Page 109 of Pistols and Plush Toys

Sheep was a gift Elliot didn’t deserve, but he couldn’t give him up. But it wasn’t… surprising that Elliot had taken a nice thing and sullied it.

There was something wrong with him.

Back in bed he groaned and rolled over and came face to face with Max.

He shouldn’t allow himself any more comfort tonight, shouldn’t trust himself with his stuffed animals, but he so badly needed the comfort. He drew Max to his chest, wrapping his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the bear's fur.

He was so very sorry. Sorry for what he’d done. For how much he’d liked it. How much he wanted to do it again even though it was so wrong.

He couldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t think about that. He couldn’t ruin Nikolai's gifts like that.

Nikolai.Elliot was sorry for that too. For thinking of the man, getting off to the thought of him, his voice, his scent.

Nikolai was so kind to him, and this was what Elliot did to repay that kindness.

Elliot squeezed his eyes shut. Never again. Any of it.

Never again.

Chapter 20: Nikolai

Nikolai had had a very good night’s sleep and woke up feeling lazy, but instead of taking his time getting up like he might have once done, he pushed himself out of bed.

Because, he knew, Elliot would be in the kitchen making breakfast.

That was worth getting out of bed for.

Nikolai had previously had chefs who’d regularly made him lunch and dinners, but he’d never had a live-in. He was quickly beginning to feel spoiled by the experience.

Or maybe it was simply knowing that it wasElliotin his kitchen, easily moving about the space. Safe and happy in Nikolai’s home, doing what he enjoyed while finally being properly compensated for it.

It certainly was making even the rough mornings less painful to get through, not that there had been too many of those lately. Before Elliot, Nikolai often had spent his days dragging his feet into the kitchen for coffee to combat a hangover, wondering how much work he’d have to get through before he could pour himself another drink.

Now he didn’t even glance at the cabinet as he came into the kitchen. His eyes went immediately to Elliot. Today Elliot was wearing a soft-looking cream colored sweater and a loose fit pair of jeans, and he was humming to himself as he stirred a pot on the stove that smelled warmly of cinnamon. He looked—

He looked like he belonged there. In Nikolai’s kitchen. In Nikolai’s home.

In Nikolai’s life.

“Morning,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.

Elliot startled at the greeting, tensing and almost dropping the wooden spoon he’d been stirring the pot with.

“M-morning,” Elliot said, glancing at him and then quickly turning back to the pot.

Nikolai’s brow furrowed. He was well used to Elliot’s startle reflex, but it had started to ease over the last several days as Elliot had gotten more comfortable.

Had something happened?

He moved through the kitchen toward the coffee machine, keeping Elliot in his peripheral. Once he started the coffee maker, Nikolai turned to lean back against the counter. “What we are having for breakfast?”

Elliot glanced at him again, and Nikolai could now see spots of color high on his cheeks.

Why?

“Um, strawberries and cream oatmeal,” Elliot said, the enthusiasm he normally had for food was sorely missing. He still wouldn’t look at Nikolai directly.

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