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It didn’t take long before Illya began to notice a pattern.
He and Napoleon had not long ago realized that their feeling for each other were mutual, or “gotten their heads out of their Ärschen” as Gaby so lovingly expressed it. Either way, they had started what you might call a relationship.
That first night they had both been slightly drunk on a very nice vodka that Napoleon had managed to get Illya for his birthday. Not drunk enough to spew confessions of undying love at each other, but tipsy enough to feels loose enough to laugh together; for Napoleon to express how beautiful Illya was when he laughed and how he should do it more often; for Illya to carefully kiss him for saying that, and for Napoleon to climb into Illya’s lap and not leave it until the sun rose outside the window. It had been a very tender moment, followed the next morning by a very intense round of fucking until they couldn’t move. All in all, it had been perfect in Illya’s opinion and, judging by the sounds he made and how fondly he stroked his new bruises produced by love for the next few days, Napoleon was quite happy with it too.
That had been about three weeks ago and, as previously mentioned, Illya had noticed a pattern since then. A pattern that traced Napoleon’s habits in the mornings that they spent together. Which was most of them.
Napoleon would get out of bed shortly before Illya woke up fully. There would normally be nothing strange about that, or the fact that it happened every single morning, except there was something strange about it. Napoleon loved to sleep in, like a lazy cat lounging in a beam of sunlight, despite his military background. However, when they were together Illya would stretch out his arm across the bed, only to find empty space where his Napoleon should be, the sheets still warm. Within minutes the cowboy would return to his side with some half-assed excuse for his absence. Illya wasn't overly concerned since it was only a few minutes, and he always came back, but he was getting curious.
Napoleon's excuses varied. Sometimes he was just going to the bathroom. Sometimes he wanted to take a quick shower. Sometimes he said he went to the kitchen to prepare some things for breakfast later, or to the office to finish some details from work last night. It wouldn't normally have bothered Illya, except that it happened every. Single. Morning. And always right before he woke up. He wanted his cowboy in his arms when he awoke, not to be waiting for him to return.
Illya thought briefly about putting his skills as a spy to use and find out what was going on, but after some thinking, decided that it would be too much of an invasion of privacy.
Before they got together, or even before they were friends, Illya would have had no trouble spying on his partner, whether for his own gain or for the Soviet Union. But Napoleon had changed that. He was still a good spy and still loyal to his country, but he felt more… human now. He had people he was close enough to to consider their feelings, which had not happened to him ever before, except for maybe with his mother.
Either way, this human wanted his lover in bed with him, and wanted to not wonder why Napoleon was pulling away from him, if only for a brief moment.
Having had enough of it, he constructed a very simple plan. He needed to wake up before Napoleon, but he couldn’t set the alarm clock, or Napoleon might wake up as well. Instead, he made sure to drink three large glasses of water the night before, before Napoleon dragged him to bed with a dangerous smirk on his lips and a hypnotizing sway to his hips the practically begged for Illya to freshen up the loving bruises on them. Illya was more than happy to oblige. He was only slightly embarrassed over following Napoleon like a puppy begging for attention, but he got over it quickly. He would follow Napoleon to the ends of the earth and back, if it meant he could fall asleep with his cowboy safely tucked into his arms.
The next morning Illya awoke to a pressing feeling in his bladder, and without waking Napoleon, ventured to the bathroom to take care of the problem. Happy that his plan had worked, he washed his hands and returned to the bedroom. Outside the window the sky was grey, with the sun only just peeking up over the horizon. Illya’s internal clock told him the it must be somewhere between five and six o’clock in the morning.
Napoleon was still asleep in his bed, which Illya had more and more began to think of as their bed. He looked so calm and relaxed in the morning light that shone in through the thin drapes. His skin appeared to almost be glowing in the pale light of the weak sunbeams, the muscles underneath it making him look like a greatly detailed ancient Roman sculpture, gorgeous and timeless. But despite his beauty, Illya knew that a devilish mind lurked beneath the surface, and he was glad that Napoleon was on the side of good. Illya wanted to call him an angel because of his radiant appearance, but that wasn’t quite right. More like a fallen angel, basking in his freedom, teasing the mortals with both the beauty of heaven, and the temptations of hell.
