The office door flew open and Napoleon Solo entered, whistling. The sound stopped in mid-note as he got a good look at his partner. "You look like hell," he said frankly.

Illya Kuryakin gave him a withering glance. "Good morning to you, too," he growled, then pointedly returned to his paperwork, rubbing his temple unconsciously with one hand.

Napoleon ignored him and reached across the desk to place an appraising hand on his forehead. Illya jerked back with a scowl, but it was too late. "You're burning up." Napoleon plucked the pencil from his partner's fingers, then grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet before the irate Russian realized what he was doing. "Come on - we're going to the infirmary."

Illya tried to free himself. "We are doing no such thing," he fumed. "I am fine, Napoleon, except for a headache which you are making worse by the minute."

"You're running a fever and we're going to see the doctor," he said in the voice that allowed for no argument. "Will you walk or do I carry you?"

"Damn you." Grabbing for his jacket, Illya stalked out the door that Napoleon was holding for him.
 

In the infirmary, Dr. Tom Murphy took one look at Illya and pointed him toward an examining room, raising no objection when Napoleon followed him in. Once inside, Murphy poked a thermometer in the Russian's mouth - effectively silencing his continuing protests - and got out the blood pressure cuff.

By the time the brief examination was over, even Illya had fallen silent from sheer frustration. "Well?" Napoleon asked.

"It looks like it's your turn to get the flu that's going through the agency, Illya," Murphy said cheerfully. "And I predict that you're in for a dandy case. I'll have the nurse prepare a bed for you in the infirmary."

Predictably, Illya balked. "I have no intention of staying here," he declared. "I will go home."

Murphy shook his head. "In a couple of hours, you aren't going to be in any shape to do anything for yourself. You need someone to look after you."

"I am quite..."

Napoleon interrupted what was promising to become a heated debate. "I'll take him home with me. I had the flu two weeks ago."

"I am not a stray puppy," Illya said stiffly. "And I am quite capable...."

The other two exchanged commiserating glances. "I'll take the stray Russian home with me," Napoleon said with a grin. "That okay with you, Tom?"

"Yes, that'll be fine. I'm sure my nurse would prefer it," he said. "Come in here and let me get what you'll need for the next couple of days."
 

By the time they had driven through the miserable mixture of sleet and snow that passed for January in New York and parked the car at Napoleon's apartment building, Illya was beginning to be grateful for the assistance. The fever had risen alarmingly, and his head was swimming. He was scarcely aware of Napoleon's arm supporting him as they rode up in the elevator, and retained only hazy recollections of being undressed and put to bed in a pair of borrowed pajamas. Then, thankfully, he could give up the unequal struggle and sleep.
 

When next he woke completely, it was to the disorienting feeling of not knowing where he was or what he was doing there. He stared around the strange room in confusion. After a few seconds, one piece clicked into place.

Napoleon

Another...

Flu.

He fell back against the pillows, aware that time had passed without him. He had a few blurred mental images - none of them pleasant - and wondered uneasily how long he had been lying here.

At that moment, the door opened and Napoleon entered, whistling. Illya had a crazy moment of deja vu when the sound stopped as Solo got a good look at his partner. He waited fatalistically to be told that he looked like hell.

But instead a pleased smile crossed Napoleon's face. "So you're finally awake, are you? Good." He leaned over the bed and laid a light hand against the Russian's forehead, evaluating, then straightened. "And the fever's down. Even better. Welcome back, tovarish. How do you feel?"

Illya gave it serious thought, frowning in deliberation. There seemed to be a great many possible candidates for the answer. At last he decided on one. "Thirsty," he said, and was astonished when the word came out in a rusty squeak.

Napoleon wasn't, only nodding as if it was all pretty much what he had expected. "I'll get you something to drink. Here." He shook down a thermometer from the bedside table and held it out until Illya's mouth opened automatically. "Be quiet for a few minutes in the meantime." He slid it into place.

Illya nodded, too exhausted to argue. Napoleon's eyes softened and he reached out to smooth the wildly tousled hair. "I'm glad to have you back, tovarish. I was starting to get worried." With one last pat, he left the room and Illya lay back, staring at the lazily twirling ceiling and wondering why thinking was so much work.

