Chapter Text
It is all the vodka’s fault.
Illya wasn’t even sure how they ended up there, his memory somewhat fuzzy. He and Napoleon were given a bottle of expensive vodka by the innocent as the mission wrapped up, and it would be a shame to put it to waste, so the two of them decided to share the bottle. Illya seemed to recall how they toasted and joked and laughed in their hotel room, feeling celebratory for a mission well done, and must have drank too much too fast.
Illya felt warm and dizzy. Suddenly he found Napoleon leaning close to him on his bed, his cheeks flushed, a smirk hinting at his lips. Their eyes locked. Napoleon’s hazel eyes were dilated and bottomless, his breathing hot and tickling. Illya’s heart hammered wildly against his rib cage.
Napoleon’s eyes flickered to his lips. With a dazed look, he held out a finger to Illya’s chin and tilted his face to the perfect angle.
“Illya,” Napoleon breathed, and started leaning in.
It felt too much like a dream, everything too perfect. And they would have kissed then and there, if it wasn't for the sobering words that Napoleon uttered next.
“Mogu li ya tebya potselovat'?” May I kiss you?
Without thinking, Illya swatted his hand away and backed off, his body reacting faster than his brain.
“Illya?” Napoleon frowned.
Am I a joke to you? The teasing in clumsy Russian, the flirting, the advances...it was just a game for Napoleon, all of it, Illya suddenly realised. He really should have known better.
This was too much. It was a well-known fact that Napoleon would flirt with anyone and everyone, male or female, THRUSH or UNCLE or innocent; Illya had witnessed that often enough. But to be on the receiving end of such words, said in such deceptively sincere and seductive manner, was entirely another matter. Napoleon’s attempt to learn Russian (“to communicate better with my partner”) had been endearing and good-natured at first, but somehow it wasn’t so lighthearted anymore.
“That was uncalled for,” Illya scolded, “I know that flirting is your second nature and doesn’t mean anything, but still, Napoleon, couldn’t you spare me of this? I am your partner.” Not your lover or...dalliance.
“But Illya...”
“I mean it, Napoleon.” Illya interrupted, not wanting to hear him defend himself. Napoleon would excuse away his behaviour with grandeur and charm, no doubt, and Illya worried that he would let him.
Something vulnerable flickered in Napoleon's eyes. Was that...hurt? But it couldn’t possibly be. It must have been a figment of Illya’s imagination, his own wishful thinking. As with everything else.
Instead, Napoleon plastered on his usual charming smile and apologised, “I’m truly sorry, tovarisch , I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t thinking...it won’t happen again.”
Illya excused himself with a forced calmness that he didn’t feel, stood up from the bed, and fled to the bathroom.
He splashed his face with ice cold water, then looked at himself in the mirror.
Blue eyes which Napoleon praised not so long ago on the balcony stared right back at him.
Illya bit his lip in frustration and buried his face in his hands.
Napoleon was never intentionally cruel, and yet it hurt just the same; or maybe that was what made it worse. If it were just some ill-intentioned random stranger, Illya could simply disregard that person completely, distance himself from them, or even hate them if he wanted to. But it was Napoleon they were talking about. Warm, welcoming, sincere Napoleon. His partner, whom he trusted with his entire heart. His best friend, with whom he enjoyed spending time the most.
And Illya had always known Napoleon’s tendency to flirt; it might have been his own fault to fall for it.
Yes, he had indeed fallen for it...and for him. To have Napoleon praising him for his looks, and in Russian , no less; looking at him in dazed amazement and appreciation, like he was adored , like he mattered ; to see Napoleon’s worried face when he was injured, like he was someone Napoleon couldn’t afford to lose...
How could anyone not fall for him when they were treated like that?
Illya’s heart clenched as he looked up to see his own face in the mirror, looking as helpless as he felt.
But why did he do that? What did Napoleon want from him? What was Illya to him? A fling? A conquest? Illya shivered at the thought, unwilling to dive deeper.
Finally, realising that his thoughts were going nowhere and hiding wouldn’t do him any good, Illya took a deep breath, opened the bathroom door and walked out. Napoleon had turned off the light, pretending to be already asleep. But Illya knew him too well.
Lying on his bed, Illya was wide awake, unsurprisingly; he could still hear his own heartbeat pulsing. Napoleon’s cologne seemed to linger, a bitter reminder of what almost happened just now on his own bed. Or maybe he was imagining it, he couldn’t tell.
His partner was tense too; tossing and turning, by the sound of it. Illya stared at the ceiling blankly, and let out a sigh as quietly as possible.
How on earth have they come to this?
---
Next morning, though, they acted as if nothing had happened; or at least they tried to. Napoleon talked in a false cheerful tone and gave him forced smiles; Illya was aloof and kept conversation to a minimum.
The incident was not mentioned again, but the teasing and the random Russian words simply stopped.
They were still great partners, being the professionals that they were, understanding each other perfectly in missions, trusting their partner to have their back covered, and saving each other's life almost every week. Yet something was amiss.
Other than that, most things had returned to normal.
It was an uneventful afternoon at UNCLE HQ, and Illya planned to go to the lab to investigate some newly confiscated THRUSH explosives after finishing the mission report. But Napoleon came to the office to check up on him, and casually suggested Illya to let the newest secretary do the typing for him, saying that she was pretty good at her job. Napoleon didn’t elaborate, but Illya understood immediately that she was his new date.
Watching Napoleon waltzing out of the office in a seemingly good mood, Illya suddenly wanted a drink badly. Of course Napoleon would have other conquests and pastimes to keep himself busy, he really shouldn’t be surprised.
If Illya was less sensible or more indulgent, they would’ve kissed on that night, and their relationship would have changed forever.
Not that it hasn’t completely changed now, after the incident.
Illya wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
On one hand, he was relieved that at least Napoleon wouldn’t torment him and play with his feelings any longer, but on the other hand, if he was completely honest with himself, he longed to hear those honeyed, intoxicating words of his directed at him again, even though he knew perfectly well that he didn’t mean a single word.
He let out a bitter laugh. It was pathetic of him to want something so blatantly fake; but what if that was the only thing he'd ever get?
He had always hated watered down vodka. But perhaps, that would still be better than having no vodka at all?