withthepilot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withthepilot) wrote2010-02-25 12:41 am
withthepilot) wrote2010-02-25 12:41 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Letters From Tomoko
Title: Letters From Tomoko
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Word count: 2,046
Notes: Written for the "In the Doghouse Again" challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
st_respect. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starsandgraces for the kind beta.
Summary: There's a secret stash of letters under Hikaru's bed and Pavel can't stop thinking about them.
Pavel falls in love the day he finds out Hikaru writes letters.
Not electronic messages, not communications, but letters—old-fashioned correspondence on real paper, the kind that yellows over time and goes translucent with the skin cells from a person's fingertips. Hardly anyone sends paper letters anymore and the postal service mainly functions as an embodiment of American nostalgia, so Pavel can barely contain his surprise when he sees Hikaru kneel down by his bed and lift up the edge of the sheet, revealing several boxes of handwritten correspondence.
They've known each other now for two and a half months.
"I cannot believe you do this," he says, sitting down next to Hikaru. "It is so much easier to use a PADD."
"I know it's silly," Hikaru says. Pavel isn't sure he's ever seen him so bashful. "There's just something more meaningful about it; like you really took the time to think about what you were writing. Using a PADD is easy, yeah, but...it's almost too easy."
Pavel unfolds a page carefully. It's been so long since he's handled actual paper, he's terrified he'll rip one of these letters; one of Hikaru's inked treasures.
"Who is Tomoko?" he asks, seeing the name on the bottom of the page. It's a letter to Hikaru, not very old, and it's so lovingly penned in neat, tight script that Pavel feels an odd flare of jealousy lick at him.
"My cousin," Hikaru says, smiling. "She's a paper buff, too. She taught me good penmanship."
Pavel wants to see Hikaru's perfect penmanship—likely rife with elegant curls written with a practiced flourish of his wrist—but he doesn't ask. It feels too intimate, somehow. This is a part of Hikaru reserved for his cousin and people like her, who really know him.
He hands back the letter, mustering a smile. "I would not have guessed," he says. Hikaru laughs in response, reverently tucking the paper back into its box.
"I'm sure there's a lot I don't know about you, too, Pavel."
Pavel chews his bottom lip and shrugs.
*
The letters continue to live under Hikaru's bed. Pavel wants nothing more than to read them, to learn more about this secret side of Hikaru, but he never takes the risk. He spends time in Hikaru's room next door, eating junk and watching holovids, complaining about classes and crotchety instructors, and he has to stop himself from constantly glancing over at the bed, where everything there is to know about Hikaru sits and waits in a box, neatly folded and all too tempting.
One day, he walks across campus, moving between classes, and he sees Hikaru jogging toward the postal center, crisp white envelope in hand. Pavel spends the entirety of his next class wondering about the letter and exactly what Hikaru might have written—if he complained to Tomoko about the academy, or maybe the notoriously inefficient campus laundry service. Maybe he mentioned his friend Pavel and the look on his face when he realized that Hikaru actually wrote letters by hand. Maybe he said other things about Pavel, too.
Pavel wills himself to forget about the letters until a week later, when someone interrupts his mid-afternoon nap, the chime of his door sounding. He answers it groggily, rubbing at his eyes, and sees Cadet Vargas, one of the academy's administrative volunteers.
"Hey, Chekov," he says, ignoring the fact that Pavel was asleep. "Is Sulu here?"
"No, he is—"
"Well, he lives with you, right? I see you two together all the time, so... Anyway, he's got a letter. Here." Vargas thrusts an envelope at Pavel, who clutches it to his chest to keep it from falling. Then he nods and makes his way down the corridor. "Give that to him, will you? Gotta run."
Pavel stares after him, then looks down at the envelope. He darts back into his room and closes the door without a second thought.
The letter isn't very long but Pavel is entranced by Tomoko's neat penmanship. He follows along with the tip of his finger, tracing over the words and trying not to smudge the ink.
Hikaru, I miss your voice! I can almost hear it in my head, telling me all the things that annoy you about Starfleet, poor baby.
