your triumphs and your charms
by angela
star trek xi
july 2009
author's notes
They've only ever fought once. It was two months after they'd started dating, sometime between the Yridian treaty and the incident on Beta Tau Eleven, and maybe it was just a result of all the excitement that Sulu asked Chekov to move in with him, but Chekov said yes anyway. In the process Chekov dropped a box on Sulu's night-blooming Bajoran violets, and even though it was obviously an accident, Sulu still shouted at him and left him standing in the hallway surrounded by the rest of his things. Then Chekov broke his arm on an away mission four days later, and Sulu showed up in Sickbay with chocolates, literally carried Chekov back to his room, and everything went right back to normal.
So Chekov doesn't realize it's happening again until Lieutenant Uhura takes him aside in the middle of an unusually uneventful shift. He thinks she might have a question about Russian; specializing in alien languages left her little time for Terran ones, and Chekov quickly thinks of four or five new interesting phrases to share. Instead Uhura gives him a sympathetic look, earrings tilting in one direction, and says, "Is everything all right with you and Lieutenant Sulu?"
"'All right'?" Chekov asks. "What do you mean?"
Uhura's voice is heavy with concern, and she gestures with her chin over Chekov's shoulder. "How long have you two been fighting?"
"Hikaru? No, we are—" Chekov cranes his head to the left, glancing back at Sulu, who's humoring the captain's ridiculous hypothetical combat scenarios. Sulu doesn't look mad, with the captain or with anyone else—he looks like he always does, a little tired, worn around the edges. But then again the Enterprise has had a rough few weeks lately, and even Commander Spock looks for the wear. Uhura must be misinterpreting—there is no problem to solve.
"Everything is all right, Miss Uhura," says Chekov, feeling a little tired himself. "Thank you, though, for your concern."
"Are you sure?" asks Uhura, looking completely unconvinced. Before Chekov can object, she reaches out and lays a soft hand on the side of his neck. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here for you." She smiles a little. "You're a sweet kid—I'm sure everything will work out all right."
Chekov nods. As if on cue, there's a soft beep from Uhura's station, and she walks back with deliberate slowness, glaring in response to the captain's raised eyebrow. Chekov notices the captain's questioning glance landing on himself; he turns back to the viewscreen, trying to put Uhura's words out of his head. He has four hours left on the bridge, and he doesn't want to consider the fact that she might actually be right.
It isn't until later that Chekov realizes that, in fact, she is.
The first week he and Sulu started seeing each other, nearly nine months ago now, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves. In the mess hall, the transporter pad, even on the bridge: skating fingers across skin and sharing secret smiles they thought no one else could decipher. After shift, they would stand together in the turbolift, every cell vibrating with want and desire, and the second the door closed they would fall into each other, a mess of hands and lips and skin in Sulu's too-small bed.
These days, they leave the bridge in silence, and it's been weeks since Sulu touched him at all.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong, Chekov thinks. His eyes slide sideways to where Sulu lies propped on the pillows, one arm folded behind his head and the other thumbing across the screen of his PADD. Chekov is in the middle of writing a diagnostic report, but the longer the silence stretches out, the harder it is to bear, and finally he puts down his PADD. "Hikaru," he says, not knowing quite what follows.
Sulu cranes his neck up, meets Chekov's eyes. "Something wrong?" he asks, casual as ever.
"I do not"—swallow, breathe—"I do not want to do reports anymore. I would like to talk." Chekov rubs his face in frustration, feeling the tears prickling behind his eyelids. He feels almost weak to be so affected by Sulu's behavior, but the situation seems so much more serious now, as if Chekov must do everything in his power to prevent it from becoming worse. He feels like grabbing Sulu and shaking him, demanding to know what has gone so wrong, but if he does so Sulu will not take him seriously, and he wants to be heard.
"Okay," says Sulu, exhaling loudly. He turns toward Chekov, raising himself up on one elbow. "What do you want to talk about?"
The look in Sulu's eyes is faintly patronizing; Chekov hates it, being looked at like that, like he has to be coddled and spared every possible hurt, like he is a child. He was the youngest cadet to ever be accepted to Starfleet, to win the Academy marathon, to take the helm of the Federation's flagship: he is old enough for this. Just because he is twenty doesn't mean he can't understand love.
