Chapter Text
Aug 14 1995
Levani
You weren’t much of a reader. Before. But after spending ages surrounded by incomprehensible gibberish—ahem—Russian, you felt somehow compelled to immerse yourself in your sweet sweet native language.
So that’s how you ended up here, barely three steps in to your local library before you hear your name being called from across the room.
“Levani! Come check this out!”
You follow the voice and see Elene, one of the several librarians you have come to know in the recent months. You smile and wave as you make your way over to the counter. She is always recommending books for you, and somehow she always gets it right.
“What am I in for this time?”
Your elbows are on the desk before you finish your sentence, bringing you eye level with Elene’s latest find: Cooking for the Homesick Russian. The cover has definitely seen better days.
“Your man friend is from Russia, no? I thought of you when I saw it.”
You hold back a giggle at Misha being called your man friend. You have to cover your mouth at the idea that Misha is—or would ever be—homesick.
“That’s right, Elene, you have a fantastic memory! You are just too sweet, thinking of us like that.”
“Dementia hasn’t gotten me just yet, young man! Even if it had, I’d probably still remember that Misha of yours, since you hardly ever talk about anything else. Come now, he deserves a nice home-cooked meal, don’t you think?”
You grinned at her teasing. She was like the mom you wish you had.
“Alright, alright, you’ve twisted my arm, I’ll check it out.”
Elene rolls her eyes.
“Check it out? My boy, you think we would keep something so ratty on our precious shelves? You TAKE it! You KEEP it! You cook something delicious! You thank me later! To think of a book in that condition… on my shelves…”
This time, you do laugh out loud as you accept the book she is shoving into your hands. As you tuck the book under your arm, you start thinking about the rewards you might receive if you cook the right meal.
“Doing you a favor, huh? Okay, maybe just this once.”
You start heading for your favorite chair, and find it empty as usual. You hesitate before sitting down. You planned to stay, at least a little while, but the plan you had for your day suddenly starts shifting. You thumb through the pages of the book, still standing, and the hazy images in your mind start becoming clearer. You sit at a nearby table instead, and pick up a stray pencil someone had left behind. You circle, underline, scribble a little in the margins.
You glance at the clock on the wall behind you. It hadn’t been too long since Misha had left for work, but you never knew exactly when he was going to return in the evening. You miiiiiiight have enough time to execute your new, hastily constructed plan, and that’s really all the motivation you need.
You dig through your bag and eventually find the notepad you were looking for. You write your list, faintly wondering when the last time you had written a grocery list was. The memory does not come to mind. You pocket the list, and everything else goes back into the bag: the book, the notepad, and the pencil that you have absentmindedly claimed as your own. You stand to leave, excited to get to started.
You wave to Elene as you head toward the exit. She is helping someone at the desk now, but she raises her hand in acknowledgment to you. She smiles to herself, as if she knows the reason for your sudden departure. She probably does. Too smart for her own good, that one.
~~~~~
You usually meander through the grocery store, but today you walk with purpose. You know people here, too, but the determined look on your face seems to deter any potential small-talkers.
You buy only the things you need. You’re always very careful not to waste the money Misha works hard for. You have no problem wasting money you’ve made yourself, but you’ve never had a live-in partner to consider before. Misha brushes you off every time you try to thank him. You think he might like taking care of you. You still haven’t quite wrapped your head around that one yet. You make sure to find other ways to show your appreciation.
It doesn’t take long to find the things you’re looking for. You’ve spent enough time here to know your way around. You are eager to get home so the real work can begin. A little nervous too, but excited nonetheless.
~~~~~~
You start off easy, hoping to build up some confidence. Chopping, boiling, mixing. Easy enough. You’d never heard of Olivye salad before, but you’re glad some Russians know how to keep things simple. It doesn’t take long, and by the time you’re done, the only sweat on your brow is from the heat of the stove. You put your concoction in the fridge, and you’re feeling good.
You review the next recipe you’ve bookmarked. While the name is unfamiliar to you, the concept is all too recognizable. Your mom used to make dolma during the first snowfall of every year. You push this thought out of your mind with haste, because you’re not making dolma. You’re making golubtsi. More chopping, more mixing, more boiling. Then comes the delicate part. Your hands shake a little more than they used to, you notice, as you tuck spoonfuls of your mixture into individual cabbage leaves. It may not be pretty, but you think it will taste fine. You aren’t picky anymore. Misha probably never was.
