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Summary
Napoleon peels his eyes open and cranes his neck up off the floor. Laying atop him, curled up like a cat, is a blond man. Both their arms are folded up and tucked together between their chests, presumably for warmth, and the offending poke at his collarbone is none other than the man’s chin nestling at the crook of his neck.
“Oh. You’re not dead,” the warm weight says. “That’s good.” The words, muffled but surprisingly forceful, rattle against his shoulder.
(Or, Illya and Napoleon meet as two very young men in a very cold prison.)
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