So he swallows past the lump in his throat, struggling to squeeze out the words. "I think, Hikaru, I think we are having a fight." Sulu opens his mouth to interrupt, but Chekov speaks over him, words running together in his haste. "Because I feel that you do not like me right now, even if you have liked me before, and I do not like the feeling, I want to fix it, I want to know what is wrong."
Sulu laughs, a low sound that makes Chekov's chest tighten. "I like you just fine," Sulu says, as if Chekov has greatly overestimated the difficulty of the problem. "You're cute and you smell good, and you make awesome pirozhki. So stop worrying so much and relax." The last is said playfully, an easy grin on Sulu's face, but it fades quickly. Chekov wonders what his own face says: all his insecurity must be written across his features, plain as day for Sulu to read.
"Please do not make fun of me," Chekov says, pulling his knees up to his chest. "We used to talk so much—now we do not talk at all, and I miss it so much."
Sulu's look only grows more pitying, and in that moment Chekov wants nothing else but to make it go away. Impulsively, he leans down and kisses Sulu, fast and desperate; making sure not to crush the PADDs, he shifts to straddle Sulu, rubbing his ass against the front of Sulu's trousers as he curls his fingers in his dark hair. He kisses Sulu like his mouth is air, like he can't get enough—but Sulu's hands press against his chest and he has to pull away.
"What are you doing?" asks Sulu. He doesn't sound annoyed or frustrated; he just sounds tired.
Chekov realizes with sudden humiliation that Sulu isn't even close to being hard; he feels guilty and ashamed, on top of Sulu with his mouth and eyes wet. He doesn't know what he was thinking, only that he wanted Sulu to know how much he wanted him, that he wanted to touch him. "Nothing," Chekov says miserably, and crawls back to his side of the bed.
It takes another three days for Chekov to convince Sulu to fuck him. He would feel worse about the pleading—it's desperate, pathetic, and he knows it—but he's just so relieved that Sulu still wants him that he doesn't stop to think.
Sulu does him on his hands and knees, chest pressed against Chekov's sweat-slicked back. Usually Sulu will talk during sex, endlessly, strings of syllables interrupted by Chekov's name, but tonight he's nearly silent. It's awful, Chekov thinks, how good this feels, how the physical sensations bring him over the edge despite how horrible he feels inside. But Sulu doesn't seem to notice; he finishes a moment later, spilling into Chekov with a low moan.
Chekov pushes up against Sulu's boneless weight. "Hikaru," he says, "you are too heavy, please."
Sulu pulls out, stretches his body along the sheets, turns to face the door. His back is a catalogue of three years of scars. "We have shift in six hours," says Sulu, voice blurry. "Get some sleep, Pavel."
"Hikaru," Chekov says again, loud enough for him to hear, but Sulu is already fast asleep.
A month passes. The Enterprise spends a week evading an invisible subspace entity. A minor warp core breach destroys half of Engineering and very nearly takes out the rest of the ship. Lieutenant Tsiakos and Ensign Mitchell are tortured and killed by Nausicaan pirates. Chekov spends his twentieth birthday helping evacuate Andorian refugees. Life goes on.
He and Sulu continue to wake together, work together, sleep together—but for the first time Chekov is afraid of what will happen. He has never been sure with people the way he is with mathematics; his slightest misstep might be tremendous and unforgivable in Sulu's eyes.
Every few days the doubt builds to a critical mass, and Chekov will lie in bed fighting back tears, afraid to reach out, afraid to speak; but it's on those nights that Sulu seems to remember why and how they're together, and he'll stroke Chekov's face and whisper that he loves him, more than flying, more than the stars, more than anything else in the galaxy. Then Chekov will curl into the heat of Sulu's body, heady with love, and wake to the chime of alarm bells and breathy laughter.
It isn't perfect; nothing ever is. But Sulu stays with him, and Chekov believes without a second thought that everything will be all right.
A few days later he's called away on a mission to Bynaus, along with Lieutenants Gaila and Scott. It takes nearly a week to repair the master computer and reconnect the Bynars' neural links, and by the end of it Chekov is so tired he can barely stand without Gaila's help. When the Enterprise beams them back up, Chekov makes a beeline for Sulu's quarters even though he's completely starving—the only thing he wants to do is fall into bed with his clothes and boots on, and sleep until Sulu's forced to wake him up for their shift.
Still, he can't help being excited at the thought of seeing Sulu again for the first time in six days, and some of his exhaustion turns into jittery energy, tingling in his fingers and toes. He gets to the door and walks in with a smile on his face, expecting Sulu to rush forward and take Chekov in his arms, like he's done so many times before.
