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saki101This is a continuation of the story I wrote for Down the Chimney 2009. The story has stayed in my mind these several months and so I am attempting a sequel. It is only the first act, so I'm posting it here until the rest is written.
Volume I may be found here - Through the Invisible.
Thanks always go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
utopiantrunks for all her tutelage. Mistakes and other shortcomings are mine.
Title: Through the Invisible - Volume II, Post 1 of 4
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: AU, Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~10K
Author's Notes: Volume II is still a WIP. The story resumes a moment after the other ended. It is early May 1959 in London. (26/9/2010 - Last scene expanded.)
Excerpt:
Until he heard Napoleon’s steps on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, Illya didn‘t move. When he did turn, Napoleon paused, just past the first set of doors, his eyes riveted on Illya’s face. Illya walked towards Napoleon slowly. We’ve parted and reunited so often in the past few months I believed you were comfortable with it, confident. “You thought I was coming in person to deliver bad news, didn’t you?” he asked.
Through the Invisible
Volume II
Act I
Until he heard Napoleon’s steps on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, Illya didn‘t move. When he did turn, Napoleon paused, just past the first set of doors, his eyes riveted on Illya’s face. Illya walked towards Napoleon slowly. We’ve parted and reunited so often in the past few months I believed you were comfortable with it, confident. “You thought I was coming in person to deliver bad news, didn’t you?” he asked.
Napoleon nodded. Illya acknowledged all this simple affirmative represented with a long sigh. For a moment more they stood regarding one another. Napoleon’s gaze wandered around Illya’s face, returned to his eyes, then dropped to his mouth. Illya smiled gently.
“Napoleon.”
“Mmm.”
“Perhaps you should lock the doors.”
Illya was stretched halfway out of the eastern window unhooking the last shutter when Napoleon finished securing the third set of doors. He walked over to the banquette where Illya was kneeling and settled in the corner, his back against the side wall and watched Illya draw his body through the casement, hook the shutters, latch the window. The room was much darker; only coloured light fell from the stained glass windows high in the walls. Sitting back on his heels, Illya turned to Napoleon. Silently, he considered the subdued expression on Napoleon’s face, his crossed legs, the loosely clasped hands resting on his knee.
“Will you stay here tonight?” Napoleon asked, almost without inflection, his gaze on the fountain in the middle of the room.
“It’s Sunday, Napoleon. I always stay on Sundays,” Illya answered lightly. Napoleon’s face brightened somewhat and he looked at Illya.
“I received the last picture you sent me two days ago,” Illya said, continuing to study Napoleon. He couldn’t suppress a quirk of his lips as he recalled the full length pencil drawing of himself as a faun sleeping on his stomach in a glade, head pillowed on one arm, a lyre and a set of pan pipes leaning against a nearby rock. “It seemed the work of a confident lover.” Illya moved closer, still on his knees. “What happened to change that?”
Napoleon glanced down and brushed a fleck of lint from his trousers. The muscles in his jaw twitched minutely, but he didn’t reply. Illya reached out to grasp his shoulders. “Why did you doubt your senses?“ Napoleon’s brows drew together. Illya’s fingers kneaded his shoulders. Napoleon shook his head and leaned forward, rubbing his face against Illya’s shirt, across his stomach muscles and wrapped his arms around Illya’s thighs.
“Will you come back after rehearsal tomorrow?” Napoleon asked after a moment, his voice muffled by Illya’s shirt.
“We don’t start rehearsing until Wednesday,” Illya replied, stroking down Napoleon’s back with one hand.
“Can you stay until then?” Napoleon probed.
“I have enough clothes in my bag,” Illya answered, continuing to knead Napoleon‘s shoulder muscles with his other hand.
“So you’ll stay?” Napoleon repeated.
“Yes,” Illya replied. “I’d planned on staying.“ Napoleon looked up into Illya’s puzzled eyes. He rose onto one knee, his eyes intent on Illya’s until their lips touched and he closed them.
*********************
Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Illya listened to the lulling murmur of the fountain. When it was disrupted by splashing, he turned his head. Napoleon was standing in the shallow basin of the fountain, his hands redirecting the light spray over his chest and legs. He bent to pick up something from the floor, his body blocking Illya’s view. The play of thigh and buttock muscles the movement required brought an appreciative smile to Illya‘s lips. Napoleon straightened and twisted slightly to pour a clear fluid from a slender glass pitcher onto his chest. A narrow beam of light from one of the upper windows flashed red against the glass and gold through the arc of the liquid. Napoleon’s shoulder muscles flexed as he worked the soap into a lather and bubbles began to slide down and around his legs. The scent of sandalwood reached Illya and he thought of their first night in Rome as he watched Napoleon rinse with handfuls of water. Languidly, Illya stretched and turned on his side. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping along Illya’s form and returning to his face. He smiled, stooped again and plucked a towel from a stack on the floor. Napoleon held a corner of it under the water, then walked to the banquette.
“Isn’t the water cold?” Illya asked.
“Only a little,” Napoleon said, wiping the wet end of the towel along Illya’s thigh and drying behind it with the other end.
Illya lifted one knee. “Where did the towels come from?” he enquired.
“There’s storage beneath the seats.” Napoleon gestured towards an open lid across the hall with one hand, while swabbing higher with the other.
“Why?”
“Don’t you always want to jump in a fountain? No matter what any sign might say?” Napoleon asked, raising his eyebrows.
Illya smiled. “The fountains of Rome?”
“Among others,” Napoleon replied. “But afterwards, one needs a towel.”
Illya felt his own response and watched Napoleon’s as he worked his way upwards. Napoleon observed the direction of Illya’s glance. “I missed you,” he murmured and bent to kiss Illya’s hip.
“I can tell.” Illya’s smile widened and he rolled onto his back, one arm still behind his head. Napoleon accepted the invitation.
**************
The sun was edging off the terrace as they finished lunch, the chill in the clear air reasserting itself. Illya reached behind him to pull his jacket off the chair and drape it over his shoulders. “The garden is beautiful,” he said, looking across the lawn to the blooming lilacs which marked its farthest boundary. He inhaled appreciatively.
“Let me show you my favourite spot,” Napoleon offered, pushing back his chair and rising.
Illya stood, slipped his arms into his jacket and followed Napoleon down the terrace steps towards the right side of the house. “C’est magnifique!” Illya exclaimed as they rounded the corner. “How did I not see this last year?”
“I had it pruned at the end of the summer; it only grew back enough to flower a little before it became too cold,” Napoleon answered as they walked closer.
“I’m surprised bougainvillea survives at all this far north,” Illya said, reaching out for the curtain of white blossoms in front of him.
“This side of the house is quite sheltered…and there’s a heat source in the basement which vents over there,” Napoleon pointed. “It keeps the ground warmer than normal. Would you like to step inside?” he asked, carefully pushing aside several thorny boughs.
Illya raised an eyebrow and stepped past Napoleon into the concealed arbour. Napoleon followed and let the boughs swing back into place behind him.
“How old is it?” Illya asked, turning full circle and noting how the branches formed a roof above them as well.
“Seven years, but the plants were fairly mature when I had them planted here.
“They‘ve grown well,” Illya observed. “Your design?“ he asked. Napoleon nodded. “A bower fit for Titania and Oberon,” Illya commented.
Napoleon stepped behind Illya and leaned over his shoulder. “Or Oberon and Puck,” he suggested quietly.
Illya glanced sideways. “ That would make an interesting ballet.”
“Hmm,” Napoleon agreed and slipped his arms around Illya’s waist.
**************
“Where in Sweden?” Napoleon asked as he shut the terrace doors.
“Far enough north that the sun won’t really set,” Illya answered.
“I think I might find endless night more appealing,” Napoleon replied. “I’m surprised the company is travelling again so soon.”
“It isn’t; only Alicia, Sergei and I will go as guest artists,” Illya explained. “There’s a pair of festivals hosted by the Royal Swedish Ballet; we’ll go again for nearly a week around the winter solstice.”
“I’ve never been to Sweden,” Napoleon remarked.
“So, would you like to come with us?”
“Summer or winter?” Napoleon enquired, moving to a sideboard in the dining room which he rarely used. “Sherry or cognac?” he asked, opening a cupboard.
“Both,” Illya answered.
Napoleon held up two decanters and raised his eyebrows.
“Both summer and winter,” Illya clarified. “Sherry would be good to take the chill off, thank you.”
Napoleon poured and handed Illya a small glass. “I have an even better remedy for a chill,” he added. Illya raised his glass and one eyebrow before he took a sip of the sherry. “Something other than that,” Napoleon said. “Although that’s a good idea, too.”
Illya laughed, noting Napoleon’s relaxed tone and easy smile, but he kept watching Napoleon as he turned to replace the decanter and observed the hunch of his shoulders.
“Come downstairs, and you can see the source of the heat that keeps the bougainvillea alive through the winter,” Napoleon said and gestured towards the next room.
******************
Succulent aromas greeted them as they descended the kitchen stairs. “Feather insisted on staying today to make a special dinner for you,” Napoleon explained.
“I am striving to feel guilty, but that smells too delicious,” Illya replied as Napoleon unlatched a door across the landing from the half-open door to the kitchen. He inhaled again. “What is it?”
“She also insisted on its being a surprise,” Napoleon said, “but she’s taking tomorrow and Tuesday off to visit friends in Cambridge, so don‘t feel guilty.”
“I should go to Cambridge soon to see my grandmother,” Illya commented, following Napoleon.
“Where in Cambridge?” Napoleon asked, opening another door and reaching in for the light switch.
“Just by King’s College. My grandfather was the Head of Music there and the choirmaster. My grandmother still gives private violin lessons,” Illya added.
“That’s why you went to school there,” Napoleon exclaimed. Illya cocked an eyebrow. “I read the programme notes.”
“Ah,” Illya said and entered what appeared to be a small changing room, a small, butter-coloured changing room. “Are the lights yellow in here?” he asked, moving further inside.
Napoleon closed the door and turned the lock. “No, it’s the walls.”
Illya reached out and touched the gleaming surface. “It’s smoother than paint, softer than polished stone,” he remarked. “What is it?”
“Tadelakt,” Napoleon answered. “I had to bring Moroccan artisans to do it. They can tint it other shades, but this is the traditional colour. It’s waterproof, so perfect for…
“A hammam,” Illya interjected. “I remember, in Marrakesh, several of us went to one and it had this. I haven‘t seen it since.”
“It’s unique to the country,” Napoleon explained.
Illya turned to look at him. “This isn’t new, is it?”
“No…” Napoleon began.
“So why didn’t we use it before…” Illya started. Napoleon cheeks grew red and he stooped to untie his shoes.
“Ah,” Illya said quietly and followed Napoleon’s example.
“I had it built at the same time as the hall, but it’s hardly been used,” Napoleon said, still concentrating on disrobing. “A couple times when Marguerite was visiting with Aunt Aurelia, I hired a masseuse for them…” He wrapped a towel around his waist and held two out to Illya. “I did the same one time when my brother Edgar was staying, but he didn't take to it. It’s meant to be a social activity and I’ve mostly been alone here,” he finished.
Illya wrapped one towel around his waist and draped another over his shoulders. “You built it with someone in mind?” he asked, a feeling of hostility towards this absent rival rising in him.
Napoleon looked up sharply from dividing various toiletries between two buckets. “No!” he said abruptly. “I designed them both when I came back from my trip around the Mediterranean…the construction didn’t start until I returned from Paris the next year though,” he continued in his usual, mellow tone. He handed Illya one of the buckets. “I never left my architectural phase completely behind. After living and breathing it for three years at Cambridge, it’s not surprising,” he added with a shrug as he opened the door to the next chamber.
“You studied architecture at Cambridge?” Illya asked, surprised. It was much hotter and dimmer in the next room. Through an archway, he could discern another room to the right.
“My father wouldn’t permit me to devote myself to art until I had a ‘proper’ degree,” Napoleon answered. Illya scowled. “He did keep his word though. When I graduated he gave his blessing to my studying in Rome and Paris. He didn’t consider painting a ‘real’ career and hoped I‘d return to architecture once I‘d had my…‘adventure abroad‘ was his term for it.”
“Mmm,” Illya grumbled, concentrating more than necessary on spreading his towel on the marble floor. “When were you there?”
“‘44 to ‘47,” Napoleon replied, turning up the lights in the first chamber and tossing his towels down one on top of the other and emptying his bucket beside them.
“You would have been young for university,” Illya calculated, recalling that Napoleon had turned thirty the previous autumn.
“I was a bright, young thing,” Napoleon countered, smiling as he turned on the hot water tap and filled his bucket and then two more from the stack by the spigots in the next room.
