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saki101Rating: NC-17
**************
"What was the outcome?" Sergei asked when Illya got back to their cabin after the auditions.
"Fiona, Allegra and Antoinette," Illya said, moving to the closet. "I'm starved," he added.
"Just like in the drawings," Sergei remarked, slipping a cuff link through his cuff. "Except for Claire."
"Yes, it's interesting that," Illya said, hanging up his trousers and jacket. "The roles will be posted tomorrow morning. Then you and I and Alicia can begin practicing." Sergei nodded and clicked his other cuff link closed.
"Illya?" Sergei said, as he began to knot his bow tie. "Are you really not going to open your post?"
Illya tugged off his turtleneck, dropped it into the laundry bag and pulled a dress shirt from a hanger before he turned around.
"I'll open the drawings," he said slowly, slipping on the shirt and starting to button it.
"Before dinner?" Sergei urged, buckling his belt.
Illya glanced at his watch. "As soon as I'm dressed."
Sergei sat down on the bench to tie his shoes, then leaned back against the vanity table to watch Illya finish dressing.
"Are you going to stare at me until I'm ready?" Illya asked when he caught Sergei's gaze in the mirror on the closet door.
"Yes," Sergei said and reached behind him to grab the envelope.
Illya peeled off his socks, threw them in the laundry and got out a thinner pair. "Oh, all right," he said, walking over to Sergei with his socks still in hand. "Here, give me that." Sergei passed him the envelope.
****************
Viola O'Donnell opened her cabin door. "Two handsome young men come calling!" she exclaimed and stepped out into the hall. "Agatha's in the shower," she said, closing the door behind her.
Illya opened the envelope and drew out the drawings. Viola looked from the first to Sergei and back, then placed it behind the other papers. She continued silently for a few minutes.
"Will I look well in that colour?" Sergei asked her.
She took his chin in her hand and moved his head from side to side. "We'll get a shade of green that suits your complexion," she said letting her hand drop. "What's most important, of course, is the fit and we'll make sure it fits perfectly," she promised. "Your costume is ready," she said turning to Illya. "Come by tomorrow and we'll adjust it. When the girls' roles are announced, they need to come for fittings," she reminded him. "Otherwise, they're ready."
"Thank you," Illya said.
"Suggesting the thorns may be a challenge," Viola murmured, having returned her attention to the drawings. She looked up, "Good-night, gentlemen."
They both bowed. "Good-night, Mrs. O'Donnell."
Viola laughed and slipped back into her room.
*******************
As they walked along the corridors towards the Christmas party, Sergei exclaimed, "I can't believe you still haven't opened the package!"
"What made you think of that all of a sudden?" Illya asked, starting up the first set of stairs.
"It's Christmas Eve, that's why," Sergei said, following. "Your patience amazes me."
They swung around to the second flight of stairs. "Perhaps tonight at midnight, I will," Illya conceded. "I'm fairly sure it's a Christmas present, and I didn't give him anything," he explained.
"You can always post him something from New York," Sergei said.
"It'll be late," Illya replied.
"Don't forget, there are twelve days of Christmas," Sergei admonished. "He could have it by Little Christmas."
Illya nodded. "Fair enough. I'll send something from New York."
*************
Illya gamely crossed his arms in front of him offering one end of his cracker to his dinner companion on the left and grasping the end of the cracker of his dinner companion on his right. At the count of three they all pulled. Across the table there was a loud pop, then a squeal. Around the room other small explosions sounded, followed by screams and laughter. People began examining the contents of their crackers, comparing trinkets and putting paper hats on their heads as the starters were served. The wines were excellent, the food delicious and artfully presented, the conversation cheerful and witty.
After coffee and cordials, Illya sat back in his chair and let his gaze wander over the brightly lit room. The women all wore black or white or red or green gowns. Most of the men were in tuxedos. Some had opted for deep red or dark green bow ties, or red roses or holly in their buttonholes. There were even a few kilts adding variety.
The band was playing a medley of popular Christmas tunes in the background but the lights would soon dim and the band would switch to dance music. Illya smiled. It'll be a bit unfair to the other guests, he thought, to have so many professional dancers on the floor. But this was dancing for pleasure, anyone happy enough to dance should join in.
Excusing himself, Illya headed for the nearest door. The lights were being lowered. Several woman entered through the doorway just as he reached it. Back from a conference in the ladies' room, no doubt, Illya surmised and made to slip through as soon as they passed. He walked directly into Alicia.
"Caught you," she exclaimed, putting her arms around his neck.
"Excuse me, Alicia," Illya said and attempted to disengage himself.
"On, no, no, no," she replied, pressing against him and clinging tighter. "I've caught you good and proper and now you are obliged to kiss me," she announced.
"Alicia," Illya began to remonstrate, but she just pointed upwards.
Illya glanced at the branch of mistletoe over the doorway. "Ah," he said.
"Fair's fair," Alicia chided and turned them both so that she was leaning against the door frame. She drew his lips down towards hers.
Illya was surprised at how pleasing the fullness of her lips felt. One of her arms slid down to his waist and pulled him closer. His desire to resist had vanished and when the tip of her tongue pressed against his lips, he parted them for her and tilted his head so that she could penetrate more deeply.
One of her hands was caressing the back of his head and when she slowly drew her tongue back from his mouth, Illya followed with his. Her other hand fell limply from his back to her side. He shifted more of his weight against her. Her breasts felt soft against his chest. She made a small, sweet sound as his tongue stroked the inside of her upper lip. He raised one hand and brushed it across her cheek. Another pair of arms embraced him from behind. Illya felt a decidedly masculine pressure at the small of his back. Then he heard Sergei's voice whispering at his ear, "Pas de trois, Illya?"
He opened his eyes and looked into Alicia's dreamy ones. "Happy Christmas, Alicia," he said, slipping from between them. Alicia looked startled for a moment and then Sergei leaned forward and kissed her.
Illya glanced at his watch as he walked away. It was nearly midnight.
****************
They must have been quiet when they returned to the cabin because they didn't wake me then, Illya thought, as he lay in the darkness listening to the cries of their satisfaction subside. Sergei's been waiting months for this consummation. I'll have to wait months more for mine, he thought as he slid his hand under his pillow and felt the leather binding of the book that lay there. Maybe someone else will capture Napoleon's fancy now that he's finished recovering.
He had unwrapped the package when he came back to the cabin, ripped the brown paper wrapper off to reveal a plain white box made of card. He'd crumpled up the brown paper and thrown it in the bin. Then he had opened the white box. The present inside was wrapped in a deep blue cloth tied with an even darker blue ribbon. He'd set it on the vanity and gotten undressed, staring at it in the mirror all the while. He'd stood in front of it in his pyjamas until a chill had crept into him. He had turned off the lights and gotten into bed with it. Tucked it under the covers between him and the wall and fallen asleep. Maybe an hour later, he'd woken up, the present pressing painfully into his chest where he had rolled on top of it. He'd turned on the reading light and sat up with it in his lap for a long time before he'd taken the end of the ribbon and pulled. One pull had undone the knot. As the ribbon fell away the folds of the fabric opened and he could see the leather below - dark blue with gold letters. He'd brushed the rest of the cloth out of the way and read the title: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He'd run his fingers over the cover, feeling the suppleness of the leather, the tooling in it. It was tied closed with ribbons extending from inside the front and back covers. Slowly, he undid the bow and opened the cover. The endpapers were swirls of blue and green, the colours bleeding into each other as if the paper had been painted with one colour, then moistened and daubed with the other. Faintly, he could see where the ribbons were glued beneath the endpapers. He turned to the title page. It was handwritten and the writing was in the same hand as the address had been. The pages were thick because they were two leaves glued together. It was as he had suspected it might be, a hand-made book. He turned another page and read:
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes,
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
First verse, Fifth edition, Illya thought. Facing the verse was a variation of the pastel Napoleon had drawn of him sleeping in the alcove, the first morning he had awoken in his house. Illya turned the pages and one by one read the verses. The next verse with an illustration was the twelfth and Napoleon had altered one word, substituted dancing for singing. The illustration was an adaptation of his portrait with Napoleon in the background, sitting cross-legged on a carpet in the garden, with a sketch pad across his knees, a brush in his hand poised above it and an open paint box on his left side. On his right were platters of food and jugs of drink.
A drawing of Napoleon as a younger man faced Verse XXVII. This must have been when he started this project, Illya thought. The style wasn't as well-developed as the one with which Illya had become familiar, but was still clearly Napoleon's. And the freshness in the face coming "out the door" make Illya's chest constrict.
Verse XLI was accompanied by a miniature of the watercolour of The Minister of Wine and only two verses later he saw a small version of himself as The Angel of the darker Drink, but he noticed that there was no firelight lighting the figure. It was the painting accompanying Verse LXVII where he found that - a close up of his face in the hooded robe, one side lit by flames, the other pale, ethereal and serene. Illya had leaned back against his pillows and closed his eyes, remembering the touch of Napoleon's fingers on his cheek, on his hair. He almost drifted off to sleep recalling it, and a hundred other little touches, fleeting, tentative, not ready...
Illya opened his eyes and continued reading. Across from Verse XCIV was a drawing of the scarlet rose from Napoleon's garden held by a hand which he recognised as Napoleon's. After Verse CI, Illya closed the book, tied the ribbon and slipped it under his pillow. It was such a long, long time until April, he thought and lay down and fell back to sleep.
********************
There was a series of firm raps on the cabin door. "Just a minute," Sergei called from the bathroom doorway.
"Come up on deck. New York's coming into view," Alicia called. "Everyone's heading up there."
"All right. We'll be with you in a couple minutes," Sergei answered. He heard her footsteps and the other voices in the hall moving away. He dried his face and pulled on a turtleneck sweater. "Illya," he called as he slipped into his shoes. Illya mumbled and turned over. Leaning against the top bunk, Sergei shook Illya. "They've sighted New York. I'm going up on deck with the others. Come join us." Sergei noticed a bit of blue ribbon protruding from under the pillow and hanging over the side of the bed. He glanced at the bin and saw the crumpled brown paper. He stretched his arm across Illya and rolled him onto his back. "Come on. It's clear enough to see. Join us."
Illya opened his eyes and slowly focussed on Sergei's face. He nodded. "OK, I will. You go ahead."
"Don't fall back asleep," Sergei warned. "Come quickly."
Illya sat up a bit. "Alright, I'm waking up, really. You go on." He sat up completely and hung his legs over the side. "See, I'm almost out of bed already."
Sergei smiled and stood back so Illya could slide down. He watched Illya close the bathroom door behind him before taking his coat and scarf and leaving.
**********************
Two busloads of dancers and musicians and a truck full of scenery, costumes and instruments pulled away from the quayside in the frigid New York afternoon. Despite the temperature and the lowering skies which promised snow, the atmosphere on the buses was festive.
Sergei leaned across Illya and pointed out the window. "There it is - The Big Apple," he said. Illya turned towards him, wincing.
"I knew you were going to say that," Illya laughed ruefully.
"And I don't like to disappoint," Sergei smiled.
"And indeed you don't," Illya whispered quietly.
Sergei turned slightly from the window to catch Illya's eye. His eyelids lowered halfway and his smile spread. "Why, thank you," he answered very softly.
****************
The company formed quite a mob in the lobby of the hotel. Illya meandered off to browse in the windows of the closed shops. Although not one of the most exclusive hotels in New York City, the array of items available in its shops was impressive both in variety and cost. Books, clothing, chocolates, jewels were all there to satisfy the hotel clientele's needs without the trouble of battling either the traffic or the weather. For about twice the price, Illya estimated, judging by the books alone. He smiled at the tiny price tags on the jewels, most turned blank side up. He was just turning away when a display in the lower left hand corner of the window caught his eye. It was devoted to antique jewelry and other accessories. There was a small pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses. Opera glasses are beginning to have erotic associations, he thought. He leaned down to see if the price tag was readable. It was not, but behind the glasses he spied another item. It appeared to be a seal, the long handle apparently of rosewood, its top carved into a rose. A rose seal, Illya thought. ...And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand, My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. "The two with scarlet wax," he murmured to himself.
"Illya," Sergei joined him at the window. "Found something?" he asked.
"I think I may have," Illya smiled and glanced at the door to read the opening hours. "I'll come down in the morning."
"Good," Sergei said. "They may even take post right from here. We can ask when we check in. The crowd has cleared."
Illya looked towards the desk and nodded. "Let's find out where we're sleeping tonight," he said.
As they reached the counter they overheard the manager apologising, "We're so sorry, Mr. Linetskiy. I know your reservations were made months ago, but the plumbing malfunctioned only yesterday. We'll substitute two single rooms for the same price as the double room and one is only across the hall from the reserved room."
