Addiction (слэш)

Slowly, Napoleon sat up. His cellmate was surprisingly young, possibly in his early twenties at the very most, rangy, with long arms and legs, his blonde hair cut short, almost to the skull. His blue eyes were narrowed in suspicion, his mouth flattened into a sharp line, and he was dressed in a filthy thin undershirt that had once been white, and a pair of BDU pants that were caked with dried blood on the right thigh. He was also quite possibly the most beautiful young man Napoleon had ever seen, and for a moment Napoleon thought that perhaps he’d had a harder knock to the head from the smugglers than he had thought.
His cellmate looked Napoleon slowly over - the dusty, stained suit that was probably by now unsalvageable, the shirt with the top button ripped off, tie long missing, the cufflinks, the polished shoes, now mud-caked, and started to frown. “You are the American contact?” he asked quietly, in a thick Russian accent.