Looking for Something (a post Foxes & Hounds Affair story)

by ChannelD

"Napoleon." Illya was standing in the doorway of Napoleon's apartment, and Napoleon smiled and let him in. They had only parted an hour ago, going in different directions from Mimi Doolittle's house where, on the front porch, she had claimed goodnight kisses from each of them in turn. Illya had gone first, and Napoleon had tasted him on her mouth; tasted him and wanted him. But the charade had had to be played out - the Innocent should always be given what she wanted from the adventure, and what Mimi had wanted was to be dated and wined and dined by two good looking men. She had initially wanted the dates sequentially, but had changed her mind, calling Napoleon to tell him to bring Illya along.

Napoleon had seen the curtains twitch as Illya and Mimi kissed and knew that her mother was indeed `getting a load of this'. He wondered if that - the added little shock value of two men, two goodnight kisses - wasn't the reason for the change in plans. Either way, he hoped Mimi was satisfied. She had seemed to be, waving to them from her door before closing it and going inside, no doubt to fill her mother in on the expensive restaurant, the fine cuisine, the champagne and flowers and orchestra.

Illya had walked away, and Napoleon had taken a taxi. They had made no plans, and Napoleon had hoped that Illya would show up. He had been a little worried that Illya might be holding a grudge about his rather high handed appropriation of Mimi's lips in the prison cell, but he didn't share Illya when he didn't have to, and at that moment he didn't have to. It was bad enough watching Illya dance with her and kiss her tonight. Bad enough. And of course Illya hadn't acted as if he minded. But that meant nothing, as Napoleon knew perfectly well. Illya could carry a grudge, could hold it deep and smoldering in his mind and heart while making pleasant conversation, looking at you with that cool blue stare and all the while plotting your death.

Well, not his death surely. But a prolonged bout of abstinence? Maybe. Napoleon had worried, and looked at his watch, and had just about decided that he would go to Illya's and brave his dubious welcome when his intercom came to life. He had buzzed Illya up and waited for him at the door, still uneasy because maybe Illya was planning to rip him a new one, maybe Illya was going to tell him ... tell him ... but Illya didn't. He came in, closed and locked the door behind him, set the security alarm and then leaned against the wall, looking at Napoleon from under his eyelashes in a decidedly provocative manner. Napoleon swallowed.


"Kiss me."

"Kiss you? Now? Here?"

"Yes. Here and right now." Illya tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Well, all right. Hell yeah. Napoleon leaned in and kissed him; lightly, because he wasn't sure where Illya was going with this. So he kept it light, and sweet, and brief. When he drew back, Illya shook his head. His lips were twitching in ill concealed amusement and Napoleon kissed them again, not so briefly.

"Mmm," Illya said when he was finished. "That's a little more like it."

"Only a little?"

"Only a little. I want a real kiss. The kind of kiss you gave Mimi. The one that turned her into a femme fatale right before my eyes. I want to know how you did that, exactly what you did, and how it felt. Do it." Again he closed his eyes, and this time Napoleon laughed out loud.

"You are a nut."

"I'm waiting."

"I'm not a performing bear, you know. A boy likes to be wooed a little first. At least come all the way in."

Illya sighed noisily and moved into the apartment. "Not a performing bear? You could have fooled me. You pulled her away from me - because God forbid I get to do it, oh no, not with the great Napoleon Solo right there -"

"So you are pissed. I thought as much."

"Pissed?" Illya wrinkled his nose and now Napoleon felt as if his maiden aunt had swatted his knuckles with her handkerchief.

"Don't give me that. I've heard much worse from you."

"Not in English."

"What difference does that make? And stop trying to change the subject. You didn't like me doing that. What you fail to understand is that it wasn't you kissing her that I minded. It was her kissing you."

"A subtle difference I don't quite see. Blaydischa."

"See? What does that mean? Something unpleasant, I'm sure."

"Look it up."

"I don't like you kissing other people. It makes me jealous. There. Satisfied?"

"No. Because you still haven't kissed me the way you kissed her. I want that kiss. The kiss that had her going from "My name is Mimi. What's your name?" to "Hey handsome! If I could reach your dick with my mouth I'd suck the come right out of it."

He had to laugh, and once he started laughing he couldn't stop. After a moment Illya laughed too. "She never said that."

"He heard it, though."

"Maybe so. Maybe so. Illya - I don't want to kiss you like that."

"What?" Illya looked affronted. "Why not? Aren't I worth your best effort?"

"That's not my best effort. That's ... that's my fake effort. It's phony. It's insincere. It's manipulative. It's learned. With you - I don't think about any of that. I just think about you, and me, and us together. Cut that out!" Illya was playing an invisible violin. "So I'm romantic. So sue me." Embarrassed and chagrined, he looked away. He would have preferred Illya angry. He would have preferred a sock in the jaw. But Illya was unrelenting.

"That's so sweet, Napoleon. Really. But I still want to know what the other feels like. Turn it on. Pretend only I have the key to your prison cell. Pretend you're teaching me how to seduce some Thrush guard. Pretend anything you like. But do it."


"Or I'm leaving."

