The cast you placed on my bruised and broken body is now choking me with the broken promises and poison you called love.
I etched you into my heart with a scalpel and lasered your name onto my bones.
I breathed you in like you were smoke and instead of breathing you out you lingered in my lungs until you burned them.Â
I tattooed your name on my body thinking you would never leave and now when I shower I can't help, but rub my skin raw trying to erase the words you left on my soul.Â
And if I could I would perform open heart surgery and rearrange my cardiac muscles in the hopes that it would end up feeling whole again. and if I could I would rip out your larynx so I would never have to hear you say "I love you" to another girl
and if this was Back To The Future I would tell 18 year old me to say no to going over to your house that day.
and if this was Back To The Future I would go into the inevitable to see if not fighting with you would've helped us survive.
You weren't just some t-shirt that I outgrew in fact I shrunk and you were able to fit even better on me.Â
In this case Rudy Francisco is wrong because you can bring a metaphor to a gunfight, but I am just choosing not to because I don't want to riddle you with bullets that'll scar your soul.
And even though I sound like Rudy and the Joker, I am going to ask, Do you wanna know how I got these scars? I got them when you tore yourself out of my soul and swallowed me whole. I got them when I had to try and stitch myself back up, but I am not a surgeon, I am not a doctor, I am just a human and the stitches didn't hold, they did not stay. I got them when you decided that it was okay to leave like this was an expiration date. I got them when you threw me away.
I hate you, but I miss you, and I love you and it's not fair that you fed me poison when I fed you love. and I'm sorry that I fed you love when I should've fed you poison instead.
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After a fight, Napoleon more or less wants Illya to kiss everything better, but, of course, they have to work out some very unique misunderstandings first. Enjoy!
A/N: Help my friend? Iâve had this idea for a while but never had the excuse to write it, so thanks and a happy (belated) birthday to @el3anorrigbyworld !! <3
Evening falls as the three U.N.C.L.E agents rendezvous at a small, lesser-known bar after having split to shake off anybody whoâd decided to try and follow them from their primary recon location.
âBoys.â Gaby nods as she slides into the seat opposite where the two of them are sat, rather close together if she does say so herself, and smiles when they look up, Napoleon seemingly amused and Illya already on edge. âWhat can you possibly have done already?â
Napoleon nods his head to their left, feigning a cough. âThe group over there seem to recognise us from somewhere. I did warn you wearing the same outfits as yesterday would be a bad idea.â
âWe need to leave, soon as possible,â Illya mutters bluntly, quickly looking Gaby up and down. âYou are unhurt, yes?â
âYeah, Iâm fine. Iâll go get our car working and, in the meantime, why donât you boys give our stalkers a little show to satisfy them, hmm?â She smirks, standing up before they can answer.
Gabyâs only gone for a few seconds before Napoleon and Illya exchange a weary look and nod to one another, pushing their chairs back and cracking their knuckles, mutually agreeing to start this personal brawl for the sake of their teamâs reputation.
Both of them whirl around each other when the other gang surrounds them and initiates the fight, leaning on one another when they need and using each other as support. They even manage to trade a small smile at one point, then replacing the expression with ire once more, their fists flying.
They dive into the fight and stop focusing on each other so much until one of the other men somehow gets the upper hand on Napoleon and he crashes down onto a table, breaking the wood and groaning as he does. Of course, he rolls over and jumps up immediately, but even Illya, whoâs juggling half a dozen angry men, can tell that Napoleon has slowed down considerably, his blows weaker than before.
When he goes down again, this time staying down, Illya's eyes roar as he sees red and he all but growls at the remaining men before lashing out ferociously, the previously overconfident gang either falling to the floor or fleeing to the exits.
"Back off!" Illya snaps at the bartender, putting himself in between the curious man and Napoleon, then kneels down. "Napoleon?"
Napoleon peers up at Illya, blinking awkwardly as blood runs into one eye.
"Are you hurt?" Illya methodically runs his fingers along Napoleon's jaw when he receives no answer, checking for breaks. âWhere is your irritating voice, Cowboy?â
Napoleon bats Illyâs hands away, shifting his weight so he can sit up properly, wincing minimally. âHands to yourself, Peril, I wonât be brought down by some amateur boxers and a table.â
âThat is not what blood on your shirt says,â Illya mutters pointedly, pressing his hand to Napoleonâs side and frowning when he receives a soft hiss of pain.
Still, Napoleon shakes his head, clearing his throat. âOkay so I might have gotten some sort of splinter?â he admits, grinning sheepishly, moving to try and stand up.