“I was still there in ‘44/‘45, singing in the choir,” Illya said as he emptied the contents of his bucket. “It was my last year studying in England.”
Napoleon slid a bucket full of hot water through the archway towards Illya and gestured for Illya’s empty one. “I had a friend at King’s,” he called over the splashing of the water. “I used to go to chapel with him there sometimes.”
“You probably heard me then.” Illya arranged the sloshing buckets of hot and cold water Napoleon kept sliding towards him around their towels. “My grandfather was angry that I didn’t study music.”
“But your parents didn’t mind?” Napoleon asked.
“They wanted me to follow my muse,” Illya said. “And they love dance as well as music. My mother particularly was drawn to ballet, but it wasn’t quite a respectable occupation for a young lady when she was a girl. Playing in an orchestra was daring enough.”
“I enjoyed meeting them,” Napoleon said. Illya remembered how carefully Napoleon had observed his parents and wondered whether he had been seeking the family resemblance or if it were something more.
Napoleon dropped a bucket half full of cold water at the edge of Illya’s towel and began mixing it with hot water from another bucket until he had the right temperature. “Allow me,” he said, and hoisted the bucket over Illya’s head.
Illya sputtered and was raising an arm to ward off further assaults when the next bucketful flooded over him. Before he could wipe the water from his eyes, Napoleon had sat down behind him and was rubbing shampoo into his hair, his fingers kneading Illya’s scalp and neck. Illya let the water drip and relaxed into the massage.
“Your opening move could use some refinement,” Illya mumbled as he let his head drop so Napoleon’s fingers could work up the back of his neck and around his ears.
“Lean your head back,” Napoleon directed and his fingers moved to Illya’s temples, up to the crown of his head and down again.
“Mmm,” Illya hummed.
“Am I improving as I go along?” Napoleon asked.
“Mmm,” Illya replied.
Napoleon turned Illya’s head from side to side. “I’m going to douse you again. Ready this time?” Illya nodded as another bucketful of water, hotter than the first, streamed over them both. He leaned back against Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon’s hands were in his hair again, rubbing something oily into his scalp. “Lie down,” Napoleon instructed, “the rest of you is next.”
Illya heard a jar being unscrewed as he stretched out on the sodden towel. A handful of gel landed between his shoulder blades and Napoleon began spreading it across his back. “Is that black soap?” Illya asked.
“It is,” Napoleon replied, adding another handful and spreading it down Illya’s right arm.
“It doesn’t look like it would wash anything, but between it and those scratchy mitts, I never felt so clean in my life,” Illya remarked. “I imagine you have the scratchy things, too.”
“You imagine correctly,” Napoleon affirmed, taking Illya’s right hand in his and pressing into the palm with his thumb.
Illya sighed as Napoleon massaged each finger and then moved to his left arm. “I could fall asleep this way.”
“I’ll see what I can do to keep your attention,” Napoleon chuckled and dropped more of the dark olive soap onto Illya’s back and massaged downwards all the way to his feet. There was a pause and Illya lifted his head off his arms to look over his shoulder. “And now for the scrubbing part,” Napoleon announced, slipping on a black mitten.
Illya put his head back down. “I recall feeling as though I was being scoured like the kitchen floor.”
“I will endeavour to make this as authentic as possible,” Napoleon promised with a laugh.
“Just leave some skin,” Illya replied, “and remember, your turn’s next.”
**************
“Turn over,” Illya directed, setting down the empty bucket. He had already scrubbed one side of Napoleon until his skin was as smooth as a baby’s. The warm water he had sluiced over him was still pooled in the small of his back and dripping down his sides.
Napoleon rolled and centered himself on his towel. Illya knelt alongside him and scooped out a handful of the olive oil soap and began spreading it across Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon’s eyes were closed, one arm resting close to his side, the other bent at the elbow, the hand cupped beneath his head. Illya admired the line of the arm. His fingers dug into the pot of soap again and smoothed the dark gel up the arm to the elbow and back down Napoleon’s side to his hip. He was erect again. Illya smiled and took more soap. For a quarter of an hour or more no words were spoken as Illya covered Napoleon from toe to chin with soap, massaging as he went. No more than a gentle nudge had been necessary to move Napoleon slightly so that no spot was missed.
Illya placed a knee on either side of Napoleon’s hips and leaned forward for a light kiss. Napoleon inhaled. Illya’s hands slipped up Napoleon’s sides to his shoulders. He sat back and squeezed the shoulder muscles lightly, then the neck, up around the ears into Napoleon’s hair and slowly down the chest again, smoothing over the nipples with his palms. A pleased murmur issued from Napoleon; Illya pressed his knees firmly against Napoleon’s hips and sat back. Napoleon raised his knees so Illya could rest against them and opened his eyes. Illya smiled into them and began to rock slowly back and forth, his arms stretched behind him, gliding up and down the backs of Napoleon’s thighs. Illya felt Napoleon lift his hips and watched his eyes close again as he continued to glide slowly forwards and back.
Napoleon’s chest was rising and falling rapidly when Illya next leaned forward far enough to touch his lips. “I missed you, too, you know,” he whispered against them. Napoleon opened his eyes and met Illya’s, his hand moving to rest along Illya’s side. Flattening himself against Napoleon’s chest, Illya slid downwards, overcoming the momentary resistance he encountered. Napoleon’s eyes grew wide as Illya surrounded him, then they closed as he drew in a long, shuddering breath. Beneath his ear, Illya could hear Napoleon’s heart racing. Not from fear now, Illya thought, tightening his muscles around Napoleon and listening to his heartbeat pound even faster.
*************
“It’s too hot for us to fall asleep in here,” Illya mumbled against Napoleon’s chest.
Napoleon’s hand slid up Illya’s back into his hair. “I don’t want to move…ever,” he replied drowsily. “Besides, you didn’t scrub the front of me.”
“That’s true,” Illya admitted and began to rise.
Napoleon’s hand clamped down across his lower back. “Not yet,” he pled, his hand moving round to clasp Illya’s hip while the fingers of his other hand began kneading Illya’s shoulder. “I can’t let you go just yet.”
Illya let his weight settle back against Napoleon. “Not just yet then, but soon, or we will fall asleep.”
************
“Do we go back to the changing room now?” Illya asked, slipping off the scrubbing mitt and lifting a bucket of tepid water.
“No, there’s another room with showers and robes and then a room to rest and re-hydrate,” Napoleon explained, sitting up and gesturing towards a doorway as the water hit him.
Illya upended another bucket over himself. Napoleon stood and stepped behind him. “There’s still some soap in your hair,” he said. “Tilt your head forward and I’ll get it.” One more bucketful cascaded over Illya. “That should do it,” Napoleon concluded and went to open the door.
*******************
They entered another small butter-coloured room with showers at one end. From a narrow closet at the other end, Napoleon pulled two long, terry cloth robes. He handed the dark blue one to Illya. “Towels on the bench there,” he said as he slipped on the green robe and grabbed a towel. “Do you want a cool shower?” he asked as he rubbed his hair. Illya shook his head.
“Then follow me.” Napoleon opened another door.
Illya looked up at the ceiling in the dim room, his eyes slowly adjusting. “Is that natural light?” he asked. He heard a refrigerator opening and shutting and turned towards it. Napoleon handed him a tall glass of lime juice. Napoleon nodded. “Are we under the terrace?”
“We are,” Napoleon replied, turning back to the marble counter by the door for a plate of sliced melon and bringing it to the divan fanning out from the far corner of the room. “Come stretch out,” he said, doing so himself.
Illya drained his glass and walked to the small refrigerator to refill it before joining Napoleon. “I had thought the glass bricks in the terrace were merely decorative,” Illya remarked, leaning back against the pile of cushions. “And when the sunlight is gone?”
“Then we have these,” Napoleon reached out and turned a dial on the wall. Four hanging lamps grew progressively brighter, illuminating amber and olive green globes set in brass frames. Napoleon turned to catch Illya’s reaction and was not disappointed.
“The house has so many delightful recesses,” Illya commented, glimpsing the eagerness to please in Napoleon‘s expression before he leaned back to turn off the lamps.
Napoleon finished his drink, set it on the marble shelf next to the divan and took the plate of melon to offer it to Illya. Illya fished a toothpick from the container in the middle of the plate and speared a piece of fruit. Napoleon watched him eat it, then set the dish carefully down on the divan between them, taking a long time to choose between a bit of cantaloupe and a chunk of watermelon. Finally, he stabbed one and asked, “Would you consider making it your home? While you’re in London.” He twirled the melon around on the plate and didn’t look up.
“When I was walking here this morning, I felt I was coming home,” Illya replied quietly, reaching down with his toothpick and skewering the piece of fruit next to the one Napoleon hadn’t yet lifted from the plate.
Napoleon’s eyes followed Illya’s hand upwards when it rose from the dish. “You’ll come here to live?” he repeated.
Illya chewed the fruit slowly and regarded the slant of Napoleon‘s eyebrows, the lines around his eyes. He swallowed. “I left my luggage at the train station,” he said.
“Not at your apartment?” Napoleon asked.
“It was a short lease and I didn’t renew it before I left.” Illya took a cube of watermelon from the plate. “I put my things in storage; I didn’t have much with me besides books and records.”
“You weren’t expecting to come back?” Napoleon asked. His look turned inward, then he grimaced and his hand moved across his stomach and stayed there.
“I wasn’t sure. In any event, I wasn’t attached to my flat and was going to be away for months. I could always let another when I got back,” he said, his hand hovering over the dish before descending on a piece of honeydew.
“I’m glad I went to New York,” Napoleon said quietly, then moistened his lips and swallowed. He glanced up. Illya was observing him.
“I’m glad you did, too,” Illya said and smiled.
Napoleon smiled back, then looked down again. He picked up the dish and twisted about to set it on the shelf. When he turned back, Illya had stretched out on his stomach, one arm bent beneath a cushion, facing him, his eyes nearly shut. Napoleon pulled up the coverlet folded at the bottom of the divan and settled himself alongside, adjusting the pillows so his head rested above Illya‘s. He reached across Illya’s shoulders and pulled himself closer.
****************
Illya felt too warm when he awoke. He tried to slide quietly out from beneath Napoleon’s outflung arm but his hand tightened around Illya’s shoulder and he mumbled in his sleep. Illya could distinguish the word, “Hold,” but the rest was indistinct.
Illya tried again to slip away. This time Napoleon‘s fingers dug into his shoulder through the terry cloth. Illya grunted. “That’s quite a hold you’ve got.” Napoleon moved his head, opening his eyes a little. “I attempted to get up without waking you, but you kept tightening your grip.”
Napoleon looked down groggily at where he had Illya clutched against him. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He drew his hand away and sat up. “Sorry. I was dreaming.”
“Yes, I know. About ‘holding‘,” Illya remarked, stretching his arm and letting it settle on Napoleon’s hip. “You were talking in your sleep,” he added as his hand stroked down to Napoleon’s thigh and back.
Napoleon‘s gaze shifted to Illya’s hand, “I was?” he asked, his eyes following the hand‘s progress. “I don‘t think I‘ve ever done that before.”
“You were and you have,” Illya replied, his brow creasing as he noted the tightness in Napoleon‘s face, in the muscles beneath his hand. “Is there a WC in the shower room?” Illya patted Napoleon's leg and slid off the divan.
Napoleon stretched and rolled onto his stomach. “Yes, the door on the right, next to the shower stalls,” he answered. Illya disappeared into the other room. Napoleon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, regarding the empty doorway.
**************
“Napoleon?” Illya called as he refilled their glasses with lime juice and walked towards the half-open door. “Napoleon?” he repeated as he nudged the door open with his foot. “Back where we started,” he said to himself as the changing room through which they had first entered the hammam came into view.
The door to the corridor swung open. “I brought your clothes down,” Napoleon said, dropping Illya’s satchel onto the bench and reaching for one of the glasses Illya was holding. “I’ve got fresh things here,” he explained, bending down to pull out a drawer beneath the bench displaying rows of neatly rolled socks and underwear.
“Convenient,” Illya commented, taking a long drink of the juice.
Napoleon pulled out another drawer which was empty. “You could put some of your things in here,” he said, looking up at Illya, a slight question in the statement. “Shall we go collect your luggage?”
Illya tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in assent, noting the tentative look on Napoleon’s face. “How long do we have before dinner?” Illya watched Napoleon’s face relax into a full smile.
“Enough time,” Napoleon replied, setting his glass on the bench and starting to dress.
*************
The early evening air was cool, but the sky was still bright as they walked south to Kensington High Street and caught a taxi. They intended to go directly to Paddington, then changed course to Regent’s Park. Napoleon wanted to see the waterfall again. It was too early for the roses.
