Page 15 of Pistols and Plush Toys

Alcohol didn’t make Nikolai violent, the way it did his father.

It simply numbed him. Numbed his anxious or sad or angry thoughts.

An escape from the realities and stresses of his life.

But if Nikolai was numb, he wasn’t at his best. He wasn’t as sharp, wasn’t as ready.

He wouldn’t be able to properly watch over Brooks, or check in on him the way he needed to.

It would be cruel to lock Brooks up in his room for the rest of the day just so that Nikolai could drink away his troubles.

And… and what if something happened in the night? What if when Brooks was locked up in his room, he—he fell and hurt himself? What if he cried out for Nikolai, because he was trapped here and Nikolai was the only one around who could help, and Nikolai was too numb to hear it?

Best just to wait. Suppress the urges for the time being. Brooks would be leaving soon enough, and then Nikolai could spend some quality time with his bottles.

He brought his attention back to the table and Brooks.

The man was working his way through a slice of pizza in slow and careful bites as he kept his eyes down.

Nikolai was gratified to see that for once Brooks didn’t look like eating was a struggle.

He had actually gained some color in his cheeks, some of the listlessness leaving his body.

It made Nikolai realize all over again how beautiful Brooks was, now that he had some life in him again. It had been sad to see his pretty hazel eyes so dull and empty, constantly one step away from widening in terror. It had been almost worse than seeing Brooks cry.

Nikolai circled back to that terror. To how frequently Brooks flinched. To how quiet he was. The man was most definitely pretty enough for Vitale’s tastes, but that was where the similarities between him and Vitale’s previous partners ended.

The Vitale and Tkachenko families didn’t often cross paths or have conflicts, but they were always aware of each other.

The best way to not step on any toes was to know who else occupied the floor.

So Nikolai had made it his business to pay attention to everyone.

Including the spouses, the lovers, the flings.

Mattia Vitale’s last couple boyfriends had been exactly the kind of people one would imagine hanging around a man who was a wealthy, slimy говнюк .

Young, beautiful, dressed in head to toe designer… and loud, rude, and brattish.

Brooks was young. He was beautiful. He’d even been wearing a Gucci shirt when Alex and Pyotr had grabbed him.

But Nikolai had been expecting—maybe tears, yes, but backtalk too.

Nasty words and threats. Screaming. Struggling.

Temper tantrums, where Nikolai’s guest bedroom was ripped to shreds and he was cursed out for the supervised showers.

And instead, Brooks flinched at every frown sent his way, and bit his lip to keep his sounds in.

“You and Vitale,” Nikolai burst out. “How long you have been together?”

Brooks, who had just picked up his second slice of pizza, startled and dropped it back to his plate. “Five, um, five years,” he said in a thin voice, grabbing up a napkin and wiping at his fingers.

Fuck, Nikolai should have held his tongue. One slice of pizza wasn’t enough. Brooks needed to eat more than that.

But Nikolai had already asked the first question. And he was suddenly very interested in the answer to his second.

He cursed himself, but he might as well fucking ask. It wasn’t as if Brooks looked like he’d eat another bite right now. “How did you and Vitale meet?”

“Oh, um…” Brooks shrugged. “I was a chef at Olive & Plate, downtown.”

Nikolai stayed quiet but nodded, hoping he would continue.

After a long moment, Brooks did, his voice tentative as the story tripped out of him.

“Mattia's family came in and they liked the food. His dad, um, wanted to pay compliments to the chef, so Julia, the—the waitress, she came and got me. A-and they were… nice, and then Mattia asked about my work because he was impressed that someone so young was at Olive & Plate.” Brooks fidgeted with the napkin. “Then he asked for my number.”

It should have been a happy memory… but it wasn’t. Nikolai could see plainly by the way Brooks struggled through the retelling, his voice wavering the way it did when people spoke of things that were difficult and emotional.

Brooks, who flinched and apologized at every turn, and who was so sick with anxiety and fear he was barely eating. He’d been too thin when he’d been brought to Nikolai three days ago.

I guess I-I don’t notice stuff like that anymore.

It was past time for Nikolai to move the subject away from Vitale. He latched onto the one thing that seemed safe to comment on. “Olive & Plate? I have eaten there. It has Michelin star, yes? So you are good chef?”

For the first time since he’d been brought to Nikolai, Brooks smiled. It was just a tiny curve of his lips, but it was like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. It hit Nikolai straight in the chest.