Instead Sulu is sitting on the far side of the bed, head down, holding one of Chekov's shirts. When he hears Chekov enter, he looks up slowly, and says, "Pavel, can I talk to you?"
Chekov sets down his equipment case on his side of the room. "What is it, Hikaru?" he asks. "What is wrong?" His thoughts are distracted, but if Sulu wants to talk, of course Chekov will listen.
Sulu sighs, shoulders slumped forward wearily. "Come here," he says. "It's important."
Chekov's heart stills completely in his chest; his hands start to shake, and all the excitement drains out of his body. With every step he takes towards the bed, he trembles a little more, until finally his entire body is shaking. Still, he forces a grin as he moves to stand in front of Sulu. "You sound so serious," he says, and his laugh is nervous. "You are playing another trick on me, aren't you?"
"I am serious," says Sulu. He reaches up to take Chekov's arm and pulls him gently down beside him. "I care about you so much, Pavel—I don't want to hurt you. But this, the two of us, it isn't working out."
In the last three years Chekov has been shot, stabbed, starved. He has been hung up in alien prisons and tortured for information; he has been whipped with spiked belts; he has been electrocuted until his mind whited out. Chekov has thought he knew the worst that pain could ever get, but he is wrong: nothing compares to this.
"Hikaru—" Chekov says, voice breaking. "You are—you cannot mean this—"
"I'm sorry," says Sulu. "This isn't easy for me, either." His beautiful face, which Chekov has spent countless hours tracing over and over with his fingers, memorizing every line and subtle contour, is shadowed with guilt and regret. All the hope that this is just a test, that Sulu is simply testing Chekov's devotion, it is all gone.
Chekov can barely speak above a whisper. "Why, Hikaru? What have I done so wrong?"
Sulu's voice is shaky, and some part of Chekov breaks at that thought, that Sulu is hurting just as much as he is. "You didn't do anything wrong," says Sulu. "It would just be better if we weren't together."
Chekov's world has become very small, shrunken down to the two of them, this moment, this space, these words that Sulu is saying now. "I did everything you ever asked of me," he says. "I gave you everything—why can that not be enough?"
Sulu looks away, and Chekov can't help but follow the path of his eyes, staring at a spot on the bedsheet like it holds all the answers. "We're not going to be on the Enterprise forever," Sulu says quietly. "Two more years, and after that we'll be back on Earth and we'll have to make a choice." He brings his hands to his face, then, and covers his eyes for a moment before speaking again. "I don't want to have to make that choice, Pavel. I don't want to do this for another two years just to hurt you later on. It's better if we end it now, do you understand?"
"No," says Chekov, shaking his head, "no, you do not know what will happen in two years." There are tears on his face now, sliding down into the collar of his uniform, turning the fabric dark yellow. Sulu strokes gently across Chekov's cheek with his thumb, and the contact is so warm and tangible that for a moment Chekov can convince himself that this is just a bad dream, the worst nightmare he could ever have. He chokes back a sob, saying, "You must give us a chance, Hikaru, you must—there are variables you cannot predict—"
"And I might die tomorrow," says Sulu. "What matters is that you make the most of each day, without someone holding you back. When's the last time you checked the theoretical physics datastream? Or played kal-toh with Spock? Or went on an away mission without thinking about someone waiting for you back shipside?" His smile is sad around the edges. "I'm keeping you from living your life, and it's not fair to you."
"Who are you to decide what is fair to me?" Chekov says defiantly, even as his chest aches. "Those things do not matter—you are all I need."
"Pavel, Pavel," Sulu says, fingertips against Chekov's face. "You're so young: you have the rest of your life ahead of you. You're going to have an amazing career, you're going to make a name for yourself—there's more to life than this. Than me. I can't be your whole world forever."
When he was eight, doctors measured Chekov's IQ at 212. At fifteen, Chekov discovered in his sleep the equations for counteracting subspace fluctuations while traveling at speeds beyond warp seven. After graduating from the Academy at eighteen with the painfully small remainder of his class, he was offered prestigious teaching positions at the top two research universities on Earth. It has always been his strongest asset, his intuition, his ability to calculate at a moment's notice; Admiral Pike said once on a telecast, it's like the kid looks into the future, knows right where everything is going to be, and he's never made a single mistake. Chekov has not seen this coming, but he is smarter than he should be, smarter than he sometimes wants to be, and he knows in his heart how this will end.
