The bed hadn't been his idea. When he first rented the apartment, it had already been furnished with a number of items left behind by the previous tenant and this monstrosity of a bed had been one of them. He'd bought a new mattress, when he'd found somewhere that stocked the size he needed, but now he could only bless the fact that someone couldn't be bothered to take it with them when they moved out.
It had seen some action, one way or another, but Napoleon had never thought he'd need sufficient space for three, let alone a bed that was robust enough to deal with what they put it through on a regular basis. Not that he was complaining! Even if Illya was a cuddler, so he'd wake and find the Russian clinging onto him in the morning even if they'd gone to bed separately that night. And Gaby was another matter completely, grabbing as much of the covers as she could possibly manage or curling up in the middle of the two of them if she felt like it. Either was good, unexpectedly so.
Still, there was always room for improvement, Napoleon decided. He was currently pinned to the bed by Illya's weight as he watched the first rays of light come through the window. One arm was resting across his chest and while he could have escaped if he wanted to, Napoleon found that he quite liked the idea that he was so very much Illya's that he wanted to hang onto him this way. Not that Illya would admit anything so emotional in the cold light of day, that was part of the enjoyment of it all, that contrast.
Elsewhere in the apartment, a door closed. Neither of them responded, knowing who it was - sometimes, if she was up this early, Gaby would make them breakfast and that was usually a good thing. Unless she got distracted, in which case a strong smell of burnt toast ought to be coming their way quite soon.
"You are thinking very loudly," Illya said. His face was turned away and the words were mumbled so Napoleon had to work them over in his mind before he could be completely certain what he'd said. "Stop it."
"Oh, am I disturbing you?" Napoleon smirked as his words were followed by a slight tightening of Illya's grip, his hand curling over Napoleon's collar bone as if ensuring he didn't make a break for it. "I guess I should leave you to it."
He made an abortive move, to which Illya responded, as he had expected would be the case - Illya pushed himself up from the bed, turning to face Napoleon for the first time and also pressing down on him, making sure he didn't actually leave. Not that he had any intention of moving right now, even though he was much more awake than he ever wanted to be at this time of the morning.
"Running away, Cowboy?" Illya asked. He had moved across the bed a little, their faces close together. "Bored with us already?"
"Well, now that you mention it," Napoleon began, before Illya's mouth was on his, swallowing whatever he'd meant to say next. By the time they'd finished, it took him a moment to remember what it was.
"I have an idea," Napoleon said, one hand holding Illya back as he seemed determined to interrupt again. While he didn't object in principle to what Illya was doing, he'd really like to get a complete sentence out before he let the Russian have his way. "I think you'll like it."
A couple of finishing touches were still required; casting an assessing eye over the steaks he had ready, Napoleon crossed to the bar and assembled everything he would need. Ice, of course - he returned to the kitchen, listening for the sound of the apartment door opening as that would be his cue.
"How was your day, honey?" he asked, a few minutes later, when Illya came into the living room. "Here, let me get you a drink."
Napoleon turned on his heel, aware of the absolute silence that had greeted his words, and doubly aware of Illya's astonished stare as he crossed back to the bar.
"You are..." Illya said. "Where are your clothes?"
Napoleon glanced down at himself, as if surprised at the question, but carried on fixing them both martinis.
"I was trying for a slightly more domestic look," Napoleon said, then brushed one hand casually down the side of his apron, thus avoiding the place where it tented slightly at the front. "Don't you like it?" He considered throwing in a small pout to emphasise the question but decided against it - there was such a thing as overegging the pudding, after all.
He crossed back to where Illya was still standing and handed him a glass; Illya took it, still looking like he was on autopilot, his eyes wide. Napoleon couldn't help smirking, this was all going perfectly to plan.
"Besides, it's so warm today."
His hand was resting at the top of the apron and flapped it a little, drawing Illya's eyes down to his chest. The movement also emphasised once more that Napoleon was completely naked under the apron, a fact which every movement reminded him, the cotton brushing against the tip of his penis. He didn't need to look down to know that the material was tenting out more, the more he moved or even thought about moving, let alone what might happen next.
"Oh, I think my ties are coming loose," Napoleon continued, still studying Illya's reaction. The Russian hadn't spoken since his statement about Napoleon being naked, but just looked at him as if he expected Napoleon to vanish in a puff of smoke. "Would you be a dear and check for me?"
Putting his martini glass down, Napoleon turned so that his back was to Illya, fully aware of what a picture he presented - the apron had been long enough in the front to reach his knees, though the thickness of the material had hidden nothing about how interested he was in Illya being there. The back, well there was nothing to it but the place where the ties met, the long ends of them draping down till they just about met his buttocks, falling between them like Napoleon had planned it. Like they were pointing the way, Napoleon thought, if Illya needed any more guidance in the matter!
Behind him, he heard an indrawn breath and a clink of glass on wood. At least Illya had been aware enough to put down his glass as well, which meant at least one stain he wouldn't need to have cleaned from the carpet.
"They are fine," Illya said, his voice suddenly close by Napoleon's ear. "You are fine," he continued, and suddenly his hands were there, slipping between apron and skin, pulling the two of them together. "I think I like this game."
Maybe they should have made it to the bedroom first, Napoleon thought - the difference in their heights didn't matter so much when they were all lying down, but here it meant that he could feel Illya's interest in him, except it was pressing into the small of his back instead of where it could do Napoleon any good. Not that this was stopping Illya from rubbing against him, though he was clearly getting more out of this than Napoleon was.
"You are waiting for me to get here," Illya said, his accent thickening slightly as he spoke. His hands were exploring Napoleon's body too, one slipping down to cradle his balls and the other across his chest, keeping them close together. "Wanting me to be here." He took a step forward, then another, Napoleon going with him - not that he had much of a choice, all things considered - their destination clearly the dining room table.
Thank god for previous tenants, Napoleon thought again, as Illya bent him over it, the hand that had been exploring Napoleon's chest now working at Illya's own fly instead. He'd always hated this table, thinking about replacing it a dozen times over the years, but at least it was as sturdy as anyone might need. Even someone who was thinking about getting fucked on it, which he was certain hadn't been the reason the previous tenant had bought it.
And also thank god for planning, Napoleon decided, as he heard Illya's pants hit the floor and then felt Illya's fingers sliding in, stretching him a little just as he'd imagined they would. He groaned, almost despite himself, and wondered just what Illya's face looked like right now - damn, he should have bought a mirror, he should have realised Illya wouldn't be able to wait to fuck him and he would have been able to see everything.
Well, there was always next time.