It is a fantastic day when Sulu gets to spend shore leave with his favorite Russian navigator. Today, as it happened, was just that sort of day. They were in orbit around a relatively peaceful planet that was undergoing political problems of some variety, and as the nearest Star Fleet vessel, it was Captain Kirk's job to intervene. With nothing for his crew to do, shore leave was granted for any off-duty personnel, and Sulu did not waste time asking Chekov to come with him on their next break.
"I vould luff to!" the ensign replied enthusiastically, and Sulu loved the way the boy's eyes positively glittered in the light. He smiled and put a hand on the Russian's shoulder, softly, before removing it and returning to work.
Later, Sulu would mull over that smile, wanting nothing more than to bring it back.
Looking back, the Asian could say confidently that his relationship with Pavel Chekov had grown remarkably, starting with the day he had been saved along with the captain from certain death. The two routinely spent their breaks together, the best of friends wherever they went. Touches that had started out accidental always looked purposeful now; the way their fingers brushed while working, the arms thrown around each other when one was upset or excited, the way they stood unnecessarily close. Sulu felt it would naturally grow into what he knew was, on his part, unconditional love, and the way their relationship had progressed eased his fear of rejection to a whisper. Chekov was his last thought every night, and his first every morning, and he would not change this.
"Ready?"
In the elevator they found Uhura and Scotty, both also on break.
"I heard about a good bar not too far from where we'll be beaming down," she said, and it was agreed that everyone would follow her there. Chekov let a smile sit on his lips, doe eyes bright and excited, and Sulu felt his stomach warm.
The planet they were on reminded Sulu of New York City—full of traffic, pollution, and tourists. The inhabitants didn't use cars and the group had to push through the closely-aligned bodies walking down the streets to make it to their destination: a bright, neon-clad bar where every breath was two parts oxygen, two parts smoke. Sulu regarded it skeptically, suddenly feeling incredibly protective over the younger boy whose body heat radiated beside him.
"Is this it?" he asked, but Uhura just shrugged and walked inside—she had handled worse, of course, and could take care of herself, but Sulu was less confident in the Russian's ability to do the same. Taking a deep, half-suffocating breath of tobacco and air, he put on a smile and lead Chekov inside, who did not seem to notice the club's shadiness and bounced beside him.
Inside was as bad as outside—not absolutely savage, but just enough so to make the hair on Sulu's neck raise in defense. They found an empty booth and occupied it, sending Scotty to the bar to order their drinks. Lights blazed, bright and multi-colored, on the dance floor, where scantily clad women danced with greedy, greasy men with big rings and sunglasses. Sulu wanted to pull Chekov closer—the boy seemed eager to get up and dance, which Sulu was not about to let him do—but the move would bring on questions and probably drama and he only wanted to enjoy himself tonight.
Scotty returned with drinks and conversation was loud, boisterous, and happy, commenting on everything from spaceship tactics to the weather to stories about the Earth each grew up on. Chekov avidly contributed to said stories with tales of Russian summers and long classroom days and his enlistment in Star Fleet. Sulu listened to the slightly intoxicated youth, fascinated by the animated influxes in his tone and the energy in his face when he spoke of his home country. In the middle of listening to Uhura speak of her grandmother's disapproval of her own enlistment, a tall, swaggering man made his way to their table, slamming his hand down and effectively silencing the group.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said thickly, hungry eyes ravaging Chekov. "Hows about I take you home?" Chekov looked shocked.
"I-I-I—"
"No." Sulu's hard gaze met the stranger's, and the drunken man stumbled off to find easier jailbait.
"Men," Uhura sighed, and Scotty chuckled, but Sulu was on the defensive.
The rest of the night was spent fending off slimeballs, but Sulu ultimately enjoyed himself. He laughed and delighted in hearing the younger boy do the same, cracking jokes and telling stories and letting the warmth of alcohol settle in his stomach. Finally, the lights and music were beginning to give them headaches and they decided to depart.
"I vill catch up, I must use ze bathroom," Chekov announced, and Sulu let him leave worriedly.
The young Russian made his way through close, sweating bodies and smoky lights to the men's bathroom. Of course, his bladder's needs were present, but on the bottom of his list. He just had to get out of Sulu's sight so he could gather his nerves—tonight, he told himself, was the night. Tonight he would admit his feelings for his best friend and pray for acceptance over rejection. Tonight, he needed every ounce of courage he could conjure.
The music pounded steadily, the heavy bass settling into his bones like a drug, smoke hazing up his vision. He stood there for a few minutes, leaning against a wall, mentally preparing himself. He took a deep breath, half nicotine, half oxygen, and set off in the way his friends had gone. He went out the door, drawing cool, polluted night air into his lungs, and turned the corner, heading down the alleyway to the main street. His determined spirits wavered only slightly when he saw the group of rough men smoking around the garbage bin.
He looked down, focusing intently on his feet. His shirt now felt far too tight to be appropriate and suddenly he was very, very conscious of his hands.
"Hey sweetie, how's it going?" one of the men called as he neared them, an ugly glint in his eyes. The others were smiling—no, not smiling; smirking. They took a few steps toward him but he ignored them, moving to the far side of the alley and walking quickly.
"C'mon darling, talk to us! We just want to have a good night," another called, grease in his voice. Chekov had almost reached them and he was trying harder and harder to ignore their advances and the fact that the one who had spoken first was almost directly in his path.
"We said, talk to us!" he spat, grabbing Chekov's wrist and dragging him so close to himself the boy could smell the filth and liquor on his breath. Suddenly the warmth of vodka that had buzzed in his stomach earlier froze into an ice pit, and he found he could not breathe, and the stranger was trying to kiss him and Chekov was struggling, struggling…
He broke away, flinging himself forward to try and escape the dark alley. Another of the men grabbed him, and then another, and in a flurry of hands and cigarettes, Chekov was caught.
Sulu paced, wearing a hole in the sidewalk. Surely Chekov would be back by now, unless he was sick? Sulu had, against his request, waited for him, because someone that small and lovely simply could not be left alone in a shady bar at night, and now Sulu was worried. Worried because the men smoking by the garbage bin had hit on both Sulu and Uhura, and he thought they might have left, but he wasn't sure and what if they did something to Pavel--?
That was the last thought in his head as he took off down the alley, jogging. He kicked up dust but he didn't care. He quickened his pace and rounded a turn in the road and froze.
Chekov, restrained. Chekov, beaten. Chekov, crying gently with pants half pulled down and torn.
Sulu was just in time to see the big, disgusting one unzip his pants.
He broke.
He ran at the man, tackling him to the ground. He punched him once, twice, and again, before he himself took a hit to the face and was thrown backwards by the force of it. He stood, but launched himself at his opponent again, fists doubling as they hit his stomach, back, neck. He noticed then that another man is coming toward him, the last one restraining Chekov. He head butted that one in the stomach, kicking him in the head while he was down. Finally the last one let the small Russian go, and ran at Sulu, pinning him to the ground.
"RUN PAVEL!" he screamed desperately, his voice carrying thickly above the smoke and dust and alcohol. Chekov looked terrified, eyes as wide as a dear's in headlights, and they hurt to look at.
He took off running but, to Sulu's dismay, his first opponent had recovered and ran after him, punching him in the face and presumably knocking him out.
Sulu remembered little else but flesh and blood after that.
Finally, he picked up Chekov's beautiful body in his arms, beaming back to the ship and rushing him to sickbay.
He would not forget a single one of those three faces.
AN: IF I GET TEN REVIEWS FOR THIS CHAPTER, I WILL POST THE NEXT ONE! But not until then! Critiques welcome, flames ignored.