![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Rating: NC-17
Small scene (Night Train) added 4 May 2010
**************
"Here!" Sergei called and waved when Illya bounded onto the bus. Illya wound his way towards the back, swivelling his hips around people's elbows and knees. "I saved you the window seat," Sergei said, swinging his legs into the aisle to let Illya by. Illya fell into his seat, bent forward to stow his bag then rested his head against the cool window. "Wow," Sergei whispered leaning close, taking in the rosiness of Illya's cheeks and the fullness of his lips. "That must've been some 'good-bye'."
"Mmm," Illya replied, closing his eyes.
"Will he come to Philadelphia?" Sergei asked quietly.
Illya shook his head. "He's got a portrait to paint here in New York this month. He'll come to Boston."
"That's a long time," Sergei remarked.
"And to Rome," Illya added, reclining his seat and stretching out his legs.
"Hmmmh," Sergei said, raising his eyebrows.
"Wake me when we get there," Illya said.
"I will," Sergei replied, reaching over to pull Illya's scarf up around his chin. "You look like you need a nap," he added, smiling.
"Mmm," Illya agreed and turned his head towards the window.
***************
The key clattered against the polished wood. The hotel clerk turned and collected it. "You have mail, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, smiling, then pivoted to search the cubby holes behind him. "Here you are, sir," he said.
Sergei looked over Illya's shoulder at the small, square envelope. "Sent Monday afternoon, special delivery," he noted.
Illya turned the envelope over and smiled at the scarlet wax stamped with a rose.
The clerk proffered a letter opener. Illya ran it deftly beneath the flap and returned it. "Thank you," he said and pulled out a white card embossed with an "S". He flipped it open and closed it again immediately. Illya walked over to the seating area of the lobby and lowered himself onto a couch. Slowly, he reopened the card. The pencil drawing inside showed a back from shoulder to mid-buttock. In the foreground was a bare wrist and a hand resting at the small of the back. The thumb extended away from the other fingers to grasp or knead or stroke. Illya recognised the hand even though the little finger was not visible. He closed the card and his eyes. He straightened his back, feeling that hand on his skin, pressing against that curve, then sliding still lower. His cheeks flamed. Illya opened his eyes and the card once more. On the inside of the cover was written, "Can picture it too clearly. Surely there will be snow on Saturday night." He slipped the card back into its envelope, then into his bag.
Sergei approached, one eyebrow up.
"He's coming Saturday night," Illya said, his voice oddly flat.
"I'm not surprised. Philadelphia's only a three-hour drive from New York," Sergei replied, narrowing his eyes at the confused expression on Illya's face.
*************
"You were incredible. They nearly buried you in flowers," Napoleon said as Illya ducked into the backseat. "I would have missed your Don Jose, if I hadn't come." The door shut.
"They were an appreciative audience," Illya allowed. "How'd you get a ticket?" he asked, smiling into Napoleon's eyes and holding his gaze.
"Corporate box with a spare seat," Napoleon explained. "I mentioned your tour to my sitter and he told me that his company had one which I was welcome to use if it wasn't full. I asked his secretary on the way out that very afternoon." Napoleon glanced at the raised glass barrier between the front and back seats and reached over to pull the curtains across.
It was snowing and the street lights flickered intermittently in through the smoked glass of the car windows. Illya watched as Napoleon's hand moved over the dark material and towards him. The hand touched his cheek. Illya closed his eyes. Napoleon's lips were on his, his tongue inside his mouth, his weight upon him. Illya felt his whole body relaxing beneath Napoleon, opening to him. He sighed.
"Every night I heard that," Napoleon whispered in his ear. "When the wind blew, the curtains rustled, I heard your sigh." He kissed Illya's ear, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, nipping the lobe lightly between his teeth. "I needed to touch you," he breathed. Illya made a small sound as Napoleon's hand slid beneath his coat and jacket, underneath the turtleneck, stroking up the skin of his chest until it reached the tender skin and circled there. Napoleon's mouth caught the next sound Illya made. Illya parted his lips, shifted his hips so that Napoleon rested more comfortably against him, every movement an invitation which Napoleon accepted. "I can't wait another instant," Napoleon said, pulling his lips away. Illya felt a chill as fastenings were undone and then a warmth engulfed him which dispelled it totally.
*********************
Beneath him, Napoleon could feel Illya's breathing returning to normal. He rubbed his cheek against Illya's hair, then kissed his shoulder and rested his forehead there. He considered the grey, Monday morning light seeping around the drapes. "I don't want to go back to New York," he said.
"Mmm, don't go," Illya murmured, shifting slightly, sending tremors though Napoleon.
Napoleon consulted his watch. "I don't have to leave until you go to rehearsal," he said, kissing the warm shoulder again. "We can have breakfast together, and..." very gently he withdrew and settled next to Illya.
"Come back, I'm cold now," Illya grumbled into the edge of the pillow. Napoleon's hand glided down Illya's back and stopped in that curve at the bottom he liked so well. He pressed down firmly.
"Mmm," Illya replied. "Still cold," he repeated, sounding as though he were drifting off to sleep.
Napoleon rose on one elbow and leaned over him, running a hand down from Illya's shoulder, around his side and towards his stomach. Illya drew in a breath and Napoleon's hand slipped between Illya and the sheets. When he exhaled, he trapped Napoleon's hand there. Napoleon bent down and kissed Illya's upper arm, drawing the skin between his teeth and running his tongue over the flesh. A pleased sound escaped Illya's lips as Napoleon insinuated a leg between his thighs and sunk into the mattress between them. "You could make love all day, couldn't you?" Napoleon whispered, his breath tickling Illya's neck. Illya made to turn and Napoleon lifted his weight so he could.
With half-closed eyes, he smiled drowsily up at Napoleon. "I have great stamina," Illya answered, stretching and arching against Napoleon.
Napoleon was caught in that dreamy gaze. He leaned back, still watching, and placed a hand below one of Illya's knees. It flexed upwards bonelessly and Illya's eyes closed. A jolt of electricity flashed from Napoleon's hand to his groin. He raised Illya's other leg to his shoulder and pressed forward to kiss his full lips.
******************
Aurelia looked up from the postcard she was reading when Napoleon entered the dining room. He leaned over to kiss her good morning. "From Marguerite?" he asked.
"Yes. She'll be here next week. They seem to be having a good time. Genvieve's coming with her for a few days. Alexander has been called back to work ahead of schedule. Hard to tell, really," she sighed and put the card down.
"Any exciting news?" Napoleon asked, gesturing at the newspaper by his aunt's plate as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. "Other than the usual festering of unhappy souls, there is an ecstatic review of the performance you saw in Philadelphia last weekend." Aurelia refolded the paper to the review and handed it across the table to Napoleon. He read as he sipped his coffee. "I see what you mean about the hyperbole. But the audience did leap to their feet at the end and Illya and Alicia were about knee-deep in flowers when they took their final bows."
"I hope they'll be performing Carmen when they get back to London," Aurelia said. "Here's a belated Christmas card from Edgar," she announced as she sifted through the stack of post on the tray by her elbow.
"Anything noteworthy?" Napoleon glanced up. "Pretty card."
"He and Philomena are considering announcing their engagement in June and wanted to know if you and I and Marguerite will be in England then. That's certainly advance notice," she commented.
"I'll be there for the Exhibition," Napoleon said and laid the newspaper aside. "You'll come to that, too, won't you?"
"You know I wouldn't miss it," Aurelia assured him. "I'll write to Edgar and tell him that you and I are a fairly sure thing, but I can't be certain about Marguerite. Might be good for her to go. Edgar has some nice friends and so does Philomena. Although, it might remind her of Randolph." Napoleon nodded and served himself some fruit salad.
"Oh, my," Aurelia exclaimed, holding up two magazines. Napoleon looked up. "Seems The Times correspondent isn't the only journalist ecstatic about our Mr. Kuryakin," she said and turned the two around so Napoleon could see the covers. Napoleon took the Time magazine and Aurelia found the cover article in Newsweek. "And he was at my New Year's Eve party," she joked.
"And had a very nice time," Napoleon dead-panned back.
"I know. He sent me a thank-you note," Aurelia said. "Charming manners."
"He didn't mention being interviewed though," Napoleon murmured, scanning the article which seemed to be about the whole ballet company. Then he turned back to the beginning to read it properly.
"Modest, too," Aurelia teased. "This will thrill Constance," she added.
Napoleon recalled a sleepy-voiced assertion about stamina and felt a blush climbing up his face.
****************
Sergei was surprised that the office had let the Western Union messenger backstage during rehearsals. They would never have done that in London, he thought. "Can I help you?" he asked the bewildered young man.
"Telegram for Mr. Kuryakin," the youth replied, relieved not to have to start a conversation with anyone wearing tights.
