Title: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?
Rating: M to be safe, really a sort of PG-15ish. Nothing terribly explicit within. Some usage of the word damned, some sexual references.
Disclaimer: If you can sue me for owning it, I don’t.
Summary: “Well,” he began, deliberately thoughtful. “I could take a leaf from your book and say something like ‘how Marx-edly beautiful you look, oh Soviet of our Union’, but I’m far too sophisticated for cheap puns like that.”
A/N: Because something like this could totally happen. We could call it The Illya Is A Better Kisser Than A Harem In A Coffin (But Not A Better Poet) Affair, and get a better visual of how exactly Napoleon looks with rips in his clothing
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?
“This would be so much more entertaining if there were a girl here,” said Napoleon plaintively.
Squashed up next to him in the darkened coffin, which Thrush had been kind enough to ventilate, at least, Illya said petulantly: “I’m entertaining.”
Ignoring him, Napoleon went on: “She would have to be pretty, of course-”
“Of course,” said Illya sarcastically.
“-in an evening gown-”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“-with lovely blonde hair-”
“Not that you could see that, in the dark.”
“-and soft, glowing skin-“
“I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.”
“-and large, lovely-”
“Exactly how cramped do you want to be in here?”
“-gorgeous blue eyes,” Napoleon finished, shooting a reproving glare over his shoulder at Illya. Both Illya and the glare were impossible to see, of course, though the sound Illya made- either a snort, snicker or possibly a sneeze- was clearly audible.
“It could be worse,” Illya pointed out, after a moment.
Napoleon frowned. “How so?”
“You could have your inappropriately attired, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, glowing, pretty young thing, and she could be an utter, absolute bore, with the brains of a pigeon and the social skills of a frog.”
“You’re right,” Napoleon agreed. “It could be worse.” He imagined he could see Illya smirking in the darkness, behind him. “I could be stuck in here with you.”
“Oh, very funny,” said Illya, sounding disgruntled. Napoleon felt him arch and stretch as much as was possible when stuck in a relatively small coffin with another person. It was unsettling, feeling Illya writhe about behind him, a sensation of shifting heat and fleeting touch.
“Do stop that, would you?” Napoleon asked, a touch irritably.
“Stop what? Ow.” Illya’s head thunked on the sealed coffin lid, and his elbow made a near miss of Napoleon’s left eye, while bits and pieces of his latest costume scratched and poked at Napoleon in exceedingly awkward places.
“Stop thrashing about,” Napoleon ordered, and when Illya managed to simultaneously knee him painfully in the hip and dig a sharp thing into his thigh, he managed to flip over and grab his partner. “You’ll kill us both before Thrush does.”
“Mmmmmnnfff,” said Illya, because Napoleon had grabbed his face by accident.
They managed to get rearranged semi-comfortably again, Illya muttering depredations about coffins and sarcophagi and Thrush in general, and the scent of Napoleon’s soap in particular, never mind that it was hotel soap, and Illya smelled exactly the same, only slightly more floral, because of that perfume factory he’d wandered into by accident right before he’d gotten captured.
“Girls,” Napoleon murmured wistfully after a long moment.
“What, you want to have an orgy in here now?” asked Illya acidly.
“Illya!” said Napoleon indignantly. “Of course not.”
“True,” agreed Illya, with mock thoughtfulness. “The two of us barely fit in here- your ideal harem certainly wouldn’t.”
“I do not want a harem,” Napoleon told him firmly, although the idea did have some appeal...
“Besides,” Illya added. “If you were stuck in here with a woman, you’d be kissing her by now. Or possibly having sex.”
“I would not have sex in a Thrush coffin,” Napoleon said, rather more loudly than was strictly necessary. “It would be much too dangerous. Where do you come up with these ideas, anyway? Besides,” he added before Illya could answer. “What’s wrong with making the best of things when caught in a tight space with a pretty woman?”
Illya snorted. Napoleon kicked him. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“You kiss women far too much,” Illya announced, reproachfully drawing his legs as far away as possible from Napoleon’s, which was all of about six inches. “Instead of doing yet more of the same, you are having a scintillating conversation with me.”
“Yes, about how much I want to have sex with a harem in a coffin,” said Napoleon acidly, and Illya made an odd, choked noise. Napoleon rolled his eyes and dug his foot into Illya’s calf. “Oh, do stop laughing.”