He opens his mouth to speak—to beg, to plead—but what comes out is a wordless cry. Sulu pulls Chekov to him and wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly, letting Chekov wail into his chest; and it's a terrible, awful kindness that Sulu is doing, giving him this last bit of comfort. It would be easier if Sulu lied, gave Chekov a reason to be angry: to take the year they spent together and turn it into something bitter. But instead Chekov will always have this last sweetness to remember Sulu by, and it's the only thing he'll get to keep.
"You can have these quarters if you want," Sulu says into Chekov's hair, ruffling it with every hitched breath. "It might take me a while to move everything out, but I can find somewhere else to stay tonight."
Chekov shakes his head against Sulu's shoulder. "Your plants," he says brokenly. "I'll go." He never wants to be in this room again, sleep in this bed, without Sulu; he'd rather go back to Earth, live in exile on a strange planet, than stay here one more night.
Sulu nods against the top of his head. He holds Chekov for ten more minutes, for twenty, and Chekov knows they're both counting down the seconds until they have to part. They can't stay like this forever: as soon as one of them walks out the door, it's over.
Finally Sulu moves to pull away; Chekov just grabs on more tightly, refusing to let go. "No," he says desperately, "don't leave me, Hikaru, please, please don't go."
Sulu cups Chekov's face in his hands, making Chekov meet his gaze. His eyelashes are dark against his cheek. "You'll meet other people after me," he says softly. "You're smart and strong and kind—you'll find someone better than me, Pavel, I promise."
"I don't want anyone else," Chekov sobs, because it's true, because he can't imagine ever wanting anyone but Sulu. "Hikaru. I love you."
Sulu takes Chekov's hands from where they're grasping Sulu's shirt, and folds them gently in Chekov's lap. His lips brush Chekov's one last time: the near-miss of an asteroid, the flawed conclusion to a proof. "I can't," he says. "I'm so sorry, Pavel."
And then he's gone.
Chekov sleeps in Sickbay that night. Doctor McCoy gives him a skeptical look when he enters, but the gruffness quickly evaporates in favor of a kind hand on the shoulder. "Looks like you've been through the wringer, kid," he says, directing Chekov to the farthest bio-bed and dimming the lights. "You need something to help you sleep?"
"No," says Chekov, feeling the sobs already starting to bubble up in his throat. "But thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it very much."
Doctor McCoy just nods and starts to walk away. "Well, just let me know if you change your mind." Halfway to his office he pauses and says, "And if you want some bourbon—hell, if you're old enough to steer this bucket of junk around the galaxy, you're old enough to drink by my reckoning—you let me know that too, okay?"
"Thank you," calls Chekov. He waits until he hears the swish of the office door to bury his face in the pillow, crying himself to sleep surrounded by the soft hum of medical equipment.
Chekov is almost afraid to leave the next morning; he expects everyone else to know. Their relationship was never a secret—not that they could have hidden it, what with the Enterprise's warp-speed gossip mill—and everyone must be thinking, wondering, what did Chekov do to make Sulu leave? But when Doctor McCoy kicks him out after a few hours ("I'm calling you in sick, kid, but I won't have you moping around here the whole day"), except for a few questioning looks, no one gives any indication that they know what happened in Sulu's quarters last night. And even that still hurts—he is carrying this grief inside his chest, this awful, overwhelming grief, and everyone else simply goes about their duties, unaware that their crewmate is falling to pieces in front of them.
Commander Spock, thankfully, doesn't ask for more of an explanation than Chekov offers, accepting his shift-change request with barely more than a nod. "However disruptive this change in personnel will be to both shifts," the commander says evenly, "proceeding with the current roster, given these recent events, will have a far worse effect on the morale of alpha shift. I approve your request for reassignment and will inform the captain shortly."
"I will do my best, Commander," Chekov says, looking at a spot over the commander's shoulder. He wonders if Spock has ever been broken up with before; whether he cried his heart out over someone who couldn't love him back; whether he would feel for Chekov if he broke down right here, right now. Then he remembers Spock's mother, and he flushes in shame. No loss Chekov feels could ever compare.
"You are to report to the bridge at 1800 hours tomorrow for gamma shift," says the commander, seemingly oblivious to Chekov's guilt. He pauses; his inscrutable expression gives nothing away. "Additionally, Ensign, although you have not requested a change of quarters, I will see to it that you are given new ones, as you will no longer be sharing living space with Lieutenant Sulu. They will be ready by 2200 hours tonight."
