Chapter Text
Napoleon pours himself another drink as he watches Illya who’s sitting on the couch. He has all the files spread out on the coffee table and he’s staring at them the same way Napoleon has seen the Russian stare at a chessboard before. The other man seems deep in thought but blue eyes flick to Napoleon at the sound of the clink the bottle makes against the glass as Napoleon goes for yet another refill. Maybe Napoleon had let the two come into heavier contact than he’d meant to but he blames that on Illya; there is no way Napoleon wouldn’t be distracted by the waves of intense concentration Illya was transmitting.
Glass in hand, Napoleon makes his way towards his partner and slumps down next to him. A little less gracefully than he might have intended and just shy of too close.
Illya looks at him again and his scowl deepens minutely. He looks poignantly at the glass teetering precariously in Napoleon’s hand. There’s clearly something bugging him, and Napoleon raises a challenging eyebrow at his partner.
“You drink too much,” is all Napoleon’s best eyebrow work gets him. He huffs but finds himself having nothing to say to counter Illya’s remark.
“I’ll drink to that,” he finally says and raises his glass in mock salute before draining the rest of the liquid. He barely flinches at the burn of it anymore. Illya has pushed the coffee table a bit too far for Napoleon to reach comfortably. Damn those stupidly long legs of his Napoleon laments as he has to raise his tush off the lush sofa in order to rid himself of the now empty glass. He smirks at Illya and sits back down, only to land promptly on his ass with an undignified yelp after miscalculating where the edge of the couch should have been.
To his utter dismay, Illya chooses to steady the table Napoleon managed to kick instead of trying to help his partner. To add insult to injury, Illya curses loudly at him for messing up his precious files. Napoleon watches those long fingers fussing over the papers with an even deeper frown on his otherwise handsome face. Napoleon lets his head fall back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh and is finally rewarded by Illya’s attention— utterly annoyed and much too brief attention in a form of a glare, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that jazz.
At least Illya hasn’t moved his leg, which Napoleon is leaning against, and Napoleon revels in the feeling of having it pressed against his side. Napoleon lets his gaze wander over his partner and he can’t help but sigh again. Would it kill Peril to get some nice clothes? The fabric on his slacks looks downright cheap and Napoleon is sure it is scratchy as hell too. He lifts his head to look at the offensive garment more closely and since squinting at the blurry grey fabric yield no definite results, Napoleon lets his cheek graze Illya’s knee. The pant leg feels coarse even against Napoleon’s stubble, and he makes a mental note to introduce his partner to finer fabrics.
Napoleon rests his head against Illya’s knee which functions way better as a pillow than it should. The hard, knobbly joint rubs his temple just right making Napoleon hum in pleasure. In his drunken, comfortable haze, Napoleon fails to notice how very still his new pillow has gone. All Napoleon can feel is peaceful contentment.
Illya looks down at his partner sitting at his feet. The files are all but forgotten as he feels Napoleon’s warmth seep through the combined layers of their clothing, feels it push into him and touch something Illya didn’t think he possessed any longer. Napoleon’s neck is a warm rouge; probably from the drink and Illya can feel the answering heat crawl up his insides and slowly choke him. Napoleon has gone still and Illya reaches a shaking hand towards him. He sets one to gently rest on the American’s shoulder so as not to startle the man.
“Cowboy? You awake?” Illya manages to choke out. He sounds strained even to his own ears.
Napoleon starts slightly and leans into Illya’s hand. Hand that had almost choked the life out of him not a mere weeks prior. Illya can almost feel rather than hear the barely audible whisper that Napoleon speaks against his hand. It’s small and desperate and makes everything in Illya ache. For a moment he is sure he must’ve imagined it before Napoleon leans harder into him, rubs his cheek against the back of Illya’s hand and pleads, “please, Illya.”
Illya isn’t quite sure what Napoleon is asking for but then Napoleon’s hand wraps loosely around his wrist. After another small plead, Illya runs the back of his hand slightly, ever so carefully, across his partner’s cheek. Illya can feel the huff of breath on his skin as Napoleon sighs and slumps against Illya like he was the only thing holding Napoleon up. Every last string of tension leaving Napoleon as Illya slowly works his fingers into the other man’s hair.
The hair is slightly creasy from the product Napoleon styles it with but runs surprisingly smoothly through Illya’s fingers. Encouraged by the way Napoleon tilts his head to grant Illya better access, Illya lets his curiosity guide him. He mentally catalogues every reaction he receives from Napoleon: the way he shivers when Illya gently scrapes his nails along Napoleon’s scalp or the sigh Napoleon can’t quite keep from escaping as Illya plays with the impossibly soft curls at his nape. Illya loses all sense of time and feels himself unwind like never before while basically petting his grown-ass partner, who in turn is literally purring into the fabric covering Illya’s thigh.