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It’s a wonderful thing, of this he’s certain, to love physically. To be able to love physically. To know your partner inside and out, to see them in a way that no one else has before. It’s long since been an intimate practice, at least for him, at the near-constant rate with which he engages in it with absolute strangers, and yet.
With Illya it feels different, as though he’d be giving his entire self away for Illya to take; he knows he’ll be laid bare for all the world to see. And he wants to be. He wants to know what it’s like to give everything to the gorgeous man in front of him, to be able to receive everything from him in return. Maybe it’s a bit too strong, a bit too forward, but it doesn’t matter, or at least not nearly as much as it should.
Their lips slide sweetly, passionately together, and he tightens his arm around Illya’s waist, causing Illya’s head to tilt forward and slanting Napoleon’s at an awkward angle, lips falling slack at the motion. His heart hammers in his chest, threatening to pound straight out of his ribs as warmth pools low in his stomach, and he hopes that Illya’s ready, because he doesn’t know if he can wait much longer. He steps forward and Illya backs up with him, movements smooth and precise and trusting, even though he’s going backwards. Their lips never break contact, kisses wet and hurried as Napoleon guides them toward the bed, not missing the way Illya tenses as his knees knock the mattress, but he lays willingly regardless.
His fingers claw Napoleon’s hair, holding his head in place as he kisses him hungrily. He smiles against the kiss, interpreting the almost aggressive hold as a sign that Illya wishes for him to continue. He does, the sheets bunching in his hands as he harshly claims Illya’s mouth with his own, teeth so nearly clashing so many times. He moves so that his body is more stretched out, spread to cover Illya’s own, their legs tangling together. He needs to touch, aches to claim, and so he does, and it’s so wonderful he could cry for the joy of it, digging his fingers into Illya’s hair and lightly scratching at his scalp.
He abandons Illya’s lips for the moment, kissing his way down Illya’s bare throat, relishing in the way he can feel his pulse pounding beneath his lips. Mine, mine, mine.
But when Illya’s hands fist into the delicate cotton of his shirt, he knows he’s crossed a line. He opens his eyes to glance down at Illya and what he finds there would be enough for him to be scrambling off the bed if not for the death grip Illya currently has on his shirt. Illya’s eyes are squeezed shut, face pinched as though he’s waiting for an attack. Napoleon feels his heart trip over itself, breath hitching in his throat as he moves his fingers so that he’s stroking rather than blindly grabbing, but he’d be lying if he said Illya noticed. His heart nearly stops dead in his chest right then and there, but it doesn’t, instead opting to pump ice cold guilt through his veins. He reminds himself that Illya probably hasn’t done this before, trying his best to devillainize himself. It might just be strange for him, he thinks, wholeheartedly avoiding the fact that Illya had been about to let him do something he clearly didn’t want to do.
“Illya?” He whispers, finally, when he gives no signs of wanting to move from his position. Their eyes meet, then, and even though Illya is an ex-KGB agent, Napoleon can read the fear in his eyes, written as though in capital letters, making it so much more concerning. “Are you alright?” He asks, dumbly, because he can’t think of anything else that he could possibly say in this situation.
All he receives in response is a quiet nod, the type that’s supposed to be reassuring, but is even more concerning for that very reason, and yet. It’s exactly the response he expects. Illya’s hand is still buried in the soft cotton of his shirt, almost as though he’ll fall apart if he so much as thinks about letting go.
Seeing Illya like this awakens a foreign, terrifying emotion in him, the very same that many would call love. It fills him, overwhelms him and overflows from him; a pressure behind his eyes, a force pushing him back from Illya, but not far enough to jar his hold on Napoleon’s shirt. It fills him with a desire to crush Illya into his arms and reassure him that everything’s alright, that he’ll never hurt him, that they don’t even have to sex, not ever, not if he doesn’t want to. He’ll say it to make Illya feel safe, to make him stop panicking, and for a moment he fears he’s stepped back into his old ways of manipulating the Russian, but with his partner showing no signs of calming down, he realizes it isn't even far-fetched. For Illya, he’d do it. For Illya, he’d do anything.
It makes him realize how in love with Illya he is. How absolutely fucked he’ll be if things ever go south, but somehow he knows they won’t, or at least he hopes.