When Napoleon returned, he held a tall glass in his hand, the sides frosted with moisture. Illya stared at it rapaciously. The thought of that cool liquid going down his parched throat was suddenly all-consuming. Napoleon set it down and removed the thermometer. He glanced at it and looked gratified. "Back to normal. It's about time, if you don't mind my saying so."

"How...long?" he managed to croak.

"A day and a half. Here, sit up and have some juice."

Illya struggled to rise, but the effort was too great. He considered being outraged when Napoleon sat on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm around him, helping him to sit with more gentleness than the Russian would have thought him capable of, but it all seemed like too much work and besides, it felt...nice.

Instead, he turned toward the glass that Napoleon was holding to his lips, reaching up to take it with hands that were infuriatingly shaky. Napoleon retained his grasp. "Uh uh. I don't want juice all over the bed. Just drink and let me help you."

Because there didn't seem to be any viable alternative, Illya obeyed.

The first taste drove everything else from his mind. It was cool...sweet. Nectar of the gods. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He bent his head, drinking greedily. To his disappointment, Napoleon pulled the glass away after only a few swallows. "Not too much the first time, tovarish. Let's see how it agrees with you first."

A minor riot in his stomach convinced Illya that he was right. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the uneasiness. Napoleon didn't miss his change of expression. He set the glass down hastily. "Are you all right?" Illya managed a nod. "Do you want to lie back down?"

"No..." He closed his eyes and leaned against his partner's shoulder, concentrating on overcoming the revolt by sheer will power. "Not yet."

"Just take it easy for a minute." Napoleon shifted, settling his partner a little more comfortably and watching with careful eyes to see the outcome of the struggle.

In the end, virtue triumphed. With a sigh, Illya sagged against him and his eyes blinked open again.

"All right now?"

He nodded. "Yes, thank you."

Napoleon grinned. "You must still be sick if you're being polite. If I let go of you, can you keep from falling over for a minute while I straighten the pillows?"

"Of course," he said, affronted. But when the supporting arm was cautiously withdrawn, he swayed drunkenly. Napoleon grabbed him again, shaking his head ruefully.

"Okay, I guess I can do it with one hand. Lean on me." Again that surprisingly tender touch, pulling him close and holding him there as the older man dealt competently with the pillows with his free hand.

Then he was being lowered against the piled pillows and relaxed into their softness with a sigh of relief. His eyes drifted up to his partner's face. "A day and a half," he said, returning to a worrying point. "Are you sure?"

"Reasonably. It was Monday morning when I brought you here, and now it's Tuesday evening."

"But..." He was unable to put his jumble of objections into a coherent form.

Amazingly, Napoleon understood. "Relax. There's nothing going on at work for a change. Even Thrush isn't stupid enough to try anything in this weather."

"Weather?"

Napoleon nodded toward the window and the sleet that lashed against it in the grey dusk. "We've got an ice storm going on - one of the worst in decades. The whole city is pretty much shut down."

Storm.

Tuesday.

Thrush.

All of a sudden, it was too much to deal with. Napoleon, monitoring his expression closely, didn't miss that either. He straightened the covers and tucked them into place, letting his hand stray up to brush reassuringly through the tumbled hair. "Don't worry about it now. The bottom line is that you might as well take it easy, because there's nothing else you could do anyway."

"Humph." He hated the prospect of lying there helpless, but Napoleon was right - there didn't seem to be too many options.

Napoleon grinned affectionately at the sulky face, knowing exactly what was going through that
stubbornly independent mind. "You need to rest. Do you think you can get back to sleep?"

Illya grimaced. "It sounds as though I have slept for almost two days. That is more than adequate."

Napoleon wisely held his tongue. "What then? Botticelli? The Times crossword puzzle? Hopscotch?"

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time and effort to sort through all the possibilities, but at last he settled on one. "A shower."

He looked surprised. "A shower? Are you sure?"

Illya's nose wrinkled fastidiously. "Quite sure."

Napoleon looked unconvinced. "You're weak as a kitten, tovarish. How about a sponge bath instead?"

"Napoleon!" He was shocked to the depths of his Slavic soul.

That got an amused laugh from his partner. "I hate to tell you, but it's a little too late for modesty. I know every inch of you, my friend - intimately."

Several of the indistinct images of the last two days focussed into embarrassing clarity, and he blushed scarlet.

