They always end up in Italy. Perhaps mediterranean waves crashing into rocky shore beckon men to do the same, fists crashing into bone. Perhaps the air, heavy with salt, chiseled out a breeding ground for men like them. Napoleon does not believe in fate, but he's confident in inevitability. He's been alive long enough to know people are nothing but predictable, a live series of buttons and should you possess the proper code, create the right conditions, you can make a person do just about anything. Italy is a fixed point for him, for Gaby and for Illya.
There are worse places to end up in than expensive twenty-four hour cafes that serve excellent espresso. Illya could berate the capitalist exploitation of labor until he's blue in the face, but in the moment his expression sits loose, lit orange by the setting sun and staring out onto the ocean. It's a rare moment of peace, a lull between assignments. Napoleon shuts his eyes and waves fill the silence, conversational in their constant rhythm, white noise like the rush of blood. A familiar rhythm. Napoleon sips his coffee and thinks of other things.
"Illya." A half-familiar voice. Napoleon startles, opens his eyes just in time to see Illya do the same.
Illya walks whisper-quiet, his breath so even-tempoed that it blends into the crowd. Napoleon knows no one else capable of sneaking up on him. Except, apparently, "Oleg," Napoleon greets, schools the raise of his eyebrows into a charmed smile, "A pleasant surprise. Illya didn't tell me you were in the area."
"Because this does not involve you, vampire."
So it was that sort of conversation.
"Right," his smile goes thin, "This isn't exactly a private venue though. I thought you had better sense than that."
"Convenient, then, that I do not answer to your kind," Oleg presents a folder to Illya, an exchange so blatantly obvious it hurt. Napoleon forces his expression to remain neutral. From the ram-rod angle of Illya's back, Napoleon gathers Oleg isn't worth his time.
"Of course. Lovely seeing you again."
Oleg lays a parting hand on Illya's shoulder, dips his head and speaks in the kind of whisper that is intended to be heard, "Keep that thing on its leash, da?"
Illya says nothing and does not watch as Oleg's back disappears into the crowd.
Napoleon sighs and opens his mouth to comment, something sarcastic to make that unpleasantness less biting, but rattling silverware interrupts. Their table shakes, and only now does Napoleon notice the squeaking aluminum of their table. A glance reveals four new indents in its surface, fingers'-splay apart. "Easy, Peril."
"It does not anger you?" He asks, voice quiet and cold, "How he speaks of you. To your face ."
Over the years, Napoleon's grown to understand the rhythm of Illya's brimstone temper. He predicts by necessity, accurate as the seismograph on a volcano's peak. This is to say: Napoleon is more accurate than most. But on occasion, Illya can still surprise him. He surprises him now, angry on his behalf.
"Let's go back to our room." Wandering eyes pretend like they don't belong to straining ears, mouths hungry for gossip. He could do without the audience.
The table grates across concrete and clatters to the ground, leaving Napoleon and the crashing ocean waves, alone.
Illya paces their room. Left, five steps. Right, five steps. Each one the same distance apart. The damn ten count grates on Napoleon's ears, a half-whisper like he can't hear it plain as day. "You're making me sick watching you pace like that." Stop it. Stop being angry on my behalf.
No one's ever been angry on his behalf.
Illya growls, animal, like he's the vampire between the two of them. "You make me sick, how you take what Oleg calls you like a spineless- " he spits on the word, tries to compose himself, fails, "I know you have spine , but where is your honor ," Illya shoves him into the wall, open-palmed like a goddamn invitation.
"See there, that's where you're mistaken, Peril. I don't have any honor." Spies have no use for honor, cons even less so, and vampires none at all. Napoleon possesses pride, but that is not the same thing. He holds up his hands in apology, unsure exactly what for. He knows only that he does not want to feel Illya's hands shaking in barely contained rage, not at his expense. He's done nothing in his life deserving of it.
Again Illya growls and Napoleon shuts his eyes, bracing for impact.
Illya kisses him.
Emotion rushes past his lips, so hot Napoleon forgets how to breathe, forgets that he does not need to breathe. It is the kind of kiss Napoleon is afraid to give, all teeth, wet against his animal mouth. It is hot, and ragged, a snarling dog, and Napoleon is unsure whose air they're breathing, where his gasps end and Illya's begin. The ocean crashes outside their window, in his ears; rushing, deafening, he shoves forward. Illya fists the front of his lapel, yanks back cloth and pulls apart buttons. Lips find him in the dark, firm on his neck. He bites century-old bruises with predetermined precision.
" Fuck ," Napoleon propels them forward towards the bed, legs moving before mind. Illya stays fastened to his neck, takes control of their momentum and flips them, so that when they land it is he who remains in control, heavy on top of him. "Illya," and then again, more gasp than word, " Illya ." The pressure of his teeth eases but the hurt stays, a white throb glowing in the crook of his neck. He's hazy with it, let's the haze blanket his thoughts. The alternative is reflection, but this is not something he wants to pick apart or understand.
"Shut up," Illya hisses, hands on either side of his shoulders, pinning him as if to prevent his escape. As if there is some place Napoleon would rather be. His hips almost twitch, almost throws Illya's balance. But Napoleon does not move. Does not want to.
"Are you sure-"
"Told you to shut up." He looks down at him, his eyes the brightest point of light in their room, last vestige of twilight condensed into a man. He hurts to look at. Napoleon shuts his mouth and stares.
Illya kisses him again. They both stop talking.