Chekov feels a sudden wave of gratitude. "Thank you, Commander," he says, mouth trembling. "You have been very helpful, thank you." He backs out of the room feeling light, but as soon as the door closes behind him, the relief wears off. His knees nearly buckle with the weight of what he's managed, just for a moment, to forget.
He's running before he knows it, dodging crewmen on the way to the lower decks. Everyone clears out of his way; they must think there's an emergency, when it's only Chekov's heart that's in danger of failing. He runs and runs and runs, letting the burn in his legs overwhelm the one in his heart, until he's deep in the underbelly of the ship. There's no one around, and Chekov collapses against a spare antimatter tank and just sobs.
There is no more Sulu. No more stealing kisses in dark corridors, no more swapping stories late into the night, no more waking up to someone else's voice and sweet, sweet smile. And there is nothing he could have done about it—nothing he could have changed, nothing he could have said. Instead, Chekov simply lost him, let him slip through his too-young hands to somewhere far away.
But of course it would have ended like this, thinks Chekov, fingers grasping the cool plastic of the tank. Sulu is so wonderful, so amazing, and to think that Chekov could hold onto him—it was a vain hope at best and a fool's dream at worst. Of course Chekov's love wouldn't have been enough. But he had hoped—beyond anything, on every nebula and shooting star, on every kiss they shared.
Chekov loses himself in his grief; he dozes intermittently, propped up against a carton of antimatter bottles. He's completely lost track of time when someone's trousered legs come into view, and a voice says, "Ensign, remind me to pick you for my team the next time we play hide-and-seek."
"Captain," Chekov croaks, torn between scrambling for his dignity and pretending he doesn't exist. The captain's already seen the tear tracks on his face, however, the bags under his eyes, and Chekov decides on formality. "Is there a matter that requires my attention?"
Instead of ordering Chekov to his feet, the captain flops down beside him. He exhales for a second, then turns to face him. "You doing all right, Chekov?"
He must know, Chekov realizes. There's no point hiding it. "I am," he says, "okay. Or I will be. This will not interfere with my duties, Captain." He wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Commander Spock approved my shift-change request—I will report for duty at 1800 hours tomorrow."
"Bullshit," says the captain; Chekov flinches. The look in the captain's eyes becomes softer, and he lifts a corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. "You're not okay. Look, I've been through my share of relationships, good and bad, and trust me, what you two had? That was special. I haven't seen two people that in love since Riley fell for that Xiyang princess. So don't try to bullshit me and say you're okay."
"I—" starts Chekov, but he doesn't know what else to say. "I hurt. All over, like I am being shot, or torn into pieces, not just my heart, but my arms, my legs. I did not know something could ever hurt this badly." He draws in a shuddering breath; he feels Sulu's absence so keenly, so physically, and his body knows it as much as his heart.
The captain puts a hand on Chekov's shoulder. "Listen, Chekov," he says. "You're one of my finest officers. You've taken us to planets that aren't even supposed to exist. And I've seen you in a fight—you more than hold your own. So yeah, it's pretty hard right now, but trust me, you're gonna be just fine."
Chekov just nods numbly. He's crying again, but he has a feeling the captain doesn't mind.
"Okay," says the captain when Chekov finally stops sniffling. "Your new quarters should be ready by now. Come on, I'll walk you there."
The room he had when the Enterprise first left port has long been reassigned by now; they've put him with the enlisted personnel on F-deck. His belongings are arranged neatly on the bed when they arrive: the framed holo-pictures of his family; his signed copy of Stratton's Four-Dimensional Lorentzian Manifolds; his marker board, covered with smudged equations; the bloodstained uniform shirt from his first away mission.
On his desk is the copy of Anna Karenina that he gave Sulu for his twenty-second birthday, one year into their mission. It took Sulu two months to finish it, reading in snatches of time between shifts, and when he finally did he came to Chekov's room and talked about it for two hours. Chekov had already fallen in love with him by then, and he listened to every word Sulu said with such a foolish smile it was a miracle Sulu didn't know right then and there, didn't realize what that smile really meant.
Chekov flings the book into the incinerator chute and then crumples to the floor, sobbing into his hands. He's never cried this much in his life before, and he doesn't know when he's ever going to stop.