"He's probably in his dressing room," Sergei explained and considered giving directions. "I'll show you; it will be quicker." The young man smiled; it transformed his thin face, and followed Sergei. "Has it started snowing?" Sergei asked him as they moved along the corridors.
"Not yet," the messenger replied, "but the clouds are coming in over Lake Michigan. Maybe tonight. Right now, it's too cold to snow."
Sergei knocked lightly then poked his head around the partly open door. "Western Union calling," he said. Illya looked up from writing and smiled. "No, I mean, actually; the messenger is right behind me." Illya saw the top of a uniform cap behind Sergei, raised his eyebrows and waved them in.
The lad looked about uncomfortably. Illya stood up and smiled at him. He smiled back. "Here, sir," he said, handing over the envelope. "If you could sign and date this, please." He held out a form and a pen.
"Thank you," Illya said and bent over the dressing table, wrote 5 Feb '59, added a quick swirl of ink next to the date, handed the list back and tore open the envelope.
"Well?" Sergei said. Illya handed him the message.
"Will you be able to find your way out?" Illya asked the young man. He looked dubious.
Sergei looked up from the telegram and passed it back to Illya. "I'll take you out. Don't want you getting lost," he said to the boy. "I'll be right back," he added to Illya. Illya nodded and continued staring at the paper in his hand.
*************
Illya was sitting when Sergei returned, but the telegram was still in his hand.
"So, he's flying here the day after tomorrow," Sergei said as he closed the door behind him. "Who's the man he's coming with?"
"A financier, with an interest in the arts and a philanthropic streak, whose portrait he has just finished," Illya explained. "Seems he's completed the portrait ahead of schedule. I think we should tell the ballet masters about this visit," Illya concluded.
"They were down in wardrobe a little while ago," Sergei said. "Shall I go see if we can have a word?"
Illya nodded.
Sergei paused at the door and looked over his shoulder at Illya. "He was coming to Boston in a week's time anyway," he started.
Illya nodded.
"You're pleased to see him earlier, aren't you?" Sergei asked, walking back to Illya. He lay his hands on both of Illya's shoulders and began to massage the knotted muscles he found there.
"He's reserved sleeping berths on the train we're taking to Boston," Illya said.
Sergei leaned over Illya's shoulder to reread the message. "Where does it say that?" he asked. Illya tapped the last few words. "Ah, more of your weather code," he said and pressed more firmly into the hard muscles. "Are you changing your mind about him?" he asked and felt the response through his fingertips. "Not straightforward, is it?"
"I think I may want him too much," Illya said and lay the yellow paper on the table. He rotated his neck and sighed.
"For people who seem to be headed in the same direction, you two have a lot of confusion about how to get there," Sergei commented. "When we had this discussion last, you were worried that you'd tire of him in a few weeks."
"Maybe I will," Illya sighed, "but it doesn't feel like it anymore."
Sergei bent down and kissed the top of Illya's head. "That's quite an effect for a piece of paper," he said, giving Illya's shoulders another squeeze. "I'll go find the ballet masters and see what sort of welcome we can arrange for your artist and his magnate."
When the door clicked behind Sergei, Illya reached under the table for his satchel. Out of it he drew a leather portfolio; he opened it and looked through the dated pictures one by one.
The pencil sketch of his hand on my back. We were leaving for the theatre the day of our first performance in Philadelphia. Illya reread the words above it. Recalled the feeling he'd experienced, almost like vertigo when he realised he would see Napoleon in a few days when he hadn't expected to see him for more than a month. Like now? No, different from now.
A drawing in coloured pencils of two hands, one below the other, fingers clasping, the arms visible from elbow to elbow. One with the edge of a rolled up white cotton shirt sleeve, the other ending in the black cuff of a knitted sleeve. Dancing together. It had been waiting for him at the desk when he returned from the theatre on the day Napoleon went back to New York. He had written one word beneath it - "remember". Using my own words back at me.
Before the first performance in Washington, DC. It was at the desk when I dropped off the room key. A watercolour of me asleep, lying on my stomach, shown from the waist up. One word printed underneath, "Cold". You should have been in that picture. "I don't want to go to New York," you said. I told you not to go. Did I mean that? The memory of Napoleon's next movement swept over him. He could feel it again. Illya hunched over the table and squeezed his eyes shut. "Come back, I'm cold," I told you. And you came back and I wasn't cold anymore. Not at all.
The sun was streaming through the open balcony doors in Los Angeles when the picture entitled Through the Invisible arrived by courier. Sergei had gone out with Alicia to walk along the beach so they could at least put their feet in the surf. I unwrapped the package and stared at the painting inside. There I was, gazing out your penthouse window at the snow, my hands and head reflected ghostlike in the dark glass, my outline indistinct against the night sky. The mild sea breeze ruffling the hotel curtains had disappeared; I felt the snowflakes falling on my face again, the pressure of your hand brushing them off my sleeve, the warmth of you standing behind me and heard all your answers to my insistent question.
The envelope was waiting when we checked into the hotel here in Chicago. My portrait in coloured inks. Illya studied the eyes looking up out of the picture. My face, with eyes that are nearly black. "Twin Eclipses," you called it. When had you seen that look on my face? I've seen it on yours. It's called desire.
It's good you're coming soon because I want you.
**************
"They've arrived," Sergei said, slipping into Illya's dressing room. "With a child. Nine- or ten-year-old girl, I'd say."
"Hmmm," Illya said, adjusting his slipper. "Let's see if we can find Allegra and Mrs. O'Donnell. Allegra could take her down to see the costumes while we talk. Have we anything to give a child, as a memento?"
"Good idea, I'll ask," Sergei agreed. Illya looked up at him. "I have time," Sergei assured him. "I'm not on until after the interval either."
****************
The group made its way slowly towards the stage. Mr. Morgan was deep in conversation with Messrs. Linetskiy and Dumas; Alicia and Sergei were discussing costumes with Napoleon. Illya walked ahead. He found Allegra demonstrating steps to Mr. Morgan's granddaughter, Abigail. Abigail was imitating them rather well. On her head was pinned the headpiece of the Scarlet Rose. Illya smiled. Mrs. O'Donnell had made a good choice, even though it would take a while to make another one.
Illya joined the pair. "How long have you been dancing?" he asked.
"Five years," she answered.
"And what's your favourite ballet?"
"The Firebird," the child replied. Illya raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had expected her to say, The Nutcracker or Swan Lake.
"Would you like to watch us practice part of the first scene?" Illya asked and glanced at Allegra. She nodded.
Abigail's eyes grew wider. "Now?" she asked. Illya nodded.
"Yes, please," she replied, her eyes opening wide.
"From the entrance of the Tsarevich," Illya said to Allegra, and she leapt away.
Algernon Morgan spied his granddaughter in the centre of the vast stage. He followed her gaze upwards to where Allegra was being held aloft by Illya. The others stopped in the wings. Mr. Linetskiy glanced out of the corner of his eye to see what was holding their guest's interest. He was surprised to observe that it was his granddaughter's entranced expression. Illya heard the others arriving and brought the demonstration to a close.
"Would you lift me?" Abigail asked politely, her high voice carrying easily across the cavernous space.
Illya glanced over at her grandfather. Abigail turned. "May I, Grandpapa?" she asked.
"We don't want to trouble Mr. Kuryakin," he replied to her and looked at Illya questioningly.
"I don't mind. She will be like The Firebird's feather," he said.
"Only once," Mr. Morgan cautioned his granddaughter.
"Pirouette en dehors." Illya instructed. "I will be behind you. When you are facing front again, I will lift you. Raise your arms above your head, hold your body straight and still, toes pointed, and I'll put you down over there," Illya said and indicated where with an extended arm. "When I put you down, pirouette dedans." Abigail nodded solemnly. "Begin."
Abigail assumed the correct position. She waited a moment, then bent her knee and turned. Illya grasped her waist firmly and lifted her above his head. He stepped to the right and set her lightly down. Abigail spun once more and finished.
"Brava," her grandfather said and held out a hand.
Abigail curtsied to her grandfather then turned to curtsy to Illya and looked up. He nodded. She ran to her grandfather and laughed. "It was like flying," she said, taking his hand.
"And you have a new hat," he observed.
Abigail's hand flew to her hair. "Mrs. O'Donnell said it was alright. It's for a new ballet that no one has ever seen," she whispered.
Mr. Morgan looked at Mr. Linetskiy. "We will premiere it in London shortly after we return. It is a new work by Mr. Kuryakin," the ballet master explained. "And Mr. Solo has designed the costumes and the scenery."
"Like Chagall did for The Firebird," Mr. Morgan commented.
Mr. Linetskiy opened his eyes the tiniest fraction wider, then inclined his head graciously. "In the same manner," he replied.
Mr. Morgan leaned closer to Mr. Linetskiy. "That's how you got Mr. Kuryakin to sign on, is it? Agreeing to produce his ballets?"
