Fic: My Life’s a Broken Record, Skipping on Repeat
Title: My Life’s a Broken Record, Skipping on Repeat
Uniwerse: AU
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: T
Summary: Its true name is Warsaw. Hikaru has nicknamed it Hell.
Pre A/N: Meant for Ship Wars, it was a late submission, now just for fun. Special thanks to below_the_ice, who beta'd this for me during class, and who puts up with all my crap all the time. You rock ;D
X-Posted To: st_reboot, chulu, chekov_sulu, and trekslash.
--
He wishes that his mother never got the idea to move to Warsaw. Ever. Sure, it was pretty enough in the spring, but not now.
And maybe not ever.
Hikaru Sulu pulls his scabby knees up to his chest, resting his chin on a particularly ugly bruise he got earlier that day from narrowly avoiding the kelef that was sicced upon him. He ran, all the way from the corner of church, to the bekeray that always made the park smell nice. He had bashed his knee into the stone wall that he had hopped, which separated Miss Yukal’s garden from the school, falling face first into her petunias.
With a shudder, he pulls his knees into his body, and wishes for a hot roll and his mother, though it’s something that a man shouldn’t do.
Tonight though, he was getting neither.
***
“Who are you?” They’re the first words out of Hikaru’s mouth, when he finds another person in his bakery hideout, and they don’t sound to welcoming. The intruder, however, with his mop of curly red hair (there’s no way he’s not a Jew) doesn’t even flinch. There’s a nasty gash, from his chin to below his nose which has completely ripped away part of his lip.
“Esn,” The boy whispers in Yiddish. Hikaru knows that the kid can’t be more than fourteen, and he’s obliviously in terrible shape. He knows too, however, that he can’t afford to give food to every curly haired Jew that came his way. He would die if he did that; he wasn’t an American charity fund.
“Shum - kaliedik,” It’s partially true. He doesn’t have any food that’s not spoiled. The last of the milk had gone bad a week ago, and Hikaru didn’t want to risk dying of food poisoning: though he’d pick that over the Nazi’s any day.
“Oh,” The kid whispers. He looked at Hikaru and his face mashed itself into an almost smile. “A dank dir,”
Hikaru can’t understand why the boy is thanking him for something that he didn’t even do. The boy however, turns, limping out of the bakery. He can’t help but feel like he’s just sent the kid to his death.
***
Three days later, he spies the kid again.
He’s running for his life - faster than he’s ever seen another person run. There’s something tucked in the pit of his arm, something wheat colored and long, and Hikaru’s stomach is roaring that he should follow the kid and steal the bread from him. After all, Hikaru could take the food, easy-peasy lemon-squeezey.
He doesn’t though. He chuckles as four grown men, no doubt the victims of the theft, cannot catch the curly haired Jew.
He hopes the kid enjoys his meal, as Hikaru sets out to garbage pick for his.
When he comes ‘home’ later, there’s a bundle rags in a heap on the floor, the small Jew boy inside. He’s clutching half a loaf of bread, smiling up at Hikaru as he offers it to him.
“Khaver!” The kid smiles toothily.
Friend.
***
Pavel, as Hikaru later finds out, isn’t fourteen, but sixteen: just four years older than Hikaru himself. Originally, born in Russia - able to speak English, Yiddish, and Russian, which baffled Hikaru - he moved to Warsaw at five, when his father had married a Jew. He was all alone now, his mother, father, and little brother carted off to the Trains, South of the ghetto.
In turn, Pavel learned more about Hikaru. Like, Hikaru moved to Warsaw at nine, and lived here almost all of his life. He told Pavel that he used to live only a few blocks away from the bakery, until Nazi’s, in the middle of the night, had tried to burn down their apartment, and succeeded in taking his sister’s and mother’s lives, losing his father in the ruckus of running out.
They shared in their misery, hopes, and dreams. Pavel wanted to get out of Warsaw and make a name for himself.
Pavel wanted to touch the stars.
Hikaru wanted to help.
***
It was a month after Hikaru met Pavel that his life began to change.
He noticed the hues coming back to the bliens that had all but died in the park. The sky didn’t seem as grey. The birds - they had been all but gone before - were coming back one by one.
And Hikaru was in love.
***
Hikaru was very much aware of the fact that the world was not rainbows and maykhl. He was aware that he was being hunted, Pavel even more so, and that his running and anguish, his resistance and pain…it was all just someone else’s game. And if he even considered letting his guard down, then he was dead.
Maybe even worse than that.
His musings of survival, however, are cut by Pavel. He draws himself up to Hikaru, pulling close for warmth. It was nothing new - they had done it thousands of times, when the wind was angry and the windows were broken. It was now more of a formal gesture.
“Pavel?”
“Yo?”
“Promise me something.” He mumbles.
“Anything, Hikaru,” He smiles against the fabric of the coat.
“Promise me you’ll stay. Forever.”
He knows that they’ve both lost so much, had so much taken away from them, had so much just ripped from them, and that they can’t afford to lose any more. They’re the glue which holds each other together.
Pavel can’t promise the world, but he tries to, nevertheless. “Alvays, Hikaru.”
***
Hikaru can’t believe he was naïve enough to actually think that ‘forever’ would span their lives. There’s no such thing as a happily ever after in Warsaw. And there never would be. He’s so lost and confused. Left is up, right is blue: nothing makes sense anymore.
His hands are red, like sweet epls. It didn’t help that he was sobbing now, his voice breaking, “You promised we’d be together. You promised!”
