Stranded

by Aconitum-Napellus

Napoleon and Illya wash up on a desert island. In time, it becomes their home. This is an Easter Egg for the Man From Uncle Easter Egg challenge on Livejournal. Slash, rated 18.

Fifteen days adrift. Five days on the raft, and ten on the island. Fifteen cut apart from all contact with society, from all contact with anyone but each other. Enough food to last a few more days, and little else.

Thank god for the water from the spring that starts not far up in the forest edge. Without that convenient water they would have to trek through the jungle searching. Perhaps they will still have to trek through the jungle searching for something, but at the moment everything they need is here on the beach.

Napoleon looks up from under his palm-leaf hat. So far his suit has managed to stay intact and almost clean. His jacket is hung from a broken branch on a tree, because he really doesn't need it in this heat. His tie is rolled up in the pocket, waiting for some better use than being strung around his neck. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows and some of the buttons undone. His shoes are neatly placed, with the socks inside them, in a pair under the same tree that holds his jacket. Napoleon feels pleased with how clean he still is, almost as pleased as he is with his palm-leaf hat, roughly woven and large enough to shade his face from the sun.

Under the cool green brim his eyes are still dazzled by the light dancing on the clear blue water that spreads as far as he can see around the island. The sand is almost white, and the waves roll in very softly over it, barely breaking as they spend their energy on the shore.

Out of the water a dark shape emerges, straightens up, unfolds. The shape becomes Illya, standing waist-deep, dripping, and grinning. There is a fat, glittering fish clenched in his hands. He lifts it up, shaking his head like a dog so that water droplets scatter as diamonds in the sun.

'Got one!' he shouts across the distance between them. His voice is the only noise but the noise of the waves.

'I can see that!' Napoleon shouts back.

He sits there with his back against the tree, watching as Illya wades out of the water, emerging like Venus from the surf. Illya is utterly nude, still grinning, his skin tanned to a nut brown and his hair fairer than ever after so long under this south sea sun. As he emerges onto the sand the fish writhes in his hands, almost slipping free. Illya lurches after it, falling and rolling on the sand, his limbs becoming a quick blur of pink-gold. Then he rises to his knees, the fish caught again. Now his skin is beaded with white sand as well as droplets of water. It is a breathtaking sight.

Napoleon clears his throat.

'I'll – er – get the fire going,' he says. 'You can gut the fish.'

He almost turns his back on Illya, but not quite. Deliberately not quite. He kneels down over the little fire that they try not to let go out, and feeds it with a few more sticks, gently blowing the sparks back into life. It was a moment of amazing triumph when they conjured the first spark to kindle that fire. It is a precious thing at the centre of their lives.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Illya moving, still naked, bending to fetch his knife, kneeling down on the sand and laying the fish out on the stone they use for such things. He is focussing so intently, his tongue just protruding a little between his teeth, using the knife to slice up the fish's belly, then his fingers to scoop out the guts. He pushes them aside to burn in the fire later; they try to leave nothing that will attract vermin or predators. Then he stands and goes down to the sea again. There he crouches, letting his fingers be washed by the foaming rills of the waves as they speed up the sand.

'Of course, if the fire goes out we can always eat Japanese style,' he calls as he comes back up to the camp.

'No rice,' Napoleon points out.

Illya grunts and squats back by the fire again, to begin scraping the scales from the fish's skin. Once it is descaled he will wash it in the sea, and then wash himself again, head to toe, because there are fish scales on his hands, up his arms, in his hair. His forehead and cheek glitter where scales have stuck like sequins. At last he lifts the fish up and takes it down to the waves to clean it.

For a moment Napoleon imagines Illya, scaled from the waist down, merman-tailed, able to swim for hours under the water without taking a breath. For a moment the image takes his breath away. Then he sees Illya as he is, bending naked by the sea, his legs strong and sandy, the sunlight glinting on each blond hair.

'What are we going to do if no rescue comes?' he asks Illya when he comes back.

Illya is strong and young and capable. They both are. But what will they do if no rescue comes?

Illya grins, his teeth very white in his tanned face.

'Manage,' he says. 'There are fish in the sea.'

'Manage?' Napoleon repeats.

Illya jerks his head backwards towards the rocks that rise up at the edge of the beach.

'There's iron in those stones. There are lots – lots – of trees. We've got a good idea of what plants we can eat. There are animals further inland. I wouldn't mind betting somewhere there's a clay bed. There are vines we can use for twine.'

Napoleon laughs. 'Make tools, make nets, make pots, eh? Which one of us is Robinson Crusoe, and which is Man Friday?'

Illya grunts. He holds up the fish, now flayed of its scales and washed in clean salt water. Its saucer eyes stare dully, its mouth gaping.

'Man Friday is rather an unpleasant depiction of humanity, don't you agree? Civilised man must always have his native servant? No, we're both Crusoe, I think. Neither one of us is going to serve the other.'

Napoleon eyes Illya, flecked with the fish scales, his hands covered in little trails of fish blood. Uncharitably, he could assign the role of savage to Illya, but he would be wrong. Illya is the one keeping them fed, at least today. Illya is the one keeping them alive. Neither of them are savages.

'Go wash,' he says. 'I'll take care of the fish.'

He uses sticks to drag out their hot bake-stone from the edge of the fire, and lays the fish on it. Immediately the flesh starts to sizzle, and the scent is incredible. Through the rising steam he watches Illya as he jogs back down to the sea. He watches all the lines and sinews of his body, and something rises deep inside, a little flare of electricity galvanising every nerve.

Illya splashes into the sea until he is waist deep, focussing intently on scooping up water, sluicing and flicking off fish scales. He ducks down underneath, and for a moment he is only visible as distorted pink lines under the blue-brown sun glitter of the surface. Then he stands up again, a Botticelli's Venus again, water streaming down over him. He ducks down again, dips his head, ruffles his fingers through his hair. Then he is done, and he strides back out to join Napoleon by the fire.

'Have you ever considered putting your clothes back on?' Napoleon asks idly.

'I don't need them,' Illya shrugs. 'Besides, I'd be dressing and undressing like a yo-yo, to get all the fish you want to eat.'

Napoleon laughs. As if Illya doesn't fully share in the fish. As if Napoleon doesn't try his hand at the fishing. It's just that Illya seems to have a knack for floating up behind them and grabbing them straight from the water. Illya is a miracle.

'Once we've got spears and nets I'll hold my own,' he promises. 'I've never been such a mermaid as you.'

Illya looks up at him, his eyes very blue in the full southern sun. He smiles, and that makes his eyes shine, and that makes the electricity spark in Napoleon's groin again.

'Fish is almost done,' he says, to cover over that brief moment of distraction. 'Lunch will be a gourmet delight today.'

((O))

They sleep under a palm tree at the edge of the sand. The hut will come, in time. Something to protect from sudden storms and unexpected animals. For now, they sleep under a palm tree at the edge of the sand, while a little inland they plan for a space just large enough to live in, with a dirt floor and walls built of woven branches and a roof of fronds. Cutting and building and weaving will become their lives.

The sand has stored up the warmth of the day, but the night can still be chilly, so they sleep close together, spooned against one another, the fire burning with a slow, dull flame.

Napoleon lies with his head against Illya's shoulder, the front of his body curled against Illya's back. Illya puts his clothes on to sleep, to guard against insects, creatures, and the cold. Napoleon's arm is draped over his flank. It's the best place to put it, and it feels good. He can feel Illya's slow, soft breathing. He can feel the pulse of his blood. When Illya moves a little in dreams, he can feel that movement. The back of Illya's head smells of salt water, his hair stiff with salt water. Tomorrow, perhaps, he'll suggest Illya take a wash in the stream instead.

Napoleon lets his muscles relax and his eyes close, and tries to slip into sleep himself. There are so many things moving in his mind. His memories of all that has happened. Knowing they would have to leave that boat very soon, or be killed. Knowing the net was tightening, and that soon they would be discovered, and that those men would have no mercy. It hadn't been fun for Illya on board, but he had risen above his seasickness and done his duty. They had both done their duty, and gathered a wealth of information on this floating Thrush nexus, but their information would be no use to anyone if they were shot and thrown overboard for the sharks.

So, they had slowly stolen enough, filched enough, slipped enough things away to sustain life. They had lashed together a makeshift raft of empty drums and rope, and then in a dark, choppy night they had let that raft down, and slipped away. Their presence on the ship would be dismissed as crew members stealing more than their ration, or random noises in the night, or shipboard ghosts on this old repurposed carrier. There was no guarantee they would ever reach land. No guarantee they would reach civilisation. They had no real idea of where they were. But it was better than being shot and thrown overboard for the sharks.