But there’s also the chance, the foolish hope that maybe Illya just isn’t used to men, that maybe Napoleon can show him what it’s like, how good it can be, but not now. Not when Illya’s panic is chasing away all traces of desire.
“You do realize we don’t have to do this, right?” He asks hesitantly, because he can’t for the life of him figure out why Illya still hasn’t moved.
The effect is instantaneous. Napoleon can tell by the way Illya relaxes that it’s exactly what he needed to hear, and the small, barely whispered “we don’t?” is enough to send a dagger through his heart.
Of course they don’t have to, Napoleon knows he’d never make Illya do anything he doesn’t want to, at least not knowingly. He wishes Illya knew as well, could almost be offended that he didn’t, but he’s not thinking about that right now, because all he can focus on is the fact that Illya was fully expecting Napoleon to have sex with him, regardless of whether or not Illya wanted it. He feels sick, there’s no other way to describe it. Nausea twists his stomach at the mere thought of doing that, at the insinuation that he would.
“Of course not, Peril. Of course we don’t have to.”
Illya’s hand finally loosens on his shirt, just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough for him to pull himself out of Illya’s grip, heart wrenching in his chest as Illya’s slack hand falls to land beside him without Solo to hold onto.
Please don’t leave, please don’t be scared, he’s begging. Silently, uselessly, but it’s begging all the same and he can’t stand it, won’t be able to stand to see the look on Illya’s face if he’s afraid of him, much less if Illya expects Solo to force him into it, as though he’s nothing more than an unchained sex machine.
The thought twists through his insides, tears at his heart, and for the first time since its existence, he regrets pressuring Sanders into adding ‘serial womanizer’ into his file as a special skill.
God… “Christ, Peril, I know I have a reputation, but…” but I’d never make you do anything. I’d never hurt you, never force you, we don’t have to do this, not yet, not ever, not if you don’t want to. “But we don’t have to do this now. I understand you’ve never been with a man before, I know it might be a little uncomfortable for you, we can take it slow if you want. You only had to ask.”
The way Illya doesn’t seem reassured by his rambling only serves to show him how simply fabulous he is at digging himself into deeper and deeper holes.
He’s sitting on the bed beside Illya, and he has no idea what to do with himself. He doesn’t know that he ever will, not now that he’s almost certain he’ll never sleep with his Peril. Not now that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to be with Illya again.
I know your five minutes, Mr. Deveny.
Maybe it’ll be good for him, he thinks as he watches tension fill Illya’s shoulders out once more. He sees him nod, watches him deliberately avert his eyes, as though hiding something awful, terrible, but at this point it’s too late to tell him they won’t ever have to, because Illya’s no longer looking at him, much less acknowledging his presence. He sighs, yet again, wishing Illya would trust him with whatever’s eating at him, but he knows it’ll never happen.
Instead, he lays back down and scoots closer to wrap his arms around him, needing the reassurance that Illya’s still there, that he hasn’t completely destroyed this tender thing they’re building. He holds him as close as he can, and he’s almost pleasantly surprised by the way Illya grips him in return, almost as though Napoleon would disappear if he let go. It’s a terrible feeling, he muses, the knowledge that your partner doesn’t trust you as much as you trust them.
“It’s alright,” he whispers, threading his fingers through Illya’s hair and pressing gentle kisses to the top of his head. “We’re alright. I promise,” he murmurs gently. He tightens his arms around Illya, using his other hand to rub circles into his back, trying in vain to comfort. “We don’t have to,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, and he knows that Illya can’t hear him, but he wishes he could.
***
He’s packing his dress shirts back up, taking care to fold them gently so that they don’t crease in interesting places, as he’d like to wear them immediately and without the use of a steamer. He then begins to wonder why Illya refuses to have sex with him, wonders if it means something negative for their relationship, but he hopes it doesn’t because he loves Illya and he’ll love him any way that he can have him. He’s finally started zipping up his suitcase when Illya nearly tackles him, claiming his lips with a kiss that could melt steel.
Fuck.
