisitively at Illya’s dumbfounded expression. Illya thinks that it is probably his eyes that had drawn him to Napoleon at first, his eyes and that dazzling bright smile.

“All that sex is making me hungry, Peril. Shall we go out and have lunch?”

Illya gulps and his cheeks redden instantly at Napoleon’s blatant words. This American cowboy certainly has no shame and despite the annoyance he is feeling, Illya is still helplessly drawn to him and that stupid smirk he is wearing at the moment. He will definitely need to get used to this, to whatever this is between them. In the end, Illya only nods at Napoleon’s suggestion.

***

After lunch at a nearby restaurant, they take a walk afterwards through the streets. It is the middle of summer and it is hot and the sun is searing them and soon Illya’s shirt is stuck to his back and he is feeling a little light headed. Napoleon’s neck and face are shiny with sweat and at the sight, Illya just wants to push him back against the brick wall and kiss his salty lips and touch his sweaty palms to his neck.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Illya says hurriedly.

“Where?” Napoleon asks.

Illya does not answer but simply leads him away, takes him to a park just a few blocks away from Napoleon’s apartment.

“I didn’t know you know your way around here, Peril.”

“You should know me better, Cowboy.”

They soon find an empty bench, sits on it in silence. For a long while, neither of them could find the right words to say to the other until Illya breaks the amiable moment.

“What are we doing, Solo?”

Napoleon understands Illya’s meaning exactly.

“We’re doing what people normally do when they are in…” he stops, pauses, and then just shakes his head at the Russian. “Does it matter? No one will judge us. I’m sure Gaby won’t. I’m not quite sure about Waverly though.”

Illya’s a little fazed by his partner’s straightforwardness.

“But what does this mean?” he asks desperately.

“You’re that worried, Peril? Why don’t you just let it happen and you’ll find out.”

Illya is a bit annoyed now by Napoleon’s calmness. “But what about our jobs? Our missions? What about UNCLE?”

“What about them?” Napoleon says. He starts to worry when he sees the frown on Illya’s face, hopes to God Illya is not having second thoughts about them.

“Is a bit dangerous. We might compromise our missions. What we’re doing is wrong.”

“Now you say this? After last night? After this morning? Now you want to argue about this?”

Illya chews on his lips. He knows he should not be thinking of this now. He had wanted it as much as Napoleon.

“You think too much, Illya.”

“Okay then, one more question, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is amused now so he simply nods.

“Okay, shoot. What is it?”

“You are not still drunk, are you, Cowboy?”

Napoleon laughs, really laughs, and then after his laughter had died down, he leans over towards his scowling partner. “Nope, I’m definitely not drunk. But I think I’ve had an epiphany,” he whispers in Illya’s ear.

“What is that?” Illya asks, sceptical as he waits for Napoleon’s explanation.

“I realised that if I really want something, or in this case, someone, I should really just go for it.”

Illya eyes narrow once again. “Were you really drunk last night or it is just your excuse to get me in bed,” Illya asks turning slightly red.

Napoleon laughs again. “No! I was pretty drunk last night. But I’m glad I was.”

He squeezes Illya’s hand and gazes at him, finds there are still questions swirling inside his partner's mind.

“What do we tell Gaby and Waverly?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I mean, we don’t really have to, do we?”

Illya shakes his head. “No. I guess not.”

And Illya leaves his argument at that although he still finds himself doubting his decision.

***

Soon, they settle into an easy sort of routine.

They go for missions as assigned, and both Napoleon and Illya are pretty good at pretending nothing is out of the ordinary whenever Gaby is around them. Aside from Illya occasionally stopping mid-stride across their hotel suite to gape at a post-shower Napoleon, hair wet, a towel clinging to his hips and sliding down just a little, not to mention the cheeky American whispering, ‘It’s rude to stare, Peril’ into his ear as he passes him, and Gaby having to shout at the Russian, to wake him from one of his daydreams which are all too prevalent of Napoleon these days. But afterwards, pretending to settle into their own respective rooms after a hard day's work, Illya would then sneak into Napoleon’s, or vice versa, for a taste of the extraordinary.