Napoleon tries to empty his mind of all of those things. Sleeping is essential, because every day is a new fight for survival, a fight to make sure they have enough food to live. Food is all that matters at the moment.

He finds himself slipping, against the soft warmth of Illya's back, into sleep and dreams. He is standing on a rock by the shore, looking down into the water. He can see a fish swimming there, a big fish, the thick tail flexing and all the scales on it iridescent and shimmering under the full sun. Greens and blues and purples all spark and merge. Then he sees the fish is not a fish, but a man. That thick fish tail moves up to blend with human hips, a pink-gold torso, and golden-brown hair that streams in the water like seaweed. The fish-man flexes his tail, pushes up towards the surface, and breaks into the air. It is Illya, grinning, holding up his arms in greeting, his merman's tail slowly flexing under the water to keep him aloft. His hair is shoulder-long, and streaming with sea water. His eyes are as blue as the sky above.

'Come in,' he calls. 'Why don't you come in, Napoleon? The water's lovely.'

He is in the water. It flows around him, warm and soft. He wonders if this was what it was like being in the womb. But this is nothing like the womb, because Illya is there, with him in the sea, moving as if he were born there. He flicks that great tail and plunges deep, deep down, down to the sandy bottom below. All Napoleon can see is the colours of the tail, the pink of his skin. Then he comes up again, holding something in his hands. It is an oyster. He presents it to Napoleon on open palms, smiling as if he has brought him a gift of great price. Napoleon takes it, treading water, and uses his thumbs to prise the shells apart. Inside is a great pearl, moonlike and iridescent and beautiful. It seems to glow from within.

((O))

The sunrises here are among the most beautiful Napoleon has ever seen. They have fallen into the rhythms of the earth, going to sleep with the dark and waking with the bird cries and growing light of dawn. There is no concept of staying up late, talking over the light of the fire. All their days are lit by the great blazing sun.

First there is a hint of light right at the edge of the world. Then the air starts to lighten. Then birds start to sing. Sometimes there's a sound from the interior of the island. Some kind of monkey, perhaps. Napoleon doesn't know what it might be. It's a piercing, echoing call.

The horizon starts to shimmer. A line of gold appears. The shreds of clouds, if they are there, catch that gold and spread it out, mixing it with pinks and crimsons, beautiful colours that could never be recreated no matter how good the artist.

And then the sun. It is a molten globe, spreading itself out along the edge of the sea. So bright it makes flashes in his eyes. It pushes up, seeming to be birthing from the water, as if the ocean could ever hold something so huge and so ablaze with heat. The heat starts to touch his skin in tentative fingers. There's a palpable change. The molecules of the air have caught that energy, and shimmer. Everything is alive.

Usually they lie and watch in silence, snuggled together by the embers of the fire. It's the kind of performance that creates a silent awe. But then they move apart, and stretch. Napoleon pushes his toes through the sand and straightens himself out so the growing heat can push out the chill of night. Illya sits up straight, for all the world as if he were sitting up from a three-foot bed in a New York apartment, and stares straight at the sun for a moment, before stripping off his shirt. It's as if he is charged by the light of day.

Then they get to work.

((O))

'We should work on that hut today,' Napoleon says.

Illya looks up. He's sitting crossed legged on the sand, constructing a net from some kind of plant fibres, making it with intricate knots in a scoop that drops down from a loop of thin wood.

'I thought if I get this finished we can try it out later,' he says.

'Maybe we can dry some fish in the wind,' Napoleon suggests. 'A store in case of hard times.'

'Good idea,' Illya murmurs.

He ties the final knot and holds it up for Napoleon to see.

'What do you think? I just need to attach the pole.'

Napoleon smiles. 'Looks perfect.'

'Want to try?'

Napoleon stirs himself, and gets to his feet with a grunt to pass the pole over to Illya.

'You going to lash it on?'

'I'll do my best,' Illya says, concentrating.

It takes a few minutes to get the pole fixed, but finally it's secure. Napoleon lifts it in his hands, testing the feel of the thing.

'I'll take it out to the rocks,' he says. 'No swimming,' he adds sternly. 'I don't want you scaring the fish off.'

Illya is like a fish himself. He will spend half the day in the water if he can.

'No swimming,' Illya promises. 'You might want to strip off, though. If you fall in your clothes will end up full of salt.'

It's hot, anyway, so he strips down to his underwear. Illya looks at him, and grins. He isn't nearly as tanned as Illya is, except about the face and hands and feet.

'Don't you think I've seen it all before?' Illya asks. 'There's no one else here.'

Napoleon shrugs and rolls down the underpants too. Illya is right. It's nothing either of them haven't seen before. So he strips off completely and walks with Illya down to the rocks. They're slippery. It would be easy to fall in, to ruin all his clothes. He doesn't like the idea of having to wash everything too often in the little stream. Their clothes are some of the things it will be hardest to replace.

'I'll bring the carrier bag to put the fish in,' Illya says.

That plastic carrier bag is one of their precious relics, brought from the ship. It won't last forever but for now it's worth its weight in gold.

Getting out onto the stones is a balancing act. He uses the net like a tightrope walker's pole, taking great care not to slip on the seaweed and slime. They can do a lot for themselves here, but an injury could be disastrous. Illya has talked about trying to culture penicillin, but they both know that Illya can't have that, and they both know that hitting on the right strain would be a miracle.

'Steady,' Illya calls from just behind him.

'Steady as I can,' Napoleon says.

He reaches a place that looks good. He's not too far above the water, and he can see the fish down there, swimming in their own kind of oblivion. The sea isn't rough today, and the water is like glass.

'Take care,' Illya murmurs, coming up behind him. 'Don't let them see your shadow.'

Illya is so close behind him their skin is touching. He can feel – he thinks he can feel Illya's bush against him, just brushing against his buttock. He thinks he can feel Illya's cock. He is suddenly intensely aware of his nakedness, and he tries to sweep those thoughts aside. He steps a little away from Illya and kneels down, just watching the fish in the water, watching how they move. They are fat fish, some brightly coloured and some silver, and the thought of them makes his mouth water.

'Think you can get one?' Illya asks.

It would almost be easier if he were on his own. Illya is an overpowering distraction, not to mention he gives off the air that he doesn't have confidence in Napoleon's hunting skills.

By way of answer he dips the net swiftly into the water, and pulls it up, triumphant. Inside are not one, but two fish, flopping and gasping as he hauls them up into the air.

'It works!' Illya says, and Napoleon can tell from the tone of his voice that it wasn't Napoleon he didn't have confidence in, but the efficacy of his own net making.

'It works,' Napoleon says in satisfaction.

Illya holds open the carrier bag, and Napoleon tips the fish in.

'I'll see if I can get a couple more,' he says, leaning forward again.

The fish have been startled, though. There are noticeably fewer in the water nearby. They're not as stupid as they look. He can see a few a little further off, deeper down, and he holds the net, reaching forward, reaching down, ready to swoop.

There they are. He reaches forward, lunges – and then he is tumbling, scraping his legs on the rocks, plunging head first into the water. He goes down, down. He opens his eyes and sees the blurred shapes of fish darting away. Then there are arms around his chest, he is being hauled upwards, and he surfaces, coughing and spluttering, water in the back of his nose, water in his airway, making him hack and wheeze.

Illya is towing him in to shore. He could have trodden water until he caught his breath, then made for shore himself, but Illya has an arm about his chest and is towing him in to shore, his skin slick against Napoleon's own. They make the sand and struggle out, Napoleon coughing, wheezing in breath, and coughing again. Illya watches him in concern. It was a scary moment. There's no help here, should something go wrong. All they have is each other.

'Okay?' he asks finally.

'Yeah,' Napoleon rasps. 'Thanks.'

There is blood running down his legs, made more by the water, but they're only grazes. He's coughing, but he's okay.

'The salt water will help,' Illya says, looking at the grazes. 'Just take care to keep them clean.'

'Your net,' Napoleon says in dismay. 'You spent hours on that.'

Illya looks back over to the rocks where they were.

'You're okay?' he asks again, and Napoleon nods, so Illya turns and trots back to the rocks. Once there he executes a perfect dive, entering the water with barely a splash.

Napoleon watches, holding his breath. He's been down there too long, hasn't he? Too long.

But then Illya is emerging, the net in his hand. He thrusts it up onto the rocks, climbs up after it, then comes back to the beach with the net and the bag of fish, dripping onto the sand.

'You got them,' Illya says with a grin.

Tangled in the net are two more fish.

'Ah, there you are,' Napoleon replies. 'Angler extraordinaire.'

He looks down ruefully at his legs, though. There will be bruises tomorrow.

'I might try to make something we can leave in the sea,' Illya suggests. 'An inlet between rocks. Some kind of fish trap.'

