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Water, and heat, and soap, and frenzy, and Illya, Napoleon could almost taste him if he closed his eyes and pretended his own tongue sliding past his lips was his partner's, his lover's.
He had the water on about two notches too hot, and the room was filled with steam that cast a thick fog across the mirror. Through the shower door, Napoleon caught his own blurred reflection in it, and in the haze he studied his own brightly visible, swollen lips, his mussed and soaking hair. He watched drops of scalding liquid run down his abdomen, prickling the nerves under every bit of skin in their wake. The shower head was on massage mode and when he leaned forward, it hit the small of his back just so, but if arched upright, it raked his shoulder blades loose and Napoleon couldn't decide which was more enticing.
His mind drifted continually to Illya, to Illya in Moscow, so far away from him, to Illya with his hands and with his mouth and with his promises. To what Illya would be doing if he were here, with Napoleon all loose and clean and sleepy.
Tonight he'd be back. Just a few more hours of this, of suffering and imagining, and then -
Napoleon gasped as his left hand wandered absently to his hardening cock, gripping and tugging with soapy water to slick the way while his right steadied him against the shower wall. He wanted so badly to finish this quickly, had been so on-edge since the video call with Illya last night. But he thought of how good it felt to remain on that precipice, and how sweetly Illya would indulge him soon, and as his body swayed of its own accord he told himself to savor the feeling and the pursuit of orgasm became a passing thought.
He continued to explore himself, leaning back against the wall and letting the hot mist hit his chest as he gently worked his leaking cock, never settling into much of a pattern. The only sounds in the bathroom were that of the water bouncing off the stone tile and Napoleon's own rapidly shallowing gasps. He struggled to catch his breath again and again, stopping every few minutes to halt his body's natural climb. During one such tolerance break when just moments before he had really thought that he might lose control, the comedown was going especially rough, as he had let himself think of Illya there in front of him, kissing and nipping his neck and jaw, murmuring to him promises of how the reward would be so much sweeter in the end – in his beautiful Russian, of course.
He flexed his fists, dug his nails into his palm, trying not to imagine Illya's breath against his ear, his lips on his clavicle, his wet index finger massaging the space behind his balls. It was so hot, Napoleon realised suddenly, and was that purely the shower? He felt feverish, weak, as if he could have only crawled out of the shower to the bed and waited for Illya there. But then – a surge of color through the world that was rapidly fading around him, and just as he had resigned to giving himself over to the feeling, Napoleon imagined his partner's slender hand around the base of his cock, squeezing to temper his climax, and he found himself carrying it out in Illya's place. Finally deciding he wouldn't be able to keep up this game for so many hours, he turned off the tap, patting himself dry and running his fingers through his hair as he wondered which of the hotel's television stations could be considered the most asexual. He glanced at his razor and shave cream but ultimately didn't trust himself – he still felt a bit dizzy. Kuryakin would have to deal with five o'clock shadow.
Perhaps some kind of WWI documentary, he mused.