"Because I won't be Napoleon Solo, UNCLE gigolo for you? That's harsh."

"Because it's always your game, always your rules, always your way," Illya snapped back. "And if I want to play a different game that's just too damned bad, isn't it. Goodnight, Napoleon. You had it right the first time. I'm pissed off because you took her like you take everything else. The only thing you don't take is the fucking paperwork and scut details. There. Plain old English. Happy now - mmph!"

Napoleon had taken him by both shoulders and kissed him. He kissed Illya the way he had kissed Mimi, with all the practiced art of which he was a master. He began it slowly, softly, deepening it gradually, feeling Illya melt against him, feeling Illya's arms go up to twine around his neck. He nuzzled, licked Illya's lips until they parted and he was drowning in Illya's mouth, drowning in Illya's sweetness; so sweet, even when he was throwing hurtful, barbed words. Well, he wasn't throwing any words now. He was moaning deep in his throat, he was arching up against Napoleon, his hardness rubbing against Napoleon's hardness.

Whose knees buckled first Napoleon couldn't have said. He thought it was Illya, but he wasn't sure. All he did know for sure was that they ended up on the floor, still rubbing up against one another, arms wrapped all the way around one another, tongues meeting in a dance of their own. He came, just like that, in his elegantly tailored trousers, in his pristine white shorts, on the floor of his vestibule and Illya came too, with a great groan that Napoleon sucked into himself as he sucked Illya's tongue into his mouth, he groaning too, and then it was over. He lay on top of Illya and panted.

"I can't do it," he finally managed to gasp out. "I can't be insincere with you, I can't play the phony Casanova with you - I can't. And if you expect some sort of apology, well ..."

"Apology?" Illya laughed a little, and kissed his chin. "For that? For ... for loving me? No. It was wonderful. It's always wonderful. I'm such ... such putty in your hands, Napoleon. It worries me sometimes, that you'll get tired of me, because any challenge I once represented is surely long gone."

"Never," Napoleon whispered. "You ... you're everything in the world to me, Illya. You challenge me every minute of every day to be the best I can be, to be whatever it is you see when you look at me. Whatever it is I see in your eyes right now. And I'm putty in your hands too. I was waiting here tonight in an agony of apprehension that you might be angry with me, that you weren't coming, that I had blown it with my stupid jealousy that I knew didn't look like jealousy at all, but like my overweening ego and maybe it was, in part. I was getting ready to come to you even though you're just as likely to throw me out as open the door to me. I love you. That's why I couldn't do what you wanted, even though you're entitled."

"You did more than I wanted. I don't even know what it was I wanted, but you gave it to me. I love you too, Napoleon. And I'd love to stay right here in your arms all night long, but ..."

"But?" His arms tightened. "But what?"

"The floor is hard and my pants are ... unpleasant."

"Oh. Well, mine too. How about a long hot bath? I'll wash you all over, and you can wash me, and we can do this again in the tub." He liked making love to Illya in the bath; had discovered that in Amsterdam in that impersonal hotel bathtub. He'd been wanting to get Illya into his own tub, his enormous luxurious tub with the padded headrests and whirlpool jets but the occasion hadn't arisen, and now it had. They were sticky and sweaty and needed a bath, so he made his offer and Illya smiled and said yes.

So they did do it all over again. Napoleon's bathtub was the perfect setting, and he did indeed wash Illya all over - his back and his hair, his legs and his feet, his balls and his cock, feeling it rise in his hands, sliding them back, stroking Illya's entrance with one soap slick finger. Illya jumped and stared at him, eyes wide and startled and Napoleon almost withdrew the finger, then didn't. He pressed instead, making little circles there and there was one more long moment when Illya looked into his face, searching for something. Napoleon couldn't tell what it was, but surely all the love he felt was there, in his eyes, on his lips as he breathed "Illya. Illya. It's just me, Illya. Just me ..." and he squeezed Illya's cock in his other hand, pumping it and making those teasing little circles. Illya gasped, a long shuddering sound. He reached up, put his hand behind Napoleon's neck and pulled him down into another kiss.

No, he could never kiss Illya the way he kissed those girls - the innocents and the agents, the Mimi Doolittles and the Angeliques. He could only kiss Illya with his whole heart because Illya had his heart, he had his soul, he had ... and then Illya's hand closed around Napoleon's organ and it was all a blur of steam and the fragrance of soap and shampoo, of fingers and lips and hands and cocks and coming, coming, in the hot water.

They ate dessert in bed. Napoleon had put cookies and jam on a tray, and Illya dipped his chocolate cookies in raspberry jam and ate them with a greed that made Napoleon laugh, and tease him, and Illya laughed back at him and stole the last cookie right out of his hands. Then Napoleon cleared the tray away, brought a warm wet washcloth for their sticky hands and lips. But he kissed Illya first, savoring the sweetness of raspberry jam before they cleaned one another's faces and settled down for the night. Napoleon sighed with pleasure, and heard Illya's answering sigh before he fell asleep, and his dreams were sweet - as sweet as chocolate coated with raspberry jam. As sweet as Illya's mouth.

The End

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