Napoleon grinned. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't anything I hadn't seen before."

Illya decided to ignore him, and the mortifying memories. "I would rather have a shower," he said firmly.

Seeming to recognize the futility of arguing, Napoleon sighed in resignation. "Well, we can but try, I suppose. Could we compromise on a bath - a real one, I mean - instead of a shower? At least you'd be sitting down."

Illya examined the idea and realized its merits, not the least of which was the fact that he wasn't at all sure he could stand in the first place, much less manage the rigors of a shower. "Very well."

"Thanks, your highness. I'll go get it ready. And if you're good, I'll even let you play with my rubber duckie." He disappeared through the doorway before his indignant partner could form a reply and a moment later Illya could hear the sound of water running.

He settled back against the pillows with a sigh, the irritated expression fading. He owed Napoleon a lot - exactly how much, he was just beginning to realize - and he was truly grateful, even if he wasn't very adept at showing it. Consequently, when the older man returned, Illya held out a hand. "I apologize for my bad mood," he said.

Taking the outstretched hand, Napoleon sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded his partner fondly. "That's all right, you crazy Russian." He rubbed the back of the thin hand with his thumb. "I'm just glad you're better. I really was starting to get worried. You were pretty well out of it."

"So it seems. Thank you for taking care of me."

"That's what partners are for."

He made a face. "I think that this may have gone above and beyond the call of duty."

Another affectionate caress of his hand. "Not even a little beyond. You'd have done the same for me."

A rueful half-smile. "But I think I would have complained about it more."

Napoleon laughed. "Probably." He gave the hand one last squeeze and rose. "Let me see how the bath is coming."
 

That bath would rank in Illya's mind as one of the more memorable ablutions of his life. To begin with, he was almost too weak to stand, and managed to get to the bathroom only by leaning heavily on his partner's encircling arm. There, he had to be undressed like a child, and although rationally he knew that Napoleon had seen him nude even before his illness, something about the intimacy of being undressed by him made this...different.

With thinking too difficult in his present weakened condition, all he could do was to feel and to respond at  more instinctive level than usual. And to his shock, he found himself responding to his partner's touch in a way that he had never done before. Had never allowed himself to do...

It wasn't that Napoleon purposely did anything to increase his discomfiture. On the contrary, he dealt with everything with care and consideration, but each touch of those warm hands, every casual contact sent unexpected shivers through Illya's body. Napoleon, feeling the tremors, misunderstood. "Hurry up and get in before you catch cold on top of the flu."

He considered trying to tell him that he wasn't cold, then gave it up. How could he explain that it wasn't the cold but his partner's touch that made him tremble?

In the end, Napoleon had to half-lift him, clinging for support, and lower him into the tub. But at the feel of the hot water, everything else fled from Illya's mind and he slid down, letting out a long sigh of contentment.

Napoleon, watching with concerned eyes, smiled. "Better?"

"Idyllic," he said simply.

"Good." He reached for a towel and dried his hands. "If you think that you can manage to avoid drowning for a few minutes, I'll go change the sheets."

"Mmm..."

That seemed to be answer enough and Napoleon left the room, leaving the door ajar. Through it, Illya could soon hear movement in the bedroom across the hall, but he stopped trying to focus and let the blessed warmth of the steaming water surround him and overtake him. He slid down further, until only his head remained unsubmerged, and gave up on conscious thought. His eyes slowly closed. Ahhhh....

The next thing he knew was Napoleon grabbing his arm just as he slipped beneath the water. Startled, he gasped and immediately choked on a mouthful of water. The strong hand hauled him to a sitting position. "Damn." A towel quickly dried his face, then he was being held while he coughed helplessly. "I should never have left you," Napoleon blamed himself. "Are you all right, Illyusha?"

He managed to nod between coughs. "...sorry." The spasms wracked him again.

Napoleon's arm tightened around him. "Shh. Don't talk yet. Take a deep breath. That's it. Good - another one."

Gradually, he was able to regain control and to draw a long shuddering breath without coughing. "I...I am all right now," he said. "Truly. I'm sorry for alarming you."

The older man shook his head. "I ought to be shot at dawn for going off and leaving you. I apologize, tovarish."

Illya gave a faint lopsided grin. "I will forgive you for leaving if you will forgive me for almost drowning. Deal?"

