Illya Kuryakin cast small, furtive glances at Napoleon Solo, strolling beside him. Oh, yes. Napoleon still had that boyish charm and that cocksure attitude which he had seen in his partner when they first met. Granted, that magnificent dark hair was grey now. Naturally, Napoleon had gained a few pounds. Illya looked down, scrutinized Napoleon’s waist, and almost stopped walking. Luckily, Illya almost snickered; he regained his composure fast and only missed a step. So, make those pounds more than a few. It didn’t matter. Napoleon’s presence was as strong as ever.

 

“Illya?” Napoleon touched his arm. “What?”

 

“Nothing, Napoleon, it is nothing.” It would not do to attack Napoleon’s vanity. Then they would never leave the apartment; Napoleon spent enough time in front of the mirror as it was.

 

“I was thinking, Polya, what if we take that detour through the park?”

 

“The reservation is for eight, as long as we are in time for that.” Napoleon trailed his fingers down his sleeve and took his hand. It felt warm and sure in his.

 

Some things had changed for the better, Illya mused. They, two old men, could hold hands while out in the streets. Nobody took notice. He looked around him; young people everywhere, running on roller skates or biking, some of them jogging.

 

“What is occupying your mind, Illya?” Napoleon tapped his forehead in that rather annoying way of his.

 

“Hm. I was thinking about all the electronic equipment young people carry nowadays, Napoleon. Things we wouldn’t have dreamed of. CD players, digital cameras, mobile telephones…”

 

“We had mobile telephones!” Napoleon sounded almost indignant.

 

“Disguised as pens and cigarette-packs. The last is not very politically correct these days, moi drog.” Illya smiled a little, feeling irrationally sentimental. “They didn’t have many frequencies either.”

 

Napoleon squeezed his hand. “Nah, only the important ones. You. Waverly. Backup.”

 

They reached their usual bench, chosen for its seclusion and view. “I am glad you found my number important, Napoleon, but those were work calls.”

 

“Well, was there anything else for us back then?” Napoleon sighed and sat down, Illya knew his leg, the one with the old knife wound, was bothering him.

 

“I should hope so, Napoleon. We had a life of our own.” At least after the first years, when they hade been only work partners.

 

“Yes, you’re right as usual, Illya. After all, that’s what we’re celebrating today, isn’t it?” Napoleon smiled at him, that affectionate, lopsided one Illya loved so well.

 

Unexpectedly, Illya felt the need to blink with his eyes. Stupid Russian sentimentality.

 

“Illya!” Napoleon’s arms were as strong as ever around him.

 

“I can not help thinking these forty years have passed too fast, Napoleon. I am so selfish I  want more.”

 

“And you’ll get more. I promise. Haven’t we both retired now? Why so gloomy, my beautiful  partner?” Illya could feel Napoleon’s chuckle. “Or rather, why so gloomy, now?”

 

And why indeed? They had time yet. “Just a moment of realising how old we are, Napoleon. I’m over it now, and I will not bring it up again until we’ve reached eighty.”

 

“Ah. But till then…” And Napoleon leaned over and kissed him, just like that. And just like in their youth, it was good, so good. Illya couldn’t help but respond, while a part of his brain, which he ignored, screamed public indecency, and filthy old men. But he was happy they could do this, that they still felt passion flow between them. Actually, he marvelled as he drew back from Napoleon’s hot mouth, it had never diminished over the years.

 

He put a finger on Napoleon’s lips before he could voice his displeasure at being interrupted in the middle of just that - - their passion. “Ssh, Napoleon. I wanted to give you something. Today.” Illya fumbled in his jacket pocket. Was this silly? Perhaps he should not…

 

“Illya? I haven’t bought you something. I thought we agreed.”

 

“This is something else, Napoleon. It is yours, I believe.” Hesitantly, he handed over the small black book he had saved for nearly four decades.

 

Napoleon opened his mouth, but for once he appeared out of words.

 

“Here, Napoleon. Here is my favourite page.” Illya curled his hands over Napoleon’s white-knuckled ones, gently thumbing the book, past female names, corresponding telephone numbers and dates, till finally it opened on a worn page. The last page showing Napoleon’s distinct hand-writing.

 

It was torn in the corners and crinkly with use.

 

“Illya, I…Illya.” Napoleon was kissing him again, kissing and hugging, making those sounds Illya wanted to hear, all the time clutching the book; the symbol of their faithfulness, in his hand.

 

 The page read:

 Name:Illya Kuryakin

 

 Date: 10.10.65

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