Illya’s good, he has to admit, even though Illya’s ego doesn’t need it and, apparently, he doesn’t even like it that much. Still. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?” He asks, purposefully keeping his tone light, because he really does not want a repeat of last time, and Illya’s been so odd lately.
“We’re apart for two days and you jump me like it’s been months?” And Napoleon doesn’t know why he says this, because it’s so obvious that they probably aren’t going to ever do it at all. Tell him he doesn’t have to, maybe tell him you don’t want to, you know he won’t tell you, please don’t pressure him into this. But Illya’s a fanatic kisser and he can’t keep up reasonable thought while kissing someone, or at least Illya, and so he doesn’t listen.
“Yes,” comes Illya’s quick response. “I want it now.” His hand slides up Napoleon’s shirt then, causing shivers to run down his spine. He hates how immediately his body responds to the attention, the trepidation and uncertainty still clear in Illya’s eyes, a stark contrast to the words coming out of his mouth.
“Are you sure?” He asks, breathless between kisses, but making sure to receive the consent that he needs, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ever forced Illya into doing anything.
He doesn’t receive an answer, but he receives a desperate, hungry kiss, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
***
Napoleon can tell something’s changed, but he doesn’t know what. If asked, he couldn’t say, but it changed their entire relationship dynamic. Of that much he is certain, because he can’t think of another reason for Illya to be avoiding him so much.
At first he figured it was due to their naturally busy lifestyle, but they’ve been home for two days. They’ve been together, in their shared home, for two days. Two days, and they haven’t had sex at all. When he thinks about it, they haven’t had sex for at least two weeks, and he wonders how he didn’t notice before.
He wonders if Illya’s contemplating ways to let him down gently, and the thought fills his heart with a leadened dread that he can’t seem to shake. He knows he’ll have to confront Illya about it, but he has no desire to do so, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to take it if Illya told him it was over. He’s been broken up with before, of course, but from Illya it would be different, it would surely tear him apart from the inside out, and he’d never be able to recover. He may think about him less and less as time goes on, but he’ll never be fully recovered from losing Illya, his best friend, his lover, and it terrifies him, but not as much as the idea of losing him.
God, when did he stop being careful about who he gave his heart to, and why is losing Illya the thing that tears him apart?
He walks into their living room, and, spotting Illya on one end of the couch, finally decides to rip off the bandaid, so to speak, because he needs to know what’s going on, and he needs to know now.
“You are avoiding me,” he says, dropping on the other side of the couch, making sure to keep his distance, because he isn’t necessarily sure that he wants an answer to his unspoken question.
“We live together,” Illya rebuttes, and maybe Solo’s a little bit in love with his quick wit and undeniable intellect, but he doesn’t necessarily care to be seduced again, not that Illya even has to try.
“Fine, you've been avoiding having sex with me then,” he responds, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels, because if Illya’s really avoiding sex for the reason he fears he is, he’ll never recover from it. “Any particular reason why?”
“We've been busy—” Illya starts, but Napoleon is quick to call it out for the excuse that it is.
“Come on,” he sighs. “We've been home for days now, and you keep slipping away at every opportunity. Just—why?”
Napoleon’s more than a little terrified, now, watching the way Illya tenses, seeming to curl into himself, and he knows that he overreacted about the losing him part, but now he’s at more of a loss than ever before to understand what’s going on, and he’d really love it if Illya were to trust him enough to tell him what was wrong, just to put Napoleon out of his misery.
“I—don’t like it,” his Peril finally manages to blurt out, face screwing up once more as though the admission physically pained him, and Napoleon finally begins to understand, from the beginning, that Illya’s never liked it. The fact that Illya’s been trying all this time, just to please him, sinks in his stomach. Napoleon wishes more than anything that his poker face was just a tiny bit better, or unreadable to Illya, because it would make it so much easier to mask his definitely undesirable reaction.
He then blinks at his partner, confused for a second, because there’s no way that it’s sex that Illya doesn’t like, because he’s initiated every single sexual encounter they’ve had thus far. He wonders if it’s him, if he’s done something wrong, if maybe Illya is finally coming to terms with the fact that being with a man isn’t the same as being with a woman, and maybe he really is about to leave him after all. He breaks into an awkward smile, determined to be okay with whatever Illya says next, because he loves him, and above all else he simply wishes for Illya to be happy. “Okay,” he says, carefully. “Did I—uh, is it something that I did? Because I’ve never gotten any complaints before.”