'Lobster traps,' Napoleon suggests. 'I've seen them somewhere, I'm sure, made of wicker. A funnel that they can get in through, but can't get out of again. Fishing without the bruises.'

'As long as we husband our resources sensibly, this place can sustain us for a long time,' Illya says.

Napoleon agrees. But he doesn't want to be here for a long time. He wants to be in New York. He wants to stand in the shower with a bar of perfumed soap and a bottle of shampoo. He wants to call for takeout and have a man come to his door with a bag of hot, fragrant food. He wants to be able to turn on an electric light and read a book. He has never wanted to escape to a desert island.

((O))

The hut is coming on apace. They have been here – how many days? He isn't quite sure any more. He knows it is tiring, setting up a whole civilisation on a deserted island. He wonders when they will come up against the stumbling blocks he knows must exist. The first illness. The first broken bone. They are tying the hut together with vines, saving the rope from the raft intact in case of a greater need, but keeping their shelter up will require constant maintenance. He would give a lot for a hammer and a tub of nails. He would give a lot for a drill.

Illya has been musing on making a furnace to smelt iron. They have steel in abundance in the metal drums they used to make their raft, but no way to cut off pieces small enough to melt. Such wealth just out of reach. There is the iron in the stones, but it will be such hard work gathering and pulverising the rock in preparation, with no guarantee the furnace will work. And how many tools will they be able to make? Illya has plans for an axe, and for spear tips, and those are good ideas, but the whole business of starting like Adam and Eve in the wilderness is exhausting. They are starting from the Stone Age, with none of the practice and experience necessary. Nothing but a bank of knowledge to work from.

'Home sweet home,' Illya says as he weaves palm leaves carefully over the top of the wattled roof.

'A Manhattan penthouse couldn't top it,' Napoleon replies, but it really could.

He would love to be in a Manhattan penthouse. This place is one small room made with wattled walls and roof, a shelter from wind and rain, and a barrier to animals. There's room for a fire at one end and a sleeping area nearby. Nothing more. There's no barrier that lifts them away from the ants and bugs, nothing that stops the crabs. At least the crabs are tasty, though.

'Why don't you make dinner and I'll make the bed?' Illya asks, glancing over at the horizon. 'It'll be dark soon.'

'I'll find a nice bottle of wine to go with that,' Napoleon suggests. 'There must be something in the cellar.'

Bed. One bed. It's sensible for them to continue sleeping together. It just makes sense.

He walks away from the hut to the fireplace. Should they move the fire inside, or only light the fire in the hut when they need it? Wouldn't it be a fire risk to have their ever-burning flame inside? There are so many questions to consider, in this new life.

He pulls the cooking stone out of the flames and brushes the ash off with a palm leaf. If only there were something new and interesting to make with fish and vegetables. He eyes the little pile of empty cans from the stores they brought with them. There's an idea. A useful thing, a can. They've already been using them to drink from, but that big one will work as a cook pot. So, he half fills it with water from the stream, and sets it to heat, while he carefully cuts up the fish and gathered vegetables. In the end he has a decent fish stew bubbling near the flames.

'Ah,' Illya says as he joins him, inhaling the savoury scent. 'Did you find the wine, too?'

'No wine, I'm afraid. We need a few more degrees of civilisation for that,' Napoleon answers.

He offers Illya one of the seashells they use as spoons, and they dig in. It is rich and salty and good, but he feels hungry all the same. He always feels a little hungry here. They eat enough, but they work hard too, and he always feels a little hungry. He can see it in Illya, the same change that must be happening in his own body. The winnowing away of the last little pads of fat, and the firming and strengthening of the muscles beneath. It's a good look, on Illya. It's probably a good look on himself, too, but he sees Illya from a distance as he moves about the camp, almost always naked, going about his work.

'We should get to bed,' Illya says as they scrape the last remnants from the can.

'Without doing the dishes?' Napoleon asks with a grin.

Illya picks up the can, walks over to the stream, and dips it in the water.

'Dishes are done,' he says, pouring the liquid out over the sand. 'We should get to bed.'

The bed is nothing sophisticated, but it's more than they've had recently. Illya has strewn soft vegetation over the ground and laid out a blanket over the top. They won't need it over them but it will be good to sleep on. He's laid a fire in the fireplace, too.

'Nice,' Napoleon comments.

Illya is already carrying a stick, lit at one end, and he pokes it into the tinder of the fire and leans forward to blow. The stick glows, then catches fire again, and all the tinder catches fire too. Suddenly the dark interior of the hut is lit with dancing flame.

'I always wanted to set up home with a savage,' Napoleon comments ironically. 'Five foot seven, blonde. My perfect wife.'

Illya snorts. 'Well, the chimney seems to be working. Why don't you come to bed, darling? In the morning I'll wake you with coffee and eggs.'

'A girl who can build a house and cook you breakfast too,' Napoleon remarks, and Illya swats him.

'Not going to get dressed for bed?' Napoleon asks.

Illya sighs. 'I suppose so. I always preferred sleeping naked, but I like to have something between me and the ants.'

Napoleon is relieved. He says nothing, but he's relieved. What would happen in the night, snuggled up against that lithe body, in complete nudity? What would Illya say?

'How are the shins?' Illya asks.

'Nothing that a good night's sleep won't fix,' Napoleon says, but he thinks that in the morning his legs will probably bear a good resemblance to the bruised colours of the sunrise.

((O))

He dreams of Illya again. He dreams of the merman again. He is standing on the rocks with the net in his hands, looking down. He sees the flash of colour underwater, a rainbow against the silver of the other fish. Then he sees it is Illya, his torso pink-gold, his hair streaming like seaweed. He stands there and watches, up in the air and the wind, as Illya slips and whirls with his powerful tail, playing in the water like a bird in the sky. Illya flicks that tail, soars upwards, flips, and lies there, just under the surface of the water, eyes wide open, looking up. It is like being drawn in by a magnet. There he is, just a few feet down, and Napoleon can see him as if the water were air. The lines of his torso, the dark areolae about taut nipples, the trail of hair leading down to – How odd that is. The trail of hair that leads down, swirls about the navel, and then continues, to be replaced by a smooth plate of scales. From just below the navel he is all fish, all iridescent scales and one firm muscle. Still, the sight is so alluring. Illya is like a siren, calling him into the sea.

He could catch him in the net. He could entrap him and pull him from the water and take him to land. He could keep him in the hut by the sea.

That would kill him, he knows. His fantasy would kill Illya. He is a free spirit, a creature of the waves. There is only one way to possess Illya, and that is to be free with him. So he strips off his clothes and he dives down into the water.

He is hopelessly human, hopelessly clumsy with his two flailing pink legs. He isn't made for this element, not like Illya. This is Illya's home. But Illya beckons him closer, beckons him in. He swims, following him, following the flicker of that rainbow tail. The light never dims as they swim closer to the bottom. He isn't troubled by lack of air, only by his clumsy legs that can never power him as well as Illya's muscular tail. He keeps up, though. He is with Illya. And then they stop, down by the sand under the sea, where little fish dart and flicker and shells lie and coral and sea anemones make patterns all around. There are jellyfish drifting like dreams, but he doesn't see them as a threat. Nothing is a threat down here.

Illya beckons him in. He opens his arms. Napoleon lets the water drift him closer. He can walk now, his feet on the soft, sinking sand. He comes closer to Illya, closer, and they are embracing. His torso is warm, his tail cool. Napoleon's arms are around him and they are kissing, no sense of the water around them. Just kissing, heat, Illya's lips and his hands on Napoleon's back, and the need to do more, more –

He wakes, gasping. He is lying on his back, looking up at the dark shadows of the newly woven roof. His cock is hard inside his clothes, so hard he can't bear it. Illya is lying there, fast asleep. He can't see him in the darkness, but he can feel him there. He can hear his breathing. Further away, he can hear the waves.

((O))

They have been on the island for – how long now? Four months? Five? Six? It has become so hard to tell. He has lost count. The day lengths don't change much here, so close to the equator, and the seasons are all pretty much the same. They both have beards, and longer hair, and Illya jokes about one day being able to make a razor that cuts. Their first experiments at smelting iron have come to nothing, but they are determined. They must have tools. They must have an axe to cut the trees that they need to fuel the furnace to make the iron to form the axe. They do what they can with stone tools, and their hut has become no more than a storage space down by the sand, replaced by a one room mansion further up in the trees. It's not really a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it's a serviceable home, with a floor of split logs, walls of split logs, and another wattle and palm thatched roof. There is a bed and a table and chairs. The hearth is made of clay, the chimney lined with clay. It is, against all odds, a home.