Pavel smiles to himself; he knew Hikaru wouldn't miss the opportunity to grouse to a sympathetic ear.
I bet Theories of Aviation isn't as much of a snoozefest as you think it is. I told Masuyo you were complaining about classes and she says you should suck it up. But I bet it's lonely there. I'm glad you have some friends—that Pavel sounds so sweet. Remember you're never far from home. I'm always right here with a big, steaming bowl of shrimp ramen, waiting for you.
The words Pavel sounds so sweet swirl around in his head ceaselessly for the rest of the day, stuck on repeat.
He arrives at Hikaru's room that night with two packages of ramen: beef and shrimp flavors. Hikaru gives him an unbelieving grin and takes the shrimp package out of Pavel's hand, marveling at it.
"This is my favorite! How did you know?"
Pavel pictures Tomoko's letter, tucked under the pillow on his bed. "I had this feeling," he says.
*
Vargas delivers more letters. Pavel feels both guilty and enthralled when he reads them, usually right before he goes to bed, his tableside lamp on its dimmest setting so he doesn't disturb his roommate. He spreads the paper carefully on his pillow and leans up on his elbows so he has a perfect view of all the words at once. Slowly, he comes to learn more things about Hikaru—maybe not secrets, but parts of him that he has yet to reveal in this setting, where hardly anyone cares to hear anything besides idle gossip.
When the fourth letter arrives, Pavel opens it eagerly, sipping from a glass of water. It's shorter than usual; he feels a twinge of regret as he skims over it.
Hikaru, why have you stopped writing? I miss your letters. It's difficult enough with you gone...but you're probably making new friends and having a wonderful time, aren't you? Maybe I'll forgive you if you take me flying with you one day. In the mean time, at least send a communication. It's not like you to not write at all.
Pavel squints, feeling the urge to run to Hikaru's room and give him all the letters, tell him everything—but then his roommate wakes up and throws a pillow across the room, thwacking him right on the head. Pavel squeaks, the water in his hand spilling and completely soaking the letter.
Pavel lets out a Russian swear, looking down at the ruined paper, the ink running everywhere. Max, his roommate, snorts across the room.
"S'what you get," he grumps. "That lamp's been driving me crazy."
"Oh, god, oh, god," Pavel repeats, clutching the letter in his hands. He ignores Max and runs into the bathroom they share with Hikaru and Andrew McKenna next door, hoping he can get the paper under the hand dryer before it's beyond repair. His first instinct is to save the document—whether for himself or for Hikaru, he doesn't know.
He holds the paper under the dryer for all of five seconds before someone says his name. It's Hikaru, of course, standing there with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.
"What's that?" he says, his voice muffled, surprised at the sight of Pavel—technologically savvy Pavel—holding a piece of paper. He makes a noise of surprise, spotting the familiar handwriting before Pavel can pull it away, and spits out his mouthful of toothpaste. "What the hell, Pavel?"
"Hikaru, I didn't—" he starts. Then Hikaru yanks the letter away.
"This is for me—I just talked to Tomoko earlier; she'd thought I was ignoring her! You've been stealing my letters?"
"I did not..." Pavel squints miserably, searching for the right words in Standard—the language always escapes him when he's upset or frustrated. He could say a million things to Hikaru in Russian, but it would do him no good. "I wanted to know you," is all he can manage. Hikaru gives him a funny look, one that Pavel can't exactly decipher.
"I can't believe you. Just leave me alone, Pavel," he grumbles, turning to leave. Hikaru crumples the soggy letter in his fist as he goes, and somehow, it's as good as a knife through Pavel's heart.
*
They don't talk for days. Hikaru avoids Pavel in the classes they share, as well as the mess. He certainly doesn't invite him to his room, the place where the hidden parts of him live, trapped within folded leaves of delicate paper—the parts Pavel now fears he'll never know.
Vargas shows up at his room with a new letter and Pavel thrusts a thumb in the direction of Hikaru's room, shutting the door in his face.
"Where's your little buddy been lately?" Max asks that night, as he's getting ready for bed. Pavel frowns and puts down his PADD.