The fact that he doesnât resist when Illya puts an arm around him or when he helps steady him says a lot, but Illya doesnât make a comment, knowing that Napoleon would not appreciate it right now.
The two of them make their way to the car that had been left outside the bar for their getaway, where Gaby rolls her eyes at them but sighs when she sees the red seeping into Napoleonâs shirt. âGet him to the hotel, Iâll sort this out.â
âReally, Iâm-â Napoleon starts.
âNobody was talking to you,â Gaby interrupts, glaring at him, âIllya, donât leave him unsupervised, Iâm now almost sure the guys you just fought with have men stationed at the hotel.â
âUnderstood,â Illya replies, pulling Napoleon to the other side of the car and gently placing him on the seat, waiting until he settles before quietly closing the door, a contrast to the way he usually slams car doors shut as if theyâd all personally assassinated his loved ones.
Gaby, of course, notices this change and raises a knowing eyebrow at him but doesnât give him time to process it, waving a hand before marching into the bar, rolling up her gloves and painting a confident smirk on her face.
âEyes open, Cowboy!â Illya barks as he starts driving, noticing how Napoleon seems to have drifted into sleep. He frowns at himself; he hadnât noticed the injury being that bad.
âStop fretting, Iâm fine, see?â Napoleon smirks, nudging Illyaâs arm.
He is fine, sure, but he wonât be for much longer unless they find a way to stop the bleeding with a more reliable method than his own shaky, bruised hands.
Gritting his teeth, Illya presses his foot down and speeds up, not caring about the lecture heâs sure to receive from Waverly about standing out later, twisting and turning around other cars, occasionally driving on the wrong side of the road, until they reach the hotel, where he parks - or rather, stops the car at a random empty spot - and glances at Napoleon.
âNice driving,â said spy mutters, looking a little pale under the light of the obnoxious hotel sign.
Illya says nothing, getting the two of them out of the car and leading Napoleon into the lobby, nodding at the incompetent receptionist before navigating his way to their room, his grip on Napoleonâs waist basically the only thing keeping him upright.
âWould be nicer if you had been better fighter,â Illya comments absently, focusing on unlocking the door with one hand and getting it to shut behind them without leaving suspicious bloodstains anywhere.
Napoleon gasps as they stumble into the centre of the room but still manages to shake his head and argues: âGabyâs the one who told us to fight them!â
Then his knees are buckling underneath him and strong, steady hands are around his arms, holding him up, keeping him stable. It takes him a minute to realise that his head is spinning, not the room, and he practically sags into Illyaâs comforting, cool touch before shaking his head, trying to shake himself out of his thoughts.
Theyâre moving and one of the hands is gone before something is pressed against Napoleonâs lips and he opens his mouth without thinking, trusting the gentle voice telling him to swallow and promising freedom from the pain shooting out of his side.
Napoleon only finds the strength to stand on his own when Illya replaces the glass of water on the table, but his head feels a little fuzzy and he has to blink to clear his vision again, keeping a hand on Illyaâs arm just in case.
Neither of them moves when Napoleon stares up at Illya, when he looks into Illyaâs concerned eyes with a childlike wonder, or when Illya finds him staring back, admiring the way his partnerâs eyes look so much softer, so much more dazzling than usual for one reason or the other. Silence hangs above them like a stormcloud for much longer than it ever has before Illya clears his throat. âCan you walk?â
âMaybe,â Napoleon answers honestly, his voice hoarse, his eyes unblinking as he watches the way Illyaâs forehead crinkles.
âWhat is it, Cowboy? I have something on my face?â Illya asks, trying to figure out why he is suddenly so afraid of Napoleonâs potential scrutiny.
Dimly aware that heâd been given painkillers that are obviously taking an effect, but ignoring the fact, Napoleon shrugs. âI wish it was my faceâŚâ
Illya blinks, startled. âWhat?â
Confidence surges through Napoleon and he wobbles closer to Illya, inhaling the scent of copper and lavender and warmth. âPeril, will you do something for me?â
He might usually have rolled his eyes but thereâs something both attractive and amusing about Napoleon right now - or maybe itâs always there and heâs never given himself an excuse to look - so he just nods, raising an eyebrow.
âKiss me?â Napoleonâs voice is quiet but smooth, free of his usual arrogance and full of hope, sincerity, and something deeper, something Illya cannot yet name.
Illya frowns, cocking his head at Napoleon, wondering why heâd ask something like that when they were clearly sharing what Gaby would definitely call âa momentâ but chalking it up to the drugs currently running through his veins.
