Distant Voices 2/6
Title: Distant Voices 2/6
Author: Shelly - cosmosmariner
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: mostly R, some NC-17 in places.
Summary: Living is easy - it’s the memories that are hard.
Distribution: Please ask me first, otherwise go for it!
Disclaimer: I totally do not own The Man From U.N.C.L.E. - if I did, I wouldn't leave my house.
Special Thanks to svetlanacat4 for creating this beautiful image a long time ago. Thanks for believing in me and in this story, my dear friend. I'm honored to receive such a gift!
Act II
Don‘t Look Back
April 1971
One year had passed since Professor Alexander Kulik joined the faculty of Midwestern State University. He quickly adapted to the campus life. The other professors respected him, and the students liked him. His discipline was Slavic studies, and in his spare time, he gave private guitar lessons to local high school and university students.
He enjoyed his work. It was fulfilling and intellectually stimulating. His guitar students were bright and fun.
And he was still lonely and sad.
The daffodils were blooming on Leary Hill, the main campus area where the Regents’ House and Administration offices were located. Kulik walked up Leary Hill every day, past the Old Red Barn where the athletic departments were located, past the main cafeteria building and provisions hall, to Greek Street, then to the tiny block of row houses where his small apartment was located.
Kulik made a light snack of leftover fried fish and dark bread, and a bottle of beer. He had forty-five minutes until his favorite student came to the door, ready for their guitar lessons.
Jacob Liebhaber was 15 years old, and his mother Pauline worked as a secretary in the Slavic studies department. Mr. Liebhaber died in a boating accident in Lake Superior the year before and the young boy was rootless without a father. He had begun to act out in unhealthy ways, and his mother was concerned that he would go down a dark road. She had asked Professor Kulik if he would be willing to teach him guitar.
“Professor, I cannot pay you your usual rate,” she began.
“Nonsense, Mrs. Liebhaber. If you make a little extra food and bring it to me each week, we’ll call it even. You know how much I like your stuffed peppers.”
Jacob started not long after that. He reminded Kulik of a colt; nervous energy, skittish and thin. The young man had dark brown hair and dark eyes, but he was almost translucently pale. He had large hands and long, graceful fingers - a perfect shape for jazz guitar.
Jacob was a natural. Kulik barely had to show him anything - Jacob just absorbed it like a sponge. In the meantime, they would talk. The young man was fascinated by music, and shared many favorite artists with the professor. They both liked Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. He also liked rock and roll, much to Kulik’s dismay. He trusted Jacob so much that he gave him a key to his apartment, knowing that sometimes the boy would stop by with a plate of pork chops and apples, or a fresh loaf of bread that Pauline made the night before.
One evening, Kulik was not feeling well. He had given his class to a graduate student and took his leave, coughing and sneezing all the way up Leary Hill and down Greek Street. When he got to his apartment, he collapsed in his favorite overstuffed chair in the living room, falling asleep almost instantly.
Normally, the dreams were kept at bay, but he was too exhausted from illness and too melancholy to think of anything else. Images floated there, just beyond his grasp; the things he wanted so tantalizingly close. He reached out, wanted so badly to feel.
A slender, broad shouldered man with dark hair would stand before him, his hands reaching toward the professor. He would walk toward him, his hand almost there to touch, to hold. He would smile.
“Illya. Will you follow?”
“My Pasha. You know I will.”
“Why didn’t you follow me?”
The professor would reach out to him, but his hand was just only inches away. “I cannot reach you, Napoleon. I cannot reach!”
He was awoken by the still, gentle touch on his shoulder. “Hey, Doc. You all right, man?” It was Jacob.
Kulik sneezed. “Yes, Jacob, but you must get away. I might be contagious.”
Jacob laughed. “Too late, Doc. I’ve got it, too. It’s all over Memorial. You probably got it from me.”
Kulik sneezed again, blew his nose in his handkerchief. “Well, young man, I hope you are willing to work this evening. Would you like to start on “Floyd’s Guitar Blues” then?”