"He is not a ‘little buddy.' He is my good friend." Was, he thinks, glowering at his roommate. He wants to be angry at Max but he knows quite well it's his own fault.
"Whatever," Max sighs, crawling under his covers. "Sorry again for ruining that paper the other night. I know it's pretty expensive. I can get you some more."
Pavel blinks, processing the idea. "You could?"
The next day, he finds himself face to face with a blank sheet of paper, a real ballpoint pen in his hand that he barely knows how to hold properly. He writes the first words, Dear Hikaru, I'm so sorry, then furrows his brow. He's sent a million communications in the past, yet he's stumped on how to write a letter to Hikaru this way, not to mention what he's even supposed to say.
After a half hour of thinking and fidgeting, he forces himself to place pen to paper.
These letters from your cousin fell into my lap and I was too curious not to read them. I think you are very interesting. There is so much I would like to know about you.
He pauses, licking his lips.
I will tell you something secret about me: this is my first time away from home and I am homesick. Just as you miss shrimp ramen with Tomoko, I miss borscht with my father. I found these letters comforting. I wish I could receive one, too, just once, from a person who cares about me.
Pavel
He reads the letter at least ten times. It's awkward at best, but he's not seasoned at this like Hikaru. Pavel stands with the letter in hand, about to deliver it next door, when the room chime sounds. The door whooshes open, revealing a strangely shy-looking Hikaru.
"Hey," he says, pursing his lips. Then he holds out a folded sheet of precious paper, just like the one in Pavel's grip. "This is for you." Pavel blinks and takes it, opening it carefully and reading.
Okay, I'll go first. Every night, I can't fall asleep without a warm glass of milk. But the stupid replicator always makes it too hot. Now it's your turn to tell me something.
Hikaru
Pavel wordlessly hands over his letter, watching in stunned silence as Hikaru reads it. When he gets to the end, he smiles brightly, and it's like everything Pavel would ever want to know about him is right there, neatly contained in that smile.
"Well, okay. Done and done. Now we have to work on your penmanship."
Pavel grins, already imagining a box of his own, filled with Hikaru's secrets. "Trust me, I am a good student," he says.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Word count: 2,046
Notes: Written for the "In the Doghouse Again" challenge at
st_respect. Thanks to starsandgraces for the kind beta. Summary: There's a secret stash of letters under Hikaru's bed and Pavel can't stop thinking about them.
Pavel falls in love the day he finds out Hikaru writes letters.
Not electronic messages, not communications, but letters—old-fashioned correspondence on real paper, the kind that yellows over time and goes translucent with the skin cells from a person's fingertips. Hardly anyone sends paper letters anymore and the postal service mainly functions as an embodiment of American nostalgia, so Pavel can barely contain his surprise when he sees Hikaru kneel down by his bed and lift up the edge of the sheet, revealing several boxes of handwritten correspondence.
They've known each other now for two and a half months.
"I cannot believe you do this," he says, sitting down next to Hikaru. "It is so much easier to use a PADD."
"I know it's silly," Hikaru says. Pavel isn't sure he's ever seen him so bashful. "There's just something more meaningful about it; like you really took the time to think about what you were writing. Using a PADD is easy, yeah, but...it's almost too easy."
Pavel unfolds a page carefully. It's been so long since he's handled actual paper, he's terrified he'll rip one of these letters; one of Hikaru's inked treasures.
"Who is Tomoko?" he asks, seeing the name on the bottom of the page. It's a letter to Hikaru, not very old, and it's so lovingly penned in neat, tight script that Pavel feels an odd flare of jealousy lick at him.
"My cousin," Hikaru says, smiling. "She's a paper buff, too. She taught me good penmanship."
Pavel wants to see Hikaru's perfect penmanship—likely rife with elegant curls written with a practiced flourish of his wrist—but he doesn't ask. It feels too intimate, somehow. This is a part of Hikaru reserved for his cousin and people like her, who really know him.
He hands back the letter, mustering a smile. "I would not have guessed," he says. Hikaru laughs in response, reverently tucking the paper back into its box.