If Brooks had brought a smile like that out to the table after Nikolai had eaten a delicious meal, he probably would’ve given the man his number too.

“It’s what I went to school for,” Brooks said, offering up the information without sounding like it was being pulled painfully from him.

“But yeah, it was—it was cool to get hired there. It was my first time as sous chef.” His smile grew.

“Olive was great. Everyone was really nice and the dishes were seasonally changing, so there was always something challenging. I… miss it.”

The smile faltered, and Nikolai wanted to lean forward, wanted to ask why it was Brooks was no longer working there. Why instead he’d been working at some two-bit diner.

Except Nikolai had a bad feeling they’d be circling back to Vitale that way, and he wasn’t looking to revisit that minefield of a topic.

It was nice to not have Brooks cowering and silent.

“Is good, you should be very proud,” Nikolai said. “Me, I’m know nothing about cooking. What it is that sous chef is doing?”

Life flared in Brooks's eyes, and he sat up straighter in his seat. His voice was still quiet, but the enthusiasm was clear in it as he started talking. “You can specialize in a cuisine, but I did a little of everything in culinary school and hopped around a few different restaurants for experience. My palette is pretty, um, adventurous, so I’ve made everything from Thai cuisine to Slavik to Americana. Olive & Plate is Mediterranean, so there I was making a lot of pasta, lamb, and seafood while I was sous chef.”

“What it is sous chef is doing specifically?” Nikolai asked, because he was on a roll coaxing Brooks to speak now, and he wanted it to continue.

“Oh! Sorry—” but this time the apology wasn’t accompanied by hunched shoulders and a terrified expression. “—it’s like being second in command in a kitchen. I was under the head chef, Sayat. The menu and recipes were all him, but I was in charge when he wasn’t there.”

“So you were doing all the cooking?” Nikolai asked.

“I mean, second to him, yeah,” Brooks said, nodding as if that was no big deal. “Normally he would go out for compliments because Olive & Plate was really all him. He was um, he was off the night with Mattia though, so…”

Brooks trailed off, shifting in his seat.

Nikolai wanted his spark back. “Is very impressive,” he said. “It is sounding like maybe not too common to be sous chef so young?”

“Oh, uh—” Brooks licked his lips, another nervous habit, but at least he wasn’t biting them.

“People can be. I just kind of got lucky, really. I was at La Cucina before that, and Sayat was friends with the owner there who was my mentor. Sayat was looking for a new sous, so it was just sort of a right place, right time thing.”

Nikolai’s brow furrowed. “Were you not interviewing?”

“Oh, no, um—I mean yes? I mean yeah, there was an interview. Sayat’s like, so serious about the food. Olive & Plate is his baby.”

Nikolai nodded now. “Then maybe it was not being ‘right place, right time’. You were being recommended, and did good job in interview.”

Brooks looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Now I am more sorry I’m feeding you canned spaghetti yesterday,” Nikolai said seriously. “I’m not having a chef right now. We will order better food from now on, yes? So you will not starve.”

“Oh,” Brooks faltered. “No, I mean it’s—it’s really fine. The food has been… fine.”

Nikolai stared at him dubiously. “A chef cares about food, yes? You have places you like, you should say. Then I’m will order better food. Okay?”

Brooks opened his mouth and then shut it again. He looked so caught off guard that he was forgetting to be afraid.

That was a very marked improvement.

“I-I guess I could,” Brooks said hesitantly.

Nikolai nodded again, satisfied. “Yes, I’m thinking that’s best thing. Like I’m say, I’m knowing nothing about cooking. If you are chef, you’re expert in good food. So you should say places that are good.”

Okay, so it was possibly somewhat pushy, but maybe demanding that Brooks be in charge of choosing the food would give him a life raft while he was here. Something he had control of.

Not that Nikolai wouldn’t also benefit from chef-recommended restaurants.

“Oh,” Brooks said again, very softly. “Um. If you’re sure, then I… I guess there’s a couple places I could recommend.”

“I’m sure,” Nikolai said, turning back to his food, but keeping watch of Brooks out of the corner of his eye. “We have food that is enough for tonight, since I’m order so many thing, but you will choose breakfast.”

“Okay,” Brooks said after a second. “I’ll, um, try to think of some good options.”

“Good,” Nikolai said, looking up to give him a smile before returning to his plate.

He was incredibly pleased when, moments later, he saw Brooks pick up his second slice of pizza and take a bite.