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section7mfuIllya Kuryakin stared at the pile of envelopes in the middle of his desk. Every year, he received dozens of Christmas cards, yet he’d never sent one himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Christmas, he just didn’t see the point in giving a card to someone he saw every day. However, he always thanked each sender in person, because he was actually glad to be included. When he’d first arrived, they simply saw him as the godless communist who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Admittedly, that was true, but he soon started celebrating his own version. He may not be religious, but the idea of embracing family, friends, happiness and health were universal.
“Are you trying to open them by the power of thought alone?” asked Napoleon Solo, from the other side of their shared office.
Illya looked over to him, confused, before realising what he had said.
“I was just thinking about what Christmas means to me.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“That it has been too long a day for questions that deep,” the Russian replied, picking up the first envelope.
Halfway through the pile, the picture on one of the cards caused him to gasp, as an unbidden memory burst from the depths of his mind. The image was of a frosty footbridge spanning an icy river, the banks lined with snow-laden trees.
~“Illya, wait! My Papa says the bridge is too dangerous.”
“What would your Papa know, Pashka?”
“He told me it will break soon, don’t jump on it.”
“You’re a coward Pashka. You’re a little baby, too scared to have any fun.”~
“Illya, what’s wrong. Illya!”
“It’s nothing,” the Russian replied, as he snapped back to the present. “Just a memory.”
“Want to share?”
“No. Thank you. I think it’s time to head home. I’m sure there’s a bottle in my freezer calling my name.”
“Seek, and you shall find, Tovarsich,” Napoleon quipped.
“You are welcome to join me if your day is finished.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………...
Within an hour, the two agents were comfortably seated on Illya’s sofa, tucking into Chinese food. The Russian had a vodka to hand, while the American had a scotch. Napoleon was somewhat pleased to note that his partner had actually put a tree up this year. He’d always used the excuse that he was hardly there to see it, so why bother.
“So, are you going to tell me about that weird reaction to a Christmas card?”
Illya studied his partner and could easily read the tenacity in his eyes. He wasn’t going to stop asking, especially since alcohol was involved, so he would no doubt tell him anyway.
“When I was seven, my best friend was called Pashka. Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin. We’d decided we had to be best friends because both of our names ended in ‘kin’.
Napoleon smiled at the logic of seven year olds, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t often that Illya revealed his childhood, so he wasn’t about to derail his train of thought.
“One day, in the dead of winter, we went exploring through the woods,” Kuryakin continued. “We’d been warned not to because there were a lot of wolves, but children consider themselves immortal. If only that had been true. About a mile from home, there was a river with a wooden bridge crossing it. The bridge was old and the winter ice was causing it to break up. That didn’t stop me from jumping up and down on it. Pashka tried to warn me, but I called him a coward and shamed him into joining me. The bridge collapsed from beneath us and we both went into the water.”
Illya paused to take a swig of his vodka and refill the glass. Napoleon had a feeling he knew how the rest of the tale would go, but waited for his friend to continue. It was clear from the look on his face that Illya had buried this memory deep and hadn’t thought about it for a long time.
“The water was, quite literally, freezing,” he went on. “Even though the cold shocked me, I was close enough to the bank to reach safety. Pashka wasn’t so lucky. All I could do was watch as flow of the river took him away. They found his body two days later, seven miles downstream. I don’t think his mother ever forgave me for surviving. It turned out that surviving was the first thing I could do better than anyone else.”
Napoleon didn’t know what to say. He could offer sympathy or condolences, but after all this time they wouldn’t mean anything. He also knew that, no matter what he said, Illya would always carry the guilt of his friend’s death, whether it was warranted or not.
“Thank you,” he said, eventually.
“For what?” Illya asked him, confused by the words.
“For sharing your past,” Solo told him.
He held up his glass. “To the memory of Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin.”
Illya smiled and raised his own glass. “To Pashka.”
The End
“Are you trying to open them by the power of thought alone?” asked Napoleon Solo, from the other side of their shared office.
