In the morning he felt so much better than he had. He had found himself sweating in the night, wrapped around Napoleon and hot under the covers, but that seemed to burn the fever away, and he woke with a clear head and a lightness in his chest. He stirred and stretched and blinked his eyes open, and then remembered just where he was, and smiled.

'Good morning, Napoleon,' he said quietly.

He wasn't entirely sure of the time, although there was some light in the room; a faint change in the blur before his eyes when he turned his head towards the curtained window. He reached a hand under the covers and touched what might have been Napoleon's forehead, but then he realised it was his shoulder, and he kissed it softly.

Napoleon grunted and moved. 'Good morning, lover,' he said sleepily. 'You feeling better?'

'I am,' Illya said. 'I am feeling much better.'

'The good air of home, perhaps,' Napoleon replied.

Illya chuckled and turned over in bed and felt first for his watch and then for the clothes which he had left carefully folded on the chair at the side of the bed to put on in the morning. He pulled on pants and trousers and felt the time on his watch, then got up, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.

'Y'okay? Need help?' Napoleon asked sleepily.

'I'm okay,' Illya said. 'I know things might have moved around but the doors and the walls are in the same place. I just need the toilet. You stay there.'

It was chilly in the apartment at this time of the morning, but it didn't matter. It was still home. He moved cautiously over to the bedroom door with one hand held out before him and crept into the living room. He wasn't sure exactly how far the sofa bed extended, so he walked very carefully, pushing his bare feet over the floor and holding his hands out at waist height to feel for obstructions. He felt the smooth wood of the parquet flooring under the soles of his feet, and then the rug. There were obstructions as he moved across the room but none of them were his sleeping parents. He made it to the toilet and used it, then slipped into the separate bathroom to wash his hands. He splashed a rousing handful of water over his face, and then turned back into the living room.

'Illyusha?'

He turned his head towards the voice on the other side of the room.

'Good morning, mama,' he said quietly. 'Is tato still asleep?'

And his father grunted something, by which he took it that he wasn't as asleep as he would like to be.

There was a fumble of noise and the room lightened as his mother turned on a lamp and got up.

'Be careful,' she told him, coming over to him and putting a hand on his arm. 'The room is so cluttered now.'

'I'm all right,' he promised. 'Mama, I have been blind for a long time; what feels like a long time. I know this is the first time you have seen me like this, but I promise you, I am much more capable than you think I am.'

She kissed his cheek and stroked his arm, then touched his forehead with the back of her hand.

'Do you still feel ill this morning? You look better.'

'I feel better,' he assured her.

'Well, then, do you want tea?' she asked.

'Let me help,' Illya asked her, feeling for her. He could feel her slight plumpness in the flesh of her upper arm. 'Look, mama. See, I hold your arm like this, just above the elbow, and that's how you guide me. Take me to the kitchen.'

He wondered if he could convince his mother that he could use the gas ring and that he was quite capable of using the samovar. He had told her on the telephone about how he had learnt to cook without sight but he had never been quite sure that she believed him. His mother was a scientist, a rational woman, but she seemed to have no rationality at all in her anxiety over her son.

He crowded next to her in the little kitchen and listened to the striking of a match. The smell of phosphorus blazed into the air and mixed with the scent of gas. She was making tea on the stove instead of with the samovar. Illya reached out to where the kettle had always been kept, but it wasn't there.

'What are you looking for?' his mother asked him, and he said, 'The kettle.' At her hesitation he said, 'Mama, I look after myself very well in New York. I go to work every day. I get around without a guide in familiar places. I cook for myself and for Napoleon. I can certainly fill a kettle.'

'Oh,' she exclaimed suddenly. She had been looking in the food larder, Illya thought, judging by the blast of cold air that had suddenly come in from outside. 'Illyusha, we used all the milk last night. I'll pop out and get some.'

'I'll come,' Illya said instantly. 'I'll go and find some more clothes.'

And before she could argue he left her in the kitchen and found his way back to the bedroom.

'Napoleon, where's my coat?' he asked as he hurriedly got on a shirt and jumper. Napoleon had brought his coat into the bedroom so he could identify it easily, instead of having to feel through all the others on the rack in the hall.

'Huh?' Napoleon sounded as if he had been falling back to sleep.

'We're out of milk. I want to be dressed before my mother decides to go without me.'

'Oh. Oh.' Napoleon sounded a little more awake then. 'Uh, your coat's right here. Got your shoes?'

Illya was already slipping his socked feet into his shoes and feeling for his cane where he had left it leaning by the bed.

'Yeah, just need my coat and gloves. Thank you, Napoleon.'

