Hello everyone! So as you can guess, the full-length fic was chosen and now here it is! I've got the first three chapters posted right now because I'll be going on vacation for a week with no internet. But fear not! I shall be back to continue with updates as soon as I can. Thank you so much for all your loving comments and support. Don't forget to review! Have a lovely day everyone.
Somewhere in a graying, fog-drenched city, a door slams shut.
A figure strides toward the window across the room and stares out into the murky bleakness of the evening.
Pavel Chekov always believed there were three types of angry; three distinct types of the same emotion.
The first type of angry is frustrated angry, the kind that makes him huff and puff, pace back and forth across a room, and refuse to let him sit still as his mind stays latched onto whatever is irritating him.
The second kind is furious angry. This one is particularly common in times of danger, especially when a loved one is in trouble. It also occurs when something angers him so much to the point of violence, something he rarely commits.
The third kind of angry is, in his opinion, the worst. The third type is sad angry; the kind that makes you realize how much you care about something but still feel like you're falling apart from the inside. The third kind is what makes you cry soft tears despite the feeling of wanting to punch through a wall.
Pavel Chekov was the third kind of angry.
He stared out of his apartment window, bitter tears trailing from his eyes. So many thoughts rampaged through his mind, making him more frustrated and sad with each passing second.
He yelled out in frustration as he picked up an adjacent vase and threw it against the wall. The shattered glass clattering to the floor made him feel slightly better, so he did it again. He reached for the ornaments lining the mantle of his fireplace and tossed them one by one at the floor. The book case he spent so much time organizing was ruined in seconds, its contents spilling onto the floor. He grabbed a stack of papers and angrily threw them into the open air, littering the small apartment with white.
The adrenaline pumped through him as he stared at his work, breath heavy and labored. The small burst of energy quickly wore off, and was replaced with the painful ache he'd felt before.
Everything had gone so wrong so fast he didn't even know what direction to turn. He knew where it started though: the day he never liked to remember; the day the world felt as though it had stopped spinning entirely and the sun would never again rise.
"We are gathered to recognize and celebrate the life of James T. Kirk: A captain, a friend, a brother".
Chekov did not pick up on most of what was said. All he could think about was having to place a flower, his final goodbye, onto the shiny black coffin he just couldn't seem to take his eyes off of.
The morning was bleak and so was the atmosphere. No one wanted to believe that this day had finally come.
Chekov followed behind his best friend, who was a solemn statue of strength. His head held high, he advanced toward the coffin in step behind the others. Chekov couldn't even try to replicate Sulu's mask of bravery in that moment, so he chose to quietly walk behind him, a rose clutched tightly in his hand.
Chekov's breath began to hitch as he neared the wood-crafted box that seemed so wrong just being present. After Sulu placed his rose onto the coffin and whispered a few words, he turned to the boy behind him, gave an encouraging nod, and left to return to his seat. Chekov stared at the black box before him.
He tried to say something, but all that came out was a small, choked sob. He hung his head as the new tears traced down the dried tracks on his cheeks and kneeled beside the coffin. With one hand resting lightly on the top to keep him anchored to reality, he finally managed to speak.
"I'm…I'm so sorry. I know that means nothing now that you're…that you're gone. But I am. I didn't do enough. I didn't try hard enough. If I could have just gotten there faster then maybe…"
The boy took a shaky breath in as more tears trailed down his face.
"Please come back. It's not fair. You can't just leave like this. Do you remember telling me that you were born invincible and that's why you survived everything? You were like some kind of superhero when you told me that. I knew it wasn't true, but the way you said it made me want to believe it".
Chekov squeezed the rose stem tightly in his hand, a small thorn pricking the inside of his palm.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you. You're my big brother, remember? You said you'd always be there when I needed you. Well…I need you now," the boy sobbed, "I need you to tell me that it's going to be okay and that we're going to fix this just like we always do. I need you to not…"
He hesitated, the blackness of the coffin now a murky blur through his eyes.
"I need you to not be dead," he whispered tearfully. The air around him was cold, and silence filled his ears. He kneeled there for a few seconds longer crying before composing himself and standing up.
He straightened his jacket, attempted to wipe the salty tears from his eyes, and stared at the coffin, still pleading for this all to be a hellish nightmare.
Knowing that he wasn't going to be waking up, Chekov shakily reached out and placed the rose gently among the others and took a step back. A light rain had begun to fall and most people had begun retreating to the inside of the church. Only seven remained, solemnly standing as the misty rain came down upon them.
Chekov cringed at the awful memory. It had been nearly a year since that day. And now he felt that pain all over again; not because of the pain of losing someone, but the pain of being betrayed.
He'd wanted to believe for so long that Kirk was alive. That he would come striding around the corner going "Hey guys, sure fooled you! I even got you to cry!" Chekov used to imagine how mad he'd be if that were to happen, but after time he would have given the world just to hear his friend talk one more time.
Today had started out so promising, and now it had all come crashing down with a single revelation.
He'd been walking with Sulu down the street after spending most of the day exploring the city and celebrating Chekov's 20th birthday. Night had fallen and they were making their way down a rainy street when they were stopped by someone dressed all in black and a hood.
"Look buddy," Sulu said. "We don't want any trouble".