A quick laugh. "Deal."

The blue eyes wandered over Napoleon's form, as if seeing him for the first time. He was kneeling beside the tub, one arm wrapped protectively around his partner's drenched body and ignoring the fact that he was almost as wet as if he'd been in the bathtub himself. Illya touched the damp shirt, concerned. "You need to dry off, Napoleon, or you will be the one to catch cold."

"First things first." He cautiously released his charge, looking relieved when the Russian didn't
immediately go under again. "Are you ready to get out?"

"I have not washed yet," he objected, and Napoleon rolled his eyes.

"Drowning doesn't count? Fine. Let me do it."

"I am quite capable..." he began, but was interrupted.

"Either I do it or you get out," he said flatly. Recognizing the tone of voice, Illya gave in without a fight.

"Oh, very well." He leaned back and closed his eyes. Napoleon shook his head fondly and reached for the washcloth.

To Illya, with no distractions from sight, all his senses seemed to be concentrated on `touch', his nerve endings sensitive to the point of agony. The feel of the warm soapy cloth being run over his chest, up the line of his throat, down and over his shoulders, then each arm...each hand. Each finger. He shivered.

"Not much longer." The soft washcloth slid down his belly, hesitated briefly, then continued, laving his genitals and sliding under and around his balls for a second... two. To his embarrassment, he felt a definite surge of response to the intimate touch, then it had moved on, rubbing down the length of each leg in turn and tickling his toes. And then it was gone, leaving him unaccountably filled with regret.

"All finished."

Illya opened his eyes with difficulty. "I want to wash my hair."

"Your hair? Oh, for...Might as well, I suppose. It couldn't be much wetter than it already is. Hold still and let me do it." Within seconds, Illya felt a drop of cool shampoo on top of his head, and both of Napoleon's hands were in his hair, massaging with sensual probing fingers and arousing in the recipient a strong desire to purr in response.

"That is very nice...."

"If I ever get tired of being a spy, I can always become a hairdresser." The hands shifted their grip. "Lean forward so I can rinse it. No, hang onto me so you don't go face down in the water. That's right."

Then water was being poured carefully over his head, sluicing the bubbles down his bare back and chest. He clung to Napoleon's arm for support, suddenly at the end of his strength.

Napoleon seemed to recognize this. His grip tightened. "Hang on for another minute, tovarish. Almost done." A gentle hand, stroking through his hair. "You have the softest hair."

Illya blinked, but before he could say anything, the hand had been withdrawn and Napoleon was standing, pulling him upright. He stepped from the tub and stood, dripping, on the mat while Napoleon reached for a towel.

At that moment, all the lights went out.

They both froze, instinctively reaching for nonexistent guns. Napoleon swore, his voice unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. "Will you be all right while I go check this out?"

"Of course." Illya was pleased at how normal his own voice sounded, but it didn't fool his perceptive partner for a second.

"Damn. Here." A towel was wrapped around him in the dark, then he was being pushed gently back and down, to sit on the closed lid of the commode. "Stay here - and that's an order. I'll be back in a second."

"Go," he said firmly. "I will be fine."

Napoleon left, soft-footed and sure even in the darkness. As he waited, Illya rubbed himself with the towel, making a desultory attempt to dry himself and uncomfortably aware that he was already beginning to get chilled.

He didn't have to wait long, but he was covered with goosebumps by the time it was over. Barely five minutes later, his partner's familiar shape was silhouetted against the paler rectangle of the doorway. "The good news is that this isn't one of Thrush's diabolical plots," he reported. "Just a plain, old-fashioned power failure. The storm must have knocked out a transformer. The city is dark for blocks in every direction and the traffic is already starting to snarl."

As he talked, he was busy drying Illya's hair, rubbing the damp strands carefully with a towel. "Here - I brought you a robe. Damn, you're already shivering. Come here." Before Illya realized it, he had been pulled to his feet and wrapped in a warm enveloping hug. He melted into that comforting embrace, his own arms encircling the muscular torso and hanging on, seeking out the heat.

Anxious hands roamed over his bare body. "Are you all right, Illyusha?"

"Yes...."

"No, you aren't," he contradicted. "You're so weak you can barely stay on your feet."

