"Who's this?" Napoleon picked up the small drawing that had fallen from the book he'd been studying. Illya's bookshelves were as fascinating as exploring a foreign land; colorful titles in an order that was understood only by their owner, in languages Napoleon had never seen. He was always drawn to them when he was in Illya's apartment but never before had they yielded such a treasure. The paper was creased and yellowed with age, a pretty young woman in ink smiling out at him from the past. She had her hands clasped over her knees, her head tilted so silently in that sweet, universal sign of innocence.

"Who is who?" Illya asked absently, looking up from his own book. His reaction would have been gratifying if it hadn't been so shocking. His face paled to a color that a ghost would have been proud of, his book clattering to the floor as he scrambled to his feet.

"It's nothing." He tried to snatch it away and Napoleon held it just out of reach over his head, still looking at it. Cruel to use their height differences against his partner when he was obviously upset, but Napoleon was not above a little dirty pool from time to time, especially when he knew if he let Illya have the picture, he'd never have the chance to discover its secrets again.

"Very pretty. An old girlfriend, maybe?" he asked, trying to tease an answer from his friend. Not his best plan; Illya shoved him against the bookshelf, hard enough to knock the breath from him and sent a shower of hardbacks down on them. More than a little dazed, Napoleon let him take the drawing.

"It is none of your business!" Illya snarled, stalking to the other side of the room. Napoleon watched him tremble, his head bowed over the picture.

"Right." There was something strange in Illya's posture, hunched into himself. Something that ached in his own chest, and Napoleon rubbed it in an effort to ease the dull pain, mingled with his guilt for trying to force his partner to give information he obviously would rather keep to himself. He shifted his weight awkwardly, "I'm sorry."

Nothing. Illya stood completely still, staring at the drawing and suddenly Napoleon felt like an intruder, an unaccustomed feeling around Illya. "Well, I'll just see you tomorrow then," he muttered. Illya would get over his pique, he always did, and they could have a drink together another time. He took his jacket from the back of the chair and folded it over his arm, watching as Illya did nothing but blink. Yes, definitely time to leave.

"It's my mother."

Whispered so softly that at first, Napoleon wasn't sure he'd heard it. He let his jacket drop back on the sofa and, hesitantly, stepped closer to his friend. Illya moved, lifting his arm as thought it pained him and touched the picture with shaking fingers. "I thought this had been lost when I moved from London. I...the frame had broken. I always meant to replace it and then, when I came to America, it was missing and I..." He ran a finger down one of the creases in the drawing, one that ruined the pale, perfect line of her hair.

He looked at Napoleon, his eyes deep blue and so oddly vulnerable. "I hardly knew her. I didn't realize how much this one picture meant to me, until it was lost." He shook his head. "I thought I kept it for sentimental reasons."

Hesitantly, Napoleon rested a hand on Illya's shoulder and when it was not rejected, he slid his arm around his friend's shoulders, trying to say without words things that he would never be able to speak aloud anyway. That Illya would turn suddenly, tangling Napoleon's arm around him was not nearly as startling as the light touch of his breath a bare moment before their lips met, overtaking him with nuzzling lips and the fierce sweep of his tongue, his free hand clenching in the thin material of Napoleon's shirt.

He couldn't breathe, the world behind his eyes flaring red and for just one brilliant second everything was warm and dark, Illya's mouth sweet and hot against his own and Illya was his partner, they were supposed to know each other but this was something he hadn't even known about himself, clutching Illya against him with stunned, trembling hands.

Then his hands and his arms were empty and Napoleon was blinking dazedly, swaying on his feet. Illya was smiling at him, still holding the drawing. "Thank you for finding this," Illya said sweetly, and he gently propped the picture up on one of the numerous shelves.

"Right," Napoleon managed belatedly. "Don't...don't lose it again."

"I don't intend to." Settling back into his chair, Illya scooped up his book again and turned back to his page, apparently intending to read while Napoleon was still trying to remember how to stand, swamped with lust and heat pooled between his legs and what the hell was that all about? Sure, Russians tended to be a touchy sort of people but Napoleon was pretty sure it didn't include tongue.

He touched his mouth with his fingertips as if he could still feel the kiss, watching Illya read for long minutes before he shook it away. Well, fine. He was simply partnered with an insane person. There were worse things. He snatched a book of his own from the shelf, checking only that the title was in English, and flopped down into a chair to read. He'd managed to read the first paragraph three times when Illya spoke again, softly.

"Napoleon?"

"What?" he snapped, having had more than his fill of strangeness that day, thank you very much.

"I don't intend to lose you, either."

Napoleon's head snapped up but Illya's eyes hadn't left the book. Definitely insane, but something about that made him smile. "Good," he replied, simply, and with a last glance at the young woman smiling at them from the shelf, he started in on his book for the fourth time.




-finis-

 

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