And that is where they are at sunset one evening, after one particular mission in Geneva, leaning on the balcony railing of Napoleon’s hotel room, while Gaby is out doing some shopping for something she had seen earlier while doing their reconnaissance. They are staring down the street, their eyes fixed on the cobblestone path below, the silence between them calm and relaxing.

As Illya eyes Napoleon, he realises he has never felt this way about anyone before. He probably had lovers previously, but none of it could even compare to what he feels for the American. It is indescribable. It is like, although Napoleon is so different from him, he still understands him perfectly well. The American is always able to read Illya’s mind and Illya wishes he could do the same, and there are times when they are both pressed up against a wall somewhere, either in their rooms or in some hidden alleyway, and he’s kissing Napoleon and it’s so intense and Illya can feel what Napoleon’s feeling and it is exactly what he himself is feeling and thinking. That this feels so good, that this feels so right.

Napoleon’s calm and composure, and his sure-fire confidence counteract Illya’s anger and tension and tentativeness. They just fit each other completely. Illya had asked him once why he had chosen to do this, whatever this is, with him.

He never expects Napoleon’s answer to be, ‘I’d never chosen it, Illya. It just happens, without me having a say in it. I don’t have the ability to stop it.’

It irritates Illya at Napoleon’s ability to answer all the questions he throws the American’s way. But he also loves him for it because he is honest and puts his feelings into words, something that Illya simply could not. He wishes he could, but perhaps time would let him do it. Perhaps Napoleon is the only person that could take down all the walls he had built around himself. And he knows his walls are slowly crumbling because he is letting the only person whom he really cares about do it. It is like love, really. Illya wonders if it is love and if it is not, then it is as close to it as it gets.

And Illya is thinking about everything he always thinks about when he is around Napoleon, except when he’s touching him or kissing him and all other thoughts just evade him. And it registers vaguely to Illya, that Napoleon, who is standing a couple of inches away from him and staring straight ahead into the pool of orange and vermillion that the sky has become, seems distant.

“You okay, Cowboy?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am,” Napoleon smiles, trying to reinforce his statement, or maybe because he is just amused by Illya’s sudden worry.

They settle into silence and then Illya cannot help but feel something is wrong.

“No, something is wrong. What is it?”

“And why exactly do you think this? Is it because we’ve been here for about an hour or so, alone, and we still have all our clothes intact?”

Napoleon is definitely amused now but Illya isn’t. He scowls.

“This is not the time for jokes, Cowboy. And I know you. Tell me. What is wrong?”

Napoleon’s smile that had been gracing his lips eventually lets up. He sighs as he looks away from Illya’s gaze.

“I’ve been thinking about the past three months.”

“What about it?”

“The past three months of us,” Napoleon says simply.

“What about it?” Illya asks again, suddenly worried. Usually, it is him that does all the thinking. Illya fidgets. “Solo? What is it?”

“You want to know?” Napoleon says, raising an eyebrow.

Illya can tell Napoleon is mulling his words, trying to get the right ones to come out, and Napoleon, it is obvious he is trying to hide the sudden nerves but it seeps into his words anyway.

“Look there is no pressure on you, Illya. I just, I just want to say it.”

Then Napoleon says something he has never said before, but he thinks now that Illya is probably ready to hear it. ‘I love you’ is what he says.

Illya is stunned. It is like everything they have said before this and everything he has thought before means nothing and the difference is just those three words. And Illya knows that he can be honest about some things especially when it has been threatening to burst from him for some time now. But inexplicably, the same words just won’t come out from his mouth, even if he tries his hardest.

“Hey, it’s okay, Illya,” Napoleon whispers when Illya does not say anything. The American reaches out a hand to squeeze his shoulder. “No pressure at all.”

As darkness converges on them, Illya feels awful all of a sudden. Even if he had wanted to say it, he still doesn’t know what this is, for him, but he knows it is Napoleon that he wants.

They both then turn to look at darkened sky in front of them in silence.

***

Things somehow start to deteriorate after that.

Illya keeps making lame excuses to get out of spending time with Napoleon in between missions and Napoleon thinks that the end is inevitable. Understanding what Illya is trying to do, he starts to distance himself from the Russian as well.

Not wanting to blame his partner, Illya wonders if it all had just been a fantasy, a wonderful, wonderful fantasy and that even after convincing himself that it would last, it is not going to because although the feelings are right, so right, everything else is just wrong.