"Then why do you bother to ask?" he murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head on the broad shoulder.

A reluctant breath of laughter. "Masochism... Put this on." Napoleon inserted his partner's hands into the sleeves of the thick terrycloth robe he had brought and then tied the belt securely around his waist. "Now let's get you back to bed."

Once out of the bathroom, the rest of the apartment seemed unnaturally frigid. "No electricity, no heat," Napoleon said, once more picking up on his thoughts. "It's going to get damned cold in here if the heat doesn't come back on soon."

Illya just nodded as they picked their way through the darkness, all his energy focused on trying to keep from shivering, afraid that once he started he wouldn't be able to stop.

He failed. The shivers started, quickly escalating out of control. The warmth of the bath had ebbed away, and he felt damp and chilled to the bone. His teeth began to chatter and he realized dimly that he didn't have the strength to fight the cold. His two-day bout with the flu had left him weak and depleted.

Napoleon seemed to realize it too. With more speed than grace, he propelled the younger man forward into the darkened bedroom and bundled him into bed. Illya looked up anxiously as he turned away. "N-n-nap-p-p-oleon?"

A comforting touch in the near-dark. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get some more blankets and find the flashlight. I didn't want to take the time before."

Illya nodded again, burrowing down under the covers and trying without success to stop the shivering. He wrapped his arms around himself and curled up into a ball, shaken with uncontrollable bouts of trembling. The small detached part of his mind that still functioned was occupied with cataloguing his reactions. His toes were growing numb. Now his fingers and ears. His teeth were chattering like castanets - interesting. He wondered if his liver could shiver...

You're cold-blooded now, like a reptile, his wandering mind decided. Taking on the ambient air temperature... Pleased with the analogy, he didn't even notice when Napoleon returned. Didn't notice until he heard his name called, in an urgent tone that made him aware that it probably wasn't the first time he had been summoned. He tried to look up. "Hmm?"

A hand grasped his shoulder and gave him an anxious shake. "Illya! What's the matter with you?"

He thought about it - or tried to. "...'m a lizard," he announced in slurred tones.

"Good grief." Napoleon dumped the armload of blankets on the chair and began to shake them open and pile them quickly on the bed, on top of the huddled lump that was his partner. One, two, three... The room was growing cold fast, without the heat. It was already down near sixty degrees if he was any judge, and would soon be a lot worse. He shivered in his own still-damp clothes, then began to strip them off and toss them aside impatiently.

His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark enough for him to be able to find and don the heavy silk robe that someone - Jacqueline? - had given him for his last birthday, and to crawl into bed. Immediately, he reached out for Illya, grabbing the shivering man and pulling him close. He was too thin, Napoleon thought fondly. All lean muscle and whipcord - no protective layers at all.

He wound himself around the slender body, trying to surround it, to encompass it with his own warmth. From within the cocoon of his arms, he heard Illya make an unintelligible murmur of acknowledgement and press himself closer. His skin, where Napoleon could touch it, had a cool clammy feel, and he frowned in renewed concern. The illness had left his partner too drained to be able to maintain his body temperature.

He had to get Illya closer to the source of heat - i.e. himself. He managed to withdraw one hand enough to reach down and untie both his belt and the one around Illya, then, taking a deep breath, he pulled open the front of his robe and clasped Illya against his bare torso, shivering a little at the chill touch as he wrapped the folds of the robe tightly around them both.

The Russian surged against him, desperate for the warmth, plastering himself all along his partner's length and burying his face, vampire-like, against his throat to seek out the pocket of heat concealed there. Napoleon's arms tightened around him under the fabric of the robe, moving unceasingly, rubbing the cool bare flesh, trying to restore circulation at the same time that he was trying hard not to notice how good the slim velvety body felt beneath his palms.

Thankfully, within a few minutes it was obvious that the treatment was working. The frantic shivering eased, became more intermittent, less deeply rooted. Illya's skin began to feel warmer and to lose the clamminess that had worried Napoleon before. He felt the younger man let out a long grateful sigh and relax slightly in his partner's embrace, snuggling down contentedly as the last of the shivers receded.