“Do you have a painting in mind?” Illya asked as they settled on the stones at the edge of the small island facing the cascade.
Napoleon shook his head. “I’ve mostly been working on the portrait for Constance,” he replied and paused. Illya glanced at him. “I’ll show you when we get back,” Napoleon continued, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the falling water. “I haven’t been very inspired recently,” he explained.
“I have,” Illya said and Napoleon glanced back at him. “But I wanted to speak to you about it first.” Napoleon’s brows drew together. “You recall the dance I choreographed for you?”
Napoleon’s eyes widened. “I’m not likely to forget,” he answered.
Illya looked away for an instant, his lips turning up at the corners. “Yes,” he murmured.
“You want to continue it?“ Napoleon asked, shifting his position to face Illya fully.
“I’ve had ideas, but I don’t want to develop them, unless you agree.”
“I don’t understand,” Napoleon said.
“I gave the dance to you,” Illya began, “and the theme of the ballet would be rather personal.” Illya looked directly at Napoleon.
“More personal than my paintings?” Napoleon asked. “More than the one for the Paris exhibition?”
A flush crept up Illya’s face. “That’s disguised,” he said.
“Well, unless you were planning to name the ballet after me, it would be, too,” Napoleon answered.
“No, I wasn’t planning on that,” Illya laughed. “Haven’t thought of a title at all. It’s only fragments of ideas…” he tapped his temple, “…in here and...” He closed his eyes.
“Behind your eyes.” Napoleon whispered, “Tell me.”
*****************
Napoleon blinked. The sun was too bright and almost directly overhead. A cool breeze was coming in the open louvre in the large window at the end of the studio, but directly beneath the skylights the sun had made it too hot for even a sheet. Napoleon loosed his foot from the bunched covers at the bottom of the divan. His consciousness registered the easy movement of muscles relaxed from heat and more sleep than he’d had in weeks, and relief. Relief he thought might never be his again. The fresh air played along his skin and images of the evening flashed through his mind.
Turning on his side, Napoleon regarded the other source of heat…and light. A few inches away, Illya was sleeping on his stomach, his face half buried in a cream-coloured cushion, one arm loosely folded to his side, one leg bent at the knee, the sunlight reflecting off his hair and skin.
Napoleon reached out for the sun-warmed skin. He stopped his hand. It hovered an inch or two above Illya’s back, moving up and down in the air as Illya breathed. He wanted again. His hand moved lower, rising and dipping above those perfect contours. More. I want more. Napoleon withdrew his hand. The sun glinted off the fine hairs along Illya’s skin. The sun loves you. Even more than the moon. Napoleon curled his fingers into a fist. I couldn’t resist. No, yesterday I couldn’t resist at all. I had to possess… Napoleon flushed darkly and eased off the divan. Illya took a deeper breath, turned his head, shifted his limbs and continued to slumber. Napoleon circled the divan, pausing at the foot. I don’t want you to regret agreeing to stay. Napoleon shook his head and strode towards the bath.
**************
The opened latch clattered against the wood frame as Napoleon pushed both sides of the window back. He reached over the troop of small glass bottles on the deep windowsill to slip the hooks into place. When she was still in school, Marguerite had started giving him sets of tiny cologne bottles for Christmas and it had become their tradition. Occasionally, she varied her gifts with glass bottles she found in antique shops or on her travels, but often it was still a boxed set of the latest fragrances for men. Napoleon found it convenient to bring one or two along when he travelled. Illya had taken to sampling them when he began staying for the weekend. Napoleon pushed a small black bottle back from the edge. Illya had told him Alicia exclaimed how fragrant he was one Monday at rehearsal and Illya agreed. When the little bottle was nearly finished, Napoleon placed a larger version near the basin and Illya started using it without comment. Napoleon glanced over at the shelf where it sat below the mirror still fogged with steam. He reached out with his index finger and traced an outline in the condensation.
***************
Shaved, brushed and scented, Napoleon walked naked across the mezzanine to his bedroom, the air absorbing the last of the moisture from his skin. He slipped on the robe hanging behind his bedroom door and turned towards his closet with a smile. The box on the top shelf was large and the tissue paper rustled when he opened it. The deep blue robe inside, like his own, was a light-weight silk for summer. Unlike his own, its dark lining was patterned with small, winged dragons of gold, green and red threads. Napoleon smoothed his hand over the impish creatures. The dragons cavorted in eight different poses and the ninth design showed two curled up in repose. Before she left New York, Viola had given him the name of a weaver in London who could convert his drawings into cloth. When he returned from Paris, the fabric was ready and his tailor had done the rest. Napoleon brought the robe to the bathroom, hung it on the hook behind the door, then headed downstairs to see what Feather had left for their breakfast.
******************
There was a tranquil atmosphere in the kitchen; Feather’s personality pervaded the well-organised room even in her absence. A large wooden tray sat on the table, cups, dishes, silverware and condiments neatly arranged upon it under a screen dome. Napoleon lifted it and smiled as he took the pain au chocolate out of the waxed bag he found there and arranged them on one of the clear glass plates. His smile grew broader when he opened the refrigerator. He added an ample bowl of fresh fruit salad, a smaller one of hard-boiled, shelled quail eggs and a pitcher of orange juice to the tray. There was an empty bud vase on the table. He quirked an eyebrow at it, then looked out the large basement windows. They gave onto the white-washed brick wall of the outside kitchen stairwell, bright with the overhead sun and patterned by the leaves of the morning glory vines threading up its far wall, a few purple blooms still open. Napoleon nodded to himself and headed for the kitchen door, lifting the key to the garden shed from its hook before he left.
*************
Warmth and brightness. Illya was on his back, the sun warm all along his body, its light red against his closed eyelids. There was a faint scraping…a scratching sound behind him. The heat of the sun was soothing. He flung an arm across his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
***************
Napoleon glanced away from his easel towards the divan. Illya had rolled onto his back, but his breathing was still shallow. He must have been very tired from the trip, Napoleon thought. And we stayed up so late talking after dinner…Napoleon flushed again. You were silver under the full moon…where my shadow didn‘t block the light. Napoleon considered Illya’s reclining figure. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep beside you…
He turned back to the board clipped to the easel. The drawing showed Illya as he had been in the morning, on his side, one arm stretched out from beneath the pillow. Napoleon had added draperies behind and partly to the side of the bed. The light had been slanted onto the figure instead of overhead and had gilded both the sleeping figure and the inside of the draperies. Beyond were two archways looking out into a garden, the sky overcast, the forms of the shrubs and trees dim, except for the red and white roses twining around the column separating the arches, heavy with blossoms.
Napoleon moved to the other side of the room and grasped the large standing mirror. The castors were well oiled and it made little noise as he rolled it into position next to the easel. He slipped off his robe, stepped a few paces further away from the easel, bent from the waist, reached out towards the board and regarded himself in the mirror. He adjusted his position slightly and began to draw.
*******************
Distant thunder. Illya moved his arm away from his eyes. No, the sun is still bright. He took a deeper breath. He was beginning to feel hungry, but not enough to stir yet. He could hear the scratching sound again. He drowsed. The sound stopped. Pushing the pillow down with his arm, Illya turned his head and saw Napoleon standing naked a few feet away. He twisted quietly on the divan. Napoleon’s face was turned towards a mirror, his hand poised a few inches from the easel. It was the mirror being moved, Illya thought. Then Napoleon began drawing again, the pencil scraping softly against the matte surface.
Illya uncoiled from the divan and took a couple soundless steps towards Napoleon. Over his bent shoulder, Illya considered the drawing, mostly charcoal pencil with a few pastel accents, of Napoleon’s figure leaning over a bed, reaching towards his own sleeping figure.
With his palm facing inwards, Illya reached for Napoleon’s back. “Your muse has been with you,” he said just before the back of his fingers touched Napoleon’s skin. Napoleon dropped his pencil, and his eyes caught Illya’s in the mirror.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Napoleon replied.
Illya let his hand glide all the way down Napoleon’s back and glanced again at the drawing. “Yes, you did.”
******************
Illya refolded his serviette and lay it next to his plate. “Of course, I can’t do what I really want to do,” Illya said. Napoleon looked up from his breakfast. “Not yet, anyway.” Illya brushed a flake of pastry off the linen. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to choreograph it for two male leads.” Napoleon nodded. “So, would you prefer that I danced my part or yours?”
Napoleon leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes on Illya’s face. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
“Nor I,” Illya added, staring across the room. “Would it bother you having a woman dance your role?” he asked, turning back to Napoleon.
Napoleon sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders. He looked down at his arm, moved it as Illya had shown him, extending his fingers and curling them back one by one. “Did you have someone in mind?” he asked.
“Fiona, I think,” Illya answered. “She’s been going from strength to strength these last few months.”
Napoleon considered it, moving his arm again. He started to smile. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” He paused. “Although I might be envious.” Napoleon’s gaze wandered around Illya’s face, down to the open robe and back to Illya’s eyes. “And it might be hard on her.”
Illya conducted a similar survey, then brought his focus back to the conversation. “If I can recreate what is forming in my mind, it would be very good for her career and…” His voice grew softer, “I would be careful with her.” Illya leaned away from the table. “What if I danced your part? Who do you see dancing mine?”
Napoleon tilted his head, his brows drawing together, his eyes focussing over Illya’s shoulder. “No one,” he said. “I can’t picture any of the ballerinas in that role.”
“Not Alicia?” Illya teased.
Napoleon’s gaze snapped back to Illya’s face. “Definitely not,” he rapped out. Illya smiled. “But if it could have been two men, I could see Sergei portraying you,” Napoleon finished.
“Not you?” Illya asked.
“No, only you for me.”
Illya leaned one elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand, his index finger tapping slowly against his lips. “Maybe I should write it two ways and I would alternate dancing your role and mine.” His finger continued to tap against his lips. “And Sergei could dance the villain when Fiona takes your part…” Illya lapsed into silence again.
“Villain?” Napoleon asked.
Illya’s eyes returned to Napoleon before he answered. “There has to be a villain.”
“For a story line?” Napoleon enquired. “Would it tell a story like Swan Lake or The Prodigal Son?
Illya watched Napoleon shift in his chair, the skin around his eyes tightening. “How had you imagined it?” he asked.
“More abstract, I suppose,” Napoleon replied.
“It could be like that,” Illya began, “but it would still need an antagonist, a dark character.” Napoleon ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to develop it, Napoleon. It’s just the germ of an idea.”
Napoleon’s hand darted across the table. “No, I didn’t mean that,” he said, his hand closing on Illya’s arm. “I hadn’t thought it through is all.”
Illya glanced down at Napoleon’s hand and back up again. “It’s why I asked for your permission. The subject is so intimate.”
Napoleon’s grip loosened. His thumb stroked down and back up Illya’s arm. “Don’t stop,” he said, looking directly at Illya, then his eyes flickered away. “What does this villain do?”
“One way or another, he harms the protagonist.” Illya paused. "I think you’re right about it being better if it is more abstract.”
Napoleon’s hand withdrew and he settled back into his chair. “Do you have an image of how the stage would look?”
Illya reopened the serviette and smoothed it with the palm of his hand. “Bare, maybe? The mood created by the lighting.” He paused again.
“With colours or just white light and shadow?”
Illya thought of the large, dark windows, the white furniture and the firelight in New York. “Mostly white light and shadow,” he said slowly. “Stars in the background perhaps…possibly a flicker of pale orange, a beam of yellow, a ripple of red…”
“Some colour then…”
Illya closed his eyes. There were movements in and out of the shadows and through the beam of yellow light. Vaguely-shaped props reared up which might block the dancers view of one another some of the time. Illya’s fingers moved over the white linen. He opened his eyes and pushed his chair back. He glanced behind him. The floor from the table to the large window overlooking the garden was uncluttered.
“It’s not really enough space for dancing,” Napoleon said as Illya got up.
“It’s not so bad,” Illya replied. “You’ve seen me use it before.”
Napoleon stood. “Why don’t we take these to the kitchen?” He waved his hand over the breakfast things on the table. “There’s a larger space in the basement which you might find more suitable.”
***************
The fragrance of lilacs grew stronger as they descended the kitchen stairs. Napoleon shouldered the door further open and held it for Illya. Illya deposited the tray on the table and buried his face in the large bouquet taking up much of it. He let out his breath slowly as he straightened up. “When did you pick them?” he asked.
“This morning while you were still sleeping.”
“You were very busy while I was asleep,“ Illya remarked.
“I had a lot of energy,” Napoleon murmured, flushing.