He shrugged into the coat as Napoleon handed it to him and pushed his gloves into his pocket.

'I expect you to be up and dressed by the time I get back,' he tossed over his shoulder to Napoleon as he left the room, then called, 'Mama, are you there?'

He could hear her moving in the hall. He willed her not to argue, and she didn't. She just came to him with a sound of keys dropping into her pocket and said, 'What must I do? How do I help you?'

Illya patted her arm with a grin.

'It will be fine,' he assured her. 'Here, let me hold your arm just above the elbow as I showed you. I'll use the cane too. Just try to warn me of doors and kerbs and other changes in ground level.'

'Oh, Illyushenka,' she said rather sadly, patting her gloved hand over his. Then she sighed and said, 'I'm sorry. I'm an old fool, Illya. I know you are a grown man. I know you're not helpless. But I love you. You know that I love you.'

'Of course I do, mama,' Illya assured her. 'I know this is hard for you. It was hard for me at first, and it still is sometimes. But let's get some milk. I need my tea. And – oh, do you have coffee in the house? Napoleon will want coffee.'

'Coffee,' she murmured as if Illya had asked for gold, frankincense, and myrrh. He knew she and his father had never been fond of coffee. 'I'm sure there will be coffee at the gastronom. Come on.'

((O))

The early morning air was bitter and crisp and wonderful. It pressed against his nose and cheeks and filled his lungs. Illya could feel the space of the park as they crossed the road and walked along near the railings. The scent of snow filled the air and a slight rustle of wind moved bare branches. He could hear a few voices from somewhere in the park, children shouting in joy in the language of his youth, probably playing in the snow before school. It all felt wonderful. It was bittersweet because he could see none of it, but there was joy.

'Do you remember the children's railway in Sirez Park, Illya?' his mother asked him as he moved his cane across the hard pavement, feeling for ice and snow. 'I wish they had built it ten years earlier. You would have loved it.'

Illya smiled. He would have loved it. He remembered hearing of it with some jealousy when he was twenty and just too old to be involved. He would have so enjoyed getting his hands into the engineering of the locomotives and running the things along the rails.

'Yes, I remember it,' he said, thinking of the sulphur scent of the burning coal and the clanks and squeals of engines in motion. 'Yes, you should be glad they didn't build it ten years earlier, because I never would have been at home. I might have become an engine driver instead of a scientist.'

His mother laughed, and then quietened, and he knew what she was thinking. If he had become an engine driver he would not be blind. But what a limited life that would be compared to what he had experienced.

'It's all right, mama,' he said softly, squeezing his hand a little on her arm. 'I wouldn't rewrite it. I wouldn't miss out on what I have had, and what I still have.'

She let out a sigh, and he could hear her sadness.

'Has the park changed, mama?' he asked, changing the subject, turning his face towards the open space through the railings that he couldn't see but could sense in the sounds and echoes.

'The park? No, the park is just the same. I still walk across every day to go to work. It doesn't change.'

Napoleon would have told him that the trees were bare because it was winter, and he would have said how much snow was on the ground or told him the colour of the grass, or picked out the colour of an unseasonal blossom on a shrub. But he accepted what his mother said. The park hadn't changed. He tapped his cane over the pavement and followed his mother's arm, and listened to the sounds of traffic stirring and the trolley buses rumbling over the hard streets. He closed his eyes and felt how unchanged it all was.

'Does Aneta Shevtsova still work in the gastronom?' he asked.

'Oh, yes, still. She's still just as pretty, too,' his mother added, and Illya felt a longing to see the twinkle he knew would be in his mother's eyes, little as he cared about how pretty Aneta Shevtsova was. He remembered her well. She was a little older than he and he had gazed on her sometimes at school, but he had no interest now. He made a non-committal grunt and his mother hesitated just enough in her step that he stumbled.

'Illyusha,' she said in a low, serious voice. 'You do know that your father and I love you no matter what?'

'Yes, of course I do,' he said quickly, but he had an ominous feeling about where this conversation was going.

'Good,' she said. 'That's good.' Then she said in a rush, 'And your Napoleon. You love him.'

'Napoleon is a very good friend,' Illya said cautiously.

'Of course he's a very good friend. Any fool can see that,' his mother said impatiently. 'But you know I'm talking of something else. Illyushenka, you are my only boy, and I love you. My only concern is your happiness. You are happy with Napoleon, aren't you?'

Suddenly Illya felt relief like a sunrise in his soul. 'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, I am very happy with Napoleon. We complete each other. I love him.'