Mr. Linetskiy's eyes narrowed slightly. "We seek to encourage young talent," he replied carefully.
"And who turned the designs into actual costumes?" Mr. Morgan asked, touching the decoration on his granddaughter's head lightly.
"Mrs. O'Donnell, Grandpapa," Abigail answered. "She showed me some that were only half done and they had thorns."
"Another talented individual," Mr. Morgan observed and turned fully to the ballet masters. "Thank you so much for allowing us to meet some of the people who make the magic of ballet. I'm sure Abigail will be talking about it for a long while." He extended his hand.
**************
"There isn't a waiter in here somewhere, is there?" Illya asked when they reached Napoleon's suite.
"I only requested cold food be brought up when I checked in," Napoleon said, flipping on the lights and moving from the sitting room to the bedroom and back. "So there shouldn't be." He checked the bathroom. "All clear," he said.
Illya lowered the cover on a platter sitting on a tray full of half-melted ice. "That will keep nicely, I think," he said and walked to the door and slipped the chain across it.
Napoleon lay his coat and jacket over the back of the couch. "That's good because I'm not hungry for food right now," he explained and slipped off his shoes.
"Oh?" Illya said, leaving his shoes by the door and shedding his coat on the way across the room to Napoleon. "What might you be hungering for? Red wine?" he asked, stopping a pace or two from Napoleon and shrugging off his jacket.
Napoleon contemplated the ceiling while he loosened his tie. "Something headier," he answered and unfastened his cuff links.
"Champagne?" Illya enquired and pulled his turtleneck over his head.
Napoleon faltered. Averting his eyes, he began to undo his studs. "Something rarer." He heard Illya unbuckling his belt, so he didn't turn his head.
"Cognac?" Illya asked as he walked past Napoleon and disappeared into the bedroom.
Napoleon turned off the lights and followed.
****************
Napoleon heard the squeak of the bathroom door and the click of the light switch. He didn't open his eyes. When the mattress dipped, he reached out. "It isn't morning yet, is it?" he groaned. The mattress dipped further. He could feel the warmth. Napoleon still didn't lift his head, but his left hand found a thigh.
Illya curled over him and whispered in his ear. "Why don't you want it to be morning, Napoleon?"
Napoleon turned onto his back beneath Illya. One hand glided up a thigh to Illya's waist, the other curved under his arm and on to his shoulder. "I need more," he said, pulling Illya against him. "Much more," he repeated until his lips found warm skin to kiss.
"Still hungry?" Illya asked softly, pressing a kiss into Napoleon's hair.
Napoleon rolled Illya over and covered him with his body, sliding one hand beneath his head and burrowing his face in between his shoulder and throat. He inhaled and held the breath, his full lungs pressing Illya further into the bed. His whole body responded to the aroma and he clasped Illya tighter still. "Starving," he said into that fragrance. Illya stretched slowly, becoming slimmer, harder beneath Napoleon, rubbing along him. "I don't think I could have survived another week."
Illya lifted his hips, then subsided into the mattress. "More," Napoleon complained, his neck arching upwards as his hips pressed down against Illya's. "The more I have," Napoleon breathed, "the more I want." Illya reached up to clasp Napoleon's head and stroked his thumb slowly across Napoleon's lips. Napoleon took a deep breath. Illya pressed upwards again with his hips, rotating them in lazy circles. "You're like an addiction," Napoleon moaned.
Illya raised an arm above Napoleon, then brought his fingers down lightly just above the small of his back. Napoleon's head bowed as Illya trailed his fingertips down into that valley, up the swell of the buttocks and lingered, sweeping gently back and forth where they divided. Lightly and slowly and lower.
******************
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across Illya's bunk apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
Weeks had passed since New York and Philadelphia and another week was supposed to pass before their rendezvous in Boston. In those weeks Illya had distanced himself from the feelings Napoleon’s presence provoked, from the intensity of those unexpected days and nights together, despite the cryptic and beautiful messages Napoleon had sent. Illya hadn’t reduced all his reactions to words, but he knew he had been holding something back. Then the telegram had arrived, one more surprise, and now Napoleon was here, on the overnight train from Chicago to Boston.
The curtains parted. Napoleon tossed his robe inside and slipped onto the narrow bunk beside Illya, turning his back for a moment to snap the curtains shut. The bed springs squeaked as he settled on his side, up on one elbow. The darkness was nearly complete, hiding their expressions. A tiny amount of grey seeped up from beneath the hem of the drapery, shifting with the rocking of the train. The passenger in the next bunk coughed and rolled over. Across the corridor, someone snored. They heard slippered feet shuffling past, murmured words and the clearer voice of the conductor explaining that the lavatories were in the next car. Illya reached out and rested his index finger on Napoleon’s lips.
Napoleon leaned forward until their foreheads met, touched the back of his hand to Illya’s cheek, traced along his jaw line to his chin, tilting it up. Illya’s hand found Napoleon's shoulder, fingertips skimming under his pyjama collar to the buttons. He smiled as he undid them. When he unfastened the one at the waist, Napoleon covered the smile with his lips. The motion of the train shifted the kiss back and forth between them until Illya curled his arm around Napoleon and pulled him onto his back, under him. Questions rose in Illya’s mind. He pushed the clothing aside and used his tongue differently, to ask without a sound. Napoleon gripped Illya’s shoulders in response, his hips thrusting upwards. The bed springs shrieked in protest. Napoleon stopped.
Gradually, he settled back into the bunk, the springs sighing. Illya followed Napoleon down, resting his head on the pillow, the cadence of his breaths against Napoleon’s ear conveying his impatience. Napoleon stroked Illya’s hair; his other arm across the small of Illya’s back, pressing them together when the train rounded a curve, its brakes squealing.
Napoleon reached into the pocket of his robe. Illya smelt the oil before he felt it against his skin. Napoleon’s hand slipped between them, seeking out their warmest places. Shifting his knees forward, Illya arched his back and tucked his head between Napoleon's neck and shoulder. Napoleon’s hands glided up Illya's sides and back to his hips, his fingers stretching lower and further around with each pass. Illya drew the skin at the base of Napoleon's neck between his teeth and slowly lowered himself. They stilled then, letting the train roll them together.
The whistle blew as the train passed a deserted crossing, resumed its rhythm and picked up speed. It was a long way from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic.
*****************
Napoleon had travelled down from Boston on the bus with the company, feeling honoured that they had allowed him to join them, that Illya seemed comfortable with his being there.
He had tried not to watch and had settled for trying to do it as discreetly as possible. Watched who seemed to look at Illya in a certain way, to touch him, to stand close to him. It was clear that he and Sergei were more than colleagues, more than just friends. Even if Sergei seemed very involved in pursuing Alicia, Napoleon observed the way he looked at Illya, the way he looked after him. Napoleon tried not to be jealous. It's good to have a friend like that, good for Illya. Napoleon felt differently when Alicia touched him though. What she felt for Illya wasn't so positive. He couldn't quite classify it, wasn't sure how he would paint her as a person. It had been easy to draw her as the Scarlet Rose. The temptation of passion. But Illya wasn't tempted by her. Maybe that was the source of that faint negativity about her. Perhaps she is jealous of me, Napoleon thought. He had relaxed into his seat at the thought. Watched Sergei slip his arm around Illya's shoulders as they stood talking to Allegra as the last of the luggage was stowed in the bus. Met Sergei's eye when he'd looked over Illya's shoulder at him and smiled. Sergei had smiled back.
It had begun to snow by the time the bus got underway. Illya had stepped across the armrests and dropped gracefully into the window seat. "How did you know?" he'd asked.
"Know what?" Napoleon responded.
"That I prefer the window seat."
Napoleon refolded his coat across his lap so that the collar brushed against Illya's leg, and leaned towards the window. "It was an instinctive move," he explained quietly.
Illya raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips turning up. "Oh?" he replied, his voice very low.
"To block your escape," Napoleon confessed, leaning closer.
"I could jump over you with no trouble," Illya remarked, tilting his head back slightly, his eyebrow rising higher.
Or kick me across the aisle, Napoleon thought and slipped his hand under the armrest to stroke the side of Illya's thigh. "But perhaps you won't wish to," he said.
The corners of Illya's lips turned up a bit more, he tugged Napoleon's coat across his lap and leaned towards him until their foreheads nearly touched as though they were having a confidential conversation. "Let's see if you can persuade me," he said.
"Alright," Napoleon replied, stroking along Illya's thigh with three of his fingers. "I believe," he continued, "that any good argument should be built up slowly and carefully."
"Mmmh," Illya replied. "Go on," he added, shifting his position slightly.
"And the main points should be clearly defined," Napoleon stated and eased his hand into the pocket of Illya's trousers and over the top of his leg.
The afternoon sky had grown progressively darker as the snow grew thicker. The dim interior of the bus suited their conversation.