"I'm sure there's a lot I don't know about you, too, Pavel."
Pavel chews his bottom lip and shrugs.
*
The letters continue to live under Hikaru's bed. Pavel wants nothing more than to read them, to learn more about this secret side of Hikaru, but he never takes the risk. He spends time in Hikaru's room next door, eating junk and watching holovids, complaining about classes and crotchety instructors, and he has to stop himself from constantly glancing over at the bed, where everything there is to know about Hikaru sits and waits in a box, neatly folded and all too tempting.
One day, he walks across campus, moving between classes, and he sees Hikaru jogging toward the postal center, crisp white envelope in hand. Pavel spends the entirety of his next class wondering about the letter and exactly what Hikaru might have written—if he complained to Tomoko about the academy, or maybe the notoriously inefficient campus laundry service. Maybe he mentioned his friend Pavel and the look on his face when he realized that Hikaru actually wrote letters by hand. Maybe he said other things about Pavel, too.
Pavel wills himself to forget about the letters until a week later, when someone interrupts his mid-afternoon nap, the chime of his door sounding. He answers it groggily, rubbing at his eyes, and sees Cadet Vargas, one of the academy's administrative volunteers.
"Hey, Chekov," he says, ignoring the fact that Pavel was asleep. "Is Sulu here?"
"No, he is—"
"Well, he lives with you, right? I see you two together all the time, so... Anyway, he's got a letter. Here." Vargas thrusts an envelope at Pavel, who clutches it to his chest to keep it from falling. Then he nods and makes his way down the corridor. "Give that to him, will you? Gotta run."
Pavel stares after him, then looks down at the envelope. He darts back into his room and closes the door without a second thought.
The letter isn't very long but Pavel is entranced by Tomoko's neat penmanship. He follows along with the tip of his finger, tracing over the words and trying not to smudge the ink.
Hikaru, I miss your voice! I can almost hear it in my head, telling me all the things that annoy you about Starfleet, poor baby.
Pavel smiles to himself; he knew Hikaru wouldn't miss the opportunity to grouse to a sympathetic ear.
I bet Theories of Aviation isn't as much of a snoozefest as you think it is. I told Masuyo you were complaining about classes and she says you should suck it up. But I bet it's lonely there. I'm glad you have some friends—that Pavel sounds so sweet. Remember you're never far from home. I'm always right here with a big, steaming bowl of shrimp ramen, waiting for you.
The words Pavel sounds so sweet swirl around in his head ceaselessly for the rest of the day, stuck on repeat.
He arrives at Hikaru's room that night with two packages of ramen: beef and shrimp flavors. Hikaru gives him an unbelieving grin and takes the shrimp package out of Pavel's hand, marveling at it.
"This is my favorite! How did you know?"
Pavel pictures Tomoko's letter, tucked under the pillow on his bed. "I had this feeling," he says.
*
Vargas delivers more letters. Pavel feels both guilty and enthralled when he reads them, usually right before he goes to bed, his tableside lamp on its dimmest setting so he doesn't disturb his roommate. He spreads the paper carefully on his pillow and leans up on his elbows so he has a perfect view of all the words at once. Slowly, he comes to learn more things about Hikaru—maybe not secrets, but parts of him that he has yet to reveal in this setting, where hardly anyone cares to hear anything besides idle gossip.
When the fourth letter arrives, Pavel opens it eagerly, sipping from a glass of water. It's shorter than usual; he feels a twinge of regret as he skims over it.
Hikaru, why have you stopped writing? I miss your letters. It's difficult enough with you gone...but you're probably making new friends and having a wonderful time, aren't you? Maybe I'll forgive you if you take me flying with you one day. In the mean time, at least send a communication. It's not like you to not write at all.
Pavel squints, feeling the urge to run to Hikaru's room and give him all the letters, tell him everything—but then his roommate wakes up and throws a pillow across the room, thwacking him right on the head. Pavel squeaks, the water in his hand spilling and completely soaking the letter.
Pavel lets out a Russian swear, looking down at the ruined paper, the ink running everywhere. Max, his roommate, snorts across the room.
