The first time Illya has Napoleon in his arms is in a public restroom in Berlin.
Illya has his arms around the American’s throat as he slowly squeezes the breath out of him. He has a singular, clear purpose as he listens the wheezing, struggling breaths drawing further and further apart. Illya is acutely aware of the body against his growing increasingly limp.
There exists nothing else in this moment but the struggle to stay alive by taking a life.
In this moment, Illya functions mostly as a creature of instinct; of training. So, he can’t quite tell why he prolongs it; why he doesn’t just snap the other man’s neck and get it over with.
Nor does he quite understand why he feels a brief wave of relief when he is made to stop.
There is nothing Illya loves more than having a sleepy, content Napoleon in his arms; pressed against him and fiddling idly with the watch on the arm keeping him pinned against the Russian.
It is in moments like these everything in Illya’s busy mind stops.
There is the smell of Napoleon’s hair, the rumble of his voice as the American shares one of his less ridiculous stories with Illya; one that actually reveals a bit more of the man behind that charming mask he always wears. There is the warmth of him; the little puffs of breath against Illya’s skin that tell Illya how very much alive they both are.
The delightful way the body against his shakes with genuine laughter at one of Illya’s remarks.
There is peace, calm and a new kind of quiet.
There exists nothing else in this moment but the two of them.
It is Illya’s turn to be in Napoleon’s arms. To feel safe, to feel small.
Which is a blessing since he feels hardly anything else at this point.
The pain is gone; shock has settled in and done its duty.
There is a shaky hand brushing his hair off his forehead and desperate voice somewhere far away. He is pressed against something so very warm yet he feels increasingly, soul numbingly cold.
There is a broken sob pressed against his chilled cheek “Illya, please.”
It briefly fans the last spark of life in Illya; the last amber flickering just a bit brighter for a fleeting moment somewhere in the center of his being. The space echoes with only one word; Napoleon.
But is not enough to pull him back.
Illya clings to the glow of the sweetest warmth of the memories that name brings him as he lets the dark have him.
And then there exists nothing.
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