Countdown of the Morning Hours:
The clock struck 2 a.m.…
Illya took a large swallow of vodka. The clear liquid burned, but the pain of the alcohol going down his throat was nothing in comparison to the constant, unremitting ache throbbing in his heart. An ache that had caused him many sleepless nights… an ache that had been with him for so long it had almost become a part of his being, part of his very existence.
It all pretty much narrowed down to just one thing. He wanted Napoleon. He needed him.
Illya sighed wearily, his head sinking even lower over the table. He always needed Napoleon. Needed his partner just like he needed air to breathe, food to eat, and water to drink. Needed to feel Napoleon's skin on his, needed to hear him say all the things he longed to hear, needed Napoleon to need him… to want him… to love him. Napoleon.
Illya drained his glass- thinking for the millionth time that this stuff Americans called "vodka" was nothing but a lame substitute for the Russian original- and let the loneliness devour him. He morosely twisted the glass in a circular pattern on the table, and thought just how ironic it was that people drank alcohol when they were depressed considering alcohol was a depressant. But honestly… who cared? On impulse, he grasped the vodka bottle and pulled it slowly towards him. For a long while, he just sat there, gazing at his reflection in the bottle.
The clock struck 3 a.m.…
He sighed and poured another glass, hoping fervently that the alcohol would soon sink him into oblivion and he could forget the pain… forget Napoleon- no… that would be impossible.
His thoughts went into rewind, remembering those few days they'd had together during the last affair. More importantly, he remembered Napoleon. He remembered the sounds Napoleon had made when he made love to him… remembered the feel of Napoleon's hands pressing Illya closer against him… remembered the smell of Napoleon's aftershave… the sweet taste of his skin.
The ache intensified, causing him to groan aloud. "Napoleon." His voice came out hoarse with longing in the empty stillness of the room. Empty, just like his heart. "Napoleon..."
He hadn't seen Napoleon since that last affair. His partner had been away for a few months on a separate assignment. However, Illya knew that Napoleon had arrived back at New York two whole days ago. And yet Napoleon still hadn't come to see him. He's probably with a woman, Illya thought, his heart painfully constricting within him.
The clock struck 4 a.m.…
Illya stared blankly at the now almost empty bottle and then looked hopelessly towards the door. Emptiness and loneliness consumed him, spilling over into unbidden tears. Laying his head on the table, he surrendered to the tears now streaming down his face and cried.
Two familiar arms suddenly wrapped around him. "Illyusha…" Napoleon's voice murmured softly. "Why do you cry, Illyusha?"
Illya instantly sat up, as if someone had pricked him. "I was not crying," he denied hoarsely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Napoleon glance about the room, his eyes taking inventory of the scattered evidence of grief and alcohol. Napoleon's arms around him tightened.
"Yes, you were. And it looks like you've done some considerable drinking as well." Napoleon straightened and pushed his partner away until he could look into his partner's eyes. Illya looked down.
"Please look at me, tovarish," Napoleon pleaded. Illya reluctantly raised his eyes. "Illya," Napoleon began.
Illya sharply cut him off before he could say another word. "You do not have to explain yourself to me, Napoleon. It's not as if we're a couple. You are free to do whatever you choose with whomever you choose."
Something like surprise mixed with relief showed in Napoleon's eyes. "You think that that is why I didn't come? Because I was with a woman?"
Illya frowned. "Well, weren't you? That girl I saw you with before you left… Blanche. Isn't that where you spent the last two days?"
Napoleon raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Blanche? How did you…?"
Illya shrugged. "I'm a trained agent, Napoleon. There is not much that you can hide from me."
Napoleon smiled weakly. "And well do I know it. But no, my proficient Russian spy, that's not where I spent the last two days. Blanche and I haven't even spoken to each other since that last time a few months ago. I had a few rather engrossing things on my mind around that time, you may recall." Napoleon reminded him, with a suggestive grin. "But anyway, as I was trying to tell you, I spent the last two days in a truck taking a long and bumpy ride to New York. The connecting flight was cancelled due to some complications, but I wasn't about to stay one more minute away from you than I had to. So, I managed to get a ride with a sympathetic trucker who gave me a lift the rest of the way to New York."
Illya felt relief crashing over him like a wave. So Napoleon didn't spend all that time with a woman! And he remembered those days spent together during the last affair…
"Good thing the trucker was doing the driving," Illya retorted in an unsuccessful attempt to counteract the joy manifesting itself all too plainly on his expressive face. "If you'd been the one driving you would have gotten lost." He flushed and added in a softer tone, "And I would have had to wait even longer for you to come."
Napoleon laughed softly, and brought his head down until his hair brushed Illya's. "I only get lost in your eyes, tovarish."
Illya suddenly flashed a wicked grin. "Are you sure about that, Napoleon? Seems to me there are a few other things…"
Napoleon abruptly kissed him, sending waves of passion crashing through Illya's body. Suddenly, Napoleon broke off from the kiss and looked deep into Illya's eyes. "Do you honestly know how much I love you, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?"
"It's beginning to dawn on me." Illya responded, and drew Napoleon's head back down…
By the time, the clock struck 5 a.m. the two were blissfully unaware of the passage of time.