Illya glares at him for that, or at least the attempt is there, but his eyes are shining just a little bit, and Napoleon is fully aware that the last comment was definitely a bit much, but it’s a reasonable question. Well, not really, but can you blame him? No. At least, he doesn't want to.
He concedes to Illya’s logic, or at least his glare, putting his hands up in surrender and leaning back a bit. “Alright, sorry, that was—probably not a good idea. It’s just—was it something I did? If you didn’t like something—”
He’s trying to understand, he really is, but he can’t. His first reasonable guess is that Illya hates doing it with men, but if his words are to be trusted, and Solo trusts him with his life so that’s not even a question, then Solo isn’t the problem. And it can’t be because he doesn't like it, because even though that’s the most obvious solution, Solo can’t think of a single time, except their first failed attempt, when Illya wasn’t initiating sex. It didn’t make sense, why would he be so adamant about doing something that he didn’t even like in the first place?
But Napoleon loves him, would do anything for him, and he knows that whatever Peril is struggling with, he will be there for him the best that he can, because all he wants is to be with him, to be close to him, and the pain in his clear blue eyes tugs at Napoleon’s heart, making him ache to pull him into his arms and tell him that everything will be alright. Even though he has no idea whether it will or not, because that doesn’t matter, all that matters is Illya’s happiness.
“No,” is Illya’s quick response, more forceful than Solo anticipated, and a little hurtful, because all he wants is to understand what his Peril is going through so that he can help. He’d take a life of celibacy over Illya being miserable, and he’d do it over and over again. “No, it isn’t you, it—it isn’t because you are a man, or because you did something wrong, I just—I just don’t like it.”
Solo stares at him, tilting his head to the side as he processes what he’s just heard, because now his fears are laid bare at his feet, confirmed as though in blood, and he’d really rather not think about what this means, what it implies that he’s done. He swallows back the nausea that’s sure to come back full-force in a matter of seconds. “What does that mean?” He eventually asks, voice laced with fear of making Peril miserable, but he hopes that he manages to disguise it as simple curiosity. “I mean, there must be some reason if—”
But it must’ve been the wrong thing to say, because suddenly Illya’s shaking his head, a muttered “this isn’t working,” barely reaching Solo’s ringing ears as Illya gets to his feet.
“Peril—” he starts, voice shaking as Illya gets closer to the door, because this is it, this is it, he’s just unknowingly ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and he won't even get a chance to explain himself. With an aching heart and ears ringing like bells, he stands up from the couch, reaching out as though to grab Illya and stop him, please, please don’t go, but it’s useless, he knows it is. There’s got to be someone out there less sex-obsessed than he is, someone who would be able to understand Illya's suffering, who would know that he hated having sex, and that person wasn’t Napoleon, as much as he wants it to be.
“I’m sorry,” Illya cuts him off, and it’s terrible, because when he finally looks at him, Illya’s eyes are shining; he looks more wrecked than Napoleon feels, and God how he wishes he could fix it. Illya takes another step back, “this isn’t working,” he says again, louder this time, and Solo wants to scream.
“What isn’t working?” He asks, definitely too harshly, because he’s so fed up with how vague Illya’s being, and he just wants to know what’s going on, because it would be so easy for them to talk about it if he could just spit it out. Obviously sex isn’t working, but that doesn’t mean their entire relationship is doomed. As much as it pains Napoleon to admit it, he could live without sex. He would live without it, willingly, if it meant he could keep Illya in his life.
“This—we—we aren’t working,” he says, and Napoleon can hear the way his voice breaks, and it cracks his heart into a million pieces. He wishes Illya could understand that they could be, they could work, if he would stop taking baby steps towards the door and talk, they could fix it. “I’m sorry.”
But he doesn’t. He flees the room instead, ignoring Napoleon’s desperate calls, and by the time he’s ripped the door back open to chase him down and make him talk, he’s gone.
Gone as though he’d never even been there in the first place, and Napoleon just stands, dumbstruck, in the doorway of his own apartment, wondering if he’ll ever even see him again, if it’s worth talking to Gaby about, if that’s where Peril’s going, because that would just make sense, wouldn’t it.