Despite the snow, the buses got them to the quay before most of the other passengers.
**************
Napoleon and Illya had circumnavigated the queue and were among the first of the company to board. Illya had quickly claimed his key and they had found his cabin as though added by a sixth sense. Illya's body slamming up against Napoleon's had shut the door. "That qualified as torture," Illya growled as he seized both of Napoleon's wrists, pinning him against the wood.
"I would never torture you," Napoleon smiled innocently. Illya ground his hips against Napoleon in reply. "Is this retaliation?" Napoleon asked, closing his eyes.
"Retribution. There isn't time for retaliation!" Illya said, rising onto his toes and leaning forward to bite one of Napoleon's captured hands.
****************
Alicia patted Sergei's shoulder. "Look," she said, pointing at the little shop near the reception area. Sergei accepted the key to his and Illya's cabin as well as Alicia's and looked where she was pointing.
"You want one of the French newspapers?" Sergei asked, handing Alicia her key. "Which one?" He scanned the crowded window display.
"Don't you see?" Alicia urged, pulling him closer to the glass. "There! It's Algernon Morgan on the cover of Fortune Magazine."
Sergei spotted the magazine among the multicoloured selection. "So it is," he agreed and leaned closer. "Wait a minute," he added, entering the small store and picking up the magazine.
"What?" asked Alicia, joining him.
Sergei's eyes skimmed down the table of contents until he found the miniature of the cover and the credits. "It is," he said, smiling.
"What?" Alicia repeated, trying to look over Sergei's arm.
"Here," he said, handing her the journal and pointing near the bottom of the page. "It's Napoleon's painting of Algernon Morgan."
"It is," Alicia agreed. She looked up at Sergei, "I wonder if he knows?"
"One way to find out," Sergei replied, taking three copies to the counter and paying for them. Alicia raised her eyebrows. "I'll wait up here until Napoleon leaves." He glanced at his watch. "Ten, fifteen minutes at most before they call 'All ashore that's going ashore'."
Alicia nodded. "I'll meet you at dinner then. Save a seat for me," she said and meandered off to find her cabin.
Sergei sat down near the exit and began reading the article about Morgan's philanthropy entitled, "The Responsibility of Wealth".
The second bell had rung for those going ashore and Sergei considered going down to the cabin and getting Napoleon, when he came rushing into view, overcoat on his arm and face decidedly flushed. Sergei smiled. "Napoleon," he said.
Napoleon spotted Sergei just as the "All ashore that's going ashore" sounded over the address system. "Here," he said thrusting an envelope at Sergei. "Give this to Illya." Sergei took it and didn't bother to ask why Napoleon hadn't delivered it himself.
"Take this," Sergei said in reply, shoving a rolled magazine into Napoleon's hand. "See you in Rome."
Napoleon dashed onto the deck. The officer who was about to close the gangplank, paused and smirked at Napoleon's obvious disarray as he let him pass.
He didn't look back when he reached the dock. His suitcase was waiting alone at the bottom. Napoleon flung it and himself into the first available taxi, gave the driver his aunt's address and collapsed on the seat.
"Hey, mister. We're here," the taxi driver said loudly.
Dazed, Napoleon opened his eyes and looked around. "Sorry," he said and took out a twenty.
"You all right? Need help with that suitcase?" the driver asked.
Napoleon nodded. "Thanks, that would be great," he said and shivered as the driver opened the door.
"Better put your coat on. Temperature's been dropping since it stopped snowing," he added, pulling the suitcase onto the pavement. Napoleon let go of the magazine he'd apparently clutched the whole time he was asleep. The paper stuck to his hand and he had to peel it off to get into his coat.
"Thank you," Napoleon said as he straightened up on the pavement.
"No problem," the driver said, stretching around Napoleon to close the back door. "Hey," he said, leaning into the car, "you forgot your magazine."
Napoleon nodded absently and reached out for it. The streetlight shone directly onto the glossy surface and Napoleon shook his head as he stared at the cover.
The driver put a hand under Napoleon's elbow. "You OK? You want me to help you inside?"
"No, no. I'm OK." Napoleon fished in his trouser pocket, took out a ten and handed it to the driver. "Thank you for not letting me forget this," he said and smiled.
The driver grinned back. "No problem. Look after yourself now," he said and headed around to the driver's side.
Napoleon saluted him with the magazine as he pulled away from the curb.
My painting's on the cover of Fortune Magazine. Sergei will have shown it to Illya by now, he thought and turned into the building humming.
*******************
The shower was running when Sergei let himself into the cabin. He shoved the two suitcases through the doorway, placed the magazine and the manila envelope on the dressing table side by side and went to hang up his coat. There was a lone sock by the door. Sergei smiled as he dropped it into the laundry bag in the closet. The shower stopped. He returned to the table and rearranged the envelope and the magazine, finally deciding on the envelope half over the magazine, with the head and shoulders of the portrait showing.
The bathroom door opened. Illya was toweling his hair as he walked through it otherwise unclothed. "You'll catch a chill," Sergei warned. "It's not that warm in here." Illya stopped toweling and took another step forward. Sergei walked behind him and grabbed the towel. "You always miss the middle of your back," he observed, rubbing down Illya's spine.
"What's this?" Illya asked, stopping at the dressing table.
"The envelope, Napoleon gave me for you. The magazine, I found at the newsstand on deck," Sergei replied. He turned and hung the damp towel on the door handle, reached inside the tiny bath for a dry one and draped it over Illya's shoulders.
Illya picked up the magazine. "Did he see this?" he asked.
"I don't know," Sergei replied, leaning forward to consider the portrait on the cover over Illya's shoulder. "But I shoved a copy in his hand as he was disembarking."
"This should help him make it through the week," Illya murmured.
"It's getting harder and harder for him to leave," Sergei observed. Illya nodded as he leafed though the magazine until he found the article about Algernon Morgan. "And you're finding it harder and harder to let him go." Illya nodded again.
*************************
Feather listened for a moment at the studio door. She could hear the flap of Napoleon's slippers against the wooden floor. She rapped. The sound stopped. "I have your breakfast. Shall I put it in the sitting room?"
There was a scraping sound and another few flaps brought Napoleon to the door. "In here would be best, Feather," he said when he opened it.
"You worked all night again?" she asked as she put down the tray. A glance at Napoleon gave her her answer. "All the more important to eat then," she cajoled.
"Thank you," Napoleon said, pacing to the end of the room and staring into the garden. He considered painting its bare branches. "Spring won't be early this year," he remarked.
Feather eyed the easel turned away from the doorway and the remarkable cloak draped over the cushions on the divan. One side was studded with crystals that reflected the light in small rainbows around the room. The cloth was velvet of such a dark blue that only where the strong sunlight in the studio fell directly on it was the colour revealed to be other than black; the reverse side was sky blue watered silk.
"It will be beautiful when you return from Paris in April," she said. "Come eat."
I'll have to survive most of March, Napoleon thought, but he obeyed.
Mrs. Featherstonehaugh noted the nervous energy he could barely contain despite the sleepless night. She poured the tea as Napoleon sat down. "You've already submitted your paintings, the renovations are underway. Why don't you leave early for Rome?" she asked.
Napoleon blinked uncomprehendingly at the steaming cup Feather set before him, then he looked up at her and smiled. "That's a good idea. I'll send Romeo a telegram and see if the studio is free a few days earlier. Thank you," he added, reaching for a plate of scrambled eggs.
"Shall I start packing your things?" Feather asked. Napoleon nodded and drained a glass of orange juice. Feather smiled back at him from the door.
***************
Napoleon stretched his arms out along the cushions of the alcove. To the extent he had slept at all since he'd returned to London, he had slept there, the maroon quilt over him, clad in the dark blue pyjamas which had lain laundered and folded for Illya each weekend when he stayed in Holland Park. Napoleon pushed the pillows aside and pressed himself against the cushions as though to find some trace of Illya's scent among their tufts. A week shouldn't be this long, he thought. I mustn't think. He remembered how Illya felt up against the cabin wall. His right hand curved around a tuft of the cushion. I ran...to disembark before they drew in the gangway... I couldn't have walked away. Not when the setting sun had found you through the porthole and lit your hair. Apollo was not fairer... but you have wings on your feet... Hermes.
Napoleon flung off the covers, went back to his studio, locked the door and repositioned the easel. There was the outline of a figure reclining against the cloak, every ligament declaring satiation. I have seen your eyes closed in pleasure, your body surfeited with it. Napoleon finished one wing of a winged-sandal half covered by the edge of the cloak. "I will paint you in Rome and you will look like this," Napoleon promised. "Let me make you feel like this... again." Under his brush, another wing began to look alive.
