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Napoleon can really only blame himself, really.
It's just that... Illya had been kissing his signet ring so tenderly every chance he got. Whether Napoleon was cooking, they were about to leave for work, before they had to separate for a mission, or whatever else, Illya would take his hand, tug it upward, then bend down slightly to kiss his ring not unlike a prince wooing a princess before they were set to wed. No one unfamiliar with Illya Kuryakin would ever characterize the man as gallant and princely, but they couldn't be more wrong.
After every kiss, Illya would lift his head to look him straight in the eye and give him a soft, warm smile that could melt steel in seconds; it never failed to warm Napoleon to see. After every kiss, Napoleon feels a warm yet hefty weight in his chest growing larger and larger.
But one day, it happened again and Napoleon makes a mistake.
A tender kiss to his ring before Illya went ahead to get home, Napoleon can feel the warm breath on his fingers, sending a tingle through him down to his toes. It makes him a little giddy, fit to burst at the seams.
Napoleon couldn't help himself joking to try and diffuse the pressure in his chest that was choking him to see any part of himself being treated so gently and lovingly. It was near unbearable to be the focus of such genuine affection and attention.
"Gee, Peril, which one of us are you in love with, me or the ring?"
He hadn't expected Illya to get so upset about it.
A week! A full week! One whole week and nothing has worked. Or rather, Illya would not allow them to work.
He's tried nearly everything in his arsenal to apologize. Flowers, breakfast in bed, Illya's favorite food for all his meals, attempted touch. Not one.
Illya minimizes their time together at work, he withholds kisses, his words are curt, he keeps his touches professional and quick. He feels as distant as the stars. If stars could radiate disappointment so brightly from light years away.
Never has Napoleon felt so cold.
It's far more unbearable than the weighty, giddy feeling that would fill him with Illya's touch. He can't take another day of this or he feels as if he'll implode and take out U.N.C.L.E. HQ along with him.
Gaby will be sure to notice when she comes back tomorrow from her jaunt through Southeast Asia. Napoleon gathers that Waverly is only giving him this last day to make things right before he forces them into making up, likely with Gaby forcing herself into chaperoning when she should be resting. It's going to be a whole circus and a show. None of them want that.
Biting the bullet, Napoleon asks him why, directly this time. He knows by now that veiled words will get him nothing.
"Not until you apologize. Properly apologize, Cowboy." Illya is stern, unyielding. Napoleon usually only sees this Illya on missions, at work, not at home, mere feet away from Napoleon. "With your words."
And there it is. Do or die.
This leaves Napoleon with two options: swallow his thrice-damned pride or never have this man's attention the way he wants again.
The decision is clear.
Napoleon swallows.
"I..." Napoleon starts, then falters. It feels like pulling teeth, trying to drag the words out of himself. He tries again: "Illya."
"Yes, Napoleon?" Illya raises his brow, leaning forward slightly to look him even more firmly in the eyes. Napoleon thinks this is probably how locks feel like when he's about to crack them open.
"I... Illya, I'm sorry, okay?"
"What are you sorry for?" Illya prods.
"I'm sorry I made fun of you kissing my ring. I really— I really like you kissing me that way." A deep breath, then an exhale. It's hard to be so fucking honest, damn him. "I love you. Please kiss me, Illya."
Between one breath and the next, Napoleon is suddenly pressed to the wall by Illya's hands on his shoulders.
He thinks he's stopped breathing. Illya's so close, their breaths are mingling. Illya's body is not touching his but the pocket of air between them feels unbearably hot, landing a weight on Napoleon's lungs.
Illya's face is drawing closer and closer.
Napoleon doesn't want to break the moment so he keeps his words behind his teeth and swallows them down. He doubts he can properly speak right now, anyway, his silver tongue turning to lead in his anticipation.
He can smell Illya, his aftershave, his sharp detergent.
Intense, piercing glacial blue stares right at Napoleon's eyes, pinning him like a butterfly, dissecting him and leaving him bare right down to the soul.
Moments pass, only their breaths can be heard throughout the room.