“Why, Napoleon,” Illya pressed, voice mockingly bright. “Don’t you think I am a much better person to be stuck in a coffin with than some random woman?”
“Not some random woman,” Napoleon corrected. “A-”
“After all,” Illya went on, ignoring him. “I am intelligent.”
“Diabolically so,” Napoleon returned.
“So I’ve noticed.”
Napoleon grinned. “Where bombs and Thrush laboratories are concerned, certainly.”
Illya’s voice become coyer, faux sweeter. “I’m charming-”
“Not wearing that, you aren’t.”
Wickedly: “-I can blow things up-“
Napoleon flushed, glad of the darkness. “There’s no need for sexual innuendo here-”
“I’m better than any woman you could want,” Illya went on ruthlessly, practically purring. “I’m the sun to your shine. The seas to your sands. The night to your day. The petal to your rose.”
The list picked up in enthusiasm, while remaining as silkily seductive as before. “I’m the fur to your tiger, the lady to your knight, the pearl to your oyster, the gleam to your armour-”
“Illya, really.” Napoleon half-wanted to laugh, and half-wanted to turn over and do something to Illya, something alarmingly sexual. He was very glad that Illya was laying on his back, and Napoleon on his side facing away, so that Illya wouldn’t notice the effect that the wicked sensuality of his ridiculous words was having on a...certain part of Napoleon’s anatomy.
“I’m the shoe to your foot, the kiss to your mistletoe, the damsel to your distress-”
“Illya,” said Napoleon, who perceived a certain insult in this latest, despite how appealing it was to envision kissing Illya under the mistletoe...
“I’m the balder to your dash, I’m the flim to your flam, the sunray to your clam-”
“If you say one more alarmingly awful line like that,” Napoleon began, though his threatening tone was far more breathless than it should have been.
“I’m the duet to your Solo-”
“-I mean it-”
“-the Waterloo to your Napoleon-”
Illya’s voice dropped into a seductive whisper: “And finally, I’m very blond...” He ran a hand down Napoleon’s side, causing Napoleon’s breath to quicken, both at the breathy words and the slide of sensation where Illya’s fingers pressed cloth against his skin.
And then Illya finished, in that same damned wickedly sensual purr, right in Napoleon’s ear: “...and I’ve got large, lovely, gorgeous, blue, blue, eyes...”
Napoleon managed to control himself enough not to moan out loud at that last, though it was difficult. He made a sort of strangled sound instead, and Illya chuckled, low and velvety, breath still ghosting across Napoleon’s ear.
“Still wishing for a woman?” Illya asked then, mock-sweetly.
“Ah,” said Napoleon, scrambling to regain some sort of control over the situation. “No, I think you’ve sweet-talked me out of it. All that ‘sunray to your clam’ poetry and whatnot.”
Abruptly, Illya uncontorted himself, lying on his back again, and dropping the come-hither act with unsettling abruptness. “You would have to pick out the worst one I said,” he said irritably.
Napoleon grinned, trying to even his breathing out, and not quite succeeding. Illya was still so very damned close. “The worst one, oh flim to my flam?”
“I’d like to see you do better,” said Illya challengingly, and how could Napoleon ignore a challenge like that?
“Well,” he began, deliberately thoughtful. “I could take a leaf from your book and say something like ‘how Marx-edly beautiful you look, oh Soviet of our Union’, but I’m far too sophisticated for cheap puns like that.”
“Good,” Illya remarked. “Because if you had said that, one of us would not be leaving this coffin alive, and it would not be me.”
“Ah, good point,” Napoleon agreed, an amused smirk curving his lips. “Dead men tell no tales, nor extravagantly flatter their friends, and all that.”
“Quite,” said Illya, the epitome of dry.
“Now, let me see,” Napoleon began slowly. “ ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, thou art more lovely and more temperate’? No, that’s been done too much before. ‘For nothing this wide universe I call, save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all’? Or perhaps: ‘For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation’?”
“I think someone made you memorize too much Shakespeare in your youth,” said Illya caustically.
“Ah, here’s one,” said Napoleon brightly, blatantly ignoring Illya’s statement. He was not about to admit that he had memorized every single Shakespeare love quote (and some that could pass as love quote, out of context) that he could in order to charm the ladies. “Very applicable to our situation,” he added. “‘I love you more than words can wield the matter, dearer than eyesight, space and liberty’. Oh, and: ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’”
“Perfect for two souls trapped in a coffin,” Illya commented dryly. “You still have zero points for creativity, however.”