*****************
Part 6 is here
Small scene (Night Train) added 4 May 2010
**************
"Here!" Sergei called and waved when Illya bounded onto the bus. Illya wound his way towards the back, swivelling his hips around people's elbows and knees. "I saved you the window seat," Sergei said, swinging his legs into the aisle to let Illya by. Illya fell into his seat, bent forward to stow his bag then rested his head against the cool window. "Wow," Sergei whispered leaning close, taking in the rosiness of Illya's cheeks and the fullness of his lips. "That must've been some 'good-bye'."
"Mmm," Illya replied, closing his eyes.
"Will he come to Philadelphia?" Sergei asked quietly.
Illya shook his head. "He's got a portrait to paint here in New York this month. He'll come to Boston."
"That's a long time," Sergei remarked.
"And to Rome," Illya added, reclining his seat and stretching out his legs.
"Hmmmh," Sergei said, raising his eyebrows.
"Wake me when we get there," Illya said.
"I will," Sergei replied, reaching over to pull Illya's scarf up around his chin. "You look like you need a nap," he added, smiling.
"Mmm," Illya agreed and turned his head towards the window.
***************
The key clattered against the polished wood. The hotel clerk turned and collected it. "You have mail, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, smiling, then pivoted to search the cubby holes behind him. "Here you are, sir," he said.
Sergei looked over Illya's shoulder at the small, square envelope. "Sent Monday afternoon, special delivery," he noted.
Illya turned the envelope over and smiled at the scarlet wax stamped with a rose.
The clerk proffered a letter opener. Illya ran it deftly beneath the flap and returned it. "Thank you," he said and pulled out a white card embossed with an "S". He flipped it open and closed it again immediately. Illya walked over to the seating area of the lobby and lowered himself onto a couch. Slowly, he reopened the card. The pencil drawing inside showed a back from shoulder to mid-buttock. In the foreground was a bare wrist and a hand resting at the small of the back. The thumb extended away from the other fingers to grasp or knead or stroke. Illya recognised the hand even though the little finger was not visible. He closed the card and his eyes. He straightened his back, feeling that hand on his skin, pressing against that curve, then sliding still lower. His cheeks flamed. Illya opened his eyes and the card once more. On the inside of the cover was written, "Can picture it too clearly. Surely there will be snow on Saturday night." He slipped the card back into its envelope, then into his bag.
Sergei approached, one eyebrow up.
"He's coming Saturday night," Illya said, his voice oddly flat.
"I'm not surprised. Philadelphia's only a three-hour drive from New York," Sergei replied, narrowing his eyes at the confused expression on Illya's face.
*************
"You were incredible. They nearly buried you in flowers," Napoleon said as Illya ducked into the backseat. "I would have missed your Don Jose, if I hadn't come." The door shut.
"They were an appreciative audience," Illya allowed. "How'd you get a ticket?" he asked, smiling into Napoleon's eyes and holding his gaze.
"Corporate box with a spare seat," Napoleon explained. "I mentioned your tour to my sitter and he told me that his company had one which I was welcome to use if it wasn't full. I asked his secretary on the way out that very afternoon." Napoleon glanced at the raised glass barrier between the front and back seats and reached over to pull the curtains across.
It was snowing and the street lights flickered intermittently in through the smoked glass of the car windows. Illya watched as Napoleon's hand moved over the dark material and towards him. The hand touched his cheek. Illya closed his eyes. Napoleon's lips were on his, his tongue inside his mouth, his weight upon him. Illya felt his whole body relaxing beneath Napoleon, opening to him. He sighed.
"Every night I heard that," Napoleon whispered in his ear. "When the wind blew, the curtains rustled, I heard your sigh." He kissed Illya's ear, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, nipping the lobe lightly between his teeth. "I needed to touch you," he breathed. Illya made a small sound as Napoleon's hand slid beneath his coat and jacket, underneath the turtleneck, stroking up the skin of his chest until it reached the tender skin and circled there. Napoleon's mouth caught the next sound Illya made. Illya parted his lips, shifted his hips so that Napoleon rested more comfortably against him, every movement an invitation which Napoleon accepted. "I can't wait another instant," Napoleon said, pulling his lips away. Illya felt a chill as fastenings were undone and then a warmth engulfed him which dispelled it totally.
*********************
Beneath him, Napoleon could feel Illya's breathing returning to normal. He rubbed his cheek against Illya's hair, then kissed his shoulder and rested his forehead there. He considered the grey, Monday morning light seeping around the drapes. "I don't want to go back to New York," he said.
"Mmm, don't go," Illya murmured, shifting slightly, sending tremors though Napoleon.
Napoleon consulted his watch. "I don't have to leave until you go to rehearsal," he said, kissing the warm shoulder again. "We can have breakfast together, and..." very gently he withdrew and settled next to Illya.
"Come back, I'm cold now," Illya grumbled into the edge of the pillow. Napoleon's hand glided down Illya's back and stopped in that curve at the bottom he liked so well. He pressed down firmly.
"Mmm," Illya replied. "Still cold," he repeated, sounding as though he were drifting off to sleep.
Napoleon rose on one elbow and leaned over him, running a hand down from Illya's shoulder, around his side and towards his stomach. Illya drew in a breath and Napoleon's hand slipped between Illya and the sheets. When he exhaled, he trapped Napoleon's hand there. Napoleon bent down and kissed Illya's upper arm, drawing the skin between his teeth and running his tongue over the flesh. A pleased sound escaped Illya's lips as Napoleon insinuated a leg between his thighs and sunk into the mattress between them. "You could make love all day, couldn't you?" Napoleon whispered, his breath tickling Illya's neck. Illya made to turn and Napoleon lifted his weight so he could.
With half-closed eyes, he smiled drowsily up at Napoleon. "I have great stamina," Illya answered, stretching and arching against Napoleon.
Napoleon was caught in that dreamy gaze. He leaned back, still watching, and placed a hand below one of Illya's knees. It flexed upwards bonelessly and Illya's eyes closed. A jolt of electricity flashed from Napoleon's hand to his groin. He raised Illya's other leg to his shoulder and pressed forward to kiss his full lips.
******************
Aurelia looked up from the postcard she was reading when Napoleon entered the dining room. He leaned over to kiss her good morning. "From Marguerite?" he asked.
"Yes. She'll be here next week. They seem to be having a good time. Genvieve's coming with her for a few days. Alexander has been called back to work ahead of schedule. Hard to tell, really," she sighed and put the card down.
"Any exciting news?" Napoleon asked, gesturing at the newspaper by his aunt's plate as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. "Other than the usual festering of unhappy souls, there is an ecstatic review of the performance you saw in Philadelphia last weekend." Aurelia refolded the paper to the review and handed it across the table to Napoleon. He read as he sipped his coffee. "I see what you mean about the hyperbole. But the audience did leap to their feet at the end and Illya and Alicia were about knee-deep in flowers when they took their final bows."
"I hope they'll be performing Carmen when they get back to London," Aurelia said. "Here's a belated Christmas card from Edgar," she announced as she sifted through the stack of post on the tray by her elbow.
"Anything noteworthy?" Napoleon glanced up. "Pretty card."
"He and Philomena are considering announcing their engagement in June and wanted to know if you and I and Marguerite will be in England then. That's certainly advance notice," she commented.
"I'll be there for the Exhibition," Napoleon said and laid the newspaper aside. "You'll come to that, too, won't you?"
"You know I wouldn't miss it," Aurelia assured him. "I'll write to Edgar and tell him that you and I are a fairly sure thing, but I can't be certain about Marguerite. Might be good for her to go. Edgar has some nice friends and so does Philomena. Although, it might remind her of Randolph." Napoleon nodded and served himself some fruit salad.
"Oh, my," Aurelia exclaimed, holding up two magazines. Napoleon looked up. "Seems The Times correspondent isn't the only journalist ecstatic about our Mr. Kuryakin," she said and turned the two around so Napoleon could see the covers. Napoleon took the Time magazine and Aurelia found the cover article in Newsweek. "And he was at my New Year's Eve party," she joked.
"And had a very nice time," Napoleon dead-panned back.
"I know. He sent me a thank-you note," Aurelia said. "Charming manners."
"He didn't mention being interviewed though," Napoleon murmured, scanning the article which seemed to be about the whole ballet company. Then he turned back to the beginning to read it properly.
"Modest, too," Aurelia teased. "This will thrill Constance," she added.
Napoleon recalled a sleepy-voiced assertion about stamina and felt a blush climbing up his face.
****************
Sergei was surprised that the office had let the Western Union messenger backstage during rehearsals. They would never have done that in London, he thought. "Can I help you?" he asked the bewildered young man.
"Telegram for Mr. Kuryakin," the youth replied, relieved not to have to start a conversation with anyone wearing tights.
"He's probably in his dressing room," Sergei explained and considered giving directions. "I'll show you; it will be quicker." The young man smiled; it transformed his thin face, and followed Sergei. "Has it started snowing?" Sergei asked him as they moved along the corridors.