Jacob smiled. “Sure, Doc. But I gotta ask you a question.”
Kulik frowned. “Must you?”
“Yes, sir. Who is Pasha?”
The professor paled. “Where did you hear that?”
Jacob played with the neck of the guitar. “You were saying it in your sleep. You sounded kind of rough there, Doc. Is everything all right?”
Kulik shook his head. “Pasha is someone you don’t need to know about.”
“But you sounded really sad, Doc. What did she do to you?”
She. At least Jacob didn’t know everything. “Nothing. Nothing. Let’s play some blues.”
July 1971
Napoleon had taken the Pursang out to sea for the third time this month. He felt alive when the ocean breezes flowed across the deck. The boat was his pride and joy. He loved it - had always loved it- and had so many wonderful memories on the boat. Yet in the midst of all of these good memories, it only added to the intense feeling of loss that Napoleon felt. He and Illya had been on many jaunts in Pursang, and although Illya’s seasickness sometimes interfered in their travel plans, they both liked the little trips they took together.
“Napoleon, do you have any tonic water left over?” Illya moaned, his head hanging off the side of the boat.
“Mmmm. I believe I do.”
“I don’t want to have to beg, my friend, but I would like it if you’ve got it.”
Napoleon went down below deck and found a bottle of tonic. He brought it back up with a lemon slice and handed it to Illya. “Here. Drink it slow, lyubovnik. We’ll be to port soon enough.”
Illya retreated to quarters not long afterward. Once they were within sight of the harbor, Napoleon set the anchor and went down below.
Illya had stripped off his shirt, and was lying on the bed. His skin was shiny with sweat; the exertion from his roiling stomach was almost too much for him. Napoleon marveled at his partner’s form; so lithe and fair, and yet so strong. Like a domesticated house cat; able to leap and run, holding untold power in the most graceful of forms. However, Napoleon knew what others might not have known: inside the house cat was the soul of a lion.
His little Russian lion groaned, sat up and slightly shook his blond mane.
“Napoleon. Have you any peppermint candies?”
“No, I ran out during our last voyage and forgot to stock up. Feeling a little queasy? I’m sorry, partner mine.”
Illya smiled, winced a little as he felt his stomach muscles cramp. “Too bad.” He laid back down again.
Napoleon climbed up on the bed with him, nestled his head between Illya’s shoulder and the pillow. “YA uteshu tebya?”
Illya relaxed against him. “And you choose to ask in my mother tongue…you’re becoming sentimental.”
“And again, I ask…shall I comfort you, Illya?”
Illya slipped his hand into his partner’s, held it close to his heart. “You already do,” he said, drowsily.
Napoleon longed to be able to crawl into bed with Illya and just lie there, holding him close. He hungered for the briefest touch from those calloused fingers, those hands that were large and strong and warm. The hands that had cradled his heart for so many years, and now left him as empty as the deserted sea.
“Shall I comfort you, Illya?”
January 1972
Over the last year, the quiet young man and the taciturn professor had become close. The professor was the father missing from Jacob’s life, and he relied on him for guidance and wisdom more and more. The older man thought of the boy as the closest thing he would have to a son. He cherished his relationship with the young man - a person that, were it possible, would have been most like a child created by a union between he and Napoleon, so long ago.
Jacob dropped his line into the small hole he had drilled into the lake; then settled into comfortable silence with the Doc. An hour or two passed without conversation. Finally, Jacob reeled in his line and set the pole down on the ice. He grabbed his thermos filled with hot chocolate and kicked back in his chair.
“Hey, Doc?”
Kulik looked up from his intense concentration. “Yes, Jacob, what is it?”
“Is Pasha that guy in the picture by your bed?”
Kulik jerked the fishing rod out of the water and it fell onto the ice, rattling as it hit the hard surface. “Why must you ask me these questions, Jacob?”
The young man took a long pull of the cocoa, scratched his head. “Because I know it is, Doc. Admit it. I’m not going to think any less of you.”