It’s getting later in the day now, and you’re not sure how much time you have left. You wonder why you left the hardest thing until the end. You’re chopping again, eating little bits of bread as you go, when it occurs to you that you haven’t eaten much today. You hope that Misha doesn’t bring dinner home with him like he sometimes does. The thought makes you laugh, as normally you’d be thinking the exact opposite. Well, too much food is the absolute last problem you’d ever worry about these days.
The process is a little more convoluted than you had first thought, and you’re getting cream on the pages of the cookbook as you surreptitiously review each of the steps. You finally get the Pozharsky cutlets in the baking tray and into the oven.
You step back to admire your handiwork. Your hands hurt from all the chopping, and you’ve dirtied practically every dish in your small kitchen. You smile anyway. You hope Misha will too. Then all this will be worth it.
~~~~~~
Mikhail
No one tries to talk to you on your walk home today, mercifully. You are not sure you could tolerate that hint of amusement (or worse, pity) that you see in the eyes of strangers that were not expecting your broken Georgian. It has been a long day. But no longer than any other.
The stairs up to Levani’s apartment feel like they go on for a mile on a good day. You are buying Levani a house the minute you save enough money, you swear.
You fish in your pocket for a moment before finding your keys. You hear some commotion inside, and pause for a brief moment. You are still not used to having someone at home waiting for you.
“Levani, I’m…”
The door gives way before you even put the key in. You blink a few times. You do not think you have suddenly gone blind, but it is very dark in the apartment. The only light comes from a single lit candle on the dining room table. The tap is running. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you are finally able to locate Levani. He is washing dishes. In the dark. And something smells good.
“…home. Dark? Why?”
Levani startles a bit at the sound of the door opening.
“Fuck, fuck, I thought I had more time! Um… go sit on the couch for a minute or something!”
You make out the profanity but not much else.
“Slow down please.”
Levani does not repeat himself. He grabs your hand and leads you to the couch.
“Sit.”
You have no objections to this, despite the fact that he has not answered your question.
“Tired.” You warn him. “I might fall asleep.”
He seems to take your meaning. He rubs your head for a moment.
“Rest.”
~~~~~~
Levani is rubbing your shoulder gently to wake you up. You are not sure how much time has passed.
“Time for dinner!”
Your hand moves without your permission to the shotgun strap around your chest, which is, of course, not there. You keep reaching and take Levani’s hand instead. Levani’s eyes flicker briefly. He saw what just happened, but he does not mention it.
Instead, he pulls you off the couch as your body groans in protest.
“You can’t go to bed without dinner, grumpy.”
Levani is speaking slowly enough now that you are able to catch both his meaning and his teasing tone.
“Why not?”
You take care to emulate the teasing tone. You let yourself be led the short distance into the kitchen. When Levani turns to face you again, his eyes are still shining, which you take as a good sign.
“Because it’s date night!”
The word “date” hasn’t quite made it into your Georgian vocabulary yet, but you look past Levani to see if context clues will be your friend today. The kitchen is now pristine. The dishes are done, the table has been set, the food looks and smells amazing. You look at the lone candle that is still burning, and everything clicks into place. Date night. Huh.
“Come and sit before it gets cold!”
You sit and get a closer look at the food that Levani is serving.
“You make this?”
Levani nods.
Your face is suddenly burning. You haven’t seen food like this since...
“How? Why?”
The switch to Russian is involuntary, and the questions come out in a harsher tone than you had intended. You do not even notice until Levani stops moving entirely.
“I thought you would like it... I didn’t think you... shit. Fuck.”
Levani is speaking too quickly and too quietly, but you realize your mistake anyway. You quickly take his hand and squeeze it, not too tightly.
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant.” It’s one of your most fluent phrases in Georgian. “I mean... for me?”
Levani meets your gaze again, and suddenly you feel a little shy. His smile is back. You sigh internally with relief; you never want to be the one to wipe the smile off his face. In fact, you kind of want to hurt anyone who does.
“Yeah, I wanted to surprise you. You like it?”
You raise Levani’s hand to your mouth and kiss it, partially to hide your face. You’re trying not to blush, and you are not sure how successful you are.
“I love this. Thank you.”
Levani looks very proud of himself. It is a good look on him.
“Well then, let’s eat!”