"Not yet," the messenger replied, "but the clouds are coming in over Lake Michigan. Maybe tonight. Right now, it's too cold to snow."
Sergei knocked lightly then poked his head around the partly open door. "Western Union calling," he said. Illya looked up from writing and smiled. "No, I mean, actually; the messenger is right behind me." Illya saw the top of a uniform cap behind Sergei, raised his eyebrows and waved them in.
The lad looked about uncomfortably. Illya stood up and smiled at him. He smiled back. "Here, sir," he said, handing over the envelope. "If you could sign and date this, please." He held out a form and a pen.
"Thank you," Illya said and bent over the dressing table, wrote 5 Feb '59, added a quick swirl of ink next to the date, handed the list back and tore open the envelope.
"Well?" Sergei said. Illya handed him the message.
"Will you be able to find your way out?" Illya asked the young man. He looked dubious.
Sergei looked up from the telegram and passed it back to Illya. "I'll take you out. Don't want you getting lost," he said to the boy. "I'll be right back," he added to Illya. Illya nodded and continued staring at the paper in his hand.
*************
Illya was sitting when Sergei returned, but the telegram was still in his hand.
"So, he's flying here the day after tomorrow," Sergei said as he closed the door behind him. "Who's the man he's coming with?"
"A financier, with an interest in the arts and a philanthropic streak, whose portrait he has just finished," Illya explained. "Seems he's completed the portrait ahead of schedule. I think we should tell the ballet masters about this visit," Illya concluded.
"They were down in wardrobe a little while ago," Sergei said. "Shall I go see if we can have a word?"
Illya nodded.
Sergei paused at the door and looked over his shoulder at Illya. "He was coming to Boston in a week's time anyway," he started.
Illya nodded.
"You're pleased to see him earlier, aren't you?" Sergei asked, walking back to Illya. He lay his hands on both of Illya's shoulders and began to massage the knotted muscles he found there.
"He's reserved sleeping berths on the train we're taking to Boston," Illya said.
Sergei leaned over Illya's shoulder to reread the message. "Where does it say that?" he asked. Illya tapped the last few words. "Ah, more of your weather code," he said and pressed more firmly into the hard muscles. "Are you changing your mind about him?" he asked and felt the response through his fingertips. "Not straightforward, is it?"
"I think I may want him too much," Illya said and lay the yellow paper on the table. He rotated his neck and sighed.
"For people who seem to be headed in the same direction, you two have a lot of confusion about how to get there," Sergei commented. "When we had this discussion last, you were worried that you'd tire of him in a few weeks."
"Maybe I will," Illya sighed, "but it doesn't feel like it anymore."
Sergei bent down and kissed the top of Illya's head. "That's quite an effect for a piece of paper," he said, giving Illya's shoulders another squeeze. "I'll go find the ballet masters and see what sort of welcome we can arrange for your artist and his magnate."
When the door clicked behind Sergei, Illya reached under the table for his satchel. Out of it he drew a leather portfolio; he opened it and looked through the dated pictures one by one.
The pencil sketch of his hand on my back. We were leaving for the theatre the day of our first performance in Philadelphia. Illya reread the words above it. Recalled the feeling he'd experienced, almost like vertigo when he realised he would see Napoleon in a few days when he hadn't expected to see him for more than a month. Like now? No, different from now.
A drawing in coloured pencils of two hands, one below the other, fingers clasping, the arms visible from elbow to elbow. One with the edge of a rolled up white cotton shirt sleeve, the other ending in the black cuff of a knitted sleeve. Dancing together. It had been waiting for him at the desk when he returned from the theatre on the day Napoleon went back to New York. He had written one word beneath it - "remember". Using my own words back at me.
Before the first performance in Washington, DC. It was at the desk when I dropped off the room key. A watercolour of me asleep, lying on my stomach, shown from the waist up. One word printed underneath, "Cold". You should have been in that picture. "I don't want to go to New York," you said. I told you not to go. Did I mean that? The memory of Napoleon's next movement swept over him. He could feel it again. Illya hunched over the table and squeezed his eyes shut. "Come back, I'm cold," I told you. And you came back and I wasn't cold anymore. Not at all.
The sun was streaming through the open balcony doors in Los Angeles when the picture entitled Through the Invisible arrived by courier. Sergei had gone out with Alicia to walk along the beach so they could at least put their feet in the surf. I unwrapped the package and stared at the painting inside. There I was, gazing out your penthouse window at the snow, my hands and head reflected ghostlike in the dark glass, my outline indistinct against the night sky. The mild sea breeze ruffling the hotel curtains had disappeared; I felt the snowflakes falling on my face again, the pressure of your hand brushing them off my sleeve, the warmth of you standing behind me and heard all your answers to my insistent question.
The envelope was waiting when we checked into the hotel here in Chicago. My portrait in coloured inks. Illya studied the eyes looking up out of the picture. My face, with eyes that are nearly black. "Twin Eclipses," you called it. When had you seen that look on my face? I've seen it on yours. It's called desire.
It's good you're coming soon because I want you.
**************
"They've arrived," Sergei said, slipping into Illya's dressing room. "With a child. Nine- or ten-year-old girl, I'd say."
"Hmmm," Illya said, adjusting his slipper. "Let's see if we can find Allegra and Mrs. O'Donnell. Allegra could take her down to see the costumes while we talk. Have we anything to give a child, as a memento?"
"Good idea, I'll ask," Sergei agreed. Illya looked up at him. "I have time," Sergei assured him. "I'm not on until after the interval either."
****************
The group made its way slowly towards the stage. Mr. Morgan was deep in conversation with Messrs. Linetskiy and Dumas; Alicia and Sergei were discussing costumes with Napoleon. Illya walked ahead. He found Allegra demonstrating steps to Mr. Morgan's granddaughter, Abigail. Abigail was imitating them rather well. On her head was pinned the headpiece of the Scarlet Rose. Illya smiled. Mrs. O'Donnell had made a good choice, even though it would take a while to make another one.
Illya joined the pair. "How long have you been dancing?" he asked.
"Five years," she answered.
"And what's your favourite ballet?"
"The Firebird," the child replied. Illya raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had expected her to say, The Nutcracker or Swan Lake.
"Would you like to watch us practice part of the first scene?" Illya asked and glanced at Allegra. She nodded.
Abigail's eyes grew wider. "Now?" she asked. Illya nodded.
"Yes, please," she replied, her eyes opening wide.
"From the entrance of the Tsarevich," Illya said to Allegra, and she leapt away.
Algernon Morgan spied his granddaughter in the centre of the vast stage. He followed her gaze upwards to where Allegra was being held aloft by Illya. The others stopped in the wings. Mr. Linetskiy glanced out of the corner of his eye to see what was holding their guest's interest. He was surprised to observe that it was his granddaughter's entranced expression. Illya heard the others arriving and brought the demonstration to a close.
"Would you lift me?" Abigail asked politely, her high voice carrying easily across the cavernous space.
Illya glanced over at her grandfather. Abigail turned. "May I, Grandpapa?" she asked.
"We don't want to trouble Mr. Kuryakin," he replied to her and looked at Illya questioningly.
"I don't mind. She will be like The Firebird's feather," he said.
"Only once," Mr. Morgan cautioned his granddaughter.
"Pirouette en dehors." Illya instructed. "I will be behind you. When you are facing front again, I will lift you. Raise your arms above your head, hold your body straight and still, toes pointed, and I'll put you down over there," Illya said and indicated where with an extended arm. "When I put you down, pirouette dedans." Abigail nodded solemnly. "Begin."
Abigail assumed the correct position. She waited a moment, then bent her knee and turned. Illya grasped her waist firmly and lifted her above his head. He stepped to the right and set her lightly down. Abigail spun once more and finished.
"Brava," her grandfather said and held out a hand.
Abigail curtsied to her grandfather then turned to curtsy to Illya and looked up. He nodded. She ran to her grandfather and laughed. "It was like flying," she said, taking his hand.
"And you have a new hat," he observed.
Abigail's hand flew to her hair. "Mrs. O'Donnell said it was alright. It's for a new ballet that no one has ever seen," she whispered.
Mr. Morgan looked at Mr. Linetskiy. "We will premiere it in London shortly after we return. It is a new work by Mr. Kuryakin," the ballet master explained. "And Mr. Solo has designed the costumes and the scenery."
"Like Chagall did for The Firebird," Mr. Morgan commented.
Mr. Linetskiy opened his eyes the tiniest fraction wider, then inclined his head graciously. "In the same manner," he replied.
Mr. Morgan leaned closer to Mr. Linetskiy. "That's how you got Mr. Kuryakin to sign on, is it? Agreeing to produce his ballets?"
Mr. Linetskiy's eyes narrowed slightly. "We seek to encourage young talent," he replied carefully.
"And who turned the designs into actual costumes?" Mr. Morgan asked, touching the decoration on his granddaughter's head lightly.
