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It starts like this.
The first time Illya has Napoleon in his arms is in a public men’s room in Berlin.
Illya’s forearms are secured tightly around the American’s throat as he slowly squeezes the breath out of him. Illya has a clear, singular purpose: listening to the wheezing, struggling breaths drawing further and further apart. He is acutely aware of the body against his growing increasingly limp as he keeps applying pressure.
Illya’s vision narrows and there exists nothing else in this moment but the struggle to stay alive by taking a life.
Illya functions mostly as a creature of instinct; of training.
There is no rational reason why he should be prolonging it; why he doesn’t just snap the other man’s neck and get it over with. It would be easy, so very easy.
Nor does he quite understand why he feels a brief wave of relief when he is ordered to stop.
It continues like this.
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 that is keeping him pinned against the Russian.
It is in moments like these that everything in Illya’s busy mind just stops. There are no missions, no tactics, no countries or conflicts. Everything is breathtakingly simple.
There is the smell of Napoleon’s hair that Illya can't quite get enough of. 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 is always wearing.
No, not always.
Not anymore.
Not in this moment.
Not here .
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.
There is the delightful way the body against his shakes with genuine laughter as Illya makes a dry but witty remark. There is no power on this earth that could stop the way the corner of Illya’s own mouth curves, even if he tries to hide his smile in those unruly curls tickling his cheek.
There is peace, calm, and a new kind of quiet that Illya has never experienced before. Here, under the soft touch of Napoleon's idle fingers, Illya finally feels human again.
His world narrows and there exists nothing else in this moment but the two of them.
It ends like this.
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 a desperate voice somewhere far away. He is pressed against something so very warm and familiar, yet he feels increasingly, soul-numbingly cold.
Yet it is a far better way to go than Illya had ever even dared to dream for himself.
There is a broken little sob pressed against his chilled cheek Illya, please.
It repeats and echoes endlessly; like a mantra.
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. All of what is left of Illya focuses on that name. His mind holds it, unwilling to let go.
It is his home.
But it is not enough to pull him back.
Stubbornly, lovingly, Illya clings to the glow of the sweetest warmth of the feeling as he lets the dark have him.
And then there is nothing.