They couldn't hear what Mr. Linetskiy said in reply, but the manager apologised further. "I know the other room is one floor up." He nodded. "Two of your principal dancers...yes, sir. We deeply regret the inconvenience...we'll move them back as soon as the plumbing is fixed, but this week...yes, sir...complimentary champagne to your room, sir. We are so sorry."
Arturo Linetskiy noticed Sergei and Illya standing nearby. "Gentlemen, your rooms have been changed. I've done what I could." He shook his head, picked up his key from the counter and headed towards the luggage trolleys. The manager spoke quietly to one of his staff who nodded several times, then he caught up with Mr. Linetskiy and continued to offer variations of his apologies.
The clerk turned a smiling face to Illya and Sergei and her eyes widened. Illya noted her erect carriage and the way her hair was pulled smoothly back into a bun at the nape of her neck and thought he understood why she stammered when she asked them to sign the ledger. Sergei smiled his most charming smile and obliged. She quickly took two keys and some papers from the cubbyholes behind her and offered one to Sergei. Illya glanced up from his signature and saw Sergei touch her fingers lightly as he took the key. Her cheeks reddened. Illya cleared his throat and the clerk turned her bright eyes on him. He extended his hand towards the other key dangling from hers.
"Oh, yes," she said, startled. "Here is your key, Mr. Kuryakin. There is also a message for you." She handed him the small envelope in her other hand.
"Thank you," he said, staring at the writing on the envelope.
"Of course," he heard Sergei say.
Illya walked to the nearest chair and sat on the arm. He posted a letter to the hotel management with this inside, he reasoned. He nodded to himself and opened the envelope. The small card within had two lines:
Box Five
Tomorrow's forecast: Precipitation
Sergei appeared by the chair. "She asked me to autograph a newspaper article about our tour," he said quietly, the smile audible in his voice. "And they'll take items for the post right at the reception desk." Illya looked up slowly and held out the papers in his hand. Sergei took them. "It's your artist's handwriting. He's here?" Sergei asked.
"It would appear," Illya answered.
"Same number box as in London," Sergei observed. Illya nodded. "What does it mean about the forecast?" Sergei asked.
"There will be a car waiting for me after the performance. It's been rather a joke with us that it always rains on Saturday night so he waits for me in a taxi," Illya explained.
"So he'll be at the performance tomorrow in Box Five and he'll wait to bring you back afterwards," Sergei clarified. Illya nodded. "I think perhaps your artist is finally ready."
"I think you may be right," Illya agreed.
Sergei lay his hand on Illya's shoulder. "You need to do some Christmas shopping in the morning," he said.
Illya nodded again and stood up.
**************
A satisfied smile played along Illya's lips as he contemplated the small box in front of him. He had presented himself at the jeweller's door as the clerk was switching on the lights in the display cases. A few minutes later both the opera glasses and the rose seal were his. The jeweller had also provided the information that the hotel's stationery shop carried an extensive choice of sealing wax. Illya had found scarlet among them. The fragrant sticks of wax lay now amidst the crinkled tissue paper with the seal and the glasses in the elegant box supplied by the jewellery store. Illya lowered the lid and turned to his note pad. With quick, sure strokes he finished transcribing the diagrams of a dance upon it. His smile grew as he proceeded, his hand rose with a flourish on the last stroke.
He took a small blank card and wrote Napoleon's first name on it. Using the tip of his nail scissors, he made a hole in the corner and threaded the scarlet ribbon which he had also found at the stationer's through the hole and knotted it. Carefully, he tore the diagrammed sheet from his pad and folded it around the box.
"No tape!" he grumbled and looked at his watch. The bus left for the theatre in a quarter hour. In a whirl, he slipped on his coat and scarf, dropped his key in his pocket, rolled the diagram and tied it with the ribbon, the card dangling from the end, grabbed his satchel and gently picked up the box. He heard the ding of the elevator arriving as he approached it. He checked his watch again - ten minutes.
The clerk who was so fond of Sergei was at the reception desk. "How may I help you, Mr. Kuryakin," she smiled, then looked down. Likes us both, it seems, Illya thought. "I need a bit of tape to finish wrapping a gift," he said in a rush.
"This kind?" the girl asked, reaching below the counter and bringing out a heavy dispenser.
"Yes, exactly. Thank you," Illya replied glancing at his watch as he set the box on the desktop. "I'm running a bit late, I'm afraid." He set his satchel on the floor, slipped the ribbon off the paper and unrolled it.
"May I be of help?" the clerk asked.
Illya read her name tag. "If you could hold the paper in place, it would be a great help, Felicity," he replied, quickly taping the box lid down and flipping it over onto the blank side of the paper. "Just there, please," he said as he brought the two ends of the paper together around the box. "Brilliant," he said when she pressed her index finger in the right spot while he taped the edges of the paper together. He folded one end closed and glanced up. Felicity passed him a piece of tape, then another. "Wonderful," he said and turned the box to seal the other end. "Now for the ribbon," he consulted his watch again. "I've about three minutes," he said. "You'll make it," Felicity encouraged as he looped the ribbon around the package. She read the name on the card.
"Is that for Mr. Solo?" she asked. Illya looked up from his bow tying. "I could put it in his box for you."
"Napoleon Solo?" Illya clarified, not proceeding with the bow.
Felicity reddened, "I...I..."
"That would be a great help," Illya said, concentrating on the bow. "I didn't realise he'd checked in already." He finished tying. "Would you have a bag I could put this in?"
Felicity knelt down for an instant and came up with a white garment bag. "Will this do?"
"Perfect," Illya replied and slipped the wrapped present inside and taped the ends closed. He took the pen from the ledger and wrote "N. Solo" in block letters on the plastic.
"Illya!" Sergei called from the door. "We're going!"
"Thank you again, Felicity," Illya said, pushing the bag towards her. He swooped down for his bag and was across the lobby and out the door in an instant.
Felicity wrote "Penthouse 3" on a small piece of paper and taped it to the bag beneath the name, walked down to the end of the shelf behind her and placed the package there.
***************
"You must have booked these seats months ago," Genvieve said, as she settled into her seat at the front of the box.
Alexander glanced at Napoleon as he helped Marguerite off with her velvet evening cloak.
Napoleon nodded, "I did," he said, noticing Alexander's scrutiny.
"There aren't any to be had in Paris," Genvieve continued. "His return is quite the sensation. There are those who thought it almost unpatriotic for him to leave, and others who hint at negotiations for him to return on his own terms."
"Artists like Kuryakin are international; they belong to the world," Marguerite pronounced, taking another front seat.
"Tell that to the Soviets," Alexander suggested, taking the seat behind Marguerite.
"That is why they have to escape," Aunt Aurelia added after Napoleon had pushed her chair forward for her. "Artists and ideas should be free to circulate. Like air, they are essential for survival, and belong to no one," she concluded, opening the programme.
"I didn't realise you were such an internationalist," Alexander remarked.
"You couldn't tell by looking at my family?" Aunt Aurelia retorted.
Napoleon sat down silently behind his aunt, digesting Genvieve's information.
*******************
"The New York Times' correspondent is in the second row," Alicia whispered to Sergei.
"Which one?" Sergei asked.
"Nearly in the middle, white rose in his lapel, wavy silver-grey hair," she answered, handing him the opera glasses.
"Who are you finding?" Illya asked, joining them.
"I've spotted three journalists already," Alicia explained.
"Is there a prize for who finds the most?" Illya asked. "And how do you know what they look like?" He tapped Sergei on the shoulder. "Can I use them next?"
"Some have little pictures next to their by-lines," Alicia replied and others I've seen in magazine photos of opening nights, galas and such."
"Hmmh," Illya said. "You two are fountains of information. Who else have you spotted?"
Sergei took a step back and handed the glasses to Illya. "The Times and The Washington Post correspondents. Oh, and Box Five is full," Sergei answered. Illya adjusted the focus. "Five of them, I think."
"Hurry, Illya," Alicia urged. "The New York Herald Tribune and the Chicago Tribune should be near the front, too."
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"A kind word to the fellow in the box office."
"Ah." Illya found Napoleon seated behind his aunt. There were two young women next to her, talking with one another. One is probably his cousin Marguerite. He watched Napoleon lean forward to speak to his aunt. She handed him her opera glasses. Illya smiled. Napoleon was scanning the closed curtain. He paused when he was facing Illya. The lenses may be catching the light, Illya thought. The young man seated to Napoleon's right tapped his shoulder. Napoleon passed him the glasses. Handsome and fair-haired, Illya thought and narrowed his eyes. The man scanned the other boxes and returned the glasses. You look anxious. Don't be anxious, Napoleon. Tonight I'll teach you how to follow my choreography. The young women were both using opera glasses now. One seemed to be watching the members of the orchestra arrive, the other was surveying the audience. Illya observed the man giving Napoleon a couple sidelong glances before he leaned forward between the young women and said something which made them both smile.
Illya handed the glasses to Alicia, who resumed her reconnaissance, and headed towards the dressing rooms with Sergei. Halfway down the corridor, Illya remarked, "He's staying at our hotel."
Sergei raised both his eyebrows. "Very ready," he said and nodded for emphasis.
******************
Feathery snowflakes were falling when Illya opened the stage door. The lamp over the door illuminated the landing and the steps down to the pavement, but made the darkness beyond more obscure. Illya leaned over the railing to see if he could spot the taxi's lights.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, "Excuse me, Mr. Kuryakin, the car is this way." He gestured to his left.
Illya went down the steps and followed him. The car was a black Lincoln with only its parking lights on. The driver opened the back door. Illya ducked his head in and smiled. "Good evening, Napoleon," he said and sat down. The driver closed the door. Illya heard him get in the front and put the car in gear. He turned towards Napoleon. Napoleon reached over and brushed a few of the large snowflakes off Illya's sleeve. Illya looked at the hand outlined against the dark cloth for a moment. "I didn't think I would be seeing you until the spring," he said, looking up at Napoleon.
Napoleon froze, his hand still on Illya's left arm, looking back into that steady gaze. Illya slipped off his right glove and lay his hand over Napoleon's. "I'm glad I didn't have to wait that long," Illya said. Napoleon slid his hand out from under Illya's and sat back, his head tilting backwards until it rested on the top of the seat cushion. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "Me, too," he said.
****************
The lobby was bustling when they arrived, with people leaving or entering the restaurant or the bar. There were no other customers at reception though when Napoleon and Illya walked up. The night manager put down a telephone, positioned himself to intercept Napoleon and handed him his key as he reached the desk. "Dinner is on its way up to your room as we speak, sir." Napoleon smiled appreciatively while trying to catch the murmured compliments the young desk clerk was delivering to Illya along with his room key. "There is also a package for you, sir," the manager added as Napoleon signed in. He held out the parcel. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "It was dropped off this afternoon, sir."
"Thank you," Napoleon replied.
"Thank you, Felicity," Illya said, taking an envelope from her.
"Bon appetit, sir," the manager added and inclined his head.
"Merci," Napoleon replied and headed for the elevator a step behind Illya.
***************
The elevator was nearly full with jovial guests coming up from the parking garage. Illya stepped in first and Napoleon followed. Leaning across Napoleon, Illya pushed the top button. Napoleon drew in a breath and held it for a while. A few of the merrymakers exited on the sixth floor, when the rest left on the eighth, Illya asked, "You weren't here last night?"
"No, I stayed with my aunt, but it's a bit crowded and I didn't wish to share a room with Alexander for too long," Napoleon replied.
"He fancies you, doesn't he?" Illya asked. Napoleon raised his eyebrows.
"I saw you before the performance started," Illya said.
Napoleon nodded. "He may, but my cousin seems to fancy him."
"And he's encouraging it," Illya commented as the doors opened on the top floor. "Right or left?"
"Left. He is. How long were you watching?"
"Long enough," Illya answered. "Which of the young women is your cousin?"
"Can't you guess?" Napoleon ventured.
"The one next to your aunt." Illya turned to study Napoleon's face for a moment. "The resemblance isn't strong, but there is un air de famille, right down to the look of sadness on her face when she isn't smiling," Illya said, tapping Napoleon's arm with the unopened envelope in his hand.
"Is there anything you don't see?" Napoleon asked as they neared the door. "That," he said, gesturing at the envelope with his key, "is an invitation from Aunt Aurelia for New Year's Eve." Napoleon slid the key into the lock.
Before he could turn it, a waiter opened the door and stood back for Napoleon and Illya to enter. "Dinner is served, sir," he said. The opening strains of Claire de Lune were playing in the background. "The fire is lit. The wine is breathing and the champagne is on ice. Would you like it uncorked?"
"No, thank you." Napoleon said.