“But it’s Shakespeare!” Napoleon protested. “You wound me. ‘One half of me is yours, the other half yours- Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours!’ ”
Unmoved, Illya dug an elbow into his back. “Originality, my friend, is the spice of life.”
“Variety,” Napoleon corrected.
“The more originality, the more variety, the more spice,” Illya said calmly, logically. The elbow, thankfully, drew back.
“Very well,” Napoleon said, sighing. He flipped over so he was facing Illya, and felt rather than saw Illya turn over so that they were face-to-face. After all, Napoleon reasoned, if things got...awkward...again, he could always turn over on his back.
“I’m waiting,” said Illya impatiently. Napoleon felt a hand alight on his forearm, felt Illya’s fingers dance lightly just below his elbow.
“You are the music to my soul, and I am the violin on which you play your sweet symphony,” Napoleon proclaimed. Illya snorted, and he frowned. “What?”
“Really, how do your women fall for that sort of thing?” Illya asked, sounding caustically amused.
“I’m usually a lot more charming when I say things like that,” Napoleon said, miffed. “And I don’t just break lines like that out at once. Seducing people is a skill, Illya, a talent. An artistic masterpiece. One must proceed with care and calculation and an appreciation for all the qualities involved.”
Illya’s fingers slid up his arm, curled lightly just below his wrist. “You sound like you’re programming some sort of machine, not enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.”
“You’re the scientist,” Napoleon retorted, distracted by the way Illya’s thumb was pressing the material of his shirt and jacket into his skin, in slow, rhythmic circles. “You should know that machines can be beautiful and enjoyable. Shall we say that I am a scientist of the flesh, perhaps?”
“Mmm,” Illya hummed, agreeing. “If you will concede that I am the better scientist?”
“Oh, please, darling ‘balder to my dash’,” Napoleon scoffed, sucking in a breath as one of Illya’s legs slid in between his own. He tried to turn over, but Illya’s grip on his wrist tightened, holding him still.
“As I recall,” Illya said softly, and he must have moved closer, because his breath was ghosting warm across Napoleon’s lips now. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with my words at the time.”
Napoleon’s eyes widened, and then Illya was kissing him, and it was a very good kiss, all electric and shock and hot and sharp. It was rather like kissing a Thrush agent, all sharp teeth and aggressive, demanding passion, but Napoleon preferred that sort of thing, really, and he kissed Illya back with the same abandon. ‘You have witchcraft in your lips’, he thought, but didn’t say. He hooked a leg around Illya’s, reaching forward to curl a hand in Illya’s hair- and accidentally poked him in the eye.
“Sorry!” said Napoleon, mortified. Damn coffin. He hadn’t poked a lover in the eye in decades. Of course, he hadn’t felt quite so flustered in decades, either.
He reached for Illya again, but Illya squirmed away- still apparently clutching his eye from the way his elbow collided with the side of Napoleon’s head- except that ‘away’ didn’t mean the quite same thing in a small, dark, confined space, and Illya ended up on top of Napoleon, lying between his legs, pressed tight together and- good Lord, that was new and different and Napoleon wondered why on earth he had never been bisexual before.
Illya stopped clutching his eye and kissed him again, and Napoleon kissed him back. Illya shifted against him, which felt wonderful, and only partly because the sharp, scratchy bits of his costume stopped scraping at the rips in Napoleon’s clothing. He managed to sink his fingers into Illya’s hair this time, which was every bit as nice as he’d thought it would be, the strands sliding silken-smooth through his fingers.
Breathless, they came up for air. “So, was I right?” asked Illya, voice more roughened than usual. “Am I better than a parade of gorgeous, glowing women?”
“ ‘I would not wish any companion in the world but you’,” quoted Napoleon, pressing his lips to Illya’s throat.
“Shakespeare again?” inquired Illya, a slight hitch in his voice as Napoleon’s tongue flicked against his skin.
“Maybe,” Napoleon said evasively, and they kissed again, long and lingering. “It is, however, true.”
And though the next few hours proved to be extremely awkward, what with their rescuers choosing that exact moment to remove the coffin lid, it was entirely worth it, Napoleon thought, just to see the smile on Illya’s face, which was as radiant as a sunray on a clam.