Rich and Complex
He was a damned fool. Napoleon was following a trained agent, a man who could out reason and out fight most of the planet - including Napoleon, had he but known it. Not that Napoleon would let him know that.
But he couldn't help himself. He didn't even let himself think why he was doing this foolish thing.
'Illya doesn't know what he's getting into. That girl's a man-eater, a gold-digger. She'll just end up hurting him, killing him. I have to protect him.'
He let that thought drown out others like it as he waited in the shadows next to Illya's building as the checkered cab pulled up. Illya, elegant in a white dinner jacket - and when had Illya ever worn white? - got out, walked to the other side and helped the lovely redhead from the cab. Her dress was skin tight, cut low in front *and* back, and showed off her long slender legs. She was truly beautiful.
Napoleon hated her. He itched to pull his gun out of his holster and...and he was a good guy and good guys never shoot girls, not even bad ones.
He waited until the cab pulled away and the pair were safely inside. Then he ran up the fire escapes to Illya's apartment. He got there just in time to see Illya, his jacket off and his tie loose, pour two glasses of wine. The girl took hers with a smile.
Napoleon had never seen Illya's apartment before.
It was small and crowded with things, totally unlike the modern place he called home, and sometimes used for sleeping - a couch somewhat too large for the space, plus a baby grand piano and all these little things scattered about.
He's pictured Illya's place as cold and excessively neat, not this home filled with memories. He pulled up a pair of binoculars - memories they shared, too - souvenirs of places they'd traveled to, things from past missions that were never classified.
Napoleon never kept anything. He just wanted to move forward, and sometimes, to forget. Illya would say that was very American of him, but he wasn't so sure.
He was playing the piano now, his fingers graceful on the keys. He paused only to sip at the burgundy in his glass and to look at the girl. She stood next to him, turning the pages. She stood far too close to him, letting her breasts brush against his shoulder.
And why did Napoleon even care about that? Or that Illya flashed her a brilliant smile before turning back to the piano?
Except he finished his piece rather sooner than Napoleon had expected, and stood up. The girl had finished her wine by then. He put a hand to his head. She fussed about him for a moment, but he simply shook his head. She nodded and picked up her little purse. He walked her to the door, hand still on his forehead. She touched his shoulder and, while Napoleon seethed, kissed Illya on the cheek. He asked her a question, but she shook her head, and walked out.
He locked the door behind her, and stood there shaking his head.
Then he walked to the window and opened it. "You can come in now, Napoleon." He froze. "I know you're still there. In fact, you silly man, I can see you now. Come in." He gestured to the room.
Taking a deep breath, and feeling his cheeks burn, Napoleon got up and scrambled through the open window with less than what he imagined to be his usual grace. "You saw me?"
"Yes." Illya rolled his eyes. Then he got a clean glass and poured some wine. "So long as you are here, you might as well have something to drink. And don't think of refusing. I am Russian. We pride ourselves on hospitality." The look on his face suggested that Napoleon had better not think of disobeying anything. He took the drink and sat down on the couch.
The wine was delicious - rich, dry and complex. He sipped it again.
Illya sat on the chair across from him, his own wineglass in his fingers. "Why did you follow me, Napoleon?"
"Because." Why? What was his reason again? "Because I didn't trust her."
"You don't even know her name. You call her 'the girl'."
"I'm a spy. I don't trust anyone I don't know." He sounded like an idiot. Of course, he was one, so that made sense.
"You are an idiot, Napoleon." Illya downed his wine as if it were vodka. "You were jealous, of course."
"She's not *that* pretty. And I don't get jealous over women." He stared at him.
To his surprise, Illya started to laugh. "You...you...oh, you...you don't know, do you? You...you...American!" He poured himself another glass. "You really have no idea, do you?"
"You're going insane. Or you're drunk."
"I am not drunk. This is *soda-pop*." He picked up his glass. Then he smiled. "And, yes, I am insane. If I were not insane, I would not be doing *this*."
Moments later, Illya was beside him on the couch. And then. And then Illya *kissed* him. Not Russian style on both cheeks, but full on the mouth. At first Napoleon was too shocked to do anything, and then he steeled himself to toss Illya off. And then it started to feel good and he didn't want it to end. In fact, he joined in rather enthusiastically.
"Am I insane, Napoleon?" Illya finally let them separate. He smiled - that same beautiful smile from before - which had been directed at Napoleon then, too.
"If you are, so am I." He closed his eyes. "What is wrong with me? You're a man. No matter how beautiful you are or how smart or how graceful or...how beautiful - you're still a man."
"Yes. Which is probably why you're in love with me. You don't really *like* women, Napoleon, no matter how many you date."
"I like women *fine*. I love women." He should move away, but Illya had his arms around him, and it felt too nice.
"As friends. As colleagues. As lovely things to look at. I've seen you. You date women because you think you should, but you watch men."
He shook his head. "It can't be true. It...no!" He fought with himself to sit up, away from Illya. He lost. "I am not a homosexual."
Illya smiled and kissed him again. This time, his mouth opened. He tasted rich and complex, and Napoleon kept drinking, and his arms moved as if of their own volition, wrapping themselves around Illya, who fit there like no woman ever had. Fortunately, he'd already put down the wineglass. He didn't need it if he could taste Illya.
And his cock moved of its own volition as well, rising and hardening with almost no provocation - at least not the same as it had taken all those too many times before.
And then Illya pushed him down on the sofa, until he was lying on his back, their mouths still together, and Napoleon could feel Illya's hardness pressing against him. And he was insane. Or confused. Or something.
Because Illya was moving against him, his hands caressing Napoleon's back, his buttocks as their cocks pressed together. And the feeling was good and it built and it built and it built until finally Napoleon could stand it no longer, and he screamed into Illya's mouth, coming in his pants like a schoolboy, with Illya gasping and shuddering on top of him.
"This doesn't mean..." He tried to form words, but they really weren't true. "H...how did you know?"
"Because, beautiful, stupid man, I have followed you on all of your dates, and it's no wonder none of them will see you again."
Illya smiled and kissed him again. "Because I am jealous. And I hated those girls. And you are not to date any of them again."
"No?" He wasn't sure he wanted to, but this was all too much and too fast.
"No. Do not make a Russian jealous. We do not behave well when we are. And you are mine." He smiled.
Napoleon realized he'd do anything for that smile. "I am. But I am not gay."
"Yes, Napoleon. Now, do you want to spend the night on that couch, or do you want to come to bed with me?" Illya stood up and put out his hand.
Napoleon grasped it and allowed Illya to lead him to the bedroom. Somehow, he doubted he'd be going back to his own anytime soon.
But he still wasn't gay.