Sulu finds Chekov huddled under a table, his party hat absurdly lopsided. Sulu sits on the floor, crossed legged, and bends at the waist to make eye contact with his friend.
"You know the phrase 'drink yourself under a table' is just a figure of speech, right?" Sulu jokes, noting too late that Chekov isn't drunk; he's scared.
"I don't like fire crackers," he says, tugging his hat off, the elastic popping under his chin. "I've had nothing to drink."
Sulu knits his brow together and scoots under the table next to the young Russian. It's a tight fit; after all, two person lunch tables aren't exactly meant for two grown (well, one grown and one almost grown) men to sit under.
They're knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder and Sulu is suddenly very aware of the two drinks he has had. The close space amplifies the popping of fireworks down in engineering. Chekov flinches every single time one sounds, his face pale. When Sulu's hand brushes against Chekov's open palm, it is clammy and cold.
"Man, you're serious, aren't you?" Sulu asks, trying to not sound unbelieving. Chekov gives a short, curt nod, clenching his eyes shut as a particularly large mortar detonates just outside the ship.
"When I was little, my father took us to a New Year's celebration. My sister, she is four years younger than me, she was very scared and my father would not take us home. She cried and begged and he still would not take us, so we stayed for the entire time and she passed out from fear. I cannot trust fire crackers since then."
Sulu listens, sickened a little by the actions of Chekov Sr., vowing that he himself will never do that to any children he may have someday. The list of things he won't do to his someday-children is currently longer than things he will do.
"Why don't we go to bed?" Sulu suggests, his head starting to pound a little bit. He wasn't entirely sure what McCoy had given him ("Just drink it," the doctor had grumbled) but he was very sure he shouldn't have had two. Chekov nods and after a few seconds of struggling to get off the floor, the pair is walking back through the mess hall and towards their room, Chekov jumping and jerking every few seconds.
As they round the corner to the quarters, they practically run into Kirk, who is currently plastered against the wall by a cadet they've met a couple times. Exchanging furtive glances and eye rolls, Chekov and Sulu arrive at their room a minute later, keying in the entry code and slipping into the dark, cool compartment.
It is pitch black except for the occasional burst of light outside the window. The Enterprise has been docked for thirty-six hours and, in the morning, will leave for the Laurentian system.
Sulu sits down on his bed, steadying himself against the headboard before pulling his shirt off over his head and flopping back against his pillow. He listens to Chekov's steady breathing, sensing the young man's calm already.
"Hey, Pavel?"
Chekov grunts in return, rustling around in the darkness. A heaviness at the foot of Sulu's bed tells him that his roommate is sitting there now.
"Happy New Year," Sulu says, sitting up. He almost cracks foreheads with Chekov, who is closer than he knew when he sits up. The tips of their noses are touching and before he realizes what he's doing, Sulu closes the distance between, his lips soft on Chekov's.
It's chaste, almost non-existent and, initially, unrequited. Sulu's heart pounds against his chest as his hands come to rest on Chekov's shoulders, bare and goosebumped.
Just as he's about to pull away, Chekov leans into Sulu and threads his fingers through Sulu's hair, holding the older man's head tight against him.
After what feels like a lifetime, as new colors are starting to explode behind his eyelids, Sulu pulls away, sucking in a deep breath. He's dizzy, half drunk and half aroused, and completely astonished.
"Happy New Year, Hikaru."