He doesn’t even know what it is, but the more he thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes. He probably managed to snag the only sex-repulsed KGB agent in the history of ever, but he can't even find it within himself to laugh bitterly at this newfound knowledge, instead closing the door and collapsing against it, burying his head in his hands.
He starts to wonder if he’ll ever see Illya again, if their entire relationship is going to disappear because of a communication failure. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if he never saw Illya again. In fact, he knows he won't be able to bear it because Illya's only been gone for minutes, minutes that feel like hours, and he's already completely and utterly lost.
Maybe he didn’t even deserve him in the first place, he mused, face buried in a pillow from a bed that he doesn't remember climbing into, but that he's in all the same, and he sobs anew because maybe this, this confusion, was how Illya felt with him. He wonders how he could've been blind enough not to realize that Illya didn’t want to have sex with him ever. Like, not even at all ever. Everytime he asked if it was okay and Illya said yes, he was lying. And, truth be told, Napoleon knew that he would do the exact same thing if their positions were reversed. It still didn’t change the fact that he should’ve known. He should’ve asked Illya what was wrong the first time he refused to have sex, because then maybe they could’ve had an actual discussion instead of Illya turning tail and leaving at the first sign of real communication. Of course, Napoleon certainly knew that he wasn’t much better, but he really thought that he wasn't a rapist.
Everyone he’d been with, except apparently Illya, had always been an incredibly eager participant, and if anyone ever gave a sign that they weren't comfortable, he was always so careful to stop and to ask what was wrong. He never, ever, ever wanted to violate anyone like that; he’d always viewed those that did as less than human, and now he was one of them.
He’d done that awful, awful thing he’d sworn to never do to the one person who deserved it the least. He couldn’t believe that he could have been so stupid so as to force Illya into doing anything, and even though he didn’t technically force him, he made his life miserable.
He did those things to him, preached love and trust, begged Illya to trust him as much as he trusted him, loved him and cherished him the only way he knew how, but only succeeded in violating Illya in the worst way possible. Nausea swam in his insides, and he felt sick, so sick, and maybe he deserved it for the way that he treated Illya.
He heard a quiet knock at the door, and he sprung from his bed to answer it on the off chance that it was Illya, because maybe he could get lucky one last time and they could talk it out, because he would never forgive himself if he’d managed to unwillingly drive Illya away, the one person he truly cares for, who he thought would be in his life forever.
He couldn't even bring himself to be disappointed when Gaby answered the door instead of Illya, and he told her everything.
“I'm sorry.” She whispers, rubbing up and down his back as though soothing a child, and he feels like one, what with how he's been crying.
"Does he hate me?" He asks, voice hushed and broken, and he wishes he wasn't so affected by Illya's sudden departure, but hiding it from Gaby feels useless, so he doesn't even bother trying.
"He doesn't hate you."
"But, I-"
"He could never hate you, Solo, just as you could never hate him. Now, I need you to go to bed, and you two can work this out in the morning."
“I hope so,” he whispers, unable to do anything other than watch her leave, shutting the door behind her in an image that was so identical to Illya’s departure that he could cry.
He goes back to his room, lays in bed and tries to sleep because, realistically, it is the quickest way to pass the time, but he with sleep comes nightmare after nightmare, and he's fairly certain that he'd feel more rested if he didn't sleep at all, plagued as he is with images of Illya, miserable and screaming, pleading with him to stop, but he disregards his every plea. Every. Single. Time.
When he does finally manage to sleep, he wakes up and is immediately sick.
Peril, please… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t leave, I love you.
***
They’re in the same positions as they were when everything went down in the first place, and Napoleon can’t help but be jealous of Illya’s well-rested appearance, knowing for a fact that his eye bags have eye bags because he certainly didn’t sleep a wink. “So,” he begins, clicking his tongue, a nervous habit that he can’t seem to break, especially when he’s tired. “To be clear—it’s not something I did, there wasn’t something in particular that you—would rather avoid.”
Illya blinks at him, clearly confused, and Napoleon can’t imagine why, because now it’s obvious that Illya was expecting rejection, something that Napoleon could never, not even in a million years, imagine doing.