A home. Napoleon remembers that one time he had a home with Illya. It was only for a few days, in that awful new-build suburbia. He forgets the name, it was so generic. But there had been an odd rightness in that, behind all the madness of the mission. Sharing a home with Illya, Illya cooking and he cleaning, going to their shared bedroom at night. A perfect home for two bachelors. Then they had gone back to their respective apartments, and everything had just carried on.

At the moment it feels like a simple life. The fish traps are working, and they've both become quite skilled with their home made spears. There is a species of pig on this island, something half wild that looks as though it were introduced by men hundreds of years ago, and has been evolving for the landscape ever since. So, sometimes there is pork, and those are good days.

'I wonder if you can milk a pig,' Illya muses, and Napoleon retorts, 'We still have to find tea for you to put the milk in. Or coffee.'

Oh, he misses coffee. He misses alcohol. He misses the occasional cigarette, or at least the smell of the smoke. Maybe they can make alcohol in time, if they are careful. They've already fashioned skins to hold liquids, with bone needles to sew the seams. They've started to fashion candles from the fat they save. Together they know enough survival techniques. Isn't alcohol just the next step of civilised man?

They climb one of the closer hills in the evening to watch the sunset. The island stretches away before them, an undulating vista of unbroken trees. There are monkeys in the canopies, making their odd howlings, that must have been introduced by the same travellers who brought the pigs. Maybe there's an old settlement somewhere, but they haven't found it yet. It all looks like a strange, unknown land. Most of it is an unknown land. They're very careful with their forays into the interior.

They sit on a bald rock, in a bald space above the trees. The sun sets all the small clouds aflame. The heat of the day is still radiating up from the ground. From below, there is a scent of cooking meat drifting up with the smoke from the fire in their home. The clay oven is working well.

'Life's pretty good, isn't it?' Napoleon asks.

Illya grunts, so Napoleon nudges him in the side.

'Yes,' Illya says. 'Yes. Life is pretty good. I just miss – '

There are too many things to miss. Electric lights. Music. People. Books. Illya has made a kind of a flute, but it's not quite a cor anglais. They still haven't made pens or paper. They recite what they remember, and, in reciting, make the stories their own.

Napoleon puts an arm around Illya's lean shoulders. His skin is warm and smooth.

'Everything,' Napoleon says. 'Restaurants. Showers. Mr Waverly smoking his pipe and giving us orders.'

'Is he even still alive?' Illya asks. 'Is it all even still there? Is there anyone out there still? There may as well not be.'

Napoleon squeezes a little tighter.

'I don't know,' he says. 'There's us. There's you and me.'

That is all there will ever be. They can't start their own island dynasty. Just the two of them, until there is only one, and then none.

The sun is pressing itself against the horizon, spreading its fire all the way along the edge of the sky. Everything is aflame, beautiful, the colours incomprehensibly deep and bright. Napoleon leans his head against the side of Illya's head. His flesh is all against Illya's flesh. They have grown so used to one another's skins that clothes look unnatural.

He realises, after a moment, that Illya is trying not to cry.

'Hey,' he says, although he's feeling that sweet, piercing need to cry himself. 'Hey. I'm the social butterfly, remember? You're the grumpy soviet who hates people. Isn't this your dream?'

Illya draws in a long breath, holds it, and lets it out again.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I just had a moment.'

'We both have moments sometimes,' Napoleon assures him.

Illya shakes his head.

'Ignore me. It's been a long day. Every day is a long day. They never said living on a desert island would be so much work. I just – miss things. I miss – the life we had.'

Napoleon squeezes his shoulders again, then ruffles his hair. It is stiff with salt. Illya's hair is always stiff with salt, because no matter how often he washes in the stream, he's back in the sea again soon after. Those merman dreams aren't far off the truth.

The sun is almost gone. All the trees are casting long, dark shadows. The monkeys and the birds have fallen silent, and there is no sound at all but the waves.

They get to their feet and start to pick their way back down the worn little path to the hut. They know this path so well, and a platinum moon is rising, making the trodden dirt gleam. Even so, the light dims again as they get into the trees. Napoleon stumbles, and Illya catches him, pulling him back up so they are chest to chest, face to face. Then they are kissing under the dark web of the canopy, hands in each other's hair, lips hot and hungry, tongue touching tongue.

After a little time, they break apart. Napoleon feels breathless. He's glad it's dark, because he's getting hard. Neither of them have had sex in so long. A private moment with his own hand just doesn't cut it. It's not the same as this intense, human intimacy.

They don't speak as they walk back to the house, where the glow of the fire can just be seen through the cracks of the door. Inside, Napoleon lights the candle and Illya prods at the meat and pronounces it cooked.

'Are we – Are we going to talk about this?' Napoleon asks after a while.

Illya is serving up their food onto two flat stones. The light of the fire, the light of the candle, flickers on every facet of his body.

'What is there to talk about?' he asks. Then he looks around. 'Napoleon. What is there to talk about? Hasn't this been long enough coming?'

Napoleon isn't sure what to say.

'Is it okay?' he asks. 'Illya. Is this okay?'

'Of course,' Illya says. He's smiling now, smiling as if he has just been given the perfect gift. 'Of course it's okay. What's changed? It's just us, only better.' He pushes Napoleon's food closer. 'Eat, before it gets cold.'

Just us, only better. That is what it is. They eat, and wipe grease from their lips and fingers, and dampen down the fire, and retire to bed.

((O))

Illya's hair is long and tangled between his fingers. His own hair is the same, he knows. It always is by the end of the day. Their bed is a soft mattress of hay and skins which they fluff up every morning. There are no fleas or bedbugs here, just the skins beneath them and the thin old blanket over them. So they lie together and kiss again, and Illya's hair is tangled around his fingers, his beard wiry against Napoleon's own.

This has been so long coming. How could it take so long? Four, five, six months on the island? Four, five, six years they have been together? They could have done it long ago, because nothing has changed since a few months after they were first partnered. They have always been this close. Now the last barrier has gone, and they are against each other, twined about one another in the bed, kissing and stroking. Illya's skin tastes of salt. All of his skin tastes of salt, and Napoleon draws his tongue across it as if he were eating ice cream. Ice cream is another thing he misses, but this is better.

His thigh over Illya's thigh. Their cocks hard and brushing together. Illya's hand moves down to clench about them both, and it is like electricity. Napoleon pushes and pushes into that hand, moving against Illya's heat, stroking the cool of his balls, kissing him and kissing him, until they are both coming, crying out aloud. There's no one to hear. No one to disturb.

They lie still, just kissing, cocks softening in Illya's grip. He strokes Illya's beard, strokes his hair.

'Come on,' Illya says after a while. 'Let's get cleaned up.'

They walk down to the sea under the moonlight. The stars are so brilliant they look like blazing limelights in the sky. They're different stars to the stars of home, but this is home now, and these are their constellations.

There are almost no waves, and the tide is fully in. The water is a cold little shock, but they walk in, Illya tugging Napoleon by the hand when he hesitates. They stand waist deep, kissing, washing, kissing again. It's like his dreams of Illya as a merman have come to life, but this is better than a dream.

Napoleon feels as though he could go again. It's been so long since he's done anything like this. He thinks about what it would be like to enter Illya's body, to enter the tight heat of him, and for a moment he feels dizzy. He would never have dared try that early on, for fear of hurting him, but now they have their pot of saved grease in the hut, and he's sure that will be lubrication enough.

Then he thinks of Illya doing the same to him, and for a moment the whole world goes away, so lost is he in that thought.

'Come on,' Illya is saying. 'Let's get dry and back to bed. Another day tomorrow.'

Another day. There are so many days. They are standing hip deep in the lapping water, and everything is glittering with the light of the moon. Tomorrow they need to find food again, to catch fish again. They need to work on their garden and the fence to keep the animals out. Illya intends to try the smelting again, because they could really do with metal tools. Napoleon wonders idly if they could make glass. A glass window would be wonderful, even of little, imperfect panes. A window in their house. In their home.

((O))

In the morning he faces Illya as if this were an entirely new world. It feels like a new world. He wakes to look into Illya's face, Illya's own eyes just opening. He wakes to Illya's smile.

'Last night,' Napoleon begins.

'I know,' Illya says.

He moves a warm hand up from where it was pressed under his body, and touches Napoleon's cheek.

Everything is different. They lie in bed for too long, just looking at each other and talking. It feels as though a final door has been unlocked. Finally there is nothing between them, no barrier at all.

'We should get breakfast,' Illya says at last. 'We need to make the fire up before it goes out. We need to get the water boiled.'

'We can't have a day off?' Napoleon asks, but he knows there are no days off. The fire has to be kept going, the food has to be gathered, the water must be boiled.

