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The first time Napoleon sees the scars, he assumes they come from torture. Illya doesn't correct him right away - there's still a part of him that considers what he had to endure to get them as a kind of torture. A deep, psychological wearing down as he first hid from and then fought for his true self. Now the scars represent victory, but he does not think torture is too far off the mark.
Still, after everything he and Napoleon have been through, he has to be honest now. He slowly shakes his head, gaze fixed steadily before him. "No," he says after a moment of heavy silence. "No they are...," He trails off, looks away. He cannot meet Napoleon's gaze, not for this. "They are from when," his voice chokes, "from when they removed my breasts."
It's so quiet he isn't sure Napoleon hears him, but after a moment a whispered, "May I?" reaches him and he looks to see Napoleon already reaching out, tentative fingers halted inches from Illya's chest. After a moment, Illya nods. He holds his breath as Napoleon trails his fingers gently along the slight raise of the scars, across one and then the other. He meets Illya's gaze then, flattening his hand and holding it against Illya's side. His touch feels hot, unnaturally so, and Illya pulls in a shaky breath, trying not to focus on the feeling of Napoleon's skin against his.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Napoleon asks, studying Illya's face, brows drawn together in concern and confusion.
It's a fair question. They've been working together for years. They are partners and they are friends and the trust that has built up between them is such that Illya could have told him long ago. But he'd gotten used to hiding, even before he came to UNCLE. Now only Waverly and a few select UNCLE Physicians know, and they were only informed out of concern for the health ramifications of his oral testosterone.
He has no good answer for Napoleon, so he licks his lips and only says, "I wasn't sure." Let Napoleon make of that what he will.
Napoleon reaches out with his other hand, sliding it along Illya's chest. He grins at the sharp intake of breath this elicits and Illya swears at him in Russian, which only makes him laugh. "Did you think I would think less of you?" Napoleon asks, lazily running his thumb over the scars. "Did you think," he pauses, looks up into Illya's eyes and steps closer, "that I would turn my back on you?"
His lips are inches from Illya's and it won't be the first time they've kissed but given the direction this seems to be headed it might be the first time they do more and Illya's having trouble thinking about anything besides the feel of Napoleon's hands on his chest and his back and the beat of his own heart, but he manages to pull in a steady breath and whisper, "I wasn't sure," again.
Because it is the truth. He is never sure. He is never sure how much to tell or how much to keep quiet and so he keeps it all quiet and inside himself. He carries it all heavy on his own shoulders because he is used to derision and disrespect and outright hostility. He knows, logically, that he would get none of these from Napoleon. But when you have spent your life lying and hiding, it is easier just to continue the lie.
No matter how much you trust and love the man you are lying to.
Napoleon's eyes are sparkling and it's infuriating and Illya shakes his head at the sight. "Will you quit grinning and do something useful with that mouth?" he says, shifting them back to familiar ground.
Napoleon laughs, but he does do something more useful with his mouth, pressing his lips to Illya's as those steady fingers continue exploring the raise of Illya's scars.