"S'what you get," he grumps. "That lamp's been driving me crazy."
"Oh, god, oh, god," Pavel repeats, clutching the letter in his hands. He ignores Max and runs into the bathroom they share with Hikaru and Andrew McKenna next door, hoping he can get the paper under the hand dryer before it's beyond repair. His first instinct is to save the document—whether for himself or for Hikaru, he doesn't know.
He holds the paper under the dryer for all of five seconds before someone says his name. It's Hikaru, of course, standing there with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.
"What's that?" he says, his voice muffled, surprised at the sight of Pavel—technologically savvy Pavel—holding a piece of paper. He makes a noise of surprise, spotting the familiar handwriting before Pavel can pull it away, and spits out his mouthful of toothpaste. "What the hell, Pavel?"
"Hikaru, I didn't—" he starts. Then Hikaru yanks the letter away.
"This is for me—I just talked to Tomoko earlier; she'd thought I was ignoring her! You've been stealing my letters?"
"I did not..." Pavel squints miserably, searching for the right words in Standard—the language always escapes him when he's upset or frustrated. He could say a million things to Hikaru in Russian, but it would do him no good. "I wanted to know you," is all he can manage. Hikaru gives him a funny look, one that Pavel can't exactly decipher.
"I can't believe you. Just leave me alone, Pavel," he grumbles, turning to leave. Hikaru crumples the soggy letter in his fist as he goes, and somehow, it's as good as a knife through Pavel's heart.
*
They don't talk for days. Hikaru avoids Pavel in the classes they share, as well as the mess. He certainly doesn't invite him to his room, the place where the hidden parts of him live, trapped within folded leaves of delicate paper—the parts Pavel now fears he'll never know.
Vargas shows up at his room with a new letter and Pavel thrusts a thumb in the direction of Hikaru's room, shutting the door in his face.
"Where's your little buddy been lately?" Max asks that night, as he's getting ready for bed. Pavel frowns and puts down his PADD.
"He is not a ‘little buddy.' He is my good friend." Was, he thinks, glowering at his roommate. He wants to be angry at Max but he knows quite well it's his own fault.
"Whatever," Max sighs, crawling under his covers. "Sorry again for ruining that paper the other night. I know it's pretty expensive. I can get you some more."
Pavel blinks, processing the idea. "You could?"
The next day, he finds himself face to face with a blank sheet of paper, a real ballpoint pen in his hand that he barely knows how to hold properly. He writes the first words, Dear Hikaru, I'm so sorry, then furrows his brow. He's sent a million communications in the past, yet he's stumped on how to write a letter to Hikaru this way, not to mention what he's even supposed to say.
After a half hour of thinking and fidgeting, he forces himself to place pen to paper.
These letters from your cousin fell into my lap and I was too curious not to read them. I think you are very interesting. There is so much I would like to know about you.
He pauses, licking his lips.
I will tell you something secret about me: this is my first time away from home and I am homesick. Just as you miss shrimp ramen with Tomoko, I miss borscht with my father. I found these letters comforting. I wish I could receive one, too, just once, from a person who cares about me.
Pavel
He reads the letter at least ten times. It's awkward at best, but he's not seasoned at this like Hikaru. Pavel stands with the letter in hand, about to deliver it next door, when the room chime sounds. The door whooshes open, revealing a strangely shy-looking Hikaru.
"Hey," he says, pursing his lips. Then he holds out a folded sheet of precious paper, just like the one in Pavel's grip. "This is for you." Pavel blinks and takes it, opening it carefully and reading.
Okay, I'll go first. Every night, I can't fall asleep without a warm glass of milk. But the stupid replicator always makes it too hot. Now it's your turn to tell me something.
Hikaru
Pavel wordlessly hands over his letter, watching in stunned silence as Hikaru reads it. When he gets to the end, he smiles brightly, and it's like everything Pavel would ever want to know about him is right there, neatly contained in that smile.
"Well, okay. Done and done. Now we have to work on your penmanship."
Pavel grins, already imagining a box of his own, filled with Hikaru's secrets. "Trust me, I am a good student," he says.