It feels different, when they're going about their work, naked under the sun. Napoleon can look at all of Illya's body and not hide the looks. He can reach out a hand to catch Illya's as he passes. He can stop him in his tracks and kiss him, and smile at the slight unsteadiness in Illya's legs when he moves on.

'We should work on improving the house,' Illya says, and there's something in his words, something that makes it sound as if this is a different kind of house now. It will be the kind of house two newly-weds move into. It will be their own precious place, where everything is shared.

'A veranda, with two rocking chairs,' Napoleon says, and Illya grins.

'Maybe, in time,' he replies. 'Why can't we make rocking chairs, once we have the right tools? But for now, I was thinking about a better bed.'

'You know, I dreamed you were a merman,' Napoleon tells him.

Illya's eyes widen. 'Last night? Is that what you were grunting about?'

Napoleon grins. 'Last night, no. No, I was dreaming about – Well, you weren't fish from the waist down last night. No, before that. It's a recurring dream. I dream you're a merman, and you lure me into the water and show me beautiful things. Once you gave me a pearl.'

'Do you want me to try to fish you a pearl necklace?' Illya asks, and he sounds almost serious.

Napoleon leans in and kisses his cheek.

'I think I can do without a pearl necklace. But I could take a fried fish for lunch.'

'Gollum,' Illya says playfully, and Napoleon laughs.

((O))

The house has started to look as though it has been there forever. The ground around is all trodden smooth by their bare feet. There is a little fenced garden at the side, and an outhouse off by a drop in the ground, well away from their water source. The soundtrack of the house is water, water running down the hill, cascading in little falls, water coming in to the shore as waves. The soundtrack of the house is the noise of the wind in the trees, and the clattering of the wood and shell ornaments Illya has strung up to catch and tune the wind. Living up here has removed them a degree from the beach, but it's safer in the face of unexpectedly high tides, and the trees protect them from the wind.

Now their house almost has two rooms. At least, it is a little bigger, with a partition in place to screen the bedroom from the main room. It's good, sometimes, to be able to have a bit of separation from each other, when you have seen no other people for longer than seems possible.

They both have their moods. Everyone does. When things snap between them Illya strides up to the top of the hill or goes and stands under the highest waterfall, dousing himself in the clear water as it tumbles down into a glassy pool. Napoleon takes a spear and wraps himself in minimal clothes, and goes into the forest, deeper and deeper, pretending he is hunting but really just taking time, exhausting himself, letting himself think. Sometimes he comes back with game, and sometimes he doesn't. Meat is a much smaller part of his diet than it used to be.

When he comes back from his hunting, when Illya comes back from standing under the crashing water, things always seem better. When Napoleon comes back it always makes him feel good to see Illya's face, after all that time alone. Walking through these forests reminds him so sharply of how empty this place is of human life. The only paths are the ones made by the wild pigs. There are no noises of humans, no signs of humans. No hearts carved into trees, no scraps of litter.

So, he walks back into the little clearing around the house, perhaps with the carcass of an animal over his shoulder, perhaps with nothing. Sometimes there is no one there, but sometimes Illya is in the garden, on his knees, pulling out weeds or tenderly digging holes with his hands to plant new seedlings. At those times, when he is sweaty from his exertion and Illya is covered with soil, there is only one thing to do. They look at each other in silence, for a little while, and then one of them smiles. Sorry is rarely said, but Illya puts aside his tools, Napoleon puts down his catch, and they both walk to the waterfall together. They wade in and use the torrent as a shower, the earth on Illya's hands and knees turning to swirls of mud, the sweat on Napoleon's body washing away, until they are both renewed. They kiss, and things feel new again.

There are few things to argue about here, and most of the time arguments are born of other frustrations; of missing home, of missing other people's voices, of their fear for the future. Most of the time, once the storm has passed, everything is good again. They come to bed in the evening in the sheltered back room of their house, and lie close to one another, and feel content. The crackling of the fire breeds contentment. The darkness breeds contentment. The quiet, broken only by the sound of the waves, lulls them to sleep.

((O))

The storm comes with little warning. Maybe they had both felt it in the air. Maybe that's where today's tension came from, when Illya snapped and said something vicious, and Napoleon almost punched him, but didn't. It doesn't matter, because by night all their anger has gone. They fall asleep in loving quiet, the sea almost a flat calm, the wind almost dead.

Now they wake hearing the wind howling, the scream of it across the island. The roar comes and then the house shakes. For a moment they lie still, arms about one another, just parsing what is going on.

'Storm,' Napoleon says after a moment.

'I'll put the fire out,' Illya says, because leaving the fire burning in a storm like this is an invitation for the house to burn down. If it falls, they can put it up again. If it burns, they will have to stand and watch it burn.

He crawls out of the bed, and a moment later there is the hiss of water hitting the embers, and then the acrid puff of smoke. A moment after that, the rain begins. At first it is a little tapping sound, and then a drumming, and then a continuous hiss. Somewhere in the corner Napoleon can just hear a drip. The thatch is leaking in the place where it always leaks.

The house shakes again. The trees are creaking terribly. What if one falls? They have cleared most of the trees within reach of the house, but it's hard to tell, exactly, where one might fall.

'We should get down to the beach,' Illya says. 'It's a bad one tonight.'

Nights like this are miserable. Having to leave the house in weather like this, in the dark and the roaring wind, is miserable. They wrap skins about themselves and fasten the door carefully on leaving, and pick their way in the dark down to the beach, their feet slipping on earth which is fast becoming mud. The tide isn't too high, at least, but the waves are crashing onto the shore, and almost nothing can be heard over the noise of that and the wind. Illya shouts into Napoleon's ear, 'The old house!' and Napoleon shouts back, 'Yes!'

The waves are like monsters in the darkness. They don't seem to be coming in close enough to be a threat, but they crash and crash and a lighter dark splinters before they withdraw again. Napoleon and Illya pick their way, ankle-deep in wet sand, to the old, leaking, wattle hut where they store their fishing things. It isn't absolutely water tight but it breaks the wind, and if it blows down it won't crush them, at least. They're safer from falling trees here, in a wind this strong, and far enough above the tide. So they go inside and fasten the door and sit on the floor, huddled together, holding the skins about themselves, waiting while the wind screams and the rain smashes down on the roof.

The water drips all night. Every time Napoleon starts to fall asleep he is woken by a drip, or by the howling wind, or the crash of a wave. It's too noisy to speak, and they just sit there, sharing their warmth, and waiting for dawn to come.

At last it does. At last a little light comes into the darkness, and the wind is starting to die down. They step out of the hut, wrapped in their skins, stiff and cold and exhausted by a night of almost no sleep. The sea is grey and the waves are still roaring, but there's a break in the cloud on the horizon, and the sun is just starting to show. There's a tree down not twenty feet from the hut, its roots waving in the dying wind, dropping wet earth and sand.

'The house,' Illya says.

The fear is a clenching in Napoleon's stomach, but they find their way back up the path towards the house. More trees are down, one across the path. That will have to be cut away, and it will be long, hard work, but at least it will provide more firewood. Everything seems different and strange, leaves blown inside out, fruit fallen to the ground, channels of water running where usually there are no streams. The birds are all chattering up in the canopies, as if gossiping about last night's events.

'At least the aquifer will have been topped up,' Illya says stoically.

Running out of water is a terrible thing to fear. They rely on these rains.

They come into the clearing, and – Thank god. The house is still standing. There is a portion of thatch torn off, and the door is flapping open. The chimney will have to be repaired. But the house is still standing. It is such a relief that Napoleon just stops in his tracks, hugging Illya with all his strength. He couldn't bear the thought of having to build the house all over again.

'It's all right,' he says. It's all he can say. 'It's all right.'

Illya peels away from him and goes to inspect the damage. The garden fence will need setting up again. Some of their crops might not be recoverable, but there's always something to eat in the forest, at least.

'I'll fix the roof today,' Illya says. 'I'll try to get that leaking corner fixed once and for all, too.'

'Yes,' Napoleon says. 'Yes. You fix the roof. I'll look after the door, and the garden, then I'll start on that fallen tree on the path.'

'Okay,' Illya nods, but he looks exhausted. They both must look exhausted. They barely slept all night.

'First, though,' Napoleon tells him sternly. 'First, we get some sleep.'

The bed is mostly dry, and the clouds are clearing away. Soon the place will be warm, and all the water will be steaming up into the air. There might be more storms, but not today, he thinks. They have a window of grace. So they go inside and crawl into their bed, and finally sleep.