He tried to maneuver himself and Chekov around the suspicious figure, but the man stepped in front of them. Sulu took a step back and pulled Chekov's arm, placing himself slightly in front of him.
"Hey, I said we didn't want any trouble, now be on your way or you won't like the consequences. C'mon Pavel, let's go".
Chekov went to follow his friend as he brushed by the stranger, but hesitated when the man called out to them.
"Wait," he said. The sound of the voice was just strange enough that it caused Chekov to grab the back of Sulu's sweatshirt to stop him. Confused, the older man turned around.
"What?"
Chekov looked over his shoulder to the stranger, whose gaze was locked on the ground.
"What about him?" Sulu asked.
Chekov took a step forward and his friend grabbed onto his arm instantly.
"This guy is bad news," Hikaru warned him, "let's just go. We have to be at McCoy's place in ten minutes anyway".
At the mention of the old Doctor, the figure's head snapped up and Chekov strained his eyes to see behind the shroud of darkness that covered the man's face.
"Bones…" He whispered; the single word caused Chekov to freeze and lock eyes with his friend, who was in just as much shock as he was.
Chekov took another daring step forward, and this time Sulu didn't stop him.
"That name," Chekov said more sternly than he meant, "How do you know that name?"
A few moments passed until the man's shoulders began to shake, almost as if he was …laughing.
"I gave it to him," the stranger whispered back.
Immediately, Chekov's heart dropped and he felt all the blood rush from his face. In that single moment, every endless day, every nightmare, every night of crying, every single painful memory, came rushing back to him instantly. This was the single thing he wanted more than anything in this world, the prayer he prayed every night, the wish he hung upon every star until he didn't think there were any more left in the endless night sky…
"Keptin?"
The figure reached up and slowly lowered its hood, revealing a face Chekov never thought he'd ever get to see again.
"Hey kid," Kirk smiled at him.
Chekov felt numb. All noises around him fell silent. He thought there'd be some kind of happiness blooming inside him; some kind of excitement to see the person he thought he'd lost forever. But…he felt nothing.
He watched as Sulu slowly neared Kirk, analyzing every inch of him, making absolute sure that what he saw was real.
When he was a mere few inches from the supposedly dead captain, Sulu stopped; simply choosing to stare rather than move any closer.
Chekov watched Kirk's expression change. "It's really me, Hikaru. Swear on my grave". Then he smiled that inimitable grin.
"You're here," Sulu whispered evenly; and a voice in Chekov's head told him it was a rather odd thing to say. 'You're here' rather than 'You're alive'.
"I'm here," Kirk repeated back to him.
Sulu slightly shook his head. "You…you weren't supposed to be back for another month".
Suddenly, Chekov found it hard to breathe. Back? As in gone somewhere?
No but that wasn't right. Kirk had been dead, hadn't he? There was no way Chekov had imagined the day he died, the funeral, all the pain he'd tried to ignore for the past twelve months. It wasn't possible. Kirk. Was. Dead.
And yet here he was, surprising Chekov in being alive, but apparently only surprising Sulu by simply being here. On this street. Rather than somewhere else.
"I know," Kirk said solemnly, "but something's gone wrong. And I need your help again".
Again?
That was it for Chekov. He took a step forward, garnering the attention of the two older men who had apparently forgotten he was there.
Sulu's eyes widened slightly and he immediately began to try and explain himself, but Chekov shook his head.
"You were…alive," he managed to mumble out in disbelief. "All this time…alive."
"Chekov, kid, look you have to let me explain," Kirk stepped forward and reached out for the boy. But Chekov shook his head and slowly inched backwards.
"You were dead," he said, his tone slowly rising in volume. "I watched you die".
Kirk looked to Sulu, and it was in that moment that Chekov realized what had actually happened; what had happened to cause him so much pain, so much anger, so much agony.
"You knew," he locked eyes with Sulu.
His friend couldn't say anything; only stare at the younger boy apologetically, knowing no words would be able to make up for what he'd done. Chekov looked at the pavement and shook his head in disbelief; raging tears slowly began to fill his eyes.
"Pasha," Kirk pleaded, using the nickname he reserved only for when Chekov needed him most.
"No," the boy snapped, looking up. "Don't you say that. Don't you call me that".
The look on Kirk's face would have made Chekov break. But that was before he was betrayed by the person he once called a brother.
Jim took one more step forward, reaching out his hand to the younger boy, but Chekov refused.
In that moment, he didn't want to be comforted by anyone. He didn't want anyone to tell him it was going to be alright. He wanted nothing. He felt nothing.
And what did he do whenever he felt nothing?
He ran.
And so now he finds himself locked inside his own apartment, tucked into a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, heart-wrenching sobs echoing of the walls around him. He looks around at the remains of his ruined belongings, hoping they'll give him the urge to feel any emotion other than the crippling despondency that's suffocating him. But they do nothing except remind him of why he finds himself here, hating himself, this world, and this universe. He sits there a long time. Minutes turn into hours and he doesn't bother picking up the phone that vibrates in his pocket for 3 minutes straight.
All he wants is the relief of the ground opening up and swallowing him whole, but the relief never comes. He falls asleep there, head resting lightly against the wall, hoping that when he sleeps that maybe, just maybe, the night will spare him its usually nightmares.
But then again, he thinks, maybe being awake has become more of a nightmare than being asleep.
Maybe.