He'd told Napoleon he was going for an after dinner walk and would be back to their shared hotel room in no time at all.
Solo offered to go with him but the look Kuryakin flashed him was a cautionary one. Illya wanted to be alone.
He'd been surprisingly quiet during their meal at the hotel restaurant. Despite the fact it was a somewhat celebratory repast on their part; their mission to prevent some rogue THRUSH agents from breaking into a local bank vault was a successful one.
The goons were temporarily handed over to the local FBI who would hold them until an UNCLE Security team could arrive.
Once security got them, it meant a prolonged interrogation and then permanent residency in Tartarus, the UNCLE prison facility located in Antarctica.
Napoleon knew something was bugging his partner, but knowing Illya he wouldn't fess up to what it was. Better to let him take his walk and get whatever it was out of his system.
The only thing Napoleon said was,"Bundle up tovarisch, it supposed to snow again."
Illya smirked; he could have made a smart remark but decided it wasn't worth the effort.
As he stepped outside, it was indeed snowing. Illya turned up the collar on his wool pea coat and crossed the street to the local park that also served as a zoo. It wasn't a very big one, and had only a few exhibits.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, but not having on a hat or boots didn't bother him; after all, he'd grown up in Moskva. This little snow here was nothing compared to what fell during winter back home.
Home. Why did he call it that? Before he became an UNCLE agent, Moskva was where he lived when not on assignment as an agent of GRU, but home, it was never that. New York had become more that to him than Moskva had ever been.
His real home had once been a little red dacha that no longer existed back in Kyiv, where he was born. It was Ukraine, though his ethnicity was Russian, not that it really mattered. Ukraine had been absorbed into the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, with Stalin attempting to eradicate the Ukrainian culture and language but most of all, its people. Still they endured.
He stopped walking for a moment and watched the seals in their enclosure, diving into the water and playing with each other. They'd be brought indoors soon, do doubt.
As he continued on, he paused at the polar bear enclosure; a lone animal was in its glory playing in the snow. Moments later a keeper called the beast inside with the offer of fish, and that as they say was that.
Seeing the animals momentarily drew Illya out of his funk, but then as he stood beneath an archway watching the snowfall...he finally lost it.
Illya let out a sob, and tears trickled down his cheeks as he grabbed the cold stone column with his hand to support himself.
He felt so very much alone, though he really wasn't. He had a best friend in Solo; Napoleon was the closest thing to family he'd had in a very long time.
"Family"...that word cut into him like a sharp icicle.
Today would have been his older brother's birthday. It pained Illya that he didn't know how old Dimitry would have been. He berated himself as he felt it was something he should have known...
He knew their father's age, and their baby sister Katiya's, but mama, the twins and his older brother Dimitry...their ages, he just wasn't sure. Such things were not of importance to a child.
He'd lost his family when was not quite nine years old...Katiya, the last to die, was only six. *
Illya stood, watching the snow slowly fall as he wiped back the tears. He adored his brother and wanted to be just like him; in a way he was, using the many skills taught him by Dimitry helped make him be a successful UNCLE agent.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks with the heels of his hands, then for extra measure with the sleeve of his coat.
"S Dnem skuchayu po tebe," he spoke aloud in Russian.
"And whose birthday is that tovarisch?" Napoleon spoke from behind him.
"I told you I would be back shortly."
"I decided I needed an after dinner walk myself and I didn't mean to eavesdrop; I just heard you wishing a happy birthday."
Illya sighed. He didn't want to be rude and supposed he should tell him.
"Today would have been my older brother's birthday."
"Would have been? I didn't know you had a brother."
"There is a lot you do not know about me."
"True, but I'm all ears if you feel like talking." Solo gave it a shot, fully expecting Illya's answer to be 'no'. This time it wasn't.
"Napoleon I am feeling upset as I do not know how old he would have been. I was barely nine when Dimitry was killed by the Germans, but in those days a person's age was not of importance unless it was your own."Illya stuttered," I...I am having trouble remembering what he looked like. It has been so long and I have no photograph of him, or the rest of my family for that matter."
"I apologize, I didn't mean to intrude."
Illya sighed, "You know the snow reminds me of him. He...we used to make snowmen and have snowball fights. When we would come inside from being outside in the snow, steam would rise from us as it was so cold. Once Dimitry made a sled for me out of some old wood, and after tying a rope to it, he would pull me round on it...that was before he went away to fight with the partisans along with our father. After that Dimi became very serious and stopped laughing. My father brought me too later on to help."
Illya paused, taking a deep breath. "My brother was killed by the Nazis in the forest of Bykivnia along with our father, my Uncle Vanya, cousin Anastasiya as well as the rest of my extended Roma family." *
"Your brother had to be pretty young Illya and war will change anyone."
"That is true. I have my own scars from it."
Napoleon knew not to try to open that door. " Why don't you come back to the hotel bar with me. We'll toast to your brother's birthday and you can tell me more stories about him. Maybe talking about him will help you to see him again."
"Perhaps." Illya turned with his partner, heading back across the street.
Once inside the bar they warmed up with a hot toddy and as Illya relaxed; he regaled Napoleon with stories of Dimitry Nickovich Kuryakin, eldest son of Nickolaí Alexeivich and grandson of Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin; together the American and the Russian toasted to them into the night.
It was as if Illya had a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. He'd never spoken anyone about his family, though he still held back much as a matter of habit. He'd been taught that the less a person knew about you the longer you would live. Still, the happy memories of Dimitry poured out of Illya like vodka from a bottle. At last he could see his brother's face again, and that made him immensely happy.
Quite a few drinks later they called it a night, and once back in their shared hotel room, Illya passed out in his bed.
Napoleon pulled off his partner's shoes and clothes, tucking him in as he drew a blanket over the sleeping man. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, nor probably the last.
Solo quietly picked up the telephone receiver as he sat on his own bed while making a long distance phone call to Rome.
"Pronto," a familiar voice answered in Italian.
"Hannibal?" Napoleon asked.
"Napoleon, you do know it's three in the morning here… wait, is everything all right?"
"Fine, everything's fine."
"Then may I ask big brother, why the call?"
"I just needed to hear your voice…"
.
.
.
* ref to "Beginnings"