"Mrs. O'Donnell, Grandpapa," Abigail answered. "She showed me some that were only half done and they had thorns."
"Another talented individual," Mr. Morgan observed and turned fully to the ballet masters. "Thank you so much for allowing us to meet some of the people who make the magic of ballet. I'm sure Abigail will be talking about it for a long while." He extended his hand.
**************
"There isn't a waiter in here somewhere, is there?" Illya asked when they reached Napoleon's suite.
"I only requested cold food be brought up when I checked in," Napoleon said, flipping on the lights and moving from the sitting room to the bedroom and back. "So there shouldn't be." He checked the bathroom. "All clear," he said.
Illya lowered the cover on a platter sitting on a tray full of half-melted ice. "That will keep nicely, I think," he said and walked to the door and slipped the chain across it.
Napoleon lay his coat and jacket over the back of the couch. "That's good because I'm not hungry for food right now," he explained and slipped off his shoes.
"Oh?" Illya said, leaving his shoes by the door and shedding his coat on the way across the room to Napoleon. "What might you be hungering for? Red wine?" he asked, stopping a pace or two from Napoleon and shrugging off his jacket.
Napoleon contemplated the ceiling while he loosened his tie. "Something headier," he answered and unfastened his cuff links.
"Champagne?" Illya enquired and pulled his turtleneck over his head.
Napoleon faltered. Averting his eyes, he began to undo his studs. "Something rarer." He heard Illya unbuckling his belt, so he didn't turn his head.
"Cognac?" Illya asked as he walked past Napoleon and disappeared into the bedroom.
Napoleon turned off the lights and followed.
****************
Napoleon heard the squeak of the bathroom door and the click of the light switch. He didn't open his eyes. When the mattress dipped, he reached out. "It isn't morning yet, is it?" he groaned. The mattress dipped further. He could feel the warmth. Napoleon still didn't lift his head, but his left hand found a thigh.
Illya curled over him and whispered in his ear. "Why don't you want it to be morning, Napoleon?"
Napoleon turned onto his back beneath Illya. One hand glided up a thigh to Illya's waist, the other curved under his arm and on to his shoulder. "I need more," he said, pulling Illya against him. "Much more," he repeated until his lips found warm skin to kiss.
"Still hungry?" Illya asked softly, pressing a kiss into Napoleon's hair.
Napoleon rolled Illya over and covered him with his body, sliding one hand beneath his head and burrowing his face in between his shoulder and throat. He inhaled and held the breath, his full lungs pressing Illya further into the bed. His whole body responded to the aroma and he clasped Illya tighter still. "Starving," he said into that fragrance. Illya stretched slowly, becoming slimmer, harder beneath Napoleon, rubbing along him. "I don't think I could have survived another week."
Illya lifted his hips, then subsided into the mattress. "More," Napoleon complained, his neck arching upwards as his hips pressed down against Illya's. "The more I have," Napoleon breathed, "the more I want." Illya reached up to clasp Napoleon's head and stroked his thumb slowly across Napoleon's lips. Napoleon took a deep breath. Illya pressed upwards again with his hips, rotating them in lazy circles. "You're like an addiction," Napoleon moaned.
Illya raised an arm above Napoleon, then brought his fingers down lightly just above the small of his back. Napoleon's head bowed as Illya trailed his fingertips down into that valley, up the swell of the buttocks and lingered, sweeping gently back and forth where they divided. Lightly and slowly and lower.
******************
Above him the bed creaked. Illya could hear the weighted curtains being unsnapped, letting in light from the dim corridor. He could see the outline of Napoleon’s pyjama-clad legs as he swung them over the side of the top bunk, kicking the drapes across Illya's bunk apart. He watched as Napoleon slid noiselessly to the floor, swaying slightly with the movement of the train rolling them rhythmically east. Napoleon disappeared from view as the curtains swung together.
Weeks had passed since New York and Philadelphia and another week was supposed to pass before their rendezvous in Boston. In those weeks Illya had distanced himself from the feelings Napoleon’s presence provoked, from the intensity of those unexpected days and nights together, despite the cryptic and beautiful messages Napoleon had sent. Illya hadn’t reduced all his reactions to words, but he knew he had been holding something back. Then the telegram had arrived, one more surprise, and now Napoleon was here, on the overnight train from Chicago to Boston.
The curtains parted. Napoleon tossed his robe inside and slipped onto the narrow bunk beside Illya, turning his back for a moment to snap the curtains shut. The bed springs squeaked as he settled on his side, up on one elbow. The darkness was nearly complete, hiding their expressions. A tiny amount of grey seeped up from beneath the hem of the drapery, shifting with the rocking of the train. The passenger in the next bunk coughed and rolled over. Across the corridor, someone snored. They heard slippered feet shuffling past, murmured words and the clearer voice of the conductor explaining that the lavatories were in the next car. Illya reached out and rested his index finger on Napoleon’s lips.
Napoleon leaned forward until their foreheads met, touched the back of his hand to Illya’s cheek, traced along his jaw line to his chin, tilting it up. Illya’s hand found Napoleon's shoulder, fingertips skimming under his pyjama collar to the buttons. He smiled as he undid them. When he unfastened the one at the waist, Napoleon covered the smile with his lips. The motion of the train shifted the kiss back and forth between them until Illya curled his arm around Napoleon and pulled him onto his back, under him. Questions rose in Illya’s mind. He pushed the clothing aside and used his tongue differently, to ask without a sound. Napoleon gripped Illya’s shoulders in response, his hips thrusting upwards. The bed springs shrieked in protest. Napoleon stopped.
Gradually, he settled back into the bunk, the springs sighing. Illya followed Napoleon down, resting his head on the pillow, the cadence of his breaths against Napoleon’s ear conveying his impatience. Napoleon stroked Illya’s hair; his other arm across the small of Illya’s back, pressing them together when the train rounded a curve, its brakes squealing.
Napoleon reached into the pocket of his robe. Illya smelt the oil before he felt it against his skin. Napoleon’s hand slipped between them, seeking out their warmest places. Shifting his knees forward, Illya arched his back and tucked his head between Napoleon's neck and shoulder. Napoleon’s hands glided up Illya's sides and back to his hips, his fingers stretching lower and further around with each pass. Illya drew the skin at the base of Napoleon's neck between his teeth and slowly lowered himself. They stilled then, letting the train roll them together.
The whistle blew as the train passed a deserted crossing, resumed its rhythm and picked up speed. It was a long way from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic.
*****************
Napoleon had travelled down from Boston on the bus with the company, feeling honoured that they had allowed him to join them, that Illya seemed comfortable with his being there.
He had tried not to watch and had settled for trying to do it as discreetly as possible. Watched who seemed to look at Illya in a certain way, to touch him, to stand close to him. It was clear that he and Sergei were more than colleagues, more than just friends. Even if Sergei seemed very involved in pursuing Alicia, Napoleon observed the way he looked at Illya, the way he looked after him. Napoleon tried not to be jealous. It's good to have a friend like that, good for Illya. Napoleon felt differently when Alicia touched him though. What she felt for Illya wasn't so positive. He couldn't quite classify it, wasn't sure how he would paint her as a person. It had been easy to draw her as the Scarlet Rose. The temptation of passion. But Illya wasn't tempted by her. Maybe that was the source of that faint negativity about her. Perhaps she is jealous of me, Napoleon thought. He had relaxed into his seat at the thought. Watched Sergei slip his arm around Illya's shoulders as they stood talking to Allegra as the last of the luggage was stowed in the bus. Met Sergei's eye when he'd looked over Illya's shoulder at him and smiled. Sergei had smiled back.
It had begun to snow by the time the bus got underway. Illya had stepped across the armrests and dropped gracefully into the window seat. "How did you know?" he'd asked.
"Know what?" Napoleon responded.
"That I prefer the window seat."
Napoleon refolded his coat across his lap so that the collar brushed against Illya's leg, and leaned towards the window. "It was an instinctive move," he explained quietly.
Illya raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips turning up. "Oh?" he replied, his voice very low.
"To block your escape," Napoleon confessed, leaning closer.
"I could jump over you with no trouble," Illya remarked, tilting his head back slightly, his eyebrow rising higher.
Or kick me across the aisle, Napoleon thought and slipped his hand under the armrest to stroke the side of Illya's thigh. "But perhaps you won't wish to," he said.
The corners of Illya's lips turned up a bit more, he tugged Napoleon's coat across his lap and leaned towards him until their foreheads nearly touched as though they were having a confidential conversation. "Let's see if you can persuade me," he said.
"Alright," Napoleon replied, stroking along Illya's thigh with three of his fingers. "I believe," he continued, "that any good argument should be built up slowly and carefully."
"Mmmh," Illya replied. "Go on," he added, shifting his position slightly.
"And the main points should be clearly defined," Napoleon stated and eased his hand into the pocket of Illya's trousers and over the top of his leg.