"Shall I put that away for you before I go?" the waiter asked, reaching for the garment bag under Napoleon's arm.
Napoleon glanced down at the bundle. "No, no that's fine," he replied and handed the waiter a tip.
"Good-night, sir," he said and closed the door quietly behind him.
"I can't imagine what this is," Napoleon murmured and set it down on a small table to take off his coat.
"Why don't you look?" Illya suggested as he hung his coat on the coat tree by the door and turned to survey the suite.
In the corner of the large art deco room, a table laid for two was positioned between two floor to ceiling windows. The city lights were sparkling through the falling snow. "It's a dazzling view," Illya said, walking over to the windows.
Napoleon headed towards the champagne, ripping open the taped ends of the garment bag as he went. He drew out the package and saw the diagrams on the wrapping paper. He let the plastic bag drift out of his hand onto the sofa he was passing. The box was nearly the same size as the one in which he had posted Illya his book. He's not returning it to me, is he? Napoleon thought, a chill passing through him. He looked over to where Illya was standing with his back to him, the window reflecting his face and hands, his dark clothing lost against the night sky.
"I didn't see you being here," Illya said.
Was that hint of disappointment in his voice because I didn't tell him I was coming or because I'm here? Napoleon debated.
"I didn't have time to prepare like you did," Illya continued, speaking to the cold night.
I didn't mean to hurt. I acted with love, Napoleon pled silently, not moving. You acted like a coward, a harsher internal voice replied. If he rejected you, you wouldn't be there to face it, wouldn't even know of it for days. And you were selfish and cowardly not to tell him you were coming, so you could change your mind until the last moment. Napoleon sought Illya's eyes in the glass. They were shadowed, unreadable.
Finally, Illya turned. "Why don't you open it?" he said, walking over to the champagne and drawing it out of the ice. He wiped the moisture from the bottle with the linen towel folded by the bucket.
Napoleon nodded and pulled one end of the scarlet ribbon. The bow untied completely; there was no knot. Napoleon gathered the ribbon, tucked it into his pocket and sat on the arm of the couch. He stared at the series of symbols on the paper, hoping to unravel their meaning.
Laying the towel aside, Illya took hold of the icy champagne bottle in one hand and slowly peeled off the foil. He crushed it into a small ball and dropped it into a nearby ashtray. Slowly, he began to untwist the wire around the neck of the bottle.
Turning the package over, Napoleon slipped his finger under the folds of paper and eased off the tape at one end, then the other. He glanced at Illya who was inching the cork out of the bottle neck with his thumbs. Napoleon unstuck the bit of tape holding the two ends of wrapping paper together. The plain blue box yielded no clue. Napoleon flipped it upright, broke the tape holding down the lid, and lifted it. The champagne cork popped. Napoleon probed the crumpled tissue paper. He pulled out an irregular mass cloaked in tissue and sighed. His book was not inside. He looked over at Illya who turned with the filled champagne glasses at that moment and lifted his chin in an encouraging gesture. Napoleon unwrapped the object and held the opera glasses up, smiling. "They're wonderful."
Illya walked towards him. "The better to watch me with," he said. Illya held out a full glass to Napoleon who set the opera glasses on the coffee table to accept it.
"Thank you," Napoleon said, brushing Illya's fingers as he carefully took the full glass.
Raising his in salute, Illya said, "To the Big Apple."
Napoleon raised his. "To the Big Apple," he echoed and took a long sip of champagne.
"Is New York home, Napoleon?"
"One of them, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder whether I have two or three homes or none at all," Napoleon replied, finishing the other half of the champagne and putting his glass down. He returned to the box on his lap.
"I understand that," Illya said, emptying his glass and going to fetch the bottle. He bent down to refill Napoleon's, then his and returned the bottle to the ice. He heard the tissue rustling.
"Oh," Napoleon said, the syllable drawn out. Illya turned to find Napoleon examining the carving on the handle of the seal, then the metal stamp. "The Rose of Lancaster," Napoleon said. He fished in the tissue again and came up with the sticks of sealing wax and looked over to Illya. "I can send you scarlet roses," he said.
Illya finished his glass of champagne, filled it again and walked back to the windows. "The view would be better without the overhead lights," he said. He strode to the door and flicked the switch next to it. The city lights sharpened and the flames of the candles on the table became visible. Illya walked back to where Napoleon was sitting. "Why are you in New York, Napoleon?" Illya asked, taking a long sip of the cold champagne.
Napoleon drank half his glass before he answered. "I have a commission here," he said, then swallowed the other half. He set the empty box and the cryptic wrapping paper on the table and went to retrieve the champagne bottle. Illya finished his glass and set it next to Napoleon's. Napoleon filled them both and handed Illya his. He left the empty bottle on the glass table.
"What did you have first, Napoleon, the tickets for tonight's performance or the commission?"
Napoleon took another long draught before he answered. "The tickets for this week," he replied. "Shall we?" he said, moving to the dinner table and pulling out one chair and then the other.
Illya joined him, sat down at the table and asked again, "So why did you come to New York, Napoleon?"
Napoleon drained his glass and sat down across from Illya, pulling in his chair and resting his arm along the edge of the table. "For you," he said, looking down at his hand. Illya sat, silently. Napoleon raised his eyes until he was looking directly at Illya. "I came for you."
Illya held the gaze and reached one hand across the table. He rested it on top of Napoleon's. Illya's fingers were cold against his flushed skin. Napoleon shivered.
"The illustrations you sent me are beautiful," Illya said, withdrawing his hand slowly. Napoleon's eyes wandered over Illya's face, waiting for more. Illya flicked his napkin open and smiled. "How old were you when you started it?"
"Nineteen. Shortly after I arrived in Rome," Napoleon answered, lifting the cover from the platter of raw oysters in the center of the table.
"I used to recite that verse to myself after particularly tedious days at school," Illya remarked as he reached out for a shell and tipped it delicately into his mouth. Napoleon wrenched his eyes away. "I expected to find more drawings of you," Illya continued, raising another shell.
"My style has improved. I didn't think the others were good enough to include," Napoleon answered.
"It wasn't that the drawings contained others?" Illya pressed, selecting a third oyster and looking over it at Napoleon.
"No, that was my architectural phase," Napoleon laughed. "You would never have thought a future portrait artist was in the making. I tried 'the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep' and the Sultan's Turret being caught in a Noose of Light."
"What changed that?"
"Rome. A city full of statues. On the buildings, in the fountains. They converted me. I suppose it's an odd route to take to appreciation of the human form," Napoleon said, moving the empty platter to the bottom shelf of the serving trolley. He uncovered two bowls of Waldorf salad and placed them on the table. Illya cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the mixture of apples and walnuts. "I'm feeding you all my favourites," Napoleon said. Illya looked up at him as he closed his lips over a bite of apple and slid the fork out from between them. And if the wine you drink, the lips you press... Napoleon thought, reaching out for the wine bottle to fill first Illya's glass and then his own.
"It's delicious," Illya said. "I haven't had this before."
Napoleon smiled. "I'm glad you like it," he said, feeling envious of the walnuts Illya's fork was carrying to his mouth.
Illya took a sip of the red wine. The flavour took his whole mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment and gave a small murmur of appreciation. When he opened them again, he glanced at the bottle, but the label was turned towards Napoleon.
A light, tingling sensation made Napoleon shift in his seat. He could feel the flush creeping up his cheeks and was grateful for the discretion of the candlelight.
Illya smiled. "What have you chosen for the entree?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "Or do you want to surprise me?" he asked, not completely blunting the pointedness of his words.
Despite the barb, I want to devour you, was all Napoleon could think, but said instead, "Wait and see."
"Alright," Illya said, leaning back and letting the tip of his index finger circle the rim of his wine glass for a moment before he lifted it and took another sip. "Viola's started working on the designs you sent for the men's costumes. Come backstage tomorrow after the performance. I'll introduce you and you can see what she's done so far."
Napoleon sat up straighter. "She wouldn't mind?" he asked.
"Not at all," Illya replied. "Viola's been wanting to meet you." He took another sip of wine. "Interpreting an artist's work in another medium is a rather intimate enterprise. I think she feels like she already knows you." Illya met Napoleon's eyes and continued to sip his wine.
****************
If the Soul can fling the Dust aside, Napoleon recited to himself. He felt as though his soul was trying to do just that and enter those blue portals unencumbered by clumsy flesh. It happened every time Illya stared directly into his eyes. An image of those same eyes closing in pleasure, flashed through Napoleon's mind. Illya set down his glass and broke the spell.
"I have something I would like to show you," Napoleon announced, rising. "I'll only be a moment." He made himself walk steadily out of the room rather than running to his bedroom to retrieve the drawings he had there.
**************
Debussy's String Quartet was playing while Illya watched the snowfall. It was heavier than when he had left the theatre and the wind blew it to and fro in billowing sheets.
"Tell me what you think?" Napoleon said when he returned, holding out a folder. Illya took it and walked over to a small lamp by the couch to open it. Napoleon cleared the salad bowls, refilled the wine glasses and set out the dinner plates. He glanced over and saw Illya pulling the sheer dark blue silk over the first drawing.
"Yes," Illya said, striding back to the table. "We will dance in front of this as the wind blows out of that cloud by night." He tapped the cloud on the silk which obscured the sun in the first backdrop.
"And the last scene?" Napoleon asked, his hand stopped midair with the cover from one plate in his hand.
Illya slid the last paper out of the folder. There were architectural drawings of a mausoleum from four sides with dimensions noted.
"This slides out for the final scene rather than drawing it on another backdrop," Illya said, nodding. "The doors will open and Annabel Lee's ghost will come to dance with me. When it returns to her tomb, I will lie down in front of it. Add steps," he said. "I can finish stretched out on the steps."
Napoleon put the cover on the serving trolley, took the folder from Illya, then a pencil from his inside jacket pocket and drew a few lines. "There," he said, handing it back.
Illya leaned closer to the candles on the table. "Yes. Like that."
Taking the file back smiling, Napoleon extended his hand over the table. "Assieds-toi, s'il te plait," he said. The aroma of steak au poivre rose from the table.
"You have been very busy," Illya commented as he settled into his chair.
"You are right about it being an intimate endeavour," Napoleon replied. "I could hear your voice describing your movements as I painted."
Illya was cutting into the thick fillet. He glanced up without raising his head and immobilised Napoleon for a moment, then he finished carving a thin slice of the rare meat.
**************
The firelight was reflected in the amber liquid as Napoleon handed Illya his cognac. "You're nearly done then?"
"Only with the outline and a few short sequences," Illya replied from a lounging position in the arm chair. "Mostly I've been finishing Regent's Park. Once the parts were announced, I could work with the dancers. Plus we were rehearsing." He took a long draught of the cognac. Napoleon watched the muscles of Illya's throat ripple as he swallowed. "Are you ready for your dance lesson?" Illya asked, setting his glass down.
Napoleon looked startled. "Dance lesson?"
Illya stretched as he rose from his chair. "The third part of your present," he explained. "I choreographed a dance for you and I'm going to begin teaching you how to read the diagrams."
Napoleon downed the rest of his cognac and accepted the hand Illya held out to him.
***************
They stood facing one another in the middle of the living room. "First," Illya said, sliding his hands under Napoleon's lapels and pushing his jacket backwards off his shoulders, "we need to remove this." Illya draped it over his arm. "And this," he added, tugging at one end of Napoleon's bow tie and pulling it away. Illya turned and lay them over the arm of the chair and took his jacket off as well. "Now the shoes and socks," he directed and took his off. Napoleon followed suit. "And these need undoing," he remarked, returning to stand in front of Napoleon. He undid the first two studs on Napoleon's shirt. He took a step back and considered Napoleon. "The cuff links, too," he instructed. Napoleon removed them and dropped them in his pocket. Illya pushed up the sleeves of his turtleneck. "Roll back your sleeves," he said. Napoleon turned the French cuffs over twice. Illya smiled and moved forward. He took the sides of the open collar and pushed them farther apart. He paused, considering, and then undid a third stud. Illya tilted his head, and undid a fourth. "There," he said, dropping the studs into Napoleon's pocket, then smoothing his hand up the exposed chest to spread open the sides of the shirt. "And you don't need that," he stated and reached around to unhook Napoleon's cummerbund. "Now rise on your toes a few times," Illya directed and began to do so while unbuckling his belt. He tossed them over the back of the couch. Napoleon rose on his toes. Illya nodded, "Now stretch," he said and lifted his arms above his head and out to his side. Napoleon copied the movements. Illya twisted his arms and wrists. Napoleon did the same. Illya closed his eyes and rotated his neck clockwise and then back. Napoleon paused on tiptoe and watched the fair head loll against one shoulder and then the other. Illya opened his eyes. "Do it again," he said and Napoleon complied for the first time. "Lean to the left, to the right. Now arch backwards," Illya directed, flowing through the movements himself. "Bend forwards. Let your arms dangle at your sides. Again."