Their months together, really together, seem vague and distant now, like they are memories of some past life buried in Illya’s subconscious that really are not supposed to be there and which are characterised not by sights or sounds but solely by feeling. But they are realer than anything else that Illya could ever see or touch. He knows it is hard and complicated, and maybe he is just scared. But it can’t compare to the sheer happiness he feels when he is with Napoleon, that casts all other feelings of doubt and apprehension into oblivion. And when Napoleon only pretends like nothing has happened, Illya starts to get mad. He is mad at Napoleon and he is mad at himself for thinking it could actually work between them and the fact he has failed miserably for the first time, failed at something that he really wants, when it is Napoleon that matters more than anything else, makes Illya’s stomach churn painfully. And the current weather at the moment is mirroring Illya’s mood because although it is raining, the skies are clear, almost bright like there is hope somewhere out there for Illya but it is just being blocked out at the moment. He remembers being out in a weather like this with Napoleon once during a lull moment in their mission, where they had ended up kissing in some old alleyway in New York, with the rain in their hair and eyelashes, running down their faces like joy washing over them, the feeling exquisite. And Illya knows he has to do something because well, he cannot go on like this. Not when they work so closely together. How would he survive ignoring something so blatantly obvious?

So he picks up the phone before they go on their next mission, dials Napoleon’s number, waits for the answer. Illya needs to resolve this sooner rather than later.

“Cowboy, I need to see you,” he says when Napoleon eventually answers his calls and his partner’s reply is curt.

“Okay, Peril.”

Illya is uncertain whether it is his slightly helpless look, or the rain falling on him as he stands in Napoleon’s doorway, or whether it is his faint smile which shows what no words could say. Napoleon stands there in front of him in silence and Illya cannot be mad or demand answers from him or simply asks his partner ‘just what the hell are we doing?’. And he could not tell Napoleon he is sorry, so very sorry for wanting him so much, for needing him. He could not say anything now that he is there. He is just content that he is.

“So why are you here?”

“I’ve missed you. And us,” Illya unashamedly admits.

Napoleon nods, lets him in and then before they know anything, they are on Napoleon’s bed, just lying close to each other without any words being spoken. Napoleon weaves his fingers into Illya’s and there is no more nervousness or tension, just that moment between them which is beautiful and true.

“I know I’d scared you off with my ‘I love you’, Peril. I’m sorry. It probably is my fault.”

Illya gulps. Because Napoleon is so brave to say the words again and again.

“No, it’s not you. It’s me,” Illya says, the guilt in his voice apparent.

“But I’m not taking back what I’d said to you. I’d meant it.”

“Okay,” Illya mutters and Napoleon has to take his faint answer as a reassurance, because he needs something, anything to reassure and keep all of his hopes from being blocked out completely. This hope is something Napoleon has always been sure he will have to hang on to, like something making up his very structure, because without it, he will just fall apart.

Napoleon wakes hours later in a brightened room, sunlight streaming in through his window, turning everything gold and he knows the rain has stopped. He rolls over to tell Illya again just how much he means to him but finds the space beside him empty.

Illya is gone.

***

The next day is pure agony for Illya. There is an inferno of thoughts in his mind and he is absolutely fucking sure he is going mad. And they are not all bad thoughts either. He keeps seeing his life flash past by him. He is pretty sure he is not dying, but anytime and every time he closes his eyes, he hears Napoleon’s drunken rambling that night in the car and feels his lips against his neck, he feels Napoleon’s body above his and sees the sky streaked with flames the night they... Oh God. It is eating a hole through Illya and the only thing that can stop it, if only momentarily, is the thought that the entire thing between him and the god damn American agent is not right.

They are both spies, dangerous men, and they work with dangerous people. Things could get a whole lot messy, missions could be compromised, he would put Napoleon’s life in danger and he cannot do that, not to someone he cares about. Not to someone he loves. Illya just could not go through with it. This emotional attachment is something he could do without but fuck, the sheer thought of trying to figure out what is right and what is wrong is just too draining for Illya right now.

Maybe Napoleon is right, maybe he thinks way too much. Maybe he is worrying unnecessarily.