The professor reached over and grabbed his own cup of coffee. “You would be one of the few, boy. How do you know?”
Jacob’s brown eyes twinkled with laughter. “I know you, Doc. Remember, I’ve heard you talk in your sleep when you doze off during our lessons. And that time that I came over to help you when you had the flu? And I tucked you in bed because you were too weak to get off the couch and do it yourself? I noticed the pictures in your bedroom.”
The professor cursed. “I thought I had hidden it well.”
“You did. But you can’t fool someone who wants to be a detective when they grow up,” Jacob said, smiling. “Besides, I worry about you. So, what happened?”
“What happened to what?”
“Pasha. What happened to him? Is he someone you knew back in Russia?”
Kulik took another drink of coffee. “I can’t go into details, Jacob.”
Jacob took his gloves off and rubbed his hands together, then stuck them back inside. “Doc, it’s getting colder in the shanty. We might need to go back soon.”
“I think we can last a little while longer, boy.”
Jacob snorted, then winced. “The air’s getting drier, too. God, my nose is killing me.”
“You sound like Napoleon…”
Jacob looked up, smiling. “Napoleon?”
Kulik made a particularly Russian noise deep in his throat. “Napoleon.”
“Ha! I knew it. It’s Pasha, isn’t it? It’s that guy in the picture!” He did a little dance, albeit gingerly, on the ice.
“Yes. And that is his name. Napoleon Solo.”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“Language, young man…”
Jacob had the good sense to look chastised. “Sorry, sir. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Kulik frowned. “No. His name was Napoleon. And I, my boy, was someone else entirely. We worked for an organization; one that I think, in the future, you may find yourself in if you’re lucky and they make the connection.”
Jacob stared at his mentor and friend, mouth gaped open. “You worked for the mob?”
“No! Bozhe moi, no. It’s too difficult to explain to you, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“Try me, Doc.”
The professor shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t get away that easily. Who is Pasha, really? I want to know everything and I’m not going to stop asking until I get an answer.” The young man smiled.
Kulik sighed, his breath escaping in small, wispy clouds of steam from the cold temperatures. He shrugged his shoulders. “I should have never taught you the secret of persistence, Jacob.”
Jacob laughed, dropped his line back into the lake. “I’m waiting, Doc.”
Kulik began to tell his story, slowly, giving the boy time to ask questions. He admitted that Kulik was an assumed name, that he was not really a Slavic studies professor, almost all of the secrets that he had kept to himself for years.
The sun started to dip lower in the sky - Jacob could see it start to skim the horizon. “Come on, Doc. If I don’t make it home by dinner time, my mom will have my ass on a platter.”
“Language!”
The young man laughed. “You know it’s true.”
Kulik laughed along with him. “I do.”
The pair walked from the lake up Lambert Street back to the small house that Jacob and his mother shared. “You wanna come in, Doc? I think Mom’s making peppers…”
“No, I’m going to go home. I have leftover roast and turnips that I made the other night.”
Jacob pulled a face, sticking his tongue out. “Turnips. Ick. Oh, hey… do you want me to come by tomorrow for lessons?”
The professor shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Take the weekend off.”
Jacob walked onto his front porch and started inside, then stuck his head out the door. “Hey Doc! Able I was ere I saw Elba!“ He closed the door swiftly.
Kulik chuckled, pulled his coat tighter around him and began the trudge across campus to his own apartment. When he got home, he dropped his coat and snow boots on the floor and walked directly into the kitchen and poured a very generous tumbler of Oben that he rarely took off the shelf.
“I never drink this,” he said to himself. “But tonight, I will make an exception.”
“Scotch, neat. Always warms a man up,” Napoleon said, handing Illya one of his cherished crystal tumblers.
The Russian shivered with cold. He had been out in a sudden snowstorm, caught outside Grand Central Terminal on his way to Napoleon’s apartment. His pants and shoes were soaked. Napoleon had taken the wet clothing into his bathroom and hung them over the shower rod.