Illya took another deep breath above the lilacs. “Their season is too short,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Is this a reward for helping to bring down the dishes?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Napoleon smiled. “I’d intended to bring the flowers upstairs after I brought up the coffee, but you waylaid me on the stairs and they slipped my mind.”
“I’m very passionate about coffee in the morning,” Illya said. Napoleon’s flush deepened. “We can bring them up as soon as we sort out the kitchen,” Illya said, picking the tray back up and bringing it over to the sink. Napoleon opened a door beneath the counter. Illya eyed the stainless steel interior. “What is that?” he asked.
“A dishwasher. One rinses off the dishes, loads them in here and the machine does the rest,” Napoleon explained.
“Hmmh,” Illya said. “You had better operate that and I’ll rinse.”
Napoleon smiled. “Never seen one before?”
“No,” Illya replied. “I don’t get to spend much time in kitchens,” he added, beginning to roll up his sleeves. He paused, brought his forearm closer to his face and twisted it around slowly. Napoleon watched. “This pattern isn’t all the same,” Illya said, studying the cloth. “And the designs are rather droll. How many are there?”
“Why don’t you count?” Napoleon suggested, moving closer.
“Four, five,” Illya murmured and shifted his scrutiny from the cuff to his lapels. “Six.” He picked up the end of the belt and turned it over, running his eyes from the tip to the knot at his waist. He undid it. “Seven,” he said. He dropped the belt and opened one side of the robe. “Eight.” He looked over at Napoleon. “They’re not in any order!” Napoleon’s smile grew. “Nine. Hmm. Number nine is quite interesting. I see now, there are two dragons.” He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Napoleon.
“The one with more green in the design is me,” Napoleon murmured.
“And the one with more gold is me, then?” Illya deduced. Napoleon nodded. “How…“
“I asked Viola if she knew of a weaver before she left New York,” Napoleon said.
Illya smiled. He took off the robe and draped it over a chair. Napoleon’s eyes opened wider. “I wouldn’t want to get any stains on it,” Illya explained. He moved back to the sink, turned on the tap, took a dish from the tray and held it under the water.
Napoleon stood still for a moment and then reached for the wet plate when Illya held it out towards him.
“That’s everything then,” Illya concluded, shutting off the water. He took a sponge from the sink and turned to the kitchen table with it. “You should put the rest of the fruit salad away.” He leaned over the table and started wiping it down. When he reached the bowl of fruit, Illya looked over his shoulder at Napoleon, who had not moved. Illya shook his head. “Far too hard. There’s a much more comfortable location just a few steps away,” he said. He tossed the sponge at Napoleon, picked his robe off the chair and headed for the door.
Napoleon’s hand darted out and caught the sponge, otherwise he remained immobile for a minute or two while the image of Illya stretched across the table slowly faded.
*******************
The door to the hammam was open, the yellow light from the changing room painting a bright rectangle in the dusky corridor. The room was empty. The door to the lounge was ajar. Napoleon locked the door to the hallway behind him and moved to peer through the half-open door. The afternoon sun shone in narrow beams through the glass bricks in the ceiling, patterning the dim room. Illya was standing by the shelves near the divan, his back to Napoleon. The belt of Illya’s robe hung loose on either side of his waist; the robe swayed as he reached up and took a small bottle from the shadowy top shelf. Napoleon flicked off the lights in the changing room.
“Are they all scented oils?” Illya asked, without turning. His hand closed around the long neck of a bottle on the middle shelf.
Napoleon stepped closer. “No. The smallest are concentrated scent, the taller ones are scented, and the large container on the right is plain oil. The shelf below the counter has empty bottles.”
“For mixing,“ Illya remarked, nodding. He drew the stopper out of a tiny, blue bottle and wafted it beneath his nose. “Jasmine,” he said and replaced the stopper. “Lie down, Napoleon. I think you could use a massage.” This time he looked over his shoulder, a faint smile playing along his lips before he turned back to the bottles.
He wanted to seize. The intensity of the urge washed through Napoleon. Illya knelt down to find an empty bottle, the robe pooling around him on the marble floor. He pivoted slightly to reach a container on the far right, the robe sliding off his knee as he moved, leaving the muscled thigh exposed. Napoleon closed his eyes.
“You aren't lying down yet,” Illya commented.
Napoleon opened his eyes. Illya stood up and the collar of the robe drooped loosely between his shoulder blades. Images of Illya in the kitchen superimposed themselves on his figure as it leaned over the counter to pour oil from one bottle to another. Napoleon’s fingers itched to push the robe down further, to take possession of all the fair skin beneath it. He took a deep breath. “I’ll get some towels,” he said and retreated to the changing room.
Stretched out on his side, Napoleon watched Illya add drops of scent from two more vials. The sunlight was reflecting off the glass bottles as Illya shifted them about the counter, sniffing, pouring and gently shaking various bottles in turn. “You look like an alchemist,” Napoleon commented. “It would make a good painting.”
“Hmm,” Illya replied, holding a stopper under his nose. “I think I have what I want now,” he said and turned to Napoleon with the glass still in hand. Napoleon’s eyes flicked down along the open robe and back to Illya’s hands. Illya was as aroused as he was and still he waited. “Sniff,” Illya said, holding out the stopper towards Napoleon.
“It’s better to smell fragrance on skin,” Napoleon replied.
“All right,” Illya said, nodding. He rubbed the glass wand along the inside of his wrist and brought it to his nose. He smiled and twisted around to dip the stopper in the scent again. “Now on you,” he said and stepped to the edge of the divan. Napoleon held out his arm and Illya trailed the glass from wrist to elbow. “Fold your arm back for a minute. I want it to warm,” Illya instructed and Napoleon complied. The fragrance was already strong in the air between them. There was sandalwood in the mixture, and several other scents. Ones that reminded Napoleon of Illya.
Illya took Napoleon’s wrist. Napoleon watched his face coming closer. Illya inhaled all along the inside of Napoleon’s forearm, then exhaled into the bend of the elbow. Illya looked up, caught Napoleon’s eye and held it. The perfume was growing headier in the air. Illya leaned forward and touched Napoleon’s lips briefly. “Move over a little,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll be right back.”
Napoleon shifted on the towels he had spread over the divan, relaxing back on the pillows. Illya was coming to him. He wouldn’t have to hold back too much longer. Illya walked to the changing room, shrugged off his robe and leaned through the door with it. He turned back to Napoleon and smiled. He moved as comfortably without clothes as most people did with. Napoleon continued to watch as Illya lifted a slender turquoise bottle from the counter and came to sit on the edge of the divan.
“You look a bit more at ease,” Illya said and poured some of the oil in the centre of Napoleon’s chest. He set the bottle on the edge of the counter and started smoothing the oil up to Napoleon’s shoulders and down to his navel, then he grasped Napoleon’s hand and worked the oil into the palm and between the fingers. He smiled as Napoleon twitched in response. He left Napoleon's hand for a moment to slide his hand along Napoleon‘s hip and around the top of his thigh, then returned to massaging the fingers. Napoleon followed Illya's motions, mesmerised. “Tell me, Napoleon, why so reticent today?” Illya moved his attention to the pads at the base of the fingers.
“Because I wasn’t yesterday,” Napoleon replied.
“None of our reunions have been marked by moderation,” Illya commented and started twisting Napoleon’s fingers in turn.
“None were more than a handful of days,” Napoleon observed.
“You’re worried I’ll grow tired of you?” Illya asked. He lay Napoleon’s hand on the towel, reached for the oil and poured more into his hands. Illya straddled Napoleon’s knees and took his other hand. Napoleon watched Illya’s broad hands engulf his. “Are you teasing me, then?”
Napoleon startled. “No!” he exclaimed. “No. It’s just the past few days…since I posted the last drawing to you…I’ve been having dreams…” Illya looked up. Napoleon had turned his head away. “Nightmares, actually,” he finished. Illya kept massaging, firmly, rhythmically. “Each different, but the same really,” Napoleon continued. “You would walk away and vanish in the dusk or be on a train I had just missed, pulling away from the platform, on a ship…you get the idea.”
“All things I have done,” Illya remarked. He began pulling the fingers on Napoleon’s hand.
“Exactly. And the images were ones from my memory or close. Only in the dreams you weren’t just leaving physically.” Napoleon paused. Illya watched him swallow twice. “You were leaving me.”
Illya started massaging up Napoleon’s arm. “You’ve rarely spoken of dreams to me,” Illya said. “But I’ve seen you dream.”
“I rarely remember them.” Napoleon turned back to look at Illya. “It makes the impact greater when I do. And so many, in a row.” Napoleon looked away again.
“You can still picture them now?” Illya asked. Napoleon nodded. “That’s unusual,” Illya commented. “They usually fade.”
“Do you dream often?” Napoleon asked.
Illya began massaging back down the arm. “Not often. Now and then. Occasionally, they have been vivid and unpleasant.” He reached across Napoleon for the oil and dripped some along Napoleon’s leg. “Hold this for me,” he said and placed the bottle in Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon curled his fingers around it. Illya rubbed in the oil and moved down to Napoleon’s feet. He lifted the nearest one and balanced the heel on his thigh and began massaging the instep.
“I started drawing them,” Napoleon said.
Illya looked up and met Napoleon‘s gaze. “That probably helped fix them in your memory.”
“I changed them,” Napoleon explained. Illya raised an eyebrow and started to knead the ball of Napoleon’s foot. “I was trying to take control of them, dispel them…” Illya started massaging the toes. “But the dreams got worse…and the drawings got…” Napoleon looked away again. “Stranger,” he concluded. Illya finished one foot, bent Napoleon’s knee and placed the foot sole down on the towel. He moved to the other foot.
Napoleon sighed. “I was trying to keep you with me…in the drawings,” he said. “I think I should show them to you.”
“You don’t have to,” Illya replied, working the oil gently into the instep. He felt Napoleon tense. “But if you wish to…are there many?” Illya started on the toes.
“Two sketchbooks full,” Napoleon replied.
Illya looked up and met Napoleon’s gaze, saw the lines around his eyes and across his brow. “We can look at them together tomorrow,” Illya said. Napoleon’s brow smoothed as he nodded. Illya leaned forward and took the oil, drizzled some on Napoleon’s other leg, set the bottle on the counter and began massaging the oil in. Napoleon dropped his head back against the cushions and sighed. “We both use our art to help us understand the world, including the world inside our heads,” Illya said. Napoleon sighed again. “Turn over.”
Illya massaged up the backs of Napoleon’s legs using the strength of his hands to knead the thigh muscles. He moved up Napoleon’s body, sat across his thighs and poured a little more oil down his back. The small bottle was almost depleted. Illya leaned forward to put some of his weight behind his arms as he tackled the knotted muscles of Napoleon’s shoulders. “Breathe deeply, Napoleon,” Illya directed, splaying his fingers and working down either side of Napoleon’s spine. “Keep breathing,” Illya reminded him and poured the last of the oil across Napoleon’s buttocks. Illya replaced the bottle on the counter and kneaded as the oil trickled slowly downwards. Napoleon’s breathing was becoming more rapid. Illya continued kneading in a circular motion which drew the buttocks apart and then pressed them together. Illya leaned all the way up to Napoleon’s ear, letting his full weight press Napoleon into the divan. “Shall I continue?” he whispered and slid partway down Napoleon‘s back and up again.
Napoleon lifted his head to look over his shoulder at Illya. When he could see Illya’s eyes, he said, “Yes.”
Illya pulled himself up further and slipped his hand into Napoleon’s hair. “Then I shall,” Illya murmured and covered Napoleon’s lips with his. He took a deep breath when he pulled away. Napoleon’s head settled back on the cushions. Illya whispered, “Then I shall,” directly into Napoleon’s ear before kissing it and sliding down his back.
The oil eliminated all friction between their bodies. Illya clutched the towelling to keep from slipping. He moved so gradually, his muscles were trembling by the time they were fully joined. He rested his forehead on Napoleon’s shoulder and gasped. “You’re sure now, that I’m here with you?”
“Yes,” Napoleon answered, his voice soft but distinct. He pushed back against Illya. Illya gasped again and gripped Napoleon. Slowly, Illya rotated his hips. Napoleon groaned into the pillows. Illya eased away, tilted his hips and very slowly pushed deeper, again and again. A low moan from Napoleon reassured him; still when his lips were once more by Napoleon’s ear, Illya asked, “You know that I’m here with you?”
“Yes,” Napoleon panted and lifted up against Illya. Illya kissed Napoleon’s shoulder blade and reached towards his hand. Napoleon seized it and brought it to his mouth. “Yes, Illya,” he breathed into the palm, “I know.” He thrust back hard and moaned when Illya pushed back harder, before groaning above him. “I know it’s you.” Napoleon could feel the tremours coursing through Illya's body. He kissed Illya's palm. Thank god, it's you.
