The arm coming over his flank was warm, heavy with the simple weight of muscle and bone. He was more than half asleep. He moved a little, and murmured, and the arm tightened over him, hugging him.
Napoleon.
It took a moment to remember, but it was Napoleon against him in the bed. He lay with his eyes closed, letting the memory of the room form around him. A little hotel room with a double bed. It had been cheaper than twins. Waverly approved of cheap. They were – His mind fuzzed for a moment. Was it Italy or France? France, he thought. Yes, they had been in Milan two days ago, but now they were in Paris, in the heart of Montparnasse, near the haunts of his youth. He had spent so much time here when he had been studying at the Sorbonne, but he had never noticed this little hotel above the bistro. If they had been at their leisure he would have revelled in showing Napoleon all the places he had loved as a student, but they were rarely at leisure in these places.
A little hotel room with a double bed. A faded place. Old curtains of dull red at the window. A rather lumpy mattress. An easy chair, a tall armoire, and a chest of drawers with an aged jug and wash-bowl on top. No case stands, no phone, no modern conveniences. A mirror pocked with blemishes. He liked it far better than slick, up to date rooms.
He saw all that in his mind, with closed eyes, and felt reassured about where he was.
When Napoleon's arm squeezed a little more tightly his ribs ached. They weren't broken, but they were certainly bruised. His face was bruised, and he had suspicions about his arm. He didn't want to go for an x-ray to confirm the truth, but Napoleon would make him go in the morning. When Napoleon made him go, he would make sure, in turn, that Napoleon got that concussion checked out.
Napoleon's hand stroked up and down his flank. They always started off lying side by side in bed, just talking about the events of the day. Then Napoleon would turn over to face the outer side of the bed, and mumble his goodnights. Illya would do the same. At some point, invariably, Napoleon would turn in his sleep, and end up snuggled up against the length of Illya's body, head nestled against the back of his neck, snoring gently. It was never a contact that Illya shunned.
He was sleepy enough that the stroking of Napoleon's hand was a warm comfort. It felt so good to be touched. No doubt Napoleon thought he was in bed with one of his string of female conquests. What did it matter? It felt good to be touched.
The hand stroked downward, over the curve of his buttock. They were both naked. They hadn't come here with luggage. No nightclothes, dishevelled suits, three-day old underwear. Tomorrow would be a shopping day, after the inevitable hospital visit.
Napoleon murmured in his sleeping voice, something unintelligible. Illya moved a little and felt the heat of Napoleon's erection pressing against his behind. He felt the stirring in his own cock. He was sleepy, but that part of him was waking fast. He felt the indefinable shiver in his balls, and the little pulse of blood that came with more and more insistence. He felt the hot weight of his own erection as it grew.
Napoleon's stroking hand came over his hip. It touched the firmness of his cock, and the shivers turned to electricity that shot through his pelvis. Fingers curled about the half-soft weight, and he moved his hips, pushing through Napoleon's hand, growing harder against his touch. The fingers let go, moved, stroked the cool, crinkling skin of his balls, and he sighed aloud.
Napoleon nestled more firmly against his behind. He pressed back against the incredible heat, the core-blood of Napoleon's body so hot in his hard cock. It wasn't warm outside the covers, but it was beautifully warm beneath, and this heat was like a fire at the heart of a room.
Napoleon's fingers moved away from his balls. They felt the rough tangle of hair about his cock, the flatness of his belly, the lines of his ribs. They touched the stiffening nubs of his nipples. They trailed back downwards, and stroked his hip again. Napoleon moved back a little, the fire-heat of his cock moved away, and the fingers took its place, stroking broadly over his behind, teasing down the curves to the depths between. A finger touched the puckered hole, and Illya bit in a gasp. How could so many nerves be centred in that one place? What possible reason could there be, but to make touch so pleasurable?
Oh. That touch. That touch made him forget everything. It didn't matter where he was. The aches in his body melted away. There was nothing but Napoleon's fingers touching him there, circling, stroking, pressing through the tight muscle to the heat inside.
He thrust himself back, but the finger wasn't enough. His body was alive with such sharp, dizzying feeling. His nerves were a road map come alight, and all paths were leading to the centre of his loins.
The fingers left him. He wanted them back. They weren't gone for long. Napoleon turned away, reached for something, and came back. There was something on his fingers then, something slick and cool. He whimpered as he was touched again. He groaned as a finger slipped inside, as another slipped inside, as he felt himself stretched and stroked.
How could it feel so good?
The heat of Napoleon's erection was better. It touched him, and it felt so thick. It felt so impossibly thick as it pressed against the ring of muscle. He relaxed himself, letting that thickness in. The stretch was so near painful that he bit his lip. The feeling of being filled was like a drug, so close to the edge of pain, so exquisite he could hardly stand it.
He started to move. The heat of that cock pressed its way right to the heart of him, and he thrust himself back until his behind could feel the bones of Napoleon's hips. The heat pulled away, and he wanted it back. It came back, and he felt dizzy with the unbearable joy of it.
Napoleon's hand came around him again, closing around his cock, fingers pressuring against Illya's hardness. Each time he thrust himself into Illya's body Illya was pushing into the clenched hand. He couldn't think. It was impossible to think, because he was nothing but a nervous system, nothing but animal responses that made him want to cry out aloud. He brought his arm to his face and bit his teeth into the solid flesh, thrusting himself back onto Napoleon's cock, thrusting his own cock through the prison of Napoleon's hand.
There was a spreading warmth, a flooding feeling all through his pelvis. It was like a release of warm water somewhere inside him. He couldn't think. The bed was rocking. Napoleon's breath was hot and fast against his neck. His lips were kissing the bare skin he found. One hand was closed about Illya's cock, the other was pushed between his hip and the mattress, pulling him closer, not letting him go. He thrust again and again, his animal grunts low in his throat, coming out as gasps. He thrust and thrust, and the welling feeling burst into fireworks. Illya's cock was jerking, streaming, as Napoleon butted against him, releasing his own load into Illya's body. Napoleon was whispering something against his neck, some kind of invocation to a god.
They lay still. The only sound was their breathing. Illya's mouth was wet against his arm, his teeth sitting in the little dents he had made in his skin. He could feel Napoleon's cock inside him, hard but softening. He didn't want to lose that feeling inside him. He didn't ever want to lose it.
From somewhere, Napoleon brought a towel. He laid it over Illya's hip, softly wiping him down in front, then pressing it to his behind, swabbing, then bundling it away. He leant more closely against Illya's back and touched his lips to the nape of his neck, kissing him. He pressed the length of his body against Illya's again, his cock soft and damp, a little boneless piece of flesh between their bodies. He reached his arm over Illya's side, reaching up to catch hold of his hand. Their fingers entwined. Illya drew their hands to his mouth, and kissed Napoleon's knuckles.
They fell asleep, Napoleon's hand against Illya's mouth, his face against Illya's neck. Outside, rain fell softly. For a long time, nothing stirred.