There’s a little gap in the curtains over the window by the bed. It’s open just enough to let golden light fall in a thin stipe across Napoleon’s eyes. He groans quietly, throwing an arm across his face. It’s too damn early. His head is searing — probably last night’s drinks come back to haunt him — and the sheets are suspiciously soft. Not his, then.
Next to him, there’s a woman fast asleep. Her bare shoulder curves in a graceful arc to the nape of her neck, her soft blonde hair, cut short and fashionable. Napoleon thinks her name is Pascale, no, Marie, maybe? It’s a safe bet — everyone is named Marie. Marie-something. He wishes he hadn’t had so much to drink, last night.
But the drinks make it easier, in some twisted way, to pretend that everything’s fine.
The sheets are crisp white and embossed with the name of the hotel they’re in. Thank God he won’t have to deal with the pleasantries of politely kicking out his guest. He slides out of bed, wincing at the cold air, and looks back at the woman. Marie-Claire, that’s her name. As he goes about collecting his rumpled clothes, he sneaks glances at her blonde hair spread out on the pillow.
There’s something dark, something aching and burning in the pit of his stomach. He hopes he won’t throw up.
Because it’s been three months, now, that he’s been in Paris. Almost time to pack up and move on, before anyone catches on to his scheme. Those damn paintings he nicked from the Russian hadn’t gone for as much as he’d hoped. Apparently, none of his contacts had known quite what they were. Idiots. He had offered them the first look at life behind the Iron Curtain and none of them had seen the worth. So he stays in his stupid little flat in the 5th arrondissement, living off of what was supposed to be enough to move him to England, waiting.
The only thing worth keeping, in Paris, is the address on his door.
Three months and still the Russian — Illya, no last name — hasn’t wrote. The burning in his stomach increases until it’s almost painful. It isn’t even out of some twisted hope of love — the possibility that Illya could love him back — it’s fear. His mind keeps filling with images of every horrible thing he’s heard — snow-filled wastes and frigid prisons where the inmates beg for death. And the people … at the worst of times, lately, he remembers Illya’s story, the one of dark fingerprints and something pretending to be love. Even the thought of his Illya — he thinks of the Russian as his, nowadays — facing something like that again, sends a shock of protectiveness down his spine.
Napoleon shakes his head, quick and sharp, and stumbles to the bathroom.
He could probably scrape by without a shower, but he feels too filthy to skip it. His skin is crawling with the memories of the past few months, pressed in like bruises across his shoulders. Things had been rough for awhile, and after the train — after him — everything got worse. Now, he can barely go a night without a drink. Because it cleanses, right? Alcohol can clean a wound, wash away infection in a tide of burning. It puts a misty shine on the good things, and presses the bad away. Every time he closes his eyes, there’s something else he doesn’t want to see. His mother, Illya, the war and its hollow aftermath— anything to dull the ache of memory.
But he knows, deep in his stomach with the other dark things, that he won’t see Marie-Claire again after this morning. That he’ll leave her in the artificial softness of this grand old hotel, waiting for the night so he can throw himself at another broad-shouldered blond and pretend. It rots him, inside, to know how despicable he really is.
He turns the water up to scalding.
Marie-Claire is still asleep when he leaves the bathroom. He leaves her a note, just a short thank-you, and doesn’t sign it.
It’s barely eleven when he leaves the hotel. He has a full day ahead of him, and no job to waste it on, so he might as well enjoy it in the same way he has for the past month. Sketching on the street, just observing, really, then a late lunch, maybe visit a museum or a shop, maybe see and opera later. It would be better if he had someone to take. He’s burning through his money a little too fast, but he doesn’t care. Maybe when he’s broke he’ll find some reason to wrench himself away from Paris. Besides, one of his contacts invited him to a dinner at the end of the week, to discuss another job for him. He’ll be fine.
He heads to his flat to pick up his battered sketchbook. Every page is full of charcoal sketches of people, animals, studies of other art, but there’s one page he routinely flips back to. The only thing on it is sketch of a young man, far more detailed than the rest of the pages. Illya. Napoleon finds himself returning to the contours of his Russian’s face, over and over again, the aquiline profile turned to the side, gazing out the train window with an expression that borders on wistful. Today is no exception. Napoleon frowns down at the sketchbook as he sketches in Illya’s jawline. He’s starting to forget his face, just a little, and it scares the hell out of him.