But now a new problem began to assert itself. With the renewed warmth came renewed...heat. Try as Napoleon might, call on all the willpower that he could summon, he couldn't deny that Illya felt good against him. Felt wonderful against him. The silky hair brushing his cheek, that lean muscular body pressed to his, the feel of the bare flanks and buttocks beneath his hand...the growing erection nudging his own. He took a deep breath and thought of Thrush.

It didn't help, and he closed his eyes in despair. God, he had dreamed of this so many times, had tried to imagine what Illya's body would feel like against him...under him. Around him. In him. At that forbidden thought, his already-erect cock gave a jerk and he heard a quick indrawn breath from Illya. Wincing, he loosened his grasp and started to roll away.

Only to be held by Illya's hands. Napoleon looked down in confusion. "Illya?" In the dim half-light, he could just make out the luminous blue eyes regarding him steadily. Then Illya tilted his face up and their lips brushed.

Brushed. Caught. Yielded.

Opened.

Napoleon grHoaned, agonizingly aware of every inch of the slight body in his arms and of the full lips that had parted tantalizingly beneath his. You can't do this! a shocked voice inside his head insisted. He's still half-sick - you should be ashamed of yourself. Steeling himself, he once again released Illya to turn away.

This time, Illya grabbed the front of his robe and held him. "Why?" he whispered, and Napoleon knew which `why' he meant.

He managed an apologetic grin. "I'm sorry, Illyusha. I got carried away. But you're not in any shape for this kind of thing."

Hands reached up, grasped his ears - not gently - and gave him a quick shake. "I think that I am better able to judge that than you are," he admonished.

Napoleon stared. "You don't mind?"

"You feel very good, Napoleon," he said shyly and let his hands slide down and around, roaming over the flat planes of his partner's back.

Somehow, Napoleon found himself lying atop the now-warm body, propped up on his elbows and gazing wonderingly into the deep blue eyes of his partner and best friend. A slow smile spread over his face and he knew that they were about to add another designation to the list. Partner. Best friend.

Lover.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, needing to know. "You're barely up..." A finger to his lips stopped his words.

"I am quite sure," Illya said.

"And I'm a man."

An affectionate smile curved his lips. "I had noticed."

Something in his voice... Napoleon gaped. "You've been with men before?"

He nodded. "During my years at Cambridge. It is called le vice Anglais, after all." There was a touch of something in the shadowy eyes. Uncertainty? Apprehension? Was he afraid that Napoleon would be shocked by the revelation?

The older man immediately set out to quiet his fears, leaning down for a lingering kiss. "You aren't the only one," he said softly.

Surprise. "You?"

He nodded. "In college and in Korea."

"I never knew."

Napoleon laughed a little. "Well, you weren't exactly chatty about it yourself, were you?" He bent down again, wanting to know every inch of this new and exciting treasure. He started by kissing the corner of his eye, feeling the thick lashes brushing his lips. Mmm, nice....

He moved on, letting his lips travel leisurely down to the hollow of his temple. The silky, baby-fine hair.... He kissed it, feeling the pulse beneath his lips, the slight tickle. Pleased, he nuzzled closer, nosing against his partner's ear and giving it an inquiring lick with the tip of his tongue.

That got a small jerk of response. Good. He sucked an earlobe between his lips, tasting, feeling. So soft, like a baby's toe.... Strange that his tough partner could have such an endearingly soft place.

Moving on, his tongue explored the contours of the neat ear. Shell-like was a trite phrase but apt, he decided as he followed the complex whorls curiously. Illya shivered - but not with cold.

"Don't pay any attention to me," Napoleon murmured, and resumed his exploration. He found the canal and let his tongue slip inside, intrigued by the sharp taste and the involuntary gasp that his touch elicited.

"Napoleon...."

"Mmmm." His eyes closed as he immersed himself completely in the new experience, probing gently, burying his nose in the warm hollow - getting to know this hitherto undiscovered region.

Illya was shuddering helplessly now, fine tremors breaking through his body at each breath that caressed him. His hands were clutching futilely at Napoleon's robe, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "You...you are not giving me a chance..." he whispered.

Napoleon stopped him with a kiss. "Not this time," he murmured into the open lips. "Let me love you this time, Illyusha."

"This time?" There was a question in the enormous eyes.

"I want very much for there to be a next time. Do you?"

