section7mfu | "The Russian soul," for the Short Affair Challenge

I'm a bit late on this one, but as I always say, 'better late than never."

Challenge: Short Affair

-Prompt Word 1 - Pocket

-Prompt Word 2 – Appeal

-Prompt Colour – Brown

Author: mrua7

Title: “The Russian Soul"

Word Count:Approx. 630

The fall weather with the turning of the green leaves to orange, yellow and red were of great appeal to Illya Kuryakin.

Though he tended to clothe himself mostly in dark or muted colors, with the exception of grey suit and a couple of sports jackets, he still had an eye for color.

Given he was a spy and had to blend into the background for the most part, his plain clothing suited his work. The colors of the season suited his aesthetic.

His life and apartment were simple and lack luster but the beauty of nature brought a smile to his face.

There was something else the fall weather made him think of and that was the coming of winter, the chill in the air, snow and ice.

Ice meant skating at Bryant Park, that was a secret passion of the Russian, being able to glide along the ice unencumbered.

“What are you smiling at tovarisch?” Napoleon asked. They were walking side by side heading around the corner to Del Floria’s.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Illya the ever stoic Kuryakin never smiles at simply nothing,” Solo countered. “I know you well enough to be sure of that.”

“Well if you must know, I was enjoying the fall foliage; the colors are quite beautiful.”

“I agree, but since your favorite color...and don’t remind me it’s the absence of color, is black, I’m surprised you like fall.”

“Black is not my favorite, it is merely sensible, I can mix and match trousers, and jackets if something is damaged. If I have a sock that needs darning I need not to worry as I have plenty of other black socks. At least I do vary my wardrobe with different color ties for the most part as one needs a hint of color now and then.”

“Well that was a mouthful. I guess you put me in my place,” Napoleon shoved his hand into pants pocket and taking out his cigarette lighter. He was going to have a smoke before heading into headquarters but suddenly changed his mind as a pretty girl walked past, drawing his attention. As he watched her walk away he directed his attention back to his partner.

“You still didn’t answer me.”

“I did, I told you I was admiring the fall colors.”

“Then what’s your favorite color, tovarisch? Do you even have one?”

Illya stopped for a moment, pondering as he stood.

“I have not really thought about that before. I suppose I like a few colors, the bright blue of the sky on a cloudless day, the color of freshly grown grass and loamy brown color of earth as it is from which things will grow. I do like pink as it reminds me of…no, nevermind.”

“Illya?”

Kuryakin hesitated. “If you must know, it reminds me of my baby sister. I remember when she was born, she was such a tiny thing with fat pink cheeks and she was always cooing and gurgling.”

His mood suddenly changed.” I have said enough, and do not wish to talk further about that.”

“Sorry tovarisch. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not your fault. I do miss seeing her grow up, wondering what kind of person she would have become,” Ilya switched the topic back to the weather.” I do like the fall as I know winter will not be far behind with white snow, like innocence, covering the landscape.”

“You’re waxing a bit poetic today, aren’t you,” Napoleon smiled.

Illya half-smiled. “Under my window Tucked in the snow White birch retired Clad in silver glow. On the fluffy branches Snowy-trim with silver-tinge Melted around catkinsForming white fringe. Like golden fires Snow flakes blazed While birch stood still Asleep, or amazed. Meanwhile, lazily Strolling around, Dawn threw more “silver”On the twigs and ground.”

“Puskin?”

“Nyet, Sergei Yesenin. He is the most Russian and most peasant of poets,

They hopped down the steps to the entrance of the little tailor shop; the little brass bell tinkling its welcome as Kuryakin opened the door.

“I suppose I am feeling very Russian at the moment, waxing poetic is very much part of the Russian soul,”Illya then said," but now it is time for this Russian to come back to the real world,”he held it open for his partner,”after you my friend.”