*********************
Volume I may be found here - Through the Invisible.
Thanks always go to
utopiantrunks for all her tutelage. Mistakes and other shortcomings are mine. Title: Through the Invisible - Volume II, Post 1 of 4
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Genre: AU, Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~10K
Author's Notes: Volume II is still a WIP. The story resumes a moment after the other ended. It is early May 1959 in London. (26/9/2010 - Last scene expanded.)
Excerpt:
Until he heard Napoleon’s steps on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, Illya didn‘t move. When he did turn, Napoleon paused, just past the first set of doors, his eyes riveted on Illya’s face. Illya walked towards Napoleon slowly. We’ve parted and reunited so often in the past few months I believed you were comfortable with it, confident. “You thought I was coming in person to deliver bad news, didn’t you?” he asked.
Act I
Until he heard Napoleon’s steps on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, Illya didn‘t move. When he did turn, Napoleon paused, just past the first set of doors, his eyes riveted on Illya’s face. Illya walked towards Napoleon slowly. We’ve parted and reunited so often in the past few months I believed you were comfortable with it, confident. “You thought I was coming in person to deliver bad news, didn’t you?” he asked.
Napoleon nodded. Illya acknowledged all this simple affirmative represented with a long sigh. For a moment more they stood regarding one another. Napoleon’s gaze wandered around Illya’s face, returned to his eyes, then dropped to his mouth. Illya smiled gently.
“Napoleon.”
“Mmm.”
“Perhaps you should lock the doors.”
Illya was stretched halfway out of the eastern window unhooking the last shutter when Napoleon finished securing the third set of doors. He walked over to the banquette where Illya was kneeling and settled in the corner, his back against the side wall and watched Illya draw his body through the casement, hook the shutters, latch the window. The room was much darker; only coloured light fell from the stained glass windows high in the walls. Sitting back on his heels, Illya turned to Napoleon. Silently, he considered the subdued expression on Napoleon’s face, his crossed legs, the loosely clasped hands resting on his knee.
“Will you stay here tonight?” Napoleon asked, almost without inflection, his gaze on the fountain in the middle of the room.
“It’s Sunday, Napoleon. I always stay on Sundays,” Illya answered lightly. Napoleon’s face brightened somewhat and he looked at Illya.
“I received the last picture you sent me two days ago,” Illya said, continuing to study Napoleon. He couldn’t suppress a quirk of his lips as he recalled the full length pencil drawing of himself as a faun sleeping on his stomach in a glade, head pillowed on one arm, a lyre and a set of pan pipes leaning against a nearby rock. “It seemed the work of a confident lover.” Illya moved closer, still on his knees. “What happened to change that?”
Napoleon glanced down and brushed a fleck of lint from his trousers. The muscles in his jaw twitched minutely, but he didn’t reply. Illya reached out to grasp his shoulders. “Why did you doubt your senses?“ Napoleon’s brows drew together. Illya’s fingers kneaded his shoulders. Napoleon shook his head and leaned forward, rubbing his face against Illya’s shirt, across his stomach muscles and wrapped his arms around Illya’s thighs.
“Will you come back after rehearsal tomorrow?” Napoleon asked after a moment, his voice muffled by Illya’s shirt.
“We don’t start rehearsing until Wednesday,” Illya replied, stroking down Napoleon’s back with one hand.
“Can you stay until then?” Napoleon probed.
“I have enough clothes in my bag,” Illya answered, continuing to knead Napoleon‘s shoulder muscles with his other hand.
“So you’ll stay?” Napoleon repeated.
“Yes,” Illya replied. “I’d planned on staying.“ Napoleon looked up into Illya’s puzzled eyes. He rose onto one knee, his eyes intent on Illya’s until their lips touched and he closed them.
*********************
Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Illya listened to the lulling murmur of the fountain. When it was disrupted by splashing, he turned his head. Napoleon was standing in the shallow basin of the fountain, his hands redirecting the light spray over his chest and legs. He bent to pick up something from the floor, his body blocking Illya’s view. The play of thigh and buttock muscles the movement required brought an appreciative smile to Illya‘s lips. Napoleon straightened and twisted slightly to pour a clear fluid from a slender glass pitcher onto his chest. A narrow beam of light from one of the upper windows flashed red against the glass and gold through the arc of the liquid. Napoleon’s shoulder muscles flexed as he worked the soap into a lather and bubbles began to slide down and around his legs. The scent of sandalwood reached Illya and he thought of their first night in Rome as he watched Napoleon rinse with handfuls of water. Languidly, Illya stretched and turned on his side. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping along Illya’s form and returning to his face. He smiled, stooped again and plucked a towel from a stack on the floor. Napoleon held a corner of it under the water, then walked to the banquette.
“Isn’t the water cold?” Illya asked.
“Only a little,” Napoleon said, wiping the wet end of the towel along Illya’s thigh and drying behind it with the other end.
Illya lifted one knee. “Where did the towels come from?” he enquired.
“There’s storage beneath the seats.” Napoleon gestured towards an open lid across the hall with one hand, while swabbing higher with the other.
“Why?”
“Don’t you always want to jump in a fountain? No matter what any sign might say?” Napoleon asked, raising his eyebrows.
Illya smiled. “The fountains of Rome?”
“Among others,” Napoleon replied. “But afterwards, one needs a towel.”
Illya felt his own response and watched Napoleon’s as he worked his way upwards. Napoleon observed the direction of Illya’s glance. “I missed you,” he murmured and bent to kiss Illya’s hip.
“I can tell.” Illya’s smile widened and he rolled onto his back, one arm still behind his head. Napoleon accepted the invitation.
**************
The sun was edging off the terrace as they finished lunch, the chill in the clear air reasserting itself. Illya reached behind him to pull his jacket off the chair and drape it over his shoulders. “The garden is beautiful,” he said, looking across the lawn to the blooming lilacs which marked its farthest boundary. He inhaled appreciatively.
“Let me show you my favourite spot,” Napoleon offered, pushing back his chair and rising.
Illya stood, slipped his arms into his jacket and followed Napoleon down the terrace steps towards the right side of the house. “C’est magnifique!” Illya exclaimed as they rounded the corner. “How did I not see this last year?”
“I had it pruned at the end of the summer; it only grew back enough to flower a little before it became too cold,” Napoleon answered as they walked closer.
“I’m surprised bougainvillea survives at all this far north,” Illya said, reaching out for the curtain of white blossoms in front of him.
“This side of the house is quite sheltered…and there’s a heat source in the basement which vents over there,” Napoleon pointed. “It keeps the ground warmer than normal. Would you like to step inside?” he asked, carefully pushing aside several thorny boughs.
Illya raised an eyebrow and stepped past Napoleon into the concealed arbour. Napoleon followed and let the boughs swing back into place behind him.
“How old is it?” Illya asked, turning full circle and noting how the branches formed a roof above them as well.
“Seven years, but the plants were fairly mature when I had them planted here.
“They‘ve grown well,” Illya observed. “Your design?“ he asked. Napoleon nodded. “A bower fit for Titania and Oberon,” Illya commented.
Napoleon stepped behind Illya and leaned over his shoulder. “Or Oberon and Puck,” he suggested quietly.
Illya glanced sideways. “ That would make an interesting ballet.”
“Hmm,” Napoleon agreed and slipped his arms around Illya’s waist.
**************
“Where in Sweden?” Napoleon asked as he shut the terrace doors.
“Far enough north that the sun won’t really set,” Illya answered.
“I think I might find endless night more appealing,” Napoleon replied. “I’m surprised the company is travelling again so soon.”
“It isn’t; only Alicia, Sergei and I will go as guest artists,” Illya explained. “There’s a pair of festivals hosted by the Royal Swedish Ballet; we’ll go again for nearly a week around the winter solstice.”
“I’ve never been to Sweden,” Napoleon remarked.
“So, would you like to come with us?”
“Summer or winter?” Napoleon enquired, moving to a sideboard in the dining room which he rarely used. “Sherry or cognac?” he asked, opening a cupboard.
“Both,” Illya answered.
Napoleon held up two decanters and raised his eyebrows.
“Both summer and winter,” Illya clarified. “Sherry would be good to take the chill off, thank you.”
Napoleon poured and handed Illya a small glass. “I have an even better remedy for a chill,” he added. Illya raised his glass and one eyebrow before he took a sip of the sherry. “Something other than that,” Napoleon said. “Although that’s a good idea, too.”
Illya laughed, noting Napoleon’s relaxed tone and easy smile, but he kept watching Napoleon as he turned to replace the decanter and observed the hunch of his shoulders.
“Come downstairs, and you can see the source of the heat that keeps the bougainvillea alive through the winter,” Napoleon said and gestured towards the next room.
******************
Succulent aromas greeted them as they descended the kitchen stairs. “Feather insisted on staying today to make a special dinner for you,” Napoleon explained.
“I am striving to feel guilty, but that smells too delicious,” Illya replied as Napoleon unlatched a door across the landing from the half-open door to the kitchen. He inhaled again. “What is it?”
“She also insisted on its being a surprise,” Napoleon said, “but she’s taking tomorrow and Tuesday off to visit friends in Cambridge, so don‘t feel guilty.”
“I should go to Cambridge soon to see my grandmother,” Illya commented, following Napoleon.
“Where in Cambridge?” Napoleon asked, opening another door and reaching in for the light switch.
“Just by King’s College. My grandfather was the Head of Music there and the choirmaster. My grandmother still gives private violin lessons,” Illya added.
“That’s why you went to school there,” Napoleon exclaimed. Illya cocked an eyebrow. “I read the programme notes.”
“Ah,” Illya said and entered what appeared to be a small changing room, a small, butter-coloured changing room. “Are the lights yellow in here?” he asked, moving further inside.
Napoleon closed the door and turned the lock. “No, it’s the walls.”
Illya reached out and touched the gleaming surface. “It’s smoother than paint, softer than polished stone,” he remarked. “What is it?”
“Tadelakt,” Napoleon answered. “I had to bring Moroccan artisans to do it. They can tint it other shades, but this is the traditional colour. It’s waterproof, so perfect for…
“A hammam,” Illya interjected. “I remember, in Marrakesh, several of us went to one and it had this. I haven‘t seen it since.”
“It’s unique to the country,” Napoleon explained.
Illya turned to look at him. “This isn’t new, is it?”
“No…” Napoleon began.
“So why didn’t we use it before…” Illya started. Napoleon cheeks grew red and he stooped to untie his shoes.
“Ah,” Illya said quietly and followed Napoleon’s example.
“I had it built at the same time as the hall, but it’s hardly been used,” Napoleon said, still concentrating on disrobing. “A couple times when Marguerite was visiting with Aunt Aurelia, I hired a masseuse for them…” He wrapped a towel around his waist and held two out to Illya. “I did the same one time when my brother Edgar was staying, but he didn't take to it. It’s meant to be a social activity and I’ve mostly been alone here,” he finished.
Illya wrapped one towel around his waist and draped another over his shoulders. “You built it with someone in mind?” he asked, a feeling of hostility towards this absent rival rising in him.
Napoleon looked up sharply from dividing various toiletries between two buckets. “No!” he said abruptly. “I designed them both when I came back from my trip around the Mediterranean…the construction didn’t start until I returned from Paris the next year though,” he continued in his usual, mellow tone. He handed Illya one of the buckets. “I never left my architectural phase completely behind. After living and breathing it for three years at Cambridge, it’s not surprising,” he added with a shrug as he opened the door to the next chamber.
“You studied architecture at Cambridge?” Illya asked, surprised. It was much hotter and dimmer in the next room. Through an archway, he could discern another room to the right.
“My father wouldn’t permit me to devote myself to art until I had a ‘proper’ degree,” Napoleon answered. Illya scowled. “He did keep his word though. When I graduated he gave his blessing to my studying in Rome and Paris. He didn’t consider painting a ‘real’ career and hoped I‘d return to architecture once I‘d had my…‘adventure abroad‘ was his term for it.”
“Mmm,” Illya grumbled, concentrating more than necessary on spreading his towel on the marble floor. “When were you there?”
“‘44 to ‘47,” Napoleon replied, turning up the lights in the first chamber and tossing his towels down one on top of the other and emptying his bucket beside them.
“You would have been young for university,” Illya calculated, recalling that Napoleon had turned thirty the previous autumn.
“I was a bright, young thing,” Napoleon countered, smiling as he turned on the hot water tap and filled his bucket and then two more from the stack by the spigots in the next room.
“I was still there in ‘44/‘45, singing in the choir,” Illya said as he emptied the contents of his bucket. “It was my last year studying in England.”
