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"Listen, Illya," the use of his given name, the rapid movement of eyes, looking everywhere but at him, the raised hand, putting distance between them, the American exudes nervousness, something so unlike himself.
Illya had cornered his boyfriend after yet another evening cut short by Napoleon suddenly getting up and running away as if a killer was after him. It had been happening more and more often in the past weeks, ever since Illya had slipped up and spilled the feelings he had sworn to keep secret for the sake of a functioning partnership and close friendship with the former thief. Having Solo kiss him instead of slapping him had taken a huge weight from his shoulders. Despite His reputation, Solo hadn't taken their physical intimacy further than that though. He had professed his love countless times, openly flirted with Illya, voiced how delighted he was to be able to stare at his Peril and watch the joy spread over his face whenever he bit into a sweet pastry Napoleon had bought him. But every time the kisses and cuddles had become a little more heated, a little more desperate, the American had pulled away, fear in his eyes and a worry wrinkling his forehead that wasn't like the suave, charming Napoleon Solo at all. Followed by a hasty retreat so unlike the sex-crazed thief, leaving Illya behind, aching for more.
In these moments the Russian wondered if he had done something wrong, if he had misread signals, if Napoleon really wanted to be with him or if he was actually just a burden, someone Napoleon put up with for the sake of an amicable workplace atmosphere.
So this time he had snapped, had stopped the fleeing American and cornered him, demanding answers.
Seeing the usually so eloquent Solo stutter and squirm under his scrutinizing gaze made him worry that he had been too harsh. "What is your problem? Talk!" was what he had said when he had pinned the smaller man against the door, keeping him from running away by holding on to his shoulder and waist, maybe a bit too tightly. Illya loosens his grip, stepping back as Napoleon takes a shuddering breath, and allows the American some space.
Solo drags his hand over his face, brows knit together. "Illya, I love you so much, you are so important to me, if I fuck this up, I'll never forgive myself." He looks up and is met with a dumbfounded Russian who doesn't look like he understands at all. Just as the blond man opens his mouth to ask, Napoleon intercepts him and starts talking.
"You know how I was before," he takes one more deep breath, "I took girls out on dates left and right, I don't think I've ever had more than two dates with the same person before. It would always be flirting, a nice dinner and then the bedroom. In the mornings she was either already gone or we ate a short breakfast together and then never saw each other again." At the dubious look Illya throws him, he adds "At least not romantically."
"But that's beside the point, sex was always the beginning of the end of these short relationships and I can't let that happen with you." A frantic, desperately uncertain expression has found it's way onto the American's face and Illya can't suppress a smile. He is instantly rebuked by a Napoleon grabbing his shoulders, hissing "I'm serious here, Peril!" A look pleading for a proper answer, for a solution, for acceptance to his dilemma crosses Solo's face as he clings to his boyfriend.
Illya just keeps laughing, smiling fondly at the beautiful person that stepped closer to him on his own terms, that doesn't know how to handle love despite being a hopeless romantic. "Would never happen with me," the Russian muses, "I'd make you cook me proper breakfast the morning after sex."
Napoleon looks at him as if he has gone mad, outrage playing on his features. His act is betrayed by the blush dusting his cheeks, accompanied by fondness and the relief of getting something troubling off his chest. He nuzzles into the taller man's shoulder, pouting a "You know how many sleepless nights I had because of this?"
"Tell me," the Russian's voice rumbles in his ear. Lifting him up and carrying him back to the sofa, Kuryakin adds "What did you do to fall asleep after all?" which earns him a playful slap on the back of his neck and a shaky chuckle from the man burying his face in his sweater. Illya just sits down on the sofa, Napoleon on his lap. He is still not looking up, light tremours shaking his figure.
"Cowboy, I was afraid you didn't like me like this after all." Illya finally confesses after the tremours have calmed down.
"What?" Napoleon's head shoots up, wide eyed he stares at the love of his life. "Did I really make you feel like that?" He looks incredulous, apology gleaming in his eyes and Illya just hugs him tight, murmuring "I'm just glad I was wrong."