Illya wouldn’t mind being condemned to the fiery pits for eternity, if Napoleon is what made him take that fall.
Illya crawled back into bed, careful not to wake his lover. Napoleon laid on his back, with one arm tucked underneath his pillow and one across his surprisingly (but not disappointingly) hairy chest. He looked so serene, and Illya found himself entranced by the view. He lied down on his side next to Napoleon, supported by his left arm, and gave in to the desire to touch. He softly stroked along Napoleon’s side and stomach, feeling the well defined muscle, and the softness of his skin. In the short time that they had been together, he’d lost count of all the times he’d thanked God for giving him this opportunity; to be with a man like Napoleon, and to be equally loved in return.
His light touch must have tickled, because the American began to stir, squirming under Illya’s hand.
“Illya,” he mumbled without fully opening his mouth. “What are you doing? It’s too early for this.”
Illya chuckled. “I just like watching you, Cowboy, and enjoy silence. You cannot speak if you sleep.”
Napoleon laughed, still with his eyes closed. “Oh, I see how it is. You only want me for my stunningly good looks. And here I though us capitalists were the shallow ones,” he smiled, showing his pearly whites. “What are you doing up anyway? This is ridiculously early, even for you, darling.”
Napoleon had shown to be fond of giving more nicknames to Illya than just Peril, and Illya had to fight to not blush at hearing them everytime. Watching as Napoleon stretched out his body in his cat-like manner, he replied, “I want to know what you do in mornings. Is no good to keep secrets from me, you should know by now.” He figured it was better to just be honest about his intentions, no need to drag it out.
When hearing Illya’s explanation, Napoleon stiffened, and his eyes, which he had finally opened and blinked the sleep from, were fluttering around the room instead of focusing on Illya.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Peril,” he tried to laugh it off, but it sounded much too stiff to be real. For a good spy, Napoleon sure was a bad liar when trying to hide things from those close to him. Lying to strangers, his superiors, his enemies? No problem. Lying to Illya and Gaby? He suddenly turned into a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Napoleon,” Illya tried, but the American began to pull away and rise from the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled with a tight voice, but Illya caught his arm and pulled him back. When a few moves he’d pinned Napoleon to the bed, trapping him with his own body. They did this often, either for pleasure or for combat training. Either way, Illya most often won and came out on top. Napoleon was strong and a good fighter, but Illya was bigger, had more experience, and knew how to use his body in situations like that. Napoleon never complained. He usually just smiled and claimed loss in a very coy voice, that they both knew meant that he was enjoying himself immensely. Now, however, Napoleon lay stiff beneath him, still not looking into his eyes.
“What is the matter, Napoleon? Why do you pull away?” He tried to keep the hurt from his voice. Napoleon suddenly looked up, stunned.
“I… I don’t pull away! At least I don’t mean to,” he mumbled, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “It’s just… I-” Illya patiently waited for Napoleon to find the words. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Illya frowned deeply, still hovering over his cowboy. “See you like what?”
He got an exasperated eye roll in reply. “Illya, look at me. Really look.”
Still very confused, Illya did as commanded. Napoleon still looked a little tired, just newly awake. There was a mark on his cheek from where it has previously been pressed into the pillow. There was a small amount of stubble on his face that had grown during the night. His brows had a worried crease, and his eyes were as blue as the sky on a clear summer day. He was just as beautiful as ever.
“I see no problem. Just see you, ангел.”
Napoleon gave a frustrated sigh and rubbed his hands along Illya’s biceps. “You’re sweet, Peril. Either you’re telling the truth or you really can’t see it. Either way, I suppose it’s fair that I tell you, though I had wished to keep it a secret for as long as possible.”