“Tovarisch, I have a pair of pajama bottoms that will be too big for you, but still comfortable. Would you like them?”
Illya shook his head. “I normally sleep nude, Napoleon. You know this.”
“So?”
“You don’t want me to be uncomfortable, do you?”
“What about me?”
The blond man smiled. “You could also be nude.”
Napoleon laughed. “You are a wicked, wicked man, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”
Illya cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know the half.”
Kulik sighed. He walked into his bedroom and stripped down. It was a lonesome thing, sleeping by oneself.
May, 1972
Napoleon had spent the last six months in Leningrad, studying every last square inch of the Russian Museum. His life had been dedicated to knowing everything there was to know about the miniature Illya had left him. The curators tolerated him and his numerous questions; but to Napoleon, the answers could never fill the void. The void that yawned deep within him. He burned with questions that would not be answered until he found Illya again. Until that moment, he would transfer his passions to the nuances of Russian art.
“Napoleon, you are the most passionate man I’ve ever known,” Illya whispered in his ear.
“Mmmm. In what way?”
The blond man draped his leg over Napoleon’s hip, pulling him even closer to him. “You have a passion for justice, for good wine, for dancing…” Illya licked Napoleon’s dimple. “…a passion for sex.”
Napoleon sucked Illya’s earlobe into his mouth and bit it firmly. “I also have a passion for you, Illya.”
“Do you?” Illya’s eyes glimmered with laughter.
He ran his tongue up Illya’s ear. “Yes, of course I do.”
They had been lovers for only a year, and it seemed that Napoleon could never get enough of his partner. Illya called to every part of him - his tender side, his tough side, the strong man and the soft hearted little boy. All were entranced and in love with Illya.
He had not said it yet.
Illya drew his leg further around Napoleon’s waist until their erections touched. He softly cupped Napoleon’s face in his huge hands and kissed his lips, then each cheek, the tip of his nose, his mole, each eyelid.
“Illya…”
Illya smiled. He slowly slid down the brunet’s body, kissing and nibbling down Napoleon’s chest, across his taut stomach. Napoleon moaned quietly, and called his lover’s name again.
Illya stopped at Napoleon’s groin, flicked his tongue at the head of his penis. Then he moved down a little further, and tenderly drew one testicle into his mouth, sucking gently.
Napoleon cried out, grabbing a fistful of Illya’s glorious hair. He bucked a little, yet Illya continued the worship of Napoleon’s body. He ran his tongue around the base of Napoleon’s penis, then ran it up the thick vein to the tip.
“Oh, my god!”
Illya glanced up, looked Napoleon in the eye, and then took possession of him with one swallow.
The soft, velvet wetness of his mouth was almost too much for Napoleon to bear. He bucked hard, groaning, almost weeping with pleasure. “Illyusha, please, oh god, Illya…”
Illya sucked harder, drawing him even deeper into his mouth, and then softly traced the curve of Napoleon’s ass with a calloused finger.
Napoleon jerked, a yell and a sharp intake of breath announced his climax.
Illya extracted his mouth slowly, lavishing every inch of Napoleon, cleaning him as he went. Napoleon reached down, took the blond by the hand and raised him toward him.
His breath was shaky, his eyes dark with the passion that Illya had told him he possessed in spades.
Could he tell him now? Would it be enough - would it ever be enough to say that he loved him, that he needed him more than he needed his next breath? Was it the wrong time? Napoleon thought he understood the human heart, the mysteries of love, but time and time again he found that with Illya he was always surprised.
The Russian surprised him again.
“Napoleon, what are you thinking?”
Napoleon brushed Illya’s hair away from his eyes. “I was thinking that you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, Illya. And that I…”
Illya put his hand on Napoleon’s chest, a gesture he had done over and over again. One that Napoleon knew told him everything that Illya wanted him to know. That he trusted him. That he loved him.
It was time.
“Illya, I love you,” he said, his voice strong and true. He bent closer to Illya’s ear and said it again, almost chanting it.