“No,” he says, and Napoleon doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that he’s relieved. “No, it isn’t you, it’s—sex, in general.” He pauses, long enough for Napoleon to think he’s done, but then he continues, almost as an afterthought. “I promise, I tried, with you, I really wanted to enjoy it with you. I didn’t want this to happen.”
“But you didn’t,” He says, slowly, trying to understand, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he does. “Enjoy it, I mean.”
“No.”
“But you were the one who’d start kissing me, so many times—”
“That’s different.” Illya interjects, and Napoleon has no idea how it could possibly be different, but at least they might still be able to kiss. “I enjoy that. So long as it’s—just kissing.”
“Okay. Good. So we can still kiss.”
“I—” The hope in Illya’s voice is just too precious to ignore, and he feels his heart skip a beat as an involuntary smile curls his lips up a bit. “Yes? What do you—what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out how to make this work, Peril,” Napoleon responds, because it’s what he wants, what he needs to do, and he doesn’t care how much of Peril he can have, because as long as he’s still in his life, still his partner, he thinks he’ll be happy. Illya’s all he really needs, the sex was just a bonus, but if Illya doesn’t like it, then Napoleon will just have to figure it out.
“You—even if I don’t want to have sex with you. Ever.”
Napoleon smiles a little at Illya's admission, finally having gotten a real answer, the real reason behind this, and also confirmation of what, exactly, this means for them. He throws up his arms in a show of mild exasperation, because it's so like his Peril to think that this is going to be a deal breaker. “I mean, it’s weird.” He admits, throwing his smile Illya's way “But I love you, so it'll be okay."
“You—you’re okay with this?” Illya asks, something vulnerable in his soft, trembling voice, eyes barely glimmering with unshed tears.
Of course I am, he wants to say, because he loves Illya too much to leave him over something like this. “I, well—I want to be,” he says instead, because he needs to be completely honest with Illya, even if he would rather say what he knows Illya wants to hear. Regardless of how true the of course would be, he knows that Illya deserves the whole truth. Even if he hates the way his uncertainty makes Illya close up. “Look, my understanding is that you’ve been trying to do it my way up until now, right?”
Illya nods, again, but it’s one of his signature responses, so Napoleon isn’t too worried about the implications.
“Good, so—that clearly didn’t work, so it stands to reason that I should try it your way now, right?”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Napoleon says, confident in his answer because he’d do anything for him.
And suddenly Illya’s leaping into his arms, burying his face into Napoleon’s shoulder and holding onto him as though for dear life, and Napoleon holds him just as tightly, heart full to bursting with his Russian finally back in his arms. Where he belongs. He rocks slightly, rubbing Illya’s back and relishing the feeling of Illya in his arms once again, but he can’t deny the ache in his heart, the realization that Illya didn’t think that he was going to want to stay with him after finding this out, and it hurts. His lack of trust, of faith in Napoleon’s love makes him wonder if he’s been holding back, if he hasn’t been showering Illya with enough love, or if Illya wants to leave the relationship, but judging on his reaction, Napoleon discards that option as quickly as he comes up with it, because there’s no way it’s true.
Still, he has to know. “You know I love you, right?”
He can feel Illya nod against his shoulder, where his head is currently pillowed. “I love you too.”
Napoleon smiles giddily, dumbly at that, turning to kiss the top of Illya’s gorgeous blond head. “You also know that I don’t want you to be miserable, right?” he asks then, softly.
Again, Illya only nods, and part of him hopes that it’s because the answer is obvious, or maybe he’s falling asleep, which Napoleon definitely wouldn’t mind if he did.
“Good. So just—try to remember that in the future. Talk to me.”
“You shouldn’t be miserable either,” Illya argues, and Napoleon almost has to laugh at that, because he knows that there is no way his misery at not having sex will ever be able to hold a candle to how Illya felt during sex, but the sentiment is adorably sweet all the same.
“I promise I’ll tell you if I ever am.”
“Okay,” Illya says, quietly.
Napoleon squeezes him tighter, hoping that they won’t keep any more secrets from each other, because he doesn’t think he could survive a scare like that ever again.
fin<3