Yesterday with Napoleon had been like a heartbreaking farewell, an ‘it’s been wonderful’, ‘it’s been the best three months of my life’, and maybe it is an unspoken ‘I love you and I always will’ all rolled into one. But God, it is just not enough.

Illya wants something to seize the pain he is feeling but the truth is he knows nothing, nothing is going to do that. And he figures that Napoleon has got to be feeling something too, and why is he always so goddamned selfish and what the fuck was he thinking just running out of Napoleon’s apartment like that? And Napoleon has not called or anything, just like Illya knows he wouldn’t. He knows that Napoleon is waiting for him to turn up at his door sometime, whenever he is ready. And he has to go, he just has to because well, he owes Napoleon an explanation although he is pretty sure Napoleon probably understands more than Illya himself. And knowing they have to fly to Beijing in a couple of days, Illya does not want to be on that long flight with this thing unresolved between them.

***

When Illya shows up again on Napoleon’s doorstep, Napoleon leaves the door open issuing neither an invitation nor a rejection. Illya catches the faint smell of alcohol on his breath and thinks maybe it is not such a good idea to be there because he wants to talk to Napoleon when he is sober and whole. But he is here now and running away has not helped him in the past, so he, at least, needs to make sure he takes the bottle away from Napoleon before he faces him.

“This is not good for you, Cowboy,” Illya starts, gesturing at the bottle of liquor and the half empty glass on his coffee table.

“What? Does it matter to you?” Napoleon says without looking at Illya.

“It matters,” Illya husks a reply. Napoleon tilts his head back as he drains the last bit of content of the glass before quirking an eyebrow at the Russian.

“You going soft on me, Peril?”

“I am concerned.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me. You being here probably would.”

At Napoleon’s answer, Illya knows the American is still sober.

There is an eerie silence for a minute and Illya is extremely aware of how close they are, Napoleon sitting on the sofa and Illya standing with his legs against the coffee table, mere inches away and he is thinking again that this is a terrible, terrible mistake but then Illya thinks he has got to put an end to this. He crouches down on his knees and reaches out, puts one hand on Napoleon’s arm in the hopes that touching him, feeling his body heat will stop the relentless torrent of thoughts, and it does, but God, it does not make him feel better.

Slowly, Illya leans closer and looks up, faces the man he had run away from.

“We need to talk,” he murmurs but somehow, despite everything, Illya still manages to keep his thoughts and words completely disjointed.

“Okay, talk,” Napoleon says.

There is anger reverberating in Napoleon’s tone of voice and they hit like a slap to Illya’s face. He suddenly wishes that he was drunk so he can dismiss it as a result of the alcohol. Because Napoleon rarely gets angry, sarcastic sometimes, cold even but never angry, especially not with him. Illya recoils, thinking maybe he deserves it, he fucking well deserves it.

“We cannot do this anymore, Cowboy. I cannot do this anymore,” Illya says simply in the end.

“Okay, I already got that message when you disappeared on me yesterday. That was one smooth move indeed. I applaud you.”

Illya winces at Napoleon’s words, understands he had hurt him and could offer nothing in return to defend himself for what he had done. He is sorry, but just to say it out loud so Napoleon would know it is just pointless.

Napoleon is up now and Illya half-expects a punch to land on his jaw for his irreversible mistake, but what comes out from Napoleon’s mouth instead is so straightforward and just so typically Napoleon.

“Illya, look, I admitted my feelings because that’s just how I feel about you. I’d told you that I’m not expecting the exact same words from you. But you grew distant on me, and well, I completely understand it, Illya and I can take it, really I can. Because we’re adults and you are free to choose whomever you want. And I’m not forcing you at all but you keep coming back to me and it screws with my brain. So tell me, what do you really want, Illya?”

Despite his barrage of words, Napoleon seems calm, politely curious, his tone patient like he is talking to a child.

“Illya, what do you want? If you don’t want to do this anymore, why are you here?”

“I, I don't know, Solo.”

“You shouldn't be here, Illya, you should just go.”

Illya is horrified to hear that from Napoleon.

“Solo, please...”

“Then answer me, what do you want?”

Illya hangs his head low between his shoulders as he straightens his body and then he looks up again to meet Napoleon’s gaze and feels absolutely bereft.