That night he gets smashed on half a gallon of Lieutenant Scott's 180-proof moonshine and ends up back in Sickbay, being alternately treated and admonished by Doctor McCoy. When he finally stumbles onto the bridge five minutes late for his shift, Commander Spock does little more than look in his direction. "Ensign Chekov," he says, voice calm as ever, "take your station, please."
"Yes, Commander," says Chekov. The woman at his left—Lieutenant Rahda, a young pilot from New Mumbai—gives him a sharp smile. She looks shrewd, tough, smug: nothing like Sulu at all.
Soon it becomes routine. Chekov reports to the bridge at 1800, makes small talk with Lieutenant Martine at communications, plots a course for wherever the Enterprise needs to be. There are battles, negotiations, retreats—Chekov's only focus is on his job. And at the end of the day, when no one's life is riding on his shoulders, Chekov finally allows himself to remember.
He hasn't seen Sulu in a month. It's careful planning on his part: he only goes to the mess or the rec room when Sulu's on the bridge, and leaves right when the shift-change chimes. He knows perfectly well Sulu knows he's avoiding him, but what else can he expect Chekov to do? Hearing Sulu's voice, seeing his sweet face—it would break him into pieces, and he's not strong enough to put himself back together; so he socializes, charts stars, runs laps around the lower decks until his body cries out in pain and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.
He makes it habit to eat dinner with Uhura twice a week, no matter how tired he might be. In the seven weeks since they began lessons Uhura has become nearly fluent in Russian; Chekov's taken to teaching her slang so colorful his mother would slap his wrist at overhearing. In return, Uhura tries teaching him Swahili, but Chekov's pronunciation is so atrocious, compounded even further by his accent, that they give up after half an hour of fitful laughter.
Some nights Chekov indulges himself, drinking more wine than he knows he can handle. It's on these nights that Chekov's self-control will slip, and he'll look at Uhura sadly and ask, how is he? and is he well? and does he miss me?, as if knowing will somehow make everything hurt less. Uhura will answer him, sparing him the details: he is fine, he is well, he misses you, Pavel, of course he does. And Chekov will say, thank you for telling me, and pour himself anther glass.
It's like looking at a supernova: the refracted light left behind by a dying star, the distorted afterimage of something long gone. Chekov doesn't remember what it's like to love Sulu, only what it's like to lose him, and though he'll wake up in tears remembering the warmth of Sulu's body, he thinks to himself that this is something he can live with—something he just might be able to endure.
And then it happens.
Chekov has been summoned to Engineering along with Lieutenant Hasan; the ship's quiet, and it's a perfect time to test out their new bypass protocol. They've just passed the mess hall doors when they slide open, and Chekov steps aside to let people pass by. Then a second later his heart stops—because the person in front of him is Sulu, hand entwined with Lieutenant Masters', looking like the happiest man alive.
"Hikaru," says Chekov, so quietly it's almost a whisper. He wants to be anywhere but here, face-to-face with the man who broke his heart, but the hallway is crowded and there's nowhere he can escape to. Instead he's trapped, unable to take a single step.
He drops his hyperspanner to the floor; the clatter it makes seems almost deafening. Sulu looks up reflexively at the sound, and something in his expression changes the moment he recognizes Chekov. "Pavel," he says, moving in Chekov's direction. "Wait, don't go, I've been meaning to talk to you—"
"I—I can't," says Chekov. Then he's running, away from his duties, from Sulu's outstretched hand, from the curious stares of the crew. He weaves his way through the decks, punching in his access code when he reaches his door and collapsing facedown on the bed. He gasps for air; there's a terrible pressure in his chest that makes it nearly impossible to breathe. In the back of his head he thinks: how can he still fall apart? How can he still love Sulu, even after everything? The equation doesn't make sense; one of the variables is missing, erased by the hand of someone less careful than himself. But the only answer Chekov can find is that he loved Sulu, loves him still: the one constant, unchanging and unmoved.
When the door chimes Chekov ignores it, hands fisted in his sheets. He knows better to think that Sulu ran after him; it's probably Hasan returning the hyperspanner, confused by Chekov's flight. But after a few seconds the door chimes again, and again, and Chekov knows all of a sudden who is standing behind his door.
"Pavel," says Sulu after five minutes. "Please let me in. I have something to say." He sounds miserable, wretched, like he did the night he told Chekov it was over; and it's the catch in Sulu's voice, audible even through two inches of parsteel, that causes Chekov to stand up and open the door.