Illya hums as if he's found his answer, pressing his face even closer until Napoleon can only clearly see his ear.
Illya is touching his cheek to Napoleon's. He can hear him breathing him in, taking in his scent slowly and deeply, not letting his lips touch Napoleon. Not just yet.
Napoleon is nearly suffocating in his anticipation. Soft breaths caress his cheek and he would whine if he could properly breathe.
Illya slides down a little to Napoleon's neck, his nose now their only point of touch other than the hands still pinning Napoleon's shoulders to the wall, breath ghosting over Napoleon's skin and making him tingle.
Napoleon is fully clothed but he feels more naked than he's ever been. His skin feels like he's sparking, one wrong move and he'll set something alight.
He starts to tremble. "Illya," he almost sobs, words shoving past the weight on his tongue. "Illya, please kiss me."
Illya's mouth tugs up into a soft, teasing smile that Napoleon can't see yet feels. He's moving again, nearer to Napoleon's ear. "Well, since you asked so nicely. Napoleon. Polya," he whispers his name and nickname into his ear then finally.
Finally.
Finally, Illya kisses him. First, his ear. Then his cheek. Then his jaw. And on and on to his neck, his shoulder, down to his biceps, the inside of his elbow, then his forearm, and finally Illya reaches his wrist where he slows his pace.
Napoleon feels like he's going to shake apart and the only thing holding his pieces together is the magnetism of Illya's touch.
Illya presses his nose to the thin skin, breathing in Napoleon's scent from the inside of his wrist, likely still carrying his cologne that he'd dabbed on that morning.
Then, Illya kisses his wrist as he looks up through his lashes into Napoleon's eyes. The first moment of eye contact since Illya pressed so close. Napoleon feels—more than sees—him smile against his wrist.
Illya continues on, agonizingly slow. He kisses his palm thrice, then skips right over his ring to kiss the tips of his fingers.
Napoleon lets out an involuntary whine that feels more like it was punched out of him. "Illya... Illya, please."
Illya chuckles and finally, finally he kisses napoleon's signet ring as one would a king and someone more besides, reverent yet tender and sweet, done to appreciate and let linger.
Napoleon moans. "Illya. Illya, come here." He moves his still trembling hands to tug Illya upward and draw him into a kiss.
On the lips, this time.
That night, after a few exhausting and enjoyable hours, Napoleon is snuggled to Illya's chest, long arms wrapped around him.
Illya's hand runs through Napoleon's unstyled hair, massaging Napoleon's ear with every pass. Illya shifts to press a kiss to the curling hair in his hands.
A rumbling voice pierces the quiet peace, spoken into his hair. "One day, your finger will hold a ring that we have exchanged."
Napoleon freezes. Damn this man. He's going to kill Napoleon someday.
The lips on his head drift down. Illya's other hand moves to Napoleon's left hand, fingers rubbing at the finger that is not carrying the signet ring for the night.
"It is not yet that day so I will settle with what you already have," Illya rumbles into his ear before Napoleon feels lips land on his temple. A quiet good night. As if Illya hadn't just dropped a bomb that could destroy a planet.
Napoleon takes a deep shuddering breath before he moves to lift himself a bit closer to Illya's face. "One day," Napoleon agrees, pressing a quick kiss to Illya's lips before Illya fully drops off to sleep. He studies that handsome face, lifting a hand to caress strong and fair features, fingers pressing on Illya's brow, his ridiculous eyelashes, his nose, his lips, the scar by his eye.
Illya snuffles, already more than half asleep, pressing closer to the hand drifting on his face, not unlike a cat.
Napoleon knows that if anyone were to see him, they would see a sappy and lovestruck smile that he can't, nor would try, to suppress. He chances to land another kiss high on Illya's cheek, close enough to his eyes that Napoleon's lips brush those unbelievably long and lush eyelashes.
All done—but never enough—, Napoleon shifts down to make himself comfortable again, Illya's arms sleepily shifting to accommodate him.
Napoleon's mouth is already half pressed on Illya's chest but still he says, into the dark of their warm, warm room, "Good night, Illya. I love you."
He feels so warm as he drifts off into sleep.