"Oh yes," he sighed, pulling his partner down closer and taking his face between his hands to hold him there. Unconsciously, his legs parted and Napoleon took his place between them as naturally as if they had done this a thousand times. Their groins rubbed, hard and swelling with desire. Illya moaned.

Napoleon ground his hips gently against his partner...against his lover. The very thought almost made him explode with desire. He knew that tonight would have to be quick and easy. Illya wasn't strong enough for anything more strenuous. Feeling the throbbing in his own engorged cock, he couldn't quite restrain a chuckle.

Illya bit at his partner's lip. "What is so funny?" he demanded in mock-sternness.

Napoleon mollified him with another kiss, taking his time, exploring the sweet warm recesses. When at last he was forced to break for lack of air, he took a breath and said, "I was just thinking that it's a good thing that you aren't up to anything too energetic right now, because I'm so close already that I don't know how long I'll be able to last."

Illya looked ridiculously pleased. "Really?"

He took one small hand in his, pressed his lips against the palm, then guided it down, rolling back slightly to allow room. "Feel for yourself."

Cautiously, hesitantly, Illya took the thick shaft in his hand, and Napoleon arched at his touch, groaning. Illya paid no attention, but began exploring it curiously, gaining confidence as he went. He let his fingertips glide lightly along its length, circling the head, following the curve up to the tip. Probing the tiny slit until Napoleon could stand it no longer. His own hand shot out, clamping onto Illya's wrist and holding him still.

Napoleon took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, concentrating fiercely. Illya waited in silence, understanding. After a few seconds, Napoleon let out his breath and managed a rueful grin. "I told you," he said.

"You should not have stopped me," he scolded. "I would like to feel you come."

Napoleon's erection gave another leap. "I intend to," he said breathlessly. "But I want to make you first." Even in the near darkness, he could see the color rise in the pale cheeks.

"Perhaps we should concentrate on you first," Illya said. "I cannot generally stay awake more than a few seconds after I climax."

His partner gazed down at him with a soft smile. "You can't, huh?" At the embarrassed shake of his head, Napoleon chuckled again. "What am I going to do with you then?" he asked fondly, brushing the feathery hair aside.

"What you are doing now is quite acceptable," he offered hopefully.

"It is, hmm?" Unable to resist, he took the full lips with his own once more.

After a few infinitely satisfying moments, Illya fell back, regarding his partner with eyes that glowed with warmth. He reached up, idly exploring the dark face with his fingertips, tracing the line of lips, nose, eyebrows and jaw as though memorizing them. Napoleon watched, a small smile playing over his mobile lips, loving the tiny frown of concentration that puckered the Russian's brow. So serious... so intense. So beautiful.

In that instant, he realized something, something that he should have realized long before. "I love you," he heard himself say.

There was no surprise on the face below his, only a serene acceptance. "I know. And I love you, too, Napasha."

Another kiss, sealing a partnership made long before but only now fully recognized. It was so easy, Napoleon marveled. So...right.
 

Illya was tiring fast now, he knew, even as he also knew that the stubborn Russian would deny it to his last breath. But Napoleon could feel it, in the thready pulse that beat beneath his fingertips, in the faint, almost imperceptible tremor that shook the hands stroking unceasingly over his sides and back. Could see it, in the shadows that surrounded the loving eyes.

So, although he would have liked for this night to last forever, he knew it was time to bring it to an end. There would be other nights, other days... an infinity of them, if he had his way. So....

"Make me come, Illyusha," he said simply.

"It would be my very great pleasure," Illya said, a tiny smile lurking behind the prim expression, and slid his hand down once more, stroking tantalizingly over the planes of his chest and the flat belly to....

Napoleon groaned as the warm hand, so new and yet so familiar, grasped him and began to move him inexorably to climax. "Oh god... Illya!"

Illya paid no attention, devoting himself to stroking, teasing, tormenting - at all of which he was proving himself to be a master. His partner was soon writhing and moaning, out of control, tremors shaking his body as he tried to retain just enough conscious thought to keep from falling on the younger man and smothering him.

He'd been right. He didn't last long. Well before he had nearly enough of the exquisite agony, he felt the familiar tightening in his balls, the tingling in his groin, and knew he was beyond the point of no return.

"Illya... oh god... I'm coming!" Then his body arched backward, teeth clenching, eyes closing as spasms wracked him and he erupted in a violent explosion that seemed to keep coming forever. Illya's competent hand urged him on, milking the last pearly drops, the last possible paroxysm from his captive partner.