The afternoon sky had grown progressively darker as the snow grew thicker. The dim interior of the bus suited their conversation.
Despite the snow, the buses got them to the quay before most of the other passengers.
**************
Napoleon and Illya had circumnavigated the queue and were among the first of the company to board. Illya had quickly claimed his key and they had found his cabin as though added by a sixth sense. Illya's body slamming up against Napoleon's had shut the door. "That qualified as torture," Illya growled as he seized both of Napoleon's wrists, pinning him against the wood.
"I would never torture you," Napoleon smiled innocently. Illya ground his hips against Napoleon in reply. "Is this retaliation?" Napoleon asked, closing his eyes.
"Retribution. There isn't time for retaliation!" Illya said, rising onto his toes and leaning forward to bite one of Napoleon's captured hands.
****************
Alicia patted Sergei's shoulder. "Look," she said, pointing at the little shop near the reception area. Sergei accepted the key to his and Illya's cabin as well as Alicia's and looked where she was pointing.
"You want one of the French newspapers?" Sergei asked, handing Alicia her key. "Which one?" He scanned the crowded window display.
"Don't you see?" Alicia urged, pulling him closer to the glass. "There! It's Algernon Morgan on the cover of Fortune Magazine."
Sergei spotted the magazine among the multicoloured selection. "So it is," he agreed and leaned closer. "Wait a minute," he added, entering the small store and picking up the magazine.
"What?" asked Alicia, joining him.
Sergei's eyes skimmed down the table of contents until he found the miniature of the cover and the credits. "It is," he said, smiling.
"What?" Alicia repeated, trying to look over Sergei's arm.
"Here," he said, handing her the journal and pointing near the bottom of the page. "It's Napoleon's painting of Algernon Morgan."
"It is," Alicia agreed. She looked up at Sergei, "I wonder if he knows?"
"One way to find out," Sergei replied, taking three copies to the counter and paying for them. Alicia raised her eyebrows. "I'll wait up here until Napoleon leaves." He glanced at his watch. "Ten, fifteen minutes at most before they call 'All ashore that's going ashore'."
Alicia nodded. "I'll meet you at dinner then. Save a seat for me," she said and meandered off to find her cabin.
Sergei sat down near the exit and began reading the article about Morgan's philanthropy entitled, "The Responsibility of Wealth".
The second bell had rung for those going ashore and Sergei considered going down to the cabin and getting Napoleon, when he came rushing into view, overcoat on his arm and face decidedly flushed. Sergei smiled. "Napoleon," he said.
Napoleon spotted Sergei just as the "All ashore that's going ashore" sounded over the address system. "Here," he said thrusting an envelope at Sergei. "Give this to Illya." Sergei took it and didn't bother to ask why Napoleon hadn't delivered it himself.
"Take this," Sergei said in reply, shoving a rolled magazine into Napoleon's hand. "See you in Rome."
Napoleon dashed onto the deck. The officer who was about to close the gangplank, paused and smirked at Napoleon's obvious disarray as he let him pass.
He didn't look back when he reached the dock. His suitcase was waiting alone at the bottom. Napoleon flung it and himself into the first available taxi, gave the driver his aunt's address and collapsed on the seat.
"Hey, mister. We're here," the taxi driver said loudly.
Dazed, Napoleon opened his eyes and looked around. "Sorry," he said and took out a twenty.
"You all right? Need help with that suitcase?" the driver asked.
Napoleon nodded. "Thanks, that would be great," he said and shivered as the driver opened the door.
"Better put your coat on. Temperature's been dropping since it stopped snowing," he added, pulling the suitcase onto the pavement. Napoleon let go of the magazine he'd apparently clutched the whole time he was asleep. The paper stuck to his hand and he had to peel it off to get into his coat.
"Thank you," Napoleon said as he straightened up on the pavement.
"No problem," the driver said, stretching around Napoleon to close the back door. "Hey," he said, leaning into the car, "you forgot your magazine."
Napoleon nodded absently and reached out for it. The streetlight shone directly onto the glossy surface and Napoleon shook his head as he stared at the cover.
The driver put a hand under Napoleon's elbow. "You OK? You want me to help you inside?"
"No, no. I'm OK." Napoleon fished in his trouser pocket, took out a ten and handed it to the driver. "Thank you for not letting me forget this," he said and smiled.
The driver grinned back. "No problem. Look after yourself now," he said and headed around to the driver's side.
Napoleon saluted him with the magazine as he pulled away from the curb.
My painting's on the cover of Fortune Magazine. Sergei will have shown it to Illya by now, he thought and turned into the building humming.
*******************
The shower was running when Sergei let himself into the cabin. He shoved the two suitcases through the doorway, placed the magazine and the manila envelope on the dressing table side by side and went to hang up his coat. There was a lone sock by the door. Sergei smiled as he dropped it into the laundry bag in the closet. The shower stopped. He returned to the table and rearranged the envelope and the magazine, finally deciding on the envelope half over the magazine, with the head and shoulders of the portrait showing.
The bathroom door opened. Illya was toweling his hair as he walked through it otherwise unclothed. "You'll catch a chill," Sergei warned. "It's not that warm in here." Illya stopped toweling and took another step forward. Sergei walked behind him and grabbed the towel. "You always miss the middle of your back," he observed, rubbing down Illya's spine.
"What's this?" Illya asked, stopping at the dressing table.
"The envelope, Napoleon gave me for you. The magazine, I found at the newsstand on deck," Sergei replied. He turned and hung the damp towel on the door handle, reached inside the tiny bath for a dry one and draped it over Illya's shoulders.
Illya picked up the magazine. "Did he see this?" he asked.
"I don't know," Sergei replied, leaning forward to consider the portrait on the cover over Illya's shoulder. "But I shoved a copy in his hand as he was disembarking."
"This should help him make it through the week," Illya murmured.
"It's getting harder and harder for him to leave," Sergei observed. Illya nodded as he leafed though the magazine until he found the article about Algernon Morgan. "And you're finding it harder and harder to let him go." Illya nodded again.
*************************
Feather listened for a moment at the studio door. She could hear the flap of Napoleon's slippers against the wooden floor. She rapped. The sound stopped. "I have your breakfast. Shall I put it in the sitting room?"
There was a scraping sound and another few flaps brought Napoleon to the door. "In here would be best, Feather," he said when he opened it.
"You worked all night again?" she asked as she put down the tray. A glance at Napoleon gave her her answer. "All the more important to eat then," she cajoled.
"Thank you," Napoleon said, pacing to the end of the room and staring into the garden. He considered painting its bare branches. "Spring won't be early this year," he remarked.
Feather eyed the easel turned away from the doorway and the remarkable cloak draped over the cushions on the divan. One side was studded with crystals that reflected the light in small rainbows around the room. The cloth was velvet of such a dark blue that only where the strong sunlight in the studio fell directly on it was the colour revealed to be other than black; the reverse side was sky blue watered silk.
"It will be beautiful when you return from Paris in April," she said. "Come eat."
I'll have to survive most of March, Napoleon thought, but he obeyed.
Mrs. Featherstonehaugh noted the nervous energy he could barely contain despite the sleepless night. She poured the tea as Napoleon sat down. "You've already submitted your paintings, the renovations are underway. Why don't you leave early for Rome?" she asked.
Napoleon blinked uncomprehendingly at the steaming cup Feather set before him, then he looked up at her and smiled. "That's a good idea. I'll send Romeo a telegram and see if the studio is free a few days earlier. Thank you," he added, reaching for a plate of scrambled eggs.
"Shall I start packing your things?" Feather asked. Napoleon nodded and drained a glass of orange juice. Feather smiled back at him from the door.
***************
Napoleon stretched his arms out along the cushions of the alcove. To the extent he had slept at all since he'd returned to London, he had slept there, the maroon quilt over him, clad in the dark blue pyjamas which had lain laundered and folded for Illya each weekend when he stayed in Holland Park. Napoleon pushed the pillows aside and pressed himself against the cushions as though to find some trace of Illya's scent among their tufts. A week shouldn't be this long, he thought. I mustn't think. He remembered how Illya felt up against the cabin wall. His right hand curved around a tuft of the cushion. I ran...to disembark before they drew in the gangway... I couldn't have walked away. Not when the setting sun had found you through the porthole and lit your hair. Apollo was not fairer... but you have wings on your feet... Hermes.
Napoleon flung off the covers, went back to his studio, locked the door and repositioned the easel. There was the outline of a figure reclining against the cloak, every ligament declaring satiation. I have seen your eyes closed in pleasure, your body surfeited with it. Napoleon finished one wing of a winged-sandal half covered by the edge of the cloak. "I will paint you in Rome and you will look like this," Napoleon promised. "Let me make you feel like this... again." Under his brush, another wing began to look alive.
*****************
Part 6 is here