“Illya, you know it cannot be both.”

“You are asking me to choose.”

“No, I’m asking what do you want.”

As always it is like Napoleon is reading Illya’s mind or more accurately peering deep into his soul. 

And Illya has had enough, of the way Napoleon looks through him so easily, of his calmness, of the way he is always right about everything, especially when it comes to them.

“Do you always have to do that? You mess with my head, Cowboy. And that is why I do this, do you know? Because I want to be in control of my own thoughts, of what I think! And I cannot do that with you. It scares me! You scare me, Cowboy. I cannot think straight. Because you are so perfect and honest all the time.”

“What are you talking about, Peril. I’m not perfect, and I’m not honest. I’m a thief for fuck’s sake, how can I be honest all the time?”

When Illya groans at Napoleon’s answer, the American adds something that strikes a chord in Illya’s heart. “Do you realise you’d admitted everything you’re really feeling to me?”

And Illya realises that he just did, he had just told Napoleon everything and Napoleon had realised that too because there is a hint of a smile on his face and something that looks like triumph etched on his face. But apparently Napoleon thinks there is more to be said.

“What do you want, Illya? Do you want us to just forget and return to what we were before?”

“Honestly, I cannot think anymore, Solo.”

“Yes, you can. You know what you want and you know how you feel. And that is all that matters.”

“But what if what I want is not right?” Illya groans.

“You think this between us is wrong? But how do we really ever know when it is right?”

Illya shrugs, defeated. And then…

“I know that I love you.”

Hearing that, Napoleon sucks in a breath. Because this is the first time Illya has said it. Illya clearly knows what he really wants.

“Isn’t that enough then?” Napoleon asks wearily.

And with that helpless look on Napoleon’s face, Illya knows that is the end of talking, that he is done trying to justify his actions.

Illya notices that Napoleon’s forehead is creased and his hair is falling messily over it, into his eyes, and Illya’s fingers are just itching to reach out, to touch him. So he does just that. Illya brushes the hair away and kisses the exposed brows, his fingers smoothing out the worried creases on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Solo. I am a fool. You know this. I am so sorry,” Illya whispers and there is a look in Napoleon’s blue eyes, God, those eyes, daring Illya, as if saying ‘why don't you show me?’

And Illya will show Napoleon just how sorry he is.

Working his way down, with his fingertips against Napoleon’s cheeks, Illya kisses the edge of his jaw and down his neck to the curve where it meets his shoulder and then presses his slightly opened lips against Napoleon’s skin, just tasting and savouring, and Napoleon dips down his head to search for Illya’s lips, kisses him back, kisses him with urgency, allowing Illya access to his mouth. Illya’s arms are around Napoleon’s waist, pulling him close, and the shirt Napoleon is wearing is driving Illya mad because Illya just wants to get him out of those fucking clothes and feel his fingers burn when he touches him.

And Illya’s want is evident because they barely make it to the bedroom.

Napoleon’s shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, sliding off his shoulders and Illya’s hands are under it and his eyes are closed, head resting on Napoleon’s shoulder, lips against his neck, his exposed throat, just taking in the smell and feel of him. Then Napoleon moves first, pressing their bodies against the door, closing it in the process, and half kissing, half biting Illya’s neck. Napoleon’s mouth feels warm, familiar, but it is so exhilarating that Illya’s heart is racing, his breaths coming in short gasps. At the back of his mind, he figures he must have been so stupid, so out of his mind in wanting to let this go. Illya moans when Napoleon kisses him hard, and there is a series of small explosions in Illya’s head, like something that has been building up for weeks and when he breaks away from Napoleon’s grasp, Illya is totally disoriented. Napoleon takes the opportunity to push him onto the bed and pulls his shirt completely off.

“I hope you won’t disappear on me again, because if you do, I...” Napoleon says and Illya quickly rolls him over, murmurs ‘I won’t, I swear I won’t’ and then silences whatever doubt there is left in the American’s head.

Later, much, much later when he is lying awake and he feels Napoleon’s sleeping form beside him, his breath warm against his face and with his one arm curled tightly around his waist, Illya thinks this is exactly where he belongs.

Because if this isn’t right then nothing truly is.