“I love you. Illya, I love you.”
Author: Shelly - cosmosmariner
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: mostly R, some NC-17 in places.
Summary: Living is easy - it’s the memories that are hard.
Distribution: Please ask me first, otherwise go for it!
Disclaimer: I totally do not own The Man From U.N.C.L.E. - if I did, I wouldn't leave my house.
Special Thanks to svetlanacat4 for creating this beautiful image a long time ago. Thanks for believing in me and in this story, my dear friend. I'm honored to receive such a gift!
Act II
Don‘t Look Back
April 1971
One year had passed since Professor Alexander Kulik joined the faculty of Midwestern State University. He quickly adapted to the campus life. The other professors respected him, and the students liked him. His discipline was Slavic studies, and in his spare time, he gave private guitar lessons to local high school and university students.
He enjoyed his work. It was fulfilling and intellectually stimulating. His guitar students were bright and fun.
And he was still lonely and sad.
The daffodils were blooming on Leary Hill, the main campus area where the Regents’ House and Administration offices were located. Kulik walked up Leary Hill every day, past the Old Red Barn where the athletic departments were located, past the main cafeteria building and provisions hall, to Greek Street, then to the tiny block of row houses where his small apartment was located.
Kulik made a light snack of leftover fried fish and dark bread, and a bottle of beer. He had forty-five minutes until his favorite student came to the door, ready for their guitar lessons.
Jacob Liebhaber was 15 years old, and his mother Pauline worked as a secretary in the Slavic studies department. Mr. Liebhaber died in a boating accident in Lake Superior the year before and the young boy was rootless without a father. He had begun to act out in unhealthy ways, and his mother was concerned that he would go down a dark road. She had asked Professor Kulik if he would be willing to teach him guitar.
“Professor, I cannot pay you your usual rate,” she began.
“Nonsense, Mrs. Liebhaber. If you make a little extra food and bring it to me each week, we’ll call it even. You know how much I like your stuffed peppers.”
Jacob started not long after that. He reminded Kulik of a colt; nervous energy, skittish and thin. The young man had dark brown hair and dark eyes, but he was almost translucently pale. He had large hands and long, graceful fingers - a perfect shape for jazz guitar.
Jacob was a natural. Kulik barely had to show him anything - Jacob just absorbed it like a sponge. In the meantime, they would talk. The young man was fascinated by music, and shared many favorite artists with the professor. They both liked Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. He also liked rock and roll, much to Kulik’s dismay. He trusted Jacob so much that he gave him a key to his apartment, knowing that sometimes the boy would stop by with a plate of pork chops and apples, or a fresh loaf of bread that Pauline made the night before.
One evening, Kulik was not feeling well. He had given his class to a graduate student and took his leave, coughing and sneezing all the way up Leary Hill and down Greek Street. When he got to his apartment, he collapsed in his favorite overstuffed chair in the living room, falling asleep almost instantly.
Normally, the dreams were kept at bay, but he was too exhausted from illness and too melancholy to think of anything else. Images floated there, just beyond his grasp; the things he wanted so tantalizingly close. He reached out, wanted so badly to feel.
A slender, broad shouldered man with dark hair would stand before him, his hands reaching toward the professor. He would walk toward him, his hand almost there to touch, to hold. He would smile.
“Illya. Will you follow?”
“My Pasha. You know I will.”
“Why didn’t you follow me?”
The professor would reach out to him, but his hand was just only inches away. “I cannot reach you, Napoleon. I cannot reach!”
He was awoken by the still, gentle touch on his shoulder. “Hey, Doc. You all right, man?” It was Jacob.
Kulik sneezed. “Yes, Jacob, but you must get away. I might be contagious.”
Jacob laughed. “Too late, Doc. I’ve got it, too. It’s all over Memorial. You probably got it from me.”
Kulik sneezed again, blew his nose in his handkerchief. “Well, young man, I hope you are willing to work this evening. Would you like to start on “Floyd’s Guitar Blues” then?”