Napoleon slid a bucket full of hot water through the archway towards Illya and gestured for Illya’s empty one. “I had a friend at King’s,” he called over the splashing of the water. “I used to go to chapel with him there sometimes.”
“You probably heard me then.” Illya arranged the sloshing buckets of hot and cold water Napoleon kept sliding towards him around their towels. “My grandfather was angry that I didn’t study music.”
“But your parents didn’t mind?” Napoleon asked.
“They wanted me to follow my muse,” Illya said. “And they love dance as well as music. My mother particularly was drawn to ballet, but it wasn’t quite a respectable occupation for a young lady when she was a girl. Playing in an orchestra was daring enough.”
“I enjoyed meeting them,” Napoleon said. Illya remembered how carefully Napoleon had observed his parents and wondered whether he had been seeking the family resemblance or if it were something more.
Napoleon dropped a bucket half full of cold water at the edge of Illya’s towel and began mixing it with hot water from another bucket until he had the right temperature. “Allow me,” he said, and hoisted the bucket over Illya’s head.
Illya sputtered and was raising an arm to ward off further assaults when the next bucketful flooded over him. Before he could wipe the water from his eyes, Napoleon had sat down behind him and was rubbing shampoo into his hair, his fingers kneading Illya’s scalp and neck. Illya let the water drip and relaxed into the massage.
“Your opening move could use some refinement,” Illya mumbled as he let his head drop so Napoleon’s fingers could work up the back of his neck and around his ears.
“Lean your head back,” Napoleon directed and his fingers moved to Illya’s temples, up to the crown of his head and down again.
“Mmm,” Illya hummed.
“Am I improving as I go along?” Napoleon asked.
“Mmm,” Illya replied.
Napoleon turned Illya’s head from side to side. “I’m going to douse you again. Ready this time?” Illya nodded as another bucketful of water, hotter than the first, streamed over them both. He leaned back against Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon’s hands were in his hair again, rubbing something oily into his scalp. “Lie down,” Napoleon instructed, “the rest of you is next.”
Illya heard a jar being unscrewed as he stretched out on the sodden towel. A handful of gel landed between his shoulder blades and Napoleon began spreading it across his back. “Is that black soap?” Illya asked.
“It is,” Napoleon replied, adding another handful and spreading it down Illya’s right arm.
“It doesn’t look like it would wash anything, but between it and those scratchy mitts, I never felt so clean in my life,” Illya remarked. “I imagine you have the scratchy things, too.”
“You imagine correctly,” Napoleon affirmed, taking Illya’s right hand in his and pressing into the palm with his thumb.
Illya sighed as Napoleon massaged each finger and then moved to his left arm. “I could fall asleep this way.”
“I’ll see what I can do to keep your attention,” Napoleon chuckled and dropped more of the dark olive soap onto Illya’s back and massaged downwards all the way to his feet. There was a pause and Illya lifted his head off his arms to look over his shoulder. “And now for the scrubbing part,” Napoleon announced, slipping on a black mitten.
Illya put his head back down. “I recall feeling as though I was being scoured like the kitchen floor.”
“I will endeavour to make this as authentic as possible,” Napoleon promised with a laugh.
“Just leave some skin,” Illya replied, “and remember, your turn’s next.”
**************
“Turn over,” Illya directed, setting down the empty bucket. He had already scrubbed one side of Napoleon until his skin was as smooth as a baby’s. The warm water he had sluiced over him was still pooled in the small of his back and dripping down his sides.
Napoleon rolled and centered himself on his towel. Illya knelt alongside him and scooped out a handful of the olive oil soap and began spreading it across Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon’s eyes were closed, one arm resting close to his side, the other bent at the elbow, the hand cupped beneath his head. Illya admired the line of the arm. His fingers dug into the pot of soap again and smoothed the dark gel up the arm to the elbow and back down Napoleon’s side to his hip. He was erect again. Illya smiled and took more soap. For a quarter of an hour or more no words were spoken as Illya covered Napoleon from toe to chin with soap, massaging as he went. No more than a gentle nudge had been necessary to move Napoleon slightly so that no spot was missed.
Illya placed a knee on either side of Napoleon’s hips and leaned forward for a light kiss. Napoleon inhaled. Illya’s hands slipped up Napoleon’s sides to his shoulders. He sat back and squeezed the shoulder muscles lightly, then the neck, up around the ears into Napoleon’s hair and slowly down the chest again, smoothing over the nipples with his palms. A pleased murmur issued from Napoleon; Illya pressed his knees firmly against Napoleon’s hips and sat back. Napoleon raised his knees so Illya could rest against them and opened his eyes. Illya smiled into them and began to rock slowly back and forth, his arms stretched behind him, gliding up and down the backs of Napoleon’s thighs. Illya felt Napoleon lift his hips and watched his eyes close again as he continued to glide slowly forwards and back.
Napoleon’s chest was rising and falling rapidly when Illya next leaned forward far enough to touch his lips. “I missed you, too, you know,” he whispered against them. Napoleon opened his eyes and met Illya’s, his hand moving to rest along Illya’s side. Flattening himself against Napoleon’s chest, Illya slid downwards, overcoming the momentary resistance he encountered. Napoleon’s eyes grew wide as Illya surrounded him, then they closed as he drew in a long, shuddering breath. Beneath his ear, Illya could hear Napoleon’s heart racing. Not from fear now, Illya thought, tightening his muscles around Napoleon and listening to his heartbeat pound even faster.
*************
“It’s too hot for us to fall asleep in here,” Illya mumbled against Napoleon’s chest.
Napoleon’s hand slid up Illya’s back into his hair. “I don’t want to move…ever,” he replied drowsily. “Besides, you didn’t scrub the front of me.”
“That’s true,” Illya admitted and began to rise.
Napoleon’s hand clamped down across his lower back. “Not yet,” he pled, his hand moving round to clasp Illya’s hip while the fingers of his other hand began kneading Illya’s shoulder. “I can’t let you go just yet.”
Illya let his weight settle back against Napoleon. “Not just yet then, but soon, or we will fall asleep.”
************
“Do we go back to the changing room now?” Illya asked, slipping off the scrubbing mitt and lifting a bucket of tepid water.
“No, there’s another room with showers and robes and then a room to rest and re-hydrate,” Napoleon explained, sitting up and gesturing towards a doorway as the water hit him.
Illya upended another bucket over himself. Napoleon stood and stepped behind him. “There’s still some soap in your hair,” he said. “Tilt your head forward and I’ll get it.” One more bucketful cascaded over Illya. “That should do it,” Napoleon concluded and went to open the door.
*******************
They entered another small butter-coloured room with showers at one end. From a narrow closet at the other end, Napoleon pulled two long, terry cloth robes. He handed the dark blue one to Illya. “Towels on the bench there,” he said as he slipped on the green robe and grabbed a towel. “Do you want a cool shower?” he asked as he rubbed his hair. Illya shook his head.
“Then follow me.” Napoleon opened another door.
Illya looked up at the ceiling in the dim room, his eyes slowly adjusting. “Is that natural light?” he asked. He heard a refrigerator opening and shutting and turned towards it. Napoleon handed him a tall glass of lime juice. Napoleon nodded. “Are we under the terrace?”
“We are,” Napoleon replied, turning back to the marble counter by the door for a plate of sliced melon and bringing it to the divan fanning out from the far corner of the room. “Come stretch out,” he said, doing so himself.
Illya drained his glass and walked to the small refrigerator to refill it before joining Napoleon. “I had thought the glass bricks in the terrace were merely decorative,” Illya remarked, leaning back against the pile of cushions. “And when the sunlight is gone?”
“Then we have these,” Napoleon reached out and turned a dial on the wall. Four hanging lamps grew progressively brighter, illuminating amber and olive green globes set in brass frames. Napoleon turned to catch Illya’s reaction and was not disappointed.
“The house has so many delightful recesses,” Illya commented, glimpsing the eagerness to please in Napoleon‘s expression before he leaned back to turn off the lamps.
Napoleon finished his drink, set it on the marble shelf next to the divan and took the plate of melon to offer it to Illya. Illya fished a toothpick from the container in the middle of the plate and speared a piece of fruit. Napoleon watched him eat it, then set the dish carefully down on the divan between them, taking a long time to choose between a bit of cantaloupe and a chunk of watermelon. Finally, he stabbed one and asked, “Would you consider making it your home? While you’re in London.” He twirled the melon around on the plate and didn’t look up.
“When I was walking here this morning, I felt I was coming home,” Illya replied quietly, reaching down with his toothpick and skewering the piece of fruit next to the one Napoleon hadn’t yet lifted from the plate.
Napoleon’s eyes followed Illya’s hand upwards when it rose from the dish. “You’ll come here to live?” he repeated.
Illya chewed the fruit slowly and regarded the slant of Napoleon‘s eyebrows, the lines around his eyes. He swallowed. “I left my luggage at the train station,” he said.
“Not at your apartment?” Napoleon asked.
“It was a short lease and I didn’t renew it before I left.” Illya took a cube of watermelon from the plate. “I put my things in storage; I didn’t have much with me besides books and records.”
“You weren’t expecting to come back?” Napoleon asked. His look turned inward, then he grimaced and his hand moved across his stomach and stayed there.
“I wasn’t sure. In any event, I wasn’t attached to my flat and was going to be away for months. I could always let another when I got back,” he said, his hand hovering over the dish before descending on a piece of honeydew.
“I’m glad I went to New York,” Napoleon said quietly, then moistened his lips and swallowed. He glanced up. Illya was observing him.
“I’m glad you did, too,” Illya said and smiled.
Napoleon smiled back, then looked down again. He picked up the dish and twisted about to set it on the shelf. When he turned back, Illya had stretched out on his stomach, one arm bent beneath a cushion, facing him, his eyes nearly shut. Napoleon pulled up the coverlet folded at the bottom of the divan and settled himself alongside, adjusting the pillows so his head rested above Illya‘s. He reached across Illya’s shoulders and pulled himself closer.
****************
Illya felt too warm when he awoke. He tried to slide quietly out from beneath Napoleon’s outflung arm but his hand tightened around Illya’s shoulder and he mumbled in his sleep. Illya could distinguish the word, “Hold,” but the rest was indistinct.
Illya tried again to slip away. This time Napoleon‘s fingers dug into his shoulder through the terry cloth. Illya grunted. “That’s quite a hold you’ve got.” Napoleon moved his head, opening his eyes a little. “I attempted to get up without waking you, but you kept tightening your grip.”
Napoleon looked down groggily at where he had Illya clutched against him. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He drew his hand away and sat up. “Sorry. I was dreaming.”
“Yes, I know. About ‘holding‘,” Illya remarked, stretching his arm and letting it settle on Napoleon’s hip. “You were talking in your sleep,” he added as his hand stroked down to Napoleon’s thigh and back.
Napoleon‘s gaze shifted to Illya’s hand, “I was?” he asked, his eyes following the hand‘s progress. “I don‘t think I‘ve ever done that before.”
“You were and you have,” Illya replied, his brow creasing as he noted the tightness in Napoleon‘s face, in the muscles beneath his hand. “Is there a WC in the shower room?” Illya patted Napoleon's leg and slid off the divan.
Napoleon stretched and rolled onto his stomach. “Yes, the door on the right, next to the shower stalls,” he answered. Illya disappeared into the other room. Napoleon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, regarding the empty doorway.
**************
“Napoleon?” Illya called as he refilled their glasses with lime juice and walked towards the half-open door. “Napoleon?” he repeated as he nudged the door open with his foot. “Back where we started,” he said to himself as the changing room through which they had first entered the hammam came into view.
The door to the corridor swung open. “I brought your clothes down,” Napoleon said, dropping Illya’s satchel onto the bench and reaching for one of the glasses Illya was holding. “I’ve got fresh things here,” he explained, bending down to pull out a drawer beneath the bench displaying rows of neatly rolled socks and underwear.
“Convenient,” Illya commented, taking a long drink of the juice.
Napoleon pulled out another drawer which was empty. “You could put some of your things in here,” he said, looking up at Illya, a slight question in the statement. “Shall we go collect your luggage?”
Illya tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in assent, noting the tentative look on Napoleon’s face. “How long do we have before dinner?” Illya watched Napoleon’s face relax into a full smile.
“Enough time,” Napoleon replied, setting his glass on the bench and starting to dress.
*************
The early evening air was cool, but the sky was still bright as they walked south to Kensington High Street and caught a taxi. They intended to go directly to Paddington, then changed course to Regent’s Park. Napoleon wanted to see the waterfall again. It was too early for the roses.
“Do you have a painting in mind?” Illya asked as they settled on the stones at the edge of the small island facing the cascade.