Despite what might be heavy disappointment settling in his gut, he steps back, surprised when Napoleon stumbles as he hadnât realised how close theyâd been, and widens his stance, taking in his partnerâs position and how much force it would take, figuring that the pain must have suddenly gotten much worse for him.
Too late, Napoleon notices that Illya has moved away and is doing the opposite of what heâd wanted. He has to push past the painful rejection thrown at him to realise that he should probably say something more, act upon his request to help it be fulfilled, but, as soon as he opens his mouth, thereâs a sharp but muted pain in his head and the worldâs going black.
He doesnât feel Illya catch him before he hits the floor and then gently carry him to the bed, tucking him in as if he were a child to be protected; he doesnât hear how Illya mutters to himself about stupid tables and drugs making everything more confusing; and he doesnât see how maddeningly fast Illya paces along the room, occasionally glancing to Napoleon to see if heâs comfortable, wringing his hands as he does.
He does, however, wake up with a soft hiss of both pain and confusion.
Within seconds, Illya is there, sitting beside him, placing a hand on his forehead, checking for a temperature as if he hadnât done that before, as soon as Napoleon had slightly stirred.
Napoleon sucks in a breath, only mildly shocked when he feels the familiar pull of a bandage around his middle; itâs not like they havenât fixed each other up before. Still, it somehow feels different this time, slightly more personal.
âIllya? What- Wait, did you seriously knock me out?â Napoleon asks incredulously.
Frowning yet again, Illya nods briskly. âThat is what you asked of me.â
Groaning, Napoleon pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. âWhy on earth would I have asked you to do that?â
Illya shrugs, having asked himself the same thing at least a dozen times, simply waiting for Napoleon to crack a grin and explain himself. When he doesnât, Illya squints at him, noticing the look of hurt in his eyes.
âAre you still in pain?â
Napoleon lets out a bitter laugh and hesitantly takes Illyaâs hand, stroking the rough skin with his thumb. He lifts his gaze to Illyaâs eyes, sitting up a little better. âI really donât think you understood what I meant.â
Illya shakes his head. âYou were in pain and asked me for the kiss. That is what I gave.â
Shifting so heâs facing Illya, Napoleon swallows. âNo, no, I didnât ask you for the kiss. Peril, I- I asked you to kiss me,â he says gently.
âWhat is difference?â Illya asks, shrugging slightly, still not getting it.
Instead of saying anything, Napoleon uses his grip on Illyaâs hand to pull them closer together, and, using that momentum, presses their lips together, softly but firmly, stealing Illyaâs breath away.
The contact between them, as small as it is, sends ripples of electricity - the good kind, not the torture kind - along his skin and he shivers, his eyes sliding shut despite having wanted to see Illyaâs reaction.
He doesnât feel Illya reciprocate so he pulls back, guilty, averting his eyes as he bites his lip, pushing down the hint of euphoria that heâd felt. âIâm sorry, I thought-â he mumbles, shuffling back, hoping this wonât affect their missions, even if their friendship is ruined.
âThat was not kiss,â Illya remarks eventually, his voice hard and oddly hollow, as if heâs not truly paying attention to whatâs happening. He pauses and Napoleon feels downright shameful - hating the idea of exploiting Illya, wishing heâd never done anything - but then a small smirk plays on his lips and he moves further onto the bed, killing the space between them, adding a hushed: âThis is kiss.â
And, before Napoleon can ready himself to be knocked out again, or worse, thereâs a hand cupping the side of his face, another wrapped around his waist to keep him steady, and a kind pair of lips connected to his, pushing harder than he had previously, as if fighting to prove something.
He gasps, leaning into it without thinking, one of his hands reaching around Illyaâs neck as his eyes close again, a small yelp escaping him as Illya carefully bites down on his bottom lip, the taste of mint and surprise and smug love overwhelming his other senses.
Breathing is a task and a half when they break apart, both equally as flushed, letting their foreheads touch as they smile, free of confusion and full of relief, panting, relishing in the feeling of being so close, so intimately close, to one another.
âYouâre right,â Napoleon admits, his voice still shaky, âthat was definitely a better kiss.â
They leave the pending conversation about the next level of their relationship to later, choosing instead to just lean against the headboard with their arms around each other, Napoleon practically curled into Illyaâs side because Illya refuses to let him pull his stitches for the sake of cuddling.
And, when Illya plants a soft kiss on his forehead, forget his skin, Napoleonâs entire soul feels kissed.
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