Jacob smiled. “Sure, Doc. But I gotta ask you a question.”
Kulik frowned. “Must you?”
“Yes, sir. Who is Pasha?”
The professor paled. “Where did you hear that?”
Jacob played with the neck of the guitar. “You were saying it in your sleep. You sounded kind of rough there, Doc. Is everything all right?”
Kulik shook his head. “Pasha is someone you don’t need to know about.”
“But you sounded really sad, Doc. What did she do to you?”
She. At least Jacob didn’t know everything. “Nothing. Nothing. Let’s play some blues.”
July 1971
Napoleon had taken the Pursang out to sea for the third time this month. He felt alive when the ocean breezes flowed across the deck. The boat was his pride and joy. He loved it - had always loved it- and had so many wonderful memories on the boat. Yet in the midst of all of these good memories, it only added to the intense feeling of loss that Napoleon felt. He and Illya had been on many jaunts in Pursang, and although Illya’s seasickness sometimes interfered in their travel plans, they both liked the little trips they took together.
“Napoleon, do you have any tonic water left over?” Illya moaned, his head hanging off the side of the boat.
“Mmmm. I believe I do.”
“I don’t want to have to beg, my friend, but I would like it if you’ve got it.”
Napoleon went down below deck and found a bottle of tonic. He brought it back up with a lemon slice and handed it to Illya. “Here. Drink it slow, lyubovnik. We’ll be to port soon enough.”
Illya retreated to quarters not long afterward. Once they were within sight of the harbor, Napoleon set the anchor and went down below.
Illya had stripped off his shirt, and was lying on the bed. His skin was shiny with sweat; the exertion from his roiling stomach was almost too much for him. Napoleon marveled at his partner’s form; so lithe and fair, and yet so strong. Like a domesticated house cat; able to leap and run, holding untold power in the most graceful of forms. However, Napoleon knew what others might not have known: inside the house cat was the soul of a lion.
His little Russian lion groaned, sat up and slightly shook his blond mane.
“Napoleon. Have you any peppermint candies?”
“No, I ran out during our last voyage and forgot to stock up. Feeling a little queasy? I’m sorry, partner mine.”
Illya smiled, winced a little as he felt his stomach muscles cramp. “Too bad.” He laid back down again.
Napoleon climbed up on the bed with him, nestled his head between Illya’s shoulder and the pillow. “YA uteshu tebya?”
Illya relaxed against him. “And you choose to ask in my mother tongue…you’re becoming sentimental.”
“And again, I ask…shall I comfort you, Illya?”
Illya slipped his hand into his partner’s, held it close to his heart. “You already do,” he said, drowsily.
Napoleon longed to be able to crawl into bed with Illya and just lie there, holding him close. He hungered for the briefest touch from those calloused fingers, those hands that were large and strong and warm. The hands that had cradled his heart for so many years, and now left him as empty as the deserted sea.
“Shall I comfort you, Illya?”
January 1972
Over the last year, the quiet young man and the taciturn professor had become close. The professor was the father missing from Jacob’s life, and he relied on him for guidance and wisdom more and more. The older man thought of the boy as the closest thing he would have to a son. He cherished his relationship with the young man - a person that, were it possible, would have been most like a child created by a union between he and Napoleon, so long ago.
Jacob dropped his line into the small hole he had drilled into the lake; then settled into comfortable silence with the Doc. An hour or two passed without conversation. Finally, Jacob reeled in his line and set the pole down on the ice. He grabbed his thermos filled with hot chocolate and kicked back in his chair.
“Hey, Doc?”
Kulik looked up from his intense concentration. “Yes, Jacob, what is it?”
“Is Pasha that guy in the picture by your bed?”
Kulik jerked the fishing rod out of the water and it fell onto the ice, rattling as it hit the hard surface. “Why must you ask me these questions, Jacob?”
The young man took a long pull of the cocoa, scratched his head. “Because I know it is, Doc. Admit it. I’m not going to think any less of you.”