Then he collapsed, dazed and breathless, onto the pillows, held now in Illya's arms, with Illya's lips against his hair and Illya's soft voice crooning to him in Russian. Illya....

It was several minutes before he could gather his wits enough to speak, to push himself up on one elbow and stare down at his partner with an awed expression. "Illyusha..." Words failed him and he could only shake his head dumbly.

An understanding smile warmed his face and he stroked Napoleon's cheek gently. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "Dushka...my soul."

And Napoleon knew then that he had fallen hopelessly, helplessly, irremediably in love with his partner, and that, incredibly, the feeling was returned. It took his breath away with its very unlikelihood.

But he couldn't stop to marvel at that now. He had something to do...something that he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

To bring his beautiful, exciting, adorable lover to the most intense climax of his self-controlled life. His eyes lit up with anticipation.

Illya saw, and his own eyes crinkled in amusement. "You look very devilish, Napasha. What are you thinking?"

Napoleon resumed his place on top of the smaller man, kissing him slowly and deeply. "I'm thinking of all the things I intend to do to you and with you," he said in a low sultry tone. "As soon as you're up to it."

Illya's hips raised, his hard erection grinding meaningfully against his partner's groin. "I am `up' to it now, Napasha," he purred. "Or had you not noticed?"

"Oh yes, love, I had noticed...."

Now it was his turn to take his lover in his hand, to feel for the first time the slender throbbing shaft, the perfect curve of the flared head, the tightly-held balls in their velvety sac.... His breath had quickened at the feel, and amazingly, he could feel his softened erection beginning to come to life again. He smiled. "I can see already that you are going to be bad for me," he murmured.

"I very much hope so...." Napoleon stopped the smug words by the simple expedient of covering the beautiful mouth with his own, forcing the lips apart and engaging the silky tongue in other pursuits. Illya let out a long satisfied breath and met him halfway.

Napoleon quickly began to carry out his plan, synchronizing the deep sensual plunges of his tongue with the long arousing strokes of his hand. Within seconds, Illya was moving beneath him, his entire body begging for more, pleading for completion. Low whimpers were torn from deep in his throat, his hands opening and closing helplessly against his partner's back.

Napoleon gave a low, satisfied laugh. "That's it. Is it good, my Illyusha?"

"Yes! Oh yes.... `Pasha...!" Then he jerked away, his head arching back on its long neck as he was pulled higher and higher, toward the explosion that he could feel building within him.

One more stroke...two.... The talented hand cupped around his balls and rolled them gently, making him cry out. Another slow erotic stroke and suddenly he was coming, sobbing incoherently, clutching at Napoleon with a desperation that would leave bruises, if either of them had cared. The convulsions that shook the slender body seemed to go on forever, then he fell back against the pillows, limp and spent, his eyes rolling up in his head and closing.

Alarmed, Napoleon gave him a hard shake. "Illya!"

To his overwhelming relief, the blue eyes blinked open and focussed on him with difficulty. A drowsy smile crossed his face. "I'm all right, Napoleon. Just...." He smiled again and closed his eyes.

"Let me clean you off, love," Napoleon coaxed. "Can you stay awake long enough for that?"

"No promises...."

Napoleon slid out of bed and felt his way to the bathroom. He soaked a cloth with warm water, washing himself hastily and then headed back for his sleepy lover. Illya hadn't been kidding when he said that he fell asleep immediately, he saw with amusement. He was almost gone already, holding onto the remnants of consciousness with an effort.

Napoleon got back under the covers, trying not to let any of the warmth escape. He gently wiped down the sticky belly, earning a sleepy growl of protest, then tossed the cloth in the general direction of a chair. Right now, he didn't care where it landed.

As he stretched out, Illya moved into his arms, curling up at his side and snuggling down against him with a contented sigh. "Good night, Napasha," he murmured, his words already slurring with sleep.

Napoleon pressed a kiss to the silky hair. "Good night, beloved." He listened, heart filled with
immeasurable joy, as the breathing slowed, grew deeper, more regular. Only then did something occur to him. He stiffened, giving his sleeping lover a tiny shake.

"Illyusha? What's all this about lizards?"
 

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