Sulu's hair is a little shorter and there's a new scar on his forehead, but otherwise he looks exactly the same. "Pavel," he says, looking relieved and guilty at once. "I didn't expect you to let me in."
Chekov can't bring himself to meet Sulu's eyes; he settles on a spot just over Sulu's right shoulder. "What do you want from me?" he asks, feeling tired, worn out, like he's already lost this battle.
"I just want to see you again," says Sulu. He holds out his hands, almost like he's surrendering. "But then I couldn't find you, and I figured you were purposely avoiding me. Why wouldn't you talk to me, Pavel?"
"I could not do it," Chekov says honestly. "I still cannot—Hikaru, please leave."
"No," Sulu says, his mouth set in a thin line. He steps into the doorway, blocking the sensors. "You've been hiding from me for months, but you keep asking after me and wanting to know how I'm doing. It's so frustrating—are we ever going to move past this? Are we ever going to be friends again?"
Chekov thinks of Lieutenant Masters' bright beaming smile, the way she must have turned it on Sulu countless times, the way Sulu must have leaned in to taste it. He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he says, "You moved past it without me."
"Charlene and I are just in this for the moment," Sulu says. "We'll probably part ways after the mission's over; it's just how things go."
"So she does not love you," declares Chekov, and this time it is bitter. He turns away into the blackness of his room, feeling hurt, scraped raw. "Not like I did."
"Pavel." Sulu's voice is oddly gentle, and Chekov turns back to face him. "I still care about you, despite what you might think. Please tell me you won't keep running away from me."
Sulu curls his fingers against Chekov's face, the gesture terribly familiar. Chekov lets himself turn into the touch, but only for a second; in the next he's pulled away. He searches Sulu's face for a change, an indication that the last ten months have actually happened, but whatever he's hoping to find, it's not there.
He's dreamt about Sulu nearly every night since the first. About spending the rest of their lives together in San Francisco, teaching at the Academy and growing old with each other; about taking Sulu to Leningrad and watching him revel in the snow; about Sulu making love to him so sweetly it's almost sad. Since last month Chekov has dreamt over and over about Sulu coming to his room, saying I made a mistake and I want you back and I love you, I love you so much, holding him so tightly he woke in tears—but now Sulu has found somebody new, and it has only ever been a dream.
"No, Hikaru," says Chekov. He expects his voice to shake, expects himself to cry, but neither happens. He takes a step backwards into the room; Sulu moves to follow, but stops himself.
"I want you back in my life," says Sulu. "I still want us to be friends—"
Chekov laughs sharply, a sound that surprises even himself. "No," he says, "no, we cannot."
Sulu says nothing; he must know Chekov is right. They can never be friends again, not after what they've been through, not after having loved each other so. Chekov will never be able to look at Sulu and see anyone else but the man he'd given himself to, wholly, completely, without looking back: the man he'd wanted to be with until the day he died.
"You broke my heart," Chekov says, and suddenly he is weak again, a sob rising in his throat. "I loved you so much, I gave you everything, and you threw it away."
"I'm sorry," says Sulu. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know," whispers Chekov, and he does. "Goodbye, Hikaru." He touches Sulu's face with the tips of his fingers, then withdraws, and the door slides shut behind him.
He saved Sulu's life the day they met. Sulu never stopped talking about it, as if it hadn't been his imminent death Chekov had barely prevented; he would say I thought I was going to die, and I couldn't believe it was you, and thank you for saving me. That morning Chekov didn't even know Sulu's first name; didn't know that he would fall in love with Sulu, that he would give Sulu all of himself, that Sulu would break his heart. Then Sulu stepped off the transporter pad a few hours later and grinned shakily at him, and Chekov knew. Maybe he has always known.
One day he will forget Sulu, all the things that made him seem so precious. The way he held Chekov so close at night, pressed up against him so tightly he felt Sulu's heartbeat like it was his own. The way he said Chekov's name so softly, so breathlessly, like it was the only word he knew. The way he'd kissed Chekov with his eyes open, smiling against his lips, a look on his face like he'd just gotten away with something he never thought he'd earn.
One day Chekov will forget this hurt. For now, it is all he has.
The door chimes again, but instead of answering he walks to the window, looks out past the hull into the infinite blackness of space. His eyes are dry, but it feels like he's been crying forever.