The professor reached over and grabbed his own cup of coffee. “You would be one of the few, boy. How do you know?”
Jacob’s brown eyes twinkled with laughter. “I know you, Doc. Remember, I’ve heard you talk in your sleep when you doze off during our lessons. And that time that I came over to help you when you had the flu? And I tucked you in bed because you were too weak to get off the couch and do it yourself? I noticed the pictures in your bedroom.”
The professor cursed. “I thought I had hidden it well.”
“You did. But you can’t fool someone who wants to be a detective when they grow up,” Jacob said, smiling. “Besides, I worry about you. So, what happened?”
“What happened to what?”
“Pasha. What happened to him? Is he someone you knew back in Russia?”
Kulik took another drink of coffee. “I can’t go into details, Jacob.”
Jacob took his gloves off and rubbed his hands together, then stuck them back inside. “Doc, it’s getting colder in the shanty. We might need to go back soon.”
“I think we can last a little while longer, boy.”
Jacob snorted, then winced. “The air’s getting drier, too. God, my nose is killing me.”
“You sound like Napoleon…”
Jacob looked up, smiling. “Napoleon?”
Kulik made a particularly Russian noise deep in his throat. “Napoleon.”
“Ha! I knew it. It’s Pasha, isn’t it? It’s that guy in the picture!” He did a little dance, albeit gingerly, on the ice.
“Yes. And that is his name. Napoleon Solo.”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“Language, young man…”
Jacob had the good sense to look chastised. “Sorry, sir. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Kulik frowned. “No. His name was Napoleon. And I, my boy, was someone else entirely. We worked for an organization; one that I think, in the future, you may find yourself in if you’re lucky and they make the connection.”
Jacob stared at his mentor and friend, mouth gaped open. “You worked for the mob?”
“No! Bozhe moi, no. It’s too difficult to explain to you, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“Try me, Doc.”
The professor shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t get away that easily. Who is Pasha, really? I want to know everything and I’m not going to stop asking until I get an answer.” The young man smiled.
Kulik sighed, his breath escaping in small, wispy clouds of steam from the cold temperatures. He shrugged his shoulders. “I should have never taught you the secret of persistence, Jacob.”
Jacob laughed, dropped his line back into the lake. “I’m waiting, Doc.”
Kulik began to tell his story, slowly, giving the boy time to ask questions. He admitted that Kulik was an assumed name, that he was not really a Slavic studies professor, almost all of the secrets that he had kept to himself for years.
The sun started to dip lower in the sky - Jacob could see it start to skim the horizon. “Come on, Doc. If I don’t make it home by dinner time, my mom will have my ass on a platter.”
“Language!”
The young man laughed. “You know it’s true.”
Kulik laughed along with him. “I do.”
The pair walked from the lake up Lambert Street back to the small house that Jacob and his mother shared. “You wanna come in, Doc? I think Mom’s making peppers…”
“No, I’m going to go home. I have leftover roast and turnips that I made the other night.”
Jacob pulled a face, sticking his tongue out. “Turnips. Ick. Oh, hey… do you want me to come by tomorrow for lessons?”
The professor shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Take the weekend off.”
Jacob walked onto his front porch and started inside, then stuck his head out the door. “Hey Doc! Able I was ere I saw Elba!“ He closed the door swiftly.
Kulik chuckled, pulled his coat tighter around him and began the trudge across campus to his own apartment. When he got home, he dropped his coat and snow boots on the floor and walked directly into the kitchen and poured a very generous tumbler of Oben that he rarely took off the shelf.
“I never drink this,” he said to himself. “But tonight, I will make an exception.”
“Scotch, neat. Always warms a man up,” Napoleon said, handing Illya one of his cherished crystal tumblers.
The Russian shivered with cold. He had been out in a sudden snowstorm, caught outside Grand Central Terminal on his way to Napoleon’s apartment. His pants and shoes were soaked. Napoleon had taken the wet clothing into his bathroom and hung them over the shower rod.