'Good,' she said. 'I'm glad. Your father and I are both glad. Both of us, Illyusha. Your father – well, we have suspected this for some time and we've talked about it a lot, and he has a harder time with it, but he has told me, he has assured me, that he is happy that you are happy.'

Illya wasn't sure what to say, but he pressed his hand firmly on his mother's arm and smiled.

'We'll be considerate around tato,' he assured her.

'Of course you will. Of course. And you will be careful, won't you? Be very careful while you are here. I don't think they'd send you to a camp because you are blind, but the thought of those hospitals sends ice through my soul.'

Illya shuddered. The very idea of being dragged off to a mental institution and forcibly treated to 'cure' him of his love for Napoleon was horrifying.

'I know,' he said. 'We're careful in New York too, even if the penalties aren't quite as drastic. We're always careful.'

'Good, Illyusha,' she said. 'Good. I only want your happiness. You must take happiness wherever you find it.'

Then she turned and stopped walking and said, 'We cross the street here. You remember?'

She seemed relieved to be able to change the subject, and Illya felt relieved too.

'I remember,' he nodded.

He hadn't known exactly where they were but now he did. He remembered the street and the trees and the long low modern block that contained the shop amongst other amenities. He found the drop of the kerb with his cane and followed his mother's anxious guidance across the road, and was glad of the cane because she completely forgot to warn him of the kerb on the other side and apologised profusely when she remembered, after he had managed it safely.

'There now, the shop,' she said as the echoes of a high, hard surface rose in front of him.

Illya said, 'Now, I know this door is hinged on the left and opens inward, but it is useful for you to tell me which side they are hinged and which way they open when we come to doors.'

'Of course. I'll try to remember,' she promised, and Illya followed her into the shop which he remembered vaguely but had probably changed. The scents were the same, though; the impersonal scent of dust and hard floors and little moments of food scents in the cold air. He followed his mother's arm around and heard the clink of the milk bottles when she picked them up, and then there was the scent of coffee with the rustle of a paper packet.

'There. That's all. I thought we could eat at a restaurant tonight, Illyusha. We could celebrate having you here.'

'That will be perfect,' he assured his mother.

And then a voice rose as they approached the counter, feminine but high with surprise.

'Illya Nikolayevich! Is that – ? What's happened? I thought you lived abroad. Illya Nikolayevich, are you blind?'

Illya grimaced a little, but he slipped his wrist through the loop on his cane and stepped closer to the counter. He ran his hand over the hard edge and then slipped off his glove and held his hand out to the sound of the woman.

'Do you remember me?' she asked. 'Do you know who I – '

'Of course, Aneta Matveyevna,' he said with a polite smile, trying to sort her fluster of questions in his mind as she gripped his hand. 'Yes, I live abroad, in the United States. I'm just back for a short visit. And yes, I am blind. Was there another question you asked? Sorry, I – '

'What happened?' she said, squeezing his hand still. 'Yes, I asked what happened?'

Illya tipped his head down a little, rubbing his other hand over the hard edge of the counter again, feeling it mutedly through the leather of his glove. 'An accident in a lab,' he said with reasonable truthfulness. He gestured at his eyes with a shrug. 'Acid.'

'Oh, Illya Nikolayevich!' She sounded genuinely upset. 'Oh my god, Illya – I can't believe it. You were the cleverest in the whole school. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry.'

He smiled rather self consciously, but he resisted the impulse to assure her that his intelligence was quite intact.

'It's all right,' he told her. 'It's all right. It's been two years. There's no need – '

'But, Illya, how do you manage? Where do you live?'

'I do all right,' he mumbled with an awkward smile, trying to retrieve his hand, which she was squeezing so hard. He never knew what to do with conversations like this. He far preferred it when people acknowledged his disability but then moved on. Aneta seemed overcome with shock.

'We should get back with the milk,' he murmured to his mother. 'Make that tea. Aneta, it has been good to see you. No doubt I'll be in again while we're here.'

'Oh, oh, yes,' Aneta replied, finally letting go of his hand. 'Yes, Illya, it's good to see – I mean – Oh – '

Illya smiled and pushed his hand back into his glove, and said to his mother again, 'We must be getting back.'

And she seemed to understand his discomfort, because she patted his hand and put her groceries in her bag and led him out of the shop. It was such a relief to be in the open air, and Illya took a very deep breath and almost laughed.

'Oh, Illya, is that how I behave towards you?' his mother asked ruefully, pressing her hand over his where he held her arm. 'Am I so terrible?'

'Oh, no, of course not, mama,' he said quickly, then added with a little smile, 'besides, that is your privilege as my mother.'