"Now," he said, walking back to the coffee table to pick up the wrapping paper, "for the first position, sit on the floor." Illya turned back. "Draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them," he instructed and knelt by Napoleon. "See the first diagram there," he said, pointing at the paper. Napoleon lifted his head and looked. "Since this is the start, there are no directions for moving the limbs, just for position." Napoleon nodded. "Can you see where your head should be?" Illya asked. Napoleon rested his head on his knees facing Illya. "OK, this mark, means face forward. Here it is the back of the head." Napoleon turned his head away. Illya's hand pressed from the front of Napoleon's knees down to the top of his feet and pushed. His other hand pressed in the opposite direction at the bottom of Napoleon's spine. "Close together. This is not a resting position, the body is tenser. Tighter. Grab your elbows. Tuck you head inwards a bit." He placed his hand on the crown of Napoleon's head and pushed slightly. "There." Illya stood to walk around Napoleon's crouched form and knelt on the other side. He tapped the second diagram on the paper. "See that mark?" he asked.
"Mmm," Napoleon acknowledged.
"When I give the cue...that would be the music eventually...but for now I will speak...lift your head and turn it in my direction slowly. I'll direct the rest of the movements this time. Later we'll go over how they are represented here." Illya waved the paper and set it aside. "Wait for my cue."
*****************
Napoleon waited. He couldn't hear Illya moving. He was facing the back of the white couch. His feet were cold despite the carpet. He hugged his legs closer. A sense of loneliness settled on him.
"Gradually, raise your head and turn it towards me," Illya instructed. Napoleon felt his muscles move as bidden, drawn by Illya's voice. By a hope?
"Curving it slowly, extend your right arm towards me," Illya said. "And when your arm is fully extended, palm up, spread your fingers and stretch them out towards me. Don't look down at it. Keep looking at me. Feel the movement. You don't need to watch your arm to direct it."
The room was dim. Napoleon couldn't see Illya's expression clearly, but his form was clear, the supple hands and forearms, the pale feet, the fair face and golden hair distinct against the shadows. Napoleon's arm stretched out, he felt the muscles uncurling, saw his fingertips at the periphery of his vision reaching towards that distant figure. From the first, I wanted, didn't I? Napoleon asked himself. Yes. I did.
Illya began to sway, left, then right. He turned, stepped back, deeper into the shadows, then forward again. Onto his toes. A small leap to the left, then the right, but he moved no closer.
"One by one, starting with the little finger, fold your fingers back to your palm. Keep looking at me," Illya said.
Yes, come to me, Napoleon thought. Please. From the first, I wanted you.
"Uncurl your left arm, sweep it towards me, but with the palm facing your inner arm, and don't stop until it is fully extended to your left and then turn the palm up."
It felt good to unwrap his arms.
Illya rose onto the balls of his feet and executed a pirouette.
"Keeping your arms as they are, slowly extend your right leg at a forty-five degree angle to your body and point your foot. Now lower your left leg still bent and touch your left foot to the side of your right knee, foot pointing. Extend the fingers of your right hand and close them, as before back, against your palm," Illya instructed. "Keep your back straight. Keep looking at me and breath in and out deeply and slowly."
I wasn't breathing, Napoleon realised and took a deep breath.
Illya stretched his arms above his head, then did an arabesque.
So beautiful, Napoleon thought. So strong.
"Watch me," Illya said. "I'm going to assume your position and demonstrate your next move."
Napoleon watched Illya rise from that position to a kneeling position, his body facing left, but his head turned to look straight ahead. Napoleon imitated the movement. He smiled.
Illya smiled back. "Now repeat the gesture with the fingers of your right hand."
Napoleon did, then watched Illya lunge to the floor and lift his head and chest off the floor in an arc.
"Keeping your arms in position, rise to a standing position and repeat the movement with the fingers once and then leave the fingers outstretched."
Napoleon complied. This time Illya moved forward and took his outstretched hand. "Hold tight and don't move," Illya said and twirled until he was standing in front of Napoleon, his outstretched right hand resting in the open palm of Napoleon's right hand, his left hand still grasping Napoleon's left hand, the arms folded to his chest. "I will lean slightly right and turn my head towards you. You lean in the opposite direction and turn your head to look at me."
Those mesmerising eyes are so close, Napoleon thought. The pupils so large. Like twin eclipses.
"Close your left hand over mine," Illya said and wiggled his fingers slightly to confirm which hand he meant. Napoleon's hand obeyed. Illya pulled them both in so they rested over their other hands against his chest. "Breathe deeply, Napoleon," he said.
Napoleon wanted to close his eyes. When he took a deep breath, his chest rubbed against Illya's back. He exhaled with regret. I don't want to let go.
"I'm going to spin away," Illya said. "Let go with this hand," he moved their clasped left hands slightly for clarity, "but hold firm with the right." Napoleon opened his fingers and Illya spun out of his arms, only the fingers of their right hands still touching. "Hold," Illya said and spun to Napoleon's right side then stepped close, folding their arms until he nearly touched. Another step brought him behind Napoleon. Illya pulled both their hands down to Napoleon's waist. "Breathe, Napoleon," he repeated and took Napoleon's left hand in his and brought them to rest just below their other hands. "Keep breathing, deeply, in and out," he instructed and did the same. Napoleon felt Illya's chest against his back, his arms around his waist. "Why did you come, Napoleon?" Illya whispered.
Napoleon startled. "I couldn't bear to be away from you," Napoleon whispered back. I couldn't bear the idea that I might have lost the chance to feel this, Napoleon thought, closing his eyes.
"I'm going to turn you around," Illya said. Sightlessly, Napoleon let himself be guided. He felt a pressure on the back of his neck and Illya's warm lips against his. His mouth opened to the warmth, yielded to the explorations of Illya's tongue, wanted more of it. There was an arm around his waist and it pulled him against more warmth. "Warm me", he wished to plead, but his mouth was already warmed and wouldn't speak. A low sound welled up from his throat. Napoleon's arms curved around the warmth. Clung to it.
Illya rose on tiptoe within those arms, sliding upwards against Napoleon until he was looking down at him. He tilted Napoleon's chin up and took his mouth again. Illya's fingers eased into Napoleon's hair and slowly he slid back down. Illya's tongue withdrew; his lips closed around Napoleon's lower lip and suckled, then Illya's lips released his. Napoleon drew in an uneven breath and opened his eyes. Illya held his gaze, his hands reaching up to frame Napoleon's face, thumbs stroking along Napoleon's cheeks, fingers massaging Napoleon's temples.
Napoleon's hand tightened against the lean muscle at Illya's waist. Illya's hand slid down Napoleon's back and pulled him closer, his lips moving along Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon turned his head and let those soft lips caress his ear, his neck. He heard Illya asking yet again, "Why did you come?"
"For this," Napoleon sighed.
"You made me wait a long time to do this," Illya said, skimming his teeth over Napoleon's skin.
"I know," Napoleon answered. "I'm sorry."
Illya stopped. A broad hand turned Napoleon's head. "But now you've come. Across the ocean. I can forgive you." Napoleon felt the full lips against his again and he couldn't repress the sounds he made in response. Illya's lips brushed over his chin. His shirt was pushed aside as Illya left light kisses at the base of his throat, across his chest until he came to more sensitive flesh. Napoleon moaned then. Illya's hold tightened as he moved his lips to the other side. His shirt front was pulled apart, the last two studs popping. Illya dragged his lips lower. Napoleon dug his fingers into Illya's back and pressed himself against that tantalising mouth. Two hands slid beneath his waistband at the small of his back, circling around either side to the front and undid his fly. Napoleon's trousers dropped to the floor.
"Illya?" he whispered.
Illya straightened and pressed his full body against Napoleon. "Yes, Napoleon."
"Do you forgive me?" Napoleon breathed.
Illya drew his head back and regarded Napoleon, "I am forgiving you," he answered, then kissed the penitent mouth and crushed Napoleon against him.
**************
He was cold when he woke. Napoleon rolled onto his back and pulled the blankets over himself. They slid smoothly into place. He took a deep breath and nestled into the pillow. Napoleon's eyes flew open, but the darkness gave no token except the glowing tips of the hands on his alarm clock. Four. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No, no, no! It wasn't a dream. No! He rubbed his face against the pillow. No, I couldn't have invented that. Not even in a dream. Napoleon visualised the diagrams. With a pencil I could probably recreate them, he thought. He took another deep breath. I held him. He kissed me. Looked into me. Asked me why I had come.
"I can't bear to be away from you," Napoleon whispered to the darkness, his heart pounding.
There was a rustle and the mattress shifted. "Napoleon?" a sleepy voice asked. "Were you dreaming?"
Napoleon felt a body leaning over him. He reached up and found the soft hair. "You're really here?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm here," Illya answered. "You were dreaming."
"I feared I had been dreaming," Napoleon replied, pulling Illya's head down to him and kissing him until he felt Illya kissing him back.
****************
Illya picked up his satchel and began to turn away. Napoleon grabbed his shoulders and turned him back. "How can I stay here without you?" he asked, pushing Illya backwards until the wall stopped them. His hands went up into Illya's hair and he held his face. "How will I paint when I can't see you?" he said, looking directly into Illya's eyes. Napoleon's brows drew together. "When I can't hold you?" he asked and leaned forward to kiss Illya's lips again, pressed with his whole body to feel Illya muscular and warm against him, tilted his head to bring their lips more firmly together. Illya let the satchel slip from his fingers and brought his arms around Napoleon's waist, up his back. Napoleon sighed into Illya's mouth and raised his knee slowly between Illya's thighs. Illya pressed back against it. "How?" he breathed against Illya's lips when he drew back, resting his forehead against Illya's, his fingers rubbing distractedly through his silky hair. Illya's lips brushed against Napoleon's then he turned his head and raised his chin. Napoleon's hand held the back of Illya's head, his lips kissed the ear, the jaw and the neck presented to him.
"Remember this," Illya said and stretched his neck further. Napoleon nudged open the collar and kissed the lower part of Illya's neck. "Picture me like this," Illya directed.
Napoleon's hand slipped between them and undid two buttons and pushed Illya's shirt out of the path his mouth wanted to take to the pink flesh hidden beneath. Illya inhaled as Napoleon's tongue reached its goal. "Think of me." Illya exhaled. "In the evening, when you prepare to sleep."
Napoleon undid two more buttons and kissed down Illya's stomach, pressing hard against the muscles. Illya reached beneath Napoleon's chin and unbuckled his belt, slipped the button open. "In the night, if you awaken..."
Napoleon's lips lessened their pressure and his tongue smoothed the pearly skin below Illya's navel. Illya's fingers slipped under the waistband of his boxers, stretched them and slid them and his trousers past his hips. They fell the rest of the way to the floor. "Before you open your eyes in the morning..."
Napoleon felt a soft bump against the underside of his chin. "Feel me." Napoleon bent his head and breathed on the delicate skin, his tongue flicking out and over it before his mouth descended. "Taste me," Illya whispered and inhaled as Napoleon pressed downwards around him.
**************
Fiercely, Napoleon clasped Illya's hips and thighs. Illya couldn't move. Only Napoleon's tongue and lips and mouth moved, slowly or rapidly. In the silent room, Illya's breathing was audible. The sudden gasps when Napoleon plunged downwards, the sighs when he drew away, the low moans when Napoleon came back and the final cry, long, shuddering, almost a sob. Gradually, Napoleon released his hold, slipping down to a sitting position, his arms about Illya's knees. He looked up, his cheek resting on Illya's thigh. Illya's head was thrown back against the wall, his open white shirt framing his flushed skin. I'm still touching him and I want to touch more, Napoleon thought, gazing at the taut underside of Illya's jaw. Illya's head tilted forward and he looked down, dreamily. He slid down the wall. Napoleon's arms opened as he descended so that he held his shoulders when Illya reached the floor.
Illya kissed Napoleon's swollen lips; Napoleon sighed and Illya's tongue followed the breath inside, where it was warm and salty. He pushed Napoleon backwards until he was prone on the thick carpet and kissed him again. "Remember the sounds," Illya murmured when he lifted his head. Napoleon didn't open his eyes, but his lips parted invitingly as he sighed again. Illya's hand moved down Napoleon's chest, over his hip to the inside of his thigh and up.
"Ah," Napoleon exhaled. Illya rubbed slowly, down Napoleon's hip to his other thigh and up again more firmly.
"Your sounds and mine," Illya whispered and kissed Napoleon's cheek, then his chin. "Together. Like music," he said and lowered his head.