Napoleon shook his head. “I’ve mostly been working on the portrait for Constance,” he replied and paused. Illya glanced at him. “I’ll show you when we get back,” Napoleon continued, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the falling water. “I haven’t been very inspired recently,” he explained.
“I have,” Illya said and Napoleon glanced back at him. “But I wanted to speak to you about it first.” Napoleon’s brows drew together. “You recall the dance I choreographed for you?”
Napoleon’s eyes widened. “I’m not likely to forget,” he answered.
Illya looked away for an instant, his lips turning up at the corners. “Yes,” he murmured.
“You want to continue it?“ Napoleon asked, shifting his position to face Illya fully.
“I’ve had ideas, but I don’t want to develop them, unless you agree.”
“I don’t understand,” Napoleon said.
“I gave the dance to you,” Illya began, “and the theme of the ballet would be rather personal.” Illya looked directly at Napoleon.
“More personal than my paintings?” Napoleon asked. “More than the one for the Paris exhibition?”
A flush crept up Illya’s face. “That’s disguised,” he said.
“Well, unless you were planning to name the ballet after me, it would be, too,” Napoleon answered.
“No, I wasn’t planning on that,” Illya laughed. “Haven’t thought of a title at all. It’s only fragments of ideas…” he tapped his temple, “…in here and...” He closed his eyes.
“Behind your eyes.” Napoleon whispered, “Tell me.”
*****************
Napoleon blinked. The sun was too bright and almost directly overhead. A cool breeze was coming in the open louvre in the large window at the end of the studio, but directly beneath the skylights the sun had made it too hot for even a sheet. Napoleon loosed his foot from the bunched covers at the bottom of the divan. His consciousness registered the easy movement of muscles relaxed from heat and more sleep than he’d had in weeks, and relief. Relief he thought might never be his again. The fresh air played along his skin and images of the evening flashed through his mind.
Turning on his side, Napoleon regarded the other source of heat…and light. A few inches away, Illya was sleeping on his stomach, his face half buried in a cream-coloured cushion, one arm loosely folded to his side, one leg bent at the knee, the sunlight reflecting off his hair and skin.
Napoleon reached out for the sun-warmed skin. He stopped his hand. It hovered an inch or two above Illya’s back, moving up and down in the air as Illya breathed. He wanted again. His hand moved lower, rising and dipping above those perfect contours. More. I want more. Napoleon withdrew his hand. The sun glinted off the fine hairs along Illya’s skin. The sun loves you. Even more than the moon. Napoleon curled his fingers into a fist. I couldn’t resist. No, yesterday I couldn’t resist at all. I had to possess… Napoleon flushed darkly and eased off the divan. Illya took a deeper breath, turned his head, shifted his limbs and continued to slumber. Napoleon circled the divan, pausing at the foot. I don’t want you to regret agreeing to stay. Napoleon shook his head and strode towards the bath.
**************
The opened latch clattered against the wood frame as Napoleon pushed both sides of the window back. He reached over the troop of small glass bottles on the deep windowsill to slip the hooks into place. When she was still in school, Marguerite had started giving him sets of tiny cologne bottles for Christmas and it had become their tradition. Occasionally, she varied her gifts with glass bottles she found in antique shops or on her travels, but often it was still a boxed set of the latest fragrances for men. Napoleon found it convenient to bring one or two along when he travelled. Illya had taken to sampling them when he began staying for the weekend. Napoleon pushed a small black bottle back from the edge. Illya had told him Alicia exclaimed how fragrant he was one Monday at rehearsal and Illya agreed. When the little bottle was nearly finished, Napoleon placed a larger version near the basin and Illya started using it without comment. Napoleon glanced over at the shelf where it sat below the mirror still fogged with steam. He reached out with his index finger and traced an outline in the condensation.
***************
Shaved, brushed and scented, Napoleon walked naked across the mezzanine to his bedroom, the air absorbing the last of the moisture from his skin. He slipped on the robe hanging behind his bedroom door and turned towards his closet with a smile. The box on the top shelf was large and the tissue paper rustled when he opened it. The deep blue robe inside, like his own, was a light-weight silk for summer. Unlike his own, its dark lining was patterned with small, winged dragons of gold, green and red threads. Napoleon smoothed his hand over the impish creatures. The dragons cavorted in eight different poses and the ninth design showed two curled up in repose. Before she left New York, Viola had given him the name of a weaver in London who could convert his drawings into cloth. When he returned from Paris, the fabric was ready and his tailor had done the rest. Napoleon brought the robe to the bathroom, hung it on the hook behind the door, then headed downstairs to see what Feather had left for their breakfast.
******************
There was a tranquil atmosphere in the kitchen; Feather’s personality pervaded the well-organised room even in her absence. A large wooden tray sat on the table, cups, dishes, silverware and condiments neatly arranged upon it under a screen dome. Napoleon lifted it and smiled as he took the pain au chocolate out of the waxed bag he found there and arranged them on one of the clear glass plates. His smile grew broader when he opened the refrigerator. He added an ample bowl of fresh fruit salad, a smaller one of hard-boiled, shelled quail eggs and a pitcher of orange juice to the tray. There was an empty bud vase on the table. He quirked an eyebrow at it, then looked out the large basement windows. They gave onto the white-washed brick wall of the outside kitchen stairwell, bright with the overhead sun and patterned by the leaves of the morning glory vines threading up its far wall, a few purple blooms still open. Napoleon nodded to himself and headed for the kitchen door, lifting the key to the garden shed from its hook before he left.
*************
Warmth and brightness. Illya was on his back, the sun warm all along his body, its light red against his closed eyelids. There was a faint scraping…a scratching sound behind him. The heat of the sun was soothing. He flung an arm across his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
***************
Napoleon glanced away from his easel towards the divan. Illya had rolled onto his back, but his breathing was still shallow. He must have been very tired from the trip, Napoleon thought. And we stayed up so late talking after dinner…Napoleon flushed again. You were silver under the full moon…where my shadow didn‘t block the light. Napoleon considered Illya’s reclining figure. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep beside you…
He turned back to the board clipped to the easel. The drawing showed Illya as he had been in the morning, on his side, one arm stretched out from beneath the pillow. Napoleon had added draperies behind and partly to the side of the bed. The light had been slanted onto the figure instead of overhead and had gilded both the sleeping figure and the inside of the draperies. Beyond were two archways looking out into a garden, the sky overcast, the forms of the shrubs and trees dim, except for the red and white roses twining around the column separating the arches, heavy with blossoms.
Napoleon moved to the other side of the room and grasped the large standing mirror. The castors were well oiled and it made little noise as he rolled it into position next to the easel. He slipped off his robe, stepped a few paces further away from the easel, bent from the waist, reached out towards the board and regarded himself in the mirror. He adjusted his position slightly and began to draw.
*******************
Distant thunder. Illya moved his arm away from his eyes. No, the sun is still bright. He took a deeper breath. He was beginning to feel hungry, but not enough to stir yet. He could hear the scratching sound again. He drowsed. The sound stopped. Pushing the pillow down with his arm, Illya turned his head and saw Napoleon standing naked a few feet away. He twisted quietly on the divan. Napoleon’s face was turned towards a mirror, his hand poised a few inches from the easel. It was the mirror being moved, Illya thought. Then Napoleon began drawing again, the pencil scraping softly against the matte surface.
Illya uncoiled from the divan and took a couple soundless steps towards Napoleon. Over his bent shoulder, Illya considered the drawing, mostly charcoal pencil with a few pastel accents, of Napoleon’s figure leaning over a bed, reaching towards his own sleeping figure.
With his palm facing inwards, Illya reached for Napoleon’s back. “Your muse has been with you,” he said just before the back of his fingers touched Napoleon’s skin. Napoleon dropped his pencil, and his eyes caught Illya’s in the mirror.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Napoleon replied.
Illya let his hand glide all the way down Napoleon’s back and glanced again at the drawing. “Yes, you did.”
******************
Illya refolded his serviette and lay it next to his plate. “Of course, I can’t do what I really want to do,” Illya said. Napoleon looked up from his breakfast. “Not yet, anyway.” Illya brushed a flake of pastry off the linen. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to choreograph it for two male leads.” Napoleon nodded. “So, would you prefer that I danced my part or yours?”
Napoleon leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes on Illya’s face. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
“Nor I,” Illya added, staring across the room. “Would it bother you having a woman dance your role?” he asked, turning back to Napoleon.
Napoleon sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders. He looked down at his arm, moved it as Illya had shown him, extending his fingers and curling them back one by one. “Did you have someone in mind?” he asked.
“Fiona, I think,” Illya answered. “She’s been going from strength to strength these last few months.”
Napoleon considered it, moving his arm again. He started to smile. “No, I wouldn’t mind.” He paused. “Although I might be envious.” Napoleon’s gaze wandered around Illya’s face, down to the open robe and back to Illya’s eyes. “And it might be hard on her.”
Illya conducted a similar survey, then brought his focus back to the conversation. “If I can recreate what is forming in my mind, it would be very good for her career and…” His voice grew softer, “I would be careful with her.” Illya leaned away from the table. “What if I danced your part? Who do you see dancing mine?”
Napoleon tilted his head, his brows drawing together, his eyes focussing over Illya’s shoulder. “No one,” he said. “I can’t picture any of the ballerinas in that role.”
“Not Alicia?” Illya teased.
Napoleon’s gaze snapped back to Illya’s face. “Definitely not,” he rapped out. Illya smiled. “But if it could have been two men, I could see Sergei portraying you,” Napoleon finished.
“Not you?” Illya asked.
“No, only you for me.”
Illya leaned one elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand, his index finger tapping slowly against his lips. “Maybe I should write it two ways and I would alternate dancing your role and mine.” His finger continued to tap against his lips. “And Sergei could dance the villain when Fiona takes your part…” Illya lapsed into silence again.
“Villain?” Napoleon asked.
Illya’s eyes returned to Napoleon before he answered. “There has to be a villain.”
“For a story line?” Napoleon enquired. “Would it tell a story like Swan Lake or The Prodigal Son?
Illya watched Napoleon shift in his chair, the skin around his eyes tightening. “How had you imagined it?” he asked.
“More abstract, I suppose,” Napoleon replied.
“It could be like that,” Illya began, “but it would still need an antagonist, a dark character.” Napoleon ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to develop it, Napoleon. It’s just the germ of an idea.”
Napoleon’s hand darted across the table. “No, I didn’t mean that,” he said, his hand closing on Illya’s arm. “I hadn’t thought it through is all.”
Illya glanced down at Napoleon’s hand and back up again. “It’s why I asked for your permission. The subject is so intimate.”
Napoleon’s grip loosened. His thumb stroked down and back up Illya’s arm. “Don’t stop,” he said, looking directly at Illya, then his eyes flickered away. “What does this villain do?”
“One way or another, he harms the protagonist.” Illya paused. "I think you’re right about it being better if it is more abstract.”
Napoleon’s hand withdrew and he settled back into his chair. “Do you have an image of how the stage would look?”
Illya reopened the serviette and smoothed it with the palm of his hand. “Bare, maybe? The mood created by the lighting.” He paused again.
“With colours or just white light and shadow?”
Illya thought of the large, dark windows, the white furniture and the firelight in New York. “Mostly white light and shadow,” he said slowly. “Stars in the background perhaps…possibly a flicker of pale orange, a beam of yellow, a ripple of red…”
“Some colour then…”
Illya closed his eyes. There were movements in and out of the shadows and through the beam of yellow light. Vaguely-shaped props reared up which might block the dancers view of one another some of the time. Illya’s fingers moved over the white linen. He opened his eyes and pushed his chair back. He glanced behind him. The floor from the table to the large window overlooking the garden was uncluttered.
“It’s not really enough space for dancing,” Napoleon said as Illya got up.
“It’s not so bad,” Illya replied. “You’ve seen me use it before.”
Napoleon stood. “Why don’t we take these to the kitchen?” He waved his hand over the breakfast things on the table. “There’s a larger space in the basement which you might find more suitable.”
***************
The fragrance of lilacs grew stronger as they descended the kitchen stairs. Napoleon shouldered the door further open and held it for Illya. Illya deposited the tray on the table and buried his face in the large bouquet taking up much of it. He let out his breath slowly as he straightened up. “When did you pick them?” he asked.
“This morning while you were still sleeping.”
“You were very busy while I was asleep,“ Illya remarked.
“I had a lot of energy,” Napoleon murmured, flushing.
Illya took another deep breath above the lilacs. “Their season is too short,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Is this a reward for helping to bring down the dishes?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Napoleon smiled. “I’d intended to bring the flowers upstairs after I brought up the coffee, but you waylaid me on the stairs and they slipped my mind.”