((O))

Perhaps it was sitting all night in the storm. Perhaps it was the effect of a sleepless night followed by a day of gruelling labour. Maybe it's the cut on Illya's calf that, despite their best efforts to treat and keep clean, is a little swollen and oozing pus. When he wakes the next morning Napoleon can already feel the heat coming from his partner's skin, and he lays the back of his hand gently on his forehead.

'Hey,' he says, as Illya comes awake. 'Are you feeling okay?'

Illya grunts, opening his eyes blearily.

'Not great,' he says, and his voice rasps.

Napoleon feels his forehead again, trying not to look too worried. Back in civilisation he wouldn't worry at all about a slight temperature and a sore throat, but here there is no qualified medical care, no doctors, no pharmacy just round the block.

'How's that cut?' Napoleon asks him.

'Sore,' Illya says.

Napoleon moves to look at Illya's calf. His leg is already sticking out from the skins they sleep under. It's a nasty, ragged gash, from a branch on the fallen tree they were trying to clear from the path. There is pus in the wound again, and the skin is inflamed and red. He fears blood poisoning. What will he do if Illya gets blood poisoning?

'I'm going to boil some water and give that a proper clean,' Napoleon says. 'And I'm going to clean it every few hours until the infection is knocked out, okay?'

'I haven't got septicaemia, Napoleon,' Illya says, and he sounds very tired. 'I think it's something I ate. I'm just not feeling great.'

'That's fine,' Napoleon nods. Maybe Illya does and maybe he doesn't, but he isn't going to take the chance. 'But I'm still going to clean it. I want to keep a lid on that infection. Maybe it'll increase your standing in the pirate community if you get off this island with a peg leg, but I don't fancy my skills at amputation.'

'You are not going to have to amputate my leg for a scratch,' Illya says firmly.

'No, I'm not,' Napoleon assures him, 'because I'm going to keep it clean so it can heal.'

He goes to make up the fire to boil up salty water, then moves to the little shelf where they keep their stock of homemade remedies. Illya has made a kind of paste with lard and seaweed, and they tell themselves the iodine in there will work, without being sure if it really does. They have experimented with various plants they've found in their time here, and have a little stock of remedies.

'This is the iodine, right?' he asks, holding the little clay pot up for Illya to see. The top is sealed with a fresh leaf tied around with twine.

'Yes,' Illya tells him.

Napoleon nods, and puts the water on to boil.

Until now they have avoided illness. There must be few pathogens here, and they make sure to always cook their food well and boil their water now they have the facilities to do so. The worst that has happened so far is scrapes and bruises and cuts, which they try to keep religiously clean. If anything worse should happen, a broken limb, a gore from a wild pig's tusks, they will just have to manage as they can. At least they know more than the ancients did, even if they don't have the equipment of the modern world.

'Okay, this is going to hurt,' he warns Illya when the water is finally ready.

They have harvested sponges from the shallow coastal shelf around the island, so he has something to work with, at least. Illya hisses in pain when Napoleon starts to clean out the cut. Then he swears. By the time Napoleon is finished, Illya is sweating.

'All right?' Napoleon asks him in concern.

'Have you ever considered becoming a nurse?' Illya asks him, and Napoleon shakes his head.

'Good. Don't,' Illya says.

Napoleon tsks, and starts to smear the iodine paste onto the cut.

'I'm going to do this again in a couple of hours,' Napoleon says mercilessly. 'So you better rest while you can.'

He goes about his work while Illya lies in the nest of dried leaves and skins, checking the nets, working on that tree, coming back every so often to check the fire is still burning and Illya is still all right. He makes sure he has water that is boiled for Illya to drink, because now isn't the time to risk water straight from the stream.

When he is hauling back the next branch to their log pile, he sees Illya walking, tottering across the bare ground to the outhouse. Quickly he catches up with him and takes his arm. He still feels far too hot.

'Okay, partner?' he asks in concern.

'Yeah,' Illya mutters, but he sounds far from okay. He falters in his path. 'Oh, my stomach…'

Napoleon holds him for a moment, then asks, 'Okay?'

'Sick,' Illya replies. His face is white. 'Need the toilet.'

'Come on, let me help you,' Napoleon says, holding him by the arm and guiding him towards the little building.

The toilet needs no door. It has three walls and a roof and a view over the waving tops of the trees to the sea. That's enough. But today it doesn't seem as if Illya cares about the view. He staggers into the little hut and sits down, and Napoleon steps back to give him a little privacy. He winces at the sounds coming from within. It sounds as if Illya is being sick, too.

'Hey, do you need me in there?' he asks, and after a moment Illya gasps, 'No.'

When he comes out he's clammy and pale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Definitely something I ate,' he tells Napoleon as his partner helps him back to the hut.

'Let me get you some soap and warm water,' Napoleon tells him, lowering him to sit on a little bench outside the house. Soap is one of the things they managed to make relatively early on. It is grey and slimy, but it works.

He brings Illya water and lets him wash his hands, and thinks about hauling in more wood for the fire. He's going to need to keep a pot of water warm all the time, he thinks.

After he has washed his hands, Illya collapses back into the bed, curling around his stomach, moaning.

'I hate to do this to you, but I need to clean that cut again,' Napoleon tells him.

Illya just groans, so Napoleon gets to work. Maybe Illya is feeling too ill to care. He cries out a little as Napoleon uses the hot water to be sure the cut is absolutely clean, but he doesn't make as much of a fuss as last time.

Napoleon puts a hand on his forehead again, feeling his temperature. He is too hot. He wishes they had some aspirin, anything that would work to reduce fever. But there aren't willow trees on this tropical island and they don't dare experiment too far with the various plants to find out what their properties are. If the pigs eat them, they warily try them too. If the pigs won't touch them, they leave them alone.

((O))

By that evening he feels exhausted. He hasn't stopped all day, tending the fire, looking after Illya, and trying to do his daily chores. He feels sick with worry, terrified of what might happen if Illya becomes even more ill. He can't keep anything down and he is up for the toilet every half hour. He is afraid of Illya becoming dehydrated. He is afraid of him dying. What will he do if he dies?

'How are you feeling?' he asks as the sun goes down, touching his hand against Illya's skin again.

'Rotten,' Illya murmurs.

'Stomach still cramping?'

'Yeah,' Illya says. 'Everything.'

Then he groans and pushes Napoleon aside weakly so he can stand up.

'Let me help you. It's getting dark out there,' Napoleon tells him, and helps Illya walk, yet again, to the outhouse. There have been a few times when he hasn't made it.

'Do you think you'll get any sleep?' Napoleon asks as they make their way back to the house.

'Don't know,' Illya says.

Napoleon helps him back down into the bed and covers him over, because his teeth are chattering despite the warmth in the air.

'I want you to drink something,' Napoleon tells him firmly. 'No, I know,' he says as Illya demurs. 'But I need you to drink something, Illya. It's just fruit juice and honey. It'll get some sugars into you, and the honey will be good for you.'

Illya groans again, but Napoleon doesn't take no for an answer. He has been working on squeezing the fruit. He doesn't know what to call them but they taste good and are very sweet, barely acid at all. He holds the tin of liquid to Illya's mouth, and makes him drink. He closes his eyes for a moment and prays that his partner will manage to keep it down.

((O))

It is a long night, because every time he falls asleep Illya is waking, moving in the bed beside him, moaning or staggering up out of the covers. He keeps a precious candle burning so that Illya can see as he stumbles out of the house, and more often than not Napoleon goes after him. Then at some point in the small and silent hours after midnight Illya grows quiet. For a little while Napoleon is worried. He lies there just listening to Illya breathe, cursing the wind every time it makes the trees rustle, because it covers that subtle sound. He listens to every out-breath and then praises every in-breath, because what will he do if Illya dies?

After a while, though, he starts to relax. All he can hear is deep, peaceful breathing. There is the occasional snore, and, every now and then, a little groan. But mostly there is just the slow breathing. He moves very carefully, so as to not wake his partner, and lays his fingers gently on his head. He is cooler, he is sure. Just a little warmer than average temperature, but cooler than he was.

Napoleon lies there, looking up at the dark roof of the hut, the roof that Illya fixed only a day ago. He lies there listening to that breathing, in and out, in and out, and then he finds himself enveloped in sleep.

((O))

In the morning he rolls over to look to see Illya lying beside him, very still in the bed. His skin feels cool. For a moment a tremendous fear washes over him, a tsunami washing through him and leaving everything shaken and blank. Then he sees the slow movement of Illya's chest. He sees the slight pink in his cheeks. He is alive. Just asleep. Just so deeply asleep.

Napoleon just lies there, thanking God, fate, whatever. He thanks any number of things he doesn't believe in. He can feel his own heart thudding inside. He knew that he loved Illya, but now he knows how utterly essential he is. It is like suddenly understanding the all encompassing importance of the sun.

