The drapes were drawn and tied closed, blocking out the bright lights of the city. With the windows closed, the bulletproof glass was more than enough to dim the sounds of strangers revelry to a near inaudible roar. Within the apartment, the lights were off, the only illumination the warm flicker of firelight.

Napoleon the kitchen, a filled champagne flute in either hand, and savored the slowly increasing warmth of the fire on his bare skin as he approached. He skirted the end of the couch and paused. Illya looked up at him, blue eyes a little sleepy, and opened the blanket he'd wrapped around his body.

Half an eye on the champagne, Napoleon accepted the silent invitation and tucked himself in next to his lover. He put his arm around Illya's shoulder and slipped the glass into his right hand, waiting a moment to make sure Illya had a grip on it. Then he let his hand slide down and settle around Illya's waist.

"So?" Illya demanded, tendering a slidelong glance.

Napoleon met the look and chuckled softly. "Okay, I concede," he saluted Illya with the champagne flute. "It was definitely a good idea to spend New Year's in this year."

Illya nodded in satisfaction. "What time is it?"

"Five to twelve," Napoleon answered, sipping his champagne. Illya frowned and tossed back half his drink in one gulp. Setting the flute aside, Napoleon put his other arm around Illya and tugged him closer until Illya simply settled into his lap. "There's no reason we have to wait until midnight," Napoleon murmured, kissing Illya briefly, "as long as we don't stop."

Illya grinned brilliantly for an instant and set about returning the kiss. At length.

Midnight wasn't a problem.

--End--