***************
Part 5 is here
**************
"What was the outcome?" Sergei asked when Illya got back to their cabin after the auditions.
"Fiona, Allegra and Antoinette," Illya said, moving to the closet. "I'm starved," he added.
"Just like in the drawings," Sergei remarked, slipping a cuff link through his cuff. "Except for Claire."
"Yes, it's interesting that," Illya said, hanging up his trousers and jacket. "The roles will be posted tomorrow morning. Then you and I and Alicia can begin practicing." Sergei nodded and clicked his other cuff link closed.
"Illya?" Sergei said, as he began to knot his bow tie. "Are you really not going to open your post?"
Illya tugged off his turtleneck, dropped it into the laundry bag and pulled a dress shirt from a hanger before he turned around.
"I'll open the drawings," he said slowly, slipping on the shirt and starting to button it.
"Before dinner?" Sergei urged, buckling his belt.
Illya glanced at his watch. "As soon as I'm dressed."
Sergei sat down on the bench to tie his shoes, then leaned back against the vanity table to watch Illya finish dressing.
"Are you going to stare at me until I'm ready?" Illya asked when he caught Sergei's gaze in the mirror on the closet door.
"Yes," Sergei said and reached behind him to grab the envelope.
Illya peeled off his socks, threw them in the laundry and got out a thinner pair. "Oh, all right," he said, walking over to Sergei with his socks still in hand. "Here, give me that." Sergei passed him the envelope.
****************
Viola O'Donnell opened her cabin door. "Two handsome young men come calling!" she exclaimed and stepped out into the hall. "Agatha's in the shower," she said, closing the door behind her.
Illya opened the envelope and drew out the drawings. Viola looked from the first to Sergei and back, then placed it behind the other papers. She continued silently for a few minutes.
"Will I look well in that colour?" Sergei asked her.
She took his chin in her hand and moved his head from side to side. "We'll get a shade of green that suits your complexion," she said letting her hand drop. "What's most important, of course, is the fit and we'll make sure it fits perfectly," she promised. "Your costume is ready," she said turning to Illya. "Come by tomorrow and we'll adjust it. When the girls' roles are announced, they need to come for fittings," she reminded him. "Otherwise, they're ready."
"Thank you," Illya said.
"Suggesting the thorns may be a challenge," Viola murmured, having returned her attention to the drawings. She looked up, "Good-night, gentlemen."
They both bowed. "Good-night, Mrs. O'Donnell."
Viola laughed and slipped back into her room.
*******************
As they walked along the corridors towards the Christmas party, Sergei exclaimed, "I can't believe you still haven't opened the package!"
"What made you think of that all of a sudden?" Illya asked, starting up the first set of stairs.
"It's Christmas Eve, that's why," Sergei said, following. "Your patience amazes me."
They swung around to the second flight of stairs. "Perhaps tonight at midnight, I will," Illya conceded. "I'm fairly sure it's a Christmas present, and I didn't give him anything," he explained.
"You can always post him something from New York," Sergei said.
"It'll be late," Illya replied.
"Don't forget, there are twelve days of Christmas," Sergei admonished. "He could have it by Little Christmas."
Illya nodded. "Fair enough. I'll send something from New York."
*************
Illya gamely crossed his arms in front of him offering one end of his cracker to his dinner companion on the left and grasping the end of the cracker of his dinner companion on his right. At the count of three they all pulled. Across the table there was a loud pop, then a squeal. Around the room other small explosions sounded, followed by screams and laughter. People began examining the contents of their crackers, comparing trinkets and putting paper hats on their heads as the starters were served. The wines were excellent, the food delicious and artfully presented, the conversation cheerful and witty.
After coffee and cordials, Illya sat back in his chair and let his gaze wander over the brightly lit room. The women all wore black or white or red or green gowns. Most of the men were in tuxedos. Some had opted for deep red or dark green bow ties, or red roses or holly in their buttonholes. There were even a few kilts adding variety.
The band was playing a medley of popular Christmas tunes in the background but the lights would soon dim and the band would switch to dance music. Illya smiled. It'll be a bit unfair to the other guests, he thought, to have so many professional dancers on the floor. But this was dancing for pleasure, anyone happy enough to dance should join in.
Excusing himself, Illya headed for the nearest door. The lights were being lowered. Several woman entered through the doorway just as he reached it. Back from a conference in the ladies' room, no doubt, Illya surmised and made to slip through as soon as they passed. He walked directly into Alicia.
"Caught you," she exclaimed, putting her arms around his neck.
"Excuse me, Alicia," Illya said and attempted to disengage himself.
"On, no, no, no," she replied, pressing against him and clinging tighter. "I've caught you good and proper and now you are obliged to kiss me," she announced.
"Alicia," Illya began to remonstrate, but she just pointed upwards.
Illya glanced at the branch of mistletoe over the doorway. "Ah," he said.
"Fair's fair," Alicia chided and turned them both so that she was leaning against the door frame. She drew his lips down towards hers.
Illya was surprised at how pleasing the fullness of her lips felt. One of her arms slid down to his waist and pulled him closer. His desire to resist had vanished and when the tip of her tongue pressed against his lips, he parted them for her and tilted his head so that she could penetrate more deeply.
One of her hands was caressing the back of his head and when she slowly drew her tongue back from his mouth, Illya followed with his. Her other hand fell limply from his back to her side. He shifted more of his weight against her. Her breasts felt soft against his chest. She made a small, sweet sound as his tongue stroked the inside of her upper lip. He raised one hand and brushed it across her cheek. Another pair of arms embraced him from behind. Illya felt a decidedly masculine pressure at the small of his back. Then he heard Sergei's voice whispering at his ear, "Pas de trois, Illya?"
He opened his eyes and looked into Alicia's dreamy ones. "Happy Christmas, Alicia," he said, slipping from between them. Alicia looked startled for a moment and then Sergei leaned forward and kissed her.
Illya glanced at his watch as he walked away. It was nearly midnight.
****************
They must have been quiet when they returned to the cabin because they didn't wake me then, Illya thought, as he lay in the darkness listening to the cries of their satisfaction subside. Sergei's been waiting months for this consummation. I'll have to wait months more for mine, he thought as he slid his hand under his pillow and felt the leather binding of the book that lay there. Maybe someone else will capture Napoleon's fancy now that he's finished recovering.
He had unwrapped the package when he came back to the cabin, ripped the brown paper wrapper off to reveal a plain white box made of card. He'd crumpled up the brown paper and thrown it in the bin. Then he had opened the white box. The present inside was wrapped in a deep blue cloth tied with an even darker blue ribbon. He'd set it on the vanity and gotten undressed, staring at it in the mirror all the while. He'd stood in front of it in his pyjamas until a chill had crept into him. He had turned off the lights and gotten into bed with it. Tucked it under the covers between him and the wall and fallen asleep. Maybe an hour later, he'd woken up, the present pressing painfully into his chest where he had rolled on top of it. He'd turned on the reading light and sat up with it in his lap for a long time before he'd taken the end of the ribbon and pulled. One pull had undone the knot. As the ribbon fell away the folds of the fabric opened and he could see the leather below - dark blue with gold letters. He'd brushed the rest of the cloth out of the way and read the title: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He'd run his fingers over the cover, feeling the suppleness of the leather, the tooling in it. It was tied closed with ribbons extending from inside the front and back covers. Slowly, he undid the bow and opened the cover. The endpapers were swirls of blue and green, the colours bleeding into each other as if the paper had been painted with one colour, then moistened and daubed with the other. Faintly, he could see where the ribbons were glued beneath the endpapers. He turned to the title page. It was handwritten and the writing was in the same hand as the address had been. The pages were thick because they were two leaves glued together. It was as he had suspected it might be, a hand-made book. He turned another page and read:
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes,
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
First verse, Fifth edition, Illya thought. Facing the verse was a variation of the pastel Napoleon had drawn of him sleeping in the alcove, the first morning he had awoken in his house. Illya turned the pages and one by one read the verses. The next verse with an illustration was the twelfth and Napoleon had altered one word, substituted dancing for singing. The illustration was an adaptation of his portrait with Napoleon in the background, sitting cross-legged on a carpet in the garden, with a sketch pad across his knees, a brush in his hand poised above it and an open paint box on his left side. On his right were platters of food and jugs of drink.
A drawing of Napoleon as a younger man faced Verse XXVII. This must have been when he started this project, Illya thought. The style wasn't as well-developed as the one with which Illya had become familiar, but was still clearly Napoleon's. And the freshness in the face coming "out the door" make Illya's chest constrict.
Verse XLI was accompanied by a miniature of the watercolour of The Minister of Wine and only two verses later he saw a small version of himself as The Angel of the darker Drink, but he noticed that there was no firelight lighting the figure. It was the painting accompanying Verse LXVII where he found that - a close up of his face in the hooded robe, one side lit by flames, the other pale, ethereal and serene. Illya had leaned back against his pillows and closed his eyes, remembering the touch of Napoleon's fingers on his cheek, on his hair. He almost drifted off to sleep recalling it, and a hundred other little touches, fleeting, tentative, not ready...
Illya opened his eyes and continued reading. Across from Verse XCIV was a drawing of the scarlet rose from Napoleon's garden held by a hand which he recognised as Napoleon's. After Verse CI, Illya closed the book, tied the ribbon and slipped it under his pillow. It was such a long, long time until April, he thought and lay down and fell back to sleep.
********************
There was a series of firm raps on the cabin door. "Just a minute," Sergei called from the bathroom doorway.
"Come up on deck. New York's coming into view," Alicia called. "Everyone's heading up there."
"All right. We'll be with you in a couple minutes," Sergei answered. He heard her footsteps and the other voices in the hall moving away. He dried his face and pulled on a turtleneck sweater. "Illya," he called as he slipped into his shoes. Illya mumbled and turned over. Leaning against the top bunk, Sergei shook Illya. "They've sighted New York. I'm going up on deck with the others. Come join us." Sergei noticed a bit of blue ribbon protruding from under the pillow and hanging over the side of the bed. He glanced at the bin and saw the crumpled brown paper. He stretched his arm across Illya and rolled him onto his back. "Come on. It's clear enough to see. Join us."
Illya opened his eyes and slowly focussed on Sergei's face. He nodded. "OK, I will. You go ahead."
"Don't fall back asleep," Sergei warned. "Come quickly."
Illya sat up a bit. "Alright, I'm waking up, really. You go on." He sat up completely and hung his legs over the side. "See, I'm almost out of bed already."
Sergei smiled and stood back so Illya could slide down. He watched Illya close the bathroom door behind him before taking his coat and scarf and leaving.
**********************
Two busloads of dancers and musicians and a truck full of scenery, costumes and instruments pulled away from the quayside in the frigid New York afternoon. Despite the temperature and the lowering skies which promised snow, the atmosphere on the buses was festive.
Sergei leaned across Illya and pointed out the window. "There it is - The Big Apple," he said. Illya turned towards him, wincing.
"I knew you were going to say that," Illya laughed ruefully.
"And I don't like to disappoint," Sergei smiled.
"And indeed you don't," Illya whispered quietly.
Sergei turned slightly from the window to catch Illya's eye. His eyelids lowered halfway and his smile spread. "Why, thank you," he answered very softly.
****************
The company formed quite a mob in the lobby of the hotel. Illya meandered off to browse in the windows of the closed shops. Although not one of the most exclusive hotels in New York City, the array of items available in its shops was impressive both in variety and cost. Books, clothing, chocolates, jewels were all there to satisfy the hotel clientele's needs without the trouble of battling either the traffic or the weather. For about twice the price, Illya estimated, judging by the books alone. He smiled at the tiny price tags on the jewels, most turned blank side up. He was just turning away when a display in the lower left hand corner of the window caught his eye. It was devoted to antique jewelry and other accessories. There was a small pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses. Opera glasses are beginning to have erotic associations, he thought. He leaned down to see if the price tag was readable. It was not, but behind the glasses he spied another item. It appeared to be a seal, the long handle apparently of rosewood, its top carved into a rose. A rose seal, Illya thought. ...And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand, My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. "The two with scarlet wax," he murmured to himself.
"Illya," Sergei joined him at the window. "Found something?" he asked.
"I think I may have," Illya smiled and glanced at the door to read the opening hours. "I'll come down in the morning."
"Good," Sergei said. "They may even take post right from here. We can ask when we check in. The crowd has cleared."
Illya looked towards the desk and nodded. "Let's find out where we're sleeping tonight," he said.
As they reached the counter they overheard the manager apologising, "We're so sorry, Mr. Linetskiy. I know your reservations were made months ago, but the plumbing malfunctioned only yesterday. We'll substitute two single rooms for the same price as the double room and one is only across the hall from the reserved room."
