Page 115 of Pistols and Plush Toys

Nikolai sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before forcing himself to his feet. He tried to shake off the melancholy thoughts, because Elliot had said he’d been preparing dinner as a surprise, and Nikolai wanted to be present for that, not lost in the foolish desire for things he couldn’t have and shouldn’t even want.

When Nikolai got to the kitchen, Elliot was starting to spoon servings of what looked like stew into bowls. The scent was strong, fragrantly familiar, and Nikolai's stomach grumbled as he moved into the kitchen to help set the table.

Nikolai got the napkins and a glass of water for both of them and took it to the table. Elliot followed shortly after with the bowls.

“So,” Elliot started, shifting in his seat, biting his lip and then letting it go.

Nerves.

“Yes?” Nikolai prompted when Elliot paused. In front of Nikolai was a big bowl of steaming stew. It smelled delicious.

“I made borscht,” Elliot said. He met Nikolai’s eyes and then glanced away. His cheeks were pink and he looked tentatively excited. He made such a cute picture, and Nikolai wrenched his thoughts away from that ledge. “I, um, tried to source the best I could for the meat, but if you hate it, you don’t have to eat it.”

Ah. Now Nikolai understood the secrecy, the nerves.

Elliot had made him a Russian dish.

Nikolai looked down at the bowl in front of him with new understanding.

“You make borscht?” He asked quietly.

Borscht was a staple in his ???????? kitchen. Placing the scent immediately took him back to his childhood, sitting on her hard, wooden kitchen chairs and inhaling the vaguely dusty scent of her house as warm bits of meat melted on his tongue.

His ??????? had refused to let Nikolai’s father buy her a new house when he’d started making money. She’d never approved of his business, and had turned down every gift he’d ever tried to give her.

So all of Nikolai’s childhood she’d lived in her small wood cabin on the outskirts of the city. Despite the drafty, creaking wood, Nikolai had often felt more at home there than anywhere else. The house always had a sort of peacefulness to it, a hominess that his father’s sprawling mansion never had.

It also always had the scent of this stew hanging around, welcoming him in from the cold.

“Is it not okay?” Elliot asked. “I-I mean if you don’t want me to, I can—I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it—”

Nikolai blinked, feeling the choke in the back of his throat. He hadn’t had borscht in… years. So many years. There were a few places around that served it, but he’d never ordered it. Couldn’t bear the thought of it being wrong. Not like his ??????? would make it.

But Elliot… Elliot had made this forhim.For Nikolai, because he thought it would make Nikolai happy.

“No, is… is good,” he said softly. “No one ever…” he swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s probably not like your grandma’s,” Elliot said, shifting uncomfortably. “I wasn’t trying to, um—I mean, I was just hoping…”

“Is good,” Nikolai said again, clearing his throat. He met Elliot’s eyes. “Thank you. It means very much, that you do this for me.”

What Elliot made wouldn’t be Nikolai’s ???????? recipe, but it had still been made with intention. It wasn’t Nikolai going into some random restaurant to order a dish off their menu in the hopes of getting a taste of home.

This was a gift.

And even if it tasted different, this would be Elliot’s borscht. That was what mattered.

“Smells very good,” Nikolai said as he picked up the spoon.

The flavor came on strong and heavy, full of garlic and cabbage and beef and potato. When he swallowed, it settled warm and comforting in his belly. He chewed and swallowed another spoonful and felt the long day of work slide off his shoulders. It wasn’t his ???????? recipe, but the stew had a strong, rich flavor. Like everything Elliot made, it was very, very good. It was shocking how good, how authentic it tasted.

It brought Nikolai back to trudging through waist-high snow, coming into a warm house, to a tall bowl of piping hot stew made by someone who loved you.

Not that Elliot did. He blinked back to reality. To the Elliot here and now, who was staring at him nervously.

“Is very good,” Nikolai said. “Very, very good.” He leaned on the words for emphasis. “I’m not having anything like this since I leave Russia. How it is you make this?”

Elliot started to tentatively smile again.

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