Chapter 23: Pelmeni Plans and Passing Notes

The week following their "Great Blini Adventure" settled into a gentle rhythm—familiar yet somehow transformed. For Alex, Seiwa International Academy no longer felt like a sterile backdrop for his aloof observations. It had taken on a new warmth, an undercurrent of quiet anticipation that hummed just beneath the surface of his days. The reason for this shift was obvious: Katarina Volkov. Or, more precisely, the soft excitement of their upcoming "Pelmeni Project," as he'd come to privately call it.

Katya seemed changed too. Her steps were lighter, her smiles no longer fleeting. And though still shy, her gaze often lingered a little longer on him—quiet, curious, quietly amused. Her whispered Russian daydreams had taken on a new texture, equal parts nerves and giddy hope.

During one particularly dull chemistry lecture on stoichiometric ratios, Alex pretended to study his notes but kept an ear tuned to Katya, who was gazing out the window with a wistful smile.

"Пельмени… Мы будем лепить их вместе. Он, наверное, опять будет весь в муке. Это так забавно," she murmured to herself, giggling under her breath. (Pelmeni… we'll make them together. He'll probably be all covered in flour again. That's so funny.)

Alex nearly smiled aloud. The thought of her imagining him floured and flustered was strangely... endearing.

Their library meetings, once strictly academic, had gradually become something else—something gentler, more personal. Yes, they still discussed books—Katya had proudly shown him a well-worn Bryusov anthology, her eyes lighting up as she recited favorite lines—but their conversations now wandered into music (she adored cello concertos and wistful Russian folk songs; he leaned into intricate jazz and little-known indie bands), city spots they loved (quiet shrines for her, glassy high-rises for him), and even, with some hesitation, their families.

Katya spoke often of her mother, the literature professor—sharp, reserved, quietly supportive. And of her Babushka Natasha, a fierce traditionalist with a warm, wandering spirit. In return, Alex shared fragments of his life: his grandfather's fascination with languages and old maps, his mother's whirlwind career in international finance. He was careful with the details—leaving out the more... exceptional truths. With Katya, he wanted to be seen simply. Not as a prodigy or some curated version of genius, but as Alex.

One afternoon, while working on a group project for World History, they naturally found themselves at the same library table—despite not being officially paired. As they compared notes, Katya let out an exasperated sigh.

"Эта Венская система… такая запутанная! Столько альянсов, столько тайных договоренностей… Голова кругом идёт." (This Vienna System… so complicated! So many alliances, so many secret agreements… My head is spinning.)

Alex leaned over, tapping a pen against his notebook. "The trick with the Congress of Vienna," he murmured, "is to focus on what each player wanted: Metternich's obsession with balance, Tsar Alexander's half-mystic idealism mixed with imperial ambition, Britain's naval dominance…"

He quickly sketched a simple diagram—intersecting interests, shifting alliances.

Katya stared, blinking. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. "Ах, вот оно что! Твоя схема… она всё так упрощает! Теперь я вижу логику. Ты… ты просто невероятно умён, Алексей-кун. Как будто у тебя в голове целая стратегическая карта мира."(Ah, so that's it! Your diagram simplifies everything! I see the logic now. You… you're incredibly smart, Alexei-kun. Like you carry a world map inside your head.)

Alex chuckled softly. "Just connecting the dots," he said, but her words lingered. They struck closer to the truth than she realized—and for once, it didn't feel like a secret that needed guarding.

Later, in their Japanese literature class, their teacher Mrs. Sato assigned a tanka poem on the theme of Anticipation. Five lines. Five-seven-five-seven-seven syllables.

Alex glanced sideways. Katya was already hunched over her notebook, pencil hovering, brows drawn in a frown of delicate concentration.

He caught a whisper: "Ожидание… Пять, семь, пять, семь, семь… Как уместить в эти рамки всё то, что я чувствую перед субботой? Это волнение, эту радость, этот… страх?"(Anticipation… Five, seven, five, seven, seven… How can I fit everything I feel about Saturday into such a tiny frame? This excitement, this joy, this… fear?)

Alex wasn't much for poetry—too abstract, too delicate—but this was different. His mind immediately leapt to Saturday. To Katya's laughter. The flour. The closeness.

On impulse, he scribbled out a quick draft. Then, instead of writing a polished version for Mrs. Sato, he tore off a tiny square of paper and wrote a second, more personal tanka.

Flour dusts the air,Laughter echoes, soft and low,Hearts begin to bloom.Saturday's sweet promise waits—New flavors, a shared delight.

His heart beat a little faster. It was bold—bolder than he usually dared. But the memory of her kiss… the honesty in her eyes… gave him courage.

He waited until Mrs. Sato turned to the board, then slid the folded note toward Katya's elbow. Subtle. Casual. Practiced.

Katya blinked when she noticed it. Her cheeks went pink as she glanced around, then cautiously opened the note. Alex pretended to read, but his eyes flicked to her face.

Her expression shifted—surprise, warmth, wonder. A blush crept up her neck. She folded the note again with trembling fingers and held it close like it was something precious.

She didn't look at him—not right away. She just stared at her desk, lips parted, breath uneven. And then he heard her barely-there whisper:

"Он… он написал это… для меня? Ожидание… совместное наслаждение… Моё сердце… оно сейчас разорвётся от счастья и… и смущения."(He… he wrote this… for me? Anticipation… a shared delight… My heart… it's going to burst from happiness and… and embarrassment.)

When her eyes finally met his, they shimmered with emotion—surprise, hope, joy. He offered her a tiny nod and a quiet, steady smile.

The bell rang. Students began filing out, but neither of them moved.

Then, Katya approached. She held the note tightly, her voice a whisper: "Alexei-kun… your tanka… it's beautiful."

"I'm glad you liked it," he said gently.

She hesitated, then scribbled something of her own, quickly folding the paper and pressing it into his hand.

"Это… это мой ответ. Не суди строго."(This… this is my reply. Don't judge too harshly.)

Then she turned and fled, her silver braid trailing behind her like a comet's tail.

Alex stood frozen, heart pounding. When the classroom emptied, he slowly unfolded the note.

Her handwriting—usually elegant—was shaky this time, uncertain. Vulnerable.

Golden dough we'll shape,Whispers shared in cozy warmth,Joy begins to rise.Saturday's gentle promise—My hopeful heart waits for you.

He read it once. Then again. And again.

My hopeful heart waits for you.

A soft, stunned smile took over his face.

Saturday was no longer just about pelmeni.

It was a promise.

A beginning.

[End Chapter 23]