"Excuse me." Arkady rushes out of the room, not too careful about slamming the door behind his back, which he does. A dozen men sit up straight around the table of the conference room, as stiffly as the cloth of their perfectly-ironed uniforms; they watch him leave in bafflement, keenly concealed.
Arkady runs down the hallway, heart swollen with worry and bumping against his sternum with his every step, like a minor inconvenience. He follows the concretes walls of the KBG headquarters, taking a turn to the left, one to the right, almost knocking over a bust of Lenin, the newly-hired secretary with her stack of classified documents, a fake plastic plant. "Agent Kuryakin", he whispers to himself, in-between skipped breaths.
Illya leans on the sink, hands down on it, holding tight its edges as if to bend the corners back together. He squeezes the porcelain under his fingers but he's shaking. If he could put things into focus at all, he's sure the whole restroom would look ruby red in his eyes – perhaps less red than the Soviet flag, but sure as hell redder than the Red Army, because they only wear brown anyway. As red as the rivers of blood spilled in the name of Freedom, Unity, Solidarity. His mother's blood, his father's blood. The stripes scarring the American flag. The lips of the woman he hasn't seen in over fifteen years. Gabrielle Teller – except no one would tell him where she was, not until today. As soon as the KGB had known about his feelings for her, "taking in consideration your sentimental history" they said, "considering the crucial condition of your mental stability" they repeated – it was not convenient for them to meet again. The KGB did everything in their power to keep them away, and power was not something they lacked of. They kept Illya busy, distracted. They sent him around the world, just not as part of U.N.C.L.E. The operation had re-adjusted, transformed; it had been absorbed, re-integrated. But Illya had tried to look around for her anyway. He had looked for her from Japan, Korea, Hawaii. He had searched in London, New York, Berlin. When they sent him back to Berlin, he felt like dying. He took time off from the operation to sneak around, craft delicate diversives just for an ounce of information to slip into his pocket. Like sand, dust, gun-powder. Useless, for no reason at all. But today, after almost two decades, he knows he can give up his search.
"Our British correspondence ceased communication after their recent loss. Teller, Gabrielle, was in the Aircraft Accident reported from Cuba last Thursday. We have to wait for new instructions. They'll introduce their new Agent to us once they identify him. Meanwhile, we better focus on the American Coast front."
The words still echo inside Illya's head, his ears ringing, throbbing. He had left the room without even parting his lips. Heads had turned in his direction, "Agent Kuryakin, we're not over yet!"
He had opted for the restroom because there is nothing to break here. He raises his head, loosens the grip on the white stone of the sink. Illya looks in the mirror, but can't see himself. The room is a blur, he can't tell if it's his eyes, tears, his head, thoughts. Nerves buzzing madly. He starts walking away from the silver glass, shoulders bumping into a stall. His heart is beating everywhere under his skin; he holds it with two hands around his temples, and lets his back slide down the stall-door, sitting down on the tiles of this room of sorrows.
Something screams inside him, and he lets it resonate. The loud richness of his pain, anger, frustration, seems to give Illya enough strength to stand up again, though unsteadily. Then, in a glimpse of sick lucidity, he catches his own eye in the mirror, and launches himself towards it. The glass shatters under his skin, skin breaking in warm and fluid revelations of color. Red, more red. He moves on to the next sink.
"Agent Kuryakin!" Arkady was sure he would have found Kuryakin here, but he had no idea he would have found him like this. He shuts the door and runs to the end of the restroom towards the older man, fists all bloodied up, a loosened black tie, some shirt buttons popped off, hair damp around his temples, fighting his own reflections. Shards all around, and counting. Illya ignores Arkady, the third mirror doesn't get spared – and three other to go. Arkady hesitates for a moment, stopping just two steps away from Illya; time and space enough to swallow, and he goes for it. Arkady places a hand on Illya's arm, midway to his elbow. More of a touch than a firm clasp. Illya shakes it off like it's nothing, rage still boiling in his blood, muscles probably steaming. Arkady backs off.
"Agent!" As Illya aims to the next mirror to smash, Arkady almost leaps to his back, a grotesque and desperate embrace. Illya struggles with Arkady's arms across his chest, the younger man pulling him in the opposite direction that his mind has chosen. Illya tries to break free, but Arkady is tenacious. Illya opts for going with the flow, slamming Arkady backwards into the stall door. He hears a groan. Only then, Arkady lets go. Illya turns around, fists up and grabbing at Arkady's shirt. He's not wearing an uniform, he's taking after him – a spy should dress smart, KGB or not. Dress shirt, black jacket and tie. Their faces are close enough for Illya to look into the younger man's eyes. Round, blue, almost innocent. He sees concern there, but not for his actual fighting conditions; he has the questioning eyes of a sincere man, someone who's been through some harsh winters, and that's a fact. Somehow, Illya's fists tighten around the cloth.
Arkady thinks that he would have never touched his father like this, not even to save his life. As a matter of fact, he would rather see his father destroy himself then stretch a muscle for him. Illya's fists are almost choking him but his gaze – he's almost sure he can hold that, as hard and piercing as it is. Arkady feels his face flushing and getting cyanotic at once. He struggles with his thorax, arms limp along the sides of his body. Arkady wonders if self-defense after a potentially life-saving intervention is an actual excuse to hit his KGB mentor.
"Renko." Illya hears himself say as he lets go of his trainee, both hands sliding down and going flat on Arkady's white shirt, as if to check everything is in place inside his chest. He lets them rest there as he realizes what has just happened. They're not shaking anymore, just rising and falling slightly with Arkady's accelerated breathing. Illya's ears stop ringing, he breaks eye-contact, turns his head away and draws back from him.
Arkady looks down at his shirt, a wet mess of red and white. He must look ridiculous and he could probably check for it in the wall in front of him, if the mirrors on it weren't on the floor instead, silver confetti in a celebration of unrepairable loss and regret. He doesn't feel ridiculous though, he feels fine.
Illya turns around to look at him too. Suddenly, he remembers the last time someone did something like that for him – jumping in mid-fight, a fight that with him, inside him, was lost from minute number one. That was Gaby, Gabriella, and now she is gone. This new thought, freshly processed, is enough to bend him in two. He feels his knees give in, and next he's crouching on the floor, hand clasping at his stomach.
Arkady rushes to him, crouching to Illya's level, holding in place both his shoulder, but lightly. He'd like to shake, but he can't find the courage to do so. Illya is looking down to the floor and the glass. "Agent Kuryakin, what's wrong? Talk to me, please. Agent!"
"Gabriella." That's all Illya can say. He thinks he's crying, but his eyes and cheekbones feel dry. He feels so dry and he's in so much pain that he could break. Crack open like the face of the desert.
Arkady moves his hands up to Illya's neck, pressing his thumbs just above his hyoid bone, just enough for Illya to arch his head up again, and face Arkady. This man in front of him, early fifties, handsome, strong, tall, his mentor, his surrogate father, the one who taught him all the knows about being a spy, the KGB's best – he feels malleable under his touch, and it's heart-breaking. Arkady cups Illya's face in his hands, framing his hard cheekbones, his light skin. His gaze isn't glum, but it's painful to hold this time; it isn't dangerous anymore, and it's the first time Arkady feels threatened by something after a long time. Illya's eyes are hollow, but somewhat serene. Arkady holds his face firmer, thumbs almost pulling back the skin around the bone.
For what feels like an eternity, none of them speaks. Then Illya leans closer, and rests his face on the younger man's shoulder.