Illya moved so they both could sit up, now that Napoleon was no longer at risk of running off. Both naked as the day they were born, it felt like they were in a very vulnerable position. But perhaps that was what love was: to be at your most vulnerable, and trust that the other person wouldn’t hurt you. Illya trusted Napoleon. God help him, but he did.
Napoleon took a minute to inhale and exhale slowly, as if to gather strength, before finally speaking, sounding as vulnerable as Illya felt.
“It’s my hair.”
At that moment, you could have heard a dust particle hit the ground. Illya wasn’t sure he’d even heard him correctly.
“What?”
Napoleon sighed again, for the thousand time that morning. “My hair, Illya. Look at it!” Illya thought he had looked already, but did it again. This time he noticed that Napoleon’s hair did look a little different. It was curlier than the usual slick look he sported. Much curlier, actually. It was messy from sleep, and several black ringlets hung down on his forehead. It was very endearing. Illya wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it in such a state, but he couldn’t understand why Napoleon was making such a fuss about it.
He shrugged. “Is hair. What you want me to say?”
“What do I want you to-?” Napoleon groaned. “You know, sometimes you are truly clueless, darling. I can’t believe how endearing I find it,” he said in a both annoyed and fond tone. He explained, “Every morning I make sure to wake up before you so I can slip into the bathroom and fix this… monstrosity,” he waved lazily at his hair. “It doesn’t exactly fit with the personality I’m trying to display. More like a farm boy on his first visit to the big city. I just didn’t want you to see it and think less of me.”
Napoleon was blushing by now, and looked all the sweeter for it, unruly curls and all. Illya wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he was being, but figured it wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead he stroked a hand through the hair that embarrassed Napoleon so, pushing the curls away from his forehead, marveling at how soft it was. Most likely because there wasn’t even a minimal hint of any product in it yet. Illya couldn’t believe he’d never noticed what Napoleon’s natural hair looked like.
“Silly cowboy,” he said in a soft, rumbling voice. “Your hair is beautiful like this, just like all of you. Do not hide this from me, or I might miss a side of you to love.”
Napoleon’s head whipped up at the words, his eyes wide and any hint of a blush gone. “Peril, did you just say… Did you mean…” It wasn’t often that someone could render the great Napoleon Solo to a loss for words, but it seemed like Illya Kuryakin had succeeded simply by telling the truth.
Illya leaned in to brush his lips against Napoleon’s open ones. “I know it has only been short time, Cowboy, but I know what I feel. I love you very much. All of you,” he said, feeling Napoleon’s lips against his own as he spoke, and ran his hands through the beautiful black curls that had caused them such unnecessary grief.
For a moment it seemed as if the American had stopped breathing entirely, but then Illya heard him give out a relieved laughter, and felt Napoleon throw his arms around his neck. Illya was pulled down on the bed once again, back to being on top of Napoleon. “I love you too, Illya. So much you have no idea.” Illya got an idea when Napoleon attacked his mouth with his own. A tongue was shoved not unpleasantly into Illya’s mouth, and Napoleon opened his legs so Illya could fit between them. It felt natural to be there. It felt like home.
He reluctantly pulled away so he could speak again, and Napoleon began to place kisses along his throat. “You know, we have to go to work soon,” he said reluctantly. “There is much to do today.”
“Oh, who cares?” Napoleon quickly dismissed and dragged his nails down Illya’s back, making him shiver in all the best ways. “We’re young and in love and I haven’t worn my hair like this for at least fifteen years. I want to be appreciated and loved in the way that only you can give me, my darling.”
Illya smirked and swiftly brought Napoleon’s hands over his head, holding them their by the wrists. “I will show you my appreciation, Cowboy. And my love.” Illya felt a shiver pass through Napoleon’s body at his words, and promptly forgot all about duty. Let the world care for itself for a day. He was busy being in the arms of the curly haired beauty that was sharing his life, and his heart.