JESUS YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST THOUGHT ABOUT OMG what if Napoleon is so hopelessly in love with Illya that he feels the need to tell him, but he doesn't have the courage to, so he says it all the time, in a language he knows Illya doesn't understand. Little did he know, Illya DOES understand this language. Napoleon finds out when after weeks of this, Illya finaly answers him, perfectly fluent in language he was not supposed to know.
ANON I’M YELLING wtf this is so good!! aksdfbshd
So imagine the silence afterwards. Napoleon blinks, before he closes his mouth. He never would have guessed his partner knew how to speak Irish.
Asking Illya since when he speaks it is the first thing to leave his mouth, after long moments of silence, stretching out between them and making Napoleon wish he could disappear. “I don’t,” Illya answers, smiling sadly, “But I know how to speak Danish.”
Another shiver runs down Napoleon’s spine - cold as ice, like the first one that had shocked him to his core. “But I only used it once,” he protests.
He hates how weak his voice sounds. A slight tremor, as if he’s on the verge of tears. Maybe he is. He doesn’t care, because Illya’s eyes are on him, so incredibly soft.
“You knew the whole time,” Napoleon gets out, finally.
“I knew the whole time,” Illya repeats and nods, “I-” His voice breaks, as if he’s close to crying too.
“I was afraid you would stop saying those things to me,” Illya confesses, voice small, eyes cast downwards.
It’s a gesture so unlike him, Napoleon has to step forward and hug his partner. There it is, both of them flayed open, ripped off the last layer of pretense. No secrets, no lies, just them. At the same time, it’s too much and not enough.
“I mimicked your speech pattern, looked a few things up,” Illya says, trying to disarm the situation, but only adding more ballast to the gravity of it, to the weight on Napoleon’s chest.
“You love me too,” he whispers and closes his eyes.
Finally, Illya’s arms come up, wrapping themselves around Napoleon’s torso. “Of course I do, how could I not?” Illya bumps their foreheads together tenderly.
“I don’t know,” Napoleon breathes, his usual charm creeping into his voice, “I’m irresistible.”
“Incorrigible,” Illya corrects, but his smile is fond, his eyes giving away everything.
Before his partner can protest, Napoleon kisses him. Illya makes that small sound of surprise that never fails to make him smile.
“For evigt?” his partner asks, a whispered vow against his lips.
“I can’t promise you that,” Napoleon says, what he doesn’t add is: It’s our line of work. It’s the blood on my hands - on your hands. It’s the trouble we’ll get into. It’s the things I would do to protect you.
“Forever might be a long time,” Illya agrees and Napoleon hates the doubt he hears.
Years and years of insecurity, of not being loved. A lifetime of anger, of loneliness and things he doesn’t want to think about.
Napoleon’s hand comes up to trace the scar on Illya’s temple. “Yes, but I’ll never stop fighting to be with you.”
There it is. A sloppy vocalisation of a thought that’s far more poetic in his mind. His last defense is gone - it’s only him now. He’s at Illya’s mercy.
A heartbeat. A strangled sob. Lips against his, in a kiss too desperate, too consuming.
“Neither will I,” Illya says finally and presses his lips to Napoleon’s forehead.
It’s not a great declaration of love, nothing to write or sing about, but it’s them. Thus he knows they don’t need anything else. And maybe it’s their own version of Forever.
Napoleon smiles and shakes his head at Peril’s horrendous pronunciation of an Irish term of endearment. Illya tries again, butchering it even more. Now he has to laugh, kisses the angry expression right off Illya’s face.
Yes, he thinks, they have found a way to promise each other a future together.
Måske for evigt.