Christ. One train ride, months ago, and somehow he’s head over heels in love.
Afternoon crawls around, bringing with it a harsh spring rain. Napoleon finds himself dodging tourists at the Louvre, searching for a quiet gallery. In every room, there’s something else that pulls at his skin — a couple kissing (painted or real), a gory tableau of war, a flash of blond hair at the corner of his vision. He’s especially sensitive today, it seems. Especially sober. He settles onto an uncomfortable bench in one of the Red Rooms, taking out his charcoal. Today he will sketch his namesake from the grand coronation painting on the wall. Today, as most other days, he will wish again that he was never born.
Pathetic. He’s pathetic, trying with all the desperation of a dying man to conceal his monstrosity under hair oil and money and his own sick smile.
Behind him, a little too close, someone moves.
It’s a small movement, little more than a disturbance of the air, but Napoleon catches it. It’s a wonder the person was able to get this far without him noticing. He straightens his back, just a little, and waits.
“May I sit next to you?” The voice is deep, soft, the English words tilted into a strong Russian accent.
No.
It can’t be.
Napoleon will not allow himself to get his hopes up. He won’t. He can’t let himself be crushed, again. He can’t.
He fixes his eyes on the sketchbook. He won’t even look up.
The man behind him walks around to the front of the bench and sits next to Napoleon. From the corner of his eye he sees a brown sweater, hands fidgeting with a watch, blond hair —
Illya.
He looks up.
The Russian is every bit as beautiful as he was when they first met. His hair is a little longer now, framing his gunmetal blue eyes, creased in a smile. It’s almost imperceptible, but Napoleon sees.
He sees.
“Have you forgotten me?”
“Of course not,” and Napoleon feels breathless, fire filling his veins with every inhale. “How could I forget the little Red Peril, huh?”
Illya smiles for real now. “I never forgot you. Was not so long —“
“It felt like forever.”
Illya holds his gaze. “It did.”
They sit in silence a bit, breathing together. Napoleon pretends like he’s sketching but Illya’s shoulder brushes his and after a long moment he breaks the silence.
“Did they — were you hurt?”
Illya exhales. “Never went back. Almost did, but — I thought — I wanted to be happy. And you —”
It’s clear, what he’s left unspoken.
Happy. Napoleon’s heart almost explodes. He wants to grab Illya by the shoulders, kiss him for all the world to see, throw their happiness in the face of the first Napoleon. He wants to have every beautiful thing, with Illya, because nothing would be beautiful — nothing has been beautiful — without him.
Illya’s looking at him with those perfect eyes. “I found you. Solo, Cowboy, my — I found you.”
Napoleon is smiling now, genuine and only for his Illya. “You did. You’re a pretty good spy, Peril. You found me.”
“France is big, this museum is big, stupid big — I found you!”
“You did!” And they’re laughing, both of them, at the beauty and the strangeness of it all.
Illya brushes his thumb across Napoleon’s wrist, the faintest of touches. “Solo — Napoleon, take me home. Please.”
Napoleon does not have to be told twice.
As soon as they get into Napoleon’s flat, he throws his arms around Illya, dizzy with excitement and love. Illya hugs back, dropping his battered suitcase on the floor, where it promptly splits open. Napoleon vaguely registers it as the same case that held a thin stack of paintings, months ago, but he doesn’t care. He has his Illya now and that’s all that matters.
Illya pulls back, just enough, to meet Napoleon’s eyes. “Missed you,” he says, leaning down for a kiss.
It’s somehow better than the few they shared in the train. Napoleon never wants it to end.
They break apart, and Napoleon leads Illya to the bedroom. Unthinking, unplanned. He doesn’t care about anything but Illya. Illya follows, grinning down at him, but as soon as he sees the bed, he stops short. His hand tightens a bit around Napoleon’s. Napoleon glances around at the room, the stacks of unfinished drawings and the rumpled sheets, the empty glass on the nightstand.
