Mulch Ado About Illya
"I must admit, this is the first time I've been truly grateful I'm not claustrophobic."
"How fortunate for you. I, on the other hand, have had ample opportunities to express my thanks on that count."
Napoleon could feel Illya's breath on his cheek as he spoke, slowly and softly but still burning away precious oxygen.
When he died, he had always wanted to be buried rather than cremated. Less the idea of leaving permanent remains and more that the thought of burning to ashes was rather unappealing, never minding that he'd be dead when they did it. Of course, he'd always planned on being dead inside his coffin as well but he supposed you couldn't win them all.
The inside of a coffin was surprisingly comfortable, if not particularly roomy for having two people in it. At least Illya was facing him; if they'd been front to back or, god forbid, back to back he probably would have to revise his claustrophobia statement. As it was...
"How much air do you think we have?"
"If they've sealed the coffin, perhaps five minutes. Maybe less." Illya did not sound pleased by the idea. Well, Napoleon wasn't particularly enamored of it either. He squirmed, trying to work a little blood through the area where Illya's knee was crammed against his leg. Illya inhaled sharply in something like pain and Napoleon immediately regretted the move. Probably lost an extra ten seconds of oxygen because he was trying to die comfortably.
"You are aware that if we don't manage to get out of here, we're going to die quite soon," Illya said unnecessarily, echoing Napoleon's thoughts. "I suppose asking if you have some sort of plan is futile."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't take a course in unlocking coffins," Napoleon said, stung. He wished he could see Illya's face so he could glare at him properly. He settled for giving the blank darkness that he knew was the back of Illya's head a dirty look. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as the real thing, more's the pity. Now he was going to die and be unsatisfied as well. Really, this wasn't his day.
"I only meant that if you'd had a plan you would have surely shared it by now." Illya's voice was wry, sliding into resigned as he added, "Well, at least if we are going to die, we can do it happily in each other's arms and we shall be together for all eternity."
Silence. Then Napoleon asked warily, "Are you sure there is five minutes of oxygen?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because for some reason, I never thought I'd hear you waxing poetically about being buried alive without being oxygen deprived."
"You didn't like it? I heard it in a movie. I must admit, the heroine was far more receptive than you are. Personally, I find the idea of turning into mulch while in your dead embrace somewhat appalling but I thought perhaps it was a cultural separation."
"I'm rather appalled that I became a heroine somewhere in the course of this conversation."
"I should have known not to try something new," Illya sounded irritable, which was perfectly understandable considering the situation. "The direct approach is always best with you."
"Illya, what are you going on abo....HEY!!"
"What's the matter?" Illya asked solicitously, as if he was completely unaware that his fingers had slid past the line of demarcation that began at Napoleon's waistband, wriggling their way inside and making themselves at home inside his pants.
"What are you doing?" Napoleon's breath was coming faster, all thoughts of saving oxygen flitting away with every little twist of Illya's fingertips.
"And you're supposed to be some sort of Lothario, with your knowledge so sadly lacking? I'm shocked."
"I..." I'm not, Napoleon tried to say. Or wanted to say. Or wanted to try to say but Illya's hand was nestling itself up against his cock, which wasn't half as uninterested as it should have been. As uninterested as he wanted it to be, except he didn't really want it to be, not when that hand was wrapping itself delicately around his very-much-more-interested-than-it-should-be cock, odd little strokes of fingertips resolving into the smoother damp heat of Illya's palm, and Christ Almighty, where had all this come from? How did you go from about to die and turning to mulch in your partner's arms to this?
Napoleon gasped, his head swimmingly dizzily as the plain warm touch slid into a rhythm, Illya slowly jerking him off, his arm awkward between them, his hand mostly trapped by his own weight but just that little motion, his thumb sliding in the dampness at the tip of Napoleon's cock, it was...it was beard stubble scraping against his cheek as Illya's face slide across his own, his lips searching, and it never occurred to Napoleon to turn his face away, absurd to think of it with Illya touching him like this.
His mouth was hot, his lips wet like he'd just licked them and Napoleon moaned at the thought, the sound vibrating into Illya's mouth and it shifted into a yelp when Illya bit him, briefly, brilliantly hard, soothing the pain with a soft tickle of his tongue.
It was almost a shock to realize he could bite Illya back, that he didn't have to just lay here like a corpse when he wasn't one yet and he decided to spare Illya any premature necrophilia by kissing him back, wet and hard and nipping sharply at the tip of Illya's tongue, insane triumph surging when Illya shuddered against him.
Illya was stroking him harder, his hand moving sleekly in the growing dampness, and Napoleon couldn't stop pushing up into that touch, crude and hard and, God, just what felt so good, like a woman didn't, couldn't understand. He came silently, spurting into the warm cup of Illya's palm with the taste of Illya's breath on his lips, completely engulfed in everything that was Illya and suddenly, absurdly, he decided Illya was right. This really was the best way to die.
"I...I..." He couldn't find the breath to speak, wondered with growing panic if it was because their oxygen was giving out and dammit, it wasn't fair, not with realization still glowing in his veins.
"It's all right, Napoleon." Illya's hand was soothing now, his other hand, the one that wasn't still inside his pants, damp and hot and considerately not moving against too-sensitive skin.
"If that was a goodbye handjob, I'm afraid we probably don't have enough time for me to return the favor." Napoleon found he regretted that more than he could say in simple words. He didn't think a week's worth of oxygen would be enough.
"That's quite all right," Illya said, carefully pulling his hand free, and Napoleon started to protest, oddly hurt, but Illya added, "Since we won't be dying, a goodbye won't be necessary.
A seam of light suddenly appeared next to them and Napoleon could just see Illya peering out, looking for any THRUSH guards that might have lingered.
"I thought you said we were locked in!" Napoleon hissed.
"I said no such thing. I said if they sealed us in we would have only five minutes of air." Illya glanced at him, his eyes nothing more than a gleam in the darkness but Napoleon didn't need to see them to know about the smug humor in them. "I also don't recall saying that I didn't have a plan."
It wasn't often that Napoleon was stunned to silence, but whenever it happened, it always seemed to be Illya driving the proverbial truck that hit him. There was far too much to think about at this moment and no time to sort everything into little piles of understanding in his head, not with THRUSH expecting them to be dead or perhaps coming back to ensure that they were. He settled for a glaring at Illya and as he'd suspected, it was much more satisfying when he could see him.
"I'm going to get you for this." It seemed childish and absurd, so he punctuated it with a brief, hard kiss, felt Illya smile against his lips.
"I hope you do. Shall we?" Illya asked cordially.
"Let's." And as they leapt from the coffin and into the midst of the surprised THRUSH's, Napoleon decided that when they did die, maybe he and Illya should arrange to be buried next to each other. It would be so tragic to have to turn to mulch alone.