Illya Kuryakin was glad to be home in his apartment. It wasn't anything special, but it was his alone. To know where he came from was to appreciate what that meant. It took him only a few minutes to undress and emerge from the bedroom in a pair of sweatpants.
The wind chimes hanging outside his neighbor's apartment were ringing in the breeze. It was those glass chimes, the kind you could buy in one of the new import stores. Tinkling glass… it really was a sound worth hearing, and as he settled down on his sofa the wind chimes were lulling him into a deep sleep.
Illya began to wake up, and he was impressed by his surroundings. The colors were so vivid, the scenery a thousand shades of green.
He didn't see anyone else, just a vast landscape that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. It was truly beautiful here, and peaceful. He didn't think he had ever been so at peace with himself and his surroundings. He was dressed in only a pair of loose fitting trousers, something out of an Arabian Nights story. For some reason it didn't bother him, they were comfortable enough.
''Where am I'', he mused to himself. He had no recollection of how he might have arrived in this place.
''You wished yourself here''… He heard the voice but still saw no one.
"Who are you? Where am I?" He was in danger of losing the peaceful feelings he so wanted to retain, but his nature was to find answers to the questions of life.
It was at that moment she appeared from seemingly nowhere. The woman whose voice he heard walked towards him, a diaphanous green dress swirling around her as she approached the disbelieving Russian.
She reached out her hand and touched his lips, shushing his comment as she did so. Illya was feeling like a disembodied creature, his mind merely an observer to this scene.
She was beautiful, a vision out of his own dreams of perfection.
"Are you pleased Illya?" The question stymied him for a moment, until he realized the answer.
"Yes, I am very pleased." She smiled, a coy and inviting smile that spoke of pleasures beyond, veiled in a manner both innocent and beguiling.
"Then I am also pleased. Come with me now Illya, take my hand." He did so, and as he touched her something inside of him lighted up like a thousand lanterns. His senses were on fire with a renewed awareness of his surroundings.
"This place, and you…?" The question hung between them, but still she only smiled. Very well, that would do for now.
Illya and the woman in green walked hand in hand, and as they did the scenery shifted from the beautiful countryside to which he had awakened, to the interior of a luxuriously appointed room. The view was of the place they had been, and yet he had no real sense of how they had come to be inside.
Illya's mind was battling with the sense of contentment he felt as his companion beckoned to him to sit on the chase lounge facing the window. The room was decorated in shades of white and beige, the walls adorned with murals of female images. His first thought was that Napoleon would fit into this place, but then he was brought back to the moment and to her.
This woman was everything he admired in a female. Somehow he knew this to be true, although they had barely spoken to each other.
" You imagined me and here I am, in this place that is also of your choosing."
That was impossible, this place was not something he would choose. It was …
"It is beautiful and finely crafted. That is what you admire moya lyubov'."
Illya looked at her with an intensity he usually reserved for interrogating THRUSH.
"You speak Russian?" She smiled and nodded.
"I do. You wished it to be so." She sat down on the chase and patted the spot next to her, inviting Illya to join her.
"What is your name? Did I also imagine that?" There was a tinge of impatience in his voice, the confusion of the situation beginning to affect his former calm and peaceful feelings.
"Celeste, it is the name you gave me. Do you not remember?" Suddenly Illya was back in Paris, playing piano with a small group of student musicians with whom he had become acquainted. And she was there, long brown hair and alabaster skin… Celeste.
"Celeste died. You cannot be her." A sob remained unspent as he recalled the moment he had learned of her death. She had been hit by a car, a hit and run that was never solved. Illya had loved her secretly, never bold enough to share his feelings with the ethereal singer whose voice had been like the delicate sound of bells ringing, crystal clear and effortless.
"Celeste has lived on in your memory of her, and now in me." As Illya looked at this girl, this other Celeste, he could sense her again; the fragrance she wore and the sound of her voice. With every passing second, every word spoken now by this Celeste, she was becoming the one of his youth.
"Celeste? Is it truly you?" Her hand covered his until their fingers were intwined. She leaned into him and kissed him, tenderly and then with a passion Illya was unable to resist.
In an instant the dress slid from her body into a puddle of delicate, sheer green silk, inviting him to touch what he had imagined might be his.
Celeste yielded to him willingly, gently sliding the band of his trousers down over Illya's hips and developing arousal. She touched him, fingering the sensitive parts as she kissed him.
Illya's hands roamed the body of the woman he had desired and lost. Now she was before him, open to him and willing him on with her kisses and her touch. He lowered her onto the chase, his mouth hungry for her as he lapped at her breasts; the taste of her almost like ripe berries to his tongue.
Celeste moaned her contentment as he covered her completely. The prelude was enough to satisfy them both, until at last Illya could wait no longer. He plunged completely into her, the desire of his youth no longer unrequited as all of his energy was spent into the unimaginable joy of being with Celeste, at long last.
Illya collapsed next to her, their bodies still entwined as their breathing settled into a rhythmic pattern. He wanted Celeste now more than ever, even forever if that were possible. This was a reality worth living, without apology for the luxury in which he found himself.
He wished to not be political, or relevant; he shouldn't have to save the world. He only wished at this moment to be happy.
"Are you?' Illya looked into her eyes, wondering that she seemed to read his mind.
"Are you happy?" Celeste had an unreadable expression on her face as she asked him.
"Yes, I am very happy. YA rah, ya vliublion." He kissed her, a deep and passionate kiss that told her again that he was in love.
Celeste returned the kiss until Illya fell back into a deep sleep. She looked at him then with affection mixed into the sorrow she felt. In an instant she was dressed in the green gown, walking into the woods from whence she had come to him. Their time together seemed like years of happiness to her, and yet it was a mere drop in time. One drop of happiness. It would need to be enough.
Illya Kuryakin woke up on his sofa, a vague sense of having been with someone, of lovemaking and berries. The images of what he had experienced began to crystalize in his mind until he called out her name in expectation of an answer.
"Celeste!' But he knew it wasn't any use. In a softer tone he called to her once more…
"Celeste… where are you?"
He thought he heard her then, but it was only the sound of a wind chime tinkling in the breeze.