He looks back at Illya. His jaw is clenched in nervous anticipation. But he looks at Napoleon and smiles, just a bit.
“Oh, Illya,” Napoleon says. “Let’s just talk.”
Illya smiles wider at that. “Very well, Cowboy. Tell me, what do you do for work?”
Napoleon laughs a little. It’s strange, he can’t stop it from rising up his throat. “Call me a gentleman thief.”
Illya laughs, too.
They talk until day fades into night. Napoleon learns that Illya’s last name is Kuryakin — it seems to fit, though he doesn’t know what it means — and that he’s been doing whatever he could for work, in Amsterdam, saving up to come to Paris.
With every word, Napoleon falls further in love. He can really, truly see himself waking up beside this man every day for the rest of his life. It scares him in the most delicious way. He doesn’t understand how someone as deeply beautiful as Illya could love him, in his own quiet way. Beside Illya, he’s incredibly flawed, a despicable mess of a human being.
And Illya loves him all the same.
There’s a tiny voice inside him saying he doesn’t deserve Illya, he’s too broken, too disgusting, but he swallows hard and folds it up until he can’t hear it anymore.
They eat a quick dinner off of the scraps in Napoleon’s kitchen — he has truffles, of all things, but no bread — and rush back to the bedroom. This time, it’s somehow different than before. Napoleon wants Illya like nothing he’s ever wanted before, in every sense of the word. They tumble into bed together, caught in each other.
They don’t do anything but talk. Napoleon wants to, dear God he wants to, but he sees the look in his Peril’s eyes and the slight tremor in his lips and backs off. Instead, he curls an arm around Illya and promises never to leave him again. It’s the first time in a long time that it’s been so easy to tell the truth.
(Later, years later, Illya will look at him with a smile and say, You kept your word, Cowboy. You never do.)
(Napoleon will look back at him, across the breakfast table, and say, Actually, darling, I always do. When it’s you.)
It’s past midnight when they begin drifting off. It’s new for the both of them: Illya, unused to gentle touch, holds Napoleon close like he’s afraid of losing him, and Napoleon, who sleeps with many but rarely just sleeps, marvels in the feeling of warmth and safety.
It hits him all at once.
He knows he won’t leave Illya like he leaves all the rest, knows Illya won’t leave him just like that, not after how much it took to find each other, but he doesn’t deserve Illya. Maybe the Russian should leave him, in the morning, after seeing Napoleon in the real light of day. He can’t hide himself for so long — someday, Illya will see what a horrible person he really is, and leave him then. It will be torturous and prolonged. Napoleon already has a few wounds that never healed over right. He doesn’t need another. He’s not even sure if he could take it. He finally has the man he’s dreamed of, the one person in the world who completes him, and — he’s going to fuck it all up.
Suddenly, he’s crying.
He feels Illya shift in the dark. “Cowboy? что случилось — what’s wrong?”
Napoleon wants to lie and say, Nothing. But something in him makes him want to honest with Illya like he never has before. To bare his soul to Illya.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says. “You’re too perfect. You shouldn’t have to be stuck with someone like me.”
“Napoleon.” Illya brushes his hand across Napoleon’s side, still hesitant. “Don’t tell me what I should or should not do. I make my decisions now.”
“Sorry,” Napoleon whispers.
“You don’t be sorry,” says Illya. “You are just wrong. Listen. I am not perfect. I am never going to be perfect. Not for the world.”
“You are perfect, though,” says Napoleon, muffled against Illya’s side. “You are.”
“I am not,” replies Illya. “I am too cold, for most people. I am too scarred and too used. I don’t understand French money. I am not charming. I do not talk enough —“
“You talk a lot.”
“To you. That is not what I mean, Cowboy. I mean perfection, it does not matter. I can still love. I can still love you. And so can you. You made me realize this, on the train. And again, now. It was you that made me realize what love is.”
Napoleon is crying hard, now, in a way that he hasn’t since childhood. Suddenly he knows they’re going to make it. He knows he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Illya, his Illya, his love. Whatever it takes.
They hold each other until the dark waters down to grey light, and they finally settle down to sleep.
And again, the sun rises.
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