They couldn't hear what Mr. Linetskiy said in reply, but the manager apologised further. "I know the other room is one floor up." He nodded. "Two of your principal dancers...yes, sir. We deeply regret the inconvenience...we'll move them back as soon as the plumbing is fixed, but this week...yes, sir...complimentary champagne to your room, sir. We are so sorry."
Arturo Linetskiy noticed Sergei and Illya standing nearby. "Gentlemen, your rooms have been changed. I've done what I could." He shook his head, picked up his key from the counter and headed towards the luggage trolleys. The manager spoke quietly to one of his staff who nodded several times, then he caught up with Mr. Linetskiy and continued to offer variations of his apologies.
The clerk turned a smiling face to Illya and Sergei and her eyes widened. Illya noted her erect carriage and the way her hair was pulled smoothly back into a bun at the nape of her neck and thought he understood why she stammered when she asked them to sign the ledger. Sergei smiled his most charming smile and obliged. She quickly took two keys and some papers from the cubbyholes behind her and offered one to Sergei. Illya glanced up from his signature and saw Sergei touch her fingers lightly as he took the key. Her cheeks reddened. Illya cleared his throat and the clerk turned her bright eyes on him. He extended his hand towards the other key dangling from hers.
"Oh, yes," she said, startled. "Here is your key, Mr. Kuryakin. There is also a message for you." She handed him the small envelope in her other hand.
"Thank you," he said, staring at the writing on the envelope.
"Of course," he heard Sergei say.
Illya walked to the nearest chair and sat on the arm. He posted a letter to the hotel management with this inside, he reasoned. He nodded to himself and opened the envelope. The small card within had two lines:
Box Five
Tomorrow's forecast: Precipitation
Sergei appeared by the chair. "She asked me to autograph a newspaper article about our tour," he said quietly, the smile audible in his voice. "And they'll take items for the post right at the reception desk." Illya looked up slowly and held out the papers in his hand. Sergei took them. "It's your artist's handwriting. He's here?" Sergei asked.
"It would appear," Illya answered.
"Same number box as in London," Sergei observed. Illya nodded. "What does it mean about the forecast?" Sergei asked.
"There will be a car waiting for me after the performance. It's been rather a joke with us that it always rains on Saturday night so he waits for me in a taxi," Illya explained.
"So he'll be at the performance tomorrow in Box Five and he'll wait to bring you back afterwards," Sergei clarified. Illya nodded. "I think perhaps your artist is finally ready."
"I think you may be right," Illya agreed.
Sergei lay his hand on Illya's shoulder. "You need to do some Christmas shopping in the morning," he said.
Illya nodded again and stood up.
**************
A satisfied smile played along Illya's lips as he contemplated the small box in front of him. He had presented himself at the jeweller's door as the clerk was switching on the lights in the display cases. A few minutes later both the opera glasses and the rose seal were his. The jeweller had also provided the information that the hotel's stationery shop carried an extensive choice of sealing wax. Illya had found scarlet among them. The fragrant sticks of wax lay now amidst the crinkled tissue paper with the seal and the glasses in the elegant box supplied by the jewellery store. Illya lowered the lid and turned to his note pad. With quick, sure strokes he finished transcribing the diagrams of a dance upon it. His smile grew as he proceeded, his hand rose with a flourish on the last stroke.
He took a small blank card and wrote Napoleon's first name on it. Using the tip of his nail scissors, he made a hole in the corner and threaded the scarlet ribbon which he had also found at the stationer's through the hole and knotted it. Carefully, he tore the diagrammed sheet from his pad and folded it around the box.
"No tape!" he grumbled and looked at his watch. The bus left for the theatre in a quarter hour. In a whirl, he slipped on his coat and scarf, dropped his key in his pocket, rolled the diagram and tied it with the ribbon, the card dangling from the end, grabbed his satchel and gently picked up the box. He heard the ding of the elevator arriving as he approached it. He checked his watch again - ten minutes.
The clerk who was so fond of Sergei was at the reception desk. "How may I help you, Mr. Kuryakin," she smiled, then looked down. Likes us both, it seems, Illya thought. "I need a bit of tape to finish wrapping a gift," he said in a rush.
"This kind?" the girl asked, reaching below the counter and bringing out a heavy dispenser.
"Yes, exactly. Thank you," Illya replied glancing at his watch as he set the box on the desktop. "I'm running a bit late, I'm afraid." He set his satchel on the floor, slipped the ribbon off the paper and unrolled it.
"May I be of help?" the clerk asked.
Illya read her name tag. "If you could hold the paper in place, it would be a great help, Felicity," he replied, quickly taping the box lid down and flipping it over onto the blank side of the paper. "Just there, please," he said as he brought the two ends of the paper together around the box. "Brilliant," he said when she pressed her index finger in the right spot while he taped the edges of the paper together. He folded one end closed and glanced up. Felicity passed him a piece of tape, then another. "Wonderful," he said and turned the box to seal the other end. "Now for the ribbon," he consulted his watch again. "I've about three minutes," he said. "You'll make it," Felicity encouraged as he looped the ribbon around the package. She read the name on the card.
"Is that for Mr. Solo?" she asked. Illya looked up from his bow tying. "I could put it in his box for you."
"Napoleon Solo?" Illya clarified, not proceeding with the bow.
Felicity reddened, "I...I..."
"That would be a great help," Illya said, concentrating on the bow. "I didn't realise he'd checked in already." He finished tying. "Would you have a bag I could put this in?"
Felicity knelt down for an instant and came up with a white garment bag. "Will this do?"
"Perfect," Illya replied and slipped the wrapped present inside and taped the ends closed. He took the pen from the ledger and wrote "N. Solo" in block letters on the plastic.
"Illya!" Sergei called from the door. "We're going!"
"Thank you again, Felicity," Illya said, pushing the bag towards her. He swooped down for his bag and was across the lobby and out the door in an instant.
Felicity wrote "Penthouse 3" on a small piece of paper and taped it to the bag beneath the name, walked down to the end of the shelf behind her and placed the package there.
***************
"You must have booked these seats months ago," Genvieve said, as she settled into her seat at the front of the box.
Alexander glanced at Napoleon as he helped Marguerite off with her velvet evening cloak.
Napoleon nodded, "I did," he said, noticing Alexander's scrutiny.
"There aren't any to be had in Paris," Genvieve continued. "His return is quite the sensation. There are those who thought it almost unpatriotic for him to leave, and others who hint at negotiations for him to return on his own terms."
"Artists like Kuryakin are international; they belong to the world," Marguerite pronounced, taking another front seat.
"Tell that to the Soviets," Alexander suggested, taking the seat behind Marguerite.
"That is why they have to escape," Aunt Aurelia added after Napoleon had pushed her chair forward for her. "Artists and ideas should be free to circulate. Like air, they are essential for survival, and belong to no one," she concluded, opening the programme.
"I didn't realise you were such an internationalist," Alexander remarked.
"You couldn't tell by looking at my family?" Aunt Aurelia retorted.
Napoleon sat down silently behind his aunt, digesting Genvieve's information.
*******************
"The New York Times' correspondent is in the second row," Alicia whispered to Sergei.
"Which one?" Sergei asked.
"Nearly in the middle, white rose in his lapel, wavy silver-grey hair," she answered, handing him the opera glasses.
"Who are you finding?" Illya asked, joining them.
"I've spotted three journalists already," Alicia explained.
"Is there a prize for who finds the most?" Illya asked. "And how do you know what they look like?" He tapped Sergei on the shoulder. "Can I use them next?"
"Some have little pictures next to their by-lines," Alicia replied and others I've seen in magazine photos of opening nights, galas and such."
"Hmmh," Illya said. "You two are fountains of information. Who else have you spotted?"
Sergei took a step back and handed the glasses to Illya. "The Times and The Washington Post correspondents. Oh, and Box Five is full," Sergei answered. Illya adjusted the focus. "Five of them, I think."
"Hurry, Illya," Alicia urged. "The New York Herald Tribune and the Chicago Tribune should be near the front, too."
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"A kind word to the fellow in the box office."
"Ah." Illya found Napoleon seated behind his aunt. There were two young women next to her, talking with one another. One is probably his cousin Marguerite. He watched Napoleon lean forward to speak to his aunt. She handed him her opera glasses. Illya smiled. Napoleon was scanning the closed curtain. He paused when he was facing Illya. The lenses may be catching the light, Illya thought. The young man seated to Napoleon's right tapped his shoulder. Napoleon passed him the glasses. Handsome and fair-haired, Illya thought and narrowed his eyes. The man scanned the other boxes and returned the glasses. You look anxious. Don't be anxious, Napoleon. Tonight I'll teach you how to follow my choreography. The young women were both using opera glasses now. One seemed to be watching the members of the orchestra arrive, the other was surveying the audience. Illya observed the man giving Napoleon a couple sidelong glances before he leaned forward between the young women and said something which made them both smile.
Illya handed the glasses to Alicia, who resumed her reconnaissance, and headed towards the dressing rooms with Sergei. Halfway down the corridor, Illya remarked, "He's staying at our hotel."
Sergei raised both his eyebrows. "Very ready," he said and nodded for emphasis.
******************
Feathery snowflakes were falling when Illya opened the stage door. The lamp over the door illuminated the landing and the steps down to the pavement, but made the darkness beyond more obscure. Illya leaned over the railing to see if he could spot the taxi's lights.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, "Excuse me, Mr. Kuryakin, the car is this way." He gestured to his left.
Illya went down the steps and followed him. The car was a black Lincoln with only its parking lights on. The driver opened the back door. Illya ducked his head in and smiled. "Good evening, Napoleon," he said and sat down. The driver closed the door. Illya heard him get in the front and put the car in gear. He turned towards Napoleon. Napoleon reached over and brushed a few of the large snowflakes off Illya's sleeve. Illya looked at the hand outlined against the dark cloth for a moment. "I didn't think I would be seeing you until the spring," he said, looking up at Napoleon.
Napoleon froze, his hand still on Illya's left arm, looking back into that steady gaze. Illya slipped off his right glove and lay his hand over Napoleon's. "I'm glad I didn't have to wait that long," Illya said. Napoleon slid his hand out from under Illya's and sat back, his head tilting backwards until it rested on the top of the seat cushion. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "Me, too," he said.
****************
The lobby was bustling when they arrived, with people leaving or entering the restaurant or the bar. There were no other customers at reception though when Napoleon and Illya walked up. The night manager put down a telephone, positioned himself to intercept Napoleon and handed him his key as he reached the desk. "Dinner is on its way up to your room as we speak, sir." Napoleon smiled appreciatively while trying to catch the murmured compliments the young desk clerk was delivering to Illya along with his room key. "There is also a package for you, sir," the manager added as Napoleon signed in. He held out the parcel. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "It was dropped off this afternoon, sir."
"Thank you," Napoleon replied.
"Thank you, Felicity," Illya said, taking an envelope from her.
"Bon appetit, sir," the manager added and inclined his head.
"Merci," Napoleon replied and headed for the elevator a step behind Illya.
***************
The elevator was nearly full with jovial guests coming up from the parking garage. Illya stepped in first and Napoleon followed. Leaning across Napoleon, Illya pushed the top button. Napoleon drew in a breath and held it for a while. A few of the merrymakers exited on the sixth floor, when the rest left on the eighth, Illya asked, "You weren't here last night?"
"No, I stayed with my aunt, but it's a bit crowded and I didn't wish to share a room with Alexander for too long," Napoleon replied.
"He fancies you, doesn't he?" Illya asked. Napoleon raised his eyebrows.
"I saw you before the performance started," Illya said.
Napoleon nodded. "He may, but my cousin seems to fancy him."
"And he's encouraging it," Illya commented as the doors opened on the top floor. "Right or left?"
"Left. He is. How long were you watching?"
"Long enough," Illya answered. "Which of the young women is your cousin?"
"Can't you guess?" Napoleon ventured.
"The one next to your aunt." Illya turned to study Napoleon's face for a moment. "The resemblance isn't strong, but there is un air de famille, right down to the look of sadness on her face when she isn't smiling," Illya said, tapping Napoleon's arm with the unopened envelope in his hand.
"Is there anything you don't see?" Napoleon asked as they neared the door. "That," he said, gesturing at the envelope with his key, "is an invitation from Aunt Aurelia for New Year's Eve." Napoleon slid the key into the lock.
Before he could turn it, a waiter opened the door and stood back for Napoleon and Illya to enter. "Dinner is served, sir," he said. The opening strains of Claire de Lune were playing in the background. "The fire is lit. The wine is breathing and the champagne is on ice. Would you like it uncorked?"
"No, thank you." Napoleon said.
"Shall I put that away for you before I go?" the waiter asked, reaching for the garment bag under Napoleon's arm.