'It's very hard to get used to, you know,' she said. 'I know it has been two years but I haven't seen you in all that time. I haven't seen how you have changed.'

'Am I really so different?' Illya asked.

'Not you, Illya. Not you. But – well, the shell of you. Something of you is different, of course. It must be.'

He sighed. 'Well, I suppose it is,' he said.

'Listen, Illyusha, let's walk back through the park,' his mother said suddenly. 'And I'll tell you everything that is there. The little birds looking for food in the snow and the people walking and the trees and the little lake which of course is all frozen right now. I'll tell you all that's changed and all that's stayed the same. I'll make you see it. You'd like that, yes?'

And Illya smiled. 'I would like that very much.'

((O))

Napoleon was just finishing getting dressed when he realised he could hear Illya's voice in the apartment again. He put his head rather cautiously around the door into the living room to see that Illya's father was dressed and was folding the thin mattress that he and his wife had slept on back into the sofa. The door to the kitchen was open and steam was wafting through the cold air. It felt amazing to be here. He had spent very little time in the Soviet Union before this, and never so intimately, right in someone's home. And Illya seemed more Russian here than he ever had. He was exotic and beautiful in his home territory. Even his accent was stronger.

Napoleon rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin, wondering when he would get the chance to shave, supposing he would have to take turns with Illya in the tiny bathroom rather than shaving beside him at the basin as he liked to at home. It was always a pleasure to loll around in the bathroom watching Illya shave, watching him touching his face with his fingertips and then following them with the razor to remove the white foam from his skin.

The smell of coffee began to creep from the kitchen, and Napoleon grinned. He had resigned himself to drinking nothing but tea while they were here. And then Illya emerged from the tiny room where he must have been cramped in with his mother, using his cane to navigate the cluttered living room and making towards the door.

'Hi,' Napoleon said, still smiling broadly and reaching out to touch Illya's arm when he was close enough.

'We got you coffee,' Illya said, 'but it's brewing, as is the tea. There's time to wash and shave first. Can you help me?'

'Will we fit?' Napoleon asked half-seriously.

'Well enough,' Illya shrugged. 'I'm just not sure where my shaving kit is in the luggage. Can you find it for me?'

'With pleasure,' Napoleon told him.

'When we've had some breakfast I want to take you out to see the park and some of the city,' Illya said. 'Or must we be at the office today?'

'No, just any time within the next few days,' Napoleon said easily. 'I want to see your park, and your city, and all your Ukrainian delights.'

Illya smiled subtly at Napoleon's intonation and said, 'Well, I'm sure we can have a spare key and we'll let my parents get to work before we go out, and I'll show you as many Ukrainian delights as I can. Now, the shaving kit. Will you find it for me? Or your coffee will be cold by the time we're done.'

So Napoleon went to find the shaving kit and crowded into the small bathroom with Illya, and they fit, just. The coffee afterwards wasn't the best but the blinis that Illya's mother cooked were delicious, and then finally they were left alone in the small apartment, and Napoleon sighed with relief, slumping down onto the sofa and pulling Illya down beside him.

'Alone,' he said, leaning in towards his partner to kiss him lightly on the cheek. 'At last.'

'Yes, it's good, isn't it?' Illya asked with a wry smile. 'I thought I remembered everything about this place so well, but it seems smaller than it ever did.'

'Well, now we're alone...' Napoleon began suggestively.

'Patience,' Illya admonished. 'First, Napoleon, my mother spoke very seriously to me on the way to the shop.'

'Uhuh?' Napoleon prompted him, feeling apprehensive.

'No, it's all right,' Illya assured him, feeling for his hand and stroking his fingers lightly. 'But she and my father have guessed the depth of our relationship. They know, Napoleon. I think they knew even before we came.'

'And?'

Illya shrugged. 'Mama is anxious only that we're happy. Tato is apparently a bit more reluctant to accept it, but he does accept it. We only need to be tactful in front of him – in front of both of them, of course.'

'My love, I am always tactful,' Napoleon reminded him as he stroked Illya's golden hair back from his temple and kissed him. 'I'm glad they know, Illya. I know it might feel awkward at first but I don't like deceiving your parents.'

'I wonder what your parents would say,' Illya mused, and Napoleon chuckled.

'Did I tell you Antonia knows?'

'No?'

'She said it was blatantly obvious, to her at least. She told me at Christmas, gave us her blessing. She thinks we make a lovely couple.'

Illya laughed. 'That's very kind of her. And we do make a lovely couple. But is it really so obvious?'