Pavel doesn’t answer.
The bliens…don’t look so bright anymore
Uniwerse: AU
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: T
Summary: Its true name is Warsaw. Hikaru has nicknamed it Hell.
Pre A/N: Meant for Ship Wars, it was a late submission, now just for fun. Special thanks to below_the_ice, who beta'd this for me during class, and who puts up with all my crap all the time. You rock ;D
X-Posted To: st_reboot, chulu, chekov_sulu, and trekslash.
--
He wishes that his mother never got the idea to move to Warsaw. Ever. Sure, it was pretty enough in the spring, but not now.
And maybe not ever.
Hikaru Sulu pulls his scabby knees up to his chest, resting his chin on a particularly ugly bruise he got earlier that day from narrowly avoiding the kelef that was sicced upon him. He ran, all the way from the corner of church, to the bekeray that always made the park smell nice. He had bashed his knee into the stone wall that he had hopped, which separated Miss Yukal’s garden from the school, falling face first into her petunias.
With a shudder, he pulls his knees into his body, and wishes for a hot roll and his mother, though it’s something that a man shouldn’t do.
Tonight though, he was getting neither.
***
“Who are you?” They’re the first words out of Hikaru’s mouth, when he finds another person in his bakery hideout, and they don’t sound to welcoming. The intruder, however, with his mop of curly red hair (there’s no way he’s not a Jew) doesn’t even flinch. There’s a nasty gash, from his chin to below his nose which has completely ripped away part of his lip.
“Esn,” The boy whispers in Yiddish. Hikaru knows that the kid can’t be more than fourteen, and he’s obliviously in terrible shape. He knows too, however, that he can’t afford to give food to every curly haired Jew that came his way. He would die if he did that; he wasn’t an American charity fund.
“Shum - kaliedik,” It’s partially true. He doesn’t have any food that’s not spoiled. The last of the milk had gone bad a week ago, and Hikaru didn’t want to risk dying of food poisoning: though he’d pick that over the Nazi’s any day.
“Oh,” The kid whispers. He looked at Hikaru and his face mashed itself into an almost smile. “A dank dir,”
Hikaru can’t understand why the boy is thanking him for something that he didn’t even do. The boy however, turns, limping out of the bakery. He can’t help but feel like he’s just sent the kid to his death.
***
Three days later, he spies the kid again.
He’s running for his life - faster than he’s ever seen another person run. There’s something tucked in the pit of his arm, something wheat colored and long, and Hikaru’s stomach is roaring that he should follow the kid and steal the bread from him. After all, Hikaru could take the food, easy-peasy lemon-squeezey.
He doesn’t though. He chuckles as four grown men, no doubt the victims of the theft, cannot catch the curly haired Jew.
He hopes the kid enjoys his meal, as Hikaru sets out to garbage pick for his.
When he comes ‘home’ later, there’s a bundle rags in a heap on the floor, the small Jew boy inside. He’s clutching half a loaf of bread, smiling up at Hikaru as he offers it to him.
“Khaver!” The kid smiles toothily.
Friend.
***
Pavel, as Hikaru later finds out, isn’t fourteen, but sixteen: just four years older than Hikaru himself. Originally, born in Russia - able to speak English, Yiddish, and Russian, which baffled Hikaru - he moved to Warsaw at five, when his father had married a Jew. He was all alone now, his mother, father, and little brother carted off to the Trains, South of the ghetto.
In turn, Pavel learned more about Hikaru. Like, Hikaru moved to Warsaw at nine, and lived here almost all of his life. He told Pavel that he used to live only a few blocks away from the bakery, until Nazi’s, in the middle of the night, had tried to burn down their apartment, and succeeded in taking his sister’s and mother’s lives, losing his father in the ruckus of running out.
They shared in their misery, hopes, and dreams. Pavel wanted to get out of Warsaw and make a name for himself.
Pavel wanted to touch the stars.
Hikaru wanted to help.
***
It was a month after Hikaru met Pavel that his life began to change.
He noticed the hues coming back to the bliens that had all but died in the park. The sky didn’t seem as grey. The birds - they had been all but gone before - were coming back one by one.
And Hikaru was in love.
***
Hikaru was very much aware of the fact that the world was not rainbows and maykhl. He was aware that he was being hunted, Pavel even more so, and that his running and anguish, his resistance and pain…it was all just someone else’s game. And if he even considered letting his guard down, then he was dead.
Maybe even worse than that.
His musings of survival, however, are cut by Pavel. He draws himself up to Hikaru, pulling close for warmth. It was nothing new - they had done it thousands of times, when the wind was angry and the windows were broken. It was now more of a formal gesture.
“Pavel?”
“Yo?”
“Promise me something.” He mumbles.
“Anything, Hikaru,” He smiles against the fabric of the coat.
“Promise me you’ll stay. Forever.”
He knows that they’ve both lost so much, had so much taken away from them, had so much just ripped from them, and that they can’t afford to lose any more. They’re the glue which holds each other together.
Pavel can’t promise the world, but he tries to, nevertheless. “Alvays, Hikaru.”
***
Hikaru can’t believe he was naïve enough to actually think that ‘forever’ would span their lives. There’s no such thing as a happily ever after in Warsaw. And there never would be. He’s so lost and confused. Left is up, right is blue: nothing makes sense anymore.
His hands are red, like sweet epls. It didn’t help that he was sobbing now, his voice breaking, “You promised we’d be together. You promised!”
Pavel doesn’t answer.
The bliens…don’t look so bright anymore