He strokes a finger down Illya's cheek feeling the softness of that skin and then the sudden contrast of the wiry beard. For a moment he remembers Illya as he used to be, his hair short, always clean shaven. Illya in a trim suit, crisp white shirt and black tie, neat and compact. All that feels like so long ago. Shoes on their feet, hair cut in a barber's shop. Aftershave, perhaps, although Illya never really went in for anything but soap and hot water.

He looks so different with the beard. Almost always naked, his hair down below his shoulders, sometimes loosely braided to keep it out of his face. His hair is still very blond, blonder for the constant sun and the contrast with his tanned skin, but his beard is a melange of blond-gold-red, so many colours twined together. Napoleon's own beard is black, although Illya delights in identifying the occasional grey hair. His head hair is more often tied in a loose pony tail, no matter how often Illya tries to persuade him that braiding is a better option. He fantasises about cutting it, but a few tries with the knife convinced him it's just too much effort and pain.

Illya blinks, and looks at him.

'Napoleon,' he says. His eyes look very blue in the morning light.

Just for that little moment he sees the depth of Illya's love. Then he wakes a little more, and something of the old guardedness slides over his eyes.

'Did you have to wake me up?' Illya asks. 'I was having a wonderful dream.'

Napoleon props himself on one elbow and regards his lover. He strokes strands of hair from his forehead with the other hand.

'Tell me about your dream,' he says.

Illya's forehead wrinkles. 'I don't know. Something about – being in a city, I think. A kind of mixture of New York and London. We were going to a restaurant…'

Napoleon grins.

'Ah,' he says. 'A restaurant. You're feeling better?'

Illya smiles, but his smile is still wan.

'I don't feel like going to a restaurant,' he says. 'I don't feel like eating yet. I could take more of that juice?'

That's enough reassurance for Napoleon. He leans over and kisses Illya's forehead. His temperature feels almost normal again.

'You scared me, you know,' he says. 'Downright terrified me. Don't do that again, okay?'

'I'm all right,' Illya assures him, and although there's impatience in his tone Napoleon sees the love behind it. 'It was just a twenty four hour stomach upset. That's all. I'm not about to die on you.'

'You'd better not,' Napoleon tells him, and kisses his forehead again. 'And I'll go make you some of that juice.'

((O))

It takes Illya a few days to recover his strength, but the scare is over. The cut on his calf is healing. Probably it had nothing to do with the illness. Just a coincidence, or perhaps being distracted by that made him more careless about what he ate. For a few days Napoleon takes the lion's share of the chores and treats Illya like a recovering invalid, despite his protests. He's just so relieved he is better. What would he do without Illya? His love feels redoubled, and Illya tolerates it like a cat tolerates caresses, and sometimes returns the affection in a way most unlike his usual manner. Love making has become a matter first of tenderness, and only then burns into lust. Something has cemented between them. They are so much more than just friends or casual lovers. They have become one.

((O))

Two years? Three? How long has it been? They have tried to keep track with the height of the sun, but it's hard without instruments. Their Iron Age has arrived but they haven't managed brass. They have new knives, two axes, and metal tipped spears and arrows. Archery is wonderful for the arms and shoulders and back. When Napoleon looks on Illya's lean, taut muscles he still feels a flutter deep down, a feeling of dizzying longing that he can satiate almost any time he wants to, now.

The rest of the world feels like an ancient dream. The rest of the world feels like a myth. What is Manhattan? What are London or Leningrad? There could be another world war out there and they would never know. They hardly even see the trails of planes. There is just day after day, surviving, getting better at surviving, getting more time for leisure and thought and love. They haven't managed glass windows, not yet, but they have parchment and ink. They have pots. They have each other.

There is a little fear in Napoleon though. A fear in them both. Illya's illness really brought that fear into being. A life like this isn't kind to old age. What will it be like then, when they're still fighting to grow and hunt their food? What about when the aches and pains set in? What if one of them dies? What of the one who is left? Napoleon isn't sure how he'll live if Illya is the one to go first. He isn't sure what Illya will do if he is left behind. A society of two isn't enough. It just isn't enough. Love each other as fiercely as they may, they will never have children to succour them in their old age.

'What are we going to do, Illya?' he asks one day. 'What are we going to do if we're never found?'

Illya is muddy to his wrists with clay. He's making a cook pot, after the last one broke. Above his beard his eyes are like blue jewels, his tanned skin crossed with faint lines. The sun isn't so kind as it seems.

'Carry on,' he says staunchly. 'We'll just have to carry on.'

'And if we're rescued?' Napoleon continues. 'We're in love, Illya. We are, though,' he insists, at the look in Illya's eyes. Illya doesn't do soppiness, but they are in love. There's no denying that. 'When we're back in a world where this love is against the law – '

'We'll carry on,' Illya says again, sitting cross legged, his attention on the wet clay between his hands. 'What's the law, anyway? What happens behind closed doors is no one's business but ours.'

'Is it wrong?' Napoleon asks. 'Is our kind of love really wrong?'

'No love is wrong,' Illya assures him, looking up at last. 'It's only people who are wrong. If we end up back in the civilised world – ' and he wrinkles his nose at that idea of civilisation, a civilisation that would tell them their love is wrong, ' – then we'll set up our home together and carry on. If they can't accept it in Manhattan, we'll find a wilderness that's just a bit kinder than this one.'

Napoleon wonders if there is a wilderness like that anywhere in the world, a place where they can be left alone, but where, if one of them finds himself in hospital, the other can sit at his bedside and hold his hand and tell him he loves him as if they were man and wife.

((O))

They explore the island piece by piece, when they can. They are always careful; careful not to get lost, careful of unknown insects and creatures, careful of the feral pigs. Then one day Illya comes jogging back to the house, spear in one hand but no game in the other, calling out, 'Napoleon! I've found it!'

Napoleon straightens up from the rows of tender plants, where he has been kneeling, pulling out the weeds. They don't grow many foods because there are enough fruits and roots and leaves growing wild, but they do cultivate a few things. He rubs a hand on his spine, rubbing out the aches.

'Found what?' he asks.

Illya's face is glowing, not just with the exertion, but with excitement.

'Found what?' Napoleon asks again.

Illya holds up a hand, standing at the water container near the house door, lifting the lid and scooping out a cupful to drink.

'Where the ship landed,' he says eventually.

There is water glistening on his lips, and a drip on his nose, and Napoleon has the urge to lick it off.

'What ship?' he asks, feeling an odd little spark of excitement himself. Is this it? Is this rescue? 'Illya – '

'No,' Illya says, reading his face. 'No, no, the old ship, Napoleon. The one that brought the pigs, and the monkeys, and – well, god knows what. I've found the settlement!'

'Oh,' Napoleon says, his eyes widening. He is visualising all sorts of amazing things, but the settlement must be hundreds of years old. 'Show me,' he says.

'I will,' Illya nods.

He's darting about now, poking about in the house, getting water containers, getting a big leather bag, finding the rough leather shoes that he almost never wears.

'Yes, get one too,' he tells Napoleon as he eyes the bag. 'I don't know what we might find!'

((O))

The place is some miles along the coastline, in the dip of a cove that looks perfect for landing. There's no sign of a wreck, no sign that the people who came here were ever forced to stay. For a moment Napoleon feels a strange disappointment, as if he had been hoping that they had company in their isolation, no matter how distant that company would be. Those people must be long dead, whether they stayed here or sailed away.

'Look!' Illya says, touching his arm, directing him towards a pile of plants at the edge of the trees. 'Look at that!'

Napoleon stands for a moment, looking.

'I see vines,' he says.

'Look,' Illya says more insistently, stepping forward. He gets out his knife and starts to cut away at the tangled vines, pulling away dark leaves.

Then Napoleon sees it. The edge of a plank of wood, dark and half rotted. There are a lot of pieces of rotting wood on this island, but this one is different. This one has been sawn.

The excitement catches hold. He steps to Illya's side and starts to pull at the plants too, cutting and slashing and pulling them away with their white tendrils of roots flashing nakedly under the sun. Gradually they reveal more planks, more rot. Then they find what must be a shoe.

Illya holds the decayed leather in his hands.

'Look,' he says. 'Napoleon, look at this. You can see the imprints of his toes…'

Napoleon takes the shoe and looks. It is just a few scraps of leather barely held together, but he, too, can see the shape of the wearer's toes. He gets a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach then. A terrible dread. In a few hundred years, this will be all that is left of him and Illya. Just imprints left behind in leather, rotting pieces of wood.

'Illya, I don't know what we can hope to – ' he begins.

'No, look,' Illya says. 'I thought I saw something in there. Look. There's their midden. That's their rubbish heap, Napoleon.'