'To Antonia. Thank the lord, only to Antonia. Not to mom and dad. I think mom would be on board but I don't know about dad. I look forward to them never finding out.'

'Hmm, double standards,' Illya murmured, but he seemed to have far more interest in tracing his fingertips over Napoleon's face and neck than talking about their respective parents. Napoleon tilted his head back and shivered under the delicate touch. Illya leant closer to Napoleon so that he could leave kisses along his jaw and then catch his lips with his own, then he said huskily, 'Let's take this to the bedroom, lyubimy.'

'Oh, no objections to doing it in your parents' bed now?' Napoleon asked archly.

'I have more objections to my parents walking in on us in their living room. As for doing it in their bed, I will just have to close my eyes and think of Mother Russia,' Illya said with a wonderful grimness.

'You do that,' Napoleon said, returning a few of the kisses, 'and I will be sure to very effectively help you forget where you are.'

((O))

It was easy to forget just where they were with Napoleon seducing him like this. The scents and sensations of the apartment were fading quickly into the background. As horrified as Illya's parents would be to walk in on this scene, the thought of them was drifting further and further away as more basic needs rose.

'We could just do it here...' Illya murmured, beginning to weaken as Napoleon sucked one of his fingers into his mouth. 'Oh, god...' he jerked out.

'Not here,' Napoleon said, nuzzling his neck again, and his breath billowed warmly over Illya's skin. 'I think I know just how to preserve the sanctity of your parents' bed.'

'Tell me,' Illya begged, but Napoleon took him by the hand and stood him up and led him into the small bathroom and locked the door.

'Here,' Napoleon said, starting to strip Illya of his clothes. He kissed his bare collarbone and said, 'You carry on. I'll get the oil.'

And when he came back Illya was naked and as Napoleon leant past him to turn the tap on the bath Illya felt that he was naked too.

'We'll never both fit in here,' he objected, catching Napoleon's flank with his fingertips, feeling his sleek musculature.

'Not lying down,' Napoleon said smoothly. He put his arms around Illya and kissed him long and slow, dipping his tongue deep into Illya's mouth with the length of his body pressed against Illya's, his broad hands roaming over his back and buttocks. Then he let go, put a hand on Illya's naked hip, and said, 'Get in, lover.'

So Illya carefully stepped into the slick, curved base of the bath, reaching out a hand blindly to feel the tiles on the wall and the slightly rough grout between them, remembering the beige gold colour of those tiles. Then Napoleon got in behind him and said in a less seductive voice, 'Illya, why does your bath have no bath plug?'

Illya found it hard to care because as he spoke Napoleon's fingers were drifting softly around the contours of his buttocks and teasing at the cleft between.

'Oh, we don't – ' Illya began, but Napoleon's fingers were so distracting.

'We don't – ?'

Illya tried to focus. 'Standing water is dirty. We don't use – Oh, Napoleon. Yes, there. Again... Oh god...'

'But I've seen you up to your neck in standing water at home?' Napoleon objected, pausing in his attentions.

'God, Napoleon, just touch – oh, there,' he sighed as his partner's hand insinuated itself between his legs to touch his balls. 'Does it matter if I've learnt to bathe like a filthy westerner? This isn't exactly approved of in my country either. If I'd known we were coming I'd have brought a plug. Just fuck me, Napoleon, please...'

So Napoleon stood behind Illya while Illya rested his arms against the wall and warm water swirled around his feet. Napoleon left kisses on the back of his neck and along his shoulder blades and down his spine. Then Illya bent a little more forward and Napoleon slipped oiled fingers between his cheeks and then into the sensitive hole there. Illya moaned, resting his forehead on the cool tiles. His cock was so hard he almost couldn't bear it, and when Napoleon slipped his own stiff cock slowly into Illya's body and took hold of Illya's aching hardness with strong fingers he cried out aloud.

Napoleon kissed the back of his neck again, his belly firm against Illya's lower back, and whispered, 'Shush, honey. It's coming. It's coming.'

So Illya stood in the warm running water in this bath he knew so well and opened himself wide for Napoleon, pushing himself back onto him, his hands braced firmly on the tiles he couldn't see, his forehead pressed against the tiles, and Napoleon began to rock into him, sending slick, firm glides of delight rippling through him. His arms were around Illya's body, his hands hard and slipping up and down his cock, brushing the sensitive head until Illya sobbed because the sensation was too intense and beautiful to bear.

And Napoleon moved harder, faster, losing himself in his own need, until they were coming together, crying out, panting. Illya slipped to his knees blindly in the bath tub and just crouched there, nerveless and weak and so in love with Napoleon that he had no words.