“Tovarisch, I have a pair of pajama bottoms that will be too big for you, but still comfortable. Would you like them?”
Illya shook his head. “I normally sleep nude, Napoleon. You know this.”
“So?”
“You don’t want me to be uncomfortable, do you?”
“What about me?”
The blond man smiled. “You could also be nude.”
Napoleon laughed. “You are a wicked, wicked man, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”
Illya cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know the half.”
Kulik sighed. He walked into his bedroom and stripped down. It was a lonesome thing, sleeping by oneself.
May, 1972
Napoleon had spent the last six months in Leningrad, studying every last square inch of the Russian Museum. His life had been dedicated to knowing everything there was to know about the miniature Illya had left him. The curators tolerated him and his numerous questions; but to Napoleon, the answers could never fill the void. The void that yawned deep within him. He burned with questions that would not be answered until he found Illya again. Until that moment, he would transfer his passions to the nuances of Russian art.
“Napoleon, you are the most passionate man I’ve ever known,” Illya whispered in his ear.
“Mmmm. In what way?”
The blond man draped his leg over Napoleon’s hip, pulling him even closer to him. “You have a passion for justice, for good wine, for dancing…” Illya licked Napoleon’s dimple. “…a passion for sex.”
Napoleon sucked Illya’s earlobe into his mouth and bit it firmly. “I also have a passion for you, Illya.”
“Do you?” Illya’s eyes glimmered with laughter.
He ran his tongue up Illya’s ear. “Yes, of course I do.”
They had been lovers for only a year, and it seemed that Napoleon could never get enough of his partner. Illya called to every part of him - his tender side, his tough side, the strong man and the soft hearted little boy. All were entranced and in love with Illya.
He had not said it yet.
Illya drew his leg further around Napoleon’s waist until their erections touched. He softly cupped Napoleon’s face in his huge hands and kissed his lips, then each cheek, the tip of his nose, his mole, each eyelid.
“Illya…”
Illya smiled. He slowly slid down the brunet’s body, kissing and nibbling down Napoleon’s chest, across his taut stomach. Napoleon moaned quietly, and called his lover’s name again.
Illya stopped at Napoleon’s groin, flicked his tongue at the head of his penis. Then he moved down a little further, and tenderly drew one testicle into his mouth, sucking gently.
Napoleon cried out, grabbing a fistful of Illya’s glorious hair. He bucked a little, yet Illya continued the worship of Napoleon’s body. He ran his tongue around the base of Napoleon’s penis, then ran it up the thick vein to the tip.
“Oh, my god!”
Illya glanced up, looked Napoleon in the eye, and then took possession of him with one swallow.
The soft, velvet wetness of his mouth was almost too much for Napoleon to bear. He bucked hard, groaning, almost weeping with pleasure. “Illyusha, please, oh god, Illya…”
Illya sucked harder, drawing him even deeper into his mouth, and then softly traced the curve of Napoleon’s ass with a calloused finger.
Napoleon jerked, a yell and a sharp intake of breath announced his climax.
Illya extracted his mouth slowly, lavishing every inch of Napoleon, cleaning him as he went. Napoleon reached down, took the blond by the hand and raised him toward him.
His breath was shaky, his eyes dark with the passion that Illya had told him he possessed in spades.
Could he tell him now? Would it be enough - would it ever be enough to say that he loved him, that he needed him more than he needed his next breath? Was it the wrong time? Napoleon thought he understood the human heart, the mysteries of love, but time and time again he found that with Illya he was always surprised.
The Russian surprised him again.
“Napoleon, what are you thinking?”
Napoleon brushed Illya’s hair away from his eyes. “I was thinking that you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, Illya. And that I…”
Illya put his hand on Napoleon’s chest, a gesture he had done over and over again. One that Napoleon knew told him everything that Illya wanted him to know. That he trusted him. That he loved him.
It was time.
“Illya, I love you,” he said, his voice strong and true. He bent closer to Illya’s ear and said it again, almost chanting it.
“I love you. Illya, I love you.”