Chapped. Sunburnt. Split.

Napoleon couldn't resist Illya's lips irregardless of condition. They'd kissed despite broken jaws, his and Illya's, stitches and concentrated capsicum.

They'd kissed at low ebb and at high, when death's victory seemed near and after cheating Charon of his fare. In need, in greeting, comfort, passion.

Love.

Napoleon dipped in for a soft press, whisper brush of lips.

Illya caught Napoleon by the nape and pressed his advantage of surprise to plunder his partners's mouth. Just as Napoleon needed to breath, he was pushed away.

"We must go." Illya got up, dressed.

Even past death he'd follow.