Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, this universe, or beeswax.
Author's Note: It's a quick drabble, but I like it. Please review!
Sulu slept on his back. Pavel had read somewhere that sleeping on your back meant you had a very open personality, that you were happy with your lot in life and relatively stress-free. Pavel tossed into many positions at night, but usually ended up on his stomach.
Sulu snored. It was a light snore, two light intakes of breath and then a quick release. He did not talk in his sleep and, in fact, rarely moved. He did not have nightmares and did not wake up in the middle of his sleep.
From his slumped position on Sulu's desk chair, Pavel yawned. He was unable to sleep again so he came here, just as he had the past seventeen times. This time was no different. He tossed himself out of his bed, toddled down the hall to Sulu's room, typed in the special code his friend had given him, sat down and watched Sulu sleep.
The first time he'd come, he immediately wanted to take up a hobby other than Sulu-watching. Sulu had his plants - which he nattered on about at odd intervals and Pavel found himself nodding off lately when Sulu went on for too long. He needed something to do. Knitting? He was passably good at it, having been taught by Grandmama for countless hours on Sunday afternoons after church. Getting yarn wouldn't be easy - real yarn, none of the synthetic stuff, as Grandmama had taught him. But it would be something to do. Distracting, even.
By his fourth visit he had finished two pink baby booties - Grandmama made those the most, as her grandchildren were especially, er, frisky - and now, on visit number eighteen, he had finished the scarf.
It was slate grey with half-rows of navy blue here and there. It would clash horribly with the Starfleet sweaters they had to wear on duty, but Pavel thought it would be a nice civilian garment. He hoped Sulu liked it. Pavel did, very much so.
He ran the scarf through his hands again, feeling the soft wool push back on his tired fingers. He wished it were something else - someone - no, he was too tired to be that coy. It was not Hikaru, so he let the scarf wriggle back down into his lap.
On Sulu's desk was a single piece of lavender stationery straight from Pavel's old desk back home in Russia. It was not scented - he wasn't a girl, for goodness' sake - and it had no picture on it. It was a simple, tasteful square of purple paper with dark blue lines on it for him to write his message. One of Sulu's many pens sat in a plain white mug next to it, but Pavel had yet to reach for one.
Grandmama had taught him calligraphy on those Sunday afternoons, before the knitting. She insisted that he learned the old craft.
"You will never know what you might need to know," she would say. "So you must learn as much as you can, pasha."
Slowly, with exquisite grace, with confidence in the only part of his body he ever trusted, Pavel let his fingers slide across the paper. He did not think of what to write but instead of how to write it, of Grandmama's stern rebukes when he curved the wrong way or lifted his stylus incorrectly. The ink in the pen he'd chosen was thin, but it still did as Pavel commanded.
When he finished, he folded the scarf neatly and set it on the desk. He put the pen back in the mug and laid the note across his gift.
Pavel rose and turned to leave. As usual, he stopped to turn around again, to look at Sulu one last time. Sulu's leg shifted - an unusual phenomenon - but his chest heaved the familiar slow cadence. Pavel smiled and exited.
A few seconds later, Sulu popped one eye open. Yep, Chekov was gone. It had been a surprise to come nearly awake that first night and see Chekov sitting on a chair, looking for all the world like he'd drowned his pet cat by accident. He almost got up and asked his friend what was wrong, but considering that Chekov had entered his room in the middle of the night and hadn't woke him up on purpose, Sulu figured he didn't want to talk about it.
So he would go back to sleep or watch Chekov with squinted eyelids. Sometimes Chekov dropped off to sleep and Sulu would smile and go back to sleep himself. Usually, Chekov just watched him or stared around his room.
Sulu didn't mind. Chekov was a good guy, and if he needed to just sit there in the middle of the night, he wasn't going to tell him he couldn't. He'd seen countless mental breakdowns in his Academy days, watching as cadet after cadet broke under the pressure. Usually they just partied too much and got kicked out for poor grades or vandalism or conduct unbecoming officers. But a few lost it completely.
So if Chekov needed this to relieve stress, who was he to argue? It wasn't going to cause anyone any harm.
Just as he was about to close his eyes again, Sulu noticed the odd lumpy shape on his desk. He dragged the thin coverlet off of him and walked over to it, yawning. There was a note on it - a scarf, he realized belatedly, it was a scarf - and he read it.
Hikaru,
For when you are cold, have hickey, or vampires attack (again).
Pavel
Sulu smiled and ran his hands over the scarf, surprised at its softness. He carried it over with him to his bed and laid back down. He fell asleep with his hands across his chest, the scarf clutched gently in his hands, and wished, as he did every night and never had it come true, that he would dream of Pavel kissing him.
Author's Note: Please review. And have a stalk of broccoli, too.