Illya looked over to him, confused, before realising what he had said.
“I was just thinking about what Christmas means to me.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“That it has been too long a day for questions that deep,” the Russian replied, picking up the first envelope.
Halfway through the pile, the picture on one of the cards caused him to gasp, as an unbidden memory burst from the depths of his mind. The image was of a frosty footbridge spanning an icy river, the banks lined with snow-laden trees.
~“Illya, wait! My Papa says the bridge is too dangerous.”
“What would your Papa know, Pashka?”
“He told me it will break soon, don’t jump on it.”
“You’re a coward Pashka. You’re a little baby, too scared to have any fun.”~
“Illya, what’s wrong. Illya!”
“It’s nothing,” the Russian replied, as he snapped back to the present. “Just a memory.”
“Want to share?”
“No. Thank you. I think it’s time to head home. I’m sure there’s a bottle in my freezer calling my name.”
“Seek, and you shall find, Tovarsich,” Napoleon quipped.
“You are welcome to join me if your day is finished.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………...
Within an hour, the two agents were comfortably seated on Illya’s sofa, tucking into Chinese food. The Russian had a vodka to hand, while the American had a scotch. Napoleon was somewhat pleased to note that his partner had actually put a tree up this year. He’d always used the excuse that he was hardly there to see it, so why bother.
“So, are you going to tell me about that weird reaction to a Christmas card?”
Illya studied his partner and could easily read the tenacity in his eyes. He wasn’t going to stop asking, especially since alcohol was involved, so he would no doubt tell him anyway.
“When I was seven, my best friend was called Pashka. Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin. We’d decided we had to be best friends because both of our names ended in ‘kin’.
Napoleon smiled at the logic of seven year olds, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t often that Illya revealed his childhood, so he wasn’t about to derail his train of thought.
“One day, in the dead of winter, we went exploring through the woods,” Kuryakin continued. “We’d been warned not to because there were a lot of wolves, but children consider themselves immortal. If only that had been true. About a mile from home, there was a river with a wooden bridge crossing it. The bridge was old and the winter ice was causing it to break up. That didn’t stop me from jumping up and down on it. Pashka tried to warn me, but I called him a coward and shamed him into joining me. The bridge collapsed from beneath us and we both went into the water.”
Illya paused to take a swig of his vodka and refill the glass. Napoleon had a feeling he knew how the rest of the tale would go, but waited for his friend to continue. It was clear from the look on his face that Illya had buried this memory deep and hadn’t thought about it for a long time.
“The water was, quite literally, freezing,” he went on. “Even though the cold shocked me, I was close enough to the bank to reach safety. Pashka wasn’t so lucky. All I could do was watch as flow of the river took him away. They found his body two days later, seven miles downstream. I don’t think his mother ever forgave me for surviving. It turned out that surviving was the first thing I could do better than anyone else.”
Napoleon didn’t know what to say. He could offer sympathy or condolences, but after all this time they wouldn’t mean anything. He also knew that, no matter what he said, Illya would always carry the guilt of his friend’s death, whether it was warranted or not.
“Thank you,” he said, eventually.
“For what?” Illya asked him, confused by the words.
“For sharing your past,” Solo told him.
He held up his glass. “To the memory of Pavel Vladimirovitch Utkin.”
Illya smiled and raised his own glass. “To Pashka.”
The End
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 09:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 09:30 pm (UTC)It very definitely wasn't what I was expecting either.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 11:17 pm (UTC)Nicely done.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-09 11:33 pm (UTC)I keep writing sad events from Illya's childhood. I really must try and give him a happy memory.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-10 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-10 08:21 am (UTC)Thank you for your very nice comment :-)
no subject
Date: 2014-12-10 05:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-10 08:22 am (UTC)I'm not sure how much more past sadness I can heap on poor IK.
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Date: 2014-12-10 01:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-05 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-06 08:40 am (UTC)I think that is why the memory was buried so deep.