Napoleon glanced down at the bundle. "No, no that's fine," he replied and handed the waiter a tip.
"Good-night, sir," he said and closed the door quietly behind him.
"I can't imagine what this is," Napoleon murmured and set it down on a small table to take off his coat.
"Why don't you look?" Illya suggested as he hung his coat on the coat tree by the door and turned to survey the suite.
In the corner of the large art deco room, a table laid for two was positioned between two floor to ceiling windows. The city lights were sparkling through the falling snow. "It's a dazzling view," Illya said, walking over to the windows.
Napoleon headed towards the champagne, ripping open the taped ends of the garment bag as he went. He drew out the package and saw the diagrams on the wrapping paper. He let the plastic bag drift out of his hand onto the sofa he was passing. The box was nearly the same size as the one in which he had posted Illya his book. He's not returning it to me, is he? Napoleon thought, a chill passing through him. He looked over to where Illya was standing with his back to him, the window reflecting his face and hands, his dark clothing lost against the night sky.
"I didn't see you being here," Illya said.
Was that hint of disappointment in his voice because I didn't tell him I was coming or because I'm here? Napoleon debated.
"I didn't have time to prepare like you did," Illya continued, speaking to the cold night.
I didn't mean to hurt. I acted with love, Napoleon pled silently, not moving. You acted like a coward, a harsher internal voice replied. If he rejected you, you wouldn't be there to face it, wouldn't even know of it for days. And you were selfish and cowardly not to tell him you were coming, so you could change your mind until the last moment. Napoleon sought Illya's eyes in the glass. They were shadowed, unreadable.
Finally, Illya turned. "Why don't you open it?" he said, walking over to the champagne and drawing it out of the ice. He wiped the moisture from the bottle with the linen towel folded by the bucket.
Napoleon nodded and pulled one end of the scarlet ribbon. The bow untied completely; there was no knot. Napoleon gathered the ribbon, tucked it into his pocket and sat on the arm of the couch. He stared at the series of symbols on the paper, hoping to unravel their meaning.
Laying the towel aside, Illya took hold of the icy champagne bottle in one hand and slowly peeled off the foil. He crushed it into a small ball and dropped it into a nearby ashtray. Slowly, he began to untwist the wire around the neck of the bottle.
Turning the package over, Napoleon slipped his finger under the folds of paper and eased off the tape at one end, then the other. He glanced at Illya who was inching the cork out of the bottle neck with his thumbs. Napoleon unstuck the bit of tape holding the two ends of wrapping paper together. The plain blue box yielded no clue. Napoleon flipped it upright, broke the tape holding down the lid, and lifted it. The champagne cork popped. Napoleon probed the crumpled tissue paper. He pulled out an irregular mass cloaked in tissue and sighed. His book was not inside. He looked over at Illya who turned with the filled champagne glasses at that moment and lifted his chin in an encouraging gesture. Napoleon unwrapped the object and held the opera glasses up, smiling. "They're wonderful."
Illya walked towards him. "The better to watch me with," he said. Illya held out a full glass to Napoleon who set the opera glasses on the coffee table to accept it.
"Thank you," Napoleon said, brushing Illya's fingers as he carefully took the full glass.
Raising his in salute, Illya said, "To the Big Apple."
Napoleon raised his. "To the Big Apple," he echoed and took a long sip of champagne.
"Is New York home, Napoleon?"
"One of them, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder whether I have two or three homes or none at all," Napoleon replied, finishing the other half of the champagne and putting his glass down. He returned to the box on his lap.
"I understand that," Illya said, emptying his glass and going to fetch the bottle. He bent down to refill Napoleon's, then his and returned the bottle to the ice. He heard the tissue rustling.
"Oh," Napoleon said, the syllable drawn out. Illya turned to find Napoleon examining the carving on the handle of the seal, then the metal stamp. "The Rose of Lancaster," Napoleon said. He fished in the tissue again and came up with the sticks of sealing wax and looked over to Illya. "I can send you scarlet roses," he said.
Illya finished his glass of champagne, filled it again and walked back to the windows. "The view would be better without the overhead lights," he said. He strode to the door and flicked the switch next to it. The city lights sharpened and the flames of the candles on the table became visible. Illya walked back to where Napoleon was sitting. "Why are you in New York, Napoleon?" Illya asked, taking a long sip of the cold champagne.
Napoleon drank half his glass before he answered. "I have a commission here," he said, then swallowed the other half. He set the empty box and the cryptic wrapping paper on the table and went to retrieve the champagne bottle. Illya finished his glass and set it next to Napoleon's. Napoleon filled them both and handed Illya his. He left the empty bottle on the glass table.
"What did you have first, Napoleon, the tickets for tonight's performance or the commission?"
Napoleon took another long draught before he answered. "The tickets for this week," he replied. "Shall we?" he said, moving to the dinner table and pulling out one chair and then the other.
Illya joined him, sat down at the table and asked again, "So why did you come to New York, Napoleon?"
Napoleon drained his glass and sat down across from Illya, pulling in his chair and resting his arm along the edge of the table. "For you," he said, looking down at his hand. Illya sat, silently. Napoleon raised his eyes until he was looking directly at Illya. "I came for you."
Illya held the gaze and reached one hand across the table. He rested it on top of Napoleon's. Illya's fingers were cold against his flushed skin. Napoleon shivered.
"The illustrations you sent me are beautiful," Illya said, withdrawing his hand slowly. Napoleon's eyes wandered over Illya's face, waiting for more. Illya flicked his napkin open and smiled. "How old were you when you started it?"
"Nineteen. Shortly after I arrived in Rome," Napoleon answered, lifting the cover from the platter of raw oysters in the center of the table.
"I used to recite that verse to myself after particularly tedious days at school," Illya remarked as he reached out for a shell and tipped it delicately into his mouth. Napoleon wrenched his eyes away. "I expected to find more drawings of you," Illya continued, raising another shell.
"My style has improved. I didn't think the others were good enough to include," Napoleon answered.
"It wasn't that the drawings contained others?" Illya pressed, selecting a third oyster and looking over it at Napoleon.
"No, that was my architectural phase," Napoleon laughed. "You would never have thought a future portrait artist was in the making. I tried 'the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep' and the Sultan's Turret being caught in a Noose of Light."
"What changed that?"
"Rome. A city full of statues. On the buildings, in the fountains. They converted me. I suppose it's an odd route to take to appreciation of the human form," Napoleon said, moving the empty platter to the bottom shelf of the serving trolley. He uncovered two bowls of Waldorf salad and placed them on the table. Illya cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the mixture of apples and walnuts. "I'm feeding you all my favourites," Napoleon said. Illya looked up at him as he closed his lips over a bite of apple and slid the fork out from between them. And if the wine you drink, the lips you press... Napoleon thought, reaching out for the wine bottle to fill first Illya's glass and then his own.
"It's delicious," Illya said. "I haven't had this before."
Napoleon smiled. "I'm glad you like it," he said, feeling envious of the walnuts Illya's fork was carrying to his mouth.
Illya took a sip of the red wine. The flavour took his whole mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment and gave a small murmur of appreciation. When he opened them again, he glanced at the bottle, but the label was turned towards Napoleon.
A light, tingling sensation made Napoleon shift in his seat. He could feel the flush creeping up his cheeks and was grateful for the discretion of the candlelight.
Illya smiled. "What have you chosen for the entree?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "Or do you want to surprise me?" he asked, not completely blunting the pointedness of his words.
Despite the barb, I want to devour you, was all Napoleon could think, but said instead, "Wait and see."
"Alright," Illya said, leaning back and letting the tip of his index finger circle the rim of his wine glass for a moment before he lifted it and took another sip. "Viola's started working on the designs you sent for the men's costumes. Come backstage tomorrow after the performance. I'll introduce you and you can see what she's done so far."
Napoleon sat up straighter. "She wouldn't mind?" he asked.
"Not at all," Illya replied. "Viola's been wanting to meet you." He took another sip of wine. "Interpreting an artist's work in another medium is a rather intimate enterprise. I think she feels like she already knows you." Illya met Napoleon's eyes and continued to sip his wine.
****************
If the Soul can fling the Dust aside, Napoleon recited to himself. He felt as though his soul was trying to do just that and enter those blue portals unencumbered by clumsy flesh. It happened every time Illya stared directly into his eyes. An image of those same eyes closing in pleasure, flashed through Napoleon's mind. Illya set down his glass and broke the spell.
"I have something I would like to show you," Napoleon announced, rising. "I'll only be a moment." He made himself walk steadily out of the room rather than running to his bedroom to retrieve the drawings he had there.
**************
Debussy's String Quartet was playing while Illya watched the snowfall. It was heavier than when he had left the theatre and the wind blew it to and fro in billowing sheets.
"Tell me what you think?" Napoleon said when he returned, holding out a folder. Illya took it and walked over to a small lamp by the couch to open it. Napoleon cleared the salad bowls, refilled the wine glasses and set out the dinner plates. He glanced over and saw Illya pulling the sheer dark blue silk over the first drawing.
"Yes," Illya said, striding back to the table. "We will dance in front of this as the wind blows out of that cloud by night." He tapped the cloud on the silk which obscured the sun in the first backdrop.
"And the last scene?" Napoleon asked, his hand stopped midair with the cover from one plate in his hand.
Illya slid the last paper out of the folder. There were architectural drawings of a mausoleum from four sides with dimensions noted.
"This slides out for the final scene rather than drawing it on another backdrop," Illya said, nodding. "The doors will open and Annabel Lee's ghost will come to dance with me. When it returns to her tomb, I will lie down in front of it. Add steps," he said. "I can finish stretched out on the steps."
Napoleon put the cover on the serving trolley, took the folder from Illya, then a pencil from his inside jacket pocket and drew a few lines. "There," he said, handing it back.
Illya leaned closer to the candles on the table. "Yes. Like that."
Taking the file back smiling, Napoleon extended his hand over the table. "Assieds-toi, s'il te plait," he said. The aroma of steak au poivre rose from the table.
"You have been very busy," Illya commented as he settled into his chair.
"You are right about it being an intimate endeavour," Napoleon replied. "I could hear your voice describing your movements as I painted."
Illya was cutting into the thick fillet. He glanced up without raising his head and immobilised Napoleon for a moment, then he finished carving a thin slice of the rare meat.
**************
The firelight was reflected in the amber liquid as Napoleon handed Illya his cognac. "You're nearly done then?"
"Only with the outline and a few short sequences," Illya replied from a lounging position in the arm chair. "Mostly I've been finishing Regent's Park. Once the parts were announced, I could work with the dancers. Plus we were rehearsing." He took a long draught of the cognac. Napoleon watched the muscles of Illya's throat ripple as he swallowed. "Are you ready for your dance lesson?" Illya asked, setting his glass down.
Napoleon looked startled. "Dance lesson?"
Illya stretched as he rose from his chair. "The third part of your present," he explained. "I choreographed a dance for you and I'm going to begin teaching you how to read the diagrams."
Napoleon downed the rest of his cognac and accepted the hand Illya held out to him.
***************
They stood facing one another in the middle of the living room. "First," Illya said, sliding his hands under Napoleon's lapels and pushing his jacket backwards off his shoulders, "we need to remove this." Illya draped it over his arm. "And this," he added, tugging at one end of Napoleon's bow tie and pulling it away. Illya turned and lay them over the arm of the chair and took his jacket off as well. "Now the shoes and socks," he directed and took his off. Napoleon followed suit. "And these need undoing," he remarked, returning to stand in front of Napoleon. He undid the first two studs on Napoleon's shirt. He took a step back and considered Napoleon. "The cuff links, too," he instructed. Napoleon removed them and dropped them in his pocket. Illya pushed up the sleeves of his turtleneck. "Roll back your sleeves," he said. Napoleon turned the French cuffs over twice. Illya smiled and moved forward. He took the sides of the open collar and pushed them farther apart. He paused, considering, and then undid a third stud. Illya tilted his head, and undid a fourth. "There," he said, dropping the studs into Napoleon's pocket, then smoothing his hand up the exposed chest to spread open the sides of the shirt. "And you don't need that," he stated and reached around to unhook Napoleon's cummerbund. "Now rise on your toes a few times," Illya directed and began to do so while unbuckling his belt. He tossed them over the back of the couch. Napoleon rose on his toes. Illya nodded, "Now stretch," he said and lifted his arms above his head and out to his side. Napoleon copied the movements. Illya twisted his arms and wrists. Napoleon did the same. Illya closed his eyes and rotated his neck clockwise and then back. Napoleon paused on tiptoe and watched the fair head loll against one shoulder and then the other. Illya opened his eyes. "Do it again," he said and Napoleon complied for the first time. "Lean to the left, to the right. Now arch backwards," Illya directed, flowing through the movements himself. "Bend forwards. Let your arms dangle at your sides. Again."
