Ocean of Stars
Old Fiat
There are times when Pavel goes silent for extended periods, staring blankly ahead at the walls of their quarters. His face is impassive, his eyes emotionless, his mouth pressed together in a tight line. Hikaru doesn't know what to do during these moments. It's as though Pavel has entered another world, drawing himself in and away from Hikaru and the Enterprise, going deep into himself and reaching out to touch the bottom of the limitless ocean that is his mind.
His hands don't clench—they don't relax—they simply go stiff in whatever position they were occupying before. He doesn't move at all, lost in the universe of his thoughts.
It usually takes contact to pull him out, just a light touch on the shoulder and he's smiling and chattering cheerfully again as though nothing's happened.
Hikaru never mentions it. It's not because he think Pavel wouldn't tell him the truth, but because he wants to believe that each time will be the last, that there's nothing really wrong, that Hikaru can forget about it.
It's cowardly—he knows that somewhere deep down. He knows how wrong it is for him to pretend like nothing happened; he knows that it's just because in him is the horrible fear that if something really were wrong with Pavel, that he might not be able to help him.
He doesn't know how to face that.
It doesn't improve with time. If anything, it gets worse.
Pavel begins screaming in his sleep, trashing from night terrors, shrieking curses in Russian, begging, crying.
He's only twenty-one. He's too young for this sort of thing.
Hikaru sometimes has to slap him to make him wake-hard, strong, slamming his palm across Pavel's slightly stubbly cheek—and Pavel snaps awake, gasping like he's just burst from under water. Tears pour freely down his face and he clutches Hikaru to him, muttering words Hikaru can't (and doesn't want to) understand. His fingernails dig into Hikaru's shoulder blades, his skin is slick with sweat and tears.
Hikaru doesn't tell anyone about these times and he tries to ignore the unnamed emotion that twists in his stomach as he notices the red skin around Pavel's eyes as he sits at the helm, his jaw set and his shoulders tensed.
Pavel is twenty-three when Hikaru finally understands. They're lying together in bed, Pavel curled up against him. Hikaru admires the curve of his neck, the soft hairs that grow down toward his back, the swirl of his cowlick. He looks at the way Pavel's hand curls in his sleep, his fingers half-closed around the sheet.
And then he sees it.
It's small, almost invisible—two small scars, each curved in the shape of a U—and Hikaru doesn't know how he didn't notice them before. He stares at them for a few moments, understanding building slowly, like an image sliding into focus. The scars look faint, but still stretched and pale, as though Pavel tried to heal the wound himself using the dermal regenerator.
He feels something inside him break from the weight of his epiphany and he can't ignore this anymore.
"Pavel—Pasha, wake up."
He says it as gently as he can, but Pavel jerks awake, his breathing suddenly quicker and Hikaru's heart breaks again. There's a crease between Pavel's eyebrows, his tongue is held tight between his teeth. Hikaru sits up, taking Pavel's hand. He hesitates before he looks at his face, before he can look at the now almost constantly red skin around his eyes.
"Pasha, I think we need to talk."
There are times when Pavel goes silent for extended periods, staring blankly ahead at the walls of their quarters. His face is impassive, his eyes emotionless, his mouth pressed together in a tight line. It's as though Pavel has entered another world, drawing himself in and away from Hikaru and the Enterprise, going deep into himself and reaching out to touch the bottom of the limitless ocean that is his mind.
And so Hikaru takes Pavel in his arms and hold him close and becomes his anchor.