In the end they find a broken knife, shards of pottery and glass, bones which they recognise intimately as belonging to the pigs that now rule the island. In triumph Illya draws out a stoneware jar, unbroken, and a little later Napoleon finds a spoon. They make themselves rough digging implements with sticks and carry on searching. Their haul reveals rusted nails, more pieces of broken pottery, a belt buckle, a brooch with a broken pin. There are a few more pieces of cutlery, the first they have seen in years. Buttons made of metal or bone. The remains of what looks like a cartwheel. The sun beats down on their backs but they keep at their treasure heap, digging through to see what they can find. A chamberpot with nothing but a chip out of the rim. More pieces of glass.

'We can take the glass and melt it down,' Illya suggests, and Napoleon smiles. Illya is desperate to make glass, but Napoleon has come round to the idea that they don't need it. It was just a fancy, a hang-over from another time.

They pack everything they find carefully in their bags, wrapping leaves around each piece to be sure nothing gets broken on the long walk home. They need to get back before dark falls. It's not good to be wandering in these wild woods without a light.

((O))

Back home, they lay out their finds as if itemising them for a museum. Illya is full of talk of going back again, getting more scrap metal and glass that they can use in the forge. These artefacts are an amazement.

'Eighteenth century, I think,' Napoleon murmurs, looking over some of the pieces.

The chamberpot is an amazing find, a watertight container which will serve many purposes. The flouncing blue and white glaze feels the most amazing of all. They haven't seen anything like this in a long time. It's a strange connection to the human world, to the human world of the past. It is an odd reminder of the whole humanity that is out there, and it makes Napoleon indescribably sad. He touches the items of cutlery, the rusted kitchen knife, the broken plates, and feels as though he were looking at a grave, the grave of those long-gone people, and his own grave, simultaneously.

He sits there on the floor while Illya rekindles the fire and starts to cook fish, just looking at the artefacts, not feeling compelled to clean them up or sort them into useful and useless and maybes. They have done well with their own little home, their own attempts at making tools and pots, their own kinds of decoration. He had got so used to their own little civilisation, their own culture of two. This is such a strange reminder that humans should not be alone, and that they are irrevocably alone.

'Napoleon,' Illya says after a while.

He feels as though he were waking from a dream.

'Hmm?' he asks, lifting his chin from his hand.

'I wanted to know if you want a drink with your dinner,' Illya says. They don't have tea or coffee, but they make a kind of tea from some other leaf that has no name.

'Oh,' Napoleon says, focussing on the flicker of the flames. 'Oh, yeah. Please.'

Illya pours fresh water into the pot and puts the lid over the top, then comes to him and kneels down before him on the leaf-woven mat.

'I didn't think finding those things would be so hard for you,' he says gently. 'I'm sorry, Napoleon. If I'd realised – '

Napoleon shakes himself.

'No,' he says. 'No, it's not. Not really. It's – I'm finding myself thinking about those people. And all the people. I forget the world is still full of other people sometimes. It's just you and me…'

'We're doing okay,' Illya reminds him. 'We're doing well.'

'Yes,' Napoleon says, but there are still so many fears. What about the future? What about all the things they have left behind? What about when one of them dies, and the other is on his own?

Illya puts a hand on his cheek, then leans forward to kiss him.

'I got overwhelmed with the excitement of finding so many useful things,' he says. 'I didn't think about anything but that.'

Napoleon sits up a little straighter, and smiles. He looks at the array of artefacts on the floor again, and tries to see them with different eyes. They're not relics of lost people. They're useful things. Things that will make their lives better. It is a treasure haul.

'Let's go back tomorrow with better tools,' he says. 'We'll see what else we can find.'

Illya's eyes fix on his. For a long moment they are connected, looking into each other's souls. They both smile, Napoleon becomes self-conscious, and the moment breaks.

'Dinner,' he says. 'Dinner, and a hot drink, and then bed, and sex. How about lots and lots of sex?'

Illya's smile broadens.

'Are you asking me on a date, Mr Solo?'

It's been a long time since he's heard that name.

'Yes, I am, Mr Kuryakin,' he says, 'And you'd better put out at the end of the evening, too.'

Illya grins. 'It will be my pleasure.'

((O))

Three years. Four? It feels as if this life has been forever. There is the rising and the setting of the sun. There is the lapping of the waves. There have been more storms, and they have started to recognise the times of year that bring weather like that. They have strengthened their house and improved the thatch, and now there are almost never leaks. They have focussed on growing plants that will better survive the storms.

Napoleon writes a kind of diary every day, but they're still not sure of how long it has been. Five years, perhaps? Christmas, Easter, birthdays, are all part of the haze. They make their own celebrations, when there is a cause. They wear rough clothes and shoes of pig skin when they must, and keep their cloth clothes saved, a relic of their old life. It feels as though the world were continually spinning, blind to their presence, and time never really moves on. Is there really a living world out there? Are there really other people alive?

When the ship comes, it is an astonishing thing. For a moment Napoleon can't believe what he can see on the horizon. He calls Illya over and he stares too, just caught by the image.

For a moment, amazingly, they dither. Do they want to be found? Do they really want to be found?

Then they haul wood into a pile on the beach, and light it. They coax the flames. They do all they can to make a column of dark smoke.

For a long time the ship seems to be hovering on the horizon. Perhaps it will slip over and sail away. Perhaps that will be a relief to them both.

But no. It grows a little larger, and a little larger still. The outline changes. It becomes narrower as the bows turn towards them. The ship is putting out its own column of smoke from the stacks. After a while it sounds its horn, long and low and loud, carrying across the sea.

Then a smaller boat is lowered, and it is driving closer, rowed by oars. When the men come ashore it takes a moment to work out what is happening. Have they forgotten how English sounds? That is absurd. They speak it among themselves all the time.

'I think it's Frisian,' Illya says after a puzzled moment. 'They're speaking Frisian.'

Napoleon tries what he knows of Dutch, and a connection is made. They need to make preparations to leave. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

((O))

It's a heart aching moment, watching their island slip away. Their house is lost against the trees. It's all lost against the trees, the land a savage place again, as if no man ever set foot there. They stand at the railings on the boat, fully dressed for the first time in years, the clothes feeling awkward and strange on their skin. For the first time in years they can't openly share their affection. They can't put their arms about each other and kiss.

'Sad,' Napoleon voices after a while. 'Sad to see it go.'

For a long while Illya says nothing. Maybe he can't speak. He just stands at the rail, at Napoleon's side, as that line of trees, the shapes of the hills, grow fainter against the sky. The sun is coming down, their last island sunset setting everything ablaze. Their home is there, the home they built with their own blistered hands.

'We can come back,' Napoleon says. 'They have the island charted. We can come back.'

They both know they probably never will.

'Come on,' Napoleon says, patting Illya's shoulder. 'Let's go below.'

'I'd rather stay up here,' Illya says.

Below, he will feel seasick, and they're both unused to the feeling of enclosure that comes from going below decks in this great metal city. They're unused to the other voices, the other men, to having to be conscious of what they say and how they behave. It will take time to adjust.

'Are you going to sleep on deck?' Napoleon asks lightly. 'A decent mattress is one thing I've missed.'

Illya shrugs. 'I don't know,' he says. 'I'm just not quite ready to go below.'

So they stay on deck as dark falls. There's an odd, restless feeling itching in Napoleon's mind. There's nothing to plan for tomorrow. No food to gather in. Usually they would have eaten by now, and be lying in bed together, but dinner will be served to them later, at the captain's table. Dinner they haven't had to grow or hunt or cook. At some point there will probably be shaving and hair cuts, and they will start to look as if they are part of society again.

'We'll be okay,' he tells Illya.

They're sitting now on the warm metal of the deck, as the ship moves beneath them. There's a scent of exhaust mingling with the salt spray. The sound of the engines rumbles through the decks. It's all so strange.

'A long time ago,' Napoleon says, 'you told me if we got home we'd just carry on. We'd find ourselves a place to live together, and we'd carry on. I still believe that.'

They don't know yet if they still have jobs. They don't know who's still there, back at home. They don't know what has happened to their apartments, their possessions. But they can start again. They can carry on.

'Yes,' Illya says. 'Yes, we'll carry on. We'll adjust. It's just – strange right now. It's all very strange.'

In the dark, Napoleon takes the risk of leaning closer and kissing Illya's temple. He feels as though he were taking his merman away from his natural element. He doesn't know how either of them will cope with concrete and cars and clothes.

'We'll carry on,' he promises again. 'It will be all right, and we will carry on.'

Illya leans a little closer to Napoleon, his eyes on the horizon, on the darkness where the island has disappeared. In the darkness he reaches out, and takes Napoleon's hand.