"Now," he said, walking back to the coffee table to pick up the wrapping paper, "for the first position, sit on the floor." Illya turned back. "Draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them," he instructed and knelt by Napoleon. "See the first diagram there," he said, pointing at the paper. Napoleon lifted his head and looked. "Since this is the start, there are no directions for moving the limbs, just for position." Napoleon nodded. "Can you see where your head should be?" Illya asked. Napoleon rested his head on his knees facing Illya. "OK, this mark, means face forward. Here it is the back of the head." Napoleon turned his head away. Illya's hand pressed from the front of Napoleon's knees down to the top of his feet and pushed. His other hand pressed in the opposite direction at the bottom of Napoleon's spine. "Close together. This is not a resting position, the body is tenser. Tighter. Grab your elbows. Tuck you head inwards a bit." He placed his hand on the crown of Napoleon's head and pushed slightly. "There." Illya stood to walk around Napoleon's crouched form and knelt on the other side. He tapped the second diagram on the paper. "See that mark?" he asked.
"Mmm," Napoleon acknowledged.
"When I give the cue...that would be the music eventually...but for now I will speak...lift your head and turn it in my direction slowly. I'll direct the rest of the movements this time. Later we'll go over how they are represented here." Illya waved the paper and set it aside. "Wait for my cue."
*****************
Napoleon waited. He couldn't hear Illya moving. He was facing the back of the white couch. His feet were cold despite the carpet. He hugged his legs closer. A sense of loneliness settled on him.
"Gradually, raise your head and turn it towards me," Illya instructed. Napoleon felt his muscles move as bidden, drawn by Illya's voice. By a hope?
"Curving it slowly, extend your right arm towards me," Illya said. "And when your arm is fully extended, palm up, spread your fingers and stretch them out towards me. Don't look down at it. Keep looking at me. Feel the movement. You don't need to watch your arm to direct it."
The room was dim. Napoleon couldn't see Illya's expression clearly, but his form was clear, the supple hands and forearms, the pale feet, the fair face and golden hair distinct against the shadows. Napoleon's arm stretched out, he felt the muscles uncurling, saw his fingertips at the periphery of his vision reaching towards that distant figure. From the first, I wanted, didn't I? Napoleon asked himself. Yes. I did.
Illya began to sway, left, then right. He turned, stepped back, deeper into the shadows, then forward again. Onto his toes. A small leap to the left, then the right, but he moved no closer.
"One by one, starting with the little finger, fold your fingers back to your palm. Keep looking at me," Illya said.
Yes, come to me, Napoleon thought. Please. From the first, I wanted you.
"Uncurl your left arm, sweep it towards me, but with the palm facing your inner arm, and don't stop until it is fully extended to your left and then turn the palm up."
It felt good to unwrap his arms.
Illya rose onto the balls of his feet and executed a pirouette.
"Keeping your arms as they are, slowly extend your right leg at a forty-five degree angle to your body and point your foot. Now lower your left leg still bent and touch your left foot to the side of your right knee, foot pointing. Extend the fingers of your right hand and close them, as before back, against your palm," Illya instructed. "Keep your back straight. Keep looking at me and breath in and out deeply and slowly."
I wasn't breathing, Napoleon realised and took a deep breath.
Illya stretched his arms above his head, then did an arabesque.
So beautiful, Napoleon thought. So strong.
"Watch me," Illya said. "I'm going to assume your position and demonstrate your next move."
Napoleon watched Illya rise from that position to a kneeling position, his body facing left, but his head turned to look straight ahead. Napoleon imitated the movement. He smiled.
Illya smiled back. "Now repeat the gesture with the fingers of your right hand."
Napoleon did, then watched Illya lunge to the floor and lift his head and chest off the floor in an arc.
"Keeping your arms in position, rise to a standing position and repeat the movement with the fingers once and then leave the fingers outstretched."
Napoleon complied. This time Illya moved forward and took his outstretched hand. "Hold tight and don't move," Illya said and twirled until he was standing in front of Napoleon, his outstretched right hand resting in the open palm of Napoleon's right hand, his left hand still grasping Napoleon's left hand, the arms folded to his chest. "I will lean slightly right and turn my head towards you. You lean in the opposite direction and turn your head to look at me."
Those mesmerising eyes are so close, Napoleon thought. The pupils so large. Like twin eclipses.
"Close your left hand over mine," Illya said and wiggled his fingers slightly to confirm which hand he meant. Napoleon's hand obeyed. Illya pulled them both in so they rested over their other hands against his chest. "Breathe deeply, Napoleon," he said.
Napoleon wanted to close his eyes. When he took a deep breath, his chest rubbed against Illya's back. He exhaled with regret. I don't want to let go.
"I'm going to spin away," Illya said. "Let go with this hand," he moved their clasped left hands slightly for clarity, "but hold firm with the right." Napoleon opened his fingers and Illya spun out of his arms, only the fingers of their right hands still touching. "Hold," Illya said and spun to Napoleon's right side then stepped close, folding their arms until he nearly touched. Another step brought him behind Napoleon. Illya pulled both their hands down to Napoleon's waist. "Breathe, Napoleon," he repeated and took Napoleon's left hand in his and brought them to rest just below their other hands. "Keep breathing, deeply, in and out," he instructed and did the same. Napoleon felt Illya's chest against his back, his arms around his waist. "Why did you come, Napoleon?" Illya whispered.
Napoleon startled. "I couldn't bear to be away from you," Napoleon whispered back. I couldn't bear the idea that I might have lost the chance to feel this, Napoleon thought, closing his eyes.
"I'm going to turn you around," Illya said. Sightlessly, Napoleon let himself be guided. He felt a pressure on the back of his neck and Illya's warm lips against his. His mouth opened to the warmth, yielded to the explorations of Illya's tongue, wanted more of it. There was an arm around his waist and it pulled him against more warmth. "Warm me", he wished to plead, but his mouth was already warmed and wouldn't speak. A low sound welled up from his throat. Napoleon's arms curved around the warmth. Clung to it.
Illya rose on tiptoe within those arms, sliding upwards against Napoleon until he was looking down at him. He tilted Napoleon's chin up and took his mouth again. Illya's fingers eased into Napoleon's hair and slowly he slid back down. Illya's tongue withdrew; his lips closed around Napoleon's lower lip and suckled, then Illya's lips released his. Napoleon drew in an uneven breath and opened his eyes. Illya held his gaze, his hands reaching up to frame Napoleon's face, thumbs stroking along Napoleon's cheeks, fingers massaging Napoleon's temples.
Napoleon's hand tightened against the lean muscle at Illya's waist. Illya's hand slid down Napoleon's back and pulled him closer, his lips moving along Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon turned his head and let those soft lips caress his ear, his neck. He heard Illya asking yet again, "Why did you come?"
"For this," Napoleon sighed.
"You made me wait a long time to do this," Illya said, skimming his teeth over Napoleon's skin.
"I know," Napoleon answered. "I'm sorry."
Illya stopped. A broad hand turned Napoleon's head. "But now you've come. Across the ocean. I can forgive you." Napoleon felt the full lips against his again and he couldn't repress the sounds he made in response. Illya's lips brushed over his chin. His shirt was pushed aside as Illya left light kisses at the base of his throat, across his chest until he came to more sensitive flesh. Napoleon moaned then. Illya's hold tightened as he moved his lips to the other side. His shirt front was pulled apart, the last two studs popping. Illya dragged his lips lower. Napoleon dug his fingers into Illya's back and pressed himself against that tantalising mouth. Two hands slid beneath his waistband at the small of his back, circling around either side to the front and undid his fly. Napoleon's trousers dropped to the floor.
"Illya?" he whispered.
Illya straightened and pressed his full body against Napoleon. "Yes, Napoleon."
"Do you forgive me?" Napoleon breathed.
Illya drew his head back and regarded Napoleon, "I am forgiving you," he answered, then kissed the penitent mouth and crushed Napoleon against him.
**************
He was cold when he woke. Napoleon rolled onto his back and pulled the blankets over himself. They slid smoothly into place. He took a deep breath and nestled into the pillow. Napoleon's eyes flew open, but the darkness gave no token except the glowing tips of the hands on his alarm clock. Four. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No, no, no! It wasn't a dream. No! He rubbed his face against the pillow. No, I couldn't have invented that. Not even in a dream. Napoleon visualised the diagrams. With a pencil I could probably recreate them, he thought. He took another deep breath. I held him. He kissed me. Looked into me. Asked me why I had come.
"I can't bear to be away from you," Napoleon whispered to the darkness, his heart pounding.
There was a rustle and the mattress shifted. "Napoleon?" a sleepy voice asked. "Were you dreaming?"
Napoleon felt a body leaning over him. He reached up and found the soft hair. "You're really here?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm here," Illya answered. "You were dreaming."
"I feared I had been dreaming," Napoleon replied, pulling Illya's head down to him and kissing him until he felt Illya kissing him back.
****************
Illya picked up his satchel and began to turn away. Napoleon grabbed his shoulders and turned him back. "How can I stay here without you?" he asked, pushing Illya backwards until the wall stopped them. His hands went up into Illya's hair and he held his face. "How will I paint when I can't see you?" he said, looking directly into Illya's eyes. Napoleon's brows drew together. "When I can't hold you?" he asked and leaned forward to kiss Illya's lips again, pressed with his whole body to feel Illya muscular and warm against him, tilted his head to bring their lips more firmly together. Illya let the satchel slip from his fingers and brought his arms around Napoleon's waist, up his back. Napoleon sighed into Illya's mouth and raised his knee slowly between Illya's thighs. Illya pressed back against it. "How?" he breathed against Illya's lips when he drew back, resting his forehead against Illya's, his fingers rubbing distractedly through his silky hair. Illya's lips brushed against Napoleon's then he turned his head and raised his chin. Napoleon's hand held the back of Illya's head, his lips kissed the ear, the jaw and the neck presented to him.
"Remember this," Illya said and stretched his neck further. Napoleon nudged open the collar and kissed the lower part of Illya's neck. "Picture me like this," Illya directed.
Napoleon's hand slipped between them and undid two buttons and pushed Illya's shirt out of the path his mouth wanted to take to the pink flesh hidden beneath. Illya inhaled as Napoleon's tongue reached its goal. "Think of me." Illya exhaled. "In the evening, when you prepare to sleep."
Napoleon undid two more buttons and kissed down Illya's stomach, pressing hard against the muscles. Illya reached beneath Napoleon's chin and unbuckled his belt, slipped the button open. "In the night, if you awaken..."
Napoleon's lips lessened their pressure and his tongue smoothed the pearly skin below Illya's navel. Illya's fingers slipped under the waistband of his boxers, stretched them and slid them and his trousers past his hips. They fell the rest of the way to the floor. "Before you open your eyes in the morning..."
Napoleon felt a soft bump against the underside of his chin. "Feel me." Napoleon bent his head and breathed on the delicate skin, his tongue flicking out and over it before his mouth descended. "Taste me," Illya whispered and inhaled as Napoleon pressed downwards around him.
**************
Fiercely, Napoleon clasped Illya's hips and thighs. Illya couldn't move. Only Napoleon's tongue and lips and mouth moved, slowly or rapidly. In the silent room, Illya's breathing was audible. The sudden gasps when Napoleon plunged downwards, the sighs when he drew away, the low moans when Napoleon came back and the final cry, long, shuddering, almost a sob. Gradually, Napoleon released his hold, slipping down to a sitting position, his arms about Illya's knees. He looked up, his cheek resting on Illya's thigh. Illya's head was thrown back against the wall, his open white shirt framing his flushed skin. I'm still touching him and I want to touch more, Napoleon thought, gazing at the taut underside of Illya's jaw. Illya's head tilted forward and he looked down, dreamily. He slid down the wall. Napoleon's arms opened as he descended so that he held his shoulders when Illya reached the floor.
Illya kissed Napoleon's swollen lips; Napoleon sighed and Illya's tongue followed the breath inside, where it was warm and salty. He pushed Napoleon backwards until he was prone on the thick carpet and kissed him again. "Remember the sounds," Illya murmured when he lifted his head. Napoleon didn't open his eyes, but his lips parted invitingly as he sighed again. Illya's hand moved down Napoleon's chest, over his hip to the inside of his thigh and up.
"Ah," Napoleon exhaled. Illya rubbed slowly, down Napoleon's hip to his other thigh and up again more firmly.
"Your sounds and mine," Illya whispered and kissed Napoleon's cheek, then his chin. "Together. Like music," he said and lowered his head.
***************
Part 5 is here