“I’m very passionate about coffee in the morning,” Illya said. Napoleon’s flush deepened. “We can bring them up as soon as we sort out the kitchen,” Illya said, picking the tray back up and bringing it over to the sink. Napoleon opened a door beneath the counter. Illya eyed the stainless steel interior. “What is that?” he asked.
“A dishwasher. One rinses off the dishes, loads them in here and the machine does the rest,” Napoleon explained.
“Hmmh,” Illya said. “You had better operate that and I’ll rinse.”
Napoleon smiled. “Never seen one before?”
“No,” Illya replied. “I don’t get to spend much time in kitchens,” he added, beginning to roll up his sleeves. He paused, brought his forearm closer to his face and twisted it around slowly. Napoleon watched. “This pattern isn’t all the same,” Illya said, studying the cloth. “And the designs are rather droll. How many are there?”
“Why don’t you count?” Napoleon suggested, moving closer.
“Four, five,” Illya murmured and shifted his scrutiny from the cuff to his lapels. “Six.” He picked up the end of the belt and turned it over, running his eyes from the tip to the knot at his waist. He undid it. “Seven,” he said. He dropped the belt and opened one side of the robe. “Eight.” He looked over at Napoleon. “They’re not in any order!” Napoleon’s smile grew. “Nine. Hmm. Number nine is quite interesting. I see now, there are two dragons.” He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Napoleon.
“The one with more green in the design is me,” Napoleon murmured.
“And the one with more gold is me, then?” Illya deduced. Napoleon nodded. “How…“
“I asked Viola if she knew of a weaver before she left New York,” Napoleon said.
Illya smiled. He took off the robe and draped it over a chair. Napoleon’s eyes opened wider. “I wouldn’t want to get any stains on it,” Illya explained. He moved back to the sink, turned on the tap, took a dish from the tray and held it under the water.
Napoleon stood still for a moment and then reached for the wet plate when Illya held it out towards him.
“That’s everything then,” Illya concluded, shutting off the water. He took a sponge from the sink and turned to the kitchen table with it. “You should put the rest of the fruit salad away.” He leaned over the table and started wiping it down. When he reached the bowl of fruit, Illya looked over his shoulder at Napoleon, who had not moved. Illya shook his head. “Far too hard. There’s a much more comfortable location just a few steps away,” he said. He tossed the sponge at Napoleon, picked his robe off the chair and headed for the door.
Napoleon’s hand darted out and caught the sponge, otherwise he remained immobile for a minute or two while the image of Illya stretched across the table slowly faded.
*******************
The door to the hammam was open, the yellow light from the changing room painting a bright rectangle in the dusky corridor. The room was empty. The door to the lounge was ajar. Napoleon locked the door to the hallway behind him and moved to peer through the half-open door. The afternoon sun shone in narrow beams through the glass bricks in the ceiling, patterning the dim room. Illya was standing by the shelves near the divan, his back to Napoleon. The belt of Illya’s robe hung loose on either side of his waist; the robe swayed as he reached up and took a small bottle from the shadowy top shelf. Napoleon flicked off the lights in the changing room.
“Are they all scented oils?” Illya asked, without turning. His hand closed around the long neck of a bottle on the middle shelf.
Napoleon stepped closer. “No. The smallest are concentrated scent, the taller ones are scented, and the large container on the right is plain oil. The shelf below the counter has empty bottles.”
“For mixing,“ Illya remarked, nodding. He drew the stopper out of a tiny, blue bottle and wafted it beneath his nose. “Jasmine,” he said and replaced the stopper. “Lie down, Napoleon. I think you could use a massage.” This time he looked over his shoulder, a faint smile playing along his lips before he turned back to the bottles.
He wanted to seize. The intensity of the urge washed through Napoleon. Illya knelt down to find an empty bottle, the robe pooling around him on the marble floor. He pivoted slightly to reach a container on the far right, the robe sliding off his knee as he moved, leaving the muscled thigh exposed. Napoleon closed his eyes.
“You aren't lying down yet,” Illya commented.
Napoleon opened his eyes. Illya stood up and the collar of the robe drooped loosely between his shoulder blades. Images of Illya in the kitchen superimposed themselves on his figure as it leaned over the counter to pour oil from one bottle to another. Napoleon’s fingers itched to push the robe down further, to take possession of all the fair skin beneath it. He took a deep breath. “I’ll get some towels,” he said and retreated to the changing room.
Stretched out on his side, Napoleon watched Illya add drops of scent from two more vials. The sunlight was reflecting off the glass bottles as Illya shifted them about the counter, sniffing, pouring and gently shaking various bottles in turn. “You look like an alchemist,” Napoleon commented. “It would make a good painting.”
“Hmm,” Illya replied, holding a stopper under his nose. “I think I have what I want now,” he said and turned to Napoleon with the glass still in hand. Napoleon’s eyes flicked down along the open robe and back to Illya’s hands. Illya was as aroused as he was and still he waited. “Sniff,” Illya said, holding out the stopper towards Napoleon.
“It’s better to smell fragrance on skin,” Napoleon replied.
“All right,” Illya said, nodding. He rubbed the glass wand along the inside of his wrist and brought it to his nose. He smiled and twisted around to dip the stopper in the scent again. “Now on you,” he said and stepped to the edge of the divan. Napoleon held out his arm and Illya trailed the glass from wrist to elbow. “Fold your arm back for a minute. I want it to warm,” Illya instructed and Napoleon complied. The fragrance was already strong in the air between them. There was sandalwood in the mixture, and several other scents. Ones that reminded Napoleon of Illya.
Illya took Napoleon’s wrist. Napoleon watched his face coming closer. Illya inhaled all along the inside of Napoleon’s forearm, then exhaled into the bend of the elbow. Illya looked up, caught Napoleon’s eye and held it. The perfume was growing headier in the air. Illya leaned forward and touched Napoleon’s lips briefly. “Move over a little,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll be right back.”
Napoleon shifted on the towels he had spread over the divan, relaxing back on the pillows. Illya was coming to him. He wouldn’t have to hold back too much longer. Illya walked to the changing room, shrugged off his robe and leaned through the door with it. He turned back to Napoleon and smiled. He moved as comfortably without clothes as most people did with. Napoleon continued to watch as Illya lifted a slender turquoise bottle from the counter and came to sit on the edge of the divan.
“You look a bit more at ease,” Illya said and poured some of the oil in the centre of Napoleon’s chest. He set the bottle on the edge of the counter and started smoothing the oil up to Napoleon’s shoulders and down to his navel, then he grasped Napoleon’s hand and worked the oil into the palm and between the fingers. He smiled as Napoleon twitched in response. He left Napoleon's hand for a moment to slide his hand along Napoleon‘s hip and around the top of his thigh, then returned to massaging the fingers. Napoleon followed Illya's motions, mesmerised. “Tell me, Napoleon, why so reticent today?” Illya moved his attention to the pads at the base of the fingers.
“Because I wasn’t yesterday,” Napoleon replied.
“None of our reunions have been marked by moderation,” Illya commented and started twisting Napoleon’s fingers in turn.
“None were more than a handful of days,” Napoleon observed.
“You’re worried I’ll grow tired of you?” Illya asked. He lay Napoleon’s hand on the towel, reached for the oil and poured more into his hands. Illya straddled Napoleon’s knees and took his other hand. Napoleon watched Illya’s broad hands engulf his. “Are you teasing me, then?”
Napoleon startled. “No!” he exclaimed. “No. It’s just the past few days…since I posted the last drawing to you…I’ve been having dreams…” Illya looked up. Napoleon had turned his head away. “Nightmares, actually,” he finished. Illya kept massaging, firmly, rhythmically. “Each different, but the same really,” Napoleon continued. “You would walk away and vanish in the dusk or be on a train I had just missed, pulling away from the platform, on a ship…you get the idea.”
“All things I have done,” Illya remarked. He began pulling the fingers on Napoleon’s hand.
“Exactly. And the images were ones from my memory or close. Only in the dreams you weren’t just leaving physically.” Napoleon paused. Illya watched him swallow twice. “You were leaving me.”
Illya started massaging up Napoleon’s arm. “You’ve rarely spoken of dreams to me,” Illya said. “But I’ve seen you dream.”
“I rarely remember them.” Napoleon turned back to look at Illya. “It makes the impact greater when I do. And so many, in a row.” Napoleon looked away again.
“You can still picture them now?” Illya asked. Napoleon nodded. “That’s unusual,” Illya commented. “They usually fade.”
“Do you dream often?” Napoleon asked.
Illya began massaging back down the arm. “Not often. Now and then. Occasionally, they have been vivid and unpleasant.” He reached across Napoleon for the oil and dripped some along Napoleon’s leg. “Hold this for me,” he said and placed the bottle in Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon curled his fingers around it. Illya rubbed in the oil and moved down to Napoleon’s feet. He lifted the nearest one and balanced the heel on his thigh and began massaging the instep.
“I started drawing them,” Napoleon said.
Illya looked up and met Napoleon‘s gaze. “That probably helped fix them in your memory.”
“I changed them,” Napoleon explained. Illya raised an eyebrow and started to knead the ball of Napoleon’s foot. “I was trying to take control of them, dispel them…” Illya started massaging the toes. “But the dreams got worse…and the drawings got…” Napoleon looked away again. “Stranger,” he concluded. Illya finished one foot, bent Napoleon’s knee and placed the foot sole down on the towel. He moved to the other foot.
Napoleon sighed. “I was trying to keep you with me…in the drawings,” he said. “I think I should show them to you.”
“You don’t have to,” Illya replied, working the oil gently into the instep. He felt Napoleon tense. “But if you wish to…are there many?” Illya started on the toes.
“Two sketchbooks full,” Napoleon replied.
Illya looked up and met Napoleon’s gaze, saw the lines around his eyes and across his brow. “We can look at them together tomorrow,” Illya said. Napoleon’s brow smoothed as he nodded. Illya leaned forward and took the oil, drizzled some on Napoleon’s other leg, set the bottle on the counter and began massaging the oil in. Napoleon dropped his head back against the cushions and sighed. “We both use our art to help us understand the world, including the world inside our heads,” Illya said. Napoleon sighed again. “Turn over.”
Illya massaged up the backs of Napoleon’s legs using the strength of his hands to knead the thigh muscles. He moved up Napoleon’s body, sat across his thighs and poured a little more oil down his back. The small bottle was almost depleted. Illya leaned forward to put some of his weight behind his arms as he tackled the knotted muscles of Napoleon’s shoulders. “Breathe deeply, Napoleon,” Illya directed, splaying his fingers and working down either side of Napoleon’s spine. “Keep breathing,” Illya reminded him and poured the last of the oil across Napoleon’s buttocks. Illya replaced the bottle on the counter and kneaded as the oil trickled slowly downwards. Napoleon’s breathing was becoming more rapid. Illya continued kneading in a circular motion which drew the buttocks apart and then pressed them together. Illya leaned all the way up to Napoleon’s ear, letting his full weight press Napoleon into the divan. “Shall I continue?” he whispered and slid partway down Napoleon‘s back and up again.
Napoleon lifted his head to look over his shoulder at Illya. When he could see Illya’s eyes, he said, “Yes.”
Illya pulled himself up further and slipped his hand into Napoleon’s hair. “Then I shall,” Illya murmured and covered Napoleon’s lips with his. He took a deep breath when he pulled away. Napoleon’s head settled back on the cushions. Illya whispered, “Then I shall,” directly into Napoleon’s ear before kissing it and sliding down his back.
The oil eliminated all friction between their bodies. Illya clutched the towelling to keep from slipping. He moved so gradually, his muscles were trembling by the time they were fully joined. He rested his forehead on Napoleon’s shoulder and gasped. “You’re sure now, that I’m here with you?”
“Yes,” Napoleon answered, his voice soft but distinct. He pushed back against Illya. Illya gasped again and gripped Napoleon. Slowly, Illya rotated his hips. Napoleon groaned into the pillows. Illya eased away, tilted his hips and very slowly pushed deeper, again and again. A low moan from Napoleon reassured him; still when his lips were once more by Napoleon’s ear, Illya asked, “You know that I’m here with you?”
“Yes,” Napoleon panted and lifted up against Illya. Illya kissed Napoleon’s shoulder blade and reached towards his hand. Napoleon seized it and brought it to his mouth. “Yes, Illya,” he breathed into the palm, “I know.” He thrust back hard and moaned when Illya pushed back harder, before groaning above him. “I know it’s you.” Napoleon could feel the tremours coursing through Illya's body. He kissed Illya's palm. Thank god, it's you.
*********************
